"So are you hot for me or what?"

Mac looked up from his magazine with a grin. It wasn’t like Vic to be the crass one.

"What," he replied.

"I said," repeated Vic in a tone like liquid honey, "are you hot for me or what?"

"No, I meant ‘what’", said Mac, his eyes alight with amusement. "You gave me a choice, being hot for you or what, and I picked ‘what’."

He looked back down at his magazine. It had been two hours since the most emotional scene of his life. Sex couldn’t hold a candle to being beaten up by Vic and made to spill his guts. Now he just felt tired, moody, in need of a cigarette. And it wasn’t even lunch time.

"Definitely what," he muttered.

"I don’t think so," said Vic, sliding next to him on the couch. "You were hard." His tone wasn’t accusatory, just stating a fact. "Very hard."

Mac sighed and put the latest issue of GQ on Jim’s spotless, clutter-free coffee table. Gotta remember Jim, he reminded himself. Tough guy. Special ops. Trained killer.

"Adrenaline rush," he muttered, careful not to meet Vic’s eyes. "I always get hard when I fight. It was nothing personal."

"You do not always get hard when you fight," said Vic in a conversational tone.

Mac couldn’t help looking up at that; he looked away again quickly. Vic noticed these things? They were fighting for their lives against the bad guy of the week, and Vic was checking out his crotch? Yeah, right. No fucking way.

"I do get hard when I fight," he protested, wishing his voice sounded a bit more steady. What was he owning up to here? That he got off on wrestling with dudes? "Women, men, gorillas, the adrenaline rush, limbs against limbs, torso to torso, it makes me hard. Nothing to do with sex. Ask the director. I get hard when she does her little dance in my lap. Nothing personal. Shit, I get hard when she does her little dance in your lap."

"Wishing it was you?" Vic interjected.

"Cut me a break man," he said, shocked that he seemed unable to hold his own in this war of words. Since when was Vic better at verbal sparring than him? Since he’d held Mac in a hammerlock, Vic’s groin to Mac’s ass, and given him a hard on, that’s when.

Plausible deniability. That was the ticket to get said ass out of this.

"You were rubbing my back Victor. I always get hard when I get massaged. So do you. So does every man. It’s biology, nothing to do with the masseur. Er masseuse. Whatever."

"So now it was the massage, not the fighting, hmmn?" asked Vic, his voice speculative.

"It was the fighting. It was the body to body wrestling. It was the massage. It was that time of the month. It was any fucking thing you want, and it did not mean a fucking thing."

"Your language always gets worse when you want to avoid something," observed Vic.

Shit. Perhaps it was time to look Vic in the eyes after all. Because at the moment, his gaze was locked at groin level, where Vic had reached down to adjust his package. Very manly. He’d done it himself, a thousand times. So why was Vic’s hand still there? There wasn’t that much to adjust, was there? Fuck. It looked like there might be. Yep, Vic was packing heat alright. Round about now, stopping staring at Vic’s crotch seemed like a good idea. Mac wished that he was the sort of guy that acted on good ideas.

"I’m not avoiding anything," he said, eyes still locked between Vic’s legs. Where the rest of him wanted to be. Oh fuck. First Blair, now this. What was happening to him? Had Michael done something to him? Had Blair? Was he going to eat oysters for the rest of his fucking life?

Yep, there was definite stroking action going on down there. Mac couldn’t believe it. He wanted to get out of this room, out of Cascade, as far from his blood brother as his legs could take him. Which, at the moment, would not be very far since they felt like jello. His whole body felt like jello, dissolving slowly in the heat of Vic’s eyes.

Shit. He shouldn’t have looked up after all.

"I am not avoiding anything. I am not hot for you. I get a hard on if any human being comes within two feet of me. Let’s go get lunch."

Vic chuckled softly. "Lunch?" he purred. Yes, an actual, goddamned purr. "You want to get lunch?" He chuckled again. Still rubbing himself for all Mac knew, he would not look down.

"Yes, lunch. I want to eat. I want to get out. I want…" He stopped in mid-sentence.

