Archive of Our Own

He wants to feel worse about it—feels bad, but not enough.

Because it’s wrong and it’s dangerous, and messing with guys on the DL has always been his MO but this is different. This is having hot, crazy sex with a guy that’s got to clamp a hand over his mouth. Being all too careful not to leave marks just in case someone else can see. And Mickey feels bad. He has to feel bad.

But he’s been fucking his sister’s boyfriend for well over six months now, and he can’t seem to get himself to stop.

He barely knows how it started.

It’s just… good.

Real fuckin’ good.

“Fuck–” he bites, trying to muffle it in the sheets. It’s a sound forced out of him, punchy and light and straight from the throat.

If he felt more coherent then he’d be embarrassed. He’d turn his face away completely and pretend it never happened. But God, no guy has ever ate his ass before, so when Ian does it he just can’t help himself. Oh God. Oh…

“We don’t have time for this,” he tries.

He’s naked, stark on the sheets, lying flat on his stomach with his ass pulled up by hands that aren’t his own. Behind him, Ian’s naked too. There in all his glory with his head buried down between Mickey’s asscheeks, licking and spitting and scratching his teeth across the rim.

It’s fucking wet. Sounds like spit and saliva and a madman groaning behind him, but Jesus Christ it’s hot. It’s something that’s making his cock weep below and his hips grind back of their own accord. Ian’s so good at this. Oh fuck, he’s so turned on.

“She’s gonna… fuck,” every time he tries to speak Ian pushes him out of it, moving his arms so they can bracket his thighs and tug him back onto his tongue.

He moves his jaw like he’s trying to eat him alive, slow and languid and buried between his legs. And Mickey doesn’t want to gasp, he never even thought he liked this, but Ian makes it different. Ian does it like he needs it for himself, like making Mickey fall apart is just second nature when he’s grabbing at his thighs in this way.

“Fuck, Ian,” he tries to breath. “Ian, she’s gonna be home soon.”

His eyes are squeezing shut anyway, lost in it. It’s so fucking good. Arms too much like jelly to reach down and jerk himself off, but his mouth is open and embarrassingly he can feel himself arch back onto that tongue—just snagging at his rim. Making him messy and dizzy and faint with heat.

Because it’s fucking gross. It makes him want to spread his legs wider even though Ian’s got him trapped with his arms all around him. He’s being smothered. Gross and sweaty and no matter how clean he gets he’ll never understand why Ian wants to do this so bad, but when he’s into it, he’s into it, so now he’s crumbling. Fuck, he needs something more. His cock. Anything. Just more.

“You taste so good,” Ian groans. It’s a rumble that’s sent through his spine. A nasty little shock that makes him just as excited as he is aroused. It’s disgusting. Ian’s a fucking freak and he’s eating him out so expertly that it almost makes him shake. But Mickey can’t bring himself to stop it. His mouth just feels too good.

“Gross,” Mickey tries to say, but it doesn’t sound authentic. Not when his breathing hitches and Ian pushes his face in completely. He has to get lockjaw, he eats like a fucking starving man.

And Mickey could cum like this.

Just a bit more, and a bit more and…

Ian pulls away; Mickey can only hear himself whine.

“C’mon,” Ian’s mumbling. It’s so fucked out and airy that it doesn’t feel real.

But he’s not going for any lube. He’s just grabbing Mickey’s waist and pulling him up. And fuck, Mickey knows this position.

“We don’t have time.”

The hands on his hips are big and they move him like it’s nothing. Mickey’s not a light guy, not particularly, he lifts weights, he eats, and yet Ian still can grab him like he’s featherlight. Shove him forward so his waist is in line with his headboard and just push his lower back ‘till he arches.

Jesus. He hates how hot he finds it.

Fingers on his skin that make it tingle. They’re warm now, from the body heat of it all, so Mickey shouldn’t shudder. But he does, because he never seems to know what’s coming with this guy.

“Thought you liked it?” Ian murmurs lowly. It’s the sex-filled tone that makes everything heightened.

It doesn’t always feel right. It’s not the goofy, annoying guy he knows that hangs around in his sister’s room. Not the one that brings them out of date food from the store he works at, and plays video games where he never pretends to let them win. It’s just Ian in his room with the low lights on, and every time it turns him on.

God. Mickey’s bracing himself up against the wall.

“Get on with it.”

His skin’s prickling; he feels exposed.

Lingering… those hands are so big.

Big and all over his body, and up on his knees like this Mickey feels like a plaything. Like he can hear Ian breathing behind him and has to hold his own in his lungs to make sure he doesn’t seem too desperate. Just, his cock is hard and standing to attention, bobbing slightly against the headboard, and he’s turned on.

This guy’s the best fuck he’s ever had and he doesn’t always know how to react.

The headboard is old. It’s rickety, almost broken, and heaves under his weight. Mickey thinks he’ll get splinters just from holding onto it.

“Calm down,” Ian says.

The bed dips as he moves too, clambers into some awkward position that Mickey can’t really see. Maybe he doesn’t want to see it. Maybe it’s too awkward to imagine someone there behind him. But he doesn’t move. Just stills and waits and oh… yeah that’s Ian.

“Couple more minutes then I’ll fuck you, okay?”

Sometimes, it’s like his voice gets gravelly.

“Yeah…” So quiet, it’s like he doesn’t want to hear himself say it.

Because the compliance isn’t the embarrassing bit, but how quickly he’s fine once Ian’s hands are back and staking claim on his skin. Grabbing his ass and spreading him apart.

Fuck…

“Can’t believe you let me do this,” Ian comments, because he’s never learned how to shut up. “So pretty, Mick.”

“Fuck off,” he has to bite.

No. When Gallagher’s behind him and looking straight at his hole. Where he’s already been toyed with, and is probably red and puffy (which is already a downright humiliating fact) he’s not gonna let him talk about it too. It’s always a step too far. Take. Take. Take.

“Grumpy.”

“If you wanna stay back there then do something before I get bored.”

It’s a threat as tough as a paperweight, or at least that’s how Ian seems to see it.

He sighs. “But it is pretty.”

“Fuck off, my asshole is not fucking– what the fuck?” Mickey’s eyes are as wide as saucers. “Did you just kiss it?”

“What?” Ian huffs. “I just had my tongue in you, but a kiss is too far?”

“It is when you’re kissing my ass.”

“Shut up,” Ian mutters. He’s got a smile in his voice though, a little bit teasing when he keeps his grip strong so Mickey’s spread out in front of him. “One day I’m gonna blow a load in you then it eat it out.”

