#securitycounselor

It felt like Freddy's guarded itself sometimes. Mike couldn't imagine any good reason to step foot on the premises other than to get paid, and it seemed like the general public had the same good sense. Other than the weird cop that he got a visit from, the most anyone ever did was drive by on the nearest road. The pay he got was meager, but not so much so that the job wasn't worth it. Really, the most actual work that he'd done was cleaning - he swept up broken glass, stacked up scattered chairs, and tended to trash that previous guards had left behind. Once he finished a fair amount, he always dismissed himself to his office, shutting the doors tight and rewarding himself with a nap. He didn't rest very well when his mind was so active, but sleep was sleep, and he'd take it whenever and wherever he could get it. All things considered, it was nowhere near the worst job he'd ever had. He was basically getting paid to dream.

Until he couldn't, naturally.

Even with two pills down, Mike found himself fitful. He got sick of mopping clean floors at around 2am and turned in then, but he cracked his eyes open miserably to find that only an hour had passed on the clock. An hour of nothing but staring at the backs of his eyelids and listening to birdsong, thinking about how he wanted to sleep but never quite making it there. With a grumble of irritation, Mike tossed his headphones on the desk, squinting at the cameras. As usual, literally nothing had changed. Nothing ever changed. He still had a few hours left to kill, and the thought of spending it doing absolutely nothing sounded about as fun as a slow death. What could he do, though? He had a nagging feeling that the arcade machines would explode if he even tried to run them. He did have his imagination to keep him company. For a cop, the one that had visited him was pretty good looking… Mike palmed himself through the front of his jeans, closing his eyes and letting his mind wander.

If he was to break down his type, intense would probably be one of the top descriptors. On some level, he bought into the idea that opposites attracted; he liked the idea of a counterbalance to his own typically low-key nature. Sometimes that manifested in crushes on people who looked like they could and would beat his ass for stepping out of line. Biting his bottom lip, Mike unbuckled his belt and tugged down the zipper on his jeans, relieving the aching pressure and fishing himself out. He leaned his face on one palm, curling his other hand around his dick and pumping experimentally. A sharp, icy stare filled Mike's mind, and when he opened his eyes, a similar gaze met him.

"Oh my god," Mike blurted out, mouth going dry as his mind caught up with what he was seeing. To his horror, the very man who had hired him for this job was sitting on the edge of his desk, watching him in patient silence. He was far, far too calm, given the situation. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Raglan, I didn't even hear you come in, I-" When he was acknowledged, the man's face split into a hazy grin. "Well, don't stop on my accord. Things were just starting to get interesting." "…what?" Mike blinked up at him, meeting his stare and scooting his chair back in a clumsy attempt to put more distance between them. "I mean, I drove all this way," Mr. Raglan mused, "thinking I was going to have to wake you up and give you a talking to. Lucky for the both of us, you were putting on a better show than a nap."

Mike was half convinced that he had fallen asleep and that, as far as he could tell, he was having a sexy dream about his employer. There was a first time for everything, though, and the older man was attractive enough that it was worth considering - dream or not. He was reluctant for a moment, but Mike's hand eventually started to move again, twisting and stroking over his cock. In the meanwhile, his eyes did a quick scan of the voyeur perched on his desk. Steve Raglan, in his full six-foot-something glory, kept an intense focus on every motion. He was dressed down, at least in comparison to how he'd look in his own office, and Mike could see a glimpse of chest hair in the dim light.

"Good boy." Every word of praise came out like a hum. His body silhouetted by the screens behind him, casting him in an even more imposing light than before. "Keep going." The words worked better for Mike than he thought they would - his toes curled in his shoes, hips canting upward into his own hand. If he didn't end up too embarrassed, he'd unpack it later. It had been far too long since he had engaged in a simple pleasure like this. Far too quick, Mike felt himself reaching his peak, and Steve's hand was reaching out to still his wrist just as fast. "Not yet." He sounded smug, and even more so when Mike whined in return. "I spent half an hour on the road, I deserve more than a few minutes."

