The drive home felt different. Mark rolled down the window, letting the cool, washed air flood the cab. The scent of wet asphalt and pine replaced oil and desperation. He flexed his hand on the steering wheel, feeling the ghost pressure of Liam’s grip. Just you. The words echoed, stripping away six years of careful distance. He passed Rosie’s Diner. The booth by the window was empty, just chrome and red vinyl under the buzzing sign. No phantom singer. Just rain-streaked glass reflecting his own tired eyes. He didn’t slow down.
Liam’s porch light was a lone beacon when Mark arrived the next morning. The storm had scrubbed the sky clean, leaving it pale blue and sharp. Liam answered the door in faded jeans and nothing else, hair damp, smelling of soap and coffee. No words. He pulled Mark inside, the door clicking shut behind them. Sunlight streamed through the kitchen window, catching dust motes dancing in the air. The silence wasn’t heavy anymore; it hummed.
Liam pressed him against the wall, hands mapping Mark’s shoulders like reclaiming territory. "No ghosts here," he murmured against Mark’s throat, voice thick with sleep and certainty. Mark tangled his fingers in Liam’s hair, pulling him closer. Outside, a sparrow chirped. Monday could wait.
They moved to the couch, an old plaid thing sagging under their weight. Liam straddled Mark’s lap, calloused palms framing his face. The kiss was slow, deliberate — no storm-fueled frenzy now, just heat building like an engine warming up. Mark’s hands slid down Liam’s back, tracing the ridge of his spine, the old scar near his hip from a wrench slip years ago.
Liam shuddered, grinding down, the friction rough through denim. "Jenkins called," he breathed, breaking the kiss. "Haul’s pushed to noon."
Mark nipped Liam’s lower lip. "Plenty of time." Liam’s laugh vibrated against him. "Roof leak first." But he didn’t move.
Sunlight glinted off the torque wrench abandoned on Liam’s cluttered coffee table. Mark reached past it, snagging a half-eaten Snickers bar. He broke off a piece, pressed it to Liam’s lips. Liam took it, tongue brushing Mark’s thumb.
"Smitty’s recipe," Mark said softly.
Liam stilled, then swallowed. "Too damn sweet." But his eyes held no shadows, only a flicker of wry fondness. He captured Mark’s wrist, licking the melted chocolate from his skin. The taste — salty, sweet, Liam — seared Mark’s nerves. Outside, a truck rumbled past. The world kept turning. Here, in the sun-drenched clutter, time stretched. Liam’s hips rolled again, insistent. Mark’s groan was swallowed by another kiss.
They shed jeans in a tangle of limbs. Skin met skin, sun-warm where the light slanted across the couch. Mark traced the scar on Liam’s hip — a pale ridge against tan. "Wrench slip?" he murmured, remembering the bloodied rag, Liam’s gritted teeth.
"Engine block won," Liam corrected, breath catching as Mark’s thumb circled the old wound. His hand slid lower, calluses scraping Mark’s thigh. "Stop stalling." He guided Mark’s palm firmly between his legs. Heat, hardness, the slick proof of want. Mark’s own arousal surged in answer. No ghosts. Just this pulse, this need echoing between them.
Mark pushed him back onto the cushions. Liam went willingly, eyes heavy-lidded, watching. Sunlight gilded the dust motes swirling above them. Mark knelt between Liam’s spread thighs, taking him in slowly. Sight, scent, taste — salt, musk, the faint tang of soap. Liam arched, a choked sound escaping. His fingers fisted in Mark’s hair, not pushing, anchoring. Mark set a relentless rhythm, hollowing his cheeks. Above him, Liam’s breathing fractured into ragged gasps. The old couch springs creaked. A shaft of sunlight burned across Liam’s clenched abdomen, highlighting the tremor in his muscles.
"Mark —" Liam’s voice was wrecked. His hips jerked, losing control. Mark pressed deeper, swallowing him whole. Liam cried out, back bowing off the cushions, fingers tightening painfully in Mark’s hair. Release shuddered through him, hot and pulsing. Mark held him until the tremors subsided, until Liam’s grip loosened to a trembling caress. Sunlight warmed the sweat on Liam’s chest as he gasped, staring at the ceiling like he’d forgotten it existed.
Mark wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, tasting salt and Liam. He crawled up the length of Liam’s body, settling over him. Their foreheads touched. Liam’s eyes, dazed and clear, met his. "No ghosts," Liam whispered, tracing Mark’s jawline. "Just you." He rolled them sideways, pinning Mark into the sun-warmed cushions. His kiss was slow, thorough, tasting himself on Mark’s tongue. "My turn."
He slid down, lips trailing fire across Mark’s stomach. Mark arched, fingers twisting in the worn plaid fabric. Liam’s mouth was relentless — hot, wet suction followed by the scrape of teeth that made Mark curse. Outside, a lawnmower sputtered to life somewhere down the street. The mundane sound anchored them. Liam hummed, the vibration shooting straight to Mark’s core. "Close?" he murmured against Mark’s hipbone.
"Fuck, yes," Mark gritted out. Liam took him deeper, hand working in tandem. The rhythm was merciless. Mark’s vision whited out. He came with Liam’s name torn from his throat, body shuddering as Liam drank him down, swallowing every pulse.
Afterward, they lay tangled, sticky and spent. Sunlight pooled on the floorboards. Liam traced the scar on Mark’s shoulder — a souvenir from a snapped fan belt years back. "Still an idiot," he murmured, but his thumb lingered tenderly on the raised flesh.
Mark caught his wrist, pressing a kiss to Liam’s grease-stained knuckles. "Learned from the best." Outside, Jenkins’ horn blared — impatient, demanding. Liam groaned, burying his face in Mark’s neck. "Five more minutes."
They dressed quickly, the easy silence broken only by zippers and the rustle of fabric. Liam tossed Mark a cleanish flannel shirt smelling faintly of motor oil. "For the roof." As Mark pulled it on, Liam’s gaze snagged on the faded tattoo peeking from his sleeve — Smitty’s unit insignia, inked after the funeral. Liam’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t look away. "He’d call us sentimental bastards," he said quietly.
Mark buttoned the cuff. "He’d be right." He grabbed the toolbox.
On the roof, the midday sun baked the shingles. Liam pointed to the warped patch near the chimney. "There’s the bastard." They worked side-by-side, shoulders brushing, passing tar and flashing. Jenkins honked again. Liam flipped him off without turning.
