#this gotta a little steamier than I set out to write

[language-of-love]

with you...

Summary: David and Patrick travel to New York City for business...and pleasure. Honestly, I just wanted to find a way to let David love NYC again, or maybe for the first time, this time with Patrick by his side. (Rated E, 2500 words, AO3, contains S6 spoilers)

...

There’s a sea of patchy clouds making it nearly impossible to see the skyline, but he thinks that maybe that’s for the best, that perhaps it will help tamp down this nervous anticipation that’s making his stomach begin to toss and turn. It’s been a long time since he’s seen this city. A long time since this city’s seen him. Honestly, he’s not entirely sure it ever really had.

His eyes flutter shut as Patrick’s hand covers his, his thumb, slightly calloused from his guitar strings, rough and perfect as it moves back and forth against David’s palm. David lets go of the inside of his lips from where he’d clamped down with his teeth, his tongue peeking out to wet the dryness as he releases a heavy sigh out his nose.

“You okay?” Patrick’s voice is soft, his tone less questioning and more knowing, making David feel a little less nauseous. There was a time in his life where he thought he’d never find someone who truly understands him. Miraculously, he’s found two. More if he counts his family, which he should, because they do. Now they do.

Opening his eyes, he rolls his head towards his husband, his smile coming easy, a good sign, he thinks to himself.

“You’re making it okay.”

Patrick’s eyes go all soft as he leans in, his lips tasting of the airline’s cheap wine as he presses a lingering kiss to David’s mouth. David shivers, not just from the kiss, but from the fact that Patrick has done it in front of a plane full of passengers. Sure, back home, no one ever bats an eye at the affection they show one another, but this isn’t Schitt’s Creek, and they are still two men kissing on a plane. When Patrick pulls back enough to catch David’s gaze, there’s an unexpected glint of mischief there and David can’t hold back a small giggle.

“Happy with yourself, I see.”

“Happy with you.”

David’s eyes go skyward, but he’s dragging Patrick’s hand further into his lap and smiling at the ceiling of the plane.

“I told you to stop saying things like that to me in public.”

“Sorry, David.”

But he’s not. They both know it. Just like how they both know that David absolutely does not want him to stop saying things like that to him in public. Like, ever.

As the plane descends toward the runway, David finds that the nervousness from a few minutes earlier has begun to be eclipsed by the confidence Patrick always manages to conjure up. New York City doesn’t seem so scary now, not with his husband’s fingers woven between his own and his well-loved heart beating steadily in his chest.

...

The showcase with the hotel owners went better than they could have even imagined. They’d been expecting to have a lot of orders placed, but with Stevie and his dad giving each franchise buying power for their own properties, nothing was guaranteed. But David had been charming and Patrick, he’d been...Patrick, crunching numbers and packaging deals, the two of them dancing well practiced steps until the last meeting was over and the contracts were piled high.

If all of them pan out, they’ll actually be able to take a honeymoon this summer. He’d been bookmarking private resorts in the Maldives for months, just dreaming of watching Patrick’s pale skin pink up as they lie naked together in the sun, feet buried in the warm sand and lips swollen from tipsy kisses.

“Okay, you’re right, this is the best pizza I’ve ever had.”

Shifting from wishful thinking to the present, David smiles over at Patrick’s side of their hotel bed. His husband is stripped down to just his boxers, holding a greasy paper plate in one hand and stuffing one last, very big, bite of pizza into his mouth. God, why is that so attractive?

“Told you, so. It’s the water or something.”

“It’s magic,” he mumbles through his mouthful of food.

His husband is adorable, but not when talking with his mouth full, so David looks away, smiling again for maybe the fiftieth time today. Shuffling off the bed, he finds his way to the bathroom, flinching a bit when the row of bulbs above the large mirror flash on overhead. As he washes the pizza grease from his hands, he finds himself spinning his wedding ring around his soapy finger as a warm flush rises up his neck and settles behind his cheeks.

Today was perfect. In one fell swoop, his memories of this city have been forever altered. Beyond the time spent in their investor’s conference room for their meetings, they’d walked hand in hand through Central Park (a small section of it, really just about a quarter mile), window shopped on some random street just a block or two from SoHo, and eventually popped into a pizza place and grabbed a few slices to go. Nothing pretentious. Well, maybe they did stop into Rent the Runway so David could get his hands on some designer clothes, and maybe try a few things on. But is that even really pretentious? Not compared to his old life here it isn’t.

Sure, one good day can’t erase the stark lines left behind from his past, but he always did appreciate how beautiful a splash of white can look atop a wash of black.

“Don’t turn the water off.”

Patrick slides in next to him, lightly hip checking him to make room at the sink. Sucking the corner of his bottom lip between his teeth, David turns and leans against the counter, staring at his husband as he dries his hands off with a hand towel. Patrick’s lips are curled up in a smile as he suds up his hands, his attention shifting from the sink up to his own reflection. David wonders what he sees there, if he only sees his flaws, or if maybe, he sees what David sees.

