Chapter Text
Sunday Morning
——— Ian’s POV —— —
Ian’s eyes open, the pain comes crashing to the surface and he watches the Alka-Seltzer tablets plop and fizz in the glass on the bedside table. U-UP appearing in his line of sight, dropping the empty wrapper in the garbage and sliding through his hair.
The only response he’s capable of is a moan.
“Fuckever tough guy, drink the shit and get outta bed.”
“Mick…” his hand is lamely reaching out to his retreating body, missing the grab and falling off the side of the bed like it weighs five hundred pounds.
“Don’t ‘Mick’ me. Drink the shit, eat your damn breakfast and take your pills bitch.”
He watches his ass disappearing through the open bedroom doorway and sighs. A flash of an image, that ass in those jeans. That blue button-up shirt that makes his fucking gorgeous eyes just that much more fucking gorgeous. The lights of the club blinking and flashing at Ian from those irises.
Something coming to the surface… something he can’t get to clear from behind all the fog. Fucking fog. Every single time he allows himself to have a drink, he immediately remembers why he rarely does it.
“Fuck,” watching his heavy hand land on the glass that’s fizzing away on the table, bringing it lazily to his lips and chugging it all down immediately with his eyes pinched shut. Swallowing hard and stifling the gagging, “fuck.”
——— Mickey’s POV ———
“Yo sleepin’ beauty!” he’s already halfway done with breakfast and still hasn’t heard him moving around in the bedroom, “your fuckin’ omelet’s gettin’ cold.”
Gulping at the coffee that’s lost it’s steam, “so’s your coffee.”
A muffled grunt and whispered curse words. The door crashes open and he stumbles out with his palm pressed against his forehead, “fuck Mick,” melting into the chair across the table from him, “why’d I do it?”
He shrugs, stabbing another forkful, “‘cause ‘pparently you gotta remind yourself like once a fuckin’ month that lithium really doesn’t mix with booze.”
The response is a middle finger, and, uh, yeah, it’s still all greasy lookin’. His face screws up for a second before he shrugs and grabs his toast.
Mickey was pretty damn certain he was still drunk when he was ridin’ the hell out of him about an hour ago, but he didn’t think he’d forget it that quickly. Fuckever, sometimes it ain’t worth rememberin’. Fuck, hopefully he don’t remember that shit from last night. He shudders just thinking about it. All the stupid lights and the fuckin’ music that whoever the fuck calls music is a fucking idiot, or fuckin’ deaf. Or somethin’.
Fuck. Fuck that. Mickey’s the only person that’ll remember that shit and he can forget it just as easily as he can forget all the other shit they’ve done together that ain’t worth rememberin’.
Or, a dopey fucking smile rises and his big stupid eyes meet Mickeys, “you horny fuck. Take advantage of me when I’m half fucked-up?”
“You’re still half fucked-up tough guy,” that, that’s okay. No way in fuck he’ll remember last night. He was at droopy eyes and using Mickey as a damn crutch by then, no way in hell he’ll remember that.
Fuck, he shoves another mouthful in, before his expression can give anything away. And make that ginger idiot wonder, “what?”
“Nothin’. Eat,” around the food, his impatient hand pushes Ian’s plate closer to him.
“I am.”
“Okay. Eat faster. We got shit to do today.”
“Yeah? Like what?”
“Like shit, just you know, fuckin’,” he stands, letting his chair scratch across the linoleum, “like human being adult type shit.”
“Thanks for clarifying that.”
“Uh, yah,” dumping his plate in the sink and refilling his coffee mug, “and you know, it’s not taking advantage of you when you’re the one who woke me up with a hard dick jabbing against my asscheek,” feeling his eyebrows rise as he scans over him.
He grins. Fuckin’ idiot, “guess not.”
“Fuckever, you owed me anyway,” oh shit. It’s out of his mouth now. And it’s floating across the fuckin’ room right into Ian’s ears and he’s looking at him like he’s so fuckin’ confused.
“You get fucked-up last night too?”
“Jesus Christ Ian,” he can feel his stupid cheeks turning pink and he should… um, get the milk out of the fridge. He should turn away and get the milk out of the fridge. That’s what he should do, “you know I can’t stand those stupid fucking clubs without a shit-ton of whiskey,” setting the milk on the counter and staring at it. Milk? Really? Mickey likes his coffee black. Strong, hot, and black. Almost like his men. Only if it was ginger. What? Fuck. Fuck, fine, now he’s gotta splash some fuckin’ milk in his coffee to make this shit believable.
It just wasn’t that much whiskey. It was like next to nothing really. Not enough to do that shit. He can feel Ian’s eyes on the back of his neck, right where his breath was coming out all hot and heavy last night. Fuck. He squirms under the pressure and really fucking hates coffee with milk in it.
The milk is back in the fridge and he leans his butt against the counter, looking at Ian now. Eyebrows up in a dare to just fucking say whatever he’s thinking. Dumbass just breathes out a laugh and gets back to eating.
Fuck. It wasn’t that dumb, was it? Getting the milk out, it wasn’t that fucking dumb. Fuck, ruined a perfectly good cup of coffee though. Fuck.
Now his stupid fingers are rising to grind into his eyes and as soon as they do he can feel Ian watching him again. Fuck that. Dropping his hand, blinking away the fog and get something. Get something. Move. Do something other than stand here.
Pills. Yep. That.
Stupid tall fucker puts ‘em in the high cabinet over the fuckin’ microwave that Mickey can barely fuckin’ reach and he feels his shirt separate from his pants, leaving a sliver of skin exposed and he’s seriously considering getting a fucking stool to keep in the kitchen. But that sliver of fucking skin is like a damn magnet and now that big dummy is shoving his chair out from the table and his hands are on Mickey’s hips, pulling him back towards his body. And his lips are on his neck. He smells like hangover and remnants of cologne and body sweat and his hands are rounding Mickey’s hips and sliding up his abdomen and he’s grinding a little into Mickey’s ass and it feels way too much like…
Clearing his throat and bucking Ian off his back, “take your damn pills and finish your damn food so I don’t gotta listen to you bitchin’ about a fuckin’ bellyache or fuckever.”
——— Ian’s POV ———
He is acting so weird. Why is he acting so weird? Not that Mickey doesn’t always have his fidgety, weird things he’s doing to avoid talking or whatever he’s avoiding at that particular moment, but he’s being extra weird. Like morning-after-a-first-time weird.
And that’s not the truth. Ian’s eyes rake over his ass and he wonders if something happened this morning when they were fucking and he was still so out of it, all he did was lay there and Mickey’s form was so blurry and Ian’s head was floating way too far in the clouds to do anything like touch him or jerk his cock or… anything.
But that’s not even a first time for that kind of shit either. So what the hell?
And it’s not like it was some new position or some… there were no sex toys. Nothing new, was there? Was there some kind of request made that Ian was too out of it to hear and he accidentally shot him down. He gets weird about making requests that are out of the norm, like he’s afraid Ian’s going to ask him ‘what’s in it for me?’ or something. Like he’d ever do that again. He knows what’s in it for him. Mickey. Mickey is.
So what the fuck?
Okay, so watching him choking down the coffee that he hates is fucking hilarious. And it’s so hard not to laugh. Like full on, belly laugh every single time he brings it to his lips and tries not to let his face call his bluff. Milk in his coffee? That’d be like putting brussel sprouts in his beer or something.
“Hey Mick?”
He even startles. The smallest, almost unnoticeable startle, “what?” it’s all grumpy and snappy and it makes Ian smile wide.
“Nothing. You’re so pretty when you’re flustered.”
“Fuck you Gallagher,” there’s not a whole hell of a lot of heart behind it.
What the fuck? Did Ian mumble out something weird? Or was it something last night? Did he do something last night? Fuck, like he can remember that. Mickey knows he’s an idiot when he drinks, even when it’s one. He knows that literally nothing that comes out of his mouth after alcohol goes in it is worth listening to. He knows that. He’s known that for years.
Did he cross some line? There are no lines with Mickey. Only line he can’t cross is the one where he makes himself seem available to other dudes, or his eyes stray, or he smiles the wrong smile. And he hasn’t done that in years either.
He vaguely remembers dancing. But that’s not new either. He dances by himself and has a great damn time. And as long as Ian doesn’t let any other undulating body contact his own for too long, Mickey doesn’t give a shit. It’s been years since that’s happened. Last night, what the hell? He remembers having his fingers clamped down on Mickey’s hips. That’s nothing new or weird. Yeah, sure, it’s weird in public. But when he’s drunk in a club in Boystown Mickey usually lets it slide. Sometimes he even lets Ian grind on his ass for like thirty seconds when he’s dragging him off the floor at last call and reminding him, ‘time to go home Saturday Night Fever’, and he’s letting Ian rest his arm around his broad shoulders as he navigates his way through the crowd without knocking anybody’s lights out.
There are moments, brief ones, where he misses that old piece of trash that would bust his knuckles on anyone’s face that looked too long at his possession. But he doesn’t really miss it, because the only reason he ever did that is because he was so insecure about Ian cheating or leaving or finding something better. Like there ever was anything better.
His plate’s finally empty anyway. Mickey’s FUCK is reaching across the table with a fistful of pills. Plopping them into Ian’s open and waiting palm. He knows this now, he understands this now, that this is just how it is. Mickey’s not waiting around for him to do his next crazy shit. He’s just doing this, the routine, he’s keeping his eye on Ian, no differently than Ian keeps his eye on Mickey. Keeping him on the strait and narrow, no more drugs, no more guns, no more schemes.
We take care of each other.
He smiles when he chugs half a glass of water to chase the pills down. Mickey smiles back. It looks normal. Some tension is leaving his shoulders. Whatever it was, it’s over now. Or maybe… he thumbs his nose and grabs Ian’s plate, turning to the sink.
What the fuck? What the fuck could he possibly have to be embarrassed of now? At this point in their lives. Fuck, they’ve already been through it all. What could there possibly be left? Fuck, he’s not planning out a proposal or something, is that what it is? Fuck him, he’s not supposed to do that. That’s Ian’s job. Ian owes him that. Not that fuckin’ ‘you gonna marry me?’ shit. Not that shit, like a real, live proposal. Like a get-down-on-one-knee sort of thing. Okay, maybe not that. Maybe if he got down on one knee Mickey would kick him in the balls. Well, not the balls. He’d never. But, figuratively.
——— Mickey’s POV ———
Seriously that dumb fuck needs to stop staring. Just boring holes into the back of Mickey’s head while he rinses the plates and runs the water long enough to get warm. Dumping a drip of soap in the sink. Fuck. He needs to stop looking so he can dump this fucking coffee. Fuck, it’s gross. And if he dumps it when Ian can see it, he’ll call his bluff. Like fucking, stupid bluff anyway. But still. Fucker already knows, it’s like, it’d be like, using blank rounds or something. Or like putting fucking brussel sprouts in… something, anything. Fuck brussel sprouts.
Finally, fuck, the chair scrapes across the linoleum and he hears him sigh, “alright, what’s up today? What’s this adult type shit we have to do on a damn Sunday?”
Now his hands are on Mickey’s hips and his stupid nose is pressed against the back of his head. He’s doing that fucking sniffing thing he always does that’s annoying as fuck ‘cause it ain’t at all annoying.
His hand slides up Mickey’s abdomen, chest, neck. Long skinny fingers finding his jaw and forcing a head turn. His lips working at his ear, his cheek, and meeting his mouth. Rising a fucking tingle from the back of his head that slowly spreads down his spine and meets the hand that’s still on his hip. Goddamnit now there’s one of those stupid whimpers coming out of his mouth and meeting Ian’s tongue and the dummy stops kissing him to smile. That stupid smug smile, and he backs away.
Fuck. Fuck him. Damnit.
His hands are still in the hot water and his breath is still caught in his chest. Fuck. Well, now the ginger prick is retreating to the bedroom. That’s fucking fine. That’s just fucking fine. He ain’t wastin’ the hot water. Ian knows that. He’s going to have to calm his dick and just wait another five minutes until the dishes are done.
——— Ian’s POV ———
He drops his drawers in the bedroom, tugs his shirt off. Heads back to the kitchen with nothing but a hard dick and bottle of lube. It’s that damn whimper. Every single fucking time. Like that whimper happens and some primal response in Ian’s body happens and there would not be a single fucking thing that could stop him from fucking his man.
His man. Holy fuck. What the fuck is so sexy about Mickey Milkovich standing in the kitchen, their kitchen, doing dishes? After he cooked him breakfast and got his pills ready and drank coffee with milk in it. Milk, he snickers as his body meets Mickey’s back and his hands go immediately to his belt. Button. Fly, and the most incredible cock he’s ever had in his hand. Or his mouth. Or his ass. But that doesn’t happen often. Mickey likes what he likes and Ian fucking loves giving it to him. For so fucking long Mickey didn’t get to like what he liked. And now he does. So Ian would be a fucking idiot to deny it. Ever.
“The fuck you doin’? You know I ain’t wastin’ hot water.”
“Don’t stop, I don’t expect you to,” gently sucking on the side of his neck. He’d never leave a hickey, that’d be stupid. They don’t need to mark their territory. They both know, everyone who knows them knows. They don’t need hickeys to show that shit.
He feels the hum against his lips and he nudges with his nose, waiting for Mickey to turn. To give him that extra openness. There it is. That pale, nearly translucent, delicate, smooth, fucking delicious neck.
He slides Mickey’s jeans down, exposing his hips and wishing he had two mouths. One to keep here, and the other to move there, “mmm,” he can’t help it. Sliding his dick against his asscrack. Rocking slow and feeling Mickey’s back starting to arch, starting to press his ass back against Ian, “fuck. Fuck,” his dick is already achy and ready to burst, peeling his mouth off Mickey’s neck and dropping to his knees.
“Uh, you were just like an hour ago…”
“Fuck if I care,” muffling itself in Mickey’s ass as he dives in.
He hears Mickey’s knees smack against the cabinet and his breath choke off. Good fuck, he loves this. He loves the reactions. Every single fucking time. It’ll never get old. It will never get old to have this man against his lips, his tongue, under his hands, his touch. And feel what those things do to him.
When his back is bowed and his breath is halted, Ian moves up. Smiling to himself at the sight of Mickey, with his hands still in the dishwater, bent with his chest against the counter. His face hidden in his bicep. But he’s sure that he’s sliding his tongue over his bottom lip and his eyes are pinched shut tight.
And he’s just about to… Ian presses into him… gasp. Good lord, there is nothing on this Earth that can mimic the things his gasping does to Ian’s body. He stops moving, forcing that ball of orgasm to remain in his belly. Breathing it back.
But Mickey, Jesus, Mickey is grinding back against him. And fuck, fuck, his eyes close and that blue shirt, those jeans that hug his asscheeks so fucking perfectly. His ass against Ian’s crotch and grinding. Fuck, oh fuck, Ian must have really had a lot to drink last night. No, Mickey never lets him have more than one. Even when he gets all annoying and pathetic about it. And every single bartender at the place knows Ian, and knows he’s only to be served water after his first drink. Even if they have to splash some lime and tonic in it and pretend it’s a vodka tonic. But they know.
So was it a dream? Probably. The feel of Mickey grinding against him and his face in his neck and Mickey’s hand rising and grabbing the back of Ian’s neck. Gripping. Gripping so fucking tight it hurt. As the music was thumping the rhythm through his body and pounding in his ears and his hands were on Mickey’s hips and the lights were turning him all kinds of colors in Ian’s grasp.
That’s a pretty fucking cool dream.
——— Mickey’s POV ———
So it only takes like two damn minutes before he’s backing away from Mickey, grabbing him by the hips and spinning him around. He steps back in with that look in his eye that Mickey hates how much he loves, lifts him onto the counter and yanks his jeans off.
Fucker can’t fuck anymore without kissing. And not just kissing, like fucking face-devouring kissing. Like he’s fucking starving to death and Mickey is the only thing he’s able to eat.
So fuckever, Mickey don’t mind it.
And he don’t mind it anymore when he guides himself back inside Mickey and he fucking gasps. Like those stupid gasps that just spur the dope on. He used to have a lot more control over whatever the fuck noises came out of his mouth when they were fucking. Whether it was ‘cause of the lack of privacy or the fear of getting caught or the fear of actually enjoying himself and letting Ian know he was fucking enjoying himself. Either fucking way, it just doesn’t matter anymore. If Ian wants to fuck him on the kitchen counter while the water in the sink is getting cold and his soapy hands are sliding though his orange hair that’s still all greasy from whatever fucking product the idiot uses and sweat and probably some damn body oil and fucking lube. Whatever on the face of the planet that could end up in his hair, it’s still there. Well, now there’s dish soap in it too.
And Mickey’s fingers. Mickey’s fingers that are pressing down against his scalp like he can’t grab tight enough or get his face close enough or actually climb into his mouth and slip down his throat and live inside of him like sometimes he wants to. Fuck, it’d be easier that way, wouldn’t it?
It ain’t like he doesn’t trust him anymore. That’s not why. That’s not why he wants to melt into a puddle of human and get slurped up by that ginger idiot, it’d just be easier than saying something queer like, ‘I want to be with you all the fucking time’. Even if it’s true.
Maybe someday he should say that. And like get down on one knee or something really fucking queer. No, that’d be too much. Jesus, that’d be queer even for a straight dude who was asking a chick for her hand. What a dumbass tradition. Fuck.
“Fuck,” it’s out before he can stop it, getting all tangled up on Ian’s tongue and slithering down his throat.
His hands are on Mickey’s lower back, he loves his stupid hands. Mickey hated wearing his first wedding band, but fuck it, if it was attached to Ian Gallagher, he’d wear one.
——— Ian’s POV ———
“Fuck,” his hand slides up from Mickey’s lower back to the back of his head when Ian starts pumping harder. That’s close. That breathy little ‘fuck’, means he’s right on the brink.
Damn, that was quick. And he wanted to drag this out. But really, balancing on the counter like that with his head knocking the upper cupboards every so often, it’s just not that comfortable. All the out-of-the-bedroom places, surfaces, positions that they’ve used and abused and messed up with bodily fluids; they’re hot as fuck, but in all honestly and as boring as it fucking sounds, it’s in the bed, in the bed when Mickey is on his back and the pillow his cradling his head and Ian can just linger over him and watch his face and his gorgeous eyes and feel his arms and his legs wrapped tight around him; that’s where it’s best.
Mickey twitches in his arms and lets out that fucking insanely sexy moan that Ian fucking loves. His own orgasm spills out immediately in response to it.
“Damn,” leaning forehead to forehead. Taking a long inhale of him while his eyes are still plastered shut.
Ian’s right hand drops away from his body, discreetly dumping the coffee down the drain and setting the empty cup on the counter without making any noise. Any noise that’s audible over his ragged breath anyway.
“Mmm,” comes out in a gentle huff.
He yanks Mickey’s t-shirt over his head and returns immediately to his lips while he wipes up the white painting on his abdomen, backing slowly away and wiping the drips. Staying there for long enough, waiting for Mickey to get his legs back under him.
——— Mickey’s POV ———
His legs are barely on the floor when Ian turns to finish up the dishes with a smile aimed over his shoulder at Mickey. And ‘pparently he’s going to clean the kitchen stark naked.
Fuck, he leans back against the counter and rubs at his eyes for a moment. So if he hasn’t said anything yet, if he hasn’t figured it out, remembered it, then he’s not going to. Relief is starting to roll down his spine, even if he didn’t figure it out, it’s not like ginger’s hard to distract. Long as they’re home alone when he figures it out and his big stupid mouth doesn’t just blurt that shit out in front of someone else.
So fuck, guess all the adulting type shit will have to wait. Make sure that shit doesn’t rise to his memory when they’re out running errands or doing the family shit they normally do on Sundays. They can beg off that shit pretty easily.
When his hand drops from his eyes, a steaming hot cup of black coffee is pressed into it, “I was gonna drink that.”
“Now you don’t have to,” he shrugs.
“Yeah, well…”
“You hate wasting stuff even it’s gross stuff because you grew up hungry and stealing and you know there are kids down the street that are still hungry and stealing and that minuscule splash of milk could have kept one of them alive for another day,” he smiles, hands working on the dishes.
“Fuckever tough guy, you didn’t grow up a hell of a lot differently than I did.”
“Different enough. Hating to waste stuff is a good thing Mick. And it’s okay to admit that your big giant huge heart cares more than you’d ever let on.”
His middle finger responds for him. To which Ian only smiles wider.
——— Ian’s POV ———
“So what’s all the adult shit we have to do today?” he wonders again.
Mickey shrugs, eyeing him from where his bare ass is leaned against the counter, “fuckin’ bathroom’s pretty fuckin’ gross. Your turn for that shit. I gotta cut the grass.”
“Like that?” eyes falling to Mickey’s bare cock. It’s just sitting there all soft and still somehow sexy and perfect and it’ll be hard soon enough if Ian has anything to say about it.
“Oh yeah, I’ve turned exhibitionist,” his gorgeous eyes roll, lips pursed before he takes a drink of coffee.
“Exhibitionist, huh?” now that’d be fucking awesome. Sort of fucking awesome, Ian doesn’t really want anyone else to see what’s under Mickey’s clothes. He pretty much knows he’s got the best thing on this planet, and it’s all his. Maybe exhibitionist without a crowd? Is that a thing? Like a nude colony without the colony? Just, “naked Sunday rules in place,” he announces suddenly.
“Fuck you, we got shit to do. That’s like a Winter only thing, man.”
“Like that tiny patch of grass can’t wait ’til tomorrow or the next day. I’ll clean the bathroom. Don’t need clothes for that anyway. I haven’t called a naked Sunday in months, c’mon, please?” dropping the last dish in the strainer on his way to Mickey’s bare body.
Hands on his thighs, lips on his shoulder, “I’ll get down on my knees and beg,” he adds, “that’s going to look really fucking pathetic…”
“Only thing you need to get down on your knees for is to clean the damn floor and suck my dick,” his free hand slides across Ian’s cheek.
“You want me to clean the floor naked, that it?” pressing kisses across his collarbone and waiting for him to tilt his head for that fucking neck. Fuck, his neck, it smells so fucking good, “down on my hands and knees…”
“You tryin’ to make that some kind of sex thing?” eyebrows up when Ian pulls away from his neck.
“Isn’t everything naked a sex thing?”
He snorts, tapping Ian’s cheek, “you, uh, you know how this is starting to sound…”
“I’m not hyper-sexual,” it’s not defensive and he knows exactly why he’s asking and he knows it’s not meant as anything more than just wondering, “Scout’s honor,” leaning in to hide his face in Mickey’s neck, lips against his pulse point, “it’s just you. You did something to me last night. You always do, but…”
“We didn’t even fuck last night Gallagher.”
“Spike my drink?”
“You wish.”
“You did something Mick,” as he says it a second time he notices what he thought he noticed the first time, that little stiffening in his stance, straightening of his spine, anticipating something. Something unpleasant. What the fuck? Was there some kind of weird kink he wanted to explore? Was there like some kind of fucking choking or ball gag or something, not that Ian would turn it down if he wanted it, but that’s not Mickey. Mickey’s been belittled and demeaned his entire life, that’s not something he’d be into in the sack. Well, if he’s going to spill it, it’ll take some delicacy on Ian’s part. If he could just remember. If he could just reach for that foggy memory through the booze and the lights and the gyrating bodies and the music and the…
He closes his eyes and breathes in Mickey’s scent. Like all of his memories of this life and maybe a few past ones lie in that scent. His hands coming to rest on his lower back. He listens as Mickey takes another sip of his coffee. Knowing he wants a smoke, but he’s trying to quit. And he sort of has. He’s down to one a day, which is a start anyway. Ian hasn’t smoked in years. And forbid it from indoors, so the brutal polar vortex winter might have been the straw that broke that camel’s back. Camel, maybe not, Marlboro man’s back. Ooh, Mickey the Marlboro man, fuck that’s a hot image. Mickey sitting on a horse, that is. The smoke is whatever, it was part of them when they were kids, it was their ghost kisses back before they kissed whether Mickey would admit it or not, passing the lip to lip cancer stick was as close to kissing as they could get back then.
Smoking or sitting on a horse, or not, Mickey’s hot as fuck. He’s known that as long as he’s known Mickey. But what the fuck did he unlock last night? Not that horny is a new thing either. Horny is just, it’s just what two people who love each other are. An orgasm a day keeps the doctor away. Fuck apples. That’s what Mickey told him anyway. And he’s starting to believe it. Whether it’s jerked or sucked or fucked out, he’s just in a better mood when Mickey’s given him that daily orgasm. It only works when it’s Mickey though. He could jerk himself raw any given day, and it wouldn’t have the same effect.
Wonder if that’s ever going to go away? Like when they’re old and wrinkly and the fire has turned to ash.
Leaning out of Mickey’s neck just to press lips against lips. Na, that’ll never go away.
Notes:
I have an evil plan to string this piece out for awhile and make you guys wonder what he did, if you haven't figured it out already - I will neither deny nor confirm any suspicions :)
(I don't personally know how lithium and alcohol mix, I'm going off what Mickey told Ian in canon about not mixing the two, hoping I'm not super off base about it)
This is going to stay the route of pretty light and easy. I was going to do a chapter every Sunday until it's over, but I'm getting irritated with how much shit is on my desktop right now, so we'll see how long I actually take to post this. And it's Wednesday, so I've already shot my original plan in the foot...
Thanks for reading!
Chapter 2: Sunday Noon
Summary:
Like I said this is mostly for kicks and smut... smut or love?
Naked Sunday rules :)
Chapter Text
Sunday Noon
——— Mickey’s POV ———
“So do I get my naked Sunday rules?” wondering as he pulls out of a sloppy as fuck coffee flavored kiss.
Mickey shrugs, tapping his cheek, “fuckever.”
“So that’s a yes,” his hand slides down the center of Mickey’s back, landing on the cleft of his ass against the counter.
“Yes, fuck, fine, that’s a yes. But you might wanna let me hit the shitter man. Nothin’ like two rounds of mornin’ fuckin’ to get your bowels movin’.”
“Okay, I’ll share that with my next round of trainees. My boyfriend says there’s nothing better for constipation than getting railed by cock.”
“Now you’re puttin’ words in my mouth.”
“Put my cock in your mouth instead.”
“Yeah well, how ‘bout you let me by tough guy? Then maybe later.”
Sittin’ on the throne with the latest ‘Guns & Ammo’, wondering if he’s got enough saved up yet for the newest Ruger. He don’t need another handgun, but when does one truly stop needing to add to the gun collection anyway? And this new one has the original design. Fuckin’ sleek lookin’. Fuck. He’s going to have to check the safe, he’s got to be close by now, it ain’t a bad price.
Or is he actually going to buy some kind of fuckin’ jewelry to make this shit official? If he does, it sure in the fuck ain’t gonna be some gold piece of shit. Tattoo maybe? That might be cool.
Fuck it. Take a shower while he’s in here. No shit, he’s only under the spray for about five fuckin’ seconds before the bathroom door is opening and it’s Ian’s turn to rule the court, “hey Mick?”
“Who the fuck else would it be?”
“You see this sleek looking Ruger? .45, original design. Pretty sweet looking.”
“No,” he scoffs, “didn’t know a fuckin’ thing about it firecrotch.”
“Affordable,” he mumbles.
Shaking his head to himself and not stifling the stupid smile that rises. It’s like their dumb fuckin’ brains just have synched themselves up. And Mickey’s not sure if that makes him dumber than he ever used to be, or if it makes Ian smarter than he ever used to be.
He’s still shaking his head to himself when the curtain tugs back and the dope is stepping into the shower with him. His damn hands immediately latching onto Mickey’s hips. Mickey groans when he turns him, out of the fuckin’ water so Ian can have the damn water to himself. At least the fucker soaps up Mickey’s hair for him. Oh fuck, and a scalp massage. Fuck, now his dick is starting to tingle back to life. Traitorous little fucker anyway.
He tilts Mickey’s head into the shower with his dig dumb hands and then leads it to rest against his shoulder. While his hands start to wander. Down his chest, his stomach, and out of reflex Mickey’s ass is pushing back against Ian’s cock and his hands are rising to clamp fingers down on the back of his neck as his head is cradled right up close that spot where his shoulder becomes his neck. And it’s warm and it’s comfortable and Ian is sort of swaying back and forth in the water like he wants the drops to land in a specific place at a specific time.
And oh fuck. This is too much like…
His head snaps away from it’s pillow and his hands drop, arms against his own sides again. Shit.
——— Ian’s POV ———
What the fuck was that? He was just getting into a soothing rhythm in the water droplets. And Mickey felt so fucking good against him and relaxed and wet and warm and everything. Even though when his fingers dug into Ian’s neck, he could feel a bruise under his damn grabby hands that fit exactly his damn grabby hands. And something started to clear. Just a little in his head. Like he was just covering the marks he left there last night.
But there’s no way they fucked in the shower last night. Ian still smelled like the club this morning. Even though it’s been years since he stripped, he still ends up smelling like body oil somehow someway by the time they leave. Really, every now and again he ends up on the stage. Never going as far as he used to, not like the awful shorts or anything. But shirtless at last call. While Mickey stands at the base of the stage with his arms crossed and his brows up in annoyance looking at him like he’s an obstinate toddler. And he kind of is. But oh well, Mickey knows that. And he puts up with his shit anyway.
Fuck, by the time they left the club, the likelihood that they fucked standing up is pretty fucking low. Ian was stumbling drunk by midnight. Or maybe before that. Or maybe he danced enough booze out of his system to not be stumbling by the time they left. Maybe? But he can’t remember it, so probably not.
Even soaped and rinsed and being kind of a cold-shouldered prick, he’s still soft and pliable at just the right angle. Hands on his hips, jostling them around so the shower is hitting full steam on Mickey’s shoulders now. Facing him. Watching his face with his eyes closed under the droplets of water, “you ever going to learn to swim?”
“Huh?”
“Huh, my ass. The pool? The lake? Maybe the ocean someday? I can’t even get you to get in the pool at Fi’s. Mick, you look so fucking good…”
“Fuck off Gallagher,” brows up all annoyed like compliments are the worst thing Ian can do for him.
“It’s just a pool Mick. You can touch bottom the whole time. We can go over there in the middle of day sometime when no one is home.”
“‘Cause that’ll ever happen.”
“Okay, then in the middle of the night when everyone is asleep.”
He rolls his eyes, sucks in his cheeks for a minute, rough hand tap to the cheek. No response.
“So you’ll think about it?”
“Yeah, that’s exactly what that means,” it’s all sarcastic and cranky, just like Mickey.
But Ian smiles anyway. The smile makes Mickey blush, just a little, just a tiny bit, something he’d blame on the heat of the shower if he thought Ian noticed.
“Fuckever tough guy, I’ve done enough for your ginger ass this weekend,” he half mumbles it and then looks like he wants to take it back before he turns. Face towards the shower head, scrubbing away at his cheeks with his calloused hands.
What the fuck? “Going to the club?”
“Yes,” he answers too quickly and a little too snappy.
“You know I appreciate that Mick,” his hands are finding their way to his pelvis, lips to his shoulders, “so much. I know that’s not your scene and you put up with it anyway. But swimming I truly think you’d enjoy.”
He’s all rigid and getting all fidgety again. What the fuck? What would Ian have asked him to do last night that was so out of the ordinary anyway? Jesus, the only thing Mickey ever gets embarrassed about anymore is sex stuff. And it’s not like Ian would have tried anything out of the ordinary when he was drunk. Would he? He didn’t do something stupid, like suggest a threesome. That’s not even something his sober mind ever wanders towards. Mickey is his and he is Mickey’s. Just the thought of another dude in the same room as his Mickey when he’s naked makes him prickle with anger.
What else could there possibly be? Role play? That’s not something he’s wanted. Ian’s only fantasy on the face of this Earth has been the one he’s living now. This life. This life with Mickey. With stable jobs and stable routines and a nice little home in the Southside. Close to family, but not too close. They play house every other weekend with Yev. Which is great, and he’s glad it’s not full time, if it was full time then naked Sunday rules would never apply. But if it ever had to be full time it’s not like he’d turn it down.
Fucking handcuffs? Fuck no. Mickey’s worn handcuffs more than plenty. And that whole dom/sub thing does nothing for Ian. He likes his impatient Mickey, he likes his soft and sensual Mickey, he likes his fucking hot and horny Mickey, he likes his Mickey however the fuck he comes and he doesn’t want that to change.
Daddy fantasies are so far off the table for either of them. Picking out porn is a fucking work-out honestly. With so much weird shit mixed in with the normal shit, it’s harder to find something normal and respectful and enjoyable than it is to find something that makes Mickey cringe and say something like, ‘fuck porn. Let’s just fuck,’ and of course they do. Even porn magazines now. Too much muscle or too many tats or twinks.
There is nothing in the world that can turn Ian on the way just Mickey can. And there is nothing in the world that can replicate Mickey, so why chase after it?
So what the fuck? If it wasn’t sex, he sighs, reaching out to slide his hands towards Mickey’s cock. Nothing else could shock or embarrass Mickey Milkovich. Well, sure he gets embarrassed when he’s put on the spot, but who doesn’t? He gets all defensive and tries his best to intimidate when he’s uncomfortable in a crowd, but that’s not weird either.
If Ian puked it wouldn’t have bothered him any. If he somehow puked on Mickey he’d have gotten an earful already. Bodily functions have never bothered him.
Golden shower? No fucking way. Kid in high school got a splash of piss on Mickey’s boot once at the urinals and Mickey beat him senseless.
Spanking? Fuck that. If Ian ever spanked Mickey, he’d end up with a black eye.
Oh, fuck, his dick is starting to come to life in Ian’s hand and his ass is starting to press back against him. It’s not even noon and round three is getting started. Good fucking Christ, Ian has it good.
——— Mickey’s POV ———
He’s standing behind him with his face in Mickey’s neck and his hands on his cock and grinding against him. Mickey’s forcing himself to keep his hands lower, keep his fingers from digging into the back of Ian’s neck. If it looks or feels too much like last night, then the fucker’ll figure it out. Fuck, he’s not ready for that.
Fuck it, he plants his palms on the shower wall and bends, bucking his hips back into Ian so he has to take a step back.
“Like that, huh?”
“Yeah. ‘Less you got a problem with that?”
“No,” it’s all breathy and half-whispered and Mickey feels the head of his dick rubbing against his entrance. By the time this day is over he’ll be raw and exhausted and completely fucking sated, but he doesn’t care. It’s not like it was back then, not that compulsion that took over their sex life. It’s just two wanting people who have nothing better to do than fuck each other’s brains out.
And he knows, if he asks, Ian’ll flip. Sometimes Ian asks before Mickey gets a chance. Sometimes he just knows it’s gotten to be too damn much and there isn’t enough lube on Earth to make it comfortable anymore.
But this is okay. Like this. Horny naked Sunday rules in place. And that’s just fucking fine.
And when Ian comes with a grunt and his hand jerks Mickey to completion at the same exact fucking time, his legs tremble and want to give out. Ian’s arms wrap tight around his pelvis and hang on. His face meets Mickey’s mid-back, lips branding his flesh with the same fucking fire they’ve always branded.
——— Ian’s POV ———
“Jesus fuck Ian,” tossing a pillow off the couch at him, “just answer that stupid fucking thing already. Good fuck, it’s like a fucking Chinese water torture or some fuck and I’m fuckin’ seriously on the brink of… FUCK!” he tosses the controller at the armchair.
He’s lounged on the couch, his legs spread open, one knee up, resting the bulk of his body weight on one elbow. Until he deflates over his poor video game performance. Then he just sort of flops. Ian’s not sure which one is sexier.
“It’s just Fiona. She’s pissed that we’re cancelling dinner for the third week in a row.”
“We’re not. It’s only been like two.”
“It actually is three. But,” he sighs, running his hand over Mickey’s body on his way past him to the kitchen, “maybe we should add a rule to naked Sundays. Silent phones.”
“Fuck if I care man. It ain’t mine that’s fuckin’ buzzin’ and ringin’ and pinging and whatever the fuck else it’s been doing all fucking morning. Tell her to get a fucking life.”
“Yeah, that’ll work well,” sighing, there are nine texts and two missed calls. He doesn’t bother. He’s not on call at work, surely both calls are Fi. And all nine texts are the other Gallaghers. He just doesn’t give a shit. Silencing the phone and hiding it in the towel drawer so he won’t even be tempted. The only thing that matters right now is that he has a naked boyfriend lounging on the couch. He’s wanted Mickey to have this kind of comfort in his own skin for half his life now, finally having achieved it over some bet that was a ‘you win, then we do whatever you want to do on Sunday’ sort of thing. Ian doesn’t even remember what the bet was, but his ‘whatever he wanted to do’ was naked Sunday.
The first one was a little awkward, all the doors were locked and curtains drawn. Mickey was his usual Mickey self, thinking that nudity had fuckall to do with comfort and sensuality, it was just about a means to an end. If they weren’t fucking or sleeping post-fuck then there was no reason to be naked. Body admiration did not exist in Mickey’s world.
It took a solid five of them before he stopped trying to cover his junk with a blanket or pillow or his hand or whatever he could pretend was a discreet way to cover it. Ian set up a penalty system, every time the junk is covered he has to take Ian’s turn to clean the bathroom.
A system that started as Ian was horny when he chose naked Sunday, and became his private mission to force Mickey to understand just how fucking gorgeous his body is. Now if he could get him to understand that things like holding hands in public or kissing when he drops him off for work or saying those three little words in front of people is okay. It’s okay to be vulnerable, Ian cherishes it now and he’ll never do anything again to fuck it up.
All the times he’s gotten that resigned ‘okay, fuck, fine’ to come out of Mickey’s mouth over something little, it feels like the biggest win on the planet. Like that time he heard him singing to Yev when he thought no one could hear him, but Ian could hear him. And it was so fucking beautiful that the next time they were putting Yev to bed together, he asked if he should sing the song or if Yev wanted Mickey to sing it. Mickey flustered and blushed and got all fidgety as soon as Yev answered with his big blue eyes landing right on Mickey and a gap toothed smile, “Daddy.”
Yeah, he used the kid to do the dirty work. But once the ice was broken and Ian didn’t tease him or try to get him to sing in front of anyone else, in fact, he never said a damn thing about it, it just started coming out. Of course never outside of the walls of their house, but he’d sing to the kid even when it wasn’t bedtime. He’d sing sometimes when the kid wasn’t even there, sometimes just mumbling along to the radio but it was there. And as far as Ian was concerned it was fucking beautiful to hear his voice in that capacity.
He’d never ask him to sing karaoke or anything stupid like that. That’d be like asking him to dance, he snickers just thinking about it.
“What?” comes the grumble from the couch.
“Nothing,” sighing, making his way back to the living room and instead of sitting beside him, he slides over him. Pushing and shoving his way behind him on the couch, until he’s spooning Mickey. Fuck, he loves him this way. All lazy and relaxed. All willing to be held and touched.
“What’s funny, then?” he wonders anyway, clicking through the options on the TV screen. Some of that weirdness is starting to come back, some of that insecurity that keeps randomly rising at seemingly innocent things.
“Nothing Mick. I was just thinking about how pissed Fiona would be if she knew the real reason we fucked off tonight.”
“Oh,” is the response. When Ian is expecting the defenses to rise, the ‘it’s none of her business anyway’ kind of thing, “yeah.”
——— Mickey’s POV ———
Yeah, so he fuckin’ fell asleep with that ginger fuckwad wrapped around him like he was afraid he was going to get up and leave. Like Mickey’s ever been good at leaving anyway. Or denying him, uh, just about anything really.
He lifts Ian’s hand to check his watch for the time. Rolls his eyes when the dead-with-sleep arm drops like a ton of bricks back over Mickey’s ribs. He’s gotta piss. Bad.
Dragging himself to seated, rubbing at his eyes until the spots layer over the blackness, then blinking them into recession. He leans over Ian to plant a kiss on his temple before he gets up. Even if he’s sound asleep, he’ll feel that kiss and he’ll know Mickey’s still right fucking here.
He’s barely halfway through his damn stream and he’s heard his phone buzz three fucking times from where he left it on the dresser. Fuckin’ phones. Svet knows if something happens with Yev, that she’s gotta call and keep callin’ ’til he answers. Or call old Ms Bodnar who lives next door and is always home and always answers her phone and she’ll just come over and knock on the door. ‘Less he’s on the clock, then she’s got his emergency contact shit.
Either fuckin’ way, it ain’t Svet. So it’s just another fucking annoyance is what it is. Probably a Gallagher cluster fuck of ‘get Ian over here, we haven’t seen him in three fucking weeks and we’re all too fucking lazy and self-centered to get off our asses and go to him instead of making him come to us’. Or some fuck like that.
He rolls his eyes to himself when he looks at his screen and sure efuckingnough it’s Fiona. And Debbie. And Carl.
He shoots a quick text to say he ain’t manic or depressed or any such fuck, he just ain’t comin’. That’s fuckin’ that.
And it stops. Thank fuck, ‘cause he sure in the fuck don’t feel like going over there to bust some faces. Overbearing fucks when it’s convenient for them. Nowhere to be seen when Ian actually needs them. Fuck ‘em anyway.
His eyes are blinking lazily when Mickey steps back into the living room. A giant fucking yawn that looks like his entire face is just a wide open mouth, “mphh,” whatever the fuck that is, “fuck.”
That’s better. Standing beside the couch as he scans over Mickey’s body, lingering on his dick for a long time before finally landing on his outstretched hand with the water glass in it.
“Thanks,” sitting just far enough to chug half the glass, “fuck, I’m still hung-over.”
“Yeah, well, you ain’t surprisin’ me.”
“I know,” he rolls to his back, pressing his head into the pillow behind him, turning it back and forth like a million times to get just right, “sit on my face.”
“No.”
“Yes,” his hands are up beside him like he’s already got Mickey’s hips grasped in them.
“No.”
“Yes,” the damn hands fold together like he’s praying, “please.”
“Fuck,” rubbing at his eyes for a moment, honestly, he can’t pinpoint what makes him uncomfortable about it, it ain’t like Ian gettin’ a face-full of his ass in any other position makes him uncomfortable. It’s just, he feels like he’s suffocating him or something. Fuck knows, it’s just weird.
“Do it,” now he’s grinning and looking at Mickey like he’s a fucking dessert bar.
“Fuck, fine.”
Hands rubbing vigorously together like he’s trying to trap a bunch of heat in them in the dead of winter, “I love your balls on my chin.”
“Fuck off with that shit.”
Goddamn smug asshole.
——— Ian’s POV ———
When he can convince him to sit on his face, he pretty much never fucks him face to face. There’s a pretty solid chance he’ll be reverse riding, which is fine. Someday, someday he’ll get the uptight stubborn prick to ride his face and then fuck face to face.
But it’s not like it’s a bad thing to watch from this angle either.
And it’s definitely not a bad thing when he’s all sweaty and panting and he basically just falls back against Ian’s chest and lets Ian finish them both off. Laying there useless and blissed out while he catches his breath, Ian gets to take all the scent from his hair he possibly can. Then wrap his arms around his chest, bend their legs together and watch his body move up and down, up and down to the rhythm of Ian’s ribcage.
Then he’ll roll off of him with a grunt and shuffle his way to the bathroom.
It’s a fucking beautiful sight. So Ian just lays there feeling like a fucking god while he waits for Mickey to reappear. And finally look him in the eye. Yanking his wrists as soon as he’s within reach, pulling him right back into his arms. This time face to face. This time with lips and tongues and teeth. Until Mickey taps his cheek and pulls away, only to drop his head into Ian’s chest, tuck under his chin and sigh.
“I love naked Sundays,” stroking his hand across Mickey’s broad shoulders. Taking note of the goosebumps that rise under his fingers, even through the sweat. And he fucking loves what naked Sundays do to Mickey.
Chapter 3: Sunday Afternoon
Summary:
Naked Sunday, interrupted...
Probably should mention (just to cover my ass): WARNING: I mean, it's Mickey we're talking about, so yeah, there's a brief non-graphic mention of past child abuse.
Chapter Text
Sunday Afternoon
——— Fiona’s POV ———
“Come out you lazy fucks, you can’t hide from me. I know you’re home!” she’s banging on the door like she’s trying to break it down and she’s starting to think she should have brought a sledge hammer. It would have been much faster.
“Hold your fuckin’ horses. Fuck.”
Grumpy Mickey. She laughs to herself, knowing what’s coming. A door cracked just slightly, brows up, lips pursed, a snide comment and a door slam.
As soon as it’s cracked open, she shoves her foot in. Wishing now she had worn boots.
“What?”
Jesus, he looks exhausted. Kind of sweaty and flushed. He could have just said they were sick. But his eyes are pretty bright and alive, she’s seen him with a cold before and it’s usually pretty obvious in his eyes. So is a hangover.
“What? What? Really? Neither of you assholes answer your fucking phones all day, and I get ‘what’?”
“It’s fuckin’ dinner Fi. Like every fuckin’ week. Like I said, he’s fuckin’ fine. He just don’t feel like leaving the house,” his brows are being used as punctuation. Which is a clear read he’s annoyed as fuck at this interruption.
“Yeah, well I haven’t seen either of you in a month. And Lip’s got some news he wants to share with the whole family. So the whole family has to be there. And since the whole family includes your fuckin’ smart mouth…”
His middle finger responds in the air between them, “the fuck should we care if he knocked up his prissy bitch girlfriend? We all know it ain’t some announcement that the fucker’s going back to school or some shit. Ain’t like he got some fancy fuckin’ job or somethin’. He ain’t buyin’ a house off his shitty wages. The fuck else is there?”
She can feel her face dropping as he’s speaking. Knocked up his girlfriend? Really? Again? That idiot didn’t learn his lesson way back in fucking high school with the Karen drama? Or after witnessing Debbie’s plight with a fucking kid?
She needs to sit down. Or she needs to go home and kick Lip’s stupid genius ass. Of fucking course it’d be Mickey that would come to that conclusion immediately. While the rest of them were speculating college and jobs and opportunities for him to use his damn genius brain.
“Uh, you need a drink?”
“Yes. Shit,” her hands run the length of her face, pushing her hair back as he backs up and lets the door open all the way. And now she’s seeing that he’s mostly naked. And now she’s understanding that he’s not sick, he’s sweaty and glossed by sex. Fuck, now she wants to turn and run.
He at least had the decency to put some shorts on to answer the door, but now her eyes are lingering on the back of his knee. He never wears shorts, and those ones are familiar. Familiar as in Ian’s shorts. And now she gets why he never wears shorts. Cig burn scars on the backs of his knees. Jesus, that house, that father, their entire shitty childhood makes Frank look like a fucking saint and the more she’s around Mickey, the more she respects him.
She didn’t get it at first. Why Ian was so infatuated with the trash-talking asshole. The neighborhood thug who wasn’t afraid to pick a fight with anyone, including Ian. He kicked the shit out of Lip in Ian’s place, and he probably would have kicked the shit out of Ian when he got his hands on him if he hadn’t ended up being attracted to him instead.
She still can’t figure out how they came to be together. But she got it. She understood it as soon as she saw how loyal Mickey was. Standing in the Milkovich house of horrors begging her to let him take care of Ian. As much as she knew it would be a fucking train wreck for both of them, she just couldn’t do it, she couldn’t drag him out and throw him in the psych ward. Call her selfish, whatever, it wasn’t for her or for Ian. It was for Mickey. It was for that burning in his eyes, the shaking in his hands and the thickness in his voice when he told her he could take care of Ian.
She wanted to believe it.
Knowing all along that it would destroy them both.
But now, now he is taking care of Ian. In exactly the way Ian needs to be taken care of. Support. Love. Understanding. Loyalty. Strength.
She watches his broad shoulders, pale even in the middle of summer, and wonders at how lucky they are to have found each other. And even luckier to have kept each other.
He cracks a beer and hands it over. Setting his own on the counter before he turns towards their bedroom to grab a shirt and holler towards the bathroom, “yo Ian, Fi’s here.”
There’s no response. For long enough that Mickey repeats himself.
“Yeah. Yeah, I heard you the first time,” muffled through the door and the distance of the hallway.
“Then respond the first time fuckface.”
And that is exactly the difference between Mickey taking care of Ian and anyone else taking care of Ian. He certainly doesn’t walk on eggshells around him.
“It’s just your fuckin’ sister, you ain’t gotta do your fuckin’ hair, just put some fuckin’ pants on.”
Now she’s certain she interrupted a weekend fuckfest and she feels like an even bigger asshole. Taking a gulp of her beer, avoiding eye contact while Mickey tugs his shirt down over his head and struts over to the counter with the same strut he’s always had. Cracking the beer, deep swallow, “dumb fuck still can’t figure out a fuckin’ condom, huh?”
She snickers, nice ice-breaker, “guess not.”
She wonders how much room he has to talk, since however the fuck Yevgeny came to be…
Better off to leave well enough alone.
——— Ian’s POV ———
He broke the rules. His own rule that Mickey only grunted out a response to anyway, but he checked his phone. While Mickey was answering the door, Ian was wiping the remnants of sex off his chest, and he checked his phone. It was just to check the level of pissed off that his siblings would be.
Instead, well, fuck. He’s sitting on the closed lid of the toilet waiting with sweat beading on his brows for Shane’s response. Fuck. What he just watched. Holy fuck. What he just watched on his screen. The video that Shane texted. Holy fuck. Now he’s sick to his stomach with panic, hoping to hell Shane had enough sense to not post that. Anywhere. Fuck. He’s the king of social media. Following him would honestly take up the entirely of every single day. Every single moment of his life is posted and uploaded and shared and liked and commented on and holy fuck. If this video is out there…
“Just put some fuckin’ pants on,” there’s a grumpy bite to his voice that translates to something more than just ‘your sister is here, so come out’. It’s more like ‘your sister is here and we just got into awkward territory already and you need to come take the pressure off’. Shit, does she know? Shit, did she see this video? Shit. Fuck. Shit.
Yanking a shirt on, hustling out to the kitchen. Phone in his back pocket, scanning the scenario before he enters it. Just to get a feel. Fi looks upset. Mickey looks… well, Mickey looks just fucking fine. Grumpy about a visitor, but otherwise, just Mickey.
“Hey Fi,” he leans in to kiss her temple, rubbing her shoulders as she unexpectedly melts against his side. His eyes find Mickey’s and those gorgeous blue orbs roll.
“Lip knocked-up his girlfriend,” it’s half defeated and half pissed off.
“Seriously? That’s great,” but Mickey is shaking his head and looking at Ian like he’s an idiot, “I mean, did he tell you, isn’t that something he’d tell me before…”
“No. He wants to make a big announcement at dinner tonight,” she swats his arm but it’s not convincing, “which is why I’ve been trying to contact you all fucking day. At least Mickey had the decency to text us, so we knew everything was okay,” leveling him with her eyes, “I came over to drag you both over for dinner, but Mickey so astutely pointed out…”
“No, it ain’t on me,” he puts his hands up like he’s completely innocent, “I ain’t sure. I’m just sayin’…”
“Yeah, and you’re,” she chokes on it a little before it squeaks out, “right. Fuck, you’re probably right.”
“So this is all just speculation?” Ian wonders.
They both shrug.
His phone buzzes in his pocket and he nearly jumps out of his skin, he’s supposed to say something in response to what they just shrugged or did one of them say something? Blood rushing in his ears, knowing he should wait, he should just wait, but this is…
‘I might be the queen of social media Ian, but seriously I know when a bitch needs to keep his mouth shut.’
Oh fuck, his sigh of relief is audible. The phone buzzes again.
‘I know your Mickey well enough to know that if this got out all over the Southside, he’d be mortified. And then you’d never get that hot ass again.’
Now he snorts, he can feel the eyes on him. Backing up, away from the glares, “sorry, hold on.”
“The fuck Ian?” they both say it, Mickey’s brows probably up, Fi’s hands probably out, but he shuts the bedroom door anyway.
Shutting the bathroom door too. This is going to be a lot easier to say than to text. He picks up before the first ring even processes through the line.
“Look, I know you’re all territorial, but seriously Ian. I knew your boyfriend was hot as fuck, oh my god, I just didn’t know…”
“Stop.”
“How fucking sexy. I mean those hips…”
“Stop.”
“The way they move…”
“Stop.”
“You are, mmm, my god in Heaven, you are the luckiest white boy alive. He must be…”
“Stop.”
“I’ve never wanted to top before in my life, but seeing the way his ass moves…”
“Stop.”
“I know he’s all yours. I’m only kidding myself by crushing on him. But, mmm mmmm mmm, that video isn’t just in my spank bank, it is seared into my memory for eternity.”
“Stop.”
“To revisit whenever I want. Even once the devices are long gone and my human form has left this Earth, that memory will live on.”
“Shut the hell up Shane.”
“Okay. Okay. I’m just sayin’ is all. Hope you treat that boy like a fucking god all the time.”
His hands contact his forehead, resting there for a moment to process. Fuck, “just tell me you deleted…”
“Off the device and out of the cloud. But never out of my head.”
“Thank you, fuck. Thank you.”
“Oh honey, don’t thank me, thank whatever god you pray to for giving you that man.”
“I do.”
“I know you do, mmm hmm, but if you ever want to get adventurous, I wouldn’t turn down a three…”
“Stop. Good night Shane.”
“Good night Lucille Ball.”
Fuck. Oh fuck. That’s why, that is exactly why Mickey’s been acting so goddamned strange.
“The fuck is your deal firecrotch?” filtering into Ian’s head from the bedroom.
“Nothing, nothing,” exiting quickly, “sorry. That was fucking rude. I’m sorry. I’ll go apologize to Fi…”
“Yeah, don’t fuckin’ bother. I told her you’d apologize in person when we get to dinner.”
“Thank you,” he makes his way over quickly, taking his hips in his hands and dragging him close, his heart racing and his dick getting tingly again at the image of that video. He’s going to have to delete it off his phone too. But not until he watches it at least a hundred more times.
——— Mickey’s POV ———
What the fuck? They already fucked like four times today, and now Ian is fucking worshipping every inch of his flesh. Like they got time for that shit? He told Fiona it’d be like a half hour. And Ian’s only made it as far as his neck while mumbling fuckin’ prayers of his beauty or fuckever he's mumblin'. Fuckin’ fuckface.
“Jesus Ian, just get to it already. We ain’t got time for this shit.”
His head rises, his eyes all soft and his smile all soft and his hands gently sliding up the backs of Mickey’s thighs, “they can wait.”
