Chapter Text
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Ian Gallagher brings several dozen novelties to Mickey Milkovich, chief among them obviously being the ability to have regular sex that is actually fun. Ian gets the dubious honor of a hundred of Mickey’s firsts, all in a gradual but continuous row, and Mickey does his best to not think about any of them. Usually he fails, but nobody has to know that but him.
Novelty number who-the-fuck-knows is being needed. Sure, Mandy likes it well enough when Mickey gets protective over her and even asks him to do it sometimes, but she sure as hell doesn’t need him to. But Ian comes to Mickey’s door, unannounced and uninvited just like he came into Mickey’s life altogether, with fucking tears in his eyes. Mickey immediately wants to make it better, whatever it is, which probably would be totally new too if he wasn’t a big brother. He suppresses the stupid feeling (like he even could fix anything if he tried), and he thinks he’s got his ass covered about it until Ian says, “I need to see you.”
It’s the worst possible time of course, with Mickey’s father not only home but also pissed off about something. Mickey can hear the bastard shouting with Mandy at his back. He scrambles for a suitable excuse, but Ian said he needed him and Mickey can feel that somehow. Deep inside his gut, where Ian always manages to touch him, Mickey can physically feel Ian’s need for him, and it feels fucking good. Mickey knows it will be painful for him if he lets Ian down, and while pain is certainly not a novelty, Mickey intuits that the place where Ian makes him feel is never meant to hurt.
At least that’s what he tells himself as he slips quietly out the door. That way he doesn’t have to call himself the sucker that he apparently is.
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Mickey meets Ian in the back room of the Kash-N-Grab, which is something that he’s fast and happily becoming used to no matter how much he tries to prevent himself from getting attached (it’s the lostest cause of all lost causes, but Mickey’s not one to give up). For all that he’s obviously calmed down quite a bit since Mickey told him he’d meet him here, Ian’s eyes are still kinda wet and a little red around the edges. Mickey would never say so out loud, but he thinks the look is sort of… pretty.
Ian goes in for a kiss of course, and after that ridiculous thought it’s way too much to even try for, so Mickey turns his back quickly. He feels like a fucking pussy, so to save some face he reaches out to the first thing he sees in front of him – a rolling metal rack of drinks and shit – and grabs ahold. He leans forward, spreads his feet a little, tries to be inviting but not eager. He hears Ian huff out a rough breath behind him, half irritated and half amused, and bites down on a grin because his faggy self gets joy out of making Ian have any kind of feelings at all.
Ian goes for Mickey’s hips first, which is pretty par for the course. He pulls Mickey back farther, presses a foot at the inside of one of Mickey’s ankles to push his legs wider, and Mickey has to press his lips tight together so he doesn’t moan like a little bitch because even just that small touch from Ian has him raring and ready to fucking go. Ian has this special brand of manhandling that Mickey can’t get enough of; he’s gentle but impossibly firm, like he’s making sure Mickey has no escape from how good he’s gonna make him feel.
Ian reaches around to undo Mickey’s belt and pants for him, which Mickey would have thought back before Ian would have made him feel childish or some shit, like he can’t undress himself, but instead it’s just hot as all hell. Ian’s hands brush against Mickey’s hips, thighs, cock, clinically efficient but somehow intimate despite that. It’s almost a shock when Ian finally presses firmly against Mickey’s cock, always is, and Mickey can’t help the way his breath rushes out of him, or the way he presses his ass back so that Ian is flush against him. Ian chuckles smugly in Mickey’s ear, and Mickey would whimper if Mickey did that sort of thing.
Ian fingers Mickey the same way he’d undressed him – one thing at a time until Mickey’s helpless not to ask for more. By the time his pants are down around his knees, Mickey is slightly damp from the light sweat he’s worked up just from pleasure, biting his lip hard and panting past his teeth. A soft but heartfelt “ah!” manages to liberate itself from Mickey’s swollen mouth as Ian finally presses in – gentle but impossibly firm, no escape.
Mickey grips the bars of the drink rack so hard his knuckles go white with it. He doesn’t know why, but for some reason he likes sex with Ian better when Ian does all the touching, takes care of everything. There’s always the threat that Ian just won’t give him a reach around that makes the whole event somehow more exciting. Besides, it always feels way better for Ian to touch him than it feels for Mickey to touch himself. And not to mention, if it’s up to Ian if and when Mickey gets off Mickey doesn’t have to worry about getting there and can just focus on the feeling of Ian’s cock filling him up, doesn’t have to worry about coming too soon or too late because Ian seems to know exactly how much it’s going to take every time.
