Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Working at a sex shop comes with many advantages. Perks up the ass, you could say.

Ian’s been at The Treasure Trail for almost two years now and he’s got the arsenal to prove it - both in his nightstand and in his back pocket when a party conversation runs dull.

He’s got stories for days. And they just keep coming, Ian left with no choice but to eavesdrop on the couple behind him as he kneels to restock a lower shelf with bullet vibes.Their third is in town and matching straps are on the menu. But it’s what restaurant to take him to beforehand that’s really turning up the heat.

Ian straightens one of the small boxes on the shelf, a recommendation locked and loaded just in case they decide to pull him into this too. Always be ready. Preparation is key in all things.

It’s a little motto he’s kept with him from the army. Something he’s strived to live by and achieved - until today, that is. Because when the shop door swings open, setting off the little chime above it, it pulls Ian’s easy gaze forward to the new customer and-... 

The welcome that’s on the tip of his tongue fumbles and trips back down his throat, leaving him silent.

Silent enough, it seems, to hear Bells pick up the slack from the counter, her own welcome ringing out what feels like a thousand miles away.

Because things are kind of muffling out around him at the moment. 

Ian’s locking the fuck in, his eyes following the new customer from his hidden crouch - curiosity blooming warmly in his belly as the guy heads toward the counter.

He’s mean-muggin’ it. Dark brows scowling. Boots clomping. There’s a weight behind each step for such a compact guy - an attitude that’s surely supposed to ward people off. But damn if it doesn’t have the total opposite effect on Ian.

The second he passes and disappears behind the next row of shelving, Ian gets to his feet, that curiosity nagging. It pulls him all the way to where the guy is now slapping a piece of paper down in front of Bells at the checkout counter.

“Oh,” she says. “You’re interested in our review program?”

“I’m interested in a hundred bucks a pop.”

Ian rounds the counter for a sneaky closer look just in time for his coworker’s stilted laugh, “Fair enough.” 

From here, he can take in the guy’s scowl up close. Subtly.

Or at least, he can for a moment or two. Because then those blue eyes flick over to Ian, and all at once they settle - surprisingly - his guard visibly relaxing into something more along the lines of intrigue. Curious, just like him.

It’s got a devastatingly cordial customer service smile lifting to Ian’s mouth on instinct. The swirl of interest in his belly, though? Nothing cordial about it.

“Ah, actually - you mind taking this one over for me Ian?” Bells says about a mile away again, the question only registering once he lets his gaze slip over to her. Because wait a second… Hold on.

She’s handing him a paper. Their review program waiver, now that he pulls his head out of his dick and actually grabs it from her.

Oh. “Uhh yeah… …‘course…”

And with that, she’s rounding the counter and back out on the floor, heading for a new couple that’s just set the door chime off.

Ian watches after her awkwardly. Feels that cordial customer service smile trying to fight its way back onto his face and winning - hard - as he brings his attention back onto the guy in front of him.

Right.

This is good. He can do this.

“Alright, so if you just wanna read and sign this waiver here,” he launches right into it because fuck it, sliding the paper in front of inked fingers. “It’s just stating that you understand the process and all that.” And that he can’t sue their asses, of course. “No rush. I’ll go grab the products in the meantime.”

With his own corporate-approved list in hand now, Ian makes to step away, but doesn’t get very far before: “You got a pen, Red?”

It’s…

Wow, yeah, of course. Who hands someone a form to fill out and then doesn’t give them anything to write with?

“Sorry,” Ian murmurs under his sheepish smile, “Here ya go.”

Pen transferred. 

And now he needs to step away and get his shit together.

“Lemme know if you got any questions.”

“Uh-huh…”

With quickened steps, Ian slips between the shelves, immediately using the privacy to roll his eyes at himself and then squeeze them shut entirely.

Jesus Christ.

Since when does he lose his cool at work like this? Not one hour ago he was explaining how a prostate massager works, in excruciating detail, to a man in his sixties. And what, now he can’t remember to give someone a fucking pen? Be serious, Ian.

No more. He’s the picture of confidence, starting now. He’s got this shit in the bag, his little hand basket filling with the items on the review list as he snakes through the shelves like a man on a mission. (If he makes contact with Bells an aisle over and hits her with the wide, pointed eyes, no he doesn’t.)

When he makes his way back to the counter, the guy is leaning against it, his attention dropped to his phone.

“All done?” Ian smiles, and already he feels better. More in control. 

Even when the paper gets pushed closer to him and he finally gets a name to put to the face.

Chicken-scratch handwriting, but that’s okay. It fits. “Alright Mickey,” Ian says, slipping the waiver into a file beneath the desk and then grabbing the hand basket from the floor. “You can follow me to the back.”

The hallway is slim and darkens the further you walk down it, the bulb in the ceiling apparently burnt out years ago. It doesn’t paint The Treasure Trail in the most legitimate light right off the bat, he’s realizing now. Nothing like leading someone down a dark scary sex shop hallway.

Actually, Mickey kinda seems like the type of guy to be into that shit, doesn’t he? Not that Ian’s judging a book by its cover.

“That last door there,” he says, allowing Mickey to pass him in the thin hallway. “Lemme hunt down the camera and I’ll be right with you-”

“W-...hold up, the camera?”

It brings Ian’s momentum to a screeching halt. “Yeah.” Has his eyes darting back and forth because that-...that shouldn’t be new information to this guy. “Did you not-… You didn’t read the flyer…? Or…the waiver you just signed…?” 

“What’s there to read?” Mickey asks, those brows furrowing again, but this time in the most impossibly unworried way. “I go in - I jack off a couple times - I get a hundred bucks.”

Oh!

Wow, okay!

The chuckle that escapes Ian isn’t professional, but he can’t help it. His bluntness is refreshing. Even if it reveals how strangely willing this guy is to walk into a situation blind. 

Still. “Well if you read it, you’d know there’s a survey that I walk you through as you test stuff.” It’s all right there. In black and white. Ian flourishes his clipboard just to prove it. “Easier to document that way. And corporate wants to see genuine customer reactions. Or at least that’s what I’m told.”

In the dim light, Mickey’s attention fans out as he nods, clearly taking this information in. This new information. That shouldn’t be new information at all. “So you’re gonna be in there when I nut?”

Ian’s brows rise, but he catches himself like a pro. “You don’t-... It’s not required that you climax.” 

More nodding. Processing. “But if I do…” 

“But if you do…” Another chuckle but it’s more awkward now. “…yeah, I’ll be in there technically.” 

It’s got potential to call the whole thing off. To be a step too far. But instead, Mickey looks up, eyeing Ian over for a few solid seconds like he’s imagining that very thing. And then, a grin, one persuaded eyebrow raising. “Alright.” 

The light in the room flicks on as Mickey pushes in and makes himself comfortable. 

And if Ian needs to take a couple seconds in the hallway to compose himself, no he doesn’t. It’s just to keep a clear head.

It’s fine.

He’s fine.

When he follows after Mickey into the room, it’s only deep enough for him to place the basket down and grab what he needs to wash. 

Then he’s back at the door. “I’ll be back,” he reminds him, watching Mickey make himself comfortable on the plush black couch. “You can take some time to yourself to uh…you know…get the motor running. Just crack the door when you’re ready.” 

And with that, he’s excusing himself from the room, only a few steps more before he’s running into Bells, who’s got the most annoying smirk on her face as she heads to the employee bathroom.“‘Get the motor running’, huh?” 

Ian closes his eyes. Pushes through with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Shut up.”

He’s got this.

(He doesn’t got this.)

When he returns with the camera and the clean toy for the end of the review, the door is cracked open.

So this guy can follow instructions. Verbal, at least. That’s good. But that doesn’t calm Ian’s nervous energy any as he knocks, slips through, and then starts setting the tripod and camera up in the corner of the room after a little head nod.

“Damn. Look at that piece of shit,” Mickey notes from the couch. And honestly Ian has to agree.

“Yeah. Pretty sure my grandma had a camcorder like this back in the day.” An incredibly sexy statement. Ian’s really helping the mood already, it seems.

When he turns the camera on standby and twists the small screen up, he’s met with Mickey looking no worse for wear on the couch, despite the unexpected grammy name-drop. 

Actually, he looks exactly like Ian left him. Which begs the question if there was even any motor-running happening while he was gone at all.

“You get a lotta takers on this shit?” 

Ian steps over to the chair positioned at the wall facing the couch. Picks up his clipboard. Lies, straight to this man’s face. “Mhm.” Truth be told, this is his first time moderating a review like this. They had maybe two takers like a year ago, and Bells took care of both of those. But Mickey doesn’t need to know that. “You ready to start?”

“Yeah man, let’s do this thing.”

And with a little flick of nerves in his chest and the press of a button, the camera beeps, a tiny red dot blinking on the front as it starts recording.

Okay, here they go…

“Ian Gallagher reviewing - Oak Park location,” he starts the script checklist, making his way back to the chair. “Could you please share your name, age, sex, and pronouns?”

There’s protocol, after all. Like with all good things.

And it seems like he’s not gonna get any fight back on them, thank god. “Mickey Milkovich. Male. Uh…twenty three…” Blue eyes flick up to Ian.

“Pronouns,” he reminds. And then, after a blink. “She, he, they-”

“He.”

“Thank you.” The clipboard feels impossibly light in Ian’s hands. Like he could pick it up too hard and it could go flying into the air. It’s cool, though. All is well. Procedure. “Alright Mickey, you’ve already signed our waiver, which corporate should have on file, but I’d like to go over things verbally if that’s okay with you.”

“Knock your socks off, Red.”

“You can call me Ian.”

“Knock your socks off, Ian.”

A smile pulls to his lips, but he stays professional. “As we move through the review, you have the right to decline using any product - as well as the right to terminate the review at any time-”

“Jesus, man. You bookin’ me for the slammer or what?”

“Just like to cover my bases,” Ian insists, although he really can’t blame Mickey. A lot of this liability stuff’s got him sounding like a fucking cop. Still. “Do you understand the things I just said to you?”

“Yeah, I understand ‘em.”

“And you understand that you’re being recorded?” Finally? “And that only the team handling this survey will have access to it?” 

Another double-check wouldn’t hurt. Even with the camera pointing right at Mickey's clearly growing impatience. “Yup.” 

“Great! Well…” Time to get this show on the road, he supposes. “Thanks for your interest, Mickey. Since it’s your first time reviewing with us, we’re gonna start off slow. And then the products will raise steadily intensity-wise. That sound good?”

“Yeah, man. What’s first.”

“First,” he says, moving to the table, “are these.” He hooks his pointer finger through a loop of the pink heart-shaped handcuffs waiting there, then holds them up for inspection. “Any initial thoughts?” He probably wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t for the fact that Mickey definitely looks like he’s got some initial thoughts.

“The fuck are they so girly for?”

“Actually, pink used to be the ‘boy color’ in the twenties - did you know that?”

Mickey’s eyes flick up to him, unimpressed by this factoid that Ian decided to pull out of his ass for some reason.

Yeah, he’s got no idea why he just said that. Back to the survey. “So design-wise, they’re not your style then…is what I’m gathering.”

Another blink. “Uh-uh.”

“Pretty low on the one-to-ten scale.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Right.” Ian could have guessed that, judging by Mickey’s…well…everything. But still, “Would you mind trying them on?” for the survey’s sake. “Comfortability and all that. I dunno if you’re familiar with using cuffs-”

“Oh I’m real familiar,” Mickey insists, already leaning forward to grab the handcuffs from him and in the same breath, slap one of the rings expertly around his wrist, Ian’s pulse ratcheting up with each metallic click that pops as he tightens it.

Because wow. That was…um… “You sure you’re not the cop?” he has to joke before he says something stupid.

And when Mickey grimaces at him, “Ugh…” it makes them both chuckle as he takes advantage of the room he’s afforded with the long, hookable chain between the cuffs, tightening the other one around his wrist himself.

Okay yeah, Mickey’s definitely got this under control.

“So…” Ian makes his way back to the chair, grabbing his clipboard to sit. “Low rank for style… How ‘bout durability?”

Back on the couch, Mickey tugs his wrists apart a few times, testing the strength. “Shit,” he declares.

Which is very funny, but, “Could you use a scale from one to ten please?”

Another tug. Experimental. “Three,” he says this time. “Could tear my way outta these things so fast your head would spin.”

Ian huffs a chuckle to himself. “I bet.” Circles the three in the lineup on his clipboard. And he probably shouldn’t have said that, should he? Hm. “Comfort?”

“Ass.” A really good rating system, but, “Gotta be a one, man. Pointy part’s annoying.” He lifts his wrists to show him where the dips in the top of the hearts press into his skin. “Few minutes of this, and shit’s gonna hurt - not in the good way.”

Ian nods - “Noted.” - circles the one, focusing on jotting some details on the side to combat the images suddenly flashing in his brain from that hypothetical - Mickey stretched out under him in bed…his arms falling as Ian releases him from the cuffs and then soothes his thumbs over the dents left in his skin…

“M’done with these.”

A single blink, and Ian’s in the back room again. Gathering himself, with a purposefully composed raise of his brows as he answers. “Of course.” A minor slipup. Itty bitty daydream. It’s fine. “Do you want help?”

“Think I got it, Red.”

He’s demonstrated his mastery already. It’s no surprise when he swipes the small pink key from the table and gets himself out of the cuffs in record time, flexing and rolling his wrists. Absolutely not something Ian needs to think about too hard right now, also.

“Alright. Next up is the collar, if you wanna grab that.” Just a few more notes on the cuffs before he moves on as well.

And Mickey is self-sufficient. He’s proven that. So Ian doesn’t mind letting him do his thing, his figure moving in the hazy peripherals above the clipboard. He should probably be taking this approach from now on, if he’s being honest with himself. To prevent the Thoughts™.

Except, “Fuck’s sake…”

Ian glances up, a little spark of impulse shooting through him when he sees Mickey sitting there, his chin tilted up and tattooed fingers working over the thin black collar, failing to get it fixed around his own neck.

“Can’t see what the hell I’m doin’...”

Ian’s fingers itch. His pulse jumps. But he’s a professional! “Need a hand?”

And admittedly, the rush that comes from Mickey pulling the collar away and holding it out for Ian is the farthest thing from professional. 

But he’s just a man!

He’s just a guy.

It’s okay to have a natural reaction to an attractive person in this setting, just as long as he doesn’t act inappropriately, is all!

So once again, Ian sets down his trusty clipboard. Makes his way over to the couch. Sits on the edge of the table, taking the collar from Mickey’s hand. 

And after a split second to gather himself, he moves into action, wrapping the black leather band around Mickey’s (inarguably) very pretty throat and beginning to feed the end into the buckle for him.

