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never hurts to apologize (especially if you don't mean it)

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Jack makes sure that when he pulls their beers out of the fridge that he bends over to grab them off of the lowest shelf. That way, Charlie gets a full view of his ass in his tightest pair of jeans – as well as the “99” across his pinstriped back. He straightens, two Molsons in hand (what can he say, Ty got him hooked last year) and offers one out to his boyfriend with a wink.

“You seem awfully confident,” Charlie remarks as he takes the bottle, tapping it lightly against Jack’s in thanks.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Jack cheerfully replies with an exaggerated shrug, one of many bad habits he picked up from Trevor, although he’s careful to keep it away from his on-ice game. “Coming into the Wild Card game off back-to-back series sweeps...hard not to feel pretty good about that.”

“How good?”

Jack touches the brim of his cap, tugs it down a little further so it sits snug against his hair, just like he’s in the backyard imitating Yankees batting stances again.

“Better than good,” he reiterates. “Great.”

“Good enough to bet on?” Charlie asks, and Jack knows from the quirk of his eyebrows that it’s not money they’re betting. His tongue flicks out, wets his bottom lip at the thought.

“How far can we go?” Jack asks, emboldened by the Yanks’ winning streak. “You a scratch vs. the Caps?”

“Yeah. You?”

“Yeah,” Jack breathes. “Free reign, hard limits aside?”

“Hard limits aside,” Charlie confirms with a nod for good measure, and Jack shivers with anticipation. He can picture it so clearly – actually, he can picture multiple things, really. Charlie on his knees, warming Jack’s cock in his mouth while Jack plays some old games on TV. Charlie with his hands tied up in silk rope and blindfolded, begging to be allowed to come. Charlie in an unbuttoned Yankees jersey and nothing else, spread out on the bed, letting himself be photographed while Jack threatens to send them to their friends, the Bruins’ FO, the Boston Herald if he’s feeling really mean.

“You still with me?” Charlie interrupts, corner of his mouth twisted up in a knowing smirk. He throws an arm over Jack’s shoulders, lets it settle there, heavy and warm.

“Yeah.” Jack lets himself be steered towards Charlie’s living room, still daydreaming about all the possibilities that lie before him.

The daydreams are short lived.

Charlie lets out a massive whoop when Bogaerts homers in the bottom of the first, driving in Devers, to boot. Jack scowls.

“Why the fuck do you root for the Sox, anyway,” he grumbles. “Aren’t you from fucking Long Island?”

“Yep,” Charlie replies, totally unashamed of this traitorous behavior. “But Boston’s been my home since BU.”

“Bandwagoner,” Jack scoffs. Charlie rakes his eyes up and down Jack’s frame where he’s sulking into the couch cushions.

“Sorry, who was that Michigander I heard chanting ‘27 rings’ on September 27th?”

“We do!” Jack splutters.

“How many of them were you even around to see?” Charlie asks.


“God, I’m old.” Jack throws a couch cushion at his head.

“You’re fucking three years older than me, stop making me feel like your sugar baby,” he protests. Charlie waggles his eyebrows in response. “Shut up.”

Jack mutely and pointedly turns his attention back to the TV. The Yankees don’t really improve on the performance in the top of the second, but the Sox regress, going down almost in order, three strikeouts. So Jack lets himself breathe a little bit. Cole wobbling and then finding his footing isn’t the end of the world, although he admits that he looked a little shaken as he headed back to the dugout, Fenway positively shaking with noise.

Charlie’s scowling after watching Arroyo hack away, and that makes Jack want to poke at the bruise. Fortunately, ESPN is too happy to oblige him.

“Hey. Hey, Charlie. Mac. Look,” Jack says, pointing at the guy in the stands wearing Yankees gear the broadcast is zooming in on to interview. “That’s Bucky fucking Dent.”

Charlie’s scowl deepens.

“Bucky fucking Dent and Aaron fucking Boone, both at Fenway Park tonight. That’s bound to drag up some old curse shit.”