“Uh, yeah, we pretty much made them wait all fucking day man.”
“I don’t care.”
“What the fuck? We had all fuckin’ day for the body worship bullshit,” his voice is cut off as Ian’s tongue meets his nipple and his finger meets his asshole.
It takes him a fuckin’ half hour just to get himself balls deep in Mickey’s ass, lookin’ at him all intense as Mickey’s eyes plaster themselves shut. And just when they do, the idiot interrupts him with, “Mickey?”
Oh fuck. He’s going to ignore that. This is too good for talking. This overstimulated and sensitive shit. The part the kind of hurts but feels so fucking good it’s like standing on the brink of death and taking your first breath at the same time, “mhm,” is all he can manage.
“Mickey?”
His mind is screaming ‘fuck off’ but his mouth won’t do a damn thing. Spots rising in his eyes, orgasm pooling in his belly. Every single muscle is burning with lactic acid and it is going to take every single ounce of energy he has to not die right now, right here, in Ian’s arms.
“Mickey?”
There’s this weird fucking desperate tone to it that makes Mickey open his eyes, “this better be good firecrotch.”
“I love you.”
He rolls his eyes, “yeah fuckever tough guy. I love you too. Was that really worth…”
“Marry me.”
“Huh?”
They’ve both stopped moving. Stopped breathing. Stunned silence falling down around them like fog.
It’s Ian who breaks first. His face splitting into a smile, “you heard me. Marry me.”
“Now. Now, of all fucking times to drop a fuckin’ proposal?”
“Why the fuck not? You are so fucking gorgeous Mick. You take care of me. You love me. You do things for me that no one else has ever done, or will ever do. And I want to take care of you. I want to do things for you…”
“You already do,” cutting him off before he can make this some kind of walk down shitty memory lane of all the garbage they’ve put each other through. Instead of this. This, right now, where the dumb fucker is right.
“Marry me,” his brows are starting to crease with concern.
“Well you gotta actually ask instead of demand if you want me to fuckin' agree,” feeling his mouth rising into a smile.
At the sight of which, so does Ian’s, all the nerves and anxiety that were starting to rise so rapidly to the surface dissipating that quickly, “will you marry me Mickey?”
“Yeah tough guy, I think I will.”
——— Ian’s POV ———
Fuck, he has never felt this before. This whole walking on air thing that’s happening as they walk down the street towards his childhood home, “we, um, probably shouldn’t tell anyone yet, huh?”
“Ruin Lip’s big pregnancy announcement? Tempting, but nah. We’ll let Fiona blow a fuckin’ gasket over that shit for a few weeks first.”
“Maybe we should just do it,” he slides his hand into Mickeys at their sides.
Mickey squeezes his and then shakes out of the grip. Just like he knew he would. It is still broad summer evening daylight and all, “like go down to the courthouse and elope?”
“Exactly like that. Fi’ll want to throw a big party and shit if we tell her. I doubt you want any of that attention, so if you’d be more comfortable eloping, then I’m ready when you are.”
“Oh fuck you firecrotch. You want your big stupid family around for your big day or some shit…”
“No,” he stops him suddenly by grabbing his shoulders, leaning forward to look in his eyes, “I want you. Only you. And I don’t care who else is there.”
The most adorable pink blush he’s ever seen kisses across Mickey’s cheeks and he nods, “fuckev…”
He cuts him off by kissing him. Right here, in the middle of the Southside sidewalk. Right here, near their apartment and near Fi’s house, right here where they grew up running from cops and drunkenly stumbling home from the ball-field, the same sidewalk Ian ran down when he needed something and he didn’t know what and he didn’t know where else to go, but he knew it had to be Mickey. The same sidewalk that Mickey ran down frantically after Ian took off with Monica… well, that part can be forgotten.
And Mickey doesn’t pull away. His hand meets the back of Ian’s head, slides through his hair and pulls him in closer, dropping to the back of his neck where he left those fingerprints last night doing that thing that Ian will have to…
He’ll have to never mention it. And he’ll have to stop thinking about it. And he’ll have to stop picturing it. Because if he does, he’ll end up asking Mickey to do it again. And he knows better. He knows if he asks him, he’ll get all bashful and embarrassed and he’ll never do it again.
Oh fuck, but he wants it. He wants it when he feels those fingers fall into place where they were gripping last night. He wants it when he feels his body heat through both of their shirts. Oh fuck, he wants it. He wants it this time when he can remember it. When it isn’t just some video that a friend took. He wants it when he can remember the way it felt, not just the way it looked to some outsider.
Fuck, he wants it.
“Hey Mick?” he wonders when the kiss is finally ended and Mickey’s forehead is still leaned lazily against his own, “I love you. You know that, right?”
“‘Course I fuckin’ do.”
After last night, and now this, kissing out here where who knows how many people can see it?
Ian leans in one more time, quickly, just a gentle pressure, a reassurance that he’s here, he’s right here and he’s not going anywhere. Ever.
Chapter 4: Sunday Evening
Summary:
The big reveal...
I should probably warn that this chapter lightly explores the long term effects of an abusive father such as Terry Milkovich. Again, nothing graphic. And also contains a little bit of Gallagher assholishness.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Sunday Evening
——— Debbie’s POV ———
Debbie just kicks back at the kitchen table and waits for the fireworks to begin. Taking drinks of her beer while Franny happily clears her plate beside her.
This is incredible. She should have sold tickets for this. It was all so happy, ‘just making an announcement here to my happy family that will be happy for me because I’ve wanted to be a father since Karen Jackson and I’ve been looking for ways to fuck myself up with women ever since but nothing will give me that same self-sabotaging thrill as Karen Jackson’.
Or something like that. Debbie was only mildly paying attention. Her eyes kept wandering to Ian. Because he’s being really fucking irritatingly clingy to Mickey and every time he touches Mickey, Mickey gives him a little squeeze and then shakes him off. And Ian just smiles his over-smile kind of smile like he’s going to somehow ease whatever discomfort Mickey is feeling when clearly the only discomfort he’s feeling is the way Ian keeps touching him.
Sometimes, she has no idea how Mickey puts up with his shit.
“Cheers,” Mickey plops down on her free side, passing another beer her way.
She clinks against his and rolls her eyes, “I should have sold tickets to this show.”
Fiona blew a fucking gasket. Carl keeps snickering and all it’s doing it spurring Fiona on. Ian is trying to smooth things over and look on the bright side. And these are the times she hears Monica coming out of her brother. It’s not really a bad thing in her book, someone had to sound like Monica. And at least he got the good parts of her. The look-on-the-bright side. Well, on top of, of course, the shitty part. The biggest shitty part in the entire gene pool. Which really is saying a lot.
But he’s got his shit together now. Like truly has his shit together. And Debbie would be lying and or stupid if she thought it was for any other reason than Mickey.
Of course that doesn’t mean that he doesn’t hit speed bumps every so often, but so far, he’s been pretty accepting of seeking treatment at the first signs of feeling ‘off’.
And he’s back. Standing behind Mickey, running his hands through his hair and then rubbing his shoulders. Mickey squirms out of it, pats his hand and tells him, “watch the show tough guy, it ain’t bad. You get enough to eat?”
“Yeah, Mick. You?”
“Yah, I’m fuckin’ full.”
And there’s a dirty joke in there but Debbie blocks it out. Sure, good for them, the have a healthy sex life after so many years of an unhealthy one, but that doesn’t mean she wants any details or any images in her mind.
The entire room’s attention is drawn back to the argument when Fiona blurts, “how the fuck is it bipolar Ian who is the only Gallagher to have their fucking shit together?!”
“Bipolar Ian will fuck it up soon enough,” Lip bites back at her, “it’s Gallagher tradition.”
It makes Debbie’s skin crawl when these assholes don’t realize they need to be a solid support system instead of cutting him down for something he can’t control. Her eyes wander over to his face, he’s wearing that self-doubting smile and now Mickey’s hand is legitimately squeezing his tight where it’s resting on his shoulder.
“Maybe he can kidnap your baby this time…” Fiona continues. Debbie blurs it out from there. Focusing on Ian now instead. His smile is fading and his brows are starting to dip. Whatever apologies needed to be spoken over that incident have clearly been spoken. Otherwise they wouldn’t still be together and they wouldn’t be taking care of Yevgeny every other weekend.
There’s no vocal agreement, or offer, or anything. Mickey shifts to his feet, pats Debbie’s shoulder, “we’re headin’ home. See ya next week,” then he runs his hand over Franny’s head, “night baby carrot.”
Debbie stands to give her brother a hug. Not speaking, not apologizing for the shitty things that are still being said about him while they pretend he’s not in the room hearing every word. Sometimes she wonders when they became assholes, sometimes she wonders if it was there all along and she was just too young to see it.
Ian kisses her cheek and then bends to smooch Franny, a smile and a gentle, “I love you Fran.”
And then they’re gone. And the sound of the back door closing behind them doesn’t even register in either Fiona or Lip’s brains.
——— Ian’s POV ———
They walk in mostly silence for awhile. Mickey taking slow drags from his cigarette, blowing it out of the corner of his mouth away from Ian, swirling into the summer night’s darkening air.
“Family sucks, man,” hand thumping down in that Mickey way on Ian’s back.
“I know,” and he does. He just isn’t sure when it’ll stop hurting, “if it weren’t for the younger ones, I’d stop hanging out with them.”
“Yeah,” sighing.
He can feel those incredible eyes on him, but he can’t return the favor just yet. Knowing the feeling that’s rising to the surface and not wanting to talk about it, or let it bubble over. And if he looks at Mickey right now, it’ll bubble over. Gallagher family dinner aside, this day has been incredible. And last night, even though Ian doesn’t remember it, it’s burned into his brain from the image Shane sent.
Thinking about it now, about Mickey’s hot sweaty body against his, he smiles, and his eyes land on Mickey’s.
“The fuck you so happy about?”
“You,” he answers immediately and slides his hand into Mickey’s at their sides. Giving it a tight squeeze, releasing only to find Mickey not letting go. His cocky perfect smirk rising, his fucking adorable pink blush kissing his cheeks and his eyes averting.
He gives him a minute in silence as they walk. Feeling the heat and roughness of his hand. Feeling his fingers that he’s always loved. He’s loved them when they’re bruised and bloodied, when they’re covered in food after eating like a starving wildebeest, when they’re shampooed and running though Ian’s hair, when they’re guiding soap over his body in the tub when he’s too weak to do it himself, when they’re reaching out to land on Ian’s chest and let his heart flutter away the mania against him, when they’re covered in lube, when they’re pressing dents into Ian’s flesh. Like last night.
The image rising in his mind is making his dick tingle again. Clearing his throat and deciding now is not the time or place to bring it up, instead, “speaking of family. You should probably call Mandy one of these days.”
“Fuck Mandy,” grumbling around the cigarette against his lips.
“Tomorrow?”
“Yeah.”
——— Mickey’s POV ———
“Yo firecrotch, you seen my phone?”
“Nope. Mine’s on the kitchen counter if you want to call yours. I thought naked Sunday rules were back in place.”
“Yeah, well, I still need to set my alarm for tomorrow morning shithead. So…”
“Okay, fair enough,” he’s in the bedroom already, probably getting naked again.
Fuck. Mickey’s tired. Like fucking exhausted. He’s old enough now to know why they don’t fuck five times in one day very often anymore. And by very often, he means like once a month or somethin’. Fuckever, either way, he’s fuckin’ tired and sore and wants to just go to bed. But, if Ian’s feelin’ heavy about his siblings being assholes, then the sooner they talk it out the better.
And they did pretty much get engaged today, so fuck, maybe falling asleep after a nice slow easy round of fucking, is what they’re s’posed to do.
Working at his belt while he stops at the counter, unlocking the phone, his hands stop moving when he’s met with a video within a text. What the fuck? That looks like… just from the thumbnail…
Motherfucker.
——— Ian’s POV ———
“You find it?”
Nothing.
“Mick?”
Dead air.
He stops removing clothes, silence is never good with this guy. Sighing heavily as he exits the bedroom and stops dead in his tracks. A homicidal look on his face and Ian’s phone in his hand.
“What?”
“What?!” He extends his arm, the phone screen facing Ian now with the video playing.
Oh fuck. He left it open on the screen, didn’t he? He didn’t delete it yet. Oh fuck. Oh shit, “oh fuck. Mick, I…”
His nostrils are starting to flare uncontrollably and his free hand is rising to grind into his eye. Thumb and U. Squishing and rolling and grinding until he can force that sting down. And Ian’s not sure why it’s stinging in the first place. But he is sure why it’s stinging in the first place.
He can practically see the scene in his mind. Mickey would have been like seven, Mandy about six. She would have been twirling around in the living room on a rainy day. And when she asked Mickey to dance with her, he would have turned her down. She would have batted her eyelashes said something about being so bored and needing a dance partner if she was ever going to be able to do it like Jennifer Lopez. Mickey would have scoffed something to her about ‘whoever the fuck that was’ or something more appropriate for a seven year old. Or not, it was still Mickey.
“Mick,” keeping his voice steady and strong, taking the chance to take a step closer.
Mickey reels back like Ian just smacked him, dropping the phone face down on the counter. He keeps stepping back until he’s out the window, on the fire escape, lighting a smoke. So much for quitting the smokes.
Space. Ian can do that. Fuck. His stomach is clamped and his heart has lodged itself in his throat. Fuck. He should have deleted that immediately.
Fuck, he can see it. They’ve never spoke of it. But he can see it. Exactly how it would have played out in the Milkovich house when Mickey was seven and just having fun, playing with his sister, dancing like children do. It all would have changed when Terry came stumbling in the door.
His chest tingles with the pain that’s reverberating off his lover. Who is standing on the fire escape with a cigarette in one hand and the other rubbing vigorously into his lids. Regretting doing what he did last night. Doing what he did, that was certainly only done to make Ian happy.
And now he’s embarrassed. And his anxiety is high. And he’s waiting for someone to tease or mock or yell or hit him for enjoying himself. Nineteen years under that man’s roof, nineteen years of being told he’s useless and disgusting and worthless and stupid and all the horrible things that Terry told his children repeatedly until it was the only voice in their heads. Nineteen years of it. Fuck, more than just what he said.
Fuck. Not rising. Not tonight. Not the sounds of shouts and the feel of fists and the sound of the pistol connecting with Mickey’s face. That’s not rising. Not tonight.
Instead. Space. Give him the space he needs.
Ian takes a deep breath. Distraction. Find Mick’s phone for him. Reorganize the shoes on the mat. Straighten the pile of mail on the counter. Pack tomorrow’s lunches.
He’s still standing there. His hands have both dropped to the rail. They’re white-knuckled.
Space.
Sweep the kitchen floor. Wipe down the counters.
It’s getting dark out. His strong back bathed in the glow of the apartment’s lights. The yellow glow. Alabaster ground down to powder, plaster used to mold that man. Whoever molded him, well they took some serious fucking attention to every single perfect detail. And Ian doesn’t mind if it takes the rest of his fucking life to make Mickey understand that.
——— Mickey’s POV ———
His hands have stopped shaking. So there’s that. Watching from the fire escape as the summer evening turns into a summer night. The air starting to cool slightly. The churning and self-doubt and self-loathing starting to calm.
He’s been hearing Ian moving around the apartment at his back. Cleaning the kitchen. Running the vacuum. He should go back in. He should tell him he’s not mad. Not mad at Ian. He’s just mad at himself for agreeing to do something he knew he’d hate himself for doing. Something that was girly and stupid and childish and fucking queer. And Milkoviches don’t have time for that stupid shit.
“Fuck,” it comes out through gritted teeth and he can still see Ian’s face. His pleading eyes, even droopy with alcohol, even dimmed and then lit up in a glaring horrible way by the club light. He can feel his hand clamped down on his hip and his stupid ‘please Mick, please. You don’t have to do anything, just let me hang on to you, and I’ll move us both’. And Mickey had smirked then and said, ‘so it ain’t much different than fuckin’.’ And Ian had smiled that fucking blinding ass smile like Mickey had already agreed to it. So he didn’t resist it when he grabbed Mickey’s hips and starting swaying in the gyrating crowd on the dance floor. It was packed and it was the end of the night so everyone was drunk or high or both and no one would remember it by the next time they came back. No one would see his stupid stocky short ass past the lanky ginger god that was wrapped around him.
Then Ian’s, ‘one song, that’s all’ turned into two. And then it was three and then he stopped begging for another because it was pretty fuckin’ clear Mickey was staying there. And yeah, sure, he was having a great fucking time.
As long as no one remembered. And as long as no one outside the place found out. And as long as that shit never got back to his brothers or his dad or his uncles or any of the other assholes he still knows and he still sees and he still has to intimidate. There is a pecking order and there always will be a pecking order. Turns out bein’ a queer ain’t the end of his life, but acting like it out in public, it could be.
“Fuck,” now there’s a fuckin’ video of that shit and whatever fuckin’ queen sent it to Ian, probably put it on fuckin’ social media too. No, it ain’t like Terry’s gonna see that shit, but what if?
Lighting another cigarette. He ain’t ready to face Ian yet. He ain’t ready to talk about this.
——— Ian’s POV ———
It’s pretty damn close to full darkness outside by the time he finally hears Mickey in the apartment again. He’s sitting on the bed waiting. Work clothes out and waiting for morning. Alarms set. Coffee timer set. Lunches in the fridge.
He takes a deep breath, wipes his hands on his shorts and sits on the bed. And waits. Listens as Mickey moves around the kitchen. Fills a glass of water. Checks the fridge for lunches. Re-situates his keys on the counter. Pulls the coffee lid up, pushes is back down.
He’s not sure if he can hear his eyes being pushed around in their sockets of if he’s just heard it enough times now to know how it sounds and know that’s what’s happening right before the knob is turned and he’s standing in the doorway blinking. Blinking and stepping in. Blinking and looking anywhere but at Ian.
Noting the folded and piled up clothes for tomorrow. Noting the phones on the bedside tables. Noting the lamp on and everything else off.
Bathroom. Sink, face scrubbing with calloused hands, toothbrushing. Belt, button, fly, jeans on the floor. Stream of pee. Sink again.
The jeans get launched across the floor, landing next to the hamper with the clunk of his belt buckle. He’ll remove the belt tomorrow and transfer it to a cleanish pair for work. The t-shirt makes it to the hamper lid. And will stay there until Ian moves it tomorrow night when he puts his clothes in it.
The ceiling fan whirring gently. The breeze smells like summer in the city through the open window.
He sits. He sits with his back turned to Ian. Elbows propped on his knees and his fingers in his eyes.
Ian listens to him breathe for long enough to know most of the panic has receded and now it’s just embarrassment. The embarrassment of letting himself go, of enjoying himself, of doing something out of character and ending up having a great time. The embarrassment of doing something for Ian that turned into doing something for himself. And knowing that someone else saw it. Someone else remembers it.
The panic has ebbed. He knows the heavy fist isn’t coming. The taunts and name-calling and shouting aren’t coming either.
So now, it’s okay. It’s okay if Ian just slides over. Wraps himself around Mickey’s back. Closing him in a hug from behind. Resting his chin on his strong shoulder. Skin cool and moist from the night air. He presses his lips against his gorgeous skin. Holds him tight with one arm, wraps his legs around his lap and holds his phone in front of Mickey’s face, playing the video, and wondering, “what do you see when you look at that?”
“Don’t, man, that’s fuckin’…” he’s too exhausted to fight his way out of this.
“Okay. Then I’ll tell you what I see. I see the club and the lights and the crowd. I hear the music and the drunken voices and drunken singing. I feel the music thumping in the floor and the walls and my body. I feel and see my body moving with the beat. But none of that matters. Not to me. What matters to me about this, is you. I see you having fun. I see you dancing. I see your hips moving against mine, under my grip, I see your arm up, fingers wrapped around my neck, I feel them there too. I feel your fingertips digging into the back of my neck and I smell your neck and your hair. I feel your sweat and your rhythm keeping steady with mine and with the music. I feel your body against mine and I feel you relaxed and having fun. I feel you doing something for me that I asked you to do. I probably begged you to do,” he turns his head to press his lips against Mickey’s neck.
“But I see you having fun. Mick. And you look so fucking sexy doing it,” Ian’s eyes linger on the screen at a moment when Mickey’s head is turned into Ian’s neck. His forehead against Ian’s jaw. One hand hanging onto the back of his neck, the other chasing Ian’s across his abdomen. Ian’s hand that is clearly trying to decide how far to push this moment, lingering on the hem of Mickey’s shirt like he’s going to slide under, or pull the shirt up or who fuckin’ knows, something that Mickey would have punched him for if he’d been sober. Instead, when Mickey’s fingers meet Ian’s, they interlace and rest there in that space where his jeans meet his shirt. And when Ian turns his head and nudges against Mickey’s face, he tilts and their lips meet. A brief delicate moment. A tiny private moment in the middle of the chaos of a dance floor near closing time.
And maybe that’s the part that Mickey hates the most. A private moment that just so happened in public and under the watchful eye of a camera. But it’s the part that Ian loves the most. It’s Mickey’s blind dedication to giving into Ian’s desires. It’s Ian’s desire to make Mickey as comfortable as possible when he’s doing the things he does to make Ian happy even though his father’s voice is still in his head. And maybe it will always be in his head, but as long as Ian can quiet it with a kiss or a touch or a smile or a word, as long as he can become the shout in Mickey’s mind that drowns out the voice of his father until it becomes nothing more than a whisper. Nothing more than a mosquito buzzing in his ear until he swats it away with his FUCK hand. The hand that Ian’s is gripping tight to now.
“Shane didn’t post it anywhere. He deleted it. This is the only place this video exists,” he offers the phone to Mickey’s empty hand, “delete it. It’s up to you. I won’t show a soul. I promise you that. But just so you know, this is the sexiest fucking thing I have ever watched in my life. And nights when you’re not home and I need a little coaxing to jerk one, this’ll be what I watch. Not porn, porn can fuck off forever, this video,” grinding a little to make sure Mickey feels his dick that’s starting to harden against his lower back as he taps play one more time when the phone is in Mickey’s U-UP grasp, “this video is so much sexier than any porn could ever be.”
He starts to snort out a response, probably accuse Ian of being a blind idiot, but Ian asserts, “it is. And I’m not the only one who thinks that. Did you even read the caption Shane sent? Or just look at the video and get self-conscious over something you have no reason to be self-conscious over?”
His breath hitches slightly in his chest and Ian squeezes him tighter against his body, leaning his face into the nape of his neck.
‘Your boyfriend is hotter than the devil’s backside.’
It’s followed by a devil face and flames.
“He’s right,” Ian reassures him, muffled against his skin and the feel of his pulse against the delicacy of his neck, “you’re so fucking hot and so fucking sexy and you’re so fucking gorgeous and it’s so much more than skin deep.”
The only response is more like a, “hmph,” than anything else, and he’s squirming his way out of Ian’s grip instead of accepting the compliment.
He plops the phone down on Ian’s table, thumbs at his nose and hides in the bathroom for long enough to squeeze out another piss.
Ian leans on his elbow while he waits. Doubting he’ll be up for round five or six or whatever it’s up to now. But all it’ll take for Ian is the fact alone that he didn’t delete the video. All it’ll take for Ian’s dick to get raging hard again is the fact that he can watch that video whenever the fuck he wants. Whenever the real, living, breathing, gorgeous man in that video is not in his arms.
“Hey, maybe we should make our own sex tape,” he calls out, knowing it’ll break the awkwardness that’s lingering now.
“Fuck you firecrotch,” exactly what he was expecting to come spilling out of the bathroom and floating across the sticky late summer air inside their bedroom.
Notes:
Yeah, it was just dancing, but when you have a childhood like Mickey's, is it ever just anything?
The full flashback is in the final chapter - which may not be a final chapter after all, I might tack on a flash forward for the last chapter. Thanks for playing along with this one, I promise the flashback will be worth next week's read :)
Chapter 5: Sunday Night
Summary:
The full flashback...
Chapter Text
Sunday Night
——— Ian’s POV ———
Mickey’s hair is slicked with sweat and his head is clearly way too heavy to hold up any longer for any reason whatsoever. His lids are heavy and his eyes are moving beneath them. His skin is flushed pink from heat and exertion. The pillow is cradling him in a way that Ian could just linger here over him and stare at all night.
His hands aren’t pressing anymore, they’re just laying there on Ian’s shoulder-blades. His legs have fallen open, dead weight on the mattress beside them. But his damn heals are still planted firmly in the dip behind Ian’s knees. The heals that often times are slamming into him haphazardly right before Mickey orgasms. The hands that are normally pushing dents into his flesh. The thighs that are always clamped tight right until that final pulse.
His breath is still caught though. His chest still lifted off the mattress, stomach caved in. Everything in his body paused, put on hold, waiting for that breath to come flowing back in though his nose at first. Then his lips will open and gasp. A shudder will travel the length of him and the remainder of his energy will be sucked right down into the bed. He won’t move for the rest of the night unless Ian moves him.
Ian smiles to himself as he watches it happen. Reaching out to slide some of that sweat-slicked hair back off his forehead as Mickey’s hands land on the sheet beside his hips. His heals slide off Ian’s knees and he might as well be getting pulled into quicksand.
Nudging his nose, he’s too lazy to even turn his head. One minuscule puff of air is all he’s going to offer. Ian kisses him anyway. And lingers there on top of him and still inside him, waiting for a shove or a grunt or a swat or anything resembling a need for him to get the fuck off.
He gets absolutely nothing. If he couldn’t feel him breathing he’d think he was dead. He won’t even pucker his lips to pretend he’s kissing Ian back. Drawing back but staying there to watch him, the eyes under the lids have calmed. The breathing is so slow. The heart beating, the heart that was wild only moments ago, is thumping lazily against Ian’s chest.
Those eyelids crease delicately and flash an ocean in blue at him just long enough to wonder, “the fuck you lookin’ at?”
He breathes a laugh to himself, kisses him and gets a grunt against his lips when he pulls out gently. Sliding off him only to roll him, receiving more grunts and no help, clicking into place behind him. One arm over, one arm under. Chest to back. Pelvis to ass. Legs bent and locked together.
A quiet breath and a tender kiss, taking a long, deep inhale of the scent of his neck, “I love you.”
It’s a grunt. But it’s translatable. And Ian knows exactly what it means as his fingers slide into his against Mickey’s heart, pulling him as close as he can possibly get and keeping him there. Fuck, he can’t wait until the sound of metal clinking is what he hears when their hands lock together.
Soon. Soon, he thinks, and if he’s lucky he’ll get Mickey to dance with him on their wedding night. He is, he is lucky, and he knows that. He’s always known that.
******** Saturday Night ********
——— Mickey’s POV ———
Mickey scowls at his whiskey when he pulls his wallet out to pay the tab. Fuckin’ stupid fuckin’ snobby ass dance clubs and strip clubs and fuckin’ whatever the fuck they are. Charging a fuckin’ arm and a leg for a shot of goddamn whiskey. Mickey could get a full fuckin’ bottle for the amount of money he’s paid for just what? Like four drinks? He had three. Ian’s one. Ian. Fuck Ian.
Turning his head to find his beacon of orange and red and burnt fuckin’ umber hair in the flashing of green and red and blue and fuckever other goddamn colors of the fuckin’ rainbow are always flashing around with the obnoxious techno beats in this fuckin’ place. Fuck.
He’s still exactly where he was an hour ago. Dancing in the middle of the damn floor like he’s all alone in his damn living room. ‘Least he’s got his clothes on.
“Is it fuckin’ last call yet?”
The flamer bartender snickers and shakes his head, “you’ve got like an hour to go honey.”
“Honey,” he snorts back at him, turns his back to the bar and watches the floor. Jesus, Ian must have snuck something extra. Fuck, Mickey’s hand rises to grind into his eyes, that dumb fucker. He’s been not so much of a pain in the ass that last handful of times they’ve gone out. It’s the only reason Mickey’s been agreeing to it. Should have known the prick would push his boundaries eventually. Fuckever, he looks less drunk than he did before he started dancing some of that booze out. Force him to eat somethin’ and drink some damn water so he’s not such a big fuckin’ crybaby tomorrow about his head and his belly and fuckever else he’ll carry on about.
Fuck. Mickey ain’t coming back to this hellhole for awhile. That’s enough fuckin’ favors for his ginger ass. Block parties during the summer? Sure. Alibi on the occasional Saturday night? Sure. But this shit. Fuck, Mickey was too old for this shit even when he was young.
His fingers pull away from his eyes and the spots he created are only mingling with the overstimulation of this place. Maybe he is still young. Fuck knows anymore. Live five lives before you turn twenty maybe that makes him an old man now. Or maybe it makes him a young man in relativity to his sixth life. Would it be that bad to live the sixth live like it’s the last one?
Stupid. Stupid, is what the lights and the noise and the crowd and the music or fuckever it’s s’posed to be, makes people in places like this. Makes ‘em stupid as fuck. Alcohol, party favors. Numb or buzz or vibrate or swirl, it’s all a matter of how the fuck far a person wants to go.
His fist automatically clenches when a person clumsily elbows his arm, “someone wearing their crabby pants tonight?”
Fuck. Sean or Shane or fuckin’ Seamus or fuckever his fuckin’ name is. Middle finger response.
“Lighten up,” his fingers crawl up Mickey’s arm and clamp down on his shoulder.
Mickey’s not going to squirm, that’s what the jackass wants him to do. So he can rile him up about being a downer or some kinda fuckin’ asshole who rains on his boyfriend’s parade all the damn time. Fuck parades.
“Fun sponge,” he sing-songs it and when Mickey turns to face him he’s got superiority written all over his face, “you should dance with your boyfriend before someone else does,” the fucker has the nerve to poke Mickey’s nose before he saunters off towards the pissers. If it wasn’t for going back to fuckin’ jail this night would be ending in that fairy fuck getting his teeth knocked out.
He slams the empty glass down on the bar top and storms off to find Ian. Drag him home before that twink fuck makes good on his threat to dance with Ian. Not that Mickey don’t trust him, and not that Ian is attracted to Sean or Shane or maybe some fancy fuckin’ millennial bullshit like Shjohn or some dumb shit like it ain’t obvious how to pronounce the fuckin’ name so you gotta add extra consonants to it just in fuckin’ case people don’t know a damn traditional name when they see one. Like it’s fuckin’ unique or some shit if you add letters and say it the same fuckin’ way.
Mikhailo. Fuck his parents. What a dumb fuckin’ name. Makes him sound straight off the fuckin’ boat instead of third generation Southsider. At least he ain’t like Svetlana with her stupid ass accent that he’s certain she exaggerates at this point. Fuckever. Then there’s old Ms Bodnar who’s been here for a hundred damn years and still barely speaks English. Fuck, Mickey had to learn Ukrainian just to get her to stop swatting him with her cane for walking through her grass to get to the school bus. Old bitch anyway. It was just a damn short cut. Then he ended up having to weed her stupid garden ‘cause of the one time he jumped the fence and landed in her damn squash plants or fuckever they were and smashed one of ‘em. Old lady grabbed him right by the damn ear, told him she’d either let his father handle the punishment or she’d let Mickey weed her garden for the rest of the summer and she’d let it slide. Fuck her. But that is where he learned how to maintain a pot plant.
“You’re a bulldozer,” Ian laughs when he finally gets to him through the crowd of fuckfaces. They’ll all be lucky if he ends up walking out of here without busted knuckles.
Fuck is even happening? This crowd is like a fucking current in the damn ocean. It’s fuckin’ ridiculous. Soon as he gets away from one sweating gyrating idiot, another one appears out of nowhere.
‘Least it’s Ian’s hands latching onto his hips now, “you dance with me?”
Caveman drunk aside, he don’t look too bad anymore. Kind of droopy eyed, but probably not at puke point at least, “fuck you. Home,” he jerks his thumb towards the exit.
“No,” arms crossed, pouty lip out before it spreads into a grin, like he just figured out the ultimate reason to stay. Or maybe some blackmail. Or some promise of not coming back again for six months if he just lets him stay for one more song, “it’s not last call,” his hands drop to Mickey’s hips again, tugging him close, “you said last call.”
Fuck. Fucker smells like champagne or some fuck. Jesus, no one handles champagne well, but especially some fucker on lithium and past his self-imposed one drink limit, “yeah, well you just didn’t hear last call tough guy,” he taps his cheek, “you can dance in the apartment, long as you don’t wake the neighbors.”
“Fuck the neighbors,” the sway is mostly drunk but still in the beat of the fuckin’ club speakers blasting this nonsense in his damn ears.
Damn, usually the promise of dancing at home gets him to leave. Then by the time they get home he just stumbles in and passes out, “c’mon. Let’s go Tony Manero. We got shit to do tomorrow.”
He ain’t listenin’ anymore. He ain’t lookin’ at Mickey anymore and he’s moving again. Goddamn it, he’s turning around to use Mickey as a damn stripper pole or some shit. Rubbing his ass on him. He grabs Ian’s hips, clenching down hard, “knock it off, let’s go.”
Belligerent ginger fuck, just grinding harder before he spins to face Mickey, “just one song,” big damn puppy dog eyes staring at him as he shimmies his way down the front of Mickey’s body. That fuckin’ stripper tease, he hated that shit when he was gettin’ paid by other dudes for it. He hated the shit when he had to part with a twenty for it. He hates that shit when it’s done in public. But fuck, “fuck, fine, you wanna strip, you leave it for the bedroom. You wanna dance…”
“Yeah, please. One song? Please? You don’t even have to do anything,” stupid big eyes are gettin’ all glittery with excitement even though he didn’t let Mickey finish his sentence, “you don’t even,” leaning in close to his face like he’s telling him the biggest secret of his life, “have to move. I’ll move us both,” and his big stupid hands on Mickey’s cheeks, sliding back to grasp his head, leaning his forehead in. Filmed in sweat and hair product shit and fuckever else is on his forehead that’s sticky.
He feels a brow rise and his hand rises to tap his cheek, “so it ain’t much different than fuckin’?”
Smug fucker. Hands dropping immediately to Mickey’s hips and spinning him roughly. Holding him in close to his pelvis while his lips press against the side of his neck and he starts swaying. It might be a little off rhythm of the music and the lights and the throbbing that’s happening all around them. It might be a little sloppy. But it’s Ian.
Mickey closes his eyes. Letting his focus dim down to just Ian. It is just Ian. Only him and Ian. He feels his breath on his neck and his hands on his hips and stomach and chest against his back. He feels his body leaning into his rhythm and breathes.
No one is watching. There’s no way anyone is watching. It’s an entire crowd of idiots and everyone in here is drunk. Good chance the bartenders are partaking in some party favors and it ain’t like anyone is going to see Mickey past the fuckin’ ridiculously gorgeous, tall, and gangly ginger who’s wrapped around him. Not a damn soul will even notice him.
This isn’t Mandy begging him to dance in the living room. This isn’t Terry barging in and smacking him for actin’ like a queer by dancing with his little sister. This isn’t a place where Terry can remind him, ‘fun is for children’. And there ain’t a single Milkovich that gets to act like a child.
Not here. Not tonight.
Tonight is Ian’s breath and Ian’s hands and Ian’s rhythm. Tonight is Mickey’s hand sliding up his arm and finding that handle on the back of his neck to keep him close. To keep him right there, to keep him at his back when the rest of the room is getting blurry around the edges. When the lights and the people and the noise are getting dull and receding. When it’s all narrowing down to nothing more than the two of them. It’s just the two of them.
This isn’t about Shawn and his eagerness to ride Ian’s dick. This isn’t about the years past where he probably would have been riding Ian’s dick before the night was over. This isn’t about the porn and the infidelity. This isn’t about marking territory and proving a point.
This is about Ian’s stupid fucking smile. And how fucking bright it is when Mickey turns his head to look at him. It’s about that stupid fucking tenderness in his eyes and it’s about him recognizing, even though he won’t remember it tomorrow, that Mickey loves to see him fucking smile. And Mickey would do just about fucking anything to make him smile.
The dumb fucker nudges his nose with his own until he forces his point to get Mickey’s mouth. And he gets his mouth. He gets a sweet, tender, gentle kiss. He gets the words without the words that the idiot appreciates this dumb shit. This dumb, little, fucking shit that’s meaningless to most people, but Ian gets it.
Fuckever, it just ain’t so bad. The fucker’s hand that’s been creeping towards the hem of Mickey’s shirt or the band of his jeans, he’s not really sure, he just knows it needs to be stopped before the asshole is tryin’ to get Mickey some kind of stupid body confidence in public seminar. Or some fuck. He slips his fingers into Ian’s and holds them there, while their kiss does the talking until Ian’s dumb fuckin’ voice is whispering against his face, “fuck Mick, you feel good.”
——— Shane’s POV ———
He pokes Mickey’s nose, taking note of the immediate flare of anger across his irises as he walks away with his best runway walk. Knowing the grumpy old grandpa is watching while he’s trying to decide if it’s worth his time to break some queen’s face tonight. If that boy only knew the things Shane’s heard about him. Tough-shelled soft-hearted ball of contradictions that he is. Or maybe he’s not a contradiction, maybe he is just the product of his raising. Shane doesn’t know anything about his specific childhood, but Southside is, well, Southside. Some are okay, some are bad, some are worse. He gets the impression that Mickey came from worse.
One thing he is certain of, Mickey wouldn’t know fun if walked up to him and mushroom-stamped him with a ten-incher. Ian is a joy. Life of the party when he’s here. They don’t come around often, that’s surely Mickey’s influence. So is the drink limit, though Ian denies it. Claims he just doesn’t want to end up like his father. An alcoholic ranting and raving about the plight of the lower class white man with half a brain.
Either way, Ian seems to do well for himself. Whether it’s because he’s under his boyfriend’s thumb or he’s afraid of his family legacy, does it really matter?
Shane could never put up with that shit. Control in a relationship. Stifling fun and refusing to let loose.
He leans into the mirror, tugs at the crow’s feet starting to etch their way permanently into his skin. Reminding himself that he’s flawless and doesn’t need a man in his life. Even if it was a fiery haired god that can move like his life depends on it. Mmm, what he’d give to just grind his ass against that pelvis for long enough to get an idea of what he’s packing. If it’d be worth it to get pummeled by those FUCK U-UP threats.
Ian deserves to have a good time. That’s why Shane handed him the champagne bottle earlier. The one he batted his eyelashes enough times to truly deserve the whole bottle. But it was only about half full when he sashayed away from the VIP table with it. Stingy old queens. Love to come here and flaunt their money for the fresh meat on the stage, but don’t recognize a true artiste when they see one.
Who needs boyfriends when you’ve got thousands of followers to impress?
One last practice face for the mirror before he goes back to the bar to get the end-of-the-night selfie. Oh lord in heaven the club lights are much harsher than they used to be. He blinks hard at the image on the screen, zeroing in on his fine lines. When he rolls his eyes to himself his finger slides across the screen and slides the photo to the side. Revealing an image, blurry in the background of his selfie, but Ian’s recognizable through fog and smoke and sheer curtains and the blackness of a country night as far as Shane is concerned.
Snickering to himself and turning towards the floor. It’ll only be a matter of time before that stocky bull dog is pushing his way through the crowd to break the face of the man who dare appreciate his possession and give him a thrill, give him the things he wants, the things Mickey will never do for him. What a shame. Waste of a gorgeous man.
He smiles to himself when he sees the look on his friend’s face. A look like he’s somewhere in the calm of heaven but the heat of hell and he’s not certain which one he wants to toss himself into. So beautiful. He’s so beautiful and so unappreciated. Whoever the dance partner is, he’s got some damn fine biceps. Good, strong grip, exactly the kind that Shane would love to watch flexing around his own cock when he’s giving him the ride of his life. Maybe he can get there and step into the hotness before Mickey the fun sponge reappears and scares the black haired man away from the floor. His face is hidden under Ian’s chin and Ian’s hand is sliding across his jaw, dropping down his strong chest, remaining there. Fingers spread over the guy’s heart like he’s trying to feel the beat of that instead of the beat of the music.
Shit, maybe he shouldn’t interrupt, maybe this is the start of a beautiful relationship, maybe Ian will leave his domineering boyfriend for this piece of gorgeous ass that’s grinding and gyrating and swaying and nearly melting into Ian’s body. Lord, it’s like they’re one being. If there were no clothes…
He shudders at the thought and decides he’ll let this play out for a moment. Maybe Ian will come to his senses and go home with this sexy little firecracker who’s lighting up the dance floor much more brilliantly than the club lights ever could. Or maybe Ian is too dunk to realize what’s happening. Maybe it’ll be like Cinderella and when the clock strikes midnight he’ll lose his ignitor, what if he’s too drunk to remember this feeling of being wanted and when he wakes up tomorrow to his crabby boyfriend he thinks it was a dream?
He needs to film this. He needs Ian to have this reminder. To know that there are men out there who will appreciate him for his hobbies and his wants and they won’t put out the fire in his chest. They’ll let him have his fun and fulfill his desires without just sitting around scowling at him all night for having the balls to have his fun.
He shifts his way through the crowd to get a good angle on the scene. Quickly eyeing the bar for the fun sponge, nowhere to be seen. Hell, maybe the grumpy old man took an Uber home already. Too bad he’ll be waiting all night for his man to come home.
Shane snickers to himself. He allowed too much of his youth to be wasted on a man that didn’t appreciate his social butterfly personality. Always trying to keep him in a net once he caught him. He can’t help it if he doesn’t want to see that for Ian.
His eyes are on the way this stranger is moving. His hips, mmm mm mm, delicious. Even to a pillow princess like himself, this man clearly knows how to ride a cock. For the first time in his life he feels himself wondering what topping would feel like.
His vision scans up to where their hands have interlocked on his abdomen. He chokes on his own spit as the lights flash to blue and the ink on his fingers comes into focus for just a moment. He blinks, no way. No way! No way that’s what he saw.
Is that what he saw? Did he just see… did he just… no. No way! He can feel his eyes wide as saucers when he takes in the vision of their faces. Of Ian’s nose nudging into Mickey’s. Mickey. That is Mickey. That is Mickey out there turning his head and tilting his face, taking the kiss that Ian plants on his lips. That is Mickey the fun sponge swaying and grinding and gyrating like he’s fucking the hell out of his boyfriend right there on the dance floor. The kiss breaks and Ian’s grinnin’ like a possum eatin’ a sweet potato.
“Well, I’ll be…”
“You’ll be my sassy little princess tonight,” is growled into his ear and he recognizes Trey’s hands sliding across his stomach immediately.
“Any night daddy,” without peeling his eyes off that sweet ass that he never appreciated before just this moment. Just this moment when he realized just how much that sweet ass appreciates his ginger god. And that ginger god better appreciate the hell out of that delicious devilish backside.
——— Mickey’s POV ———
Fuck, he’s sweaty. Standing outside the club waiting for the Uber with Ian’s arm draped over his shoulders like a damn boa or some shit. He wants to squirm out from under him, but he’s pretty sure he needs the crutch right now. Fucker. Seemed sober by the time last call came around and he was still grinding against Mickey’s ass and it had sort of become like a waking dream by them. The music didn’t seem quite so loud, the crowd didn’t seem quite so obnoxious. Fuck, it was all just background noise instead of an intrusion at that point.
Fuckever. Don’t mean he liked it. Just sayin’ if they come back next month and Ian wants to dance like that, Mickey probably won’t turn him down.
Fuck.
“Hey,” it’s half shouted into his ear like he’s not standing right fuckin’ next to him, “you know what we should do?!”
Mickey’s hand lands on his chest, steadying him when he sways. Fuckin’ drunk ass, “what?”
“Hmm?”
His head turns in the direction of those droopy eyes. He’s grinning like a fuckin’ normal kid on Christmas, “what should we do tough guy?”
“Oh that’s right. We should,” leaning towards his face now to tell him yet another giant secret with another Cheshire cat grin, “we should take dance lessons.”
“Yeah okay, Channing Tatum.”
“No,” he laughs, “not like hip hop type shit or Magic Mick or… Magic Mick,” his brow quirks and Mickey tries to stifle the blush. Fuckface, “I mean, like, what is the old lady’s name? That little old lady that lived next door to you. Ms Boden?”
“Bodnar?”
“Yeah. Her.”
He waits a beat, watches Ian’s focus shift to some dudes exiting the club. He kisses the side of Mickey’s head. Not sure if it’s reassurance or territorial bullshit, but he ain’t gonna fight it. Sighing out a, “what about her?” even though he’s not sure if he wants to know where ginger’s drunk mind is wandering.
“Oh. Mandy said she used to teach dance lessons. Like ballroom and shit.”
He can feel his brows up when Ian’s big green orbs land on his face again, “you think ‘cause we basically just had clothed sex on a dance floor in a club, that I’d be willing to take ballroom dance lessons or some fuck?”
He shrugs, that annoying theatrical shrug where his shoulders are wound up to his damn ears, “yes. I mean no. I mean,” he laughs, “I think we should take dance lessons ‘cause you secretly enjoyed the hell out of that.”
“Fuck you is what I enjoyed.”
“I know,” his smile is fuckin’ ridiculous before it’s pressed into Mickey’s mouth and all sloppy tongue and spit and maybe he should have swallowed before he dove in. Fuck champagne. But that stupid little whimper escapes him and gets all tangled up with the flavor of the club on their tongues before Ian pulls away with that fuckin’ smug smile on his face.
Some dipshit is announcing, “afterparty at my place,” and cheering himself on until a few others join in.
Ian sighs out a laugh against Mickey’s face and leans his forehead in, “personal afterparty right here,” whispering as his free hand grabs a handful of Mickey’s junk.
Swatting him away with feigned annoyance, knowing Ian’s not going to make it long enough to curb Mickey’s desires if he did let him grope around long enough to get it hard, “fuck off tough guy.”
“Give you a handy in the Uber.”
“Give you a fuckin’ black eye if you try that shit.”
His eyes close, taking a deep inhale of Mickey’s scent. Fuckin’ weirdo. Before he pulls back with a content smile, “you’re so pretty.”
“Jesus fuck Gallagher. You keep up with this shit, I’m ‘onna get us separate rides home.”
“Fun sponge,” fuck, this fuckin’ guy. Fuckin’ what now? Someone else gonna get a handy from Ian? Someone else gonna take ballroom lessons with him? But the dipshit winks at him as he sidles up to Ian’s free side, “fun night?”
“Fuck yes,” he sways a little bit when he looks at his friend, “it was the best. But I know,” he pauses for a minute to press his finger against Shane’s chest, “I know why I don’t drink often. I’m gonna feel like,” his eyes scan over to the curb, “oh hey, that’s our ride. I should have called Carl. You know who I should have called? I should have called Carl. He would have brought us to Taco Bell. Toxic Hell.”
“Alright tough guy,” Mickey can’t get away from Shjohn quick enough, “let’s go home.”
“I love those three words,” his face turns and his nose clumsily contacts Mickey’s. Fuckin’ champagne. How the fuck did he get that shit anyway?
At least the little fairy princess helps him drag Ian’s useless ass over to the car. Even though it ain’t hard to drag him anyway, but his lanky frame is only getting heavier as the night is getting longer.
Oh fuck, now he’s gotta nod some approval or appreciation or some fuck at Shayn. Fuckin’ prick winks at him, “mmm hm,” nodding enthusiastically while he bites his lower lip and scans Mickey over from head to toe.
What the fuck? His middle finger responds for him before he ducks into the car, fairly certain he just got eye fucked.
“Hmmph,” fuckin’ lazy fuck’s head lands on Mickey’s shoulder immediately, his hand sliding over his chest and down his abdomen, “you’re so sexy.”
“Fuckever,” turning his head to press lips against his hair. And, yeah, sure, fuckever, he lingers there. And he smells the shit out of that sweaty earthy manly musky scent under the hair product. And he fuckin’ loves it.
****** Sunday Midnight ******
——— Mickey’s POV ———
Lost somewhere between wake and sleep. In that place where life is too hard and sleeping is too easy. But neither one of them is real. They’re both some distant destination while the mind wanders and flits around about all the things that aren’t pressing but their existence is annoying. Like that stupid patch of grass he should have mowed instead of letting Ian talk him into naked Sunday. Or work. Monday. Fuck Monday. And he’s so tired. So fucking tired. Physically, mentally, emotionally. The whole fuck.
Fucker’s breathing all over the back of his neck. It’s fuckin’ sticky and muggy in the bedroom. Window’s open, fans on, still hot as fuck. Dumb fucker snores out a fuckin’ choked grunt thing and flops over on his back, his arm doesn’t release Mickey though. Jesus, it’s way too fuckin’ hot for that shit. And now Mickey is solidly planted in wake.
Peeling his arm off, backing away and turning to face him in the darkness. His hand slides over his jawline, tracing it back through his hair and leaning towards him to press lips to his forehead. Dope doesn’t even stir.
Mickey feels himself smiling, that fuckin’ face is the one he’s gonna wake up to every morning. Fall asleep to every night. Fuck, that feels good. And fuck the heat. His body isn’t going to fight that magnetic pull to Ian’s. Leaning half over him, sliding an arm under his pillow, the other cradling his head while his face leans against his soft hair.
He sounds a little like a deflating balloon and his hand rises without waking, without his eyes moving beneath his lids, landing on Mickey’s ass and pulling him closer. As close as possible. Face instinctively turning towards Mickey’s neck and settling in.
Fuck, fine. If dancing with the ginger fucknut gets him a naked horny Sunday and a committed future together officially. Then, sure, fuckever, he’ll dance with him. Sure, fuck, maybe he’ll even call up old Ms Bodnar and see if she’s still teachin’ that ballroom shit. And maybe when shithead gets his big stupid ceremony all planned out, he’ll dance with him at the reception. Fuck, maybe he can convince him to skip the stupid pomp and circumstance of a ceremony. Do fuckever he wants for a reception.
He feels Ian’s breath puff out as his hand twitches and grips against his ass. Feeling a smile spread on his face, sure, asshole can have whatever the fuck he wants. Yeah, Mickey’ll give it to him.
A smile rises on his lips as they press against his temple. He’ll give him just about anything to see that fuckin’ smile.
Chapter 6: Saturday Evening
Summary:
Reader request was for Mandy and Mickey to have a dance at the reception because fuck Terry (for having made young Mickey feel bad about dancing with his sister and being a carefree kid).
Chapter Text
Saturday Evening
One year later…
——— Mandy’s POV ———
Fuck this crowd. Fuck the Southside. Mandy takes a deep breath and slides into the booth next to Iggy. She receives an elbow for it, but at least his hand is offering a joint. Which she gladly accepts. Kev won’t kick them out for this kind of thing, as long as they share it with him if catches them.
Her eyes have already locked onto Lip’s accidentally. Him and his bitchy looking girlfriend with a hideous infant in one of those snobby front packs with the ergonomically correct straps. She refused to let his presence effect her, smiling at him and tilting her drink in an across-the-room cheers. She can still feel his eyes on her from time to time, but she doesn’t give a shit. She was always too good for him, she just didn’t realize it until she finally got out from under Terry’s influence.
“You leavin’ in the mornin’?”
“As soon as I can,” she grunts out a response and turns her focus to her brother. He looks better than he ever used to. At least he showered for this. He doesn’t look like the timid little rat he used to be, always slinking around the house trying like hell to stay under the radar. Smoking his brains out just to quiet the never-ending dialogue of their father’s in his mind. Sure, Colin took a lot of the hits that were meant for Iggy. Just like Mickey did for Mandy. But Iggy is the one that was standing over a passed out Terry with a butcher knife in his hand one night. Mandy didn’t stop him. Only stood in her bedroom doorway and watched. Hoping he’d do it. She’d never tell a soul if he did. Hell, she’d would’ve helped him chop up the body and dispose of it. Eagerly.
Fuck, she swallows a gulp of her vodka cranberry and leans back against the wooden booth. Her gaze lands on Colin, across the table from her. Mostly passed out already. His hair is too long, his face is unshaved but he must have found a roof to live under at least. She’s going to check his arms later, see how fresh the needle tracks are. If they’ll have to dump him at the detox center before she leaves tomorrow.
Her focus is shifted to where a bunch of Southside dipshits are dancing where they’ve pulled tables off the floor. Kev must have spent a fortune on that stupid Jukebox to make it a more appealing place to the hipster douchebags that have become the norm in this shitbox. According to Mickey, that is.
Oh well, none of that shit matters right now. And she can’t help the smile that rises when her eyes fall on her brother right in the middle of the dance floor with her bestie from her teen years. She was shocked when Mickey called her to ask her about old Ms Bodnar. If it was true or if she was full of shit when she said the old lady teaches ballroom dancing. It didn’t take that much prying to get him to tell her why he wanted to know. And as much as she would never admit it, it was pretty fucking adorable when he huffed out his answer. Some shit about how ‘Ian wants to get fuckin’ married and the annoying fuck’ll probably make me dance with him, so might as well learn how to do it right’.
And they did, and they are. And it’s pretty fucking cute. Mandy just wishes she had seen the first few lessons. She can only imagine the amount of ‘fucks’ that came out of her brother while they were stepping on each other’s toes.
They aren’t stepping on each other’s toes now, and their cheesy fucking smiles are making Mandy want to puke.
“Hey, how is virginity like a soap bubble?”
“Huh?”
Iggy’s eyes are all over the other redheaded Gallagher, “one prick and it’s gone,” he smirks, shoving her out of the way to get out of the booth.
“She’s got a kid dumbass,” Mandy grunts at him.
“She lost her cherry but that’s no sin, she still has the box the cherry came in,” grinning slyly over his shoulder as he ditches her to fend for herself with their fucked-up brother.
She rolls her eyes at him and flips him off. Fuck. Her foot connects with Colin’s shin under the table. His pie-face rises just far enough to see the tiny dots of his eyes, “you wanna dance with me shithead?” hoping she can at least have a distraction to the never-ending torture of being around the Gallaghers.
“Hmph,” his hand rises to wipe a string of drool out of the corner of his mouth.
The song lyrics are starting to moan through the din of the crowded bar.
‘I’d be standing in the corner
I’d be waiting just to hold ya
I’d be
Waiting pretty baby just to dance with you.
Somehow they’re gone
Somehow they’re playing
I’m tired and worn
But I’m still standing’
“Fine,” she sighs, gaze shifting to the floor. She’s not going to lie, the scene actually makes her breath catch a little. Jesus, of course, if any shitty Milkoviches were ever going to find happiness, it’d be the shittiest little fucker of them all. And of course he’d find it with an obnoxious Gallagher.