He really hopes so. He should remind him that in David’s eyes, he doesn’t have any, well, not any that are deal breakers.

“I love you.”

David catches Patrick’s gaze shift from his reflection to David in the mirror, so he looks back, his stomach suddenly swirling with affection, attraction, desire, all the things, all at once.

“Love you, too, baby.”

His fingers grip hard at the countertop when he finds himself suddenly unsteady, Patrick’s endearment making him feel like he’s just taken a shot of very strong whiskey, the sharp burn warming him as it slides down his throat. Dropping the towel, he reaches out for Patrick, quickly curling his fingers around the back of his head as he takes his mouth in a needy kiss. He lets out a soft gasp when Patrick’s wet hands slide up his bare chest, but Patrick just takes that opportunity, sliding his tongue between David’s lips in an obvious move to take control.

David gladly relinquishes it. Patrick doesn’t miss a beat.

Happy to be the one maneuvered against the wall, he’s suddenly breathless as Patrick’s fingers tangle with his and press the backs of his hands against the textured wallpaper. Held captive, he willingly succumbs to Patrick’s need to worship, focusing as hard as he can on staying standing as Patrick ventures down, wet lips barely grazing the skin of his throat until David feels the rough slide of his tongue against his nipple.

“Oh god…”

Patrick responds by closing his teeth around the sensitive peak and David’s hips surge forward on reflex, drawing a chuckle from Patrick’s mouth against his skin. His hands are freed from Patrick’s grip and he immediately moves to grab his head, his fingers sliding into his soft, too short hair as Patrick looks up at him as he maneuvers himself to his knees. In any other relationship, David might say something like “you don’t have to” or “you should let me”, but not with Patrick. Patrick loves this. Patrick loves him.

Patrick loves watching his eyes darken as he slowly lowers his boxer briefs down over his ass, like he’s doing now. And David loves the smile Patrick always presses into the crease of his thigh, like he’s doing now.

“Patrick…” he gasps, his voice breathy and thick with emotion as his husband slowly dips his head to take the tip of him into his mouth. His eyes stay on David, which is a lot, but he doesn’t dare look away.

There’s no urgency in the way Patrick’s lavishing him, alternating from soft drags of his tongue to mind-numbingly slow sucks, and David’s sure his goal is to drive him to the edge of insanity. Just when David’s sure Patrick’s about to get serious, he’s pushing back to his feet, prompting David to grumble with frustration. But his protest is swallowed by Patrick's mouth against his as his hand wraps possessively around David’s aching cock trapped between them.

“Let’s get on the bed.”

“Oh...yes...okay...”

David’s eyes roll back in his head as Patrick gives him a hard squeeze before letting go to step backwards out of the bathroom. Somehow, David manages to remember to quickly grab the lube from his toiletry bag before he’s stumbling after his husband to join him on their king size hotel mattress.

They end up rolling around and groping each other for a few minutes before either of them can really focus, but before too long, David finds himself on his back with Patrick’s mouth tonguing his cock as his fingers lovingly work him open, occasionally sinking deep to lightly tease his prostate.

“I’m good, I’m good, get inside me before I come.”

He can hear the desperation in his own voice, but doesn’t care.

Anticipation has the hair at the back of his neck standing on end as he watches Patrick maneuver himself between his legs and their eyes lock tight as he slowly sinks in, a low curse hissing from David’s lips as his body stretches and welcomes Patrick home. He reaches out blindly for his neck, dragging him down until his body feels almost folded in half, but he needs Patrick’s weight on him, needs his lips and his breath and the taste of his tongue. To his relief, he’s coming almost immediately, making their bodies slick and sticky as Patrick continues to fuck him into the mattress. His orgasm has taken over his whole body, making him tremble and contract the muscles around where Patrick is still buried deep, pulling a groan of pleasure from Patrick’s throat.

“Fuck baby, fuck...so good.”

Patrick’s penchant for swearing during sex is something David luxuriates in, loving his loss of control and complete abandon to their shared moment. So, even though he’s already wrung out, he does his best to make him completely fall apart. He tugs at his hair and drags his mouth back to his lips, quickly sinking his tongue inside and stealing his breath. Patrick’s hips stutter once, twice, but then he’s collapsing into the cradle of David’s open legs, filling him with his heat as he rips his mouth free on a hoarse shout. David’s heart clenches when Patrick’s hands curl around his cheeks to then slide further down to cup the back of his head, holding him still so he can sink into a luxurious, toe-curling kiss. It’s the kind of kiss he’s still not quite used to processing, so full of emotion and unspoken words, silently communicating a deeper love than David ever imagined existed. Even in all the romantic comedies he devours, he’s never seen something in fiction that compares to what he feels with Patrick.

David lets out a soft gasp into Patrick’s mouth when he feels him lift his hips enough to pull out, but he’s kissing him still, soft, sweet presses of lips so distracting David only barely notices the soreness left behind. The cramp in his thighs, however, is hard to ignore.

