Sunday, January 31, 2021
January Book of the Month: Peter Cratchit's Christmas Carol by Drew Marvin Frayne
Summary:
Peter Cratchit, a young lad preparing to make his way in the world, is the eldest son of Scrooge’s lowly clerk Bob Cratchit. Peter flourishes under the tutelage of his “Uncle” Scrooge and seeks to make his mark as a man of business, like his uncle before him.
One Christmas Eve, as Scrooge lays dying, Peter embarks on a risky ocean voyage that he believes will secure the future for his family. Onboard, Peter finds love, happiness, and success, only to lose it all by the voyage’s end.
Returning to London, Peter shuns his family and instead finds himself living on the streets, haunted by his failures and his dead lover, selling his body just to survive while he waits for the winter cold to claim him once and for all. But winter snows also mean Christmas is coming, and for the Cratchit family, Christmas is a time of miracles. Can a visit from three familiar spirits change Peter’s life again? Is there one more miracle in store for the lost son of one of Dickens’ most enduring families?
I'm just going to say it: this was amazing!
It never really dawned on me to see if there was any Xmas Carol stories in the LGBT genre but when this one crossed my path, I was intrigued from the beginning. Not only was it a Dickens' style story but it involves his characters and I was very interested to see how the author would bring them to life. The reasons behind Peter's ghostly visitors may be a bit different than Scrooge's but never the less poignant. My heart broke for Peter at times, I found myself internally screaming wanting to make Peter see this way or that, to turn left instead of right, but the author had Peter's journey set and I was just along for the ride.
If you are simply expecting a gay retelling of the Charles Dickens classic than you will be disappointed, Peter Cratchit's Christmas Carol is the character's own story, yes he knows his Uncle Scrooge's holiday adventure, yes he's visited by his own three spirits, yes he has to learn his lessons, to discover what is important in life but they are different lessons and that is what makes this story so good. A blending of classic and new.
I've only ever read one other Drew Marvin Frayne before(and it was just a few weeks ago and another Christmas short) and to be perfectly frank, I was skeptical about an author "tinkering around in Dickens' playground" but I needn't have been because the author makes this story unique, intriguing, heartbreaking, heartwarming, and one that should be read any time of year. Charles Dickins' A Christmas Carol is my absolute favorite Christmas story and one I read, watch, listen to every holiday season multiple times, now I may not read Peter Cratchit's Christmas Carol every year but I will definitely re-visit it for years to come. As I said above, Drew Marvin Frayne's take is a blending of classic and new, not a re-telling in any way, shape, or form but if you need a label or tag then I suppose "sequel" probably best describes it. Whatever label you want to use, it is not to be missed.
RATING:
Scrooge was dead: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. He died some two years past on this very day, Christmas Eve. I would it were not so; yet I suspect the old man would not agree. He became rather infirm at the end, frail and forgetful, and though he did his best to remain cheerful, I know he hated to show weakness of any kind. It wasn’t a matter of pride, nor vanity; no, it wasn’t for his sake that he cared so. It was that, as he himself often said, he had become a sort of safeguard, a protector, to his family and to his community, and he hated the thought of us carrying on without him there, watching over us all. And we, of course, would clasp his hand and tell him that he would be looking over us in the next life, and that such thoughts brought us great comfort, and they should bring him great comfort too. And he would sigh, and agree with us, and settle in, at least for a while, until another great spasm wracked his breast, and his chest would heave with immense, raggedy gasps for air, and his worries arose all over again.
He died a good death, if it could be said that any death should be regarded as good. Though I have not spent nearly as many years as Scrooge did on this planet, I have knocked about a bit, and circumstance has shown me both great fortune and great tragedy. And as such, I have come to believe there is no good death to be had in this world. I have seen many poor wretches, past all hope of recovery from whatever it was that ailed them—whether it be an infliction of the body or the soul—beg for death, pray for it, and have watched it come in many guises, be it the cold, or the cough, or the cutthroat. I have seen their prayers answered, even if those answers came in some form of pain they had never envisioned. And yet I say, when the end did finally come, each and every one begged to stay, begged for their final breath to be forestalled, begged to live for even one moment more. Yea, though I have been on this world for less than a quarter of a century, I have come to know its horrors and have learned the greatest horror of all is that there is no world, no life, beyond this one.
Scrooge would not have agreed with this; oft he told us the tale of his visitation by his old friend, Jacob Marley, dead seven years in the grave before his return, and the further visitations by the three spirits who haunted him, also on a Christmas Eve. To Scrooge, there was no greater evidence of providence than this, and he lived such feelings in his heart for the rest of his life. I was glad of it; we all were, all of London town, though those of us who were closest to him felt his change of heart and his largesse most keenly. And many was the time, as a young man, on a Christmas Eve like this one, I sat cross-legged on the floor at Scrooge’s feet and listened to his tales of Christmas ghosts and astonishing spirits, of visitations to the past, and of the wondrous things that are yet to come.
