Writing, bitches!
So, I've been a busy busy bee. I'm almost done with Max, the porn!J2, and I've got my leg in the door for emo!Sync. I've also cracked open enough of those ficlets to post a few, and then did a few drive-bys for Geneli4's run-on spankathon.
Let's start with the spankathon, first.
For Basisers_Gais:
JC taught him how to do this a long time ago, rope biting into skin and looping between legs and folding limbs just right to put pressure on all those places where JC likes being touched, and when Lance manhandles him in that pretty little suite hotel room in Vienna, JC almost comes from just having been bent over from standing, rope slip sliding all over as Lance takes him by the hair and drapes him over his lap, wide hand coming down over JC's left ass cheek hard enough to leave a red handprint on porcelain skin, JC moans as Lance picks up the paddle and Lance laughs low at the first sound JC makes when it lands across his spread ass, "Ye of little faith, you'd thought I'd forgotten about what you really want?"
For amanofmydreams:
There's force all around him, invisible hands holding him in place on his knees over Dean's lap, forcing his hands behind his back, flashing words like 'evil', 'destiny' and 'failure' behind his eyes, and when the first set of blows come, the hard sting echoing with extra whammy and Dean's voice floating on top, "I don't know why you never use your powers, Sammy, always havin' to be the good one and all," Dean's laugh stretches out soft and smooth and otherworldly as Sam tries to buck against the pressure, crying out for mercy and it closes around him keeping him in place while Dean's hand delivers another set, "Then again, I had to get myself out of hell, didn't I?"
For Wendy:
"Shouldn't have lost that bet, eh boy?" Jared jokes, bending Jensen over the railing he's been duct taped to crudely to inspect the tracks beaten into Jensen's ass, the paddle well used by everybody this round, and when asked Chad hands it over, they watch Jensen arcs himself over the railing, spreading himself for another beating and taking the first licks silently, "Look at you, looks like you're liking this too much," Jared turns the paddle over, watching Jeff and Chris and Chad look on like they're watching softcore porn with their beers in one hand and their erections waiting to be in the other, watching Jensen squirm and then start to cry out at Jared's ministrations, unraveling like the end-thread of a sweater, backside arched out and muscles popping sharply underneath the skin, "Thought you said you could go on for hours without coming, Jen, It's only been an hour, slut," Jensen knows it's role-play, he knows how there's as much showmanship going into this as there is actual kink, but when Jared whispers the word 'come' like it's a secret between the two, it's undeniable that Jensen will be losing bets and finding himself in situations like this one again and again.
For Stellamira:
Sam's blindfolded but he can hear everything going on in the room, the snap and smack of an apple and grapes on the vine being passed back and forth between Jensen and Dean ("We need a pre-second round snack" they insisted, eyes sparkling with an appetite for each other instead of food, they've been kissing more than eating, by the sounds of it) in the corner, the crackle of the lamp, and the flick of Jared's hand right before it connects on Sam's ass, "Seeing you move like that is so hot," Jared's whispering, smacking him again (hard: all palm this time), and now the only thing Sam can hear is his heart beating in his ears, everything else slipping into the background, and when he gets smacked again, fifteen with little time to recover on each cheek until Sam's ass is fucking numb thank you very much, he's arching and crying out, sliding his head right into Jared's other hand and letting his fingers grasp in Sam's curls, saliva-wet fingers that feel so like his own passing over his entrance easy enough that his body just parts for them, curving inside just like his own and making him cry out, "Gonna fuck you good," Jared remarks, voice honey-sweet and caring and words rattling in Sam's ear like he's said them himself, "When?" Sam asks back, "Gotta earn it first," Jared says, and the fingers are gone, the sting of a dry hand across his ass again, making Sam fight out of Jared's grip on his hair and thrust his face down into the comforters and moaning, loud and long.
Two brief things as a brief intermission.
1. Thank you, SPN fangirls for NOT JUMPIN NOBODY. I've heard such good things about the play that even I, casual, non starstruck, don't give a damn as long as I can imagine you in situations where I have NO participation over anything Lydia, got jealous of ya'll. I'm glad you had a good time, and I'm glad Teh Ack did not disappoint.
