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sluttygallavich · 14 days

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Ian spits on mickeys hole and they both enjoy it 🤝

The first time it happens, it’s out of pure necessity.

They’ve just chased each other across half of South Side and up six flights of crumbling stairs, blood pumping and hearts racing. By the time they get to the mattress they have set up behind a half-collapsed wall near Ian’s makeshift training course they’re both practically out of their minds and completely desperate for it.

“Get the shit, Gallagher.”

Mickey already has his jeans pulled down to his knees and is looking back over his shoulder at him expectantly when the crushing realization hits.

Shit.

Mickey’s eyebrows furrow at Ian’s stricken expression. “The fuck, Gallagher. You didn’t come prepared?”

And no, actually, he hadn’t come prepared for Mickey to materialize in the middle of a busy street and crash his…whatever with Ned, and he sure as fuck hadn’t been planning on letting things with Ned go any further than a couple of drinks and maybe a hurried hand job if the old guy was really insistent. So no, he is in no way prepared for the situation he finds himself in now—ass naked but for his socks and rock hard, with his sorta boyfr– with Mickey’s perfect pale cheeks just begging to be spread.

He huffs, cheeks pinkening under Mickey’s accusatory stare.

“Get on your back, I’ll blow you instead.” Ian tries not to let on how disappointed he is, even as he suggests it, but it doesn’t seem to matter because Mickey makes no move to roll over. Instead, he bites at his bottom lip, considering.

“You gonna keep sticking it in that geriatric pedo?” he asks finally, voice gruff but eyes darting around, betraying his nerves.

And Ian’s first instinct is to roll his eyes and protest at that, but, well… yeah, okay.

His second instinct is to turn the question around and ask if Mickey’s going to keep sticking it in Angie Zago or whatever other neighbourhood slut is willing, but, well…

This is Mickey sort of trying, isn’t it? This is missed ya under the bleachers, and this is helping Ian train for West Point nearly every day since he’s been back, and this the mattress that “fell off the back of a truck” after Ian complained about the concrete floor fucking up his knees. This is following him today and beating the shit out of that geriatric pedo in the middle of the street because he was jealous but couldn’t just say it.

This is Mickey staking a claim, maybe.

“No,” Ian answers, heart racing at what he thinks might be happening—what he thinks Mickey might be proposing. And he wasn’t going to ask, but as he shuffles closer on the mattress, he finds that he just needs to know. He needs to hear it too. “Are you?”

Mickey snorts, turning his head back around so Ian can no longer see his face.

“Am I gonna stick my dick in that grandpa’s wrinkly old ass? Nah man, you don’t gotta worry about that.”

Ian reaches out then, just a single hand brushing lightly at Mickey’s hip, and he realizes it’s the first time they’ve touched since rushing up here, too frantic earlier to do anything but tear at their own clothes.

“Mick…”

And he must hear something in Ian’s voice then, because when Mickey speaks again the derisiveness of a moment before is gone. He just sounds desperate again. Pleading, even.

“C’mon, Ian, just get in me.”

And it’s not exactly an answer, is it? But it’s Ian instead of Gallagher, and it’s the vulnerability he can feel rolling off Mickey in this moment, and it’s trust, really. And Ian finds that’s good enough for now.

He grips Mickey’s ass with both hands and relishes in the heavy exhale it pulls from him, almost like Mickey had been holding his breath. Like relief. And Ian feels it too. So strongly he’s almost faint with it. He spreads Mickey wide and pets at his hole with his thumb, mouth falling open as he watches it flutter and try to pull him in.

“Fuck, Mick,” he groans. He feels even more wild than he did a few minutes ago. “Still don’t have any lube though.”

Mickey’s head drops down between his shoulders as Ian presses just the tip of his thumb inside him, dry.

“Just spit on it, Gallagher, Jesus.”

And Ian feels like he’s been kicked in the back, all the air rushing out of his lungs at once.

“Are– are you sure?”

“Holy fuck, yes, yes, I’m sure,” Mickey huffs. “You need to see it in fuckin’ writing or what?”

Ian doesn’t react to that, too used to Mickey’s impatience and bluster for it to faze him anymore and still far too preoccupied with Mickey’s clenching hole and the prospect of covering it in his spit, which suddenly seems like the hottest thing he’s ever considered.

Mickey’s spit-slicked hole and Ian’s bare cock sinking into it. Fuck. He prays he lasts longer than two sad pumps.

He knees at Mickey’s legs and gets him to spread them wider, running his nails up Mickey’s back before forcing his upper body down to the mattress, leaving just Mickey’s ass sticking up in the air for Ian to do with as he pleases. He gathers as much saliva in his mouth as he can and leans closer, spreading Mickey’s cheeks again and spitting directly on his puckered rim, the sound loud and obscene in the quiet of the abandoned rubble.

“Oh fuck…” Ian whispers, immediately dragging his thumb through the warm spit and pushing into Mickey’s hole. “Oh fuck, Mick.”

