Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The One Where Ian Wants the Gun Back. Or, S1E7.

His breath shakes in his lungs as he exhales, trying to steady himself to enter the house. The cold tire iron burns into his palm. The door is unlocked when he tries it, which is honestly not a surprise. If anyone was dumb enough to enter the Milkovich’s house, they had what was coming for them.

Mickey is probably the most peaceful Ian has ever seen him. Still ratty and dirty, the room littered in garbage and mismatched posters, but he’s not sneering or yelling or punching someone.

Ian pokes him in the back with the iron, stepping back tentatively. “I want the gun back, Mickey.”

Mickey stirs and looks at him, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. “Gallagher?”

“The gun.” he surprises himself with the stern command of his own voice, and how easily Mickey complies. He grumbles and reaches over to his nightstand, then–

In a flash, Mickey grabs Ian and throws him across the room. The kid doesn’t go down easy, and is scarily solid under Mickey’s hands. He gets up too fast, doesn’t accept his losses and charges again like an idiot, but Mickey just absorbs the blow and tackles him onto his bed.

The tire iron is in his hold now. He could ruin the ginger’s face. Watch those big bright eyes diminish in a second. Have the satisfying crunch of a skull right beneath his hands.

But his crotch is right in front of Ian’s face, his thighs are around his shoulders and head, and Ian’s frantic hot breathing is hitting his junk straight on. And those green eyes are completely at his mercy.

When he drops the tire iron, it’s a leap of faith that makes his heart jump a little. If Ian tries to fight again, he could just fight back with his hands, make the cocky excuse that he wanted it to be a fair fight. But Ian just looks up at him like a deer in headlights, confused and scared and fuck, Mickey can feel his chest rising and falling under his ass.

He reaches down and tugs his shirt off in one move. Ian catches on quickly, wiggling out from under Mickey and getting his own jacket off, but it isn’t fast enough for Mickey’s liking so he forces the shirt over the ginger’s head. He can feel his dick swelling fast with the adrenaline of going from sleeping to fighting to fucking.

Ian’s got a light dusting of hair covering his chest, and his freckles follow down his face and neck to his collarbones, but fade out after that. There’s not much time to catalogue all of this because they’re both fumbling with the buttons on their jeans, and Mickey’s ripping open his nightstand table for a condom and lube. Ian leans back on his haunches, hands running through his hair.

“I’ve– y’know, I’ve never…”

“You’re a virgin, Gallagher? Thought your family’s rule was to lose it at 13.”

His eyes widen. “No! No, I’ve just never… taken it.”

“Top, then. I don’t care.” Mickey shrugs it off as if his heart isn’t racing; he’s only ever stuck fingers up his ass, but it was always ten times better than doing the fucking. He finally had the opportunity to get some loser inside of him.

The ginger nods frantically, like he’s still scared of Mickey. Then, all at once, his hands are flipping Mickey onto his stomach and pulling his jeans and boxers down in one. Slicked up fingers press into his hole without warning, and Mickey has to bite his pillow to stop the surprised– yet pleased– noise that comes out of him. Long fingers pump into him with vigour, another warm hand holding his hips in place. It’s so perfect.

“Get in me, Gallagher. Don’t have all day.” he grunts, hands squeezing the sheets.

The ginger hums from behind him, and then the fingers are removed and replaced with the disgusting feeling of emptiness. It doesn’t last long, because Mickey is soon full to the fucking brim with dick. He chokes out a gasp because it’s so different, so much better and when Ian slides out a little and pushes back in, he brushes right against the sweet spot.

Mickey groans, legs subconsciously spreading further apart to let Ian in more. He rocks back, feeling his ass brush against Ian’s hips. When the boy doesn’t move, he reaches back and pinches whatever skin he grabs, making the ginger flinch.

“Move. Fast.” he grunts, cheek pressed against the pillow.

All at once, Ian sets a brutal pace. The bed squeaks and rocks, but Mickey could care less. It feels too good, overwhelmingly good, to have an actual cock stretching him out. Ian’s warm, unsure hands are on his hips, barely even touching him. It’s not enough, so Mickey grabs one of his hands and tightens it on his skin. Immediately, Ian is more punishing, his touch bruising and his thrusts deadly.

Mickey can just see him out of the corner of his eye, and now he wishes he didn’t. The ginger is sweaty and practically falling apart, eyebrows drawn tight and mouth hanging open. It’s hot.

He bites his lip, suppressing the deep moan ripping through his throat, and raises his ass higher. The angle changes and Gallagher’s dick brushes against his prostate again, making his muscles jelly.

“Shit– m’there, keep– ah–” he punches out, each thrust sliding him up the bed. Ian speeds up the slightest bit, encouraged more now that Mickey’s close. Mickey tenses, climaxing all over his sheets, and the tightness of his hole makes Gallagher fill up the condom. The boy flops over his back, and Mickey savours the warm feeling of skin on skin for half a second before elbowing the doof off of him.

With Ian practically asleep, Mickey has to roll the disgusting condom off of him and toss it in the trash. Prepared to kick the kid out of his house, he hears the telltale groan of his father getting up. Heading towards the washroom, which was connected to his room.

Ian gets a sharp smack to the face, waking him up quickly. “My dad’s coming.”

The ginger pulls the blanket up over them, barely making room for himself on the tiny single bed.

After Terry pisses and calls them (ironically) fags, Mickey kicks Ian and urges him out of the bed. He watches the kid get dressed, mildly amused at how well his build is hidden under his winter clothes.

“Next time,” Mickey speaks up, pulling on his pants. “You’re giving me a blowjob.”

Ian smiles, sharp teeth exposed. A dark thought of the freckled kid biting Mickey fills his brain before he brushes it away. “Next time?”

He flips him off, but in the next second he pulls the gun from under his pillow and tosses it on the bed. Ian picks it up, chewing on his lip, then leans close to Mickey.

“Kiss me and I’ll cut your fuckin’ tongue out.”

