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Loud and persistent, rattling down the silence of the midnight off of the walls. He clings to the remaining sleep that's slowly dissipating from behind his eyes.
A moment of irresolute silence before the harsh sound of wood being rattled ricocheted back into the eerily quiet. He willed his eyes open, casting a glance at the digital clock sitting atop the nightstand; 2:37, what the fuck they want from him at this time of the night?
He was eager to participate in his right to not open the door to any rando who stumbled in front of it, most likely ready to mooch whatever they could get their hands on.
Most people fear the night, when the impromptu visitors crawl out from the shadows, and the monsters emerge, but not Ian. He finds it overly comforting, the crisp breeze on his skin and the quieted sounds of the world, wears it like a dark coat and gets to pretend he's someone else, something else, everything he isn't.
He still eyes the baseball bat in the corner of the hallway, it's just for precaution, the weight in his hand keeps him grounded and afloat.
However, his irritation melted away from the surface and his grip became loose on the handle of the bat when he heard an overly familiar voice ring out from the other side of the door.
His pulse quickened under his skin with warm ardor, and he opened the door with a greeting on his tongue, that he swallowed down, sideways, when the scene before him took stage.
There was a tall man, vying with Ian's height, though he was lanky and lean whereas Ian was not, dressed up in his best bib and tucker, curling chunks of blonde falling over his forehead. Although he was not the one who got Ian's tongue weight down, leaving him dumbstricken.
There was a noticeably inebriated Mickey hanging down off him, his head lolling to the side and away from the man's chest when he heard the lock turn and the door pulled open.
He was dressed up, too, though it came to no surprise to Ian. He always dressed up on Friday nights, for fucks sake, he calls it 'Dick Ranger Night'.
He's rocking a black-on-black tonight, giving a pleasant and stark contrast to his pale skin and vibrant eyes, which are now glassed over in his alcohol-induced haze.
"Gallagher!" Mickey called out, making grabby hands at him like a needy kid, twisting away from the blonde holding him.
Ian's face split in a smile at his efforts; drunk Mickey was always so lovingly carefree and sweet, but in this particular scenario, Ian mused glumly, he was probably fucked silly.
"Hey man, not an ideal time, ha?" The unfamiliar man spoke up, earning a distasteful glare from Ian. "He's pretty toasted and lost his keys somewhere. Said his roommate would be home anyways." He ran his gaze over Ian appreciatively and with enough glee in his eyes that Ian stepped forward to dislodge his intoxicated friend from the man, hefting his weight over for himself to bear, which was amusingly easy in the consideration that Mickey was already clinging to him. Something to keep his hands busy with before it finds someone's cheekbone, presumably, repeatedly.
"So you're the roommate?" No name asked as Ian spread his palm wide on Mickey's lower back to keep him steady and above, pressing him tightly against his side, his little finger dipping into the small line of exposed skin right under Mickey's tank top.
He looked up at the guy for a split second to give the illusion that he was paying more than an ounce of attention to him before lowering his eyes back at Mickey, and taking all things in consider about who the fuck this guy is, that was an overly generous gesture on his part already.
"Sure," Short and chipped, still more than what the guy deserves. Mickey's breathing was warm and content from where he had laid his face heavily onto Ian's pec, his hand grasping the taller man's bicep, blunt nails biting into his skin. The pressure felt nice, Mickey's hand heavily sitting atop his arm, a grounding pressure where his muscles and bones were pulled taut under his palm.
"Jesus, Mick. How much did you drink?"
"Everything" His usual drawl was gone from his voice, but there was an overly familiar grin sitting on the pale planes of his face.
Ian found himself grinning back, "Everything, huh?"
Someone cleared their throat in the background and Ian remembered their audience, he spared the blonde one last look and a tight nod, moving to push the door closed.
Mickey turned to the man, his feet unsteady but his body secure against Ian's, and sent him a two fingered salute, "Thanks for 'e ride, Ken."
The blonde perked up but didn't have a chance to come up with an answer as Ian shut the door in his face.
Ian turned to amble them to the living room with a languid Mickey sticking to his side, "Fuck, when did you became such a lightweight?"
"Ey fuck you, man." The smaller man put his palm on his chest, then, with a strength that was unlooked for, sent Ian stumbling backwards on his feet, just for a second, before he could brace himself, "I ain't no lightweight."
