Frosty Fiction: MJ and Sonny

“Why are we doing the blindfold, Precious?” Sonny asked, staggering down the fucking gangplank. “We’re docking for Christmas, not playing hide the sausage.”

“No, I’m not in the sausage-hiding mode right now, but thanks for the offer.” MJ patted his ass. “Step down.”

“Down how far?” He’d damned near broken his ankle stepping off the boat, MJ having neglected to tell him they were at a plank, not a dock...

“There’s two steps. You and your weak fucking ankles...”

“I never had ankle problems until I hooked up with an eco-terrorist in North Carolina.”

“You have to watch out for them; they’re assholes. Trigger-happy, too.”

“I know. Blowing shit up.” Sonny nodded, stepping down carefully.

A set of keys was pressed into his hand, the blindfold removed. “You forgot Ding Dong stealing.”

“Well, I bought the Ding Dongs for you.” Sonny stared at the 1970 Plymouth Hemi-Cuda. Red with black racing stripes. Christ. The last time he’d seen one at action it had been half this good and it had gone for a cool two million.

“Merry Christmas, Sunshine.” MJ’s fingers traced a circle in the small of his back.

“Holy shit, Precious.” MJ had bought him maybe fifteen muscle cars over the years, from Camaros to Chargers, but this was like the Holy Grail. “Uh, what do you want for Christmas this year?”

“Well, I figure the Mustang got me blowjobs...this is vastly better.”

“Oh, so no blowjob, huh?” He walked over to the car, running his hand over the shiny hood.

MJ leaned, all smiles and laughing eyes. “You like it?”

“Yeah. Yeah, Precious. I like it enough to let you do me in the backseat. Got lube?”

“I do. First, though, I want you to drive.”

Sonny grinned, the expression stretching his cheeks until they hurt. “Think they got enough road on this rock for me to get up to speed?”

“I do.” MJ came right up close. “I think that the local federales also have instructions to leave a certain redneck alone, too.”

“No shit?” Oh, now, that was the best Christmas present ever. Permission to speed. He bent and took that smiling mouth with his, the kiss going nuclear fast.

He was going to have to buy a case of Ding Dong flavored lube for his.

Either that or buy a boat for MJ to blow up.

Frosty Fiction: Sam/Gus

“What’s your position on the Nutcracker Suite?”

Sam’s head swiveled to look at him, the low growl barely audible. “Why?”

Gus grinned, slow and lazy. God, they hadn’t fought in so long. “Come on, Puss. You’re a dancer. Were you the mouse?”

“I was a choreographer, you animal, not a ballet dancer.”

He pouted, making sure it was as dramatic as possible. “No tutu?”

This time the growl was louder. “No?”

“Not even for me, Puss?”

The toe of a pair of boots whipped toward him, just barely touching his balls. “Let’s discuss nut cracking, Sweet.”

Frosty Fiction: Bax and Jason

“Goddamn it, Mini! Are you trying to kill yourself?” Bax was about to boil over. Jason had been out there with an axe, trying to trim branches off their Christmas tree.

“No. If I was doin’ that, I’d be whacking at my legs and shit.” Jason’s eyes rolled, searching for him. “I didn’t hit an artery, did I?”

“No. No, but you were headin’ that way.” Bax took the axe, glad Mini didn’t make him wrestle for it.

“I was helping.” Oh, there was pouting involved now, full-on. Shit, marthy, that was cute as fuck.

Bax manfully fought the urge to kiss that lower lip where it stuck out. “How did you even find the axe, Mini?”

“It was in the toolshed.”

“So, what, you wandered around calling for it?"

“Nope. I wandered around feeling for it.” Jase just grinned like a monkey. “I moved the rakes.”

“Good to know. I ain’t blind, but I might just kill myself on them.”

“Don’t be pissy, Bax. This is the only way I’ll get to see the tree this year. Once the glass shit is on it, no one will want me touching it.”

Well, shit. He’d not thought of that. He had a bunch of stuff of his momma’s, and Brenda had sent a box for Jason...

“We could hang the glass stuff off the garland on the big wall. Do the tree up in stuff for you.”

Jason shrugged, cheeks pinking. “I don’t want to be no problem.”

