Ian is still completely dumbfounded how a family of three manage to pile up so many dishes. It’s not like they even cook big meals but somehow, the sink is practically overflowing which is why he’s up at eight in the morning on his off day cleaning the kitchen.
Fiona and Liam are dropping by today to bring Yevgeny back home and regardless that the Gallagher house is always messy, he doesn’t want her to come in and give him the mom look. Which is shitty because Mickey is still in bed, naked , and Ian would much rather be curled around him than wondering why there’s an entire piece of mushy bread in his sink. What the fuck does Yev do when he comes home from school?
Finally, the dishes are clean and the counters aren’t a total wreck. It only took him forty-five minutes. He starts drying his hands, ready to wake Mickey up with his mouth. Or his cock. Fingers, even, whatever it takes to get Mickey to make those noises Ian loves so much.
“Why’d you get up?”
Mickey’s voice has that sexy, husky quality that it always has in the morning. Soft and kind of quiet. Ian’s already smiling before he even turns around.
“Because our house is an atr-”
Ian can’t finish his sentence because he suddenly can’t breathe. Mickey is standing in their kitchen, wearing one of Ian’s button down flannels. Only Ian’s button down flannel. It’s almost too big on Ian, which means it’s fucking huge on Mickey. It hangs to his thighs, the sleeves swallow his hands, and the top three buttons are undone. His hair is messy and he’s rubbing his eyes with one hand, bare feet curling against the linoleum.
“The fuck are you lookin’ at?” Mickey says, not really grumpy but trying to be anyway, walking forward to place a hand on Ian’s waist. Mickey looks up at him, gentle and sleepy and the absolute sexiest fucking thing Ian has ever seen in his goddamned life. “You feelin’ okay?”
Ian realizes he must look like he’s lost his mind, jaw hanging open and unable to speak, staring down at Mickey with wide eyes. He can’t decide if he wants to keep staring, or bend Mickey over the counter to find out for sure if he’s really got nothing underneath.
“You look so fucking good in my shirt,” is all Ian can manage, sounding like he’s had the wind knocked out of him. Kind of feels that way, too.
Mickey’s ears turn pink but he rolls his eyes, stepping even closer. “Shut up and come back to bed.”
Ian licks his lips and finally gets his arms to work, groaning loudly when he runs his hands up Mickey’s thighs to his bare ass. “Fuck. You’re really only wearing my shirt.”
Mickey grins up at him and arches back a little, pressing into Ian’s grip on his ass. “Gonna fuckin’ come back to bed now ?”
“Just…” Ian walks Mickey backward a little so he can switch their position, pushing Mickey into the counter and curving himself over Mickey’s back. “Just give me a minute.”
“Fuck, Gallagher, I would’ve put on one of your shirts sooner if I’d have known you got a thing for it.”
“I didn’t know I had a thing for it,” Ian murmurs, stepping away slightly so he can stare, practically drooling, as Mickey slowly and intentionally bends over the counter, arching his back and pressing up on his toes a little. “Holy fuck, Mick.”
“You just gonna stand there and stare?”
“Unless you’re gonna let me grab my phone so I can take a picture.”
“Fuck off,” Mickey laughs, crossing his arms and resting his head against them, glancing back at Ian over his shoulder as he bites into his bottom lip. “Want me?”
“Christ,” Ian whispers, gripping the back of Mickey’s thighs, letting the shirt brush the tips of his fingers. “You’re so fucking sexy, Mick.”
Ian gets to his knees behind him, finally lifting the shirt to rest in the dip of Mickey’s back. He groans at the sight because Mickey absolutely has the best ass. It’s fucking magical, really. There’s no other way to describe it.
“Ian,” Mickey breathes above him, legs starting to tremble beneath Ian’s hands. “C’mon, please…”
Ian leans in to bite the soft flesh of Mickey’s ass, gently, just enough to tease, to feel it bounce back when he pulls away. Just to get that delicious sigh from Mickey. Slowly, he spreads Mickey with his palms, gripping tight as he drags his tongue over Mickey’s hole.