Below, Jenkins leaned out his truck window. "Romantic getaway’s over, princesses! Load’s waiting!"
Liam shot Mark a look — half-exasperation, half-private amusement. He hammered the last nail home with a sharp, final thwack. The warped shingle lay flush now, sealed under fresh tar. "Done," he called down, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.
Jenkins grunted, already reversing his rig toward the waiting flatbed loaded with steel pipes. "About damn time! Move your asses!"
They climbed down the ladder, the July sun baking their necks. Mark tossed the toolbox into the bed of Liam’s Chevy. As they pulled out onto the highway, dust swirling behind them, Liam reached across the bench seat. His calloused fingers interlaced with Mark’s. No words. Just the steady vibration of the road beneath them and the press of thumb against knuckle.
The haul site was chaos — forklifts beeping, foremen shouting over the clang of metal. They backed the flatbed into position. Liam jumped down, already barking orders to the dock crew. Mark watched him for a moment — the set of his shoulders, the way his voice cut through the noise without strain. No haunted vacancy. Just focus. Purpose. When Liam turned, catching Mark’s gaze, a flicker of warmth passed between them, swift as lightning but just as bright.
Unloading was brutal work. Steel pipes glinted under the sun, radiating heat. Sweat soaked through their shirts within minutes. Liam hefted a long section onto his shoulder, muscles corded. Mark mirrored him, the weight biting into his collarbone. They moved in sync toward the storage racks, boots crunching on gravel. Halfway there, Liam stumbled — a loose stone twisting underfoot. Mark lunged, free hand slamming against Liam’s back, steadying him. The pipe didn’t fall. Their eyes locked over the burdened steel. Liam’s nod was curt, grateful. "Watch your step," Mark muttered, knuckles brushing Liam’s spine as they straightened. Jenkins watched from the cab of his idling truck, chewing tobacco, eyes narrowed.
The foreman’s whistle shrilled. Break time. They slumped against the flatbed’s hot metal flank, gulping tepid water from canteens. Jenkins ambled over, boots kicking up dust. He spat a stream of tobacco juice near Mark’s boot. "Slow today, boys. Dreamin’ about each other’s asses instead of work?" His grin was predatory.
Liam stiffened, knuckles white around his canteen. Mark kept his voice flat, eyes on the horizon. "Pipe’s loaded. On schedule."
Jenkins chuckled, low and grating. He leaned in, the sour stench of tobacco thick. "Schedule’s mine. And I say you two need … motivation." His gaze lingered on Liam’s sweat-darkened shirt, then Mark’s grease-streaked forearms. "Finish by three. Or I dock pay. Both of you." He turned, whistling tunelessly as he strode toward the office shack.
The heat intensified. Silence stretched between them, thick as tar. Liam crushed his empty canteen. "Motivation," he spat, the word venomous.
Mark watched Jenkins disappear inside the shack’s shaded doorway. "He wants a reaction."
Liam’s laugh was harsh. "He wants control. Always has." He shoved off the flatbed. "Let’s finish this." The pipes seemed heavier now, the sun hotter. They worked faster, shoulders bumping in silent coordination. Sweat stung Mark’s eyes. Every clang of steel echoed Jenkins’ threat. When Liam grunted under the weight of a thick pipe, Mark slid his grip lower, taking half the burden. Their hands brushed — a quick, grounding press. Jenkins watched from the shack window, face unreadable.
The last pipe slammed into the rack at 2:58. Liam wiped his face with his sleeve, chest heaving. Mark leaned against the rack, watching Jenkins emerge. The foreman checked his watch, then spat. "Cutting it fine." He tossed a clipboard at Liam. "Sign-off." Liam scrawled his name, knuckles tight. Jenkins snatched it back. "Next load’s at the depot. Move." He turned away but paused. "And boys?" His voice dropped, icy. "Keep the locker room shit off my site. Or find new jobs."
Heat flashed in Liam’s eyes. Mark stepped forward, blocking his view. "Depot address?" he asked, tone flat. Jenkins smirked, rattling off directions.
As he walked off, Liam kicked a stray bolt. It skittered across the gravel. "He knows," he muttered.
Mark gripped Liam’s shoulder. "Let him."
They loaded the flatbed in silence. The drive to the depot was tense, windows down, wind whipping through the cab. Liam’s jaw never relaxed. At a red light, Mark reached over, thumb rubbing circles on Liam’s thigh. Liam exhaled, shoulders loosening.
"Your place after?" Mark asked.
Liam nodded, eyes on the road. "Yeah. With tools."
The depot was a maze of chain-link and diesel fumes. They backed into Bay 7. As Mark jumped down, a burly loader with grease-blackened nails eyed Liam. "Heard Jenkins chewed you out." Liam ignored him, unclipping straps. The loader grinned. "Bet he’s right. Saw you two at Rosie’s last week. Looked cozy."
Liam froze. Mark slid between them. "Load’s ready. Where’s your foreman?"
The loader’s smile vanished. "Inside." He jerked his thumb toward a steel door.
As he walked off, Liam slammed a fist against the flatbed. "Goddamn vultures."
Mark caught his wrist. "Ignore it." He pulled Liam close, voice low. "Tonight. Just us."
Liam’s breath hitched. He nodded, pressing his forehead to Mark’s. "Tools first," he managed.
Mark grinned. "Always."
The depot foreman was a slab-faced man named Briggs. He waved them toward a mountain of crated engine blocks without a word. The loader smirked as they passed. "Cozy," he muttered again, loud enough to carry.
Liam’s shoulders tightened, but Mark steered him forward. "Eyes on the prize," he murmured.
The crates were heavy, awkward. They fell into their rhythm — lift, pivot, stack. Sweat soaked through their shirts within minutes. Mark’s muscles burned, but the work was clean, physical. A distraction. Beside him, Liam moved with focused intensity, jaw clenched, channeling the anger into each lift. The loader watched, arms crossed, leaning against a forklift.
Halfway through, Briggs reappeared. "Faster," he barked, tapping his watch. "This ain’t a spa day."
Liam shot him a glare but didn’t slow. As they maneuvered a particularly bulky crate, the loader deliberately nudged a pallet jack into their path. Liam stumbled. The crate tilted. Mark lunged, shoulder slamming into the wood to steady it, his hand gripping Liam’s arm hard. The loader chuckled.