Vic had brought his hand up to his mouth, the same hand that had been adjusting himself for a little longer than was usual in the company of fellow agents. He was putting a finger in his mouth. Sucking it gently. Getting it wet. And then, ohmigod, he was putting it back down there. Rubbing himself. Leaving a darkening patch of saliva on his jeans.

Mac wanted to die. He wanted to scream. He wanted to at least be able to look away. He wanted not to have his mouth hanging open, his eyes glazed with lust, his dubious sexuality hammering on the closet door, demanding to be let out. Fuck Michael. And fuck Vic. No, don’t fuck Vic. If only he could think.

It was too late. He wasn’t just staring, he was salivating. He knew it. Vic knew it. He wanted his former partner. He wanted his best friend. How was he supposed to live with that?

Vic stood up suddenly, his sultry look gone, all business-like. "Told you that you wanted me," he said casually.

"No," said Mac, unable to help himself even now. "You told me that I was hot for you. It’s not the same thing." Could that have sounded more stupid? Mac cursed himself. Cursed Vic. And at the same time, wondered why Vic standing there casually, arms at his side, a wet patch on his jeans, was the most erotic thing he had ever seen. The man wasn’t even trying, for God’s sakes.

"Okay," said Vic smiling opaquely, "you don’t want me, you’re just hot for me. So are we going to be able to work together or what? And don’t say ‘what’. Is this going to be a problem?"

Was that what this was all about? Professional concern? Sexual harassment suits? Thinking with a hard-on that might get them both killed if it distracted him at the wrong moment?

"We always worked well together before," said Mac. He was surprised at the amount of bitterness in his voice. He was so open to Vic today, the other man reading him like a book. He felt as if he had opened his soul, given it over to the handsome man smiling down at him. Only three feet away. More like two now. Ohmigod, he’s coming closer.

"We didn’t have this to contend with then," said Vic.

"What this?" croaked Mac. Vic was too close, too near to let him breathe. Part of him wanted to scream, "Get the fuck out of my face!" The rest of him wanted to scream, "Get the fuck into my face!" Right now, poised on a knife edge, he wasn’t sure which side would scream the loudest.

"This," said Vic, diving between his legs, grabbing his crotch in one strong, steel-like grip. Fuck, the man was fast. Always had been. Master of the smooth moves, the lightning jumps, the punches that landed out of thin air.

Now the grip was relaxing, soothing, stroking him gently. Mac was hard, no doubt about it.

"I’m queer for my gay partner," he said. It was half laugh, half sob, but it was enough to dislodge Vic’s hand from his cock. Vic convulsed with laughter.

Laughter that cures a thousand ills, thought Mac as he aimed a well placed boot at his partner’s chest and heaved. Vic sprawled backwards on the floor, grabbing too late to prevent Mac’s flying leap off the couch.

He made it all the way to the door, unhooked the chain with shaking fingers, turned the handle with strength born of desperation.

Nothing happened. Fuck. It was locked.

"I locked it earlier," came the smooth voice behind him. "In case you turned chicken and tried to run."

"I am never chicken," said Mac, ignoring his own hand, still working the door handle, still trying to get out.

"We are going to do this you know," said Vic, still conversational, as though he were talking about the weather. "Get it out of our systems. Clear the air. See if it makes a difference."

"Makes a difference?" gurgled Mac, turning to face his tormentor at last. "Of course it makes a fucking difference. There’s like so much difference that it could not be any more different." Okay, he was sliding into incoherence. Time to get a grip.

"We are buddies," he continued desperately. "We are not fuck buddies. There’s a difference. A line that we shouldn’t cross. I am not going to fuck you. Not now. Not ever."

"What makes you think that you’d be the one doing the fucking?" asked Vic coolly.

Mac’s mouth went dry. He couldn’t help it. His brain was conjuring up all sorts of pictures, instead of doing what it should be doing and helping him to get out of this.

"Of course I’d be doing the fucking," he protested. Whoops. Not an answer that helped. "Not that there’s going to be any fucking. No sir. Not on your life. Not today." He was babbling, he knew it.

"I like that," said Vic. He was purring again and was, what, four feet away? Three? Not far enough, anyway.

"Like what?" Mac heard himself squeak.

"You called me sir. I like that. I think I’m gonna like it a whole lot more." Definitely purring.

