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“Jesus fucking Christ.”
Ian can’t see much in the flashing lights from the fire trucks, and he can’t hear much over the sirens and the pouring rain. But he hears that so he turns his head and stops.
Stares.
It’s him. The guy. The next-door guy with the scowl and the blue eyes that flash like lightning and the gorgeous smile that he doesn’t let anyone really see. The next-door guy with the ass that looks sinful when he’s wearing those thin workout pants when he comes up from the gym downstairs.
It’s him.
And he’s wearing a pair of boxers that are soaked through and clinging to his skin.
“Hey.” Ian manages the word and a nod.
“Hey? That’s what you’ve got to say?” He wraps his arms around himself, and Ian can see the goosebumps on his skin. “We’re in the middle of a fucking torrential downpour and you say ‘hey’. Fuck off.”
“You must have a lot of friends.”
He flips Ian off at that point, smirking at him. His eyes are flashing and Ian is trying very hard not to think about how much he’d love to see those eyes in his bedroom, along with the rest of the guy pinned underneath him.
“You’re in 7B, right?” Ian points to himself. “7C.”
“Your parents must be so fucking proud.” He shivers and glances at the building. “Fucking...there’s no fucking fire!” He yells. “Let us the fuck back in, Jesus Christ.”
“Were you going to bed?”
“Was I what?”
Ian’s eyes widen as the guy turns on him. Ian’s not afraid, even though the guy looks like he’d happily gut Ian like a fish. “Going to bed. You’re in...well. Your underwear.”
“No, this is how I dress when I’m coming outside in the fucking rain to stand around with my fucking neighbors. What do you fucking think?”
“Because you work nights.”
“Who the fuck are you?”
“Ian.” Ian holds out his hand, only dropping it after the other guy stares at it for several moments before looking back up at Ian like he’s lost his mind. “Your neighbor. I work at a club. I get home about the same time as you. A little before you. I hear you come in.” Ian can’t seem to stop talking, even though the guy looks like he’d rather be anywhere but next to Ian, listening to Ian. “What do you do?”
“Ignore my neighbors.” He shivers again and Ian shrugs off his hoodie and hands it to him. It’s kind of a shame to even think about covering up his upper body, but it’d also suck if he died of pneumonia. “The fuck is this?”
Ian wiggles the hoodie at him. “It’s damp, but the inside is still warm and dry. Put it on before you freeze to death. You’re not even wearing shoes.”
“I don’t wear shoes to bed.”
Ian tells himself to shut up, but he sucks at listening to his self-preservation instincts. “Kind of wish you didn’t wear boxers.”
The guy stares at Ian for a moment. There’s a flash of something – fear? - in his eyes and then nothing. He shakes his head, huffs a breath and walks off. Ian watches him go, mentally berating himself. That could have gone worse. Maybe.
If Ian had accidentally killed him or something.
**
The instinct to flee is one that Mickey’s learned how to cover up with irritation, aggravation, and disdain. When he’s cornered or worried or frightened in any way, he lashes out and walks away. Or, in this case, just walks away.
He knows the redhead – Ian, of course his name is Ian – is staring after him. Mickey can feel his eyes on him and he has no interest in considering why that seems to send a shiver of warmth up his spine. He stomps over to the gaggle of firefighters standing next to one of the engines and clears his throat.
“Yeah?” The guy turns and Mickey spreads his hands in irritation.
“Are we ever going to get to go back inside? I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but there are a whole fucking lot of people out here in the pouring fucking rain. And, unlike you dudes, we didn’t have time to put boots and coats on before we had to come the fuck out here.”
“You could have stayed inside and burned to death.”
“Except there’s no fucking fire.”
“We have to sweep all of the public corridors as well as the stairwells. We should be done in about an hour.”
“Dude, my balls are going to freeze up and fall off in about fifteen minutes, so I’m going back inside. At least if I catch on fire, I might get fucking warm.” Mickey strides away from him toward the front of the building. He hears footsteps jogging toward him, but he doesn’t turn around. Something tells him he knows who it is.
