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Jimmy’s mouth tastes like spiced rum and eggnog--the traditional kind, because even though Curly always grabbed the soy alternative, Jimmy had been with him at the store and commented about never having ‘the real thing’ so he had shelled out for that instead. Jimmy had been holding a glass of it in the loose enclosure of his fingers when Curly had first leaned in, but at some point it must’ve been abandoned either to the ground or to the side table--Jimmy’s grip is at his side now, just-barely tugging at the fabric of his shirt with no real urge or direction. His shoulders are back against the arm of Curly’s burgundy couch, and Curly’s practically mounted him, settled between the surprisingly easy splay of Jimmy's legs with his hand propping up his weight next to Jimmy’s shoulder.
When Jimmy makes a bitten-off groan as Curly sucks his tongue into his mouth, chasing the sweet-spice remnants of his drink, Curly can't help the upwards flex of his hips against the seat of the other's pants. He knows he's pushing his luck a little, but there’s something tender about the holidays that has him feeling a little bold. He repeats the motion, letting Jimmy's name slips from his lips in a stuttered exhale, revelling in the sensation of grinding against the other's ass.
“Curly,” Jimmy grits out, pulling his head back, and the rejection isn't any sort of a surprise to him.
Curly lets up immediately, backing off with an apologetic smile pulling at his face. “Sorry, too much?”
Jimmy had slipped down along the arm at some point, and the back of his hair sticks up where it had been mussed. He looks back to Curly, and the heat of his features has a shiver of arousal tracing the length of Curly's spine.
Jimmy is beautiful, Curly thinks. He’s always thought of him as elegant, in a way. His eyes, the angles of his face, the way his skin stretches over lean muscle as if the something inside could barely be contained. He doesn’t know how the world doesn’t see it when they look at him. When he stares at Jimmy and the kaleidoscope of colors from the Christmas tree painting his face, he can't imagine ever wanting someone else the way he wants him.
Jimmy's mouth presses together, lips working against one another as if he's mulling something over. Curly waits, perched over him with his arm outstretched, patient because he could happily watch Jimmy's expressions all day. “If you want to do it , you can.” He shrugs halfway through the words, stare flittering away for a moment. Curly recognizes the tone, the movement, as Jimmy's particularized brand of bashfulness, although he's not sure of the reason behind it. Jimmy’s never really been in the habit of being shy over Curly riding him.
A fond laugh trickles forth through Curly's mouth, “sure, I'll go grab the lube.” He starts to extricate himself from the tangle of their bodies, but Jimmy's foot hooks behind his back, trapping him.
Curly thinks he catches a deepening of the color on the other's face. It’s hard to tell under the holiday lighting. “No, you,” Jimmy reaches up and scrubs at his own brow with the base of his hand, then cards his fingers back through the brown locks, like he's frustrated. “You can be the one that…” He makes a motion with his same hand that Curly can't decode. “Sticks it in.”
For one absurd moment, Curly wonders why Jimmy is making such a show out of the concept of him being the one to hold Jimmy's cock for him. Then, realization dawns on him, the heat of it practically a supernova--sapping the breath from his lungs and the moisture from his mouth. He knows how he must appear, eyes so wide in shock it seems comical. Jimmy bristles under the surprised stare, the line of his body starting to crumble in on itself, and Curly has to will himself to look normal, casual even, just to make Jimmy feel less under the microscope. Like Jimmy hadn't just offered to let Curly fuck him for the first time ever. He breathes in, out, and tries to not let the nervous, eager energy thrumming in his veins bleed out into his voice. “Are you serious?”
Jimmy’s gaze slip-slides away again, to the smattering of wrapped presents under the plastic Christmas tree Curly set up on the first of the month. “I didn’t get you a present, so.” There’s that shrug again, the mirrored attempt at indifference.
“But you wrapped one,” Curly can’t help but say, tongue dry and clumsy in his mouth.
“It’s just a pack of smokes from the corner store.”
Curly smiles, shakily, unsure. “I told you I was quitting.” Every word feels like a farce, straining under the pressure of normalcy with Jimmy’s offer looming overhead.
“Exactly.” Jimmy’s jaw tenses. “If you don’t want to…”
“No!” Curly practically shouts the word right into Jimmy’s face. He immediately regrets it; he dials his volume back. “No, no, I want to.”