Those idiots, she feels her lips rising into a full-fledged grin when Ian leans down, nudging Mickey’s forehead where it was hidden in his shoulder. Forcing his face out of the place it’s found to hide. Like Mickey will do this queer ass bullshit but he sure in the fuck ain’t gonna let anyone see him doin’ it. That is, until Ian uses his nose to force him to do it where people can see it. His cheeks are a light shade of pink, he’d say it’s from overheating in this fuckin’ shitass get-up but Mandy knows it’s a blush. And the outfit is adorable. Not like the horrible forced wear from his first forced wedding, which Mandy didn’t know a damn thing about until later. Later, one night when Ian was unable to get out of bed. Mickey was up pacing, and pacing and rubbing his eyes and pacing. Mandy was sitting at the table watching and waiting, hoping he’d say whatever it was he was thinking. But knowing if she poked him, he’d bite. The baby started crying, her nephew who she loved from day one, loved without knowing. The knowing didn’t change the love, but it changed the image she had in her head of her brother. It changed a lot of things.
‘I’m just saying hmm hmm baby
I’d be waiting ah baby
I’d be waiting ah baby just to dance with you’
Mandy feels like she’s spying on something so intimate, so incredibly intimate that it should be happening in their bedroom, not here, not right here on the make-shift dance floor in a dive bar in front of family and friends. An adorable light-hearted, tender kiss. Brief and then forehead to forehead while they breathe each other’s breath and Ian’s hand slides down from where it’s been resting on Mickey’s shoulder, smoothing the length of his sapphire blue shirt and flattening out on his lower back. Holding him close. Left hand with a brand new wedding band on his ring finger.
Shit, might as well get comfortable in this booth. Sit here and watch some fucking adorable and ridiculous displays of love.
——— Ian’s POV ———
He leans his forehead against Mickey’s, damp with sweat, taking a gentle moment to just breathe him in. Whispering the lyrics against his face, hand sliding from his shoulder, carrying a little tension, but only a little. Down his back, shirt sticking to his skin as Ian smooths it over with his hand, spreading his fingers wide against the small of his back and holding him as close as he can get.
Stealing one more kiss while Mickey’s face is still accessible, letting him lead them into the next song. Jesus, it just fits. Dancing with him, it just fits, just like everything else they’ve ever done. It takes some grumping and grumbling and eventually Ian gets his agreement and then Mickey takes charge.
His assumption when they started lessons with the tiny old Ukrainian lady, was that he would lead. He’s the one that used to dance for a living. He’s the one that loves to move and has never had a moment where he felt insecure or out of place doing it. But Mickey would be damned if he was going to hand over the reigns easily. After about a half hour of fighting for control the little old biddy snapped her cane across the backs of Ian’s knees and told him, ‘your love is a natural leader. Let him.’
He tucks his head into Mickey’s neck. Feeling his hand on his hip, a nice firm grip, his other hand tight and steady, fingers laced into fingers. The feel of Mickey’s wedding band, fuck, that’ll never get old. It’ll never get old. Just like kissing him. And smelling him. And seeing his damn smile, “I love you,” lips on delicate flesh.
“Fuckever firecrotch, we done with this shit yet? I gotta piss.”
“No,” he sighs out a smile against his neck and knows his breath is rising goosebumps on his skin, “not done ’til the night is over. Then I’ve got something special for you,” he takes the opportunity to grip a nice handful of perfect asscheek.
To which he gets shoved while Mickey squirms out of his grasp, flipping him off with a smirk. He watches him walk away, why the fuck wouldn’t he?
Barely noticing he’s still in the middle of the dance floor until a body is pressed against his, “your brother-in-law is hitting on me,” Debbie scoffs as she takes his hand in hers.
“Which one?”
“Like I know their names?”
He shrugs, “wouldn’t kill you to learn them,” changing gears to take the lead as Debbie steps into rhythm with him.
“Yeah, well it will kill me to listen to anymore of his pick-up lines.”
“I’ll give you that,” he grins at her.
“I love when you’re happy,” she admits with her own smile aimed at him.
“Yeah? Well, not sure if I would be if not for your meddling.”
“What meddling?”
“Oh what meddling?” he laughs at her feigned innocence. He doesn’t have to say anything. Not a word. She knows. He knows. Mickey told him. Something like, ‘that little matchstick had the fuckin’ balls to compare me to Frank. Like I ain’t no better than him if I ain’t there when you get out of the nuthouse’. He can only imagine what was truly said. Doesn’t really matter anyway, only part that matters is she got her point across. Right through that thick fucking skull of his.
His eyes shift from her face to find that man in the group by the bar now. That man. His man. Fuck, he’s gorgeous. And fuck yes, he’s going to get him to dance with him some more before this night is over.
——— Mickey’s POV ———
Slamming the empty shot glass down on the bar, last one. Last one for the night. Ian ain’t drinkin’ at all, and he don’t need some sloppy fuck on his damn fuckin’ all important wedding night. Fucker. Well, fine, fuckever, ain’t that bad. Ain’t like the worst thing ever to get dressed up and say a few fuckin’ vows and sign a piece of paper that’s so much more than a piece of paper this time. Exchange some fuckin’ kisses and rings and all the cheesy fuck that comes with shit like this.
His gaze locks onto the those big dopey green orbs from across the bar as soon as he feels them lingering on him. Fucker. Fuck him anyway. Make him dance, then actually learn the steps. Catch a few cane swats to the backs of his knees from some old bitch, who is sitting at the end of the bar swaying to the music. Fuck. Damn her.
“Yo, Ms Bodnar,” he hollers as he makes his way towards her, “you wanna dance?”
——— Fiona’s POV ———
Debbie shoots her a dirty look when she taps her shoulder, “my turn,” announcing to her with narrowed eyes, “you have an admirer.”
“Jesus Fi, I’m not interested.”
She laughs, “he’s probably got good weed.”
Debbie rolls her eyes, but doesn’t argue again before she heads off the dance floor.
“This is too fucking adorable,” and Ian is too fucking adorable. The whole thing is. Mickey dancing with some tiny half-bent over old lady. Their vows, their rings, their clothes. The whole thing. He’s warm and he’s gentle and he’s smiling. Smiling in a way that Fiona has not seen since he was fifteen. Sure, it was transparent as hell when he fell in love. She had no clue who it was with, but she saw the change in him. When the smiles faded then they disappeared, there was a time she thought she’d never see them again. There were times they were off, just a little too much like Monica. There were times when she didn’t want to see it but she couldn’t stop seeing it.
She reaches out to run her hand along his face, resting on his cheek for a moment, “I’m proud of you.”
His eyes are a little misty and the clear match to his emerald green shirt. With a sapphire blue tie.
“And I’m happy for you,” her chin quivers watching his face, so she takes the easy route of hiding in his shoulder, hiding until she can smear the tears against his shirt while he leads them around the floor as the music picks up pace and the floor gets more crowded. Laughter and out of key singing. Off rhythm dancing, sticky floor underfoot. Smell of beer, weed, and human trapped in the heat of the city’s summer night. All of that, every single part of it, blanketed with happiness. And maybe no one deserves it more than the two idiots they’re all here celebrating.
——— Mickey’s POV ———
“You’re too much for an old lady Yangoliatko,” the old biddy smiles at him and starts steering them off towards the bar, “your mama would have loved this.”
The old bitch never bothered to tell him that she knew his mother when he was a kid. It was only through the dance lessons that she started telling him stories about her. Guess they used to sit on the porch and drink coffee together. Or some shit.
Her gnarly knobby hands grasp his tightly when she sits down at the barstool, “cherish every moment. There will never be enough.”
“Yes ma’am,” trying to hide the thickness in his voice, and doing a poor job as he leans to kiss her cheek. Thumbing at his nose while he turns away, searching for the source of whatever gaze is crawling all over his skin now.
Fuckin’ Mandy. Fuck Mandy.
“You gonna sit here and pout all fuckin’ night bitchwit, or you gonna dance with me?”
She rolls her eyes and drains her vodka cranberry. Snooty bitch, all dressed up like she lives in New York now or some shit.
He grins at her, “c’mon, you can stand on my feet if you have to.”
“Think I’m some kind of pussy or something?” it halts and stalls out, but this isn’t the time for that shit. That memory. Standin’ in his doorway tryin’ to call him out for not chasing after the dream when the dream was walking away for a better future.
Mickey extends his hand. Open palmed and waiting. She watches it, deep in debate and they both feel it right there in the air. The open hand waiting to make contact, the closed fist coming to knock the wind out, the words parting his lips and charging through the air snaking into their ears and convincing them of his truths. His truths that were no more than the lies of a bitter angry man.
“Fuck Terry?” she squeaks out with eyes that are aimed at his hand instead of his eyes.
“Fuck Terry,” he waves his impatient hand in the space between them, “don’t leave me hangin’, fuck him.”
“Fuck him,” she nods, a half-smile finally taking hold of her face and chasing away the mist in her eyes as she lays her cold bony hand in his. Fuck her, how the fuck’s she cold in this heat? But it feels really fucking good against his overheated skin.
——— Mandy’s POV ———
“Fuckin’ Christ Mandy, you’re worse than he is,” he cocks his head towards his husband who is dancing with V now, “my fuckin’ lead. You fuckin’ follow, got it?” his brows are metering his annoyance level at near explosive but it only makes Mandy step on his toe on purpose this time.
“I would never follow you anywhere Mick.”
“Bitch,” narrowing his eyes right before he spins her. Which she was not expecting and it makes her laugh. And nearly trip over her own feet, “well you sure in the fuck ain’t no J Lo,” smirking.
“Yeah, and you ain’t no Patrick Swayze,” she laughs.
“Patrick Swayze, really?”
“I freaked out, I couldn’t think of anyone else.”
“Clearly.”
The only thing that could make the smile on her face grow any wider is the thing that is happening right now. Right now while he’s pretending it’s not happening. He’s pretending he can’t feel the little hands and the little arms and the little legs that are climbing up his legs and shimmying up his back, wrapping around him like a monkey. Pretending he has no idea until the little smiling face peeks around his shoulder and says, “boo!”
His startle is convincing, enough that Yev lets out a shrieking laugh over the sound of the music blaring and the drunks singing. His little blonde head snuggles into his dad’s neck until Mandy runs her hand through his hair. His chin landing on Mickey’s shoulder and his big blue eyes watching her, “I miss you when you’re gone,” he informs her, his arms wrapped tight around Mickey’s chest. Legs clenched around his waist.
“I know,” she leans forward, lips to his forehead, “we’ll FaceTime on Tuesday.”
“Every Tuesday.”
“Every Tuesday,” she agrees.
——— Ian’s POV ———
“And he is,” watching his eyes move beneath his lids, the light fluttering as his face completely relaxes against Mickey’s shoulder, “out,” Ian slides his arm under the kid’s butt, “I got him,” as Mickey untangles his arms and legs from around his body.
His full sleeping weight falls into Ian’s arms with grace and dignity similar to his father’s. Maybe his brother. Ian has never really been convinced that Yev is Mickey’s son, but he’s never point-blank asked the question. Seems like a moot point now. He calls him ‘dad’ and Mickey responds. That’s all that matters, isn’t it? The part where he’s there and he loves him.
“Alright buddy,” Mickey’s arms slide between Ian’s and the sleeping boy.
“I got him Mick. It’s fine, you’ve been dancing with him on your back for like a half hour, and he’s not getting any lighter,” insisting even though he knows Mickey will pry the kid out of his arms. Some day, maybe some day, he’ll be fully trusted with this kid again. Honestly, he doesn’t blame them one bit for being extra protective, but some day.
Mickey pauses, his hands having wove their way into Ian’s web of support for the sleeping body. His eyes rise and meet Ian’s. Scanning back and forth slowly between the two, like he can read his fucking mind, he nods, slips his hands out and lets Ian take their son.
——— Mickey’s POV ———
Fuckin’ kid is like a sack of potatoes. Head tilted to the side like a passed out drunk as soon as Ian leans him into his booster seat, “night Yevvy,” Ian whispers, kissing the top of his head, “I love you,” so quietly that Mickey can barely hear it.
“Alright kid,” he sighs when he finishes with the buckles, sliding his hand though his baby brother’s hair, adjusting his head to lean against the side of the headrest thingy, “I’ll see you Tuesday after work,” like the little fucker can hear him. His eyes linger on the kid’s face. Sure, part of him still resents him. He resents him for the choice to stay. The choice to stay, to not chase after Ian. To let him walk away that day for the Army. To let him leave the Southside behind him, and the trash that he couldn’t stop loving. The piece of trash that would do nothing more than drag him down if he asked him to stay. Fuck, what would they have done anyway? If Mickey chased after him like some bitch anyway. And what would have happened to this little bundle of attitude and laughter? Mickey feels himself smile, leaning in quickly to press lips against his forehead, “love you demon spawn.”
As soon as he backs away, the kid’s head falls forward again and he groans but doesn’t stir.
“Fuck, bitch,” his hand immediately rises to his chest, pressing on his heart to keep it in his ribcage. Not having sensed the whore behind him.
“What?” her eyes are narrowed but there’s no hammer in her hand. And the strangest fucking thing happens next. She hugs him. That cold-hearted Russian bitch ex-wife of his, she hugs him. And she kisses his cheek and wonders, “you’re happy, yes?”
“Yeah,” he responds honestly. For the first fucking time in his life.
“This is good,” cold bitch smiles, squeezing his arms and for the first time in a long time he thinks of the fire ants, and he realizes they’ve been gone for so many years he can’t remember the last time he felt them, “Tuesday.”
“Tuesday. I’ll get him after work.”
She nods, her eyes lingering on his face for a long moment. Maybe there should be more to say, or maybe not. Maybe their understanding of one another will always be silent. And maybe that kind of freedom is just fucking fine.
He shuts the car door when she’s situated. Stepping back on the sidewalk to watch them pull away. Ian’s hand meets his lower back immediately and his free hand rises to wave them off.
“He ain’t mine,” he blurts it before he can stop himself.
Ian’s lips meet his temple with a soft sigh, “yeah he is. He’s mine too. Since the day he was born. For the rest of his life.”
His fuckin’ eyes sting like a sonofabitch and his hand rises to thumb at his nose but it’s too fuckin’ late. Stupid cheesy fucker.
——— Ian’s POV ———
Mickey’s FUCK hand is covering as much of his face as he possibly can, lodged between him and Ian’s chest while he pretends he’s not crying. Hands up and down, back and forth on his back, strong shoulders, damp with sweat from dancing and letting his baby brother fall asleep on his back. Guy’s probably fucking exhausted. Emotional overload. And this is where it’s going to overflow. Outside the Alibi.
At least this time there aren’t any sirens or lights or bloody faces or shouting fathers. At least this time there were no ultimatums or threats to leave. Again.
And at least this time, at least this time when he doesn’t say it, he doesn’t say it, but Ian hears it, he hears every single word the way he should have the first time.
Ian, what you and I have makes me free. Not what these assholes know.
But as his hand slides up Mickey’s back, he’s fully aware of the new metal. And he’s fully aware of the fact that all the assholes know. Every single one of the Southside assholes know now. And the thing is, none of that matters. None of it ever did. The only part that matters, and only part that ever should have mattered is the part right here. Right here, right here next to him on the sidewalk in front of the Alibi. The part where his arms are wrapped around the man he’s loved since he was fourteen. The part where his lips are pressed against the top of his head. The part where he can feel his breath, he can feel his ribcage moving, calming against him and under his touch. The part where his heart is pumping a steady rhythm, a calm beat against Ian’s. The part where Ian has become the one thing, the only thing that Mickey ever needed from him that he was too selfish to give for so long. A safe place. A place where he’s never forced to do or say the things he doesn’t want to do or say. A place where he is loved for who he is and what he likes. A place where he can like the things he likes and he ain’t a bitch for it. The part where his freedom is a smile, a kiss, an embrace.
And the part that matters the most, the only part that matters, when his head tilts back and his gorgeous face appears in the harsh yellow glow of the streetlight, glossed with tears and flushed with heat, the story of their life together written in the incredible blue of his eyes searching Ian’s and finding his freedom and his safety and his future, sighing, “let’s go home.”
He takes the opportunity to lean into those pillow soft lips. The opportunity to linger. Just lips. Nothing more. Nothing less. Lingering there in his own safe place. The place that’s never judged and never feared and never stopped loving. Never once did he stop loving.
His hand slides down his husband’s back, fingers spreading and pressing into his body, “my favorite phrase,” feeling himself smile and watching in awe as the expression is mirrored towards him on the face he’ll never get tired of looking at.
Chapter 7: Sunday Morning
Summary:
It's close enough to Sunday... there was speculation on a strip tease by a few of you...
So I guess I should warn that this chapter is pretty fucking smut heavy. And there's some super light bondage that I don't even consider bondage (it's that light) but I suppose if that's anyone's turn-back-now point in a fic, then turn back now...
Oh yeah and some anal beads. I just keep trying to redeem Ian for the canon Ben-Wa scene. Because, seriously, how could you turn down that face Ian? How?
So without further ado - it's a wedding night so yeah, let's do it right ;)
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Sunday Morning
——— Mickey’s POV ———
Shithead’s been quiet on the walk home. His fingers entwined in a loose grip on Mickey’s between them. It ain’t like weird quiet or anything, well, sort of weird, the fucker never shuts up. But it ain’t like heavy quiet.
The stupid ugly streetlights are bouncing off his alien skin and makin’ him look half yellow and half orange but it’s still mostly sexy. At least when he’s shuttin’ up, Mickey can look at him for a minute and appreciate his face when his mouth ain’t movin’.
“What?” he finally wonders when they turn the last corner by the apartment building.
Busted, “nothin’.”
Dumb shit, stops in his tracks, yanks hard on Mickey’s hand. Free hand clamping down on his hip to turn him towards him and tug him into his body. Stupid dopey ass smile closin’ in on him. Fucker, like they ain’t made out in front of enough people today? Can’t make it like fifty more paces to their damn door and just do the shit in private. Fuck him. Mickey’s hand rises, sliding across his cheek, following the trail of his jaw through his hair and stays there. Fuckin’ shit.
But he’s warm and he’s sweet. His stupid fucking kisses make Mickey feel all fuckin’ weird like he’s starvin’ for air. And when his big dumb hand lands on the back of Mickey’s head and draws him that much closer, he doesn’t fight it. He ain’t got a reason left for fightin’ that shit.
——— Ian’s POV ———
“Don’t be thinkin’ this is how this shit’s gonna work from here on out,” his brows are high when he backs out of the kiss.
“What’s that?”
“Fuckin’ kissin’ all over the damn place. I ain’t anti-PDA ‘cause I’m a fuckin’ homophobe or some shit. I’m anti-PDA ‘cause it’s fucked.”
“Okay Mick,” both hands are on his hips now, keeping his pelvis locked in close. He leans in, nudging with his nose until Mickey gives up his mouth again. He can grump about it all he wants, Ian’s not going to let this opportunity pass him by. The jerk finally married him, and danced with him, and he fucking kissed him. In front of people. No, it’s not something Ian has always dreamed of, it’s not some lifelong goal to make Mickey okay with PDA. He just wants him to be comfortable with himself, he wants him to be able to show that he loves Ian, he wants him to be able to accept Ian’s love in return. And if that love rises in public and he wants to hold his hand or kiss his head, he should be able to do that from time to time. He doesn’t want him making some grand announcement or feeling like he needs to mark his territory. It’s just the feeling. The feeling of being overwhelmed by his love, or his affection, or his tenderness; and letting that show every once in awhile.
If he wants.
He shoves Ian away with one brow arched and a cocky nod towards the apartment, “what’s this shit you got for me when we get home, huh?”
“You’ll see when we get there.”
“Oh, okay, hard to get. Fuckever tough guy,” his hand slides back into Ian’s between them. And he’s in no hurry to get there, “better not be a bow taped to your dick or something queer.”
Chuckling to himself more than Mickey, “come on, I’m not that full of myself.”
“You sure about that?”
“Guess you’ll have to wait and find out,” swatting his ass when he takes the first step inside the place.
——— Mickey’s POV ———
Alright, this is getting fuckin’ weird as fuck. Shithead’s not talkin’. The damn door is shut and he ain’t going for Mickey’s clothes yet. Ain’t shouting shit about naked Sunday rules in place. It’s Sunday, right? It’s gotta be Sunday by now. Fuck, that was a long ass day.
Maybe the fucker is just tired. Holy shit, is he too tired to be horny? Or is it true what people say about married life? Get married, stop fuckin’. Shooting a sideways glance at him. He’s got his shoes off, and he’s working on his tie. Mickey’s tie has been gone for fuck knows how long. Not even sure it made it through the damn ceremony. Fuck ties. Corny fuck decided they needed to wear shirts to match their eyes and ties to match each other’s shirts.
‘Least the ring ain’t some ugly piece of shit. Gun metal, it’s alright. It ain’t gold. Gold felt heavy as fuck on that finger. This one, it ain’t bad.
“Alright firecrotch, get your damn dick out, let’s see what you got?”
He snorts out an amused sigh and tilts his head towards the bedroom. Better not be some fuckin’ flower petals and champagne bullshit. Fuck. Rolling his eyes towards his dopey ginger husband, yeah, that’s right, his husband. Fucker. Hot on Mickey’s heals when he pushes the bedroom door open. Letting out a relieved sigh when it ain’t the girly shit he was imagining. Not really expecting though. That shit ain’t Ian either. Glad it ain’t some fuckin’ sex tape set up. No fuckin’ whips and chains or some fuck.
Just a box. A box wrapped in blue paper with a green ribbon. Sitting on the middle of the bed. Fuck, better not be some weird sex stuff. Gettin’ all insecure about the shit about not fucking anymore once you’re hitched, or some such fuck.
He glances at him over his shoulder to see what his face is givin’ away. He looks pretty fuckin’ smug. So fuckever it is, it’s somethin’ he knows will either make Mickey squirm or something he’ll legitimately like.
He pops another button on his shirt to prepare for this shit, shoving his rolled and tucked sleeves even further up his arms. Fuck dress shirts. But Ian looks pretty fuckin’ fine in that shit.
“Wait, why’d you fuckin’ do this?” wondering suddenly when his fingers contact the wrapped package.
He shrugs, stepping up to his back and leaning his chin on Mickey’s shoulder, “you did the whole ceremony bullshit and took dance lessons with me, you deserve to have something you wanted on your wedding day too.”
Well, he ain’t about to say somethin’ queer like your smile is all I wanted, so he rips open the package, “fuck you,” when he lifts the Ruger out of the box, “fuck this thing.”
“I take it you like it?”
“Fuck you. Jesus, it’s like holding my dick in my hand,” just fuckin’ fits, testing out the grip, the weight of it, the balance, “fuck.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” damn hands sliding over his pants, taking a handful of junk.
“Fuck. We goin’ to the spot tomorrow?”
“Yeah. Guess I can make an exception for naked Sunday rules long enough to go shooting.”
“Fuck,” he doesn’t know what else to say. Dipshit must have saved up for awhile for this thing. He reaches around him to tilt the gun so Mickey can see the engraving on the edge of the grip. It’s the date. Today’s date. Well, yesterday’s date, “that so I won’t forget our anniversary?”
“Yep.”
“You’re an asshole,” fuck him for making Mickey’s eyes sting again. And his voice get all fucking thick and his heart catch in his throat as Ian’s lips land on his neck.
“Yep,” his hands have disappeared and Mickey’s guessing it’s to get to work on his clothes. He should probably tell him to just wait. Give him a damn minute and he’ll undress him. Guess he could do that lame shit. Like take a damn minute to appreciate every surface as it becomes exposed. But he can’t find his fucking voice right now. Fuck him. He leaves his perch against Mickey’s back and flicks the lights down to dim.
Probably the part where he should put the gun back in the case and turn around. Oh fuck him, fuck that shit. He turns on some fuckin’ music, “I ain’t dancin’…”
“Nope,” before Mickey can turn that damn blue tie is hooked around his hips and Ian’s pelvis is grinding on his ass, “I am. You did enough for me today and tonight. Rest of the night and all day tomorrow is about you. Only you,” his breath is getting all hot against Mickey’s ear and he’s swaying with the beat of his music, tugging the tie tight and guiding Mickey’s rhythm with it. Lips on his neck. Damn him. Mickey tilts his head to give him full access. He knows that’s Mickey’s weak spot.
Fucker, grinding all over his ass like that. Breathing and sucking on his neck. Just a little bit, just a tiny bit, not enough to leave a mark, but enough to make fucking tingles rip through his entire fucking body. He drops the tie and works the gun out of Mickey’s grasp, laying it in the case before he reaches over to set it on the side table. Grabbing Mickey’s hips with both hands and spinning him, shoving him to seated on the edge of the bed.
Ah fuck he hates this shit. He hates it ‘cause it’s sexy as hell and it’s like pure fucking torture. Watching him unbutton every single button so slowly and so deliberately. The way he looks at him while he’s doing it. Like he knows Mickey is fucking starved for his touch and he ain’t about to just hand that shit over. That’d be too easy, that’d be like he does every fucking day.
Good fucking Christ, it takes like ten fucking minutes just to get his fucking shirt off. And then he’s taking his sweet fucking time on his pants and his stupid eyes full of fuck-me are staying on Mickey the whole fucking time, like he’s got fuckin’ x-ray vision or somethin’. That wouldn’t be right. Then he’d just be seein’ his skeleton. Fuckever it’d be. See through clothes vision. Who gives a fuck? Mickey’s dick is hard, he ain’t supposed to be thinkin’ with a hard-on. That’s like droppin’ acid and playin’ video games. Just don’t mix.
Or droppin’ acid and doing anything really.
Fuck, now he’s down to boxers. And he’s dragging a kitchen chair in the room. Taking Mickey by the wrists and leading him to sit on the chair.
Shit. This fucker knows how to use his fucking body. Goddamn. And it ain’t like in the club. Mickey’s hands rise from beside him instinctively when he leans back, head against his shoulder and his ass grinding down on Mickey’s boner. As soon as his fingers make contact with his legs, he breathes out a reminder, “no touching.”
“Fuck. Fine,” sliding his hands under his own legs on the chair as Ian stands up to turn. Facing him, he leans down and starts on Mickey’s shirt. Fuck, his hands are sliding out from under his legs.
“Nope,” fucker.
He shoves them back under as Ian’s mouth makes contact with his throat. Nudging with his forehead to tilt Mickey’s head back. Goddamn it. Fuck, “fuck. Ian,” his hands are done with the buttons and he slides himself onto Mickey’s lap. Grinding on him as his hands slide under his shirt, slipping it off his shoulders slowly. It’s fucking painful how hard his dick is and Ian’s sitting right on the fucker. Fuck, “you wanna bottom tonight?”
“Whatever you want,” hot whisper against his jaw. Hands dropping to tease at the hem of his undershirt.
Fuck. That’s too much to think about. Fuck. He wants it all. He wants a hand job. A blow job. A fuck, two fucks. He wants to top and he wants to bottom. He wants to fuck the hell out of that hot ass until Ian can’t walk right, then he wants to switch. And never fucking get out of bed. Fuck. Fuck him for this. Why the fuck he give him a choice? It ain’t hard question to answer. Just a yes or a no.
Shit, fucker. He stands back up, pulling Mickey’s shirt out from behind him and tossing it toward the hamper. Oh that’s going to bother the hell out of him. He’s going to be staring at the fucking shirt sitting there all crumpled on top of the hamper all night. Then when he gets up to piss tonight, he’ll put it on a hanger and hook it to the closet door handle right next to the hamper full of dirty shit.
“What’s so funny?” his brow is furled.
“Nothin’. Keep goin’.”
He shrugs, his stripper facade breaking for just that moment before it takes over his features again and he steps out of his boxers. Goddamn it. Fuck that thing. Fuckin’, fuck. Now he just wants to bottom. Yep, he just wants to bottom. No question about that. Jesus.
“Hands to yourself.”
“Shit,” he didn’t even realize they were moving.
He’s turning around again, this time sliding his way down Mickey’s body and not stopping until he’s practically all the way on the floor. Keeping the beat of the music in mind and just fucking losing himself in the moment. He’s dancing stark fucking naked and has zero shits given about it. Fuck. Fuckin’ curtains might even be open. He didn’t even check. The fucker probably didn’t either. He’d probably get off on that shit. Knowing he’s being watched. Ain’t that the whole thrill of stripping? Being watched?
Fuck. Fuck knows. Fucker. Damn it. He’s fucking bending forward and Mickey has no fucking clue what kind of a move that is but his back is arched and his…
Shit, fuck, shit. His hands move before he can stop them and before Ian can stop them. They’re clenching down on his hips and yanking him back towards Mickey.
“No touch…” it’s choked off as soon as Mickey’s tongue slides down his crack. Fuck, he ain’t takin’ time to do this. Swirling his rim, his hand clamps down on Mickey’s at his hip and Mickey presses in, “fuck.”
Goddamnit, fuck that shit. Jesus, he hates what that fucker’s breathy curse words do to him. His dick is so hard he’s not even sure it’ll make it. Fuck, what is he? Like fifteen? Fuck. Going to jizz in his fucking pants? Fuck. His hands pull on his hips, tugging him closer, pressing farther and the fucker gasps. Like full on, on the verge of coming already gasps.
Shit, fuck, motherfucker. He keeps the contact, steering Ian with his hands on his hips towards the bed as he pushes with his face. Shoving him towards it when they get closer until his chest is down and and his ass is still up.
“Jesus Mick,” it’s muffled into the blankets that his hands are gripping.
Well, fuck, going to have to undress himself. When Ian moans again, fuck, that ain’t happening. He pulls his dick out of his fly and dumps about half a bottle of lube on it.
“Fuck, you ready?”
“Yes,” it’s all needy but shit, fuck, he needs to at least give him a finger to loosen this up. But watching his damn finger moving in and out and hearing the breathing getting all flustered and fucking choked off and his groan when he slips another lubed up finger in there, “just give it to me…”
“Shit,” watching his hand guiding his dick into Ian’s body. Fuck, he has to close his eyes. And stop moving. And breathe. Every single motherfucking surface of his body is loaded with fucking goosebumps and a shiver races down his spine, ripping his body in half when Ian grips his hand so fucking hard it hurts. Squishes that damn wedding band right into his bone and fuck. Fuck, the shithead leans back, into Mickey until he bottoms out.
“Hold on, fuck,” he tries but his eyes have forced themselves open to get a full view of this. Of Ian, of his husband, fucking taking control. His eyes are latched onto where he’s arching his pelvis, rolling forward and then snapping back. Fuck, “fuck, Ian.”
“Mmhmm,” fucker’s hand releases Mickey’s and a bunch of blood rushes into that finger where he dented the fucker with his wedding ring. He’s like barely fucking moving, just arching and bending and his fucking hands, his fucking hands. They land on his asscheeks and spread that shit open, filling Mickey’s vision the complete sight of what’s happening each fucking time he moves.
“Fuck,” his hands are gripping so tight to his pelvis but it doesn’t even matter. Nothing he could do would stop him. He’s on a fucking mission and he’s about to fucking accomplish it, “fuck, wait. Fuck, Ian, just…”
“Mm, mmm.”
His hand finally releases the knob of his pelvis, en route to his dick, but he stops him with a, “don’t.”
“Fuck, shit,” fucker’s going to come untouched. That fucker. Fuck. Goddamn it. Fuck. Both hands clench down on his pelvis again and Mickey’s stupid fucking body finally starts moving. Watching the connection point and seeing what it’s doing to Ian’s body. It’s way too fucking much.
But he can see Ian’s fingers turning white where he’s gripping his own asscheeks, pulsing grips. He knows exactly what those grips feel like on his own asscheeks and he knows exactly what they mean. Fuck. Shit, fuck, he picks up speed. Knowing it’s only going to take like two more thrusts. Shit, fucker. It better only take like two more, ‘cause that’s all he’s got. Fuck.
His right hand releases his ass, it slams down on the bed beside him taking a fistful of sheets. And fuck, yep, that’s it. That’s all he’s got. Fuck. A shudder rips through his core and his orgasm pulses through his body and right into Ian’s. Watching the fucking ripple effect as he goes rigid, Mickey slides his arms under his pelvis to hold him steady, feeling the release of his husband’s against the bed as he collapses against his back. Flushed with heat and kissed with sweat. When Mickey’s lips meet the knob of his spine, he breathes. It’s a deep, gasping breath like he ain’t breathed in a fuckin’ hour. And his entire giant body goes limp just like that.
Mickey stays where he is. Arms wrapped around his middle, face tucked in between his shoulder blades. And waits. Listens. Letting the tingles in his own body subside. Forehead to spine as he waits for Ian’s breathing to even back out before he slides away from him. Removing his undershirt to use as a cum rag.
“Fuck Mick,” the fucker finally sighs, “we need to do that more often.”
“Yeah, maybe it’ll last longer than five fuckin’ seconds if we do.”
Shithead’s just sort of turning into a puddle on the edge of the bed, “no. It doesn’t need to.”
“Fuckever tough guy.”
“I’m serious,” he’s still all breathy.
“Well you ain’t done yet. So don’t get too comfortable.”
——— Ian’s POV ———
Felt like it took an act of God to get off that mattress. And then another one to get to the chair. But Mickey is pretty damn determined to do something. Ian’s not sure what. He’s not sure if he can take another round of bottoming. Good fuck, that is intense. It’s nowhere near the first time. But it might as well be, every single damn time they do it that way. It’s like there’s some kind of gap in his universe that only closes when Mickey is inside him.
Where is he? The music is still going. The lights are still dim, but bright enough to get a good show. That was the point. Being seen. Being seen by his husband. He’s not sure what will be more sore when the day his done. His face from smiling. Or his ass from fucking. Or maybe his hand from Mickey’s fucking death grip on his fingers grinding that ring right into his finger bone. He’s going to sound like a pussy, but he’s going to have to say something before the jerk breaks his fucking finger.
He sighs, leaning his head back on the chair and watching the shadows on the ceiling. Wishing he had turned the music down so he could at least hear Mickey.
Shit. The asshole sneaks up on him. Sliding behind him and taking a hold of his hands. Tying a loose knot around either one and securing it to the chair. Tight enough to hold, not so tight to feel like he’s losing control. He could easily get out of it. It’s just an assurance that he won’t touch Mickey. Though, he’s pretty sure it’d take zip ties at the very least to keep his hands away from him. But he’ll play along. For now.
He groans when Mickey appears in front of him. Still half dressed and holding a set of anal beads, “no,” he hears himself whine. It’s too much. Shit, last time he only made it as far as inserting the first bead before Ian was tearing off the knot and taking him to the bed.
His nonverbal response is a wickedly arched brow as he stands facing Ian in the middle of the room. Slowing opening his belt buckle.
“You need to tighten the knots.”
Shaking his head, unbuttoning his pants.
“Yes you do.”
Another shake, unzipping.
“Yes.”
Another one, biting down on his lower lip as he drops his pants to the floor.
“Please.”
“No,” this time it’s pretty fucking final.
Shit. At least it’s only the three bead wand with the easy grip handle. Fuck, this is going to be torture. Utter torture. But he only leaves the knots loose to test Ian’s tolerance. It’s like a game of fucking chicken. And it took begging last time. And pleading and dimmer lights and some alcohol.
He only saw him take three shots throughout the course of the entire day. And he barely detected any whiskey on his tongue.
“Mick,” it’s so fucking pathetic sounding. And he doesn’t even care. And it just makes Mickey smile wickedly.
Damn it. It was Ian’s birthday when he begged for this. A few months ago. It was so fucking intense that he hasn’t asked since. He wanted it so fucking bad, he wanted to see Mickey pleasure himself relentlessly and then he couldn’t take it. He had to be the one. He had to do it. He couldn’t just sit back and watch. There was no fucking way. Oh fuck, and he knows exactly what’s in it for him. It took like two fucking years just to get him to try them together. And even then, it’s been rare.
“Fuck, Mick, come on,” when his pants hit the floor and he steps out of them.
“Come on, what?”
“Tighten the knots.”
His gorgeous eyes land on Ian’s mouth, lingering there for a long moment while he chews on the inside of his cheeks.
“Do it, come on. I can slip these off in like two seconds. Just tighten it to like thirty seconds kind of tight.”
——— Mickey’s POV ———
“Come on,” fucker’s face looks innocent as fuck.
“You gonna freak out if I do?”
“No. Promise.”
“Fuck,” dipshit, “fine. But you…”
“I know. I know. Safe word?”
“No, that’s fucking stupid. Just say stop fuckface.”
His damn dopey smile rises but Mickey can see some nerves showing through. His hand rises on his way past him, sliding through his hair before he drops to his knees behind him. He makes it like a twenty second knot. He aint fuckin’ around with some fuckin’ meltdown tonight. Yeah, sure, the idiot was in the nuthouse for a few days, feelin’ all loss of control over his entire life, all that shit the disorder took; Mickey gets it.
“Alright. Shut your fuckin’ mouth now tough guy.”
“Okay Mi…”
He cuts him off by leaning in to kiss him. Laying a hand flat on his chest for just a moment. Even if he was all excited about today and happy as fuck, don’t mean it wasn’t stressful. Lingering at his face, waiting to see how long it takes for his breath to even out. Tapping his cheek when he leans out, getting a confident nod and he believes it.
——— Ian’s POV ———
Oh fuck, holy fucking hell. Damn it, “Mick,” he breathes it like it’s the last word that will ever exit his mouth and he wants to taste every letter and only those letters for the rest of his life. He isn’t even feeling the ties right now. He’s feeling the tingles and the surges of lust and passion. He’s feeling the adoration and the complete trust in his man. Oh fuck, and he’s feeling his dick so fucking hard it hurts.
One leg propped on the dresser, he’s leaned forward, back arched just enough to get a good view. And holy fuck is it a good view. He watched his gorgeous fingers do a little prep, god, he watched it and he wanted to do it himself. He wanted to trail his tongue down the length of his spine. He wanted to fill his hands with his luscious asscheeks while his mouth did all the work.
His lips instinctively press together and his dick twitches while he watches the first bead enter and Mickey’s hips buck in response. Fuck. His hands clench against the legs of the chair. The jerk didn’t tighten the knots tight enough. He can get out of these one in like fifteen seconds. He wanted at least twenty. Damn it.
Start slow. He gets it. And Mickey is looking out for him. Sickness, health. Good times, bad. All that shit.
He smiles. And yeah, it’s starting to hurt when he smiles. But he just can’t fucking help it. Especially when Mickey’s left hand slides across his asscheek and catches a glint of his wedding band reflecting the dim glow of the bedroom light.
Slick fingers gliding over the second bead. What a fucking tease. He’s just going to grope the fucking bead for way longer than necessary. Oh shit, fucker. He’s pulling the first one back out. Oh fuck, Ian hears himself moan when he watches him slide the tip of it just barely in, turning it a few times, twisting it and fucking teasing himself now. Fuck, who is he fucking with here?
Ian’s eyes scan over his legs, watching the muscles tense and relax only to tense up again. The leg he’s resting most of his weight on bends at the knee and he shudders visibly as he presses the first bead back in and follows it quickly with the second one. Oh fuck. Yes, Ian’s dick is leaking. It is twitching and it is so fucking painfully hard he can’t handle this. He can’t. He just, no, oh fuck, bead two is coming back out.
“Mick,” he gasps it. Fuck, he wants to watch his face. He wants to watch his face and watch his ass. Fuck, “turn your head.”
He didn’t hear him. He’s not responding or moving. He takes a deep breath, Ian watches it in his ribcage. He watches as his hand moves, his left hand. More lube. Ian’s eyes catch on the way it shimmers on his ring. Jesus that’s gorgeous. That ring on that finger. That’s the most incredible thing Ian has ever seen. Rubbing the lube slowly around the third bead. The biggest on the chain.
Ian’s heart is trying to break through his ribcage and his breath keeps catching in his throat. His palms are sweeting where they’ve turned and gripped the legs of the chair, “turn your head,” it’s barely above a whisper and it sort of chokes off while he watches that gorgeous fucking hand start teasing himself with the third and final bead. Fuck, he’s so glad he didn’t buy the longer one. Fuck, he’d die. He’d choke to death on his own heart if there were any more than three. He’s nearly certain he’s going to cum just from that, just from three beads. Just from Mickey. Just, fuck, it isn’t about the beads at all. It’s about Mickey. It always fucking has been, “turn your head,” it comes out a little louder this time and pretty fucking pathetic.
Shit, but it works. His face turns, even though he can barely see him still, he can see enough past the shadows to see the outline of his perfect features. He can see enough to see his lips are parted, his breath is heavy, his eyes are plastered shut and his cheeks are pink. Goddamn, he doesn’t have to see, he only has to watch Mick’s face, the crease in his brow. Blood rushing too hard in Ian’s ears to hear it, but he knows he just gasped. And he knows bead three is past the threshold and he can see him shifting, arching back into the beads and into his hand and fuck. Shit, his face, his face is so fucking perfect. Ian can’t peel his eyes off his face.
“Mick,” he whispers it, and he knows he didn’t hear him past the rushing in his own ears and the heart beating in his throat and choked breath, “fuck, you’re gorgeous,” Ian’s hands are clamped so tight on the chair’s legs that he knows they’re going to hurt like fuck when he releases them.
His hand slides to the handle of the beads, but Ian clears his throat, “Mick,” louder this time. Loud enough that he knows he heard him, “back up. Come here.”
——— MIckey’s POV ———
“Come here,” it’s hard to hear him, he should have turned off the fucking music. Or maybe chilled out for five fucking seconds and breathed out the rushing in his body. HIs eyes flicker open and he catches Ian’s face, lips pressed together. But his damn eyes are pasted to Mickey’s face. That wasn’t the fuckin’ point of this damn show.
Fuckever, “ain’t fuckin’ yet Gallagher.”
“I know. Just trust me.”
“You gonna jizz already or what?”
“No,” stupid fucking smile, “no. Just trust me. Back up.”
“This ain’t like an interactive thing firecrotch.”
“Yes it is. Just get closer.”
“You can untie yourself…”
“Just back the fuck up,” he half shouts it.
“Demanding little fucker, huh?”
“Turn you on?”
He rolls his eyes, not about to admit that just being here like that is making his entire fucking body feel like it’s about to combust. It ain’t just his dick on the brink of explosion. And just seeing the way Ian’s body is responding to it, well, fuck, “fine.”
Oh fuck, that feels good to put that leg back on solid ground. Didn’t realize that was getting all cramped up. Fuck.
“No, don’t turn around,” when he takes a step towards him.
“Huh?”
“Don’t turn around.”
“Jesus fuck Ian, this is getting fuckin’ stupid. I’m untying you.”
“No, don’t. Just listen, come on. You started the game, just play along.”
“Yeah and all your fuckin’ blabbin’ on is really killin’ the mood.”
“Then just listen the first fucking time. Put your fucking ass in my face right now.”
He kinda feels like Ian just reached out and smacked him. And he kinda doesn’t mind it one fucking bit when he gets all riled up and frustrated, “alright tough guy,” don’t mean he’s gonna hurry over or some shit. He ain’t his slave. In fact, he’s going to get a glass of water first. He’s kinda parched after all that heavy breathing.
——— Ian’s POV ———
Mickey’s hand slides over Ian’s head, fingers trailing through his hair on his way past, “where the fuck are you going?”
“Thirsty.”
“What?!”
He’s seriously just going to walk by. He’s just going to make his slow fucking way over to the bathroom for a drink of water. He’s just going to walk right by Ian sitting here with a raging hard dick and no hands. He’s just going to walk by him with the anal beads up his ass and his own hard dick. He’s just going to take his sweet fucking time too.
Why the fuck is the music still going? Fuck.
Shit, he startles the hell out of him when he appears behind him. A cup of water in his hand, “drink it.”
“I’m fine Mick.”
“Shut the fuck up and drink it,” tilting it to where Ian can sip out of it. His lips meet Ian’s shoulder before he disappears again.
Jerk.
——— Mickey’s POV ———
He slides his hands down Ian’s chest from behind him. Pressing his lips against the back of his neck. There is nothing better than feeling the way his body shudders under Mickey’s hands. Sliding down his stomach until he meets his burning bush, running his fingers through the rough curls. Lips lingering on his skin, watching the goosebumps rising on his flesh. His other hand stays on his chest, feeling every single breath he takes, every single beat of his heart.
Gripping his cock at the base, slowly trailing the length of it and slipping his thumb over the leaking tip. Exactly what he was expecting. Ian’s head turns and his lips grace Mickey’s arm where it’s resting over his shoulder.
“Fuck, I love you,” he hears himself whisper against Ian’s spine.
“Love you too Mick,” murmured into his flesh.
——— Ian’s POV ———
Holy fuck this was the right choice. The easy grip handle. It was the best choice Ian has ever made. Well, not really. Mickey was the best choice Ian ever made. But the easy grip handle, that’s a pretty fucking close second. Clenched between his teeth and watching this close up and this intensely what Mickey’s body is doing as he guides the beads out.
And this, right here, this, where Mickey is so comfortable in his own fucking skin and he’s so comfortable liking what he likes. And letting Ian do it. Letting him get this kind of view and this kind of sensation. His entire body is tingling and too hot and too cold and he can’t feel the chair under him or his hands tied to the legs or even his own fucking aching dick. The only thing he can feel is Mickey’s hand clamped down on his knee, while the other arm is stretched out, gripping the dresser handle to keep him on his feet.
He pulls until the tip of the top bead is visible and then he pushes them all back in, in quick succession. Mickey’s back bows and he lets out one of the most incredible moans Ian has ever heard him make. Sending a shot of heat straight down his center and right to his dick. Shit, he’s not going to last.
“Don’t you fuckin’ dare blow your load,” Mickey growls at him all breathy as fuck.
Releasing the handle for long enough to remind him, “you either.”
Leaning forward this time to trace his tongue from where the handle is flush to his skin, down his balls, sucking them into his mouth. Following the trail back up and taking the handle in his teeth again.
“Fuck, Ian,” he knows it’s through gritted teeth and his fingers are leaving dents in Ian’s knee. Pulling back, so slowly. Jesus, is it gripping the handle or watching the show that has Ian drooling?
Shit, he pulls back to wipe his lips on Mickey’s asscheek. Mickey lets out an amused laugh, “fuckin’ droolin’?”
For that, the third bead is going back in. Without warning.
“Fuck,” his entire body shudders and he pushes back against Ian’s face.
This time his lips meet his asscheek. Pressing kisses over the pellet scars. Faded, but still right there. They’ll probably always be there. If not for the days to follow…
Not now. Not thinking about it.
“Sit down.”
He’s fucking trembling.
“Before you fall down.”
“I ain’t fallin’,” he denies it, but he doesn’t resist the invitation to sit. His thighs meeting Ian’s for a rest. His back meeting Ian’s stomach and chest.
Taking the opportunity to chase the goosebumps on his back with his lips. Creating a shudder that shakes them both. Face in his neck, taking a soft breath of his scent. Filling every single sense with nothing more than Mickey. Nothing more than his husband.
Mickey’s hands slide up the outside of Ian’s thighs, over his hips, finding his dick and slowly grasping it. Gentle pressure from base to tip, the head of it meeting his spine before his thumb slides over it again. A shiver races through Ian’s body and he breathes out against Mickey’s neck.
“Fuck,” his hand disappears quickly, body turning into a jerking spasming mess before the beads are sent flying over to the bed, discarded like the old fucked up memories of the life they used to lead. Forward from here. From this point. Always.
His feet land squarely on Ian’s thighs as he brings his body closer, his head falling back against his shoulder while he guides Ian’s dick into his body. Not wasting any time getting himself fully seated. Moaning gently, movements ceasing.
The sweat the only thing between them. The heat of the summer, the heat of their bodies, the heat of their union. There is nothing sweeter than the scent of Mickey when he’s lathered up with lust and passion. Ian buries his face in that scent and lets him rock slowly. So fucking slowly. Fighting his own urge to thrust into him, knowing the whole match will be over as soon as he does. They’ll both be shaking and panting soon enough anyway.
It’ll be over in two seconds if he frees his hands. Tilting his head to look at Mickey’s luminescent flesh in the glow of the bedroom lights. Tinged in sweat and shiny with lube. His fingers pulsing grips into Ian’s thighs before his right arm rises, bending and reaching behind his head. Landing on the back of Ian’s neck while his rocking picks up pace. Just a little.
Shit, he wants this to last. He wants to see Mickey and feel Mickey and know Mickey is enjoying the fuck out of himself. Completely unguarded and safe. Completely in control of his own pleasure and unafraid to let Ian know by the gorgeous moan that parts his lips.
He turns his head, nudging Mickey’s face with his nose until Mickey finally turns his head. Giving Ian full access to his mouth. Running his tongue over his lip until they part. His tongue darting out to meet Ian’s at the entrance of his mouth. Tangling together before Mickey’s pelvis rocks with even more vigor and his left hand leaves Ian’s thigh, dropping down his arm and finding his hand still gripping the leg of the chair. His fingers slide over his and force their way between. Interlacing their fingers and Ian is certain, over the sound of blood rushing in his ears, over the sound of Mickey’s gentle gasp, over the sound of the music that’s become nothing more than a background din in his head, over the breath catching in his throat; he’s certain he just heard the clink of metal on metal.
——— Mickey’s POV ———
Fuck. He should have untied the dope. For his own use. It’s getting impossible to hold himself up any longer. Wanting to just slide down Ian’s surface and turn into a puddle on the floor.
He’s already certain he’s not doing anything anymore. No part of him is moving. His head is too heavy to hold up. Resting back on Ian’s shoulder. He ain’t even kissing him anymore, just open-mouthed and letting Ian suck his bottom lip into his mouth. Letting him run his tongue along both lips when he releases and presses back into his mouth. Shit, his fuckin’ tongue feels like it weighs a hundred pounds, he can barely get it to move when Ian’s tickles it.
His grips are getting sweaty, too sweaty to maintain. The back of Ian’s neck, his feet against his thighs. If that fucker would untie himself and hold onto his hips this would feel a lot more stable. Like one more drop of sweat and he’s slippin’ right off into a pile of useless human on the carpet.
Fuckin’ dope must have heard him. That fucking mind sync bullshit. His right hand appears, sliding down Mickey’s chest and wrapping around his hips to hold him close, give him the stability to slide his feet off his thighs to the floor. His left hand stays clenched in Mickey’s though and he starts rocking gently into Mickey’s ass.
It’s really a wonder this fucking cheap ass kitchen chair hasn’t collapsed under them. Or at the very least tipped over. Ain’t like they spent some kind of fortune on it. Maybe the fucker was right about thrift shopping, about all the old furniture type shit being made better than the new shit. Or fucknot.
Fuck. His hand turns, palm to palm with Mickey’s for a moment before he starts fiddling with the knot. He’s shocked out of his fuckin’ mind that he kept those damn things tied the whole time. ‘Course, the idiot figuring out that he can guide that set of beads with his teeth, well that was just fuckin’ sexy. Feeling his breath on his ass durin’ that. Fuck.
“Mmm,” he hears it come out of his mouth and get muffled on Ian’s tongue. His left hand free now and sliding up Mickey’s thigh. Wrapping around his pelvis, laying flat on his hip, gripping with both hands now to lift Mickey.
Fucker. He was s’posed to just finish this up like this. Now he’s gotta walk over to the damn bed.
——— Ian’s POV ———
Stubborn fucker. All blissed out and barely conscious, making it hard as hell to steer him over to the bed. Jesus, it’d be easier to just fucking carry him. He stifles a laugh at the image of lifting him in his arms. Yeah, that’d go over well.
Turning him right before he gets to the edge, nudging and coaxing and finally just dragging him to the middle of the mattress and climbing on. Chest to chest. He knees his way between his legs and settles in. Jesus, fucker’s so lazy now. He grabs a pillow and shoves it under his not-at-all helpful husband’s ass.
Husband. He doesn’t stifle the smile when he presses it against Mickey’s mouth. His mouth that’s pretty much just open and breathing gently, “you aren’t sleeping yet,” he whispers gently as he guides his dick back into Mickey’s body.
“Mmmph,” his hands land on Ian’s shoulder blades.
Nudging his face with his nose until his eyes at least flicker open. It catches his breath and he hears himself whisper again tonight when he knows Mickey isn’t listening, “you’re gorgeous,” as the blue disappears behind lids again.
This time instead of kissing him, he leans his forehead to his and watches his lids crease when he rocks his pelvis.
God, he could keep doing this all night. Slow, easy, gentle. Leaning out a little further to watch his husband’s face. The crease in his brow, the air moving in and out of his nostrils, his perfect skin, his pink lips. They’re parted right now as Ian moves into him, but when he slowly slides back, they press together and his bottom lip gets sucked into his teeth for a moment. There’s no noise, but he mouths a silent, “fuck.”
Overstimulated. Completely overstimulated. And exhausted. And fuck, so fucking gorgeous. Is there anyway to make him understand that? To make him see that? See what Ian sees?
“Mick?”
He’s expecting some kind of muffled grunt or groan. Shocked when his eyes flicker open and he responds, “Ian.”
Ian. He smiles and he presses into those lips. Those lips that just a few hours ago were repeating the, ‘I will,’ while his cheeks turned pink and his hand clamped down so tight on Ian’s it hurt, but he had smiled. His eyes had dropped to Ian’s mouth while he repeated the same two words. Watching them come out of his lips, watching the space between them like they’d be written in smoke, swirling their way to his ears. That ocean had risen then, the tide to the moon, and stayed there. Stayed there until it was time for the kiss to seal the deal. Then they dropped back to Ian’s lips and waited. Hesitated maybe. It didn’t matter. Because Ian was already leaning into him. Already making the move and knowing it would be reciprocated. It might take him a split second, might take him just the extra breath to find the strength, but it would happen. And it would be worth the wait. It has always been worth the wait. Ian was just too impatient to realize it back then.
Nothing more than a gently rolling wave meeting the shore and Mickey’s choked hitched moan that floats somewhere in that misty uncertainty between pleasure and pain coats the inside of Ian’s mouth and that familiar tingle splits through his body with all the electricity it’s always contained. Like Mickey’s body is pulling it out of him, stealing a part of Ian every single time. He can feel the result of Mickey’s response between them, and the shudder in his jaw that’s still lazily fallen open under Ian’s mouth.
“Mmm,” it’s raspy and dry and the only response Ian can come up with is a smile. Kissing his way from his lazy mouth, across his jaw, down the side of his neck, lingering over his Adam’s apple as it bobs against his lips.
