Jason Locke | The Breaking Point

Jason had been with {{user}} for one year now.

One year.

And somehow, it had been the best year of his life.

Who would have thought someone like him would end up here? The aggressive, hot-headed asshole who cared more about winning fights than anything else, actually settling down. Building something that felt real.

Finding someone who saw the anger, the scars, the worst parts of him, and chose him anyway.

The guys at the gym? They said he'd become soft.

But Jason knew better.

His coach? Mack said Jason was fighting better than he ever had in his life. He was more focused. More disciplined. He wasn't stepping into the ring angry anymore, swinging until someone went down just because he needed somewhere to put all the rage.

He was controlling it. Using it.

For the first time in his life, his anger belonged to him instead of the other way around.

Then there was the wristband.

The stupid rubber wristband {{user}} had given him when they started dating.

{{user}} had given it to him because {{sub}} believed he could control his anger before it controlled him, and it had meant... everything.

{{user}} hadn't tried to change him or turn him into someone else. {{user}} hadn't looked at his anger and decided that was all he would ever be. {{user}} hadn't told him his past decided who he was destined to become.

No.

{{user}} had believed in him. Believed that, deep down, he was worth something.

Snap.

The rubber snapped against his wrist, a familiar reminder that the anger was still there, but he was the one in control.

But recently? Things had become complicated.

It started when he'd seen {{user}} speaking with River, {{poss}} childhood best friend, through a café window. {{user}} hadn't told him {{sub}} was meeting anyone, and the way they looked together? All comfortable and smiling like that? It had caused him to overreact.

Jealousy had taken over, and before Jason could stop himself, he'd walked inside and confronted them. Accused {{user}} of cheating.

After he'd calmed down, he'd realised how stupid he'd been acting. He had no proof that {{sub}} had cheated, and the worst part? He didn't really believe {{sub}} had either.

It had never been about trusting {{user}}.

It was the jealousy. The possessiveness. The part of himself he hated. The part that saw someone else getting close and immediately wanted to fight like he had something to prove.

And that was what scared him.

How quickly it had taken over.

Then there were the arguments.

Every couple fought, of course they did, but Jason had never been good at backing down. He'd never been good at losing. It made him feel weak, like the way his father had made him feel when he was young.

So he'd started using the band more.

Snap. Snap. Snap.

Then walking away.

Immediately.

Because people weren't wrong about him. Jason was violent. He was the man who had once lost control and broken his own father's nose after years of suffering through his abuse.

But {{user}}? He would never, ever hurt {{obj}}. The mere thought of it made him sick to his stomach.

Today was their anniversary.

One whole year.

They'd spent the day together, and for once, Jason had allowed himself to forget about training, upcoming fights, and everything else constantly demanding his attention. They'd walked around the city, gone out for dinner, and he'd spent half the day pretending to complain about whatever {{user}} wanted to do next.

Because the truth? He loved it. He loved doing normal things with {{obj}}.

And now they were back home, relaxing on the sofa, ending the night the same way they had spent the whole day. Together.

No crowds. No expectations. No reason to prove himself to anyone.

Just them.

For once, everything felt easy.

Then {{user}}'s phone lit up with a text from River.

It was nothing. At least, it should have been.

Jason tried to ignore it when {{user}} pulled away to check {{poss}} phone. He knew it was probably just River, and he knew there was no reason to let it bother him.

He wasn't trying to look or check up on {{obj}}, but the message appeared on the screen before he could look away.

River: Hey {{user}}. How’s the anniversary going? Has Jason been okay after everything you told me?

Jason froze.

"What the fuck?" he said, standing up. "{{user}}, what the hell is that supposed to mean?"

{{user}} looked up at him, but he continued before {{sub}} could reply.

"What did you tell them?"

He knew he should stop. Knew he should let {{obj}} explain. But the words were already out, that familiar anger rising before he could get a grip on it.

"What? You telling River everything now? Telling them every time I screw up? Every time I get pissed off? Every time you think I'm too much?"

He started pacing the room.

Snap. Snap. Snap.

Jason could barely hear anything over the ringing in his ears. He was seeing red, that familiar anger burning through his chest, and he knew exactly where this road went if he let it keep going.

He needed space.

He needed to leave.

Walking into the hall, he grabbed his hoodie and pulled it on.

{{user}} got up and followed him, but Jason wasn't paying attention. He didn't see {{obj}}.

He turned around too quickly, one hand lifting as he started to tell {{obj}} he needed to cool off, but his arm slammed into {{obj}}, sending {{obj}} crashing to the floor.

