Mixed Signals (NC17, J2)
Reposting from kinkmeme, because this journey is joggly and I can't focus on screen well enough to write much.
This is Mixed Signals, for the prompt 'mistaken for a hooker' - OP preferred Jared in the role for a change. *Kind* of got over my pornfail for this, but it's still mostly not NC17. Except when it is.
Jared chooses to believe it is the shirt that's the problem. It is, definitely, tighter than normal. A lot tighter than he usually wears. But that's what happens when you can't miss a good friend's birthday, and you have an unfortunate work accident (read 'get peed on by a small, but insanely incontinent dog') just as you're leaving for said birthday, and the only piece of non-pee-covered non-veterinary clothing that will get near you is a plain black tee that Don left behind after the aardvark episode.
Don wasn't tiny, but Jared is really, really not tiny. A boring black tee on Don is a 'hello, see my nipples dance' on Jared. But he wants to be there for Chad (mostly, admittedly, in case Chad needs bail posting, but that's important, friendshipwise). So he tries to ignore the way he looks, and gets along to The Waterfront only a little later than planned.
Two hours later, Jared is far, far too hot to keep decently covered up in his jacket. It's fairly dark in the bar, no one has said anything (and if Jared's nipples were as blatant as he thinks they are, Chad would definitely have said something). But he is sweaty. So the shirt clings. When Jared walks over to the bar for his third trip, he's suddenly aware of just how much it's clinging. There's more light by the bar, backlit fluorescents that pick out unexpected highlights on even casually dressed fellow drinkers. Jared is trying to avoid looking at his own chest, which must be highlighted all over.
It's a dark, chilly Friday night outside, and there is a warm press around the bar, people enjoying kicking back. Jared settles in to wait for service, patiently enough.
"Whatever you're selling, I am so buying," murmurs an unknown voice right in Jared's ear.
Jared turns, halfway to laughing but also seriously? poised on his lips. How ridiculous is that for a pickup line?
But the murmurer is just… wow. So gorgeous that Jared's two opposed reactions simply freeze. He wants this guy, cheesy lines notwithstanding.
"I'm selling whatever you want," he says, not quite believing his own daring.
"Dance?" says the guy. The beautiful, beautiful guy. Jared looks over at the booth where his friends are. It's a big group. Chad already pretty much passed out. Tom is sober, and can bail him if necessary. Jared doesn't actually need to buy more drinks. Not yet. The guys will understand.
Jared follows the stranger, drinkless, away from the light and onto the packed, sweaty dancefloor. Yes, it will make him yet sweatier, but at least his ridiculous shirt will be hidden from the light. And the stranger doesn’t seem to care about sweat, making dishonourable intentions very clear from the moment he slides a hand into Jared's jeans pocket and drags their hips together.
Okay, not exactly dancing. More dry humping. But, you know, Jared can't really dance, and this guy is gorgeous, did he mention, and some days Jared is allowed to be shallow. Okay?
And suddenly, it's an hour later and Jared and the stranger are still dancing/near-fucking in public, with the guy's hand halfway down the back of Jared's pants, playing idle fingers against his ass-crack, lips suctioning at Jared's neck and shoulder enough that there will be bruises tomorrow and hey, yeah. Jared is up for this. Literally but also figuratively; he's not much into one-nighters, but this is going to be one of those rare days when it seems like a plan. Chad left already, with a massive indiscreet thumbs up in Jared's direction. He's free, he's young and single, this is one of those things you just do in life, just occasionally.
"I have a hotel," says the stranger. No real surprise; this is the business district, the guy's alone, and Jared would know if this guy were a core part of the local scene. The city ain't that big. It gives him a ripple of unease, though. A sleazy thing, fucking a stranger in an anonymous hotel room. But the stranger's mouth fastens on Jared's and licks the unsure right out of him.
So it goes, all the way to the hotel elevator, which is insanely slow, and gives Jared the opportunity to ask, "What's your name?"
The stranger pulls away a little. Maybe offended? His full mouth twitches a little, just a fleeting tic. "You need a name?"
"I'd like to call you something." Jared isn't one for cutesy nicknames. He loves to pant out names, actual names, naming the guy he's fucking.
