Chapter Text
Ian's body was aching all over. His back from being picked up and thrown against the wall, his hip from the bookcase, his shoulder from the dresser. Peering up at Mickey from between the bastard's legs was a lot more difficult when he was still reeling from being tossed around.
It wasn't until he heard the clank of the tire iron hitting the floor that his eyesight really focused on what was in front of him. Mickey's crotch. More specifically, his dick twitching in his dirty sweatpants.
Even hours later, Ian would swear time stopped when he met Mickey's eyes again. Not in a romantic way – fuck that. If there was one thing Ian had fantasized about ad nauseum, it was converting one of the neighborhood's alpha straights.
Who apparently wasn't all that straight.
Ian's tongue passed over his lips and suddenly Mickey's shirt was on the floor and he was moving off of him, letting him shrug off his jacket only to nearly rip Ian's shirt over his head. Ian didn't even have a chance to take off his gloves before he was pulling Mickey's pants down around his thighs, then off entirely.
It all happened so quickly, Ian still had the fucking gloves on by the time Mickey tugging him down on top of him.
His cock was caught under Mickey's ass, sliding between his soft cheeks and the rumpled bed sheets. Ian let out a pleased groan just as the guy under him smirked.
Tugging off his gloves one at a time with his teeth, Ian propped himself up on both hands afterwards, hovering over Mickey's face, breathing already loud and ragged.
“Lube.” It was an order, not a question. He rolled his hips forward and moaned again. “Seriously. You have five seconds.”
Mickey's laugh was low enough to catch in his throat, hinging on disbelief even as he reached for the lube half-hidden in the clutter on his nightstand. He knocked it over once and barely missed the second time, only to hear the plastic bottle hit the floor.
“You gotta be fuckin' kidding me.”
Letting his leg fall off the bed, Mickey kicked the bottle back towards his open hand. The movement wasn't graceful, but it was precise. And when he grabbed the lube, he did so with a tight fist. He guided his leg back up onto the bed and handed over the bottle with a lopsided, almost prideful grin, spreading his thighs as he pulled himself up onto his elbows.
Mickey's smile was contagious; Ian was grinning right along with him even as he sat back on his heels, squirting the silky liquid onto his hand. He had enough experience – thank god – to know his dick was above average and you don't want to just rush into sticking something up someone's ass, but he was still a teenager. A teenager who was about to get one hell of a sexual fantasy fulfilled.
Ian watched Mickey's face go slack as he rubbed two slick fingers around his asshole. That look alone could have frozen him, eyes shut and mouth open invitingly. It was intoxicating seeing him so turned on, and the low noises he murmured made Ian's dick even harder.
Even with his cock rubbing against Mickey's thigh, Ian was focused on the guy under him. Two fingers pressed in instead of one, but they were slender and experienced, easing Mickey open with as much speed as Ian could manage without hurting him.
Mickey's breath stuttered in his chest, and his fingers curled tighter around the edge of his mattress, fingertips digging in until they ached. Passing his tongue over his bottom lip, he opened his eyes to stare up at the ceiling. Where someone might think they were moving too fast, Mickey didn't think they were going fast enough. That thought pushed his thighs farther apart and his hips farther up off of the bed for a better angle.
On the heels of a groaned curse, Mickey looked at Ian, his cheeks splotchy with color. He looked like he was enjoying it. Sounded like he was enjoying it. Of course he'd have something to say anyway. “Why'd you use so much fuckin' lube? Christ.”
“Because you're --” Ian's breath caught in his throat; it took all that he had not to let out a moan far too loud for someone who wasn't even inside him yet. “Because you're fucking tight!” He bit on his bottom lip, fingertips seeking Mickey's prostate, pressing and massaging in different areas until he was making the guy writhe.
“Just wait another minute, alright?” Ian spread his fingers a little more, working them in and out at a faster pace. “You'll thank me later.” He paused, rolling his eyes. “Whatever, just think of it as not having to explain a limp.”
Arching his back until his elbows were all but buried in the mattress, Mickey pressed his heel into the small of Ian's back to push him closer. “Stop bein' so fucking loud,” he muttered, his voice strained. They weren't alone. He didn't know how many people were still hanging around after the shitty excuse for a welcome home party, but he knew they weren't alone.
“Shit,” Mickey ground out before he could even take another shallow breath, his hips jerking up before rolling. He wanted to tell Ian he hadn't expected him to be any good at it. Most guys his age didn't know what the hell they were doing. The only mistake he'd made was currently warm and dripping over his ass. “Just – fuck me already.”
Ian didn't tease. Even if he wanted to, the ragged need in Mickey's voice and the inviting spread of his thighs would have changed his mind completely.
Sliding his fingers out of Mickey's ass, he smeared what lube remained on his fingers over his cock, hissing through his teeth as he stroked himself. His cock was hot and sensitive and needed to be buried deep inside Mickey about five minutes ago.
Keeping one hand up by Mickey's head, Ian held his cock with the other, lining himself up properly and pressing forward, holding it steady until a few inches were inside. He then held on to Mickey's hip, a bit too tightly, letting out a too-loud grunt that bled into a much quieter moan when he finally had to stop half-way in, breath heavy and eyes clamped shut.
