62+27🙌🏾

#27: "no. regrets." & #62: "if you can't sleep... we could have sex?"

"you're up late."

"jesus," mickey jumps, nearly falling out of his seat. "you scared the shit out of me."

"sorry." ian plops onto the couch, and mickey tries not to think too much about how close his roommate is sitting next to him. "couldn't sleep, and i saw the light on in the living room. what're you watching?"

mickey turns towards the tv and shrugs. "just criminal minds."

"what an uplifting show to watch at one in the morning."

"it usually puts me to sleep, actually."

"hm." ian raises his brows. "are you sure you're not watching it for a certain someone?"

"i regret telling you that," mickey groans. "i just like reid's character, okay? plus, he's not even my type."

ian looks at him with curious eyes. "what's your type, then?"

hot redheaded alien-looking dorks, mickey wants to say. instead, he throws a pillow at ian's face, to which ian catches and tosses back at him. "don't have one, really. i'm fine with any dick up my ass."

"hm. not every dick," ian mumbles.

mickey's eyes widen. "what?"

"just saying," ian shrugs. "you've never made a move on me, and i have a dick. an above average one, actually, if i'm being honest."

"wh–where is this coming from?" mickey sputters. "you're saying you want us to fuck?"

"what i'm saying is," ian leans in close, warm breath caressing mickey's skin, "if you can't sleep, and i can't sleep, then we could do something together to occupy our time–"

before ian can finish his sentence, mickey catches him by surprise with a soft kiss, their lips slotting against each other hesitantly at first, then quickly deepening and insistent as their tongues intertwine in a fighting frenzy, heated and molten.

"show me this above average dick of yours, then," mickey breathes into ian's ear, and ian responds enthusiastically by dragging mickey to his room and slamming the door shut.

-

afterwards, as they lie in bed together basking in the afterglow, sweaty and thoroughly spent, ian turns to face mickey and ghosts his fingers along mickey's arm.

"was... that okay?" he asks, quiet, a hint of vulnerability in his voice.

"gallagher," mickey brushes ian's hair back and smiles when he sees ian melting into his touch, "i've been wanting to do that since you moved in."

"okay, good," ian says, relieved. "i was scared you'd regret sleeping with me and kick me out of the apartment."

mickey snorts. "my only regret is not jumping your bones earlier."

"well," ian rolls over and straddles mickey, bracketing his thighs around mickey's hips, "we have a lot of time to make up for, then."

gallavich kiss #43 please hehe

- - - - -

send me a number & i'll write you a smoocheroo 😚

- - - - -

Holy fuck.

Mickey Milkovich is in your bed.

If it hadn’t happened to you—if you couldn’t still taste the tang of his spunk in the back of your throat—you might not believe that it happened at all. Most have a better shot at winning the lottery than they do at seeing the business end of the permanently inked vines and chains that intertwine before disappearing beneath the cuff of Mickey’s rolled-up sleeves. In the three years you’ve been harboring a dangerous crush on your best friend and roommate’s brother, you’ve never known anyone who’s made the acquaintance of the huge blue lilies that bloom across his chest, swirling around soft pink nipples.

Until now.

Until you.

Holy fuck!

Mickey Milkovich is in your bed!

The previous night had seemed like any other Friday night: Mandy had insisted on having people over, and you were too impressed by her continual efforts to make friends to put up much of a fuss. Besides, you knew the chances were good that her foul-mouthed doppelgänger would show up before the night was over, a cigarette dangling from his sinful lips.

And you were right—ten minutes after midnight, your Southside Cinderella sauntered through the door and headed straight towards you, plopping his perfect ass down next to you on your ratty couch.

Long night? you’d asked, offering him a sip of your beer.

Your reward was a cock of his expressive brows and the pleasure of watching him swallow. ‘M just gettin’ started, Red.

You didn't expect the nickname, so it hit you square in the gut, which is how you found yourself in the alleyway behind your apartment building, smoking a spliff as Mickey’s greedy gaze roamed your recovering body.

Thanks to school and meds and a pair of lagoon-blue eyes, it’d been a minute since you’d gotten any real action. But historically, you'd been good at picking up what’s put down, and Mickey seemed to be laying his cards on your table, one lick of his slightly chapped lips at a time.

You could have blamed the weed seeping into your system, or maybe it was the primal pulse of the full moon overhead that made your blood sing and your hands itch... Either way, your belly burned too bright to bear, and before you could stop yourself, you shoved a shocked—but smiling—Mickey up against the wall.

Sorry, Mandy, you thought as you looped your fingers underneath her brother's gold chain necklace and pulled his hips flush against yours. The need was just too great, and your willpower was far too compromised to hold back any longer.

Your lips against his could have destroyed whole universes.

Funny thing was, you wouldn’t have cared one bit.