2. Somebody needs to get on the good foot and write me some Dean/Martha. RIGHT NOW.
Now, Ficlets that are finished.
For Picksthemusic:
The blush on her cheeks is amazing, he thinks after kissing her breathless and wondering how, exactly, he ended up with a lapful of Martha Jones.
“Do you ever actually sleep, doctor?” She asks, downright flirty and oh, he thinks, Harkness has finally gotten to her, no doubt. There’s a sparkle in anyone’s eyes after they’ve been put through the Jack Harkness school of Seduction, frankly. Imagination lets visions of sweet mile long legs wrapping around Jack’s waist, nails gripping onto pale skin made that way from the cold forevers of Cardiff Weather, soft words in far off languages as Jack takes her in his room up against a wall and then against the floor before they can even reach his bed pass over his eyes, whispered secrets the TARDIS had giddily admitted to.
It’s probably for the best, the Doctor thinks. Jack’s all fire and passion and prowess while the doctor is still repairing himself, shutting off the places where Rose had began ripping open. Jack will indulge Martha where the Doctor’s been negligent, and they’ll know how deep their relationship runs, the two of them are like that. No Cold idealism, no overwhelming thoughts of eternal love.
Martha’s eyes hold steady on him, though. She’s scrutinizing, but never expecting, and the Doctor wonders if he can add that onto the long list he’s complied about what he fancies about her. Sometimes, he finds himself turning away simply for fear that she’ll finally gain the courage to eat him alive.
“Why would I have to do that, Miss Jones?” He asks.
“Well, every being I’ve ever run across certainly needs at least a moment’s rest. I’ve talked to Jack about this, too. He seems to agree,” She concludes. That’s Martha, ever so scientific, ever so curious and through.
“Why do you ask, hmm?” he says, a bit awkward, and she advances on him. “I mean…”
“Well, just wondering, I suppose. Never seen your room before,” She says, biting her lip. “I thought you might have some kind of bed, somewhere. Or sleeping chamber, or decapod for that point.”
“Bed, of course. I just rarely sleep,” The doctor almost gains the childish notion to cover up his mouth after realizing what he’s said. She smiles at him, anyway, slow-burning and predatory. Damn that Harkness, he thinks to himself.
“What do you use it for, then?” She asks, lips inches from his like she’s preparing to kiss him again. She’s genuinely curious, but the sexual tension is more than enough to tell him that she’s curious about a lot of things other than just alternative uses for bedrooms.
He runs his hands down her back, softly. Fingers crawl down each individual vertebrae and she shivers in his lap.
“Doctor,” She whispers.
“Martha,” He replies, kissing her softly and having it sink in that this feels right. He slides a hand up into her hair, her mouth opening and he can feel her grind down on his lap, jeans rough against the fibers of his suit trousers. He plays with the hem of her top before slowly making to guide it over the top of her head. Her hands still his progress.
“I want to see your bed, doctor,” She says, prodding. He smiles at her, she’s as stubborn as a mule and he can’t help but think it’s romantic. He kisses her again, and takes her hand, leading her down the narrow hallway that leads to his quarters. His pulse is in his ears, and he can feel the TARDIS rumble happily like she’s glad he’s moving on, as well.
Martha looks as beautiful out of her clothes as she does anywhere else. Pair of dark red silk panties, silken red bra. Easy to open, easy to push down.
“I’m not looking to have sex,” he says.
“I know,” She nods, like it was obvious. “I never expected you to.”
She’s got a torso smooth and long, stomach beautiful and flat, perky breasts and legs that seem to go for days. He passes his knuckles between her breasts, blows hot air down her back. Toes curling on his leg, she wraps herself around him, and kisses him gently again. “Maybe someday, Doctor. I’m not going to let you rush.”
He smiles, thinks of the disservice he’s doing to her by not saying anything, hand stroking her hair, and whispering in her ear. “Martha, I…”
“We’ll do this right, one day,” She says, softly. “I don’t need any more promise than that.”
They lay there, pressed together, naked in each other’s arms, until Martha’s breaths even out and she’s finally fallen asleep.