“Need to stretch,” he mumbles against Patrick’s lips.

“I know. Let me get a washcloth.” Patrick kisses his cheek, and his chin, and his chest above his heart as he shuffles backwards towards the end of the bed.

“If you’re trying to make me cry, it won’t work.”

Except there’s already a tear threatening to escape the corner of his eye. And he’s sure his husband can see it.

“Mmmhhmm…”

His eyes fall to Patrick’s perfect ass as he walks towards the bathroom and he hopes Patrick realizes that their evening is far from over. There’s a favor or two he plans to return. Maybe in the shower. Their shower back home isn’t big enough, but this one is. And it has a built-in bench.

Stretching out his legs, he suddenly realizes he’s laying on top of one of the hotel’s bathrobes.

“Did you put this bathrobe down or was it already here?” he calls out.

Patrick’s smile when he reemerges from the bathroom gives David his answer.

“How was your brain functioning enough to think of that? My fingers could barely hold the lube without dropping it.”

The washcloth is warm against David’s belly where Patrick has begun to clean him from the side of the bed, his fingers pressing just enough to trigger a soft laugh from David’s lips.

“It’s just the way my brain works. I know you don’t like mess. And I knew I wanted to come inside you. So…”

“You know how much I love hearing you talk about sex like a business transaction. It’s really sexy.”

He’s not kidding. It really is.

“I have my laptop if we want to work on a spreadsheet…”

Patrick’s moved the washcloth between David’s legs, too intimate a moment for their current banter, and silence falls between them. David lets his eyes fall shut as the now cool towel runs along his skin, jolting slightly in surprise when soft lips brush the corner of his mouth. Lifting his chin, he smiles as Patrick’s lips find his again, and again, until the towel is abandoned and David’s pulling him back down onto the bed.

When he’s maneuvered Patrick beneath him, he leans his weight over to one elbow so he can reach out and run his fingertip across his husband’s kiss-swollen lower lip. He loves this lip. Has since the first moment they met.

“You know, David,” Patrick whispers up at him, “I think I like New York City.”

David smiles, but doesn’t respond right away, just letting himself get lost in the warm honey depths of Patrick’s eyes as his finger pushes down to just open Patrick’s mouth. Leaning down, he lets their noses brush, smiling when Patrick arches his neck in hopes of receiving a kiss.

“I like New York City with you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. But not as much as I like home.”

As expected, that declaration is met with a kiss, and a groan, and eventually a chance for David put his creative skills to use in that enormous shower.

[unbridgeabledistances]

ian + mickeys neck (was thinking of the drunk ian fic and wondered if you would be interested in pursuing this idea further?) <3

anon i am CRYING thank u so much for this!!!! i have been feeling like i need to make my contribution to the “mickey’s neck” discourse for a while lmao and this is my opportunity (esp bc ian holding mickey in the 11x12 stills wrecked me)

in the spirit of following up 11x10 i decided to write this based on an amazing post @mickey-millagher made/a prompt that @pombby sent me about ian teaching mickey to swim at a public pool during lockdown at some point early s11- i hope u enjoy<3

(this is the tiniest notch steamier than what i usually write but it isn’t smutty fyi- tw for descriptions of choking😌)

--

There was no one at the park— the air hung heavy and humid over the empty picnic tables and wooden benches that punctuated the fields of dying grass. As much as people on the Southside were definitely not taking any part of this lockdown shit seriously, it didn’t surprise Ian how silent the public park was— there was still a scarcer number of people out on their stoops or lounging on street corners this summer. Ian guessed that the few people who didn’t think that this was a hoax realized that this COVID shit was serious enough that they couldn’t afford healthcare if they got it, or whatever— but regardless, that meant that this Southside summer was weirdly stagnant somehow, and felt different from the noisy and crowded rhythms of summers past.

It was the late morning, just as the air started heat like a convection oven as the sun rose over the skyline— and Ian had his heart set on teaching Mickey to swim today. The conversation had come up last night at dinnertime, when Debbie was complaining about the heat wave— and they had all started reminiscing about the rickety, tin-sided pool they used to put up in the backyard years ago until Carl had taken a hatchet to it when he was 11 when he was trying to tear it down. Sitting next to Mickey at the kitchen table, thighs pressed where their chairs were scooted close together, Ian had suddenly remembered his words from their road trip to the border, years ago now:

“You could try swimming across the border.”

“I never learned how, man.”

And he’d immediately opened his mouth, not catching the words before they moved from his brain to his mouth, and asked Mickey in the middle of the dinnertime chatter: “Hey Mick, did you ever actually learn to swim?”

It was funny, and arbitrary, and stupid; they were married now, but for some reason this small fact about Mickey, the fact that he used to not know how to swim and by now he might have learned without Ian’s knowledge, made something warm pool in Ian’s stomach. He’d known Mickey, and had been itching to be closer and closer to him, for a full decade—and there were still so many things that he didn’t know. And this was proof, this question that Ian still didn’t have the answer to about some weirdly fundamental aspect of Mickey’s identity— he was always going to want to keep asking things about Mickey. And he was always going to get to.

