Work Text:
On a random Saturday afternoon, Mickey decides he's going to kill Lip Gallagher.
He and Ian are sitting at the kitchen table in their apartment, Mickey eating some toast with a mug of coffee to his right, and Ian scrolling through his phone, sipping on some kind of electrolyte drink he's been obsessed with lately.
It's nice out, the sun shining through the apartment, not too hot out, spring still clinging on before it gets evaporated by the Chicago summer, but not cool enough for them to have to wear multiple layers. It's the kind of morning where people are motivated to do things, like go outside to have a picnic, go on a walk, maybe run some errands. The two of them don't have any plans, which is how Mickey likes it, especially after a gruelling week of deliveries and family favours (babysitting, babysitting, and some more babysitting). Nothing to do, nowhere to be.
Actually, there is one thing Mickey would like to do today.
Someone he'd like to do today.
He can't help it, not when Ian's sitting across from him in a tight blue t-shirt and boxers. Not when he can see his muscles through said shirt, arms and chest strong, sturdy, thick. Enough to throw Mickey around, if you get his meaning. It's the reason why it's taking him forever to finish his fucking toast, slowly chewing, swallowing thickly as he rakes his eyes over his husband's frame. He looks really good right now.
Let's be real here, Ian's always looked good, even when he was thin as a stick and lean as hell. Young Ian still got shit done, he isn't denying the fact. He found him hot even when they were young and inexperienced, still growing and putting on some muscle, but that isn't the point right now. Married Ian, though, has a some extra meat on him, and it's almost constantly (always, if he's being honest with himself) driving Mickey insane.
He takes a sip from his coffee, throat dry, gaze lingering on those arms. Jesus. Is anyone else thirsty?
Ian, somehow, is completely oblivious to Mickey's staring, eyes focused on his phone with his eyebrows slightly furrowed. He's texting someone, that much is obvious from the frequent swoosh noises Mickey hears going back and forth, and he looks like he's debating something, lips pressed together like he's thinking real hard. The serious look isn't really doing anything to quell Mickey's…obsession right now. If anything, it's only making it worse. He drags the tip of his tongue across his bottom lip, eyes lingering on Ian's biceps. He should be doing something else with those arms right now, preferably something involving Mickey. Maybe get those long fingers touching something other than his phone.
He's about to say something, not-so-gently hint that he wants to do other activities instead of eating breakfast, when Ian speaks.
"D'you think I should lose some weight?"
Mickey freezes, his mind going blank, grip going lax around the handle of his coffee mug. "Excuse me?"
Ian isn't even looking up from his phone, still wearing that contemplative expression like he didn't just ask Mickey the most nightmare scenario question in the world. Ian? Losing weight? Is he insane? Why the fuck would he want to do that?
"I dunno, Lip sent a picture from a few years back and—"
What?
"I look more fit, y'know? Like I see muscle instead of—"
What.
"The sort of…pudge I've got right now? So I was just thinkin', like, I could lose some weight, get back in shape—"
What.
"Go to the gym and get some more defined muscles like before," he looks up from his phone then and startles. "Woah, hey, you okay? You look a bit—"
"I'm goin' to kill your brother," Mickey says, and his voice is deceptively calm as he stands up. Actually, the pure amount of rage he feels right now makes him feel strangely in control, completely focused on his singular goal: killing Lip Fucking Gallagher. Turns out he does have an errand to run today.
"What?" Ian asks, bewildered, before dropping his phone on the table and rushing to his feet when he sees that Mickey's dead serious, walking with purpose towards their front door. "Woah, woah, woah, calm the fuck down! What d'you mean you're gunna kill Lip?"
"Did he fuckin' tell you to lose weight?" Mickey demands, thinking about the best way to dispose of a body, if he should call up some old acquaintances to help. He feels bad for baby Fred, losing his father so young, but sometimes things just have to happen. Tami's going to be better off without him anyways. She's smart, she can find someone better.
