Chapter 1
Summary:
Prompt × Handjobs
Chapter Text
The smell sticks. It doesn’t matter if you double-glove or how good the respirator is, it gets in anyway. Seeps under your suit, clings to your clothes, rides home with you. Most people quit in the first year because of that. Or because they get their first really bad case.
But tonight’s different. The same smell but a new partner to share it with.
Marisa, Ian’s boss, said his usual partner’s out on medical leave, stress leave, whatever the hell they’re calling going crazy now.
He’s not coming back soon.
Instead, Ian’s paired with Mickey. Short, sharp, eyes that say don’t ask me shit, knuckle tattoos that promise to FUCK U-UP if you do.
So he didn’t. Wouldn’t on the first day, though.
It was a careful edging-in on the drive from the station to the scene. The only words they’d exchanged were introductions and a few lines about the case. Nothing more, nothing less.
Full lips, steel-blue eyes, a perfect ass in baggy jeans. None of it had thrown Ian off while he drove them to the house.
They were stripping down the apartment. A shotgun suicide in a rental where the landlord was already pacing the hall, calling someone.
Blood and brain matter mixed with drywall crumbs everywhere. Mickey didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink when he scooped chunks of skull into a bio bag like he was clearing chicken bones from a plate. Tough as nails.
He was also quiet. Not the awkward kind — just… efficient. Focused. Every movement was exact, economical.
Ian liked to talk a little while he worked, make small jokes to keep the air from curdling, to stop his own mind from spiraling down into the pits of human darkness.
He’d tried a few minutes ago, but Mickey had just given him that flat look over the mask, like: shut the fuck up and keep scrubbing.
They finished in three hours. The place looked like no one had ever lived there, which was the point.
By the time they hauled the last bag into the van, Ian’s back was screaming and his throat tasted like bleach. Mickey leaned against the open door, peeled his gloves off, snapped them into the trash and lit a cigarette.
“Hungry?” Ian asked, because it’s what you’re supposed to do. He’d had this deal with his old partner: you never go straight home after. You sit somewhere neutral, somewhere with light and normal people, to remind yourself the world isn’t just death and ruin and not everyone’s a crazy piece of shit.
Mickey shrugged. But ten minutes after they dumped the bio bags, he was in the booth across from Ian at the all-night diner on Belmont, staring at a menu.
He ordered fries. Nothing else. Didn’t touch the ketchup. Ian got eggs and coffee. They didn’t talk much.
Ian asked where he was from. “South Side,” Mickey said, and didn’t look surprised when Ian said he was too.
He asked if Mickey had done this kind of work before. Mickey said, “Something like that.” That was it. That was their conversation.
But that was okay. Most of the time not everyone was as talkative as Ian, or liked sharing their personal life. It was about the job. About checking in on each other, making sure no one was spiraling. Getting the stuff you’d seen off your chest or just sitting there and eating. That was all.
When the plates were empty, Mickey nodded once, tossed some bills on the table, slid out of the booth and headed for the door without waiting. Ian laid down a twenty too and followed.
When the cool air hit him outside, Ian looked around, but Mickey was already gone.
—
Two nights later the call said domestic homicide. When they arrived, the cops had already cleared out the bodies, photos taken, tape strung across the door.
Inside, it was bad. In the bedroom were two bodies, close range. The kind of mess you can’t bleach out of your head. Walls freckled red, sheets stiff with it, the smell already turning sweet.
Mickey worked like a machine. Didn’t gag, didn’t pause. He went straight for the mattress, slicing it apart with a box cutter like he’d been doing this for years. Ian was bagging carpet squares when he glanced over. Mickey’s inked arms were slick with sweat under the Tyvek, his jaw locked tight. For a moment Ian wondered what those tattoos were. He hadn’t seen them properly. Either the Tyvek showed them only faintly or, at the diner, there was always a jacket over them. Ian looked away when Mickey caught him staring.
They didn’t talk. There was nothing to say.
Three hours of scraping, scrubbing, hauling. By the end of the night Ian’s gloves were streaked pink and his shoulders ached like hell. Mickey tossed another bag into the van with a grunt and muttered, “Fuckin’ animals.”
It was the first thing he’d said all night.
Back at the diner they ended up in the same booth, same cracked vinyl seats. He ordered a burger this time, scarfed half before Ian had even touched his own plate.
“That was a bad one,” Ian said, popping a fry into his mouth.
Mickey shrugged. “Seen worse.”
“Worked a couple years as EMT,” Ian told him, half to fill the air, half to let him know he’d seen bad stuff too. “Never really get used to kids or families.”
Blue eyes flicked up at him, quick, then back down. “You don’t get used to any of it,” he said.
Ian nodded. True enough. You don’t get used to that stuff. That’s one reason why he’d quit being an EMT: the pressure to help someone, to save their life, and the aftermath if you couldn’t. If you lost a patient.
What he did now was sometimes better. They were already dead. You couldn’t do anything wrong. It was better for… for his own mental stability.
They sat there longer than last time. Mickey didn’t walk out fast. Didn’t bolt the second the check dropped. Just slouched in the booth, picking crumbs into a pile, staring at nothing.
When he finally spoke again, Ian looked up. “They shoulda locked the guy up before it got this far.”
Ian nodded. They should have. But it was always the same, wasn’t it? Some crazy guy being watched too long and out of nowhere he stabs his wife and kids. Always like this.
Ian mouthed a fry, looking at Mickey, trying to get away from the thought that he’d been right there a few years ago. One of those crazy people.
“You ever need to talk about stuff, I’m around.”
Mickey snorted. “Talkin’ doesn’t fix shit.”