“That’s in the fucking past,” Charlie grumbles. “Cleared that out in 04 when we reverse swept you, remember?”

“Nope,” Jack replies, batting his lashes to boot. “I was three.” Charlie’s hand comes down on his thigh and tightens just a little bit. Not hard enough to hurt, just enough to make him suck in a little more air than he’d planned on his next breath.

“Last I recalled, you were definitely old enough to remember 2018, and you’re down by two. I’d be careful writing checks you don’t wanna cash.”

Jack shuts up.

He continues shutting up when Schwarber homers again in the bottom of the third, and then Devers and Hernandez both get on base. There’s a weird, fluttery feeling in his stomach at the sinking realization that they might lose. Eovaldi has been lights out, and Boone is signalling to pull Cole from the game – and all the Fenway grandstands are rumbling with ‘Yankees Suck’ chants.

Jack is not having as much fun as he thought he would be.

Rizzo does his best to redeem them in the sixth, but then Judge gets thrown out at the plate because the third base coach sent him for some dumb fucking reason. Charlie is jumping off the couch, punching his fist into the air, and if it weren’t for the fact that he’s still pissed about the play, Jack would find it cute. The little knot of dread that’s been growing in his stomach is becoming a big one.

He continues to sulk into the eighth, especially since Chad fucking Green was as abysmal as ever, and Charlie has the audacity to try and get him to sing along to Sweet Caroline.

Haaaaands,” he warbles, terribly off-key, sidling closer to Jack on the couch.

“Absolutely not,” Jack interrupts, although Charlie doesn’t even pause except for breath.

Reachin ouuuut.”


TOUCHIN YOUUUUU,” Charlie bellows in his best approximation of what might be called ‘singing.’

Charlie presses a smacking kiss to his cheek, and Jack halfheartedly mumbles along with the ‘so good!’ bit, because his boyfriend is nothing if not persistent and pretty. Charlie’s eyes gleam when he does.

“We’ll make a convert of you yet,” he promises, and Jack returns to ignoring him in favor of sending Trevor panicked, despairing texts as the outs dwindle down.

Stanton – the only guy that seems to be hitting with any consistency throughout this shitshow of a game – brings their run total to 2 in an eleventh-hour effort to save the game, but at the end of the day, baseball is just like hockey. One guy can’t win it all. Gallo and Torres both fly out to Renfroe, and that’s the ballgame.

Charlie is pumping his fists into the air, crowing with delight, and Jack sits there and waits, cold with shame. Finally, Charlie winds down his celebration and looks Jack over the way that he imagines a conquering warlord might look at his latest captives, or how the boys looked at Playboy Bunnies that time they all went to Vegas, or how Jack imagines he was looking at Charlie when he made him put on a Playboy Bunny outfit to celebrate Jack’s birthday.

“What am I going to do with you?” he murmurs. Jack doesn’t say anything, because it’s not really a question, and he doesn’t want to make whatever punishment he’s going to get worse. Charlie gets up and walks towards the bedroom, and Jack follows.

Charlie spends a few minutes rummaging around in one of his dresser drawers until he resurfaces with a tissue-paper wrapped package and a look of triumph.

“Put these on,” Charlie instructs. Jack peels aside the flimsy layers of red and white, then scowls at the realization of what’s inside.

Fuck no,” he curses. “No way.”

“Do you wanna try that again, or should I add my jersey to the pile?”

Jack opens his mouth and then closes it again.

“Good boy,” Charlie whispers, and Jack hates his dick for twitching at that. “I’ll be waiting in the living room, I wanna call Chuck and catch the postgame show.”

Jack glares at the package on the bed for almost a minute. He knows Charlie’s explanation is really a way to give him a quiet out if he decides he needs to safeword, and to give him time to get into the right headspace for the scene. But Charlie won’t wait forever, and with a last sinking feeling, he starts stripping out of his clothes.

