SPN Fic: Handsome (4/5)
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*****
Jensen wakes up alone. The room is quiet, just the bedcurtains rustling softly from a breeze coming in through an open window.
He curses himself for falling asleep. He thrusts the covers away and gets to his feet. The sorest aches in his body are no longer from the wound or the capture. He ignores them all. He can’t let himself think about Jared deep inside of him, Jared’s hands stroking his skin, his mouth on Jensen’s neck. Maybe someday. Maybe someday he’ll recall their time together, replay it over and over in his mind, minute by minute.
But if he’s leaving, he can’t think of it now.
As promised, Jensen’s uniform is clean-or as clean as it can be in its blighted state-and waiting for him on the chaise. He pulls on all the clothes, his belt knife and high boots too. He takes a last look around the room, forcing himself not to linger over the bed, and then turns to go. There’s nothing else to do.
He finds Jared out in the gardens. The dragon is diligently weeding one of the rose beds. As he catches sight of Jensen approaching, he stops and pulls himself up to full height. Jensen remembers how fierce Jared appeared when he moved the same way the first time Jensen saw him. Now he simply looks distraught.
“Stay,” Jared says to him as soon as Jensen is in earshot. The single word comes out stiffly, like it pains Jared to say it, and yet like it would pain him not to.
“I can’t,” Jensen replies.
“What do you intend to do when you get down there? Where will you go?”
“I don’t know.”
“So you’ve got no plan, no support,” Jared reckons. “You don’t even have your guns anymore. You’re walking straight into your enemies’ clutches. Again!” Jared’s got a handful of greenery bunched in his claws, and he’s unconsciously shredding it as he speaks.
“I know. I have to.”
“Jensen? Are you happy here with me?”
“Yes.” Jensen doesn’t even hesitate over the answer. Such a simple thing, but he’s surprised to discover that it’s true. Rarely in his life has he sought his own happiness, never would he have dreamed he’d find it here. And still, in the end, he must leave. “But my father. My prince. They’re in peril. They may be dying.”
“Or dead already?” Jared offers somberly.
“No! I can’t believe that. And I can’t sit idly by for my own safety’s sake if I have even the slightest chance of coming to their aid.”
Jared stares at Jensen, looking long into his face as if memorizing his features, mapping each one individually. At last he says, ”Then-then you must go to them.”
There’s no denying the pain in Jared’s expression, of everything he’s struggling-and failing-to hold back. Jensen wants to reach out and touch him, to reassure him. To say he’ll be fine, that he’ll return as soon as he can.
But he can’t risk making his last words to Jared a lie.
“Thank you,” Jensen says simply. “Thank you for understanding how much my duty means to me.”
Jared nods brusquely and turns back to his flowers.
Jensen turns away, too, and practically runs to the stables.
***
Jensen’s got the little mule saddled, but right now he’s just standing by, looking at it with consternation. He’s trying to calculate whether he actually wouldn’t make better time on foot than with such a paltry mount. And, honestly, thinking about how sore his ass is right now, how much worse it will be in the saddle.
A shadow falls over him from the stable door. “I’m coming with you.”
“What?” Jensen spins to find Jared ducking his head to enter.
“It will take you hours, probably into the night, to reach Grandcoup. If you’re not intercepted again in the woods, that is. Or if you don’t succumb to exhaustion. Or break your leg in the dark. Also, there might be snakes. Okay, maybe not. But I can fly you there safely in a fraction of the time. And I’ll change form and accompany you into the City. You need someone to watch your back.”
“No. That’s madness,” Jensen protests. It’s one thing to put his own life in unknown danger; it’s another thing entirely to drag Jared into it with him.
“It’s not. I’ve made dozens of trips before into human villages and gotten away undetected each time.”
“But never to Grandcoup,” Jensen retorts. “What if we’re captured in such a populous place? Didn’t you tell me you can only hold your human form for a short time? You can’t reveal your true self. If a dragon suddenly appeared in their midst, they’d destroy you.”
