discoveredinalj | Discovered in the Wrapping Paper: Fifth December--Christmas is Coming by Dawnwind

Christmas is Coming by Dawnwind

Sunset came early in London in late December. Shadows closed in, shuttering the city in darkness. Doyle tugged on the edges of the thin linen jacket he was wearing, grateful that it wasn’t raining. The cold and dark was bad enough, but being wet was beyond the pale.

Focussed on the door of a lighted pub, Doyle shivered in his unsuitable clothing. That bastion of warmth and civility was not for him, not yet anyway.

After twenty long minutes, a Mercedes pulled up in front of the pub. The suspect emerged, flanked by a cadre of toadies. He paused by the brightly lit window, bulbous nose silhouetted for a moment, to visually search the surroundings for danger before marching into The George and Dragon. Doyle suppressed a shiver that had nothing to do with the freezing wind and followed, glad that Bodie was out there, cloaked in black, watching his back.

The pub was heaving with merrymakers determined to have a marvellous time. Fairy lights and coloured Christmas tree ornaments decorated the bar, while in the corner, a bushy tree was festooned with beer coasters from Newcastle, Carling, Whitbread, and Guinness. The whole place was festive and lively, in direct opposition of Doyle’s mood. For the past week, he’d had to curry the favour of the crime lord, Gregor Vanovitch. A few hand or blow jobs had been the price, but Doyle knew the man would demand more, soon. Vanovitch wouldn’t be satisfied much longer.

Doyle found the man deeply disturbing in a way he’d been unable to admit, even to Bodie. He had to believe the operation would be over before he was made to endure anything more intimate.

“Little Ray!” Vanovitch bellowed above the jolly crowd singing an off-key version of Good King Wenceslas. Looming over his prey, Vanovitch cupped Ray’s derriere with a proprietary hand that encompassed the entirety of one rounded arse cheek.

When Bodie used the diminutive, it was a lover’s tease. When Vanovitch said Little Ray, it was the plain truth. He was a giant of a man, in both height and weight, stuffed into a tailored suit.

“Tovarisch,” Doyle said as he’d been instructed. It rankled, but he was meant to stay in character. The bottom line was to bring this monster to justice, even if he had to suffer. Vanovitch used and abused, selling drugs and weapons to the highest bidders. He’d trafficked both women and men into sexual slavery for profit.

CI5 had been after the head of the international Vanovitch crime syndicate for several years, without success until they’d accidentally come across his potential kryptonite when he was observed going into a gay bar. More than once during their surveillance, he’d exited with a veritable Raymond Doyle clone. Slight and slender with curly hair.

Major Cowley had been overjoyed. Doyle, on the other hand, was gobsmacked. It was if the role was bespoke just for him.

And he hadn’t wanted any part of the undercover.

Bodie had demanded to go in with him, but it wasn’t to be.

Now, Doyle could feel his partner out there, in the foggy London late afternoon, waiting and watching. He knew that Murphy, Jax, Lucas, and McCabe were all optimally situated, ready for an arrest to take down the entire operation before Christmas was over. Couldn’t come soon enough.

Vanovitch squeezed Doyle’s arse with a beefy hand, gesturing to the publican to draw Doyle a pint. Behind them, the crowd launched into a rowdy version of We Three Kings. The place seemed overly loud and overly bright. Doyle winced at the tightening grasp on his buttocks, gritting his teeth when Vanovitch inched closer to slide his fingers between Doyle’s legs to tap on his groin.

Suspicious of any food or drink he didn’t actually see prepared or poured, Doyle eschewed the bowl of crisps on the bar. He grabbed the mug the bartender handed him, taking a large swallow. A decent brown ale. Dutch courage, that, to mitigate the increasingly assertive hand creeping towards his ghoulies. He squirmed, unwilling to have Vanovitch take down his zip in front of the entire pub.

