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The kitchen cabinets swing shut for their fifth consecutive time as Mickey finally finds the glass he wants.
He slams it down onto the countertop.
Wrenches the freezer door open and grabs the ice tray.
Whips it shut and then trudges back over to the counter, letting the tray slap down onto the laminate before flipping the sink on to fill his glass.
It’s slow as hell. Probably luke warm. Takes fucking forever to cool down like he wants it.
Bitch.
“There any particular reason you’re in here slamming stuff around?”
Mickey stalls at the voice that crops up in the doorway, but it’s only for a moment - a split-second wave of gratification that crashes in on itself just as quickly. Because really. “Oh now you give a shit…”
Behind him, his husband doesn’t move any closer. Even as he prompts with a leading: “Meaning…?”
But Mickey doesn’t respond. He’s got shit to do. Places to be. Grits his teeth in irritation as he jerks the sides of the rubber ice tray back and forth to try and dislodge the cubes.
No luck.
God damn it he hates these fucking things.
And he’s still being watched from the doorway. He can feel it, lingering calmly over his attempts. “What’s gotchya in a mood like this?”
“Ain’t in a mood.”
“No?”
“No.” And it’s right as his patience breaks for the final time, frustration winning out as he gives up and slams the ice tray against the edge of the counter in loud angry cracks, ice chunks flying in every direction and-
It’s all forced to a sudden stop as Ian presses up into him from behind, both arms reaching around to calmly wrangle the ice tray out of Mickey’s grip.
Mickey frowns but allows it. Doesn’t fucking need help, thank you. He was almost there. But he guesses Ian wrapped around him and dealing with it himself isn’t the worst thing in the world. For now.
The irritated twist of Mickey’s mouth stays true though, as he watches Ian take a side of the tray in each hand and then twist it with one crisp snap.
The ice pops from the rubber molds like it’s nothing.
Crackles as he plops a few into Mickey’s glass of water without a word.
But surely this shit can’t last forever. Ian’s too cocky for that. Especially when he thinks he’s right about something.
“Sure you’re not feelin’ cranky?” There it is. See? Mickey fucking knew it. “Not even a little?”
But what he doesn’t expect is the feeling of Ian’s lips ghosting up his neck - right over the spot that he loves to fucking nag him with and it’s like he’s struck a nerve, Mickey’s shoulders scrunching and his brow furrowing grumpily and fuck, the noise it pulls out of him - there’s no way Mickey can backpedal.
That was definitely a grumble.
Almost even a whine.
Motherfucker.
His next move is immediate, the glass of water abandoned as he slumps his way free from his husband’s imprisoning arms. He’s gotta move. He’s shown his cards a little too much and now he’s gotta maintain.
And Ian lets him. Not that Ian has any say over what he does. It’s just that he doesn’t try to stop him when he stalks out of the kitchen, legs carrying him in any possible direction without a path in mind. Just away from here. No more ice. No more harassment.
A few more steps and Mickey finds himself in their bedroom, lingering aimlessly in the middle.
Okay, he’s here. Now what.
Several seconds of complete silence tick by, no movement from the kitchen.
Fine.
He stalks over to the dresser. Pulls a drawer open and stares down into it with a frown. Waits another second, his patience thinning yet again. But this time it’s back to square one.
Because Jesus, what’s taking him so long?
Doesn’t he fucking care?
Mickey stuffs his hands into the drawer, carding through stacks of carefully folded t-shirts. Army-regulation crisp. Fuck all that.
“Mick…”
A little curl of anticipation blossoms in Mickey’s chest when he hears it again. That voice - calm and confident and posted up in the doorway, casual as can be.
There he is.
“If you want my attention so bad, why’re you running away from me?”
Mickey frowns, heat creeping up the back of his neck. “Fuck you… Ain’t running from shit...”
“Alright...” He doesn’t need to look to know it doesn’t land. Especially when Ian presses. “Whatchya up to there?”
Mickey can see him nodding toward the drawer from the corner of his eye. Can see himself step out from his body for a moment, taking in what he’s doing with a clearer view.
His hands stall to a stop in the tousled t-shirts...
Whole body stops as it settles in…
Wait… What is he doing?
And what happens next is very quick, Mickey forced to jump back into his body and move to fend off the approach - the door easing closed as Ian steps into their room. It’s got more anticipation sparking in his chest. Has him making an arch and moving toward their door, the sliver of light from the rest of the house like a beacon of hope and just within reach when-
Mickey’s heart leaps into his mouth as Ian’s hand spreads wide over the door from behind him and then pushes it shut - right in front of his face - with a loud, decisive shove. And it stays there, air rushing around Mickey’s head as those lips ghost over his ear, murmuring softly, but with no room for misinterpretation.
“You’re gonna let me take care of you.” And Mickey feels every word of it. “You want me to take care of you. Don’t you, baby…”
A shudder works down Mickey’s spine, his eyes fluttering shut without his permission.
Jesus Christ…
“Stay right here.”
And then the heat is moving away. The hand isn’t trapping him in anymore. Mickey’s eyes flutter back open to the sounds of Ian sifting through a drawer behind him, leaving his escape route wide open.
And then he remembers himself.
Mickey twists the doorknob and shoves out into the hallway with all the strength he can muster, the rush of defiance working through him like a line of top shelf coke and fuck, he can hear him coming - he can hear each long-strided step approaching him from behind and it has him picking up the pace but it’s no use. Ian is quicker. Ian is always quicker and Mickey’s heart is in his fucking throat again when he feels that strong arm wrap around his middle and he’s fucking tugged up from the ground, his feet kicking and mouth moving a mile a minute because fuck!
But Ian’s on a mission. He never loses a step, even as Mickey flails enough to get himself belly-down over his shoulder, draped like a fucking lamb to slaughter or some shit like that and Ian - this beefy motherfucker - he ain’t even batting an eye at it, the arm not wrapped around the back of Mickey’s thighs held calmly at his side as he carries him into the kitchen.
“The fuck-...” Mickey struggles, hands clawing at Ian’s back. “Think you can just-”
And then the world is slipping out from under him again, his entire weight slid off from Ian’s shoulder to land his ass squarely on top of the kitchen counter, their faces suddenly startlingly eye-level. “No more talking.”
Mickey scowls, dragging his gaze away because it’s way too fucking close, “Fuck you,” his attempt to gain some sort of upperhand sending their mail scattering to the floor, “-can talk as much as I fucking wanna-”
“Mickey-” Ian’s hands wrap around both of his wrists and it’s solid and practiced and - “Hey.” - he drags them together and keeps them still between them - steady, like his voice. “Hey.”
And it’s just the right octave to get Mickey to stop squirming. But nothing’s gonna get him to stop scowling, god damn it.
“Look at me.”