Ian looked at the man disbelievingly as he walked to the couch on his own, without such a stumble. Not as drunk as one would think, huh.
His eyes followed Mickey silently as he pulled off his second-skin-like tank top and plummeted down onto the sofa, wriggling his body gently, almost entertainingly, around to get comfortable.
He snatched Ian's smokes up from the coffee table and lit one, placing the butt of it in his mouth and sucking down on the burning paper as he looked up at Ian from under his lashes.
"Awfully cozy aren't you."
Mickey's lips tipped upwards into a sly grin, rolling his shoulders, "Got a nice buzz goin' on."
Ian watched it all in disbelief, his hands crossed over his chest as he looked down on Mickey's laying form, lit from the faint lightening of the reading lamp Ian turned on before.
"What the fuck are you doing here, Mickey?" It was more of a statement than a question, a sentiment they both know Mickey wouldn't directly answer; either unsure how to approach it or would shimmy right over it.
"Blondie had a car so," he tipped his chin heaven wards as his neck rolled back, "Least he could do is to bring me home after fucking me in the backseat, right?"
Right.
That wasn't what he asked though, was it.
"You live ten minutes away, ten minutes on foot, so what the hell do you want from me in the dead of the night?" He was growing more agitated by the minute, he would have found it cute if a drunk Mickey came across stumbling over his doorstep, but just as he had proved, he was more than capable of walking his ass home. Hot or not, crush or not, you don't try and sabotage his well honed sleeping schedule.
"Don't you get all pouty now, did I disturbed your beauty sleep?"
Ian couldn't have rolled his eyes harder if he tried, he gave Mickey the chin as he stalked over and plopped down on the other side of the settee, putting his arms up on the back of it, extending over the length of it until his forearm dangled over Mickey's shoulder, kicking his legs up on the coffee table.
Mickey met his gaze with a petulant look in his eye, then fell into Ian's lap ungracefully, head-first.
"Y'know, thought you would appreciate seeing your best bro, and I thought that you could make up for that uneventful evening I spent in blondie's backseat." He flicked his wrist uselessly in the air as he talked, letting Ian steal the fag dangling from his lips.
Interesting.
"Best bro, huh?" He questioned with a sardonic look sitting heavy atop his face.
Mickey breathed out a small snicker, drumming his fingers on his chest tonelessly, "Guess you earned a title."
Ian hummed in thought as he killed the last bit of the burning stick, leaning forward for disposal of the butt in the pink ashtray Mickey had gotten him for his birthday as a joke.
"Surprised you even stayed a second longer than necessary with the guy if he wasn't a good fuck." He mused with a teasing edge, he knew Mickey well enough that he wasn't the one to stick around after a fuck, even less with an unsatisfied one.
"Wasn't feeling like catching the L, 'sides my act was convincing enough to make him believe whatever he was doing with that fucking slab hangin' between his legs felt good." He shrugged nonchalantly as he leaned forward to take another smoke from the pack, letting it hang from his lips as Ian lit it for him. He sat back with his right leg tucked under him, pillowing his head over Ian's forearm.
"Couldn't have convinced me,"
Mickey narrowed his eyes at him, challenging blue colliding with fierce green, "Awfully sure of yourself, ain't you?"
Ian was unmoved, standing his ground under Mickey's vicious glare, "You're not that good."
Mickey leaned forward, his hands braced on Ian's thigh and for a split, scorchingly fast, second Ian thought he's going to deck him square in the face.
Mickey didn't oblige himself to any of the above, he withdrew the burning paper from his plump lips, held slackly between his index and middle finger, brought it above Ian's pajama pants, then, he tapped the butt of the stick with his thumb.
The ash fell off swiftly, landing just at the shy of the outline of Ian's cock, Ian tracked his doings closely, skeptical where Mickey wanted to go with this. He was vaguely aware when Mickey offered him the fag, his thumb catching on his chin as he prompted Ian to take it, he did as told, then, without prior notice, Mickey started moving.
He started rocking his body, rolling his hips as if riding an invisible dick, and a breathy gasp escaped from his throat.
Ian's eyes ricocheted over his body, intrigued but hesitant, before settling on his face.
