Seventeen Dirty Magazines

Jensen/Jared. NC-17. ~3200 words.
But really, when he thinks about it, Jensen’s not sure how the hell Jared does it.

It takes Jensen five and a half rings to dig his cell out of the pile of dirty laundry at his feet. He’s got to quit leaving stuff in his jeans like that. Last time it was Jared’s memory stick and man, he got hell for that.

He doesn’t bother to check the display, flicking open the phone and saying, “I’m naked, what?”

“Completely naked?”

“Boxers,” Jensen concedes. “Laundry day. Night. Whatever.”

Jared makes a huffing noise across the airwaves. “Don’t forget to check your pockets.”

“Yes, mama.” Jensen wedges the cell up against his ear with his shoulder, kicking over a crooked pile of clothes to start sorting dirty from incredibly, shockingly, filthy-dirty. He has a slightly different interpretation of the ‘like with like’ rule of laundry, because the idea of stuffing mud-caked, drool-crusty jeans in with his underwear makes his skin crawl.

He loves Jared’s dogs. Honestly. But he’s seen the sort of shit they get into and he doesn’t want that anywhere near his goods.

“Did you want something,” Jensen asks, “or were you just calling ’cause you missed me?”

“I’m hungry.”

“Boston Pizza is number two on your speed dial, remember?” Jensen glances at the pile of loose change he’s unearthed. Seven dollars and twenty-three cents. Canadians and their crazy coins. No wonder everyone jingles when they walk.

“I’m hungry and I wanna go out.” Distantly, Jensen hears Sadie’s quiet whuff and nails clicking on hardwood. “Startin’ to feel a little cabin feverish.”

Jensen freezes, smelly sweatsock dangling from his fingertips. “It’s the middle of August, you only get cabin fever in winter.”

“Do not.”


“You want me to come over there and kick your ass?”

Jensen drops the sock and leans back against the half-full washer to consider the many varied implications of a Jared afflicted with cabin fever. The ride to set would be made hell by Jared’s insufferable leg-jiggle. Their friendly gaming between scenes would become tainted with the snarling, sniping need to win. Shooting would be just plain disastrous.

“Not Davie Street,” Jensen says.

“Aw, but-”

“No way am I in the mood to get harassed by a waiter that’s even more flaming gay than you.”

Jared’s grin is as bright in his voice as it is in the flesh when he says, “That’s the post-drinking tradition. Besides, The Elbow Room closes at like, noon or something. And I know you love it there.”

Jensen nods to himself but says nothing to Jared. So what if he gets a kick out of it when he’s drunk? There’s nothing quite like a guy half your size taking one look at the hunk of burger you had to leave on your plate because the thing really is that fucking huge and demanding to know what the hell you’re doing on Davie if you can’t handle that much meat stuffed in your face.

“There’s this place in Coquitlam,” Jared says.

“Nothing good ever comes from a sentence that starts with ‘there’s this place.’”

Jared makes a whining noise Jensen swears he learned from Harley. “C’mon, the food’s supposed to be fucking spectacular. Mike says it’s always packed.”

Jensen looks down at the heaps of dirty clothes, wondering if he’s got anything left in his closet. “You’re taking his word for it?”


Jesus, if they could package and sell that, the world would never need an ounce of free will again. Nobody would even miss it. They’d all just sit around waiting for Jared-fucking-Padalecki to stand up and say please.

“Alright, alright, Christ. But-”

“Cab’ll be there in ten.”

Jensen stares down at his phone after the line goes dead. He really hopes he’s got a clean pair of jeans around here somewhere.


But really, when he thinks about it, Jensen’s not sure how the hell Jared does it. Jensen–and he doesn’t care how many times Steve jokes that he’s just getting old–likes his routines. He figures it has something to do with the unpredictability of his job. Sure, they’ve got a script and they lay out when and where they’re filming what, but there’s barely a day when everything runs smoothly. Props break, weather changes, actors mess up. Outside the chaos of the set, he’s the one calling the shots, and the shots go off like clockwork.

Except when Jared gets involved. That’s when it all goes to hell and Jensen wakes up with a hangover just to realise he’s got to be at the studio in fifteen minutes and he doesn’t have any clean underwear so he’s got to go commando and hope against all hope that nobody notices the glitter shit (and where the hell did that come from?) stuck in the thin bit of hair on his belly.

Inevitably, Jared’s the one who notices. Then Jensen has to deal with giant gaping holes in his memory while faced with one of Jared’s shit-eating, bigger-than-Texas grins.