Ian sipped his coffee. True enough. But: “It keeps it from rotting in your head.”
“Do different stuff to shut my mind off,” he mumbled before sliding out of the booth. “See ya, Red.”
—
The next day Mickey had the day off and Ian was paired with another coworker.
John.
John was one of those guys who’d talk your ear off and then do nothing, always stepping out for a smoke and dodging the heavy work.
Ian liked John as a person but he was a terrible partner.
That evening Ian fell into bed drained and worn out, glad Mickey would be back on shift tomorrow.
—
Some jobs are worse than others, not because of the gore or blood but because of everything around it. What happened. Why it happened.
Sometimes it’s just a reminder of how pitch-black and bottomless the human heart can be.
This one’s a house out in the suburbs, beige siding with a manicured lawn. Inside, it’s carnage. Guy shot his dog first, then himself.
Blood doesn’t stay where it’s supposed to. It travels, soaks, paints. The dog bled out in the living room, paw prints tracked through the hallway. The man died in the bathroom. Small space, white tile, crimson sprayed over every surface like a bad mural.
The cleaning lady had called the police. The man’s wife was with psychologists, the bodies already on their way to the funeral home. A few people from forensics were still packing up their instruments. “You’re up, boys,” one of the men in white suits said to Ian.
He nodded as he pulled the glove over his coverall.
Mickey kneels on the floor, scrubbing at the grout with a brush, gloved hands steady, his movements clipped. Ian watches him without meaning to: the way his eyes narrow in concentration, sharp blue under the fluorescent light, focused on the blood. He’s precise, but there’s something in the set of his jaw that looks… tired.
Maybe Ian’s imagining it, but Mickey seems different today, and Ian wonders what he did on his day off.
His gaze drifts over the muscles tensing under the thin white fabric, the curve of his lower back as he kneels and scrubs.
Ian shakes himself and goes back to work on the baseboards. But he catches himself thinking about him again: the way Mickey’s arm flexes as he leans into the brush, the way he doesn’t stop scrubbing blood until the tile is white again. Determined, relentless. Beautiful, in his own brutal way.
They finish close to dawn. The house smells of bleach, everything clean, every trace erased, but Ian doesn’t know how the wife will ever live there again.
Outside, the sky’s gray, birds already awake. Mickey smokes, leaning against the van when Ian comes out.
“We goin’ for breakfast, Red?”
Ian just nods and hops in the van. They dump the bags and head to the diner.
It’s crowded when they slide into their booth. Mickey orders coffee and pancakes but doesn’t touch them when they arrive. His eyes are heavy, but he doesn’t vanish into silence this time.
“Guy killed his own dog,” he mutters, staring at the tabletop. “Like it was nothin’.”
“Couldn’t stomach that part,” Ian admits. “Animals don’t choose. They trust you.”
Mickey’s jaw ticks. He blows out a breath through his nose. “Some people shouldn’t be allowed near another living thing.”
Ian nods. They sit with it for a while. It’s not easy talk, but it’s talk. It’s necessary.
“Guess it’s easier if you don’t go home to anybody after this kinda shit. Just clean up, crash, do it again.” Mickey says it out of nowhere. He catches himself, too late, eyes flicking up like he wants to reel the words back. “Not everybody understands.”
“You live alone?” Ian asks.
“Yeah.” He takes a sip of coffee. “Since—uhm—a long time ago.”
It’s the most personal thing he’s given Ian yet, and Ian wonders how Mickey got into this job and if it has anything to do with the way he said “since.” But he’s not pushy. He keeps his mouth shut.
They finish the meal in silence, but it feels different now. Like something shifted between them, something Ian can’t put his finger on.
When they stand, Mickey gives him a nod.
Then Ian watches him go. He shouldn’t be staring at his colleague this way. He knows that damn well. But he can’t help himself.
—
He doesn’t get many nights off. The work’s brutal, and people die every day, but since the new boss started some kind of deal with the union, he’s forced to take one day off a week. He hates it. At home there’s no one to talk to, so he usually sits all day in front of the TV in his boxers, eating his own weight in cereal while some pawn-shop show drones on.
But at night.
At night, when the dark corners of Chicago wake up, Ian gets ready. He showers, gets dressed, and then leaves his apartment.
It’s a counterweight. Like a scale. A counterpoint to the daily job that controls him.
Tonight he needs something to distract his mind. Something sharp to cut the edge. Something he can control.
And here he is, in a back room of a club he’s been to a handful of times, dark corners, music pounding through the walls. Nobody cares who you are as long as you’re discreet.
The kid he’s got stretched under him can’t be more than twenty-two. Pale, wiry, hungry for it. He whimpers when Ian pins his wrists, arches up like he’s desperate to be handled. Ian gives him what he wants — a rough grip, bruising pace, the kind of treatment that leaves a mark so he’ll remember tomorrow.
For Ian it’s just release, taking back control, distraction.
Except his mind won’t stay here.
Not on this body, not on this face. Instead it slides sideways: to sharp blue eyes catching his across a blood-soaked room, to tattooed knuckles gripping a brush steady, to a foul mouth that would be perfect to use. Perfect pink lips curling around a curse like it’s second nature. An arched back and legs made to kneel. An ass covered in baggy jeans…
The thought hits hot, low, and he slams his eyes shut, burying a groan in his throat. Pretend it’s someone else beneath him, someone who never talks about himself, someone who lives alone and shoulders silence like armor. Someone he wonders about why he does the job he does, someone he wants to know, someone he wants.
The kid moans, claws at him with his calves, but all Ian can see is Mickey’s stare. All he can feel is how close they’ve been in those scrubbed-clean rooms, how much he wanted to reach out, touch him, feel him, have him underneath.
