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Romantic Vignettes (or, How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Collar)

Chapter Text

Brock pulled up behind the F-250 hulking in the dark driveway, thin moon flashing silver-white through the bare trees.

“Ready there, sweet thing?” Jack called through his open window.

“Don’t call me that.”

“Don’t park me in. I ain’t riding bitch on that motorcycle.”

Brock flushed deep and cursed himself immediately—and silently—as he turned the bike back on, hoping the color would fade before Jack got him anywhere with decent lighting.

Forty five seconds later, he was swinging into the passenger’s seat of the big truck, arm stretched way over his head to propel him up and over the running board.

“Took you long enough to get ready, baby.”

“Fuck off.”

“You’re blushing.”

“Am not.”

Jack grinned and looked him over, long and and obvious, up and down, and said nothing as he reversed out of the driveway. They rode in silence for a few moments—awkward for reasons Brock couldn’t fathom, not after all the time they’d spent together at work.

“So, um, where are we going?”

“Aw, sweetheart. Nervous?”

“No! And what’s with the fucking pet names anyway?”

“Just tryin’ to woo you right. Respectful and all that. But maybe you don’t want respect, huh, fag?”

A long beat. “So… where are we going?”

“Just burgers and shakes. Classic, all-American first date stuff, you know?”

Jack drove fast on the country roads, whipping around curves Brock could barely see. His heart beat fast in his throat, and he tried to tell himself it was just the reckless driving, not Jack’s hand, easy and possessive with its splayed fingers covering half of Brock’s thigh in between shifting gears.

It was another ten minutes, fifteen maybe, before they pulled into the drivethru of the Steak n Shake. Brock craned his neck around, but he couldn’t see much. A blindingly lit gas station across the highway from them, a Super Walmart next to it, and on the other side of the Steak n Shake, a Taco Bell that looked like it had closed a decade ago. “Where are we?”

Jack stared at him, incredulous. “Burgers. Shakes. Dummy.”

“No, I mean-“

“You thought all of Virginia was Reston.”

Brock opened his mouth to answer, but the loudspeaker crackled to life just then and he closed it in favor of looking over the menu. He was still debating fries versus onion rings when he realized Jack was done. He began to stammer out his half-formed order, but Jack just shushed him, thick fingers hot on on his bottom lip, and shifted into first to drive up to the window.

Jack accepted two bags; dumped one into the muddy footwell and the other into his lap. Both sweating paper cups were tucked into cupholders but when Brock reached for the one closest to him, Jack slapped his hand away and reached into his own bag to pull out a steaming handful of fries and stuff them in his mouth.

Brock watched, mouth watering, as Jack ate one handed, shifting gears and swooping through the country curves, one moon-silvered wheat field after another sliding through his peripheral vision.

He had eyes only for Jack, chowing down, slurping his shake, driving safely. Not many people could drive stick and eat a sloppy fast food burger without spilling so much as a drop of ketchup, without a a hint of difficulty, without one hard stop or quick swerve, but he could. Jack, who was always safe—until he wasn’t, his long cat’s grin unfurling across his face in the field as he triple-checked his bombs.

“So… am I not eating, or what? And where are we going?”

“Oh, you’re eating. Dinner under the stars. I wanted to romance you right, baby—or do you prefer bitch—”

“I’m not-”

“—but I wasn’t about to eat my dinner cold. Have you ever had wilted fries? Gross.”

“But I am?”

That grin again, slow and lazy as Jack looked sideways across the cab, not saying a god damn word.

Another five minutes and Jack pulled into a field, crushing half-grown corn under his wheels. “I got a blanket. Let’s go sit into the bed and you can eat.”

Brock popped the door and hopped down, stumbling a little when he misjudged the difference, but recovered smoothly. Jack probably couldn’t see from the other side of the truck, anyway.

He dared a glance over and—yes, Jack definitely could see. Jack could see everything.

He made his way around to the tailgate where Jack snapped the blanket open with two harsh cracks, spread it out soft and smooth before turning to offer him a hand up.

Brock snarled. “I don’t need helping climbing into a truck.”

Jack shrugged, “Suit yourself, cocksucker,” and leapt up, light as a cat to settle cross-legged against a wheel while Brock struggled up behind him. “C’mere, baby,” he coaxed, holding one arm out. “Come eat.”

Brock sat down gingerly, leaning back stiffly where Jack pulled him.

“That’s it,” the younger man cooed, “just rest your head in my lap and have your dinner. You want ketchup?”

Brock fixed him with a stare, flat, unamused. “You’ve worked with me for ten y-”

“Fine, no ketchup. Just trying to be nice. Now open up,” and with that, Jack brought a fry to his closed mouth, cold, limp with grease and gritty with salt. He glared at the fry, then up at Jack’s face. His eyes were open, encouraging, and he nodded in approval when Brock cracked his lips. He smiled, and Brock hated himself, but he opened wider and took a bite, chewed, swallowed. Disgusting.

He didn’t know why, but he opened up for another one.

It seemed to take forever for the fries to disappear, and Jack wouldn’t let him get away with feigning fullness (“ah ah, you need to keep your strength up, faggot”). But finally they were gone, a cold, heavy lump in his gut, and he glanced up at Jack. “Now what?”

If Jack could hear the displeasure in his voice, he didn’t show it. “Now lay back and let me love on you, baby. I told you. Gonna treat you right.”

Before Brock could snarl out a response to the pet name, before he quite knew what was happening, he was on his back, truckbed hard against his skull under the softness of the blanket, scowling up at the sliver of moon and dense spatter of stars, but then he felt Jack nosing at his jeans, hot breath on bare skin as the zipper came down, and his eyes clenched shut.

Impossibly, Brock had forgotten how good this was. Whoever had taught Jack knew what the fuck they were doing. He sucked him down fast and hard, all in one go, wide tongue undulating against the vein underneath, and when he pulled back, Brock felt the night air cold on his spit-soaked dick. But not for long. The hot wet tight suction bobbed up and down, and then down, down down down, a hand slipping under his jeans to stroke at his balls, and then further back, rubbing his-

Brock came with a shout, faster than was seemly for a man pushing—a man of—a man in his forties, and he firmly resolved to ignore it.

Jack sucked hard as he pulled off, uncomfortable but efficient, not spilling a drop, and as he zipped Brock’s damp dick away he murmured, “Guess you liked that, huh, bitch?”

“You know I did,” Brock allowed, struggling to sit up, to get at Jack’s own fly.

The soft sweetness slid out of Jack’s voice, all at once, and he asked, “Something you wanted, faggot,” flat and unamused.

Brock could feel the confusion creep across his own face. “I just thought—you know, you did—I mean, so it’s your—I could, um-”

“You know what they say, don’t you? If you’re not ready to talk about it, you’re not ready to do it.”

