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Jack and Brock have been fooling around for a few weeks now.
It started when Jack had walked into Brock's office without knocking, unceremoniously dropped a stack of files onto his desk, and watched Brock's face morph from an adorable look of helpless shock to the patented bitch face Jack had grown to love over the last few months. Brock had stood up fast enough to make his chair rock back and slam into the wall, slammed his palms down on the mess of files and papers on his desk, and got as far as “listen, motherfucker” before Jack grabbed his wrists and pulled him across the desk, catching Brock's bottom lip between his teeth. Jack had waited for Brock to get into the kissing, eyes fluttering closed just like he knew they would, and in one fluid motion had let go of Brock's wrists and watched as he simultaneously tried to lean in for more and nearly slid face-first off the desk and onto the floor, scattering and crumpling papers on his way.
After that, it had been nothing to get Brock following Jack around like a lost puppy, obviously hoping for another kiss but doing his best not to show any eagerness; that pretty much entailed Brock staring at Jack for long periods until Jack dared to glance back, after which Brock would glare and angrily ask Jack what the fuck he's staring at, and Brock popping up in spaces Jack had been occupying seemingly out of nowhere. When questioned about that, Brock would flex his Commander privileges and insist he was just making sure Jack wasn't “fucking up something important.”
That had lead up to the first time Jack had noticed something weird (or rather, weird enough that he couldn't ignore it) about Brock.
When they kiss, Brock angles his pelvis away from Jack's. If Jack tries to bring Brock closer, let Brock feel how hard he is, Brock will attempt some subtle physical manipulations to get Jack to stop and keep a respectable distance while still keeping their lips locked. If Jack tried to close the distance or pull Brock back in, Brock would suddenly have “some shit” he “forgot” to do, and with an apologetic peck to Jack's lips, he'd scurry off and out of whatever secluded corner they'd appropriated for the last five minutes.
When Jack tired of hiding in rarely used hallways and storage closets, he'd started taking Brock to his place for much needed privacy. As entertaining as it is to play the part of a horny teenager, uncaring about where they make out so long as he can get his hands on Brock (doubly so because Brock plays his own part so well, almost effortlessly, like he'd never left that stage of his life, anyway), it's nice to not have to leave with blue balls every time. They've happily progressed from kissing to Brock jerking Jack off. They'd attempted blowjobs a few times but Brock would get increasingly frustrated with his own inability to fit more than half of Jack's cock in his mouth, so to compromise and keep Brock docile, Jack had let Brock jerk him off with the head of Jack's cock on Brock's tongue.
There's just one thing that Jack considers more of an oddity than an inconvenience or problem: Brock never lets him reciprocate. In any other situation and with anyone else, Jack wouldn't really give a shit. If Brock doesn't want to get off, that's his prerogative (although Jack is pretty sure Brock's come in his pants at least once) – but it's the sheer avoidance that's got Jack's attention.
Brock never takes his pants off. His shirt, yeah, more often than not – Jack likes his abs and Brock doesn't mind the attention, obviously. Anything below the waist, though, seems to be off limits. If Jack so much as brushes against Brock's crotch, Brock tenses up enough that it's uncomfortable for both of them, and Jack has to soothe him with uninterrupted kisses for however long it takes for Brock to be able to relax. If Jack makes an obvious move to touch Brock or unzip his pants, however, Brock will gently move Jack's hand to another place on his body – sometimes his chest for Jack to play with his nipples, other times his ass for Jack to do what he likes with it (but only over his pants). Jack doesn't get the difference, why Brock would act so differently if it's an accidental touch or one that's on purpose, but Jack doesn't get a lot of things about Brock.
Currently, Brock is wiping Jack's come off his lips with his own shirt. Jack watches placidly, still feeling the pleasant buzz of orgasm. Brock is on his knees on the floor, legs spread, and Jack can't take his gaze off of Brock's crotch. His eyes travel along the fabric of Brock's pants stretched over his inner thighs, up to the zipper that's up as far as it can go and the button fastened with no way for it to pop open unless somebody did it themselves.
“What?” Brock says, snapping Jack out of the hyper focused state.
“What's what?” Jack replies, looking down at Brock from where he's sitting in an armchair.
“What are you staring at, idiot?” Brock starts to put his shirt back on, but when he realizes what he'd been doing with it a minute ago, he throws it at Jack who narrowly avoids getting his own come to the face.
“You look good,” Jack says nonchalantly. “Half naked boy in my house, I can't take a look?”
Brock huffs, sitting back on his haunches. “I'm older than you.” Jack doesn't miss the way his eyes flick to the side, like he's embarrassed about that fact.
