FIC: (Mark You As) Mine [JA/CK]
Title: (Mark You As) Mine
Author: irisgirl12000
Pairing: JA/CK
Rating: Adult
Disclaimer: LIES, all of this.
Summary: Jensen finally catches up with Chris after a busy summer apart.
Notes: Beta'd by the amazing anasuede and angela_snape. Any remaining mistakes are the result of my tinkering after they were done with it. This is a follow-up to Wake-up Call.
The sound of the tumblers unlocking and the deadbolt sliding back seemed unnaturally loud in the predawn quiet, but that might have been Jensen's imagination. He stepped inside, off the shadowed porch, and pulled the door shut behind him, automatically resetting the locks.
Silence. Shadowed dimness. Chris's old duffel bag leaned drunkenly against the back of the sofa, a guitar case next to it.
Chris must have been exhausted if he didn't even put away his baby. Jensen scooped up the case and opened it, removing its contents gently. His hands unconsciously stroked the cool wood before he set the guitar in its stand in the corner. Straightening, he looked around the room, trying to decide if anything had changed since his last visit, which was longer ago than he cared to think about. Lately they only saw each other in hotel rooms or Jensen's apartment in L.A.; it had been months since he'd been to Nashville.
He turned off the single lamp - he was no longer surprised that Chris would think to set it on a timer while he was traveling; it wasn't the first odd habit Jen'd discovered in Chris, and it surely wouldn't be the last - and headed down the hallway to the bedroom. In the dim moonlight he could see Chris sprawled out, still dressed but for boots and hat. He had that stupid motorcycle t-shirt on still, and Jensen wondered when or if it had become Chris's new favorite. He'd seen Chris wearing it the last time they'd been in L.A. together and then again in the video on the band's MySpace page. Although Jensen would deny with his dying breath any suggestion that he'd check that out - it was too girly and stalkerish, he thought, to admit that he surfed the communities on social networking sites to gauge opinions and reactions about Jason's, Chris's and Steve's shows. He did it, though; he was nervous and apprehensive about seeing what was said about his own person or performance - he'd hear enough of that from his agent, his publicist, Rosey and Jared, thanks very much - but he felt no such reticence when it came to his friends.
He sat down on the edge of the bed to take off his shoes, meaning to strip and go to bed without waking Chris. His weight jogged the mattress, and Chris stirred, burying his face deeper in his pillow before turning his head.
"Steve?" Chris's voice rasped.
Jensen froze, his eyes narrowing.
He knew he had no right to be jealous. Jensen shared equally in all the fuck-ups and fucking around that had happened in the years since he and Chris first started doing this. And he knew that he and Chris were on the level this time, they'd decided (in that sideways way they had of talking about it but not actually talking about it) to try to be exclusive.
Well, okay, maybe he had a right to be jealous. But he had no reason to be: he knew Chris's relationship with Steve wasn't like that. For one thing, Steve was completely, unalterably straight. And even if he wasn't, Steve was a self-described serial monogamist. He didn't share. Still, sometimes it was hard to feel secure. Steve was many things that Jensen was not: musically gifted, focused, communicative, and - most relevant when he and Chris had spent weeks or months apart - a daily presence in Christian's life. They were connected in a way Jen and Chris weren't.
Jensen thought of the picture he'd seen, of Chris asleep with his head on Steve's shoulder. He couldn't complain about it, wouldn't even admit aloud that it bothered him. After all, there were a billion copies of a similar picture of him with Jared from the DVD extras of Supernatural's first season. Even Sandy thought it was cute. And hot. More than once, she'd mentioned that if he ever got tired of Chris (well, her precise words were "if Chris ever released his grip on Jensen's balls") Jensen had a standing invitation for a threesome. Jen was never ever going to take her up on that offer because a) Chris owned his soul, b) he hoped to keep working with Jared for a few years, and fucking him would make that awkward, and c) Sandy scared him, just a little.
So. No reason or right to be jealous.
Jensen had had this internal dialogue after seeing some of the pictures of Kane's UK tours.
No reason. Check.
No right. Check?
