Work Text:
Once, when he was younger, Ian had confided in Fiona that he thought Frank hated him. He had said it in this quiet and all too tense way that made him feel nauseous from the emotions he was holding back. Anger, frustration, disappointment, longing… a bone deep, heart crushing loneliness that he didn’t know how to fix all on his own. He honestly hadn’t known if he hoped Fiona would pick up on the unspoken feelings or not, if he wanted her to deny his suspicions or confirm them. Either way, he waited for her answer like it would explain away all the hurt.
“You look more like mom than the rest of us.” She stated simply, “You probably scare him.”
She had said it like it had made sense, like it was only natural, but even then it struck Ian that if Frank was looking through him and seeing Monica- how many of his siblings did the same?
Now that he’s grown, he feels like that version of himself is stuck in time inside his head. Like there’s a fifteen year old Ian inside him screaming “UNLOVED!” at the top of his lungs every day, and instead of trying to hold him, he would rather smother the noise entirely.
No matter how hard he tries, he can still hear the pathetic wailing ringing in his ears whenever he feels wronged, or belittled, or ignored. He can only take so much of it before he feels like tearing himself apart just to reach that version stuck inside and wring his fucking neck- Hoping to shut him up once and for all. Move on, grow the fuck up already. Everyone else has.
“He ain’t seen nothing yet.” Ian had said back then. Half a joke, half a threat, the smile he said it with all teeth and no heart.
Ten years later, and Ian still can’t stop attempting a murder.
Sometimes, before he even opened his eyes in the morning, he could feel the tension under his skin like it was electric. Tight. Jittery. He fucking hated it. It’s particularly bad this morning, having woken up before his alarm and been unable to fall back asleep. Ian knows he should forgo his usual cup of coffee, that’s it’s not good to be having caffeine in the first place, let alone on days like these, but as much as he feels like a live wire physically- he’s mentally exhausted and still needs the boost. He takes half a cup instead. Little steps.
Sitting with his thoughts for a moment, Ian stews on the feeling- lets himself wallow in it in a way he knows he really shouldn’t. He’s almost glad to hear his husband's footsteps interrupting his silent tantrum, but most of all he’s frustrated that Mickey has to deal with this today. Deal with him.
His muscles jump where a hand comes to rest on his back, Mickey's presence in the kitchen triggering his shoulders to lock up as he curls in on himself just a tad. It almost hurt to be looked at, and he could physically feel Mickey studying his dramatics with a knowing and worried eye like it was a bruise being pressed down on. Of course he was worried. Mickey always worried about Ian.
The buzzing under his skin only grew as Mickey reached up to run his hand through ians hair, tousling it a bit before perching himself on the edge of the table as he assessed the situation quietly, dutifully.
On days like these Ian barely felt like a person. On days like these Ian felt more like a bad dog. Like there's this disconnect between him and the people successfully living their lives, and he doesn’t know if it’s even possible to bridge the gap between Ian and the rest of humanity at this point. Maybe he’s too far gone.
He had spent so many nights willing himself into the ground that he had forgotten that he hadn’t actually died yet. How is he supposed to live like everyone else when he never even learned how?
“You okay?” Mickey asked, tone trying a little too hard for light and airy as though he has to put effort into not letting Ian know he’s concerned. It kind of pisses Ian off, if he’s being honest. Part of him wants to lash out, tell Mickey to fuck right off, and the other part wants to bury himself alive for all the times he’s actually listened to the first.
But he’s not that fifteen year old anymore, the one who pushed Mickey into more before he was ready because it’s what Ian needed. The one who pushed Mickey away when things got rough, because he was scared Mickey would finally see him like he really is and run for the hills. The one that’s screaming inside his head that that’s still a possibility. The one that keeps flinching away from every touch, every act of care and attention aimed solely at him, even though Ian knows that from Mickey it’s all genuine.
It overwhelms him sometimes. A lot of the time. The idea that Mickey is his now, and he’s Mickey’s. Like for good. Forever. It’s been well over a year and he still can’t believe it.
Married.
They were married. To each other! He wonders if the little Ian in his head knows that they’re married, if he ever got the memo. He doesn’t act like he did.
When Mickey leaned down, meeting Ian where he sat to give him a slow, sweet kiss, something just to ground him in the moment; he really could’ve cried, or screamed, or possibly both. He felt such overwhelming emotion, all the time, and rarely could he put a pin in any one particular feeling.
Was he happy they were married? It’s like asking if he was happy he was breathing. A shaky yes, would suffice- but it doesn’t do the feeling justice. It was everything he ever wanted and more. It was everything he was scared to want for, ashamed to admit to himself why he was so terrified of it even in the dark of night. It’s something he constantly thought about, it was something he thought he’d never let himself have. He wanted this, he has wanted and wanted and wanted for so long- and now he finally has what he wants.
