Hi…

Thank you for being here and for your support. Here are the next two parts, as promised…

 

 

My Way

34 Joe

 

 

 

 

“Gnrrr…”

Hmm…at last. He waketh. Joe had managed to doze off, eventually, lulled by Mac’s soft snuffs of breath at his back. As safe as safe can be, encircled by strong, sure arms. A haven that felt far too much like the finishing flourish Joe’s hideaway needed…to make it a home. A new hatstand would’ve been a much better bet. Particularly at the rate Joe kept promising to scoff them. 

*

Sung as the hug of a drug haze

Lazy days, lost ways

A last past the post maze

 

Of nowhere fast.

Nowhere man. With a no hope plan

Tattered, torn, lost, forlorn

What a blast

 

Its been.

The future is green.   

 

In your dreams…in your dreams (backing vocals taunt/refrain)

 

CH:

Pipe dreams in the sky dreams

A lost boy left behind beams

Safe on shore

Lost no more

Mon amour

Dur à cuire…

 

*** 

 

Joe’s mind—despite its opium ’n’ orgasm extravaganza—wasn’t the slightest inclined to while away a few hours in sated splendour. Instead, it was fizzing about in a rearranging the furniture frenzy. Shoving stuff aside to make room for a spot-lit Mac centre stage; burnished bronze with a crown of thorny-lights. P’raps on a plinth. That last bit was possibly a smidge excessive, but moderation had never been Joe’s very best thing and he was far too busy to learn. Plinths don’t build themselves. 

Nevertheless…snooze he did. Eventually. For a wee while…before waking with a bit of a start. Heaven knows what that meant, but it must be a thing, so Joe went with it. Where was he? Waking with a start…that was it: the fortunate consequence of a fidget. Mac’s. It was p’raps an absence of warm weight that woke Joe when Mac’s arm slid away as he turned over. It was daytime, o’course, and they hadn’t bothered getting into bed, beneath the covers. So, when Joe—struck by the sense of something missing—peered a mite blearily over his shoulder, his eyes popped open pretty sharpish upon being treated to a sight to behold.

After that, Joe’s lids were less inclined to shut up shop than stick pins in themselves. So, he turned over to face Mac’s back and lay, admiring its intricate play of muscle and bone…the sublime sweep of his spine… All gift-wrapped in skin like runny honey. Sleep seemed the least interesting thing on the planet at that point, which was an excellent thing indeed, when Joe would’ve been much miffed to miss the next part. 

He hadn’t curved himself around Mac, spoon-style, while admiring the scenery but the slumbering bad-ass had better plans, it seemed. Whether these unfolded as a result of a fidget too far, or Mac’s body was drawn to the heat of Joe’s, he knew not—and cared less—when Mac shifted enough that sleep-warm skin sizzled his own. That’s how it felt. Bzzzzt. Joe did attempt to hold his hips at bay. His cock was just brushing the bubblicious butt, not wedged in happy valley. That was all Mac. Typical.

Joe was all geared up to accept his medal for services to bad-ass-kind…when that very blighter all-but robbed him blind. If it hadn’t been for the tighty-whiteys, matters might have got a smidge sticky. Joe was so wound up with nowhere t’go he was coiled like a steel spring about to sproing. A splendid onomatopoeia, if e’er there was one. Joe could barely breathe, even before Mac snuggled closer. The kind of close that left Joe’s so-oven-ready-it-was-radioactive boner doing a fine impression of a frankfurter lucky enough to be nestled in the very best of buns. 

Mac’s subconscious self sure didnae seem to mind where it was parked…least of all his spine, if its arching antics could be considered indicative. It was impossible to keep still after that. Only rigor mortis could have held Joe’s body as rigid as his cock. Trying not to twitch was a tad similar to attaining stasis on a bouncy castle.

It was a raspy rumble in Mac’s throat that alerted Joe to the fact the bad-ass was emerging from slumber. He didn’t seem aware of waking…until he actually clamped a palm to Joe’s thigh. It very much felt as if Mac was scrabbling for purchase—trying to tug Joe in—not shove him away. Then he froze, alongside a sharp intake of breath.

“What are you doing..?” he mumble-grumbled.

Not ‘alf as much as I want to be doing…was the honest answer to that. Nevertheless, Joe wasn’t convinced that such sterling truth-telling efforts would reap their just rewards.

‘Joe. Please remove your cock from the crack of my arse,’  was perfectly polite. It was also a mite too fulsome on the fuck-off-front to ignore. Joe p’raps did his best though… luxuriating in a last few seconds of bliss while bickering about the fact that it was, indeed, still there. A fact Mac professed to be miffed about, without making any attempt to shift himself in the slightest.

“Joe!” he growled. Eventually. Oops…time to get up. Not in a fun way. Sad sigh.

The bad-ass then speared Joe with what was p’raps supposed to be a withering sneer, but was, in fact, as sexy as fuck. Joe didn’t tell him that either—which was not fibbing—it was omitting to mention it. The next part Joe was not responsible for at all. It was instinct pure and simple; not a plot he’d prepared earlier. He couldn’t be charged with murder if he hadn’t planned to off someone, after all… So, it was bumslaughter at the very most.

Nevertheless, Mac soon recovered from his rude awakening to embark on a bit of banter, none o’which was a jot important, like most joys in life.

Joe did p’raps ask something he’d resisisted almost since Mac stepped through the door… despite suspecting that his insistence on truth wasnae a two-way street.

“Have you ever killed a man, Mac?”

True to form, his response? ‘If I told you that, I’d have to kill you…’ Fessed up nothing, and confirmed far more than Mac knew. A lot like his sexuality, in fact. All o’which tended to suggest that Joe’s bad-ass-bodyguarder was a gay assassin. He could, o’course, be a bi or pan serial killer with a contract…but he sure as sharp shooters wasn’t a straight babysitter.

Speaking of which, Joe couldn’t remember the last time he’d wanted to do anything except shoot up the moment he opened his eyes. Let alone indulge in chit-chat, which was staggering itself. Not content with that feat, when Joe finally got around to his morning ministrations he found himself bamboozled by the bad-ass again.

“What’re you doing?” Mac demanded, instead of lighting the cig he’d been cussing about for the last ten minutes. When Joe told the truth and nothing but, as instructed, he wasnae too chuffed about that either. There was just no pleasing some peeps. 

It was a lot like waking up with Oscar the Grouch, but less whiffy. Mac did, in all honesty, smell luscious; even his sweat seeped sex. A scent so heady that a few hours spent snuffling him would be a splendid thing in itself—which seemed a fair ‘nuff admission—it being quite a climb from that to scaling the giddy heights of the plinth.

“Joe…c’mere…” Mac’s tone didn’t seep sex, it was saturated in it. A lot like mozzarella stroodles drizzling off a three-cheese margherita pizza.

Joe found himself dragged Macwards as if being sucked into an inexorable vortex; as irresistible as licking sugar off his lips mid-doughnut scoff. The food fandangling was getting a tad out of hand. Joe was ravenous.

The moment their mouths melted together Mac pounced: faster than a bad-ass in hot pursuit of a spot of mischief. Too fast to follow how Joe ended up flat on his back on the bed, which mattered not when he did. Smothered in bad-ass, plush lips ravishing his own in a heady tangle of tongues. 

When the bad-ass snatched himself from the kiss, Joe feared it had been a mere ruse in a dastardly scheme to distract him from his stash. Or that Mac had only demanded it in order to prove his dominion over his desperately-craving-self. Joe was wrong. Very. 

“Tell me what you want,” Mac snarled, before naming a few of Joe’s favourite things. One or three of which he’d possibly mooted in the last few minutes. “Choose one.”

Okay. A degree in quantum science wasn’t required to conclude that choosing smack would obliterate all other options. For farrr longer than Joe could survive and stay sane while sharing the same airspace as Mac. Let alone bed. It was a question of cravings. Joe was far more inured to enduring a skag-free few hours than being frozen out by Mac. They’d scarce begun. In fact, there could be no finer time to dismiss it as scratching-an-itch-sex. Or, worse a one-off shag to shut Joe up. 

“You.” There was no other answer. Not when Joe knew that no one else could come close. He’d already chosen; promised Mac that there would be only him. A scarily easy vow when Joe knew damn well that once he’d fixed on something, he craved it to the exclusion of all else. He’d never felt that way about a person before. Just things. It was terrifying.

“Thank you.” Kryptonite green gleamed with a warmth so unexpected it snatched Joe’s breath away. Mac was, without exception, the most mesmerizing man Joe ever had the misfortune to meet. ‘Misfortune’ because Joe was, without doubt, going to lose his bad-ass long before that felt bearable. Thank you…?

“What for…?” Joe wondered—aloud—being as befuddled as he was baffled.

“I don’t know…” That made two of them, but it didn’t matter overmuch when the sentiment itself was an unanticipated gift. 

“I am sorry,” Joe apologized—although he wasn’t sure what for—a reciprocal gift of sorts? Possibly on accounts of being a pain in the butt since the bad-ass came to whip Joe’s into shape. 

“Joe?” Uh oh. That sounded dangerous. Joe should’ve planned an escape. How far was the drainpipe from the attic window? Or…p’raps cosh Mac with the door stopper? There was a teeny flaw in that cunning plan. A guitar might do?

“Yeah?” 

“I am not.” A new shrug, alongside a wry twerk o’lips. The most mind-boggling one yet. 

Whathefucketyfuck? Not sorry…about?  The blighter was the most inscrutable scoundrel on Earth. The inescapable agent of Joe’s doom? Would damn well delight in it, the blackguard.  

 

***

 

 

35 Mac

 

 

 

Making Joe choose was cruel. It was also a surefire way of fathoming a few truths. ‘Facts’ Joe couldnae confess. Not with words—it was to easy to promise all he presumed Mac wanted—and even mean it, at the time. Joe was an addict. His truth wasnae set in stone. Mac was willing to bet he’d vowed ‘never again’ on countless occasions. Possibly believed it, once or twice. 

Offering Joe a choice would reap a fact so clear-cut Mac wasnae sure he wanted to learn it. That very much depended on the result, of course. Who the fuck wanted to compete with the lure of opium dreams? Mac needed all the help he could get. It was full metal jacket time.

A full metal jacket bullet is a small-arms projectile consisting of a soft core (often lead) encased in a shell of harder metal, such as cupronickel, or a steel alloy.

A definition that didn’t ring any bells whatsoever. Certainly not enough to recite it, verbatim. 

Mac was pissing in the wind. He had no idea whatsoever which option Joe would choose. If any. He was just as likely to select ‘pizza’. For breakfast. Or a curry, come to that.

“You.”

Fuck. How often did life hand you the answer you’d hoped for, when you ventured down the multiple choice alley of dreams into dust? Almost never, Mac had discovered. Particularly when the response meant more than it should. In which case, it was downright deranged. 

My terms. My way? It had all gone to hell in a Hawker Hurricane. He found himself thanking Joe, rather than admit any of that. A plan that promptly backfired in his face when asked ‘what for’. The lie Mac uttered didnae deserve the apology it engendered. Or eyes so soft, contrite, he couldnae allow himself to trust them. Was Mac so warped with cynicism he assumed that everyone had ulterior motives? Undoubtedly. It tended to save time…and lives.