Mickey had looked him with daggers in his eyes, then flickered a defensive glance at all the smirks growing on Ian’s siblings’ faces. “Fuck you. I was doing plenty of other shit in Mexico, didn’t really get the chance to lounge on the fucking beach.”

Ian had reached under the table and placed a hand on Mickey’s knee—a peace offering, an apology for whatever Mickey-can’t-swim quips Carl and Lip would inevitably think up as a low blow the next time they all butted heads at breakfast time— but as the chatter about backyard pools and heat waves continued at the dinner table, Ian felt an idea stirring.

Which is why the next morning he’d woken his husband up by pressing a tender kiss to his jawbone, both of their skin damp and clammy from the heat in the stuffy bedroom, and whispered into his neck:

“I wanna try something today.”

Mickey’s mind had immediately veered in… other directions, his eyebrows raising in vaguely disappointed disbelief when Ian had explained his idea to go to the public pool and teach Mickey to swim with an exuberant grin on his face; but after some very enticing morning persuasion that had a lot to do with the fact that Mickey was still half asleep while Ian had pressed kisses down his spine and dragged him out of bed and handed him a pair of swim trunks, now they were at the public pool in the nearest park at midday, with Ian leading the way and Mickey dubiously and sleepily straggling behind him.

Ian slid open the lock on the chain-link fence that surrounded the pool, the same pool that was usually crawling with groups of teenagers smoking weed and toddlers in floaties who were sticky with melted ice cream on a summer day like today. And maybe he was just all hopped up on nostalgia, but Ian was feeling cheerful— there was a lightness to the blinding summer sunshine, radiating through him as it pooled on his skin, that made him feel weirdly exhilarated and giddy about teaching Mickey to swim in this grimy Southside pool, just because he could.

“I still can’t believe you never learned how to swim.” Ian said it over his shoulder as he strode through the gate, holding it open for Mickey.

Mickey just flipped him off, following behind him and setting down two towels and the 6-pack of beers he’d grabbed from the fridge as they’d shuffled out the door minutes before. Ian grinned. He knew the beers would be warm and syrupy in minutes—the air was muggy and humid, without any hint of a breeze for relief. Ian could already feel the sweat dripping down the back of his t-shirt; he peeled it off as he walked over the sunwarmed concrete towards the pool’s edge, crumpling the shirt and throwing it on top of the pile with the beers and the towels. Mickey was hesitant, not following Ian to the border of the water just yet.

“Seriously. I can’t count the number of times I was shoved into our bacteria-infested backyard pool when I was a kid. I’m pretty sure that Frank tried to drown me in there at one point.”

Mickey just shrugged noncommittally, his fingers slack around the bottom hem of his shirt and his eyes zeroing in on the pool of water. Ian thought Mickey would say something in reply— but the only sound in the air was the faint shouting of kids playing a basketball game the street over.

Holy shit. Ian had been so buoyant and excited about his nostalgia-fueled idea of going to the public pool on a summer day and teaching his husband to swim, dragging Mickey out of the house without a second thought, that he hadn’t realized it until now— Mickey was scared.

Ian swallowed down the grin that was threatening to overtake his face— one he knew that Mickey would immediately notice and hate, because he it drove him crazy when people gave him shit in vulnerable moments like this, when Mickey couldn’t do something. So instead Ian kept talking, hoping his chatter would loosen some of Mickey’s nerves.

“Didn’t you and your brothers ever go down to the other pool over on Trumbull?”

Mickey met Ian’s eyes then, raising an annoyed eyebrow. “Clearly not.”

And, okay. This was understandably bringing up some childhood shit. Ian tried to snap Mickey out of his head— he strode over to where Mickey was standing, a good six feet from the poolside, and snaked a hand onto the back of his neck, squeezing gently in what he hoped was a grounding and comforting touch that would drain the trepidation from Mickey’s defensive stance.

“One summer Debbie was so afraid of getting drowned at the public pool that she learned how to hold her breath for 4 minutes.” Ian grinned at the memory of Debbie dunking her head in a tub of water in the kitchen, making him and Lip time her. “Honestly, it was probably for the best you never went to the public pool. It was a shit show.���

Mickey scoffed, but the lightness was back in his eyes. “If I knew how to swim back in the day I probably woulda been the one doing the drowning.”

Ian barked out a laugh— and why did he immediately turn back into his 15-year-old self, with a god-awful crush on Mickey Milkovich, whenever Mick said shit like that? He pressed his lips into a smile, squeezing Mickey’s shoulder once more for good measure.

“Yeah, yeah. Okay, king of the Southside. You ready to get in the water?” Ian’s hand trailed down from its grasp on Mickey’s shoulderblades, dropping to encircle Mickey’s wrist and guide him towards the water.