Knowing his hands are about to fall away from Ian’s shoulder blades and get sucked into the mattress like quicksand, he waits a breath. And as the left one starts sliding he seizes it in his right. Bringing it to his lips to kiss the warmth of the skin and the cool of the metal. Letting the full meaning of it fall around him. Husband. Mickey fucking Milkovich married Ian Gallagher today. And that’s pretty fucking cool.
“Alright Gallagher. Get the fuck off me.”
He huffs out a laugh, yep, that Mickey fucking Milkovich. That one. That’s the one that married him. And he’ll have him for the rest of his fucking life.
——— Mickey’s POV ———
Stubborn fucker. Can’t just sleep on his own fucking side of the bed when it’s a million fucking degrees in here and they’re both covered in sweat and lube and fuck knows what else. God fuckin’ forbid he let Mickey cool off for thirty fuckin’ seconds before he starts bulldozing him to the middle of the damn bed, pushing and pulling, sliding his arms under and around. Stupid bony knees jabbing into Mickey’s legs and forcing them to bend.
Fuckin’ sniffer. Sniffin’ him. Nudging into him until his nose is probably completely flat at the base of Mickey’s skull. Then his lips. Pressing against his spine. And his whisper, raising goosebumps on Mickey’s flesh, “I love you,” again, “you’re so fucking perfect,” again.
Dumb fucker.
“And I’m so glad to call you my husband.”
“Fuck off Gallagher.”
Stupid fucking giggle. Like he’s still fuckin’ fourteen years old.
Fuck him.
“Fuckever,” raising their linked hands to his lips, “love you too tough guy.”
Notes:
Can I crown myself the queen of respectful smut?
Chapter 8: Sunday Mid-Morning
Summary:
6 months later...
So Skadi said: "The ending of the chapter tho:-D" in reference to the end of chapter 4:
“Hey, maybe we should make our own sex tape,” he calls out, knowing it’ll break the awkwardness that’s lingering now.
“Fuck you firecrotch,” exactly what he was expecting to come spilling out of the bathroom and floating across the sticky late summer air inside their bedroom.But a sex tape? How out of character would that be for Mickey? Let's just see, shall we?
Chapter Text
Sunday Mid-Morning
Six months later
——— Ian’s POV ———
“I’m takin’ Yev to the rink then headin’ to Fi’s,” announcing as he barges through the bedroom door, leaning over the edge of the mattress to plant a kiss on Ian’s forehead.
“Okay,” trying like hell not to get disappointed. Night shift. Night shift fucking sucks but he needs to get some sleep. And if you work at night, you have to sleep during the day whether or not your kid is here for the weekend and your husband is taking him to the park to skate without you.
“Get some sleep tough guy,” his hand slides through Ian’s hair, “we’ll see you at Fi’s before shift starts.”
“Yeah,” he tries a smile but it doesn’t feel right, “okay Mick. Have fun.”
“Daddy! I’m ready!”
“K, then come in here and give Ian a kiss.”
He’s all smiles and wide eyes when he darts into the room and launches himself at the bed, landing very ungracefully, head crashing into Ian’s elbow. But he comes up all grins and kisses all over his face, “you coming to dinner?”
“Yeah,” he slides his hand through Yev’s hair, giving him a tight squeeze before the little shit takes off again.
Mickey’s brows are up as he leans in for one more kiss, “see you over there.”
“Love you,” taking a hold of his head to linger, to breathe him in, to center himself. He knows he did something he shouldn’t have last night. He knows he’ll have to tell Mickey eventually. And he knows it will most likely break some trust.
“Fuck you,” Mickeys sighs, planting a delicate kiss on his forehead and walking out with his middle finger in the air and his brows high, “get some fuckin’ sleep.”
“I know,” he sighs and listens as the two of them make their bump thumping way out of the apartment. Waiting a few minutes, guilt rising along with anticipation, waiting until he knows they’ve made it out of the building and they’re not turning around for a forgotten item.
Closing his eyes and letting as many images of Mickey’s trust rise to the surface as he can, thinking about what he did last night, fuck. His eyes flash open and he reaches for his phone. He needs to just delete it, he needs to wipe the proof and forget it ever happened. But secrets have never really been his strong suit. Especially when it comes to Mickey. And he’s been stable for so long now, and honest, and willing to be open about everything and Mickey has never once scoffed or judged or gotten angry.
Damn it, and here he is, right now, breaking his trust. He needs to delete it. He needs to pretend it never happened. Fuck. After he watches it. Just once.
A twinge of guilt singes his soul as his thumb lingers over the play button. Taking a deep breath and just tapping it, “holy fuck,” the opening image enough to make his dick tingle.
Mickey is lying on his back on the bed. One arm bent, propping his head to watch Ian who is not in the shot yet, having hit the button behind his back and stepping out of the way. He’s smiling. Just laying there smiling. Mostly naked. Just boxers, his hand is lingering over his dick. His left hand. It only rises to land on the top of Ian’s head as he appears in the screen, kissing his way up Mickey’s leg. Nosing past his boxers and stopping at his bellybutton. Mickey groans in annoyance when he pokes his tongue into it with a giggle. Licking a strip up the center of him to his chest, over to his right nipple. Mickey’s eyes close then, his breath exits gently and his fingers grip Ian’s hair. Ian’s hands sliding up his hips and tugging on his boxers while his mouth shifts to the other nipple. There’s no way those adorable pink nubs will ever stop being adorable.
Ian leans back on the bed, propping the phone on Mickey’s pillow, lying on his side facing the door. His dick is already at full salute, might as well start tugging. Even though the video is probably longer than he’ll last. Fuck, he might be able to get two jerks out of this video. If he didn’t feel so fucking guilty about it, that is. Fuck. He should have told Mickey he wanted a sex tape. He wanted some jerk off material for days like this. Mickey would get it, he’d say it was okay as long as no one else ever saw it, and as long as Mickey never had to watch it. He’d probably rather get hit by a truck than watch himself getting fucked. No matter how fucking sexy it is.
And holy fuck it’s sexy.
Nothing very interesting has even happened yet, but it’s fucking sexy as fuck. Ian’s fingers are dragging Mickey’s boxers off while his mouth moves to his neck and lingers there, whispering something that Mickey finds amusing as fuck judging by his brows and his eyes darting open just before Ian’s hands grip down firmly on his hips and he tosses him to the close side of the bed, face down. Pulling on his pelvis until he leans back, situating on his elbows and knees while Ian’s face dives into his asscrack. Sideview, it’s not very graphic, but Ian doesn’t need to see that part anyway. It’s the way Mickey’s muscles flex and relax, the way he pushes back towards Ian and his breath gets huffy, his back arches and bows and Ian’s never seen it from this angle before. That primal response to sexual stimuli. He’s felt it, he’s felt it plenty of times, that push back, that leaning into it, kind of like a cat needy for affection as soon as you start scratching behind their ears. But this, every single muscle line visible and his face is turned towards the dresser where Ian propped his phone.
Fuck, he should have done this on the laptop. His hand is barely moving from base to tip of his cock, and it’s already throbbing with the need for release.
FUCK is gripping the pillowcase and his cheeks are getting pink. The flushing seems to move in a wave down his body, overtaking his neck and shoulders. His pelvis rocking back into Ian as his hand slides up the outside of Mickey’s thigh, stopping on his asscheek and kneading into that perfect mound beside his face. He can’t see it on the screen but he knows by Mickey’s gasp and his head dropping low that he just pushed his thumb past the threshold.
Jesus Christ, he lets go of his dick, bringing the phone closer to his face to get a better view. And also to give his dick a rest, hold back that orgasm that is already forcing it’s way to the surface. Damn, how the fuck does he get Mickey to see himself? To see just how insanely fucking gorgeous he is. There is nothing on this Earth that could make Ian’s body react this way. He has never once seen a porn that’s had him this hot and bothered this quickly. He’s never once had a man in real life other than Mickey get him that fucking hard just from hearing his gasps. And watching his hands clench the sheet.
And now that hand is releasing the pillow and flailing back to land on Ian’s shoulder. He knows by the white knuckled grip that he’s just pushed a second finger into his husband. And he knows by Mickey’s reaction when it’s time to start moving his mouth up his back, leaving a trail of kisses up his spine as he dips down into the mattress and Ian’s hand follows him without losing the penetration. His free arm slides under his pelvis and keeps him arched just enough off the bed. Body lingering over top of him while his face hides in the pillow and his grunt is muffled.
Ian half laughs at the image of himself, hurrying now to get the lube smeared on his dick. Knowing Mickey is primed enough and it’s the time to get on him.
Watching Mickey’s body as Ian presses into him. Writhing in agony or pleasure or some combination of both that can only be produced in that first moment of penetration. His hips still and he waits. He waits until Mickey takes a deep breath and leans into him. Then his hands grip down on either hip, Mickey’s are both fisted in the sheets but his head rises out of the pillow for just a moment, just long enough for Ian to press his lips against the back of it.
The thrusts are slow but deep, every ripple an echo in the throes of Mickey’s body. Every single nerve ending firing with pleasure and his face turning again, this time the opposite direction. And this time Ian slides over him, lowering them both into the mattress until Mickey is nearly completely flat against it and Ian’s chest is against his strong back.
Watching the video he can still feel the layer of sweat between them and he swears the scent of Mickey is wafting through the bedroom as his fingers slide over his throbbing dick again.
He watches as his hands slip up the plains of Mickey’s back, down his arms and into his grasp, prying his fingers lose from the sheets, bringing both their arms under Mickey’s chest, he rolls them to their sides.
“Wrong side tough guy,” Mickey’s eyes are closed and his voice is garbled, but he’s right. Ian was aware of the camera and turned them towards it, with his back to the door. His back to the door meant Mickey’s back was to the door and it doesn’t matter how long Mickey is out of that house, and out from behind bars, he will always sleep with one eye on the door. Ian likes to think they only fuck on that side because it’s the side they sleep on, but he’s not sure. He likes to think that Mickey can forget to watch the door when they’re making love, he likes to think he’s so deep in the realm of pleasure that his trained mind is allowed the freedom to enjoy without thinking, without worry about his safety. He likes to think that the day on the couch that changed everything, is so far removed from his pleasure-dulled mind, that it never comes into sharp focus anymore when they’re together.
“I know,” he hears himself sigh on the screen. But he doesn’t move them. And Mickey doesn’t argue it at the moment. And Mickey’s body on full display on the device in front of him. His pale gorgeous flesh glazed with sweat, his abs flexing when Ian pushes into him and relaxing when he breathes a gentle moan. Eyes pinched shut, lips parted, a quiet pant escaping him when Ian picks up the pace. Their hands are still interlaced and pressed against Mickey’s chest.
Fuck, Ian doesn’t even have to look at Mickey’s beautiful cock in the video. Knowing it’s hard and just resting there untouched will make him blow his load even without the lazy stroking picking up speed.
Mickey’s eyes flash open suddenly, his head turning towards Ian, nudging at him until he appears over his shoulder with a smile. Mickey’s gentle smile in response makes Ian’s breath catch in his throat. Fuck, he shouldn’t have recorded this without asking. He shouldn’t be watching it. Guilt cuts through his pleasure but he feels his lips rising into a smile watching Mickey leaning into a kiss. Watching his mouth open against Ian’s and their tongues meet. His hand untangles itself from their embrace and slides across Mickey’s jaw, feeling the way it moves while he kisses him openmouthed and passionate. Ian’s mouth doesn’t release Mickey’s as he shifts behind him. Knowing by the wrinkle in his brow that Ian just pulled out, but he rolls towards him onto his back while Ian slides over him. Lowering himself gently, the kiss only deepening as he settles between Mickey’s thighs and his legs lock into place around Ian’s hips.
The hand that’s on Mickey’s jaw stays there while Mickey’s disappears from sight, guiding Ian back into his body with a gasp that Ian swallows. Staying still, Mickey’s hand slides up his back, landing on his shoulder blade.
Fuck, he can still feel that hand there. He can still feel his chest to his chest and his stomach to his stomach. He can feel the heat and the passion and the lust emanating off his husband and seeping into his soul, searing his flesh and branding his skin as he rocks into him. Mickey’s head tilts back but Ian doesn’t let go of his lips. His hand slides through his hair and snakes behind his head, giving himself the full access to Mickey’s lips even though he wants to break that kiss, he’s not going to let him. Ian’s passion thrives on those kisses. Sometimes he feels like he could just melt and slide down Mickey’s throat. He could live inside his body, under his armor, and be the strength he needs for himself instead of relying on Mickey for it.
He watches Mickey’s fingers as they press down on his back, the way the tension in his forearm makes his sinew pop in the gentle glow of the late afternoon winter’s light filtering in the window. He listens as the kiss deepens even further and his thrusts into Mickey become less controlled. Mickey’s legs clamp down tighter and he’s near desperation for breath but Ian’s not letting the kiss go. Not until one last thrust and a shudder visible ripping through both of them at the exact same time. Mickey’s breath sounds like he’s just been held underwater for longer than he can bear and his chest moves Ian’s with the inhale, his cheeks pink and his skin kissed with sweat.
Fuck, Ian’s hand slides down the length of his cock that’s twitching in his grip, he watches as Mickey’s eyes slowly open, looking up at Ian in the video and he smiles, his fingers sliding up Ian’s shoulders, neck and latching onto his hair. Steering him back to his lips. Ian can taste it now, right now as his hand slides up his cock and he spills an orgasm into the dirty t-shirt he grabbed before he laid down. His eyes close for a moment as the guilt stabs through him once more. He feels dirty but so fucking turned on. It feels wrong but the video looked so goddamn right he’s not sure if he can delete it just yet. Maybe he’ll keep it, just for night shift. Maybe just until night shift is over. Then he’ll get rid of it. Night shift, it’s a good excuse. They don’t get to fuck as much when he’s on nights. They barely see one another. It’s the worst shift in the rotation, and when he was to work overtime they can go days without seeing each other. So he needs this. He needs this video. And he needs to confess. He needs to tell Mickey about it immediately. When he gets a chance.
His eyes are already getting heavy, sleep starting to tug at the lids as he blinks lazily at the screen where they’re still making out. The edges of life are getting fuzzy and the mattress is starting to sink beneath his weight as he hears just barely over the other-world of invading sleep, “alright Gallagher, get the fuck off me,” drifting into his consciousness from the phone beside him.
****** Sunday Evening ********
——— Mickey’s POV ———
What the fuck is wrong with him? His eyes keep darting over to Mickey like he did something wrong. How the hell could he have found something to do to piss him off in the handful of hours they were gone and he was sleeping? And Mickey knows he was sleeping ‘cause the fucker looks like he just woke up. All blurry eyed still, his face is a little puffy and Mickey knows his damn pillowcase is probably soaked in drool, it’ll still be damp when he crawls into bed in a few hours.
He lifts a forkful of Fi’s meatloaf into his mouth. Fuck meatloaf, but at least she don’t put the gross fuckin’ green peppers in it anymore. Yeah, okay, so any food cooked at home is good food, and she’s being nice enough to feed them every Sunday. And it ain’t like she has to.
“How was skating Yev?” Fi wonders when she sits down across from him.
“Daddy fell three times!” he half-shouts it and splatters some mashed potatoes from his lips.
“Hey, swallow. Then talk,” Mickey reminds him.
His head turns with his little impish smile on his face and Mickey can’t even hold the disapproving brows towards him. Little shit, he reaches out to tweak his nose, “eat your dinner.”
He can feel Ian’s eyes on him but when he turns his head, they dart down to his plate. Fucker. Probably watched some damn porn without him and feels all guilty about it or some fuck. HIs eyes linger on the hand that’s resting beside his plate. His fingers are tapping nervously, a sure damn sign he’s keeping a secret. Not that it’ll last. As soon as Mickey steps out for a smoke the big dope’ll be hot on his heals and pretending he didn’t follow him just to tell him somethin’, blurtin’ it out like it’s eatin’ him alive. Like of all the dumb shit things they’ve done to each other, they’ve gotten to this point where Ian thinks watching porn and crankin’ on his dick is cheating. Fuckever, so Mickey knows when where and how the fucker beats off now. Better than how things used to be.
Those damn puppy dog eyes dart up to meet his, and flick away really quick again. Damn, he must have watched some fucked up shit to be this guilty over it.
——— Ian’s POV ———
“I thought you quit,” he nearly steps on Mickey’s heal on his way out the door behind him.
“Yeah, well, I get to smoke one a day dipshit. This is the one.”
“I thought you preferred it after sex,” his hand slides out, automatically going for Mickey’s hip as the door swings shut behind him.
“‘Less you’re gonna bend me over right here, then we ain’t got time for that shit,” his head turns, eyebrows up in a dare.
Ian snorts out a laugh, yeah of course, he’d love to, “maybe we could sneak upstairs. Like the old days,” taking the steps to lean his face into the back of Mickey’s neck.
“Oh the old days, like you mean when I was sleepin’ on…” his voice trails off and he clears his throat, “so, uh, what’d you do, huh? Watch a porno or some shit?”
He shrugs, feeling his resolve already weakening, of course Mickey saw right through the wall he was trying to keep up. He was going to wait, until they had some privacy, confess the issue and let Mickey sit quietly on it, maybe like tomorrow when he wakes up, after Mickey gets home from work.
“What was it? Like fuckin’ fistin’ or something?”
“No,” fuck that, what the fuck’s the point of punching some dude in the ass when you can pleasure him with a dick instead?
“Double penetration?” his brow is up.
“No,” he snickers, Mickey seems to think that if Ian watches it in a porn, then he’s into it in real life and he’ll ask Mickey to do it someday. Honestly, most of the shit that’s mainstream porn now is just fucking weird. Maybe like an amateur video where it’s truly a couple that’s just…
“Gang bang?”
“No. Fuck, no,” no fucking way Ian would pass Mickey off to another dude. No fucking way watching him getting banged by someone else would turn him on. Honestly, someone would end up dead by the end of the night.
“What then? Some fuckin’ like massive butt pl…”
“I recorded us,” he blurts it out quickly. Shit, he should have said something first, like some kind of warning that he was sorry before it was confessed, like he should have at least set this up as something he was regretting, not just some announcement like he was proud of himself.
“Huh?” he turns to face him in the dim glow of the porch light, his cheeks sucking in as he takes a long inhale of the smoke.
Fuck, it’s been years since Ian’s had a smoke, and right now he really fucking wants one. He watches his hand rise, reaching for it, but Mickey’s left hand swats it down midair, “uh uh,” brows at their height.
“What? Smoking is…”
“You quit. Like actually quit. So don’t fuck it up.”
The breath exits slowly through his mostly closed lips as his eyes linger on Mickey’s, but when Mickey’s narrow like he’s trying to see right through Ian, he can’t hold the contact, blurting out again, “I recorded us fucking.”
He nearly ducks, not sure what he’s expecting. Last time either of them threw a punch was fucking years ago in the dugout. There’s no way in fuck Mickey would hit him without some serious provocation. But is filming them fucking without his permission provocation enough? Shit, it might be. Ian takes a step back but Mickey’s expression hasn’t changed yet, his gaze shifts to the door, probably making sure it’s closed and no one heard that announcement.
He doesn’t look pissed. Why the fuck doesn’t he look pissed? He doesn’t even look surprised, not really. He’s watching Ian’s face, eyes shifting from one of Ian’s to the other and then down to his lips as his own rise into a smile. A smile?
Yeah, a smile. And it’s getting bigger. And his eyes are twinkling when they rise to meet Ian’s again. And he laughs? Yeah, he laughs. What the fuck?
“Mick?” maybe he just pushed him over the edge. Maybe he just finally shoved Mickey fully into insanity.
His laugh deepens and he turns away from Ian, chuckling while he takes another puff of his smoke. He’s still laughing when his thumbs rise to grind into his eyelids.
“Mickey, I’m sorry, I should have asked first. I should have, it’s not, I have to delete it still, but I’m going to. I’m going to right now. I’ll,” his hand falls to his back pocket, grasping his phone, “I’ll delete it right now. I just wanted something to jerk off to when I’m on night shift, when I don’t get to see you. And you know, porn is, it’s like a work-out just to find something…”
FUCK covers Ian’s hand over his phone screen. His eyes are dragged over to meet Mickey’s. The asshole is still chuckling, “take a breath shithead.”
“What?”
“Just relax fuckface, I ain’t mad.”
“But, I…”
His hand rises, taking hold of Ian’s chin, “think I’m fuckin’ blind or some fuck?”
“Wait, what?”
Brows darting up his forehead, waiting for the information to settle into Ian’s brain over the insecurity, guilt, and confusion at this point.
He laughs again, “you really think I didn’t notice the fuckin’ phone propped on the dresser? Think I didn’t notice you fuckin’ me facin’ the wrong side? Think I didn’t notice you actin’ all fuckin’ guilty and shit?”
“But, I…”
“You just ain’t that smooth firecrotch,” one brow quirks, smirk rising, “think if I was going to fuckin’ hit ya over it, I would have let you do it?”
“I didn’t think you’d hit me.”
“No? Why’d you flinch then, huh tough guy? Why’d you take a step back?”
“I, that was, I just, I was invading your personal space,” he tries.
“Like you fuckin’ care?”
“I… yeah, I mean, I shouldn’t have, I should have asked you. That was… why didn’t you stop me? If you knew the whole fucking time, why didn’t you…”
His hand rises, thumbing at his nose but he can’t hide the pink blush even in the dim glow of the porch light.
“Wait,” his hands land on Mickey’s hips, taking a step towards him, “you didn’t care?”
“Well, it ain’t like you’re gonna upload that fuckin’ shit. I fuckin’ know that.”
“How do you know that? How do you know I don’t want to share with the internet porn world that I have the sexiest husband,” one hand slides up his strong back, under his winter coat, “in the world?” leaning forward to kiss his nose.
“‘Cause you pretend you ain’t a jealous fuck, but you’re a jealous fuck.”
Ian snorts out a disbelieving laugh, “I’d put your sexy ass on the internet, just to feed off all the comments. I can see it now, ‘sexy bottom’, ‘who’s that gorgeous bottom?’, ‘holy shit that hot piece of ass can take a cock’.”
This time he does punch him. Lightly, with a smirk while he steps out of Ian’s hold on him, taking a long drag on the cigarette. His eyes shiny, debating how much of a compliment he can take while he chews on his lower lip.
“I’m kidding,” Ian smiles gently, “I’d never share you with anyone. But I’m not kidding that you’re sexy and gorgeous,” taking the chance to reach out for his face.
He lets Ian’s palm rest flat against his cheek for a moment, a brief one before he shakes it off and takes another slow drag.
Shit. What’d he say? He said something stupid, fuck, “okay. I’m deleting it.”
“Doesn’t fuckin’ matter,” the smoke rolls slowly out of his perfect lips, pursing together, focus shifting to the yard.
“No, I’m deleting it. If you don’t trust me that I won’t post it, then…”
“Fuck you. I know you ain’t sharin’ it.”
“You think someone might see it on accident or something?”
“No,” that lower lip is getting sucked into his mouth, teeth leaving prints in it as he stubs out the cigarette, “don’t give a fuck if you delete it or not man. Just…”
“You can watch it, I mean we can watch it together tomorrow when you get home. It’s fuckin’ hot Mick. I could have cum without even touching myself.”
He waves him off with his hand in the air between them, “I ain’t watchin’ that shit. Ever.”
Ian already knew that. His hand rises again, this time without his permission, it lands on Mickey’s chin and tilts his face up to look at him, there’s no hints of panic, he’s not waiting for the fist to come crashing into his face or his chest or his stomach. He just looks, fuck, he looks hurt. He was fucking laughing about the film. So what the fuck?
Every word that’s come out of his mouth since Mickey stopped chuckling filters through his mind. Shit, “it has nothing to do with how you take a cock Mick, that’s fucking stupid. That’s just the shit that people say about porn. A person puts themselves on a porn site, they make it about their body and their ability to fuck in one way or another, that just, it’s not like that’s what I think or…”
“You think I’m some bitch gives a fuck about…”
He cuts him off by kissing him. Talking about it won’t make a damn difference to Mickey. Ian just said something fucking stupid and trivialized him. It takes him a moment, while Ian’s lips linger over his, pressing tenderly, waiting. It takes him a moment to press back. Ian lets him take the lead. Just there, knowing he’ll open his mouth eventually. This probably won’t progress to tongue, or not much anyway, but it’s enough. It’s perfect. It’s exactly what Mickey is, exactly what Mickey has always been.
Trust is hard earned and easily broken.
——— Mickey’s POV ———
He leans out of the kiss but the big dope isn’t done fuckin’ chit-chattin’ like some little twelve year old girl, “there isn’t even an angle on the penetration, it’s like nothing more than…”
“Shut the fuck up Gallagher. Fuck. We got fuckin’ family right through that fuckin’ door and I guarantee some fuck is gonna be stickin’ their nosy fuckin’ face out here in like ten fucking seconds. Hear you blabbin’ on about penetration and some fuck.”
“Mick,” dumb fucker cuts him off, “I love you.”
“Jesus, you’re…” his damn lips crash into Mickey’s, this time jabbing his tongue right into his mouth without warning. Darting around until it finds Mickey’s and tangling up quickly. Fucker. He dives so deep that his teeth clack against Mickey’s and Mickey pulls back while Ian laughs. Closing his mouth this time and leaning against his lips. One hand pressing on his back, drawing him close, the other sliding through his hair.
He leans back but keeps their heads locked in position, breathing gently against his face, offering, “take my phone tonight. I’ll take yours. Then you can do what you want with the video,” nudging his nose into Mickey’s until he shifts his gaze to meet his eyes, “and I promise I will never record anything ever again without asking first,” the hand that’s on the back of Mickey’s head squeezes gently, “hey, I promise, okay? And I love you. And I respect you. You’re so much more than the body parts I love. I watched your face,” he breathes out a laugh, “it was your face I kept watching. And it’s not because it’s the most gorgeous face in the world, it is, but that’s not why. I kept watching your face because of the way you look at me. And the way you look when you’re relaxed and you’re enjoying yourself and you’re so goddamn perfect when your guard is down,” his hand slides down Mickey’s back, landing on his ass, grinding his pelvis against him. Fucker, “can I say vulnerable? When you’re vulnerable and trusting and…”
“Shut the fuck up Gallagher, fuck, you gonna start writin’ fuckin’ Hallmark cards or some fuck?”
He smiles that big stupid dopey fucking smile. Same stupid fucking dopey ass smile he’s always worn.
He feels himself smirk, tapping his cheek and cocking his head, “c’mere fucker.”
******** Sunday Night ********
———— Mickey’s POV ————
Well it ain’t like he’s gonna watch the fuckin’ thing. That’s not why the phone is in his hand, his thumb lingering over the arrow. That’s not why he’s chewing on his lower lip and his stomach is clenched up like some bitch on her wedding night or some fuck. That’s not why his hand is rising and his fingers are grinding in his eyes until he’s blind and blurry and blinking and when his hand drops it lands on the fuckin’ screen and his thumb just so happens to brush over the play button. Okay, so it’s not really a brush of contact, it’s a gentle accidental tap. No that’s a fuckin’ lie too. It’s a fuckin’ on purpose, well informed, completely knowingly tapping on the fuckin’ screen.
He sighs, knowing how fucking horrible this is going to be. Oh Jesus fuck, he looks fucking ridiculous starin’ at Ian as he’s moving over to the bed. Starin’ at him like he’s the fuckin’ center of the goddamn universe and Mickey’s whole fucking solar system revolves around him or some fuck. And Ian looks like an eager puppy sniffin’ his way up Mickey’s leg and stopping at his belly button to do that tongue swirl thing that Mickey fuckin’ hates.
Fuck, this is stupid. His fingers rise again, rubbing until he’s blind.
Blinking fog away to a screen where Ian is whispering something stupid, the same stupid shit he’s always whispering, like, ‘I’m going to pound the shit out of you Mick. In a good way’. Or if he’s feelin’ all sappy and stupid he’ll say some dumb shit like, ‘I’m so fucking lucky to have you in my life’. Fucker can never just shut the fuck up and bang him.
He can feel himself smiling even though he’s trying his hardest not to. And when Ian flips him on the bed, he’s just going to skip past that part. It’s a weird enough thing when he actually thinks about it, and he usually doesn’t actually think about it, like the whole your-mouth-was-just-all-over-my-shit-hole thing, it’s just a thing that’s a part of what Ian likes and sure, Mickey’s grown to like that shit too, and fuckever. He’s fuckin’ gay, and he likes when his husband is face deep in his ass, but that don’t mean he wants to watch it.
The dipshit was wrong though, this shit ain’t at all sexy. Has it’s own entertainment value, no denying that, watching the dope half panicked dumping lube all over the place like Mickey is gonna change his mind and leave him kneelin’ on the bed with a raging hard-on before he can put it where it belongs.
But yeah, okay, so there’s this look on his face when he guides his dick in, like he’s just entered the fucking gates of heaven or some shit. When his eyes glue themselves shut and his hands are sliding up Mickey’s back, and sure, it sends a tingle down his spine thinkin’ about those damn hands on his skin. But it still ain’t sexy. Is it?
No, it ain’t. But there’s that kiss on the back of Mickey’s head that’s pretty fuckin’ sweet and Mickey would never admit that it’s that kind of shit, it’s the little shit that dumb dopey fucker does that makes him feel secure. Like Mickey’s ever needed to feel secure or fuckever, but if he had to, then yeah, it’s that kind of shit that makes him feel pretty fuckin’ okay doin’ whatever the fuck they do and actually bein’ okay with enjoyin’ it. And when the fucker pries his fingers off the bed and grips down on his own and he still hasn’t learned his damn lesson on clamping down the wedding band fingers ‘cause Mickey’s fuckin’ finger’s still sore from that fucker’s vise grip. Fuckin’ wedding bands. He knew they should have just inked that shit.
Sure, when he rolls him over to his side, Mickey purposely doesn’t look at his tiny damn dick. Fuck, fuck that shit, when the fuck is that dumb shit from his whore ex-wife and his shitbag dad gonna stop filtering into his head? Fuck, what’d Ian say earlier? Some shit about the body parts he loves. So why the fuck doesn’t that shit stick in his head?
Fine, fuck, his dick is tingling to life when he watches that dumb fuck he married sliding his hand over Mickey’s jaw and letting it linger there while he kisses him like he’s kissing him back to life or some shit. And sure, maybe Mickey’s turned into the needy one that’s always lookin’ for reassurance of lips on lips even when the fucker is behind him and he’s breathin’ on his neck and shit, but it’s his fuckin’ lips and the way he just let’s all that damn passion and lust roll through his kisses that get Mickey goin’ sometimes. And make him feel fuckin’ secure. Fine, fuck, it makes him feels secure.
Damn it, sure, fucker. His hand has started sliding over his damn dick by the time Ian is rolling him to his back in the video and he’s leaning over him and he’s waiting for Mickey to guide him back in his body, like he was just fucking there but he needs the damn permission or somethin’ to go back in.
And fuckever, when he thinks about how that feels, how it feels to be fuckever Ian said, like all vulnerable and shit, and to actually be allowed to be all vulnerable and fuckin’ needy like some bitch and how fucking safe it feels. There, he thought it, safe. It feels safe to be with Ian. It feels like nothin’ will ever get taken from him that he don’t feel like givin’. It feels like he can be himself and he can like the things he likes and he ain’t really a bitch for it, and he can always blame the fuckin’ cuddling and making out and neediness for kissing on that damn soft-hearted ginger prick he married. ‘Cause it’s not like he’d ever, like fucking ever, actually say that it’s the damn kissing and the touching and the gentleness that gets him hard as fuck and sends these weird fucking things around his closed lids and he feels like he’s suffocating and breathing for the first time at the same time. And when that dumb fuck keeps kissing him even when he knows he wants to break the intimacy of it and reverse to the days in the dugout when they didn’t matter more than a quick fuck and none of the bad shit had happened yet, that prick keeps kissing him through all that shit and he keeps holding him even after they both fuckin’ blow their loads, it’s that shit, it’s that kind of shit that makes him love Ian Gallagher.
It sure in the fuck ain’t about his hair color or the fact he’s batshit crazy or he’s packin’ nine inches. None of that shit fuckin’ matters. That’s just an easier way of saying it’s Ian Gallagher, Ian Gallagher is his type. His only type. He don’t have a type, he has an Ian. And that dumb fucker is his Ian. And his Ian is the sappy fuck in this relationship ‘cause it sure in the fuck ain’t Mickey, Mickey’s got a reputation to uphold. And he wouldn’t be at all intimidatin’ if anyone knew he was the one who fuckin’ jerked his cock to some fuckin’ video of his husband makin’ love to him. Yeah, makin’ love. Like some sappy fuckin’ novel or tv show or romance movie. That’s exactly what that fuckin’ is.
“Fuck,” shoulda grabbed a fuckin’ rag. Guess Ian’s pillow case is gonna have to work.
‘Alright Gallagher, get the fuck off me,’ filters into his head from the screen and he feels himself smirking as he wipes the last of his cum on Ian’s pillowcase. Both of them knowing it’s a get the fuck off me before the intimacy kills me, let me take a piss, and then you can spoon the hell out of me all night. ‘Cause spooning is just fuckin’ fine, as long as I can face the door and be the shield between you and anything that might come through it. Even if that anything is nothing more than some little blonde nugget of a shithead kid that dive-bombs the bed all haphazard and knocking his face off elbows and knees and always comes up smilin’.
The wadded up pillow case hits the lid of the hamper and Mickey flops down on the bed. Right smack in the middle. He’d never actually tell Ian, but fuck, sometimes night shift is fuckin’ great. Sleep all sprawled in the middle of the bed like he owns the joint. Nevermind he always wakes up with his arms wrapped around that ginger fuck’s pillow and his nose is filled up with his scent and sure, he mostly wishes by then that he was pressed up against his back. But it ain’t like space is a bad thing. Like maybe if it was only three nights or something, three nights a row every couple weeks, that’d be fuckin’ great.
Fuck, the phone vibrates by his head where he left it resting on Ian’s pillow.
Ten o’clock on the fuckin’ dot. Fuck, he’s gettin’ old. Havin’ like a real person’s bedtime and shit, instead of going to work on Monday all hungover and tired like he used to.
He unlocks Ian’s phone to the ‘goodnight Mick’ text that the fucker always sends exactly at ten every single night on night shift. ‘Less he’s on a run, then he just sends it an hour or so late and Mickey sees it in the morning.
‘Fuck you firecrotch’.
And maybe he should admit he watched the damn video and reassure him he ain’t mad. His thumb lingers over the screen, “fuck it,” he sighs, reaching out to drop the phone on the dresser. Make him sweat it out. Shithead.
——— Ian’s POV ———
“You going to talk about it, or just stare at your phone all night and hope it answers all of life’s questions?”
“Fuck, sorry,” Ian slides the phone back in his pocket where it belongs when they’re riding. Sue’s driving but it still seems impolite and disrespectful to be gawking at his phone screen instead of conversing with his partner.
Heading back to the station, just a well-being check. Nothing exciting, which Ian is glad for. His stomach has been mostly knotted all night. Even though Mickey said he wasn’t mad, that doesn’t mean that won’t change if he watches the video.
“So, what’d you do to piss him off?”
“Nothing.”
“That came out way too quickly to be honest,” she laughs, “how many years have we been riding together, and you think you can lie to me?”
His hands rise, rubbing the length of his face and looking at her from the corner of his eye, a heavy sigh parts his lips, “I filmed us fucking.”
“Without telling him?”
“Yeah, but he knew. Of course he fucking did. I just…”
Her laugh fills the rig and interrupts his train of thought.
“What?”
“You’re such an idiot.”
“Fuck, I know that already. Thanks for the help.”
She doesn’t stop chuckling, “you admit it?”
“Yeah. I just wanted some jerk material. It’s not like I’d share it. Ever.”
She falls silent but the amusement doesn’t leave her face for long enough that Ian has to wonder, “what?”
Shaking her head with a smile, “doubt you have anything to worry about Gallagher.”
——— Mickey’s POV ———
Fuck. He rolls over and reads the clock on the phone screen beside the bed. It’s fuckin’ midnight and he ain’t sleepin’. And there’s a fuckin’ incoming text on the fuckface’s screen. From his phone. Fucker.
‘Mick?’
“Seriously Gallagher, fuck,” his fingers grind into his eyes and he blinks away the tiny amounts of sleep that were kind of sort of starting to filter in, “Jesus, fuck,” the phone is in his hand and the call is sent. Fucker, it’s easier to just listen to the dumb fuck breathing over the line and pretendin’ he ain’t worried that Mickey’s mad at him or some girly fuck.
“Mickey?”
“Who the fuck else would it be?”
He breathes out a nervous chuckle.
“Well, the fuck do you want shithead?”
“Nothing, no, I just, I was checking in.”
“Yeah well, you already did that when you said good night.”
Pause, then, “yeah I guess.”
“What Ian? Somethin’ happen?”
“No, no, nothing job-related, just…”
“Feelin’ like a guilty fuck.”
“Yeah,” he sighs it like the weight is already lifting.
Mickey lets the silence linger for a beat, admitting, “yeah I watched it.”
“You did?” dumb fucker, like he’s still sittin’ under the damn bleachers listenin’ to Mickey admit, ‘missed ya’.
“Well, yeah, fuckface, you told me to.”
“I know I did, but I mean, I thought you’d, um, I thought you’d tell me, or, um, maybe we’d…”
“No. We ain’t ever watchin’ that shit together. I sure in the fuck don’t need your dialogue to go along with it about fuckever body worship bullshit you’d be spewin’.”
Fucker giggles.
He ever going to laugh like a grown man? Fuck, it makes Mickey smile like a fuckin’ idiot.
“So, you, um delete it then?” it’s all fuckin’ shy.
“No,” he grumbles it, “but that don’t mean anything. Just means if you’re gonna fuckin’ jerk off to it all week and then delete it when night shift is over, then that’s fuckin’ fine. Don’t mean I want you to keep it.”
“Okay Mick,” he sighs it through the smile that Mickey is certain is plastered on his face. And he knows he’s calling Mickey’s bluff. He knows Mickey don’t give a fuck if he keeps it. Fuck, fine, if the fucker wants to keep it, then s’pose he might as well jerk his cock to a home video rather than some stranger on internet porn. And what? The shithead deletes this one and then just does it again, only next time asks and begs and it gets all fuckin’ weird, only to get his damn way and get a new video but then they gotta acknowledge it and then if the fucker deletes that one after next night shift, he’ll just want another one? That sounds like a fuckin’ work out, is what that sounds like. He might as well just keep this one. Fuck. At least this one ain’t all POV and close up on the fuckin’ penetration and some fuck.
“Fuck, fine, keep the fucker. It ain’t the worst thing I’ve ever seen. Just fuckin’ keep it to your damn self, alright?”
Jesus Christ, that fucking giggle. Fucker’s all giddy, isn’t he? Dipshit is gonna be horny as fuck when he gets home from work tomorrow, knowing Mick let him keep his stupid smutty shit. Knowing Mickey watched the damn thing, and didn’t lose his fuckin’ mind over it. Knowing it didn’t break any trust and knock them back down to where they were like five years ago.
“Fucker.”
“I know,” he sighs and the silence lingers for a moment before he whispers, “thanks Mick.”
“Fuckever tough guy. Just don’t fuckin’ do it again.”
“I won’t. I promise.”
“I know.”
“I love you. Go to sleep.”
“Fuck you. Get to work.”
“I love you Mickey,” fucker insists.
And he’s only insistin’ ‘cause he needs to hear, “I love you too fuckface,” before he can hang up the fuckin’ phone. Shithead. Now Mickey’s gonna be tired as fuck for work tomorrow. ‘Cause of a fuckin’ sex tape.
Settling back into bed, facing Ian’s side, his hand sliding over the fucker’s pillow immediately. He feels the corners of his mouth lifting into a smile, “fuck,” sighing hard, gripping the damn pillow to his chest to roll to the correct side, facing the door. Some habits die fuckin’ hard. Or maybe they never die at all. Fuck it, yeah, he’s fuckin’ smilin’ and he’s got a face full of his husband’s pillow when sleep tingles are starting to set in.
Chapter 9: Monday
Summary:
Happy Sunday - look what I found sitting in the dust...
We left off with a homemade porn and phones being traded off...
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Monday
******** Monday Morning ********
———— Ian’s POV ————
“Fuck, fuck, fucking, fuck,” Ian’s heart is lodged in his throat, panic gripping his gut as he shoves the apartment door open. Mickey’s fucking coat and boots are still here, they’re still here. So where the fuck is he and why isn’t he answering his fucking phone? Ian’s fucking phone. He’s not fucking answering it.
His throat keeps constricting, tears keep threatening to burn his eyes out of his head and all the scenarios have been playing out in his mind since his boss called, and called, while Ian was on the rig, and kept calling. Finally leaving a message about how it’s an hour into shift and he still hasn’t laid eyes on a single fucking Milkovich and he’d expect this shit from any of the others, but not from Mickey. No call, no show.
Some shit from Mickey’s past come back to bite him? If someone broke in, it wasn’t through the front door. The fire escape window is still closed, glass in tact.
Terry is locked up for fucking life. Turns out Colin did remember where Terry had his two oldest sons bury their mother’s body. And turns out, Colin didn’t mind trading that information for time served for whatever his last misdemeanor was. So whatever Terry told them about the OD being on purpose by her, was fucking bullshit and the kids were just kids and they didn’t realize if it was a true suicide or even an accident by her own hand, then they wouldn’t need to dispose of the fucking body but that stupid cruelly intelligent fucker convinced them it was only because he couldn’t afford a fucking funeral and they weren’t allowed to bury her in the cemetery without paying for it and if her kids needed some fucking place to visit her they could go visit her fucking dealer. Fucker.
Fuck, Mickey wasn’t drinking last night. Not that drinking ever stopped him from showing up to work hung the fuck over anyway.
Jesus fucking Christ, why is he even taking his fucking boots off? Mickey could be in the throes of a heart attack and Ian is taking his fucking boots off.
“Idiot,” he hears himself chastise as he trips his way out of the left boot and stumbles through the mostly still dark winter morning in the apartment. His hand on the bedroom doorknob. Vision narrowing down to pretty much nothing with little sparks of panic blurring around the edges, fuck, this is his fucking job, opening doors to every medical scenario possible, and this is not how it happens on the job. Because this is fucking home, this is home. And this is his husband, this is his husband on the other side of the door where his hand is getting sweaty as fuck on the doorknob and he’s been calling his own fucking phone for the last half hour and Mickey didn’t fucking answer. He hasn’t been fucking answering because he’d dead. He’s dead. He is. And Ian knows that. Fuck.
Deep breath and he shoves the door open. And he’s not quiet about it, and the fucking bastard doesn’t startle and sit straight up in bed looking all disheveled and panic eyed. He doesn’t fucking move, at all. Fuck. He is. He is dead. He, he is, and now Ian’s stomach is doing flip-flops and forcing acid up his throat. And he can’t figure out how the fuck this happened and how he could stop it, or what the fuck he’s supposed to do now, but his mouth is dry and his vision is blurry and receding and he can’t fucking breathe.
His butt hits the floor and his eyes aren’t only blurry with panic and fear, now they’re blurry with tears and when his head falls back and thunks against the doorframe, he catches a startle of movement and over the rushing in his ears hears the sharp inhale of surprise.
———— Mickey’s POV ————
“The fuck firecrotch?” his fingers rubbing into his eyes immediately, trying to push back sleep and force wake. The dummy is sittin’ on the floor with his right boot still on and his head leaned against the doorframe, and it looks like the dumb fucker is cryin’.
“Why the fuck you home early?” his heart is beating in every part of his body. Fuck, he hates bein’ woken up unexpectedly. But fuck, if dipshit’s home early and he’s cryin’, then, “fuck happened?”
Fuck, the floor is cold underfoot in the middle of fuckin’ winter. Fuck Chicago, he drops to his knees in front of Ian, reaching for his shoulder, attempting a soothing tone or some shit this time when he wonders, “the fuck happened tough guy?”
Those stupid long fingers that Mickey loves, leave his face and immediately find the handles of Mickey’s jaw, pulling him close, forehead to forehead. He takes a deep breath, nuzzles his way into Mickey’s neck and sighs out a half-laugh.
“Uh, the fuck’s funny at fuckin’ five in the mornin’ or fuckever time it is?”
Ian’s hands slide to the back of Mickey’s head, fingers pressing into his scalp. Fucker could at least massage that shit if he’s going to startle him out of bed this early in the damn morning after he kept him up late with his damn sex tape and then his damn not wanting Mickey to go to bed mad at him shit. Or maybe Mickey feelin’ fuckin’ guilty for not calling him and telling him right afuckingway that he watched the fucker, ‘stead of makin’ him sweat it out. Fuckever.
“What the fuck Ian? Use some fuckin’ words, ya know those fuckin’ distinct meaningfuckingful elefuckingments of speech that you can string the fuck tofuckinggether to form sentences or suchfuck?”
Dipshit snorts out a laugh, “that the dictionary definition of a word? Or the fucktionary?”
“Fucktionary,” shaking his head in amusement, feeling Ian’s hair against his chin and remembering to slide his fingers through it before the dumb fuck grabs one of his hands and brings it to his lips, tucks it into his chest with his own.
“The fucktionary by Mickey fucking Milkovich,” he whispers, kind of shaky.
Yeah, well, now he’s noticing that the fucker’s heart is beating pretty fucking quick for some idiot who’s just sittin’ on the floor in his bedroom. Mickey tilts his face to press his lips against Ian’s fiery crown, letting himself all the way to his butt on the floor and sliding alongside Ian. But now that they’re both butt-level on the floor, means the idiot can’t hide in Mickey’s neck. Fuck him for being so fucking tall. But fuckever, now he’s gotta look him in the eye, “fuck’s up shithead?”
His eyes are glossy and they’re lingering on Mickey’s like he ain’t seen him in a damn year or some shit. It was only like seven hours or somethin’, “fuck time is it? Why the fuck you home early?”
“I’m not home early,” he sighs, finally taking a deep breath, “you’re late.”
“No I fuckin' ain’t,” watching his husband for that dead giveaway that he’d be fucking with him. Well, he sure in the fuck ain’t, “what the fuck Ian? The fuck time is it?” jerking to his feet and groping around the bedside table for his phone, “fuck, shit, motherfucker, why the fuck didn’t you…” so there’s only like twenty missed calls, “why the fuck didn’t it…” fuckin’ thing is silenced, when the fuck did he even silence the thing? “the fuck the alarm…” ‘cause it ain’t Mick’s phone, “motherfucker.”
And Jesus fucking Christ, that fuckin’ video is still up on the screen when he unlocks it.
“Fuck, guess I’ll call Bill. Tell him I’m runnin’ late.”
“Yeah,” he sighs and it’s still all breathy like he’s been on the verge of a panic attack or some shit.
“Wait, shit, your dumbass think somethin’ happened to me?”
He’s still sittin’ on the floor. Knees partially drawn up, elbows resting on them and his fingertips pressed together, thumbs against his lips as his head turns to watch Mickey with a slow nod.
Mickey sighs, setting the phone back down on the table and running his hand through his hair before he lowers himself to the floor again. And fuck it, this time it’s a knee on either side of Ian’s hips, wrapping his arms around his square shoulders, hand on the back of his head to give him a push into Mickey’s neck.
Dumb shit left work in enough of a panic to only kick off one boot on the way in the door. Must have been pretty heavy panic for that shit to happen when he could have tracked in some fuckin’ road salt or some such fuck on that boot tread. He tilts his face down to nuzzle against his orange hair and take a deep whiff of it, “fuckin’ worrywart.”
Well, thing is, Mickey knows the dipshit fixates on Mickey ‘cause Mickey’s his damn anchor or his rock or whatever weighty fucking thing else he could be compared to. The dumb bitch that he sees for talk therapy, maybe the same dumb bitch that Mickey’s seen a few times ‘cause he should know what’s up with Ian even if it’s all patient confidentially shit when he goes without him, and still it’s, fuck, fine, maybe Mickey talked to the bitch once when the appointment was for the fuckin’ two of ‘em and Ian was late and he kind of sort of talked to her about himself a little bit. Maybe just a little bit and maybe it felt fuckin’ good and maybe he still goes to see her like once a month or some shit, but that ain’t the point. The point is, the bitch said that Ian fixates on Mickey as caretaker among all the other things they are for each other. So if Mickey ain’t a stable fucking anchor dug so fucking far in the bottom of the ocean, then Ian’s goin’ for a fuckin’ ride again. And it ain’t even like a conscious thing on that kind of level, it’s just what fuckers like Ian do when they get stable and they need that stable shit in their lives to stay that way.
And they gotta work on some other kind of stable support system too according to the quack ‘cause he can’t just rely solely on Mickey. Even if Mickey don’t care that he does, it’s shit like this, like if Mickey actually was hurt or sick or, god fuckin’ forbid, dead; then Ian needs like a shit-ton of other people to support him too.
Weight distribution or some fuck.
Fuckever. That’s way too much thinkin’ around for this time of the fuckin’ morning when he should really be calling Bill by now. Fuck.
——— Ian’s POV ———
The skin between them is wet, but neither one of them are going to acknowledge it. Mickey’s hands are playing some kind of pattern on the back of his head and drawing back the spiderwebs of panic and worry that were scratching through his scalp only moments ago. No, he has no fucking clue what he would do if something happened to Mickey, and he doesn’t ever want to know. But that, panicking over that, that is fucking embarrassing. Or it should be, but maybe it’s not.
Mickey has just sort of wrapped himself around Ian, right here on the floor. Ian’s jacket is still damp with melted snow that was falling on his way home. His boot is probably leaving a nice wet and salty footprint right in the middle of the floor. His hands are still cold from being outside without gloves, but sweaty from panic.
And fuck, Mickey’s body is so fucking warm. Ian’s hand slides over his cheeks, catching the last of the stupid tears that were pointless and Mickey should probably be making fun of him for it, but he’s not. When his cold hands slide down the surface of Mickey’s back he just shudders that much closer to Ian’s chest. The guy fucking radiates heat, he always has.
Built for survival.
He nuzzles into Mickey’s neck until he tilts his head, surrendering his lips for a sweet tender kiss that trails it’s way across Ian’s jaw before he adjusts to his feet, Ian doesn’t want to let go, but Mickey’s already late for work. He watches him from the place where he seems to be growing roots on the floor as all the shit from the treads of his boot melt off and seep into the hardwood.
“Yeah, I ain’t makin’ it in today,” Ian hears filtering through his brain while it’s shutting down from stress relief and realizing just how fucking tired he is.
Asshole. Calling in sick for the entire damn day because he thinks Ian needs him to stay home, “Mick,” he sighs when his husband’s brows are risen as he turns to scan him over.
“Don’t ‘Mick’ me. Ain’t about you fuckface. I’m gettin’ back in bed ‘cause I stayed up late watching fuckin’ homegrown porn and jerking my dick and now I’m fuckin’ tired. Now take your fuckin’ boot off, clean that fuckin’ print off my floor and strip.”
Guess it can just be that simple, he feels himself smile watching Mickey stalking over to the bathroom to take a piss.
——— Mickey’s POV ———
Jerk is already in bed by the time Mickey slides back under the sheets. And maybe that was a lie, that part about still being tired. But laying here, pretending nothing else in the world exists for another hour or so, that sounds pretty fuckin’ okay.
His head meets Mickey’s chest, arm draping across his ribs immediately when he lays back. Mickey’s fingers rise without him telling them to, finding his hair and sliding some of those longer pieces up top between them. Tilting to rest his face in Ian’s quaff and just listen to him breathe.
******** Monday Noon ********
———— Mickey’s POV ————
Fuckin’ stupid phone vibratin’ and dingin’ and all that fuckin’ annoying ass shit over on the nightstand. First Ian’s, then Mickey’s. And now Ian’s again. And the drooling fucker hasn’t budged an inch. Fuck, those long gangly ass arms weigh like a hundred pounds a piece when they’re dead with sleep, impedin’ Mickey’s breathing by now. Fuck. His damn bony leg sprawled over Mickey’s like he’s trapping him there. And he kind of is.
Mickey’s hand rises, scrubbing the length of his face, before he removes himself from Ian’s dead sleep grip. Sliding fingers through his hair, leaving a kiss on the top of his head before he grabs the offending phone and starts out the bedroom door with it, “what?” he hisses in a whisper.
“Mickey?”
“The fuck Debbie?”
“Ian sleeping?”
“Yeah,” latching the door behind him, “of fuckin’ course he is. The fuck you stalker dialin’ him when he’s on night shift for?”
“Stalker dialing,” she scoffs, “he’s my brother and I’m allowed to call him nonstop until he answers no matter what shift he’s on, okay?”
“So that whole being a strong support system and respecting boundaries and understanding that his fuckin’ sleep is important, that just slip your mind?”
“Oh my god Mickey. It’s not like disturbing his sleep one time is going to send him on a spiral,” she sighs, “besides, it’s good news and…”
“Good news can fuckin’ wait,” his fingers are in his eyes, pushing them around in their sockets.
“Wait, why aren’t you at work? You sick, or…”
“Fuckin’ overslept.”
“You? Overslept? It’s hard enough to imagine you actually being chill enough to sleep, like, ever. I really can’t imagine you oversleeping.”
“You call to psychofuckinganalyze my sleeping habits, or you actually fuckin’ hittin’ the green fuckin’ call sign for a fuckin’ reason?”
“No, I actually called to talk to you about your sleep habits. And it’s on a rotary dial phone. Fuck, you clearly had your crabby-o’s this morning.”
“They’re only crabby-o’s when you’re under ten years old. The adult version is called grumpy-fucker-o’s, fuck you very much. Baby carrot have her morning helping of crabby-o’s or what, ain’t you s’posed to be workin’?” pouring himself a cup of coffee that’s been sittin’ in the pot for fuck knows how long but stale coffee is better than no coffee.
“I don’t have to go back to work for another month. The trades can be a very lucrative career choice if you make the right decisions…”
“Fuck you,” spitting out the brown liquid as soon as it contacts his tongue, “and fuck this coffee, fuck. So what’re you doing with your stay-at-home-mom shit? Just stalker dialing your siblings, codependent fuckers that you are, and seeing which one answers first? Talk them into dumping their shift to fuckin’ hang out with you and baby carrot, or what? Ain’t you s’posed to be doing your hair and nails and reading the latest gossip blogs or some shit?”
