The house is empty, for once. Something that Ian had had to assure Mickey of upwards of twelve times until he’d agreed to come over. Normally Ian would have just given up after the second time, but could someone really blame him for wanting to have sex in an actual bed for once? They were always fucking in the back room at the store or in the walk-in freezer, under the bleachers at school and then recently after that incident with Lloyd, in an alley way.
So sue him if he wants just for once the opportunity to maybe not have to rush everything for once. And maybe he’d quite like to be horizontal when they fuck. He doesn’t want many things in life – well okay, that’s a lie, but he doesn’t want many actually possible things in life – so he’s going to take this opportunity while it exists.
The only job he has to do is make sure to take Debbie’s fairy cakes out of the oven for her bake sale the next day. She’d set a timer for him and everything and honestly, even if they are in a bed, Ian doesn’t expect fucking Mickey to take all that long. The ex-con had never been one for anything slow. Everything with Mickey had to be fast and frantic, but then Mickey had always lived like there was an itch underneath his skin that no matter what way he twisted he couldn’t itch.
It’s one of those moments when Ian actually thinks that he’s got something close to perfection and it’s an even rarer time when Mickey is actually willing to fuck him face to face. Normally Mickey would start blabbing about how it was too intimate or some shit and the position didn’t exactly have good memories attached to it given that Frank had walked in on them the last time, but still, Ian sees it as a win that he’s managed to persuade Mickey to do this.
And it really is near enough perfect, to have Mickey writhing underneath him, head tipped back to reveal the long, pale arch of his neck that Ian can never resist sinking his teeth into. It’s a beautiful sight having Mickey let go like that, his eyes closed and his lips parted slightly as he panted. His nails dug into Ian’s shoulder-blades, pulling him closer and closer, making it more intimate than they had ever been. Normally they fucked with feet between them, arching away from each other’s space because otherwise Mickey could get uncomfortable and bolt.
But this time, this time Mickey was the one pressing close, he was the one shoving his face into the part of Ian’s throat where it met his shoulder, biting roughly at the skin and breathing wetly. And the sounds that he was making sounded like they were being punched out of him and Ian wished he could tell Mickey that he was free to make as much noise as he liked more often, because it was the best thing that Ian had ever heard, easily.
They didn’t say anything, they didn’t have to. They just let the wet sound of sweaty skin slapping together mingle with Mickey’s moans and pants and Ian’s low gasping breaths. He felt like he couldn’t get enough oxygen, like he was suffocating under the weight of everything that he was feeling; but he didn’t want to breathe if he had to lose this. He would rather have this moment.
He ducked his head and bit at Mickey’s shoulder, pressing a wet kiss to the skin there and then biting down again hard when he felt the ex-con tense for just a second. Mickey keened and nails scraped down his back. When Mickey arched off the bed just a little more, Ian took the opportunity to slide his hands underneath Mickey, gripping the back of his neck to hold him still as he thrust into the body beneath him. And maybe Mickey would have squirmed away or complained about this sudden shift, about this drastic increase in intimacy, but he couldn’t because when he opened his mouth to complain Ian hit that spot inside of him and his lips just gaped wide in a silent scream.
“Fuck,” Mickey breathed out into Ian’s neck, pressing his face more into his skin like that could try and muffle the sounds he was making, biting down and sucking slightly, maybe not completely aware that his actions were going to leave a mark. But Ian was, and the thought of Mickey marking him was enough for him to slam his hips forwards harder, to press down and give Mickey that friction that he needed against his cock.
Mickey finished as he usually did, with a grunt that sounded like it was physically painful and the constriction, the tight heat around Ian’s cock was his undoing as he thrust jerkily twice more before following Mickey over the edge.
And the surprise was that Mickey didn’t seem like he was planning on pushing him off immediately, or maybe he wasn’t quite aware of what was happening yet, because Ian could feel the ex-con’s heart thundering against his and the rapid, harsh breathing in his ear sounded like Mickey had run a marathon. It sort of made Ian want to point out that he had been the one doing all of the work.
But he didn’t want to say a word, didn’t want to shatter that moment and make the ex-con realise exactly what was happening. He didn’t want to ruin it. Typically, the moment that he had that thought, the smoke alarm rang out through the house.
Mickey jumped at the same time as Ian cursed and both of them fell in a tangle of limbs off the edge of the bed. Ian landed hard on his side, half underneath Mickey and the ex-con groaned low in discomfort as Ian slipped out of him with the fall.