“Joe?”

“Yeah?” One word and yet, it sounded so wary, it was a wonder Joe hadnae ducked. Or hid under the bed. In this instance, it was hard to rustle up a less fitting reaction. Or a wiser one.  

“I am not.”  Mac owned. He wasn’t made of bloody concrete. Even metal melts or corrodes if exposed to extreme circumstances.

Joe was a walking, talking, extreme circumstance; in past, present and future tense. On every sense. Certainly all six of Mac’s (fact, not airy-fairy fiction, according to sensory specialists). Mac’s equilibrioception—perception of balance—had been shot to shit since he’d crossed Joe’s threshold. He’d never felt so off-kilter in his life. Joe was the most perilous person Mac had ever been paid to protect. Or dispatch.

He had to face that fact, when lying to himself would be lethal. Every bit as lethal as the addiction that might snatch Joe away, making a mockery of every belt and beret Mac had sweated bullets for.

A far greater foe than Joe’s ‘people’. Or the journalists who focussed on it to the exclusion of all else. Willfully oblivious to the fact that addiction was the result of—not the reason for—the problem in the first place. Ever intent on belittling those so broken, they’d drink Loctite to glue themselves back together, if they thought for a second it would work.

Hoping for compassion was pointless, when it was far more profitable to track their prey. Hovering like vultures in hope of rich pickings. Playing the blame game in bold type and lurid headlines…

‘Junkie Joe’s Portaloo Passion’

True. Apparently.  ‘Shamed star’s drug-fuelled romp with a leggy lovely…’ served up with your Great British Breakfast by your Super Soaraway Sun.

Joe was journalistic heaven waiting to happen. But they didnae give a fuck about (nor grant a column inch of grudging gratitude to) the gift horse that kept them in nose-ups and fry-ups. 

“You’re…not?” The wonder writ so large in those eyes sat like shrapnel in Mac’s throat.

“No…but…” Mac let that linger, as if a pause might add weight to featherlight words.

“Uh-oh…Am I in trouble again, already?” Joe’s head sank into his shoulders, as if he were trying to make himself as small as the five year old his expression suggested.

“No…let’s just call it a helpful hint. I do not bottom, Joe. Ever. So. If I should happen to find myself hosting so much a wandering digit, I will break it. Just To Be Clear.”

“Okay. Darn it,” Joe tutted. “It’s a pity I haven’t got a dog.”

“A…dog.” Mac repeated, raising an enquiring eyebrow.

“You could’ve relished informing me that you’d chop it off and feed it to him, then. Tragic that.” 

“D’you want a thick ear?” Mac snorted.

“Nope, oddly ’nuff. If there’s thick in the offing…that woudnae be my preference. Just sayin’…” For all the world as if there was any doubt whatsoever that Mac would follow through. Worse, he knew it. They both did.

“Kneel on the bed and grip the bedstead.” Uttered in tones as cool, calm and collected as Mac could muster. Monster boner permitting.

“Hmm…don’t mind if I do.”

“Quelle surprise.” Mac sighed, with an eye roll that probably fooled no-one. Least of all himself.

“I’m full of ’em,” Joe beamed.

“You’re full of something else too, Fitzgerald. So shurrup and turn around, unless you want gagging.”

“I’d rather have cuffs to tell the truth, supposing it’s still the order of the day an’ all,” Joe grinned. Before swiping it off sharpish with the back of his hand and an “oops…” Eyes huge, horrified. Oscar-worthy. “Sorry,” he trilled. “Turrning…”

 

 

***

My Way

32 Mac

 

 

 

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s…cosy?”

“Cosy?”

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

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

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

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

“True…”

“Joe.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mac slammed his own shut. “Aye.”

“D’you…want a cuppa?”

“Aye.” 

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

“NO.”

“I didn’t finish!” Joe protested.

“Call it a wild guess,” Mac grunted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shooting up.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Kiss me,” Mac demanded.

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

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

“Mac…” 

“Hmm?”

“Please…”

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

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

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

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

 

***

My Way

 

 

30 Mac

 

 

Mac headed downstairs to make himself a hot toddy while Joe ‘sorted himself out’ before bed.

Having somehow agreed to the monster’s earlier suggestion (most likely in a post-orgasm moment of madness aided by sheer exhaustion), Mac figured it would be wisest to make himself scarce for a few minutes. Not least when he knew damn well that if he had to witness the sight of Joe shooting up, he’d throw a fucking fit. He couldnae be responsible for his own actions if forced to watch Joe inflict what felt like a dance with death closer to the final curtain on himself .

“I have no idea how many, let’s call them ‘members of your entourage’, you’ve treated as toys to discard when you’re bored of playing with them…”

His own words were howling through his head like an arctic wind; so bitter cold, they should by rights, have chapped his lips on their way out. Mac hadnae intended them to sound so harsh, but despite deploring that they had, he wouldnae retract them if he could. He’d meant them. Had needed to impress that fact upon Joe…before Mac found himself snarling them in Joe’s face when they’d corroded his ability to suppress them. 

They had, at least, served the fuck-off façade all too well. Mac hadnae been sure where the mask ended and the man began, before today. Nor had he wanted to, suspecting that knowledge would be the polar opposite of power. Being proved correct was no consolation at all.

Mac had spent a decade clad in the meticulous image he’d constructed to thrive in the career he’d chosen. Survival was paramount of course, but once he’d done his utmost to ensure that, it hadnae proved sufficient. He’d wanted to be the best in the business, the superlative ‘bad-ass’ on the books. Bad-ass, f’fucksakes.

He’d been hell bent on McCafferty being the byword for lethal cool in a crisis. The go-to-guy in worst-case scenarios. A hair-trigger temper and rage eveready to rescue him when imperative had propelled Mac to the top of his profession. A fact that didnae bode well for the safety of those touting their wares on the celebrity circuit, but there was bugger all he could do about that. Bodyguarding…kept him busy. He’d rather be doing something a damn sight less tedious, but a life spent exclusively taking out the trash wasnae wise if you wished to retain some semblance of humanity. Hostage situations were more satisfying, but less frequent, as a freelancer. Honour alone dictated that Mac wasnae about to tread on the toes of his former fellow Blades. 

 The words he’d spat at Joe may have sounded frigid with cold and barren of feeling, but they’d been far from it. Freeze-dried in fear was nearer the truth.

“Considering me a shiny new acquisition would be…foolish.”

Sheer snark had made that a reprimand, ringing with contempt. Rather than a plea, drenched in dread. Christ, he was pitiful. Why hadn’t Joe told him to fuck off? Why let Mac get away with such crap, when Joe had plenty of people more than willing—nay, eager—to do his bidding? Mac couldnae bring himself to believe that was precisely why. It was too base, too simplistic a reason. The real reason was much more complex—it had to be—because Joe was. 

How he’d love to learn the secrets, dreams and fears writ so large in those eyes; luminous with liquid light that defied their dark depths. Blinding him to their truths; all Mac could see was his own incompetence, mirrored back.

So, why the hell was he humming while drizzling honey into his whisky? For all the world as if Mac was dead set on flinging himself into the flames of his own downfall? He was pouring hot water into his drink when it registered that said ditty was uncannily akin to the melody Joe strummed earlier. Too much like it for comfort, if he had any sense.

Mac McCafferty, bad-ass extraordinaire, was still humming as he dropped a cinnamon stick into his toddy before giving it a stir and lifting it to his lips.

 

 

***

 

31 Joe

 

 

It was with a fulsome sigh of relief that Joe gave himself over to the shimmer of serenity stealing through his veins, suffusing him in peace. Lids heavy. Head light. Heart sore…no more. His eyes fluttered shut…up, up and away, he wafted. Off to the velvet cocoon of a cotton wool world and nowhere he need be. Nothing Joe must do, say, hear, feel, think. No fears or self-flagellation. No coulda-woulda-shoulda done anything at all…

Mac

O those eyes of tourmaline green

That flinty glint, agleam with mean

Glimmering with a lethal sheen

Dangerous with dark desire

Tempered rage and deadly ire,

Ablaze with lust and bad-ass fire… 

*

Hmm…I sigh

No reason why

Nor why not

One last shot

To be or not 

To be

Me.

 

***

 

“Joe…”

“Hmm..?”

Cool fingers at his brow, sweeping sweaty strands aside. Cupping Joe’s face…still so fuggy they felt…tender…and yet, steadfast, sure…

“Look at me…”

“Hmm…” Joe forced his heavy lids apart to peer up into…“Green…”

“Green…?”

“Gleam…”

“Okayyy. You’re going to get a crick neck propped up like that, can you lie down?”

“With you…too?”

“Yeah.” Mac nodded, sending a frond of fringe tumbling in front of one eye, trembling in the light. Light? It should be night. “’Kay…Stay…”

“I told you I’m staying. C’mon, lie on your side…safer, just in case…” Hendrix?

“‘Kay…” Joe agreed.

“Go on, then,” Mac grinned.

“Oops, I forgot.”

“Christ, we’ll be here all day…” Mac’s eyes rolled aloft with a tut, peasants…sort of sigh. The world is full of ’em. What can y’do…?

Then the bad-ass straightened up and strode to the end of the bed, gripped Joe’s ankles and tugged. Hard. Wheeee….it was a somewhat swift lie down, it must be said. There was a moment, just before Joe’s ankles were clamped in a death grip, when he noticed Mac was only sporting a pair of pants. A fact that proved beyond all doubt the distracting superpowers of that flinty glint. They were tighty-whities, at that…an even more staggering feat.

“Is the window open?” Joe asked, squinting up at it, as bleary as can be…

“The window?” It was behind Mac. Oddly ’nuff. Turning a tad, he glanced over his shoulder, thus presenting Joe with the profile of the most perfect posterior on the planet. “No, it’s not. Aren’t you cold?”

“I’m all flushed, s’hot in here.”

“If you want it opening, the room could do with a bit of bloody fresh air.”

Do I want Mac to open it? Oohh. Decisions, decisions…

It was about level with Mac’s face, requiring a wee stretch…and a bit of a jiggle, being a smidge sticky an’ all. A bit of a no-brainer, t’be sure. Having a bad-ass was better than telly. 

“Please.”

Just watching Mac walk was an untold pleasure. Golden globes tightly encased in brighty-whities, wiggling off to the window. The muscles of his back danced, gliding beneath burnished skin as the devilish dimples winked in saucy appreciation. Up went sinewy arms, the taut tush tightened, munching on the pants in the process. Blimey…and the jiggling was yet to come…hmm. ’Twas like watching twin mole hills under a blanket of snow, just before they popped up to play. 

“’Kay?”

“Hmm…much better.”

“What’re you cooking up now?” Mac asked, eyes narrowing with suspicion when he turned to face Joe.

“Me? Nothing.” No fibbing. At all. The buns had already risen…to the occasion. Splendidly. It was a good job Joe was lying on his side. He shifted his top leg a tad, shielding all evidence of here’s one I prepared earlier…

“Hmph.”

“Come to bed, before you fall over. It must be, what…eight, nine, in the morning?”

