Beast of Bodmin Moor 11


Hiya 🥰 Here’s Phin’s part with a bit of Jack ‘n’ Jake beneath it…




The Beast of Bodmin Moor 11








Phin nibbled on the end of his pen, staring at the spidery scrawl strewn across the page. Fractured phrases scattered without forethought and far less sense… Plush-lipped, lush-hipped grace…his incomparable face, a toffee tumble of hair, lusty-lidded stare… Paraiba tourmaline…aquamarine dream…topaz azure…nonpareil allure…Too Much at stake… JackJa/keJake.

Wasted wafflings of what might-have-been, had Phin not wanted too much. Or—at leastest of all leasts—not admitted it aloud. Lips like a leaky portaloo. It had felt as if the scratchy might flay the flesh off his bones when Jack fled. How Phin wished it would finally be done with him…but knew he was more likely to be suffocated by the solitude that kept him safe. If only there was a way to syphon off some too muchness, without turning him into the walking dead. Before Phin wound up too dead to be classified a corpse: Immodice mortem. 

When he’d woken, bleary and beleaguered after his fitful nap, Phin felt as if Jake’s touch was imprinted on his flesh and he was an over-tuned string instrument. Strung too tight, sticky with sweat. Smeared in dried blood, his shrink-wrapped skin feverish with sense memory. Phin had even pressed wondering fingertips to his lips, where the imprint of Jake’s mouth still lingered. A sensation that whisked away the floodgates and unleashed a torrent of stuff Phin had nowhere safe to stash; no tried and tested ‘coping strategies’ in place. And even if he had any, there was just too much to sort and Phin felt too messy to make sense of himself. Let alone the tangle of tongues, trickling across skin…the moist heat of Jake’s magical mouth, engulfed in unimaginable bliss…and oh, the taste of him. The husky musk of Jake’s scent, his lush tumble of hair when he’d thrown his head back. The gravel-strewn growl of Phin’s very own name, thrilling through his veins. 

Jake had gone. For good. It felt as far from good as Phin could imagine. 

Left…without a word. Left Phin with? The echo of his own worth ringing in his ears. So whywhywhy come here? 

Here, where it began? It was all a tad twisted, like staring into a murky puddle that mirrored his shame back at him. That was one way of looking at it, Phin supposed, but he hadn’t come to stare at himself. He just…couldn’t help but hope to see his foxy friend. Even if he had hallucinated those eyes of jet blue flame; a flicker of light in the darkness Phin loved. Warming him through as he sat there, shivering his nuts off. 

The memory of Foxy’s face emerging from the shadows was so vivid, Phin actually heard the same soft whimper from the night before. A sound so true it had triggered the fall he hadn’t forgotten to remember, Phin just couldn’t. At all. The only recallable moment was the briefest blaze of blue. None of that mattered when he could recollect every scintillating second of the consequences that ensued, after waking in his van. 

His only remembrance of the fall itself was hearing a whine so unexpected, it had distracted him too much to do concentrating. As clumsy as ever, he’d lost his footing on the tumble of rocks and smacked his head on a stone. He must have conked out for a bit—that much Phin knew—because he’d briefly come around and seen his foxy friend. But then, nothing, until he’d woken in his van. He must have scraped himself up, at some point, then staggered about ’til Jack found him and brought him back. That was the only chain of events made any sense; Jake’s only option other than leaving Phin where he found him. Phin hadn’t got his phone and Jake hadn’t even got pockets; neither of them could’ve called a cab that couldn’t collect them from the middle of the moors. 

“Foxy…?” It was a bit daft calling him that, Phin had to confess. ‘Fox’ meant nothing to him—even if he was one—which he wasn’t. The image of Foxy in his mind’s eye was not a jot orange enough. Phin sure as carrot sick colours hadn’t misremembered that. He’d been shades of creamy caramel and grey, with black flecky bits. P’raps Phin should whistle and say something warm and welcoming instead, that might work.

“Here, boy…” He kept his voice as low, soft, unthreatening as he could, but heard nary a whimper—nor even a low growl of warning—in response. Typical…he’d now segued from rustling up hallucinations to imagining noises to torment himself with, too. Phin huffed a sigh so heartfelt it ruffled the pages of his journal. Abruptly done with suffering the consequences of his hapless hopes for the second time in swift succession, Phin— snapped his head up when a scrabbly scuffle shattered the silence. Foxy?

A furry flurry came hurtling from the shadows and took a flying leap over the rocky rubble. A sight too spectacular to wonder if he was about to find himself with a faceful of teeth and claws. As it turned out, that would have been a waste of wondering, so Phin was glad he hadn’t bothered when Foxy skittered to a stone ‘n’ spittle spraying halt, a few feet away. Phin almost split his kiss-chapped lips, so wide was his grin—but it wasn’t a patch on Foxy’s—which came complete with a dangling tongue so long, he won, paws down. He stood, panting puffy clouds of breath, his eyes so blue and glinty-bright they seemed spotlit from within. 

Phin should consider telling Mr. Neil that he might need his meds upping. Unless he forgot. The urge to stroke Foxy was so strong, it would have been wise to sit on his hands, which was perhaps why Phin didn’t bother. 

Maybe if he just held out his hand, then Foxy could choose? He might not want a stinky human to touch him and Phin could scarce blame him for that. Fearful of frightening him away, Phin raised his arm until his fingers hovered a few inches beneath the tip of Foxy’s tongue. Much to his inner happy dance of delight, Foxy started snuffing them, making small huffy noises when his cool, wet nose smudged Phin’s skin.

“Good boy…hello…” he crooned, hoping it sounded friendly to Foxy, who snuffled a smidge more, then flicked Phin a little lick that skimmed his fingertips.

Perhaps it had been to test Phin’s reaction, because that first, tentative touch of tongue was succeeded by a full-on slosh of Foxy slobber across the back of his hand. It was warm and wet and meant the world to Phin, who was honoured that Foxy even trusted him enough to come close, let alone gift him with a lick. A nudge of nose seemed to suggest that his newfound friend wanted access to Phin’s palm, so he turned the hand over. It was the left one, not his mangled right, so Foxy wouldn’t have to suffer the scabs, which would feel disgusting. After slurping a swipe across his upturned palm, Foxy abruptly lost interest in it and shoved his nose into the cuff of Phin’s trench coat instead. It was barely a huff of hot breath later that Foxy yanked his head back to (this bit may have been a hallucination) narrow his eyes at Phin. It sure looked that way when the space between his tufty eyebrows scrunched up while peering down his snoot. After a staring Phin out ’til he seemed satisfied, Foxy shoved his nose back into the cuff and…pushed, as if he wanted to bare the wrist. There didn’t seem any reason to disoblige him, so Phin hitched the sleeve up a tad. One sniff later, he found himself levelled with an expression so considering it was akin to his mum’s when weighing up whether he’d had a proper mishap or been up to mischief. 

The sleeve was a direct tunnel to Phin’s armpit, which possibly didn’t smell very fresh in a week-old sweaty sock sort of way, so he didn’t blame Foxy one bit. His sense of smell possibly thought it had been clobbered by a niff more noxious than the carcasses he might just litter the moors with. Someone sure did, Phin had seen one for himself.  The stinky pits theory stopped making sense when Foxy stalked behind Phin and snagged the elbow of his coat with sharp teeth and started tugging on the sleeve. 

“What is it, Foxy?” he wondered, a bit bemused. In response, Foxy shot him a knowing look, then returned to Phin’s cuff and crammed his nose into it again. One snuff later, off he went, to repeat his tug-o-war with the elbow of the trench.

Phin had no idea why he had such a bee in his bonnet—that was an idiom, Foxy was not wearing one of those—which did suggest that Phin’s sanity was still salvageable. An excellent thing indeed when the very existence of the bonnet might be deemed a tad too much…even before Phin started wondering whether Foxy had come as Granny from Little Red Riding Hood. 

The upshot of all this was that Foxy seemed to want access to Phin’s arm, which was the part that mattered, his reasons were his own business. Oouch…Phin had forgotten about the gash his jumper promptly grazed with wire wool aplomb when he shoved the sleeve to the crook of his elbow. 

Uh oh. Foxy snorted a sound uncannily akin to a horse’s harrumph. Had this not been accompanied by an imperious squint, Phin might have suspected the wound was a stench too far after suffering the stinky armpit. Said squint ‘n’ stare made Foxy’s next move all the more oddsome. Rather than back off in disgust, he swiped a stinging sluice across the ugly slash. Moonlight was not its best look, it must be admitted; blood blackened and scabby on blanched to bone skin.

The sting was fleeting, it had no sooner sparked to life than faded to a soothing warmth when Foxy swept it another lingering lick. It was the strangest sensation; as soothing as the stroke of velvet, as comforting as fleece  (the only two fabrics Phin could wear without being besieged by scratchy). He watched, fascinated, as Foxy kept lapping, as if convinced it could be erased…or washed away with saliva. 

When he seemed satisfied with a job well done, Foxy snuffed a huff, then switched his focus to Phin’s face. A gaze every bit as amazing as it was beautiful; Phin had remembered right. They were a bright, blazing blue—deeper, darker than they’d seemed yesterday—pupils blown so huge they engulfed most of his iris. Phin scrunched his eyes tight shut in a bid to blot out another blue; every bit as crystal clear as Foxy’s, dark with a desire it was hard to believe he’d inspired, even for a second in a man so…unsurpassable.

Foxy—quite why Phin was still calling him this when he was clearly not a fox—was a mystery. It seemed that everyone he met required at least two names, which was playing havoc with his head. He’d lost his thread of thought again now…it was all going to hell in a hurricane jet. Ah, Foxy…that was it. He was too wolfish to be a fox. Too lean, slinky-looking for a wolf. He was honey-hued, dappled with grey that darkened to black along his back. His face was not rusty-coloured at all, it was creamy gold, white and speckled silver. Some sort of wild dog? Coyote? Jackal? No matter which of those his foxy friend might be, he now seemed…sad. Staring up at Phin with sorrow laden pools of baleful blue. 

“Don’t be upset…” Phin told him, pulling his sleeve back down over the wound, which had started to tingle strangely in the wind. “I’m okay…”

With a snuff that would have sounded like a snort of disbelief, had Foxy been human, he rested the underside of his jaw on Phin’s bent knee. The warm weight was comforting in itself, even more so if it meant Foxy was not…miffed. Okay…that did sound nuts, bolts and barking bonkers. It still felt that way though.

“May I stroke you?” Phin dared to ask.

His foxy friend’s lids drifted down, shrouding the blue…in a sinking into a bubble bath sort of way. Or… The flash of memory was brilliance itself—blinding—of Jack’s eyelids; gliding shut when Phin first trailed tentative fingertips down his chest. It hadn’t meant nothen. 

Phin raised his right hand to Foxy’s head and started a smooth stroke. He didn’t seem to mind and it was impossible to resist, so Phin started to fondle his tufty ears. A deep rumble sounded in Foxy’s throat; like a cat’s purr but much, much darker.

One moment he seemed serenity itself, the next, in a too-swift-to-stop-him dart of movement, Foxy shoved his nose into Phin’s crotch. Then snuffed out a scalding breath that scorched straight through his pants. Strewth. 

“Foxy!” he gasped. Crikey, um…that was a bit embarrassing. And most unseemly in the extreme. Phin’s cock had been coshed by way too many surprises of late. He should p’raps ask Mr. Neil for some bromide before matters got out of hand.

For twenty-two years, not a soul had shown the slightest interest in the contents of Phin’s undercrackers, and now, all of a sudden, everyman-and-his-dog were shoving their snoots down there. Foxy just lolled-a-laugh—at Phin—he was sure of it. Utterly unrepentant, as the unseemly scoundrel returned his chin to Phin’s knee.

“Bad boy. No snuffing, it’s rude, you have to mind your manners in company,” Phin told him. A maxim he’d been told he mustn’t forget too many times to remember.

“D’you have a lady friend, Foxy?” he wondered aloud, running his palm down the silky fur of his neck. “To cuddle up with, and keep you warm at night? That was a daft question, wasn’t it…you probably wouldn’t be here, if you did. I’m not very good at minding my manners either, so don’t worry, that makes two of us.”

Foxy huffed, hunkering down to lie beside him. Then fidgeted a bit closer when Phin straightened his legs to continue stroking. He’d scarce started when Foxy raised his head to rest it across Phin’s lap. It felt comforting, cosy. Perhaps he should get a dog. He would far rather have Foxy, but he was wild and free and living his own life. Putting a collar on him would be unconscionable, even if he’d permit such a travesty. 

Phin would never dream of trying to steal his freedom away. It would be cruel, selfish, even if—when—Foxy felt far too much like the best friend he’d never had.





Jack & Jake




Jake was dumbfounded. What the fuck?

The last two years had been spent locked in brutal, bloody battle with Jack. In the most futile effort to keep some sort of grip on the jackal and his own sanity. This had felt much like a dog owner’s attempts to cling to the collar of a runaway rottweiler as it took off after a cat.

Now here was the mangy miscreant: lying serenely beside the jackal whisperer, sighing happy huffs of contentment. This, while being petted by Phin and having his ears…fondled, for chrissakes.

Jake now found himself in the discomfiting position of pacing like a caged animal as Jack (quite literally) pleased himself. How the hell can I be jealous of him, when he is me? 

Finally caught up, have you? Or just admitted what was as obvious as the nose on my face?

Speaking of which…What. The. Effing. Fuck?

Oh, c’mon…you’re not fooling yourself for a minute. Y’know you wanted to… 

I...am a Gent. Not a crotch-pouncing pervert.

That first bit sounds familiar, oddly enough. You’re right, though, you should stick to being a sleep-stalking perv…it’s much more your three cups of tea. Stop nagging. You’re just jealous, you admitted as much yourself. Besides which, I don’t recall cutting your nose off to spite your face. Just sayin’.  Now shurrup, I’m busy. Luxuriating.

So…? What if he had scaled new levels of ludicrous? He couldn’t help it—Jake just was—jealous. A bit. Being forced to sit back as Jack basked in Phin’s attention was infuriating. Yes, Jake was here too. Yes, he could see, taste, hear, see…and bloody smell. Feel Phin’s fingers in his fur. But. It was still driving Jake demented. It was also adding a whole new set of worries to his far-too lengthy list of Phin fears:

  1. He was still freaking out about the fact Jack might have infected Phin yesterday.
  2. Jack had just topped up his saliva donation. This might tip the balance if Phin hadn’t received a sufficient dose of jackal-juice last night.
  3. Jake had committed the unforgivable sin of giving Phin the brush off, immediately in the aftermath of his first sexual encounter. Despite the fact he’d never wanted someone so much in his goddamn life. Ever.
  4. He’d done this because he was terrified he might maim Phin in a very real sense.
  5. Jack had just shoved his nose precisely where Jake had vowed it could never venture again.
  6. Jake gone without for two years because Jack had made it quite clear that blood lust took priority over minor matters such as murder.
  7. The very same Jack that had now lapped lavishly at the most delectable blood on earth. Twice. Without so much as a nip. Bastard.

