Fair warning, coarse language within. Lots of coarse language. I was writing Mickey people... four letter words are abundant beyond this point. For your sanity and mine, turn back now if this offends you.
I've also included a slight trigger warning just after the end for those that look for them, scroll down if you feel the need.
Also, cause I've always been appreciative of the warning and this tends to make me angrier than excessive swearing, this is unbeta-ed. My apologies for what, I'm sure, are atrocities ahead.
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Mickey had rules. Lots of rules. None of them were written down of course, cause Mickey had neither the time or inclination to do anything of the sort, but they were still rules and they were more real to Mickey than most of the laws he knew. In general, Mickey didn't appreciate people breaking his rules, and it didn't very much matter whether they knew them or not. This is the story of how "Cuddling is fucking gay and I'll never do it" got broken.
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They stumbled into the house through the front door just after midnight, slamming into the wall and smashing into the door jamb as they shoved at each other, fighting to make it through first. It was nice to know they didn't have to be quiet for once. The Milkovich house was pretty much empty, with prison being the new residence for most of the family and Mandy practically permanently moved into the Gallagher house. Mickey shed his coat dropping it on the first available surface while Ian tried to at least find something near the door to hang it on.
"For fucks sake, it's fine, just drop it anywhere," Mickey snorted as he sauntered into the kitchen to grab a couple more beers, "This isn't the fuckin Ritz dude, I told you I don't clean up after people." He grabbed a couple of tall boys, shutting the fridge with his foot as he turned back to the living room. Mickey could see Ian throw himself onto the far side of the couch in Mandy's old spot, putting his feet up and grabbing the remote for their old ass tv.
"Hey, what's on at one in the morning anyway?"
"I don't fuckin know man, we haven't had cable for like 3 months." Mickey sprawled out onto the other end of the couch, tossing Ian his beer and snagging the Xbox controller from the coffee table. "I put in an old season of family guy the other day, it's probably still got some left." He switched the Xbox on, and took a long swig of his beer, burping loudly and waving it towards Ian.
"Aw, fuck, Mick! That's ripe as shit… Fuckin' stop that!" Ian coughed as he tried to wave it back. "You're an asshole!" Ian leaned over throwing a decent punch into his shoulder and shoving him into the arm of the couch. Mickey just snorted and settled back into the one couch pillow they owned, throwing his own feet on the coffee table and flipping to the next episode.
They sat with a good foot of space between them, which was still closer than Mickey normally would have allowed for anyone else. He kept glancing at the red head out of the corner of his eye, watching as he laughed at some of the jokes and drank his beer. Every now and then Mickey felt this confusion settle over him, like his brain couldn't figure out what his body was doing and although it wasn't an altogether uncomfortable sensation, it was certainly unsettling. As far as Mickey was concerned, normally, the more he smoked the less he thought about it. But unfortunately, with the situation sitting on his couch, it was harder to ignore.
Mickey hated all the stereotypical gay shit on tv, and hell, he hated most of the straight shit too. Every time he saw those sitcom assholes melt their bodies and lives together like some sort of magical shit just got dumped in their coffee one morning it made him want to throw up. How the fuck were you supposed to just expect someone else to accommodate your shit every minute of the day? Kindness without reason had never made sense to the delinquint and he supposed it never would. There were always too many factors involved when someone was being nice. What they wanted, and why, were never obvious and it was never a good plan to misunderstand someone's motivation. Knowing a person's motivation had always given Mickey a clear projection of what to expect from them and kindness always threw the whole theory into a mess. It was, after all, always much harder to misinterpret a punch to the face.
He just never understood why people changed their ways. He understood that breaking fingers meant next time the payment wouldn't be late. He understood breaking knees meant he would never be shorted again. Hell, he'd figured out when he was barely eight years old something as simply as a knocked out tooth was enough encouragement for someone to understand never to walk on his street again. People changed when they were made to, not because they just randomly changed their mind one day. Sleeping with Ian didn't endeavor him to make the guy breakfast every day. But then again, watching Ian lounge on his couch, drinking his beer and watching his tv didn't make him want to kick the guy out either. And if he (strictly didn't) think about it, he supposed that was more caring then he'd ever had for anybody else.
Mickey shook his head, shifting positions again and accidentally jostling Ian as he went to drain his beer.