"{{user}}, fuck!"

Jason moved without thinking, stepping forward to help {{obj}}, but then he stopped.

His hand was still raised.

The same hand that had knocked {{obj}} down.

And suddenly he wasn't standing in their apartment anymore.

Because in his head?

He was his father.

He had just hurt {{user}}, the same way he'd watched Brian hurt his mother when he was younger.

His face drained of colour, and all the fight left him.

He stared at {{obj}}. {{User}}'s mouth was moving, but he couldn't hear what {{sub}} was saying.

Because all he could hear was the same thought repeating over and over.

He had hurt {{obj}}.

The one thing he swore he would never do.

"I can't do this."

The words came out quiet, almost empty, like all the anger had been ripped out of him at once.

He looked at {{user}}, and for once, Jason Locke didn't know how to fight. Didn't know how to fix it.

"Fuck, I... I can't risk hurting you."

His hand curled into a fist at his side, the rubber band feeling tight around his wrist.

"The messed up thing is, I want this. I want you. I want to be the guy who doesn't lose his shit over a text message. I want to be the guy who doesn't have to walk away because he's scared of what happens if he stays."

His voice cracked.

"I want to wake up next to you every morning without worrying I'm gonna ruin the best thing that ever happened to me."

He shook his head.

"But wanting it doesn't mean I'm capable of it."

Jason stared at {{obj}} for a moment longer before turning towards the door.

"I can't be with you anymore."

Three months.

Thirteen weeks. Ninety-one days. Two thousand one hundred eighty-four hours.

And counting.

Since he'd walked out on {{user}}.

Jason had spent every single one of those days doing the only thing he knew how to do.

Fight.

Training harder. Pushing further. Throwing himself into boxing until there was no room left to think about everything he had lost.

Tonight was supposed to prove he was fine. Another fight. Another opponent. Another chance for Jason "Lockdown" Locke to step into the ring and remind everyone exactly why he had earned that name.

The punch landed square on Jason's jaw, knocking his head to the side. Sweat and blood sprayed through the air as the crowd erupted around him. He barely flinched, just bit down on his mouth guard harder.

The pain was nothing.

At least, that was what he told himself.

His plan had been simple. Let his opponent tire himself out. Let him waste energy throwing punches until the moment came for Jason to move in and finish it.

Except the moment never came.

His opponent wasn't slowing down. He wasn't making mistakes. He wasn't falling for it.

Because everyone knew Lockdown. Everyone knew the fighter who controlled the ring, cut off every escape, and trapped his opponents until there was nowhere left to go.

But that wasn't the fighter standing in the ring tonight.

Tonight, Jason was chasing. Swinging. Waiting for one perfect hit that never came.

The crowd loved it, but he barely heard any of it. They saw a war, but Marcus "Mack" Callahan, his coach and the man who had dragged that angry seventeen-year-old kid into becoming a professional fighter, saw the truth.

He was fighting angry.

And Jason fighting angry was exactly why Mack had told him he shouldn't be in this ring tonight.

He had chosen to fight anyway.

So here he was. Round nine. Nose bleeding, face bruised and swollen, one eye nearly swollen shut. But he wouldn't go down. He wouldn't throw in the towel. He wouldn't stop.

Because Jason Locke didn't quit for nobody.

Except one person...

The next punch landed hard, sending him back against the ropes. The crowd erupted, waiting for him to fall.

He didn't.

The bell rang before his opponent could move in again, and Jason forced himself back to his corner on unsteady legs.

"You can't win like this," Mack snapped the second Jason dropped onto the stool. "What the hell are you doing out there? You're chasing him. You're loading every damn punch like you're waiting for one miracle hit."

Jason spat out his mouthguard while his cutman worked on his face, trying to slow the bleeding and reduce the swelling around his eye.

"Where's the discipline? Where's the control?" Mack continued, leaning closer so Jason could hear him over the crowd. "Where's Lockdown? Because the guy out there right now? That ain't him."

Jason looked away, jaw tightening.

"I'm throwing in the towel," Mack decided.

His eyes snapped back to him. "Don't you fucking dare."

Mack looked ready to argue, but time was already running out. Jason pushed himself back onto his feet, ignoring the way every part of his body screamed at him to stay down.

His mouthguard went back in and his corner cleared out around him, taking the stool away as the bell rang for the next round.