The stranger stutters, stops, says, "Uh, Jensen." Then looks like he regrets it. Probably a real name.
"Jared," says Jared, into the silence of not-being-asked.
"Uhuh," says Jensen. He kisses Jared, thoroughly, until the lift dings at them. Along the corridor, shedding parts of clothing, so Jared arrives at Jensen's door with no jacket, his belt undone, and Jensen's fingers scrabbling at the tight line the borrowed tee makes across his lower belly. Inside the bedroom, Jared returns the favour, stripping Jensen with thoroughness, kicking out of shoes and jeans so that by the time they make it to the bed Jensen is naked and Jared is still wearing the damn tee.
Jensen flips them over (okay, Jared co-operates), and licks that same line along Jared's lower belly, above his underwear, where his fingers were playing. "Driving me fucking crazy," he mumbles, slurring heavily, though neither of them has drunk anything since they first met, and Jared doesn't believe Jensen's actually drunk so much as turned on. Definitely not incapable, judging by the smooth way Jensen peels away Jared's underwear and slips his mouth warmly over Jared's eager dick. Fingers are working up behind Jared's balls, flirting with his asshole already, and it’s maybe too quick but Jared wants, and his dick really doesn't care about propriety just now.
"Slick," murmurs Jensen, and Jared shakes his head, because really, who goes out for a night with friends all prepared for meaningless sex?
Jensen looks annoyed, and Jared immediately ruins that near-virtuous thought by diving for his jeans which do, in fact, contain a couple of pre-lubed condoms in his wallet. Which, not perfect. But. (He's pretty sure they're still good. And he wants, still.)
It's probably not even two hours after they met that Jensen's dick starts working into Jared. Fuck, tight, he processes, long before it becomes good - not enough slick, not really enough prep. He looks up at Jensen's face, surprised and tense, as Jensen slowly presses in. "So tight, amazing, so tight for me, baby-" and apparently Jensen is a guy for meaningless babbled endearments instead of names, and the very fact Jared even cares says how much he's been jerked out of that lust haze that fell on him the first time he looked at Jensen.
But Jensen has stamina, and knows how to fuck, and eventually it gets good again, Jared's dick getting back into the game, and by the time Jensen comes, they're fully porn-star fucking, Jared's knees right over Jensen's shoulders and Jensen's mouth pouting in promise as he looks down at Jared's bobbing dick. It's a promise he keeps, pulling out and stripping off the condom fast after he comes, "Hold on, want you to come on my face." Which nearly gets Jared off before any of that happens, but he does, just about, hold back long enough to feel Jensen's hot, amazing mouth swallowing him down for a few seconds before Jared tugs warningly on Jensen's hair and watches him pull back as Jared comes, urgently spurting across those open lips and flushed cheeks. Jensen closes his eyes for a second, then smiles, swirls a finger in the gloopy come, and tastes it. Jared's spent dick gives a tiny, definite twitch. Fucking awesome mouth.
He's a little sore, a tiny bit drunk, a whole lot tired, and he's still wearing the damn shirt when he crashes. Probably should try to stay awake, it's only polite, but he's not superman.
Jensen wakes him in the depths of the night, hands insistent on Jared's dick. "You gonna fuck me, baby?"
Jared is. Works him open with fingers and tongue, hard-driving the flexible muscle into the tight resistant ring as Jensen gasps and writhes on the bed under him. Jared gets Jensen's ass thoroughly spit-wet, kinder than Jensen was to him, before his lubed-condom dick gets anywhere near that gorgeous tight hole. He sinks in slow, still sleepy, but not too tired to enjoy the tight clench of muscle as Jensen struggles to let him in, and the blissful slow sinking after, as Jensen relaxes. "Yeah, fuck me there, yeah baby," comes the relentless drizzle of sex talk, and Jared stays quiet, letting it wash over him, all attention focused on the sensations circling and focusing in his dick, his balls, his lower spine, as every part of his body gives in to the urge to just fuck Jensen.
