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whumpcereal · 2 years

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behavior modification, future snippet #4

masterlist here; jack and joe's first time together post-captivity

content warnings for 100% consensual but graphic spice (oral included), mentions of past non-con, mentions of previous trauma, conditioned whumpee, bbu-adjacent, ham-fisted metaphors, adult language

To call this a drabble is to call War & Peace a light summer beach read (not that this is anything like War & Peace). It's long, so give yourself time to enjoy. Thanks to my cheerleaders, @darkthingshappen, @oddsconvert, @sparrowsage, and @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump. Set about a year after Jack returns home.

And... it's my birthday, so if you want to heap feedback upon me, I wouldn't be sad about it.

first time after: lightning glass

Jack stands at the water’s edge. The cottage is at the tip of the island, so the sun rises and sets against the water. Just now, it’s sinking into the west. He knows he’s been out here too long–and he’s definitely left Joe unattended in the kitchen far too long–but he can’t make himself go in.

It’s the air, salty and cool, brushing through his hair. The water. The way the sand slowly disappears beneath his toes. All of it, really. Open space. He didn’t realize how much he’d missed it. He’s spent so much of the last two years cooped up. His crate. The basement. Ivan’s bed. The hospital. The apartment. There’s something overwhelming about the notion that there’s nothing to confine him. The horizon stretches so far he cannot tell where it ends.

Jack is free.

Almost.

He turns and looks over his shoulder at the cottage. Its windows are amber in the fading light, and he can see Joe’s silhouette, probably doing something criminal to their foodstuff. He should go in. He wants to go in.

But there’s no one to tell him what to do just now.

It’s supposed to be better. It is better. It’s just that, sometimes, he still doesn’t know how to choose. And when he wants something, he isn’t sure he can have it. Because he isn’t supposed to want. Or, at least, he wasn’t.

There are so many things he wants now. He just isn’t sure that he deserves them.

He’s not sure he deserves Joe. Not as he is now.

Jack sighs and looks back to the water. It is calming, he guesses. In its own way.

The trip to Montauk had been Marilyn’s idea.

I think you boys need time away after–well, after everything.

It was the night after the press conference. Jack was meant to be asleep. He wasn’t. His body hadn’t come down from the day yet. He wasn’t sure it ever would. He was tucked in his bed with Carl, listening to Joe and his mother in the kitchen.

I’m not sure if he’s ready, you know? The–the interviews and the press conference? I don’t want him to–

Bear, he did so well. You both did. Jack is strong.

I know. Joe’s voice was hard, snappish. Then, softer. I know.

Jack closed his eyes then. He was strong. But he was so tired. He pressed his face into Carl’s fur.

I’m only saying that it’s been a long road to get here. You’ve both been shut up here so long–and the WRU people, I don’t think they’ll be content to leave you alone.

So you’re saying we’ve got to go?

Marilyn sighed. I’ve already phoned ahead. There’s a cottage on the Sound. I’ve booked you for two weeks. I’ll see if I can’t get the rest of this straightened out while you’re gone.

What if– Joe’s breath came out in a wet snap. Mama, what if it’s too much for him? To be alone with me like that? I don’t want to–

Joey, you’ve been alone.

You know what I mean. We–we used to do that all the time. Go to the beach. Sometimes–I–sometimes–

Jack knew Joe was crying. Again. Because of him. Jack bit his lip. He was strong. He was. Carl nuzzled his face.

Bear? Jack could practically see Marilyn crouched down in front of Joe, her green eyes just like his, but softer at their edges.

When we do the things we used to, it hurts. Because I don’t think he remembers them the way I do. Peters, he–he fucking–

Shhhh. Bear. It doesn’t matter now. What matters is making new memories, things that no one can take away from you.

Joe’s breath hitched. What if we can’t?

Jack felt his gut seize. If they couldn’t, it would be because of him. Because of his weakness. Carl felt him tense and batted at Jack’s shoulder with his paw.

Joseph Anthony, you stop it, Marilyn said. We haven’t fought this hard for you to scare yourself out of being happy now. Jack hasn’t fought this hard for you to give up on him.

I would never give up on him.

Then, don’t. And don’t give up on yourself either. I know you, Joe. I can see those wheels turning. You’re almost there–don’t be afraid to breathe.

Jack heard Joe’s feet head for his bedroom then, and he pretended to be asleep. They had already started touching again, so Jack wasn’t surprised when he felt Joe’s weight settle next to him on the mattress. Joe leaned down to press a kiss to Jack’s forehead.

I would never give up on you, baby. Stay with me.

As if Jack has any other choice.

But he does. He has choices now.

He wouldn’t choose to leave Joe.

His bare feet move a step closer to the water’s edge. The sun is almost gone, and the Sound is darker, waves sneaking up on the shore like thieves. It’s hard to tell what color they are now. Not quite blue, almost grey, sort of green. Jack wonders what it might be like to be a wave. To move freely, so close with its mates. To crash against something solid and have the upper hand.

“Jackie?”

Joe’s voice is almost lost in the wind, but Jack still turns. He can just barely make out Joe’s smile–tired, maybe, and a little worried, but still there, still real–in the gathering dark.

“Jackie, it’s suppertime.”

“Be right there,” Jack calls.

His eyes search for the sun one more time. A sliver of molten light peeks out over the Sound, and then it disappears. Clouds are starting to move in. The air feels suddenly wet, like skin after a bath.

He’s missed this. He’s missed everything.

The kitchen is warm and, well, a fucking disaster. But Joe insisted on cooking. The trouble with that is that Joe can really only make one thing–spaghetti–and that means there’s red sauce. Everywhere. Including all over Joe.

Jack closes the door behind him with a half-laugh. “Joey, what–”

“It’ll be delicious, I swear,” Joe says, rubbing a splotch of sauce from his nose.