“Well, my mani/pedi isn’t until this afternoon, and the maid already cleaned the house, the nanny has been here since before I woke up at five this morning because my daughter doesn’t sleep past five, that fucking lazy ass nanny fed her some crabby-o’s and then she took her for a walk down to the park where she threw a fit, a complete with rolling on the ground kind of fit, the kind that’ll get you dirty looks from all the perfect moms with their perfect kids and their expensive jackets and…”
“You lift their wallets out of their diaper bags?”
“Pfft, I would never. You wanna go to lunch? I came across some cash this morning. I’m buying.”
“Fuckin’ eh.”
“Patsy’s. Half hour.”
——— Debbie’s POV ———
“You the baby-whisperer now Mick?” Fiona smiles, leaning across the counter to caress Franny’s cheek where it’s smashed up against Mickey’s arm.
“She ain’t much of a baby anymore,” it’s like his constant motion and the constant rumble of his voice in his chest is a sound machine and a baby swing all in one. Franny has probably never sat on his lap without falling asleep.
“No, I guess she isn’t, is she?” and she’s probably about to get all nostalgic but she forces her ‘I hated raising my siblings’ facade and wonders, “is that why you called him Debs? You knew Franny would nap if he held her and you knew he’d hold her as soon as you sat down?”
She shrugs, it’s only sort of true. Whatever, moms need breaks too, “no, I was calling Ian, but I forgot he was on night shift. I have something to share.”
“This fuckn’ AA now?” his brows are high but his overall annoyance level has mellowed enough in the last few years that they just aren’t very effective anymore.
“You better not be pregnant again,” Fi adds with a slap of her rag on the countertop.
“No, please,” rolling her eyes, “that shit sucked enough the first time. No, remember that training event I did in Vegas in the Fall?”
“Training,” they both snort at the same time. Like no one will ever believe her that it was truly a week long training event, it just so happened to take place in the desert near Vegas so the company paid for them to stay in a hotel in Old Vegas, some dump with the pool under construction but at least they got to go down to the light show thing one night on the old strip.
“Whatever, so I won this trip.”
Both of them narrow their eyes, about to reaffirm their belief that she was only out there gambling and drinking and going to Cirque Soleil or whatever people with money spend their money on in a place like Vegas. She holds up her finger between them, loving the effect it has on both their faces, and raises her voice so they can’t interrupt her, “I won a trip to the Dominican Republic. All inclusive, flight, shuttle to the resort, five nights, full meals, a few excursions.”
“You asking us to watch Franny?”
“No. No, I thought about it, but it’s for two people. And there is no way in Hell I’ll take my three year old on a flight, then wander around in a third world country with her for five days,” clearing her throat, expecting some kind of resistance from one of them, fuck they’re getting old, “so remember,” she wonders towards Mickey, “I told you and Ian I’d get you a wedding gift when I had some money…”
“Don’t. Don’t even offer that shit, we already…”
She’s certain he won’t say something touching like, ‘just having you at the ceremony was gift enough’, since that heartfelt bullshit is Ian’s thing, not Mickey’s, “you don’t get to turn it down. I got the paperwork all filled out with your names on it. You just need passports, and some time off work. You need to cash in the voucher before the end of the year.”
“Huh?”
“Consider it a honeymoon you’d never go on if no one forced you to. A resort on the ocean, and a pool for when the waves are too big for swimming. You can rent kayaks and paddle boards. They have parasailing and..”
“I can’t swim,” he blurts it, then thumbs his nose, his gaze drops down to his nearly empty coffee mug.
“What? You never went to the public pool?”
“The fuck would…” clearing his throat and draining the remains of the coffee.
Sometimes it’s easy to forget that growing up Southside and growing up Milkovich are two different things, “well here’s a coincidence. This little tip money I came across this morning, I was going to take Franny down to swim at the Y this afternoon. You could…”
“Fuck no,” his jarring and jerky movements seem like they’d disturb a sleeping child, but they somehow don’t. He is a strange contradiction of a man. Rough around the edges, brash, and full of swagger, but he never turns down a child when they ask to sit on his lap.
“Fuck yes,” she pokes at him, “just imagine five days to relax, to do nothing, to just be alone with your husband and get…”
“Sunburned all to fuck.”
“That too. Your casper white asses should invest in some UV blocking swimwear.”
“Or embrace the European style,” Fiona chimes in, “Speedos,” with a wink.
His face is all screwed up, not a single word has to exit his lips for his clear disgust to come through, “there’s no fucking way.”
“Ian could dust off his gold shorts,” she smirks, grabbing the coffee pot to refill his mug.
His middle finger responds for him, “just use the trip yourself Debbie, there’s no way in fuck this would work out.”
“Why the fuck wouldn’t it? You’re going to hurt my feelings if you don’t take it. And now that it’s in your names, it’ll be a wasted trip. If you don’t go, no one will. And this is why I was trying to get a hold of Ian. He would only argue for like three breaths and it would only be like,” she puts on her best Ian voice, “No Debs we can’t accept that, you should go and have the week to yourself, we’ll take care of Franny, go relax, have some alone time, have some fun, it’s your trip and you should take it.”
“That was a pretty good Ian,” Fiona admits with a laugh.
Mickey is chewing pretty vigorously on his lower lip, watching his hand that’s folding the corner of his napkin over and creasing it, only to unfold it and flatten it, then starting over.
Fiona’s hand covers his gently and his eyes are dragged up to meet hers, “you’re allowed to accept gifts from people who care about you, you know?”
“Fuck you,” head turning to give Debbie a glare, “fuck you too.”
“So you’ll go?” she can’t stifle the smile that’s rising. Even if the beach and some posh resort is not something Mickey ever in a million years would have dreamed of or even imagined, it’s something Ian will love. And it’s something they both need to take advantage of. A fully paid trip to paradise with the love of your life? Damn, if the love of Debbie’s life was someone over the age of three, she’d take the trip herself. But leaving Franny for some flashy beach vacation outside the country sounds like it has guilt written all over it. And she’d end up spending a fortune on data, FaceTiming every hour, texting every second, watching endless videos of Franny that all her siblings would be sending the entire time she’s gone. It’s different when it’s a work-related trip, then it’s money in the bank, but a luxury trip? No. Maybe when Fran is older and they can go together and both enjoy it. Or maybe when she’s older and they can take a full family trip somewhere. Either way, “Ian would love it,” she reminds Mickey.
“Fuck, fine.”
The squeal that comes out of her mouth should be enough to wake her daughter, but it only makes her nuzzle that much closer to Mickey’s chest.
——— Ian’s POV ———
A deep breath through his nose confirming that it’s Mickey’s head tucked into his chin, he felt Mickey climb back into bed about five minutes ago, he groaned and pretended to still be sleeping, but now that sleep is starting to clear and he’s taking a few good whiffs of black hair, he’s wondering, “why do you smell like chlorine?”
“I don’t.”
“You do.”
“You smell like sleepy face.”
“Nice.”
“Fuckever, I spent the afternoon with Debbie and baby carrot. Went to the pool at the Y to watch the duckling swim.”
“Isn’t she adorable in the pool?”
“Uh yeah, sure, tough guy, real adorable.”
A sleep crusted giggle, sliding his hands up Mickey’s back, “you thinkin’ about it?”
“About what?”
“Learning to swim.”
“Fuck you.”
He laughs again, taking note of the stiffness in Mickey’s body, like Ian just accused him of wanting something normal in his normal adult life. Tilting to rest his face against his hair, eyes closed, waiting for the moment of rigidity to subside.
“Mmm, you’d look so sexy dripping with water, the sun sparkling off the surface of your skin, your eyes all twinkly reflecting the…”
“The fuck Gallagher? You writin’ poetry?”
“No, but maybe I will. It’ll be all about you.”
Haughty sigh that travels in a burst across Ian’s bare chest, FUCK U-UP fingers tucked against his ribs, every time Mickey speaks, the fingers pulse the rhythm of his words, “so, uh, guess Debbie won some fancy ass vacation to some fuckin’ resort in the Caribbean. She don’t wanna go, leave Franny behind or fuckever, so she put the damn thing in our names.”
“Huh?”
“Like some fuckin’ all inclusive type shit.”
“What?”
The sigh this time is resigned and annoyed all rolled into one, “like the fuckin’ ocean, man. Like sandals and rum. Us, the beach. The fuckin’ sun burnin’ us to a crisp. All the fuckin’ marble floors and open air, humidity up the fuckin’ ass…”
“What up the ass?” his hand clamps down on Mickey’s asscheek and his face dives into the side of his husband’s head until he lifts it to look at him. High brows, “for real?”
“Guess so. We gotta get passports.”
“You? On the beach?”
The brows answer the question and Ian’s hand rises to stroke through his hair. And it’s still kind of damp. Fucker, he wasn’t just watching Franny swim, he was in the pool.
“You? On an airplane? Oh shit, I’m going to need to stock up on some serious Xanax, good thing I haven’t needed a damn depressant in a long time.”
Now the brows dip, knit together and he sighs, dropping his head back into his safe haven, “fuck airplanes.”
“Yeah, you’re annoying enough when someone else is driving. You’re going to be shut in a plane that some stranger is in control of, and you’re going to have to be belted down, and sitting still, you won’t be able to threaten the flight attendant. You can only get up when the seatbelt light is off.”
“Sounds like a death box.”
“Up in the air.”
“Straight jacket.”
“Sedative.”
“Alcohol.”
“It’s expensive.”
“Join the mile high club?”
Ian snorts out a laugh, “guess I can do whatever I want to you once I slip you my sedative,” nuzzling into his black hair, letting the scent of his husband wash over him through the lingering odor of chlorine.
“Nah. I’ll be fuckin’ fine.”
Notes:
A honeymoon at a posh resort in the Caribbean? That'd be super out of character, I say. Shall we anyway?
I refuse to accept later seasons Debbie as the real Debbie and prefer to play off her original character traits.
So I wrote the fucktionary bit over here first, and then threw it into Here We Stand when I didn't think I'd do anything with this chapter, but oh well, here we are with two fucktionaries.
Chapter 10: Friday
Summary:
But will you really be fuckin' fine Mick?
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Friday
A Few Months Later
******** Friday Morning ********
——— Mickey’s POV ———
I’ll be fine. I’ll be fine. I’ll be fuckin’ fine.
His eyes dart to the emergency exit, to the aisle, to the window, to the door they boarded, the door they’ll be defuckingboarding in like four hours. Four hours and like twenty minutes. Like twenty-five minutes. Four hours and twenty-six minutes is what it looks like Ian’s lips are saying. Not that Mickey can fucking see straight or hear a single fucking word that’s coming out of his mouth.
It’s a death box. It is a death box sitting on a runway and it’s hot in here and the air is stale and the guy on the other side of Ian smells like fuckin’ fried food and the lady behind him is wearing way too much perfume and they should have requested the emergency exit row ‘cause then at least Ian’s legs would fit in the row without being smashed against the seat in front of him. Good fuckin’ luck gettin’ his food tray down when he needs it. And holy fuck if there are any fucking children in this fuckin’ death box, if they start cryin’ or screamin’ or kickin’ the back of his seat; he turns his head to check behind him. Some fuckin’ young couple all hand-holding and smilin’ and shit, lookin’ out the window.
Look out the window. Still on the ground. Not moving. Not moving. We’re not moving yet. There’s still time, time to get up and walk off. Shit, fuck, shit the door is closed and the fuckin’ lights are all dingin’, “fuck.”
Long graceful fingers clamping down on his thigh. It should be enough to drag his eyes over to meet Ian’s, but it’s only enough for his own hands to rise and fingers to grind into his eyes until the spots of panic are being layered over by the spots of his own making and holy fuck it’s hard to breathe in this death box. And he can’t just get up and storm off, fuck, he could shout ‘bomb’, that’d do it.
His mouth opens, before any noise can exit, two fingers are slipping between his lips and depositing some pills on his tongue. Shit, should probably not take that with the whiskey he downed at the bar while Ian was on the phone with whoever the fuck he was on the phone with, fuckever needy sibling needed him already.
——— Ian’s POV ———
“Your friend is a heavy sleeper,” the guy next to him comments with a friendly smile. He smells like airport food, but he’s not hogging the arm rest or talking too much, or really doing anything annoying, so Ian is happy for the company.
“Husband, actually and yeah, he’s a,” shrugging his shoulders, Mickey’s head heavy on his left one, bobbing a little, listing off to the side before Ian steers it back to it’s resting place that he disturbed by shrugging, “he can sleep anywhere,” he lies, “first time flying though. Gotta admit, I’m surprised he’s out this fast.”
That’s the truth. Maybe he gave him too much. He was out before the plane even took off. But they were taxiing the runway for like a fucking half hour too.
The guy smiles again, this time offering, “I’m Chad.”
“Ian.”
“Nice to meet you.”
“Likewise.”
“Just, shoot me an elbow if you need to get up, I’ll get out of the way.”
“Thanks. Fly often?”
“Yeah. I travel for business. You?”
Unless stealing an Army aircraft counts, “first time.”
“It’s an experience, you’ll probably be wishing you could sleep like your husband does in about an hour,” he reaches up and adjusts the vent thingy above him, “you’ll want that on full blast, right in your face the whole time. It’ll help with the closed-in feeling and also the amount of off-gassing the human body does during altitude changes,” his smile is pleasant and his eyes are warm. He looks about forty, wearing a wedding band.
“Good to know,” reaching up to adjust his own vent, “so is this a business trip?”
“No, well, a perk of the business,” he grins, “wife is already on the resort, I’m usually on the other side of this deal. I’m a flight attendant. When I take vacation I get dibs on cheap all-inclusive packages. It almost makes up for all the assholes I have to deal with on a regular basis.”
He laughs, wondering now what was about to come out of Mickey’s mouth before he drugged him, “I bet you get a fair share of pricks, huh?”
“Yeah. Can’t really blame most of them though, flying is pretty fucking uncomfortable. If you survive security, check in, waiting at the gate, and boarding without getting cranky then you’re a better person than I.”
Ian strip-searched Mickey before they left the apartment, knowing full well he’s always got weapons of some sort on him, things he doesn’t even consider weapons, tucked into his wallet and his pants pockets. The things Ian finds in the washing machine after he runs a load of their laundry. Reaching into Mickey’s change jar could probably end in tetanus. Fuck, he’s lucky Mickey didn’t get ‘randomly’ selected for extra security, “it’s a great place to people-watch,” he shrugs again, this time catching Mickey’s head before it even slides. Wiping a string of drool out of the corner of his mouth while he’s at it. Smearing it across his jeans.
“What resort are you booked?”
“Grand Bahia Principe, my sister gave us the trip for a wedding gift.”
“Generous sister. Same resort for us, adults only section?”
“Yeah,” he smiles, thinking of Mickey’s conversation with the travel agent. Good lord, he has no idea how the agent made it out of that conversation with their sanity in tact. Ian should have handled that particular aspect of it.
“It’s a great resort. We honeymooned there about fifteen years ago. We come back as often as we can. The beach is clean, the rooms are clean, the food is incredible. You book any excursions?”
“Not yet.”
“Saona island. Do it. You won’t regret it.”
“Okay,” smiling, “hey, thanks.”
“Yeah. Got about three hours in the air, bring something to do, or want to watch a movie? I’ve got Point Break, Jaws, and Cast Away to get you in the mood for your tropical destination.”
“Bank robbing surfers, shark infested waters, or a plane crash? Think I’ll go with,” catching Mickey’s hand when it drops to itch his junk, sliding his fingers through and resting them both on his thigh, “Point Break.”
“Wise choice.”
******** Friday Afternoon ********
——— Chad’s POV ———
Ian’s been stroking his husband’s arm for about ten minutes now, the flight having landed without him stirring. The guy sleeps like a dead person. Or he took one too many Xanax. The plane is slowly emptying, Chad never minds sitting in the seat until the flight is empty, getting his bag out of the overhead when no one else is clamoring around in the compartment, and exiting at his own pace. He’s used to being on planes.
And Ian, he doesn’t look like he’s in any hurry either. Whispering has been added to the arm stroking, his face leaned in close to the top of his head. What’d he say his name was? Fingers sliding over his neck to check his pulse.
“He really is a heavy sleeper,” Chad gets to his feet, stretching as much as he can in this close quarter as the last of the passengers from the back are trickling forward.
“Yeah, fuck it,” sighing, the gentleness dissipating and turning into arm shaking, “Mick!”
Holy shit, the guy startles hard. If he wasn’t still strapped in, his head would be smacking the bottom of the overhead compartment. His hands immediately clenched into fists, eyes wild. And they’re gorgeous. Bluer than the ocean they’ll be swimming in this evening. His hands drop to undo the lap belt quickly while his wild eyes dart around the place, checking his surroundings for threat level, “the fuck firecrotch?”
“I tried,” he shrugs.
“You tried too fuckin’ hard. Fuck,” he’s free from the seat and standing, half crouched, blinking hard, sitting back down with a wobble in his legs. Hand resting over his heart like he’s going to have to keep it in there with his palm.
Chad had himself a smile at the finger tattoos when he read them earlier. He’s not sure how much of that threat is true, but he looks pretty damn harmless. Until his eyes find Chad’s and his eyebrows rise, scanning him over, assessing the situation. That glare is pretty effective.
“Mick, this is Chad. Chad, this my husband Mickey. Chad and his wife Anne are staying at the same resort,” Ian has a lighthearted tone to his voice. A contrast to the rough edgy tone of his husband’s.
“Well, ain’t we one big happy fuckin’ family,” his fingers rise and grind into his eyes, “fuck you firecrotch. Gimme a fuckin’ benzo. The fuck you think I was gonna do? Start hollerin’ about bombs bein’ on board?”
“Shhh, Mick, don’t even say that word on a flight. You get detained the the airport in the Dominican Republic, don’t expect me to hang around and pine over your wellbeing. I’ll be sitting poolside sipping an umbrella drink.”
“Fuckin’ virgin.”
“Virgin umbrella drink,” Ian smiles his agreement, “I know. Now let’s get the fuck off this death box and board the bus to the resort.”
“Fuck me, now we gotta deal with a bus?”
“They aren’t like public transit in the States,” Chad chimes in. Wow, his eyes are searing when they make contact, “they’re quite comfortable.”
“That’s fuckin’ great. Let’s get off this fuckin’ stuffy ass piece of shit before I piss on this seat.”
********** Friday Evening **********
——— Ian’s POV ———
“Looks like someone puked up a mango smoothie all over the fuckin’ walls,” Mickey tosses his bag down on the middle of the four poster bed.
He’s right, the walls are the color of mango vomit, “how the fuck do you know what mango vomit looks like?”
“Uh, raised a fuckin’ kid,” his eyebrows are up and he turns to flop down on top of the blanket.
Fuck, that bed looks, “comfortable,” sliding over Mickey and lowering himself gently down on top of him, tucking into his neck to press kisses against his warm, sweat-filmed skin.
The air is damp, salty. Everything is so fucking green. The smell, the smell is incredible. Ian can’t even place it, flowers and leaves, sand, salt, ocean air mingling with all the scents of the room. And Mickey, he takes a deep breath of him, wrapping his arms around his body to pull him as close as possible, “hmphh.”
“Me too,” nuzzling into the warmth and softness of his husband, for now, while he gets the chance. Knowing the shove off will happen sooner rather than later, “who knew flying was so fucking exhausting?”
“Probably everyfuckingone who’s ever flown,” his fingers settling into Ian’s hair.
“Sure. Them,” tucking his elbow tight to Mickey’s side, he props his chin up to linger over his face, watching his incredible eyes peering up at him from the most luxurious bed either one of them has ever laid on, “fuck, you’re gorgeous.”
Those eyes roll, but Ian cuts off his response by pressing lips to lips. As soon as his tongue contacts Mickey’s lower lip he opens his mouth. Fuck, he loves that. Knowing every single thing about this man, his husband, knowing what makes him tick. All the stupid little things, the possibilities of what could come out of his mouth when he’s on the verge of a panic attack on a plane taxiing the runway. To the big things. Like what makes him smile and laugh.
Ian’s hands slide under Mickey’s shirt, feeling his surface under his fingers while he slides the cotton T with the sleeves ripped off over his head when he allows it. Immediately reaching for the back of Ian’s shirt when he leans back down, tugging it over his head. Fuck, skin on skin and it’s only chest to chest and belly to belly and he can feel the way he moves when he breathes under him and the way that picks up pace when Ian’s hands drop to his belt to get working at it. The way his kisses intensify as Ian slides his own jeans off, Mickey’s legs immediately wrapping around his hips, pulling his as close as possible.
Fuck, he loves this. Being this close, physically and emotionally. He loves this mind sync bullshit that Mickey would deny, but he can read his fucking mind, sometimes he’s certain he knows Mickey’s mind better than he knows his own.
And he knows the jerk is hungry and he knows he’s going to rush through this and try to get him to just 69 instead, and maybe, “shit Mick, did you just fucking bite me?!”
“Did it feel like I bit ya?” his head is sinking into the pillow behind him and cupping his ears, musing his hair and it’s so fucking gorgeous.
Oh well, bite or not bite, that man is fucking gorgeous and hungry or not, Ian’s going to take his damn time. His hand starts traveling down his thigh, feeling the tautness in his muscles and the his soft wispy hair and, “fuck Mick, what the fuck?”
“What?” now he’s smirking.
“You just fucking pinched my ass.”
“Did I?”
“Fucking coy? Fuck,” he dives back in, not giving him the time to argue it. His hand has spread on his left cheek and he’s nearly there, but that shithead is not giving him the right angle at all, well, really he’s blocking him out. Ian sighs, leaning out of the kiss, “alright. What the fuck?”
Brows up, hand tapping on Ian’s asscheek, “I’m fuckin’ hungry. Speed this shit up.”
Groaning, “we need to christen this place before dinner.”
“No, we need to fuckin’ fuck, and make it quick tough guy or I’m gonna be…”
“Grumpy as all fuck.”
“No. The fuck’s the deal with food on airplanes anyway?”
“I don’t know, it was gross, and you were sleeping, shut up,” nudging into his nose until he surrenders his lips. Kissing him through the smirk and waiting for his hips to tilt. But they don’t. He pulls away again, lingers over his face, and waits.
“What? 69 firecrotch,” his hand is in the air motioning that Ian turn around.
“Nope, I’m fucking you, fucking you long and deep and hard until you cum, and then we’ll get changed and go eat.”
“You’re a pain in my fuckin’ ass Gallagher.”
“Pain? I mean, I’d prefer pleasure, but if you want pain, I can get creative.”
His gorgeous eyes roll, tapping Ian’s asscheek again, “fuck, fine, just make it quick with your long, deep, hard…”
“Don’t finish that,” a pulse of passion surges through his dick at the image lying beneath him, “I’ll jizz against your thigh.”
“Cock,” he smirks.
“Fucker,” leaning out to take him by the hips and throw him face down on the bed.
“Been sittin’ in a pile of sweaty ballsack on a fuckin’ death box all…” his voice chokes off as Ian’s mouth makes contact. Just like he knew it would.
——— Mickey’s POV ———
Fucker, this fuckin’ fucker. Fuck. Mickey’s fuckin’ hungry and he’s fuckin’, “fuck,” face deep in his ass and don’t seem to give a shit about the sweaty ballsack stew in his undercarriage and it’s fucking hot in here and it’s fuckin’ fancy and everything looks expensive as fuck and it’s fuckin’ weird.
“Mick?” it’s all muffled in his asscheeks and it tickles like fuck and he fuckin’ hates when that fucker talks to him when he’s face deep, but, “happy honeymoon.”
“Fuck you,” hands wrapped around the knobs of his pelvis yanking him back closer to his face, “fuck.”
It don’t take long before he’s trailing down his ballsack and trying to wiggle his giant square shoulders between Mickey’s knees to suck his dick and he kind of wants to make him work for it ‘cause the only reason’ he’s doin’ it is ‘cause now he’s gonna make Mickey ride him. Fucker, but, “fuck,” that feels good. Dick in his mouth finger in his ass, and the part of his face that Mickey can see when he dips his head, he looks happy as all fuck.
Well, fuckever. He wants to make a four course meal out of Mickey before they get to the buffet to kill that shit, then he ain’t gonna stop him.
Jesus, the fucker looks like he’s on fuckin’ cloud nine or some such fuck when he starts shimmying his way up the bed and parks himself at the headboard with a few pillows propped behind him, waiting for Mickey to sit on his dick.
“Lazy fuck,” settling his knees against his hips and takes him, “long, hard, and deep, huh?”
——— Ian’s POV ———
As soon as he’s fully seated, the familiar heat of him enveloping Ian, it’s so fucking hard not to cum. And he’s barely moving yet. Fuck, he dives into his neck, leaving a trail of open mouthed kisses on his skin, his collarbone and his shoulder. Clamping down on his hips when he picks up the pace a little, he doesn’t want to rush. Hunger be damned, he’s so fucking perfect. Glistened in sweat and ocean air.
His mouth is hot, his hands are warm on Ian’s shoulder-blades, his legs are adjusting, wrapping around Ian’s hips and his pelvis is tilting again. His perfect cock is between them, rubbing against Ian’s belly and he’s certain Mickey won’t need a hand with the friction that contact offers and briefly wonders, “how do obese people fuck?”
It’s all muffled against Mickey’s mouth and he’s nearly certain he didn’t understand him, but then he draws back with his brows arched, “fuck should I know? I look like a chubby chaser?”
Ians shrugs, his hands falling from Mickey’s back to his hips.
“You’re gonna find out after I have my way with that buffet for the next week,” he smirks, dives back into Ian’s lips, picks up his pace like the idea of food just sparked him back to life and he’s going to ride Ian with enough fervor to start this fucking room on fire.
His grip tightens on his husband’s hips, trying to still him, just a little. But it’s no fucking use. So instead of trying to slow him down and enjoy every single moment, he’ll just let himself be invaded by every single part of him, scent, surface, heat, sound; knowing it’ll be over in, “fuck,” it’s all breathy parting Mickey’s lips and it tastes like love on Ian’s tongue and it tingles down his throat and into his chest to make his heart flutter wildly as his own body responds without permission, knowing what it means, what that breathy ‘fuck’ means. His hips pick up where Mickey’s leaving off as the grip of his orgasm puts him into a stillness where every single muscle in his body clenches hard and tight and Ian has to open his eyes and part the kiss, guiding Mickey’s head into his shoulder so he can bury his own face in that perfect muscle group between shoulder and neck and take a deep inhale while his dick pulses his love of that scent into his husband’s body. His husband turning into that tiny ball of mush against him for just that split second he’ll allow as Ian’s lips press into his soft flesh and he waits for the shove off. The cheek tap, the chaste kiss that is still somehow a fucking flash flood of everything they’ve been through together and the promise of everything still to come.
********** Friday Night **********
——— Mickey’s POV ———
“I’m too fuckin’ full to move Gallagher.”
“Oh come on, just a little walk on the beach? A stroll? I’ll find a stick and write your name in the sand, we can hold hands and let the water cool our ankles and watch the stars we never get to see in the city. Smell the salt and the sand, and listen to the waves. Don’t make me beg.”
“You gonna get even more queer the longer we’re here?”
Dopey fucking smile rises and he can’t fuckin’ deny that hopeful gleam in his eyes anyway, and the fucker already knows that, but, “please?”
“Fuck you,” getting to his damn feet anyway.
“If you want to,” he shrugs, slides his damn hand into Mickey’s as they walk out the door into the damp heat of a tropical night in a fuckin’ fancy ass place the likes of which Mickey never thought he’d see. Fuck this place.
——— Ian’s POV ———
“It’d be a lot easier if you just wore the fucking shorts I packed for you.”
He’s stumbling around, doing a half-dance to roll up his jeans so they don’t get wet on the beach. Barefoot in the sand, the glow of the moon lighting him in the most horrendously gorgeous way Ian has ever seen, and wonders if it’s will ever see, the asshole has his grumpy brows on even though Ian knows it’s a bluff. He also knows that shrug, is a silent, ‘’cause my legs are covered in cig burn scars and it sure in the fuck is gonna be a battle to get me in those damn shorts in front of all these rich prissy fucks who can afford this shit for their quarterly vafuckingcation’. It must have been the influence of Franny that made him put on shorts to get in the pool, or maybe it’s different when it’s Southside and the physical proof of a childhood spent in the Southside is more common than not, so it’s not that weird there.
Ian sighs, his hand landing on Mickey’s arm to give him a quick squeeze when he’s got his pant leg where he wants it and he starts walking again. The water is warm and it tickles on their bare feet when the waves wash up and pull the sand right from beneath their every step. The night sounds of the resorts spanning this section of beach are just a background din, muting by the waves mostly. The wind is damp and almost refreshing.
“Not much for sticks for writin’ names in the sand tough guy.”
The beaches are pristine, something Ian didn’t expect in a tourist mecca, “guess I’ll have to use my dick.”
A sharp elbow meets his side, smiling his fool face off when Mickey is the one who makes the move, letting his rough hand slip into Ian’s. And yeah, of course, they may be in a different fucking world right now, but when Ian lifts the entwined hands to his lips, Mickey thumbs his nose and loses eye contact. He knew that, and it doesn’t bother him, he doesn’t take it as a sign of wanting to hide their relationship anymore. It never really was. And maybe if he’d asked a teenage Mickey to love him openly, instead of accusing without reciprocating and then forcing him to do it publicly, maybe he’d have gotten a big ole middle finger, but he’d have eventually come around on his own. And maybe Ian wouldn’t feel so damn guilty about the way that went down, still. But past is past and it’s only a small part of the things they are now. And the things they are now? Well, he’s pretty damn sure his face is going to shatter from all the smiling he’ll be doing in the next five days, and fuck, for the rest of his life. The rest of his damn life with this man’s hand entwined in his.
Notes:
I have to admit, picturing Mickey on a resort in the Caribbean - it's entertainment. Just the image of that makes me smile. Poor Mickey.
Chapter 11: Saturday
Summary:
Saturday on the resort.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Saturday
******** Saturday Morning ********
——— Ian’s POV ———
The scent of the ocean is spilling through the screen of the sliding door that leads to a small patio. The late morning sun is dancing across the ceiling already and he’s not certain of what time it was when they went to bed last night. Or early this morning. Ian had a Mickey that was willing to do something as romantic as walk on the moonlit beach and hold his hand. Sure, he was burping and cursing and hocking loogies the whole time, but he was Mickey and Mickey here or Mickey there is the Mickey that Ian wants.
His hand rises to rub into his sleep filmed eyes and blink the room into focus. Sure, Mickey had an issue last night, a silent fight in his head over how the fuck he’d sleep facing the door when there were two doors and they were on opposite sides of the room and he couldn’t face them both at the same time. Pacing the length of the room pretending that it wasn’t causing anxiety, and Ian waited. Lying on his back on the bed, arm behind his head, using the distraction method that he knew would work best. Cock. Of course. Slipping out of his boxers while he watched Mickey’s fingers rise to his face for like the five-hundredth time, closing his eyes, leaning his head back and letting the images of the day swirl through his mind. The look on his husband’s face while he stood in the lobby taking in their surroundings, the way he felt when he was lying on the bed with Ian hovering over him, the way he smiled under the glow of the moon on the beach. Didn’t take much coaxing at all to get his dick hard in his grasp. And it didn’t take more than three strokes and a thumb sliding over the tip before he felt Mickey’s body weight on the bed with him.
His hand falls to the bare mattress when the room focuses, looking around for that black-haired beauty that he’s certain is stalking around here somewhere, “Mick?”
Nothing. Bathroom door is open. Craning his head to look out to the patio. Empty, “Mick?”
Nothing. Swallowing the ball of panic that always starts to rise when he doesn’t know where he is. Every time he’s not where Ian expects him to be, then it’s something to do with his father or his father’s voice echoing in his head and Ian fucking hates that. He hates that Mickey runs off to be alone when that voice rises instead of letting Ian coat it with his own words. But at least at home when he runs off, it’s easy to find him. Abandoned buildings. Always.
“Mick?” there’s no way in fuck that man’s voice would find him all the way down here in the middle of the tropics. Is there? Fuck. Was there some kind of noise outside the door that Ian didn’t hear? A noise that sent Mickey into a tailspin. Fuck. He’s been working so hard for so long on getting that fucking voice to silence, and fuck.
The door opens with exactly the kind of vigor he expects from Mickey. Balancing two plates and two cups of coffee, “fuck, it ain’t like a continental bullshit thing ‘round here. It’s like a sit down and stay seated kind of joint. Some fancy dude was trying to tell me I couldn’t take the shit away from the dining hall or somefuck. But fuck that. Can’t understand a fuckin’ word these fuckers are sayin’. You’d think they’d learn better fuckin’ English if they work with tourists. Fuck.”
He doesn’t bother reminding him that it’s tourists from everywhere, probably mainly Europe, and the resorts down here aren’t a hell of a lot different from gentrification and sure, it provides jobs but it’s not exactly the type of shit these people are used to and it’s not exactly a job that buys them their own place on the beach. They go home every night to the little shacks in town without running water. And they lived how many decades without the influence of tourists and they were doing just fine that way.
Ian can’t help but laugh at the delicate looking china in Mickey’s FUCK grasp as he hands the cup over and situates the plate on the bed, “you didn’t have to do this.”
“No?” rummaging around in his bag for Ian’s meds. And he won’t say, ‘you need to stay on schedule even on vacation’, because they both know that. And sure, sometimes it still pisses him the fuck off that he has to be strict even on a once-in-a-lifetime vacation. But, his eyes fall on Mickey’s when he’s holding out the palmful of pills and he knows, he can’t afford to fuck this up. So he takes the pills with his decaf coffee and crepes and holy fuck this shit is airy and heavenly in his mouth.
“Can we just make one promise for this trip?” Ian wonders with his mouth mostly full.
Mickey’s eyebrows dart up and he waits, he won’t agree until the offer is on the table.
“No fights.”
“Uh, like with you? Or with…”
“Anyone. I mean, no punches.”
He shrugs, reaches out to steal a berry off Ian’s plate, “fuckever tough guy. Can’t imagine Dominican jail is a place I wanna see the island from.”
——— Mickey’s POV ———
Yeah, when there’s a knock on the door, it startles the fuck out of Mickey and he immediately goes for his Ruger in the side drawer and it’s too fuckin’ bad it ain’t there and they ain’t home and whothefuckever is standin’ on the other side of the door better have a pretty fuckin’ good reason to be standin’ there.
Ian’s hand pats down on his knee when he gets out of bed, stepping into his shorts, “just a sec,” telling the closed door as he pulls a t-shirt over his head. Mickey don’t bother gettin’ up, why the fuck should he? Jolly ginger giant’s got this covered. And yeah, they’re in fuckin’ paradise, so yeah, of course the person on the other side of the door is some staff member.
Some fuckin’ chick talkin’ way too fuckin’ fast and it’s a good thing she got the jolly ginger giant, ‘cause Mickey’s pretty sure Ian don’t understand a word of Dominican or fuckever they speak here, but he’s nodding along like he sure in the fuck does.
When he closes the door, he smiles at Mick, announcing, “we can book our excursions and meals starting in ten minutes.”
“How the fuck you understand any of that shit?”
“You mean English?”
His middle finger responds for him and his eyes drop to the empty plates on the bed, “guess I should figure out what to do with this shit, huh?”
Ian shrugs, “I’ll bring it back out,” leaning over the bed to press lips to lips to shut Mickey the fuck up so he don’t argue it. Fucker, “meet you in the lobby in ten minutes.”
——— Ian’s POV ———
Ian’s senses hone in on him immediately when he enters the open air lobby. All the marble, granite, fountains, aromas, and human in this place can’t distract from a single man strutting in here. Fuck, he loves that strut. Even if he knows it’s another layer of armor.
“Excuse me,” he requests politely of Chad and Anne, who are also waiting to book their excursions, when he sees that strut come to a halt and those brows shoot up. Mickey’s intended target didn’t make himself as easily viewable as he should have, “Mick!” so he’ll holler his name. That should do it.
And it’s not like Mickey would ever say anything like, ‘fuck I was gettin’ all itchy and squirmy and thank fuck you came over here when you did, otherwise that no punches rule would be broken in about three fuckin’ seconds’, but his face says it all and that little layer of sweat having soaked through his t-shirt that Ian notices immediately when his hand lands on his lower back says the rest.
His hand rises, rubs along his nose, “it’s fuckin’ hot Gallagher.”
“Mmm hmm. It’s the tropics,” leaning in quickly to kiss the side of his head before he can grumble his way out of it. Hand putting the pressure on him to steer him to line, “you remember Chad from the flight? This is his wife, Anne. Anne, this is my husband, Mick.”
That will never get old. Introducing him that way, Ian’s certain of that. And it’ll never get old watching his piece of Southside trash use manners. Like holding out his hand, “Mickey,” clarifying, giving her the appropriate shake.
——— Mickey’s POV ———
It’s the fuckin’ heat makin’ him squirmy. That’s all it is. It ain’t the fancy fuckin’ place and all the foreign languages and Ian’s ease of touching and all that shit. So fuck, it ain’t the last one at all, the last one is kind of nice. It’s, like, relaxing or some shit. Don’t mean his lip ain’t gonna make it’s way to his teeth and his hand ain’t gonna make it’s way to his nose or eyes, but it’s enough to keep him in his skin even though he’s certain it’s the skin that’s being a fuckin’ traitor and it ain’t like some fuckin’ anxiety or fuckever lady quack told him it was. And Ian would say it was. It ain’t.
It’s the heat. And it’s his skin reacting to the heat. And the fuckin’ words all swirling around his ears that he can’t understand. And his ears reacting to that. That’s all. And it’s this Anne chick who keeps lookin’ at him. And it ain’t like the way some rich twat would look at him like some kind of dogshit she tracked in on her Louis Vuitton’s or somefuck. Oh, fuck, he’s been listenin’ to Svet talkin’ too much, fuck. Or are those the fuckin’ bags? Fuckever.
His eyes drop to the bitch’s handbag. Maybe that’ll straighten it out. Ian’s elbow meets his ribs immediately, “what?”
His glare is a clear read that he was thinkin’ Mickey was thinkin’ about lifting her wallet. He shrugs, “I wasn’t,” and it ain’t a bag. Well, it’s a bag. But it ain’t a money bag. It’s a fuckin’ Nikon bag, “you a photographer?”
She seems unaffected by his tone, that he didn’t mean to bite, but it bit. ‘Cause that’s what happens when blood is rushing in his ears and he can barely hear himself think and she’s the fuckin’ one that was lookin’ at him first. She nods, “it’s more of a hobby than anything else.”
“Don’t be modest Anne,” Chad. Hanging Chads and dimpled Chads and all that fuck, “she had the cover of Woman’s Day last month.”
“Only one of the days?” now they’re lookin’ at him like he’s a window-licker, “one fuckin’ woman’s day in a month?”
Ian’s hand slides down his back, fingers denting pressure against his spine, “I think the name of the magazine is Woman’s Day.”
“Fuckever,” he shrugs at Ian, thumbs his nose, shifts his weight, “the fuck this line ain’t movin’ for?"
“You think any more about what excursions you’re going to book?” Chad wonders.
“The fuck is this shit anyway?”
Those fucking fingers are sliding across his back and latching on around his hip, clamping down like he’s trying to remind him to shut the fuck up and not be an asshole, maybe if he’s not an asshole in front of all these hoity toity prissy fucks then he’ll get a good fuck for his efforts later, but it’s imfuckingpossible.
Anne hands a brochure thing to him, “did your package include excursions? The prices are listed so pick the expensive ones first if you’ve got included ones,” she winks. She won’t stop fuckin’ lookin’ at him and he’s about to exfuckingplode under the stare. He knows he don’t got a bat in the cave or somefuck, Ian would have told him if he did.
Even after he’s looked through the pamphlet and Ian has pointed out his preferred trips, the bitch is still lookin’ at him, “the fuck you lookin'…”
“I’m staring,” she admits.
“You sure in the fuck are.”
“I’m sorry,” she half-laughs, “sorry. I just,” she motions towards her camera bag on her hip like it explains everything, “I’ll stop. I promise.”
“Yah, well…”
“He’s easy to stare at,” Ian sighs with this annoying breathy lovesick teenager bullshit that makes Mickey think he’s standing in the dugout instead of a fuckin’ ritzy hotel in the Dofuckingminican Republic, “when he lets you. Which is, when he’s sleeping. Sometimes,” there’s that little fucking giggle that makes that fucking tsunami wave Mickey’s been riding all morning settle down into something like surf-able or somefuck. When he fuckin’ breathes and Ian’s fingers clamp again, it makes the waves kind of swimmable. And then the fucker takes off in conversation with these pricks like none of that shit ever happened.
——— Ian’s POV ———
“Spa?”
“No.”
“Please?”
“No.”
He sighs, flops down on the bed, “just for like an hour. Then we’ll hit the beach and get sunburned all to hell.”
“Fuck.”
Okay, so admittedly, Mickey on vacation is horrible. Like fucking horrible horrible, “horrifuckingble?”
“Well yeah, some fuckin’ stranger touchin’ me and rubbin’ on me and yeah, horrifuckin… that ain’t a bad one Gallagher.”
“What if I promise that I won’t sign you up for a massage? What if we just go, we’ll look at the menu, they probably have a small gym if you‘d rather work-out. There’s probably either a steam room or a sauna…”
“Fuck’s the difference?” he pulls his fingers away from his eyes and glares at them like they’re the cause of all his discomfort. Like it’s not the idea of a female message therapist touching him that’s making him moody. But this is paradise, and that day is not following them here.
“Saunas are dry heat…”
“No they fuckin’ ain’t. The fuck you put water on the rocks for if it’s dry?”
“Well, if…”
“No. Fuck. I don’t care. I’ll work-out. You can get a massage and a fuckin’ pedicure or somefuck.”
“Mick…”
“Don’t fuckin’ ‘Mick’ me. I’ll work out, I’ll kill that fuckin’ buffet again… why the fuck you gotta schedule dinners? A teppanfucki?”
“Teppanyaki. It’s Japanese cuisine, they just cook it right in front of you, like the grill is in the middle of the table kind of. And the chef usually does this cool dicing,” his voice trails off when he watches Mickey’s brows rising, “okay, well it’s Italian tonight and if we decide not to try the rest then we don’t try the rest, the buffet is open for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and…”
“No. Fuck. Okay, fuck, fine, let’s just get over to your fuckin’ spa. Guess it’s better than gettin’ burned to Hell on the first day and then ruining the rest of the trip. Fuck’s this island bullshit tomorrow?”
“Saona Island. It’s a reserve, take a boat out with a group and tour guide. Spend the day on the island and see a replica of an old village, local vendors and stuff I guess, and then take a catamaran back.”
His fingers are in his eyes again, “the fuck is a catamaran?”
“Like a giant sail boat,” Ian gets to his feet, meets his husband on his pacing route across the room, slides his hand over his shoulder until it meets his chest and pulls him back toward him, leaning into his neck to settle some of the whirlwind that he’s kicking up in his path, “it’s fine. You have more chance of dying on the Southside streets than you do…”
“I ain’t afraid of dyin’.”
“I know,” pressing lips against his bare neck when his hands jerk away from his eyes, “I know that. It’s the unknown that makes you jumpy.”
“I ain’t jumpy.”
“Anxious,” he whispers against his jaw, “about the unknown.”
This time when he makes like he’s going to jerk out of Ian’s grasp, he tightens his hold, drags his chin to face him and lands a kiss on his lips. Fucking stubborn prick is going to resist for as long as he can. Which, isn’t very long at all, but he’ll put on a good front. By the time he’s starting to lose some of that stiff, board-like feel to him, Ian is out of breath and his dick is hard. Of course his dick is hard. This room smells like the tropics and his husband and his husband is getting pliable against his touch and he knows this is the point where he could toss him on the bed and he’d go with the flow. Maybe a little dick will be enough to draw the rest of his Micknado back to just Mickey. And maybe a half Xanax will be going in his breakfast tomorrow before the trip.
——— Mickey’s POV ———
His hands are pressing probably a little too fucking hard into Ian’s shoulders, considering they’re about to go to a fuckin’ spa or some other shirtless fuck, but he don’t really care. He ain’t leaving fuckin’ nail marks, you’d have to have fucking nails for that shit. Fuck that, and he ain’t gonna scratch the fucker with anything other than that one fucking hang-nail he chewed the shit out of earlier, so that’s pretty well softened anyway.
So, “fuck,” if the shithead has fingertip shaped bruises on his shoulders tomorrow it’s his own fucking fault, “fuck, Ian, fuck.”
Dumb fucker slows down instead, like they got all fuckin’ day or somefuck, like he don’t give a shit about the fuckin’ spa anyway. And maybe he don’t. He lifts his face out of Mickey’s neck, hovering over him for a minute, studying his damn face like it’s changed in the last fucking two minutes since he last looked at him, a hand rising to stroke his hair back.
Fuck, he hates when this dipshit gets all fucking cheesy and rofuckingmantic. Fuckin’ pausing in the banging to look at him. The fuck is that about anyway? He’s about to say something queer, like, “fuck, Mick, you’re gorgeous,” and then he’s gonna have to dive into his lips and dart into his mouth to keep Mickey from arguing. It don’t stop him from flipping him off behind his back though. Fucker.
——— Ian’s POV ———
He sighs, running his fingers through Mickey’s hair that’s slicked back with sweat and humidity. Resting on his chest, it’s too easy to lean forward and bury his lips in the damp locks. Ian figures if now, if Mickey wants to talk, he’ll talk. And if Mickey doesn’t want to talk, then he won’t. And Ian can’t force him to come face to face with his feelings by accusing him of feeling things that they both already know he feels, he just doesn’t want to put the words on it.
But these words, “I love you,” being breathed across his sweat-filmed chest, those are the only words that matter. Even if Ian already knows that, and he’s always known that, just by the way Mickey looks at him and touches him and is there for him. There for him in ways not a soul on this Earth could ever compare to.
“I love you too,” it’s muffled against his hair and the spa can fuck off, this right here, this is the most intense relaxation Ian will ever feel.
********** Saturday Afternoon **********
——— Ian’s POV ———
Well, he made it as far as the water without killing anyone. And without spontaneously combusting under the imagined eyes wandering all over his scars. Ian threw the trunks on the bed, put on his own and took off for the beach. It was maybe ten minutes before he was watching that gorgeous creature strutting across the beach.
“The fuck are there tits all over the place for firecrotch?” now he’s wondering over the sound of the waves lapping the shore, “you bring me to some fuckin’ nude beach or swingers’ club or somefuck?”
“No,” he breathes out a laugh, taking in the rays of the sun dancing off his smooth flesh and wondering at how anyone on this planet could possibly think there is anything more attractive than this man.
“The fuck are all the tits out for then?”
“It’s a topless beach.”
“Topless?”
“Yeah, like boobs out… uh, lube’s out?”
He shakes his head with pointed brows, “‘long as it ain’t tits out, clits out. Coulda fuckin’ warned me though.”
Well, yeah, that would have made his battle with the shorts easier. Knowing there was not a single person on this beach that would be looking at his legs when there are tits everywhere. Fuck, anyone but Ian. His legs are in the water now, so Ian’s eyes are caught on his chest. The way the sweat is just sort of beaded there in the indentation between his pecs, eyes raking over his abs and trying like hell not to just lean forward and lick that trickle off, knowing it’d be all salty and manly and Mickey and…
“Fuck you lookin’ at?”
“Want me to be honest?” feeling a smile rising as his eyes do, meeting Mickey’s and holding, “the most incredible…”
“Fuck off Gallagher.”
He grabs his hand as it rises to give him the salute, yanking him towards his chest, not stopping until he’s against it. Even though this isn’t the Southside, that doesn’t mean Mickey is just going to give in to the affection. Physicality has two options with this guy and two options only. Fucking or fighting. Sometimes both, but not in that order.
And while this is paradise, it’s not a hedonism club. So down to one option. Fighting.
Ian’s gone to the pool with him a couple times now in preparation for this, but he’s certain Mickey is not comfortable enough in moving water to dunk him, so he holds back. Letting Mickey wrap his arm around his neck and put him in a headlock, “going down tough guy.”
So he does. He goes down, feeling his husband’s arm release his neck when he’s under water, he slips over to tug his shorts to his knees, blow bubbles against his bare cheek, and pull the shorts back up before he surfaces.
“You’re a dick.”
“Yeah,” he shrugs, wiping his face with his hand, “but I’m your dick.”
“Fuckin’ right,” the brows rise as the hand goes for a handful of junk.
“Hey now, don’t be starting a war you can’t win,” his hand sliding down Mickey’s arm, “unless you want a saltwater enema.”
“Get fucked.”
“Okay,” he shrugs, “whenever you want.”
“You want the saltwater enema?” those fucking brows.
“I want the sausage Mick-muffin.”
His brows are unimpressed.
“Like the McDonald’s…”
“Yah,” if eyebrows could kill, “if you gotta explain a joke then it wasn’t funny.”
Ian reaches out and forces the brows down with his fingers. Taking the well-earned shove to the chest in retaliation and allowing himself to fall backwards in the salty, wavy, warm water.
********** Saturday Evening ************
——— Mickey’s POV ———
So the Italian joint ain’t bad. But the fuckin’ clothes? The fuck he gotta dress up for this shit? The fuck he let Gallagher pack their damn suitcases for? Fucker. Shoulda known he’d do this fuck to him.
He’s got the top two buttons undone already and sleeves rolled up, digging into the meal with as much dignity as he’s ever had. Ian don’t give a shit. He’s heard it enough times, ‘dress me up all you fuckin’ want, just don’t expect me to play the part’.
By the time the plate is clear, the button on his pants is undone too, “fuck.”
“Yeah,” even big red looks like he’s about to burst at the seams. His fingers landed on Mickey’s knee under the table about ten minutes ago and are just kinda sittin’ there.
“So, what? You just fuckin’ dine ’n dash or what?”
“Well, leave them a tip. But yeah, basically, you don’t have to dash though. It’s paid for.”
“Mmm kay,” he shoves out from the table, “but you might wanna dash before I crop dust ya.”
He snorts in the water he just lifted to his lips, “fucker.”
——— Ian’s POV ———
“You gonna make me do this shit every fuckin’ night?” pant legs rolled up, ankles in the water, feet in the sand. The moon and a million stars blinking and peering out from behind wispy clouds.
“It’s this or the disco,” elbowing his side.
He seizes his hand when it swings by, “fuck. Fine, queer shit on the beach or queer shit in the disco? I’ll take queer shit on the beach.”
So Ian thought he’d seen his husband at his most beautiful. He was certain it was in those moments, those moments when he’s relaxed and open and loving, loved into the bed, the pillow cradling his head in the most achingly beautiful way Ian has ever seen. But this? His silhouette in the glow of the moon, the sound of the ocean surrounding them, the stars so bright they’re nearly as bright as his eyes. Fuck, this is a close damn second, almost too close to call, “wanna fuck?”
An elbow to his ribs is the response. He knew that. Mickey won’t fuck him on the beach. What’s the point of fucking in public when it’d have to be rushed and mostly clothed and quiet?
But it’d be pretty fucking cool to fuck him in the glow of the moon. And maybe he should scout the shoreline in daylight tomorrow, find a place private enough once darkness falls that they could come down here and take their time, take it slow, bring a blanket and look for shooting stars. And when Mickey is relaxed and the calm of the ocean’s waves have seeped into his thick skin and started rolling around in his thick skull, maybe then.
Instead, he sighs, lifts their entwined hands to his lips and listens to the sound of the waves, letting his mind wander to all the ways he’s going to fuck his husband in that luxurious bed before they leave. Fuck him? Looking to his right to watch his luminescent flesh in the horrendously beautiful glow of the moon reflecting off the sea.
“Fuck you lookin’ at?”
Feeling a stupid grin rising on his face, but he can’t help it. Fuck him? No. Love him? Yes. Love the fuck out of him.
A heavy sigh, and halted steps, “c’mere dipshit.”
Notes:
I'm not going to lie, I'm going to be really disappointed when fuckever, fucknot, and somefuck never actually come out of canon Mickey's mouth.
Chapter 12: Sunday
Summary:
Someone is bound to get bit by the tourist bug... which one will it be?
(Mamajuana is pronounced like Mama wanna.)
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Sunday
******** Sunday Morning **********
——— Mickey’s POV ———
Sure, waking up here for the second morning with the smell of the ocean and the fuckin’ coconut trees or fuckever they are, all green and damp that sure in the fuck don’t smell like Chicago; it’s better. A second night in this alternate universe where these two pieces of Southside trash can afford some rifuckingdiculous shit like this, and no one has come stormin’ in to break the illusion.
He sighs, his fingers rising to rub into his eyes, pushing back the remnants of sleep and rolling over to find his husband. Fucker’s on his back, arm over his face. All fuckin’ pale and alien. Settling his cheek into this goddamn pillow that the butler ‘pparenlty asked Ian what scent they’d prefer, there was like a list and shit. Like a pick-a-scent pillow for each fucking night. No fucking joke. Well, fuckever, it ain’t the worst smellin’ pillow he’s ever had his head on.
Watching Ian’s chest rise and fall with his shallow sleep breathing that’s a sure sign he’s makin’ his way to the surface slowly. Mickey watches, and waits. Counting the breaths, listening to the whir of the fan and the wind sending the curtains on a gentle ride swirling through the screen of the open sliding door. Mickey ain’t exactly keen on leaving the door open, but it ain’t like anyone’s gonna make their way through the screen without the noise wakin’ him up and if anyone does make their way through it, well, then they chose the wrong fuckin’ tourists to rip off.
He closes his eyes for just long enough to stifle whatever shit is running around in his head about today. It’s no big deal anyway. It’s just a boat and an island and another boat. Fuck. When his hand rises to grind into his eyes, it’s halted midair and instead guided to Ian’s fuckin’ lips. Fucker.
Eyes opening and landing on that field of green dew-laden grass, catching his breath in his throat, wondering when that’ll stop, if it’ll ever stop, feeling himself smile lazily, “morning sleepy face.”
