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          Lip had meant it as an offhand comment, but Ian couldn’t stop thinking about it. All day he’d been pondering the question, and even though he knew his brother hadn’t meant his tiny scathing remark to trigger a serious philosophical debate in Ian’s head, Ian had spent the entire rest of the afternoon wondering.

          “Why do you even like Mickey?”

          Ian knew his brother had expected him to throw back something about how attentive and present and there for him Mickey had been all throughout the early days of his medication and therapy, that he’d wanted Ian to list the things they’d been through before they were official, and all the drama that had come up after. Lip had had a long day, and Ian knew he wanted to pick a fight, wanted Ian to yell about Mickey being there when nobody else was, the things he’d done, the things he’d said. But Ian wasn’t thinking about any of that.

          Ian was distracted all through family dinner, and when he finally left around ten, a few beers deep and very in his own head, Ian walked back to the apartment he shared with Mickey nowadays and kept thinking over the question. And all the answers he came up with came back to the little things: the way Mickey threw himself on the couch when he came home, his legs flung unceremoniously over Ian’s lap; the fact that he kept experimenting with food in the kitchen despite how often that resulted in them ordering takeout; his shit-eating grin when he pissed someone off; the way he rubbed at his chin before starting a really satisfying fight; his seeming obsession with biting down on Ian’s skin every time they were together, like huge fuck off, this belongs to me signs all over Ian’s body. But what did he like about Mickey? How was he supposed to pick just one thing?

          He unlocked his door and entered the apartment, still lost in thought. Mickey smiled up at him from where he was sprawled on the couch watching TV, and reached out over the back when Ian closed the door. Mickey made a grabby-hands gesture and Ian slid closer to him, letting Mickey reel him in by the waist until Ian was close enough to bend down and kiss him, upside-down from over the back of the couch.

          “You’re late,” Mickey said, releasing Ian so that he could grab some water from the kitchen and return to where Mickey was sitting in front of some action movie. Ian settled close to him, leaning their shoulders together.

          “Lip was in a mood,” he said, shrugging. Mickey made an irritated noise at the mention of Ian’s brother and didn’t ask for further elaboration.

          Mickey caught him up on the beginning of the movie during a commercial break, and they sank back into the couch to watch it together. Sometime between the first and second hour Mickey’s hand drifted over to Ian’s lap, but it was undemanding, settling over Ian’s thigh like he just liked feeling Ian beside him. Ian looked down at it, the dark letters of U-UP stark in the dim light cast by the television screen, stretched over the top of his leg and squeezing with a gentle, constant pressure.

          Ian slipped his hand over Mickey’s and Mickey turned his palm up, allowing their fingers to fall together. Ian rubbed his thumb against Mickey’s, the pad of it smoothing over a callous near Mickey’s knuckle. A commercial started up in front of them, a soft song playing in the background, and Ian turned his attention to their joined hands. He only realized he was being watched when Mickey leaned over and pressed a kiss to the side of his head, against his temple. Ian pressed further against him, still fiddling with his fingers. Those hands that had wreaked so much damage and whose ink promised so much more…that had been drenched in blood and often covered broken bones…and were so small and soft in Ian’s own hands, and gentle when stroking down his face or through his hair…

          Ian looked up at Mickey without warning, and caught Mickey still watching him. Mickey didn’t look away, but his hand twitched in Ian’s, his thigh jerking away from Ian’s leg slightly.

          Mickey hesitated, and Ian thought he might pull away. Instead he smiled slightly and said, “Come to bed?”

          Ian nodded, throat tight. Mickey extracted his hand and stood, bending to kiss the top of Ian’s head before disappearing into their room.

          Ian watched him go, eyes trailing over his legs and back and settling on the back of his head, and in that he had his answer.

          His favorite thing about Mickey was Mickey himself.

Chapter Text

Don't fret the warning, no one hits their boyfriend in the future :))))) i'm so bitter

Inspired (at the very least) by Em's post.

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          Ian woke up first most mornings; he had to take his first round of medication at eight a.m. and he tried to be as punctual as he could, because however much he tried to hide it, Ian knew that Mickey panicked a little if he was more than twenty minutes late following the regimen.

          Sometimes Mickey woke up when Ian got out of bed, but not this morning. Ian gently extracted his hand from underneath Mickey’s and rolled to his feet, plodding tiredly to the bathroom and grabbing his dispenser box from the top shelf of the medicine cabinet. He quickly swallowed the morning’s pills with a gulp of water from the tap. He shut the cabinet as quietly as he could and returned to the bedroom, slipping in beneath the covers.

          Mickey grumbled something unintelligible as Ian’s weight dipped the mattress down, and he rolled over so that he was facing Ian. Ian watched him, holding his breath and hoping that his phone alarm hadn’t woken Mickey up for the third time this week, but his eyes remained closed and after a minute Ian exhaled heavily in relief.

          He had just reached out to pull Mickey back against him when one of Mickey’s eyes cracked open, squinting against the sunlight streaming through the window. Mickey batted Ian’s arm away and settled his hand over the side of his face instead, cradling Ian’s cheek softly.

          “You didn’t think you got away with that, did you?” Mickey said, voice cracked and rough with sleep. Ian tried to duck his head guiltily, but Mickey held him firmly in place and when Ian met his eyes again, Mickey smiled gently and started running his thumb up and down Ian’s jaw with slow, measured strokes. Ian nuzzled subconsciously into the touch and shifted closer on the bed. Mickey did too, scooting forward until he could lean his forehead against Ian’s, still rubbing light circles on his cheek.

          “It’s okay,” Mickey said, his eyes already drifting shut again. “You can make it up to me later. You take your shit?”

          “Yes, sir.”

          Mickey gave him the most patronizing face he could without opening his eyes.

          He settled again after a moment when met with no further comment. Ian watched him closely as Mickey’s breathing and thumb started to slow down in tandem, and when his hand stopped moving completely and laid still over Ian’s cheek, Ian reached up to wrap it in his own. Mickey’s hand fit easily in Ian’s wide palm and he brought them down to lay in the space between their bodies, brushing the tops of his knuckles where FUCK was spelled out in dark ink. He did it again, and again, tracing each of the letters with light touches, until he looked up to see Mickey glaring at him with as much annoyance as he could muster at eight o’clock in the morning. Mickey admittedly had plenty of practice looking as irritated as possible, but Ian was unfazed.

          “What the fuck, Ian,” Mickey bit out.

          Ian grinned and, instead of answering, pulled their hands up to his face and pressed his lips to the F over his pinky. Mickey only looked on, impassive and unimpressed, so Ian moved on to the next letter, and the next, and when he pressed a kiss to the K inscribed on Mickey’s index finger, he finally looked up to see Mickey watching him with his eyebrows arched.

          “You take something or something?” Mickey asked. His middle finger uncurled to run softly over Ian’s lips, tracing the shape of them. The action was very at odds with his aggravated expression and the bemused tone of his voice.

          “A few somethings, actually,” Ian said musingly, knowing it would only wind Mickey up. “Hey, what was in that box of pills in the cabinet?”

          Mickey scoffed and rolled his eyes, pulling his arm back and flipping onto his stomach, head cradled on his forearms. His eyes glided shut again and he said, “Shut up, fuckface. Some of us are trying to sleep.”

          “No one’s stopping you,” Ian threw back, propping his head up on his hand and watching Mickey feign slumber.

          Mickey sighed after barely half a minute. “Ian,” he said threateningly. “I can feel you staring at me.”

          “I’m not staring at you.”

          Mickey snorted but didn’t open his eyes. “I can feel you fucking watching me. Come on, man.”

          Ian exhaled huffily and slid down onto his back, tapping his fingers on his stomach and staring up at the ceiling, sighing loudly every now at then just to see the lines in Mickey’s forehead tighten.

          “Jesus Christ,” Mickey said, glowering over at him. “Would you go back to bed? Please?”

          Ian rolled his eyes, twisting his head to look at him. “I can’t sleep after I take my meds, Mick. It makes me feel all nauseous.”

          Mickey’s expression softened sympathetically at that, and he reached out to tug on Ian’s arm, bringing him closer. “You want me to grab you a bucket or something?”

          “No,” said Ian, already sliding over towards him. He raised his arm meaningfully instead and Mickey took the hint and laid his head over Ian’s chest, Ian’s arm wrapping around his shoulder. Mickey splayed his hand across Ian’s stomach. Mickey was always a few degrees warmer than Ian, and his body worked like a hot patch to keep the nausea down when the mornings were too cold to do that naturally.

          As Mickey settled in, half over and half beside him, Ian petted through Mickey’s hair. He watched the way his own breathing lifted and dropped the hand spread over his bare stomach until the nausea faded and he joined Mickey in sleep.

 


 

 

          If asked about it later, Ian couldn’t actually remember why he had thought that taking Mickey out to any bar besides the ones they usually frequented was a good idea.

          They were having a good time on what was as close to a date night as they would ever get. Mickey challenged him to a drinking contest and they were chugging back jack and cokes when Ian slammed his glass down on the countertop and shouted, “One more!”

          “One more?” Mickey asked. He choked a little on his drink as he pulled it too quickly away from his mouth in his haste to question Ian’s sanity. “You sure you should be drinking this much? You’ve got work in the morning.”

          The bartender slid over two more servings and Ian, more than a little drunk but feeling extremely light and happy with Mickey sitting beside him, passed one over. He tilted his own glass tauntingly in Mickey’s direction.

          “Scared, Mick?”

          Mickey’s expression instantly hardened. He threw back the rest of his drink and picked up the new glass. “Fuck you,” he said, raising the glass in a silent toast. “You ready?”

          Ian clinked his drink against Mickey’s and tipped it back, upending the glass so the liquid flowed steadily into his mouth, and trying to swallow as fast as possible. He glanced over as he was downing the last drops to see Mickey finish off his drink just seconds earlier. Ian gasped in a breath when he finished his own, slapping at the counter and muttering expletives over the loss, but really he just felt happy and drunk and Mickey was laughing, and the sound was so good and sweet that Ian didn’t even really care that he had lost that round. He didn’t know when it happened but he realized Mickey’s hand was on his knee, warm and firm, supporting him as he leaned forward to wipe away a trickle of alcohol lingering in the corner of Ian’s mouth. He sucked it off his own finger after, Ian’s eyes steady on him the entire time. Mickey grinned goofily after and leaned forward more to whisper something in Ian’s ear. Ian inclined towards him as well, using the bar for balance as he shifted towards Mickey, but before Mickey could even open his mouth a loud voice interrupted them.

          “What the fuck is this?”

          Ian turned towards the source of the voice, and when he found it, he struggled to get the guy into focus. He was large and mean-looking, an ugly sneer twisting his mouth as he glared down at them. Ian was just about to ask what was what when the man spoke again.

          Only Ian didn’t really hear what he said over the other patrons and his own blood in his ears—he just knew that the man had barely closed his mouth before something heavy clamped down over Ian’s shoulder, and he turned in time to see Mickey clamoring to his feet, using him for stability. Ian grabbed onto Mickey’s forearm as his stood, trying to keep him steady despite his own inebriation, but before he could ask what was happening Mickey had reared back and punched the man across the face.

          Ian lurched up, yelling Mickey’s name, but Mickey pushed him back and laid into the other man, who was admittedly putting up a decent fight. Ian strode forward again, pulling at Mickey’s arm and speaking low in his ear, “Mickey, come on, let’s go. He’s not worth it. Let’s go, Mickey,” but Mickey wasn’t listening, and it only took the guy getting one solid punch to Mickey’s stomach for Ian to see red and join the fight.

          He got knocked back fairly quickly, his opponent landing a square hit to the side of his face, and Ian staggered back. Mickey was yelling again, and then he was standing in front of Ian to try and block him from the ongoing fracas. Ian tried to get around him, to help him, but Mickey spun around to force him back, and then he was pushing him away from the bar, away from the fight and towards the exit.

          Mickey had a hard grip on Ian’s arm that he didn’t loosen until they were hit by the cold outside air. His forceful tugs immediately softened, and he guided Ian more gently back against the bricks of the building so that he was flooded in light from the lamp over the door.

          “What the fuck, Mickey?” Ian asked, struggling away from where Mickey was tilting his chin up, trying to assess the damage. Ian realized his cheekbone was throbbing dully and he reached up to touch the spot, and his fingertips came away wet.

          “You’re bleeding,” Mickey informed him pointlessly. He swept a hand down Ian’s cheek, swiping away a droplet of blood. His fingers skirted the wound as they brushed over his skin, the other fisting in Ian’s sweatshirt, nestled against Ian’s side and the brick behind him as Mickey leaned up to get a better look.

          “It’s just a cut,” Ian said.

          Mickey shook his head slightly, still rubbing his thumb around the injury and trying to wipe off any dried blood from his face.

          “He hit you a good few times,” Ian pointed out, reaching out for Mickey and gently pushing his fingers underneath his shirt so that he could probe at his ribs. “You okay?”

          Mickey winced a little, his fingers digging into Ian’s side, but he didn’t flinch badly enough that Ian thought there was any injuries that required immediate medical attention. When Ian’s fingers stilled on his sides, Mickey pulled away enough for his hands to slip out from under his shirt and then he was pressing back in, cupping Ian’s face in his hands and turning his head to check for any further damage.

          Ian pushed gently on Mickey’s forearms after a few seconds, easing him away from his face. “I’m okay,” he promised. “I’m fine. Come on, I think you’re getting more blood on me than off me. Let’s go, let’s get out of here.”

          Mickey glanced back at the bar before nodding tersely, and he turned around and led the way down the sidewalk towards home. “Good idea,” he said. “We didn’t pay our bar tab.”

          Ian laughed and shouldered him, just hard enough to make him stagger a little. Mickey pushed back at him, but Ian threw an arm over his shoulders so that Mickey tripped sideways with him as he stumbled.

          “So,” Ian said, as they settled into a semi-steady stroll down the sidewalk considering they were still kind of drunk, “what got you so wound up?”

          Mickey didn’t answer. Ian jostled him a little. “Mickey? Come on, what did he say?”

          “Nothing,” Mickey said, eyes on the ground. He kicked at a pebble in their path and watched it sail away into the darkness before he inhaled sharply and said, “He just…Slurs. He called us…a whole bunch of shit. It doesn’t matter. And he said…”

          Ian looked sideways at him, but Mickey was very carefully studying the ground. Ian knew better than to push him, knew that Mickey liked time to organize his thoughts when they were all swarming around in his skull. So Ian gave him time, and after awhile Mickey finished his thought on his own.

          “He said it was unnatural. You know, for us to be there, drinking and shit, and acting like…”

          Mickey trailed off. Ian raised his eyebrows, his arm slipping off of Mickey’s shoulders.

          “Like a couple?” he prompted. “He didn’t think we should be out in public?”

          Mickey shrugged.

          “Mickey,” Ian said sharply, “You know that you—”

          “I know,” Mickey said, expression suddenly hostile. “Jesus, that’s all…Fuck, Ian. That stuff hasn’t mattered in years.”

          “I know,” Ian said, his voice hitching uncertainly. “I just meant—”

          “Yes, I know what you fucking meant,” Mickey snapped. He was breathing heavier than usual considering that they were keeping a fairly leisurely pace, and he dragged a hand over his eyes when Ian leaned in closer. “It’s fine. I’m fine,” he insisted, sucking in a deep breath. “Whatever. Forget I said anything.”

          Mickey wouldn’t look at him still. Ian leaned away but kept studying the side of his face, the angry lines where his eyebrows drew together. He didn’t press further. Mickey relaxed slightly when he realized that Ian was letting the subject drop, but his expression didn’t soften.

          After a few minutes, Ian reached out and threaded his fingers through Mickey’s. Mickey glanced over at him but didn’t say anything, so Ian tightened his grip a little. They kept walking.

          What the fuck did anyone else know? As far as Ian was concerned, Mickey’s hand fit very naturally with his.

 


 

 

          Ian was out smoking a cigarette on the porch when he heard the window open and shut behind him. He didn’t turn around, knowing that only one person would be joining him out on the fire escape.

          Ian turned to look at him as Mickey leaned beside him on the railing, and he passed over the cigarette dangling from his hand. Mickey reached over to accept it, and Ian could feel the scars from the fight earlier that week as his long fingers brushed over Mickey’s. They didn’t speak, just passed the cigarette back and forth until Ian looked over and ran his knuckles lightly over a spot on Mickey’s jaw.

          “Your face is healing up fine,” Ian noted, pulling his arm back.

          “Yeah?” Mickey said. He was staring out in front of them, eyes sweeping over the city. The streets were bustling in the early evening, the sky a light velvet blue, and although Mickey was apparently fixated on someone down on the sidewalk, Ian kept studying his profile.

          “Yeah.”

          Mickey turned to him then, smirking and passing the smoke back. “Yours is still ugly as ever,” he said. Ian rolled his eyes and tried not to dignify that with a laugh.

          Only when Ian turned to stare out at the building across from them did Mickey look over, but he caught the movement in his peripheral vision right before Mickey’s hand landed on his cheek, fingers skimming over the scar under his eye. It would be faded within the week, Ian knew, but Mickey had been obsessively checking over it at every opportunity.

          Before Ian could even exasperatedly say, “I’m fine,” Mickey kept going, not giving him time to protest. His hand pushed back to rest on the back of Ian’s neck, fingers lightly running through the hair at the base of his head. Ian closed his eyes on a particularly long drag of the cigarette and leaned closer to Mickey.

          Even after the cigarette burned out and Ian let it fall from his lips out over the railing, they still didn’t move. Mickey’s hand drifted down to his back, holding him close without pressure for a moment until Ian turned to look at him and Mickey cradled his face in one hand again. His fingers smelled like tobacco and dirt and Ian turned to press a kiss to Mickey’s palm when it skimmed close to his mouth. His lips passed over a scar on the heel of Mickey’s palm, and Ian reached up to hold his hand steady as he pressed his lips to it again, searching more squarely for that scar. Mickey flinched as Ian’s fingers pressed on a bruise on his knuckles, and Ian flipped his hand over to kiss at that wound, too. He kept going, searching out any broken or bruised skin and brushing his lips over the spots in turn, and as he went Mickey’s thumb smoothed over his cheek and jaw in tiny, soothing circles.

          “What are you doing?” Mickey asked, but when Ian looked up, he saw that Mickey’s eyes were soft and a lazy, happy smile was stretching over his face.

          “Nothing,” Ian said, fighting his own smile as he nosed back at Mickey’s palm.

          “You are so weird,” Mickey said, turning away to hide his smile. Ian only grinned harder and kissed his palm again, and Mickey laughed and pulled his hand back, saying, “Alright, alright.”

          “What?” Ian said, reaching down to enfold Mickey’s small hand underneath his own. His nails scratched down the back of Mickey’s fingers, over his tattoos.

          Mickey rolled his eyes and looked back at him, turning his palm to fit more securely against Ian’s. “Nothing,” he said, tightening his hold on him.

