City night. Muffled sounds of traffic from the Old Kent Road, shouts in the distance, TV blaring some car chase at full volume. Past midnight. He could almost hear Big Ben ticking, almost see its moonlit shadow spilling over the relentlessly moving river. Tock, tick. Time: weighted and balanced by pennies left over from another century. Leavings of a dead queen. Tick, tock. Parliament, city, gangs, pickpockets, Cowley and a dozen clubs up west. None of them sleeping. Time still notching past. Tick.

Tock.

He leant against the wall. Brick that had been old when Victoria died, crumbling as he kicked back with his heel. Not in impatience. Not in anything other than a slow, even measuring of time. He kicked again; brick-dust gritty under his boots.

Tired beyond sleep. Awareness like a thread deep in his bones.

A siren. Ambulance, he thought, and rested his head back, staring up at the thick night. Sludge black sky, skimmed with light-pollution and air-pollution and the arrowing flicker of a jet heading off to the sun. Sea, sex and sangria. He and Bodie should do that. Go and pull some birds. Fuck their brains out for seven days solid. Find some tart who liked it hard and dirty with two guys -- a fuck sandwich with her the filling. Doyle grinned, baring his teeth at the night sky as his cock swelled in the tightness of his jeans.

Just waiting. Thinking of Bodie, naked.

Doyle enjoyed watching Bodie. Liked watching him fuck. Which was okay, as Bodie got off on being watched. Quite the performer given the right motivation, which, because it was Bodie, came in all sorts. Like Doyle wanking, cock thick and hard in his hand as Bodie shafted some slapper, slow and controlled, his eyes locked with Doyle's while the girl clawed his back and begged for more.

Doyle would have him after. That was fair. Long and deliberate and very slightly vicious as he took his time. And the girl watched, maybe. Or left. Depending. By then it didn't matter. They'd got what they wanted. And Bodie wouldn't know if there was anyone else there anyway. Doyle knew how to fuck him. Knew how to make him lose it. Lose everything.

Just like Bodie knew Doyle. Smug bastard.

And sometimes they didn't need a girl at all. Sometimes. More often than not these days. Just the two of them. And games. Games that made their world seem sane. Doyle smiled tightly, stretching his shoulders, cotton scraping on brick. Sane. Well, maybe not quite. But close enough.

A sliver of images. Closed down tight.

Tick, tock. The mouse ran up the clock. You are old Father William...

Bodie would be one day. He'd get there -- if he dodged the bullets and behaved himself. Tick. Tock. Get there, or Doyle would kill him first. Stupid fucking risk-taking bastard.

Alive though. And somewhere close. Close and hard and... ah, patience, patience.

Doyle straightened, listening to almost silence as the TV clicked off. Without the brash noise the alley seemed to close in. Shadowy, like the molasses his nan had used to make ginger cake; thickly cloying, shiny, sweeter for his own anticipation of the final result. He licked his lips, and plucked at the untucked hem of his T-shirt, wafting air. He was lightly dressed. No gun. No jacket. Nothing to get in the way... of whatever was coming. Whatever Bodie brought. Wanted. Gave...

He smiled again. Lips stretching in a reflex movement. Smiling as tension pricked his skin like a sixth sense, lifting the small hairs on his arms, the sweat darkened curls tingling against the back of his neck. A bell chimed the half hour.

More brick crumbled. Boot heels crunching.

A sound. Nothing much. Enough to be a warning. Doyle tensed. Waited, breath caught somewhere under his diaphragm. Taut, expectant. Helpless as he ever allowed himself to be.

A shadow-shift at the edge of his perception, and a figure approached from his left. Unexpected when the road was a dog-leg of alley to his right. Left was... what? Nothing. Something. Somewhere Bodie knew. But then Bodie was at home in the strangest of places. In back alleys. In the secret hours between midnight and dawn.

Another slide of darkness and there he was.

Black polo neck under a black biker's jacket, scratched and dulled with age, black jeans, boots. Unsmiling, his face hollowed and sharpened in the muted streetlight. Doyle knew -- just from the tension in the wide shoulders -- that Bodie was hard. Needy. He felt his sphincter tighten, felt his balls crawl upwards as his cock surged. Hungry Bodie. A dark night and a secluded alleyway. And games as expiation, as benediction. The slow twist of time stopped, here.

