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Mickey Milkovich has a small dick.
It’s not tiny or anything, doesn’t look pre-pubescent or some shit. But it’s small, probably a little shorter than average, not quite so thick and yeah, Mickey himself is a short fucker but still. He has a small dick and he kinda fuckin’ hates it.
Growing up he wasn’t really aware of it until he hit puberty and the growth spurt that sort of never happened. Privacy in the Milkovich house is rarer than a legally owned gun on the Southside, so Mickey’s seen the dicks of every relative he has and then some. Which, when he was ten, didn’t really matter much. But then he’s thirteen and Iggy’s walking around without pants on or Terry’s passed out naked on the front lawn and there are a whole lot of big fucking dicks on display.
“When’s your cock gonna grow in?” Joey grunts when he lumbers into the bathroom as Mickey’s showering one morning, eyeing his dick apathetically.
“Whenever the rest of your fuckin’ brain does, asshat.” Mickey growls back, storms out of the bathroom dripping wet.
That night Mickey wakes from yet another wet dream, come sticky against his thighs and sweat in the crooks of his knees. He throws back the covers to feel the cool air of his room, the window still open a crack, and looks down at the small bulge still visible in his boxers. Curious, Mickey pushes them down his thighs and peers through the dark at his not-yet-soft cock. It’s nowhere near as big as his brothers’, he’s walked in on them jacking off enough times to know that much.
Then again, he figures, if he’s gonna compare himself to them he should actually be hard. Reaching down Mickey takes himself in hand, shudders at the sensation even though there’s come drying on his skin. It’s not the first time he’s touched himself but it’s still new enough to feel clumsy, fingers unsure of where to squeeze or twist. His mind is pretty blank. He’s tried thinking of girls before; of the whores Terry calls over every now and then, the chicks in Iggy’s magazines with their round breasts and spread thighs. It never helps. Still, it only takes him minutes to be feeling the tingling in his pelvis that means he’s close, stomach muscles quivering.
Just as he’s ready to come Mickey squints down at his dick, its pink head flushed between his fingers. Frankly it’s still pretty unimpressive. When he silently coats his stomach in come a few seconds later, body going all lax and warm, Mickey tries to shrug it off. It’s probably just because he hasn’t had his growth spurt yet. Most of the Milkovich boys start scrawny and shoot up and out around sixteen, expanding into broad-shouldered thugs almost overnight. Mickey figures their dicks grow with it – keeps them in proportion and whatnot.
Mickey keeps telling himself that for the next few months, but his birthday comes and goes without much change. He grows a few inches and his frame fills out, narrow arms bulking up around the same time his voice cracks. By the time he’s seventeen though he’s pretty much stopped growing, still a head shorter than Iggy and only half as broad as Joey. Tony calls him Ariel for months when his voice doesn’t drop any lower. Mickey only gets him to stop by smacking him upside the head with a fucking shovel while they’re digging a hole for one of Terry’s old ‘pals’. When his sixteenth birthday comes and goes without the infamous Milkovich growth spurt Mickey resigns himself to being the runt of the litter. He goes with Mandy to their cousin’s tattoo shop when she turns fourteen, gets ‘FUCK U-UP’ across his knuckles while Mandy has some bird inked on her hip.
Fucking Mandy’s almost taller than he is.
Naturally he gets the shit kicked out of him a few times what with people figuring the littlest Milkovich is the best one to drop when they have issues with Terry. Mickey can’t help but laugh when he spits out blood and gravel, wonders if the dipshits who beat him actually think Terry gives a shit about his kids. Still, Terry punches harder for ruining the family name, so Mickey starts fucking punks up and offering beat downs to anyone who looks at him wrong. At eighteen he curb stomps a meth-head for calling him a pitbull; “Stocky but fuckin’ vicious.” the guy grunts from under the L. Mickey drops him on principle, but it’s the closest thing to living up to the family legacy Mickey’s ever been.
Being a Milkovich means that no one ever thinks you’re overcompensating for anything. The constant violence and beat downs are standard issue, hyper masculinity the lifeblood of the family. So no one would ever suspect Mickey of trying to make up for anything but his stature, and even then people seem to forget about his height when his name starts carrying weight.
Mickey’s still eighteen when Joey finds out he’s a virgin, questioning him incessantly during a midnight drug run with Terry. They’re both blazed, Mickey’s eyes red and watery when he grunts out a ‘fuck you’ and Joey grins like he’s won the lottery. Mickey doesn’t say why he’s a virgin. Doesn’t say he wouldn’t get his dick out for someone even if they wanted him to. Certainly doesn’t mention the fact that tits are literally just sacks of fat and vaginas do fucking nothing for him. Joey’s doing the driving, so when they drop Terry at The Alibi after a successful deal he doesn’t drive home, instead kicking Mickey out by some Thai massage joint. He tosses Mickey a wad of tens and shouts out “Ask for Natalya, she’s the tightest.” before speeding away.