“I know it will,” Jack replies. He wipes his sandy feet on the mat and pads over to Joe, wrapping his arms around Joe’s waist from behind. The gesture is soft, hesitant, but Joe squeezes him back.

“Was it nice out there?” Joe asks.

Jack can hear the concern in his voice; he must have been outside for longer than he thought. Jack knows that Joe worries, that he thinks Jack might disappear again. Not literally, of course, just–into himself. Like he was when he came home.

Jack doesn’t want Joe to worry, not anymore. He leans to kiss Joe’s cheek, noting that, inexplicably, there’s sauce behind his ear. He stifles a laugh. “It was nice. I think a storm is coming in, though.”

“Well, then I’m glad you came in,” says Joe. “We’ll stay cozy tonight, huh?”

“Yeah.”

Jack gives Joe one more gentle squeeze and then lets him go. It hurts him a little, to pull away. It took so long for them to touch again that Jack is almost greedy for it now. When Joe touches him, he feels safe, almost like himself. Like Joe’s touch erases Ivan’s. But Jack doesn’t want to ask for it. He isn’t supposed to ask.

Except that he is. He can. It’s just so hard to remember.

“Jackie?”

Jack starts. “What? Sorry.”

“You’re okay, baby,” Joe says softly. He turns from the stove, and his sweater is a Jackson Pollack of sauce and starchy water spots. He reaches for Jack’s hand, and Jack gives it willingly. It’s easiest when Joe initiates. Jack knows how to give someone what they want. It’s what he was made for.

It isn’t. But it is.

He must drift again, because Joe squeezes his hand. “Ready to eat?”

“Yeah,” Jack says. He smiles. “Should I just lick your sweater, or what?”

“Funny boy,” Joe grumbles. “I set the table. Just give me a minute, and I’ll serve.”

Jack goes to the table, where Joe has gone to the trouble of making place cards, even though it’s just the two of them. Jack sits at the place marked Jackie ❤ in Joe’s hackneyed chicken-scratch. Taper candles burn in the center of the table, and red wine is already decanted in stemless glasses.Jack knows Joe wants tonight to be special. It’s their first night really and truly alone together in a very long time.

There were lots of nights like this one before. There haven’t been any since.

Jack wonders if Joe is as terrified as he is.

They make it through the meal in murmured conversation. Somewhere between his first and second glass of wine, Jack’s bare foot starts to rub over Joe’s cotton sock. Joe’s sweater hangs from the back of his chair, and he’s left in only his undershirt, which he, somehow, miraculously manages to keep clean during dinner. In the candlelight, Joe looks softer, not quite so tired. There’s a lazy smile on his face, a smudge of purple on his bottom lip. Jack can’t help but stare.

“--but Mama says that she should be able to find a place soon, so–” Joe stops. His nose wrinkles. “Do I have something on my face?”

Jack can’t help himself then. He leans forward, cupping Joe’s face in both his hands, and kisses him.

Joe makes a sort of muffled noise of surprise, and Jack pulls away, cheeks red. Every muscle is suddenly tense, and it takes a moment for him to realize that he’s waiting to be punished. Joe sees it too.

“Hey.” Joe’s hand slides across the tabletop toward Jack’s arm. “Hey, Jackie.”

“I–I’m sorry,” Jack blurts, squeezing his eyes shut. It was wrong. He shouldn’t have done it. It isn’t his choice. Or it is, but—“I didn’t–I shouldn’t have–it’s for you to decide, and I–”

Joe stops short of touching him. He isn’t smiling anymore. “Baby, I–”

Jack wraps his arms around himself, but it isn’t enough. He wants Joe. He wants Joe to hold him, to tell him that everything will be okay. It’s a relief to want that again. But Joe doesn’t move, and Jack doesn’t know how to ask him to.

“I’m sorry,” Jack says again. The red sauce is acid in his stomach.

“Don’t be.” Joe’s voice is so soft that Jack almost doesn’t hear it. “I just–you know that you can touch me, don’t you?”

Jack nods. Because he does know. Except that he doesn’t believe it, no matter how badly he wants to. He’s forgotten how.

Ivan is still there. Inside his head. Even after all this time.

“Baby?” Joe presses. His fingers inch closer to Jack but still don’t make contact. “Stay with me. Please.”

“I’m sorry.” It’s all he can think of to say.

The windows rattle with a gust of wind. Jack can hear the soft pelt of rain on the glass. The storm is moving in.

Joe shifts out of his chair, gently unwrapping Jack’s fingers from his arm and taking his hand. He presses feather-light kisses to each knuckle and sinks to his knees beside Jack. He looks up, green eyes wide in the dim light.

“You have nothing to be sorry for, Jackie.”

Jack looks down uncertainly. He doesn’t know what to make of Joe on his knees. That’s not Joe’s place. It’s his. Ivan told him–

“Jack.” Joe’s voice is stronger now. He reaches for Jack’s other hand. “You’re here. With me. And you didn’t do anything wrong. Do you hear me?”

Jack nods. He does hear Joe, almost. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he knows that Joe is right. That Jack is free. That he gets to choose. But even now, he can’t help the feeling that he’s fucked up.

Ivan would have muzzled him for using his mouth for anything other than its intended purpose; Jack can almost feel the leather on his skin. Ivan would have shoved him in his crate. And then—after Jack had time to learn his lesson—then, Ivan would have—

Joe squeezes his hands; they’re shaking. “You’re allowed to touch me. I want you to touch me. And I want you to do whatever it is that you want to do.”

“What if–”

Jack looks away, and Joe lets his hands go. “What is it, baby?”

“What if I don’t know?”

“What you want?” Joe asks.

Jack shakes his head. “If I–I don’t–I can’t–Joey, I’m not supposed to ask.”

“For what? Jackie?”