He has Mickey.
And Mickey loves him- loves him enough to marry him- and that’s something Ian still has to remind himself of. That he’s loved.
It’s hard to accept, to tolerate, to withstand the sheer intensity of it. He wishes he knew how to tell the mini him in his head- hey! you can give it a rest! We are loved! He loves us! Shut the fuck up! Maybe if he stopped shouting for once Ian could actually take it all in and lay in the sun.
As Mickey pulls away, Ian furrows his brow and makes a noise akin to a frustrated growl, definitely not ready to lose his warmth, and pulls Mickey back in a little too roughly by the scruff of the neck.
When their lips crash together, it's anything but graceful- they’ve kissed so many times now, again and again and again and again, and Ian hopes Mickey never gets tired of it, always treats it like the novelty it feels like. This can barely even be considered a kiss, what’s happening at their breakfast table, it’s all too much teeth and too much tongue and too much groaning and grabbing and pulling and maybe just a bit too much biting.
Mickey gets it, and understands Ian all too well, gripping the hair on the back of his head and pulling hard. Hard enough to make Ian gasp out the breath he was holding, eyes rolling back with a deep, full belly groan that leaves Mickey smirking knowingly above him.
“Be good.” He said, firm enough that Ian took it like a command.
The words rang in his ears, almost muffling the sounds of the world around him as he zeroed in on the feeling of Mickey's other hand reaching up to his hair and giving him a few quick and playful scratches. His mouth snapped shut with a click around whatever words he was trying to form before Mickey started petting his hair, teasing him with a smile.
Oh. He was teasing him.
Ian thought, a little dazedly, that maybe he should be annoyed with his husband treating him like a dog. Instead, he leaned into Mickey’s hands in his hair, one gently petting and the other providing a grounding source of pain for Ian to focus on, letting himself be manhandled as his eyes slipped closed and he got comfortable.
The tension started to melt from his body as Mickey continued, slowly but surely. Ian’s mind tried to struggle against it, immediately going into flight or fight territory when he realized Mickey was successfully calming him down. Ian sometimes felt like his brain only had so much capacity for calm, and didn't know how to receive it. He’d walked on a tightrope so often that the safety net scared him more- he didn’t trust it.
But Ian can feel the rubber band snap as soon as Mickey says it.
“There's my good boy.”
It’s said so quietly that maybe he wasn’t even saying it to Ian, but just to himself in a moment of reverence. Doesn’t really matter, because Ian heard it either way, and he can practically feel as the switch flips inside his mind.
Oh. He’s a good boy.
So Ian melts, and Ian whimpers, and Ian maybe, embarrassingly, nuzzles into the hand petting his hair.
The rest of the morning is a bit of a blur, after that.
He knows Mickey ended up making him eat breakfast, but that was after he drugged Ian with his petting and head scratching bullshit. He knows they didn’t have sex, which is fine, but it would’ve been really nice. The hair petting scratching bullshit and sex at the same time. Ian thinks that he might really enjoy that.
He wakes up after a nice long nap, stretching his limbs and yawning with a click of his jaw. He felt good.
“There’s my good boy.” Mickey had said. Ian really liked how he had said it. He wanted to hear it again.
Getting out of bed feels labored and slow, bones heavy and blood thick in his veins. He thinks he might’ve stayed in bed much longer if the urge to see his husband wasn’t so strong. Hmmm. Maybe he can get Mickey to spend the day in bed petting his hair.
Calling him his good boy.
As Ian throws a blanket over his shoulders to check on Mickey, Mickey opens the door slowly to check on Ian. They both smile like idiots when they see each other, like they don’t see each other every day, like they won’t see each other for the rest of their lives, like it’s still so remarkable that Mickey Milkovich is standing in his doorway.
“How ya’ feeling, big guy?” Mickey asks, and well. Ian had kinda forgotten how bad of a mood he woke up in. He shrinks in on himself a little when he remembers, feeling bad for feeling so bad. It was like whiplash, honestly, how fast his mood could plummet or rise. Made him nauseous.
And most days the guilt over it all was a monster that ate him alive- it gutted him to think of how much of Mickey's life has been spent trying to make him feel better. Other days the guilt just festered like an open wound, ready to start bleeding if Ian paid it any attention.
“Hey, c’mon, let’s not start that again, alright?” Mickey says, and Ian feels like he can maybe kind of sense a small hint of exasperation, and suddenly he feels fifteen again, fighting for a name to put to the empty feeling in his gut. His bottom lip trembled as Mickey grabbed both sides of his face.