“Yeah…’kay.” Mac raked a hand through his still damp hair (so Joe couldn’t have nodded off for long) before letting his arm flop down. Shoulders slumping as he surrendered to exhaustion.

The front view was every bit as glorious as the back, in truth (still being the order of the day, no doubt). Bone structure hewn from bronze, his buzzed undercut with trailing tendrils on top; seal slick and darker when wet, as dark as the twerk of those lips. A lean, mean, fighting machine, taut ‘n’ twinkly nipples begging to be tongued to attention. Laterwards. He needed some sleep. Mac seemed, for once, to agree. He did, at least lift his left leg to clamber onto the bed, which was a start.  After cocking it across Joe’s calves, Mac stretched out behind him. Paradise. Inches away.

“Joe?”

“Yeah?” He craned his neck toward Mac, peering over his shoulder.

“Promise.” His eyes gleamed malachite bright while searching Joe’s.

“Promise. I’ll stay here…it’s easy ’nuff to be sure I have…” Joe aimed for airy, with not a jot of pleeease snuggle up and spoon me. He was somehow sure Mac would startle from slumber if the proverbial pin was dropped. It was prob’ly part of the training; if you didn’t stir, it was stabbed in your eyeball. Alertness, Lad! Stay sharp, stay alive. Or something such.

“Yeah…but then you’ll think I don’t trust you.” Mac sighed.

“Y’don’t,” Joe smirked.

“True, but y’know what I mean…”

“I think so? Mac…?”

“Yeah?”

“Will you…hold me?”

Mac nodded, a wee twitch of his head and swallowed visibly. Adam’s apple bobbing up and down so temptingly Joe yearned to chase it with his tongue. Then the import of that nod hit him and Joe blinked, bewildered. Had Mac just agreed? To spoon him, with nary a quibble? Did Mac want to? Snuggle up beside Joe? Smack was playing havoc with his heartstrings, it had to be.

Joe knew not. It was very hard to care when a strong, sure arm encircled his waist and Mac wriggled a bit closer to Joe’s body, which felt as if it might go off like a fire alarm. The bad-ass held his hips at bay—a mite, not much—his cock wasn’t wedged between Joe’s cheeks, despite tightening his arm a tad. 

Joe’s whole self all-but sighed with serendipity. “Thank you…for everything.”

“Y’welcome…” Mac mumbled. His huffs of breath were a warm caress, nuzzling Joe’s nape. Then. Impossibly, Joe felt the soft press of lips to oh, so sensitive skin, sparking a sizzle down his spine.

“Hmm...Sleep tight, Mac.”

There. Strewth. Joe’s medal had better be in the bloomin post.

 

***

Hi, I hope you’ve had a great weeked. Here are the next three parts, I was on a bit of a roll. Please excuse typos, lots of this has been written today and is very much a WIP, so it hasn’t been edited t’death… 

 

 

 

My Way

27 Joe 

 

“I’m going upstairs…before I cannae rustle up a reason not to wipe that smirk off your mush,” Mac huffed afore swishing off in his wee kiltie. Very fetching it was too, hugging the bountiful bum with aplomb.

Joe had never expected to find himelf envying a bath towel, it must be admitted. It was impossible not to crave being melded to the bad-ass in a similar fashion, but it was hard to imagine Mac—no. No, it was not.

Despite Mac’s general air of fuck-offery and glinty-eyed glare, Joe had glimpsed a gleam of something so astounding mid-shower, he’d written it off as a whisky-warmed, sleep deprived Mcblip on his gaydar. If this had been a one-off, Joe might even believe that. But it hadn’t…a wee hint of it earlier, in the attic, had made Joe blink a bit, too. Was it possible that the badass had been plundered thus? Maybe not for a long time…but that butt sure-as-snuggle-closer hadn’t seemed too adverse to being spooned in a semi-conscious state. Joe felt almost sure he’d briefly emerged from slumber to find himself curled around Mac’s body. A Mac who really hadn’t seemed to mind the bounteous bum being cradled by Joe’s hips, as cosy as can be. He’d stirred, grunted, wriggled a bit, then sunk back into that halfway world where awake and asleep seem much of a muchness.

While Joe was willing (in theory) to do the hosting honours without being miffed about never receiving a reciprocal invite…he’d have to be bloody dead not to covet the baddest ass on Earth. Or hereabouts, in Joe’s bloomin bed. 

While he could be content to bottom for the forseeable if Mac was doing the topping? Joe couldn’t, hand on heart, promise that such close proximity to the sublime swell of Mac’s arse wasn’t going to drive him demented. Or, that his choke chain wouldn’t start chafing a tad after a wee while. 

This truth-telling lark was getting out of hand. Trouble was, Joe did have a teeny tendency to All or Nothingness. Now and again. Hence matters going a mite amiss on occasion. Mac may claim to want the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but Joe’s tongue might p’raps run away with itself a smidge more than Mac bargained for.

Joe was pondering all this while drying off after the most sublime shower he could recall for…ever. That done ‘n’ dusted, he donned His-n-His towelling attire and set off in search of Mac.

“Mac…!?” 

“Yeah?” When those dulcet tones wafted down the attic stairs, Joe skittered up, only to stop sharpish in the open doorway. Mac was standing, staring out of the casement window, still clad in his kiltie, dimples like devil’s thumbprints peeping o’er the top. Stroked by the first fingers of dawn filtering through the skylight, his skin gleamed a sultry shade of gold. Beyond beautiful, from back or front.

Joe had a dim recollection of reading that Johnny Depp had fallen for the rear view of Vanessa Paradis. Her neck in particular—which had seemed most reasonable—her nape being both swanlike and exceptionally elegant. That noted, he now found himself struck with newfound empathy for the fate that befell M. Depp during his perusal of paradis.

Joe’s poetic appreciation of the McCafferty rear ended a bit abruptly when his hips propelled him across the room to wrap his arms around Mac’s waist. His legs were p’raps a tad wider apart than customary for a spot of window staring, so it was very cosy indeed. Apart from the minor matter of two towels too many, it was a stance not to be sniffed at. 

“What’re you thinking?” Joe murmured in Mac’s shell-like before pressing a kiss to the tip of his ear.

“Nothing really,” he mumbled. Fibber. No-one who replies ‘nothing really’ is ever thinking nothing. Really.

Even if Mac had been musing about nowt before Joe arrived, which was doubtful, this didnae seem probable with Joe’s cock parked in happy valley. He might be silently seething ‘get the fuck off me’ but surely the bad-ass would vocalise this with a bit more…vigour?  A quick peer over Mac’s shoulder confirmed that his cock sure didn’t seem to mind, which p’raps explained why Mac hadn’t stomped off. Again. Stomping with a stiffy to express miffiness would be a tad tricky. It was a tossup whether the wee kiltie would help, or hinder, matters. 

“Do as I say, not as I do..?” Joe wondered, ghosting his lips along the top of Mac’s shoulder. 

“Nothing important,” Mac amended, rather than take issue with that particular truth.

“Okay…” Having scored one unexpected point, Joe was content to quit. Everyone was entitled to thoughts they’d rather not share. “Are you having a kip now?”

“I told you—”

“Mac, what if I don’t go abed for three days? I often don’t. You’re being daft, I’m not going to hoover up my entire stash if you fall asleep. If I sort myself out now, I can come and lie beside you. I’ll bring my jottings so I won’t get twitchy if I don’t snooze off. Okay?”

“I…don’t—”

“Mac, you’re doing it again. I’m going to get fed up and fibalot if you take no notice when I tell the truth, it’s a bit flippin’ frustrating,” Joe huffed. “Unless, o’course, you’re arguing cos you’d rather have a shag, instead.”

 

 

 

 

***

 

 

28 Mac

 

 

Mac stood by the attic window, gazing inwards, rather than out. Despite being exhausted, he was too restless to sit down; staring out of the window seemed to justify standing around like a spare spanner. The room was too littered with crap to make pacing feasible, and it wasnae a state of mind Mac cared to project when Joe walked in. Cool, calm and collected was far preferable, even if he felt anything but.

Still, the fields dotted with sheep and leafy lanes leading to a world-away from this, were but a backdrop to his thoughts. Thoughts like a seething snakepit of rapidly unravelling resolve, riddled with dread, and poleaxed by how-the-fuck has Joe-Fitzgerald capsized the plan panic. Deadly efficiency swept aside by a flutter of hurricane eyelashes and a mouth far too gifted for Mac’s own good. Much too skilled at word weaving and wielding them with finesse. Way too bewitching, whatever the bloody hell he did with it.

These most unwelcome musings were rudely interrupted by the pesky provocateur himself, who scampered up the staircase before stopping dead. Mac had to force himself to remain still, rather than glance around, when he wanted to know what mischief Joe might be up to now. That seemed as good a reason as any. Particularly the most pressing one. Mac needed to get a grip. Thirsting for the sight of Joe Fitzerald was a straitjacket short of insanity. 

Nevertheless, Mac held himself static; a far too befitting description when the fucking air was fizzing with it. As were his veins, which was worse, hence his reluctance to sit down. Mac felt—rather than heard—Joe weave his way towards him. His skin was prickling with awareness, his heart hammering louder than Joe’s footsteps. Ridiculous. He’d just had the best bloody blow job for longer than he cared to remember. After fucking incredible sex. 

Long scar-smattered arms, with a fresh eye-sore despoiling Joe’s right wrist, wrapped around Mac’s waist. The moment they completed their circle, he knew damn well what he’d craved. Perhaps even why he’d presented himself like a tableau for the taking. F’chrissakes, if Mac couldn’t stop endangering himself, how the hell was he supposed to keep Joe safe? 

When Mac didn’t demure, the circlet tightened, clamping Joe limpet-like to his back; clammy chest plastered to his own warmer skin, scorching it. Worse, much worse, was the hungry ridge of hard heat wedged in the crack of his arse. Worse, because he’d wanted it there. It was all he could do not to arch into it, rock his hips, just a little. Fuck-NO. As if all this wasn’t minacious enough, those far too ripe and ever-ready lips brushed Mac’s neck as three simple words scored his skin.

“What’re you thinking?”

The answer to that impossible question was, of course: you. Cutting his own tongue out would be wiser than telling the truth. Hypocrite. Fuck knows why Mac bothered lying, the likelihood that Joe would let the ludicrous ‘nothing really’ slip past him was…zilch.

“Nothing important…” Couldnae be considered a lie. It was bloody blasphemy.

‘Kay.” To his astonishment, this gross defamation was allowed to go unremarked upon. Instead, Joe elected to focus on Mac’s lack of sleep. Both facts being suspicious in themselves. Together? They were an air-raid siren assault on Mac’s senses. Joe furthermore insisted that he often didnae sleep for three days. Then promised not to ‘hoover’ his entire stash should Mac submit to slumber. No doubt veritas. He’d be far more inclined to inject it.

Mac’s protestations were cut off by a tongue as quick as a whip with a mind to match. Scything through his pitiful attempt to rustle up a convincing argument against what was a reasonable proposition. Unless it was being put to you by Joe.

“Unless o’course, you’re just arguing cos you’d rather have a shag instead.”

This was not true. Until Joe mentioned it. Mac had been blanking his own boner. Despite the impossibility of ignoring Joe’s.