          Ian pressed his lips together. Mickey was smiling up at him, looking very relaxed and happy and peaceful, and Ian was knocked a little breathless; he couldn’t remember ever, ever wanting to kiss someone more.

          So he did, because he could. He reached up, framed Mickey’s face in a gentle hold, and pressed a soft kiss to his lips. Mickey sighed against him, his own hands settling over Ian’s waist, pulling him closer. Ian kissed him again, and again, and he didn’t know which he liked best—Mickey’s fingers pushing, needy and grasping, at his t-shirt, trying desperately to undress him? Or digging sharply into his skin, demanding, rough, trying convince Ian to go faster or tease less, doing their best at persuasion when Ian took too long and words failed him? Or when they were smoothing over the cuts on Ian’s skin, soft, firm, loving?

          But Ian kissed him, and Mickey’s hands settled tender and possessive over his hips, and he didn’t think he had ever felt anything more perfect.

Chapter Text

This one's for all my thick-thighed homies out there. I feel you, man. I feel you.

As always, blessed be to Em’s obsession with Mick’s legs.

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          Ian blinked awake around seven o’clock. He glanced down at his phone screen, momentarily confused at the time, and then dropped his head back onto the pillow with a groan. As he lay there, he slowly became aware of the loud sound of construction outside the window that must have been the cause of his premature return to consciousness. He could already tell that he wouldn’t be getting any more sleep this morning, try as he might to sink back into it. He had been having a very pleasant dream involving him and Mickey and a nonexistent mountainside cabin. They had been laid out next to the fire and taking full advantage of the ability to be as loud as they wanted without any neighbors complaining, and even stronger than his knowledge that he had to stop letting Fiona reel him into sappy foreign romance films was Ian’s desire to return to that place.

          After a few minutes of futilely attempting to go back to sleep, he gave up with a sigh and squinted his eyes open, wary of the early-morning sunlight. He could still feel the phantom weight of Mickey’s solid calves around his waist, ankles crossed on the small of his back, and it was mostly the fault of his dream not having fully slipped from his head that caused his eyes to flick down the bed. Part of the blanket had rucked up around his boyfriend, leaving one of Mickey’s legs exposed and laying bare and enticing on the mattress. Ian traced the line of it with his eyes, licking at his lips subconsciously. After only a few seconds’ deliberation he came to a decision.

          He flipped the covers off them both, ignoring Mickey’s sleepy mumble of protest, and shuffled down the bed. He positioned himself carefully in between Mickey’s already-spread legs and then sat back on his heels, studying the sleeping body beneath him. Mickey was flat on his back with an arm thrown over his face, his black tank top riding up his hips, his head turned away from the window and the light streaming through it. Only when the sound of a jackhammer started up outside and Mickey snuffled faintly, pressing deeper into his pillow, did Ian smile a little and lower himself to his stomach. He pressed a small kiss to Mickey’s inner calf and looked up for a reaction; Mickey twitched but didn’t wake, so Ian, now grinning slyly, leaned over and did the same thing to his other leg. Mickey grumbled something in his sleep, and Ian had to bite down on his lip to keep from laughing out at how irritable Mickey was even when he wasn’t awake. When he thought he had his amusement under control, Ian ducked his head back down, busying his mouth on Mickey’s skin again.

          He crawled a little further up the bed, pausing here and there to kiss at random spots on Mickey’s legs: a bruise over his shin, a cut near his knee, the meat of his calf. He came level with a spot where Mickey’s leg hair was even lighter than usual and nibbled gently at the skin, only pulling back when Mickey kicked out a little and almost caught him in the chin. He knew Mickey was going to wake up fully soon and so moved on, leaning up to press a tiny kiss to the inside of his knee before shifting up to better get at the rest of him.

          He ran his hands up Mickey’s legs and prodded his thighs further apart so that he could press his face into the warm skin there. He suckled lightly at the middle of Mickey’s inner thigh, where he knew from experience he was extremely sensitive. Ian could feel Mickey stirring above him but it wasn’t until he turned to the other leg and fully sank his teeth into his thigh that Mickey woke up for real. Ian felt hands slipping into his hair on instinct, and he looked up, past where he could see Mickey’s cock swelling in his boxers, and studied the face turned down on him, watching him as he lay there flat between his legs.

          “Morning,” Mickey said, voice rough from sleep.

          It sounded almost like a question, which Ian ignored in favor of burrowing back into his thigh and muttering, “Morning,” around where his teeth were grazing Mickey’s skin.

          Mickey hummed low in his throat as Ian kept at it, creeping further up his leg until he pushed the hem of Mickey’s boxers up a bit and found a plane of flushed, warm skin that seemed to be begging for his mouth. He licked experimentally at the spot and Mickey groaned softly, his fingers tightening in Ian’s hair. Ian hid his pleased smile and nudged Mickey with his shoulder, encouraging him to wrap his legs around Ian’s neck. He followed the invitation immediately, and the heaviness of Mickey’s thick thighs around his head were a welcome burden as Ian continued mouthing at the area he’d chosen. Eventually satisfied with his preliminary teasing, Ian opened his mouth against Mickey’s thigh and started sucking at it in earnest, his hands squeezing Mickey’s legs more tightly and securely around him as he did so.

          After a minute Ian unclenched his fingers from where they were digging into Mickey in favor of running them up the sides of his legs. Once he reached his hips, he slid them back down despite the way Mickey’s whole body jerked like he had expected Ian to reach around and grab at his ass the way Ian was usually desperate to. He lifted his head to find Mickey watching him, his mouth open and already a little red from where he must have been biting at his own lips, and he was panting slightly despite the fact that Ian had barely done anything yet.

          “Did you want something?” Ian asked innocently, turning towards Mickey’s left leg next and licking a slow stripe up his inner thigh. Mickey’s legs tightened around him.

          Mickey seemed to deliberate for a second, and then he said breathlessly, “I’m good,” and sank back down, letting his arms flop to his sides.

          Ian snickered and went back in. He nibbled at the soft muscle in front of him, then flicked his tongue over the spot when he was done before moving further up towards where Mickey’s cock was definitely asking to share the attention of Ian’s mouth. Ian, however, was insistent on lavishing Mickey’s thighs first, and doing it thoroughly. Mickey didn’t seem to mind the lazy pace for once, pushing his hands through Ian’s hair in a fashion that was closer to petting than demanding as he worked his mouth over him. Ian occasionally paused to suck leisurely but firmly at places that he deemed worthy, and each time when he was finished he pulled back to admire the bruise that developed there before continuing.

          Only when Mickey’s boxers started to get in the way, when he couldn’t push them up with ease anymore, did Ian lean back. Mickey’s hands slipped from his hair as Ian sat up and his legs fell to the bed on either side of him. Ian studied his work for a moment, the collage of teeth marks and bruises that patterned Mickey’s skin, but before Mickey could start to get antsy, Ian reached for his waistband and pulled his boxers down in a swift motion. He shoved them somewhere behind him as he settled back between Mickey’s legs, thumbs rubbing into his adductors. Mickey kicked his boxers off the rest of the way and reached out for Ian again.

          Keeping his eyes on Mickey’s face, now, Ian leaned forward slowly until he came level with Mickey’s outstretched hand, and he pushed into it so that Mickey could trace his cheekbone with his thumb. Ian let him caress his face for a few seconds before he knelt back down, bringing his lips back to the freshly revealed skin before him. He flattened himself on the bed again so that he could maneuver more easily, alternating between tiny bites and dark bruises on all the skin that Mickey’s boxers usually kept covered. Mickey writhed a little under the attention; Ian could see his hands clenching and unclenching by his sides, wanting something, wanting more, but it wasn’t until he kissed at a spot tantalizingly close to his cock that Mickey let out a stifled moan and pushed Ian’s hair back, his fingers tightening in the strands. Ian paused, and he was close enough to Mickey’s body that he could see the muscles of his legs tensing more and more the longer that Ian stayed still.

          “It’s okay,” Ian murmured, pressing his lips to the same place as before and nuzzling into it. Mickey’s thighs, not conditioned for running any farther than it took to shake the police, gave easily under the pressure of his cheek as he pressed further against him. “You can put them back around me.”

          He heard Mickey’s shaky inhale in response. It only lasted a half second before Mickey complied, crossing his legs carefully over Ian’s back. Ian nodded encouragingly, aching to get his mouth back on him but trying to be patient while Mickey got comfortable. When he seemed to be settled, Ian shifted Mickey around him a little until he was contented himself, with Mickey’s thighs pressing into his jaw and his calves resting along his shoulder blades. Only when he was satisfied that Mickey wasn’t going anywhere did Ian dip forward and continue what he had been doing, ignoring Mickey’s growing impatience.

          Ian could feel everything with Mickey’s legs around him: how they tautened and relaxed in time with Mickey’s breathing when Ian sucked at his skin, or went loose when he bit hard at the softer but denser inner muscle, the way they shook when Ian’s tongue swept up dangerously far. He loved it; he wondered if Mickey would grow tired if they stayed like this forever.

          Eventually, when Mickey’s breathing was very ragged and Ian thought he had marked everywhere he could reach, he took pity and closed his mouth over Mickey’s cock.

          Mickey muffled another strangled sound at the sudden motion, reverting to panting wildly instead. But he was good, laying still on the bed while Ian sucked him down. Ian trailed his hands up Mickey’s legs with light fingers until he reached his waist again, and he locked his hands there while he sucked at him. His fingertips were soft where they rubbed gentle circles beneath Mickey’s tank top, his mouth sure around him. Mickey groaned and arched his back towards the ceiling as Ian worked him, teasing at his head with his tongue before going back down.

          “Fuck, Ian,” Mickey breathed.

          Not really in a position to speak, Ian answered by pressing Mickey’s hips down firmly on the bed and taking him in further, his throat working as he swallowed, urging Mickey towards the edge faster than usual. He wanted that, to hear Mickey come, to feel his legs tighten, his body tense. He wanted to feel Mickey lose control when he pulsed down Ian’s throat.

          Mickey didn’t last, not when Ian didn’t want him to. He came with a broken gasp soon after, hips jerking up finally, and Ian took it. He let Mickey control his own orgasm and did nothing, just continued sucking at his cock and swallowing compulsively until Mickey was finally spent.

          He pulled off when Mickey collapsed back onto the bed, resting his head on his hands and examining Mickey in all his post-orgasm glory. A dumb smile was working its way across Mickey’s face despite the way his eyes were heavy from his interrupted sleep. He legs fell away from Ian’s shoulders with a slight bounce on the mattress, and Mickey made a lazy gesture that Ian took as a summons.

          He pushed himself up to lay back beside Mickey, and even though he was content to just rest there for awhile with an arm over Mickey’s waist, Mickey rolled over after less than a minute and pressed his face into Ian’s neck. Ian felt his hand creeping into his boxers, and Mickey whispered, “I got you,” against his throat right before his hand closed around Ian’s cock, which was heavy and hard from all the time Ian had spent between Mickey’s legs.

          Mickey jerked him off roughly, the way he always did. Ian wrapped an arm around his back and hooked his foot over the back of Mickey’s calf, his heel digging into the side of it. He fucked into Mickey’s hand, his mouth pressed to his neck and his breathing heavy and erratic. When he came a few minutes later, he buried his face further into Mickey’s shoulder and tightened his hold on him.

          Mickey rolled off of him when Ian was finished, falling heavily onto his back beside him and staring up at the ceiling. Ian was suddenly very tired again, even though he knew he had to get up soon anyway to take his medication, and although he didn’t turn his head to look he could see Mickey from the corner of his eyes, staring dazedly into space. Neither of them spoke for a couple of minutes, opting to lay still, arms pressed against each other as their heartrates returned to normal.

          Just as Ian was contemplating getting up to get his daily routine over with so he could get back to bed that much faster, Mickey spoke.

          “Morning,” Mickey said mildly, for the second time that day. He sounded windswept.

          Ian eyed him for a second before snorting and throwing an arm over his eyes. “Morning,” he muttered back, smirking.

 


 

 

          As much as Ian loved seeing Mickey on his back with his legs in the air, sometimes he thought it just as good when Mickey rode him. From that position he could see every single twist of Mickey’s mouth, feel how into it Mickey got when he was the one guiding everything. They hadn’t done it this way for so long because of how intimately vulnerable they both felt during, something they hadn’t been prepared for in the beginning. Even now, they still didn’t do it like that often, although now it was because Mickey liked giving up control in this one thing and Ian liked having control wherever he could find it. But every time they did it like that, Mickey rocking down into his lap, Ian shoving up into him, Ian wondered why they didn’t do it more.

          He could lay back, thrusting his hips up into Mickey, dragging his nails up and down the tops of Mickey’s thighs as he fucked himself down onto Ian. And Mickey always felt amazing around him, over him, engulfing him completely.

          Ian gripped tight at Mickey’s knees for leverage as he drove up into him, pushing Mickey towards the edge when he could see his steady concentration start to fray.

          Ian was murmuring his encouragement, his eyes glazed over and his breathing wild as he watched Mickey come apart above him with a loud moan of his name. Mickey’s thighs shook around Ian’s hips, and Ian kept fucking up into him, cock dragging long and heavy inside him as Mickey rode through his orgasm.  Ian flipped them when Mickey was finished, thrusting into him where he lay loose and pliant until he came, too.

          “Ugh, shit,” Mickey groaned when Ian fell onto his back next to him. Ian glanced over at him, surprised but unbothered to see Mickey glaring at him. Mickey slapped at Ian’s chest and rolled onto his stomach, hiding his face in the crook of his arm as he muttered, “We gotta stop doing it that way right before I go to work. My legs are already killing me and I’m gonna have to be on my feet for eight hours.”

          Ian affected the most innocent tone he could when he said, “Really? I don’t really feel anything.”

          Mickey lifted his head just enough to glower at him. Ian tried to contain his laughter, but only managed it for about ten seconds before he busted out in hysterics. Mickey’s stare got stonier and stonier the longer he laughed, which only fueled Ian’s delight. He finally sobered when Mickey made an irritated noise and shifted over like he was going to get up. Ian smothered his amusement, diverting his focus to pulling insistently at Mickey’s arm. Mickey flipped him an annoyed look over his shoulder, but he kept at it until Mickey finally relented and dropped down heavily onto the mattress. Ian kept tugging at him until he shuffled up close to Ian’s side and let him pet through his hair with the hand not wrapped around his back. Mickey closed his eyes.

          “I still hate you,” muttered Mickey from where his mouth was pressed against Ian’s shoulder. The way he threw his calf over Ian’s to nestle closer to him strongly contested his statement, but Ian didn’t comment. “I’m gonna be deadweight at work, and it’s all your fault.”

          “Oh yeah?” Ian said idly, raking his nails lightly down Mickey’s side. He pretended to consider his options for a second before he said, “What if I let you ride my face later? Will you forgive me?”

          Mickey froze at the suggestion, but he tried to sound unaffected. “How’s that help me now, huh?”

          Ian resisted the urge to smirk. Instead he pushed Mickey onto his back without warning, leveling him with a heavy look before sliding down the bed. Mickey’s breath caught, but Ian bypassed his dick and slid straight down to hover a few more inches below his hips. Mickey propped himself up on his elbows to watch him, and Ian lowered his mouth until his lips were just brushing the middle of Mickey’s inner thigh. Mickey was still, surveying him closely. Ian searched out the most sensitive spot in front of him and pressed his lips there, and when he heard Mickey suck in shallowly in anticipation, he blew a loud, long raspberry out against his leg.

          “Oh my god,” Mickey shouted, while Ian collapsed forward laughing. “Go fuck yourself! You’re like a fucking grandmother with that shit.” Mickey scoffed above him, batting down at the top of his head with both hands. Ian dodged it, pressing his face into Mickey’s thigh and trying valiantly to regain control of himself. He could practically feel Mickey’s irritation heightening the longer his laughter stretched out.

          “You’re one to talk,” Ian snorted when he was slightly more composed. “Sore after riding your boyfriend for like, ten minutes. What are you, fucking eighty?”

          “You’d know, wouldn’t you?” Mickey snarked back. “Ain’t that kind of your specialty?”

          “Fuck off,” Ian said, but not angrily. “I don’t see you offering to be my sugar daddy, yet here I am. And here you are too, my come shoved so far up your ass you’ll be puking it later.” He crawled back up the bed to lay beside him again, but Mickey threw him an aggravated look and rolled away. He got to his feet and started shuffling around for his clothes so he could head to work.

          Ian rolled his eyes at the dramatics, but his gaze was hungry as it tracked Mickey’s movements around the room. Mickey refused to look back at him as he pulled on jeans, but Ian couldn’t stop watching—the way he moved so carefully, so obviously aching from taking Ian’s cock mere minutes earlier, and how his movements were jerkier than usual because Ian’s come was still filling him up, probably running down the backs of his thighs even as Ian watched. Ian licked at his lips without thinking. Mickey hadn’t bothered to clean up at all, had just thrown his clothes straight on, and he looked absolutely fucked-out and fantastic. Ian couldn’t tear his eyes away.

          Once dressed, Mickey afforded him the single quickest, angriest kiss in history. Ian latched onto the back of his neck to make it last a little longer before letting Mickey pull away. Mickey was still refusing to look at him, but he grumbled out a goodbye as he went to leave. Ian called out as he reached the doorway.

          “You know, that offer for me to eat you out later is still on the table…if you’re not pissed off anymore when you get back.”

          Mickey paused, his hand on the doorframe. He didn’t turn around or say anything, but Ian could see his back muscles relaxing slightly. After a few seconds he flipped Ian off over his shoulder and made his exit.

          Ian allowed himself a small grin as he watched Mickey walk away, his gait a little more bowed than usual. Ian at least had the satisfaction of knowing that, however grumpy his attitude, Mickey would be feeling him all day long.

 


 

 

          Saturdays, as a general rule, were awful. Mickey worked later than Ian did those nights, and coming back to an empty house was something that Ian had never had and that didn’t particularly like.

          After one especially brutal day, Ian came home even more frustrated than usual with the emptiness of his apartment. He wanted Mickey there, even if just to listen to him complain, but preferably as a distraction from his morning. He spent the evening flitting between rooms, trying to get comfortable doing something when what he wanted to be doing was busy making money.

          Ian eventually decided to try making a more complicated dinner than usual, just to have something to do with his hands. Mickey’s absence was still painfully obvious, though, as he sat down by himself at the table, and later when he stuffed the abnormally large portion of leftovers into the fridge. After dinner he threw himself down on the couch, hoping to find something good and engaging on television. After a few minutes of flipping fruitlessly through the channels he settled for one of the Bourne Identity movies, but he’d already seen it too many times and it was with no small amount of relief that he heard a key jangling in the lock halfway through.

          “It’s open,” he called out. The doorknob rattled for a second and then Mickey was there, standing in the doorway, and Ian couldn’t stop the smile that spread across his face at the sight.

          “Hey,” Mickey said. He sounded exhausted, and looked about the same: a long week at his construction job usually did that to him.