He’s just helping. Just being a good moderator, his smile honest when Mickey says in this lowered voice, “Got any questions on that thing about impossible collars?”

It’s kinda cute. And they’re very close - sharing the same breathing space - so everything hits a little harder. Especially when he answers just as lowly. “Well…I think the point is your dom is s’posed to do it for you…”

Which is…ohhh boy, it’s objectively correct, but Christ, is it the wrong thing to say for his self control. Because Mickey looks up at him then, blue eyes pouring straight into him as he sits here, in the collar Ian just put on him. “Don’t got one of those…”

Images…daydreams rushing rushing rushing over Ian’s brain like hundred-foot tidal waves…

With a breath, he forces himself to carefully adjust the collar around Mickey’s throat until the buckle is where it should be in the back, the metal loop now front and center and very tuggable and okay, it’s time for him to stand back up now.

Back to his chair. Back to his clipboard.

Back to the survey.

“Got some one-to-tens for ya.” 

“Course you do.”

“How’s comfort on this one?”

Mickey eases back onto the couch, a hand reaching up toward the collar. “I dunno…seven?”

“Okay… Quality?”

“Seven.”

“Style?”

“Ten.”

“Oh,” Ian’s interest piques, “you like that, huh?”

Horrific wording, but Mickey seems to be amused by it over there. “I mean…just had my ass in pink handcuffs - anything’s gonna be good compared to that shit.”

“Right.” Ian can feel himself smiling as he catches up on some notes. He’s lucky, really. He bets the surveys Bells did weren’t even half as fun as this one with Mickey. “Now…” he drops down to the last question. “Would you use this product with a partner?”

“No.”

Ian looks up from his clipboard. “No?”

“Nah man, don’t got one.”

Ian nods. Starts writing whatever his hand decides to write back on the survey because that’s extremely interesting and relevant but also not because who cares if Mickey is single! Not Ian. That’s not what this is.

“Alright, ready for the last two? We can do ‘em together.”

There’s a pause from the couch. Like Mickey’s trying to work something out in his head. “Together…?”

“Yeah.”

“Like…me 'n you?”

Ian’s pulse dips for a horrific moment, his gaze immediately lifting at that because wait, “W-... No.” Oh boy. “‘Together’ like…you can use the two products at the same time.”

Wow, holy fuck though - imagine?

“Oh,” Mickey says. And if it sounds a little disappointed, Ian is just gonna tapdance his happy ass right over that because he does not need any more fuel for this fire. 

“Yeah. Sorry for the confusion.” That’s his bad.

Mickey’s moving on anyway, nodding toward the two remaining items that are waiting for him on the table. “Lemme guess, lube first?”

“You got it,” Ian confirms. Then, after glancing over to check that the camera’s still going for literally the first time since they started, he explains. “It’s smart to test new products like this on a safer place first - like your wrist or the top of your hand.”

Mickey’s already got the slim red lube bottle, turning it over curiously. “‘Warming’.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You ever used this?”

Ha! Yes. “No.”

“Mm…” And then with a loud click of the cap, Mickey is squeezing a dot of the lube onto the top of his hand, watching it carefully as he sets the bottle back down onto the table.

“Whaddaya think?” Ian asks once it’s been rubbed in a little and has had a chance to work. “How’s it feel?”

“Warm.”

“Yeah?” Probably not gonna cut it for corporate. “Like…pleasantly, or…”

Mickey flexes his fingers, staring down at the top of his hand before blinking lazily up to Ian. “Yeah, it’s alright.”

Okay! 

He circles a noncommittal five - no use in dwelling on this when every nerve in his body is already three steps ahead, laser-focusing on the final product. Anticipation. “If we proceed to the last item, would you wanna use it? Or should I go grab a normal lube for you?”

“Don’t worry ‘bout it - this is fine.”

Oh. “Well, it’s not about what’s fine,” for the record. “It’s about what’s gonna help make the experience memorable for you.” They’ve got about a million lubes to pick from here - in this literal sex shop.

But Mickey doesn’t seem interested in all that. “Trust me, Red. This shit’s been plenty memorable,” he assures, his brows lifting as he tilts his head in amusement. “My dick bein’ warm or not ain’t gonna change that.”

And that’s-...

…god, yeah…they really need to finish this up before Ian answers the itch in his fingers to risk it all.

‘Plenty memorable’. Christ, what an understatement. “Alright well, if you’re ready, you can-...you know…” He motions toward the final item on the table. Is less than impressed with how his words start to jumble up in his nerves. Surely if he keeps talking, that will fix it. “Have you used one of these before?” 

The couch groans as Mickey leans forward to pick up the clear, flexible toy from where it’s been cleaned and sat in its case. “I look like a guy that’s used a cock sleeve to you?”

Ian’s pulse licks up the insides of his wrists. “It’s-... A lotta people call it that, but actually it’s a stroker.” Himself included. “And no - I don’t uh-...you know… I can’t magically tell what kind of toys people are into just by looking at them.” His job would be a hell of a lot easier that way, though.

Mickey picks the stroker up, shoving a couple fingers into it to feel the inside. “Explains the heart cuffs.”

Ian almost doesn’t catch it. He’s too busy fighting his attention away from the bizarrely captivating display of Mickey fucking his fingers into the sleeve-...uh, stroker. But, “Corporate puts the lists together - I didn’t pick those out for you.”

If he was picking shit out for him this would be a completely different survey. Of course, he also probably wouldn’t make it through the first fucking product…

On the couch, Mickey hums in thought. 

And suddenly everything feels like it’s taking so fucking long.  

“D’you wanna test it out and we’ll hit some one-to-tens?” 

The feeling of those eyes once again locking onto him has his own dropping to his clipboard, habitually scanning instead of getting himself in trouble. 

And thank god he does it, honestly. Because before he knows it, he hears the telltale scrape of a jeans zipper being dragged down… Fabric bunching just a little… The lube cap clicking open and shut again and the couch springs popping and then the wettest, most obscene noise Ian’s ears have ever picked up on as Mickey slips the stroker over himself for the first time.

It’s paired with a pointed little breath out, and god… 

Ian knows it - in this exact instant.

He’s fucked.

“Shit…” he hears Mickey huff a laugh, and it goes right to his dick. “Alright, Red - maybe you’re onto somethin’ here…”

It takes everything in Ian’s power to maintain a level head. To smile, but keep his eyeline low on the survey - Mickey just a blur on the couch above it. “Quality…? One-to-ten…?”

“Mm…” his thought is drawn out…more slow strokes to make a better assessment… “...seven?”

He likes that number. Likes the toy. And Ian likes having a job, so he clears his throat, the heat in his face spreading. “How ‘bout style…?”

A huffy laugh. “S’fuckin’ plastic, man…”

It’s not. It’s TPE material. “Would you seek this product out if you saw it while browsing our store?” He’s just reading straight from the fucking survey now. Is gonna stay on track, by god - no matter how hot those nasty little wet noises are.

Because Mickey’s really starting to stroke the toy over himself, his pace quickening healthily. “Gonna crack that fuckin’ clipboard in half, man…”

Ian immediately loosens his deathgrip on the sides of it. Didn’t realize he was even fucking doing that. “Are you gonna answer my question?”

“You asked a question?”

“Would you buy this if you saw it on the shelf…” Ian reminds him, every word feeling strangely clipped as it leaves his mouth. He’s really gotta get it together. Be professional. Use his loose grip on the clipboard to place it inconspicuously over his lap. For…reasons…

Shut up, it’s fucking hot!

“Probably wouldn’ta before this… But now that I know how fuckin’ good it feels…” Mickey reaches for more lube in the edge of Ian’s vision, slicking himself up again before settling back into a rhythm. And… “You don’t gotta be so uppity, man…” He says it with a breathy smile. Ian can hear it. “You can fuckin’ look, ya know…?”

Ian takes a long breath in through his nose, hoping it doesn’t sound as needed as it is. “Not uppity,” he corrects for the recording. “Just giving you some privacy…”

Which is about as stupid as can be, and Mickey latches onto it immediately. “Kinda way past that point, don’tchya think Red?”

They are. They so fucking are. Ian doesn’t know why he’s still clinging onto this fantasy that he’s gonna get out of this without a full-on boner. It’s just not gonna happen. His only saving grace is that he’s not in the camera’s shot.

“Sittin’ over there like you’re in a fuckin’ cuck chair…”

God! Ian swallows everything down, but the temptation is too great, his heart hammering away in his chest as he finally gives into it, and lets his gaze lift from the survey.

There’s something to be said about your imagination painting a better picture than reality can ever offer.

This is not that.

Ian’s imagination doesn’t hold a fucking candle to what his eyes are seeing now - right in front of him - Mickey lazing back against the chaise lounge part of the couch, one leg hanging off the side so his boot is planted on the ground.

The angling is a bit off from Ian’s point of view. And Mickey’s got his pants unzipped and shoved down only enough to free himself. But from his chair he can see more than enough - a troubling amount, actually - arousal blooming thickly and heavily in his lap as he follows the rhythm, those tatted fingers massaging the clear stroker over his hard cock.

It’s fucking beautiful.

Mickey’s fucking beautiful.

And he’s gonna get Ian fired.

“Alright,” Ian decides with a tight-lipped smile, and then stands and starts making his way to the camera. “You seem like you’ve got the hang of it here, so I’m just gonna excuse myself.”

No need to overstay his welcome, and all that!

“That’s it?” Mickey asks, and it’s a little winded. “You’re goin’?”

“I’ll letchya decide when you’re good to go in private.” 

He slaps the camera’s screen closed and gets to work manhandling the whole thing off the tripod with one hand, the other keeping his clipboard pressed strategically to his lap. 

“Just, uh…” Surely there’s more that he needs to be saying now. He works here, doesn’t he? Wait, right - “You’re good to take that sleeve home since you used it.”

“Thought ya said it was a stroker-”

“Stroker.” Whatever! He needs to stop failing for the bait and get the hell outta here. “There’s-...” he uses his camera-hand to motion toward the clean rags and wipes on the side table with only one beautiful peek at Mickey on his way back. “Come grab your hundred from the counter before you go, yeah?”

As he starts making his subtle escape toward the door, he can hear the tiny puff of laughter from the couch. It’s at him. Mickey is laughing at him, the asshole. “Yeah, alright Red.”

“Alright. See ya soon.”

And then Ian’s slipping out the crack in the door that he opens for himself, the space so tight that his clipboard catches it, pressing against his full-on boner because of course he was right. Of course he wasn’t getting out of here without being rock fucking hard.

When he’s finally out in the hallway, he doesn’t even allow the opportunity to roll his eyes at himself. There’s just simply no time. He’s gotta keep moving, locking himself away in the employee bathroom without a single moment of hesitation.

He flips the lights on.

Dumps the camera and his faithful clipboard onto the small side table with a clatter and then grips the sink, taking in a nice big breath and then letting it out through pursed lips.

Holy fuck.

Holy fuck?

He splashes some cold water onto his face, hoping it’ll pale him back down a few shades. And when he finally looks at his reflection, he isn’t the least bit surprised by the obvious press of his hard-on against the crotch of his jeans. It’s almost comical, really. Because of course it is.

Jesus. He’s really about to do this shit, isn’t he.

Despite working here and talking about sex all day, Ian’s never jerked off in the bathroom before. It’s something he prides himself on. 

Well. Fuck that, he guesses.

Time isn’t on his side for that. He’s got no idea how long Mickey’s about to take in there now that he's alone. Which means he steels himself with a point of his chin and then drags his zipper down, shoving his hand into his jeans and immediately working his cock free from his boxers.

The edge of the sink is cold where he steadies himself with his other hand, his head hanging and brain filling with fresh, tempting images of what he just saw while he quickly jerks himself off.

Mickey, stretched out like he owned that fucking couch…

The heat simmering in his eyes once Ian finally met them - held them, for just a moment, as Mickey slid the stroker up and down his cock, holy-

“Fuck-” Ian grits, coming straight into his hand before he can even get a toilet paper situation going. It’s so fucking fast and it’s so fucking good and he’s pretty sure he’s breaking some sort of workplace ethics agreement right now.

But god damn…

It’s a shame he’s gotta rush his way through it - gotta clean himself as quickly as he can, making sure his hands are dry from the sink and weird smelling soap before grabbing the camera again - his clipboard too.

And when he steps out into the poorly-lit hallway, it’s with what he hopes is the aura of a man who didn’t just blow his load in the employee bathroom. 

Because in an instant, he’s running right into none other than the customer who started it all.

“Oh.”

Mickey settles from his own startle, clearly unable to let a single thing he says go without giving him shit for it. “‘Oh’.”

“You’re done, I see.”

“Yup.” He even holds up the little privacy bag that Ian left for him, the stroker hidden safely inside. “Time to pay up, big boy.”

And that’s really quite a thing to say to someone. He truly is back here just saying shit, isn’t he? 

Ian would love to ‘pay up’ and start pulling his dignity back together. He would, trust him. It’s just…

“You, uh…” he nods toward him, not sure if Mickey even realizes it. “...still got the collar on.”

He doesn’t. It’s just as much of a surprise to him judging by how his brows scrunch as he reaches up to check for himself. “Huh,” he discovers. “No shit…”

“Not that you don’t-...ya know…” Not that he doesn’t look so good in it that Ian could scream himself raw. “Just thought you’d want the heads up before we go back out there.”

In front of him, Mickey seems to consider that.

And then, he takes a step closer, clearly asking without asking. He needed help getting it on, after all. And Ian’s getting the picture on pure instinct alone.

The camera and clipboard make one more pitstop so he can free his hands. And this time, when he comes in close and slips the buckle of the collar around so he can work it open, Mickey’s gaze fixes onto him in a whole new way. A purposeful way - curious but confident. 

Can he tell that Ian just jacked off in the bathroom?

The singe of his nerves still has his hands shaking a little, but thankfully the collar unfastens for him without a hitch. 

It’s when Ian pulls it free that the momentum trips up between them - when he can’t help but notice the way Mickey’s eyes follow after the thin black collar - linger on it, even as Ian holds it steady near his stomach.

A beat passes between them. 

Silence.

Hm. “You wanna hang onto it?” Ian ventures, taking a shot in the dark.

And for once this evening, he finally hits the mark. “Uh-huh.” 

It’s almost cute the way he says it. The way he takes it the second Ian offers it again, stuffing it protectively into his pocket. 

Ian’s pretty positive it doesn’t fall under the You Use It, You Keep It category, but how is he supposed to say no to eyes like that?

“Alright, how ‘bout we getchya your money.”

“Lead the way, Red.”

Walking back into the bright lights of the store is fucking jarring, the weird little bubble that he and Mickey sealed themselves away in back there suddenly bursting around them.

But it has to be done. This has to end. They did the thing and now Mickey deserves his money.