Jack hunches over himself, hiding his face in his hands. “I’m not supposed to ask for what I want. Because–because–”

Joe sits back on his ass. He looks utterly defeated. “Because you’re not supposed to want anything.”

Jack nods silently. A clap of thunder sounds miles away. The rain comes down a little harder.

“Jackie. I–I thought we’d worked past all that. You–you know that what Peters told you–it was wrong.”

“I know,” Jack whispers. And he does. He does– “But I don’t. I don’t–it’s so fucked up. I’m so fucked up.”

“No, you’re not,” Joe says immediately.

He presses up on his knees again, and, after a moment’s hesitation, wraps his arms around Jack’s middle. Joe’s touch is still light, careful. Jack wants to sink into it, but he doesn’t know how to let himself.

The clapboard shutters bang in the wind. Neither of them seems to notice.

“You’ve been through hell. You–that bastard fucked with your head. He hurt you. But you’re home now. There aren’t any–rules between us. We’re equal partners. And you can ask for what you want, same as I can,” Joe says, his voice firm. He leans back so he can look at Jack. “And we’re both allowed to say no. You’re allowed to say no, Jackie.”

“Okay,” Jack says meekly.

“Do you want me to let go?”

Jack shakes his head. “No.”

He wants Joe to hold him as long as he can.

“I don’t want to let go either,” Joe says softly. He presses his face to Jack’s body. “I love you.”

Electric blue slices across the sky.

“I love you too,” Jack says. He swallows another apology and returns Joe’s embrace, running his fingers tentatively through Joe’s dark hair. It feels strange to touch rather than be touched. He’s missed this too. “Joe, I–”

“What is it?”

“I want–” Jack’s stomach lurches at the words, “I want–would you–”

Joe seems to know what Jack cannot say. He kneels up, and his nose slides against the underside of Jack’s jaw. “May I kiss you?”

“Yes.” Please, he thinks, but does not say.

Joe’s hands loop around Jack’s neck and guide him down for their lips to meet. It’s soft and gentle, Joe’s lips slipping against Jack’s. Jack’s lips part, and he tastes wine–he tastes Joe, and all at once, he can’t help himself.

He wants. He wants, and for a moment, he forgets. He presses hard against Joe, letting his tongue slip between Joe’s lips. Joe acquiesces. His head falls back, and he lets Jack explore, his thumbs anchored lightly on the hinge of Jack’s jaw.

“Come here,” Jack murmurs, sinking his teeth into Joe’s bottom lip. Joe groans, and the sound rocks Jack to his core. “Joey, come here.”

Joe rises from his knees. He kisses Jack again and pulls him to his feet.

“I’m here, baby,” Joe says, his voice suddenly low and husky. “What do you want?”

“You,” Jack says without hesitation.

He wraps his arms around Joe’s ribs and buries his face in the crook of his neck. Ginger, basil, sandalwood. He thinks of how he would wrap Joe’s hoodie around him at night, of how badly it hurt when Joe’s scent was replaced by his own filth. How, sometimes, he couldn’t remember where the hoodie had come from at all–just that it was important. That he needed it.

Joe presses a kiss to his temple and holds him close. “I want you. I never stopped.”

“Me either,” Jack says.

It isn’t strictly true; they both know it, but it doesn’t matter. Not just now.

They stay that way for a moment, just holding one another. Jack thinks he could hear their hearts beating if it weren’t for the rain. Light flashes against Joe’s skin, and thunder rumbles closer.

“Joe.”

It isn’t a question, because Jack still doesn’t know how to ask.

He knows that Joe wants him to take the lead. He understands it. Joe doesn’t want to hurt him, doesn’t want anything to send him back to Ivan’s basement. Joe wants him to feel safe. And Jack is supposed to make choices, supposed to take charge. And this–this is something he wants. Jack actually fucking wants something. It isn’t Ivan. It isn’t Bill. It isn’t any of the nameless, faceless men that Jack gave himself to because he didn’t believe he deserved any better. He never wanted any of it.

But he wants Joe.

He leans forward, cupping his hands on either side of the column of Joe’s neck, and he presses a kiss to the pink hollow behind Joe’s ear.

Joe’s breath shakes when he lets it go. “Jackie–”

Jack lets the tip of his tongue skate gently against Joe’s pulse point. Joe gasps, and Jack presses him closer. Joe tilts his head backward, and Jack kisses down his neck, each press of his lips so soft that he isn’t sure Joe can feel it at all.

But Joe does. “Jesus,” he murmurs, more breath than voice. His grip tightens around Jack’s ribs.

They haven’t gone this far. Not since Jack came home. Jack couldn’t; Joe wouldn’t.

“Can we?” Jack whispers. “I mean, do you think–”

Joe pulls back. “Are you sure?”

He isn’t. But he doesn’t know that he’ll ever be sure. He only knows that he’s afraid to stop now. That if he doesn’t seize the moment, it may not come again. He presses his lips to Joe’s.

“Yes.”

Joe’s hands soften, and one moves to brush Jack’s cheek. Jack knows he wants to ask again, but he doesn’t. “Okay then.”

Jack kisses him again, and then, he twines their fingers together. Forks of lightning crack the night sky in two, and thunder answers, just a little bit louder than the last time. It’s coming closer.

Jack leads Joe to his bedroom. They’d stashed their things in separate rooms when they arrived; there’s a delicate balance that can’t be upset. They are together, but there is distance. To keep Jack safe. To let him heal.

There was distance. There isn’t now. And Jack won’t let himself slow down enough to consider what that means.

He pulls Joe to him with desperate arms. He wants Joe. He wants this. He does. His lips crash against Joe’s, and then his tongue pushes past Joe’s lips, through them, pressing, moving, sliding. Jack angles his head, easing himself deeper, and Joe makes a little noise at the back of his throat. Their bodies are flush against one another, Joe’s hands still firm on his ribs. Jack bucks his hips forward, and for once, the electricity he feels isn’t pulsing from a collar at his neck.