He thrusts harder, chasing the image until it swallows everything else. Now he wants more. Wants to make him beg, wants to know how those lips taste, how tight he is, how he looks when he’s falling apart.
Release comes sharp, blinding, and he drops his forehead against the kid’s shoulder, breath ragged. He wants to know how Mickey smells, what his scent is when he’s sweating from sex, what his noises are when he comes.
It’s over, and normally he should feel relieved, even after a scene that isn’t this intense. But it feels empty. Hollow.
He checks in on his sub, offers aftercare, but the twink is out the door the second he gets dressed. Ian notices he didn’t even pay attention to whether the kid came.
He doesn’t care either. It was a thing for a night — less. Just an hour, and the fulfillment of a constant sub could never reach that.
Ian drives home, showers. The image of perfect full lips begging please doesn’t leave his mind that night.
—
Another house, another mess. This time an overdose in a cramped studio, weeks old. The smell hits the second Ian steps inside. Rot and chemical sweetness seep through the respirator until it clings to the back of his throat. Mickey doesn’t flinch, as always. He just pulls on gloves and gets to work.
But Ian folds a little. Not because of the case—he’s seen far worse—but because he can’t stop thinking about the other night.
The warmth of a body under him, wrists pinned, soft skin, a tight hole. It should have done its job. But it hasn’t. The images won’t shake loose. They curl around his ribs, squeeze tight.
He scrubs at a stain on the floor too hard, bleach splattering up his sleeve. He tries to force focus.
This is work. He’s my colleague. Nothing more. You don’t mess around with people who see the same shit you do, who share the same ritual in a diner at 3 a.m. You just don’t.
And anyway… who says he’s even gay? Maybe those thighs are that muscular because he’s been fucking women.
Ian glances up. Mickey’s crouched in the bathroom doorway, brushing at a stain of blood, and Ian looks too long. Mickey looks up, catches him.
“You alright over there? You’re puking, you clean up by yourself, Red,” he calls, a smug curl on his lips.
God, he’d be perfect to take apart.
Ian nods, forces a smile. “Just lost in thought.”
Mickey nods back, eyes locking for half a second too long before he goes back to scrubbing.
Ian ducks his head, heart punching a little harder than it should.
It’s nothing. Has to be nothing.
—
They slide into the booth like they always do. The diner smells of grease and coffee, neon buzzing overhead. Mickey orders black coffee, nothing else. Ian’s half-looking at the menu, but he can’t focus.
Is it really just about the other night? Or is something else off? Is it maybe… maybe an episode coming?
He takes his meds. He checks in with the doc, but sometimes he doesn’t notice when he’s manic. He should…
Mickey notices his distraction. “You okay? About the case?” He leans back, arms crossed, muscles tight under the long sleeves.
Ian shakes his head. “Nah. Personal stuff,” he says.
Mickey hums, not pushing. Just watches him.
Ian doesn’t want to elaborate. It’s something not everyone needs to know about him.
So he sips his coffee and keeps his mouth shut.
They leave as usual. Mickey nods, says, “See ya, Red,” and walks off into the cold night.
—
Back at his place, Ian tossed his backpack onto the chair and slumped toward the couch. Images from the studio, the diner, the way Mickey moved. The way his ass looked, the way he gripped the steering wheel, the way his eyebrow quirked. He couldn’t get him out of his head, and with every day they spent together it only got worse.
He picked up his phone. Mindless scrolling through the Deviant App. He needed a distraction. Someone. Someone to distract him from tattoos he couldn’t see. From skin he couldn’t touch, from lips he couldn’t kiss.
He scrolled. Oh, Julius was a good one, he remembered. But not for this. He was clingy sometimes. So he scrolled further.
And then he stopped.
A picture hit him like a truck. It was a picture of a neck, the front so the Adam’s apple showed. A hand was wrapped around it — the guy’s own hand — in a sinful way. There was ink. Ink on his chest, ink on his arms, ink on his knuckles, spelling F-U-C-K.
Ian heard his own heart in his throat, felt sweat prickle on his forehead. It was him.
He set the phone down. Headed to the shower. Cold water hit his back, his mind circling.
His chest was tattooed too. He was- Mickey was on this platform. A platform for Dom and Sub stuff. In the gay corner. He was there.
Fuck.
His hand wandered lower, gripped himself. It didn’t take long and the cold water didn’t help at all. He was hot and he groaned out loud as he thought of the picture on the profile. He knew he shouldn’t go that far. But he was already too far to stop. He squeezed his eyes shut and let go, coming against the cold white tiles and trying to catch his breath.
Fuck. Fuck Fuck.
When he toweled off, he picked the phone back up. Clicked on the profile. God he shouldn’t do this. But he couldn’t tear his eyes away.
Mick. 34. Gay. Submissive.
He was a brat.
That much was obvious.
Ian’s mouth formed a smirk as he imagined all the ways he could tame him. The ways he’d make him beg, make him submit, make him obey. And then the way he’d fight him, push back, tease him until Ian had no choice but to take him apart, piece by piece.
The thought twisted low in his stomach.
Ian put the phone aside again. He knew it would just be waiting there. Mickey’s image. His profile. All the possibilities.
And he’d be the predator, haunting until he got his prey.
—
A week went by.
The jobs blurred together: the same calls, the same rooms soaked in blood, some with maggots and more trash than a dump, but every time the same ritual of bleach and bagging, the same cracked-vinyl booth at the diner afterward. Night after night they cleaned up other people’s endings and left before the sun came up.