It’s almost five minutes before Mickey realises it’s actually a rub-n-tug he’s standing out the front of, the cash in his hands more than enough for a full experience. He’s an eighteen year old virgin with enough money to get a hooker to do just about anything he wants, knows that any other dude in his place would be storming the joint by now. Honestly he’d be better off pocketing the cash, saving it for weed or the next time Mandy needs the fucking morning after pill. If he wants to come his own hand is just as good as some Russian whore.
Mickey refuses to think about the last time he got off, the way his hand covers more than half his cock. He definitely refuses to think about the strong thighs and stubbled jaws that filled his mind when he came.
“Fuck.” He grunts and goes inside.
Olga charges twenty bucks a blow and there’s no way Mickey’s getting crabs from sticking his dick in some hooker, so he lets her lead him into one of the musty smelling rooms. He gives her the cash and does his best to look bored as she pulls down his pants, starts tugging him to hardness. It takes too long, Mickey knows it does, tries his best to focus on the feel of a hand on his cock but knows he’s not getting it up quickly enough.
“This help?” Olga rasps out, pulls down her top to slot Mickey’s dick between her tits. It’s fucking horrible and Mickey tells her so, jerking his hips away. She only arches an over-plucked blonde eyebrow. Going back to jerking him off Olga mutters in Russian and Mickey lets his eyes shut, tries not to think of how much better a broader, calloused hand would feel on his cock.
A few minutes later Olga talks again, voice breaking through Mickey’s thoughts of a freckled twink from some threesome porn he’d watched the other night. “This is all?” She says, frowning at Mickey’s dick.
In his anger and shame Mickey forgets to take back the twenty bucks when he storms out.
Joey will know if Mickey lies to him, has a nose for frauds that keeps him in Terry’s good books. So Mickey shoves the rest of the cash in his pocket and takes the L to the other side of town where no one will know him. He finds one of those shady-ass bars tucked in the back of the faggy part of town, spots a lanky blonde eyeing him up within minutes of Mickey ordering a beer. No one asks him for ID. He downs the alcohol and is following the blonde through a side exit and into a grimy alley barely ten minutes later. The guy’s probably a few years older than Mickey is and his blonde hair is soft and curly when he leans in to try and kiss Mickey. The wall behind his is solid brick and Mickey's careful not to hit it when he jerks his head back.
“Fuck you, just get me off.” Mickey growls, grips the guy’s bicep tightly when he shrugs and slips a hand down Mickey’s baggy jeans. They end up rutting against each other in that alley, jeans around their ankles. The guy’s breath is hot on Mickey’s neck, his palm wide where he holds their cocks together and Mickey tries not to think about how much bigger blondie’s cock is. When he flips Mickey and pushes him up against the wall, cock hot and hard against Mickey’s ass, it’s a little easier.
There’s a sachet of lube and a fumbled condom before blondie’s slowly sliding into Mickey’s ass, the stretch and burn of it hot and perfect and fucking shameful. Mickey drops his head between his shoulders, doesn’t look down at his dick where it’s hard and leaking. The guy’s thrusts are a little too hesitant for Mickey and he figures blondie’s used to receiving, but he doesn’t fucking care. He jerks himself off quickly so the guy won’t try to touch his dick again.
When Mickey comes minutes later it’s one of the best orgasms he’s ever had, the feel of blondie’s cock in his ass amazing and disgraceful. It doesn’t take long before the guy comes too, a high-pitched moan gurgled out against the collar of Mickey’s shirt.
“I’d love to see your twink ass again sometime.” The guy mumbles after they’ve tucked themselves away. Mickey’s pretty sure he breaks blondie’s nose when he head-butts him.
Mickey’s hyperaware of walking normally when he gets home. He doesn’t have to though, there’s no one there except for Mandy asleep on the couch in front of some slasher flick. He watches her for a minute before locking himself in his room. Moving some of the dirty clothes off the floor, Mickey pulls up a loose floorboard and stashes the leftover money in an old sock hidden there.
He has a shower and washes the sticky lube from his asshole, fingers lingering when he feels the pleasant burn remaining. Mickey can’t help but get hard at the memory, filled with guilt and hot with shame when he puts a hand on his dick. The snarl is involuntary, teeth gritting when he remembers how blondie’s cock had felt in him, how fucking inadequate his own dick is in comparison. Mickey slips two fingers into himself, fucks himself on them and uses the sting to distract himself as he strokes himself to completion.
Two days later Joey asks him how Natalya was. Mickey says he got a blonde instead, makes up some shit about how great her pussy was, how she let him fuck her tits. Joey grins and smacks his shoulder like he’s fucking proud or some shit.
“Must’ve been really fucking tight if she could actually feel your tiny prick.” He laughs. Mickey starts a fight he can’t win and Joey gives him a black eye to prove it.
For the next year Mickey swears he’s not gay. Staring at his ceiling in the dark every night Mickey tells himself that he doesn’t love cock, that the blonde guy was a one-off drunk fuck. Who gives a shit if he’d only had one beer?