A blush prickled across Brock’s face, all the way to his neck, hot and stinging of shame. “I was gonna blow you,” he mumbled, words smashed together, eyes on his hands, balled up and sweaty in his lap.

“You were, were you? And you didn’t think to ask me first? That’s bad fucking consent practices, Brock, for shame.”

Brock’s head snapped up at that, eyes wide and jaw dropped. “I—what—you didn’t-”

“Now, if there’s something you’d like, you may ask me. Politely.” And with that, Jack settled back against the sidewall, languid, magnanimous. His arms stretched wide to either side, real casual; his spread thighs drew Brock’s gaze unerringly to the hard line of his crotch. Jack himself, though, seemed utterly unconcerned by his own need, unaware almost.

He forced his gaze back up to Jack’s face, his smirking mouth, and ground out, “Can I suck you?”

“What’s the magic word?”

Brock drew in a deep, ragged breath against being spoken to like a child, released it, and managed, “Can I suck you, please?”


“What?” That wasn’t—Brock was the head of Strike, was Jack’s CO, and they weren’t at work, this didn’t-

“You know, I'm in a good fucking mood tonight. Hard to know why, what with you being such a whiny, incalcitrant bitch, but there it is. So I'll give you a choice. Sir, or daddy. You pick.”

He ground his molars together, strongly considering climbing into the cab and just going home. He knew Jack wouldn’t push him, not on this. But fuck him, he wanted it, wanted to know what Jack felt like, what he smelled like, the salt and the weight of him, so he set his spine and let out, “Please, sir, can I suck you?” in an unyielding monotone.

“You are fucking terrible at begging, you know that? But it’s good enough for now. We'll work on it later. Go ahead, if you must.”

He felt the criticism like a punch to his gut, felt the shame crawl through him and settle into his bones as he heard the truth in Jack’s words—he could take it or leave it, take or leave him, it was him, Brock who wanted this, the bitch, needy fucking faggot, who-

“Well?” He looked up to Jack’s arched brow. “Get on with it, then.”

He nodded to himself, curt, scooting awkwardly onto his belly so he could reach his goal, reached out for Jack’s fly-

“No hands.”

Brock looked up in disbelief, but there was no joke on Jack’s face, no room for discussion. He sighed, resigned, and took Jack’s fly between his teeth, wiggling the buttons free, one after another after another.

“You’re good at that, huh? Been practicing, haven’t you, fag, getting on your knees like a slut, hands behind your…”

He squirmed uncomfortably at the compliment. He could hear Jack’s words continue on above him, spilling over him like water, but he couldn’t pay attention to them. Not now, with Jack’s cock right in front of him, uncut, thick and musky and smelling of the sea. He stretched his tongue out to lap precome daintily from the tip, and moaned out loud before he could stop himself.

He dropped his jaw and sank forward, choked, drew back, forward, choke, back, forward, choke. He keened to himself, soft sad noises in the back of his throat when he couldn’t take the whole thing in, couldn’t make room for Jack in his throat like Jack had for him. (“He’s bigger,” a voice whispered cruelly from a half-hidden corner of his mind. “He could swallow you down because there’s nothing to it, nothing-”)

He sank down, further and further, choked himself and kept going, cutting off his air, cutting off the voice. He gagged and tried to swallow through it, kept his nose pressed to Jack’s sweaty, hairy stomach until he was light-headed with it, high on the scent and dizzy from lack of oxygen, choked and swallowed and gagged and swallowed, hoping with some small, crumpled part of himself that Jack would start thrusting, fuck deep and hard and uncaring past his throat, right into his gut, but Jack was a rat bastard, rough-callused hands soft on his short hair, his ears, the back of his neck, sweet unintelligible murmurs raining down until finally, finally Jack came, spilling down his throat and all over his chin as Brock choked and spluttered.

“C’mon up here, sweet thing. You did great, you did so good, baby, so fucking good,” and Brock couldn’t stand it, the sweetness, the approval, closed his ears and went where he was pulled, head tucked into Jack’s shoulder, smearing spit and jizz and snot deep into the fibers of his denim jacket, messing everything he touched.

Chapter Text

It was a long time between their first date and their second—a week out in field, glaring at Roger's perfect young back, a week pretending not to feel Jack's hot heavy gaze on him, and then a second week spent cooling his heels while he waited for Jack to call him, a week of telling himself he didn't care either way. A week of drinking too much, of lying, of watching porn, barely legal twinks he just couldn't get worked up for.

So when he woke up on the couch late Saturday morning, hung over for the third day running, he pulled his phone off the charger and dialed before he had time to think.

Jack picked up on the second ring. “Rumlow,” he said, crisp and businesslike. His work voice. He might as well have said, “Pierce,” or even, “Asset.”

He hated himself for how much he hated it. “Jack,” he corrected, throat rough with whiskey but voice still too soft.

His heart pounded when Jack answered in kind. “Brock,” he laughed delightedly. “You miss me?”

“Did you?” he asked before he could stop himself. He sounded needy, insecure. Moron, he scolded himself, gut turning over.

“Of course I did, baby-”

“Would you stop that,” he hissed.

Jack laughed again, infuriating. “Sorry, sorry. I forgot you don't like nice things. What I meant to say, you god damn filthy cocksucker, is that I didn't want to come on too strong, scare you off.”

“You won't scare me off.”

If Jack didn't stop laughing at him, Brock was going to kill him on their next mission. “Of course fuckin' not. Big tough boy like you. What did you have in mind?”

“Wanna see you,” he whispered, low in his throat. It wasn't a whimper. It wasn't.

“What are you doing this afternoon? Come over, two o'clock. Don't dress nice.” And Jack was gone, the click echoing in Brock's ear.

He threw his phone down and rolled off the couch to shower and shave.


It was 1:53 when Brock rang the doorbell, 32 oz of gas station coffee boiling in his hand and stomach twisted up in knots. Through the heavy wooden door, he heard “...gun's for hire even if we're just-” going suddenly silent and the thump of Jack's boots coming towards him.

He wanted to turn tail and run, but it was too late. The door swung open—silently, well oiled—and Jack's pleased smile dropped off to be replaced by something blank, unimpressed.

“You're early.”

“Should I-”

“That's good. Get inside.”

Brock followed him in, quiet, unsure. He stood next to the rough-hewn coat rack while Jack closed the door behind him, shifting uneasily from foot to foot. He took a long breath to steady himself (leather and sweat, wet wool and cedar shavings), and when he opened his eyes, Jack was there, in his space, his face, unsubtly crowding him towards the wall.

“This is how it's gonna work.” His voice was low, dangerous. Brock had heard that voice before. In an interrogation. “I call the shots. You don't like it, you can leave. Anytime, no hard feelings. Say the word and you're out of here. I'll see you at work, it'll be just like old times. But I don't play games. You won't be back here. Sound good?”

