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Physical (you're so)

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The first time Dean sets foot in the Pogue Mahone, it’s completely by accident. He’s lost looking for his newest client’s address and he knows it’s somewhere in this area, but he has no idea where.

And then, just to add the cherry to the towering sundae of shitness, it starts belting it down with rain.

He stumbles into the small café with a curse on his tongue and his useless umbrella dripping at his side, too small to be of any actual use. In fact, the only patch of him that’s still dry is his chest. Both arms and shoulders are soaked making his charcoal jacket resemble some kind of drowned humbug.

The café is reasonably quiet with a few customers taking shelter from the rain behind overly sized mugs of steaming coffee. There are two people behind the counter, an older man whose face seems to be comprised almost entirely of a wide toothy mouth and two black eyebrows which sit like caterpillars, wriggling and jumping above his eyes.

And the second. He’s closer to Dean’s age, perhaps a little younger, and definitely a lot more to Dean’s tastes. For lack of a better term, he is bloody beautiful. Tall and dark and deliciously Irish. Though he may only know that because at that moment he is shouting something over to the other man in the most velvety soft accent Dean has ever heard. Is that Dublin? Southern for sure… Dean’s not particularly good with accents but he can pick out the lyrical lilt with relative ease.

“Are you buying something or just browsing?” The older of the two asks him and, weirdly, he is Irish too. Although his accent has the sharper twang of the North to it.

“Um,” Dean swallows and glances desperately at the overhead board. He settles for an Americano, it’s the simplest and safest thing on the menu.

“Oh come on.” Northern Irish rolls his eyes and his caterpillar brows jump up towards his hairline. “Do you want some vanilla to go with that vanilla? We make damn good coffee here, choose something worth making yeah?”

Dean stares at him, too taken aback to feel offended—did the barista really just insult his coffee tastes? Really? Are they allowed to do that?

There’s a lyrical laugh and Dublin is smiling at him, his brown eyes creasing with warmth under severe brows. “Sorry about Jimmy,” he says. “He’s a bastard. Pretend he’s not here and tell me what you really want, even—“ and here Dublin fires a glare at Jimmy, “even if it’s an Americano.”

When Dublin smiles at him, Dean can’t help but feel like he’s melting a little, the guy should come with a warning about that voice of his.

“Medium white mocha?” He doesn’t mean to say it like it’s a question, but that’s how it comes out.

Dublin’s smile grows, if that was even possible, and he winks. “Sweet for the sweet,” he chuckles and sets about making Dean’s drink. As Dublin is busy, Dean braves approaching the very intimidating Jimmy who is watching him like Dean imagines a shark would watch a minnow.

“You’re a kiwi, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Dean nods. Jimmy’s eyes narrow and then, finally, he smiles, wide and open.

“That’ll do,” he says and Dean isn’t sure he quite understands what it’ll do for. “You didn’t by any chance notice the name as you came in did you?”

Dean shakes his head, no; he was too busy trying not to drown in the downpour. Jimmy laughs and smacks a broad hand on the counter.

“You’re standing in the Pogue Mahone, lad,” Jimmy grins at him. “Owned by yours truly. Don’t suppose you know what Pogue Mahone means?”

Again Dean shakes his head.

“It means English fuck off,” Jimmy says loud enough that Dean notices a few affronted glares shot their way.

“That’s nice?” Dean says somewhat tentatively.

Dublin appears with Dean’s drink in hand and he passes it over, shaking his head. “It doesn’t mean that,” he confides in Dean. “It actually means ‘kiss my arse’. Offensive enough but not quite as anarchistic as Jimmy here likes to pretend.”

“Watch your mouth, Turner,” Jimmy barks but there’s humour in his tone. “Anyway, New Zealand, that’s like the Ireland of the pacific isn’t it? Consider yourself an honorary Celt.”

While Jimmy’s speaking, Aidan leans in close to Dean, crooking his finger to indicate Dean should come closer.

“Save yourself,” he mutters low into Dean’s ear and Dean can feel warm breath on his neck and tries not to think how much of a thrill it is. “Get out while you still can.”

But Dean doesn’t. He stays long enough to get directions and to discover that the mocha is, quite possibly, the finest mocha he has ever tasted. That, combined with the allure of Dublin (he still needs to learn his real name, something Turner?), means that Dean is hooked and he will come back to the Pogue Mahone again and again as often as he needs his caffeine and sugar fix.



