The way traffic drifts off to the side of the road at the sound of a siren. That’s what the fuck he wants. Like dropping oil into water and watching it reject itself.
Because that’s what they’re all looking at. The shit they hate most about themselves. Memories that make them cringe. A boldness they’ve grown out of. Like two negative magnets. The same thing but rejecting its equivalent. They hate him because he’s no more or less than they are, but he still holds more power in one fucking finger than they do in all of their bodies combined. So they break away around their collective match, glare as they make distance and let him walk right through their centre without making contact with a single soul.
“A few women, too.” He says, brows up with a little smile on his lips. He’s seen many a surgeon throughout the series of surgeries and procedures he’s undergone. Tommy watches Jordan’s hands and his eyes, trying to gauge the reaction. It’s not like he was mutilated on the street or in a fight, no, this was deeper, older, and longer lasting.
“I have a congenital heart defect. I wasn’t s’posed to live this long, honestly. Probably should’a croaked a few decades ago, but…“ He shrugs his shoulders, his laugh light. Here he is – year after year, day after day, foiling every attempt he’s made against himself. “Haven’t had a surgery in a hot minute, but…” He scrunches up his face, “I’d say I’ll probably be due for some maintenance soon.” If it worked the way he was thinking it would. He has an appointment soon, but he tries not to think about it until he’s actually in the office. He never likes what he hears.
They’re all amazed he’s still walking, never mind his bad habits.
“I used to. I’m getting them covered up, not because I mind them so much but because I’m tired of being treated delicately because of them. People look at you differently when they know that there is a fragility there – a fragility of mortality more than anything, more than most people. I’m used to them now.” He inhales slowly, thinking Jordan isn’t likely going to look at him like that, not if Tommy’s figured out his character in the way he thinks he has. “Your turn.”
• 𝕁𝕆ℝ𝔻𝔸ℕ • 𝕄𝕆𝕆ℝ𝔼 ✁
“Y’should’ve croaked but... now you won’t?” He asks, squinting as he tries to understand - because dodging death is one thing, but defeating it is another. Far more permanent. J’s seen enough fuckin’ death already. He cracks a smile though, hand leaving Tommy’s chest to catch the side of his neck instead. He ducks, presses his mouth to the man’s briefly. “You’re cool as shit, man.”
He gets it; J never minded the way his scars looked. It was more about having to remember how they got there every time he caught a glance. The tattoos turned stories about scars into stories of redemption.
Jordan decides to match him, pulling his own shirt over his head and leaving it somewhere close to Tommy’s. The scar he wants to share is covered again in ink so he repeats his previous action of taking the man’s hand, pressing it to his side. It’s not just a dent in his skin that’s the most immediately obvious thing this time though, and before he can explain, he takes Tommy’s other hand too, mirroring it on the other side of his body. It’s hard to tell without the comparison, but it’s a notch that’s more prominent this time. The scar is still there, beneath the ink, but the way his rib juts out just slightly distracts from the smooth feel of the scar.
“Marco’s family are pretty fucked,” he explains. “He’s only the way he is ‘cause his old man was worse.” J’s hands drop and he settles back into the couch. “Before I left the city, shit got intense, but I got out and he...” Another shrug. “You get it.”
“Hey!” Amanda called out, running to catch up someone down the sidewalk on the streets. She’d been chasing them through the crowd for nearly a block from when they saw the wallet drop from their pocket (or purse respectively) and was out of breath by the time she finally got their attention.
Smiling, she held out the wallet with one hand as the other rested on the leg warmers she was wearing. “You dropped this back there. I thought I wasn’t going to catch up to you, I’ve been calling out for you for almost a whole block, but I guess you didn’t pay too much attention cause well, I could have been calling for anyone right? Anyway, here ya go.”
• 𝕁𝕆ℝ𝔻𝔸ℕ • 𝕄𝕆𝕆ℝ𝔼 ✁
“After everything I did for you, with the bike and you’re mom--”
“Oh, fuck you,” Jordan hisses into his phone. Marco has a fucking nerve, not only holding the funeral money that J didn’t even fucking ask for over his head but putting it into the same category as a free motorbike gifted to Jordan as an apology for roping him into his usual bullshit. He knew it’d only be a matter of time before Marco would use his favours as ammo. J just didn’t think it’d be so soon, or for such a petty reason. So he’s thinking about moving out, big fuckin’ deal. “You can keep the fuckin bike if it matters that--”
The woman’s call breaks him from his argument, and Jordan must look real fuckin’ stupid, looking so heated with a pink iPhone pressed against his ear, but there’s a handful of more pressing issues that distract him from the fact. Like the asshole still shouting down the phone at him, or the wallet in the woman’s hand. The bills sticking out of it. “Thanks, but--”
“I’m just saying you can’t just bail. You fuckin’ owe me more than that.” He ends the call, eyes flicking from the wallet that ain’t his, to the woman he’s never seen before, smiling warmly like it’s her fuckin’ pleasure to help. “Sorry,” he mutters, waving the phone as his vague explanation before dropping it into his pocket.
He shouldn’t. It’d be nice to shut Marco up, cut all their ties, pay all his debts, move out... But he doesn’t have to give him the money to do that. The man’s silence would only be a bonus... It’d just mean no more Marco insisting J owes him not money but favours, nothing material but another six months of his life... He can take the wallet for now, though. Even if he changes his mind later. He can check the ID, look up the owner, see if they deserve to keep the cash, go from there...
Jordan reaches for the wallet. “I mean-- I. What I meant to say was thank you, but... what’s in it for you?” He huffs a laugh as he slips it into the same pocket as his phone. “Not often you see acts of kindness around here.”
