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It should be a gloriously domestic scene, both of them sitting here in the living room - Ian on the couch with something soft on the TV, Mickey in the armchair thumbing through the weekly grocery circular.
It’s real homey.
Ian should be eating this shit up.
But even now, in the sanctuary of his own space, there’s an itch that’s working beneath his skin. A snag in his brain that took root about an hour into his time at the Gallagher house today, and hasn’t let up since.
It’s a restlessness. A craving. For something.
Something he can’t possibly be fucked to figure out right now, and it doesn’t even matter because it’s not like Mickey’s paying him enough attention to help him figure it out anyway. What with his apparent need to get a grocery list going right this second. With his pen that clicks too loud. And his reading glasses. And his concentration that simply won’t lift to him no matter how hard Ian sits here and stares at him from his spot on the couch.
Until, of course, it does.
But it’s casual, his eyes flicking up to meet Ian, and then flitting around the room for a moment before landing back on him, nonchalant. “You say somethin’?”
Ian works his jaw. Keeps the sucker that he stole from Franny’s stash firmly on his tongue, the stick jutting from his lips.
He stares at his husband.
Waits. …for something.
Gets nothing.
Forget it.
He shakes his head.
Mickey gives him one last look, and then goes back to the circular, refusing to simply read Ian’s mind and take care of things on the spot.
Whatever. He’s been overlooked all day - might as well happen in his own living room too. His own husband.
“Ay, you still like those lil’ mini cucumber shits? Or they turn into another sweet pepper thing.”
Ian bristles, the callout unnecessary. “They weren’t a thing.”
But Mickey seems to think otherwise. “Gotchya two bags last time and they’re in the back of the fridge right now creatin’ their own zipcode.” It’s just the novelty of it all! They’re so small! You can just grab one and eat it on the fly - fuck him for thinking that’s cool, he guesses! “Cucumbers are on sale - you still like ‘em or what.”
Ian stuffs himself down into the couch, returning his attention to the TV.
He huffs. Thinks about the bags of mini sweet peppers that quickly lost their appeal after the first round. Thinks about the mini cucumbers that still have a chokehold on him now, despite his husband’s insistence that it’s just a phase.
Ugh.
“I like ‘em…” he mumbles petulantly around his sucker, not looking.
But it must be loud enough, because out of the corner of his eye, he can see Mickey backtrack to the top of the flyer, his pen circling with finality. “Alright, grumpy.”
They fall back into silence.
Ian glares at the TV, his hackles still raised and ready for confrontation. Action. Anything. But don’t ask him what’s actually happening in this show, because he couldn’t fucking tell you. It’s just a resting point. A charging station, the itch working up his body all over again to prime him.
Because eventually, it all comes back to this. Eventually, Ian’s eyes flick back over to Mickey, the itch sharpening as he watches him circle shit without a care.
With his stupid clicky pen.
And his little mouth twitch when he thinks.
And his cute, thick-rimmed glasses.
God!
The jolt of Mickey’s gaze meeting him again should be enough to cut through it all, but Ian is fucking stewing. Waiting. For something.
And it’s obvious now, those eyes looking Ian up and down in thought. “What’s up with you.”
Ian frowns around his sucker, the stick bobbing with his retort. “What’s up with you?”
And oh crap, that was too much. He can tell because it sets Mickey in motion, the armchair creaking as he sits forward to discard the flyer, nodding to himself as he takes his glasses off and tosses them onto the coffee table like Ian’s told him so many times not to do and-
“Alright.” Mickey stands up and starts his approach, and it’s crazy how quickly Ian’s pulse picks up from something so simple. He’s not even moving fast. He’s taking his time with it - easy steps that only stop when he’s right in front of Ian, looking down at him with calm but curious attention. “You gonna tell me what’s goin’ on with you?”
Ian blinks up at him.
Can feel his brow furrow stubbornly despite his rushing pulse. Because that question does nothing but stoke that unnamed craving in his bones.
He doesn’t know what’s going on with him.
If he knew what’s going on with him, he wouldn’t be so fucking cranky. Obviously!
And as if out of nowhere, Mickey’s hand is suddenly reaching down to him, his fingers brushing beneath Ian’s chin oh so sweetly and fuck-
Ian jerks his head away.