Mickey’s mouth twists petulantly, his lungs filling and his heart pounding like fucking crazy in his chest at Ian’s sudden closeness.
“Mick…” He’s not letting it go. “Look at me.”
And it’s the stability of it all. The firmness. Ian’s not being mean, but he’s also not compromising his expectations.
Which means he’s gonna say it again. “Mickey…” Expectations that snake their way into the back of Mickey’s brain. The parts that wanna act right. The parts that light up from the attention.
Damn it, those parts always manage to fuck him over.
Mickey huffs out a pointed breath. Flicks his eyes to glare up at the man who currently thinks he owns the place. Motherfucker.
Because when their eyes meet, Ian takes him in, holding his gaze in the very thin space. Like he’s peeking past all the layers Mickey’s putting up until he gets to those right parts lurking in the back. And when he finds them, slowly, the corner of his mouth curls into a fond smile. “There he is… I see him in there.”
It’s disgusting the way it goes directly to Mickey’s lap, heat licking up his belly. He rolls his eyes. Settles his attention toward the forgotten ice tray on the other counter instead.
Whatever.
“Now…instead of being a little fucking brat,” Ian leads off pointedly, gathering Mickey’s wrists in one big hand so he can reach into his back pocket, “how ‘bout you use your words and tell me what’s wrong?”
“How ‘bout you kiss my ass,” Mickey refuses to look.
But Ian’s little huff of amusement is crystal clear in front of him. “Mm. Try that again for me.”
It pulls Mickey in all different directions. The urge to fight back. The urge to follow through. The spark of interest as Ian pulls a pair of cuffs out from his back pocket. Oh…
Mickey watches him swing the soft black leather of one cuff open, steady with it. Seriously? He doesn't know? “Been gone all day…”
A cuff wraps around his left wrist, the leather warm from Ian’s pocket. “Mhm…?” Prompting. Eyes flicking from Mickey’s down to where he tightens the strap and then secures the buckle. Then back up. “You been lonely, baby?”
Mickey frowns, “Fuck no.”
“You sure? Wouldn’t be lying to me like this if you didn’t miss me.”
The second cuff wraps around Mickey’s other wrist and it’s Kill Bill sirens - a tug on his chain to remember who he is and jerk his hand away from it before he can be reined in.
But Ian’s snagging it in a flash, bringing it back down without missing a step.
God damn. “Didn’t miss your clingy ass…”
Didn’t think twice about it.
Didn’t even notice he was gone, for that matter.
Ian buckles the second strap firmly into place, and it’s with a weird mix of dread and excitement that Mickey realizes he’s allowed himself to be restrained.
Fuck.
When did that happen?
“You know, Mick…you do this thing sometimes…” Ian steps back to reach the other counter, and then returns without missing a beat, “...‘specially when one of us has been gone.” It’s the water glass. He holds it up to Mickey’s lips. “Sip.”
Mickey blinks at him in protest. Feels it crumbling under him far too quickly as Ian simply raises his eyebrows in expectation.
Jesus - fine.
Once Mickey lets his lips part to take a sip of cool water, he continues, tipping the glass for him while he speaks.
“You get all cranky and crabby… Don’t like to use your words… Pretend like you don’t want anything to do with me when we both know that’s not true. One more.” Another sip. Quenching his parched throat from putting up so much of a struggle. “Always means the same thing though.” The ice clinks against the glass as he sets it on the counter and then brings his full attention back to Mickey, a hand planted on either side of him, caging him in. “You know what it means?”
The callout works over Mickey’s body in spite of himself. He sucks his chilled bottom lip into his mouth as he turns his head away. To ignore Ian. Or maybe…in the very back of his brain…to offer…
Because it’s an embarrassing giddiness that bubbles up in him when Ian presses forward and takes, nosing lightly up the span of Mickey’s bared neck.
“Means you want attention. Doesn’t it.” Hot breath and gentle, knowing words. “You just want my attention, don’t you baby…?”
Mickey lets out a huffs that dissolves into a shudder, his chest rising and falling as he fights through the wave of arousal that his husband surges inside him so easily.
The short chain linking his cuffs tightens with his protest and again, he’s torn. Between the thrill of defiance. The thrill of getting attention. It’s a fucking nightmare to navigate, his bound hands lifting to shove Ian away, but just kind of lingering on his chest instead. Solid… Warm…
He’s gotta get it together.
Remember who he is.
And it’s handed to him on a silver platter when Ian’s lips suck over that dangerous spot below his ear because fuck-
Mickey shrinks away from it before the touch can switch his brain off for good, his legs kicking out to try and propel himself backward on the counter as far as he can without his hands.
But Ian’s on it in no time, one hand dragging him back in by his waist until he’s flush against his lap, the other hooking a finger around the chain of Mickey’s cuffs and tugging them down and fuck-
“Uh uh-” he denies, “You’re not goin’ anywhere,” and it’s a promise. It’s a fact - Mickey’s body now pressed up so snugly against his that there's no room to squirm free.
But that doesn’t mean he isn’t gonna try.
And that doesn’t mean Ian’s gonna let it slide.
“Alright,” he seems to decide. And before Mickey can get his balance, he’s dragging him clean off the counter.
The arm he slots under his ass keeps him steady, but Mickey’s swirling into another headrush, both thighs clinging around Ian’s waist because if he falls, he’s got no hands to catch himself. If he falls, that shit is gonna hurt.
Ian’s not gonna let him fall, though.
But still!
“Fucking-... Leave me the hell alone!”
“Nope.” Like he’s talking about the weather and not lugging Mickey bodily into their dark bedroom. “Not ‘til you behave right.”
But fuck that because Mickey doesn’t wanna behave right! He doesn’t-... He-... If he did though, what would Ian-
The world drops out from under him as Ian lowers him onto the floor in front of their bed, following him down until he’s taken a knee and fit one of his huge warm hands around Mickey’s throat and oh…
Oh fuck…
Mickey tries to blink some clarity back into his vision, but it’s like a weighted blanket is draping over his brain… Sudden, instant headiness…
Holy shit…
That’s cheating…
“You’re gonna start being honest with yourself.” Ian says it and it’s crowding him in the dark. Very certain. Commanding. “Alright?”
His pointer finger and thumb press high over his pulse points and Mickey can fucking feel it, even without the squeeze. He shifts his weight on his knees but doesn’t know why, because he can’t go anywhere anyway. He doesn’t want to. Or does he?
Torn.
Not being honest with himself.
“Open your mouth.”
Mickey blinks again, eyelids already heavy as he looks up at Ian but keeps his lips pressed together tight. Fuck you.
In front of him, Ian’s still composed. Still isn’t being mean to him. But the intensity behind his expectations has suddenly cranked up about a thousand notches, and the instant hotness of that is a fucking problem.
