Archive of Our Own ^beta

There’s nothing quite as maddening as the absence of air conditioning in the sweltering heat of a Chicago summer day. It’s ninety-two degrees, and while Ian can absolutely appreciate the fact that other regions of the world have it a lot worse, he’s still pretty fucking miserable. 

The air is thick and humid; instantly offensive as Ian steps out of the bathtub, as if he really thought that a shower would offer him any relief. His skin feels fresh but already sticky as he swipes a hand through the condensation on the mirror, briefly examining his reflection. 

He’s been sporting a beard and mustache combo that’s been growing rather impressively over the last week, but that doesn’t stop him from pulling out his razor in a daze of heat-stricken irritation. Facial hair in this kind of heat isn’t exactly favorable, so he begins shaving it off, albeit resentfully. Maybe he’ll try this shit again during No-Shave November, when the heat isn’t stifling to the point of wanting to commit a murder.

His hair is a little too long for his liking, too; messy curls framing his face and falling just below his ears. Mickey likes it, and Ian’s dealing with it. He spends most days brushing his hair back out of his face, especially in this excruciating weather. But Mickey sometimes reaches over and runs his fingers through it, and he’s been getting sort of grabby during sex, too. 

The pros definitely outweigh the cons for that one, so the curls can stay. At least for now.

A sudden banging on the bathroom door makes him jump, but he rolls his eyes (at his own reflection) as he ignores the interruption and continues to shave. He stops only when the banging continues, glaring at the door through the mirror.

“Jesus, can you wait a fucking minute?” Ian groans. “Shaving in here.”

He really doesn’t care who it is. This house is a fucking nightmare, sometimes.

The door swings open a second later, Mickey trudging into the bathroom and slamming the door shut behind him. He’s holding a towel and a change of clothes, throwing them on the floor absently.

Ian turns around, beard half shaved, raising an eyebrow as Mickey stares at him.

“Didn’t know it was you. Wouldn’t have knocked at all,” Mickey says matter-of-factly. He turns the shower on, wincing when it doesn’t immediately turn hot. 

“Didn’t know it was you, either,” Ian says. “Wouldn’t have told you to wait a fucking minute.”

Mickey groans, lifting his hands up. “Did your diva ass really use all the hot water? It’s one-hundred fuckin’ degrees outside.”

“It’s one-hundred fucking degrees outside,” Ian repeats. “So why do you want a hot shower, again?”

Mickey turns the water off, huffing as he sits on the edge of the tub. 

“Because it fuckin’ helps, that’s why. It’s like, you know that shit— how they say to drink hot fuckin’ coffee in the summer? Heats your body up, makes the air temperature seem cooler.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard that,” Ian says skeptically. “You know what else makes the air temperature seem cooler? A fucking air conditioner that works.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, excuse the fuck outta me for not havin’ an extra two hundred and fifty bucks lying around,” Mickey continues his tangent, beads of sweat evident on his forehead as Ian looks at him a little more closely. “Spent all our fuckin’ money on that backyard waterpark bullshit. And that shitty ass fan in our bedroom ain’t helpin’ shit, by the way.”

Ian sighs. It’s not his damn fault that the air conditioner decided to shit out after they had already spent their paychecks on other things. Ian isn’t a fucking fortune teller. In lieu of humoring Mickey with an actual response, he returns his attention to his reflection as he works on shaving the remaining facial hair. He can see Mickey watching him now.

“Liked your beard, you know,” Mickey says after a moment. Ian meets his eyes through the mirror.

“I know,” Ian smiles. “But it’s too hot, Mick. I’ll grow it back eventually.”

Mickey nods his understanding. He stands up to strip off his sweatpants, pulling on clean boxers, a gray tank top, and a pair of dark blue athletic shorts. Ian really doesn’t pay him much attention until he notices Mickey struggling to shimmy into them, like maybe they’re just a little too small. He finishes shaving and turns back to him, a little bit absorbed in watching him fight to get them comfortably adjusted.

“What?” Mickey looks up at him, raising an eyebrow. “Found these in a bag of my old shit.”

“Right,” Ian says stupidly. “How old, exactly?”

Mickey narrows his eyes, shrugging. “How the fuck should I know? Couple years, I guess. I don’t really have shorts, man. And your fuckin’ sister complains when I walk around in my boxers.”

Ian isn’t trying to be an asshole, here. He really isn’t. But the shorts don’t fucking fit, and they probably haven’t fit in at least thirty pounds. Mickey isn’t heavy, but he’s also not a teenager anymore. If these shorts are really that old, they’re probably from a good six years ago, buried and forgotten within a bag of Mickey’s old belongings. They rest a little more than halfway down Mickey’s thighs, hugging them a bit too tightly. The fabric is bunched up in the back like it’s struggling to stretch between the inseam where his thighs meet and where it very snuggly curves over his ass. 