“Did they say we could go back in?”
“No. Go away.”
“But you’re going inside.”
“Yeah, well, I’m freezing my ass off, my dick is trying to crawl back inside my body, and I want a hot shower and a fucking drink. So I’m going to take my life into my own hands and risk it. Go away.”
“I’m coming inside too then.”
Mickey groans and heads for the stairs. He’s dripping water across the entryway and when the heat of the building hits him he starts to shake. He holds onto the railing as he walks up the steps, and he can feel trails of water slide down his back, the back of his legs.
“So, I’m Ian.”
Mickey ignores him as long as he can. “You said that before. I didn’t care then either.”
“Where do you work?”
“I apparently live in hell.”
“I work at Fairy Tale. In Boystown.”
Mickey stops walking and turns to look at Ian. He knows Ian’s seen his hands, seen his tattoos. He knows that, despite all appearances, Ian can’t be this stupid, because he’s still alive. “One.” Mickey raises one finger. “I don’t fucking care. Two.” He raises another. “I don’t fucking care.”
“I’m a dancer.”
“At what point in your existence did you start thinking that being alone in a fucking stairwell and telling some guy you don’t even know that you’re a fucking gay dancer at a fucking gay club was a good idea?”
“I didn’t actually say I was gay.”
“You’re a fucking go-go dancer at a fucking club in Boystown. If you aren’t gay, you will be by the end of your fucking shift. Jesus.” Mickey starts walking again. Ian’s quiet all the way to the fifth floor when an all-clear alarm sounds and the building seems to come back to life. Regular lights replace emergency lights and Mickey can see Ian clearly.
His hair is almost black it’s so wet, though there are curly red tufts sticking up where bits of it have dried. His jeans are pretty much glued to his skin, but his shirt’s mostly dry except for the stripe down the front that the hoodie didn’t cover.
He is, much to Mickey’s annoyance, really fucking hot. And gay. Apparently.
Fuck.
**
Ian follows the other guy down the hall toward their apartments watching his ass. It is grade-A, quality ass. Ian is now going to have very vivid, very explicit thoughts about that ass whenever he’s alone in his bed. Fucking it. Biting it. Eating it.
Ian’s also apparently have a hard on before they even get past 7G.
“I am, by the way.” He doesn’t make a noise, so Ian keeps talking. It’s a habit of his. Nervousness means talking. Talking means saying stuff he shouldn’t. The guy is right. One day it’s going to get Ian in serious shit. “Gay.”
“I’m fucking shocked. No, really.”
“If you tell me your name, I’ll leave you alone.”
He stops and turns to look at Ian. There’s mistrust and disbelief in his eyes. “Promise?”
“Pinky swear.”
“What the fuck are you? Six?” He starts walking again, and Ian has to figure out what to do. They’re almost at his apartment and he’s pretty sure he’s going to never see this guy again if he doesn’t do something.
“Promise.”
He stops walking, bows his head, and sighs. It’s absolutely unfair and sinful, because Ian gets to stare at the nape of his neck, exposed and damp and, whether the guy knows it or not, needing Ian’s mouth on it. He turns around and looks at Ian. His eyes are dark and Ian’s not sure if he’s pissed or angry or resigned. “Mickey.”
“Nice to meet you, Mickey.” When Mickey doesn’t say anything, just starts walking again, Ian fights a smile. “Likewise, Ian. I’m so glad we’re neighbors.” He ignores Mickey’s snort of...not laughter. “Me too, Mick.”
“Mickey.”
“That’s what I said.”
“That’s not what you fucking...” Mickey growls and walks a little faster. Ian stays on his heels, persistent. “You said you’d leave me the fuck alone.”
“I might have exaggerated.”
“Jesus Christ.” Mickey walks past Ian’s apartment and hurries to his own door. His hair is still damp, and it’s curling just at the back of his neck where it’s starting to dry. Ian’s fingers itch to touch it, comb it into place. Ian stops at his door and leans against it as Mickey turns his doorknob.