          “Hey,” Ian parroted back. “There’s some beef stew shit in the fridge.”

          Mickey kicked the door shut behind him without another word and disappeared into their bedroom first. He reemerged in a sleep shirt and sweatpants shortly after and headed straight for the kitchen. Ian heard the microwave go off a minute later, and then Mickey reappeared, a full plate balanced in his hands.

          “You broke out the crock pot,” Mickey said, sounding impressed. Some distant relative had given it to them as a housewarming present, but they almost never used it.

          “I’m a mastermind of culinary prowess,” Ian said drily. He patted the couch beside him and said, less sharply, “Come here.”

          Mickey sauntered over and collapsed onto the couch, laying on his back with his head propped up on the armrest. His feet were flung over Ian’s lap, his plate balanced on his stomach. Ian rolled his eyes but settled his hands over Mickey’s lap anyway. “Long day?” he asked.

          “Yeah,” Mickey said, sounding tired again. Ian rubbed sympathetically at his leg, and Mickey groaned, his head falling back.

          Ian raised his eyebrows at him. “What?”

          “My muscles are so fucking sore,” Mickey said, his eyes still closed and his face turned towards the ceiling. “They had me go on the roof today, and I had to climb up there like two hundred fuckin’ times. Do you know how many stairs that is? I can barely lift my feet. I haven’t walked that much since…well, ever, actually. Barely made it home, my quads are already killing me. I’m gonna be completely dead tomorrow, I’ll be lucky if I manage to get out of bed.”

          Ian grimaced and thumbed absently at the drawstring on Mickey’s sweatpants, wishing he could help. Mickey rubbed at his forehead for a second and then went back to his food, and they lapsed back into silence, both half-watching the movie in front of them.

          After awhile Ian got up to get them both a beer, and Mickey moaned pathetically when Ian lifted his legs to get out from under him. Ian rolled his eyes and ignored his complaining. He handed him one of the bottles when he returned and leaned over to reshuffle Mickey’s limbs so that he could get back underneath him, and Mickey let out another sad little whine at the movement. Ian frowned. 

          “That bad, huh?”

          “I’m fine,” Mickey insisted, but when Ian jiggled his knee experimentally, he could see the way Mickey’s expression tightened as he struggled not to cry out.

          “Alright, come on,” Ian sighed. He set his beer down on the table in front of them and then did the same with Mickey’s empty plate. He ignored Mickey’s half-hearted protests at the coddling in favor of getting his hands on him.

          Ian started off slow, easy, rubbing tiny circles into the muscles he knew would be aching most. Mickey was right; he would be seriously impaired in the morning, but Ian hoped he could offset the pain a little bit. It was with no small measure of gratification to Ian that Mickey’s head fell back again, a pleased sigh escaping his mouth. Ian dug his fingers in a little harder, compensating for the thick material of Mickey’s sweats as he kneaded at his quads and close to his groin, though not close enough to give Mickey any ideas. He really did seem very tired.

          Mickey closed his eyes after awhile, but Ian kept going, running his hands over everywhere he could easily reach from his position. He paid particular attention to anywhere that made Mickey groan when he massaged over it.

          “Christ, do this forever,” Mickey said as Ian ran his hands over the inside of his thigh and rubbed gently at the more sensitive area, wary of the nearby pressure point that he knew would hurt more than help if he was too rough on it.

          “I know,” Ian said smugly. “My hands are very multitalented.” He laughed as Mickey swatted at his shoulder in reply.

          “Dick,” he griped, crossing his arms over his chest. Ian’s hands stilled in a silent threat to discontinue their activities, and Mickey kneed at his side, saying, “Shit, okay, you’re not a dick! You’re the best, most caring human being in the city. The planet. Would you keep fucking going?”

          Ian smiled triumphantly and went back to what he had been doing, pressing his thumbs into the muscles beneath his hands in slow, measured circles. He could hear Mickey’s breathing slowing as though it was lulling him to near-sleep. Ian looked over after awhile and noticed that Mickey had set his beer down on the floor and was laying with his arm thrown back behind him and his mouth hanging open slightly. His other hand was brushing lightly up and down Ian’s upper arm with his knuckles. He looked so good, and Ian didn’t notice he had frozen to stare until one of Mickey’s eyes cracked open and he raised an eyebrow.

          “Yes?” Mickey said. He sounded torn between amusement at Ian’s expression and irritation that he had stopped again.

          Ian shook himself a little and resumed his actions. He could feel Mickey watching him but kept his eyes fixed on what his hands were doing when he said, as offhandedly as he could manage, “You think you’re feeling strong enough now for one last workout before we go to bed?”

          He looked over after a few beats of silence to see Mickey eying him with consideration. Eventually Mickey closed his eyes again, shifting around like he was getting comfortable on the couch, and Ian’s fingers picked up their rhythm again almost automatically.

          But then Mickey said, “Alright. But I ain’t doing any of the work.”

          “When do you ever do any of the work?”

          Mickey kicked at him, visibly struggling with repressing an affectionate expression. “Fuck you.”

          “That’s what I’m trying to convince you to do,” Ian said with exaggerated frustration.

          Mickey opened his eyes and tried to glare for a few seconds until he gave up, rolling his eyes. His face split into a grin and he hooked his leg so that his heel dug into Ian’s thigh, urging him to twist around and come closer. Ian did, one hand on Mickey’s leg to keep it pressed flush against his side as he laid over him. Mickey’s smile widened as he leaned up to meet Ian in a kiss, his hand settling across Ian’s face and neck like it belonged there.

          Later, when they eventually made it to the bedroom, Ian pounded into him hard and steady and kept a hand over Mickey’s leg the whole time, anchoring it where it was locked around his hips and squeezing at his thigh every time Mickey moaned. He hitched Mickey’s legs up higher as he angled further over him, and Mickey’s mouth fell open, the change in position hitting him better. His thighs tensed instinctually, and he gasped out a tiny broken, “Ah,” as he stressed his still-sore muscles.

          Ian slowed inside of him, ignoring Mickey’s scrabbling hands at his back and his breathy little, “Don’t stop, don’t stop,” and rubbed at Mickey’s aching thighs again. Although his hips kept rocking into him minutely, most of Ian’s attention was focused on what his hands were doing as they kneaded at the tender muscles bracketing his waist.

          “I’m okay,” Mickey promised. “Ian, come on,” he whispered when Ian didn’t immediately recommence his previous rhythm.

          Ian hesitated, unsure and unwilling to strain him, but Mickey locked his arms around Ian’s neck and pulled him down, and Ian forgot what he had been doing when Mickey kissed him deep. Mickey’s tongue swept into his mouth, over his tongue, seemingly everywhere. He began to regain that quicker pace as Mickey kissed him, the speed building, and when Mickey moaned against his lips as he started fucking him hard again, Ian wasn’t sure if it was out of pain or pleasure anymore. But he sounded so good, and Ian wanted to hear him again and again and again. He buried his face in Mickey’s neck, and thrust back into him over and over, and rubbed his thumb along the warm legs wrapped around him, keeping him close.

          “Ian,” Mickey moaned out against his shoulder, “I—”

          Instead of answering, Ian pressed his face closer to him and sped up, his precision wavering. He reluctantly released Mickey’s thigh so that he could strip Mickey’s cock to the same rhythm as his own hips were moving. Mickey squeezed his legs tighter around Ian, and they were strong in their own rite, a wonderful pressure around him that had Ian nipping and sucking at the skin directly beneath his mouth with low, desperate moans. Mickey alternated between biting into and gasping against his shoulder. He sounded close, but ultimately it was Ian who lost it first.

          He came with a long groan, muffled slightly because his mouth was pressed directly against Mickey’s neck. Ian stuttered and slowed inside of him, and when he was done he pulled out and collapsed gracelessly beside him. He could feel Mickey’s eyes on him, but he didn’t even open his own to gaze back, nor give any other indication that he noticed him. But Mickey continued to stare at him, and eventually Ian sighed.

          “Give me one minute and I’ll blow you,” he promised.

          Mickey scoffed. Ian felt the mattress bounce as Mickey dropped back down onto it, but Ian didn’t move, not trusting any part of his body to hold its own weight yet.

          Ian made good on his promise when he built the energy back up, and Mickey came a few minutes later, his hands in Ian’s hair, his legs wrapped tight around Ian’s head right where Ian was pretty sure they belonged.

Chapter Text

          Mickey sometimes made it very hard to concentrate, not that Ian was complaining.

          This girl—the sister of one of the nicer regulars back from Ian’s clubbing days, whom Ian had met and befriended during one of the tamer soirees he’d attended—was having a bachelorette party. Actually, she and her fiancé had decided to throw a joint engagement party, which pretty much just meant that they had rented out a club for them and two hundred of their closest friends.

          Mickey had decided to come, despite Ian’s insistence that he didn’t have to go anywhere if he didn’t want to.

          “You think I’m gonna pass up a night of free booze just because the place is filled up with your prissy alcoholic rich friends?” Mickey had asked, even though they both knew that Mickey’s distaste for Ian’s club friends was in reality only outweighed by one thing.  He would go pretty much anywhere with Ian.

          Ian had rolled his eyes. “Whatever you need to tell yourself,” he’d said, ignoring Mickey flipping him off in favor of searching through their closet for something semi-formal to wear that was still comfortable enough to get drunk in.

          Mickey’s idea of semi-formal was the same as ever: a tucked in button-down and a dark pair of jeans, no tie, no vest, and the top of his shirt left open.

          And Ian couldn’t fucking concentrate.

          The bride-to-be, Mikayla, was enthusing about the wedding to a small circle of people. Ian had gotten dragged in as he went to grab some more drinks from the bar, and he kept nodding politely and trying not to let his gaze flick back too consistently to where Mickey was slouching at a corner table, sipping at the last dregs of his beer and looking supremely uncomfortable. Part of his shirt had come untucked, and Ian was feeling loose-limbed and happy and contemplating how he could excuse himself to go fold it back in for him (maybe lingering a bit on his skin as he did it) when Mickey looked up. He caught Ian’s eye and jerked his head, and Ian knew he wanted him to haul ass back to their table. Ian gave a tiny helpless shrug of his shoulders and turned back to his friends.

          He looked up again a few minutes later, but Mickey was gone. Ian only had to look around the club for a few seconds when he felt a pressure on his arm, and turned to find Mickey gripping tightly to his elbow and grinning up at him.

          Mikayla paused in her gushing to turn expectantly towards the new arrival. Everyone else followed suit, swiveling their heads to stare at Mickey. Mickey raised a threatening eyebrow at the scrutiny.

          Ian hurried to make the introductions. “Uhm, this is my boyfriend Mickey,” he said, and then swept his hand towards the others around them and quickly recited their names, knowing Mickey would likely not care enough to remember any of them.

          Predictably, Mickey turned back to Ian as soon as he was done talking, immediately dismissing everyone else. Mikayla started up her enthusing again for a few seconds, so Ian dragged Mickey a few steps away so they could talk.

          “What’s up?” he asked, leaning closer to be heard over the music.

          Mickey’s hand tightened where it hadn’t released his arm. “I missed you,” he said, still with that big ridiculous smile on his face.

          Ian laughed and stole the beer Mickey was clutching in his other hand, downing the rest of it and slamming it onto the bar behind them. He turned back to Mickey and asked, “How much have you had?”

          “A lot,” Mickey said, swaying closer to him so that Ian had to grab onto his shoulder to make sure he was steady. “I got bored when you left and ordered like, four more rounds.”

          “I was gone for ten minutes!” Ian said, laughing incredulously. “Oh my god, Mickey. You sure you’re okay?”

          “M’fine!” Mickey insisted. He was still grabbing at Ian anywhere he could reach.

          “Okay,” Ian said slowly, not really believing him but a little too tipsy to care, especially with Mickey’s hands all over him. “Hey, you wanna dance?”

          Mickey shot him a look like he’d just suggested they curb stomp a puppy, and he took an immediate step back. “No, I don’t want to fucking—”

          The rest of his sentence was drowned out by Mikayla’s shriek; Ian whipped around to see what was wrong, only to find his friends whooping loudly and Mikayla clamoring onto the bar. Half the people on the dancefloor were flooding over, and Ian stopped one of them—he couldn’t remember her name—to ask what was going on.

          “Body shots!” she yelled, and then she was gone, squeezing her way toward the bar.

          Ian turned back to Mickey, who was staring at Mikayla laying on the counter with a look on his face like he found her even more revolting than the prospect of dancing.

          Ian bumped his shoulder into Mickey’s to draw his attention back, grinning again. “What? You don’t want to do it?”

          “I’d rather break my own arm than slurp tequila out of some drunk girl’s belly button,” Mickey said, still watching the spectacle with a kind of horrified fascination.

          Ian crossed his arms. “Would you rather someone else took a shot out of your belly button?”

          Mickey smacked at his arm, finally looking up at him. “What the fuck?”

          “What about if it was me?” Ian pressed, enjoying the teasing. Enjoying how a flush was creeping up Mickey’s neck, however he tried to mask it with bravado.

          Mickey rolled his eyes. “Come on, man.”

          Ian leaned closer, running his fingertips lightly down Mickey’s side. He drew a little bit of confidence from the way Mickey’s breathing hitched infinitesimally, “Okay. Would you rather let me do a shot off you or would you rather dance with me?”

          “I’d rather do neither,” Mickey said, but Ian heard how his voice wavered, barely noticeable though it was.

          “You gotta pick one or the other,” Ian insisted. He leaned even closer, fingers a little firmer where they raked over his waistline, lips close to his ear.

          “No I don’t,” said Mickey. “Says who?”

          “Says me.” Ian pressed him back against the bar, bringing his other hand up to grab tight to Mickey’s hips. “Come on. I bet you’d look so good on the dance floor.” He was practically whispering into his ear at this point. “Everyone’s either drinking or dancing.”

          “I can drink perfectly fine while sitting down, fuck you very much.”

          “But I can’t do this—” Ian pressed his body all along Mickey’s—“perfectly fine while sitting down.” He slipped his hand down over Mickey’s ass and tried not to laugh as he added, “Fuck you very much.”

          “Not if you keep pushing me to dance,” said Mickey.

          Ian leaned away a little to study his face. It was hard and guarded, like always when he was a second away from breaking. One last barrier of defense. “Just one song,” he pushed. “Come on.”

          Mickey seemed to debate something for a second, and Ian tried not to get impatient. Other than clicking his tongue a little when Mickey continued to stay silent, he thought he did an alright job.

          “How about this,” Mickey said finally. Ian raised his eyebrows impassively. He was pretty sure Mickey had no leverage that would interest him. Mickey jabbed at his ribs and said, “Hey, asshole, you wanna listen before you get all pissy?”

          Ian regarded him coolly, jaw tightening. He took a step back, keeping his hands fixed on Mickey’s hips but otherwise giving him some space. “Fine. What’ve you got?”

          Mickey rolled his eyes. “You stop hassling me about dancing, and I’ll let you take a body shot off me. At home,” he added, when Ian’s eyebrows shot up and his mouth fell open in his rush to agree.

          The stipulation did nothing to lessen his excitement. “Deal,” he said immediately.

          Mickey narrowed his eyes at Ian’s quick agreement. Probably wondering if he could have asked for less, the fucker. “One body shot,” he said, as though he thought Ian was picturing a montage of him licking tequila off of Mickey, each snapshot featuring him slightly more drunk than the last until he passed out where he was standing while Mickey laid bare-chested on the counter.

          “One body shot,” Ian agreed with just as much enthusiasm as before. “Done. Deal. No take-backs.”

          Mickey shoved him back with a scoff, but took Ian’s hand anyway as he led the way back towards their corner table. “No take-backs,” he repeated, with only the mildest amount of sarcasm.

          Ian practically vibrated the entire rest of the night; he couldn’t stop thinking about it, picturing Mickey spread out on the table or the counter or even the floor, letting Ian run his tongue all over him. Tasting like cinnamon, or pineapple, or whatever flavor alcohol they used, but still with that raw taste of Mickey underneath that usually got Ian drunker than tequila ever could.

          “Stop thinking about it,” Mickey snapped when their next round of beers came, but Ian saw him smile when he turned away, even though he hid it behind his drink.

          “Like you aren’t thinking about it?” said Ian. He took a large sip of beer and looked over to see Mickey staring at him with an eyebrow raised. Ian scrubbed the back of his hand over his mouth and said, “Oh please. You’re not thinking about laying there, all spread out for me, with my tongue on you and in you and over you? You’re not thinking about my mouth on you, just licking, lapping vodka straight out of your—”

          He knew he had won when Mickey turned red and said, in the tetchiest tone he possessed, “We don’t even have vodka in the house, you dick.” They did, but he was obviously ignoring that in favor of being belligerent.

           Ian smirked and sat back in his seat with his arms crossed over his chest. “Bet you’d taste good with Smirnoff,” he said as nonchalantly as he could, eyes raking over Mickey’s body, riling him up. “Or SKYY.”

          Mickey scoffed and looked away. Ian leaned his elbows on the table, pushing as close as he could while Mickey looked anywhere but at him.

          “Bet you’d taste even better if we fucked first,” Ian said steadily, keeping his eyes trained on Mickey.

          Mickey’s gaze snapped to him at that, clear and wide. Ian licked his bottom lip slowly, making sure he had Mickey’s full attention. He went on, “Yeah…if I got you in bed first, on your hands and knees. Maybe you start shaking from it. Maybe it’s so good, and you get so hot…but you don’t come yet. And I lay you out on the bed and make you stay there, and you don’t get to move until you’ve fulfilled your end of the deal. So you stay still and I finally get my mouth on you—” He let out a low, exaggerated groan just so he could see the way Mickey’s whole body tensed. “—and I’d bet you’d just taste so fucking good. Sweat and alcohol and my mouth, fucking everywhere—”

          He cut off when Mickey shot to his feet. His hands were fists by his waist, and he hissed out, “Fuck.”

          Ian smirked and sat back, his legs falling open casually, his arm thrown over the back of the empty seat beside him as he openly studied Mickey all over. “Going somewhere?” he asked calmly.

          Mickey grabbed his arm and hauled him to his feet, and his face was very close when he spit, “Fuck you. Let’s go.”

          Ian’s exultant laughter followed them out of the club. He forgot to even say goodbye to the hosts, but he didn’t really care because Mickey was on him the second they got in the cab, climbing right onto his lap and claiming his mouth.

          The ride was relatively short, and Mickey leaned away from where he’d been busy on Ian’s neck right as they pulled up to their apartment building. He grinned, hands tight on Ian’s shoulders, his eyes flicking between Ian’s and the spot on his neck where Ian could feel his own heartbeat pulsing, and he said, “Whose tongue is everywhere now?”

          Ian snorted and shoved him off his lap and out the door, throwing a few bills at the driver and when he shouted, “Keep the change!” he was already halfway towards the front door.

