Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/8256848.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Shameless_(US)
  Relationship:
      Ian_Gallagher/Mickey_Milkovich
  Character:
      Mickey_Milkovich, Ian_Gallagher
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_Canon_Divergence, Canon_Compliant, Post-Season/
      Series_03, Alpha/Beta/Omega_Dynamics, Alpha!Ian, Omega!Mickey, Gratuitous
      Smut, Come_Inflation, Knotting, Scent_Kink, Scent_Marking, Scenting,
      Scents_&_Smells, Jealous_Mickey_Milkovich, POV_Mickey, Bottom_Mickey
      Milkovich, Insecure_Mickey, BAMF!Mickey, Pining!Ian, pining!Mickey,
      Mutual_Pining, UPDATES:_Tuesdays
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-10-10 Updated: 2017-10-12 Chapters: 14/? Words: 27887
****** Scent of Sunshine ******
by Army_C_(arh581958)
Summary
     Alphas and Omegas respond differently to different scents. Only betas
     have the luxury of being less scent-sensitive. Being born an omega,
     Mickey’s learned to cope with all this by heart. Each person falls on
     a different part of the spectrum—mostly good but some bad.
     Ian Gallagher is the best damn thing that Mickey's scented in his
     entire life. It's too bad that Mickey's just might be the exact
     opposite of that. Mickey's got a scent that would sent alpha's away
     with their proverbial tales tucked between their legs. It's a match
     made to end in utter disaster—or, at least, that's what Mickey
     thinks.
Notes
     This story starts from Season 01 Episode 07, and stays canon for
     until Season 3. It explores the world in an non-stereotypical ABO
     setting. Unlike most ABO stories, while emphasis is given to the
     second gender status (hereby referred to as status, there is not too
     much class inequality. This type of AU is difficult to read if you're
     unfamiliar. A link to the ABO primer on AO3 is posted in the end
     comments. Also, the underage tag is because this story starts off
     with them in canon; Mickey (15) and Ian (13). Don't worry. They do
     grow older.
     Sorry to everyone waiting for Booters. This story just wouldn't leave
     me alone until I wrote it all down. Before I realized it, there was
     more than five chapters on my phone—yes, my freaking phone—and I
     thought that I might as well finish it while I had steam. After this,
     I'll be able to write Booters again~ Yay~ So please, do patiently
     wait for that.
     Beta Read by the Awesome Mel~ I hope you feel better soon. <3 <3 <3
See the end of the work for more notes
***** Chapter 1 *****
Alphas and Omegas respond differently to different scents. Only betas have the
luxury of being less scent-sensitive. Being born an omega, Mickey’s learned to
cope with all this by heart. Each person falls on a different part of the
spectrum—mostly good but some bad.
There are omegas whose scent will drive alphas—from far and wide—mad with
desire.  All throughout his childhood, Mickey's been plagued with haunting
stories of omegas being bonded and bred against their will. Apparently, a very
rare few stray to the other side completely, whose scent would drive alphas
running away with their proverbial tails between their legs.
Mickey's prayed that he be part of that few. On his fifteenth birthday, his
prayers are answered when his first heat arrives and all his siblings, except
for Mandy (a beta), run to the high hills to get away from him. ‘Dirtiest white
boy’ isn't just a label for him, but a way of life.
Instead of the coveted fuck-me-now scent, Mickey releases a pungent fuck-off
scent that fits his bad-boy persona and stubbornness. Someday it might get the
better of him.
“Look on the bright side, Mickey,” Mandy says as she leans against his closed
door, “at least you won't get rape bonded to some creep.”
Mickey takes it for the blessing which he believes it is. He shrugs off the
growing humiliation gnawing his stomach and spends the next four days locked up
in his room with fingers shoved up his leaking ass. If his wrists still ache a
week later, he tells himself that he ain't no bitch.
He doesn't think his heat scent's anything but the one good thing that nature
got right. Being an omega no longer meant just being a breeding bench when no
one actually wanted to breed him during his heats. It’s not a big loss. There's
always a beta willing to bend over for a stout omega like him.
Another three years pass by and Mickey gets steady sex whenever he wants it as
long as he approached his hook ups far enough from his heat. It's long enough
that he can predict it down to the hour before his heat scent begins. He's long
gone from the streets by then, cooped up in his messy little bedroom. Not even
Terry dares to come near him during his heat. It would have been heaven of he
isn't drowning in a pool of his own sweat and slick.
Mickey convinces himself that his heats are the best time to be free. That is,
of course, before Gallagher came into the picture.
Ian Gallagher, the runty middle child of the Gallagher clan, just happened to
be an alpha. One minute they’re throwing punches at one another, then all of a
sudden they're ripping each other’s clothes off.
He's Mickey's first alpha.
Mickey will never admit it out loud but maybe the lankiness is all part of the
appeal. An alpha skinnier than him didn't pose a big enough threat as, say to
someone much larger. Alpha strength or no alpha strength. Maybe the freckled
red flush also has an appeal. Either way, they start banging and it's good
banging.
After a shaky start, Gallagher's inner alpha comes out to play and the kid
pounds Mickey into the mattress like motherfucking pro. It makes Mickey keen
breathlessly with his ass presented high-up in the air. Lips mouth at his
shoulder. He can almost tastethe pheromones in the air as the alpha pants
behind him.
There's just enough sanity left in Mickey to growl, “Try it and I'm gonna to
punch every fuckin' tooth out! I don't give a shit if you still got your baby
teeth!”
The lips retreat but a hand takes its place, clamping down on the small bump
where the mating bite should be. Since there's less danger for an accidental
marking, Mickey lets it happen. The firmness of the grip on his shoulder and
hips only heighten the sensation of floating. Gallagher’s scent covers his own
like a large fleece blanket, cocooning him in heat. It smells like summer.
Not only is Gallagher long but he’s thick and heavy. It's ill-proportioned with
the rest of his body. When his knot finally pops in, Mickey keens at the
fullness he's experiencing for the very first time. His insides warm-up with
the heat of Gallagher's spend, feeling him up to the brim and then some more.
It's so intense that his normally flat stomach distends ever so slightly.  
He touches the hard head of Gallagher’s cock just below his belly button using
his fingers. They both hiss at the over stimulation. Mickey feels the clench
and unclench of his inner muscles, drawing out the alpha's seed.
“Mick, don't.” It sounds so wreaked and broken and raw.
Mickey's inner omega preens at seeing an alpha utterly debauched by him.
Suddenly, he wants more of it. His hands press harder, massaging the knot and
feeling more cum pour into him. Another wave pumps out of Gallagher and Mickey
thinks he actually likes being trapped on Gallagher's monstrous cock.
The knot stretches him wide at the open. He's never taken a knot before now but
his inner omega purrs at the rightness of it, where all else before had felt
wrong. Both of them are basking in the tie, when Terry blindly walks inside to
take a piss. Mickey's insides clench in fear, making the redhead hiss.
It's good that they aren't facing each other, that the alpha's leaning against
the headboard with Mickey on his lap. Like this, he won't see Mickey's fear. He
won’t see the way Mickey’s face goes paler than the yellowing sheets under
them.
“Keep your fucking mouth shut,” he hisses back with a growl. Multitudes upon
multitudes of possibilities run through his head—how dislodge the knot, how to
get away, how to reach the nearest exit before Terry does lasting damage. All
that narrows down to a few steady breaths as Terry walks back into his room.
Under him, the alpha growls at the much older beta.
Terry freezes at the sound. His eyes closed and his nose are wrinkled. “Boy,
don’you take a fucking shower? What do I fucking pay for? Yo u smell like a
dump.”
Mickey wants to yell out “No, You don’t. Iggy's drugs and his scams play for
the bills” but he's more awed by the fact that Terry hadn't even acknowledged
the alpha in the room. It's got to be some social hierarchy or Mickey's scent
just brings water to his eyes. He hopes for whatever reason, Terry doesn’t go
for them at their most vulnerable.
“Ayy, ayy,” he says instead, moving his hand to send another wave of scents
towards Terry. The older man flinches as it hits. “Ima take a shower. Get outta
my room!”
Terry, half-drunk and mostly groggy, stumbles out of the room with a grumble.
“Mick,” Gallagher's voice, octaves deep with a dash of alpha,speaks. His breath
hot against the back of the omega's neck, millimeters from the bonding bite.
“Is this you heat scent?” He’s holding onto Mickey’s waist with his hands
covering the omega’s stomach.
“No.”
Technically, it's not a lie. Mickey sniffs himself. He's not in heat. The signs
are present but he's not there—yet. He tells himself that the copious amounts
of slick on the bed is only because he banged an alpha and nothing else. His
cycle is two more months away. The pungent odor is because he hasn't showered
in a few days and not because his inner omega wants to entice the alpha. What a
load of bull. His scent won’t do shit except drive Gallagher away.
“You should go,” he announces, anything to stifle the deafening silence. “I’ll
give ya then gun. Then you gotta leave, ayt, Firecrotch?” He feels Gallagher
tense under him. At the moment, he can’t give two shits about it. “I ain't
stupid. Ya went here to get pedo-towel head's gun ‘cause you bang. S'a gift or
some shit? Whatever. I ain't no bitch. S'a bang nothin' more.”
Gallager's scent hits him with such a force—guilt, and Mickey knows he got it
right. There's something wrong with Gallagher's scent. Now that they're waiting
out the knot, he can finally decipher that spicy buttery scent of another omega
clinging to Gallagher's skin. It makes his skin crawl at the mere thought. He
fucking hates it.
At the stunned silence, he snorts. “I gotta nose, asshole. I ain't a dumb shit.
Here’s what’s gonna happen. You work junior here,” he rolls his hips on the
alpha's knot. It's still rock-hard and protruding his distended belly. They
both slightly moan at the motion. “Then you gonna make me cum again until I'm
satisfied. Then, I give ya the gun back. Ayt?”
Gallagher's already canting his hips in anticipation. “Okay. Okay, Mick,
anything.” His hands hold tightly onto Mickey’s hips, and will probably leave
bruises for tomorrow morning.
Mickey grins to himself and gets another one of the best fucks in his life.
They go four more rounds with the alpha bending him in ways he didn't know he
could until they finally collapse in a heap of stinky sweaty bodies on the bed.
The knot dislodges with a loud pop, followed by an obscene squelchof cum oozing
out of Mickey. It should be disgusting but he finds he doesn’t care. His whole
body feels as loose as his hole.
“Bottom drawer,” he mumbles, drowsy and fatigued, sore in all the best ways
possible. “Get the gun and leave. Imma crash for a week.”
Gallagher doesn't immediately follow. He makes a racket moving from cabinet to
cabinet then walking into the adjourning bathroom. The sound of water follows.
Mickey tries hard not to think about how badly Gallagher wanted to scrub his
scent off before even venturing out of the room. Bitterness wells up in his
throat and he pushes it aside. His ass still remembers the shape of Gallagher's
cock inside him.
“Mick,” a soft voice calls gently from above him. Cool droplets of water fall
onto his skin. He jerks.
“What the fuck?!” He glares at a freshly showered Gallagher with his fringy red
boyband hair falling to his face.
“I thought you might want me to clean you up, err, of my cum…” Gallagher's face
matches his darkened hair. It goes down to his chest—the reddish pink flush.
It's probably the heat from a hot shower.
Mickey feels the remnant emitting from the pale skin. He eyes the bunched up
old t-shirt in Gallagher's hands. “Touch me with that and' I'll fucking break
your hand. Fuck off!” He orders, bare foot hitting the jean-clad thigh. “Get
outta my room, asswipe. I wanna sleep.” He turns on his stomach and doesn't
watch Gallagher leave.
His heat comes the very next day.
He buries his nose on his pillows trying to find Gallagher’s scent.
Mickey tells himself that it's just another fuck. 
***** Chapter 2 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Thing is everyone can't really smelltheir own natural scent, the one that
clings to their skin after an hour-long shower using scentless soaps. It takes
a ton of shit to cover it up. Science says it's because people are desensitized
to their own scent—so used to it—that they forget it's even there.
Most days, it's not a problem. During his heat, his alpha brother goes on a
two-week long drug run. Iggy, along with their cousins, don't explain why
Mickey isn't invited. They don’t have to. Mickey’s alright with this. Every
cycle, he offers Mandy to go on a sleepover with one of her friends—girl or
boy, he really didn't care which—but she always refused to leave him alone when
he's vulnerable and Terry's walking around free.
It's a blessing and a curse that the man whose seed spawned them, a beta who
grew up in the hoodlums of the Southside, never made it past grade school.
Terry lives in a small world where alphas are males, omegas are females, and
betas could be either gender. As far as he's concerned, omega males like Mickey
only existed in gay porn.
Terry’s weak sense of smell couldn't tell him otherwise. He can’t smell
people's second gender. Most of the time, he took in social cues like how
people walked, talked, dressed, or how other people responded to them.
All Mickey had to do is walk, talk, and dress like Iggy and Terry never clued
in on the difference. He suppressed the innate submissive tendencies to alphas
all around him—curse with every sentence, hid his scent by wearing Iggy's day
old clothes, and projecting for all the world that he isn't an omega.
For a while, it's good. It might not be the perfect system because during his
heats he still lay captive to his instincts but it's better than being rape-
bait like most of his kind. He could've suppressed them. But, when people all
around started avoiding him rather than being drawn to him, he found
suppressants to be too fucking expensive. A week worth of solitude don't mean
shit when that's the norm. Plus, he ain’t got the cash to cover useless shit
like that. 
Mickey knows—at least the rationale part of his brain knows—that Gallagher
isn’t his alpha, but his inner omega refuses to listen. See here; the thing
with Gallagher shouldn'thave happened. It's a fluke, an anomaly, an accident.
Gallagher's knot must be magic or some shit. Even the alpha's ancient married
boss is panting over it. 
As much as Mickey hates to think about it, he's just another hole to a slot
that massive knot in, no matter how much he may like the fucking thing. He
tries not think about how much that stings. Still, he goes through his heat
with the memory of a ginger-haired alpha pounding him into the mattress,
clinging to the faded scent on his sheets. 
He hates that part and he hates Gallagher for getting him addicted to alpha-
dick. That's the only explanation why this heat, (despite his impressive
bulbous-headed vibrating dildo) felt like his very first one—as if something's
missing. The drill for getting clean is the same for any addiction: abstain
from the substance.
Mickey's resolve only lasts a couple of weeks. How could he when the object of
his omega's wet dreams is sprawled on their couch getting ass-whooped by Mandy
at video games? He ain't no saint. Anyone weaker  would have succumbed that
very day. He makes it to almost three months before he visits Kash and Grab.
Ian's behind the counter with that dorky apron on; his head snap to the door
and his eyes widen when Mickey steps into the store. For a moment, his scent
flares up, but it does nothing to cover the smell of ’fucking’ seeping into the
air—fucking towelhead and that spicy Paki-scent. 
“Fuck, man, you gotta air out the place,” Mickey says, fake casually, as he
strides into the store. It's an effort not to wrinkle his nose where the
scent's the strongest. (Right in front of the freezers.) He passes the cooler
doors and goes for the Pringles instead.
Ian's still glues on his spot. “Mickey, what, err… what are you doing here?”
“Got hungry” is what Mickey answers, popping the can of Pringles open. He gets
the salty original one in the red can because he imagines Gallagher's cock to
taste just as salty. “You?”
“I work here.” Gallagher tells him pointedly but there's a hint of amusement in
his tone—playful even.
Mickey fights down the blush. “Oh?” He goes and acts casual again, moving up
and down the aisles as if he's looking for something. And maybe he is but it
certainly isn't food. He bites at the corner of his lip and rubs it with a
salt-crusted thumb. “That, uh,” he licks the salty corner, “mean you got keys
to the backroom or something?”
Gallagher's wave of arousal nearly causes him to fall to his knees and present.
“… or something,” says the alpha. He points to the accordion door beside the
freezer units. “Go there. I'll, uhm, I'll just lock the door.”
Anticipation buzzes under Mickey's skin as he follows the order. The fact that
it isan order which he so eagerly complies to, barely registers in his lust
addled brain. All thoughts of another omega being exactly where he is right now
fades out of his mind. It's Gallagher and his spicy heady scent smelling like a
hot summer’s day that matters to him.
“Here,” Gallagher says, keying the side door of the freezer. There's a whoosh
of cold air that escapes but it's also scentless. “Filtration system.”
Gallagher points to the small rectangle screens overhead. “Neutralizes the
scents inside here so they don't mix up.” Damn, the fucker's kinda smart too.
He's got to be one of them special kids or some shit. 
Mickey just nods, barely understanding whatever Gallagher's spewing. It
definitely doesn't work that quickly because he still smells Gallagher's scent
in the tiny space they're in; it completely surrounds him. It's cleaner than
before, lighter but still smelling heavily of alpha. This only means that he
hasn't banged towelhead yet, and a tiny part of Mickey preens at the thought.
Instead of falling to his knees and revealing his weakness, he bends over the
nearest flat surface. It's not presenting, he lies to himself, it's just
fucking convenient. He's just being practical and standing up while banging
fucks-up his knees.
“Whatcha waiting for?” he growls in annoyance as he looks back at Gallagher.
The redhead's just staring at him. For a second, doubt fills Mickey because
thisis such a fucking bad idea. Gallagher doesn't want him. Who would want a
smelly fuck—
“Mick,” Gallagher's deep voice barrels through his thoughts, derailing it. A
hand comes down to cup his exposed cheeks, fingers molten hot on ice-cold
flesh. “Stop thinking. I've got you.” It's almost kinda hot, except Mickey's
freezing his ass off. 
“Then fucking get on me! I ain't got all day!” He snarls with as much venom in
his voice as he could muster. It still somehow comes out weak. Behind him, the
alpha makes an approving noise. Mickey resolutely doesn’t keen. He pushes down
his inner omega's urge to purr. This ain't some romantic comedy shit like on
TV. It's just a fuck, he keeps telling himself. 
A finger traces over his hole, spreading the natural slick pouring out of him.
A month left before another cycle and he shouldn't be this wet or this
sensitive. His toes curl pathetically inside his shoes and all he can do is
hold the edge of the soda can carton while the freezing cold cans dig into his
stomach. He feels every single place that they're touching. The touch burns
against his skin. 
Gallagher takes a long fucking time opening him up—one finger, two, three, then
four. Mickey's eyes become watery every time the thumb brushes over his
perineum. He thinks that Gallagher might tease him with a fist instead of the
cock that he came all the way here for. It's not fair. He doesn't have the room
to do anything but take it. 
A whine escapes him. Seconds later, the fingers disappear and the blunt head of
Gallagher's dick pushes at his rim. It forces him to stretch despite the prep.
His body craves the burn of a live cock spearing him open.
It's good. It's so good that Mickey bites his lips to stop whimpering like a
grade-A omega cockslut. He doesn't want to spill his biggest secret that he
likes how Gallagher's sure and rough when he's pounding Mickey from behind. A
good thrust in and he accidentally punctures his lower lip. He curses.
Behind him, Gallagher's blabbing like an idiot, saying things like “So good,
Mick, so tight on my cock. Swallow me up so good,” or “The best—the best
fu—uck!”