Jared snakes his tail around and wraps it gently around Jensen’s wrist. His eyes are soft and his mouth twists in a pained smile. “If you leave and don’t return, I’ll be destroyed just the same. And not by the hand of men.”
It’s as close to “I love you” as Jensen’s ever heard. He can’t breathe, his chest squeezed by some giant, invisible fist. Part of him wishes he’d never come here. Wishes he’d never lead the threats and chaos of the human world into Jared’s safe haven. Wishes he’d never learned the depth of fear he feels right now for this precious, beautiful creature.
If this is love, it’s a dreadful thing.
Jared takes advantage of Jensen’s silence and moves toward the mule. He begins to unsaddle it.
“Besides,” he says adamantly, “you forget, Alan is my friend, too. If you insist on a rescue party for your father, I’m going along.”
“Jared, please-“
“The quicker you give in and help me, the quicker we can leave.”
In dragon form, Jared weighs ten times what Jensen does. He literally can-and has-pick Jensen up and take him where he wills. Jensen’s not sure he’s going to win this battle, and, as Jared reminded him, time is of the essence.
“Fine. But you must do exactly as I say. And if I think whatever we face is too risky, you have to promise to leave if I ask.”
Jared cocks his head, considering. “I will leave if it becomes too dangerous for me to stay.”
Jensen would argue further, but the stubborn look on Jared’s face tells him that the dragon’s pledge is going to have to be good enough. Jensen just hopes he doesn’t regret this.
***
By all that’s holy, Jensen could not regret this more.
Once Jensen had conceded, Jared had quickly pulled out a pack filled with clothes. It was something he kept in the stables’ storeroom to take whenever he planned to change into human form. Once out in the courtyard, he’d handed the pack to Jensen to hold and scooped him up in his arms as he had the day in the Great Hall. Without warning, he’d taken three running strides, thrown his wings wide, and catapulted them both into the sky.
Now they’re in flight, and Jensen’s curled around the worthless pack in terror, gripping it so hard he’s going to puncture the thick leather with his fingernails. There’s a bottomless hollow where his stomach used to be as Jared dips and swoops, buffeted by the wind. That wind batters Jensen unceasingly, so brutal that he has to keep his eyes screwed shut against it. Which is just as well, because the one time he opened them, he saw the entire world stretched out beneath his dangling feet, the forest so far below he could barely make out the individual trees. At any moment, when Jared haphazardly drops him, he’ll plummet to his death, falling and falling until he’s pulverized in the impact with the ground.
He doesn’t know if the flight the night before was this harrowing, and he just doesn’t remember, or if this is worse because they are going so high, so fast, so-oh god.
Jensen would probably be screaming if there was even the tiniest space for air in his clenched-tight throat. At least he hasn’t vomited. Yet.
He has no idea how long they fly. An eternity, it seems. His muscles have seized up from holding himself rigid, and the roar of the wind has deafened him, but finally-finally-Jared slows, and turns appallingly on the tip of one wing to aim toward landing.
The moment they hit the ground, Jensen flings himself out of Jared’s arms and onto the soft grass. He finds they’ve settled on the bank of a small creek, and never has he been so grateful to be still, stationary. He presses his cheek to the earth, willing his head and his gut to stop spinning in opposite directions.
“Jensen?” Jared asks tentatively, coming up behind him and nudging his back with his snout. “Are you alright?”
“No,” Jensen grunts.
“Oh. I-um-I thought you might have enjoyed the flight, as quick and smooth as it went.”
“Enjoy?” he says, voice rising. “Enjoy?!” There’s an edge of hysteria in it now, and Jensen takes a few deep breaths to gather his wits. “Jared,” he continues at last, calm, very calm, “that was the most horrific experience of my life. I would take on Pellegrino and his men a dozen times before I ever go through that again.”