Yet even then, I was a skeptic. After his tale was complete, Old Scrooge, as wise at reading faces as he was at managing his business, would frequently tousle my hair and tell me, “Young Master Peter, you must have the conviction of your faith. It is not enough to simply believe; you must know Christmas, and keep it in your heart all the year long.” Such words were enough for Tim and for the others; but I, I would only smile, and say, “Yes, Uncle Scrooge,” in a manner and tone that were always respectful, but that the cunning old man also knew to be mollifying. And Scrooge would then bend quite low—for he was a tall, wizened old fellow, and I have always been inclined to be undersized—and he would say to me, “You must not fear the world so much, Peter Cratchit.” And I would nod, and he would pat my cheek, or sometimes playfully pinch my nose. But what he meant by those words, I cannot say. In my experience, there is much to fear in this world, and much calamity the world will set upon the unwary soul who is not ever vigilant.
A growl in my stomach disturbed my thoughts. Time to dispense with these ruminations on the past; I was hungry. I willed my body out of its bed, a small recess in the side of a crumbling brick building used for the storage of livestock, a cramped pen to house the beasts before they were led to slaughter. The recess provided some shelter from the elements; there had been rain last night, so it was useful to keep dry, though the rain had been only a drizzle, and the weather was unseasonably temperate for so late in December. That was no small mercy.
The recess had once been a side door, now sealed up, when the building had been used for some other purpose, long forgotten to time. The smell of animal excrement that clung to the building—and to those who worked or, like me, dwelt within her—was formidable, but it also meant the alley I called my home remained deserted during the nightly hours. Safety in this life often comes at great cost. Those who have suffered at the world’s hands know this lesson all too well. The men who tended the animals had assembled a small cleaning station, clean water and a strong lye soap, behind the building, and they charitably did not begrudge my use of it from time to time, provided I did not tarry, and they did not see me. I hastened in my morning ablutions and made my way out to the street.
There was a bakery on Saint Martin’s Close; it was there I would seek to break my fast. Every morning, my repast was the same: two hot buttered rolls and a small tankard of ale. The only difference was whether the baker would tally the cost of his labors on my tongue or on my tail.
I made my way down Carol Street to the main Camden Road. I used to live on this very road, as a youth, but far down the other end from those places where I now worked and resided. Camden Town was named for Camden Road; the road was the heart of the ward, bisecting it in the north and making up the entirety of its western edge. It was impossible to be in Camden Town and avoid the Camden Road. And yet, in all of my wanderings through this neighborhood, I always avoided the familiar façade of my former house, with its chipped paint and ill-fitted front door. I was more interested in the thick, oaken door that led to the alley behind the bakery, where the business received deliveries of flour and other such supplies. I knocked. Some days, the baker answered promptly, as if expecting me; other days, like today, I had to wait. He was a busy man, having woke well before the dawn to assemble his breads and rolls and pastries and cakes. His bakery was a small one, but he did a good measure of custom, enough to keep him in flour and dough and sugar and coal for the ovens. Still, he had only one boy to help him prepare the daily wares—in this neighborhood, even relative prosperity resulted in genuine poverty.
Whether the boy was his son, or some urchin off the street, I do not know. The baker and I did not converse on such matters. It was, in part, because the man’s well of English was so deficient that any conversation would prove inconsequential at best. I could not identify his native tongue, and he spoke only the English of a tradesman and knew the terms for barter and exchange, and little more. My own English improved greatly under the tutelage of Ebenezer Scrooge, who gave me books to read and provided college-trained tutors to sharpen my intellect. I was beyond basic schooling by the time our families came together; but my mind was quick and hungered for knowledge, and Uncle Scrooge filled it with book after book on all manner of subjects—history, literature, economics, philosophy, mythology, the principles of business. I eagerly took it all in, save perhaps the poets, who I found too disordered, too insubstantial, to truly relish. Still, for an occasion such as this, the silver portion of my tongue was not really necessary. It was my tongue’s other talents that the baker was interested in. I suppose, in the end, this, like so much in life, was simply a matter of business. I needed what the baker had to offer; he felt the same. Talk would only prolong the necessities of exchange.
The man finally answered and hurried me inside. In nicer weather, he sometimes took his payment in the alley, but he did not like the cold and the damp, so he ushered me into a cramped cookery room stuffed with coal- and wood-burning ovens. I had no objection to being enveloped in warmth; it made for a pleasant change of atmosphere from my usual status at this time of year.
I could see by the sights and sounds of his distresses that my morning patron was more harried than usual. His eyes were darting around the room. His gestures were quick, and rough, and impatient. He was a large, hirsute man, with a rotund belly and a gray, prickly beard, which, at the moment, was dusted in a rather generous supply of flour.
I was no longer fond of beards; I generally preferred smooth-faced youths, like myself, and not the wooly chins of older men, though, in my line of work, older men were my main custom. And this was business, not pleasure, and the baker felt the same as I, especially today. Even as he penned me into his back kitchen, he continued to bellow orders to the boy out front. I often wondered what the boy thought of our exchanges. Perhaps it was of no consequence to him. Perhaps he was grateful he did not have to provide a similar service. Or perhaps he did. Who can say.
Drew Marvin Frayne is the pen name of a long-time author (Lambda Literary Award finalist) who is finally taking the opportunity to indulge his more sentimental and romantic side. When not writing the author lives with his husband of 20+ years and their dog of 10+ years in a brick home in the Northeast.
