#trolololol

Hook’s shoulders hit the wall, but the impact barely registers, because his brain is more focused on other things; namely, Jack’s mouth against his, kissing him, prying his lips apart in a bruising contact that is just as much fight as it is desire. Jack’s got his hands tangled in the back of Hook’s hair, pulling hard enough to streak pain along Hook’s scalp. Hook’s just sort of clawing at Jack’s shoulders, and if anyone asked, he’s not sure he’d be able to explain if he is attempting to hurl the man off or haul him in closer. Maybe, in the end, it all amounts to the same thing.

Jack bites down on Hook’s bottom lip, and fuck, that hurts; he might have drawn blood, but if he did, it’s lost. One of Jack’s hands slips free from Hook’s hair to grab ahold of Hook’s chin. His grip is tight: demanding. The sort of thing he overcommits to when he’s not sure of his footing.

“Jack,” Hook tries, because he’s so fucking angry his bones might rattle out of his skin, and Jack is still kissing him like he’s possessed. Hook rakes his nails across the back of Jack’s neck, only visible since he’s got his hair pulled up all the time now. He’s a caricature of himself; Hook hates it, and he wants to sink his teeth down into the wrongness of the picture it paints.

Maybe he wants to say more, though Jack doesn’t seem keen to let him. He pries Hook’s lips apart again just so he can lick his way in, runs his tongue along Hook’s teeth, and jesus, Hook hates him so much. The FTW belt is on the floor, discarded, and Hook hates that, too. Jack’s so fucking sloppy that he’s got Hook’s whole fucking chin wet, dragging his mouth across Hook’s skin with a reckless abandon that only comes with deliberately ignoring everything bubbling up between them.

Because they shouldn’t be like this. Hook shouldn’t be doing this with the man who took everything from him—the man who came in and burned Hook’s life to the ground without a second thought. Hook should be wailing on his face until his fists are splattered red, and instead he’s groaning as Jack’s hands slide down and paw greedily at his shoulders, his shirt collar.

Jack gets Hook’s lip between his teeth again, drags back, and the sting goes all the way down. “Tell me to stop,” he whispers, and then, like an asshole, gives Hook no time to do what he just demanded when he kisses Hook again, and again, and again.

Hook opens his mouth—and if he’s being honest, he really doesn’t know what he’s preparing to say—and gets Jack licking a path in once more. His gum, the damn gum he always chews before a show when he’s nervous, ends up back in the corner of Hook’s cheek. This should not be a thing that’s working for Hook. He can never tell anyone about this.

Jack pulls back, presses their foreheads together, and Hook thinks about spitting the gum back at his face just to see what he’d do. “You could have just said something,” Hook hisses. “You could have just told me this was what you wanted.”

“Fuck off,” Jack replies. “I’ve got to get ready to go out there.”

Like this? With Hook’s spit smeared across his mouth and his hard-on pressed into Hook’s abdomen? But whatever; Hook’s not due up on camera tonight, so he doesn’t give a shit if Jack looks like he was attacked backstage when he stumbles out there.

Then, just when Hook thinks Jack really will leave, the other pauses. Jack presses in again, sweeps another kiss across Hook’s mouth. “I’ll find you after. Tonight.”