“Oh,” Jared says again. “I’m sorry. I guess I never thought that you-that anyone-wouldn’t love to fly. It’s so beautiful and free up there. Everything so exhilarating. The wind currents alone are like this fascinating obstacle course to navigate.” He glances up at the sky with a look of wonder, but then quickly turns anxious eyes back at Jensen. “But I would never intentionally do anything to make you ill or unhappy. I just assumed you would-“
“Hey. It’s okay.” Jensen heaves himself up off the ground, onto his knees, and then stands, as slow and creaky as an ancient grandfather rising from his chair by the fire. “We made it, and that’s all that matters.” He looks around the glade. “Where are we?”
“I couldn’t fly in a straight line over the valley in the daylight, because I didn’t want us to be seen from any of the smaller hamlets that are on the direct path from the castle. No need to draw attention or scare anyone. Or encourage anyone to come hunting dragons, that’s always on my mind. Anyway, I skirted us around to the west. I got us as close as I could, and now we’re just a short walk from the Traders’ Highway, less than a mile from the city gates.”
Jared takes his clothes from the pack and shakes the wrinkles out, laying each piece carefully on the grass. Jensen watches as he transforms, a shivering, shimmering switch from dragon to man. He drinks in the sight of Jared’s bare body. Vivid scraps of memory of their earlier encounter flash through his mind, and Jensen realizes he did not get the chance to really see Jared, to sample and savor all his parts, the way Jared had partaken of him. The thought sends a flush of heat through him, and he hastily wrenches his mind back to the task at hand.
Fortunately for him, Jared is practiced at dressing quickly and has already donned trousers, shirt, waistcoat, and a simple cravat. The clothes are neither too rich nor too poor; he looks just like a merchant or a journeyman from some guild. An excellent disguise for getting into Grandcoup unremarked.
Jensen glances down at his own court uniform, which is just the opposite: both too opulent and too worn. Also, he knows he’s still gaunt from his illness and recovery, and probably green at the gills from that hideous flight. So much for Handsome Jen, he snorts to himself.
He raises his eyes in the direction Jared had indicated the City lay. “Let’s hope we run into a loyal regiment of the Heir’s soon, so I can get some fresh clothes.”
“I think you look very nice,” Jared says earnestly. But he holds up a cloak that was also in the pack and drapes it over Jensen’s shoulders, hiding his finery.
Jensen tosses him a sardonic smile and starts out toward the road.
As they walk side by side, Jensen thinks to ask, “How long can you stay in this form? As a man? Will you be okay? I recall you telling me it wasn’t for long.”
Jared looks up at the angle of the sun. “At least a day,” he says. “Until tomorrow evening, I’d guess. I’m never exactly sure. But will that be enough?”
“I hope so,” Jensen replies. “A lot can happen in a day. Who knows what’s occurred in the days since I’ve been gone.”
Caution wars with Jensen’s eagerness for news. He doesn’t want to be discovered by enemies, but he needs to get some sense of where to go for allies. So when they come upon a convoy of wagons on the road, he and Jared pretend to be travelers from another kingdom miles away. Jensen finds it amusing that Jared can mimic a Lumierian accent and encourages him to chat with the wagon drivers to see if they can provide any information about the status of the royal family.
There’s uncertainty, but not outright fear among the company, which makes Jensen think that, whatever has happened in the last few days, it hasn’t come to full civil war yet. However, they also find their companions keen to share a host of contradictory rumors. One man insists that Queen Amanda is in hiding, another tells Jared and Jensen that Prince Colin is either dead or going to marry his aunt, Alaina. A third claims that Brock and Alaina killed each other in a duel just the day before.
They travel all the way to the city gates with the convoy, with not much solid intelligence to show for it. Fortunately, when they arrive, Jensen recognizes a cadre of the Queen’s troops manning the entry.