Esmeray couldn’t deny it Spencer was a very handsome man and the fact that she had run into him at such a vital moment had her wondering for a split second if it really had been fate that she locked her keys inside of her car. However than she quickly remembered that fact was a load of crap and she was just as likely to have ran into a carjacker who would help her break into her car and than her luck drive away with it.
She nodded when he informed her that bowling wasn’t his thing but he had heard of her place of buisness and that was all that she could hope for. Even if he didn’t bowl he knew of the place which meant people who did like to bowl were sure to know about right? She really had to get some more advertisement out there in the city to keep bringing in new clients. Damn she really shouldn’t be thinking so hard about work when this beautiful stranger was attempting so hard to keep her attention.
She was about so say something else to the man when the bell above the door chimed and a man with disheveled blonde locks made their way over to their table with a beat up coat hanger in his hands. She might have been taken back if not for the way he greeted Spencer and than turned to her.
She glanced out the window at her car, had she been so entranced with their conversation and work that she hadn’t noticed the man breaking, was it really if she had asked him to do it, into her car? “They were right on the seat” She tells him “Maybe they fell onto the floor? They’re huge kind of hard to miss with the amount of keys dangling from them.”
✑ 𝐒𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 𝐐𝐮𝐢𝐧𝐧;
Despite the whole purpose for their exchange being to get into the woman’s car, Spencer’s beyond disappointed when Jordan arrives, which isn’t something he can often say about the man. Their relationship has been one-sided to Jordan’s favour in a patchy, inconsistent, unpredictable sort of way throughout the time they’ve known each other and it’s about time Spencer got a chance to shoot the man his best it’s a bad time eyes. But then he realises just what’s been said, and takes a look again at the car outside, in his line of sight, untouched and very much still locked, then towards the woman to see if she’s had the same realisation as himself yet.
Spencer takes a long, composing breath. “Jordan,” he begins, looking from Esmeray, slowly back towards the man standing over them with the wire in hand, looking a whole lot like a criminal car thief right about now. “The car outside is the one were’s trying to get into,” he tells him, pacing his words like he’s talking to a child. He already knows the answer, but still, he asks, “Is that the car you unlocked?” Before Jordan really gets to reply (and really, there’s no need, because the look on his face says it all) Spencer takes another breath and leans back in his seat to get a better look at the man. “Or did you just break into the first Impreza you saw on the block?”
• 𝕁𝕆ℝ𝔻𝔸ℕ • 𝕄𝕆𝕆ℝ𝔼 ✁
He doesn’t get the full effect of Spencer’s stern gaze, because when the younger man’s eyes fall on the car outside, Jordan’s follow and stay there, realising the problem before Spencer spells it out from him. “Huh.” Well, would you look at that... Jordan figures it’s a bad time to mention the car alarm going off up the street having a lot to do with the mix-up, but he does pull the purse out of his back pocket and place it on the table Spencer and the woman are sitting at.
“So I guess I should put this back then, huh?” Jordan says, trying hard not to laugh at the mistake as he gives the woman a shrug. “Thought maybe y’left it on the front seat by mistake. Figured I was doin’ you a favour...” He just hopes there were no cameras around when he popped the door open, or that he was convincing enough when he tried to explain the situation to those guys working at the tech store the car was parked outside of, who came running out when he started jimmying the wide under the window. Suddenly it ain’t so funny. “God fuckin’ damn it.”
Jordan’s first reaction to his choice of show makes Peter cringe, but just until he realizes he’s screwing with him right now. A grin, “Okay, good then. It’s a good show, even so.” Wondering how long Jordan would be looking after his buddy’s place, Peter takes another drink as the answer comes. “Well hey, you should take advantage of it for as long as you’ve got it then. Do you live somewhere else nearby?” Peter didn’t presume to know what sort of living situation he had, but from what he could tell so far Jordan didn’t seem like the type that would trash the apartment on his way out. And really, if he did… well it’s not like Peter didn’t know who’d be responsible.
Laughing a bit, he shook his head at the guess. “I must just have stuffy lawyer tattooed on my forehead or something, don’t I? I do golf a little, although it’s more just something you have to do for clients than any real interest in. If I had to choose a sport it’d be basketball, actually.” Peter doesn’t have a ton of time for it, but does play a few times a month with some of the other guys at the law firm. “To really be honest, all pretty boring answers. I read, I work out. Once in a while I’ll go to a museum or a movie or something.” Hearing it all come out in person, Peter wonders just why it’s never dawned on him just how boring he can be.
• 𝕁𝕆ℝ𝔻𝔸ℕ • 𝕄𝕆𝕆ℝ𝔼 ✁
He gives a confirming hum as he continues his search for the lighter, eventually finding it in its usual place despite having checked there first. Plucking the joint from his lips to burn the end, he says, “Midtown. Rent’s a fuckin’ joke.” He wonders what it costs to live in a place like this. Wonders how much of the cash his buddy pays is drug money. “So where’d you live?”
Jordan guesses it makes sense for a guy in Peter’s line of work to have to tolerate golf for the sake of his career. He never really thought about why that was but figures it has something to do with connections. “Basketball, huh? There’s some common ground. S’been a while but I used to kill at basketball.” Sort of had to since, every time he missed the hoop it’d fly off the roof of their apartment complex and he’d have to climb all the way down to get it. “Museums are cool too. Ain’t been to one o’those in a while either, though. What d’you like? Art or history? Or... I guess art history?”
He wonders what kinds of looks Archie would get, walking into the office in one of those pristine suits J catches sleepy glances of some mornings, and meticulously styled hair -- along with a budding bruise on the side of his neck. He’s seen enough scars on the man to want to cover them with marks of his own. Would sink his teeth into him every day if it meant neither of them having to see the reminders of his past again.