Slowly, eyes wide, Brock nodded. He hadn't felt so shaky in years. Ten years, not since—but the thought of leaving, of not being welcomed back, made him shudder. He didn't know what Jack would do to him, but his mind spun with the possibilities.

He wanted to find out.

Turned out, the first thing Jack did was kiss him. He wouldn't have guessed that. The way Jack treated him, sweet and then rough, baby and then bitch, it made him dizzy.

But not as dizzy as kissing him did, the way he poured himself into Brock's mouth, took his lips and his tongue and teeth like they were his, like they'd always been his, biting and sucking and fucking, filling his mouth, filling his senses, and then pulling away with a series of nearly-chaste presses of his lips, lush and wet and soft. He moaned, drunk with it, and pressed forward, chasing the kiss.

But Jack was gone.

“Take off your shoes and follow me.” Jack's voice, gravel-rough, called over his shoulder, and he fumbled to comply.

He stopped short in the threshold of the den, frozen in the doorway, breath caught in his throat. Jack was stretched out on the leather couch, utterly unconcerned. A long, grease-stained rope rested on the floor by his feet, coiled and indolent as a snake.

Jack didn't look up from the small book, dwarfed in his big hands. “C'mere, faggot.”

He went.

“Kneel. Right there.” He jerked his chin at a spot next to the rope, turned the page. It looked fragile.


Jack shrugged, still reading. “You can leave, or you can listen. Your call.”

Brock rocked back on his heels, considering. To get on his knees for another man, a younger man, was demeaning, but on the other hand... he was curious. Jack was tall and strong, in perfect shape, capable on the field and confident off of it. And he probably wouldn't tell anyone—he was closed mouthed to a fault.

He knelt, biting his lip to keep down his grunt of discomfort as his knees creaked.

Jack didn't say anything, just stood up in silence and walked across the room to slip his book into a line of identical leather-bound spines above the dark rolltop desk, boots thunking hollowly on the wooden floor.

He turned, looking at Brock for the first time, and Brock preened, straightening his spine, throwing his shoulders back. Jack chuckled, low and mean. “All right, you fucking peacock, you wanna show off? Pick up that rope and crawl over here. Do it slow. No—with your mouth.”

He couldn't help himself. “It's dirty!”

“You wanna clutch your pearls, do it on your own time.”

Brock flushed, but lowered himself gingerly down. The rope tasted the way a hot roof smelled, made the spit come thick and fast in his mouth.

He felt like a—a cat, or a tiger, hips shifting and spine curved low. It felt—good, in a horrible sort of way. “That's it, good boy, yeah.” Jack's words were slow and steady and soothing, like you'd talk to a feral dog or a spooked horse. “C'mon, come over here. Little closer, you can do it.” It took a hand in his hair before Brock realized Jack was tugging at the rope. He flushed and unclenched his jaw, leaning into it when Jack stroked his face and over his hair. His senses dulled, his eyes slipped closed—and flew open again at the rough feel of rope around his neck to see Jack's old grin in his face, long and mean and too many teeth. “You're gonna learn to crawl today, you fucking bitch.”

With that, Jack straightened and jerked the rope, hard. Brock choked and fell back, but the rope only got tighter.

“You wanna breathe? You better fucking crawl.”

Jack started walking, long loping strides over the hardwood, and Brock scrambled to catch up, palms and knees hurting already. Whatever he had liked about crawling across the room toward Jack was gone now; he felt clumsy, incompetent, could barely keep his limbs under himself.

“Thought I told you to move, faggot.”

Brock didn’t have time to process the words before a hand twisted into the long hair on top of his head, yanked, and fell away again just as fast, only the lingering tingle of fingertips on the back of his neck-

-before that too was gone and Jack’s big arms were around him, scooping him up under his ribs, cradling him against Jack’s chest. He wiggled and squirmed, trying to free himself from the embarrassing hold—it wasn’t, he didn’t, he wasn’t—

Jack gave a heavy sigh, bored and disappointed at once. “Won’t crawl like a good little bitch, just have to carry you.” He shrugged, Brock could feel the rolling motion of his wide shoulders, and lifted him higher, to his mouth, to his big square teeth biting down, biting in, and he groaned. It fucking hurt, the teeth closing like a bear trap on his side, just below his last rib—

His arms dropped away and that was it, it was just his mouth holding Brock up, his sharp teeth pulling at Brock’s flank.

He twisted wildly, trying to break the hold, touch the floor, anything to get away from the gut-wrenching pain tearing through him. It didn’t help, Jack’s jaw was strong, too strong, and the more he struggled the worse it felt. His skin would split any second, he knew it, he knew it, and he’d fall down bleeding and Jack would just laugh at him, his long lazy grin all red and dripping.

Chapter Text

“What’s the magic word?” Jack taunted, singsong and ringing in Brock’s ears.

“Fuck this,” he muttered under his breath, cutting his eyes away from the breadth of Jack’s forearm, his big hand holding the knife under his chin. The perspective—the hand, the long track of the arm to Jack’s shoulder where the man loomed large above him—made Jack’s arm, Jack himself, look bigger and badder and scarier than he did in their day to day, or even—Brock swallowed, throat clicking loud and hollow in the silent room, adams apple bobbing against the point of the knife—on the field.

“Oh, baby,” Jack tutted. His eyes shot back to Jack’s face at the petname, the hard glare of an old argument brought up at the absolute wrong time. “Princess.” The knife pressed in, hard enough to hurt but too slow to cut. “Sweetie. You know that isn’t it.”

“I’m not—” and he cut himself off as both the knife and Jack’s big booted feet retreated across the room to the leather wingback. Had to be at least five yards from where he knelt on the hardwood floor. Unlike Brock's own apartment, squashy, cluttered, comfortable, every surface in Jack's house was bare and hard, gleaming.

A den should be somewhere warm, cozy—a bird's feather-lined nest or a bear's leaf-strewn burrow—but instead Jack's den was the sparest room in his house. A leather armchair. An endtable for his reading lamp and his whiskey, neat. A rolltop with accompanying uncomfortable chair. A precise line of leather books, all with dumb-sounding titles like “The Tenant of Wildfell Hall” stamped in gold down their spines. “Sense and Sensibility,” just the same word twice. Stupid. Stupid title.

In this room, where Brock could’ve been three inches from Jack’s hands, Jack’s boots, Jack’s knife, and he would have felt an ocean away, the fifteen-foot distance yawned between them, and Brock felt the gulf like an emptiness inside himself.

“Not what, sweet thing? Not my baby? Not my princess?” He un- and recrossed his long legs, lolling insolently in his chair, so fucking carefree Brock could spit. He leaned forward then, intent, and his voice dropped to a low, dangerous whisper. “Not desperate enough to say it? Because I think we both know what a fuckin' lie any of that would be, hm?” The way he sat, angled toward Brock, elbows on his knees, made his chest look bigger than ever.