That really shouldn’t turn him on.

He’s blowing air through his nose not to think about it. Because he would is the thing. Mickey knows him well enough to know that all the disgusting things that Ian talks about doing he really would do. And right now the thought of being fucked through the pattress until Ian cums inside of him, then reduced to mush as he licks him clean, does more than he’d like to admit.

That’s why he knows he doesn’t sound convincing.

“...that’s fucking gross.”

“You like it.”

He does, is the problem. Kind of thinks he’d like anything that Ian gives to him, just because it’ll never be boring—when they’re sneaking around like this it can’t be.

So just when he thinks it might, he can feel something spatter over his hole, and just like that his breathing’s tight again. Oh fuck, that’s hot. Ian spitting on his rim and watching him clench around nothing, is too hot for words to describe.

“Fuck.” That voice sounds awed. His thumb’s gone there to join it, tracing slowly, never dipping in. “God, Mick. You’re driving me crazy.”

He’s so hard. So hard when he hasn’t even touched himself and he’s barely getting anything. And eventually that feeling’s going to die, so in that split second Mickey’s decided.

“Shut the fuck up,” he breathes. Instinct grabs Ian’s hair, finally having enough and dragging him in. “Get back there.”

It’s not even a thought. It’s him with his fingers tugged through red locks just keeping Ian in place and making him eat it. Wet and messy and his jaw just moving perfectly, clunkily hitting his nose because Mickey’s shoved him so close.

He’s fucking merciless. He’s grabbing the tops of Mickey’s thighs by his hipbones and pulling him back too. Like they’re addicted. Fucking disgusting. Freaks because Ian doesn’t care about the fact he’s sweating and his legs aren’t moisturised and his hair hasn’t been washed.

He’s just fucking him on his tongue and Mickey’s wrapping a hand around his cock to jerk himself off at the same time.

Oh fuck.

Oh.

“Eat it,” Mickey’s breathing, and he can feel Ian’s grip tighten. “Yeah fuck, like that.”

Fingertips bruising his thighs. They’ll leave marks for sure but they’re hidden. Hidden and private and Mickey’s fucking addicted to them. Addicted to the way Ian’s eating his ass and sucking on his rim just barely.

He’s good at it. Oh he’s so fucking good at it. Fuck, Mickey’s so turned on. He’s got his hand fisted into Ian’s hair and he feels so messy every time that tongue fucks into him.

“Oh fuck.” He can’t stop it. “Oh fuck, yeah. Fuck.”

Maybe it sounds desperate but he knows that it’s getting Ian off too. Every sound he makes spurs him on, and eventually Mickey thinks his every word is a whine. Right until Ian can’t help but groan into it too.

Which…

Fuck…

The vibrations make him woozy. Make him feel oversensitive even though they’ve barely begun. He’s got to drag him away by the strands of his hair. Finally, actually get the message across.

“Fuck,” he’s saying, turning around and tugging Ian up. “C’mon, get on with it.”

Grabby hands are clamping on his waist and it’s a feeling so tight it’s going to bruise just as bad. Ian’s eyes are blown. They’re green and they’re blown and his mouth is red and slick with spit, and it’s so downright debauched that Mickey’s obsessed with it. From the second his eyes are there to the second he’s back on that broad chest, he’s hooked.

Oh he needs it… he needs Ian to fuck him right now.

But those lips. Red and bitten enough so that when Ian licks over them Mickey thinks he’s disgusting. Disgusting enough to kiss, without thinking too hard about it.

Because when he gives in, Ian kisses like he’s never going to kiss again. Somewhere along the way when Mickey’s legs are swiped out of the way and he’s landing on his back with an “–uf,” he’s gasping into Ian’s mouth and grabbing at the back of his neck. It’s desperate and it’s bare skin against skin. Their chests pushing together, their arms trying to find somewhere to situate.

All Mickey knows is his back is against the sheets and Ian’s kissing him down like he wants to ruin him. Of course he’s got to bite back.

“Fuck.”

There are fingers in him and he can’t place when it happened. Just that Ian’s not kissing him as much as scraping his teeth over his jaw. Maybe it’s because Mickey’s strained so much from arching, his hips are trying to move so he can fuck himself back, but his body is trapped under the other’s. But either way Ian’s mouthing soft bites over his neck and it makes him want to press him in.

The nasty part, the nasty thrill, that wants him to leave a mark just so he can know who left it.

“Ian,” he can hear himself say. “Oh my God…”

Because those fingers are long and thick and they know him better than he knows himself. 6 months to get so acquainted with his body that he can’t replicate the feeling alone. 6 months to know exactly what move to pull to make him fall apart.

When they trace over his prostate that’s when it’s enough. Ian knows exactly how to avoid it so he’s reeling and it’s the most aggravating thing he’s ever experienced. Just open mouthed pants and hands latching onto those shoulders in an iron grip.

He needs it. Cock trapped between their stomach’s, trailing precum from an hour of foreplay, yeah he needs it. He’s never needed anything more.

“M’ready,” he says. If his pupils are blown then he doesn’t want to know, thinks he can see it in Ian’s stare reflected back at him.

“Not yet.”

“I’m fuckin’ ready, Gallagher.”

The look he gets makes his breathing hitch.

“No you’re not.” All tough, and commanding, like he’s got something to say… yeah Mickey likes that… likes that real bad. “You forget how big I am?”

Instinct tilts his head. “You forget that I like a little bit of pain?”

He’s propping himself up on his elbows just so he can brush their lips together. Teasing. He likes how he can feel Ian breathe back.

“Huh?” He asks again, when Ian just keeps looking at him… the kind of look that’s says he’s ready to eat him alive. “What about that, tough guy?”

There’s a hand on his neck in seconds.

“Fuck–”

Shoving him back from where he’s crept up.

It doesn’t stay, just a thumb that presses into his Adam's apple then goes to grab at his thighs. But Mickey thinks he’ll feel it for days. Those hands around his neck… one day he’ll have it for real.

“Hell no,” Ian murmurs. It’s low, and he’s grabbing the lube on the end of the bed like it’s finally kicked him into gear. “Definitely can’t forget that.”

The way he manages to rock them around feels too easy. He parts Mickey’s thighs and settles back between them, and he’s far too hot to ever be really here. All lean muscle and sparse hair. He’s big and he’s broad and Mickey never thought he’d love feeling smothered. But God he can’t help himself from wrapping his legs around Ian’s waist when prompted.

The head is pressing against him, Ian just lining himself up with one hand, the other keeping his shoulder down on the mattress.