By the time he processes the man’s permission, Jordan’s too distracted with backs against walls, heads underwater, hands on skin and in hair. I want you to mark me. It crosses his mind again by the time he’s on his knees, by which point there are a million other things he wants to do with his mouth. He’s good at it though, leaving marks, and J already knows that later, when Archie’s neck (or chest or stomach or ass or thighs...) is in reach, he’ll remember.
As Archie guides him off his cock, he swallows around a breath - this choked sound. Jordan sucks on his own tongue, tasting him in his mouth until he’s looking up at the man again, lips parted as he pants already. Then Archie gives his demand, a hand on his cock and J is complying like it’s the only logical response, head still tilted back as he opens his mouth wider, tongue pressed flat past his lower lip as he waits.
What he was tempted to say before was that he doesn’t want Archie going easy on him either. He has a feeling he didn’t need to.
The urge to close his mouth around the head of Archie’s dick as it lands on his tongue is suppressed only by the man’s words. He’s never cared much about getting praised, but his eyes slip shut now, the hands holding the man tightening as the length of his cock pushes back over his tongue and his throat where Jordan swallows at first, out of reflex, before he relaxes again.
What’s funny is he does feel like he’s being good. Likes the way Archie groans his praise, peppering moans and sighs with pet names and praise. For the first time, Jordan finds himself wanting to be good.
His own dick’s throbbing, curved between his legs and Jordan does nothing to help himself, his hand moving to press flat against Archie’s toned stomach to feel the ripple of abs as if this weren’t torture enough. He must be a fucking glutton for punishment though because even as Archie calls it a reward (and fuck, alright, it is. J will think of this for fucking nights on end) he only tortures himself further when he’s adjusted enough to the head of Archie’s cock at throat to open his eyes again, watching his hand press against taught muscles as the man’s body moves fluidly to push and drag his cock over Jordan’s tongue.
Back in the front seat of Archie’s car, J had run his mouth, moans and pleas shameless until suddenly they weren’t and he was taking the man’s hand, pressing it to his throat, shutting himself up. Dirty talk, he can do, but not this. Not this urge to beg that he’s never felt before. It’s just as well that Archie’s cock is gagging him, stretching his mouth open wide, Jordan thinks as he drops his arms then, catches his wrist behind his back with the other hand if only to see if it’ll please him. Even then though, his eyes slip shut again, half-embarrassed to find out.
The level they were starting was just as fun as she remembers. It’s got her focus for sure, hands on the controller, eyes on the screen. Her character does a couple punches as she tests out the buttons, just making sure she remembers what combos match with which moves. “The movie was good.” She’d read the first couple volumes of the comics, but finishing the series had fallen down on her list of priorities.
“X-men stuff for sure.” She has mostly been reading them online, figuring her home didn’t need another pile of collectible items somewhere. Only when she really liked a volume would she go out of her way to get a physical copy. “What’s yours?”
• 𝕁𝕆ℝ𝔻𝔸ℕ • 𝕄𝕆𝕆ℝ𝔼 ✁
“X-men,” he repeats with a nod. “Good answer. Uh...” It takes him a while to answer, his attention mostly on the screen. Eventually, he replies, “Doom Patrol. The Walking Dead too, when I could get hold of it.” Most of the comics he liked were old as shit though, and too shitty to bother remembering the names of, even when he spent hours drawing panels of his own to make up fragments of stories he couldn’t afford to see the end of.
“You ever play Star Fox?” Jordan asks just as a conflict in the game has him squirming in his seat as he hits the right buttons. "It’s--” He begins, but gets distracted again, until they’re in the clear. “No, better question: who’s your video game crush? I know y’got one.”
Jeremiah makes himself comfortable in the seat, clipping his seatbelt on as he looks over at Jordan with the sunniest smile. He’s happy to be spending any amount of time with Jordan, especially since he thinks it’s going to be the most fun he’s had in a while. He’s easy to please. And it warms him more than a little to see J bobbing along to the music as he drives. He seems… at ease, which is pleasing to Jer because he tends to pick up on the emotions of others, soaking them up like a sponge.
“The Bronx?” Jer repeats, no lack of enthusiasm in his tone. He’s been to the Bronx a few times, for deliveries. No, it’s not the best neighborhood, but Jeremiah isn’t afraid with Jordan by his side. “I’m excited!” He continues honestly, bouncing just a tiny bit in his seat. He’s always found it very difficult to remain still. He pulls his keychain out of his pocket and starts playing with the fidget cube he has attached.
J says he’s going to show Jer his old place, and a swell of something rises in his chest that’s wholly pleasant and warming. “Oh, yeah?” He says, trying to mask that excitement just a little because he knows he can come off too strong and can be too much for so many people. “Dope.” He keeps shifting his gaze – out the window, out the windshield, over to J. “Lucky for you, I’m a very nimble young man. Did I ever tell you I used to do gymnastics and ballet? I have like… a billion scars because I can be a klutz, but I always catch myself. And, most importantly, I always get back up.”
• 𝕁𝕆ℝ𝔻𝔸ℕ • 𝕄𝕆𝕆ℝ𝔼 ✁
They share a smile that’s cut short as he redirects his attention to the Toyota he eases up behind, the traffic light glowing red a few cars ahead. He takes the opportunity to fish his tobacco out of his pocket, tossing it into Jer’s lap before going back for rolling paper and filters. “Can you--” he mutters, half distracted as the cars begin to move already. He doesn’t need to wonder if Jer’s any good at rolling cigarettes - it’s not a far cry from blunts.