It’s kind of hot.

And like, Ian is only fucking human, after all. It’s no secret that he’s got a thing for Mickey’s ass. Of fucking course he has a thing for Mickey’s ass. He’s spent a rather substantial amount of time making that very clear over the last ten years of his life. 

Yeah, Mickey knows that shit already.

It’s just that he’s kind of got a thing for his thighs, too. 

It’s not really a big deal, though. It’s just like, Mickey has really nice fucking thighs. They’re thick and strong and Ian appreciates the fuck out of that. He appreciates the way Mickey can hold them up around his waist effortlessly when they’re in the middle of a good, hard fuck. He appreciates the fact that Mickey squeezes them around his neck when Ian is sucking him off or eating him out. He likes to grab onto them, sometimes likes to get his mouth on them, when he’s taking his time exploring every inch of Mickey’s body.

He’s not really sure if Mickey actually gets it though, and Ian definitely hasn’t ever brought it up.

“Hey,” Mickey breaks Ian’s thoughts, snapping his fingers in his face. 

Ian looks up at Mickey instantly, his cheeks reddening despite trying to catch himself. Zoning out while blatantly checking out Mickey’s ass and thighs? Fucking smooth move, Ian.

“The fuck’s going on in that head of yours?” Mickey teases, moving towards him easily. He wraps his arms around the back of Ian’s neck, smiling up at him. 

Scorching heat be damned, the warmth that spreads through Ian’s body whenever Mickey gets close to him remains unmatched.

Ian takes the liberty of sliding his hands around Mickey’s waist, trailing them down his back to grab onto his ass. Mickey raises an eyebrow, humming pleasantly.

“I like the shorts,” Ian admits, his tone unintentionally suggestive. He squeezes against Mickey’s skin as he drags a hand around to the front of his body, fingers tracing down Mickey’s thigh and stopping where the hemline meets his skin. 

Mickey’s smile widens as he pulls Ian down towards him, lips finding each other easily as Ian slips his hand beneath the fabric to tease over his skin.

“I can see that,” Mickey whispers against Ian’s mouth. “Can’t do this shit right now, though.”

Ian groans. Mickey is right. They’re supposed to make breakfast for Liam and Franny, with the promise of setting up the aforementioned “waterpark” in the backyard. It was a minor investment, but they were able to scrounge up enough money to buy a decently sized blow up pool, plus new sprinklers and a slip ‘n slide to help beat the heat. The slip ‘n slide stretches across the duration of the yard, because quite frankly, adults deserve to have fun, too. 

“Raincheck?” Mickey suggests, reluctantly pulling out of Ian’s grasp.

Ian pretends to think about it for a moment, leaning back in to plant a chaste kiss on Mickey’s cheek. 

“Count on it,” he says with a smile.

The slip ‘n slide had been one of Ian’s better ideas until he ended up completely losing his footing and face-planting into a muddy patch of grass. 

He’s busy wiping a sloppy mixture of grass and mud from his face as Franny and Liam erupt into hysterics from across the yard. His hair falls into his face as he dips his head into the stream of the sprinkler, ridding himself of any remaining debris. 

“Graceful as a baby fuckin’ gazelle,” Mickey chuckles from the pool. 

Ian frowns and shakes his hair around, droplets of water flying in every direction as he shoots Mickey the finger.

“I’d like to see you walk across that damn thing without falling on your face,” Ian says, challenging as he walks towards the pool.

Mickey chuckles, splashing water in his direction. “We’re not all so fuckin’ clumsy, you know.”

Ian rolls his eyes. He isn’t clumsy. It’s a fucking slip ‘n slide. It’s directly in the name, even if he did more slipping than he did sliding. 

“Okay, shit talker,” Ian taunts. “I dare you to run across it and make it to the other side without falling on your ass.”

Mickey raises his eyebrows, nodding. He climbs over the side of the pool, careless as he allows water to spill out over the side. “No problem, bitch.”

Ian expects this to be comical. 

But also, he finds himself staring again.

He watches as Mickey walks to the edge of the slip ‘n slide, a pair of dark green swim trunks clinging very snugly onto his thighs. They’re riding up between his legs, and for the second time that day, Ian finds himself thinking a little too indecently for his own good.

It’s not like Ian can’t keep his thoughts under control, for fuck’s sake. Maybe he’d expect this from himself years and years ago, when he and Mickey were still spending their days figuring each other out, when things were still new to them. But he’s not seventeen anymore, and his urges are usually far more well-managed. 

