Chapter Text
They have a purely sexual relationship for a long while. Mickey doesn’t go into heats because of his suppressants (Ian finds out that the first time they had sex, Mickey had forgotten to take them the night before which resulted in his scent strengthening). Actually, he hardly smells. Ian only can tell because he knows what he’s looking for.
When Monica came back, he searched out Mickey first. They had fucked in the freezer of the Kash n Grab and Ian had dug his nose into Mickey’s neck. His scent was the strongest under his ear right along his jawbone. Ian tended to seek that spot out now that he’d found it.
-
“I like ‘em rough… I’m Scott, you wanna get outta here?”
Mickey eyes the older man, scoffing as he pulls out the picture of Ian he kept hidden in his magazine. He knew he shouldn’t’ve come out here alone. Bad idea. Thankfully, this man was just some stupid beta thinking he could get into his pants. “No I don’t wanna-” he breaks off, shaking his head, “you seen this kid?” He holds up Ian’s picture in front of his face.
The man turns, offended, “Oh. You like them skinny. I could lose thirty pounds if you wanted.”
Mickey’s eyes narrow incredulously and he looks around, asking whoever the fuck is up there for a fucking break. “Thirty pounds, maybe in your ass, man, where’s the manager?”
Scott points to his right and Mickey sighs. Was that so fuckin hard?
-
His alpha–fuck. Wrong. The alpha he used to sleep with. He was dressed in tight, tiny shorts that barely covered his ass, a mesh shirt that really was just not a good look for him, and a feather boa. He’s grinding all over some old guy; his hips thrusting lewdly against the man’s straining erection. Mickey takes a wild guess: another alpha.
He has no idea how this alpha even finds it appropriate to let another one of his kind thrust all over him. In his experience, alphas fucking hate that shit.
Mickey watches for a few moments, dread filling his stomach because that’s Ian, his fucking alpha, grinding all over some old guy. Mickey wishes in that moment that he’s off his suppressants. If he were, Ian would certainly be able to smell him. He wants him to smell him, to turn around and stare at him like he normally does when he catches a whiff, even the slightest, of his scent.
He watches Ian take something from the man’s hand—Ecstasy, he realizes later when he’s not blinded by hormones and that stupid jealous rage. He moves towards them, shoving the man’s shoulder. “Time’s up, lovebirds.” Ian looks back at him, surprised. He likes that. “That means get the fuck up, it’s my turn.” He shoves the guy out of the way. Ian’s standing in front of him, eyes dazed and clouded. He’s so fucking high right now. Mickey doesn’t know what to do. He wings it.
-
He wakes up… well he’s not sure when. The light streaming through the windows is bright but it hurts his head to look at so he lies back down. He buries his head in the pillow that smells like… nothing. And it’s a familiar, comforting nothing. A Mickey nothing. He jolts up. He doesn’t remember last night. He doesn’t remember Mickey taking him home. His head hurts. Fuck it hurts. He stumbles up from the floor, the clock reading 12:48. Fuck. Afternoon. He slept all day. Mickey’s probably at work. Ian makes his way to the bathroom, slipping easily out of his jeans and tank-top. He turns on the shower, hot water running over his face, clearing his head.
He thinks about why he left. He thinks about Mickey, his father catching them in the act. He thinks about Mickey kicking him out after they’re both beaten so badly, Terry slamming Mickey’s head against the edge of the couch when Mandy comes in, calling the cops. He thinks about Mickey telling him no he doesn’t want to bond, who does he think he is? He’s not a fucking bitch and Ian’s hardly an alpha anyway. He thinks about how Mickey avidly denied them being anything but a casual fuck, but saying that they could continue like that, if Ian stopped being a clingy little fag.
-
“You comin back?” He sounds like a bitch. Fuck it, he is a fuckin bitch. He’s been a damn bitch for years.
“Depends, will you suck my dick whenever I want?” He looks over at him, not amused.
