prompt 40 for Ian and Mickey!
@ellexa1622 also sent 40, so thanks!
40. a gentle kiss that quickly descends into passion, with little regard for what’s going on around them.
The song is slow, some top-40 hit you’ve never heard of before. You don’t suppose Ian has, either, but he still gets up and dances with you. He dances with you and fuck does that blow your mind. You never thought you would be here, slow dancing with your husband in front of his family, the okay dudes he worked with at the club, his gay Jesus followers …
Shit. Forget about gay Jesus, the guys from the club, and his family … you never thought you’d have a husband, and you sure as shit never thought you would slow dance with a guy.
But you’re doing it. With your husband. In front of everyone.
And you’ve never been happier.
Not when Ian proposed. Not when he kissed you for the first time as your husband. Not when you were dancing and partying with him and everyone only an hour ago, jumping around the dancefloor like a fucking idiot, high on serotonin and dopamine and a few too many beers.
Maybe that was your first dance as husband and husband – and you’re too fucking happy to frown at how corny that sounds – but this feels like the first dance. A slow dance. Gentle swaying, arms wrapped tightly around each other, the tranquillity of feeling like no one else is in the room.
He lifts his head to yours, temple to temple, his lips against your ear.
“Can’t believe we’re slow dancing. You know how many times I imagined this?”
You grin, tighten your arms around his waist. “Can’t believe I married such a soft bitch.”
“Can’t believe I got to marry the guy I’ve been in love with since I was fifteen.”
Your breath catches at that, but you push on. “Can’t believe I married the first guy who took me to a gay bar.”
“What happens in Mexico stays in Mexico, man.”
He nuzzles his nose into your cheek. “Can’t believe I let you go without me.”
“Can’t believe you got that far in the first place.”
He’s silent for a moment. The song changes, but he keeps holding you, swaying with you, dancing with you.
“Can’t believe Terry didn’t ruin this shit,” you say, and you can feel his smile on your skin, his teeth nip at your earlobe.
“Can’t believe Terry Milkovich’s son loves havin’ my dick up his ass.”
“Can’t believe we’ve been married for almost two hours and you haven’t fucked me yet.”
“Hmmm,” he presses the softest of kisses to your neck and you shiver. “Can’t believe you’ve held out this long without begging for it.”
“Can’t believe you haven’t begged me to blow you in the bathroom yet,” you say, voice low, desperate to hold it together. “You seen how fuckin’ good I look in this suit?”
He pulls back, meets your gaze. “You really fuckin’ do, Mick.”
He leans down, kisses you, his closed lips pressed against yours as though you hadn’t just been talking about sucking his dick in the bathroom. Doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except your husband’s lips on yours, your husband’s arms around you, your husband being your husband.
And when your husband – fuck, and that will never get old – deepens his kiss, slips his tongue into your mouth, digs his fingers into your shoulder blades, it’s still all that matters. Ian as your husband, everything he does as your husband – that all you care about.
You kiss him back, press your hands into his hips, lick at the roof of his mouth until he gasps into yours, but you don’t stop, you’re never going to stop. You pull him closer, feel him against you, and yeah, fuck yeah, maybe you will beg him to fuck you, maybe you will beg to blow him in the bathroom, because he fucks his own tongue against your own and you’re so fucking hard, so fucking ready, so fucking desperate …
Ian pulls back, breathing hard, stares at you. You stare back until someone shoves your shoulder.
You glare at Sandy. “What?”
“Thought I might get everyone together to say goodbye, that way you two can get the fuck outta here and bang in private.”
“Yeah,” Ian says, before you can think of a snappy comeback. “Let’s get the fuck outta here.”