When Dean refers to his work and his clients, not many people realise what he really means. They are clients of course, that part is not a lie. But where other people will be taking clients into boardrooms and meetings, Dean takes his to bed.

It’s not as bad as it sounds, not in his eyes anyway. He doesn’t like to tell many people because he’s sick of the stigma and the fact that when people find out, they go one of two ways. Either they see him as a weeping Madonna figure who needs saving from the big bad Johns, or they see him as the lowest of the low, not fit even to live in the gutter.

Dean prefers to stick to anonymity and a certain amount of discretion when it comes to his living, free from the judgmental eyes of the ignorant masses.

That isn’t to say he loves his job, because he doesn’t, but it’s not quite as soulless and demeaning as people like to paint it. A lot of his clients are regulars and just normal people looking for a bit of companionship. Dean is popular enough and smart enough that he can pick and choose his clientele to some extent, so if he comes across anyone particularly creepy, he doesn’t have to put up with them for long.

Dean’s good at what he does. He can’t quite remember how he got into it, he thinks maybe it had something to do with a relationship gone wrong in his younger wilder days, but the fact is he knows the job. He knows what to do and how to handle it. He feels a hell of a lot more comfortable in bed with a client than he would trying to pretend he knows just what the hell he talking about in a boardroom.

This particular client of his is the first new one he’s had in quite some time.  They were nervous on the phone and didn’t want to give him their full name, instead referring to themselves as Guy. He doesn’t mind, he’s been told to use all kinds of names over the years. From the strange, like Daddy or Bomber, to the sublime, like one particular client who insists on being called ‘the great and powerful’ when he climaxes.

This new client, Guy, he lives in a fancy high rise apartment a few streets down from the Pogue Mahone. He’s pleasant, very polite and painfully English and greets Dean on the street with an awkward handshake that almost looks like it’s going to turn into a hug but doesn’t quite make it.

Dean regards the man with wry amusement. He’s taller than Dean, quite a lot taller, and he’s handsome. That’s always a plus for Dean, it never hurts when they’re lookers. Guy doesn’t appear too old, possibly just over a decade older than Dean and he has a pair of very striking dark blue eyes lined with dark lashes, the kind that are so dark it’s like they’re wearing eyeliner.

“You didn’t have to come down to meet me,” Dean says, smiling to take any edge off his words. “I’ve got your apartment number, I would’ve found it.”

“Our lobby’s locked; you need to sign in to get through.”

“I would’ve just said I was a relative of yours,” Dean says, then shrugs. “Or something. I would’ve called you if I needed.”

“Right. Sorry. I’m… not quite sure how to do this,” Guy admits, blushing.

“It’s fine,” Dean touches Guy’s arm. “You’re doing fine. It was nice of you. Quite sweet actually.”

“I like your accent,” Guy blurts out.

“Thanks,” Dean smiles. “I like yours too. Northern right?”

Guy nods and escorts Dean up to his apartment which, as it turns out, takes up the entirety of one of the top floors.

“Penthouse, nice.” Dean nods appreciatively as Guy leads him through. Everything is so decadent, white marble counters, black leather couches, striking red decor on the walls. Dean gets the impression it was decorated by a professional designer rather than by Guy himself. This Guy’s a highflyer it seems, definitely one to keep hold of if he doesn’t turn out to be a weirdo.

“Do you want a drink or anything?” Guy asks. Dean turns to face him. He shrugs out of his jacket, draping it over the back of one of the leather couches and steps right up close to Guy, standing toe to toe.

“No thanks,” he says quietly, huskily, letting his voice take on that dulcet tone he knows drives most people wild. “I just want you.”

Guy flushes bright red and he chokes. Dean takes a step back. “Hey,” he says, reaching out to touch Guy’s arm. “It’s ok, look I’ll back off ok? That was too forward we can go slow.”

“No it’s not that.” Guy shakes his head and he steps closer to Dean. His hand hovers some inches from Dean’s arm, hesitant, before finally making contact, holding him close. “Sorry, this is just so new to me. I don’t want you to think I’m some great big pervert or something.”

Dean smiles, he’s heard this kind of thing before, this he knows how to deal with. “Guy,” he says evenly and he makes sure he has Guy’s full attention, those deep blue eyes staring back into his. “Trust me, I’m not going to think you’re a pervert, not unless you want to do something really weird and even then I’m probably game. Look I don’t want to be crude or anything, but this is my job, it’s nothing new for me. It’s just sex. I happen to love sex, sex with you would actually be pretty great.” He looks Guy up and down appreciatively. “Yeah,” he confirms. “Definitely great.”

