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They know this has been coming.
It’s been building up again - practiced and waiting in the wings for the right mood to strike.
And no, Mickey may not have factored in this particular flavor to accompany it. But as he texts his husband now, he’s got a feeling Ian will come eat all the same.
‘where you at? need some emt hands.’
Because it’s been building, you see. They know it’s been coming. So when the response pops in underneath - a single fist emoji with a question mark - Mickey’s grin turns heated.
He tosses back a thumbs up.
And then he gets to work.
It takes Ian close to an hour to get home. Mickey knew exactly where he was when he texted him, actually - sat up at a fancy joint deep downtown with the rest of his crew, lowkey using their uniforms to score freebies after work.
It’s the same uniform he walks into their house wearing now, black EMT bag flipped over his shoulder and a pep in his step.
And it’s not the only bag he’s got.
“What’dya get me…?” Mickey can’t help but ask from his pseudo-frail positioning on the couch, ready to play, but not before quenching another curiosity.
Ian takes him in for a second, hungry for something else. Then he lifts the bag up. “Chicken parm.”
Holy fuck. “Christ, I love you.”
It gets him a little smirk. Delight in the confirmation that Ian knows his husband like this. And then, “Stay right there,” he smiles as he rounds the couch with a hot little up-down. “Don’t move a muscle.”
A big ask, but doable. “You got it, doc…”
With a tiny thrill, Mickey slips back into injured patient mode, letting his eyes drift shut to the sounds of Ian placing both his leftovers and Mickey’s reward parm in the fridge for safe keeping.
God, that’s gonna be so good later.
After all this.
In the kitchen, beer bottles clank against each other with the closing of the fridge door. But instead of those steps returning to him, they trail off toward the back of the house. The bedroom, no doubt.
“Took care of it,” Mickey lazily calls out from his spot. He had all the time in the world to prep - both himself and their space. All Ian’s gotta do is saunter his ass back in here with all that sexy EMT shit. Which, speaking of…
“Got a call to this address about a situation…”
The way Ian’s tone gets Mickey’s heart fluttering into something equal parts adoring and nasty is crazy, he won’t deny it. And it only gets crazier as he falls back under his gaze, Ian rounding the couch to tower over him at the edge. “Uh huh…” God damn… “That was me.”
Finally, it’s fucking game time.
His savior takes a knee, unzipping his bag with just as much ease as his carry, “Alright, let’s check you out,” continuing what must be his day-to-day protocol with a charming smile. “My name’s Ian.”
Mickey watches him work from his spot. Feels the tendrils of playfulness creep into his chest at the introduction because oh, they’re doing this-doing this. “Mickey.”
“Alright, Mickey - what seems to be the problem?”
“Well doc, the ol’ ball ‘n chain was off at work… Had the house to myself…” He watches as Ian takes his wrist and finds his pulse point, already getting heated from the simple touch. “Had to keep myself busy. You know how it is…”
A couple of seconds to count. To shoot Mickey a knowing lift of his eyebrows - just a bit too knowing, actually. “Uh huh…”
Uh huh. “Anyways, went a lil’ too hard and mighta lost somethin’ up there.”
His grand scheme. His tall tale that’s got Ian slipping, for one moment, to fix him with a cautious followup. “‘Up there’?”
“Yep.”
“As in-”
“Uh huh.” Surely folks have gotten toys stuck up their ass before. Hell, even the two of them got too close for comfort that one time with those off-brand beads.
It’s a sentiment that Ian is very obviously sharing at the moment, the narrowing of his eyes microscopic but noticeable.
A double-check.
An equally microscopic head shake from Mickey.
A rush of relief in his husband’s steadily growing concern, “I see,” content to continue on in character now that he’s sure there’s no actual medical emergency. “Pretty good explanation for your elevated heart rate, then.”
Oh Mickey’s definitely got an explanation for that. And it’s got everything to do with the steady hand that creeps up his throat to check his pulse point there. “Fast?”
“Very.”
“Gonna bite the big one?”
Ian chuckles, and it’s genuine. “Not likely.” He sweeps around to the other side, two fingers pressing confidently to his neck. “You were right to call me, though.”
Mickey swallows and it’s good and thick. He waits for those fingers to finish before speaking again - something he learned quickly as his husband’s personal test dummy before his certification. “You gonna take care-a me, doc?”
