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They kissed once.
It happened quite suddenly and without much warning after one late night of drinking. Jack remembers talking about something—a book he was reading? Or was it a movie he wanted to see?—and then Virgil's lips were on his, tasting like whiskey and smoke. It was only once, and all too brief. Then Virgil had startled and drawn back, mumbled something, and stumbled away again. Jack had been too paralyzed with shock in the moment to really react at all, left in the alley with the lingering ghost of his touch and his heart feeling like it might explode out of his chest.
He thinks about it too much, but he thinks about everything too much. Virgil doesn’t bring it up the next time they meet, and Jack finds himself fretting over what it all means . Did Virgil regret doing it? Did he have too much to drink? Did he somehow not remember the incident at all and put it right out of his mind? After all, it's not like they've ever flirted with one another before, not really. They go out for a drink sometimes without a word passed between them, only quiet companionship and a few shared cigarettes. Sometimes Virgil's hand lingers when they pass the lighter between them, and sometimes Jack holds his gaze for a second too long.
But that's all they are. That's all they need to be. He can't ask for more than that, no matter how it makes the bird of his heart nervously tremble in the confines of his chest.
When nothing comes of it, Jack almost puts the incident out of his head entirely. There's little point in lingering on it if Virgil isn't interested, and he enjoys the man's company too much to risk ruining it. They meet up, they drink, and then they part ways. He's comfortable with that routine, so why bother changing it?
They meet up the way they always do, in a dive bar too late for anyone but the regulars to linger. They're two beers in each and Virgil left his cigarettes at home. Jack is on the cusp of offering one of his when the other man leans in. Virgil steals the smoke from his mouth, his lips brushing against Jack's. Just for a moment. Just long enough to tease him with the possibilities… and then he draws away fast enough that Jack almost thinks he imagined the whole thing.
But the wisps of smoke drifting from Virgil's amused smile are not his imagination. Jack swallows and flicks the ash off the end of his cigarettes. It shouldn't be so attractive for Virgil to look so pleased with himself.
“Do that again,” he starts, bringing the cigarette back to his lips with shaky fingers, “and you might give a man the wrong impression.”
The other man tips the beer in his hand back against his lips and drains what's left of it. His throat flexes with each swallow, his lips forming a firm ‘o’ around the opening. Not that Jack is looking, of course. He simply happens to notice these details.
Setting the now empty bottle back on the table, Virgil relaxes back in his seat. “And what impression am I giving you?”
“Just… an impression.”
“Mmn.”
Jack looks away, feeling his face grow warm in the dim light. He's being flirted with… right? He isn't being teased, is he? He's almost grateful for the silence that follows, broken only by the music drifting lazily from the speakers and conversations from other patrons. He digs his phone out of his pocket and checks the time, just to have something to do with his hands.
“Last call soon,” he comments. He smothers the smoldering embers out in the ashtray. “Wanna get out of here?”
Virgil nods in response, rising from his seat. “Let's go.”
With their tab paid, they exit the bar and step out into the cold spring air. The ambient thrum of the city blends with the stench of smoke and the faint wafts of salty ocean air. Well, where next? The clubs all closed down an hour ago and the bars will follow this one within the next. There’s the diner down the street, Jack supposes. He’s not particularly hungry, but it’s open all day, every day. His thoughts drift back to the incident not ten minutes ago in the bar and he thinks perhaps it’s better if he just heads home.
Jack opens his mouth—and the world violently spins him around. Something pulls on his arm, his feet stumbling against the pavement. His back hits brick with a shocked grunt and then Virgil's mouth is on his. Teeth scrape his lips, a tongue plunges into his mouth and brushes against his own. Jack tastes the beer the other man had been drinking and the lingering remains of smoke. His hands grasp Jack's arms hard enough to bruise his pale skin. He moans into Virgil's mouth and gets a low growl in response.
It’s definitely not his imagination, is it?
Virgil breaks the kiss, crowding him up against the brick. Jack sucks in gulps of air and lets his eyes flutter shut. He feels like his head is spinning, like his knees are suddenly too weak to support his weight. Leaning in, Virgil murmurs into his ear.
“What impression am I giving you now?”