In that week Ian hadn’t gone back to the club. No nameless subs under him, no rough scenes to scrape the noise out of his head. Instead he’d been hunting. Watching him. Watching Mickey in a different way. Not just staring at his arms, asking himself what was underneath the fabric, not just staring at his neck and asking himself how he smelled. He’d gone further. Far further.
It was easy once you knew what to look for. Little things most people would miss. But he saw them. There were faint rub marks at his wrists, Ian noticed two days ago when his sleeve was up a bit. There was a silent wince as he slid into the booth the night before, a bruise peeking from under a too-low collar. Signs you’d never catch unless you’d been in the scene yourself. Unless you knew exactly what those marks meant.
Ian did.
And it was only a matter of time before Mickey realized that he did.
Now, on a random Tuesday, Ian watched him sitting across from him in the diner, bent over his coffee like it was holding him upright. He still hadn’t given him anything personal, not really, but he talked more now, little comments about cases, flashes of dark humor. Enough to make him want more.
Ian kept his eyes on him over the rim of his mug. Patient like a lion watching an antelope eat, waiting for the moment it finally lifted its head and saw the brush moving.
And then he finally bit the bait.
“You’re staring again.”
“Again?”
“You do it a lot.”
“Do I?”
He shrugged, looked up, a grin playing on his lips.
“Just saying there are people who don’t like being stared at like they’re breakfast.”
“You don’t like it?”
“Never said that.”
Ian licked his lips. “Then you like it?”
Mickey shrugged. “That a problem?”
Ian shook his head, leaned back. “So you’re gay?”
“Straight to the point, huh? Quit playin’ dumb, Red. I know you know. We can stop playing games.”
He stood, bent down to Ian’s ear and whispered, “Bathroom. Left stall.”
Then he walked off, leaving behind a trace of deodorant and cigarette smoke mixed with his sweat, a scent that drove Ian out of his damn mind.
He had to decide.
He had to decide fast.
Should he?
No, damn it, he shouldn’t. But he had to. Wanted to. And he did.
He got up and went into the diner’s bathroom, didn’t hesitate and opened the left of the two stalls.
Mickey grinned, leaning back against the cistern, pants around his ankles, one hand already on his god-like cock, slick with pre-cum and hard in his fist.
Bloody bastard.
Ian didn’t say a word.
He knew Mickey was submissive. He knew he was a brat. He knew he wanted to be tamed.
His eyes went from Mickey’s cock to his face, saw the grin, and just as Mickey was about to speak, Ian caught his free hand and spun him, pinning it behind his back like a cop. With the other, he pressed him up against the stall wall. Mickey hadn’t stopped jerking himself off, he only grinned, cocky as ever.
“You’re strong, Red,” he remarked. “I like that.”
“Gimme your other hand,” Ian said, ignoring the teasing.
Mickey snorted, amused, and kept working himself but made no move to comply.
“You’re cheeky,” Ian said.
“Just havin’ fun,” Mickey shrugged.
Ian leaned in, pressing his own erection against the back of Mickey’s thigh. “Maybe I should just leave, if you’re having so much fun by yourself,” he breathed into his ear, voice low. “Give me your other hand.” This time a little firmer, but still quiet.
Mickey paused, weighing it up, then went on. He was testing the line.
“Fine,” Ian muttered, letting him go. He stepped back and adjusted himself. “Then have fun by yourself.”
Mickey’s brows drew together. He turned, letting go of his cock. “You serious?”
“You started testing boundaries. Here we are. At the edge. And when you’re done with your games, then we can start.”
Mickey bit his lip like he was thinking. “Want to force me to my knees, make me beg, call you Master?”
Ian winced at the word. “Fuck no. This is a public restroom, you’ll catch syphilis if you kneel. And I’m not the kind of guy for Master or Daddy. I usually know I’m the dominant one, don’t need a dumb nickname. But we shouldn’t be talking about this in here. You should do what I tell you so I can take care of you.”
He stepped half a pace closer, stretched out his hand, caught Mickey’s wrist and pinned it above him against the stall. “So now give me your other hand,” he said again. Mickey’s gaze locked with his, breath uneven, then he lifted his arm and slid his other wrist under Ian’s fingers.
“Good,” Ian murmured, holding his eyes before Mickey looked away, turning his head.
Ian wasted no more time. He took Mickey’s cock in hand and started stroking him slowly. Mickey’s breath hitched, he began to pant, a whimper slipped from his lips and his eyes squeezed shut, head tipped to the side exposing his throat, the faint marks of another Dom there that Ian instantly hated.
“I wondered how you’d sound,” Ian whispered after a few seconds. “Can’t wait to hear you behind soundproof walls.”
“Fuck,” Mickey gasped, screwing his eyes tighter, a crease forming between his brows. “Not gonna last long.”
“Figured.”
Mickey tried to push his hips forward but Ian pressed his own hard against Mickey’s thigh.
Mickey’s wrists twitched, his breathing went ragged. “I—I—”
“I got you,” Ian murmured.
Mickey came in pulsing white ropes on the dirty floor. Ian held him through it, slowed down when he was done but kept his hand on Mickey’s softening cock, wrists still pinned, feeling him gradually go limp in his grip.
“That was hot,” Ian whispered.
“Should I—” Mickey began, broke off, breathless.
Ian shook his head. “You’ll get your chance to return the favour when you can kneel.”
Mickey let out a shaky breath. Ian released his wrists but didn’t step back yet. Instead he rubbed gently over the spots where he’d held him.
“Should go,” Mickey muttered, pulling his hands free. Then he yanked his pants up and brushed past Ian out of the stall.
By the time Ian had washed his hands and gone back into the diner, Mickey was already gone.