Oh God…

Mickey’s eyes are already shut.

“You ready?” Ian asks.

With a deep breath, Mickey hums.

The head of Ian’s cock pops in.

Oh fuck…

Sometimes it feels like Ian’s obsessed with just watching those first few seconds of realisation. How the flicker of pain registers over Mickey’s features before it starts to settle. And Mickey knows it, that’s why he keeps his eyes squeezed shut, biting down hard on his own lower lip so he can’t hear the hurt as it melds away.

Close. Lips touch his. Like Ian wants to swallow his sounds. It’s less kissing and more just breathing into each other’s mouths. The adjusting making it feel like they’re so close the whole world can blur.

Gentle, gentle kisses.

Softer than anything Mickey thinks he’s ever had.

He thinks he’s just starting to get into it when his eyes shoot open.

Bang.

That’s the front door.

Mickey flinches so hard he almost shoves Ian straight out.

No one should be home right now. He planned this, the house was meant to be empty. Fuck, Iggy’s not even in the state, and Mandy– Mandy… she has a shift doesn’t she? She should be at work. Not here, where if he strains he can hear the click-clack of boots, and the groan of the floorboards. No, that can’t be here, that can’t–

“Ah–”

Mickey’s teeth have to bite into Ian’s neck to stop the sound. The sound that mellows out into a dull breath when he feels Ian’s cock fully seated inside of him. Stretching him out, making him delirious with just how sudden it all is.

“Shit, ow,” Ian curses, his head hanging down, “ow,” all heavy and hot, looking at Mickey like he’s the one making this far too dangerous. “Fuck, Mickey.”

“What…” he blinks, trying to get used to it, to stop the fact he really wants to say more. “What the fuck are you doing?”

It’s a brow raise. “Fucking you.”

“Motherfucker.” Jesus Christ. This guy has no sense of self preservation. “That was Mandy asshole.”

It still seems like it doesn’t click. Slow. “How’d you know that?”

“What?”

“Could be anyone,” Ian reasons. “Doesn’t mean we’ve got to stop.”

“That–” He cannot be serious right now. “That was her, dumbass. I know it.”

He can never tell what’s going on inside that head. Just that Ian’s running his hands over the backs of his thighs, so teasingly that it’s like he never even heard. “Mm,” he hums. Down, one open mouthed kiss to Mickey’s collarbone. “Forgot how good you feel.”

Fuck…

“Don’t try and distract me.”

“M’not,” Ian says lowly. He must be grinding his hips forward, as though he’s trying to see if he can bury any deeper, because Mickey’s starting to feel like his cock rubbing against his abdomen is meant to drive him insane. “You’re so tight, Mick.”

This is bad.

“Gallagher…” he hisses. “Mandy is here.”

“She’s not in the room.”

The way he was touching his thighs gets handsier, slowly unwrapping them from around his waist while Mickey tries to understand what’s going on.

“So just calm down,” he mutters. “And let me fuck you.”

He’s pushing Mickey’s legs back with all the force of his body, slotting his thighs so they’re pressed to his chest, legs in the air.

Oh fuck.

His legs are over his fucking shoulders and Ian just keeps on staring at him, and Mickey thinks the stretch will kill him.

Oh… Pathetically, his cock twitches, getting messy on his own stomach.

Honestly, it hurts. His legs aren’t that flexible and his hips feel old and rickety from all the falls he’s taken over the years, so he knows his brows pinch together. That whatever expression Ian is fixated on on his face, can’t be pretty. Must look like he’s begging for air, or something to rub the tension from his forehead.

“Oh fuck,” he heaves.

Because that’s deep. That’s deeper than he thinks he’s ever had anything, Ian’s cock splitting him open until his mouth hangs.

Breathing… slow…

“That hurt?”

He barely hears it, just finds himself answering.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah?”

Maybe it’s sick, but he knows that as much as he likes feeling that pain, Ian likes to cause it too. Maybe not all the time, sometimes he’ll take a slap like he’s nothing more than Mickey’s bitch, but today… today he’s going to watch Mickey whimper and struggle not to fuck him through the sheets. It’s addictive—this craving they seem to have.

Ian keeps that stretch tight. “Gotta stay quiet, okay?”

Murmuring… like he’s got to say it through his breaths because words would be too strong. And that’s damning, that makes Mickey’s pulse race..

Because fuck, this is real.

Mandy’s in the other room and they’ve got to be quieter than they’ve ever been in their lives. It’s not a quick fuck when no one’s home. It’s knowing the consequences and for some stupid reason deciding to continue. Fuck, this guy makes him stupid. Like he’s somehow burrowed under his skin.

Still, he can’t let him know that.

This is his sister’s boyfriend. There’s no romcom there.

So he bites a whisper. “Should be telling yourself that, tough guy,” and feels the way Ian starts to fuck him.

“Fuck, yeah,” he has to say. “Like that.”

It’s rough in some primal way. Skin on skin, slapping together with a sweaty sound. He almost expected the stretch to dull after that first few thrusts but no, something about this angle makes Ian feel so big every time he pushes in. Like 9 inches is all Mickey can take and yet they’re pushing the limit. Trying to break him. Wanting to mould him to the shape.

And it feels good. It feels like Ian’s fucking into him like he’s a toy. Like he doesn’t care about the hurt even if his every action shows he does. And Mickey wants to get lost in it, he knows he can, knows the fact he’s being bent in such an unnatural position is doing more for him than he’ll ever admit, but he also knows it’s not enough.

Blearily, he really tries to catch Ian’s attention with his eyes, but he can’t. Not when Ian’s head is pointing down and his breathing is doing this weird slow thing where it’s too shallow to be real. It’s confusing. With a knock to his shoulder Mickey finally gets it back.

“What– oh,” cut off as he bottoms out completely, filling him until words start to jumble. Straining to get it out in the right order. “What are you doing? Stop looking down there.”

For a moment, he thinks Ian might kiss him again.

But the second passes as quick as it appears, and instead he feels a hand enveloping his. Cautiously dragging it down between them. On his face, Ian is searching for something. Looking and looking like he’s going to eventually find something, and Mickey’s just about to tell him to fuck off when he feels it.

Oh God. Jesus fucking Christ, that can’t…

“You feel that?” Ian asks. The whisper makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand to attention. “Fuck, please tell me you can feel that.”

Oh fuck…

Mickey’s so turned on he’s going to cum already. Just from his hand here on his stomach, Ian’s own covering him as he feels just how deep he really is. How absolutely undeniable the feeling of Ian’s cock pressing against him from the inside can be.

