Wafflish

My Way 41

My Way

52 Joe

 

 

 

 

“Aah!” Joe’s eyes snapped open when a lightning bolt blitzed his body. His spine damn near jackknifed in shock, jolting him from a sleep so deep he might’ve thought he was dead, had he been in any fit state to ponder it. “Mac!” he gasped. No one else on Earth could’ve pulled off such a serendipitous awakening…particularly when Joe got around to peeling his eyelids apart.

“G’morning…” dripped from the lips hovering above his ear, about a waft of breath before the bad-ass tugged on its lobe with tantalizing teeth. The fingers torturing that heaven-sent knot of nerves swivelled oh, so slowly, scissoring as they swept back and forth. As an alarm call, it sure beat having a bucket o’water emptied over Joe’s head. 

Hmm...if I wake up, will you stop?”

“I sure as hell don’t intend taking you unconscious,” Mac rasped.

“Top o’the mornin to ye, then…jusdonstop…” Never, ever, stop…oooh.

“I don’t intend to…” Miraculous words, smudged across his jaw as Mac continued his merry ministrations. Joe had no idea how much of that he’d managed to utter aloud…but oh, how he wished it was all of it.

All of it was precisely what he promptly got, barely a sharp intake of breath later, when Mac whipped his fingers free and promptly obliterated the ache of emptiness with one smooth, sure surge. The guttural groan that grazed Joe’s ear was one helluva wakey, wakey rise ’n’ sublime soundtrack. Cocooned in sinewy strength, cradled by—impaled with—hard heat. There could be no finer way to wake up, even if Joe felt about as fit as fiddle after a fight with a ten-tonne truck. Said sumptuous spooning might not’ve been quite so breath-snatching, but still oozed its very own charm. The bad-ass must’ve decided that the peerless swish of his serpentine spine would have to suffice when sheer pounding pizzazz wasnae possible. As its customary endeavours were practically a superpower, this was a thing t’be Marvelled at indeed. Joe didn’t seem to be doing a very lot else, it must be admitted, other than squirming a lot and grappling Mac’s thigh in an effort to tug him closer still.

“More…” Joe pleaded, arching his back and dragging on the leg he’d clutched, strung too tight to stay still. The need was too intense, not just for friction, for him—more of him—all of him. A potential too unsurpassable to pass up, or settle for less. “Mac…harder..”

“S’impossible…” he groaned, slamming into Joe p’raps as hard as lying on his side would allow. “Cannae…” Mac gasped. “Like this…” As luscious as it was, Joe would have to wait (for what’d feel like) forever for the Full McMonty he craved, which wouldnae do, at all.

“Hold on t’me then…” The arm around his tum tightened as Joe patted about, searching for the edge of the mattress to clutch in order to haul himself onto his front. “‘Kay…” After straightening his legs a smidge, Joe tugged hard. Mac caught on fast and threw his weight forwards, which resulted in a supremely prostrate Joe with a bad-ass on board.

The next wee while, after a swift hitch of his hips, was a paradise of pounding. More than a mite akin to being plugged into a power source so potent it could raze the world to the ground. Scorching bone deep, boiling his blood, blistering through his veins. Nothing—no one—had ever compared to this. To Mac.

Joe’s head and heart may have always known what they coveted, but his body had settled for craving someone who might…salve a hollowness so profound, he’d forever felt full of it. His failure just fuelled his attempts to find a feeling that might fill it, instead. He never had. The ever-dwindling hope was so deadening that everything—everyone—he’d done had been but a desperate desire to feel alive. Efforts so futile he’d redoubled them, over and over again, ad infinitum, in an ever-spiralling dance with death. Here, was Joe’s more; personified in this man. Here, was paradise found when it had been worse than lostunfindablean opium pipe dream only realizable in rhyme. Here, in the tattoo intensity of sledge hammer hips, pounding away with inimitable aplomb. Here, when Joe had abandoned all hope that the real world could ever compare to the inner one he’d spent forever curating. Before doing his damnedest to obliterate it, when the comparison became too cruel to bear.

“More…own me, Mac.” Oops, that had leaked through his lips. Joe heard the bad-ass’ breath hitch, sensed something teeter in the silence…wondered which way it would fall.

Time itself was suspended in the trembling stillness while Mac weighed Joe’s runaway words. Would he find them wanting? Wackadoodle p’raps? They might’ve gone AWOL, but Joe had meant them. That’s what he wanted, had forever wanted, and he didn’t give a flying fuck if that wasn’t PC. Plod approved. He ached for Mac to claim him, imprint himself on Joe’s flesh. Drill that truth home. Be Mac’s home. Be the everything Joe could never be, to a man like Mac. A lone panther on the prowl, in pursuit of a very different prey. Intent on proving himselfp’raps to himself, first and foremostthe most formidable, infallible, foe on Earth. Or thereabouts. An enemy every bit as relentless as those hips.