“No, that wasnae why I quibbled—or tried to—before being rudely interrupted. Twice.” A palm abruptly clamped across his cock. Mac sucked in a breath as sharp as the shaft of lust that blazed through his body.

“Odd that, cos your cock certainly seems to be…up for it.”

“I’m knackered,” Mac growled.

“Y’could just lie back ‘n’ think of ye olde England, if y’like. I don’t mind a bit, I’m happy to please m’self, as ’twere.” This was whispered into his ear, swiftly followed by Joe’s tongue, and the bolt of hot want that shot straight to Mac’s groin. Not content with the groan he wrenched from Mac’s lips, Joe tugged on his lobe with teasing teeth.

“Joe…” Mac growled.

“Hmmm…?”

“F’fucksakes…” he hissed, his teeth clenched tight enough to shatter.

“Exactly. Mac…can I sit on your cock? Pleease…”

Mac’s head, which felt far too heavy for his neck to support, started sinking against Joe’s shoulder. “‘No’ is going to sound a lot like a fib…just saying.”

“You’re insatiable…” Mac groaned.

“It’s not my so-hard-it’s-quivering cock in my hand,” Joe pointed out.

“If you think I’m going to lie there like a dildo, while you entertain yourself on my cock, you’re barking up the wrong tree, Fitzgerald,” Mac snarled, when a sudden surge of energy, from Christ knows where, blazed through his body. One moment Mac was standing there—suspecting he might keel over if Joe wasnae propping him up—the next, his self-preservation instincts finally kicked in. Spinning around, Mac ducked beneath Joe’s armpit and hoisted him onto a shoulder, ignoring his gasp of shock (and his own irrepressible smirk) while striding over to the bed.

 

***

 

29 Joe

 

“If you think I’m going to lie there like a dildo, while you entertain yourself on my cock, you’re barking up the wrong tree, Fitzgerald…”

No one else could’ve wielded a wodge of obscenity with such sublime finesse. Mere moments later, Joe found himself flat on his back on the bed. Dumped there by a bronzed god who stood, hands on hips, glinting at Joe in the lazy light where dawn gives way to day. 

“I have no idea how many, let’s call them ‘members of your entourage’, you’ve treated like toys to discard when you were bored of playing with them…” Mac growled. “But. Considering me a shiny new acquisition would be…foolish.” 

Mac tossed foolish at Joe with all the potential of a hand grenade; one he’d have to juggle like a scorching hot potato if it took physical form, mid-lob.

Mac was every bit as lethal as Joe had been promised. Twice as intoxicating. Every move as swift and precise as a blade slicing the air. The rare exceptions? Those intriguing glimpses behind the curtain when Mac’s iron-clad control slipped a smidge…but those perversely made him more compelling, rather than less.

“I do not intend to repeat myself again. A summation, if you please.” Mac ordered. Strewwth. ‘Twas a wonder Joe’s marbles didn’t melt out of his ears; his bones went distinctly buttery. Crikey, he could barely blink, let alone form a sentence.

Joe could, however, remember every word with utter clarity. On accounts of them being all-but branded on his brain. 

“You’re not…a toy. To discard, when I’m done. Playing…” Joe managed. As if his mouth had been hot-wired to comply with dastardly decrees.

“Pray continue…” Mac oozed. Like treacle drizzled over Joe’s naked chest. 

“It would be hot potato hand grenade to—”

“Where the hell did you get the potato?” Mac spluttered, despite clamping his lips shut the second he’d sent the spud sailing Joe’s way.

Playing hot potato ping-pong with Mac was much more fun than playing anything else, with anyone else, it must be admitted. Shiny new toy or no.

Quite why Mac kept banging on about such a travesty of truth beggared belief. Joe didn’t have the foggiest idea how he’d contrived to diminish—demolish—his importance to such a staggering degree. In a matter of hours, he’d made himself the most prized ‘acquisition’ Joe had ever got his mitts on. Acquisition in ‘hired to protect Joe’ terms. Not in a personal property sense. Could anyone ‘own’ Mac? Had a single individual ever done so, rather than (ultimately) the Commander-in-chief of Her Majesty’s Armed Forces? The Queen herself. 

No son of Major Fitzgerald RM could fail to recognise the stamp of military in Mac’s meticulous manner. Or packing technique. He hadnae been a bloody squaddie, either. Mac’s metaphorical boots were buffed to such a high sheen, his toe-caps were blinding. 

While the Press had made great play of the fact Joe’s dad was a decorated Marine, they’d never paused to ponder his wee son’s pride in that fact. Only the Major’s lack of it in the inglorious fruit of his loins. Joe had devoured every snippet of info he could glean along the way, with much the appetite he’d consumed guitar chords and narcotics. In a nutshell, he knew his stuff. 

He also knew ’nuff about his bad-ass to feel pretty sure that Mac’s Japanese Endurance Show proclivities had been no mere tease. Mac was quite capable of tackling one of the most arduous training regimes in existence and emerging amongst the ten percent who survived it (literally on occasion). If Mac hadnae earned himself a coveted beige beret, Joe would have to eat his hatstand (again).

All of which guaranteed high stakes, but the only ‘toy’ Joe had clutched in his sticky mitts? Was the gun he’d grabbed, all geared up and raring to play the ultimate game of Russian Roulette. With the man who’d been named his nemesis. 

Trouble was, Joe was starting to wonder if he wanted to win at all, if that meant he’d lose his bad-ass. Blimey, it would be a helluva hard job to conceal that truth, so Joe would have to make very sure Mac remained blissfully oblivious.

 

***

My Way

25 Joe

 

 

 

 

The melting of tension in the too-taut set of Mac’s shoulders was palpable as Joe massaged shower gel into the gnarls knotted beneath burnished skin. His bad-ass stood, head tipped back, lids closed, cloaked in a kind of calm as Joe smoothed a sponge across the sinewy planes of his chest…down arms that seemed sculpted by sweating it out in combat, as opposed to some fancy schmancy gym. Allowing himself to be turned for Joe to swirl soapy circles across the entrancing interplay of muscle and bone lacing Mac’s back. Leaving him all molten bronze, more amenable than imaginable when he’d arrived in a blaze of bad-assery.  

Joe didn’t think Mac would protest if the southward sweep of his palm ventured where it was itching to…but decided it would be best to seek permission. Seeing as he was endeavouring to toe the terms, as t’were. Here ‘n’ there.

“D’you want me to finish washing you?” Joe murmured, for fear he might shatter something…precious.

“Yes…”

Just yes. No ifs ’n’ buts, nor prevaricating t’boot. Mac was the most confounding creature Joe had ever met. His bad-ass bolshiness was as hot as hell but it was the glint in his grin that kept Joe guessing. He could never quite get a read on Mac; his eyes and mouth oft seemed at odds. Those glittering greens might be spitting sparks…while his lips twitched with a wicked twerk. What’s more, both were intentional; two expressions at once. On one face. Scoundrel.

Joe’s hands were actually trembling in anticipation when he sank to his knees before Mac. His cock was glistening a blood-engorged bronze, as thick as it was weighty when Joe finally furled his fingers around it. Lust-heavy lids flared wide when Joe flicked his tongue at the droplet of water clinging to its tip. The green was dark with desire, marbled like malachite in the spotlights. 

“Joe please…” His throaty rasp was the first time Mac had expressed a wish for something, rather than telling Joe what he intended to take. No…give. Everything he’d ‘taken’ had been a gift. He’d punished Joe with pleasure. Or, more precisely, the promise of its withdrawal, if—when—Joe failed him. 

If that was Mac’s game? Joe could play ball. Mac’s way, ’tis then. Joe would just have to do a damn good job of making the bad-ass rue the rustling up of his oh, so cunning plan.

In the meantime… Joe closed his lips around the head of Mac’s cock. At last. Ooh, this. His scent was as luscious as the taste that exploded on Joe’s tongue while drawing Mac deeper into his mouth. Deeper still, all the way, ’til he bumped the back of Joe’s throat. Mac let his head thunk back against the tiles with a groan that sounded lots like Joe’s name, “Joor…” ground out through gritted teeth. Swiftly followed by a sharp gasp when Joe hollowed his cheeks.

“Fuck!” A hand found his hair, clutching tight during a lingering retreat in which Joe mapped every millimetre he could reach with his tongue. Revelling in every rumbly moan and broken breath he coaxed from Mac’s lips. Sucking harder, faster, mixing it up, slowing right down and eliciting a grumble of protest when he let Mac slip from his lips. Glassy green struggled open to peer muzzily at Joe like a mole from his hole, disturbed from a snooze. Still as sexy as sin itself. Somehow. Devilishly dishevelled.

“Take what you want, Mac…” Joe whispered. Who better to watch and learn from, than Mac himself, lulled by whisky and languid steam-soused air…

“Gnrh…” A half-arsed protest that didn’t sound a lot like ‘no’, so Joe swooped, whisking his hand away to fasten around the hilt of his cock.  ’Twas with a groan like grinding gears that Mac dragged himself back and paused, afore unleashing a thrust so smooth it was a melody of motion…most at odds with the slamming of his head against the wall.

Joe watched, rapt as Mac flexed to and fro, sinuous spine building a momentum as sublime as the sight of his bad-ass lost to bliss. Each breath more ragged, his jaw ever tighter. There was a brief gleam of green when Joe swallowed him down before Mac screwed his eyes shut, praps trying to stave off the orgasm tantalizing Joe’s taste buds. A tad too late…

“Joorrrrrr!” Never had his name sounded as erotic as the r’s that rolled off Mac’s tongue when his hips spasmed and stilled, trembling as he spilled in a hot rush Joe swallowed down. Nor had he seen a sight as magnificent as Mac in that freeze-frame moment Joe committed to memory. Head thrown back, baring the golden arch of his throat, tendons standing as proud as the customary tilt of Mac’s chin. Hmm…

Joe took his own sweet time relinquishing Mac’s cock, sluicing him clean along the way. Releasing him reluctantly, Joe clasped thighs that could crack walnuts and slithered the length of Mac’s body while straightening up. 

“Jorr…” His voice sounded parched, as if Mac’s throat had been sanded. Joe pressed a kiss into his hair, inhaling its heady scent, rather than risk shattering the perfect stillness. Even the sultry air seemed suspended. Locked together in a swirl of steam like sea mist; a thousand unsaid words or none at all shimmering in the silence.

 

***

 

26 Mac

 

Mac reluctantly raised his head, dreading all he deserved to see in that devouring gaze. A gleam of triumph…smug satisfaction…maybe worst of all? Himself, skinny-dipping in pools of drowning darkness. Laid bare, mirrored back. 

Their gazes met. Christ…will I ever get ‘used’ to those eyes? Did anyone? Was that possible? Might there ever come a day when they didnae seem extraordinary and were just ‘Joe’s eyes’? Even unuttered, those words sent a shiver of awareness down Mac’s spine. Now, he’d lost his thread of thought. Something along the lines of not being clobbered by his own inadequacies as he’d feared? Instead, Mac found himself staring into black holes of liquid longing; as haunted as they were haunting. Vulnerability so raw it snatched his breath away. Where the hell was the triumph? The smug satisfaction? Mac couldnae compute what he should see with the writ-too-large-to-misread reality.