And nothing happens.
“Oh fucking fuck me. No.” Mickey groans and bangs his head on the door. “God fucking damn it. Fuck. Fuck. Shit.” He tries the knob again. “This is not my fucking life. What the actual fuck did I ever do to deserve this?”
“Something wrong?”
Ian stands far enough away when he says it that, even when he whirls around, there’s no chance of Mickey’s fist actually connecting with Ian at all. Mickey’s face is red and flushed, and Ian’s a little afraid. Not of getting hit, but of how much he wants to pin Mickey to the wall and fuck him.
“The fucking door locked behind me.”
“Oh. That’s a problem.”
“That’s a pro...that’s a problem? No fucking shit, asshole.” Mickey kicks the wall and then punches his door. “You have a screwdriver?”
“I have vodka and orange juice.”
“Do you have a family?”
Ian frowns at the change in subject. “Um...yes?”
“Shit, so someone would miss you if I fucking killed you.” Mickey slumps against the wall and rubs his face with his hands. Now that he’s not shivering, Ian can see how exhausted he looks.
“You can call the super. He’ll come by in the morning...well, later in the morning, and let you in. Tonight you can sleep on my couch.” Or in his bed. Ian’s not picky.
“Gonna have to borrow your fucking phone as well.”
Ian pulls his key out of his pocket and goes to his door. Unlocking it, he opens it and gestures for Mickey to go inside. Mickey rolls his eyes, but goes. Mickey’s boxers are drying, which is disappointing because they’re not clinging to his ass, but Ian can see the hint of dimples above the waistband, and he wants to lick them bad enough it hurts.
“Not a problem.”
**
Ian’s apartment is...nice. It’s the mirror image of Mickey’s, but it actually looks lived in. There are books and movies and comics. There’s an iPod on the coffee table on top of a bunch of mail. All the furniture looks hand-me-down, but it’s in good shape. From the pile of sandpaper and varnish in the corner, Mickey assumes Ian’s refinishing all the wood.
“So.” Ian grabs his cell phone off the desk in the corner where it’s charging. “I don’t actually have a couch, but I can push the chairs together. You’ll probably fit, since you’re...”
“If you add anything more to that sentence I will gut you like a fish.”
“Compact.”
Mickey frowns, but doesn’t actually take offense at the word. It’s a good word for him. He doesn’t like it particularly, but given that Ian’s a fucking giant, he could have called Mickey a hell of a lot of other things that Mickey would have had to kill him for. He takes the phone from Ian’s hand and stands there staring at it. “You got the number?”
“It’s programmed in.” Ian comes over and stands a little behind Mickey, reaching around to slide the screen. He thinks he hears Mickey’s breath hitch, but the guy could also be cold still. “There you go.” Ian pushes the contact and steps back. Mickey’s starting to feel a little fenced in, a little panicked. A little aroused. “You want that screwdriver?”
“Yes.” Mickey says with no hesitation. He leaves a message on the super’s voice mail and figures he’ll hear back from him in a couple of weeks. Ian comes out of the kitchen with two glasses and Mickey tries to remember the last time he had a drink that wasn’t beer or a shot. He takes it and downs half of it. The booze warms him up a little, so he drains his glass. Ian is staring at him, and he realizes he was probably supposed to sip that. Fuck.
Ian takes a drink of his and sets his glass down. “You want another one?”
“Do you have beer?”
“Yeah. Hang on.” Ian goes back into the kitchen and Mickey prowls around the room. He really wants to be back in his own shitty apartment with his own shitty stuff. He gets to the hallway and can see into Ian’s bedroom. Fuck. That is a bed.
“You...uh...play guitar?” Mickey can feel the flush covering his whole body, and knows the freckles on his shoulders are probably standing out starkly against it. He’s surprised he was able to say anything that didn’t involve Ian and the bed. But he’s pretty sure that he’s going to be thinking about it.
For a long time.
“Oh. Yeah. Some. Not great at it.” Ian comes back and stands next to Mickey, handing him the beer. “I should let you get some sleep.”