“Im not mad that you’re having a bad day,” and Mickey may know him a little too well if that’s how this conversation is starting. “So stop worrying about me. I’m supposed to be worried about you, remember?”
Ian huffs a weak laugh- “that’s not how that works.”
“In sickness and in health, dumbass, yes it is.”
“No,” Ian’s voice sounds wet. Pathetic. What happened to feeling good? “I mean I still get to worry about you too, idiot.”
“Well don’t.” Mickey says. “Worry about you, like I do. It’s a lot of work, y'know? I could use all the help I can get worrying about you.”
He says it like a joke, but they both know it’s not. Mickey has his work as a husband cut out for him, and thinking about it now Ian doesn’t know if he wants to kiss him or go throw up.
Luckily Mickey makes the decision for him, pulling his face down for a very deliberate kiss. Sensing his husband's misery, he runs his thumbs back and forth on Ian’s checks as they kiss, hoping to distract him if even for a moment.
Ian hums into Mickey's mouth, not taking things farther, just enjoying the feeling of being held.
When Mickey pulls back, his eyes are bright and he looks satisfied, which must mean Ian looks a bit better off than he did before- which is a start.
“What time is it?” Ian says, not lazy, just tired. He was always so tired.
“Just past noon, tough guy, we still got time in the day.” Mickey reassures. Ian had noticed that his husband was really good at that- noticing when certain things made Ian go rigid and stiff, and reassuring him that everything was okay despite it.
Ian didn’t like wasting time, and Mickey knew that, fully aware Ian didn’t like taking away from energy better spent elsewhere taking a fucking nap of all things, no matter how exhausted he was. It was a problem sometimes, one that was usually eased with the option of a husband in bed with him to cling to in his sleep.
Ian thought for just a moment about pulling Mickey back to bed, spending a slow sleepy Sunday in their room despite the amount of things they could be getting done today, despite the lost time, and just starting over fresh tomorrow.
Then he remembered how much time Mickey has spent trying to coax Ian in and out of bed, and he suddenly feels embarrassed for even considering it.
“What’s going on up there?” Mickey says, almost to himself more than anything. He’s still got Ian’s face in his hands, and he tilts his head to the side, tapping his middle and index fingers to Ian’s temple as he says it. A small invitation for him to open up, if he wants to.
Ian whines a little. He doesn’t.
“I think you were having a better day when you were all boneless in my lap,” and Ian vaguely remembers Mickey guiding him to lay down after breakfast, petting Ian’s hair as his husband practically melted into him. He was having a better day then, actually. He felt good when Mickey had his hands on him. He wants to feel good for Mickey.
He doesn’t want to think, he just wants to be Mickey's good boy.
Another whine claws its way out from his core completely involuntarily, and Mickey looks at him curiously, because he hadn’t done anything special with his hands, or even spoken in that soft tone reserved exclusively for Ian.
It wasn’t anything Mickey was doing, but moreover what he wasn’t. Ian felt greedy, he felt clingy in a way didn’t always. Overtly needy. He whimpered again, not unlike a whiney child or a dog trying to get his owner's attention.
“You gonna use your words, or are you just gonna keep making noises at me?” Mickey jokes, though there’s a slight edge to it that tells Ian he’s worried about his husband doing the thing where he just stops talking for a good long while. Mickey was good at reading him, and he really didn’t need Ian to verbally confirm what he already knew was happening, but Ian knew how bad it scared Mickey when he lost his words, so he forced himself to speak up.
“It’s a lot today, Mick.” Is what he settles on. Simple and to the point.
“Too much?”
“Too much.” Ian Agrees. Mickey was good at reading Ian.
They’re still standing in the doorway to the bedroom, Mickey’s hands are still on Ian’s face, and Ian thinks for a moment how nice it is when Mickey's hands are guiding him.
Ian liked touching Mickey, unabashedly putting his hands all over him whenever he got the chance. He needed it, needed to feel Mickey's skin on his skin, needed to know Mickey was there and never leaving. If he could crawl into Mickey's chest and die there he would.
When Mickey touched Ian in times like this it was with far more deliberate gentleness and care. Like he thought Ian would bolt if he pushed things too far. Ian doesn’t feel like he has any limits with Mickey. He thinks Mickey could kill him and he’d just be glad it was Mickey doing it.
“Fucking weirdo…” Mickey says aptly, and it’s only then that Ian realized his cheeks were being squeezed and pulled in all directions as Mickey just kind of mashed his face around like play-dough. It felt nice. Ian kept letting him do it. “There you go again getting all boneless on me again, freak.”
And yeah maybe Ian was fully leaning his weight into Mickey now, but who cares. It felt nice.