“Why would it be a problem? This is our place, not your momma’s or mine.”

“It’d make things a little easier, to not have to worry about knocking into the tree.”

“Well, then, we’ll do that.” He forgot, sometimes, that Mini couldn’t see. Jase got around so much easier every day. It sucked, not to see the twinkly lights and pretty wrapping paper and all.

“Okay.” Jason sighed. “How ‘m I supposed to buy you a present, cowboy?”

“You think I need anything? Hell, tell Missy to take you to buy me new Wranglers.” He hooked an arm around Jason’s waist, hating that defeated fucking look, hating God and the job and the world with all his soul, for mucking up the man he loved. “You know my size. Intimately.”

“I know all about you.” That grin went all goofy and Andy knew he’d gone and done something good and that loosened up that acid in his heart. “Intimately.”

“There you go. All I want for Christmas I got.”

It wasn’t true. He wanted Jason’s sight back. Now, but both of them knew it, so neither of them said it.

Weren’t neither of them young enough to believe in Santa and shit. They just had to believe in each other.

That was enough.

Frosty Fiction: Lily and Marc

She looked at the EPT stick in her hand, shaking her head. 

They'd only been married three months. She was on the pill. They didn't need a baby.

A tiny voice at the back of her head whispered, "The last time Granny visited you she promised twins."

"Oh, shut up."

"Lady? Honey? Lily? You okay?" 

"Uh-huh." The tears started then, pouring down her cheeks and she fought the sobs, knowing that her lover, her soul mate, her lion would know, would just need the slightest clue to...

The bathroom door opened, Marc standing there, looking like he was storming a beach somewhere. "What is wrong? What is it? Are you sick? Are you?"

His eyes landed on the pregnancy test in her hand, the positive sign almost glowing. "Lily? Is it true?"

"Merry Christmas?"

His smile, even through her tears, let her know that yes, yes it was.

Frosty Fiction: Jordan/Shaw/Stephanie

"Jordan, did you get something for our girl?"

His mate looked over from the chair where Jordan was repairing snowshoes. "Huh?"

"It's December. Christmas? You know?" Their first holiday altogether as a threesome, as three wolves, as lovers. As family.

Jordan snorted. "She's a witch. She doesn't do Christmas."

"Everyone does Christmas!" Didn't they? Trees. Lights. Carols.

"Jewish people don't."

Shaw was going to bite Jordan, hard. "Steph's not Jewish."

"I know that. She's a witch."

"Jordan!"

"What baby?"

"Did you get Steph something. For. Christmas?"

"Nope." Jordan didn't even look at him, but Shaw could scent amusement.

"Boys, I'm home." Cinnamon. Stephanie smelled like cinnamon and ginger and citrus and...oh, yummy. "Busy day at the shop today. I brought gingerbread. Are there steaks?"

"Gingerbread?" He glared at Jordan. "As in Christmas cookies?"

"Christmas cookies, Yule cookies, holiday cookies. I just wanted gingerbread and lights. When are we putting up the tree? I love the lights."

"See?"

"Tree's in the back, baby girl, just waiting for you to get home to decorate it. I even got you candy canes."

Shaw's mouth opened, closed, then opened again. "You suck."

Steph came to him, kissed him soundly. "So do you, Shaw. Hell, so do I? Wanna see?"

"Uh-huh." He spared a half glare at Jordan, but his mate just chuffed softly. 

"So easy to tease, baby."

He would have growled, but Steph was kissing him, loving him. 

Again.

It could wait for later -- after the sweets and the tree.

Frosty Fiction: Seb and Markus

“You want to do a Christmas album someday, Candy?” Seb pulled his guitar off the stand, coming to the soft, comfortable couch they wrote from.

“I never say never, baby, but we’d have to be in the studio in fucking June with it.” Markus shrugged. “I never loved that.”

“I like carols, though.”

Markus grinned at him, eyes warm, sweet, like a fucking drug, and Sebastian warmed, balls deep. “What’s your favorite?”

“I love O Holy Night. You?” 

“All I Want for Christmas is You.” Markus started singing away, almost bellering it. Jackass. Beautiful, musical son of a bitch.