"Oh my God," Ian says before grabbing his arm, pulling him backwards when he walks towards his boots by the door. "No, he didn't tell me to lose weight. He sent the picture 'cause he was going through some old shit in the attic. Would you stop trying to get out the door to murder my fuckin' brother?"
He forcefully grabs Mickey's shoulders now and spins him around, which makes his stomach swoop, but it isn't enough to block out the simmering anger still coursing through his veins. Even if Lip didn't tell his husband to lose a few pounds, the fact that he even put the idea in his head is enough to warrant some bodily harm, at the very least.
"Then why the fuck d'you wanna lose weight?"
It's a genuine question. He can't fathom any reason why Ian would think it's necessary. He's healthy, he still goes out on jogs and goes down to the apartment building's gym every once in a while, eats as well as he can when he lives with someone prone to eating junk food like Mickey, and he gets plenty of extra exercise when they fall into bed together. Also, sue him, he likes Ian like this. Loves it, even. He likes the extra…pudge or however the hell Ian put it. More to grab onto. Although, Mickey hesitates to even call it pudge. He's built. Sturdy.
Nothing is wrong with the way Ian looks. Nothing. He's got this nice, healthy layer of fat over his muscles, and if he tries to get rid of it Mickey thinks he's going to cry. There was a time where Ian was borderline frail, back when he was first diagnosed, because he'd lay in bed for days on end without eating, and then he'd be bouncing off the walls so much that he'd forget to eat. He looked gaunt, and he had lost the muscle he had built over the years while training for West Point, and whenever Mickey thinks about how skeletal he was back then he feels a bit like throwing up.
Now? Now, Ian's put on some weight, sure, but it's healthy weight. He isn't as skinny as he was when they first started fucking, but he was also a part of a poor as shit family who had to ration most of their food if a bill had to be payed. They can afford things now, afford food and bills and whatever the fuck they want. They can eat healthily. So yeah, Ian's put on some weight, but it's all good weight. Healthy relationship and not-starving weight.
And if that extra little bit of meat makes him seem bigger and stronger, and if that turns Mickey right the hell on, then so fucking what?
"I was just puttin' it out there," Ian says, clearly still kind of bewildered at Mickey's (completely normal and rational) reaction. "Wasn't actually gunna start like, immediately. I was just askin'."
"Oh," Mickey says, unsure of how to proceed now, immediate homicidal urges gone. "Well, fuckin'…good."
He sees the cogs turning in Ian's head as he observes him, eyes calculating before the metaphorical lightbulb lights up in his brain. He feels his cheeks heat up when Ian starts to smile slowly, smugness practically radiating off of him as he makes the connection. He turns his head and averts his gaze, feeling a bit too obvious, clears his throat awkwardly when he feels as Ian keeps staring at him. Ian is quick to grab his chin and force him to face him, though, and it makes Mickey inhale sharply, makes his heart start to beat faster when Ian dips down to meet his gaze (after he lowers his own in a piss-poor attempt to hide himself and to keep at least some dignity).
"What," Ian says lowly, "you don't want me to?"
Fuck him. He knows damn well that Mickey doesn't want him to lose any weight. He thinks he's made it pretty fucking obvious in the last three minutes alone, not to mention the copious amount of times he's shown how much he appreciates Ian's body in the past ten fucking plus years of his life. He was there for all of that, right?
"Fuck you," Mickey says instinctually, flustered and mildly embarrassed. "I just don't think you should wanna lose weight over an old fuckin' photo from your shitty brother."
Ian gets even more smug, if that's even possible, smirking and taking a step closer. It makes Mickey, inexplicably, take a step back, his ears burning and his heart hammering in his chest like a particularly coked-up hummingbird.
"Is that the only reason?" Ian asks, stepping forward again, Mickey stepping back again, like some fucked up, sexually charged waltz. He doesn't think he's ever been this shy before, not when it comes to this kinda thing, at least. He doesn't know how to react. "Somethin' in particular you might like?"