This, was the seven circles of shapeshifter hell. Dante had no fucking idea. Worst of all, Jake was suffering all this because he had tried to Do The Honorable Thing. And achieved bugger all. Unassailable truth that never a good deed goes unpunished.

Phin was a liability more lethal than the jackal. What the hell had he done to himself? He could have hit a sodding artery with whatever he’d used to butcher that arm. It sure as shit hadn’t been inflicted by a blade. It wasn’t a clean enough cut; too ragged, too wide, too naive

Jake could distinctly recall thinking that he couldn’t let Phin out on his own, then chided himself for over-reacting. Pfft. He’d clearly underestimated Phin, who couldn’t be left alone full stop without endangering himself. He was patently every bit as efficient at ‘accidents’ as ‘forgetting’.

Back to tonight…how the hell was Jake supposed to handle this? There wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it; the consequences of trying to prise Jack from Phin were too horrifying to contemplate. Do I truly want to?

He was undeniably jealous, but Jake was still here with Phin, by proxy. Jack might claim that he’d brought them back together tonight, but that wasn’t much consolation when Jake had abandoned Phin because of said mangy mutt.

Some might be inclined to argue that Jake would never have met Phin in the first place, had they not fancied a run on the moors. Jake was steadfastly ignoring said smart-arse opinion.

The next hour was the most exquisite torture Jake had ever endured. Lying beside Phin, aching for all he could never have, yearning for that tender touch on skin, not fur. This, while knowing damn well that safe sex and the jackal couldn’t coexist on the same planet, let alone in the same bed.

Have you considered for one moment that Phin is not a rabbit? Nor some random woman or bloke you picked up in the pub?

You say that now…but how the hell can I trust you? One whiff of rabbit and there’s sod all I can do to stop you feasting your fill. I cannot risk him. I will not.

Was your mouth too full to claim that earlier? Just asking for a friend…

Fuck off.

That ball’s in your court, and well you know it. Or would, if you weren’t dead set on being a self-loathing wanker, o’course…

No. Hell no. Jake should never have allowed earlier to happen. And yet…he hadn’t felt as if he might lose it for even one moment. But what about the bloody table legs? What if they’d been Phin’s? Or his arms…neck? Jake hadn’t been able to control his grip mid-blow job, how the hell was he supposed to trust himself while buried in Phin’s body? Oh gawd.

You could at least try trusting yourself. Coward. Is that what this is really about? You’re terrified, admit it. Scaredy cat. You’re just worried he’ll work out what a tosspot you are and dump your ass. 

It’s you I don’t trust, dogbreath. What if I started fearing for Phin’s safety? Felt I was losing it—couldn’t rein it in—and needed to slam the brakes on? For his sake. Would that even be possible? Or would you snatch the decision out of my hands? Erupt in a fury of fur; as you have a hundred times beforewhen I wouldn’t fall in with your latest whim? 

Whims? Those were missions of vital import, I’ll have you know. Jackal business. I can’t sit and watch you fingering your strings, and Sherlock-on-a-loop, forever. He makes my mouth water, for starters. And main course, please. Phin is not a whim, you pillock. He is…everything. So, suck that up. You may as well, we haven’t got any choice in the matter. One whiff and it was all over. He owns your ass. 

Oh, so, it’s mine now? Make up your mind.

Mine-yours-ours-whatever. ‘Yours’ had a certain…ring to it. Too sassy to resist.

You are ev-il. Monstrous, you know that, right?

I’m sex starved and sausage deprived. That’s not good for my constitution.

Neither are sausages.

If you cannot deduce the compromise in said state of malnourishmentparticularly after all that staring at the Cumberbuttthen I give up on you, quite frankly…  

Now shurrup, and let me luxuriate in peace. Then I’ll sit through season two of Sherlock, later, if you like. Unless…there’s something else you’d rather do, o’course…



Beast of Bodmin Moor 10

Happy Weekend 🥰 Thank you so much for your support for their story ❤️ Phin’s chapter is a mite maudlin so I’ve included Jake’s chapter too.


Trigger warning: 

Phin’s part contains self-harm which doesn’t endanger him, but I should hate it to trouble you. It can be ignored entirely (or read down to the stars *** and skip to Jake’s) without losing the plot. Suffice to say, Phin returns to the moors that evening. 





The Beast of Bodmin Moor





Phin tugged his jeans on and ruffled his flattened hair, then stooped to peer at his face in the cloudy mirror. Not that it mattered…Jack had seen more than enough of it already. How he must wish he hadn’t lost his clothes, then he p’raps wouldn’t have happened upon Phin in the first place. Let alone stuck around ’til he woke up and it was too light for a starkers strollabout. It still wasn’t dark enough, so Jack was stuck with him until Phin drove him home. If only, he hadn’t admitted that he wouldn’t mind Jake ‘in anywhere’. That had been unseemly, extremely. And presumptive.

I-I…don’t think…I can’t, it’s not sa—”  

Phin wasn’t sure what any of that meant…but knew it meant nothing he wanted to hear. It was just a clatter of words that screamed; ‘back off, it was just a bloody blow job.’ Phin had a sneaky suspicion that Jake’s word salad sentence boiled down to: ‘I’m just not that into you‘. That’s what people really meant when they used a lot of words to dump your ass without suffering uncomfy consequences, wasn’t it?

Phin had attempted the pretend-it-doesn’t-matter-a-bit thing. That’s how you acted considerate about being dumped: No probs. I’m fine, it’s all fine. Fine, fine fine. 

Fine (adj): Fuck awful.

Adding a c’est la vie shrug ‘n’ smile so people didn’t feel bad for making you feel bad was the icing on the considerate cake. Phin had tried. It was tricky to say how it had turned out when he hadn’t been able to focus past the fact he’d needed Jake to go. Leave Phin alone so he could do concentrating on clawing back a bit of comfiness.

His whole self had felt like a silent shriek. So Phin had shut down, to hold it inside. He hadn’t wanted Jake to see. He’d seen far too much already. Much too much too-muchness. But Phin had somehow forgot himself in the face of Jake. All the things that made it extremely important to ward the world away and its dagger-shooting-glare-of-shame with it.

Jake didn’t respond to the offer of a lift home, which made Phin even more scratchy. He just sort of wavered about instead, as if wondering whether to pat Phin’s head or flee before the fallout. The latter would have been Jake’s best bet. Phin had to hold it all in, until he’d gone. It was doable, Phin had done it a trillion times before. It was p’raps akin to being eaten alive by maggots… far preferable to the Glare. 

The bathroom mirror wasn’t about to offer up any words of wisdom any time soon, so Phin checked that it was sporting the correct-expression-for-the-occasion: his feeling fine face.  A last glance at his cuffs assured him that his jumper seams were not on the outside, safely away from Phin’s skin (screaming loon-on-the-loose). That was a daft thing to do, it must be admitted, but he was too scratchy to tell without looking.

After doing a deep breath, which was supposed to help somehow—it did not—Phin pushed the loo door open. The utter silence that greeted him should have been blissful. It was not. The empty van was a void into which Phin’s stupid, hopeful heart plummeted. Jake had gone. Phin had never felt so alone, which was weird, when that should have been a wonderful thing. ‘Alone’ wasn’t like this, though. Alone was pottering about, as cosy as can be, but thiscoshed him with an emotion so strange, he wasn’t sure what it was. Only ‘loss’ seemed similar, but that was a different sort of sadness. This sort was sucking the air out of his lungs. Suffocating him.

Phin shoved the loo door shut with his back and slumped against it, scrunching his eyes tight shut. Then slid downwards, until he was curled as small as he could make himself and pressed his forehead to his bent knees. He never knew how long he stayed put, listening to what loneliness felt like. Long enough that his bum went numb.

How Phin wished his mind would follow suit, but not even his bedtime tablets could perform that miracle. Maybe take those and try to go to sleep? He’d forgotten about them last night, so it wouldn’t count as snaffling an extra dose. Phin wasn’t tired, but he rarely was. Hence the need for the knockout drops, because staying awake for a week was ‘bad for him’.  Going to bed was the bane of his life. Boring beyond belief (that might be a catchy turn of phrase but Phin sure as strewth-I’m-bloody-bored, believed it). He hated being still and doing nothing to dispel the scratchy. But this nothingness was much worse; he’d rather claw his own skin off than feel it.

Phin knew he was being daft. He hadn’t lost Jack, who hadn’t been his to lose. Not even a friend, let alone a…lover? Boyfriend? Jake couldn’t even be classed as a one night stand; that would be an upgrade in the ranks of brief encounters. Theirs had been thong-sized. Aptly enough, when it was as vividly scored into Phin’s memory as cheese-wire through Cheddar. 

It had been too good to be true. Full stop. Dreams never had a real life Phin to sabotage them. The sudden slash of self-loathing that scythed through his system blitzed Phin’s brain with scarlet bile. Sosooostupid. Their tea cups sat, as serene as can be, on the counter top, mocking him. A surge to his feet and swift sweep of an arm sent them crashing to the floor in a spatter of tea spray like dirty rain. Every bit as grubbynot good enoughas he’d always known himself to be. Wired all wrong, for all to see, as if Not Like You was tattooed on Phin’s forehead in fancy font. The gnawing need to smash everything in sight was scalding; a scorch so intense that a bit of spontaneous combustion should have saved Phin the satisfaction. 

* * *

All the hopes Phin should never have permitted shelf space, shattered. For the briefest, brightest of moments, there they’d glistened, unfathomably within reach. Destroyed in one hapless instant, as surely as the porcelain shards scattered underfoot. A glint of light glanced off a fragment shaped like a shark’s tooth, ensnaring Phin’s gaze. He bent to pluck it off the floor, a jagged remnant of its former self. He would keep it, he knew; a single treasure salvaged from the day his foxy friend came to stay, for a while, at least. ‘A while’ worth all the teacups in China. 

Phin closed his hand around it and held tight, lest he lose it, then slid back down the door. Until he unfurled his fingers to examine his prize, he hadn’t felt the icy burn that promptly blazed a trail up his arm. His fingers were too numb to take any notice. He couldn’t feel them, just the searing sting scored across all four, where their ‘bend here’ line used to be.

Bummer, the ivory shark’s tooth was now smeared scarlet, t’boot. Phin’s palm felt squelchy with stickiness.  Nowhere else hurt, though. He didn’t even feel scratchy. His head was a bit whizzy, which felt preferable to having a hatchet buried in it.  The burn itself felt…cleansing, which made sense in the funeral pyre scheme of things. The blood was dripping down Phin’s forearm now, decorating it like ruby trickles of melted candle wax down a wine bottle. The screeching soreness was wearing off, which was a bit rubbish; it had helped to have that single pulse of pain to focus on.

The scratchy was coming back too, clawing at Phin’s arms and legs. A fire-ants-scurrying- under-his-skin sensation so intense he should be able to see them. It was driving him demented. One swift slash across his inner forearm, where the creepy-crawling was worst, might expunge a few. Thousand. Oops, that turned out a tad wider than expected. The shark’s tooth was p’raps thicker than a blade. Ah well. Its scorch seemed to warm him through as it radiated from the gash, gathering force, rather than subsiding. His brain felt as numb as his bum and fingers now, which was a plus, but he felt a bit squiffy, which was not. Phin hadn’t had a jot to drink. He definitely didn’t want to wake up two days running with a hangover after nary a hot toddy to make it seem worthwhile. P’raps he should take his tablets, then go and have a lie down. He was a bit dizzy, as if he’d been spinning on the spot to make the world go whizzy.

Phin swallowed his pills with a slurp of water from the tap, then held his upturned arm under the flow. Drying blood felt as if your skin was shrinking, which was never a fun thought to trigger. Particularly before bed…which was where Phin should comport himself, before his nook took on the look of a…rook’s nest. Or was it a crow’s?  The lookout bucket at the top of a ship’s mast to scan the horizon for scurvy dogs. That would do—it didn’t rhyme though—so the rook would just have to snaffle it. Like a cuckoo. Oops…he had an aviary already.  

His head was getting a bit out of hand. Flopping down before he fell over would be a cunning plan indeed, Phin decided. He felt almost euphoric with relief  when he snuggled under the duvet and dragged it over his head. Phin loved the dark—far more than any particular season—night was his favourite time of day. It made him feel safe. Even the bittersweet tang of tears felt comforting in his cosy cave under the covers…


Urgh… When Phin peered above the duvet he really wished he hadn’t. Ouch. His head hurt…and his eyes were sore. And his arm. Fingers. His toes seemed okay, which was not to be sniffed at when they tended to bear the brunt of mishaps. Phin needed a pee something chronic, so he’d have to drag his arse out of bed. Dammit. He also needed to buy loo roll, he remembered—which he had not—yesterday. That meant people. Double dammit. He didn’t want to see anyone at all, beset as he was by a stroppy ‘if I can’t see Jack, I don’t want to see anyone ever again, so there’, sort of mood.

Phin squinted down at the angry slash on his arm, which was a bit puffy ‘n’ purple. It wasn’t bleeding any more, but the duvet looked as if it had been tie-dyed in rusty water. After blowing out a huge huff, Phin threw back the covers and scrambled around to lower himself to the floor. Pee ‘n’ tea. Then what? Quite why he asked himself this, when he knew damn well that he’d be off to the moors later, Phin knew not. It wasn’t as if he had the luxury of choice. That was fruitloop delusion more excessive than conjuring up furry friends with eyes that gleamed aquamarine.




Jake & Jack



It was with utmost gratitude that Jake grabbed his jacket off it’s hook. His shift had seemed endless. He’d twitched his way through it, antsy and distracted by an internal pacing too relentless to ignore. The slivers of patience Jake could lay claim to had been whittled away to naught and his now nerves were frazzled to fuck.

After fleeing from the camper van Jake had let Jack have his head—literally—it had been a relief to hand the reins over. Take a back seat, become a mere passenger to his instincts; let Jack indulge in pure and simple pleasures, guilt-free and glad to be alive. Gone was the gut-wrenching grief of what-might-have-been, the gnawing knowledge that Jake had hurt the least-deserving lover he never had. 

Flinging himself into the wind, Jack flew with the fur ruffling breeze, without a care in the world. Except for catching a whiff of rabbit before the heavens opened. Nevertheless, Jake was glad when it started hammering down a few hours later, which lessened their chances of being spotted on the way home. The winding lanes were either flanked by trees or bordered by high hedgerows, safe from streetlights and random passers by. His cottage backed onto woods, which made the risk of being observed minimal. There was a spare door key secreted in the rockery and Jake kept an emergency stash of clothes in the shed, for such unforeseen incidents. One naked stroll was quite enough for the foreseeable.

Jake had not spent the time before his shift sulking. No, not at all. He’d been practicing his guitar, having a shower and tidying up. Useful things. Keeping himself busy until he went to work.

He had managed four hours without biting anyone’s head off, just about, and now… freedom beckoned. It was nearing half-eleven and the moon was high in the sky, casting it’s ghostly glow over their labyrinth lanes home. The night was young and the jackal was eager to be unleashed upon it. Much to the mutts chagrin, Jake had laid down the law. No midnight excursions, we can’t risk heading to the moors. Not tonight.