EMAIL: drewmarvinfrayne@gmail.com
Sunday's Safe Word Shelf: Drawing Strings - Complete Series by Sean Michael
Summary:
Damon, Erik, Joe, and Tork graduated together from the police academy. Though they’ve found their niches in different departments, they’ve kept a tradition alive that brings them together four times a year. The four men meet at Erik’s secluded cabin for a long weekend and draw straws for which of them is going to be the sub.
It’s all fun and games until one of them becomes gravely ill. It will test their bonds along with their resolve and their commitment to each other.
Do these four men have what it takes to be more than just friends with benefits? Find out in this compilation of the four Drawing Straws stories.
Erik, Joe, Tork and Damon were previously published individually by Resplendence Publishing.
Summary:
Damon, Erik, Joe, and Tork graduated together from the police academy. Though they’ve found their niches in different departments, they’ve kept a tradition alive that brings them together four times a year.
The four men meet at Erik’s secluded cabin for a long weekend and draw straws for which of them is going to be the sub. This fall, Erik draws the short straw for the first time in a couple of years, and the other three men can’t wait to play Dom to Erik’s sub.
Will the weekend go as planned or are the men beginning to tire of the fun and games?
Previously published by Resplendence Publishing.
Summary:
Damon, Erik, Tork and Joe are back again for another wild weekend together where they can all let go and really be themselves.
Just because they’ve left their jobs and lives behind though, doesn’t mean that they’ve left their baggage behind, too. Joe’s had a really rough week and to everyone’s surprise, fixes the draw so he gets the sub straw.
Can Damon, Erik and Tork help Joe deal with his troubles and send him home on Monday feeling ready to take on the world again?
Previously published by Resplendence Publishing.
Summary:
Damon, Erik, Joe and Tork are back at their secret cabin for the weekend, but they all have more on their minds than spending the weekend fucking.
With Damon sick, his three lovers have rallied around, using sick days and time owing to make sure Damon is covered twenty-four-seven as he goes through chemo and recovery his attempt to battle cancer. Only halfway through four rounds of chemo, Damon nonetheless has insisted they keep their quarterly ‘date’.
Even though they are there at Damon’s request, will the men be able to concentrate on picking a bottom and using him well? Or will they all be too distracted by real life to let loose and play?
Previously published by Resplendence Publishing.
Summary:
Damon, Erik, Joe and Tork return once again to their weekend getaway cabin and this time they have something to celebrate.
Damon is finished with his cancer treatments and the weekend starts with a welcome announcement and only gets better from there. Tork has another surprise for his men, though, one that will cement their lives together forever.
Join the foursome in this final installment of Drawing Straws.
Previously published by Resplendence Publishing.
Erik #1
Chapter One
William Torkvinenndan, Tork to pretty much everyone, made the final turn on the world’s tiniest fucking dirt road to Erik’s cabin. It would have been easier if he’d been able to leave on time, but as it was, he’d nearly had to cancel altogether, so the fact that it was now dark was a small price to pay.
While being head of the new intradepartmental unit was quite the coup, it also came with added responsibilities, added stress. And while that made it a little trickier to get the time off, it also meant he needed this weekend more than ever.
The road got a little better as the cabin came in sight, or at least the warm and welcoming light from the windows came into sight.
Three cars were already parked, and he wasn’t surprised—he was the last one here. Pulling into the only spot left, he turned the engine off, grabbed his bag, and headed up the stairs to the empty front porch. The front door was unlocked and he went in. He could see down the hall to the kitchen.
There was music coming from the back porch through the open backdoor, the smoke from the grill and scent of cooking meat making his mouth water. He tossed his bag into the front room, plugged his phone in next to the other three and turned off the ringer.
For the next three days, he belonged to the men currently in the back of the house.
He headed that way, listening to their voices as he made his way down the hall. Out on the deck, Erik stood in front of the grill, the light making him look a little like a Nordic god. Not that Tork would tell the bastard. Erik knew exactly how good he looked.
In the kitchen, Damon chopped vegetables while singing, his lithe body dancing to the driving beat. Joe was sitting at the table, working on a bottle of some freaky juice or other. The man found the weirdest food.
Tork couldn’t have stopped the grin that broke out, even if he’d wanted to, and God knew, he didn’t want to. “Hail, hail, the gang’s all here.”
“Oooh. Mr. Department Head remembered it was our weekend.” Damon winked at him, eyes black as holes, but full of life.
Tork flipped the man off companionably. “Just for that—you get the last kiss.”
He went to Joe first, tilting his lover’s head back and taking a good, hard kiss. Fuck, the man tasted good beneath the sweet of his juice. And nobody tongue-fucked like a cop. Nobody.
Their lips parted, Joe giving him a shit-eating grin. Smirking at Damon, Tork went out onto the deck to wrap his arms around Erik’s waist and dropped a kiss on his exposed neck.
“Hey, babe.” The big man leaned into him, trusting him to hold all that weight. “Glad you could come out. It’s not the same without you.”
“Wouldn’t miss this for anything.”
They’d been getting together four times a year ever since they’d graduated. This was the closest thing he had to family.
“Meat smells good.” Tork’s hand lingered on Erik’s ass, then he finally went to Damon.
