Ian grunts low in his chest, the sound animalistic in the way that it somehow manages to emerge possessive as he rolls his hips into Mickey, hipbones digging into his ass and his fingers gripping the skin of one hip tightly.
He can't help but watch the way that Mickey's pale skin blooms red underneath his palm, can't help but imagine how it'll bruise in the shape of his fingers if he squeezes just that little bit tighter. So he does, because he needs this, he deserves this.
This feels like everything he has been waiting for and he doesn't want it to end. He doesn't want it to end even though it's like he's racing towards his own oblivion, one fraction at a time with each thrust and roll of his hips.
And he'd slow down, he'd bring the pace back to the torturous grind that he'd sometimes submitted Mickey to, until he was whining and breathless underneath him, writhing with the need to come and so strung out that he couldn't even remember how to choke out the words, "Get a fuckin' move on Gallagher."
He'd do it and his hips stutter forwards into the pattern they so desperately want to follow. The only problem is, it's been too long and it's going to be over too soon and he knows that no matter the pace, that isn't going to change. And what with the way that Mickey is pushing back to meet every thrust, grunting around the lip he has trapped between his teeth, Ian knows his hips and mind might be on the same wavelength, but every other nerve in his body is driving him to press forwards faster and harder and now, now, now.
He curls the fingers of the hand not bruising his identity into Mickey's hip up to his shoulder, helping pull Mickey back to meet every thrust, helping to spear him on his cock in that way that he knows hits Mickey just right, that makes him bite down on his lip until blood is filling his mouth and that makes him not care at all.
He strokes a thumb slowly over the back of Mickey's neck, scratching at the hairs at the base of his scalp with a blunt nail and watching transfixed for a moment before he comes back to himself.
Mickey grinds out a curse word in that way he does that doesn't even make sense, because it's, "fuck," and ,"shit," and a range of a thousand expletives nobody else has ever thought to use ever all at once.
And Mickey's ass contracts around his dick and it feels like he's squeezing out Ian's soul and every logical thought he's ever had in that once move. Mickey comes and Ian follows, always unable to do anything but sprint after the other boy.
He collapses forwards, boneless and uncaring and it said a lot about how long it had been and something about sentimentality probably that Mickey let him rest there for going on a few minutes before he finally put an elbow into Ian's gut and shifted him off.
"Fuck," Mickey breathed out, scrubbing a hand across his face, tattoos catching Ian's eye like they always did.
His bottom lip is swollen and shiny and red and Ian wants to lean over and suck it into his own mouth, wants to taste the fruits of his success. He doesn't want a split in his own lip though, because he knows that Mickey's sentimentality only extends so far.
So he bites down on the impulse and lets a wide grin spread across his face.
He hasn't smiled like that in so long and his facial muscles don't seem to know how to cope with it, a muscle twitching under his eye and another jumping in his cheek. He probably looks like an idiot, but Mickey would roll his eyes at him either way, so he doesn't let it bother him.
"Hey Gallagher?" Mickey asked, minutes or hours later, the words shaped around smoke before he hands it off to Ian.
Ian hummed low in his throat, fitting the filter between his own lips and remembering when this was the closest he thought he would ever come to kissing Mickey Milkovich; sharing spit around a cigarette.
It was funnier how things had been so much simpler when that was true.
He doesn't know what he prefers, the them that was so easy and carefree, even with the low ache of uncertainty in his gut at all times or the broken and battered them that exists now. He thinks it's probably the latter, if only because the worst is always interspersed with the looks that Mickey gives him that makes every part of him feel like it's been set on fire all at once.
It's heady and addictive and it's the best thing he's ever felt.
Mickey doesn't say anything for a minute and Ian can see the moment that he finally decides to just bite the bullet and spit it out. He rubs a thumb across his bottom lip and the digit comes away shining with spit and a little spec of blood that Ian wants to suck into his own mouth.
"Yo, so… you think I've got a small dick?" Mickey asked and if Ian hadn't so distracted staring at the other boy's tattooed fingers then he probably wouldn't have started quite like he did.
"Excuse me?" he said dumbly, blinking like an idiot and staring up at the expression on Mickey's face.
He looked conflicted and constipated and a thousand other words beginning with 'c'. He wouldn't look at Ian, which as probably a good thing given that he didn't know what expression he had on his face.
Ian couldn't help but look at where Mickey's cock lay, spent and sticky between his thighs.
He probably shouldn't have though, because then he got distracted by the sight of the dark hairs smattered there and his fingers twitched with the desire to scratch his fingernails through them. He should probably stop staring, he knew he should, but the sight in front of him after so long was making him dumb.
It was like all the blood was rushing to his head all at once, jumbling his thoughts and leaving him as nothing more than a bumbling idiot.
"Mick," he said and nobody should have let him reply in that moment, ever, "You're dick's fine."
Mickey's mouth twisted into a grimace that even on him was ugly and harsh, but the pain deep in the blue of his eyes made him beautiful and vulnerable in a way that had Ian wanting to bite his claim into the side of Mickey's throat for all to see.
"Well fuckin' thanks, Gallagher," Mickey said, snarling and lurching up off the bed and away. He snatched for a packet of smokes amongst the chaos of his bedside table, lighting up another and stuffing it between his lips greedily.
Ian rolled his eyes, his body moving before his mind did.
He came back to himself with Mickey flattened against the wall, one arm across the back of his shoulder blades and the other fitting in the already blooming marks on his hip. He put his mouth against Mickey's ear, biting at the lobe before he could help himself and relishing at the shudder that went down Mickey's spine in response.
"Didn't know you were so insecure, Mick," he said, taunting because he was an idiot, but loving every second of it as Mickey bucked against him, unintentionally grinding back into Ian's slowly fattening cock.
He pushed his hips forwards, thrusting against the crack of Mickey's ass and both of them moaning low in their throats when the head of his cock caught on Mickey's still wet rim.
He was glad that the state of Mickey's room could never really improve, what with the condom directly within his line of sight. It was testament to how often they had used to fuck that he was well practiced in how to pin Mickey against a wall and roll a condom down over his cock at the same time.
"Fucking do it," Mickey ground out at him through his teeth when Ian did nothing more than tease him with the head of his cock.
He laughed lowly, sliding a hand around to grip Mickey's dick within the circle of his fingers and bit a path back up to Mickey's ear, sucking a beautiful row of hickeys into existence as he went. So he was feeling possessive today, so what?
"You think it matters to be how big your dick is, Mickey?" he asked, pumping him a few times just to hear Mickey's head thunk against the wall in front of him, "You think I care about anything other than your ass, hey?"
He inched his hips forwards just slightly, tightening his grip on Mickey's hip further when he tried to rock backwards.
"You can tell I've been gone so long," he said, pulling back until he was just barely inside so that he could feel the muscles of Mickey's rim fluttering around his cockhead. Fuck, but he was so tight. He was always so tight, but it almost made Ian want to leave him without again for a while just so he could feel the impossible pressure strangling his dick like it had when he'd first edged his cock inside.
It was indescribable.
"You really shouldn't worry about anyone's cock but mine," he said and he thought he drove that point home pretty well.
That was, if the sound that Mickey made when he slammed his cock right the way home was anything to do by.