"I didn’t call you sir! It was an expression, a turn of phrase." When did his back hit the door? When had Vic gotten so close? Who was sucking all the air out of the room?

Inspiration, born of desperation, finally struck.

"What about Jim?" he demanded. Aha! Game, set, and match.

Vic didn’t seem perturbed. "We’re not exclusive. He fucks Blair sometimes."

Mac’s jaw dropped open. The part of his brain that never shut up, never stopped quipping, advised him that this would be good practice for later, if things kept going as they seemed to be.

"I get to watch," added Vic.

Mac spluttered. This wasn’t true, was it? Vic had to be lying. Jim Ellison, upstanding cop and pattern-card policeman, fucked his roommate while his lover watched? How sick was this? It was true what they said about gays then. Why didn’t that knowledge make his cock subside? Damn cock! Didn’t know a thing about moral outrage. Neither did Vic by the look of things.

What he said was, "I don’t believe it."

Vic shrugged. It drew Mac’s attention to his shoulders, his chest. Vic was beautiful. Had he really never seen that before today? His shrug made so many muscles move, so much beautiful flesh in motion. Fucking cheap clothes. Why were they hiding that body from him? Mac cringed. Could he be any more pathetic? He might as well just give in now and admit that Vic was going to fuck him.

As though Vic had read his mind, he took his shirt off in one quick, fluid motion. Mac froze against the door, the handle jammed into his back. His cock jammed against his trousers. Did he really just whimper? He eyed the expanse of smooth chest on display before him. Yep, definitely a whimper.

Vic’s hand reached out to loosen Mac’s robe, pulling it down over his shoulders, fanning his hands over Mac’s suddenly naked chest.

"Jim’s buddy Rafe. You haven’t met him yet. He works at Major Crimes with Jim."

A hand was teasing his nipple now. Sending a charge like electricity, straight to his cock. His sweat pants were surely tented in an obscene way, his erection pressing against Vic’s jeans. Vic twisted his nipple. Hard. His cock jumped. Why hadn’t any women done this to him? He would have to store it for future reference. If he had a future after this. Vic was twisting both his nipples now. It felt like the end of the world.

"Rafe likes to suck Blair, while Jim fucks him."

Why wouldn’t the voice stop? It couldn’t be saying these things, it just couldn’t. This wasn’t Vic. Not any Vic that he knew, anyway.

"I don’t fuck Blair though." One of the hands was down his sweats now, stroking his thighs, circling his cock, but not touching it, never touching. Mac shoved against Vic hard. He needed friction. More. Friction.

"That’s just for Jim. It’s special."

Mac wanted to cry. His chest was on fire, his thighs were aching, he didn’t think his legs could hold him up any more.

"Jim won’t fuck you either. That’s just for me. My. Very. Own. Fuck. Buddy."

With each word, Vic twisted Mac’s nipple and stroked his cock, making contact finally, dragging a groan from somewhere deep inside him.

"Don’t. Wanna. Do this." Each word was a breathy moan. The sensations were driving him insane.

"Sure you do," whispered his tormentor, before latching onto a nipple with his mouth. Small bites, sucking, then more small nips.

"Not. Like. This." He bucked under Vic’s hands and mouth, back still against the door, a handle-shaped bruise forming on his back. But that was nothing to the bruises forming on his heart, on his soul.

"Alright then," said Vic softly and pulled back, his hand out of Mac’s sweats, his body moving away. His tongue swiped a last lick on Mac’s chest, a thread of saliva connecting them until that too was gone.

"Do you wanna get some lunch?" he asked, giving Mac’s cock one last casual grope with his hand.

It pushed him over the edge. Mac came in his pants, his whole body heaving, sweat pouring off him in waves, slicking his abused nipples, his heart thudding in time with each liquid burst. He felt himself sliding to the floor, his back resting against the door, wondering if he was going to be up against this door for the rest of his life. Always running from Vic. Never getting anywhere.

Vic was smiling down at him.

"Do you want dim sum?" he asked, as Mac panted and shuddered.

Vic’s jeans were obscene, a huge mound tenting them, straining against the too-tight fabric. Right at eye level. At mouth level. Mac felt something break inside himself.