Jack swallows nervously. “That you want to fuck me.”
Virgil laughs breathlessly against his neck. Jack can feel his teeth grazing against his pale skin. Fuck. “And?”
“A-And what?”
“Is that what you want?” Virgil's breath is warm against his ear. He can hear the smirk in his tone. He takes Jack's chin in his hand, his thumb pressing into his lower lip. Jack resists the insane urge to curl his tongue around it. “Do you want me to fuck you?”
Please please please gods above please, I’ve only been thinking about this for the last month—
“...Yes.” Jack licks his lips. “Please.”
Virgil makes a soft noise of approval against his ear, and then suddenly he pulls away. Jack leans against the wall in an effort to keep himself upright. It seems so much colder than it was before, as if Virgil sucked all the heat into himself when they kissed and took it with him when they part. Jack looks up, watching the other man straighten his jacket and turn to walk away.
Jack pushes himself away from the wall, taking a few steps to steady himself before hurrying after Virgil. He slows once he catches up again, digging into his pockets for his cigarettes just to have something to do with his nervous fingers. The other man doesn't turn to acknowledge him, but he also doesn't try to shoo Jack away. It startles him how easily he seems to shift. How easy it is for him to tease Jack and then act like nothing happened.
Virgil used to scare him a little, back when they first met. He wasn’t rude, just… quiet. Jack could never tell if he was actually angry about something or if he just seemed like he was. The more times they go out for drinks, the more Jack realizes he’s just… quiet. Surprisingly funny when the mood strikes him. Softer than he expected from some of the horror stories strangers like to spread.
Just when he feels like he finally understands the other man, something else throws him for a loop.
Virgil leads him a few blocks down the street, past darkened storefronts and empty streets to one of the many old apartment buildings in this part of the city. He pauses by the gate to unlock it and let them both through, then it's down the corridor to the very last apartment on the right, their footsteps echoing against the rough concrete walls. The light above them flickers while Virgil fishes the keys from his pocket. Jack waits patiently, his eyes tracing the cracks in the wall where the plate marking it as apartment 113 seems to droop a little on one side. The faint sound of thumping music filters in from one of the apartments above them, but otherwise it's relatively quiet. No nosy neighbors poking their heads out, no one lingering out in the halls.
Jack follows him inside and Virgil closes the door behind them, locking it and flipping the lamp on by the door. It's not a large space by any means, though Jack thinks it’s more cozy than it is cramped. They stand in the living room with a kitchenette tucked to the side, and two doors that lead to what he can only assume are the bathroom and bedroom. A worn wooden desk is pushed up against one wall with a collection of books, some miscellaneous tools, and an ashtray in need of being emptied. There’s a couch that looks like it would probably fall apart were someone to attempt to move it, with an old tv placed opposite of it. The kitchen table is covered in what looks to be a bunch of engine parts, all meticulously arranged so as not to lose any of them.
It’s not much, but it’s more or less clean and clearly lived in, just not made for entertaining guests. Jack has gone home with men who kept worse spaces. But then his eyes fall on the motorcycle parked in the middle of the living room. He stares at it, arching a brow.
“Hey, Virgil?” He asks.
“Mmn?”
“Why is your bike parked in here?”
Virgil crosses the room and opens the fridge without turning to look at him. “Where else am I gunna keep it?”
Jack stares at him, then back at the motorcycle. He grimaces. “Yeah.”
Virgil frowns at the contents of his fridge, then closes it again. Instead, he snatches a bottle off the counter and brings it with him back over to Jack, unscrewing the cap as he walks. There's something different in his movement now. The way he carries himself is like a predator stalking toward prey—methodical, careful, as if too fast or too sudden a movement might send Jack running out of the apartment. Jack finds himself entranced by it, even as some voice in the back of his head wonders if he really should turn and leave.
“Gunna share that?” He asks instead.
Virgil considers him for a moment, lifting the bottle to his lips—whiskey, now that Jack can get a better look at the label. Not as cheap as he expected, but not the top shelf kind either. Something to be drunk on a regular basis without draining the bank. He takes a gulp straight from the bottle, something warm and mischievous in his brown eyes.
“Sure.”