And god, it’s that smile that does it. It’s so fucking charming. Both so disarmingly friendly and devastatingly handsome. “Of course. Gonna get you feelin’ good as new, Mickey.” He just knows this motherfucker’s got people falling in love with him on the daily. How could they not?
Too bad he’s all Mickey’s.
“I’m gonna have to move ya,” he says, and he’s already rising to his full, gorgeous height. “Think you can walk for me?”
Mickey grins devilishly. “Oh no, you’re gonna haveta to carry me.” An obvious answer.
Ian saw it coming a mile away, no question. But his bedside manner stays true, no more than an affirming “Of course,” before he’s leaning down to scoop Mickey up from the couch, keeping him secure below his knees and around his back.
It never gets old, getting hoisted and carried by Ian. His husband has grown into a redwood of a man, strong in both heart and heft.
“Do me a favor, wouldya?” Mickey hears him ask while he’s busy ogling the fitted press of baby blue over his chest. “Think you can hold this for me?”
It’s the black duffle bag. Probably something one of his partners picks up the slack on when he’s the one transporting.
Fine. Mickey will sacrifice tracing over the patch of Ian’s name for this. He’s nice like that.
“Thank you.”
“Fuckin’ heavy…”
“You get used to it,” he explains as he carries Mickey toward the back of the house, whether or not he’s still talking about the bag up for debate.
But Mickey won’t waste time on that. Instead, he luxuriates in Ian’s strong, capable hold. He’s the patient in need of tending to, after all.
“Alright, let’s get you set up here…” With precision, he’s laid out on their bed - or more specifically, the fluffy black towel that Mickey draped over it in preparation. “Anything like this ever happen to you before?”
“What, havin’ somethin’ up my ass?” A thunk as he drops the bag on their carpeted floor.
Then a huff of a laugh. And a blush, curiously, if Mickey’s seeing right. “More-so meant getting something stuck.”
Of course he did. “Oh. Nah, my husband’s got a real good grip on him.”
The same kind of grip that Ian’s got on the waist of his sweatpants now, in fact, “That right…?” unhurried in the way he moves with the sidebar. “Gonna need to take these off.”
Truly, this man can do whatever the hell he wants to him. Just as long as he fucking gets to it. “You go right ahead, doc.” And when he does, it’s a crazy rush of exposure, Mickey’s bottom half freed while his heart flutters beneath his t-shirt further up.
Shit, might as well lose that too.
Ian pauses mid-routine. Leans back to watch it happen. Clearly can’t fight the urge to smirk as Mickey works his shirt over his head and then tosses it, returning to position in all his naked glory. “…I’m not sure that’s necessary.”
On the contrary, Mickey thinks it’s the next logical step. “Just gettin’ ready for ya, doc. Don’t need anything gettin’ in the way.” He even stretches an arm up to pillow it under his head. “Seem like a real thorough guy.”
It stretches his torso out, his entire body bared and willing. And this time, Ian’s smile wins out - simmers, playfully, as he simply nods and then crouches to sift through his EMT bag on the floor.
He doesn’t take long at all, but there’s just something about this - the flutter of excitement - the surge of anticipation that pulses in Mickey. It makes everything that much more potent, a shiver running through him as Ian finally stands back up, gorgeous and perfectly put together in his uniform, his hooded eyes raking not so casually over Mickey’s naked body as he takes his time stretching light blue medical gloves over his hands.
Oh fuck. Why is that hot?
Mickey swallows down a truly embarrassing noise.
He’s got no idea why this shit’s doing it for him, but Jesus Christ…
“Ain’t gonna ask me if I got a latex allergy?”
The corner of Ian’s mouth curls in quiet amusement, continuing to assess his patient with little worry. “Nitrile,” he provides. Like Mickey knows what the fuck that means. Like Mickey isn’t currently popping a boner at the sight of his husband gloving up to touch him - to play with him. And then, with hands slipping beneath his outer thigh and the small of his back, “Flip over for me.”
The mattress groans beneath Mickey’s very quick following of the order. Each one, in fact. Because more are coming.
“On your belly… Lift your hips up a little,” smooth gloved fingers dancing over his hip bones in example. “Yep… Just like that.” The pillow that gets wedged beneath him is on the thinner side, but oh-so soft - heavenly relief as Mickey grinds down into it a bit with Ian’s instruction. “Alright, now you’re just gonna relax… Think you can do that for me, Mickey…?”