Sebastian smiled, he had to because he knew Markus. The man meant it, playing around or not. “You want to pick some?”

“More than breathing.” 

He nodded. Santa couldn’t bring him anything he needed more. He had Markus and music, everything a Cajun needed. 

Except for etoufee.

Oh, he wondered if he could hire Jean-Jacques to fly down to make some. Maybe Eduardo would know someone local...

“Baby? You got smoke coming out of your ears.”

“I want etoufee for Christmas dinner. Etoufee and pralines. Can we make that happen?”

Markus hooted for him. “Baby, you leave it to Santa. It will happen.”

It was good to be him. 

Damned good.

“All right then.” He strummed the melody they’d been working on the night before, picking the complicated line. Then Markus’ harmony joined him, sweet as spun sugar and they were off, making music.

Together.

Frosty Fiction: Shane and Galen

Shane whistled, draping Christmas lights over the dock. The house was lit, the driveway. Car port. Barn. Bait shop. There was a moving lit-up alligator and eight flamingos in the front yard, sparkling palm trees on the back porch, and an inflatable Rudolph bobbing in the pool. The door had a rainbow sparkly wreath, the porch light was red, and the doorbell sang jingle bells.

The dogs had on Christmas collars.

He had on one red and one green flip flop and Grinch boxer shorts. 

December was here. 

He was ready. Like whoa ready. 

He looked down at his chest, the battery operated LED blinking lights clipped to his nipple rings just merry as fuck. 

Now, all he needed was his Galen to come home from helping Momma at her new house so that the man could admire.

Mating Call: Thanksgiving

Steph stared at the bowl. Was it sage she needed? 

Protective, cleansing, the herb was a lovely purifier, helped with financial questions. Hell, it could even work for the evil eye, but was that what she needed here?

This mixture was important, too important to mess up because she wasn't balanced. 

She sniffed again.

Garlic? It was another protector -- more fire than earth, a Mars-based herb...

She chewed on her bottom lip, worrying. 

Garlic? Sage? Salt? 

She stirred again. Salt could be so overpowering, though.

Warm hands landed on her hips, Jordan solid as a rock behind her. "Smells good." 

It was her Shaw, though, that bounced in, all puppyish enthusiasm, and scooped up a fingerful, popped it in his mouth. "Mmm. Perfect."

"You think so? It's okay?"

"Lovely witch." Jordan nuzzled her jaw. "It's not a big deal."

"It's my first Thanksgiving with the pack," she argued.

"It's going to be cornbread dressing. Put it in the oven!" Jordan leaned over, licked her lips, then bounced out again.

Goddess, those boys...

Jordan patted her ass. "Oven. Then come snuggle. We need you."

She grabbed her baking dish and a spoon. Oven. Right. 

Time to cook.

 

Mating Call is releasing next week from Ellora's Cave. :D

 

Short from Fighting Addiction: Markus :D

“What time is it?” Marcus scratched his belly, trying to peer at the clock. His eyes were all ooky from the damned cold he’d caught in Los Angeles. His whole face felt like it was going to explode.

Kyle chuckled on the other end of the line. “Time to turn on your TV, boss. Sebastian is on that interview show. You said you wanted to watch.”

“Hell, yes. Thanks, man.”

“No problem. See you at four for rehearsal.”

“You bet.” Markus hung up with Kyle and padded to the mini bar fridge to get a glass of orange juice. He had to have the only mini bar in Reno that was stocked only with bottled water, club soda and juice. No booze.

He clicked the TV to on, coming in just in time to see Sebastian walk out on the soundstage of a talk show. Poor baby looked wickedly uncomfortable, hat pulled down, dark-tinted glasses hiding most of his eyes. They were gray, not black, so those green eyes were just visible.

His eyes cleared up pretty damned fast. God, it was good to just sit and look at Seb and not worry about who saw him watching. It was also fascinating to be able to give the man feedback on his bad habits.

Like the bouncing leg. Up and down, up and down.

Markus thought maybe Sebastian needed to work off some of that nervous energy.

He couldn’t wait for them to get back to the tour this weekend so he could help out with that. Surely he could kick this cold by then…

MJ/Sonny at Halloween, for Julia

"I will not."