He dropped his eyes to his own knees and whispered one single word as a hot flush of shame prickled across his face and down his chest.


“It’s a start.”

“Please, daddy.”

“So vague.” Jack sighed dramatically, over the top in a way Brock just knew was a jab at himself. “So open ended.”

“Please hurt me, sir. Please cut me.”

“Better come where I can reach you then.” He sounded bored, dismissive almost, but Brock didn’t miss the way his eyes darkened and tracked every movement when his hands dropped to the floor in front of him and he crawled forward to kneel between Jack’s spread knees, or the slight hitch in his breath when Brock clasped his hands at the small of his back. He didn’t miss the way Jack licked his dry lips before he asked, “You want it there, baby? Want me to cut you right on your pretty tits?” with wonder in voice and awe plain on his face.

He could do this, he could make a man like Jack want him, he could be—be a fucking queer, be in-

Whatever. Whatever this was between them, this huge, incomprehensible thing, he could have it. He could have a boyfriend, finally, after all the hard, hairless, anonymous bodies he'd fucked and been fucked by. The too-bright, blinding light of the dance floors and the lurking shadows of the dark bathrooms, the dicks and the sweat and the jizz and the piss.

He could wake up next to someone and know their name. Wake up curled around another man, warm and comfortable, and not go running. Flip a scarred middle finger at everyone he grew up with, all the fucking idiots who'd called him a sissy.

A sissy would be scared of pain, and Brock was no coward. Pain he knew. Pain he understood. Pain he lived and breathed and dealt in, every day of his sorry life.

So he hitched his chin up, set his jaw, and said, “Yes, sir. I want you to cut me wherever you like,” without breaking eye contact.

Jack grunted, short and quick with a barely-there nod, and stood. He pulled a big metal lighter from his pocket and spun the wheel a few times, the flame jumping to life in his hand.

Brock couldn't tear his eyes away.

The lighter disappeared between two of Jack's fingers and he strode across the room in a few steps. Brock heard a drawer open, close again, Jack's boots coming back. He set a candle down on the end table, its heavy glass base thunking on the wood.

He sat, lighter and knife both reappearing in his hands, and leaned over to light all three wicks.

“Might cut you.” A beat. “Might not.”

Brock felt the indignation rise in in throat and squashed it down roughly. He didn't even want to be cut, to be hurt. He only b—asked to make Jack happy, anyway. So if Jack changed his mind, didn't want to do it anymore, that was fine. That was—good.

“Don't look so fucking sad, faggot.” Brock's eyes flew up to Jack, to where his long steel knife cut through the flames. “I know you need someone to make it hurt. To make you hurt.” A chuckle, dirty and mean. “You gotta hate it or you can't let yourself like it, huh? Pathetic little bitch.” And he took one boot, shoved at Brock's shoulder with it—not exactly a kick, but definitely more than a nudge.

Brock landed on his ass with a squawk and Jack snorted, holding back laughter.

“Don't get your panties in a twist on my account, you fucking priss. Think I don't know you stay up at night dreaming about a big ol' daddy taking you in hand, hurting you? Making you mind, making you like it? Yeah, that's what I thought. Then you wake up all a-flutter 'cause 'it ain't fucking seemly.' Pfft. God damn cocksucker.” Jack's mocking drawl trailed off as he looked up and down Brock's body, considering. “You know, s'long as you're down there, take off your pants. Lookin' at your tits is nice, but I wanna see more. Wanna watch your dick get hard while I hurt you, you sick fuck.”

Brock flushed under his tan, all the way down his chest, and scrambled to comply, laying back against the gritty floor when he was done—Jack hadn't told him to get up.

“Aww, just look at you,” he cooed. “Tits all heaving like the cover of some weepy romance novel.” He stood, kicked Brock in the ribs, hard, grinned when he coughed and struggled to stay still. He couched down, thick thighs coiled like a lion's, and asked, “It's not a fuckin' romance novel, though, is it, fag?”

Brock almost forgot to respond, his wide eyes glued to Jack's knife, sooty from the candle and still trailing a curl of smoke, but Jack's palm snapping against his cheek brought him back to himself.

“Is it, you worthless fucking faggot?”

“No, sir.”

“God damn right.” Jack leaned closer, hunched low over Brock's prone body, naked, exposed. He could feel the heat of the knife, floating over his low stomach. “You're gonna beg for me to stop,” Jack hissed against his ear. “You're gonna beg and beg but I'm telling you now, bitch, I'm telling you, I don't give a fuck about you,” and the knife dropped that last hairsbreadth to rest against his skin, drew a long line up, slow, slow, burning and burning, splitting him open, navel to collarbone.

Brock screamed and arched, muscles twisting, chest pressing up, up against the knife. The moment dragged on and on, and he couldn't shut up, couldn't be quiet, couldn't make his muscles relax, couldn't slump down against the floor, away from the knife, even though he hated it, hated—

Jack's voice, “...good bitch, that's it, take it, take it all, my good good bitch...” and Jack's face so close to his, Jack's tongue against his cheek, his wet cheek, as the knife finally, finally pulled away.

Brock lost track of how many times the knife dipped into the candle and came back to his skin. Up his stomach and across his chest, down his arms and up his legs until the tip of the knife pricked dangerously against his thighs, the flat of the blade pressed broad and flat against his nipples. Liquid dripped down his chest, blood or sweat or spit or tears. His voice went hoarse from screaming, from pleading, “Daddy daddy stop I'll be good I'll be good please stop please,” and then stopped working entirely and he could only rasp out wordless moans as the knife came down again and again.

His teeth worked, clenching and grinding, his head tossed from side to side, eyes squeezed shut as he scraped his face against the floor, trying to hide from the blade, from the flame, from the big implacable hands holding him down, twisting him this way and that, holding him down, holding him down


He opened his eyes to the dim light of Jack's bedroom, cotton sheets blessedly smooth against his back, Jack's hands soothing down his sides.

“Whassat?” His voice sounded like somebody else's, gravelly and far away, jarring him with how real it felt to talk when the rest of him still floated on somewhere.

“Ice, baby. So the blisters go down.”

“S...blood? Cut?” He couldn't make his brain work, or his tongue, but he trusted Jack to know what he meant. To understand, and to answer. To take care.

“No, honey. Didn't cut you at all, just used the back of the knife. Burned you up pretty good though. Don't worry, though, I got 'em cooled down and...”

Brock stopped paying attention, just let the warm wash of words flow over him as Jack went on about healing this and superficial that. He didn't need to know, Jack could know for him.

The cold trickle of ice went away, and the sticky-cool spread of aloe replaced it, Jack's fingers smoothing it all over him, from his shoulders to his arms, down his chest and his stomach and—

oh. He noticed, almost absently, that the cock within Jack's grip was hard, pulsing hard. Had he been hard that whole time? Probably. He sighed, content, and rolled his hips up into the firm grip, let his legs fall comfortably apart. The hand dipped down further, stroking, searching, and Brock made himself blink his sandy eyes open. “Burn me... there...?”