But a few days after his nineteenth birthday Mickey goes to a different bar, on a different side of town and lets some brown-skinned guy fuck him in the men’s room. The guy smiles patronisingly when he sees Mickey’s dick, turns Mickey to face the wall and says something about how topping isn’t usually his thing but under the circumstances. Mickey fucking hates it but jerks himself off anyway, figures he came too far not to get off. It’s not like he’d ever really considered topping. Frankly he loves the feel of getting fucked too much to really want to, but the veiled criticism still stings. He doesn’t go back to that bar again.
Two weeks later he steals some high schooler’s iPhone. Laptops are common in the Milkovich house, almost everyone has a stolen one from somewhere or other and Mandy’s was actually given to her by an ex. But you can’t hide a laptop. Mickey keeps the phone under the loose floorboard, gets it out every other night and feels heat rise in his face when he opens a private browser window. He watches porn with the sound off and fingers himself until he learns how to come without even touching his cock.
And if his favourite videos involve guys with huge, perfect dicks, well maybe Mickey Milkovich is a size queen or maybe he’s just a masochist.
It’s been almost five months since Mickey’s last fuck when Ian Gallagher comes with a tyre jack looking for Kash’s gun. It’s been almost five months and that’s the excuse hanging on Mickey’s tongue when he’s straddling Gallagher’s chest, the seventeen year old’s too-pink lips way too close to the hard-on in Mickey’s pants. But then Gallagher looks at him, meets Mickey’s eyes and suddenly Mickey’s whole body is hot and he’s ripping off his shirt before he knows what’s happening.
Gallagher is pale and scrappy, body littered with freckles, and Mickey smirks at the idea that this might be his first time.
Holy fuck is he wrong.
The kid’s hands are broad already, wide and sure over Mickey’s flesh and gripping at his ass, hauling their hips together and rutting in their boxers. And fuck, even through two layers of cotton Mickey can feel that he’s big. It’s both a blessing and a curse, the promise of Gallagher’s dick stretching him open leaving Mickey flushed and desperate even as he pulls his hips away, hating the press of his own cock against Gallagher’s pale hip. Red eyebrows draw up.
“Don’t you want-”
“Just fuck me.” Mickey cuts in, getting down on all fours and shoving his boxers around his thighs, exposing his ass. Gallagher’s breath hitches pleasantly and the broad palms he hasn’t yet grown into knead at Mickey’s cheeks. He whispers out a ‘fuck’ and Mickey smirks despite himself, pushing his hips back. There’s lube under his mattress and he gropes around for it before tossing it to the redhead. He takes too long prepping Mickey, fingers gentle and probing when someone could walk in at any second, but soon enough Mickey feels the head of Gallagher’s cock brushing his slick hole.
The stretch is fucking amazing. Gallagher’s even wider than Mickey thought and it feels like he’s being filled up completely, the faint burn of it making him hiss out happily. For a moment they’re still, Gallagher’s fingers flexing on Mickey’s hips. Then he starts fucking Mickey and it’s the greatest thing Mickey’s ever felt. The kid definitely knows what he’s doing; pounding into Mickey hard enough to have him grunting breathily with every thrust, cock already leaking onto the sheets. They’re young and fumbling but it’s the best fuck Mickey’s ever had and he doesn’t even elbow Gallagher when the kid curves forward and breathes hotly against the nape of Mickey’s neck.
Mickey’s close already, focusing so wholeheartedly on the slide of Gallagher’s cock inside him that he barely registers when one of the kid’s hands leaves his hip. Fingers brush the underside of his cock, groping around to fist him tightly but Mickey digs blunt nails into Gallagher’s wrist and wrenches his hand away. The orgasm that had been bearing down on him recedes a little and he snarls out a “Hands off the goods.” between pathetic moans. Gallagher’s hips stutter but only for a moment, letting Mickey go back to focusing on the huge cock in his ass. He grips his own cock and jerks it in time to Gallagher’s thrusts, trying not to think about how small it is in comparison. Not too long after that he’s coming, clenching down rhythmically and making Gallagher spill inside him not seconds later.
They collapse onto the bed, Gallagher panting into Mickey’s skin before rolling off and stretching out alongside him. In their rush they'd forgotten about a condom and the come trickling down Mickey’s perineum and over his balls makes his face heat with shame and arousal. He stays lying on his stomach, waits until Gallagher’s looking away to flip onto his back and cover himself with the blanket. Mickey’s too blissed out from the fucking to care when Gallagher pulls some of the blanket over himself too.
Terry walks in and Mickey’s stomach plummets. Memories of every rough up at Terry's hands flood into his mind at once, every cracked rib and black eye and split lip and fractured wrist. His fists are already up despite the lack of good they’ll do him.
“Put some clothes on, you two look like a couple of fags.” Terry grunts as he leaves.
It’s several long minutes before Mickey can breathe again. People who talk about having the fear of god put in them have never tried being Terry Milkovich’s closeted gay son.
Mickey’s still rattled when he gives Gallagher the gun. He ignores the part of him that wants to take back the bruise on the side of the kid’s freckled face.