But the feeling stops him. It isn’t–he isn’t supposed to–he can’t–

He tenses, and Joe breaks off the kiss. His lips are red and wet.

“Baby?”

“I’m fine,” Jack says, chest beating.

“You’re not,” Joe says softly. He starts to pull away. “We don’t have to–”

“No!” Jack cries. He grasps Joe’s forearms, and Christ, he’s about to start crying. “No, please, I want to. I want to, I just–please, Joey, don’t let go.”

“I won’t,” Joe reassures him. He eases them down until they are sitting on the bed, still holding Jack in his arms.

Ivan never held him. Neither did Bill. They used him. Teased him enough to make him think he was complicit, that he wanted what they gave. Joe wouldn’t do that. He knows it. Or at least he should.

“Jackie–”

“I–” Jack buries his face against the soft white cotton of Joe’s undershirt. “I want to. But I’m scared.”

Joe’s ribs expand beneath his cheek. “It’s okay, Jackie.”

He doesn’t say that there’s nothing to be scared of because, of course, there is.

“Sometimes, it feels like he’ll know. If I break the rules.”

“Oh, Jackie–”

“I’m not supposed to feel good. Not unless you tell me.”

Joe’s arms tighten around him. “That isn’t true. You–”

“I know! I know. But it–it feels true.” Jack grinds his face into Joe’s chest. “And I feel like I’m supposed to be punished. For being so selfish.”

“You’re not selfish,” Joe says, his voice hard. “You’re–Jesus, Jackie. I told you. There aren’t any rules. No punishments. If you want something, take it. And if you don’t, that’s okay.” A kiss drops to Jack’s hair.

“I want it, Joey,” Jack whispers. It still feels like tempting fate. “You. I want you.”

“I’m yours,” says Joe. He ducks his head, tucking Jack’s chin with his fingers. He kisses Jack, gently. “If you’ll have me. But you don’t have to–”

“I know. I know I don’t have to.”

“Okay,” Joe says softly.

“Okay.”

Jack reaches up and presses a tentative hand to Joe’s cheek. Joe turns his head and kisses Jack’s palm. The rain is white noise around them. There’s a flicker of lightning in the windows, and the thunder sounds. It’s not to them quite yet.

They shift. Jack turns and pulls Joe down onto the overstuffed mattress with him. Joe’s hands are still shy, uncertain; it doesn’t seem he knows where to put them, or even if he should. Jack isn’t sure either. But he is sure that he doesn’t want Joe to stop touching him. He needs to replace the ghosts of unwanted hands with something warm and real.

He reaches for Joe’s hand and guides it behind his own neck.

“Kiss me,” he says. “Please.”

Joe complies, lips sweet and warm against Jack’s. “Now what, baby?” he whispers.

“Again.” And he doesn’t say please.

Joe does what he’s told. He kisses Jack’s lips, his nose, and then the hinge of his jaw. His lips skip a gentle patter down Jack’s scarred throat, until they find the divot between his collarbones; Joe pulls the crewneck of Jack’s sweater out of the way with his teeth and sweeps his tongue into the hollow.

It’s Jack’s turn to groan.

“Please,” he breathes. “Please, Joey.”

Please is for begging. The words echo in his mind no matter how much he wishes they did not. And maybe he is begging. He would drop to his knees for Joe without thought.

But Joe would never ask him to.

Jack’s chest rises and falls, faster than it probably should.

Joe waits. “What, baby?”

“Keep–keep going.”

Joe nods. Jack is relieved when he doesn’t ask if he’s sure. Joe trusts him. He can choose.

Joe’s hands are gentle as they slip down Jack’s body, upending the hem of his heavy sweater. Joe slides it over Jack’s head, and static electricity crackles between them. Jack’s hands are pinned above him, wrapped in the heavy wool, but somehow, he doesn’t mind. He tilts his chin, and Joe answers him with a kiss, tongue slipping against Jack’s bottom lip like a whisper. Joe tugs the sweater free and tosses it on the floor. His hand ghosts over Jack’s body, still covered by a white cotton tee-shirt. Joe stops just short of the button-fly on Jack’s jeans.

“Jackie?”

“It’s okay, you can–”

Joe shakes his head. “No. It’s just that–I feel like I should–”

Joe shifts, sitting up to slough off his undershirt. He lets it fall to the floor, where it lands on top of Jack’s sweater.

Jack’s breath stops. He’d forgotten just how beautiful Joe is. There’s another flash of lightning, and the blue light echoes for just a moment across the contours of Joe’s pale chest. Maybe a little less defined, maybe just a bit softer, but still gorgeous. Familiar. The thunder rumbles, and this time, Jack can almost feel it inside him.

“There. We’re even, right?” Joe asks.

They aren’t. Jack plucks at his own undershirt. “No.”

“I don’t want you to feel like you have to–”

Jack sits up and pulls his undershirt off before he can stop himself. “Now we’re even,” he says softly.

Joe’s eyes move over his body, and Jack resists the urge to hunch and cover himself. He looks away. He’s changed too. He’s thinner, of course, and laid bare this way, he knows that Joe can see his scars.

He opens his mouth to apologize, but he’s stopped by Joe’s lips, soft against the rough skin that rings his throat. Joe’s hands wrap around his bare shoulders, and the feeling is too much. Skin against skin, but not the way he remembers. There is no friction, no pain. Joe’s hands are careful. Tender.

Joe’s mouth travels from his throat down the length of his arm, his kisses peppering Jack’s wrist. His lips lay a gentle path across Jack’s belly so that he can do the same to his other wrist.

Jack doesn’t notice his own tears until one drops onto Joe’s cheek.

Joe looks up. “Jack?”

“I love you,” Jack says.