"Fuck, Jensen," he says it aloud, eventually, can't hold it any longer. "Fuck, ohhhh, fuck yeah," and reaches round for Jensen's dick, finding it swollen-hot against Jensen's belly, dripping steadily from the tip, and so, so close to coming that Jared doesn't even pretend to try to hold back. Slamming in, in, in, yeah, innnnn, he comes unstoppably, Jensen maybe two beats behind him, splurting warm come up Jared's hand and arm.
They're both too stunned by that mindblowing simultaneity that they don't even speak after. A little entangled kissing and licking as they unwind enough to sleep, and then BAM! Jared crashes completely.
When he wakes, he's still in the damn tee. Sweaty, spunk-smeared and with an odour of booze from the club that Jared didn't even notice last night, it's possibly the most obscene garment Jared has ever worn. He peels out of it, and steps under the blissful heat of a hotel shower.
He's so gone, it takes almost to the end of the shower to notice that Jensen wasn't in the room when he woke. A little weird. It's Saturday, right? No meetings?
Jared wanders out of the shower in a towel, suddenly a little embarrassed by himself, and Jensen. He doesn't do this shit, not any more. Too old, too damn sensible. He doesn't like the morning after let-down.
He looks, distastefully at that damn tee, which he's going to have to put back on to get home remotely decently. It's fallen up by the nightstand, and that's really the only reason Jared even notices the note. And the money.
$500. What the fuck? And the note, on the back of a business card that gives Jensen's name, cell number and the job description Strategic Development Consultant, like that means anything to anyone.
The note reads: Back home 0730 flight. Couldn't wake you. Sorry, didn't fix a price beforehand. Msg if I underestimated. Back here 4/15 if ur available. J.
Jared flops back onto the bed, breath whooping out of him in sheer surprise. So, apparently he looks like a whore. Awesome.
He blames the shirt. Obviously.
Autopiloting, Jared dresses in what are generally pretty icky last-night clothes. He picks up the note, and the cash, because what the hell else does he do? Leave the world's most ridiculous maid service tip? Actually, that would be an awesome good deed, but it would deprive Jared of the chance to rub Jensen's face in his damn insulting money. (Is $500 a good rate? Jared doesn't see that much cash often, but it doesn't exactly seem like high-priced call-girl lifestyle stuff. Or is it? He's not even sure whether to be insulted at this estimate of his worth, as opposed to generically insulted by the more global Hooker-Misidentification thing. Which he definitely is.)
He's still pondering as he leaves the room, heads back to the bar and picks up his car.
See, Jared doesn't leave things to fester. He confronts, talks out, deals. If all else fails, he calls Chad and they make it funny. He really doesn't want to call Chad about this.
It kind of is funny, in an awful way, but the awful part is currently uppermost for Jared. He wants to confront, but Jensen left, and wherever home may be, it's a flight away. Jared has responsibilities here, and can't be randomly flying across the nation to administer (much deserved) confrontations with beautiful assholish guys who mistake hardworking veterinarians in borrowed clothing for prostitutes for fuck's sake.
His phone beeps. Message from Chad, of course, probably demanding dirt. But it reminds Jared that he has options. Confrontational ones.
Without stopping to think, he types in. Hey, Jensen? Surprise! Not. A. Hooker. Jared. And sends to the number on Jensen's card.
Jared checks his watch. It's only nine a.m., Jensen's probably in the air and out of contact. He reads back the message. It's confrontational, sort of, but it doesn't quite do the job. He texts again. PS IOU $500. Collect in April. You can spend it on some *actual* rentboy. He sends before he has time to fret about the word 'rentboy'. He's not actually sure that's the right term for the situation. But then, Jared isn't a hooker. He doesn't have to know this stuff. Jensen probably does.
Jared doesn't expect to hear anything back. Is startled when, an hour later, he gets a text which simply says, Well… Shit.
He doesn't respond. Does his Saturday things (drop by the surgery to check on overnight patients and chat with Casey who is conscientious but hates doing the quiet shifts; buys groceries; sits in front of Modern Warfare 2 till some of the irritation has flowed out of his fingertips; calls Chad, and doesn't tell him all). Lives like a normal guy, thank you.
Jared is pondering what dinner might involve, and tending decisively towards the well-thumbed stack of takeout menus when his cell rings.