Mickey just groans, pushing back against Ian’s hands, encouraging more.

Ian spits again, this time slowly pushing two fingers into Mickey’s heat, just to the first knuckles, just to see, but Mickey’s demand for more has him quickly pushing in the rest of the way, stretching and fucking him open until his hole is gaping, just a little, and fuck, what if he spit right inside of him?

He chokes off a moan at the thought and continues getting Mickey prepped, but once the idea has been raised in his mind it latches on and he can’t let it go.

Mickey’s pushing back against his fingers, three buried instead him now. “C’mon, Gallagher, while we’re still young,” he grouses, though the effect is somewhat lessened by how fucked out he sounds.

Ian reaches a hand around Mickey’s compact body and presents it palm up and slightly cupped in front of Mickey’s face.

“You too,” Ian manages to get out. “Spit.”

Mickey attempts a laugh, but now that Ian’s nailing his prostate with every other thrust of his fingers it sounds more like it’s been punched out him.

“You’re a freak, Gallagher.” But he doesn’t hesitate to do as he’s told, and now Ian’s using Mickey’s spit to slick up his own cock and shit, maybe he won’t even make it to two sad pumps.

He squeezes at the head of his cock, clear beads gathering at the tip, and Ian’s usually pretty impressive self-control immediately snaps. He pulls his fingers out of Mickey’s ass and spits directly into his empty hole. Mickey lets out a breathy “Fuck,”and it’s all somehow even hotter than Ian was just imagining.

“Ready?” he can’t help but ask, dragging his throbbing cock through the mess he’s made, his own precum only adding to the wet slick. He half expects another snarky response, and when he doesn’t get one, he knows Mickey is just as a far gone as he is.

“Yeah, ready, yes,” Mickey babbles. “Fuck yes…”

Ian keeps a steady grip on Mickey’s hip, his other hand slowly guiding himself inside, and shit it’s tight. And hot. It’s hot and tight and so, so much that Ian swears his vision darkens at the edges a little bit. He remembers then to breathe at the same time that Mickey moans—moans! Mickey never moans!—and tries to press back against him. There’s more resistance than Ian’s used to, but the feeling of being inside Mickey with nothing between them more than makes up for the lack of lube.

Ian can’t look away from where they’re connected, skin to skin. He’s practically panting like a dog, his tongue feeling parched and dry, but he gathers as much saliva as he can and spits one last time, watching it pool around where his shaft disappears into the tight ring of Mickey’s hole before pressing the rest of the way in.

“Shit, Gallagher, need you to move.”

Ian’s let himself slump forward across Mickey’s back, his forehead pressing between his shoulder blades.

“Need…a minute,” he breathes into Mickey’s skin, eyes squeezed shut. “Jesus Mick, you feel so fucking tight. Not gonna last.”

Never one to be kept waiting, Mickey starts up a slow roll of his hips. “Don’t worry, Firecrotch,” he says, rocking back and forth on Ian’s cock. “Ain’t gonna last either. Better make the next thirty seconds count.”

Ian huffs out a laugh and pushes himself up off Mickey’s back so he can piston into the older boy the way he knows he likes. His belly swoops at the way his bare cock looks drilling into Mickey, and truthfully, it’s not much more than a minute or two later when he feels that familiar tingling in his balls that lets him know he’s about to bust. And shit, he hasn’t really thought this far ahead. Should he pull out? Is Mickey going to let him—

“Oh fuck. Mick, I’m gonna– Shit, I’m–“ He’s the one babbling now. He feels panicked, knowing the clock is quickly running down. Finally, he manages a complete thought. “Mickey, where should I come?”

Mickey is working his own cock furiously in his fist, his breathing labored around his moans. Ian’s never heard him be this vocal. His balls are drawing up at the sound of Mickey’s pleasure, but still Mickey hasn’t given him an answer.

“Mick, please…oh god, oh fuck…where should I–“

“Come inside me.”

“Oh god…”

Ian only hears a ringing in his ears after that. Without thinking he wraps his arms around Mickey’s torso and hauls him up so that his back is pressed firm against Ian’s chest. He holds him tight and buries his face in Mickey’s neck as his release crashes through him, lighting up every inch of his skin that’s connected to Mickey’s, that’s in Mickey.

Dimly he’s aware of Mickey crying out and shuddering around him, his head tipping back to rest against Ian’s, and he’s struck, suddenly, by the intimacy of it all—they’ve never been closer, he thinks—before they’re both pitching forward and collapsing together, Ian slipping from Mickey’s body as they come to settle next to each other on their sides.

They’re both quiet, save for their ragged breathing, as they slowly come down from their highs. Mickey’s shirt is still on, but Ian watches his back rise and fall, admires the faint freckles on his exposed shoulder, follows a bead of sweat meandering down Mickey’s neck from his hairline and has to restrain himself from licking the rivulet it leaves in its wake.