Jack expects to be handed the bottle. Instead, Virgil takes another gulp, then using his free hand he grabs Jack by the jaw. Before Jack can properly register what's happening, the other man's lips are on his again. Virgil’s fingers press into his jaw to coax his mouth open, allowing the whiskey to pass between their lips on his tongue. Jack makes a startled sound half-muffled by where their lips are joined, but Virgil holds fast to his jaw until he finally swallows the liquor. The spicy-sweet taste of it burns going down his throat, until he's left with just the taste of Virgil's lips on his, then his tongue, then his hands—
He loses track of when sharing whiskey becomes a proper kiss. His hips hit the edge of the desk, his hand coming back to stop him from falling back onto the metal pieces sitting there. Jack is dimly aware of Virgil's hand under his shirt moving against his stomach, of Virgil's leg pushing between his, of how fucking hard he is and of how there's no way the other man hasn't noticed. He grinds his hips against Virgil's leg and hears the other man groan in response.
Virgil’s hands grip him by the shirt and drag him away from the desk. They stumble together through the small space, around the motorcycle infuriatingly parked in the living room and toward one of the unopened doors. They barely part except to breathe, pausing briefly so that Virgil can blindly fumble for the doorknob.
Jack doesn't get much of a chance to look around, and he doesn't think he could take his eyes off the other man anyway. The back of his legs hit the mattress, and then he falls back onto it, with the other man following after him. Only then do they break the kiss, gasping for breath. Virgil half-hovers over him, hands planted on either side of Jack's shoulders, one knee on the edge of the mattress and the other on the floor. Jack stares up at him, his fingers itching to reach up and frame Virgil’s face in his hands, to trace the freckles on his face into constellations.
The other man pushes himself up and reaches for Jack’s shirt. Jack exhales shakily at the sensation of rough hands against his skin. He lifts himself up off the mattress to help Virgil pull the fabric up, then off and over his head. Virgil tosses it away and leans down so that his lips can follow his fingers, laying kisses over Jack’s bared chest.
“You're too boney,” he murmurs suddenly. “You should eat more.”
Jack blinks, the shock of the statement startling breathless laughter from his lungs. He’s on the cusp of insisting he’s just fine, that he’s not here for the other man to nag him when Virgil suddenly bites down on the skin just below his chest. Jack grits his teeth against a shocked whimper, his back arching off the bed and up against the other man’s mouth.
“Asshole,” he murmurs.
The other man chuckles against his skin, soft like distant thunder. The sound of it makes his heart stutter. Oh , he didn't expect to love that sound so much, vibrating against his ribcage as Virgil continues his downward descent, leaving little kisses against his stomach as he goes. He reaches down and combs his fingers through the loose tail of his hair, eyes fluttering shut.
He feels Virgil taking his weight off the mattress. His quick, efficient hands make short work of undoing the button and zipper on his jeans, then pulling them down his legs. He sighs in relief the second his cock is freed, resting hard against his stomach and desperate for relief. Virgil strips him bare and sits back to look at him. Jack swallows and stares back, reclining naked on the mattress with his legs dangling off the side. He draws his arms back, laying them on either side of his head.
For a moment, he wonders if Virgil is reconsidering this. The other man seems to study him curiously, his warm eyes tracing a line down his exposed body. And then he suddenly moves again, those rough hands grasping his thighs and pulling Jack’s legs over his shoulder. Virgil’s mouth presses kisses along the inside of his leg, each one bringing his lips closer and closer to the space between his thighs. Jack watches his progression curiously, lifting himself up just enough to watch.
Virgil meets his gaze, then leans in and brushes his tongue against Jack’s hole.
“Oh fuck —” Jack lays his head with a shaky exhale, his hands turning over to grasp the sheets. He wants to lift himself up so he can watch the other man, but he can feel his body tremble at the prospect of doing so. He tries to picture it instead: Virgil on his knees at the edge of the bed, rough hands grasping Jack's thighs, fucking his hole with his tongue. He wonders if Virgil has that soft smirk on his face, or if he's too focused on his task to feel smug about how good he is at this.
