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Fighting These Feelings

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When Urgayle looks at McNab, his vision goes hazy and he sees red. He sees blood on McNab's face. Blood Urgayle drew because McNab wanted it there. Asked for it.

Urgayle doesn't think about how hard McNab's blood gets him.

McNab is a twisted, sick fucker. Urgayle figured that out early on. The trouble is, he likes that about McNab. Thank fucking Christ McNab doesn't know it, or this would be worse than it is already.

"Harder," McNab pants, hands tugging against the cuffs, "come on, fuck me..."

"Shut up," Urgayle hisses.

He needs this. They both do.

I'm sorry.

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I don't know why I keep doing this.

Maybe it's because he lets me.

Fuck. I'm fooling myself. Fooling one's self is a sure way to get killed in our line of work, so that is unacceptable. No. I have to be honest here. If he meant every word of it, if he meant every lost little whimper that comes out of his throat while I'm fucking him, if he meant every single miserable motion as he's fighting me, I'd still do this.

I need it, and I don't know why. I don't know what this makes me. I need it. Him.

I have to stop this. After what we went through together, the last thing I should want -- the last thing I should need --

-- he looks so god. damned. fucking. good. that way.

Hurt. Bruised. Bound. Bleeding.

I couldn't stop this even if I tried, at this point. I see him and my vision narrows down to red, ugly need. I look at him and my body goes still, ready to take him by the neck and force him.

And it is about force. I could fool myself and pretend it's about fucking that six months out of my system, but let's be fucking realistic here. It's something I do because those six months broke something open inside me, and there he is, ready to bleed for me... Jesus fucking Christ...

I have to stop this. It's stupid and it's dangerous, and some day he'll fight back and one of us will be unable to walk away.

But if either of us could walk away, I wouldn't be here waiting for him. I wouldn't be checking my fucking wristwatch every two minutes wondering when he's going to show up. I'd be thinking of ways to call this off when he gets here.

And instead all I can think of is the taste of his blood in my mouth.

I don't know what the fuck is wrong with me. I have to stop this.

He walks into the bar, and my breath picks up.

I have to stop this. Now.


"McNab," I say. My mouth has gone suddenly dry, and my teeth feel sharp on my tongue. "Buy you a drink?"