It was one thing to tell himself that and believe it, especially after Christian's early morning phone call. It was another thing entirely to believe it when he heard someone else's name being spoken in that sleep-roughened voice. For now, until he decided otherwise, that privilege belonged to Jensen, and he was going to make damn sure that Chris was clear on that matter.
With that thought in mind, he crawled onto the bed and laid his body over Chris's, which had blue eyes popping open, surprise chasing the sleep out of them.
"Jen?"
"I hope you weren't expecting someone else." He smothered any response with his lips, knotting his fingers in tangled hair and pulling Chris into it.
The thing about Christian was that he liked to dominate his partners. Oh, he seemed easygoing enough, but that was just a façade. Jensen understood: a guy growing up in middle America, where football was king and only losers liked music and acting, was sure to have issues. And being shorter and prettier than most guys probably made the situation that much worse. No surprise that a body'd feel the need to compensate. Chris compensated by always being in control. Even when he let Jensen fuck him (and maybe "let" wasn't really the right verb, if Jensen thought about how it usually went) Christian was full of orders, pushy.
So Jensen wasn't surprised when Chris bucked up and tried to reverse their positions. He didn't let it happen, though; he used his greater height and leverage to keep Chris where he was. He wasn't successful for long, and they rolled back and forth without breaking their kiss, which had become a slippery mess of nipping teeth and swiping tongues and touch-part-touching lips. When the struggle finally ended, Jensen straddled Chris. When he pulled back, he could see that Chris still wanted to protest, and he knew that if Chris pushed, he'd give in. He always did, no matter what his intentions were when they started this thing. But whatever Chris saw in Jensen's expression was enough to have him relaxing.
Tension seeped out of Chris's body as he stopped straining and let himself sink into the mattress. He let his head fall to the side, baring his neck in a gesture of submission that made Jensen's breath catch in his throat. Probably that should have calmed Jensen, but it didn't; if anything, Chris's silent admission of possession fired his blood even more.
He wrapped his fist in Chris's hair again, lifting him so their lips could meet. Instead of kissing him, he bit down hard enough to draw blood, earning a muttered "fuck, Jen" and a squeeze from the hands that now rested at his hip and the small of his back. A swipe of his tongue soothed the sting, and he kept kissing Chris, letting his tongue imitate what he wanted to do as he shifted, sliding so that their hips fit together like puzzle pieces, moving so that hardening cocks could push together through rough fabric. For an unmeasured time, all Jensen knew was the smell of cologne and sweat and worn cotton, the silky-soft slide of long hair against his palms, the taste of stale coffee and smoke and Chris, and the brush of callused fingers along his back and sides.
Pulling back to catch his breath, Jensen rolled so that Chris straddled him and urged him to a sitting position. Once there was space between them, he pulled Chris's shirt off, letting it fall carelessly to the floor, freeing his hands to curl around Chris's hips, holding them so he could keep their groins pressed together. Chris's hands went to Jensen's shoulders, then down to the buttons of his shirt, playing with them, unfastening them. He didn't try to push the fabric off completely; instead, he played with the metal stud through the shirt. A light tug produced a corresponding twitch in Jensen's dick, made him buck upwards into Chris. Curving one hand around the back of his neck, Jensen pulled Chris down, re-joining their mouths briefly before he dropped kisses on Chris's chin and up to his ear. He played with the lobe, then bit it before turning his attention to the tendons in Chris's neck and shoulder. The urge to bite down, hard, was nearly overpowering. Jen couldn't explain the sudden need he felt to mark the firm, tanned flesh, but he went with it, worrying Chris's collarbone until Chris dragged Jensen's face back up to his mouth and sucked his tongue inside.
Impatient now, Jen shoved one hand down back of Chris's pants while the other worked the fly. He could feel hands pushing the fabric of his own trousers out of he way.
"Fuck, yeah." He jerked upwards again when felt nothing but Chris under the denim.
One arm reached out, flailing, for the nightstand, scrabbling to open the drawer with lube and condoms. When he felt a foil packet, he dumped it onto the bed and shoved the lube into Chris's palm.
"Want you to get ready for me."