Mickey loses it. He rides the euphoria and rhythm of Gallagher's strong steady
thrusts. The clang-clang of the flimsy steel bars harmonizes with the jingle of
the beer cans. If not for the freezer, he would have melted into a puddle
because of Gallagher's heat. This type of thing, he could get used to it. It
makes him not ashamed for being the gender he presented in. Being an omega
ain't so bad if he gets this. 
A sweat-cold nose cools against his hot skin, buries itself at the back of his
neck. “Fuuuuck, Mick,” Gallagher pants, and his nose is dripping sweat on
Mickey's back. “You smell so fucking good.” Then, he's licking a way stripe on
Mickey's neck, over the bonding gland and up to the ear.
Mickey shivers at the touch. Damn the stupid alpha for playing his body like a
maestro. The scent of Gallagher is too thick in the air like an anaconda. He
comes right over the thick translucent white protective plastic wrap of the
cans. It streaks across—white on white. His knuckles turn white as well when
his whole body pulls taunt. He whites out for all of ten seconds, suspended in
the high, like he floated on air—free.
He falls into a messy heap with Gallagher draped over him. The thick musky
alpha scent enveloping him in every way possible.His insides clench at every
pump, willing the seed to settle inside him. He berates himself for forgetting
the condom again but pushes that thought away just as quickly. No other feeling
in the world could replace this.
Gallagher nuzzles his neck again and sighs in that stupid dorky way of his.
“Smells s'good, Mick, so good.” If it isn't for the knot tying them together,
Mickey would have pushed the alpha off him. Screw feeling good. He knows how he
smells. Either Gallagher's doped up to the gills in endorphin or it's not him
that Gallagher's talking about. That thought burns through him like acid.
“Ayy, stop that faggy shit.”
There's a chuckle. “Says the one whose milking my cock with his ass.”
Mickey throws his full weight at knocking his head back. A crunch slices
through the freezer's dull buzz.
“Jesus Christ,Mickey!”
“Serves ya right faggot. I ain't no bitch for liking what I like. It’s fucked
up biology or some shit,” he mutters out loud, fighting his instincts to cower
and apologize. He means what he said about not being no bitch.
The pain causes Gallagher's knot to go down faster. When Mickey turns around,
there's a thin trail of blood under Gallagher's nose but the stubborn thing
doesn't look broken.
“Ayy, you good?” He asks without meaning to.
Gallagher wipes his nose and laughs. “Yeah. Didn't think you'd care.”
Mickey wants to bolt as soon as possible. “Nah, man, jus' don’t wanna break
parole.” Which is a lie because he’s not stupid enough to be caught. He shakes
his head while tugging his boxers and pants back on. The whole freezers smells
like them and he thinks that, together, their scents don't smell too bad. It's
another treacherous thought that he pushes away.
Gallagher's looking at him like he has two heads.
“Relax, man, s'juvie not jail. Ain't old enough for the big house.” Mickey
doesn't understand the need to explain himself. It's an instinct that he needs
to trample down. “Hey, if you’re good ya should come around to play games or
shit. Mandy needs to win sometimes.”
“Like a date?” Gallagher looks at him hopeful puppy dog eyes.
Mickey succeeds in shutting up his inner omega for once. “Fuck no, s'not date.
Don't do dates, douche. I jus' need somebody else's ass to whoop, ayt? Ya in or
what?”
“Okay.” Gallagher nods, slightly deflated.
“Ya well. This was good.” Fight or flight. Mickey's instincts are yelling for
him to flee. He wants to do so in the most elegant way he can. Flipping the
bird, he exits the freezer with a slight limp to his step. “Later asshole!” he
yells, without ever looking back.
Chapter End Notes
     I realized that I put the wrong date when I uploaded this chapter.
     Sorry to those who didn't see it before!
     I'd love to hear from you~ :)
***** Chapter 3 *****
Chapter Notes
     Thank you so much for all the love that this story is receiving!
     For CarrieLouise and Guest, who wanted some alpha competition for
     Ian. *winkwink* :D
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Gallagher drops by the house with no forewarning, red-faced and winded.
Mickey's the one who opened the door, and by no coincidence too—he smelled the
kid's distressed scent from nearly a block away. It stinks in a way that would
cling to the floorboards of their house's small entrance landing. Too bad.
Mickey wants the smell gone, easier not to be detected.
“The fuck you doin' here? You crazy or some shit?” He buries the worry with a
snarl. It's late afternoon and Terry's passed out less that five feet away. He
doesn't worry about his scent flaring, lucky that it's buried under the stench
of Iggy's day-old shirts.
Gallagher looks like he just faced death in the face. “M—mick, I—I just need to
see you,” he says with his big dopey puppy dog eyes, riddled with apprehension
in the endless shades of green. “Please, I just—I don’t know where else to go.”
Mickey bites his tongue then his lip. His thumb brushes over the swollen flesh.
“Thought you were working today?” Great. Now, it seems like he's got
Gallagher's schedule all figured out. He does, technically, but there's no way
he's gonna admit that.
“I am. I do. I'm supposed to be there now. Linda's gonna have my ass. But,
Mick, I just need…  you .” The last part's whispered like a secret, so quiet
that it could be carried away by the wind. His scent is frantic and uncertain.
He's staring at Mickey again as if the brunette had all the answers.
Mickey doesn't but he ends up saying, “Go. I'll be there in twenty.” He forces
himself to believe that it's not because he cares, but because even weak-nosed
Terry  would be able to smell Gallagher's distress. What's a distresses alpha
doing in their house? Mandy ain't around.
“Okay.” He hears just as he shuts the door in Gallagher's face. Not even the
thick wood could block the scent. He's too keyed into it, to aware for him  not
to notice. There's footsteps leaving the landing.
Mickey resolutely does not watch the dejected-looking alpha go. No, it's cause
he's Terry's look-out for the four o'clock. It's a standard coke deal but in
big quantity. The bulky alpha goes in and out in less than ten minutes, but not
before he gives Mickey a lascivious look.
“Fuck you staring at Fatso?” The omega glares, bearing his teeth.
The alpha eyes up Mickey then smirks. “You're loud for an omega. Bet ya'll
scream when you're caught on my cock. How's about making an easy buck, bitch?”
Mickey seethes but he hides it with what he hopes is a bashful looking smile.
He stride up to Mr. Fat and Ugly, close enough that the alpha's disgusting
alpha-scent chokes him.
“Yeah?” He lowers his voice, “You gonna knot me?” The smell of arousal nearly
brings tears to his eyes. He's got the asshole wrapped around his middle
finger. When he close enough to touch, he reaches for the back of the guy's
neck then head-butts him. The stupid alpha prick falls flag. Mickey spits on
him before walking out the door.
He wipes his hands on Iggy's jeans. Even distressed, Gallagher doesn't smell as
bad to him. He still kind of likes it—earthy and warm and  hopeful . One
doesn't always get that living in the Southside. Poor kid's still got his
naiveté.
It takes him another fifteen or so minutes via the L. He knows he's late. The
thought already prickles under his skin. It's another five minutes from the
station to the store. He high-pedals it. Inside, Gallagher's head snaps in his
direction as soon as the bell chimes.
Mickey can't  help  but feel self-conscious at the intensity of the stare. It
doesn't help that Gallagher's scent exponentially lightens when the redhead
sees that  it’s  him and not another customer. His legs move on its own accord,
crossing the threshold and striding into the store.
“Oiy,” he tries to keep voice steady, “We doin' this or what? I ain't no hooker
on your dime, Firecrotch. Got places to be. Let's make this quick.”
Gallagher's on him in an instant, up in his space, nose on his neck. He pushes
the lanky kid away roughly, keenly aware that it wouldn't be  him  that the
alpha would smell. He reeks of Iggy's alpha scent. Genetics means that
Gallagher would be able to tell that he and Iggy are related. He can't explain
the urge to explain why he smells like another alpha. Gallagher doesn’t own
him.
“The fuck are you doin? Linda's got a fucking camera!”
“Don't care. S'least s'not Kash,” Gallagher murmurs against his skin.
The sound of another omega's name makes the ball drop in Mickey's gut. If he
has another omega, what's Gallagher doing asking for him? He hates that he even
thinks of it. Pushing it aside, he shoves the alpha away despite his inner
omega's protest.
“Ya gonna flip that lock, asswipe, or should I just bust your knot for wasting
my fucking time? I told ya I got shit to do.” Mickey puts on his toughest
sneer. His inner omega demands for him to rip the fucking towhead piece by
piece but the rational part  of  his brains tells him that he doesn't have a
right to—they aren't mates or some shit. Gallagher can bang whoever the fuck he
wants.
“Yeah…” Gallagher visibly deflates. He goes to latch the lock. There's none of
the heated desire from their last two couplings. It's not a strong sturdy alpha
that fucks like a pro standing before Mickey. Instead, it's thirteen-year-old
Ian Gallagher  the runt looking like a wet puppy.
“C’mon,” is all he says, not wanting to give himself away. He  does not  tug
Gallagher's hand to make their way to the freezer. He walks a good five paces
ahead of the alpha to be on the safe side. Distance keeps the illusion that he
isn't  here because Gallagher asked him. It makes the whole thing just feel
like another fuck.
Gallagher follows him inside the freezer. Chilly air blasts through the door.
He still finds it hard to acclimate to the sudden  drop  in temperature. A
shiver runs through him but he drops his pants none the less and braces himself
against the thin metal shelving. The air inside is stale and recycled. He  only
just  wants Ian's scent to surround him.
“Alright. Get on me Firecrotch,” he says, looking over his shoulder. His pants
squeeze him at the thighs, shirt up ever so slightly. It's not a warm shoulder
to  cry on or any of that faggy shit, but it's all he can offer. Maybe sex
would get Ian's mind off what the hell it is that's causing him distress. He
lifts his ass just a tiny bit and urges, “C’mon, Gallagher!”
It works. Ian's on him like an alpha possessed—hands over his belly, chest
against his back, face buried on his neck. Mickey lets the slighter body mold
against his. Heat. Alpha. Ian. It's all there, wrapping him up like a cocoon.
Ian's everywhere—tongue licking his ear, hands rubbing his belly, cock sliding
between his cheeks. Their combined scents fill up his senses again, completely
void of anything but  fuck and fuck more.
Ian noses at his skin again. His skin prickles. He almost wants to strip
himself of Iggy's clothes and let Ian scent  him  again. It should be safe this
far away from heat. He only gets as far as reaching for the back of his shirt
when Ian growls, grabbing his wrist.
“You smell like another alpha,” Ian says, inhaling the patch of cloth near
Mickey's wrists. His eyes are dark and feral. “Why do you smell like another
alpha?”
Mickey roughly tugs his wrist away. “Fuck off, man, just forgot to do the
laundry.” He's acutely aware of touching the alpha-douche less than an hour
ago.
“No.” Ian frowns. “I know your brother's scent. This isn't a familiar alpha.”
“S’just Terry's customer.” He shrugs, still refusing to look Ian's way. “Get on
with it, Gallagher,” with a smirk, he adds, “Or I'll get it somewhere else.
Asshole kinda looked at me funny, ya know. Maybe  I  should sell him the blow,
ya?”
For a second or two, fear crawls in his gut telling him he's gone too far but
then Ian  growls  and slides home in one powerful thrust.
Mickey howls at the burn, not quite wet enough. “Fuuu—ck!” His entire body
shakes, down to his knees which suddenly feel like Jell-O. He needs to hold
onto the steel bars to keep his balance. Behind him, Gallagher’s going to town
on his ass, hitting his sweet spot with every thrust, making his neglected
erection weep clear globs of precum. “Damn  fuck  Gallagher!”
Apparently, it isn't over. Ian jerks Mickey's hand closer to him and spits at
the patch of cloth. He doesn't stop until there's a wet spot on the olive green
fabric. Then, he ruts into Mickey's ass like a feral alpha instead of timid
Ian. He's also mouthing at Mickey's neck with tongue hot like coals.
Shlick. Shlick. Shlick.  Their wet noises echo the small enclosed space.
Mickey's legs are trembling where he stands and Ian doesn't seem like he's
ready to finish just yet. Mickey bites his lips to keep from whimpering because
he isn't a cockslut. It's too much yet too little. The thick round knot brushes
over his rim but it lacks enough for to enter. Damn Gallagher for teasing him.
He won't give the redhead the satisfaction of begging.
They're huffing and grunting in tandem. The shelves rattle at every thrust.
It's their concerto for sex—powerful and steady, frightening. A hand wraps
around Mickey's cock, and the omega comes with a wail. It's thunderous, so loud
that they don't hear the jangle of the door being opened. What they sense is
another omega's distraught scent breaking their tiny bubbly.
“Fuck!” Mickey turns around, sees Kash, and flees, lucky that Ian's cock was a
hair's breadth from entering him. ‘ Fuck, fuck, fuck,’  is all he thinks as he
runs all the way to the L. He smells like alpha and sex. If he's lucky, people
on the train won't know that it isn't him. His hole throbs in emptiness that
echoes the one in his chest.
It's not until later—after a fresh shower, where he came with fingers shoved up
his ass, and another set of Iggy's laundry—does he fully regret meeting Ian
Gallagher. He's shot on the thigh with a gun than Ian stole back from  him . It
makes him remember who exactly the redhead did it for—certainly not him.  The
pain in his thigh is punishment enough. Blood seeps down to the linoleum time.
There's a voice above him he barely recognizes then there's boys in blue
pulling him away without bothering to see to the wound. It serves him right for
corrupting Southside's only silverlining.
He never does learn what caused Ian's initial distress.
Chapter End Notes
     Oh noes! Mickey! Next up is Mickey's time in Juvie (something that I
     haven't seen written too often). It's not all angst but it does give
     him some perspective. Please stay tuned~
***** Chapter 4 *****
Chapter Notes
     I noticed that nobody writes about Mickey being in juvie. So... I
     wrote Mickey in Juvie! 'Cause I kinda noticed the difference in his
     personality when he first went in then after he got out. I wanted to
     explore a bit how much influenced a shift in Mickey. Please enjoy,
     and Happy Halloween~ (Still updating on Tuesdays. Oh yeah.)
     I_love_you_Mel,_you_the_best_beta_ever~_kisses~
     Spoiler warnings at the bottom.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Contrary to popular Southside belief, Mickey isn't adverse to taking a bath. He
actually takes one every day. Sometimes twice if he needs it. It's a
precaution. If he doesn't, he risks walking around Chicago smelling like a very
male  omega. It's bad enough that Terry hasn't figured it out yet. Wearing
Iggy's clothes can only go so far. He needs to perpetually keep himself devoid
of his own scent to be safe.
The system knows that he's omega now because of the bloodwork. His documents
are changed to show his true gender. It'll be harder to lie now. He'll figure
out how to hide it from Terry when he gets out. For now, the best thing to do
is lie low and not attract too much attention. He's lucky that alpha's are
segregated from the packs.
Juvie isn't so complicated. It's routine—get up before the sun, hit the
showers, shovel yellow slop pretending to be eggs, morning exercise and  school
work  even if Mickey doesn't go to school. Shovel whatever the fuck it is that
they call lunch (Jell-O being the only thing remotely healthy in the bunch),
free period, afternoon gym time, then back to their cage until dinner. After
that's done, they are shuffled back and have to wait until lights out.  
Mickey's rooming with a Hispanic brunette—Fez, another omega—whose in the joint
for casing a grocery store because his litter sister ran out of milk. Needless
to say, not all of the kids inside are naturally bad eggs. He's kind of special
case. There isn't a lot of them inside because their alphas bailed them out or
used the  claim  to bypass the system.
They may be segregated in sleeping quarters and different shower schedules but
there are commons areas too like the mess, the gym, and the courtyard.
Knotheads whistle and jeer as they pass the pack of alphas in the mess.
It’s Mickey's first time inside but he's heard enough stories from Iggy to play
it by the ear. First thing is first—establish that he ain't no bitch because of
his status. He flips them the bird on instinct and goes to the farthest table.
It's a place that gives him full view of the lot—where he can either fight or
flee when someone makes a move for him. Fez takes the seat beside him. As if on
cue, one of the burlier looking alphas come his way.
“You Milkovich?” The alpha asks, eyeing him like a piece of meat.
Mickey shrugs in lieu of an answer. It's the wrong one based on how the alpha's
scent rises in anger. Beside him, Fez freezes in his seat, scent responding in
alarm. It's Mickey's shit luck that he got saddled with a pussy. Fuck it.
“Hey bitch! You look at me when I'm talking to you!” Red, the wrong kind of
red, but still not as frightening as Terry's kind of red.
“Mickey…” Fez warns quietly.
Mickey just cocks his eyebrow, turning to Fez with mock innocence. “What?”
The alpha makes his move, barreling towards them. Fez jumps out of the way.
Mickey is so ready. He grabs the alpha by the collar  and  shoves the fat pudgy
fuck into the sloop they try to call food. His elbow drops down onto the base
of the alpha's neck, instantly knocking the sorry fuck out. Then, almost
daintily, he picks up the unopened Jell-O cup on the floor and opens it. So
much for keeping it low key. Now, he needs to deal with more knotheads and his
injured leg hurts like fuck
“Douche mess with my fucking Jell-O,” he grumbles under his breath before
slurping the sweet red jelly. Fez is looking at him like he grew a second head.
He knows that puppy dog look. “Gonna go hang in the room for a while. You
coming?”
Fez nods so fast that his head might fall off. They fuck in semi-privacy of
their own dorm. It's lucky that at least they could open the windows to air it
out. That's pretty much the cycle of his first two months in—alphas try to
tame  with him like he's a fucking trophy or some shit, he  crush  anyone
stupid enough to try, then he and Fez fuck in their room.
One day, he suddenly finds out that his commissary isn't empty. The first thing
he does is buy a pack of smokes. It's been too long since he had one. He nearly
runs to the yard in excitement. Woodsy smoke fills his mouth with every inhale.
His tongue darts over his lips to chase the taste. If there's money in his
account, it could only come from one place—Gallagher.
Gallagher's the last thing he thought about when he pass under the met
threshold. Money in his commissary account must be hush money. There's no way
that Gallagher could have spare dough lying around unless the towelhead was
paying him for sex. The first stick goes and he immediately lights another.
“Oiy, Milkovich! Might wanna ease up them smokes, man. Shit's expensive,” Fez
says in way of greeting, sliding beside him on the wall. He smells cleaner than
usual and his hair's done in with some gel.
Mickey flips him the bird then light another, letting it  burn  through him.
“Fuck off. S'my smokes.”
“Yo, calm, man. Jus' sayin. You know it's visiting day, right? Got anyone on
the outside coming to visit?”
Does he? Terry never gave a fuck. Not that Mickey wants him to visit. No way.
Not when he’s still got ID to forge. Iggy  hates  it here. All he's got left is
Mandy  but it’s  dangerous for her to come here alone. Fez looks like he's got
someone .
“Nah, man,” he says after finishing his second stick.
Fez stares at him as if he's grown a second head. “Yo, man, but you got smokes.
There's no way you don't have at least  someone .”
“Know what? Fuck off, douche.” Mickey pushes off the wall, shoving Fez as he
leaves. He's in the room all of two seconds when a guard roughly pries the door
open.
“Milkovich. You've got a visitor. Open room four.”
Mickey can't believe his ears. The only person dumb enough to visit him is
Mandy. How can she even get  here ? It's a 6-hour drive away. Stupid Skank.
