Wafflish

My Way 39

Hi, I hope you’re having a fabulous weekend. 🥰I’m sorry it’s been a while, I’ve been beavering away, but it took forever to write…

 

 

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My Way 

50 Joe

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A low moan rumbled in Mac’s throat when Joe melded their mouths as he’d demanded, but their lips had no sooner met than Mac seized control, darting his tongue between Joe’s teeth. Snatching his breath away with the sheer intensity of kisses as heady as the husky musk of Mac’s skin. Greedy? Joe could never have enough of this. Of him.

A hand was slipped inside Joe’s robe to starfish across his bare back as Mac encompassed his nape with the other. The bad-ass didn’t miss so much as a beat when he shifted on the seat, bracing himself to rise to his feet, powered by tightly packed quads alone. How Joe ached to trace those wiry mounds of lean muscle with his tongue; learn, taste, every inch of Mac’s body. Find every secret spot that made those glinty greens spit sparks. Glean every sacred thing that might drive Mac to the very edge of himself and beyond… 

‘Beyond’ being Mac’s base line…so nothing less would do. Everything he did, had done, intended to do, being precisely that. Beyond the norms that bound men to banality. Driving himself beyond the endurable, beyond the limits of ninety percent of all who dared. Let alone won. Joe might be wrong o’course, there were other Special Forces units, but the bad-ass sure as sharpshooters hadnae been in a run o’the mill regiment. That’s why Joe had asked Mac the very specific: have you ever killed a man. Not men. Of course he had…which is why Joe knew the answer to his question. Mac would have issued an, ‘ex-forces, what d’you think’ shrug, if he hadn’t known damn well what Joe wanted to know. 

As a bodyguard, Mac put his life on the line to protect people who paid for that undeserved privilege. He could’ve said self-defence, shit happens. He hadn’t. Mac had killed in cold blood, and they both knew it. He might’ve done so for Queen and Country…but that was just a matter of jurisdiction. And splitting hairs. It didn’t make his targets any less dead. The truth remained the same. 

All o’this whizzed through Joe’s head at warp speed after being carried across the room and lowered…onto a rug. Not the bed. The floor. As he’d specified. Mac had taken him at his word without so much as a mention of fancy schmancy sheets and foam memory mattresses…let alone whisked Joe off to the bedroom regardless. 

“Don’t move an inch…” he ordered, pausing for long nuff to plant a soul scorching kiss on Joe’s lips before shooting off to rustle up some lube and—it soon transpired—strip naked. Strewth. Joe could weave words for the rest of forever and never do his lean, mean, lethal machine justice. Mac sure as Shermans wasn’t built like a tank…he was the high performance personification of his very own classic car.  Or, p’raps the human incarnation of that particular cat. As sleek as he was deadly. Divine. Predatory, as he slinked to Joe’s side and stood, staring down as if deciding which bit to devour first. Or, hack off. A fact that was p’raps part of his charm, Joe had to admit. To himself.

While thinking all this, he might’ve forgot the part about not moving an inch when he could do some moving-swiftly-on stuff instead. Figuring that a bit of a fidget wasn’t technically moving anywhere, he wriggled out of his robe and pants, then lay back to await the consequences of shifting a smidge. 

“Um…I didn’t move anywhere else?”

“I’d paddle your arse if I didn’t think you’d enjoy it too much,” he found himself informed, which wasn’t as true as Mac suspected.  It didn’t tickle Joe’s fancy enough for its own sake, and delayed gratification wasn’t his very best thing. Far from his favourite waste of time. He never ate starters either…they weren’t worth the wait for dessert. 

“You came armed with paddles?” It had to be asked, when the answer would be worth reaping.

“Nope…but there’s no doubt a Gideon bible in a drawer somewhere.” See? Kinky cat. “So, tell me…did you move purely to wind me up?” Words that dripped from Mac’s lips to sizzle Joe’s skin. Like hot wax cooling on clammy flesh. “Or expediency?”