“You like it.” Ian says, like it’s a fact.
“Wrong again, dipshit- I love it. We’re married.”
“You don’t have to love everything I do just because we’re married.”
“Yea? Well I’m gonna.” Mickey says, like he’s taking that as a challenge. Ian melted into his touch further.
“Hmmmm.” Ian hummed by way of response.
“Don’t fall asleep on me red, you know I can’t haul your ass back to bed by myself.” And Ian smirked as he sank more of his weight onto Mickey, who in turn swatted at his arm and let out a firm, “Be Good.”
It worked earlier, right?
“Yes sir,” Ian whimpered, and the response was so immediate that he knew he’d be embarrassed about it later. For now he was focused on the way Mickey's breath hitched and his hands gripped Ian’s face even tighter.
And it’s not like they haven’t done this before, y’know? They’ve had lots of good sex, kinky sex, sex where they beg and slap and cry and choke. A little bit of ‘yes, sir’ action was fun but light enough that they didn’t really need to talk about it.
But this was different, wasn’t it? The charge in the room was different. It was less about the sex, and more about the intimacy- kinky sex they were good at, but heartfelt and earnest intimacy was coming to them both as a skill with time. Mickey licked his lips. He could tell this was, well, something, and going by Ian’s glassy look it was going wherever the hell it was going very swiftly.
“Ian,” he started, one hand cupping Ian’s cheek like something precious, the other snaking down to wrap around Ian’s throat. Not even applying pressure, just holding it there. Ian moaned low and deep. Mickey blinked, once, twice, taking it in.
“Are you gonna be a good boy for me?”
And Ian’s head was shaking yes, a breathy moan escaping him as Mickey squeezed his throat, applying just enough pressure now so it’s hard to breathe, and the feeling makes Ian dizzy.
“Oughta put a collar on you,” Mickey says absentmindedly, squeezing harder before letting go so Ian can catch his breath. “I bet you’d like that.”
“Mmhm.” Ian whines desperately, putting his own hand over top mickeys, trying to get him to go a little rougher.
Mickey slaps him in the face. Not too hard, but just enough to really sting
“What’s that?”
“Yes’sir” Ian slurs happily.
“Good boy.” And yea, maybe Mickey is laying it on a little thick, so sue him. He really likes the way Ian looks at him when he says it.
Like he believes it.
“You are so good for me, you know that?” He continues, hauling Ian in for a fevered kiss. “You take care of me, you make me feel like I take good care of you, too.” Grabbing Ian by the chin, he forces eye contact. “Just be my good boy and let me take care of you right now, okay sweetheart?”
Ian is desperate in his movements then, heated kisses and hands roaming wherever they can reach on Mickey's body. Mickey groans like a wounded animal, throwing his arms around Ian's neck, and Ian crushes him to his body so tightly that he hopes their rib cages will crack and break open, just to heal interwoven with each other so they never have to part again.
Mickey, to his credit, tried his best to pull away long enough to lead Ian back towards the bed, but Ian is stubborn, and insistent, and strong, so that’s how Mickey finds himself being carried there instead, placing distracting kisses along the column of Ian’s neck as he got them, miraculously unharmed, to the bed.
Ian is looming over Mickey, who takes the opportunity to grab Ian behind the knee, pulling him down on top of him. It’s mostly just elbows and knees and it hurts, in a way that’s more stupid than sexy, but Ian laughs as he rights himself so Mickey laughs as well.
“You’re so heavy, how are you this heavy?”
Ian shoots him a toothy grin, no doubt about to come up with some smart ass retort, when Mickey uses his all strength to flip them over. Holding Ian’s hands above his head, he sits in Ian’s lap, straddling his waist.
“Are you gonna let me take care of you or not, baby?” Mickey croons, almost sweetly, almost like he’s not talking about riding Ian’s cock until he’s crying.
Ian flexes his palms, makes no move to overpower Mickey like they both know he could. licking his lips, their eyes meet and Mickey sees Ian’s pupils blown wide and a dopey smile covering his face. Mickey loves that stupid smile so much.
“I got the best of ‘em. I hope you know that.” Mickey says, too earnestly. Ian shoots him a curious look, eyes trying to focus.
“Best of who?”
“Gallaghers.”
Huh. Mickey is the only person on the planet who would say that. Mickey is the only person Ian needs to hear it from. It kinda does something for him.
Ian’s hips buck up to meet Mickeys, and they’re both hard in their pajama pants as they languidly grind against each other. Mickey's hand travels back to Ian’s throat, and he squeezes again, watching as Ian’s shoulders melt back into the mattress. Letting go of Ian’s wrists in favor of brushing a hand through his hair, Mickey definitely hears the needy little whimper that falls from Ian’s mouth the moment he does. His palms flexed again, arms still reaching out above his head despite nothing keeping them there.