Dust crunching. Bodie, scented of soap and leather. Close, closer. Doyle began to smile, straightening away from the wall. "Hello..."

The slap caught him off guard. Hardly more than an admonishment, yet it rocked his head. He gasped, jerking back, the knuckles of one hand scraping as he twisted, sharp with almost pain as warmth trickled down his fingers. Righting himself he shuddered with a kind of joy.

"Bodie..." Doyle swallowed. And grunted as Bodie slammed him back into the wall, callused hand hard around his jaw.

"Shut up."

He tried to shake his head, to agree, but the hand held him, and Bodie was pressing aggressively close as his fingers clutching around Doyle's face and neck gripped tighter. Strong hands holding him still. Hands smelling of metal and oil, and Doyle knew the bike was somewhere close. The moan that formed deep in his throat was a counterpoint to the creak and shift of leather, of Bodie's soft breathing. A thigh slid between his legs, pressed there. Then he gasped as Bodie stepped away, automatically following, one step, half another. Only to be slammed back into the wall.

Dazed, he stood still. Watching as Bodie lifted one hand and stroked his cheek. The finger was gentle. Doyle shivered, wanting to touch in return, wanting to feel, but every impulse to move was held in check by that one finger. And the look in Bodie's eyes.

"Well done." Bodie smiled slightly. "For that you get a present." He reached to pull something from his back pocket. Lifting his hand, holding something. In the half-light Doyle saw some sort of strap dangling from up-curled fingers. Straps. A ball too, and buckles that caught the light. Held now between two hands. Stretched in front of him. A second before it was rammed in his mouth, Doyle registered what it was and his knees went weak.

Ah, Bodie... beautiful Bodie...

"Open wide." Bodie smiling. The command given as the rubber ball was shoved between his lips. Hard. Doyle felt his jaw cracking as he took it. His mouth tried to close, couldn't. The buckle was fastened, dragging the leather straps deep into skin. His hair caught as Bodie jerked it tighter, grunting with the effort.

Doyle sucked in air, tasting rubber and sweat. Leather, too.

"Pretty." Bodie pushed him back into the wall, one hand on his neck.

Doyle swallowed convulsively, awkwardly, again and again. Bodie's hand was lightly stroking his face, soothing the small noises that strangled in his throat, easing the slow acclimatisation of jaw and muscles. Panic sliding into acceptance. Pain subsiding to a low-level ache.

Doyle opened his eyes, lids flickering as he found Bodie staring. The gag was a monster. Immovable, tucked behind his teeth. He pressed up at it with his tongue. Knew he'd be drooling soon.

The fingers stroked. Teased. The touch so delicate it was no more than a whisper on his skin, one that eased stray curls from his face, let Bodie stare right into his eyes.

Anticipation. Sweet. Like molasses.

Bodie tapped the rubber ball with his finger, jerking it further into Doyle's mouth. Trying to swallow, throat working, Doyle tilted his head back, eyes half-closing as Bodie pushed him into the wall. Pressed him there, brick rough and solid at his back, Bodie hard at his front.

"You know, I wanted you all through that bloody debriefing. I kept thinking of this. Of seeing you with the gag stretching your mouth. Fucking lovely." Bodie licked rubber. Kissed the side of Doyle's mouth. He was slightly breathless. Even that small lack of control was enough to make Doyle light-headed. "Ray." Conversational. "You know I'm going to fuck you here, don't you?" Doyle's whole body shuddered, making Bodie's dark eyes glow in response.

He kissed Doyle's cheek, mouth whispering near his ear. "And I get to say what I want. 'Cos you can't say a thing, sunshine. Nice. I should've bought a gag earlier -- shut that mouth of yours up." Another kiss, teeth scraping loudly on stubble. "I brought these, too."

Like a conjurer, he held up his hand. Shiny metal clamps dangling from a chain. They caught the remains of the streetlight and sparkled as they danced in the air. Doyle watched them as if mesmerised. Wondering if they'd been tucked in the leather jacket all through the debrief. All through the second meeting with Cowley, and the two hours in the pub with Murphy and the lads. That Bodie'd known exactly what he was going to do hours and hours before he'd told Doyle where to wait and when. That he'd wanted this, exactly this, despite the come-down from a shit-awful few days.