          They raced each other up the stairs; Mickey won, but only because he hooked an arm around Ian’s waist halfway between the second and third floor and sent them both crashing into a wall, and he managed to recover first. They shoved and grabbed at each other all the way into the apartment, and as soon as Ian slammed the door behind himself he seized Mickey’s sides and pushed him up against the dinner table, mouth hungry on his.

          They hadn’t even bothered to turn on the light. Ian helped him jump up to sit on the edge of the table, pressing in between his legs. He tipped his head back with a groan when Mickey leaned up to suck and bite on his neck, hands pulling on Mickey’s shirt until it came free of his jeans. Mickey started to work on the buttons, mouth back on Ian’s, but Ian shoved him back and ripped it over his head, and his teeth were hard on Mickey’s collar before Mickey had even fully gotten free of the shirt.

          “You asshole,” Mickey growled, pulling at Ian’s hips when Ian started sucking on the side of his neck. “You better not have ripped any buttons. That was my last formal shirt.”

          “Buy more clothes,” Ian suggested, barely lifting his mouth away to speak, going back in as soon as he was done.

          “Stop ripping the ones I have off me every time I dress up,” Mickey shot back.

          Ian stepped back, and before Mickey could even start to backtrack with the protest Ian could see forming on his lips, Ian shoved him hard in the chest. His back hit the table with a dull thud.

          Mickey propped himself up on both elbows to watch Ian as he stripped out of his jacket, leaving him in a white t-shirt that might have fit when he was sixteen but didn’t really fit anymore. “What are you doing?”

          “You’re fulfilling your end,” Ian said, stepping out of his dress shoes.

          “Are you fucking serious?”

          “Do I look serious?” Ian bit back, and before Mickey could answer he turned and headed for the kitchen. “Don’t fucking move,” he called over his shoulder. “I’ll be right back.”

          He heard Mickey huffing loudly but ignored him. He searched quickly through the cabinets until he found his favorite bottle of schnapps. Peach, with a nice ring of Jack Daniels-flavored saliva around the mouth of it from how many times Mickey double-dipped.

          Ian pulled the handle out and uncapped it as he reentered the living room, walking leisurely towards where Mickey was still lying on the table, pushed up on his hands with his eyes steady on Ian.

          “You gonna take all day?” Mickey asked, hooking his foot around Ian as soon as he was within reaching distance and pulling him forwards. Ian didn’t protest. He lifted the bottle to his mouth and took a long drink from it, keeping his eyes on Mickey’s the entire time.

          He lowered the bottle and wiped off his mouth. “No,” he said simply, pushing the handle into Mickey’s hand so that his own were free to tug hard on Mickey’s waistband, forcing him to slide further down the table.

          Mickey sat up to pull off Ian’s t-shirt, throwing it to the ground with a sly, “Don’t want it getting wet, huh?”

          Ian raised his eyebrows but said nothing. He forced Mickey back down as soon as it was gone, instructing him to lift up onto his elbows again to create a nice slant for him. Mickey complied, and Ian could feel his eyes on him as he leant forwards over the table, mouth so close to him that his bottom lip brushed Mickey’s jeans whenever he breathed out. He flicked his eyes up to Mickey’s.

          “You ready?” he asked.

          Mickey didn’t answer; he held the bottle directly over his stomach instead, tipping it slightly so that all the liquid rushed to the top but not enough that any dripped out. Ian watched the end of the bottle steadily, waiting for the first drop to fall so that he could get his mouth on Mickey. He licked his lips; Mickey tipped the bottle a little further and started to pour.

          Ian had his mouth on him before the liquid even hit his skin. He bit sharply at the soft part of his stomach about his waistline, then licked a stripe straight up to where Mickey was pouring the bottle, below the line of his ribs. He didn’t flinch when the sharp taste of alcohol hit his tongue, lapping repeatedly at Mickey as the drink continued to pour down. Only when Mickey finally set the bottle right side up beside them did Ian slide back down. He bit gently into the softer flesh of Mickey’s stomach before dipping his tongue into his navel, soaking up the alcohol there, and then returned to the space below there and above his waistband. He sucked hard at a spot above his hipbones, loving the give of Mickey’s skin beneath his lips. He felt a hand sliding into his hair a second later and sucked harder, wanting the mark as stark as possible against the pale of his skin. Mickey tugged at his hair but Ian ignored him, pressing his lips to the softest part of Mickey’s belly, nosing tenderly there just to enjoy the feeling of pressing into his skin before he moved on. He nibbled at a point a little to the right of his belly button; Mickey’s fingers twitched in his hair, so Ian bit down harder, liking the way Mickey’s hand tightened. He glanced up to see Mickey watching him carefully, and Ian kept eye contact just long enough to lave over the bite marks before he dropped his eyes back down to focus on sucking another hickey over the same mark. Maybe Mickey would wake up to two different bruises covering the same spot; the thought had Ian flushing strangely hot, and he sucked harder, unrelenting. Mickey had to pull at his hair more insistently for Ian to finally let up.

          He didn’t waste any time, climbing onto the table in the small space between Mickey’s legs and crawling over him. He flattened himself over Mickey and covered his mouth with his own, nipping at his lip. Mickey’s tongue darted out to touch the spot before withdrawing, and Ian followed it, pushing into Mickey’s mouth without finesse or hesitation. Mickey didn’t seem to mind; he clutched harder at Ian’s back and pulled him down more firmly on top of him. Ian dug his fingers into Mickey’s sides, low, just above his waistline.

          Mickey pulled away after a minute or two, breathing hard, and Ian kissed down along his neck instead.

          “You wanna…” Mickey started. He seemed too distracted to finish as Ian started mouthing right below his ear and he waited (somewhat impatiently) for Mickey to get his thoughts out so that he could go back to kissing him. “…you wanna go to bed?”

          “Hmm,” Ian hummed against his neck. He recaptured Mickey’s lips again, sweeter this time, relishing the way Mickey chased his mouth when he moved to kiss down his jaw and over his throat. He didn’t stop until he had trailed his lips in teasing, gentle kisses over Mickey’s chest and back down to his stomach. He scratched lightly at Mickey’s middle while his other hand unzipped his jeans, and he pulled down Mickey’s pants and boxers and planted a light kiss above his hips.

          “No,” Ian said decisively, weighing his words. “I think I want to eat you out right here on our kitchen table.”

          Mickey gave a shuddering gasp and licked at the corner of his lips. His mouth hung open slightly, brow furrowed like he was searching for the right thing to say. He was still struggling with words when Ian decided to give him a break and choose the right words for him.

          “I didn’t ask your permission,” he said darkly, getting to his knees and pulling at Mickey’s calves so that he slid even further towards the edge of the table. “I’m going to eat you out and you’re gonna fuckin’ take it, tough guy.”

          And Ian did.

          Mickey scrabbled his nails through Ian’s hair and Ian kept both hands on Mickey’s torso the entire time, hands running over his sides and fingers scratching at the pudgy thickness of his middle until Mickey came, long and hard and screaming Ian’s name.

 


 

 

          They woke up the next day in a heap on their bed, legs tangled and pressed together everywhere they possibly could be.

          Ian blinked awake to find Mickey already conscious, laying there all stretched out and looked suitably sated and content. He was tracing patterns across Ian’s bare back and smiling serenely.

          “What the hell?” Ian muttered, shielding his eyes from the sunlight streaming cruelly through their window. “Were you watching me sleep?”

          “No,” Mickey said, even as he continued tracing down Ian’s spine, his eyes fixated on Ian’s face.

          Ian scoffed. “Liar,” he said, snuggling closer to Mickey’s side. “How long have you been up?”

          Mickey yawned. “Ten minutes…Maybe twenty. You snore,” he added, scrunching up his nose.

          Ian laughed and kicked out, caching him on the shin. “Shut up, I do not.”

          “How would you know?” Mickey shot back. “You’re asleep!”

          “I’ve been sleeping next to you for years,” Ian said. He wrapped an arm over Mickey’s waist and pulled him even closer, snaking a leg in between his thighs. “You’d have said something before now. Yelled something, really.”

          Mickey grinned and said nothing, which was as good as confirmation. Ian was getting ready to go back to sleep when Mickey started to pull away, asking, “You want coffee?” Ian latched onto him though, keeping him on the bed. He slipped down as they struggled, and Ian only won when he rolled them over so that he was on top of him, Mickey’s legs pinned to the bed by his body and his arms wrapped around Mickey’s waist.

          “Ian,” Mickey sighed exasperatedly, smoothing a hand through his hair.

          Ian burrowed closer to him, cheek pressed to his middle, his eyes slipping closed again. “Stop moving,” he ordered. “I’m going back to sleep.”

          “Ian,” Mickey complained again. When Ian continued to ignore him, he whined his name again, drawing out the syllables. Ian turned his head and bit down hard on the pudgy bottom of his tummy. “What the fuck?” Mickey yelped. “Did you just bite me?”

          “No,” Ian said, in the same tone that Mickey had used to deny watching him earlier.

          “Yes you did! What the fuck?” His fingers probed at his own stomach, edging Ian’s head out of the way in their examination. Ian glared up at him, but Mickey was busy with his own irritation. “You left a mark!”

          “Oh, boo hoo,” Ian said, rolling his eyes. “What? You think that bruise is gonna scare off all your other boyfriends when they get down on their knees?”

          Mickey smacked at the top of his head. “Fucker. Like I’d have time for other boyfriends with the way you keep riding my ass. Literally.”

          Ian grinned. “You saying I’ve ruined you for other men?”

          Mickey whacked at him again. “Get fucked. And get the fuck off me, I’m hungry.”

          Ian sighed loudly and flopped onto his back with an overdramatic huff, but Mickey ignored him in favor of going for breakfast. Ian followed him into the kitchen after a little while, giving Mickey enough time to put coffee on for him before he ventured properly into the waking world.

          Ian was still pulling up his boxers when he entered the kitchen. Mickey pushed a cup of coffee at him and went back to making breakfast over the stove. He couldn’t cook much, but breakfast was his specialty, and Ian loved when they had time to eat a real meal in the morning.

          “Thanks,” said Ian, sipping at the beverage gratefully. He scooped up the medication Mickey had left out beside him on the counter and popped them into his mouth, swallowing the pills with a gulp of coffee and venturing back out of the room.

          Mickey joined him at the table a few minutes later, passing over a plate of pancakes and sitting down opposite him. He paused with a bite of food halfway to his mouth, looking at something by Ian’s elbow. Ian looked down.

          “Nice ass print,” Mickey said, grinning.

          Ian raised his eyebrows. “That’s yours, asshole,” he said.

          “Not my fault you’re gross as fuck,” Mickey said, smiling widely at him and kicking at Ian’s foot. “Talk about shitting where you eat, huh?”

          Ian smirked. “Insert joke about having you for dinner here,” he said, snickering.

          “Oh my god.” Mickey leaned over to steal a bite of his breakfast as retribution for his joke. He stuffed the stolen pancakes into his mouth and shifted in his seat, then paused, glancing down at something. “Holy fuck, there’s dried cum on this chair, too. We’re fucking disgusting.”

          “Excuse me for fucking you anywhere but a bed of a roses and unicorn glitter,” said Ian.

          Mickey flipped him off. “Yeah, well. Just try to keep it in mind for next time.”

          Ian rolled his eyes and changed the subject. “Wanna go out for lunch later? That diner just reopened a few blocks over, you know the one that’s been down for renovation?”

          “Craving milkshakes? Or maybe you just wanna go see that pretty waitress that’s always flirting with you,” Mickey said, looking over at him with his eyebrows raised teasingly.

          Ian stretched his leg under the table to poke his toes into Mickey’s midsection. “Fuck you,” he said. “You know our love affair would never last.”

          “No?” said Mickey, pretending to think it over. “I don’t know. She seems like she’d be down for all that weird butt stuff you like.”

          Ian laughed and dug his toes harder into Mickey’s stomach. “Maybe. Don’t know if she’s got enough dick though, you know?”

          Mickey pressed his lips together like he was trying to hold back laughter. “Stick it to her and she will,” he said, turning steadily redder as he fought the laughter bubbling up through his words. “Plenty in your pants to go around.”

          Ian kicked at him one last time and went back to his pancakes.

          They went back to bed after breakfast, Mickey playing games on his phone while Ian laid curled up with his head on Mickey’s stomach, wandering in and out of consciousness. He apparently managed to fall back asleep, because one minute he was listening to the quiet music pumping through Mickey’s phone’s speakers and the next he was being pinched hard in the side.

          “Hey, asshole,” Mickey whispered. He pinched him again. “Ian!”

          Ian mumbled something unintelligible and turned to bury his face in Mickey’s tummy again in some poor imitation of the “I can’t see you so you can’t see me” mentality. It didn’t work; a few seconds later he felt Mickey’s fingers creeping underneath his shirt, brushing feather-light over his ribs.

          “Iaaan,” he called again, voice warm and sing-song.

          Ian turned his head so that he could glare blearily up at him with one eye. His voice wasn’t nearly as sharp as he was hoping when he grumbled, “What?”

          Mickey was clearly struggling not to laugh, not at all put off by Ian’s grumpiness. “Wake up, you prick,” he said. “I want lunch.”

          “Then go make yourself a sandwich, I’m not your mother.” Ian turned to hide his face against Mickey again.

          He felt hands in his hair a second later, mussing affectionately through it. “I thought we were going out,” Mickey reminded him.

          Ian groaned loudly; clearly Mickey was not going to let him go so easily. He squeezed his eyes shut, pressing even closer to his body for a second before sighing and looking up at him. Mickey was watching him make a show of waking up, openly amused.

          “Fucking whiney bastard,” Ian muttered, getting to his feet and rummaging for clothes.

          They were dressed and ready to go in under ten minutes, Mickey in a tight t-shirt that had Ian grinning over at him every couple of minutes as they walked down the street. Mickey led the way over to a table by the window and Ian followed, feeling light and airy and generally happy with the world as he propped his feet up on Mickey’s lap underneath the table and started looking over the menu.

          A waiter appeared by their table a few minutes later, and maybe Ian still looked a little out of it because he directed his question at Mickey when he asked, “What can I get for you?”

          Ian glanced at Mickey, a little confused by the absence of their usual waitress, but he rallied quickly. “Uh, vanilla milkshake and fries for me,” said Ian.

          The waiter barely glanced at him. “Great. And for you?” He added this second part significantly cheerier at Mickey, who flicked his eyes over the menu once before saying, “Same thing. Side of bacon, too.”

          “Alrighty,” the boy said, snatching up their menus. He sent them a fleeting, company-ordered smile, eyes dragging once more over Mickey before he was gone.

          Ian raised an eyebrow across the table. “Subtle,” he said.

          “Huh?” Mickey asked idly, busy fishing ice cubes out of his water.

          “That guy’s hard-on for you. Very smooth.” Ian tried to keep his voice level.

          Mickey scoffed, looking up at him. “You serious?”

          Ian shrugged, deciding to let it drop. He slid his feet off of Mickey’s lap and stared out the window, fingers drumming on the tabletop. He could feel Mickey watching him.

          “Ian,” Mickey said slowly. Ian didn’t turn. “You’re not actually jealous, are you?”

          That caught his attention. “Jealous?” He laughed; the idea that that moppy teenaged fucker had any chance with Mickey was ridiculous, the thought that Ian was seriously put off by the competition even more so. “What the fuck. No. I just don’t like how he was looking at you.”

          Mickey was still watching him incredulously, but his expression had relaxed a little bit. “Dumbass,” he said affectionately.

          “Fuck off.” He glanced over at Mickey; he was smiling softly at him. Ian huffed and looked away.

          The waiter returned a few minutes later, balancing a tray on his arm. Ian stared at him incredulously as he placed Mickey’s order in front of him, then dropped a chocolate milkshake in front of Ian and turned to go.

          Ian almost managed to check his temper. “What the hell?”

          The boy turned back around. Mickey was watching him with undisguised amusement, and Ian found himself gritting his teeth as he turned his attention back to the kid. “I, uhm—wanted vanilla too. And fries,” Ian said as evenly as possible.

          “Oh,” the boy said. He grabbed the drink hastily, already starting to walk away. “My mistake.”

          Ian glared after him; Mickey was laughing before the kid was even fully out of earshot. “Okay, you need to relax,” he said, kicking Ian lightly in the shin.

          “We ordered the same thing,” said Ian. He crossed his arms, and he could feel his chin jutting out, sensitive to it from how many times Lip teased him about it when they were younger.

          Ian knew he was pouting, but he didn’t care. Mickey reached over the table to grab his elbow, shaking him a little, and when Ian did not noticeably calm down Mickey leaned over to press a quick kiss to his forehead. Ian slumped a little without thinking, and Mickey looked slightly triumphant when he sat back.

          “Okay?” he asked.

          But Ian was watching their waiter, who was peeking over his shoulder at Mickey every few seconds. Each glance riled him up enough that he couldn’t find it in him to be ashamed of his behavior just yet. “Whatever,” he muttered. “I’m gonna take a piss while I wait for my fucking food to come out.”

          He could feel Mickey’s eyes on his back as he walked away, but he didn’t care. Let that asshole laugh himself to death as soon as Ian was gone. Treacherous bastard.

          A part of him knew that he was being a huge hypocrite, getting worked up about some teenaged kid wanting his older, taken boyfriend. He didn’t care.

          He managed to talk himself down from stabbing the kid in the leg while he peed, and even muttered “You are not going to fight some fifteen year old schmuck over your boyfriend” a few times to himself in the mirror, quietly enough so the guy in the last stall wouldn’t hear. He felt a little better prepared to act civil by the time he exited the bathroom five minutes later. Of course, that all went out the window as soon as he stepped back out onto the main floor of the diner.

          Mickey was—well, who the fuck knew what Mickey was doing. Trying to get Ian to commit violent homicide in broad daylight, obviously, because he was groping on the floor under the table, probably for a fork or something. That tight, tight t-shirt Ian had been so happy with on the walk over was riding up his hips and of course when Ian turned his head, there was that stupid scrawny waiter, eyes greedy on Mickey’s body while he bent over in his seat.

          Before he could remind himself what he had promised his reflection in the bathroom, something hot and angry boiled up Ian’s chest, and he was marching over to the kid before he thought twice about it. The boy only noticed Ian when he was less than a foot away, and he shrunk back against the counter behind him.

          “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Ian demanded, voice a hiss as he pressed close to the boy. “You get off on watching guys a decade older than you search for silverware?” He glanced back at where Mickey was still groping around under the table. He hadn’t even bothered to pull his shirt back down, the fucking attention whore. “I know you’re busy rubbing one out crying about how you won’t find anything that good ever, and I’m really sorry that you haven’t fucking hit puberty yet, but you need to lay the fuck off. Got it?”

          “I—I was just—”

          “You were just blatantly ogling my boyfriend,” Ian growled, stepping even closer. The boy leaned away, trying to shrink in on himself even more. “You see those bite marks all along his hips and stomach? Yeah? What about that made you think he was single?”

          “I d-didn’t—”

          Ian shoved away from him with a disgusted glare. “Fuck off!” he snarled.

