Chapter Text
Mickey glances around the curtain, his lower lip caught between his teeth. His parents are in the sitting room talking with Barbara Walters – out of retirement just for this – and the television crew was hovering. Mickey knows that he’ll have to deal with the press and all at some point, and he’s already been warned three times that if he does anything out of line, he’ll regret it.
And, crown royalty or not, his dad is really good at making people regret things. Even his own sons.
Especially his own sons.
Mickey glances down at his watch. According to the schedule that had been delivered with his breakfast and sent to his phone and laid out on top of his approved outfit for the day, Mickey’s presence isn’t required until that night at a dinner with some influential families that are pissing themselves at the invite.
Moving away from the curtain, Mickey jogs up the back stairs that he’d discovered their first night in the house. Mickey has a thing about knowing escape routes.
He shoves his selected and approved outfit back in the closet and shrugs on a black leather jacket he bought off one of the servers the night before. His parents would absolutely lose their shit if they saw him dressed like this. His parents do not approve of faded and worn jeans, a plain white t-shirt, and a used, beat-up leather jacket. But better they disapprove of that and not anything else. Mickey isn’t into sports, but he totally understands that the best defense is a strong offense.
And Mickey’s exceptionally good at being offensive.
**
Getting out of the house and avoiding his bodyguards is easy. He’s not sure where to go, but the destination isn’t as important as the freedom. He knows the real purpose of the trip to America. Mickey’s of age and his father is intent on marrying him to someone advantageous, someone to provide an heir. Never mind that Mickey doesn’t want to be married, doesn’t want to be a father, and sure as fuck has no intention of ever, ever doing what his father wanted.
He starts walking, taking in the sights of the city from the ground as opposed to from the plane or armored car. He’s never been to Chicago. They’ve spent most of their time in the states in New York or Los Angeles. He’d never have gotten out of the house in either of those places, but his dad is trying to come across as liberal and open-minded, so Mickey’s got a little more leeway to play. Walking through the city is different. He likes the smell of the air, the lake, as well as everything else.
He likes everything else the best. It smells real.
It smells like pancakes.
Mickey spies the diner and checks his wallet. He’s not actually worried about money since he always has his credit card, but he prefers cash. No paper trail and no signing his real name. He heads inside and inhales. He hasn’t had pancakes since he was ten, but the smell floods him with memories and his stomach growls.
“Hey.” A tall redhead with arms that make Mickey’s mouth water more than the pancakes do smiles at him, his face practically split with the grin.
“Hey.” Mickey glances around at the empty restaurant. “Don’t suppose I can get a table?”
“I don’t know. It’s rush hour. I can see what I can do to squeeze you in though.”
“I’d appreciate it.”
The guy looks around, his mouth twisted, frowning. “Hmm. Gonna be tough. Maybe over here?” He grabs a menu and leads the way to a booth along the far wall. Mickey slides onto the bench seat and takes the menu. “Drink?”
“Whiskey?”
“Well, I have orange juice, water, milk, chocolate milk, or soda. Which are all almost like whiskey.”
“Orange juice I guess.” Mickey can’t help smiling back at the guy. His grin is infectious.
“An excellent choice. It’s aged seven years in an oak cast. A rich, full-bodied flavor with a fruity nose.”
Mickey laughs. “Making up for the lack of customers by angling for good tips. I like it.” He opens the menu and looks it over. “And what would you suggest?”
“Well.” The guy grabs one of the silverware settings on the table and unrolls it, draping the paper napkin over his forearm. “The bacon is a favorite, always crispy. Scrambled eggs can come with a delicate layer of finely shredded cheese if sir wishes. For pancakes, I suggest the plain buttermilk with warmed maple syrup, though the chocolate chip ones do come with a piquant whipped cream smiley face.”
“Oh. Well.” Mickey tries to bite back a smile but fails miserably. “I think I have no option but to go with the chocolate chip.”
“Always an excellent choice. The whipped cream comes from nothing but the best supermarket bought pressurized cans.” He clears his throat and looks at Mickey for a moment that seems longer than it actually is. “And what kind of meat would you like?”
Mickey raises his eyebrows. “What’s your preference?”
A blush starts in his cheeks, obscuring his freckles. “Sausage.”
“Well, I’ll try that then.” His voice is lower than he intends it to be, but the guy smiles and walks off. Mickey turns his head to watch. There was no spark of recognition in his eyes. Mickey bites his lower lip in thought. If the guy doesn’t know him and means what he’s implying, Mickey’s stay in America is about to get interesting.
