Jensen/Jared. NC-17. ~6600 words.
Jensen has the feeling that confronted with Jared’s endless stream of remarkably unsubtle innuendo, Dean would do one of three things.
From the safety of his warm trailer, the air inside only a little musty from misuse, Jensen looks up at the cold grey sky. Light drizzle, the forecast had said, which translated from Vancouverite to Texan meant torrential downpour. Rain beats against the windows, the roof, a rapid-fire pitta-pat, pitta-pat. The giant drops that spatter in front of his face aren’t nearly cute enough to deserve a noise like that.
It’s unnatural. He’d been warned that Vancouver was wet towards the end of the year, beginning in fall and through the spring. Nobody had said anything about the northern equivalent of a monsoon season.
Cabin-feverish, he shoves away from the windows and yanks down the blinds. Maybe he should be grateful he’s not out there trying to work. Maybe, if Jared ever gets here, Nutter will call the day rained out and they’ll lug everything back down the highway to the studio for some motel shots.
Not that he’s looking forward to being dunked in mud for the scene, but at least the water he’ll douse himself with afterwards will be warm.
Something thumps on the flimsy door. It bursts open before Jensen can call out, dumping a soaking wet, grinning idiot of a co-star right at his feet.
Jared flops around like a beached whale, shouting over the wind, “Oh, man, sorry. Holy shit, it’s pouring out there,” as he wrestles with the door. Finally managing to shut it with a slam that rocks the whole trailer, Jared slumps against it and blows out a breath. “Hi.”
Casually, Jensen tucks his hands in his pockets. “Great day for a pilot, huh.”
“It’ll slack off in a couple minutes.” Jared straightens up, and up, and up a little more. Jensen’s not a small boy, hardly insecure, but it rankles that Jared almost has a whole three inches on him. “In the meantime, you got a beer?”
Jensen’s eyebrow wings up. “Coffee.”
Jared huffs. Actually purses his lips, screws up his face and huffs. “Coffee stunts your growth, y’know.”
Unperturbed, Jensen turns to rummage through the cupboards. “You could use a little stunting. Plus, I got rules. All consumption of alcohol by barely-legal co-workers shall follow the day’s work, not precede it.” He offers up a generous mug full of black gold. “Cream’s in the minifridge.”
“Not that non-fat shit, I hope.”
Jensen skirts the giant puddle in the middle of the floor to seat himself on the couch. “Towels are in the bathroom.”
Jared grunts, carefully pouring a little creamer into his coffee, stirring it, eyeballing the colour and adding a little more. He does this five times before he’s satisfied. “Don’t need it. Make-up sent me over to tell you to quit being a chicken and get your sorry white excuse for a Texas ass over there.” Leaning against the counter, he tests his coffee, savouring the first mouthful like a strung-out addict.
Jensen’s eyebrows surely but steadily climb their way into his hairline.
“I might’ve embellished the message a bit.”
“You mess up my trailer, don’t say thanks for the coffee and insult my perfectly fine ass. All within the space of ten minutes.” Jared instantly starts to look contrite, but Jensen’s heard all about that, too. He has good, reliable sources. “Man, I don’t think I can work with you anymore.”
For the span of a heartbeat, Jared stares. Then breaks out in a grin brighter than the rising sun, brighter than all the bleach in Hollywood even, and Jensen feels his own face split in half in response.
“You really had me going there, Jen. Thought you were really gonna be pissed at me on the very first day.”
“I’m just that good at my job,” Jensen tosses off. He stands to fetch his coat, digging first through the closet near the door and then the one in the back. By the time he emerges, bundled up in two downy-thick layers, Jared’s guzzled the rest of the coffee and wiped up the floor. He’s even standing on the dishtowel to keep from dripping anywhere else.
“Not apologising about the ass crack until you prove otherwise,” Jared says.
Jensen rolls his eyes and goes for the door. “New rule: no puns. Ever.”
Murphy’s Law kicks in full force and the rain lets up as soon as they dash into the safety of Make-up.
Relatively speaking. Jensen’s always had a complicated love-hate relationship with the goop-laden process of being made camera-ready. He could live forever, quite happily, not having to walk around with ten pounds of crap on his face ever again, or having to sit through the long, arduous, boring ordeal just to suffer it.
The only reason he ever manages to get through it is that hair follows make-up, and if he could live happily without the make-up, he could definitely die ecstatically so at the fingertips of a stylist who knows the value of a good scalp massage.