Watching her doze is yet another item the doctor adds to the list of why he fancies Martha Jones so much.
For Slippery_Fish:
Ianto wakes in Owen’s bed, rich purple sheets and lights from the motorway passing by. He sits up, looking at Owen watching him.
“Easy,” Owen hisses. “Had quite a day, didn’t you, Jones?”
“What?”
“You’re on doctor’s watch tonight,” Owen says, getting up and picking up the bottle of whiskey he’s had by his feet. “Jack’s orders.”
“And Tosh, Gwen?” Ianto asks, moving to get out of bed.
“I wouldn’t do that,” Owen remarks, stalking closer to the bed, taking a long pull off the bottle of whiskey, “They went home.”
“And you were stuck with me,” Ianto groans. He takes the bottle of wiskey gratefully, taking a pull himself.
“I wasn’t stuck with you, idiot,” Owen snaps. “It’s not like I…”
“Save it, Owen,” Ianto snaps. “I’m well aware of what you think of me.”
“Oh you are, are you?” Owen says, softly. He lays a hand on Ianto’s bare shoulder before sitting down. Ianto looks at him, long and questioning, and it’s unfathomable, but it’s like his body is on automatic, hands framing Owen’s face, kissing Owen’s lips.
“This isn’t conducive to your current state of health, Teaboy.”
Ianto laughs, hazy slow, “You need to improve your bedside manner, Harper.”
“Shut up,” Owen says, appreciatively, kissing Ianto again. They both taste like whiskey, and Owen tastes a bit like toothpaste.
“You don’t have to,” Ianto says, and Owen puts his hand down on Ianto’s thigh.
“You’re right. I don’t have to,” Owen says, looking at Ianto’s red lips and kissing him again. “I want to.”
“Girl,” Ianto snorts.
“How many birds get you off and write it off as ‘proper bedside manner,’ Jones. I’m sure that your cyber-girl never even got you off for a while,” Owen snaps. Before Ianto can bark back, shrug himself out of bed and limp home instead of take the grudge Owen’s lips fit around Ianto’s cock.
Things kind of ramp up from there. Owen looks funny when he comes, Ianto makes strangled noises and they both carefully avoid the issue of the line drawn around Ianto’s throat. After, Owen goes off to take a shower and Ianto picks up the bottle of whiskey again, dawdling out of bed with sore muscles burning and his brain working a mile a minute. He limps over, and shrugs against the window.
“It’s funny,” Ianto sighs, seeing Owen’s reflection behind his in the window. “I thought I was building a life that I would be proud of until Canary Wharf happened, I believed that I was invincible until…”
“Until you came to Cardiff?” Owen asks. “Isn’t it how that always goes?”
Ianto snorts, taking another long pull on the bottle and turning to look at Owen over his shoulder. “Seems like it, doesn’t it?”
“Well, if you ever need someone to commiserate with,” Owen says. “I give you a lot of shit, you know.”
“Yeah,” Ianto nods, whiskey honey hot down his throat. “You do.”
They fuck again before Owen has to go to work again, and Ianto makes sure Owen looks like he’s gotten into a fight or three under the collar of that beaten vintage T-shirt.
For Chreesko:
In terms of first times, Jared thinks this one has been quite a disaster. His first time with Sandy was soft and romantic enough to be turned into a harlequin novel scene, and even when she ribbed him about it later, he had to admit that he was completely alright with the way things had went.
His first time with Jensen, though? Total disaster. They’re in the dark at a drive-in Jared had thought was still open when it wasn’t, and Jared’s kind of pissed at the Tracy Chapman tape that’s currently stuck in his broken tape deck. Usually, he’d be fine with that, loves Tracy Chapman on cold days between takes, hot coffee and that whole ‘introspection’ thing. But right now? The tape deck’s stuck on ‘Open Arms’ and he’s trying to figure out a way to stick his hand down Jensen’s pants without looking like a prepubescent hobag from Dawson’s Creek.
“First times aren’t everything, and it’s not like we can’t wait, Jared,” Jensen soothes, “I can wait.”