Chapter Text
The hallway on the sixth floor still smelled of chlorine from the hotel’s desperate attempt to mask the stench. They wheeled their supply cart up to the door marked 614.
Mickey’s jaw was tight, his goggles already on before Ian had even unlocked the handle. Something was off. Mickey was never much of a talker while he worked, but Ian had hoped that the little scene in the diner bathroom yesterday would have changed something… Loosened him up. The opposite had happened. Mickey was tense and silent.
Inside, the curtains were drawn and a single lamp glowed. The bed was stripped but still damp in places. There was a huge bloodstain on the beige carpet and more blood in the bathroom. Ian already knew what had happened. The guy from forensics had told him downstairs by the van. A woman in her early thirties had slit her wrists with a disposable razor. Then she’d gone back into the room and bled out on the carpet.
It was so similar. So close to what had happened at home years ago. He shook his head, trying to banish the image, and knelt down.
Normally it didn’t affect his work. Not in the slightest. But he’d been thinking of her often since she’d died. More than he ever had while she was alive.
They worked without speaking. Ian set up the bio bins, Mickey unrolled the plastic sheeting. In the bathroom, Mickey dropped to his knees, scrubbing the tiles like he was trying to erase the grout itself. His movements were clipped, fast, almost angry.
“Watch the backsplash,” Ian said quietly when bleach sloshed near the door and threatened to seep onto the carpet. “The bleach will ruin it and Marisa will have our hides.”
Mickey gave a short, sharp nod and kept scrubbing. No jokes. No offhand comments. Nothing. Maybe Ian was imagining it, but Mickey was acting strange.
He could barely keep his eyes on him; his thoughts kept drifting back to that Thanksgiving.
They packed everything up in the same silence. The bio bags went into the heavy bins at the back of their van. On the drive back to the station Mickey shoved one of the bags into the chute. He didn’t light a cigarette after they finished. Didn’t even look at Ian.
“Later,” he muttered, turned around and headed for his car.
Ian stood there with the last bag still in his hands, watching him leave.
He felt blindsided. Confused, he tossed the bag into the chute and locked up the van before heading to his own car.
Normally they would walk to the diner from here, or drive there in the van if it was too cold. But not today. Not after this case, with his chest tightening the way it was. There was a damn rule about checking on your partner. That rule existed for a reason.
Anger rose in him. He hadn’t imagined it. Something was wrong with Mickey. And it was because of yesterday, damn it. He shouldn’t have started it.
—
The following evening Mickey showed up at the station just as Ian was finishing loading the van. He muttered a “hey” and slid into the passenger seat. Ian shut the back doors and came around to the driver’s side, but he didn’t start the engine right away. Instead he took a deep breath, eyes fixed on the windshield.
“It’s fine if you don’t want to fuck with me,” he said. “But it’s not fine to disappear after a job. We’re colleagues. We watch each other’s backs.”
He started the engine without looking at Mickey. “We shouldn’t have started this,” he added and pulled out of the lot. “Was a bad idea.”
Mickey said nothing, just stared out the window.
The job was a simple biohazard cleanup in an empty apartment. Ian parked out front and began unloading without looking at him. When Mickey pulled on his gloves and drew breath to say something, Ian slammed the van door shut and walked toward the building, cutting him off.
They worked. This time there was no snap to Mickey’s movements, only a heavy, waiting quiet between them. When the last bag hit the bin and the door clicked shut behind them, Ian drove them straight to the diner without asking.
It was a ritual, damn it.
Inside, the jukebox played something tinny. They slid into their usual booth. Mickey hunched over his mug of black coffee, steam curling up as his eyes fixed on the rim.
“I panicked yesterday,” he said finally, voice low.
“No shit?” Ian muttered, sipping his coffee.
“Usually I don’t see people again. Next day they’re gone. Always been like that.” He picked at the edge of his napkin, not looking up. “Seeing you again after…” He stopped, shoulders rising in a small shrug. “It’s weird.”
Ian nodded. “Figured as much. And it’s okay if you want to stop. If it’s too weird. But first and foremost we’re colleagues. We have to—”
“No,” Mickey cut him off sharply.
Ian raised his eyebrows. “No what?”
“I—shit. I don’t want to stop.”
Ian caught his gaze across the table but said nothing.
“I don’t want to stop,” Mickey said again. “I just—needed space, I guess.”
The smell of fried food drifted from the kitchen. Outside, a truck rumbled past on the wet street. For a long moment neither of them moved.
Then Mickey exhaled. “I’m sorry,” he said, a little louder. “For yesterday. For running out.”
Ian nodded once, looking back into his cup.
“You okay?” Mickey asked.
Ian nodded again, his thoughts drifting to yesterday’s case. The suicide. “My mom tried once. With a kitchen knife. On Thanksgiving. We found her in time. Yesterday’s case was just…similar, you know? Sometimes—” he broke off.
Mickey hummed. “I get that.” He was quiet for a moment. “Dad—Dad was—” He cleared his throat. “I wasn’t home when it happened. The cops said he was on drugs.” His eyes stayed on the table and Ian felt his stomach turn. But then Mickey looked up sharply. “I get it.”
They paid without talking. The diner door groaned as they pushed through into the damp night air.
Mickey stopped just outside, cupped a hand against the wind and lit a cigarette. The tip flared orange, casting a brief glow over his face. He leaned back against the brick wall, exhaling smoke toward the street.
Ian hovered a step away, hands in his pockets. “Got plans tomorrow?” he asked.
Mickey shrugged, eyes on the glowing end of his cigarette. “Day off. Try to shut my brain off for a while.”