Mickey could work with that.
“Ian, baby, I need you to hold onto the headboard for me.” Ian’s grabbing on to the slated bars of the bedframe in seconds, eager to listen, eager to please. “Good job, so good for me.”
They hadn’t really talked about it before, Ian’s whole complex about being good. Mickey knew Ian liked to do as he’s told, likes structure and plans and to listen to instructions. As far as Ian thought about it, it was a bipolar thing, something to offer stability in an otherwise chaotic and unpredictable mind. It’s why he tried that army shit, right? Structure.
Mickey thought maybe it was an Ian thing, though, considering how he liked taking instructions from Mickey the very most.
“I’m going to give you a few rules to follow, okay?” And he sees Ian’s brows furrow, like thinking around the idea of receiving a list was already too tough for him. But Ian was a good listener, so he waited. “It's short and easy, don’t worry.”
Mickey had to think for a moment about what he was going say- he didn’t really give a fuck about any rules, just knows Ian needs something to focus on that’s not his own thoughts. He needed some sort of structure while his mind ran wild.
“One- you ask before you do anything, Touching me, fucking me, you gotta use your words and ask, nicely.” Ian nods, he likes this rule.
“Two- you’re going to address me as Sir. Yes sir, no sir type shit alright? I’m in charge right now, you just have to lay there, look pretty, and listen.”
“Yes, sir.” That one’s easy too, Ian likes when Mickey is in charge. It doesn’t really happen while they’re having sex, so this is a nice change of pace.
“Good, last rule,” Mickey smiles, “when I ask you a question, you gotta answer honestly, okay?” And Ian rolls this one around in his head, a little too dazed and confused for it. Why would he lie to Mickey?
“Don’t think about it too hard, big guy, you know what to say.”
He pauses a beat to let Ian catch up.
“Yes, sir.”
The responding grin is all teeth, like Mickey wants to eat Ian alive right now. Ian would let him.
He was surprised he was giving himself up to Mickey so quickly, so wholly and completely. Ian liked being on top, folding himself over his husband as he fucked him from behind. He liked the bruises he left on Mickey's hips, he liked the feeling of his body shaking beneath Ian as he completely fell apart. He liked being in control.
Maybe that’s why the rules were so simple, because Mickey was testing Ian’s patience for the feeling in the first place. Ian smiled up at him, chest warmed by the thought, and Mickey smirked right back. They were doing this.
Mickey makes quick work of getting Ian naked, loving the way his muscles tensed and relaxed as his husbands hands roamed. Mickey considered himself a lucky man on most days, being married to Ian was enough to make him feel like he won the lottery, but he felt especially lucky whenever he got in bed with his husband. It was nice, having a big strong husband with a nine inch cock who liked rough sex and bossing him around. Being bossed around himself, too, apparently. Kind of fucking awesome if you asked Mickey.
“You know I love you, right?” Mickey says sweetly, and it feels almost like a trick question. Ian remembers his rules.
“Yes, sir,”
“Hmm?” Mickey hums, making his way down Ian’s naked form with searing kisses that are more teeth than lips, intentionally leaving little purple bruises blossoming across his husbands skin.
Ian nods, voice thick with emotion, “I love you too, so much.” It’s almost sickening the sweet way he says it, like the words are sugar in his mouth. He has no right to be this cute, honestly, especially considering Mickey is just a few inches from his thick and heavy length. Mouth watering as he takes in the flush across Ian’s chest, the way his breathing is labored already, leaking precum onto his own stomach as he waits for his husband's next move. Mickey wants to wreck him, honestly.
Giving Ian a few lazy strokes, he sees the way his husband's body trembles lightly underneath him and gladly drinks it in. Usually Mickey was the one going under like this, Ian taking him apart piece by piece and then taking his time putting him back together again. Mickey loved it, always did, the floaty and dreamy feeling it gave him to put Ian in control.
He wonders why they never tried this sooner, really. Not just the shift in dynamics itself, but Mickey feels a bit stupid for not thinking this kind of thing would help when Ian felt out of control in his own mind. Of course he’d feel better if Mickey took over thinking for him for a bit.
“Did you take your pills this morning?”
Ian stiffened, not expecting the question with Mickey's hand lazily stroking his dick. Okay. Did he? Ian had to drag the memory up from the back of his mind, sifting through a thick fog to find it in the first place.
“Yes, sir.”
Mickey's resulting smile and tighter grip were well worth the struggle to remember, Ian thought, dazed and airy. He moaned, more of a high pitch keening noise than a real moan, but Mickey definitely took it as a positive, increasing his speed as he worked Ian over.