Jesus. Bodie. Clever, wicked...

Doyle arched up as Bodie pressed one thigh tight into his groin, and Bodie's hands pushed up under his T-shirt, metal dragging on skin as he shoved cotton up carelessly. Bunching the entire front of the shirt, the sound of fabric strained almost to tearing crackling in the air as he levered the hem over Doyle's head and back over his shoulders. Binding him with his own clothing. Baring skin.

Not fighting. Lost on the cusp of the illusion of helplessness, the reality of submission, Doyle shivered. Hot night air on his skin. Nipples hard, sensitised beyond belief. When Bodie smiled Doyle arched into him, whimpering helplessly, saliva wet on his wide-stretched lips, cooling on his chin.

"Slut..."

The word enough to make Doyle pulse, close to coming.

Bodie tutted, the sound soft, dangerous. With a shake of his head he bent, licked over one nipple, then the other. He shook his head, smiling slightly. Fingers pinching, and then he attached the clamps to Doyle's nipples.

For a while Doyle wasn't thinking anything but pain.

The clamps had teeth. And a bite like fire. Sensation ricocheting from tits to cock to brain, breath shallow and hard-won he finally, finally controlled it. Controlled himself. And lifted his head; to see Bodie, fist tight around his own cock, jerking off as he watched.

Doyle swayed, caught himself, then straightened, breath bubbling wetly around the gag.

Bodie, his beautiful cock-head shining with pre-cum. Doyle moaned, as fingers, delicate as air, touched the clamps. Brushed them. Flicked at them. Then tapped them sharply, making him jerk and dance as blades of agony sliced through him. Then, very intently, holding his gaze, lips parted, Bodie squeezed. Hard.

Doyle screamed. The sound strangled by the gag until it was nothing more that a mewling.

Choking, the night blood-red behind his tight closed lids, he would have fallen, but Bodie was holding him up, hands under his arms, lifting him, mouth wet and hot, biting his neck, hard-edged kisses that opened him up. Left him ripped and needy and lost in a half-world of possession. Of being possessed. Being Bodie's.

Teeth gnawing deep, hands working at Doyle's jeans. Unsnapping them, unzipping, pulling his hard cock into the air. Bodie slid his own alongside and with his fist gripped them both, jerking them together, his hand rough, brutal. A groan sounded deep in his throat as he lifted his face up to the sky and his fist skinned them side by side. Pumping as Doyle groaned helplessly. Breathlessly. His bared shoulders scraping onto brick, so close he was sobbing, cock swelling in Bodie's hand.

Then, suddenly, Bodie let go.

Giddy. Sucking air around rubber and saliva, Doyle was dragged deeper into the alley.

Soft sounds. Breath. Boot-soles tripping on uneven concrete. A can kicked, clattering away. A darker part of the city. A deep corner, overlooked by shadowed, blind windows, the air cold and damp even in the summer night. Nothing there but a fire escape that spiralled up into darkness. Bodie slammed Doyle, back first, against the bars, held him there. Metal creaking on metal.

"Bloody hell, you should see yourself." Soft voice. Edgy with need. Doyle sniffed, blinking as paint-peeled metal dug into his spine. "Such a whore, aren't you. And you know? Anyone could hear us. Anyone could look out of the windows and see me fuck you, see you wearing that huge lump of rubber strapped in your mouth, see you half naked and totally bloody desperate." A light touch brushed over Doyle's nipples. "Bet these hurt." Tight smile. Fingers teasing up Doyle's neck. Up though straggling curls, tracing a path along the strapping that dug so tightly in Doyle's face. "And this."

Leaning forward Bodie licked over Doyle's lips, insinuating his tongue between skin and rubber and teeth, forcing his way inside. Just managing it, the fit so tight. Doyle groaned, hands clutching back at the metal railings, feeling the iron turn dusty under his touch. He held on, knuckles white, pressed backwards as Bodie fucked his mouth with his tongue, his cock hot and neglected, jerking rawly against Bodie's open fly, his skin, the roughness of his pubic hair, the heat and hardness of his cock.