“You look good tonight, little one,” Vanovitch rumbled in his ear. “Like a creature from the forests of Mother Russia, wild and—”

Doyle was about to lose his composure and karate chop a sensitive area of Vanovitch’s body when the hand rutting him came away and grabbed Doyle’s wrist instead. Not one of the four hoodlums who followed Vanovitch around were giving them the least attention. They were focussed on the small telly mounted above the bar showing a race, shouting their encouragement to the horses.

“It’s time you and I spent some…what word would you use?” He placed his other hand around Doyle’s waist, capturing his other wrist. “Quality time. So very noisy here. Need to be alone.”

“Vanovitch—” His heart rate increasing, more from anger than fear, Doyle readied himself for a battle. There was absolutely no way he was going to one of the upstairs rooms for what would certainly be more than a quickie with the crime lord.

There was a hubbub from the door of the pub, a cluster of people all coming in at once. Vanovitch glanced peevishly over his shoulder, propelling Doyle past the others gathered around the television. Around them, the boisterous crowd launched into an exuberant rendition of God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen.

Doyle dug in his heels, jamming his left wrist against Vanovitch’s thumb and fingers to release himself. Vanovitch snarled, tightening his hold to haul him up the stairs.

“My Christmas pressie,” Vanovitch said with a leer.

“Never in your lifetime, old son.” Doyle gave up any pretense of a submissive rent boy.

“New Year Lad has won the Welsh National by a nose!” the race presenter from the telly proclaimed with enthusiasm. Vanovitch’s entourage erupted in rage, shouting at the screen. Clearly they had bet on the wrong horse.

“Ho, ho, ho!” a voice bellowed gleefully over the cacophony. “Happy Christmas to all!”

“Father Christmas!” cried voices from every corner of the room.

The surge of humanity toward the newcomer knocked Vanovitch into the newell post, sending he and Doyle crashing to the beer damp floor. Doyle gasped as the bigger man landed on him, and rolled sideways to escape. Scrabbling backwards on his elbows, he couldn’t quite unseat the immense weight pinning his lower legs, and the crush of the crowd pressing closer was impossible to evade.

Doyle slugged Vanovitch in the face, squarely on his bulbous nose. Blood spurted, causing Vanovitch to curl into a ball of pain. His legs freed, Doyle tried to push against the wall to stand when a hand shot out of the throng.

“Who’s this then?”

The hand closed around Doyle’s wrist, and he started to resist until his fingers brushed soft fur and a velvet sleeve as he was towed to his feet,

“Merry Christmas!” a familiar voice said with good-humour, hugging Doyle closely. “What would you like in your stocking?”

“You,” Doyle whispered, grinning at Bodie done up in a ridiculous white beard and red suit trimmed in faux ermine. “With bells on.”

“That could be arranged,” Bodie agreed, leveling the pistol he’d had in his pocket at Vanovitch. “You’re on me naughty list, Gregor Vanovitch. No Quality Assortment for you this Christmas.”

“Charges will not stick,” Vanovitch sneered, wiping his streaming nose on the sleeve of his expensive jacket.

“This time, they will.” Bodie laughed. “We’ve confiscated a cargo of weapons bound for the Middle East sent from your holding company.”

This was welcome news to Doyle, and he sighed in relief as McCabe and Lucas appeared out of nowhere with Santa’s sack. It wasn’t filled with presents for good girls and boys, but handcuffs for the criminal element. London police arrived belatedly to wade into the melee. CI5’s mob took over, separating the general populace from the baddies, and sending them on their way.

“Blood on your hand,” Bodie said tenderly, when Doyle had claimed his half-drunk ale and taken a big swallow.

“Vanovitch’s.”

Bodie produced a handkerchief from his voluminous Father Christmas pockets to clean off the gore. “The garbage’s been taken to the skip. Meaning, the CI5 holding cells, and we’re off for a few hours—”

“Not all of Christmas day?” Doyle asked gloomily, watching Bodie commandeer the ale for a drink. And he drank it all down.

