Chapter 3: My Baby
The vinyl cot mattress creaked under Marcus’s weight. The ceiling of his cell-like quarters was painted a flat, institutional white, cracked in one corner. His body ached from the afternoon’s training—Cole’s smug commentary, Elena’s watchful gaze, the strain of holding his power at the absolute minimum. Every muscle fiber remembered its potential for cataclysmic expansion, and keeping it leashed was its own kind of torture. But the physical ache was a welcome distraction from the hollow space Daniel had left inside him after the session.
It is good to see you.
The words replayed, a bittersweet poison. A professional courtesy. A ghost of what had been.
He shut his eyes against the sterile present, and memory flooded in, vivid and visceral, a refuge and a punishment.
The bar was called The Rusty Nail. It was loud, dark, smelled of spilled beer and a thousand bad decisions. Marcus sat at the end of the polished counter, nursing a whiskey that tasted like tar. Three months in this city, three months of quiet, of calculated anonymity. The solitude, once a prize, was starting to scrape against his nerves. He was a man built for extremes, and the mundane was a slow, grating suffocation.
Then he saw him.
He was perched on a stool near the middle, small, hunched slightly over a half-empty pint of something golden. He wore wire-framed glasses that kept sliding down his nose. He pushed them back up with a finger, leaving a smudge. His sweater was worn at the elbows. He was reading something on his phone, a tiny smile touching his lips. He looked clever. He looked soft. He looked like the exact opposite of everything Marcus had ever known or been.
Hunger, raw and immediate, coiled in Marcus’s gut. It hadn’t been about this, not just this, for so long. But the sight of this man—his delicate wrists, the vulnerable line of his neck, the thought of what sounds he might make—ignited something feral and neglected. He needed to touch, to dominate, to feel something real again. He needed a good, hard fuck, and this man looked perfect.
He finished his whiskey, the glass hitting the bar with a definitive tap. He slid off his stool, his height making people unconsciously part as he moved through the crowd. He stopped a foot away, catching the scent of laundry detergent and clean skin over the bar’s grime.
“Can I buy you the next one?” His voice was Garrett’s voice: low, warm, with a hint of gravel that suggested kindness, not menace.
The man looked up, startled. His eyes, a soft brown behind the lenses, widened slightly. He took in Marcus’s size, the breadth of his shoulders under the simple henley, the weathered but handsome face. A flush crept up his neck.
“Uh.Sure. Thanks.” He gestured to his glass. “Just another lager, I guess.”
Marcus signaled the bartender, ordered the beer and another whiskey for himself. He extended a hand. “Garrett.”
The man’s hand was warm, dry, engulfed in Marcus’s. “Daniel.”
“Celebrating something, Daniel? Or just contemplating life’s mysteries over a pint?”
Daniel’s smile widened, revealing a slight gap between his front teeth. It was unbearably endearing. “Graduation. Just finished my Master’s in Behavioral Psych today.”
“A brain, then.” Marcus leaned against the bar, deliberately entering his space. “Congratulations. That’s worth more than a cheap beer.”
They talked. Daniel, emboldened by his own achievement and a few drinks, grew animated, gesturing with his hands as he explained theories of cognitive restructuring. He was brilliant, his mind quick and compassionate. Marcus listened, captivated, playing the part of the slightly older, charmed admirer. He asked simple questions that made Daniel’s eyes light up. The charm was a weapon he’d always had, but this felt different. It wasn't a manipulation; it was a genuine fascination.
The music shifted, something with a thumping, persistent bass. “Dance with me,” Marcus said. It wasn’t really a question.
On the cramped dance floor, bodies pressed close. Marcus pulled Daniel against him, one large hand settling low on his back. They moved, a slow grind against the frantic rhythm around them. Daniel’s head came to his sternum. He felt small, fragile, pliant.
And Marcus was hard. Enormously, unmistakably hard. His erection, thick and demanding, pressed against the fly of his jeans and into Daniel’s hip.
Daniel stiffened for a second, a tiny intake of breath. Then he melted, pressing back, grinding his own growing interest against Marcus’s thigh. His cheeks were flushed, his lips parted.