Flying on the pain, on Bodie, Doyle moaned and tilted his face up. Rewarded by Bodie's hands on his body, by fingers dragging on the clamps, by pain that shattered intensely through him. Pain balanced on pleasure, pleasure balanced on pain. On need.

He wanted to beg. Wanted to, was... though the sounds that slid incoherently from his stretched lips were beyond language. He'd have knelt if Bodie had asked. At this moment, here, he was nothing but Bodie's. And that knowing was almost enough.

Hips jerking, he shuddered. But a touch warned him. A finger stroked his face until, swallowing hard, he focussed.

A nod. Bodie reached forward yanked hard at the stretched cotton binding Doyle's arms, pulling it down until it came free. Doyle watched as he tossed the shirt to one side, the flash of white cotton a blur in the shadows.

"Much better. Now turn around and take hold of the railing."

Doyle obeyed, staggering slightly. Assisted by hands that grabbed, placed, pulling him into the required position; bent at the waist, hands straight out like a swimmer about to dive into the deep end. Fingers clutching the metal rail as if it was a lifeline. Staring down into dirt, he watched saliva drip from his mouth. He could see his own belly, his hard, weeping cock, two sets of boots. Bodie's hands touched his back, and he gasped. Fingers smoothing over his ribs, his spine, down over his arse, pulling his jeans and jockey's with them.

A wrench and he was bare from ankles to waist. Cool air lifting the hairs on his thighs. Bodie's heat, close. Hands burning as his legs were forced apart. Rough fingers probing, tugging his balls, rubbing behind them, nail catching on his perineum. A single, hard slap that jerked him forward and sent precum coiling to the ground.

Another.

The world dizzying, sight blurring. And then something nudging between his buttocks, and Doyle almost lost it as Bodie's tongue slurped up his crack. Hot and wet and thick, sliding down and in and fucking him until he felt his body give up anything like control, his arsehole just shivering open, ready.

Jesus, he wanted this so much. Wanted Bodie. To fuck him. Hard. Though the tongue was making thought impossible. Making everything impossible, except simple need. Enough to make him sob. Breathlessly, wordlessly begging, the tension rippling in his arms as he held on, stretched and bent, held just as Bodie wanted him.

Sweet.

And beyond. For Bodie was standing, and instead of his face it was his cock thrusting upwards. Thick glands nudging, opening, eased by spit. So big and solid and arrogant that Doyle screamed again, head jerking back, gagged mouth wide and shuddering as Bodie just shoved home.

And held there. Root deep. Leather jacket falling open around Doyle's sides, peeled back zip scraping at his buttocks. Rocking very slightly. The movement hardly there. Doyle felt it. Earthed himself to it as the stretching pain of being opened so wide so suddenly began to fade. To ease into something else. A rush of blood to his cock, senses focussing beyond sight and smell and sound. The way his heart pounded, the way his skin became a billion points of need. The way Bodie's cock filled him, expanded him. Beyond time. No minutes, hours, seconds, past or future. Just this. Here. Bodie fucking him.

He shoved back. Bodie gripped his sides hard and the rocking intensified. Just a notch. Doyle whimpered again and didn't care. The sound expressed his need. He shifted his hands on the rail, easing the tight-clamped fingers, spreading his legs the half inch his jeans-shackled ankles would allow. Begging silently.

Wanting. Urgency pounding in his head, in his blood. Cock purple, swollen, jerking spasmodically, sopping wet, slit shining.

A jerk of Bodie's hips and he pulled away until just his cock-head was still held within the grasping need of Doyle's arse. Shift of boot-heels on dirt. Waft of leather as Bodie re-balanced.

"Christ, Doyle." Tight voice, edgy. "Do you know what you look like? How fucking outrageous you look with my cock splitting you open, with your ass covered in my handprints. Do you?"

Without warning he slammed home. Out and back in, cock forcing a way though muscle, slide tight and harsh. Doyle held onto the railing and howled.

Bodie grunted as he fucked, the sounds filtering through Doyle's concentration. Short, breathless sounds. Breath, followed by sharp slap of skin on skin. Of wet suction. Of Doyle's own whimpering.

Brutal slide in deep. "Yesss, Ray, you're so... Jesus, tight..." Rhythm breaking as Bodie gasped out loud. "Fuck..." Hand fumbling under Doyle, fingers grabbing his cock. Arse fucked hard and fast as Bodie skinned him back and fisted his cock brutally. "Jesus, Jesus..."