“Ah–”

The way the head draws back then punches in again, poking against his hand in a way he’s never felt. He didn’t even think it was possible, thought it was only something that happened in porn with some airhead twink and a guy ten times his size, but no. No, he’s got his legs slung over Ian’s shoulders and that cock so deep inside of him that he’ll never feel normal again.

And there’s a bulge in his stomach just from it all. When Ian presses both of their hands down on it, he writhes.

“Ouh–nghh.”

“Oh my God,” Ian’s watching it. Babbling. “Oh my God, Mick. Baby, oh my God.”

Even in the rapture he has some standards.

“Don’t call me that.”

But Ian just ignores it. His thrusts are slow and hard, and it’s as though he’s tasted it once so now he wants to see just how deep he can get. If in one second he can really make Mickey spasm.

“Oh my god…”

Because every time he presses down it’s like a moan is forced straight out of Mickey’s throat.

An actual moan, not just the bullshit whines he’ll never admit to spewing. Actual moans where his face feels flushed and his body feels hot. Because he’s not loud in bed, not when they’re alone, not ever, but every time he pushes in it’s a reminder of just how big Ian is, and that’s mind-numbingly hot.

It’s the most erotic, most depraved thing he’s ever experienced and it’s kicked him straight into gear.

“Holy fuck…”

Something so wrong that he’s biting on his lip until it tears. Something that’s got Ian looking at him with stars in his blackened eyes.

“That’s so hot,” he’s muttering, fucking him now like he’s trying to press Mickey’s legs down by his own shoulders, folding him in half in a way that he can’t really do. “Oh my God, you’re so hot. The best… the best I’ve ever had.”

It burns. “Shut up.”

“I mean it,” he bites, cutting himself off with a groan. “Oh my God, Mickey.”

Like the pace is picking up, like he’s only just starting to hear how the sheets are sliding and the bedframe is beginning to creak.

Oh God, with how aroused he is it doesn’t sound tough.

Stressed. “Not too loud.”

Something twists in Ian’s face for a moment. Something heavier wracking through his bones, making him blow breaths from his mouth as he pulls out again, before fucking in as deep as he can go.

Then he stays.

For one second… two…

Mickey frowns.

“Gallagher–”

But he’s cut off by the feeling of Ian’s forehead dropping onto his.

“Shut up, Mickey,” he pleads, into the space between them. “I’m trying not to blow a fucking load in you right now.”

Oh…

“Jesus Christ,” Mickey hisses. It’s the weight of Ian’s body that’s not giving him enough friction to rut against. The way he’s split open without enough to properly get himself off. “Ian.”

“I know.” The slow draw back as he starts to pull out, waiting until only the head is in his body. Ian lets Mickey’s legs start to fall into something a bit more comfortable. Closer to his waist than anything else. And the sting stays now that the muscles have been stretched but it’s good. Mickey likes it far, far too much.

There are eyes fanning over his face.

Lingering, in a way that makes him want to disappear.

“You’re so hot.”

“Gallagher…”

“I mean it,” Ian just says, and it feels far too genuine for what they are. “I know you don’t like to hear it.”

At the same time, they both know why.

So Mickey does what he does best.

He turns his head to one side and uses his left arm to palm the side of Ian’s waist, grinding him slowly. It’s like they know the rhythm they’re meant to find. Because just like that, Ian’s starting to move again.

“Harder,” he mumbles. “Ian, harder.”

He can feel the bed creaking under them. The danger creeps up like a permanent reminder, but fuck, he needs this. He needs the slide of Ian’s skin and the feeling of his fingertips, and he’s never going to be able to forget it. Why pretend? Why keep his head turned when he knows that green eyes are watching him?

Cautious. “She’s gonna hear.”

But it doesn’t sound like he’s really putting up a fight.

A check in that Ian shouldn’t know he needs.

Now or never…

So he lies. “I don’t fucking care.” Because the thought terrifies him so badly that it almost makes him shake, but he’s been pent up for what feels like hours and that feeling’s never going to go away.. “Fuck me, Ian. C’mon…”

He knows that hearing it makes him wild.

It’s exactly why he expects these results.

The sudden hard and fast fucking. Something that’s not slow and isn’t cautious, but is met with a light in those desperate eyes.

It’s actual fucking. It’s so deep that he can feel it for days. Ian moves like he was made for it, all crazy and wanting and just good enough to want to keep and every time he thrusts in it feels like Mickey’s never going to breathe again. Not when he doesn’t know where to put his hands and he thinks if he dares to open his mouth then it’ll be a sound.

It’s brutal.

And when Ian’s hand finally wraps around his dick he thinks he sobs.

“Shit yeah,” sobs and arches, until they’re definitely making noise. “Like that. Uh– fuck, yeah, don’t stop.”

But it does. It stops and Mickey’s just about to protest when a hand is slapped over his mouth.

“Gotta stay quiet,” Ian’s saying, which yeah, fuck that’s so attractive. When his voice slips into that lower register and he’s fucking him so hard he knows it’s impossible to pay attention. “Yeah, Mick?”

He’s nudging against his prostate without ever properly hitting it, keeping him on that edge of desperation that makes everything feel like frantic clawing.

The hand on his mouth pressing down, forcing the back of his head to stay on the sheets while he’s fucked like he’s nothing. Merciless. As though Ian just knows he can take it and doesn’t have to ask.

“Can’t let them know how much of a slut you are.”

Even if he could answer, he doesn’t think his mind would let him. Not when his mind is racing like this, every thought fucked out, every second like being held at the edge of a cliff.

He’s losing it. He thinks his lips are wet and Ian’s hand is starting to squeeze around his face. Not painfully just to ground him in that room, and he’s never had anyone fuck him like this, never had–

There’s a crash from the other room.

It’s enough to make them freeze.

It would almost be funny just how quickly they both stop, but Mickey can’t find a second to laugh when the heat is rising in his ears.

Oh fuck…

Fuck… can she hear them?

He spares half a glance to Ian who looks white as a sheet on top of him. Just waiting. For…?

A crash… a squeak, and then… speakers?

Oh thank fuck. Both of their heads are craned to look at the door and it’s like they could hear a penny drop. Being said, the penny is apparently Mandy in the other room blasting music so loud it’s ringing through every wall.

It’s okay…

No way she can hear a thing with that playing.

Loud, angry, music. Girl rock or whatever the fuck, Mickey doesn’t care. All he can feel is his heart racing and his breathing barely able to slow down, and Ian’s big broad chest hovering over him. The slide of Ian’s cock inside of him. The heat of his body when they’re so close.