“Fuck, the cakes,” Ian groaned, pulling regretfully away from Mickey and only just having the mind to take off the condom before he was grabbing a random pair of sweats and pulling them on as he ran out the room. He didn’t look back at the ex-con, didn’t want to see the expression on his face. Or more to the point, didn’t want to see the forced blankness there in his eyes.
Mickey would never admit to any sort of intimacy like they’d just shared, would never let them speak of it again and no doubt their next fuck would be harder and rougher and intentionally quicker than ever before, with both of them racing to get off in the fear that the other would just leave them in the dust.
The cakes were ruined, he could tell that from the smell long before he jerked open the oven door and pulled out the blackened mess. And for just the briefest moment, his thoughts were pulled away from Mickey as he thought well Debbie’s going to have my balls. He’d had one job and he couldn’t very well explain to his younger sister that the reason he’d ruined her bake sale was because he’d been fucking the neighbourhood thug. He didn’t see that going down well.
He vaguely remembered everything that was required for cakes. Flour, sugar, margarine, eggs. Probably baking powder and some shit. It was all still out on the side, or at least he assumed that was all of it.
“The fuck are you doing?” Mickey asked as he came down a few minutes later to see Ian standing there in the kitchen with an apron covering his bare chest, a large bowl in front of him and the remains of the previous cakes in the sink. There wasn’t anything in the bowl yet, he was just staring at it with an egg in one hand.
Ian frowned as Mickey leant against the counter in front of him. He’d half expected the ex-con to bolt or at the very least to look pissed at him, but instead he just looked amused. It was a good expression on Mickey when there was no malice behind it actually.
“Trying to make fairy cakes so Debbie doesn’t remove my nuts with a spoon,” he replied, noticing how Mickey’s eyes flickered towards the mess in the sink. Mickey smirked and seemed to settle even more against the counter. Apparently this was worth sticking around for. “You got any clue what goes in first?” he picked up a bag of flour and frowned at it, “Or how much of this stuff I’m supposed to put in?”
At the very least he knew he couldn’t just throw it all in haphazardly. He’d seen Debbie measuring things out on the scales.
“You have to weigh the eggs,” Mickey replied and then froze, staring up at Ian with wide eyes and making it obvious that he hadn’t meant to say any of that. Their gazes held for a minute or so before Mickey finally seemed to force himself to relax, obviously unable to see any sort of judgement in Ian’s eyes. “Mandy likes to tell me random shit, guess some of it fucking stays in my head.”
Ian didn’t know how he knew that Mickey was lying, but he did. He didn’t call him out on it though, he wasn’t that stupid. “Alright, so I weigh the eggs,” he said, putting the flour down and grabbing the scales, “How many eggs though?”
“Two,” Mickey answered instantly and then shrugged, a slight colour rising into his cheeks, “Or so I’ve heard.”
Again, Ian chose not to call him out on it, instead dutifully weighing the eggs on the scales. “Right so that’s how much of everything else I need,” he said, talking more to himself even though out of the corner of his eye he could see Mickey nod.
Ian twisted to grab the margarine out of the fridge and handed Mickey a beer as he did so. The ex-con accepted it gratefully, drinking about half in one go before setting it back on the counter. Ian weighed out all of the ingredients into separate bowls and then tried to remember when he’d seen Debbie put in first. He thought she’d dumped all of it in and whisked that up, but he couldn’t be sure.
He supposed it was all going to end up in the same place anyway at some point, so it shouldn’t matter.
“The fuck you doing?” Mickey asked, seeming unable to help himself as Ian picked up the flour and was about to tip it into the bowl with the sugar.
Ian raised an eyebrow at him, freezing in place. “Mixing it all together?” he asked, not quite knowing why he sounded so unsure. The way that Mickey was staring at him was unnerving, it was like he was about to commit blasphemy or something, but them Mickey had never been religious.
“That’s not how you make a cake, Gallagher,” Mickey told him, apparently having said fuck it to the situation where he was pretending he didn’t know anything about this. Ian wondered if he’d finally found a pet hate of Mickey’s or something: people making cakes wrong. “You don’t just shove it all into one bowl and hope for the best, nobody’s gonna want to eat that shit.”
Ian smirked. “So how do you suppose I make it then?” he asked.
“You mix the sugar and margarine together first, fuckhead,” Mickey told him like it was obvious, taking another swig from his beer, “But you need to beat the fucking eggs first.” Of course he’d chosen to make that comment right as Ian lifted the whisk and Ian was about the set it back down when Mickey muttered, “Fuck it,” under his breath and rolled his eyes.