“Fuck off.”
Ian’s unfazed, looking back down at the little leather journal he has in his hands, pen scratching erratically.
Mickey looks down at his hands and then back to Ian. “Whatcha writin?”
“Stuff,” Mickey thinks he’ll leave it there, “notes, ideas.”
Mickey’s hardly paying attention. He can’t lose Ian. He can’t lose him. Not now. Not ever. “I’ll do it.” And even to him it sounds pathetic, weak, stupid. He sounds like an alpha begging for an omega. Sounds like one of those cheap romance chick shit that Mandy forces him to watch. And he hates it. But he hates losing Ian more. He hates being alone, hates being without Ian.
Ian looks up at him, feigning innocence, “Do what?” And his pretty fucking eyes are so wide that Mickey shakes his head and lets out a sharp exhale.
“Don’t make me say it asswipe.”
“Suck my dick.” He speaks loudly, a coy fucking smile right there. Mickey wants to smack it off. Even worse, he wants to fucking kiss it off. Ian nods a little, “Whenever I want.”
Mickey shakes his head because he’s about to become such a bitch. He charges for Ian’s dick, though. He’s on his knees and Ian moves his journal out of the way, Mickey pulling his fly down quickly. He shouldn’t have missed Ian’s dick so fucking much.
-
“Bye Ian~!” Debbie sing-songs as she leaves the house.
He looks around a little lost, “Bye… Debs.” His voice trailing off right at the end. He feels high wired and tense, but Mickey approaches him with the coffee pot in hand.
He tilts it towards him, “You want some more?” His voice is quiet and he won’t look at him. Ian smiles. His omega. His. Even if Mickey won’t say it out loud and won’t let him bite him. He’s his. And this pretty display of submission, even if it’s just getting him some coffee, is so perfect that Ian would bend Mickey over right now if Fiona weren’t standing right there. He moves his mug closer so Mickey gets the idea that, yes, he does.
-
He watches happily. His omega. Pretty omega. Pretty, jealous omega. He moves in for a kiss and watches as Mickey’s instant reflexes kick in.
“The fuck?” He waits patiently. Pretty blue eyes flick around nervously. Pretty blue eyes back on him. Pretty hands moving towards his face. Pretty mouth pressing against his. Pretty omega. His omega.
-
“Ryan, this is Mickey.” Beta. Unbonded. Watching his alpha carefully. Fuck. The alpha. Not his. Never his.
“Delighted to meet you.” Mickey huffs and avoids the man’s hand.
“Could I get either of you a cocktail?”
Mickey thumbs at his lip, “Yeah you got any beer?”
Ryan spouts off some fancy fuckin names but Mickey doesn’t know what the hell they mean. “You got any beer?” He tries again.
-
He’s jolted awake, hand slipping from Ian’s wrist as he moves to knock whoever touched him out. The smell of Ian, of his alpha, surrounds him but he pushes that away. “Whoa, whoa, easy killer. I’m taking breakfast orders: scrambled eggs, pancakes, or French toast?”
He groans, fingers digging into his eyes to help ease the pain. “Eggs.” He grunts, still trying to calm his racing pulse.
“And what do you think he’ll want?”
“How the fuck should I know, I'm not his keeper?”
“Right, didn’t mean to assume. So… did you two just meet last night or are you…” Ryan is so fucking annoying. Obviously he can tell they’re not bonded. He can’t smell it. Stupid fuck. “together?”
Mickey looks down at his—not his—alpha. “Together.”
-
He’s dying. Gonna die. Mickey isn’t sure if he’s had anything to drink. Isn’t sure if he’s pissing in the bed or getting up when he isn’t aware. Isn’t sure what the hell he’s supposed to do now because even though he’s on suppressants, he’s still the omega. He’s still taken care of. He doesn’t know how to take care of Ian. Doesn’t know what the hell this is. He doesn’t know. But when Fiona says Ian might have to go to the hospital, Mickey panics. Ian can’t go to the fucking hospital. Ian can’t leave him. Not again. Not now. Not after he’s decided he’s in this for the long run. Not now that he’s decided he wants to bond. Please Ian, not now.
