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Meaning and Intent

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“You look like a fucking wet rat.”

In truth, Ian looks fucking amazing and you have trouble not staring at him. Even covered in blood from a fight that was so fucking unhealthy, he looks so good and so happy and so Ian. It’s the most Ian he’s looked in you don’t know how long, and you can’t help yourself - you can’t help but smile and touch and kiss.

And every time you kiss Ian, every time Ian kisses you, it’s like every problem in the world just fades away. Nothing else exists - it’s just you and Ian and his tongue against yours, his hands on your skin, his breath hot against your lips. It’s all that matters, and you could happily live the rest of your life that way. He’s all focus and control as his hands grip you tightly to him, but his mouth - oh, his mouth - loses all control and everything like it when he moans sloppily into you, licks at the roof of your mouth, sucks hungrily on your bottom lip.

Kissing Ian is like nothing else in this world.

Ian kisses with confidence, with meaning and intent, and every time he does it, you swear you’ll one day figure it out, figure out what the meaning and intent are, because they’re important. You know they’re important. There’s always so much purpose when he cradles your face in his hands, so much precision when he tilts your head this way and that, so much need and want when he nips at your bottom lip, and it’s all for you.

He kisses you like it’s the most important thing he could be doing, the most important thing he’s ever done, the most fucking important thing he will ever do, and you know it’s not - not by a long shot - but sometimes you think that he kisses you that way because it’s how he feels. You know for fucking sure that it’s how you feel about him. Sure, getting him to the clinic, getting him to take his meds, getting him to be healthy - all important things, but not nearly as important as kissing him thoroughly, telling him with teeth and tongue and choked out gasps that kissing him like it’s the most important thing you could ever be doing, is the most important thing you could ever be doing.

So you do your best to kiss back with just as much meaning and intent, but you don’t think it’s the same, and you think it’s because your meaning and intent are always different. Though you’re not sure how. You have less knowledge of your meaning and intent than you do of Ian’s. All you know for sure is that, with Ian, you can feel the difference, the difference between I’m-horny, let’s-fuck kisses and I’m here, I-love-you, I’ve-got-you kisses.

Or, in this case, the I’m-here, I’m-still-me, please-continue-to-love-me kisses. The kisses that matched the look on his face after your fight, and it hurts, so fucking much, so you do it. You love him and you try to show him that when you kiss him.

You think he gets it. You hope like fuck he gets it. He kisses you back like he hasn’t done in so fucking long, and it makes your heart thud heavily, makes your legs shake violently, makes fucking tears burn in the backs of your eyes, but you push past it all, you push past everything that could make this moment not perfect, and you make it perfect.

“Get this fucking jacket off,” you mutter against his lips, not because you expect this to go anywhere, but because you need more, more kissing, more closeness, more Ian. You don’t give a fuck if his dick is limp from all the meds, so long as he keeps kissing you the way he is, so long as you can keep kissing him the way you are.

Jacket and shirt off, he walks you backwards until you hit the fence, and then you can finally feel him, feel his hard stomach against your cold fingers, feel his warm breath brushing your face, feel his good hand stroke hotly at the skin of your back.

Feel his hard dick press into your stomach.

You don’t want to stop kissing, but you do it anyway - partly to gasp for a breath, partly to say something. Ian mumbles something in displeasure when you pull away, but keeps kissing you - your face, your neck, your hair. If his lips can reach it, he kisses it.

“Fuck, Ian.” You grip his undershirt in your fists. “I swear to fuck, if that fight is what’s got you going then we need to have a serious conversation about the health of our relationship.”

“Not the fight,” he breathes, right into your skin of your neck. “You, Mick. Kissing you.”

You believe him. You believe him so much that you go back to kissing him, let him attempt to unbutton your shirt one handed until it gets too much, until you want the shirt off more than he does and pull it over your head. He goes straight back to your mouth the moment your face is free, with even more intent and meaning than previously, and you groan against him, slip your hands beneath his shirt and pull him closer, closer, closer, until he’s cautiously rutting against you.

All you wanted was the kissing, and, fuck, you really can deal with the side effects of his meds, but shit. Ian is hard and needy against you, his fingers digging into your hips as he manoeuvres his thigh between your own two legs, and it makes you weak. It makes you desperately want something you’ve been okay with going without, and if Ian wasn’t becoming fucking frantic in his movements against you, then you would be flooded with guilt at not being able to hide your arousal.

“You, Mickey,” he says again, forehead against yours, and lips brushing your own as he speaks. “Only you make me feel this way.”