“The first one would’ve been daft in case it made the latter pointless?” Joe hedged, not having thought it through in advance. His ‘very best things’ list wasn’t very long. ’Nuff said. “P’raps…neither? I just wanted to…give you less time to change your mind…”

Change my mind? Look at me, Joe.” Joe was looking. It was…hard not to. Very. “Does that appear likely…?”

In truth… No. But Mac was so much more than met the eye. A staggering achievement in itself. He was also a cussed sod, who prided himself on feats of endurance far more excruciating than a chronic case of cripple cock. Pointing out that particular truth? A swift perusal of outcomes suggested it mightn’t be advisable on the end game front. Dr. Strange had nothing on Joe. 

“When was the last time you cut y’self some slack?” he asked instead. Being blessed with the wisdom of Tony Stark on a bender, t’boot.

“Every breath I take in your presence?” Mac snorted, dropping to his haunches and grasping Joe’s ankles to snatch them apart. 

“Suicide would be preferable?” Joe guessed, on the grounds that goatee-bearded genius types couldn’t top that rationale. 

“In collateral damage terms, certainly.” Mac shrugged, crawling between Joe’s legs. “Thus answering your initial question…I’ve done nothing but cut myself some slack since crossing your threshold…perhaps even that.” Mac planted a palm either side of Joe’s head to hover over him on all fours. Not a jot prudent on the consequences front.

Clearly.

“So, why? What do you want, Mac?” Joe murmured, all-but boring holes in the scoundrel’s head with a dareyou stare t’die for. In all likelihood. 

“I want…” When he paused, Joe wondered if he was about to witness the first time his bad-ass had bottled it for…ever. “…To watch you come apart.” This in a voice as dark as the glint in those greens. “Wrap your legs around my waist…”

Strewth…that was the last thing he’d expected Mac to want, let alone ask for. They may have done it, briefly, a hasty legs over the shoulders job, mid-way through the first time. Joe had scarce been able to see straight, let alone think it through. As a request, it was so much more…intimate, as close as close can be. That’s what Mac wanted? Rather than shoot himself in the nuts by noting any of that, Joe just nodded. Stayed schtum and simply wound his legs around Mac’s waist before locking his ankles. 

“Christ…” the contrary sod groaned, slamming his lids shut. Cussed. To the last. He’d order tripe as his last supper on death row, Joe was sure of it. No dessert. Nope, not even blancmange, which tasted as fun as it sounded.

The rush of relief when Mac retrieved his right hand to slip a slick finger into Joe’s body without further ado was boundless. Negating the need for words and abating the ache of emptiness—briefly—before the gnawing need for more flexed its talons.

“Please, Mac…” Joe begged, pushing back as best he could and clenching his muscles tight when the scoundrel started a languorous sweep back and forth. “More…” Joe whimpered, when the languid too ‘n’ fro became torture too sweet to bear. He’d never been more grateful to be gifted a finger in his flippin life. The glint of dark fire that gleamed in Mac’s eyes was sin itself when he brushed that mind-blitzing knot of nerves. “Mac!” Joe hollered, under seige of too much, never ever, enough. “PLEASE!”

“More…or me…” Mac’s tone was too knowing to qualify as a question. Joe kept that fact to himself, when he might wind up with neither any time soon, when soon couldn’t come soon nuff. 

“You…” had scarce left his lips afore Mac whisked his fingers away, replacing them with a blink-and-miss-it nudge of pressure, before burying himself balls deep with one sure thrust. The darkness behind Joe’s eyelids bled scarlet as the bliss blazed its way through the burn. Full at last, full of him. Impossibly full, thrumming through every fibre of his being as if his heart might burst. Feeding, fuelling that gnawing desperation to feel—truly feel—for the first time in far, far, too long. Teetering on the brink of his very self, clinging to Mac, when only he could hold the abyss at bay. “Morrre…” Joe pleaded, snatching at the tufts of rug snarled in his fists as he pushed back, urging him on.

“Don’t want t’hurt you…” Mac rasped.

