My Way 25

My Way

32 Mac




Mac was aware, even as the dream unfolded, that he shouldnae allow…even this. Way too dangerous. Too risky, too vulnerable. Stay sharp, stay strong. Stay on top. No exceptions. His former self, long vanquished. Voided. 

So, why…why…in this dark, dread dream, were Mac’s toes curling in pleasure as his spine arched? Aching toward the nameless need. Fuck, it felt good. A few more minutes…stolen moments of yielding to blameless, shameless, yearning.

“Gnrrr…” Morefriction…weight…pressure. Something, anything, more. Mac groped blindly behind him; clamped his palm to cool skin. A leg, too lean. His eyelids snapped open. Only to find himself staring at a silver-grey wall, and a sloping ceiling. Joe. Crap. 

That…would be Joe’s cock, then. Parked in Mac’s butt crack.

“What are you doing..?” he groaned. The most ludicrous query Mac had ever made in his life. In his own defence, he had just woken up…but really. It was still unpardonable.



“Is it not? You seemed real cosy just. P’raps even…not quite cosy nuff…”

“Joe. Please remove your cock from the crack of my arse.”

“It wasn’t me! Honest. You turned over…then shuffled back a bit…closer.”

“That doesn’t alter the fact that it’s there. Still.”



“I am telling it to move…it’s just not listening.”

Mac was going to kill him in a minute. Christ knows why he hadnae just bestirred himself. Rather than conduct the most ridiculous conversation with the most impossible person on Earth. Mac hadnae had enough sleep to shift anywhere sharpish...and it was imperative that he…call the shots. Insist that Joe move. That was it. 

“I am working on it…” Joe assured him, with a twitch of hips. 

Gnnrr. Mac gritted his teeth. “Joe!” he growled through them. About a split-second before Joe threw his body weight forwards. Rolling Mac onto his front, with Joe still plastered to his back. Cock still nestled in situ. 

Mac didnae waste words. Just dragged in a deep breath, planted his palms on the bed and bucked, twisting his torso to toss Joe off and flip him face-down on the bed. Wrists pinned to the pillow, Mac sitting astride his waist.

“Don’t try that move in the dark, or yer mightnae live to regret it…” Mac rasped, low and lethal at Joe’s ear. “…long enough for me to realise who the fuck you are.” Who the fuck…indeed. Never had Mac’s words come back to haunt him with quite such gallows humour.

The ones he’d all-but snarled at Joe? Reaped no sign whatsoever of being cause for concern. Unlike Joe’s response, which sure as hell was; from the twerk of his lips to the question they unleashed.

“Have you ever killed a man, Mac?” The gleam in those goddamn eyes was every bit as monstrous. The only death that should incite such delectation was By Chocolate Cake. In the real world, rather than John Wick’s, at least.

Mr Prissypants was back in the building. Apparently. Aided and abetted by a critical lack of caffeine. 

“If I told you that, I’d have to kill you…” Mac snorted, rattling off the requisite response. Hardly inspired, but Christ…he hadnae even had his first smoke of the day. In the wake of being so rudely woken, at that. 

“Are you…miffed with me?” Uttered in a voice as small as those eyes were huge. Imploring. 

Mac slammed his own shut. “Aye.”

“D’you…want a cuppa?”


“Can I p’raps—” The grin in Joe’s voice was louder than the one on his face when Mac darted a death stare at him. Three strikes and you’re out, yer miscreant.


“I didn’t finish!” Joe protested.

“Call it a wild guess,” Mac grunted.

“Rumbled. D’you want me to say sorry?”

“Are you?” Mac shot him a side-eye, arching an ironic brow.

“Um…nope, but I don’t think you are, either. You didn’t seem to mind…at the time.”

Mac didnae dignify that with a response. “I thought you were making tea and finding the cigs,” he remarked, instead. In tones best classed as Rickmanesque. 

Okayyy…crikey. D’you want fanning while I’m feeding you grapes, too?”

“I’ll let you know when I’ve had a cuppa…and a smoke.” Mac retorted, releasing his skinny wrists to…dismount, for want of a more fitting expression.

“Yes sir, Mr-bad-ass, sir…” Joe chuntered, while scrambling up to (hopefully) procure said necessities.

“What are you doing?” Mac asked, shoving a pillow behind his back before leaning against the brass bedstead. A packet of cigarettes and a lighter had just sailed through the air to land beside him, but rather than potter off to make them a cuppa, Joe started rummaging around in his desk drawer.

“Shooting up.”

“F’fucksakes…” Mac let his head thunk against the wall. 

“I didn’t fib…?” The butter-wouldn’t-melt-and-blink-combo was abominable. Grown men couldnae be adorable. Or considered thus. Particularly while parched. 

“That’s not a fat lot of consolation this side of a bloody cuppa,” Mac grumbled.

“I’m multitasking! I can cook this up while waiting for the kettle to boil.” 

“Joe..c’mere…” Mac murmured. His brain having decided—rather reluctantly on the lack of nicotine front—to crank into first gear. 

“Yeah?” Joe glanced up and egregious eyes flared wider still when they flicked to the left.  Away from Mac’s face. Sudden silence, when Joe’s foraging fingers stilled in their search. Without a word he started toward Mac, who watched, entranced by the nonsensical grace of long, lean limbs.

“Kiss me,” Mac demanded.

“Hmm…always…” Joe’s words were as soft as his smile when he bent to press his lips to Mac’s upturned mouth.

Mac shot a hand up to clasp the back of that feathery head—hair like duck down against  his palm—as he snaked his right arm around Joe’s waist. Then threw himself forwards, using the momentum of their bodies to flip Joe onto the bed, flat on his back. Twin pools of limpid darkness stared up at Mac, as serene as moonlit lakes. 




“I thought you were going to shoot up…” Mac parried, before melding their mouths to plunder pincushion lips. Kisses so heady, hungry, it took a hurricane force of will to snatch himself free a few minutes and forever later. 

“I was…will but…don’t stop…” A plea garnished by a grappling hook gaze.

“Tell me what you want…” Mac ordered, tossing his last sliver of sanity into the pot. “Smack. Please. Don’t stop. In swift succession. Choose one.” Served with a snap of hips.

You…” Joe hissed, obsidian ablaze with need, burning dark fire. Brimming with lust and undiluted longing. Trained only and entirely on Mac. Intoxication itself.



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