In his relief at seeing them in control, Jensen is tempted to salute and identify himself. But he reins the impulse in, not wanting to reveal himself as the Heir’s partisan based only on their traditional uniforms. If Alaina’s in control, she’d likely keep as much the same as she can, make everything seem normal. So military uniforms wouldn’t necessarily be a giveaway. Jensen tucks Jared’s cloak tighter around himself to hide his coat’s colors and approaches the nearest corporal. “Excuse me, sir,” he says, as meekly as he can. “Can you tell me whether General Morgan is in the city? And, please, where we can find him?”
The sentry barely looks at him. “Check at the Lord Mayor’s House,” he says matter-of-factly, “since that’s where Prince Brock is headquartered.”
Jensen turns and raises his eyebrows at Jared silently, and they pass through the gates, heading down the main thoroughfare toward the City Center. The usual commerce-workmen unloading sacks of flour and women with baskets over their arms on the way to the grocer, pedestrians pushing carts, bakers and fishmongers-is bustling on with no regard to the warfare within the Royal House. Jensen feels a twinge of outrage. Queen Amanda was murdered! But he decides to try to take it as a good sign. No matter what chaos at the top, here on the ground everything is just the same, like always.
They shoulder their way through the foot traffic, and Jensen says to Jared, “That seemed awfully easy. Perhaps you should wait here, or even outside of town, while I figure out exactly what we’re walking into.”
Jared shakes his head. “How can I help if I’m not with you when the danger appears? What if the Heir isn’t really here? What if it’s a trap? You’re not even sure where your adversaries are!”
“I don’t really believe there’s danger here,” Jensen assures him. “Just let me find out what’s happening, and I will come right back to you.”
“I’ll wait outside if you wish,” Jared counters, “but within eyesight.”
The Lord Mayor’s House sits at the end of a cobblestone avenue nearly abutting the Palace, conveniently placed for communication between the LeGeai Crown and the administrators of Grandcoup. Built in the old timber-framed style, it stands several stories higher than the surrounding buildings. Its dark beams and whitewashed gables stand out bright against the gray stone of the Palace’s defensive walls.
Jensen nods his head toward a pub across the plaza that has benches lining the wall facing the House. “How about there?”
Jared eyes the site skeptically. “Fine. But I’m coming in after you if you don’t return before long.”
“How long is too long?”
Jared looks down into Jensen’s face, but then turns aside with a slight flush. “Any time without you is too long,” he murmurs, as if he’s hoping Jensen won’t hear.
“Jared-“ he starts, but doesn’t know how to respond, torn between discomfort and fondness at the dragon’s artless sentiment. He feels an inexplicable temptation to pull Jared into a kiss, but this is the worst time or place for that. So he simply shakes his head, saying, “I’ll come back or send word in an hour.”
He walks toward the manor’s great oak doors to go in search of either his commander or his king.
After the ease with which they entered the city, Jensen’s relieved to see that there’s at least some protection in place. He’s stopped by several layers of security, from the steely-eyed guards at the outer doors of the manor, to the duty officers just inside the hall who search him for weapons and make him wait, to another functionary of some sort who grills him with the same questions again, none of whom he recognizes. But just as he’s starting to worry the Heir isn’t really here after all, Brock himself appears.
He bursts out of a side chamber and wraps himself around Jensen in a tight embrace, as he hasn’t done since he was just a lad. Jensen holds tight in surprise and relief. The weight of worry he’d been carrying since he’d left Brock fleeing through the streets lifts off him.
“Jensen, Jensen, my Captain,” Brock says eagerly, “we thought you were dead. Where have you been?”
Jensen’s tongue-tied for a minute, having forgotten to make up a story about his absence that does not include Jared. A handful of the Queen’s foremost advisors trail Brock out into the hall, several of them greeting Jensen with pleasure. He notices several faces conspicuously missing, lost to them in the Council Chamber slaughter.