“Mick…” A warning. “I told you to open your mouth.”
The hand wrapped around his throat is distracting, but it’s the other one Mickey has to watch out for. Because only one more beat of refusal passes - “Mm-mm.” - before Ian’s taking it upon himself with a sigh, two of his fingers pressing against the seam of Mickey’s lips and then working past his teeth and into his mouth and fuck…he ain’t playing around anymore.
Mickey’s brows etch together as his jaw is gently coaxed open wide like Ian wants, the other hand sliding from his throat to hold him firmly by the back of the neck.
Jesus Christ…
“Now why’re you makin’ me do this to you, huh Mick?” Ian speaks down to him and it’s so gentle that Mickey almost forgets he’s got his fingers shoved into his open mouth. And then they start to pump in and out. “I know you wanna get it yourself.”
Mickey lets out a huff and it’s hot and wet and doesn’t do anything to distract from the hypnotizing drag, Ian petting the pads of his fingers over the flat of his tongue until spit starts to pool in his mouth.
He tries to swallow. Tries to jerk his head away, but the hand on the back of his neck squeezes in another firm warning.
The noise he lets out is frustrated. Torn.
Because fuck, he wants this. Wants to feel Ian take it from him. Also wants to get it himself. Earn it.
“C’mon baby,” Ian murmurs down to him, “I know you wanna be good for me…” like he’s got a direct line into Mickey’s mind. “Right…?” A third finger joins and then they’re all slipping over Mickey’s tongue towards the back of his throat, testing how far back they can go. “Right?”
Mickey’s brows pinch and then his head is lurching away as he chokes - motherfucker - Ian dragging his soaked fingers out of his mouth and letting the spit cling.
It’s disgusting. It’s kinda humiliating. Mickey swallows it all down and instantly misses it in spite of himself, his mouth disappointingly empty as Ian allows him to catch his breath on the floor.
And it’s too much time that passes because Ian’s just sitting back, with his hands to himself.
He’s watching. Taking it all in without going to make another move and why isn’t he making another move?
Why?
Doesn’t he see he fucking needs it?
Mickey works his sore jaw, impatience itching uncomfortably under his skin as he wipes the corner of his mouth with one of his bound wrists.
“Oof baby, you got a face goin’ there…” Ian’s fucking teasing him. Fakes him out with a hand that skips right over his mouth to tuck back some fallen bangs but nothing more, Mickey following after it before he can catch himself. Ian doesn’t miss it. Because of course he doesn’t. “Looks like you want something real bad.”
Mickey’s empty mouth waters in direct response, the breath he heaves dramatic.
Come on. “Why’d you fucking stop…”
But, “You know why I stopped,” he answers. “You know what you’re s’posed to do.”
Mickey swallows and it’s thick with a whine that’s fighting to get out. He has to get it together. Fucking figure it out. He’s frustrated and he’s impatient and god damn it, he fucking wants.
“Please…”
It comes out with too much attitude.
He knows it even before Ian tilts his head at him, “Please what?” reaching down to lightly scratch his fingers over the sensitive skin along the back of Mickey’s neck. A small reward for using his manners, no matter how snappy. Small steps. “Please what, baby?”
And Jesus, it feels good already. The tingles that it spreads, just from a little attention… Holy shit, Mickey needs more of that. But he’s not ready to grovel just yet.
So he doesn’t say it. He can’t.
But what he can do is blink right up at Ian, his mouth dropping open and tongue held out in waiting.
Please…
Ian understands in a heartbeat. He’s probably understood this whole time. Even before Mickey did. And there’s something so validating and so irritating and so fucking attractive about that - fuck, it’s got Mickey’s pulse skipping in his chest as Ian gives the back of his neck a little squeeze and then dips his head down, closing the space between them.
He keeps his mouth open for him, a rush of arousal swirling in his belly as Ian glides a long, territorial lick up the flat of his tongue - claims - lips sealing it off into a hot, wet kiss that lingers.
And then…
“Open up,” he murmurs close. “Stick your tongue out for me.” And when Mickey does, he’s dipping back in, his hand dragging up from the nape of his neck to cradle the back of his head.
He teases at Mickey’s tongue with a satisfied hum. Small tastes. Licks the tip of it and then sucks it in gently and Mickey’s mouth starts watering like a motherfucker again… The weighted blanket is draping back over his brain… Breath is coming hot and heavy… Pleasure is starting to swirl… From the feeling and the attention…
Fuck…
Ian pulls back, but only by a few inches. Just enough so he can slip two fingers onto his tongue and still be close enough that Mickey can feel his breath ghosting over his mouth. “There you go…” Long fingers spread wide over the back of his head, keeping him still as he pumps back and forth. “Doesn’t that feel good, baby…?”
Mickey’s nostrils flare as he tries to take in another steadying breath.
Yeah, it fucking does.
He fucking loves this shit.
But there’s still a part of him that’s refusing to give in. That’s kicking and screaming and putting up a fight because he wants to be right - even if it kills him - and it’s got his brows drawing together as he pulls at the leather cuffs restraining him because fuck.
Ian doesn’t give it attention, but he notices. He always notices. And instead of validating Mickey’s mini fit, he fucking pours on the praise, his voice dropping into something sickeningly tender, but still undeniably strong. Undeniably Ian.
“Just wanted something in your mouth, huh sweetheart…?” His ring finger squeezes in to join the other two and the weight of the metal on Mickey’s tongue is mind-numbing. Especially when they start to creep to the back of his throat again. “Mm…? Just want this sweet little mouth stuffed so you don’t gotta think…?”
Mickey’s pulse kicks in, his brows furrowing as his gag reflex starts to act up again, but-
“Uh-uh,” Ian’s leaning back to watch him, “keep that throat open for me.”
But it’s hard! It’s hard with three fingers, but Ian’s asking him real nice…
Mickey pulls at his cuffs, his fists balled, and he tries. He tries - pulse in his ears and breath caught in his throat and he can feel the drool pouring over his bottom lip but can’t do anything about it.
Not that he wants to do anything about it…
Not like this isn’t exactly what he needs…mouth crammed full…not having to think…just like Ian said…
As soon as it all pulls free from his mouth, Mickey tears into a ragged breath, his lungs filling quickly in a head rush… “Fuh-...fuck…”
“So drooly, baby…” he feels before he hears, because Ian’s slipping his fingers through the spit running down his chin and then he’s rubbing it all over his mouth and it’s nasty in the best way. Has Mickey subconsciously following after it. Has him dropping open and waiting and hoping for those fingers to slide into his mouth again and fill him back up. “Don’t even care that you’re down there makin’ a mess, do ya…?”
A short grumble is Mickey’s response. Noncommittal.
Because no. He doesn’t care about that right now.