“Morning,” his breath travels into their spiderwebbed hands and he just kind of keeps them there. Like he’s gonna blow his calm into Mickey’s hands and it’ll travel the length of his body and he’ll take that with him on this fucking boat. Fuck. Who the fuck’s he kiddin’? He can’t swim well enough to go on this trip today and he sure in the fuck ain’t afraid to die, or he never used to be, but now that he’s got something he can’t bear to leave behind, something that’s breathing on one of his hands while the other rises to follow the length of his arm like he’s using it as braille to read Mickey’s fucking mind, and sigh out, “I have plenty of Xanax,” when that hand finds his face and trails over his jaw, lingering over his lips.
“I’ll be fuckin’ fine firecrotch.”
——— Ian’s POV ———
“Well I feel like a pretentious pile of shit,” Mickey sighs, his chin digging into Ian’s shoulder on the tour bus across the countryside. Sugar cane, coffee plantations stretching out beyond the tiny villages where whole chickens are just sort of hanging off lines all skinned and pink in the sun. The houses look like nothing more than cardboard boxes half the time, multicolored and open to the elements, “least we had running water more often than not.”
“Yeah,” his fingers are looped lazily through Mickey’s, and he’s not sure if it was the sex this morning or the rum drink the tour guide was passing out when they got on the bus that calmed back the Micknado a little bit, but he’s pretty calm. He turned down the Xanax, saying he figured he’d rather have a little stress than end up falling asleep and not remembering shit. Even after Ian promised he’d only give him a half dose, maybe he broke some trust on the flight by slightly overdosing him. A Mick who’s a little leery of a benzo or a Mick who’s getting them kicked off a plane? A tiny bit of broken trust is okay in that situation.
The jerk even told Ian to take the window seat, since he got the window seat on the flight, it was only fair. Ian didn’t say it, but he was thinking it’d be easier for him to look over Mickey than for Mickey to look around him, but he’s glad he didn’t argue now, now that Mickey’s leaning on his shoulder. Turning quickly to kiss his forehead. Relaxed little bastard he’s being anyway.
******** Sunday Afternoon ********
——— Ian’s POV ———
That relaxed little bastard is having a damn hard time relaxing now that he’s gotten a look at the boat. The inside of his mouth has got to taste like metal by now for how vigorously he’s chewing on his lip. But at least he’s biting back the words at this point. Ian learned years ago how to not let that pacing and worrying spread like wildfire to his own chest when he watches the discomfort on his husband’s face and feels it layering his palm while he fidgets and squirms away from Ian’s grasp when he tries to calm him.
The first hurdle is always the hardest. Get him on the boat and he’ll be fine from there. Put him somewhere in the middle of the line so he can see a few couples get on, but he’s not last so he still has the pressure of the ones waiting behind him to keep him moving.
Maybe it helps that Anne and Chad are behind them. Chatting with them filtering into Mickey’s subconscious as he chews on his thumbnail for a moment, eyeing the waves on the surface of the ocean. Pushing the boat against the dock and it’s not like a dock in a marina that’s nice and evenly planked, and it’s not like a dock at the Southshore that’s built for industry only. This is probably something that began as a fisherman’s tie down area, and now that tourism has moved in, they’ve used the docks but not put the money into making them more appealing or more easily accessible.
So it really doesn’t help when the woman two spots in front of them slips on her way in the boat and falls on her knees. Even though the boat-hands are helping people, they’re very robotic about it. Taking elbows while people are stepping off the dock, letting them go as soon as their feet are on the boat whether they’re steady or not.
It’s not like Mickey is afraid of falling, or scrapping his knees. He’s not afraid of the pain, he’s never been afraid of pain. It’s just taking that step. Maybe it’s anxiety, maybe it’s what happens when you grow up with a psychotic prick of a father always telling you that you’re fucked for life. Even the small things, even the tiny things seem like climbing giant’s backs. Being treated like shit is Mickey’s comfort zone, it’s what he’s used to from the formative years so this, having a silver platter at his finger tips, it freaks him the fuck out. It’s the Pretty Woman scene over and over again. Only Julia Roberts sure in the fuck ain’t laughin’ when the box closes on her fingers and it ain’t just a jewelry box, it’s a bear trap and it takes her hand off. Or something like that probably. Not that Mickey would ever watch that movie, and if he did he’d never see any kind of comparison between him and a prostitute.
“This is the worst part,” Anne reassures him when his eyes dart over towards the conversation. She says it in a very nonchalant manner, more like she’s telling herself that instead of Mickey but he hears her, “then they’ll start dumping rum down everyone’s throats and inhibitions will be a thing of the past.”
Now his eyes dart towards Ian and he knows exactly what he’s thinking, Ian nods at him, “I don’t drink,” he hears coming out of his mouth.
“You might want to take a step back from the circle then when we stop at the sandbar.”
“Why’s that?” so giving Mickey a different focal point, that should work. Making him worry about Ian, that’ll keep his mind off his own shakiness over what’s to come. This could be good.
“They usually play drinking games on the sandbar, and Maikel,” Chad shrugs, “he likes to tell you he’d never force someone to drink, but he’s pretty convincing.”
“Maikel, huh?” he elbows Mick, and takes his step onto the boat. He’s going first. Of course he is, showing Mickey that it’s fine, and then he’ll be here to super secretively put a hand somewhere on his body when he gets down here, “wonder if it’s ‘who is like God’ here too?” he turns to watch Mickey landing squarely on his feet right in front of Ian.
“Fuck off.”
“Just sayin’, sometimes the name does fit the man,” squeezing his shoulder when his hand lands there to steer him to an empty bench seat, “Mikhailo,” whispering against the back of his head.
“Fuck off Gallagher,” low grumble without much bite. So he kisses his hair while he’s at it.
——— Mickey’s POV ———
Well, fuck. The ocean ain’t that bad. And now he’s buzzed all to hell and he touched a starfish, like an actual starfish not a fucking chocolate starfish even though the joke did have to come up, ‘cause why the fuck wouldn’t it? But, like an actual out of the ocean starfish that you gotta keep in the ocean to keep it alive so you gotta hold it under the water. Shit’s pretty cool.
And he’s buzzed all to hell ‘cause they were right about the fuckin’ drinkin’ game. Like hot potato with a couple of two liters of Dominican Rum and that shit ain’t bad even though rum ain’t Mickey’s thing. And something called Mamajuana that the tour guy said was like a dick drug or some fuck and that’s the last fucking thing Mickey needs, but, well, fuckever.
So he’s buzzed all to hell. Uh, ‘cause they were passing the bottles over Ian’s hands and makin’ it look like he was still in the group ‘cause otherwise he’d be the only one not in the group. So when you’re the unlucky fucker or the lucky fucker gets caught with the bottle you gotta chug it ’til Mickel or Michael or Mikhailo or fuckever his name is, stops singin’. Some kind of drinking song. Or somefuck.
And ‘pparenlty Mamajuana is for when mamajuana make a baby, or mamajuana get down, or maybe mamajuana get his chocolate starfish…
“Here,” he hands a fresh bottle of water over, “let’s wander.”
He maybe sways a little. Just a little.
Ian snickers, but doesn’t say anything yet. His hand lands on Mickey’s lower back and aims him towards a bunch of little tiki shack things, “hungry?”
“Pfft,” or somefuck.
“Thought so,” he’s wearing that dopey ass smile that Mickey can’t fucking stand, but it makes him want to, just… his hands rise, drop the water bottle and grab red hair, tugging the idiot to his level. Smashing pretty fucking haphazardly, “hapfuckinghazardly”, and all jumbled and mumbled against his lips and all over his tongue.
“I’ll strap some hazard lights to you by the time it gets dark,” he smirks, that little smug one that makes Mickey want to punch him, or crash into his damn smile again. Not giving him a moment to regain his senses. Or was the first one long enough to lose his senses? This one will be.
Shit, mamajuana take the vein train to starfish town. His hand is gripping Ian’s asscheek pretty fucking hard right now. Through his wet swim shorts and hoping to fuck the vein train don’t get too excited too fast.
“Hold on,” he pulls his lips away but keeps his body close and his face close, “get some food in you first. Then maybe we’ll find a detour off the beach,” his fingers slide through Mickey’s salty, wet hair.
“Ginger starfish.”
“Huh?”
“You,” planting K firmly on Ian’s chest, “ginger. This,” U finding his, “starfish,” through his shorts.
He squirms out of Mickey’s grip with a laugh, fuck, he’s gorgeous, isn’t he? All lit up in the sun behind him, the shade of some fuckin’ palm tree keepin’ his shoulders from bein’ too damn blindingly bright. Fuckin, fuck, “you’re pretty sexy Gallagher,” ‘cause it’d be way too queer to tell him he’s gorgeous. Or fuckever he wants to tell him, ‘cause it ain’t like he needs reassurance that he’s good-lookin’ and he don’t need reassurance that he’s got a great dick or nothin’, guess a few years of strippin’ and usin’ his body to get things he needed or wanted, like, “room service,” and some geriatric viagroid who, “wasn’t afraid to kiss you,” tugging on his chin. Fuck, it’s irritatin’ that he’s so fuckin’ tall.
“I know,” he whispers against Mickey’s lips before he leans in.
——— Ian’s POV ———
He doesn’t pull away from the kiss until his dick forces him to either knock it the fuck off, or bend over. There’s too many people around to bend over here, so pulling away is the only option. Staying close though. Mickey on a rum drunk, he sighs, pushing his hands through the salt slick in his hair, “let’s get some food in there with that rum, huh?”
“Fuckever tough guy. Take your dick instead.”
“Later,” his lips land on Mickey’s nose when he pulls away from his embrace. Embrace? Not really. Whatever this hold is. It doesn’t go unnoticed that his hand lingers on Ian’s asscheek for much longer than necessary. Mickey has to be in just the right mood to want to top, especially acting like this, where there are people. He grins at him, watching his eyes while he watches Ian’s lips, “food.”
“Fuck food.”
“Yeah, okay, well however you want to get it into your system is up to you, but I’m getting food. And putting it in my mouth.”
“Pussy.”
“Starfish.”
“Ginger.”
“Thug.”
“Prick.”
His hand slides across his back, landing on his shoulder to pull him into his side, “cocksucker.”
“Assfucker.”
Sighing, “only yours,” hoping it’ll end before they’re within earshot of anyone else.
“They don’t speak English,” mind-synced bastard.
“They do speak English. It just doesn’t sound like English when you’re not used to it, or not listening. More than likely half the people here speak better English than we do, it’s just not their native language.”
“Defuckingtails,” he waves him off with his hand in the air. Looks at his hand like it belongs to someone else, then drops it, taking a quick grab of Ian’s junk before Ian can stop him.
—————
The food derailed his brain from obsessing over sex anyway. Not that Ian would normally turn down a round, but there’s really not much of anything for privacy here. And he didn’t pack lube. And Mickey might be okay with the occasional spit fuck, but Ian’s not. Especially when there’s sea salt and sand in the equation.
He’s still drunk enough that getting aboard the catamaran isn’t an argument, internal or otherwise. Ian’s nearly certain he could steer Mick into a spaceship at this point and he’d not fight it.
Ian tries his damndest to keep the rum and juice away from him on the ride back, but it’s not as easy at it seems. The music is loud, the tour guide is having a great time and there are island girls dancing and passing out drinks. Which is all well and good, but Mickey doesn’t really need anymore rum in his system. He’d never admit it, but he’s turned into kind of a lightweight in recent years. The occasional beer here and there, pretty much gave up the hard stuff aside from special events or nights at the club, but even then he’s pretty well maintained.
He loses sight of him at one point when he’s in conversation with Anne, who seems to be three sheets to the wind as well. Sometimes it’s interesting to be the only sober one in the group, like now. Sober or drunk off his ass on a catamaran in the Caribbean, what’s the difference? It’s fucking beautiful, the air is warm, the sea smells incredible, the boat is an experience all it’s own, and Mickey?
“Shit, Mickey,” is dancing, “oh fuck me.”
Anne sighs with a laugh beside him, “your husband is a hoot.”
Ian has heard Mickey described as a whole lot of things, but ‘a hoot’ has never been on that list. He laughs, watching Mickey watching the dancer girl for the next steps. He’s being strangely coordinated for how dunk he has to be to do something like this, “he sure is.”
Something strange starts happening in Ian’s chest and rising to his eyes like mist when he looks at Mickey’s face. HIs face, a breathtakingly relaxed smile, while he dances like he’s all alone in living room spinning his kid sister, instead of on a boat full of mostly rich strangers in the middle of the Caribbean.
Ian’s hand rises to his face, must be trying the Mick trick of wiping all the emotions away physically before they can appear on his face. Pushing it all back before he can get his feet under him, understanding how it feels to be the one watching his spouse dancing instead of the one dancing; that won’t do. Sure, it’s amusing when he cuts in and the girl is a little confused momentarily thinking he wants to dance with her, but it’s not offensive or ignorant, sometimes confusion is just a state of being outside of the routine.
And sure, when Mick ribs him for wearing a ‘fuckin’ proud parent smile or somefuck’, he knows he better wipe that shit off his face or risk ruining this moment, a moment of carefree in sea of discomfort.
******** Sunday Evening ********
——— MIckey’s POV ———
Fuck, sure, fuckever, a tepanfucki is all kinds of food entertainment and the shit is all bright colored and fuck, and the food is probably a good idea. Maybe it’ll calm the spins. Or the body full of sugary booze. Or the weird feeling of being on water all day and then not being on water. That feels weird.
But watching this guy choppin’ all this shit in front of him and, fuck, that’s a stomach roll. And it sure in the fuck ain’t hunger.
Thank fuck for this mind sync bullshit, ‘cause all he has to do it stand up-ish, and Ian’s excusing them from the table and steering him by the arms to find a private place to hurl. Or kind of private, at least dark.
His big hand is just sort of resting on the back of Mickey’s neck and he’s muttering shit like, “there you go, get it out.”
And Mickey really wants to punch him, but he promised no punches. Fuck. Oh fuck.
“Better?”
Wiping the back of his hand across his mouth and nose, really only smearing all the fluids around instead of off, but, “no.”
“Head back to the room?”
“Yeah. No, you go eat. I’ll head back. I can find it.”
“No, it’s fine Mick, I’ll walk back with you. Buffet is still open, so it’s fine.”
“Ian…”
“Don’t argue with me,” hand sliding to his lower back, like the fucker knows Mickey’ll do anything he says when his hand is there, but fuckever, “besides, it was really fucking hot in there. I don’t think I’d make it through that meal without turning into a bucket of sweat.”
“Fuckever tough guy.”
But he ain’t gonna argue, well ‘cause now it’s kinda feeling like there’s something with viciously sharp claws inside his stomach grabbin’ onto his organs and gettin’ to the room is really, well, if he’s gonna have any dignity fucksoever left by the end of this night, gettin’ to that room is imfuckingperative.
——— Ian’s POV ———
“Mick?”
“Fuck off Gallagher,” it’s muffled through the closed door and echoed into the garbage bin. It sounds all weak and exhausted, “don’t open that fucking door,” as soon as Ian’s hand is on the knob.
He takes a step back, “okay. But you need to tell me what’s happening.”
“The fuck would you want a play by fuckin’ play for puke and shit?”
“You drink the water?”
“The fuck would I drink the water?”
He drank the water, Ian can tell by his tone of voice, “opened your mouth in the shower, didn’t you?”
“Your fuckin’ fault if I did.”
He leans against the doorframe with a sigh, his hand rising and landing gently on the door. He really wants Mickey to be okay with letting him in there. But he knows Mickey, and he knows he’ll fight it for as long as he can. He doesn’t want Ian to witness him seeming weak. Like a tiny little bacteria getting in his digestive tract probably yesterday, and then drinking too much and getting too much sun today is something that could possibly get past his armor.
“Fuck off firecrotch.”
“Okay Mick.”
“Take your pills?”
“Yeah.”
“K. Well, piss off the patio and get some sleep.”
“Yeah,” he doesn’t move just yet though.
“Get your hand off the door.”
“Yeah, um, let me know if you need anything. You have a bottle of water in there?”
“For like the twentieth fucking time. Yes. Just leave me the fuck alone to purge.”
“Guess I won’t find out what it’s like to chase a chub, huh?”
The partial laugh turns into a retching session that makes Ian’s heart hurt. Knowing that Mickey is going to think he ruined this experience. He’ll blame himself for getting sick in the first place, he’ll try to power through it tomorrow and if he does, if he forces himself out into the heat and humidity that he’s unused to? Fuck. Ian’s going to have to figure out a way to get him to stay in the room all day tomorrow, even if he insists he’s fine.
“Hey Mick?”
“Fuck, Gallagher, I have water, Jesus, just…”
“I love you.”
He can hear his sigh through the door, knows he’s rubbing his eyes for a long drawn out moment before his voice barely above a whisper, “love you too tough guy. Now get some sleep,” slithers under the crack in the door and slides up Ian’s legs, across his back, and snakes into his ear.
******** Sunday Night ********
——— Ian’s POV ———
He sighs, rolls over for at least the five-hundredth time, and can’t get comfortable. All the noises erupting from the bathroom stopped about an hour ago. And he’s been hoping the stubborn prick will make his way back out here. System’s cleaned out, then he’s fine to put some distance between himself and the toilet.
Rolling to the shoulder he normally sleeps on, watching that empty pillow for awhile and tuning his ears for any Mick sounds over the breeze and the fan. Nothing.
Slipping out of bed, quietly pushing the bathroom door open, thankful the bastard didn’t lock it, his breath catches when his eyes scan the bathroom that probably cost more than their entire apartment. But the most gorgeous thing in it, is the man crumpled on the floor, mostly naked, a sheen of sweat on his pale flesh. The tone is off and Ian knows exactly why. It hurts to know he’s hurting but if he’s sleeping then he’s past the worst of it. The garbage bin is in the tub, full of water, and the toilet lid is closed but U-UP is resting on top of the lid. He’s half-curled around the toilet, lying on his side on the cool tiles of the floor.
Ian watches as a shudder races through his body and he moans. But doesn’t stir.
Fuck. He could throw him over his shoulder and bring him to bed, but a shoulder in a sore gut? Not a good plan. Instead, he gathers the bedding and brings the bed to the man.
Being as gentle as humanly possible to jostle some blankets and pillows around him without waking him or causing any further discomfort. Having the comfort of the bed, the security of being right next to the toilet. Ian slides himself between his husband’s back and the tub. He knows he’ll wake sore and he’ll sleep for shit, but when his lips contact Mickey’s spine and the comfort of being near him takes hold, he knows that staying near, that Mickey knowing even through sleep, that he is right here and he is not going anywhere; that’s all that matters.
Notes:
We saw Mickey dealing with a drunk Ian earlier in this work. Mickey on a rum drunk? I just couldn't resist myself.
Come on, no one really thought a honeymoon would go perfectly for these two, did they? Poor Mickey fell into the tourist trap. But he's okay, Ian's got this under control. Will Ian be able to convince him that he's not a fun-sponge after getting sick and 'ruining the night'? Two days down, three to go...
Sometimes love ain't just about fucking or lighting each other on fire, more often than not it's just about being there for the little things :)
Chapter 13: Monday
Chapter Text
Monday
******** Monday Morning ********
——— Mickey’s POV ———
He sure in the fuck heard that. And he sure in the fuck knows it came out of his own mouth. He just ain’t sure the fuck it was. There ain’t a single thing inside his body that could come out either end at this point, but fuckever that noise was, it was a brand new one.
The floor is cold, and it feels pretty fucking good on his overheated skin, but his insides are cold so the heat of Ian behind him is more than welcome, but fuck, “fuck.”
Fuckever that noise was must’ve woke that stubborn ginger up too, his hand on Mickey’s arm starts tracing lines up and down it gently.
“The fuck you sleepin’ on the floor for? Told you to leave me alone.”
His only response is to kiss Mickey’s neck.
“Did I get hit by a truck yesterday? Fuck,” his fingers rise to grind into his eyes.
“Think you got hit by the too-much-fun truck,” he sighs, lips meeting Mickey’s spine again.
Eyes closing on contact, letting the explosions he created with his fingertips overtake the explosions that his own body created for him all damn night, “fuck.”
“Mmm hmm,” he sighs and takes the whole being awake thing as an invitation to cuddle in.
“Fuck,” but he don’t mind it. Not at all. Stubborn fuckin’ prick needin’ to feel needed and needin’ to take care of him when he don’t need to be taken care of, “bastard.”
“Yep,” his arm is wrapped around Mickey’s chest now, his fingers slipping between U-UP and pulling both hands in close to Mickey’s heart.
“Guess we ain’t gonna starfish hunt today,” he sighs, fuck, it’s just easier to make it about sex. It’s easier to pretend that’s all it is, still. Sometimes, like now. Fuck. Fuck, why? Why, still, why is that still the fallback? Like if he can minimize it all, make it all sound like that’s all Ian’s after, all he wants is Mickey’s ass, then it’s easier to admit that than admitting that maybe there is something more to it or somefuck. Like if Mickey admits that Ian sees more shit inside Mickey worth keepin’ than just his ass, then he’s gotta admit it too or somethin’. Fuck.
Now the fucker’s got his nose pressed so close to Mickey’s neck that he’s sure it’s completely flat against his spine and there’s all this annoying fucking foggy shit closing in on Mickey’s chest and stinging in his eyes and he, fuck, fuck. He just wishes he was better. Better at this shit, like actually kicking back and relaxing on a fucking fancy ass resort and a fancy ass boat and he could be the fun that Ian is always looking for, and not the fun-sponge that Shjohn thinks he is. If he could be the person that can just openly give him the love and affection he deserves, or be that idiot that’s okay with shit like, “dancing? Did I fuckin’ dance on that boat?”
The sigh is laced with a giggle and his damn nose somehow manages to get even closer to Mickey’s skin, like he’s trying to just shove it in there far enough that it’ll break the surface, “yeah. You sure did.”
“Fuck.”
“No, it was fun Mick, you were…”
“I ruined it.”
“No,” now the lightheartedness has left his tone and he’s shifting his weight, leaning over Mickey’s face, sliding a hand through his hair before taking hold of his chin, forcing his gaze, “you didn’t ruin a fucking thing. You made my day. You make my day every single fucking day whether you’re grumpy or happy, or resisting every single bit of affection I try to give you, or this,” his forehead leans in, rests against Mickey’s and stays there, “you didn’t ruin a single fucking thing. You think this trip is about acting like snobby rich fucks with sticks up our asses? You think it’s about what anyone else thinks about us? You think it matters if we get on a cruise or lay on the beach or sit in this room all day and talk or not talk or make love or not make love? This trip, it’s about us. Us and whatever the fuck we end up doing at any given moment. It’s not about anything more than you and me, right here.”
His lips press gently, staying closed mouth but lingering. That cloud in Mickey’s chest sure in the fuck ain’t goin’ anywhere just yet though. When Ian leans back, his finger slides across Mickey’s cheek and he smiles, “making memories. Right here on the bathroom floor. If you think you’re the first person who’s gotten sick on their honeymoon then you’re wrong. And if you think you ruined it then you’re wrong. And in case you forgot, we still have three full days left. Three of them. Including today. And today, I feel like getting that massage I never got the other day, and relaxing in the shade, because my shoulders got burned yesterday and then maybe by evening we can sit poolside or head down to the beach. Take it easy today, relax. You know? That thing that normal people do on vacation. Refuckinglax.”
That stupid annoying ass smug smile rises, but he’s gotta give the idiot credit, he’s being pretty refuckinglaxed about this.
“So how about,” his hand slips through Mickey’s hair again and he sighs, his eyes lingering on Mickey’s face, “we get you over to the bed, I head over for some breakfast, I’ll grab something easy to digest for you and bring it back? You refuckinglax for a bit longer, try sipping some water, the bottled stuff,” he clarifies and Mickey’s middle finger responds for him in the minuscule space between them. Which makes Ian smile, press into his lips and linger for a long damn moment, “damn it Mick. How are you so fucking perfect that you’re still sexy as all fuck after spending the night digestively exploding?”
“Exfuckingploding,” he agrees. Fuck, he’s tired. And the ginger asshole is probably right, getting to the mattress would feel fuckin’ like heaven, “oh fuck, just please tell me I did not go on a rant about alien fuckin’ redheads.”
“Nope. But you went on a pretty good rant about ginger starfish.”
“Huh?”
Fucker leans in and kisses his nose, gets to his feet, unfurls his giant body for a good stretch and through the blur and gross feeling in his head, he sure in the fuck takes the opportunity to look at every single damn surface of that dopey fuck’s body, “don’t worry though, the first time it was just you and me. The second time it was Anne, who was also pretty drunk, and she thinks you’re ‘a hoot’, by the way. And she agrees, anything less than nine inches is a waste of time,” he winks.
“A hoot?”
“Yep,” reaching out to offer a hand up, “a hoot.”
“Fuck. You’re makin’ that last part up though.”
“Nope.”
“Uh, yah you are. ‘Cause we both know it’s more like eight and a half. I can tell by lookin’ at dimpled Chad that he ain’t got more than seven.”
“Oh you think so?” his eyebrows are all risen like this is all about to become some kind of fuckin’ dick challenge.
“I fuckin’ know so Gallagher.”
He giggles that stupid fuckin’ little kid giggle that sounds so fuckin’ ridiculous comin’ out of a full grown man’s mouth, so rifuckingdiculous in fact, that it makes Mickey smile, “c’mere fucker.”
“It’s all about girth anyway,” he mumbles against Mickey’s lips before he pries them open with his tongue. Well, guess he don’t mind the taste of rum puke. Gross fucker that he is.
——— Ian’s POV ———
Pushing the door open slowly, hoping to hell the stubborn prick is still sleeping and he can get the maid through the room without him waking.
He takes a moment, lingering in the doorway to watch his body moving with his breathing. The way he’s curled slightly around the pillow that Ian’s been sleeping on, the bedding bunched around him like a little nest in exactly the way Ian placed it, the sweat on his perfect skin beaded in the small of his back. He doesn’t give a shit about the other excursion they had booked today, looking at his husband right now, he can’t even remember what the fuck it was and all he wants is to slide in behind him, spend the day feeling him breathing and smelling the amazing scent of him mingled with all the smells of this room, the bedding, the damp air flowing through the open door.
He only peels his eyes off him to nod at the maid. Stepping aside, letting her past. He already explained the situation and she bustles around quietly, fixing up the bathroom, fresh towels, restocking the fridge, leaving fresh bedding for him to take care of later. He slides her a tip on the way out the door.
No, he doesn’t really know what he’s going to do for now, without Mickey and without wanting to wander very far. Tip-toeing his way past the bed, sure, he’s out and he’ll probably stay that way for awhile, but Ian’s going to do everything he can to keep it quiet and peaceful in here. Whispering in his head to the screen door to be quiet, please be quiet, as he slides it slowly, so fucking slowly open and steps out. Leaving it open. A deep breath when he looks back and Mickey hasn’t stirred at the sound. Fuck, he could stand here all day and just watch him. Every in and out, every tiny shift, the way the late morning sun through the curtains is fingering it’s way across every exposed surface. Nope, he can’t stay here all day and stare, not unless he wants a hard dick and nowhere to put it.
When he turns to walk the rest of the way out, he catches sight of a woman bent over some of the vegetation along the walking path, taking a photo, under the brim of a giant sunhat and with movie star glasses on, he barely recognizes her, “hey Anne,” stepping over the rail of the patio.
“Oh, Ian, you must be glad you don’t drink,” straightening back up with a smile, “how’s Mickey hanging in there?”
“Oof,” is all he can respond with, “what are you photographing?”
“A thorn treehopper. This little martian looking critter,” she looks down at the leaf, “he’s gone, but,” lifting her camera to show him the photos of a tiny green bug with a little fin looking thing on it’s back.
“That might be the only bug I’ve ever seen that I’d consider cute.”
“They’re darling,” her smile is warm, “what are you doing while your man recovers?”
He shrugs, rocking back on his heels, “no idea honestly.”
“Spa’s close. There’s a market square that’s close. All the aquatic activities…”
“Actually I should probably go to the market without him. Get something for my sisters, niece, our son, my brothers will be easy enough. I’ll just bring home some rum for them.”
“Well, why don’t you just go close that patio door, and we’ll head to the market? Chad hates those things. All the back and forth over prices, it’s usually pretty easy to pick out a scammer, but if it’s your first time at one of these then might be best to have some company.”
—————
Holy fuck, Mickey would have hated this. So much. The haggling, the shouting, the hand motioning. The whole thing. He’d be chewing the hell out of his lip, thumbing his nose, dropping his hand to his waistband for his Ruger or his pocket knife or whatever kind of weapon he could get his damn grabby hands on. The different languages, accents filtering and weaving around into one giant mess of words that Ian finds soothing instead of overwhelming. Maybe it’s similar to the Gallagher house, and he was just cut out for it. But the noise of the Milkovich house was never soothing, was it?
He sighs, running his hand across his forehead to wipe off some sweat, but all the shopping is done for all the family. And there’s still three days left in paradise. Larimar and coffee for the girls, including Svet, rum for the guys, and Taino figures for the kids. Apparently they were the first inhabitants of the island.
“Thank you, this was really helpful,” he offers Anne at their point of separation.
“No. Thank you, hungover husbands,” she shrugs, “I do have a question though. Might sound kind of weird.”
“I used to strip at a club in Boystown, I’ve been asked a lot of weird things. I doubt you can top the list.”
“So that’s where yesterday’s moves came from,” she teases with a wide smile on her face, “well, I was sort of wondering, I mean, I haven’t seen either of you taking many photos and from what I gather, your Mickey is not much of one for having attention on him, but,” her fingers slide across the strap of her camera bag, “your honeymoon should be well documented and I was just thinking, or well, I would like your permission to snap some candids. I won’t share them anywhere, I just, well, I saw you two walking on the beach the other night and it was,” she sighs, “I’m rambling. You two should have proof of your honeymoon. And I’d like to take a few shots, if that’s okay. Oh, and I do a photography blog,” reaching into her bag to remove a business card, “this trip will be well documented, all the scenery you can stand.”
“That’d be yeah, I mean, yeah. That’d be, I’d love to have some pictures from this trip and yes he’s, he’s a total asshole about taking pictures, pretty much every selfie is just me smiling my stupid face off and his grump face blocked by his middle finger.”
——— Mickey’s POV ———
Seriously, what the fuck is that noise that keeps coming out of his mouth? It’s fuckin’ weird. It’s like a death rattle or somefuck. Fuck.
Fingers rising to grind into his eyes, he can hear Ian’s voice outside over the fan, fucker’s found a friend already, hasn’t he? Fuckin’ overly chatty gingerfuck.
Stupid fucking pillow. It barely smells like Ian at all, just like jasmine or lavender or, “fuck,” trying to blink the room into focus but the only thing his body is capable of focusing on is that dipshit’s voice filtering in, winding itself around the ceiling fan and spinning down to float into his ears. He’s talking about their fucking wedding. It’s been a damn year and the fucker won’t stop, anyone who has two damn ears and will stand still for more than two minutes gets the full version. The whole blue and green shirts with the ties flipped and fuckever about how Mickey’s tie didn’t last long and he’s still just impressed that Mickey agreed to wear it in the first place, agreed to a reception, or even agreed to marry him when he thinks about it. Mickey hears himself snort when that part of the conversation floats in, who the fuck else would Mickey marry? Another Russian hand-whore? Ah fuck, he should call Yev. Little shit was all teary eyed and parasite hugs when they left, all upset about missing their Sunday and their Wednesday dates. Little shit.
Jesus, how the fuck long can one idiot talk about a damn wedding day? Fuck.
Flopping to his back, kicking off all the blankets that are piled up around him like some kind of fuckin’ fort or somefuck. A nest? They’re circled around him like a damn nest. The fuck Gallagher think he is? A damn baby bird? All skinny and hungry and needy?
Well, after a shitstorm like last night, he probably is kinda skinny. In all the wrong fuckin’ ways. And yeah, he’s hungry. And kinda scared of eatin’.
His head turns right away when the screen door slides open. Creeping in all tryin’ to be silent and he’s just not that good at it, “you find a fuckin’ Macy’s down here or somethin’?”
“You’re awake,” fuck that dopey smile, “feeling?”
All he can respond with is a groan.
“Sounds better than earlier,” damn shrug winds up to his shoulders, lowering his butt down to the edge of the mattress, “made it to the market. Anne saved you from that particular ring of horror. And we’ve got all the souvenirs we need for all the siblings, well, the un-incarcerated ones anyway. And the kids.”
He ain’t gonna get a response. Or at least not one Mickey can feel happening, but something must happen ‘cause the fucker smiles, finding Mickey’s hand on the bed, “drink any water yet?”
Middle finger responds for him.
Ian’s face softens, “I’m not teasing,” readjusting to lay belly-down next to Mickey, propped on his elbows to lean over him, “I mean rehydrating, you know?”
Another moan exits his lips. Which ‘pparently is some kind of invitation for Ian to kiss him. His hand rises unconsciously, finding the back of Ian’s head, sliding to his ear, his jaw. Feeling the way his mouth moves when he’s here, right here, against Mickey’s lips even when it’s nothing but a gentle, closed mouth kiss. Taking a moment to find exactly where he wants to rest his lips, warm and soft, until he leans out, nudging Mickey’s nose with his, leaning forehead to forehead. His stupid hand feelin’ all reassuring with his thumb rubbing along his cheek.
“Alright shithead,” nudging his face away, knowing he stinks to high fuckin’ heaven and Ian ain’t about to back away without being pushed away. Overbearing fuck that he is, “show me these fuckin’ souvenirs.”
******** Monday afternoon ********
——— Ian’s POV ———
“Just sit down Mick,” spreading his legs open on the lounge chair, patting the space between his knees, it’s wide enough for that perfect ass to fit.
“No. I’m fuckin’ fine firecrotch. Let’s do some of this shit you want to do today. Like fuckin’ paddle-boardin’ or fuckever it is.”
Shaking his head, patting the chair again, “I want to sit down. That’s all I want to do today.”
It’s only sort of a lie. Mickey’s not the right color yet. But he’s going to pretend he’s fine, Ian knows it, he’ll pretend he’s fine for long enough to grab some snorkels and fins, head out along the reef with the tour guide. Or grab boards and take a short tour of the coastline. Sea kayaks maybe. Not in the midday sun. Not when he’s dehydrated and hasn’t really eaten yet.
Ian can feel his face getting demanding as his hand pats the chair again, “sit.”
‘Fuck you’ is all over those brows, but all Ian can manage is a smile as he pats the chair again. The last chair left in the shade.
Mickey’s thumb rises to his nose. His eyes start shifting the beach, half-hooded just in case there is some fag-basher from the Southside wandering around here. The thumb drops, runs the length of his lower lip, lip gets sucked into his teeth, typing out a mystery against his flesh before his eyes meet Ian’s again.
Ian shrugs, leans back, hands clasped behind his head, legs open and waiting. Mickey’s eyes linger for a few breaths, drop to Ian’s chest, trailing over his stomach, taking a detour to that empty space between his knees. A deep breath rises his ribcage, and he makes his move.
Finally. Fuck.
Ian’s perfectly measured open space taken quickly by the ass it was meant for. Immediately he flops his legs over Mickey’s and leans forward to kiss the back of his neck. There’s no sense in speaking gratitude when he can just kiss it against this flesh.
——— Mickey’s POV ———
Fucker’s warm behind him. Breath coming out in relaxed gusts against his spine. Legs trapping Mickey’s but not in an overwhelming sort of way, like some kind of fuckin’ embrace or somefuck.
He ain’t gonna lie, he’s glad the fucker don’t wanna do anything right now. He still feels like shit. He feels fuckin’ weak and useless and he fuckin’ hates that. Hates that he’s ruining their day in paradise. All ‘cause he drank too much rum and fuckin’ hollered at Ian when he was in the shower the other day and didn’t remember to spit the damn water out when it rolled in. Fuck.
His hand rises, he watches it out of his peripheral until it’s in front of his face, about to make contact when a freckled one comes between, tangles fingers with fingers and steers it back down to the arm of the chair. Fucker. His body has no choice but to flop back against Ian’s, back of his head meeting that perfect pillow of his pec. Heart thudding slowly, even and familiar. Pushing at the back of Mickey’s head, he turns to situate his ear over it instead. Soaking it in, letting himself synchronize with Ian’s rhythm. Not that he’d ever tell that fucker that. That it’s sometimes somethin’ stupid like this, fuck, it’s always somethin’ stupid like this that makes him all edgy. Thinkin’ the door of his life is going to be opened, allowing all the fists and shouts and guns and blood and whores back in, crashing through into this place, this safe place that somehow is still his fucking safe place after all the shit they’ve put each other through. Just like it did. That day.
——— Ian’s POV ———
Tilting forward to lean into the top of Mickey’s head, running his nose back and forth over his soft hair, taking in the scent of every single strand before he presses lips then leans back again. Letting his mind wander, letting Mickey’s mind wander. Letting the lull of the ocean’s waves and the breeze steal the thoughts from their heads and tug them down the shore until they’re smaller than ants and disappearing on the horizon, then he wonders, “we calling Yev tonight?”
A nod, “Monday, right?”
“Sure is.”
“Svet said after school.”
“Yep.”
Eying the constellation of freckles on his right shoulder as his fidgety hand keeps trying to squirm it’s way out of Ian’s grasp, “can I rub your shoulders?”
“Fuck you wanna do that for?”
Because you’re a giant fucking ball of tension all the fucking time and I know why, but if I tell you then you’ll just shut down, “well, you don’t want to go to the spa and have some stranger touch you. And that’s fine, but a shoulder rub would feel pretty damn good after sleeping on the bathroom floor.”
“Out here?”
“Why not?”
That fidgety hand is trying so hard to shake out of Ian’s grasp, finally realizing his left one is free, and it rises. At the same time it makes contact with his face, Ian dips into the side of his neck, layering kisses into that muscle group that is always tense, “nothing sexual about it Mick. Just thinking, you know, this whole refuckinglax thing…”
“I am refuckinglaxed,” it snaps. His breath shakes, hand drops, head turns quickly and lands a rough kiss on Ian’s temple, “fuck. Fine. Go ‘head.”
“Go ‘head and what?”
A huffy protest of air exits his lips, conceding like he just lost some kind of battle, “rub my shoulders.”
——— Mickey’s POV ———
“Fuck,” uh yeah, that just exited his lips, “fuck,” ‘pparently that’s all that’ll exit. Fucking fucker. He ain’t stuck to the shoulders. He’s worked his way up his neck, back of his head, down his back, and now Mickey’s slumped forward while he grinds elbows into his lower back. Yeah, right fuckin’ here in front of anyone with two eyes who decides to look this direction, but, “fuck,” that feels good. It feels fucking good. Fuck him and his touchy feely bullshit.
——— Ian’s POV ———
It is taking every single ounce of self-control to keep his dick calm. Holy fuck, those breathy little ‘fuck’s and his complete pliability under Ian’s touch. The way the shade is playing patterns with the sun on his pale flesh. Every single muscle line visible. Fuck. He’s so warm and he’s so soft and he’s so, “fuck.”
“Fuck,” deep breath. No hard-ons. No hard-ons. Fuck, no hard-ons. Not on the beach in broad daylight. Not against his husband’s back when he’s seriously just trying to relieve some tension and some aches, not turning this into a sex thing. Not right now. Fuck. Shit. Turning his head quickly to land on a pair of naked tits just down the beach. Naked tits. Yep, that should help. But he can’t keep his focus there for too long, sure it’s obvious he’s not actually checking out this chick’s tits, but it’s also pretty fucking rude. Shifting down the beach. Why are there no fat people? Hairy guy, like full-on sweater hairy. That’ll help. More tits.
“Fuck.”
Tingle. Fuck, shut the fuck up, shit.
Tits. Damn it, it’d be so fucking easy to just lean into his neck. Layer kisses upon kisses upon kisses over his sweat filmed, salty body and… tits. Okay. Tits. Hairy guy. Fuck, that’s a lot of hair. And his wife is rubbing sunscreen into that bird’s nest of curly hair on his lower back. That’ll do it.
“Mmm, right there.”
Jesus fucking christ, he’s practically purring. It’s the most fucking sexy thing Ian has ever heard. Just fucking… tits. Tits, hairy guy, tits, hairy guy, tits, oh fuck hairy guy is looking this way. Fuck. Tits. Fuck, just, “right there Ian,” fuck. Shit, fuck. Shit. He was on the rig for a birth. That image will burn his brain for eternity even though there is beauty in it, it’s still fucking gross. Closing his eyes and conjuring that image. Yeah, that’s how fucking desperate he is right now, “mmm, right there.”
Fuck. Shit, fuck, shit. Fuck. Too late.
——— Mickey’s POV ———
“You, uh, doin’ okay back there tough guy?”
“Yeah,” but that was way too quick. And he’s awfully squirmy for a guy just rubbing his husband’s back out here, “no,” a breathy little embarrassed chuckle, “totally hard.”
“Full salute?”
“Uh yeah,” his forehead meets Mickey’s spine between his shoulder blades and his hands work their way around his back, landing on the knobs of his pelvis, bracing himself.
“Don’t think that positioning is gonna help the situation.”
“No, shit, yeah. True.”
“Throw your towel over your lap, I’ll jerk ya off.”
“What? No, that’s not what I was getting at here. I just wanted to…”
“Refuckinglax firecrotch. I know you were just tryin’ to get me comfortable, ain’t gonna lie, don’t hurt my feelin’s to know you’re such a horndog that just rubbin’ on my back is makin’ you…”
“Not a horndog Mick. It’s you,” and sure, his breath down Mickey’s spine is causing all kinds of tingles and shit but Mickey’s pretty sure he don’t have to worry about a surprise boner in swim shorts at this point with all the refuckinglaxation he’s feelin’ and of course the whole shitstorm he ain’t recovered from, “that’s the problem. I try to do something nonsexual with you so that you know it’s not always about sex, but it doesn’t work because I get so fucking turned on by every single thing you do, that it just,” his sigh is all laced with worry and shit.
Enough worry that Mickey turns his head, reaching for the dope’s chin to pull him out of his safe haven and force eye contact, “I know it ain’t all about sex dipshit. Now throw your towel over your lap and get your dick out.”
——— Ian’s POV ———
How the fuck does it work like that? It’s so fucking easy to get turned on by him and it’s so fucking easy for him to just spit in his hand and start slowly cranking on Ian’s dick in the most perfect way a hand can jerk a dick without proper lube and in a weird position for it, and he’s being discreet as all hell. This will not take long, not at all. Probably helps that Ian’s nose is buried in Mickey’s scent and his hands are on his hips, legs open lazily already. So, okay, maybe they were already pretty much in a sex position so it’s not really a stretch of the imagination that it would result in a boner. But, fuck, it wasn’t the intention when he sat down.
“Fuck, I love you,” against his sweat stained skin as his hand lazily slips up the length of Ian’s rock hard dick between them. Exact amount of pressure in his grip and Ian is certain that any part of Mickey’s body clenched down on his dick could get this reaction out of him. The world starting to recede as he closes his eyes, letting himself give way fully to Mickey’s control and judgment.
——— Mickey’s POV ———
Yeah, so he didn’t fuckin’ think he’d get a boner right fucking now, but turns out he was fuckin’ wrong. Fuck. That idiot’s breath on his neck and his dick pulsing in his grip, his hands pulsing the same rhythm on his hips. Shit. He draws his knees towards his body to hide the situation. Listens to the fucker behind him rising out of his orgasm haze, readjusting to lean back, pretty much hoping it was just the dope being so close to him that rose his flag and maybe his fuckin’ dick’ll lose interest as soon as his heat is retreating from Mickey’s back.
A heavy sigh when his ginger head meets the chair, “fuck Mick,” watching his toes starting to release their pointed tingle. Toes, he could watch the dope’s toes for long enough to stop thinking about sex, and let this flag fall naturally. His toes are ugly. That ain't no lie. All toes are ugly. And now they’re rising, just kind of sliding over top of Mickey’s where they’re planted on the chair, before his legs straighten out and they come to rest at the edge of the frame. All relaxed and easy with the beach in the background. Fuckin’ freckles, who the fuck has freckles on their damn toes? Gingers, fuckin’ alien fucker. Fuck.
Now the dipshit is startin’ to make noise back there. A grunt, his right hand sliding over Mickey’s hip, fucker. He fuckin’ knows. He fuckin’ knows what his body does to Mickey’s, and his knees are bending, building a little sidewall, left hand is bringing the half messed towel over Mickey’s lap now and his right hand is pretty fucking easily finding Mickey’s dick through the barn door in his shorts.
——— Ian’s POV ———
His hair smells like the beach. And it is fucking intoxicating. Ian clenches his thighs tighter against Mickey’s as his dick starts pulsing in his grip and his head falls back against his shoulder with a grunt. Turning to kiss his temple. And linger, “you tired?”
“No.”
It’s a flat out lie, “well I am. So if I fall asleep, wake me up for dinner,” knowing Mickey should be eating by now, but that particular battle is one Ian is too exhausted to fight right now. His head is already heavy on his shoulder. He has to fight the urge to start rocking him back and forth in his arms. Fuck, he’d end up with a black eye if he did that. Feeling a lazy smile rising on his face where it’s leaned against his husband’s head, “I love you,” whispering into his last moment of hazy reality as sleep starts to settle in.
——— Anne’s POV ———
“That was probably the least discreet hand job I’ve ever seen on this beach,” noting when she realizes her husband’s gaze has just been snagged by the same thing that grabbed hers.
A nod, smirk playing at the corners of his lips when his focus drops to her mouth for a moment, “oh, to be young and in love.”
“Well, it’s easier to be old and in love,” she shrugs, “less sand in places it doesn’t belong.”
That twinkle in his eye that she’ll never stop loving, as he tilts his hair-of-the-dog drink in cheers, “to sandy asscracks.”
“And salty ballsacks.”
——— Ian’s POV ———
The sun has started to make it’s way further down the horizon, but not quite far enough, fingering Mickey’s legs and his right arm with too much heat and intensity. He’s certain he should wake him before his arm turns lobster red, but fuck, he feels so good here. The weight of him, the lull of his quiet sleep breathing mingling with the breeze and the waves, the random noises that are human-made. It’s not exactly nature pure and simple, but it’s fucking gorgeous. It’s so much more than just rum, sandals. The beach, “us,” he hears himself whisper against his husband’s head where his nose just keeps seeming to find itself.
“Hmm?” it’s sleep-filmed and lazy.
“Nothing, go back to sleep.”
Too late, his weight shifts and all the body parts that were so lax are getting rigid again. Fucker. Wakes up in paradise and still immediately goes tense. Nineteen years of Terry’s reign or juvie, yeah it’ll take a long ass time to reverse that damage.
“Just me,” reminding him, hands rubbing gently up his arms as his own fingers rise to meet his eyes.
Grind, grind, grind. Blink, “fuck, it’s bright.”
“Mmm hmm.”
“It dinner time?”
“Close enough. Take a minute to wake up, we’ll get cleaned up, call Yev, and hit dinner.”
“We got shit scheduled?”
“Mediterranean, but I’m not…”
“Fuckever firecrotch, we’ll go. Ruined the rest of your day, ‘least I can…”
Grabbing his face, maybe rougher than he intended, but it gets his gaze, “knock it the fuck off with that shit. You didn’t ruin a fucking thing. I’ve never had a chance to just lay on a lounge chair on the fucking beach in the middle of the Caribbean while my stubborn prick of a husband sleeps on my chest. I consider myself lucky as fuck to have this afternoon to remember every single time you won’t let me smother you. So fuck you for thinking that shit,” releasing his chin when the stubborn blue flame extinguishes in his irises.
Thumbing his nose, watching the ocean for a minute, heavy sigh, gaining the bravery to look at Ian’s eyes again and wonder, “thought you were tired.”
“I dozed off too,” fingers trailing down his arm to find his left hand, “just not for as long,” lips against his nose quickly, pressing into his fingers until he opens them and allows Ian the link he’s looking for. Metal on metal when he squeezes, nudging his nose until he surrenders his lips.
****** Monday evening ********
——— Ian’s POV ———
“Why does husband look like piece of shit?”
“I don’t look like a piece of shit. I look like shit. And I ain’t your husband.”
She flicks her hand like she’s flicking off a booger, “husband, piece of shit, look like shit.”
“Where’s the kid?”
“In tub. Boy has hygiene. Did not get that trait from father.”
“Fuck you Svet. I know you ain’t far from the tub if he’s in it. So hurry the fuck up and put him on the screen.”
“Daddy!” the kid is in the tub with a pile of bubbles on his head.
“Nice crown.”
His blue eyes grow uncertain, flicking up to his mom, “why does Daddy look weird?”
“I don’t look weird,” eyes locking onto Ian’s for some back-up.
“Daddy drank the water,” Ian sighs.
“Stupid piece of shit,” Svetlana curses under her breath.
“Hey, there’s a fuckin’ kid in the room.”
“Hey Daddy?” wondering as another handful of bubbles gets piled on top of his crown.
“Yeah?”
“Do you know how important thrust is?”
Mickey snorts on the water he just brought to his lips and Ian looks away from the screen to gather himself for a moment, “uh, yeah kid, thrust is, uh…”
“It’s pretty important. It’s what the engines do.”
“What engines are those?”
“Airplanes, silly!” with that, his arms dart out from his sides, and he starts making airplane noises, “the thrust has to over… over…”
“Overcome,” Svet reminds him.
“Overcome the drag. And then the wings lift the plane. What is flying like Daddy?”
“It’s peaceful,” he shrugs and shoots Ian an elbow.
“It’s kind of uncomfortable, but…”
“Do planes ever crash?”
Silence for a moment as Mickey’s eyes land on Ian’s, trying to decide what’s more important in this moment. Comforting the kid that his daddy his going to get home safely, or telling the truth?
“Uh, no plane I’ve ever been on,” he decides.
“Hmm,” Yev sighs, the debate in his eyes clear. Sometimes Ian wonders how the hell he can be so damn similar to Mickey if he’s only his half brother, “did you know that some trains have two locomotives?!”
“No I didn’t know that demon spawn, but, uh, we gotta get goin’ here. Got dinner to eat, just wanted to check in real quick.”
“Why’d you drink the water? What happens if you drink the water? Are you not supposed to drink the water? Mommy says I have to drink water every single day to stay hide dated. But if drinking water makes you look like shit…”
“Yev!” all three parents reprimand in unison.
“Um, like poop then. Then I don’t want to drink water.”
“It’s just the water here, there’s bacteria in it that we’re not used to because the water in the US is purified differently,” Ian tries, “the water at home is good for you.”
“Yeah, tell that to Flint residents,” Mickey mumbles.
Jabbing an elbow into his side as Yev brings another handful of bubbles to his head, “what’s a Flint resident?”
“Am glad you called,” Svetlana mentions dryly, knowing she’s just been set up for a night filled with questions.
“What about the water in the tub? Can I drink that water?”
“The bubbles’ll make ya…”
“Say bye to Daddies,” Svet announces with faked cheer.
His hand starts waving wildly at the screen, “bye Daddies! Can I come with you next time? I won’t drink the water!”
“Love you buddy. Be good to your mom, see you soon.”
Their goodbyes would keep going all night if Svet didn’t hang up the phone with a very resounding, “good night.”
“That fuckin’ kid,” Mickey sighs, shaking his head in amusement, peeling off his clothes and heading for the shower.
******** Monday night ********
——— Mickey’s POV ———
Well, fuck, a guy could get used to this walking on the beach shit. Even with Ian’s big stupid hand locked into his, all fuckin’ reassuring and all that shit. Yeah, his damn eyes wouldn’t leave Mickey’s all through dinner, makin’ sure he was eatin’, and he keeps tapping the water bottle in his hand like the sound of the plastic is just a reminder. Overbearing fucker that he is.
“Sit for a minute,” he stops walking, plops down on the line where the water meets the sand, even though he ain’t wearin’ swim trunks.
“The fuck Gallagher?”
“Just do it. Sit.”
“You fuckin’ serious about that shit? You’re wearin’ dress pants, sitting in mud.”
“It’s not mud. It’s wet sand.”
“Fuck’s the difference?”
“One stains. One doesn’t. Sit.”
“I ain’t a fuckin’ dog,” but he is pretty fuckin’ weak feelin’ still. So he sits. And the damn water seeps through his pants immediately. But it kinda feels good. Like a fuckin’ bath tub that’s only partially full, “wish we could afford to do this again. Take the damn kid.”
“Yeah,” fucker sighs, leanin’ back on his hands in the sand, tilting his face towards the sky. Fuck, he’s sexy, “he’d be too young to fully appreciate something like this anyway. Maybe by the time he’s old enough, we’ll have a few dollars set aside.”
“Sure, then we’ll just convince ourselves it’s for him to go to school or somefuck.”
“Fuck that, Svet’s dirty old man can pay for that shit.”
His shrug brushes up against Ian’s arm beside him, “ain’t as dumb as you look Gallagher.”
Face turning with the glow of the moon and a dopey fuckin’ smile when he drops his shoulder and shoves into Mickey, “think so tough guy?” nudging him back with a harder shoulder. Which of-fucking-course turns into a wrestling match, the fuck wouldn’t it? And the wrestling turns into making out, the fuck wouldn’t it?
——— Ian’s POV ———
Damn clothes soaked and stuck to his body, cool but not cool enough to negate his husband’s body heat beneath him where the fucker finally quit fighting long enough for Ian to dip into his lips. Where the tongue fight starts and lasts, lasts until it’s just an argument, and dulled to a lazy conversation as his body gets all pliable beneath him. Knowing as soon as he pulls his lips away, the guy is going to start complaining about the sand in his hair and his soaked clothes and sure, Ian should probably get the hell off him. Dinner seemed to settle just fine, but that doesn’t mean he’s comfortable with Ian’s body weight over him. Sliding up to put his weight on knees and elbows, hands through his hair, the moon on this man’s face, fuck, it doesn’t get more beautiful. It can’t. Ian’s breath is caught in his throat, his heart lodged in his mouth and his ears rushing, but he hears himself whispering, “fuck Mick, you’re gorgeous,” before he dives back into his lips to cut off whatever argument is about to happen.
Chapter 14: Tuesday
Summary:
Two days left in paradise...
Water sports? Sex on the beach? And J_Q speculated on a tropical spider making an appearance...