Damon was still chopping salad veggies, still singing, and brandished the knife at him when he came over. “Nope. No kisses for you. Shoo.”
“Your loss.” Tork knew he was a great kisser.
“Dude, you’re not even going to push a little? You suck.”
Laughing, Tork grabbed Damon’s arm, twisting it just enough to disarm him, before tugging him close and pressing their lips together. Damon pushed up against him, hips rocking, dancing, and that hot, hungry little tongue lapping against his own.
He could feel Damon’s sizeable cock pressing against his hip. Damn, but Damon always was a needy fuck. There was a reason he liked saving this hello kiss for last, and somehow, Damon always gave him the perfect excuse.
Smart, hot, hung, and eager—Damon was the total package.
They kissed until Joe tossed a roll at them, winging it off his shoulder.
“Don’t waste those, Joe,” complained Damon. “We bought them from the bakery on third.”
Tork just laughed. Fuck, he did enjoy these guys.
Erik brought the steaks in, putting them down on the big kitchen table. “Two mid-rares, a rare, and a well-done.”
“Mine’s the rare.” Tork helped Damon bring over the salad, and they all sat down around the table.
Erik and Joe got the mid-rares and Damon settled with the well-done. The food was good, the company equally so, and Tork settled into the place, into being here instead of back in the city, dealing with stress and shit and everything else.
They talked shop for a bit—they were all cops, after all—the guys teasing Tork about his promotion before turning on Erik and his unending attempt to balance cleaning up the street and his habit of befriending gang members.
When their steaks were finished, there was apple pie with ice cream, and the conversation drifted to their lack of personal relationships and how it was impossible to keep anything going when you were a cop.
And then it was time.
Time for them to draw straws and see who picked the short one. See who was going to be the sub for the weekend.
They all cleaned up the kitchen, the grill, the chatter fading away as the anticipation built. They always drew this out. It made everything electric.
Tork finally took charge when the last dish was put away. “Who’s got the straws?”
“I do.” Damon pulled them out—four straws, one with a notch cut out of the bottom. “The agreement stands until Monday morning, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Yes.”
“Hell, yes.”
“Rock on.” Damon rolled the straws around in between his hands, mixing them up.
They each picked one, keeping it hidden, even from themselves. They’d reveal all at once. They stood there, the tension continuing to build between them.
Fuck, the anticipation was killing Tork. It was almost the best part. Almost. The best part came…and came and came.
Damon licked his lips. “On the count of three?”
Nodding, Tork began to count. “One. Two. Three.”
They all turned their hands over.
Erik groaned. “Oh, God damn it.”
“Oh, fuck, yes.” Tork couldn’t wait to get his hands on their Nordic god and make him scream.
Erik turned his baby blues on Damon. “Damon…baby, you want to trade?”
Damon shook his head. “Uh-uh. I drew last time. Besides, that’s the rules. Notched straw submits for the weekend. You are ours.”
Theirs. To play with however they wanted.
Tork was the first to congratulate Erik, grabbing hold of his t-shirt and tugging him in for a hard kiss. God, Erik hadn’t bottomed in two years, maybe more. Tork couldn’t wait to sink into that tight little ass. He wanted to keep the hot bastard filled and stretched, so Erik would be dreaming about them for days.
Finding the bottom of Erik’s t-shirt, Tork pushed up under it, moving his fingertips over Erik’s abs. He felt Joe and Damon step up, pressing against Erik from the side, the back, surrounding their lover. Their sub.
Damon worked on Erik’s jeans, Joe focused on touching, on sensitizing Erik’s tanned skin, on tracing the Nordic runes tattooed into Erik’s skin, on stroking the scars that riddled the magnificent body.
Fuck, but Erik was such a stud, and it was exciting to know they were going to get to play with his jungle gym of a body.
Erik groaned into their kiss, hands sliding up Tork’s arms, holding on to him. Holding tight.
It wasn’t easy for any of them to submit, but Erik fought it hardest of them all. Their Viking stud was always work, always in his own head—a lot like Tork himself. Hell, that was why they’d instituted this weekend. All chance, no choice—at the end, Erik would be emptied of all the stress and filled with them.
Tork kept the kiss going as Damon finished stripping Erik naked, letting him and Joe at all that amazing skin.
“Erik…What happened to your belly, man?” Damon looked up. “You get stabbed?”
That put an end to the kiss, and Tork stepped back, looking for himself. There was a new scar, deep and still a dark red, but healed over. Damn. Erik would have said, though, if it put him out of play for being sub—he knew they’d kill him if he endangered himself by not saying anything.
“It’s nothing. A nick.”
Joe snorted. “How many stitches?”
“Fifteen.”
“Took twenty-four when McManus got my thigh.” Joe looked like he was about to pull his pants down to show them the scar, as if they hadn’t already all seen it. As if they hadn’t torn Joe down and put him back together again the first time he’d subbed for them after it had happened.
“Bullet,” Tork reminded them, pointing to his shoulder.
“I have carpal tunnel.”
They all looked at Damon. Tork burst out laughing and the others followed. Erik reached down, scooped Damon up and kissed the man, hard.
“Come on. Bedroom.” Tork was focused. He and Joe pushed and pulled, getting their lovers down the hall.