“This was going to be good, I thought I had everything planned,” Jared sighs. “I feel like an idiot.”
“Don’t pout like that,” Jensen soothes, “If you want, we can still do something, y’know. We could start over.”
“Yeah, start over. In the back of my truck. In an abandoned drive-in lot. I don’t know if you do this often, but I’m feeling mighty disenfranchised, right now.”
Jensen laughs hazy hot. “This is pretty awkward, isn’t it?”
Jensen slides a little closer to him, and slides his lips over Jared’s in a simple kiss. Good, Jared thinks. This is much more familiar, chest lifting up right and letting Jensen fit against him. Jared’s hand’s go into Jensen’s hair, he angles his mouth, and it could be a good night after all.
“Jay,” Jensen whispers. “You can’t tell me you’ve never taken anybody to someplace abandoned for some alone time while you were in high school, baby. Not when you’re kissing me like that.”
“Fuck,” Jared grins, “you caught me. C’mere.”
Hot and open, Jared groans as he slides the glasses off Jensen’s face and pushes him backward down on the blanket. Lips and tongue, and the tape’s turning over. Jared lifts Jensen’s shirt over his head, and there’s blood sinking right down to where Jared wants it. He splays Jensen’s pants open like he’s performing surgery, fingers delicate and warm. Jensen’s moan is warm and encompassing when Jared fixes his fingers around him, and this is definitely not the rose pedals and candles of his first time with others, with girls, but it’s okay.
When Jared sighs, later, “I kind of feel like Britney Spears,” at an inappropriate moment when Jensen’s fingers are predisposed with his ass.
“I hope to fuck that doesn’t make me K-fed, because that’s just disgusting,”
Jensen laughs across his lips and kisses him soft like they’re still just best friends fucking around in the back of truck. Jensen pushes in, all the way to the base and even though it’s awkward, Tracy Chapman’s still singing and they’re still where they were when this whole debacle started and it’s absolutely right.
Jared’s pretty sure then that nothing would be able to fuck this up unless they get busted by the Vancouver police.
The rest will be up before the end of the week, presumably.
ETA: For all you whobies and torcheads, some simple math: Fighter jet+John Barrowman-whack ass bowl cut = YES PLEASE AND THANK YOU.
Let's start with the spankathon, first.
For Basisers_Gais:
JC taught him how to do this a long time ago, rope biting into skin and looping between legs and folding limbs just right to put pressure on all those places where JC likes being touched, and when Lance manhandles him in that pretty little suite hotel room in Vienna, JC almost comes from just having been bent over from standing, rope slip sliding all over as Lance takes him by the hair and drapes him over his lap, wide hand coming down over JC's left ass cheek hard enough to leave a red handprint on porcelain skin, JC moans as Lance picks up the paddle and Lance laughs low at the first sound JC makes when it lands across his spread ass, "Ye of little faith, you'd thought I'd forgotten about what you really want?"
For amanofmydreams:
There's force all around him, invisible hands holding him in place on his knees over Dean's lap, forcing his hands behind his back, flashing words like 'evil', 'destiny' and 'failure' behind his eyes, and when the first set of blows come, the hard sting echoing with extra whammy and Dean's voice floating on top, "I don't know why you never use your powers, Sammy, always havin' to be the good one and all," Dean's laugh stretches out soft and smooth and otherworldly as Sam tries to buck against the pressure, crying out for mercy and it closes around him keeping him in place while Dean's hand delivers another set, "Then again, I had to get myself out of hell, didn't I?"
For Wendy:
"Shouldn't have lost that bet, eh boy?" Jared jokes, bending Jensen over the railing he's been duct taped to crudely to inspect the tracks beaten into Jensen's ass, the paddle well used by everybody this round, and when asked Chad hands it over, they watch Jensen arcs himself over the railing, spreading himself for another beating and taking the first licks silently, "Look at you, looks like you're liking this too much," Jared turns the paddle over, watching Jeff and Chris and Chad look on like they're watching softcore porn with their beers in one hand and their erections waiting to be in the other, watching Jensen squirm and then start to cry out at Jared's ministrations, unraveling like the end-thread of a sweater, backside arched out and muscles popping sharply underneath the skin, "Thought you said you could go on for hours without coming, Jen, It's only been an hour, slut," Jensen knows it's role-play, he knows how there's as much showmanship going into this as there is actual kink, but when Jared whispers the word 'come' like it's a secret between the two, it's undeniable that Jensen will be losing bets and finding himself in situations like this one again and again.