“Father can’t bear to be apart on such an auspicious day,” Bodie said loftily, licking foam from his bottom lip. “Bedamned the birthday of the Christ child, we’ve just arrested one of the more infamous crime lords in all of London town.”

“Huzzah, huzzah,” Doyle said, mockingly. He’d have done with another pint, but the pub was locking down, the landlord glaring at the two of them, the last at the bar, as if the entire arrest had been their fault.

Perhaps it was. Doyle felt dirty, as if the time spent with Vanovitch had sullied his soul irreparably. The man had never penetrated him, only insisted Little Ray service him, often with his hands tied behind his back or a blindfold over his eyes. It had galled, but Doyle had done his duty.

Once, Vanovitch had ejaculated across Doyle’s face and then forced him to stay on his knees, naked and shivering, covered in sticky semen.

“Oi,” Bodie said softly. “Gone to Neverland, have you?” He closed his fingers tenderly around Doyle’s wrist and touched the inside of Doyle’s elbow.

Their signal. Even through the thin linen jacket, it felt powerful, the only thing giving Doyle hope.

“Now, Bodie,” Doyle whispered, desperation tightening his throat, and his groin. “I need…”

“Thought so.” Bodie held him by the wrist all the way to the door where Murphy was conferring with a London Bobbie.

“Th’old man’ll be here in a tick, lads,” Murphy said.

“I’ll be debriefing Doyle,” Bodie said, inclining his head at his partner.

For his part, Doyle simply wanted to lean against Bodie and give up all resistance. That Bodie was taking control of the situation made it that much easier.

“Tell Cowley that I’ll provide details of Doyle’s observations in the morning,” Bodie continued walking them both out the front door of the pub. “Although, not every detail,” he said sotto-voce.

“Ta,” Doyle whispered.

The street was still packed with police, emergency vehicles, and curious Londoners. Luckily, Bodie’s current flat was literally steps away. Doyle had found that amusing on the first day of the undercover. That Bodie could look out his front window and see Doyle going down the street, dressed to meet Vanovitch.

In the last couple of days, knowing that Bodie was watching had been his only safety net.

Now, it kept him sane.

They crossed the road, the keys in Bodie’s hand as they walked to his threshold. The small, old- fashioned building had a single flat above. Bodie glanced at Doyle for a hard moment before steering him past the steps to the entrance and into the garage at street level.

The day CI5 moved Bodie into the Victorian era building, he and Doyle had investigated the space for something other than the Capri. Because of their relationship, they required a room without the possibility of Cowley and the like listening in, or even worse, hidden cameras. The mews had been a perfect hidey hole, surprisingly warm because of buildings on both sides, and quite dark.

As they entered, the fight or flight Doyle had experienced in the pub shut down, giving way to his need for Bodie’s touch exclusively. As always, he went to a small table to the right of the door, feeling more than seeing the candles and matches sat there. With a single flick of the match against the brick wall, he lit two candles. One for Bodie, and one for him.

Bodie gathered him into his arms. “What did he do, Ray?”

Doyle shook his head, tight against Bodie’s incongruously velvety shoulder. It felt utterly mad that he was about to be fucked by Father Christmas but the outfit was so soothing on his tired soul. “Nothing you and I haven’t,” Doyle whispered, although Bodie had never intentionally splattered him from forehead to groin. “Wash him off me, Bodie. Make me forget.”

Bodie kissed him: his forehead and both eyelids before moving downward to capture his mouth. Doyle felt blessed, forgiven. For what, he wasn’t sure.

Gently but firmly, Bodie pressed Doyle back against the bricks, clasping Doyle’s wrists.

Gasping air, Doyle startled more than usual. This was nothing new with Bodie.

Except Vanovitch had done so.

“He held you down?” Bodie asked into his ear, kissing the lobe and then biting the same place., teeth sharp enough to leave a mark.

