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Being touch starved—at least in Mickey’s case—means that any amount of affection is taken deeply, especially when it’s given by someone he loves.
Every brush, stroke, squeeze, rub, whatever it is, you name it, feels like it’s been heightened. It’s not necessarily a sensitivity issue, but Mickey finds it to be so surprising and uncommon that it’s a pleasant surprise. His body and mind soaks as much of that stuff in, and never lets it go.
With the amount of attention he received—or lack thereof—means that his body and brain have a different response to being touched. When given attention, it settles deep inside of him, and is hard to express the effects that are caused by it. There’s a deep seated ache that becomes so obviously apparent to himself whenever he’s given what he’s sorely missed out on in his childhood.
Sometimes it becomes too much, and Mickey has to push Ian—the only person giving him this type of physical attention—before something else comes of it. He hates to see the disappointed puppy dog eyes that follow, but sometimes it’s necessary if he doesn’t want to make a fool out of himself.
Even though Mickey pushes himself away, Ian is determined. Mickey doesn’t despise physical touch—he and Ian cuddle all of the time—so it’s clear that it’s not the issue. Ian is a stubborn bastard and is dedicated to giving Mickey what he deserves—even if Mickey himself isn’t sure that he really deserves it.
It’s times like these where Mickey’s guard is down, where his walls are more lowered than usual. When he and Ian are sitting beside each other on the couch, sharing one blanket, the only lighting in the room is the glow coming from the television.
It’s when Mickey’s eyes start to droop a little and he relaxes against the big body pillow that is Ian. When Mickey starts to melt a little against that man’s shoulder, Ian welcomes it completely by raising his arm so Mickey can fully sink into his side.
Ian’s warm and comforting, and so is everything about the situation. The sound from the television blends together, and he’s not really paying attention to the random mumbles that the speakers project. It’s more about the situation—the fact that he’s in a certain state of mind that can bother him, not even the usual things.
It’s not a shock, nor does Mickey flinch back when he feels long fingers carding through his hair. It’s another welcomed sensation that he has no problem with, especially since his guard is let down. He’s not thinking about the future or what consequences that might come up, just purely enjoying and soaking in the attention.
That one large hand starts to lazily play with his hair, separating the strands, drawing little patterns in his scalp. A shiver goes down Mickey’s spine and goosebumps rise along his arms. A soft sigh leaves his lips as he relaxes deeper into the couch.
“Feels good…” He sighs, letting his eyes droop shut.
The hand in his hand momentarily stills before continuing, running across the smooth, black strands.
“You never let me play with your hair…” The smile is evident with the tone of Ian’s voice. His voice is nice and soothing, which Mickey also appreciates.
A shudder racks through Mickey when Ian begins to massage and scratch at his scalp. The feeling of those soft, big hands running back and forth in his hair sends tingles all throughout different parts of his body.
“Mngh…” A quiet moan slips past his lips before he can stop it. The sensation is nice and feels really good, Mickey finds it hard to hold back any noises of appreciation.
He can feel Ian tense beside him, as do his magic fingers. Mickey huffs an annoyed breath, and presses his head further into Ian’s hand. It takes a few seconds for Ian to start playing with his hair again, and Mickey settles back into the pleasurable feeling.
It’s hard to hold back the shivers of pleasure that each touch and soft caress gives him. Mickey’s breaths start to get a little shorter, starting to pant against Ian’s side. Despite the connotation that playing with their hair makes people sleepy, Mickey’s noticing quite the opposite. The feeling of Ian’s hand running through his hair is starting to make his heart rate go up, making him squirm at a deep seated ache developing rapidly inside.
It’s hard to place the feeling—the need that takes over Mickey, at least until his hips start to twitch up for relief. It starts happening before he can even approve, his body trying to soothe himself without Mickey noticing.
Ian notices, though.
“Oh, baby…” A soft gasp of surprise is heard from above him, causing Mickey to blink his eyes open.
No amount of pushing his head into Ian’s hand will make the hand begin to move again. Mickey begins to get frustrated, in more ways than one. His head feels actively worse without Ian rubbing it, all of his limbs aren’t getting the nice little shivers, and his cock is still hard—
Oh fuck.