"Clumsy today, huh?" he drawled.
Liam wrenched free of Mark’s grip. He took one step toward the loader, eyes blazing. "Got something to say?" His voice was dangerously low.
The loader straightened, grin fading. Briggs stepped between them. "Knock it off! You," he jabbed a finger at the loader, "get back to Bay 3. You two," he turned to Mark and Liam, "finish this load. Now."
Silence descended, thick and charged. They worked faster, the crates slamming onto the pallet with jarring force. Mark watched Liam’s profile — the tight line of his mouth, the fury simmering just beneath the surface. When the last crate was stacked, Briggs grunted approval and walked away.
Liam wiped sweat from his eyes with a shaking hand. "Tools," he said, the word clipped. "Now."
They drove back to Liam’s in taut silence. The setting sun painted the sky bruised purple and orange. Inside the garage, Liam slammed the door shut. He didn’t turn on the light. In the dim twilight filtering through dusty windows, he grabbed Mark’s shoulders, spinning him around. His kiss was fierce, demanding — tasting of dust, diesel, and fury. Mark met it, pushing back, hands tangling in Liam’s shirt.
"Tools," Mark gasped against Liam’s mouth.
Liam pulled back slightly, breathing ragged. His eyes burned in the gloom. "Later." He shoved Mark towards the workbench. "Right now, I need you to make me forget." He yanked Mark’s shirt open, buttons scattering. "Make it loud."
Mark didn’t hesitate. He spun Liam, pinning him face-first against the cool metal surface. Tools rattled. Mark’s mouth found the sweat-damp nape of Liam’s neck, biting hard enough to draw a sharp gasp. Hands fumbled with belts, denim shoved roughly down hips. Liam braced himself, knuckles white on the bench edge. "Do it," he growled, pushing back.
Mark pressed close, skin against skin, heat flaring where they connected. He slid a hand around Liam’s waist, gripping him firmly. "Forget what?" he murmured, low and rough against Liam’s ear. "The loader? Jenkins?" His other hand traced down Liam’s spine, possessive.
"Everything," Liam choked out. "Just fuck me, Mark."
Mark obliged. Hard. Deep. A driving rhythm that slammed Liam against the bench with every thrust. Metal groaned beneath them. Liam’s curses dissolved into ragged moans, fingers scrambling for purchase on the oily surface. Mark’s grip tightened, holding him steady, anchoring him in the brutal, physical now. Sweat stung their eyes. The scent of grease and exertion filled the air.
Liam arched, a strangled cry tearing loose as release hit him, shuddering through muscle and bone. Mark followed seconds later, burying his face in Liam’s shoulder, teeth sinking into taut muscle as his own climax ripped through him. They slumped against the bench, breathing harshly in the cooling dark.
Silence settled, thick but different now – charged with spent energy instead of tension. Liam slumped forward, forehead pressed to the cool metal bench. Mark braced himself above him, catching his breath, feeling the tremors still running through Liam's frame. The sharp scent of sex mingled with oil and dust. Slowly, Mark eased back, his hand lingering on the sweat-slicked curve of Liam's hip. Liam didn't move immediately, just breathed, deep and ragged.
Finally, Liam pushed himself upright, turning. His eyes in the gloom were dark pools, the fury banked but not gone. He reached out, fingers brushing the fresh bite mark on Mark’s shoulder. "Loud enough?" His voice was raw.
Mark caught his wrist, pulling him close. "Forget?" he asked quietly.
Liam leaned into him, resting his forehead against Mark’s collarbone. "Not yet." He pulled back, grabbing his discarded shirt. "Tools."
They worked under the single bulb Liam flicked on. The warped roof beam near the back wall groaned under their inspection. Liam traced a crack with a grimy finger. "Foundation shifted," he muttered. "Years ago." They measured, cut thick replacement lumber. The rasp of the saw echoed in the quiet garage. Mark held the beam steady while Liam drove heavy lag bolts through the new support into the old frame. Each hammer blow was sharp, final. Dust motes danced in the yellow light.
Liam wiped sweat from his brow, surveying their work. "Should hold." He tossed the hammer onto the bench. It landed with a clatter. Outside, crickets chirped. The air felt cooler now, cleaner.
Mark grabbed two beers from the battered fridge. He popped the tops, handing one to Liam. They leaned against the workbench, shoulders brushing. The cold bite of the beer cut through the garage's lingering heat. Liam took a long pull, eyes fixed on the reinforced beam. "Solid," he murmured, condensation dripping onto his wrist.
Outside, headlights swept across the driveway. A car door slammed. Footsteps approached the side door. Liam tensed, setting his bottle down hard. Mark placed a steadying hand on his forearm. The knock was sharp, impatient.
Liam yanked the door open. Jenkins stood there, silhouetted against the porch light, face unreadable. "Forgot the depot paperwork," he said, voice flat. His gaze slid past Liam, taking in the tools scattered across the bench, the fresh lumber, Mark’s untucked shirt. A slow smirk spread. "Busy night?"
Liam blocked the doorway. "Paperwork’s in the truck. I’ll bring it tomorrow."
Jenkins didn’t move. His eyes lingered on the bite mark visible above Mark’s collar. "Heard Briggs had trouble with his load today. Said your focus was … elsewhere." He took a step forward, invading the threshold. "This little arrangement of yours? It’s costing me time. Money." He jabbed a thick finger toward Mark. "Keep it out of my business. Or pack your tools."
Mark stepped beside Liam, shoulder-to-shoulder. "The load got done. On time."
Jenkins’s laugh was a harsh bark. "Barely." He leaned in, tobacco breath washing over them. "One more slip, one more whisper, and you’re both gone." He turned, tossing his parting shot over his shoulder. "And fix that damn roof properly. Looks like amateur hour in here."
The taillights vanished down the road. Liam slammed the door, locking it with a vicious twist. He stared at the bolt, knuckles white. "He’s looking for an excuse."
Mark picked up his beer. The glass was slick, cold. "Let him look." He took a sip, the bitterness sharp on his tongue. "We hold. We work." He met Liam’s stormy gaze. "Together."
Liam exhaled, a slow release of tension. He picked up his own bottle, clinking it against Mark’s. "Together." He took a long drink, then set it down decisively. "Now. That beam." He grabbed a level, running it along the new support. "Dead center." A flicker of satisfaction crossed his face. "Screw Jenkins."