The bedroom was huge—not as big as the locked playroom upstairs, but still, big enough for the four of them, big enough to start. The California King sized bed fit them all—barely—but it did fit them, and hell, they appreciated having to be close when it came time to sleep.
Tork pushed Erik and Damon down, the fuckers still playing tonsil-hockey, and he lay on top of Erik’s solid body, invading the kiss like he was the damn Viking.
Joe started stripping, quiet, quick, his fierce gaze like a laser. Damon turned to watch, licking his lips noisily.
Then Damon turned to Tork. “Your turn, stud.”
Tork let Damon work at his clothes, breaking his kiss off with Erik to give Damon a quick, hard buss on the lips for his trouble. Damon kissed him back, then turned that hungry kiss on Erik.
“Dibs on his ass first.” Joe was already completely naked.
Tork nodded. He could live with that. “Your beautiful mouth is mine, Erik.”
“I get to play with your prick, E, but no coming. None.”
Tork had to grin. Damon was the quiet one, but Jesus, the man was fierce. Fierce and creative.
“We’re going to take care of you, man.” They were going to blow Erik’s mind.
Tork couldn’t wait to get started.
Joe #2
Chapter One
William Torkvinenndan turned the hamburgers and then sat, drinking his beer. He’d come up early. Taking the extra day off had been just what he needed after three hard months working at the interdepartmental unit. Tork couldn’t remember the last time he’d had more than three hours of sleep. Making sure he was here for the full weekend became a top priority.
Chuckling, he watched his breath puff out in the cold; he’d expected he’d still be second or third here, not the first. So now he was on his own until someone else showed up. The burgers were to entice his brothers in blue - if you cook it, they will come.
The sound of a truck filled the air, cutting through the peace. Ah. Erik. Waiting for Erik to come through to the deck, he grinned as he remembered their last weekend. Erik had played sub and it had been glorious. Wouldn’t it be funny if Erik drew the short straw twice in a row after having gone so long without being the bottom?
Their Nordic god came out the kitchen door and grinned, blue eyes twinkling. “Hey, boss. How’s the promotion going?”
“It’s a lot of fucking work.” Standing, Tork held open his arms, wrapping Erik in a strong hug. God, he’d missed this. The time between their weekends felt longer every time, even though it wasn’t.
Erik nodded and grabbed him, squeezed him tight. “Good to see you, man.”
“You too.” Tilting his head, Tork pressed their mouths together. Oh, fuck, Erik tasted good. All fucking male with salt and sweet - Erik must have eaten a doughnut on the way up. There was probably a fucking box of them on the kitchen table now.
Erik’s hand wrapped around Tork’s skull, the tongue fucking making Tork’s knees weak, and he cried out. Clinging to Erik, he let the man take his mouth. Barring when he got the short straw, no one else could, but they were a physical match - of a height, a size - and Erik knew how to kiss. It was fucking stunning. Damn, if he was the sub this weekend, he’d be more than happy for more of this. Tork opened wider, groaning, inviting Erik to continue.
“Hungry man.” Erik moaned, dragged their bodies tight, hips rolling their cocks together.
“Been three months.” Tork didn’t have anyone outside of these men. Aside from not really having time, these were the guys he was into, he cared for, who cared for him.
“Want a quickie?” Erik asked, humping against him. “I got blue balls.”
“Oh, I have to see these blue balls of yours. I might take pictures.” He gave Erik a wink, nodded. “Hell, yes, I want a quickie. I’ve been here for three hours. On my own.” Nothing to do but think and wait and wish someone was there already to get off with.
“Oh, man.” Erik sounded genuinely sympathetic. “Come to the big couch.”
“You don’t have to ask me twice.” Tork went to the barbeque and turned off the gas, then brought the cover down. It would have to do. Better to rewarm the burgers than have them completely dried out.
Food put off for later, Tork followed his favorite Greek God’s ass back into the house.
Erik started to strip down, that new knife wound from the last get together now covered with a tattoo - a black dagger pointing all the way down Erik’s belly.
“Jesus, ‘Rik that is stunning.” Tork moved closer and traced it with his fingers, the muscles of Erik’s abdomen fucking sexy.
“You like it?” Erik flexed those amazing muscles for him. “I got it during an undercover sting.”
“Shit yeah. It’s enticing.” He grinned, stroked his fingers over it again. “I want to lick it.”
“It’s healed.” Erik had his jeans open, but not off, and he took a wide stance. “Go for it.”
Tork nodded, dropping to his knees and leaning in. He breathed in, pulling Erik’s scent deep into his lungs. He swore he could tell his men each by scent alone. Erik smelled of Speed Stick and grass and the barest hint of soap.
Opening his mouth, he slowly dragged his tongue over the handle of the dagger. Erik’s belly went rock hard, jerking at his touch. Moaning, he traced the rest of the knife with the tip of his tongue.
“Mmm. It covered the scar nicely, hmm?” Erik sounded pleased, and more than a little turned on.
“Yeah. I can still feel the scar under my tongue, though.” While he was here, Tork figured he might as well fish out that fucking amazing prick and have at it.
Erik licked his lips, staring at Tork like he was fucking magic. “Glad you’re here.”