“So how many times they gonna let me do this shit?”

Ian chances a quick look at him over the register, and then goes back to opening it. How many times…? “Uh…indefinitely, I think.” He wants to come back? “There’s like a thousand surveys.” 

Instead of getting his hopes up, Ian concentrates on cobbling together a fifty and a twenty dollar bill - the rest, unfortunately, will have to be ones.

But Mickey’s cool with it - both the fat stack of cash being handed to him and the opportunity for more. “Maybe I’ll be around next week.”

And oh…Ian hates to get his hopes up. 

He is truly the sorest loser on the planet when it comes to getting disappointed. 

But there’s just something swimming around in the energy between them that makes him wanna believe. So… “Okay,” he says, the smile that tugs at the corner of his mouth far from professional, once again. “I’ll probably be here.”

It’s all under Mickey’s interested gaze, his eyes sweeping over Ian once, twice, as he folds the money up and sticks it in his pocket.

Curious but confident.

And then he’s cracking a smile, one that Ian’s pretty sure he’s gonna think about tonight at home when he can appreciate the situation properly.

“Catch ya later, Ian.”

With that, Mickey Milkovich has swept through The Treasure Trail like a fucking tornado, Ian getting caught up in him in all sorts of ways.

He has absolutely no idea what time it is. No idea how long that took. No idea how he’s gonna manage another survey with this dude if he does end up showing again.

All he knows is his lungs are full, his long exhale drawing his attention over to Bells, who is leaning on the other end of the counter with her chin propped up on her hand, staring at Ian with a dramatic, goofy grin.

Yeah, yeah. 

He knows.

“I hate you,” he says. Then, more accurately, “Thank you.”

Chapter Text

Always be prepared.

It’s a little motto Ian's kept with him from the army.

But never in his life did he think that’d translate into jerking off three times before work every day.

He has to, though. Once Monday hits, it’s all fair game. He’s playing Russian Roulette with Mickey Milkovich, never sure when that bell is gonna ring above the door and he’s gonna come sweeping through The Treasure Trail again. 

‘Maybe I’ll be around next week.’ That’s what he said.

And Ian refuses to get swept up in his tornado like a panting, horny amateur again, so he keeps his feet firmly planted. Keeps his head in the game. Jerks off until there can’t possibly be any more cum in him because god damn it, he’s gonna be prepared this time. 

Which means when that bell finally does ring - when Ian’s extra-observant watching of the door finally pays off and Mickey strolls his way into the store - it’s all hands on deck.

Ian’s entire body may be buzzing with excitement, but he’s ready this time. He’s got complete control, leading Mickey to the back with the camera and his little hand basket of goodies. 

With his determination to prove himself, and Mickey’s very obvious interest in being here, they get through an entire survey without fault!

Don’t get it twisted - Ian still wants to chew through his clipboard once or twice. He could jerk off a thousand times beforehand and still feel the curl of attraction as he sits, watching Mickey strap himself into a sexy leather chest harness over his shirt. But this time, at least, he’s not strategically hiding his hard-on behind a clipboard.

And when they get to the final item - a ribbed, off-brand Fleshlight - Ian asks two survey questions, keeping it low, and then excuses himself with so much grace that he just knows he left a better impression this time. 

The perfect exit.

Calm, cool, and capable.

Maybe Mickey’s thoughts drift his way when he finishes himself off in the back room…?

That’d be nice. Ian’s ego really fucking likes the thought of that.

But either way, it’s a job well-done. A rhythm that they fall into. Mickey shows up on late Thursday afternoons, they film, Ian leaves before things get too heated and he does something stupid, Mickey gets his money, and the cycle continues.

He’s wracking up a lotta good brownie points with Vee - which he obviously doesn’t need. But it’s nice, his chest filling a little when he sends the recordings over to her for approval. Some sort of manager-to-corporate papertrail that he doesn’t really give a shit about. 

Consistent customer review videos makes the Oak Park location look good. Which makes Vee look good. Which makes Ian look good. And Mickey already looks good, so he doesn’t need any help in that department. He’s just along for the ride and the fat stack of cash.

By October, they’ve got four sessions under their belt, and Ian’s never been more confident.

But of course, with his growing confidence, comes growth in other areas. And they can’t all be as desirable.

Ian taps his fingers on the counter, double-guessing his next move as he stares at the phone. Then the paper in front of him. Then the phone again. The paper.

Fuck it. 

He grabs the phone off the stand, thumbing in the number he pulls straight from the waiver. And when he gets the dial tone back, it sends a rush of anticipation through his whole body that’s fucking crazy.

Ian looks over the handful of customers in the store as he waits. Keeps an eye out for Bells. Presses the phone to his ear, his fingers tapping mindlessly on the counter as he-

“Yo.”

Ian swallows, the voice on the other end making him forget how to speak for a second before snapping back into place. “Mickey?”

“Yeah?”

“It’s Ian,” he says. Well - fuck - “From Treasure Trail.” Elaborate. This is a professional call, after all.

Even if the change in Mickey’s tone has a smile tugging at his lips. “Ian from Treasure Trail…”

“That’s right.” He should cut to the chase, shouldn’t he? “So listen…I noticed you’re usually in for your reviews on Thursdays…”

“Uh-huh…”

“I was just calling to see if there’s any chance you can push to Friday this week.”

“Friday…” Mickey’s voice drawls over the phone. Like he’s trying to envision it.

And if he can’t, Ian’s not gonna push. He’s not gonna try to fix this in his own favor beyond one attempt and he’s definitely not gonna share the truth - the fact that he has to call off this Thursday - the fact that he won’t be here and the thought of Mickey doing his review with someone else kinda makes his stomach flip and his hackles raise and he knows that’s selfish and he’s got no right to ask this of him, especially secretly like this, it’s just-

“Yeah, I can swing Friday.”

Ian breathes out, the death-grip he didn’t realize he had finally loosening around the phone. “You can?”

“Uh-huh. Just gotta be later. Like after nine. That alright?”

After nine. Shit, that’s when they close. “Yeah of course.” Welp. Nine it is, he guesses!

Something brushes over the other end, like Mickey’s shuffling something while on the phone. Then, “Alright, Red. Save me somethin’ good.”

It’s got Ian smiling. Practically fucking giddy. “You got it. See ya then.”

“Later.”

“Bye, Mickey.”

He thumbs the Call End button.

Docks the phone back on the stand.

Takes a deep breath, both palms flat on the cool counter, Mickey’s waiver between them. 

Yeah, no. 

He’s still got complete control over the situation, he promises.

Friday’s shift goes by so slowly that Ian’s starting to wonder if he broke the space-time continuum when he fucked with their review routine.

Don’t get him wrong - there’s a shit ton of customers. He even has a twenty minute interaction with a husband that’s like scraping teeth.

“I wanna grab something for my wife, but I dunno what to get.”

“Ah yeah - it can be kinda overwhelming in here. You guys use anything at home already?”

“No.”

“Okay, no problem. What does she like?”

“Uh…I dunno, baking…?”

“...no, I mean what does she like in bed.”

“Whaddaya mean.”

“Like, what seems to feel good for her when you guys are being intimate with each other.”

“Oh.” Long pause. “I dunno. We just kinda fuck.”

“...right.”

It could have gone on forever, really, if it hadn’t been for Bells, who, without even stopping, hands the man a small black box on her driveby. A multi-intensity/multi-pattern clit stimulator. “Trust me.” 

When the husband checks out and the door closes behind him, she’s still shaking her head, her arms folded as she leans against the back counter. “Poor gal.”

“Think you just became her favorite person.”

And the shift goes on.

Eventually Bells leaves. Eventually, the crowd thins to one or two every half hour as people start to begin their weekend.

And Ian appreciates that, because the closer it gets to nine o’clock, the less and less he finds himself able to concentrate on anything other than closing. Anything other than getting things ready. 

Anything other than seeing Mickey again.

At 8:50 he starts his drawer count, tallying up the money inside and then adding it to the card transactions and sending the total to Vee. 

8:53 has his nerves buzzing. Has his legs moving him all around the store to tidy up and do all his closing duties.

At 8:58 he comes to the obvious but troubling realization that nine full hours have passed since his ritualistic pre-work jack off. He didn’t really think about that. That’s too much time, isn't it. The itch under his skin is way too powerful after nine full hours of recovery, but…

He glances to the hallway with the employee bathroom.

Glances at his watch.

8:59. 

Surely he can’t go rub one out all cautionary-style before Mickey gets here, right? 

‘After nine.’ That’s what he said on the phone. But what does that mean? 

‘After nine’ like ‘9:15 - go ahead and jack it - there’s plenty of time’? 

Or ‘after nine’ like ‘9:01 - don’t even think about getting your dick out - you fucking blew it’?

Ian adjusts his watch around his wrist subconsciously, torn between being sensible and just going for it.

And in the end, he can’t stop the inevitable. Because right when he finally makes the decision to head to the bathroom with a little anticipatory thrill, the bell rings in the doorway behind him, pausing his step on a dime.

It sets off a rush of about a thousand other reactions in Ian’s body, but it’s too late for that now. He’s turning on his heels. He’s letting out the breath he’s been holding for what feels like his entire shift, warmth spreading low in his belly as he meets eyes with the man of the hour.

He nods at Ian, easy with it in his faux leather jacket and boots. “‘Ay, Red.”

Mickey Milkovich is in the house.

“Hey,” Ian answers and wow, he’s smiling. Is he smiling too hard? Whatever.

“Ready to do this shit?”

One hundred percent yes and absolutely not. Thank you for asking. “Yep - lemme take a peek at the list.”

Instead of floundering out in the open any more, Ian anchors himself behind the counter, pulling out their next list of items to review.

“Hm…” he murmurs. Like he hasn’t poured over this very paper about fifteen times today to prepare himself. “How ya feel about penetration…?”

Mickey’s brows raise as he saunters his way over to the counter, his smile still easy. “Penetration, huh?”

“Yeah, looks like that’s kinda the main goal for today.” Theme. He meant to say ‘theme’ not ‘goal’. He’s not fucking Mickey Milkovich today - oh god, imagine?

“Alright, wrack ‘em up.”

Ian looks up from the paper, his interest piqued. “Yeah? You don’t need to-…”

But Mickey dismisses it like he’s talking about the weather. “Nah man. Never know what to expect, so I been comin’ ready.” 

It’s got something fiery and nasty and gorgeous lighting in Ian’s belly, his kneejerk response to that so completely out of pocket that he has to force out a breath through his nose, offering a clipped customer service smile instead. 

Because that’s…

Well!

“Always be prepared,” he hears come out of his mouth.

And when Mickey tosses him a look, it’s teasing but amused. “Whatever you say.”

Yeah, Ian needs to fucking move.

He steps out from behind the counter, hoping a little motion will ease the buzz coursing through his limbs. 

The store is hauntingly quiet now, just the radio piped in and drifting down over them from the tinny ceiling speakers. It’s got this weird way of forcing every other sound to be too important. Too obvious. The weight of each step on the old, worn carpet… The sound of his own swallow in his throat as he makes his way to the front door... How he can hear Mickey moving around behind him, picking something up off a shelf and then setting it back down again…

It’s only the two of them in here. 

And suddenly Ian’s body is very very aware of that.

“For liability purposes,” he says, flipping the small old-school sign on the door and then locking it, “we’re technically closed for the evening.” 

No one else will be coming in now. Not until morning. 

They’re completely alone.

It’s got red flag potential. Some real serial killer energy. But if Mickey feels the same way, he certainly doesn’t show it. “Yeah, man,” he dismisses as he plucks something else off the shelf. “I seen the hours.”

Right. They are on the door and everything... “Just covering my bases.” Again. Contrary to how his dick wants to handle the task most Thursdays, this is still Ian’s job. 

“Ain’t gonna gut me, are ya?” Mickey asks then, bringing Ian’s full attention to how he uses the shelf’s display hitachi wand as a visual aid, “Ya know…” stabbing into the air at stomach level like a shiv.

Really not something Ian ever thought he’d see here, and trust him he’s seen plenty. Nothing that makes him chuckle like this, though. “No. Jesus, of course not.”

“Then settle down. Ain’t gonna sue ya or nothin’.”

The confidence with which he says it makes Ian’s chest ache. Makes him long for similar confidence. 

God, he wishes it was that easy…

Regardless, the heavy thunk of the hitachi wand returning to the display pulls him back to the task at hand. “Alright, well… No time like the present, I suppose.” He’ll be speaking in Hallmark greeting card quotes from now on too, apparently. “You wanna head back while I grab the stuff?”

“Pretty sure I know the way.”

“Just crack the door for me when you’re-”

“Yeah, yeah…” Mickey waves him off over his shoulder, not even bothering to turn around. 

It grants Ian a little moment to unclench. To deflate the air keeping his lungs full as he lets his gaze linger on Mickey’s back in private, then slip down to follow the sway of that ass under his tight black jeans before he disappears into the hallway.

It’s a nice ass. For the record.

Well, Ian doesn’t know that for sure because he’s still technically never seen it but he’s got eyes, doesn’t he? He can gather some pretty good assumptions that lead to a bubble butt that just won't quit. Professionally.

A professional opinion.

Ian blinks, all at once becoming very aware that he’s now standing in the middle of the empty store, I Only Wanna Be With You by Hootie and the Blowfish wailing away above him.

Right.

What was he doing again?

There’s only three items on the list this time. 

Ian could’ve easily gathered and gotten them ready beforehand, but he didn’t want to assume that Mickey would be down for butt stuff. It’s pretty clear he swings Ian’s way, but just because a guy’s gay, that doesn’t mean he wants something in his ass. You know?

Mickey does, though. He’s so cool with it, in fact, that apparently he’s been showing up ready for this very thing every session. And isn’t that a troublingly delicious thought? Mickey sauntering in and delivering himself to Ian all prepped and stretched and ready to go?

Christ…

It’s a thought he can’t spend too much time on, actually, his hand moving quickly over the toys as he gets them good and clean. He’s on the clock, after all. Even if he’s technically not. Technically he’s doing this shit after hours - which, yes, he got Vee’s blessing on to avoid any drama. 

He almost didn’t. But the possibility of him and Mickey showing up on the security cameras if she decided to check is too risky. He doesn’t want her thinking he’s being sneaky. Which he guesses he totally fucking is. But it turns out you can get away with a comical amount of shit when your manager is a longtime family friend and you act like a perfect innocent angel about it.

So he’s good to go. 

And when he pushes his way through that cracked back door, it looks like Mickey is good to go too.

“Got three things for ya tonight.”

On the couch, Mickey looks up from his phone to watch the items as they’re lowered onto the table. 

First, a set of silver nipple clamps. Then, resting on the clean towel, a slender black dildo and a stainless steel wand massager.