Instead of a moan, Mickey gave him a low, shaky breath and his teeth snagged on his own bottom lip. Still up on his elbows, their faces were close together, and Ian's look of total concentration mixed with the red in his cheeks made Mickey's dick twitch just as much as his (surprisingly huge) cock in his ass.
“Fuuuuckin' right,” he said under his breath, punctuating the groan with a quiet grunt. Heels digging into his sheets instead of Ian's back, Mickey pressed downwards, his eagerness to be filled up eclipsing his desire to have Ian do all the work. Dropping down from his elbows and onto his back, he arched it just enough to return his hips to where they'd been. “Get all the way in me. Stop taking your time; I'm not a fuckin' pussy.” A pause; a sharp breath. “Stretch me out. I like it.”
Ian grunted, jaw twitching as he held back a moan. “Fuck! Fine!” Rising up onto his knees, he pawed over Mickey's hips, finding a good grip on his slick skin. His blue eyes flicked over Mickey's body, focusing on his heaving chest and wet, open mouth and just when Mickey was about to do it for him, Ian finally slammed home with no warning.
There was a voice in the back of his head telling him that they needed to be quiet, but Mickey was too tight and too fucking hot for him to listen. His hips thrust back and forth quickly, smacking their flesh together, fingers digging into the soft flesh of Mickey's hips. Ian grunted with every other push inward, eyes focused on where their bodies joined, watching as his cock slid in balls deep, out until the tip was the only thing inside, and then in again.
Mickey grabbed onto Ian's shoulders, fingers pressing into the muscle and freckled skin until he couldn't grip him any tighter without hurting himself or breaking skin. He knew Ian was being too loud, but he couldn't find the words to tell him to shut up. So he just sucked hard on his bottom lip and took it. He took every rough thrust in stride, reveling in the way his entire bed shifted when Ian moved and the too-full sensation that made him burn all over when Ian pushed all the way inside him.
“Nnh, yeah,” he groaned, one hand leaving Ian's shoulders to reach down and wrap around his own erection. The stretching didn't make his hard on wilt so much as swell, and he spat out a curse as his fingers curled tight around the head of it, stroking once before the pleasure drove him to pause in order to catch his breath.
When Mickey seized around him, Ian had to slow down, movement dying down to a steady roll as his brows cinched over his nose. Staying power had never really been an issue for him before, but he could already feel the telltale twist in his abdomen.
“Shit, Mickey,” he moaned, pulling his cock out for a brief moment and ramming it in again with one stroke, headboard banging against the wall. “Nn, fuck, you're tight.”
This time, when he began working his hips properly again, he leaned forward, hands on either side of Mickey's head, looking down at his face as he rolled forward, back arching as far back as his body would allow, giving his thrusts the depth he wanted. He looked down between them again, watching as his stomach rubbed up and down against Mickey's cock, then back up again. His eyes never met Mickey's, but that wasn't out of a desire not to, he was just too focused on not cumming. And seeing Mickey's face when he's getting thoroughly fucked was the exact opposite of helpful.
Mickey wasn't interested in helping. If anything, he wanted to make Ian cum hard and a lot faster than he was, so whatever help he did offer was to achieve those ends.
The hand on Ian's shoulder moved to the back of his neck; the other, he jerked out from between them in order to feel Ian's stomach and the friction that drove him to thrust his hips and moan. Hitching a leg up, he tensed his thighs and shifted downward, rocking Ian deeper into him. It'd been a while since he had sex with anyone on his back. He was used to standing up and bending over. The aches from their fight burned now more than anything, and he found himself panting right along with Ian.
“Fuckin' – mnh, just fuckin' cum already.”
Ian said nothing. The wrinkle in his brow deepened, his hands clenched into fists, gasping with every movement. Mickey met him thrust for thrust, his hot, hard cock searing the skin of his stomach. The desire to bring him off drew Ian down closer until their sweat-slicked chests were rubbing against each other.
Mickey smelt like exertion, beer, and cigarettes. Basically like everyone else in their neighborhood, but this made his mouth water, this made him go down further until his tongue and lips were dragging across the dirty skin of Mickey's throat.
After a minute or two passed, though, he was left panting heavily against Mickey's Adam's apple, the focused quiet he had adopted devolving into strained groans and grunts of effort, desperate for his own release even more than the guy under him.
When he finally came, it was surprisingly silent, more a shuddering groan by Mickey's ear than a shout, flushed cheek pressed against his skin. Even as he filled Mickey up with his cum, he continued moving, thrusting eagerly to get every possible bit of pleasure out of his orgasm, pressing his hard stomach down against his cock as he did so.
Ian was heavy. Not heavy enough to keep Mickey from breathing; heavy enough to make him even harder, the pressure forcing him to thrust against his stomach and moan as Ian's movements slowed. Minutes later, Mickey groaned and bucked his hips almost helplessly, the friction getting him close and closer before he felt the first string of hot cum trapped between them.