Joe thumbs away Jack’s tears, one by one. “I love you too.”

“I–I missed you.” Jack closes his eyes, and he lets Joe’s hands sweep to his face, Joe’s thumbs soft on the apples of his cheeks. “I missed this.”

“I did too,” Joe says softly. “You don’t know how much.”

Joe kisses Jack again, his need just barely disguised. The thunder cracks the sky directly overhead, and the house shakes around them.

The air in the bedroom feels suddenly charged. Joe’s fingers pluck at Jack’s fly; Jack rolls Joe’s sweats away from his hips. They are not measured; there is no distance left. Limbs knit together as fabric slides away; hips roll; lips crash.

Every touch of their skin is electric. Jack’s spine zings with unfamiliar bolts of pleasure as Joe’s mouth works its way across every inch of his bare skin. The soft swirl of a tongue around his nipple, an open-mouthed kiss beneath his ribs, a gentle nip at the crest of his hip.

Jack isn’t sure that he’s even breathing. It’s been so long. No one’s touched him this way in so long. Ivan was not gentle, and he’d made Jack believe that Joe–but no, no, Joe had never hurt him. Would never hurt him.

Joe loves him. And Jack loves Joe. Ivan can’t hurt him anymore. He’s safe, he’s safe, he’s safe.

The tip of Joe’s nose tickles through the soft trail of hair beneath Jack’s navel. Jack’s body moves on its own, arching to meet Joe. And then, Joe shifts, guiding Jack to the edge of the bed. He sinks to his knees between Jack’s legs, laying a gentle patter of kisses along the inside of Jack’s thigh. He nuzzles into the cleft between Jack’s legs, his breath warm and wet.

Jack is heavy with his own desire, but as Joe looks up at him, he can’t help the feeling that he doesn’t deserve this. It’s not Joe’s place; it’s his. He’s the one who should be on his knees.

When he speaks, his words sound fuzzy and far away. “Joe–Joey, you don’t–”

“Let me make you feel good, baby,” Joe murmurs. He presses his lips to Jack’s tip, and Jack shudders. “Please. You deserve to feel good.”

Joe takes him down then, slow, tongue sliding gently along the underside of Jack’s cock; he pulls back again, just as slowly. His hands find an anchor point on Jack’s hips, and he starts to move, deliberately working Jack deeper and deeper. He moves carefully. He does not tease. He keeps his eyes on Jack’s in the dark.

Tears spring to Jack’s eyes as Joe’s rhythm mounts. He doesn’t know how to process his own pleasure. His broken pieces start to whisper: he’s done nothing to earn it, he’s supposed to earn it. He doesn’t deserve this man. He doesn’t deserve to feel so good.

But he does feel good. And he feels good because Joe wants him to. Because Joe loves him. And–oh, God–and–fuck–and–

It doesn’t take long; Jack can’t resist. There’s nothing to fight.

Joe’s fingers sink into his hips, and, when Jack finishes, Joe suckles gently along Jack’s shaft. The wet heat of Joe’s tongue and the soft press of his lips coax every last bit of Jack’s release. Joe’s lips are red and shiny when he rises from his knees. He lays a trembling Jack back into the sheets.

The thunder rolls, distant now. The rain is soft on the window. Joe tucks in next to Jack, both their naked bodies slick and sticky with perspiration. Joe’s fingers playing absently with Jack’s hair.

“Are you alright?” Joe asks. “I shouldn’t have–”

Jack reaches to grab Joe’s hand. He kisses it. “Thank you.”

“Baby, you don’t have to thank me.”

“I want to,” Jack whispers. “I–I didn’t know I could feel like that anymore.”

He isn’t supposed to feel like that. He knows it. Boys like him aren’t meant to. But maybe, with Joe–

Jack knows that he’s supposed to ignore the things that Ivan told him, but somewhere, in the back of his mind, he can still hear Ivan’s words. Don’t you think it’s wrong to consign Joe to take what you give him?

He wants to give Joe so much more. Jack needs to know that he can do it–not because someone is forcing him to, but because he wants to. Because it will feel good with Joe.

It will feel safe.

“I told you,” Joe says. You deserve to feel good.”

Jack rolls so that they are face to face. “So do you.”

“I do,” Joe insists. “Seeing you like that? Doing that for you? I–Jesus, Jackie. I could live forever on that.”

“But you shouldn’t have to,” Jack says softly.

He rolls so that they are face to face, flush against one another. Jack’s cock is soft now, still twitching against his leg. Joe’s is not.

“I want you to take me,” Jack says.

Joe’s brow wrinkles. “What?”

“I want you to take me,” he says again. Then, softly: “I want you to fuck me.”

Joe’s arms tighten around him. “Baby, no–”

Jack shakes his head. “I want this. I–I want to feel you, Joey. I don’t want to feel–to feel him anymore.”

It’s Joe’s eyes that fill with tears then. “Oh.”

“And I want to make you feel good,” Jack says. He bobs forward and presses his lips to Joe’s. “Please, Joe. I want to.”

Joe hesitates. “I–Jackie, you don’t have to do this. Whatever he made you believe, I won’t–”

“I believe in you,” Jack says. “I want you.”

Joe’s fingertips trace over Jack’s cheekbones. “I want you too, baby, but I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t.”

“No, I won’t.”

Joe kisses him, slow and soft, and then he rises off the bed. He slips into the en suite and returns with a little black shaving kit. He sets it on the bedside table and kneels next to the bed, taking Jack’s hand.

“Baby, I want you. I need you to know that. I–I can’t say that I’ve never thought about what this would be like, because I have. But I–if we start, and you want to stop, we stop. If anything hurts, we stop. If something happens and it reminds you of–just–we’ll stop. This is not something you have to do.”

“I know,” Jack says meekly. “I want to. I do.”

Joe reaches out to cup his cheek. “And I–I need to see your face. And I want you to see mine.”