“No, baby, I wouldn't. Not there. Just relax, huh, sweet thing?”

He did exactly as he was told, muscles unspooling, making space for Jack between his thighs, within himself, a finger and then another one against his prostate, making him hiss and flex in pleasure. Jack's voice shushed him when he whined for more, he was empty, horribly empty, and then full again, full full full, Jack pouring into him, filling him up until he overflowed, a river spilling over its banks.


It was dark when Brock next opened his eyes, and he was thirsty like he'd been chugging whiskey in the full sun, throat sore like he'd smoked a pack of Newports while he was at it. He squinted into the shadows, trying to see where he was.

“You awake now, sweetheart?” Jack stepped into the room, holding a tray, bottle of water and juice and a sandwich.

“What was that?” he croaked by way of answer. “Feel like a train ran me over.”

Jack chuckled at that, but it wasn't mean anymore. “Good to know I can wear you out, sweetheart. C'mon, eat, and then you can sleep again.”

He didn't think he was hungry but the sandwich was gone in three bites and the juice followed it just as fast, gulped down before he could hardly taste the oranges. He let Jack coax him down against the pillows but brought the water with him, sucking at it petulantly as he went.

Brock melted, just a little, when Jack's nose nuzzled in behind his ear. He tried not to, to squirm away or tighten up his muscles, but he was tired, bone tired, tired like he hadn't been since bootcamp.

If he couldn't move, he could say something, let Jack know that this, this—undignified behavior, it wasn't for him. But when he opened his mouth to complain, Jack's mouth filled it with a kiss, soft and slow. Sweet.

And Jack called him a faggot.

Chapter Text

“Cool your tits, one fucking croissant isn't gonna ruin your precious eight pack. Now, open up.”

Brock shifted his hips sullenly. The wide metal slats of the bench dug into his tailbone. He didn't even know why they were here. It wasn't a mission.

If it was, he would be in charge.

He did as he was told, dropping his jaw and pressing his tongue against his bottom lip in that way that always made Jack's eyes go dark and round and hungry.

Jack broke off a piece with his thick fingers, placed it on his tongue but didn't let go. It melted, flaky and buttery, turning to ooze in his mouth until it was Jack's gun-callused fingertip resting lightly on his tongue. “Not so bad, huh? Now drink your coffee.”

Brock scoffed as he took a foamy sip. “Dunno why you got me this fag stuff, anyway.” The milk clung to his lips and he licked them clean, Jack's eyes glued to the sweep of his tongue.

Jack looked from the rainbow lights of the entryway to Brock's own face and explained, in a slow, annoyingly patient voice, “Well, we're in England, you dumb shit. You can have tea, or you can have a cappuccino. Tell me which is gayer, and I'll get you that.”

His scowl deepened. What, did Jack think he was gonna start drinking tea all dainty, pinky sticking out and shit? He might be a faggot, but he wasn't a fucking nelly. “Coffee's fine.”

“Then drink up like a good boy, and when you're finished, you can take daddy's credit card and go buy our tickets.”

“Why can't you do it?”

“Because, bitch, I want to watch that tight little ass walk across the station.”

Something flared, hot and needy, in Brock's stomach at that. He looked down at his hands. “Yes, daddy,” he murmured, and took a huge bite of croissant.

“That's better.”

Brock finished up quickly and stood, watching the flex of Jack's thighs in frank appreciation as he lifted his hips off the bench to get at his wallet. He still didn't get the point of this weird little trip, vacation or whatever, but it was kind of nice to be somewhere he could look at his daddy as much as he liked and no one thought twice about it. Jack's fingers were hot against his as he took the card. “Where are we going next?”

“Manchester. Got some old friends up there I think you'll like.”

“What kinda friends?”

“Don't be jealous, baby. Just get the tickets.”


“Maybe when you get back. If you manage not to blow some stranger on the way, that is.”

Brock huffed across the nearly-empty lobby to the bank of ticket machines, uncomfortably aware of Jack's eyes on his ass the whole way.

He might've put a little extra sway in his hips, just to remind Jack what he had here and now, but he'd never admit it.


“You’ve been so good for me lately, princess,” Jack purred into Brock’s ear. Brock blushed and squirmed on the hard train seat, trying to get away from the uncomfortable feeling Jack's words woke in him. He shot a glance up and down the nearly-empty compartment, but said nothing. There was no point to proving Jack wrong, not about this, not here. “Even when you're bad, you're good for me. And you know what good little boys get, don’t you?”

He double checked, but the nearest passenger was still a good twenty feet away. There was no way they could hear Jack’s filth over the noise of the train—was there?

Jack jabbed his elbow into his side, hard. “I asked you a question, boy.”

Brock jumped and twisted in his seat to face him fully. “No, sir,” he whispered, as low as he dared.

One eyebrow arched dangerously. “I didn’t?”

“No—I mean yes—I mean I don’t know what they get.”

“Oh, princess.” He sounded mournful, and slid somehow closer on the bench. “They get special treats. They get every last little thing they like.” And at that, he smiled, wide and toothy, and took Brock’s hand in his own, turning it over until the hot pulse of his inner wrist faced up, exposed to the world.

“W-what-” Jack brought Brock's wrist up to his own mouth, flicked his tongue against the thin skin there—one of the only soft parts left on his hardworn body—and scraped his teeth over the blue veins, delicately. “But I thought you didn’t—daddy, you said—”

Jack punctuated each word with a nip, tiny and precise. “What. I. Said. Was. Every. Last. Thing. My. Boy. Wants. My. Boy. Gets.”

Brock let out a breath, long and shaky, and could only agree. “Yes sir.”

“Good boy,” Jack grinned, and let his teeth sink hard into the meat where Brock’s thumb joined his hand.

He set his teeth and struggled not to scream, let out a high, hard whine, no breath behind it, eyes fixed on the other two passengers—one reading, one with headphones. Neither looked up.

Jack let go, finally. “And you know, bitch, I think I've cracked it. You tried to hide it, but you did a fucking shit job. I think you wanted me to know, you needy fucking cocksucker.”

“Hhh?” Brock tried to follow, but he was still dizzy from the pain.

“You want me to hurt you. You're not a masochist, not really, but you need to feel low down and dirty. Need to turn yourself over to someone bigger and badder and meaner'n you. And god knows you're as mean as a fucking snake.” He sighed, like it was a burden, saying this, being what Brock needed. “How many brainless god damn A-gays have you fucked, trying to get back even a tiny bit of what you felt when you had me up on that red carpet, huh? A hundred? A thousand? And they moaned and they begged and they came real pretty on your dick, maybe even got you off, but they never did anything for you. They couldn't touch you.” Jack leaned close, his breath hot and wet against the blood pounding in Brock's neck. “Not like I can. Because I know what you are, what you need.”