For Stellamira:
Sam's blindfolded but he can hear everything going on in the room, the snap and smack of an apple and grapes on the vine being passed back and forth between Jensen and Dean ("We need a pre-second round snack" they insisted, eyes sparkling with an appetite for each other instead of food, they've been kissing more than eating, by the sounds of it) in the corner, the crackle of the lamp, and the flick of Jared's hand right before it connects on Sam's ass, "Seeing you move like that is so hot," Jared's whispering, smacking him again (hard: all palm this time), and now the only thing Sam can hear is his heart beating in his ears, everything else slipping into the background, and when he gets smacked again, fifteen with little time to recover on each cheek until Sam's ass is fucking numb thank you very much, he's arching and crying out, sliding his head right into Jared's other hand and letting his fingers grasp in Sam's curls, saliva-wet fingers that feel so like his own passing over his entrance easy enough that his body just parts for them, curving inside just like his own and making him cry out, "Gonna fuck you good," Jared remarks, voice honey-sweet and caring and words rattling in Sam's ear like he's said them himself, "When?" Sam asks back, "Gotta earn it first," Jared says, and the fingers are gone, the sting of a dry hand across his ass again, making Sam fight out of Jared's grip on his hair and thrust his face down into the comforters and moaning, loud and long.
Two brief things as a brief intermission.
1. Thank you, SPN fangirls for NOT JUMPIN NOBODY. I've heard such good things about the play that even I, casual, non starstruck, don't give a damn as long as I can imagine you in situations where I have NO participation over anything Lydia, got jealous of ya'll. I'm glad you had a good time, and I'm glad Teh Ack did not disappoint.
2. Somebody needs to get on the good foot and write me some Dean/Martha. RIGHT NOW.
Now, Ficlets that are finished.
For Picksthemusic:
The blush on her cheeks is amazing, he thinks after kissing her breathless and wondering how, exactly, he ended up with a lapful of Martha Jones.
“Do you ever actually sleep, doctor?” She asks, downright flirty and oh, he thinks, Harkness has finally gotten to her, no doubt. There’s a sparkle in anyone’s eyes after they’ve been put through the Jack Harkness school of Seduction, frankly. Imagination lets visions of sweet mile long legs wrapping around Jack’s waist, nails gripping onto pale skin made that way from the cold forevers of Cardiff Weather, soft words in far off languages as Jack takes her in his room up against a wall and then against the floor before they can even reach his bed pass over his eyes, whispered secrets the TARDIS had giddily admitted to.
It’s probably for the best, the Doctor thinks. Jack’s all fire and passion and prowess while the doctor is still repairing himself, shutting off the places where Rose had began ripping open. Jack will indulge Martha where the Doctor’s been negligent, and they’ll know how deep their relationship runs, the two of them are like that. No Cold idealism, no overwhelming thoughts of eternal love.
Martha’s eyes hold steady on him, though. She’s scrutinizing, but never expecting, and the Doctor wonders if he can add that onto the long list he’s complied about what he fancies about her. Sometimes, he finds himself turning away simply for fear that she’ll finally gain the courage to eat him alive.
“Why would I have to do that, Miss Jones?” He asks.
“Well, every being I’ve ever run across certainly needs at least a moment’s rest. I’ve talked to Jack about this, too. He seems to agree,” She concludes. That’s Martha, ever so scientific, ever so curious and through.
“Why do you ask, hmm?” he says, a bit awkward, and she advances on him. “I mean…”
“Well, just wondering, I suppose. Never seen your room before,” She says, biting her lip. “I thought you might have some kind of bed, somewhere. Or sleeping chamber, or decapod for that point.”
“Bed, of course. I just rarely sleep,” The doctor almost gains the childish notion to cover up his mouth after realizing what he’s said. She smiles at him, anyway, slow-burning and predatory. Damn that Harkness, he thinks to himself.