But, “Well I do,” Ian continues, fixing him with a fond look that Mickey feels in his bones. “Gotta take care of my husband, right…? Especially after he missed me so much…?”
He’s buttering him up and it’s working. Annoyingly. So much so that Mickey feels himself nod in agreement despite not giving the go-ahead.
But Ian likes what he sees judging by the little grin that softens his face. And then he’s speaking again, his voice low and guiding.
“Gimme your hands, baby.”
When Mickey lifts his bound wrists, he slowly unbuckles one of the leather straps for him, letting the empty cuff hang so he can bring Mickey’s free hand up to his mouth and leave soft, sweet kisses around his wrist. From warm leather to warm lips. Sappy.
Mickey flicks his gaze away.
He guesses he can allow it for a few more seconds.
Is he gonna do the other wrist though?
As if to answer his question, Ian guides Mickey’s hands up until they’re settling snuggly on both of his shoulders - one free, one cuffed. “Want you to keep these right here for me, ‘kay Mick?”
And Mickey could kick back from the order, but his husband’s shoulders sure do feel nice under his palms. All warm and strong and familiar.
Safe.
His muscles flex and move beneath soft fabric as Ian reaches down to work the hem of Mickey’s shirt up over his stomach. Then his chest. Then his shoulders, Mickey ducking his head to let it slip free up his arms, exposed to the cool air of their bedroom.
“There you go - just like that,” Ian praises, working it off him one arm at a time. He doesn’t have to lead Mickey’s hands back down to his shoulders, because that’s where they belong. “See? You know how to be good for me.”
Mickey feels himself forcing off a frown at that - to keep up appearances. Especially when Ian uses his freshly stripped shirt to start wiping the spit from his chin in gentle swipes. “Ain’t a baby…”
“Then why you actin’ like one?” He dries all around Mickey’s mouth, taking his time with it. “Hm…? What’re you bein’ so cute for?”
Jesus… “Ain’t cute…”
“Oh, I disagree.” Ian tosses his shirt onto the floor, seemingly satisfied with how he’s cleaned Mickey up and already moving onto his sweatpants. “No one cuter than you, Mick.” He slips his fingers under the elastic waistband and tugs, but not before sneaking in a quick, solid smooch to Mickey’s pout to demonstrate.
Mickey protests it.
Immediately regrets it when Ian’s leaning back out of kissing range.
Can’t wrangle all these fucking emotions as he’s suddenly being stripped out of his sweatpants and boxers and still he hasn’t moved his hands from Ian’s shoulders.
Because here he is. Coming back to kneel in front of Ian, now completely naked. And Christ, he didn’t realize he was this hard until now.
Damn.
He should backpedal. Explain away his boner.
But, “Ain’t cute…” is what comes out grumbling of his mouth instead, because maybe a little more of that babytalk wouldn’t exactly kill him, you know?
If Ian catches on, he doesn’t call him on it. Instead, he simply smiles, “Uh huh…” looking like some sort of angel, haloed by the hallway light behind him as he wraps the cuff back around Mickey’s wrist. “Look at you, though… With your little pout… Trying to act like you’re not turned on by all this.” He tightens the strap and then plants kisses across Mickey’s knuckles. “You’re the fucking cutest and you know it.”
Mickey’s hands get lowered back into his own lap - close enough that Ian’s point about him enjoying this is impossible to deny.
And he’s still going.
“In fact, you wanna know a secret…?”
Mickey’s gaze shifts upward as Ian stands to his full height, towering over him like a giant. Oh.
He nods.
Ian rewards him just as quickly.
“You’re so cute, that I’ve been havin’ to hold back all night,” he murmurs, “...stop myself.” He reaches down to gently grab Mickey’s chin, and then brushes the pad of his thumb over his bottom lip with admiration. “Really wanna to feel this cute little mouth around my cock.”
And Jesus Christ, the way that just immediately makes Mickey throb… He should be embarrassed by it. At least a little shameful.
But holy shit does it hit. Even harder when Ian’s big hand grabs over the crotch of his jeans and gives himself a rub, right in front of Mickey’s face.
Because down here, he can see the hard, fat outline of Ian’s cock pressing against the denim, his mouth watering on command. If he wasn’t already on his knees, this would definitely fucking do it.
Mickey swallows all his pooling spit and then parts his lips, licking at the pad of Ian’s thumb before sucking it into his mouth and it’s subconscious again. Mindless. Something against his tongue while he stares at what he actually wants and-
“Just know it’d feel so good…” Ian trails off like he doesn’t know the effect it’s all having. “Know how you love havin’ that mouth filled, huh baby…”
It’s what makes what he does next so mean, Mickey’s head drifting forward to follow after Ian’s hand when he pulls it away.
Because it leaves his mouth totally empty. Leaves him with nothing to do but sit here and watch Ian take his time unbuckling his belt a few steps away… Pop open the button of his jeans and slowly unzip… Hook his thumbs in and ease it all down over his hips and oh god…the way he drags it out at the last moment, everything slowing as the elastic of his boxers teases over the thick swell of his bulge, and then finally his cock is springing free in front of Mickey’s face - holy fuck, it’s like he’s been hypnotized.
Like he’s never seen his husband’s cock before.
Like every other path in his brain is suddenly closing off except for the one that leads straight ahead. The one that leads to the prize. The one that leads to a version of Mickey that’s got his mouth stuffed full and his guts rearranged and fuck… God damn…
Gaze now cast down to himself, Ian grabs his cock and gives himself a good long stroke, “Could be feelin’ so nice right now…” He eases from the tip all the way to the base. Doesn’t look at him. “But you don’t want that for us.”
Mickey’s brows furrow from his place on the floor. Wait… “Never said that…”
“Never said you want it either. Gotta use your words, Mick… You know that…”
Mickey huffs, but instead of aggravation rising in his chest it’s heat. Warmth that spreads to his face and up the back of his neck. “Fucking serious…”
But Ian just raises his brows in silent acceptance - like he’s made peace with Mickey’s decision and will simply do it himself. It’s made perfectly clear as he continues to touch himself in front of Mickey’s face - slow, greedy strokes that are dangerously close. Mickey could just lean forward and take it. Say ‘fuck this’ and lick a fat line straight up the underside of Ian’s cock. The thought alone makes him tingle.
But he doesn’t wanna get it that way.
He’s sick of sulking.
Sick of pouting.
He wants this cock in his mouth because Ian’s given it to him - because he’s earned it. He wants Ian…maybe…to be happy with him, he guesses…? Something like that.
So it’s less like defeat and more like acceptance when he says it, his tongue heavy in his empty mouth as he watches Ian tilt forward to drool onto the head of his cock.
“Lemme do that…”
He can do it better.
Get it sloppier.