Ian double checks the lube and wipes. Notes that Mickey’s already spread the plush black cover over the chaise lounge part of the couch. And when he looks back at him, there’s even more worth noting.

“Something wrong?”

But Mickey shakes his head, that unworried frown dancing over his lips yet again. “Nah man, just thought they’d be bigger.”

Ian follows his eyeline to the two toys on the table. Follows after the impulse, half the sentence spilling out of his mouth before he can stop it. “You know, it’s not about how big it is..."

It’s not like he needs to finish anyway, with the way Mickey’s tossing him a dismissive, good natured eye roll. “Like you’ve ever had to say that shit in your life…”

Which…alright, that may be true. 

Ian’s never had to justify himself with that phrase but they aren’t talking about him right now, are they. They’re talking about the products. If Ian wants to think about Mickey assuming his dick is big, he’s gonna have to do that on his own time! “Let’s get started.”

The camera is already set up in the corner of the room, so when Ian makes his way over to it, all he has to do is unclip the lens cap and turn it on standby.

Mickey’s on the move too, getting to his feet and shrugging his leather jacket off so he can toss it over the other side of the couch.

And from his peek at the tiny screen, Ian just manages to catch the blip of something dropping from the movement and hitting the floor noiselessly. 

“Oh,” he insists, stepping forward to scoop it up for him. “Dropped your-...”

Oh…

Ian falters. 

Momentum trips up, once his brain registers what it is.

Because Mickey’s reaching down for it too - is hanging in limbo right alongside him for a brief moment.

And then he’s straightening. Slipping into something cautious but willing, as he watches Ian follow through and pick it up from the floor.

And Ian…

Hoo boy…

He stands to full height again, about a dozen different trains of thought taking off in his head - in every direction - as he looks at Mickey, and then offers the thin black collar back to him. 

It’s a moment of unsure hesitance. Fuck, he’s so glad he didn’t turn the camera on yet. “Do you…uh…”

Mickey reaches out and grabs the collar from him, immediately turning to stuff it into his jacket pocket again before either of them can say anything else.

But that doesn’t mean Ian isn’t gonna think about it. 

Because oh fuck are those trains of thought chugging away.

“We gonna do this or what.”

It’s a wakeup call and then some - “Yeah,” Ian’s brain snapping away from the dots frantically trying to connect in his brain. “Of course.”

Alright. If Mickey’s gonna act like that wasn’t just a thing, then by default, Ian’s gotta follow suit.

He can do that.

He can so do that. 

Even though that’s definitely the collar from their first review and that’s definitely not the jacket Mickey was wearing when he took it.

“Ready?”

“Yup.”

The camera blinks red when it turns it on. As it always does. Ian launches into his intros for corporate. As he always does. “Ian Gallagher - Oak Park location… Can you please state your name, age, sex, and pronouns?” Protocol saving him. As it always does. 

By now, Mickey has made his way back onto the couch, molding into the spot that he’s carved out for himself over the past month. “Mickey Milkovich - he/him - twenty three…”

“...male-”

“Male.” Three out of four. As always.

They’re really settling right back into business aren’t they? Thank god. “This is Mickey’s fifth review with us - going off Survey 5A today.” After one more check of the camera angle, Ian helps himself to his seat, holding the clipboard in his lap. “First up… Whenever you’re ready…”

They’ve done this enough now that the awkward starts have ran their course - even with the little collar trip-up they just had. 

Mickey’s practically a professional now too, the couch springs groaning just a bit as he sits forward to grab the nipple clamps off the table.

“You familiar with these at all?”

“Seen ‘em in porn.”

Ian nods, circling a discreet zero under Previous Experience. “They can slip on fabric and pinch weird, so usually they’re used on bare skin. But if that’s not something you-... Oh.” Ian simply shuts the fuck up, his lips pressing into a firm line as Mickey pulls his shirt clean off in front of him. 

Okay.

Looks like he’s good with that then.

After tossing his shirt toward his jacket, Mickey brings one of the clamps up, squeezing the mouth of it open and shut a few times in morbid curiosity. “This shit gonna hurt?”

“It shouldn’t,” Ian says, keeping his eyeline low on his clipboard. “The way you’re testing it, it’s more about pressure.” And the ends have little nubs on them, which helps. Thank god the review team didn’t start out with the ones that have teeth. “If you’re having second thoughts-”

“Who said I was?”

“No one,” Ian appeases. “Just reminding you that you can always decline.” And when he finally looks up to drive his point across, the swoop in his belly is small but fiery.

Because he’s never seen Mickey with his shirt off. By design.

Come to think of it, he’s also never called a customer’s personal number so he can keep them all to himself. It’s a night of firsts, apparently.

“Humor me and try it on your finger.”

Mickey’s mouth twists in a little frown - like he’s above all this - but he does it all the same, the clamp squeezing over his pointer like a fingertip monitor. 

“Not too bad, right?”

“Mm-mm.”

“Toldya.” Maybe not his most professional statement, but he’s finding that doesn’t matter when it’s got a laugh huffing from Mickey, the smile he redirects to him amused.

Holy fuck, it’s good to see that smirk back. “You’re the expert, Red.” He never thought he’d admit it, but it’s such a relief.

And it’s got them rolling into the first attempt in high spirits, Ian more or less obligated to watch how Mickey stares down at himself, maneuvering the first clip to his pert left nipple.

Ian would worry about explaining the necessity of that last detail, but the cool air of the back room has left him good and perky. Which means he gets the clamp to hold on the first try - hallelujah!

“Thoughts…?” he ventures, after taking in the lightning-quick grimace of surprise.

Mickey’s still making moves over there on the couch. Is following the delicate chain to the other clamp at the end and giving that one a go too. When he lets out a breath, it’s huffy with something unplaceable. “Feel like I got a goddamn crab hangin’ off my tits.”

Ian holds back a laugh. Stays on track. “Like…pleasantly, or…”

“No,” Mickey deadpans. “Not ‘like, pleasantly.’”

Alright! “Why don’t you go ahead and take ‘em off, then,” he wastes no time with it, making sure to quickly tack on, “slowly. Don’t pull.”

That’s totally fine. He’s not gonna make them dwell on this one if it’s not floating anyone’s boat. If corporate has a problem with that, they can suck his dick.

Ian finishes crossing out the clamp questions just as he hears them hit the table in one final statement. “Well, maybe in the future. There’s somethin’ to be said about trying things again in different conditions.”

“Gonna have to be real different conditions.”

“What - you mean like without a camera pointing at you?”

Mickey lets out another one of those huffy chuckles. “...‘s a fuckin’ start.” 

“Don’t blame you.” Not one bit.

“Not everything’s gotta go though, ya know?”

Ian hums in agreement, the last question scribbled out just in time for Mickey’s meaning to sink in, because wait a minute…

He chances a look up. Feels the rush of excitement and interest work over him all over again as he meets Mickey’s easy gaze.

Oh…

Yeah, that’s almost definitely what he meant.

Before the moment can stretch into anything too awkward for that stupid camera, Mickey’s moving again, reaching over to bring the lube closer.

It gives Ian just a moment to stare. To appreciate the flex of his arm muscles. To sympathize with how the clamps have left his nipples tweaked a perfect red.

Ian knows the feeling. Knows the little breaths of his pulse that Mickey’s feeling in them right now. The sting. He could help him - soothe his tongue over his aching nipples and feel that sweet pulse in his mouth.

Fuck…

If he’s being honest here for a moment, Ian’s never seen tits quite like Mickey’s.

He isn’t a fan of using the word ‘milky’ to describe things, but fuck. If it fits, it fits, ya know?

“Dunno what the fuck that is.”

Despite his trailing thoughts, Ian can guess what Mickey’s talking about without looking. “Oh, it’s…uh…” The name… Vee pushed for months for them to finally carry this series - he’s gotta represent since she’s watching. “N-joy,” he finally produces. “Prostate massager.” Please still love him, Vee - he knows that took too long.

Mickey eyes the stainless steel toy with guarded interest.

A little gun-shy from the tit crabs, perhaps.

“Might be easier to start off with something you know,” Ian suggests. “And then I can help you out with the N-joy when the time comes.”

A little brow arch shoots his way. “‘Help me out’, huh?”

“Yeah.” Oh. No. “You know…verbally.”

That did come out way more hands-on than he intended, didn’t it. Mickey certainly caught it, based off that smirk lingering on him as he grabs his shirt and throws it back on.

It’s a bittersweet moment. 

On one hand, Ian’s finally granted a shred of relief - no longer avoiding looking at Mickey so he doesn’t think about sucking on his tits. 

On the other hand, he misses them.

But Mickey’s moving on regardless - is all soft, wrinkled black cotton to match the black dildo that he snatches up. Ian can think of another black thing that would really complete this vision. 

But that’s not what this is.

The sudden shift of his clipboard over his knees as he adjusts on the chair reminds Ian exactly where he is. Why he’s here. His exact role in this moment in time.

Right. “I’m just gonna ask some stuff and you can move at your own pace, alright?”

Mickey mumbles his understanding, sinking onto the plush chaise.

And as soon as Ian hears the drag of his jeans zipper, he knows to drop his gaze. Knows to focus on the small print of the survey in front of him. Knows that just because the sound alone is enough to stir a swoop of interest in his belly, that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have this shit under control.

On the contrary, he’s got this nailed down by now. There’s a goddamn science to it.

Even if this is the first time Mickey’s gonna fuck himself in front of him.

“One-to-tens…”

“Your favorite…” Denim bunching and shoving.

“How’s style on this one?”

Couch springs pinging. “Nothin’ crazy.”

“Number?”

“...I dunno, man - seven?”

He likes that number. He uses seven a lot. Not that Ian’s got detailed notes on it or anything. “Quality?”

Click goes the lube cap opening. “Seven…” Clack goes the lube cap shut.

And Ian is specifically not looking. Is focused on his subtle, deep cleansing breaths as he circles numbers. Because he knows what’s coming next. Even if he doesn’t let himself see it, he’s gonna hear it. And that shit always gets him.

There’s just something about those wet, intimate noises that make his stomach swoop.

From the couch, the slow but sharp stream of air has him envisioning Mickey letting out a breath through pursed lips. And then, the tiniest hitch in the back of his throat as he must slip the toy inside himself…

It’s thin - the dildo - but if Ian’s said it once, he’s said it far too many times.

“Thoughts…?”

A pause. An adjustment. Then Mickey’s breathy voice. “Uh-huh…”

“Care to share?”

“Uh uh…”

Ian can’t help the grin. It’s strangely endearing. Makes him wanna look up from his clipboard and watch. Because those slow, slick noises are beginning to drift over to him now, pulling curls of interest inside of him one by one.

Mickey’s starting to fuck himself.

“How we doin’ on comfort…?” The final one-to-ten.

A deep exhale. Like maybe Ian’s not the only one trying to reel himself in. “Uh… I dunno… Seven…?”

And how the hell can he not tease him on that? “You ever gonna rate anything other than seven?”

It teases one of Mickey’s breaths into a laugh, the sound working its way right into Ian’s lap. “Shut the fuck up, man…”

“I’m just sayin’...you lean pretty heavy on it.”

“Maybe I’m holdin’ out my ten for somethin’ that’s gonna do the job, huh?”

Ian nods in acceptance, his head tilting but eyes still glued to the clipboard. “Fair enough.” He’s got something that’ll do the job for him. And he wouldn’t even need to dip back into the store to get it. Anyway… “How does this product compare to products you already use?”

The click of the lube cap puts things on pause, but then Mickey’s answering after a little breath from his nose. “Ain’t as good.”

So he fucks himself at home, then. Has toys that he uses. The way Ian would kill to snoop around in his drawers... “Mind elaborating on that?”

“Don’t fill me as good.”

Ian nods, pretending like that didn’t just deal a substantial blow to his self control. ‘Girth…’ he writes on the survey, slowly circling it. “Anything else?”

“Nah, man… Kinda wanna fuck around with that other one…”

It pulls his attention from his clipboard - a fatal mistake if it wasn’t for the buffer of Mickey’s bent knees, the bunch of his jeans pushed down to his thighs blocking all the action from both him and the camera.

But Ian’s mind certainly rushes to fill in the blanks, of course.

Even as Mickey sets the dildo next to him on the cover, and then carefully reaches over to the table to grab the N-Joy with a: “Je-sus…” his arm sagging unexpectedly under the weight of the last toy. “Fucker’s heavy.”

“Stainless steel,” Ian provides. The ceiling lights catch in its shiny silver U-bend as it joins the party on the chaise - an exclusive affair. Instead of waiting for his invite, Ian busies himself with standing to check the camera. “Cool thing about this one is it absorbs whatever temperature you give it.” He peeks at the tiny screen, just enough to confirm that they’re still recording. “Really great for temp play…” 

One more shimmering catch of the light, and then the N-joy disappears between Mickey’s legs, all the action blocked again by his bunched up jeans.

“I dunno ‘bout all that, man. Just need it to make me nut.”

The laugh that bubbles from Ian’s chest is as genuine as it is a surprise. Holy fuck, he needed that didn’t he? He didn’t realize how tense he was getting. “Pretty sure it’s gotchya covered there.” Prostate stimulation - definite Nut City.

He could still turn him on to temp play though, if the moment calls for it. There’s absolutely nothing like something sliding in chilled, and then warming up nice. 

But that’s for another time. Because right now, with the telltale lube cap click, he’s remembering something very important.

“Couple things,” he says as he makes his way back to the chair, purposely avoiding how Mickey is stretched out all pretty on the couch. “First - gets real slippery, so mind the lube.”

“Second?”

“Second,” he indulges, “knowing you, you’re probably gonna wanna start with the bigger end. But I suggest starting small.” He can see the toy perfectly in his head. Just like how he saw Mickey’s eyes zero in on the end where the curve swells into the larger bulb.

“What’re you sayin’, Red…?”

It’s bait. 

Ian’s not gonna take it, even if the swirl in his belly wants him to. “Just sharing my expertise…” Definitely not a comment on how Mickey’s probably a size queen judging off this survey alone. Not at all that.

That one’s simply an observation he’s storing away in his personal notes.

Mickey mumbles from the couch, his attention dropping into his lap as he must line the toy up. “Know how to fuck myself, Mr. Expertise…” 

“I’m sure you do.” There’s no doubt in his mind. “This one’s just a little tricky for some people.” What with the weight and the slipperiness and the curve and the-

“Shit…”

“Cold…?”

“Mhm…”

“Mhm…” Ian keeps his gaze low. Resists the urge to distract himself by talking - really launching into that temperature play discussion. 

He’s just gotta get Mickey on the right track and then he can get his ass outta here, before all these horny swoops turn into a full-on problem.