For now, he holds back the noises of pure bliss as a courtesy to Jared, and the desire to not frighten the girls off too soon.
Around a mouthful of chemical sugar substitute, Jared asks, “You still with us?”
“Yeah,” Jensen says, well deserving of a medal for managing to squeeze the word out in a normal voice. “Just getting in my headspace.”
“You get in there any deeper and you’ll be comatose.”
“Eat your candy, Jared.”
An obscene lip-smacking sound follows the bump of a gummi bear against Jensen’s cheek. He cracks open one eye to look down at the innocent, almost sad looking green glob, and pops it in his mouth.
“D’you always go around stuffing things in your mouth like that?”
The woman fighting with Jared’s unruly mop of hair lets out a quick, sharp laugh. In the mirror, she shares an expectant glance with her cohort, then three pairs of eyes abruptly orient on Jensen.
Heat creeping up the back of his neck, Jensen says, “Only if I don’t know where it’s already been.”
Jared’s laugh booms like thunder.
Later, the sky clear and dark outside the main hub of North Vancouver, Jared says, “You sure we should be doing this as brothers?”
Jensen’s growing accustomed to Jared’s random conversation switches, but that one throws him off. “What?”
“Sam and Dean. You think this brothers thing is really going to fly?”
“I mean, c’mon. You’ve seen the scripts. There’s enough tension between them that you could carve it up into tiny little angst cakes and serve it on a silver platter, but the brothers thing, there’s really nowhere for that to go.”
“Jared, man, you lost me. Where’s it going?”
“It’s not,” Jared says. He shakes his head and thumps a hand on the script spread out in Jensen’s lap. “That’s what I’m getting at. It’d work better if they were lovers.”
“Lovers,” Jensen repeats. The word doesn’t quite fit on his tongue, like Jared’s not only started speaking in French but that crazy Quebec French where the emphasis on certain words and syllables has migrated so far south that it only vaguely recalls the cobblestone streets of Paris. “You want to make us gay lovers tromping across America slaughtering evil.”
“In a 1960′s muscle car.”
“I’m not! C’mon, think about it!” Plastering the most sincere, wheedling expression in his impressive repertoire across his face, Jared says, “It’ll be avant-garde or something. And? Sex scenes.”
“Sex scenes.” Jensen massages at his temple. Maybe he was a parrot in a former life, since he obviously has the current brain capacity of one.
“Half-naked gratuitous sex scenes. But not really, because of the tension, y’see. It’d be more like life-affirming make up sex.”
“We’re three-quarters of the way through the pilot and you come up with this now?”
Thankfully, Jared has the decency to look abashed. After knowing him for all of a week, and with most of that in the company of suits and ties where there wasn’t much opportunity for some good old fraternising with future on-screen brothers, Jensen still doesn’t buy it for a second.
“If you had to, though,” Jared says, “like, crawl all over someone like that, I’d be a good choice, right?”
“Sure.” Jensen scratches at the back of his neck. “Sure, Jared. But maybe you should lay off the candy for awhile, anyway.”
At the tiny catering tent, where the sandwiches are only paying lip service to the title (Jensen is certain that the definition of a sandwich is at least some recognisable meat substance between two slices of bread, not the fond wish of one), he watches, bemused, as Jared digs through the giant bowls of salad for every last scrap of onion to be found.
“Usually,” Jensen ventures, “you have to eat at least three composite parts of the salad for it to still qualify.”
Jared dumps a small lake of Thousand Islands onto his plate next to the heap of red onions. “I’m pretty much only interested in one.” Smiling, he drags some onion through the dressing, almost completely drowning the unfortunate vegetable before shoving it, dangerously close to dripping onto Sam’s wardrobe, in his mouth.
“I hope you brought Tic-tacs.”
“Onion breath’s not a turn on for you, huh?”
“Not so much.”
Half an hour later, on the bridge where a frustrated Dean shoves his smack-talking little brother up against the metal girders, Jared breaks completely out of character to stick his tongue out, proudly displaying the emaciated mint on the tip for Jensen’s approval.
David calls cut with the long-suffering tone of beleaguered directors everywhere.
“Guys,” he says. “Not that I don’t appreciate the brotherly vibe, but quit it.”
“Yeah, Jared.” Jensen gives him a good-natured elbow in the ribs. “Save it for the next scene.”
“Right,” Jared drawls. “Keep my tongue in my mouth until we’re at the motel. Then what should I do with it?”
Jensen rolls his eyes heavenward, not really expecting any help from up there but still appreciating the melodrama of the moment.