They’re fucking married, for crying out loud. And they’re also fucking adults with adult shit to do and sometimes, unfortunately, that shit does not include doing each other in the middle of the day. 

It’s just that he’s thinking about it anyway. Because Mickey’s thighs are dripping droplets of water and Ian doesn’t need to imagine what they’d feel like beneath his hands.

Jesus, he really can’t do this shit right now. He forces himself to think about anything else. Puppies, tuna salad, fucking Frank. Literally anything other than Mickey’s fucking thighs. 

For the most part, that seems to do the trick. 

“Run, Uncle Mickey!” Franny yells excitedly, effectively grabbing Ian’s attention. Liam picks her up playfully at the same time, tickling her sides. 

Ian looks back at Mickey then, standing at the other side of the slip ‘n slide. He feels like he’s in the middle of a very dramatic standoff; Mickey glaring at him with a haughty smirk. He runs forward in another instant, and Ian has to hand it to him, he definitely manages to go a rather impressive distance.

He still slips, though. 

And when he slips, he falls onto his ass, lying back as the water swiftly carries him the rest of the way. Ian realizes in a slow-motion daze of panic that Mickey is going to slide directly into him, and he doesn’t have time to react before he’s getting barreled over and sent tumbling to the ground.

He lands on top of Mickey rather forcefully, limbs awkwardly tangling together as Franny instantly starts laughing to the point of tears.

Award-winning babysitting at its absolute finest.

Mickey smiles up at Ian after a moment, flat on his back as he starts to laugh. There’s a sharp pain shooting through Ian’s knee where it hit the ground, although Mickey’s body took the brunt of his impact. He’s sort of half-straddling Mickey’s thigh, because the universe clearly has it out for him today, and he clears his throat as he fights to keep himself from rocking his hips down. 

“Hey,” Mickey says after a moment, a lazy smile on his face as he pokes at Ian’s side. “You gonna get your gangly ass off me anytime soon?”

“Unfortunately,” Ian laments. He leans down, kissing Mickey quickly on the lips before rolling off of him. 

Franny charges across the yard suddenly, diving onto the slip ‘n slide and gliding swiftly to the other side. Ian reaches out his arms, allowing her to fall into him as she squeals happily.

Ian chuckles. “Okay, kiddo. Uncle Liam is gonna get you cleaned up for lunch, okay?” 

It’s part of their agreement, after all. Ian and Mickey make breakfast, Liam makes lunch, and dinner usually depends on whoever is free. Debbie has been working a lot since getting out of prison, and her time at home is limited. This week, she’s away for three days working a job out of town. It’ll get some bills paid, and that’s what counts. 

As Franny runs towards Liam excitedly, Ian turns back to Mickey with a smile.

“Unfortunately, hm?” Mickey says it like a question, scooting closer to him. They’re both still sitting on the wet grass, lacking any urgent desire to stand up.

Mickey sits up on his knees a second later, grabbing onto Ian’s shoulders. He pushes him down until Ian’s back hits the mat of the slip ‘n slide, grunting as he hits the ground. He stares up at Mickey, and he certainly feels like he’s fucking seventeen again. 

“Not being very subtle today, y’know.”

Yes, Ian knows. He doesn’t really care, either. 

He pulls Mickey down by the neck quickly, their lips parting to meet in an enthusiastic kiss. Ian takes what he can get, hands finding Mickey’s thighs immediately. He kneads his fingers up and down along his skin, until the heat of the sun beating down on them becomes too much.

“Gonna burn like a bitch if we don’t get outta this sun,” Mickey murmurs against Ian’s mouth, rolling off of his body a moment later. “Raincheck.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ian says with a dismissive wave. Yes, he gets it. No, he’s not happy about it. “I’m familiar with the concept.”

Ian prides himself in being a good babysitter. In fact, he’s a fucking great babysitter. He loves taking care of Franny. He loves when Lip brings Fred over for the day. He loves how much Mickey loves it, too, because watching Mickey with their niece and nephew is like a breath of fresh air. They’ve discussed kids, and yeah, that’ll happen someday. But for now this is enough.

The last few days have certainly been good practice, on top of the time they put into caring for Franny when Debbie was back in prison. It’s maybe a little too much, though, because Debbie’s trip keeps getting extended and Ian is starting to wonder if she’s bullshitting them. 

“Another four days, Ian, that’s all,” Debbie says through speaker phone.

Ian rolls his eyes, dropping his head into his heads. He’s standing at the kitchen counter late into the evening, drinking a beer as he tries to unwind. 