**
The top pancake has two piles of whipped cream for the eyes and chocolate chips for pupils. There’s also a whipped cream smile and a maraschino cherry for a nose. The sausages are curved slightly, positioned as ears and the orange juice is in an oversized brandy snifter. Mickey looks up. “Really?”
“It’s our tip jar. But, you know, going for classy.”
The guy honest-to-god winks at Mickey. “Oh, definitely.” Mickey takes a sip and swishes it in his mouth then swallows. “A very good year.”
Mickey gets that goddamned smile again and he does his best to ignore how good it makes him feel. The guy clears his throat. “Well, let me know if there’s anything else I can do for you.”
“You can tell me your name. In case I need to get your attention in all this chaos.”
“Ian.”
Mickey holds out his hand. “Mickey.”
Ian’s smile hasn’t left his face. He backs away to the next booth and sits down facing away from Mickey. Mickey takes a few bites then stabs one of the sausages with a fork, holding it up to take a bite.
“Hey, Ian?”
“Yeah?” Ian turns around in his seat, his eyes falling immediately to Mickey’s mouth. “Do you need something?”
Mickey nods his head. “What are you doing?”
“Studying.”
“Studying what?”
“Business management.”
“Yeah?” Mickey takes a bite of the sausage, licking an errant drop of syrup off his lips. “What’s that involve?”
“Accounting. Human resources. Business law. Economics.”
“Lots of math.”
“Yeah. But basic math. I can manage that.” Ian looks away from Mickey’s mouth finally. “What about you?”
“Was in the Army for two years. My dad insisted. I got some pussy posting, no action. Now I’m working on becoming an evil overlord.”
“I was in the Army for a hot second.” Ian turns more in his seat. “What are the prerequisites for being an evil overlord?”
“Hardest class so far is maniacal laughter. Still can’t manage higher than a B.”
“Can’t really take over the world with just a B in maniacal laughter.”
“I know. Sucks, man.” Mickey’s pancakes sit untouched. “So do you work here or is it an apprenticeship or internship or whatever?”
“Just a low-paying job to keep me in overpriced textbooks and train fare. Luckily I eat for free.”
“What do you do for fun?”
“Typical college student. Drink too much, smoke too much, don’t sleep enough.” Ian shrugs. “I don’t actually live around here. Just killing time on the north side of town.”
“Wrong side of the tracks for you, huh?” Mickey says it lightly, sensing that Ian might take offense. “People real over where you live?”
“Real fucked up.”
“People are fucked up everywhere.” Mickey stabs the cherry off his pancake and sucks it off his fork. “When do you get off?”
Ian licks his lips. “I get off work in an hour. Anything else is up to you.”
Mickey grins and goes back to his pancakes, watching through his lashes as Ian turns around.
**
Mickey doesn’t fuck much. At home everyone knows who he is, so there’s no way anyone can know what he is, what he likes. When he was in the army it was the same, all of his postings too close to home, all too much like putting him on parade.
He fucks his fist most of the time, watching downloaded porn on his computer. He has a few toys hidden away, delivered to a post office box under a different name. The prospect of fucking – of potentially getting fucked – keeps his gaze locked on Ian until a few other customers come in. Ian gets busy, so Mickey leaves money on the table for his bill and Ian’s tip and heads outside, purposefully brushing against Ian as he goes. Ian stops at the contact, question in his eyes.
Mickey pulls out a cigarette and puts it in his mouth as he walks outside. He smokes it slowly, holding the smoke in his lungs. He’s just crushing the butt under his foot when Ian walks out, backpack slung over his shoulder.
“The tip was more than the bill.”
“The service was worth it.” Mickey pushes off the wall. “Lead the way.”
Ian heads down the sidewalk, adjusting his stride to Mickey’s. “What are you in the mood for?”
“What are my options?”
“Well, I got a great tip, so we could rent a room.”
“You looking for romance, or you wanna fuck?”
Ian grabs Mickey’s arm and leads him into an alley. He drops his backpack to the ground and presses Mickey up against the wall, leg pushed between both of Mickey’s. Heat pulses down Mickey’s spine to his dick. He grabs Mickey’s wrists and pins them to the wall. Ian’s voice is rough and hot, “This what you want?”
“Getting there.” Mickey looks up at Ian, both of them breathing unevenly. “This all you got?”