A sharply indrawn breath, and then Chris was shifting, moving enough to push his jeans down and off, then propping himself astride Jensen's thighs. He squirted a puddle of lube onto Jensen's chest, then tossed the bottle aside. He dragged his fingers through the cool liquid, then reached around his back and down. It wasn't a good angle, and Jensen couldn't see exactly what Chris was doing, but he knew what was happening, felt the back of Chris's hand brush his leg. Chris's eyes half-closed and his cock bobbed and jerked. Jensen reached out and curled a hand around it, stroking it same rhythm he was now using on his own dick. Chris was teasing, chewing his lip now as he played with Jensen, opening himself slowly.
Jensen went along with it, giving him a minute, before he growled, "You better be ready. Need to be inside you now."
It took all of his control to release Chris's dick and roll a condom on. He gripped Chris's waist, anchoring his thumbs in the indent of his hips, holding tight enough to bruise, and pulled Chris forward, lining them up so that he could feel the press of Chris's fingers against the head of his cock. Chris removed his hand and lowered himself, guiding Jensen inside in a single scraping, burning glide.
Hot. So hot and tight. Chris's balls were resting on Jen's pelvic bone and his head was tipped back, his Adam's apple bobbing. Jensen remained still, breathing shallowly, waiting. When Chris lifted and resettled, tried to grind down, Jensen tightened his grip on Chris's hips to halt his motion. When that didn't work, he shifted, holding them together as he rolled Chris beneath him. Chris's legs lifted to bracket Jensen's hips, his feet flat on bed, and Jensen pulled one up higher as he braced himself and started to move. Chris just growled Jensen's name, didn't fight the motion, didn't even try to touch himself, just let the press of their bellies and the stroke of Jensen's cock over his prostate and their lips bumping together in a breath-sharing imitation of a kiss get him off.
Jensen was used to hearing a stream of dirty talk during sex - his Chris was a talker - but the only noise Chris was making was a chant of Jensen's name, a broken record in his ear.
"Fuck, Jen!" was the only warning Jensen had before Chris was squeezing tight all around him, filling every sense with his orgasm. Burying his face in the soft hair pooled against the pillow by Chris's neck, Jensen let himself go.
Jensen finally gathered the wits to move off Chris and flop onto his back, grimacing as he shifted to take care of the condom. He was staring blindly at the ceiling, wondering where that possessive streak had come from and how to explain it, when Chris rolled onto his side, grabbing his discarded t-shirt, and brushed it over both their torsos in a cursory clean-up. Jensen eyed the darkening marks on Chris's neck and shoulders with a mix of embarrassment and pride. As if he knew what Jen was thinking, Chris reached out to touch them, feathering his fingers over them lightly.
He cocked his head, and his smile held a curious combination of satisfaction and peace and intent.
"Got any shirtless scenes in the first couple of episodes of the season, darlin'?" The sound of Christian's voice, the way Jensen liked it best, rough, rumbling from deep in his chest, made him shiver.
Warily, he answered, "Dunno." A pause, while he thought about it. "Don't think so."
Chris rolled so that he was on top of Jensen again, and lowered his head so that his words were whispered directly into Jen's ear.
"Good. S'my turn."
Fin.
Constructive criticism is greatly appreciated.
Author: irisgirl12000
Pairing: JA/CK
Rating: Adult
Disclaimer: LIES, all of this.
Summary: Jensen finally catches up with Chris after a busy summer apart.
Notes: Beta'd by the amazing anasuede and angela_snape. Any remaining mistakes are the result of my tinkering after they were done with it. This is a follow-up to Wake-up Call.
The sound of the tumblers unlocking and the deadbolt sliding back seemed unnaturally loud in the predawn quiet, but that might have been Jensen's imagination. He stepped inside, off the shadowed porch, and pulled the door shut behind him, automatically resetting the locks.
Silence. Shadowed dimness. Chris's old duffel bag leaned drunkenly against the back of the sofa, a guitar case next to it.
Chris must have been exhausted if he didn't even put away his baby. Jensen scooped up the case and opened it, removing its contents gently. His hands unconsciously stroked the cool wood before he set the guitar in its stand in the corner. Straightening, he looked around the room, trying to decide if anything had changed since his last visit, which was longer ago than he cared to think about. Lately they only saw each other in hotel rooms or Jensen's apartment in L.A.; it had been months since he'd been to Nashville.