He murmurs it against the wet noises, licking his lips as he watches Ian slick himself up with his hand. “Wanna do that…”
Ian shifts his gaze down to him, “Wanna do what.”
And this time when he speaks, it’s without the pull in different directions, his thoughts narrowing at last into one pulsing need. “Wanna suck you off…” he finally admits, the words lifting pressure from his body. “...please…”
It drifts up in the space between them and when it reaches Ian, the tone-shift has his face softening into something that’s got Mickey’s chest fluttering like crazy.
Fucking Christ… Why does that get him so bad…
And it’s a giddy rush of tingles when Ian reaches down and cups Mickey’s face with his free hand, stroking over his cheek with his thumb. “There he is…” he says again, and this time it hits Mickey straight in the chest - harder and deeper than when they were in the kitchen. “Course you can have it, baby… Don’t gotta be embarrassed...”
Because Mickey can feel the flush in his face - the tips of his ears - the apple of his cheek where Ian’s thumb strokes fondly. “...not embarrassed,” he lies. But the next part is true. “…just want you to shut my brain off…”
And oh…Ian looks happy to finally oblige.
“Well that I can do…” He takes a step closer, his hand still working slowly over his glistening cock. “Just open up that mouth for me so I can give it to you, alright…?”
The rush of heat that works over Mickey’s body is anticipatory and dizzying and from the top down. But nothing can fully distract from the thrill when he does exactly as asked, his head tipped back so he can open his mouth and stick his tongue out.
Because Ian doesn’t make him wait for it anymore. This time, he crowds in close and it’s instant gratification - instant reward - the heavy, grounding weight of his cock slipping onto his tongue and staying there, where it belongs.
Fuck yes…
“Do what you wanna do, baby.”
It’s all he has to hear for Mickey to immediately lull forward, eyes rolling blissfully shut and his lips wrapping around Ian’s cock fucking finally - god. This is all he wanted.
He fills his mouth as full as he can. Hollows his cheeks and bobs his head. Savors. Feels Ian’s heavy cock pulsing on his tongue with his little groan of approval and all it does is make him harder too.
Fuck.
“Jesus, baby…” Both big hands come up to hold Mickey by the back of the head. “Wanted this bad, didn’t you…”
He starts to pump his hips a little and it’s got the head of his cock nudging the back of Mickey’s throat, his hummed answer staccatoed and nasty in the best way - the way that’s got Ian flashing a grin down at him.
“Mhm…” egging him on. “Sound so cute for me…”
Mickey can’t answer and Ian doesn’t actually want him to, looks like, his hips starting to pick up into a rhythm that’s got Mickey’s head stilling to appreciate.
Because this shit is so fucking good. So fucking hot, just getting to sit here while Ian fucks his mouth as much as he wants. And the best part about it? He got this all himself. He fucking earned this cock.
It’s got him absolutely fucking aching. Has pleasure pooling between his legs. Has a shudder running up his whole body as Ian slows and then eases his hips forward at an angle, sinking his full cock down the back of his throat.
“Ohhh yeah, there you go…” he murmurs in approval, “Love how you can take all of me like this…”
Mickey wants to touch. Wants to answer - yeah - yeah he can take the whole thing for him - he always wants to take the whole thing for him.
With every passing second, he can feel his brows furrowing from the loss of air and his mouth crammed full but still he lets his eyes flutter open… Wants to see Ian… Wants more. Anything.
Ian pulls out and it’s spitty and hot and the breath Mickey heaves in is choppy - a little head rush.
He only kind of half-tracks that Ian’s pulling his t-shirt off over his head and then he’s stepping back forward, his hard cock right in front of Mickey’s face.
“Spit on it,” he guides and Mickey’s doing it without hesitation, “Mhm… More…” leaning up a little on his knees to drool messily over the head of his cock until he’s absolutely dripping. “Good boy - open up.”
And then his pulse is picking up again like crazy, Ian’s wet cock shoving back into his mouth and scrambling up any thoughts that might’ve started forming in Mickey’s brain from the praise.
But holy shit does he not care.
This is all he cares about.
This.
Right here.
Ian fucking his mouth and talking nice to him and then pulling out and leaning over him, Mickey sticking his tongue out so he can spit right onto it and then slide his cock back in, filling his ears with wet, disgusting noises.
It’s got the room spinning a little. Has Mickey reaching out to try and grab onto Ian’s ankles but the chain pulls taut and fuck…oh yeah…he’s in cuffs…
Ian bites his bottom lip with a heavy breath through his nose. Fucks his mouth full - “Good job…” Flips his other hand and reaches down to grab snugly around Mickey’s throat, the added pressure almost too much for his gag reflex as he slides in and out, punctuating every other with breathy compliments. “Good job… Good job, baby… Good boy…”
Mickey squeezes his eyes shut, his chain pulling again as he scrambles up to latch onto Ian’s wrist with both hands, precum dribbling down his own cock.
His face is red - he can feel it. He can hear the little choked sounds trying to break free from the back of his stuffed throat.
It’s all too much - way too much - and it’s exactly what he fucking needs.
Another second passes, and then Ian steps back and pulls out of Mickey’s mouth. But he flips his hand and keeps it high around his neck, probably feeling each breath that tears into his lungs as Mickey blinks back into reality, everything swirling so pleasantly around him and inside him that he can’t hold back the fucking grin that spreads across his face as he stares up at Ian, devotion messy and overflowing.
Fuck.
“Fuck yeah…”
It’s instantly contagious. Ian’s handsome face mirrors his enjoyment as he crouches down, bringing it all in real close to chuckle, “Fuckin’ love that shit, don’t you, Mick…” the hand not holding his throat reaching up to smear the drool all over Mickey’s mouth again, “Nasty baby…”
Mickey’s grin turns heated, his lips parting and then opening wide so Ian can tilt his head back for him and then drool right onto his tongue…fuck yes…licking right in after to suck it off.
Mickey ain’t the only nasty one. He’s in good company.
And it’s another headrush. A combination of the pressure starting to close in around his airway - the swirl of Ian’s tongue before disappearing - the solidness of Ian’s other hand as he wipes over Mickey’s spitty face and then pats his cheek, harder and harder until that smile is spreading again from the sting.
Mickey moves his mouth to say something, but all that tumbles out is a ragged moan, punctuated by the wet slaps.
“Yeah…?” Ian encourages lovingly. “You feelin’ good, sweetheart…?”
Mickey groans, heavy eyelids.
Shit…
Yeah…
Feelin’ real fucking good…
Ian takes in a nice long breath, soothing over Mickey’s pink cheek with the pads of his fingers. “What am I gonna do with you, huh…?”
