Author: Rayne Storm

Fandom: Shameless (US)

Warnings: Slash. Cocks. Slash and cocks.

Author's Note: It's been forever since I've written a fanfiction, but you can only stare at the empty page of your Great American Novel for so long before you feel the need to at least get something out. So here it is. It isn't perfect. I couldn't find the spelling error that is surely somewhere. But it is writing, and it is mine. I also have done sex in a while, so I might be a bit rusty. Review if you like.

The pounding on the front door woke Ian up in the dead of night. It was raining so hard outside that he figured the deeper sleepers of the Gallagher clan-Fiona, Lip and fortunately Liam-wouldn't notice the intrusion. He sat up in bed, automatically validated as Lip shifted, only to fall into a deeper sleep; his snores were enough to keep Ian up for hours some nights. Ian had to pause at the erection left from a dirty dream, poking hungrily at his boxers. The shape was visible under the bedspread he had half slung over him. After a moment, it started to go down and he climbed to his feet, quickly making the decision that adding a shirt to his boxers was enough of a wardrobe to answer the door this early in the morning. The pounding came a second time, louder, and Ian cursed softly. The hardwood floors and stairs were cold on his skin and the living room was chilly from a window that had been left open. The heat bill hadn't been paid that month and though it was only October, jackets and sweaters had already been brought out. Ian tugged at the door handle and it slid open, revealing a shivering, panting Mickey on the doorstep.

"What are you doing here, man?" Ian frowned, running a hand through his hair to try and flatten it. "It's like three in the morning." Mickey always decided where and when things happened between them; Ian had accepted it without another choice.

"I want you," Mickey swallowed, his water-soaked hair sticking to his forehead, which gleamed under the heat of the porch light. Drops of the weather hung from his eyelashes for seconds at a time before splashing to his cheeks and running down his chin. His clothes were clinging to his body, the thin cloth running the length of the light muscles on his chest to meet jeans that held on even tighter. Ian couldn't help but feel himself start growing stiff despite the hour and abrupt visit. With a careless glance around to make sure nobody else had gotten curious and decided to investigate, Ian held the door open wider, but the older boy shook his head. "Not in there. Come out."

"It's pouring like hell outside," the middle Gallagher protested, hand tightening on the door a little. After a minute of resistance, and silence from Mickey, he gave in and stepped outside, pulling the house closed behind him. It was far quieter somehow. The space and air made it feel like there was more room to breathe and exist. There were no eyes watching them. Ian automatically made for the porch swing but a hand lurched out to stop him.

"Not here. The car parked right there," Mickey nodded to a black Jeep Grand Cherokee sitting at the curb. It was new, or maybe just something that'd been stolen. That was so like Mickey, to steal a car just for them to fuck in. Because that's what it was. Fucking. Always hard, and fast. The kind of sex that was just meat hitting more meat, turning skin red as fingers and teeth left bruises and drew blood. That's how the Milkovich boy liked it. Sometimes Ian wasn't in the mood, but tonight he wouldn't protest.

"Fine," he agreed, "But only if I can bottom."

"No," Mickey said with the air of finality, before jogging down the steps of the front porch and toward the car. He didn't wait to see if his top followed, but he did of course, with a moment. The back door to the jeep slammed shut behind them and Mickey got on his hands and knees. He balanced himself rather well on the car seat, and managed to unbuckle his jeans and pull them down to his knees without error. Ian took the time to appreciate the firm ass of his lover, before him as if it was all his. He knew that it wasn't, or wouldn't be for long, but he couldn't help but run his hands over it, gripping for a moment to feel the pale skin beneath his fingers. It was the only soft part of Mickey Milkovich.

The bottom didn't stay patient for long, sneering, "None of this pussy shit, Gallagher. Get your dick out." Complying, Ian worked himself to get to his full length and rubbed the head down the crack of the generous ass, resting at the hole that he'd found more warmth and happiness in then anywhere else. It wasn't even the orgasm that made him sweat-it was just being inside of him, bringing him pleasure. For a short time, Ian was valuable to Mickey in a way that not many guys were. He rested his hands on firm hips and pushed inwards until he disappeared inside, letting out an involuntary shudder at how heated and tight it felt. Ian stopped to let him get comfortable, but Mickey reached around and planted a hand on Ian's ass, digging his nails in and starting to move him.

The car was filled with the loud, wet sound of the teenager's dick rapidly pounding it's bitch, who squirmed and groaned under him. Milkovich was much more calm and relaxed once he had a cock up him. Ian's balls started to slap his ass as he thrusted with more precision and speed, easily finding the spot that made Mickey let out breathless cries of sheer pleasure. He knew this was the only way to stop the more reserved male from holding back. This was the only time where they were both themselves, and his one chance to really have such an unattainable youth for himself, if only for the precious moments spared now and again. "Fuck," Ian hissed, desperately attempting to hold himself back and keep things going. He slowed, altering to move in a relaxed motion. Mickey didn't care for it, but Ian didn't listen. He was topping, and he'd decide how they fucked.

"Come on, harder," was the weak protest, caught somewhere between pants and curses. "Harder."

"Say that you're my whore," Ian reached around to grip the other's shaft at the base, squeezing so it'd be harder to cum. "You don't have to be my boyfriend, but tell me you're my whore. I want to hear you say it." He needed Mickey to belong to him in some form.