“Please, Mick- Sir, ‘wanna see you.” He said, and Mickey realized he was still in his pajamas while Ian was laid bare and vulnerable beneath him. He thought about reprimanding Ian for the slip up, but honestly he was more focused on making Ian feel like he’s doing good for him than the actual rules, so he says what he knows Ian is looking for.
“Good boy, begging so nicely.” Mickey praised, but it came off more breathy than he meant for it to. “Is that all you want?” He coaxes more from Ian, wanting to hear his voice all wrecked before he’s even got Mickey naked.
He shakes his head yes, and then after a beat remembers to use his words.
“Can I touch you? Please?” He begs, and Mickey realizes his arms must be pretty fucking stiff by now.
“Of course, baby.” Because he loves when Ian has his hands on him, like he can’t get enough of touching Mickey if he tried. Big hands, bigger than his, that can hold his face like Mickey was actually worth holding onto. Big hands feeling him up desperately and hungrily as Ian removes Mickey's clothes like he’s personally offended that he doesn’t have easy access to bend him over and fuck him whenever he wants.
Mickey is going to have to come back to why that thought makes him dizzy at some other time.
For now he enjoys the way Ian undresses him, the way Ian feels on top of him. Before he can tell Ian to slow down, use his words, he hears Ian whining into his neck, body shaking above him as he strokes Mickey's cock in his hands. His big hands. What was he gonna tell Ian to do again?
“Please, Mick- Baby- Sir.” He whines, rutting against his husband beneath him and letting out these needy and pathetic moans like he couldn’t think past the intensity of in order to ask for what he wants.
Whether Mickey takes pity on him because he’s so far gone, or because Mickey himself is tired of not being fucked, well- neither really cared as long as it got them to the point of him reaching over to their bedside table to shove the bottle of lube into Ian’s hands. His big hands.
Ian made quick work of slicking up his fingers, pushing two inside of Mickey with no real warning, knowing Mickey liked to feel the sheer thickness of it, prepping him just this side of too roughly. Mickey loved it.
Ian trembled above him, muscles tensing beneath every swipe of Mickey's hands across his back, these little hiccuppy breaths huffing out against his neck, and suddenly Mickey remembered what it was he was trying to do here.
“Feels so good,” he moans into Ian’s ear, who whines back at him in this broken way that has Mickey clinging to him, putting a voice to the running monologue about Ian’s hands he’s had going on for the past ten years just to hear him whine, “I love how big your hands are, always makes me feel so full before you even fuck me.”
Ian was usually the one who did the most talking during sex, with Mickey moaning in turn. Ian was a big talker normally, he had a lot to say and a lot on his mind, so Mickey wasn’t surprised when it translated to dirty talk in the bedroom. He loved how filthy Ian got with it, like he had no filter when it came to the things he wanted to do to Mickey.
Now, with Ian coming out of his skin as he fingers Mickey just like he likes, hard and rough and so so good, he finds it more than easy to let the words of praise and affirmation flow freely. Ian was his good boy. Mickey knew there was no stopping Ian’s bipolar symptoms from happening, only handling them as they come. Making new tracks so maybe they come less frequently, and hit Ian a little bit softer. He knew Ian felt worthless at least half of the time, that Ian barely considered himself human because of it on his worst days. Mickey wasn’t good with his words, or his feelings, but telling Ian that he’s loved and that he’s good is easy. It’s true.
There were goosebumps forming all over Ian’s skin as he kissed and bit down on every inch of Mickey he could reach without moving too far from his grasp. All teeth and no grace. The way they both loved it.
Mickey's head was dizzy with it, clinging to Ian as Ian clung to him in return, both men writhing against each other like if they paused long enough to get Ian’s cock actually inside of Mickey they might just catch fire and burn up before they could manage any real fucking.
“Please- Sir,” and Ian was begging again, pliant and needy, thick cock hard and red and aching between his legs as he keened high in his throat, not really sure what he’s even asking for really, just knowing he needs more of whatever Mickey is willing to give him. “Please-“
And really, what else was Mickey supposed to do but give him absolutely everything.
He thought it would take quite a bit of effort to get Ian off of him and back pinned underneath Mickey’s smaller frame, but despite Ian’s clear advantage in strength, his body was malleable, ready to move as Mickey wanted. Using a gentle guiding hand, more gentle than Mickey had any right to be using, he grabbed Ian by the chin and made eye contact as he led Ian into position. compliance, submission. It was all he could see staring back at him, and it sent a thrill through his body, settling somewhere in his gut with a groan.
“Mine.” He said, because he could.