The idiot tries to kiss Mickey so Mickey promises to cut his fucking tongue out. He hadn’t meant to say it, or at least not so viciously, had hoped to keep the kid interested enough to want to fuck Mickey again. Closeted guys are hard to spot on the Southside, have to be if they want to stay alive, and it’d be a real fucking help to not have to travel an hour either way on the L to get his ass pounded. Still, Mickey figures it’s worked for him so far.
Gallagher leaves and for the next three nights Mickey fingers himself to the memory of the kid’s cock. It’s never enough. He can’t get his fingers deep enough, can’t enjoy the stretch of it now that he knows what the redhead’s dick feels like his ass. Mickey hates Ian Gallagher, hates himself. He doesn’t even bother on the fourth night, just shoves a hand into his shorts and fists his cock and tries not to think about how much bigger Gallagher’s would be in his hand. When he comes the satisfaction only lasts moments before his cock is softening between his fingers again, losing what little size his erection had gained. Mickey digs his nails into his thigh and hates everything.
Iggy’s in the shower when he wakes up the next morning, comes out of the bathroom stark naked. Mickey glares at his stupid fucking brother’s stupid fucking junk and throws the tyre jack Gallagher had left on the floor at him. It hits Iggy on the hip and Mickey snarls at him to “Put your dick away you fucking fag.”
Laughing, Iggy begins listing the chicks who can vouch for his cock as he saunters away. From down the hall Mandy screeches at them both to shut the fuck up.
Mickey goes to the Kash’N’Grab with the sole intent of punching Ian Gallagher in the face for ruining his ability to get off. Instead he ends up bent over a freezer in the back room, fingers cold against the metal lid while Gallagher fucks him hurriedly. It’s perfect and hot and almost fucking ruined with Gallagher tries to give Mickey a reach around wank, but he pulls back when Mickey snarls at him. Gallagher doesn't try again.
“So, guess this was like a booty call, huh?” He says.
“Whatever, see ya.” Mickey tosses back, telling himself that he’s done with the stupid ginger and his stupid happy face now that he’s got his rocks off. He's wrong.
It becomes a thing.
Mickey goes looking for Gallagher sometimes, other times he'll come home and the kid will be sprawled out with Mandy over homework on the couch. Once the dumb punk comes looking for Mickey, eyes wet and red and when he grabs Mickey’s hand while they fuck in the Kash’N’Grab freezer Mickey doesn't shake him off. Of course, then Mickey gets himself shot and tossed into juvie.
Gallagher comes to visit him and puts his hand on the glass like a fucking girl.
Mickey commits that hand to memory and imagines its long fingers and calloused palm every time he gets himself off. You can’t finger yourself in a cramped juvie bunk with a guy twice your size sleeping below you. Instead Mickey has to fumble at his cock in the dark and he can’t help the way he longs for Gallagher’s hand when he comes.
Mickey gets out and Gallagher’s waiting for him, which is dumb as fuck, but later in the dugout they fuck and it’s just as good as Mickey remembered. The hands on his hips are bruising and they stay where they are, never slipping around to try to touch Mickey’s dick. He jerks himself off and comes first anyway, so it probably doesn't matter, but the kid used to at least try.
The next few times they fuck are the same, Gallagher’s hands wandering across Mickey’s chest and back but never to his crotch. It starts to get to him. Sure, he’s always been disappointed with his own cock but he hadn't really thought the kid cared that much. Then again, puberty had hit Gallagher hard and even with the amount of working out Mickey did in juvie the muscles of Gallagher’s arms are enviable. It’s not the only part of him that grew.
Maybe it’s only now that the redhead’s realised how unimpressive Mickey’s dick really is. The thought hurts so Mickey does his best to ignore it, to brush it aside. It doesn't stop him from wanting though, in a subconscious kind of way that has him agreeing to fuck face to face for the first time without even thinking.
Gallagher has one of Mickey’s ankles over his shoulder, is clutching at his other pale thigh and fucking him so hard Mickey’s just about blind with it. He purposely doesn’t touch himself, clings to the table he’s lying on and the arm Gallagher has crooked under his thigh instead. The other hand on Mickey’s knee slips down his leg and over his hip, Gallagher’s eyes flickering open to look down at Mickey’s flushed body. Even through the pleasure of the stretch, the ecstasy of every thrust of Gallagher’s hips into him, Mickey feels himself heat with shame when Gallagher’s eyes drop to his cock. But then Gallagher’s hand is moving, scratching through the dark line of hair on Mickey’s abdomen and Mickey can’t watch, knows he'll come the second-
“Hello boys.”
Mickey gets thrown into juvie for the second time when he can't go through with killing Frank Gallagher. Ian doesn’t visit him this time. It doesn't matter, not really. Mickey knows exactly what Ian's hand looks like, exactly how it feels on his skin, how big it would be around his cock. He hates touching himself, hates the way he misses Ian’s cock and his hands and the noises he makes when he pushes into Mickey’s body.