-

The One Where Mandy Prepares Pizza Bagels. Or, S1E8.

Ian hates grammar. He’s never going to sit down with a pencil and paper and write a whole ass story that requires grammar, yet his English grade depends on it at the moment.

Thankfully, Mandy’s helping him. She knows he’s gay, which is why he’s so comfortable letting her drape her legs over his lap, ruffle his hair, and invite him over. He’s especially fine with it when her brother was bent over for him not half an hour ago in the storage room of the Kash and Grab.

It’s not an hour later that the front door opens and slams shut, Mickey bundled in all of his winter clothes striding past them and calling out an insult. Mandy snaps back, but the door to Mickey’s room is already closing. Ian eyes it, remembering the last time he was in there, the last request that Mickey made, and how Terry wasn’t even home this time.

“Gotta use the washroom.” he says, pushing Mandy’s legs off of his lap and standing.

Mandy doesn’t even look up. “Hold the handle down when you flush.”

He eyes her from his peripherals as he reaches Mickey’s door, until she calls out. Shit, did she know where he was heading? “Hey, do you want pizza bagels?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

Ian sighs in relief and opens the bedroom door, closing it behind him and bracing himself. Would Mickey even want to do this again? Did it even matter that Ian was horny, or was it simply per Milkovich’s request?

Mickey looks up from stripping off his filthy clothes, only covered by his boxers and a wife beater. He looks Gallagher up and down before turning back, scooping all of his dirty clothes into a pile and shoving it to the opposite corner of his room.

“What d’you want?” he grunts.

Ian runs a hand through his hair, biting his lip subconsciously. “I wanna blow you.”

“Ever blown a dude? Don’t want you throwin’ up on my dick.” Mickey turns around, sitting on his bed with his legs spread wide. Ian feels his mouth water automatically. The response his so nonchalant that it catches him off guard; like Mickey didn’t even fight it.

He steps closer. Keeps his eyes traced on Mickey’s crotch, watches the brunet’s dick fill out his boxers. When he meets Mickey’s eyes again, his gaze is hooded and watching Ian heavily. “Sure I have. Don’t flatter yourself, Mick.”

“We ain’t on a nickname basis, kid. Hurry up.” Mickey grunts, and when Ian is close enough he uses a foot to kick the back of his knee until the ginger falls to his knees in front of him. He’d be lying if he said his dick didn’t twitch slightly at Freckles licking his lips, brow furrowed.

It’s all a bit of a flurry after that. He allows Gallagher to put his hands on Mickey’s thighs in case he wants off, and definitely not because he loves the way that his long fingers cover the entire expanse of his thighs. Without another word, he sinks his hands into Ian’s hair and drags him down, feeling his jaw slacken when his nose brushes Mickey’s stomach.

Mickey leans his head back, worried that seeing the Redhead all pliant for him would make him bust immediately. Instead of pondering that strange thought, he roughly tugs on Ian’s hair to force him back up, then straight back down again. Shit, Freckles fucking moans around his dick.

He sets a steady rhythm of fucking into Gallagher’s face, leaning back on one elbow. Every point of contact with the boy blazes through his skin; tongue brushing the underside of his dick, nails digging into the denim of his jeans. Nothing goes unnoticed by Mickey, and it brings him that much closer to release.

He can just picture the back room of that shitty convenience store, feeling Ian’s hands claw at his ass and back as he pounds into him. The hunger for his teeth and lips, the ones wrapped diligently around his cock, to be marking and biting his pale, neglected back.

So Mickey makes the brave choice to yank Ian off of his dick and look down at him, lips puffy and shiny with spit, hair roughed up.

“Did I–”

Mickey tugs his hair again, bookmarks the way Ian’s mouth falls open and he whines the slightest bit. “I wanna fuck again.”

“Oh, shit, yeah.” Ian huffs, crawling up the bed a little bit and forcing Mickey back at the same time. The brunet would never admit it, but he likes it when Ian’s more commanding. He bites back his grin and shuffles back, tugging on the hem of Red’s shirt as he pulls his own over his head.

It feels strange to allow himself this. As if his mind isn’t screaming at him that this is too close for comfort, that he needs to punch Ian or slew out a thousand slurs. But, against his mind’s very wishes, his dick swells more at the sight of Gallagher completely at his mercy. Trusting him.

So he takes it. Cherishes it while it lasts, because who knows when a real gay man will come along and treat this kid how he wants to be treated? Mickey greedily runs his hands down Gallagher’s freckled chest, watches the skin jump with the light contact. Ian somehow fished out the lube and a condom from his nightstand at some point and presses a questioning finger to the rim of Mickey’s hole, who impatiently rolls his hips down to feel the intrusion.

He lets Ian lav his tongue over his collarbone and down to his perked nipple, allowing himself to jolt at the sensation. Mickey’s body screams both to hurry this shit up and to kill this motherfucker. A second finger presses into his hole and that urge to kill Ian vanishes.

“I’m still loose from this morning, asshole, get in me,” he grumbles, digging his hands into Ian’s bare shoulders. The boy obliges and crawls up his body, watching his dick press against the inviting heat of Mickey. He looks up, meeting blue, desperate eyes.

“This position?” Ian asks breathlessly. He doesn’t even want to bring it up, wishes that Mickey would just forget that he doesn’t like to see face-to-face, but is more concerned about losing his genitals to the knives hidden around this bedroom if he does push in missionary style.

Mickey trails a hand up to Ian’s hair and tugs, the pain sending a rush down Ian’s spine that he can’t control. “It’ll feel better for the both of us this way. Hurry your ass up.”

Ian tucks his bottom lip between his teeth and takes grip on Mickey’s thighs, experimentally pushing them up and meeting no resistance. Shit, the guy can stretch. He shuffles forward and slowly presses his dick into Mickey, feeling the room hold its breath as they both wait for the feeling of fullness– and of tightness.