Oh, he’s shaking.

Thighs shaking when they’re coming down and slipping off of that waist, back again with a solid press. Hands, when the change in angle pushes Ian’s cock more firmly against his prostate.

Oh…

“Fuck…

“Shhh…” Ian says again. It locks their eyes together when he reaches down, seemingly grabbing at himself with a small, slight nod. “You think she can still hear?”

Maybe it’s just because he wants it to be true, but Mickey shakes his head.

He’s still biting down on his lips though.

That door, he can’t stop looking at it. Did he lock it? Fuck, he doesn’t think he did. One wrong move and they wouldn’t even hear her coming. Even if Mandy knows better than to just barge in she still just does it sometimes. She doesn’t care about his privacy. It’s not like Mickey would have anyone over. Not a hook-up, not a fuck, and not her boyfriend.

Ever so slowly, he can feel Ian pull out.

The sudden emptiness makes his lips curve down. The slight relief of Ian leaning back, and his forearms being tugged on making him shiver.

Because there in all of his glory, Ian’s still standing to attention, and Mickey’s certainly not better off himself. So he’s using what little strength is left in his legs to help himself stand. Frowning, when Ian pulls him off the bed.

What… what are they doing?

Before he can really ask he’s spun around. That chest coming in quick to cover his back. And oh… oh fuck… he can feel Ian’s cock heavy, almost sliding between his… fuck. He can feel it straining against him as he’s moved. Already fucked out, already feeling like a wreck. So he’s barefoot and standing and letting Ian just step them forward, wheeling them wheeled towards… the door?

What the–

“Relax,” Ian mutters, like he can feel the tension start to grow.

He’s a madman sometimes. Sometimes the things that he does don’t make sense and Mickey’s got to struggle to keep up. To watch the wild look in his eyes when he gets all wired and comes over to fuck. It’s… it’s confusing and it’s so attractive, and Mickey’s being pushed against the posters on his bedroom door.

He’s got to keep his elbows up so his face doesn’t clunk.

“Ian?”

Because he’s too awkwardly pressed to look down and see if it’s locked. He’s clinging onto this thin wooden thing, and it’s one thing being in the room and another being at the edge. No way… they’re not…

Ian’s pushing back in immediately.

“Oh fuck.”

That’s too loud. Oh God. That’s loud and Mickey’s scrambling to get into a better position. Ian’s pushed in all the way and it’s so quickly that Mickey can’t breathe or even find the thought to protest.

“Oh.. oh…”

Fucking him quickly. One hand by his head and another on his waist, fucking in and out and slamming his hipbones against him. It hurts. Fuck, it’ll always hurt when they’re not prepped enough and the lube is on the other side of the room so it’s just more spit and precum. But it feels so good.

So good when he can hear the music blasting from the other room and he’s trying not to fall into the door too quickly.

His mouth is dropping open. His senses are on fire, and he doesn’t know if it’s the shock of where they are, or the fact he’s trying to stand that’s making everything start to blur.

“You’re so fucking hot,” he can hear Ian say. Hear him punctuate every word with a thrust. Feel him groan it just by the rumbling on the back of his neck. It can’t be real. This guy can’t be here fucking him into delirium but here they are and Mickey’s addicted to it.

He’s pushing himself back like he doesn’t care, and it’s all laced with the fear of someone hearing. Of the way that the door keeps moving under them getting louder than the music blasting from Mandy’s bedroom.

“This ass,” Ian slaps the side just once and Mickey knows his “ah” is loud. “Need you so bad, Mick… always fucking do.”

It’s wrong. The guy’s a liar, he has to be. There’s nothing good about either of them. But the confession does something to him. It sends his hand hurtling toward his own dick in an instant so he can stroke himself in time with the thrusts. It makes his face flush in a way that spreads down his neck.

He wishes Ian didn’t fill him up so well, maybe then it would be easier to forget about. But no, everything about his cock is perfect. How deep he fucks him, and how he grinds in once he’s there. It’s nasty and he’s jerking himself so fast he’s going to lose his sanity, but he’s so turned on by it all.

Fuck…

“Can’t believe you’re letting me do this,” Ian says. It’s so close. It’s by his ear and his shoulders cave back when he slots his head in the space by his neck. Lips the top of his ear. Just the press of his hips. How deep he gets… it’s like his cock fills out every inch of him… just… fuck… “What would you do?” That low, whispery voice. Shivers down Mickey’s spine that he can’t stop from wracking through him. He must look pathetic, sound pathetic. “What would you do if she found out, huh? What you gonna do then?”

They don’t talk about her. That’s the pact.

But the music’s still playing and they’re both so far gone, and Mickey has to remind himself to stay quiet.

“Shut up, Gallagher.”

He doesn’t, of course.

“Uh uh,” he tuts. The thrusts have slowed. The way his cock drags out just so only the tip can stay, right before snapping back in. Oh the force makes Mickey’s arms slip. “You know what you're getting into,” he mutters. “Fuckin’ slut.”

He wishes the words didn’t make him whine.

Fuck… no… have some strength… have…

His eyes squeeze shut.

“Ian, stop fucking talking.”

“Don’t think I want t– fuck!”

Mickey’s ragging him forward by the hair so he’s yanked into the space over his shoulder. Tugging because he knows that when they get to it Ian really does like the pain. And the whine, the little grunty whine he hears is so damn turned on that he swears he can feel Ian’s cock twitch inside him.

They’re so close it’s like they’re trying to push into each other’s skin, and they’re sweaty and dirty and Mickey should care more about the fact teeth are grazing over his neck, hesitating like they want to clamp down on his shoulder. But he knows it’s meaningless. They can’t leave marks. They can’t even talk to each other once they leave this room.

He lets go of Ian’s hair with a sharp pull.

“Fuck me,” he demands. “Or I actually will kick you out.”

Somehow, he thinks that got the message across.

(The softest press of lips to the side of his neck. And then Ian starts to move...)

The angle is perfect. The way they move with each other is perfect. Ian’s wrapping his arms around his waist and practically lugging Mickey back in time with it all. He’s fucking into him so hard that it’s going to bruise, and they really aren’t holding anything back anymore.

Fuck the door. Fuck anyone that’s out there. Right now it’s just the two of them and that’s all it ever needs to be.

Ian shifts slightly, and Mickey’s jaw drops.

“There?”

Because he knows. Every tell feels obvious and each sound apparent.

He’s slamming into Mickey’s prostate in a way that’s going to make his knees buckle, abusing it over and over until the only thing left to do is pant.