          The kid didn’t need to be told again; he turned around and practically ran back behind the counter. Ian knew he was probably going to get his manager, or maybe security for the psycho redhead yelling at underage employees, and he stalked back over to where Mickey was finally straightening in his seat. He looked up as Ian approached, a smile stretching over his features.

          “Hey,” he said easily. He gestured over towards Ian’s side of the table, where his order was sitting, correct this time. “Your food—”

          “We have to go,” Ian interrupted in a clipped tone. “Now.”

          “What?” His face darkened, and he glanced over Ian’s shoulder at something. “Ian, what the fuck did you—”

          “Let’s go,” Ian said insistently, pulling at Mickey’s sleeve.

          Mickey batted him away. “Alright, alright!’ He threw some bills down on the table and got to his feet, then looked back up. “What—shit.”

          Ian whirled around; two very unpleasant-looking men were headed their way. Mickey grabbed his hand, pulling him towards the exit, and as soon as they hit the pavement outside they were running.

          “What the fuck did you do?” Mickey shouted, two steps behind him and yelling over the wind in their ears.

          Ian didn’t answer; he kept going until Mickey pulled him to a stop, two blocks away from the diner and with no pursuers in sight. Ian leaned back against the nearest building, bricks cold on his back, trying to catch his breath. Mickey was studying him, eyes narrowed, obviously trying to figure out what had happened. Ian pushed off the wall before he could say anything, shoving Mickey in the shoulder, and they started walking towards home.

          Mickey didn’t ask again until they got home, but as soon as the door closed behind them, he shoved Ian in the chest.

          “Did you fuck with that waiter?” he demanded.

          Ian held his hands up, attempting to placate him. “Mickey—”

          “What the fuck!” Mickey shouted, dragging his hands through his hair. “We’re never gonna be able to go back there! Where the fuck am I supposed to get bacon that good now? It was the perfect mix of crispy and soft!”

          Ian rolled his eyes. “Okay, tone down the melodrama.”

          Mickey stared at him, eyebrows arching dangerously high. “Me tone it down?” he said. “Who’s the one who almost punched out an underage kid for fucking up their lunch, huh?”

          “I didn’t hit him!” Ian said defensively. “I just...threatened him a bit—”

          “Oh, that’s much better.”

          “—but it wasn’t for fucking up the order! You didn’t see how he was looking at you when you were practically stripping trying to get your fucking fork—”

          “Are you being serious right now?” Mickey was stalking towards him again, backing him through the living room. “You’re mad that he was looking at me?”

          Ian flushed. Out of the diner, away from the eyes of that kid, his anger was leaking away, leaving plenty of room for the shame he’d been fighting back since they’d sat down.

          “Nobody else gets to fucking look at you like that,” Ian said stubbornly.

          Mickey pressed closer, forcing Ian back even more. They were practically in their bedroom by now, but he just kept backing him up further and further, apparently heedless of where they were going.

          “You jealous fucker,” Mickey growled. His fingers wrapped suddenly around Ian’s arms, giving him no room to maneuver as Mickey pressed in close. “What do you think I’m gonna do? Run off with some fucking serving boy and leave you to foot the bill?”

          Ian licked his lips. “No,” he said. He hesitated, then added, “But you’re mine.”

          Mickey shoved him back, through the doorway they had been edging towards. He pushed him hard enough that Ian hit the bed and fell back on it, sitting down heavily on the edge. Mickey leaned over him, practically sitting in his lap. His hands came down hard on Ian’s shoulders, and he got as close as he could without actually headbutting him.

          “You’re damn right,” Mickey said, voice low and lascivious, “so you better fucking remember it.”

          He halted anything Ian might have to say by biting harshly at his lip, and Ian opened up immediately, letting out a pleased grunt when Mickey plunged his tongue in a second later. Ian grasped at his hips, pulling Mickey down so he was sitting in his lap. He rocked up against him, hard, and Mickey tugged viciously at his hair as he shoved Ian down onto his back. He fell with him, pressing up against his chest even as he rucked up Ian’s shirt around his ribs.

          “Get this shit off,” Mickey gasped out against his lips, not giving him any time to reply before he was licking back into his mouth.

          Ian pushed Mickey off of him far enough to scramble up the bed, but Mickey was close on him the whole time, fingers greedy against his skin and tugging off his shirt. His mouth was on Ian’s chest almost before it was even fully bared. Ian dragged Mickey’s shirt off, fumbling with his fly, and Mickey kicked off his jeans and boxers as soon as they were undone, then dragged off Ian’s. Ian pulled at his arms, urging him up into another kiss until Mickey was grinding down desperately into his lap and gasping against his mouth. Ian squeezed at his ass, fingers dragging dryly over his hole as he did. Mickey bucked against him, teeth grazing Ian’s bottom lip.

          “Fuck, Ian,” Mickey muttered, when Ian finally let him breathe so that he could bite messily at his jaw. He rocked down onto him again, and Ian flung an arm out to grope around in their bedside drawer, losing patience. He managed to uncap the lube with one hand while sucking harshly on Mickey’s neck below the hinge of his jaw. Mickey keened when he pressed a slicked-up finger into him without any delicacy, and Ian licked over the mark on his neck so that he could get back at his mouth, swallowing his needy cries as Ian stretched him.

          “You’re still an asshole,” Mickey gasped as Ian pressed in a second finger. He rocked back, trying to pull him in deeper.

          Ian hummed against his neck where he was trailing kisses, agreeing fully but too satisfied to care when Mickey was so desperate above him, squirming on his lap.

          “An asshole,” Mickey repeated. He probably had a point, but Ian wasn’t trying to help him get there; he had more important things to do, like get Mickey ready so he could finally fuck him. Mickey found the rest of his thought: “An asshole…who obviously doesn’t trust me not to fight off any—ah, fuck—any pint-sized dickbag who comes onto me…”

          “Of course I trust you, Mick,” Ian insisted. “I just don’t like it when they fucking look at you like that. Like you’re up for grabs…don’t like it when people don’t know who you belong to.”

          “You think I belong to you, Gallagher?” Mickey panted. Ian’s fingers curled inside him. “Fuck, right there.”

          “Hmm.” Ian pulled back to look at him. His cheeks were flushed, his lips red. Ian stilled his fingers inside of him, and Mickey whined and sat back, but Ian was already pulling out of him. He dragged his thumb over Mickey’s bottom lip. “Yeah,” he said decisively. “I think you belong to me.”

          Mickey stopped him from leaning in to kiss him again, hands heavy on Ian’s shoulders, forcing him back into the pillows.

          “Oh yeah?” he said, arching an eyebrow. Ian’s hands settled on his hips, expression challenging even though he could already tell that he would like what was coming. Mickey licked at his lips deliberately slow, drawing Ian’s attention down to them. “Well, I think you might need a little reminder.”

          Ian grinned. “Oh yeah?”

          Mickey sat up, still keeping him pinned with one hand. He reached back with the other, and Ian groaned as he wrapped his hand around his cock, giving him a few quick tugs.

          “Come on,” Ian pleaded, shoving the lube into Mickey’s chest.

          Mickey smirked but did as asked, slicking Ian up quickly. He balanced himself over his hips, and then he was sinking slowly, so slowly down onto him. Ian tightened his hold on Mickey’s waist, thumbs pressing harder into his sides as his breathing grew more ragged, and by the time Mickey was seated flush against him, they were both panting wildly.

          “Fuck, Mickey,” Ian groaned, trying and failing not to rock up into him. Mickey let out a shallow little gasp, hands hard on Ian’s chest. Keeping him still while he adjusted.

          Slowly, slowly, Mickey started to move his hips. For all that he usually liked Ian to be a little rough, he seemed determined to make a point here, although Ian couldn’t really remember what it was when Mickey was fucking himself down on his cock, biting his kiss-swollen lips and arching his back and moaning so beautifully.

          Ian scratched his nails over Mickey’s chest and over the hickeys he had pointed out so vehemently the diner. Mickey sped up, thrusting down harder, and Ian drove up into him just as forcefully. He wanted to drag more ragged noises out of Mickey. Mickey leaned down to bite and lick at his chest, muffling his sounds, and Ian fisted a hand in his hair anyway to keep him tethered there.

          “Mickey,” he mumbled again. “Mickey, Mickey, I want—”

          Mickey cut him off with a rough kiss, sucking harshly on his tongue. Ian arched up into him, forcing a hiss out of Mickey that he took as pleasure if the way Mickey bit at his collarbone was any indication. Mickey pulled back after a second, eyes and hair wild as he gazed down at him.

          “Who do I fucking belong to again?”

          Ian wasn’t sure he had seen anything sexier than a mussed-up Mickey Milkovich bouncing on his dick, and he was a little too disoriented to answer the question at first.

          Mickey’s gaze shifted to a glare when Ian remained silent, and he nipped harshly at Ian’s throat before sitting up again. He sounded breathy and wild when he spoke. “I said,” he thrust back harder, “who do I fucking belong to?”

          “Mickey, fuck.” Ian scrabbled at his sides, but Mickey was pressing hard on his chest, and he fumbled for an answer. “Me, fuck, Mickey! Me, you’re mine, you’re mine!”

          Mickey smirked, looking satisfied.

          “And fucking remember it,” he hissed.

          He kissed Ian, hard, and just like that Ian was coming. He arched off the bed, pressing up into Mickey, who sucked in raggedly and kept rocking his hips through it. Ian collapsed back when he was done, and Mickey didn’t even bother lifting off of Ian as he jerked himself off, coming hard across Ian’s stomach before he finally pulled away and laid down next to him.

          Ian’s eyes were closed, but he felt Mickey’s fingers winding through his. He squeezed his hand, turning to look at him.

          “Love you,” Ian murmured.

          Mickey eyed him for a second, playing with his fingers and seeming content to leave it at that. Eventually he said, casual as ever, “So…wanna go back to the diner tomorrow?”

 


 

 

          They couldn’t go back to the diner the next day; Ian had plans with his brother. And as always, they quickly derailed into a headache.

          Ian sighed and leaned his forehead against the door to his apartment, taking a moment to collect himself. He was all wound up from a long day out with Carl, who had started the outing with “Remember when I went to juvie? Well, I kind of banged another guy while I was in there” and wrapped up the day by declaring, “I want to buy a PX4 Storm.” Between trying to talk Carl through his apparent bisexuality and dissuading him adamantly from buying a gun, Ian could already feel a dull pounding developing in his skull, and he didn’t want to take his frustrations out on Mickey. When he had collected himself enough to put a slight cap on his temper, he knocked his head one more time against the door and pushed into the apartment.

          Mickey was lying on the couch in a tank and sweatpants, with his hand deep in a bag of chips when Ian came in. He was focused pretty deeply on the movie he was watching but looked up when Ian stepped through the door, a grin stretching over his face. Ian nodded tiredly at him and stepped past the couch for their bedroom, already anticipating collapsing face-first onto the bed and laying there for a good nine hours.

          Mickey called out to him before he could properly pass the couch though, his hand snagging Ian’s arm and forcing him to a stop.

          “Hey, wait,” Mickey said, his thumb rubbing across his wrist bone. “You okay?”

          “Long day,” Ian returned, waving him off.

          He tried to tug his hand free, but Mickey wouldn’t let him go. He was still looking up at him with a furrowed brow, and he pulled at Ian. His knees parted on the couch and he said, “C’mere.”

          Ian sighed, sweeping his free hand over his face and into his hair. “Mickey—”

          “Not asking,” Mickey said, a little more firmly.

          Ian studied his face for a few seconds, judging his obstinacy in this particular matter, but was met with only cold regard. He rolled his eyes and pulled his arm free, and this time Mickey let him go with a look of resigned irritation. Ian ruffled his hair just to be annoying, and they both ignored how, despite his rough “Fuck off!”, Mickey perked up in the face of Ian’s compliance as he circled to the front of the couch and dropped into the space between Mickey’s legs. Mickey pulled at his shoulder, dragging him back against his body and trapping him between the confines of his legs.

          Ian laid back against Mickey, elbow propped on his knee, and prepared to pout his way through Mickey’s nurse routine until he could go to bed. But Mickey pressed his lips to the top of Ian’s head, and Ian closed his eyes anyway, settling in.

          He felt fingers on the sides of his head, a light pressure on his temples before Mickey started massaging deeply at them. Ian relaxed automatically. He could feel Mickey’s breath near his ear a second before he heard him whisper, “Stop being a fuckin’ baby.”

          Ian turned his head to nuzzle into Mickey’s stomach. “I’m not being a baby,” he insisted.

          Mickey removed his hands from his temples to give Ian room to press his lips against Mickey’s middle, slipping them into his hair instead and brushing lightly through the strands. Ian hummed contentedly and nosed at him further, Mickey’s tank top rucking up around where he was pressing his face.

          “What are you doing?” Mickey asked, sounding lazy and appreciative despite his protest.

          Ian ignored him. He desisted though, laying his cheek flat against his tummy and turning to watch the movie instead. His earlier aggravation alleviated somewhat as fatigue crept in. His eyelids drooped further the longer they laid there, Mickey still combing fingers through his hair. Ian hadn’t seen the movie before and had no idea what was going on, but Mickey was soft and comfortable and he didn’t want to break the moment with more talking to ask.

          As the movie was wrapping up, Ian turned back to press his face into Mickey, scratching lightly at his belly as he trailed his lips up to the mark he had made a couple of days prior, that night after the engagement party. The discolored patch of skin was as distinct as it had been two days ago. Ian kissed fleetingly at the bright red hickey, grazing his fingertips over the other marks he had made as well.

          Mickey scratched at Ian’s scalp while he brushed his mouth across his abdomen, not marking him at all this time, just kissing at his skin. Ian was content to just press his lips lightly over the blemishes he had already created, liking how Mickey petted through his hair like he was enjoying the attention.

          After Ian had peppered kisses everywhere he could immediately reach, he turned to lay his cheek against Mickey’s middle again, eyes drifting towards his face. “Hey, Mickey?”

          Mickey had his eyes closed, his hands still stroking through Ian’s hair sleepily. “Mmm?”

          Ian shut his eyes as well, perfectly content to fall asleep there, cradled between Mickey’s legs with his head on his stomach. After a minute or so, Mickey let one of his hands fall to Ian’s chest, bunching at the fabric of his t-shirt possessively for a moment before letting his palm fall flat. The contact roused Ian back to semi-conscious, enough for him to finish his thought.

          “I love you.”

          Mickey snorted, pulling at Ian’s hair. “Fuckin’ sap,” he said. But a few minutes later, when Ian was almost asleep with his fingers brushing Mickey’s on his chest and his mouth hanging open pressed against his tummy, he felt Mickey lean down to kiss the top of his head and whisper, “I love you too.”

Chapter Text

          Mickey was naked, and Ian couldn’t stop staring. His fists clenched in the sheets strewn around him as he tracked Mickey around the room, his eyes mostly trained on the long finger-shaped bruises on his ass, as he debated whether to keep watching Mickey as he paced the room getting dressed or to invite him back to bed for round two. He had almost decided to let him dress in peace when Mickey reached for the jeans Ian had thrown across the room not twenty minutes ago, and he realized that he couldn’t possibly let Mickey go like this.

          “Wait!” he said, realizing too late that he had no idea where he was going with that as Mickey turned to him. The pants were already pulled halfway up one leg, and Mickey stumbled a little as he turned around.

          “What?”

          Ian chewed on his lip, then scooted down the bed and reached out for him. Mickey, looking a little ridiculous with his pants only a quarter of the way on, shuffled into arm’s reach and let Ian pull him in between his legs. Ian didn’t hesitate to undo any progress he had made in dressing, and pulled his boxers down enough for him to start sucking a mark into his hip.

          “I gotta go to work,” Mickey insisted, even as his fingers wound their way into Ian’s hair.

          “Mhmm,” Ian agreed, but he nevertheless dragged Mickey’s boxers down even more, enough for him to reach around and grab a decent handful of his ass.

          “Ian, come on,” said Mickey, making no move to continue dressing as Ian dragged his tongue across the hickey he had made. “I have—fuck!” He cut off as Ian squeezed down on his ass and fingers brushed over his hole, freshly stretched and still dripping come.

          “Can’t go to work like this,” Ian said. He pressed his mouth back against Mickey’s hip. “Can’t go to work all fucked out like this, still aching from my cock, my come dripping down your legs…You’d be feeling me all day. Come on…come back to bed…”

          “I can’t,” Mickey insisted. He took a step back, and Ian released him, looking up into Mickey’s pinched expression. “I want to. I do. But I can’t.”

          Ian stared up at him impassively, but his tongue snuck out to lick at his lips, and Mickey groaned and dragged his hands over his face.

          “Ian!” he said. “I can’t! Later, okay?” He reached over to run his fingers over Ian’s jaw, and Ian sighed, leaning into the touch. Mickey thumbed over his lips for a second before he pulled away and started tugging his jeans up again. This time, Ian let him.

          “Fine,” Ian said, flopping onto his back. “Later. But you’ll regret this.”

          “Oh, I will, will I?” asked Mickey, smirking. Despite what he had been asserting just a minute ago, he crawled over Ian on the bed, straddling his waist. “Whatever you say, tough guy. Make me pay for it.” He grinned and Ian smacked feebly at him, but Mickey was already rolling off him and out of reach. He leaned down to kiss Ian on the forehead, pushing back his hair, and then he stepped towards the door. “Later, okay?”

          “Yeah, yeah. Have fun at work.”

          “Don’t tell me what to do.”

          Mickey flashed him one more smile, and then he was gone.

          Ian sighed and laid back up near the pillows, intending to get in another few hours of sleep. Mostly he was contemplating how to make Mickey regret choosing not to call in sick today.

          Ian was ready by the time Mickey came home, but he played it cool. He had decided to just order a pizza for dinner, because even though he hadn’t really done anything all day he still hadn’t been in the mood to cook, but Mickey wasn’t complaining. They leaned back together on the couch, Mickey laying on Ian’s chest between his legs, both eating their slices without bothering with plates.

          “God, I love you,” said Mickey as he stuffed half a slice in his mouth at once. “Ordering pizza instead of pretending to be real adults. You’re so fucking great.”

          “We are real adults,” Ian pointed out with a laugh. “We can legally drink and everything. No curfew, our own place. This is what adulthood looks like.”

          “Fuck adulthood,” Mickey said, reaching for more pizza, “I want takeout.”

          Ian couldn’t disagree, so he opted for eating more instead. They laid back when the box was finished, and Ian would have felt content to lay there forever with Mickey warm on his chest if he hadn’t had a plan. He let them digest first though, laying down all tangled up in each other. He thought Mickey drifted off at some point, but he seemed awake enough when Ian tapped him on the nose and said, “Hey, you up for that round two we were talking about earlier?”

          “Does it count as round two if it’s over twelve hours later?” Mickey wondered, even as he sat up so that Ian could squirm out from under him.

          “Round two, round one, who cares?” Ian asked, pulling Mickey to his feet and leading the way into their bedroom. “Either way it ends up with you on your back.”