As much as Mike wanted to judge this guy for being a pervert, it felt like he had no legs to stand on. He could barely even sit upright. One of his hands was gripping the arm of his chair, and the other was shaking around the base of his cock as he was held still, precum weeping from the head and dribbling down to make his palm slick. The wait felt longer than it really was, and Mike's hand was moving again the instant his wrist was set free. He tried to keep an even pace, hoping it would spare him from another rude interruption. He started to fuck into his hand again, letting himself moan more freely. It was clear from just a glance at the man in front of him that Mike was putting on a good performance - there was a prominent tent in his pants to show for it. To Mike's dismay, though, it was only minutes before his hand was held still again. His wrist was released eventually, but he was held back from his relief again in no time at all.

"Please." Mike was out of breath, his eyes wet and his face red. "You're pretty impatient, huh?" Steve teased. "You want a little help there?" "No- I- Yes?" Outside of immediate gratification, Mike wasn't actually sure what he wanted. "Please let me cum." "Cute." He stood up, releasing Mike's wrist and gesturing for him to follow suit. "I'm done watching. If you want to cum, bend over."

Another man might've been put off, but bending over the desk might've been the least humiliating thing Mike had done in the past hour. It almost felt better to have power taken out of his hands. Steve took a moment to search through one of the desk drawers, and he set a bottle of lotion on the desk beside Mike with a satisfied hum; hands wedged into the waistband of his pants, shoved the fabric down until it bunched around his knees, and then traveled back upward to grope and paw at his ass. It made him feel less guilty for hooking up with his boss, he supposed, to know that the man didn't have any real affection behind his touch. He could convince himself that it was simple, and Steve, like him, was only in it for the gratification. A slick finger traced along his rim, and his muscles tensed on instinct. With just the slightest pressure, though, and a groaned-out exhale from Mike, his body gave way and allowed the digit inside.

The movements revealed the extent of the man's impatience - it only took a minute or so of one finger thrusting before another joined it. "Have you done anything like this before?" "What? Fuck my boss?" Mike asked breathlessly. Steve laughed, shaking his head. He curled his fingers precisely, making Mike's body fall fully slack against the desk. "That's funny. No, not that specific. I meant men in general." "Once or twice." Mike let out a shaky moan, planting his hands firmly against the desk in a bid for stability. It immediately failed, leaving him fully bent over the desk. "I dunno. Too busy for hook-ups." "Right. I guess that's why you're so focused on your job." The sarcasm in his voice was biting, made even harsher when his fingers pulled out. Mike opened his mouth to argue, but a humiliatingly whiny sound ripped out of him before he could stop it; Steve's cock notched on him, meeting no resistance as it pushed inside. The feeling was electric, rendering him wordless.

Mike never imagined finding himself in this position, but he would be a liar if he said that he didn't enjoy it. By sunrise, he would have bruises on his hips, and probably a limp in his walk, but he couldn't bring himself to do so much as care. Besides, even if he was rusty, it was clear that Steve Raglan was not. The man's confidence and composure was almost startling, but reasonable for the skill behind it. Thrusts came hard and fast as Steve selfishly chased his own pleasure. He made demands and grabbed at Mike like it was something easy for him - as if he was entitled to it. For better or for worse, Mike was needy enough to put up with those demands. If it meant that Steve didn't stop pounding into him, he would take what he got. His stamina was running out quickly, though, whittled down by the earlier torment. Mike's hands balled up into fists, forehead pressed flat against the desk's cool metal surface, and he tried his hardest to hold back for just a bit longer. When his orgasm hit, though, he felt far too good to be ashamed.