“Yeah,” he can hear himself squirm, “Like that,” over the fog, the noise of his own heartbeat, the pulse, “Fuck. If you stop I’m gonna fuckin’ kill you.”

It’s like bliss. It’s like being known so well he’ll fall apart every time.

Oh he’s jerking himself with his own spit and precum and it feels better than it would if they were doing it right.

It feels wrong and raw, and maybe that’s what makes it better. The fact they don’t know what they’re doing, that everything about this is fucked up.

“Fuck,” Mickey bites.

“You getting close?”

It’s in the tone where he knows Ian is too. Don’t lie, why pretend? They’re in the same Goddamn boat and so when he nods frantically, he can almost feel the thankful breath from behind him.

He’s just getting used to the rhythm. He can feel Ian in just the right spot and feel his heart racing behind him, and just when it’s enough he can feel his hand being batted away too. What–

“Oh fuck.”

His mind’s breaking, like he can’t help the sound that he makes, because Ian’s knocked his hand away and replaced it with his own. It’s bigger, and it’s wet, and it’s just the right kind of friction that makes it feel like it wants to take him apart.

He thinks he’s going cross eyed, thinks his sister’s boyfriend is fucking him so hard he’s seeing stars and all he can do is pant and beg for more.

Jesus, it feels like it’s in his guts.

Every “uh” and “fuck” rushing through his lips as he bites them, but God he doesn’t care. It feels so good. Feels like his head is thumping against the door and the stupid posters he’s got up are going to give his hands papercuts. And every second of it is pure bliss.

Harder. Fuck, he needs it harder.

“Ian,” he pants, practically begs because he needs it so bad.

“Shhh,” Ian whispers, so fucking close to his ear, twisting his hand and making him kant. Mickey hates him, he seriously fucking does. “Can’t let her hear, remember.”

It’s awful. The worst admission of his life and Mickey wants nothing more than pretend every time the thought gets fucked out of him it’s fake, but something about it chews him up. The fact that he’s here and he’s attractive and his sisters 6ft fucking boyfriend is pinning him to a door and rearranging his guts. And Mandy isn’t any wiser.

This guy can’t resist him. This guy, this straight fucking guy, has to sneak over every Goddamn day because he can’t stop thinking about what it feels like to be inside him.

“Fuck, just like that,” Ian grunts. It’s like his chest his heaving, the words gravelly in a way they never usually are. That’s not the guy that sits on his couch, the one that plays video games and brings home pizza for them all. It’s Ian Gallagher, his sisters fucking boyfriend, who’s fucking him with all of his might. “Gimme that ass, Mick, fuck.”

Because his hips are slamming back too, and he’s letting the sounds that he shouldn’t let slip out, and it’s way too fucking good. It’s like Ian’s knows exactly where to hit.

Mickey’s cock is bobbing and he’s smearing pre cum on his door, all over Ian’s hand too, and he wants to be embarrassed but he can’t. Not when Ian’s grip on his waist is brutal and he’s being fucked so well he thinks he’s never going to walk again, and he needs it, he needs–

“Ian–” Needs his head to stop hitting the door, needs the force of their bodies to stop slamming it off of its hinges. “Fuck, Ian, m’close, m’so fuckin’ close.”

It would be easier if he was embarrassed. Maybe then he’d stop reaching back and forcing Ian deeper inside of him—one hand on his thigh to try and keep him in. But he can’t feel wrong. Can’t stop the pathetic fucking sounds that are leaving his lips, and the way his eyes are screwing shut, because Ian loves it too.

Ian’s listening to him, and his breathing is so incredibly heavy, and he’s into this more than anyone can understand.

He’s 9 inches deep and he’s nailing his prostate and Mickey can’t stop fucking babbling.

“Ian– Ian fuck.”

Heavy. “Mick…”

“Cum in me.” He can hear himself and it’s desperate. “Oh fuck, Gallagher, c’mon, want your load.”

“Oh fuck,” all incoherent behind him. “Mick, I’m not gonna last.”

“Don’t,” he breathes selfishly. Because he wants it so bad, wants to cum on his cock, wants to be filled up and sticky and have the whole world know this guy can’t fucking resist him. No matter how hard he tries it’ll always just be them both. “Cum in me… fuck, Ian, c’mon, don’t slow down, don’t–“

There are fingers in his mouth. One hand now on the door and the other forcing his head up.

They’re brutal and they're hooking his jaw open and they’re pressing so deep he’s almost going to gag. But Ian’s forcing his head up with two fingers in his mouth and a grip under his chin, and it’s arching Mickey’s back in a way that’s making him garble that much more. That’s shoving him chest first into the door while Ian tries his hardest to try and pound him through it.

“Yeah,” he pants. “Yeah, gonna cum in you.”

It’s like he’s trying to fuck him through the door. Like he wants Mickey to feel him and never be able to forget it. Because he’s pistoning in and out and it’s wrecking him so badly, and Mickey never knew he needed this before Ian. Never knew how badly he needed to be manhandled.

“You want it?” Ian asks, and it’s desperate too. It’s a pleading beg for Mickey to want this just as badly as he seems to. “Tell me you want it.”

And fuck… the arousal is punching through his stomach, so sensitive from the prolonged feeling that he doesn’t know how well his mind is working. Thinks he has to be honest because there’s no way that he can pretend this is anything other than carnal.

“I wan’ih.” he slurs around the fingers. “Wan’it.”

Like his molars are trying to clamp down on the digits. Like his tongue is lolling out his head. Oh God, Ian’s nailing that one spot over and over again. He needs to cum. He’s sure he’s whining it too.

The fingers in his mouth are wet and slick with his saliva and the second Ian slips him out it’s like all that was holding Mickey up has disappeared. His head falls forward and it almost hurts with how he scrambles to find some brace on the door. And he wants to complain but he’s being fucked so well that he can’t think to.

Oh god. He’s gonna rip the posters off the walls. Gonna tear at everything until he finally holds himself upright.

And he thinks he’s got it. Finally thinks he’s gonna be fine when–

“Oh fuck–”

Ian’s hand is around his dick and it’s stroking him in time with each thrust. Twisting on the upstroke, thumbing at his slit, and it’s messy and it’s spit and precum and no real lube, but Mickey fucking loses it. He’s cumming the second the feeling hits.

“Fuck.” Clenching down, bucking back erratically because he doesn’t know what else to do. It’s heaving from his bones and he’s cumming over Ian’s hand, and nothing is going to dull the feeling. Nothing, when Ian’s groaning behind him and his chest is rumbling against his back.

