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Jose would bet his life on James Dolan going to hell.
He’s known that shit since he was a kid. He couldn’t afford to get through the doors of Madison Square Garden when Dolan was churning out rosters so bad it was offensive to the city.
But now, now he’s sure. James Dolan is absolutely doomed to an eternity in hell.
This no sex during the playoffs rule is so evil that it has to be directly from Satan himself.
Jose isn’t a slut. He gets around, obviously, but he doesn’t put up crazy numbers or anything. It’s just that under normal circumstances, under the directions of a man not going to hell, he absolutely would be getting around tonight.
What else does one do when they win the fucking Eastern Conference Finals? They’ve had eleven wins in a row, won three playoffs series, fucking swept two of them, and Jose hasn’t been able to properly get off over any of it.
It’s not like Jose is a romantic, either. Jacking off in showers and empty beds just gets so fucking boring. He misses the warmth of another body, of skin touching his. There’s probably a million women in New York that would let him hit right now, surely some in Cleveland, too. And there isn’t going to be a single one of them in his bed tonight.
It doesn’t help that Jalen’s strict as fuck, too. He banned them from going to any clubs tonight, not even a fucking bar. He threatened to kill anyone that was late for the bus to the airport tomorrow morning. They could celebrate in the locker room and then that was it, they were done, banished to their hotel rooms like teenagers with parental chaperones at a tournament. He’s still buzzed when he groans out a yes, mom after Jalen tells him to go the fuck to bed in the hotel hallway.
Jose’s never been great at following the rules, and especially not when Jordan shows up at his door with a bottle of Don Julio hidden in the front pocket of his hoodie.
He’s known Jordan for years, but not really. Jordan Clarkson, older and taller and the type of guy Jose wanted the approval of when he was younger. Played in another division for Jose’s whole career until they both ended up in New York. They were familiar then, had been at the same club a few times, but Jose wouldn’t call him a friend back then. He became a friend quickly, fucking around on the bench and in locker rooms and postgame outings. He’s absolutely a fucking friend right now, a good friend with a bottle of tequila and ten hours to kill before their flight.
It’s childish shit. Juvenile, really, sitting on Jose’s bed and passing a bottle of tequila back and forth. He’s in a wifepleaser (he fucks women, not beats them, thank you) and Jordan doesn’t have a shirt on because he somehow never does. Jose doesn’t really give a shit. He’s drunk and he’s happy and he’s going to the NBA Finals as a New York Knick.
He really fucks with Jordan. They seem to understand each other, have the same sense of humor. The same desire to celebrate this shit the way should. The way they deserve to.
Jordan’s really funny, too. Probably funnier than Jose. He's even funny without even trying to be, sometimes.
“You think they got salt packets in here?” Jordan looks around the room like the question makes any fucking sense.
Jose laughs, harder than necessary. Blame the tequila. “What, you want a fuckin’ lime too?”
Jordan grabs the bottle from him, clumsy hands overlapping on the neck of the bottle. He’s laughing, too. “Should’ve hid one in my suitcase.”
The absurdity of the situation sinks in again. Grown ass men sneaking around in a hotel room. Jose’s still laughing. “This shit is fuckin' ridiculous.”
Jordan passes the bottle over, lays back against Jose’s bed, legs hinged over the edge of the mattress. “What, you’d rather be at a club in Cleveland?”
“I’d rather be getting laid.”
Jordan raises an amused eyebrow. “In Cleveland?”
Jose kicks at Jordan’s legs. “It’s been, what, a month? You think I give a fuck if it's in Cleveland?”
“What, your hand not doing it for you no more?”
Jordan props himself up on his arms, gaze fixed on Jose. It’s not intense or anything, he looks relaxed. He looks good, honestly.
Jesus. This tequila is fucking hitting.
It feels stupid to explain why he’s bored of his hand. To tell another grown ass man that he wants to be touched, to touch someone else. Jose just barks out a nope and takes another sip.
Jordan sits up again, swaying towards Jose as he takes the bottle from him. Their hands touch again. Is he doing that shit on purpose?
They’re closer than they need to be. Jose doesn’t really care.
Jordan takes another swig, drums his fingers on the bottle. He can hold the bottle’s neck with just his thumb and part of his index finger. Big ass fucking hands.
“You ever do it with someone else?”
It’s a weird question, probably. Jose doesn’t really care, not tonight. Not when Jordan’s cool and the tequila is smooth.
“What, like jerk off in front of her?”
“Nah, like,” Jordan flops down again, bottle balanced on his thigh. “You ever been with a guy?”
He hasn’t. He had a threesome with another guy and a girl back in college, but that doesn’t count. Their dicks only touched by accident one time. Absolutely does not count.
He hasn’t been with a guy, never really considered it, but it doesn’t shock him that Jordan probably has. Jordan’s really cool, always down for anything. Jose doesn’t care, not like some other guys might.
