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Jack’s even prettier like this- bruised and beaten up to the brink of unconsciousness, yet the ice in his half lidded eyes still present, ever defiant. Roger tightens his grip around Jack’s slender throat, and puts his mouth against the squirming boy again roughly, something akin to warmth shooting up his spine, making his skin tingle. The sweet sounds of Jack choked gasps-
He gets flung away and he hits the floor hard with a crack. For a moment black spots obscure his vision, but when they disappear he sees Jack leaning against the wall, panting heavily, furious, a wild look in his eyes. Roger only stares as Jack storms past him, looking as if he’s about to fall over any minute now- and revels in the satisfaction of how easy it was to make his chief fall apart this time.
Jack leaves but he’ll come back again. Roger is willing to pretend to be Jack’s little toy to play with, but the truth is that under the mask of a cruel, confident leader Jack adorns, is a boy clinging desperately to any semblance of power. Jack is so fun to pick apart- and even more fun to ruin- so Roger’s taking his time pulling every thread out of Jack, slowly unravelling, until he’s gets to the very edge of snapping. It’s thrilling to watch his descent into madness once more.
The next time this happens again Jack is tempestuous, a messy halo of red hair and his voice sharp and wobbly as if he was about to cry. In the beginning there had been an aggressive tussle, bony hands grabbing at hair and chairs and tables flipped over in the struggle to gain the upper hand; in the end it’s Roger sitting next to a bed in the infirmary after Jack’s eyes had glazed over from the lack of oxygen, admiring his handiwork.
‘What are you DOING?’ Maurice yells, horrified, forcefully tearing Roger away from Jack and he immediately crumples like a marionette without its strings. There’s blood that trickles down his mouth to his chin, vivid against the stark white of his freckled skin, eyes dull and blank, ice blue starting to look a lot like grey.
Roger feels nothing as he watches Maurice gingerly shake Jack, red curls falling all over his face, his body bent and broken from the way Roger had slammed him against the alter. A sickening crunch; a rush of adrenaline. Even in the end Jack manages to surprise him- pulling him for a brush on the lips- tender and soft, mocking.
I win.
Roger wants to rip his hair out.
And again,
and again,
...and again.
‘Stop- stop,’ Jack breathes out, and in response Roger presses harder on his chest, pushing him down, other hand tilting his head upwards so that Roger is all that he sees, gold around his edges from the light of the cathedral touching everywhere. Jack’s crying, actually crying, and Roger dips down and licks the tears off. He feels nothing but a little buzz in his veins to go further, wonders what Jack’s blood would feel like on his hands, his tongue. He wants to squeeze Jack’s petite form until his bones break and he wants his warm guts all over him, but he holds himself back because he also likes this- his chief helpless under him- completely stripped from everything that makes him Jack. His strong angelic voice turning into whispers, the aura of authority and arrogance gone.
He’s still crying, and Roger presses his body against his, wanting to see what’s it like to have his heart beating fast. Jack shivers and shudders violently from lack of stimulation.
Second time this week.