Mickey looks up from where he'd been playing pool and spots a guy he doesn't recognize at the bar. He looks Mickey's age, maybe a bit younger, and Gabe, who's on bar duty, isn't even pretending to be willing to serve him a drink.
Even in that army-camo getup of his he looks like somebody should probably hold his hand whenever he crosses the street. Joe shoved up against a wall out back in the alleyway, mouthing at the head of his dick.
It's big ; long and fat enough that Mickey's practically gagging on air with how badly he wants it down his throat. He's acutely aware of the tears slipping out from the corners of his eyes, rolling down the planes of his face just as intensely as he feels his throat work around the dick that's stretching his mouth as wide as it'll go.
Mickey pushes down further, presses his nose deep into the skin and short curly hairs of G.I. Joe's groin and inhales, makes it so that as far as Mickey's concerned, the universe ends and begins with what's happening between them right then and there.
They're so close together that whenever Mickey blinks, his eyelashes brush against the skin and muscle in front of him; it's a strange sensation that only makes everything feel just that much more. He swallows dutifully, the light-headed feeling slowly making its way through him has him pulling back just enough to get his throat free of dick so that he isn't risking passing out.
As if to balance out the universe, the next Friday has Mickey working overtime as they rush to finish an order that's had its due-date upped to Saturday. He's been having trouble falling asleep all week, can't stop thinking about the redheaded army dude he hooked up with the previous Friday.
He hasn't jerked off this much since he was twelve and the mailman accidentally left a copy of the Chicago FD's charity calendar in the Miltonic's mailbox. He figures that he'll skulk around until he finds someone who hopefully has a dick big enough to help Mickey forget about unusually hung redheaded army brats.
Joe is there, in the same spot Mickey picked him up last time, except now the seat to his right isn't empty. There some late-20's loser mac kin' on him, but he doesn't seem to mind, based on the pairs of empty glasses spread between them, he's been talking to G.I.
Mickey's so focused in on them that he can make out their voices over the low hum of various conversations throughout the rest of the bar. Pissed that he learned the name of the dude he's been having non-stop wet dreams about from some asshole academic that Mickey would have beaten up and robbed not four years ago, just for the hell of it.
He somehow managed to come in behind a couple of big bulky dudes, so Mickey's pretty sure Ian hadn't spotted him when he walked in. He's only been inside for a couple of minutes, but he knows that if he stays any longer the chance of him being ID'd go up, and Mickey doesn't want to deal with that level of humiliation.
The last thing Mickey wants to know is if Ian takes that loser up on his offer or not. Luckily, a group of guys makes their way to the door and Mickey slides out with them as they leave.
Thirty minutes later he's shrugging off his jacket and taking a seat at the bar, rapping his knuckles along the countertop. “Someone's got his eye on you,” Gabe says as he slides up to him, prying the top off a bottle of Mickey's usual and setting it down in front of him, before making his way to serve another customer.
He snatches up his drink and takes two long pulls, nearly finishing it in one go, before turning around to face the music. Mickey heads back the next week, expecting more of the same: he looks for Ian as soon as he enters.
He tells himself he isn't looking for anyone in particular, let alone Ian, and then he grabs a bottle of his usual and heads back towards the pool tables to kill time until he settles for whatever guy meets his eyes the longest. Sure enough, Ian's practically pressed up against his back before Mickey's even reached the back exit, the wet, shallow inhalations of his breath making the short hairs along Mickey's neck stand on edge and curl.
“Fancy seeing you here, Captain America,” Mickey says to break the silence they've been standing in for a solid minute, both their backs pressed against either sides of the walls that make up the alleyway. His voice breaks Ian out of the trance he was in, and he crowds his way into Mickey space.
Mickey jerks his head to the side and stares at Ian out the corner of his eye, aghast. His heart is racing a mile a minute and Mickey has no idea why, it's not like they've even had a chance to really grind their dicks together yet.
Trying to regain his bearings, Mickey reaches behind him for the condom his stuffed in his back pocket at the last minute before leaving the house and sticks the foil packet between Ian's lips, hoping to move past whatever the fuck just happened and get them back on track. Most guys usually assume that he's a top, and Mickey doesn't care enough to correct them, but it's been a long time since he was fucked and he's aching for it; nearly brought himself to tears in the shower he took before coming out with just his fingers.
