[ It doesn't even occur to Irving to worry about the marks Jack is no doubt leaving harshly behind on his pale skin like an obscene treasure map, leaving the flesh red and ravaged in places not even Irving's scarf may be able to hide entirely, too focused on how the pain of Jack's teeth digging into him makes it better, makes it easier for Irving to find some definition to latch onto-- something apart from the insistent, unruly pleasure that's got him overwhelmed nearly to the point of it being punishing, apart from the turmoil of emotion boiling within his head and heart, because pain, at least is clarifying.

Pain is cleansing, purifying, repentant. Redemptive.

Irving's nails, rough and dulled from having been broken and bitten down, scrape Jack's skin in turn as Irving's grip travels from his shoulder to his back, adjusting himself slightly in accordance to where Jack wants to mark him next, as well as plain need, urgent, desperate, and undignified. By now he's acceded almost fully to Jack's more assertive, experienced pace, rocking his hips down impatiently whenever Jack thrusts upward with his own so as to take him in as deeply as possible each time. ]

No-- [ The word is almost lost in the next hard thrust of cock that turns it into more gasp than speech. ] No, Jack, you know I... I can't. You know why I can't.

[ Despite the punctuation of sharp breaths, moans, whimpers, his voice is soft and agonized, lacking in confidence almost like a plea; like he's begging. Anticipating, perhaps, that Jack will make him say it anyway to prove how much Irving needs him not to stop, which is true, but--

If he admits it out loud like that so plainly (well, not as plainly, he obviously can't bring himself to curse or use words like "cock"), then what?

He covers his mouth briefly, eyes shining, caught squarely in the paradox of (mostly) his own making. ]

Say what you will about me-- call me whatever you'd like, but I am still bound by-- b-by a modicum of... decency.