The panties would actually be nice if they weren’t Sox-themed, soft white fabric with red trim. The garters are downright pretty, satin and lace things that Charlie had to have gotten custom-made. They dig into his thighs a little, and the soft fabric of the panties rubs against his dick as he slowly walks out towards the living room, cheeks burning as he flinches from the instinct to cover himself with his hands.

“Beautiful, baby. See how much better you look when you’re being obedient, in my colors?” Charlie groans.

“Don’t –” Jack chokes out.

“I don’t think you should be telling me what not to do. I won.” Jack stands there quietly and takes the chastisement, this time, shifting from foot to foot. “On my lap.”

Charlie pats it, for good measure, and Jack obeys. He moves to straddle Charlie’s thighs with his own, but his boyfriend reaches out, catches him at his hip and his wrist.

“No, bend over it, ass up,” he orders, and Jack goes dizzy with it as he does so. His dick and stomach are pressed against Charlie’s thighs, huge and muscular under him, his low back trapped under Charlie’s hand, the arch of it pushing his ass outward with the fucking Sox logo on it.

Charlie’s spare hand comes down on Jack’s asscheek, just enough to sting, and he gasps.

“Good little boys who aren’t so cocky about their team don’t get spanked,” Charlie lectures him, and Jack whines.

“I’m not sorry for my team,” he grits out, and Charlie rubs the fabric over his ass slowly. The soft drag of it feels uncomfortably nice.

“But you’re not sorry for bragging about them?”

“No –” Jack’s reply is cut off by another stinging smack, this time to the other cheek.

“Too bad. Guess I’ll have to make the lesson stick another way, brat,” Charlie replies, then starts shimmying the panties down around Jack’s thighs, leaving them stuck just above the garters. Jack hears the familiar click of a lube cap, and spreads his legs almost involuntarily at the sound. That draws a small chuckle out of Charlie.

“Good boy,” he murmurs. Charlie rubs the pad of his finger against Jack’s hole, and Jack flinches just a little bit, because the lube is still cold.

“So spoiled, baby. If you wanted me to treat you nice the way I usually do, you shouldn’t have run your mouth so hard,” Charlie murmurs as he pushes two fingers in at once.

Jack gasps with it – there’s a slight burn with the stretch, and he’s torn between the meanness of Charlie’s words, the sting of the slide, and the fullness that he’s always craving at the end of the day.

“God, you’re such a desperate little slut. Bet you were secretly hoping for this, just so you could get me to fuck you hard enough.”

Jack shakes his head furiously back and forth from where he’s facedown in Charlie’s lap, desperate to deny it.

“No, Charlie, stop it,” he begs, but he doesn’t safeword, so Charlie adds another finger. Jack can feel a damp patch starting to spread across the front of his panties from where his dick is leaking precome, and from the way his front is pressed down against Charlie’s thighs, he imagines it won’t be long until Charlie can feel it too.

Sure enough, as Charlie adds a third finger, crooking them to press Jack’s prostate, he grinds his thigh upwards against Jack’s dick where it’s still trapped in the soft cotton and lace.

“Look at you, princess,” he murmurs. “So wet for me.”

Jack trembles with it, the idea that he’s Charlie’s girl because the Yankees just got beat like one.

Charlie pours more lube over his fingers, twisting them as he thrusts them in and out, making sure Jack’s rim is well and truly stretched. Charlie’s thick, the thickest cock Jack’s ever taken, and even still he needs three fingers for prep. The excess lube trickles down to the tops of his thighs, gets the panties and garters wet to match the damp patch on the front, and Charlie sighs in exaggerated disappointment.

“And you’ve made a mess, too,” he mutters. “Pathetic. Just like your team.” He hauls Jack upright like he weighs nothing, manhandling him into a sitting position across Charlie’s lap.

“Please,” Jack whispers.

“Please what,” Charlie asks with an arched brow.

“Please fuck me.”

“Hm. Why should I?” he continues, waiting to see if Jack will follow his lead.