She'll  get in trouble if Terry caught her. He all but  spits out the word
“Skank” as loud and as obnoxiously as he possible can when he sees that it's
not Mandy ,  but  Ian  waiting for him at the window. His leg isn't even healed
yet and it twinges in pain, reminding him that the alpha isn't his to claim.
“The fuck you doing here?” is the first thing out of his mouth but the
mouthpiece isn't on him. Instead, he tries for a casual “So?” paired with a
cocked brow. “What d'you want Ia— Gallagher? ”
“Mickey,” Ian  breathes  into the analog.
Even if  there’s  an inch of glass between them, Mickey swears he can smell the
alpha again. “Thanks for putting money in my commissary account—running a
little low on smokes,”  and soap, deodorant, and the nutribars he'll need for
his upcoming heat  go unsaid.
“Not me. It was Kash. I told him you might still press charges.” The names
makes his gut curl, and the fondness in the tone makes it twice as bad. It's
obviously for the older omega. Odd though how Ian can describe a douche move
over an omega he's fucking just like simply.
All Mickey can say is a weak “Thanks.”
Awkward silence stretching between them. It's annoying as fuck, broken by Ian's
unsteady voice. “So… how long?”
Is that hope that Mickey hears? He hates that his chest leaps at the thought.
“Shit if I know.” He rubs a thumb over his nose. “Supposed to be a year, dunno,
maybe a couple of months if I don't do anything stupid.”
“Stupid like what?”
Mickey glances around, sees a fat as fuck beta who likes playing bitch with one
of the alpha inmates. “Like stabbing that fat fucking hick who tries stealing
all my fucking Jell-O!” He yells at the top of his voice. The beta says
something that he doesn't hear. “Asshole thinks he can get away with it ‘cause
he bends over for an alpha.” Then, he's back staring at Ian's dopey puppy dog
expression.
“I—I miss you.”
Mickey doesn't know what to say. No one’s ever  missed  him before for no
reason. Not even Mandy tell him that. Why the fuck would Ian miss him? Can't
the redhead find another hole to fuck? Damn if it isn't the curling feeling in
his gut again.
“Say that again and I'll rip your fucking tongue out.”
Ian makes a face—from shocked to a slow smile curling on his lip. Like a dork,
he puts his fingers on the glass. That dopey giddiness is rare in this forsaken
prison. Only Ian can look at him and smile like he's the best goddamn thing in
the world. Butterflies are back.
“Take your fucking hand off the glass,” Mickey growls. He bites his lip
instinctively. “So, uh, how's the skank?”
Ian doubles takes. “You mean Mandy? She's good. Got a new boy toy hanging
around her but nothing to worry about. She could kick his ass easy.”
“Tch. Skank goes for the easy lays,” Mickey snorts, laughing. “Didn’t ask her
fucking lovelife, ayt? Just… She, ya know, good? Back home?” He  asked.
“Oh.” Ian's eyes widen in understanding. “Yeah. Yeah. Everything's good. Not
too many guys hit on her now that they think I'm her boyfriend… Err, she wanted
to come, ya know,  but  I, uhh… I told her that I was doing shit today. I sort
of wanted to talk to you alone. I mean--it's my fault that Kash—!”
“Oiy,” Mickey cuts him off. “Don’t folks tell ya you fucking talk to much?
Jesus ,  Gallagher . This shit ain't  your fault , ayt. Pansy brown-ass
towelhead just caught me stealing shit, ayt?  Ayt? ” He adds a sneer for
emphasis.
“Uhh, yeah. Right. H—how are you?”
“Only decent food ‘ere is Jell-O an’ knotheads all around. Nothing I can’t
deal.” Mickey scoffs but, inside, his omega preens. A few days from his heat
and his scent thicken pretty quick. People around him react quickly by
wrinkling their noses. He's never been more thankful for the protective glass.
Ian can't smell how much he  stinks —how much he wants Ian.
“ Jusmeyo !” The guy beside him blurts out. “Take a fucking shower, man.” He
strings a couple more curses together then abruptly stands up. “Fuck, now  I
need to take a bath just from being next to you!”
Mickey flips him off. “Eyy. Fuck you.”
“Not in your dreams,  ijo .”
He turn back to Ian with startled eyes. There's an adoring expression on the
alpha's face, not disgust.
“Still adverse to water, Mick?” Ian asks, smiling.
“Oiy, fuck off!”
Ian leans closer, as if whispering. “I always liked how you smell, Mick. Don't
let them get to you.”
Mickey's omega preen again, releasing another wave of slick that his pants get
wet. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat as others start getting of their
chairs, muttering obscenities his way. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. ‘ Not if you smell my
heat,’  he thinks bitterly to himself.
“Piss off, faggot.” He slams the analog and walks away without ever turning
back, dodging looks that they send his way—disgusted looks. The nurse in the
infirmary nearly vomits when he enters the small space. She's an only matronly
looking woman.
“ That  your heat scent, dear?” She says even if her faces looks constipated.
Mickey could only nod.
“Oh, don't worry, dearie, it'll smell right to the right alpha. Why don't we
get you into the heat room with some toys? We don't do alpha helpers.”
“I'm not yet in heat. S'couple more days.”
She just smiles. “I know but I can't let you back out smelling like that.” It's
code for ‘you smell so bad that it would be irresponsible to let you stink-up
the whole facility'.
Mickey tries not to let it get to him. It's no hardship given that there's a
slow-burning fire burning through his veins. He spends two weeks in an isolated
room with a knotting dildo shoves up his ass and  his  fingers flying over his
cock—the first of many while he's serving his time.
Chapter End Notes
     Warnings: Mickey/others (not explicit), prison rape culture
     (mentions), Ian/Kash (implied), canon-typical violence, BAMF!Mickey,
     cultural stereotype (not meant to offend, I'm sorry!), pining!Ian,
     pining!Mickey, mutual pining!
     Please tell me what you think in the comments~
     PS. I've been seeng Christmas Exchange on other fandoms. Anyone want
     to do some gift exchanges with me? :D
***** Chapter 5 *****
Chapter Notes
     This chapter, if I remember correctly, is a bit shorter than the
     rest. It's kind of a transition point between prison!Mickey and
     free!Mickey. Writer barely write about how he feels coming out of in-
     canon juvie. I thought I'd explore it a bit more.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Ian doesn't visit him again after that first time. Mickey forces himself to
believe that he could give two fucks about it. In reality, it might even be
more than two.
The rest of the year passes relatively easy. Fez get's out eight months into
his stay. He gets another one—a beta named Toff—who becomes his bitch easy
enough. Alphas still constantly taunt him—one after another either trying to
fuck him up or fuck him. They all get incapacitated one way or another. A
constant flow of inmates means there's always a new cocky asshole willing to
try for his ass. None of them ever win.
Mandy comes to see him sometimes. It's usually during long weekends or in-
between semesters. One time, she visits out of the blue, on a goddamn school
day, and just sits on the chair, phone to her ear, staring blankly at Mickey.
He doesn't have a choice but to fill in the conversation for him then pulls a
favor to get her some food from the mess. Milkoviches don't always use words to
talk. He just knows that something's wrong. Iggy visits him too, once, to tell
him that Terry's in the can for Thanksgiving and it sucks to be on the inside
when the holiday won't be a complete piss-fair.
By month nine, Mickey's the king of his own little Harlem of omegas and betas.
Some alphas—the smart alphas—learn not to mess with him or his crew because
otherwise they end up with either a dry spell or broken bones. The one gold
thing about all the leadership bullshit means that he gets all the Jell-O and
smokes he wants—some sort of  friendship gift  like he's the god-fucking-father
or some shit.
February rolls in. Credit appears in his commissary account and a box of
Snickers bars arrives in his dorm wrapped in brown paper. Ian's scent is all
over the candy—but so is another omega's weak scent.
Toff whistles, peaking up from the tip bunk. “You got a someone on the outside,
Mickey?”
Mickey surges off his bed, grabs the beta by the collar and pull him to the
floor, pinning the slightly taller man by the chest. He uses his thighs to
crush the poor guy's lung.
“You wanna say that again, bitch?”
“Yo! Touchy-touchy! All I meant is that those look like they come from the
outside. No candy as good as Snickers in the commissary, man, s'all I'm saying.
Ease up.”
“Good,” he says, spitting beside Toff's head. “Say anything like that again and
imma fucking cut your dick and shove it in your mouth since you like eating
cock so much, ya?”
Toff nods so hard that his head smacks through the ground. They fuck after that
with Mickey coming on the image of his hands pulling red hair instead of blond.
Their scents mixed together smell wrong like overbaked bread that's nearly
charcoal. It's not like him and Ian—clean like wind and sunshine.
He hoards the Snickers better than he hoards the Jell-O. It lasts him months
until he's finally out of this shit hole. When he does, the first thing that
greets him is the smell of Ian Gallagher's  elated  alpha mixing smoothly with
the hot-as-balls Chicago afternoon. Mandy seems oblivious the scent pouring out
of the boy, and,  god , the last year was good to the once lanky kid. Ian
stands  taller  than him now, in true alpha fashion.
“Sup, Skank!” Mickey greets his sister with a nipple twister after singings his
“fuck you” goodbyes to the shitplace. Ian smells really, really good—richer as
if he just finished his rut. Mickey likes it a lot. It amplifies when Ian
drapes a hand over his and Mandy's shoulder. He can't move away fast enough
because even Mandy might smell his slick.
Ian does though. He smirks at Mickey the whole way the bus stop. Mandy, of
course, wants the window seat so the alpha ends up between the Milkovich pair.
Mickey could have easily taken a seat on the half dozen free aisles but he
stays close to the alpha—breathing in the scent he didn't know he missed until
now. They're hour one of the 6-hour trip back to the Southside when Mandy falls
asleep, with her head on Ian's shoulder.
“You smell like you,” he whispers quietly, inhaling audibly. “I kind of like
it. S'good not smelling another alpha on you.”
Mickey scoffs. “S’dat your lame-ass way asking if I banged other alphas on the
inside?”
Ian makes tiny noise but doesn't speak.
“Relax, Firecrotch, didn't bang no alphas inside. S'till jus you. S'been so
long since I got knot.” Mickey can't phantom why he says it. His cheeks burn
with embarrassment. He hadn't meant to blurt it out. All he wants to do now is
bury himself headfirst into the nearest ditch that he can find. He won't say it
out loud but he missed the smell of fresh air mixing with Gallagher's scent. 
Ian, tough, seems pleased by it. “Yeah?” he asks breathlessly, full of promise,
finger tracing Mickey's knuckles under the jacket on their laps.
“Yeah,” Mickey replies, just as breathless. Ian's scent and warmth wraps around
him like a soft blanket on a stormy night. So many things that once rattle non-
stop in his head for the past year suddenly becomes quiet. He's at peace for
the first time in months, and he can't really be blamed it the bus' swaying
rocks him to sleep—or maybe, it's the gentle hand on his shoulder that's
keeping him close.
At the house, things are pretty much the same save for the bottle of
prescription med under his pillow. He finds more stashed in his bedside drawer,
along with new fake IDs still claiming that he's a beta. It makes him smile a
little bit. Iggy might not be the world's best or most physically present
brother around but he's damn good by Southside standards.
Mickey dry swallows a pill before heading out again. It's bitter on his tongue
and leaves a tingling feeling for a couple of minutes. He thinks it worth the
little stress if he won't have to worry about hitting a heat without warning
again. It's something he can't risk. 
They meet up at the bottom of the El then walk the rest of the rest of the way
to the fields. He isn't exactly sure what about the diamond draws him to it.
Hot Chicago night prickles his skin but the dryness of it refuses to let him
sweat it out properly. He says as much. Alpha musk follows him around like a
lost puppy. His pants get damp at the scent.
By the time they reach the dugouts, Mickey's got pants down to his knees and
fingers gripping the steel mesh. “Alright, get on me, Firecrotch.”
“You missed my cock, Mick?” It's also unfair how Ian's voice cracked and
deepened in a year. It should have stayed the same squeaky timbre since Mickey
last saw the alpha. At this rate, he'll be thinking of that sultry voice
whispering more filthy things in his ear or saying his name like he matters.
“Fuck off,” is what Mickey says. “Said I didn' do no fuckin alpha but I can
still get ‘nother if you don' get on me!”
Ian chuckles.
A hand gently caresses his cheeks—first the left then then the right before
running a thin finger down his crack. He shivers at the contact because no one,
absolutely no one, has ever touched him like this before. It's new. It makes
him nervous and tingly and everything he didn't feel in juvie when he fucked
all those people. This is Ian Gallagher, and it's frightening. 
“C'mon, c'mon!” He growls. “While I'm still you—ahh!” A whimper shoots through
his lips when something warm and slick slides down his cheeks and down to his
hole. He gasps at it licks his rim—confident and sure. His fingers clench at
the metal mesh, knuckles going white as his knees go weak. The slurping noises
going on behind him are downright dirty.
Ian's long hands hold him steadily by his hips, hot like coals on his warm
skin. It's the only thing keeping his steady—grounded. He's never gotten a rim
job before, always thought it was too  gay  despite being an omega. He thinks
now how much he  missed . Ian's tongue works his hole like a buffet. Then,
fingers . His brain melts into mush.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. It's a rhythm of fuck, clench, fuck, and occasionally biting
on his lips. Any longer and he'll collapse.
“Damnit,  Gallagher ! Fucking get on with it! I'm good. I'm ready. Fuck!” He
barks out. It comes out more as a choked moan.
Ian growl from behind him, possessive. He licks one long wet line up the
omega's crack then plunges right in like it's a mission from god. His hips
jackhammer in frantic need, nose burying itself on Mickey's neck.
“Fuck, Mickey, fuck. So good. Smells so good.” He licks up Mickeys neck and
whispers more filthy things Mickey's ear. “Never fucked an omega as good as
you—no one's as good as this ass squeezing me tight. Fuck, Mick, I want you so
bad. Been so good not fucking another alpha. Fuck, fuck!”
Mickey squeezes his eyes and goes along for the ride. Ian's large cock
splitting him open in ways that he hasn't felt in a long time.  This  is what
he's been fantasizing about I juvie when he fucked all them other guys. He
likes the loss if control, of a hard body pressed against his, of Ian
controlling his pleasure.
He makes noises of his own like “yeah” and “fuck” and “right there, harder,
faster!” Ian wraps a hand around his neglected cock and Mickey comes all over
the cemented dugout partition. There's a grunt behind him followed by the
sensation of  warmth  spreading in his lower belly--Ian's come filling him up.
As Ian slips free, Mickey nearly whimpers at the lack of a knot in his hole. He
curses at how  empty  he feels, his loose hole gaping and probably dripping
cum. Another shivers runs through him when Ian scoops it up and pushes it back
in.
“I could probably talk to Linda into getting you a job,” he says casually like
his fingers aren't in Mickey's ass. “She’ll probably give you one.”
“Piss off, Gallagher, I ain't cleaning up after other people's shit.” Mickey
pushes the alpha off then re-dos his pants. He pulls out a cigarette and
shotguns a beer, burping loudly when he's done. Ian's staring at him again with
those big green eyes. It takes a chuck of him to move away.
he goes for the metal bars on the roof and does a few pull ups. Ian's eyes are
glued on his body.
“Nothin’ to do in juvie ‘cept work out and shit.” It's a lie. There's plenty to
do between that and fucking but he appreciates the way the alpha's blatantly
checking out his new muscles, specially the ones in his stomach—it would be
flat as a board if it weren't for Ian's cum filling him up. He hisses when a
hand touches his belly.
Ian's  beaming  as he palms the slight bulge. Mickey kicks him off to avoid
embarrassment. Ian's sunshine scent filters through the wind. “Get down. I
wanna do a set.”
Mickey does, if only to get a good first hand view of how the muscles are
starting to form on the alpha's young body. It's not quite there yet but with
the way Ian's easily pulling up his frame, it'll be too soon before the redhead
fully comes to his alpha nature.
“Oiy,” Mickey says, playfully punching the alpha's stomach. “How long I gotta
wait til you up for ‘nother go, ei?”
Ian laughs as he goes down. With surprising speed, he manhandles Mickey to face
the fence again and bottoms out in one smooth thrust. The omega takes it
without a sound. He's licking up Mickey's neck again. “C’mon, Mick, I gotta get
this everyday if we work together.”
That  sounds like a really good idea. “Yeah? How's about I do security or some
shit? Can scare punks like me away.”
To answer, Ian clamps down on his neck using only lips, mimicking a mating
bite. Mickey comes so hard that he blacks out.
Chapter End Notes
     Sorry if it's kind of boring. :( I still hope that you guys like it
     though. Comments, kudos, and bookmarks are appreciated~
***** Chapter 6 *****
Chapter Notes
     A couple of headcanons made its way here. I'm hoping you guys like
     it. Please do tell me what you think. I absolutely love reading your
     comments! They make my day!
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Working with Ian is decidedly awesome, not that Mickey'll ever admit that out
loud. It's less sucky than anticipated having a nine-to-five job. Summer means
that Gallagher's in the store as much as him. The only thing that might damped
the mood is  Kash ’s annoying Paki-scent polluting still polluted air. Even
Linda seems to think that the store needs a bit of airing out.
Mickey and Ian get a day of paid vacation when they had to open up all the
doors and just  let the evil out . Afterwards, Linda leaves with her sister for
a long weekend making them feel like they are the kings of their own tiny
castle.
Ian's been busy with summer homework since this morning, barely giving Mickey
the time of day aside from a quick fuck when they first arrive—a fact that
annoys the omega.
Mickey's buzzing in his skin. “Oiy, what's a guy gotta do for some action
around here?” He asks, leaning an elbow against the counter, right beside Ian's
book. The supps from Iggy are working their charm. He doesn't smell so omega-
ish anymore. Plus, Linda takes a cut from his pay when a customer leaves
because of his stink. He can no longer go around wearing Iggy's shit. This is
better. At least, he can smell himself now.
“It’s trigonometry, Mick, you know—angles, trajectories, and all that stuff?
I'll need it if I ever wanna get into Westpoint. I need all this stuff and a
little bit more.” Ian says with a happy little hum. “It’s not really that hard
if you put your head to it and study.”
Mickey cocks an eyebrow. “Then why you taking the whole day, asshat? Been at
that since like eleven or somethin' s'three now. We haven' even got our lunch
hour yet.” He wiggles his brows suggestively with a bit of a smirk playing on
his lips. “C’mon, Firecrotch, ya already burned out?”
Instead of a growl that Mickey expects, Ian deflates. His ears would be
plastered to his head if he had any. “I'm trying, alright? This stuff's just…
hard . I already know I'm not as smart as Lip. Why do I even bother?”
“Hey, hey,” Mickey scents the moroseness overflowing. His omega wails inside
him. “You ain't stupid, dipshit. Math's really hard. Lemme have a look. Where
you havin' trouble at?”
“Here.” Ian points to a math problem that Mickey's seen before in a book.
Between fucking, working out, and ruling his own Harlem, all he could do in
juvie is read, read, and read. He read the sorry-ass library collection twice
before he got bored. The problem Ian has is figuring out the length of the
third side of a triangle based on the other two sides and a missing third
angle.
“Alright, Army, first thing's first—you gotta find the missing angle if you
wanna know how long this is,” he says, pointing to it mid-chew. “Ya know how to
get that, right?”