Feels the grumble that works up his throat and out from his closed mouth.
Hears the Kill Bill sirens intensify as the corners of Mickey’s mouth jump into a nonchalant frown, “Damn, alright,” and then he’s making to turn - he’s fucking walking away and that’s even worse and-
When Ian reaches out it’s lightning fast and too quick to process, a handful of Mickey’s shirt balled in his fist before he can really check himself. But!
But he can’t walk away.
He’s finally here.
He’s finally paying attention.
And yeah it’s a little dramatic, but it gets Mickey to stay, doesn’t it? He’s coming back in front of him, isn’t he? Looking down at Ian again? Even if his look is knowing now, too many cards laid out on the table in one impulsive move.
Mickey lets out a long breath. Lets Ian cling onto his shirt for a moment more.
And then he’s reaching again.
Down, to loosen Ian’s grasp until it's free.
Down, with the other hand, to tug lightly at the sucker stick jutting out of Ian’s mouth. “Gimme this.” Gentle but firm. Soft, but still assertive. An expectation.
The itch in Ian’s bones kicks back in. Flares.
He blinks up at Mickey but stays still, stubbornness a hard trait to kick for him, even into adulthood.
But. “Ay…” Expectations are being set. Tones are being set. Mickey’s brows are raising, just the slightest, as he repeats himself. “You hear me…?”
And…
Ugh.
Ian parts his lips, his irritated gaze fanning out as he begrudgingly lets Mickey slip the sucker out of his mouth, as asked.
“Thank you,” Mickey says, and there’s just enough sass in it that Ian has to stifle an eye roll. For his own sake. Even if he kinda likes it. But don’t tell anyone. “Now talk to me.”
And definitely don't tell anyone about the little thrill that shoots up his body as he huffs, his attention still averted. “I dunno.”
“You dunno?”
“No.” Jesus, didn’t he hear him? “I don’t know, Mickey, okay? Want me to say it again? I don’t know - I don’t know - I don’t-”
Before he can finish, it’s all cut off, Mickey reeling in his frustrated gesturing by both wrists and then kneeing into his lap, settling his full weight on top of him. “Enough.” He says, and it’s startling close now. “Relax.” Because clearly all it took was that misfire of a chin stroke for him to realize that soft isn’t gonna cut it tonight. “Why you tryin’ to pick a fight with me, huh?”
Ian frowns, testing the grip Mickey’s got on his wrists with a quickened pulse.
It’s firm.
He fucking means it.
“M’not pickin’ a fight,” he mumbles.
But Mickey’s nowhere near convinced. “No?”
“No.”
“You’re gonna sit here and tell me you ain’t actin’ up?” His grip tightens around his wrists as Ian squirms in his hold. “Gonna act like all this ain’t just you tryin’ to get somethin’ outta me?” Another squirm. Hard enough that Mickey uses the momentum to haul Ian up from the back of the couch by his hands, “Hey,” their faces suddenly so close that he can feel his breath, “don’t make me haveta cuff you.”
Yeah right. “Cuffs aren’t even close.” They’re in the back of the house.
But Mickey isn’t easing up. “You know that don’t mean shit to me.”
Ian squares his jaw, a thick mixture of slow realization and nasty adrenaline pumping through him as his gaze drops from Mickey to hop around the room, quickly landing on each and every thing that he could use on Ian instead.
It has his mind spinning.
Feeds the dangerous itch to make it a reality.
But Mickey is one step ahead of him now - tuned in, fully, gathering Ian’s wrists in one hand so he can use the other to grip lightly in the top of his hair and drag his head back up, forcing his attention onto him again like a distracted dog on a leash.
Ian’s nostrils flare from the sudden rush it fills him with. The lightheadedness.
Because here’s Mickey, staring back down at him, his head tilting as he asks it. Like he already knows. “Ain’t gonna make this easy, are ya…”
It’s a make or break moment. An out.
Slowly, Ian blinks up at his husband.
And then he shakes his head.
Hell no.
Mickey lets out the smallest huff of a laugh. Like this all amuses him, actually. Like now all of the sudden he can read Ian’s mind. He’s choosing to. And what he sees has him nodding to himself, his next move all the more obvious for him.