The traffic isn’t bad once they pass the lights, heading up towards Harlem, along the side of Central Park where the traffic’s usually the hardest to predict. “Ballet? Fuck off,” he scoffs, shooting him a glance to look for a trace of a joke. Funny thing is he believes the kid, but he still doesn’t trust his physical competence more than he did before he learned about his past in gymnastics and dance. Although Jordan hadn’t considered the guy’s clumsiness when he planned to take Jer up onto the roof, he’s not about to switch up his plans now.
A thoughtful hum later and Jordan’s deciding, “I’ll follow behind you,” although Jeremiah doesn’t even know the plan yet. “And hey, if I’m showin’ you my past, I guess you ought to show me a couple moves when we get there.”
Tommy thinks he likes Jordan so much because the man reminds him of a kindred spirit – like they can see themselves in each other. It’ll make for an interesting friendship, he thinks, if he can manage it with the other man. Tommy doesn’t have many friends these days. He fills the void of loneliness in other ways.
He laughs when J asserts that Tommy is better than Marco, shaking his head and scrubbing his hands over his face, “Maybe I’ll show you my demons someday, and you can decide then if that’s true or not. But, for tonight, I’ll take it.” He’s already saying more than he normally would – he never likes to sully his own reputation, especially with someone he potentially wants to see more than once. However, its that likeness, that feeling that maybe some of J’s demons reflect his own, that has him talking.
He grins, eyes drifting to the tattoo that masks J’s self-reported favorite scar. “Yeah, but I’m sure you got dozens more.” He says, gaze now flitting over Jordan’s frame as the other man sits beside him. He allows his hand to be moved over the little dent in the skin, touching it delicately. He offers Jordan a little smile before leaning in to press his plush lips against the remnants of a wound long healed. Tommy lets his lips linger there for a moment before pulling back.
“I got lots of scars, but let me show you my messiest.” He’s got an appointment to get the worst of them covered, but that’s a few days out. Jordan’ll get to see the patchwork of scars on his chest and feel the ones he’s already got covered. He leans back, tugging his shirt over his head, tossing it to the side. It’s very dimly lit, but the shadows are still obvious. Tommy grabs Jordan’s hand and brings it to his chest. “I’ve been ripped open a few times.” He offers with a little smile.
• 𝕁𝕆ℝ𝔻𝔸ℕ • 𝕄𝕆𝕆ℝ𝔼 ✁
Tommy’s approach of showing his grizzliest wounds first is the opposite of Jordan’s but he doesn’t take issue with it. He allows his hand to be lead, pressing his palm to Tommy’s chest as he speaks, before moving his fingers over the skin, feeling that familiar silk-like texture. I’ve been ripped open a few times. “Men. It’s what they’ll do to ya,” he jokes, although the one time he’s ever let a man tear his heart out, any visible scars were left only by his own fault.
There’s a light smile on his face following his lousy joke, and his eyes flicker to Tommy’s then back to his hand again before he ducks, hand falling away and resting against Tommy’s side instead as he trails his lips over one of the more visible lines. He’s not smiling when he straightens back up again, curiosity on his face as he asks “you sick or somethin’?”
His scars look pretty clean. Professional even. J and his mom (and later, Curly) were lucky enough to have Simon to fix the worst of their damage back in the day but. even with his experience, there’s only so much you can do on short notice in a grimy living room in the projects. He can tell just from looking that these cuts weren’t made on a whim.
The pads of his fingers are still trailing over the different veins of satin skin. “D’you mind ‘em?”
Tommy had known, somehow, that Jordan would accept the offer of smoking. He reaches out for the tray under his coffee table which has a bong – nice and clean – nestled on it along with a grinder filled with weed. He gets to work packing the bong, passing it off to J for the first hit. “Well, I’ve never fucked anyone on the toilet, and the sink would break, so, yeah, there’s a couple’a spots I haven’t gotten nasty in.” He laughs, eyes alight as he watches Jordan. He wonders if they’ll find some interesting spot to christen.
Jordan has this unique look about him, one that is undeniably attractive to Tommy, and that attraction has only grown as the night has spanned out before them. He likes J’s wit, his attitude, and his killer smile. “I used to. I used to get into a fuck load of fights, fighting just for the hell of it.” He replies honestly. “I grew out of it, I guess. Started to think it didn’t really fuckin’ matter if I won a fight or lost it, if someone had something snide to say to me or not. Violence isn’t always the answer.” He says, “Sometimes, but not always.” These days, the only fights Tommy gets into are the ones other people start or in someone’s defense. “Steroids?” He snorts. “That kid’s a fuckin’ maniac. I’d tell you to ditch him for me but I don’t know that I’m any better.” It’s only half a teas.
“You know.” He says, turning to look at Jordan, reaching for the bong when it’s his turn. “I got a lotta scars from a lotta fights, you wanna get acquainted with them?” He arches his brow, that grin telling before he brings the bong to his lips for a hit. He exhales the smoke, reaches a hand up and tugs at the collar of Jordan’s neck, touching at his collar bone. “You got any you wanna show me?” A little show and tell, he figures, is always fun.
• 𝕁𝕆ℝ𝔻𝔸ℕ • 𝕄𝕆𝕆ℝ𝔼 ✁
“The toilet,” he repeats in amusement. “Yeah, that ain’t a void I wanna fill.”
Tommy’s relationship with violence sounds a lot like his own. High school was a time for bitterness and rage and it followed him right into his early twenties, teeth bared and fists clenched every time a pair of eyes lingered too long or a tone of voice hit just the wrong chord. Over time, he learned that the violence had a lot more to do with punishing himself than other people and, in the end, Jordan decided he was too tired. It still doesn’t take a hell of a lot, but he’ll avoid a fight when he can.