He’s cutting it close as it is. That nine hours of recovery is sure making itself known.

“Getting it…?” He asks, perhaps a bit too hopefully.

Because there’s a lull in the response time from the couch. 

And when Ian glances up to double-check, the pinch of awkward concentration in Mickey’s brows tells him all he needs to know.

No. He’s not getting it.

“You good over there…?”

Mickey makes a small, frustrated noise that shouldn’t be hot but is. “...s’fuckin’ weird, man…”

“Weird how?”

“I don’t-...” A frown. His arm moving awkwardly between his legs. “...how the fuck do I-...”

Ian hesitates. Takes a second to think his actions through instead of blindly following the sudden impulse to swoop in. “Gotta kinda-…” the motion he makes with his hand is unhelpful - he just knows it. “It’s a curve… Follow the curve, ya know…?”

Please know.

Mickey doesn’t know. “Ugh…”

From his chair, Ian taps his fingers on the clipboard, that urge swooping back in despite the way his common sense is screaming at him. “Do- uh…” No… “Do you want me to-...” Stop it. That’s not gonna happen. That can’t happen.

Holy fuck this is killing him, though.

He’s responsible for this.

He’s responsible for that unsatisfied furrow in Mickey’s brow.

“Fuckin’-...” A little huff… “Can you just c’mere…?”

And oh… The way every muscle in Ian’s body gears up to rush forward before his brain lassoes them still. Statuesque. Only his heart rushing at full speed. “Me?”

“Yeah?”

“You want me to come over there?”

“You see anybody else in here, wise guy?”

Ian takes in a long, steadying breath, hoping it’ll calm the battle raging ridiculously inside him as he side-eyes the camera in the corner of the room.

Because no. He guesses he doesn’t.

It’s literally just the two of them tonight. In the entire store.

Fuck…

“Thought you were Mr. Expertise.” 

Fucker. “I am.”

“Then get to expertise’n.”

Which is… Yeah, actually. He can demonstrate proper technique, right? That’s something he’s allowed to do as a professional, is it not? 

No, it’s not.

…is it?

“Ian…”

He stands from his chair so fast he gets dizzy. Or maybe there’s a couple other factors at play. Because Ian definitely feels like he’s about to black out for a second as he clears his throat, glances at the camera sitting up on its tripod, and then lets his legs carry him forward.

“You’ll get it,” he assures, stepping close to the couch and pulling Mickey’s attention and oh…fuck, those eyes blinking up at him…

He should not be fucking doing this.

Even with a toy this tricky.

But then again how would they ever get an accurate assessment if Mickey can’t use it right? 

He should be doing this, actually.

It’s his job.

Maybe…if he just…

“D’you mind if I-...?” he asks, unsure how to proceed without giving him a literal hand but-

“Yeah,” Mickey’s here for it. Is asking for it. Literally. So when he eases his thighs apart as far as his shoved jeans will let him…when he slips the N-joy free…Ian has no other choice but to commit, taking a knee beside him and reaching down between his legs because he’s got this. He can do this.

Time to nut up.

With the slightest tremble from nerves, Ian’s fingers brush blindly along the cool stainless steel, finding his bearings. “Just gotta get a good grip,” he explains, keeping the rest of his attention toward Mickey’s chest. “Hold it right…”

Even with his pulse hammering in his eardrums right now, he can still hear the heat softening Mickey’s tone, his voice much more potent up close. “Yeah…?” 

If Ian isn’t careful, it’ll melt his last shred of self control like nothing - like fucking butter. He’s gotta keep a level head, “Yeah…” guiding the knot at the tip of the toy to Mickey’s slick entrance, “...come at it from an angle…” and then…

Ian carefully applies pressure until…

The N-joy sinks in smoothly - fucking glides inside of him. Ian makes sure to follow the curve and Mickey’s breath rushes inward in surprise, sending out a shock of tasty sparks in Ian’s lap because yeah. Fuck yeah, he knows how good that feels.

“That better?” he encourages, his attention flicking up to his face.

And when Mickey’s eyes meet his they’re filled with pleasant surprise, just like his breath out. “Holy fuck…”

It’s got a grin dancing between them. And for just a moment, Ian’s gaze drops to those plump lips to enjoy it. 

Just a second though.

Barely anything.

Because that’s not what this is! He’s here to help him use this toy properly. Which means he should show him some of the best features.

“Feels fuckin’ crazy,” Mickey huffs out, and it’s obvious he’s talking about the weight of it. How solid it feels inside of him. How present. 

It’s the perfect opportunity for Ian to slide in just a little bit more - until the smooth ball at the end is rubbing right up against his prostate and-

“Oh shit…” Mickey’s head suddenly falls forward, his eyes rolling shut.

It’s the hottest thing Ian’s ever seen. Has his dick throbbing in his jeans. Has him fucking hooked, unable to look away as he watches those lips part, eager for air as he gently slides the toy out to the tip, and then guides it back in a little quicker.

Because he’s doing that. He’s the one making Mickey pull that face.

…wait a minute - fuck - he’s the one making Mickey pull that face.

Ian tears his gaze away, his posture straightening where he kneels at the edge of the couch. 

Whoops. 

Whoops whoops whoops. 

No, it’s okay. He can still distance himself from this. Regain control.

Like he can sense the disturbance, Mickey’s eyes flutter back open - first where Ian has cooled off considerably between his legs, and then eye to eye.

Ian’s gotta get the first word in. Jumps on it. “One-to-tens…” Save him, one-to-tens. “There’s…uh…”

Holy shit, how is his mind a complete blank right now?

“Comfort,” Mickey provides for him, which is really amazing when you think about it. He doesn’t need to do that for him. “...s’good… Feels good…”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah…”

Ian swallows, suddenly very aware of the camera pointing at both of them. “Number?”

“Ten.”

“Wow,” his grin is true, though. “You just sayin’ that ‘cause I gave you shit about the sevens?”

“Nah, man…” Christ, he really likes when they share their smiles. Loves how Mickey’s fingers brush over his knuckles, then cover his hand as he eggs him on. “Keep goin’...”

It gets the pump of the toy a little quicker. Gets Ian’s brain buzzing like you wouldn’t fucking believe. “Quality…?”

“Ten…” Mickey grins, not looking away.

“Style?”

“Ten…”

Ian lets out a chuckle and it’s breathy. Knowing. “Okay, you’re fucking with me.”

“Ain’t fuckin’ with you…”

“Come on…”

But Mickey’s just grinning up at him, so fucking pleased with it all. With himself. 

If Ian was letting himself think about nasty things, he’d have about a dozen next moves in his back pocket. 

But he isn’t. He can’t. He’s already doing too much, the front of his jeans starting to get so tight that it’s uncomfortable. 

Fuck… He should’ve jerked off in the bathroom before Mickey got here. But he didn’t. And now he’s too far into this shit and he should probably stop. He should take a page from his own book and wrap things up - let Mickey handle the rest himself.

But he isn’t.

He doesn’t want to.

Surely there’s something else he can say to justify him still being here.

“Apparently a guy dropped one of these on his table once,” he decides on. Tragically.

But if Mickey thinks he’s a dumbass for it, he can’t tell. Not with the way his eyes have started to grow heavier and heavier with each slow sink of the toy into him, his words following suit. “That right…?”

“Yeah…went right through the glass.” Fucking crazy if you think about it. Certainly crazier than playing with a customer’s prostate, that’s for sure! “Could kill someone with this thing.”

Beside him, Mickey hums and it’s good and interested. Too interested. “Now that I’d love to see, Red...”

Fuck… You know what, Ian would beat a man to death with a stainless steel N-joy if he was doing it for Mickey, he guesses. That’s not weird, right?

Wait, that’s totally fucking weird.

He’s gotta whip out another survey question.

“How’s…uh…” Ian side-eyes the other side of the room, desperate for his emotional support clipboard that’s way over there on his chair. Okay fuck it, he needs to get outta here before it’s too late. “Think you’re ready to try on your own…?”

But Mickey’s hand just spreads over his, warm and sure as it encourages their pump to sink in extra deep and then stay there. “Don’t got the hang of it yet…” he breathes out, and holy shit, Ian’s done for.

Because how the hell is he supposed to say no to eyes like this? How’s he supposed to leave? Mickey’s panting and laid out so gorgeously and Ian’s so fucking hard that he’s aching, the temptation of it all practically singing out to him.

He rubs the head of the toy against Mickey’s prostate and Mickey fucking groans, tipping his head against the back of the couch. It opens up his throat - the long stretch of his pale neck. Ian teases at his spot and for one beautiful second he has visions of wrapping the thin black collar back into place. Getting it from Mickey’s jacket and collaring him up.

He should do it.

No he shouldn’t.

It’s extra and it would raise so many red flags but it would be hot though. God damn it, it would be hot…

Should he?

Ian snaps his eyes over his shoulder to Mickey’s jacket. Snaps his eyes to the camera in the corner of the room. Rubs Mickey’s prostate faster and faster and looks over to the clipboard and then the camera again and then-

“Fuck-” suddenly Mickey’s clambering up, his brows furrowed as he grabs the front of Ian’s shirt and drags him in and-

Ian’s mouth drops open in a surprised breath as Mickey cums - hard - his groan loud and indulgent and so fucking close - practically pouring from his lips to Ian’s as he keeps him wrangled in close, and…

The room grows still around them. 

Nothing but their panting breath, in-time and then out, as the weight of it all settles on top of them. 

The fist that Mickey’s got balled in his shirt loosens, but not all the way.

Space returns between them as Mickey eases back, but not all the way.

And when they both open their eyes, staring at each other as they catch their breath, Ian can feel the camera looming over them, like a big Corporate Monster in the corner of the room.

Whoops.

“...fuck.”

Chapter Text

Damage control.

Ian  doesn’t usually gotta do too much of it here. But in this field, when he fucks up, he fucks up.  

Last night? That was a fuckup.

He knows in his heart and his gut and his impeccable moral code that he should not have done that. It was a battle between his head and his dick and well… It’s pretty clear what came out on top.

Ian was thinking about it the entire way home and the entire time he finally got himself off and to be honest, it was just as hot to jack off to a second time. Mickey’s orgasm face is a thing of fucking beauty, he’ll tell you that for free.

Except now Ian’s clocking in half an hour early for damage control. Because Vee is expecting the tape. Expecting the transaction for the hundred Ian handed over last night. And the last thing on the planet he wants to do is send that footage over raw without talking to Vee first, so…

Ian settles in one of the chairs in the empty store, tapping his fingers on his thigh as he dials her number and holds his phone up to his ear. 

A few rings…then… “Mornin’.”

“Mornin’,” he tries to smile - force some positivity when he says it. “Got an HR question for ya.”

Because exactly as predicted, Vee’s tone drops into one of managerial dread. “Oh Ian, you know I don’t like hearin’ that… ‘Specially before ten A.M.”

“I know.” He does. Very much. Which is why he’s calling her on the downlow - on her personal cell - before he sends last night’s recording and things get official. “I just wanna run something by you. I don’t think it’s that bad.”

It’s probably that bad. 

“I’m listening.”

Right. Okay, he can do this. “So, you know how I had our reviewer in last night?”

“Uh-huh…” Oh, she sounds unimpressed already. 

Ian can still spin this. Right? “Yeah, well…we got through all the products and everything. The N-joy was on there! You know, the one you got our store to carry?”

“Uh-huh…”

Damn, he really thought he’d get some points for that. Gotta keep trying - up from the chair and pacing the strap-on section. “Well, alright so-... You know how it’s kinda hard to use for the first time? I mean I know you like ‘em - I like ‘em too, it’s just they really aren’t that intuitive with the curve and the weight and all that-”

“Ian.”

“Yeah?”

“Cut the shit. Just tell me what went down.”

Ian swallows uncomfortably. Feels the tight press of his lips together as it all narrows down to one simple whoopsie. “I got him off with the N-joy.”

The silence that follows on the other end is heavy. Awkward. He didn’t turn the radio on yet, so not even Hootie is here to cut the tension.

And he knows she’s probably just running through logistics and manager stuff over there, but Christ. Doesn’t make it any easier to wait.

“It was consensual?”

Ian straightens, phone pressed to his ear. “Yeah.”

“Both of you?”

“Oh yeah.” Holy fuck yeah. 

Another pause. The weight of having the final responsibility. Then, “What’d he rate it?”

It takes a second for Ian to understand. To slide back into last night’s disjointed rating scale. But when he does… “Tens across the board.”

Technically. He still kinda thinks Mickey was fucking with him, but…

“Send it over,” Vee says, not exactly happy, but also clearly not in the mood to write him up for anything. “I’ll see if I can cut it.”  

And oh - wow - the relief. 

“I’m not gonna be seeing any extra Ian, am I?”

“Wh-...no!” Holy shit? “Why would I take my clothes off?”

“Why would you fuck a reviewer?”

Damn, fair enough. “Okay.”

Not really too much he can say in defense of that. She’s right as always.

“Send it over.”

“Got it. Thanks, Vee.”

“Uh-huh.”

The call ends.

A couple hours later, Ian is just finishing up walking a customer through the ins and outs of toy care when he gets two texts from Vee’s personal number.

An unimpressed side-eye emoji. Unmistakable.

‘no more.’ she says.

‘yes ma’am.’ he promises.

Ian is on the straight and narrow.

From now on, he’ll walk a righteous path - no more letting his crush on Mickey rule over the professionalism of his job. 

Because that’s what this has turned into it, hasn’t it? Ian’s got a big, fat, juicy crush on Mickey Milkovich. Why else would he compromise his job like that? Why else would little flashes of Mickey’s face dart across his brain when he wakes up - when he jerks off - when he stands in front of the mirror in the morning, wondering if his outfit will catch his eye just as much as Mickey’s leather jackets and boots and ripped black jeans catch his.

He’s just cool. Mickey. He’s got this fucking air about him and yet is so funny that Ian will still be thinking about something he said hours later. He’s cool and funny and stupid-handsome and Ian’s got a big ol’ nasty crush on him. 

But he can still act right during work hours.

He can still walk the righteous path. Keep his hands to himself.

It’s gonna be extra hard given how far down he slipped last review, but he’s got this. He’s committed. And after they finish today and the camera’s off, Ian will invite Mickey out for coffee on Saturday. Off the clock. Responsibly. And holy fuck, why is that making his heart beat so crazy in his chest right-

buzz buzz...buzz buzz...buzz buzz...

Ian shakes it off, dropping his mirror pep talk to answer his phone. He can finish this later. “Hey Debs.”

“Ian - hey - do you have-... What? …no it’s the sump pump, I already told you.”