Sonny's lips twisted and he held out the costume again. "Please? For me?"

MJ arched one eyebrow and considered how many bullet holes he could put in that big, fine body before the man bled out. "Not a chance."

"Now, Precious." It didn't escape MJ's notice that Sonny put himself between MJ and the bedside table. Like there wasn't a Glock in between mattress and box spring, right under his right thigh. They were on land, after all, and that was always problematic. "You don't have to wear it out. I just want to see you in it."

"You're a sick fuck, Sunshine."

"What? It's not a ninja or the Unibomber."

"It's a harem girl. Bells and gauze and shit. There's probably a bra." MJ was considering being insulted, really.

"No." Sonny's voice went low, deep. "No bra. Just see through and soft. Loose. Good for yoga."

"And the bells?"

Sonny grinned, slow and lazy. "Ding a ling, Precious." 

MJ rolled his eyes, but took the costume. "And what are you going to be, redneck?"

"Same thing I am every year."

MJ eased his jeans off. "My motherfucking hero?"

"Such a smart man, Precious. Now, put on the see-through pants and say trick or treat."

 

MJ and Sonny are the stars of the Road Trip series. :D

BA

Happy Halloween: Coke/Dillon short

Dillon stood.

Stared.

“You guys are not serious.”

Coke grinned, the greasepaint wrinkling around his eyes.

Four of them – Nate, Coop, Coke and Fred – all in old-school rodeo clown get-ups. Baggy shorts, suspenders, striped tights. Coop even had a wig on. A bright green, afrotastic wig.

“You have to work tonight.”

“Uh-huh.” Coke and Nate were dressed just alike, makeup and all and, for half a second, Dillon could see it, the Terrible Twosome, fighting bulls together in every little event that was paying.

He’d pay good money to have seen that, more than the once he had.

“I don’t know what’s got your panties all in a wad, Clown-Boy.” Nate gave him a once-over. “You’re the one with a hula skirt and a lei.”

“The coconut bra is a nice touch, mate.” Fred was a fucker.

“Uh-huh. Your belly’s going to get cold, though.” Coke would notice his stomach. “This is Massachusetts. Winter comes early up here.”

“It’s just for the…” He stopped, shook his head. “Just tell me you have your vests on under the costumes.”

The boys all snorted in unison, like a weird four-part dismissive bullfighter harmony.

“We are working tonight, ain't we, Hoss?” Nate looked at Coke.

Coke looked back. “We are, Nattie.”

“And we wear our vests when we work, don’t we?”

“We do, Nat…”

“Oh, shut up and go fight bulls, asshats.” He rolled his eyes and turned to stomp away, the coconut bra chafing his skin.

Something hit him between the shoulders on his way out and he spun around, ready to kick someone’s ass. He looked down, one of Coke’s soft-soft t-shirts at his feet.

“Happy Halloween, cowboy.” Coke gave him one of those grins, one that made promises.

“Go to work, Coke.”

Coke laughed at him, tossed him a bag of M&Ms. “You first.”

Needing a Nap (Fighting Addiction, Sebastian, gen)

Sebastian looked at the wall, counting to fifty, then counting again.

There was precious little he hated more than being stuck in the antechamber of Jack’s office, waiting for his manager to get finished with whatever the fuck the man was doing to make them all more money so that he could sign whatever bullshit contract he needed to sign.

Jack was lucky he was in Nashville this week.

Damned lucky.

“Quit pacing, boss.” Beverly grinned over at him from where she was messing with her phone.

“Are you playing solitare?”

“Bejeweled. You’re making me nervous.”

“Yeah, right.” Bev wasn’t the nervous type. Stubborn, yes. Emotional, sure. But not nervous.

Sebastian plopped down in a chair, foot tapping. “Am I busy this afternoon?”

“You’re co-hosting something at the EXSTV station. Most extreme singers. Alan Oliver asked, you said yes.”

“I did?” He did like the man, snowboarders were a fun group, even if they snacked a lot.

“Yep.”

He sighed, rubbed the back of his neck. God, he was so fucking tired of this shit, all of it. The interviews, the mess, the way Jack was on his back, all the time, about getting his face out there, dating some girl he had no interest in fucking.