Mickey bites at the forearm he'd been using to shield his forehead from the brick of the building, trying to muffle his moans and breathy grunts. Ian keeps his mouth on him for a solid ten minutes at least, long enough that his jaw has to be aching, licking and sucking and bringing his fingers into the mix.
Mickey feels right on the edge of coming for the entire time, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes because of how good it feels, how long it's been, imagines how good Ian must look going to town on Mickey's ass. It's all Mickeys can do to gasp wetly against his arm and clinch his fists against the pain, the angry pulse of it synched up with the throbbing of his dick.
Ian pulls back, for real this time, pressing a kiss to Mickeys abused skin. The rhythm of Ian's hips start to falter around the eight-minute mark, the tell-tale sign that his orgasm is approaching, and Mickey's fine with it.
Ian jacks him off at a rapid pace, the influx of miss-matched stimulation is too much for Mickey, and he comes, hard. Ian's right behind him, grinding up against his ass, the muscles of Mickey's body clamping down so tightly that he probably couldn't pull out comfortably even if he wanted to.
Mickey knows that by the time he gets home he'll feel more empty than pleasantly loose, and that the marks Ian left on his body will have him bitching to himself during his shift the next morning. Still, At that moment he feels more than content, doesn't remember the awkward and flighty way his heart nearly burst from his chest when Ian tried to kiss him when they first stumbled into the alleyway, and so he says sure, and thinks to himself that it's not really a standing date so much as a scheduled booty-call.
Mickey was right, his ass fucking smarts and his arm is irritated from being pressed up against that damn brick wall for nearly an hour. He's glad that he doesn't have the type of job that required group showers; the set of imprints Ian left on his ass are detailed enough that Mickey's sure a dentist could make a mold off of them.
Still, that doesn't stop Mickey from shoving his hand down into his boxers each night, rubbing his dick raw to the memories of Ian's teeth pressing into his skin, the ache that still radiating through his body from them making the memories of that night just that much more real. It's just as good as it was before, except that Ian didn't rim him this week, leaving Mickey feeling slightly disappointed.
He's gotten another set of teeth marks for his troubles, this time along the curve his neck where Ian bit down as he came. They're pushing their luck by loitering around with their pants around their ankles; without the thrill of sex clouding his senses, Mickey isn't all that keen on getting busted for public indecency.
The main boss gives them a rare day off in the middle of the week as a reward for all the weekends they've put in over the past month, so Mickey spends Wednesday running errands. He does a couple loads of laundry, one with the shit he's been wearing to the bar and another with his work clothes.
Mickey even drags out his second-hand vacuum and does a cursory pass with it over his living room carpet and the rugs he keeps in the bathroom and kitchen. Usually he just mails it or has one of his brothers come pick it up, but since he has nothing better to do he figures he might as well take the train into his old neighborhood and drop it off himself.
Mickey sends out a group text when he's halfway there, unsure of which one of them may have had their phones shut off or maybe had their numbers changed. He's nearly at their stop when Joey texts him back, saying that they're all at home and that Terry's locked up again.
It dawns on him that he hadn't even really considered running into his father, and now that he has, he doesn't feel overly scared or threatened at the thought. Mickey still isn't exactly sure when the abject terror Terry instilled in him died off, but he can't say he isn't glad for it.
He drops off the money and makes small talk with his brothers and sister, all of them neatly side-stepping any mentions of Mickey's romantic life. As he's leaving they all hug him, even Tony, and it's the least awkward Mickey's felt around them in a long while.
Mickey's still left feeling on edge as he leaves, lights up once he's back on the sidewalk to help calm his nerves. He decides to go for a walk to the little corner store and buy another pack of smokes so he won't have to do anything once he gets back home.
Both of their breaths pick up and Mickey's just about to suggest Ian locks the door and flip the 'We're Open' sign to 'Closed' when something crashes in the freezer at the back of the store. Mickey bristles at the thought of being written off as just a customer, doesn't like that he's without a solid place in Ian's life, one that warrants special consideration outside social niceties.
Mickey asks as he herds Ian into one of the cleaner stalls of the park's men's room. Mickey realizes he can feel Ian's breath ghosting across his lips and wonders just when in the hell they got so close.
Mickey blows him for the full twenty minutes, his jaw aching perfectly by the end of it. He can't help but squeeze his dick through his jeans as he watches Ian leave, every line in his body screaming its reluctance to leave Mickey's side; Mickey finds that nearly as much of a turn-on as having Ian's dick down his throat was.