Ginger pubes tickle Mickey’s perineum as Ian bottoms out, and they both release the breath they’ve been holding. Ian doesn’t even have to ask before he starts pistoning his dick, feeling the sweet familiar burn in his thighs that he loves so much, and Mickey’s right, this position is ten times better. He can watch Mickey’s face contort and relax at every thrust, watch him suppress a moan at the brush of that certain bundle of nerves.

It’s insanely hot.

Mickey is going insane from the feeling. A new rush of fullness, and the slide against his prostate is more frequent than ever. His hands scramble along the body in front of him; one hand gripping tightly in ginger locks, urging him faster, the other hand scrambling down his back for any form of purchase. He lets his nails leave long marks down Gallagher’s back, and Mickey can only hope that he’s the only one leaving them.

It’s too soon that his orgasm rips through him, but he does everything in his power to make the crest of the wave last. He digs his heels into Ian’s back, a feeling he didn’t know he needed until now, locking the boy in place as his hole clenches around dick and cum paints his stomach. Ian can’t even move with the iron grip Mickey has placed on him, but it doesn’t seem like that’s a problem when Mickey can feel the condom swelling inside of him.

“Shit, Gallagher.” he pants, relaxing his body. Ian moves away, tying off the condom and tossing it in the trash on top of the previous one. A deep stone settles uninvited in Mickey’s stomach as he watches the boy move around the room, pulling on his boxers and shirt. Was it guilt? Did the kid actually like him?

It seemed like more than just sex, but it wasn’t Mickey’s fault if Gallagher had attachment issues or something. At least this time, he wasn’t trying to push his luck. Just collected his things, didn’t try to make eye contact or small talk, and slipped out the door as fast as he came in.

Mickey lays on his bed ass naked for another second before he groans and rises to clean himself off, frowning in dismay when his legs wobble underneath his weight. The bathroom mirror reveals exactly what he didn’t want to see; hickeys and bite marks all down his chest, and bruises blossoming on his thighs and hips. Even if he acts reluctant to himself, Mickey feels his dick twitch in the open air.

It’s not five minutes later that he decides to go out into the living room and act like nothing happened. He can see a ginger head of hair mussed up from his own doing. And maybe he sits beside the boy he tried to kill a month ago instead of sitting beside his own sister, but who’s keeping track?

The One Where Kash Catches Them, or S1E9

Monica was back. Fiona was in a fit of rage, not hearing anyone out, constantly being short and clipped with anyone who approached her. So Ian ran.

He didn’t even know where he was headed until he blindly ended up at the front door of the Milkovich house. Who was he even here for? Mandy, for platonic consolation, or Mickey?

Ian knocks before he can think it through. Whoever answers will be his solace.

Mickey opens the door, crowding the frame so that Ian can’t see past him. He looks Ian up and down like there’s something to gather from his frantic breathing, tear tracks down ruddy cheeks.

“What the fuck?” Mickey grunts, cigarette between his lips.

“I need to see you.” Ian blurts out.

“Not a good time.” the brunet rejects. They both turn at the sound of yelling from within the house, surely from Terry. Ian watches Mickey’s guard rise.

“I– I don’t know where else to go.” And it was true. He didn’t have any other friends besides Mandy, no relatives and no place to even sleep in case Monica decided to stick around.

Mickey shifts, and then his shoulders sag a little. When he speaks, his voice is lowered. Softer, but Ian didn’t have the chance to focus on that. “I thought you were working today.”

Ian chokes back a sob, looking down at his feet. “Linda’s gonna have my ass, I’m supposed to be there now.”

When he looks up, Mickey’s gaze is trained on him. “I’ll meet you there in 20.”

Then the door is shut. Ian still can’t feel his fingers or control his breathing, but there’s a promise of a warm body in half an hour that hangs around his head as he strides towards the Kash and Grab.

When Mickey walks in, 20 minutes on the dot, he barely even gives Ian a glance before walking straight towards the freezer room. Ian scrambles to follow him, surprisingly filled with adrenaline.

This time, it feels different. Mickey doesn’t know why Ian showed up on his doorstep covered in tears, looking for him, but he knows the feeling of guilt would settle deep in his stomach again if he didn’t provide something. But the only thing he could provide was sex.

Ian seemed content with that. This time, Ian feels different. More urgent, pressing, uncaring if Mickey complains or not. Which he doesn’t.

The tentative boy that was balls deep in him but was scared to touch his hips is seemingly gone, replaced by the kid who is flipping him over and dropping his pants to mid-thigh. Mickey can already feel himself straining against the fabric of his boxers, embarrassingly turned on by the commandeering ginger.

He feels a rush pour down his back as Gallagher presses into his space, bare chest against his clothed one, and slowly eases his dick into Mickey. It burns, he won’t deny it, without preparation. Ian’s not small, and not anywhere near average either. But it’s a new feeling as well, the rushed hunger of it all, his insides screaming but quickly suffocated by a massive cock.

Mickey flails out and grabs the shelf in front of him, a cold metal pole easy enough to grip. He swears under his breath, head dropping forward.

“Shit, couldn’t give me a warning?” he pants, trying to get accustomed to the sudden fullness inside of him. Usually, long fingers stretched him out beforehand. Usually, Ian was nicer.

Mickey feels a warm hand come up his back and grab the base of his hair. Ian tugs his head back mercilessly, and Mickey can’t help the whine that leaves his throat. Freckles is right beside his neck, breath cascading over the column of pale skin he’s exposed.

“Shut the fuck up.” Ian grunts. It’s not too menacing since his voice has barely dropped, but it’s enough to make Mickey’s dick twitch. He swallows his retort and waits for Ian to loosen the grasp on his hair.

The boy doesn’t move until a full minute later. Like they’ve got all the time in the world. Mickey rolls his hips back, tries to get things moving, but the awkward angle that Ian has him in doesn’t help his case much. Soon enough, Ian is grasping his love handles and pulling out just to start a rapid pace, punching a strangled breath out of Mickey with every thrust.

