Jack can tell someone pure when he sees them.

It's obvious in the way that Oswald – no, Glen, that's his name now, he must remember this – balks, just slightly, ever so elegantly, at his touches. It's all in the way he hesitates when Jack smiles at him, when Jack's eyes linger on him for justtoo long, when his lashes lower and his gaze darts to the side, avoidant and dare Jack say – a bit shy?

Ah, perhaps shy is too strong a word. It conjures up images of soft, delicate maidens, clad in pink and ruffles and flowers, and Glen is none of those things. He is tall and dark and surprisingly strong for his lean frame, and Jack feels a certain longing to drag his fingers along the man's pale skin, to trace his bones through his flesh, to kiss and lap at his neck and mark him in ways that no one else has done before.

No, shy isn't the right word at all. Reserved, maybe, would fit a bit better.

Glen is nothing like Lacie, not like how she flutters and weaves through life, brilliantly colored and so sharply lined. Glen has that sharpness, but it's cool where Lacie was warm, and oh, how Jack wonders if he can heat this man up – even if it's on a whim – and more so, if Glen can stir any sort of heat within his own veins.

It's worth a try, if nothing else.

"Glen," he murmurs, warm and soft and insistent against the man's ear one night, lingering far too late around the Baskerville Estate. He's had a glass or two of wine and feels pleasantly muddled by that fact, feels the need to touch, to stroke, to pet, and Glen strangles growls in his throat as Jack does just that, reaching up to wrap his fingers through Glen's hair, to gently tug and touch until the man sidles closer to him.

"Jack," Glen attempts, trying to sound stern even as Jack wriggles his way into his lap. "What are you doing? I – "

"I want you," Jack says – or really, sighs, the end of his own braid twisting between his fingers as he uses it to brush along the line of the other man's jaw. "I want you to be the first man I've ever been with."

The violet-eyed gaze that falls upon him is flat and disbelieving. "Jack. You're – "

"No one else has ever counted."

He's not sure why he says it, to tell the truth.

He's not sure if he means it, really, but the possibility that he does – that scares him. It scares him far more than anything else has in a long while, scares him more than chasing Lacie for so many years until she died so easily, slipping from his grasp as some ephemeral butterfly. The fact that he might want again, even slightly – that he might actually consider Glen something, someone, far beyond a simple tool to use and manipulate –


Glen's hands are hesitant as they drag along Jack's sides, plucking at the material of his shirt, the folds of it as it lays against his skin, silky and fine. Jack likes watching him, likes watching his anxiety, the way he wants but doesn't take – the complete opposite of Jack, honestly and genuinely untouched.

But not for long.

More and more, Jack likes the idea of laying Glen bare, of tearing into him, marking him with nails and teeth. It's an easy thing to do, he thinks, especially already nestled in Glen's lap like this, with Glen seeming like he's eager, no matter his lingering wariness. Jack wriggles deeper into his lap, nuzzles at the side of his neck, breathes soft, pretty, disgusting things, no matter how he's just claimed that it's his first time, and Glen shudders, twitches and grabs for him, tugging at cloth and pressing his lips to the side of Jack's neck in turn.

He's where Jack wants him, and oh, god, if that isn't satisfying.

Shoving aside the fear of that satisfaction, the fear of wanting so badly, Jack is absorbed in everything that is Glen – the paleness of his skin when clothing is shucked away, the way they collapse back onto dark ebony and red velvet that crushes underneath their weight, the way Glen grasps at him, tugs at his braid, unravels it in his fingertips and kisses him hot and hard and eager and unpracticed, so very unpracticed and oh god that's endearing.

Jack shouldn't be so enamored with the idea of all of this.

Glen's flushed a little, even, as Jack asks him for a bottle of oil, and Glen supplies it from the nearby bed table, hands shaking slightly. Jack can't help but catch his wrists, kiss over his fingers, his palms, all before slicking his own fingers up and sliding them into his own body, making a point of telling Glen how good it feels, how he wants it to be Glen, how no one else is ever allowed to touch him like this and never was before and –

Pretty lies, all lies that Glen knows are lies, but words Jack finds himself strangely wishing are true, all the same.

He takes his time, sinking down onto Glen's cock, in riding him and savoring every arch up into him, every too-tight grasp of Glen's hands that leave him squirming. He loves the way that he can do as he pleases, loves the way he can toss his hair back and enjoy, and that much is new and unheard of. Something else is howgood it feels, no matter how he's done this many times before, how he's never taken any real pleasure in his work – but is this work, when it comes down to it?

This is Glen, he thinks, panting, squirming, the messy fall of his bangs framing his face and sticking to sweat-slick skin. This is Glen, and this is what I want, only Glen

Except when Lacie comes to mind, but that isn't now, and it almost feels as if it is never.

Glen comes faster than he, deep into Jack's body with a ragged, mindless noise choked in the back of his throat, and Jack follows when Glen's fingers, trembling visibly, reach for his cock, stroking him until he comes over his stomach, his chest. Jack's never been one to want to curl up after sex, to enjoy the other person – but now, he does, as he eases himself off of Glen's hips, curls up against his side, and lets the other man toy with his now thoroughly mussed braid.

It's the first of what he hopes is many, and oh, how he hopes Glen shares the same mind.