Doyle closed his eyes tight. As the world shrank to here and now. To the pain in his balls and the need. Shrank to the wonderful second just before he knew he was going to come. Knew, and choking behind the gag he came in pulse after pulse, spunk jerking onto the ground, up onto his belly, his neck. His arse clenching so tight as Bodie came too, and the heat filled him as Bodie's hands clawed at his back, as his muscles fought to keep Bodie hard, to drain him, to drag every drop of need from his body.

Weight slumped over him. Legs barely braced. Breath hammering in his lungs. Pain sudden and sharp as Bodie shifted, then slowly levered away. Wet sounds as flesh parted from flesh. Sweat dripping from his nose. The gag suddenly beyond painful.

Zipping sound. Then Bodie was there. Hands easing him upright. Gentle. Smoothing skin. Soothing. Unsteady fingers unbuckling the strap. Soft curses until the metal gave in, and Bodie peeled the sweat-damp leather from Doyle's face, eased the soaked rubber ball from his mouth. Hardly registering, Doyle was snapped back into now when Bodie removed the nipple clamps. Pain like nothing else. Especially now, without the cushioning of arousal. Doyle shuddered. Counted back from fifty until the swamping waves of pain backed off. Thirty-five. Twenty-two.

Eighteen...

Leaning sideways into the fire escape, Doyle lifted his hands, stared at the paint dust that smeared them. Flexed his fingers, then looked up at Bodie. He knew he was smiling awkwardly, his lips stiff, swollen. He ached, tits and arse still pulsing. Then warm leather was close and strong arms were on his naked torso. Being held. Serene as a god he stood in the shadows and listened to Bodie breathe. Let Bodie hold him.

"Ray..."

"Yeah..." Though even that one word was slurred. Doyle lifted his arms and pulled Bodie closer. Hugging him. "Stupid bastard."

"I know."

"Then don't be. Okay?"

A nod that he felt rather than saw. Standing together in the night. Closer than they had ever been. Doyle sighed. He took happiness on the fly. Here was just fine.

Looking up he caught a smile that showed a flash of white teeth. "I'm alive. I didn't die."

"Just as well." Doyle slid his face between the jacket and Bodie's neck. Snuffled skin. Sweat and animal and scent. Life in the pulse of blood. "Don't scare me, cretin. It's not good for me."

"But I am. Aren't I."

It wasn't a question. "Smug bastard."

"Let's go home. The Norton's here, and there's a four-pack each in the fridge."

"Suave, smug bastard." Doyle lifted his head. He looked at Bodie's grin and smiled. "All right. I forgive you."

Bodie kissed him then. Tasting of sex. A soft and easy kiss, so perfect that Doyle sighed, forgetting everything but certainty. It was more than enough, really. They were alive. Both of them -- which was something he wouldn't have put money on ten hours back. Yeah, and Bodie could make him come harder and better than anyone else in the universe. What else was certain? Big Ben would chime the hour, the river would ebb and flow, and this city was a bloody good place to live. Oh, and he was going to fuck Bodie, very soon. Doyle grinned then, letting Bodie tuck his cock away and zip his fly. Another kiss.

His shirt was stretched and grimy. Bodie passed it to him and he slipped it on anyway, muscles groaning as he moved. When the cotton touched his nipples he hissed softly.

"Okay?"

"Yeah. You can kiss them better."

"Mmm, after a bath."

"God, yeah." They started walking. The end of the alley was bright.

Bodie glanced at him. "You fancy a game of Monopoly later?"

"Sure. Though I want the top hat."

"I'll toss you for it."

"Thought you'd already done that, mate." Doyle grinned. Energy surging back. Bright laughter, like a bubble in his chest. Laughter, or maybe joy.

"Yeah, so I did."

"Your turn next."

Bodie nodded. "Only if you win."

"Oh, a challenge!"

"Of course. First to Mayfair wins the next fuck."

"Deal."

The Old Kent Road was almost quiet, and the bike was waiting, shining brightly under a streetlight. Separating, hands not touching, they walked side by side. Footsteps like the second hand; tick, tock, on the pavement.

--THE END --