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Mickey's bored in his bedroom, a cigarette between his fingers when his phone buzzes on his nightstand. It almost makes him jump, given that he's not used to getting many messages, and he takes a drag as he turns the device on.
| mick
It's from Gallagher. Mickey furrows his brows, phone in hand whilst he gets up to shove his door shut with his shoulder. He replies as he walks back to his bed.
| wht u want galager
He gets a fast reply. Mickey snorts at the sound of his phone chiming not two seconds later, flopping back onto his bed. He's thinking about calling Gallagher a loser for responding so quickly as he stubs his cigarette out; maybe take a little longer than usual to respond just for shits and giggles.
Up until he reads the messages sent and the air is punched out of him in the form of an unsteady exhale.
| you
| m hard
| really hard
Does this guy have no fucking shame? Mickey can feel his cock stir at the texts, and he curses the ginger fucker that sent them. He's home alone, and it's not like anyone would ever get a hold of his phone — let alone rifle through it — but Mickey stills feels his stomach twist.
| the hell am i gonna do about that
| go jerk off
He's ready to chuck his phone back onto the bedside table when there's another near-instant reply.
| i am
And, oh. Shit. Mickey's stomach jumps a little at that, shuffling absentmindedly on his mattress. So it's like that.
| thinking about you
| gay
He doesn't really wanna take this seriously. Doesn't wanna admit that he's already got a semi cause Gallagher's trying to sext him. Cause he's apparently got his dick in his hand right now, only a few blocks away from Mickey, whilst also fucking thinking about him.
Maybe he'll take it seriously.
| what r u wearing
Or maybe he'll walk those few blocks to go smack Gallagher over the head for asking the dumbest shit ever.
| clothes
| boxers n tank the fucks it matter
| trying 2 imagine it
| perv
| shut up
| im so hard
Mickey swallows again. His damn throat is dry. He should tell Ian to fuck off and then go get a drink. He's about to, fingers hovering over the keys, but then —
| mickey
And how can he sound so needy over text? Mickey feels his cock throb, giving a slightly aggravated groan as he lifts his hips off of the bed to rearrange himself again.
| tell me what yr doing
He can't believe that he's gonna indulge this shit.
| laying in bed with my hand on my dick
| i want it to be yours so bad
Mickey brings his knees up, thighs pressed together and his feet flat on the bed. He settles into his mattress a little more and knaws on the inside of his lip. Shit.
| my hand or my dick?
| either
| fuck
| what else u thinking about over there red?
He wants to know cause of, like, curiosity or whatever the fuck. And sort of also because of the heat that's coiling low in Mickey's gut at knowing Gallagher's so hard because of simply thinking about him.
| when you blow me til im close
| but then you dont let me cum until im inside u
| its so hot when you do that
Fuck. Unhinged, much?
| call me
The ringing comes in not a second later.
"Jesus christ, Gallagher," Mickey mutters after he's accepted. Ian takes a deep breath on the other end.
"Mickey," he says, sounding needier than he did in his messages. Mickey palms himself through his boxers and groans. "Fuck. Want you," Ian murmurs.
"Shit, man." Mickey considers telling him that he's home alone; that they could do the real fuckin' thing and not be reduced to a damn phone call. But somebody could come home before Ian gets here, or even whilst he's there, and Mickey breathes out, shaking his head to himself.
"You hard, Mick?" Ian asks through the phone.
"'M well on my fuckin' way," he rushes out, choosing to not tell Ian that there's already a small wet patch on his briefs.
"Touch yourself. C'mon. Wanna hear you," Ian coaxes, groaning shortly after he gets the words out. Mickey bites the inside of his lip and shoves his boxers down with his free hand, kicking them off. He leans up just enough to tug his shirt off, too.
"You still care about what I'm wearing?" he asks as he moves his phone to his left hand, giving himself a slow, downwards tug with his right, the sticky, clear precum that's already coating his cockhead spreading and helping the slide.
"Why?" Ian breathes out confusedly. Mickey smirks to himself, eyeing the lotion on his nightstand, wondering if he'll need it. His cheeks flush when the next stroke of his hand slicks him up enough, his slit leaking obscenely. Guess it's a no for the lotion.
"Cause now it's nothin'," he rasps, watching his dick dribble more pre, caused by the small, honest-to-god whine that Ian lets out at the revelation.
"Wish I was there," he says.
"Yeah?" Mickey gasps out on an upstroke. Ian lets another pitchy sound escape him. Fucking hell.
"Yeah. Wanna see you. Touch you," he pants, and Mickey hears the faint, wet sound of Ian jerking himself off crackle through the speaker for a few seconds. His eyebrows draw up together and his teeth sink into his bottom lip as he feebly attempts to not have a girly sound of his own slip out, just barely succeeding.
"Shit, Red. I miss your cock," Mickey hotly admits, setting the phone beside his head on the pillow to let his hand instead drag down his torso. He runs his nails over one of his nipples, keening quietly, hearing Ian chuckle a second after.
"Feel good, baby?" he rasps, voice right in Mickey's ear. He curses under his breath. Ian knows his body a little too well, if he's picked up on what that keen meant so easily.
"Yeah, it fuckin' feels good," Mickey bristles. Ian gives a hum that cuts off into a whine.