Mickey immediately recoiled, yanking his hand from Ian’s hold and taking a step back, squinting and holding up a hand to block the bright rays of sun out of his eyes now that he wasn’t standing in Ian’s shadow.

“Fuck d’you mean? I’m not just gonna fucking hop in there and drown. You gotta show me what to do.”

Ian grinned again, without being able to hold it back. He knew what Mickey was like when he was afraid of something— defensive and grumbly and avoidant to touch. He rolled his eyes. “Can’t really teach you to swim when we’re not in the water, Mick. C’mon.”

Ian walked over to sit on the edge, then slid his torso down into the pool. The water was lukewarm and tepid, barely providing any relief from the sticky air— but it felt nice. Ian let out a little breath of relief from the heat as he waded over to the shallow end. Mickey was still standing by the mound of the towels the ground, watching him warily. Ian raised his eyebrows.

“You coming?”

Rolling his eyes, Mickey aggravatedly pulled off his shirt, tossing it behind him— sunrays bounced off of Mickey’s pale skin, owing mostly to the fact that Mickey had barely left the house in the last few weeks because of their prolonged “honeymoon.” He slowly walked to the very edge of the pool and, in a movement that made Ian’s heart grow ten sizes, hesitantly dipped a toe into the water like a cat trying to paw at something. A corner of Mickey’s mouth flickered downwards almost imperceptibly, a worry line sprouting on his forehead.

“I don’t know, man.”

Ian breathed out a laugh. Leave it to Mickey Milkovich, shit-talking king of the Southside, to be afraid of the shallow end of a public pool. Ian reached out a hand in what he hoped was a comforting gesture, still smiling like a sappy motherfucker at his painfully endearing husband.

“C’mon Mick, just stand here with me first.” Ian was waist-deep in the shallow end, the water pressing against his upper thighs— he knew that at this height the water would be at Mickey’s waist, right where his swim trunks met his hipbones.

Mickey’s brows furrowed from where he was still perched on the concrete lip of the pool ledge, his two feet firmly rooted. “Explain what I gotta do first. To swim, or whatever.”

Ian blew out a breath, still grinning like an idiot. “It’s not that hard, Mick. You just gotta circle your arms and circle your legs. But you have to get in the water first.”

Ian treaded over, pushing through the water to where he could rest his upper arms on the edge of the pool beside where Mickey was standing, staring up at him with what he hoped was a convincingly pleading face. Mickey’s eyes were still fixated on the water, lapping at the pool’s edge from where Ian had rippled through it. And suddenly Ian had an idea.

With a teasing grin, he reached a wet hand out from the water and encircled it around Mickey’s ankle, splattering the concrete with drops of water. Mickey immediately jerked like an electric shock had jolted through his body.

“You gonna come in, or do I have to make you?”

Mickey tried to shake his ankle out of Ian’s grasp, but Ian had hold of him with an iron fist. Mickey leaned over and tried to swat at Ian’s arm without losing his balance on the pool’s edge.

“Cut that shit out right now, Gallagher.”

Ian just grinned, squeezing Mickey’s ankle like he was about to tug him in. “Come on, Mick.”

Mickey’s eyes widened and, just as Ian had imagined he would— he started to freak the fuck out.  

“Ian stop that shit right now, I swear to god I will fucking murder you if you—”

They were at the 6-foot marker in the pool, right where it was deep enough for Mickey to stand on the very tips of his toes; and with this knowledge, Ian tugged at Mickey’s calf— causing him to falter, his arms circling like a cartoon character before he lost his balance and crashed into the water on his side.

Ian immediately placed his hands on Mickey’s hips, standing him upright before his head even fell under the water— but Mickey was still sputtering and splashing, like the drama queen that he was. Once Mickey regained his composure and realized he was easily standing on the bottom of the pool, his head bobbing just above the water, he swiftly splashed healthy burst of water into Ian’s face, the chlorine stinging his eyes and nose.

“Fuck you, Gallagher!”

Ian coughed at the water that had shot up his nose, but immediately splashed Mickey back—and then, because there wasn’t any way this whole pool situation was going to go anyways, he and Mickey were immediately engaged in a life-and-death splash battle, circling each other in the middle section of the pool.

Ian was laughing so hard he felt a stitch in his side— and Mickey was finally grinning again, water dripping down his cheeks and clinging to his hair. After a few minutes Ian threw his hands in the air in surrender, the water cresting at his shoulders.

“Truce!”

Mickey splashed one more surge of water at Ian’s chest for good measure, grinning like a kid in a candy store— then he took a step closer to Ian, eyebrows raised.

“Truce.”

Ian beamed down at him, pressing a quick peck to the top of his damp hair. “Sorry for throwing you in the pool.”

Mickey rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah.”

“But in my defense, it had to happen eventually.”

Mickey shoved him squarely in the chest, taking a step back. “You ruined the fucking truce.”

Ian gave a smug smirk. “Do you wanna learn how to swim, or not?”

Mickey flicked another burst of water at him, just enough to cast a slew of droplets onto Ian’s cheeks. “Alright. Get coaching, Michael Phelps.”