"Mhm, fuck yeah, right t-there, Ian!" Mickey exhaled with a breathy moan, his gaze never lowering from the redhead's.
His hand found Ian's, gripping his forearm tightly as the skin turns white below his hand, a grounding hold, but there's fire in it, making Ian's abdomen burn fervidly with heat and want.
Mickey placed his arm on his hip, and Ian, once again, spread his fingers wide, on the curvilinear angles of his hip bones, he noted with feverish gratification how much space his palm overlaid on Mickey's body.
Mickey looked unabashed as the furore he caused in Ian's body ran hotly. "Uhuh, that's the spot!" He cried out, arching his back sharply, his spine curving into a symmetrical structure as leaned into Ian.
Mickey buried his face in the pale column of Ian's neck, the rocking of his hips never faltering, the faintly freckled skin under his mouth grew moist, "Mm, you feel so good, Ian. So big, stretching me so wide.
Mickey stopped abruptly, then, he broke out in a bubbling fit of laughter. He pulled back and primarily fixed his gaze to Ian's crotch, to the ever prominent clothed bulge, "Don't you cream your pants, big guy." His voice was contemptuous without disguise.
Ian sneered at him, a scornful look crossing his features, and pushed him away, "You're a fucking asshole." he muttered and reached down to adjust his obvious interest in his pants.
Mickey guffawed at the remark, taking a
capricious pleasure at Ian's pinkening cheeks, the blush sitting high on his cheekbones.
"Takes one to know one, bitch." He fell back into the fine cushion under him, "Don't question my acting skills next time." He rebuked offhandedly, kicking his legs over Ian's lap without an ounce of hesitation.
Ian rustled out a rough exhale, pondering in defeat as his hands came to sit on the rough fabric of Mickey's jeans, soothing his fingers in circles.
"Didn't think that guy was your type." He murmured in a toneless afterthought.
Mickey scoffed at the statement in distaste, "Fuck no, but he was the best I could get." Then he looked at Ian pointedly, "You know I never come home without scratching an itch."
Ian's brows drew inward at the unabashed reveal, but that's just how it is with Mickey.
"Could have got it scratched without taking the L all the way down there."
A reckless move, too soon, too fast.
Or not.
Mickey arched an inquisitive eyebrow at him, Ian held his breath and his body stilled, concrete, like a predator would freeze before pouncing.
Ian felt his hackles rise under Mickey's scrutinizing eyes, then the azure orbs stopped at his hands, gripping the meat of his thighs.
"Well," His hands sneaked down to Ian's, fingers lacing together, "I ain't one of a guy to refuse an invitation. Especially one like this…" He finished in low register, guiding the taller man's hand on the flat surface of his stomach.
He pounced like greased lightning, burning with the satisfaction of finally claiming Mickey's lips with his own, sealing them together. He ran his tongue along the back of the smaller man's teeth, his mouth a sour dance of alcohol and cigarettes, but to Ian, it was a sweet cocktail swirling in his veins. His canines scraped along Ian's tongue painfully, but pain was welcome, because Mickey is the causative factor of it.
"Y'know," Mickey breathed after he took a lungful of air that Ian stole from his lungs. Ian hummed in response, his breath humid from where he was biting at Mickey's jaw. "I love my men big and strong." He punctuated each word with an appreciative squeeze of his bicep and the meat of his shoulder, letting his nails bite into it. "So they can throw me around, put me in my space, fuck–" His breath hitched as Ian took his nipple in his mouth, flattening his tongue against it and giving it broad, wet lick before capturing the hardened pink nub between his teeth.
Mickey sighed at his touch, warm and content under him, and carded his fingers through the sweaty disarray of copper red locks on the top of his head. Ian kissed down on chest and stomach, with an idea of purpose in his mind, the skin was slick under his mouth and salty under his tongue, he lapped it up all the same.
His fingers sneaked along the line of the man's waistband, his fingertips diving under, a taste of the forthcoming pleasure.
With a deft motion of his nimble hands, the button of the jeans popped open.
He lifted his head just scarcely, finding himself under Mickey's intense gaze, he closed his teeth around the fly of the zipper and tugged, the breathy groan that escaped from Mickey's throat will be playing in his head like an old stereo stuck on repeat when he's alone.