“Fuck.” Mickey swigs some of his beer and groans. “I don’t have any clothes.” He sees Ian’s look, and he’s pretty sure it’s amusement at Mickey stating the obvious. “I have to work in the morning. Shit, in two and a half hours.”
“I thought you worked nights.”
“I do.”
“But...”
“I work two jobs, okay? Not like I can afford this place otherwise.”
“So you’re working two jobs to pay for a place that you’re never at because you work two jobs?” Ian picks up his glass and takes another drink. “Why not get a roommate? Or don’t you have a girlfriend or something?”
“That I’d see...when? When I shower between jobs because I can’t wear dust and metal shavings to the club?”
“Dust and...what? And what club?”
Mickey curses under his breath and drains more of his beer. “Nothing.”
“No, come on. You started it.”
Mickey sighs. “I work for a company that renovates houses. So I do metal work, ducting, carpentry, drywall, all that shit. And at night I work at a club as a bouncer.”
“Oh. Huh. What club?”
“What?”
“What club do you work at?”
“It’s a strip club.”
“Oh.” Ian frowns a little, and Mickey’s fingers itch to smooth the furrow out of his brow. “I don’t tend to go to those very often.”
“You pretty much work at one if you’re a dancer, dude. What do you wear? Like g-strings or something?””
“Gold booty shorts.”
“...of course.” Mickey exhales as the image of that flashes through his head. “Seriously, you have a real screwdriver, right?”
“No.”
“Fuck.” Mickey runs his fingers through his hair, which is falling all in his face since the rain washed out any product he’d had in it. “Guess I won’t be going to work tomorrow.”
“I could loan you some clothes, but I don’t think they’d fit. I mean, a shirt might, but they probably want you to wear pants.”
“Yeah. I think that’s a fucking requirement.” Mickey walks back and sits in one of the chairs, bowing his head and burying his fingers in his hair. “How is this my fucking life?”
“It’s kind of funny.”
Mickey looks up and glares at Ian, which would be better if Ian didn’t fucking smile at him like it’s the best day ever. “No. It’s fucking not.”
“It is though. I mean, shit like this doesn’t happen to people, right? And it could be worse. You could wear tighty-whities.”
“I hate you so fucking much right now.” Mickey hunches his shoulders and looks down at his hands. It is kind of funny, but he’ll be fucked if he’s about to admit it to Ian’s smug face. “Shit.”
“Do you have your work number?”
“Yeah. In my phone.”
“Do you know the name of the company you work for?” Ian goes into his bedroom, and Mickey hopes like hell he doesn’t expect Mickey to follow, because...well. Mickey’s not going to think about because until he’s back in his house and his bedroom which, thankfully is completely opposite Ian’s.
“Yeah, because I’m not a complete imbecile.”
Ian comes back out and looks Mickey over. Mickey feels himself flush again and clenches his hand into a fist. “All evidence to the contrary.”
“It was a fucking fire alarm. I was about to get in the shower.”
“Good thing it was raining, huh?” Ian grins and sits down on the other chair and hands Mickey his laptop. “And good thing you weren’t in the shower or we’d have really gotten a show.”
“I would have just burned to death.” Mickey opens the laptop and flushes at the background screen. “That is a dick.”
“Oh. Shit.” Ian tries to grab it out of Mickey’s hands, but Mickey holds it away from him.
“Dude. I’ve seen one before. I’m not going to lose my shit.” He glances up at Ian and then at the screen. “It’s not your dick, is it?”
“No! God, what kind of narcissist would I be if I had a picture of my own dick on my computer. I mean, I can just look down.”
“Boyfriend’s dick?”
“I don’t have a boyfriend.”
Mickey hadn’t meant to ask that question, because he really didn’t want to know if Ian had a boyfriend or not. “Famous dick?”
“It’s just a random dick. It’s artistic.”
“It’s a dick and balls, dude. They’re ridiculous looking.”
“Sorry it’s not some drippy cunt.”