"Now you're just fishin' for compliments," Mickey manages to get out, tries to sound mocking but only manages to sound vaguely panicked, like he's been caught doing something he shouldn't have been doing. It's not that he doesn't want to admit to the fact that he likes Ian like this, likes the way that he looks like he can overpower him, likes the way it's easy for his husband to push him around. It's just…embarrassing to say that shit out loud. And it's clear that Ian already knows that, the fucking jerk.
"Mm," Ian hums, considering, and he's got that look in his eyes, sharp and teasing, that never fails to make Mickey feel that spark in his stomach. "Maybe."
He takes another step forward, grabs at Mickey's hips before he can step back, pulls him forward until they're close together, enough that he can feel Ian's chest whenever he inhales. It makes his head spin, the tight grip, the way Ian seems to tower over him like this, solid and fuck, he can't help the way his breathing picks up. Can't help letting out a small, ragged exhale when Ian tips his head upwards with two fingers under his chin.
"Not gunna tell me?" Ian asks, the smug motherfucker, leaning in close enough that Mickey's eyes fall down to his lips, a scant distance away, so close he can practically taste them.
"I think you already fuckin' know why, asshole," Mickey says, going for annoyed but coming out breathless instead. Jesus, the things this man does to him.
"Yeah," Ian says, and his voice is deeper now, eyes dark and laser-focused on Mickey. "But I wanna hear you say it."
Mickey swallows, the sound audible and telling of how much he's affected by this, by how Ian's holding him, talking to him. Desperate to try and gain some footing, he does what he knows drives Ian crazy: giving him exactly what he wants, times ten. He takes a rallying breath, and then gets his hands moving, since they've just been sitting by his sides being fucking useless so far. Gets one splayed on Ian's side, feeling the muscle there, shirt leaving nothing to the imagination, and the other up on the back of his neck, playing with the short hair at the base of it, stroking his thumb just below Ian's ear.
"I like you like this, lookin' all solid n' shit," Mickey murmurs, looking up through his lashes, feels that sharp thrill when he sees Ian's pupils dilate, when the grip on his hip tightens. He gets their faces even closer, angled so that their noses don't bump into each other, until their lips are almost brushing together. "Like it when you push me around, when you get a little rough."
He feels more than he hears Ian's sharp exhale. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," Mickey purposefully makes his voice breathy, not that he really has to fake it, knows how much it riles Ian up, "why don't you show me what those fuckin' muscles are for, tough guy?"
That seems to break what remaining bit of restraint Ian has, as he immediately pushes Mickey up against the wall with a thump that knocks the breath out of his lungs. He doesn't get a second of reprieve, Ian's mouth instantly meeting his own, immediately fucking hungry. Ian definitely takes his words to heart — moving forward to pin Mickey's body with his own, moving his hands to bring Mickey's face exactly where he wants it.
Mickey gets his hands under Ian's shirt, feels along his ribs and stomach, around his hips, digs into the meat of his back, desperate to feel the warmth and the moving muscle, the sturdiness.
"Fuck, Ian," Mickey gasps when the former bites at his bottom lip with enough force to make it sting.
"You want me to push you around?" Ian says, voice deep as he kisses down his jaw, bites at his neck. He drags a warm hand up his back, forces a leg between Mickey's own and pulls him down by his hips, which tears a strangled moan out of Mickey's throat. "Want me to put you where I want?"
Mickey nods, voice caught in his throat, head tilted back as Ian continues his descent of biting kisses towards his collarbone, keeps urging Mickey down by his hips onto his leg. He can barely move on his own, caught between his husband and the apartment wall, can't even begin to form complete sentences. All he knows is that Ian is doing exactly what he's been craving since they sat down for breakfast this morning, showing him exactly what his body can do.
It isn't like this dynamic is new. Mickey's always been a fan of riling Ian up to the point of manhandling, and Ian's always been a fan of having all of his buttons pushed. While their positions are almost always the same, there's still that ever-present (and, usually, faked on Mickey's end) battle for control. Sometimes, Mickey likes to take the lead, get Ian laying down on their bed and getting him real desperate underneath him until he's begging Mickey to let him fuck him. Sometimes, Ian holds Mickey down after a tussle (and really, rough-housing is their most common method of foreplay) and fucks him six ways from Sunday, until they're both practically comatose in bed.