And if Mickey’s brain was a little more online, he just knows he’d have a list a mile long. But right now, it’s his body that’s answering for him. His core needs. “...fuck me…” manners kicking in, dead-last as always, “...please…”
But it’s like night and day inside his head, all the fighting and kickback manhandled completely outta him. No more fussing. No more embarrassment. Mickey knows what he wants, and what he wants is to get fucked within an inch of his life by this man.
And god damn does that translate, because Ian’s popping off an impressed little brow furrow down to him, his grin wide. “Look at you askin’ all nice.”
It fills Mickey’s chest with warmth and giddiness and a bunch of other shit he can’t parse through right now, but he doesn’t need to. All he needs to do is nod up at him because yeah - he is asking nicely which means he deserves to get fucked real good, right?
The loss of Ian pulling away is offset by the thrill of watching him step out of his jeans, his whole gorgeous body finally on display for Mickey to slurp up from his slumped spot on the floor.
Jesus Christ he’s so hot…
So thick…
All those muscles… No fucking wonder he can throw Mickey over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
“...Ian...”
He’s answered with a little chuckle, “M’comin’ baby…” Ian stepping forward to reach down and fit his hands under Mickey’s arms. “C’mere.”
And it’s a good thing he’s so strong, because Mickey’s wobbly legs are no fucking help at all. About the only thing they’re good for is wrapping around Ian’s waist when he’s brought up flush to his chest and oh… This feels good… Skin on skin…
Mickey indulges in it. Slips his bound wrists over Ian’s head so he can loop around his neck and melt into him, carried along to the bed.
“Smell so good, Mick…” he hears, almost off-hand, while Ian strips the comforter off for them. It pairs with the lips pressed to his collarbone - the strong arm pulling him in closer to combat the gravity.
And if Mickey adds to the off-kilter weight distribution by leaning back to slot their lips together, so be it. He just wants to make out a little.
Ian’s surprise is short and quickly simmers into a grin, both arms coming up to wrap around Mickey and squeeze as he hums.
It’s content.
Satisfied.
Kinda makes Mickey feel content and satisfied too - for some fucking reason…
After an especially wet nuzzle, Ian huffs out a chuckle through his nose, leaning back to wipe down Mickey’s mouth and chin and then his own, “Gettin’ us all messy…”
Mickey grins and he ain’t sorry about it. Not self-conscious in the slightest. Wants something back in his mouth, actually, but before he can form the words, the room is shifting around him as he’s lowered backwards onto the bed.
It keeps Ian in his sights the entire time he follows him down, seemingly unbothered by the fact that he’s trapped in the loop of Mickey’s arms because he settles on top of him and god damn he’s big… So huge… Crowds over Mickey’s entire body perfectly, giving him no way out.
Like Mickey would ever want a way out.
Like Mickey isn’t eating this shit up…
He opens his mouth but all that comes tumbling out is a breathy moan - a shudder that melts into an almost-whine as he feels Ian’s knees nudge between his thighs to ease his legs open.
Oh fuck yes. Getting right to it.
The sound of their nightstand drawer opening and closing has Mickey’s pulse picking up in well-practiced anticipation, his tied hands already reaching out to fondle blindly against their bottle of lube but-
“Ah ah-...” Ian is slipping it out of reach, “Whaddaya think you’re doin’?" His brows pull together despite the curl in his grin as he speaks down to Mickey. “I’m gonna take care of that for you, baby. You just lie back and be pretty.”
Oh.
Except-...
His brain doesn’t get another chance to flounder before Ian’s helping it along again. And this time, it focuses on the touch wrapping around his left hand, Ian bringing it up and slipping two of Mickey’s fingers into his mouth without looking away.
The wet heat of it has Mickey pulsing… Has his attention fixed… He can still hear the click of the lube bottle a little further down, but mostly he can’t tear his gaze away from where Ian’s slowly sucking his fingers, his warm tongue swirling around them and setting off tingles up and down Mickey’s body.
And then…
Ian slips them out of his mouth. Presses a little kiss to the pads. Uses his hold on his hand to flip them and then slide them into Mickey’s mouth now - Mickey’s turn - his own fingers on his own tongue…
“Keep that mouth busy for me…”
It’s different and kinda weird but also kinda hot and oh shit, okay. Yeah… He can do that…
Mickey keeps his fingers in his mouth, still wet from Ian’s, and watches almost lazily as Ian’s other hand disappears between them and oh… Fuck…
The pleasure that washes over his lap is instant the second he feels it - two fingers circling playfully around his exposed hole, his legs forced open wide by Ian’s knees.
It doesn’t take long. Ian’s on a mission and Mickey’s impatient despite his recently reformed behavior and soon, Ian’s three fingers deep. He pumps them in and out and Mickey’s fucking drooling, his task forgotten and arms looped around his husband’s neck and it feels good but Jesus, he wants the real thing…
He opens his mouth to demand. To ask.
What comes out is a whiny “...ouuuh…” his cheeks heating over from the sound because Jesus Christ, was that him?
“Words, baby…” comes the reminder, and for some reason, it’s got something kicking up in Mickey. Something he thought got stomped out. Fueled by impatience and need.
He’s squirming before he can stop himself. Fighting against the thick thighs keeping his legs spread open and-
“Sh sh sh sh…” Ian stills the fingers inside of him, his clean hand coming up to hold Mickey by the jaw to look at him - firm and steady. “Don’t ruin it for yourself, Mickey…” Fuck… “Don’t ruin it just ‘cause you want dick.”
Mickey can feel the scowl fighting desperately to bubble back to the surface. Muscle memory.
But even more than that, he can feel the weight of Ian’s touch. The weight of his gaze. The weight of that belief in him.
Ian knows he can do it. Knows he deserves it. He can see it in those eyes as they stare down at him, reminding him with crystal clarity how far he’s come since his little fit with the ice tray.
He believes in him.
Mickey clenches around Ian’s fingers, pleasure tingling.
Motherfucker…
“Please…” he breathes out, his voice thick with a swallow. “...just need you in me…”
So fucking bad. They’ve been at this for so long. If he doesn’t get Ian’s cock in him soon…Jesus, he doesn’t even know.
But… “I know you do, baby…” Ian affirms and it’s grounding, his hand coming up to card through his hair.
Mickey’s eyelids go heavy. Brain goes heavy. Limbs go heavy. “Need you…”
“I know…”
“Ian…”
“I hear you…” He nudges his nose alongside Mickey’s. Slips his fingers out of him and leaves him empty. “I hear you, baby. You’re gonna get it, okay?”
Mickey’s heart melts and hums and fucking pulses from the attention - from the familiar, coveted press of Ian’s cock against his perfectly stretched hole.
“Oh fuck…”
“Mhm…” So close. Soft lips brushing against his. “Been so good for me… Gonna fill you up now, okay…?”
“...yeah…”
“Yeah, baby…?”