And shit, despite the bad angle, it’s good. Mickey’s dad would hate him, but he almost enjoys the feeling of having Gallagher take his anger out on him. Hearing him grunt and huff and dig his nails into Mickey’s waist, surely leaving marks.

At some point, after a certain strangled groan, Ian must realise that Mickey is holding on for dear life. He slows his pace a little bit and drapes his bare chest over the back of Mickey’s sweater, letting his warmth soak through the fabric, and reaches out to lay his hand over Mickey’s on the shelf. Milkovich practically cums right there at the sight of his tattooed knuckles easily swallowed by Ian’s hands.

He doesn’t even care that this is more touching than necessary. Ian did him a favour the other day, this is how he returns it. Becoming a cocksleeve that Ian can pretend to have feelings for.

He flexes his back and feels Ian tighten his hand over his own, the angle changing, and shit, the whole shelf is fucking rattling–

Then, the freezer door opens and Mickey goes cold. He feels Ian go loose behind him, and turns to see fucking Kash standing in the doorway of the freezer. Without a second thought, he pulls up his pants from his thighs and shoves Kash, bolting out the door.

In the darkness of his room that night, Mickey imagines long, tanned fingers wrapping around his own as he fists his dick.

The One Where Mickey’s Out of Juvie, or S3E2

“Lookie what we got here!” the figure exclaims. Ian clocks the voice immediately, and his stomach drops slightly at what it means. Mickey’s swinging through the bars of the bleachers towards them. The random trainee that Ian decided to fuck is practically shaking.

Ian doesn’t get some big reunion with the guy he likes. He’s not in some romance movie, and Mickey definitely wouldn’t qualify them as romance. So it doesn’t surprise him when Mickey starts beating on the Asian kid, landing a kick square to his nuts and spitting gay slurs as if he wasn’t here because of Ian.

Ian waits for the kid to run away with his tail between his legs before he allows himself to get a good look at Mickey. The guy was nothing short of rundown, clearly not getting a good shower before he got out of juvie. His hair is oily and sticking up at random points, tank top sweaty, but Ian thinks he’s cute all the same. He’s got those sharp teeth peeking out between those gorgeous lips.

Ian wants to kiss him. Has wanted to kiss him since the day they first fucked.

“You uh, you got any fuck left in you or you dump it all in that faggot’s ass?” Mickey snarls.

Gallagher tilts his head and bites his cheek, following Mick when he nods and heads further back into the bleachers. He can see the older boy’s hands working his belt and feels the familiar rush of adrenaline, remembering the last time they were together; he was scrawny, short, and definitely a little scared of Mickey. Now, as he lets his fingers sink into Mick’s ass, other hand wrapping around half of his entire waist, he revels in how huge he is now compared to Mickey.

He also practically drools at the noises that Mickey can’t contain. The way his thighs shake slightly when Ian’s fingers dip slightly onto that bundle of nerves deep inside of him. Mick’s dark head of hair falls between his shoulders as he grunts, muttering through clenched teeth that Ian needs to hurry up and fuck him like a man.

When Ian finally slides into the hot, unused hole, they both sigh in relief. Like two pieces of the same puzzle finally falling into place. Ian would try to deny it, but nothing felt the same as Mickey. Not even just the sex, but the thrill. The memory and how it burns himself into his brain like a brand. He knows that sex is ruined for him from now on. Whenever he tries to reach out, try someone else, he will never have the same feeling.

“Fuck, Mick… no ass like this in Chicago…” he mutters instead of all the sappy shit, because he knows that Mickey would kill him.

Milkovich pushes back, arms flexing on the supports in front of him as he grinds back onto Ian’s dick. “Damn right. Shouldn’t– hah– even let you fuck me, after that loud ass fag…”

Ian grips Mickey’s ass especially hard, soaking in the boy’s hiss. He parts the pale cheeks to watch his dick sink further into that wonderful hole, pulling out to push in again. He leans back slightly to get a better angle, making them both curse when he picks up the pace and hits even deeper.

Ian leans forward to find the sweet spot inside of Mickey, even if it doesn’t feel as good for him, one hand reaching up to thread his fingers through the brunet’s hair and tug his head back. Mickey lets out a sharp whine unexpectedly, and Ian feels himself pulse harshly inside of his heat, tries to stave off his climax in favour of running his teeth and tongue down Mickey’s throat. When he experimentally pulls at the roots of Milkovich’s hair, he relishes in the low moan that rumbles out of his throat.

“Fuck, you like that?” he grumbles, snapping his hips a little harder.

Mickey pants, brows drawn tight. His neglected dick is on the edge of untouched release. “Yes, just– shut up and–”

He cuts himself off with a wanton moan, Ian hitting his prostate one last time and forcing him to cum without warning. Ian climaxes soon after, burying himself deep in Mickey.

“Fuck, sorry dude. Just came in your ass.” Ian says gruffly, pulling out and leaving Mickey feeling sorely empty.

They quickly pull up their pants, and Ian swears that Mick’s ears are bright red. He can see the shine of his own saliva on his throat. “Shut up. It’s fine.”

Soon after, Ian falls back into the plain old crush he has on Mickey that started when he was 15, staring hard at any details that he might have changed in juvie. Begs for answers to questions that he’s too scared to ask; did he fuck anyone else? Would they do this again, or was he fleeing tomorrow?

His questions are answered, though not how he wanted.

“Missed ya.”

Ian’s heart jumps. He feels 15 again. “You did?”

“Yeah, man. Had to do all the fuckin’ in juvie.” and Ian’s heart sinks once again.

The One Where Mickey Invites Ian Over, or S3E6.

“Was I just invited to a sleepover?”

“Fuck you, is what you were invited to.”

Mickey lets out a shaky breath as he stands in front of the bathroom mirror, nose curling as he smells his tank top. Shit, it wasn’t like this was some date, but Ian wasn’t tiny anymore and he definitely wasn’t looking at only Mickey for an option. After the rich old guy that he had to beat senseless, he’s gotten more and more paranoid that Ian isn’t drooling over just him anymore.