“Mick…” Ian breathes.

The thrusts are less sure. Deep, hard, but clearly slowing.

“Mickey, oh my God.”

He’s probably painted the door with how hard his orgasm hits. Is panting so hard its coming out more like soft groans, or moans as pathetic as it sounds, and the hazy sense of oversensitivity is slowly starting to creep up on him when he slumps.

Forehead smushing against the door, Ian giving one hard, deep thrust.

“Fuck…”

He can’t feel it, per say, but he thinks in his delirium, Ian’s cock twitches inside of him.

Filling him slowly. Painting his guts.

Ever so slowly, he pulls out.

“Shit,” Mickey whispers, because there’s a hiss of pain when he does. A weird sense of finally being empty that he can’t seem to shake.

And then he feels it. Hears, Ian stroking himself through his own orgasm, the soft grunts that pass through his lips. Milking himself dry in a way that Mickey wishes he could see. More coherent, any other day and he would. Fuck, he’d be the one trying to go for a second, less confident round. But right now, he doesn’t have the energy.

He’s slowly willing his breathing to calm, and Ian is painting the backs of his thighs. On his ass. Making sure he’s marked.

“Fuck,” he hears the final whisper. “Mickey…”

And then it’s all over.

The orgasm glow dies quickly, and Mickey keeps his eyes closed by the wall. He puffs air through his nose like a lifeline all but folded against the door. He doesn’t know how he’s standing. He doesn’t know anything other than the fact that he’s naked and he’s tired and they’re both breathing.

And every part of him just feels dirty.

He’s not sure if he wants to move.

“Fuck…”

The hand that comes around his waist to pull him back is pushed away. That’s too much. That’s not what they are.

Instead he waits for the floorboards to creak and Ian to step away. Then he’ll feel safe enough to turn his head.

Waiting.

Time that ticks.

“I better go,” Ian sighs. He’s smiling though, pulling on the first shirt he finds.

It’s hazy when he starts to leave and Mickey’s too focused on his own breathing to really watch, but he tries. He’s got to.

“Don’t want her finding me here.”

Like a shot to the chest, again and again.

“Yeah,” Mickey breathes, rubbing his nose. “Probably should.”

Because when the comedown hits and reality sets in, it’s his sister’s boyfriend. Not his.

Gallagher isn’t someone he should even think to care about.

“Think I can see you again tomorrow?” Ian asks and something in Mickey’s chest dies once more.

He never thought he was weak, never even thought he was emotional, but something about Gallagher gets to him. Turns him into the idiot that homewrecks relationships because he can never just get the guy for himself.

“Bad idea.” It’s standing here with sticky thighs and knowing he’s got to clean himself up alone. “Should keep your distance for a while.”

Ian frowns, but lets it go. “Okay,” he says. His hand is on the windowsill. “Bye Mick.”

The wave back is half-hearted.

He stays in place as Ian shuffles out, dropping to the ground with a little huff. Sneaking a guy out of his window never really felt like a liberty he’d have, a teenage thing, not something he’d get. But now he has it and he wants to feel awful, and he wants to call the whole thing off.

But he can’t really. Guy’s under his skin.

Whatever, he smushes a hand over his face as he pulls a shirt back on. Should probably go for clean but who’s there to impress?

Kicking through the little door that adjoins his bedroom to the bathroom, cleaning himself in the way he always ends up doing. It’s the very clear reminder of what they’ve done, and Mickey shivers with every touch of the washcloth. Dirty, almost.

His stomach growls the second he tries to sit.

(He needs to change his sheets. The sweat is seeping through.)

Fuck it. He’s got to face the music eventually. Without any further hesitation, Mickey gets to his feet and walks out of his room.

(Mandy’s music has stopped. When did that happen?)

He wants to creep but that would be more suspicious, so instead he settles on firm standard steps. It’s his house too, of course he’s here?

Out of his bedroom and into the hall. To where their kitchen’s all open plan because Uncle Ronnie took a hammer to the wall and never fixed it. Fuck, he’s hungry. He’s hungry and he’s tired, and… fuck.

Mandy doesn’t look up from her phone. “Assface,” she greets.

Mickey just grunts in response.

They’ve ignored each other for less. He just shouldn’t look her in the eye. Or try and talk for too long. Just move past where she’s sitting on the couch and go to grab some bread off the counter. Definitely a little dry but edible, and get on with his life.

Mandy makes it a little harder. “I invited Ian over,” she says, just loud enough for it to shock him still. “Said he’s in the neighbourhood.”

“Oh,” he mutters. “Cool.”

It doesn’t fucking matter, it’s none of his business. Just, keep his head down and slather some mayo on some bread. Still, the lump in his throat is stuck and it makes it feel as though he’s swallowing rocks. Of course he’s coming over. Of course Mickey can’t spend a second in his own Goddamn house trying to forget how much of an awful person he is.

Mandy’s looking at her phone with a dopey smile.

It churns something inside him.

“I gotta put on headphones or what?”

It’s a little snarky. A competition only one of them knows they’re in.

But Mandy rolls her eyes like it’s just a joke, and flips him off. And Mickey goes back into the fridge. If he can just finish making this sandwich before he gets here then it’ll be fine. No facing the music, no guilt stewed glances. Just figure it out. He turns back to the counter.

Why’s he even thinking about it? No, why’s he even still doing it? There’s a fuckin’ rotisserie chicken and he’s shredding it with his hands, pushing down everything he’s feeling, ignoring every thought that’s going through his head. It should have never happened in the first place. Now it’s just a daily event.

There’s a knock on the door.

“That’s him,” Mandy says.

Mickey frowns. “Why fuck is he knocking?”(To check how cautiously he’s got to enter.) “He knows it’s always open, right?”

It’s a glare. “Shut up, Mickey.”

She goes to open the door, letting the hinges creak on the way.

It shouldn’t be obvious to anyone that doesn’t care. Shouldn’t raise any flags, start dinging any alarms, but no matter how hard he tries to keep his eyes averted, the part of Mickey’s head that needs the pain to stay alive, looks up.

“Hi Ian,” Mandy grins and she’s hugging him. Hugging with her arms around his chest and his slung behind her neck just for a moment. The type of hug that says they’re close, that Mickey finds himself lingering on for a moment too long.

Fuck.

(The worst part is how terrible he feels.)

Of course that’s the moment that Ian looks up. He smiles shortly, stilted, and Mickey ignores it.

Awkward only begins to describe it.