The feeling of that grip disappearing from the top of his hair could have Ian grumbling, but he’s too dialed in. Too morbidly curious as he watches Mickey reach down to his own belt, expertly undoing the buckle and pulling it free from the loops with a startling swoop!
It has Ian’s head whipping back a bit on autopilot, but his curiosity gets the best of him. Because no sooner than Mickey pulls his belt between them, does he have Ian’s left wrist circled inside, the leather warm and unrelenting and fuck-
“Ah ah,” Mickey warns, wrangling him back in, “Shit’s gonna hurt in a way you don’t like if you don’t stop squirmin’.”
And Ian would protest even more but it’s true, that fact suddenly very clear to him as his next pull cinches the belt tightly into the buckle and pinches his skin, “Ah…”
“See? What’d I say.”
Ian huffs - fine! - but he stops pulling, simply electing to glare up at his husband as he checks his pinched skin, loosens some slack, and then finishes the job.
He loops the belt back around through the buckle. Slips Ian’s free wrist inside. Wraps the end around and through the loop again and damn, he really didn’t need the cuffs. Ian’s just letting Mickey do this to him, isn’t he?
“M’still mad,” he clarifies.
And despite his perfected pout, Mickey simply drops Ian’s bound hands into his lap. “Nah. I don’t think you’re mad,” he says instead. “Think you’re just bein’ a brat.”
And it’s the way he says it so matter-of-factly.
So infuriatingly certain.
It’s got a bubble of something good and nasty bursting in Ian’s chest because fuck that actually, his retaliation swift as he tries to sit forward, the couch groaning with his efforts to prove Mickey wrong but Mickey’s too fast. Mickey’s a step ahead. Mickey’s got his full body weight and both hands, one pushing him back down by the chest and the other snaking into his hair just like before - grabbing, just like before - dragging it back, just like before, but this time he keeps going. This time he forces him all the way backward until Ian’s head is laid over the back of the couch, his neck stretched and exposed and fuck… Okay… Okay…
Ian’s lungs fill with the rush, his chest rising and falling with it as he blinks up at the ceiling.
He’s not sure how time can surge forward so fast and then edge off so slow but holy fuck, is it doing it.
So much so that he somehow misses the movement until Mickey’s right here, his lips ghosting over his ear as he keeps him held down against the couch. “What you just did right there…” he murmurs, “that was a brat move… Case you were wonderin’...”
Ian swallows and it’s thick, slow to work down his exposed throat.
He can’t see anything but the ceiling. Can’t hear anything but the puffs of Mickey’s hot breath and the thump of his own heartbeat in his ears, those words echoing in and out.
Fuck…
Wait.
Is he being a brat…?
“Fuck off…”
It slips out so easily that he almost can’t believe it came from his own mouth.
And yet he’s the only one surprised by it. Because he can feel the warm puff of Mickey’s chuckle against the side of his face - like not only is he far from shocked, but he’s been waiting for it - waiting for Ian to say it and prove him right. And god, that is just so…
The air rushes around Ian’s head as Mickey’s face slides into view, hovering over him like some sort of all-knowing being. He stares down at him, calm and collected and the only thing Ian can see. The only thing he can hear. And god, that is just so-
“Alright, listen up Tough Guy.” The grip he’s got in Ian’s hair eases, but only so he can use it to direct their eye contact. “You listenin’?”
Ian huffs. Answers, reluctantly. “Yes.”
“Good.” Because more expectations are being set. “Now look. You can sit here and act all stubborn and shit, but I’m gonna give you what you need and you’re gonna tell me if it’s too much. Got it?”
Ian rolls his eyes. And he knows that’s technically bratty but Jesus, Mickey really thinks he knows what he-
Slap!
It stuns him.
One millisecond.
Shock that spreads from the sudden sting of Mickey cracking his palm across his cheek.
One millisecond.
And then the heat comes rushing in.
“Got it?” Mickey repeats, very close. And then it’s pouring - warmth in Ian’s face and Ian’s belly and Ian’s lap.
Holy fuck.
He nods, speechless. Watches Mickey watch him, those eyes roaming all over Ian’s face like there’s something really fucking special going on there. “Yes?”