It was too easy to steal a nice cologne. He sprayed, sniffed, and slipped it into his pocket. Now, he rubs it on his pressure points, and the spots that Ian loves to mash his face into the most. Now that they’re genuinely intimate, Mickey has to worry about more than just his asshole.

But he doesn’t have feelings for the kid. No way in hell.

Sure, his heart jumps a little bit when he hears the knock at the front door, but that’s just instinct. Nothing to do with Ian.

Sure, maybe he gets bored halfway through the movie and has been wondering what Ian tastes like for the past hour. So he leans over and takes the beer from his hand, putting it down on the table and connecting their lips. Their first kiss was a rush and a press, but Mickey knew if he let it continue he wouldn’t be able to stop.

So now, he doesn’t stop. He swipes his tongue over Ian’s lips and savours the way he instantly melts against him, tasting like beer and cigarettes and something sweet and unique. Ian moans quietly into his mouth, hands automatically coming up to grasp him; one on his waist and one on his thigh.

Mickey never wants to come up for air now that he’s kissed Ian. He understands why the ginger was so persistent before; it’s amazing. He reaches up and combs both hands through Ian’s hair, tugging slightly to get him to loosen up more. The boy groans louder, squeezing Mickey’s thigh in warning.

Ian pulls away, lips fucked up and panting. “Fuck, Mick…”

“What’s wrong, Firecrotch?” Mickey mutters, running a thumb over Ian’s cheekbone. He’s already half hard over a two-minute makeout session, but he doesn’t even care anymore.

Gallagher finally makes eye contact with him, green eyes fluttering. “If I kiss you now, then we fuck. And I’ll kiss you when we fuck. And it’ll be perfect.”

“Am I so bad at kissing that you’re regretting it already?” Mickey huffs jokingly, but secretly hopes it’s not true. He would rather die than not kiss Ian again.

Ian blinks. “No. I’m just worried I’ll actually start to fall for you. True fag style.”

Mickey’s heart rushes to his stomach, then his throat, then his toes. He can’t decide if Ian actually liking him would be a good or bad thing; honestly, who was he kidding, though? He stole cologne to make sure he smelled good for this boy. He lied about fucking people in juvie when the thought sort of disgusted him. He didn’t even fuck Angie; only gave her weed to listen to his problems.

Mickey wouldn’t have kissed Ian if he didn’t want him to stay.

The realisation dawns on him, but he prays it doesn’t show on his face. Instead, he pokes his cheek with his tongue and watches Ian’s face. “Would’ve killed you if you kissed me and I didn’t like ya.”

Ian’s eyes search warmly for half a moment more before he’s back on Mickey, lips and hands more urgent now. He gets his hands under Mickey’s tank, running his fingers over his ribs, spine, and brushing over his nipples to tease.

Then Ian’s hands are travelling lower, slipping beneath both his sweats and his boxers. He runs his fingers over the scar of the bullet wound that the crabby old lady made, right after their first kiss. He pulls down both bottoms and shucks them completely off, running his fingers over the other bullet hole, made by Kash on his thigh. If Mickey could, he would go back and never go to juvie.

Mickey’s laying back on the couch at this point, Ian between his bare legs. Gallagher takes off his own shirt swiftly, and Mickey has to look away or else he’ll do something stupid. But as he stares at the water-stained coffee table, he realises that Ian would let him do something stupid; that he would be allowed, here in this space.

So he hooks his leg around Gallagher’s ass and flips their position, letting his ass rest on the perfect erection beneath him. Firecrotch’s breath hitches, and he looks up with the same surprise and anticipation as their first fight– and their first fuck, at that. Mickey doesn’t dwell on it; instead he leans down and lavs his tongue over Ian’s bare skin, sucking a hickey right above the swell of his left pec. Over the boy’s heart, which should set off some kink about branding and marking, but it doesn’t. Just feels perfect.

Ian sounds like he’s about to bust a nut already, wriggling beneath Mickey’s weight, gasping sweet praise that fuels Mickey further. He feels a hand come to the back of his head, tentative, and gives Ian an approving stare. The fingers at the base of his skull solidify their hold, tugging his hair slightly. Mickey groans obscenely; Ian’s always been a bit of a hair-puller, and he’s found it’s insanely hot to feel that sweet burn in his scalp, the control that Ian has over him.

Before he knows it, Mickey’s rocking back on Ian’s dick, the new angle with him on top being insatiable. He truly wants to measure the monster one day; see how much he’s truly taking every time they do this.

Ian looks godly. Forehead gleaming with sweat, brows drawn, hands tight on Mickey’s hips to keep him from losing control and thrusting up into the tight heat erratically. It’s insanely hot to think about Gallagher having to calm himself around Mickey.

Milkovich leans in close, digs his hands into the gorgeous pecs that he’s savoured so much, and lifts his hips. It isn’t the fast pace they’re both used to, but it’s ten times more pleasurable. They both groan when Mickey lets himself fall back down, gyrating his hips to gain more traction. His dick rubs on the bare skin between him and Ian, throbbing with the bare cock rubbing against his prostate from his own movements.

“Fuck, Mick… Ruined sex with anyone else for me, Mickey…” the boy babbles, head thrown back and throat exposed. Mickey doesn’t tamp down the urge to lick that pale column and reaches up to do so. Ian’s throat rumbles below his lips, and it’s serene.

“Damn fuckin’ straight. You’re all mine, Gallagher, better not fuck some old fag while I’m around…”

At that, Ian moans loudly into the open air. Mickey can feel the twitch of his thick cock in his ass and sets his pace, bearing down to take as much as he can before rolling his hips in circular motions. Ian thrusts up shallowly, hands sliding from Mickey’s hips down to his ass, fingers curiously running along the tight rim of Milkovich’s ass where they connect so thoroughly.

It’s not long before one of the best and calmest orgasms has Mickey’s balls tightening. They fall asleep in Mickey’s bed after Ian forces him up, and Mickey doesn’t complain when Ian hooks an arm around his stomach and buries his head in the back of his neck.

