← Back to overview

gallavich

the salt and the sting

the air in the room was so thick with the scent of sex and cheap tobacco that it felt like you could reach out and grab a handful of it. ian was still breathing hard, his chest rising and falling in heavy, jagged thumps, his hands resting on mickey’s shoulders as the aftershocks of the last few minutes rolled through his nerves. mickey stayed there for a second longer than he probably needed to, his forehead leaning against ian’s stomach, his fingers still curled tight into the denim of ian’s jeans. he swallowed—a thick, audible sound in the quiet room—and ian felt a surge of something so possessive and raw it made his vision go blurry at the edges.

mickey didn't spit. he never did. it was one of those things ian didn't think about until it was happening, the way mickey took every part of him without hesitation, without the disgust he tried to project to the rest of the world. it was the ultimate submission from a man who spent every waking hour fighting for dominance.

mickey finally pulled back, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth in a rough, careless motion. he looked like hell. his dark hair was sticking up in every direction, his eyes were blown out and glassy, and his neck was a goddamn disaster zone. the bruises ian had spent the morning admiring were now flushed a deep, angry crimson from the blood rushing to mickey’s face. he looked like he’d been strangled, or mauled, or both.

"jesus," mickey croaked, his voice sounding like he’d been eating glass. he pushed himself up off the floor, his knees cracking loudly. "you're a fucking animal, gallagher. i think you actually tried to kill me that time."

he didn't wait for an answer. he turned around and started pacing the small, cluttered space, his movements jerky and agitated. he was looking for his lighter, kicking aside a pile of dirty laundry with a disgruntled grunt.

"and another thing," mickey continued, his voice rising as he found the lighter on the dresser and flicked it open. "if you think you're getting out of helping me with that transmission tomorrow, you're dead fucking wrong. i don't care if you're tired. i don't care if your ginger soul is exhausted. kermit is breathing down my neck because he needs his truck back, and i'm not doing the heavy lifting by myself while you sit around looking pretty."

ian didn't say anything. he just watched him. he watched the way mickey’s throat moved as he spoke, the way the marks of ian’s teeth seemed to pulse with every word. but then he noticed it—a small, pearly drop of white clinging to the corner of mickey’s lower lip, stark against the dark stubble on his chin.

mickey was still ranting, waving his unlit cigarette around. "and don't even get me started on your brother. lip thinks he’s so fucking smart, coming in here and making comments about my neck. like i give a shit what he thinks. he needs to worry about his own pathetic life and stop acting like he’s the king of the south side just because he can read a book without moving his lips."

ian stepped forward, closing the distance between them in two long strides. mickey didn't stop talking, but he did go quiet for a split second as ian reached out.

"he’s just a nosy prick," mickey muttered, his eyes narrowing as ian’s hand came up. "what? the fuck are you doing?"

ian didn't answer. he just used his thumb to catch that stray drop on the corner of mickey’s mouth. he did it slowly, deliberately, his thumb dragging over the sensitive skin of mickey’s lip. mickey didn't flinch. he didn't pull away. he just stood there, letting ian touch him, his jaw still tight with the remnants of his fake anger.

"you missed a spot," ian whispered.

he brought his thumb back, holding it right in front of mickey’s face. it was a silent challenge, a quiet demand for mickey to acknowledge exactly what they had just done.

mickey looked at ian’s thumb, then up at ian’s eyes. he didn't even pause his train of thought. he didn't blush or look away. he just leaned in and licked the thumb clean with one quick, wet swipe of his tongue, his eyes never leaving ian’s. it was so casual, so utterly indifferent to the intimacy of the act, that it felt more erotic than anything they’d done in the last twenty minutes.

"anyway," mickey said, his voice dropping back into that bored, scratchy drone as he finally lit his cigarette. "i told kermit that if he wants it done fast, he needs to pay up front. i'm not running a fucking charity for old drunks. and you’re gonna be there at eight sharp. no excuses."

ian felt the heat flare up in his gut again, sharp and demanding. he was already hard, his jeans feeling two sizes too small. it was the way mickey did it—the way he could swallow ian whole and then go right back to complaining about car parts and neighborhood idiots like it was nothing. like ian hadn't just marked him, used him, and claimed him in every way that mattered.

"mick," ian said, his voice strained.

"what?" mickey snapped, exhaling a cloud of blue smoke. he looked at ian, really looked at him, and saw the way ian was standing, the way his eyes were darkening again. mickey let out a short, sharp bark of a laugh. "are you serious? again? what the fuck is wrong with you? you're like a goddamn rabbit."

"you're the one who did that," ian said, gesturing vaguely to mickey’s mouth. "you can't just do that and expect me to not want to throw you back on the bed."

mickey rolled his eyes, but there was a flicker of something—satisfaction, maybe—in the depths of his blue eyes. he took another long drag of his cigarette, his chest expanding, the marks on his collarbone stretching with the movement.

"i'm busy, gallagher," mickey said, though he didn't move an inch. he leaned back against the dresser, his arms crossing over his chest, the tank top riding up to show the pale, scarred skin of his stomach. "i got shit to do. i can't spend all day catering to your weird-ass ginger fantasies."