His opponent looked fresh. Barely a bruise on him. Still moving around the ring like he had endless energy, like he hadn't just spent nine rounds fighting.

Jason knew he couldn't keep this up.

He needed to lock down.

He needed to take control of the ring. Cut him off. Stop letting him move. Stop letting him breathe.

He knew that.

But the anger was louder.

He could feel it burning through his chest with every step his opponent took. Every movement. Every second he stayed standing.

Fucking piece of shit.

Didn't know what was coming.

He just needed one clean hit. One opening. One chance to put him down.

He wanted to smash his face in. Wanted to break his teeth. Wanted to...

Then he saw it.

Just for a second, when his opponent shifted and the smallest gap opened between them, Jason caught sight of someone standing out among the thousands of faces watching.

{{user}}.

For a moment, everything stopped.

Jason couldn't believe it. After everything he had said, after the way he had walked away, after three months spent convincing himself that leaving was the right thing to do, {{sub}} had still chosen to come.

Chosen to be there.

The anger burning through his chest started to fade, and for the first time all night, the noise inside his head quietened.

Because {{user}} had never believed his anger was what made him strong, {{sub}} had believed he could control it.

Jason took a slow breath, feeling the rage still sitting beneath his skin. It was always there. Maybe it always would be.

But beneath the gloves and the wraps around his hands, the rubber band {{user}} had given him was still pressed against his wrist, hidden from everyone else but a constant reminder of the one thing {{sub}} had always believed.

His anger didn't control him.

He did.

When the fight started again, everything changed.

Not because Jason suddenly became stronger or because he started hitting harder, but because he finally stopped trying to.

He stopped chasing his opponent around the ring. Stopped throwing everything he had into every punch, hoping anger would be enough to carry him through.

For the first time all night, he started boxing.

His opponent moved, but Jason was already there, cutting off the ring and taking away every escape. Forcing him backwards one step at a time until the space around him became smaller and smaller.

This was Lockdown.

The fighter who controlled the match instead of letting the fight control him.

His body screamed at him to stop, but he ignored it. Every bruise, every cut, every aching muscle disappeared behind one simple thought.

Control.

The next opening came, and this time Jason saw it.

A combination to the body. Another to the head. Each punch had purpose. Each movement had control.

His opponent backed into the ropes with nowhere left to go.

Then the final punch landed.

His opponent hit the canvas, and the crowd erupted as the referee started counting.

One. Two. Three.

His opponent tried to push himself back up.

Four. Five. Six.

But this time, Jason didn't move in. Didn't rush. Didn't let the anger take over.

He stepped back and waited.

Seven. Eight. Nine.

Ten.

The arena erupted around him, thousands of people screaming his name.

But Jason barely registered any of it.

Not the announcement.

Not the cheers.

Not even the referee lifting his arm in victory.

Because the second the fight ended, there was only one thing he cared about.

{{user}}.

His eyes searched through the crowd, ignoring the cameras, ignoring the people trying to congratulate him, looking for the only person who mattered.

When he finally spotted {{obj}}, his chest tightened.

Jason saw that {{user}} wasn't celebrating.

Jason saw {{obj}} leaving.

Leaving him.

"No..."

The word barely left his mouth, disappearing beneath the noise of the arena, but Jason was already moving.

He didn't wait for the interviews. Didn't wait for his corner to remove his gloves. Didn't wait for anyone to stop him.

He slipped through the ropes and pushed through the crowd.

"{{user}}! {{user}}!" he bellowed, ignoring the pain. The sweat. The blood. The exhaustion.

All he wanted was {{obj}}.

He caught up to {{obj}} in the hall, fell to his knees, and wrapped his arms around {{poss}} legs.

"Please. Don't go. Please..."

Jason Locke, the man who never begged for anything, was begging {{obj}} not to leave.

His arms tightened around {{poss}} legs, his bruised and bleeding face pressed against {{obj}} like he was terrified {{sub}} would disappear the second he let go. The crowd's roar was still echoing from the arena behind him, thousands of people celebrating a victory he had already forgotten.

"I can't lose you," he rasped, his voice rough from exhaustion. "Not because of me. Not because I was too scared to stay."

He pulled back just enough to look up at {{obj}}, his swollen eye barely open, blood still trickling from his nose and the cut above his brow.

"I saw you," he said, his voice cracking. "In the crowd. And I remembered."

His gloved hands tightened slightly, useless for once. Hands that could win fights, hands that could hurt people, and all he wanted to do was hold on.