Takin his turn, Jordan takes a hit from the bong, a luxury he doesn’t get often, as he listens to the man speak. He can’t argue with Tommy’s opinion of Marco. Where there’s a lot more to his roommate than what the man has seen, Jordan guesses the fact that it’s all he’s seen says enough. Fact is that anything good about Marco is the shit Jordan clings to from the past. “You’re better,” he decides for him with a chuckle, soon huffing another laugh, at Tommy’s suggestion.
He watches Tommy take another hit between words. Following the tug of his hand, J shifts closer, catching the man’s wrist to guide his hand. “Ah, but you already got to know my favourite one,” J muses. He’s never really considered the scar a favourite of his, but J guesses if he had to choose, it’d be the one on his neck if only for the fact that he got a decent tattoo out of it in the end.
The scar on his cheek is sometimes visible (always visible once you spot it the first time) but Jordan has no way to know right now, so he presses the pad of Tommy’s finger to the skin where it dips. It’s only a small scar, but J figures that if they’re gonna do this, he can start small and in purer places before he starts undressing himself to show the showstoppers. “S’one of the oldest,” he tells him. “You gonna kiss mine better, since I kissed yours?” It’s a joke; J’s not sure there’s much sexy about a kiss on the cheek, as much as he wouldn’t mind it. “You better show me a good one now. You’ve felt two o’mine.”
They continue their journey to the bathroom, Jordan stumbling out of his pants as Archie takes care of the rest. Next is Archie’s clothing though, and he helps him out of it hurriedly as the tie slips from his neck. His own shirt slips away and the last of Archie’s clothing follows soon after, Jordan’s hand returning to his cock without the fabric of his pants between them now. Archie’s words bore into him and Jordan has this ridiculous fucking urge to tell him that he can do whatever the hell he wants to him. He won’t mind, do anything. Please, just--. He doesn’t let himself.
“Y’can tie me up if you think it’ll keep me.” He mutters the challenge instead, teeth bared in a dangerous smile, lips ghosting Archie’s neck, losing focus as his hand slows. “But I won’t make it easy for you.” There’s a primal urge to close his mouth over the skin, mark him up just to raise questions, and he does, only for a moment, before Archie’s telling him show me and Jordan feels the words in every inch of his body. He leads them beneath the spray of the shower but being in there is almost pointless by the time Archie’s back is pressed to the wall, the water just barely hitting Jordan’s back as his eyes begin to adjust to the lack of light, darting over Archie’s face.
Archie’s tone is dark, and it’s relatively new territory, being dominated, but it has his breath catching as he presses his tongue between Archie’s lips, hand picking up again, and he pretends for a second that he’s in control here before he sinks to his knees - can’t fucking wait anymore. He settles on the cool tiles, watched his hand pump over the mans’ cock, thick and heavy in his palm as his other presses between his own legs, just long enough to pull a shiver that follows with his shoulders easing.
This is what he’s been thinking about. The way his mouth had watered in Archie’s car as he watched his own hand on him, the crown wet with pre-come, the length wet with his spit. He’d wanted to drop to his knees then. He’s not sure whether or not to be glad for the steering wheel pressed against his back because, if not for the damn thing, he probably would have. Jordan’s mouth had hung open between kisses as he craved the weight of it, and he tilts his head now, the flat of his tongue lapping at the base, his nose pressed into the hair there, breathing heatedly against him. “Fuck,” he shudders, only now realising that his hand is still stroking over himself. He pulls it away with reluctance, reaches up to cup Archie’s balls instead, ducks his head and closes his mouth over him, the other hand still pumping slowly.
The sound of it fills the room, vulgar but out of his control as he fills his mouth, eyes closed. Jordan’s not sure how he can convince either of them that he’s in control when he can’t even control himself. He stays for a while, lets himself get carried away with it, a hand on Archie’s dick and his mouth on his balls until Jordan’s lips work their way back over him again. Over the base of his cock, slurping along the side of his length as his eyes finally flicker open, needing to see him as his mouth falls open and his tongue runs flat and wet up the length of his dick. He suckles the side of the head and-- fuck, the taste of it. His breath shudders again, eyes threatening to fall shut already but they remain pinned on Archie’s face as his hand falls to the base and his mouth slides over the tip.
The point of the shower had been that he felt dirty and could still taste the alcohol in his mouth. Now that dirty feeling comes from a whole other place and all he can taste is Archie. Soon he’s got one hand placed on Archie’s side, thumb pressed against the taught muscles of his abdomen, and the other in a vice grip on the back of his thigh, just below his ass where his fingers flex as his mouth sinks over him.
@daedeimos
Archie’s place. Before the Halloween Blackout
"We should pre-game," Jordan calls, eyes on the mirror where his reflection fixes his tie - something he's not familiar or entirely skilled at. He's still undecided on how tonight will go. With Spencer at the club (not to mention Sam) he knows drinking would be the unwise decision, but if he's so sure that this is how things are going to be now, Jordan guesses he ought to stick to his guns. "Hey, this tie's fuckin' broken, man."
"Pre-game how exactly?" Coming out, there's a look of amusement. It helps knowing Jordan will be there tonight or else- Well. He's not sure how it'll go either. "Hey hey, stop a sec." Catching Jordan by the tie, he leaves the snarling wolf mask at the foot of the stairs and steps closer. Archie's fingers work the knot loose and after a moment he's got it hanging off Jordan's neck. "Still mad about Marco?" He's careful, winding the tie with practice into a knot that'll lay better.
With a shrug, he drops his hands to let Archie take over (had kind of hoped he would but was too damn proud to ask) and pulls his eyes away from the mirror. "I d'know. What d'you have that we can shot?" Jordan asks, raising his chin to give the man better access. Archie's next question gets a vague grunt at first, until J says, "He always pulls this shit," with a shrug. "Buys me nice shit to make be feel like a dumbass, the he sells 'em to feel like the fuckin' boss. Asshole."