The walk to the bedroom to grab lube feels like a fever dream. He takes a moment to stare at his own reflection in the wall mirror. He looks a little crazed--a flush high on his face, eyes a little wild--which tracks, because he feels a little crazed.
He didn’t think Jimmy was ever going to let him do this. It was always Jimmy giving it to him, and it wasn’t that he necessarily wanted to be the perpetual bottom, but somehow it was just. Easier. Because Jimmy couldn’t even look at his cock sometimes, every once in a while Curly’d be on his back and he’d catch the look of sheer panic that’d erupt out of nowhere on Jimmy’s expression, and then he’d be pulling out, maneuvering Curly over and up onto his knees, holding his waist with his palms like he’s trying to imagine it smaller, the swell of his hips larger by contrast. He’s not blind, he knows Jimmy has issues with their whole arrangement--and they’re always there, whether they’re obvious in the moment or not.
He feels a little like how he did the first time he had slept with a virgin. There was a surprising sense of responsibility with the task, as if her perception of sex would rest entirely on his shoulders. This was different, of course, because Jimmy wasn’t a virgin--
He clasps his hand over his mouth, a cold sweat breaking out under his arms and at the back of his neck because for all intents and purposes, Jimmy is a fucking virgin when it comes to this. He feels lightheaded at the revelation, and he’s never been the guy who’s had any sort of obsession with virginity, but jesus, he thinks he gets it now, he really does. Thinking about being the first person Jimmy’s ever let in him has him suddenly so hard it’s almost physically overwhelming. He exhales noisily through his nose, grips himself through the fabric of his pants for a fleeting second, and gets the lube before Jimmy can change his mind.
When Jimmy’s still sitting on the couch, throwing back the last of his drink, Curly lets a breath out he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Jimmy bends forward to abandon the now-empty glass on the coffee table, and when he catches Curly’s gaze as he straightens, he looks pensive. Curly recognizes when Jimmy’s starting to get lost in his head, and opens his mouth to cut him off at the pass, “sorry, it took me a second to find it.” He pads over to him, his bare feet silent against the well-worn carpet. Jimmy’s staring up at him like he wants to say something, and Curly forces himself to go first, “you look like you’re having second thoughts.” Curly knows that Jimmy doesn’t like to back down once he’s committed himself to a challenge, but that’s not why he says it.
Jimmy murmurs something lowly, barely more than an exhale that sounds vaguely like a ‘fuck it’ as Curly strains to listen. He tucks his socked ankle behind Curly’s own. “No. C’mere.”
Curly gets Jimmy’s pants--plaid and green, pilfered from Curly’s wardrobe--off and his ass to the edge of the couch. He feels a little, well--he feels a little like he’d like this to be on the bed, just to make it seem a little less rushed, a little less clandestine--but he understands that this is a narrow tightrope they’re walking, and introducing too many variables might tip the scales.
He licks up the length of Jimmy’s cock, mouth open and tongue flat in a show that he knows the other likes if the answering twitch he gives is any indication, before wrapping his lips around him and sucking him down. The heels of Jimmy’s feet press into his back, urging him on.
Curly would never say it, but Jimmy looks cute when he’s blowing him like this--color high on his cheeks, eyes half-lidded and brow pinched in deep concentration, mouth just barely-agape like he’s too into it to remember to close it. He thinks Jimmy would become too conscious of his own expression, if he were to tell him how good he looks, and then he might not see it again. Curly watches him and palms at himself roughly as he pulls off with a wet, yearning noise. “I’m,” he feels slow-witted, mouth full of spit he swallows down, “I’m gonna start with one finger, now.”
“You don’t have to give me a play by play,” Jimmy says, sharp and embarrassed. Curly distracts him with his mouth again, pulling just his head past the give of his lips to swirl his tongue under his foreskin and slicking up a finger. Jimmy jumps at the ensuing slimy touch between his legs. The lube is cold--Curly knows this. He gives a muffled sound meant to be a ‘sorry’ against the dick in his mouth, cheeks hollowing against him in an apology Jimmy would appreciate more than the word.
He rubs at him. He can feel how tensed up he is. “Jimmy,” he frees his mouth again, resting his free hand on Jimmy’s abdomen just above the hard length of his cock and kneads his fingers against the muscle there in an attempt to soothe him. “Relax.”