Again, you believe him. Despite how many people he’s fucked, despite the fact that he cheated, you fucking believe him because of how he looks at you, how he touches you, how he fucking kisses you, and an I love you gets caught in your throat, but you hold onto it for now; you screwed up saying it for the first time by doing it on his voicemail, you won’t screw up saying it to his face for the first time by doing it only minutes after a physical fight.

Instead you move your hands to his face, wipe away some of the blood near his eye, and try to fucking compose yourself. He’s panting just as hard as you are, and his eyes are on yours, pupils blown with the barest ring of blue surrounding them, and it’s fucking beautiful. He’s too fucking beautiful.

“You okay?”

He nods. “I’m good.”

“You sure?” You can’t help yourself, asking again, but he just smiles.

“You were right about that beer.”

“Oh yeah?”

He slips his hands beneath your undershirt, caressing your skin, still moving slowly against you. “Might be a little tipsy.”

“Maybe that’s what’s got you so hot.”

“Not a chance.”

You move your hands up his chest, let your palms brush lightly over his nipples, and your heart skips at the way his breath hitches. “You wanna get outta here?”

He shakes his head. “Wanna fuck here.”

“Yeah?”

He rolls his hips into you, and your head falls back against the fence, gaze leaves his. You press your fingertips into his chest, eager for something to hold onto, something to anchor you down, and when you open you eyes to look at him again, he’s got that smirk on hip lips. That challenging smirk you’ve missed so fucking much that just seeing it makes your heart ache.

“Want you to make me feel,” he continues, lowering his face to suck on your earlobe.

“Fuck, Ian.”

“Want you to fuck me,” he breathes into your ear, grinding against you.

“Here?” Your voice comes out in a fucking squeak, and Ian chuckles.

“Yeah, here. Just like the old days. Got a problem with that?”

You push him back, further into the dugout, intent on showing him just how much of a problem you don’t have. He smiles, and somehow manages to switch it around so he’s dragging you with him by your belt, and he’s so fucking hot, so goddamn incredible that you can’t believe it. His smile, his hair, his fucking eyes - everything about him is so fucking good all the time, but in the setting sun he’s just magnificent.

“Stop staring,” he says, all smiles, and you realise you’re smiling back just as hard.

“Can’t.”

“Then fucking kiss me.”

You kiss him - with so much fucking meaning and intent, and if the way he moans into your mouth is anything to go by, he just might get what it is you’re trying to tell him. You kiss him and kiss him, once again dumbfounded at the way he kisses you, and it takes everything you have to not fall apart in his arms.

He pulls back and runs his good hand through your hair. “Jackets. Bag.”

“What?” You blink a few times, too fucking dazed to understand what he’s saying, and he grins.

“Jackets so we can lie down, and the bag for the lube and condoms.”

“Right. Yeah, okay. You came prepared, huh?” You get the jackets, grab Ian’s bag, too, and when you get back to him he’s got his undershirt off and is going for his jeans. You drop the bag and jackets. “Fuck, man, you sure you wanna take it all off? It’s pretty cold out.”

“I’m sure. Need to feel you against me, Mick.”

You swallow heavily and stare at him. It’s all you can do because he’s down to just his boxers and it’s fucking … you don’t even think there’s a word in any language to describe Ian, because beautiful, gorgeous, striking, aren’t anywhere near enough, even in the freezing fucking cold when his boxers are tenting in the middle of the dugouts, he just looks fucking perfect.

“C’mon, Mick,” he says, voice a soft murmur, but you don’t miss the apprehension in it, and you know he’s concerned that you’re too concerned, that you’re going to stop because you don’t want him getting sick on top of being sick, because you don’t want him rushing into anything, because you don’t know if this is him or the beer or the fight talking.

You step forward and pull your tank top over your hear, knowing there’s a good chance you’ll end up regretting your next words, but you place your hands on Ian’s hips and say them anyway. “You’re good?”

He rolls his eyes and pulls you to him. “I’d be better of you got the fuck on with it and warmed me up.”

So you do. Because it’s Ian. Because it’s Ian you spread both the jackets out for him to lie on, because it’s Ian you hurry to get your own jeans off, because it’s Ian you go back to kissing him and kissing him and kissing him.

And you don’t stop kissing him, don’t stop running your hands up and down his body, meeting every movement of his hips with one of your own, until he pulls his lips away from yours, breathing heavily.

“C’mon, Mick,” he says again, this time impatient and eager, good hand down the back of your boxers. “This is fucking hot and everything, but get on with it before my meds kick in and my dick starts flagging again.”