David, unfortunately, is far enough out of the loop to seal their doom with a confused, “What?”
“He wants sex scenes,” Jensen explains.
Which is in retrospect somewhat lacking in actual explanation, because David’s eyes go round and he says, completely disbelievingly, to Jared, “You want an incestuous love affair on Tuesday night primetime?”
Jensen says, “Oh, god.”
“Well, no,” Jared admits. “I never thought of that. I was just thinking plain old gay, but you’ve got to admit, the incest thing is pretty evocative. Especially when you consider how much they’re manhandling each other in just this episode.”
Jensen turns to David. “It’s too late to quit, isn’t it?”
“Afraid so. Get your boy under control and we’ll get back to work.”
“My boy? My boy?” Jensen protests to David’s retreating form. “Since when is he my boy!”
“C’mon,” Jared says, and wraps an arm about Jensen’s shoulders, gently but firmly leading him away. “You can shove me against the girders again, that’ll make you feel better.”
“No,” Jensen grumbles, “it’ll make you feel better.”
Jensen survives the pilot by the skin of his teeth. The weekend rises like the sun on the horizon, and even if Saturday morning dawns as cool and wet as the rest of the week, he could hardly care less.
He sleeps only until ten, still a little groggy from the late night even after his shower but unwilling to let too much of the day slip by. He stuffs dirty clothes into the bag for Housekeeping, tidies up the detritus of newspapers and take-out cartons that have accumulated throughout the week, and even if it only takes about ten minutes to make his roomy suite presentable, he feels accomplished.
Then he’s faced with the issue of just what he’s going to do with himself today, because it’s not like he’s been in Burnaby long enough to establish a pattern of errands to run.
Starbucks sounds like a good place to start.
He grabs his jacket, stuffs his wallet in his back pocket and his cell in the front, and heads out. At the shiny bank of elevators, he runs smack dab into Jared. Mostly because Jared takes up way too much space.
“Hey,” Jared greets. “I was just coming to get you. Starbucks, my treat?”
“Hell yes. You just redeemed yourself for an entire week of torture.”
Jared’s smile turns rueful. “I’m that bad, huh?”
“Almost.” Companionably, Jensen claps him on the shoulder. “But you’re lucky, I’m a pretty easygoing guy.”
“Just like Dean?”
Jensen has the feeling that confronted with Jared’s endless stream of remarkably unsubtle innuendo, Dean would do one of three things: punch Jared’s lights out, laugh it off, or take him up on the offer with a sly, confident smile and a nod to the seedy bathrooms of whatever dive they happened to be patronising.
Out loud, Jensen clears his throat and says, “Not quite, but close enough.”
They walk the handful of lukewarm blocks to the Starbucks just off Canada Way in comfortable silence. Maybe someday soon, when the show takes off, they’ll lose the anonymity to do this, and maybe they won’t. Jensen hasn’t been here long but so far, proximity to the North Pole aside, Canada’s been treating him alright.
Inside, Jared orders their coffees and says, “You’re pretty quiet, you know.”
“You do enough talking for the both of us.”
“Do not. Besides, I hear you usually are.”
Curious despite himself, Jensen tears his attention away from the display of cracked-out coffee mugs to focus entirely on Jared. “Yeah, from who?”
Jared shrugs. “Just how you hear things, y’know? Like, I say I’m doing this thing with Jensen Ackles, and somebody says, ‘hey, that Ackles kid, he’s not half bad,’ or ‘Jensen, yeah, you lucky shit, the hot guy from that soap.’ And they’re right.”
The barista sets out two mugs, rattling off the longest name imaginable for the concoction Jared ordered. Jensen picks up both and leads the way to a tiny table dwarfed by three plush chairs. “Are you crushing on me, Jared?”
“Totally platonically.” Jared folds himself into one of the chairs, knees bumping the table hard enough that Jensen has to reach out and steady their drinks. “I’m definitely not talking about faking sex with you all the time because I want in your pants or something.”
Something warmer than fresh coffee pools in Jensen’s stomach. “They wouldn’t fit you, anyway.”
“See,” Jared says, “in this scene, if they were lovers,” and he curls his tongue around the word like a long, slow lick, “they’d do the exact same thing the script calls for, but when Sam cracks, like, really cracks, they’d end up in bed ’cause Dean’s answer for everything is sex. Which is way better than this drawn-out meaningful stare stuff.”
Jensen fidgets, fiddling with his cell phone, trying to program in Jared’s number on his own. He’s not even sure how he let Jared talk him into getting a plan together, since his last provider was just fine and his old phone wasn’t nearly so complicated.