The commotion on the other end has Ian’s momentum drawing still, the words ‘sump pump’ immediately conjuring dreadful images of standing water where it definitely shouldn’t be. “What’s-”

“Fuck-... Shit’s soaked - can you come grab Franny for a little bit?”

“Y-...” Wait a minute. He’s supposed to be leaving in twenty minutes. “I got work.”

“And I got four inches of shit-water everywhere - can you please just come take her while I figure this out?”

Ian sighs, torn between being a good uncle and the dramatics of calling off so close to clock-in time. 

He can’t exactly let Franny wade around a flooded house, can he? That’s probably not good for a growing gal.

“Fine,” he says, flicking his bathroom light off and making towards his boots at the front of his apartment. “On my way.”

“Ugh thanks, Ian. Everything’s so-... No the sump pump! Jesus, is there water in your ears too?”

The line drops.

The call ends.

Ian pulls up Vee’s number without even letting the screen dim.

The thing about being the manager’s favorite is that he can very easily do this - call off suddenly - especially if he mentions family drama. Vee’s been around for a lot of it herself, so that’s not where the issue lies.

The issue lies in what day today happens to be.

Ian fluffs his fork through the eggs he’s scrambling for Franny, needlessly nudging the little clouds around the pan.

He’s stressing. And scrambling. In more ways than one.

Because it’s Thursday.

It’s Mickey day.

And he has no idea how long it takes to deal with ‘four inches of shit-water’ but he’s got a pretty bad feeling it’ll take longer than late afternoon. 

He should call Mickey probably. Give him a heads up that he won’t be there for his review, just in case that means something to him. It’s the first thought that crosses his mind, at least, and the first thought that gets shot down because he absolutely does not have Mickey’s number. He called on the store phone that one time. So that’s a no-go.

He could text Bells. She could read him his number off the waiver. Except no she can’t, because she’s on vacation with her girlfriend this week. 

Whoever’s covering his shift? Give them a text? But Vee never told him who she’s getting, and he doesn’t think he could pull off a lowkey question like that without tripping her wires, her last text of ‘no more’ still burning a hole in his pocket.

Eventually his brain runs dry of ideas. Eventually Franny’s breakfast starts to stick to his pan, his thoughts and eggs over-scrambled. 

He dumps them on a plate. Cuts a couple strawberries and sighs, lining them up next to the eggs.

It’s fine. 

Honestly, he’s making a lot of assumptions on Mickey’s behalf, now that he steps back from it. Assuming Mickey is as deep in this as he is. That he’d even give a shit if Ian wasn’t there in the first place. For all he knows, in his mind Ian is just some guy with a clipboard that he sees weekly and got him off one time. Nothing more than that.

He brings the plate over to the table and sets it down, mumbling a quiet, “Eat up, Fran…” and hoping the stress in his voice doesn’t carry.

He’s hoping a lot of things right now, actually.

Maybe the situation will right itself and he’ll be back to work in time for the review.

And if he isn’t - if Mickey shows up and sees a stranger - maybe he’ll refuse? If Ian’s not there to do it with him?

That’s not fair, and he knows it. Money is money. Mickey is Mickey.

But…

“Uncle Ian…?”

“Mm?”

Looking extra small in the kitchen chair, Franny blinks up at him, a piece of strawberry grasped in her hand. “Bluey…?”

The long breath that Ian pulls is soothing. Brought back down to Earth by a four year old. “Yeah,” he smiles softly, pulling out his phone. “Course…”

Six hours.

That’s not how long it takes to un-fuck four inches of shit-water, but it is for the mom of one of Franny’s friends to come pick her up for a previously scheduled play date.

Ian makes sure she’s all good to go and texts Debbie and then he’s fucking flying to The Treasure Trail, moving with all the determination of a man who already knows he’s doomed by the narrative, but is clinging on to that last desperate ‘what if’…

He’s trying like hell to keep a level head. Be realistic. Give Mickey some credit here.

After what happened between them last week, if Mickey came in already he probably bailed the second he saw Ian wasn’t there. …right? Fuck, he hopes so. It’s not fair to expect that out of him but he hopes so.

Which is why when Ian finally pushes through the door and approaches the counter, he’s fighting to act like he’s not heaving up his lungs from hauling ass across town as he says it - “Hey.” - to the dude covering for him. “You get a guy in here for a review today?”

It’s clearly taking him a second to place who Ian is. They’ve never worked the floor together and that’s fine, it’s just he’s taking a real long time to answer, and when he does it’s just a simple, “Oh! Hey, bro.”

Ian nods, his smile growing stale - “Hey.” - flicks his eyes down to the name tag - “Josh.” Now if they could just get back to the topic at hand. “That review happen yet?”

He might’ve just made it. It’s still late afternoon. It could go either way.

And that hope that’s clinging annoyingly at his guts is what makes the punch so visceral. “Oh - the cranky dude? Yeah, just left.”

Ian’s stomach turns. Fingers itch. Because there it is. Fuck. “Right… And you, uh… You ran it with him fine?”

He’s aiming for a concerned coworker vibe instead of the nasty green monster that’s raging inside him. No idea how well that’s presenting. But Josh seems to buy it with a shrug. “‘Bout as good as it could, I guess…? I dunno how you do it, bro.”

“He takes a certain touch.”

“Yeah, no kidding. You must be, like, the survey king or something with the way he was asking about you.”

He says it as casually as can be - like it means nothing - and Ian’s so sure Mickey made it out to be that way when he was in here but wait… He was asking about him…?

Ian’s posture straightens, suddenly aware that he’s practically mounted the counter trying to get information out of this guy. Mickey asked about him. He was looking for him. Ian was right, at least a little bit.

“Hey listen, bro - I know you’re here now and all, but is it cool if I finish the shift?” Josh asks, pulling Ian’s attention back down to reality. “Need the hours pretty bad.”

But Ian’s already three steps ahead of him, “Yeah,” tapping the counter once and then very casually making his way to the back of the store. “No problem…” He's got other shit to take care of.

The hallway is dim as ever, but Ian knows his way. Knows the rules. Knows he probably shouldn’t be doing this, but his nasty curiosity isn’t gonna settle until he sees it for himself.

So when he finds the camera in the back room, still on the tripod, it’s with a steadying breath that he unlatches it and takes it for himself.

He turns it on.

Glances at the door.

Paces over to close it, sealing himself away to break rules in private.

Because he definitely shouldn’t be doing this. Only Josh and Vee and corporate have clearance to look at this tape. It’s none of his business. Except that it one hundred percent is because Mickey is his-

Beep!

Ian’s attention drops to the camera in his hands with a confused startle, the footage already rewound back to the start. That was…fast.

But he hits play. Tilts the small screen for a better view. Feels his brows pinch at the view of the couch, completely empty, nothing but the brush of Josh’s clothes as he steps away from the camera and then peers into it, clearly not familiar with something this ancient. 

Ian huffs. Presses fast-forward. Watches minutes and minutes of empty couch fly by at triple speed, his head shaking at the mistake of starting the recording before anything is even ready. Rookie move.

But then there’s movement - fast - shadows bending and then two bodies entering the frame and-

Ian quickly thumbs at the play button, eager to take it all in.

Because there’s Josh. Saying some shit. But more importantly…

Something in Ian’s stomach sinks as he watches the short exchange. Watches Josh leave the shot and then the room. Watches, as all that vibrato evaporates the second the door closes.

On the small screen, Mickey lingers quietly in the middle of the room, his hand shoving into his jacket pocket and staying and something in Ian’s chest fires up. Burns.

He should have been here.

This is his responsibility.

Mickey is his responsibility. 

Every second that ticks by on the progress bar is heavy, his eyes drawn to how Mickey seems to work through something in his head, his hand kneading in his pocket. 

He doesn’t wanna be there.

He’s thinking. Glancing at the door like he’s debating making a run for it. 

But…

With a long sigh out through his nose, Mickey cracks his neck, seemingly coming to a conclusion and not exactly fired up about it. And when his eyeline drifts over to the camera - when he must see that it’s very much uncapped and on and recording already, the eyeroll he lets loose while he sits shows Ian isn’t the only one unimpressed with the rookie move.

They’re on the same wavelength. Just on different timelines.

The couch cushion squeaks as he sits, and then the next several minutes of him scrolling through his phone fast forwards at lightning speed, Ian so eager to get to what matters that he barely clocks how Mickey doesn’t touch himself - doesn’t get himself in the mood in any way. Does he ever, even? Has he one time since they started? Or is he just like this…

He won’t get an answer. Not today. 

Because when Josh reappears, Ian hits play again. And it’s just in time to be front row and center to how Mickey’s eyes track the towel-full of toys he sets down on the table in front of him, his brows pinching together defiantly.

Ian knows those toys. Two vibrators and a stroker - he remembers them perfectly from the list he’s been memorizing all week in preparation for today. But he also knows Mickey. He…thinks. He knows what the look means, at least. So when he hears him say it, flat out, it’s like someone has released their hands from where they’ve been squeezing around his heart.

“Look, man. Gonna tell ya right now, I ain’t doin’ any-a that shit.” 

A beautiful breath of relief fills Ian’s lungs - has him sighing it back out because yes…thank god… The green monster inside him trudges back into its cave for another day.

“Oh. Uh…” Josh is fumbling back in the real world, clearly not equipped to handle someone like Mickey Milkovich right out the gate. Not like Ian is. “None of them?”

“No.”

“Okay - no doubt.” Josh picks the toys back up. Stands with them, awkwardly, like they’re a misshapen, blanketed baby in his arms. “Except…you don’t do anything, I don’t think I can pay you, bro.”

But Mickey’s already made up his mind - “Yep.” - holding firm on the decision that seemed to be cooking in his brain since he stepped into frame. And when he stands, Ian almost misses how he shoves his hand back into his jacket pocket while he makes for the door.

Almost.

But he doesn’t.

In the frame, Josh starts picking up the pieces of a survey that was doomed before it even began.

Back in the present, Ian closes the screen back into the camera, his brain taking this information and running a mile a minute with it - in all directions - each path leading back to Mickey and him getting back in this room together as quickly as possible.

It’s the motivation he needs to leave the scene of the crime exactly how he left it - he was never here! And when he steps back out onto the floor, the empty counter calls to him, his slip behind it to grab the waivers calm, cool, and collected. 

He gets what he needs.

Puts everything back. 

And when he gets outside - gets himself on a bench at the park a couple streets down - with his heart hammering with excitement and nerves, he pulls up the new number in his phone and begins to type.

‘sorry i missed you today - family emergency. heard you didn’t get paid. if you’re up to reschedule, i’m back in tomorrow.’

He hits send. Watches his message bubble stamp itself on the screen. Has a moment of blind realization, typing a quick follow-up.

‘it’s ian from treasure trail btw’

Just in case. You never know. It’s the start of brand new conversation thread, so the least he can do is clarify who’s texting can’t he-

Ian’s phone buzzes once in his hand. 

He practically cracks his neck looking back down at it - crush-hysteria to the tune of public park pigeons scuttling around him.

‘see ya tomorrow ian from treasure trail’

Ian is so back.

It’s Friday night, and he could not possibly have his shit together more. 

This, of course, is a lie. A very familiar one. It’s the lie he’s been telling himself since the dawn of Milkovich time. But when a thought runs through your head enough, eventually your brain won’t be able to separate that thought from reality. Even when it’s not entirely true. 

So.

Ian’s got this completely under control. As always.

He closes things up a few minutes early - gives himself enough time to straighten shit up and get everything ready and beat his meat crazy fast in the employee bathroom. It does absolute miracles for his dick - his sex drive - that overwhelming impulsivity that got him in hot water last time now suppressed to a dull roar.

But there’s nothing he can do about everything else, is there? The impatient pulse in him. The longing. 

It’s only been one extra day, but god damn…he really wants to see Mickey.

And beating his meat won’t do the job, he realizes. There’s only one thing that’ll scratch that itch.

It’s ten minutes past nine P.M., and the bell over the door chimes, pulling Ian’s mind and body and attention to it right on a dime.

“Ay…”

A breath… “Hey Mickey…”

The door closes the night out behind him - stiff shoulders - stiff movements as Mickey makes his way into the empty store with not much more than a nod his way.

Ouch. A rough jumping off point. 

But Ian’s not the only one with a brain that can overthink, he guesses. So. “Sorry again,” he says, stepping to the door to lock it and flip the sign to ‘closed’. “You know - for calling off last minute. Wasn’t really anything I could do about it…”

From a few aisles away, Mickey shrugs. “Is what it is, man.” He sounds unbothered. Too unbothered. Like he’s working really hard at making sure it sounds that way. “Gotta do whatchya gotta do.”

“Yeah…” For one horrific moment, Ian considers sharing the unbelievable brainwork he was jumping through yesterday morning over scrambled eggs, trying to figure out how to get in contact with him. But then he remembers himself. Remembers the situation. Remembers that he may be buzzing out of his skin to be around him, but Mickey did technically step into the back for the review without him here. Reality. “Didn’t mean to throw you in with someone like Josh, is all.” Not really setting anyone up for success on that one.

“Who?”

Ian tilts his head a bit, “Josh…” watching Mickey run his fingers over the leather strap of one of their chest harnesses on display. “Guy who covered my shift yesterday.”

Across the strap and then over the silver ring. “Mm. That kid…”

Ian nods in unfortunate understanding. Takes a step closer. “Kinda new around here, bro.”

It’s a bit of a Hail Mary. A toss up to see if Mickey’s got any interest in falling back into the ease they operated under before all this. 

And thank god he does it. Because in front of him, a grin tugs to Mickey’s face, a little laugh huffing from his nose as he turns his head to look at Ian, their closeness making the dip of his eyeline down Ian’s body and back up to his face perfectly obvious. 

It’s enough to send tingles up his spine. Anticipation. Relief.

Fuck yes, there’s the smile he’s been waiting for. 

When Mickey turns back to the shelf, his gaze drops with it. Like maybe he’s looking at the boxes below. Or maybe he’s not. “Shit’s weird without you doin’ it,” he says and it’s quiet. Honest. “Not really into it if it ain’t you.”

Ian’s heart swells in his chest from it, his ego close behind. “Yeah well…” play it cool. “Got more experience.”

A swing and a miss, because Mickey tosses him an unconvinced eyebrow raise, “Mm…” and then he’s turning to start making his way to the back.

And…

Ian pauses. Tries to place the bump in the road. Follows after him, grabbing the basket of prepared toys on his way. “What’s ‘mm’?”

“Nothin’ man.”

“You don’t think I’ve got more survey experience than Josh?”

“Oh, you definitely do,” Mickey teases as they slip into the dark hallway, “Ain’t sayin’ that.”

“Then what’re you sayin’?”