"Bourbon?" A pause and he's got his thumb at Jordan's jaw, a pointed look given. "We can do one." His attention is back on the tie, working the sequinned monstrosity a bit. A soft hum is given and he straightens the tie a moment, finishing it and tucking it into the vest. "So what should we do," he says then, meeting Jordan's gaze with a slow grin. "To get back at him I mean. He pulls this shit all the time but now it's two against one." A small shrug. "Sounds like fun to me."
He pulls a face, but says, "Sure." He doesn't argue with the man, instead flicks his eyes back to the mirror again, half watching Archie's hands work, as if trying to memorise how it's done. "What would you suggest?" Jordan asks, amused by the idea. "We sell all of his shoes?"
"I want to try the drinks there." A tug of his tie to test the knot. "With you." Archie's hands linger, forearms resting on Jordan's shoulders now as he hums thoughtfully. "That's a start." A tilt of his head, leaning in just to murmur at the corner of J's mouth. "Here I thought about sending him a dozen glitter bombs."
He agrees easily, silent as Archie finishes the job. His suggestion has a smile tugging the corners of his mouth. "That ain't a bad idea either," he agrees, his eyes still on the mirror over the man's shoulder. It's weird seeing himself in something so... fitted. "You said you wanted to see me dressed up in a suit," he notes. "This what you pictured?"
"Maybe twenty then? Just to make a point?" Archie side-steps just enough to look over his shoulder and watch J through the mirror. It's different. He can't decide if it's good or bad yet and he has a feeling neither can Jordan. "Something a little less sequin and a little more black. But yeah." Easy then, cupping Jordan's jaw in his hand and coaxing his eyes away from the mirror. I've got you. Leaning in, it's soft the way he kisses him.
"Call it thirty," he decides. Jordan's eyes shift to Archie's now, still through the mirror and with the man's voice beside his ear. He's turning for the kiss before the hand even coaxes him, his own reaching back for Archie's hair as he gives in easily.
For a moment he wants to forgo the party altogether. Hands drop to Jordan's back, smoothing down to rest at his hips as he presses closer. Distantly he's aware of the door under his palm, the way Jordan feels pinned in place with his body. Archie bites his lip and it's tempting to undo the three-piece suit right here.
His mouth parts beneath Archie's - something that's happened sparsely since the day in the man's car. Enough for it to feel too easy, but not enough to make him anything but hyper aware of the hole he's still digging. Teeth catch his lip and he shudders, getting carried away far too fucking easy as he turns against him to get both hands anchored on either side of his neck.
Licking into the heat of his mouth, it's easy too easy to kiss him harder. Reminiscent of the car and the memory of those moans on his mouth. Archie's hands wander then, running up under the sequin vest and along the warmth of J'a spine as if he could pull him closer without undressing him. But it's tempting god it's tempting.
He chases Archie's tongue, kissing him little too wantonly for a guy planning to pull back... Any second now... Jordan's mind strays though, visions of how they'd get around the suit that they'd only just perfected. His tie could stay on - hell, most of it could. Jordan finds himself chuckling -fuckin' weak is what he is- as his hands slip from Archie's neck, over his chest until they push him back lightly. "We gotta go."
"Right." Ah fuck his voice sounds wrecked against Jordan's mouth. Archie breathes a little ragged through his nose and settles forehead to forehead instead. Fingers squeeze gentle through fabric. I'm here, I'm here I got you. "Guess it's a good costume," he teases hoarsely with a breathy laugh. "The big bad wolf eats little red and all."
He scoffs, eyes almost rolling. "And here I was thinkin' you weren't into it."
"It's growing on me." A soft kiss is pressed to Jordan's cheek and it takes effort to straighten up, hands readjusting the suit to fix where he'd messed it up. "Here I was thinking you wouldn't humor me."
He shrugs, looking over Archie's costume now. "I'd only have to dress myself otherwise."
"This is more fun." Archie steps away to grab the wolf mask off the stairs. By comparison he looks the part in ripped jeans and a red flannel torn with fur coming out. Catching Jordan's gaze, there's a small grin and he spreads his arms a bit. "It suit me?"
"Hot," he muses. "The wolf thing ain't for me, but you look pretty fuckin' good from the neck down." Jordan reaches out absently to touch the costume in question, but stops short, hand dropping to his side. "And they always said I was the sheep in wolf’s clothing."
"Just the neck down huh?" Blue eyes follow J's hand a moment and he's sliding on his mask with a playful wolfish rumble. Clawed hands find J's hips and he's tilting his head, voice pitched low. "Then what am I, Lamb?"
"I have a few theories," he says, touching the mask with curious hands. Only moments after it's lowered, Jordan's lifting it again, just enough to see his face. "Maybe you're a wolf in sheep's clothing."
"Just a few?" Archie is quiet though, gaze thoughtful on Jordan's face once he's lifted the mask. Leaning in, it's enough to steal a ghost of a kiss. Any more and he knows that stopping would be impossible. "Maybe," he agrees in a whisper against his mouth. Another kiss and a clawed hand touches Jordan's cheek tender. Reverent. Dangerous, he knows and yet- "Maybe you're the first to see me." Blue eyes meet. "How do I look?"
"A few," he repeats, easily won over again as another kiss lingers. He doesn't let himself get carried away this time though, pulling the mask back over Archie's mouth before he responds. "Good," he says with a ghost of a smile as he adjusts the mask. "Feral."
