Work Text:
It was some very fine single malt that Ghost in his flask. But it made John’s guts ache. Some dark part of him wished that tomorrow he would get a chance to pull the trigger, watch Ghost fold to the ground and go back to being a bad memory. Here he was, back from the shadows, standing between him and Gordon as if he’d earned the space.
Ghost was fronting that he had some woman panting for him to show up, and left as the sunset burned down the day. Leaving John alone with Gordon. Who looked exhausted.
There wasn't the time. There was no music playing, no one in the pool to party with. LA stretched out pretty and indifferent under their feet. No way was John giving him anything else to drink. He ran his hand over Gordon's shoulders, asked him some routine question about the transport back-up.
Gordon's eyes were soft-edged when he looked back. Like he knew John was trying. That was enough for John, who tugged at his partner's jacket until he followed him back into the apartment.
They had been here a few months ago, before the bank job, watching the fight. This place had always felt like an oasis to John, a place of stillness high above the boiler room of Los Angeles. Far away from Riverside. Gordon had been stretched out next to him on the couch, unrolling his spine in pleasure when one fighter gained advantage. The difference between some common garden thug like Ghost or Jesse and Gordon was that ability to hold himself so smoothly. To have self-command, not just swagger. His arm had been tucked behind John, snug and comforting along his back.
Gordon was their compass.
So John moved him through the rooms guided by his direction. Let Gordon cover his hands with his own, as John kicked the bedroom door closed behind them.
It had been Ghost who had taught John how to dress, taken him and Jake to a jewel box of a tailor on West Ninth St. and had them fitted for suits. John had been half-hard in the fitting room, worked up by the strange environment and the whole obscene propriety of it mixed with the deference of the staff, the man kneeling for him, for god's sake, and then the glimpses of skin of the guys getting revealed as they were coaxed out for measurements.
But it was Gordon who showed him how to wear a suit from the inside out. A living, breathing demonstration of how to make every square inch of fabric work. Gordon was always the centre of the room. John took their joined hands and leant them on Gordon's chest, started working the buttons of his shirt off. Felt Gordon's breath huff over his face, as he moved into John's hold, head tipped over the crown of John's head. Mouthing at his temple, behind his ear, as John covered his body with his hands. Stroked down the sides of his torso, feeling it hum with tension. Wanting to melt it all away – Naomi, Ghost, C4, the fucking Ukrainians. His beard scrapped fuzzily over John's face as they moved in, mouths open and just moving, slack and purposeless, over each other. John wanted to kiss away the taste of whiskey, let his jacket be yanked off of his shoulders as he got up as close as possible, chest to chest.
This was just a recalibration of their settings. Gordon was the compass. John was the clock.
The high-count sheets on the bed underneath them, like the suits, like the apartment, were directions. They weren’t going backwards. That was what brought the team together – fine tastes that grew out of being starved of good things.
Gordon knew how to use his weight in bed. They both still had their trousers on, so John was pinned just on his chest, enough wriggle room for those hands to get done with the business of belts and zips. So John had fun with his legs, scissoring them between Gordon’s thighs, then curling around his back, moving so much he got the heavier man to laugh, to roll with him on their sides. And it was dark enough, and they were far enough in this, to kiss like they needed this. John felt the curl of Gordon’s tongue take command in his mouth, their kissing wet and shuddering and enough to make him buck up, teeth clashing. Murmurs, a firm hand on his pec, not teasing but rubbing up on his nipple. John’s hands moved with the surety of a clock, down under the waistband of Gordon’s briefs. Trying to push him up, his neck craned as the biting kisses pulled at his lips.
This part always started off slowly, Gordon navigating over John’s desperation. He fell back on the mattress, fingers and lips pulling and tugging over him. Gordon didn’t so much bite as scratch with his teeth, angering up the skin over John’s clavicle, down to that spot in the center of his chest. He felt like that was where he came together, his heartbeat a racehorse under Gordon’s head, John daring to stroke that strong neck.
His back was gonna hurt during the job tomorrow and damn if he cared.
When Gordon pulled his Kenzo boxers off all business-like as usual, John wished some of that blazing sunset still lingered in the sky. He couldn’t see much, though his cock was happy to be released, mid air for a moment before Gordon took it in his mouth. He didn’t look up to meet John’s eyes, ever, so John let himself sink back, pushing his hands into the pillows to be safe. He always seemed to get off first. Gordon was relentless on that point.
His mouth on him… no one else was like this. John knew he was making small, desperate noises here, which they both tacitly ignored. Gordon was noisy around his cock, wet and open and attentive. There was no great expertise on show – something that made John burn up over it even more. This was something as exclusively for them as the fine sheets, the art on the walls, the bank heists.
