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Swear Jar

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The old tube television flickers over Jack’s shoulder, the sixth episode of Matador droning on and on in the background. Slumped on the couch, Arne takes another pull off his bottle of beer. His other hand palms the jut of Jack’s naked hip, fore and middle finger extended with a smoking cigarette clamped between them. The boy’s been happily riding his cock for a solid seven minutes, showing no signs of stopping or slowing anytime soon.

Flushed and panting, Jack plucks the cool bottle out of Arne’s loose grip. He guzzles down the remainder of the drink, rivulets of pale ale splashing down his smooth chest as he continues bouncing. Arne groans at the display, both hands on his waist yanking him closer to lap the spilled liquid off his salty skin. Jack yelps at the sudden shift, bracing himself on the back of the couch to accommodate the new angle. He glances down to watch Arne track a stream of beer all the way to the peak of a nipple. He gives the pebbled nub a particular sharp suck before finishing with a teasing nip.

“Fuck,” Jack hisses, burying his hands into the tangle of Arne’s greasy, lank hair.

He licks away the remainder of the beer from Jack’s chest, following the trail all the way up until the boy has to bend down to offer up his glistening mouth. The taste clings to his tongue. Arne clamps a hand around the nape of Jack’s neck, chasing the boy’s lips and arching his back with the movement.

Jack stills for a moment, pulling away, perched above him with thumbs sliding around to dig into the hard line of Arne’s clavicles, eyes screwed shut, mouth falling open with a look of utter bliss. Needy little whimpers begin to drip from his lips, high and breathy as he gingerly starts rocking his hips with just the right tilt, deliberate and shallow.

Arne tips his head back, gazing up at Jack with a faint smile casting shadows into the hollows of his cheeks. He takes a lazy drag off his cigarette as he reaches up to push back a few sweaty curls clinging to Jack’s forehead. The boy turns his face into the palm of Arne’s hand, eyes fluttering open as he slips his own fingers beneath the dingy straps of the man’s tank top.

“Ar-ne,” Jack whines, a line of tension creasing the delicate skin between his brows. A strange affection bubbles up inside him at the sound of the usually grating accent gone all frantic and broken; suddenly now endearing.

With a rough, rolling laugh, he smacks the plump curve of Jack’s ass with a filthy murmur of encouragement that needs no translation. After one last drag, he snubs his cigarette out on the armrest before turning his entire attention back to Jack. Trousers stretched tight across his thighs, Arne slowly thrust up to meet the rolling hips of the pliant body above, pushing a jumble of desperate sounds out of him.

“Shhh, shhh,” Arne hushes him with another smoky laugh, dragging Jack closer to silence him with another kiss that’s all tongue and teeth, malt and tobacco.

Covering the scrabbling hands clawing at his chest, Arne whispers a hundred filthy things in his ear. The rush of hot breath and dirty words working against them to mask the soft footfalls parading down the staircase.

On a particularly enthusiastically high bounce from Jack, one that pulls a low groan from deep in Arne’s chest, Torkild clears his throat.

“Fuck, man!” Arne yelps, twisting around, toppling Jack and nestling him into the corner of the couch. One hand instinctively cradling the back of the boy’s head before it slams into the arm rest as he covers his body with his own.

Halvtreds,” Torkild reprimands him coolly, tromping down the last step.

Pisse af!” Arne barks, haphazardly throwing his empty beer bottle in Torkild’s general direction before looking down at Jack hiding behind both hands. Arne tugs one hand away, the flicker of concern dissolving into a devious smile when he sees the the mirth glinting in Jack’s wide eyes.

Without any preamble, Arne resumes fucking him into the dilapidated couch.


The sex flush staining his cheeks and chest intensifies three-fold when Torkild strolls past them, rolling his eyes. Gripping the backs of Jack's thighs, Arne spreads them wide, purposely picking up his pace to draw out more moans and whimpers.

“No sex in communal spaces,” Torkild growls in pointed English, smacking Arne in the back of the head as he goes to make himself a midnight snack.