His cock is hard. Not only is it hard—It’s throbbing. Mickey’s eyes open wide, horrified and embarrassed that Ian has had to bear witness. Despite his body’s wants, Mickey immediately stills his hips. He has to bite back a little whine at the loss of stimulation and how bad the ache has become, but he can’t keep making a fool out of himself like this.
He looks down to find himself completely and undeniably hard in his sweatpants. There’s a clear dick print, and there’s no hiding anything. It’s clear to anyone what happened here, and Mickey can’t help but blush with the extreme embarrassment. That’s never happened before, Mickey’s never let it happen. Ever since Ian tried to wash his hair in the shower and Mickey felt himself stir in interest, he’s never let Ian touch his hair.
That has since changed, and Mickey’s secret has been revealed.
“Mickey…?” Ian’s voice calls out, yet Mickey refuses to acknowledge it. Maybe if he buries his head into the couch he can disappear, and they both can pretend that it never happened. “Mickey, look at me…”
When Ian apparently decides Mickey’s taking too much time, he feels Ian’s fingers take hold of his chin. His face gets gently tugged and pried away from Ian’s side until he’s facing the man dead on. Mickey can’t avoid it anymore, and drags his gaze to meet Ian’s.
The man is looking down at him, not in disgust like he expected, but with a fondness Mickey’s only seen on rare occasions. It’s only then does Mickey notice the blush that’s spread across Ian’s face that matches his own.
“Is this why you never let me play with your hair?” Ian asks with a light tipped smirk, tilting his head.
With a huff, Mickey fights the urge to roll his eyes. Of course Ian’s teasing him, and at a time like this, no less. “Maybe…” Mickey grumbles, feeling his face heat up.
Without anything else being said, Ian just moves his free hand back to Mickey’s head and begins to play with his hair again. This time, Mickey can’t hold back the shocked moan, his eyes fluttering from the sensation. Now that he’s been made aware of his growing arousal, it’s hard to ignore the twitch that it gives, like there’s a direct wire from his scalp to his dick.
“Ian…” Mickey squirms, not exactly fighting against the hold, but giving enough of an indicator that he needs to move, he needs to get something.
“How’s that feel?” Ian asks, his tone low yet interested.
Swallowing thickly, Mickey shudders through a deep breath. “I–It’s… yeah, it’s good…”
“I bet it is…” Ian breathes out, looking down at Mickey with the same fond gaze, this time some hunger and heat behind it. “Do you have anything else that you need taken care of…?”
Honestly, Mickey would be pretty content if he could spend the rest of his life here. There’s no actively pressing concern, but that’s not saying that he doesn’t have anything that might need a helping hand.
Mickey inhales a sharp breath when he feels Ian’s thigh press up firmer against his growing erection, his eyes clenching shut at the feeling of more friction. “Ah…” He moans, his own legs flexing at the stimulation. “You dick…” He curses, his brows furrowing as neither Ian’s hand nor his thigh stop.
Suddenly, it’s gone.
No more playing with his hair, no more thigh between his legs.
Mickey regrets his words as soon as he said them. He wishes he never said anything, because maybe then he wouldn’t be left with a need that consumes his body and brain, all of his senses consumed with the ache for more.
He lets out a sound that’s very familiar to a whine—all though he would never admit it—his hips twitch up into nothing, chasing the pleasure that was taken away.
“You need something, Mick?”
Yes. Yes he fucking needs something.
The heat and lust he feels all over his body, as well as the anger from having something he so deeply craves taken away is not shown when he looks back up at Ian. His features have softened, his eyes are half lidded, and his brows are furrowed with desperation.
“I…” The words are hard to force out of his mouth. “I want it back.” He breathes out, feeling the desperation etched on his facial expression.
“Want what back?”
The features of his face fall into an unamused stare at Ian’s attempt to feign innocence. Every bone in his body is telling him to just give in and give Ian what he wants, but Mickey’s inner stubbornness is making a fight against it.
“I want…” Deep breaths, it’ll be worth it… “I want your hand back. In my hair.” That wasn’t so hard. A distant throb reminds him of his other pressing need. “I want somethin’... Somethin’ to make me cum.”
When he sees the expression on Ian’s face melt back into his calm eyes and relaxed smirk, Mickey knows he made the right decision.