Ian nodded like that made sense. “Like yoga?”
Mickey snorted, smoke curling out of his nose. “Fuck you, yoga. I don’t wear tight pants and shit.”
The corner of Ian’s mouth twitched before he could stop it. “Too bad. You’d look good in tight pants. Really nice legs…” He stepped closer, planted a hand next to Mickey’s head on the wall and stole his cigarette. “So what do you do to shut your brain off?” he asked, taking a drag, tilting his head back to blow the smoke above Mickey before looking down again, watching Mickey swallow and glance away from his Adam’s apple.
“Shut my brain off,” Mickey said, quietly.
Ian chuckled. “You already said that.”
“Right.” Mickey shook his head, trying to break the bubble, and took the cigarette back from Ian.
“I’ve got the day off too,” Ian said, stepping back. “You know how to reach me.”
This time it was Ian who left the diner first.
—
Ian wandered. He paced through his apartment, trying to keep his own head from exploding. Mickey didn’t want to end it. But he also hadn’t texted him. It was afternoon and Mickey still hadn’t shot a message.
Ian had opened the app twenty times, closed it again, searched for his profile, typed a message, deleted it again.
Coward, he thought about himself.
He had to get out of here. He wasn’t going to waste an evening alone at home just because Mickey was panicking.
He changed. Black jeans, a clean shirt. He needed distraction. Someone nameless. Anything to clear his own head. That had always worked. It was easy. It was his nature, sex.
He pulled on his jacket, slipped on his shoes, grabbed his wallet when the phone in his pocket vibrated.
He pulled it out. Saw the notification from the app.
Deviant: Mickey sent you a message.
The message vanished before he could open it. Deleted.
Then the three little dots appeared on the screen. Popped up, disappeared, popped up again. Ian snorted. Mickey was nervous, didn’t know what to write. Ian left the chat open while he took off his jacket and shoes again.
The dots disappeared again.
He stared at the display, waiting. Nothing.
He sighed and typed his address, then hit send and started changing the sheets on his bed.
—
About half an hour later there was a soft knock at his apartment door.
Ian opened it and Mickey’s blue eyes glimmered under the hood pulled low over his face.
He stepped in without a word, pulled the hood back and kicked off his boots.
They stood facing each other in the hallway, staring into each other’s eyes until Ian took a few steps toward him.
Mickey turned his head away. “No kissing,” he said quietly.
Ian nodded. “Figured.”
“Oh yeah? Why?”
“You’ve got that no-homo vibe,” he said, stepped closer again and took his hand, then pressed him back against the closed apartment door. “Besides, last time you turned your head away too. I can read body language.”
He guided the hand upward until it rested on the wood, just like at the diner. Mickey followed the movement without resistance and gave him his second hand without being told.
Ian grinned. “You’re learning,” he murmured. “Tell me why you’re here.” His voice was deep and calm.
Mickey avoided his gaze and stayed silent. Ian slid his free hand under the hoodie, pushing higher until he found the nipple. He pressed with his thumb, brushed over it and Mickey gasped.
“Why did you come to me?”
“To shut my brain off,” he said softly.
Ian smiled. “You could go for a run. Why are you here?”
Mickey bit his lip hard, didn’t answer, only gasped again when Ian caught his nipple between his fingers. “Answer,” he demanded, squeezing a little harder.
Mickey closed his eyes. “Want you—to take care of me.”
Ian nodded. “I bet you do.”
“That you touch me,” he said even more quietly.
“I already am.”
“Want you to take me.”
Ian hummed. “I will,” he promised. Then he let go of Mickey’s wrists, set one hand on his hip, the other slid from his nipple to his throat. His middle and index finger found his pulse point, felt it hammering there. “I like it when you’re nervous, Mick.”
Mickey’s eyes stayed closed and he turned his head to the side. “I’m not nervous.”
Ian chuckled. “Your body gives you away.”
He pressed himself against Mickey, grinding against his crotch, feeling how hard he already was. “You still owe me something,” he whispered into his ear, catching the scent of deodorant and tobacco.
“Don’t get on your knees for nobody,” Mickey gasped, biting his lip.
“Is that so?”
Mickey nodded.
“Makes me hard when they’re hard to get, you know that?” Ian pushed against him again and Mickey let out a low moan in reply. “You feel how hard I already am? Just from a little attitude?”
He rubbed against him again, creating friction and gasping.
“I want to keep it light tonight. Feel each other out. Find our rhythm. Okay?”
Mickey exhaled audibly. “What—what does that mean?”
“We’re not going to do anything explicit. A light scene. You’re going to get on your knees. And if you blow me the way I want it, I’ll fuck you until you come. That’s it.”
Mickey swallowed, turned his head back toward Ian and opened his eyes.
“Down,” he said quietly and low.
Mickey bit his lip again, his eyes finding Ian’s. They sparkled with mischief and attitude, but Ian saw straight through him—to the longing, the desire to be tamed, to be taken. He knew Mickey wanted it just as much as he did, and he knew it was only a matter of time before Mickey gave up the fight.
“You don’t want me to fuck you?” Ian asked teasingly. The spark faded from Mickey’s eyes.
“Thought so,” Ian murmured. “On your knees. Now.”
A smile played at Mickey’s mouth. “What if I—”
But Ian didn’t let him finish. He manhandled him facedown onto the freshly made mattress. Then he leaned over him so his mouth was close to Mickey’s ear. “If you don’t get my cock nice and wet, I’ll have to enter you dry. I don’t want to hurt you, so be good and suck me.”
“I will. But not on my knees.”