Not that he isn’t perfectly capable of figuring it out.
Besides that, he supposes it did make a lot of sense. Nine times out of ten, it was Jared calling him or him calling Jared, anyway.
“Are you even listening?” Jared asks.
“Yeah,” Jensen says. “Magical, meaningful sex. Got it.” He hits a button, a few more, then Jared’s phone rings. Jared answers, his hello? echoing in stereo in Jensen’s ear, and Jensen shouts, “Got it!”
A passing PA gives him a wary look. Jared snaps his phone shut. “It took you ten minutes to put me in your contacts?”
“Shut up. You’re the one that wouldn’t let me keep my old phone.”
“Because it was a dinosaur. And don’t bring up the Nintendo, because it’s classic. Cool. Your phone was just sad.”
Jensen slumps back in his chair, content with his success of the day. “You were just talking about sex again, anyway.”
“I like sex,” Jared insists. “If I didn’t know for a fact that you do too, I’d be worried about you.”
“I like sex.”
Jared’s teeth flash. “I just said you did.”
“Right. Cue the music?”
“Bow-chica-chica, bow-chica, bow-chica-wow-wow.”
Jensen grins so hard his face hurts. “God, you’re crazy.”
Smiling a wide, self-satisfied smile, Jared says, “You love it.”
Safely tucked into a corner of The Foggy Dew (an Irish pub unfortunately close enough to SFU to attract students but pretty much right next door to Jared’s hotel, so it’s not enough to dampen the appeal), about three and a half beers in, Jensen says, “I figured it out.”
“You’re not drunk enough for startling revelations on the nature of life. And neither am I.”
“Shut up.” Dipping a sweet potato fry into some chipotle mayo, Jensen chews thoughtfully, arranging and rearranging words so it comes out just right. “You’re undersexed.”
“As a guy, I firmly believe that all people everywhere are undersexed. I don’t know about you, but twice a day is not enough.”
“At first,” Jensen goes on, steamrolling right over Jared’s familiar quips, “I thought you were oversexed. But then I asked myself, how is that possible? I see you sixteen hours a day out of twenty four, and for those sixteen hours, I’m at least ninety-seven percent sure you’re not having sex. So the only possible conclusion is that you’re undersexed.”
Jared props his chin on his knuckles and helps himself to a handful of Jensen’s fries. “I am. Preaching to the choir, Jen.”
“Just making sure we’re on the same page.”
“What’re you gonna do about it?”
“Jerk off more, you can handle it.”
“Maybe I want you to handle it.”
After a long moment of deliberation, Jensen says, “I’ll spring for half the cost of one night for your birthday. Chad can pick up the other half. And pick out the girl.”
At this point, Jared is supposed to throw back his head and laugh his loud, booming laugh. Maybe clap his hands together. Giggle a little.
“Yeah, okay.” Half of Jared’s usual smile ekes into existence. “Get me another girl, Jen, that’ll solve all my problems.”
They’re sprawled out in Jared’s hotel room, Jensen in the deep chair and Jared on the bed, running lines, when Jared complains, “You always end up kissing the girls.”
“Because Sam’s a pussy. And he’s toting around that whole guilt complex thing.”
“Which one? The one where he got his girlfriend killed, or where he wants to suck his brother’s cock?”
But for the grace of having dealt with Jared for weeks now, Jensen would’ve snorted Dr. Pepper up his nose. As it is, his eyes are just watering a little. “Sorry?”
“Man, seriously,” Jared says. He clambers up to a sitting position, long legs tucked under himself, elbow on his knee and script flapping in the air like an angry seagull (and since they started jogging along the Seawall every other morning before filming, Jensen’s had way too much experience with irate, hungry seabirds). “If Eric thought he could get around the homoerotic tension inherent in the buddy genre by making us brothers, he was so wrong.”
“Um.” Jensen rubs at the back of his head, picks up his coffee, sets it back down again without drinking. “Do I want to know?”
“Probably not, but you’re gonna listen anyway.”
Jensen nods. That’s pretty much the way of things.
“Like, a couple weeks ago, when we did that one out in the orchard. Sam lasted what, all of five hours before he started mooning at his phone. Ten, tops, before he ran straight back to Dean.”
“I think it was more like a couple days.”
Jared flaps the script at him again. Jensen snaps his mouth shut. “And now, this one with Dean’s old girlfriend. Sam’s obviously jealous.”