Relaxed isn’t exactly the word he’d use right now. It doesn’t take a medic to know his pulse is way too fast for that. But Mickey will try. He’ll be a good patient. And that starts with taking a deep breath, and then pooling his arms underneath his pillow to prop his head up.
It’s all he can do, really, against the insane excitement of the mattress dipping near his feet - the hands that guide him by the ankles - gentle but firm movements until he’s kneeling again, ass-up. It’s only for a second though. Because then he’s being guided back down, one hand above his tailbone, the other helping to keep his knees bent as he lowers back onto the pillow, but with his back arched and thighs spread wide.
“Wow…you’re flexible,” Ian says, as if he doesn’t already know how flexible.
Mickey has to preen. “Thank you.”
“Husband’s a lucky man.”
“Bet your ass he is.” He wiggles his hips a bit. To get comfortable, of course. “Would beat your ass too, if he heardya sayin’ that.”
But Ian simply hums behind him, sounding none too worried about such a thing. “Then I better do a good job to make up for it, huh…?” It’s paired with the soft brush of his gloved hands over Mickey’s ass - one for each cheek. Definitely more handsy than it should be, but he’s sure as shit not complaining. “Now, let’s see what we’re working with here…”
It’s far from a new sensation - the feeling of his asscheeks being spread - but the vibe they’re rolling with this afternoon heightens it. Because it’s not Ian, his husband, who’s looking him over.
It’s Ian the EMT, who’s made a personal house visit for him.
Mickey fights down the thrill that shoots into his belly as he lies here. How it edges into the slightest touch of embarrassment as his hole is inspected by trained eyes. “How’s it look…?”
“Gorgeous…” is Ian’s answer. “Prettiest I’ve ever seen…”
And god, Mickey can feel himself clench with it. The unprofessionalism of it all. “Meant the other thing…” Obviously. “What you’re s’posed to be helpin’ me with…” He’ll take the compliment, though.
And Ian’s moving on anyway, his assessment theatrical in its uncertainty. “Hmm…not sure. Think I’m gonna have to take a closer look.”
A huff of a laugh. “Yeah, course you-” but the rest gets caught in Mickey’s quick inhale - in the gasp that takes him by surprise as he feels Ian’s tongue, warm and wet and confident, as he licks over his hole without warning. “Jesus Christ…”
Ain’t no way this is protocol.
He’s still being procedural with it somehow, though - long, analyzing strokes around Mickey’s rim - experimental, sucking pressure paired with the vibration of his pondering hum. Slick bastard…
Mickey bites back a groan, his eyes rolling shut and hips pressing back onto that curious tongue. “You do this to all your patients…?”
Ian keeps him spread. Keeps himself front and center, murmuring against him. “Mm…definitely not…”
Just Mickey, then. Only he gets the special treatment, that thought firing nasty pleasure right into his lap.
God, they’re gonna have to get this show on the road.
He grins, enjoying every last lick. “Think I’m good, doc…”
“Mm…” Ian pulls away for this one, making him clench as he brushes his thumb right over his hole. “I’m the trained professional here. I’ll make that determination.”
Mickey has to chuckle, “Right…” winded with it, “...the fuck was I thinkin’...”
It’s gonna take a few more minutes, apparently. And who is he to question a trained professional? So Mickey simply leans into it, blissfully growing harder and harder against the pillow as Ian eats him out (professionally).
It’s not until he’s soaked, spit dripping down over the back of his balls, that Ian finally sees fit to move on. “Well…externally, you’re lookin’ great.”
Mickey doesn’t know if he should laugh or curse him out. If he’s got enough energy to kick up much of a fuss, his muscles turned to jelly.
When he does muster the strength to move, it’s to shoot a glance over his shoulder, another shiver of anticipation running through him at the sight of Ian back there, one gloved hand staying firmly on his bare ass, the other coming up to wipe at the corner of his mouth.
It’s a bit of a shock. A slap of a reminder.
Christ, he got ate out so good he forgot about the fucking uniform.
“I’ll check inside you now, alright Mickey? All you need to do is relax.”
He sure likes that word.
But honestly, he’s right. What happens next doesn’t work unless Mickey’s relaxed out of his mind. So maybe he does know what he’s doing. Maybe those extra ten minutes were a good idea. Because Mickey’s definitely feeling loose in the muscle department.
Ah, fuck it.
“You’re the professional…” he hums, sinking low as he feels the mattress dip from Ian pressing forward to grab the lube off the nightstand.
“That’s right…” a pump of the bottle…slick, slippery… “And you’re being a very good patient for me.”