“Only in years,” Jack says, smirking when Brock rolls his eyes.
Jack gets up from the armchair and walks the short distance to stand in front of Brock, looking down at him from an even higher vantage point now. Brock doesn't move, just looks up at Jack with those big, hazel eyes, always betraying how he really feels.
Those eyes show surprise when Jack drops to his knees himself, not quite eye to eye considering their height difference, but close enough. Jack's gaze goes back down to Brock's crotch, fingers twitching against his thighs.
“What are you – doing?” Brock says, a pause at the end, his voice breaking on the last word. His gaze shifts from Jack to where Jack is looking and the tension is starting to creep into his frame. “Why are you staring at my dick?”
“Said you were half naked, right?” Jack says, low. “Wonderin' when I get to see the rest.”
“You don't,” Brock snaps, strategically (to him, maybe) putting his arms in front of his crotch, palms flat against the floor. “I'm not a two dollar hooker, asshole.”
“Never said you were,” Jack says, inching his hands down his thighs and closer to the patch of floor between them. Brock's watching him, but struggling again with what he'd rather keep his eye on, Jack's hands or Jack's face. Jack wonders what kind of expression he's got on.
“Stop,” Brock says, voice firm but shaking.
“What are you hidin'?” Jack asks. “What's there to be scared of?”
“I'm not scared. Leave me alone.” Brock shuffles to get his legs out from under him so he can stand. “I'm going home.”
“Nah,” Jack says, and lunges, knocking Brock off balance and sending them both sprawling across the floor.
Jack ends up on top of Brock who's flat on his belly, unable to get out from under Jack's weight. Brock claws at the floor for purchase, scraping his toes against the floor and trying unsuccessfully to kick and knee Jack.
“Get off me!” Brock shouts, taking to trying to flip both of them over. “Get off, you fucking – no! No!”
“Just let me see,” Jack says as he tries to get his fingers underneath Brock to unzip his pants. With how much Brock's struggling and squirming, it's not easy. “What the fuck are you hiding in there? Nine, ten inches, huh, is that it? Think I can't take it?”
“Shut the fuck up,” Brock nearly screams. “Stop, st – ow!” Jack manages to flip Brock over onto his back, but knocks the back of Brock's skull against the floor. Brock reflexively brings a hand up to rub the back of his head but quickly brings it back down to cover his crotch when he realizes his mistake. It's an opening for Jack, though, who grabs Brock's fingers in one hand and bends them back hard enough to make Brock shriek. “Sorry,” Jack says, the laughter in his voice belying any real remorse.
Jack gets one hand on the button of Brock's pants, ready to pop it open, when Brock screams at him to stop again. Except –
Did Brock just lisp?
“What was that?” Jack says, both of them nearly frozen in place, Jack's hand on Brock's crotch, one of Brock's hands still in Jack's grasp and the other clawing at the floor. “Say that again.”
“No,” Brock says, and there are real tears in his eyes. “No, Jack –”
“Don't call me that,” Jack says, watching with mounting glee as Brock's eyes get wider and more tear filled. “You always call me Rollins. How come you ain't callin' me that now?”
“Jack, th – thto – s-stop,” Brock stutters, trying to control the lisp. God, he fucking lisps, who would have thought?
“There it is,” Jack says. “Say my name and I'll stop. Promise.”
Brock just looks at him, red faced, tears spilling out and down his cheeks. Jack gives him what he hopes is an honest look.
“R – R – Rollinth,” Brock says, hopefulness shining through his tears, like he really thinks Jack was telling the truth.
Jack pops the button on Brock's pants and Brock's cries are so damn sweet.
“No! You promith – fuck, th – stop! P-Please, Jack, I don't want – oh my god,” Brock cries, struggling to no avail, the last said as Jack gets the zipper down too. Brock gives up, gives Jack permission, and goes limp, staring at the ceiling.
Jack pulls Brock's pants and underwear down and when he finally sees what the fuss is about, he can't help but make a cooing noise.
Brock's dick can't be bigger than three inches.
“This is what you were all embarrassed about?” Jack says, leaning down to get a better look. “It's cute. Matches your 'lil baby lisp.”
Brock scrambles up, no doubt ready to punch Jack in the face if his expression is anything to go by, but Jack takes Brock's dick by his forefinger and thumb and pinches. He watches, smirking, as Brock nearly goes cross-eyed from the pain and flops back down, giving up again.
“I f-fucking hate y-you,” Brock says, voice choked from holding back tears.