“Right! Because the nameless girls he can handle, but Dean hooking up with somebody he really cares about? Not so much.”
Jensen scrubs at his eyes. “You’re thinking way too much about this, man.”
“I’m right. You know I am.”
“All I know is Dean thinks Sam should get laid. Soon. Because this isn’t healthy.”
Jared makes a low noise of agreement. “Incest usually isn’t.”
“There’s no incest!”
“Oh my god, Jared!”
Utterly defeated, Jensen slumps forward, face hidden in his hands. When he speaks, his voice is muffled, words slightly garbled but recognisable. “Sam and Dean do not have any unresolved sexual tension between them.”
“Because he’s a freakin’ monk!”
Jared doesn’t say anything. Risking what’s left of his sanity, Jensen peeks out from between his fingers to find Jared’s full-force grin aimed his way.
“That was all Dean right there,” Jared says.
“Alright, alright. You know I’m right, but we’ll leave it there. Dean’s in obvious denial, me and Sam can work with that.”
“Jared, what the hell did I tell you about puns.”
Jensen shakes the ache out of his shoulders, loosening himself up for the next scene. To Jared, he says, “That was good.”
“Man, that was fantastic.” Jared claps him on the back, and instead of leaving it there like anyone else with an ounce of sense would, drags him in for a full-body, rib-crushing hug. “We nailed it. First shot. I want a beer.”
Jensen laughs, extricating his face from Jared’s chest so he can breathe. “You always want a beer.”
“But I really want a beer. I think this calls for several.”
“Yeah, well.” Jensen thumps Jared’s shoulder, a subtle cue that it’s time to let go now. Jared thumps him back and tries to break his ribs just once more before releasing him. “You’ll have to wait until after we get our asses kicked.”
After the take, when his throat is hoarse and head pounding from all the screaming, he’s not surprised to find Jared already crashed on the couch when he gets back to his trailer.
“Make yourself at home,” Jensen croaks. “Just gonna wash this crap off.”
“Man, you sound like shit.”
He exaggerates the rasp in his voice only a little as he says, “Thanks.”
“Seriously.” There’s a thud, a rattle of dishes, and then Jared’s looming behind him, holding out a glass of water already spotted on the outside with condensation. “Maybe I should go get you some lozenges or something. Lemon? Warm tea?”
In the mirror, Jensen picks at a gobbet of fake flesh. “Ovaltine, perhaps?”
“That’s gross. And you should quit quoting old movies at me.”
“It’s from the ’70s,” Jensen snorts.
“It’s black and white, and you’re dating yourself.”
“Conscious artistic choice.”
“Instead of going out, you should come back to my place. Gotta take it easy in your old age.”
Jensen slaps a dripping cloth over his face and lets out a gusty sigh, the soap and water eating through the sweaty make-up still clinging to his skin.
The base of Jensen’s spine prickles. He inches the facecloth down just enough to peer at Jared over the edge.
“I want you to.”
The prickle heats, creeps up slowly, spreads like long, spidery fingers over his ribs, squeezing at his chest. Determinedly, he scrubs at a stubborn patch of ketchupy blood clinging to the stubble on his chin.
“Yeah, okay.” He licks his lips, tastes soapy water.
Jensen’s palms are sweating. He stands in the middle of Jared’s kitchenette, beer warming on the counter, and listens to the sounds of Jared showering.
He’s pretty sure what’s going on here. He’s just not sure how it’s going to happen. Or even if it should.
Jared reappears five minutes later, scrubbed pink, wet hair curled at his nape, and wearing an old, threadbare pair of cotton pyjama pants. “Your turn. Grab whatever you wanna wear, I’m gonna order pizza. You still want that weird Zorba the Greek thing?”
“It’s not weird.” Jensen wanders to Jared’s hurricane-struck closet, digging through a mess of shirts with outrageous prints, professionally-distressed jeans and mateless flipflops for Jared’s old high school trackteam tee and sweatpants. “Don’t forget the chicken!”
Jared waves a foot at him, already on the phone and his head stuck in the fridge in search of appetisers.
In the bathroom, Jensen washes the gel out of his hair, watches the rest of his make-up swirl down the drain to leave him less Hollywood-brown but a million times more comfortable.
Right up until he steps out of the warmth, towels off, and finds himself hauling Jared’s clothes on over bare, still-damp skin. In the mirror, he has James Madison plastered across his ass in bright yellow print, the same across his chest. He also has something like a flush creeping up over his jaw, which he’s not really sure he can blame on the hot shower.