"No," he heard himself say. "I want you to fuck me."

Vic’s smile became a grin. The sort of grin that Mac had only seen in porno mags, never on his best friend’s face. Not that he was admitting to having looked at gay porno mags – but hell, when you worked for a Hong Kong crime family, you saw it all.

"Come here," said Vic softly, holding out a hand, pulling Mac off the floor and into a tight embrace.

"I’m gonna do you over the couch," Vic whispered in his ear, before nuzzling his neck, licking a line from his ear to his jaw, dropping soft bites on his throat. "We might break the door otherwise." He chuckled against Mac’s throat, licked up his chin, and then began to kiss him. Soft gentle pecks, deepening slowly, his tongue swiping quickly into Mac’ open mouth, then staying for longer, and still longer.

Mac wondered what it was like to breathe, back when he only had one tongue. Vic was going to do him over the back of the couch. His cock was hard again. Had it ever gone down?

Slowly but surely, never stopping the kisses, Vic steered him over to the couch, moving Mac with hands on his waist and a leg thrust between his own.

Vic was going to fuck him on Jim’s lounge furniture. In the loft of a man who would have put plastic covers out if he dared. Who apparently fucked his roommate and then went upstairs for seconds with his lover. Mac thought, as Vic shoved him hard over the couch and kicked his legs apart, that the world had gone mad. And he, Mac Ramsey, whimpering in the back of his throat, whispering "Fuck me", was the living proof of it.

He heard the sound of a zipper being lowered, of a man hawking spit, and felt a rough finger at his rear, punching at him, demanding entrance.

"Use some fucking lubricant," he hissed, his cock stabbing the couch, his body on fire with an excitement that he couldn’t remember feeling in a thousand fucks with a thousand different women.

"Nature’s lubricant," came the throaty response. "That’s all you’re getting baby. All you need."

Mac whimpered again. What was happening to him, Mac Ramsey, strong man, straight boy, scourge of villains?

Two fingers were inside him now, punching, twisting, making him ache, making him beg.

"Fuck me. Please."

"Call me sir," hissed the voice behind him, disembodied, consisting only of fingers, three now, no other part of him in touch with the body splayed beneath him.

"Love me," whispered Mac. Close to tears. High on pleasure, floating on pain. "Love me sir."

"Oh, you’re gonna get it now baby. Just like you need it." The tone was harsh, the fingers rough, but Mac could feel a body pressed against his back now, soft kisses on his neck and shoulder.

"Love me," he whispered again.

Something thick and blunt was pressed between his cheeks. More spit. More kisses.

"I do love you," whispered a voice in his ear.

Vic drove home in one long, hard thrust. Mac screamed. The tormenting whispers never left him. "I love my little fuck buddy."

Vic started to thrust, swinging viciously with his hips, banging Mac into the couch, scraping his cock with every motion.

There were tears in Mac’s eyes. It could have been the pain. It could have been love. All he knew was that Vic was fucking him, and fucking him hard.

"It’s not like this is the first time," whispered his tormentor in his ear. "I know what Li Ann used to do." Mac felt a particularly vicious thrust. "I know what Michael did." Another vicious thrust. "I know what I’m gonna do." A thrust that lifted him off the couch. He fell back again. Somehow, even in the midst of blinding pleasure, he knew that he was always going to fall back again.

"Not enough," he whispered. "Never enough."

"I’ll give you enough baby," hissed Vic, swinging his hips.

How can I breathe? wondered Mac, almost sobbing.

"After all, we’re family, aren’t we sweetheart," each word punctuated by twisting jabs that ground against his prostate.

"Yes sir," screamed Mac, his second orgasm drenching the back of the couch, soaking into the fabric.

He felt Vic’s pace increase, and the other man howled as he came, biting savagely on Mac’s neck and shoulders. Collapsing on him. Putting strong arms around him. Whispering that he loved him, that this was how it was going to be from now on. Partners. Lovers. Friends.

"So, he is a little cock slut after all," barked a loud voice.

Shit. Jim was home. Mac wondered how he felt about cum stains on his furniture.

He shifted uneasily in Vic’s embrace, unable to shake the feeling that he was about to be punished.

The end.