“Please…” he feels delirious, “...please... ...fuck...”
And then it’s all rushing forward and inward, heat blooming tightly as Ian slowly gives it to him - finally sinks every inch of that thick fucking cock inside of him and oh…
Oh…
Fuck…
Mickey’s eyes roll blissfully shut.
Mind goes blissfully blank.
Nothing but this. Heat. Possession. Filled all the way up with Ian’s cock, just like he’s made to be.
Above him, Ian lets out a long breath, the end of it rumbling into a satisfied growl from the back of his throat. “Fuck, baby…”
And then he starts moving.
Mickey’s body rolls into the slick, full heat of it… Arms squeeze himself around Ian’s neck as best as he can with his wrists bound like this…
He opens his mouth but what comes out is a whine again - even worse this time - and it’s got a genuine smile dancing across Ian’s face. He can feel it.
“Mhm…” still so close. Slow, long drags in and out of him. “You always take my cock so well, don’t you Mick…” He’s savoring it. Indulging. Dropping into a heady whisper. “Fuck, you feel so good…”
If Mickey could get words out, he would. He’d preen in the praise. Swallow it all up.
But his body is buzzing and his pulse is in his eardrums so he answers in the only way he can. The way he doesn’t need his brain for. Just his body. Just his instincts, his hips rolling up so he can fuck himself on Ian’s cock, just a little bit faster.
It’s indulgent and greedy and feels so fucking good.
Immediate gratification.
Not exactly good behavior but he’s already dick-dumb, that fact rewarded as Ian falls into the rhythm and starts fucking into him at the quicker pace - oh fuck yes. Sometimes it pays to be greedy.
Especially when he’s got such an equally greedy husband, because Ian’s swooping down to suck on Mickey’s bottom lip as he moves his hips, always stealing kisses while they fuck.
Mickey lets his eyes close. Lets Ian lick into his mouth as much as he wants, all hot and territorial. He can feel himself starting to drool already as he gently sucks on his tongue.
Jesus…
How’d he get this lucky…?
Ian pulls back but keeps his pace on their creaking mattress, biceps and shoulder muscles tensing gorgeously. He reaches behind to wrangle Mickey’s cuffed hands from around his neck and forces them back onto the pillow, stretching Mickey’s arms above his head.
“Talk to me, Mick,” he pants, holding the cuff’s chain in one hand and Mickey’s throat in the other. “Tell me how good you feel…”
It’s a tiny headrush - his posture getting opened up and exposed to Ian so quickly, but god damn does it go right to Mickey’s dick. “F-...fuck…” fists clenching on nothing over the pillow. “...fuckin’...full…”
Deliciously so.
Deliriously so.
Tight pleasure working up and down Mickey’s body just as easily as he’s getting pitched up and down the mattress.
And Ian loves to fucking hear it, his grin satisfied as he squeezes a little around his throat - not enough to cut off his breath, but more than enough to remind him it’s there.
Mickey’s eyes roll to the back of his head from it. Different types of pleasure coming from all over. All of them overwhelming in the best fucking way.
It’s got Ian’s name dragged out into a groan, staccatoed yet again, but this time with each thrust - a fucking mortifying “...ee-ee-ee-an…” that has his face heating over with how quickly Ian chuckles at him for it.
But it’s an endeared chuckle. Brings him in real close. “Fuck, you’re cute…” warm panting breath that Mickey tilts his head to try and lick up. “Sound so sweet on my cock, Mick - Jesus Christ… C’mere.”
His mouth crashes down against Mickey’s and immediately takes. Immediately claims. The hand around his throat stays solid as he starts to fuck in and out of him deeper.
Mickey groans into it, everything melting around him so fucking pleasantly that he can’t even remember what he was so pissed about before. All he knows is the cock filling him up. The thumb stroking over his jawline. The rush of Ian tilting his head back so Mickey can stick his tongue out for him.
He does. He sticks his tongue out. Waits with greedy breaths and then groans again when Ian spits loud into his mouth and murmurs, “Swallow it, baby…” hips pumping. “Swallow that shit…”
He does. He swallows it. Waits with greedy breaths for more and gets it in an instant, a swoop of pleasure and a gross little smile working its way across his face as Ian pauses his hips to really get into it - to hover over him and drool with purpose and then smile down at him in adoration, “Yeeeah that’s my boy,” three fingers petting over his tongue to play with it as he chuckles again, “That’s my good fucking boy.”
And oh fuck - Mickey’s gonna cum - oh fuck, oh fuck-
Ian must feel it because he’s letting go of his throat to reach down between them and hold Mickey off and even that’s almost too much - the first touch to his dick. But he skirts disaster. Just barely.
And Ian may be treating him very kindly tonight, but that doesn’t mean he’s about to let this slide.
Because good god, the look he shoots down to him… It’s an insane combination of surprise and amusement and-...almost like he’s…impressed?
“Baby, were you gonna cum from that?” His voice is still gentle. Fingers start their pet over his tongue again, his hips beginning a slow, easy pump. “Huh?”
And when Mickey’s cock pulses in his hand (because holy shit he was, wasn’t he?), Ian’s smile widens, definitely impressed as he slips his spitty fingers out to grab Mickey by the cheeks and squeeze.
“Holy fuck, I love you…” His other hand is still holding him off, just in case. But he’s starting to fuck him with purpose again, lighting pleasure points up and down his spine. “So nasty…” Just like him…
They’re made for each other.
Mickey groans…
Closes his eyes…
Lays back and takes it, gladly, overwhelmed in the best possible way as Ian crowds over him again and gives it to him good. Long, delicious strokes that Mickey can practically feel in his throat.
By now, the air in their bedroom has steamed over, and it’s got them slipping together on the sheets - sweat and lube and spit and he never wants it to end. Never wants Ian to roll off of him. Never wants Ian to shut up, his mouth always moving when they’re like this, but right now it’s keeping him afloat - the steadiness of it. The certainty.
“Never shoulda left you alone so long…”
And Mickey’s brain fucking sings with it, “...whole day…” words tumbling out freely without the buffer of an attitude. “...left me…”
“I did…”
“...all-...fuck…” He wraps his legs around Ian’s waist, along for the ride with each quickening thrust into him. “Fuckin’...by myself…”
“You were…” a kiss to his cheek… “Oh baby, you musta been so lonely…”
Mickey’s chest flutters high and eyes flutter open with the feeling of Ian cradling his face, his hand warm and big and everything.
Fuck…
Yeah…
“...missed you…” He says and locks onto Ian’s eyes. Gets drunk on them. Can’t believe for a second that he could deny this shit when it’s coming straight from the most honest part of his brain - the right part - no longer way in the back. “Fucking missed you…”
And Ian sees it. Sees him.