A tiny burst of pain, so brief it barely registered. Liquid heat flushed through Doyle’s veins, reviving him. He wanted this so very, very much. “Yes,” he admitted. “Git liked it rough.”

“As do I,” Bodie said.

His warmth, the way he seemed to envelope Doyle was intoxicating. Bodie was bigger, but only just. Not massive as Vanovitch had been.

“And I,” Doyle echoed, shivering. Not from cold, oh no. Anticipation, desire, arousal.

Bodie pushed a knee against his legs, shoving him to the left. Doyle landed on the narrow bed and immediately began to undress.

“No-one else holds you down ever again. Just me,” Bodie said fiercely. He flickered in the candlelight, and the wine red of the suit appeared black in the dark. His pale skin shone, as if absorbing all the available light. He watched Doyle, eyes hidden in shadow but following every movement his partner made.

“Yes,” Doyle agreed, heart soaring.

The sound of police cars rumbling away was audible on the street outside as Doyle stripped off the cream jacket, thin rose coloured shirt, and tan trousers. When he and Bodie played here, his was role was to obey and please his man.

His man. Not Vanovitch, not Cowley.

He was on display and available to Bodie in a way that was so very, very different than the undercover he’d been performing for a week. This was his place, his sanctuary. Where he could satisfy Bodie and prove he knew what his lover wanted. He folded each item of clothing carefully and stood, facing Bodie.

“So beautiful.” Bodie breathed out in a rush, taking the belt from his festive suit to fasten around Doyle’s wrists.

Their ritual. Sometimes it was Bodie’s tie, sometimes Doyle’s beaded American Indian belt. They always chose found objects so that no-one would ever discover sex paraphernalia if the garage was looted.

“Tell me what he did?” Bodie asked, wrapping the belt around twice, so tightly that Doyle felt as if his wrist bones were cracking.

He told Bodie in halting phrases that were spaced out between his lover’s kisses on every inch of his naked body. The soft fabric of Father Christmas’ suit skimmed sensuously over his abdomen and ribs, stroking his already erect cock to iron stiffness. Doyle told him about the meetings he’d listened to while kneeling with Vanovitch’s hand tight on his buttocks and the man’s cock in his mouth. Of the deals he’d witnessed, the names and dates. Only left out the one encounter when Vanovitch laughed cruelly and shot semen into his face.

“Private details, public testimony. When we type up the account, you were privy to clandestine meetings and private discussions,” Bodie said thumbing Doyle’s crooked cheekbone with the pad of his thumb. “No need to include what else was going on.”

“Vanovitch thought I was his little lucky charm.” Doyle bared his teeth in anger at the memory. “See where that got him. Spending his hols in prison.”

“That’s what I like about you.” Bodie laughed, guiding him to a chair with a high padded back. “Always able to find an optimistic viewpoint.” He tipped Doyle over the chair, forcing a knee between Doyle’s legs to spread them as far apart as possible.

The chair had come with the garage and was upholstered in some scratchy, old fashioned material. Doyle wasn’t sure if it was that Victorian standby horsehair, or something else equally unpleasant, but he always had reddened scratches and scrapes when Bodie was finished. Part of the ritual, a souvenir of their lovemaking.

He shivered again. This was the coldest night they’d ever played in this space, and without any clothes on, he could feel the damp seeping in. Plus, Bodie had moved away to take off his clothes—or at least his trousers. Doyle rested his head on the padded chair, watching the chiaroscuro created by the candles rippling in the darkness. He caught shadowy glimpses of Bodie’s arm or body moving behind him, preparing for his penetration.

“Leave on the jacket,” he said hopefully. “I’m cold.”

“Then let me warm you up.” Bodie bracketed his chilling torso with a hand on each bony hip. “There’s a greasy Christmas sausage coming your way.”

Chuckling at the image, Doyle stood still, bound hands resting on the swell of his own arse as Bodie used both thumbs to widen his hole. As always, there was the initial trepidation that the opening was too small, that nothing as wide as Bodie’s cock would ever fit in.