There’s probably a precedent for this. It happens all the time.
When he picks up his toothbrush, a spare that just showed up one day that Jared told him to use, a nervous, guilty flutter starts up in his gut.
Jared’s waiting for him in the main room, eyes on a script and absently toeing at a hitch in the carpet. He looks up when Jensen enters, gaze starting at Jensen’s feet and picking a lazy, meandering path upwards, pausing for a moment here, another there.
“Beer’s on the counter.”
Jared’s eyes track him the whole way, tangible on his skin like Jared’s hand on his chest or their knees bumping under the table.
Jensen takes a long pull, poking half-heartedly at the leftover fries Jared had nuked while he was in the bathroom. He’s hungry, but his stomach’s too twisted up to let him eat.
Jared stands, the tension strung between them unfamiliar, unsettling, and maybe a little more thrilling than Jensen would’ve thought. He takes another drink and leans back against the counter, letting Jared come to him. That’ll work out better than him falling flat on his face because his legs won’t hold him up anymore.
There’s all of half a foot between them and then less, Jared’s hands braced on the countertop on either side of him, trapping him in the haze of heat pouring off of Jared’s body. Jensen’s pulse spikes.
“Ordered onions on my pizza,” Jared says. His eyes are on Jensen’s mouth. “If we’re gonna make out, we should do it now.”
Jensen swallows, hard. He fumbles his beer, knocking it against the counter before managing to set it down where it wobbles unsteadily for a few seconds. “I’m not sure-”
Jensen doesn’t realise his eyes are closed until Jared’s mouth touches his. Jared’s lips are soft, dry, gently convincing. It’s nothing like what he expected Jared to be, and almost exactly like it. All Jared does, plain and simple, is mess Jensen up so bad he doesn’t know which direction he’s supposed to be falling in anymore.
“C’mon,” Jared says. He nudges at Jensen’s mouth, cups the side of Jensen’s face.
Something inside Jensen snaps, breaker tripped, fuse blown. He surges forward, bypassing all the pussyfooting around to shove his tongue into Jared’s mouth, lick the taste of beer and french fries from Jared’s teeth.
Jared flinches from the cold touch of Jensen’s hand on his waist before pushing into it, past it, fitting their bodies together from chest to hip. The edge of the counter digs hard into Jensen’s lower back, grates against his spine until Jared’s hands slide in, pull him away from it on a stumbling backwards step.
Jensen breaks from the kiss long enough to gasp, “Wha-”, then his back slams against a wall and he loses every last scrap of breath in his lungs. Jared is there a second later, hands on his hips to hold him in place, grinding against him and biting at his collarbone, his throat, leaving behind tiny, stinging-hot marks and air-cooled saliva.
Jensen’s head lolls back, Adam’s apple bobbing beneath Jared’s lips. “Think this qualifies as heavy petting.”
Jared glances up, straightens, hands skimming up Jensen’s sides and down his arms to wrap tightly about his wrists. For a minute, Jensen’s sure he’s stepped on a live wire or something, pure electricity shooting through his veins as Jared lifts his arms, pins them above his head in a light, warning grip.
“No,” Jensen breathes out, “hell no. But-”
A light kiss to his jaw. “You want me to suck you off before I fuck you?”
“Jesus fucking Christ, Jared.”
Jared grins, happy and open. It shouldn’t match the dark, heavy slant of his eyes, or the firm, hot press of his dick against Jensen’s hip, but it does. It’s all Jared and it makes Jensen want.
The phone rings twice. Silence, then twice more.
“Front desk,” Jensen says, at the same time Jared says, “Pizza.”
Jared doesn’t ease back. Jensen says, “Forget it,” and can’t stop the startled laugh that escapes him at the look of unadulterated horror on Jared’s face.
“You want me to let fresh pizza go to waste?”
Jensen shrugs, flexes his wrists experimentally against Jared’s hold. “Thought maybe you’d like to screw around more.”
“I can have both,” Jared declares. “And I’m gonna. On the bed, before I put you there.”
“Yeah,” Jensen scoffs, not ignoring the way his stomach flips so much as wallowing in it. “I’d like to see you try.”
Jared’s eyes flicker, turn almost black. He brings his mouth flush to Jensen’s ear, says, “I’d like the chance,” and leaves Jensen completely hanging, moving away to ring the front and have the pizzas sent up.
Jensen flops flat on his back on the bed. Jared goes to rustle up some cash or a piece of plastic the delivery guy will take, and Jensen sits back up, scoots to the headboard and leans against it. Crosses his legs, his arms, uncrosses them all over again.