He tugged off the jeans with hot urgency, earning a huff of amusement from Mickey, and discarded it from the way, over his shoulder. "Fuck," His eyes hastened over the newly exposed pale flesh in front of him, enjoying the way the way it spilled from between his fingers over his grip, "You really do have nice legs."
"Shut the fuck up." Ian looked up at Mickey, his gruff drawl was a far cry from the look on his face, which was glowing in a rose-coloured palette.
He leaned back down to mouth at the smaller man's skin with a new strike of confidence, "Mm," his voice was muffled against the heated flesh, giving it a nip before rising his upper body, "How about you shut the fuck up and take it like the slut you are?" He was towering over the man, once again, but this time it's with a hint of their undertone power play, an intent to increase Ian's influence over him.
Mickey's eyes widened, and his jaw went slightly ajar, but he gave a nod of his agreement.
Ian grinned in triumph, leaning down in a quick motion to press a dry kiss at his hairline, "Good boy,"
Mickey's breath hitched at the unforeseen praise, but otherwise he remained quiet, spreading his legs as far as the couch allowed him to.
Ian's hands fluttered along his sides, tracing along the jutting angles of his hip bones, quietly memorizing each dip and curve, preserving it in his memory palace, in the wing that's just for Mickey, and Mickey only.
He nosed along the hard outline of Mickey's cock, each small swipe of touch teasing another needy sound out of the man, he mouthed at the straining bulge, leaving the cloth wet and hot in his wake.
Mickey's loveable thighs were bracing against him, tense muscles encircling him, and even if it was a great add to Ian's satisfaction, that won't do right now.
He leaned back against his hills, relishing in the man's confused whine and the frail bucking of his hips, seeking the warmth fondling on his cock.
Ian's lips twitched into a sharp, smug grin.
He bracketed his palms against his knees, his bruised knees, he observed in a vexed thought.
"Who you got down on your knees for, huh?" His grip hardened on his knees. He shouldn't, he doesn't have a right to, but he couldn't help but feel the pull toward the need to mark the man under him. An ownership.
Mickey wriggled his hips, a pathetic attempt at seeking for friction, a small shiver ran down his spine when the cool breeze of the room embraced the wet patch of his boxers, "Mm, some guy. Doesn't matter." He tried to push Ian towards him, circle his waist with his legs, but the grip was too secure.
"Fucking whore," He growls, tutting at the answer, but feeling a pang of need when he sees Mickey twitch under his boxers, "Can't even keep track of the guys you take one night."
He pressed together the man's thighs, giving the strong muscle a squeeze as he grabbed his ankles, both in one hand, fueling the fire in his abdomen further.
He lets them rest on his shoulder, lifting Mickey's hips with one hand as the other gets rid of the offending clothing.
Mickey's growing restless, but he keeps his hands dutifully on his sides, fingers whitening from his hold on the couch.
Ian watches it play out, doesn't touch him further than a couple dry kisses on his ankle.
Ian pats the outer side of his thigh satirically, like one would pet a dog, Mickey's sharp intake of oxygen told him that their mind matches up, same thoughts and feelings, and bites down hard on his ankle before letting it slip off.
He sits back, planting his feet on the ground, a small shiver cursing through him at the feeling of the cool tiles under his heated skin, spreading his legs wide, a clear indication.
Mickey still eyes him with deplore, the glare tugging at his features is as prominent as ever, though, it doesn't have the same effect when he's propped up on his elbows, butt naked, thighs squeezed together.
"Down," His eyes are wide, demanding, "On. Your. Knees." He finished in low register, leaving no place for argument.
That does it, forces a way through Mickey's resistance, tearing it down then demolishing it completely.
He has Mickey on his knees in no time, bracketed between his legs, radiating the definition of fuckable, fucking breedable. Ian's tempted to take a picture, but he kicks the thought away to the back of his mind. He will leave that for another time. Next time.
For now, he will take his shirt off to sit back and enjoy himself.
"Go on," he nodded towards his crotch, standing for attention under his sweatpants, "Suck my dick."
Mickey didn't miss a beat, he closed the small space between them, grounding the hill of his palm down, hard, making Ian's breath hitch. The friction was good, as satisfying as it gets over two layers of clothing. He was pent up already, foreplay wouldn't do now.