Jack can only nod.

“Can you lie back for me?” Joe asks.

Jack complies, even though it is not an order. He lets Joe slowly part his legs, bending his knees as he lays them out on the mattress. Joe kisses his knee, and then he dips his hand into the shaving kit. He uncaps the bottle of lube, and Jack’s belly quickens.

“We don’t have to–”

“No,” Jack murmurs, settling back against the pillows. He knows that he’s shaking, but it doesn’t matter. He needs Joe. He knows it. “No, I’m ready.”

Joe gently guides one of Jack’s knees up toward his chest, and he holds Jack’s eyes. “I’m going to touch you, Jackie. Okay?”

Jack nods, and he feels one wet finger whisper softly against his entrance. Joe’s fingertip moves in a soft circle before it presses gently in.

Jack closes his eyes. It isn’t Ivan. It isn’t. He wants this. He wants Joe.

Joe’s touch withdraws. “Jack. Jackie, I need you to look at me.”

Jack opens his eyes. Joe’s face is a mask of concern.

“Keep going,” Jack says. “I’m okay.”

This time, he holds Joe’s eyes as another finger presses inside. Joe is slow and tender, gently curling his fingertips against Jack’s walls. He pumps out and adds a third finger, working Jack open with care. Jack moans, and it is not because he is frightened; it’s because it feels good.

Joe pauses. “Baby?”

“Joey. I–can we–”

Joe’s up in an instant, his lips on Jack’s. He positions himself between Jack’s splayed legs, working himself with a wet hand. Then, Joe covers Jack’s body with his own, kissing Jack’s neck, his collarbone, his chest.

“You’re sure?” Joe asks.

“I’m sure,” Jack breathes.

Joe gently raises Jack’s legs, hitching them around his own hips. They are pressed skin to skin. Joe’s eyes are serious. He kisses Jack’s cheek.

“I love you, Jackie.”

“I love you,” Jack whispers.

Joe fills him slowly, like water from a tap.

It’s like nothing Jack has ever felt before. With the others, he was always reminded of his place. Fucked from behind. Hurt. The sweet boy. The little whore. The good toy. Boxed up and shipped out. Ivan told him that’s how it would end. That’s always how it was going to end.

But there is no ending. There is only Joe. Jack can feel it in the way Joe’s hips shift and roll, desperate to get closer, needy for him: they are one. Jack feels deep and boundless. Free.

“I love you,” Joe says again. “Fuck, I love you.”

“Joey,” Jack breathes. His head falls back as Joe moves. Their chests slip against one another, and Joe angles to reach for Jack, to stroke him in time with the roll of their bodies. Jack feels himself rising again. “Oh, God. Joe.”

“You’re safe,” Joe whispers, and he rolls against Jack like a wave. “You will always be safe.”

Jack wraps his arms around Joe, tilting his hips to let Joe thrust deeper. Joe’s hand falls away, but it doesn’t matter. They are locked together now, and Joe moves faster, falling into Jack with abandon. Jack’s body vibrates with long-deferred pleasure. It falls on him like a wave.

They move together until Joe’s rhythm breaks against Jack’s shore.

“Jack–Jack–”

Jack is warm. Jack is floating in Joe’s arms. Jack can only feel Joe.

Joe’s sweat damp curls are warm on Jack’s chest. Jack smooths the hair away from Joe’s face, and Joe presses a kiss to his breastbone.

“Are you alright?” Joe asks, still breathless. “Jackie?”

Jack nods, fingers playing with the curls at the nape of Joe’s neck. They’re quiet now, spent and boneless. Eventually, Joe falls asleep, his breath warm against Jack’s chest. Jack stares into the darkness.

Soft rain still patters on the window, but the thunder and lightning have gone. He thinks of the way lightning strikes turn sand to glass, binding it forever to the moment of its own destruction–but making something beautiful all the same. Something that someone will pick up and keep safe. Something stronger than when it started.

He sighs and wraps Joe in his arms. He knows there are things that he can’t escape, but at least, for now, he is safe—and he is stronger than when he started.

taglist: @oddsconvert, @darkthingshappen, @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump, @sparrowsage, @aut0psy-s, @mylifeisonthebookshelf, @no-terms-and-conditions-apply, @goldywhump, @reflected-pain, @darlingwhump, @squishablesunbeam, @dont-be-gentle-please, @deltaxxk, @irishwhiskeygrl, @keep-beach-city-weridcity-werid (please send me a message if I missed you)

#behavior modification #jack kenyon oc #joe prescott oc #marilyn prescott oc #carl the dog is in here too #and the sparest of mentions of ivan peters #the sigmund freud of whump #tw past noncon #tw consensual spice #jack and joe bump uglies #and all is right with the world

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confessedlyfannish · 20 days

Text

Writing Prompt #12

Bruce is reading the paper when the pour of Tim's coffee goes abruptly quiet. It would be hard to pinpoint why this is disturbing if it wasn't for the way the soft, tinny sound the vent system in the manor makes cuts out for the first time since being updated in the 90s. The pour, Bruce realizes, has not slowed to a trickle before stopping. It has simply stopped. And there is no overeager clack of a the mug against the marble counter or the uncouth first slurp (nor muttered apology at Alfred's scolding look) immediately following the end of the pour.

Bruce fights the instinct to use all of his senses to investigate, and instead keeps his eyes on the byline of the article detailing the latest set of microearthquakes to hit the midwest in the last week. Microearthquakes aren't an unusual occurrence and aren't noticeable by human standards, which is why this article is regulated to page seven, but from several hundred a day worldwide to several hundred a day solely in the East North Central States, seismologists are baffled.

