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.”