Mickey kept nosing the outline of his cock, the cloth growing moist, a shade darker from the attention of his mouth.
Ian slid his hand through his raven locks, messing up his gel tousled hair further, and pulled.
Mickey moaned around a hitched breath, and fixed his gaze on Ian, eyebrows raised high as ever, it made Ian smile.
He slid his hand down to his cheek, his thumb soothing over the top of Mickey's cheekbone, tipping his head up, "I said suck, not tease, didn't I?" Then he pulled him closer, the palm of his hand grinding down on his bulge, looking deeply into his ocean blue, vibrant eyes, "Go on."
Mickey scoffed under his breath, but Ian could see the velvety color sitting high on his cheekbones, the man's hands reached for the waistband, scrambling to pull his pants down enough so he could get his hands on him. There was a level of urgency in the base of his moves that wasn't there before, his teeth biting into his plush bottom lip, wetting it with anticipation.
Ian doesn't raise a doubt that he feels the same fire licking in a whirlwind in the base of his stomach.
There's a beat when he finally pulls his dick out, Ian is helpless to the groan that leaves him when the cold breeze hits him, but his dick stands rigid under Mickey's warm puffs of breath.
"Fucking hell, Gallagher." His voice is rough and Ian chances looking down at him. He's wearing his infamous, cocky grin; baring all his teeth, his pink tongue peeking out from between them, finished with a parenthesis that embraces it.
He looks beautiful, the type of beautiful that you only witness on canvas; any artist would be happy to have him as their muse.
But he's no artist's muse, he would rather himself letting those men under the lights of seedy clubs touch him, have their way with him, dirtying him.
A rough, rumbling voice tore him away from his pondering, "Youre fucking hung, man."
When he finally touches him, closing it around the width of his cock, Ian has to stop himself from bucking into the loose grip.
When he casts his gaze down, lower, where Mickey's got his hand wrapped around him, he has to physically tear himself away from his orgasm that had rapidly spread along the length of his spine.
His hand looks so, so freakishly small; his fingertips are barely touching, if even at all, when he tightens the dry tunnel of his hand.
He caught the needy moan that rippled from his throat with the edge of his teeth, his grip tightening on the jet black locks around his fingers when Mickey finally leaned in and flattened his tongue over his slit, lapping up the dribbling precum there, only then he realized, he was dripping like a damn faucet.
Mickey put a hand on his hard, clenched abdomen, then, spread his fingers wide in the very same manner Ian had done, multiple times, this night. Although, there was a significant difference between their size; it made Ian's blood swirl hotter with the knowledge.
Then he swallowed, closing his hot and wet mouth of wonders over third of his cock at once, and Ian was helpless under his skillful tongue but to grip onto his hair tight, his hold undoubtedly nipping at the edge of pain, but Mickey had no complaints.
"Fuck," He couldn't help the soft laugh that escaped him, even if it was followed closely with a moan, "You really are a fucking slut, aren't you?"
No one ever took him that far, not for the first try, this man was seriously lacking his gag reflex.
Mickey hummed in answer, the sound vibrating around Ian's dick, he bobbed his head a couple of times, burying his nose in the wild thatch of copper hair.
He pulled off, a bridge of saliva between his bottom lip and the ginger's slit, "So I have been told," he ducked and swept his tongue over the biggest, throbbing vein on the underside of Gallagher's cock, his tongue following its lead until it reached the tip, giving it a peck there, "That I'm quite good with cocks, sir."
And fuck Ian for not having the mental capacity to remain unaffected to Mickey's slutty charm.
He seized him by the shoulders and dragged, pulled him against his own body until he had nowhere to go but into his lap.
Their bodies clicked together, like two fitting pieces of jigsaw puzzles, their skin slick and glistening with a layer of sheen sweat.
Mickey captured his mouth, bringing his tongue out to play as he stopped it over Ian's mouth, exploring it like it was his god given right, and maybe it is.
Ian pressed Mickey close, their chests snug against one another, the smaller man's cock was trapped between their abdomen, Ian felt him bucking into the tight blessing of friction.
The redhead let his hand wander, releasing his dead grip from the latter's waist, soothing down his fingers on each hard knob of Mickey's spine, dipping his fingers into the dimples that sat right on top of the prize; that delicious bubble butt, soft under the hard muscles of the man's back, the one Ian had eyed on so many sorrow occasions, hid under layers of layers.