“Because,” Jack gets out, voice cracking just a little. “Because I made a bet, and – and the Red Sox are better than the Yankees,” he finally forces past his lips, face tomato red with shame, but then Charlie is lining himself up and pushing in, raking gentle fingers through Jack’s hair.

“Shhh, shhh, princess,” Charlie quiets him as he starts to roll his hips up in a slow, dirty, grind. “See how good you are for me?”

Something in Jack keens and breaks at the same time, and he just goes pliant in Charlie’s lap, lets himself be fucked into like a hole to use. Charlie keeps thrusting into him, splitting him wide open and stuffing Jack full of his cock, and Jack lets himself get lost in the waves of sensation.

“That’s it, babygirl, take it so good for me. Sliding up and down on my cock like you were made for it.”

“I am,” Jack moans, and Charlie’s thrusts get harder.

“Yeah? Made to take my cock? Made to be a little cocky brat, a loser, stretched open around me like the little slut you are?” Charlie growls.

Jack whines, because his head is spinning with the insults and the feeling of being bounced up and down on his boyfriend’s dick like he truly doesn’t matter.

“Please,” he begs, incoherent and not sure what he’s begging for anymore. “I can’t –”

“You can,” Charlie promises. “You keep protesting, but you just want to keep me in your greedy little hole all the time.”

Jack thrashes, grinds down, tries to get Charlie deeper inside, press harder on his prostate. He feels like there’s a fire inside him where Charlie’s cock is buried, and his cock is still achingly hard, drooling precome and untouched. Jack thinks he can feel a thin trickle of spit running out of the corner of his mouth, and he knows it for certain when Charlie reaches up with his fingers and pushes it back inside. Jack sucks lightly at them, runs his tongue over the pads, between them, rolls his head down just like he does when he’s blowing someone. Charlie pulls them back out, runs them down over his chin and along Jack’s jawline, leaving a trail of sticky wetness in their wake. It makes Jack feel more used.

“Yeah,” Charlie chuckles, “you definitely hoped they’d lose.”

For a dreadful minute Jack thinks he might say – something else, but all Charlie does is speed up his thrusts.

“I – I wanna be good for you,” Jack slurs out, and it’s then that he realizes that some of the wetness on his face is from tears, leaking out of the corners of his eyes and clumping in his lashes. It’s just, intense, like this, Charlie fucking into him like Jack doesn’t matter just because he was a brat – like Jack doesn’t matter at all, even though he does.

“You are good for me, baby,” Charlie groans. “So good for me, driving me crazy, so hot and tight around me, wearing my colors like a good girl.”

He brings his hand back down to grind into Jack’s dick where it’s still trapped in the front of his panties, damp and overstretched. Everything is hot around him and in him, overfull and overtight, and the pressure of Charlie’s hand and the soft fabric against his cock drives Jack over the edge, like a tidal wave roaring through him. He clenches down, hard, feels the pulses of Charlie’s come filling up his ass as he does. Jack tips his forward, pressing his face halfway into Charlie’s neck and shoulder, biting down hard on the NTPD tattoo that scrawls across his collarbone. Everything goes white behind his eyes, and Jack thinks he might pass out a little bit.

When he comes back to himself, Charlie’s already peeled off the lingerie and carried him back to the bedroom, wiping him down gently with a wet facecloth.

“Hi, sweetheart,” Charlie whispers.

“Hi,” Jack whispers in return.

“You okay?”

“The best,” Jack promises, then pulls a face. Charlie laughs – his real laugh, now, soft and bashful, not the one he puts on when they’re scening.

“I know,” he reassures him. Charlie presses soft kisses to Jack’s forehead, hair, lips. “I know it was intense.”

“Good, though,” Jack mumbles, sleepy and half drunk with endorphins. “I’m gonna get you back for it.” Charlie gathers him up, presses Jack softly into his own bare chest such that Jack can feel the rumbles when he laughs.

“Yeah?” he asks, carding soft fingers through his hair, still, running them down the back of his neck.

“Yeah,” Jack promises, and means it.