He hates Ian’s stupid freckled face when he misses it too.
Ian.
Sometime between going in the first time and coming out the second time Gallagher becomes Ian and Mickey thinks it’s fucking stupid. It doesn’t stop him from seeking the punk out when he gets out early on good behaviour.
Mickey finds the redhead under the high school bleachers fucking one of his ROTC buddies who Mickey then kicks around for good measure. Not because he’s feeling possessive. The way Ian smiles at him takes the edge of his anger, but the way he crowds Mickey against a post and fucks him dissipates it entirely. It’s been so long and the stretch stings but Ian fucks as well as ever, grunting and gripping Mickey’s hip.
He still doesn’t try to touch Mickey’s cock though.
And maybe Mickey should have expected it, maybe he should have known being in juvie for months wouldn't have changed anything. Hell, Ian hadn't been touching that Asian kid’s dick either, so why should Mickey take it personally? He fucks his own hand and when Ian asks why he’s out early Mickey says it was overcrowding. He refuses to think about why.
Things go back to the way they were.
Except for the part where Ian has some geriatric asshole fucking visiting him at the Kash’N’Grab. True, Mickey had fucked Angie Zhago (except he hadn't, they have a deal – she gets good, free weed and he gets to keep people thinking he’s straight) but it doesn't stop him from hating the way Ian spits her name at him. Mickey doesn't ask if the old fuckhead has a big dick even though he wants to. He knows who he’d be insulting.
Later he follows them to the other side of town, watches the old fuck buy Ian drinks and touch his freckled arm. Mickey hates it. They're in one of those queer suburbs, Mickey knows because he can remember being fucked for the first time in an alley a few streets over. He downs three cans of beer before Ian and grandpa fuckface finally leave, neither of them noticing him until he’s meeting them in the middle of the street.
The old asshole calls Mickey Ian’s boyfriend. Mickey head-butts him, but he must have lost his touch because the fucker’s nose doesn't break.
“The fuck you call me, faggot?” He growls as he punches the old bastard, only absently feels Ian trying to drag him off.
“Mickey, stop.” Ian’s saying but Mickey doesn't care, keeps kicking the grey-haired asshat until suddenly there’s a sharp pressure at his throat and he can't breathe. The jab sends him back, stumbling onto the asphalt and shit, that army training must be good because Mickey’s only just regaining the ability to breathe. Hand still on his throat Mickey clambers up to see Ian crouched over whatshisface. He pushes the jealousy down from where it’s threatening to spill out of his mouth.
“C’mon.” Mickey says, like it’s a given that Ian will follow. He hopes the confidence doesn't sound false. “Gallagher!” He calls because already people are calling the cops and he’s gonna fuck up his probation if he doesn't get out of here now.
But then Ian’s standing up, he’s turning towards Mickey and running alongside him as they bolt. They run full pelt, ducking in and out of main roads and alleys and the way Ian follows Mickey’s every turn without question feels like a gift.
When they finally do slow Ian yells at him, asks Mickey what the hell is wrong with him. But there’s a smile on his too-pink lips and Mickey laughs straight in his face because he knows Ian will welcome it. He grabs the back of Ian’s neck, shoves his stomach and loves the feel of hard muscle under his hand even as he eggs Ian into a tussle. They run after one another, grab at each other playfully and Mickey’s still grinning when they're sharing a cigarette and trudging towards his house twenty minutes later.
“You gotta teach me that neck thing.” Mickey says, blowing smoke into the air above him before passing Ian the cigarette. Sharing a smoke isn't uncommon in their neighbourhood, won't imply anything dangerous, but Mickey still feels fidgety as he leads Ian up the stairs and into his house. He shuts the door quickly behind them.
The house is empty – Tony and Joey are both in prison, Terry’s taken Iggy on a drug run for a few days and Mandy’s fuck knows where. Ian passes the cigarette back and trails Mickey into his room. Mickey moves to the end of the bed to find a clean shirt, the one he's wearing sticking to his skin uncomfortably. Ian follows.
“It hurt?” He asks inquisitively, standing just a little too close. Mickey scoffs, blows smoke in his face.
“Fuck you.” But he’s grinning and doesn't put up much of a fight when Ian’s fingers press at his jaw, tilt his neck up. Ian hums lowly.
“There’s a mark,” He says quietly, almost regretfully, which Mickey really doesn't want to think about the implications of. The thumb of Ian’s other hand brushes Mickey’s throat where the mark must be.
“The fuck are you doing, Gallagher?” Mickey asks too softly, blaming the cigarette for the hitch of his voice even as it burns out between his fingers. He drops it in shock when Ian leans in and closes his teeth over the skin where his thumb had been, biting lightly before laving his tongue over it. “Fuck.” Mickey grunts, forgetting to shove Ian away for doing something so close to kissing him. The feel of Ian’s mouth shifting into a smirk is plain against Mickey’s skin and he latches on, sucking at the pale flesh of Mickey’s throat.
For one long, perfect moment Mickey lets himself indulge.