Maybe he should see if Bev wanted to date.

He stopped, pondered that a minute. It wasn’t a bad idea, really. It would keep the media off his back, Bev put up with all his shit anyway. He could take her out, spin her around, let people take pictures of her.

He looked over at Bev. “Hey, Bevvy…”

“No.” She didn’t even look up from her game.

“What?”

“Whatever it is, no. I’m not interested. I don’t get paid enough. I don’t want to. It’s against my religion. No.”

“But you don’t even…”

“I don’t have to. You have evil written on your shirt.”

He actually looked at his t-shirt. It said, “Real Men Last Eight Seconds”. Sebastian grinned, the smile just growing and growing on his face. She was amazing.

It was no wonder he kept her around.

“I love you, Bev.”

“Uh-huh. You love pineapple and guitars. Me, you use for your own nefarious purposes.”

He nodded. “But I pay well.”

“Spectacularly.”

Jack’s door opened, the old man standing there. “Sorry, son. Phone call. How do you feel about Tokyo?”

“I wouldn’t be the shortest man there, and they have shrimp.” That was the best he could do, on short notice.

“Good. Come on in.”

He stood, rolling his head on his shoulders. “I don’t have long, Jack. I have a TV thing.”

Yeah.

Tired.

Grateful for everything, but… he could use a nap in the worst way.

***

Sebastian's story is in Fighting Addiction -- http://www.torquerebooks.com/index.php?main_page=product_info&products_id=3702

Saloon Girls (Cotton/Emmy, m/f)

“Em. Love? Are you ready, baby?” Cotton tapped his foot, impatient. They were going to be late for the party, and there were supposed to be all sorts of folks there – media, sponsors, guys. It was a big Western dress-up shindig and he’d promised folks he’d be there. He was all dressed up, even, in his old timey get up, brown slacks and a vest with a pocket watch, a bandanna.

The bathroom door opened and his lady stepped out, hair pink and purple, teased to the ceiling, eyes painted up, little sparkles all around the edges. That wasn’t what made his lips about as dry as Arizona in July. It was that dress – the top cut down to there, barely covering her assets with black ruffles. Those assets were held up with a bright pink corset and there was a black full skirt pulled up, showing off her legs, the fishnets disappearing into high-heeled lace up boots.

“I. What. You. That.” He sputtered.

“Saloon girl.” She winked, smiled at him. “If I’m naughty at the party, will you arrest me, Sheriff Cotton?”

He gaped. Good lord and butter.

“Woman. I. You.” His cock was battering at his costume, more than happy to ponder a wicked Emmy. “Shit, girl. I’m the one gonna get arrested, if one single man lays eyes on you.”

Her giggle made him groan. He was in for one hell of a night.

She leaned forward, left a quick kiss on his cheek, her perfume sweet and light. “Let’s go play, baby. Dillon says he’s driving, so I can indulge.”

Please, God, Cotton prayed. Please, let me not beat anybody down tonight.

At least not anybody he liked.

(You can find Cotton and Emmy in City/Country on Amazon)

copyright 2012 BA Tortuga

Pansy Fetches (Coke/Dillon, m/m, pg, snippet)

Pansy came out to the backyard, just about the time Coke was pondering whether to go in or go get another set of floodlights. The new pizza oven was looking less like a mess and more like something on purpose, but he wasn’t nowhere near done and…

“Yarp.”

He loved how his Pansy sounded like she was really telling him something. “What, baby girl?”

She looked back toward the house, the warm light coming out of the kitchen where he could see Dillon making something, then back at him. “Yarp!”

His lips twisted. “My cowboy tell you to come fetch my ass?”

She stomped her big basset rhino butt toward the porch, stopping again to wag, bark, then push through the doggie door.

Coke reckoned, if whatever Dillon needed was important enough to send one of the dogs, he probably ought to check it out.

Just about then, Dillon appeared at the backdoor wearing nothing but an apron and holding a bacon sandwich and a beer. Huh.

Night air wouldn’t hurt them rocks, none…

 

 

Copyright BA Tortuga 2012