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The house is dead quiet. Everyone is sleeping. Ian has been flipping through the channels, never quite satisfied with anything on. He does this while Mickey rolls a blunt that they finally light up when Ian, predictably, settled on Family Guy. The whole flipping-through-channels was really just unnecessary, Ian always ended up wanting to watch Family Guy when he got high.
Getting high with Ian was one of Mickey’s favorite things to do with him, just hanging out together like that; they’d fuck later, both of them blazed out of their minds. They don’t do it all the time —get high, turn on weird ass electronic music that neither one of them would usually listen to and fuck— but it’s fucking amazing; they get so far gone that caring about looking stupid or saying something stupid is the furthest thing from a concern.
But now, they laid out in opposite directions, each propped up on an arm of the couch, their legs winding together, it took no effort at all to reach over and pass the blunt. Ian rubbed at Mickey’s shins, sometimes lightly picking at strands of hair. It tickled a little bit; Mickey shoved at Ian with his foot to get him to stop, not actually wanting him to though.
During commercials, Ian starts talking about watching Ancient Aliens, starts talking about how big space is and how we’re so small to the point where Mickey feels sick to his stomach. When the show comes back on, they settle back to watching a bit with Chester Cheetah snorting a line of Cheetos and yelling about Neil Peart; Mickey and Ian laugh so hard that both of them have tears streaming down their faces.
After three more episodes, Mickey gently stubbed out the blunt, feeling nothing less than completely relaxed and a few minutes away from being gone. Like heavy blanket over his body, feeling like he was watching a movie, not actually participating in real life gone. He settled back against the couch and closed his eyes, giving into the high, letting everything else fade away.
When he opened his eyes, he was staring into squinting, bloodshot greenish ones, felt the weight of Ian on top of him. They just looked at each other for what seemed like an hour (it wasn’t an hour, Mickey could tell because it only lasted through one commercial) until Ian cracked a crazy grin. And it was the funniest fucking thing Mickey had ever seen.
His laugh was cut short when Ian dipped his head down and nuzzled his face into his neck, dropping kisses and tonguing his skin there. Mickey groaned, clenching his eyes shut tightly. Every nerve ending where Ian’s lips and tongue and teeth worked hummed and vibrated, echoing through his entire body.
“Christ Mick, you’re fucking stoned, huh?” Ian chuckled against Mickey’s neck, his breath hot against his skin. “You turning into a lightweight on me?”
“Pfft. You should talk, you can barely keep your eyes open, fucker,” Mickey half-heartedly shoved at Ian. He caught the hem of Ian’s shirt and slid his hands under the fabric, dragging his short nails across the skin of the redheads back.
Ian grunted and worked his mouth upwards until his lips feathered against Mickey’s ear, “Come to bed with me. Lemme take care of you.”
It wasn't a request but Mickey wasn’t about to refuse. He let Ian pull him off the couch and lead him into their room, locking the door behind them. Mickey just stood at the side of the bed for a moment, looking at the white sheets and the pillows all tangled together.
He smacked his lips together, “I got cottonmouth real bad.”
“Gatorade on the nightstand.”
“I want those nice sheets,” Mickey mumbled, yanking his shirt over his head. He downed half the bottle of Gatorade before passing it to Ian, “You know the ones from fucking… Egypt.”
“Egyptian cotton?” Ian pressed against his back, snaking his arms around Mickey to untie the strings of his sweatpants; he pushed them down Mickey’s legs until they were puddled around his feet. “You’re so lazy when you’re high.”
“Yeah, Egyptian cotton,” Mickey nodded, climbing into bed. “And a good mattress. One of those fancy rich people ones with the… you know, the pillow top. Fucking nice.”
“When’d you get so into bedding?” Ian laughed, starting to undress himself.
“Ay.”
“Yeah?”
“Fuck off,” Mickey raised his middle finger and grinned.
Ian snorted a laugh and returned the gesture.
Mickey watched Ian, watched the way his skin moved over muscle, the way his hair shifted as he bent over to pick up his own sweatpants and throw them in the hamper. Mickey reached down to cup his erection. Because was his boyfriend hot as fuck or what?