In front of him, Mickey swears under his breath. Stops dead in his tracks. Turns, so he can stare up at Ian in the dim lighting as he says it. “Ain’t nobody else doing reviews here, man. Annoying fucker told me.” It’s got Ian stock still. Waiting. “It’s just me ‘n you.”

And…

Okay… So yeah, maybe he lied to Mickey about that the first time. He caught him red-handed. It’s just… “I didn’t want you to feel pressured,” he explains. “You know…uncomfortable.” It’s easier to do stuff when you think you’re not the only one doing it. “...you pissed?”

In front of him, Mickey lets the moment hang between them. Lets Ian really feel the tiny fuckup of his white lie. Then, blessedly, an eye roll. “You can relax - I ain’t pissed. Just want ya to know I know…you know?”

Another wave of relief - this one strange, but relief all the same. “Okay.” Gotta wonder what else Josh blabbed about while he was here.

But that’s for another time. Because suddenly, Mickey is growing quiet again, his shoulders stiffening as he rubs his thumb over his eyebrow. “To be honest with ya, Red…” It brings everything in real close. Real serious. “...feel a lot better knowin’ you ain’t doin’ this shit with other people…”

Oh… 

Ian swallows thickly. Resists the urge of impulsivity. “Yeah…?”

And Mickey must appreciate it because he just simply grins, very lightly, “Yeah,” and then he’s turning, back on track to the room glowing at the end of the hallway.

Ian watches after him, the sentiment weighing him to the floor. Because fuck… That feels fucking good, doesn’t it? Confirmation. Reassurance for all those hoops his brain has been jumping through lately.

Fuck…

It makes him bold. Makes him cocky. Makes him forward, the words spilling out of his mouth like they never intended to stay there in the first place, but if the two of them are being vulnerable right now- “I watched your tape.”

At the mouth of the back room, Mickey hesitates, then glances back at him, the reality of what was just said clearly registering for him. “That legal?” he asks.

“Nope,” Ian answers.

And oh, the way they hold that gaze for a moment…the way Mickey processes, and then slowly looks him up and down before disappearing into the room with a smirk…it’s got Ian’s heart fucking singing. Rejoicing. Demanding to follow after him.

Jesus Christ, he likes this guy. 

So he does, conquering the rest of the hallway and then slipping inside the room behind him.

The second Ian closes the door, hiding them away, the rush is heady and addictingly familiar.

This is how it’s supposed to be. It should be the two of them back here. No one else. Just him and Mickey.

He follows the lure of it, placing the toys down on the table before making his way over to the camera, slotting it into place and then turning it on standby exactly as it should be. 

He’s not the rookie here. He’s got experience. With this. With Mickey. With what Mickey needs...

Ian’s finger hovers over the record button before he can press it, a surge of selfish motivation washing over him at that last thought. Impulsivity. He shouldn’t, probably, but…

Another moment to ponder it, and then Ian turns, looking right at Mickey.

And then he holds his hand out, palm up.

From where he’s standing, Mickey looks him over. Flicks his eyes from Ian’s palm to his face, stuck between curiosity and hesitance.

So Ian makes it clear for him. “Gimme it.”

It’s a gamble. A power move he wouldn’t normally play. But after everything that’s happened - everything he’s seen, both when he’s around and not - Ian would bet his life that he's got it.

The silence between them grows heavy with intention. Heavy with understanding, Mickey’s brows furrowing just the slightest as he allows himself one more second, and then accepts.

He drifts forward.

Reaches into his jacket pocket.

And then slowly, he slips out the thin black collar from their first time, placing it carefully in Ian’s palm without looking away.

The second the warm leather settles in his hand, Ian’s pulse skyrockets, another dose of confirmation that has his ego taking off into the stars.

He fucking knew it. 

But he’s got this. It’s all under control - under his responsibility, his step closer certain as he brings the collar back to its rightful place around that pretty neck, Mickey silently tilting his chin up a little in waiting.

He could use this time to gloat. To praise. To confess. 

But the camera hasn’t started rolling, and there’s something he needs to take care of before it does.

“We’re gonna get you your money tonight,” he says calmly, “alright?” His fingers work the end of the collar into the buckle, the tremble in them from pure adrenaline alone. “So we gotta stay on task. Do you know what I mean?”

Mickey blinks up at him. Hasn’t left him once, his pupils filling as Ian’s fingers brush against his throat.

It’s all the answer Ian needs. “Means what happened last time can’t happen again,” he explains, every part of his own body fighting against that order.

He’s not the only one. He can damn near see the horns sprouting from Mickey’s head with the grin that dances across his lips. “Mhm…”

“I mean it.”

“Mm…”

Ian breathes out, running the pad of his thumb across the smooth leather below Mickey’s adam’s apple. He probably shouldn’t do that. Shouldn’t have indulged in this in the first place. But he can only control so much. What is he supposed to do, not collar Mickey up when he’s been so kind to bring it every time? He’s probably been insulting him by ignoring it. And that’s just not Ian.

Ian is responsible. Ian is prepared. Ian is three-point-five seconds away from swooping in and licking that smirk right out of Mickey’s mouth, so he steps away and back toward the camera, busying himself with it instead.

Mickey slips back into routine as well, seeming pleased as punch as he spreads the plush black cover over the couch to prepare his spot.

It’s showtime.

“You ready…?”

“Yes sir…”

Ian’s eyes flick up to him at that, alarm bells chiming in warning. 

To anyone else, that might sound like compliance. Affirmation. But that’s not what he hears. What he hears is the subtle indication that Mickey internalized next to nothing from their little talk. 

This is definitely gonna be interesting.

Ian hits the record button. Lets it rip. Falls into the familiarity of the script, “Ian Gallagher reviewing - Oak Park location,” making his way to the chair. “Please share your name, age, sex, and pronouns?”

“Mickey Milkovich,” the couch cushions squeak as he settles in, following Ian’s walk with his eyes. “Male, he/him…”

A pause. “Age.”

“Twenty three.” 

Will they ever make it through an intro without Mickey forgetting one of them? Ian’s willing to go at it as long as it takes to find out. 

“This is Mickey’s sixth review with us - so, Survey 6A.” He grabs his clipboard. Grabs his pen. Prepares himself to hang on for dear life, as he motions towards the toys prepped and waiting on the clean towel for them. “You can choose where you wanna begin today. Whenever you’re ready…”

It’s the second time Mickey’s seeing them now. Ian too, technically, but not on record. And yet… “You pick.”

Ian looks up from his clipboard. Fires off a confused blink. “Pardon?”

But Mickey’s looking right at him, comfortable in the spot he’s made for himself on the couch, collar and all. “You’re the expert ain’tchya?”

“...technically-”

“You tell me, then.”

The flame that lights in Ian’s belly is small, but threatening to grow. Because that’s what this is, then. Mickey wants him to choose for him. Tell him what to play with.

“Well…” he breathes out, affording a glance at the camera - a wordless warning - and then leaning forward to motion to the spread of toys, “you rated the stroker pretty highly last time…”

“Mm…” Mickey mumbles, but it’s less than convinced.

Okay. “Or I guess you could try one of the vibrators.”

“Don’t really like stuff buzzin’ inside me.”

A pause. Weighted. Okay, what the fuck is this? “You’re not required to use the vibration function.”

“How’m I gonna rate it then?”

“We’ll figure it out,” Ian says - curtly - eyes narrowing a bit as he sits back and tries to wrap his head around what the hell Mickey’s getting at. What he’s trying to do.

Unless he’s just out to make Ian’s job as difficult as possible for the fun of it, which is absolutely believable.

“Black or purple,” Mickey asks then.

And it’s all Ian can do not to get up and stop the recording. Start fresh. “Purple.”

“Huh…”

Holy shit. “Alright, black.” Because what is the point. If he’s already made up his mind from the start, then what’s with all the hoop jumping? “Black vibrator.” Like he probably wanted from the fucking start.

Mickey grins, grabbing the toy from the towel and stretching out on the couch with it. And as much as Ian wants to question him - wants to complain - he can’t deny how hot and full and needy he feels in his chest - how that little flame has caught enough oxygen to roar in his belly without him even realizing it.

Holy fuck.

What just happened?

With a long breath in and out, Ian tries to right himself… Calm himself… Bring himself back down to the present, his clipboard long forgotten in his lap until this moment in time.

“One-to-tens…” They’ve never steered him wrong, just as long as he knows how to use them. “How’s-”

“All basic shit,” Mickey answers before Ian can waste his breath, his voice confident over the click and squeeze of the lube bottle.

Alright. “Basic…” he repeats, hovering the tip of his pen over the line of numbers. “So what… Five? Middle of the road?” Kind of crazy to gun so hard for that toy specifically, only to rate it like shit, but whatever. Mickey’s the customer. He can give it what he wants.

At his casual nod, Ian circles fives across the board - comfort, quality, style. It’s just in time for the little breath out as Mickey must slide the vibrator inside himself over there. 

Ian could look, but he doesn’t need to. The fire in his belly is more than enough, thank you. “Did you wanna elaborate on any of that?”

“Yeah,” Mickey offers, like Ian is so kind to ask. “Too shrimpy. You want higher numbers, you gotta gimme something bigger.”

It’s got the flames licking up his stomach and his chest and his face. Has Ian bringing his bottom lip between his teeth as he writes, concentrating on pressing a straight, deep line into it instead of freeing the words that are trying to get past. Because Christ. He’s got something bigger for him, that’s for sure…

No.

They’re a third of the way through.

He can do this.

“Let’s move on,” he suggests.

But, “Nah,” Mickey grins. “Gonna stay on this one a lil’ longer.”

It’s lighthearted for the camera. Fun. Ian would be having fun too if he wasn’t fighting down the urge to stand and do something absolutely crazy. (Again.)

Because Mickey’s drawing this out, obviously. Stringing him along. Playing with Ian, just as much as he’s playing with the vibrator, the pump he’s got going between his thighs picking up speed now.

He’s trying to push him until he breaks.

So much for that little talk.

Ian knows Mickey’s staring at him. He can feel it over the clipboard. But he's a professional. “Thought you weren’t all that impressed with it,” he counters, the numbers to prove it right before his eyes.

But Mickey doesn’t give a fuck about that. He’s never given a fuck about protocol, has he? Certainly not if it’s anything he can throw a wrench in himself. “Think I just need a hand,” he says. “An expert.”

Fuck.

There it is.

Ian keeps himself steady. Keeps his eyeline low on the paper, despite the swoop of interest in his stomach. He’s not gonna be baited this time. “Can’t help you like that.”

“Like what…?”

“Like you're asking for.”

He’s not looking, but he can just imagine the look on Mickey’s face right now - how he’s draped across the couch, impossibly alluring with it all. “Did last time.”

“Shouldn’t have.” Do you hear that, corporate? Do you hear that, Vee? He knows he’s strayed from the light, but this time he’s hanging on. “Not supposed to do that anymore.”

“Huh…” He’d sound convinced if that smirk was off his face. If his voice wasn’t melted down from fucking himself right in front of him and the camera. “You always such a goody-two-shoes?” 

There. See? 

Ian presses his mouth closed. Feels his chin jutting out in defiance. “No.” 

“No…? Thought the customer’s always right.”

Fuck, he fell for the bait.

Ian huffs, but it’s way too heated for his own good - he can tell it’s given him away as soon as it comes out of his mouth. 

And so can Mickey. Fucking obviously. Because when Ian finally breaks, his eyes lifting from the numbers on his clipboard to settle over him on the couch, Mickey is waiting for him with a smirk that’s got him throbbing in his goddamn jeans.

Jesus Christ, this guy…

“Don’t give a shit about that ‘memorable experience’ no more, huh…?” he teases, working the vibrator in and out of himself in long, slow strokes behind his bunched jeans. “Customer satisfaction…”

Ian wets his lips, his heart in his fucking throat. “Already told me that’s not gonna satisfy you. Used the word ‘shrimpy’, I think.”

And fuck, the way Mickey lights up over there… How Ian finally playing along a little pleases him almost as much… It has the fire swirling in his belly - hot and needy. “You got somethin’ else for me then, big guy?”

Fuck!

Fuck, fuck, fuck…

Ian snaps his attention to the camera, still filming away. Feels the draw back to Mickey like clockwork - what he’s wanted since the beginning.

The camera.

Mickey, his eyes darkening and smirk melting with the last of Ian’s resolve and fuck-

“Fuck it,” Ian rushes out, his clipboard tossed to the side as he rises from the chair and closes the space between him and Mickey without another thought, his pulse thundering in his ears.

Mickey welcomes him with a pleased grin, watching Ian kneel over him and grabbing at his shoulder and god, it’s almost too much - too overwhelming - getting to touch after so many times of telling himself not to and-

“Christ,” Mickey breathes out, hot between him and grinning wildly, “You’re hard to fuckin’ crack.”

But not anymore. Not if Ian has anything to say about it, immediately swooping down to slot his lips over Mickey’s as energy bursts in his chest.

He follows with the momentum of it. Kisses the fucking life out of him. Reaches between Mickey’s legs and blindly wrangles that stupid toy from his grasp so he can toss it god knows where beside them, freeing up the space for himself to fill.

The noise as they break from their kiss is wet and nasty and only momentary. Only long enough for them to start grabbing clothes - Ian dragging Mickey’s pants the rest of the way down and off and Mickey tearing at Ian’s belt and working his jeans open until they come back together, Ian on top.

And yes, it’s a rush and everything’s overwhelming and yes he can feel the ominous presence of The Corporate Monster looming in the corner but they’re past all that - more than all that. This tape is never seeing the light of day. He’s gonna fuck Mickey and they’re gonna figure it out later and-

Ian’s brain hard-cuts to the sudden bliss of Mickey’s hand slicking over his cock, even before he registers the click of the lube cap, his mouth dropping open in a huff of pleasant surprise, “Oh…”

He takes a breath. Lets Mickey stroke him as he tries to catch his breath, tingles rushing from his chest all the way down between his thighs with it all because it’s happening…it’s happening…it’s finally fucking happening.

And Mickey is humming in admiration, blinking up at him as he takes his own greedy, hands-on approach to discovering what’s about to take the vibrator’s place. “Mm, that’s more fuckin’ like it…”

“Yeah…?” Breathy. An ego trip - as if Ian fucking needs one. “That gonna work for ya, you think…?”

Mickey grins, twisting on the upstroke. “Really made me wait for this shit, huh…?” A move Ian heavily regrets. But it’s nothing he can’t fix right this very second. “Get the fuck in me.”

With his pulse in his eardrums and the hunger that sets in from finally getting what he wants, Ian reaches between them and lines himself up, rubbing the head of his cock over Mickey’s slick hole. 

He hasn’t gotten a chance to appreciate it. Eat it. Work him open with his tongue and his fingers or anything besides that N-joy but maybe in the future. Maybe soon. If Mickey lets him. 