Marcus leaned down, his mouth brushing the shell of Daniel’s ear. The scent of him—soap, clean sweat, lager—was intoxicating. “You feel that?” he murmured, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. He rolled his hips, letting Daniel feel the full, rigid length of him. “That’s what you do to me. You want to come home with me? Let me show you how good I can make you feel?”
Daniel tilted his head back, his eyes glazed with desire and alcohol and simple, honest lust. “Yes,” he breathed. “God, yes.”
The apartment was spacious, minimalist, rented with untraceable cash. Marcus closed the door, and the world outside ceased to exist. He backed Daniel against it, kissing him deeply, swallowing his little gasps. His hands were everywhere—cupping Daniel’s jaw, sliding under his sweater to feel the fluttering heartbeat, the smooth skin of his back.
“Bedroom,” Marcus growled between kisses.
He guided Daniel down the hall. In the dim light from the streetlamps filtering through the blinds, he began undressing him. It was methodical, worshipful. The sweater over his head. The careful unbuttoning of his shirt. The belt unbuckled, the jeans and underwear pushed down in one motion. Daniel stood there, trembling, beautifully naked. Slender, cute, perfect. His cock, already hard and flushed, curved towards his stomach.
“So pretty,” Marcus murmured, pushing Daniel gently back onto the bed. “Let me take care of you.”
He knelt on the floor between Daniel’s spread legs. He didn’t go for his cock immediately. He kissed the inside of Daniel’s thighs, laved his balls, making Daniel writhe and whimper. Then he took Daniel’s cock into his mouth, swallowing him down to the root in one smooth, practiced motion.
Daniel cried out, a sharp, broken sound. His hands fisted in the sheets. Marcus worked him, using his mouth and one hand in a relentless, synchronized rhythm. He knew what he was doing, applying pressure, varying the pace, listening intently to every hitch of Daniel’s breath, every twitch of his thighs.
“Garrett, I’m gonna—I’m close, I’m so close—”
Marcus doubled his efforts, humming around him. He slid a spit-slick finger against Daniel’s hole, applying gentle pressure.
That was all it took. Daniel’s back arched clean off the mattress. He came with a choked shout, spurting hot and bitter into Marcus’s mouth. Marcus drank him down, swallowing every pulse, riding out the convulsions with his mouth until Daniel was a trembling, oversensitive mess, pushing weakly at his head.
“Good boy,” Marcus said, his voice thick. He stood up, finally stripping off his own clothes.
Daniel, panting, propped himself up on his elbows. His gaze traveled up Marcus’s body, and his jaw went slack. The sheer scale of him—the dense, corded muscle, the broad chest covered in dark hair, the powerful thighs—was one thing. Then his eyes dropped lower.
“Holy shit,” Daniel whispered, awe stripping away any pretense of coolness.
Marcus’s cock was a heavy, formidable thing, thick-veined and already leaking at the tip. His balls were a heavy sac, drawn up tight with need.
“You like that?” Marcus asked, stroking himself slowly, his eyes locked on Daniel’s face.
“Yeah,” Daniel breathed, licking his lips. “Fuck, yeah.”
He scrambled off the bed, getting on his knees on the floor. He didn’t hesitate. He took the head into his mouth, his tongue swirling around the crown, tasting the pre-come. His small hands could barely wrap around the girth. He worshipped it, lavishing attention up and down the shaft, sucking on his balls, nuzzling into the coarse hair at the base. He was enthusiastic, clumsy, perfect. He looked up at Marcus, his eyes wide and dark, and murmured, “You’re so fucking big, Garrett.”
The sight, the feel, the raw adoration in Daniel’s eyes was a direct line to Marcus’s primal core. His control, already frayed by months of denial, snapped.
“Enough,” he snarled, his voice barely human.
He hauled Daniel up by his armpits and threw him onto the bed on his stomach. He grabbed the lube from the nightstand, slicked himself with a brutal, hurried stroke, then poured more over Daniel’s exposed hole. He didn’t prep him further. He lined up the broad head and pushed in.
It was a tight, burning stretch. Daniel screamed, his fingers clawing at the comforter. Marcus didn’t stop. He shoved forward, a relentless, conquering advance, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust. He gave Daniel no time to adjust, pulling out and slamming back in, setting a punishing, deep rhythm.