In those shimmering seconds, stretching foreveras far back as Joe could remember, into the future he might never meethe waited for Mac’s verdict. Breath abated, suspended on a knife edge of need. To know.

Mac withdrew, almost all the way, and paused. Sadist. Then. Unleashed that steel-sprung spine like an opening salvo in the siege on Joe’s senses that ensued. A bliss blitzing battle to le petit mort. Paradise. 

“Yesss….” he heard himself hiss,  but after that there was nothing but Joe’s heartbeat hammering in his ears, the slap of skin on skin, curses, sighs ‘n’ soft cries. Joe could scarce keep still; he was a mess, a squirming, quaking, hot mess of moremoremore. White heat flaring through his veins like wildfire, consuming everything in its path. So exhilarating that his entire self felt like a scream of freedom—p’raps a wee bit weird—when consumed by all he’d ever craved, and the sure fingers that enclosed Joe’s cock. “Aahh…”

Mac shifted a smidge before unleashing a flurry of short sharp thrusts. The world, both inside and outside his head—Joe could no longer tell where one ended and the other began—shattered in a cascade of ecstasy as light-shot scarlet exploded behind his eyelids. 

“Joorrr…” Resounded round his head like a rumble of thunder when Mac shuddered to a trembling halt, filling Joe with the very essence of all he was. The living, breathing, bad-ass embodiment of more.

The more he’d waited forever for. Mac was the most deadly of all addictions. A troika of cravings too insistent to resist: a mind, body, soul, assault on Joe’s system, which was too accustomed to its customary fix to function without it. Even Mac couldnae sate its clamour for that unless he could cook up smack in his nutsack.

*

Joe was splayed on his front, suffused in bliss, sublimely smeared in bad-ass, when a rather rude rat-a-tat-tat shattered his reverie.

“Whoosat?”

“Bacon.” Mac sounded far too satisfied about this happenstance for actorly chaps to have come calling at the crack o’dawn. So chances were, said rudery heralded the breakfast Joe dimly recalled being threatened with last night. Rather than a footloose-and-fancy-free so-I’ve-popped-round-for-a-visit thespian.

It was tricky to say which of those Joe fancied less, in truth (still a scoundrelly stipulation, no doubt). The scoffing-sort of bacon not being the least bit appetizing to his bottom of the budgie cage palette, and the Kev-sort not being tempting in the slightest, when Joe had rump steak ensuite, as ’twere.

Mac hefted himself up and bounded off the bed with startling alacrity for someone who’d snatched about forty-winks in the last forty-eight hours, so the bad-ass was either more than a mite peckish, or he had a freaky bacon butty fetish.

Wrapping himself in rashers à la Gaga sounded a helluva lot more fun than than a smacked arse, Joe had to admit. ‘Bacon butty’ soon proved a mite optimistic, cos the tray that was shortly plonked on the bed niffed to high heaven of far too many foodstuffs. All served up on silver salvers (or something such) with domes atop them, hiding the horrors lurking beneath. The sheer stench o’which suggested eggs…and some gloopsome gunk or other that made Joe’s guts chunter in protest. 

Mac’s flinty glint would’ve been infinitely more gratifying aimed Joe’s way, but tragically, it was not. It was flambéing whatever was under the hat he tilted to have a wee peep beneath, before replacing it to reach for the cigs on the bedside table.

“I’m starving, but I need a smoke first…” Mac sighed, tugging a couple out and passing one to Joe before lighting his own.

“I hope you don’t expect me to scoff one of those…unless you fancy seeing it again in a slightly more mix ‘n’ match fashion,” Joe informed him, once he’d lit up and inhaled that first glorious lungful of the morn.

“It would’ve been rather ungallant to just order one for myself,” his ever confounding killer noted, adding; “I could eat a bloody bison, so a few strips of bacon won’t be a hardship. Surely you’re sick of the sight of crunchy-nutters?”

“Not happening, but I’m still full up ‘nuff, thank you kindly. I’m off to cook up my own brekkie while you’re scoffing yours. My insides are screaming from the top o’the morning to my toes. I’ll never be fed up of them though, so it’s pointless to keep asking. I’ll make do with an all-you-can-eat buffet if I can’t have my favourite, but if I can, then that’s all I want. See? Easy peasy to please, me.” Joe shrugged.

“You’ve missed out a significant part of that equation, one that makes you impossible to please—or, to be more specific—stay pleased for more than five minutes,” Mac chuckled. Chuckled? The scent of bacon must have sent him squiffy.

Please sir, can I have some more is only a problem if I can’t. Things p’raps get a mite messy then…but that’s cos I get fed up having my wrists slapped. I’m not flippin’ five,” Joe fuffed.