“You have?” He sounds more sober than he has in a while.
A slow, lazy smile breaks out on Jordan’s face. No, it definitely doesn’t shock him that Jordan’s been with guys before. He’s objectively attractive, he could have anyone he wants.
“I spent years in LA, man.”
Jose laughs again, but it’s more restrained this time. His face feels hot. Is he fucking blushing? Jesus christ, when’s the last time Jose went this long without sex?
He grabs the bottle again. He’s thinking too much for a night like this, he fucking needs it. “So, what, you would jerk off with ‘em?” He punctuates the question with a swig of the tequila. Fuck, this shit is good. He could kiss Jordan for bringing this shit over. He realizes that that’s an insane thing to think about just a second later.
Damn, he’s losing it.
Jordan shakes his head, lets it hang lazily to the side. “Y’have both of ‘em in one hand.”
A shiver runs down Jose’s back because he’s clearly losing it. They’re both clearly losing it.
Jose swallows, mouth suddenly a little dry. “Feels different that way?”
Jordan nods again, lies back with an arm underneath his head. Rests his other hand on his stomach. “Shit’s hard to explain, I guess. Jus’ feels better. Having someone there.”
Having someone there. The thing that Jose misses the most. Does it matter, really, if they’re a guy? Well, yeah, obviously. If Jose’s gonna go out and find someone it’s gonna be a woman. But he can’t go out, he can’t go find someone. It’s just him and Jordan in this hotel room, and Jordan is half naked for some reason and he looks good. He’s all lean muscle and ink and skin that probably feels warm.
Jose feels dizzy and it’s not from the tequila. Tequila doesn’t do this to him. This is different, it’s warm and building somewhere low in his stomach and all he can give Jordan in exchange for his explanation is a quiet, breathy yeah.
“I can show you, if you want.”
Jordan says it so casually that Jose almost agrees to it without thinking. His brain quickly catches up and the panic hits.
Except it doesn’t, really.
Jose is surprisingly cool with this. He’s not panicking. This feels fine, normal even.
He knows they probably shouldn’t, anyways. Team pact of celibacy and all that. It’s just weird that he doesn’t think he would turn down the offer even if he was allowed to fuck.
Jose’s voice is raspy for some reason. “Show me how?”
It’s a stupid question and they both know it. Stupid enough that Jordan laughs a little.
“How do you think?”
Jordan’s so chill about this, somehow. Jose can feel the tips of his ears getting hot and Jordan doesn’t seem bothered at all.
Jose swallows, looks away first. Jesus. Why the fuck is he nervous?
“Or not. I’m good either way.”
Jose must have been quiet for too long, something that doesn’t happen very often.
He’s trying to be chill, too, but he falls embarrassingly short.
“Isn’t it like, against Dolan's rules?”
Jordan laughs again, quieter this time. Jose’s blushing like he’s a fucking teenager again, about to get his dick wet for the first time. What the fuck is even happening anymore?
Jordan sits up again, grabs the bottle. “Is it?” He holds eye contact as he draws it to his lips. Jose doesn’t look away this time. “It’s just jerkin’ off with extra steps.”
He’s right, honestly.
It’s not like they’re gonna be sucking or fucking or anything. Hand stuff with a girl is different, it’s not possible to do both at the same time with one hand.
Jose doesn’t really care about the rules right now anyway. He needs to get off, properly get off, so bad he can barely fucking think. He can’t play his best like this, and it’ll be even worse a week from now when the Finals start. Dolan wasn’t talking about shit like this. This is team bonding, if anything. And Jordan looks really fucking good looking at him like that.
“Okay,” Jose licks his lips, clears his throat. “Yeah. Show me.”
Jordan hardly moves at first. He just keeps his eyes on Jose, closes the bottle and leans down to put it on the floor. Barely leans down, if anything. His arms are so long. Has Jose noticed that before? He knows it, obviously. But has he really noticed it?
“Okay.”
One of those long arms finds Jose’s chest, guides him back until his head is on the pillows. They’re moving so slow and Jordan’s got a dangerous smirk on his face.
Jordan’s hovering over him now, hair falling around his face. Jose’s getting hard already, which is fucking ridiculous. This is all fucking ridiculous.
Jose’s heart is pounding when Jordan reaches a hand between them, cups Jose through his shorts. Smirk growing wider when he feels how worked up he already is.
“Yeah?”
“Shut the fuck up, ‘s been a while.”
Jordan slides his own hips against Jose’s, just barely. Just enough to make Jose feel that he’s hard, too. Jesus.
“Yeah, it has.”
Letting another man take off his shorts feels weird, so Jose slides them down his hips when Jordan leans back to do the same. Of course Jordan’s dick is big. Whatever.