Joe had brought Mac to his knees merely by sinking to his own. My way. My terms? Obliterated mid-blowjob…and yet, Joe looked…lost. Mac’s head was awash with white noise, too blindsided to see straight. Did that even make sense? How much whisky have I drunk, exactly? Nowhere near enough, was the answer to that. If he was unconscious, then he couldnae think at all. That would be a result. Nor could Mac drown. In brown. Or embark on a ludicrous internal monologue while doing so.

As Post-Special-Forces professions went, Mac’s suited him just fine. His least-fit for civvy street short-comings? His finest assets. The more furious he felt, the more efficient he was. Maintained at a low simmer, the rage kept him sharp, as lethal as the reputation it served. The perfect release valve to syphon off some spleen before tackling the tattered remnants of the rest of Mac’s life. Until who the fuck is Joe Fitzgerald, of course. Agent Provocateur, par excellence. 

This torrent of inner effluent left Mac feeling as if he might suffocate in the steam-filled confines of the cubicle. He needed some air, sharpish. Shutting off the shower, he scraped his sodden hair back and…attempted some sort of sentence.

“Joe?” Well…it was a start?

“Yeah?” 

“What are you…up to, when you’re done, dry, whatever…?” 

“Going to my room for a smoke and a drink? You needn’t worry. Promise.” It was damn near impossible to doubt such wide-eyed sincerity…as many must’ve found to their cost. Nevertheless, Mac decided to give Joe the benefit of the doubt. He may have lost his mind but: why lie when that would be obvious before many minutes had elapsed? Mac needed to know if Joe’s word was worth fuck all.

“’Kay. Don’t make me regret it…or you’ll find yourself on a choke chain.” Mac tossed over his shoulder before snatching up a towel to give himself a perfunctory swipe. Then tugged a dry one off the rail to secure around his waist. It was a bit bloody wee but it would have to do.

“Choke chain?” The expression on Joe’s face segued from blameless innocence to incorrigible leer in the blink of an eye. “Hmm, kinky.” Topped off with a wink.

“Joe…”

“The growl and glinty glare isnae helping matters, y’know,” Joe grinned. As unabashed as he was unrepentant about that.

“I’m going upstairs…before I cannae rustle up a reason not to wipe that smirk off your mush.” Mac retorted, turning to stomp from the bathroom. A ‘bad-ass’ exit possibly best pulled off in anything but a tiny towel skirt.

 

***

My Way

24 Mac

 

 

 

 

When Mac finally managed to heave himself off Joe—a feat made possible only by the fact he really did feel rank—it left his skin as scorched and thirsty as desert sand.

“There’s a cubicle in the biggest bathroom, that’d be best…for two,” Joe beamed up at him before springing up to bound off the bed. The monster scarcely ate or slept and mainlined a drug that induced drowsiness and depressed the respiratory system. What the hell had Joe been like before his veins had been shot to shit with smack? It was a mind-boggling thought.

Was it any wonder he’d sought oblivion, not least from the devouring demands of fame? The relentless press pack had pursued him from the minute they realised what a prize had landed in their laps. Vince hadnae been wrong when he’d compared Joe to Amy Winehouse; the media had hounded them both in an ominously similar manner. Thank fuck Joe didnae have a fella draining him dry and fuelling the flames of every fatal flaw.

Mac might be a bastard, but at least he wasnae a blood sucking leech. That was sure to prove a consoling thought for Mrs Fitzgerald in the dead of night. Unable to sleep, dreading the call that would destroy her life and shatter her heart. It would never come, if Mac had his way. All he must do…was make sure he did.

Piece of cake, that. He could polish it off while taking tea with Mary Bloody Poppins. On Uncle Albert’s ceiling.

*

After following Joe to the bathroom last used on Mac’s ill-fated trip to the loo, he stood at the door of the shower cubicle, waiting while Joe turned it on and adjusted the temperature. Riveted to the lavish interplay of lean muscle and bone that gave Joe the gawky grace of a newborn gazelle. Christ, those legs…unaccountably elegant for limbs so lanky. An extravagance from top to toe. Mac had scarce stepped into the shower before snaking an arm around Joe’s waist, melding their bodies beneath the spray. Cocooned in a capsule of steam-filled air, saturated with sultry heat, as heavy as the immense press coiled in the pit of Mac’s guts. Need so raw, relentless, it was impossible to repress. He was cleaved to Joe’s back, fitted to its contours, cock nestled in its (now reserved) parking spot. Mac might’ve been standing as tall as possible, and Joe had widened his stance, but it worked, and they fit, without need for words. 

As they stood, enveloped in silence and steam, Joe let his head fall back to rest on Mac’s shoulder, raising his face into the spray. The water droplets glistened like diamonds scattered across his pearly skin, sluicing his hair back, white-blond and alabaster pale. A marble masterpiece, unearthly beautiful. Unbearably fragile. All mine. For now, at least. Too improbable to believe…had that been a mere rouse to get his own way? Or had Joe meant it?

As he’d said it? Perhaps, yes. He’d likely agreed to many, many things to get the bastards off his back or buy himself some time. Promises born from a sheer desperation to be left alone with his faithless friend and a few stolen moments of flawless peace…as pristine as freshly fallen snow. Freed from the constraints of fame, contract obligations, record companies, managers, lawyers, fans… The clutch of fingers, outstretched hands, pleading for a piece of Joe’s shattered self. Pasted-back together with a smile too beguiling to believe the worst…and too enchanting to care if it was. 

Mac understood addiction, knew all too well how seductive the lure of oblivion was. His drug of choice had been all-but inherent. A well-trod path so familiar to Scotsmen, its moniker proclaimed their creed. It’s true name? Translated from Scottish Gaelic—Uisge-Beatha na h-Alba—was The Water of Life. Apt indeed, when resisting its potent warmth was a wee bit similar to weaning yourself off water. 

Standing now, enclosed in the steam-soused embrace of that life-giving force—every bit as capable of snatching it away—Mac didnae intend to embark upon a war he couldn’t win. That would be as futile as attempting to turn back the tide; he couldnae deny himself Joe. Nor did he want to.

That aside, Mac had managed to drag himself back from the brink of being drowned by his own demons. So, he’d just have to do his damnedest to haul Joe to shore. If he failed? Then it sure as hell wouldnae be for the want of trying… 

*

“Mac…?” 

“Hm?”

“I thought you might have gone akip.”

“No…just knackered. I scarce slept a wink,” he mumbled into Joe’s neck.

“I’m sorry, t’was my fault…Here…” Joe swivelled around in Mac’s arms before edging him back until hot skin met cool tile, pretty much propping him against the cubicle wall. He may have drunk a wee dram too many. “Let me wash you…” Joe murmured, dipping his head to press a soft, moist kiss to Mac’s mouth. “…you’ll be all clean and then you can have a snooze.”

“I cannae…” Mac groaned.

“Why? We don’t need to go anywhere til tomorrow…” Joe assured him, lips curving in a serene smile as he smoothed rogue strands of sopping fringe away from Mac’s face.

“I know…but I’m sure you could think of somewhere,  if I was stupid enough to shut my eyes for a few minutes.” Mac’s smirk was too smudged for snark, his tone too…fond. He was fucked. Even though he hadnae been. Semantics.

“I don’t want to go anywhere, y’daftie. I’d rather stay here,” Joe breezed, reaching for a bottle of shower gel from the tier of chrome corner shelves to Mac’s left.

“I take it your stash will sustain you until we’re in London?” 

“Yup…but even if it wouldn’t, I could be sorted with a phone call. That’s beside the point and you haven’t had your wash. So stop cussing for a mo and let me do looking after you.”

“Oh gawd, go on then, if you must,” Mac sighed, rolling his eyes. As if to suggest he was humouring Joe to shut him up.

Joe’s answering grin confirmed he wasn’t fooled for a second but couldnae care less when he’d got his own way. My way? F’fucksakes, it was all going to hell in a handcart. Full-throttle.

Mac didnae have the energy to slam the brakes on. His uncustomary fretting had left him teetering on the edge of unease, which felt strangely more draining than the lack of sleep. Drenched in bone-deep exhaustion, his mind as misty as the swirls of steam. Foggy musings that melted away when soapy hands started sweeping slow circles around Mac’s shoulders, down his arms…

“Ahh,” he sighed, lulled by the far-too sensual slide of Joe’s hands. Featherlight fingers, stroking across his skin, smoothing away the knots of tension. A glide so hypnotic, it was hard to tell if he was fully conscious, or adrift in a halfway world, till Joe skimmed Mac’s nipples and a shaft of lust shot straight to his groin.

“Hmm…” It was with a purr of sound that Joe bent to lap up the water droplets and flick his tongue across a pebbled nub. Tender-sharp teeth enclosed it in a tugging tease that relented only for Joe to pounce upon its twin and torture that, too. 

“Mac…” His name was a breeze of cool breath blown across sensitive skin after Joe tongued it free. Then fused their lips to mete out much the same treatment on Mac’s mouth. Joe was a wall of heat pressing him against cool tile, their cocks crushed together as he continued his heady plunder. When he tore himself away, Mac was left bereft and blinking into the spotlights, disorientated and half-deranged with desire. 

“Mac…d’you want me to finish washing you?” Joe asked, squirting a dollop of shower gel onto his palm, midnight eyes glittering with mischief. Aglint with the truth of Joe’s request. 

“Yeah…” Mac heard himself sigh, as if from far away. Way too far gone to resist when he’d ensured that Joe hadnae even laid a finger on his cock. Let alone that oh, so clever mouth.

Yup…Mac was well and truly buggered. Even though he hadnae been. Unwashed and Somewhat Slightly Dazed he might be, but Mac was far too canny to be fooled by the ‘yet’ sniggering away in a dark recess of his reptilian brain.

My way. On my terms. Sorted.

 

***

My Way

22 Joe

 

 

*

 

 

‘I want you and I’m taking you. Simple as that.’ / ‘Surely you can’t believe that, not after..?’

Well, yes. Hadn’t Mac been there, done that, got the T-shirt?

Unless it was ‘just’…

“Unless it was just what?” Joe prompted, hoping Mac might finish at least one of the sentences he’d started. 

Never had ‘be careful what you wish for’ proved so provident: “Just a shag cos you cannae last ’til we’re back in London, where you’ll have access to as many ‘distractions’ as you wish?”

That made less sense than it did before Mac finished it. Unless…he had no intention of shagging Joe there? 

Never? Is that my lot? A taste of paradise Mac could dangle like a carrot on a string to lure him My Way. On My Terms. A carrot Joe might never get so much as a sniff at again, while forced to go about his business staring at the tastiest of all treats, every single second of the bloomin’ day. And tucked up in Joe’s bed at night. That was cruel. Crueller than cruel. Cruella deVil cruel.

The bad-ass even had the brass neck to sound miffy while stuffing the puppies into his sack. 

Nope, wrong again. Apparently. Mac wasn’t miffy, he was ‘pissed off’, he corrected Joe. Most miffily. A pissed-off bad-ass was a fearsomely sexy sight to behold, it must be said…and so Joe did. To which he found himself informed:

“Joe, I will distract you to fucking death if you don’t shut up.”  