“I-um-found a place to shelter north of the city,” Jensen tells them, “trying to recover from the shot I took. I was fevered and bedridden, but I’ve come back to you as swiftly as I could. I’ve had no news of what’s gone on in my absence? Where is Lady Alaina? Is Colin alright?”
He wants to ask about his father, too, but at the anguished look on Brock’s face, he holds back on that for a moment.
“Come inside,” Brock urges, tugging at Jensen’s arm. “Join our counsels.”
The invitation is way above Jensen’s station-he’s a low-level officer, merely one of the princes’ bodyguards-however, he can sense the Heir is in need of a familiar face right now.
Brock leads him back into what’s apparently a command post of sorts, and on the way, one of the company-Queen Amanda’s First Chancellor, Ruth Connell-fills Jensen in. “Alaina’s coup has failed. Only a few units remain under her command, some in the surrounding villages, most here in the City. The rest have surrendered to General Morgan’s forces. We’ve trapped Alaina herself, with her most loyal troops, inside the Palace proper. But they’ve successfully sealed it against us, and they’ve numbers enough to hold it, unless we launch an attack en masse.”
Brock drops wearily into one of sturdy wooden chairs surrounding a conference table. “She has Colin hostage inside.” Just a week ago, Brock had still been very much a careless and dashing young prince. Now, with the death of his mother and the burden of rule upon his shoulders, he seems to Jensen suddenly much more a man. “A few rescue attempts have been launched, but none succeeded. Your father was one. Three nights ago he volunteered to go into the Palace, attempt to parlay with Alaina or to smuggle Colin out somehow. There’s been no word from him since.”
“What is your plan now?” Jensen asks. “Can you starve them out, or-?“
“We are out of time. Yesterday, Alaina sent a messenger out under white flag. She-“ Jensen can see Brock’s jaw clench convulsively, then he continued, “-she demanded I surrender, myself and the Crown, in exchange for Colin’s life.”
Lord Sheppard speaks up, his ordinarily droll tone now somber and serious. “When we said no, she sent out a box. Inside was one of Colin’s fingers, bearing the silver ring he wears-wore at all times.”
“It’s mine. A gift from me,” Brock says, burying his face in his hands. “Alaina knew that.”
“She sent word,” Sheppard continues, “that she would return Colin a piece at a time unless the Prince submits to her, and she is permitted to take the throne.”
“This morning they delivered his ear, Jensen,” Brock chokes. “Next she’s threatened to take his eye. Then his-his manhood. You know me, you know I’d give my life for my little brother, but I have seen what my aunt-” he spits the word like a lethal curse, “-is capable of. How can I give it all over to her, when her rule will likely lead to more butchery and death?”
Jensen swallows back the bile that’s risen in his throat. In his mind is Prince Colin as he first knew him: a mischievous little boy, lighting forbidden firecrackers with his brother late at night. He says, “Colin would let himself be cut apart for you.” Brock sucks in a breath, as if Jensen had struck him instead of offering comfort. “And he would never agree to turning the kingdom over to his mother’s executioner.”
The Duchess of Rhodes, a notorious hawk among the royal advisors, rises to her feet and slams her palm against the polished tabletop. “We have to strike now, Sire. You must defeat the traitor and bring peace back to LeGeai.”
“It will mean many lives lost,” counters young Lord Chau. “The Palace is not impregnable, but it will not be taken easily. If we wait, the troops inside may lose heart and abandon her without bloodshed.”
“We’ve been over and over this for hours,” Brock announces over the murmurs around the table. He stands slowly. “And I say at last, we must attack tomorrow.” For some reason, he glances at Jensen for affirmation. Jensen finds himself nodding reluctantly. “Colin will forgive us, but I will not stand by while he is tortured any further,” the Prince continues. He looks around the table, catching each courtiers’ eye one by one. “Are we agreed?”
The group assents, and Brock’s gaze turns back to Jensen. “I’m glad to have you here in such a dark hour, Captain, but sorry you’ll be put to service again so soon. Will you go with us against my aunt in the morning? We will storm the Palace at dawn, so that Colin may at least have a death that is swift and clean.”