Ian is exhausted, because Franny is a lot of work, and he just wants a little bit of time for himself. And quite fucking honestly, he didn’t sign up for this. But it’s not Franny’s fault. It’s Ian’s lack of sleep. It’s the fact that Ian keeps switching back and forth between per diem EMT shifts and babysitting. It’s the fact that he’d love some alone time with Mickey after a long day, and he just can’t have it. And, quite frankly, he doesn’t really believe Debbie. As far as he’s concerned, it’s her fault too.

“Another four days of what?” Mickey asks, walking into the kitchen and grabbing a beer from the fridge. 

“Debs won’t be home for four more days,” Ian repeats, cutting Debbie off before she can answer. He lifts his head out of his hands, glancing over at Mickey.

“The fuck you really doin’ out there? Who goes on an ‘out-of-town welding job’ for an entire fuckin’ week, anyway?” Mickey grumbles. “If you’re gonna lie, might as well come up with somethin’ believable.”

Mickey has those fucking athletic shorts on again, and Ian’s mind starts to wander.

He doesn’t realize that he’s staring until Mickey claps his hands in Ian’s face, an eyebrow raised when Ian finally looks up to meet his eyes. The phone call has already ended, and Ian feels like a fucking moron.

“Gonna tell me what you’re lookin’ at?” Mickey asks. He takes a step closer, setting a hand on each side of Ian’s waist. “Is this about the fuckin’ shorts again?”

Ian scoffs, shaking his head. Of fucking course it is, but he’s not about to tell Mickey that.

“Just. Thinking that I wish we could have some privacy tonight,” Ian says. And he’s not exactly lying. “Not about the shorts, Mick.”

The shorts are fucking distracting. Mickey’s thighs are fucking distracting, and Ian wants them all fucking over him. Fuck his fucking mind for not being able to stop thinking about this shit.

Mickey smiles, leaning in to kiss him chastely on the lips. “Just a few more days, man.”

Ian nods. He finishes off his beer and grabs a plate of cookies for Franny, heading towards the stairs with Mickey trailing behind. They’re having a sleepover in their room tonight, complete with a blanket fort, cookies, and stove-cooked s’mores.

They are good fucking babysitters, but Debbie still owes them big time.

Another two days of extreme heat pass by, and Ian’s patience is running thin. 

They got the air conditioner working for a good seven hours before it crapped out again, and Ian is sick of feeling like he’s constantly covered in a sheen of sweat. Liam is playing with Franny outside, allowing him a short period of relief, but the fan blowing on his face isn’t doing anything for him. 

He’s lying back on the bed when Mickey storms into the room, huffing dramatically, mumbling a quiet “fuck” under his breath. Ian opens his eyes, sitting up in an attempt to identify the cause of Mickey’s very evident dismay. There’s nothing obvious, so Ian decides that it’s probably the heat.

“Gonna lose my fuckin’ mind,” Mickey groans. “I’m sick of this shit. Fuckin’ hot. Fuckin’ gross. Fuckin’ tired.” He frowns as he kneels down onto the bed. He reaches up to the air conditioner, banging the side of it with his hand. “And this fuckin’ piece of shit—oh, good. It has a fuckin’ leak now, too.”

Ian is watching him, kind of amused, because there’s nothing they can do about any of this. They can’t afford to replace the air conditioner yet, and they certainly can’t control the weather. But Mickey is kind of cute when he gets like this, and Ian remains quiet while letting him vent. 

No athletic shorts this afternoon, Ian notices. Mickey is wearing a white tank top with one of his usual pairs of gray-striped boxers. Ian assumes that Mickey no longer gives a fuck what he wears around the house, as long as it offers him maximum comfort in this weather. Still, the view definitely isn’t bad. Ian’s eyes rake down Mickey’s body, over his ass and down his thighs. They don’t have long and they can’t do much of anything, but Ian just wants something. 

He scoots himself across the bed to where Mickey is kneeling, grabs him by the waist and squeezes a hand over his ass. Mickey jumps at first, obviously startled, before he turns to Ian with an eyebrow raised.

“Can I fuckin’ help you?” Mickey asks with a teasing smirk, letting Ian pull him into his lap.

Ian kisses Mickey eagerly, relishing in the needy sound that falls from Mickey’s lips as Ian grabs onto his ass with both hands. Ian slides his hands down Mickey’s thighs and back up to his ass again, sighing when Mickey pushes back against his touch. God, they fucking can’t, but it seems like Mickey is feeling just as fucking starved as Ian is. 

“Want you so much,” Ian whispers, breaking their kiss as he breathes against Mickey’s lips. “Fucking miss you. Miss this.”