It always did. The blunt head pushed against Doyle’s tight sphincter, ploughing through with impressive thrust. Doyle clenched his teeth, keening deep in his throat. He nearly came off the back of the chair but Bodie held him down, both hands on Doyle’s waist to impale himself completely.

“Quietly,” Bodie admonished sweetly, but there was an edge to his voice, his as his arousal gripped. “No soundproofing in Queen Vicki’s day.”

It was his frequent reminder in the old building. They were so close to the street, and yet a world away where both of them would have been a great deal louder if able.

Doyle shut his mouth against the sharp cry that was meant to burst forth. He lived for this…intensity, this beautiful connection with Bodie. When Cowley paired the two of them, Doyle had not taken to Bodie straight off. But the bond that developed with his new partner had been substantial and deep, stuck together like mortar and brick.

He tried to shift as Bodie’s erection swelled all the broader inside him, sparking cramping pains that ignited the growing fire in his core. He was no longer cold! Bodie hissed, pounding in and out of the tight entrance like a piston in the Capri’s engine. The silky velvet of the Bodie’s coat wrapped around their bodies as if Father Christmas himself was coming with his presents.

With his bound hands sandwiched between his back and Bodie hard against him, Doyle could feel his lover’s belly tighten as the orgasm built. His own cock throbbed with need and ,as if able to read his mind, Bodie reached under him to fist that needy organ.

Doyle was caught, held, and loved. Bodie came, ejaculating like a firehose inside Doyle and from the stimulation, the muddle of rapture and pain, Doyle orgasmed. He pumped into Bodie’s fingers, fighting for a breath, dizzy from the exhilarating onslaught. On top of him, Bodie was panting, as if exhausted after a foot race.

“Father Christmas came…” he joked lamely, slowly moving off Doyle. His movements caused the candle flames to waver, sputtering droplets of wax hitting the table.

“And left me a gift.” Doyle turned his head to grin at his lover. Felt like his first happy smile in a week.

“And here I thought you gave me a pressie.” Bodie helped Doyle to a stand, hugging him closely.

Doyle surged against him, kissing him passionately. “Do it all over again, I would.”

“But you’re never going undercover alone,” Bodie whispered savagely against his mouth. He wedged Doyle against the wall, hands around each bicep. “That’s my line in the…”

“Snow?” Doyle inhaled, rubbing his cheek on the red velvet. The way Bodie held him was so right, so them. Although in exactly the place Vanovitch had put his enormous paws, it was not at all the same. “You’ll melt under Cowley’s orders.”

“I haven’t done,” Bodie said, his moist lower lip pushed out.

Doyle had to kiss that pout away. “It’s all right, sunshine. You were there for me. I took…strength knowing you were watching.”

“Knows who’s been naughty and who’s been nice.” Bodie fucked Doyle’s tongue, to their mutual satisfaction. “And we caught the bastard.”

“All mistletoe and mince pies from here on in,” Doyle said contentedly.

“Sod all, knew I’d forgotten to nip out to the shops.” Bodie snapped his fingers.

“Then give us that coat, I’m perishing in me all together.” Doyle shivered for effect, earning a leer from his partner.

“Still got the belt round your wrists. And there’s more where that came from,” Bodie observed wryly, reflections from the candle light twinkling in his blue eyes, just as Santa Claus’s would. “Merry Christmas, Little Ray.”

If that wasn’t a promise for a wonderful hols, Doyle didn’t know what was. “I’ll sit on your lap and tell you what I want in my stocking.”

“Just what I was thinking!” Bodie twirled him around, dipping him as if they were the ice skaters Torvill and Dean, and pitched them both into the seat of the comfy chair.

FIN

Title: Christmas is Coming
Author: Dawnwind
Slash: yes
Archive to Pros Lib/cicruit: Yes
Disclaimer: Not mine to own, just renting for the day