"Jesus Mickey!" Ian shuddered as the shifting bounced his arm into spilling the remainder of his beer down his shirt, "What is with all the fidgeting? You got something against staying still for like 10 seconds?" Ian glanced over with a smirk and lobbed his beer can into the small mountain of empties in the corner. The older boy just glared over with a grumbled fuck off and went back to slurping his beer, stilling completely.
"Hey, " Ian narrowed his eyes, "Seriously, what's up with the fidgeting?"
"Fuck off, I'm not fucking fidgeting. Fuck you."
"Mick. What's up?"
"Nothing! Fuck… It's fine. My knee's stiff. It's fine."
"Dude. We've been sitting here for like 5 minutes… How're you stiff? Is that like a euphemism or something?"
"Eupha-what? What the fuck dude, just give it up!"
Ian half turned to face him, all serious and so fucking Gallagher-y that Mickey briefly considered punching him just for the hell of it, "Mickey… what's wrong with your knee?"
"Christ Firecrotch, you're such a bitch! It just gets stiff sometimes if it's not straight, it's fine," Mickey gave him another scowl before levering himself up from the couch and stomping to the kitchen. He grabbed another beer, cracking it and draining half of it before even closing the fridge. Lumbering back to the couch he dropped into his seat and stuffed his beer can into an open spot on the coffee table.
Ian frowned "Mickey, just stretch out, I don't give a shit." The ginger raised an eyebrow and sent a questioning look at the thug. "Seriously, stop being a baby." At that, Mickey shot him a dirty stare, frowned and eyeballed the younger boy. Never one to back down from a challenge, and feeling the pain in his knee shoot up to his hip again sharply, he relented. Half twisting, he lifted his feet up and dropped them, albeit with more force then required, over Ian's legs.
Mickey laid full out on the couch and while he was significantly more tense than before, he could admit the pain in his leg was slowly letting up. He twitched as Ian shifted, the ginger getting comfy again while draping a hand over Mickey's feet.
Mickey gave it another five minutes before huffing and sitting up partly, "Look, I know you think you're helping and all, but this is fucking weird. I'm not laying on you. I'm good, my knee's fine"
Ian turned to look at him, lifting an eyebrow and shooting a quizzical stare his way. "You sure… what'd you do to it anyway?"
Mickey sat up more, grabbing his beer off the table and draining it in a long chug. He burped as he finished while staring at his can. "My dad got pissed with a baseball bat a few years back. Hasn't always worked right since."
The Milkovich boy crushed the can in his hands, tossing it in a high arc towards the can pile. It landed in a loud clang over the sitcom laughter from the tv while Mickey resolutely refused to look over at Ian. He started to pull his legs up again, intending to swing them back to the coffee table when they were grabbed and held in place.
"Why's it weird?" Mickey turned sharply to look at Ian, anticipating pity but finding only baffled amusement in the other's eyes. He supposed though that if he had to pick a topic between his past beatings and his aversion to laying on people, this was preferable.
"What? What do you mean why… Cause it's weird! Fuck Gallagher, I dunno, I don't wanna just lay on you, that's weird as fuck. Fuck off!"
At this Ian rolled his eyes to a degree even Mickey could pick out from a side glance, "It's not weird Mick, we're just hanging out. Fuck, it's fine." He leaned back into the couch with a shake of his head and a slight frown.
Mickey slumped back into his arm of the couch and stared mindlessly at the television. As far as he was concerned he didn't need to question everything in the world he thought was weird, he just accepted it and moved the fuck on with life. He blamed the distraction of a giant chicken fight for what came five minutes later.
"So, it's ok to lay on me if I don't give you a choice?"
The thug snapped his head towards Ian, fixing him with the rather impressive stare he normally reserved for those with two heads, or who, say, thought they could pay him next week.
"What the fuck? How high are you?" The ginger just raised an eyebrow and stared pointedly down.
Where Mickey's feet were being held securely in place on his lap.
Mickey's eyes widened in a simultaneous "oh shit" and "fuck you" expression that had Ian laughing instantly. The thug tried to jerk his feet back, finding no give from the younger boy's grasp. He leaned up and socked Ian in the shoulder, surprising him enough to make him let go. Mickey drew his legs up quickly but not fast enough to completely avoid the incoming retaliation. He grinned as he heard Ian laugh, springing up to grab Mickey's wrists and attempting to hold him down. Both boys wrestled in earnest, aiming for bragging rights and enjoying the knowledge that they didn't need to sacrifice strength or skill when up against each other. Mickey started laughing as he felt his wrist twist, driving his elbow up into a solid gut and grinning as he heard a muffled grunt.