He turned off the single lamp - he was no longer surprised that Chris would think to set it on a timer while he was traveling; it wasn't the first odd habit Jen'd discovered in Chris, and it surely wouldn't be the last - and headed down the hallway to the bedroom. In the dim moonlight he could see Chris sprawled out, still dressed but for boots and hat. He had that stupid motorcycle t-shirt on still, and Jensen wondered when or if it had become Chris's new favorite. He'd seen Chris wearing it the last time they'd been in L.A. together and then again in the video on the band's MySpace page. Although Jensen would deny with his dying breath any suggestion that he'd check that out - it was too girly and stalkerish, he thought, to admit that he surfed the communities on social networking sites to gauge opinions and reactions about Jason's, Chris's and Steve's shows. He did it, though; he was nervous and apprehensive about seeing what was said about his own person or performance - he'd hear enough of that from his agent, his publicist, Rosey and Jared, thanks very much - but he felt no such reticence when it came to his friends.
He sat down on the edge of the bed to take off his shoes, meaning to strip and go to bed without waking Chris. His weight jogged the mattress, and Chris stirred, burying his face deeper in his pillow before turning his head.
"Steve?" Chris's voice rasped.
Jensen froze, his eyes narrowing.
He knew he had no right to be jealous. Jensen shared equally in all the fuck-ups and fucking around that had happened in the years since he and Chris first started doing this. And he knew that he and Chris were on the level this time, they'd decided (in that sideways way they had of talking about it but not actually talking about it) to try to be exclusive.
Well, okay, maybe he had a right to be jealous. But he had no reason to be: he knew Chris's relationship with Steve wasn't like that. For one thing, Steve was completely, unalterably straight. And even if he wasn't, Steve was a self-described serial monogamist. He didn't share. Still, sometimes it was hard to feel secure. Steve was many things that Jensen was not: musically gifted, focused, communicative, and - most relevant when he and Chris had spent weeks or months apart - a daily presence in Christian's life. They were connected in a way Jen and Chris weren't.
Jensen thought of the picture he'd seen, of Chris asleep with his head on Steve's shoulder. He couldn't complain about it, wouldn't even admit aloud that it bothered him. After all, there were a billion copies of a similar picture of him with Jared from the DVD extras of Supernatural's first season. Even Sandy thought it was cute. And hot. More than once, she'd mentioned that if he ever got tired of Chris (well, her precise words were "if Chris ever released his grip on Jensen's balls") Jensen had a standing invitation for a threesome. Jen was never ever going to take her up on that offer because a) Chris owned his soul, b) he hoped to keep working with Jared for a few years, and fucking him would make that awkward, and c) Sandy scared him, just a little.
So. No reason or right to be jealous.
Jensen had had this internal dialogue after seeing some of the pictures of Kane's UK tours.
No reason. Check.
No right. Check?
It was one thing to tell himself that and believe it, especially after Christian's early morning phone call. It was another thing entirely to believe it when he heard someone else's name being spoken in that sleep-roughened voice. For now, until he decided otherwise, that privilege belonged to Jensen, and he was going to make damn sure that Chris was clear on that matter.
With that thought in mind, he crawled onto the bed and laid his body over Chris's, which had blue eyes popping open, surprise chasing the sleep out of them.
"Jen?"
"I hope you weren't expecting someone else." He smothered any response with his lips, knotting his fingers in tangled hair and pulling Chris into it.
The thing about Christian was that he liked to dominate his partners. Oh, he seemed easygoing enough, but that was just a façade. Jensen understood: a guy growing up in middle America, where football was king and only losers liked music and acting, was sure to have issues. And being shorter and prettier than most guys probably made the situation that much worse. No surprise that a body'd feel the need to compensate. Chris compensated by always being in control. Even when he let Jensen fuck him (and maybe "let" wasn't really the right verb, if Jensen thought about how it usually went) Christian was full of orders, pushy.