“Yes,” Ian says - a moment of baffling clarity - one millisecond.
“Good. ‘Cause you really fuckin’ need it.”
And then he remembers where he is.
That he’s pissed.
That he’s tied up, the belt refusing to give as he tries to pull his wrists in opposite directions for some leverage.
Instead he gets Mickey’s hand - firm fingers that press into his jaw - that work alongside the one in his hair to move his head from side to side in inspection, the light from the table lamp hitting him right where it stings.
“That hurt…?” Mickey asks, rubbing the pad of his thumb over his heated cheek.
Ian squares his jaw. Notices how the itch to fight back starts to rise under his skin again.
He shakes his head. Refuses to speak.
And Mickey doesn’t seem like he needs him to right now. “Didn’t think it would… Started pretty easy on ya…”
But the pressure of his fingers is beginning to tighten. Firmer. Meaner. Enough that Ian’s muscle memory is firing up just in time to squeeze his eyes shut as another slap suddenly cracks across his cheek, right over the first one.
This one fills the room.
This one has the heat rushing forward and down.
This one fucking stings, Ian’s lips parting in an exhale that comes from deep in his chest.
“How ‘bout that one.”
Fire bursts beneath his skin and it’s fucking good. It’s immediately scratching the itch. It’s exactly what he needs and Ian’s never been so annoyed in his stupid life.
“Hey.” Mickey’s voice drags him back on track - the hand he pats over Ian’s reddened cheek serving as a reminder. “M’talkin’ to ya.”
Ian winces with each pat in spite of himself. Jerks his head in the other direction, but only gets the sting of Mickey gripping into his hair at the roots.
Ugh! Fine! “Yes,” he snaps.
“‘Yes’ what.”
“Yes it hurt.” Fucking obviously!
“Uh huh,” Mickey guides him on, firmly gripping at his cheeks until Ian’s lips have puckered. “So now you say…?”
Rebellion flickers through Ian’s blood. At being manhandled. At being treated like a fucking child. At how it’s all managing to work its way between his legs and make him hard anyway.
Fuck.
“What do you say,” Mickey repeats, brows raised.
Ian steels himself and then speaks through the pouty fishlips he’s given him, reluctant as fuck. “Thank you…”
It’s what Mickey wants to hear, the smile that settles over his face good and pleased. “You’re welcome.” And then he’s leaning down to plant a kiss right to Ian’s pout, lingering there when he says it. “Now I’m gonna shut this bratty mouth up.”
The pain that’s prickled over Ian’s scalp finally lets up again - but it’s only so Mickey can ball a handful of his shirt in his fist and haul both of them up off the couch, Ian’s momentum falling off before he can even fully stand.
“On your knees,” Mickey says, as if he’s got a choice. As if Ian isn’t already here, on the floor, nowhere else to go when he’s being directed like this.
It’s an adrenaline rush, his hands trying to reach out to balance himself before getting hit with the reminder that they’re literally belted together and- “Jesus-...”
“Up.” The side of Mickey’s foot taps against Ian’s legs. “Woulda been a lot easier if you didn’t get your hands taken away, huh?”
Another nudge, and then Ian’s clambered onto his knees. The carpet is soft beneath them, but he’s got a feeling that’s the only softness he’s gonna get, the sternness in Mickey’s eyes as he peers down at him all the evidence he needs.
“Think you owe me an apology, Tough Guy.”
It’s enough to have Ian rearing his head back in spite of himself, his brows etched together because what the fuck? “For what?”
“For bein’ a little punk,” Mickey says matter-of-factly, reaching out to grab Ian’s chin and hold him still as he speaks down to him. “For tryin’ to pick a fight with me, instead of just tellin’ me you wanna get knocked around.”
And ohhh…the urge to roll his eyes…
Even if…
Maybe that could be true…
But regardless of that - more than all that, Ian doesn’t want this getting strung along anymore. The heat stinging his cheek was just a little teaser - and now that he’s got a taste, he wants the whole fucking thing. Bad. Without having to wait.
So, “Sorry.” For whatever the fuck.
For whatever gets this shit moving and gets Mickey’s hands back on him - the chase - the catch and release that gets hotter and more interesting the crazier he tangles himself up in it.