Jake found himself flat out a few seconds later, clutching his guts, wracked with pain. Clawed by phantom paws with a glee so rabid he should be quarantined.

You and whose army this time?

They appeared to be moorward bound whether Jake liked it or not…and unless he fancied spending the rest of his life four-footed and furry, he had no choice whatsoever. Thus, Jake headed home and had a quick cuppa before stripping down to his boxers and heading to the shed. After stashing some clean sweatpants and t-shirts in there, he leaped barefoot over the garden fence and sprinted off into the night. Once safely in the woods, Jake let go, indulging the jackal in some pant-shredding humanity-shedding en route. The night air was calm; clear after the early evening downpour. It was a bit chilly, but not too cold to while away an hour or so amidst the ruins of a tumbledown engine house…

Would Phin even be there, or was the camper van long gone? He may have packed up his shattered pride and fled the memory of the bastard who’d stolen his innocence. Jack was convinced this was cobblers. Jake just knew that’s exactly what he would have done, had their roles been reversed.

Jack’s instincts were, as ever, faultless. The camper van sat serenely on the verge, the soft glow of a nightlight seeping through its drawn curtains. Not a sound came from within, so Jake allowed himself to hope that Phin had, indeed, headed off to his favoured spot.

If Jack could grin with glee? There was no doubt he’d be doing just that. His tongue was lolling from his open mouth, looking dafter than seemed feasible, as he stood scenting the air with eager anticipation. Off he set at a sudden run, skimming sure-footed over stone, rock and clumps of scrubby grass. Phin’s scent, a sparkling thread of promise, luring them with magnetic force. Stronger, richer, now; more mulled wine than cinnamon sugar. More…insistent.

When Jack reached his spying spot behind a crumble-down wall, he hunkered down on the moss with a happy huff of contentment. Phin was sitting exactly where he belonged, facing the engine house ruins with a notebook on his lap. They watched as he scribbled a few words, sometimes a few lines, between bouts of chewing the end of his pen and gazing around as if he were waiting for a tardy friend.

This made them both a bit fretful; no-one had joined Phin before, nor had it seemed they might. Jack craned his head around, scanning the horizon in every direction, but there wasn’t a soul to be seen or scented. The skittish twitches of his skin and ears refused to relent; there was too much at stake. Jack would not, could not, share Phin. He was theirs.

With an unhappy huff of unease, he let his head flop onto his front paws. The small whine that sounded in his throat was involuntary; impossible to quash even if he’d known it was was about to exhibit itself. Phin snapped his head up with an alertness that suggested he’d heard a rifle crack. The pen fell unheeded from his fingers.

“Foxy…?” was a soft expulsion of breath.


Did Phin mean Jake, or the friendly ‘fox’ he’d ‘dreamed’ last night? Rosebud lips pursed around a low whistle and then—in warm, coaxing tones—called out:

“Here, boy…”

‘Here, boy?’ Well fuck. Now there was an invitation Jake had never thought to hear this lifetime.  Jack’s butt was twitching, his fur quivering in anticipation. Nooooo!

How the jackal managed to suppress a spring so imminent, Jake knew not, but sure as hell knew they were fucked, seconds later. This, when Phin’s shoulders drooped with a disappointment almost as dreadful as the wilted scent of sorrow that spoiled his own.

Jack was off like a shot, bounding over the rubble.

As bidden… he pointed out before Jake could muster a limp protest. He summoned us; he wants us, we want him, simple. 

Summoned?  F’fucksakes. Does he have a death wish, or is Phin so certain you mean him no harm?

There was no trace of uncertainty on Phin’s face, nor fearful souring of his scent. He didn’t even flinch when a furry missile came flying through the air, aimed his way. Instead? A huge beam of joy put the starlight to shame when Jack skittered to a stop a few feet from Phin’s right thigh. Tongue lolling out in a goofy grin. 

A most undignified one. Indecent, in fact.

Jack didn’t give a stuff. Particularly when Phin extend his fingers towards him, stilling them several inches from his nose. When Jack stretched forwards to snuffle them, Phin’s chuckle was so charming, he could scarce restrain from swiping the hand a lick. 

“Good boy…hello…” His endearment was a melted chocolate murmur…Jack wanted to lick that too.

Good boy!? For chrissakes. He’ll be off to buy you a collar and lead tomorrow.

Soft limit, or hard? Suit yourself, I’m in.

Jack couldn’t resist tasting those fingertips for a second longer. They were being wafted under his nose like the tastiest of treats. It would be rude to rebuff them. Very rude. And Jack was a gent. 

A whaaat-the-fuck? 

Oh, do pipe down at the back. 

Which is exactly how it feels, dogbreath. Stuck in the backseat of a car, watching a mate cop off with your not-so secret crush.

Mate, huh? I’m touched. Well, buckle up and sit tight, buddy, it’s my turn. You had yours. Then—if I recall rightly—gave him the brush off and buggered off without so much as a word of farewell. Thus, it seems a leetle bit likely that you’re in the dog house, remember? You’ll find it located at one of the Poles, or thereabouts, I reckon. Laters… 











Beast of Bodmin Moor 9



The Beast of Bodmin Moor





“That’s not a bad thing, by the way. I’d very much fancy being deflowered by a breeches-ripper. Oops…I shouldn’t have fessed up, should I? Was it unseemly?”




Jake was damned if he could fathom an answer to that. How the hell was Phin still alive? It was a bloody good job he’d remained a virgin if that was his fantasy night out. A dream date with a breeches-ripper. F’fucksakes.

Lightweight. I’m in. Jack the Ripper at your service, sir… 

If Phin belonged to him (Jake ignored the horrific warmth that thrilled through his body at this, most forbidden of thoughts), he’d never let him out alone. Ever. And possibly insist on cuffing Phin to his own wrist when they ventured out together. Oh, Christ.



“Are you okay? You just did a big groan. A ‘despairing’ one, rather than indigestion induced. Don’t fib, I would recognize that sound even if my ears fell off.”

“There’s no need to fib. I did—but it was self-directed—you didn’t cause it. So, next time you hear it, assume the same and you won’t be wrong. But yeah, I’m fine. Except I really should get my arse into gear and get out of your hair, before you’re sick to the back teeth of me.”

“I want to do a despairing groan now, directed your way. You made yourself sound like nits. I don’t want those, it would drive me demented. I’m too scratchy already. I don’t mind you ‘in my hair’…and you can assume the same in anywhere else. So you needn’t worry, or wonder.” Phin shrugged, as if he’d admitted something of no consequence whatsoever. Rather than offered himself up as a virgin sacrifice to slaughter.

You’re such a melodrama queen. You should watch more French porn and less schlock horror, it’ll do wonders for my constitution. Killjoy.

Jake did not deign to respond.

The only dignity you’ll glean from that, is in defeat, and y’know it. Whatever you’re about to spout now is deluded in the extreme...and thus, doomed to defeat. Amateur.

“Phin… ” Crap. No matter how he phrased this, it was going to reek of a rebuff—

Odd that.

”I-I…don’t think…” Jake tripped over his treasonous tongue, tried again. “I can’t, it’s not sa—” 

“S’okay! Sorry…I didn’t exp—” Phin broke off in a flurry of unruly limbs, scuffling backwards in an effort to clear the table top before nutting the damn thing when he staggered to his feet. “Agghfck!”

“Y’okay?” Jake winced, springing up to…stand there uselessly, unsure whether Phin would allow—let alone welcome—touch. The offer of comfort from the one who’d inflicted the hurt.

Phin was a ‘mishap’ waiting to happen left to his own devices. The last thing he deserved was added insult to injury. The thought of Phin driving was too dreadful to contemplate, so Jake didn’t. Mostly because he had far more immediate horrors to focus on, such as… the fact he’d fucked everything up. Had made Phin feel unwanted—maybe worse—unwantable, having blatantly sensed a brush off on the way. Mortifying in itself. Brutal; after offering far more than he could afford Jake to crave. Or covet with every fibre of their being, furry or otherwise.

Way to maim him for life, fuckwit. Fix it.

“Phin, I didn’t mean…please don’t think—” 

“S’okay. You don’t have to do white lies, or say ‘it’s not you, it’s me’. I’m not…slow.” Phin sighed, pressing the heel of his palm to his forehead and kneading, hard. Too hard, after all it had suffered of late. His words had been soft, lilting with acceptance. Aching with self-awareness. The shame that scythed through Jake’s system was scalding. 

“I know you’re not…far from it. I wasn’t trying to fob you off, it’s just, I never expec—I-I can’t risk… ” Jake’s pathetic attempt to form an entire sentence stuttered to a pitiful halt. He couldn’t make this right without telling truths so far-fetched it would make matters worse. Even more insulting. Quite a feat after being rejected in the immediate aftermath of blowing someone’s mind. For the first time. 

Jake stood, utterly inept, willing Phin to…even look at him. Those inimitable eyes were staring into the far-off distance, unreachable. Cherub lips upturned in a small smile that shrieked ‘quiet courage’. It was impossible to say how, but something had shifted; shuttered Phin off, as if an inner portcullis had come crashing down. His entire frame, every excessive inch, seemed to have shrunk inwards, warding Jake away. Worse—worst of all—was Phin’s cloaking of unnatural calm. Akin to that eerie stilling of air before a storm breaks.

“It’s okay…” he repeated, into the ether. “I’ll just… put some clothes on and drive you home.”  Phin hadn’t quite crammed his fingers in his ears and started humming, but it was a close run thing.

Phin wanted Jake gone. And who could blame him? Jake least of all. Home was the last place he wanted to go, but he sure as hell couldn’t stay. Inside, wherever the jackal resided, he could feel Jack’s fretful pacing. The frustration seething beneath the surface of Jake’s skin wasn’t his own. Sort of. It felt physical…a force in itself. A restless, clawing sensation that surged alongside his sudden spike in temperature. Boiling the blood in Jake’s veins as his pores wept sweat. He had to leave. Flee. Fast.

Phin bent to scoop up his scattered clothes, scrunching them into an absent-minded snarl of fabric that belied his unnerving equanimity. Then turned and wandered into the loo without a word, shutting himself inside.

Now. Thought and deed, done in the blink of an eye. Jake snatched the door open and shot outside, tugging it shut behind him. He stood, scanning the expanse of scrubby grass and granitic rubble, isolated in indifferent majesty. As barren as it was bleak to those oblivious to its beauty. Nowhere to hide. Everywhere to run. There was no trace of human scent as far as Jack could smell or see, aside from the most alluring of them all.The autumnal afternoon was overcast; the sky as grey as the ancient rock at his feet. Ominous clumps of cloud hovered in low clusters, hugging the horizon, heavy with the odour of oncoming rain. 

The camper van at his back concealed Jake from the road that edged the moor; all before him belonged to it. The borrowed robe was flapping in the wind, still hanging open, so he shrugged it off his shoulders and tossed it onto the bonnet where Phin should spot it before driving off. He daren’t risk the only other option. Threading a window wiper through a belt loop to stop it blowing away was about the best he could do. He might be an utter bastard, but Jake wasn’t about to bugger off with the bathrobe he’d borrowed, t’boot. 

He ran, ran like the wind whispering through his hair, grateful for its cool caress on overheated skin. Bare soles skimming scrubby grass and mossy tufts, feathery underfoot as Jake picked up speed. Fast…faster still, until he was but a blur in the distance. Then he let go.

The alien sense of rightness flooded every fibre of Jake’s being when the silent shimmer thrilled through his veins; aflame with a power as primal as the fire trembling down his spine. Unfurling from his very core, it rippled through his body in a fluent stretch that twanged every sinew to screaming point. Joints popping alongside the gut-wrenching grate of bone grinding bone as tendons tore and muscles strained at sheaths. Those final shudders; rolling down his back to spill through reformed flesh as fur flowed over his subterranean self. Excruciating pain, the euphoria of freedom. An agony and ecstasy that echoed the ache in their heart.





📷 Alan Hopkins

Beast of Bodmin Moor 8


The Beast of Bodmin Moor








Phin gazed at the treasure trove he’d unveiled, utterly transfixed. Jack was…perfection. As if he’d stepped straight from Phin’s dreamscape and into his camper van as he’d slept. 

It was still tricky to believe he was a real, breathing person, rather than a hallucination Phin had cooked up after a few too many tipples. He was partial to a spot of brandy at bedtime; it made him feel warmer inside when the world seemed cold ‘n’ cruel and his tablets couldn’t stave off the scratchy.

Phin watched Ja—ke’s chest rise and fall with a wonderment that intensified, rather than subsided, the longer his eyes lingered. The yearning to stroke sun-kissed skin, to trace taut muscle and the tempting trail of hair leading down…down…was overwhelming. Phin tried to swallow what felt like a sticklebrick lodged in his throat and sucked in a sharp breath.  So hard. So…impossibly here.

It was most odd to feel as if fate had outdone him on the too much front. Phin must still be asleep, surely? Unless he’d woken in an alternate universe; a realm where you dreamed your heart’s darkest desires into being…and got to unwrap the riches that materialized on your camper van carpet.

Phin watched the slow trickle of his fingers across honey-glazed skin. It seemed to skitter in their wake, as if the ridges on his fingertips were playing it like a harp. It all got a bit blurry after that; one minute Phin was still stroking, the next he’d sort of swooped and stuck his tongue in Jake’s belly button. Not content with that, it started having a bit of a swirl around.

“Fuck!” Jack almost jakeknifed in shock. Oops, it might have been po-lite to warn him first. He didn’t seem to mind too much, nor did his groan, as he sank back against the floor. A respite too soon, perhaps. Phin was strung too tight to care for consequence, so he dove in headfirst. This tended to be his best bet when antsy, otherwise he just flapped around in a hyperfit of the fidgets for…ever. 

Resisting temptation was risky; that never went well on less enticing occasions. So Phin pounced to swipe a lavish lick along Jake’s length; a taste sensation so potent his head went all swimmy. It would have felt quite fitting if he’d swooned like a Regency miss when coshed by the most sumptuous of all scents. It was the olfactory equivalent of having a grand piano land on his head after being lobbed from a window. Quite why someone might do this remained a mystery, but it was forever happening in movies, so it must be ‘a thing’.  It was actually a hip-butt—rather than a Steinway—that accosted Phin, when up they snapped with the gusto of a Glasgow kiss.

Jake smelled as luscious as Phin’s second, more lingering sluice along feverish flesh. He’d never been hungry enough to make his mouth water this much. He’d need to be starving t’death. Or rabid. Phin still feared doing it too much, so he figured that he should start at the top and work his way down. That would work; Jake could shove him off if Phin got greedy.

He could go slow though. Slower than most folk thought reasonable when savouring things he enjoyed. As often as possible—which wasn’t excessive—when he wanted them all the time. See, he could be Mr. Moderate himself, if he must. Quite who he was, Phin knew not, so he might’ve made him up. He was supposed to be glad he could suffer such stingy rations, to avoid unseemly consequences. Such as…having to shuffle around on his knees attached to Jake like a limpet. That wouldn’t go down well (with folk who weren’t Phin). Particularly in public.