          “It does, huh?” Mickey grinned. “Maybe I don’t want to end up on my back.”

          “Where you wanna be then?” asked Ian.

          As soon as they crossed the threshold into their room, Mickey was pulling at Ian’s shirt and track pants, and Ian had just managed to get Mickey out of his jeans when Mickey pulled him close, voice raspy by his ear as he breathed, “Maybe I wanna be on top of you tonight. Maybe I wanna ride you until you’re begging me for it, so needy underneath me. Maybe that’s where I wanna be. Yeah?”

          Ian was already breathing harder than necessary when he said, “Yeah.” Mickey looked feral as he pulled away and pushed Ian down onto the bed, and Ian barely remembered that he had plans for retribution when Mickey climbed on top of him and kissed him, so deep and perfect.

          He did eventually remember though, sometime between Mickey breathing, “God, I need you in me right fucking now,” and him shoving his tongue halfway down Ian’s throat, not that Ian was complaining. When Mickey resurfaced for air, Ian seized on the opportunity, and he already had Mickey halfway rolled over when he said, “On your knees. Now.”

          “But I thought—”

          Ian cut him off, not sure he could go through with this if Mickey started talking about fucking him again. “Get on your knees,” he repeated firmly.

          Mickey only stopped to pull off his shirt before he complied, and Ian took a moment to relish it; he never got tired of this, Mickey naked and ready before him.

          He ran his hands up over Mickey’s back, enjoying how tense he got as he waited for whatever Ian had planned, before he smoothed them back down at over Mickey’s ass. He squeezed at his ass once and, before Mickey could start complaining again, spread him open and laved a long stripe up over his hole.

          “Oh fuck,” Mickey gasped, pushing back, but Ian had already pulled away. He nipped at one of his cheeks—the one marked with a huge scar from being shot, followed by rudimentary kitchen-counter surgery—and hummed thoughtfully as Mickey started panting.

          “You gonna finish the job back there?” Mickey asked, trying to regulate his voice and failing miserably.

          “I was gonna,” Ian said lightly. He bit almost experimentally down again, a little closer to the long-healed gunshot wound. “But then you went to work, and I don’t know. I don’t know if I’m in the mood anymore.”

          Mickey turned his head to glare at him, but he didn’t move from his position or do anything but say, “You really gonna run with the whole ‘you’ll regret this’ thing?”

          “I’m just saying,” said Ian, and he paused to lick flatly over the sensitive skin of his injury, “I’m not sure I’m in the mood.”

          “Ian, Jesus.”

          “Not my last name, but that’d be cool.” He sucked lightly, experimentally, at the scar beneath him, and Mickey whined, bucking forward unexpectedly. Ian pulled back, eyebrows raised. “Does that actually feel good?”

          Mickey fidgeted a little but tried to keep straight, balanced on his hands and knees. “Feels weird,” he admitted.

          “Good weird?” Ian prompted.

          “I don’t know, fuck. It’s not awful, but I can think of a whole lot of things I’d rather your mouth was doing.”

          Ian rolled his eyes but relented, and he spread Mickey open again to lick between his cheeks. Mickey groaned and pushed back against his face, and Ian pulled away, ignoring the whine that followed. They both froze, wondering who would break first.

          Finally, Ian said, “You gonna be good for me?”

          Mickey sighed. Overdramatically, in Ian’s opinion. “Ugh, fine.”

          It was as close to a promise of stillness as he was going to get, so Ian hesitated—making sure Mickey was serious—before pressing his face back between Mickey’s cheeks and licking one, twice, before truly lapping at his hole. Mickey stayed resolutely still, tensing with the desire to shove back on Ian’s tongue, but he didn’t, even though Ian never pushed past his rim.

          That didn’t stop his mouth from moving. “Ian, come on,” he begged. “Stop fucking around.”

          Ian didn’t stop, continuing his ministrations without furthering them, and only when Mickey really looked like he might lose it did Ian pull away. He urged Mickey onto his back, and he went willingly, wrapping his legs around Ian’s waist as soon as he was settled between them.

          “You’re such a fucking pain,” Mickey grumbled, throwing a bottle of lube at Ian’s head. He barely caught it, and he wasted no time in squirting it over his hand and pressing a finger into Mickey.

          “Am I?” Ian asked, crooking his finger and making Mickey’s breathing hitch. “Hmm. I mean, I did just eat you out, so. I don’t know.”

          “I think that requires more actual tongue action,” said Mickey, his sentence ending in a groan when Ian pressed in a second finger.

          “Well, I would have if you hadn’t gone to work,” Ian said as he stretched him. “I mean, I had plans to lay you down and eat you out all day. I’m talking hours of my tongue in your ass, until you were sweating and half out of your mind and begging me for it. Had it all planned out. But then you left; sounds like your fault to me.”

          “Yeah, fuck me for making us money.”

          “Mm, I will,” said Ian thoughtfully. He pulled his fingers out, but before he could even line up behind him, Mickey used his leverage around his back to flip them over so that Ian was laying under him. He stared up in amusement.

          “You make good on your promises, I make good on mine,” said Mickey. Before Ian could even begin to reply, Mickey sat up, shifted up onto his knees, and was sinking down onto Ian’s cock.

          Ian groaned and arched up into him, but Mickey only pressed Ian’s hands down into the bed around his head, raising an eyebrow playfully.

          “What was that about making people regret being uncooperative assholes?” Mickey asked.

          “I believe your exact response was: Go.”

          “So close, but no.” Mickey sighed theatrically, but he did start to move his hips, though not as much as Ian had been hoping he might. He only lifted up slightly before sinking back down, and Ian curled his hands over the ones pinning him down, scratching at Mickey’s knuckles.

          “Mickey.”

          “Hey, who decided they wanted to fucking tease all night?” Mickey demanded, but he did speed up a little, snapping his hips down onto Ian’s. “You know—” he punctuated this with a hard thrust downwards—“—how I feel—about teasing.”

          Usually it resulted in blackout-level orgasms all around, but Ian decided not to push it when Mickey was feeling so obviously vindictive on top of him. He settled for driving up into Mickey as best he could, and Mickey sped up, ass clenching so hot and perfect around him that Ian moaned, head pressing back into the mattress. Mickey fucked himself down even harder at the sound.

          “Oh fuck yes. Fuck, right there,” Mickey groaned, to no one in particular since he was in control. “Fuck, Ian, Ian!”

          He released Ian’s hands to run them up onto his own thighs as he worked them, and Ian brought his hands immediately to Mickey’s hips, gripping tight and helping him thrust himself down on his cock.

          “Mickey, shit.” He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to get some kind of grip on reality with Mickey around him, his ass taking all of Ian’s cock and then lifting up again, over and over with the same ferocity, and after a few minutes of it he could feel his control fraying.

          Mickey leaned down and ran his tongue lightly, almost experimentally over Ian’s lips, but before Ian could even properly get at his mouth Mickey was leaning away. Ian stared up at him as he thrust his hips back, eyes wide and somewhere between lost and found, and Mickey narrowed his own gaze into a glower.

          “Look at me,” he demanded. “I want you to fucking look at me when you come.”

          A rough noise tore itself from his throat at Mickey’s words, and he threw his head back, but Mickey was there in an instant, still fucking himself down at that same brutal pace as he hovered with his face close to Ian’s.

          “What did I just say to you?” he demanded.

          Ian moaned loudly, harshly, and he scrabbled at the back of Mickey’s neck, trying to pull him down to him.

          “I’m looking, I’m looking,” he promised. “Of course I’m looking. Mick…”

          Mickey bypassed his mouth in favor of burying his face in Ian’s neck, and Ian could feel his gasps as he rolled his hips back, unable to fuck himself properly from this position. Ian tried to make up the difference, grinding up into him, clutching at Mickey’s hair and the small of his back.

          “Mickey,” he breathed. “Mickey, Mickey…”

          He couldn’t remember any other word, wasn’t sure he had anything else in his vocabulary, but it didn’t matter because he had Mickey. And Mickey was there, kissing his throat and up to his lips, and then pulling back to sit up and ride him harder, faster. His fingers were clutching at his own hair as he fucked himself down on Ian’s cock, his free hand fisting his own dick, and he looked so fucking good, and Ian only lasted a few more deep thrusts upwards before he was coming, Mickey following after with a ragged groan.

          Ian watched him, just as he promised. Watched the flush rise high on his cheeks, his mouth open in a prolonged moan. Watched the way his hips stuttered in their movements as he came over his hand and Ian’s stomach. Ian was watching, and Mickey looked amazing.

          When he was spent, Mickey rolled off of him, flinging an arm over his eyes. Even though he was still trying to get his own breathing back under control, Ian turned to poke at Mickey’s side, and he could see him smile even as he rolled into Ian, meeting him on his side in the middle of the bed.

          “I am definitely skipping work the next time you ask,” Mickey said, pulling Ian into a quick, messy kiss. “See what you can do to this ass when you’ve really got hours to kill.”

          Ian grinned, sliding a hand down Mickey’s side and squeezing at one of his asscheeks. He kept one hand on his ass as he pulled Mickey back to him, kissing him a little slower than before. He knew he looked dopey as hell when they parted, eyes studying Mickey’s face, lips red, looking properly fucked and debauched, but he didn’t care.

          “Whatever you say,” he said, which was as good as a promise. He squeezed Mickey’s ass one more time and pulled him back in.

 


 

 

          Ian loved dancing. He didn’t exactly miss his days at the club, because they had spelled much more troubling times, but he did miss the feel of the music pulsing through his feet, the bass loud and reverberating through his chest, timed to his heartbeat. So, after about fifty million complaints, he finally convinced Mickey to take him out to a nightclub.

          Except, Mickey didn’t really dance.

          “I am not going out there,” Mickey said stubbornly. He took a long drink from his beer and crossed his arms.

          “Come on,” Ian said, pulling at him. Mickey glared at him, remaining resolutely by the bar. “You took me out all this way but you won’t dance with me?”

          “You can dance,” Mickey said, sweeping his hand out towards the dance floor.

          Ian made a face. “I’m not gonna go out there without you.” He sighed. “Come on, Mickey, just one song. Then I won’t give you any more shit about it. One song, and we can go home right after. Okay? We came all the way here.”

          Mickey narrowed his eyes at him. Ian glared right back in a mocking imitation of Mickey’s reluctance until Mickey sighed, set down his drink, grabbed Ian’s wrist, and pulled him away from the bar.

          He paused on the edge of the dance floor, whipping around to get in Ian’s overzealous face. Ian didn’t back down, just looked back as passively as he could, knowing Mickey was gearing up for one more warning. Mickey held up his index finger and pushed it roughly into Ian’s chest. “One song,” he said, as though Ian hadn’t already gotten the point.

          Ian met his eyes solemnly, trying to wipe his face clean of excitement. “One song,” he promised, hands up in a placating gesture.

          Mickey watched him for another second, assessing his level of sincerity, before huffing dramatically and rolling his eyes. He stood idly staring at Ian, either unsure how or disinclined to proceed, so Ian decided to take the initiative; he grabbed Mickey’s hips and guided them against his own.

          “I’ll go slow,” he promised, even as he eased a knee between Mickey’s and began to rock against him to the music.

          Mickey let out a strangled, “Shit,” and dropped his head to Ian’s shoulder. Ian felt Mickey’s arms creeping up his back, hands on his shoulders, locking him in place as Mickey started to rut harder against him.

          Mickey either heard or felt Ian’s heartbeat picking up, because he pulled back enough to smirk at him. “When’d I ever like it slow, huh?”

          Ian laughed. “Asshole,” he muttered, shaking his head.

          Mickey smiled at him for a second before ducking his head back down, forehead resting against Ian’s collarbone. He seemed to be focusing on bringing their hips together again and again, getting it just right; he wasn’t as familiar with this as Ian was, and it didn’t come naturally to him, but Ian was panting shallowly before long anyway, pulling Mickey further into him, and feeling Mickey just as hard on his hip. Mickey was clutching at him like he wanted to climb right into Ian’s skin.

          “Fuck, Mickey.” His fingers had untucked Mickey’s shirt in a few places, thumbs running over where his torso was revealed. “Turn around.”

          Mickey went near-still, except for where he was still half-riding Ian’s thigh to the beat. He lifted his head to stare at him. “Excuse me?”

          “Come on, you’ve only got like, a minute and a half left on the clock.” Ian leaned in so that his lips brushed the hinge of Mickey’s jaw when his mouth moved. “Turn around, put your ass on me.”

          Mickey smiled uncertainly. “You gonna ride my ass in public, Gallagher?”

          Ian nipped at his jaw. “Just might,” he said, grabbing his ass. “I’m serious. I want to feel you.”

          Mickey eyed him speculatively for a second, tonguing at the corner of his mouth, before stepping away so he could turn around. Ian grabbed his hips as soon as he faced away, pulling them back flush against his own. Mickey didn’t move, so Ian started up the rhythm again, rocking up against Mickey and feeling him push back almost automatically onto Ian’s half-hard cock. He felt Mickey’s hands reach back to grip his thighs, and he leaned into him even more, pressing up hard against Mickey’s ass. They fell into the beat of the music again, trying to get closer, rutting up hard against one another.

          “You feel fucking amazing, dancing on me like this,” Ian whispered by his ear. “Holy shit, you feel so fucking good. Don’t you think?” He slid his hand around to cup Mickey through his jeans, and he was just as hard as Ian was from their grinding. Ian laughed, low and throaty. “Yeah, you do. You want it just as much as I do, don’t you, Mick?”

          Mickey only moaned in response, head falling back to Ian’s shoulder, and Ian took the opportunity to lick a line up his neck, latching on to a spot of soft skin below his jaw and sucking gently. Mickey made another ragged sound and turned his head, fisting a hand in Ian’s hair to pull him down into a kiss. It was rough, imprecise because of the angle and the way Ian couldn’t get enough of him fast enough. Judging by the way Mickey was pulling at his hair to try to push his tongue deeper into Ian’s mouth, Mickey was feeling the same way. Ian pulled him back harder onto his cock, Mickey’s tight ass perfect as he moved with him.

          Ian still had a hand on Mickey’s cock. He started rub him through his jeans, just barely at first, just enough to see his mouth fall open that much further for Ian to take. Ian half expected Mickey to protest, but he didn’t; when Ian pulled away from his mouth to focus on what he was doing—hand massaging his cock up front, pressing hard up against his ass on the other side—Mickey only leaned up to suck desperately on the underside of his chin. He was rocking forwards and backwards instead of side to side, but still to the music, trying to figure out which pressure to lean into.

          Ian stroked him harder, wanting to make up for the material in the way, and Mickey panted brokenly against his throat.

          “Ian,” he choked out.

          “I know,” Ian said, pulling him back into a kiss to distract him. “I know. Don’t worry, I got you, I got you.”

          He rutted harder against Mickey’s ass, needing more of him, wanting to be in him, and he was mentally mapping out possible exits to the bathroom when he undid Mickey’s jeans and plunged his hand inside.

          Mickey staggered away suddenly, shoving Ian back, and Ian was momentarily stunned by the absence of Mickey all over him. He realized he was panting too, and uncomfortably hard.

          “Mickey—?”

          “Not here,” Mickey insisted, shaking his head. “Not here. Come on.” He grabbed Ian’s hand and pulled him away towards the exit.

          Ian felt a little more clearheaded once out on the pavement, but not much. He barely afforded Mickey enough time to call a cab before he pushed him back against the bricks of the building and claimed his mouth. Mickey was clawing at his back, one leg hitched halfway up his waist, when someone called behind them, “Hey, you two call for a safe ride?”

          They managed to stop pawing at each other long enough to get inside the cab, but Ian scarcely allowed Mickey time to give their address before he was on him again, climbing straight into his lap and pulling him back up into another kiss. He couldn’t even be fucked to care about the poor guy up front listening to them suck face, because Mickey was hard rutting up against him and Ian was sucking on his tongue, biting at his lip, rocking down onto him, and it was too good to care about anything else.

          They hardly gave the cabbie time to hand them their change before they were taking off up the stairs to their apartment, having to stop several times on the stairs to back one another into walls, but they eventually made it to their floor. Ian shut the front door and Mickey was immediately on him, practically climbing up him to get at his mouth, and Ian grabbed Mickey’s thighs so he could wrap his legs around his waist.

          “Ian,” he panted between bruising kisses. “Fuck me. Holy shit, fuck me.”

          Ian managed to blindly walk them to their room, Mickey on his waist and clinging to his neck, mouth hot on his. Mickey never let go of his lips, and when they fell together onto the bed, Mickey only let him pull back enough to rip off his shirt. They pulled off their jeans in record time and then Ian rolled back on top of him, shoving at Mickey’s shirt until he got rid of that too. Mickey wrapped his legs around him again, pulling him down so that Ian’s cock was hard against his ass. Mickey groaned, arms around his neck, and Ian grinded down between his cheeks without thinking.

          “Fuck me,” Mickey said again, more desperate than before. “Oh my god, fucking get in me right the fuck now.”

          Ian managed to get the lube out of the bedside table without leaving the cage Mickey’s body had made around him, but Mickey flipped over onto his knees as soon as Ian started coating his fingers. Mickey’s hands were white on the headboard by the time Ian finally got two fingers into him, and Mickey rocked back on them, pulling them in deeper, whining throatily when Ian brushed them against his prostate. He was begging for more within a minute, and Ian slid in a third, fucking him with his fingers, but Mickey seemed unsatisfied.

          “Jesus Christ,” he rasped out. “I’m fine. Just get in me already, I’m fucking—”

          He cut off, barely stifling a moan when Ian pressed up against his sweet spot again, and Ian took that as his cue to pull out, slick himself up, and push slowly into Mickey.

          “Fuck, yes,” Mickey gasped as soon as Ian entered him. He pushed back against Ian, taking his cock in deeper, and Ian did what he could not to just grab Mickey and pound into him for all he was worth. He waited until Mickey had taken him all the way and was panting, “Jesus, fuck me. Ian, come on, fucking fuck me, make me take it—” before pulling almost completely out and thrusting hard back into Mickey in one push.

          “Fuck, Mick.” Ian pressed his face into the back of Mickey’s neck, panting shallowly against him as his hips shoved forwards into him. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

          “Come on,” Mickey growled out, shoving his ass back. “Harder! Fucking rail me like you mean it!”

          Ian gripped his hair and dragged him back into a searing kiss as he redoubled his efforts, pounding relentlessly into Mickey. Mickey moaned into his mouth, spreading his knees to allow Ian in deeper, and Ian shoved up into him with everything he had. Between the club and the cab ride, he was already close, and he could tell from Mickey’s shaking thighs that he was too.

