Chapter Text
Mickey was getting hefty. There was no doubt about it.
To be honest Ian was probably more in denial about it than Mickey was, but then again, he noticed it all sooner. (You kinda hafta, even just barely, notice something to be in denial about it)
It had started off slowly, so slowly and subtly that Ian barely noticed at first.
Mickey was—to put it delicately—never a skinny boy, per say, that much could be said from the outset. And Ian first took note of an increase in his… “non-skinny-ness” when his little Ukrainian thug started complaining about his underwear.
“Fuck…” Mickey hissed, before continuing along on a string of hushed expletives.
“What did you do this time?” Ian asked deadpan, stepping out from the bathroom. He’d been brushing his teeth, but his frothing jaw went slack at sight he was greeted with. There was his Mickey, doing his absolute damnedest, trying to fit way too much ass into way too little fabric.
Ian dropped his toothbrush.
“These cheap-ass Costco boxer-briefs keep shrinking in the wash… I can’t. Fucking. Get them. Up!” he said, jumping and tugging for emphasis. The waistband was getting caught in the crease where the swell of his ass met those luscious thighs.
The resulting jiggling and bouncing of hefty, milky-white cheeks nearly gave Ian an aneurysm.
Ian finally snapped out of his reverie, when Mickey, playing a little tug-o-war with his fruit-of-the-looms, finally turned to face him.
Naturally, Mickey caught sight of a very naked and very aroused Ian Gallagher, rolling his eyes and groaning, as if to ask, “is this really happening?”
“You have got to be fucking kidding me Gallagher… A stiff wind could get you hard.”
Ian at least had the decency to blush, but beyond that he was fucking shameless. He just cocked an eyebrow and asked, “Want me to help?” smiling his crooked, playful hundred-watt smile and closing in on his giggling little thug.
The redhead’s long fingers grabbed at the waistband of Mickey’s boxers, tugging the brunet’s pale tummy against his own washboard abs. ‘Shit,’ Ian thought, feeling that there was hardly any give in the elastic. ‘He wasn’t kidding.’
“We’ll have to get you some new undies. Guess the machine is running too hot… either that, or that ass of yours is getting too powerful, Mick.”
“Fuck off!” He responded without any real bite.
Ian slid a hand down the back of the nearly-straining underwear—purely to test “the structural integrity of the elastic and cotton” (This is research, Mick)—grabbing a substantial handful of Mickey, before pulling him up into a searing kiss.
Once Ian’s other hand yanked Mickey’s thigh up and around his waist it was game over. The redhead scooped up his boyfriend—was he always this heavy?—and tossed him, stomach down, onto their bed, like a scene out of one of those trashy pharmacy romance novels.
He decided Mickey’s undies had been put through enough torture. Ian climbed into bed, after the brunet. Getting into a comfy, kneeling position, he reached down and (with markedly little effort) tore the offending cotton straight down the middle; his eyes going wide as Mickey’s ass jiggled into place, expanding in its newly-won freedom.
“Holy fucking shit…” Ian sighed reverently, transfixed on the globes.
After catching sight of Mickey’s flushed face, looking over his shoulder, he dove in. Face first.
The two had planned on being productive, really, they had. They were going to run errands, pick up groceries, watch Mickey’s kid for a bit… But even the best laid plans of mice and men go astray when you remember your boyfriend’s got a fucking bubblicious butt powerful enough to rival the gods, and you need to give it the attention it deserves.
Now, it was during his intimate, up-close, and extensive encounter with said ass, that Ian realized the undies-situation was no trick of the washer-dryer. No, that…that was aaaaaaall Mickey.
The only thing Ian was left wondering, was what it was going to take for him to notice.