And he does, so damn much. They’re not used to this. They’re not used to going days without this kind of contact, let alone a fucking week. But they can’t. They still can’t, because they need to make fucking dinner, and Ian needs a cold shower as Mickey reluctantly pulls away. 

“If you say 'raincheck' one more fucking time I’m going to push you into the wall,” Ian says, smoothing out his t-shirt as Mickey climbs off of the bed.

“Damn,” Mickey shrugs. “That a threat or a promise?”

Ian smirks, shaking his head. Both. It’s definitely both.

When Debbie finally gets home, Mickey is working a shift at the Alibi to make some extra cash. Ian welcomes Debbie home rather enthusiastically, kissing Franny on the cheek before passing the metaphorical baton back to his sister. No, he will not be babysitting again this week. No, he doesn’t care what plans Debbie may or may not have now that she’s home.

Ian is about to head to the Alibi to meet up with Mickey when he comes through the door unexpectedly, smiling when he sees Ian standing there.

“Hey,” Mickey says. “Just the man I wanted to see.”

“Lucky me,” Ian jokes. “You sure you’re not looking for one of your other husbands?”

Mickey pretends to think for a moment, shrugging. “Nah, man. I like you the best, anyway.”

“Yeah?” Ian leans in, kissing Mickey as Mickey slides his hands up around Ian’s neck.

“Yeah,” Mickey confirms, speaking against Ian’s mouth. “And since you’re my favorite husband, I figured I’d fuckin’ do something nice for you.”

Ian pulls back from Mickey’s lips, looking at him curiously. What the fuck is he talking about? A new air conditioner? He doesn’t think that one day shift at the Alibi would be enough to cover that, but maybe he’s wrong.

Mickey reaches down into the back pocket of his jeans, pulling out what looks like a hotel keycard. Ian narrows his eyes, looking back at Mickey’s face again.

“Pack a bag, bitch,” Mickey says, poking the plastic into Ian’s arm. “We got a fuckin’ hotel room until tomorrow.”

Huh. That’s not what Ian was expecting. 

The rational part of Ian’s brain wants to ask where the hell Mickey got the fucking money for that, but it seems like any and all of Ian’s rational thoughts are drifting quickly out of his reach. Because Ian’s mind is racing back and forth between Mickey and privacy and a big fucking hotel bed, and the source of the money really doesn’t matter if this is what they’re going to get out of it.

“I guess as a gift for your favorite husband, it’s acceptable,” Ian says.

"You think so?” Mickey asks, walking past Ian to step up onto the stairs. 

His jeans catch Ian’s attention instantly; the way the fitted, light blue denim clings against the curves of Mickey’s lower body. Mickey makes his way upstairs without another glance, and Ian starts to wonder if he’s been doing all of this on purpose the entire fucking time.

Ian follows him upstairs, and he doesn’t think he’s ever been faster at packing an overnight bag.

Wherever the money came from, Ian decides that it was certainly worth it. 

The hotel room is nice. It’s definitely a step up from a dingy motel without being overly pretentious. It’s not like it’s overflowing with amenities, but it’s got a king-sized bed, and that’s really Ian’s only point of focus. Ian settles into bed while Mickey opts to take a shower, and there is absolutely no comparison to this kind of privacy and relaxation.

God, Ian loves everything about it. The air conditioner is on full blast, whirring pleasantly through the room. The cool air feels like an absolute dream after a week of offensive heat. They fucking deserve this, and Ian intends on enjoying every last second of it.

He sinks into the bed, closing his eyes for a moment. The shower is running still, as he waits for Mickey to finish up. He’s already naked, the anticipation of a long overdue night of privacy buzzing between them. He lets his mind wander, thinks about what Mickey might be doing in the shower; like how he’s probably getting good and worked up, maybe even stretching himself around his own fingers. Mickey can certainly be impatient, especially after a fucking week of unintentional abstinence, and Ian assumes he’s going to be more than ready to get this show on the road.

Ian opens his eyes once he hears the door open, just in time to see Mickey exit the bathroom, and he’s not at all prepared for what he sees. 

Mickey has always been a boxers kind of guy. Always. Ian has seen him in countless pairs over the years. Ian has bought him countless pairs over the years. But apparently, Mickey had a sudden hankering for a change, because right now? Right now, Mickey is wearing a pair of light gray cotton spandex fucking boxer-briefs, and Ian can practically feel his pulse quicken at the sight.

They’re short, barely reaching down to the middle of his thighs. They fit his hips pretty well, snug but not too snug. He leans down to dig through his bag, the curve of his ass on full display for Ian’s very eager eyes, and Ian can’t look away. His thighs look absolutely incredible, the stretchy material flush against every inch, sending waves of desire pinging through his body. They also very clearly outline Mickey’s cock, already hard and stretching against the fabric, making Ian feel like he’s fucking overheating.

