Don't Think Twice (It's Alright)

One of the cardinal rules for e-sex is: don't just leave the chat-screen up and open when taking a break, not even for a long piss.

Never ever.

Don't do it; especially when the other person living in the apartment ('room-mate' was a word that never seemed to fit McClane very well, according to Matt's unsettled brain) was a grizzly, no-nonsense cop who was suspicious of all things internet-related, in a kind of cute Luddite-ish way. McClane never understood Matt's need to have his face plastered to the screen for twenty hours a day and Matt didn't feel like explaining to him that the Internet was more than a lifestyle-choice, it was his life, so they just left it there.

Besides, McClane would think his weirdness had surpassed all boundaries if he found out about what Matt liked to do and talk about with people who were strangers in only the most physical way. Yes, he would definitely think Matt was fucking insane, and look at him with narrowed, dangerous eyes… just the way he was looking at Matt now.

Matt stared back at him with a kind of shamed horror, one hand almost fused to the door-handle, he was gripping it that hard. McClane had some of Matt's laundry in one hand, neatly folded (Matt had completely forgotten that he had left them in the dryer); the other hand, big and scarred and ready to fuck someone up, was resting on the back of Matt's swivel-chair. He had his glasses on and turned his head back around, squinting once more at the screen.

The screen that was currently a strange and kink-filled world instead of the usual sequencing Matt ran during daylight hours; the screen that Matt had left up and running when going to take a leak… because although he was as sharp as a tack in most things, Matt was really just an idiot.

"What's this," McClane asked in his way of not really asking at all. When he asked liked that, he preferred a straight answer in less than four seconds, and concise enough to be contained in two sentences, so he could decide if heads would roll or not. That was one of the things Matt really liked about him, actually. He was tough, yeah, and kind of insane and the only time he really laughed out loud was when his life and/or other peoples' lives were on the line, a delighted cackle that bid the world to go fuck itself, but he was also very direct. The programmer in Matt really appreciated his particular brand of straight-shooting.

…most times. Not now though, when McClane was looking more pissed-off by the minute.

"It's... I like it. It's something I like. To read about, I mean," Matt blurted out; he wasn't really good at lying when McClane was within ten feet of him. All his lying instincts so carefully honed and maintained for nearly all his young life, simply fled when McClane turned the Stare of I-Will-End-You on him.

"You like this," McClane repeated softly, his eyes fixed on Matt's face now. "You like talking to someone called Lettherbozz every night about him owning your body."

"No!" Matt flushed and forced himself to keep looking at McClane's disapproving face. "This is just the first time. I mean, I usually just go into the chatroom, that's a room where people chat--"

"I figured," McClane snapped, but at least his frown was a little less apparent.

"--and I just listen in to their, uh, fantasies. Tonight was the first night I talked to somebody on a one-to-one basis. Honest." Why he was explaining his sexual proclivities to McClane so desperately, Matt had no idea, and McClane just continued to look at him for a long, unsettling moment.

Then he raised his eyebrows briefly, a quick twitch, tossed Matt's shirts and jeans onto the bed, and then strolled out of Matt's room in an almost dismissive manner. Matt sidled inside and closed his door, breathing as if he had run the New York Marathon. McClane had smelled like soap and laundry as he had stalked past Matt. It wasn't quite as arousing as McClane smelling like smoke and blood and badassery, but it still never failed to get Matt weak.

sorry, he typed when he sat back at his desk. the guy i live with saw this.

ohshit, came a quick reply from Lettherbozz. that ur dom?

lol, Matt sent back, even though he was miles away from any laughing out loud. i wish.


"Matthew." McClane's voice was like silk over stones. "Come on out here for a minute, kid."

Matth blinked at his screen; he hadn't been expecting McClane home for a few hours, at least. For the past week, he had been doing a very impressive job of avoiding McClane: being out when McClane was in, and vice-versa, and when they were both in, Matt stayed inside his room. After the initial shock of McClane finding out his need to just submit totally to someone, the embarrassment had set in. Embarrassment over what, Matt couldn't properly articulate it even to himself, but he suspected it had to do with the fact that he wanted McClane to be that someone, and it was obvious that McClane would rather do anything else but that.