Now, Mickey has no clue what that means psychologically speaking, he isn't interested in whatever some sex-shrink has to say about the way they fuck, but from what he understands: he and Ian like to keep up this push-and-pull game until something gives. Since that's essentially been their entire relationship, right from the beginning, it isn't too surprising that it translated to how they fuck, too.
In any case, that's how they like it. There's a reason Mickey isn't scared to call Ian his "dom-top" to others, isn't ashamed of the fact that he likes it rough and likes to be forced, sometimes. Loves how Ian can just…grab him and push him into whatever position he wants.
So when Mickey's distracted by Ian sucking a hickey into his neck, feeling the way the hand on his back drags downwards towards his ass, and Ian suddenly grabs him by the thighs and hauls him into his arms? What else is he supposed to do? Not almost come in his pants?
"Fuck—shit—" Mickey gasps out, wraps his legs around Ian's waist while Ian walks with purpose towards their bedroom, keeps his face tucked into Mickey's neck as he continues to lick, bite, suck. He knows the way blind by now, with how often they find themselves in this very situation, avoiding any corners and miscellaneous furniture with ease.
He lets out a small oof when Ian pushes him onto their bed, urging Mickey to take off his tank-top with warm, calloused hands, comforter cast aside from earlier this morning and sheets all rumpled, but Mickey can't focus on that right now as Ian plasters himself over him, cages him in with an elbow right next to his head while the other tilts his head up by the jaw to connect their lips again.
"You want it like this, Mick?" Ian asks and rocks his hips down hard against Mickey, drawing out matching moans. "Desperate to fuckin' take it?"
"Yeah, fuck," Mickey gasps out, head spinning and yet still managing to get a sly smirk on his face, but he's sure any effect is lost by how red his face is. "Bet you're just as desperate too, huh? Gettin' me to moan your fuckin' name while you hold me down?"
Ian lets out a breathless noise, grabbing at Mickey's thighs and forcing Mickey to wrap his legs around his waist, presses their groins together. "Fuck, you live for that, don't you? Always want it fuckin' hard."
He crashes their mouths together before Mickey can answer, forces his tongue past Mickey's lips as he starts to drag Mickey's boxers down his legs, anticipation and a rush of everything curling in Mickey's stomach as he gets his arms around Ian's shoulders and a hand gripping at his hair. He's barely letting Mickey get a breath in, grinding down with his (strong, big) hands wrapped tightly around his waist, forcing a groan out of Mickey's throat when his dick brushes against Ian's stomach.
Fuck, he's already so far gone and they've barely even started, his hips giving these little upward hitches that he doesn't have any control over, and he whines when Ian shoves them down, fingers pressed so hard into his skin he's sure it's going to bruise, until he can't move them at all.
"Please—fuck, Ian," Mickey moans out, pulling at Ian's shirt, wants to feel the muscle, wants that skin-on-skin, needs that layer of cotton fucking gone. He swallows thickly as Ian pulls back just far enough to rip the shirt off, gets his own boxers off too, throwing both items somewhere behind him, and he almost whines dumbly when he sees his naked body, when Ian dips back down and presses their chests together. He immediately gets his hands back on him, one feeling up the muscles on his back and the other pressing by his ribs. Fuck.
"So fuckin' needy," Ian says right next to his ear, before biting at the hinge of his jaw and soothing it immediately after with his tongue. His hand trails teasingly down Mickey's stomach until they're right above where he wants them to be, splaying his fingers wide.
"You want it, Mick?" Ian asks, his lips ghosting above Mickey's.
"Fuck, c'mon," Mickey breathes out, begging, "touch me."