“Jeez, Mick, sure I do.” Ian rolls his eyes. “S’not like I haven't been trying
to figure it out for the past, I don't know,  two hours ? I've tried every
equation on the book and the numbers still don't make any sense. How does a
2.23 and a 8.19 make a 93.94 side, huh? Doesn't make sense!” He glares at the
butchered yellowsheet that's now barely yellow.
Mickey studies the figures that Ian's using, and notices what's wrong.
“Gallagher, how many degrees are there on the inside of a triangle?”
“How the fuck am I supposed to know! You need to solve for it or something!”
Ian all buy spats in Mickey's face.
On a lesser day, Mickey would have shoves his sorry-face down onto the counter
without worry but today he's just too horny to deal with this shit. He answers
the question for Ian. “180. The inside angles of a triangle is always a 180.
S'a rule or some shit. You gotta solve that with subtraction: one-eighty less
angle a and angle b. That's how you get angle c.”
“The hell you know? Fucking flunked high school,” Ian jeers in a moment of
hate.
Mickey smacks him on the back of the head. “Oiy, don't droppin' out mean I'm
stupid or some shit, asshole. You want my help or not? S'not like I give a
shit. Imma go on my break,  fucker .”
“Mick, wait,” Ian calls before he reaches the back door. He's got the puppy dog
look in his eyes all over again. “I’m sorry. S’just… Westpoint's my ticket out
of here, ya know? Fiona can’t support us for life. Lip’s got a future in
college. I… I don't wanna stay in the Southside forever, man. I need to get
out. I didn't mean to take it out on you.”
Mickey stares pointedly at the alpha.
“I'm sorry, Mick, really.”
“For being an alpha knot-hole?”
Ian smiles softly. “For being an alpha knot-hole. How about you help me with
this for a bit and I'll fuck you nice and slow when he take out break?”
“I don't know, man, nice and slow fucking ain't really my thing.” Mickey feigns
disinterest, even if he's inching towards to freezer. “Got anything else you
wanna offer, ei, Firecrotch?”
Ian slowly licks his lips, a movement that Mickey blatantly follows. “I’ll rim
you until you come  then  I'll fuck you full.”
“Ayt.” Mickey grins, going back to the counter. “Show me your worse Gallagher.
Let's get this show on the road!” He helps Ian with a few more math questions
with the redhead smelling happier and happier after each problem. Mickey can't
help but feel a little proud of himself. Who knew that reading a bunch of shit
could come in handy?
“Jesus, Mickey, you're amazing!” Ian says when they're finished with his
problem sets. Ian isn't stupid  per se  but he tends to be overly excitable and
misses half the words in the problem solving section. Mickey has to tell him
off of threaten him with body mutilation before he listened.
They finally make it to the freezers. Mickey's hungry for it in more ways that
one. He strips off his pants and lies down on the strategically arranged
crates—it's the perfect height for Ian to pound into him. He's leaking slick
all over the protective plastic.
“You smell different,” Ian notes, face nuzzling Mickey's ass. He takes a
tentative lick all over Mickey's quivering hole. “You taste the same but you
smell different—subdued, just not as strong as you did before.”
“S’that your way to say I stink, fucker?”
“No. I'm just saying. That's all.” Ian grabs him by the thighs, lifts them over
his shoulder, then goes to town—slurping Mickey's ass. The sounds echo in the
small contained space. It's their breathing, their grunting, their panting
blending into a one.
Ian eats him out like a pro. He's legs shake there they rest in Ian's
shoulders, uncontrollable. Power eludes him. He tries, he tries so hard to take
it back. Helplessness is unbecoming of a Milkovich. Decided, he forces himself
in a half-recline position so he can hold onto Ian's hair. The red heads looks
fucking good between his legs.
“Yeah, yeah,” he breathes out. “Fuck me. C'mon, Firecrotch!”
His cock bobs obscenely in his stomach, framed by his legs with the background
of Ian' flaming hair. It's leaking clear viscous liquid at the tip. Licking his
lips, he starts to stroke himself, spreading the slickness all over his flesh.
Ian bats his hands away.
“Oiy!” He glares at Ian, who is looking up with a mischievous expression.
Mickey arches his brow in annoyance. “What? You gonna claim that too? You power
trippin' or some shit, Gallagher?”
“Ian,” says Ian. He slides his own slick-damp hand over Mickey's cock, thumb
teasing at the slit then down to the balls. “My names  Ian  not Gallagher. Too
many Gallaghers,” he growls, “I need to know—need to hear you say my name,
Mick. Say it. Say  Ian .”
Mickey snapped his hips stubbornly. “Gallagher,  Jesus  fuck, c'mon!”
“It's Ian!” The alpha urged, thumb and forefinger squeezing at the base of
Mickey's cock.
Mickey struggles at the Ian's hold. A finger worms back inside him, pressing at
his prostate with purpose. His eyes start to water at the dual sensations—front
and back. He can't decide whether he wants to rock back or thrust in. It's too
much and too little. Fingers aren't Ian's cock—Ian's knot.
“I need it, fuck,  Ian , gimme your knot!” He  howls  in the cold freezer
space, hands on Ian's hair, feet looped around Ian's neck. With brute strength,
he hauls the alpha up and reaches for the large nine-inch cock. It slips
effortlessly into him, filling him up. His toes curl over Ian's shoulders.
“Mickey, Mickey, Mickey,” Ian mutters his name until it fades into pants. His
thrusts are precise, aimed at Mickey's sensitive prostate. “God, Mickey, so
fucking good.”
Mickey holds onto Ian's biceps to keep from tumbling off the crates. The
alpha's pounding him harder than ever before. It's amazing—deep and on point,
just the way he likes it. He feels every monstrous inch of Ian's cock barreling
his insides, making him squirm, making him shiver to the tips of his hair.
Their scents mix into sunshine and wind.
Ian's lick up and down the column of his throat again, nipping at his Adam's
apple, teeth over the sensitive skin. It's so close to his mating gland that
he's nearly tempted to offer his neck more. He lifts his chin. Just a little
more and—
“Hello boys.” Frank fucking Gallagher is looking at them through a layer of
beers. “The front door's locked so I came in the back—no pun intended. You
might want to check the locks.”
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. No, fuck!
Chapter End Notes
     Well... we all know where this is going right?
***** Chapter 7 *****
Chapter Notes
     OMG. I just have to say THANK GOD that I wrote all this in one
     sitting. You guys will not believe how hectic my life is right now. I
     have no time to write! Efff! Do send me your cyberlove. *cries* PLUS
     it's hell week in school. OMG. I should not have overlapped the two!
     Yikes!
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Mickey's second stint in juvie is because he couldn't pull the trigger on one
measly Alpha. Yeah, someone like TownDrunk Frank's actually on the top of the
fucking social hierarchy. What are the odds? To be honest, it isn't Frank's
status that saved him—Ian did. Those stupid big green puppy dog eyes full of
hurt appears before Mickey's eyes just as he's about to pull the trigger. He
doesn't and ends up here anyway.
At the moment, juvie is better than being out there with Frank and his big
mouth running all over the place. If Terry finds out, Mickey's as good as dead.
They'll never find his body. It'll be a John Doe in the morgue without hands,
legs, ears, or teeth—all unique parts of the human anatomy.
“Well, well, look what the wind blew in—Mickey Milkovich. Didn't think you'd
miss us already!” Toff bellows out from the yard fence where inmates gather to
welcome in the  new meat  or old friends. Mickey's lucky to be in the latter
since the alpha's look like they're about to rut  “Bitches, the  queen  has
come back!” There's a round of cheers from behind the blond.
Mickey knocks the beta down on the floor as first order of business. “Yo,
Kristoff , I ain't no fucking queen. Got that, bitch?”
Toff grin balefully from the floor. “Holy shit, dude, the hell got you so
worked up? Problem with that ginger alpha on the outside.”
“The fuck you know?” Mickey shoves at him, lighter this time no less powerful.
They're in the yard again, basking up as much sunlight as they can as winter
draws near. Their room is small as shit. Claustrophobia’s slowly  creeping up
on them. It's like a fucking sardine can anywhere they go—save for the yard
where mostly alphas only stay; betas and omegas usually choose indoors.
“Fez, man, he told me. Was my roomie a while back. You just missed him. I'd say
two—three weeks, tops!” Toff inhales a huge puff from his cigarette then blows
out a perfect 2-layer donut. “Said something about a cute redhead comin' in to
see you early in the day. Man, how come I've never seen your alpha?”
Ian , Mickey thinks, Ian's the only redhead he knows and the alpha only came to
see him once. It's a miracle that it takes his second time here for someone to
mention the ginger.
“I don't gots no alpha,” he mutters under his breath, puffing his smokes to the
very end. “The fuck happened to the fucker anyway?” Unlike last time, no one's
gonna be putting money in his commissary account. He better learn to prioritize
his shit. Smokes are on the bottom of the list, below supps and birth control.
There's no use risking that now.
“Got mated, man. Pregnant.” Beside him, Toff snorts. “Sure you don't, Mickey.
The alpha I smell on you's got to be natural—so far under your skin, it sticks
no matter how much you shower and scrub. Man, my nose can't be wrong. You was
screwing an alpha the whole time you was out. Lucky you not knocked up! S’only
a matter of time.”
“Oiy.  Fuck you. ” Mickey pushes Toff off the table where they're sitting. The
blond flops to the muddy ground. “Fuck you know. Liking what I like don't make
me no fucking bitch, ayt? Who say I ain't doin' the fucking, huh? Jus'cause I'm
omega?”
Toff smirks at the word ‘fucking’. “That right, Mickey? You bangin' an alpha?
Don' ever think I seen an alpha who liked to be fucked.”
Mickey hasn't seen an alpha get fucked but just thinking about Ian bent over
for him—all that smooth freckled skin flexing under his palm, pert round ass
taking his omega cock. What spurs him even more is the thought of  his  juices
coating the alpha's virgin rim. It makes him so hot under his skin—like a fire
he can't stop coursing through his veins.
He fucks Toff seven ways to Sunday, and then some, but it isn't enough. The
fire's burning him from the inside out. He moves on to other betas and a
handful of omegas but the  need  won't be abated. It's  Ian , he realizes; he
needs to fuck Ian or get fucked by Ian if he wants the craving to stop.
Lucky him that the shithouse overcrowds easy. He doesn't get caught in any more
brawls with alphas trying to screw with him. His Harlem is all too eager to
trade sex for how he fucks them. Rubber's always a staple ever since. He won't
risk catching any shit from them.
When he gets out, Ian's the first person he seems out aside from double-
checking on his sister on campus. He lies and tells her that he sold some coke
before going in—he did—but that's just an added bonus for seeing the alpha.
Sunshine calls to him, strong and aromatic, making his toes in anticipation.
What he sees under the bleachers make his stomach sick instead.
Mickey doesn't quite remember what the fuck he says, or what the fuck the faggy
omega whore says back, but he remembers the rage building up in his veins. “…
you're the one I gotta beat straight,”  so you won't even think of touching my
alpha .
He lets the omega run squealing like a fat little homo-pig home—if just to get
Ian's attention back to him. Sunshine's richer like a hot and humid summer day
in Chicago burning the dirt and grass. He smells the calm breeze that brings
solstice in a heatwave. Two scents compliment each other.
Suddenly, he wants Ian inside him  right fucking now . “Got any fuck left in
your of you dump it all in that faggot's ass?”
Ian manhandles him onto the crisscross poles under the benches. He nearly weeps
at the feeling of being filled again. It's been so long—too long in Mickey's
book. How Ian smells, how Ian talks, how Ian fucks; Mickey remembers all of it
in great detail yet none of his memories compare to the real Ian. It's like
living in technicolor then suddenly things turn black and white.
Red. Red. Red.
This kind of red, he remembers.
Mickey's missed the color red—red like Ian's hair, red like Ian's freckles, red
like color of Ian skin after they've fucked. It's all red—fiery hot and
scorching. He can't get enough. He'll never get enough. He's a selfish as fuck
motherfucker.
Damn. It feels good to be back, to be out here in the sunshine. He can't recall
why he ever though going back into juvie—why being apart from Ian—was a good
idea in the first place. It must have been a some stupid-ass reason or some
shit.
Ian's in him, over him, surrounding him. The alpha would cover him from head to
toe if it isn't for the open setting. Mickey holds on for dear
life—literally—with a hand clutching the rails until his knuckles turn white.
Ian's hands over his. Ian's thick long alpha cock sliding in and out of him,
reaching places his stubbly fingers never reach.
“Fuck, yeah, fuck,” he pants open mouthed. Six grueling months without this.
How would he have survived the over half without the cock currently driving him
mad. The thirst of all those months fucking around is finally abated by the
tight stretch of Ian's bare flesh spearing into him.
“Harder,” Mickey demands, “C'mon, Ian, give it to me fucking  harder !”
The next thrust sends him into the rails. There'll be a diagonal bruise over
his chest tomorrow. Maybe by then he'd grow some shame but right now he just
needs to feel Ian pounding into him.
“Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Ian, c'mon! Right there. Right  there, ” he bares his teeth
and growls as Ian's fat knot shoves into him. It pumps him spurt after spurt
with warm alpha cum. His flat belly starts to grow after a few minutes of
panting into the rails.
Ian does what he likes doing best—burying his face into Mickey's next and
inhaling like Mickey's scent is air. But today, he stiffen. “You smell
different.”
Mickey stiffens as well. His gut curls uncomfortably but he doesn't speak. His
scent? Fuck. Fuck. He's on supps. He shouldn't smell any fucking different.
Then again, the drugs could be messing around with his body chemistry. It
flares out if control and he struggles on the alpha's knot.
Ian's quick to hold him down, whispering in his ear. “Mick, Mick, stop. You'll
hurt yourself. S'only a few more minutes until my knot goes down then we'll
talk… just… don't… struggle…”
It takes minutes before Mickey calms down, and less than five when the knot
finally slips free. When it does, Ian keeps hold on the omega.
“Mickey, why do you smell different?” Ian deeply inhales at the crook of
Mickey's neck again. “It’s not another alpha—not even beta or omega but it's…
off. Are you… are you on something?”
Mickey bites his lip. “Birth control and supps must be messin' with my system.”
Instead of anger, he smells patience from the alpha. It makes him want to hurl.
He isn't used to being understood or cared for—brass knuckles and baseball bats
are more his acquaintance. “You ain't mad?”
“God, Mick, of course not,” Ian says with a blush. “I mean… I know that you
could… with the amount of… that we… but I never thought… I didn't think…  Mick
,” he says earnestly, “It’s your body. I gotta respect your wishes. You hear
me? No one can tell you any different.”
Mickey turns away, hands fumbling with a pack of smokes. Ian's words are too
much for him to handle. He makes it to the small clearing, free of most rails,
and drops down. The lighter flicks and the first puffs taste like heaven.
“Mick?”
He’s a coward.
Ian sits down beside him. It's only been a couple of months but  damn  the
alpha look good. He's another inch taller sitting down. His hair's cut like a
jarhead. The style brings out his ever-green eyes. He's grown broader and that
light green-grey shirt clings to his torso like second skin.
“Damn.”  You look good.  “That was good,” Mickey exhales. “Missed ya.” He slips
up then recovers. “I had to do all the fucking  juvie. Otherwise, I'd end up as
someone's bitch, right? S'nice to switch back again.”  Good to get fucked again
.
Two different conversations happen at the same time. Two sides of Mickey are
fighting for control. He can't tell Ian all the things he's realized while on
the inside. First, he lies about overcrowding then he lies about the drugs.
It's too dangerous to let his omega side win.
Chapter End Notes
     Warnings: Mentions of Mickey/OMC. It's brief and non-graffic. Sorry!
***** Chapter 8 *****
Chapter Notes
     I assure you all that I DO read your comments. Thank you very much
     for the support! What I have not yet done is have the time to go over
     them and reply. Work has been hectic. I'm struggling to adjust to the
     new life as an adult. Well, anyway. WHO WATCHED EPISODE 10?! OMG.
     OMG. OMG. The Gallavich Scene were all re-enactment of the previous
     ones from season 1-4.
     Missed me?
     *dies a fangirl*
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Barely anyone comes to the store near closing. Five minutes to nine, Mickey
twists the latch on the door and then flips the sign, eyes glues on Ian's
through the glass. It's their little castle in a fucked up world. They have
another hour for inventory and closing—which thanks to Ian's crazy head and
Mickey's bizarro math-skills—now only takes fifteen minutes tops.
“You comin', Firecrotch?” Mickey says over his shoulder as he walks to the
freezer.
Ian finishes locks the register and follows. “Not yet but it'll be soon.”
Mickey sits down on the towel covered crate with a smirk, pants already passed
his knees and his impressive erection bobbing up and down. He opens his legs as
far as the pants allow, licking his lips.
“Yeah? Gonna get on me, Firecrotch?”
His slick's wetting the towel, more now. Steady sex with a young healthy
virile  alpha confuses his body into mating-like qualities—tender tits, horny
all the fucking time, and  wet  down his shins whenever he so much as smells
Ian. The constant alpha contact helps him control the omega scent on his skin.
He smells like  Ian  most of the time.
“Not yet,” Ian tells him confidently. “I’m gonne finger you ‘til you come then
I'll fuck you full until you come again, Mick. Want to smell you on me for
days.” Apparently, Ian can scent Mickey's natural scent under the drugs through
cum. It should be disgusting but it isn't.
Mickey's inner omega likes the possessive gesture. His stomach does a lot of
faggy Summersaulting. He remembers the time when Ian couldn't wait to get his
scent off. Maybe it's changed now?
“Hurry up then! I ain't fucking high school.”
“Is that a challenge, Mick?” Ian asks, sliding between the omega's pale legs,
hands hot like coal. Sunshine and wind fill the tiny space, wrapping them both
in a bubble of security. He grins all soft and gentle-like. In here, they are
the only two people that matter. They’ve learned from their past mistakes.
There’s no way Frank or anyone else can get through those doors  without them
knowing.
“Tch. Whatever it takes for you to get on me,” Mickey grits out. His fingers
clench onto the towels under him. If he doesn’t hold on, he’ll do something
stupid like grab Ian by the back of the neck and pull him down for a kiss.
Nowadays, he’s at constant odds with his inner omega for control. It’s too
dangerous with Terry out of the can.
Ian licks a wet stripe up his neck. The alpha’s been doing that more and more
lately; obsessing with his neck, and maybe Mickey kind of likes the way those
fuck me  lips tease his mating gland—almost as if Ian wants it. That’s
impossible. It’s just Ian’s stupid teenage hormones fucking up his brain.
“Get this off.”
Hands attack his pants. Before he knows it, Mickey’s completely naked in the
fucking freezer. It’s a miracle he hasn’t gotten sick yet. Ian touches him all
over—with hands, lips, and tongue. He shivers at the attention. No one’s fucked
him slow like this before… like he’s cherished.
“Fuck, c’mon,  Ian ,” he uses that name like a weapon now. Ian never could
resist him when he uses the name like that. “ Ian , fuck me.”
Ian smiles under Mickey’s jaw, nipping at the burgeoning of a stubble. “Beard’s
growing again, Mick, you need a shave,” he says so casually as if his hands
aren’t on Mickey’s cock and his fingers aren’t on Mickey’s ass. “I want you to
enjoy this. Let  me  enjoy this.”