Jensen’s head swims. A darkness laps at the edges of his vision. Colin is being mutilated, Brock is heading into battle. Jensen realizes that he’d gotten his hopes up, deluded himself into thinking, once he’d managed to get back to the Prince’s side, that everything would be fine, that he could make things right and safe again. He feels his knees buckle and he gropes of the nearest chair.
Brock grabs his arm to keep him from falling. “Jensen! Are you still ailing? Of course you are! Here. Sit.”
“No,” Jensen insists, shaking his head, pulling himself straight. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not. You’re in no shape to fight.”
“I am fit, I swear.” He curses himself for showing a moment of weakness. He must be there to guard Brock in the coming fight. He looks around the table for support, wishing Morgan were here. He’d know the Prince needs Jensen at his back. “Do not forbid me to join you, Sire.”
Sheppard chimes in, “There are many preparations that have to take place before we assemble for an assault.”
“Go upstairs and eat, get some sleep,” the Prince tells him. “I will send for you before dawn, if you are well.”
Jensen wants to argue, but Brock has already turned away to join the counselors in a discussion of men and logistics. One of the Mayor’s servants steps forward and quietly offers to escort Jensen to a guest room on one of the upper floors.
He has no choice but to follow.
The servingman says nothing as they’re trudging up a third flight of stairs, which is just as well, because Jensen is indeed at the end of his strength. He struggles to conceal his gasps for breath and when he looks up, there are tiny flashes before his eyes around the edges of his escort. Better to passing out here than in front of the nobility, he thinks.
They reach a hall of small, spartan bedchambers. The servant stops, looking down the row of rooms uncertainly. Jensen bulls past him and stumbles into the nearest, letting himself fall onto the cot inside.
To his surprise, the man follows Jensen in and shuts the door behind. Like Jensen, he leans wearily against the doorframe.
“Whew,” he says. He’s sparkling even brighter now.
Between one blink and the next, the servant’s appearance melts away. Then it’s Jared standing there, a rueful smile on his face.
“What the hell!” Jensen exclaims.
“It’s been more than two hours,” Jared says, shrugging. “You didn’t come back, so I came inside in search of you. They weren’t going to tell me where you were dressed like this-“ he gestures down at himself in his merchant’s clothes, “-so I put on a little disguise and wandered around for a few minutes. I was lucky to find you in that conference room. You know, the Heir is a very interesting man, very impressive. Younger than I’d pictured. ”
“I can’t believe it,” Jensen says. Dancing dishes were one thing, this was something absolutely impossible. “That was some of your magic?”
“Yes,” Jared replies. “I don’t do it very often, because it’s hard to maintain for any stretch of time. But as long as I only have to change my appearance slightly, I can get away with it. The illusion builds on the foundation of what’s already there, you see.”
“No,” Jensen says, slumping back against the wall behind the bed. “Not really. But I’ll take your word for it.” He closes his eyes for a moment, his mind an ant’s nest of problems with no solutions: Colin. Brock. The deaths of his fellow guardsman that await come morning. And now Jared. What’s Jensen going to do with him?
There’s a firm rap on the door and, before Jensen can react, it starts to swing open. His eyes dart to Jared, who has just a split-second’s chance to jump out of the way and hide behind it.
It’s two actual servants, one laden with a tray full of food, the other with a fresh uniform.
“I beg your pardon for disturbing you, Captain,” one says diffidently. “We were told you needed dinner and a change of clothes. We thought it better to provide it now, before you settled in for the evening.”
Jensen doesn’t have time to say anything before they are whisking around the room, pulling a side table over in front of him and laying out the meal. Jensen clambers to his feet, positioning himself between them and the door, blocking any view of Jared.
“Thank you, thank you very much.” He’s got his hand on the doorknob now and is waving at them with the other. “You can go now.” It’s not very polite, but they’ve probably received worse. The Mayor himself is known as a real ass.