Shit, he knows just what to say…
“Breathe out…”
Mickey does, decompressing into the mattress despite the thrill that sparks as he feels two fingers circling around his hole, making everything even wetter somehow.
And when Ian begins, he only starts with one - a little tease of the tip slipping in…pulling out…circling around and then fully sinking in to the knuckle, pleasure blooming thickly.
“Oh, fuck yeah…” Mickey groans on an exhale. And he knows it’s not really in character but come on. Fucking finally.
“Just feeling around for anything…” Ian explains behind him, cool as a cucumber, just like the way he strokes his finger inside Mickey as he explores. “Keep your hips still please…”
Which is such a funny thing to expect outta him. Even funnier if this was real. If they really were strangers and this hot-ass EMT was telling Mickey not to move as he fingers him open.
Because that’s what this is. Slowly but surely. A hum from behind, then a composed, “Think I’m gonna need a little more.”
Mickey smirks into the pillow. Bites back his remark at the feeling of two tightly gloved fingers playing with him now. And when they finally sink in… “Mm…”
“That feel alright?”
“Fuck yeah…” Better than alright. “Now we’re gettin’ somewhere, doc…”
He can’t see him, but he can just imagine how Ian’s grin is heating over back there, taking Mickey in as he pumps his fingers in and out of him.
He’s slow with it. Methodical. They’ve lost a little bit of that professionalism somewhere along the way, but Mickey’s all for that shit. Because it’s how he keeps getting more, heat flushing through his body with each ramped up sensation.
“I’m not feeling anything,” Ian coolly declares, right as Mickey’s feeling his ring finger join the other two in a practiced slip of lube over his hole. “Must really be up in there…”
He clenches against it, already eager for more. For three. “Yeah well, you know how it is… When the cat’s away…”
Ian chuckles, more than familiar with the rest of it, “Sure looks like you were playing…” and then after one last brush of his fingers, his voice dropping just a bit, “Take a big breath for me, Mickey…”
So he does. And fuck, it takes a little more time - a little more patience - but when Ian finally gives it to him, three thick fingers sliding inside, holy shit…
Mickey breathes out, but the end barrels into a moan, heady and hot into the pillow.
“Good,” Ian tells him from behind, his other hand grounding and committed on his asscheek. “Good job, Mickey. You’re doing great.”
It’s a lot at once - the stretch - the fill of Ian’s fingers inside him and all the nice shit he’s saying on top of it. They use three pretty often, but just like everything else that’s happened today, there’s just something heightened about it all.
It’s got Mickey rocking into the pillow beneath his hips, chasing after the warm pleasure that spreads from it.
“Hmm…” Ever vigilant, the pads of Ian’s fingers curl just the slightest bit inside him, curious as they feel around. “Hang on… Think we got somethin’…”
Mickey’s eyes flutter open where he’s pressed the side of his face into the pillow, the curiosity contagious. “…really?”
“Mhm… Riiight-”
The jolt of pleasure is immediate and full body, Mickey’s muscles tensing with his gasp and-
“Yeah, right there,” he hears and Ian’s fucking teasing now, feigning confusion as he strokes over Mickey’s prostate - the motherfucker - the-
“Fuck-”
“Yeah…?” Another stroke, intense pleasure pooling between Mickey’s legs. “You feel that?”
‘Yes I fucking feel that,’ is what he wants to say, but all that falls from his mouth is a pathetic moan, his toes curling with each curious pet over the spot that gets his ears ringing.
“Huh… Definitely got somethin’ here…”
“F-… Bitch…” He finally gets out and it isn’t exactly poetry, but it’s enough to get his point across.
Because as delicious as this feels, there’s no fighting the fact that it’ll get him coming in no time flat. He knows that. And Ian knows that. And they’ve still got too much on their plate to blow it so soon so…
“New strategy,” Ian relents, and it comes with two pats to his ass. “Gonna have you flip over for me.”
It’s a much needed break, but that doesn’t mean Mickey’s not still reeling from everything - that he isn’t eating up the way Ian speaks to him like this - his quiet “just like that” after helping him get settled on his back.
And it definitely doesn’t mean he’s ready to see him again, up close and personal this time, Ian right here to greet him in his prim and proper uniform.
“Hi,” he smiles down to him.
“Jesus, you’re hot,” Mickey huffs, still stupid from getting his g-spot pet into submission.