Then he shoves at Ian’s chest, hating the wave of cool air that hits the wet patch on his neck where Ian’s mouth had been. “I’m not some fuckin’ girl you can mark up.” He growls but there’s no real fire to it. Ian watches him for a moment then moves back in, crowding Mickey against a wall and slotting a leg between his. Sure, Mickey’s dick had been more than a little interested in the biting, the mouth on his neck, but the way Ian rocks his thigh against Mickey’s crotch has him hardening quickly.
Ian leans in and bites gently at the side of Mickey’s neck, the curve where it joins his shoulder. He shoves Mickey’s shirt to the side to get at his collarbones, licking and nipping but never sucking, never kissing. Mickey groans, forgets himself and starts to rut against Ian’s leg.
“Mickey,” Ian says quietly into the skin of his throat, lips brushing there and making him shudder. For a moment Ian doesn't say anything, just runs his hands down Mickey’s sides to grasp at his ass and pull his hips closer. Mickey moans lowly, and when did he grab Ian’s shoulders? It doesn't matter, he thinks, not when Ian’s popping the button on Mickey’s jeans and slipping a hand around and inside to brush fingertips over his hole. Mickey shivers, hips jerking forward.
“Fuck me, yeah?” He grunts and Ian grins.
They undress quickly, Ian stealing little nips at Mickey’s shoulders and neck as they go, grinning and dancing out of his reach when Mickey half-heartedly swats at him. Mickey trips Ian as he’s clambering out of his boxers, grinning and climbing onto the bed to get on all fours. Across the room Ian’s righted himself and is slowly stroking his pink-flushed cock, working it to full hardness. Torn, Mickey watches because it’s hot as fuck but still wants to turn away, hatefully imagining that hand on his own dick. Ian grabs the lube from Mickey’s dresser and runs fingers down his back, shoulder to hip, Mickey unable to keep from arching into it.
Ian fucks him slow this time. He fingers Mickey open for much longer than he needs, slick digits dipping in and out of mickey’s hole and teasing at his rim the whole while. It’s only when Mickey starts cursing at him that Ian finally laughs and pulls his fingers away, running the head of his cock across Mickey’s lube-wet hole. Before Mickey can let out another string of complaints Ian's pushing in slow and firm, the heat and size of his cock making Mickey moan and drop his head against his arms.
“Fuck.” Ian says quietly. He’s not much of a talker during sex, just starts up a steady pace and makes sure to push as deep as possible with every thrust. It makes Mickey gasp, the slow, hard way in which Ian thrusts into him, the teasing pull out until only the head of Ian’s cock remains, stretching Mickey’s rim and making him groan. Mickey doesn't jerk himself off, hopes maybe Ian will get the hint.
He doesn’t.
“You gonna speed up any time soon?” Mickey grunts out after a while, loving the slow burn of the way Ian’s fucking him but needing more if he’s going to come anytime soon. One of the hands on Mickey’s hips skims up his side, runs fingers through his hair. Ian takes a handful of it gently.
“No.” He says, shoving in deep and sudden then pulling out torturously slow. A long, low noise escapes Mickey's throat and Ian flexes the hand in his hair. He tries to thrust back onto Ian’s cock to step up the pace but Ian grips his hair tighter in warning. “You're not the only one who gets jealous.” Ian adds, pulling Mickey’s hair just a little to hear him gasp.
“Fuck off.” Mickey breathes even as he revels in Ian’s words. Ian just lets out a lusty little laugh and goes back to fucking him slowly, the hand in Mickey’s hair retreating again. It reappears at Mickey’s tailbone, pressing into his skin before slipping down lower, one finger tracing at his rim as Ian pushes in particularly hard. Mickey whines, can't help it.
Every now and again Ian will brush his prostate but it’s too slow, too infrequent to really do anything and Mickey feels himself losing his erection after a while. Which, honestly, he'd be far more concerned about if he wasn't so lost in the feeling of Ian fucking him so slow and deep. It’s like Ian’s trying to mark him, to make his body remember whom it belongs to, who it craves when they're apart. Safe to say it’s working, Mickey rocking back into every perfect thrust and not even caring how his breath hitches when Ian bottoms out each time.
Ian’s hands wander, stroking up and down Mickey’s back and arms, reaching around to tweak at his nipples or brush the mark on his throat. Eventually, though, they grow more needy, gripping at the back of Mickey’s neck and his hip as Ian’s pace begins to speed. He’s making quiet little noises behind Mickey, hips gradually picking up speed until he’s fucking Mickey properly, hips slapping against his ass. For the briefest of moments Mickey considers asking, demanding that Ian fucking touch him. But Ian’s hands know the size of his own dick, would feel how small Mickey’s is even if Ian couldn't see it. Mickey keeps his mouth shut.
“God, Mick.” Ian grunts, taking handfuls of Mickey’s ass and spreading him as he jerks his hips, probably watching his cock slip in and out of Mickey’s more than willing body.