One of Virgil’s hands slides from his leg, rough fingers tracing over his hip before finally wrapping around his length. The sensation draws a moan from Jack’s lips before he can properly stifle the sound. His hips jerk once, pushing his length into the little circle the other man’s hand makes. Virgil makes a sound like a chuckle and presses the fingers of his other hand harder into his thigh, grip tightening. Jack shudders in his grasp, not quite able to thrust up the way he wants to. Virgil’s hand on his length holds firm, offering pressure but nowhere near enough relief.
It's maddening .
“Virgil…!”
The other man squeezes his length in warning. Jack whimpers, but he reluctantly stills his hips. He feels too warm all over. It’s embarrassing how easy it is for Virgil to figure out exactly what he likes. In no time at all the other man has figured out how to take him apart, like the engine neatly arranged on his kitchen table. Or maybe he's more like a violin, and Virgil plucks the strings that make his body sing in tune.
The thought nearly makes him laugh for how ridiculous it is. They’ve only just begun, and he’s already this far gone in his own head, letting his imagination run off ahead of him.
After several agonized heartbeats, Virgil’s hand moves slowly along his length. Jack whines and fights to keep his hips still. Opening his eyes, he looks down to watch the hand on him move. He watches, captivated by how Virgil’s long fingers perfectly surround him, his cock disappearing and reappearing between them. The twin sensations of the hand stroking him and the tongue moving in and out of him make him feel like some feral thing, dizzy with lust, drunk with desire.
He's close. The pressure builds, more and more until he’s close to bursting. The desire for release rages against his need to stay suspended in this agony. As if sensing it, Virgil's hand speeds up, stroking him faster and faster until Jack gasps and shakes in his grip. His moans and sighs mix with murmurs of please and fuck until all of it dissolves into unintelligible whimpers. It's too much, it's not enough.
He hits his climax with a shout, his hand coming up to clasp over his mouth in a vain attempt to stifle the sounds leaving him. Every nerve in his body lights up like fireworks dancing in his skin, every pulse of orgasm causing him to shake and shudder in the other man's firm grip. He spills hot and messy over his own stomach, over Virgil’s fingers, until he’s completely spent. And then it settles, the last of the aftershocks fading into a comfortable warmth.
Jack stares up at the ceiling, panting for breath. He's dimly aware of Virgil moving below him, setting his legs back down on the floor and pulling away. He feels the mattress dip as the other man climbs into bed next to him. Virgil's hand traces a line along his leg, up his thigh and through the mess he's made on his stomach. Lifting his hand, the other man presses his fingers to Jack's lips. They part immediately to curl his tongue around them, sucking them clean.
His gaze lifts to look at Virgil, but it’s impossible to read the other man’s expression. He simply watches Jack with that intent look in his eyes, sometimes glancing down at Jack’s mouth around his fingers before looking back at his eyes. Jack can’t help but wonder what’s going through his head, nervous at the possibilities. Does he like looking at him like this? Does he think Jack is a slut? He should return the favor, at the very least, or else Virgil might think him selfish.
Popping those fingers from his mouth, he licks his lips nervously. “Can I suck your dick?”
Virgil stares back at him for a long moment, long enough that Jack wonders if he’s said the wrong thing. He’s on the cusp of walking it back, assuring him that they don’t have to do anything else if he doesn’t want to—that he isn’t greedy, that he isn’t selfish, that he’s happy with whatever Virgil will give him—but then Virgil draws his hand back. He moves, pulling himself further up the bed and reclines back against the headboard. Jack flips over onto his side to watch Virgil make himself comfortable with his legs loosely spread and his hands on either side of him.
They stare at each other, silver eyes into warm brown. When Jack doesn’t move, Virgil cants his head.
“Come here.”
Jack scrambles onto his stomach, then up onto his hands and knees. He crawls toward the other man, watching his expression. Virgil stares back with that same look he had in the other room, as he stalked across the floor with the bottle in his hand. He swallows the nervousness dancing in his throat and kneels between Virgil’s legs, laying his hands over the front of his jeans.