They move faster then, like Ian's feeling it as much as Mickey is, like he's just as desperate. He reaches over and grabs the lube from their nightstand, and Mickey's almost twitching at the sight alone, Ian looming over him and getting his fingers all slick, smirking down at him as he trails his fingers down teasingly towards his rim.
Thankfully, Ian doesn't try to drag it out more than that, instantly prepping him with two fingers, impatient with the heat and the need running between them, making the air hot and damp. It feels so fucking good that he's dizzy with it, with just a few fingers inside of him, and he knows he's going to break when Ian finally, actually pushes into him.
"Feel good?" Ian teases, but Mickey can't bring himself to complain about it, just nods his head with a desperate little noise high in the back of his throat, presses back against Ian's hand and lets his eyes roll back into his head when Ian meets him with equal force, shunting right against his prostate in a way that makes his entire body feel like a live-wire.
"Ah," Mickey moans, presses his head back against the pillows, "Fuck, I'm gunna cum if you keep that up—"
"No you aren't," Ian says, voice low but with a faint tremor, like he's feeling it too. His fingers pause, and Mickey can't help but whine, the loss of stimulation too much, and he tries to grind downwards and clench at the fingers still inside of him, but gets stopped by Ian's grip on his hip, which just makes him moan even louder at the fact that he can't move, Ian isn't letting him. With just one hand too, fuck.
"You aren't gunna cum until you're on my cock," Ian sounds breathless, like he's riling himself up now, watching Mickey squirm on the mattress and helpless beneath him.
"Not helping," Mickey grits out, but Ian just chuckles as he keeps moving his fingers in mind-numbing, tight little circles, dipping down to suck at his bottom lip.
He's lighting up his insides as he purposefully drags his fingers against Mickey's prostate, until they're both practically shaking from it. He can't help the moans that fall from his lips, the way his hips jerk with every stroke, isn't kissing Ian as much as he's just panting into his mouth, eyes closed and heart ratcheting in his chest.
"You look so fuckin' hot," Ian moans, kisses at Mickey's parted lips, his own hips bucking downwards like he can't help it. "Gunna make you feel so good."
Mickey makes a pathetic noise in the back of his throat, both hands buried in Ian's hair. He watches with half-lidded eyes as Ian pours some more lube on his palm, wraps a hand around himself, before he's pulling Mickey by his hips and pushing inside of him. He drags him back in by his neck and kisses him, kisses him, kisses him as Ian starts to rock his hips, his breath hitching every time Ian's thrusts land just right and brush up against his prostate.
He pulls away with a sharp gasp when Ian starts to speed up, starts to move a little harder, pulls at Mickey's waist like he doesn't weigh a thing, and he tries not to lose it at the sight of the muscles of his arms straining, the faint sheen of sweat on Ian's skin, the look of pure focus on his face as he plays Mickey's body like a fucking fiddle.
"Mickey," Ian says helplessly, his eyes a little wild, and Mickey can only moan in response, tries to move his hips down for that little extra bit of stimulation, but Ian only pushes a hand down onto his stomach, changes the pressure and fuck, all he can do is writhe in place at the relentless push and pull.
Again, and again, and again.
"Please," Mickey pleads, doesn't know what he's asking for, can't focus on anything other than the sparking pleasure racing through his veins, the feeling of Ian's body on top of his own, how big he feels, around him, holding him, inside him, the way he can barely move with the way Ian's holding him down. His hands feel unwieldy as he gets them on Ian's back, nails dragging across his shoulderblades, feeling too much, too good.
"Like this?" Ian asks, voice high and breathy, and he tilts his pelvis just so, and suddenly he's nailing Mickey's prostate on every fucking thrust, hand still pushing against his stomach, keeping him pinned so he can't even think of escaping the pleasure-pain of too good, too much.