A rumbly purr of pleasure rifled Phin’s ears, which seemed to suggest he wasn’t doing anything amiss. Jack hadn’t shoved him off. Yet. He was still gripping the silver leg-posts of the table—white-knuckle-tight, too—as if he suspected Phin might suck him up like a hungry hoover unless he held on for dear life. He didn’t appear too appalled by the prospect, though…so, Phin hoped, almost as hard as Jake, that he wouldn’t put a stop to proceedings, anytime soon. Or at all, ever.

A flick of his tongue across the tip of Jake’s cock almost cost Phin an eye, such was the jolt of foxy hips. Ah well, he’d waited forever for this moment; swapping an eyeball seemed a fair ’nuff trade off. Okay, so…Phin had read (in his sister’s Cosmo comic) that he should go about this as if feasting on a luxury lolly. That part should be easy enough, he could savour one of those thoroughly enough to last half an hour. 

Phin took a deep breath, inhaling husky musk, heaven in itself, before wrapping just his lips around the head of Jack’s cock. Ooh…thisss. The bliss was too loud to hear over, so Phin had no idea if he was making a racket. Nor Jake, for that matter. He seemed a smidge… squirmy, despite his efforts to stay still, which did bode well. It also suggested that Jake might need matters moving on a mite, before he went demented. Contrary to Cosmo’s opinion, who possibly didn’t have cocks to call their own. Nor knuckles that looked fit to burst through blanched to bone skin. 

Phin picked up the pace. A fact that reaped rich rewards; he would have been dead—not deaf—had he been oblivious to Jack’s reaction. Phin could feel it. Feel it in his very bones, like a vibration. Somewhat akin to standing next to huge amps and sensing the tremble of sound through his body. As if his very self resonated in response to Jake playing his tune. 

Okay…he must never mention that, Phin decided. It being a flight of fancy that seemed a smidge hyper-responsive, even to him, so it must be stratospheric. Jake would flee as if the hounds of hell were hot on his heels. Keeping schtum was a consequence Phin was more than happy to suck up (as ’twere) for this secret glimpse of untold pleasure.

Phin relished every second of it. All of it… every flicker of his own tongue, the husky musk filling his head, the silken slide of velvet heat. Honey-honed skin; all taut sinew and lean muscle, tensed as if to spring. The most magnificent sight that had e’er graced his eyeballs. 

“Phin…” The agonized rasp of his name summoned Phin from his reverent reveries. Had he hurt Jake, done something wrong? How he wished he knew how to get this right for Jake. Not knowing—the fear of failing him—far outweighed all reason.

“Did I do it wrong?”

“Fuck…no. Don’t…don’t stop…”

“I never want to,” Phin assured him, resuming his serendipitous ministrations.

“Ggnnrrr…” Jack threw his head back with a grapple-hook growl that snagged Phin’s guts. He was glorious; hair fanned in a lustrous halo, like a golden god. Mesmerizing. Phin did his utmost to do concentrating and respond to every twitch—counter-twitch to restrain it—every rumble of pleasure and sigh of sound that flitted free. Meanwhile, hypnotic hips were hell-bent on snapping up despite Jake’s efforts to keep them in check, so Phin had to do focusing and follow their lead, lest he have a mishap. It was a lot to take in. He would need plenty of practise. 

“Phhiin…fuck…stop!”  Jake howled when his whole self had a spasm at once. He’ll make his mind up in a minute. A thought so diverting, Phin quite forgot to do listening. Never, had he been more chuffed he’d carried on regardless. If there had ever been a more majestic sight than Jack mid-orgasm, Phin had never been gifted it.

It was a hyper-feast fit for a king. Bestowed on Phin. All for Phin. So he guzzled him down with nary a care for excessiveness. Jake didn’t seem to mind. Never had Phin seen someone come so…utterly undone.

Earlier, when he’d woken, Phin had determined that his new foxy friend was the most tightly wound man on the planet. Armour-clad in titanium and a snaffled robe, as his true self seethed beneath the surface. The blissful abandonment Phin now beheld couldn’t have contrasted more starkly with the stranger he’d met. It was tricky to align the two in his head, so heaven knows how Jack managed it.

Phin dragged his mouth back, relishing every second, lest this be the last time he’d ever find himself so fortunate. With utmost reluctance, Phin unfurled his fingers, unsure what to do now. What was he supposed to do? Phin flicked his gaze upwards and watched as Jake’s eyelids fluttered apart. He blinked, p’raps to refocus; the blue was as hazy as a sun-scorched sky.

“Phin…” His voice was as thick as clotted cream, but darker, as if laced with brandy.



When Jake extended his arm, Phin’s insides did a flip-flop—a bit like that lurch on a hump-backed bridge—except higher up. After rearranging his unwieldy legs, he shuffled up beside Jake and found himself tucked into an armpit before he’d quite got his bearings. He was a bit crumpled, but he’d rather have cramp than be anywhere else. Being crippled seemed a small price to pay for such privilege.

“Y’okay?” Ja—ke rumbled in gruffly tones.

“I’m very okay.” Phin’s voice sounded like a smile.

“Y’sure…? I didn’t mean—I warned you to stop.”

“I didn’t want to stop. Are you cross?”

Cross? Fuck no,” Jake chuckled. “As far from cross as I ever get, but I didn’t want you to…feel obliged.”

“I don’t oft do things I don’t want to. I might pretend I will, but then I…forget.” Phin admitted.

“I had noticed…” he muttered. He still didn’t sound miffed though.


Exactly. I guess I should be thankful you haven’t fixed on Foxy.”

“I did like Foxy, but Jack is more…dashing.”

“Dashing?” he spluttered.

“Yes! You are! In a scoundrelly way…like a pirate, or a devilish hero in a Gothic novel.”

“Oh gawd!” Jack’s chest juddered with his throaty chuckle. It was like lying against a happy tractor.

“That’s not a bad thing, by the way. I’d very much fancy being deflowered by a breeches-ripper. Oops…I shouldn’t have fessed up, should I? Was it unseemly?”

“Ah…I—” That’s as far as Jack got before yukking it up again. Slurpy shenanigans had a startling effect on Jake’s disposition, it must be said. 

Perhaps not out loud, though.




Beast of Bodmin Moor 7

Happy Monday. 🥰Here’s the next chapter, I’m sorry it took a wee while….




The Beast of Bodmin Moor







‘I like your laugh, it makes you smile inside…’


Jake couldn’t actually remember the last time he’d laughed out loud. He sure as hell couldn’t recall having smiled inside. He was quite certain of one thing though; never had someone expressed a wish to blow him with such incomparable charm before. Christ.

“Might you let me make some racket, maybe?” 

As if granting Phin ‘permission’ would bestow a bloody kindness on him…when in fact, there was nothing on Earth Jake wanted more. 


Not listening.

Liar. Pants on fire.

Bugger off.

Now that…was nearer the truth. Just sayin’.

To top it off, as if all Jake’s Christmases—and two years of orgasms—weren’t about to come at once? 

The bad puns are coming thick ‘n’ fast now…

Pot. Kettle. ‘Just sayin’…

Phin’s very next words after being given the go ahead: 

‘Now!?’ Gaped as one might when handed the keys to a Ferrari and permission to take it out for a spin. ’Or is that too soon? Waiting isn’t my best thing…’ 

It wasn’t Jake’s either… and it sure as shit (after sausages) wasn’t Jack’s.

You’re like a dog with a bloody bone, y’know that, right? Or a nagging old woman. A stingy-with-the-tasty-tidbits one. 



Phin remembered his brief glimpse of Jack before slipping back into unconsciousness. Fuck. Jake was taking way too many risks. He was being stupid. Cretinous. He’d spent the last two years skulking in the shadows and being so bloody careful to safeguard his secrets.  Watching his every step lest he respond too swiftly, move too fast, react in any way whatsoever to intimacies he should never have heard above the hubbub of chat at the bar. All while being an unwilling eavesdropper on the low buzz of conversation, as clear as crystal, from the far side of the pub… even on his busiest shifts. 

Mentally weighing what he should be able to lift, without arousing suspicion; of steroid abuse, at the very least. Jake was hardly The goddamn Rock. Or indeed, that Mamoa bloke punters kept likening him to. Until they were tanked up…when he morphed into ‘Mamoa’s Mini-Me’. Strangely easy to shrug aside with a smirk. While feeding their nuts to the mutt after one twist of Jake’s fist. In his mind’s eye. Of course.

This frustrating as fuck list of limitations was akin to being blinkered, cuffed, manacled and muzzled every minute of the day. Alongside a shot of cement in each ear. ‘Muting his senses’ was but somewhere to start: Speed, stamina, strength, agility, acuity of thought. Healing. A hunger as relentless as the limits placed upon it. As insatiable as the thrill of the hunt. 

Two years spent shackled by self-restraint so ruthless it had driven Jake damn near demented. Hard-won steel-trap tenacity brought to its knees—literally—by one whiff of Phin on the wind. He’d as good as collared Jack at first scent. 

Jake hadn’t been far behind…having had no choice in the matter. Every single night since he’d ridden shotgun to a stalker with Pe Le Pew eyes and Deadpool’s disposition. Wylie Coyote couldn’t hold an Acme candle to Jack.

One whimper later, Jack had almost finished Phin off, licked him back to the land of the living, and been seen. A baton Jake had taken it unto himself pick up before embarking on a starkers stroll across a moonlit moor. Cradling an unconscious creature of unknown origin with legs far more excessive than his inimitable self. 


Oh Christ…at least that was preferable to Foxy. Foxy. For fucksake’s.

I might be insulted if the bushy-arsed bastards didn’t have such good rep for silky seduction skills. 

Silky? You? 

Yup…moi. Jaques Chacal at his service. Paramour par excellence…and I don’t stink of skunk. 

Yup…quite the catch. Aside from being a sausage junkie with severe digestive issues. Oh, and the drooling…dogbreath…fur…four legs… 

I give bloody good tongue.

‘Just sayin’ I suppose?

Why bother stating the bloody blah-de-blah? Sorted with one slurp. So suck that up, smug-mush. 




Jake suspected that he might just remain Jack for the foreseeable: as long it suited Phin to ‘forget to remember’. The scamp could probably reel off every item ever entered on his list of things to remember to take no notice of whatsoever. The one he’d begun when bored of staring at the mobile above his crib after a splendid day drawing on the walls and smearing mashed banana on the dog. 

“Um…where should I…?” Phin puttered to a halt, head cocked to one side. Like a pup in a pet shop window, hypnotising you with hope.

Oh hell...Jake should at least make some attempt to backtrack. Give Phin time to…what? Remain resolute? Was it even possible to persuade Phin to change his mind when dead set on something? It seemed one helluva surefire way to watch puppy dog eyes turn pitt-bull. 

The whiff of stubborn as scorched jam wasn’t a dead giveaway, then? I sure-as-sausage wouldn’t bet one on the poor sod who started that blanket wrestling match. 


“Where would you want to…er, do it, if given the choice?” Jake was, apparently, fool enough to wonder.

“Oh…um, that would be tricky. I only have one ‘where’ to choose from—so I don’t suppose it counts as choice—I would like you to lie down.”

Oh fuck. Jake sucked in a sharp breath, clamping his eyes closed, which made matters worse; the mental image transposed itself on the back of his lids. Would that be a…safer set up?  Who was Jake trying to…fox? He could spring to his feet from flat on the floor as fast as he could from a crouch. Perhaps if Jake lay with his head and shoulders tucked under the table, then gripped the two metal poles supporting the end not fixed to the wall? Maybe wrap his arms around them to nestle one in the crook of each elbow? Something to hold onto…rather than inadvertently scalp Phin, or worse, break his bloody neck. This was a very bad idea. Jake very much feared he was about to do it, regardless.

“No problem, but first…” The alarm that flared in Phin’s eyes was a flicker of candle compared to the spike of panic that shot his heart rate through the roof. Jake bent his head to press his lips to its pounding pulse; imbibing the scent of cinnamon spice. The vibrations trembling on the tip of his tongue didn’t slow, but did become less skittery as Jake smudged his mouth toward the gentle curve of Phin’s jaw. What had he feared having to suffer first? A lecture? A cautionary tale as tedious as it was pointless?  Phin turned his face, smearing Jake’s lips closer to his own, which parted in anticipation. Of a kiss that tasted of…everything Jack wanted from this world. A thought that would have been dizzying, had the melding of their mouths not beat it to the punch.

“Jack…” Phin soon gasped, snatching at a breath. “Please…”

It was all Jake could do to comport himself at a plausible speed to the table. All but dragged there, by the scruff of his neck like a recalcitrant pup. 

Think yourself lucky you didn’t find yourself furry. Interloper. 

Clever dick you might be, but c’mon…you’ve got to admit that I’m the man for this job. Loser of the ‘my canines are bigger than yours’ competition, that’s me.

Get on with it then, teenie weenie teeth.

Not biting. So shove your size-queen slurs up your furry foreskin.

This bout of bickering had filled the time it took Jake to lie flat on his back on the floor; head and shoulders inserted between the chrome bars that served as table legs.

“That’s perfect…Jack?”


“May I…undo the belt of the robe?”

Christ. Spread like a picnic on a fleece blanket. A thought Jake kept to themselves, nodding instead as he blew out a loong breath. 

Phin had no sooner dropped to his haunches than clasped Jake’s ankles with hands that felt blissfully cool to feverish flesh. A shiver shot up his legs when they were tugged apart, scorching along his spine when Phin sank to his knees in the gap he’d made between his own. Oh gawd. Jake gripped the bars and held on. For humankind, or something such. Phin slid his fingers behind the robe belt and began to pull, letting it slip loose, as if he were savouring the unwrapping of a gift. The very air in the van seemed to still. Jake could scarce breathe. He point-blank refused to blink.

When the belt finally slithered free, Phin hooked a thumb beneath each edge of the fleece and parted them like a pair of bloody curtains. This, while devouring Jake with huge pools of starlit darkness that scalded his skin as cupid lips curved in a secret smile. 

And you’ve deemed us dangerous? He’s lethal. 

His lashes pull that off on their bloody own. Jake groaned and gripped the bars. 

“Hmmm…” A soft sigh fluttered across exposed flesh. Strewth. Jake gritted his teeth so hard it might once have shattered them. Oh help…staying supine was going to kill him. Which might be for the best, all things considered.

Phin began to trail tentative fingertips from the base of Jake’s throat…down the centre of chest, skimming along skin that tremoured as if it had been tasered. Jake tightened his fists. His fingers promptly imprinted themselves in the chrome. Crap…the bars are buckling. Jake tried to focus on relaxing his grip; how the hell am I supposed to explain that? Phin swooped, and plunged the tip of his tongue into Jake’s belly button. 

“Fuck!” The sudden shock of wet warmth, swirling in its indent, made Jake’s hips spasm as his neck snapped back. The metal poles winced.


“A..there’s no…need-” Jake groaned, forcing his tendons to relent. An increment.

Phin began to trickle his tongue down the trail of dynamite leading south. Jake damn near combusted. He had no idea how he remained in his own skin, having lost it under far less incendiary circumstances. The torturous tickle stopped dead. His shuddering exhalation was abrupted by a sudden sluice of scalding heat along his cock from hilt to tip. Jake’s spine jolted about three feet off the floor, as a thousand volts surged through his system.