Mickey pushed away from the counter, and came around the other side to stand next to Ian. He squared up to him, eyes narrowing dangerously and maybe it would have been a hell of a lot more threatening if he hadn’t just taken off his shirt and tossed it onto the backs of one of the chairs. “You tell anyone about this and I’ll rip your dick off and make you choke on it,” Mickey warned him, shoving a finger into his face, “Now move the fuck out of the way and start mixing that shit together.”
Ian watched out of the corner of his eye as Mickey started opening drawers until he found a measuring jug – Ian hadn’t even known they’d had one of those – and a fork. He then proceeded to crack both eggs into it and stood there with a look of intense concentration on his face as he beat the eggs into a yellow runny mixture.
“Eyes on the fucking bowl before I rip them out of your head, Gallagher,” Mickey warned him even though he didn’t look up from the eggs and Ian blushed and dutifully turned back around, unable to resist peeking through his lashes one last time at the ex-con. Mickey’s mouth twisted into a smirk when he saw him looking, but he said nothing.
He jumped slightly when Mickey stood right beside him, a line of heat along his side where they were touching. “Turn the speed down,” Mickey told him, “I don’t need to fucking wear it.” He shifted hands so that he could bring the measuring jug closer to the bowl Ian was whisking. “Just keep on doing as you fucking are,” Mickey instructed him before starting to tip egg into the mixture in small, even amounts. He paused for a moment after each time he tilted the measuring jug, waiting for Ian to mix it in.
Mickey looked so sure of himself as he grabbed a spoon and the flour and put a few spoonfuls into the mixture as soon as the egg was finished with. When Ian looked at him with a raised eyebrow he shrugged, “Stops it curdling, now look back at what you’re doing, Firecrotch, Jesus Christ!”
Ian chuckled low under his breath and did as he was told. He had to say that Mickey knowing what he was doing was actually pretty fucking hot. Maybe more so because it wasn’t anything violent, but was instead something as normal and as fucking random as cake making.
He stepped back slightly when Mickey shouldered him out of the way to start folding the flour into the mixture. Although that wasn’t before handing Ian one of the whisks to lick clean. And after that Ian’s contribution to the cake making process just sort of involved him sitting there and licking the batter off of the whisk whilst Mickey finished off.
He didn’t fail to notice the ex-con’s gaze flickering towards him a few times as he got instructed to boil the kettle. “What?” he asked, sitting back down and accepting the other whisk that Mickey hadn’t yet touched. It was something he hadn’t actually expected to be handed when he asked Mickey for it.
“Do you have to be so fucking seductive when you’re doing that?” Mickey asked, narrowing his eyes at Ian’s mouth and pushing his tongue into the corner of his mouth before going back to spooning mixture into the cake cases.
Ian shrugged, leaning over the counter slightly to blatantly stare at Mickey’s ass when he bent to put the cake’s into the oven. Hopefully they would come out unscathed this time around. “I dunno,” he replied, smirking at Mickey when the ex-con straightened up and for a moment actually looked just a little bit lost without something in his hands.
Ian came around the other side of the counter and backed Ian up against the sink, grinning down at him. “You want to see what else I can do with my mouth?” he asked, his hands going to Mickey’s belt and he relished the feel of Mickey shivering underneath his hands just from his words.
“Call it payback because you fucking owe me for this shit,” Mickey growled at him, although he seemed to choke a little on the words when Ian dropped to his knees in front of him, pressing his face into Mickey’s crotch and breathing hotly for a moment.
“I don’t know Mick, I kind of like this side of you,” Ian commented, tilting his head to the side and looking up at Mickey through his lashes, smiling, “It’s hot.”
Mickey’s eyes narrowed, but his heart didn’t really seem to be in it. “Fuck off and get to it, Gallagher,” he growled at him, “I’m still not above ripping your fucking tongue out!” His fingers flexed on Ian’s head, nails scratching against his scalp, “And you breathe a fucking word of this to anybody. . .”
Ian snorted and rolled his eyes, “Yeah, yeah, I know, it’ll end in pain.”
“Now you’re learning,” Mickey muttered, his fingers flexing again and for just a second, Ian imagined that he could see a sort of affection in Mickey’s eyes. And later, when he’d had Mickey arching back off of the counter and shooting down his throat, he asked Mickey where the hell he’d learnt to bake. The ex-con had frozen and Ian didn’t think Mickey had been planning on telling him.
“My mum,” he said eventually, almost regretfully, “Before she fucked off.”
And that right there was the sort of secret that proved that maybe someone like Mickey Milkovich could be human after all.