Despite issuing this oh, so tempting threat, Mac decided on a smoke, rather than sexing Joe t’death, when he buttoned his lip, as bidden. Bummer. Being amenable was going to get very old. Very fast. About a zipped lip ago, in fact. 

“Oh, thank fuck for that….” Whether Mac was referring to that first glorious post-coital lungful, or Joe’s Zippy impression might remain a mystery forevermore. It seemed best not to ask, oddly ‘nuff. Not least when Mac still hadn’t explained why he wasnae miffy and was pissy instead. 

On the far more positive front? Mac didn’t plonk himself on the chair to glintily regard Joe through a swirl of smoke and fronds of fringe. Instead, he climbed back onto the bed and stretched out beside Joe, propping himself on one elbow. 

“Are you tired…?” The most loaded question on Earth, ergo suggesting that a spot of carrot jiggling was afoot.

“Nope, I just woke up. Why?” Joe tried to keep his tone neutral. Allowing a tinge of hope to inflict it seemed a sure fire-way of making Mac tighten the thumb screws.

“I need to take a shower when I’ve smoked this, I feel filthy,” the scoundrel announced.

“Charmin’…I had a bath!” Joe huffed.

“I wasnae casting aspersions…” Mac insisted. “I spent hours in the car and felt grubby when I got here. Now I’m sweaty and sticky, so I sure as hell cannae be smelling too fresh. Incidentally, you might’ve sat in the bath—briefly—but you did not have a wash.”

“That wasn’t my fault, you told me to stand up, then hefted me out of it!” Joe spluttered, before realising that he might just might have interpreted Mac’s words all wrong. On accounts of being a paranoid tosspot an’ all. Duh.  “Am I having a shower, too?” Joe wondered, before the spooks could talk him out of it. 

“If you want one,” Mr Cool-as-Fuck shrugged.

“With…you?” Ha. Joe didn’t intend to agree, only to find himself showering all on his tod while Mac availed himself of the amenities elsewhere.

“I’m hardly likely to leave you unattended in a bathroom, am I?” The bad-ass pointed out, with a wry eye-roll, t’boot.

“That p’raps wouldn’t be wise…” Ever. “Mac, are you still cross? You seem a smidge snippy.” Joe asked. A hard-hat question if ever there was one, but worth donning if there was a chance he might discover why Mac had been miffy in the first place, by default.

“No, I…fuck. I…” Mac broke off, seemingly to scrape his fingers through his hair. Then wrinkled his nose with distaste when they got stuck mid-rake.

Joe bit the bullet; he’d rather know, than not. He p’raps had a teeny bit of a tendency to leap in trouble’s lap, rather than scarper, sharpish.

“S’okay, you can say it, whatever it is. I doubt you’ll be the first, if it’s insulting.” It was with his best c’est la vie bash at a smile that Joe bypassed ‘bravery’ on the bullet train to ‘batshit bonkers’.

“I wasnae trying to insult you,” Mac sighed. “Nor pass judgement when you’re entitled to shag anyone you wish, and vice versa. I figured you’d be inundated with distractions the minute you land in London, so…” Another shrug from Mac’s exhaustive lexicon. This one was a tricky blighter. Rueful indifference? Resignation? Suit-your-fucking-self-ness? All of them felt a lot like being peered at over Judge Judy’s slitty unrimmed specs. Mac sure as strewth wasn’t guilty of inflicting the penultimate state of affairs on Joe’s person.

“But you won’t shag me, if I do? That’s what you’re not saying isn’t it?” 

“There is no ‘but’. I wasn’t issuing an ultimatum. Just stating facts: you’ll have all the distractions you desire in London, so I’ll be surplus to requirements. In that respect, at least.” Mac clarified, a tad wearily, while stubbing out his cigarette.

“I didn’t say you were issuing one,” Joe frowned, wondering where he’d lost the plot. He felt as if he’d nodded off in the middle of a movie and missed the part where it all went pear-shaped. “But what if I don’t want to?”

“What? Go to London? I’m contracted to get you there, so neither of us have a choice in the matter.“ Mac speared Joe with a glint so flinty its effect was flammable. Proof positive that Joe was plenty distracted, thank you very much, and the rest was just geography. 

“No, not that. You said, I’m entitled to shag anyone I wish, but…what if I don’t want to?”

“Have you decided to go cold turkey too, while you’re stretching credulity?” Mac smirked.

“Mac…you know damn well what I’m asking. You’re being deliberately obtuse.” Joe p’raps pouted, a bit, but blimey, it was like trying to grind granite with a cheese grater.

“Perhaps I want to hear it drip from unlikely lips…” Uttered with a dry-as-a-dust-devil shrug.

“Ooh. Humph. Fine. I don’t give a stuff where we are, it’s irrelevant. I want you—just you—to distract me to death, as promised earlier. There. Happy?” 

“That was no promise, it was a threat,” Mac remarked with a rakish glower. He knew damn well what he was doing. Bodge Bodge. Joe was convinced of it.

“Not when you’re issuing it. Whatever it was, d’you intend to honour it?” 

“My way. On my terms?” The green glittered like stained glass in sunlight. Scoundrel.

“Yeeess…” Joe sighed. Loudly. How very daring. He’d be braving blowjobs sans knee pads, next.

“’Kay. Shower?” A new shrug. Indecipherable. Possibly French though; it had a certain je ne sais quoi.

Joe’s jaw almost hit the floor; he’d expected a truckload of caveats and qualifications. A daft quip seemed his best bet as opposed to letting on, perchance that prompted a few. Thousand. “Strewth, I’ll start squeaking soon. You’re going to ruin my reputation y’know,” Joe informed him with a squinty side-eye. 

“Think yourself lucky, Fitzgerald. Mine was buggered the moment I walked through the door.” 

 

***

 

 

23 Mac

 

Mac had to suppress a grin when Joe flat-out pouted while accusing him of being ‘deliberately obtuse’. Perhaps he was guilty as charged, but in his own defence? Mac hadnae heard or read a damn thing about Joe Fitzgerald that suggested he’d be willing to limit himself in any way, least of all (smack aside) to one lover. That he might volunteer to do just that? Mac could barely believe his own ears, which made him suspect some skullduggery afoot.

“Ooh…Fine. I don’t give a stuff where we are, it’s irrelevant. I want you—just you—to distract me to death, as promised earlier. There. Happy?” Joe didn’t quite fold his arms and harumph, but it was a close run thing.

Happy? Mac was bloody gobsmacked.

Just you. Why? It didnae make sense. Not from those lips.

Unless…had Joe felt it too? The indefinable whatever-the-fuck-it-was that had roared to life with such force, it had shaken Mac to his core. That even now, in the aftermath, was smouldering like the embers of a fire in the sliver of space between them.

Embers that could ignite at the merest provocation and blaze out of control, devouring every lie Mac had enshrined as fact. Fallacies established for so long, with such fervent conviction, he wasnae sure there’d be a lot left if the façade went up in flames. Certainly nothing worth having…let alone valuing. Particularly for someone like Joe. A magpie who cherished rare and precious finds and stashed them away in his sanctuary from the world.

The hardbacks scattered asunder were likely first or special editions, covetable to collectors. Or…beloved by book lovers with an eye for a twinkly treasure, lured by the beauty of their binding. Trophies embossed with gold gilt lettering and bound in tooled leather by the hands of a master craftsman. Rather than pulp fiction paperbacks knocked out for the masses to read once, and toss aside. A metaphor as vainglorious as it was valid. Mac knew his professional worth…he sure as monkey shit wasnae paid peanuts. His value as a man? Was negligible. At best. Mac wouldnae buy himself from a car boot sale at clearing-out time.

All this would no doubt prove as devastating as forces of nature are wont to. Twice as terrifying. Joe was wildfire personified. Uncontrollable. As consuming as the—chemistry? Passion? Alchemy—whateverthefuck made it impossible that Mac might be ‘done with him’. After…that. It hadnae felt like ‘just’ anything. The fury of those flames was so intense Mac should flee as if the hounds of hell were after him. 

“My way. On my terms?”

As if. Five words akin to a plaster slapped on a fault line.

“Yeeess…” Joe agreed with a fulsome sigh, rolling impossible eyes Mac’s way. Blinding him with white.

“Okay. Shower?”

Joe’s mouth dropped open to echo those huge orbs. Oh Christ. He couldnae even serve up ‘gormless’ without pulling off ‘imp up to mischief’ instead.

“Strewth, I’ll start squeaking soon. You’re going to ruin my reputation y’know,” he rallied enough to note, lest Mac fool himself into believing that Joe intended to go quietly. Ever.

Ruin it? Mac didn’t intend to grant it such laxity. He was going to raze it to bloody ashes.

“Think yourself lucky, Fitzgerald. Mine was buggered the moment I walked through the door.” And yet, Mac had still done it. Why?

Why walk, knowingly, into something that jeopardized everything he’d grafted for? It was akin to stepping on a steel-jaw trap. Or shoving something rather more specific between its teeth. 

“Mac…?” Joe blinked at him with huge pools of drowning darkness. Good grief, Mac had never stood a chance. Those eyes could drag a far better man than he to his doom. 

Mac sure as hell had no memory of moving, but his mouth appeared to be melded to Joe’s, so he must have. Mac wasnae flat on his back on the bed, for a start. Did it matter? No…nothing did, not in that moment. Nor for some time…there was only the body beneath his own, and lips every bit as giving as they were greedy. Kisses so fierce they might be the first after a lifetime of longing, or the last before leaving for war. Ludicrous flights of fancy that would’ve made Mac smirk a few hours and forever ago. He was unravelling at such a rate, he’d be fit for fuck-all by the time they left for London. 

Joe couldnae have planned it better. Unless…of course, he had. 

Glass half-empty? Check.

Perhaps there were a few pips left in the old cherry, yet. It looked like Mac would just have to ensure that who the fuck is Joe Fitzgerald was kept far too distracted to spit them out… 

 

***

My Way

 

 

21 Mac

 

 

 

 

Mac stood, deliberating for a moment, then flicked the lamp off. Submerging the attic in moonlight and shadow; enclosing them in the embrace of Joe’s sanctuary from the world. A world that felt so far away, it seemed absurd that Mac could just get in the car and drive down a leafy lane back to the real one, in a matter of minutes. 

The darkness served purposes more…personal. Shrouded truths Mac couldnae afford to disclose, when that devouring gaze gleaned what might prove impossible to hide. Scuppering Mac’s battle-plan before it began.

“Joe…” he murmured, clambering onto the bed to straddle endless legs after lavishing his pertinent parts in lube. Bending low, he whispered words he knew full well were a last ditch attempt to get a grip on…fucknows what. Himself, Joe, the reins? Before Mac tossed them to the wind. He sure as hell couldn’t endure his own arsing about for much longer. Nor delay the decimation of his principles, pride, and—in all probability—the single advantage Mac had left…having pretty much tossed every weapon into play and called them tactics. A not-the-least-subtle bombardment of every-bloody-thing he could think of; chucked at Joe with all the clinical precision of a chimpanzee playing chess. To put the tin hat on this cluster-fuck of ineptitude? Mac hadnae counted on just how enchanting the shrapnel would prove. 