Ian hadn’t really considered how he was actually going to teach Mickey to swim— but it couldn’t be that hard, right? He tried to think back to when Lip had taught him how to tread water, on an equally as sweltering day in the backyard pool, when the yard was packed with lawn chairs and drunk neighbors and smelled of ashy barbeque smoke.

“Okay. So you’ve gotta move your arms in circles, kinda, to stay floating. And your legs too.”

Ian swam over to the deeper end of the pool, just an arm’s length away from where he and Mickey’s feet could touch, and tried to demonstrate how to tread water. “I feel like the easiest way for you to learn is just by doing it. C’mere.”

Mickey looked at him reluctantly, brows furrowed again in an outward display of his bundled nerves. “No fucking way.”

Ian sighed in exasperation. “C’mon, Mick. I’ve got you. I’m not gonna let you drown, you can hold on to me the whole time.”

Mickey raised an eyebrow— but then hesitantly took a step towards Ian, the water reaching up to the bottom of his chin.

“Alright, good. Now step where you can’t reach and try to tread water like I did.”

Mickey stepped forward again, then started to circle his arms under the water— and he was doing great, for a second, before he seemed to get too in his head about the mechanics and started to grit his teeth.

“Little help here, Gallagher?”

Ian grinned and stepped forward. “Here, you can hang onto me.” He stood where Mickey could reach and grab onto his shoulders if he needed to— but Mickey seemed to regain his confidence, and was starting to steadily, if a little bit clumsily, tread water.

He kept it up for a while, until Ian could see that he was overexerting himself— waving his arms under the water with a little too much gusto, brows furrowed and his teeth digging into his lower lip in concentration.

“Mick, you’ve got it. Chill out for a sec.”

Ian reached an arm out, a branch for Mickey to grab on to— because he had been joking before, yes, but he really didn’t want Mickey to fucking drown— and when Mickey grasped onto it, Ian pulled Mickey towards him in the water, kicking backwards so they were suspended in the deeper end of the pool with Mickey clinging to Ian’s neck.

Mickey looked nervous as Ian veered them towards deeper waters, his eyes darting from side to side where they were floating, his fingers digging into the back of Ian’s neck— and Ian smirked at how freaked out he seemed, standing only a few feet from where they could both confidently stand on the tiled pool bottom. But Mickey didn’t resist, or try to propel himself back into the shallower waters— he let himself cling on to Ian, fingers interlaced behind the tops of Ian’s shoulders, as he kept them afloat. Ian laughed softly in a warm, wet gust across Mickey’s cheek. “You okay?”

He could feel the heat radiating off of Mickey’s body, squeezing up close against him— and Ian couldn’t help it, the wave of fondness that came over him as he looked down at where Mickey was pressed against his chest; trusting Ian to keep them above the water, trusting Ian enough to go along with his stupid plan to teach him to swim in a public pool on a random morning just because Ian wanted to. Ian couldn’t help but feel warmth in his stomach at this simple moment, at the two of them bobbing in the pool— at teaching his husband to swim, something Mickey’d never gotten to do as a kid but something that they had the rest of their lives to do together.

“Maybe we could teach Franny to swim next summer. If we have our own place.”

As he said it, Ian hoped that Mickey could see the flood of hopes that he had for them in his eyes— that he wanted a place with a pool, and a balcony, maybe a backyard, and maybe even a fucking garden—he’d always wanted to grow tomatoes. More than anything he wanted to build something sturdy, that could stand up to whatever ground would inevitably shift beneath them in the years to come— he’d been thinking about that a lot these days, especially with all of the pandemic shit that had pulled a rug out from under this entire neighborhood.

Mickey’s gaze flickered up from where it had been boring a panicky hole in Ian’s sternum, meeting Ian’s eyes at the phrase “our own place”— and Ian instantly knew that he got it, that he could see the dreams that Ian was building for the two of them right in front of their eyes. That after months and years of obstacles and chaos and other voices infiltrating their heads, now it was just them— now it was just Ian and Mickey, clinging to each other and drifting through the calm, chlorinated waters.

And maybe it was their proximity, or the intensity Ian knew he was pouring out in his gaze, but instantly the air between them shifted as Mickey looked up— starting to hang heavy like the press of the humidity in the air. Their faces were centimeters apart— and Mickey’s lips parted slightly, his eyes now cast downward at Ian’s lips. Ian could smell the sweet, warm beer on Mickey’s breath, mingling with his own; he looked at Mickey, whose arms were still wrapped around his neck, water dripping down his face from the hair that was fanning over his forehead—and Ian just had to pull him in, had to place a hand in the damp hair at the nape of Mickey’s neck and tug him closer, backing them against the tiled wall of the pool.

Ian could taste the faintest bitterness of chlorine on Mickey’s lips, from the water droplets lingering there, as he took Mickey’s bottom lip between his teeth. Mickey’s hands were still limply wrapped around Ian’s neck, keeping himself afloat— even though Ian had backed them against a wall in the shallow end of the pool again, and Mickey could probably touch his toes to the ground if he wanted to.