And things are in his favor because when he looks down at him, Mickey is locked the fuck in. Hungry for it. Not looking away for a second as Ian slowly guides himself in - feeds him every inch, encouraged by the parted, breathless smile that dances across Mickey’s lips as he bottoms out. “Oh-ho-ho…fuck…”

Now that’s fucking satisfaction.

Ian heaves a heavy breath, keeping him stuffed and dropping to bury his face in Mickey’s shoulder. “Jesus…” he hums, his chest rumbling with it.

Mickey’s so tight… Even after imagining this all those times before work, he never could’ve prepared for how fucking good he feels wrapped around his cock.

He’s gotta move. Gotta fuck him like they both need.

“You alright…?” he murmurs first - lifts his head back up to take in Mickey’s face, rubbing his thumb over the band of his collar as he speaks down to him. “You okay…?”

“Yeah…”

“Yeah?”

“Fucking give it to me,” Mickey challenges, clearly not missing how Ian admires the collar he put on him, but finding his own priorities in it. 

Ian’s got the same ones. The immediate ones. They can figure out their roles in this later, but now-

Pleasure pops in thick, heady curls as he tilts his hips, rocking up into Mickey’s tight heat experimentally. 

Beneath him, Mickey gasps - this cute, surprised breath that’s got Ian chuckling from how fucking endearing it is. Because oh? “Thought you wanted me to give it to you-”

“Fuck off-”

“Thought you wanted something big-”

Mickey tugs him down by the back of the neck, shutting him up good with his own mouth. It turns heated in no time flat, their tongues gliding over each other and a nibble here and there. Just one more piece of bait that Ian fumbles dick-first for. As usual. 

But he falls into it gladly. Just like how they fall into the rhythm of it, everything ramping up in a slow build as they follow each other’s lead…move with the other’s body…roll and press and sink and before he knows it, his hips have started rocking - pumping - meeting Mickey’s sways and fuck, it is absolutely delicious. 

Ian’s eyes roll shut, his cock sliding in and out of Mickey’s heat, his pleasure pooling gorgeously in his belly and between his thighs. “Fuck, Mickey…”

His hands slip on the plush cover beneath them, the couch cushions creaking like crazy over their moans. They’re clearly not used to this type of action, but Ian’s happy to break them in. Especially when Mickey’s looking so fucking pleased underneath him, his thighs coming to wrap around his waist.

“C’mon…” he murmurs, encouraging Ian’s hips to snap faster, “C’mon, man - please…”

And oh, Ian’s not sure why that does it for him, but it really fucking does.

Mickey, using manners. Who woulda thought.

He presses forward with a groan, fucking up into Mickey a little faster, since he asked so nicely. 

“Fu-uh-uck…”

“Whaddaya say…?” Ian teases, winded and pressing his luck - he knows. He’s just never been this turned on in his life and able to do something about it. Directly. So… “Huh…?”

Mickey huffs a laugh but refuses, “Fuck off…” But Ian can feel how he clenches around his cock just from talking about it. “Fuck off - I’m fuckin’ close…”

Shit, that’s much more important. “Oh yeah…?”

“Yeah - gonna make me cum…”

Ian leans into it with everything he has, determined to fuck the orgasm out of him even as his own starts to creep up on him. The power of suggestion is mighty as a-

The rest of that thought evaporates into thin air, the only thing happening on the planet right now being Mickey’s moan - the way his brows furrow - how he squeezes around Ian’s cock as he cums in hot, tight pulses that feel so good he could fucking cry.

Ian’s hips stutter with it, holding on for dear life because they haven’t talked about where he’s gonna blow his load but- “Fuck-... Mickey- Wheredoyou-”

Mickey’s thighs tighten around him in answer, keeping him buried deep like he apparently wants and fuck, that is so-

A moan falls from Ian’s lips as his orgasm works through his body in liquid-hot waves - as he cums inside Mickey, filling him up with his load.

It’s definitely something they should’ve talked about, but Ian will just add it to the list. The list that he hopes they get to explore together. The list that’s gradually starting to haze out of his memory as his brain begins to slow again…come down…visions now, only, of Mickey below him.

His eyes are closed… Dark lashes… And all at once, Ian’s certain he doesn’t want this to be the last time he’s close enough to see them like this.

But just in case…

He lets himself take him in for a moment more, and when he absentmindedly brushes his thumb over the collar around his throat, Mickey’s eyes are fluttering back open.

“Ya know…” Ian wonders out loud, barely over a whisper, “we got a lotta these…” In the store… “Could pick somethin’ out.” 

‘Together’ he wants to say. ‘Something we both pick.’

He doesn’t have to, though. Mickey’s seeming to catch on perfectly fine without it, his inhale deeply satisfied as he takes in Ian’s face with a goofy, groggy grin. “Yeah…” 

“Yeah?”

“…maybe when you don’t got a load and your whole cock in me…”

It’s contagious, his smile. And it’s got little pops of all the good stuff going off in Ian’s chest. Elation. Satisfaction. Hope. “Guess we could clean up first,” he agrees. Probably a good idea, all in all.

But Mickey’s not quite ready, judging by how he wants Ian close, wrangling his hand back in to run over his collar like he was before. “In a sec…”

And as the moment ticks by, Ian can’t help but think back to the start of it all. Their first time back here, in this room. How Mickey seemed to stroll into The Treasure Trail and right into his life like he already owned it all - without a fucking worry. Christ, he didn’t even know there was a camera involved until they were halfway down the hall-

Wait…

Fuck.

Ian glances behind his shoulder, where the camera is pointed straight at how he’s still balls-deep in Mickey.

Right.

Whoops.

“Tape’s fucked…” he has to say. Because fucking obviously. “Gonna have to go again tonight if you wanna get paid.”

Beneath him, Mickey stretches an arm over his head, looking like he’s not about to make any fast moves. “Schedule’s free…”

“That right? Don’t got any hot plans?”

“You’re lookin’ at ‘em.”

Ian can’t help the fond grin that tugs at the corner of his mouth. Especially with Mickey’s eyes still peacefully closed like this. He can get away with it, he thinks. 

But…anyway… “I’ll record over this first one,” he promises, for liability’s sake. “Wipe it all clean.”

Even if Mickey doesn’t seem too worried about it. “Knock your socks off, Red.” 

That is, until Ian starts to move, wiping him down with the complimentary towelettes (always be prepared) and then cleaning himself and pulling his pants up.

Because that’s when he makes his way over to the camera, stopping the recording and then hitting the rewind button and-

“Wait,” Mickey pipes up from the couch, suddenly active. “You mean we ain’t gonna watch it?”

Ian’s gaze flicks away and then back. Hesitates. The recording? Of them fucking? “Do you wanna watch it?”

Absolutely the stupidest thing he’s said to date, judging off the face Mickey’s giving him. “You fuckin’ kiddin’ me right now?”

They’re definitely watching the recording of them fucking.

Chapter Text

A week passes. As it always does.

But these days, Ian’s got a little extra pep in his step, courtesy of one supposedly “extra cranky customer”.

It took them three (yes, three) attempts to finally get the review down last week, but they did it. And Mickey’s coming back today. And even if he wasn’t, Ian thinks he could deal with the loss of their routine now that they’re texting each other - talking outside of this - setting up time to hang out together without a camera in their faces. 

They’re going out for a beer tonight after work and Ian’s already buzzing with the excitement of it all. Their first date! If they wanna call it that. (He wants to call it that.)

For now, he just has to focus on getting through the rest of his shift and the review, a grin dancing across his face to the tune of The Treasure Trail’s door ringing open, right on time. 

Speak of the devil.

He pops off a subtle little wave to Mickey. Is obsessed with this bubble of giddiness in him. Feels it all coming to a bit of a jerky stop, as the face that follows directly behind him registers too.

Wait…

Ian’s grin grows stale with confusion, his gaze bouncing from Mickey’s approach, to where Vee now passes him in frightening chunky heels, keeping Ian dead in her sights. 

Holy fuck, she’s here on a mission.

“You,” she points right at him, “and you,” then at Mickey, earning a brow furrow of confused offense. “Back room.”

They both watch after her as she disappears into the hallway, at a loss in their own ways. Because fuck…

“Damn, what’d you do?” Bells asks unhelpfully beside him.

And frankly, Ian doesn’t even know where to start. His brain has kicked into double-triple mode, flying through all the ways he might’ve fucked up their tape while he sent it in last week. Never mind the fact what he sat there and watched every single second of it three times to make sure none of their original fuck-up recordings snuck in.

But something must’ve, right? 

Oh god, he’s about to get fired.

“Who the fuck is that?” Mickey frowns, clearly not about to start following orders unless Ian’s vetting them.

It’s kinda endearing in its own way. But… “My boss…” he says, dread so real he can hear it in his own voice. “Let’s go.”

After a quick good luck from Bells, he leads them into the hallway, Mickey following close behind. And when they walk into the back room, Vee is waiting for them, motioning toward the couch with a simple, “Sit.”

It’s lost a lot of its bite in the time it took them to come back here, but Ian’s not in the mood to tempt fate, so he takes a seat on the couch, nodding for Mickey to join him.

It’s weird for all three of them to be in here. 

Awkward. 

Like someone’s in his and Mickey’s bedroom or something - which is fucked up, because they haven’t even gone out on their first-

“Alright look,” Vee says as she’s shutting the door, “I’m just gonna get right at it. I know you two are up to some freaky shit outside of here.”

Ian’s eyebrows raise where he blinks up at her from the couch. His mouth immediately drops open to counter that. To correct her, god forbid. But thankfully she cuts him off before he can be so stupid.

“You ain’t hidin’ nothin’ in those tapes like you think you are, so don’t bother,” she says. “It’s fine. Don’t gotta see whatever you keep deleting when everything else is clear as day.” 

“Clear as day?” Ian tries. Shit, are they that obvious? “I mean… I know I fucked up with the N-joy, but…”

“The fuck’s an N-joy?” Mickey murmurs next to him.

Ian throws him a look. Pointed.

“Oh.” 

Yeah.

But Vee’s redirecting. Getting them back on the path. “Point is you’re obvious, alright? I’m talkin’ real obvious.”

“Vee-”

“So obvious that the team's sniffed you two out for partner surveys.”

Ian’s momentum trips up on itself. As does his dread. His confusion, though, that one stays strong. Because wait. “Partner surveys?”

“Those pay?” Mickey chimes in, and Ian can’t help but hold his hands out to stop it all from rolling too quickly, not about to get dragged down with Mickey’s chronic problem of signing onto things without knowing the details.

And - wait just a second. 

Hold the fucking phone.

“Wait,” Ian tries, his eyes pressing shut to try and force a mental rewind. “You’re not firing me?”

“Firing you?” When he looks again, Vee is fixing him with a frown, “And why the hell would I be doin’ that?” Oh. Why, indeed. But all his silence does, he realizes, is make her suspicious. Rightfully. “Ian,” she says again - managerial dread, “why the hell would I be doin’ that?”

But, “No!” Ian assures, more than happy to keep his and Mickey’s secrets. “Nothing. Promise.” 

She doesn’t know about them fucking, then. Last week. Right here on this couch. (Twice.)

“This partner survey shit,” Mickey suddenly says from beside him, “how much we talkin’?” A man with different priorities, clearly. 

But Vee seems willing to pivot to his - to avoid whatever Ian just almost let spill to her. Thank god.

“Pays well,” she shares. “Double solo surveys. And since one of you works here, that eliminates a moderator. Long as Ian’s up to take on the extra role.”

Mickey nods. “We’re in.”

“We’ll think about it,” Ian corrects, shooting him another look. If this is what dating Mickey is gonna be like, he’s gonna need to brush up on his negotiation skills. “I’ll let you know, Vee.”

“No skin off my ass either way,” she admits, checking her phone and then heading to the door. “Just wanted to pass it along.”

“Thanks.”

“Alright - get goin’ on that solo survey.” She pulls away from the doorway to shoot one last point at Ian, dead where he sits. “Solo,” she reiterates. “You hear that?”

Ian takes the hint, his grin sheepish. “Yes ma’am.” Loud and clear. 

And with that, Vee is disappearing into the hallway, closing the door behind her and sealing the two of them back inside their bubble.

It’s…

Ian’s gotta take a second.

Has to let out a long breath.

Needs to let it all sink in - the fact that he’s not only keeping his job, but was just offered another opportunity, one where he gets to do sexy shit with the guy he likes. For money. He really must be the favorite, huh?

Back in reality, Mickey asks it, fondly tapping at Ian’s temple. “You do a lotta shit up here, don’tchya…” 

It’s right on the mark. As is Ian’s response to the matter. “Yeah,” he huffs a laugh, tapping his finger to Mickey’s mouth. “And you do a lot down here.” Constantly yapping. Leading with his words. 

And the funny thing about that, is right now Mickey doesn’t need to say a single one, his suggestive eyebrow raise getting his point across perfectly well.

“Not what I meant,” Ian ensures, but the grin is coming in hot. 

Especially as Mickey’s other brow joins the suggestion. “Could be.”

“Could be, but not right now.” Not in the store. While it’s closed and they’re back here for nefarious reasons is one thing. But Ian’s been flirting with a write up for too long. “Save it for tonight.”

Their date!

Patience is a virtue, after all. And don’t get him started on how everything tastes better when you let it simmer. They’re living proof of that, after all.

Ian grins, chancing a pat on Mickey’s knee as he stands. “I’ll go get the stuff.”

But before he can get too far, “Hey…”

When he turns back around, Mickey’s looking just about as handsome and tempting as ever - which is impossibly so - and then he pulls something out of his pocket to place it in Ian’s hand.

“Mm…” Ian hums, thumbing thoughtfully over the brand new leather. Of course. 

He steps between Mickey’s legs where they part for him. Wraps the collar around his pretty throat, taking great care.

The band is chunkier. Thicker. Black, of course, stitched in pretty silver.

“Picked a good one,” Ian smiles, still so fond as the memories of their after-hours browsing come back to him. “Looks nice…”

Mickey’s quiet, but he preens from it… Tilts his chin up... Heavy blue eyes dancing across Ian’s face in equal admiration. 

God, Ian can’t wait until he gets to kiss this mouth any time he wants. 

They’ll get there. He’s sure of it. And right now, they’ve got a job to do. So Ian makes sure his collar is secure, cups the side of Mickey’s face in a small gentle pat, and then murmurs, “Be right back.”

As he moves toward the door, the urge to hurry is mighty. And it’s made only more potent as Mickey drapes himself back against the couch, planting a boot on the edge of the coffee table as he smirks. “Ain’t goin’ nowhere, Red.”

Surely they can pull off one last round of solo one-to-tens before starting down their new path. 

Ian’s got everything under control.

THE END