“See you on Friday,” he calls out, voice teetering between teasing and genuine longing. He drops onto his couch with a stiff drink and flips through the channels, wanting to unwind a bit before he passes the fuck out.
Days like this he's prone to have nightmares or just straight-up dreams that he's back at work, putting in a full eight-hour shifts in his sleep that leaves him feeling like he hadn't got a wink of sleep once he wakes up, and he isn't in the mood to deal with either of those options tonight. Mickey drains the rest of his glass and sets it down onto his coffee table before flopping down sideways and pulling the blanket he keeps tossed over the back of the couch down onto him.
One of the main character guys is going at it with his boyfriend, kissing him like they've got all the time in the world. When he opens his eyes he sees that Ian's there with him, awake and smiling softly at Mickey as he slept.
Ian beams at him, radiating happiness as he tips his head down to kiss Mickey again. Mickey gets off of work later than usual that Friday, so he has to make a mad dash to his apartment.
To make up for the extra time spent in the shower, Mickey does the most harassed, bare bones job at drying himself, tosses on the first outfit he can pick out that doesn't completely clash before taking off through the door, shoving his phone and keys and wallet into his pockets as he runs down the stairs, taking them three at a time. He grabs hold of Ian as soon as he spots him, dragging him back out into the deserted alleyway.
“I took a shower,” he tells him, just in case Ian somehow managed to miss the way that Mickey is practically dripping in the spring chill of the evening. Ian starts licking behind his ears, where the skin is damper than the rest of him from the way his hair is still dripping.
Ian pulls back to stare into Mickey's eyes, and they're within kissing distance again. Mickey tilts his head up and parts his lips, willing Ian to close the gap.
Mickey remembers the disappointment from a few weeks ago when Ian hadn't rimmed him before they fucked. Ian's talking to some guy when Mickey arrives at their usual time, and it throws him for a loop.
It just looks like Ian's talking to some guy while he waits for Mickey to show up, trying to pass the time. Once he realizes its Mickey whose next to him his eyes light up and his face practically glows.
The happiness in his voice helps keep the disappointment Mickey feels over Ian aborting their kiss at bay. “Two and a half hours: that's a long time to have somebody wait,” the guy Ian was speaking with notes.
Ian says something about it not feeling that long, sounding vaguely relieved, but Mickey can't be bothered to actually listen. He wants to leave, but instead he stays by the side of the table, waiting for Ian to make his choice instead of trying to force it.
Ian nearly knocks the two of them over when he turns around, obviously not expecting Mickey to be so close behind him. Mickey grabs his wrist and tugs him away from the table and out the front entrance of the bar, the two of them spilling out onto the sidewalk.
Mickey ignores the joke, his hand clinching into a fist where it rests on his thigh. You’re usually there before me, so I don’t know what time you actually show up, but I figured I’d risk it.
Their eyes meet and Mickey realizes how weird he acted, even though he had been forcing himself to be as calm as possible throughout the whole thing. He stares down at his legs, starts drawing patterns against the grain jeans to keep from having to look into Ian's eyes.
He stares at Ian's body, at the way he's slumped over and sleepy- eyed, looking a hell of a lot like he had in Mickey's dreams, when Mickey's mind conjured up pictures of them falling asleep or just waking up, and he blurts out, “I'm hungry. Either way, Mickey would lean in close once they reached either of their doors and kiss Ian, nice and chaste.
He drags Ian into the shadows and tells himself that he's going to kiss the hell out of Ian, just get it out of the way, so his mind will stop building it up into this big epic thing that has him nervous as hell to initiate, but changes his mind at the last second. Ian doesn't comment on it, just tips his head back and starts letting out these little breathy sounds, giving Mickey full rein over the vulnerable skin of his neck.
Mickeys enraptured by it for a bit, thinks of how long it'll last on Ian's skin, takes in how he can still make out the smattering of freckles through the blood that he sucked up to the surface. It looks like Ian's got a whole constellation right there on his neck, the freckles stars in the dark purple backdrop of blood staining his otherwise spectral skin, and it's only there because Mickey willed it into existence with his mouth.
He's only been once before, when one of the interns took all the full-time guys there as an attempt to butter them up and get them to give him an A for his final grade. Ian's bony knees knock into Mickey's underneath the table as they eat.