“What the fuck are you wearing?” Ian blurts out suddenly, trying way too hard to sound unbothered.

Mickey turns his head to look over at Ian with a clueless expression, but Ian isn’t buying it.

“What? You never seen fuckin’ boxer-briefs before?” Mickey asks. He pulls lube out of his bag before standing up straight, tossing it onto the bed unceremoniously. 

“I know what fuckin’ boxer-briefs are, Mickey,” Ian scoffs, narrowing his eyes. “Just never saw you wearing them.”

Mickey’s lips curve into a smile, just slightly. He walks over to the bed, eyes very brazenly roaming the length of Ian’s body. Their eyes meet after a moment, and all Ian can feel is heat.

“M’not fuckin’ clueless, you know,” Mickey says. He reaches down to palm at his cock, biting his lip as he keeps his eyes locked on Ian’s. The tension is starting to feel fucking unbearable. 

“I never said you were—“ 

Mickey cuts him off, climbing onto the bed until he’s sitting back on his knees. Ian sits up instantly, trying to determine what the hell his next move should be. He glances at Mickey’s thighs for a split second before darting back up to meet his eyes again, but Mickey’s already smirking back at him. Mickey is holding the power tonight, and Ian doesn’t think he’s going to fight it. He’s fucking flustered, and it’s throwing him completely off his game.

“You’ve been touchin’ my legs all week, lookin’ at them every chance you get. Gonna tell me what that’s about?” 

“No,” Ian says resolutely. Because he’s a little embarrassed, and he’s also fucking stubborn. “You’re my husband, asshole. You suddenly have a problem with me touching you?”

Mickey shrugs, like he’s more than aware that Ian is full of shit. “Dunno, just thought maybe you saw somethin’ you liked.”

Ian stares at him, and Mickey stares back.

“‘Cause—“ Mickey pauses, running his hands down each of his thighs. “If you saw somethin’ you liked, thought you might just wanna get a taste for yourself.”

That’s it. Game fucking over. Mickey wins. Ian is out for the motherfucking count.

He’s already so fucking hard, and he’s fucking naked so it’s not like he had any intention of hiding it, but Mickey is really going miles out of his way to make Ian feel like he’s on fucking fire.

And Mickey just keeps fucking staring at him, boxer-briefs riding further up his thighs in his kneeling position. Ian fucking breaks after another second, crawling forward and leaning down to get his mouth on Mickey’s thigh without another word. Mickey grabs onto his hair, tugging as Ian sucks a mark roughly into Mickey’s inner thigh. Mickey lets him drag his lips up and down his legs, alternating between peppered kisses and bruising bites. The hand in his hair tightens, and Ian has to grab onto his cock after a moment to stave off some of the pressure building in his groin. He sits up, cheeks flushed and hair looking like a fucking disaster.

Mickey moves forward as soon as Ian is sitting upright, shuffling until he’s settling himself into Ian’s lap. Ian rushes to grab onto him, hands gripping hard onto Mickey’s thighs as his legs wrap around Ian’s lower back. 

“Really?” Mickey asks suddenly, lips against Ian’s ear. He’s humming like he’s considering Ian’s answer. “Nothing about my legs, then?”

Ian is blushing now, because Mickey is in his fucking lap with his hickey-covered thighs digging into both sides of Ian’s body, and it’s fucking getting to him. Ian digs his fingers into Mickey’s skin, pressing their bodies closer together as Mickey’s hand slides down his back. 

“No,” Ian says again. His voice is quiet now, and Mickey is still smiling as he turns his head towards Ian’s face, leaning in to tug Ian’s bottom lip softly between his teeth.

Ian smiles back, dipping his tongue past Mickey’s lips until they’re kissing properly. He fucking loves this. He loves when Mickey gets like this; loves the way they can just be together with no worries and no interruptions. He loves the way this feeling between them never gets old. And he fucking loves, that after a week of dealing with this very specific desire, that he’s going to fucking do something about it.

Although the boxer-briefs are a delicious sight for Ian’s eyes, he needs Mickey to be naked and he needs it now. He starts to move his hands up the length of Mickey’s thighs, working his fingers into them as he goes, until he gets up to his hips. Mickey reluctantly moves out of Ian’s lap, reaching down rather urgently to help Ian tug the boxer-briefs off of his legs. 

Once they’re off and carelessly tossed to the floor, Mickey promptly climbs back on top of Ian, demanding another kiss as Ian wraps his arms around Mickey’s waist. He pulls Mickey into him until their bodies are flush together right as Ian falls back against the mattress, pulling Mickey down on top of him. 