But Ian loves it. Of course he fucking does. And now that they’re facing each other like this, Mickey can see the heat simmering in those big pretty eyes, like he’s ready to eat Mickey up as he knees himself closer on the bed.
The ironed press of his uniform slacks feels like heaven beneath Mickey’s bare thighs. It’s almost as good as the way his shirt stretches over his chest, his badge and name tag catching the light of the sun beginning to set outside.
“You doin’ alright?”
The laugh that huffs from Mickey’s lungs is winded. “Peachy…”
Just amused enough for Ian to slide a hand under his thigh, hoisting it just a bit higher over his own to spread him out. “Keep going…?”
“Fuck yeah, ‘keep going’…”
Ian’s grin curls devilishly as he moves them into place, never once looking away from him even as he reaches to pump more lube into his hand. “You know, this might be my favorite house call…”
Mickey swallows thickly. Watches, with a small gasp of a breath, as Ian slides two fingers right back into him. “…yeah…?”
“Mhm…” Slow pumps… In and out… “For sure my favorite patient…”
It’s slick and nice and it’s not enough. Not until Ian slips that third one back in, keeping him full but not teasing too hard this time. Thank god, because Mickey’s not sure he could do it on top of all this praise he’s getting showered with.
“Now, you’re gonna feel some tightness… So I’m gonna need you to keep breathing for me, alright Mickey…?”
And just like that, the sparking rush of anticipation returns, from the base of his spine all the way up to his fingertips. “Yeah…” he breathes out. “You got it…”
And when the three slowly slip out…
When he feels the new one, four thick fingers teasing at his hole, preparing him…
“Ready…?”
Mickey wets his lips. Nods, strung high in waiting.
“Remember to relax…” Ian coaches him, face to face this time. And then slowly, his fingers start working their way in. Past the ring of muscle Mickey’s trying not to clench. Past their usual way of doing things. “Breathe, Mick…”
It’s more than normal and Mickey’s body is on fucking fire, everything suddenly feeling stuffed tight in the best way. “Fuck…”
“Keep breathing…” A reminder that’s starting to sound farther and farther away. “Mickey… Take a breath for me.”
Because he isn’t. And Mickey realizes that now, all the air caught in his throat as he focuses on the stretch and fill of the fingers inside him. He breathes out, and it’s fucking shaky.
And Ian is fucking into that. “Good…” Oh so slow with it. “Good job... Keep it up…”
Heat washes up Mickey’s entire body, sweat beginning to bead on his forehead.
Inside him, Ian’s fingers curl a microscopic inch, but when he’s filled like this, the punch it packs is killer.
“Jesus…”
“Doin’ good…” Ian smiles down to him, and what the fuck is he so handsome for? It’s unfair really, Mickey unable to look too long before rolling his eyes closed. “How’s that feel…?”
“Ugh… Good…”
“Yeah…?”
“Fuckin’ amazing…”
“Think you can handle a little movement…?”
Mickey nods, a hand falling to rest on Ian’s wrist.
And when those fingers move inside him, they’re very very slow. Very very careful. Perfectly professional, one might say, Ian sticking to exactly what he should be doing because he’s responsible like that. Especially when it comes to Mickey’s safety.
It’s why he waits too. Why he doesn’t rush it, staying committed and all-in until the words finally fall from Mickey’s mouth, warmth blushing his face. “M’ready…”
And even then, he’s careful. Thorough. “You sure…?”
“Yeah…”
“Promise you’re not pushin’ it…?” Something a regular old EMT wouldn’t know about Mickey.
Good thing this one is all his.
“Yeah…” he grins. “Gimme it…”
It’s a very slow pull out, everything staying unrushed and deliberate. Ian takes his time with it, just as he does when he leans back to hook a finger under the wrist of his powder blue glove.
Mickey watches intently, the snap of it as he pulls it free from his hand getting his cock to jump a little.
Ian notices it of course. Smirks down at him, seeming to decide last minute to keep the other one on - the one he’s got hot and heavy over Mickey’s spread inner thigh.
His bare hand, though, that’s the one he pumps their lube into, keeping eye contact as he says it. “Best to get an unobstructed feel for this last one…” He’s slipping right back into character. Setting off little pops of excitement in Mickey’s nerves as he brings it down to him, palm-up. “Wanna gimme a hand…?”
It takes a second to register. But then Mickey’s gladly following through, dipping his fingers in the pool of his palm and using it to slick up his hand.