Ian raised his hand from under the water, wanting Mickey closer— he pressed a hand to the side of Mickey’s neck, slick with water, and slid a thumb over Mickey’s collarbone, pressing down with the pad of his fingers.

And Mickey gave a little involuntary noise from the back of his throat, sending a jolt down Ian’s spine.

Ian’s hands circling Mickey’s neck was definitely not a foreign concept while they were kissing—  it was something they did a lot these days, especially as their hours in bed had taken a turn from the crazed, I-missed-your-body-so-fucking-much sex they were having in the beginning days of being in prison together and those early months after Mickey had gotten released— but both in prison and during this fucking quarantine, they’d gotten a bit more experimental, and a bit more reckless—especially before Ian had gotten his warehouse job and they were still on their structureless “honeymoon,” spending entire days lounging in bed.

It was those days of lazy, languid kisses, after years and years of already knowing each other, that Ian realized that he was maybe a little bit obsessed with Mickey’s neck. He’d always joked about liking Mickey’s legs, and that was true too (if he was being honest, there wasn’t a part of Mickey’s body that didn’t make his blood run hotter)— but the first time Mickey had grabbed Ian’s hand and put it up to his neck while they were tangled together, pressing down until Ian’s hand covered most of his throat, Ian knew that they’d opened Pandora’s fucking box.

By this point, Ian’s hand was pretty much always on Mickey’s neck at some point while they were fucking or even just making out— if he was being totally honest, Ian’s hand was on Mickey’s neck more often than not in lots of contexts these days, once they realized how much they both loved it. But there was something about this current moment, of Mickey wantonly desiring a point of contact there, right now, while they were very randomly and decidedly making out while floating in a public pool on a lazy weekday afternoon, that made Ian’s blood run hotter than usual, and rush quicker through his veins.

Ian let the pads of his fingers creep up the velvet skin of the side of Mickey’s neck, pressing a little deeper, a prelude— he could feel the vibration of Mickey’s heartbeat starting to flutter from where Mickey was still pressed against his chest, still clinging to his neck in the water.

They’d already extensively discussed limits and everything, Mickey would tap his wrist twice if shit got too intense— but even with that in mind, Ian pulled apart from Mickey for a second, trailing ghosts of kisses up the side of his neck and nipping at the underside of Mickey’s jaw. Mickey stretched his neck back and gave a little involuntary sputter of a moan, bubbling out of his mouth before he could stop it. He fisted a hand in Ian’s hair, at the nape of his neck, and leaned forward again to press their lips together with more fervor.

Ian pulled back again, his upper back resting against the concrete lip of the pool. Mickey looked disheveled and wrecked, half-dry chlorine-crusted hair sticking up from where Ian’s other hand had been cradling the back of his head, his blue eyes gleaming and catching the over-bright summer light. Mickey was still clinging his arms around Ian’s neck, holding on— they were in a fucking pool, and Mickey still couldn’t really fucking swim yet— and even though they were standing in a place where Mickey’s toes could certainly touch the ground, the whole thing felt weirdly insular and intimate, like they had to cling to each other.

Mickey raised his eyebrows at Ian, like he was daring him to keep going.  

Ian leaned forward, breathing heavily into Mickey’s mouth, but not pressing their lips together yet—and he reached a hand up again, against Mickey’s tender skin. Mickey’s legs were wrapped around Ian’s hips now, locked like a vice to keep himself upright in the water— and he pressed a little harder, gently pulsing at the sides of Mickey’s neck, in tandem with their lips pressing together over and over again as the warm waters surrounded them—the whole thing, the whole combination, made Ian feel indescribably floaty and weird and warm and blissed out; his skin stinging like ice and fire at every point of contact, electricity  zapping his nerve endings wherever his fingertips met Mickey’s skin. Mickey fisted his hand harder at the back of Ian’s hair, nodding slightly—and they were definitely not going to fuck here, in the filth of a Southside public pool, but this insular closeness, the knowing what they both wanted to right now, was equally as thrilling and fulfilling to Ian in the moment. He could almost feel his own heart beating, reverberating as it pressed against Mickey’s chest, vibrating straight through Mickey and back to him as they clung to each other in the water.

Mickey’s body was thrumming, letting out little gasps of breath between kisses and touches—and Ian pulled back and dragged his lips down the side of Mickey’s neck, inhaling the sunwarmed skin. Fuck. He was never, never going to get enough of this.

**

Later, they’d dragged their water-heavy limbs back through the still summer streets to the Gallagher house, their skin pink and their bodies exhausted from soaking up the sun— and they’d collapsed into bed, feeling the dried chlorine coating their skin.

Ian reached a hand up, rubbing a thumb over Mickey’s cheek, their bodies pliant and fatigued— and pressed a kiss to his forehead.

“Thanks for letting me teach you how to swim.”