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Tuesday
******** Tuesday Early Morning ********
——— Mickey’s POV ———
Sure, sleepin’ half the day yesterday ain’t real conducive to sleepin’ all night. Sighing, rolling to the wrong shoulder to face Ian in the darkness of the room. It ain’t really dark. And he can tell his finger not to, but it ain’t gonna listen, rising off the mattress between them to trace his jaw. Not like it’ll wake the fucker, but if it did, the asshole slept on the bathroom floor with him last night and he’s probably pretty fuckin’ spent. His eyes move beneath his lids, but they don’t open. Breath doesn’t change. So he lets his finger keep tracing. Getting lost in the curves and sharp edges. The dip in his chin, the softness of his cheek with a fresh shave. The warm moisture of his breath exiting his nose when his finger traces over his upper lip. Finding the little ridge in the center and lingering. Fucker’s lips purse, leaving a sleep kiss against the pad of Mickey’s finger.
Of course they fuckin’ do. Fucker.
Sighing, rolling back over to watch the ceiling fan whirring. Shifting shadows. Wondering what his life would be like if he’d never met the dope. If he’d never stolen that damn gun from Kash. Sure, he’d have a few less scars. Maybe an easier mile or two behind him. But that ain’t the point of life. Life’s worth the scars and love is, well, love is easy when everything else is hard. And it’s fuckin’ simple. Reliable. A feelin’ that ain’t ever gonna change.
His head turns, gaze falling to his husband’s face once more. The way his hair looks like dying embers in the night. Damn finger rises again, this time landing in his hair. Finding the exact strands he was looking for without having to hunt for them. The softest ones on his head. And Mickey’s favorite hue. The stuff the sun doesn’t touch, that deeper red that seems like a secret hidden behind the orange.
——— Ian’s POV ———
He’s not sleeping. Fucker. Sliding Ian’s hair between his fingers. Calling him to the surface when it was so easy to sink into sleep, fuck, and so necessary to stay there. His tired hand rises, finds Mick’s thigh immediately and jolts a, “shit, sorry,” out of his mouth, “didn’t mean,” hand disappearing, “to, uh, wake you.”
“Didn’t,” he lies, “gotta piss,” fingers squeezing that perfectly muscled thigh, thumb meeting the bullet scar, two fingers meeting burn scars. Quick rub from boxers to knee before he drags himself to seated on the edge of the bed, “can’t sleep?”
“Yah. Guess when you spend half the day doin’ it, means you ain’t gonna do it at night.”
Not that he’s ever been much of a sleeper, but he’s been getting better at in the last few years. That whole refuckinglaxing thing.
——— MIckey’s POV ———
He’s a shitty liar. Always has been. Barely squeezing out anything considered a real piss. Walking back out of the bathroom with a tired dopey smile on his face, falling back onto the mattress, facing Mickey, hand landing immediately on his thigh. His eyes are fucking bright as fuck even in the night, lingering on Mickey’s like he wants him to fuckin’ talk to him. Probably thinkin’ he’s got some shit on his mind. But he don’t. Not really, “I’m fine tough guy,” finding his fingers and lacing through, “go back to sleep,” bringing the spiderweb of flesh and blood and bones to his lips.
“I am,” a face full of ‘lay the fuck down so I can spoon you’.
His lip ends up between his teeth, but he flops back down on the bed and backs his ass up until he’s clicked into place for the needy cuddly fucker. Ian’s hand instantly flattening out against Mickey’s heart and his lips meeting his spine, “I love you.”
“Love you too fuckface.”
So maybe layin’ here, in parafuckingdise with his husband wrapped around him falling back into sleep quickly and quietly, ain’t the worst place Mickey’s ever been. Even if he is wide afuckingwake. But he ain’t gonna flop around the bed all huffy and irritated, waking Ian up and shit. Forcing himself to hold still. Mostly. HIs lip is in his teeth, fuck, sometimes he wishes he still smoked. Like smoked smoked. Not like this one a day shit, that’s turned into one every other day, that’s turned into like two a week. ‘Cause gingerfuck is all Mr. Health these fuckin’ days, big shot parafuckingmedic and shit.
He watches his hand, his left hand that was pressed flat to Mickey’s chest, now it’s sliding down, finding his arm and clamping lazily down on his bicep. In his sleep. Fucker’s just gotta know Mickey’s here. He’s certain they could have a fuckin’ California king or fuckever those giant ass mattresses are, and Ian would still find him. Fucker.
——— Ian’s POV ———
Deep breath through his nose as the surface of wake starts to filter into the depths of sleep, reveals that Mickey is still in fact, right there. And the pattern his grabby fingers are playing on Ian’s hand, reveal that he is in fact, still wide awake. Damn, he stayed there. He laid there and did nothing for the last couple hours, just so Ian wouldn’t wake up alone, didn’t he? He feels his hand squeeze down on his husband’s, “morning,” lips to the back of his head.
“Yeah, fuckever firecrotch.”
“I take it that means you didn’t sleep again?”
Those soft relaxed muscles in his body start flexing, like he’s going to get up and get out of bed now.
“I don’t think so,” tightening his hold.
“Jesus fuck, I just laid here forfuckingever, just fuckin’ wide awake listenin’ to you snore.”
“I don’t snore,” nuzzling his way into his soft hair.
“Fuck you don’t,” head turning, brows up.
Ian knows he’s supposed to be intimidated when the annoyance meter is up to his hairline, but it only makes him smile. And lean in. For a nice, warm, nasty, stinky, sloppy morning kiss. Smiling wider when Mickey shoves him away, “fuck,” thumb rising to slide across his lower lip, “could fuckin’ at least take a drink of water. Chase some of that left over goo down.”
“Goo,” grabbing his face just to dive back in. Knowing the stubborn fucker doesn’t actually give a fuck about how Ian’s mouth tastes. Especially as it starts taking the trail mapped out by his spine. Every single knob against his lips, right down the crack of his ass, stopping at his boxers when he remembers, “uh, how’s your ass?”
Shrug, “fuckin’ fine.”
Well, that’s a clear sign that it isn’t yet. So the kisses detour, his hands clamping down on Mickey’s hips as his body shifts to climb over him, making himself comfortable between his husband’s knees as his fingers slip his boxers down, revealing his perfect cock. Laying there all beautiful and needy.
——— Mickey’s POV ———
He ain’t dumb. He knows that Ian is only sucking his dick ‘cause he thinks Mickey’s answer was a lie. It wasn’t. Well, not really. His ass is fine. So it’s not a lie. But he ain’t real sure about the lining of his digestive system in general. That fuckin’ acid burnin’ all over in there. Probably ain’t a real good plan for that fucker to go face first just yet.
Fuckever, he can suck him off instead. Watching his hand rise, landing in the embers as his head sinks all the way to the base and Mickey’s eyes roll shut.
——— Ian’s POV ———
His lips land in Mickey’s bellybutton, mumbling, “got some leftover goo for ya now,” hands sliding up his sides as his mouth follows that dip between his abs.
“Fuck you.”
He feels like a deflating balloon underneath him. Lips between his pecs, nosing his way up to the delicate hollow of his throat, over his Adam’s Apple as it bobs with a swallow, eyes flashing open when Ian lingers over his face. Hands finding the handles of his jaw and tilting his face to the exact right angle in the morning sun dancing across the bed every time the damp wind tosses the curtains aside. Ian swears to every single fucking deity ever recorded that this creature beneath him the most incredible thing to set foot on this Earth, “fuck, you’re gorgeous,” pressing into his pillow soft lips before he can argue.
——— Mickey’s POV ———
Maybe he’s gotten used to it through the years, the taste of him still lingering on Ian’s tongue when he dives in for his damn kisses post dick suckin’. Fuckever, he’s had plenty worse things in his mouth.
******** Tuesday Mid-Morning ********
——— Ian’s POV ———
He’s considering breakfast a success. He ate nearly his normal amount, not that Ian was keeping tabs or anything, and he didn’t make any faces suggesting any intestinal discomfort. Of course, when the plate was empty and he shoved it away from him, leaned back and took a big drink of water, his face was full of, ‘you happy now?’.
He is. Fuck, he’s happy. He’s happier than he ever thought he’d be. Happier than he deserves to be when Mickey gets to his feet, letting Ian lay his hand on his lower back without twisting away from him or getting squirmy and fidgety.
“Alright shithead, what now? Want your spa date?”
“Nah, I won’t make you let a stranger touch you. Not if you don’t want it,” hand sliding up his back a little ways, just to slide back down, slip over to his hip and drag him close to his side.
“They’re like fuckin’ professionals, it ain’t like…”
It falters and drops away as his hand rises, thumb meeting his nose. Brow-line to tip, K sliding under his nostrils. Ian’s not going to put the words in his mouth. He’s not going to say her name. He’s not going to say his father’s name. He’s not going to say ‘that day’. That day that neither one of them can bear to acknowledge but they can’t seem to forget. Fuck, someday. His face turns, quickly planting a kiss on Mickey’s temple. Someday, someday he will be able to get the words out there. And no, it won’t fix it, but if he would just open the dialogue, if he would just chose for himself to open that dialogue, then Ian will listen. He will listen and he will not wear that look of pity and disgust that he wore that day. That day.
He’s proud of him. So fucking proud of him for making things work. For looking Svetlana in the eye, for looking that boy in the eye. For raising him as his own. Even if the day they came into Mickey’s life was the worst day of his life, he has turned it into something beautiful. A father that little boy would never have had. And a friendship with Svet. She’s not the worst person in their lives, nowhere near.
Ian could promise him, he could promise that he’d be able to see him the whole time, that he’d maintain the eye contact the whole time he was on the massage table. But that wouldn’t help, would it?
“I’d get jealous as hell if I had to watch someone else touching your naked body anyway,” giving him another tug tight into his side.
——— Mickey’s POV ———
Is it just ‘cause he’s got nothin’ to do, so his head is all full of shit he never fuckin’ lets himself think about? Is that the fuckin’ problem? Fuck. He is terrifuckingble at this vacation shit, “you wanna parasail or some shit?”
“Only if you want to.”
Fucker.
******** Tuesday Early Afternoon ********
——— Mickey’s POV ———
Fuck, he’s hopin’ that dope don’t notice that his legs are trembling. Fucking fuck. Holy fuck. He feels so fucking far off the ground. And so fucking out of control. And his asshole is all kinds of fucking puckered over this shit. But fuck, it’s incredible. It’s fucking incredible. Every goddamn shade of blue this planet can create is right beneath his feet that are just dangling in the air, just fucking dangling there. Fuck. Maybe not every shade of blue. It’s more blue green, it ain’t like Lake Michigan blue. This is all warm looking and inviting. And, goddamn, his head turns to look at Ian when he feels the dope looking at him, and his fucking smile. Fuck that smile.
All blindingly bright teeth and bright hair and alien skin. With the blue of the sky behind him and the sun sparkling off the ocean’s surface, and the damn green, green like he’s never seen in the trees and leaves and shit surrounding the resorts that line the shore. HIs eyes flit back over to his husband’s, and he thinks that green ain’t got shit on those orbs.
——— Ian’s POV ———
Ian’s sure that was gorgeous, the air, the land, the ocean, but the only thing he can even remember by the time his feet are back on shore, is how fucking incredible his husband’s smile was.
“What now?” he’s standing in front of the water sport’s shack, scanning over the menu like a kid in a candy store, “think we could snorkel? How’s that shit work? Just rent the mask and shit, go out on our own? Or is it like a tour thing? What about kayaking? Could see more shit in less time. Wonder if you can rent the snorkel shit and the kayak, kill two birds with one stone? Oh fuck, I don’t know, breathing through a snorkel with my face in the water, sounds kinda…” his eyes flit across Ian’s face, “s’pose I ain’t gonna drowned with a life jacket, huh? Fuck, man, what about sharks?” now his thumb rises again and Ian’s hand lands on his back.
“How about we ask some questions?”
“How ‘bout you ask some fuckin’ questions tough guy? I don’t speak Dominican.”
——— Mickey’s POV ———
He snorts out a response at him, but the damn dopey smile ain’t goin’ nowhere. His hand pressing against Mickey’s back like he’s tryin’ to steer him closer to the line before he bitches out. He ain’t about to bitch out.
——— Ian’s POV ———
A quick lesson, a little run-through of the landscape and the water depth in front of the resort, and they’re off. Paddle-boarding. It’s not as hard as it looks. He could see the gears turning in Mickey’s head as he eyed it like he had no idea how to kill it. If it can’t be killed then eventually he just has to live with it. Live with it, he is. And he’s so fucking gorgeous. Fuck, it’s hard to focus when Ian can just stand here and watch every single muscle in his back, his arms, his legs; flexing with every pull through the water. The way his skin is so fucking bright in this sun. Every single ripple’s reflection the ocean is throwing at him, his own perfect surface only magnifying before it throws it out to space. Fuck. Maybe that’s where the brightness of the moon comes from.
Fuck, he’s face is going to crack from all this damn smiling he’s been doing today.
——— Mickey’s POV ———
He was right about the snorkel. It feels like fuckin’ suffocatin’. But layin’ on the board and looking over the edge with just the mask on ’til his lungs are about to burst, there’s still some pretty cool fuckin’ shit ‘round here. ‘Course his eyes keep being dragged to Ian’s body, watching him swimming all lazily like he ain’t gotta worry about breathing air at all. Maybe he grew some fuckin’ gills in the last few days. Fucker.
Going up for air, watching through the ocean’s surface as Ian slips under the water all the way. Snorkel be damned, he’s gone under. Fucker.
Fuck, Mickey wishes he could just be that damn confident and carefree all the time. He takes a minute to readjust his mask, get his breath back to normal, then hold it all in to dip his face under again. Fish. So many goddamn fish. It is, fuck, there are so many colors. So many fucking colors. Where’s red?
Where the fuck’s red? Mickey’s breath catches and his head rises. Scanning what he can of the water as his lungs refill with air, dipping his face back in, searching and searching, where the fuck? Fuck.
Head above water. Shit. Fuck. If there was a shark come by and drag him out, there’d be a damn blood smear. But what the fuck? His body would be floatin’, right? Or it only float once it’s dead, like dead, dead. Fuck. He get dragged under by some kind of fuckin’ current? Fuck. Shit, shit, fuck. The fuck is he…
——— Ian’s POV ———
Ian flips himself over on his back, lazily kicking his way under Mickey’s board, watching his feet. They’ve stopped kicking, just hanging there for a minute, not moving at all. His hands are out of the water with his head. Probably going up for air. Adjusting the mask.
It’s calm down here. Soothing. The water pressure on his ears, the feel of it surrounding his body. Fuck, he could stay here all day. If he had the lungs for it, he’ll have to flip back over and surface long enough to get a few deep breaths through the snorkel in a minute, clear that bitch like a whale and startle the shit out of Mickey if he can. But first, he grins to himself around the rubber of the mouthpiece, he’ll scare the shit out of him this way. Just a few power kicks and he’s there, reaching out to grab his ankle and giving it a good dirty tug.
——— Mickey’s POV ———
Instinct kicks in, and his free leg darts out, contacting fuckever sea creature just grabbed his ankle. Hard. Twice. Then, “ow fuck, Mick,” filters into his panic deaf ears.
Holy flyin’ fuck whatever spastic move he made when instinct kicked in, landed his ass right in the water, thank fuck he’s got a vest on, shit, “fuck,” that fog of panic is receding from his eyes and he’s taking in Ian’s face now, “fuck, shit, fuck,” grabbing his elbow and kicking them both towards the board he just dumped himself off of.
“I’m fine Mick,” it’s all muffled behind his hand. His hand that is pinching the bridge of his nose. The bridge of his nose, that is, uh, well, not as straight as it should be.
“Fuck Ian, fuck, fuck about sharks smellin’ blood?”
Shit, fuck, motherfucker. Shit. He shoves Ian has hard as he can up onto the board that’s closest, “we’re fine. Shore’s close. Just grab the other board,” he shrugs, that damn stupid fuckin’ wound up to his ears shrug.
“No. Just sit on that one, I’ll paddle you back to shore. Fuck the second one. It ain’t gonna drift far. Resorts got staff that can grab it.”
“Probably charge for it,” he shrugs again, making for the paddle.
“Fuck off firecrotch. Sit on your fuckin’ ass and keep that damn nose pinched off, I ain’t about to get eaten by a shark right now.”
“Mick, we’re…”
“Don’t fuckin’ ‘Mick’ me,” dragging himself up onto the board, “just fuckin’ sit there. You can be the fuckin’ mermaid on the front of my damn ship.”
“You’re a stubborn prick.”
“Yah, well, I fuckin’ broke your nose, so…”
His big ass hand clamps down on Mickey’s ankle, “my fault. One hundred percent.”
******** Tuesday evening ********
——— Ian’s POV ———
It’s not like Mickey is actually going to say the world ‘sorry’, and he shouldn’t since it wasn’t his fault, but he’s going to feel guilty anyway, no matter what Ian says or does; and he’s going to push and pry and force his way into every single aspect of the aftercare. He’s going to check and double check the right dose of painkiller and he’s going to check and double and triple check the ice is still nice and cold and he’s going to fucking go buy B vitamins.
Sitting on the patio watching Mickey pacing the length of it. Back and forth, back and forth like a caged animal. Fingers rising to face, anywhere on his face, falling, rising, grinding, falling, rising, rubbing, falling. Blink, stop moving, blink. Eyes flitting across Ian’s face again, “ice fine?”
“Yes Mick,” groaning.
Moving. Fingers rising, lower lip disappearing into his teeth, “fuck,” barely a whisper, “breathe through it okay?”
“Yes Mick.”
“Feel like they realigned it okay? That didn’t seem, uh, very thorough,” now his thumb is running the length of his own nose.
“Yes Mick. It’s fine, okay? Can’t even feel it,” when he tries a smile though, he can feel his eyes water.
Silent for a minute, a short one, his eyes staying on Ian’s for just long enough to start stinging before he walks away, backs himself up against the far side of the patio, arms crossing over his chest, eyes landing Ian’s feet and staying there, “I kicked you in the fucking face.”
Maybe he’s not talking about today, “I approached you in the wrong manner,” even if he’s not talking about today, it’s still the truth.
“I shouldn’t instantly turn to violence to solve every fuckin’ problem I got.”
“You felt like you were being attacked. And your fight or flight instincts,” he shrugs, “have always relied heavily on fight.”
“But I kicked you in the face,” he repeats it, this time slowly, and his eyes dart over to the tree beside the patio, hand rising. FUCK pinching at the bridge of his own nose, thumb and K stretching to grind into his eyes.
Ian gets to his feet, “Mick,” this time he won’t touch him until he gets permission.
“Don’t.”
“Okay. I won’t,” but he takes the steps to close the distance.
Listening to the sounds of the resort around them while he waits. Hunger starting to rise in his belly, the scent of fried food drifting in on the breeze. The noise of people partying at the pool, the distant sound of the ocean rolling against the shore. A deep breath before he sets the bag of ice down on the rail and takes the chance, just to brush the edge of his husband’s arm. Listening to his breath shake when he inhales, the contact startling the words out, “I don’t mean to be a fun-sponge.”
“A what?”
Hand dropping from his face, blinking, blinking until Ian is in focus, “you should be able to approach me however the fuck you want without getting kicked in the fuckin’ face for it. You should be able to go to the club and dance and do fuckever you want without me fuckin’ scowlin’ at you all night. You should be able to go on a trip to parafuckingdise without…”
His hands dart out now, taking hold of Mickey’s arms, “stop. Just stop. Please. Mick, this has been, fuck, this has been equally stressful and fun. That’s what vacation is. That’s what life is. When I think about this day, I sure in the fuck won’t be thinking about how it ended in a broken nose, I’ll be thinking about your smile. When we were parasailing. I’ll be thinking about the way the sun lights you up so you actually look in real life the way you look in my mind,” he can feel his face starting to smile gently, “not everyone else gets to see you like that. Mostly I love that, I’m the only one that gets that special part of you. And you think I give a shit what other people think? I love when you’re sitting at the bar scowling at me. I know that scowl only means you hate the place but you love me enough to indulge me,” his right hand is sliding up Mickey’s arm, meeting his shoulder, neck, finding the back of his head, “thing is, I know you. I know everything about you, I know the reasons your fight instincts are so solidly rooted. I know the reasons you hate the crowds and the lights and the noise. I know the reasons things like this,” sweeping his left hand out towards the resort in general, “make you squirmy. But the fact that you’re here, and you’re willing to try this shit, that’s all that matters to me. I don't want you to be the perfect tourist, or the perfect club-goer. Because that’s not you. And you, exactly the way you are,” left hand finding Mickey’s right one where it’s headed for his face again, “are perfect.”
When his face tilts, Ian leans in, forehead to forehead. And lingers. Knowing he’s about to argue, he just needs to let it set in for a minute first, so Ian reminds him, “you are. Absofuckinglutely perfect. And I love you,” angling against his lips gently, “always,” again into his lips, “perfect,” lingering against his forehead.
“Perfucked.”
“Perfucked for life.”
******** Tuesday Night ********
——— Mickey’s POV ———
“How’s your face?”
His hand clamps down tight on Mickey’s where they’re linked between them. Toes in the water, moon throwing reflections off the surface of the ocean and bathing Ian in nighttime glow that makes Mickey’s heart flutter in these weird fuckin’ ways that he hates as much as he loves. Those fuckin’ flutters that make him do all the shit like this that he don’t really want to do, but Ian does, so, well, fuckever.
“For like the thousandth time, it’s fine,” his head turns, eyes landing on Mickey’s with that stupid dopey smile that falters a little at the height when the sting from his nose makes his eyes sting. And when Mickey’s free hand rises to thumb away his own sting at being the cause of that sting, the fucker grabs it, and dives into his lips. ‘Pparently he don’t give a shit that his nose is crunched up against Mickey’s face when he pries his lips open and darts in. Damn sweaty hands release Mickey’s only to find his lower back and the back of his head.
——— Ian’s POV ———
Pain, what pain? Mickey is against his face, lips, tongue; he’s against his body and he’s warm and soft. He’s gentle, fucking delicate under Ian’s hands and there’s nothing in this world that can stop him from proving that there is no such thing as pain when he’s in Mickey’s presence.
——— Mickey’s POV ———
“The fuck you doin’ tough guy?” it’s mostly mumbled against his tongue as he starts walking into Mickey, backing him up into a clump of trees and shrubbery shit off the edge of the beach. His hands working at the buttons of Mickey’s shirt. Fucker made him go to the damn scheduled meal again, wear the damn nice clothes again, even with his damn nose starting to swell and bruise and the splint thingy has got to be uncomfortable as fuck. But fuck, who knew local Dominican cuisine was so fuckin’ good?
“We’re fucking. I got bottom,” the shirt is coming off Mickey’s shoulders and he ain’t really sure how the fuck this dipshit plans on doin’ this without getting full of sand, but, well, it ain’t Mickey’s asshole that’s gonna be getting exfoliated so, fuckever floats the dope’s boat. And he sure as fuck don’t have to do shit to convince his dick to agree to this. Grasping for Ian’s shirt, fuck buttons, he had enough open on the top to just yank it over his head anyway, and avoid his nose. Idiot’s always bitchin’ about Mickey’s disrespect for dress clothes but it ain’t like the dope can keep his damn shirt buttoned for more than like an hour max either.
——— Chad’s POV ———
He watches in the moonlit glow as his wife’s mouth opens, about to call out a greeting to the two very recognizable figures a ways up the beach. Then quickly closes again when the two commence what can only be described as face wrestling.
“Headed for quickie cove I bet,” nudging her arm with his elbow.
A heated blush visible even in darkness passes her cheeks and her hand slips into his at his side, “well, I suppose we could give them a minute of privacy before we walk by,” it’s pretty much unavoidable territory to get back to the resort.
“What do you suppose we do in the meantime?”
She laughs that laugh that he’ll never stop loving, “quickie cove is currently occupied, but I do see a few lounge chairs in the shadows.”
——— Mickey’s POV ———
So that’s how he’s going to go at it without getting twelve tons of sand up his ass. The dress shirts, and undershirts are stacked up all nice and neat. Fuckin’ particular about his damn banging surface for a guy who used to love the dugout and the backroom of the store. Fucker, ain’t like he was the one getting his ass railed over the beer cooler, or bent over the bench. Shithead.
He cocks his head for Mickey to lay down, “fuck I gotta lay in the sand for?”
“You’re not in the sand. I made you a blanket. You can look for shooting stars while I ride your dick.”
His middle finger responds for him, but he ain’t gonna take his sweet time in layin’ down either. So, sure, makes fuckin’ sense.
“Just don’t get sand all over the shirts when you lay down. And make sure your hands are dry and sand-free before you touch your dick. Or, just let me…”
“Suck the sand off?”
He can’t see the eye-roll from this distance and in the dimness of the little cove of trees, but he can feel it, “and,” he’s rubbing his hands together, probably getting every single last grain of sand off, “I’d rather not get exfoliated when I shit in the morning, so…”
“I hear ya, fuck, demanding little bottom aren’t ya?”
He stops in his boxer removal to flip Mickey off.
——— Ian’s POV ———
Jesus fuck, the moon is slicing through the trees at just the right fucking angle to light Mickey’s chest and abs in the most horrendously gorgeous way Ian has ever seen anything lit up. Fuck. Lowering himself over his husband, being careful not to kick any sand up onto the bed of clothes. Mickey’s hands behind his head, tilting his face to watch. Lazy bastard. He wants a show.
Well, they are pretty damn protected here from any unwanted attention. So, might as well.
——— Mickey’s POV ———
Fucking tease. Keeps jerking his own dick all slow and lazy, perched over Mickey’s dick so his asscheeks occasionally just happen to brush against it. His eyes staying locked onto Mickey’s in the darkness of the night, leaning forward to trace stomach, chest and neck with his lips, tongue. Lingering on Mickey’s jaw, sliding up to his ear and breathing against it for just long enough to drag a whispered moan past his lips when Mickey’s hand drops down his muscled back, finding the crack of his ass and tracing fingers across the surface. If he’s going to tease, then Mickey will too.
Guess it ain’t really that uncomfortable layin’ here. And the dope’s right, as far as Mickey can tell, this seems like a pretty damn good place to fuck outside but still be hidden. Fuckface must’ve scoped it out during the day or somethin’.
Ian’s free hand rummages around in his discarded pants, finding a packet of lube and pressing it into Mickey’s palm as his lips slide over his jaw, finding Mickey’s, tongue darting out to slowly caress his bottom lip until he opens his mouth. Meeting his own just past the threshold of his teeth, and letting one of those perfect gasps out, a blast of air into Mickey’s mouth, as his first slippery finger breaches the gate.
It ain’t that Mickey don’t like topping, and sure, the more he does it, the more he likes it, ‘cause the more Ian bottoms, the more Ian likes bottoming. And the more he does that, the more he likes to let Mickey know just how much he likes it. With these little fucking noises that he sure in the fuck don’t make when he’s topping. And these little fucking noises go straight to Mickey’s painfully hard dick and it sends a keen warning to Mickey that he’s gotta put his damn foot on the accelerator or risk leaking engine fluid all over himself before he even has Ian’s finish line in sight.
——— Ian’s POV ———
“Mmm hmm, right there,” a guy could get used to this. Fuck, he loves giving Mickey what he likes, and he sure in the fuck knows Mickey ain’t a bitch for likin’ it, but damn. Fuck, it feels good to switch it up sometimes.
He squirms when Mickey’s free hand tickles his back. And Mickey’s busy hand pulls away, “too much?”
“No, no, keep going. Just don’t tickle my back.”
“I wasn’t tickling your back.”
Yeah he was, but it’s a stupid time to argue, “keep going.”
He doesn’t have to see his face to know the brows are up, and he dips into his lips to shut him up. But when his fingers are making contact again, he stops, just long enough to tell him, “dick time.”
“K,” but his fucking hand tickles right under Ian’s shoulder blade again. Fighting the squirm this time, knowing Mickey will get all insecure, but never actually admit to feeling insecure, if Ian gets all squirmy or portrays any kind of discomfort when he’s pressing his dick into his body. Mickey knows what it’s like to have an overeager top not do the proper prep-work every time, so he prides himself in making sure Ian is completely ready for it. Every single time. Sure, he appreciates the hell out of that, and he appreciates the hell out of Mickey riding out that overeager teenager that Ian used to be, and that other part of their past sex life that, fuck, still makes Ian cringe when he thinks about the shit he did when he was hyper-sexual and, fuck. Shit. Not a good time.
Shit, “fucking stop tickling me.”
“I’m not.”
“Yeah you are.”
“No. I’m. Not.”
Fuck. Okay. There have been enough hurdles on this honeymoon, not time to add another. Fuck. Deep breath, tilting his pelvis to lower himself to the base of Mickey’s dick, and a moan that he can’t stifle. And doesn’t want to stifle. Because he loves the look Mickey gets on his face when he makes that noise. Fuck, he loves that face.
——— Mickey’s POV ———
Yeah, well, if he knew Ian would look like this when he was riding his dick, he would have done it, like, way before it fucking happened for the first time. Fuck. Okay, so in retrofuckingspect, it was pretty fucking easy to know this was coming after watching the way his body writhed when he was stripping. And sure, he was pretty okay at lap-dances even way back when he’d never bottomed before he could grind a dick. But Mickey was just a little preoccupied back then to pay attention to that shit.
Fuckever. Guy’s good at riding a dick. Shocker. Fuckin’ guy’s good at everything. Fucker.
“What the fuck Ian?” stilling his hips with his hands, “why the fuck you keep squirmin’?”
“You keep tickling me.”
“I’m not fuckin’,” interrupted by the fucker’s lips. Again. Fucker.
——— Ian’s POV ———
He seriously needs to stop with this fucking tickling shit. It’s making it really fucking hard to focus. Just focus. Deep breath, fucking nose. Deep breath through his mouth which is getting pretty damn dry and he could really use a drink of water right now. Fucking, fuck, “stop tickling me!”
Hands clamping down tight enough on Ian’s hips that it sends a pulse of pain through his body and, shit, both of his hands are on Ian’s hips. Well, that doesn’t mean they were both there two seconds ago. But his expression looks like Ian slapped him.
“Sorry,” sigh, deep breath again, and leaning forward, pretending that being bent forward isn’t making blood rush to his face and reminding him that the painkillers are not exactly fool proof, “okay, sorry.”
Lips to lips. Mickey’s slightly hesitant at first, like he’s afraid he’ll get yelled at again. Running his tongue along Mickey’s bottom lip, knowing without a doubt that he’ll open his mouth to that. Hand rising up Mickey’s chest as one of Mickey’s traces across Ian’s hip and lazily takes hold of his cock.
Alright, well, this is not very comfortable anymore. Face starting to rush with blood and whatever is tickling his back, how the fuck is Mickey tickling his back right now? Clear as fucking day he’s got his dick in one hand and the other is rising to slide across his jaw. Picking up the pace.
——— Mickey’s POV ———
Fuckever just spurred him on, he’s fuckin’ ridin’ him like he’s only got eight seconds to do it. And he sure in the shit don’t seem to be paying attention to Mickey’s hand clamping down on his hip to try to slow him, “gonna be over in…”
“Three, two,” his body is getting tense and his breath chokes off in his throat. Forehead leaned against Mickey’s, lips near but not touching, “one,” that fucking moan. Fuck that moan as his entire body just sort of turns into a taut wire overtop of Mickey and around Mickey and shit, fuck, shit, it’s over. And now gingerfuck is getting all putty-like, lips just sort of melting into Mickey’s. His fucking nose has got to be just fucking throbbing by now, either that or that spray shit they gave him must have numbed it up good, ‘cause it’s pretty well squished against Mickey’s face, “mmm.”
“Yeah?” hand through his hair, sliding down the back of his neck slippery with sweat, down to the plain of his right shoulder-blade as he adjusts his knees, uh, pretty much shimmying his way off Mickey’s cock and letting it flop down against his stomach, stretching his legs beside Mickey’s, ‘pparently just gonna be a human blanket for a bit. ‘Cause it ain’t still like ninety degrees out with like so much fucking humidity that, fuck, oh shit, oh fuck, oh shit. Oh, oh fuck. Oh, oh motherfuck, “Gallagher, don’t panic,” but Mickey’s fucking heart is going to break right through his ribcage, craning his head over his husband’s shoulder to see if what his hand just touched, is in fact what he thinks his hand just fucking touched! His hand just fucking touched on his husband’s back! It just touched a fucking, fuck, it’s looking at him! It’s fucking looking at him! And something is coming out of his mouth and it sure in the shit ain’t anything resembling not panicking.
——— Anne’s POV ———
“Christ, I don’t think they understand the point of quickie cove,” sighing, head back against the lounge chair, watching the moon reflecting off the waves and crashing against shore. Trying like hell to keep her eyes open so she doesn’t wake up here in three hours with a sore back.
Chad groans, stretching his arm out across her chest and burying his face in her neck, “shh, sleeping here.”
But his face rises when a chorus of shouts and snapping greenery echoes off the beach, and a whole years worth of fucks, and alternate forms of fuck. He’s pretty creative with his swearing. Anne hears a laugh parting her lips when two pale white asses come into full view. Both of them in quite a hurry to get out of the trees, and not seeming to notice that they’re standing there stark naked in the halo of moonlight. She can’t hear all of the words over the sound of the waves, and the distant music of the disco, but it sounds like some contact was made with a, “bigfuckingass hairy as fuck spider and it was fuckin’ lookin’ at me!”
“On my back.”
“On your fuckin’ back firecrotch!”
“It was on me! What are you freaking out over?!”
She snorts out a laugh, following behind her husband as he starts to his feet, and makes his way over slowly, not wanting to startle the two lovebirds in all their naked post-sex glow fight.
“I fucking touched it! I fucking picked it the fuck up off your fuckin’ skin, and I fuckin’ threw it! I just saved your fucking life!” hands flailing around at his sides as he’s speaking.
Chad clears his throat.
“Shit, fuck,” Mickey’s hands drop to cover his junk. And Ian, he covers his junk, steps between his husband and what he must be deeming as a threat judging by the ways he’s squaring off, even with his hands busy covering his manhood.
“Oh shit,” sighing, “you guys,” elbow to Mickey’s back, “Anne and Chad, shit, sorry guys. We, uh, we were, uh, well…”
“Taking advantage of quickie cove,” Anne finishes for them.
“Uh yeah, that. And um, a spider…”
“A fuckin’ hairy one, a big fucking hairy spider, a big motherfucking bloodsucking hairy spider with big fuckin’,” a visible shudder rips through his muscled body, head turning, craning around Ian’s shoulder, “fuckin’ huge,” his eyebrows are the highest Anne has ever seen a set of eyebrows, “did you get bit?” finally wondering, leaning back far enough to eye his husband’s shoulder-blade.
“No. I’d know, right?”
“Tarantula bites are rarely a problem to humans, but you’d have a mark,” Anne provides.
——— Mickey’s POV ———
It sure in the shit don’t matter how many times he shakes out his hand, it’s like the damn thing is still crawling around on there. Like he can still fuckin’ feel it, it’s wiry hairy, “blech,” it’s like still on his hand and he needs to not have to hold his dick anymore. And fuck, he’s covered in Ian’s cum. Great. Fanfuckingtastic. Specfuckingtacular. This is just the fuckin’… His eyes land on Ian’s and the dumb fucker is smiling. Like his dumb dopey through the glass in juvie smile.
Fucker.
——— Ian’s POV ———
He can see his hand out of peripheral rising off his junk, reaching out and landing on Mick’s shoulder, tight squeeze, “so I guess if you just saved my life, then I can go get our clothes, huh?”
One brow darts up, “no,” his hand flicks out in front of him again, “fuck,” but he’s certain that spider is still back there. In Mickey’s head that spider will be in every single article of clothing he puts on for the next month. But, the longer Mickey stands here with Ian’s cum drying on his chest, the more likely it is for their current company to notice. And, Mickey hates people, so he sure in the fuck ain’t gonna stand around fucking chit chatting, or something like that.
That, and Ian is pretty much used to being mostly naked in front of strangers. Doesn’t mean he’s going to peel his eyes off his husband’s perfect ass while he struts back over to the bushes. Well, and Ian is going to move as little as possible until he gets his clothes back on, knowing Mickey’s deposit to the cum dumpster is making it’s way ground-ward with every single step he takes, and he’s not about to cup his free hand under his ass. As much as he’s certain neither Chad or Anne are eyeing his thigh to see when it drips out, it just, maybe it seems more polite to not let it slide out.
“So, um, quickie cove, huh?”
“Sex on the beach is always much more romantic in theory, isn’t it?” Anne smiles.
And she’s right. Though he’s certain no sand made it’s way up his ass, so that’s a plus. He can hear Mickey grumbling his way through the bushes, snapping out each item of clothing individually. And he’s probably going to make Ian check over every inch of his skin for spiders before they go to bed. Not that Ian minds that in the least, “yeah. It is,” he finally responds. But nothing else in the world has compared to the vision of that man’s bare flesh in the glow of the moon.
——— Mickey’s POV ———
Fucker erupted like a fucking volcano. Fucker. Now how the fuck did he manage to sprawl out over Mickey and turn into a fucking radiating blanket, but not manage to at least soak some of that shit up? Jesus. Mopping it up with Ian’s undershirt and sliding his own over his head, oh fuck, nope, taking it back off and snapping it out. Just in case. Fuck. Fuck, it’s still there, it’s still there, it’s right there on his fingers, and fuck. His whole body shudders when he reaches for the next article, lifts it, shakes it out. Fuck. The pants, fuck, he’s going to have to check every pocket and crease, and fuck. Boxers. That’s probably the next thing he should be putting on. And he should probably be hurrying so Ian don’t have to stand out there with his dick in his hand and jizz leaking out of his ass for much longer. Fuck him. This shit was his fuckin’ idea anyway.
——— Chad’s POV ———
“So, what happened,” his own hand rises to his nose, as his eyes linger on the splint on Ian’s and the light red bruising starting to form, visible in the moon’s light, “to your nose?”
He smiles a very worship-lined smile as Mickey’s curse words echo down the beach, “well, I guess, you know, I guess after nearly ten years of being with him I should know better than to sneak up on him,” he shrugs, hands still cupping his dick.
If Chad had a jacket or something, he’d hand it over, but Ian doesn’t exactly seem uncomfortable standing around in the nude. Really, he has no reason to, aside from indecent exposure, but no one is around, and even if they were, no one here is going to care enough to do more than holler at him. He won’t get hauled off the beach in handcuffs. Feeling a grin rising, an elbow meeting his wife’s arm, “remember Brazil?”
“Which part of Brazil?” she laughs, “the handcuffs? The night in jail? Or,” her eyes wander Ian’s bare body just briefly while his eyes are on the cove. Contact moving to Chad’s and winking. Chad mostly considers himself a straight guy, but the occasional night on vacation with a stranger and a voracious wife has led to, well, a not so straight Chad. And Brazilian men? Threesomes are something they only do on vacation, only when they’re both in the mood, and only with someone they’ll never lay eyes on again. And it’s not like he would ever in a million fucking years be able to handle another man’s dick anywhere near his wife, so that leaves, well, sure, he likes a dick up his ass sometimes. And the occasional finger when it’s hers. Her face turns, like she’s reading all of his thoughts, a very quiet whisper, “shall we add a Dominican to the list? Hit the disco tomorrow night?”
——— Mickey’s POV ———
“Uh, I ain’t checkin’ the pants. That’s all you tough guy,” holding out his boxers for him to step into, wishing his two best friends had left by now so he didn’t have to admit, “you’re down an undershirt,” in front of them, and then shuffle around behind the prick while he’s checking pants pockets to, uh, well, use the messed undershirt to wipe his ass. ‘Least that way he won’t have it dribblin’ down his leg on the walk back to the room. It ain’t like the most thorough wiping, but it’ll do. That felt like a pretty fuckin’ thick load, so it ain’t like that thin watery shit that just kind of mingles with the lube and gets mostly soaked in and the stuff that drips out drips out slowly. It’s like the consistency of a snot slimer during the mid-winter cold that sure in the fuck feels more like the flu than just a damn cold, but fuckever. That kind of slime. Jizz: the gift that keeps on giving. And always has a little surprise up it’s sleeve, making deposits in the underdrawers when least expected. The worst ones are always the ones that sneak up at night and that feeling as it’s rolling it’s way out onto the sheet is enough to wake a man up and wonder if he should be hightailin’ it to the bathroom.
A sharp elbow meets his side and he realizes he’s still got his hand up Ian’s boxer leg. Removing the shirt, rolling the jizzed side to the inside of a ball and snagging his checked over pants, “you check the pockets?”
“Yes Mick. You’re spider free,” meanwhile he’s still standin’ in the moonlight with his pale alien skin all gloriously pale and alien in moonlight glow, with nothing but boxers on.
——— Ian’s POV ———
“Took those fuckers long enough to fuck off,” grumbling towards the water at his ankles, pant legs rolled, bent forward to rinse the sacrificial undershirt in the ocean.
“Mick,” sighing, “they’re really nice people.”
“Yeah, I fuckin’ know that. Don’t mean I want company while I’m cleaning out a jizz rag.”
Ian plops down in the sand. Fuck, his face is starting to hurt. But he can’t voice that, or make it visible. That’ll only make Mickey get all hidden inside himself and not talking. Pants getting damp immediately. Dress shirt only half buttoned, sleeves rolled, “at least they were cool about the entire situation. I don’t think many people would have been that comfortable with, um, whatever that was.”
“A fuckin’ big ass hairy spider interruptin’ our banging, is what that was,” those brows are up when he stands up straight and Ian is wishing to all things holy and un that he had a camera image of this man in the water right now. The sparkles of the moon behind him, the waves tugging hungrily at his pant legs.
“Technically we were done banging,” drawing his knees towards his chest, arms resting in the sand behind him, watching every single move his husband makes. Wondering how the hell he can be so fucking sexy in every single scenario possible. Chicago, every single season, the way the cold kisses his skin pink in the Winter and makes his eyes look like the shiny frozen surface of Lake Michigan. The way Spring coaxes his features back to life after a few months of hibernation. Summer, when his skin is a little less pale, and his eyes match the lazy sky and the constellation on his shoulder is an entire galaxy. And Fall, fuck, Ian sighs, they’ll be going home and it’ll be Fall soon. And then it’ll be Winter. Another cold, windy, nasty stretch of dark months, “maybe we should take a long weekend and head north this Winter. Somewhere that actually gets real snow. Take Yev sledding.”
“Take him sledding?” both brows at their height like Ian’s an idiot when his feet finally contact the dry sand.
“Yeah, like real sledding. We have passports now, we could go to Canada.”
“Uh, yah,” plopping down heavily, “or we could take a damn day trip a couple hours north, sled down the hill once, remember why it’s only fun when you’re a kid, then get back in the fuckin’ car and head home.”
When he’s settled beside him on the beach, Ian tilts his head, landing on Mickey’s strong shoulder, “just thinking. He’d have fun. A full weekend to just play with Yev. Somewhere with enough snow to build forts and snow families.”
Mickey sighs, turning quickly to kiss the top of Ian’s head, “sure tough guy. I’ll go wherever ain’t got hairy spiders.”
“Only thing you’d have to worry about up north is a yeti.”
“Fuck you,” breath traveling through Ian’s hair, sending a chill down his spine.
Settling his cheek into the comfort and warmth of his husband, “whenever you want.”
“Ginger starfish,” he snorts, “fuckin’ Dominican rum. I ain’t ever drinkin’ that shit again.”
“It’s what vacation is for,” finding Mickey’s hand, snaking his fingers through, and bringing the whole bundle to his lips, “wouldn’t have it any other way.”
******** Tuesday Night ********
——— Mickey’s POV ———
It’s like fuckin’ chainsaw massacre in here. Fuck. Mickey can deal with the occasional normal snoring the dumb fucker does. But this, fuck. Hand rising to grind into his eyes, rolling to face him, landing on his chest. Startling the fucker partially awake, awake enough that he tilts his head, leaning into Mickey’s hair and mumbling, “this sucks. I can’t smell you.”
“Uh yeah, well, I can smell us both. And I can assure you that Dofuckingminican food don’t smell that great on the other end of digestion.”
He snort-coughs a laugh into Mickey’s hair, “I love you.”
“Love you too fuckface.”
And he’s off again, revving up that fuckin’ two-stoke engine. Fuck, now he’s gonna have to find a way to make some fuckin’ ear plugs.
Notes:
I know I said forget whatever parts of canon you feel like forgetting, but clearly some of those things are still lingering in this fic. So we might as well set the record straight and make sure we all watched the right show since I've been hearing weird things about some season ten thing. So as I recall, season five ended in the dugout with the boys fighting and then making love, laying on the pitcher's mound discussing Ian's diagnosis and how they were going to deal with that shit together because Ian already realized at that point that if he let the diagnosis control him then he would only continue to fuck up. And then there was some scene with Sammi calling 1-800-MP as she stepped out in front of a bus. Brain matter everywhere.
Season six saw Mickey and Svet having a discussion about Yev's true parentage and if Mickey was going to keep up with the charades of playing father then she'd have to respect a few things about him, get a divorce, and allow Ian to be a part of the kid's life too because Ian loves Yev. We continued to see Ian owning his disorder and adjusting his life accordingly.
Season seven we saw Ian studying to become an EMT and killing it. He was honest throughout the process about his disorder and they hired him because they could see that he had respect for the job and he could handle his shit and he was one tough fucking cookie to eat off the plate that life served him with a smile on his face. We also saw Mickey get a job with like paying taxes and social security and all that shit. Don't give a fuck what it was, it just exists.
Season eight kicked off with Mickey doing something out of character only to make Ian happy... and ended with a wedding night.
Season nine started with a sex tape and is now coming to the end with a honeymoon.
Season ten hasn't been written yet, but I heard Ian say something about taking Yev sledding... so I don't know what the fuck y'all are talking about with break-ups, botched tattoos, prison, border scenes, and Gay Jesus? And prison again? Whatever that AU is, it sounds pretty lame...
One day left in parafuckingdise. Wonder if the spa day will happen? I know EverythingShines was hoping for it :) And the disco...
Chapter 15: Wednesday Morning/Afternoon
Summary:
Did I hear something about a spa day? But that's so un-Mickey...
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Wednesday Morning/Afternoon
******** Wednesday Morning ********
——— Ian’s POV ———
Waking from a nightmare in absolute certainty that he’s lost reality again, knowing there’s no way he’d be in a place like this, this place where everything is expensive and clean. It’s got to be some kind of dream. And the body weight on his chest, it’s familiar but the scent? Fuck, he can’t smell a fucking thing. And this could all be a delusion. This, all of it. His hands rise, left one with a wedding band on it. It’s not brand new. Fuck, his hand rubs over his face. The contact stings and there’s something on his nose.
“Fuck. Mick?” right hand sliding down his arm. It’s certainly Mickey here. Now. But in the nightmare, it wasn’t. It wasn’t Mickey, “Mick?” his voice is breathy, swallowing hard, “Mick?”
Jesus, it’s broad daylight in here, he should be wide awake and startling out of bed at just the feel of Ian’s hand on his arm, “Mick?”
Tilting his gaze to get a part of him in sight, the top of his head. Instinct causes Ian to breathe through his nose, “fuck,” that stings. And he still can’t smell him. He must have a pretty good dried gob of mucus and blood in there.
“This is not a delusion,” he hears himself tell the top of Mickey’s head, “you are not a delusion.”
Why the fuck isn’t he responding? Ian’s hand clamps down tighter on his arm, eyes rolling closed, reminding himself over and over, “this is real, this is real, this is not a break from reality, this is not a delusion, this is a honeymoon.”
——— Mickey’s POV ———
Cotton balls in a plastic bag. Uncomfortable? Sure. Quiet? Yes.
Eyes slowly blinking open, a nice heavy layer of sweat and drool between his cheek and Ian’s chest.
Just startin’ to get used to waking up here, with the damp air and the salty scent of the tropics. And they only got today left. One more morning tomorrow and then it’s back to reality. Fuck reality. Fuck.
Trying to sort of swallow some of the drool back but not really, settling his cheek further into Ian’s heat. Feeling his ribcage expanding against him, and listening to his lungs. Oh shit, that ain’t right. And the fucker’s hands ain’t right either. Fuckin’ death grip.
“The fuck?” his head jerks away from the gingerfuck quickly, scrambling to get a view of him. His hands flail out of his sides, grab for Ian’s face, the fucker looks startled all to hell, “the fuck Gallagher?”
His mouth moves, but he can’t fuckin’ hear him. Seated now, watching those green orbs all round and wide, and kinda moist, “yo you gotta speak up shithead, the fuck happened? Nightmare or somefuck? You feelin’ alright? How’s your face? You feelin’ off? The fuck is…”
His big dumb hands slide across Mickey’s jaw, tug the homemade earplugs, that he forgot about, out of his ears and now he can hear him just fuckin’ fine, “that bad, huh?”
“What?”
“Snoring?”
“Oh, shit, yeah. Fuck,” his hand drops from Ian’s face to his own chest, like he’s going to press his heart back into a normal rhythm but he’s also kinda worried about the big dope, ‘cause his face don’t look quite right, “you fuckin’ okay?”
“Yeah,” eyes dropping away from Mickey’s, a little embarrassed flush and his voice all quiet when he thinks he should be ashamed of himself for the hand genetics dealt him, “just, had a,” mumbled all to hell, clearing his throat, but still not speaking the fuck up, “had a nightmare, I guess, and I just,” a shrug, body positioning turning into that ‘I want to hide myself’ bullshit that Mickey fuckin’ hates, “I don’t know. It’s stupid, I…”
“Spit it out mumbles. You know? Words. Those fuckin’ elefuckingments of speech,” he can feel his brows pretty high for this damn early in the morning, “meaningfuckingful and shit.”
His eyes won’t meet Mickey’s. The bruising ain’t that bad, just kind of looks like he had a couple of sleepless nights. Which ain’t the case, so, “hey,” Mickey slides his hands through his hair until he finds the back of the dope’s head, forcing the tilt to get the eye contact, “words,” using brows as punctuation.
“I just,” heavy sigh, focus trying like hell not to linger on Mickey’s, “fuck, you know sometimes I think that all that shit, all the manic shit, the delusions and paranoia and psychosis, you know, the shit that, fuck,” his hands take hold of Mickey’s wrists but they don’t try to pry them off his face, “it just sometimes feels like a nightmare. Still, you know? Like there’s no way that was me that did that shit. Um, to you. And sometimes I wonder, I guess sometimes it’s like what if, what if I had lost you? What if you hadn’t forgiven me? And what if, I mean,” his eyes dart away again, this time his head twists, shaking Mickey’s grip off and he sits, back turned to Mickey.
A deep breath through his mouth, feet landing on the floor, seated and facing the patio door as his hands slide over his face. Taking a moment, and that’s just fucking fine. He ain’t gonna force him to talk about this shit if he don’t want to for real. No more than Ian would force Mickey to talk about, well, anything, really.
But he just wants to know, just wants to make sure, that he’s okay. That he ain’t gonna need to prepare himself to chase Ian off the next cliff. He will, always. He just really don’t wanna do it down here.
“Shit,” his head turns suddenly, eyes bright and determined, he’s just going to blurt it out, “I wonder sometimes if I did lose you and everything since has been some kind of trick my mind has been playing on me to keep me safe.”
And Mickey has absolutely no fuckin’ clue what to say.
The dope’s eyes shift again, face turning towards the glass door, “it’s stupid.”
“No,” well there’s Mickey’s fuckin’ voice. And those are his hands, reaching out, laying flat on his shoulder-blades even though he’s still pretty much expecting a giant hairy ass spider, “it’s not stupid Ian,” feeling his body moving across the bed, closing the distance between them, forehead meeting the dumb shit’s back, “it’s not stupid to wonder that shit, man. Fuck, you had a break from reality before, right? So yeah, you know it’s possible. And like, you’ve kinda been to another dimension. So it ain’t weird you’d worry about it happening again,” lips meeting his spine. His spine in the exact place he used to lay behind him in bed and make whispered promises that everything was okay when he was too depressed to get himself out of bed, to feed and water himself.
Fuck, the memory of it stings like fuck. But he fights that shit down, hands finding themselves moving over his strong shoulders, down his chest, flat on his pecs, “but I can absofuckinglutely assure you, that this shit is real,” fuck it, his legs are wrapping around the idiot too, “it don’t seem real right now, it seems like someone’s ‘bout to burst this little bubble any fuckin’ second,” admitting with a gentle laugh, “but we’re fuckin’ fine tough guy. We’re both right fuckin’ here and neither one of us is goin’ anywhere. Well, ‘cept breakfast.”
Tightening his hold on him, ‘cause yeah, he’s sure that one of these fuckin’ days he actually will seep into his pores and live under his skin. It’d be a whole lot fuckin’ easier.
——— Ian’s POV ———
Sometimes he’s not certain if Mickey is hugging him or preparing to put him in a choke hold.
“That why you’re such an annoying fuckin’ sniffer?”
“Huh?”
“Like sense memory type shit or fuckever,” his breath is warm across Ian’s back, a dusty old memory that he pushes back into the ground and puts a shovelful of dirt on it. Tilting to press a kiss against Mickey’s arm.
Shrugging, “like my mind can convince me of a whole lot of shit, but some things, like the way you smell, couldn’t possibly be a delusion?”
“Sounds really fuckin’ stupid when you put it that way.”
“And I can’t smell you right now.”
“Yah, well, like I said last night, that ain’t exactly a bad thing.”
“That’s not technically sense memory.”
“What isn’t? Ain’t it just like tying a sense to an event or some shit?”
He shrugs, hand rises to wipe over his face again, “yeah but that would mean I was tying your scent to…”
“Uh, probably the police station fuckwit.”
“Huh?”
“And all the shit before, uh,” his face turns, probably wiping his nose along Ian’s back since both his hands are busy gripping each other, acting as a seatbelt. Ian’s not really wondering anymore if this is an embrace or an MMA hold. He’s certain if he looks down at Mickey’s feet right now, he’ll see that they aren’t crossed at the ankle, that they’re actually hooked in against Ian’s groin. So if he gets to his feet, he’ll be taking Mickey with him like a backpack. Bastard, and he claims Ian is the clingy one.
“Before I took off,” his chin dips again, lips meeting his forearm, “your scent is connected to the before and after.”
“Sometimes the durin’,” it’s closer to a whisper than anything else.
——— Mickey’s POV ———
His sigh his heavy but his body is getting a little more refuckinglaxed and less of that wanting to curl himself into nothing and disappear from sight.
“Mick?”
“Uh yeah?”
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“Being here. For me. Always. You know? Before, during and after.”
“Where the fuck else would I be?”