Mickey’s eyes widen and he cracks up. “You sure it’s not your dick? Because you’re getting awful pissy about me not appreciating its aesthetic qualities.”
“It’s not my fucking dick.” Ian’s eyes narrow, challenging. “You wanna see and compare?”
Mickey leans back in his chair and raises his eyebrows. He is the world’s biggest idiot, but at least he knows it. “Sure.”
**
Ian starts to say something and stops with his mouth open. He blinks several times and then swallows. “Did you just say sure?”
“I mean, this one’s hard and shit, but if you need to go pull your dick for a while, that’s fine. I’ll just look up my company on the web.”
“You want to see my dick?” Ian swallows again, because he’s pretty sure he lost something somewhere.
“You seem to want to show it off.” Mickey shrugs. “Makes no difference to me.”
Ian’s used to guys wanting to see his dick. Paying to get close to it. Nonchalance about his dick is not something he’s used to. “I asked you if you had a girlfriend.”
“You implied that I had a girlfriend.” Mickey looks up from the computer. “Can I borrow your phone again?”
“I...sure.” Ian picks it up off the coffee table and hands it to Mickey. He’s really fucking confused right now, and staring at Mickey in his boxer shorts while he’s on the phone is not clearing his head. He gets up and gets another beer for each of them and comes back just as Mickey’s hanging up. “You don’t have a girlfriend.”
“We covered this.”
“Because you don’t have time for a girlfriend.”
“Sure.”
“Stop saying that.” Mickey gives Ian a look that Ian can only interpret as ‘what the fuck?’. Ian takes a long swallow of his beer and then watches Mickey do the same, watching his throat as he swallows. Thinking about what else he could watch him swallow. Fuck. “Is there any other reason you don’t have a girlfriend?”
“I need more than one reason?”
“I just want to know if you have one very specific reason. Like one that involves you wanting to see my dick.”
Mickey smiles and Ian wants to punch him. “You wanna know something, Ian, just ask.”
“Do you not have a girlfriend because you have a boyfriend?”
Mickey leans back in the chair, still smiling. “Nope.”
Ian chews his lower lip and narrows his eyes. The trick to playing 20 questions is starting out broad and narrowing it down. Apparently the trick to Mickey is not fucking around. “Are you gay?”
Mickey licks his lower lip and Ian tightens his grip on his beer. “Why should I tell you anything about myself?”
Ian stands up and grabs his laptop off Mickey’s lap and sets it aside. He takes another step and boxes Mickey in, his hands on the arms of the chairs. Mickey is compact, just like Ian had said. Ian can almost feel the energy pulsing through him, danger hiding just beneath the surface. He’s pretty sure that Mickey’s not homophobic because he’s been hanging out with Ian in his boxer shorts and hasn’t acted like he’s afraid he’s going to get raped or something. But he also hasn’t seen Mickey looking at him. “Because we’re neighbors.”
“I didn’t even know you existed until a few hours ago.”
Ian leans in a little closer. “Because I asked nicely?”
“You did?”
Even closer. He’s almost sure of Mickey’s answer, but if Ian’s wrong it might not matter that Mickey’s comfortable with gays because Ian’s going to push further. He always does. “Are you gay?” Ian practically whispers the words, close enough that he can feel Mickey’s breath. “Please?”
“Please answer?” Mickey’s eyes focus on Ian’s mouth and then he lifts them up to meet Ian’s gaze. “Or please be gay?”
Ian swallows hard, his lips parting, breathing more than speaking the word. “Both.”
**
Mickey closes the space between them. He barely has to move to do it, to fit his mouth to Ian’s. Ian makes a low noise and Mickey slides his hand around the nape of Ian’s neck. His own lips part and he slides his tongue along Ian’s. He scoots up to the edge of the chair to get closer and Ian sinks down to his knees so they’re closer in height. They don’t break apart so much as change the kiss, shifting their mouths. Ian slides a hand around Mickey’s back, his hand hot on his bare skin.