There’s something intensely anticipatory about it - about how long Ian’s fingers are as he spreads his own through them… How big his hand is as he makes a gentle fist, both of them watching Mickey work the lube over it with dawning realization.
Because holy shit…
This is about to be inside him…
“Like that…?” Mickey asks, and he’s fucking dizzy with it, his gut clenching as he tries to stretch his hand over Ian’s fist. Not even close.
“Perfect.” Next comes the rag that Mickey set out for them. “Thank you…”
It’s all he can do to focus on wiping his own hands dry. To fight off the way his thighs are starting to tremble all on their own - more of that sick anticipation.
And maybe he’d be more embarrassed by his need for this if Ian wasn’t so all-in. But he is. He leans into it with his full chest, dribbling more lube between Mickey’s cheeks before brushing over his hole again, first his knuckles - a brief, delicious preview, then the pads of his fingers.
He starts with three this time. Sinks them in nice and deep, watching Mickey’s face as the pleasure hits him right away. “Remember when this used to be too much…?”
It feels like a lifetime ago.
But they’ve moved forward. Ian’s stretched him out perfectly. And now there’s four again - slow, slow, slow as they work in - the familiarity of Ian’s bare hand so delicious Mickey could cry out.
The other one stays true, keeping his thighs spread wide for him as he turns him out with honey-slow pumps.
“Can’t believe how good you’re doing,” Ian grins down to him and it fucking hits. Real hard. Has Mickey clenching weakly around his fingers, especially when he says it, “Gonna give you all of it now, okay…?”
“Fuck…”
“Just gotta keep breathing for me like I told you…”
Mickey can do that. Mickey can do anything, if these are the hands guiding him through it.
“Ready…?”
“Yeah…” Fuck yeah.
“Big breath for me…”
Mickey’s lips part as he pulls it in. As he feels Ian’s thumb join the others at his entrance, the tips of his fingers nudging perfectly and then dipping into him and- “Fuck-…”
“Slow…” He hears…feels…every single second of this purposeful and unrushed as they slide in deeper. “Nice and slow, alright…?”
It’s the only way to do it. For Mickey, at least. But there’s beauty in the ease of it - the measured but unrelenting stretch. Mickey gets to lose himself in it like this. Gets to focus on the fill - the way his whole body seems to narrow down to the tense heat of Ian’s fingers settling inside.
It’s impossibly tight. Has his gut twisting in the best way, sweat beading on his chest as it all just keeps going.
“Big breath,” he hears again, “Big breath please, baby…” so he does - shaky as it is - toes curling as the ridges of Ian’s knuckles slip past his sensitive rim and inside and fuck… “God…you’re doing so good…”
Mickey’s eyes flutter open, but not for long. Just enough to see the look of absolute pride in those eyes - the ones shamelessly relishing in the sight of Mickey taking more and more of him inside.
“Fuck… Ian…”
“Almost there…” Mickey’s not the only one who’s winded now. “You need a break…?”
“No…” Fuck no. “Please…” They’re so close. Just a little more.
“Last bit…” Tight, tight, tight and-
Mickey breathes out a moan...
Squeezes his eyes shut…
Can barely fucking breathe, dizzy with the rush of it all…
“Holy fuck, Mick…” he hears, and-
“Don’t move…”
“Not movin’…”
“Need a sec…”
“Not movin’, I promise…” Breathy… Committed… “Holy fuck, Mickey, this is so-…”
Mickey swallows thickly, like he can feel it in his fucking throat. In his guts. In every part of him. “Christ…”
They did it…
Every pass of air into his lungs is shaky, though - trembling, like his thighs as he does his best to lift his head to see.
It’s Ian his eyes land on first. Because he always is. And right now, in the oddly romantic pinkish-red of the setting sun, he’s staring down between Mickey’s legs, his lips parted in flustered awe at what he sees.
It’s hot all on its own. Something that will paint the back of Mickey’s mind for months, how the corner of his mouth curls as his eyes slowly flick up to Mickey, that awe heating over. “You are so fucking sexy…”
Pleasure pulses through him from it. Has his smirk returning, even if it’s blissed out. “…are you doin’ it…?”
A second to process. Then, “Not yet… You want me to…?”
He nods, words trapped in his throat. And when he feels it - Ian’s hand nudging slowly inside him to form a fist - god, it’s got his eyes rolling back in his head.
Jesus…
“How’s it feel…?”