Mickey groans and gives up, reaches down to take himself in hand without even thinking about it. A low noise rips from Ian’s throat and he grasps Mickey’s hips suddenly, fingers bruising as he pounds into Mickey, drawing frantic gasps from his lips. It’s fast and hard and so, so good but Mickey feels like he’s out of pace, not even close to coming while Ian’s fingers flex on his hips and his thrusts grow faster. He squeezes his cock, jerks himself a little faster to try to keep up even as he dislikes the feel of it in his palm. But the stimulation only makes him shudder and clench as Ian slams into him and then it’s over, Ian makes a punched-out noise and arcs forward, gasping into Mickey’s sweaty back as he shivers and spills inside him.
“Fuck,” Mickey grunts, trying to get himself there, to push himself over the edge. Without the distraction if Ian’s thrusting, however, it’s no use. He lets go of his cock and figures he'll just get Ian to finger him when he’s recovered, still panting behind Mickey.
When Ian finally pulls out and moves away Mickey expects two fingers in his ass, maybe even Ian’s tongue. As the come drips slowly down his thighs, however, Ian smiles and grabs Mickey’s hips, pulling him to sit at the edge of the bed. Mickey frowns, barely gets out a muttered “What are you doing?” before Ian’s dropping to his knees.
Ian leans in, smirking for some reason, and licks a long stripe up the crease of Mickey’s thigh and groin. It feels… really amazing, actually. Mickey grunts in surprise and instinctively pushes his hips up into it. Apparently Ian sees that as permission, because then he’s licking a stripe up the underside of Mickey’s cock and moving to suck the head into his mouth.
Mickey shoves at his shoulder. “You don't have to do that.” He mutters, focuses on Ian’s green eyes in the hopes that Ian will hold his gaze and not glance down at Mickey’s cock.
“I know.” Ian says plainly, eyes still on Mickey’s. Then he leans in and closes his lips around the head of Mickey’s cock and the wetness and suction and heat are more than Mickey could ever have imagined. He keens, hips jolting and-
Mickey grabs a fistful of too-short orange hair and wrenches Ian’s head back.
“Ow.” Ian deadpans, digging his fingers into Mickey’s thighs until he loosens his grip. “What was that for?”
“I can finish myself off.” Mickey replies, but Ian’s already frowning.
“Yeah, I know you can. You always do.” He says slowly, like Mickey’s missing something obvious. Which, fuck you, he’s not – because it makes literally no sense for Ian to be on his knees in front of Mickey, mouth pink and wet. If anything Mickey should be the one on the floor, pumping his own cock as he swallows Ian down. Not that he'd ever admit to that particular fantasy. Between his knees Ian’s making a dumb face. “Mick, I want to blow you.”
What the fuck?
“Why?” Mickey blurts incredulously. Somehow Ian manages to look both sad and sarcastic when he arches a brow.
“For the same reason I want to fuck you.” He says, though it sounds almost like a question. “I like making you feel good. And besides, you haven't come yet so I owe you an orgasm.” Ian moves to lean in again but Mickey stops him with the hand still in his hair, though he doesn't pull it quite so hard this time.
“It’s- I’m not-” Mickey falters, then squeezes his eyes shut and lets it out in a rush. “Ian I know I have a small fucking dick, you don't gotta blow me to keep me interested. I'm kinda a sure thing.” He can still feel Ian’s breath ghosting over his thighs, his cock, and as much as he wants it, wants Ian’s warm, wet mouth on him, Mickey holds back. Because he has standards, fuck you, doesn't expect Ian to pretend to be interested in his dick.
“Mickey,” Ian says slowly, “Your dick is fine.”
“It’s fuckin’ small as shit.” Mickey growls, because somehow Ian isn't getting it. Opening his eyes again to glare down at Ian, Mickey’s caught off-guard by the incredulous little smile on his face. “What?” Mickey snarls.
“Mick, literally everyone is small to me.” Ian laughs, gesturing towards his own limp cock, which is still uncommonly large even when it's soft. “Have you seen my dick?” And yes, Mickey has seen Ian’s dick, has seen how long and thick it is, has felt it inside him. “Your dick is great, Mickey. It’s actually really nice, if I'm being honest with you.”
“Fuck off.” Mickey mutters because he’s not sure what to say.
“No, seriously!” Ian grins, leaning in to lick the underside while Mickey’s distracted. It makes Mickey twitch, a noise catching in his throat. “You have a great dick, nice and pink at the head. And you’re uncut, I like guys with foreskin.” Ian’s saying it all lightly, as if complimenting Mickey’s dick is a totally normal thing to be doing, but his face is earnest when he looks up at Mickey again. “Can I suck you off?” He asks, and really, as if Mickey’s going to say no. Not when Ian’s lips are so wet and close.
Mickey nods weakly. “Yeah, whatever.”
The grin spreading Ian’s lips is positively sinful but when it’s stretched around Mickey’s cock it’s downright pornographic. Ian swallows him down easily, tongue swirling around the head of Mickey’s cock and he moans loudly, hips shuddering. It’s amazing and he almost wonders why he’s never let anyone do this before (except he knows damn well why). Ian’s mouth is so hot and wet and Mickey’s never felt anything like it, the suction when Ian starts bobbing his head making him gasp and clutch a little tighter at Ian’s hair.
