The tour had been brutal in the best way possible, sold-out shows, broken equipment, at least three venues threatening to ban them for life which was a personal record for Jack. Scum Dogs left every city on the tour smelling like sweat and whiskey with Jack at the center of it all like a punk god of chaos. Crowds screamed his stage name like a prayer, and he gave them exactly what they wanted; blood, spit, and raw energy. There was one thing that Jack was missing while on tour however, it was his boyfriend.

Jack was sipping on an almost empty bottle of Jack Daniels that dangled from his fingers while he sat in the tour bus relaxing after a long show. His phone buzzed against his thigh, and when he swiped it open, there was his boyfriend. Sprawled across their bed, wearing nothing but Jack's shirt, the fabric riding up just enough to make his grip tighten around the neck of the bottle. No caption. Just the image, and the knowledge that he was right there, soft and warm and Jack wasn't there with him.

Jack finished the bottle drinking until the edges of the screen blurred. The second one came after a show in Chicago, sweat still dripping down his spine as he toweled off backstage. This time, it was a mirror selfie. His boyfriend biting his lip, fingers teasing under the waistband of his boxers. Jack's knuckles went white around his phone. Some groupie tried to slink into his dressing room, and he nearly threw a chair at her.

By week three, it was a game. His boyfriend knew exactly when to strike. When Jack was exhausted from performing, when he was stuck in some shitty motel room with paper-thin walls and a mattress that smelled like cigarettes. A video of his boyfriend rolling around their bed, a quick shot of his thighs, his boxers hung dangerously low around his hips. The worst part? He knew what he was doing to Jack, the special kind of hell his own boyfriend was putting him through.

Now Jack is back home from the tour and he wanted to make up for lost time. Jack stood over his boyfriend as he pressed his combat boot on his upper chest keeping his back pressed down on the floor with enough pressure, but not hard enough to actually hurt him. "You sly fuck, you knew what you were doing sending me all of those pics on tour. Teasing me." Jack ground the heel of his boot on his chest testing for any negative reactions.