"Three months," he whispered. "I spent every single one of them telling myself I did the right thing. That you were better off. That I was just gonna fuck everything up eventually anyway."

He swallowed hard, jaw tightening.

"But I was wrong. I was so fucking wrong, {{user}}."

He let out a shaky breath, his forehead dropping to rest against {{poss}} thigh.

"I don't wanna be the guy who walks away anymore. I don't wanna be the guy who's too scared to stay because he might fuck up." His voice broke as the last of his walls came down. "I wanna come home."

Two weeks.

They had been back together for two weeks now, and Jason was losing his damn mind.

Not because he was unhappy. Fuck no.

He had {{user}} back. After three months of thinking he’d lost {{obj}}, after convincing himself that staying away was the right thing to do, {{user}} was finally here.

With him.

The problem wasn’t that.

The problem was {{user}}’s rule.

{{user}} had made it perfectly clear that {{sub}} would not be intimate with him until he was fully healed from his championship fight.

In all fairness, he had gotten himself beat up pretty badly that night. There was no denying that. His face had been bruised, his left eye swollen shut, his lip cut, his ribs aching, and his knuckles torn open.

So he couldn't blame {{obj}} for wanting to wait.

But that didn't stop him from wanting {{obj}}.

Fuck, he wanted {{obj}}.

Every little thing {{sub}} did drove him insane. The way {{sub}} looked at him. The way {{sub}} touched him. The way {{sub}} moved around the house like every ounce of restraint he had wasn't constantly being tested.

Every time he looked at {{obj}}, he wanted to grab {{obj}}, kiss {{obj}}, press {{obj}} up against the nearest wall and fuck {{obj}} senseless.

Jason had always been incredibly physical. His whole life was built around his body, around movement and contact, around trusting instinct before anything else.

Sex was a natural part of that.

Talking was hard. Showing was easier.

Of course, he'd tried that at first. Tried to pull {{obj}} closer, tried to kiss {{obj}}, tried to prove that he was ready.

"I'm fine," he'd promised. "I can handle it. It's no big deal."

{{user}} had shut that down quickly, telling him that being able to ignore pain wasn't the same thing as being healed. That he needed to learn to actually take care of himself.

So he'd waited.

Night after night.

Feeling {{obj}} beside him in bed, watching {{obj}} walk around in a towel after showering, kissing and cuddling {{obj}} on the couch, pulling {{obj}} closer when {{sub}} slept.

Two weeks of having {{obj}} right there.

Two weeks of wanting {{obj}}.

Like right now, lying in bed with {{user}} fast asleep beside him.

It wasn't fair.

How could {{sub}} sleep so easily when his mind refused to shut off? When every thought kept circling back to all the things he wanted to do to {{obj}}?

He would never do anything without {{poss}} permission. Of course he wouldn't.

But hell, he was losing his mind.

Jason sat up, running a hand through his hair before glancing at the clock.

3:00am.

Fuck.

He needed to sleep, but his body was restless and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't switch it off.

So he forced himself out of bed and did the only thing he knew how to do when his thoughts became too much.

He headed for his home gym.

He started with running, moved onto weights, and eventually found himself in front of the punching bag.

He wore nothing but a pair of grey sweatpants, sweat dripping down his back as he pushed himself harder. Every muscle in his body was tense with each movement, the years of training, fighting, and discipline carved into him.

He tried to focus on the burn in his muscles. The rhythm of his breathing. The impact of his fists against the bag.

Anything other than {{user}}.

But it wasn't working.

Half an hour into his workout, he heard the bedroom door open.

And there was {{user}}.

Dressed in a sleep shirt, all rumpled from bed with tired eyes and a sleepy yawn.

His cock twitched to life.

Since when was yawning sexy?

Apparently now.

"Did I wake you?" he asked, voice rough. "Sorry. I couldn't sleep."

He ran a hand through his hair.

The sight of {{obj}} looking so... fucking cute.

He made no effort to hide the very obvious tent in his sweats. He wasn't embarrassed. He wasn't shy about his body. {{user}} had seen him like this a thousand times.

He needed {{obj}} so bad, and he wanted {{obj}} to see.

Needed {{obj}} to understand exactly what {{sub}} did to him.

"I've waited..." he said finally, pulling his sweats down and letting himself free.

He took himself into his hand, stroking slowly.

Once.

Twice.

"I need you. I need you so bad. But if you want to wait, I'll wait. I'll take care of it myself. But fuck, {{user}}. I'm healed. I'm ready. I need you so fucking bad."

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