          Ian reached to wrap a hand around Mickey’s cock so he wouldn’t have to take his hands off the headboard and lose that magnificent leverage that was letting him fuck himself back so well onto Ian’s dick. Ian didn’t stop kissing him, jerking his cock and fucking into him with everything he had. Mickey was moaning unabashedly, his head thrown back for Ian to take what he would. Ian thrust into him harder, his hand speeding up on Mickey’s cock when he felt him winding up like he was close, and Mickey was coming in no time. That’s what did it: the feel of Mickey, so tight and hot around him, clenching down on him, and Ian was coming too, thrusting up one more time into Mickey as deep as he could get and spilling out into him.

          “You’re fucking amazing,” Ian was panting. His lips were still covering Mickey’s so that they were inhaling each other’s ragged breaths, but he couldn’t find it in himself to pull away, not just yet. “Fucking hell, you’re so fucking amazing.”

          Mickey didn’t say anything, just breathed sharply into Ian until he seemed to regain some semblance of self and pushed him off his back. Ian wrapped an arm around his waist so that they fell onto the mattress together, Mickey cradled against his chest, legs tangled by the foot of the bed.

          Eventually, when their breathing and heartbeats evened out into something resembling normal, they shuffled into positions more suitable to sleep. Ian wound up on his back with Mickey pressed against his side. He allowed himself to squeeze Mickey’s ass one more time before he settled his hand there, possessive and steady.

          “We should go dancing more often,” he said thoughtfully, pretty sure Mickey was already asleep and that he was just putting the thought out there into the dark. But Mickey’s voice came a few seconds later, quiet and breathless.

          “Yeah. We really should.”

 


 

 

          There was something about the sight of Mickey completely naked that really made Ian want to get his mouth on him.

          Probably it was the sight of Mickey. Completely naked.

          Ian awoke as Mickey was rolling out of bed, making the mattress bounce him right into consciousness. He peered balefully out from between the sheets as Mickey walked away towards the bathroom, his pale ass jiggling a little bit with each step, the skin mottled with finger- and mouth-shaped bruises and one round, faded scar. Ian really hoped Mickey was coming back to bed soon.

          He laid there, somewhere between sleeping and waking, and listened to the noises of Mickey in the other room as the toilet flushed and the sink turned on. Mickey reappeared in the bedroom doorway a minute later, ignoring Ian when he tried to feign sleep and tapping him insistently on the head.

          “I know you’re not sleeping, shithead,” Mickey said, sounding more chipper than usual this morning, and definitely more so than Ian was. “Get up, take these.”

          Ian extended a hand out from under the blanket, hoping that Mickey would shut up once he took the pills Mickey was offering, but he didn’t. He watched Ian with that same little smile until he swallowed his medication dry in one swift move, and then he was off again.

          “You’re supposed to take them with food and water,” Mickey sighed. “Fuck, wait a minute—”

          Mickey moved to get up again, but Ian wound his arm around Mickey’s waist and pulled him back onto the bed. Mickey didn’t fight as much as he could have as Ian engulfed him, slinging a leg around his waist and an arm around his chest and pulling Mickey tight to his chest.

          “I’m fine, just…” he closed his eyes for a second, and felt Mickey shift around beside him until he could run a hand through Ian’s hair, “…just wait out the shakes with me?”

          “You wouldn’t get the shakes if you’d take the damn pills with some food,” Mickey said, but he nevertheless stayed right where he was, reshuffling their limbs until he was the one holding Ian.

          Ian clutched at him, closing his eyes and burrowing his head closer to Mickey’s chest as he waited for the side effects to start. Mickey was stroking a hand through his hair.

          “Dumbass,” he said affectionately.

          Ian didn’t answer, because the familiar nausea was wracking his stomach just as the tremors in his hands started, and his mind felt light in an uncomfortable, heady way. He latched on tighter to Mickey, who seemed to notice the shift within him. He was distantly aware of Mickey hushing him, still petting through his hair, and whispering that he was safe.

          He couldn’t really tell how long it all lasted; he felt like he had been trapped in an uncomfortable limbo for an eternity before he finally surfaced, but the clock next to their bed suggested he had only been suffering for a little over ten minutes. He sighed and snuffled closer to Mickey’s chest, burying his nose in the familiar scent. Mickey’s answering exhale sounded more sympathetic than tired, and as the last of the side-effects receded, Ian pressed his lips to Mickey’s chest, then again, a little further down. Mickey didn’t say anything until Ian began really mapping a slow trail down his stomach with his mouth.

          “Feeling better already?” asked Mickey, sounding somewhere between amused and intrigued. At Ian’s responding hum, Mickey said, “Maybe we should get some food in you before we do this—”

          “You’re so good to me, Mick,” Ian interrupted him, lips hovering above his ribs. Hoping to derail Mickey’s worrying, he pressed a kiss there and added, trailing more kisses down his stomach, “So good…and attentive…and sweet…I think,” lips brushing over his waistline, “you deserve something good…for being so good…to me…”

          Mickey’s fingers were soft on Ian’s cheek where he was mouthing over his hipbone, and surely he found Ian exactly as transparent as he was being, but all he managed to get out was a breathy, “Oh yeah?”

          “Mhm,” said Ian, nodding shallowly.

          “What did you have in mind?”

          He didn’t answer. Ian’s fingers were dancing, light and teasing, up Mickey’s sides; he barely breathed out, “I want you,” before Mickey sat up, dragging Ian with him into a kiss both gentle and intense. Ian was sucking in air where he could, but Mickey wasn’t giving him much room, catching his lips over and over and over, sucking on his top lip where it was caught between Mickey’s own, their tongues just barely meeting. Mickey started to lay down again, pulling Ian with him as he reclined, but Ian rolled them over before he could so that Mickey was hovering over him instead, still kissing him as softly as he ever had.

          Ian hooked a leg over Mickey’s, hand grasping at his ass, pulling Mickey further down onto him as he breathed in his air. He could feel Mickey’s cock, hot and hard against his thigh where Mickey was half-grinding down onto him, but Ian ignored both of their need for the time being. He had more important business. He dragged Mickey into one more kiss, this one a deeper than the others, his tongue moving against Mickey’s for the briefest moment before he pulled away.

          They didn’t say anything; Ian listened to Mickey’s uneven breathing against his jaw and neck for a few seconds, then squeezed Mickey’s ass again, this time urging him up. Mickey sat up cooperatively, eying him with delighted curiosity, and seemed to find confirmation for his suspicions in the heavy look that Ian leveled back at him.

          “You want me to—?” Mickey asked, and Ian nodded slowly.

          Mickey was hesitant, slower than he usually was to comply, like he could sense that something was different in Ian this morning. He shuffled up Ian’s body anyway, knees knocking into his shoulders as he climbed up closer to his head. When Mickey was near enough, Ian reached up to grab onto the backs of his thighs. He ran his hands up further, drifting up over Mickey’s ass, as he settled into position.

          “Yeah?” Mickey asked, one more time, looking down at Ian with his eyebrows arched absurdly high like always.

          Ian didn’t hesitate. “Yeah,” he breathed back, gaze steady locked on Mickey’s.

          Mickey kept one hand on the headboard in front of him as he lowered himself over Ian; Ian saw the other disappear into his own hair before Mickey was on him, completely obscuring his vision. He mounted no complaint, instead licking a small stripe up the inside of Mickey’s thigh. He thought he heard him inhale faintly; Ian could only muster a weak, “I love you so much.” It terrifies me, he tacked on silently, letting his tongue map the words into Mickey as he spread him open and licked up into him without further hesitation.

          Mickey was good, he always was. He let Ian set the pace, didn’t rock back any further than Ian was pulling him down. He was sighing these breathy little inhales with each press of Ian’s tongue into him, and Ian was alternating between actually fucking into him, just laving over his ass, and sucking properly at him. He loved it, the feeling of Mickey shaking halfway to insanity above him. He felt light, partway empty, like he was only half there. And then—

          “Ian,” Mickey moaned, and that’s what broke Ian out of it.

          He nudged Mickey off his face, ignoring his broken groan, and laid him out beside him on the bed. Mickey reached for him almost immediately, so close to coming, and Ian went to him. He rolled over Mickey, slipping their legs together, and dragged Mickey into a sloppy, artless kiss. Mickey started grinding helplessly against him, and Ian wrapped his big hand around both of their cocks, jerking them together. Mickey was grasping at his shoulders, panting into his mouth, and Ian turned his attention to Mickey’s neck instead. He kissed lightly at the skin below his jaw, timing the strokes of his hand to how fast Mickey was fucking up into his fist. Mickey came first, scratching at his shoulderblades and sighing out his name.

          He rolled Ian over when he was done, pressed his face into the hollow of his throat, and jerked him off roughly, returning the favor. Ian clutched at his back, his ass, panting nonsense between his tiny, quiet, “Mickey”s, and he was coming soon after, still muttering his name.

          Mickey laid beside him when he was done. He caught Ian’s fingers between his own and pulled him in for one last quick, close-mouthed kiss. When Mickey pulled away, Ian closed his eyes and leaned his head against Mickey’s chest. Over his heart.

          “I love you,” Ian whispered. He felt fingers on his chin, tilting his face back up. He thought he felt Mickey’s lips brush his own, so lightly it might not have happened at all.

          But it had.

          Mickey was always there, kissing him harder, kissing him more, until Ian was gasping and gazing up into his bright blue eyes and listening to Mickey whisper “I love you” into every inch of his skin.

          Ian thought Mickey might just want to love him forever, and that sounded absolutely perfect to him.

Chapter Text

          Ian was drunk. Like, unruly, fall-on-his-ass, don’t-remind-him-what-happened-in-the-morning drunk.

          After Carl had called him earlier—he had launched into a recount of his daring escape from the cops that morning almost before Ian had even said hello—Ian had gone over to have a celebratory beer with him and their other siblings. One beer had turned into three had turned into a regulation Gallagher party, and before Ian knew it, he’d glanced over to see the clock reading ten p.m. and realized he had told Mickey he would be home two hours ago. Not that he would worry—Mickey knew better than most how these things tended to spiral—but Ian figured it was time to head out anyway. He bid his siblings farewell, denied their slurred suggestions of calling a cab, and left the house to stumble his way home.

          He didn’t live that far, maybe a twenty or thirty minute walk through the neighborhood to the more urbanized apartment complexes, but that time seemed to stretch on in the quiet darkness, with his fuzzy thoughts swirling through his head in a vaguely sickening way. The drinks he’d had were flushing him warm, and he pulled off his jacket despite the breeze and slung it over his arm.

          A streetlight flickered above his head as he passed under it, and he paused, momentarily confused as to why he hadn’t just slept over his siblings’.

          Oh, right. Mickey.

          “Mickey,” Ian muttered to himself. “I wanna see Mickey.”

          He stopped suddenly, swaying on the spot. He glanced around, then down at his watch. Mickey was at least another fifteen minutes away. That was so far, though. He ran his tongue over his bottom lip, debating whether he should keep walking so far or just sit on the curb and wallow for a bit.

          He opted to sit, flopping heavily onto the sidewalk and crossing his legs clumsily underneath himself. After a few seconds he dug around in the pockets of the jacket that had fallen beside him until he felt the hard edge of his phone. He pulled it out, staring blankly at the dark screen for a minute, and then unlocked it and scrolled through for Mickey’s number. It rang for barely ten seconds before Mickey picked up.

          “Where the hell are you?” Mickey said by way of greeting. He didn’t sound angry; if anything, he sounded moderately amused, like he had predicted that the Gallaghers would inevitably spiral out of control and that Ian would wind up drunk and tired on the side of the road.

          “Mickey,” Ian slurred again. He couldn’t exactly remember why he had called. Oh right— “I wanna see you.”

          Mickey laughed, and when he spoke, his voice filtered loud and happy through the phone. “Then come home, asshole. You’ve found your way back shitfaced enough times to know the way blind.”

          “I wanna see you,” Ian repeated stubbornly. “I don’t wanna walk anymore.”

          “Why the hell didn’t you just call a cab?”

          “I don’t need a cab! I can walk. I just don’t want to.”

          Mickey sighed, but Ian knew him well enough to know it was probably for show more than anything else. “You’re not supposed to drink that much at the ball, Cinderella. The fairy godmother ain’t a safe ride.” Ian snorted. “Jesus, where are you?”

          He leaned forward until he could see the nearest street sign and rattled off the address.

          “Stay where you are, I’m coming to find you.”

          Ian smiled, so wide his cheeks started hurting instantly. Mickey was coming.

          “I love you,” he declared loudly. “I love my Mickey. I love Mickey! I love you, Mickey.”

          “Yeah, yeah,” Mickey said. “Don’t hurt yourself. I’ll be there in ten.” And he hung up the phone.

          Satisfied that he was going to get to see Mickey soon, Ian settled back onto the sidewalk. After a minute he laid down, using his jacket as a pillow to cushion his head from the hard pavement, and he unlocked his phone to play some music and a game while he waited.

          A little over ten minutes had passed when Ian started to think that maybe a short nap was called for. He had barely shut off his phone and closed his eyes, however, when he heard a loud, exasperated voice shout, “Jesus! You didn’t pass out, did you?”

          Ian scrambled to his feet, lurching unsteadily forwards until he collapsed against Mickey in a very poor imitation of a hug. Mickey patted him awkwardly on the back for a second and Ian pulled away, grabbing Mickey’s cheeks with his hands and peering intently into his eyes.

          “What are you looking at?” Mickey pried unsuccessfully at his wrists, and Ian held on tighter.

          “You have really nice lips, Mick.” He watched him carefully; Mickey only raised his eyebrows, unimpressed. Ian pressed on, sure that Mickey just didn’t get it. “I mean like really nice. They’re all full and soft and nice. And you have little bunny teeth.” He paused, then released one of Mickey’s cheeks to clap a hand over his own mouth, stifling a giggle. When he was calmer, he quickly grabbed at Mickey’s face again. “Cute little front teeth like a bunny!”

          Mickey rolled his eyes, as if he wasn’t blushing slightly. “Ian, you’re gonna squeeze my face off. Let me go.”

          Ian didn’t, leaning in to nestle his own face against Mickey’s instead. “Mm, wanna kiss you, Mick. Kiss your nice soft full lips, feel you panting.”

          “You’re drunk.”

          “So?” Ian flicked his tongue over a sensitive spot on Mickey’s jaw. “Still think you taste good. Still think you sound good when I’m making you breathe heavy, my mouth on your neck and chest and cock—”

          He heard Mickey’s breath hitch and took that as permission to slot their lips together, pushing his tongue sloppily into Mickey’s mouth. Mickey didn’t seem to mind the carelessness; he pressed further against Ian, hands sliding around his back. Ian tugged Mickey’s lip into his mouth, sucking gently on it, drawing a moan out of the boy arching up into him. He licked over Mickey’s lip and back into a deep kiss, down Mickey’s tongue and along the roof of his mouth, going lightly enough to feel him shiver. Mickey tugged him closer, his entire body sliding against Ian’s, and drew in a short breath before going back for more. Only when Mickey nipped at Ian’s bottom lip, dragging his teeth across it in a wonderfully sharp sting, did Ian pull away laughing.

          “What?” Mickey asked, breathless and still clutching at him. He angled his mouth back to recapture Ian’s, but Ian was laughing too hard to reciprocate when Mickey kissed him and Mickey dropped back down, feet flattening on the pavement. He glared up at Ian. “What?” he bit out, his eyebrows furrowed deeply enough to wrinkle his forehead. Ian pressed a finger against the lines until Mickey relaxed.

          “What?” Mickey said for a third time, but much less heated than before.

          “You bit me,” said Ian, laughing even harder. “Mickey bit me with his little bunny teeth!”

          “Oh my god. You asshole!” Mickey shoved Ian away from him. He dodged around Ian’s hands when he reached out for him, and Ian turned to watch him snag Ian’s jacket off the ground. “How the fuck much did you have to drink?” Mickey asked as he straightened, tossing the sweatshirt over his arm.

          “Dunno. Lost count after the fifth beer. Lip was in charge of shots though…”

          “Alright,” Mickey sighed. He let Ian snake an arm around his waist, and barely even rolled his eyes when Ian planted a kiss against the side of his head. “Let’s go, Thornton Burgess. Gotta get you to bed.”

          “I’m not Thornton Burgess,” Ian insisted. “Oh, wait. I get it! Because you’re Peter Cottontail. Ha! You do look like a rabbit!” He broke out into further laughter, throwing his head back with enough force that he rocked back unsteadily.

          “’Cause of the bunny teeth, right?” Mickey asked, nose scrunching up in distaste as he looked over at Ian. Ian recognized the underlying implication that Mickey must have heard and sobered, hurrying to reassure him. He wrapped his other arm around Mickey so that he was pulled into an awkward hug, and they stumbled as they both tried to keep walking.

          “No, no, no!” said Ian. When he leaned over to bury his nose in Mickey’s hair, he effectively pulled them both to a stop again. “Mickey. You don’t have like, big teeth. They’re cute! And little! And you can see the front two when you smile and it’s cute and you bite your lip with them and it’s cute and you—and you have little—like a bunny! And it’s cute!”

          Mickey snorted and pried one of Ian’s arms off so they could keep making their slow journey home. Ian’s mouth twisted unhappily, still worried he might have offended him, but he starting walking again nonetheless.

          Mickey evidently noticed Ian’s concern, because he elbowed him in the side. “Relax, fuckhead. I get it. I’m fucking adorable and look nothing like Bugs. I got it.”

          “No,” Ian agreed, sagging with relief now that Mickey understood. “Not like Bugs. Like a cute bunny, a little one.”

          “Fuck off, I ain’t little.”

          “Okay.” Ian did not manage to keep a handle on his smile for very long, and he busted out laughing a second later, pulling away from Mickey in the same motion because he knew he was going to fucking get it after this. He took off running, but not before looking over his shoulder and shouting, “Little bunny Milkovich!”

          “Fuck you!” Mickey yelled after him. “Fuck—Ay, Gallagher! Ian! Come the fuck back here!”

          Ian didn’t slow down.  He let out another peal of laughter and kept going, booking it down the dark street towards home. He was faster than Mickey and had a decent head start; he turned around when he reached the front door to their apartment building and saw Mickey sprinting after him, at least thirty yards behind. He grinned and darted inside, taking the stairs two or three at a time with bounds of his long legs, hand wrapped around the banister to help fling himself upward. He was already rounding the landing to the third floor when he heard the door clattering behind him as Mickey entered the building and started the long hike up to their floor.

          Ian barreled through the door to the fourth floor as soon as he jumped up the top step, knowing he had at least lost Mickey in the climb up the stairs, but he hurtled down the hall anyway, heedless of the late hour and their multiple grumpy old and middle-aged neighbors. He had just reached around for his keys when he remembered that Mickey had his jacket, as well as everything inside it. Including his wallet.

          Ian slid down the wall beside their door, sinking to the floor with his legs stretched out in front of him. He tipped his head back, finally allowing himself a moment to catch his breath as he waited for Mickey to join him.

          He could see Mickey’s glare from all the way down the hall as he stomped into the corridor. Ian smiled innocently up at him, and Mickey came to a halt in front of him, huffing loudly. He threw Ian’s jacket hard at his face and started digging around for his own set of keys. As soon as he unlocked the door, Ian clamored up and followed Mickey in their apartment.