His fingers trace the outline of Virgil’s arousal through his jeans, hesitating. He can feel how much the other man has to work with, and that alone is enough to give him pause. His nervous fingers instead push Virgil’s shirt up (the other man leaning forward, Jack pulling the fabric over his head) and off, tossing it aside to be found later. He leans in to press his lips against the other man’s, then dips down to his collarbone, then his chest. He leaves a trail of kisses down his stomach, marveling at the way Virgil’s muscles dip and heave in response to his attentions. He tongues the metal jewelry at his navel and feels the other man shudder in response.
Jack’s hands work at his belt first, getting it unbuckled and tugging the leather free. He slowly unzips Virgil’s jeans next and leans back to finally pull him free. It’s one thing to feel him through his clothes, but another matter entirely to lay eyes on it. He runs his fingers over the length of him, admiring the weight, the piercings at the very tip. To say the size of him is daunting would be an understatement. He glances up at Virgil again and swallows.
Wrapping his hand around the other man, Jack slowly begins to work his cock with his fingers. Virgil’s breath hitches in response. Jack glances up at him, watching the other man: head resting against the headboard, eyes half-lidded, lips parted around a sigh. After feeling a little at a disadvantage, there’s something satisfying about knowing he can have the same effect on Virgil if he touches him just right. He brushes his thumb over the head, then below it to run his fingers around the metal balls at the surface of the sensitive skin. He works his hand from the very root of him all the way to the tip, sizing him up.
Nothing ventured…
Leaning down, he holds the base of Virgil’s cock in his hand and wraps his lips around the very tip of him. His tongue darts out to tease the sensitive skin, the metal beneath the head, the veins along his length. He takes it slow and takes his time, and soon is rewarded with another shaky sigh from above him.
Drawing back, Jack opens his mouth and swallows him down. It stretches his mouth wider than he thinks he ever has when he’s gone down on someone. Virgil lays heavy against his tongue, the girth of his cock just enough for Jack to worry about his teeth scraping sensitive skin. His head moves, each time he bobs his head to take just a little more of him into his mouth. Anything he can't fit he works with his hand, stroking him at the same time his head moves. Above him Virgil's breaths pick up, his shaky sighs giving way to soft groans. Then he feels fingers threading through his hair, holding onto the short strands.
He closes his eyes, taking Virgil's length as far back as he can and holding himself there. Just on the cusp of too much , where his throat flutters around the intrusion and he feels like he can't quite breathe. But it's worth it to hear the other man groan even louder in response to the attention.
Suddenly Virgil's grip on his hair tightens. He pulls and Jack whines, following the motion. Virgil's cock leaves his mouth with a wet pop and a sharp inhale. Panting for breath, Jack tries—as much as he can with the other man's strong hand—to look up at Virgil, startled by the interruption.
“Wha–?”
“Stay.”
He feels his heart ping-pong in his chest at the command, bouncing against his ribcage in an attempt to get free. He goes obediently still, staring wide-eyed up at the other man. Virgil waits a few seconds to make sure Jack does as he's told, then releases his hair. Pulling his legs up, he raises himself up on his knees. Jack lifts his gaze to watch the other man, his eyes tracing over the lines of his skin, the words tattooed beneath his chest, the scars. He wants desperately to reach out and run his fingers over all of it and commit the lines of muscle to memory.
Virgil's hand wraps around the base of his cock, pumping slowly. Jack can't help but notice that sitting up like this puts it right at level with his mouth. He stares at the flushed head, watching Virgil stroke himself in slow, leisurely motions.
“Open,” he orders.
Jack opens his mouth wide. How can he not?
Returning his fingers to Jack's hair, Virgil gets a tight grip on the strands with one hand and fists his cock with the other. He guides his length into Jack's mouth and immediately snaps his hips forward, thrusting deep enough to choke him. Jack gags on the girth of him, stifling the groan from the back of his throat. His hands struggle to hold himself upright, fingers trembling where they clutch the sheets.
The other man sets an unforgiving pace, fucking his mouth hard enough to choke him with each thrust. Jack gurgles pitifully around the intrusion, saliva dribbling down his chin. His eyes water, tears blurring his vision. He can't imagine what he must look like, so eager to choke on Virgil's cock. He wants to beg him to stop. He wants to beg him to keep going. He wants Virgil to fuck his throat until it aches and he can't taste anything but the other man on his tongue.