The fall makes Mickey chuckle against Ian’s lips, and Ian fucking loves that he can bring this out in him. Happy, playful, carefree. And he’s the only one that ever will.

It’s so fucking easy for Ian to get caught up in Mickey’s body on top of him; the way they react to each other, the way they move and mold together. It’s intoxicating and thrilling, connecting with Mickey like this. Everything unsaid between them, every trivial concern within their lives, it all just fades into background noise. Ian loves the way their intimacy takes everything else away. Ian just really fucking loves Mickey. God, Ian loves Mickey so fucking much.

Ian feels overwhelmed, like he needs to fucking do something, like he needs to show him. He’s about to start a descent of kisses down Mickey’s body right when Mickey breaks their kiss, and Ian opens his eyes at the sudden loss of contact. 

“Hold on,” Mickey mumbles, lifting his hips to adjust his position.

He settles himself a little further up Ian’s abdomen, one of his thighs rubbing directly against Ian’s cock. Ian isn’t expecting it, a moan escaping from his lips as his head falls back against the pillow. Mickey rubs against him, and Ian fucking hates the way Mickey laughs like it’s so goddamn hilarious that Ian is so turned on.

“Interesting,” Mickey says. His own cock is hard and pressing into Ian’s belly, and Ian is really going to snap if Mickey doesn’t stop.

“You talk a big game for someone whose dick is leaking onto my stomach right now,” Ian says, his voice coming out a little bit breathless.

Mickey ignores him. He continues to work his thigh down against Ian’s cock, pushing against him a little bit harder, and Ian can’t fucking take it. He reaches down to grab onto Mickey’s thigh with both hands, holding it there, trapping his cock in between. Ian rocks up against him, the added pressure pulling a moan from the back of his throat. 

“Says the guy using my fuckin’ thigh as a stripper pole,” Mickey teases. “This a thing for you, now?”

“Fuck,” Ian says through a gasp. This is working for him, but he needs a little more. And he refuses to humor Mickey with an actual answer.

So he’ll just fucking show him, instead.

Ian sits up to grab onto Mickey’s hips then, lifting him hastily off of his body. He turns him around, pushing him down until his back collides with the bed. Mickey’s eyes are dark and hooded when he looks up at Ian, and Ian knows, because Mickey gets so fucking turned on whenever Ian shoves his body around, and Ian can’t fucking resist as he leans down to catch Mickey’s lips in another kiss. 

The mood has effectively changed from tentative teasing to full blown fucking hot. Mickey’s hands are in Ian’s hair as Ian kisses the hell out of Mickey’s mouth, biting his bottom lip and licking at his tongue. He shifts his hips until he’s straddling one of Mickey’s thighs, grinding his cock down into him impatiently, craving some fucking relief. Mickey sits up on his elbows, looking down to watch Ian, and Ian feels so immensely aroused under his gaze that he’s not even remotely embarrassed anymore. And he kind of really likes that Mickey is watching. 

Ian flattens his palms against Mickey’s chest as he rocks down against him, bearing his weight onto his upper body as he moves his hips a little faster. Mickey is biting onto his own bottom lip, watching as Ian desperately tries to get himself off. Ian notices when Mickey grabs onto his own cock, fisting up and down its length as he keeps his eyes on Ian’s movements.

And fuck, Ian can’t really take this shit anymore. He’s fucking his hips down faster, his cock leaking out onto Mickey’s thigh, making it so damn easy to slide back and forth against his skin. Mickey starts to push his leg up against Ian’s movements, the added pressure making Ian’s head drop forward as he gasps. He can feel Mickey’s hand moving faster, jerking himself to the rhythm that Ian has set, and Ian thinks that Mickey might be getting close.

“Ian, fuck,” Mickey says, tilting his head back. He’s fighting to keep his eyes open, using his free hand to reach out and tangle his fingers in Ian’s hair.

And then Mickey is fucking tugging at Ian’s curls, maybe a little harder than he means to, and Ian fucking moans because it feels so good and it means that Mickey is getting closer and closer to falling apart. 

“C’mon, Ian,” Mickey urges, pushing his thigh harder against Ian as he thrusts down. “Ride my fuckin’ thigh, c’mon.”

Ian’s hips stutter as Mickey’s words wash over him, goosebumps rising over his skin. He fucking loves when Mickey talks to him, and fuck, Mickey has no idea how fucking good this is for him. Ian falls down against Mickey’s body, finding his lips for another open-mouthed kiss. And maybe it’s less of a kiss than it is Ian moaning broken sounds into Mickey’s mouth, but Ian thinks it still counts.