Ian’s nostrils flared, but he held himself back. “We’ll get there. For today it’s fine. I promised you a light scene. Next time I’ll punish you for this behavior, understood?”
Mickey only grinned.
“Up. Strip,” Ian snapped as he stepped back from the bed.
Mickey rolled onto his back, stood up, and began peeling off his jeans and hoodie. He stopped in just his boxers.
“All of it,” Ian clarified, nodding at the fabric stretched over his erection.
Mickey licked his lips and pulled them off in one swift motion. Then he looked at Ian, grinning. His hand twitched as if to touch himself but he held back.
Ian stepped closer, let a finger trace over his chest, admiring the tattoos inked sharply against pale skin.
“Undress me,” Ian ordered.
Mickey snorted but moved in, fingers at Ian’s belt. His movements were hurried, like it unsettled him to be the only one naked.
“Slowly,” Ian murmured. “Look at me.”
Mickey swallowed, lifted his gaze and slid the zipper down slowly. His fingers trembled as he pushed the jeans down, his eyes hungry.
Ian stepped out without breaking eye contact, and trembling fingers moved to his shirt buttons.
“You got a safeword?” Ian whispered in the small space between their heads.
Mickey shook his head, eyes dropping to the buttons. Ian looked at him, surprised, but smoothed his features quickly and nodded. “Think about one before next time.”
“Next time,” Mickey muttered, but he nodded and undid the last button. Ian’s shirt slid to the floor and he watched Mickey’s gaze roam over his skin—exploring, discovering, curious, willing—down to the boxers he still wore.
Ian raised his hand to Mickey’s nape. “Take it out.”
Mickey drew a deep breath, hooked his thumbs under the waistband and pulled them down.
His eyes dropped and he let out a silent “Fuck.”
“Ever had anyone this big?” Ian’s voice was serious.
“No,” was all Mickey managed.
“We’ll take it slow,” Ian said as he guided him back until he was sitting on the edge of the bed.
Ian looked down at him. “Going to use that mouth now,” he whispered, laying a hand under Mickey’s chin. “Open.” He trailed his finger over Mickey's perfect bottom lip.
Mickey’s nostrils flared as if he wanted to speak again, but he didn’t, he looked from Ian to his shaft and opened his mouth.
Ian took his cock in hand, spread the precum over his glans. “Tongue out,” he demanded, and Mickey did as he was told. He placed it on Mickey’s tongue and played with the sensation for a few seconds. The warmth, the wetness, and above all the sight. Even though Mickey wasn’t on his knees, it was incredibly good to see him like this.
Ian grinned as he entered him, and Mickey’s lips closed around his cock. God, they were perfect for being used this way.
He kept his hand on Mickey’s jaw and entered until he met resistance and Mickey gagged. “Sorry,” he murmured, pulling back slightly.
Then he pushed forward again, starting a slow rhythm.
It was warm and wet, and his lips were perfect, and his blue eyes looked up at him through black lashes. “So beautiful,” Ian whispered and moaned softly. “God, Mickey. You were made for this, weren’t you?”
Mickey’s hands went to his hips, stroking his thighs, and he began to move his head slightly on his own, matching Ian’s movements until Ian took his hand from Mickey’s jaw and gave him some control. “Perfect,” he moaned.
Mickey’s fingers started massaging his balls while his throat relaxed more and more, and he could take more of Ian. He let Ian’s cock slip out briefly, looked up at him, jerked off. “Use me,” he whispered and took him back in his mouth.
Ian’s head spun, but he brushed a strand of hair from his face and placed both hands on Mickey’s head. Then he thrust slowly.
Perfect full lips wrapped around his cock, blue eyes watery from gagging, black hair tousled on his forehead. Beautiful in his own way.
Mickey opened his throat for him, and Ian thrust in, a little faster, until saliva ran down Mickey’s chin. He could go further, his pubic hair brushing Mickey’s lips, but it was almost too much. He wanted to come like this, to fill him this way, but he had told him. He had promised to fuck him until he came.
“On your stomach,” he said, pulling back, his cock wet and shiny, saliva running down Mickey’s chest, lips, his head red. He breathed fast, gasping for air, swallowed the spit, and looked up at Ian, confused.
“Got a promise to keep.” He bit his lip, slowly jerking himself, spreading Mickey’s spit. “On your stomach,” he commanded again.
Mickey turned over, lay on the mattress, and raised his ass, so Ian could see. See a perfectly pink hole clenching around a silver steel butt plug with a diamond tip.
Ian bit his lip and knelt on the bed. “You prep yourself,” he murmured. He ran a hand over the perfect curve of his ass, then pressed against the plug.
Mickey moaned, wiggled away, but Ian gripped him at the hip. “Stay.”
He smiled mischievously. “I bet it’s big. Rubbing against your prostate with every step. Must’ve been difficult on the way here.”
He leaned toward Mickey. “Do you like it? The size and the weight in your ass?”
Mickey bit his lip.
“Answer,” he demanded.
Mickey nodded, face on the mattress. “Yes.”
Ian smiled, pressed again, then pulled it back slightly so his hole stretched around it, shiny with lube. “Shall I tell you what I like?”
He pushed the plug back, and Mickey moaned, closing his eyes. “I like the prepping. The feeling when the bottom opens. When he opens for you. Under your fingers, around you. I really like that.” Without warning, he pulled the plug out, and Mickey whined. “Fuck.” He leaned forward, but Ian pulled him back by the hips.
“I promised you a light scene. I keep my promises. But you give me a hard time. You took that from me. So I’ll have to work like this.” he played with the plug on Mickey’s hole. “Next time I’ll prep you. Unterstood?"
Mickey breathed deeply and bit his lip but nodded.