“Why didn’t you just say so, baby?”
It’s a stupid question, really. Ian knows why he didn’t “just say so”, and it’s the exact reason why Ian asked him. Well, Ian asked because he likes to hear Mickey beg, the sick fuck. He also asked because Mickey hates asking for things that bring him pleasure, and it’s hard to admit when he wants something for himself. Ian always likes to hear it come from Mickey’s mouth, and watch the stubborn fade out and get replaced with need.
Without any more words shared between the two, Ian manoeuvres Mickey and hauls him up into his lap. Mickey fucking hates when he does that. How Ian can just toss him around like he’s nothing, how Mickey finds it so hot to be picked up and put down like that, and how he can’t do a thing about how much it turns him on.
“The fuck are you—”
Mickey is quickly silenced when Ian pulls him into his chest, slotting Mickey’s head against Ian’s shoulder and burying one hand back in his hair.
Any sounds of complaint are quickly muffled against Ian’s shoulder, and fall out into a needy moan at the feeling of Ian massaging his scalp again.
“There you go.” Ian breathes out into his ear. “Bet that feels better, huh?”
All Mickey can reply with is a needy whine, his cock throbbing between his legs. With Ian’s free hand, he positions Mickey to be straddling his left leg. Mickey knows at this position Ian can feel every throb, every unbearable twitch, and every needy buck that the fabric of his sweatpants does a terrible hiding. That’s probably what the appeal is.
“Couldn’t hear you. You have to speak up.” Ian instructs, this time gripping Mickey’s hair and pulling it back.
“Gugh…!” Mickey moans loudly and uncontrollably when his hair gets tugged on. The firm grip sends prickles of pain into his scalp, a harsh contrast between the massaging. Both sensations send waves of pleasure all the way down to his dick.
“Come on, baby. Tell me how it feels.”
It takes Mickey a few seconds to come up with the words. All of the physical sensations around him, cock aching, scalp stinging, warm breath on his neck, cause his brain to slow. His eyes roll back, and he hopes Ian isn’t able to see it.
“It’s… It’s real good…” He groans, unable to control his volume at this point. Expecting him to be able to speak right now is one thing, but there’s no way he can hold himself back under these circumstances.
“Mmm…” Ian hums in reply, mouthing sloppy kisses onto Mickey’s neck.
“Hmgh!” A whimper is worked from Mickey’s throat as he feels Ian’s mouth and tongue drag over his throbbing pulse point.
He’s unable to do anything except to just give into the pleasure, not like he’d want to do anything else. With little confidence, and pure primal need, Mickey’s hips start twitching against Ian’s leg. Yes, it’s embarrassing, but being embarrassed is better than being stuck with a raging hard on without any way to relieve it.
Harsh, ragged breaths get pulled from his lungs. Mickey struggles with the intense sensations buzzing around his body, using nothing but Ian’s thigh to try and help get rid of that coil of tension building up inside of him.
“What’re you doing down there?” A hand slides down to Mickey’s hip, not aiding or stopping, just resting.
“Hurts.” Mickey whines, an undeniable sound from his throat.
“What does? This?” And he presses his thigh right against the bulging ache between Mickey’s leg.
“Ah!” Mickey cries out at the sudden stimulation, breathing in a harsh breath between his teeth. “Y-Yeah.”
“You can go ahead and get yourself off, baby.” Ian allows, and Mickey almost lets himself get excited. “But I need you to do one thing for me.” The hand on his hip stops him from continuing his rocking movements.
“Fuck…!” Mickey whimpers, his dick throbbing between his legs.
“Since I’ve been so nice, I think you can do one thing for me, can’t you?” It’s a rhetorical question, but Mickey thinks his arousal drowned brain couldn’t come up with a full sentence at this point. “Don’t hold back. I wanna hear everything, okay?”
“Mmhmm…” Mickey groans, his hips trying to start up. He gets frustrated when Ian won’t let him.
“Words, Mick.” Ian instructs.
“Ungh… Yeah… Won’t hold back…” Mickey promises, his scalp starting to burn.
“Mm… Good boy.”
Words get punched out of Mickey’s chest with that one, struggling to get the correct amount of oxygen back into his body, barely recovering. With that, his face is leaned against Ian’s shoulder, those magic fingers massaging away the ache in Mickey’s scalp.