Then, without warning, Ian’s mouth closes over Mickey’s nipple. Mickey’s whole
body arches at the foreign sensation. Sure his tits have been more sensitive
but he never explored it like some girl. Now though, with Ian sucking him like
a starving baby, he realizes how much he’s been missing out. It’s an odd sort
of feeling having lips sucking at his nipples but it feels right.
“Ian,” he pants without meaning to. He’s reduced to whimpers and pleas as Ian
play’s his body to the tune of pleasure-riled symphony. “Ian, fuck! Fingers…
fingers!”
One, two fingers enter him in succession. Prep’s barely needed at this point.
They fuck nearly every day, twice on slow days. At this point, Ian can shove
his whole cock inside and Mickey would only feel a pleasurable burn at his rim.
He’s addicted to the knot at the base of that monstrous nine inches.
Ian finds his prostate quickly, then presses it without abandon. Mickey throws
his head back and  howls  as loud as he can. No one’s here. No one will hear
him even if he shouts. It’s too late in the night for people to even care. He
could be some random omega getting fucked in a back alley for all they care. He
certainly doesn’t.
Something happens then—they come at the same time; Ian’s staring into Mickey’s
face and Mickey stares right back.
Fuck.
It scares Mickey shitless. After the knot slips out, he bolts away from Ian’s
arms. He can’t get away fast enough. That look in Ian’s eyes. Mickey ain’t no
stupid shit. He been seeing it for a few months now. He was hoping that it
could go away—fade away somehow how. Truth’s out. Ian still hasn’t gotten over
the little  crush , and Mickey’s gone and done it—got soft, got stupid.
It’ll ruin them.
Worse, it’ll ruin  Ian .
He can’t let that happen.
Iggy and him go on a drug-run cross-country. They buy five grand worth of weed
in a multitude of qualities—the most being the low-grade $20 that Russians
import by the crate. The drop of point is somewhere near the Mexican border. It
takes them a solid week back and forth. By then, they both stink to hell. The
rusty car need to be fumigated to get rid of their stench.
Just when he thought he’s out of the woods, Mandy cons him into the
neighborhood anti-pedo squad. There’s some sick prick out there who screw kids
as a hobby. Mickey’s down with a lot of things but that kind of psycho-shit
ain’t one of them.
Ian ’s part of the team—with Lip. The so-called offenders turns out to be an
old alpha female. Needless to say, they don’t get through with the plan. Lip
spews nonsense about justice and shit. Ian and Mickey both know he secretly
wants to bang the girl.
“Smell that?” He asks as they go to onto the street.
Mickey smells himself on instinct. “The fuck you talkin’ about?” He sniffs at
his pits. Nothing smells odd about him. It’s not him, so he fakes it. “S’tat
teacher smell? Pretty fucking good man. I’m getting wood just thinking about
that. Smells like she drowned in roses or some shit.”
Lip visibly scents the air. “It’s not her.” He’s a fucking omega and his nose
is pretty decent.
Angie Zago’s conveniently sitting on her porch.
Mickey sees an out. “Yo, Angie!” He calls out. “You wanna fuck?” When she
answers in the positive, he can feel Ian’s eyes burning holes at the back of
his skull. He goes into her house but he doesn’t fuck her. He can’t. She isn’t
Ian.
“Why you gotta come on to be if you got an alpha, huh?” Angie asks him. It
isn’t offensive and prying like others would but curious. No judgement in her
eyes. For a beta, she’s got a good sense of smell.  Her living room smells like
booze, cheetos, and weed—the standard in Southside homes. He kind of wishes he
that he knows what the Gallagher house smells like.
“The fuck you talkin?” He lies through her teeth.
Angie hands him the whiskey bottle wrapped in a cheap paper bag instead of
answering. “Fine. Don’t talk about it. But we gotta do somethin ‘cause you’re
wasting my time.”
Mickey doesn’t know how to react. Sure, he’s grown up with Southside chicks
like Mandy but he never really hung out with any of them before. It’s seven
levels of weird for him. They’re sitting on a couch that looks like it was
stolen from a retirement home and a DIY table made of pizza boxes.
“He’s not my alpha,” he ends up confessing.
“Why?” There she goes, asking so innocently again.
Mickey grabs the bottle in her hand and down half in one go. “Cause my dad
would fucking kill him if he ever finds out.”
Angie stands up, disappears presumably to the kitchen, then comes back with an
even large bottle of alcohol. She says nothing as she trades the convenience
store crap with the really good stuff from Mickey’s hands. They drink their
fill in booze—in silent understanding. Everyone’s got their own messed up story
in this neighborhood.
Chapter End Notes
     This has got load of angst built-up from the last few months.
***** Chapter 9 *****
Chapter Notes
     I know your heart broke during last Sunday's episode. Mine too.
     There's going to me stories upon stories of writers trying to write
     fix-its. It ain't never going to be enough because they KILLED US all
     over again. So, I give you this--a fluffy ABO version of what their
     story should've been like. We're pretty canon-compliant up to now.
     So, if you've been reading this, you know what to expect.
     Thank you to everyone who has been reading this up to now. I hope
     that I meet your expectations~
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Mandy's gonna be a senior in the coming school year and she needs new shit.
Bitch thinks that just because he's got a real job now means that he's fucking
Oprah now with all the things she  needs . Tch. Half that stuff's useless shit
like new make-up or a  first day of school  new outfit. She's been taking care
of him during heats. This is only a way of paying her back.
His customer what's-his-name come into the store looking like a washed-up
skater dude. Immediately, Ian's alpha scent rises in disapproval. The much
younger alpha flinches. A tiny part of Mickey grows wet at the display of
dominance.
“Buy something,” he mutters, closing the boring magazine. The young alpha picks
a back of gum from the countertop. Mickey takes the coffee cup with low-grade
weed and drops it into the trash, signaling with his eyebrows. Knothead looks
fucking lost.
“Am I supposed to…?” the kid stutters.
“Pick it up,” Mickey answers the same time Ian says, “Maybe you should just
leave. You need what little brain cells you have left.”
The fuck? “Why you gotta mess with my business, man?”  Don't ya know what kinda
expensive shit Mandy wants and the pills cost?  He glares at Ian.
“Well, stop doing  your  business in  my store .” Ian tells him. Fuck, if that
doesn't feel like a punch to the gut.
Mick plays it off casually. “Then, uh, what will you go down for?” He's already
half way to the freezer when Ian speaks again.
“Hey, few days ago, did you really fuck Angie?”
Trust Ian to get all up in his face for keeping cover. In this side of Chicago,
no one survives being  out and proud  even if they’re being discreet. Fag-
bashing’s a nightly occurrence. It’s a miracle—or maybe all that JROTC
training—that has kept Ian safe until now.
Mickey lies through his pearly white teeth about being cool with the idea of
Ian fucking Angie. Thank  something  that his supps hold up, and his scent
doesn’t give him away. He’s still on the same stuff that Iggy gave him nearly a
year ago. That and the birth control’s really fucking with his  head. Ian
thankfully  lets the issue slide—or he lets Mickey think.
It’s near four when the viagroid walks into the store. At first, Mickey doesn’t
give two shits about him because he’s finishing up a coke deal. The old asshat
smells sickeningly of alpha-enhancers and synthetic pheromones that Mickey’s
stomach gets sick. He isn’t exactly subtle when he pops his lips at the word
“gingersnap”.
Mickey wants to  snap  his fucking head off, but that would break his
probation. “You got a receipt,” he says instead, standing at full height and
letting his muscles show. Ian, the fucker, hands it to the asshole. His gut
curls at the action. He wants to rip the rich Northside faggot into pieces.
Ian’s just sitting on the chair, arms crossed over his chest, looking smug as
fuck.
If the thought of Ian fucking Angie got his guts twisting, the thought with Ian
fucking  another alpha  makes him want to vomit. He holds that it. An alpha
with another alpha. It makes absolutely no sense. How the fuck would that even
work without the natural slick? To top it off, Ian’s scent is thicker than it
was this morning.
Fuck.
Closing hour rolls around and he makes sure to get Ian in the freezers fucking
him . His plan only works for all of two minutes when Ian’s doing up his pants
and putting his shirt back on. God, those muscles should be illegal on an alpha
like him. Mickey’s still gaping hole is practically dripping with a new wave of
slick.
“So, uh, you really meeting with that pill-popping grandpa?” He bites his lip.
It’s unfair how he’s the one always getting fully naked while all Ian throw off
is his shirt. Redressing always takes twice as long. He hopes that the way he’s
putting his hole on display would convince the alpha to stay for round number
three. The store’s closed and no one’s coming.
Ian shakes his head. “Can’t. Got a date.”
“You serious?” Mickey all but sputters. “So that’s it, huh? Fancy car, fancy
food, and fancy beer get you all hot now, Gallagher?”
“It’s a  date , Mick, maybe you’ve heard about it.” Ian rolls his eyes and
fixes himself through the freezer glass. “It’s a thing usually  do  when they
wanna fuck someone else.”
Mickey bites his lip. “Why they gotta do that? Ain’t bangin’ the good part?”
It’s the wrong thing to say because Ian turns his back to him, shoulders
slumped.
“Of course it’s the good part but sometimes it’s good to have a little build-
up, ya know? Urgh. I don’t understand why I’m even trying to explain this to
you. You obviously don’t care about banging outside this fucking freezer!” Ian
huffs, slamming the door as he goes, leaving Mickey with the whizz of the
freezer surrounding him.
“Fuck!”
The Fountain’s one of the faggiest gay pubs on the Northside. It’s posh too.
After Ian left, Mickey easily follows the path he took by scent alone. Three
years of doing this dance, and his nose had gotten pretty good at tracking
Ian’s scent when the redhead doesn’t bother to cover it. He sees Ian and the
viagroid sitting on high-chairs  giggling  like a bunch of school girls. The
asshole fucking  touches  Ian on his neck.
Cold beer tastes like piss water when he sips. He waits it out, telling the
time by the number of smokes he stomps onto the ground. His feet is littered
with charted smudges by the time Ian and  his date  walk out of the bar.
The wind carries the happy sunshine scent mingling with nauseating old man
balls smell. If that isn’t bad enough, the doucheface has the audacity to call
Mickey “boyfriend” to Ian’s face. He absolutely loses it. Red. Red. Red. He
sees red but not the good kind of red. It’s blood, this asshole’s blood, that
he wants to see painting the concrete red.
“Mickey, stop!” Ian karate-chops him on the throat and he goes falling down.
“Shit, Gallagher!” Despite the pain on his neck, Mickey runs. “C’mon,
Gallagher !”
He’s juvie record won’t seal for another six months. They catch him now and
it’s straight back into that shithole. He doesn’t think he can really be away
from Ian for that long—he’s like an addict with Ian as his poison of choice.
Ian’s loud footfalls are following behind him, and that’s all he holds onto
until they’re in a backalley that no one would care to check.
Ian shoves him into a wall, eyes alpha-red. “What the  fuck  is wrong with
you?” It’s the hottest fucking thing that Mickey’s seen in his life. For a
second, Mickey thinks that this is how he should die—in the hands of the one
person he doesn’t think can hurt him. It’s the latter that rules his thoughts.
Mickey does the only thing he can think of—he grabs Ian by the back of his neck
and has every intention of pulling the alpha in for a kiss, but he redirects
his lips at the last second. Instead of Ian's lips, Mickey's find Ian's pulse
point at the juncture of neck and shoulder then licks his way to the small bump
of the mating gland. Ian's whole body shudders.
“You like that?” He pants wetly into Ian's ear.
Ian presses his harder against the wall, head tilting away. “Yeah,” he answers
breathlessly while baring his neck. “ Mickey .”
Mickey keeps mouthing at the alpha's gland. It's the first time he's gotten to
touch Ian like this. His nose picks up on the faint smell of another alpha on
Ian's skin, and his inner omega  wails  with disapproval. He licks it away
clean, rubbing his cheek on Ian's neck and jaw until Ian smells like  him .
“ Mickey ,” Ian says the omega's name like he's drowning. Large hands cup
Mickey's backside and pulling their half-chubs together.
Mickey lifts his leg to Ian's hips to fix the angle. They both moan together.
There's fumbling— who  doesn't matter as long as they're both out of their
jeans and rubbing wetly again each other.
“Fuck!” Ian groans out loud, sounding like he gargled gravel.
Mickey nips the freckled jaw. “Shut up,” he hisses, using one hand around the
cocks and the other on Ian's hair. His lips work on sucking a mark mere inches
from Ian's mating gland. He works them until the blood's as close to the
surface as possible without breaking skin. Even then, he isn't finished. His
tongue licks over the sensitive flesh.
“You're fucking crazy.” Ian pulls away with a laugh. “We got from freezer to
backalleys. Are you allergic to a bed or something? ‘Cause I remember our first
time being in that squeaky bed of yours.”
Mickey pulls a face. “Oiy, fuck you complaining about when I got my hand ln
your dick?”
“Your fist barely fits both of us, Mick,” Ian says in a matter-of-fact tone. To
prove his point, he wraps his own fist around their cocks. The size difference
is more notable when their hands are side by side.
Mickey punches his lightly on the shoulder. “You gonna get on me, Firecrotch?
Or you gonna get us off like this?”
“Or like this,” Ian replies, licking a stripe up Mickey's neck. “Why you gotta
go beat Lloyd up, huh? You jealous?”
“F—fuck no,” Mickey  does not  whimper when Ian twists his hand. Heat pools
between them. Not even the coolness of the brick behind him helps even out the
temperature. Ian, the showboating fucker, lifts him bodily off the ground.
“You were,” Ian insists. “You beat  an alpha  to a bloody pulp. That goes
against everything in your biology. Why?”
Mickey squirms, hating how unfair of an interrogation technique using sex is.
“The fuck you wanna know, asshole?”
“The truth.” Ian's teeth skirt up the column of Mickey's neck, making the omega
shudder in his arms.
A dam break, and Mickey spills. “Cause you  mine ,” he growls, finger leaving
bruises on the alpha's shoulders. “You’re fucking  mine , Gallagher— Ian.  Not
that grampa's, or any other queen you've been fucking.  Mine , got that?”
“Got it,” Ian answers with a grin reaching up to his ears. “I’m yours, Mick.”
Thank god Mickey isn't due for another heat anytime soon.
Chapter End Notes
     As always, if you liked or enjoyed this fic, you should know what to
     do. Comment/Kudos/Bookmarks are always appreciated by this author.
     One of the reasons I haven't left is because I love reading all your
     comments~
     If you have a prompt or an idea, you can INSPIRE_ME on tumblr. Or
     TALK_TO_ME
***** Chapter 10 *****
Chapter Notes
     Yes, I am alive but unfortunately not very well. Some of you may have
     wondered where I've been hiding since Christmas. Around 3-4 months, I
     think. It was an episode. I couldn't even lift my head off the pillow
     for days as a time. For the most part, I don't remember what happened
     while I was drawn inside myself. It's been a challenge getting back
     here on this site again. It's not too long but I hope, for those of
     you still reading, that you enjoy it. I will get back to reading the
     comments and replying again in dew time.
     As always, your words of love and support are encouragement enough to
     continue writing this.
     Best,
     ArmyC
Telling Mandy the truth ends up being Mandy finding them in Mickey's bed the
following morning. Mickey wakes up with a start. The first thing he notices are
the arms wrapped around his waist. Ian's warm sunshine smell fills the space
between the bed and the blanket, cocooning Mickey in the alpha's scent. He
doesn't want to leave it. For once in his life, his urge to flee doesn’t come
until he sees his sister's shocked face by the doorway.
“Mandy? The fuck you doin' in my room, skank?” Mickey growls in annoyance,
temporarily forgetting about the alpha behind him but Ian's arms tighten around
him and a breathy “Mick” is whispered in his ear. He shivers at the gravelly
timbre. Ian’s voice is like honey sweet and Mickey likes sweet things. Right
now, he regrets that fact that he’s powerless to push the alpha off him.
“Mickey?” Mandy's voice cuts through the silence like a knife. With an
exagerrated gasp, she points a finger at the redhead. “Ian? What are you doin’
in bed with my brother?”
Behind Mickey, Ian blinks awake—oblivious to the rising tension. “Mands?
Whatcha doin here?”
“I live here, Ian. Think you maybe forgot about that little detail since you're
fuckingmy brother? In our fucking house? On his fucking bed!” Even for a beta,
she's a force to be reckoned with. “So all this I kinda have a boyfriend thing…
it's been Mickey this whole time?”
Mickey's frozen at her tone. Trust Gallagher to spew their business all over
town. Moreover, his traitorous inner omega is preening that the alpha’s been
talking about him. Ian somehow realizes that they're naked under the sheets and
pulls the covers over Mickey's shoulders. Only then does he look Mandy in the
eyes to address her.
“Yepp,” he says in a smug tone. “Guess he doesn't hate me after all. Great,
right?” Mickey freezes from where he’s lying down, back to Ian’s chest, the
thin fraying blanket as his only shield. It smells like them under the
covers—like a breezy summer day. Ian’s musk fills his brain with a headiness
that is dangerous.
“Yeah. Whatever.” Mandy flips her purple hair over her shoulder. “Gotta piss or
whatever. Mickey, dad and Iggy are coming back tomorrow so you might wanna air
out the room. Smells like a brothel in here.” Then, she closes the bathroom
door with a click.
Only then does Mickey unwind. He rolls his eyes after a loud exhale. “Fuckin’
bitch should mind her own fucking business.” He turns over under the sheets and
nuzzles Ian's armpit. It's the second place with the strongest scent and he
can't get enough of it. Ian's always smelled like sunshine but now he smells
unavailable as well. That's due to the partial imprint of Mickey's teeth on the
alpha's inner arm.
“Hmm.” Ian settles down beside Mickey. “She’s just trying to help.”
“The fuck she talkin about anyway? Goin' out or some shit?” Mickey goes into
his elbows, half on top of Ian's chest.
Ian palms the omega's back, fingers slipping to the curve of Mickey's ass then
dipping inside the sloppy hole. “It’skinda seeing someone, and I'm seeing you
right now, aren't I, Mick? I see that eyebrow thing you like doing when you're
thinking. See? Right… there!” He presses his finger to Mickey's brow, grinning
like a large puppy.
“Oiy, off! That finger's just been in my ass, fucker!”
“So's my tongue after I rimmed you  but you had no problem sucking it last
night. What's with the change of heart, Mick?”
Mickey turns red at the statement. “Whatever, douche.” He punches Ian on the
arm for good measure, right at his bite mark. The alpha hisses from the pain.
Serves the fucker right for even thinking that fucking’s made Mickey less of a
badass.
“Jesus, guys!” Mandy steps out of the bathroom, trying hard to fake annoyance.
“I'm going to get fucking cavities from watching you two. Get a fucking room!”
Mickey throws an empty beer can her way. “This is my fucking room, bitch!” It’s
off mark because, of course, he wouldn’t really hurt his sister. Clang! Metal
thuds against the doorknob before the can falls to the ground.
“Fine!” Mandy rolls her eyes the crosses her arms over her chest. “Look I'm
kind glad you got your shit sorted out but dad and Iggy are really gonna be
home tomorrow night so you better clean up.” She looks at Ian with pleading
eyes  “He might just be a beta but you still don't wanna mess with him. If he
can't kill you, he'll kill Mickey for being an omega.”