Mark watched him — the focused set of his jaw, the grease smudged on his temple. No ghosts haunted his eyes tonight. Just stubborn resolve, warm and real in the garage light. Mark reached out, wiping the smudge with his thumb. Liam caught his wrist, held it. The silence hummed, charged not with fury, but with something steadier. Something built to last. Outside, the crickets sang. The roof held.
They finished the beers in quiet companionship, shoulders pressed against the workbench. The reinforced beam stood solid against the back wall, a silent victory.
Liam tossed the empty bottles into a recycling bin with a clatter. "Shower," he stated, already unbuttoning his stained shirt. Mark followed him through the dim house to the small bathroom.
Steam fogged the mirror as hot water sluiced away sweat, grease, and the lingering tension of Jenkins’ visit. Liam’s hands, gentle now, traced the bite mark on Mark’s shoulder under the spray. Mark leaned into the touch, turning to capture Liam’s mouth under the falling water. The kiss tasted of cheap beer and shared defiance.
Later, tangled in Liam’s narrow bed under a thin sheet, Mark traced the ridge of Liam’s collarbone. Liam’s breathing was deep and even, his arm draped heavily over Mark’s waist. Moonlight filtered through the blinds, painting silver stripes across the scar on Liam’s hip. Mark pressed his lips there, a silent vow. Liam stirred, murmuring sleepily, fingers tightening possessively on Mark’s hip. "Stay," he mumbled into the pillow.
Mark stayed. He watched the slow rise and fall of Liam’s chest, the utter peace smoothing the usual lines of worry. Outside, the world held Jenkins, whispers, and steel pipes. Here, it held only this: the warmth of skin, the rhythm of breath, the solid anchor of Liam asleep beside him. The ghosts were silent. The foundation held. Mark closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of soap and sweat and something indefinably Liam. Sleep pulled him under like deep water.
Morning came sharp and clear. Sunlight sliced through the blinds, dust motes dancing. Liam was already gone from the bed, the smell of coffee drifting from the kitchen. Mark found him at the stove, barefoot, flipping pancakes with fierce concentration. He wore only jeans, low on his hips, the muscles of his back shifting as he moved. He didn’t turn. "Eat," he ordered, sliding a plate piled high onto the worn Formica counter. "Haul’s at ten."
They ate in comfortable silence, shoulders brushing. The pancakes were slightly charred, drowned in syrup. Perfect. Liam’s gaze kept flicking to Mark’s shoulder, to the fading bite mark visible above his t-shirt collar. A possessive satisfaction glinted in his eyes. "Tools are loaded," he said, pushing his empty plate away. "Ready?"
The depot yard buzzed with its usual chaos. Jenkins’ rig was already there, idling near Bay 4. He watched them unload their flatbed, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Liam ignored him, directing the forklift driver with crisp efficiency. Mark worked beside him, passing straps, securing loads. Their movements were synchronized, effortless. Jenkins spat tobacco juice onto the gravel near Liam’s boot. Liam didn’t flinch. He finished cinching the last strap, then turned, meeting Jenkins’ stare head-on. "Clear," he stated, voice carrying over the engine noise.
Jenkins’ lip curled. He climbed into his cab without a word, gunning the engine unnecessarily as he pulled away. Liam watched him go, then turned back to Mark. He didn’t smile, but the tension in his jaw had eased. He reached out, a quick, grounding press of knuckles against Mark’s arm. "Next load," he said, nodding towards the waiting crane lifting steel coils onto their flatbed. "Let’s move."
The afternoon sun beat down. Sweat stung Mark’s eyes as they secured the heavy coils. Beside him, Liam grunted, shifting his grip on a thick chain binder. His shirt sleeve rode up, revealing the old scar. Mark’s gaze snagged on it. Liam caught him looking. A flicker of understanding passed between them, silent and deep. He adjusted the binder, knuckles brushing Mark’s deliberately.
"Solid," Liam murmured, testing the tension. The word wasn’t just about the load. Mark nodded. Solid. Them. This. Against whatever Jenkins threw. The crane operator gave the thumbs-up. They climbed into the cab. Liam turned the key. The engine roared to life, ready for the road. Ready for whatever came next. Together.
Jenkins watched them from the grimy depot office window. His knuckles whitened around a cold coffee mug. The cheap ceramic trembled. Outside, Liam leaned close to Mark, pointing at a strap, their shoulders brushing — easy, intimate. A hot spike of something jagged pierced Jenkins’ gut. Not just anger. Not just annoyance. It was a raw, hollow ache. He saw the way Mark’s hand lingered on Liam’s back. Saw Liam tilt his head, listening, trusting. Jenkins slammed the mug down. Coffee sloshed onto invoices. Fags. He spat the word inside his head, but it tasted like ash. He remembered Liam’s fierce kiss against the Ford fender weeks ago, rainwater gleaming on bare skin. Remembered the possessive grip Mark had on Liam’s hip yesterday. He remembered the bite mark. The sheer fucking ownership in it.
Jenkins shifted uncomfortably in his worn chair. His own bed was cold. Empty. Always empty. He hadn’t touched his wife in months. Hadn’t wanted to. The image of Liam pinned against the workbench, Mark driving into him … it didn’t disgust him. It burned him. He wanted that heat. That surrender. That brutal, claiming closeness. He wanted to be the one pinned. The one owned. He wanted them. Both of them. To be between them. To be theirs. The thought was a punch to the throat. Shame warred with a desperate, clawing hunger. He watched Liam laugh at something Mark said, bright and unguarded. Jenkins looked away, fists clenched. Pathetic.
The next morning dawned grey and heavy with unshed rain. Jenkins intercepted them near Bay 7 before dawn, his face a thundercloud. "Special haul," he barked, thrusting a manifest at Liam. "Oversized compressor unit. Fragile. Needs careful hands." His eyes flickered over Mark, then back to Liam. "My truck. You drive." He jerked his thumb towards his own gleaming Peterbilt. "Mark rides shotgun. I’ll … supervise." The word sounded forced, unnatural.
Suspicion narrowed Liam’s eyes, but he shrugged, taking the keys Jenkins tossed him. "Fine."
Inside the luxurious cab, Jenkins squeezed onto the narrow sleeper bunk behind the seats, his bulk awkward. The air crackled. Liam navigated the pre-dawn streets, Mark silent beside him.
