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Grubby Punk

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Mickey’s hands were trembling. He could feel the vibrations at the tip of his nose as he habitually rubbed his thumb against it. Fuck if he was gonna let this shit happen while he stood sipping cocktails.

“Hey! Grabby hands!”, his voice bellowed across the dance floor. A pair of green eyes flashing as he approached. You know what you’re doinyou piece oshit.

In a few strides he met his target, a frantic look thrown his way. His tattooed fingers wrapping themselves around the guy’s chubby wrist.

“I suggest you keep your mitts pressed to your sides”. His voice was firm but controlled. For once.

The frantic look turned callous. “Oh yeah?”. Mickey raised his brow. “And why should I do that, you grubby little punk?”.

Red blurred into Mickey’s vision. Not his first time seeing red. However this red was attached to a near 6ft mass of pale muscle.

“Hey...”, Ian’s voice breathed playfully. “No need for the unpleasantries”. His calm tone turned biting at the final word.

The guy laughed. “He speaks!”. Lifting both arms into the air as though in mock surprise. “And here I thought you were just eye candy. Do us a favour and let the big boys talk. Get back on your platform and keep grinding. I’m not finished”.

Mickey’s not sure whether it’s his hand or the guy’s face that makes the deafening crack.

Doubled over and clutching his nose, blood seeps through the guy’s chubby fingers. Mickey can feel a warm pressure against his chest. Ian is holding him back. No he’s... pushing him away.

“Mickey you’re gonna get banned for fucksake, you dumb fuck!”, Ian sounded angry.

Mickey looked to green eyes, but it wasn’t anger that stared back. If anything Ian looked like he was holding back laughter. His eyes matching his slight smirk. 

Mickey fucking knew Ian loved this shit. Because Ian knew Mickey was a sucker for defending his boyfriend’s honour or some crap. 

He smirked back.

“As if I like coming to this shithole”. Mickey raised his voice then, shouting to the bent over asshole. “It’s crawlin’ with fuckin’ scum!”

Ian shoved him back again as he attempted to move forward. “Mick. Come on”, his stern words convincing him to drop it. Never took a lot for Ian to convince Mickey of anything.

“If you get banned who’s gonna watch my ass, huh?”, Ian teased. He’d somehow guided Mickey to a stool at the bar. Now leisurely stroking his bicep with skittering fingers.

“If by watchin’ your ass you mean watchin’ some sex-deprived fucknut try to cop a feel of said ass, while el twinko forces me to try pink cocktails”, he gestures to the bartender. “Then I’ll take the ban, thanks”.

Ian pouted. Mischief in his eyes still. “Aw, a little stroke never hurt nobody”. He punctuated his words with a gentle squeeze of Mickey’s inner thigh.

“Why the fuck do I like you, Gallagher?”, Mickey huffed. 

“You don’t”, Ian said. Leaning ever so close as he smugly whispered, “You fuckin’ love me”. A harder squeeze. Their lips inches apart. Mickey leaned in.

“Uh uh”. Ian pulled back. “I don’t kiss on the job. My boyfriend would kill me”, he teased, biting his lip and pulling back to sway his hips.

Mickey groaned. “Bastard”.

“He is if I’m honest”, Ian replied silkily. He rolled his body languidly. “He’d break someone’s knuckles for even thinking of touching me”.

Okay. Mickey could bite. Two can play at this game, Gallagher.

“Sounds like a real ass”. Mickey grazed his fingertips either side of Ian’s thighs. The red head magnetised by his hands. Moving forward to crowd into Mickey’s spread legs. Just like he knew he would.

“You better keep your mitts to your sides”, Ian smirked.

Mickey abruptly caressed his ass then. Both hands sliding against the fabric of his tight shorts. Leaning forward so his lips touched skin.

“A little stroke never hurt nobody”, he whispered against the V of his neck. Ian’s breath stuttering over his head.

“Hey Curtis!”, an all too familiar voice cracked through the haze between the two. “Unless the boyfriend is paying for that, you’re on my time. Go dance with someone who’s gonna give you dollar for it”.

“Oh so now you care who’s gropin’ whose ass”, Mickey scoffed. He nudged Ian away, turning himself in the stool to face the fuckwit of a so-called club owner. “Nice to see you too, Richard”, he said with a strained smile.

“That bloodied customer your handy work?”, Richard asks, an accusatory tone.

“Yeah yeah, I get it. I’m leaving”, Mickey stood from the stool. “Wouldn’t want to have grubby punks cluttering this molester haven”.

He yanked Ian to him, pressing a firm yet strictly PG13 kiss to his lips. Also squeezing his ass in a very non-PG13 way.

“Call me if anyone tries shit”, Mickey almost sounded caring.

“I can handle myself, Mick”, Ian grinned.

“I know”, Mickey replied matter-of-factly. “I just wanna be there to see you kick their ass”.

Ian giggled. Bastard new what that shit did to Mickey’s insides. The shorter man combed the stray strands of copper from Ian’s face with his tattooed fingers. Fuck indeed.

“I’ll see you at home, firecrotch”.