“I’m here now…” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to his other cheek. “I got you, Mick… You know I got you, baby…”
And oh…
Ohhh fuck, he’s hitting that spot…
Mickey moans and he doesn’t give a shit that it’s loud. Ian’s made sure of it. He’s broken him down and opened him up in the most delicious way and now he gets to indulge in it as loudly and as shamelessly as he wants. He gets to let go, the smile that dances across his face disgustingly genuine and satisfied and fuck…
So fucking good…
“Yeah, there you go,” he hears floating down over him, “There you fucking go, Mick - lemme hear how good you feel…”
Mickey moans out, grinning from ear to ear, and then his brows furrow at the intense pulse of pleasure as Ian fucks in extra deep and holds it, the head of his cock hitting his prostate. “Oh-...” And then he does it again. And again. Deep and deliberate and Mickey’s hands scramble to hold onto something where they’re still forced above his head, “Oh-ho fuck… Please…”
“You wanna cum, baby?”
“Wanna cum-”
“Been so good for me - you wanna cum on my cock?”
“Yes,” fuck - yes, he wants to. He can feel it coming. “Please-... Fuck…”
And when Ian swoops forward, it’s to crowd into his space, both hands holding Mickey down by the wrists as he kisses him and then keeps it close. “Course you can cum, baby… Been such a good boy… Just like I knew you could…” And oh Jesus Christ, it hits.
It fucking hits. The closeness and the praise and Ian’s cock rubbing right fucking there and, “Fuuuuh…” it drags out into a ragged, fucked-out moan as he finally cums - hard - eyes squeezed shut and heat licking up his whole body and Ian fucks him through it with his whole weight - fucking loves it - Mickey can hear it all crowding in above him.
“Ohh fuck Mickey yeah…” and not just because he’s clenching around him so tightly. “So handsome, baby… Such a good fucking boy for me…”
And when he presses their foreheads together, his words sound a thousand miles away with how everything is muffling over in Mickey’s ears, but he still hears him.
“Gonna cum inside you, Mick...” He still hears it. Still feels himself nod when he asks, “You want it?” because fuck yes he wants it. He wants anything and everything Ian will give him and give it to him, he does, pitching up one more time before burying himself deep and then filling him up good and full.
Mickey loses himself in the pulsing heat - from the inside out - and it’s bliss.
Full-body satisfaction.
The weighted blanket pulled over his entire body so snugly that his arms and legs are sinking on the mattress like they weigh a ton.
It’s got time going in and out around him. Like he’s drunk, but not. High, maybe. A fucked-out high.
And with his eyes closed like this, he can focus on the feeling. Everything slowing to a comfortable stop around him… The lips pressing devotedly to his sweaty forehead… The cool air licking around his wrists, then those warm lips again, brushing tenderly over his skin as his arms are brought down from his head.
Mickey lets his drowsy eyes flutter open and all he sees is Ian.
Only Ian.
And it’s all he ever wants to see again.
“Hey there…”
The crooked smile on his husband’s face is satisfied… Soft… Sated, his breaths coming easier now as he takes in Mickey’s face from top to bottom, working down whatever kind of mental checklist he’s got going on.
Mickey returns it with a sleepy grin. Leans into the hand that cradles his face and closes his eyes again.
Bliss…
“How ya feelin’…?”
It’s a silly question but they ask it every time, and there’s a sort of comfort in the routine. The check-in.
Mickey lets out a long breath through his nose. “Fucking good…” he purrs, and he feels it in every muscle in his body. Every nerve. Every pore. And even more than that, “...exhausted…”
Above him, Ian hums, and then plants another kiss to his forehead and lingers there, murmuring against him. “...gonna draw us a bath… …nice ‘n warm…” another kiss, “...that sound okay, baby…?”
And oh… That sounds fucking good actually…
Yeah…
A bath…
“Be right back…”
The mattress creaks as Ian slowly gathers to his feet, and all at once, the weight finally picking up and disappearing from on top of Mickey makes his heart sink.
Empty space.
Nothing hiding him away after being under Ian for so long.
Mickey reaches out to protest, but before he can get very far, he’s met with a hand. Fingers lacing with his. Warm lips over his knuckles and then the euphoria of their thick, heavy comforter being draped over his body.
Oh…
Okay…
“Be right back…” he hears again. And then another kiss - this time to his cheek.
And Mickey’s already slipping under the first cozy layer of sleep, buried deep beneath their comforter.
When he comes to again, it’s from the pleasant embrace of warm water. Ian’s strong chest behind him. Strong legs framing his. Strong hand rubbing over his tummy…his chest…soothing circles that lull him into perfect ease…
God damn…
“...feels nice…” he says. And even quiet like this, he can hear how hoarse his voice has gotten from it all - the screaming and the fingers and Ian’s cock down his throat.
Mickey smiles to himself.
What a fucking night…
When Ian reaches out of the tub to bring back the infamous glass of water, now with a straw sticking from the top, Mickey indulges. Takes a sip.
He put more ice in it for him.
Feels good on his throat…
Everything feels good, actually.
Ian reaches out of the tub to put the glass down, and when he’s done, Mickey silently wrangles his hand back in to cup his cheek like before. He just likes the feeling. The solidness of Ian’s palm on his face. He doesn’t know how to explain it, but he does.
And Ian keeps it there, using his other hand to sooth warm water over the rug-burn on Mickey’s knees.
In between it all, he murmurs to him - kindly - words for Mickey’s ears only. How good he did. How good he felt. How much he loves him. It settles over Mickey’s brain and leaves his chest full.
Peaceful.
And…
“...really did miss your clingy ass today...”
Ian’s hand stills against his tummy for a moment, but then picks right back up with his gentle answer. “I missed you too, baby…”
It’s honest. Lingering. He’s thinking about something back there.
And…
“Let’s call off tomorrow… Stay in together…”
Mickey’s eyes open slowly, the suggestion clicking in his brain. Oh… “All day…?”
He turns his head. Looks up and meets Ian’s loving gaze. “Yeah…” His smile is soft as he confirms it, eyes flicking down to Mickey’s mouth and then back up. “How’s that sound…?”
Mickey can’t help the sleepy grin that bubbles up, the security of it all sounding absolutely fucking perfect. But that doesn’t mean he can’t bend things even further in his favor. “Mm... Think you owe me two...”
It pulls a little chuckle from Ian. Sends out golden, giddy pops of energy in Mickey’s chest, stoked brighter by the kiss his husband plants square on his lips. “Think you’re right.”
And with that, Mickey settles back in against Ian’s chest with a slosh of water and a smile. Pulls those strong arms over him until he’s snugly covered up in his embrace, the promise of time together lulling him back under.
Now, he rests.
Gotta get his energy back up.
There’s no telling what kind of trouble he can get into with two whole days at his disposal.