You don’t reply. You move around to get your boxers off, help Ian and his injured hand get his off, and then go back to kissing him. You know he’s ready to get going, and shit, you fucking hurt with how badly you want him, but you can’t do it yet. You don’t know when this Ian will be back, how long this Ian is around for, so you’re going to make the fucking most of kissing him like it’s the most important thing you could be doing, the most important thing you’ve ever done, the most important thing you will ever do.

He lets you. He pushes his hips into yours, grabs at your ass, grunts and moans into your mouth as your dicks slide together, until you pull away, too fucking close to coming against his stomach, but too damn eager to give him what he wants to let that happen.

You sit back on your knees, and stare down at him as you grab the lube and a condom. He watches you with hooded eyes, his chest heaving with every breath, his hand idly stroking his dick, and you grit your teeth to keep every little whimper inside. He whimpers, though - he whimpers and groans and sighs your name as he touches himself and watches you slick up your fingers, and it’s everything you need, everything Ian knows you need, to get on with it.

One hand next to Ian’s shoulder, holding you up, you reach down to touch him with the other, circling his hole slowly. He hums in pleasure, squirms slightly and bites his lip, and you press kisses to his chest because watching him is too damn much. Slowly - so fucking torturously slowly - you press the tip of your finger in then pull it back out again.

Ian grabs your wrist between his legs, squeezes painfully, and you quickly look up to meet his gaze.

“I’m not going to break.”

“Ian.”

“Mickey.”

You close your eyes and take a few breaths. When you open them again, Ian’s giving you that smirk again.

“Make me feel, Mick.”

You slip your finger in, up to the first knuckle, and the noise Ian makes is filthy. You mutter a curse and begin to finger him, searching, reaching, finding that one stop that makes his eyes fly open.

“Yeah, Mick, more.”

You give him more. You give him everything he wants, and when he tells you he’s close, to fucking get the fuck in him, you suit up and you do it. He stares at you, watches you line yourself up and push inside, and when you meet his gaze all you can see is Ian, your Ian.

“Fuck.” You press your forehead to his cheek, not sure you can hold back at the feel of his tight ass around your cock, and he reaches down to grab your ass and pull you in further. “Ian - Ian, stop. Not gonna last.”

He chuckled throatily against your skin. “Better get on with it, then.”

You move. Slowly at first, but because you know you’ll fucking lose it if you go too fast, not because you’re being careful with Ian. Ian who fucking dips his fingers between your ass cheeks, licks at every inch of skin he can get near, tells you over and over again how good you feel inside of him, how much he’s missed you, how fucking much he wants you - and fuck, a shudder runs through you and you pick up speed, already so close.

“Fuck, shit, Mick,” he chokes out, voice fucking wrecked. “Faster.”

A groan falls from your lips into his neck at his words, his voice, his everything, and you rock into him, going faster and faster with every incoherent word that falls from his lips. His legs grip your waist tighter and tighter as he lifts his hips to meet you, and you slip a hand between you to grab his dick.

He comes quickly and suddenly, hot between your stomachs, and it’s so fucking sexy that you gasp in awe, and your own orgasm sneaks up on you, shudders through you.

You collapse on him, try to catch your breath, take comfort in the sound of his heart beating beneath your ear, and Ian keeps talking, telling you how good you are, how good you feel, how good you’ve been to him lately …

You slowly lift your head to look at him and he stares right back, eyes a little too watery for your liking.

“I shouldn’t have said what I said.”

You don’t pull out for whatever serious conversation is about to take place. You press your chest against his and look down at him, right into his eyes while he says whatever it is he’s got to say.

“Before we fought,” he continues. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Can’t disagree with ya there.”

He presses his palm to your cheek. “We okay?”

“I hope so.” You turn your head to kiss his palm, then smile down at him. “I kinda like ya.”

“You do, huh?”

“Yeah, you’re okay.”

I’m okay. Says the guy who’s got his dick up my ass.”

You snort and bite at the flesh of his palm. “I’ve missed ya, man.”

“Yeah, Mick, me too.”

You don’t know if he means that he’s missed you, or that he’s missed feeling like himself, but you’ll take the smile and the shiny eyes and the way he pulls you back down to kiss him. You’ll take the way he grips your neck tightly while his tongue messily tangles with yours, you’ll take the I-love-you kisses, you’ll take the way he kisses you like it’s the most important thing he could be doing, the most important thing he’s ever done, the most fucking important thing he will ever do.

You’ll take every fucking bit of meaning and intent he gives you, and you’ll give just as much back.