“What do you use it for, then?” She asks, lips inches from his like she’s preparing to kiss him again. She’s genuinely curious, but the sexual tension is more than enough to tell him that she’s curious about a lot of things other than just alternative uses for bedrooms.
He runs his hands down her back, softly. Fingers crawl down each individual vertebrae and she shivers in his lap.
“Doctor,” She whispers.
“Martha,” He replies, kissing her softly and having it sink in that this feels right. He slides a hand up into her hair, her mouth opening and he can feel her grind down on his lap, jeans rough against the fibers of his suit trousers. He plays with the hem of her top before slowly making to guide it over the top of her head. Her hands still his progress.
“I want to see your bed, doctor,” She says, prodding. He smiles at her, she’s as stubborn as a mule and he can’t help but think it’s romantic. He kisses her again, and takes her hand, leading her down the narrow hallway that leads to his quarters. His pulse is in his ears, and he can feel the TARDIS rumble happily like she’s glad he’s moving on, as well.
Martha looks as beautiful out of her clothes as she does anywhere else. Pair of dark red silk panties, silken red bra. Easy to open, easy to push down.
“I’m not looking to have sex,” he says.
“I know,” She nods, like it was obvious. “I never expected you to.”
She’s got a torso smooth and long, stomach beautiful and flat, perky breasts and legs that seem to go for days. He passes his knuckles between her breasts, blows hot air down her back. Toes curling on his leg, she wraps herself around him, and kisses him gently again. “Maybe someday, Doctor. I’m not going to let you rush.”
He smiles, thinks of the disservice he’s doing to her by not saying anything, hand stroking her hair, and whispering in her ear. “Martha, I…”
“We’ll do this right, one day,” She says, softly. “I don’t need any more promise than that.”
They lay there, pressed together, naked in each other’s arms, until Martha’s breaths even out and she’s finally fallen asleep.
Watching her doze is yet another item the doctor adds to the list of why he fancies Martha Jones so much.
For Slippery_Fish:
Ianto wakes in Owen’s bed, rich purple sheets and lights from the motorway passing by. He sits up, looking at Owen watching him.
“Easy,” Owen hisses. “Had quite a day, didn’t you, Jones?”
“What?”
“You’re on doctor’s watch tonight,” Owen says, getting up and picking up the bottle of whiskey he’s had by his feet. “Jack’s orders.”
“And Tosh, Gwen?” Ianto asks, moving to get out of bed.
“I wouldn’t do that,” Owen remarks, stalking closer to the bed, taking a long pull off the bottle of whiskey, “They went home.”
“And you were stuck with me,” Ianto groans. He takes the bottle of wiskey gratefully, taking a pull himself.
“I wasn’t stuck with you, idiot,” Owen snaps. “It’s not like I…”
“Save it, Owen,” Ianto snaps. “I’m well aware of what you think of me.”
“Oh you are, are you?” Owen says, softly. He lays a hand on Ianto’s bare shoulder before sitting down. Ianto looks at him, long and questioning, and it’s unfathomable, but it’s like his body is on automatic, hands framing Owen’s face, kissing Owen’s lips.
“This isn’t conducive to your current state of health, Teaboy.”
Ianto laughs, hazy slow, “You need to improve your bedside manner, Harper.”
“Shut up,” Owen says, appreciatively, kissing Ianto again. They both taste like whiskey, and Owen tastes a bit like toothpaste.
“You don’t have to,” Ianto says, and Owen puts his hand down on Ianto’s thigh.
“You’re right. I don’t have to,” Owen says, looking at Ianto’s red lips and kissing him again. “I want to.”
“Girl,” Ianto snorts.
“How many birds get you off and write it off as ‘proper bedside manner,’ Jones. I’m sure that your cyber-girl never even got you off for a while,” Owen snaps. Before Ianto can bark back, shrug himself out of bed and limp home instead of take the grudge Owen’s lips fit around Ianto’s cock.