Virgil’s fingers grip his hair hard enough to pull at his scalp. Jack can hear his breathing grow more ragged, the sound of it blending with the wet sound of his cock thrusting into Jack’s mouth and the gagged groans in the back of his throat. He tries to look up and see him, but the furthest he can see from this angle is the rise and fall of Virgil’s chest and the way his muscles flex and tense.
He thrusts his cock into the back of Jack’s throat and holds himself there. Jack squirms involuntarily against his grip, trying to pull back to breathe, but Virgil’s other hand grabs him by the throat and holds him in place. Whining, Jack forces himself to go still. His eyes sting, hot tears running down flushed cheeks, spit and precome collecting on his jaw and running down his neck. His throat flutters around the head of Virgil’s dick, just on the cusp of too much .
And then Virgil releases him, letting go his throat and drawing back out. Jack sputters and coughs, body swaying forward with the momentum until he catches himself on his hands. He sucks in gulps of air, staring wild-eyed up at the other man. Virgil stares back at him, the hunger in his eyes at odds with the concerned set of his mouth. Carefully, his fingers loosen in Jack’s hair until they can comb the short strands back, as if trying to put it back into some semblance of order.
“You okay?” he asks, sounding just as breathless as he feels.
Jack closes his eyes and nods his head a little. His body sinks down, arms shaking a little from holding himself in that position for so long. He tries to swallow to soothe the ache in his throat. “I’m… fine…”
Virgil withdraws his hand from his hair and moves, pushing himself away from the headboard. He instead climbs over Jack, his head dipping down to press his lips against Jack’s shoulder. After how rough he was while fucking his throat, the gentleness of the gesture surprises him. Jack turns his head so he can glance over his shoulder, meeting the other man’s eyes curiously. It’s… sweet. More intimate than he ever expected the man to act with him.
“Do you want to stop?” Virgil asks.
Jack hesitates. He can feel Virgil’s length dragging against his skin where the man hovers above him. He hasn’t gotten any release, and he’s offering to stop? Something twists in his stomach, a little knot of nervous energy that he quickly stamps down without examining. Instead, he arches his back up, pushing his ass back against Virgil’s arousal until it draws a hitched breath from the other man.
“You’re not tired yet, are you?” he asks.
Virgil makes a sound suspiciously close to a growl low in his throat that makes Jack shiver where he lays. Pushing himself away, he climbs over the mattress to the edge of the bed. Jack watches him sit on the edge of the bed to kick his jeans off the rest of the way, then bend to search for something in the bedside table. Fishing out a bottle from the drawer, he closes it again and pulls himself back up onto the bed. Jack pauses, seeing a flash of color somewhere on Virgil’s lower leg (a tattoo? It’s hard to tell in the dim light), but the other man climbs into place behind him and out of sight before he can get a better look.
“Up,” he says.
Do I have to? He nearly says but restrains himself before the complaint slips out. Jack slowly pushes himself back up onto his hands and knees, glancing over his shoulder at the other man. Behind him, Virgil uncaps the bottle and squeezes some of its contents onto his fingers. He sets the bottle aside and takes hold of Jack’s hip with his now free hand. Then holding him steady, he pushes two lubricated fingers into his hole.
Jack winces, both because of how sudden the motion is and how cold the lubricant is compared to the inside of his body. He bites his lip hard enough to taste copper, squeezing his eyes shut. It isn’t bad, though. He’s used to impatient men—men who blunder forward, fucking him before he’s ready, sometimes not even bothering to pause. Virgil pauses though, his thumb rubbing soothing circles into his hip, fingers maddeningly still inside his hole until the tension leaves Jack’s shoulders.
“Too much?” He asks.
“Nuh-uh.” Jack sinks down onto his elbows, his face pressed into the sheets. “I’m okay.”
He waits. Virgil’s hand shifts on his hip to take a firmer grip, and then his fingers move again—in and out, flexing inside of him, curling until Jack’s breath catches in his chest. He lets out a shaky sigh, curling his fingers into the sheets below him. Behind him, Virgil hums in approval.
“More?”
“ Please .”