"Kinda busy!" Matt yelled back.

He was going back to finishing a security patch for a client (the Feds, but they would deny it if anyone ever asked), when he heard McClane say, very low and yet his voice seemed to strum along Matt's bones like a note on a bass-guitar: "I said, get out here. Now."

Matt was up and out into the narrow passage before he could stop himself, even though his stride was very reluctant. He went into the small kitchen, where McClane was sitting at the battered blue table with a mug of something hot between his hands, which were curled into loose fists on the scarred, painted surface.

"Welcome to the party," McClane said, a small smile crooking up at one corner of his mouth. Matt just stared at him, doing his best imitation of a deer in the headlights, until McClane motioned at the only opposite chair, a little impatiently. Matt sat, placed his arms on the table in unconscious imitation of McClane's posture and then dropped his gaze.

McClane made an annoyed huff and Matt looked up at him again in surprise; McClane's expression was mostly stoic, as ever, but his eyes were intent, considering Matt with an unusual brand of hunger. Matt suppressed the urge to shiver.

"I just want to know," McClane rumbled. "Just to be clear, what you want from me."

"What?" Matt croaked.

"What," McClane said in tones of aggravated patience, "do you want me to do."

"What the fuck are you--" Matt started and then cut off, actually holding his breath. McClane was… McClane was offering

"Nothing," Matt finished in a strangled voice, starting to get a little angry, because as much as he wanted someone to give everything to, surrender everything he had, he sure as hell wasn't going to allow McClane to do it out of some misplaced sense of duty, just because he was That Guy. That Guy could go fuck himself, if it came to that. "You don't have to do shit."

McClane gave him a very cool stare. "Who said anything about 'have to', Farrell? Listen up: I want to. So, I want to know what you want."

Matt gaped; it was really the only thing he could do under the circumstances. Never in a million years would he have even thought that this could actually happen. McClane appeared fairly amused now, eyes half-lidded as he leaned back in his chair and sipped at whatever it was in his mug, and Matt remembered that he could breathe.

"Sometimes I just want somebody to take over," Matt explained in a low voice, looking back at his hands. They were trembling a little. "Take me over."

"Fuck you, too?"

"Yeah," Matt murmured, being as direct as he could because that was the only way McClane really rolled.

"How long have you wanted this?" McClane's soft tone seemed to press insistently into his ears, smooth and strong and settling. Matt felt his shoulders relax. He was safe with McClane. He always was.

"I don't know. Maybe from the first time we met." He raised his gaze to meet McClane's. "It could be just… I dunno, fucking hero-worship, or whatever. I don't know. All I know is that," his sudden rush of bravery faltered a little and then he firmed his resolve. "I want to give you this."

The surprise that dawned in McClane's eyes was actually gratifying to Matt; he had known that McClane really wasn't expecting anything in return; but he should have. McClane should have known that Matt wasn't a halfway kind of person, in any case; in that respect, they were the same.

McClane took another contemplative sip. "Okay," was all he said, probably all he was ever going to say on this matter, and Matt felt his chest grow tight.


McClane's eyes considered him over the rim of his mug. "Go take a shower and when you're finished, come to my room. Naked. Got that?"

"Yeah," Matt said, trying not to sound so fucking breathless. "Got it."

"When we're in there together, don't call me McClane," he continued, still pinning Matt with that intense gaze of his. Matt was going to say that if he wanted the title of 'Master', there were going to be lines drawn in the dirt, but McClane shook his head as if he had read Matt's mind. He was actually smiling when he said, "Call me John."

"John," Matt repeated; it rolled off his tongue almost clumsily, but McClane (John) nodded in satisfaction.

"Good. Get going, I'll be waiting. And, Matt?"

Matt turned; he had nearly been at the doorway for the kitchen.

"You won't be talking to Lettherbozz again, right?"

Matt gave him a brilliant smile. "No, John. Of course not."



~~~~~~~~ Back to Live Free or Die Hard ~~~~~~~~



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