Above him, Mickey tilts his head. Observes him. Calmly. “I don’t think you are,” he says. And what follows makes Ian’s heart sink in his chest. “But I think you will be.”
Because he lets go of Ian’s chin, but only so he can reel back and slap the absolute mess out of his other cheek - the crack of it echoing off their ceiling so hard it rings in his ears and-
“Fuck…!”
“Uh huh.” In front of him, Mickey grabs his jaw again without wasting time, forcing his head forward and still from where the impact sent it. “Now we’re talkin’, huh?”
As if Ian’s brain isn’t busy hard-restarting. As if his pulse isn’t really kicking into high gear now and-
Slap!
The other cheek - his head flying in that direction now - pain blooming and sick heavy arousal swirling and good… So fucking good…
He swallows thickly, breaths coming fast through his nose.
Glares up at Mickey and braces…braces…braces for impact.
Slap!
Pain - bright white and burning and Ian fucking groans, his instincts finally kicking in and legs kicking out and he’s scrambling backward as best he can. Which is not good enough at all. Not good enough or fast enough because Mickey is on him in a goddamn second - “Where ya goin’?” - teasing in his tone and his approach and the way he grabs the back of Ian’s hair. “We’re just gettin’ into it now, Tough Guy.”
Ian struggles against the hold and it hurts. Has those instincts sharpen into panic - sheer adrenaline that feels too good to be normal and then the room is shifting around him, Mickey using the hold he’s got on him to wrestle him down onto the floor on his back, one hand gripping his hair and the other fitting snugly around his throat and fuck…
Ian pulls in a deep breath while he can.
Feels the space between them thinning as Mickey pins him to the ground with his body and leans in real close.
He’s all Ian can see.
All Ian can feel.
All Ian can hear.
“Our tap-out,” Mickey murmurs, “show me.”
And it takes a second, but then it clicks into place - what he’s asking.
Ian grabs, hanging onto Mickey’s wrist where he’s got him pinning by the throat.
He taps - once - twice - clear against his wrist.
And when Mickey seems satisfied, he can feel his grin ghost against his lips. “Good boy.”
And then the pressure comes.
Ian squeezes his eyes shut, the sudden rush of blood to his face making the atmosphere swim around him like crazy.
He’s already out of breath from the struggle, but Mickey’s not closing off his airway. Not yet at least. He’s just squeezing - pressure, pressure, pressure that proves Ian truly has no control over any of this anymore and god that's hot, isn't it? All of it. Mickey’s strong hand around his throat. The realization that getting the shit slapped out of him and then choked within an inch of his life gets Ian so fucking hard that he’s aching.
“...fuck…” he tries, but it comes out breathless. Silent.
But it reaches Mickey anyway, the way he’s looking down at him truly the hottest thing of all. Like Ian’s his prize. Like he’s happy to play with him and take care of him and make him-
A breath rips into Ian’s lungs as the pressure around his throat finally releases, a rush of endorphins filling his head.
It’s so good that his eyes roll back.
So loud that when Mickey’s palm cracks across his cheek without warning, there’s no chance in hell to stop the moan that falls from his already parted lips.
“Yeah, darlin - there you go.” Fingers wrapping around his throat. Palm hot against his cheek. “Lemme hear all of that shit, you got me?”
Ian’s bound hands scramble up to hang onto Mickey’s wrist - any kind of grounding - because he knows another slap is coming and when it does it has him fucking throbbing. Has him moaning out. Has his brows pinching and then furrowing from the sudden delicious pressure around his neck.
“Look at me…”
It’s hard - so much happening at once - but Ian finds the strength to let his eyes fall open, his lashes fluttering in blissful little half-blinks as he looks up at Mickey’s face.
It’s swirling. Like Ian’s brain. Like all the air around him.
“Next time,” Mickey says slowly, “you’re gonna ask me for this,” his hand slipping from Ian’s stinging cheek and disappearing between them. “You hear me…?”
Ian blinks up at him, lips parted for the breath that isn’t coming, but head nodding anyway. Because yes… Whatever… Whatever he needs to do…
And Mickey’s still talking. Pressure around his throat. Tugging at the button of Ian’s jeans and setting off sweeping waves of arousal where he can’t see. “Just gotta ask for it and I’ll give it to ya,” he muses. “You know that.”