“Ditto.” He licked the tip of Erik’s cock, then took as much of it into his mouth as he could. They’d said a quickie, right? So there was no reason for him to fart around. This time.
“Tork!” Erik reached for him, muscles vibrating like a bow string.
Smiling as best he could around Erik’s cock, he bobbed his head, going up and down on Erik’s heat. He loved the taste of a man’s cock, hard and dripping on his lips. He knew how to make it really good for Erik, too, though, and every time he took Erik’s cock into his throat, he swallowed.
“Tork. Man. Man, you’re so fucking good at this.”
They’d been doing this long enough Tork knew how each of his guys liked it. And fuck, who didn’t love a nice thick cock in their mouth? Still, it was nice to hear and he doubled his efforts to get Erik off. Erik’s hips rolled, fucking Tork’s face, even as more warm praise was offered to him.
Tugging down Erik’s jeans a little more, Tork wrapped his hands around the tight ass. Erik made for the perfect double handful. The muscles under his palms jerked and rolled, not an ounce of fat on them.
Tork sucked harder, head bobbing as his mouth worked the turgid flesh of Erik’s cock. Come on. He wanted that flavor.
“Gonna.” And Erik did, wet and hot and wild, spunk pouring into Tork’s mouth and down his throat.
Tork swallowed it all , pulling the taste into himself. He’d done that. He’d made Erik come like a freight train just as quick as you please. Making happy noises, he licked Erik’s cock clean.
“Damn, honey, you blow my mind.” Erik did sound totally come addled.
Grinning, Tork let Erik slide from his mouth. “I always knew your brains were in your cock.”
“Shit, there was a question?” Erik plopped down onto the couch and waved at him. “Clothes.”
Tork didn’t have to be asked twice. He stripped in short order, nearly leaving road rash he pulled his clothes off so quickly. Then he sat next to Erik, who grabbed his prick in a callused hand.
Laughing, Tork pushed up into Erik’s touch, his eyes going half-mast. Fuck yes. A hand that wasn’t his own. A hand that belonged to one of the three men he loved.
Erik’s laughter joined his, hand measuring him from base to tip. “Fine bastard.”
“Takes one to know one.” He shifted so they could kiss while Erik worked him.
The touch was sure, steady, and Erik’s eyes were twinkling, the evil shit whispering, “Cock breath” before their lips met.
It was awkward at best to punch a man who was jacking you off, but Tork managed, getting Erik in the arm. Erik snorted, gave him a titty twister, never once letting loose of his cock. Tork jerked and pulled away, pushed closer, his eyes trying to roll back in his head at the sensations.
Quickie was still the word of the day, because it sure wasn’t going to take him long to get his rocks off at Erik’s hand.
“Hungry bastard.” Erik worked the tip of his cock, thumb rasping over him.
Tork #3
Chapter One
William Torkviennenndann pulled up at the cabin and grabbed his bag, and the two extra he’d brought with him this time. Extra blankets, soft pillows and lots of goodies to tempt Damon’s tummy.
Damon would arrive with Joe and Erik in a couple hours. Tork had volunteered to come early and open the cabin, get everything in place.
It had been a hell of a three months, a little bit longer than that this time, in fact. Damon had spent both rounds of chemo in the hospital, sleeping his days away, ranting and growling through long nights. During the times at home, Damon spent as much time as possible on his computer, chasing bad guys the best way he could.
Joe, Erik and Tork had all cashed in their time owing, making sure Damon wasn’t left alone. Hell, Joe had moved right in with Damon, being the one to spend the nights with him. Not that Joe and Erik hadn’t. A lot of times it was just easier to stay at Damon’s place than to go home.
Between Damon and work, they all needed this weekend pretty badly, and thank God Damon was well enough to make the trip to spend the time with them. There was no way any of them would have agreed to come if Damon couldn’t travel. Their lover had insisted he could handle the drive, though, and had insisted even harder that they do it.
Spring was coming, the trees beginning to bloom, the snow lingering only in the shaded areas. It was a beautiful time of year and Tork tried to let that give him hope, keep his spirits up. Damon needed for them all to be positive.
Tork went in and got the heater turned up and the shutters opened to let the sun in.
A text from Erik confirmed that the others were at least still two hours out, so he went ahead and opened the front and back doors, letting fresh air in for twenty minutes or so. After which he closed it back up and let the heating do its work as he made sure there were blankets and pillows and comfy chairs in every room of the cabin, including the kitchen. Dragging one of the easy chairs from the living room to the kitchen wasn’t a piece of cake, but it did ensure that Damon would be able to sit at the table in total comfort and that was the point.
Then Tork unloaded the groceries. He set out juice and water in every room, bowls of fruit, too. All the rest went into the fridge, freezer or cupboards. He had chicken breasts to grill when Erik let him know they were twenty minutes out. He would make them up plain as they never knew if Damon could stomach anything more than that. He’d gotten in the habit of putting together a pesto or sauce to go with food. That way everyone had a choice they could stomach.
He got a text about an hour after he’d put everything away, telling him Damon wasn’t handling the drive well and they were stopping to get meds into him. The urge to get in the car and drive out to meet them was huge. Enormous. But Tork knew he couldn’t do anything to help and he was better served making sure Damon would be comfortable when he arrived.