“Did that feel okay?” His voice was soft, uncertain.

“Gnh-I…ah…yess… ” Jake managed, from Mars or thereabouts. A reply that promptly inspired a second—far more lingering—sweep of flattened tongue along his length. Quite possibly akin to dropping a hairdryer in the bath. 

“Hmm… ” This, as Phin curled his fingers beneath Jake’s cock to lift it clear of his body. Before wrapping his lips around its head as if it was a bloody Magnum. The suckling that ensued was the most excruciatingly erotic experience of Jake’s life. His head was going to explode. The only question was, which one first… 

Two years without so much as a helping hand, let alone mouth. Two hours of enduring the Mount Etna of all erections. Topped off by a dual desire so excessive Phin was better equipped to survive it sane than Jake. Whose nemesis was apparently on a mission to explore every millimetre he encountered. With the Captain Cook of all tongues. This as those anime eyes damn near devoured Jake as Phin’s mouth did. Oh…good grief…

‘I’m worried that I’ll do it too much.’

‘I don’t think that’s possible, unless…you bit down’

Jake’s powers of perception had, of course, never encountered Phin. Too much? It was much too much. A feat indisputably down to Phin himself. Who was too much. Too much of everything Jake had ever wanted from this world. 

Odd that… 

His boneless body felt strangely weightless and yet, very, very heavy; a molten mass of muscle, sinew and flesh. A sensation that did, at least, loosen Jake’s death grip on the chrome bars before they resembled a modern art exhibit.

As if Jake wasn’t deranged enough, least mind-boggling of all? Phin’s very scent had become the most vital component of the air.  Jake’s entire self was alive with it, resonating in response. He felt like a sodding snare drum, tuned to its essence.  

That nugget of nonsense was Jake’s last gasp from the land of lunacy before a blitzkrieg of bliss reduced his brain to rubble and razed all reason to dust. They were done for. Ruined.

Oh, do keep up. We were done ‘n’ dusted from that first whiff on the wind…








Beast of Bodmin Moor 6


The Beast of Bodmin Moor







“Shall I cook some bacon while I make our cuppas…?” Phin asked, remembering that he hadn’t remembered to do either. “Or do you want me to drive you home now?” 

“Are you hinting that you’d like me to go?” Jack’s lips twitched with one of his twinkly smirks.

“No. I don’t think I’m very good at doing hinting. If I wanted you to leave, I would have said: ‘You’ve been here a long time, do you want to go home now?’”

“Good to know…” Jack’s grin was every bit as glinty as light glancing off glass. “I doubt that could be considered a hint in anyone’s book. I don’t need to go, put it that way, but I don’t want to overstay my welcome, which can’t really be called a welcome, when I wasn’t invited. At all.”

“I’m glad you came anyway,” Phin told him. At which point, Jack’s throat made the strangest sound, like a rusty gate hinge. “Oh, you must be starving, sorry…and I still haven’t put my pants on.” At the mention of the missing bacon, those blues blazed with the sort of hunger that could ‘eat a horse’. Phin would rather drop dead but that was beside the point,  which was; putting some pants on and feeding Jack. It was impossible to do concentrating in his presence; Phin’s marbles were too scattered to count, let alone sort. Pants. “D’you mind having it microwaved, it will be quicker?”

“I don’t mind how it’s cooked, I could eat it raw, to be honest.” Jack…did not fibWeirdo.

“Eww, that’s just wrong. Like orange. Sadly, raw sausage is far too right…that’s just fiendish. I shouldn’t scoff it or I’ll get tapeworms.”  

“Tapeworms…oh gawd” Jack spluttered a snort that segued into a coughing fit o’the chuckles.

“You’re a very noisy guest…it’s going to seem very quiet when you’ve gone,” Phin noted. Aloud. Oops. “I don’t mind the racket, though,” he added, quick as a fox jumping over a lazy log—not a brown one—honeyed grey, he decided. Which meant he forgot to do concentrating on seemliness. “I like your snorts ‘n’ splutters and slurpy sounds. Even your grumbly guts.” A snippet of info that prompted yet more yukking it up. Jack really was oddsome—but in a good way—not a Jaws music sort of way.

“I don’t slurp!” Snorted he.

“You did!” Phin insisted. As fact. 

“I haven’t had so much as a sip of tea, let alone a slurp.” After indulging in a sniff of affront, Jack added, “That was hinting, by the way.”

“Sorry, I keep meaning to make it, and put my pants onum, that’s when you slur—” Oh nooo. Phin’s face felt as if it had burst into flames, burning scarlet bright. And his ears.

Oh… I, er…occupational hazard?” The flushing thing seemed to be infectious, but Jack still managed to rustle up a (rather rosy) quip. Unless he hadn’t…and Phin just had jobs on the brain. 

“You were very thoro-ooh I shouldn’t have said that, should I?” Phin wasn’t sure if his ‘eek’ emoji expression—or the least welcome compliment ever—set Jack off again, but he was still hooting away when Phin asked: “Was it shocking unseemly?”

“Unseemly? Oh fuck…I think it’s safe to say it’s far less seemly to invite yourself to someone’s campervan and embark on an obscene racket, ten minutes after saying hello.”

“You didn’t…you said ‘Are you okay’?” Phin informed him.

“How remiss of me,” Jack attempted a solemn expression. It was rubbish, his lips kept twitching. Nooo, still no pants. “It’s probably a good job I don’t go visiting—” Jack forgot to finish his sentence when Phin shot off to the sink as if his (no) pants were on fire. The van would be next if matters progressed apace.  

“Was that hinting?” he tossed over his shoulder while busying himself with cups and teabags and sugar and not facing Jack at all.


“Were you doing hinting? Telling me that you won’t be visiting again, in a kind way?”

“No. It was self-deprecation. Like an eye-roll at myself.” Jack explained, sending the blue skywards in illustration. A shade every bit as gorgeous as the gleam of sunlight through stained glass.

“Oh, okay. I’m glad.” Phin was beaming to himself as he (finally) poured the boiled water onto their tea bags and Jack’s sugar mountain. “Um…could you pass me some pants from the second shelf in the cupboard?” he asked, rather than turn around. At all. 

“Sure…sorry, about the last pair. It was barely a breath later that Jack’s blowtorched Phin’s nape. Oh gawd, I’ll be stuck facing the sink forever. “Do you want me to visit again? Despite the din?” Jack’s velvet voice shivered across Phin’s skin in a crackle of static. “Turn around…” His murmur was as soft as the lips ghosting the curve of Phin’s neckup, up, towards his ear. Every single hair on his body went as quivery as his knees. 


“Phin… I’d be disappointed if you weren’t.” Was a wicked whisper of breath. Scorching his earlobe.

Hard. Jack meant hard. A flicker of tongue almost sent Phin’s head shooting through the roof. 

“You would?” he sort of gulped. 

“Yes…” Jack enclosed the back of Phin’s hand (clutching the counter top) with his own, and slowly, so slowly, drew it downwards…behind. A pause. Was Jack giving him time to tug free? Phin was frozen in flames. That’s how it felt. Then. His palm docked on a stonking ridge of hard heat. Granite encased in soft fleece. “That. Has been like that since…you opened your eyes.”

All that time?” Phin gasped, agog. Crikey, he would have combusted by now.  “Jack, can I ask you a question?” he managed, despite the fact his very own hand was still there.

“Should I be worried?” His voice sounded like sexy velcro. It might be best not to mention that. 

“I’m not sure…” Phin frowned, he was too fizzy to think. “I don’t know what makes you worried. It’s not a tricky one,” he assured Jack. Who really didn’t feel worried. Strewth. “Just a ‘yes’ or ‘no’ answer.” 


“Might you let me make some racket, maybe?” Phin wondered. Oops. Jack’s breath snatched off, alongside his strangest sound yet. “S’okay, I don’t mind if…I mean, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“No…you didn’t—” Jack broke off when a new noise made a bid for freedom; the grind of gears after being stuck in the garage all winter. “I…Yes.”

“Yes I can?” 

“Yeess. You can.”

Yes!?  Phin was so chuffed he almost clenched his fists…but it would have been very hard to have that mishap. Yesss. It was too-good-to-be-true. Too anything was not good. He musn’t get too wound up. Yet.

“Now!? Or is that too soon? Waiting isn’t my best thing,” It was best to mention that, Phin decided. In a before-being-banned-from-the-zoo sort of way. He fretted that things wouldn’t happen if they didn’t happen now.

“Yes…I mean, no, it’s not too soon.” Jack slammed his eyes shut and…gargled some more grit. 

Where? How? Kneeling? Sitting down, standing up? Phin’s system let rip a hyperdrive adrenaline rush of anxious. An excessive one. Too much. Can you do this too much? Too fast? Frantic? Lavish? Loud?


“I don’t know why I used ‘Jack’ earlier,” he groaned, rolling his eyes at himself again. “I rarely do…I’ve been called Jake for as long as I can remember…”

“You were a tad…distracted. I like both, Jake suits you too, it’s more…rakish. Less solid, not as safe as Jack.” Ja…ke looked a smidge staggered. Why? Ahh. “‘Til you add Sparrow, o’course.” Phin grinned, having solved that and finally happened upon an exception that proves the rule and made some sort of sense. “At least they sound similar, I’m glad you didn’t tell me it was Herbert all of a sudden. I’ll try to do remembering and not make a muddle, but ‘Jack’ might be stubborn. I did manage earlier though, or you’d still be Foxy.”

Foxy?!” Ja—ck let rip another splutter.

“Oops, sorry. It came from a dream I had last night, about a fox. Well, sort of…his colouring was amiss and his eyes were as blue as yours. Which is weird, because only huskies have blue eyes. Anyhoo, when I woke up and I saw yours, I thought they were his for a mo.”

“I…was it a nice dream or a…nightmare?” Jack looked fretful, which was daft, when Phin was fine. Far finer than fine.

“Oh, it was brilliant. Most of mine are…dreadful. Full of dread, chilling. They make me want to claw my skin off rather than suffer it but I don’t want to talk about that anymore,” Phin said-all-in-a-rush; which still made him sound like a loon, but for less long. “Last night I wasn’t scared at all. I thought Foxy was…a friend.”

“A friend.” Jack smiled, sort of sadly. It wasn’t upside down though, it just felt that way. 

“I wanted to ask… I’m worried that I’ll do it too much.” Phin swivelled his eyes downwards so that Jack—Jake—might get his drift, as it were. 

“I don’t think that’s possible, unless…you bit down.”

“I’m not going to bite, I promise. No raw sausage scoffing mishaps.”

“I…There’s really no answer to that.” Jack clamped his lips shut, shoulders quaking as he tried to stifle his latest fit of the splutters.

Ja—ke laughed as if it was the last thing he might ever do. With his entire selfand yet, he never seemed to be laughing at Phin. Or picking him apart to find fault. Jake had never sneered, nor even shot Phin that look; the gut curdling, steel jaw trap one. The dagger-shooting glare of shame. That’s why Phin preferred being on his own; he was safe from eyes. It was a relief. A huge, whole self sigh of relief.

So why wasn’t his skin all scratchy yet, or his head screeching for silence? It was all most odd. Phin was starting to suspect that his own ‘Jack’ might just be too many exceptions that prove the rule to count… 





Beast of Bodmin Moor 5

Hiya,  what began as re-edit has somehow become a rewrite based upon the bare bones of a skeleton. I’m sorry they’re taking a wee while longer, but it seems there’s much I want to amend/add to a story written four years ago.  Thank you so much for reading and every kind word wafted my way. ❤️ 🥰 ❤️


The Beast of Bodmin Moor



eed6d29f-f58a-47b5-ac5b-5b39946974f5  a - Edited





When Phin sighed into the arms Jake wrapped around him, he felt fragile, breakable, despite being about half a foot taller. The ability to crush every bone in his body made that a no brainer, but his very Phinness counted more than logic suggested it should.

“Are you alright?” Jake asked.

“Yeah, I-I’m not sure if I’m supposed to say thank you.” Phin’s dark brows crumpled in the centre, confusion writ large upon his face…which was adorable.

“Thank you? There’s nothing to thank me for. Quite the contrary…I should apologize.” 

“Apologize?” Amended to bold print bewilderment.

“For…well, I didn’t even ask if it was okayI er, just jumped you.” Jake cringed.

“I would be very okay with being jumped a lot, you needn’t say sorry,” Phin declared. A statement of fact, rather than reassurance. Would he recognize a platitude if it paraded about naked with a name badge?

“You sure?” Jake couldn’t help but chuckle. 

“O’course I am. I said it,” The twinkle in those midnight eyes implied that asking if Phin ‘was sure’—ever again—was a sure fire symptom of lunacy. Said>inscribed in stone>sorted. Much to his chagrin, Jake couldn’t help fishing for more…he was human. Sometimes.

“You might want to be more specific in future…” he advised, suppressing a grin. “Your ‘lot’ could differ a helluva lot from his.”

“‘I wouldn’t be okay with his lots at all, whatever it was,” Phin’s eyebrows vanished into his tufty fringe. 

Jake’s would have followed suit, had Phin’s inflection not made it clear that ‘his’ very existence was the irrelevance, rather than his wishes. “Will you tell me your lots, so I can do concentrating on not being excessive?” 

As fishing expeditions went, Jake had landed a whopper. Phin’s issue with ‘his’ clearly had bugger all to do with the bloke’s gender. He hadn’t even registered the assumption Jake had made, let alone called it into question. It was a neither ‘her’ nor ‘their’ non issue.

A whopper? ‘Jack’ had blown a bloody blue whale. With an excessive appetite. 

Well, there’s always steroids? Spinach? I’m game if you are… Mr Smugmutt snickered. Jake couldn’t help himself; a splutter made a bid for freedom before could stop it.

“I like your laugh, it makes you smile inside. I’m glad I got to see it…I know it will soon be gone.” Sorrow clouded his starry gaze, deadening it to darkness. “You haven’t defined your ‘lot’ yet…” Phin reminded him.

“It’s not going anywhere, anytime soon,” Jake acknowledged. Prompted by an impatient prodding. Ow. “As to my lot? I very much doubt I’d mind if you ‘forget to do concentrating’ on less.”

“Less, what?”

“Less anything. Less excessive, less exactly as you are. Less you, full stop.” Less like a ride on a runaway magic carpet… Jake never wanted to get off.

I reckon he’d have liked the last bit best. I did. 

The ‘ride’ part sounded suspect.

It didn’t ‘sound’ anything. Sadly.

Sordid, in particular. I was being a gent.

I’ve heard it all now. Who are you and what have you done with Jake the rake?

Ha. Ha.

Haha, my arse. You’d whipped his kecks off before I got so much as a sniff of sausage.


“I suspect you’ll regret saying that  soon.” Phin wrinkled his nose. As if it had come under assault of sausage consequences.

Ooh, that was a low blow. Bitch.


“I somehow suspect I won’t.” Jake admitted. 

“I think you’re a bit bonkers,” Phin noted, with a small nod. Serenity itself. “A big bit,” he amended.

