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It’s Sunday afternoon and Mickey is watching some Netflix show, but he’s not paying any attention. Why, you ask? Cos Gallagher has been growing a beard for the last five days and it’s the fucking hottest thing he’s ever seen. He keeps glancing sideways at his husband, taking in that perfect profile now adorned with an equally perfect beard.
Ian is engrossed in the TV show and seems unaware of Mickey’s growing erection. He’s squirming in his seat and licking his lips between mouthfuls of beer as his mind replays last night’s bedroom antics. Ian had been eating his ass, that beard rubbing between his ass cheeks, scratching him in the most erotic way. The combination of Ian’s soft tongue and abrasive beard was intoxicating to Mickey in a way he couldn’t understand.
Ian had flipped him over to suck his cock. And fuck, if he hadn’t squeezed his thighs around Ian’s head, then shamelessly rubbed them against that beard. He had the beard burn between his legs to prove it. Why Ian had never grown a beard before was mind-blowing.
“Mick, why can’t you sit still?”
He turns his head sharply to find his husband frowning at him in disapproval. “Cos it’s fucking boring, that’s why.”
“Well it’s not boring to me. You don’t have to sit here. Why don’t you go to the supermarket—we need food for the week.”
“We go to the supermarket together. Not doing that shit on my own.” He knows he sounds like a petulant child, but he doesn’t give a fuck.
“What, cos pushing a shopping cart is gay?”
“Well it is fucking gay, that’s why you push it.”
Ian rolls his eyes and throws his head back. Mickey swears Ian is getting gayer with each passing year. Drama queen.
Ian picks up the remote and turns the TV off. “Let’s go then and get it over with,” Ian says as he stands up and stretches.
Mickey stands too and reaches up to pat Ian’s cheek. He just wants another feel of it. Ian raises an eyebrow at him, “Mick, have you got a thing for my beard?” He blushes and turns away. “Mickey? You’ve got a thing for my beard, haven’t you?” Ian turns him around and he’s got a cocky smirk on his face.
“Smug motherfucker,” he says, but he’s smiling now too.
Ian backs him up against the wall and cages him in, then kisses up his neck, deliberately rubbing his beard against his face. And fuck if he isn’t getting hard again.
“You two at it again?” Carl says, as he walks in the front door, “We need some food in this house. You two going today or what?”
Ian pulls away and turns to Carl, “Yeah, we’re going right now. Wouldn’t hurt you to go once in a while.” Carl just walks into the kitchen, flipping them off.
“Lazy motherfucker,” he yells at him.
“Come on Mick, let’s go,” Ian says heading out the front door.
*
Fifteen minutes later they are pushing the cart around the supermarket, bickering over what to buy as usual. Ian wants to buy more healthy shit and he still wants his snickers and pringles. So sue him. In the cereal aisle, Ian turns to him and says, “You know a lot of people have commented on my beard. But I’m not sure if I wanna keep it.” Mickey knows Ian’s fucking with him and doesn’t respond. So Ian leans over and whispers, “How’s that beard burn between your thighs Mick?” Jesus Christ, and he married this guy.
“Don’t get too cocky Gallagher or I might get a headache tonight.”
Ian throws his head back laughing as if that would never happen.
“Laugh all you want tough guy, but you couldn’t last two days without my ass.”
“Is that a bet?” Ian challenges.
Shit, fuck, why did he say that? He doesn’t want to go two days without Ian’s cock in his ass. And Ian’s a stubborn fuck, so he can probably do it. “Yeah it’s a fucking bet. You’ll be begging for this ass by morning,” he says, keeping up his air of indifference.
“What do I get if I win?” Ian asks.
“What do you want?”
Ian tilts his head to one side as he considers his options. “You give me a lap dance wearing my gold booty shorts.”
“Oh, fuck off!”
“If you’re so sure I’ll be begging for your ass by morning, then you’ve got nothing to worry about.”
“Fine!” he says, “But if I win, you keep the beard and never tease me about it again.”
“Deal.”
They make their way up to the checkout and he starts loading their items. He’s leaning over the cart to fetch some stuff from the bottom when he hears the most obvious lame ass attempt at flirting.
“How’s your day going, sir? I love that shirt on you, it looks great.” The guys voice is all sugary, lengthening the vowels, and trying to sound enticing. The only thing the asshole’s going to entice is Mickey punching him in the fucking face.
Mickey turns his glare on the, well, boy! The blonde surfy looking twink can’t be more than 18. Queer kids these days—openly flirting with a guy that could be straight. What a fucking dick.
Ian smiles at the kid. Yeah, smiles at him and says, “Thanks, this is my favourite shirt.” Ian has on a tight-fitting t-shirt that leaves nothing to the imagination—the shape of his pecs and abs on full display.
“It fits in all the right places,” the kid says and winks at his husband. What. The. Fuck?! That’s it. He pushes Ian out of the way so he’s right in front of this pretty little twink and leans across the checkout. Poking the boy in the chest with his finger he says, “You wanna back the fuck up princess?”