He took his time to knead the soft flesh, well as much as Mickey let him, relishing the way it spilled through between his fingers.
He dipped his fingers between the pale cheeks, sliding through the cleft until it reached his puckered rim, causing Mickey to gasp softly against his mouth.
He broke the kiss, in the favor of sliding lower, nipping and biting at his shoulder.
He slipped a finger in and Mickey's walls pulsed around him, the heat welcoming and inviting him deeper.
" 'M still open enough," Mickey mumbles through the silence, the slick sounds of their bodies moving together.
Ian left his sentence hanging, not bothering with an answer, as he dived another finger past his hole. He shifted his digits around, spreading his middle and ring finger in a wide distance, humming appreciatively as his knuckles stretched the shorter man's rim.
Mickey was restless, trying to navigate between grinding down against Ian's fingers inside him and bucking up against the hard lines of Ian's abdomen.
"You need me to lube up?"
"Just get in me."
It's an order and if Ian weren't so pent up himself, throbbing painfully, aching for Mickey after he got a taste of his mouth, having been at the mercy of his skillful tongue, he would have stretched Mickey to his limits, but his own needs are screaming at him.
He lined himself up, fumbling as Mickey took his other hand then proceeded to deep throat his fingers, then, finally, his tip caught on Mickey's rim, fluttering with anticipation.
Mickey slid down in one, fast motion, making them both moan at their respective pleasures.
The smaller man gave Ian no time to recover nor compose himself, as he started up with his movements almost instantly.
Ian found himself getting lost in the tight, desperate clench of Mickey, who seemed to be a bottomless well, an endless string of surprises.
Mickey leaned back, away from where he was marking Ian with the drag of his nails over the meat of the ginger's shoulder, putting his hands on the bigger man's knees to change the angle.
"S-Shit…" Ian heard him sigh under his tongue, watching him in dazed pleasure as the man moved himself on his dick.
He tipped his head backwards, exposing the pale expanse of the column of his neck to Ian, bare and unmarked, begging him to differ.
He leaned forward, toward the body on top of him, the one who selfishly keeps stealing away the heat of his body, the sane core of his mind.
He closed his mouth around the soft flesh, vulnerable under his teeth, and sucked and bit at it with no signs of stopping.
Mickey's sounds of need and pleasure ricocheted off the walls and echoed in the room, he pondered in a half-minded afterthought how much noise complaints his landlord must receive because of their doings, and couldn't find himself to care.
Mickey seemed insatiable, his moves getting harder and sharper, and Ian gladly placed his destiny under Mickey's desires.
He found himself nearing his own end, the way Mickey's insides just kept clenching and sucking at his length, he was at complete mercy of him, he wanted this to last, to hold off his orgasm, but found himself unable to do so.
He sneaked a hand between them, hissing quietly at the tight pull at the base of his skull from Mickey's fingers, and took the smaller man's cock in his hand.
He fit right in his hand, the tip peeking out from the top of his grip, dribbling steadily onto his hand. Mickey cried out at the sudden pleasure, and Ian felt the telltale clenches along with the throbbing of his cock that he's close.
Mickey is maintaining his pace, still steady on top of him as he seems to be lost whether he wants to keep riding or chasing the friction Ian's hand grounds him with.
He's close, too. Ian can feel his taut body, muscles tight around him, as his hands twined into his hair and fumbled with the curls.
His orgasm hits him like a strike of lighting, cursing through his whole body as his muscles seemingly vibrate with the feeling. His vision bleaches out behind his eyelids, and he can feel a tremor running through Mickey's body.
His body goes slack and he falls back into the couch, pulling Mickey along.
They lay there for a while, letting the waves of full body satisfaction roll through them.
It seems like forever before Mickey pulls him into a lax, sloppy kiss.
It's more tongue than lips, but to Ian, it feels all the same, it's Mickey.
"Next time," he whispers after they had pulled away, but they are still close enough that each of his words hit Mickey right on his lips, his pink, plush lips. "Call me when you need to get an itch scratched."
He can feel Mickey's grin against his own mouth, his soft, warm huff of laughter against him.
"Copy that, Gallagher."