He promised he wouldn’t hold back, and he doubts he would be able to even if he tried.
“Gah–!” Mickey gasps, feeling Ian’s thigh flex beneath him.
“Go ahead, take what you want.” Ian instructs, his one hand fiddling with Mickey’s messy strands of hair, and the other one urging his hips to start moving.
With uncertain movements, Mickey begins to grind his length against Ian’s thigh. It’s good for a lazy night like this, where neither he nor Ian are in the mood for anything fancy. Mickey feels distantly embarrassed at the thought of humping Ian’s leg to get off, but he’s so far gone into the pit of need he forgets what shame is.
Thankfully, Mickey’s head is still tucked into Ian’s neck so Ian isn’t able to see the downright sinful look that spreads across his face upon grinding down. After being teased so much, unlocking a new part of himself he never allowed himself to enjoy, his cock was already in desperate need of soothing.
He’s completely slumped against Ian, like his body suddenly stopped working. His brain definitely stopped working, the only thing that can stay on his mind is his need to work himself towards undoing the tight knot building up inside of him. There’s nothing more that he can do except grind against the thigh that Ian offered him, his body too pliant to be able to do anything more than take what he’s given.
Despite the heaviness of his limbs, Mickey manages to bring his shaky arms up to clutch at Ian’s shoulders, trying to get some leverage to make it a little easier to drag his hips back and forth.
Short whiny moans are worked out of his lungs with each movement of his hips, he promised Ian he wouldn’t hold back, but at this point he couldn’t even bring himself to try. Each noise is more and more frustrated as he can’t seem to work himself close enough to the edge.
“Ah– It’s not enough…” Mickey groans into Ian’s neck, his brows furrowing.
“Keep going.” Ian instructs, helping Mickey out by guiding his hips with one hand. “I can feel you throbbing against me, you’re not too far.”
The bastard is enjoying this. He likes seeing Mickey desperate. It makes Mickey mad that Ian can use this new found kink to his advantage, but fuck does it feel good. He can hear that grin in Ian’s voice, that smile that splits on his face when he’s both feeling cocky, yet fond. A perfect balance for the type of sappy motherfucker he is.
“I-Ian…!” Mickey’s voice cracks, small sparks of pleasure appearing all over his body as he continues to rub himself against the fabric.
“That’s it, moan loud for me.” Ian groans, the hand in his hair becoming tighter.
The reason that Mickey whined right on command of that has nothing to do with the fact that Ian told him to—maybe just a little, but it’s beside the point. That gentle but rough hand in his hair tugs on the strands, Mickey grinds down specifically harder for that.
He’s never allowed himself to explore this part of his body, the biological malfunction that caused his brain to wire the touch sensors in his scalp to be directly wired to his cock, so he has no idea what his preferences are. Not until now, at least.
“Oh… You need it rough, don’t you?”
Mickey curses mentally. It’s been a few minutes and Ian already knows more about his sexual preferences than he does.
“Don’t you?” Ian asks firmer, tugging yet again.
“Yeah!” Mickey pants, breathless and needy. “W-Want you to fuckin’- I don’t know– pull on it.”
There’s a thoughtful hum that lingers in the air, as if Ian hasn’t already decided what he wanted to do the second Mickey moaned a little too loud.
“I know those manners aren’t lost yet.”
At this point, Mickey’s just getting fucked with. All of the frustration—from the teasing, the denial, the fact that he can’t get off from only this…
“Fuck you.” He spits, his hands digging into Ian’s shoulders a little bit harder.
Clearly, in hindsight, not even two seconds after the words left his mouth, it was the wrong thing to do.
The stinging in his scalp intensified as his hair tugged back far, an interested throb making itself known in Mickey’s pants.
“What was that?” Ian asks, his voice teasing but his face hard.
He can only imagine what he looks like right now. There’s definitely sweat on his forehead, mouth open and panting, eyes half lidded with glazed eyes, shimmering with the pain-pleasure that comes from getting his hair pulled.
“Gah!” Mickey gasps, his eyes rolling back in his head. “God– fuck– n-nothing. It was nothing.” Even when regularly talking, even with his hips practically still stilled, his words still come out like a desperate moan.