Bruce had been considering sending Superman to investigate under the guise of a Daily Planet article requested by Bruce Wayne (Wayne Industries does have an offshoot factory in the area) when everything had stopped twenty seconds ago. That is what he assumes has happened (having not moved a muscle to confirm) in the amount of time he assumes has passed. His million dollar Rolex does not quite audibly tick but in the absolute silence it should be heard, which confirms the silence to be exactly that—absolute.

While Bruce can hold his breath with the best of the Olympian swimmers, he has never accounted for a need to remain without blinking without being able to move one's eyes. Rotating the eyeballs will maintain lubrication such that one could go without blinking for up to ten minutes. But staring at the byline fixedly, he estimates another twenty seconds before tears start to form.

These are the thoughts Bruce distracts himself with, because he doesn't dare consider how Tim and Alfred haven't made a (living) sound in the past forty-five seconds. About Damian, packing his bag upstairs for school after a morning walk with Titus that was "just pushing it, Master Damian".

There is a knife to his right, if memory serves (it does). In the next five seconds—

"Your wards and guardian are fine, Mr. Wayne," the deepest voice Bruce has ever heard intones. For a dizzying moment, it is hard to pinpoint the location of the voice, for it comes from everywhere—like the chiming of a clocktower whilst inside the tower, so overpowering he is cocooned in its volume.

But it is not spoken loudly, just calmly, and when he puts the paper down, folds it, and looks to his right, a blue man sits in Dick's chair.

He wears a three piece suit made entirely of hues of violet, tie included. He has a black brooch in the shape of a cogwheel pinned to his chest pocket, a simple chain clipped to his lapel. Black leather gloves delicately thumb Bruce's watch (no longer on his wrist, somewhere between second 45 and 46 it has stopped being on his wrist), admiring it.

"You'll forgive me," the man says with surety. "Clocks are rather my thing, and this is an impressive piece." He turns it over and reveals the 'M. Brando' roughly scratched into the silver back. He frowns.

"What a shame," he says, placing it face side up on the table.

"Most would consider that the watch's most valuable characteristic." Bruce says, voice steady, hands neatly folded before him. Two inches from the knife. To his left, there is an open doorway to the kitchen. If he turns his head, he might be able to get a glance of Tim or Alfred.

He doesn't look away from the man.

"It is the arrogance of man," the man says, raising red eyes (sclera and all) to Bruce, "to think they can make their mark on time."

"...Is that supposed to be considered so literally?" Bruce asks, with a light smile he does not mean.

The man smiles lightly back, eyes crinkling at the corners. He looks to be in his mid thirties, clean-shaven. His skin is a dull blue, his hair a shock of white, and a jagged scar runs through one eye and curving down the side of his cheek, an even darker, rawer shade of blue-purple.

The man turns the watch back over and taps at the engraving. "Let me ask you this," he says. "When we deface a work of art, does it become part of the art? Does it add to its intrinsic meaning?"

Bruce forces his shoulders to shrug. "It's arbitrary," he says. "A teenager inscribes his name on the wall of an Ancient Egyptian temple and his parents are forced to publicly apologize. But runic inscriptions are found on the Hagia Sophia that equate to an errant Viking guard having inscribed 'Halfdan was here' and we consider it an artifact of a time in which the Byzantine Empire had established an alliance with the Norse and converted vikings to Christianity."

"The vikings were as errant as the teenager," the man says, "in my experience." He leans back in his chair. "I suppose you could say the difference is time. When time passes, we start to think of things as artistic, or historical. We find the beauty in even the rubble, or at least we find necessity in the destruction..."

He offers Bruce the watch. After a moment, Bruce takes it.

"The problem, Mr. Wayne, is that time does not pass for me. I see it all as it was, as it is, as it ever will be, at all times. There is no refuge from the horror or comfort in that one day..." he closes his hand, the leather squeaking. And then his face smooths out, the brief severity gone. He regards Bruce calmly.

"You can look left, Mr. Wayne."

Bruce looks left. Framed by the doorway, Tim looks like a photograph caught in time. A stream of coffee escapes the spout of the stainless steel pot he prefers over the Breville in the name of expediency, frozen as it makes its way to the thermos proclaiming BITCH I MIGHTWING. Tim regards his task with a face of mindless concentration, mouth slack, lashes in dark relief against his pale skin as he looks down at the mug. Behind him, Bruce can see Alfred's hand outstretched towards the refrigerator handle, equally and terrifyingly still.

"My name is Clockwork," the man says. "I have other names, ones you undoubtedly know, but this one will be bestowed upon me from the mouth of a child I cherish, and so I favor it above all else. I am the Keeper of Time."

"What do you want from me?" Bruce asks, shedding Wayne for Batman in the time it takes to meet Clockwork's eyes. The man acknowledges the change with a greeting nod.

"In a few days time, you will send Superman to the Midwest to investigate the unusual seismic activity. By then, it will be too late, the activity will be gone. They will have already muzzled him."

"Him."

"There is a boy with the power to rule the realm I come from. Your government has been watching him. The day he turned 18, they took him from his family and hid him away. I want you to retrieve him. I want you to do it today."

"Why me?"

"His parents do not have the resources you do, both as Batman and Bruce Wayne. You will dismantle the organization that is keen on keeping him imprisoned, and you will offer him a scholarship to the local University. You and yours will keep him safe within Gotham until he is able to take his place as my King."

This is a lot of information to take in, even for Bruce. The idea that there could be a boy powerful enough to rule over this (god, his mind whispers) entity and that somehow, he has slipped under all of their radars is as frustrating as it is overwhelming. But although Clockwork has seemed willing to converse, he doesn't know how many more questions he will get.

"You have the power to stop time," he decides on, "why don't you rescue him? Would he not be better suited with you and your people?"

"Within every monarchy, there is a court," Clockwork. "Mine will be unhappy with the choice I have made," he looks at Bruce's watch, head cocked. "In different worlds, they call you the Dark Knight. This will be your chance to serve before a True King."