“Yes’sir” Ian slurred, because it was true.
Mickey smiled. Ian beamed. Mickey was so far gone for this man, and he thought for just a moment about whether this could’ve ended up any differently, or if they always would’ve ended up right here. Thinks about vocalizing this question to Ian when he’s not as eager to have something back inside him, then catches a glimpse of green eyes burning and bright, shiny with unshed tears and full of need all directed at Mickey and then he knows his answer.
If they hadn’t ended up married they would’ve ended in a murder/suicide situation on the news.
“Need you inside me, now.” He demanded, and Ian was happy to oblige, grabbing Mickey by the hips as he lined himself up.
The groan that escaped from Ian’s throat as Mickey sank down was deep and guttural, and Mickey of course couldn’t help but match it. He’s always loved it, the feeling of being full, but now that they’re married it’s even better. He doesn’t get sappy about it, he just appreciates the security that comes with sex with his husband, knowing they’ll always come back together at the end of the night. He does not get sappy about it.
Mickey just sits there for a moment, cocks an eyebrow down at Ian, waiting. Ian looks ready to beg, and Mickey wants to hear more of it. His eyes are already wet with tears that threaten to spill over as his brain works to listen for the next question, the next command. His mind is buzzing with the need to please, and as his chest heaves as he tries to remember his first rule.
“Please, just- tell me what to do,” Ian sniffles. It’s really quite pathetic how it comes out, and Mickey loves it. “Please. Please.”
So Mickey grinds his hips down, just really feeling the stretch of Ian inside of him, savoring it. Ian is letting out these sweet little moans that sound so pretty and breathless, like he can’t help it, like being inside Mickey just feels too good. The noises he’s making are a little dizzying, and Mickey has to start moving just to distract himself from the heady rush of knowing he was about to make his husband start crying- Mickey is realizing he kinda has a thing for making Ian cry during sex. They should really be doing this more often.
“Just lay back and take it for me, sweetheart, that’s all you gotta do.” He said, spreading his hands out on Ian’s broad chest for leverage as he rises up, agonizingly slow, just to drop back down hard and fast. Ian’s hands grip his hips even harder, definitely leaving bruises that Mickey will be savoring later, but he’s not thrusting into him or guiding his movements, though he’s clearly holding himself back from the need to. Mickey had said to take it, so Ian lays there and lets Mickey ride him in the way he does when he’s trying to drive Ian crazy. He’s being a good boy for Mickey. He’s a good boy.
“You- you’re so-“ Ian struggles to come up with the words as Mickey hips do all the work.
“Yea? You too, big guy.” Mickey says breathlessly, riding Ian just a bit faster. Less because he’s trying to make Ian lose it but more because he can’t help but chase the feeling of Ian’s cock filling him up, needing it like he needs to breathe.
“So good for me, you always are.” Mickey moans, the wet slide of the dick inside him and the burn of his movements making his thighs shake around Ian’s hips where he straddles him.
Tears finally spill as Ian lets out this hiccuping sobbing noise, his hands on Mickey's hips flexing and squeezing, hips stuttering in this little half thrust like he couldn't even stop it if he tried. Mickey takes pity on him, leaning forward to run his hand through Ian’s hair, petting and scratching the way he did earlier, and Ian whimpers and cries as Mickey stops moving all together. Sitting in Ian’s lap, full of him, pressing even closer as he soothed his husband with the gentle petting.
They sat just like that for a moment, and Mickey took the time to appreciate how pretty Ian looked when he was completely wrecked. Red faced, tear tracks, glassy eyed, Ian looked perfect like this. When Mickey starts moving again, Ian moans brokenly, and Mickey takes the chance to start riding him at a brutal pace that leaves them both trembling with need. Mickey's muscles burned, and he remembers why he doesn’t ride Ian more often, why he lets Ian do the work.
Grabbing Ian’s throat roughly, Mickey looked into Ian’s eyes and squeezed, hard. Pinning Ian’s neck to the bed. He can make this work.
“Be a good boy,” He says, knowing exactly what he’s doing. “Fuck me.”
Ian’s mind is in a haze, dizzy from the loss of air and Mickey's hand and Mickey's hips and the feeling of Mickey everywhere around him. He barely registers what was said, swimming through a thick fog just to make out the words, then Mickey is easing up on the pressure around his throat and Ian is gasping for air, clarity coming back to him as the oxygen floods his lungs. Oh. Well he could definitely do that.
Ian’s grip on Mickey’s hips gets impossibly tighter, and he lifts Mickey like he weighs nothing, pulling him back down as he thrusts deep inside of him. Mickey moans and lets Ian manhandle him, lets himself be used.