Mickey had smirked. “Yup, that was definitely the only highlight of today. Swimming.”

[traincat]

Hi! I just wanted to say that I really love your work and ask if there is any chance that one of your Spideytorch fics will be done before the end of the year? I'm not trykng to pressure you or anything, I'm just really invested in someof your ideas :) on that note: is it by any chance possible to persuade you into giving us some teeny tiny morebinformation about the virgin Johnny or PeterJohnnyMJ wips? They just sound so good O.O

Thank you! They ARE good (I think, anyway) -- I wish I could say like, a definite yes, but it’s more of an “I hope” yes. To be totally honest, it hasn’t been the best year in terms of either circumstances or mental health and my “oh okay I’m depressed” realization has always been “I’m not writing.” In this case, I am writing, but I’m not writing consistently. It was definitely not my plan to not have posted some longer WIPs before now and trust me nobody is madder at me about this than I am. So I definitely want to get them done sooner rather than later, especially the two auction fics I owe. But I can give you more info on those two.

The virgin Johnny WIP is set around Fantastic Four #205-207, aka the “Johnny accidentally goes to evil college and Spider-Man has to save him” plot, which coincidentally fit in around the time Peter’s extramarital affair with his ex, Betty Brant, went down, because I like to complicate things. I’ve hit the point in it where I’ve realized I’ve screwed myself because now I have to transcribe canon dialogue:

Throughthe window he could see Johnny, lying under the covers with his back to Peterand apparently asleep as if nothing had happened, which was more than enough tosettle some of Peter’s suspicions. He had a feeling if he strapped a liedetector test to Johnny, he wouldn’t have been able to tell Peter what hadhappened just hours before.

Asquietly as he could, Peter forced open the window and slung himself over thesill. The moonlight fell softly across Johnny, asleep on the bed, turning hisblond hair almost silver. It made him look beautiful, but also not quite real,like if Peter touched him he’d find him made out of nothing but pale fire.

Johnnyalso apparently slept shirtless. Of course he did. Peter sucked in a breaththrough his nose and reached out to shake his shoulder. His skin seemed, ifanything, warmer in sleep, like he’d let the tiniest little bit of his controlslip, and his bare shoulder was comfortingly warm through Peter’s gloves,chasing away the night’s chill.

“Riseand shine, handsome,” he said, leaning over Johnny. “We gotta talk.”

Thanks, Marvel, for making sure I have plenty of material.

The PeterMJJohnny fic is set in MC2 continuity and basically comes from my extreme frustration with the Fantastic Four half of MC2 because the Spider-Man half is great! Peter and MJ are married with kids! It’s a fun canon! The Fantastic Four half is “then Johnny married his abuser but for real this time.” So this is set pretty early in the MC2 canon diversion, about three-ish years after it breaks off from the main canon, before Johnny is married. I kind of wish I could include some of the steamier bits from the WIP, but I think tumblr will just banish the post. (Part of the reason I’m considering using a Patreon account.) 

Peter wasbeginning to realize what a spectacularly bad idea this entire night had been.

Ifthe looks Mary Jane kept throwing him over the top of her glass said anything,she’d already figured out he’d messed up. Fix it, hereyebrows said. As if Peter knew how.

Still,he hadn’t spent all those years as Spider-Man finding solutions to the hardproblems to back down from the challenge now. So what if most of thosesolutions had ended up being “hit the problem real hard.”

“Excuseme,” he said, pushing his chair back. “I need to go call the sitter.”

Hemoved to the back of the restaurant, by the restrooms, and then he fished hisphone out of his pocket. He scrolled to a familiar name in his contacts andpressed call.

Asecond later, across the room, Johnny reached for his phone. He frowned down atthe screen, then looked back up. Peter made eye contact and shook his head. Slowly,Johnny put his phone away. He turned to Lyja and Peter could see his lipsmoving: nobody.

“Hey,”he said, after Johnny’s voicemail message had ended. “First I want to say thatI’m sorry. I didn’t mean to spring that on you like that. The heat of themoment got away from me and – heat of the moment. You see, it’s funny becauseyou’re so -- Sorry.” He took a deep breath. “Look, this is serious. Mary Janeand I, we’re really serious. And maybe this set up was a mistake, but wethought it would be romantic,” he paused. “And we want that. For you. To havesomething romantic. So if you want me to never speak of this again, that’sfine. It’s your call. But Mary Jane thinks together the three of us could havesomething really special, and I agree. Ball’s in your court, Johnny Storm. I’dsay I love you, but you already know that.”

Helowered the phone and almost hung up before he raised it again. “And myfavorite movie’s Arsenic and Old Lace, but you know that too, because you thinkit’s weird I love a movie where the hero’s sweet little old aunts murder people.”

Hehung up. Then he called the babysitter, because he said he was going to.

“Everythingalright?” Mary Jane asked when he rejoined the table.

“Fine,” he said, kissing her on the cheek. He looked at Johnny as he didand Johnny looked back.