“You want me inside you? Instead of the plug?”
He nodded again and searched Ian’s gaze, his blue eyes full of lust.
Ian grinned, ran his hands over his buttocks, then got condoms and lube from the nightstand and positioned himself behind Mickey.
It was a wonderful sight: Mickey naked, his ass stretched up, the tight hole ready and shiny. He could just take him, it would be easy. But he wanted Mickey to work for it. At least a little.
He rolled on the condom and lubed himself up, then settled on his calves. “Come here,” he murmured, grabbing him by the hips, guiding him back until he was lined up, Mickey’s legs spread left and right beside Ian. “Go down slowly.”
Mickey did so until he felt Ian’s cock. He rolled his hips slightly to tease Ian, then slowly went down, and when Ian entered him, it was incredible.
It was his favorite part of sex. The first time. The first time being inside someone, feeling how tight he was, hearing him moan, seeing him clutch the sheets and gasp, feeling his size. When he was fully inside, hitting the prostate, feeling him clench around him. His favorite part of sex. The first few minutes.
But with Mickey, it was different.
Everything was different with Mickey.
Mickey sank cruelly slowly halfway down, then waited, gasped, and went back up.
“Take it slow,” Ian said, running his hand down his back and side. “Get used to me. I’m big.”
“Fuck, you are.” Mickey gasped as he lowered himself again, this time taking almost all of him in.
Ian nearly lost his mind watching Mickey’s expression. So much was written on his face—lust, pain, satisfaction, relief. God, he loved it.
Ian threw his head back, supporting himself on the mattress with his palms.
Everything was so warm and soft, and Mickey’s skin was against his, the friction perfect, so tight.
Ian looked down at his body, seeing Mickey move up and down slowly, fucking himself.
It was perfect, and Ian allowed himself to slip out of his role a little and let go, moaning softly while supporting Mickey by gently pushing his hips forward.
“God, Ian,” Mickey moaned, looking over his shoulder, biting his lip and closing his eyes as Ian matched his movements, fucking him harder.
It was perfect, yet Ian wanted more. “Wait a second,” he murmured, shifting Mickey slightly forward into doggy style without leaving him and propping one leg up so he could take over the fucking. “Want to fuck you hard.”
“C’mon, do it.”
Then he set a brutal rhythm. Mickey’s sweet, chopped moans filled the room as he turned his head into the mattress.
Mickey’s fingers dug into the sheets while Ian’s gripped his hips.
Sweat formed on Ian’s forehead. “Tell me you’re close,” he gasped.
Mickey only nodded, his moans muffled by the mattress.
“Want to paint your ass,” Ian moaned. “Nod if it’s okay.”
Mickey nodded, turning his head, lips wide open, eyes still closed. “Fuck—fuck me harder. C’mon. Paint my back, my ass.”
He gripped Mickey’s hips tighter, fucking him hard and deep.
“Need—need to—”
Ian understood immediately. Mickey was asking if he could come.
“Come for me. Come, Mick,” he moaned.
Mickey reached for himself, his moans changing, becoming louder, longer, deeper, beautifully brutal—and then he came.
Ian needed all his willpower not to come right there, as Mickey clenched around him, milking him hard. When he moaned one last time and sprayed white ropes across the sheets, Ian couldn’t hold back any longer. He replaced his cock with two fingers to feel Mickey, to feel how he clenched. Then he pulled off the condom and jerked a few more times, finally spraying loudly on Mickey’s right ass cheek.
It was a wave of emotions as he rode his orgasm. He had fucked Mickey, marked him, painted him.
White cum ran down the back of his thigh, and Ian slowly pulled his fingers from the well-used hole. Then he almost tenderly stroked the other cheek. “Get you something to clean up,” he said softly, withdrawing.
Mickey’s breathing was still fast, his knees giving way as Ian got off the bed.
He grabbed a warm washcloth and began wiping the lube and his cum from Mickey’s thigh while Mickey still gasped for air.
“Turn around,” Ian said gently. Then suddenly a bubble seemed to burst, and Mickey snapped. “I can clean my own shit up,” he said, scrambling to his feet. He grabbed the washcloth and wiped his cock and hand. With a wet flop, it ended up in front of the laundry basket.
Mickey reached for his boxers and began getting dressed. His cock was soft, and looking at it suddenly felt very intimate, so Ian looked away.
“Want something to drink?” he asked.
Mickey gave him a flat look. “Don’t need damn aftercare for a bit of vanilla sex, Red.”
Ian raised his eyebrows. “Vanilla?” He looked down at him and nodded toward his hips, already covered by denim. “That’ll probably leave bruises.”
Mickey snorted. “Had harder scenes without anyone patting my hand afterward.” Then he slipped on his hoodie and turned to get his boots while Ian put on his boxers.
“You leaving?”
He hadn’t expected Mickey to stay overnight, but Ian hadn’t even caught his breath before Mickey was already tying his laces.
“Mickey,” he said, grabbing his arm as he headed for the door.
Mickey turned but didn’t look at him, his gaze darting around the room.
“I need to know if you’re okay.”
Mickey nodded once, then pulled his arm out of Ian’s grasp but didn’t leave immediately. He ran his thumb over his eyebrow. “See ya,” he murmured and grabbed the doorknob.
“Don’t act weird tomorrow at work. It’s just sex. Something to shut your brain off, alright?” Ian said before Mickey opened the door.
He nodded once more, then was out the door, leaving Ian behind.
snowypatches on Chapter 1 Thu 02 Oct 2025 02:27PM UTC
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Jessi_J on Chapter 2 Mon 06 Oct 2025 06:58PM UTC
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