"You are seriously something else." Steve's voice was rough with pleasure, close to warmth but not quite there. Amused, maybe. "Making a mess all over the floor like that." Mike's back arched as everything washed over him in crashing waves. His entire body felt like static, stinging and tingling, and his mind was moving too slow. The idea of retorting in a state like this felt laughable. Thrusts kept coming, sharp snaps of the older man's hips that didn't relent. "Poor little guy. No wonder your performance is so lacking - you're so pent up! Just needed some motivation, huh?" Mike's teeth grit together. The thrusts were getting sloppier, and Steve's hand struck his ass on every other pass. "Too much." "Feels perfect to me." Steve huffed the words out, fingers sinking into Mike's hips for better leverage. "Keep squeezing like that, I'm so damn close."

With what little focus he had, Mike forced himself to breathe. It felt like his body was forgetting how to, struggling to function correctly as overstimulation struck him. Could he even relax his muscles if he tried to? He didn't bother testing it. Finally, Steve seemed to find his own climax. Mean and rough as the thrusts were, it only took a few more before he hilted himself deep in Mike's ass; scorching heat pumped deep inside of him, and sharp teeth caught on the juncture between his neck and shoulder. Hands stayed rooted on his hips, holding him in place and keeping him still.

"I guess I needed this, too," Steve hummed. He was more affectionate, if only slightly - his weight blanketed over Mike's back, and he kissed his jaw. "I knew tonight would give me something good." Mike grunted. The desk beneath him no longer felt cool and relieving, holding all of his excess heat and then some. "Glad it was good for you." The man let out a sound like he was purring, and he finally pulled out, rising to his full height again and stepping away. "Likewise. Now, if you don't mind doing your actual job, you should clean up that mess before the clock hits six." "…I'll get to it," Mike muttered. "Good boy." Steve's belt jingled, and he lightly patted Mike's back before he turned to leave. He paused at the door, though, glancing over his shoulder. "I'll be seeing you again soon, alright, Mike?"

Mike’s eyes are really, truly, something special, and William knows he’ll never get over them. They’re like nothing he’s ever seen before. Such a deep brown, richer and more vibrant for every second he watches them. In the right lights, he can see the finer nuances of the irises; the different shades, little flecks of something almost golden. Sweetened coffee. It’s a special flavoring, that fancy syrup they have at cafes. Hazelnut, or something.

For the longest time, Mike never looked directly at him. His eyes always seemed to pick a point just to the side of his head - feigning eye contact, how adorable - but William never said anything, because it made it even easier to stare.  It kept the man focused, kept his eyes up and ahead. It let William pick out those little details with much more ease. Now, though, Mike can’t look away. He stares unapologetically.  He either isn’t intimidated anymore, or he’s choosing to bask in the feeling of intimidation, or he’s terrified, and any answer is one William will take. And he does, too - he indulges in the conflicting emotions as he sees them. He catches each shift in the younger’s eyes and uses it, drinks it down like a fine liquor and savors the taste on his tongue.

His favorite flavor is this exact indignance; there’s a spark in those pretty brown eyes that tip-toes drunkenly along the border between playful and fierce, like Mike is nearly sick of getting burned but too addicted to playing with fire. There was something so fun about lighting a spark in him and watching it fizzle out.

It’s a dumb argument, and William is pushing things for the hell of it. He simply wants to. “I don’t understand what upsets you about it so much.” “You’re doing it on purpose, that’s what upsets me,” Mike spits out. “I told you to just call me Mike. You only call me Michael now.” “Michael is a lovely name.” And he’s right, of course, he knows William well, but it wouldn’t be fun to give in now. “It’s sad, you know, that I appreciate your name more than you do.” Mike bristles, and his head turns sharply to stare somewhere else.  And how the fuck is he supposed to stay calm when he gets such a good reaction? He can’t temper his impulses in a moment like this. “I could always skip past all of that, though, and just call you angel.” 

William steps forward, and Mike is swept up in his arms before he has much time to react. Quickly, he holds the man’s jaw and chin firmly in his hand, tilting his head back. Forcing his stare to shoot right back up, to lock up on his face again. Nowhere else to look.