*

“This what you wanted?” Mac had a dim recollection of snarling, in an effort to pretend some mastery over the situation…when, in truth, he’d already lost. Not least his mind. Clearly not content with that, Mac then trounced himself by being unable to bear hammering away at Joe’s arse in the dark. As if that’s all he merited—in lieu of being offered a choice to plump for it—the least intimate option. Mac had never been so grateful for the veil of darkness when he dragged himself from Joe’s body and flipped him onto his back. 

This while knowing damn well how dangerous—downright foolish—it was, even as he did it. It being far too…intensely personal. Too…exposing. Exactly what Mac should guard against. Too revealing. Too impossible to resist.

He’d wanted those legs wrapped around his neck from the moment he’d clapped eyes on them. Long before (probably about thirty seconds and three weeks: JoeMeanTime) Mac had clasped them, sodden with suds, to his chest. Soaking his shirt with heat—boiling the blood in his veins—while hefting Joe out of the bath.

The sex itself? Had almost blown Mac’s goddamn mind. Did he regret it? He should. He didn’t. Joe deserved better than that. Life being a bitch? Joe had landed himself a ‘bad-ass’ bastard instead. About the best Mac could do now was ensure Joe lived to regret it.

The fact that Joe had, somehow, proved a revelation was—in retrospect—the least staggering aspect of all. Every indication had led Mac to suspect that Joe craved submission, of sorts. While he hadnae been wrong, he sure as hell hadn’t been right, either. As beguiling in bed as out of it, Joe had managed to seem malleable; all fluid lines and incendiary sighs. This while being, without a shadow of doubt, the most demanding of lovers, without expressing a single preference. Or asking for fuck all.  

How? Might remain a mystery until the end of time…which suited Mac just fine. A statement he wasnae the slightest keen on examining more closely. For self-preservation purposes. One of them had to stay sane, after all…if only for appearances sake.

None of which explained why Mac was now splayed across Joe, plastered to sweat ‘n’ sticky skin, and hadnae so much as prised his cheek off Joe’s chest. They’d be glued together before Mac fathomed what the fuck was happening to him. Keeping Joe safe was the work of a SWAT team; Mac needed his head in the game, not up his own arse.

*

 “Mac…”

“Hm?”

“Are you still staying? Or, have you…had ’nuff now?” Joe’s voice, always soft, had never sounded so small.

“Are you fishing?” Mac murmured, hoping his smile was louder.

“Fishing?” Joe’s bewilderment all-but shrieked. Why? When the truth was so beyond obvious as to be embarrassing. How could Joe not know? 

Unless, of course, Mac was fooling himself and Joe hadnae felt whateverthefuck had just…what? Shattered a belief Mac had enshrined as fact and clung to with every fibre of his being? That he was a stone cold killer. Dead, or as near as dammit, where it mattered to most people. Mac was many things, but he’d never been deluded; guilty of far worse, but never that. Quite the opposite. His glass had never been fuller than half-empty.

Mac was bloody good at his job. Or he’d be dead. Facts. He sure as hell hadnae been lucky. Luck didnae live in the world Mac inhabited. You planned with meticulous precision, paid attention, outmanoeuvred, outfought, outwitted and, as a last resort (or first) outright eliminated the enemy. Unless you had a death wish.

In Mac’s line of work, veering from tried and trusted techniques tended to prove fatal. Or worse, you were tortured and survived to tell the tale. In which case, you’d traded your sorry arse for someone else’s. 

How could Joe think for a second that Mac was capable of leaving him now? Quite aside from sex, the last time a client had needed someone to have his back as goddamn much as Joe? There’d been a laser sight trained on it. Mac sure as hell wasnae wearing body armour now. A moot point, when that wouldn’t change a bloody thing. Nor his own actions in an effort to protect Joe. Even from himself. Mostly from himself. 

So, why the hell would Joe ask something so preposterous, if he wasnae fishing? 

“Well, that seemed the only reason you might ask.” Mac fudged, adding, “Of course, I’m staying, I told you I was.”

“But that was…before. You said: ‘I want you and I’m taking you. Simple as that.’ Well, now you have.” Joe’s shoulders bunched in a shrug beneath Mac. “So, I thought p’raps you might be…done with me now.”

Done with him? Mac was still inside him, f’chrissakes. He would have shifted himself; been to mop-up and smoked his post shag cig by now, if that were true. 

“Fuck. Joe, I didn’t mean-I-shit. Surely you can’t believe that, not after…?” Mac couldnae finish that thought. Admit that much. “Unless, it was just—?” Nor that. “Shit. I need a smoke. And a drink. You?” Mac eased back and shoved himself up, lest he carry on digging. A feat far easier to pull off than disentangling himself from an excessive array of limbs.

“Unless it was ‘just’ what?” 

“Just a shag cos you cannae last ’til we’re back in London. Where you’ll have access to as many ‘distractions’ as you wish?” Mac sighed, raking his hand through his hair, which felt disgusting.

“No! I-won’t you shag me there?”

“How many goddamn distractions d’you need?” Mac spat in (what he tried to tell himself was) disgust, but felt horribly like fury. Except, his guts were churning, rather than seething with rage.

“But I don’t want ‘distracting’. I want— Mac, why are you miffed?” Joe interrupted himself to ask, propping himself onto his elbows just as Mac switched the lamp on. Mostly so he wouldnae be forced to navigate the landmine infested floor in the dark. At least he’d binned the bloody needle. Smokes. Where were the sodding cigs?

“I’m not ‘miffed’. I’m pissed off,” he grunted.

“Why? You’re very distracting when you’re pissed off did I do something wrong?” Joe segued straight into the latter without pause for breath, throwing Mac off his stride.

“Joe, I will distract you to fucking death if you don’t shut up.” He growled, too disarmed (demented) to rustle up a more rational reply. 

“That’d be a very fine way to go, methinks. Oops. Shutting.” The monster added, before clamping his lips in a tight line and performing the zipping gesture.

Oh f’chrissakes…Mac should probably just slaughter one of them now, for efficiency’s sake. It would save time. 

 

 

 

 

***

Hi…I’m sorry I’ve been away a while, matters have been a mite hectic. I hope you have a lovely weekend.🥰

 

My Way

20 Joe

 

 

 

 

“Joe…lube.” Two words. A world of promise.

“P’raps…in the bedside table?” Joe had a vague recollection of stashing some in there, just in case…

He hadn’t met a soul he wanted to share his sanctum with though…so why the bejeezus he’d brought Mac up here without giving it a second thought, Joe knew not. That was a helluva lot like inviting the fox into the chicken coop. Joe was p’raps far too fond of foxes, but— He quite forgot to finish reasoning his way out of that when Mac switched the bedside lamp on.

Strewth… Joe stared, dazzled by the play of light and shadow making Mac gleam burnished bronze. Every inch as taut and toned as the profile of that oh, so pert posterior. He was a work of art as exquisite as the Bronzi di Riace...as if plucked from his plinth at the Museo Nazionale della Magna Grecia for Joe’s delectation. 

“I…you’re beautiful…” He could scarce string three words together, let alone rustle up a sentence sans drool. 

“Wha—” Mac’s incredulous expression crumpled into befuddlement when he turned toward Joe, with much the impact of being smacked in the face with a shovel. Stonethebloomincrows. 

“Mac…please…” Joe stuttered, before puttering to a stop. He couldn’t think. Or blink. Every muscle tremouring, primed to launch him Macwards, but Joe seemed to be frozen. Even his eyelids. Especially his eyelids.

“Tell me what you want…” Mac’s voice was whisky-laced cream, as luscious as sunkissed skin lapped by lamplight.

Joe really wasn’t fussed ‘what’, or ‘how’. The ‘why’ was a no brainer. Only the ‘who’ and ‘when’ mattered: Mac. Now. 

Tell me what you want…

Joe had been badgering the bad-ass all day, to no avail. What happened to Mac’s Way or the Highway? Contrary Mary. Unless…the query was another tricksy torture technique dead-set on driving Joe doolally: Tell me what you want and it’s the last thing you’ll get…if you’re lucky. Joe was starting to suspect that the less he asked for, the more he might get. 

My way. On my terms. 

Now there was a thought worth thinking. A rare and splendoured thing indeed, so Joe took note: Sid’s My Way would make the perfect encore for next week’s gigs. Joe had been plunged into darkness again…so he was musing this while waiting for Mac to return. Chances were, he would soon find himself facing the bedstead, so he wouldn’t miss too much Mac-in-all-his-glory, but bummer. The snaffled bandana would make the perfect garter, à la Sid…and p’raps he could ask Adam to procure a white tux to wear? Sorted. Just in time, too. 

“Joe…” 

The mattress dipped and what felt a lot like a knee brushed Joe’s right thigh, roundabouts where the bandana was to be wrapped. Mac cocked the other leg to straddle Joe’s and bent low, hovering a hairsbreadth above his back. Joe’s skin was a silent scream, shivering with awareness. The press of plush lips to his nape was a brush of blowtorch breath that robbed him of his own. 

“I am not here to service you. Nor am I a member of your entourage who finds it a privilege to cater to your every whim…sexual or otherwise. I will fight you every step of the way. Never, ever, forget it. I want you…and I’m taking you. As simple as that.”  Mac’s voice dripped dark intent; almost as delicious as the promise of his threat.

“‘Kay…” Joe gasped when that oh, so talented tongue started trickling down his spine. 

I want you…and I’m taking you. As simple as that. Joe would agree to whatever dastardly shenanigans Mac dreamed up, and the bad-ass knew it. 

Firm fingers gripped his hips and tugged, propping Joe on his knees. He was still scrambling up onto his forearms when Mac swept a lavish lick along happy valley. The flare of flame that thrilled through Joe’s veins almost face-planted him into the pillow. 

“Mac…please…” he whimpered, wondering how much longer Mac intended to make him wait. Minutes…hours? Joe was starting to suspect the scoundrel was quite capable of torturing him for days. Weeks!? I’ll die, then he’ll be sorry. If only on the deficit of duty front. Demon.

“Oh so impatient,” Satan’s spawn sighed. Theatrically. Afore thrusting two slick fingers into Joe’s body.

“AAHH!” Joe’s spine damn near snapped, such was the sizzle of shock to his system. He’d barely registered Mac’s “Better..?” before the blackguard plunged them deeper, swivelling when he pulled them back, only to surge forth again. “Yesss…” Joe hissed when Mac flexed them, sending a white-hot bolt of bliss blistering through his body. Over and over that mind-boggling knot of nerves they wafted ’til Joe was reduced to a writhing wreck. Never more securely shackled…and Mac hadnae even bound him. “Fuck me! Pleeease!” Joe screech was still clawing the walls when he was coshed by an ache so hollow he wanted to weep. 

He couldn’t stop the whimper that escaped but how he wished it hadn’t. Joe had never felt so…naked, exposed, in his life. Even on stage. Not even by lurid headlines and deer-in-the-headlights snapshots that plastered his fears across the front pages. Writ far too large in eyes that couldn’t hide their truths from a world ever eager to spit in them.