Ian grins, hot and full of promise. He leans in, eyes locked on Mickey’s mouth. Mickey turns his head so Ian stops. “No?”
Mickey twists his hands free of Ian’s and undoes his jeans, shoving them down his thighs. He turns around and braces himself on the wall. He glances at Ian over his shoulder, eyebrow cocked. “You need a fucking formal invitation or is this gonna do?”
Ian groans and picks up his backpack, digging in one of the pockets. Mickey looks back a the wall and bows his head. He hears Ian’s zipper then feels the cold sting of lube, pressure against his hole as Ian’s fingers slip into the cleft of his ass. Mickey bites his lower lip as Ian pushes, biting his lip to keep from making any noise.
He’s fucked himself plenty, but the push of someone else’s fingers, the unexpected, the possibilities, takes his breath away. Ian pushes one finger in deep, knuckle breaching the muscle and Mickey hisses, pressing his forehead hard against the brick.
“Fuck. Ass is so tight. Can feel you clenching around me. Sure you’re going to be able to take my cock?”
“Will if you know what you’re doing. C’mon.”
“You want more?” Ian’s voice is a thick purr in Mickey’s ear, his breath fanning against the sensitive skin, teeth grazing Mickey’s earlobe. “another finger fucking into your hot ass?”
“Quit fucking talking and start fucking.” Mickey’s voice strains as Ian pushes another finger in. Mickey’s whole body tightens and then he arches his back, rolling his shoulders forward. He lifts his ass, offering it up to Ian, for Ian.
“Christ I want to fuck you. Gonna burn going in if I do it now. Gonna make you ache. Make you feel me for days.”
“Shit. Get the fuck inside me.” He thrusts back onto Ian’s fingers until they’re suddenly gone. They’re replaced with the slide of the condom and the slick of lube. Mickey rises up on his toes as Ian pushes in.
It does burn. It burns and hurts and stretches and Mickey pounds his fist against the wall.
“H-harder.” He can tell Ian’s holding back, keeping himself in check, and there’s no way in hell Mickey’s going to settle for this not being the pounding of his life. Ian’s dick feels huge inside him, filling him up and tearing him apart. “Quit being a goddamn pussy and fuck me.”
Ian grabs Mickey’s hips, his fingers digging in. Mickey groans and pushes back against Ian. “This what you want?”
Mickey pants a laugh, half-taunting and half-begging. “If that’s all you’ve got.”
He feels Ian’s nails dig in and his hip bones slam against Mickey’s ass, his balls slapping against him, skin on skin. It’s fucking perfect, their rhythm hard and relentless. Ian’s cock fills him and slides back, slamming in harder each time. A sound gets caught at the back of Mickey’s throat and he reaches for his dick. Ian laughs breathily in his ear. “Punking out so soon?”
“Fuck you.”
Ian’s hands tighten further on Mickey’s hips as Ian pistons inside him. “M-my job.”
“You’re all mouth and cock, aren’t you?”
Ian bites the skin where Mickey’s neck meets his shoulder, teeth digging in, grinding as he buries himself deep. Mickey can feel Ian’s whole body tense and then jerk as he comes.
Mickey tilts his head and gasps as Ian releases his teeth, gasping for air. Mickey’s hips rock forward and he comes all over the wall. He wraps his hand around his dick to keep it from dripping onto his pants, his fingers clumsy.
Ian’s breathing hotly on the back of Mickey’s neck and Mickey starts to recognize sensations that aren’t Ian. Sweat and the breeze and the noise of the street. Mickey blows out a breath then shakes his dick. Ian moans as Mickey moves then his hands cup Mickey’s ass as he eases out.
Mickey’s knees give slightly at the sudden emptiness, the different ache. He’s sore and stretched and sticky slick with lube as he tugs up his boxers and jeans. He takes a slow, deep breath then exhales and turns to face Ian. He’s caught by the hot flush of Ian’s skin, the lazy satisfaction in his eyes. Mickey drops his gaze to Ian’s cock. Even spent it’s pretty fucking impressive and Mickey wants it back inside him. He reaches out and runs the tip of his fingers over the milky white drop caught in the slit.
“I give you a big tip, you give me a big tip. Tit for tat. Classic economics.” Ian’s body jerks at Mickey’s touch, his cock twitching. Mickey smiles and digs a cigarette out of his jacket pocket and lights it. Ian’s eyes fix on Mickey’s mouth as he takes a drag. “Nice meeting you, Ian.” He sketches a salute and heads out of the alley, hoping he can find his way back home.