But begging won’t work. No matter how hard he tries to urge him out of bed, beg him out of bed, anything. It doesn’t work. Nothing works. He feels like he’s losing. So he lets Fiona know. Ian has to go to the clinic. Mickey won’t lose him. Not again.
-
“You fuckin scared me.” His omega. Smells different. Smells like another alpha. “Don’t you fucking ever pull that shit again, you hear me?” He leans up. He smells his omega underneath all that nasty alpha.
“Who’s on you?”
“You hear a word I fuckin said to you?”
“Who scented you?”
He watches pretty blue eyes dart around the room, “No one fucking scented me.”
“Who’s on you?”
“I don’t know, Ian. There’ve been a lot of fucking doctors. Too many damn doctors.”
“Mine.”
“Fuck off.”
“Mine.” He repeats with conviction, reaching up to pull him into their bed. Their bed that smells like Mickey. Ian’s missed the smell of their bed. “We should move.”
“To where, Gallagher? We don’t make any legal fuckin money.”
“I want someplace that’s ours, though.” It’s true. They don’t make any money, legally.
“Yeah, well, lemme get a job first. Then we’ll see.”
“Saw some automobile shop needs help. You’re good with cars.”
Mickey shrugs against his chest. He’s surprised he’s not fighting this. He’s surprised he’s letting him hold him. Ian watches as Mickey sticks his tongue into the corner of his mouth. He has something to say. “I’ve been thinking.”
He hums in agreement, scratching his fingers through Mickey’s hair which is really too intimate for them but he thinks Mickey might need it.
“I wanna bond… with you.”
His fingers freeze. He tenses. Fucking Mickey. He beat him to it. “Me too.”
“Cool.”
-
“You smell…”
“That supposed to be a fuckin compliment, Firecrotch?”
“You didn’t let me finish. You smell different.”
“I’m off my suppressants.”
“I know that, I’m not stupid.”
“The fuck is your issue then?”
“You smell… dunno. Stronger. Sweeter, maybe.”
Mickey’s quiet, the sound of a mumbled video game filling the silence of their living room. They’d waited. They’d waited to bond until Mickey got a job and they could afford to move into some shit apartment. Mickey kept taking his suppressants, but he stopped once they’d bought it. He needs to be in heat for the bonding to take place. Fuck. Mickey’s- “I’m close to my heat.” He grumbles.
“You’re… fuck.”
“What? You fuckin change your mind or somethin?” Mickey shuffles away from him, eyebrows raised.
He huffs. Pretty omega. “No, stupid. Come back here.” He nods towards his empty side, his arm still reaching across the back of their stolen couch.
Mickey does, settling back against him in an odd manner, “Fuck crawled up your ass, then?”
“I forgot we’re not bonded.”
“How the hell did you forget?”
“Dunno. Feels like we’re bonded, though. Don’t you think?”
“I don’t know what bonded is supposed to feel like.”
-
It doesn’t hurt. It feels… like nothing. It’s just him, Ian, the smell of sex, and Ian’s knot slowly filling as he shoots off load after load. He sinks his teeth in, no feeling but home filling him. When he wakes up the next morning, wet and overheated and burning with need, it aches a little. The spot is tender when Ian sinks his teeth in again. And the next time they have sex he bites him again. And if he weren’t being such a bitch, he’d tell him to knock it off. But he wants it. Craves it. And when the heat passes, Ian tells him he wants him to stop taking suppressants. He says that he loves his natural scent, can't stand having to search for it. So he stops taking them. And soon after that he stops taking his birth control at Ian’s urging. He gives in to Ian a lot. He’s not sure if it’s the bond or if it’s him. It’s probably him.