“Fuck.” Mickey breathes. It only eggs Ian on and he pulls off to suck and lick at Mickey’s balls, drawing one into his mouth and then the other, his fiery hair contrasting with Mickey’s black pubes. Then he’s moving back, dropping little kitten licks over the head of Mickey’s cock while he moves a hand down to cup Mickey’s balls.
“Try not to choke me, okay?” Ian says and Mickey frowns in confusion for the split second before Ian’s lowering his mouth over Mickey’s cock, sucking him down until his freckled nose is brushing Mickey’s pelvis. The head of Mickey's cock brushes Ian's soft palate and fuck.The urge to thrust up into such tight heat is almost overwhelming, Mickey letting out a pitiful whine, but the hand Ian still has on Mickey’s thigh holds him still.
“Fuck, oh fuck, Ian.” Mickey whimpers, his other hand coming down to cup the back of Ian’s neck, just resting there as Ian swallows around him. The feeling is incredible and Mickey knows it'll be over soon, his orgasm rushing up on him despite how he tries to stave it off. Meanwhile Ian’s lightly tugging and rolling his balls, toying with them gently while he pulls off just enough to breathe, licking once over Mickey’s cockhead before sinking back down. It’s all too much, Mickey can feel his balls drawing up tightly against his body but Ian must feel it too because he draws back again.
“Wanna come on my face?” He asks and the question, mixed with the hoarseness of Ian’s voice after having Mickey’s cock in his throat, is almost too much. Mickey shudders, nods vigorously because he wants to mark Ian, wants to make Ian his in whatever way he can. Between his thighs Ian grins and takes Mickey’s cock in his free hand. Then, pressing the head to his plush lower lip, Ian jerks Mickey tight and fast, dipping his tongue out every now and then to lick at his slit.
It’s all too much and Mickey comes harder than he ever has before in his life.
He shakes violently through it, body arcing forward and stomach muscles quivering as come streaks Ian’s lips and cheeks, a little of it landing as high as his brow. The whole while Ian smirks at him, then leans in to lap at Mickey’s oversensitive cock even as it begins to soften. Mickey groans; both at the sight of Ian so willingly covered in his come and the feel of Ian’s tongue on his cock. It’s only when he’s gone completely soft that Ian finally pulls away, licking at some of the come on his chin and lips before wiping his face with one of the shirts on Mickey’s floor. Mickey doesn't even care that it’s his, just gazes down at Ian in wonder.
“Was that your first time getting blown?”
There goes the wonder.
“Fuck off.” Mickey growls, scooting back and snatching a pack of smokes from the dresser. He shoves one between his lips and lights it up, glaring half-heartedly as Ian clambers across the bed to settle beside him with a grin. When Ian reaches out to pluck the cigarette from between Mickey’s lips he lets him have it.
“I always figured you didn't want me to touch your dick because it was too gay or something.” Ian says after taking a long drag, watching Mickey curiously as he passes it back. Mickey raises a brow.
“Ian, I let you fuck my ass just about every time I see you.” He snarks around the filter, letting the smoke fill his lungs. He doesn't want to be having this stupid fucking conversation but it’s early afternoon and Ian looks too nice in the sun for Mickey to want him to fuck off just yet. You're so fucking gay, Mickey thinks to himself.
Across from him Ian’s smirking indulgently, fingers already extended and waiting for the cigarette to be passed back. “It took me months to convince you to let me rim you because that was too gay.” He says when Mickey hands it to him.
“Fuck you.”
Ian laughs and blows smoke into the air above him, the curve of his throat smooth and pale. Sometimes Mickey wants to kiss it, but doesn’t. It’s only then that he realises that they're both sitting there in post-coital nakedness and suddenly he wants to find boxers, a blanket, anything to cover himself up. Just because Ian sucked him off doesn't change the fact that he has a small cock that’s even smaller when it’s soft.
“You do have a really nice dick though.” Ian says suddenly, eyes still on the roof and the cigarette dangling between his long fingers. Mickey waits for the punch line, but nothing comes. Instead Ian just smiles up at the ceiling and takes another drag of the cigarette.
“Whatever.” Mickey grumbles. Abruptly Ian turns to him, a serious expression drawing his brows down. Mickey hesitates, not sure what has Ian making that face.
“I like your dick. A lot.” Ian says gravely, a shit-eating grin overtaking his features the second the words have left his mouth and Mickey can't help but smile and smack his thigh. Hard.
“Shut up, Gallagher.” He replies but Ian’s laughing already, the sound infectious, and within minutes they're both cackling and shoving at each other, wrestling for the last few breaths of the cigarette. Mickey forgets about his nakedness, doesn’t even think about putting on clothes until over an hour later when they've finished fucking again, Mickey’s legs over Ian’s shoulders and Ian’s hand on his dick.