“Did you know that I’ve never had new clothes just for me? Like brand new? Except boxers. And socks. Like… can I get some fucking jeans that haven't been broken in by Iggy for fucking once? Cuz, that guy does not know what a fucking napkin is.”
He kind of wished he could stop talking, but his mouth was was working faster than his brain had a chance to filter the thoughts. Ian climbed into the bed and settled against Mickey, his fingers tracing patters over his chest and shoulders. It was hypnotic, drawing him further and further away from the ground. Mickey closed his eyes, just relying on his body to tell him where Ian’s fingers were, letting his high magnify the touches.
“I always hated hand-me-downs,” Ian breathed, pressing his lips against Mickey’s shoulder.
“Mmhmm,” Mickey gripped the sheets under his hands as he felt Ian’s fingers trail down his sternum. “No music?”
“No, I just wanna listen to you,” Ian murmured.
Mickey caught his bottom lip between his teeth. Ian’s hand reached down to trace his fingers over his erection, wrapping lightly around him, making him grunt softly in the back of his throat. His hips bucked a little into Ian’s grip, wanting more friction.
And then Ian is above him. His eyes like leaves in water, dark and intense and endless and Mickey is slipping away again, slipping into a trance as Ian just stares at him. It’s not the funniest fucking thing he’s ever seen anymore.
Ian’s long fingers touch Mickey’s lips. “Open,” he says, so he does, closing his eyes as Ian sinks two fingers into his mouth, the pointer and middle, his palm wedged nicely against Mickey’s chin. Ian breathes out heavy and he curses, working his fingers in and out of Mickey’s mouth, telling him how sexy he looks like that.
And he tastes good, he taste so fucking good and Mickey knows Ian’s little kinks, knows Ian likes to slide his fingers in his mouth, slide them against his tongue and teeth, test how much Mickey can take. Mickey can take a lot, he learned how to, over the years. They both moan low, pressing their bodies against each other, rutting against each other; Mickey grabs onto Ian’s hips, presses his fingers into his skin. Then Mickey opens his eyes again, wanting to drift away in Ian’s like before.
Ian’s still talking to him, asking him things, asking him Mickey what he wants and Mickey wants it all. He doesn't suck on Ian’s fingers, that’s not what the redhead wants, he wants to just feel the inside of Mickey in one place before he feels inside of him in another place, likes that slickness of his tongue and sharpness of his teeth.
“God, I love that fucking sound,” Ian breathes, “Fucking sick.”
Ian likes the way Mickey’s spit builds up and dribbles out of the corners his mouth, that wet sound when he shoves his fingers back into his throat. (Mickey doesn't gag, he used to, but not anymore.) Ian’s fucking filthy like that. It gets Mickey painfully keyed up because no one knows, no one they know could ever think that Ian Gallagher, sweet face, beautiful, Ian Gallagher could get so hard from fucking Mickey Milkovich’s mouth with his fingers.
The truth is that Mickey needs this sometimes, to let go and be used up. So Ian gives him that, gives him what he needs. So Mickey doesn't look away, neither one of them look away from each other. If Mickey weren't so fucking high, it would probably be too much. Everything is so much more intense right now, but it’s okay because it’s a different kind of intense, he likes it, wants more.
Ian’s fingers slide out of Mickey’s mouth. Before long, after Mickey’s shifted himself and bent one of his knees, Ian’s fingers are messy and slick with spit and lube. Before long, those fingers are working their way inside of Mickey, making him pant heavy breaths and grab the back of Ian’s neck, bringing their mouths together.
Then Ian is working his fingers in and out of Mickey, while Mickey is working his fist up and down Ian’s cock, their mouths opened and pressed against one another, breathing into each other. Ian is saying something that Mickey can’t keep up with. He’s lost, flying even higher, his insides burning up and melting, melting, melting into the mattress, but he needs more.
“Tell me,” Ian rasps.
Mickey tells him. He tells him over and over again.
Time goes by too slowly and much to fast to keep up with, but he’s not as high as he was before, but he’s still pretty fucking high. By the time Ian’s cock is buried inside of Mickey, he’s perfect and floaty and fuck it’s amazing. Their foreheads touching every once in a while, Mickey’s knees bent, legs on either side of Ian.