Ian stares at her in surprise. “You dad doesn't know?” Beside him, Mickey's
gone stiff as a board.
“No,” Mandy shakes her head. “Fucker’s gotten his nose broken too many times.
His sense of smell is weak but it's there. So, yeah, better be sure than risk
it.” She closes the door behind her when she leaves. “See you, douchebags, I'm
sleeping at a girl friend's tonight.”
Just like that, Mickey and Ian are left alone for the rest of the day.
Eventually—after two, three rigorous rounds of sex—they venture into the
kitchen for breakfast or lunch or early dinner. Doesn’t really matter as long
as it’s food in their stomachs.Deciding it's the perfect time to air out the
whole house, they open all the windows while the food is being prepared. All of
it feels oddly domestic.
Ian does the cooking, claiming that “Breakfast is easy. I can do that. But I
might burn down the house if you make me cook anything else. It's just eggs and
toast.” He does it in all his naked glory covered up by an ugly-ass apron
because he’s attached to his junk and he prefers it unburned thank you very
much.
Mickey's left with the cleaning which, really, isn't much given that the house
is perpetually in disarray. He just throws shit like beer cans, old pizza boxes
and takeaways, and empty containers in the trash. Since Ian's fighting with the
stove, he figure's he'll spruce up his room as well. He finds a box of his old
sex toys under his bed, and gets and idea.
“Yo, Gallagher!” He bellows from his room. There's a muffled “What?” that
follows.
Mickey walks out with a string of heavy black Ben Wa beads in his hands. Green
eyes look over him, from  his face to his feet than up again, taking in his
similar nakedness. He wiggles his eyebrows when he sees and smells Ian's
reaction to the toy. Click, the stove is forcibly turned off.
It's encouraging.
“Bought these when I didn't have an alpha to fuck me through my heats. Wanna
try it out?”
“What does it do?” Ian asks from the other side of the counter, plating up the
badly made omelet that looks more like scrambled eggs. His whole face conveys
exactly how much he lost care for the food because there’s something else he’d
rather be tasting.
Mickey shrugs, placing the beads on the counter with a clatter. “You shove'em
up my ass, then you pull'em back out.” He lists his face to meet Ian’s eyes and
sees heat there, eyes lining up with red.
“Ah-huh.” Ian takes the beads, runs his long pale fingers over each one, then
cocks an eyebrow at Mickey. “How’s that fun for me, exactly?”
“I dunno, man.” Mickey makes grabby hands for it. “Oiy, if you don't want'em
then I'll do it myself. Don't have to use'em today.”
Ian drags the beads across the countertop right next to the plate of eggs then
leans over to peck Mickey on the lips. He lowers his voice, “I was thinking of
something else that you might wanna do today.”
“Yeah?” Goosebumps rise all over Mickey's flesh. He licks his lips. “Whatcha
got in mind, Firecrotch?
“I was thinking…” Ian walks his fingers over the hand Mickey has on the
counter, trailing it up until he's touching Mickey's ear. “…after breakfast…
maybe you'd like to try fucking me today?”
A fresh wave of slick pours down Mickey's legs.
Ian chuckles. “That a yes?”
“Fuck yeah,” Mickey can’t say fast enough.
They demolish the food in record time, then they're sprinting back to Mickey's
room.
Ian takes his sweet time taking Mickey apart—starting off with the omega’s
lips, egg breath be damned. He kisses Mickey like he's starved, and maybe he is
since they're been banging for nearly three years, off and on, at this point.
He knows the intricacies of Mickey's body except for this one. Kissing is new.
Mickey lets himself get into it—trusting Ian's lips to bend him to the alpha's
willing. The slide of their tongues together make him spark from the inside
out. His legs haplessly apart to accommodate Ian's stronger broader build
between them. Lips. Tongue. Teeth. He feels all those lighting up his skin on
fire.
The positions are reversed though. He’s all but willing to get Ian inside him
again but the alpha’s promise echoes in his mind. With a growl, he hooks his
legs onto Ian's hips and rolls them over. Then, Jesus,Ian underneath him looks
like heaven in earth—ready to be debauched. Mickey's inner omega sings in joy
with having hisalpha finally with him.
“Ian,” he moans brokenly, licking up and down Ian’s neck like the alpha enjoys
doing to him. The taste of salty alpha hits his tongue. His mouth waters at the
taste—thirsty for it. “Fuck, I want you. I wanna bury my fucking cock inside
you. Wanna feel your heat around me, yeah?” He mumbles as he places small
kitten licks on the bobbing Adam’s apple.
Ian keens, baring his neck submissively. It isn’t a gesture common to alphas
but it comes naturally from him. “Fuck, Mick, the mouth in you is filthy.” He
grabs Mickey by the back of the neck and kisses him again. His long pale
freckled legs spread wide. “Gonna be so good for you, omega, gonna come in your
cock. Let me knot your fist, alright?”
“Fuck yeah.” Mickey grins. “I am gonna fuck you so good, alpha.”
The title pushes Ian of the edge. Mickey's never said the word without distaste
before, and he just said it like being an alpha was an honor. The low burning
arousal that he woke up with this morning starts to burn steadily inside him.
It courses through his veins staring from his very core, spreading outwards—to
his toes, to his fingers, to his tongue. He licks every inch of exposed skin.
Under him, Ian falls apart in an incoherent mess. “Mickey, Mickey,” is all he
says, over and over again like Mickey’s name is a prayer.
For the second time in his life, Mickey's inner omega preens at seeing an alpha
utterly debauched by him. He still wants more—more of Ian’s noises, more of
Ian’s touches, more of Ian coming undone because he’s the one giving the alpha
pleasure. His hands move with minds of their own, touching Ian everywhere.
***** Chapter 11 *****
Chapter Notes
     It's still a process. I was out for 2-weeks last April to try and get
     back my inspiration. So, far, it's not working out as I hoped. I do
     still have a couple more chapters written in this story. Sadly
     though, it's so few that I'm reluctant to post them. I fear that
     it'll run out and stop where it currently is. That would be
     embarrassing to all of you. For now, though, I had enough fuel to
     finish up this chapter and get it posted. I wish you all enjoy it as
     I did while writing it.
     Kudos and comments are appreciated~
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Mickey’s never fucked an Alpha before. Sure, he’s been fucking Ian since the
redhead had freckles on his nose—not that those were gone though less prominent
now—but he’s never fucked Ian. He’s been fucked by so many times. Just the
thought of it makes him slick-up puddles; and now, he’s got a tall hunk pure
alpha of muscle panting underneath him. His bed will never be the same again.
It’ll forever hold the scent of the alpha’s between its fibers. Mickey secretly
hopes it’ll never fade.
“Mick!” Ian squirms when the omega pinches his nipples. He lets out another
full-body shudder. “Mickey, god, what the fuck are you doing to me?”
“Relax, ” Mickey coaxes with a devilish tone, capturing a pert pink nipple
between his pink lips. “ I got you isn’t that what you told me before? I’ve got
you now, Ian. Relax for me.” For emphasis, he runs his small pale hands up and
down Ian’s flushed sides. Flesh feels so hot under his palms—a pleasant shade
of red covering the expanse of fair skin.
Ian whimpers at his words. For an alpha standing six-feet and five-inches, he
looks like a naïve puppy when he’s lying down on Mickey’s bed exposing himself
to the omega. None of his alpha bravado rises to the surface now. Only
surrender reflects in his entire countenance. A foot arch runs up the back of
Mickey’s thighs, forcing the brunette to look up.
“Come on, Mick, get on me.” he borrows the omega’s favorite phrase with a
smirk. His hands move over his leaking cock. He’s so fucking hard fight now.
The effect on his partner is immediate.
Mickey  inhales deeply at the sight of Ian touching himself. He reaches down
between Ian’s legs, past the fiery red bush he often jokes about and the large
balls which slap against his cheeks when they fuck, to the small untouched furl
of Ian’s opening. It’s blazing hot—nearly hotter than Ian’s cock—and pulses to
his touch. He can’t help but feel the awe rising in his gut when Ian opens his
legs even wider to let him see it.
“Christ,” he breathes out, utterly speechless. Ian normally smells like
afternoon sunlight, and he smells even better up close. Sweat. Scent.
Sweetness. It’s the musk of Ian Gallagher that smells like he’s Mickey's alpha.
Of course, those thoughts are pushed to the back of Mickey’s mind.
A dry finger rubs the ring of muscles again. Ian’s whole body reacts to the
sensation, toes curling on the back of Mickey’s thighs. It’s dry. It should be.
Only omegas have natural lubrication. At the back of his head, Mickey knows
what to do—get fucking lube—but instead he freezes with the tip of his finger
teasing at the hole just to see his alpha squirm.
“Mickey ,” Ian’s broken cry breaks his thought.  “Fuck. Fuck. Lube. We need
lube. Mick, where’s the fucking lube? ” He throws his head down, whole body
shaking in frustration. “FUCK!” His eyes squeeze shut, wetness clinging to his
brow and lashes.  They need lube. Like Yesterday.
Mickey kisses his alpha quiet. “Oiy,” he whispers tenderly, offering one of his
rare smiles. “When I say I got you; I mean, I got you, ayt?” He's doing his
best to appease Ian's need. The burning from the core out—he knows how that
feels. Up until now, he never really cared if he hurt his partners during sex
but it's different with Ian. He wants it to be good. Better than good. He wants
his alpha panting in pleasure under him.
Ian's big green eyes are staring at him, brimming with tears. Winter, Spring,
and Fall cease to exist in Ian’s eyes. Only an endless summer remains.
“Mick?” The alpha call weakly.
Mickey bites his lips and breaks their gaze, avoiding Ian’s eyes. The next
part's pretty embarrassing even for him. Others either came prepared or settled
for lube. Pain’s not a risk he’s willing to take with Ian.  No, not ever. Red-
faced, he reaches behind and slips his fingers inside of himself, getting them
wet.
Ian’s beautiful green eyes widen like saucers when he sees.
Mickey brings back his  fingers, glistening with his omega slick.
“God, Mickey!” The alpha’s scent flares anew. It spreads wall-to-wall in
Mickey's tiny bedroom, reeking of arousal. Want. Need. Now.Green eyes staring
at the omega, shining with stars.  His lashes glistening with unshed tears. “Is
that your? … you’re? Fuck. That’s so fucking hot. I can’t believe you’d use
you’re—” His face colors to match his hair.
“Shutup!” Mickey snarls. His blush mirrors Ian’s. “Fuck, it is. S'my first time
usin' this so so shutup! S’not like Imma use it for someone else. S’cause
s’you.” It is, however, not his first time using his slick on his cock. He’s
tried it before but it always felt quite wrong. The wrongness feels
inconsequential right now when Ian’s looking at him like he’s the only thing
that matters. It’s scary how much he’s willing overlook for his alpha.
Ian bites his lip like he wants to say something. In the end, he shakes his
legs and presents his ass more. Both of them hold their breath. The first
finger slides in. Inch by inch, it disappears.
Mickey opens Ian up, nice and slow, adding more is his slick and licking at
Ian's face. Salty tears prickle his tongue. He doesn’t falter. Prod. Twist.
Slick . He’s never this patient with his own prep. Spread. Tease. Circle.
It feels like forever until the alpha's loose enough to take his knotless cock.
There’s a rush as his slick-coated fingers massage Ian’s tightly furled rim.
Inside feels soft and hot and perfect. It makes all his good blood run south.
He doesn’t know if he’ll have enough blood in his brain to fully function.
“Mick , I think… I think I’m good now. Mickey, your cock.” The last words are
growled with a hint of impatience because of courseIan is an impatient
motherfucker.
Instincts kick in. He ushers Ian his back. Ian looks a little hurt.
“S’gonna make it easier for ya.” He tries to explain. “Imma make it good. It’ll
hurt the first time.”
The stubborn alpha shakes his head. “I don’t care. I wanna see your face.” He
reaches for Mickey’s cock, the tips of his finger brushing against the purpling
head. “This is fine.”
Sentimental idiot, Mickey thinks, rolling his eyes in mock annoyance. The alpha
smiles back shyly. “Ayt, fine. Put your gigantor legs on my shoulders then. Up-
up.” He pats Ian's thighs until the alpha positions his legs. First the left,
then the right; Ian’s open and exposed to him, and Mckey's harder than he’s
ever been in his entire life. Fingers trace up and down the side of Ian’s legs
in an attempt to soothe the remaining jitters.
“Mick.”
Ian's arms reach out for him as he pushes in. He goes in slowly. Even with all
that prep, the alpha's so fucking tight around him. It feels like he’s forcing
his cock into the eye of a sewing needle. His eyes keep meeting Ian's, silently
asking for permission. Heat gathers between their curled bodies, making him
sweat like a pig, sheets clinging to his damp legs. Not even the steady breeze
from the open window alleviates the rise in temperature.
“You good?” Mickey needs to ask, wanting to do this good.
“I’m good,” Ian says even if his erection flags a little. “Don't stop, Mick.”
Mickey doesn’t. He goes in slow but surely, inch by torturous inch, and just as
slowly Ian opens up to him. The tight rim flutters around his cock as he slides
in. A moan punches out of them both when he finally bottoms out, thigh against
thigh, balls against Ian's freckled cheeks.
“S’good. S'tight.” He presses their foreheads together. “S’like I'm gonna
fucking melt inside. Fuck.”
Ian grins. “That’s the point, right?” he says, tilting his hips. “Oh Jesus,
yes!”
Mickeys starts a punishing pace. He can only go so long with the vise-like grip
Ian's got on his cock. It’s like Ian’s trying to pull his fucking dick off.
They fumble, Ian’s legs awkwardly sliding off Mickey’s sweaty shoulder.
Mickey’s damp hands barely do anything to help. The headboard rocks with every
thrust.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
They don’t care for the noise since they’re alone.
“Stop squeezing me!” Mickey grits out, eyes screwing shut. The angle’s hard to
control. HIs arms are shaking with the effort to hold down his weight along
with half of Ian’s. The suction on his cock in unbelievably tight. If he isn’t
careful, he’s going to blow. “Fucking relax, Ian. S'gonna be over before we get
to the fun part.”
“I thought this was already the fun part?” Ian pants into his ear, wiggling his
ass. Mickey can practically hear the grin playing on the alpha’s lips. Ian, on
the other hand, runs his hands soothingly over the omega’s back. “Oh fuck
there! Right fucking there!” His legs curl around Mickey’s shoulder to pull the
brunette closer.
Ian, Ian, Ian.Mickey’s head chants the name on repeat.
This very moment is what he’s been fantasizing about from the second he got out
of juvie. It’s Ian underneath him—submissive and pliant. He knows it’s not
normal for him to want this but he does. No other alpha would out themselves in
such a position for a person of his status, and yet Ian is so willingly
spreading his legs got him.
He smells amazing.
Mickey can’t get enough. It’s dizzying—sunshine, and summer, and happiness all
rolling into one. The pleasure builds on his cock, inside his balls, curling in
his stomach. It’s a slow-burning sensation that steadily bringing his whole
body up to a boil, and he’s taking Ian with him.
Mickey keeps pounding until his knees shake. “Ian!” He wraps a hand around
Ian's cock and feels the thick base between his fingers.
“M—Mickey!” Ian comes, painting their stomachs white. “Fuck, my knot. Mickey,
my fucking knot!”
Mickey's hands instinctively wrap around Ian's pulsing hot knot, massaging it.
It's insane how much cum spreads across their stomachs. Ian keeps going,
writhing on his lap, with his cock continuously pumping thick cum. Mickey's
mouth waters at the scent of it.
Ian comes down from the high. “Shit, Mick, that was…” he breathlessly trails
off. Like an idiot, there's a big fucking smile on his lips. He pull the omega
closer, licking up and down Mickey's neck—onto the spot that would be swollen
during heat. “Thank you.”
“The fuck you thanking me for? This ain't no pity fuck.” Mickey eyes him with
disgust. “Shove that thank you up your ass.”
Ian laughs and Mickey feels it where they're joined together. “I know it ain't,
asshole…” then, he goes all shy again. “I’m sayin' that you were gentle. I… I
really didn't think that it would feel that good having something up there. It
never felt good when I tried it with my finger.” He blushes. “But yours felt
really good.”
“Yeah, well…” Mickey looks away in embarrassment. “Don’ want this to be the
only time, ayt? So… s'good?” He asks, because prep and knot-work may have his
fingers a little cramp-y.
Ian wraps a hand on Mickey's neck and pulls him down for long kiss—tongue,
teeth, and everything.
Mickey opens his mouth and allows Ian to fuck his mouth with all that alpha
gusto that he relinquished only moments ago. There's no illusions who controls
the kiss despite how they're still connected. Another wave of cum spurts from
Ian's cock, warming their cooling bodies all over again. He's all too content
to bask in the alpha's attention.
“It was good,” Ian says, nipping Mickey's ear. “You wanna try that rosary for
giants?”
Yes, yes, yes! Mickey’s head wants to say but he ends up saying “Ayy, maybe not
‘night. Gotta fuckin’ sleep first,” he says, pressing their foreheads together.
All his muscles are aching in the best way possible. It’s a good thing that
they don’t have to wait out his knot. He’s falling asleep as it is.
Ian seems to sense this. The alpha graciously nudges Mickey back. He’s open and
sloppy. The action causes his to hiss ever so slightly. A trail of cum keeps
them connected. Mickey’s staring at it and he’s staring at Mickey.
“Come on, Mick,” he ushers softly, “You can help me clean up tomorrow.”
Mickey goes boneless above Ian, and let’s the alpha arrange them so they can
sleep.
Chapter End Notes
     How'd you like that for some alpha-loving?
***** Chapter 12 *****
For a while, it's good—hell, better than anything Mickey could have expected.
They date in secret in-between the store, the dugout, and their houses. Mandy
keeps up the pretense of being Ian's beard so his frequent presence in the
Milkovich house goes unnoticed by Terry. Iggy takes one smell after another
week-long drug run and gives Mickey a larger bottle of birth control pills,
making the omega punch him on the arm.
They still rarely meet at the Gallagher house. There’s just too many eyes and
ear all over the place. Recently though, Mickey and Ian's favorite hangouts are
the abandoned buildings.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Each shot rattles the air with an echo. If the store is there castle, these
building are their sanctuary. A failed housing project which never came to
fruition. The ‘Private Property: No Trespassing' sign becomes their own
personal welcome mat. Away from the prying eyes, they can be as free as they
wished.
“Left knee.”
Bang!
“Right shoulder.”
Bang!
“Chest.”
Bang!
“Kill shot.”
Bang!
There's loud booming laughter before another shot is called out, “Nutcracker!”
Bang!
“Hah! You fucking missed! The fuck was that, army! Why’d you shoot the bastard
in the leg? That army brain ain't giving up in that trajectory shit now, ayt? I
said shoot'em in the fucking nuts!”  Mickey jumps from the roof to where Ian's
standing—behind the cement-weighted barrels that marks the 25-mark line.
Ian whips around with a glare. “That was a perfect shot! You said nutcracker
not the guy's actual nuts! The hell you use to crack someone's balls, huh? Your
shin! Why the hell do you want me to shoot him there anyway? Really, who does
that? It's insane!”