Jenkins watched them. The easy silence. The shared glances. The way Liam’s hand rested on Mark’s knee at a red light. The hunger became a physical pain. As they hit the open highway, Jenkins cleared his throat, the sound harsh. "Heard … heard you fixed Liam’s roof good." Mark glanced back, expression unreadable. "Held." Jenkins swallowed. "Strong." He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping, rough with something terrifyingly close to pleading. "You two … you got something. Real." Liam’s knuckles tightened on the wheel.
Mark turned fully now, his gaze sharp, assessing. He saw it then — the raw, naked want in Jenkins’ eyes, the tremor in his thick hands. Not anger. Need. A desperate, humiliating need to belong to their heat, their strength. To be beneath it.
Mark held Jenkins’ gaze, a slow, dangerous understanding dawning. He exchanged a single, loaded look with Liam. Liam’s jaw clenched, then relaxed. A predatory stillness settled over them both. The compressor unit was forgotten. A different kind of haul began. Jenkins shivered, trapped between them, feeling utterly exposed. Ready to break.
The Peterbilt’s engine thrummed beneath them, a steady counterpoint to the tension crackling inside the cab. Rain began to streak the windshield, blurring the grey highway. Jenkins’ breath hitched audibly from the bunk.
Liam didn’t glance back. His voice, when he spoke, was low and deliberate, slicing through the drumming rain. "Special haul needs special handling, Jenkins. Fragile cargo." He eased the rig onto the shoulder, gravel crunching under the tires. The engine idled, a deep, waiting growl.
Silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Mark unbuckled his seatbelt, the click echoing like a gunshot. He turned slowly, deliberately, filling the cramped space between the seats. His eyes, cold and assessing, pinned Jenkins to the bunk. "Supervising?" Mark asked, his voice dangerously soft. "Or surrendering?"
Jenkins flinched. The raw need Mark had seen was now naked panic mixed with desperate yearning. He couldn't speak, couldn't look away. Mark leaned closer, invading Jenkins' space. The scent of cheap aftershave and stale sweat filled Mark's nostrils. He reached out, not touching, but his knuckles brushed the rough fabric of Jenkins' shirt near his pounding heart. Jenkins shuddered violently.
Liam killed the engine. The sudden silence was deafening, broken only by the frantic drumming of rain on the roof. He swiveled his seat, his movements deliberate, predatory. His eyes, dark and unreadable, locked onto Jenkins. "Fragile," Liam echoed, the word a low rasp. "Like you right now?" He didn't wait for an answer. He slid from the driver's seat, crowding into the narrow space beside Mark, trapping Jenkins against the sleeper bunk's thin mattress. The air thickened, charged with ozone and something far more primal.
Jenkins tried to recoil, but the bunk wall stopped him. His chest heaved. "This ain't —" he choked out.
Mark cut him off, his hand snapping out to grip Jenkins' jaw, forcing his head up. "Shut up." His thumb pressed hard against the hinge, silencing any protest. Mark leaned in, his breath hot on Jenkins' ear. "You wanted in. You're in." He released the jaw, fingers instead tangling roughly in Jenkins' thinning hair, yanking his head back. Jenkins gasped, a raw, ragged sound. His eyes were wide, terrified, yet dilated with a desperate, undeniable hunger.
Liam watched, a faint, chilling curve touching his lips. He reached past Mark, his calloused fingers finding the top button of Jenkins' work shirt. The pop was loud in the stillness. Then the next. And the next. Jenkins trembled violently, but didn't resist as Liam peeled the damp fabric open, exposing the thick, pale hair on his chest. The air smelled of rain, diesel, and Jenkins' sour fear-sweat.
Mark kept his grip tight in Jenkins' hair, forcing him to meet Liam's gaze. Liam traced a slow, deliberate line down Jenkins' sternum with a grease-blackened fingertip. "Fragile," he murmured again, low and dangerous. "Breakable." His hand slid lower, over the swell of Jenkins' belly, stopping just above his belt buckle. Jenkins whimpered, a trapped animal sound.
Mark leaned closer, his voice a gravelly whisper against Jenkins' temple. "Tell us what you want." It wasn't a question. It was a command.
Jenkins squeezed his eyes shut, tears leaking from the corners. "Y-you," he choked out, voice thick with shame and raw need. "Both. Please."
Liam's hand moved. The belt buckle clinked open. The zipper rasped down. Jenkins gasped as cool air hit his heated skin. Liam didn't hesitate. He gripped Jenkins, hard, making him cry out. "Look at him," Liam ordered, nodding toward Mark.
Jenkins' terrified eyes flew open, locking onto Mark's cold, assessing stare. Mark held his gaze, unblinking, as Liam began to stroke Jenkins with rough, punishing efficiency. Jenkins bucked, a strangled sob escaping him. "Look at him," Liam repeated, tightening his grip until Jenkins whimpered, his focus pinned on Mark's merciless eyes. Mark watched the surrender, the utter collapse in Jenkins' face, the frantic twitching of his body under Liam's ruthless hand.
The rain hammered the roof, sealing them in their brutal, intimate cage. Jenkins' breath hitched, his body tensing toward release. Mark leaned in, his lips brushing Jenkins' ear. "Beg," he commanded.
Jenkins shattered. "Please!" he gasped, voice breaking. "Please!"
Liam's rhythm intensified, relentless. Jenkins arched off the bunk, a raw, guttural cry tearing from his throat as he came, shuddering violently under their hands and their gaze. He collapsed back, panting, utterly spent, tears streaking his flushed cheeks. Liam released him, wiping his hand casually on Jenkins' discarded shirt. Mark finally let go of his hair.
Jenkins curled in on himself, trembling, exposed and broken in the dim light. Liam turned back to the wheel, restarting the engine. The Peterbilt roared back to life.
"Supervision's over," Liam stated flatly, pulling the rig onto the rain-slicked highway. Jenkins didn't move. He just wept silently into the thin mattress.
Back at Liam's garage, the rain hammered the corrugated roof. Mark hauled Jenkins out of the cab by his collar. Jenkins stumbled, legs weak, shirt hanging open. Liam shoved him toward the side door. "Move." Inside, the familiar scent of oil and sawdust hit them. Jenkins flinched as Liam spun him around, ripping the ruined shirt off his shoulders. Mark worked Jenkins' belt and jeans, peeling them down thick thighs. They paused.