He feels the fingers withdraw from his hole, then hears the sound of Virgil uncapping the lubricant. This time he’s ready for it when Virgil pushes three fingers into him. The sensation of feeling himself stretched further pulls a low moan from his throat, half-muffled by the mattress beneath his lips. Even the residual twinges of orgasm aren’t enough to keep him from rocking his hips back, pushing Virgil’s fingers deeper into him.
It feels good , between the way Virgil’s fingers thrust into him to the way his free hand stretches over his back, sliding fingers down his spine until he shivers beneath their touch. He pushes back into the touch, craving the other man’s rough hands against his skin, delighting on how Virgil can grip him so tightly in one moment and yet touch him so gently the next. Hot and cold, push and pull, he bounces back and forth between the sensations as easily as fucks himself on Virgil’s hand.
The other man picks up the pace, fucking him faster and stretching him open. He moans louder, between whimpers and garbled pleas for more. Virgil’s hand reaches his hair and threads his fingers through the short strands. He feels the weight of his body leaning into him, pushing his fingers in deep and chuckling when Jack responds with another load moan.
“Vir… ha… mn…”
Virgil presses his mouth against the back of his neck. Another along his jaw. Then he leans up, until his lips brush against the shell of Jack’s ear. “Good boy.”
This time his orgasm takes him without warning. He cries out, giving a full-body shudder and spilling himself untouched onto the sheets. Pleasure and discomfort mix into a potent cocktail, the rush of climax warring with his body rebelling against the additional stimulation, so soon after having already come. As abruptly as it hits him, it fades again, leaving him shaking, legs struggling to hold himself upright. He pants into the sheets, opening his eyes.
Fuck, that really just happened. He feels his face color bright red at the realization.
Virgil rocks his fingers until he’s milked the last of it, then his fingers slip out again. Jack has only a second to breathe before the other man’s hand tightens in his hair and yanks him back, suddenly pulling him up onto his knees with a yelp. Jack’s hands reflexively fly up to catch Virgil’s hand, arching his back up so that it pulls less on his scalp. Once he’s pulled up, Virgil thankfully releases his hair and instead wraps his arms tightly around him, cradling him with Jack’s back resting against his chest. His fingers curl under his jaw, tipping Jack’s head back against his shoulder.
“Did you come from that?” Virgil murmurs in amusement.
Jack scowls, as if his face could possibly flush a brighter shade of red. “S-shut up.”
The other man chuckles and lays kisses along his shoulder. Jack finds his scowl melting away in spite of himself. His eyes flutter shut, his head tipping a little to the side to give the other man access. It feels… good to be held in his arms like this. Warm. Safe, even. Even his teasing feels more good-natured than entirely at his expense, like a private joke between friends, or a jest from a lover in a vulnerable moment.
He swallows. He shouldn’t let his thoughts drift in that direction. This is sex, not… anything more than that. They’ve made no promises to one another. He tells himself this, but when Virgil slowly lays him back on the bed, with such care and gentleness like he’s a fragile thing, his heart can’t help but dance traitorously in his chest.
It’d be too much to keep going—for a lot of reasons, but especially after coming so soon—but he wants to. He wants more of Virgil’s hands on his skin, more of his kisses, now trailing down the length of his spine. And when Virgil coaxes him onto his back, he rolls over willingly and stares up at the other man.
He has freckles across his face and the tops of his shoulders. Jack had noticed them before, but it’s one thing to see them when they’re out drinking and another when they’re this close, the tip of his nose bare inches away from the other man’s. His fingers twitch with the desire to reach up and connect them with the invisible lines of his touch. He wants to trace the shape of his brows, the line of his nose, his lips, his jaw. He wants to commit the scars and tattoos on his skin to memory beneath the tips of his fingers. He wants to kiss him again. He wants. He wants .
Wanting things shouldn’t be so terrifying.
The other man slots himself between Jack’s spread legs. Virgil grabs him behind the knees to push them up, pulling his calves up to rest on his shoulders. Something about how easy it is for him to push and pull his body where he wants causes the heat to return to Jack’s face with a vengeance. He braces his hands on Virgil’s shoulders to keep himself from covering his face with them. He can’t make himself look away, not while Virgil holds his gaze so intensely.