Part 1 of 2.

Chapter Text

The One Where Mickey Gets Married, or S3E11.

Mickey can barely stand to look at the woman. He feels cold dread wash through him at her tight dress, and wants to burn himself alive when she grasps his hand with the same nails that dug into his shoulder mercilessly.

So he lets himself smoke, even though it brings back memories of other lips stealing his cigarettes and the taste of cigarettes on that same person’s tongue. He lets his mind shut down for a minute and drown in the sweet, calming buzz of nicotine that he can’t get from a person anymore.

And then that person bursts through the door, interrupting any thoughts he could have staved off and presenting them on a silver platter. Ian looks younger than ever, and it hurts. Hurts to see a man so young yet so scarred still reaching out, begging to be close to him.

They stare at each other for a moment, a strange mix of hunger and hostility in the air they breathe, before Ian breaks the silence. “You call me a punk for wanting a ‘boyfriend’ or whatever, but you’re gonna marry someone who screws guys for a living?!”

“Who gives a shit, it’s a fucking piece of paper.” Mickey forces his voice not to quiver.

Ian stares at him a moment longer, a hard look in his eyes. “Not to me.”

Then the ginger is turning to leave, and Mickey knows somehow that this will be the final time they are even in the same space before he loses this boy forever– “Come on, look. Just ‘cause I’m getting hitched doesn’t mean we can’t still bang.”

It’s not what he wants to say, but the words are too heavy on his tongue, and even whispering them would take all of his strength. With Ian, things are more than just sex now, and they both know it. But it’s impossible for Mickey to articulate that.

“If you give half a shit about me–” and Mickey has to place a hand to his chest, forcing space between them, because the closeness makes his heart jump to his throat in the worst way possible. Svetlana flashes through his mind. “Half. Don’t do this.”

It’s obvious– at least to Mickey– what’s going to happen. His anger, Ian’s anger can’t just linger without being resolved, so when Ian gives him a confused look, he almost wants to laugh. Instead, he rushes forward and connects their lips, forcing the thoughts out of the redhead’s brain.

In an instant, it’s like they were never apart. Sure, there’s an unspoken urgency beneath the hot skin that they both palm over, tightening grips with nails like a grounding solution, but it’s so perfect that neither of them needs to talk anymore. Ian forces Mickey backwards, nearly hitting his ass against the frame of the door, but Mickey isn’t stopping this if his own father walked in so he just continues backwards without faltering, feverishly shucking off his jacket.

It should be some type of metaphor; like he’s removing the layers of some other, fake man that he needs to be, and fastly becoming what Ian knows best. The thought is brushed aside when Ian practically rips the shirt off of his chest to grab at the skin underneath, rough thumbs smoothing over Mickey’s nipples.

“Fuck…” Mickey hisses, backing up enough that his ass hits the table behind him. He lets Ian lift him onto it with practised ease and nearly physically drops at the way Ian’s hands familiarly know just where he likes; one big, rough palm forcing him down and the other swiftly unbuckling his pants.

Ian is all teeth, like he always is when he’s mad. He bites Mick’s collarbone, his ribs, the meat of his hips. His hands are angry and cold, though he takes care not to let Mickey’s head bang onto the table when he pulls him by the ankles to get him flat on his back. It’s the little things.

Neither of them have lube or a condom, but there’s no need to pretend anymore; it’s been years since Mickey has actually fucked anyone else; it’s ruined for him, at this point, because this stupid bastard decided he needed to fuck him into the stars every other afternoon.

Ian roughly shoves his long fingers into him, and it hurts like hell, but it’s the burn Mick desires so much. It’s the anger he’s silently begged for, since Monica showed up again for the first time in years; Ian using him, releasing every pent up emotion on his skin, tearing him apart just to reconstruct him again.

The man doesn’t even touch him when they fuck this time. Ian’s poised over him, hair dangling over his unreadable face, mouth hanging open as his fingers dig into Mickey’s ass, trying to control his breathing for half a second. Mickey thinks it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

Soon, he’s squirming, shoving his ass further down on Ian’s dick, desperate for any sort of movement. He sees a glint of a awry smile on the kid’s face, before he’s getting fucked to high heaven. Mickey can feel his bare back sliding painfully across the table, surely becoming red beyond anything explainable, but he can’t find it within himself to care. Not when Ian is leaning forward, panting mouth desperate for purchase against his own, and Mickey knows in that perfect instance that Ian is his, and forever will be; this boy will never give him up, no matter how hard he claws and punches to get away.

His back arches off the table when he cums. Mickey thinks he’s screwed for life, because there’s no way he’ll fuck anyone else again without thinking of Ian, buried deep within him, tearing out his soul and heart.

The One Where They Meet at the Docks, or S7E10.

He knows this is a horrible idea. He knows that Trevor is a good guy, and that cheating in this solid relationship that he finally has will ruin it all. But hearing Mickey’s name for the first time in forever made his stomach drop, and he knows now that he can’t ever really turn back from this man, no matter how fucked up their relationship can get.

So Ian feels a little desperate now. If Mickey flakes, he’ll feel the guilt in his gut every time he looks at his perfect boyfriend that he was tempted to cheat on.

But then he sees him. Covered in bulky winter clothes, hair long and dishevelled, but Mickey still. Ian feels his heart drop again despite himself and knows he’s gone for good.

“Knew you would come.” Mickey calls out. Ian feels his feet pick up beneath him, closing the distance between them. “Knew you would come. C’mere.”

The gruff command is all it takes for Ian to surge forward, smash their lips together like he needs Mickey to breathe; and maybe he does, because Trevor doesn’t taste like this, sweet like alcohol and cigarettes. Trevor doesn’t be aggressive with him, tug on the front of his jacket to force their chests together, lick into his mouth hotly.

Ian realises it’s wrong the instant that they connect. He feels Mickey’s hand come up and press against the back of his neck, feels his own hand instinctively do the same, and knows there’s going to be nothing else like this.