Bruce bristles. "I bow to no one."

"You'll all serve him, one day," Clockwork says, patiently. "He is the ruler of realms where all souls go, new and old. When you finally take refuge, he will be your sanctuary." He frowns. "But your government rejects the idea of gods. All they know is he is other. Not human. Not meta. A weapon."

"A weapon you want me to bring to my city."

"I believe you call one of your weapons 'Clark', do you not?" Clockwork asks idly. "But you misunderstand me. They seek to weaponize him. He is not restrained for your safety, but for their gain."

"And if I don't take him?" Bruce asks, because a) Clockwork has implied he will be at the very least impeded, at worst destroyed over this, and b) he never did quite learn not to poke the bear. "You won't be around if I decide he's better off with the government."

"You will," Clockwork says, with the same certainty he's wielded this entire conversation. "Not because he is a child, though he is, nor because you are good, though you are, nor even because it is better power be close at hand than afar.

"I have told you my court will be unhappy with me. In truth, there are others who also defend the King. Together we will destroy the access to our world not long after this conversation. The court will be unable to touch him, but neither will we as we face the repercussions for our actions. I am telling you this, because in a timeline where I do not, you think I will be there to protect him. And so when he is in danger, even subconsciously, you choose to save him last, or not at all. And that is the wrong choice.

"So cement it in your head, Bruce Wayne," the man says, "You will go to him because I tell you to. And you will keep him safe until he is ready to return to us. He will find no safety net in me. So you will make the right choice, no matter the cost."

"Or, when our worlds connect again, and they will," his voice now echoes in triplicate with the voices of the many, the young, the old, Tim, Bruce's mother, Barry Allen, Bruce's own voice, "I will not be the only one who comes for you."

"Now," he says, producing a Wayne Industries branded BIC pen. "I will tell you the location the boy is being kept, and then I would like my medallion back, please. In that order."

Bruce glances down and sees a golden talisman, attached to a black ribbon that is draped haphazardly around the neck of his bathrobe, so light (too light, he still should have—) he has not felt its weight until this moment.

Bruce flips the paper over, takes the pen, and jots down the coordinates the being rattles off over the face of a senator. By his calculation, they do correspond with a location in the midwest.

"You will find him on B6. Take a left down the hallway and he will be in the third room down, the one with a reinforced steel door. Take Mr. Kent and Mr. Grayson with you, and when you leave take the staircase at the end of the hallway, not the elevator."

The man gets up, dusts off his impeccably clean pants, and offers him a hand to shake.

"We will not meet again for some time, Mr. Wayne."

Bruce looks at the creature, stands, and shakes his hand. It feels like nothing. The Keeper of Time sighs, although nothing has been said.

"Ask your question, Mr. Wayne."

"I have more than one."

"You do," Clockwork says. "But I have heard them all, and so they are one. Please ask, or I will not be inclined to answer it."

"What does this boy mean for the future, that you are willing to sacrifice yourself for him?"

There is a pause.

"So that is the one," Clockwork says, after a time. "Yes. I see. I should resolve this, I suppose."

"Resolve what?"

"It is not his future I mean to protect," the man says. "It is his present."

"You want to keep him safe now..." Bruce says, but he's not sure what the being is trying to say.

"I am not inclined," Clockwork repeats, stops. His expression turns solemn, red eyes widening. In their reflection, Bruce can see something. A rush of movement too quick to make heads or tails of, like playing fast forward on a videotape. "Superman reports no signs of unusual seismic activity. With nothing further to look into, you let it go in favor of other investigative pursuits. You do not find him, as you are not meant to. He stays there. His family, his friends, they cannot find him. His captors tell him they have moved on. He does not believe them, until he does. He stays there. He stays there until he is strong enough to save himself."

Clockwork speaks stiffly, rattling off the chain of events as if reading a Justice League debrief. "He is King. He will always be King. He is strong, and good, and compassionate, and he is great for my people because yours have betrayed his trust beyond repair. He throws himself into being the best to ever Be, because there is nothing Left for him otherwise. We love him. We love him. We love him. My King. Forevermore."

The red film in his eyes stall out, and Bruce is forced to look away from how bright the image is, barely making out a silhouette before they dull back to their regular red.

"I am not inclined," Clockwork says slowly, "To this future."

"Because of what it means in the present," Bruce finishes for him. "They're not just imprisoning him, are they."

"They will have already muzzled him."

Clockworks is right in front of him faster than he can process, fist gripping the medallion at his neck so tight he now feels the ribbon digging into his skin.

"Unlike you, Mr. Wayne," and for the first time, the god is angry, and the image of it will haunt Bruce for the rest of his life, "I do not believe in building a better future on the back of a broken child."

"Find him," the deity orders, and yanks the necklace so hard the ribbon rips—

Clack!

"sluuuuurp!"

"Master Timothy, honestly!"

"Sorry Alfred!"

#i feel like I'm going to reread this and want to add other stuff #but I also just want to post it and get it out there #fun fact i scribbled a bunch of lines down at 2am bc i didn't want to forget them #im bad at multiple drafts #my writing #dp x dc #dp x dc au #dp x dc prompt #dp x dc crossover #danny phantom #batman #i live to make everybody dramatic #but also i subscribe to a world where clockwork doesn't know how NOT to be dramatic #lol he's a ghost from all of time he doesn't know how to speak to humans and tailor it to the century let alone the decade #and his favorite little girl who calls him clocky loves how he speaks so #he doesn't need to change for nobody #nor feels inclined to #also I feel like as god he's way more inclined to threaten to get what he wants than like...be vulnerable #jazz: let's unpack that #clockwork: we never do #jazz: are you saying that because it's true or because that's what you want to be true?#clockwork: ...#also I cannot take credit for BITCH I MIGHTWING #wish i could #that is cash money right there #shoutout to 11thsense

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