He really hopes there’s no glitter in Coquitlam.


When the cab pulls in to the cramped parking lot, Jensen spots Jared leaning against one of a pair of giant lion statues. Screaming pink neon glints off the surface of a bubbling fountain. The whole place sort of looks like someone plucked it right up out of one of the tackier streets in LA and plunked it back down again in the great white north, where by some virtue of the thinner air or something equally typically Canadian, it transformed into something kitschy-modern instead of just plain sad.

Jared fits right in.

Music slams into Jensen as soon as he steps out of the car. Laughter, warmth and the clink of cutlery flows down off the patio, the giant heaters stuck on top of poles glowing like embers in the dim light. The cabbie tosses him a wave and a smile and takes off like a bat out of hell.

Jared-scented heat engulfs him before he has a chance to turn around. “Got a tab running at the bar, c’mon. It like an hour’s wait for a table.”

Jensen digs himself out from underneath the flapping edge of Jared’s jacket. It’s the nice, wine-red leather one Jared nicked from that photo shoot a couple years back, the one that already smells like nights out and what happens in Vegas (Vancouver), stays in Vegas.


Jensen contemplates the lump of Crayola-orange slushy alcohol precariously balanced in the martini glass in front of him. It’s undoubtedly a girl’s drink. Jared ordered it along with a much more manly something-on-the-rocks, and put both on the tab, leaving an unsuspecting Jensen to assume the on-the-rocks was for him, and the froo-froo thing was for Jared.

Not so. The girl’s drink is for Jensen, and it actually doesn’t taste half bad, which means Jensen is obviously the girl in this relationship.

“I am not,” he says.

A wide-eyed picture of innocence, Jared says, “Not what?” and crunches through a hapless ice cube.

“The girl in this relationship.”

“Are we having a relationship?”

“You dragged me-”

“From your laundry.”

-out here, and now you’re buying me chick drinks.”

“I’m seducing you.” Jared spits a chunk of ice back into his glass and shakes it around, searching for a smaller piece to demolish.

“You suck at it.”

“Wait until I turn on the charm.”

“Get me a beer, bitch.”


Jensen’s pretty sure they’re in a relationship, but it’s one that doesn’t fit into any of the tidily labelled boxes he has stacked up in his head for this sort of thing. For one, they go out all the time, but it never feels like a date, it feels like hanging out with your best friend. Your best friend who doesn’t need to ask what you’d like to drink, just says, I’ll get the booze, and comes back with something you didn’t know you were in the mood for. Your best friend, who, if you happen to be stuck in a line for the john, knows just what to order from a menu you hadn’t even glanced at yet.

They don’t have sex. Jensen’s actually pretty sure Jared’s never touched a cock aside from his own before. But man, have they had some seriously hot make-out sessions.

This is the part where he gets confused.


“You gonna eat that?” Jared says, long fingers inching close like a thief in the night for the last succulent bite of steak left on Jensen’s plate.

Jensen jabs his fork at Jared’s hand, only half joking. “Shoulda had your own.”

Jared glances down at the sad remains of a double-serving of make-your-own beef fajitas. “Hey, I gave you some. You’re supposed to share.”

Jensen spears the steak and slides it off his fork with the edges of his teeth, taking his own sweet time about it, and chews just as slowly. Jared watches him like a hawk.

“Didn’t get that memo,” Jensen says, washing it down with a long pull on his beer. His beer that showed up with a little umbrella stuck in it, because somehow Jared managed to enamour every single bartender and their waitress in the ten minutes he spent waiting for Jensen to arrive.


Jensen makes another show of licking his lips and pushing aside his plate, patting his belly smugly. Jared’s gaze sharpens to a razor’s edge, slicing through the breath Jensen’s about to take.

“Gotta take a leak,” Jared declares, his napkin dropped onto his plate.


One thing Jensen can say without a doubt about Canadians is that they keep their bathrooms clean. He’s not so surprised when it’s an upper-class deal like the public washrooms at the Hyatt, or a restaurant where it’s thirty bucks an entrée. The first time he’d had to piss so bad he actually walked into a gas station bathroom, he’d been prepared for the worst but had ended up with motion-sensor taps and towel dispensers and liquid soap that’d smelled like his momma’s flower gardens.

Jared had been waiting outside with a smile a mile wide and his hundred-dollar sunglasses pushed up on his forehead. Five minutes later, Jensen was back in the bathroom with Jared’s tongue in his mouth.