“Oh, fuck,” Mickey groans, knees buckling a little. He buries his face in his arms, pushing back against Ian’s tongue. “Fuck, fuck.”
Ian drops his hand to grip his cock through his sweatpants, desperate to relieve the ache that started building the moment Mickey walked into the room. Mickey just seems so sensitive in the mornings, and his ass especially so. Ian can just press against him in the mornings and Mickey is moaning.
Ian presses in, opens Mickey with his tongue, squeezing his own cock as muffled groans float down from above him. When he drags the flat of his tongue directly over Mickey’s hole, Mickey throws his head back and groans, loudly.
“So fuckin’ hard, Ian, feels so good, c’mon, please…”
Ian pulls back, panting, and spins Mickey around by his hips. The shirt catches on Mickey’s straining cock, and Ian has to close his eyes so he doesn’t immediately shoot. When he opens them again, Mickey is staring down at him, pupils blown the fuck out, chest heaving as he reaches to touch himself.
“Nuh-uh,” Ian says, quickly sucking two fingers into his mouth before slipping them between Mickey’s legs. “Don’t touch.”
Mickey’s head drops back as he moans again, bracing against the counter with his elbows, pushing down against Ian’s fingers. Ian leans in and licks the drop of fluid from the head of Mickey’s cock, and immediately, Mickey’s hands tangle in his hair.
“Please,” Mickey whispers, strained, face still turned upward. “Please, Ian, just fuckin’- just…”
Ian sucks the head of Mickey’s cock, pressing his fingers deep enough to reach Mickey’s prostate and slipping his other hand inside his pants to jerk himself. If he were a stronger man, he’d wait until he could fuck Mickey properly but with the noises Mickey is making, Ian knows he’ll never last.
Mickey is so soft in the morning. So open, like the hard exterior hasn’t formed yet. It drives Ian fucking insane with need.
Ian takes Mickey as deep as possible, flexing his throat around the head, groaning roughly when Mickey digs his fingers into Ian’s scalp. Ian presses in even harder, feeling his own orgasm approach rapidly.
Mickey pants heavily, staring down at Ian with that beautiful grimace on his face. “Almost there, babe, gonna make me come so fuckin’ hard, c’mon, c’mon-”
That does it. That stupid fucking pet name that Mickey only uses once in a blue moon, usually in the midst of coming, that always gets under Ian’s skin in the best way. Ian comes hard, in his pants like a teenager, curling his fingers against Mickey’s prostate as he clenches his eyes shut.
“Ian, I'm fuckin’ coming, fuck, fuck …”
Ian almost chokes, still caught in his own pleasure as Mickey starts thrusting forward, shooting down Ian’s throat and grunting harshly. Ian sucks every drop, swirling his tongue over the sensitive head until Mickey hisses and falls back against the counter.
“Jesus fuck,” Ian says roughly, pulling his sticky hand out of his pants and wiping it against his leg, cringing. He definitely needs a shower now. His knees creak as he finally stands.
Mickey immediately curls into his chest, boneless and sated, humming softly. “Mmm. Good morning.”
“Morning,” Ian murmurs against his hair, wrapping his arms around Mickey, not even caring about gripping him with his filthy hand.
“Can we go back to bed now?” Mickey asks quietly, smiling against Ian’s neck and kissing his pulse point.
Fuck it . They'll shower when they wake up again. Together. Whatever it takes to keep Mickey soft and happy against him.
Ian’s gonna buy a lot more flannels, all of them a size too big, and he's gonna slowly replace Mickey’s entire wardrobe with them. No one will ever be able to come over again. They're officially recluses from this point forward.
“You know I gotta take the fuckin’ shirt off eventually, right?”
Ian sighs heavily. “But…”
Mickey laughs and takes his hand, pulling him toward the room with a smirk. “I didn't say right this second.”
Ian follows, helplessly, hopelessly in love, always.