“Stutter, too?” Jack says, chortling when Brock pounds his fist on the floor, obviously not trusting his own tongue to allow him to retaliate. “How long you had that? Probably a long time, huh? Got it under control, though. Never heard you do that before.”
Brock chooses not to answer this time. Jack can hear him breathing hard through his nose.
“Can't say I'm surprised,” Jack says. He starts jerking Brock's cock, only having to use his thumb and the first two fingers of his hand. “You're so little.” Jack pauses. “Don't fuckin' start again or I'll do even worse.” Brock unclenches his fists and Jack starts up his ministrations again.
Brock's dick only gets bigger by about an inch. Before long, it's leaking at the head, and Jack laughs a little at the sight. “Almost didn't think you could come. Stupid of me. Seen you come in your pants and try to act like you didn't enough times.” Brock starts to sob now, almost making Jack feel sorry for him. “Aw, stop cryin', it's fine. Can't expect much from little boys. Want me to be your daddy, would that make you feel better?”
Brock attempts to roll over and Jack lets him, just enough that he smush half his face into the floor and bring an arm over his eyes, but not so much that Jack doesn't have a clear view of his cock.
“Why are you doing th-th-thith – this, fuck,” Brock snarls, muffled by his arm. He moves enough so Jack can see his face, and there's a hate-fueled fire in his red rimmed eyes. The look is somewhat ruined by the tears still leaking out of Brock's eyes. “What the fuck did I d-do to you?”
Jack shrugs and gives Brock a lopsided grin. “Nothin'. I like you.” And with that, he leans down and takes Brock's cock and balls fully in his mouth. He's almost proud of himself for being able to fit it all, but that only lasts a moment before he has to put all his intention on holding Brock down as he nearly jackknifes, not wanting an elbow to the face.
“A-ah!” Brock cries, moaning turning into sobbing as he writhes under Jack, quickly becoming overstimulated.
Jack rolls his tongue along Brock's balls in his mouth, enjoying Brock's noises. He lets Brock's balls out of his mouth, taking just Brock's cock back in and sucking hard. This will probably be the only time he does this; Brock's dick, while cute and as hilariously pathetic as the rest of him, is too small for this to be all that enjoyable. It's disappointing, almost, that Jack had come not long ago – it'd be interesting to see how their cocks measure up against each other, how Jack's must dwarf Brock's.
Jack flattens his tongue against Brock's cock, trying to see if it's as wide as his tongue, when Brock tenses up and starts to shake – his tell for when he's about to come. Jack sighs, annoyed that it's over so soon, and puts his lips back around Brock's cock. Brock starts to come, and the stream of jizz is actually pretty impressive for the size – although, his balls are normal sized, so maybe it's not so weird. Jack shrugs internally and swallows, waiting for the aftershocks to fade before pulling off.
Jack sits back and watches as Brock comes back to himself. “Now wasn't that nice of me?” Jack asks, grinning back at Brock's scandalized look. “I'm just givin' back as good as I get.”
“F-fuck you,” Brock says as he attempts to stand up. It proves to be a mistake since his pants are still around his ankles, and Jack watches still as Brock trips over the bunched fabric and falls nearly flat on his face. Jack's quick to stand and help Brock up, ignoring Brock's attempts at pushing him away. Jack pulls Brock's pants up for him and does up the zipper and button again, only then letting Brock push him. As soon as Jack's hands are off him, Brock runs off in the direction of the bathroom, and Jack rolls his eyes at the sound of the door slamming hard enough to crack the wood.
Brock stays in there for about two hours, his sobs tapering off after an hour and a half.
When he comes out, Jack's back in the armchair, looking into a half full glass of whiskey. At Brock's entrance, Jack looks up. Brock looks like a train hit him – hair messed up and looking like he'd been pulling on it, eyes red and cheeks tear stained. His expression is more like it always is, though – that bitchy glare.
Jack thinks of saying something quippy but thinks better of it. He waits for Brock to make a move first.
Brock stares at Jack for a minute before opening his mouth.
“Do you –” Brock bites his lip and looks off to the side before continuing. “Do you really think it's cute?”
“'Course I do. C'mere, come sit,” Jack says, patting his lap. Brock stares at him for a minute longer, possibly thinking it over, ultimately choosing to comply with Jack's wishes.
He climbs into Jack's lap, curling in on himself and tucking his head under Jack's chin. Snatching the drink out of Jack's hand, he throws it back in one gulp. When he's finished, he throws the glass at the wall where it shatters.
“I hate you,” Brock mumbles, pushing his face into Jack's neck. “S-so fucking much.”
Jack smirks and grabs the unused glass off the arm of the chair to pour another drink.