"it's not a fantasy if it's actually happening," ian countered, stepping even closer until he was boxed in between mickey’s legs.

mickey looked up at him, the cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. he looked messy and ruined and perfect. he looked like something ian had broken and put back together in his own image.

"you think you're so tough," ian murmured, his hands finding mickey’s waist, his thumbs digging into the hipbones. "letting everyone see what i did to you. acting like you don't even feel it."

"i don't," mickey lied, his voice a low growl. "it's just skin, ian. i told you. you want to mark me? fine. go nuts. it doesn't change anything. i'm still me. i'm still a milkovich."

"you're mine," ian corrected, his voice firm.

mickey snorted, blowing smoke into ian’s face. "yeah, okay. sure. whatever helps you sleep at night, princess. now get out of my way, i need to find my boots."

he tried to push past ian, but ian wouldn't budge. he stayed rooted to the spot, his grip on mickey’s hips tightening until he knew he was leaving new marks, fresh ones that would be dark by tomorrow morning.

"say it," ian demanded.

mickey stopped struggling, his shoulders dropping just a fraction. he looked at ian with a mixture of annoyance and something that looked dangerously like affection, though he’d rather die than admit it.

"say what? that you're a pain in my ass? i say that every day," mickey muttered.

"say you belong to me. say that's why you let me do whatever i want to you."

mickey’s eyes searched ian’s face, looking for the joke, but he didn't find one. ian was dead serious. he was always serious when it came to this—to the ownership, to the way they belonged to each other in a world that didn't want them to belong to anything.

mickey sighed, a long, weary sound. he reached up and took the cigarette out of his mouth, stubbing it out in a dirty glass ashtray without looking. he looked back at ian, his expression softening just the tiniest bit, just enough for ian to see the man behind the armor.

"i'm here, ain't i?" mickey said, his voice quiet now, devoid of the bravado. "i'm in this shitty room, in this shitty house, with your teeth marks all over my goddamn neck. i ain't going nowhere, ian. i never have."

it wasn't the words ian wanted, but it was the truth. it was better than the words. it was the reality of mickey milkovich—a man who didn't know how to say *i love you* but knew how to stay.

"not good enough," ian whispered, his hand moving up to mickey’s throat, his fingers splaying over the bruises. he felt mickey’s pulse jumping under his palm, fast and erratic.

mickey’s jaw worked. he looked like he was fighting the urge to swing, but then he leaned forward, his forehead dropping onto ian’s shoulder. he let out a breath that felt like a surrender.

"fuck you," mickey whispered into ian’s skin. "i'm yours. you happy now? i'm your fucking property. you want me to wear a collar? you want me to sit and stay?"

"i just want you to admit it," ian said, his heart finally slowing down, the tension in his chest beginning to ease.

"i admitted it. now let go of me before i change my mind and punch you in the throat," mickey said, though his hands had found their way into the back pockets of ian’s jeans, pulling him closer.

ian laughed, a low, shaky sound. he tilted mickey’s head back, looking at the destruction he’d caused. the marks were everywhere—on his jaw, his neck, his shoulders. they were a map of their shared violence and their shared need.

"they’re gonna see these at the grocery store," ian said, his thumb tracing a particularly dark one behind mickey’s ear.

"let 'em look," mickey shrugged, his old defiance returning. "if they got a problem with it, they can tell me to my face. i'll give 'em a matching set."

"you're impossible," ian smiled.

"and you're a ginger headcase. we're even," mickey retorted.

he pulled ian down for a kiss—not a soft one, but a hard, bruising clash of teeth and lips that tasted like salt and cigarettes. it was a reminder that no matter how many marks ian left, mickey was still a fighter. he was still the toughest kid on the block, even if he was currently being pinned against a dresser by the boy he loved.

when they finally broke apart, both of them were breathless. mickey shoved ian away, this time with enough force to actually move him.

"eight o'clock, gallagher," mickey pointed a finger at him, his face back to its usual scowl. "if you're late, i'm telling mandy you cried during the notebook."

"i didn't cry during the notebook!" ian shouted as mickey turned and headed for the door.

"whatever you say, princess!" mickey yelled back, his voice echoing down the hallway.

ian stood in the middle of the room, listening to mickey’s heavy footsteps on the stairs. he looked down at his thumb, the one mickey had licked clean, and he couldn't help the grin that spread across his face.

he knew mickey would go out there today, and he would walk into the sunlight with his head held high. he would go to the store, or the bar, or the warehouse, and he wouldn't hide a single mark. he would let the world see every bruise, every bite, every sign that he had been taken.

he would tell everyone to fuck off, and he would mean it.

but ian knew the truth. every time someone looked at mickey’s neck, they would see ian. they would see the ginger kid from across the street who had managed to do what no one else could—he had marked the unmarkable.

ian sat down on the bed, the springs groaning under his weight. he felt a sense of peace he only ever felt here, in this room, with this boy. he knew they would argue again tomorrow. he knew mickey would fight him on every little thing, from the transmission to the way ian made the coffee.

but as he looked at the empty room, still vibrating with the energy of what they had just shared, ian knew one thing for certain.

mickey was his. and the whole world was about to find out.