God, he was sick of this shit. He wanted Damon whole and healthy again. He wanted things back to normal. He was tired. Tired of worrying, tired of Damon puking and feeling like death. He was tired all the way through.
His phone rang and it was Joe. “What’s up, man?”
“We’re about twenty minutes out,” Joe replied. “He’s sleeping.”
“Yeah? So he’s okay?” Every time they made a decision, Tork stressed, worrying it was the wrong one and he was going to hate himself if doing this harmed Damon in any way. Damon was the one who’d insisted they come, though. They’d fought it a little, but Damon had pushed right back against any resistance, the fire of determination in his eyes.
“He got queasy, but he’s resting hard now and he’s not so gray.”
“Okay, good. Good. We made the right decision, coming here, right?” He was never unsure in his decisions at work, but this whole thing had thrown him for a loop. The fact that he had no control over the fucking cancer—he couldn’t just shoot it or arrest it and put it in jail or anything—made him crazy.
“Damon needed a change of view. He’s in that little apartment all the time,” Joe pointed out.
“Yeah. Yeah, he did. Does. You too.” Sure, Joe got to go to work, but he was otherwise spending all his time at Damon’s. Tork and Erik had way more downtime as far as that went. Although, honestly, at Damon’s or not, Tork worried all the time. It was almost harder being at his own place.
Tork wanted to do something about that. The apartment, that was. The lone wolf thing was losing its luster, big time.
“I just want us all to be together for few days, man. Touching and shit.” Joe sighed and Tork could picture him, one meaty hand rubbing his face, trying to ease the stress.
“God yes,” he said. “Revelling in life and each other.” This whole thing had made him realize that life was fucking short and he wanted to be with these men more than just once every three months. Way more.
“Fucking,” Joe put in. “There’d better be fucking.”
“My dick is right here, waiting for your ass, man.”
“Uh-huh. Whatever. We’ll be drawing straws, right?”
“Yep. Three today.” Tork tried not to sigh, but no way was Damon up to anything more vigorous than some kisses and watching. And snuggling. They were all turning into master snugglers.
“Yeah. He can’t... You know. Get it up.”
“He will. We’ll come back next time and he’ll be raring to go.” Tork would keep saying it until it was true, too.
“I hope so.” Joe sounded utterly depressed.
“Stop that. This weekend is joy and fucking. Celebrating that he’s come through the chemo.”
“So far. Yeah. Still two rounds to go and then tests.”
“I know. He’s going to make it, Joe.” The doctors had stressed being positive, and keeping Damon’s spirits up. Tork was going to be Mr. Positive on steroids if he had to be.
“Of course he is!” Joe sounded affronted that Tork seemed to be implying Joe didn’t think so.
“Okay, good. I just wanted to make sure we were on the same page.” Tork glanced at his watch. “I should put the chicken on the grill as you guys are about twenty minutes or so out.”
“Yeah. Yeah, go for it. I’m starving.”
“Okay, good. Hopefully we’ll talk Damon into something as well. See you guys soon.”
“Yeah.” Joe went on without hesitation. “Love you, man.”
“Love you.”
They said that a lot more often now, and not just to Damon, but to each other, too.
Tork hung up and went to the kitchen to start making the breasts as appetizing as he could for Damon. It was going to be a crapshoot, one way or the other. Chemo was a fickle bitch.
He made up a salad, putting the dressing in a separate bottle so Damon could nibble at the greens without it if he didn’t want any. Then he cooked a rutabaga in the microwave so he could mash it. Damon seemed to do well with mashed vegetables. They went down easy and as often as not, didn’t come back up. Their lover needed protein, too, though, and Lord knew that always seemed harder to keep down.
Tork had the chicken almost cooked through when he heard the car and he headed through the house.
“Hey honey! We’re home!” Erik called out. He had Damon in his arms, cradling the dark, skinny body as they came through the front door.
Tork met them there, sliding his hand gently over Damon’s bald head. He had a kiss for Erik, another one for Joe, and the gentlest of brushes of his lips across Damon’s.
Damon smiled for him, eyes red but twinkling. “Hey, gorgeous. I made it.”
Damon #4
Chapter One
Will Torkvinenndan pulled up in front of the cabin, the lights from inside looking warm and welcoming in the late September night. He was tired—it had been a long fucking week and he hadn’t seen his guys in longer than that. He’d cleared his calendar, though. He had the whole weekend to look forward to, and, on top of that, new digs next week.
He might have zoned for a moment, his phone bringing him out of it. There was a text from Joe, asking where the hell he was. Shaking his head at himself and not bothering to respond, he grabbed his bag and headed in—he’d rather give his answer in person, thank you very much, instead of wasting any more time woolgathering.
He threw open the door. “Lucy, I’m ho-ome.”
Damon looked up, his dark fuzz of hair still short, but there, and so were the arched eyebrows. God, Tork had missed them.
“Oh, Ricky!” exclaimed Damon in his best falsetto.
Tork laughed. God, Damon looked good. Not great, not quite back to normal, but it had been over a week since he’d seen Damon and he could see there was a marked improvement.
Smiling at Damon, Tork nodded. “Hey, Cricket.”