“You've got,” Mickey starts, noticing a bit of sauce that Ian managed to miss. He realizes that he doesn't want Ian to have to clean it off himself, that Mickey wants to be able to do that sort of thing for him, so he leans across the table and thumbs Ian's lip clean, popping his thumb into his own mouth once he drops back down into his seat to suck the sauce off it.
“Um,” Ian says, getting the look in his eye that usually precludes him reaching for Mickey's dick. That's not what Mickey has in mind, though, even though his dick is telling him it wouldn't be the worst thing in the world.
He doesn't want Ian to jump in and change the mood, not when Mickey's still scared half to death and feels just about ready to give up on his plan and do what Ian's eyes are suggesting, take the easy route they're already familiar with. Ian stares at him, his mouth dropped open slightly, before he's surges up out of his seat and leans across the table to kiss Mickey square on the lips.
They keep up a steady stream of text messages through the entire weekend. Ian's true to his word, texting Mickey back near-instantly, even when he should be sleeping.
By Sunday, they've moved onto sending one another dick pics and have even had phone sex; a first for the both of them and something that they both agreed needs to happen again. Tuesday afternoon he can't take it anymore, so during his lunch break he texts Ian and asks if he wants to do something that night.
Mickey barely presses the 'accept call' button before Ian starts speaking. They've been on his ass since Monday morning, speculating loudly on just who is a Mickey could be spending all that time texting.
Jake looks like he's going to explode, body overflowing with whatever smart ass comment he's doing his best to hold in. Ian threads his fingers through Mickey's as he leads him all the way to the top row, settling them down in seats smack-dab in the middle.
As soon as the lights dim Ian sets their shared bucket of popcorn on the floor and flips up the armrest that separates their seats, scooting in close. They make out the entire time, and even though Mickey hasn't seen the movie yet and was sorta looking forward to watching it with Ian, he can't say he minds.
Mickey texts to Ian Thursday night while he's laying in bed. They both agreed after their impromptu date Tuesday that they both very much wanted to keep their original plans for Friday. Ian texts back a few seconds later, and Mickey can't help but smirk at his enthusiasm.
After work the next day he comes home and takes a shower, changes, puts on a nice short-sleeved Henley that he bought from fucking H&M earlier that week, just so that he would have some new clothes to impress Ian with. On the train ride he starts to feel nervous, finds himself close to sweating through his undershirt by the time he shows up on Ian's block, wondering just what in the fuck he's gotten himself in to.
The rest of Ian's siblings had waved at Mickey not all that interested, introducing themselves vaguely before going back to their lives. He's never been overly protective of anyone, not even his siblings, especially when it meant putting himself in the hot seat, but if he's learned anything from the short time he's had Lip hassling them it's that he isn't fond of Ian being put in that position either, and that he's willing to divert the attention onto himself to help get Lip off Ian's case.
Mickey doesn't stop tracing patterns into Ian's skin, drags his finger up to Ian's face and starts designing invisible patterns across his cheeks, connecting the dots his freckles make across the bridge of his nose. They make plans to do it on his kitchen table, but they never get around to it, so hungry by that point that they just have to cook and eat on it instead.
The sun's still setting as they rush out the front of the shop, fleeing as if they're afraid the boss will chase after them and tell them it was all a joke, and they have to get their asses back to work. They turn left as a group, heading to the usual bar they'll go to after work; sorting out what they're going to drink and who's going to pay for what.
Mickey and Jake rush through the door, trying to squeeze through it at the same time, the width of their combined shoulders making it near-impossible, yet somehow they manage, the rest of the guys bringing up the rear, calling them hyperactive idiots, saying that they're too young for their own good. Mickey tunes them out, glancing around the crowded bar until he spots a flash of red hair sitting alone at a table too big for just him, giving the eye to anyone who so much as looks as if they're coming up to ask to borrow a chair.
Mickey points towards Ian and waves his friends in that direction, Pat and Erik breaking off for the bar to grab a pitcher of whatever's cheapest on tap to bring to the table. “Hey,” Mickey says once he's reached the table, dropping into the chair Ian's pulled closest to his own, leaning over and tipping his head up to press a quick kiss to his lips.
He leans forward in his seat and plants his elbow onto the table, cradling his chin in his hand, never taking his eyes off them, like he's afraid Ian will disappear if he so much as blinks.