For a single breath, Jimmy’s expression splits--teeth bared to the world like a wild animal in a cage, Christmas lights glinting off the spit on his canines and the moisture in his eyes--and Curly thinks Jimmy might actually strike him right here and now. He abruptly presses his finger forward harshly, uncompromisingly, and when the stretch of him yields, so does the fight in Jimmy. That gaze turns upwards towards the ceiling, almost imploringly, and then it shutters in a fluttering of brown lashes, a gasping “fuck”, and Curly’s in to his second knuckle.
Fuck is right. Curly forces down the low, keening note he feels building in his own chest because he’s just put his finger in for pete’s sake .
But.
He’s so fucking hot and soft and sweet inside, and his entrance is clenching around his knuckle so tightly he has to stare down in wonder at the hungry pull of him as he works his finger in him--not daring to pull it out all the way because it doesn’t feel like he’d ever be able to get it back in.
He thinks about the fact that his cock is supposed to fit in here and that does it --he can’t bite back the soft groan this time.
Curly pushes in with a second finger, and normally he would say something first, but Jimmy had told him to skip the narration, so he doesn’t. There’s something from Jimmy, strangled, a sequence of syllables that breaks apart as he pushes past the ring of muscle. Jimmy’s breathing’s gone labored, and Curly knows his own doesn’t sound any better, not when he realizes Jimmy’s heels are still pressed to the muscles of his back, pulsing in time with the deliberately gentle glide of his fingers like he’s urging him on.
He tilts his palm until it’s facing up, and strokes at the smooth heat of his insides until--
“Curly--” Jimmy grits out through the clench of his jaw, stomach going taut under the splay of his hand. His expression looks a little wild, a little rattled, and Curly knows he’s found it. He pets at that spot, chasing the reaction of the other practically relentlessly as Jimmy’s body works almost like a beast of its own accord, hips flexing upwards, cock bobbing with the movement as precum wells at the tip.
Curly engulfs him again, chasing the thick, heady taste of him, and the desperate, crazed noise Jimmy gives at that has his eyes slipping shut, moaning around his shaft hungrily. He drives home a third finger and marvels at the stretch of him, at how good Jimmy’s taking it. He would tell him as much if he wasn’t so greedy for the weight of Jimmy on his tongue.
Jimmy’s hands must’ve loosened from the death grip they had at the edge of the couch cushions, because one of them finds Curly’s hair, pushing his bangs up and back from his sweat-dotted forehead. Curly glances upwards with the motion, almost choking at how perfect Jimmy looks being worked open by his fingers--the rich blush from his face spread south along his chest, gaze bleary, trembling as he yanks a little harder at his bangs. “--op,” he must’ve been talking, he looks a little irritated even if it’s mostly drowned out by the ache in his expression, “Curly, stop.”
Curly swears he’s going to stop. He’s going to slip his fingers out and let Jimmy do whatever he wants to do to finish--or even not finish, if that’s what he wants, it’s his fucking rodeo--it’s just that, he doesn’t have enough time to do it before Jimmy’s speaking again, voice rough and ragged like it’s been dragged over glass, “you’re gonna make me cum before you can fuck me.”
The pitched gasp that Jimmy gives as he pulls his fingers free goes straight to Curly’s dick, just like every fucking thing Jimmy’s done this whole evening has gone straight to his dick. The front of his boxers is practically ruined: a wet, slick mess from where he’s been leaking into it. He doesn’t give them much regard as he pulls them down alongside his sweats, abandoning them to the floor to crawl on top of Jimmy on the couch. He tries--he really does--to remember what was easiest for him when Jimmy had first started fucking him, but the only thought he can dredge up is that he wants to see Jimmy’s face, so he’s going to have him on his back.
He stares down at the offering that is Jimmy, naked, wanting, thighs pulled up and apart for him, and he--
He fucking balks. His cock in his hand, two inches away from that warm and welcoming hole, and he can’t help but hesitate. He feels the panic, pounding incessantly against the inner recesses of his heart like a hummingbird’s wings, and tries to tie down the minute weight of them with the only thing he can think to say: “Jimmy.” He’s not supposed to do these things. He’s not supposed to take something that’s good and right and cast it before himself--until it unfolds into oblivion, until all that’s left is to stand at the edge of it filled with fear at the scale of the enormity of it all. Feet in cement, staring over the precipice.
