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The first time Ian Gallagher laid eyes on Mickey Milkovich, he was waiting to meet with his parole officer for the first time since he’d been released. He had no priors and a Bipolar diagnosis, and yet they gave him three years for blowing up a van. Something about endangering lives, and setting a precedent.
He was out in two for good behavior.
Milkovich was the only other person in the waiting room. He was slouched in a chair, picking at the fraying threads surrounding a rip in the knee of his jeans, his bottom lip pulled tight between his teeth. The energy between the four dingy walls of the office was fraught—even the receptionist had snapped at someone over the phone—and as Ian’s eyes traversed from tattooed knuckles to cut arms lightly dusted with hair, up towards piercing blue eyes and ink-black hair, an extra jolt of electricity shot through him.
It felt both dangerous and incredible.
“Ey,” a voice said, breaking Ian from his reveries.
Shit, Ian thought, his head snapping towards the stained ceiling. He’d been caught staring, in just about the worst place you could get caught staring—besides prison, which he’d already survived—and by a guy who looks like he would ruin his face before he’d ever let Ian bend him over and ruin him for anyone else.
“You like what you see?”
Ian exhaled, bringing his gaze back down to his fellow parolee, who’s eyebrows were cocked high up on his forehead, steam practically pouring from his ears.
“I wasn’t…“ he stammered. “I mean, I don’t—”
“You don’t like what you see?”
“No, that’s not what—Sorry, I just—“
“Milkovich!” bellowed the gruff receptionist. “You’re up.”
Thank fuck.
Milkovich slapped his hands against his thick thighs before standing, and Ian looked away again, trying to keep the desire to scratch, and bite, and lick, and soothe at bay.
“Too bad,” Milkovich said, his scent of cigarettes and soap wafting egregiously into Ian’s space, and filling his mouth with spit. “I like what I see. Kinda wish I’d gotten to see you in cuffs, big guy.”
He was through the door and into the belly of the office before Ian’s brain came back online.
- - - - -
The second time he saw Milkovich, he hadn’t even made it into the building, stopped dead in his tracks by the sight of smoke curling around plump, pink lips. It was enough to warm his frostbitten fingers, heat spreading from his dick through the pockets of his bright orange-lined coat.
Milkovich was bundled up tight in an oversized coat, a black beanie, and fingerless gloves, which hid his ink, but still allowed him to cradle a cigarette tenderly between his digits.
Ian wanted to unwrap him like a fucking present.
“Staring again, Gallagher.”
Ian short-circuited. “How did you—Have we—“
“Christ, do you ever finish a sentence?” Milkovich huffed, taking another drag.
“Yes,” Ian answered with finality.
Milkovich smirked, scratching his nose with the tip of his thumb as if to hide his growing smile.
“We got the same PO. Seaver? Saw your file on the desk.”
“Oh.”
“Arson, huh? Kinda sexy.”
Oh.
Ian had thought he’d imagined it before—how overtly this hot, brash criminal had been flirting with him. But now it was undeniable, and that made Ian fucking weak. He wanted to get this guy on his knees. See how he would respond to a little authority; figure out if he’d get bratty or willingly submit.
Worse, Ian kind of wanted to feel how he’d respond to it, too. Wanted to know what would happen if Milkovich were the one barking orders, telling him what to do, encouraging him to keep going, don’t stop, open up…
But then the guy was finishing off his smoke, pinching the cherry from the tip and stubbing it out with the toe of his boot. He chucked the butt into a nearby trash can, and opened the door to the office, either oblivious to Ian’s gaped expression or delighted by it—a master chess player who’s just a few moves from victory.
“You comin’ in, hot shot?”
Ian cleared his throat and followed.
- - - - -
Ian has lost count of how many times he’s seen Mickey.
Mickey, the supernova that had blasted his life wide open.
Mickey, the wildfire that had chosen him, sure from day dot with certainty that perked his cock right up and screwed with his other head too.
Mickey, the hurricane that had felt familiar like his past, that had ripped his way into his present, and was now barreling straight into his fucking future.
Even now, as Ian’s tied to the headboard with some fancy silk scarves that he’d splurged on—neither one of them actually interested in being cuffed outside of a law enforcement setting—he can’t take his eyes off the man in front of him, who’s grinning vulpine and holding a remote control between fingers that had immediately stolen his attention, and have since been in his mouth, his ass, and wrapped around his dick, his throat, and his heart.
“Look fucking good like this,” Mickey says, his baby blues roaming with heated pleasure. “Bet you’ll look even better when—“
His thumb pushes a button that has Ian vibrating from the inside. He squeezes his eyes shut, his mouth falling slack with a whine that has Mickey chuckling.
“Yeah,” he groans. Pleased. “I was right.”
They don’t always need to play like this, but they’d be lying if they said it hadn’t provided some of their favorite orgasms, the two of them riling each other up, pushing, and pulling, and teasing, and commanding until they both fall the fuck apart.
They’d earned it: this comfort, this trust. For as quickly as they’d fallen into the sack—four meetings at Seaver’s office enough to have them jacking each other off in an alleyway near the L train station—the emotional aspects of their relationship had been a trudge. Two Southside felons with a slew of daddy issues didn’t provide the firmest of foundations for commitment. But they’ve made it work. They’ve been bold and brave, and when necessary, they’ve allowed for their wild physical connection to keep them afloat.
The court order to stay inside the city limits helped too.
“Mick,” Ian mewls, his prostrate almost numb against the pulsating plug.
“What’s that, tough guy? You want more?”
A few more clicks of the toy and Ian’s about to explode all over himself and the bed. But he also knows what would happen if he were to do that.
Disobey.
So he grits his teeth and lets his gaze go fuzzy over the light trail of hair that leads to Mickey’s thick, stiff cock. God, he wants to taste him, his tongue almost reaching for his length as his own dick dribbles against his stomach.
Mickey saunters over to the bed and climbs on, tossing the remote to the side.
“Goddamn Gallagher, look at you,” Mickey praises, doing absolutely nothing to help Ian come back from the ledge he’s so precariously teetering over. “Think you’ve been good enough for me to ride this monster?” he asks, running a finger up Ian’s reddened hard-on.
Ian nods, reeking of desperation, barely able to squeak out a, “yes.”
“What was that?” Mickey asks, gripping him at the base.
Ian sighs with relief and tries again, finding his voice. “Yes, sir.”
It’s Mickey’s turn to nod, his other hand disappearing behind him to remove the plug he’d been wearing all night; the bulbous bung keeping Ian’s afternoon release warm inside of him. His eyebrows pinch as he pulls it from his body, throwing it towards the abandoned remote. Then, he straddles a quivering Ian and lines them both up, smiling lazily as the head of Ian’s cock pushes at his loose rim.
“Hold on tight,” he instructs, sinking down with practiced ease. Taking what’s his.
Ian knows what he means, understands that he’s both warning him about the wild pace he’s about to set, and alluding to the fact that Ian can’t go anywhere if he tried, but it’s more than that too.
Even without the directive, Ian doesn’t plan on letting go any time soon.