“Took my PET scan, Tork.” No beating around the bush, no making them wait to hear. Just straightforward Damon.
“Yeah?” Tork tried not to look as on the edge as he felt. This was it.
Joe and Erik both turned and stared. So Damon hadn’t told them either. Good. Damon knew they’d all want to be here for this.
“Yeah.” Damon took a deep breath. “I have to go back for another scan in six months and then six months after that, but...” Damon shrugged. “I’m clear.”
Tork let the words sink in. Hell, he thought they all were because none of them said anything for a long moment. Then he started to laugh, the sound pouring out of him as a huge weight he hadn’t even been aware he was carrying lifted from his shoulders. Damon was cancer free.
Tork went and grabbed Damon up, hugging him as tight as he fucking could. He never wanted to let go.
Joe and Erik tackled them, the strong, muscled bodies surrounding them and it was exactly right, this moment, the four of them holding each other, everyone here, everyone healthy, no threats hanging over them. It was a perfect fucking moment.
“Fuck yeah!” Erik crowed, the sound filling the air. “Fuck yeah!”
“That’s the best thing I’ve heard in a long fucking time, Cricket.” Joe’s grin was so big it looked like it was trying to eat his face.
“Me too. Me too.” Damon looked so pleased. “No more chemo. I get to officially come back to work in two weeks.”
“You’re happy about work? How about this?” Tork grabbed Damon’s ass. Work was the last thing on his mind right now. He wanted it to be damn low on Damon’s priority list as well.
“This? Who says you’re getting hold of this?” Damon blinked his eyelashes rapidly, almost capturing an innocent look. Almost.
“You going to make us draw straws?” Tork knew he wasn’t the only one who wanted a piece of Damon’s ass. No, needed it. “No.” Joe’s voice was harsh.
“No. It’s been months. I need you to have the short straw, Damon. I need it.”
Erik nodded. “Yeah, Cricket. It’s been so long since we’ve had anything resembling normal. We need to stake our claim.”
“You guys are so cheating.” Damon didn’t sound particularly put out by it, but Tork knew he needed to at least point out that they were totally breaking protocol.
“You telling me you don’t need some good hard loving?” Tork asked. “Three beautiful cocks up your ass?”
Damon grinned, leaning hard against him. “My blood counts are great. My body’s ready. The doctor said just to listen to my body.”
“We’ll be gentle, baby,” Joe promised.
Damon shook his head and almost growled. “I don’t need gentle. If we’re going to play, we should play.”
That was good enough for him—Tork didn’t need any other kind of invitation. He pressed his lips to Damon’s. Damon moaned, ass rocking back against Joe and Joe looked like he was going to cry.
Tork let go of Damon’s mouth to kiss Joe, breathing into him. Joe’s kiss was wild, desperate, and the cry that pushed into him was pained. He took Joe’s worry and pain into himself. They needed to rain only positivity and happiness on Damon.
Erik grabbed Damon, cradling him, kissing him hard.
Their bodies rubbed and humped on each other and it was the best thing Tork had felt in a long, long time.
“Food. We have to eat food.” Erik groaned the words against Damon’s lips.
“You hungry, Cricket?” Tork asked. God knew Damon needed fattening up. He also needed about five gazillion orgasms, so Tork thought they ought to leave which order things went up to their lover.
“I’m always hungry,” Damon admitted. “I get full so fast these days.”
“I know we’ve got some of those grapes you like so much.” Tork had picked them up himself last night on a late grocery run. They could feed Damon those in bed.
“I’ve got lasagna in the oven from my mom,” Joe suggested. “But it’ll be another hour.”
“Oh, we can fill an hour.” Grinning, Tork grabbed hold of Damon and picked him up, heading right for the big bed upstairs.
Erik chuckled, voice following them up the stairs. “I’ll turn it down and buy us another half-hour!”
“You hear that? We’re going to have your ass for ninety minutes.” Tork turned back to look at Joe. “Grab the grapes out of the fridge,” he ordered.
“Grapes and some root beers. I got it!”
Damon was chuckling in his arms.
“You’re in a good mood.” Hell, they all were, but Tork felt it needed to be pointed out. It felt so good because Damon was happy and laughing and so very present.
“I don’t have to go back for another round of chemo, and I’m moving in with my best guys. Duh.”
“And you’re about to get your sweet ass fucked six ways to Sunday.” God, Tork was hard and couldn’t wait to get in there.
“Maybe. Maybe you strip me down and decide I’m too skinny.”
Tork thought Damon was one sexy fucker and always would, no matter how much Damon needed a few steaks. Especially as he had color back in his cheeks. “I know how skinny you are. Besides, that’s what the lasagna and grapes are for.”
Author Bio:Best-selling author Sean Michael is a maple leaf–loving Canadian who spends hours hiding out in used book stores. With far more ideas than time, Sean keeps several documents open at all times. From romance to fantasy, paranormal and sci-fi, Sean is limited only by the need for sleep—and the periodic Beaver Tail.
Sean fantasizes about one day retiring on a secluded island populated entirely by horseshoe crabs after inventing a brain-to-computer dictation system. Until then, Sean will continue to write the old-fashioned way.
Sean’s available for interviews, by the way. He can always be talked into, well, talking about himself. Just drop him an email.
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