Ah there’s a rumble of laughter and blue eyes gleam under the mask. “Good.” He’s smiling under the snarling wolf mask and it reaches his eyes then. “Then we match.” A playful nudge of their noses and Archie’s fingers ruffle through blonde hair. “Cmon, Lamb. Time to go play with the sheep.” Palming his keys, he steps back then. “Thirty. I’m still surprised we didn’t settle on sending him a box of shit.” Archie pauses in the door. “Least he deserves.”
Tommy’s apartment isn’t the greatest, he knows that, but living anywhere in New York is expensive, and one has to make do with what one can afford. And this is what Tommy can afford – painted over peephole and fucked up sockets and all. It’s small, but it’s clean, and Tommy takes pride in that. He’s been in a sanitary, sterile environment basically his whole life. At this point, it’s impossible for him to settle for less.
“You sure? I got water and some pops in the fridge?” A rarity, of course, because normally he only has a couple of beers, but that’s because Tommy orders in more often than he should. Most of his disposable income goes to deliveries of some sort. He’s already by the fridge, has it cracked open so the light from inside casts him in a yellowish glow.
“I just think it’s fuckin’ weird to wear shoes in the house? But, yeah, the bottom of your shoes are fuckin’ filthy, so, takin’ ‘em off by the door helps minimize the buildup of debris.” He shrugs his shoulders, comes back around to J with a can of Fanta anyway, figures that J just won’t drink it if he doesn’t want it. “Wanna smoke?” He offers, because he could really use a little something to take the edge off, and he doesn’t feel like doing any of that harder shit while he’s got company. Besides, it’s always nice to smoke with company.
He laughs, plopping down on his sofa, gesturing for J to join him. He’s got a bong under the coffee table as well as other supplies if Jordan decides he does want to smoke again. “Yeah, pretty much every spot you can imagine.” His eyes wander over the built in bookshelf that has just enough lip. “That’s a good spot.” He says, nodding his head toward it before cracking open his own can of Fanta, taking a nice, long slurp before setting it on a coaster. “I’m alright. Been hit a lot harder than that, just stings a little bit. How’s your neck?”
• 𝕁𝕆ℝ𝔻𝔸ℕ • 𝕄𝕆𝕆ℝ𝔼 ✁
“Yessir,” he says with a nod, fighting the urge to give a two-fingered salute. “Shoes at the door. You got it.” J guesses he’s never had a place nice enough to be precious about shit like that. He gets it though - has seen homes nice enough for it to make sense; Spencer’s place (both before and now); Curly’s mom’s place; Dean’s family home. He gets it. They were also the kinda places he’d get his ass kicked for smoking in, though, so he perks up at Tommy’s question: Wanna smoke? "Fuck yeah.”
Reaching for the can, Jordan quickly forgets that he’d declined the drink offer and takes a gulp, eyes trailing over every inch of the apartment that’s insight, landing on the bookshelf, mouth twitching. “Yeah?” He lets himself wonder for a second, exactly what Tommy had done over there - how and when and with who. A dumb thought, but they both know why he’s here, so it doesn’t hurt to let his mind drift. “Pretty much everywhere,” he echoes. “So there’s a couple places left.”
Next, his gaze is on the man’s mouth again. Fuckin’ sue him - two beers and a blunt and he’s horny. Sue him. Jordan’s tongue darts out to wet his own lip, as if it’d somehow clean the blood from Tommy’s, then takes another sip as he hums. “M’fine,” he confirms. What he doesn’t say is that it ain’t the first time he’s left a scene with Marco without a scratch or two - and that ain’t even when fights are concerned. Sure as hell ain’t gonna cry about it. “You get into fights a lot?” Jordan asks because even though, in the past couple hours, Tommy’s been more laid back than he was in those first five minutes (even when Marco was testing them both) he still seems the type.
“Y’got a good head on y’shoulders, I can tell,” he notes, because it was only when Marco pounced that Tommy put hands on him. “Like you know how to pick your battles, but... I d’know. Y’seem like you know how to kick the shit outuva guy.” He likes to think he knows how to pick his battles too, even if it wasn’t always the case. “Marco fights for the sake of it. It’s the steroids, I’m tellin’ you.”
“You don’t seem the type to celebrate holidays.” It’s an off hand observation while he makes breakfast. Archie is almost grateful for what feels like a sort of habit now. Jordan is half awake and he’s ever the restless sleeper already two cups in to his morning and pouring one for the blonde without prompting. “Or maybe I’m just cynical and think Christmas is overrated,” he hums as he continues whisking the waffle batter.
A new habit though is the way he pauses when the other man circles around for his mug, just long enough to press a kiss at Jordan’s shoulder and hide a smile there. “That being said,” he continues as he straightens upright, hands back to moving, “We could get a tree if you want. Set it up in the backyard or else Bernard may get knocked over.” The bear in question wouldn’t be toppled so easily and he knows from experience. Rowan’s fists have been unkind on the stairs more than once and Archie’s not ashamed to admit the blunted claws have caught him in the shoulder once or twice in his stumble down.
“It also feels a little less commercial and a little more back to roots.” Shifting the waffle iron a moment, Archie glances at Jordan with a slight smile. “In ancient Rome they would celebrate Saturnalia in hopes of a fruitful spring. It was far less cheerful elves and far more hedonistic. Amazing what commercialism and modern day morals do to things.” Pouring the first waffle, he sets the ladle aside in favor of taking a sip of his coffee. It’s rare he’s this talkative this early but with Christmas around the corner well, he’s been considering it for more than a few days. “What do you say, want to be a heathen with me?”
His hoodie doesn’t reek or anything, alright? But it does need to be washed - like, yesterday. J’s mom used to tell him that washing shit like hoodies and jeans was dumb as fuck, said it was a waste of time and water, said that underwear needed to be washed, shirts too sometimes, but everything else is fine. So call it a habit, but it wasn’t until he was brushing his teeth in the bathroom mirror, toothpaste froth on his chin and last night’s dinner on his chest that he thought I cannot where this thing another day.