Ian tries to blink back the tears that are gathering in his eyes and making everything swim.
Nods again.
Breathes in loud and ragged and harsh as Mickey finally lets him take a breath, more endorphins rushing and pooling and fuck, please hit him. Hit him, hit him, hit him.
Mickey leans back and slaps him across the face and it’s hard. Hard enough for his voice to break. Hard enough for the tears to roll down the sides of his face, pain immediately melting into hot, throbbing pleasure and-
“What do you say, Ian.”
Fuck…
Right…
“...thank you…” he grits out, fingers clawing up Mickey’s arm and-
"You want more?"
"Please..."
"Please what?" The stroke of his palm over Ian's face is fucking maddening. Right here. He could do it right now. "Please what, Ian."
"Fuck..." head pressing back into the floor, "please fucking hit me." And it's barely off his tongue before Mickey's slapping it out of his mouth, the jolt of pain and heat getting him so close that his toes curl. "Fuh-huh-huck... Thank you..."
Or at least he thinks he thanks him. He hopes so. It's all starting to come to a head and the second Mickey starts to choke him again, any hopes of speaking are swept right off the table.
He doesn't know how much more he can take. How much longer he can hold off. But then it's all heating over anyway, because before he realizes what’s happening, Mickey’s other hand is disappearing between them to shove into the front of his jeans.
He’s so hard he’s aching. So when he feels Mickey palm over him and then start up a greedy stroke, he knows it’s not gonna take much. Especially not like this - with a hand on his throat - his face slapped pink - Mickey staring down at him, taking him in like this is the only thing that matters right now. Ian’s the only thing that matters.
His full attention.
Ian’s vision hazes out gloriously, his eyes rolling to the back of his head as Mickey jerks him off and chokes him out and- “C’mon, Tough Guy. Don’t pussy out on me now.”
And when the endorphin rush hits from his final, glorious first breath in, it all washes over Ian like it’s gonna fucking kill him - his whole body tensing as he cums in hot, pulsing waves that has his legs drawing up.
“There ya go…”
Fuck!
“There ya go, darlin…”
Mickey’s voice wraps around his head, the hand he’s got around his throat simply there as a grounding point now, comforting as Ian works through the aftershocks in wild, in-and-out stretches of time.
He doesn’t know how long it takes. All he knows is he feels fucking good. Fucking blissful and out-of-body.
Spent.
Fucked out, without even taking his pants off.
And…
The feeling of the leather belt loosening and then falling from his wrists has Ian’s eyes falling open. Has him blinking up at his husband, who’s currently appearing as some sort of comforting, tattooed angel above him...
“Hey…” Mickey murmurs softly, fingers massaging over the tender skin. “How ya doin’...”
Ian blinks and it’s heavy. Tries to take stock and finds a pleasant buzz beneath his skin - sated.
He takes a deep breath in, ready to answer. But instead, all that comes out is the longest, most satisfied exhale of the century, the smile that dances across his face feeling fucking fantastic after what feels like forever.
Above him, Mickey joins him in a chuckle. “Oh yeah?” Teasing, but just a touch. “Really got goin’ there at one point.”
Ian hums, using his newfound freedom to rotate his wrists and then lazily reach up for his husband, "Mhm..."
Yeah… They sure fucking did…
Mickey gets with the program quickly, immediately falling into hugging range so Ian can wrap his arms around him. Jesus Christ, he loves this man.
“Think you can make it to bed?” he asks above him.
Ian holds him tighter. Hums again.
Another try, then. “Couch, at least?”
But for now Ian just wants to lay here and feel the satisfying afterglow, so he buries his face in his husband’s neck, letting it all work over him pleasantly.
Later they’ll move.
Mickey will fort them up in bed. Brush his thumb over the pink still risen over Ian’s cheeks. Press his lips where he grabbed around his throat.
He’ll bring him a Gatorade and some beef jerky and most of all, he’ll bring in the last mini cucumbers.
And Ian will look at them, there on the plate. Small and easily accessible and fun. And he will glance up at his husband with his best, sheepish, ‘you can’t be cross with me because I’m actually very sweet’ grin.
Because he will no longer be interested in the mini cucumbers.