          He headed into the bathroom first, wanting to brush his teeth and wash his face, and he was on his way to their room to collapse into bed for the night when he heard Mickey call out to him from the other side of the apartment. Ian turned around and joined Mickey in the kitchen instead, leaning unsteadily against the counter when he entered. He was starting to sober up a bit, and the world was beginning to tilt in a nauseating manner. The lights were off, the moonlight from the living room spreading across the floor the only illumination in the room, and the darkness was at least helping keep the world from spinning too much.

          “Drink this,” said Mickey, shoving a warm cup into his hands.

          Ian took a drink obligingly. The coffee tasted good going down, and even better where he could feel it curling in his stomach. He hopped up to sit on the counter, leaning back against the cabinets behind his head. He closed his eyes, hoping to settle the spins enough to keep him from retching.

          As he brought the mug up for another sip, he felt Mickey slide between his legs and he spread his knees further apart to accommodate him. Mickey ran his hands up Ian’s thighs, lingering by his waist, and Ian blinked his eyes open to look down at him.

          “Feel sober yet, dumbass?” Mickey asked, affection clear in his eyes and his voice and the way he leaned in to press his lips to the highest part of Ian he could reach from his position. He kissed at his shoulder and leaned away, and Ian brought the hand not holding the coffee up to slide around the back of Mickey’s head, running his fingers through his hair.

          “Feel sick,” said Ian, but he made no move to rush for a toilet or a sink. He closed his eyes again instead and drank more coffee.

          “Yeah, that’ll happen when you drink up an entire liquor store.”

          “Not an entire liquor store,” Ian argued with a small smile playing around the corners of his lips. “Just what Lip could steal this afternoon.”

          Mickey made no answer; they both knew Lip could easily steal more than enough to give the entire family headaches the next day. Mickey’s hands were rubbing soothing circles over Ian’s thighs, then across his waist and up his back, fingers massaging lightly at his muscles. Ian sighed contentedly and leaned forward to give him more room, resting his forehead against Mickey’s.

          Mickey’s hands moved up higher, digging in between his shoulder blades. Ian swayed forward that last tiny bit and closed the distance between them, pressing his lips light and soft to Mickey’s. Mickey made a little humming sound and returned the kiss, gentle and undemanding and sweet.

          “I’m gonna kill you in the morning,” Mickey said conversationally, pulling away enough to give himself space to talk.

          Ian leaned in to kiss him again. “Why’s that?” he asked, lips moving against Mickey’s.

          “‘Peter Cottontail’?” Mickey reminded him, a sharp edge to his tone.

          Ian leaned his head down on Mickey’s shoulder, muffling a laugh against his shirt. When he lifted his head again, Mickey’s gaze was hard in the dark, but Ian detected no actual malice. When he leaned down to kiss him again, Mickey didn’t protest or push him away, so Ian figured he couldn’t be that aggrieved.

          “I was right about one thing,” Ian said smugly. He took one last drink of coffee and set the mug down, reaching to play with the collar of the jacket that Mickey hadn’t yet shed.

          “What’s that?”

          “You do have very nice lips,” said Ian.

          Mickey rolled his eyes but when Ian tugged him up, laughing, into another kiss, he leaned up willingly enough, his mouth soft and full and warm on Ian’s.

 


 

 

          “Are you fucking serious right now?”

          Ian blinked awake slowly, half-expecting to see an angry Mickey Milkovich glaring down at him where he was curled up under three blankets, but then Mickey’s voice came again, filtering in from the other room. Ian put a hand to his forehead like that would dull the headache as he listened to his boyfriend yelling in the living room.

          “What part of a fucking Do Not Disturb sign makes you think you should disturb?”

          A new voice came. Smaller, timid. She sounded young. “It looks like it was drawn in magic marker—”

          “I made it with sharpies, okay? Message is the same. Go away now.” A pause, some shuffling. Then Mickey again: “Okay, thank you. Fucking bye.”

          The front door slammed. Ian drew the blankets tighter around himself and peered out from beneath them as Mickey came into the bedroom. He noticed Ian watching him and hurried to the bed, kneeling down by Ian.

          “Shit, sorry,” he muttered, pressing the back of his hand to Ian’s forehead. He grimaced and announced, “I think you’re still sick.”

          “No shit?” said Ian, but his voice came out weaker than intended. He coughed violently into his hand, then groaned as the movements made his head pound harder.

          Mickey watched him, frowning. He ran his hand back through Ian’s sweat-soaked hair. “Was trying to let you sleep in, but this girlscout wouldn’t stop knocking. Kept asking me if I wanted cookies or some shit. Why she thought this was the right neighborhood to go pandering for cash is anyone’s guess.” He peered closer at Ian, who was watching him silently as he rambled about yelling at small children. Mickey sighed, kissed Ian’s forehead, and stood up. “I was gonna make pancakes, if you’re hungry?”

          Ian pulled the blankets over his head in response.

          He must have fallen asleep again, because the next thing he was aware of was the smell of burnt pancakes wafting through the apartment and the feeling of someone moving around behind him, making the mattress bounce. Ian rolled over and pulled the blankets down so he could see. Mickey was pulling off his socks, and he tugged off his sweatpants too before laying down beside Ian. Mickey shuffled closer as soon as he noticed that Ian was awake, and drew him immediately into his arms. Ian shook slightly against Mickey, whose skin felt blissfully warm where it brushed his own. Mickey seemed to disagree; he hugged Ian closer, chin resting on top of his head, and said,

          “Shit, Ian. You’re really burning up.”

          Ian did his best to glare up at Mickey. He looked unimpressed, and Ian gave up.

          “Could you get me some Advil?” he croaked instead.

          Mickey nodded, muttering, “Of course, of course,” and untangled himself from Ian so he could rise from the bed. He returned a minute later, holding way too many pills in one hand and a glass of juice in the other.

          “You trying to kill me?” Ian joked, but his smile was weak as he sat up.

          “Still gotta take your regular meds. Sorry man, I don’t make the rules,” he added, hands up defensively when Ian stared back balefully at him.

          Ian huffed but took all the capsules from Mickey, downing them all in one swallow along with a huge mouthful of juice. He put the cup on the nightstand and laid down again, but he couldn’t get comfortable now. He rolled over a few times before he sighed and sat up again.

          Mickey was still standing next to the bed, watching him with an eyebrow raised.

          “I want to go watch TV,” Ian explained. He reached out for Mickey, who looked at him like he was a particularly insatiable toddler but helped him stand up nevertheless.

          Mickey kept an arm around him as he hobbled to the couch, still swathed in one of the blankets. As soon as Mickey sat down, Ian laid down with his head on Mickey’s lap. Despite a brief internal battle that played across his face openly, Mickey’s sympathy apparently won out over his desire to tease and he simply stroked through Ian’s hair again, saying nothing.

          Mickey flipped through the channels before settling on an old episode of Bones that Ian had seen at least three times. His neck hurt when he turned his head, so he opted for staring up at Mickey instead. Based on the way Mickey was twitching, he could feel Ian’s gaze on him, but he waited for a commercial break before he turned to look down at him.

          “The fuck’re you looking at?” he asked gently, rubbing circles into Ian’s chest with the heel of his palm.

          “Nothing,” Ian said.

          He could feel his medication kicking in, but that shaking might have also been the chill of the fever, or the sensitivity of his skin from the illness. He was momentarily grateful that he was sick. The nausea he could deal with; at least his headache was gone.

          Mickey was smiling down at him, and Ian pushed himself up. Mickey’s arms fell away when he sat up, but Ian only cuddled up to his side instead, draping his blanket over them both as the show came back on. Mickey slung an arm around his shoulder and turned back to the television.

          Ian was relatively comfortable pressed up against Mickey’s side, but still so cold. He pressed closer and closer, and he knew at least two of his body parts were digging painfully into Mickey’s side, but Mickey never complained. He didn’t complain either when Ian’s knee started to creep over his thigh, didn’t even mention it until Ian had a leg completely over Mickey’s, his face buried in Mickey’s shirt, his back to the television.

          “You okay?” Mickey asked. He rubbed a hand over Ian’s back as he continued to gradually crawl into Mickey’s lap. Ian nodded feebly against his chest.

          Mickey readjusted the blanket so it fell more fully around Ian, so Ian gave up all pretense and straddled Mickey completely, slipping his arms around his waist and his face into his neck.

          “I’m cold,” Ian mumbled against his skin.

          Mickey wrapped his arms around Ian’s back, pulling him in closer. “You want more blankets?”

          “No,” said Ian, trying to get closer despite the fact that there was nowhere else to go, not with the way Mickey was already clutching at him. “I’m cold,” he said again. “You’re warm.”

          Mickey laughed. “Oh I am, am I?”

          Ian nodded. “You’re warm,” he repeated, wanting Mickey to warm him up better, not that there was really anything else he could do. Ian lifted his head to face Mickey, not sure what Mickey wasn’t understanding about this.

          “You’re delirious,” said Mickey, running his hands up under Ian’s shirt so he could press them, hot and soothing, against his bare skin. He rolled his eyes, which caught Ian’s attention. “Go back to cuddling, you moron. I’m trying to watch a crime show here.”

          Ian felt slow, his brain too sluggish to listen to what Mickey was saying. He tracked the movement of his irises instead until his gaze shifted back to Ian’s, questioning.

          “You have a nice face, too,” Ian said. “Really nice.”

          “Oh my god, you are delirious,” said Mickey.

          Ian lifted a finger to trace over Mickey’s nose, down along the bridge to the end. “I like your nose,” he said, “Your little nose.” He could feel his own silly smile stretching across his face, but he didn’t care. He ran his finger down to Mickey’s chin, brushing only briefly over his lips, because he thought that if he brought them up Mickey might relive the Peter Cottontail incident from weeks ago and he didn’t need that right now. He could already sense the thought approaching Mickey’s mind and so hastily dragged his finger up his cheek to distract him, brushing beneath one of Mickey’s eyes. “I like your eyes best,” he declared. “They’re really beautiful. All pretty and blue.”

          “You’re having deeply fevered hallucinations,” said Mickey.

          Ian shook his head, leaning in to press his cheek alongside Mickey’s. “I like your face, Mickey,” he whispered. “You have a nice face.”

          “I’ve heard,” Mickey stage-whispered back.

          “Don’t make fun of me.” Ian poked at Mickey’s sides; he laughed impulsively as Ian’s fingers caught on a ticklish spot. Ian waited until Mickey calmed down to say insistently, “I’m trying to compliment you.”

          “You’re trying to be fuckin’ weird is what you’re doing,” said Mickey, pushing Ian gently away so he could look at him again. “I give you too many Advil or something? I knew we shouldn’t have mixed all those pills.”

          Ian whined, distressed. The sound came out high, from the far back of his throat. “You don’t understand,” he said, his eyebrows drawing together.

          Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew that he was being ridiculous, but his fevered brain was chipping away at his logic centers. He’d been at boiling point for days, ever since the stupid illness hit, ready to tip over into some kind of extreme emotion at the slightest provocation. The worst part was that no matter what mood he was in, Ian felt constantly close to tears whenever he felt anything except dull tiredness. Mickey had been juggling his abrupt shifts from angry to annoyed to upset with ease, although Ian knew he must be frustrated beneath his steady deportment. He was going to owe Mickey big time as soon as he felt better.

          As it was, Mickey was watching him in alarm as Ian worked himself into a fit on his lap.

          “No, no, hey, I do,” Mickey insisted, pulling him back against his chest. Ian fell against him, shaking, and Mickey rubbed a hand against his back and through the hair on the back of his head. “Hey, shh, it’s okay. Come on, Ian, it’s okay. I love you. Please don’t start crying.”

          “I’m not crying,” Ian said hotly, sitting up again. He rubbed his hand over his dry cheeks anyway, just in case.

          Mickey had the nerve to grin. “If you say so.” He paused, then smiled wickedly and added, “You big baby.”

          “Shut the fuck up,” Ian scoffed, slapping feebly at his chest. “You’re supposed to be nice to me when I’m sick.”

          Mickey was still smiling, but it had relaxed into something a little softer. Ian could feel Mickey’s hands linked behind his back, keeping him close, and he smiled reluctantly back at him and trailed a couple of fingers down his cheek. Mickey turned to kiss his palm, then trailed his lips up Ian’s arm. He abandoned his path a little above Ian’s elbow, turning to capture his lips instead.

          Ian kissed him back for a second before pulling away abruptly, looking down at Mickey with wide, concerned eyes. “You’re gonna get sick.”

          “I’m already gonna be sick with the way you’ve been hanging all over me for three days,” Mickey pointed out. He leaned in again, and Ian let him plant one more kiss on him before he pulled away for real, settling back into the crook of Mickey’s neck.

          They went silent for awhile, Mickey watching his show, Ian on top of him and trying to burrow as close as possible for warmth. Ian could hear a commercial for acne cleanser playing behind him when Mickey finally shifted beneath him, and he shook his head tiredly against Mickey’s neck, willing him to stop.

          “Jesus, you’re a heavy fucker,” Mickey huffed. Ian mumbled an apology and moved reluctantly to get off of him, but Mickey clung to him, keeping him place. “It’s okay. Seriously,” he insisted when Ian hesitated to resume his former position.

          Ian eyed him doubtfully for a second before ducking his face back down, and Mickey squeezed him tightly when he did.

          “Still love me?” Mickey asked, nosing playfully at Ian’s hairline.

          “Maybe,” Ian murmured against his skin, but he kissed a spot on Mickey’s neck anyway, where he knew his pulse would be pounding.

          “Still think my face is nice?”

          Ian didn’t miss a beat. “The nicest in the whole fucking world.”

Chapter Text

          Sometimes Ian found himself engaged in serious debates over his own sex life. It was all internal, too; he didn’t even argue it with anyone but himself. He  would just occasionally be sitting on the couch, or driving in the car, or lying in bed, and suddenly realize that he was trying to figure out how he wanted to fuck Mickey later that day, or that night, or whenever.

          He just wanted him every way, all the time, and he couldn’t always decide how he wanted him next. He wasn’t even sure that there was enough time available to fully satiate his hunger for Mickey, or if he would be stuck forever in a constant state of craving him. Even when he was out-of-his-mind pissed off at him, Ian still wanted to be all over him, always.

          Because there wasn’t a bad way to have Mickey, Ian was pretty sure. Bent over in front of him, gripping hard onto the headboard and shoving himself back on Ian’s cock; on his back, sucking desperately on Ian’s neck and jaw and chest; riding Ian slow and reverent or fast and desperate. Ian couldn’t get enough of any of it.

          And the worst part was that sometimes, even after they had both just finished and Ian was getting his breathing back under control, he would notice that he still wasn’t fully satisfied. He never was.

          Now, Mickey was completely naked, laying above the tangled sheets and smoking a cigarette. He was propped up on the headboard and looking at Ian like he was experiencing that same strange mix of but I just had you and but I still need more of you.

          Ian rolled onto his stomach and plucked the cigarette out of Mickey’s hand. He didn’t miss the way Mickey’s eyes watched him as he brought it to his lips and took a long drag, didn’t miss the way Mickey watched him blow the smoke out towards the ceiling like Ian held the secrets of the universe beneath his skin, if only he would reach out and share them.

          Ian passed the cigarette back and then spread his hand over Mickey’s chest, smoothing it down to his stomach and sliding it around to grip his waist. He used the leverage to pull himself closer, dragging Mickey towards him at the same time, and he could feel the steady rhythm of Mickey’s breathing as he pressed his lips to his ribs. He crawled further up the bed so he could trail his mouth up higher, across his chest until he could kiss gently over his heart.

          “I fucking love you,” Mickey whispered.

          Ian looked up, eyebrows raised. “Yeah?” he asked playfully. He leaned up to kiss chastely at the dip below his throat. “You love me?”

          “So fucking much,” Mickey said breathlessly. “I can’t—I don’t even—”

          Ian sat up, losing the teasing edge. He crawled closer to Mickey and kissed him, properly, on the lips. Even when he pulled away, his hands came up, framing Mickey’s face between them.

          “I know,” he murmured, “I know. Me too. Jesus, shit. Me too.”

          Mickey’s fingers scratched along Ian’s cheek before sliding around to the back of his neck, pulling him in closer, hauling him into another kiss. Ian gave a small sigh, letting Mickey slide his tongue into his mouth, and he only kissed him deeper, harder. Even though neither of them were going to be good to go again so soon, he still found his leg slotting between Mickey’s thighs, trying to press along even more of him, trying to feel all of him.

          “I love you so fucking much, Mickey,” Ian breathed as they pulled away.

          Mickey’s forehead was on his, his hands clasping at Ian’s arms and back to keep him from moving at all. His eyes were closed, his breathing slow. He gripped Ian tighter when he spoke, and Ian clutched back at him, dipping down to taste his lips again.

          “Fuck,” Mickey murmured.

          Ian nodded, brushing his nose against Mickey’s. “I love you,” he said again. “I can’t…I can’t believe how much I love you, shit. I just…I want to be with you. All the fucking time.”

          He could feel Mickey’s smile against his cheek.

          “Oh yeah?” Mickey asked. Ian only nodded again. “What about when I’m being an asshole?”

          “Even then,” Ian murmured. He paused to kiss a slow line down the side of his face, then revised, “Well, that’s always, so. Especially then.”

          “That so?” Mickey challenged. “What about I’m pissing you off? You yelled at me yesterday. Didn’t like me much yesterday.”

          “You try very hard to make sure people don’t like you, Mickey,” Ian said. He laughed when Mickey immediately frowned defensively and kissed between the stubborn set of his brows. “I always do though. I always…god. I just always love you so, so much. Too much. You’re so good,” he kissed the bridge of Mickey’s nose, “and passionate,” then the curve of his cheekbone, “and strong,” his breath ghosted over the divot above his upper lip, “and wonderful.” He pressed their lips together, soft.

          He pulled away and nuzzled back against Mickey’s cheek. He could feel Mickey smiling again.

          “You’re pretty fucking amazing too, you know.” Mickey’s voice was quiet but sincere, the words breathed into Ian’s ear.

          Ian smiled down at him. “I know,” he said, just to hear Mickey laugh.

          He did, and Ian leaned down to kiss him tenderly. Mickey looked so peaceful when he pulled away, so happy and relaxed and beautiful. Ian felt knocked absolutely breathless in the face of Mickey’s open, obvious devotion, the affection so clear in his expression that he might as well have stamped it clear across his forehead.

          “I love you.” Ian felt like he couldn’t stop saying it.

          Mickey bit his lip, but not hard enough stop to the smile that spread, wide and stunning, across his face. “I love you too.”

          He leaned up to pull Ian into another kiss, and Ian melted against him, lost in the feeling of Mickey’s tongue and lips and skin. Ian thought he could lose himself in Mickey Milkovich forever.

          He was, after all, kind of perfect—every single inch of him, from head to toe.