“I think you’re the sanest person I’ve met for many a moon,” Jake winked.

“You must hang out with very peculiar peeps.” Phin’s expression was priceless.

“Mostly myself, when I’m not at work, so…” 

When Jake tailed off on a wry grin, Phin asked “Do you like your job?” Rather than the ubiquitous ‘what do you do?’

“Yeah…it’s alright. I just do a few shifts in the Albion pub. It keeps me out of trouble…” until it’s dark enough. 

“The one with the splendid paint job?” Phin grinned. It was pink. Pink panther pink. As lurid as a lycra leotard. The grin was less lurid but far brighter. 

“That’s certainly one word for it…” Jake deadpanned.

“Pink. That would be another,” Phin beamed. A very dull, dreary pink, in retrospect. He was radiance personified.

“Cruel.” Jake offered. “When you’ve got a hangover.” 

“Ouch. Is it safe once you’re inside? I didn’t go in, I just drove past in my van.”

“Yeah…I love walking in before opening time on an early shift. There’s a special stillness…a quality of light. What little there is glances off the glass and mirrors, sharper off stainless steel…burnished off brass, but doesn’t really disturb the dimness. Low ceilings, I guess. Anyhow…” Jake shrugged, a bit abashed by his own rambling. “The hours suit me and we have live music, so I’m able to play pretty regularly. Purely for pleasure, I’m not chasing any dreams. It…suits me here.”  

Phin’s dark, watchful gaze seemed to absorb—rather than ‘look’—so intent was his focus. What does he see? Not so much in less-or-more terms than…other people. But…in a way that resonates…as different woods do. 

Those eyes sure as hell couldn’t see a twenty-five year old rockstar-that-never-was, tending bar at a (pink) pub in the back of beyond.

“You play there, really?” As if on cue, they switched to high beam bright. Spot lit from within. “Can I come and watch?”

How am I supposed to say no to that face? Even to protect him?

I hope that was a rhetorical question. If not, fuck knows. If all else fails…keep my fluids up? 

An emergency stash of saliva, that’s your solution? You could at least try to sound less…satisfied. If only for decency’s sake.

Why bother…it’s not as if you’re buying that bridge you’re hell-bent on selling you.

Selling ME? 

Yes…You. Me. Us. Whatever…   


…Was the silent ‘tralala’ necessary?

If it was silent, how did you hear it?

In my head.

Not out loud, then. Like say…now? 

Shut up.

Chance would be a fine thing… Just sayin.



The Albion Pub, Liskeard.



Beast of Bodmin Moor 4



The Beast of Bodmin Moor





Before Phin had time to mourn the loss of the palm clamped to his back, it had slipped between their bodies and cupped his balls. The kiss had made him feel as if electrodes were taped to his temples as his heart was blitzed by resuscitating paddles. The cupping nearly finished him offin one way or anotherit was tricky to tell. Matters were either about to get excessively sticky, or he’d just drop dead from too muchness.

As it was, a sort of strangled shriek ripped from his lips as his legs turned to noodles and his heart went into hyperdrive. Strewth, ’twas on a mission to make the Kessel Run in ten parsecs. The effect of all this on Phin’s hips was more than a mite strumpety. He felt a tad too hyperkenetic to care, which was fortunate, or he would’ve forgotten to concentrate on calming down. As it was, Foxy didn’t appear to mind too much, and that was all that mattered…particularly when the only word in the world that did, was more. 

Phin couldn’t help the whimper that slipped free when Foxy palmed his aching cock through his pants…about a galloping heartbeat before they were gone. Vamooshed. This, with a growl like gargled gravel, succeeded by a groan of relief (which should have been Phin’s) when his cock was enclosed in a sure fist. The gasp that ripped from his lips instead made his head crash against the cupboard door but he scarce felt it; every one of Phin’s excessive sensory receptors had hurtled south. To fling themselves into never held before festivities. Literally.

The head crash had done the unforgivable though; wrenched Phin from kisses he’d never wanted to end. But what if Foxy thought he did it on purpose? The brain-boggling grip on his cock hadn’t goneyetA thought obliterated by the fact that it had—in a flashswiftly followed by the heavy heat of Foxy himself. Gone. Where? Phin’s eyes flared wide with panic-on-the-bullet-train to hypersomething or other (when he couldn’t breathe and everything went fizzy). 

The ‘where’ was too impossible to be true. Those bewitching blues were no longer level with Phin’s lips, they were gazing up at him from formerly virgin (on the ridiculous at twenty-two) territory. This was too staggering to take in, too…inconceivable to compute. Phin had never even imagined being kissed anytime soon; that he was felt too bedazzling to believe. But this? Was a fancy too far… Why the bejeezus would Foxy even want to do it—to Phin?—not in general.

Phin had longed to do it for…ever. But only to someone special, which pretty much put the kibosh on that likelihood. Phineas Finley was not special, well, not in that way. His sort of special wasn’t the sort folk aspired to being. His brain was far too busy short-circuiting to let his ears listen to whatever Foxy all-but barked roundabout then.


“Jack…m’name.” It was a good job Phin was concentrating as hard as his cock, or the blast of hot breath that coshed it would have deafened him. Jack. It did seem a bit of a novel time to introduce himself, but what did Phin know? Perhaps it was considered po-lite when…eye to eye (as ‘twere) for the first time. 

“Hmm…it suits you.” It did too; it was a strong name…as timeless as those eyes. “Phin,” he supplied.

“Phin…” had no sooner caressed his cock than it was engulfed in mind blowing heat. Well really, an alternative word wasn’t likely to suggest itself anytime soon. The wet-warm-wonderment of Foxy’s mouth thrilled through every fibre of his being as if he’d been set aflame. Phin possibly let rip a racket like a strangled cat with its collar caught on a fence post. Which might have been embarrassing if his brain wasn’t too busy exploding.  Never…ever…ooohgawd… Can you drop dead of bliss? 

Phin’s head lolled backor sidewaysit sure went somewhere, p’raps to another planet. Nothing on this one had ever prepared him for the excess of…everything that blitzed his body. If Phin’s system had ever fancied itself as a Titan of too muchness, it hadn’t known the half of itstrewth. It had clearly been quite content to coast along ’til called upon to unleash its Special Occasion Stash. On Phin’s unsuspecting person. 

Crikey…he had been half-dead for the last twenty-two years. Whether he would survive a further twenty-two seconds seemed less certain. He sure wasn’t going to last that long. In ‘fortuitous order of events’ terms, Phin could live with that. Or not. Ah well, what a way to go… 

This, was pleasure too excessive—even for Phin to have dreamed uphe wasn’t that daft. Why doom himself to a forever of disappointment? That would have been a mite masochistic.  While Phin sure wouldn’t say no to a spot of experimenting, he’d managed to dodge that label by virtue of…being in possession of his own. What a waste. Phin had a lot of time to make up for; he could do some concentrating on that. Sorted. Mr. Neil would be chuffed. 

If Phin had been mind blind to that bedazzling gaze (ablaze with a lust too luscious to dream up) he would have been able to feel Foxy’s hunger. It was tangible. Vivid. Every bit as alive as Jack. Phin had never met anyone more alive. His foxy friend was a force of nature; a hurricane of heat and hunger, sweeping Phin to a place far from this.

Meanwhile, those mesmerizing lips were trawling the length of Phin’s fit to bust self, sending sparks shooting up his spine and dizzying desire everywhere else. When Foxy paused to twirl his tongue around the head of his cock and flick it across its tip, Phin damn near detonated. You could probably go to prison for this. Things that were this fun were never allowed. 

“Jaaack…” His name sounded like the noise Phin made when sinking neck deep into a bubble bath. When that mind boggling mouth engulfed him once more, it didn’t seem likely that Phin could feel any more…anything without combusting. A belief promptly borne out when his cock crashed against the back of Foxy’s throat.


Phin peeled his head off the door and gazed down at Jack, too dazed to take it in without seeing it, with his very own eyes. That might make it seem real. Sure enough, Foxy’s lips were wrapped around Phin’s hilt; nose buried in his down-there-hair… Snuffling. This, as the most bewitching blues on Earth held him hostage. It was the most erotic thing he’d ever seen in his life. It was all too too much.

The thud of his head against the door wasn’t a bit as loud as the bolt of bliss that blistered through his body. Phin was done for. He couldn’t hold“Jaack! St…oooop! I-I…c-can’t—”

The scoundrel didn’t listen, merely flexed the fingers that must’ve been clutching Phin’s thigh. Did that mean…no, surely not“Jack, I need—have toaaahhh!”

Phin came as he’d never come in his life. Ever. It burst from him in a blinding rush of white-light-heat, pulsing in wave after wave of ecstasy that snatched away his breath. It felt too exhilarating to survive sane. Now petite-mort made sense…Phin might well wind up a bit dead.

Jack swallowed all of it. No…he drank it down as if it were ambrosia. Then dragged his lips back sloowly, as if to catch every last drop.

“Phin…” It slipped from his lips as a sigh as lustrous as those eyes. Burning blue flame, eternal.

“Jack… I—” Phin broke off. There were no words in the world. What should he say now? Thank you?

Did Foxy know? Had he been able to tell…because surely—? Phin felt his face flush scarlet as stupid, stupid tears started prickling at his eyes. He slammed them shut, screwing his lids tight.

“Phin…look at me.”

How could he deny that velvet voice? It would also be rude, but oh, Phin desperately didn’t want Jack to see, so he dipped his head, tucking his chin into his chest. You can’t cry when someone has done that…and made you feel too much happy. Phin thought his heart might just burst with it. Jack would think he was a loon. Or as idiotic as the tear trickling from the far corner of Phin’s eye, trailing down his cheek.

Jack surged to his feet and cupped Phin’s face in his hands, tilting it up so tenderly? That’s how it felt. It also matched a gaze as deep as an ocean but as clear, unclouded, as midsummer day when Phin prised his lids apart. 

Jack’s mouth was hovering but a hairsbreadth from his own when Phin wondered if he’d heard the sigh of a single word, “Mine…” alongside a candyfloss kiss as soft as a cloud. 







“Jack… I—” Phin’s cheeks bloomed crimson when he broke off to scrunch his eyes tight shut. To Jake’s utter mortification, a tear started to trickle down his moon pale face. Horror scythed through Jake’s body with grappling hook claws. He’d caused this despite being so, so, sure, never so certain, that he’d got this. Had a handle on it.  Now he’d done the unspeakable…hurt Phin. Injured him, which was unforgivable.

Jake couldn’t smell so much as a trace of fresh blood, despite the guilt tearing at his guts, threatening to throttle him. Jack…was serenity itself. What the fuck?

Nose, numbnuts.

Nose. F’chrissakes. Jake inhaled…the bittersweet scent of embarrassment. Oh.

“Phin…look at me.” He fought to keep his voice soft, but Phin dipped his head still further, rather than raise it to meet his gaze.

Jake sprang to his feet far too fast, then forced himself to stillness before tilting Phin’s face towards his own. Feathery lashes fluttered, lifted with reluctance, to reveal a brown bleak with…self-recrimination. An expression Jake recognised all too well…it stared back at him from the mirror most days.

But why? Was it because Phin had allowed a man to that to him? Or, did he hate that it had been a stranger? The sort of creep that sat and watched you sleep, at that.

Or. Was Phin’s discomfortreflected inwards not outso acute because he was… convinced he’d done something amiss? Had no frame of reference to fall back on? No idea what supreme satisfaction looked like on the face of a man who’d been gifted an irreplaceable prize?

Jack had known from the first. Jake had not…processed an innate understanding: Pure, unsullied sex, too potent to resist, the most intoxicating elixir on Earth….had shredded his resistance when Phin’s arousal drenched the air. A purity he’d ascribed to the irrevocable need seeping from Phin’s pores; untouched by doubt, rather than utterly untouched full-stop.

In retrospect…had Jake known the truth from their very first kiss? Phin’s response had been tinged with…wonderment. How old is he?

Old enough. Not that it matters.

What the fuck? Of course it does. 

Time won’t touch him. No, shit for brains, he’s not immortal. He will age. Yet… remain the same.

Don’t we all?

No. Do you ever pay attention? Say…to the taint of bitterness, rancid with resentment? Or, the stench of discontent, sour with envy…?

Okay! I get it. Typical; saddled with a snarky dogmatist. 

Odd that.

What’s that supposed to—oh. Fuck off.

Like I said…

As much as he hated to admit it, Jack wasn’t wrong. That newborn fawn gaze made Phin seem impossibly younger than his years…and yet, he exuded an innocence as eternal as time. A spirit too pure for this world. Phin was enchanting. Every flicker of thought that flitted across his face was fascinating. Jake had no idea what the hell he might say, or do, next. Except that it would be…beyond compare.

Had Phin simply neglected to read the Human Handbook? Or…was he obliv—No, he was not. Nor was he insensible to suggestion. His tears told otherwise; it was impossible to fear falling short of expectation from a state of blissful oblivion. Phin knew. All too well. Far too well for his own… welfare.

“Mine…” Jake found himself murmuring at Phin’s lips before surrendering to their pull. Oh, well done. Way to freak him out, dogbreath.

Crap‘Jack’.  How the hell to explain away that slip-up? Slip-up!? It was a balls-up of epic proportions. He would have to…twist the truth. Tell Phin he preferred ‘Jake’ to his ‘given name’. Another lie to add to the legion Jake would have to tell if he hoped—intended—to see Phin again. Why the hell was he even considering it?

It was a disaster waiting to happen. At the very best. Signing Phin’s death warrant at worst. That wasn’t hyperbole, nor even his own glass-half-empty mentality. Jake knew damn well that he was lethal. A bloody plague on Phin’s person.

Speak for yourself. 

You. Are infinitely worse.

We. Are not.

Since when do you give a toss about slaughter? D’you even care what flavour your supper is?

Get me a bloody sausage and I might answer.

Clever dick.

If only you knew…


F’fucksakes. Now he had a dark passenger that made dick jokes. Dexter never had to put up with this shit. 

On that note, Jake had a sneaking suspicion that if someone really pissed him off, he could rip them apart with his bare hands. He might not be able to live with himself afterwards, but knew full well what he was capable of. 

Yup. Just as you know full well that you’d slit your own throat before taking a chunk out of his. Just sayin…





Beast of Bodmin Moor 3

Part three for thee…


The Beast of Bodmin Moor







“It’s not all it’s cracked up to be…concentrating. The results are rarely worth the worry. Unless…I just focus on things that aren’t…” 


How would Phin ever get it right if he was supposed to sift through stuff and choose what to concentrate on? He never did choosing, Phin just knew what he wanted. Or did not. If he didn’t, then he never would, simple. 

If he was asked: ‘would you rather do this or that?’ his brain had a fit of the fizzies. He couldn’t decide between two things he’d rather not do. He would already be on his way if he’d fancied doing either…and yet, he mustn’t say that, it was rude. Selecting one was the considerate thing to do.That seemed a bit rich to Phin, when making him choose wasn’t very considerate, was it? So many rules to follow. It was exhausting, which is why he preferred being on his own—except for today, of course—it was ‘the exception that proves the rule’.