Mickey resists as Ian pushes against his back to pull Mickey forward, just to feel the pressure. Ian catches Mickey’s lower lip and catches it between his teeth, sucking on it. Mickey groans and gives in, letting Ian pulling him off the chair and onto his thighs. Ian mimics Mickey, sliding his hand around the back of Mickey’s neck. Mickey keeps his there, his other one combing through Ian’s hair, raking through the shorter hair on the back of his head.
Mickey pushes in to kiss him again and Ian lets him. It’s been a long fucking time since Mickey’s kissed anyone. Most of the guys he’s been with have been hard fucks in the bathroom of clubs or in alleys on his days off. Hand jobs and blow jobs and Mickey fucking into slicked up heat. Mickey fucks them every time, too much of his upbringing keeping him from surrendering or exposing that much of himself – figuratively and emotionally. But kissing Ian feels right, feels perfect. Feels like what Mickey’s been waiting for, even though he didn’t know he’d been waiting.
Ian’s hand slides further down Mickey’s back, just above his ass. His fingers slip along the stupid dimples on Mickey’s back and, for the first time ever, Mickey’s actually fucking grateful for them, because Ian’s fingers keep moving over them and hitting nerve endings Mickey didn’t know existed. Ian moves his hand again and Mickey is surprised by the low whine he makes.
Ian kisses him, fucking his tongue into Mickey’s mouth, making it rougher, deeper. He presses at the base of Mickey’s spine, pushing him higher on Ian’s thighs. Mickey moves, digging his knees into the carpet so he can press against him. Ian’s jeans are rough on his bare thighs, but in a way that makes Mickey shiver, his cock harden. He feels Ian’s stomach against the head of his dick through his boxers.
“Fu-fuck,” Ian groans. He keeps his hand at Mickey’s back and brings his other hand around to rub Mickey through his boxers. “Jesus. So fucking hard.”
Mickey rolls his hips, thrusting against Ian’s hand. Mickey’s not good at asking for things. He’s too used to getting nothing when he does. He’s gotten to the point he doesn’t even want things. But he wants Ian. So he asks with his body, not moving away, letting Ian feel how hard he is, how his dick is leaking. Ian is breathing hard and thick, eyes wide and staring into Mickey’s. Mickey reaches for Ian’s shirt and tugs it, trying to get it off.
Ian protests when he has to let go of Mickey, but he does it, not regretting the decision when one of Mickey’s hands slides from Ian’s shoulder to his waistband then moves back up, teasing across Ian’s abdomen, his nipples. Ian moves in to kiss Mickey again, and Mickey gives as good as he gets. His cock aches and he wants Ian to touch him. He reaches behind himself and tugs the waistband of his boxers down.
“Fuck, yes.” Ian moves both his hands to Mickey’s ass, squeezing it and hitching him higher on his thighs. “Fuck, I want that ass.”
Mickey’s head drops to Ian’s shoulder and he groans again, burying the sound against Ian’s skin before biting it, sucking on it.
“Yeah?” Ian’s breathless. “Yeah?”
Mickey nods. “Y-yeah.”
**
Mickey’s ass feels as good as it looked, and Ian wants it. He straightens up and guides Mickey off his thighs, not breaking their kiss. He pulls away with a mixture of want and reluctance when he stands, tugging Mickey up after him. The only thing holding Mickey’s boxers up is his dick, and Ian reaches out and eases them over his erection. They drop to the floor and Ian stares in appreciation as he undoes his own jeans, kicking out of his clothes as fast as he can. Mickey’s already walking toward Ian’s bedroom and his ass is even better naked.
His ass naked is like breakfast, lunch, dinner, and dessert.
Mickey crawls on the bed, ass in the air just like Ian wants. Ian shivers roughly and walks up to the bed, running a hand down Mickey’s back on his way to the nightstand. The lube’s easy to find. Ian uses it a lot, but it takes him a minute to find the condoms. It’s been a long time since he’s brought anyone home.