Brock hummed an agreement and slumped back, against the seat, against Jack's long body.

Jack's big hands closed on his thighs, pinching and clawing, rough even through his jeans. “I tried to be nice to you, you know. I wanted to be sweet, take you out and show you a good time. But you couldn't stand that. Any time I said anything nice, you hissed and spat like a wet cat. But this?” Jack found the tip of Brock's cock and pinched it, hard, his thumbnail digging in even through the thick denim. “Hurting you, humiliating you in public? You go all boneless and drunk. You love it, you can't help it.”

“Love you,” Brock moaned, letting his legs fall open, bucking up into the hurt of Jack's hands.

He barked out a laugh, high and disbelieving. “Are you kidding me, you fucking fag? Now, you're gonna say it now? How long have you been sitting on that one, trying to play it cool?” His voice dropped again, his hands kneaded Brock's hips and thighs, and Brock strained to listen. “Legs spread like a fucking whore, hurt, whining for it, out here, anyone could see you. And you just can't keep it under to yourself any more.”

The train started to slow then, and Jack stopped talking as it ground loudly to a halt. Brock looked past him, out the window, but he couldn't see much. A train station, more overhang than building, some of those tiny English fields with the bushes all through 'em, a few houses in the distance.

“C'mon.” Jack's hand was insistent on the front of his shirt, pulling him up. “We're getting out.”

“This is Manchester?”

“Did I say it was? Now go, before we miss our chance.”

He grabbed the handle of their suitcase with one hand and Brock's with the other, tugging him onto the platform a split-second before the doors slid closed, pulling him around the building at a clip, around the corner and into the bathroom, cinderblocks painted white, dingy, lights buzzing overhead, into the bathroom and shoved into the only stall, bent over the toilet and jeans around his knees before he really knew what was happening.

There was the rip of a packet being bitten open, the sharp plastic corner hitting his ass when Jack spit it out, lube—hot from Jack's body, from being in his pocket—squeezed out and dripping down his crack. It'd just reached his hole when Jack's cock pressed against him, hot and insistent, fucking him open, fucking the lube into him. He gasped at the pain of being forced open too suddenly, moaned at the feeling of Jack against him, over him, in him.

He was hard, so hard, fingers scrabbling at the rough wall to get a hold he could push against, keep his face from getting bashed against the sticky bricks, and Jack laughed behind him, Jack was always laughing at him, “Yeah, you need it. You need it bad. Fuck yourself on my cock, you worthless bitch.”

Jack fucked him hard and fast, merciless, and he came, shooting out over the toilet, splashing into the pissy water, without a hand on his dick. Jack waited until he was done, coming down, shaking and panting, and snuck a hand up his shirt, twisted one nipple and the other and the first again, twisted hard so he screamed, so every muscle in his body clenched in pain and desperation, and Jack came like that, hurting him, hurting him in a nasty nowhere bathroom.

He gave him a second to enjoy it, to be full and content and know he'd done a good job, and then he pulled out, gave Brock a casual, dismissive slap on the ass, and walked over to the sinks to wash his hands and his cock. “Pull up your pants and get out here, don't wanna miss the next train.”

Brock hitched his jeans up over his hips but didn't bother to zip them, his limp dick flopping out of his fly as he followed clumsily behind Jack, come and lube oozing out of him to cool uncomfortably between his thighs.

“Daddy... you didn't...”

Jack chuckled, low and warm and fond, and hauled Brock in for a kiss, right there by the urinals. “Yeah, of course I do, you ignorant, insecure slut. Of course I love you. You think I'd put up with your shit if I didn't? Fell in love with you the night I met you, you god damn idiot fag, just had to wait this fucking long for you to be ready to hear it.”

Chapter Text

“I hope you know I've never been in a fuckin' Ikea before.”

“Today's your lucky day then,” Brock chirped, opening the truck door.


Jack snagged him by the collar as he hopped out, two fingers down the back of his shirt, sneering as he spluttered. Gave him a quick, hard shake to shut him up. “That's not what I meant, you dumb cunt.” He let go, suddenly, and Brock fell forward, out of the truck and onto the wet, dirty parking lot. Jack slammed his door shut and walked around the cab, long strides, loud. He gave Brock a little kick, not hard, and waited for him to stumble upright, arms crossed and foot tapping impatiently. “You better be ready to make this up to me when we get home.”

Brock grinned, wide and artless and stupid, when Jack said that. Home. Their home, as of today. He moved in close to Jack's side, trying to tuck himself up under daddy's arm.

Jack wasn't having it. Caught him around the bicep with iron fingers, held him at arms reach. “Now I know you ain't tryin' to get me all muddy while I'm going above and beyond to do somethin' nice for you. Dirty bitch.”

Brock hung his head, whispered, “No sir,” in a small, sad voice, and trailed two steps behind Jack all the way through the huge, drizzly parking lot.

They stepped through the automatic doors, into the rush of warm air and the hum of bright lights and the big flat blocks of color. He looked up, dizzy with it, and Jack was right there, in his space, easing off his muddy coat and dropping it in a cart, murmuring low and soft in his ear. “C'mon, baby. Let's hit the towels first. I know we have 'em at home but I think you could use one right now. Pick out a couple, dry you off, then we can take care of that list of yours, huh?”

It made Brock's head spin and his dick throb, and he followed Jack's lead wordlessly, suddenly too aware of his nipples tightening under his damp t-shirt, his cold hand in Jack's hot one.


Three and half hours later, even Brock was beginning to lose his enthusiasm for interiors. They sat in the cafeteria, Jack with a plate of meatballs, him with a pear soda and a bowl of mac'n'cheese.

Brock hummed in satisfaction and looked over their cart. Towels, washcloths, curtains, all a dark, manly green. A big flat box which promised to hold a three-drawer daybed in a deep espresso wood and a fat roll of a mattress—not that Brock expected to use them often. Crisp white twin sheets (only 400 count, but they would do until he got a chance to buy decent ones online) for his own bed, as well as a medium grey set he had snuck in for Jack's big bed—Brock might have put up with sleeping on what was essentially a paper bag when he was in someone else's house but in his—no.

He wouldn't stand for it.

He couldn't, and he wouldn't.

To distract himself from the itchy memory of Jack's soon-to-be-burned sheets, he finished looking over their purchases. A dark green blanket, pleasingly ribbed—he'd have to get a real comforter somewhere with a wider color selection. Not one but two organizational systems for his new closet—that he planned on using every day. A floor lamp, plain and black and simple, for when he wanted a more focused light as he chose his outfits in the mirror, also plain and black-framed.

And certainly his favorite purchase of the day. A round rug, moss-green and with a deep, deep pile. The color had been the inspiration for the rest of his choices, and the name. “Adum,” he giggled, remembering all over again the way Jack's eyes had rolled. “Adum and Steve.”