Mickey takes it, he takes it good, Ian tells him this, praises him for how good he takes his cock, for how good he feels. And Mickey never fully admits it, but hearing Ian say that makes it harder to not just completely fall apart.
Sometimes Ian calls him baby —baby, you feel so fucking good; baby, fuck yeah just like that; you like when I fuck you like this, baby?— and Mickey wants to hate it, wants to hate it so fucking much but he doesn’t. He hates that he doesn't hate it. He hates that he secretly wants Ian to keep saying that. Ian probably knows this.
His grin fades away though when Ian is snapping his hips harshly now, using the headboard for leverage, just barely adjusting the angle, but doing it enough so now Mickey can barely fucking function it feels so good. He can’t even describe it, he just grabs at Ian and bucks his hips and reaches up to cover Ian’s mouth when he goes a little too loud. Mickey must have done the same, because Ian’s hand reaches out to cover his mouth also. There was always something so fucking hot about that, covering each others mouths at the same time.
Now all he hears are their labored breathing under hands and flesh hitting flesh and all he’s feeling is Ian pound against his prostate over and over and Mickey feels it echoing through his body again, it’s almost too much, but he knew he’d die right then and there if it stopped.
But then Ian does stop. And Mickey tears out a groan, moving his hips, trying to fuck himself on Ian’s cock. The redhead grins against his mouth, holding Mickey by the hips, keeping him still; he kisses him until he can’t breathe. Ian’s holding inside Mickey, settled right against that spot, but not moving and it’s killing him.
“Please,” Mickey gasps out.
Then Ian is pulling Mickey up, shifting and moving them and Mickey is floating floating floating, (wondering how the fuck Ian is so focused right now, how he always has so much energy when he’s high). And he feels so full with Ian still buried deep inside him, he’s basically sitting in Ian’s lap, they’re face to face, Ian kneeling. And Mickey feels himself start to float back down, feels his high start to dissipate just in time for Ian to grab onto his ass and start moving under him while he lifts Mickey up and down on his cock.
And holy fuck, Mickey wraps his arms around Ian’s shoulders, one hand fisted in Ian’s hair; he buries his face in the crook of Ian’s neck, inhaling his scent. He holds on for dear fucking life as Ian plows up into him, bouncing him around like a fucking rag-doll. And Mickey, Mickey does not care at all, it feels too fucking good to care about how absolutely ridiculous he probably looks right now.
“Shit,” Mickey drags out the word long and rough, Ian hitting that spot every time, his vision goes all blurry for a moment, his cock sliding between him and Ian. “Right there, fuck fuck fuck.”
Ian is grunting and clawing at Mickey’s ass and biting at his shoulder, “That good, Mick?”
Mickey nods, grunts, tries to breathe. “Fuck, yeah it’s good. Fuck, I’m gonna…”
Ian slows it down, keep his strokes deep and demanding while he catches Mickey’s mouth in a hard kiss, one of his hands snaking between them; Ian grabs Mickey’s cock, squeezing and pulling it roughly just how he likes it. Mickey breaks from the kiss, looking down between them, watching Ian jerk him off, listening to the redhead drop more filthily words in his ear.
“Look at me,” Ian gasps out, “When you come, look at me.”
So he does. He cant take much longer, everything is going all buzzy in his head and he feels it all over. Ian bucks up into him roughly a few more times until Mickey is spilling between them. Ian comes too, tearing out a growl from deep within his belly, catching Mickey’s mouth with his own.
They untangle from each other after a moment, after Ian can’t take being buried inside of Mickey anymore, being too overstimulated. They clean each other up with old t-shirts, throwing them in with the rest of the dirty clothes in the hamper.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Mickey lights up a cigarette, feeling his buzz drift away. He offers Ian the cigarette, but he declines.
“Fucking exhausted,” Ian grins, curling up under the covers. “Hurry up with that so I can spoon you like a bitch.”
Mickey snorts a laugh, reaching over to pinch the redhead, “Fuck you.”