Jenkins stood trembling, naked under the garage's fluorescent glare. Solid muscle layered his shoulders and chest, surprising them. Not the soft gut they'd expected from years behind a wheel, but a powerful, weathered frame. "Built like a damn bull," Mark muttered, knuckles brushing a surprisingly defined pectoral.
Liam pushed Jenkins toward the bedroom door. "Bed. Now." Jenkins stumbled forward, clumsy with shock. They followed him into the dim room. Liam kicked the door shut. Together, they stripped efficiently – jeans, boots, shirts hitting the floorboards. Mark shoved Jenkins backward onto the rumpled sheets. He landed heavily, staring up at them with wide, terrified eyes.
Liam climbed onto the bed first, settling heavily beside Jenkins on the right. His calloused hand landed possessively on Jenkins' bare chest, pinning him. "Breathe," Liam commanded, low and dangerous. Jenkins sucked in a shaky breath.
Mark mirrored Liam on the left, his thigh pressing against Jenkins' trembling leg. Heat radiated from both men, enveloping Jenkins. Mark traced the thick ridge of Jenkins' bicep with a fingertip. "Strong," he observed, his voice a gravelly rumble against Jenkins' ear. Jenkins whimpered, trapped between their solid, naked bodies.
Liam's thumb brushed a nipple, rough and deliberate. Jenkins arched off the mattress involuntarily. "Easy," Liam murmured, the word a velvet threat. His hand slid lower, tracing the hard plane of Jenkins' abdomen, fingers dipping into the coarse hair below his navel. Jenkins squeezed his eyes shut, breath ragged.
Liam’s calloused palm closed around Jenkins again, firm, unyielding. Jenkins gasped, hips jerking. "Look at him," Liam ordered, nodding toward Mark. Jenkins' terrified eyes flew open, locking onto Mark's cold, focused stare. Mark held his gaze, unwavering, as Liam began a slow, punishing rhythm. Jenkins writhed, a choked sob escaping him.
Mark leaned in, his lips brushing Jenkins' temple. "Feel it," he commanded. Jenkins shuddered violently, his body betraying him, responding fiercely to Liam’s touch despite the terror. Liam’s rhythm intensified, relentless.
Jenkins cried out, bucking wildly. Mark’s hand clamped down on Jenkins' shoulder, pinning him to the bed as release tore through him, raw and shuddering. He collapsed, gasping, tears leaking onto the pillow.
Silence filled the room, thick with the scent of sweat and salt and shame. Liam released him, wiping his hand on the sheet. Mark shifted, his knee nudging Jenkins’ trembling thighs apart. Jenkins flinched. Mark’s gaze, still locked on Jenkins’ wrecked face, was unreadable.
"Turn over," Mark said, his voice low and final. Jenkins hesitated, a tremor running through him. Liam’s hand landed heavily on Jenkins’ hip, pushing. "Now." Jenkins obeyed, rolling onto his stomach, burying his face in the pillow, his broad back exposed and vulnerable.
The mattress dipped as Liam moved behind him. Jenkins tensed, every muscle coiled. Liam’s hand smoothed down Jenkins’ spine, possessive, claiming. Jenkins whimpered into the fabric.
Mark watched, his expression hardening. He reached for the bedside drawer. The rasp of the drawer opening was loud in the stillness. Jenkins froze. Liam’s hand tightened on Jenkins’ hip, holding him in place. Mark’s knuckles brushed Liam’s as he retrieved the small bottle. The cap clicked open.
Jenkins squeezed his eyes shut, trembling violently. Liam leaned down, his breath hot on Jenkins’ ear. "Hold still." Jenkins shuddered, pressing his face deeper into the pillow. Liam’s grip tightened. Mark’s slick fingers pressed against his ass pucker. Jenkins cried out.
"Quiet," Mark growled, working him open with brutal efficiency. Jenkins choked back a sob. Liam’s calloused palm slid up Jenkins’ spine, possessive and grounding. "Breathe," Liam murmured against his shoulder blade. Jenkins gasped, hips jerking involuntarily.
Mark withdrew his fingers. The bed shifted. Jenkins felt the blunt pressure, immense and terrifying. He arched, a strangled gasp tearing from his throat as Mark pushed in, relentless. Jenkins clawed at the sheets. Liam pinned Jenkins’ wrists above his head, pressing his chest flush against Jenkins’ back. "Take it," Liam commanded, low and fierce.
Jenkins whimpered, body stretched impossibly tight. Mark began to move — deep, punishing thrusts that stole Jenkins’ breath. Each drive forced a ragged cry from him. Liam’s teeth grazed Jenkins’ shoulder, biting down hard enough to bruise. Jenkins shuddered, pinned between their heat.
Mark’s rhythm intensified, brutal and unyielding. Jenkins felt himself fracturing. Liam’s free hand slid down Jenkins’ heaving flank, gripping his hip. "Look at him," Liam ordered, forcing Jenkins’ head sideways. Jenkins’ tear-blurred vision locked onto Mark’s face — cold, focused, relentless. Mark’s knuckles whitened where he braced against the mattress. His thrusts grew sharper, deeper. Jenkins cried out, the sound raw and broken.
Liam’s hand tightened on Jenkins’ hip, forcing him deeper onto Mark’s thrusts. Each drive punched the breath from Jenkins’ lungs, leaving him gasping against the sweat-drenched pillow. Mark’s rhythm was relentless — deep, grinding strokes that scraped Jenkins raw inside.
The stretch burned, a white-hot agony that blurred into something else as Mark’s cock dragged over his prostate. Jenkins jerked, a choked whimper escaping him. Liam’s teeth sank into the meat of Jenkins’ shoulder again, a sharp counterpoint to the brutal fullness below. "Feel it," Liam growled against his skin, the vibration humming through bone. Jenkins shuddered, tears soaking the pillowcase. His cock, trapped beneath him, throbbed against the mattress, hard and leaking despite the shame.