Then Mickey wasn't quite sure what happened. He'd been winning, he was sure, when Ian pulled some ROTC ninja shit and had ended up basically laying behind him and in a one armed headlock. Mickey's arm was trapped under his body as he struggled to roll out of it and he flailed his free arm to try and hit anything that'd cause pain. He could feel Ian's chest shake as he started laughing, felt it roll through him even as Ian tied up Mickey's free arm to a completely useless state.
"Fuckin, fuck!" Where the fuck did you learn that? Fuck!" Mickey struggled further, getting nowhere and realizing quickly he was now in a predicament. Mickey was being held flush to Ian's front, unable to roll away while also unable to injure any part of Ian that'd cause him enough pain to let go.
Practically cuddling.
Fuck.
Ian was still laughing behind him, thoroughly enjoying Mickey's continued swearing and discomfort. "Alright, fuck, you suck! Let me go… Fuck." Mickey grunted through clenched teeth, ever the sore loser. He hated admitting losing even more than he hated actually losing, which was saying something.
"No."
Mickey stilled, "What? What the fuck Firecrotch, let me the fuck up before I rip your balls off!"
Ian just chuckled behind him and Mickey could even hear the smirk.
"I don't think so, you like 'em to much Mick… Besides, I'm comfy." Mickey started breathing faster, struggling with intent now and attempting valiantly to thrash free. Ian just tightened the hold around his throat, squeezing into his air supply just enough to encourage Mickey to still. Ian let up slightly as Mickey started to breath slower, gritting his teeth as he realized he was screwed,
"I'm warning you Gallagher, you let me go now, or I'm gonna break your face the minute you do - "
"Nah Mick, I don't think you're going to do that," Ian half rolled them back so Mickey was more solidly against the boy, "See I think all you need is the right motivation..."
Mickey felt his breath stutter once as Ian ground up slightly into him, the "motivation" becoming quite clear instantly.
"It's easy, you wanna get laid, you put up with this till the end of the episode… After, I'll pound you hard enough you black out. Deal?"
Mickey felt a shiver go through him as Ian ground up again, attempting a final twist free because a Milkovich didn't go down without every bit of fight he had. The ginger held firm, not giving an inch as he watched Mickey run the options through his head.
"Fuck you."
Knowing Ian would take it as the admission of defeat it was, the delinquent turned his head towards the tv, intending to ignore the entire situation. After a minute or so of watching the cartoon he felt his mind start to assess the unfortunate position he'd found himself in. He had to admit, he was laid out flat, Gallagher was warm, and it certainly wasn't the most uncomfortable way he'd ever slept. Instantly tensing with realization, he sucked in a breath and tried viciously to ignore the part of him that didn't seem to care about being plastered to Ian.
"I don't fucking cuddle, Gallagher," Mickey spat out flatly, "This is fucking gay."
Ian just chuckled in response, seeming to read Mickey's thoughts, "I wouldn't say this is exactly "cuddling" Mick -"
Mickey just clenched his teeth harder, "Yeah and what the fuck would you call it then?!"
He could feel Ian thinking it over in his head, rolling it around in that fire coloured head of his as he legitimately considered the question. With a snort, Ian tightened his grip slightly, rolling them back even more until he got comfortable, and relaxing.
"Nah it's not cuddling, it's more like… Aggressive spooning." Ian laughed a little bit harder as he thought it fully through, enjoying himself much to thoroughly. Mickey could feel the laughter roll through him, the chuckling Ian at least had the decency to muffle. He grumbled under his breath and turned his head back towards the tv. Ignoring the situation, but maybe, ever so slightly, relaxing.
After all, people didn't change just because they felt like it one day. But if you made them? And renamed it? And maybe ignored it completely? And rewarded it with thought stopping sex afterwards…?
Yeah ok, maybe Mickey could handle aggressive spooning.
But only occasionally.
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Trigger warning: As a result of fully consensual wrestling, there is non-con cuddling.
Yeah... not even I can believe I wrote 2000 words about non-con cuddling, but it happened... My brain is missing a screw somewhere I'm sure. Thanks for the read! Happy Valentine's day!