Work Text:
The thirteenth of February dawns gray and slick with freezing rain, the kind of day where Donald’s feathers clump into damp, miserable tufts before he even steps outside.
His left shoelace snaps as he yanks it tight. The elevator in his apartment building groans to a halt between floors, trapping him for twenty suffocating minutes beside Mrs. Quackenbush’s overpowering lilac perfume.
At work, Gladstone swans in late—again—with a smug grin and a promotion Donald deserved. The coffee machine spits scalding liquid down his shirtfront at lunch.
By five PM, his umbrella inverts in a gust, and the bus splashes murky slush across his slacks.
Nightfall finds him slumped on a park bench, rainwater trickling down the back of his neck, when leather-gloved fingers curl around his shoulder.
"C’mon, hot stuff," Mickey murmurs, breath warm against Donald’s ear despite the February chill. His thumb rubs slow circles through the soaked fabric of Donald’s coat. "Ain’t no sense sittin’ out here shiverin’ when I got a perfectly good bed waitin’."
Donald’s protest dies as Mickey’s mouth finds the racing pulse under his jaw. The memory of last summer—Mickey’s hips grinding against his under sticky neon lights, the way those white gloves clung to Donald’s thighs—floods back in a dizzying rush.
"Y’always know when I’m bottomed out," Donald mutters, but he’s already arching into the touch.
Mickey’s chuckle vibrates against his throat. "Sweetheart, I know you."