“MAAC!” he shrieked, clenching tight. “Please…

“F’fucksakes…” Mac clasped Joe’s waist, grinding himself deeper before dragging his hips back, almost all the way, before unleashing that superlative spine. Joe tightened his grip, tugging him in closer, when there was no close enough. “Look at me…” Mac demanded.

Joe felt strangely reluctant to peel his lids apart; safe in his cocoon of Mac and midnight darkness, studded with starry flecks of light. The sliver of sight he braved was touchpaper to flame. The ferocity of Mac’s focus, fixed on Joe’s face, made his traitorous cheeks flame crimson as if he’d been caught snaffling his stash from the bad-ass’ back pocket. Mac rolled his hips, with slow deliberation, holding Joe’s gaze hostage.

What was he looking for? How Joe hoped he’d found it. Unless…he dreaded doing just that. A scouting tactic; Mac in reconnaissance mode. As Joe feared.

“Promise me…” Mac growled, with a glint that could prob’ly cut glass. It was impossible to tell where passion blurred with…fury. Suppressed rage, balancing on a knife edge of need. Joe p’raps shouldn’t find that…exhilarating, but he’d caused it. Mac felt it. Its very existence was intoxicating. “You won’t…steal yourself away. Swear it.”

Joe’s batshit senses had far from finished their loony bin application, it seemed. After a brief flirtation with bursting into flames, his body all-but sighed against the rug, buttery boned and leaden-limbed. From combusting to road-kill in a snatched off breath. 

“I…won’t.” If you won’t.

“I’m not going anywhere.” Mac glowered. 

Huh…did I say that last part? Joe didn’t think so, but his system had gone haywire and Mac was buried in his body. He was capable of wayyy worse, it must be admitted. And Mac was capable of farrr more than Joe (understatement wasn’t on his list either, oddly nuff) had given him credit for. As the bad-ass promptly proved. Crushing his mouth down to capture Joe’s and punish him with kisses every bit as incendiary the swish of that oh, so sinuous spine. Slamming into Joe over and over, nailing that scintillating spot, nailing Joe to the rug with the full force of that daggered glint. As promised. Obliterating all else. Joe couldn’t keep still, couldn’t stop squirming, couldn’t get close enough, when that was impossible. The need, too intense to surmount. An immense press, spiralling from the low, burning heat, ever-building, like a fire ball about to blow, too much to bear.

“I-I-Mac!” He was there, in an instant. Sure fingers curling around Joe’s cock, as Mac fired off two, three, hip-snapping thrusts and spasmed; unleashing a scorching bolt of white-hot bliss as pulsing warm flooded Joe’s body, fuelling the ecstatic rush.

*

Joe lay, in the aftermath, with the flecks of his former fears fluttering around him, settling in the silence.

Leaving space aplenty for a new terror to slink along in their wake. A seducer on the prowl; in shadowy form still, lapping at the edge of his consciousness. He knew Mac thought him a two bit tart…mayhaps found his tastes too…eclectic full stop. But. A Big One. As Joe had proved. That was only true until his appetites executed a screeching halt, the moment Joe happened upon his…well, anything.

His favourite breakfast cereal used to be Kellogg’s Variety Pack; eight titchy boxes to choose from every morn. A large part of their allure, in truth (becoming a bit of a habit, which ne’er went well). Until. He’d tasted crunchy-nutters for the first time.

Joe had scoffed them every single day for two decades. Unless he’d been a smidge…indisposed. Only one thing would stop him from saying exactly the same in another twenty years. If the scoundrels stopped making them, cutting off his supply? Joe would just have to make sure he stockpiled ’nuff to last for fifty.

Hence, the new horror lurking on his horizon. Joe sure as slinky rascals couldnae buy a McMansion to fill to the rafters, could he, if…McCafferty wasn’t there...  

Ooh.

McCafferty, McCafferty there’s no one like McCafferty...flinty-glinted fiend of feline-hipped suavity…  

‘Twas an itty bit irresistible…a lot like the bad-ass. Joe’s very own man of mystery. Cat.

And that, was that.

 

 

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Macavity: The Mystery Cat by T.S. Eliot

 

 

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