Eventually his gaze drifts lower, and despite coming harder than he ever has in his life less than two minutes ago, he’s hit with an intense wave of emotion—arousal, definitely, but something else too—that has his dick twitching and his pulse kicking right back up. It’s a mess of cum and sweat and spit, and it should be gross, maybe, but all Ian can think is that it’s them. He closes his eyes and smiles.

The first time it happens, it’s the start of something new.

#well this one really got away from me 😅#prompt fill #sorry it took me 100 years to write something #i am posting blindly without rereading because 😳🙈#gallavich #smut #ian x mickey #mickey milkovich #ian gallagher #fanfic #shameless

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swhatever · 1 year

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“I’m not carrying you!”

(Padfoot’s little festive action)

Pairing: Poly!Dagger Squad x Gn!Reader

Word count: 772 (quite a lot for me tbf)

Warnings: none other than a bit of playful banter

A/N: Me 🤝 commas. No but fr commas and grammarly come in clutch every time. As you can see I’ve finally got my act together a bit and started writing. I prefer writing fluff over smut any day ajsjsjsjsj. Anyways hope you enjoy some lovely Poly! Dagger squad (I’m Poly if you couldn’t tell asjsjsj) there will be plenty more polyamorous fics to come dw <3

As always if I’ve forgotten any warnings please let me know.

“Hurry up!” an excited Mickey called out from ahead of you. It was his idea to go on a group walk following this morning’s snowfall. Snowflakes were still flurrying around you, seemingly infinite as they fell from the grey void-like sky. You all promptly agreed to the idea hoping it would tire out the more energetic of you and provide a way to clear your heads for the more stressed of you and, despite the wind chill and the frost settling on your noses, things were going well.

Right now, you were on flat ground and making your way to the hill just outside the airbase in hopes to catch the view of the surrounding area covered in a blanket of white. Most service personnel walked their dogs here - it was nearby and would provide just enough exercise for the dog that it’s satisfied but be easy enough for the owner that they wouldn’t be too tired should they have work the following day. Of course, there was always the beach too but you didn’t fancy having to deal with Bradley and Jake being cold despite telling them not to go in the water. That’s a mistake you will never make again.

Your thoughts of past stupidity were cut short upon the sound of exasperation accompanied by a southern drawl. “Bradshaw stop complaining it’s cold you��ve got like three coats on.” He just scoffs in return knowing that a pointless bicker would ruin the walk. It’s very rare the two don’t squabble in one way or another but oftentimes it’s nothing serious or just a bit of fun which puts your mind at ease.

Too engaged in listening to their conversation, you don’t seem to fully notice the warmth of Bob’s hand slipping into yours, Natasha already occupying your other hand. It’s only when he places a light peck on your cheek is his presence known to you. Turning to give him a soft smile, you notice the cold caressing his features. The way the cold nips at his skin and blushes his nose and cheeks red as his glasses fog up slightly. Snowflakes scatter across the hair that fell out from under the ridiculous hat Reuben hand knitted - the hat that he refused to leave at home because it was “made special for him”. Sentimental, he was nothing if not sentimental. One of the many things you loved about him. You didn’t realise that you’d been staring at him for the past few minutes however, until he spoke up. “Have I got something on my face or am I just that attractive?” he asked cheekily, eliciting a playful nudge from you followed by Natasha chuckling to herself. “Shut up” you followed up playfully, the both of you joining in with Nat’s laughter.

The walk continued on as planned as you made your way up the hill, excited for the view on top. The promise of such beautiful sights along with the warm drinks and food yourself, Natasha and Javy had prepared the day before. Clearly you weren’t the only one excited to reap the rewards of your walk as Mickey ran up to you, scooping you up in his arms as if he wouldn’t complain his legs hurt half way up the hill. Still, you let him live out his fantasy while it lasted, he’d be fast asleep before 9pm at this rate.

After the longer than necessary walk thanks to Bradley’s complaining and Mickey’s expected fatigue after carrying you up a hill, you were almost at the top. Poor Bradley was still having a bit of an issue with how cold it had gotten as you rose in altitude and was complaining how the cold was making his legs hurt. Of course, this provided Jake with the perfect opportunity to prove how much better he is - a frequent discussion point between the duo.

“If you’re so much better than me Seresin, why don’t you carry me the rest of the way? You know, since you’re so much stronger and all.” He taunted, sarcasm evidence in his voice. “I’m not fucking carrying you Bradshaw. Stop whining and just get on with it.” He remarked back, not caving to the childishness as if he hadn’t caused it. The two continued on until you’d all had enough to which Bob let out a groan of frustration.

“If I carry you up will you stop your whining?” Bradley just smiled smugly before hopping daintily into Bob’s arms. Jake just rolled his eyes before continuing on up the hill. You were certain that Bradley’s legs wouldn’t be hurting so much once you’d reach the top. They certainly wouldn’t hurt enough for a snowball fight.

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