It's Jensen. Jared stops, stares, wills the phone to tell him what happens next. Then takes a deep breath, and answers.
***
This is Mixed Signals, for the prompt 'mistaken for a hooker' - OP preferred Jared in the role for a change. *Kind* of got over my pornfail for this, but it's still mostly not NC17. Except when it is.
Jared chooses to believe it is the shirt that's the problem. It is, definitely, tighter than normal. A lot tighter than he usually wears. But that's what happens when you can't miss a good friend's birthday, and you have an unfortunate work accident (read 'get peed on by a small, but insanely incontinent dog') just as you're leaving for said birthday, and the only piece of non-pee-covered non-veterinary clothing that will get near you is a plain black tee that Don left behind after the aardvark episode.
Don wasn't tiny, but Jared is really, really not tiny. A boring black tee on Don is a 'hello, see my nipples dance' on Jared. But he wants to be there for Chad (mostly, admittedly, in case Chad needs bail posting, but that's important, friendshipwise). So he tries to ignore the way he looks, and gets along to The Waterfront only a little later than planned.
Two hours later, Jared is far, far too hot to keep decently covered up in his jacket. It's fairly dark in the bar, no one has said anything (and if Jared's nipples were as blatant as he thinks they are, Chad would definitely have said something). But he is sweaty. So the shirt clings. When Jared walks over to the bar for his third trip, he's suddenly aware of just how much it's clinging. There's more light by the bar, backlit fluorescents that pick out unexpected highlights on even casually dressed fellow drinkers. Jared is trying to avoid looking at his own chest, which must be highlighted all over.
It's a dark, chilly Friday night outside, and there is a warm press around the bar, people enjoying kicking back. Jared settles in to wait for service, patiently enough.
"Whatever you're selling, I am so buying," murmurs an unknown voice right in Jared's ear.
Jared turns, halfway to laughing but also seriously? poised on his lips. How ridiculous is that for a pickup line?
But the murmurer is just… wow. So gorgeous that Jared's two opposed reactions simply freeze. He wants this guy, cheesy lines notwithstanding.
"I'm selling whatever you want," he says, not quite believing his own daring.
"Dance?" says the guy. The beautiful, beautiful guy. Jared looks over at the booth where his friends are. It's a big group. Chad already pretty much passed out. Tom is sober, and can bail him if necessary. Jared doesn't actually need to buy more drinks. Not yet. The guys will understand.
Jared follows the stranger, drinkless, away from the light and onto the packed, sweaty dancefloor. Yes, it will make him yet sweatier, but at least his ridiculous shirt will be hidden from the light. And the stranger doesn’t seem to care about sweat, making dishonourable intentions very clear from the moment he slides a hand into Jared's jeans pocket and drags their hips together.
Okay, not exactly dancing. More dry humping. But, you know, Jared can't really dance, and this guy is gorgeous, did he mention, and some days Jared is allowed to be shallow. Okay?
And suddenly, it's an hour later and Jared and the stranger are still dancing/near-fucking in public, with the guy's hand halfway down the back of Jared's pants, playing idle fingers against his ass-crack, lips suctioning at Jared's neck and shoulder enough that there will be bruises tomorrow and hey, yeah. Jared is up for this. Literally but also figuratively; he's not much into one-nighters, but this is going to be one of those rare days when it seems like a plan. Chad left already, with a massive indiscreet thumbs up in Jared's direction. He's free, he's young and single, this is one of those things you just do in life, just occasionally.
"I have a hotel," says the stranger. No real surprise; this is the business district, the guy's alone, and Jared would know if this guy were a core part of the local scene. The city ain't that big. It gives him a ripple of unease, though. A sleazy thing, fucking a stranger in an anonymous hotel room. But the stranger's mouth fastens on Jared's and licks the unsure right out of him.
So it goes, all the way to the hotel elevator, which is insanely slow, and gives Jared the opportunity to ask, "What's your name?"
The stranger pulls away a little. Maybe offended? His full mouth twitches a little, just a fleeting tic. "You need a name?"
"I'd like to call you something." Jared isn't one for cutesy nicknames. He loves to pant out names, actual names, naming the guy he's fucking.
