Chapter Text
It’s a late September afternoon at their West Side apartment, and Mickey’s in the kitchen, pretending not to notice the dozen-plus warped, half-melted forks piling up in a repurposed Pop-Tarts box by the sink. Mickey’s been hoarding plastic silverware for months now, never quite building up the balls to throw them out.
It’s been an on-going argument that typically starts with Ian reminding his husband that they have money now. Steady incomes and a full fridge.
We’re not broke and starving anymore, Mick. We can afford to throw shit out.
The conversation always ends with Mickey ignoring his husband’s request and Ian dropping the subject before the conversation turns into an argument.
Until today. Enough is enough. Ian refuses to allow his home be turned into a hoarder’s den.
Ian stands there, arms crossed, waiting. Facing Mickey off in a standoff that should’ve happened weeks ago.
"Last warning," Ian says, low and amused, in a tone he knows Mickey will have a hard time ignoring. Not that he won’t try to wave off Ian’s commands.
Predictably, Mickey pulls open a drawer filled to the hilt with what he calls take-out bonuses: single-serve packets of ketchup and soy sauce, countless squares of moist towelettes, at least thirty-three mini-tubs of chicken nugget dipping sauces. And, of course, enough plastic utensils to supply a whole South Side block party. He picks up a bent knife from the drawer like it’s no big deal. He drags the serrated edge of the plastic knife across his forearm, leaving a faint white line there.
“Still works, Gallagher. Don't be a bitch about it.” Smirking, he dumps the contents of the Pop-Tarts box into the drawer.
Ian’s on him in a second. Shoving him chest-first against the counter, yanking his arms behind him. The drawer shuts itself from the force of Ian’s advances.
He hauls Mickey bodily to the bedroom, rope already unwinding from under the bed frame where Ian keeps it hidden for days like this.
“Shirt,” Ian barks softly. Mickey follows through with the command, pulling his black tank top over his head and setting it on the floor. He knows better than to make a mess right now.
“Pants.”
Mickey disrobes completely, setting his sweatpants and boxers on the floor. alongside his tank.
“Good boy,” Ian thinks, but refuses to say aloud. Not yet.
In no time at all, he’s got Mickey wrapped up in a full decorative shibari harness –chest framed in intricate diamonds of crimson rope, arms bent behind him tight, wrists crushed together. More ropes spiral down his thighs, shins, pinning him into a kneeling position he can’t escape.
Ian runs a slow hand down the center of Mickey’s tied-up body, stopping right over his heart.
“Heart’s racing already,” Ian murmurs. “You wanna trash our new home? Wanna act like garbage, baby? Gonna get used like it.”
Ian palms his ass hard, flips him over, and drags his nails cruelly down his spine.
Then he bends him over their bed, binds the harness down to the wood of the bedframe –now Mickey’s completely immobilized, ass up, hole fluttering open like he’s begging.
Ian reaches into his pants for his pocket knife. He uses it to cut a small nick across Mickey’s thigh. Just a pinprick –a shortcut to getting his husband into the correct frame of mind.
“Fucking perfect,” Ian whispers, hypnotized by the small droplet of blood forming. He licks the blood clean with a growl.
He fucks Mickey slow, dragging it out, slapping Mickey’s tied thighs, praising and degrading him in equal measure until Mickey’s whole body is singing with pain, need, helpless joy.