Things kind of ramp up from there. Owen looks funny when he comes, Ianto makes strangled noises and they both carefully avoid the issue of the line drawn around Ianto’s throat. After, Owen goes off to take a shower and Ianto picks up the bottle of whiskey again, dawdling out of bed with sore muscles burning and his brain working a mile a minute. He limps over, and shrugs against the window.
“It’s funny,” Ianto sighs, seeing Owen’s reflection behind his in the window. “I thought I was building a life that I would be proud of until Canary Wharf happened, I believed that I was invincible until…”
“Until you came to Cardiff?” Owen asks. “Isn’t it how that always goes?”
Ianto snorts, taking another long pull on the bottle and turning to look at Owen over his shoulder. “Seems like it, doesn’t it?”
“Well, if you ever need someone to commiserate with,” Owen says. “I give you a lot of shit, you know.”
“Yeah,” Ianto nods, whiskey honey hot down his throat. “You do.”
They fuck again before Owen has to go to work again, and Ianto makes sure Owen looks like he’s gotten into a fight or three under the collar of that beaten vintage T-shirt.
For Chreesko:
In terms of first times, Jared thinks this one has been quite a disaster. His first time with Sandy was soft and romantic enough to be turned into a harlequin novel scene, and even when she ribbed him about it later, he had to admit that he was completely alright with the way things had went.
His first time with Jensen, though? Total disaster. They’re in the dark at a drive-in Jared had thought was still open when it wasn’t, and Jared’s kind of pissed at the Tracy Chapman tape that’s currently stuck in his broken tape deck. Usually, he’d be fine with that, loves Tracy Chapman on cold days between takes, hot coffee and that whole ‘introspection’ thing. But right now? The tape deck’s stuck on ‘Open Arms’ and he’s trying to figure out a way to stick his hand down Jensen’s pants without looking like a prepubescent hobag from Dawson’s Creek.
“First times aren’t everything, and it’s not like we can’t wait, Jared,” Jensen soothes, “I can wait.”
“This was going to be good, I thought I had everything planned,” Jared sighs. “I feel like an idiot.”
“Don’t pout like that,” Jensen soothes, “If you want, we can still do something, y’know. We could start over.”
“Yeah, start over. In the back of my truck. In an abandoned drive-in lot. I don’t know if you do this often, but I’m feeling mighty disenfranchised, right now.”
Jensen laughs hazy hot. “This is pretty awkward, isn’t it?”
Jensen slides a little closer to him, and slides his lips over Jared’s in a simple kiss. Good, Jared thinks. This is much more familiar, chest lifting up right and letting Jensen fit against him. Jared’s hand’s go into Jensen’s hair, he angles his mouth, and it could be a good night after all.
“Jay,” Jensen whispers. “You can’t tell me you’ve never taken anybody to someplace abandoned for some alone time while you were in high school, baby. Not when you’re kissing me like that.”
“Fuck,” Jared grins, “you caught me. C’mere.”
Hot and open, Jared groans as he slides the glasses off Jensen’s face and pushes him backward down on the blanket. Lips and tongue, and the tape’s turning over. Jared lifts Jensen’s shirt over his head, and there’s blood sinking right down to where Jared wants it. He splays Jensen’s pants open like he’s performing surgery, fingers delicate and warm. Jensen’s moan is warm and encompassing when Jared fixes his fingers around him, and this is definitely not the rose pedals and candles of his first time with others, with girls, but it’s okay.
When Jared sighs, later, “I kind of feel like Britney Spears,” at an inappropriate moment when Jensen’s fingers are predisposed with his ass.
“I hope to fuck that doesn’t make me K-fed, because that’s just disgusting,”
Jensen laughs across his lips and kisses him soft like they’re still just best friends fucking around in the back of truck. Jensen pushes in, all the way to the base and even though it’s awkward, Tracy Chapman’s still singing and they’re still where they were when this whole debacle started and it’s absolutely right.
Jared’s pretty sure then that nothing would be able to fuck this up unless they get busted by the Vancouver police.
The rest will be up before the end of the week, presumably.
ETA: For all you whobies and torcheads, some simple math: Fighter jet+John Barrowman-whack ass bowl cut = YES PLEASE AND THANK YOU.