Finally, they leave. Jensen shuts the door and locks it. He finds Jared hunched down against the wall, unsuccessfully trying to make himself look small.
They exchange a wordless look of relief.
Jared stands, pulls the room’s sole chair up next to the small table and its spread. “You should eat.” He takes Jensen’s spot sitting on the cot, pulling his feet up so that he’s cross-legged like a child on the mattress.
But Jensen doesn’t sit, just grabs a hunk of bread from one of the platters and bites into it fiercely. He starts pacing, back and forth, adrenaline coursing after the near discovery.
“How much did you hear,” he asks Jared, “in the counsel room?”
“Quite a bit. Enough to know they’ve proposed a battle in the morning.”
“Alaina will kill Colin, and my father and any others, before she lets Brock free them.” Jensen’s brain races faster than his feet, but he finds no escape from the disastrous situation facing them.
“Perhaps we could steal into the castle tonight and retrieve the young prince,” Jared offers. “He is your enemy’s only bargaining chip, yes? It sounded to me as if, once he’s safe, there’d be no need for further bloodshed.”
Jensen shakes his head. “My father already tried that, to no avail.”
“Well, he did not have a sorcerer with him,” Jared grins, and it’s wicked, even without his dragon teeth. He waves a hand and suddenly appears to be the servingman again. He gestures at Jensen, who feels his whole body prickle and sting for a moment. When he looks down, he’s the match to Jared in common livery, his hands look thicker and calloused, his body squat and barrel-chested.
“Incredible,” Jensen whispers, poking at his belly. He doesn’t feel any different. It’s all in the seeming. The illusion falls away in another shower of twinkling light.
He glances up to see Jared’s eager expression. “I can’t maintain it forever,” the dragon says, “but I think I can get us into the Palace, and hopefully back out again. It depends on whether we have to carry the young prince or not. That will be harder to camouflage.”
Jensen feels a slender shoot of hope, but tamps it down. “I can’t ask you to go in there. It’s too dangerous. And we have no idea where they’re keeping Colin or the other prisoners.” He pours himself a cup of wine from the skin on the table, then goes back to pacing.
“I’m willing try,” Jared replies, shifting to set his feet on the ground, leaning forward insistently. “What’s the worst that could happen? If we’re trapped inside when Prince Brock leads his charge, we can protect the young prince and the other captives, maybe we can provide aid or sabotage.”
“The worst that happens is that they kill us if they discover us.”
“But you may be killed in the attack tomorrow as well,” Jared points out. “It seems worth the risk if it means preserving all those other lives as well.”
The calculation makes sense, in a coldly rational way. But Jensen’s finding it harder and harder to be rational about the idea of Jared putting himself in danger. “Why do you care?”
“I don’t. Not really,” Jared says bluntly. He cocks his head to the side. “I only care about the best way to protect you.”
Jensen sets down his cup and walks over to the cot to kneel at Jared’s feet. “I don’t deserve it,” he says softly, looking up into Jared’s eyes.
Jared doesn’t answer him directly. He just reaches a hand out to cup Jensen’s jaw. His long fingers sink into the short hair at the nape of Jensen’s neck, his thumb brushes across Jensen’s cheekbone in a soft caress. At last he says simply, “Let’s go see if we can save your countrymen and your father.”
Jensen closes his eyes. He holds himself still under Jared’s hand, but just barely. Because part of him wants to argue, to scream, wants to keep Jared from sacrificing himself, because-in all honesty-they’re unlikely to come out of this alive. He wants to lock Jared in this room, to strip him naked and cover his mouth with his own, to bear him down onto his back on that cot and fuck until neither of them can breathe, to make Jared moan and make him beg. He wants to find a way to prove to Jared that he’s all Jensen’s… and that Jensen is all his.
