Chase makes a choked out sound against the sheets, arching his back first and then forcing himself to relax back onto the mattress. God, but it's different than when he's made it work with spit and a prayer before. There's no drag and burn, just a sudden, pushing fullness, slick and easy and it still hurts. In a different way, though: a better way, more... solid, almost, with the added bonus of less waiting and adjusting. The stinging pain shooting up his arm from his trapped wrist, pinned under Jack's weight, make him dizzy with want - need - and before he knows it he's making a whole litany of noises. Wet gasps and shaky grunts and low, ground out curses every time Jack slides back in as far as he can go. He's never been a particularly quiet person, after all, and he's never had a whole lot of self-control.

Jack really knows how to push his buttons, though.

His free hand flops back up to grip Jack's bicep for purchase, blunt nails digging crescent moons into the skin, a small and petty revenge for the hair-mussing and condescension earlier. It's difficult to rustle up too much anger over that, though, with the heat of Jack's breath against his back and inside him so far that he almost can't tell where Jack ends and he begins.

But it's slow for a few strokes too many and Chase starts to get his breath back, enough to turn his head to the side again with a sharp, unsteady laugh. He's going to have to reach down and grab himself soon, jerk himself off, even though they just started: it's so much, the magic under his skin and the heat pressing down into it. His brain is short-circuiting, just like he likes. Thank god for teenage (lack of) refractory periods.

He shoves back with his hips, as well as he can, pinned like he is. Trying to dictate the pace: trying to speed it up. "That-- all you-- got?"