Mark shifted his angle, driving upward. Jenkins cried out as pleasure detonated low in his belly, sharp and shocking. His back arched, muscles straining against Liam’s iron grip pinning his wrists. Mark’s breath hitched, his thrusts turning erratic, brutal. Jenkins felt the thick vein along Mark’s cock pulse inside him with each slam. The slap of skin on skin filled the room, mingling with Jenkins’ ragged sobs. Liam’s free hand slid down Jenkins’ flank, rough fingers finding his nipple, twisting hard. Jenkins bucked wildly, impaled between them, sensation overwhelming — the bite on his shoulder, the cruel twist on his chest, the relentless pistoning deep in his ass. Mark’s hips stuttered, a low groan tearing from his throat. Jenkins felt the hot, sudden flood of release filling him, Mark’s cock pulsing as he buried himself to the hilt, hips grinding in tight circles.
Mark collapsed forward, his sweat-slicked chest pressing against Jenkins’ back, breath hot and ragged on his neck. Liam finally released Jenkins’ wrists, his hand sliding down to grip Jenkins’ hip possessively. Jenkins lay trapped, trembling, Mark’s softening cock still lodged inside him, Liam’s weight heavy against his side. The air reeked of sex, sweat, and salt. Liam’s thumb traced the fresh bite mark on Jenkins’ shoulder, a darkening bruise in the dim light.
"Mine," Liam murmured, the word thick with satisfaction. Jenkins shuddered, eyes squeezed shut. Mark shifted, pulling out slowly. Jenkins gasped at the sudden emptiness, the slick spill of come between his thighs. Mark rolled off, collapsing onto his back beside them, chest heaving. Silence settled, thick and suffocating. Jenkins didn’t move. He just breathed, waiting for the next command, the next violation, the next proof he belonged to them now.
Liam’s hand slid down Jenkins’ flank, rough fingers tracing the curve of his hipbone. "Turn over," Liam ordered, voice low but devoid of its earlier fury. It was colder now. Absolute. Jenkins obeyed mechanically, rolling onto his back. The mattress dipped as Mark moved, kneeling beside Jenkins’ hips. Liam mirrored him on the other side. Jenkins stared up at the ceiling’s water stain, his body trembling uncontrollably. He knew what was coming. The impossibility of it. The terror.
Liam gripped Jenkins’ thigh, hauling it up and outward, exposing him brutally. Mark did the same on the other side, spreading Jenkins wide. Jenkins whimpered, a high, thin sound trapped in his throat. His hole, stretched and slick from Mark’s earlier use, pulsed visibly against the cool air. Liam’s thumb, thick and calloused, pressed against the swollen rim, testing the give. Jenkins flinched violently. "Hold him," Liam commanded Mark.
Mark leaned forward, his powerful hands clamping down on Jenkins’ hips, pinning him flat to the mattress. Jenkins was utterly immobilized, legs splayed obscenely, his ass lifted slightly off the sheets by Mark’s grip. Liam positioned himself behind Jenkins’ hips, his thick cock already hard again, glistening with lube Mark silently passed him.
Liam pressed the blunt, slick head firmly against Jenkins’ stretched entrance. Jenkins cried out, arching uselessly against Mark’s iron hold. Liam pushed. Slowly, agonizingly, the thick crown breached him, forcing the already abused ring wider. Jenkins gasped, tears streaming anew, his body screaming at the renewed invasion.
Before Jenkins could adjust to the impossible stretch of Liam filling him, Mark shifted. He moved behind Liam, pressing his own slicked cock against Liam’s lower back, aligning himself. Mark’s tip nudged against the tight space where Liam’s cock disappeared into Jenkins’ body.
Mark pushed forward, hard. Jenkins screamed. It wasn’t just the stretch; it was the pressure, the friction, the sheer physics-defying violation as Mark’s cockhead pressed insistently *beside* Liam’s shaft, forcing its way into the same impossibly tight channel. Jenkins felt the hot slide of two distinct, thick shapes forcing their way deeper inside him, stretching him wider than he thought possible, a stretching, incendiary fullness that obliterated thought.
Liam groaned above him, pushing back slightly against Mark’s pressure, forcing both their cocks deeper into Jenkins’ straining passage. Jenkins convulsed, pinned and impaled, his body a trembling sheath for their shared possession. Mark’s hand slid forward from Jenkins’ hip, finding Liam’s where it braced on the bed. Their fingers interlaced over Jenkins’ belly as they began to move.
It was a slow, synchronized piston. Liam withdrew slightly, allowing Mark to thrust deeper; then Liam surged forward, driving Mark deeper still. Jenkins felt every ridge, every vein, every shift of their combined girth grinding against his raw inner walls. The friction was a white-hot agony that blurred into a sick, overwhelming pressure against his prostate. His neglected cock, trapped against his stomach, throbbed violently, leaking a steady stream of pre-cum onto his own skin. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t scream – only choked gasps escaped as they filled him impossibly full, then withdrew, leaving him achingly hollow before plunging back in unison. Their hips slapped against his spread thighs, a wet, rhythmic percussion punctuated by their low grunts and Jenkins’ ragged whimpers.
The pace quickened. Mark’s free hand gripped Jenkins’ jaw, forcing his head sideways, making him watch Liam’s face – the clenched jaw, the sweat dripping from his brow, the fierce concentration as he drove into Jenkins while simultaneously taking Mark’s thrusts. Liam’s eyes locked onto Jenkins’, burning with dark triumph. Jenkins’ body betrayed him utterly. His hips jerked involuntarily, seeking more of the brutal friction, his cock pulsing violently against his stomach. Mark’s thumb pressed hard against Jenkins’ throat, cutting off his air. Spots danced before Jenkins’ eyes as the pressure inside him built to a terrifying crescendo. Liam’s rhythm grew frantic, his thrusts shallow and hard. Mark’s grip tightened on Jenkins’ jaw and hip, his own movements becoming sharp, driving jabs.
Liam roared first, a raw, primal sound. Jenkins felt the hot flood deep inside as Liam’s cock pulsed violently, filling him. Mark followed instantly, slamming forward one final time, burying himself to the hilt beside Liam’s shaft. Jenkins screamed silently against Mark’s crushing grip on his throat as the second scalding release flooded him, stretching him impossibly wider. The overwhelming fullness, the brutal claiming, triggered his own agonizing climax. His cock jerked violently against his stomach, spilling untouched onto his skin in thick, helpless pulses.
They collapsed forward together, a crushing weight pinning Jenkins to the soaked sheets. Liam slumped over Jenkins’ back, Mark pressing heavily against Liam’s spine. Jenkins gasped for air, lungs burning, pinned beneath their combined heat and weight. The air reeked of sex, sweat, and salt. Slowly, Liam pulled out, followed by Mark’s slick withdrawal. The sudden emptiness was profound, leaving Jenkins trembling and gaping, spent sperm leaking onto the sheets beneath him.