Now that was just plain loopy. How could a not-rule prove a rule? Barmy. Phin was convinced these things were made up on purpose to fox him. Speaking of which…he sure wasn’t wishing away his newfound foxy friend. It had been kind of him to bring Phin home, especially when he seemed a bit of a scoundrel. A snaffling one, at that, so it was a wonder he hadn’t just ‘borrowed’ some clothes and scarpered.


Oh dear. Phin may have wafted off with the faeries again. “Pardon?” 

“I said: I should get off and leave you in peace, now I know you’re alright.”

“Oh…have you changed your mind?” He tried not to sound sad. People seemed to do changing theirs a lot, as if was a jumper. Phin was stuck with his. “About being thirsty,” he clarified, when Foxy looked puzzled.

“No…I just…thought you’d rather I left, I wasn’t exactly invited,” Foxy grimaced.

“I don’t—want you to go—I mean. I’m glad you’re here, which is oddsome. Tea…?” Phin threw back the blanket and sprang to his feet, which wasn’t the best plan he’d ever had. Oouch. Worth it though; if switching the kettle on sharpish qualified as tea-in-progress and thus, an impolite time to leave. Ow…Phin’s spine felt like a length of rope, knotted at intervals. Stretching might help, while he waited, not least cos he felt too skittish to stand still. 

“Are you okay?” Phin wondered, upon hearing the strangest noise after planting his palms on the roof of the van. It sounded like rusty indigestion.

“Yeah…” Foxy fibbed with a wince. “Sorry, I…cricked my neck. Tea would be great.” 

“Ouch, that hurts. That’s why I’m stretching my back—I’m all kinky—are you sure you’re alright?” 

“M’fine,” he insisted, between strangled cat sounds. 

“’Kay, if you’re sure,” Phin sighed, letting his arms fall to his sides. It was rude to point out porkies, unless the lie was likely to be lethal or something such. “Four sugars. I’m on it.” 

Phin still seemed to be wearing his coat—inside—which was a bit daft, so he shrugged it off. Urgh, he niffed to high heaven. Typical…his first ever foxy visitor and Phin reeked like his grandad’s slippers.

“Do I smell?” he wondered (worried) aloud.

“Huh?” Foxy frowned, for all the world as if sleeping in a trench coat was a surefire way to smell as fresh as a daisy.

“Oh, you’re being polite, aren’t you? Is it shocking horrible? I don’t usually go to bed in my coat, honest,” Phin promised. 

“You don’t smell…bad,” Foxy flat out lied, attempting to smother a smirk.

“Ah…I know that one. You’re being kind, so you told a white lie. It’s alright to tell those, mostly when a girl asks if her bum looks big in this. My sister told me.”

“She was right.” Foxy grinned—it made his eyes gleam cerulean and shiny— like a coconut eclair in a box of Quality Street. A thought that made Phin’s fingers twitch. Magpies had nothing on him. “Are you hungry?”

“I’m ravenous.” 

Now that was true. Foxy damn near growled it.

“What d’you fancy?”


Duh. Phin hadn’t offered him any options. “Why don’t you have a mooch and help yourself while I get changed? The whiff won’t put you off your breakfast then. I went to the shops yesterday, so there’s lots to snaffle.”

Phin was gifted another coconut eclair smile as Foxy raked a hand through his hair. Quite why he bothered when it slithered straight back down to dangle in far too tempting tendrils, Phin knew not. It was excessively sexy hair.

Someone is allowed to touch those silken strands whenever they wish. As thoughts went, that one was about as welcome as a second visitor. Get changed, make tea, rustle up some breakfast and stop driving yourself doolally. That seemed excellent advice, despite its source, so Phin whipped his jumper off and tugged his jeans down to puddle at his ankles. He was wearing boxers, which was not always a given, so he didn’t think twice about stripping off. He was still decent, Foxy was a fella, and his undies were his favourite whitey tightys. Phin might stink something chronic, but at least he was sporting posh pants.

Foxy abruptly shot off his seat and…yanked open the fridge door to stick his head inside. Blimey, he’d shifted himself as fast as a ferret up a trouser leg, he must be starving.

“Ahhh…bacon,” he groaned.

The latter was a husky rumble that sounded as if Foxy was gargling gravel. Oh help…nooo. Tight pants. White pants. Fucketyfuck. He was staring at them in horror when a sharp inhalation shattered the silence. A split second later Phin found himself plastered to the cupboard door by a body forged from steel and feverish heat. He’d barely registered a firm pressure at his nape before his mouth crashed down onto lips that promptly snatched his breath away. Plump, glistening like glace cherries, paired with blue curaçao eyes…’twas akin to being clobbered by an exotic cocktail. When he’d never so much as sipped a cup of flat cider. Before breakfast, t’boot. Phin’s brain damn near dissolved. The rest of him froze.

Every sense was bombarded, bedazzled, by a torrent of heat, taste, touch; engulfed in husky, musky scent. A too much avalanche of never, ever, enough. Fingers tangled into Phin’s hair as those lips continued their plunder. It was…incredible. Intoxicating. It was impossible to worry about whether he was doing it right, responding as he should, while whisked away on a torrent of Foxy intensity. A whirlwind of want so consuming, Phin could scarce catch his breath, let alone fret about failing his oh, so foxy friend. He had never imagined it could feel this way, as if every fibre of his being was aflame, blowtorched within and without. Foxy was all fire; the brush of his fingers sizzled along Phin’s skin like a spark scarfing a trail of gunpowder as grappling hooks of need tugged at his guts.

The most sublime, staggering onslaught of Too Much he’d ever experienced in his life.






“Ah…bacon.”  It was all Jake could do to force himself to place it on the counter after retrieving it from the fridge. Rather than shred the packet with his teeth and cram it in his mouth.

Fuck…a sudden, sharp spike of white-hot want and cinnamon spice assaulted Jake’s senses. Blazing a trail through his system like molten molasses. Need so intense he could barely breathe. His heart reacted as if seized by a huge fist and squeezed, forcing the blood through his veins in a scorching trip south. A scent so persuasive, it propelled Jake forwards in a surge of sheer instinct and inhuman speed. Irresistible, as if it had been brewed to wreak havoc on a soul starved of sustenance, concocted by an alchemist hell-bent on blowing his mind. Pure, unsullied sex, too potent to resist, the most intoxicating elixir on Earth. 

Jake had to answer it. Had to. It was a compulsion, beyond comprehension—let alone control—a desire too consuming to deny. They couldn’t deny him. Anything. A knowledge that might’ve been as devastating as he was deranged if Jake hadn’t been too delirious to care. That was his last conscious thought for a while. Jackal instincts took over, obliterating all else.

Jack didn’t burst out of his body, but some bone-deep certainty understood why. Jake didn’t fight him, there was no battle for Jack to win. No reluctance to refute, or refusal to override. Jake went willingly, obliterating a chasm of space in a heartbeat. Flinging himself into the flames of a need he could no longer negate. What should have been a tentative brush of lips—more query than kiss—was a melding of mouths so incendiary, Jake may not have noticed if he’d burst into flames. It was a clash of lips, teeth, tongue; far from rebuffed. For about a snatched-off breath, it seemed He was stunned to stillness… before melting into Jake’s arms as if he’d waited a lifetime for Jake to succumb to the inevitable. 

A sentiment that just might’ve prompted an inner rolling of eyes, if his shadow self had been in any fit state for snarky asides. Very fine impressions of furry hearth rugs did not count, despite claims to the contrary. 

Mine…whispered like a cool breeze through Jake’s body, holding his human self together. Taking the place of the frantic scramble to surface he’d feared. Never, had Jake felt so certain that he wouldn’t explode in a frenzy of fur and frustration. 

Jake tightened his arms, fusing them closer still; there was no close enough. A helpless groan rattled in his throat when a searing fact blow-torched his consciousness, blazing its way to his lust-glazed brain:  There was a ridge of hard heat branding his lower belly. Scalding through flimsy cotton and soft fleece, too insistent to ignore. Dragging his own hips back in order to slip a hand between their bodies would have been too cruel to contemplate…had Jake not accomplished it, before he caught on. Christ.

A sharp intake of breath shattered the kiss when he cupped ruffled warmth; a heady weight that thrilled through Jake’s veins as liquid lust. A soft whimper slipped free; distinct from his own, the single most erotic sound he’d ever been gifted. Nothing, no one—not even Jake—could make him relinquish the right to earn himself an entire symphony of sighs. A flight of fancy hijacked by an abrupt snap of lean hips, urging him on. Fuck. The racket that rumbled in Jake’s throat when he recaptured ripe lips wasn’t far from a growl, it sounded half feral. More animal than human.

Mine… The source of that was uncertain, Jake could only hope it hadn’t made a bid for freedom. A repetition was a very close thing when he finally closed his fingers around feverish flesh.

“Ahhhhh!” His head snapped back, breaking the kiss when his hips jerked reflexively.

A loss that suggested a gain far too tempting to resist. Jake had dropped to his knees before he could consider the wisdom of this cunning plan.

“Jack…” he cautioned.

Huh?” floated out on a bewildered breath.  Crap…he’d said that. Out loud. It had been intended as whispered word of warning to gentle the jackal.

“Er…Jack. My…name,” Jake managed to stammerthe only fudge that seemed feasible. 

“Hmm…it suits you.” That creamy smile was sin itself. “Phin.” 

PhinWas a sigh of sublime satisfaction so smug, Jake might have smirked. If he’d had a leg to stand on. 

A feat in itself, y’must admit. Considering.






The Beast of Bodmin Moor Pt 2

Without further ado, here’s part 2…


The Beast Of Bodmin Moor





Cradling him carefully so that he wouldn’t be unduly jolted, Jake began to run…





Upon reaching the camper van a few minutes later, Jake lowered himself to his haunches and rested its unconscious owner on his lap to pat at the pockets of the trench for some keys. When he heard their tell-tale jingle, Jake extracted them and selected the most likely suspect before rising to his feet. 

He’d been longing to see inside the van (aside from sneaking a peek through a gap in its curtains), but when Jake tugged the door wide, he stood, staring, at the sheer onslaught of stuff.  Staggering in itself, but infinitely less so than the sledgehammer of scent that snatched Jake’s breath away. Fuck.

Turning his head, Jake sucked in a huge lungful of fresh air and held it, then climbed into the van and carried Him over to one of the sofa-seats. That seemed the most logical place; there was no way Jake should be able to heft him into the bed nook above the driver’s alcove. In truth, Jake could have bridged his fingers at the small of His back and lifted him above his head like a waiter flourishing a silver salver.

After laying Him gently on the sofa, Jake sank onto the nearest seat and scraped a hand through his straggling hair. Strewth. He swallowed in a futile attempt to manage the saliva situation (dead-set on drooling like a mangy mutt) and gazed down at that sleeping angel face. So vulnerable, so horribly unaware of the danger he was in. 

A shallow, experimental breath burned down Jake’s throat like absinthe. Christ. Jack could never have resisted that scent in such an enclosed space. Clothes would have been shredded in seconds by teeth hell-bent on sinking into skin. Jake yearned to. At least he ached to devour Him in a very different way so…thank fuck for small mercies?

Okay. After a few more shallow breaths, the scent became slightly more bearable; less like being clobbered with a breeze block. Jake examined the gash glistening in the darkness; it did seem to have started healing a little. Jake’s flesh wounds healed in seconds, this hadn’t scabbed over quite that quick, but it was still far too fast. There was no need to dig around for a first aid kit, the wound couldn’t look any cleaner. Savlon would do fuck all to ward off impending fur. It was probably best to leave it alone, just make Him as comfortable as those ludicrous legs would allow, and fetch a blanket.

He seemed to be breathing regularly and there was no sign of a burgeoning bump, so he should be okay, bar a banging headache. Jake knew damn well that he’d worry himself sick if he didn’t stay to keep an eye on Him. Anything could happen. Anything. That was the part that freaked Jake out the most. He just didn’t know.

They would have to watch Him every night now, until it was clear that the jackal’s lickfest hadn’t triggered the consequences he dreaded. Jack’s saliva had clearly accelerated the healing process of the wound so…what the hell else was it doing to Him? The very thought of their saliva seeping into His system…Christ. The torrent of lust that slashed straight to Jake’s groin catapulted him out of his seat to crash through the door and stagger out onto the verge. By the time he could see straight he was crouched on all fours and gasping at fresh, untainted air. He had to get a grip on the need wracking his guts like grappling hooks. Had to. He needed Jake. Pressing his forehead into the grass, he inhaled its earthy sweetness, filling his lungs with the soothing smell of soil, as if to salve his soul.

For a heart stopping moment he’d feared that he was about to explode in a fury of fur. Jake had shifted against his will many times at first; in a far too literal outburst of rage that proved impossible to restrain. He had been furious for a long time.

After the first year, Jake had begun to get a handle on it, but it had been a bitter, bloody battle. He may have learned to suppress his customary triggers, but the jackal had never, ever, been triggered by lust. Jake’s current predicament was compounded by the fact he’d not had sex since that night. Sex? He’d done bugger all for two years. It had taken him months to make a cup of bloody tea without demolishing the kitchen. There was barely a mug left in the cottage with a handle still attached. Even now, he had to monitor his movements and rein in the impossible strength, coiled like steel springs, ever primed to pounce.

Even if he didn’t inadvertently snap someone’s spine, or shred them with his teeth…there was another problem. A snag Jake could never have anticipated. The jackal didn’t seem interested in a simple ‘shag’. He wanted…more. Jake wasn’t entirely sure what that ‘more’ was…but very much feared that Jack was utterly convinced he had found it. 

“Get a grip,” Jake snarled aloud, hoping that at least one of them listened. With a heartfelt groan, he scraped his forehead off the ground, and sank back onto folded knees. So now what?  He sure as hell couldn’t go home, so he’d better scrounge up something to wear and wait for Him to regain consciousness.  A thought that sent a shiver of delight and dread thrilling through his veins.

Jake rolled his eyes in resigned bemusement; it was all so sodding ridiculous. A tractor could mow him down and scarce leave a scratch—he could probably throw one without breaking a sweat— but he was helpless in the face of Him. After gulping down a last lungful of clean air, Jake clambered to his feet and headed back inside the van. He stood, watching Him for a moment, listening to his heartbeat; steady, strong, sure.

Now Jake just needed something to cover himself up with. He would look like Charlie bloody Chaplin if he borrowed some clothes—not that it mattered what he looked like— He was highly unlikely to open his eyes and wonder why some bloke with dreadful dress sense was sitting on his sofa, was he? 

That said, chances were He might just wonder why there was a (badly dressed) bloke he’d never clapped eyes on in his life, squatting in his van and watching him sleep. Like a pervert.

A quick scout about unearthed a bathrobe bunched amid a mountain of trinkets and treasures. It would do, although quite how Jake intended explain the fact he’d donned it? Fucknows. If Jake was female, then a drunken one night stand would seem feasible. But why the hell would you wake to find a strange fella crashed in your camper van, wearing your bathrobe?