It’s a short while after Archie headed down that Jordan trails after him, into the kitchen. He’s one extreme or the other when it comes to mornings and it's the kinds of dreams he has that dictates whether he’s awake at seven o’clock or midday. Funny enough, it’s the early starts that tend to follow a night plagued with nightmares. Today though, he woke up only a short time after Archie left, and it was the book at the man’s bedside that kept him upstairs. It didn’t make a lot of sense, Jordan thought as he squinted through the glasses he always forgets lie in the bottom of his bag (god knows how they ain’t broken in there without a case) and it was around fifteen minutes of trying before he decided that this mythology stuff makes more sense coming out of Archie’s mouth.
He forgot the glasses were still on when he sulked downstairs. Archie’s hoodie is a little too big which is a pain in his ass because he was hoping to wear the thing without being caught, but he’s here now, sat at the breakfast bar, arms propped on the island, sleeves falling from his wrists, pooling as his elbows, makin’ him look like some kinda runt with his chin in his hand like always. Whatever. He’s tired. The house is big and it’s cold, his hoodie’s stained and he’s been wearing Archie’s gym shorts most nights anyway. Whatever.
“I ain’t,” he says with a shrug, because he isn’t the type. Jordan’s never even had a Christmas tree, which is... fucking bazaar now he thinks about it. He’d decorated Dean’s with his family a couple times, and then helped again when the guy moved in with Jeff and got a tree for the apartment. Never one of his own though. He’s far from handy with a box of Christmas ornaments, but... “Sure,” he finds himself agreeing easily, less dismissive and more just groggy from his sleep. J backtracks though, asks, “Why the hedonism? And what the fuck is Saturn...ala? ... Saturn-what?”
location: outside of jer’s apartment
time: friday afternoon
Jer is full of nervous energy as he bounds back into his apartment following his last final of the semester. He still has an arduous road ahead of him, but it feels good to have this much behind him, and to have the GPA he’s ending the semester with. It’ll bring up his cumulative GPA, that’s for sure, and if that coupled with having a few weeks off of school isn’t enough to get his blood pumping, the prospect of the day’s plans certainly kick him into overdrive.
He feeds Heisenberg, the bearded dragon, then changes into something to go for a jog on, hooking Dmitri to his leash before heading back out. He needs to kill some of this energy before J comes to pick him up so he’s not vibrating in his seat.
After a run around the park, Jer and Dmitri have both spent the majority of their excess energy, and it’s time for a shower then a bowl – Indica only, because he doesn’t need anything to get his pulse up again. His hair dries with its natural curl pattern, and Jer changes into some jeans, a t-shirt, and a zip-up hoodie before heading downstairs when Jordan texts and says he’s nearby.
He pulls up in a car Jer instantly recognizes because he’s never seen anyone else driving one, and, with a smile, Jer pops open the door and slides into the passenger side, mind buzzing with the activities planned – a tour? a tattoo? a potential job? It’s all too much.
“Hey!” He breathes out, and it certainly sounds like he’s excited, and he is – he would be, just to hang out with Jordan. “What’re we doin’ first?”
• 𝕁𝕆ℝ𝔻𝔸ℕ • 𝕄𝕆𝕆ℝ𝔼 ✁
He doesn’t return Jeremiah’s greeting, but turns the volume down in acknowledgement. Jer looks all fresh and awake - this little tidal wave of joy as he joins Jordan in the shitty car, forcing him to smile where he’d usually grunt or nod or mumble something about closing the door faster because it’s fuckin’ freezing out. He doesn’t do this often; driving around for the sake of it. If Jordan has time to kill, he’ll walk. Doesn’t tend to associate Curly’s old-as-fuck car with much more than necessity, but the whole situation feels familiar. A relief.
After Curly got bad (but before he was gone) J would drive out to the edge of Brockton where his town met the next one over, where all the houses pretended to be too good for his people even though they didn’t quite sit in East Bridgewater. He’d park up outside Spencer’s house, this cocky little shit of a kid that acted bigger than life but lit up in Jordan’s presence, trying and failing to act like he belonged with guys like J. He’d hop into the passenger seat, a lot like Jeremiah does now, always breathless. Jordan would later learn that it was because Spencer would run the last two blocks from school to get home and change in time for the shitty car to pull up outside. That was before though, when they’d keep secrets and tell lies, before it all went to shit.
Anyway. It’s nice, having the kid slide into the car, excitable as ever as he talks over Jordan’s music. It’s probably selfish, letting himself have interactions like these for the sake of feeling lighter for a while. Surrounding himself with these fragile little pure things to mask his own scent, but fuck if it ain’t nice. Jordan matches his smile as he reaches up to twist the volume louder again, cranking up the sound of Happy Mondays as he pulls away from the curb. “All the way up to the Bronx,” he tells Jer, something like a challenge in his tone, like the mere mention of the hellhole he grew up in will be enough to have the kid glancing sheepishly into the rearview.
“Grew up in Bedford Park. Gonna show you my old place.” Jordan says as he navigates over a junction. He’s still smiling (god knows why the fuck he is) when the intro of Step On starts up as he makes a smooth turn into a new street, head bobbing as he glances over to Jer. “You any good at climbing?”
Baby, what you doin’ now?
Ain’t it surreal how you’re not around?
I’m still angry, crazy like a fool
At you for changing the rules
At you for changing the fucking rules.
And when I talk to anyone
Only will remind me of the way
Way we used to talk
And when I’m making love to anyone
Only will remind me of the way
We used to make love