He’s pretty sure Jared has a kink.


Jensen takes one look at the bathroom he’s followed Jared into this time and purses his lips in a low whistle. The floor is done in flagstones, the walls sheathed in marble, the countertops solid slabs of it. Paper towels are in granite holders laid out by the sinks between bottles of lotion. One full side of the room is taken up by a black leather couch and matching chairs, and an LCD screen mounted on the wall opposite it is playing some pop-star slut-of-the-moment’s latest video.

The urinals are set in recessed alcoves on either side of the television, and the final wall is dedicated to floor-to-ceiling opaque glass stalls. The dark outline of Jared’s shadow is visible in the one closest to the couch, and the little lock on the door lies vacancy invitingly.

Jensen scrubs his palms dry on his jeans. He waits for the guy at the sink to finish fucking with his hair and duck out before letting himself be drawn straight to Jared. A nervous flutter in his gut makes him take one last glance over his shoulder, and that’s when Jared’s hand snakes out to curl in the waistband of his jeans to roughly yank him inside.

The stall’s practically soundproof. He can’t hear the television anymore, just the raw music pumped straight in through a speaker in the ceiling. Jared shoves him up against a wall that turns out to be something thicker than glass, slick like plastic, his back thumping dully against it.

Jared reaches down by his hip to flick the lock. If anybody walks in now, they’ll see Jensen plastered up against the door, Jared’s wide palm flattened by his head. Jensen’s heart kicks viciously against his ribs, his lips already thick, tingling. He wonders if anybody standing on the other side of the door could see Jared leaning closer, spreading his legs with a knee. Wonders if the roller coaster lurch of his stomach has more to do with that, or with the spicy heat he can taste on Jared’s breath.

Jared’s lips are soft, easy. His tongue glides over Jensen’s, coaxes them open like he doesn’t really need to but Jensen learned pretty quickly how much Jared got off on that sort of thing. Jared prefers to take the lead, lick his way into Jensen’s mouth like he’s convincing Jensen to give up something, like kissing Jared is on some secret list of things the universe has decided Jensen Ross Ackles should never, ever do.

Maybe it should be, for as good as it feels. Maybe it’s a little like that first fumbling time you have a girl in the front of your Dad’s old pickup, or when you realise you might like somebody else’s cock as much as you like your own. Maybe Jensen shouldn’t know how fast Jared gets hard from just a kiss, or that kissing Jared isn’t ‘just’ anything.

Jensen shoves a hand between them, cups it over Jared’s cock and rubs good and hard. He swallows down the noises Jared makes like they’re cold, clear water and he’s dying of thirst. This is the way it always goes, Jared’s tongue in his mouth and his hands on Jared’s dick through layers of cotton until Jared’s shaking and moaning and coming. And then, when he’s blissed out on sex, Jensen rutting against his hip like a teenager until they’re both breathless and sticky.

He’s not really sure why this is the way of things between them, but it’s good, and the one thing he learned without a doubt on his daddy’s knee is when something’s this good, don’t fuck up by wanting more than you can have.

Doesn’t mean he doesn’t want it, though. So maybe his dad should’ve said don’t fuck up by trying to get it.

He finds the head of Jared’s cock beneath worn denim, twists his wrist just right to get Jared’s knees knocking, and then he’s staring dazed and confused at the opposite wall when Jared whips him around, hissing into the short hair at the nape of his neck.

Jensen thinks maybe he could do without this manhandling thing, then instantly revises his opinion to maybe the manhandling thing could turn out to be okay, because Jared’s got one of those big hands splayed between his shoulder blades, pushing him down. And fuck, that’s Jared riding his ass like he really fucking means it, the clothes still between them be damned.

Something crinkles and Jensen looks down. The toilet seat’s wrapped in smooth plastic, a little sign with an arrow pointing at a red button helpfully telling him to remember to press it for fresh covering before having a seat.

He’d laugh except he’s pretty sure Jared’s about to fuck him, and Jared’s dick is no laughing matter.

Jared’s long fingers paw at his belt. Jensen would help, really he would, but he’s got his hands full just trying to stay mostly vertical. It takes Jared thirty seconds and two more pleading moans to get in his pants, and when the cool kiss of air conditioning on his bare ass makes his stomach do a full set of back flips and ends with a somersault just to show off, he realises he’s giddy. Absolutely and without a doubt giddy. It feels a little like being drunk and a lot like being high and nothing at all like either, because there’s no cloudy haze, just a thick, heavy, gut-wrenching certainty that this is going to be really, really good.