It was like those times when he had a second to watch Gordon during a job. Perfectly in control. Wearing his authority lightly.
He started building up speed, pumping John firmly with his hand as his mouth worked over the head of his hard-on. Gordon never tried to take too much, relied on being effective in other ways. Like this – getting faster and faster, John pinning down his own hips to keep as still as he could, when all the muscles in his legs and abs straining to jolt. Keeping his hands off (to touch that back, that neck, to feel himself pressing out from Gordon’s cheek, oh Christ), he shoved his fist in his mouth and bit the knuckles red raw.
Then Gordon switched tactics, just as John’s left leg started to tremble with the pressure. Shifting his grip, his hand moving with total command over his blood hot skin, cupping his balls – John bit his cheek and moaned down into the pillow, he never stroked him there- he grasped his cock at the base, and then slowed right the fuck down.
John wanted to kick his partner in the head. Instead he swore, his prick jumping in between the palms of Gordon’s hands, saliva meeting the sweat that was beading on his stomach.
He had a tell, and only a few people ever grew to notice it. Before he came, John usually scratched the skin on his left hipbone. A little spark of pain, a prodigious nerve ending there, his sweet spot – whatever it was, he was only dimly aware of his hand moving down. Gordon was dedicatedly tonguing over his slit, slow as molasses. Then his right hand whipped out like a snake and grabbed John’s fingers, pressing both their nails down into his flesh.
Caught between his mouth and his hands, there was nowhere left for John to go. He coughed out a warning and came. Right down Gordon’s throat. He’d swallow some, too, wipe the rest off on that pricey linen like all it was really good for was mopping up their mess.
His eyes slipped shut, and he let his shoulders sink down a little.
A thick finger flicked his chest.
“Don’t think you’re falling asleep on me.”
He faked a snore, and got his arm slapped in return.
Now he could touch back, and he tried to sit up and grab at Gordon’s advancing form. But his limbs were sex-sloppy and lax, and instead of rolling over to reciprocate in kind, which was how John had expected the night to progress, he was pinned in by strong forearms and kissed with surprising tenderness.
It was missing a beat from their regular rhythm, and John paused when his shoulder got grabbed.
“C’mon.”
“Mm – you sure?”
Gordon just grunted in reply, their faces still close enough for his beard to catch the skin of John’s neck.
So he flipped. They didn’t do this often. Or this sober. But John liked it, and he was always willing to be accommodating. Gordon was heavy on his back, but it was like the weight of the ocean, it was like driving a fast car and feeling the resistance of metal to speed, it was the opposite of falling somehow and when Gordon pushed at his legs to hold himself in, it upended John’s stomach the same way the sight of a million dollars in cash did.
Pulling his arms close to make space for Gordon, who was leaning his hands and knees, his cock heavy as it slipped down from the small of his back to press against his ass. John pulled his thighs in, let Gordon make his body comfortable against his, could feel the laboured breaths on the back of his neck.
His thoughts spaced out a little. Once Gordon got shot during a job, or so John had thought from the other side of the room. Sheer terror pushed him across the floor to stop his fall while at the same time he unloaded a round into the motherfucker who had fired first.
The first time he met Gordon, at the old club with Jake and A.J. It had been 2 a.m. when they got there, and Gordon had stood up slowly to greet them. John shook his hand and thought, he has a good rep, then thought, he’s taller than all of us. A.J. didn’t think his accent could be real. John didn’t want to believe that he was as good as he seemed to be, but then they worked together, and it was like putting the key in the ignition of his Porsche. The engine ran so smooth, it was fun, not work.
How they looked, wrapped up in each other on this big bed. Long legs draped over his, and now he had John in a satisfactory position, Gordon was moving.
Then all the images melted, and there was only this left.
They both had to work, John writhing under Gordon, his cock thrusting in the sweat-slick curve of his ass. Gordon moves got increasingly frantic, and John shook with the absorbed exertion. Teeth gritted, he wondered what it would like to be fucked – Gordon was thick, and it would hurt but good – and felt his dick twitch against the mattress with renewed interest.
“John. John.”
Gordon didn’t have a tell, as far as he could work out. Tonight he panted John’s name into his neck and came, wet dripping down between his legs.
Reflexively, he twisted to his side, letting the big man fall behind him. Their arms and legs were overlapping, and John’s neck was already aching. He kicked his way off the bed and made a beeline for the shower.
“You staying over?”
Cocked his head, knew Gordon would make out his smile in the dark.
“Got a big job tomorrow. Gotta get going.”
Gordon smiled back.
“You better. Hear that the boss is a hardass.”
“That he is. We good?”
Gordon stretched his arms, his long body unwinding over the bed.
“All signs point to it.”