“I thought I told you to use your manners, not for you to say… nothing.” Ian says with a slight hint of a question in the sentence, for the sake of warning Mickey.
“Y-yeah, fuck…” Mickey can’t even bring himself to lift up his own head, Ian is carrying most of the weight by his hair. For some reason everything is ten times hotter while getting his hair pulled. He struggles to strain his voice enough to force them out of his throat without moaning. “I– please. Please be rough with me. N-Need it– need it to finish.”
“Mm…” A slow, lazy grin spreads across Ian’s face. Clearly he made the right choice this time. “I can be rough, but you need to be rough too. Want you to really work for it.”
Yes. Anything. He’ll do anything for it.
“Yeah… I c-can do that.”
“Make yourself cum, Mickey.”
That’s all the convincing he needs.
With desperate, greedy grinds against Ian’s thigh, Mickey focuses completely on his own orgasm. He slowly but surely works with the ache of his cock, doing his best to soothe it as well as work with it to unravel that ball of pressure inside of him. It’s hard when he’s so tightly wound like this, but Ian’s helping.
He can feel the hungry gaze staring at him, but Mickey can’t bring himself to meet Ian’s eyes. He can’t meet Ian’s eyes when his own eyes are completely rolled back, when his hips are pathetically bucking, when shivers blossom all around his body.
It’s all too much and not enough at the same time. Loud moans—mostly whimpers—leave Mickey’s mouth as he feels himself leak through his pants. There’s definitely a wet spot forming—if not growing—on his crotch right now.
He can’t bring himself to care about the mess he’s making. Not the obscene sounds that leave his mouth, not the spit running down his chin, not the precum spreading around his own dick that’s trapped in the confines of his pants. None of it matters when he can feel himself close, when those fingers clench tighter on his hair.
“A-ah!” He whimpers, his hips bucking forward without rhythm. “G-God— Ian, I’m so close, fuck— I need, I wanna—please!”
His sounds are basically unintelligible, a severe form of need wraps around his body, practically suffocating as he tries to communicate through the heavy fog that gets more and more intense as the seconds pass by.
“What is it?” Ian’s voice is grounding, at least a little bit. It’s enough for Mickey to be able to focus on his words for a split second. “C’mon, baby, tell me.”
“I need– Ngh– about to cum— please, let me!” His voice is pure desperation, shame being completely forgotten at this point.
“There’s a good boy…”
Mickey almost cums just from that, just from the pure fondness and truth in Ian’s voice.
“Go on, baby. Let it out.”
As soon as Mickey’s given the green light, he lets go. His body tenses up, his back arches against the hold that Ian has against his hair even though the last thing he wants is Ian to let go. His balls draw up tight towards himself, at that’s all the warning he gets before he completely lets himself go.
His hips move on their own accord as he tips over the edge, and it is not a slow progression. Every tease, all the foreplay, all the touches, all the soft–and harsh–words meld together to give Mickey the most mind blowing orgasm he’s ever had.
He can feel himself soaking his pants, spurt after spurt dampening the fabric as he continues to shakily ride out the rest of his orgasm against Ian’s thigh. Mickey’s breath gets caught in his throat and his ears ring to it, deaf to his own sounds. The only thing that he can process is the hand that covers his wide open mouth, which does little to muffle anything that gets past.
Eventually, his body gives way. His orgasm fades out, being replaced with a much calmer, hazier type of pleasure. Mickey can’t stop himself as he falls against Ian, and Ian doesn’t stop him. Instead, two arms reach around and pull him closer.
A soft sigh leaves his hoarse throat, noting how rough it sounds after so much usage. Seemingly more tired than even before, Mickey nuzzles closer into the warmth that Ian provides. His orgasm took a lot out of him, and it’s going to be a while before he can move.
He’s not sure how long it takes, but eventually Ian takes it upon himself to get Mickey to bed. No matter how many protests that he grumbles against Ian’s chest, the man still insists on carrying him bridal-style into the bedroom and stripping off his dirty clothes.
There’s also a wash cloth involved, and a glass of water that he downs the second it’s offered to him. The rest of the night is a blur in his mind.
The next day, Mickey has to greet the building manager at the door with a scratchy throat and begrudgingly apologize about the amount of noise complaints for his apartment.