“Mick!” Ian warns beside him, “He’s just a kid, no harm done.”
Mickey ignores Ian, but the kid folds his arms across his chest, raises his eyebrows and purses his lips in defiance.
“You see this thing,” he says, pointing to his wedding band. The kid has the nerve to look him up and down. “Well that’s a fucking wedding band pre-k, so take your ass back to the sandpit and take your eyes off my fucking husband!”
The kid scans the last few items and Ian gives him the money. “Just chill. Your husband’s hot, you should be proud.”
“What the fuck did you just say to me?” He reaches over to grab the little fucker by the shirt.
He plans on fucking him up, but Ian grabs him and pulls him away. “Parole Mickey! Let’s go. Fucking leave it.”
Ian’s a strong motherfucker and he’s struggling against him as the twink lays a smarmy smile on him. He finally shakes Ian off and picks up two of the shopping bags. “I know where you work, dipshit.” The kid rolls his eyes and starts serving the next customer. Ian is pulling him backwards out of the store “You hear me you prissy little twink?”
The kid turns and glares at him, “All I can hear is a two-bit fag punching waaaay above his weight.”
And that’s fucking it! Mickey launches himself out of Ian’s arms, drops the shopping bags, and hurls himself toward the fucking fuck, smashing straight into two teenagers coming out of left field. They collide so hard they all go down, the contents of one kid’s slushie upending all over him.
*
By the time they walk in the front door, he’s stopped yelling and is now refusing to speak to Gallagher. If his stupid husband had just let him deck the little shit, then he wouldn’t be soaked in raspberry slushie.
“Come on, Mick. Lighten up, it’s kinda funny.”
Pointing at his head, he says, “You think this is fucking funny?”
Ian grins at him, “Little bit.”
He turns and starts making his way upstairs to the bathroom. “I was defending your honour, you prick.”
Ian trails behind him. “Mick, you were marking your territory. May as well have pissed on me.”
“There’s always time,” he says sarcastically. Once he’s in the bathroom, he strips off his clothes. Ian joins him and closes the door. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“I’m helping you, asshole. Besides, there’s no reason for you to be jealous of some 18-year-old twink. We’re married.”
He turns the shower taps on, “That’s the fucking point, we’re married and you’re mine.” Ian has stripped naked too, and they both step into the shower. The hot water feels good after freezing from the slushie. He dips his head under and wets his hair, trying to get the remaining crystals out.
“Yes Mick, I’m yours. Here, turn around.” Ian turns him around, so his back is to Ian’s chest, then he feels shampoo on his hair.
“What am I? Fucking five? I can wash my own hair, Ian. Not an invalid. It was a slushie not a bullet. Although I’ve taken a few of those for your pasty white ass.” Ian massages the shampoo in any way, stubborn fucker. Feels kinda nice, but he won’t admit that anytime soon.
“Shut the fuck up and let me take care of you.”
Mickey closes his eyes and let’s Ian do his thing, but he’s still pissed. Then there’s shampoo in his eyes. “What the fuck, Ian? Ow, ow, fucking stings.”
“Jesus Mick, stop being such a baby, just rinse it off.” Ian spins him around and pushes him under the shower spray while he continues to hold his hands over his eyes. It stings like a motherfucker. “Take your hands off,” Ian demands, then pulls his hands off, the water streaming down his face.
Mickey pushes his hair back off his forehead and rubs his eyes once again before looking up at his husband, who is running out of patience. They stare at each other for a few seconds.
“Mickey,” Ian says, voice softening and cupping his jaw, “You’re not a two-bit fag - well you are a fag - but you’re not punching above your weight.”
Mickey looks down, realising that little shit touched on a nerve.
“Mickey.” Ian lifts his chin, forcing him to look up. “You’re a badass sexy motherfucker and I’m lucky to have you.” Ian slides an arm around him, grabs a handful of his ass and pulls their bodies flush together. “I want you…I want you now.”
Mickey’s cock twitches; clearly interested. Ian then takes his hand and brings it up to Ian’s cheek—to his beard—and rubs slowly against it. Fuck me. His heart-rate climbs at an alarming rate and he moans like a bitch. “Ian, you’re not fooling me. I’m winning this bet.”
Ian lowers himself down to his knees, keeping his eyes on Mickey the whole time. When Ian gently rubs his beard against his hardening cock, it takes every ounce of willpower not to react. As Ian turns his head to rub the other cheek against him, he says, “Mickeeey, just forget about the fucking bet.”
*
So that’s how he ended up here, in their bedroom, wearing Ian’s tiny gold booty shorts while ‘Pony’ plays on Ian’s cell. And if he’s enjoying himself, that’s nobody’s business.
If Ian gets so turned on by his gyrating that he pulls his cock out…
If he slides those booty shorts down just low enough to expose his hole…
If he ends up sitting on his husband’s pole and fucking himself senseless…
Well, that’s their business!
And if Ian kept the beard and Mickey has beard burn between his ass cheeks and down his thighs, then he won the fucking bet!