Along the way, a hand tangled in the short red hair at the back of Ian's head, gripping at them as best he could as he slowed down until he stopped, too. Each breath was labored, a strained pant that was made even more difficult to inhale pinned beneath him.
“Get off,” Mickey said, low but laced with a chuckle. A hand moved to his face, scrubbing over his features before running through his hair. “I always thought that 'muscle weighs more than fat' thing was bullshit.”
Ian chuckled, too, lips twisted in a small half-smile as he moved to lay next to him. He exhaled, smoothing a hand over his hair when he finally flopped back against the pillow.
“So Mandy told you?” Ian said after a few moments of silence. His voice was rough, but quiet. “I'm not that obvious.” He paused, brows twitching. “I'm not, right? Because hitting eighteen is an important goal to me.”
“Nah,” Mickey replied. Sniffing, he scratched at the bridge of his nose and rested against his wall. The posters that covered it were cool against his back, cool enough to get a relieved sigh out of him. “I thought Mandy was just fuckin' with me for a while, but... evidently not, right?”
Ian looked thoughtful for a moment before he glanced at Mickey, that half-smile from before coming back. “Nope. Known it for a couple years now.” He stretched, groaning as he arched his back, following it with a twist of his spine, a few audible pops taking place before he laid back down. “What about you?”
All Mickey did was shrug, scratching over his stomach and focusing on the dingy white tiled ceiling above his head and not the still-flushed guy at his side.
“Don't really see the point in saying it out loud with what just happened.”
Ian let out a bark of laughter and rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I kind of got that you're gay, Mick. I was just wondering how long you've known.” Chuckling under his breath, he nudged Mickey with his shoulder. “You don't need to get pissy just because I'm not fucking you anymore.”
Mickey laughed at that and shook his head. “I dunno,” he admitted after waiting for the question to process, working his jaw around the words. That much was the truth. He didn't know when he realized it, and he was still waiting on fully accepting the fact. “Showers at juvie, maybe. Watching Terminator too many times and figuring out I didn't wanna fuck Sarah Connor.”
Ian was just about ready to tease Mickey over obviously wanting to get bent over by Schwarzenegger when there was a loud noise in the kitchen. It scared both of them – Ian felt his heart racing from the sudden jolt of adrenaline – but it was Mickey who started scrambling.
It wasn't until Ian heard the deep voice of Terry that he understood why Mickey was so insistent on getting them covered by the blanket.
He focused on the ceiling as the floorboards creaked under Mickey's father's weight, holding the blankets up to his chin. It wasn't until he was in the bathroom that Ian noticed Mickey's hands were trembling. More than that, he had a white-knuckle grip on the rough, crimson fabric. His breathing was quick and shallow. Textbook panic attack.
“You look like a couple of faggots,” Mickey's dad had grumbled out before slamming the door on his way out.
Ian seemed to be the only one who was relieved.
After taking a breath or two, he propped himself up on his elbow, smiling sweetly in Mickey's direction as his fingers curled around the boy's forearm. “Hey,” Ian murmured. “He's gone; you're okay.”
Mickey jerked his arm out of Ian's grip without a thought, throwing the blanket off of them and climbing out even more quickly than he'd gotten onto his back. His throat tightened as he bent over to tug on his underwear, the muscles in his thighs aching and a tell-tale warmth leaking out of his ass.
“Fuck.” Grabbing for his sweatpants, he stepped into them and pulled them up haphazardly around his waist before glancing over at Ian. His stomach twisted, chin puckering when he set his jaw. But he didn't say anything. His dad said it all. Then he pulled on his shirt, turning his back to Ian again once he had it over his head, moving away from the bed and closer to the dresser, closer to the thing Ian came to get in the first place.
Ian's brows slanted upward in concern, but he didn't voice it. He wanted to. His heart ached seeing anyone like that, but it wasn't as if they had a moment, right? This wasn't surprising. It was just sex.
He just hadn't grown out of the phase of caring for people he fucked yet.
Mickey paced around the room while he dressed. The gun he had stopped by to retrieve was on the bed before Ian could even get his shirt on.
There wasn't a fight. Mickey didn't try to take the gun back or make a fuss. He didn't say anything. His jaw was tight and his eyes were distant and Ian knew that look because he'd worn in a million times.
I'm scared, it said. This fucking house is a deathtrap.
Ian understood, and that feeling of kinship drove him to do something stupid. He walked over and tried to kiss him, tried to indicate that he wanted this to happen again, that he wasn't scared, even if Mickey was.
Mickey threatened to cut his tongue out and left.
There was nothing he could do. You learn that lesson fast with addict parents. There's no helping someone who doesn't want it, even if fear is the only thing blocking that person.
So Mickey was just one more queer from the hood keeping things under wraps until they can bust out. It wasn't like Ian had any place to judge – Mandy was his beard, and he was going to keep it that way. But that really wasn't what he was doing. He didn't care that Mickey wouldn't be his boyfriend. Ian didn't even want one. He just wanted to keep seeing him.
He was a good lay.