“Yes, fuck!” Mickey cries out. “So fucking good.”
Ian preens at the praise, thrusting and pulling and fucking into mickeys pliant body, making him moan and tremble and cling to whatever part of Ian he can grab. It’s rough, and hot, and sweaty, and neither can get enough of it.
Mickey looks down at Ian, the flush and sweat sticking to his skin, and remembers what he had said earlier, about putting a collar on him. Thinks about tugging Ian along on a leash, pulling on it while they fuck. The thought is overwhelming, and Mickey whines high in his throat as pleasure pools in his gut. He’s painfully erect, hard cock bobbing and leaking precum as Ian fucks him, and he knows he’s close. And if he knows anything about Ian’s tells- the way his fingers flex, the jump of his abs, the way his eyes screw shut like he can’t hold on any longer, then he knows Ian is just as pent up as he is.
“M’close” Ian whimpers. Mickey loved how well he knew his husband.
“Yea? Gonna cum inside me? Fill me up?” Mickey teases, though Ian’s choppy nod makes his stomach flip. “With me, baby”
So Ian fists mickeys cock as he fucks into him, stroking him with sure and steady hands, knowing just what Mickey needs. Mickey puts his hand back on Ian’s throat, not squeezing, but just enjoying the feel of it, knowing Ian does too. Ian hips stutter as he cums inside of Mickey, barely pulling out before grinding back into him, semen spilling deep inside and Mickey feels so warm and full and suddenly and all at once he’s cummig too. Shooting up Ian's stomach and chest, he shakes and whines and lets Ian’s thrusts slow to a stop as aftershocks rock through them both.
As they come down, Mickey notices the harsh and ragged way Ian’s trying to catch his breath. He’s still letting out these tiny broken whimpers that go straight to Mickey's heart, and he knows they aren’t done with whatever’s going on in Ian’s head quite yet. That was fine, it’s not like a good fuck can solve all your problems, mickeys just hoping that this whole thing is at least helping.
Sighing, Mickey starts petting Ian’s hair again, brushing it back just to scratch at the back of his head, rinse and repeat. Tells him he did good, like Mickey knew he would, that he’s always good for Mickey. Does this as Ian’s breathing evens out, as his cock goes soft inside him. When Mickey pulls off, it’s with great effort, and his legs are a bit wobbly.
“You wanna take a bath?” He asks softly. “Gotta clean us up, and I don’t think I can hold you up for a shower.”
Ian cracks an eye open to look at him, nodding slowly, though he whines when Mickey pulls away. Before he can question it, Ian grabs him by the back of the neck to pull him down for an open mouthed kiss. Searing, hot. Needy little fucker.
Mickey chuckles as he pulls back, kissing Ian’s cheek, then his forehead, and heads to the bathroom.
Ian likes when Mickey takes care of him. He didn’t feel very worthy of it, often. Mickey had a big heart, and had been hurt so much. Ian had done so much of the hurting himself. Mickey never let them dwell on it, never really let Ian atone for it properly, so Ian tried to apologize with his actions, with his love.
Right now he was far away, dreamy, not thinking about any of that. He was thinking about Mickey above him, below him, all around him, gentle but firm hands guiding him to a place of security. Something neither of them are used to having, so scared they’d never have it.
Ian’s thoughts were fuzzy and hard to access, and he let himself bask in it. Rarely were his thoughts not racing through his mind, and he loved not having to think about anything, letting himself drift while he waited for Mickey to come back.
He didn’t know how long it took, maybe minutes, maybe hours, but he was waking up to Mickey playing with his face again, both hands on his cheeks pushing and pulling until Ian smiled at him.
“There he is.” Mickey crooned. “Let’s get you cleaned up, okay?”
So Ian let himself be pulled up and into the bathroom, walking on air as Mickey led him to the hot water of the bathtub. It was small, and definitely not fit for both of them, but Ian looked at Mickey with those puppy dog eyes he has and Mickey decides he can deal with the tight squeeze. He settles in behind Ian, his husband sliding down so his head rests on Mickey's chest, settling down as he feels the rise and fall of his breathing. Slows his own breathing down to match Mickey's pace.
They lose time like that, or at least Ian does, letting Mickey clean him up as best he could when Ian was being absolutely no help at all. Just a boneless pile of mush in Mickey's lap. Mickey, for his part, was all too happy to have Ian so relaxed for once, chest puffing up knowing he helped get him there.
Mickey wonders if Ian would actually be into the collar thing. He should check in later, when Ian actually has a brain to think with.
His hand snakes up around Ian’s throat again, picturing it and smiling as Ian moans softly, reaching up to press Mickey's hand in more firmly. Mickey smirks.
“Good boy.”