Jimmy’s foot tucks just under the curve of his ass and urges him forward.
“Relax,” Curly parrots himself, from earlier, like a lifeline--he can read the lines from the script but can’t write anything new. “Just, please, relax,” he closes the distance between them, fist holding the base of his cock, and guides himself to fruition.
Jimmy makes a noise like he’s being gutted and Curly’s holding the knife, slotted between his ribs. It should be enough to make Curly stop. He doesn’t. He’s making--shushing noises, he thinks--trying to be comforting as he strains against the impossibility of it all, because it’s not going to fit, all that and it’s not going to fit--but then Jimmy exhales, a wanton groan dogging his breaths and--he breaches him, sinks right into the velvet heat of him, tight around him like a vice.
It’s too much, and it’s absolutely perfect, the type of ruin that comes with knowing that no one will ever feel the way Jimmy feels. He gazes down at the other, but Jimmy’s face is tilted away from him, shaking knuckles clamped across his mouth. It’s not enough to stifle him fully, Curly can hear the stuttered gasps keening at the back of his throat as he pushes in deeper, the ring of his entrance stretched around him.
“Christ--” Jimmy bites out, and it almost sounds wet, somehow, “Curly, you’re fucking huge--!”
Really? You think so? He wants to ask, and the immature urge takes him a little by surprise.
It must be too much for Jimmy, too fast. He has to slow down. He knows he has to slow down. It’s never been this hard to do that. He forces his hips to still. Carefully, he rubs his hands against the hair dusting Jimmy’s thighs; reaches between them to smooth his palm over his half-hard dick, which has predictably flagged.
He breathes and Jimmy breathes and when the other turns his head towards him, Curly desperately wants to tell him he’s beautiful instead of just thinking it. He’s been struck with the urge before, but never this strongly--the sentiment is almost like a breathing, living thing, the bird in the cavity of his chest again, fighting to force its way up through his mouth and out into the world.
Curly opens his mouth.
The wings take flight.
“I’m good,” Jimmy grunts out, half breath.
Curly blinks, and smothers the thought under a pillow of self-preservation. “You’re good?”
“Yeah, I,” Jimmy readjusts himself, getting his forearms underneath him to prop himself up and stare down at where their bodies are joined. He looks surprised at what he sees, somehow frustrated. “How far are you in?”
“Uh,” it’s an easy question, but Curly trips over it anyways. “About halfway?”
Jimmy’s head falls back, a defeated groan clawing up his esophagus. “Okay,” he squeezes his eyes shut, jaw ticking, “okay, just--I’m good. Keep going.”
Curly doesn’t need to be told twice. He works himself deeper bit-by-bit, in careful, shallow rolls of his hips that still somehow punch anguished little sounds out of the other. Curly’s thighs are strained with the effort it takes to not just chase the feeling of Jimmy clenched around him, knees shaking against the cushions of the couch until he finally slides home, seated fully into him.
Jimmy twitches--he must feel the full press of Curly’s pelvis against his ass. He must know the extent to which they’re joined. Being inside him feels like home. A drop of sweat slides down the side of Curly’s face and collects on his jaw.
Curly rears back--and the way Jimmy’s hole pulls greedily at him as he does makes him feel insane--then thrusts back in. There’s a garbled, sweet note to the whine Jimmy gives at that, and he repeats the motion until it’s built into a steady rhythm. He leans forward, and the drop of sweat falls, splashing onto Jimmy’s chest. He stares at its journey along the other’s skin for a moment, then lifts his gaze up to Jimmy’s face. It’s not a gaze that’s returned, because Jimmy’s eyes are screwed shut, and Curly can recognize the wall that’s being built there, brick by brick. “Tell me you like this,” Curly suddenly finds himself pleading, driving up into him without reprieve, “Jim, please, tell me you like this.”
Curly catches a glimpse of those brown eyes--usually so cool, but now full of heat, hazy with it like the air above a blacktop on a summer day--before Jimmy’s mouth parts, open and silent for a breath before finally speaking, quietly, “yeah.” He licks along his lips, but they stay dry, like there’s no moisture to give. “Yeah, Curly, it’s good.”