“I don’t-” Jared says, and Jensen’s lungs seize. He sounds so fucked out already. Jensen’s never heard him like that before because they don’t talk when they do this, ever. They always say more than enough with shallow breaths and quiet moans, and it turns out it wasn’t really enough at all because Jensen’s about two steps from blowing it.

“You,” Jensen stops, clears the bubbling rasp from his throat. “You got something?”

He thinks Jared says, “No,” which is not the answer he’s looking for at all so he’s pretending Jared didn’t say anything. He’s about to ask again, give the universe a chance to right that horrible wrong, when Jared’s cock slides between his thighs, wet head nudged up against his balls. Jared spreads himself, shuddering, over Jensen’s back, hips rocking in fitful starts and stops, hand braced on the glassy marble wall.

Jensen doesn’t mistake it when he moans, “Please.”

Awkwardly, Jensen shoves his jeans down to his ankles. He squeezes his legs together, teeth cutting hard into his lip as Jared groans, fucks up against him faster. His thighs turns slick with sweat and precome, the smell of it thick and real, sucked straight down his lungs on every hard breath. Jared’s not quiet anymore, garbled words muffled in the back of Jensen’s neck, things that he’s sure don’t make any sense but they squeeze tight in his chest anyway.

He’s not ready for it to be over when Jared loses it, stilling with a grunt. More groaned nonsense, then the warm spill of come on Jensen’s skin followed by Jared’s bumbling hands on his cock. Rough, clumsy tugs stating clear as day Jared’s never made a habit of fucking around with guys bring Jensen off faster than he’s shot a load since high school.

When his vision swims back into focus, Jared’s wiping at the mess between his legs with a wad of toilet paper like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He chucks it in the bowl and steps back when Jensen straightens up, scratching at the back of his head as if he’s not sure what just happened.

“So,” Jensen says.

Jared tucks his cock away and shuffles his feet. “So, um.”

Jensen waits. He feels slightly absurd with his pants still down. He’s fairly certain Jared would be a lot more verbal if he hauled them up, but he’s always sort of enjoyed it when something manages to throw Jared off. The guy’s hard to embarrass.

“That really wasn’t tonight’s plan, y’know? But,” he grins, settling his hands familiarly on Jensen’s bare hips, “ain’t complainin’.”

Something weird happens to Jensen’s internal organs, this strange shifting sensation as if his heart and lungs and stomach have spontaneously decided to line dance up and down his ribcage. He’s not sure he can form a coherent sentence, so after a quick conference with the three working brain cells he has left, he says, “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Jared says. His thumbs draw tiny absent circles on Jensen’s hipbones. Jensen thinks he might come again, which really is ridiculous. “You wanna do it again?”

“You get the bill,” Jensen says. He yanks up his jeans and fixes his clothes, giving the red button on the toilet a considering glance before pushing it curiously. A tiny motor whirrs and the come-stained plastic sheath is whipped off, a new shuffling in to take its place. “I’ll get the cab.”

Jared’s looking distractedly at the toilet seat. “Huh,” he says. As soon as the motor shuts off, his attention snaps back to Jensen. With a grin, he untucks Jensen’s shirt all over again, smoothing it down over a conspicuous wet spot on the front of his jeans. “Yeah. Yeah, that sounds good.”


7 Responses to “Seventeen Dirty Magazines”

  1. Lily Says:

    This is so hot. You killed me with the “bare hips” and the “hipbones” especially.

    *fans self* Nice job!

  2. SekraMage Says:

    I’ve gotten way behind in reading your work over on IJ during this past semester. It’s so lovely to come over here and see this up on the homepage.

    “…when the cool kiss of air conditioning on his bare ass makes his stomach do a full set of back flips and ends with a somersault just to show off…”

    I love that line, and I really like how your sense of humor works its way into your fic and makes itself known.

  3. paintmydays Says:

    God. This was so hot.

  4. Tangymoose Says:

    amazing <3 and hot. I loved it!

  5. Daisy Says:

    “Jesus, if they could package and sell that, the world would never need an ounce of free will again. Nobody would even miss it. They’d all just sit around waiting for Jared-fucking-Padalecki to stand up and say please.”

    I LOVE these couple sentences. :)
    I know I would. tee hee hee.

  6. Gwen Says:

    That was hot but what got me was the toilet thing! wasn’t expecting that at all.

  7. emily Says:

    rofl love how jensen was confused about their relationship at first and the girl drinks XD

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