He knows the dope’s face is getting all fuckin’ dopey assed smiley but it’s got that little sad around the edges like he still can’t forgive himself for the shit his disorder spurred him to do. Even if everyone around him has forgiven, well, only way he’s going to prove himself to himself is to stay stable, so, “breakfast tough guy?”
“Yeah,” his damn hand finally rises, slides along Mickey’s forearm and covers his right hand, “are you holding me or hugging me?”
“Fuck’s the difference?”
“This,” the fucker starts moving like he’s going to stand up. So, yeah, Mickey tightens his grip and goes right along with him.
——— Ian’s POV ———
Of course the asshole doesn’t know the difference between a hug and something that could easily become a rear naked choke hold. Puts a whole new meaning on it when the guy is actually naked. Mickey’s comfortable enough to sleep naked here and they’re about to leave. Damn.
——— Mickey’s POV ———
“Alright sir mopes-a-lot,” he kicks him under the table and his face responds with a very unimpressed eye narrow, “what? I’m scraping the bottom of the barrel.”
“I don’t like big butts.”
“No?”
“I like your butt. Only. I like Mick’s butt and I cannot lie,” he shrugs, that dumbass wound up to his ears kind of shrug.
“Fuck, you’re queer.”
“Your queer, and yours only.”
“That wasn’t an invitation to say more queer shit.”
He shrugs again, this time lifting some damn food to his lips with a tiny hint of a smile playing at the corners.
“Alright, finish your fuckin’ food,” tapping the little travel container of pills that’s beside his plate, “I’ll be back.”
“Where you going?”
“None of your fuckin’ business tough guy. Just eat,” taking the last swig of coffee as he stands, reaching out for his husband’s head, fingers through his hair before leaning in to press his lips against it, “take your fuckin’ pills. I’ll be back.”
——— Ian’s POV ———
Well, he’s not going to sit here forever. Alone. Asshole.
Making his way to the room, being sure he keeps his eyes out for that rooster strut in case he was planning on meeting him back at the buffet. No sign of him. Shoving the door open, where he is also not. Where the fuck is he? Ian’s not sure if Mickey being comfortable on this resort is a good thing or not. It always seems like once he gets used to his surroundings, then something shitty happens. Catching sight of himself in the mirror he wonders what other shitty things could possibly happen, aside from complete catastrophe.
Plopping down on Mick’s side of the bed. Propping elbows to knees, hand over his face, wondering if he should just take the splint off. No sense in bothering the medic if he can just do it himself. It feels fine. And it looks fine. As long as it doesn’t get bumped or, well, best to wait. See what today has in store.
His focus is drawn to the door when it opens with the gusto only Mick can open a door with. Brows at a normal level, but Ian’s pretty sure he’s got something up his sleeve judging by his hustle, “let’s go,” jerking his thumb through the air towards the door he just entered.
“Go where?”
“Wherever I tell you to go.”
“Oh, you think that’s how this works?”
“No. I know that’s how this works, let’s go firecrotch.”
This could go either way. It’s Mickey and Mickey is willing to do anything to make Ian happy, but what that could be here? The possibilities are too much. Curiosity wins over self-preservation and he follows behind him.
Southside hustle this soon after breakfast? Whatever he has waiting, is something he just wants to get over with as soon as possible. He stops at the pool, looks at each cabana like it’s got some indecipherable code written along the beams, “these fuckin’ grassy sheeted huts are s’posed to be numbered.”
A few quiet sunbathers on lounge chairs, one person swimming laps but otherwise pretty empty poolside, “cabanas?”
“Fuckever they are.”
“Why do you…”
“This one,” grabbing Ian’s hand the way a person would a small child, leading him to the second cabana nearest the ocean, and mostly just shoving him inside first. The sheer curtains are drawn, sunlight gently bringing the inside of the airy structure to life. Two massage tables and two masseurs standing ready with kind smiles on their faces.
“Mick,” he sighs, turning his head to look at his husband’s face.
Brows up like a dare to tell him, well, basically anything at all. So, brows up like a ‘shut the fuck up’, “get naked and get on the table shithead.”
——— Mickey’s POV ———
Jesus Christ that fucking smile. That fucking smile is brighter than the damn sun blinding Mickey at every fuckin’ turn. Doesn’t help that he keeps forgetting his sunglasses in the room in the morning. His thumb rises to trace the bridge of his nose and his eye contact falters. Fuck, this shit has gotta just get started without any of the fuckin’ starry-eyed smiles and shit. Otherwise Mickey’s gonna lose his nerve and just, fuck, he grabs at the hem of his shirt and lifts it over his head before he can back out.
******** Wednesday Noon **********
——— Ian’s POV ———
Their session must be over, but hell if Ian can tell. He feels like he’s floating and the usually crystal clear vision of Mickey’s incredible face is half hazed over. But the woman hasn’t touched him in a few minutes now, so it must be over.
He kept his gaze on Mickey’s face for the entire first half of this, waiting for the moment when the touch of a stranger became too much and he started feeling too exposed and he started wondering when his real life would burst back in. But it didn’t happen.
Blinking away some of the refuckinglaxation haze, forcing the picturesque view in front of him back to sharp clarity, a cloud of their previous life resting in his chest. A cloud that is sometimes dark grey and heavy, but right now, it’s one of those upper atmosphere wispy white ones dissipating in the heat of a summer day as those ocean eyes linger on his and he feels fingers, his perfect fingers, crawling over Ian’s own where his hand is resting on the table beside him.
——— Mickey’s POV ———
“Well now I sure in the fuck don’t feel like doin’ shit,” fuck. He might as well be drunk. Or high. Or both. Holy fuck. He stumbles putting on his damn shorts and Ian’s hands clamp down reassuringly on his hips to keep him steady. Fucker. Has the fuckin’ nerve to lean forward and kiss the back of his neck.
——— Ian’s POV ———
He sort of wonders if he should just pick Mickey up and carry him back to the room for all the staggering around he’s doing. But if he tried that shit, he’d have more than a broken nose and two black eyes to show for it, so he just rests his hand on his lower back and helps steer the ship to the door. Pressing it open when they get there and that damn cloud is back on his chest again when his eyes scan over the place. All scattered with rose petals, a path of candles lit and dancing away in the breeze of the open patio door, leading the way to the bathroom where the tub is full of warm bubbly water and a chilled bottle of champagne is waiting with two flutes on a silver tray.
“What the fuck Mick?” it’s all breathy and his hand darts out, sliding across his perfect face.
The sweetest fucking smile is rising, his eyes won’t meet Ian’s just yet, good fucking fuck, he’s blushing. There is a pink blush rising up his cheeks and fuck, fuck, he’s so fucking gorgeous, both hands on his face now, tilting to force eye contact, “now I’m absolutely certain this is a delusion and I sure in the fuck hope I never wake up from it,” pressing into his lips before he can respond. Trying like hell to keep some of the passion reined in before he crushes him, but he’s never been good at reining that in, so why start now?
“Yeah, well, don’t get too excited tough guy,” when he pulls back with a cheek tap, “it’s that gross bubbly grape juice shit. I ain’t dealin’ with you on a real champagne drunk.”
“It’s perfect Mick, it’s fucking perfect,” hands sliding through his massage oiled hair.
“Perfucked Gallagher.”
“That too,” one hand slipping down his back, drawing him near, the other taking hold of his chin. Fuck, he didn’t think it was possible to love this man more, but it turns out, every single fucking day is something more. And it has nothing to do with the actual pampering bullshit that anyone with a few dollars could do, it’s just Mickey. It’s Mickey and his fierce love, protection and just fucking everything, it is every single fucking thing that most of the time Ian is certain he doesn’t deserve but Mickey gives it anyway.
And now? Right now? He’s giving him that cocked head and that quirked brow, those pursed lips and that growled, “c’mere fucker.”
And there is no part of Ian that will ever, or could ever, turn down that demand.
——— Mickey’s POV ———
“Well ain’t you just too fuckin’ tall for the tub? Looks like it’s all mine,” making a move for it, ready to canon-ball that shit, well sort of canon-ball it, enough to splash it out all over the porcelain and shit, but not enough to hurt his ass on the floor of the tub.
His hips are grabbed before he can do it, a dirty yank to shove him out of the way, the gingerfuck steps in and sits. Quickly, with that stupid smug smile on his lips, eyes scanning Mickey’s body like he’s the actual fucking buffet bar. Arms propped lazily on the ledge, legs bent, knees open, tilting his head to motion that Mickey get in.
“I knew this was a bad fuckin’ plan,” he really don’t like the look in his eye right now. ‘Cept that he knows exactly what that look means, and he knows that the dope knows that Mickey is putty in his damn hands, so he knows as soon as he steps in and makes like he’s going to sit that his hips are going to get grabbed and his ass is going to, instead, land on Ian’s waiting face.
And it does.
——— Ian’s POV ———
He only does it this way because it’s easier than arguing with the stubborn prick. Element of surprise, and that fucking luscious gasp that parts the man’s lips when Ian’s tongue makes contact. And the way his hands clamp down so tight on Ian’s knees when he bends forward. And the way his the knobs of his pelvis feel under Ian’s hands.
Okay, so maybe there’s no ‘only’ about that.
Doesn’t take long, of course it doesn’t. It’s been like two full days that their usual way of doing things has been disrupted, so it seems like a fucking eternity since he’s been able to give the proper attention to the proper places of his husband’s body that make him feel like he’s going to crawl out of his own skin just so he can crawl into Mickey’s.
“That okay?” wondering when the first finger slips in and he gets the back arch that clearly reads, ‘of fucking course it is’, but it never hurts to ask.
“Of fucking course it is firecrotch.”
——— MIckey’s POV ———
Fucker giggles right into Mickey’s asscrack and he fuckin’ hates that shit. Sending a shiver right up his fuckin’ spine and making him push back like a fuckin’ needy cat or some shit. Which only makes the dope more eager, which, well, ain’t a bad thing.
“Fuck, Ian,” when the second finger joins alongside the first one. That fucking sweeping arching shit he does and his damn fingers are the perfect length and his damn tongue is the perfect, “fuck.”
“Mmm hmm,” it vibrates against Mickey’s ass and he fuckin’ hates that shit.
——— Ian’s POV ———
Raising himself out of the water, balancing on the ledge, which is a pretty good sized ledge. More like a shelf of tiles around the tub, so it’s not really that much balancing, but Mickey’s making himself comfortable immediately, backing himself onto Ian’s lap and guiding his dick with his right hand.
“Fuck,” whispered through gritted teeth when he bottoms out, Ian’s lips meet the back of his neck and his head leans back.
He takes a deep breath, fully intending on smelling him, before he remembers and a sharp ache throbs it’s way through his face and stings his eyes, “fuck.”
“What?” head immediately turning, all movement ceasing.
“Nothing.”
“What then?”
“What, you read fucks now? All I said was fuck.”
“Yeah but it was like pain fuck, not pleasure fuck.”
“Fuck.”
“Exactly.”
“No. Fuck. Like get moving. Don’t mind me back here.”
“The fuck’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Just,” his hands clamp down on his pelvis, giving him a little tug to make his point, “move,” diving into his lips before he can turn his face away.
——— Mickey’s POV ———
He knows it’s coming, it’s coming soon. The fucker’ll be pushing out on his hips and telling him to turn around. But that ain’t happenin’, not on this slippery fuckin’ surface. It’s bad enough that both their feet keep sliding down into the tub and the only thing they’re both resting on is Ian’s ass on the tub’s ledge and if he turns to face him, then they sure in the fuck will be slipping right into that bubbly ass water.
Hand, warm, and gentle on his hips. Breath on his back, right between his shoulder-blades where the dope keeps kissing him. He can feel his forehead leaning against the back of his neck and he’s certain he’s havin’ a hard time not smelling him. Sense memory whether he wants to admit it or not, that’s gotta be why he’s always smellin’ him. ‘Cause Mickey’s scent is somethin’ that’s always been there. Through all of that shit, thick, thin, sickness, health, the whole fuckin’ shootin’ match. Even when everything else had to be so fucking confusing in his head, fuck. He turns, nudging at the ginger’s face until he lifts it. Eyes landing on his and stealing his fucking breath.
His damn hands are making their way from Mickey’s hips to his ass, pushing out on his asscheeks, “turn around.”
“No way.”
“Turn around,” it’s all breathy and his forehead is all creased, like he’s begging for his fuckin’ life instead of begging his husband to fuck him face to face.
“I am lookin’ right at you.”
“I know, but, I just, it’s just…”
“Spit it out mumbles,” his hands are still on Ian’s knees, slippery as they are, it’s better that he hold onto something.
Watching Mickey’s eyes, like he’s looking clear into his soul, he sighs all dramatic, “hold me,” with that goofy idiotic smile rising.
“Fuckin’ baby. When your feet slip out and you land on your ass in the tub and I land on your dick and fracture the fucker, don’t say I didn’t fuckin’ warn ya.”
——— Ian’s POV ———
He probably is right. Two sets of slippery feet grasping the slippery bottom of the tub are better than one, but at least this way, “you can hold onto the towel bar.”
“Yeah,” situating himself in Ian’s lap, exactly where he belongs, “it feels real fuckin’ sturdy,” his knees are folded pretty much all the way into Ian’s side, “the fuck you think I am?” shins against the wall, “gumbo?”
“Gumby.”
“Fuckever.”
“It’s not much different then when you’re riding me, just feels weird with the wall against your shins instead of the bed.”
“Yah, well, next time you get to bang your knees against the tiled wall.”
“Already got my ass grinding against the ledge.”
“You’re the one who couldn’t fuckin’ wait ’til this bath shit was over and get on me on the bed.”
“That what you want?”
“What?”
It doesn’t really help that all the massage oils are still lingering on the surface of their bodies, “the bed.”
“Your bath is getting cold princess, just do this shit. All the diafuckinglogue ain’t doin’ anything for me.”
Well, sure, he probably does want Ian to actually lounge around in the tub, that was the whole point, “you ever wanna role play?”
“Huh?” face full of ‘the fuck you talkin’ about?’.
“Not like cheesy porno. Like a pretend pick-up in the club or something.”
“Uh. No,” now the brows are moving, the eyes are narrowing and he’s certain Ian is the dumbest piece of shit on the planet.
“Just wondering.”
“Well how ‘bout you wonder that sometime when your dick isn’t already in my ass? Jesus, fuckin’ knock a couple screws loose with that kick to the face yesterday?”
——— Mickey’s POV ———
Fuck that stupid fuckin’ smile, “c’mere,” best way, maybe the only way to shut the dope up, smother his mouth. Immediately opening, meeting Mickey’s tongue in the middle and as soon as the contact is made, he seems to remember what they’re doing here in the first place. His arms around Mickey’s back, right hand flat on his shoulder-blade, left hand tracing down his spine and pressing against the point of connection. Fuck that pressure. Fuck him, “fuck,” of course his stupid mouth stops kissing and just sort of hangs open all useless as soon as the pelvis under him starts rocking up into him.
“Yeah?”
Dipping his face into his husband’s neck, ‘cause yeah, sometimes all this fuckin’ closeness is too much and he’s just gotta hide a little. Even though he knows the fucker was expectin’ kisses and maybe some deep intense eye contact or some stupid girly shit. But that ain’t happenin’.
“Mick?”
“Fuck off,” burrowing deeper into his neck. Feeling his arms wrapping tighter around his shoulders.
“I love you,” it’s all breathy, but determined. Almost as determined as his thrusts, “so fucking much.”
Fuck, at least he ain’t forcin’ Mickey to come out of his hiding spot. He can feel his face twisting into that horrible somewhere between heaven and hell and not knowing which one looks more fuckin’ appealing, the ball of orgasm in his belly tingling hot and raging to release, “love you too,” it’s tripped and stuttered and he feels it, as Ian’s grip on him tightens and the rest of the world ceases to exist.
——— Ian’s POV ———
“Oh shit,” they’re going in. Shit, the bastard was right, this was a bad idea, but at least if his dick is still in his ass then it’s not like it’s going to break, right? Shit, right? Fuck.
Shit, sometimes it feels like he’s going to bend his dick off just with that damn orgasm pulsing around him, add to that the fact that Ian’s feet stopped gripping as soon as his own orgasm started to draw back and his feet relaxed and he forgot to keep his toes dug into the slippery tub.
“Damn,” his arms have slid down the ledge of the tub, hoping to keep them somewhat stable. And he’s pretty sure Mickey’s feet are still on the ledge judging by his knees being lodged against Ian’s ears. His upper body has been thrown back in response to his lower body bending in a very unnatural way for anyone who isn’t a contortionist, “you okay? Mick?” he’s not going to lie, this view is pretty fucking awesome.
“Yah. Shithead.”
Stifling a giggle, when his face appears, high brows and oh shit. Ian is not about to tell him that he’s wearing the gob of mucus and blood that must have shot out of his nose when they fell. He’s wearing it right in the handle of his jaw. Well, “guess we’re in the tub. It’s still warm,” offering a hand to help pull him to seated. Not like he needs it, fuck, those abs, fuck, he’s perfect. He can feel an idiotic grin on his face as Mickey’s face nears and he leans in, pressing lips against his forehead. And he’s just going to nonchalantly brush his hand over his jaw, “fuck, I can breathe,” taking the chance to inhale against his face, and flick the gob, um, somewhere. Fuck, wrong side of the tub to just neatly reach for a tissue. And he’s certain he doesn’t want the thing in the tub with them.
“Yeah, you’re, uh, leaking a little,” right hand motioning around Ian’s face while his left reaches for a hand towel.
For how rough he is, he’s the most gentle fucker on the planet when it comes to shit like this. Pressing a towel against Ian’s nose, barely any pressure at all, and a tender smile on his face. Eyes lingering on Ian’s.
——— Mickey’s POV ———
“And now we’re sittin’ in a tub full of cum, blood, and massage oils.”
The fucker snorts a laugh, winces a little and then smiles. Fuck him, “c’mere.”
********** Wednesday Afternoon **********
——— Ian’s POV ———
Well, isn’t he just getting all kinds of comfortable on this resort? Strutting across the beach in nothing but swim trunks, a bottle of water clasped in his FUCK grip and Ian’s hand clasped in U-UP, aimed for the chairs in the shade. Where there are a few empty ones, but he stops in front of one, eyebrows making the silent demand that Ian sit. So, he does. Why wouldn’t he? And he’s immediately met with that perfect ass plopping itself between his knees. Back meeting his chest, heavy sigh, head back against his shoulder.
Ian turns, gently planting a kiss on his temple.
“You wanna do anything else? There’s that cigar factory trip thing, it’s like two hours long or somefuck.”
“Mmm mm,” not bothering to turn his head away, “I’m happy right here. Enjoying the ocean, the sun, the breeze. You.”
“I was fuckin’ right then.”
“About?”
“Uh, everything. Always. But right now, I’m talkin’ about you only gettin’ more queer the longer we’re here,” he leans out, his face becoming completely visible and a cocky smirk painted all over it.
——— Mickey’s POV ———
Now they’re trapped in some kind of fuckin’ stare-off. The damn dope’s eyes are all sorts of fuckin’ sparkly and ‘pparently the fucker can’t remember his own damn sunglasses either. Jesus, “I wish I could give you this all the time,” it comes out before Mickey can think it through. ‘Course that’s how most things come out of his mouth, but, well, this corny queer shit ain’t his style.
And now Ian’s face is gettin’ all serious, “what do you mean?” his hand is rising, right up MIckey’s arm and across his shoulder, meeting the back of his neck, fingers at the base of his skull.
“You know, this fuckin’ livin’ life in the lap of luxury shit.”
“What? This is…”
“You deserve this kind of shit. Like the fuckin’ pampering and all that dumb shit.”
——— Ian’s POV ———
Things. Room service. Fuck. Someday, sometime, in some decade all the insecurities from their teen years will be so fucking far away it’ll be like a different life. But now?
“Fuck that,” using the hand on the back of his head to tip his gaze, the other sliding across his lower lip before he gets a chance to start gnawing on it and thumb his nose, “this is like a once in a lifetime trip. If it was something we could afford to do all the time, we’d take it for granted. And the only reason,” his hands are tightening, enough to make Mickey’s head move with the pattern of his voice, “that I’m loving this, is because of you. Okay? We’ll go back to the life we’ve built in the Southside tomorrow, the life that I love. We’ll got back to our normal jobs like normal people. We’ll fall back into our normal routine, the routine that I love, complete with naked Sundays,” his grip is softening as Mickey’s face is softening and that insecurity is fading, “Mick, you are the cake, the icing, and the sprinkles. And this, this is like one tiny granule of sugar added to the mix. Sure, it sweetens it up, but it’s not necessary. Right?”
“Yeah, but you deserve…”
“I deserve to have a husband that actually hears me when I tell him that he’s it. He’s the only thing, the only part of my life that matters. The rest is just whatever, doesn’t matter. So how about you fucking listen from time to time? Huh?”
“Fuck you,” there he is. Ian wants to tell him that insecurity looks horrible on him, but he understands it. And truly, there is nothing that looks terrible on him. Never will be.
He feels a smile rising in response to the one on Mickey’s face, his hand guiding him closer, closer until their noses nudge, and a whispered, “I love you,” before his lips close the gap between them.
Notes:
Too bad Mickey would do anything for Ian. Would anything include the disco?
Such a romantic honeymoon isn't it? Well, when you love someone for over a decade, you pretty much know it's not about romance. It's about the little things, and the big things, and all the things in between. Including the eww things :)
I'm just going to keep myself warm dreaming about sugar sand beaches and green blue water of the DR while I wait for that night at the disco...
Chapter 16: Wednesday Night
Summary:
Oh Mickey, you've come so far. From barely able to step out onto the dance floor for a dance with your boyfriend to slow dancing at your wedding to this... I'm so proud.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Wednesday Night
——— Mickey’s POV ———
He’d be a blind fuckin’ moron to not have seen how gingerfuck’s eyes lit up when Anne mentioned the disco earlier at dinner. But fuck, sometimes he wishes he was a blind moron. Fuck. If he was, then he sure in the fuck wouldn’t be here right now. Fuck.
Fingers grinding into his eyes, grabbing his drink off the bar and tossing it back in one gulp. Fucker. This fucking place is so much worse than Boystown. Techno beats and fuckin’ laser lights. Fuck.
Fuck. He blinks the spots away only to be met with more spots and swirls and shit just from the inside of this fucking place. Fuck this place.
When Ian’s eyes rise, landing on Mickey’s, he shoots him a smile. Like, a pretend smile, but the fucker is for real smiling, so his pretend smile turns real smile. Wait, was that dumb fucker serious about the role playing thing? Doesn’t that idiot get hit on enough? Fuck. At least there ain’t a whole shit-ton of queens eye-fucking him tonight, so maybe it ain’t as bad as Boystown. Yeah, there’s women eye-fucking him, but that don’t matter.
He taps the bar next to his empty glass with one hand, while the other rises to get a thumb gnawed on, Jesus, fuck. Fuck. Can take the fuckin’ ginger out of the strip club but can’t take the stripper out of the ginger. Or somefuck. Fuck. He just gyrates like he’s constantly waiting for someone with an ass to start grinding back on his dick or someone with a dick to start rubbing a hard-on against his ass. That’s all he does. Well, that’s not what he does when they learned that ballroom type shit, but even then, somehow he managed to make that shit sexy. Or sex-fueled. Or somefuck. Guess there’s a difference. Is there? Fuck.
Fingers meeting his eyes again. The asshole tried to talk Mickey out of it, like ‘oh I don’t need to go, it’s fine, we can just spend some time poolside or something’ but it started fucking raining. Of fucking course it did. Fuck.
The next shot goes down quick. Fuck it, so does the third one. Uh, yeah, and the fourth. Fuck. But he still don’t feel that whole lowering of inhibitions shit. He just feels, fuck, he just feels like this place it too loud and too bright and too packed and fuck. Fuck. Where the fuck’s Ian?
Oh, yeah, that’s him. The tall gingerfuck getting hit on. Getting hit on? No. Fuck that shit. And he’s fuckin’ hot as fuck right now. Stupid fucking tight jeans and a half-buttoned shirt without an undershirt, sleeves all rolled and tucked and his fuckin’ forearms are all sinewy and glazed in sweat. Of course that’s how the fucker would dress himself to go to a fuckin’ disco on a fuckin’ island in the middle of the Carifuckingbbean.
Fucking fuck. He’s sort of smiling at the guy. The guy is all brown and sleek and narrow and he ain’t Ian’s type at all, but fuck. Fucking fuck. Does Ian truly have a type? Old men with money, fucking for money, stripping for money. Well, there’s the common fucking deductible or fuckever. Deductible? No that ain’t it. That’s like a tax thing. Fuck, maybe those shots are workin’. No, fuckin’ denominator. Denominator. Dominator. Domination. That’s what Mickey is about to fuckin’ do. He’s gonna do this role playing shit and fuckin’ dominate the fuck out of it. Uh, sure, yeah, that’s what he’s gonna do. Or he’s just gonna stuff a ten dollar bill in Ian’s waistband, “show me some moves.”
‘Cause, uh, clearly with those moves he’s a stripper and if money is the common dominator then, denominator, then s’pose Mickey can deduct that fuckin’ ten dollars and Ian can buy their fuckin’ lunch in the airport tomorrow. Fuck, fuck airports, fuck. He’s gonna have to get straight-jacketed to get on that plane tomorrow.
The ten dollar bill gets removed, stuffed in Mickey’s palm and a very clear, “no.”
Fuck. Fucker. Fuck him.
Shot number five goes down easy and he should probably cut himself off now. But fuck. Inhabitants and all that shit are lowering.
Stalking across the dance floor again, the guy has the fuckin’ audacity to be touching Ian. Like not his hips or his dick or his ass or any of that shit, ‘cause that in the surefuck would be a death sentence.
“Cum here often?” wow, that was fuck as lame. Or, “want to?” jerking his head towards the bathroom.
“No,” fucking fuckering. Fuck.
Damn. No shot six. Nope. Yep. Shot six. He’ll sip it. The fuck point is sippin’ a shot? Then it’s a fuckin’ drink.
It was his arm. That the fucker touched. His arm. Mickey’s arm. Well, Ian’s arm. The arm that always finds it’s wrapped way around Mickey’s chest. At night. Oh, sipping. That’s what he was s’posed to do.
“How the fuck you pick up a dude ‘round here?” he wonders towards the guy beside him.
Dude looks at him like he’s a moron. Fuck’s this guy’s name? Brad? Dimpled and hanging and all that shit. Chad. That’s his name. Fat chads. No, he ain’t fat at all. Pregnant chads, well, sure, it’s all well and fuckin’ good that guys can’t get pregnant. That shit would suck. Fuck that shit, “dimpled.”
“What?”
“Nothin’,” he turns, leans his back against the bar and watches. Ian. His Ian. Talkin’. Guy’s touchin’ his sleeve again. The fuck’s his fascination with Ian’s sleeve?
“You guys, um, swing?”
“Swinging Chad. That’s the other.”
“Other what?”
“The fuckin’ chads. How you pick up a guy ‘round here?”
“It looks like your husband is doing a fine job at it,” he’s sort of half-smiling and did he just eye-fuck Mickey? What the fuck? Fuck.
Fuckin’ fuck. Denominator. Denomomenator. Demonomin. Dominator. Dominifuckingcan. Rum. Fuck. Dominate this shit. Fuck.
——— Ian’s POV ———
He can see the gears turning from here. He’s thinking about it, the whole role playing thing. Ian knows he’s thinking about it, he can see the steam rising off the gears and the shot glass gets emptied as his thumb rises to his teeth.
“Hey, do me a favor?” he wonders towards the guy who introduced himself as Eduardo and told him he’d love to buy him a drink. To which, Ian told him he’s married and it’s a very closed affair, but if he wants to buy him a drink he can give it to the stocky brunette with the scowl on his face instead. Because that guy, he needs a damn drink.
He looks skeptical, like he wants to ask what’s in it for him, “I’ll buy you a drink,” he offers.
“I’m listening.”
“You really don’t have to do much at all. Just flirt a little bit, or actually, just dance near me and make small talk.”
His dark eyes flit over to Mickey, like he’s afraid he’ll get bit, “am I going to walk out of here with two black eyes for that?” eyeing Ian’s face as he says it.
“No. At least, I don’t think so.”
He shrugs, “I was going to dance here anyway, but I’ll accept a drink for it.”
——— Mickey’s POV ———
Wait. If Chad just fuck-eyed Mickey, should he be turning the tables on this shit? Make Ian jealous? Would it work?
“The fuck’s your wife?”
He tilts his head towards the dance floor where she seems to be working over some European lookin’ guy. All that straw colored hair and shit. Uncut cocks. Anteaters. A dick wearin’ a sweater, “the fuck do you do with the turtleneck?”
“It’s not exactly turtleneck weather,” it seems like an innocent comment, but the way he said it, just kind of, uh, seemed like he knew what Mickey was talkin’ about. Guess Chad ain’t Jewish. Jewish? They ain’t cut, right? Fuckever.
So she likes turtlenecks? Fuck, this just got weird. Or weirder. Or, fuck this place. Time to ginger starfish hunt.
So swinging Chad actually swings? Weird, that’s fuck. Or fuck. Why the fuck get married if you’re gonna share? Or is dimpled Chad a hanging Chad and his wife’s gotta get it elsewhere? No, that ain’t the point.
Ginger starfish. Starfish ginger.
“Yo, I got a mattress that would look really good with your ass print on it.”
“No.”
“Uh, bet I can run faster horny than you can scared.”
“Nope.”
“Fucking snickers bar. Half sweet, half nuts,” stumbling away back into the sway of the crowd. Fuck gingers, “all nuts. I like nuts. Fucker.”
Hanging Chad. Long, loose, and full of juice. Probably not that long though. Fuckin’ ginger. Fuck. Anne’s back, “ain’t turtleneck weather.”
——— Ian’s POV ———
“How could you resist that?” Eduardo smiles a sleek little smile as he watches Mickey’s ass swaying it’s way through the crowd, and he’s kind of picking up on the beat and making his way pretty slowly back over to the bar. And when he gets there, Chad takes a nice long look at his ass.
“Is there a fucking magnet on his ass right now?” not that it isn’t just always everyone’s focal point, but what the fuck is happening?
“You are one seriously lucky man,” Eduardo’s hand squeezes on his bicep and he starts dancing his way further into the gyrating crowd.
He must not want that thank-you drink. Maybe this plan is not going to work. Or maybe this fucking plan is backfiring. God, fuck, Jesus, his ass is starting to move with the beat while he’s standing at the bar. Ian instinctively scans the bar for any and all eyes on his husband. Chicks mostly, and that’s just fucking fine. Eduardo’s eyes keep glancing over and lingering. And quick count, about three other dudes that are trying to pretend they aren’t looking, but they’re looking. And Chad. What the fuck is Chad doing checking out Mickey’s ass? And now his fucking hand is rising and he’s smiling at Mickey, and his hand is landing on MIckey’s shoulder and Mickey is smiling back at him and it’s not Mickey’s sexy smile but all of Mickey’s smiles are sexy and now he’s fucking laughing and what the fuck is happening? No one makes Mickey laugh. No one. Except Ian.
A very fucking unreasonable amount of jealousy is rising up his spine and his cheeks are getting hot. What the fuck? Chad is married to a woman. Mickey is Mickey and he always scares people off, and he never, he fucking never laughs like that with any other dude. And he definitely never fucking lets anyone, anyone, touch his shoulder. Much less linger there.
He’s fucking talking like they’re old fucking friends. But Mickey doesn’t have friends. Mickey has Ian. And his siblings. And fuck, what the fuck is happening? And Anne, that fucking bitch, she’s got her back leaned against the bar, her body aimed at Mickey’s, fingers twirling her hair. Looking at him through her lashes and practically drooling.
——— Mickey’s POV ———
“I mostly fuckin’ inherited the whore house on accident. Without the fucking house.”
“Oh my god, I can’t believe this story,” Anne’s hand contacts his arm and he’s not really sure the fuck is happening here, but he’s pretty sure he’s got friends. Hey, maybe this friend thing ain’t the worst thing, ‘specially when Chad hands him another shot. But maybe his hand, uh, kind of brushes against Mickey’s when he passes it over, and kind of, uh, lingers there. But he’s drunk too. Right? Gotta be if he’s cool with his wife shopping for turtlenecks.
“‘scuse me, gotta leave a piss,” shoving himself off the bar and heading for the shitter. Finding that head of ginger hair pretty fuckin’ easily, the fucker’s looking at him and he kinda looks pissed. Oh yeah, shit, he was s’posed to go hit on him. Or somefuck. He gestures towards the shitter. Which, could be an invitation, so he cocks a brow. But he don’t linger long enough to see what his response is, ‘cause he’s sure it’s a big fat fuckin’ ‘no’.
Fuckever. ‘Pparently he should go get a tire iron. Maybe he wants him to just walk out there and punch him. Stuffing money in his pants didn’t work. What else is there with him?
He grunts when he whips his dick out and lets loose a stream that would make the Bellagio fountains jealous. Bellagio. Maybe that’s a place he should take Ian. Las fucking Vegas. Guy could get a gig out there as a stripper. Probably make a decent buck.
Las Vegas. Fuck Las Vegas, “Vegas,” he hears himself snort, “fucker’d probably love that shit. All the fuckin’ lights and, uh, noise. Freaks.”
“Pardon?”
“Oh shit,” he ain’t alone in here, “nothin’. You know how to pick up a dude ‘round here?” head turning, landing on a tallish yellow haired dude. Uh, well, probably should’ve looked at the dude before he asked the question.
“Here?” his dick is already out, and he’s taking a leak too. Guess that’s what pissers are for. But, now he’s gotta know. He ain’t ever seen an anteater in real life. A couple pornos but, “see something you like?”
“What do you do with the turtleneck?”
“Pardon?”
Fuckin’ guy’s hard of hearin’. Fuckever. Tuckin’ his dick back in and walkin’ back out. Guess he should get on the whole fuckin’ playin’ role thing. Dominate that shit. Domifuckingnate. He snorts, thinkin’ about that time they went down to the sex store for lube and maybe a set of beads, there was that fuckin’ leather, uh, fuckin’ suit thing on a mannequin. All the fuckin’ ball gag and shit, who the fuckin’ fuck would ever be into that shit? There was somethin’ he was thinkin’, some reason he was thinkin’ ‘bout that shit. Wasn’t there?
Fuck it. This music ain’t like the worst fuckin’ thing. Kinda got like, fuck it, he don’t know a soul here. And it’s pretty fuckin’ crowded. Ain’t no one gonna notice him past the lanky ass ginger fuck grabbin’ his hips and grinding into his ass.
——— Ian’s POV ———
This is not fun anymore. Fuck this. He’s ready to go back to the room and, fuck, he’s not even sure he wants to fuck anymore. Now he’s just getting fucking bored. And maybe a little pissy about all this. Where the fuck is Mickey? This wasn’t the point of the whole role playing scenario. He was just supposed to try another pick-up line, or any pick-up line that didn’t completely suck. Or maybe bring a drink over. Or something. Fucking anything other than demands and really horrible pick-up lines.
What a joke. Like being single is fun, fuck that. It’s not really like Ian knows how any of this shit works either. Old dudes and Mickey. Mickey, fuck, he feels a ridiculous smile rise on his face just thinking about it. Jab him between the shoulder-blades with a tire iron and fuck. That’s not exactly typical first date type shit. Of course he has no idea how to pick a guy up in a club. Disco.
“You see my little Micknado around here?” he wonders towards Anne as he scans the crowd.
“Micknado, oh, he’s so funny, Ian. You two are,” she sighs, eyeing him for a minute, like she wants to say something, but instead decides, “he headed to the restroom.”
That was awhile ago. Is he waiting in there? Did he really think Ian would fall for the eyebrow? That quickly. Well, sure, he thought about it. Just ending this stupid game, but he wants this game to end in some drunken grinding on the dance floor. Fucker.
“Thanks,” nodding at the two that are now kind of eyeing him and he’s not sure what the fuck he’s supposed to be saying or doing, maybe his barn door is open. Checking it when he turns his back, scanning the rest of the bar, he’s not there.
Restroom it is. Or, wait, shit, what the fuck is happening? Some fucking European looking guy has his hands on Mickey. And Mickey is, Mickey is, what the fuck is Mickey doing? Is he dancing with the other guy? Is that seriously fucking happening right now?
——— Mickey’s POV ———
Ian’s hands sure in the fuck don’t feel right. They ain’t grabbing on tight like he normally does, and his face ain’t lodged against Mickey’s back yet. And when Mickey’s hand rises, reaching behind him to land on Ian’s neck, well, that sure in the shit ain’t Ian’s neck.
Fuck. Well, that sure in the fuck ain’t Ian’s pelvis either, is it? Nope, this guy’s got way less of a sexual undercurrent. Oh shit. How the fuck’s he s’posed to get out of this? Ian said no punches. During the whole fuckin’ drip. Trip. The whole fuckin’ trip. That was what he said.
The fuck? His hand retracts and just sort of lands on the guy’s hand on his hip, his head turns, and he just, uh, well, “uh thanks, but you ain’t my type.”
“What’s your type?”
Removing the guy’s hand, trying like fuck to be polite about this shit. But, shit, now the fuckin’ fire ants are stirring. He takes a step forward, giving the guy’s hand a shove, “well it sure in the fuck ain’t you,” taking another step, feeling his fist clench at his side, but Ian said no punches. No punches. No punches. Fuck.
Okay, okay, no punches, fuck. No punches, fuck. No fucking punches. Prying guy’s other hand off his other hip. Damn, probably didn’t need those last two shots. Or those last three maybe. Is the room spinny ‘cause he’s gettin’ all claustrofuckingphobic or ‘cause he drank too much? Fuck.
“How about a drink then? Is that your type?”
Fucker’s got the audacity to touch him again. This time his arm. It ain’t an army of fire ants anymore it’s a giant hairy ass spider crawlin’ up his spine and both fists clench, blood boilin’, ears ringin’. And now the fucker’s hands are on his hips again, like he’s just gonna grab him and take him over to the bar or somethin’? Jesus fuck, some fuckin’ guys just don’t take no for a fuckin’ answer do they?
He takes a step forward, fists clenched and he’s about to ask the fucker if he wants to fuckin’ die when his eyes shift to behind Mickey, and wait. Those hands, those are the hands. The ones on his hips, those are the right hands.
Fuck, guess those hands might as well have grabbed the spider and tossed it off his spine. Started flickin’ off the fire ants one by one, and his damn fists are starting to relax as soon as he feels his husband’s pelvis against his ass, “he likes Snickers. Half sweet, half nuts,” dopey bastard’s got a lilt to his voice and he don’t have to turn his head to know he’s wearin’ a smug ass smile, “but thanks for keeping my place warm. Have a good one.”
Steering, with those damn long, graceful, all alien and freckled, fingers. Steering and Mickey ain’t resisting. His chin leans on Mickey’s shoulder and he wonders, “thought you weren’t going to solve all your problems with violence?”
“Yah,” he starts, turns his head to look at those fuckin’ orbs all flashin’ the lights of the dance floor back at him, “well…”
Fucker cuts him off. Crashing into his lips, fingers clamped tight on his hips and yeah, those are the right fuckin’ fingers and they’re clamped the way they should be clamped and the fucker’s tongue is already in Mickey’s mouth and Mickey’s hand is already rising, sliding through that damn ginger hair and finding the back of his neck to hang onto while the dummy moves them to the beat of the music.
——— Ian’s POV ———
This is not boring anymore. Feeling himself smile against Mickey’s lips as his hands start wandering across his stomach, chest, taking hold of his chin with one hand and leaning into his forehead, out of his lips to just linger this close. Breathe his breath and feel the heat radiating of his body as it moves with Ian’s. His left arm hooked around Mickey’s waist to close any gap that could possibly exist between them.
Admitting against his face, “I don’t ever want to role play again.”
“No?” his breath moves in a slow puff across Ian’s lips and sends a shiver down his spine.
“No. That shit’s scary.”
“Scary, huh?”
“Yeah. Even just pretending we aren’t together,” tightening his hold, like he can somehow imprint Mickey’s shape onto his own, “I hated it.”
That hand that’s on the back of his neck pulses a tight grip, the kind that leaves dents in Ian’s flesh, “good,” his gorgeous face is tilted back, damn. He doesn’t need a pillow to cradle his head, he just needs Ian’s shoulder.
Fuck, fuck he’s gorgeous. Eyes closed lazily, body melted into Ian’s, lips parted slightly. The laser lights dancing across his pale skin. Moving with Ian’s rhythm. Well, fuck, without telling it to, the hand that was resting on his jaw is starting to slide down his side, meeting his jeans and sliding under the waistband.
“The fuck’re you doin’?” eyes open now, but not intimidating or even worried.
“I have no fucking clue,” admitting with a laugh, “but I’ve got lube in my pocket and full salute for you if you want it.”
“How the fuck you gonna do that here?”
“Gently.”
He snorts out disbelief but he’s so fucking melted right now. Fuck. He shrugs, “alright tough guy.”
“Alright, what?”
“Gimme the full salute without, uh, lettin’…”
“This ass is mine, no one else gets to see it. I promise,” a finger following the trail of his crack, “that is, as long as you’re sober enough to make a decision like this.”
“You fuckin’ talk about it like it’s a big deal.”
“No, I mean, sort of,” burying his face in Mickey’s neck for a deep breath, “well it’s sex in public and that’s…”
“Just shut the fuck up,” half-growled, half-purred as Ian’s fingers slips deeper into his asscrack, “and get on with it.”
——— Mickey’s POV ———
Fuck, it’s almost like he could sleep here. Let Ian fuck him to sleep. Here. With all the lights and the noise and the crowd that don’t seem like much more than white noise at this point. Ian’s heart beating against his back and his ribs as they expand and contract moving Mickey along with them. His breath on his neck starting to come out hot and heavy.
And sure, there’s plenty of bodies busy grindin’ on each other. And it’s dark aside from the lasers that are just streaking to the beat and Ian’s kind of backing them up to a darker corner of the floor. His lips against that part of Mickey that ain’t his neck and ain’t his shoulder.
Somethin’ moany comes out of his mouth when that first finger starts tracing circles, “lube bitch.”
“Mmm hmm,” the hand on his stomach disappears, reappears with a packet of lube. Rips it open with his teeth and disappears, “fuck Mick, I don’t know if,” fucker is all breathy and probably droolin’. No, no probably about that, when he leans in against Mickey’s neck again he wipes his lips against it, “shit,” deep breath like he’s just gonna jizz in his pants from grinding on Mickey’s hip when he’s only knuckle deep.
——— Ian’s POV ———
It’s not helping that Mickey’s not helping. Like at all. He hasn’t even helped with the pants removal, “at least open your damn belt and give me some space back here.”
There’s a little groan, grunt, laugh noise that parts his lips and it’s a clear read, ‘if you want it, get it your fuckin’ self’.
Stubborn prick. Fuck. He can smell his neck, fuck, he can smell him again. It’s working it’s way slowly through his mind and linking every single memory good and bad together, and every fucking good thing he’s ever had, every single good thing he’s ever had, has been because of this man, “Mickey?”
Jesus, his eyes are closed and he looks so fucking calm and so refuckinglaxed just resting against Ian. Barely moving, just swaying along with Ian’s rhythm, “Mickey?”
Fuck, it’s like when he was on the massage table and he looked like he was floating on a damn cloud. Good fuck, he thinks Ian deserves this pampering bullshit, fuck, he’s wrong. Mickey is the one the deserves to be treated like a fucking king, “Mickey?”
He’s taking his fucking time fingering him. Slowly arching, tickling. Gentle and feeling every single ridge in the tissue against his fingers. Feeling every single wave of pleasure that starts at Ian’s fingers and spreads throughout his entire body, “Mickey?”
His eyes are moving beneath his lids, lips just barely parted, just enough to let that breath out. Slow, easy puffs of air that Ian can feel on his chin, “fuck, you’re gorgeous,” leaning forward, closing that minuscule space between them. Lips to lips, sliding his tongue along his lower lip, upper lip, waiting for that parting and his tongue to meet Ian’s at the doorway of his teeth.
——— Mickey’s POV ———
Well he sure in the fuck don’t know why the fucker keeps sayin’ his name. Like he’s afraid Mickey’ll forget it or something. And he sure in the fuck ain’t answerin’. Not right fucking now. Dumb shit’s already got his go ‘head, fuckever he’s waitin’ for now, fuck that shit. When his tongue traces over Mickey’s upper lip he opens his mouth, lets the fucker barge on in like he owns the joint. Fuckever, guess he kinda does. Pretty sure at this particular point in time the fucker owns everything about Mickey. Workin’ his fingers like that, the heat of his body against his back and his asscheek. He’s bein’ all slow and fuckin’ tender or fuckever. And fuck, his shoulder is makin’ one nice fuckin’ pillow right now.
Leaning out of the kiss, he wants Mickey’s eye contact. Like he’s gotta know it’s all okay or somefuck. Fuck him. His jeans are slipped off his ass, and his damn dick is rubbing on the zipper up front and he ain’t really sure the fuck he’s gonna do about that end of things. Ain’t like he’s gonna unsheathe his sword out here and just dump his load on the floor. Or at least he shouldn’t. S’pose he’s gonna go back to the room with Ian’s load leaking out the back, might as well have his own gobbed around in the front. Fucker.
“Mickey?”
Jesus, fuck, what the fuck is his fucking deal?
——— Ian’s POV ———
His eyes finally flicker open, that ocean with a million possibilities scrawled across his irises just briefly flashing at him, but’s it’s flashing the okay. The go ahead. Fuck, fuck, Mickey’s okay with this. Fucking right here, on a fucking dance floor in paradise. But paradise ain’t got shit on Mickey Milkovich, Ian can feel himself grinning stupidly, leaning forehead to forehead as Mickey’s back arches, not enough to make any space between their bodies, only enough to give that opening.
It physically aches in Ian’s body sometimes looking at him and feeling him and knowing every single emotion that is caught in the current and tide of his body. And everything, above everything else that this man possesses, everything that’s perfect and right and beautiful about him, it’s his fucking bravery that Ian adores the fucking most.
He takes his lips, keeping them while he presses into his body. Getting the muffled grunt that slides over his tongue and slips down his throat. Echoing inside of him and stilling his hips, a hot ball of orgasm already welled in his stomach and begging to boil over. Fuck, he wants this to last.
Hands gripping the knobs of Mickey’s pelvis, swaying to the beat of the music. Not thrusting, just resting. Fuck, he could easily get off like this. Mickey’s hand rising, finding the back of Ian’s neck and hanging on. His other hand on Ian’t thigh. Squeezing gentle pulses of pressure into his muscles.
“Mickey?” he’s not even sure why it came out of his mouth this time, now, when his lips move away from Ian’s to take a breath. His eyes flicker open again and, fuck, fuck, he feels so fucking right and so fucking good and so fucking relaxed and fuck, he’s perfect. He’s so fucking, “perfect. Mick, you are so fucking perfect. I can’t even fucking breathe around you half the fucking time because you’re so fucking gorgeous,” fuck, “how do I get you to see that? See how fucking perfect you are?”
Ian’s hand rises, slides over his jaw, thumb over his lips. He looks so dreamy, he looks so lost in parafuckingdise, “fuck Mick,” he’s not even arguing. He doesn’t have a fucking care in the world right now. On a dance floor with Ian’s dick in his ass and he’s not moving at all, just swaying and yeah, he tastes like booze, sure it’s the only way he’d have agreed to this. But he knows, Ian knows he’s not drunk enough to not be fully aware of his surroundings, he’s going to remember this tomorrow, in vivid detail, “I can’t fucking handle it,” and he’s fucking glad his shirt is long enough to cover the bare sides of his ass and his hips. Because, yes, that body is for Ian’s enjoyment only. And Mickey’s enjoyment only. And Mickey’s pure pleasure and control and whatever he wants, he’s going to fucking get for the rest of their fucking lives, “I love you.”
——— Mickey’s POV ———
Tapping Ian’s cheek with the hand that was on his neck, watching the lights reflecting off his eyes. And yeah, he’s thinking about the club. That one in Boystown. Where that cocky smug shithead in gold shorts tried to kiss him. And he backed away. “Cause yeah, he was fuckin’ terrified.
And now the fuckin’ smug shithead is just swaying, using Mickey’s asshole as a fuckin’ place to rest his dick or somefuck. But it ain’t bad. It’s pretty refuckinglaxing. The fucker’s hands are everyfuckingwhere. Like they can’t linger any one place for long. But it’s fuckin’ fine. And he sure in the fuck don’t stop him when one drops into the front of his pants.
“Love you too firecrotch,” finally parts his lips and it’s barely a fucking whisper and it just kind of falls into Ian’s mouth and lingers on his tongue and his mouth rises into the biggest, brightest fucking smile Mickey has ever seen. Jesus, he’s an idiot. Fuckever he’s babblin’ on about Mickey can’t really fuckin’ hear him, but he’s sure it’s some kind of worship bullshit. Fuckin’ dumbass, “c’mere.”
——— Ian’s POV ———
Maybe this will be the time. The time he turns into liquid and just pours down Mickey’s throat. Gets to live inside him. Where he wants to be always.
Hand sliding over his dick, taking the opportunity to slowly spread the fluid from the tip of it, down the shaft. The grind against his ass is lazy, but it’s enough, it’s more than enough. Fuck. Will there ever be a time when this isn’t the most incredible place in the fucking world? With his husband in his arms, breath mingling with his own, tongues making easy promises to one another, silent answers to every question they could ever ask each other and never find the words for.
Tightening his grip on Mickey’s dick, knowing the orgasm is inevitable now. It can’t be held back. And Mickey’s right there on the cusp too.
——— MIckey’s POV ———
Fuck, all it’s going to take is one more damn grind, one more damn stroke and he’s going to have a serious fucking mess in his boxers for the rest of the damn night. Fucker.
——— Ian’s POV ———
In perfect sync. Just like fucking always. Drawing out of his lips to watch his face, his gorgeous fucking face with the expression that makes Ian’s heart thud so fucking hard against his ribs. That face is everything. And he’s so open and so fucking soft, easy breath parting his lips and visible shudder ripping down his spine. Fuck, he can’t help it, diving into his lips again.
——— Mickey’s POV ———
He’s practically suffocating by the time the fucker lets up. ‘Least his pants are back up, belt done up, and sure it’s, uh, gonna be pretty fucking gross in there, but, well, fuckever. He can feel Ian’s hands working at putting his dick away before the slide down Mickey’s ass, taking handfuls of cheeks before his fingers bend around his hips and he pulls him back tight to his pelvis. Fucker. He’s just gonna grind all that shit around in his boxers, ain’t he?
Fucker. Nudging out on him with his damn nose. Must not be too sore anymore. Why the fuck’s he do that anyway? Nudge him out, only to stare at him for way too fucking long, then just press into his lips again. Lean out, fuckin’ stare and he’s about to say something queer as fuck, Mickey can tell by the look in his damn eyes.
“Can we just stay here forever?”
“Uh no. ‘Less you wanna trade boxers tough guy.”
******** Early Thursday Morning ********
——— Ian’s POV ———
Tired and dreamy and it all feels so fucking surreal when they walk out of the disco into the ocean’s air. Mickey under his arm and against his side, FUCK just barely hanging onto Ian’s belt at the center of his back.
When he swerves towards the beach, Ian gives him a tug, tight to his side, turning his head to lean against Mickey’s hair, “room’s that way.”
“Yeah, well, ocean’s that way. And I ain’t ever been night swimming.”
Shit, he’s got one brow up and that cocky set to his lips and fuck, yeah, Ian’s about to go skinny dipping in the fucking Caribbean Sea.
——— Mickey’s POV ———
The sand gets kind of cool at night, but it’s still pretty damn warm and it feels pretty fucking good on his overheated body. Peeling his clothes off, all sticky with, well, all kinds of body fluids and he’s sure Ian’s nasty leaky nose probably left some skids on his shoulder. Damn him anyway. He’s not sure why the fuck ginger dope ain’t gettin’ naked yet. It’s usually his go-to move. But, well, fuckever. More ocean for Mickey to enjoy.
——— Ian’s POV ———
Ian should be moving by now. He should be joining his husband. But he’s certain it’s finally happened, he’s finally been struck completely dumb by Mickey’s beauty. Jesus. Ian’s never had a religious delusion, at least not until tonight. It’s fucking eery how gorgeous he is. And carefree. So fucking carefree. Stripped naked, the moon glowing lazily off every surface of him, each one more perfect than the last. The faint pellet scars on his asscheek, and the way that perfect ass bounces as he walks to the line of the water. The waves are gentle, lapping at his feet where he’s stopped moving. Just standing there, all lit up in the naked glory of nature. Fuck, Ian wishes he was a painter. This would be his masterpiece.
——— Mickey’s POV ———
“The fuck you waitin’ for?”
Dummy’s all smiles and softness in his gaze. And it makes Mickey want to squirm, but it also makes him feel pretty fuckin’ good. Maybe somethin’ queer, like special. No, that’s too queer.
“Just enjoying the view,” he’s working pretty damn slowly at his buttons. Like he’s got all the damn time in the world, and like he knows Mickey’s gonna stand here and wait for him. Well, he is gonna wait for him, ‘cause Mickey might be comfortable swimmin’ and all, but he ain’t like comfortable comfortable.
“Well how ‘bout you enjoy the view while you hurry the fuck up and get naked?”
——— Ian’s POV ———
Just for that, he’s going to take his sweet time. That impatient brow that’s all for show anyway. Twinkling in his eyes so much more breathtaking than the twinkling of the moon off the ocean. When he’s done taking his time and Mickey’s eyes are locked onto his, and his face is in his hands, the water tickling their ankles, he’ll say it again, just because he can, “Mick, you’re gorgeous,” leaning into his lips to cut off his response.
"Parafuckingdise accomplished," he snorts at him when he's leaned out of his lips but not out of his grasp, "I love you."
Ian's pretty sure he loves him more, but the only acceptable response is, "I love you too. Always."
Notes:
Snip, snap, snout, this tale it told out. Sorry if it seems abrupt, I just don't have the feels for this one that I originally did. So maybe I'll come back to wrap it up at some point but I need to close something for my own chaotic desktop to calm a little and this is the one I feel the least passionate about.
Thanks friends :) Leave me kudos, if for no other reason than the constant insertion of fuck into every other word and for convincing my autocorrect that fuckever is an actual word!
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