Indescribably full. Irresponsibly hot. “Fuckin’ perfect…” he exhales, his smile gone loopy as he fixes his husband with it.
Or…his EMT. Or whatever they’re doing. Right now, he’s more focused on the fucking fist inside him, fed by the fresh memory of exactly how big it is.
“You’re so warm…” Ian grins, his gloved hand inching up Mickey’s bare thigh.
He’s gone a little soft against his belly with the stretch. Nothing a skilled professional can’t handle. But, “Uh-uh…” resting against his wrist again, “Want it the other way…”
Ian’s hand creeps to a stop. Brain chugs along up there, “The other way…” copper lashes catching the sunlight, “…you mean this…?”
Inside him, he gently rocks his fist upward, knuckles baring down over his prostate so perfectly that Mickey moans out, feeling it in his lungs.
Christ…
“Yeah motherfucker…” he huffs out on another groan, “…meant that…”
But Ian doesn’t give him time to bitch. Because he’s immediately rocking down again, lighting Mickey’s body up from the inside out. “That’s it, baby…”
It’s got Mickey’s toes curling all over again. Has him clenching - or at least trying to - but he’s so fucking full that there’s not much he can do but let the pleasure take him - ride through it, his belly slick with precum before he knows it.
And Ian is nothing if not determined - committed to his impeccable bedside matter as he keeps a close eye on him, watching how each movement has Mickey arching - how the ultra-slow pump and massage of his fingers over his prostate has him growing closer and closer, all under his watchful eye.
“Doin’ so good,” he encourages in that tone that makes Mickey ache. “Take me so well…”
And Mickey moans, overwhelmed by it all in the best way imaginable.
“So fucking pretty…” Ian hums, milking him for all he’s worth. “You’re gonna cum for me, aren’t you Mickey?”
Because obviously he can feel it.
Because obviously Mickey isn’t hiding it - there’s nowhere for him to. He’s close and it’s gonna wreck him and Ian is right. So he nods, blindly, grabbing onto Ian’s wrist as his last way to anchor down.
“Gonna cum for me after taking my whole hand…?”
“Yeah… Fuck-” It’s coming in hot, rushing forward quicker than he thought as he tugs at Ian’s wrist in warning- “Fuck fuck fuck-” and it’s skillful, the slow but steady pull out - the way Ian doesn’t even give him a chance to feel empty before he’s filling him right back up with four thick fingers - more than enough to cum around and clench down on without overwhelming him and fuck- “Oh fuck…” it washes through him like a tidal wave, Mickey’s whole body tensing and trembling after being stretched to its limit.
And Ian is there for him the entire time. Keeping him full. Dropping in close, brushing his lips over Mickey’s sweaty forehead as he cums around his fingers. “There you go, baby…” and “Good job, Mickey…” and “God that’s so fucking hot…”
It’s a near black-out, but Mickey keeps it together. A professional, you could say, aided by these loving hands as he finally starts coming down.
The atmosphere shifts around him a little. But Ian stays true, four fingers deep in commitment as he settles next to Mickey’s spent, sweaty self, close enough to tuck into.
Christ alive…
That was even better than he remembered…
Outside, the setting sun gradually dips below the treeline, replacing the pinkish-red of their bedroom with cool, welcoming shadows.
They let themselves bathe in it. Settle - quietly - with slow, lazy kisses reserved especially for moments like these.
And when enough of Mickey’s wits return to him, he can’t help but breathe out in beautiful satisfaction, “Well doc…” just right into the chest of his husband’s uniform, “whaddaya think…?”
Beside him, Ian hums. Lets the moment settle and then hoists Mickey to roll over on top of him, his free arm holding around his bare back. “Well… Think this might call for a follow-up visit…”
From here, Mickey can feel the bulge still hiding underneath those pressed slacks. Can feel, even better, how the heat of the moment continues to linger, Ian’s fingers flexing inside him as he rolls down into his lap. “You’re the professional,” he grins, not too gone to add a quick sidebar: “and fuckin' pointy.”
The single downfall of nakedly draping over a uniformed hottie.
But Ian simply chuckles, using his free hand to pat over Mickey’s asscheek. “Food first. Heard your husband brought you home some leftovers...”
Oh fuck, he completely forgot about the chicken parm! “Uh huh...” Fuck yeah. “My favorite...”
“Mm… What a lucky man you are.”
Mickey smiles, leaning up to plant the most annoying kiss he can possibly muster onto Ian’s lips. “You bet your ass.”