“Chances are, that’s because those eyes are bigger than your belly,” Mac snorted, “Or at least, they’re bigger than your body’s capacity to survive their appetite.”

“That’s a McFancy way of calling me a greedy pig, isn’t it?”

“If the cap fits,” the scoundrel grinned.

“Humph, well I hope it’s a baker boy one, cos it’ll be a cold day in hell before I sport a baseball cap backwards.” Joe sniffed.

*

Joe hadn’t fibbed to Mac, even his teeth were screaming. His bones hurt and his guts were gnawing on themselves, griping in gnarly knots. His first fix o’the day didn’t do a lot but alleviate that and quell the craving for a wee while, so Joe figured that he’d soon be good t’go…if he was a smidge more moderate than was his wont of a morn.

The crater on his wrist looked a bit icky in an oozing green gunk sort o’way when Joe pulled its bad-ass bandage off. It didn’t niff none too pleasant either, so he cleaned it up a bit and plonked a nipple sized plaster atop it. His arms didn’t actually look too bad, he decided, having hosted scant rations of late. Less scab-than-skin, which must count as a plus, surely?

Joe was trying not to tick too many boxes in the bad-ass’ books. An admission that made him feel suddenly very small and very…scared. A surge of panic that left him so light-headed Joe sank to his haunches, to be closer to the floor in case he keeled over. It was a long way to fall and he didn’t fancy the headlines if he cracked his own open on the loo. Junkie Joe Bogs His Clogs.  A life in loos. They’d prob’ly never forgive him for the fact they couldn’t claim: From a Waterloo portaloo to the Wellington Suite. At least he’d come up in the world before bogging his clogs? That was sure to make the Major proud…

Upon finding himself struck by a spot of vanity that hadn’t visited his shores a very lot of late, Joe decided to bodge away at his leg, instead. Mac must’ve been half-starved, cos he contented himself asking Joe to leave the bathroom door open as he slinked over to the swish dining table. Nary a bad-ass darkened the doorway, either; he just called out ‘y’okay?’ every wee while, so Joe was left to his own devices for the duration. A fact that somehow didn’t cause when-the-cat’s-away repercussions. This is getting riccidoodalus. Particularly when he had to potter off to studio and would soon find himself coshed with whatever-the-fuck Adam had stashed up his sleeves. 

When he felt relatively more human, Joe’s newfound particularity about his person sent him scuttling showerwards. Crikey, it was quite a morning of firsts. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had managed to rouse him in any fit state to function, let alone attend to his toilette. But then, no one else had ever been worth waking up to, nor had they happened upon the perfect button to press for an alarm-call par excellence. Mac was more than a mite scary on the cunning plot front.

A fact said bad-ass proved beyond any shadow of doubt when Joe emerged from the shower, sporting a few towels here ’n’ there.

“Answer this when it rings. No matter what,” Mac instructed, passing him what appeared to be a batphone. ’Twas screeching scarlet and looked as if it might self-destruct if Joe did not do just that afore 10-9-8-7-6…seconds had elapsed.

“Why would I do this?” Joe asked, eyeing it a tad warily.

“Because I said so…but if you’d prefer a less Stalinesque explanation: I promised to get them off your back. In order to persuade Adam et al that I can deliver on my word? Proof that it can be trusted wouldn’t go amiss. Other than my rep and what it’s costing them, they have no hard evidence that I will deliver the goods—you. I suspect they reckon you’ll prove my fatal flaw…when in fact, that’s an insult to your ingenuity. How very predictable that would be…”

Mac let that linger in the air…like a particularly tempting carrot. Blighter. “You can do far better than that. We can…if you’ll be my secret weapon.”

“I didn’t expect you to cotton onto that last bit, let alone trust me ’nuff to count on it. So, that’s all I have t’do? Answer the McBat phone?”

McBat phone, f’chrissakes,” the rascal spluttered. “Is there any all about it? How often do you answer your own?” Mac shot him a knowing side-eye, garnished with a glinty special.

“Well…it gets lost.”

“Odd that…does it tend to get lost when it’s ringing in your back pocket too?” Oooh…evil.

“Um…sometimes?” Joe pinned on a ‘picture of innocence’ expression (p’raps aided and abetted by his fluffy white towel turban). It had got him out of a fair few scrapes, it must be admitted.

“Pick a ringtone…” Mac instructed with a smirky twerk of lips. Scoundrel. In Joe’s defence? It was the smug’s fault…

‘Psycho Killer‘ had tripped off the tip of his tongue to flaunt itself with nary a care for consequence before Joe could rustle up a request for a less suicidal ditty. 

As death wishes went, it was quite a corker…

 

 

 

 

***

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