Jack stood and stretched, pointedly ignoring him as he gathered their now-empty dishes. “I'm about ready to get home. You want another soda for the road, baby?”

“Yeah, okay,” he agreed, easy, self-satisfied and laid back after their shopping extravaganza. He stood too, popping his back and watching Jack's big boots eat up the floor. A good day. A damn good day.


All the way home, Brock had dreamed and planned and assembled furniture in his mind, imagining how he would lay out his little room, but when Jack pulled into the muddy driveway, he drew Brock into his arms before he even cut the engine off, and kissed him absolutely fucking dizzy.

“I know you're excited, baby, all your new toys. But you're not sleeping in there tonight, are you? I got the top on, we can leave it out here til tomorrow and I'll help you put it together in the morning.”


“I'm just wore out, is all. Thought I'd take you inside and cuddle up a minute, make something easy for dinner—maybe one of those lasagnas you froze last week?” Jack kissed him again, deep and consuming, and he didn't feel as tired as he said he was.

Brock crumpled, forgot all about the fresh new queen size 600 thread count sheets in their own separate bag he'd hidden in his footwell, smiled dopily up at him. “Okay, daddy. It can wait.”

Jack came around the cab and gave him a hand out, smiled at him a little sweet, even, as they made the short walk to the front door.

He fumbled his brand-new key so Jack unlocked it, held the door for him, watched indulgently as Brock took off his shoes and just about ran to the bathroom.

He washed his hands with the lemon soap he'd brought over last month and opened the door to Jack, hands in his pockets, long body leaned menacingly against the kitchen doorjamb, all that sweetness dried right up.

Brock swallowed, opened his mouth and shut it and swallowed again. “Uh—daddy?”

“Don't you 'uh daddy' me,” Jack hissed. “You remember this morning? You remember what I said? You remember trying to rub your filthy mud all over me, you dirty fucking slut?”

Brock nodded, once, quick, eyes on Jack's dirty boots.

“Good. Now I,” Jack heaved a sigh, “am fucking exhausted, following your gay ass around on that god damn shopping spree all day. So let me tell you what we're gonna do.

You are gonna go into the kitchen, strip naked, mix me a whiskey sour, and then march your sorry ass into my office, get down on your hands and knees in front of my chair, and shut the fuck up.

I am going to sit in my nice comfortable chair and read for a while, have myself a nice, relaxing time to make up for all that shit you dragged me through earlier. Got it?”

Brock was hard in his jeans, hard enough he forgot to answer until the slap to his face reminded him he had a part in all this. “Yes sir.”

“Well? Get to it, whore.”


The soft thunk of Jack's book on the endtable had every inch of Brock's attention focused on him.

But he didn't move. If he moved, Jack would sigh and sip his drink and pick his book back up. It would be the third time in the hour since they'd started.

So Brock held perfectly goddamn still, ears straining, every muscle in his back tight with the effort of not moving, not melting towards Jack and soaking into his boots and his legs and his voice.

“You nasty little faggot.” Jack's voice was low. Rough. With desire—but no. Brock was the desperate one here, the needy one, the b- “Look at you.” His voice dropped again, smoothed out and slipped down the naked valley of Brock's spine. “You make a damn fine footstool, pup. Staying still for once. Sweet boy.”

Brock cut off his protest before it left his throat, just barely stopping it in time not to catch a beating and Jack stretched his long legs, bootheels digging into the small of Brock's back. He could feel the dirt, mud when they started but dry and gritty now, grinding hard against his tail bone.

“You must be getting tired. Thirsty, huh?” Brock opened his mouth, shut it. “You can answer.”

“Ye-” He swallowed against his dry throat, wincing at the stretch of his chapped lips. “Yes, I am.”

“Yes what?”

“Yes, I am thirsty.”

Jack's boot, sudden and hard against his hip, knocked him flat, an ungainly heap on the spotless wooden floors. His voice, a dangerous whisper Brock was only too well acquainted with. “Yes. What. Cocksucker.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You wanna drink?”

“Please.” A whisper through cracked lips, barely audible even to his own ears.

“Couldn't hear you, faggot.”

“Please, yes. I need a drink, sir, please, I'm so thirsty.”

“Open up,” Jack said—unnecessarily, Brock's mouth open and panting against the floor—his words barely out before the stream hit Brock's face, down his throat and up his nose, hot and acrid and dark like apple juice. Underhydrated, just the way Jack knew he hated.

He swallowed what he could, throat working like a fish out of water, chasing the stream, trying to catch it all in his wide open mouth, and when it was done, Jack pushed him back onto the floor, heavy boot on his neck, made him lick up every drop from the floor. Laughed at him, a rough sound, while he grunted and lapped, his cock hard and wet, making a mess of his stomach. “Guess you're pretty glad I wouldn't let you get that fucking runner for in here now, huh, bitch?”

Chapter Text

Brock woke up groggy with sandy, sticky eyes and his face burning and raw. He rolled over in Jack's big bed, burying his face in the sweat-stained pillowcase and breathed in deep, wriggled contentedly into the mattress, enjoying the loose, almost floaty feeling of his limbs.

Huh. He'd usually wake up hungover after getting in so late. What had—oh. He grinned and hid his face under his own arm, not willing to show his blush even to an empty room. He stayed like that for a long minute, turning the memory over in his head, Jack's relentless mouth and strong fingers, his rough face scraping his skin nearly to bleeding. He wiggled one hand down between himself and the smooth cotton sheets, scraped blunt nails over his own stomach, and—ohh, yeah. Felt like a sunburn.

He felt himself getting hard at the pain, at the memory, and decided to get up after all. Could be he'd have more fun with Jack than here by himself. Or he might at least have a better not-fun time.

He stumbled into the kitchen yawning and still naked to the good smell of coffee brewing and the too-good sight of Jack standing at the stove, shirtless, the big muscles of his back and shoulder working as he flipped something in a pan. Brock sniffed. Eggs and bacon. Mmm.

“Morning, princess,” Jack called over his shoulder, not looking anywhere but the stove. “Your breakfast is waiting for you over there.” He jerked his chin at the table, where a plate was waiting with two pieces of toast. “Butter and jam, on account of how it's your birthday.”

Brock moseyed over and took a bite. “S'cold!” he yelped through a half-chewed mouthful.

Jack turned around at that, finally. “Now I know you're just a dumb, brainless, overgrown-” he flicked his eyes up and down Brock's body, slow and deliberate, “-twink but surely even you are not stupid enough to blame me for you staying in bed so long your breakfast got cold. Your special birthday breakfast that I worked so hard on, too. What were you doing in there anyway, fag? Jerkin' it? Gettin' your bitch hands all dirty? Pathetic.”

Brock flushed hot despite himself. He hadn't been, not really, but blushing made him look guilty—and that made him color even darker. He decided to just pretend it wasn't happening. “Can I have some coffee, at least, sir?”