Christ, he could do with a bloody drink. Or twelve. Being engulfed in soft swathes of heady scent sure as hell wasn’t helping matters. So, Jake sat, and watched him sleep. He barely registered the passing hours; oddly at peace and…content for the first time in longer than he cared to remember. 

He slept fairly peacefully, muttering a few random words here and there, mostly about…a foxy friend? Shit. Had he fallen for her, this friend? Did it really matter? He was hardly going to wake up and promptly fall for the perv squatting on his sofa while decked out in his dressing gown, was he?


Dawn broke while Jake was drinking a third cup of tea. The world simply brightened; shades of grey bleeding into colour, as if someone was fiddling with the buttons on the remote. It wasn’t long before the volume ratcheted up to full blast, when the gulls chipped in with their contribution to the festivities. Fabulous. It was akin to a ref’s whistle being abruptly blasted down his earhole.

Jake was ravenous. He’d not been hunting last night and now his guts were gurgling as they grumbled about the distinct lack of a breakfast rump steak heading their way. Naked, starving and squatting. It wasn’t the best start he’d ever had to a day…although it was far from the worst.

Mostly he just felt impatient; like a kid on Christmas morning waiting for his dad to wake up so he could open his presents. Perhaps he should rustle around a little? Or cough…clear his throat. Or…open the window and hope that squawking seagull was, as Jake suspected, enough to wake the dead. Let alone the decidedly not dead, thank God…or Anubis, for taking a night off.









Phin hurt.

It was a sharp, stabbing sort of pain. But it was dull too, as if it came from very far away, which didn’t seem possible when the pain was in his head. That had been firmly fixed atop his shoulders last time he looked, but stranger things had happened.

He’d long become accustomed to colours and numbers crawling the walls and ants that scurried beneath his skin. To pictures writhing on the pages of his books as words wriggled in wormy parades. Hallucinations…Mr. Neil called them, conjured by his imagination. His long suffering therapist had lots of cognitive fix-its for Phin to forget to focus on. 

Whether or not his head was still in situ was far less significant than the fact that: last time Phin opened his eyes, there had been a wolf peering down at him. Well, sort of—it seemed too foxy for a wolf—but Phin had felt a bit fuzzy, so he couldn’t be sure. His ears were too cute, as if they were a size too large for his head…which had definitely been where it should be. As this was more than Phin could claim with certainty, he was hardly in a position to quibble about earflap excesses. He couldn’t help but hope they felt silky soft to touch. Strokable.

Impressive pinnae aside, his foxy friend had the most beautiful eyes Phin had ever seen. He had to concede that he mightve hallucinated this part, because they were blue. Very, very, blue. Canis did not often sport such a hue, it must be admitted, except for huskies. It was a strikingly similar shade of aquamarine, so…perhaps a husky had got frisky with a fox? 

Contemplating the mating habits of canine critters was perhaps a mite random—particularly if his head had gone missing—in which case Phin should be concentrating on that. This was another of Mr. Neil’s favourite words. He was also fond of focus, extreme, excessive, hypersensitivity, hyperactive, hyper-however-Phin-felt. Mr. Neil was a tad hyperkeen on wafting his favourite prefix about. With a flagrancy that was more than a mite ironic. Phin had not pointed this out. That would have been rude. 

Rude (adj.): telling the truth.

Hyper (prep. and adv.) a prefix appearing in loanwords from Greek, meaning ‘over’; usually implying excess or exaggeration.


Excess’? As if Phin was baggage. In this (suit)case, it assuredly meant Too Much. That summed matters up far more succinctly than poking and prodding at Phin’s person for filing purposes. If he ever managed to practise concentrating for long enough to write an autobiography, Too Much would do just fine for a title. 

Back to Phin’s foxy friend; even in that brief moment of eye contact he’d felt certain that they belonged to a friend not foe. As bonkers as it sounded, those brilliant blues had seemed warm with…concern. A claim that might rubber stamp his residency in very select accommodations, complete with a fancy buckled coat. If Phin was daft enough to utter it aloud. He was well aware that the label slapped on his forehead deemed him mind blind: incapable of reading facial expressions or observing social cues. While that tended to be true, Professor Simon Baron Cohen (cousin of Borat and top notch research Prof in the field) asserts that the extreme opposite can also occur. Hypersensitivity so acute it was likened to a sixth one. 

Phin absorbed sheet music louder than the tune it played. Its composition was more vivid than its melody. It was hard to focus on things people said when he heard their feelings at a much higher volume. Oh dear, the concentrating thing had gone to pot again. He hadn’t even got around to prising his eyelids apart, figuring that his head would hurt a helluva lot more if he did. The rest of him was too uncomfy to inflict further suffering on himself, having (apparently) kipped on the ‘sofa’. Again. A (barely) padded bench seat bolted to the wall. Why hadn’t he climbed into his cosy bed nook?  If he’d turned over in the night, he would have sure woken up in a bit of a hurry.

It was no good, he was going to have to crank his eyes open sometime soon, he was gasping for a cuppa. Ping. OUCH. Phin slammed them shut again.

“Oooh, m’head…” he groaned.

“Are you okay?”

Huh? That was a bit spooky. Phin attempted to blink away the bleary before turning his head towards the velvet warm voice that had just enquired about his health.

“Oh. Hello,” Phin parped, several octaves higher than usual.

There was a man—wearing Phin’s bathrobe—sitting on the sofa-seat set at right angles to his own. Quite why he had borrowed Phin’s robe, he knew not. Nor, come to think of it, who the bejeezus he was.

It was an odd time to pop by for a visit though, particularly without phoning first. That said, he’d never clapped eyes on the fella in his life, which did tend to suggest he didn’t know Phin’s number. That seemed forgivable enough, but the robe thing was a tad rich. Help yourself why don’t you? Oh, you already have.

“Hi, are you alright?”

Well, Phin had felt better. Particularly in the head department, which was definitely attached to his shoulders. It hurt a helluva lot too much to be absent. Other than that…it wasn’t every day he woke to find the most beautiful man he’d ever seen sitting on his sofa-seat. Even if he was a robe snaffler.

There was something…timeless about him. Primal; all tumbling locks, heavy-lidded eyes and pouty lips. Despite being a compact sort of chap, rather than a hulking behemoth, he was more than a mite Mamoan. A look enhanced by hair that tumbled in a hundred hues of honey-to-toffee. He was sporting what appeared to be a permanent sort of stubble, rather than a beard, but aside from that, he might have stepped straight from an ocean the exact shade of his eyes.

 It was a good job Phin’s mum wasn’t here. She would be nailing planks across the door after dispatching him without so much as a by-your-leave, or a Latin quotation.

“My head hurts, which doesn’t seem fair when I don’t remember the squiffy part. I might be fibbing though, cos I can’t recall crashing here, either. Um, I don’t mean to be rude—tho’ I often am—but why are you wearing my robe?”

The hot as hell squatter on his sofa looked a bit bewildered by Phin’s question. Not half as befuddled as Phin felt though, seeing as it was his robe that had been snaffled, after all.

“Your robe?” He glanced down, as if surprised to find himself informed thus.  

Perhaps he was a nutter. Phin did tend to attract them. Not in sexy way, sadly. In an: ‘Oh hello, I intend to chat away to you until the end of time about my collection of vintage tax discs from 1921-2014’ sort of fashion.

Heaven knows why. They didn’t usually ‘borrow’ his robe without asking, though.

“I mean, you’re welcome to lend it, although no-one ever has before. That’s why I was surprised…have you popped ‘round to borrow anything else? Sugar? Tea-bags?”


He really was a bit w-e-i-r-d. “Sweet stuff you sprinkle in your tea?“

“I am familiar with sugar,” he grinned. “Four spoons please,”

It was the sort of grin his mum had warned his sisters about. She hadn’t thought to mention this to Phin, but then…she hadn’t seen the scrapbook of blue-eyed-boys stashed under his bed. 

“You’re staying for a cuppa? I wish you’d told me you were coming—not because that would have been po-lite—but I would have bought you some Hobnobs. You’ll have to suffer malted milks, I’m afraid. Unless I’ve scoffed those too…Four?!

Phin had to be hallucinating this, had to be. Even then, he had really excessed himself this time. Conjuring up a sexy sweet-toothed scoundrel with sticky fingers was a smidge extravagant.

Phin had better not tell Mr. Neil about this episode, or they might start fiddling with his meds. Again. Oops, that had been an…unfortunate mishap. Phin really hadn’t meant to get quite so…upset. The zoo had been quite nice about it. Eventually. He should also keep schtum about the foxy-wolf he met on the moors.

Phin was clearly on a roll. That never went well. Perhaps he’d dreamed last night’s foxy friend in a…symbolic sort o’way? He had conjured him up just before this new (and very) foxy friend parked his bum on Phin’s sofa-seat.


“Pardon?” Phin blinked, several times. Dang, he’d zoned out. Again.

It was with a devilish grin that Foxy raked a hand through his tumble of hair, scraping it back from his forehead. Fuck…Phin hurriedly shut his mouth, perchance he was gaping. A bit. His distracting mane of waves had cascaded over one eye and obscured half his face. The moment Foxy scraped back those trailing tendrils, Phin was forced to concede that he just might be hallucinating. Either that, or he’d dropped dead and woken up in heaven. Heaven must be that colour, surely?

It was a blue so true… so beautiful it was akin to staring into the shimmer of a sunlit Caribbean sea. He didn’t usually like visitors, especially those who turned up unannounced and robbed you blind. But in truth, they didn’t usually look like aquatic gods. Foxy’s skin seemed to have been dipped in liquid gold. As if he were coaxed from sleep by the caress of sun rays every morn. If only Phin could swap places with it… To be the one person in the world who was allowed to wake and scatter that skin with kisses. 

Shifting slightly more onto his side, Phin tried to adjust himself a mite without being unseemly. Much to his relief, he was still wearing his jeans. His flimsy blanket would have draped itself obscenely over an erection that had bid adieu to morning glory a wee while back. Hell-bent on an utter excess of glory halleloo.




He woke two hours later. His breathing changed first; pulse speeding slightly when he shifted, stirred. Feathery lashes flickered, parted, then those eyes flared wide with a sharp gasp. Swiftly followed by a groan as he slammed them shut.

“Oh, m’head…” 

Jake had inquired how he felt before he had time to think it through. This was the most important thing in the world and they needed to know. When Jake’s voice filtered into His consciousness he blinked, as bewildered as a newborn fawn. Jake would be best advised to fling himself off a cliff. Before he did something diabolical, rather than afterwards. It would save time.

“Oh. Hello.” The soft musicality of His voice was somehow more surprising than those first words. Oh. Hello. For all the world as if Jake was a regular visitor who’d popped in for coffee on the off chance. 

Who the hell are you? What are you doing in my van? Why the fuck were you watching me sleep like a pervy stalker…None of which seemed cause for concern, compared to the unfairness of waking with a banging headache and no memory of earning it. All of which might well be a ‘fib’. Apparently.  One that didn’t appear to include airbrushing out naked men, methods of conveyance, or things that went bump in the night. Foreheads in particular. All of this was related with an air of bemused acceptance as…adorable as his wide-eyed wonderment. 

Jake really shouldn’t allow himself to be lulled into a false sense of security by charms way too beguiling to withstand without a wink of sleep. A state that left Jake utterly unarmed for following corker, added as an afterthought, for all the world as if it was not a steel jaw trap tossed in Jake’s path.

“Um, I don’t mean to be rude—tho’ I often am—but why are you wearing my robe?”

All of the aforementioned queries were surely more significant than your stalker’s outfit while squatting in your van, watching you sleep? Jake glanced down at it, trying to rustle up something, anything to explain this most pressing of matters. A reason that didn’t include:

You slipped on some rubble and smacked your head on a rock when distracted by my whimper. Rather than let you bleed to death, I licked the woundto clean it, clearlyNot because I’m a vile dog who gets off on lapping at the heads of unconscious innocents on the moors. After that, it was the least I could do to carry you home and stay to ensure that…you didn’t slip into a coma…or say, turn into a mangy mutt. Your robe? Well…I had to carry you here, um sort of naked, which seemed one rude awakening too many. In addition to finding a stranger in your van, watching you sleep in a deeply suspect manner.  While wearing your bathrobe.

Jake was still trying to come up with a feasible alternative while listening to chime bar tones extol the comparative virtues of Hobnobs and malted milk biscuits. 

Jake didn’t like to ask if there was any raw steak instead. Or bacon. 

Or sausage.

You are not having sausages. They give you the trots. 

Spoilsport. It’s not as if you’re required to poop scoop, is it?

Be-have. Or we’re going home.

Says you and whose army?

Jack! F’fucksakes, shut up.

Shutting. I still fancy a sausage, though.

Jake slammed his lids shut, as if they were a partition between himself and certain backseat drivers. He was too distracted to mentally prepare for impact on reopening them.  

Blue locked with brown. The world tilted on its axis. 

Planets didn’t collide, there were no sudden snowstorms in the Sahara or monsoons in Moscow. A teacup probably didn’t even fall off a table. A Jackal did not explode out of Jake’s body and his cock refrained from exploding all over the borrowed bathrobe.  

Nothing untoward happened whatsoever…but Jake knew that nothing would ever be the same again.

Somewhere inside the jackal whined pitifully. Want. Jake could practically feel his claws scrabbling at his guts like a frantic dog scratching at the door. They were all doomed. Nothing good could come of this…surely? At that precise moment in time, Jake was more likely to audition for Britain’s Got Talent than convince himselfor Jackthat he could flee from this. Even on two legs, let alone four.

“I lost a bet,” Jake explained (not at all), rather than dwell upon the decimation of his sanity. 

“Oh! Like a forfeit?” Midnight eyes sparkled with mischief, as if sprinkled with starlight.

“Yeah. Like that,” Jake was left nodding like a dog on a parcel shelf. Too taken aback to elaborate…on what planet had that been believable?

“Oops.” His chuckle was as incorrigible as it was infectious. “But…how did you end up here, wearing my robe? Was it my fault you lost the bet?”

His fault? Why the hell would he think that? Jake was far too famished to fathom the unfathomable.

“No…I found you out there,” he hedged, with a shrug. As if this was a matter of no import. “You’d hit your head and seemed a bit worse for wear…so I wanted to make sure you made it back to your van. I was worried, so I stayed to keep watch, in case you got sick. It was a bit cold to sit here starkers, so I hoped you wouldn’t mind if I borrowed your robe. “

“No, of course I don’t mind. I…thank you. For bringing me back, I mean. I do get…lost sometimes.”


“I get a bit distracted and forget to do concentrating.”

“I wouldn’t fret about it, if I were you. It’s not all it’s cracked up to be…concentrating.” Jake had sighed before engaging his brain. “The results are rarely worth the worry. Unless…I just focus on things that aren’t.” 

Where the hell had that come from? Jake never admitted this, even to himself. 

Why bother stating the blindingly obvious?

Who asked for your tuppence worth?

Why bother et cetera, et cetera…?

Fuck off.

Chance would be a fine thing. Just sayin’.

Jake did not bother pointing out the obvious. They were clearly going to hell in a handcart, but he really couldn’t care less, when he’d never felt less bothered in his bloody life.