**
“Where the fuck have you been?” Mandy hisses at Mickey as he slips into the line beside her. “Dad’s livid.”
“He’s always livid.”
“He almost called the cops. He thought you’d been kidnapped.” Mandy stops her hushed conversation as a couple walks up to them, introducing themselves, angling to get closer to their parents though them. Mickey starts to say something, but Mandy’s look keeps him silent.
The couple moves down the line and Mickey leans in to continue their discussion. “Let me guess, and then he realized nobody would get anything by taking me.”
“Fuck dad. I was worried.”
“Just went for a walk.”
“After ditching both bodyguards.”
“I didn’t ditch them. Just didn’t let them know I was leaving.”
“You’re going to get them fired.”
“They should be better liars. They’ve had enough practice by now.”
“You’re such a dick.”
“Thanks.” He smiles at Mandy and then at the group of prospective wives posing and on display. He greets them all and then glances to the front of the ballroom at his parents. “How much longer?”
“I count six Mrs. Mickey wannabes. You’ve got another hour to go at least.”
“Keep laughing, sis. Your turn next. He’s probably going to sell you to the highest bidder.”
“Long as he doesn’t give all his money to our folks, I’m cool with it. Spending money, a box of toys, and my fingers are all I need.” She holds out her middle and pointer fingers at Mickey, bending her thumb like she’s dropping the hammer. She shoots him and sticks her two fingers into her mouth and sucks on them, releasing them with a wet popping sound. “Have gun will travel.”
“You are so gross.”
“Don’t worry, Mick. I’m sure they won’t mind teaching you what to do. Some girls like an innocent man.” Her smile is slightly twisted, her brow furrowed with doubt. “Actually, no. No girl wants that shit. We so need to get you laid.”
“I don’t need my little sister’s help getting laid.”
Mandy turns Mickey toward the dance floor. “Better start dancing then, Prince Charming.”
**
He has four dates in his calendar for appearances. He can’t put names with any of their faces, because Ian’s face is the only thing on his mind. He undresses in front of the full-length mirror and turns to his side. Blue purple bruises and red quarter moons from Ian’s fingernails stand out against his pale skin. Mickey fits his hand to the bruises, fingers pressing hard to the marks Ian left behind.
Mickey’s cock gets harder the harder he pushes. He pants out a breath then reaches back the slides two fingers to his ass, pushing them inside, still watching himself.
“Fuck.” It’s not enough, even with the bruises. Mickey goes over to where he tossed his jacket across the bed. Beneath it is a black box Mickey lifted from a store he passed on the way back to the house. Mickey carries it over to the door with him as he checks to make sure it’s locked and then opens it.
The dildo is almost as big as Ian. Mickey carries it back over to the mirror, watching as he slides it in and out of his mouth. It’s obscene and hot and Mickey can only imagine what it would be like to suck Ian’s dick, watch in the mirror as he sucked him down, watch that huge cock as he swallowed it down.
Mickey grunts softly and rubs his palm roughly over his dick. His breath shakes and stutters as he pulls the dildo from his mouth and sits on the bed, canting his hips forward so he can watch himself as he slides it in.
He bites his lower lip hard and closes his eyes for a moment to adjust before he opens them again. He shifts, working it in deeper. He watches as he fucks himself slowly, as spread wide around the dildo, hole red and stretched. He speeds his thrusts, pushing harder. He takes himself to the edge then backs off, repositioning his hips and his ass so the dildo presses against the mattress every time he rocks his hips forward. Mickey rubs his hands over his thighs, stomach, chest. His eyes are blown wide in his reflection as he imagines bigger hands on him.
“Fuck,” Mickey groans, giving in and wrapping his hand around his dick, jerking hard and tight. It doesn’t take him long to get back to the edge, rough breaths with every pull of his hand, every counter in the roll of his hips. He wants to come, wants to blow his fucking load again only this time he wants Ian’s hands on him, his mouth on him.
Mickey shifts forward so the dildo is deep in his ass. His thigh muscles burn as he rides down on it. He keeps one hand on his cock, a blur of movement. With his other hand, Mickey touches the bruises on his hip. His fingers move up to ghost over the bite and then he presses down, coming in quick hard jerks. Micky falls back on the bed, chest heaving.
His phone buzzes and he slaps the bed until he finds it, pulling it over and looking at it. Another one of tonight’s girls inviting him to a party, asking him on a date. He texts a yes in response and drops the phone back on the bed.
Fuck.