The bars are cold and hard in Mickey’s hands, comfortable against his heated palms, and Ian is hot and hard at his back. His belt sways with every thrust, leaving stinging slaps rhythmically against his bare thighs. The wet friction of Ian’s dick inside him leaves him feeling raw and so fucking good, Ian’s hands back on Mickey’s hips holding Mickey right where Ian wants him. Ian knows better than to leave marks due to their circumstances, but Mickey doesn’t doubt that he’d love it if he did.
When Ian wraps his hands around Mickey’s on the bars, it’s as if Ian knows all that, like he’s the one who made it that way, as if that’s how he wants it and like he’s going to enforce it. Like maybe Mickey has to earn his orgasm or some shit, and why the fuck that’s good Mickey doesn’t know but it fucking is. Suddenly, Mickey feels good not only in his body, but deeper than that somehow. He can’t contemplate anything else but a truly all-consuming pleasure; can’t see, hear, smell, or feel anything but Ian – and fuck but does Ian look, sound, smell, and feel out-of-this-fucking-world amazing. Mickey’s done plenty of drugs in his life, and none of them could even hope to touch how high he feels trapped in between Ian and a hard place.
Mickey’s so completely blissed out and breathless, not even capable of making any of those gay sounds he usually has to try so hard to hold in, that he doesn’t notice at first when Kash walks in on them. The only thing that breaks through his weird buzz is that Ian has stopped moving, has pulled out, and he can only think pathetically, ‘did I do something wrong?’ before Kash shouts, “What the fuck, Ian?” and it’s like Mickey’s been thrown without warning into the deep end of a pool filled with ice water.
Mickey runs, both from that terrible feeling and from the knee jerk fear and shame of being found out for the ass clown he is, but while the latter fades relatively quickly the former stays with him for the entirety of the twenty minutes it takes him to get home. He’s got fucking ice all the way down his spine and in his gut, and he feels heavy and slow and stupid. The longer he can’t shake it, the angrier he gets – at Kash, at Ian, or at himself he can’t fucking tell, so he just goes with all three and stomps his sore ass all the way back to the towelhead’s shithole of a store.
Mickey just fucking wings it when he gets there, grabs a snickers bar and taunts the guy. He knew Ian was fucking him too, and yeah, maybe he’d wondered a time or two why Ian would when he could just fuck Mickey, and yeah, maybe that could be classified as jealousy or whatever, but it’s never been like this. Mickey can’t remember a time when he ever felt this level of sick hatred for anyone, not even his piece of shit father. It’s brand new to him – another fucking novelty – that he doesn’t feel any urge for violence against Kash. He wants to hurt him, yeah, but he wants to hurt the motherfucker’s feelings, and he wants to get fucking nasty about it, wishes he knew him better just for the purpose of being able to say something that would hit harder, stab deeper.
Then again, Mickey thinks hysterically when Kash shoots him, maybe he already hit his mark without uttering a single thing. He feels distantly victorious about that, even though his gut still hasn’t unfrozen.
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In juvie, Mickey feels cold and sick and sore all over. He tries to blame it all on the gunshot wound, but he knows that’s not his problem. Which is not to say that the gunshot wound isn’t its own fucking problem. The thing hurts like a bitch, and makes him an obvious target. But there’s no reason it would cause headaches or numb fingers. Not to mention his reaction time is down, which is dangerous as shit in a place like this, but no matter what Mickey does he can’t get back on his game. He takes it out on others of course, a sort of fake-it-‘til-he-makes-it plan of action that seems to work okay. He calls people names, hits them with his crutches, makes sure they all know his last name. He may feel like an easy victim, but there’s no way in hell he’ll let anyone else see that.
Ian is Mickey’s first visitor, as soon as Mickey’s allowed to have any. Seeing him gives Mickey a whole slew of bullshit emotions he absolutely does not want to deal with. Gladness is the most abundant, because Mickey is without a doubt at this point Ian’s fucking bitch, and would probably wag his tail like it if he had one. But coming in at a close second is guilt, which Mickey can’t explain. He knows he didn’t really do anything wrong, but still the heavy weight of a disappointment his reason tells him Ian doesn’t even feel presses down on Mickey’s shoulders until he physically feels laden with it.
Ian says, “I miss you,” and the weight lightens a little bit. Still, Mickey has an act to upkeep, so he tells Ian something or other about ripping his tongue out. Ian only grins at him, shiny-eyed, as if Mickey just told him some sort of romantic fucking in joke or some shit. He wants to be annoyed that Ian is so naively smitten with him, but the weight lifts further and with it the corner of Mickeys own mouth. He can feel his insides start to thaw a little bit, but ignores it so he can keep his gunshot wound excuse intact.
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