Virgil sinks into him slowly, while Jack is too focused on his eyes to remember why Virgil has maneuvered him into this position. Jack inhales sharply, biting back a whimper. His body admonishes him for going again so soon, for not giving himself more time to recover before taking him. That Virgil takes his time somehow makes it both better and agonizingly worse. He sinks into him slowly, inch by inch, until he’s at the limit of how far he can sheath himself.
When Virgil moves, he moves slowly and deliberately, as if determined to make Jack feel every inch of his cock filling him. Jack feels frustrated tears prick the corner of his eyes, the pace enough to feel both like it is too much and not enough all at once. Each time Virgil draws nearly all the way back out before thrusting back in just as deep, causing them both to gasp at the motion. And how agonizing it must be for the other man too, who has held off for so long and must be close to bursting at the scenes. And yet he doesn’t rush. He watches Jack’s face, watches him squirm and whimper and sigh in this suspended moment of desire between them.
He lets Jack linger in that space, until neither of them can take it anymore. And then his hips gradually pick up the pace, thrusting faster and faster until the twinges of discomfort make themselves known. Jack whines until Virgil leans down to kiss him, panting against his lips.
“You can take it,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”
“Please,” Jack whimpers. “Please, fuck —”
He doesn’t even know what he’s asking for anymore. He only knows that he wants it. It builds slow and steady. He doesn’t think he can reach climax a third time, but Virgil seems determined to try and wring another one out of him. It’s enough to make him sob with desperation, sob with pleasure, sob with pain, sob with everything mixing together until he can’t take it anymore. Until Virgil’s hand wraps around his length and makes everything so much more .
Jack arches his back and closes his eyes. It hurts and yet it feels so good, good enough to leave his eyes wet and his chest heaving. Pleasure and pain mix into a potent cocktail that makes every nerve in his body feel like it’s on fire. It's better than any of the pills he used to pop when he was young and foolish, better than the whiskey passed between their lips. It's better than his imagination, better than his hand on his cock in the shower dreaming of what it would be like if Virgil kissed him again.
He hits the peak and tips over , spilling hot between the press of their bodies. He comes hard enough to see lights dancing in his vision, to feel like the force of it kicks him straight from his body. He floats above himself, gasping Virgil’s name like a prayer, holding onto his arms like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to this moment here with him.
He doesn’t know how long it takes for him to come back down from that high. Awareness creeps back into him slowly, his eyes blinking up at the ceiling above them. Virgil lays next to him, his hand combing through his hair gently. He can feel the other man’s seed leaking uncomfortably from his sore hole. Jack inhales a shaky breath.
“Fuck.”
Virgil’s hand pauses its movement, as if debating if he should draw it back. Jack quickly reaches up and curls his fingers around the other man’s wrist. After a moment, the hand resumes its soothing movement, placated by the reassurance.
“Is this okay?” Jack asks quietly.
The other man frowns. “Is what okay?”
“...I don’t know. Whatever this is.” He glances out of the corner of his eye at the other man, watching him spread out across the sheets. If it were anyone else, he’d have grabbed his clothes and left by now. He’s never made a habit of lingering where he isn’t wanted. But he doesn’t want to go, he realizes. He wants to stay here, to share this moment with him.
Jack lowers his hand from Virgil’s, instead laying it across his chest. “...Do you want to get a drink sometime?”
Virgil huffs a laugh. “We already do that.”
“No, I’m—” Jack turns over onto his side so he can face Virgil, watching his expression carefully. “We could… y’know. Date?”
The other man studies his face, drawing his fingers from his hair to instead trace his jawline. Then after a few moments of thought, he laughs that soft laugh of his. It makes Jack’s heart stutter in his chest, both nervous of his answer and desperate to hear it.
“...You’re cute,” Virgil responds.
Jack scowls. “Don’t make fun of me.”
Virgil leans in and kisses him, gentler than the kisses they shared outside the bar or during the throes of passion. And damn him, Jack hates how such a simple gesture is enough to lower his hackles. Beneath his touch he folds like paper, helpless against his desire for the other man’s attention.
Removing his hand from Jack’s face, Virgil wraps his arm around his middle, his fingers brushing over pale skin.
“You’re cute,” he murmurs again.
This time it feels more like an answer.