Mickey’s watching him with dark eyes as Ian turns. When he does, Mickey looks down at his dick and smiles. That’s gorgeous too, and Ian is very very aware that he is completely fucked. Well and truly and completely fucked.
“Okay, definitely wasn’t your dick.” Mickey licks his lips. “Yours is much more impressive.”
“Just imagine how it’s going to feel buried in your ass.”
Mickey huffs a rough breath and Ian moves to the end of the bed, moving between Mickey’s spread legs. He forces them wider apart with his own knees and leans in, blowing over Mickey’s hole. A shudder runs through Mickey, so Ian does it again. When he pulls back and looks, he can see a drop of come hanging off the end of Mickey’s dick, stretched down toward the bed.
“Fuck, you’re ready for me, aren’t you?”
“Not until you get your fingers in my ass. Not taking that thing without lube.”
“That thing, huh?” Ian lubes up and rubs against the ring of muscle, scraping the tip of his nail over it after the pad of his fingers. Mickey’s hips jerk and Ian laughs, low and hoarse, leaning in to blow against the lube.
“Fucking...” Mickey gasps, the sound breaking when Ian presses a finger inside him. Mickey’s head falls forward and Ian raises up, leaning in to lick the dimples he’d touched before, sliding his tongue along the indent of skin. Mickey makes a noise and Ian feels it in his dick. He needs Mickey lubed up and open for him. Now. Yesterday.
He pushes another finger in, barely waiting for Mickey to relax before he adds a third. The noises Mickey is making are muted and Ian’s not sure if he’s biting his lip, his hand, or the bedding, but it’s hot as fuck. Not as hot as it would be if he was making them out loud, but given how he’s reacting to them muffled, Ian’s pretty sure he can’t handle them if he actually heard them.
“Now.” Mickey rasps. “Fucking now. Get on me.”
Ian doesn’t hesitate. Mickey’s body sags slightly when Ian pulls his fingers free to put on the condom, but his muscles are taut when Ian’s slicked up and pressing against him. He doesn’t wait. Takes Mickey at his word and presses inside him. Ian stops thinking in anything but single words – Hot. Tight. Wet. Now. More. Move. Want. Need.
He sees Mickey’s hands fist in the comforter as he moves inside him. Mickey’s tight but Ian moves easily, rolling his hips slowly before he starts thrusting in earnest. Mickey pushes back against him and Ian grabs his hips, guiding him back as Ian pushes in. Ian closes his eyes, overwhelmed for a moment, and then opens them, looking down to watch his dick disappear into Mickey’s perfect ass. Ian’s pretty sure it’s the hottest fucking thing he’s ever seen, the rough red hair around his dick pressed against pale skin.
Mickey drops down to his elbows, bowing his head as he reaches back with one hand to grab his dick. Ian feels Mickey tighten around him when he does, and the sudden change in pressure is almost too much. Ian fucks him harder, pounding into Mickey’s ass. Mickey’s moaning, not bothering to hide the noises now, and Ian can see his arm moving, Mickey jerking himself as fast and as hard as Ian is fucking him.
“Fuck. Fuck,” Ian gasps, burying himself as deep as he can. He comes, shuddering through every pulse of his orgasm. Mickey’s arm is still moving and he’s breathing roughly, the hair at the nape of his neck damp with sweat. Ian keeps thrusting until Mickey stills and clenches around him, his own hips rocking down toward the bed.
It takes Ian a moment to pull out, grabbing the condom and twisting the opening before tossing it in the bathroom trash. When he comes back into the bedroom, Mickey’s still lying there, still breathing hard. Ian’s own legs feel kind of like jelly, so he gets it. He stretches out next to him. “You know you’re in a wet spot, right?”
“Mmm.” Mickey’s eyes are closed.
Ian turns on his side and runs his fingers down Mickey’s spine, watching him shiver. He gets to the cleft of Mickey’s ass and teases his fingers over it. “You gonna fall asleep?”
“Mmm.”
“I actually do have a screwdriver.”
Mickey smiles and sighs, eyes still closed. “I know. Now shut up and go to sleep.”