The praise sets his something in his chest alight. He hooks his hand underneath Jimmy’s knee and forces it higher towards his center, moaning at the stretch of the other around him. “Y-you’re,” he has to collect himself, but can’t quite grasp all the pieces, “you feel so good, Jimmy.” He plants his foot on the ground, and the leverage allows his pace to match the frenzy building in his veins. “You’re so fucking tight.” He finds the other’s cock with his free hand, and Jimmy’s hard again against his stomach. “Christ,” it feels the same as speaking Jimmy’s name, “like a, a furnace.” He knows he’s hurtling towards the finish line; it’s impossible not to with Jimmy underneath him, with the drag of his insides along Curly’s length, with his debauched moans permeating the air around them. There’s no drawing this out any longer, no slowing himself down, as he fucks into him with full force, lifting his grip to seize the back of the couch frantically. There’s sweat spilling from under his bangs--he thinks that accounts for the moisture in his eyes. “I love you,” it slips out, and once spoken into the world, the abiding truth of it can’t be retracted. “I love you, I, fuck--I love you ,” he repeats it like a prayer. “Jimmy,” the word is more breath than voice, and then he’s spilling into him, a soft groan cresting in his lungs at each final thrust he gives, until he’s spent and shaking.
When he pulls himself from the welcoming ring of Jimmy’s ass, they both give a harsh exhale in tandem. The memory of how impossibly unyielding at the start it had been leaves him a little light-headed.
The world feels different, tilted on its axis, and it takes him a second to right himself. His cum dribbles out of Jimmy’s ass, where his own softening dick is still settled, and he can’t explain why he gathers it up with his fingers to shove it back inside.
“Curly--” It’s impatient and pleading at the same time, familiarity warring with an emotion that’s foreign in his tones. He’s still hard, still folded half in on himself from Curly’s grip on his thigh.
“Sorry,” Curly offers, voice wrecked, and wraps his fingers around him. He’s so wet it has Curly a bit in awe, precum spilling over his fingers as he works him in tight, sure strokes.
“Ah, fuck,” Jimmy mumbles, fingertips pressing in tight to Curly’s bicep and shoulder where he grasps at him. “Y-- like that, fuck,” Curly gets one more drawn-out grunt from him, and then he’s shaking apart at the seams, shooting hot ropes of cum all over himself. Curly watches him through it, gaze dancing over his heaving chest, the blush blooming across his entire upper body, the way his brow pinches and relaxes as he sighs, eyes shut.
Curly’s still askew, like his feet are only now touching ground--waking up after a long night of drinking.
He told him he loved him. Not in the way that maybe he threw back a couple of beers and now he’s giddy and drunk and telling him he loves him with an arm slung around his shoulders, but in the way that meant something more, meant I’m making love to you and I want to spend the rest of my life making love to you .
He thinks he accidentally pushed himself right off that bridge, and now that cement might drown him.
He crowds into Jimmy’s space, kissing him before he loses the chance to do so ever again. Jimmy’s receptive to it, still dazed, angling his head into it and letting the press of their tongues go slack and filthy. There’s a hum, somewhere between them, that soothes at the panic threatening to overtake Curly. Dried cum coats the fingers that cup Jimmy’s jaw as he deepens the kiss, imploringly. Jimmy lets him lick at the inside of his mouth for a moment longer, before he’s squirming an arm between them, pushing Curly away.
“You’re,” fear seizes Curly’s heart, eyes wide as Jimmy speaks, “going to dislocate my fucking leg, get off me.” Curly bolts upright, letting the thigh crushed between their bodies down to settle Jimmy’s foot against the couch. He watches, warily, as Jimmy slowly gets himself up into a seated position, discomfort flickering across his expression as he shifts. Guilt tugs at Curly’s heartstrings. Jimmy runs his hand through the now-sweaty locks of his hair, combing it back from his forehead with his fingers. His gaze cants towards the entertainment center, and something resembling a chuckle leaves his mouth in a rush of air. “It’s past midnight.”
Curly looks. The digital clock reads 12:47.
“Merry Christmas, Curly.” Jimmy says, plainly, and leans in to close the distance between their lips in a kiss.
Curly’s heart soars.