"Right there, fuck, Ian—"
"Fuck, fuck," Ian pants, driving himself in and grinding, moving the hand from Mickey's hip up, up, up until it's resting at the base of Mickey's neck, and Mickey gasps at the light pressure, feels the tightening in his stomach, and he's so close, he just needs a little more, just a little—
Ian's thrusts are starting to lose their rhythm, his breathing getting heavy, and Mickey knows he's right there with him, right on the cusp; and he's suddenly feeling everything ten times stronger, hears the headboard thumping against the wall, feels an endless wave of pleasure with how Ian's hitting his prostrate just right, feels the tight grip on his throat and the way Ian's holding him down. He's moaning, whining, these little breathy sounds escaping without his input.
Ian dips down and kisses him, swallows up the noises, releases his neck and digs his hand in Mickey's hair, pulling his head back until his scalp is stinging and he feel so fucking good. Ian's biting at his lips, speeding up his hips, and Mickey can't hold back anymore, can't help the way his back arches upwards.
"Ian," Mickey practically wails, voice breaking, he's right there, he's right fucking there—
One more shove sends Mickey soaring over the edge, body jerking from the force of it, crying out as he comes, sweating and shaking through it all, goosebumps breaking over his skin, and it feels neverending, stars spinning across his vision, muscles contracting with every pulse and Ian's still fucking going.
But he can tell he's about to lose it, his thrusts losing all finesse, breathing heavily into the crook of Mickey's neck, helplessly biting and licking at the skin there, probably leaving a dark as fuck mark, frantically grabbing at his hips with both hands and pulling, pulling, pulling, dragging Mickey along through nerve-frying overstimulation, until he's groaning and shaking as he comes, too.
They both lay there, panting, sweating, shaking from the force of it all. Ian's practically collapsed on top of him, both of them sticky and gross, but satisfied. Mickey can't help the slow, lazy grin that makes its way onto his face after a few minutes pass.
"Jesus," he drawls. "You do know how to use those fuckin' muscles."
He feels Ian huff in amusement, lightly shivers as the breath fans across his sweat-damp skin, before he lifts his head and gives Mickey a smug smile.
"I think," he starts, "that you've successfully convinced me not to lose weight."
"Shut the fuck up," Mickey says, but still feels a rush of satisfaction curl in his chest. Good. "I just didn't want Lip of all people getting you to do that shit. You look hot as fuck as is."
"Well, you made that plenty clear," Ian says, gently kissing Mickey's collarbone. "Thanks."
Mickey frowns. "I know we just had a good fuck, but I don't think we gotta start thankin' each other for it."
"No, dumbass," Ian snorts, flicking his forehead and ignoring the disgruntled hey he gets in return. "For likin' me no matter what I look like."
"No need to get sappy about it," Mickey says, feels the way his cheeks heat up, and isn't it stupid that he's feeling flustered over this? After what they just did? They're literally laying in bed with come and sweat drying on their skin. "I think you're hot. So what?"
Ian just gives him a soft smile. "So," he says, pecks his lips quickly, "you make me feel good. Confident n' shit."
"Well, good," Mickey says. "You should be, the way people fuckin' look at you on the streets. D'you know how many people I gotta scare off every fuckin' day?"
Ian laughs loudly at that, wrapping his arms around Mickey and pulling him closer.
"No, no," Mickey continues, smiling despite himself. "Really, d'you even notice that shit? 'Cause I sure do. It's annoying as fuck."
"You don't gotta worry about anyone else," Ian says. "I'm all yours."
"Damn right," Mickey scoffs, before sobering a little. "You do know that I'll find you hot even if you lose weight, right?"
Ian pecks at his cheek, presses a smile against it right after. "I know. I just like it when you remind me."
"Oh, so you were fishin' for compliments," Mickey teases. "Fuckin' narcissist."
Ian laughs brightly, shoves him onto his back and kisses him lightly, looks down at him with bright eyes and an even brighter smile.
"Maybe," he says with a twinkle in his eye. "How 'bout I return the favour?"
Mickey grins, wraps his arms around Ian's neck. "Gimme your best shot."
Mickey doesn't end up killing Lip Gallagher on that nice Saturday morning. He does, however, smack the back of his head, hard, the next time he sees him.