Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me.

Notes: Written for the porn battle; prompt: Jack/Stephen, duet

Jack is broad, flushed and full beneath Stephen's hands; at any other time Stephen might prod him over his girth, for it is as much a part of their usual dance as is the way Stephen's name falls from Jack's lips—familiar, proprietary, tender. Jack takes no more notice of it than he does Stephen's snappishness when Jack scolds him over the state of his clothing. Stephen knows that all Jack holds of import is the way that Stephen, even amid his complaints, submits to Jack's ministrations; or the way he finds himself wholly unable to look away from Jack, at times.

But here, at any rate, Stephen can never bring himself to tease in that manner, for here it seems impossible that Jack could be made any other way; with a man so effusive in feeling, so generous in his heart, surely the body must match?

Sometimes, Stephen's hands are still less steady than they had been a time ago; so it is Jack who enters Stephen slowly with his fingers, first, until Stephen tells him to move onward (a waspish, "I should like to carry on before we are neither of us capable of it," if he finds himself unexpectedly desperate, in need of Jack, and Jack smiles with boyish delight and wickedness as he presses on; or a gentle, "Enough, joy," if they are in a mood of quietness, coming together slowly and languidly as if they have years to fill in that bed).

Jack's mouth is ever-sweet as it opens against Stephen's own; he is still given to hide his face in Stephen's shoulder as he finds himself overcome, prone to spilling words that make him blush even as Stephen knows they are meant wholeheartedly. He knows the meaning of every one of Jack's sounds, and the meaning of his silences, as well.

Perhaps 'dance' is not quite the term for them, though it is close; duet is far more appropriate, for, having found one another through music, Stephen has become accustomed to binding the two together in his mind.

(His fingers are too stiff, some evenings, to draw much more from his beloved cello than a few desperate groans.

"Never you mind, my Stephen," Jack says quietly, taking Stephen's hands between his own and rubbing, gentler than a mother with a babe. "Tell me what you wish to hear, and it shall be done."

And it is his beloved cello, but far greater is his beloved Jack, who will play at Stephen's direction so that they are still, as ever, together in this.)

"Stephen," Jack says, low and sweet, nearly agonized with feeling as his hand closes around Stephen's length and draws forth an answering cry Stephen cannot help.

They finish, as ever, sweating and trembling and gloriously happy; Jack tucks Stephen beneath his arm, seemingly loathe to let him move far, and Stephen murmurs in reply, "You are crushing me, my dear," and they are both understood.