Jordan does push Jose’s tank up his stomach with his thumb, probably to get it out of the line of fire. There’s something still hot about it anyway.
He leans back over this time, and the tip of his dick is resting on Jose’s stomach. It feels nice, almost. Not really, not pleasurable or whatever. It’s just nice to feel someone else for once. After so long.
“Y’ready?”
He can feel Jordan’s breath on his face. The smell of the tequila, of Jordan. It feels weird to be in a position like this and not kissing.
Jose nods his head, eyelids fluttering. Like a slut. This is fucking ridiculous.
“Okay.”
Jordan shifts his weight, strong enough to support himself on one arm. Knees bent because he’s so much taller than Jose. Caging him against the fucking mattress.
Jose can’t even get in his head about it because Jordan’s spitting in his hand and wrapping it around both of their dicks at once.
They groan in unison, and Jose shudders when Jordan starts to slide his hand up. Fuck, it does feel better. This feels so fucking good.
He’s never had this before and somehow he missed it. Missed having someone else, hearing them and being touched. Touching them, too, it seems, because he instinctively reached for Jordan’s shoulders as soon as he made contact.
Jordan is looking between them, and it’s somehow more intense than when they were making eye contact.
“‘s good, right?” Jordan lifts his head again, his disarmingly pretty eyes all blown out. Jose’s cock twitches at the sight, and Jordan must notice because his smirk grows wider. Jose’s blood runs even warmer.
“Yeah, fuck.” Of course it’s good, it’s so fucking good.
“How d’you usually do it? Faster?” Jordan’s still so fucking chill about all of it, head tilting to the side and mouth barely open as he pants.
Jose tries to answer but he can barely string together a coherent thought, let alone directions. “I just—shit—”
Jordan nods his head towards Jose’s hand on his shoulder. “Show me.”
With a shaking hand, he does. He slides his hand between their bodies, wraps his around around Jordan’s much larger one, adjusts the pattern just slightly. It’s even better this way, somehow, and Jose moans like a bitch before he can catch himself.
He should be more embarrassed, but he’s not. He’s not thinking about that shit right now because Jordan’s arm gives out and he’s holding himself up on his forearm now. They’re much closer this way, Jordan’s lips just inches away from the skin of Jose’s shoulder. Deliriously, he almost wishes Jordan would just kiss him there, because Jose’s not far gone enough to ask for it himself. But it would feel good, everything Jordan does seems to feel good.
Jose’s got both hands on Jordan’s shoulders again, one of them sliding up to scratch at his scalp before either of them seem to notice. Jordan sounds like he likes it, so he doesn’t move it again. It feels good to know that he likes this too.
Maybe it’s the tequila or the dry spell or some fucked up combination of both, but Jose’s not gonna last if Jordan keeps sighing and moaning in his ear like he is. It’s so fucking good like this, all of it is.
“Bro, ‘m boutta—” Jose cuts himself off with a broken groan when Jordan’s hand squeezes their tips together on the upstroke.
He can feel Jordan’s chuckle against his neck. “What, need me to talk you through it?”
Jose laughs despite the way his abdomen coils even tighter at the suggestion. “Shhh-shut the fuck up.”
Jordan nips at the sensitive spot where his shoulder meets his neck and Jose’s pulse is thrumming in his ears and behind his eyes and he’s too fucking close for Jordan to be fucking around like this.
“C’mon.”
Jose’s really not sure what he was expecting when they started this, where he was going to come if not in Jordan’s hand. It just feels real now, he’s so close and he’s about to come in his boy’s hand and he wants to.
He knows he shouldn’t want to, somewhere in his brain where he still remembers he’s supposed to be thinking about shit right now. He tries to make vague noises of protest but it’s no use, not when Jordan keeps going with his hand and his mouth and all of it.
“Come f’me.”
And he does.
He comes so hard he forgets to fucking breathe, forgets how to process any sensory input. He’s so fucking gone, he can’t even hear himself and he doesn’t even know if his eyes are still open.
He can hear Jordan, though. He’s really glad he hears Jordan groaning as he follows Jose over the edge. He sounds so good, everything feels so fucking good.
His brain is still halfway gone when Jordan sits back on his heels, walks over to the bathroom. Comes back with clean hands and a wet washcloth that he gives to Jose.
Jose’s usually the one that gets the towel after sex. Or not sex, whatever this is. He can’t help but laugh. He’s still drunk and this is all still ridiculous.
“You good?” Jordan sits down on the bed again with a laugh, lounges back against the pillows.
They're closer than they need to be. Jose kind of likes it.
“Yeah,” Jose’s still laughing a bit, arm slung over his eyes. “Yeah, I’m good.”
He's pretty sure they're both gonna fall asleep like that. He hopes so, if he's being honest. Jordan's cool. He likes him.
He doesn't ask Jordan to stay overnight. He does anyway.