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Alan, for all his protestations that he only produced smut for pay, loved to come up with scenarios for the two of them to enjoy. Jack knew it was going to be a good night when, at some point during the day, hopefully when no one else was nearby, Alan sidled up to him and began speaking without preamble, saying something like, "You're the headmaster, and I'm the boy who didn't finish his schoolwork," or "You'll be the butler, and I'm the footman who got caught stealing the silverware." His ideas always ran along certain obvious themes, it was true - Jack was always the masterful authority figure, Alan the unfortunate subject of his cruel punishment - but his creative powers and enthusiasm were endless, and Jack never got tired of the games that they shared, not least because Alan was so very good at his roles.
"You're a highwayman," he had said, after they retired to Jack's study that evening. Jack had listened attentively for further directions. "I'm the poor sod you're robbing," Alan had finished the thought.
"It seems like I'm not a very bright highwayman. I should rob wealthy people - that's where the money is, after all," Jack said dryly. This too was part of their amusement, needling one another, Jack poking holes in Alan's fantasy to see if it held up. The best ones, he'd learned, might eventually make their appearance between purple covers as another volume of the Roman's delectable filth, so he did what he could to help.
"Nah, you see," Alan told him, smiling crookedly, "I don't got no money, so you gotta take something else from me instead." His accent, as it often did in such moments, had slid further down the social scale, accentuating his lack of gentle birth and fine manners. Jack adored that about him, his absolute shameless delight in rubbing Jack's nose in the fact that he wasn't wealthy or well-bred.
So, the highwayman and his victim it was. The gun, of course, wasn't loaded, but it made for a good prop to brandish. Jack even conceded to tie a handkerchief around his face as a makeshift mask, although he felt vaguely ridiculous. Alan put up a splendid show of pleading for his life, and when Jack felt the moment was right, he slyly insinuated that perhaps there was another form of payment he might accept from the poor traveler instead. "No, anything but that!" Alan begged, as though he didn't have Jack's cock in his ass most nights of the week.
"Your arse or your life," Jack improvised, momentarily glad that the mask hid his rueful smile at the hackneyed turn of phrase. Alan would probably change it to something better in the final product.
With some further threats and prodding from the gun, Alan slowly undressed, stripping in a way that felt artless and embarrassed, and at the same time, entirely provocative and deliberately designed to make Jack insane. He stood there in the amber glow of the guidelight, his skin burnished to gold and copper, his hair like curls carved from ebony. Good Lord, he was beautiful. Renaissance artists would have brawled in the streets to have him as their model.
Jack removed his shirt, and was getting his pants unfastened, but he must have lowered the hand holding the gun while he did so. Quick as a flash, Alan tried to dart past him and escape. Jack's blood surged as he grabbed him by the arm, hauling him back with a jerk that would probably leave bruises - Alan was small and wiry, so it wasn't too hard to overpower him. They struggled together, Jack forcing Alan back towards the bed, bearing him down with his greater strength and bulk. He landed on top of him with a thud that knocked the air out of both of them, and for a moment he wondered whether he'd hurt Alan, but his lover was still furiously squirming and cursing and trying to break free, not reprimanding him by name, so he must have been all right.
Jack used one hand to force Alan's legs open so that he could lie between them, still bearing down on him with all his weight. "You'll pay for that, you little whore," he growled, and felt Alan's cock twitch plaintively beneath him. Then, unexpectedly, Alan bit him on the shoulder, hard enough to break the skin. Jack grunted with pain, but didn't cry off. The sharp sting of teeth ran through his body like a lightning bolt, making every nerve come alive with wanting. "Fucking filthy rat bastard!" he snarled, and Alan's smirk was everything he wanted in that moment. Jack could have kissed him, but the mask was in the way, and it would have ruined the mood. Instead he pinched Alan's nipple, hard enough to make him cry out, vindictive and cruel. Alan's hips bucked and his cock made glancing contact with Jack's, skin slick with the precursor to a much bigger mess that would follow later.
Pressing the gun against Alan's throat, just under his chin, he said, "Don't you dare move, or I'll blow your brains out and fuck whatever's left of your face after that." Sometimes Jack wondered if he was going too far, but Alan had never seemed to think so. There was something extraordinarily freeing about knowing he could say the most terrible things and Alan would not only accept it, but somehow become even more aroused. Jack grabbed the lotion he had left open by the bed for easy access, and managed to get a greasy handful onto his cock, rubbing it lightly. If he touched himself too much right now, he'd spend before it was time, and he certainly didn't want that. So he confined himself to just as much contact as was necessary to get himself ready and no more.
He didn't wait to get Alan ready. Some nights he liked to take his time, to finger and tease and make him beg for it, but this wasn't one of those occasions. Jack bullied his way inside, feeling the tight hole suddenly give way and accept his intrusion. Alan gasped, fingers digging sharply into his sides. Those would leave bruises too, Jack thought, and pushed deeper into the warm, yielding opening of Alan's body. He took a second to breathe when he was fully inside, not because he wanted to give Alan a chance to get used to him, but because if he started thrusting right away he would probably come within two strokes. Jack did arithmetic in his head, running up the times tables until he felt like he was safe to go on. Beneath him, Alan's breath was searing hot against his throat, panting furiously. "Stop," he said, but the fight was dying - he was giving in to his inevitable ravishment. "Please," he said weakly, "please don't hurt me..."
Jack could tell by the way Alan's prick was straining desperately against his belly that he wasn't hurting him. The protests were all part of the game, and he knew that Alan would enjoy begging for him to stop and being ruthlessly ignored. He began to thrust, driving into him hard, and Alan wailed with the force of it, now reduced to nothing but a hole for Jack to use for his own pleasure. It was only a few moments before Alan was coming, spunk spraying hot across Jack's belly. He nipped again at Jack's shoulders as he came, but there was less force behind it now, only the graze of mouth against flesh. Jack fucked him as fast and as rough as he could, his leg burning with the effort, veins standing out stark in his arms as he held himself up. Finally, Alan reached up and tugged the makeshift mask off his face, so that it fell loosely around his neck. Jack thought he might kiss him then, but instead Alan took the handkerchief in his hand and gave it a nasty twist. Jack's breath caught, cut off by the tightening cloth, and his vision began to narrow, blood red at the edges of his sight. He spasmed, coming hard enough that he collapsed on top of Alan, who rapidly loosed his grip to let Jack breathe again. He shuddered, chest heaving as he sucked in air. When he could speak again, his voice a harsh rasp, he simply said, "Fucking hell, Cesare."
"Liked that twist at the end, did you, your lordship?" Alan said, still muffled beneath him. He sounded smug and pleased with himself. "Think it'll make for a good story?"
***
The following day, Jack had a series of engagements, meetings with various parties who were attempting to get him to take on greater responsibilities in the upheaval of the new magical government, and then, more enjoyably, tea with Robin and Edwin. He was intensely aware throughout the day of the pain of the bite mark on his shoulder, the bruises along his ribs, the dark flush around his throat. Fortunately it was all hidden by his shirt and collar, but that didn't mean he wasn't thinking about it constantly. Which was probably exactly what Alan Ross wanted, damn him. Jack realized he was grinning as he wondered what his brilliant, devilish lover would come up with next.