“Fuck, Mickey, your thighs,” Ian murmurs against Mickey’s lips, voice cutting off in another moan. “Fuck, feels so fucking good.”

Mickey groans, suddenly stopping his movements. “Ian, fuck, hold on.”

No, Ian is absolutely not going to fucking hold on. He keeps thrusting anyway, feeling his orgasm creeping up in the pit of his stomach, and he’s not about to fucking lose that right now. He slaps his hand against Mickey’s thigh without thinking, mostly just trying to get him to move again, but he pauses when he realizes what the fuck he just did. 

Mickey looks up at him with his lips parted, tongue swiping against the corner of his mouth. He smirks a little, and so Ian does it again. A little harder. 

It sparks a fucking domino effect; Mickey reaching for Ian’s hair again, tugging just enough until Ian moans and loses focus. He grabs Ian by the waist and shifts him until he’s between both of Mickey’s legs, and Ian is so fucking irritated because he was getting close and Mickey is fucking insufferable. But then, Mickey is wrapping his legs up around Ian’s back, pushing his weight upwards until they’re rolling over and Ian is pressed back down into the mattress. Mickey adjusts until Ian’s cock is snug between both of his thighs, and then he starts thrusting up and down around him.

And holy fuck, Ian almost instantly comes at the feeling, fighting every nerve in his body to just keep this going a little bit longer. He starts to build up his speed again, Mickey eagerly meeting him thrust for thrust. He squeezes his thighs around Ian’s cock and Ian feels like waxing fucking poetic; the way they’re fucking soft and supple and strong, the way they’ve been revving Ian up for an entire fucking week until he was practically begging for this. 

Ian is still too fucking close to make this last, and his endurance is dwindling fast as he starts to speed up again. He slides his cock rapidly between Mickey’s thighs, gasping as Mickey increases his pace to match, tightening around Ian with everything single thrust. 

“Fuckin’ like that, Ian? Gonna come all over my fuckin’ thighs?”

Ian fucking keens as he drags his fingers desperately down Mickey’s back, sliding them down to Mickey’s ass and grabbing onto each cheek as Mickey shoves his hips down harder in response. Ian can’t fucking hold out anymore; starts moaning a chorus of Mickey over and over as he comes hard between Mickey’s thighs, shaking through it as Mickey keeps them squeezed tightly around his cock. 

It’s the best kind of release, and Ian’s entire body feels fucking euphoric. He vaguely registers when Mickey moves to get better friction on his own cock, sitting up just slightly. Ian wraps a hand around him to finish him off, and Mickey’s eyes fall closed as he smiles, thrusting into Ian’s fist while Ian jerks him fast. 

“So fucking good, Mick,” Ian purrs. “Look so hot like this. Come on, Mickey. Come for me.”

Yeah, that pretty much fucking does it, because Mickey likes to hear Ian talk him off just as much as Ian likes it, too. He falls down against Ian’s body and kisses him hard, gasping into his mouth as he comes around Ian’s hand, in between their bodies. 

Ian smiles against his lips, the room silent except for the labored breathing between them. Mickey rests his forehead against Ian’s, and Ian brushes a hand back through his hair. 

They stay like that for a while, dozing in and out of sleep until Ian kisses Mickey’s forehead gently to get his attention.

“Hm?” Mickey mumbles, lifting his head up from Ian’s chest to look at him. 

“Love you,” Ian smiles lazily, sliding his hands up around Mickey’s neck.

Mickey kisses him back, sliding a hand up into his hair. “Love you, too. Kinky fuckin’ bastard.”

Ian groans, burying his head in Mickey’s neck, smiling when Mickey starts to laugh. He kisses Ian’s cheek, trying to get back to his lips as Ian fights to keep him away.

“You gonna be fuckin’ shy now?” Mickey teases, reaching for Ian’s wrists to try and keep him pinned down. “Too little, too late. Thigh fucker.”

Ian struggles to get out from under him, smacking him gently on his ass. “You wanna get fucked tonight or not, asshole?”

Mickey finally finds his lips again, kissing him softly. “Not makin’ fun of you. Thought it was hot.”

“Good,” Ian smiles, kissing him again. “No kink-shaming now that we’re married.”

“No promises,” Mickey says with a shrug. 

Ian thinks for a moment, suddenly feeling a little bit intrigued. “You have any kinks? Anything I don’t already know about?"

Mickey stares at him, smirking as he bites his bottom lip.

Ian knows that look well, and there’s a very good chance that they’ll be leaving this hotel a whole lot more enlightened than when they first arrived.

Mickey kisses him again, and Ian is more than ready to find out.