"Fuck, shit. 'M already close." Mickey hears his bedsheets ruffle.
"Don't you dare cum, Ian. Not 'til I'm there, too," he laments, grunting when he twists his wrist on a downstroke. Shit, he should just throw that lotion out. His dick's leaking like there's no tomorrow, spurred on by Ian's helpless little sounds coming through the phone. Mickey aches with the thought of how good they'd sound in person; of what Ian must look like, on top of that.
"How 'bout what you're wearing, Gallagher?" he chances, hips jerking up into his fist when he slows his pace down a tad. He's in no rush to let Ian cum just yet. Mickey can wait.
And he really can. He's going to, in fact, the movements of his hand almost leisurely. Up until a dozen seconds later, when Ian replies in the stupidest, hottest fucking strained whine of a voice, "Your boxers."
Because, yeah, Mickey had accidentally left a pair over there after a quick fuck, needing to move lightning-fast due to the fact that he could hear Lip treading up the stairs. He had no time to think about putting his pants on before tugging the zipper of his jeans up; didn't realise he was commando until he'd ran a block. It's not like he could've gone back and got them, given that he only managed to sneak out unseen because Lip went to the bathroom before the bedroom.
He didn't ever think that leaving them on Gallagher's floor would cause this, though. Maybe a shitty message or never seeing them again cause Ian just threw them out, sure.
Definitely not Ian needily getting himself off whilst wearing them, hand shoved under the fabric and the head of his cock probably peeking out of the waistband. God, fuck. Mickey bites his knuckles to stifle a loud cry.
"Ian," he grits out harshly, conveying everything he feels. Mickey hates that he's so turned on by it and tries to block the thought out. Focus on anything but what Ian's wearing.
However, Gallagher apparently just can't let that happen.
Mickey really shouldn't of fucking asked.
"They smelled like you," Ian admits weakly, voice a near-consistent whimper and sounding shot to shit. Mickey has to grip the base of his cock and bite his lip so hard that he faintly tastes copper, all to stop himself from fully losing it at those words.
"Fuck, Red. Fuck," Mickey spits. "I'm gonna cum."
"Please. Please, I wanna hear you," Ian immediately coaxes, gasping dumbly. "I wanna cum with you," he half-begs.
Mickey's hand is almost a blur over his cock, the noises that he can't muffle sounding purely wrecked.
"Mick. Mickey," Ian begs. "Oh, god. M'gonna ruin your boxers," he says breathlessly, like the realisation just hit him. Like it's the hottest fucking thing he's ever heard.
It might be one of the hottest things that Mickey's ever heard, in all honesty. As much as he despises that.
"Shit, man —"
"Please," Ian cuts him off, and it breaks something inside of Mickey.
"Yeah. Cum for me, Ian," he rasps, his body tensing, teetering right on the fucking edge —
And being pushed over it by Ian's following babble that's just coherent enough to understand, mostly consisting of begging. This fucking boy and the things he does to Mickey; he can't believe it.
"Oh, oh —" Ian moans, the sounds suddenly slightly muffled, and Mickey is hit with with the mental imagery of Ian twisted on his bed, his hand moving hastily in Mickey's boxers and his teeth sinking into his pillow to try and muffle himself. He can imagine the pitiful little expression Gallagher's got going on, lips a helpless pout as he stains Mickey's clothing and hangs onto every sound that he can hear Mickey making through the phone.
"Shit, it feels so good..." Ian sobs beautifully. Fucking beautifully. "Mick. I wanna hear you cum, too, fuck, please. Pretty please?" Ian whispers into the microphone. He's so desperate.
Mickey shouts out Ian's name as he makes a mess of his torso, his thighs quivering, shaking. The white-hot pleasure lasts for over a dozen seconds and Mickey is blissfully wrung-out by the end of it, removing his sticky hand from his cock with a tiny wince. Ian's breathing slowly becomes more and more steady on the other end of the line, whereas Mickey's stays harsh and uneven.
Neither of them decide to talk just yet. They don't hang up, though.
Not just yet.
Instead, they both rustle about, Mickey wiping his torso with some scratchy tissues and Ian...
Mickey's cock gives the weakest twitch at the thought of what Ian's doing, and he wants to audibly chide it. Fucking thing always betrays him, he swears, having to go as far as washing his spend off of his hands. He usually uses a tissue and that's that.
Mickey collapses onto his bed — his phone still on his pillow — with a groan. He wants a cig, but he's too boneless to move. God, his sheets are the comfiest fucking things ever right now.
"I want my boxers back," he grumbles eventually. He's fighting to keep his eyes open.
Ian chuckles, and he sounds knackered, too. He's definitely a lot more composed than Mickey is, though.
"With or without the jizz stains?" he teases. Mickey can hear him rearranging himself around, Gallagher's mattress creaking, and he huffs. May or may not stupidly thinks about how nice it'd probably be if they were together right now, but he mentally curb stomps the thought before it can blossom into a little rainbow-coloured flower.
"With," he finally mumbles, and his finger jabs at the hangup button before Ian can get another word in.
Mickey's snoring within minutes, and he, also stupidly, dreams of Gallagher being there with him.
It's nice.