It's Sunday. They've been going at it since breakfast and it's passed lunch
now. Their shirts cling on their sweaty back. Ian just got the requirements for
his Westpoint application—one of them being that he pass a preliminary gun
certification test. A quick text to Mickey and they find themselves here. At
first, they have a friendly game to determine who's the better shot (Ian), then
Mickey got tired and called out shots instead.
“Nutcracker’s the nuts, man! You crack the nut. The fuck you don' know that?”
Mickey argues back. He goes up to the sweat-drenched alpha, poking Ian in the
chest. “If I wanted you to shoot'em in the leg, I would have said that!”
“How am I supposed to know that? Want me to read your mind now? Mick, I can
barely read you face most of the time. Feels like I’m blind!” Ian grouses with
a frown.
Mickey's still staring at him with sharp eyes, scent flaring wildly. “That’s
why you supposed to listen to me, asshole! S'possed to shoot'em assholes that
look like they wanna eat ya—right in the nuts. Maximum damage. They outta learn
not ta think of lookin' at m'alpha.”
“That so, Mick? You’re going to shoot them in the balls? Alright. Alright. I
actually think I kinda link that.” Ian lowers his hands in surrender. “I'm
sorry,” he says earnestly. The gun safety clicks then the black met is tucked
into the waistband of his jean. Ian loops his arms around Mickey loosely,
bringing their faces together. “You’re right. I should have listened better.”
“Sadistic fucker,” Mickey snorts, wiggling in Ian's arms. “Oiy, enough with the
faggy shit. I got it, ayt! Me getting’ all ghetto make ya hot and shit. Tch.
What doesn’t get that crotch hot, eyy?” Despite their closeness in the bedroom,
he's still uncomfortable with intimacy outside of sex. It's a slow progression
but his alpha's ever patient. “C'mon. Don' you use enough bullet for today?
Gotta eat something, man. Or you gonna be lanky-assed again.”
Ian laughs, fingers touching the base of the dark black tresses. “You liked me
when I was lanky-assed, remember?”
“The fuck says who?”
“Mick…”
“Ayt, fine.” Mickey flips Ian a doublebird. “Oiy, ain't you got a stomach or
some shit? I'm fucking starving, man. Gotta eat too ya know. We missed lunch.
S'fucking three an' we didn't pack shit,” he gripes, showing Ian his phone. On
the lockscreen, there's a photo of their guns on the concrete. It's as close to
being the two of them without risking getting caught. Ian's is one of his
family.
Ian bends down to nuzzle Mickey's jaw. “Come back to mine,” he says, nipping
the tender skin there. “It’s coupon day. Pantry’s gonna be full. Fiona and Debs
said they’re making Pot Roast tonight. It’s sweet. You’ll like it. They always
make too much after coupon day. I'll text Mandy to meet us a block away, and we
can pretend she dragged you along. C'mon, Mick, s'not like you have better
dinner options at home. Aren't you tired of pizza bagels and Jell-O?”
“Oiy, don't mess with my fucking Jell-O, man. I'll bite your fucking
tongue'off!” Mickey pushes Ian's head so he can look the alpha in the eyes,
glaring. Ian's using his secret weapon—puppy dog eyes of pure fagginess.
Mickey's shit against it, a fact that Ian knows strategically when to use.
“Ayt, fuckin' fine! But only if Mandy's comin' with. I ain't gonna be stuck
alone in that den of chaos without somethin' to offer as sacrifice. She can do
all the sucking up if shit ain't good.”
“It's going to be good. I promise!” Ian's practically buzzing when he pulls out
his phone to send the messages. Unlike Mickey's nervous tick, he bites his lips
when he's too excited over something. Fingers fly over the touchscreen. A
little part of Mickey—correction; a lot—thinks it's adorable, and Milkoviches
do adorable. He's so fucking dead.
Ding!
Mickey tiptoes to peer over Ian's forearm. “What did the skank sister say?”
“Mandy's already there.”
“You fucking joking?!”
“Nope.” Ian shakes his head and shows Mickey the snapchat that Mandy just send
him—it shows Mandy and Debbie making some kind of brownish red dish, noticeably
with make-up, and Fiona smiling in the background. “Deb wanted a makeover day.
I have no idea what they're making though.”
Mickey grabs Ian's wrist and bring the phone closer to him. “It’s Goulash,” he
says, seconds later, with a blank expression on his face. Ian quietly waits for
an explanation. “It’s uh… my—our—mom used ta make it for us when we had
groceries and shit. Wasn't always this bad, ya know? She was, err, a waitress
and she brings the day-expired shit. Wasn't bad-bad shit. Jus'a day aft'r what
the label says—uhh, whatever. She used to make it. Don't know why the bitch
thinks makin' it now s'good.”
“Maybe Mandy misses her.”
“Dunno, man. Fuck if I care.”
They gather their stuff silently after that. Backpacks hold their gear and
ammo. The shells would be re-packed with gun powder in the Milkoviches'
basement and the guns need a good cleaning after today's practice—especially
Ian's. Once outside, they slide back into the façade of friends. Shoulders
casually bump as they shove at each other.
Mickey doesn't say much of anything the whole way back, and Ian offers his
unspoken support. They choose to walk instead of risk bringing their gear in
the El. It's not overly long but the trek to Ian's house takes another hour.
Food smells comes from nearly every house on the street, not surprising given
the time.
The Gallagher house sits in the middle of a long street. It's poorly shingled
roof and patches-up wooden exterior makes it a sight to behold even in this
neighborhood, carrying the evidence of raising three kids and three more in the
works.
Lip sits out on the porch, cigarette in and a bottle of beer by his feet.
“What’s he doing here?” He sneers, glaring at Mickey.
“Lip, don't,” Ian warns the omega, “He's Mandy's brother. Of course she'll want
h to taste her cooking.”
“Cooking?” Lip snorts. “It’s more like a Hurricane Mandy rampaged through the
kitchen. Then guess who'll be stuck cleaning the slop, right? Tch. The thing
she make almost edible?”
Mickey pushes past Ian and kicks Lip leg with the tip of his boot.  “Oiy,
that's my fucking sister ya talkin' trash about, Gallagher. She's gonna break
your fucking omega balls if she wants to. ‘Course shit she makes fucking
edible. The fuck you think she is? We don't gots no mama bear like yous, ayt?”
“What the fuck, Mickey!” Thankfully, the kick isn't too hard. Lip rubs at his
sore shin. “You better fuckin wish that an alpha likes you enough to train you
in. Fucking ass with no matters. Why are you two doing together anyway? You
hanging out without Mandy now too? You fucking or something?”
Mickey's whole body freezes. “The fuck's it too you, fuckface.” He shoves Lip
on the way inside, cheeks burning red. It's good that Gallaghers don't have too
much fancy lighting. “Ay, yo Mands! The fuck you makin'? I'm fucking hungry.”
Carl's on the sofa playing a shooting game and Liam's in his playpen. Mandy
comes out from the kitchen with a frilly pink apron that almost makes Mickey
laugh.
“The fuck is that?” Mickey's lips twitch. “You two playin' house now? Makin'
food and shit.”
“Mickey,” Fiona's voice chastises from the kitchen. “Watch what you say around
the children!” For a beta, she's the only one aside from his sister that Mickey
even remotely respects. Everyone who knows the Gallaghers know that she's the
glue that keeps them together. Mickey can respect that.
He plops himself on the sofa beside Carl, and steals the controller. “Lemme
show you how it's done kid.”
“Hey, Carl,” Ian greet, vaulting over the back of the sofa to plop beside
Mickey. They think that Carl will present either as a beta or as an alpha since
Debbie presented as an omega on her birthday. Ian, not knowing what to do, had
called Mandy who knew exactly what to do.
Carl doesn't even acknowledge the alpha, too engrossed in what's happening on
the screen. The character is killing it. Mickey's hands fly over the buttons
like second nature. He half-grunts when Ian presses their legs together.
“Ian! Carl! Lip!” Debbie inbounds into the living room with a shout. “Dinner’s
ready!” She swoops into give Ian her customary bear hug when she stops short,
nose twitching and staring an Mickey with wide eyes. It's her first time to see
him after she presented. “You're—” she sniffs loudly, “a—a… Uh, like me.”
“Omega,” Mickey mutters under his breath. “Fuck’s it to you, mini-red?”
Debbie loudly sniffs the air again. “You’re mated to Ian?”
***** Chapter 13 *****
Chapter Notes
     Hola mi putas~ Guess what bitches~ I'm in fucking ECUADOR!!! How
     crazy is that??? I never would have imagined myself here in Latin
     America, and yet here I am. So, sorry for the long wait. I've been
     trying to find a place to stay while I start my new work here. Hoping
     to get more inspired as I see this beautiful country.
     Leave comments and kudos if you like it~ Ciao!
A simple—no doubt thoughtless—question from the young omega, and yet seven eyes
all turn to Mickey.
Even Fiona's alpha boyfriend what's-his-name, stops half-way through the front
door with Lip right on his heels. All the air is sucked right out Mickey. The
question hangs heavily in the eerily quiet air. It’s out there, in the open,
making Mickey squirm in his own skin. His heart hammers in his chest.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
It’ll come out if he doesn’t stop it.
Sweat pours out from every pore—hands, feet, armpits, everything. Mickey hates
that fact that he can smell the chance in his scent. He hates the smell of
fear. He especially hates the smell of his own fear, and it’s all because the
stupid little red head couldn’t keep her mouth shut.
All the while, Debbie—helplessly oblivious—keeps looking at the older omega,
waiting for an answer. Her big green eyes stare gaze up at Mickey like he had
the answers to all wondrous answers for the questions of the world. She looks
so pitifully young at ten years old. It’s eons away from how Mickey started
dealing coke in his living room when he was the same age.
An eternity passes before somebody speaks.
“Debs…” Ian says her name carefully, eyes shifting from corner to corner,
assessing everyone's faces. He sees Debbie’s curiosity, Liam’s blank stare,
Carl’s mischievous smirk, Mandy’s teeth threatening to bite part of her lip
off, Fiona’s jaw hanging off its hinge, Jimmy-Steve’s impression of a deer
caught in headlights, and Lip’s eyes wide like fancy twelve-inch dinner plates.
But, most of all, he sees the frightened expression Mickey’s face.
“Mickey and I aren't mated. You must have gotten it wrong.”
Debbie either doesn't care or has a death wish via Mickey's fist. “Then why so
you guys smell the same?” She says like they’re talking about the weather. “Ian
smells like Mickey and Mickey smells like Ian. I can smell it now! Ian's scent
is like ours but isn't like ours. I thought he smells like Mandy but he smells
like you.” She points a finger to Mickey.
The dark-haired omega growls. “You wanna fucking die? Why don't ya shut ya
fucking cakehole, huh?” Because, that’s the only thing he can say in a
situation like this. There’s always a fight because it’s always a fight. He
didn’t survive to this point without one fist half-way in the air. Threats
always make people shut up. It’s basic instinct. “It’s none of yer fuckin’
business.”
“Mick,” Ian whispers softly beside him, hand reaching for the older boy's
elbow, flinching at the last moment when a tattooed hand slaps it away.
“Fucking touch me and you die, Gallagher!” Mickey barks, snarling with his
teeth bared. There’s a growl at the back of his throat that would scare anyone
off. “S'not my fuckin' fault your sister can't keep'er trap shut! Why s'gotta
be me all the time! Damnit!” He turns back to the young omega. “You,” he
practically spits out, making Debbie cowers in fear. “You ain't sayin' nothing,
ayt? That shit nose of yer is gonna get ya killed if you can’t keep yer trap
shut. So can it, little red.”
It’s Mandy to the rescue. “Mickey!” She shouts, sprinting all the way from the
kitchen to leap on her brother’s back. Her hands immediately go for a two-armed
grip, under his pits and over his chest. She has his hands raised over his
head. “Stop making a scene, doucheface! It's like your fucking admitting it!
S'just a little kid. S'not her fault that her nose isn't used to you yet. Ian's
right. Debbie got it wrong.”
“I'm not wrong!” Debbie raises her voice, fuming. “I smell it! I’ve got a nose!
It’s a good nose! I can smell anything! I know you’re fucking lying! You and
Ian smell the same! I’m not a little kid! You can tell me I’m right that you’re
mated.”
Her outburst only makes things worse. Mickey’s hands are clenched tight at his
sides. Sweat pools along every crease. It’s nearly dripping.
Exits. Exits. He needs exits.
It’s always best to have an exit strategy. He’s been in the Gallagher house so
many times that he doesn’t even averts his eyes. There’s a layout of the
building in his head—the fastest way to get out of here. Then, he maps out
town—the streets, the hidden corners, the darkest spots. He needs an escape. He
needs to get away—far, far, away from the Gallagher and Ian—because, no, it’s
out. Their secret isn’t a secret, and he refuses to be the one to condemn the
Southside’s only silver-lining.
“Debbie!” Fiona swoops, grabbing her sister by the arm. “Stop it. Asking about
mating isn't polite conversation. Come on back to the kitchen, please, come on.
We got more company coming. Help me set up the extender and the extra chairs.”
“But Fiona…!” Debbie tries to complain, but one look is all it takes for her to
silently follow her older sister.
The tension in the room remains thick enough to cut through even with the pair
gone. Mandy's half on the back of the couch and half on Mickey, arms wrapped
around his neck. She tries, desperately, to calm him but her weak beta-scent
cannot mask the scent of distressed omega in the air. It’s Mickey, and thanks
to Debbie’s big mouth, everyone in the house knows it.
Nobody moves. Lip and Jimmy are frozen at the door. Ian hasn't moved from when
he flinched back from Mickey. Carl's frowning at the red screen which blinks
the message ‘You are dead' in white. Then, Liam starts to cry, breaking the
silence. Of course, it’s Ian who moves quickly to the toddler's side.
“Hey, buddy, come here,” the alpha coos quietly, picking Liam up into his arms.
He rocks the toddler in a familiar and well-practiced motion. Liam instantly
shushes and buries his face against Ian’s shoulder. “S’all right, buddy. You
hungry? Need to change your nappy? Or you wanna go outside for some fresh air?
I need some air is good for you.”
It’s unfair how utterly right Ian looks with a toddler in his arms.
Two polar-opposite sides tear Mickey from the inside-out. On one side, his
inner omega purrs at the sight of hisalpha-mate displaying his skills as a
father. On the other, the rational part of his brain—the one who has kept him
alive and kicking this long—tells him that an omega could never birth a child
in a place like the Southside.
That’s all it takes for the needle drops onto the floor.  
“Fuck this!” He all but shouts in frustration, kicking his feet off the table.
He throws the controller onto Carl's lap. The boy yelps in surprise. Mickey
barrels out of the house with a single-minded determination. He ignores the
voices calling after him—whether it be his sister or any of the Gallaghers. He
doesn't care. His feet carry him away. For as long it's far away from the
Gallagher house, then it’s okay.
Footsteps follow him. It’s Ian.
Mickey knows the alpha is the only one stupid enough to follow him.
Fuck it.
He breaks into a run.
Buildings change.
Street steadily become more deserted.
A desolate playground comes up to his right, and he sprints for it. There’s
rickety-looking swing sets and a rusty metal slide, a round robin with a broken
arm, an empty sand box with a burnt rolling paper, and dilapidated spring
animals. It’s like the set of a horror movie, and it’s perfect. He hides under
the slide, reminding him of when he was little enough to hide under the porch
when Terry went into a rampage.
“Mickey!” Ian's voice slices through the silence. The alpha's scent smells so
thick—like rut.
For the first time, Mickey realizes that it might not have been a great idea to
run from an alpha, especially one so close to rut. The chase—he’s heard about
it like old wives’ tales in the campfire. His brother jokes about it one some
of their other alpha clients. The chase has been known since the dawn of the
first alpha and omega—when alphas had to prove their strength to rightfully
claim and breed an omega. The chase, and all its bullshit, if the stuff of
crappy commercialized fairytales.
Mickey knows all this, and yet his inner omega cries out because Ian chased
him. They’ve done it before. He remembers the time when he punched kicked
another alpha’s whimpy rich white ass, and had to flee from the Northside. It’s
different. They were both running away from the cops back then. Now though,
Ian’s run only because of him.
His heart beats loudly and wildly like it wants to escape. The drumming rings
in his ears.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
All his senses are on high-alert—on overdrive.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
How could he have been so fucking careless? He can smell his own slick pooling
at the inseam of his pants. It trickles along his backside, down his crack, and
undoubtedly start to form a puddle. The air mixes with Ian’s pungent scent.
Mickey smells the alpha before he hears the footsteps coming closer. Slowly but
surely, the steps come closer to his hiding spot.
Mickey shifts on the warm ground, pants growing damp as the scent becomes more
prominent—closer. Ian smells like young potent virile alpha—a day's worth of
sweat but he still smells like sunshine. The omega inside Mickey wants nothing
more than to bury itself in Ian’s neck, where the scent should be the
strongest.
Any moment now, he’s going to be found and mated.
Mated—the thought makes slick pour out even more.  
“Mickey.” Ian’s voice cracks, sounding like he gargled the rocks by Mickey's
feet. “C’mon, let's go back to dinner.”
Mickey's head whips up so fast that it hurts. He expected to be dragged out and
forced against his will. He expected to kick and scream and put up a fight. He
expected Ian to win and finally claim him, and he doesn’t know if he would even
resist the alpha’s dominance. The alpha’s eyes are blood-red, almost no trace
of the evergreens that remind Mickey of the middle of summer when the grass
grows the tallest. He smells like the best memory of summer in Mickey’s life.
“What?! You ain't… you ain't gonna…?” He sputters like a fool. Like some weak-
willed idiot, he couldn’t stop the way he curls further into himself—trying to
be as little as possible.
“Mate you?” Ian spits out, face full of disgust, making Mickey's stomach sink.
“I’m an alpha, Mick, not a barbarian. Not gonna fucking mate you, alright?”
He’s got one hand holding onto the slide so tight that angry red lines begin to
form along his palm. Even as Ian says it, Mickey sees the way it the alpha’s
mouth is salivating. “I'm not some stupid knothead! Now, please, I'm fucking
hungry and that shit back home smelled amazing.”
It hurts more than he’s willing to admit. Red-eyed with lust, it’s obvious that
Ian’s inner alpha isn’t in control. Anyone with half a brain—an inch away from
full-rut—wouldn’t have been able to turn away an omega who was leaking slick
like it a whore. It hurts all the more because the gesture speaks of Ian’s true
intentions. Who was Mickey to start believing in delusions? No matter how
tender the alpha can be, they’ve been fucking—just fucking.
Ian doesn’t want him, let alone be mated to him. Mated—who would want to be
mated to him of all people? Ian chased him, his inner omega repeats, but the
alpha doesn't want him--won't bite him, won't claim him because he isn't worth
it. Ian’s primal instincts are refusing him.
He’s an omega who doesn't look or act like an omega. Seventeen years old and
still a fucking freshman. His life isn't going anywhere. There are so many more
better candidates out there. It's a no-brainer that Ian wouldn't want to mate
with him. He drives people away with his heat scent. No one wants that. No one
would want his heat. No one would ever want him. He’s only ever been a fuck.
That’s all he’s worth.
 “No.” Mickey shakes his head. It’s shaky as hell and makes him look so fucking
weak but he can’t control it. “Fuck!” Damp hands tremble while they run through
his hair. “I can't go back there, man,” he says, shoulders starting to quiver.
