Mikey Milcovitch was a ruthless, bone breaking, coke snorting, convict, at least that what he told himself every time Ian Gallagher thrust into him. That's what Mikey told himself every time he allowed Ian to stay after they'd finished with their fuck. He told himself that it didn't make him a bitch for liking what he liked and as much as his dad may believe it; there was no way anyone could fuck the fag out of him, especially when he took it up the ass daily.
Mikey could never quiet figure out why in the world he had been so turned on when Ian had prodded him awake with a cold stab from the tire iron, truthfully that iron was still somewhere underneath his bed. Suddenly Mikey had been straddling his shoulders, his whole body humming with adrenaline from the fact that this scrawny boy who looked like their was no fight in him, had fought back, and had almost won.
Mikey had seen the same look of desperation and lust swirling around in the red heads eyes that Mikey so often associated with his own. But that mix he'd seen so often in the looks of all his sideline, back alley fucks that it couldn't have just been that. Ya, Gallagher's shoulders had been tight and muscled underneath Mikey's thighs as he'd paused mid swing, there was no denying he was hot even then with his to long hair and baby face I but it wasn't that either. It was the fact that those two emotions were mixed with the unmistakable confusion of deciphering witch one was witch and that's what had sealed the deal.
Mikey knew that Gallagher was just as turned on as him, there was no doubt of that as he'd felt the repressed twitch against his back as he experimentally grinned against him, and if he was wrong then the action could easily be played off but still, Mikey shouldn't have worried, Gallagher was more than happy to undress for him.
From the first time in Mikey's bed they'd gone to storerooms, alleys, behind the bleachers, Mikey was getting careless and careless meant someone would find out and that meant he would die, or worse; Gallagher would die.
That last thought Mikey tried his best to suppress with another hit from the joint hanging between his lips but the high was was slowly increasing, not to mention the one out of many beers swinging lazily from his fingertips, that only served to bring Gallagher's image more prominently to the front of his mind to the point were against the inside on his eyelids he could see red hair and green eyes burning against the blackness.
The stupid asshole was probably out fucking that senior citizen he'd only recently landed a well aimed punch at. That had been a good day; Mikey did his best to repress the memories of Ian and himself running from the cops, leaving that old bastard laying in his own blood on the cold, hard asphalt where he belonged. Mikey remembered how they chased each other, landing a few punches on one another, non of them hurt. He'd finally let Ian catch him and pin him to the wall of an an abandoned alleyway storeroom.
The image of Gallagher's lips on his neck, his teeth leaving bruises on his back, on his ear, scratches down his spine, they were seared into his memory like cigarette burns; they never quite faded. Mikey could still feel Gallagher's lips on his skin, no place untouched except for his lips. It was an unspoken rule but there was no doubt that sharing an actual kiss was forbidden.
He loved those bruises that wrapped on either side of his hips, crescent moon indents from Gallagher's nails were they'd dug in trying to suppress a moan. Ian had apologized when he'd seen them but in return Mikey had sneered "what do you think I am? A little bitch? I like it that way."
Mikey was always on the bottom, as much as he hated to admit it and he would never be that vulnerable with anyone else but this time he'd taken the reins just to prove to firecrotch that he liked hard and ruff, that was just them.
Putty, that's what Gallagher had been in his hands as he'd moved slowly in and out of him. Mikey had grabbed his shoulders and unceremoniously flipped Ian around so that his bare back pressed into Mikey's equally bare chest as he leaned forward.
"Spit" Mikey demanded and Gallagher obeyed, admittedly, he had never been so turned on in his life and Gallagher was putty in his hands.
If it was in Mikey's nature to apologize he would have but instead he only smirked when the next day Ian's sides were bruised. The lighting in the storeroom at the Kash n' Grab made everything look a little more grotesque; the nips on Ian's shoulders looked deeper, the hickeys on his neck and back looked almost black, the scratches up and down his spine weren't just red but purple and they grinned at each other because that's the way they liked it; hard and ruff and, as much as Mikey denied it, completely them.
What bothered Mikey was that there was a 'them', there was never a 'them' with anyone else, not even with Mandy who cared marginally more for him then she did for the rest of the family and the same was marginally true for himself. But now he knew that there was a 'them', he didn't know wether firecrotch knew this or not but he was certainly not telling him himself.
Mikey blamed it on the amount of alcohol and weed that was churning around inside him but either way it didn't change the fact that he picked up the prepaid, untraceable phone beside him and pressed '1'. Yes firecrotch was on speed dial and no this was for no other reason except to make a convenient, late night booty call.
It didn't take long. Gallagher was sitting straight backed against the couch, his posture always the same; formal, alert and rigid, just like a soldier.
Secretly Mikey hated that Gallagher wanted to be in the army. He hated that if he went to West Point that meant he would be leaving him. He hated that if he was shipped off to fight some war that he might never come back from, either because he had finally realized Mikey wasn't worth it or because he had died, blown up by some roadside bomb or shot by some fucker who had no idea who he was or who would miss him. What Mikey hated most of all was the fact that he cared one bit whether one freckle on firecrotch's face was misplaced or not.
Mikey grunts as he hands Ian the half burnt smoke, fingers brushing against Ian's receiving ones. They hadn't fucked yet, normally Mikey would have initiated it a long time ago but today was different. Mikey squashed those thoughts in his head, today was no different than any other day; Gallagher was simply a warm mouth to him and that's why Mikey finally got himself and firecrotch to his room, if only to prove a point.
Mikey remembered when it was only a quick fuck; shoes and shirt on, pants pooled at the ankles, faces pressed against walls; never comfortable. All this runs through Mikey's mind as he pulls his shirt over his head, glancing at Ian from beneath his eyelashes to see him doing the same. Turning Mikey takes a step and pauses as he feels Gallagher's feather touch, lips brushed against his shoulder, making Mikey's skin crawl in pleasure.
There's still no kiss, even though Mikey can feel himself drawn to Gallagher's mouth like a magnet, instead Ian pushes him down on the bed and laches onto his neck, all teeth and lips and tong, there's no trace of softness left as his nails rake desperately at his back.
Mikey hears the unmistakable tear of a condom wrapper and the snap of the hand sanitizer sized bottle of lube he knew Gallagher always had with him.
It only took a minute for Gallagher to prepare himself and for Mikey to grow painfully hard.