The stranger stutters, stops, says, "Uh, Jensen." Then looks like he regrets it. Probably a real name.
"Jared," says Jared, into the silence of not-being-asked.
"Uhuh," says Jensen. He kisses Jared, thoroughly, until the lift dings at them. Along the corridor, shedding parts of clothing, so Jared arrives at Jensen's door with no jacket, his belt undone, and Jensen's fingers scrabbling at the tight line the borrowed tee makes across his lower belly. Inside the bedroom, Jared returns the favour, stripping Jensen with thoroughness, kicking out of shoes and jeans so that by the time they make it to the bed Jensen is naked and Jared is still wearing the damn tee.
Jensen flips them over (okay, Jared co-operates), and licks that same line along Jared's lower belly, above his underwear, where his fingers were playing. "Driving me fucking crazy," he mumbles, slurring heavily, though neither of them has drunk anything since they first met, and Jared doesn't believe Jensen's actually drunk so much as turned on. Definitely not incapable, judging by the smooth way Jensen peels away Jared's underwear and slips his mouth warmly over Jared's eager dick. Fingers are working up behind Jared's balls, flirting with his asshole already, and it’s maybe too quick but Jared wants, and his dick really doesn't care about propriety just now.
"Slick," murmurs Jensen, and Jared shakes his head, because really, who goes out for a night with friends all prepared for meaningless sex?
Jensen looks annoyed, and Jared immediately ruins that near-virtuous thought by diving for his jeans which do, in fact, contain a couple of pre-lubed condoms in his wallet. Which, not perfect. But. (He's pretty sure they're still good. And he wants, still.)
It's probably not even two hours after they met that Jensen's dick starts working into Jared. Fuck, tight, he processes, long before it becomes good - not enough slick, not really enough prep. He looks up at Jensen's face, surprised and tense, as Jensen slowly presses in. "So tight, amazing, so tight for me, baby-" and apparently Jensen is a guy for meaningless babbled endearments instead of names, and the very fact Jared even cares says how much he's been jerked out of that lust haze that fell on him the first time he looked at Jensen.
But Jensen has stamina, and knows how to fuck, and eventually it gets good again, Jared's dick getting back into the game, and by the time Jensen comes, they're fully porn-star fucking, Jared's knees right over Jensen's shoulders and Jensen's mouth pouting in promise as he looks down at Jared's bobbing dick. It's a promise he keeps, pulling out and stripping off the condom fast after he comes, "Hold on, want you to come on my face." Which nearly gets Jared off before any of that happens, but he does, just about, hold back long enough to feel Jensen's hot, amazing mouth swallowing him down for a few seconds before Jared tugs warningly on Jensen's hair and watches him pull back as Jared comes, urgently spurting across those open lips and flushed cheeks. Jensen closes his eyes for a second, then smiles, swirls a finger in the gloopy come, and tastes it. Jared's spent dick gives a tiny, definite twitch. Fucking awesome mouth.
He's a little sore, a tiny bit drunk, a whole lot tired, and he's still wearing the damn shirt when he crashes. Probably should try to stay awake, it's only polite, but he's not superman.
Jensen wakes him in the depths of the night, hands insistent on Jared's dick. "You gonna fuck me, baby?"
Jared is. Works him open with fingers and tongue, hard-driving the flexible muscle into the tight resistant ring as Jensen gasps and writhes on the bed under him. Jared gets Jensen's ass thoroughly spit-wet, kinder than Jensen was to him, before his lubed-condom dick gets anywhere near that gorgeous tight hole. He sinks in slow, still sleepy, but not too tired to enjoy the tight clench of muscle as Jensen struggles to let him in, and the blissful slow sinking after, as Jensen relaxes. "Yeah, fuck me there, yeah baby," comes the relentless drizzle of sex talk, and Jared stays quiet, letting it wash over him, all attention focused on the sensations circling and focusing in his dick, his balls, his lower spine, as every part of his body gives in to the urge to just fuck Jensen.
"Fuck, Jensen," he says it aloud, eventually, can't hold it any longer. "Fuck, ohhhh, fuck yeah," and reaches round for Jensen's dick, finding it swollen-hot against Jensen's belly, dripping steadily from the tip, and so, so close to coming that Jared doesn't even pretend to try to hold back. Slamming in, in, in, yeah, innnnn, he comes unstoppably, Jensen maybe two beats behind him, splurting warm come up Jared's hand and arm.