“I can’t believe you stopped for food,” he says when Jared comes back, a slice of half-eaten pizza in one hand, the boxes balanced on the other.
“Sure you can.” Jared drops the boxes beside the bed, drops himself on it, and offers up a slice to Jensen. “Food trumps everything except certain death.”
“Then I’m going to kill you.” Still, the pizza’s good. He can admit that much in the privacy of his own head.
“Nope,” Jared says. He crams the rest of his pizza in his mouth, chews once or twice for propriety’s sake, and swallows. “You’d instantly regret it and end up offing yourself.”
“Like Romeo and Juliet, huh?”
“Minus the feuding families.”
“Got news for you, Jay.” Jensen drops his unwanted pizza back in the box. “You’re no Juliet.”
Jared wipes his hands on his clothes, rolling over to prop his back up against the headboard.
This is Jensen’s out. They can have the pizza and beer, watch a game, a movie, can write off the months of Jared’s sledgehammer teasing as just fucking around.
Jared jerks his chin at Jensen. The tension comes flashflooding back, barely cooled blood reheating, surging south.
He doesn’t want out. He’s not sure what the hell anymore, but he knows he doesn’t want out. He crawls straight onto Jared’s lap, knees spread wide, hand on the strong column of Jared’s throat.
That part’s easy. Working up the spit to say what needs to be said, acknowledged, brought from wherever they’ve stuffed it out into the light, isn’t.
Jared kisses him again, tasting sharply of tomato sauce. Long and slow, searching, like he thinks Jensen needs a distraction from the way his hands creep under borrowed clothes, fingers stretched out, tips sliding between the cheeks of Jensen’s ass.
“Done this before?” Jared asks, rubbing the pad of one finger against Jensen lazy as his kiss.
Jensen bites his lip, focus narrowed down to the slow catch and drag. “Not for awhile,” he admits. Easy honesty makes Jensen nervous; he tries to cover it up with a sly smirk, a deliberately quiet, “Practically virginal,” but Jared sees right through him. Same as always.
“Up on your knees for me?”
Jensen drags in a shuddering breath, nods, and rolls onto all fours. He doesn’t take off his shirt, just shoves it up under his armpits, twisting a hand in it to hold it there while Jared nudges his sweats down.
A rustle of cotton, the bed dips, and when Jared stretches himself out over Jensen’s back, it’s just the press of warm, naked skin, nothing else between them.
“Thought about doing it like this,” Jared says. He shifts, his cock sliding between Jensen’s thighs with a hot smear of precome. Jensen doesn’t fight to hold back a low moan, relishing the answering sound Jared makes. “Just cover you in come. Mine and yours. But Jesus, Jen, I want to fuck you.” His mouth skates along Jensen’s shoulder blade, slight edge of teeth, of tongue. “I want to fuck you so bad.”
“Anytime,” Jensen rasps, reflexively clearing his throat. He barely manages to keep from swallowing his tongue as Jared leans back, cock dragging upwards, brushing so close to where they both want it. “Anytime now, Jay.”
Jared laughs roughly, the sound spilling from his lips and sinking through the thin skin of Jensen’s back and into the marrow of his bones. He shivers as Jared goes for the nightstand, pulling out condoms and a half-empty, label-less bottle he’d recognise anywhere. He’s not ever going to forget the time Jared called him up from one of too many places on Davie Street to ask his opinion on lubes. It’s just the sort of thing Jared does.
“Sorta want to take my time,” Jared says. Cool, slick fingers glide over Jensen’s skin, warming fast. The first push of Jared’s finger inside him isn’t slow, isn’t hard either, but it steals away the breath he tries to draw. “Don’t think it’s gonna happen.”
Jensen rocks back into the stretch, the burn, willing it to linger longer than it does. “Not much in the mood for slow myself,” he says, sliding his arms forward, arching his back just to hear the hitch in Jared’s breathing.
“How much d’you need?” Jared’s voice is tight, strained.
“Don’t want much,” Jensen grits out. “Just make it wet.”
“Fuck, okay. I can do that.”
He does, fast. Jensen barely feels opened up at all by the time the head of Jared’s cock touches him. On instinct, he bows his head, bites at the pillow beneath him. Anticipation coils tight, shrinks his skin. Jared pushes, gains one slow inch after another, shoving low, muffled noises from the back of Jensen’s throat with every roll of his hips.