Mickey stumbles back and eyes him, not in the wary untrusting way that he did when they first got together, but in an assessing gaze; like he’s trying to figure out Ian’s stance.

“Fuck…” Mickey mumbles.

Ian finds himself staring at the stark shadows cast on Milkovich’s pale face from the moon behind him. “You don’t think my life has moved on since you’ve been locked up, Mickey?”

“Nah, I just thought you’d be down for me since the whole reason I did time was going after the bitch who tried to ruin you.”

They’re dangerously close, and Ian wants to give in so badly, wants to have what he had once before. He wants to appreciate Mickey’s skin, warmth, anything. “I am not pissing away my life–”

“Stop.”

Mickey moves into his space again and brushes their lips together, a silent tease to urge Ian forward, and it works. Ian dips down to match their heights and hooks Mickey into another kiss, tongues mixing again instantly. Mickey’s hand flutters towards his jaw and trails down his neck, a light touch that Ian wants to be stronger.

They press together again, and Ian can see the end of his untroubled relationship rushing towards him. “Fuck!” He pushes Mickey back again, walking further away. As if that’ll fix his problem.

“I have my shit together, Mickey. And I have a– a fucking boyfriend.”

Mick raises his eyebrows. “Boyfriend?” It sounds embarrassing coming out of his mouth in that stupid condescending tone, like he doesn’t even believe Ian. “Okay… whatcha doin’ here then?”

It’s barely a second later that Ian decides he’d rather be screwed for life with this fuckwad than living a perfect life with Trevor.

He strides forward, crowding Mickey against the junkyard car he leaned against, and shivers at the grin that the brunet gives him. Makes quick work of his jacket, pressing another heated kiss onto his long unused lips. They slow for a moment, languid movements and heated breaths, until they both simultaneously go for their belts at the same time. Ian feels the same adrenaline rush through him that came to him years ago, when he and Mickey would rush to find somewhere discreet enough to drop their pants.

Their knuckles bump against each other as they undo their belts. “Tell him goodbye.”

It’s not like Mickey’s wrong, but Gallagher wants an excuse to try and escape this one more time, shoving Mickey’s hips back against the car and giving him a look.

“What?” the man breathes. Instead of walking away, Ian tugs his shirt over his head. Mickey nods his serious approval and turns around, shimmying his ass closer to the ginger.

The fast woosh of Ian’s belt being pulled from his belt loops makes Mickey’s spine tingle wonderfully. His dick twitches in anticipation; he could make the excuse that he hated being a top in prison, but they both knew it was each other that they missed.

Mickey knows he’ll be getting fucked dry and unstretched, but somehow that makes it better. Like a true bonding reunion between them. Ian runs his hand through the hair peeking out under his beanie and pushes it back, leaning forward to lick at Mickey’s scruffy jaw as he pushes in.

“Fuck…” Mickey mutters, feeling the familiar, yet missed, cock stretch him out once again. Ian takes his sweet time trying to ease in, rocking them forward, so Mickey reaches back and digs his nails into Ian’s bare ass to push him all the way.

It’s too good for a dry fuck in the middle of a junkyard. But Ian’s always made it good for him. Always found what he needed and somehow knew what he wanted without words being passed between them.

When Ian’s dick rubs against his prostate for the first time in years, Mickey’s breath punches out of his lungs and he takes hold of the smooth metal in front of him. Ian’s bare chest drapes over his back, reminding him of the near same circumstances of the fridge fuck after Monica came back; rough, unforgiving, but good.

Ian slams his hand on top of Mickey’s and thrusts harder. The angle doesn’t give way to much movement and it would be better if Mickey was bent over, but neither of them complain. Mickey thinks he would die without this ginger cock inside of him right now.

Gallagher’s pace picks up and Mickey feels like he’s being swallowed whole, the familiar size and feverish thrusts making him turn into jelly. Ian whispers shaky praise into his ear, hand not on his hand wrapping around his waist to reach for his cock. They’re made for each other, and Mickey truly believes it no matter how hard his mind rejects it, because Ian fits perfectly into the space against his back and his hand wraps beautifully around his cock, and his ass is perfect for Ian’s dick.

Soon, Ian is more frantic with his thrusts, breath becoming heavier. He bares down on Mickey, forcing him to lean forward onto the chilled metal of the car, and the angle changes wonderfully. If Mickey thought he was stuffed before, now that he’s fully exposed Ian can bury his full length into him, hitting Mick’s prostate every time.

Mickey’s head falls forward at the sudden repeat pleasure. “Oh, fuck– Ian, come on baby–”

Ian’s moan cuts him off, uncovering Mickey’s hand to grip his hip and get that extra balance. He fucks into Mickey like he won’t live tomorrow, and maybe he won’t because of the stupid boyfriend that he got himself. Surely his boyfriend isn’t too happy if Ian is this desperate for a piece of good ass, drooling on the exposed part of his shoulder like he’s a teenage virgin.

Instead of burying his climax deep into Mickey like he’s done before, Ian pulls out and releases his cum beside Mick and onto the car. Mickey huffs a laugh as he peels himself off of the hood, realising now that he came at the same time, cum splattered on the crappy junkyard car.

“C’mon.” Mickey rasps, voice wrecked from subconscious moaning and whining. “I have a van we can stay in.”

The One Where Mickey Chooses His Cellmate, or S9E6.

It’s not like Ian wasn’t in prison before this, but it didn’t seem final. He had less than a month in there before his hearing. Which he fucked up horribly. He was also in a different facility, with people he knew and was comfortable with. Now, he was going in blind.

He barely has a minute to collect his things– “things” being one change of clothes and underwear– before he’s shown to his cell, inmates whistling and banging on the railings as he and two others climb the stairs. The guy in front of him, short and hispanic, looks like he’d never hurt a butterfly. Ian predicts he’s a serial killer or some other crazy shit.