They're both too stunned by that mindblowing simultaneity that they don't even speak after. A little entangled kissing and licking as they unwind enough to sleep, and then BAM! Jared crashes completely.
When he wakes, he's still in the damn tee. Sweaty, spunk-smeared and with an odour of booze from the club that Jared didn't even notice last night, it's possibly the most obscene garment Jared has ever worn. He peels out of it, and steps under the blissful heat of a hotel shower.
He's so gone, it takes almost to the end of the shower to notice that Jensen wasn't in the room when he woke. A little weird. It's Saturday, right? No meetings?
Jared wanders out of the shower in a towel, suddenly a little embarrassed by himself, and Jensen. He doesn't do this shit, not any more. Too old, too damn sensible. He doesn't like the morning after let-down.
He looks, distastefully at that damn tee, which he's going to have to put back on to get home remotely decently. It's fallen up by the nightstand, and that's really the only reason Jared even notices the note. And the money.
$500. What the fuck? And the note, on the back of a business card that gives Jensen's name, cell number and the job description Strategic Development Consultant, like that means anything to anyone.
The note reads: Back home 0730 flight. Couldn't wake you. Sorry, didn't fix a price beforehand. Msg if I underestimated. Back here 4/15 if ur available. J.
Jared flops back onto the bed, breath whooping out of him in sheer surprise. So, apparently he looks like a whore. Awesome.
He blames the shirt. Obviously.
Autopiloting, Jared dresses in what are generally pretty icky last-night clothes. He picks up the note, and the cash, because what the hell else does he do? Leave the world's most ridiculous maid service tip? Actually, that would be an awesome good deed, but it would deprive Jared of the chance to rub Jensen's face in his damn insulting money. (Is $500 a good rate? Jared doesn't see that much cash often, but it doesn't exactly seem like high-priced call-girl lifestyle stuff. Or is it? He's not even sure whether to be insulted at this estimate of his worth, as opposed to generically insulted by the more global Hooker-Misidentification thing. Which he definitely is.)
He's still pondering as he leaves the room, heads back to the bar and picks up his car.
See, Jared doesn't leave things to fester. He confronts, talks out, deals. If all else fails, he calls Chad and they make it funny. He really doesn't want to call Chad about this.
It kind of is funny, in an awful way, but the awful part is currently uppermost for Jared. He wants to confront, but Jensen left, and wherever home may be, it's a flight away. Jared has responsibilities here, and can't be randomly flying across the nation to administer (much deserved) confrontations with beautiful assholish guys who mistake hardworking veterinarians in borrowed clothing for prostitutes for fuck's sake.
His phone beeps. Message from Chad, of course, probably demanding dirt. But it reminds Jared that he has options. Confrontational ones.
Without stopping to think, he types in. Hey, Jensen? Surprise! Not. A. Hooker. Jared. And sends to the number on Jensen's card.
Jared checks his watch. It's only nine a.m., Jensen's probably in the air and out of contact. He reads back the message. It's confrontational, sort of, but it doesn't quite do the job. He texts again. PS IOU $500. Collect in April. You can spend it on some *actual* rentboy. He sends before he has time to fret about the word 'rentboy'. He's not actually sure that's the right term for the situation. But then, Jared isn't a hooker. He doesn't have to know this stuff. Jensen probably does.
Jared doesn't expect to hear anything back. Is startled when, an hour later, he gets a text which simply says, Well… Shit.
He doesn't respond. Does his Saturday things (drop by the surgery to check on overnight patients and chat with Casey who is conscientious but hates doing the quiet shifts; buys groceries; sits in front of Modern Warfare 2 till some of the irritation has flowed out of his fingertips; calls Chad, and doesn't tell him all). Lives like a normal guy, thank you.
Jared is pondering what dinner might involve, and tending decisively towards the well-thumbed stack of takeout menus when his cell rings.
It's Jensen. Jared stops, stares, wills the phone to tell him what happens next. Then takes a deep breath, and answers.
***