“I—I—they know, Ian! If your fucking sister didn't—fuck—shudda kept my fucking
mouth shut. I practic'lly ratted it out! Outta just said in the first place.
Fuck. Christ! No—I'm not going back there!”
Ian slides down to his knees, frowning. Mickey can't smell anything. He's in
the dark. Somehow, Ian's keeping his scent under control because all Mickey can
smell is sunshine and summer.
“Look, I—I get that it—us—is not something we advertise… but it's just my
family, Mick. They're not gonna care who I fuck—unless he's old and married.
You're Lip's age definitely and not married, last I checked. I’m an alpha.
You’re an omega. There’s nothing wrong. Is it really so bad if they find out
that we're fucking?”
“We’re both fucking guys, Gallagher. I ain't no fucking fag.”
Ian snorts loudly, nonchalantly. His eyes starting to clear as his breathing
evens out. “I’m pretty sure that liking it up the ass makes you pretty gay,
Mick.”
“The fuck you say?!” Mickey sneers, lips curling. Damn Ian fucking Gallagher
and his stupid magical abilities. Already, Mickey feels the storm dissipate
from his chest. He can't imagine that he looks threatening in the slightest but
it doesn't stop him from trying. A lightly curled fist hits Ian on the
shoulder. “You want me to shove this up your fucking ass?! See how you like
it.”
Ian gives him a half-smile. “We’ll need more than your natural lube but I’m
sure I'll definitely like it. I'm pretty sure that I'm gay. Didn't feel bad
when you're fucking me. Loved it actually. S'hot that you use your own sli—”
“Fucking keep your trap shut!” Mickey covers Ian's mouth with his hands. “You
talk too fucking loud!”
That makes Ian laugh. Gently, he pulls Mickey's hand away. Big warm hands cover
Mickey’s clammy ones. “Stop being so paranoid, Mick. There's no on here but us.
We're fine.” Then, he stops. “We are fine, right? We good? Look, if you really
don't like it… we'll go with what Mandy said. She wasn't too wrong. You guys
smells similar but not entirely the same. Her is more fruity and you're woodsy.
I didn't know that Debbie would have such a good nose. Even Lip sometimes gets
confused.”
“The fuck?” Mickey snorts, grossed out. “That shit's disgusting, man. Fucking
Lip?”
“Sometimes when I come from your house. He asks about Mandy. I don't tell him
she isn't always there. Fiona can barely tell either but that's not a surprise.
I doubt she even knows how you smell like. It's mostly Mandy hanging around the
house.” Ian brushes his fingers over the back of Mickey's hand. “Come on. Our
sisters slaved over dinner. Eat with us. There's nothing for you back at your
house except stale takeaway and beer.”
“Yeah.” Mickey gives in with a sigh. “Yeah, okay. But I ain't eating no brown
rice shit. I take my rice white, ayt? As white as your freckled white ass.”
Ian grin splits his whole face. That dopey-faced grin is enough for Mickey's
inner omega preen. It's completely unfair how he's so attuned to Ian that the
smallest gestures makes his heart flutter like a stupid omega romance hero. He
can't find it in himself to get mad at Ian, and so it's only himself. 
They walk back the way they came.
Mickey keeps mostly to himself even if Ian keeps casually bumping their
shoulders together. The small touch feels so much like an anchor. He knows that
he's been a fucking train wreck today. Ian's never been this bad. The alpha may
have his heart on his sleeve but Mickey isn't like that. At least, he isn't 
supposed to be. This only means one thing—something he dreads—his heat must be
coming. He can't let Ian smell him in heat. It might be a little selfish but he
wants to keep Ian around for as long as he can. By now, he can admit—mostly to
himself and only in the confines of his head—that he likes the alpha, probably
more than he should.
Ian stops them two corners away, abruptly. Mickey nearly toppled over as he
pulled the omega to the side. “Mick, man, come on, what's up? You haven't said
a word! Do you really hate the idea of my family knowing that were fucking?” He
sounds so fucking upset that Mickey cannot stop what comes out of his mouth
next. 
“Nah, man.” He says, wanting nothing more than to wipe away the frown on Ian’s
face. While technically not a lie, it's not the whole truth either. Mickey's
uncomfortable with them knowing and running their mouths about it. Terry would
kill him then find and excuse to kill Ian for making his son into a fag. The
though makes Mickey's gut drop. He can stomach Terry taking his like but not
Ian’s—never Ian’s. Ian’s gonna go places, and he won't let anyone—even
himself—stop the alpha. 
“Mick…” There's that sad look in Ian's eyes that Mickey hates seeing. So, he
forces all the thoughts about Terry to the back of his mind. He doesn't really
know what to say, so he fakes it. “Guess that you, uh, got a thing for married
men, huh, Gallagher? Need'ta get myself hitched, huh? Gonna make me hotter for
ya? Is it the ring or the fact that it ain't yours that gets you goin'?”
It was meant to be funny but it has the opposite effect. Ian pushes them into
the nearest blind spot and kisses Mickey—tongue, teeth, and lips like he wants
to devour the omega then and there, rut or no rut—until they are both flushed
and breathless and Mickey swears he can smells his heat begin early.
Thankfully, he only imagines the last part because Ian nuzzles his red five-
o’clock shadow to Mickey’s skin. It's impossible to have an alpha so near if
he is in heat. 
“No, you're not going to marry the first two-bit whore that comes your way.
S'not gonna happen. I'm not gonna let it. You hear me, Mick?” He says darkly,
licking wetly at Mickey's neck, near the mating gland which makes the omega
whimper. It's possessive and primal, and sounds so much like an alpha speaking
directly to Mickey's inner omega. “That’s cause you're fucking mine. No one’s
gonna take you away from me.”
For now, Mickey believes him and lets himself be kissed. 
***** Chapter 14 *****
Chapter Notes
     So, it's been a month (my gosh!) since I've updated. I'm happy to
     report that this actually is a newly written chapter. I have 16
     chapters written down. This isn't the original chapter 14. The
     original didn't feel right so I've been postponing the posting. I'm
     glad I did. I think this chapter's even better and give me more space
     to play with for the plot.
     Thank you to the faithful readers still interested in this story.
     It's been a long year since I've started this and I'm still not
     finished. Hope you stay with me until the end.
     WARNINGS: Not beta-read. Looking for volunteers!
See the end of the chapter for more notes
After the whole thing with Debbie, Mickey steers clear from the Gallagher house
for a while. No, he’s not hiding. He isn’t a pussy. It’s just easier being in
Trumbull. There’s less people, less eyes, and less changes of ever getting
caught. He likes it the peace and quiet better. It’s settling.
Late afternoon to early mornings are the safest. That’s when Terry’s usually in
Alibi either downing beers like there’s no tomorrow or throwing back a couple
of shots before knocking some unwitting asshole’s teeth loose. Iggy’s fuck-
knows-where. It’s normally just him and Mandy at the house—and now, Ian.
The alpha’s made himself perfectly at home, his gigantic frame squished between
the two Milkovich siblings while they try to beat each other at Need4Speed. It
a tight fit but all three of them make it work. Ian’s got one arm thrown over
the back of the couch, over Mandy’s shoulders, while the other hand rests idly
on Mickey’s thigh. The older boy doesn’t say anything about it.
Mandy skills have upped a level or two from all the time Mickey spent in juvie.
It shows too. She maneuvers her car in front of his and take first place.
“Oiy, oiy, you fuckin’ cunt! You can’t just—fuck!” Mickey’s brows scrunch in
frustration. Socked feet kick the rickety old coffee table. Their glasses of
rootbeer jangle on the wooden surface as a warning.
Ian catches his glass between his feet but his angle catches Mandy’s glass. It
spills. “Fuck! Fuck! Shit!” He scrambles to get his feet and ends up hitting
the table with his shin. More rootbeer spills onto the wood.
“Ian!” Mandy shouts in irritation, jumping out of her seat. Her controller
falls on the sofa cushion. “That shits gonna be a bitch to clean!” On the
screen, her car crashes pitifully over a cliff then her side of the screen goes
red.
Mickey, seemingly undisturbed, finishes his race like nothing ever happened.
“Boom! That’s how you win, bitch.” He cocks an eyebrow at his sister. Rootbeer
has seeped into his cotton socks by now and slowly climbing to the folded hem
of his jeans. “Can’take them eyes of the prize,” he gloats, eyeing Ian with
intent. “Clean this shit up. Gotta take a leak then change.”
“Woo-hooot.” Mandy rolls her eyes. “Looks like someone finally learned the
value of hygiene.” She reaches for her controller first then stashes safely on
top of the tv. “Come on, Ian, make your clumsy ginger-ass useful and help me
clean this mess up.”
Mickey has other ideas. “Nope, he’s cleaning me up. Suck it up, skank,” he
says, casually over his shoulder, without bothering to look back.
“Sorry, Mands. I’ll make it up to you.” Ian pressed his palms together in
apology.
Mandy throws him the double-bird. “Fuck you and my fucking asshole brother.”
Because, really, that’s about all she can do.
In the safety of his own room, behind his door with the hinges fastened, Mickey
pounces as soon as the lock clicks. It’s mouth on mouth, tongue on tongue, like
they haven’t seen each other in ages. Maybe, they haven’t. They’ve been in each
other’s presence a shit-load of times but not like this—not alone. People have
seemed to develop an uncanny ability for finding them.
“Fuck,” Ian breathes when they part for air. A light blush paints his cheeks,
making his dark red freckles stand out. His clean-cut has grown a few inches.
Bangs fall slightly over his eyes. He’s leaning against the door with Mickey’s
full weight pressing him securely on the wood, back and head slightly bent to
accommodate Mickey’s short stature.
Mickey’s grinning like he won the lottery. “Damn fucking right, fuck. Missed
ya,” he intones, carding his tattooed fingers through Ian’s hair, “I’ve missed
ya, fucker.” One hand swoops down, grabbing Ian’s half-chub at the base.
“Missed the heat your packing too.” Mickey noses at right at Ian’s non-swollen
mating glad. It’s warm against his skin. “You gonna fuckin’ knot me, alpha?”
Ian growls low at the back of his throat. His irises momentarily change from
green to red. It’s the type of red that makes Mickey’s blood hot with lust.
“Anyway you want, Mick. I’m yours.”
And, fuck, if that isn’t music to Mickey’s ears. His inner omega rumbles
contently inside him. Ian hasn’t used the phrase often. Mickey’s heard it once
or twice; the first time being after he beat the old viagroid alpha near the
shanty bar called The Fountain. It should be called a Wateringhole for geezers
and creeps with weird fetishes. But, that’s then and this is now.
He’s got Ian now—with or without a permanent claim. That’s enough.
“Says it again,” he demands, pushing his face under Ian’s jaw and scenting at
the alpha’s glands. It smells like summer’s never left even if it was the
middle of September. The scent sends a thrill through him. He’s never scented
anyone half as good as Ian smells to him. Ian’s smells like sunshine—crisp,
fresh, and warm. It makes him feel warm down to his belly.
“I’m yours, Mick,” Ian repeats, but then adds, “only yours.”
That’s above and beyond what Mickey’s ready to hear. On one hand, his inner
omega buzzes with enthusiastic joy; but, he’s also struck with iron-cold fear.
He’s never been one who’s good with intimacy. Sex, he gets. Sex, he
understands. It’s the feelings that makes everything more complicated than it
should. And, he knows that’s he’s passed the point of no return once he admits
that what he feels for the red-haired alpha now goes beyond primal urges.
Mickey bites his lip for a moment then shakes his head. “Ayy. Ayy,” he says,
slipping back into his thick-accented drawl to diffuse the tension in the air,
hoping too that distress doesn’t bleed into his scent. His next works are
carefully chosen despite how loosely they come out. “Stop yer yappin’ and getta
movin’, Firecrotch. That know ain’t gonna pop itself.”
Ian knocks his head back against the door once, maybe
twice—intentionally—before shaking his head. “Damnit!” He curses, clearly
frustrated. His hands curl into tight fists at his sides a few times. He
collapses against the door with a sigh, the weight of Mickey’s body helping him
keep upright.
“I can’t,” he says with a pained tone to match his anguished expression,
“believe me, I want to. It’s been so fucking long. You don’t know how many
nights I dream of reaming your perfect ass, Mick. But,” he adds with finally,
“I promised Fiona I’d watch over Liam this afternoon and I’ve got—” he pulls
out his phone and checks the time. Mickeys spies a familiar picture as the
wallpaper; concrete and a pair of non-descript guns. “—less than an hour, maybe
forty-five minutes, tops. Including,travel time. My knot’s not going to go down
fast. It’s been too long since I’ve cum in your ass.”
An honest-to-god whine threatens to escape Mickey’s lips. He shushes it just in
time. Snappishness replaces his disappointment. There’s an equally half-hard
chub inside his pants and slick making its way between his ass-cheeks. He’ll
need a shower and scent blockers to hide his aroused scent.
He growls low. With lighting-fast speed that only a horny Mickey Milkovich can
possess, he shoves Ian’s hand down the back of his pants and traps one of Ian’s
long fingers between his damp crease. “Alpha the fuck up and take some fucking
responsibility, Gallagher. That hole’s not going to entertain itself.”
Ian laughs, heartily, with his happy scent bubbling up and flooding the room.
He leans down, kissing Mickey’s forehead then whispers huskily, “How about you
ride my face, Mick?”
Yes, absolutely yes, Mickey cannot get with that program fast enough. He hauls
Ian’s large alpha frame onto his rickety bed. The manhandling brings back so
many memories of their first time together in this exact bed.
Ian’s on top of the covers, head a mere inch from the headboard. Alpha
pheromones fill the air. The aroused alpha scent drives Mickey insane. He can’t
discard his soiled socks and soiled jeans fast enough. Ian needs to help him,
with strong hands on the back of his thighs, guiding his knees on either side
of Ian’s head and his leaking asshole inches above Ian’s face.
Mickeys toes curl and uncurl—cold and sticky from the rootbeer.
“That’s it,” Ian praises, hands stroking up and down Mickey’s backside, “now,
lower your hips and let me taste you, Mick.”
Mickey shakes when he lowers himself. The busted old headboard makes for a weak
brace. It moves far too much and creaks like it’s about to break. Mickey
concentrates so hard on keeping his balance that he’s complexly unprepared for
the first swipe of Ian’s tongue over his hole. His knees buckle underneath him
then he falls—ass smothering Ian with slick and flesh. His entire body reddens
in embarrassment.
However, before he could pull himself back up, two strong hands grip his waist
hard enough to leave bruises and hold him down.
Ian says something, muffled and inaudible, then pure pleasure runs up Mickey’s
spine. Ian’s tongue is soft and wet but that’s not the only thing he feels.
There’s also Ian’s lips, slightly softer and a little chapped, Ian’s teeth,
solid and hard nips to his sensitive flesh, and Ian’s light five o’clock
shadow, slightly itchy but makes the experience so different from the times
before.
Mickey loses all feeling in his legs. It’s a buzz down his right thigh like
Ian’s stroking that single solitary nerve rigged to give Mickey pleasure. He’s
sticky in other places now—where skin presses against skin, where the heat of
their bodies have opened-up their sweat glands. The whole world narrows down to
this tiny single bed where Ian’s feet dangle off the edge.
“Ian,” he pants, open mouthed, tasting Ian in the air. It makes him lose his
mind. “Ian, Ian, fuck.”
Two years they’ve been fucking, and in that time Ian’s developed a knack for
guessing what Mickey wants in bed. One of his hands climb up Mickey’s thigh,
past the groin, lightly scratches over the stomach, then pinches Mickey’s
nipple hard.
Mickey jerks, hips pushing harder onto Ian’s face. A finger rubs the sore flesh
apologetically. It’s too late though. Mickey’s all too aware of the pain
contrasting the pleasure his ass and his nipple are the only things he can
center on. He can’t even lift himself up.
Ian carries on. He licks wetly over and across the smeared slick then dives
back to the source for more. It drives Mickey insane with the way his lips
close around the pucker in order to suck more slick out.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Mickey’s faculties have long ceased functioning. It’s just him and Ian. It’s
the touch of their flesh, the scent of the arousals, and the taste of them
lingering in the air. Every time his takes a breath, it smells like a breezy
summer. His ears pound with the drumming of his heartbeat.
“Ian, I gotta cum,” He asks, more like begs, the alpha.
Ian’s hands move. Two large palms cup his round bottom before pulling his
cheeks apart. Slick gushes out of him like a freshly opened tap. It’s like a
stream or a waterfall but it feels like he’s wetting the bed, or Ian’s face,
and getting everything between his legs soaked.
Then, just then, Ian decides it’s a good time to plunge his tongue inside.
Mickey loses his shit and shoots cum in thick white stripes all-over his
headboard. That’s when he collapses in a boneless heap onto his back on top of
Ian with his legs folded awkwardly underneath him. Ian maneuvers them both into
a more comfortable position—taking the role of the big spoon for their post-
coital cuddle.
That’s another new thing added to their list of strange things.
They cuddle now after sex for a good five to ten minutes until something forces
them apart. It’s not like it happens often. The times they’re free to enjoy
post-sex snuggles are few and far apart. They only do it when Terry and Iggy
are busy with drug-runs. Even a single minute naked and vulnerable is a great
risk. They cannot indulge in this small delight too often.
Mickey takes a moment to appreciate how debauched the alpha looks with his face
flushed and glistening with slick. “You need a shower.”
On cue, Ian’s phone vibrates with a ding.
“That’s Fiona,” he says mournfully.
Mickey’s too fucking out of it to care. He mumbles something incoherent and
gives Ian enough room to wiggle out. Once the alpha’s out, Mickey seeks out the
warmth and Ian’s lingering scent on his sheets. He finds a spot in the middle
of his pillow, right at the edge where Ian’s neck must have been, and inhales
the alpha’s scent there.
Ian goes into the bathroom but the sound of the shower doesn’t come. There’s a
flush and the tap being open but nothing else. Their scents are still potent by
the time Ian rejoins him in the bedroom. Ian draws near and Mickey scents them
on the alpha.
“Get under the covers, Mick,” Ian whispers softly, before planting another kiss
on Mickey’s forehead. “You know we have to air out the room. I’ll open a
window. You’ll get chilly.” As he talks, he pulls the blanket from underneath
Mickey and cover the omega with it before leaving the room.
Again, Mickey’s traitorous inner omega loves the alpha’s sweet affections. He
also shares, no matter how unwillingly, his inner omega’s happiness to have his
alpha carry their mixed scents—no matter how stupidly idiotic that choice may
be.
Chapter End Notes
     A little light. Maybe sort of a filter or transition. Giving you guys
     fluff for the sake of pacing. Hope you enjoyed it!
End Notes
     Please be nice~ One of the reasons why I love writing for this fandom
     is because of the feedback that I get. It doesn't have to be long or
     inspiring. I'm constantly trying to improve how I write—be it
     grammar, plot, or characters. I'd appreciate it. :)
     ***
     If you have a prompt or an idea, you can INSPIRE_ME on tumblr. Or
     TALK_TO_ME~
       As always, kudos/comments/bookmarks are all appreciated by this
     author. I take comments as extra-kudos and I do read the bookmark
     tags (some are really fun).
      The_ABO_Primer, though not strictly followed.
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