“You enjoy this?” Guy asks, frowning. “Really?”

“Sure,” Dean says and it’s not a complete lie. Of course he enjoys sex; he’s a hot blooded male. It’s just that in his eyes, when he’s working, it’s work; it’s different to sex. But he knows the clients love to think that he’s loving it as much as them, they love to hear him moaning and begging and telling them that no one’s been as good as them, no one’s fucked him as soundly as they’re fucking him. Dean’s job is more than just sex, it’s giving his clients what they want, giving them the dream.

He leans up and kisses Guy, tentatively at first, then with more force as Guy returns the kiss. Guy’s lips are soft and warm and his mouth is fresh and clean and it’s not bad at all. Guy’s hand snakes round Dean’s waist until he’s hugging him close, fingers curling into the material of his shirt, pulling it free of his pants.

Dean moans, quietly, just a hint of a sigh, suggesting he’s getting into it, his desire mounting slowly with the cautious heat of the kiss. His hands reach up; wrapping around Guy’s neck and pulling them flush against each other.

“Take me to the bedroom,” Dean says, leaning back out of the kiss and looking up at Guy with hooded eyes.

“Yes.” Guy nods with growing resolution. “Yes.” He practically scoops Dean up in his strong arms and he carries him through into a room decorated much the same as the living room. There’s an expansive bed in the middle draped in red and black sheets. Guy manoeuvres them to that bed and Dean finds himself sinking down into the plush sheets. He pulls Guy with him, dragging that long body over his, enveloping him. He moans and sighs and whispers Guy’s name over and over against his skin, begging him to please, please just take him now, fuck him.

And Guy does. He strips them both naked and stares down at Dean. He growls, actually growls as he presses them together, rubbing friction against their cocks and sending sparks of pleasure down Dean’s legs to his toes where they curl in the silky sheets.

“I want to fuck you,” Guy grinds out and if his voice, thick and deep with lust, isn’t the most erotic thing Dean has ever heard. That voice is like velvet and pebbles, that is a voice for porn. “I want to be inside you. I want you to feel me in you.”

“Do it,” Dean gasps, he writhes in the sheets, wanting to touch himself, to touch Guy. “Fuck me, do it now.”

Guy reaches into his bedside drawer and pulls out the lube and the condoms. (somewhere in the back of Dean’s mind he ticks off the box of pros for this client; not having to remind them to wrap it up). And then Guy is on him, scissoring lubed fingers into him and Dean is gasping and fisting the sheets and fucking himself on Guy’s long, thick fingers and oh, oh, oh he just wants to feel completely filled by Guy, right now.

“Do it,” he groans out. “Please Guy do it now.”

He hears the tearing of a wrapper as Guy rolls a condom over himself and then Guy’s cock is pushing into him and he cries out, a wail of pure ecstasy as he feels Guy going balls deep. His hand snakes up to fist his cock but Guy stops him.

“Let me,” Guy tells him, and then Guy’s stroking him. He strokes with each of his thrusts, filling Dean again and again until Dean is a writhing, sweating mess in the sheets.


“Richard,” Guy—no Richard growls. “Call me Richard I want to hear you say my name when you come.”

Dean tries the name out for size. Richard, Richard, he says it again and again letting it roll off his tongue. It’s not long before he’s shouting it, shooting his come between them and riding out Richards frantic thrusts until he’s coming too. Richard gasps and groans and shudders his release and Dean holds him close, stroking fingers over Richard’s back, his legs spread on either side of Richard’s hips, feet hooked behind his thighs.

It’s a long moment before Richard stirs and rolls off him, pulling out and tying a knot in the spent condom.

“So, Richard, huh?” Dean says, still a little breathless.

Richard groans, draping an arm over his eyes. “I wasn’t planning on telling you that,” he confesses.

“Hey, Richard,” Dean waits until Richard is peering at him out of the corner of one of his eyes. “Don’t worry about it. Confidentiality and me… I’m more tight-lipped than a priest, ok? You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

Richard sighs. He stares up at the ceiling, him and Dean lying side by side, completely spent. “Thank you, Dean,” Richard says finally, and Dean knows he doesn’t mean just for the secrecy. Feeling a rare moment of fondness for the other man, Dean leans over and kisses him once, gently, at the corner of his mouth.

“Richard, it has been my absolute pleasure,” he smiles.