“Fuck!Garrett! Oh, God!” Daniel’s cries were a mixture of pain and delirious pleasure.
Marcus folded him, bent him, flipped him. He fucked him on his back, driving Daniel’s knees toward his chest, watching his own cock disappear into that tight, clenching heat. He fucked him on his side, his arm hooked around Daniel’s thigh, holding him open. He took him from behind again, kneeling upright, using his sheer mass to piston into him, the slapping of skin echoing in the room.
Daniel was a sobbing, gasping, fucked-out mess. Tears streaked his face. His own cock, hard again, jerked and leaked onto his stomach with every powerful drive. He was babbling, words breaking apart.
“So deep… you’re splitting me open… please, don’t stop… fucking wreck me…”
“What do you want?” Marcus grunted, snapping his hips, sweat dripping from his chin onto Daniel’s back.
“Fuck me, Daddy! Please, Daddy, fuck me harder!”
The word detonated in Marcus’s brain. A white-hot wire of pure, dark desire. His thrusts became brutal, animalistic. He was piston and fury, claiming, marking, owning. Daniel screamed, his body bowing as he came again, untouched, his climax ripped from him by the sheer violence of the penetration.
Marcus felt the clenching, desperate pulses around his cock. It tipped him over the edge. He hooked a forearm around Daniel’s throat, not cutting off his air, just holding him in a vise of possession. He buried himself as deep as he could go, his whole body tensing like a steel cable.
“Gonna fill you up, baby,” he roared, a sound from the depths of his chest. “Take my fucking cum!”
He came in long, violent bursts, pumping his seed deep inside Daniel’s trembling body. He kept fucking through it, milking every last drop, until he was spent, collapsing partially on top of him, his weight pinning Daniel to the soaked sheets.
They lay there, a tangle of limbs, both breathing as if they’d run for miles. The room stank of sex and sweat and conquest. Slowly, Marcus softened and slipped out.
Daniel made a small, overwhelmed sound. He was limp, glazed, utterly used.
Marcus rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling. His heart was a jackhammer. The hunger, momentarily sated, was already stirring again. The feel of Daniel’s body, the sounds he’d made, the look in his eyes… it had been too long. It wasn’t enough.
He felt his cock twitch against his thigh. It was already filling again, thick and heavy.
He turned his head. Daniel was looking at him, his expression dazed, raw, and utterly sated.
Marcus reached over, his fingers, still slick, tracing Daniel’s swollen lips. “It’s been too long for me,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “I’m not done with you yet.”
A slow, eager smile spread across Daniel’s wrecked face. He shifted, wincing slightly, turning onto his hands and knees. He presented himself, looking back over his shoulder, his ass still glistening with Marcus’s spend. “Then don’t stop,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “I’m yours, Daddy. All night.”
Marcus got up on his knees, his renewed erection jutting out, thicker and angrier than before. He positioned himself, and with a groan that was equal parts desperation and triumph, he pushed back into the warm, willing, already-claimed heat.
On the cot in the present, Marcus’s hand was fisted in the thin blanket. His own breath was ragged in the quiet room. The ghost of Daniel’s taste was in his mouth, the echo of his cries in his ears, the phantom sensation of that tight, perfect heat around his cock.
The memory was a paradise. And the present—the sterile room, the clinical assessments, Daniel’s cool, professional distance—was a hell he had built with his own two hands.
He opened his eyes, staring at the crack in the ceiling. The physical ache of need was gone, replaced by a deeper, more profound hunger that no memory could satisfy.
He had told Daniel he left to protect him. Lying here, drowning in the past, he wondered if that was just another lie he’d told himself. Maybe he’d left because he was terrified of what that kind of peace could do to a man like him. Maybe he’d been protecting himself from the vulnerability of being loved.
The door to his quarters clicked, the electronic lock disengaging. Dinner tray time. He didn't move. He let the memory cling to him a moment longer, a bittersweet shroud, before forcing himself to sit up, to become Marcus Ashcroft again, a patient in a cage of his own making. The scent of cheap institutional food flooded in, wiping away, for a moment, the remembered smells of sex and skin and surrender.