Liam rolled off, collapsing onto his back beside Jenkins, breathing heavily. Mark stayed kneeling for a moment longer, his gaze sweeping over Jenkins’ wrecked form – the bite marks, the bruises forming on his hips, the tears drying on his cheeks. Then he moved, swinging his legs off the bed. He walked to the bathroom without a word. The sound of running water filled the silence.
Liam turned his head, his eyes dark pools in the gloom. He studied Jenkins’ profile – the slack jaw, the vacant stare fixed on the ceiling. Slowly, deliberately, Liam reached out. His rough thumb traced the curve of Jenkins’ jawline, wiping away a stray tear track. Jenkins flinched, a tremor running through him. Liam’s hand settled possessively on Jenkins’ sternum, feeling the rapid, thudding heartbeat beneath.
Mark returned, a damp washcloth in hand. He didn’t look at Jenkins. Instead, he knelt beside Liam, gently wiping the sweat and come from his chest, his abdomen. The intimacy of the act, performed in silence, felt more violating than the violence. Liam watched Mark’s movements, his expression unreadable, then shifted his gaze back to Jenkins. His hand remained splayed possessively on Jenkins’ sternum, thumb rubbing slow circles over the frantic heartbeat.
Jenkins lay frozen, the ache deep inside him a throbbing reminder. Every breath felt like glass shards scraping his lungs. Mark finished with Liam and stood. He tossed the soiled cloth onto the floor near Jenkins’ feet. "Shower," Mark stated, his voice flat. It wasn’t an invitation.
Jenkins didn’t move. Couldn’t. Liam’s hand slid lower, rough fingers tracing the fresh bruises blooming on Jenkins’ hipbone. "You heard him." The pressure increased, a silent command. Jenkins flinched, scrambling sideways off the bed. His legs buckled as his feet hit the floor. He caught himself on the edge of the mattress, trembling. The cold air hit his naked skin, raising goosebumps. He felt the slick trail down his inner thigh.
Mark gestured towards the bathroom door. Jenkins stumbled forward, avoiding their eyes. The small bathroom felt like a cage. He turned the faucet, the water hitting the tiles loud in the silence. He stepped under the spray, flinching as the hot water hit the bite marks on his shoulder and the raw tenderness between his legs. He scrubbed furiously, trying to erase the scent of them, the feel of them, the violation. His reflection in the fogged mirror was a stranger — hollow-eyed, marked.
He emerged, dripping, clutching a threadbare towel. They were dressed now, leaning against the bedroom doorframe, watching him. Liam held out Jenkins’ crumpled clothes — the torn shirt, the stained jeans. "Get dressed." Jenkins fumbled with the buttons, fingers clumsy. Mark tossed Jenkins’ boots onto the floorboards near his feet. The silence was heavy, expectant.
Liam stepped closer, invading Jenkins’ space. He gripped Jenkins’ chin, forcing his head up. Jenkins met his eyes, a flicker of defiance sparking briefly before drowning in terror. Liam’s gaze was cold, assessing.
"Tomorrow," Liam said, his voice low and final, "you show up. You run your routes. You keep your mouth shut." His thumb pressed hard against Jenkins’ jawbone. "You belong to us now. Remember it."
He released Jenkins and stepped back. Mark opened the side door leading to the driveway. Rain lashed the concrete outside.
Jenkins didn’t hesitate. He shoved his feet into his boots, didn’t bother tying them, and lurched out into the downpour. The cold water was a shock. He didn’t look back. He stumbled towards his car parked crookedly on the street, fumbled with the keys, and wrenched the door open. The engine roared to life. He drove blindly, the wipers slapping uselessly against the torrent, the echo of Liam’s words ringing louder than the storm: You belong to us now. The headlights carved a trembling path through the drowning dark.
Morning dawned brittle and gray, the rain reduced to a miserable drizzle. The depot yard was slick with oily puddles. Jenkins’ rig sat silent in Bay 4, engine cold. Liam and Mark worked methodically beside their flatbed, securing chains over a fresh load of pipe. The air crackled with tension thicker than the humidity. Jenkins stood near his cab door, shoulders hunched, coffee untouched in his hand. He watched them, his face pale beneath the stubble, eyes hollow. Every movement seemed stiff, pained. The loader who’d tripped Liam gave Jenkins a wide berth, sensing something broken.
Finally, Jenkins took a shuddering breath. He set the coffee cup on his bumper and walked towards them. His steps were slow, deliberate, each one seeming to cost him effort. He stopped a few feet away, hands shoved deep in his pockets. Liam straightened, his gaze hard, unyielding. Mark paused, his hand resting on a chain link, watching silently.
Jenkins cleared his throat, the sound rough. He looked down at the wet asphalt, then forced his eyes up, meeting Liam’s first, then Mark’s. "Last night …" he began, voice scraping. He swallowed. "Last night … was …" He trailed off, struggling. A flush crept up his neck. He looked away again, jaw working. When he spoke again, it was barely above a whisper, raw and stripped bare. "Best I’ve had in … years." He dragged his gaze back to them, shame warring with a desperate, humbled hunger. "I was … wrong. Before. About you both." He took another shaky breath. "Can I … sometimes … join you? If … if you’ll permit me?"
Silence stretched, heavy with the drip of water from the rigs and the distant clang of metal. Liam exchanged a long look with Mark. Mark’s expression was unreadable, but a subtle shift occurred — the cold edge softening into something contemplative, almost … amused. Liam’s rigid posture eased fractionally. A ghost of that dark triumph flickered in his eyes, tempered now by a predatory magnanimity. He nodded once, curtly. "You remember your place," Liam stated, the command implicit, the forgiveness conditional. "Then yeah. Sometimes."
Jenkins sagged, relief washing over him like a wave, mingling with the lingering ache and the profound, unsettling submission. "Thank you," he rasped. He didn’t move, waiting for dismissal. Mark gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod towards Jenkins’ rig. Jenkins turned, walking back stiffly, the weight of belonging settling on his shoulders. Liam watched him go, then turned back to the chains. Mark’s hand brushed his, a silent understanding passing between them. The yard buzzed on, oblivious. The foundation, for now, held firm.
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