Jack gave him a wide-eyed, searching look, like he couldn't quite believe what he was hearing. “I suppose, as it's your special day,” he allowed eventually. “How old are you anyway? Fifty four?”

“Daddy!” He was nearly shrieking, he knew, but he couldn't quite rein it in. “It's my birthday, you're meant to be nice!”

“Yeah, well, you're meant to be nice every day and I still have to put up with your bitch ass, don't I?” But even as he said it, he set a mug on the table in front of Brock, milky-sweet and piping hot.


Jack spoiled him, in his own way, all day. Brock knew, maybe, somewhere deep down he didn't like to pay much attention to, that he was kind of a lot. Of work. Of time. To put up with. That Jack maybe would like to be sweet with him for real, smooth and easy like he'd seen Rogers with his boyfriend, Winters or Wilson or whatever he was called.

So far, Jack hadn't seemed to mind. Sometimes it seemed like he barely even noticed how much work he was doing, like he could handle Brock with the smallest corner of his brain, like it was no trouble.

He'd left him alone, though, for most of the afternoon, so he curled up on his own little bed and dozed, feeling lazily self-indulgent. It was his birthday, after all.


When he woke up, the sun was starting to slip in the sky and he was about done with alone time. He didn't bother getting dressed. He just went looking for Jack.

He peered inside Jack's room and pulled up short. The big bed was covered all over in burlap, tied up with ropes like one of those old-time bakery packages. What it was for, he wasn't sure, but the room was empty so he took a step back to continue his search.

And bumped right into Jack's broad chest. “Aw, sweetheart. Don't like your present?” Hands came up to wrap around his biceps, pull him back flush against Jack's hard, blood-hot body.

“Was just—looking for you,” he answered, trying and failing to twist around and look up at Jack.

“Here I am,” Jack purred, directly into his ear. Or, no. Purr was the wrong word for it. A growl, deep in his chest, rumbling against Brock's back, but soft. Soft and sure like he wasn't worried about being challenged, like he knew his threat was one could he back up. His hands moved further down, to close around Brock's wrists and bring them up and back to rest on the small of his back, still held tight in Jack's big hands as the man frogmarched him to the bed and threw him down.

In a few seconds, his wrists were tied, his ankles and knees bound to the bed with rough rope. They were too far apart, the stretch was too much, burning and straining in his quads, in his hip flexors, but he didn't say anything. How could he, with Jack's eyes heavy on him, Jack's hands drifting lightly up his calves, his thighs...

“I will give you absolutely whatever you want, princess, since it's your birthday and all,” Jack promised in a low throaty slide of a voice, slipping into Brock's ears and pouring down his throat. “Anything you want on this whole wide world, it's yours. You only have to ask for it.”

Brock growled wordlessly and shook his head.

“Dealer's choice then, huh? I can work with that. Don't come.”

The words had barely made it to Brock's ears when he felt Jack's tongue, swiping up from the seam of his balls to his hole and back down, wide and wet and messy. His whole body jerked and he whined when he felt the scrape of the burlap on his feet, his shins, his face, his chest.

He wanted to scream, to shake, to push back or pull away, but he didn't do any of that. His legs were tied too far apart to allow him much movement, his teeth clenched hard on a mouthful of burlap. It tasted bad and felt worse, but that was okay. Helped distract him from what Jack was doing, from how good Jack was doing it.

They'd done this before. They did it a lot. Jack loved it, apparently, loved spreading him wide and holding him open and swallowing him down like he was the open bar at the wedding of someone you didn't like.

Jack had threatened, more than once, to eat his ass until it was gone, and tonight, it really seemed like he might. The noises he was making, groaning, satisfied little grunts, the squelching-wet sounds of his tongue and his fingers slipping in and out of Brock, the mumbled words of praise and bitten-off moans—

—on anyone else, they might have been submissive, giving noises. But on Jack, no, on Jack they were noises of taking, of desire, of grabbing what you wanted in two strong hands and not ever letting go.

Brock wailed his head off, his face and chest scraping hard against the burlap. His wrists were swollen against the knots, the rough rope held fast in one of Jack’s big, capable hands. The other hand dug deep into his ass, holding him open where he was wet and wanting. His voice was more than a little muffled but still all too clear to Brock’s burning ears.

“Feels nice on those pretty little tits, huh, princess?”

Vaguely, he realized he was hard, leaking with it. Jack's spit trickled down his dick to join his own precome and dribble onto his stomach, onto the sheets. A rustle, a shifting weight behind him and two fingers slid into him, hooked just right and rubbed firm circles against his prostate. He howled, rabbiting back with his limited mobility, and Jack

Jack laughed, pulled his fingers back until they barely rested on the rim, until he was empty, aching with it, and asked, “Got something to tell me, baby?”

Brock groaned in frustration, rolled his shoulders back and his face further into the burlap. What he wanted most, which Jack knew perfectly well, which Jack knew better than he did, had known before he did, was to not have to fucking say what he wanted.

He just wanted it to—happen, without him admitting it. Getting rammed up the ass had never seemed that gay to Brock, not really, not compared to locking eyes with a big brawler of a man and asking politely for his cock.

But dammit, that was what he wanted. What he needed. And Jack held it out to him, just out of reach, taunting him.

“Touch me,” he gritted out, knowing he sounded rude as hell and trying not to care.

Jack's hands moved from his hips to his crossed wrists and up his arms to his elbows. Stopped. “You're easy to please, eh, sugar tits?”

“That's—dammit—I—in my ass, sir, fuck me in my ass.”

“Like this?” Jack licked where his hand met Brock's skin and drove the fingers in again, just two, again, again, and then three, twisting as they went in, rocking against Brock's rim like Jack knew he loved, but it wasn't, it wasn't

“More, more, daddy, more,” Brock screamed, giving in, finally, to the shakes and the tremors that had been threatening his self-control all night. Jack's mouth on him, there, it was—a lot—too much—it made him fall apart—but it wasn't enough, it wasn't Jack's big cock splitting him open and nailing him down to the bed.

It was all soft lips and firm tongue and warning teeth and sharp stubble, his thick fingers shoving into him, holding him wide open, so his tongue could get at every shrinking inch of him, flicking around the edge of his hole and fucking inside. He was so wet he dripped, like a bitch a dark voice whispered at him. A filthy little bitch in heat, desperate for it-

“Yes, yes, I'm a bitch, fuck, your bitch, I need it, daddy, daddy, fuck me, please, please, I need it...” He couldn't keep it inside anymore, couldn't keep it squashed down like he should. He needed Jack too much, too bad, to play it off cool. He'd beg and sob and yell and wail, he didn't care what he had to do, just as long as he got Jack, Jack's fingers inside of him, Jack's hips pressed tight and bruising against his ass, Jack's balls smacking against his own.