An explosive breath bursts over Jensen’s back. “Can’t,” Jared says, “Jen, Christ, you’re too tight.”
Jensen scrabbles for a hold on Jared’s sweat-slick hip, blunt nails digging into flesh. “Don’t stop, fuck. It’s good, Jay, really, really fucking good, do it.”
Jared hesitates, his shudder echoing through Jensen. Jensen’s ready to say whatever the hell Jared needs to hear to keep this going just like it is, reassurances, promises, anything, because if he wasn’t certain about this ten minutes ago, he sure as fuck is now.
He doesn’t need to utter a damn thing. Jared breathes deep and grabs onto Jensen’s hips, fucks his way inside with choppy, grunted curses. Jensen squeezes his eyes shut and tries to muffle his own groans to hear Jared’s, tries to focus on the heavy fullness of Jared inside him, and can’t. Jared’s hands are everywhere, pushing his legs wider, his ass higher, stroking down over his chest to his belly to frame his cock with strong, lube-slick fingers.
“Louder, Jen,” he urges. “Loud as you fuckin’ want, wanna hear you.”
Jensen shakes his head, swallowing air instead of spit. “You want it loud, fuck me harder.”
Jared takes him at his word, thrusting harder, faster. Jensen can feel the slap of Jared’s balls against his ass like a counterpoint to the stretch-slide of Jared’s dick, fresh shivers racing beneath his skin on every slippery withdrawal when the pleasure spikes.
Jared hits his prostate every couple strokes but doesn’t try to aim for it, listening to him when he babbles stupidly about that being too quick, too cheap, over too fast in an explosive backdraft instead of a slow, smouldering burn.
Groaning something like shit, Jared tenses, fights against his own body for control. Jensen can feel Jared losing and tips the scales even more with a deliberate flex of muscles, fucking himself back onto Jared’s cock and ignoring the desperate scramble of hands on his waist.
He just closes his eyes and waits for it, letting out a thready noise of his own to meld with Jared’s, instantly regretting the condom when the warmth of Jared’s come remains trapped instead of spilling free inside him.
Jared’s hand fumbles for his cock, jerks him rough and stumbling before finding something less awkward, but it doesn’t matter by then. Jensen barely needs the first tug, just has to let go and he’s coming, covering Jared’s fingers with liquid heat that Jared strokes back over his cock.
He lists under Jared’s weight, too busy relearning how to breathe to worry about inevitably being crushed into the mattress. Jared saves them both from that fate with another quiet grunt and a shove, toppling to the side and dragging Jensen with him.
Jared’s cock slips free and Jensen groans; gentle fingers replace it and he groans louder. Only one dips into him, just touching, exploring, tracing the hot, swollen ridge of muscle. It’s lazy, slow and sweet as honey, like Jared, and possessive, like Jensen should’ve known he would be.
Half-heartedly, not really wanting Jared to stop but compelled to give token protest, Jensen swats at Jared’s arm.
It doesn’t dissuade him, but Jensen gets a tiny bite and a lick to his shoulder for his trouble. Good enough trade-off.
“I was bottom,” Jensen mumbles. “Means you gotta clean up.”
Jared’s amusement glows warm on his back. He can’t see Jared’s expression, but he knows what it is: eyebrows raised, lips curved despite how hard Jared tries to flatten them into a thin line, dimples shadowed deep. Nostrils flared on a soft snort.
“Who made up that rule?”
“I did, ’cause I can’t walk.”
Amusement turns smug, pleased. “Really?”
“Are you fucking with me just so you don’t have to get up?”
Jared huffs. It’s sort of pathetic, since Jensen can still feel the heat of a smile on the back of his neck. “You want some pizza while I’m up?”
Jensen flops onto his back and kicks off his sweats, Jared’s hand withdrawing just in time and resettling on his hip, no less possessive. He stretches, long and languorous right from the tips of his toes to the tips of his fingers. An ache in his thigh makes itself known, a tightness in the shoulder that’d held most of his weight. The good sort of pain that he looks forward to carrying with him.
Jared watches him with that same look back in his eyes.
All things considered, warmed-up pizza should be the last thing on their minds. Jensen’s stomach burbles, reminding him pointedly that life doesn’t commercial break for impending doom.
“Pizza sounds good.”
Jared’s hand splays lightly on his stomach, fingertips tracing out tiny, pointless patterns. “It’s got onions.”
Dealing with everything else in the morning isn’t the best idea Jensen’s ever had, but right now, it’s the only one.
“Onions aren’t so bad.”