The door to his cell closes with a sort of poetic finality. Ian barely has the energy to set up his things, eyeing the inch-thick mattress warily and knows he won’t have a solid night of sleep until he’s out in two years.

Not two minutes on his own and the cell door opens and closes again. Ian’s cellmate doesn’t say anything, so he turns around and–

Holy shit.

Mickey smirks– shit, he said that out loud?-- and scans him up and down. He’s tanned a lot since Mexico, filling out his shoulders and thighs more. He’s not staring at Ian with malice, which is good. Ian can’t even believe he’s here.

Mickey’s voice breaks through his shock, but he only catches the last part of his sentence.

“--guess who gets to pick where he’s locked up?”

Ian can’t respond; Mickey picked to be with him, possibly putting himself into danger with the cartels he worked with just to be with him.

Mickey speaks up again, teeth peeking through his lips in a sly smile. “Hey, uh, I’ve got bottom so… you’re on top.”

He passes by Ian swiftly and casually leans back on his bed, hands under his head. Shit, his biceps are huge now, too– Ian wants to bite them. He feels a smile pull at his lips and dips under the bunk bed to drape himself over Mickey. The connection of their bodies, the warmth and solid feeling of Mickey underneath him makes him only smile more.

He reaches down to cup Mickey’s cheek, and the moment is so sweet and perfect that nothing could possibly ruin it. Not a guard or another prisoner seeing them, not a fire drill would get him off of this man.

They finally meet for a sweet, languid kiss that creates sparks running down Ian’s spine. He feels Mickey’s hand come to clutch his disgustingly orange jumpsuit, fingers pressing into his back as that familiar tongue swipes against his lips. Now, Mickey tastes different; not like cigarettes and beer and whatever soda he had that day, no– now he tastes like warmth, spice, weed, everything good.

Another difference that Ian revels in is how slow they can go. When Mickey tells him to fuck him on their sides, he obliges and can stretch the man he loves without having to peek over his shoulder for a staring toddler or creepy junkie. He can focus on Mickey as a whole, how he reaches back when Ian’s inside of him to connect them further.

“Thought about you… Saw your stupid ass Jesus stunt…” Mickey grunts, eyes closed tight.

Ian thrusts a little harder; the memory is difficult to bear knowing it was mostly clouded in his mind. “You’re one to talk, Mr Mexico.”

Mickey grins and peeks over his shoulder to try and see Ian. “You takin’ your meds?”

“Christ, that’s what you’re worried about?” Ian laughs huskily and somehow brings Mickey closer along his back, pressing sweet, hard kisses onto the man’s shoulder. Despite escaping prison, joining a Mexican cartel, and choosing to get recaptured again, Mickey still remembered what it was like when Ian was off his meds. And that was something that Caleb, Trevor, or any other man he dated would never understand.

“Fuck…” Mickey mutters, biting his plump lip in the way he always does when he’s close. Ian leans further forward, propping himself up on his elbow to get better access to thrust inside the man. It’s not long before they cum together, and much longer before they stop making out.

The One Where It’s Their Wedding Day, or S10E12.

“Come on, Ian…” Mickey mutters, grabbing his fiance by the hips and trying to pull him closer. Ian looks at him, exasperated, and continues to comb the conditioner through Mickey’s hair with his fingers.

The ginger tugs on a dark lock of hair until Mickey cusses and backs off. “This door doesn’t have a lock. Anyone could walk in and see you bent over on your wedding day, butt-ass naked.”

Mickey does that half-smirk where one corner of his mouth tugs up. “Relations before marriage? God, forgive me.”

Ian rolls his eyes and cups his hand over Mickey’s eyes before backing him up into the stream of lukewarm water. Even if he wanted to fuck Mickey right here, he couldn’t. He swore to himself that on the wedding day, they would follow tradition and not… fuck, he supposes.

Just because he very eagerly volunteered to shower with Mickey when there was plenty of time afterwards does not mean he has a high libido.

So when his fiance deliberately licks his lips and bites his bottom lip, Ian almost gives up. He opts to step out of the shower instead, wrapping himself in a towel. Mickey groans in frustration but washes out the conditioner from his hair when Ian abandons him.

Getting Ian to kiss him is no issue. It’s as simple as leaning in, putting that smile on his face, and the man’s melted. It also helps to clear a room, because Carl goes scrambling, huffing about needing personal space.

It’s when Ian drops his towel that Mick pushes harder.

It feels like an instant where he’s being flipped onto the bed, staring up at his fiance, biting his lip so hard he can taste blood as he tries not to make a noise while Ian eases into him, face buried in his neck.

“God, fuck, I can’t believe I get all of this. All to myself. I’m gonna fuck you every minute when we’re on our own.” Ian mutters, those stupid things he always claims while he’s inside of Mickey. The Milkovich can’t help but hold him closer, thighs tight on his hips and fingers dug into his beautiful hair.

“Baby, baby– please, move.” he begs, knowing the pet name will get Ian going. He noticed it when they first got back together, after breaking up in prison and finding each other outside of prison again. Ian would choke on his own moan when he heard the name slip past Mick’s lips, and fuck him harder.

Ian lifts his head, moving Mickey’s legs to rest on his shoulders. The stretch is painful but welcome, and the new deepness nearly kills Mick. “I’m gonna get you fucking pregnant. Fill you up, make you pop out a little ginger maniac.”

Mickey moans loud, clutching the pillow under his head. “I-I don’t think that’s–” he’s cut off by his own whine when Ian fucks him harder into the mattress.

There’s already a blooming line of hickeys down his chest that Ian adds more to; Mickey wishes he could get them tattooed. He wants every bruise ever made by the man to live on him forever, rising up his neck in a claim of mine until the end of time. He wants to be buried with the knowledge that he’s claimed his stake on Ian, that the man won’t ever get Mickey out of his head.

Ian stays inside of him, stuffed full of cum, for as long as possible before Mickey scrapes a gentle line up his spine and shoves him off. Sure, they could lay like that forever, but they have to get married.