“You smell,” Mandy frowns once she’s let him go.

They’re moving further into the room. Not her bedroom, not anywhere else, just here.

“Sorry,” Ian shrugs. “Long day.”

(Mickey hates the fact he’s still listening. The part of him that feels good at knowing just why Ian has that sheen of sweet. It’s squashed so quickly when he sees Mandy’s smile.)

She glances up for a second like she can feel it. Stops and frowns and rolls her eyes.

Yeah. Mickey’s being weird. He needs to stop standing like a creep on the edge and go. It’s better for everyone that way.

Just– she’s winning and she doesn’t even know it. Because he comes running when she calls, one message and he’s back over like nothing happened and Mickey will have to trudge back to his room as though the only time they ever see each other is now.

“Dude,” she frowns, as Ian steps further into the room, hesitating for a second. “Is that..?”

But the thought cuts out and she shakes her head. And Mickey stays making his sandwich. Just get it over with. Finish and leave so they can keep on pretending there’s nothing there.

“You want a drink, Ian?"

“Uh.” His eyes scatter up, on Mickey then away. They don’t know each other. Why would they say hi? “Sure, yeah.”

So Mandy’s by the fridge. Opening it and grabbing a bottle they’re probably going to share. Fucking couples. Couples and their stupid in love bullshit. Fuck that. Fuck them. And honestly fuck Ian Gallagher.

“Mickey?” Mandy frowns. “You’re gonna cut through the table.”

Oh.

Mickey sets the knife down. He doesn’t need cheese anyway.

Might as well just leave then. He takes a bite of his sandwich and gets ready to go, sidestepping the counter and almost managing to make it past Ian too. But before he can get too far, Mandy coughs.

Coughs, and frowns.

“Didn’t know you were into the army, Mickey.”

Huh.

His lips curve down. “M’not.”

“The back of your shirt says cadets.” she comments slowly. “Feels pretty military to me.”

“Oh.” Oh fuck. Fuck. There’s only one person he knows that wears military gear on the fucking regular and that’s not good. That’s not– casual. Be normal. She doesn’t know anything yet. “Probably one of Joey’s. His shit’s everywhere.”

Her gaze doesn’t falter.

“Yeah,” she says eventually. “Must be.”

It’s nothing and it’s fine and Mickey needs to leave and eat his Goddamn sandwich, but right now he’s glued to the spot.

Because Mandy’s staring at him.

Not subtly, not quietly, and not discreetly—she’s staring.

Mickey thinks his blood runs cold.

“You look flushed,” she says eventually. To Ian, not him. And maybe that should be fine, the attentions isn't on him anymore. But right there on the point between Ian’s shoulder and his neck, where his collarbone points and Mickey always wants to lick the sweat off, there’s a mark.

Oh fuck. He left a mark.

“I was on a run,” Ian says, casually, like he hasn’t noticed anything too wrong.

Which okay, maybe Mickey’s just focused on it because he knows who left it. He knows that Ian came in fresh and pale and definitely not marked up, and then he took off his shirt and took him apart. But maybe Mandy doesn’t notice. Maybe it’s not obvious at all.

She turns to him, squinting. “So do you.”

His brain stammers for a second. “Working out.”

There’s a look in her eyes like she doesn’t believe it. Something slight that says Mickey’s known her for too many years to be fooled. But maybe that’s why she can read him too. Why she’s looking at him with an eyebrow raised and a pinch in her forehead and then turning away.

Fuck.

She doesn’t know. She can’t know. She really fucking can’t–

“Ian, is that Mickey's t-shirt?”

Fuck.

Two heads turn to look at him. Oh God, he said that out loud.

White panic. Frozen still. She’s going to kill him. Oh fuck, she’s actually going to kill him this time.

Across from him, Ian must be having the same relegation. Except… he kind of looks more red than anything else.

“Listen,” he starts, and that’s not gonna go well, trying to plead with a Milkovich when they’re angry. She’s gonna gut him alive, and then come back for Mickey too. “Listen Mandy.”

“Holy shit,” she breathes, heavy like she’s putting my it together for real. Her boyfriend. Her fucking brother and her fucking boyfriend, and Mickey wants to disappear. He wants to curl into a ball and then never come back out.

Oh fuck.

Fuck.

“Mandy…” Ian mediates, like an idiot, an idiot with a deathwish.

Her voice is bitten.

"Seriously, Ian?" She chews. Her eyes dart back and forwards before stopping, a second where that ice does something weird. "Him. Are you kidding me? Mickey’s the guy?"

Hold on a second.

What?

Ian looks sheepish. “Mandy…”

“And you?” She wheels back on him. “You’re gay?”

“Mandy," The words are stuck in his throat. “I…”

But she turns away again, throwing her hands up in the air. “Jesus Christ just … Oh my God you guys are fucking.” Like she’s realising it the second time over. Her head snaps up to Ian’s. “I’m gonna fucking kill you? My brother?”

And that… It sounds angry. Just, not angry enough.

“How long?”

Ian’s first to answer. “6 months.”

“6 months!” she all but yells. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“He’s not out!”

Wait what?

He’s not out?

Okay, Mickey’s starting to lose his mind. What the fuck is going on?

He can feel himself blinking, feel the way his forehead is crinkling. Uh…

Dumbly, he opens his mouth. “What are you guys talking about?”

Mandy glares at him. “If you know what’s good for you, you'll stop speaking.”

But no… no. Just one question. Mickey’s never had a reason to question it before but now he kind of has to. “Aren’t you guys.. aren’t you dating?”

Ian just looks sheepish.

“What?” Mandy scoffs. She looks appalled, genuinely fucking appalled. “Us? No.”

Quiet, “Mandy’s kind of my beard.”

Just pause for a second. The three of them are all staring at each other with similar expressions of shock.

“What, c’mon Mickey?” Mandy ends up saying. “What about all the times I brought guys home? Did you actually think I was just cheating on him all the time.?

Well… “Yes.”

She scoffs for a second. Before her eyes harden.

“Wait, you thought you were fucking my boyfriend?” She realises. Then, “Fuck no. Wait you thought you were fucking my boyfriend.”

Shit.

Now she’s angry.

“You homewrecking bitch!”

There are moments where Mickey really wishes he hit girls.

“Get the fuck off me,” he’s yelling. Because he’s in a headlock and she’s grappling him around and if he can just get his hands around her ribs then he can try and flip her off. But Jesus there’s laughing in the background and maybe amidst the blur he can see Ian covering his mouth as he pretends it’s not him.

Not his sister's boyfriend.

Maybe his.