"ShitfuckingChrist," Mickey moaned in impatience. "I'm your whore. I like getting your dick rammed in my ass. Now fuck me." Ian started to thrust rougher than before, leaning down to rest against the cold back. The dampness from the rain only made it colder. He ran his tongue over both earlobes, one at a time, sucking and nibbling with practice. His hand slid from the base and sped up and down the size of Mickey, as the dick throbbed in his fist. As they both neared the end, Ian bit down on his neck, holding on like a dog right before he left his seed in his mate. Mickey arched back up against him, his insides tightening around Ian's cock and bringing him to orgasm. He shot his load, and Mickey came simultaneously. The cum oozed all over his hand and dripped to the seat of the car. Reluctantly, he pulled out and sat back, watching Mickey right himself and wipe the semen off the seat with the long sleeve of his shirt. The words were off his lips before Ian could stop them. "I love you." He regretted voicing his feelings automatically.

Milkovich froze and then turned red in anger, "Fuck you." His fist collided with Ian's cheek, and then he reached around him to open the door and knock him out, flat on his ass in the mud. "You shouldn't say that kind of crap." He slammed the door closed and slid into the front seat; the engine roared to life. He was gone as quick as he came, like always.

Ian sat shivering, soaked from the fresh shower the sky gave him. Shakily, he got to his feet and stared at his house like it was a stranger. It was entirely possible that he'd be noticed, motionless in his underwear, body drained of color but for the pink swelling on his face. Somehow he doubted it. It rained for hours that night, but for the Gallaghers, it was always raining. They were stuck in the biggest shit hole imaginable, yet unable to function without the total of them; nobody could escape. All they could do was find some sort of small happiness in the darkness. Some way to cope.

Minutes later, he was feet from the door went he heard the splash of footsteps in puddles, and turned to find himself staring at Mickey. Neither of them said anything. There was no compromise, no middle ground. Ian couldn't do it much longer as it was, and Mickey wasn't ready for more. Giving up wasn't preferable, but it was best to end things before a web was further tangled. Ian couldn't live with that; he needed Mickey in his life or he needed to let him go.

"I crashed the car when I drove away. 'Cause of y-you. You always have to fucking ruin everything! You always have to make this about feelings and love, and I don't know why I'm not enough for you, but I can't do that bullshit. It ain't me. You're so gay, Gallagher."

"Yeah, well, so are you. You're gay."

"I'm not."

"Yes, you are. Your Dad may not know it, but Mandy does. I do. You're a queer. A homosexual. A fag."

"Don't say another word."

"You're just like me. Only I'm not trying to convince myself otherwise."

"Stop it!" Mickey charged at Ian and knocked him into the yard, rolling on top of him and bringing his fists down at his face. Ian blocked his attack and kneed him in the crotch, using the time to take the advantage and roll on top of him, fighting to pin his struggle and hold him down.

"You stop it," Ian screamed. "Stop fighting it. Stop hiding it. Stop forcing it down. Just say it, Mickey. Just say it."

"I-I'm n-not..." Mickey faltered, eyes wide and locked on Ian. Maybe it was just the rain, but he could have sworn there were tears in those eyes. In their blue uncertain gaze, Ian also found the truth, lost in the vulnerability and the fear that made up the man lying under him. The fighting died. The words were barely a whisper. "I'm gay."

"Y-Yeah," Ian said. "You're gay. And you're enough, Mickey. You are enough, for me. I don't need you to tell me you love me. I don't need you to hold my hand in public and take me out to the movies. Buy my popcorn. I just need you to stop acting like I'm not enough for you." Then he kissed him: full, and passionate, and hard. He kissed him like he owned him and like he was setting him free. He couldn't decide what would happen between them, only what would happen for himself. He had to set Mickey Milkovich free because despite what he knew and what he saw in that moment, what he hoped, it ended. Mickey shoved Ian off and scrambled to his feet. He ran and Ian didn't chase after him.

The next morning, the rain had stopped. Waking slowly, Ian could hear the sounds of all of his family in the kitchen. He stood. Fiona was giving Debbie money for a field trip to the park. She was also complaining about why the school thought that field trip warranted twenty dollars. He headed out into the hallway. The oven was on. Eggs were frying, maybe some bacon. He paused at the top of the stairs. Lip was muttering to himself as he finished his homework. Liam giggled from his baby chair at the table, throwing cheerios at the floor. He took the steps, two at a time. Carl was dashing out the door to meet a friend before the bus came. Fiona chased after him with his lunch. Ian stood at the entrance to the kitchen and he smiled. Dysfunctional, messy, but present. His brothers and sisters were always there and they loved him, even though he was gay. Some shit holes were worse than others.

He hurried to pull breakfast off the stove before it burned. Feet falling on the back stairs made him think Fiona was coming inside, but when he lifted his face, he was staring at Mickey, who hung in the doorway awkwardly. Everyone stared. He held a box of crushed doughnuts in one hand; the other was shoved in the pocket of his hoody. "I thought maybe..."

"Yeah," Ian's mouth was suddenly dry. "Yeah, great. Breakfast got ruined anyway." He dropped the pan in the sink and turned the water on. "You have good timing."

"Not really," Mickey handed the box to Debbie, who divided them between everyone. Mickey declined to eat one and instead walked over to Ian, stopping next to him. He pulled his other hand out and offered a small, bent, but bright yellow flower. It looked like it was yanked from some weeds in someone's yard, maybe even their's.

It was the warmest that Ian had ever felt.