And now that the idea has taken hold of him, there’s no resisting it. He surges up and covers Jared’s mouth with his. Jared lets out a surprised mmmph, but his lips part swiftly beneath Jensen’s as if they’ve kissed a thousand times. Jensen drags his teeth across Jared’s cheek to the base of his jaw. He nips sharply down Jared’s long, beautiful neck and presses his hot, open mouth to the hollow of his throat.
“Jensen, oh, what are you doing? Oh,” Jared gasps as Jensen starts to fumble at his belt and the buttons of his trousers.
“I want to blow you,” Jensen growls, daring him to say no.
“What’s that?” Jared asks, even more breathless as Jensen moves between his legs, working his pants open and wrapping his fingers around Jared’s cock.
“I’m going to take your cock into my mouth and suck on it until you come,” Jensen replies, his mouth actually starting to water at the thought of it, Jared thick and hard and hot on his tongue.
“I wonder why it’s called ‘blowing’ then, if-“
Jensen cuts off Jared’s ridiculous musing by tugging his cock out into the open air. It's already fattening up in Jensen’s palm, the shaft flushed a rosy red. He rubs his thumb over the slight sheen of precome glistening on the silky head. And Jared smells so damn good, so warm and spicy and delicious, that Jensen moans in spite of himself. He moves forward, tonguing the slit, and then curls down to take the whole of Jared’s cock into his mouth.
Jared moans along with him, thrusting his hips up, and Jensen lets him slide in deep. Then he pulls back to lick along the length, feeling Jared’s cock growing and stiffening with every second.
“Don’t stop, please, don’t stop, Jensen. I don’t know what I’ll do if you stop,” Jared whines, as if Jensen had any intention of doing so.
Instead he opens wide and swallows Jared down, wrapping a hand around the base when he can’t take it all, opening his throat as far as he can to see if Jared will let loose and fuck his mouth. He’s too stuffed full to give instructions, but he moans encouragingly again when Jared grips his head with both hands and pumps his cock a little deeper, and then deeper still.
He can feel tears gathering in the corners of his eyes and it's hard to breathe as Jared plants his feet on the floor and his hips come up off the cot. But Jensen doesn’t care. Loves it, in fact. Accepts everything Jared’s giving him, lost in the taste of him and the pressure pounding at the back of his throat. He sucks, salivating helplessly, messily, his spit dripping down onto his fist and the blankets between Jared’s legs. His own cock presses painfully against the front of his own trousers, but he ignores it as he fights to take more, faster, to push Jared over the edge.
Jared’s chanting, yes, yes, yes, and Jensen chases after each one, needing to feel Jared come apart beneath him, needing to taste his come, drink it down and keep sucking until Jared’s drained dry and satisfied. He feels a telltale jerk against his tongue, feels Jared’s hands tighten in his hair, and so he screws his mouth down all the way, until his nose brushes the coiled hairs covering Jared’s groin.
Jared brings his hand to his mouth, biting it to stifle a shout as he spends himself down Jensen’s throat in a creamy, bitter flood. Jensen swallows, chokes, and pulls off with a gasp, and suddenly he’s coming in his own breeches like a stripling, hunched over and quivering with the taste of Jared’s release coating the inside of his mouth.
It’s a good thing the servants had brought a change of clothes.
Jared slumps back against the wall, panting, his softening cock framed between his legs and a hazy, bewildered look on his face. "What brought that on? Not that I’m complaining, because I’m not. I never would. In fact, if I had ever imagined such a sensation was possible, it’s likely I would have asked you do that as soon as I walked in the door."
Jensen shakes his head, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. "I don’t know. Just... you inspired me, I guess," he says, savoring the brief moment of euphoria an orgasm provides.
He stands up and adjusts himself in his soiled pants. He smiles mischievously at a Jared. “If we make it through tonight, I may ask for the same in return.”
“All the more incentive to succeed,” the dragon replies with a mirroring grin.
*****
| Part 5 |