As if it had ever been in doubt, such self-pitying piffle proved all-too well why a man like Mac could never want Joe. Not enough, never enough, to make it imperative to claim Joe as his own. Rather than something he’d get around to when Mac was done amusing himself with his own dastardliness. 

“Yuurrr goin’t be the deeth of us…” had scarce sandblasted Joe’s skin when he felt the briefest press about his person. A snatched-off breath before Mac snapped his hips, burying him balls-deep with a sound like sin itself. Grit and gun oil, sand and glue. Soused in sex. 

Joe had never felt so full. Everywhere. Impossibly so, as if his lungs and heart might burst. Every fibre of his being, filled with Mac. Strong and sure and…staying there; pressed so deep there was nothing, nothing but him. Joe was scared to breathe, perchance Mac…what? Realised what he’d done? Fear cared not a jot for such fripperies as sense.

“Joorr…” One word, wrung from Mac’s throat as if it…mattered. That he said it? Unless—Fuck no.

Mac…don’t stop…please…” Joe begged, scrunching his eyes as tight as elsewhere. It felt as if his entire self had locked down.

“F’fucksakes! Jor!” Oops. “I cannae see straight, let alone move…” Mac hissed.

“Sorry…” Joe blew out a loong breath and…unscrunched matters a mite.

“‘Kay…” It was with a low whistle that Mac eased back, almost all the way. “Just f’the record…I don’t intend to…”

If only that was as open ended as it sounded. A flight of fancy obliterated by a thrust so fulsome it expelled the air from Joe’s body and made the darkness bleed scarlet. That was the last nugget of nonsense his brain rustled up for quite some time. It was too busy being blissy after that. Too entranced by the ferocity of Mac’s focus and panther-hipped prowess. As incomparable as his bad-ass billing. 

Joe’s entire existence, narrowed to need; to here, now and the man branding him mind, body, soul. Whether Mac intended to, or not…it made no neverminds, when that’s exactly what he did. Jack-hammer hips pounding with fearsome finesse, fingers gripping tight enough to paint their imprints in rainbow hues for days. Grinding ever deeper, driving Joe to the very edge of himself, and beyond, beyond the bounds of reason why and why not, when there was only thisss. Him. Mac. Meanest Jo-fo on Earth or thereabouts. Hereabouts…and how.

“This what you wanted?” Mac growled, slamming himself home. Ratcheting the impossible pressure another notch or ninety. Heavy heat radiating from the base of his spine to spark along its length like a test-your-strength dinger dead-set on hitting the jackpot. 

“YESSS!” Joe gasped. A response that pretty much assured Mac would promptly pull out. All the way. 

“Ma—” Joe’s protest was cut short when the scoundrel grasped his right thigh and tugged. Hard. Toppling Joe onto his side…flat on his back. Mac had no sooner hooked a leg over each sinewy shoulder than came the blunt nudge Joe craved. More intensely than smack in that moment, a miracle in itself. He’d barely got his bearings but his body welcomed Mac as if it had been starved for a lifetime. Now it knew that it had. ‘Twill be hell to live in after this.

“MAC!” Joe gasped, tightening his ankles to force him deeper still. “More…”

“Not had enough yet?” His bad-ass rasped, pressing forwards, pushing Joe’s thighs towards his chest, folding him in half. 

“Never…” Oops. That was a mite too much info. Um, it could mean ‘more’? Not never-forever.

“You might wish you’d never said that…” Mac muttered, hefting Joe a mite higher and shifting a smidge to rattle off short sharp thrusts that blitzed Joe’s system with sparks of pleasure…as potent, sure, strong, as the man in complete control of the havoc he wreaked. On Joe, who was an utter mess. A sweaty, sodden mess, fringe stuck to his forehead, fists snarled in the sheets. Squirming like a wanton wench in a bodice ripper. All breathless pleas, raggedy gasps…and strangled cat sounds he’d never made in his life.

“M-m-ah! Ach! Pleease…” 

“Surrendering already?”

Joe could hear Mac’s dastardly grin when he rolled those lethal hips. Demon. “Yes…” Joe sighed, all out of wherewithal for wit. It was all he could do to unfurl his fingers and relinquish the sheet in order to reach—

“No.” Mac barked.

No…? NO? 

“Bu…but Mac!” Joe wailed. Stupid, stupid, stinging burning his eyeballs.

They all-but plopped on the bed when his cock was encompassed in a tenderfierce clasp as brutal as barbed wire. As staggering as the word that ripped from Mac’s lips. “Mine…”

A single syllable that ricocheted round Joe’s head, swallowing its own echo, making less and less sense with every sweep of Mac’s wrist. In perfect simpatico with that serpentine spine in a melody so sublime, it would haunt Joe forever.

The only better there could possibly be, was letting go of the impossible pressure. Teetering on the brink of maddening pleasure, desperate with desire, drunk on lust. 

“Maac!” His name, of course his name, in the throes of white-hot bliss. There was no more than him. The inescapable agent of Joe’s doom. He was well and truly buggered. In every way. Ah well…

Best not go down without a fight tho’…the bad-ass had a reputation to preserve, after all. 

 

***

 

 Bronzi di Riace.

My Way

19 Mac

 

 

 

 

 

Mac was snatched from fitful slumber by the faintest impression of skin. He had lain listening to Joe’s too-leaden breaths for a long time before dozing off. Only for his eyelids to snap open what felt like seconds later…too many times to count. A sensation uncannily akin to being shoved off the edge of a cliff and swan-diving into an abyss of dread. 

The knowledge that ‘nodding off’ was a common occurrence when the central nervous system was clobbered by a shot of smack? Handae counted for fuck-all to the adrenaline rush unleashed by the chilling tableau it presented. 

If any doubt had lingered about the all-too obvious answer to who the fuck is Joe Fitzerald; the sight that suggested an horrific change of tense would’ve obliterated it. Mac had barely retained the presence of mind to check Joe’s vitals, as opposed to upending his bag on the bed to scrabble for the naloxone stashed in its ease-of-access side pocket. F’fucksakes.

Joe had been bundled off to Harley Street on his last day in London for an insurance medical—signed off as ‘satisfactory’ by his doctor—somehow. In layman’s terms? Better than they’d dared hope…but.

Mac’s constitution of an ox assessment hadn’t been entirely founded on Joe’s indefatigable erectile functionality. The urine test results had been as abysmal as the toxicity levels of Joe’s blood, but it hosted nothing more sinister than the usual suspects. It carried no further causes for concern, and Joe’s CD4 count was well within the normal range. He was not HIV positive. Mac hadnae totally lost his mind. A reassuring thought. Not.

 “Joe..?” Mac mumbled from the semi-conscious state he’d been suspended in for fucknows how long. A limbo-land full of unthinkable fears. Unspeakable probabilities. Unwinnable wars. 

“Hm?” That simple sound was the most responsive Joe had been since…he’d muttered ‘s’okay. I’m sleepy, s’all…’ and promptly passed out. It hadnae felt the slightest like healing sleep. Just a drug drenched, too-deep oblivion that could slip into a coma or…worse. Paranoia might’ve played its part in Mac’s fears, but that sure as hell didnae make them less valid. Statistics, science, and sheer common sense constituted an unholy trinity of terrible truths. 

Joe-the-poster-boy for the perils of rock-star excess…let this be a lesson to you, kids. The press would pay a fucking fortune for the shot of the scene which greeted Mac when he walked through the attic door. A sum he’d known would sky-rocket into the stratosphere if the picture had shown Joe’s corpse.

Mac found himself clutching a thigh as long as it was lean, but far from cadaverous; as if to anchor Joe to a goddamned world that didn’t deserve—oh f’chrissakes. Mac snatched his hand away as if it had been scorched, only to tangle into tufty hair while crushing his mouth to startled, but instantly responsive lips. Lips he proceeded to ravage with a hunger as desperate as it was dangerous. To them both…and as inevitable as Joe’s next fix.

An arm was wound around Mac’s waist, but Joe didn’t push for more. Just splayed his palm across Mac’s skin; a fact that sent his hips snapping against Joe. A so-near, but oh, so frustrating slam of pants to steely flesh. The whimper of sound he swallowed was intoxicating as the responsive flex of Joe’s spine and the fingertips he slipped into Mac’s waistband. They’d no sooner done so, than stilled and Mac knew why, but he sure as hell didnae intend to object. The few fleeting hours he’d held off had felt like forever. The passing of time had somehow seemed to condense and yet simultaneously protract since he’d walked into Joe’s world…as if it too was seduced by the ebbs and flows of that mallifluent mind.

When Mac threw his weight forwards, those tentative fingers shot down the back of his briefs and clamped to his arse melding him to a body as molten as the liquid heat of Joe’s kisses. Mac was done waiting, done with prevaricating how best to do his job, done with every damned doubt that would flay him to the bone, tomorrow…could wait. He wanted Joe. Pure and simple. Joe, the too-everything for his own welfare client Mac was being paid to protect. He could do bloody both. He had to. 

Planting his palms on the bed, Mac pushed himself up and clasped an arm to tug Joe onto his front, cutting off a cry of protest. His plans had unravelled faster than his scepticism that Joe would prove worth the furore—or fuss he inspired—let alone infamy. Mac’s single focus of intent had become shaking Joe to the core and snatching up all he could along the way. If that wasnae far off plunder and pillage, Mac didnae give a crap. He had a purge to plot yet. 

In the meantime, Mac had an occupation to establish…

The fur would undoubtedly fly when Joe found himself a damn sight safer than he’d ever hoped. Ah well, he had a job to do, after all… One Mac couldnae help but relish as he set about proving the indispensable perks of ‘security’.

*

“Need you…” A halting plea that speared Mac’s heart with a shaft of guilt. Fuck, he hadnae meant to torture Joe into supplication. And yet, his mood swings were so mercurial, the moment Mac felt as if he’d got some sort of grip, the miscreant pulled the entire floor from beneath his feet.

“Me, or this…?” Mac demanded, yanking his pants clear of his cock to park it like a bloody bike between Joe’s cheeks. All-but blowing his own mind in the process.

“Yess…” A ghost of a word, barely above a breath, but its effect on Mac was the blast of a blowtorch.

“Joe…lube.” 

“P’raps…in the bedside table?” 

Mac scrambled off the bed, dispensed with his half-mast briefs and switched the lamp on. The drawer seemed most probable, so he tugged it open to find a jam-packed treasure trove of…fucknows what. All that mattered was the lube…buried beneath it. A fact that did suggest Joe had told the truth earlier.

“Mac?” 

“Aye?” he responded, trying to cram the ton of stuff back in.

“I-you’re…beautiful…” Joe’s tone was as bewildering as the word he’d uttered.

“You’re bonk—” The rest died in Mac’s throat when he clocked Joe’s expression. Wonder? That couldnae be right, it was those flamin’ eyes; too wide to be human and too bewitching for…both their welfares.

“Mac, please…” Joe rolled them up to Mac’s face, clobbering him with black holes of ineffable need. Dragging Mac to his doom…aided and abetted by a torrent of inner claptrap. Apparently. 

“Tell me what you want…” Mac rasped, his voice stripped to a husk of its former self. Rather like his sanity.

“You. Whatever I can have…”

 

***