So Jensen wasn't surprised when Chris bucked up and tried to reverse their positions. He didn't let it happen, though; he used his greater height and leverage to keep Chris where he was. He wasn't successful for long, and they rolled back and forth without breaking their kiss, which had become a slippery mess of nipping teeth and swiping tongues and touch-part-touching lips. When the struggle finally ended, Jensen straddled Chris. When he pulled back, he could see that Chris still wanted to protest, and he knew that if Chris pushed, he'd give in. He always did, no matter what his intentions were when they started this thing. But whatever Chris saw in Jensen's expression was enough to have him relaxing.
Tension seeped out of Chris's body as he stopped straining and let himself sink into the mattress. He let his head fall to the side, baring his neck in a gesture of submission that made Jensen's breath catch in his throat. Probably that should have calmed Jensen, but it didn't; if anything, Chris's silent admission of possession fired his blood even more.
He wrapped his fist in Chris's hair again, lifting him so their lips could meet. Instead of kissing him, he bit down hard enough to draw blood, earning a muttered "fuck, Jen" and a squeeze from the hands that now rested at his hip and the small of his back. A swipe of his tongue soothed the sting, and he kept kissing Chris, letting his tongue imitate what he wanted to do as he shifted, sliding so that their hips fit together like puzzle pieces, moving so that hardening cocks could push together through rough fabric. For an unmeasured time, all Jensen knew was the smell of cologne and sweat and worn cotton, the silky-soft slide of long hair against his palms, the taste of stale coffee and smoke and Chris, and the brush of callused fingers along his back and sides.
Pulling back to catch his breath, Jensen rolled so that Chris straddled him and urged him to a sitting position. Once there was space between them, he pulled Chris's shirt off, letting it fall carelessly to the floor, freeing his hands to curl around Chris's hips, holding them so he could keep their groins pressed together. Chris's hands went to Jensen's shoulders, then down to the buttons of his shirt, playing with them, unfastening them. He didn't try to push the fabric off completely; instead, he played with the metal stud through the shirt. A light tug produced a corresponding twitch in Jensen's dick, made him buck upwards into Chris. Curving one hand around the back of his neck, Jensen pulled Chris down, re-joining their mouths briefly before he dropped kisses on Chris's chin and up to his ear. He played with the lobe, then bit it before turning his attention to the tendons in Chris's neck and shoulder. The urge to bite down, hard, was nearly overpowering. Jen couldn't explain the sudden need he felt to mark the firm, tanned flesh, but he went with it, worrying Chris's collarbone until Chris dragged Jensen's face back up to his mouth and sucked his tongue inside.
Impatient now, Jen shoved one hand down back of Chris's pants while the other worked the fly. He could feel hands pushing the fabric of his own trousers out of he way.
"Fuck, yeah." He jerked upwards again when felt nothing but Chris under the denim.
One arm reached out, flailing, for the nightstand, scrabbling to open the drawer with lube and condoms. When he felt a foil packet, he dumped it onto the bed and shoved the lube into Chris's palm.
"Want you to get ready for me."
A sharply indrawn breath, and then Chris was shifting, moving enough to push his jeans down and off, then propping himself astride Jensen's thighs. He squirted a puddle of lube onto Jensen's chest, then tossed the bottle aside. He dragged his fingers through the cool liquid, then reached around his back and down. It wasn't a good angle, and Jensen couldn't see exactly what Chris was doing, but he knew what was happening, felt the back of Chris's hand brush his leg. Chris's eyes half-closed and his cock bobbed and jerked. Jensen reached out and curled a hand around it, stroking it same rhythm he was now using on his own dick. Chris was teasing, chewing his lip now as he played with Jensen, opening himself slowly.
Jensen went along with it, giving him a minute, before he growled, "You better be ready. Need to be inside you now."
It took all of his control to release Chris's dick and roll a condom on. He gripped Chris's waist, anchoring his thumbs in the indent of his hips, holding tight enough to bruise, and pulled Chris forward, lining them up so that he could feel the press of Chris's fingers against the head of his cock. Chris removed his hand and lowered himself, guiding Jensen inside in a single scraping, burning glide.
Hot. So hot and tight. Chris's balls were resting on Jen's pelvic bone and his head was tipped back, his Adam's apple bobbing. Jensen remained still, breathing shallowly, waiting. When Chris lifted and resettled, tried to grind down, Jensen tightened his grip on Chris's hips to halt his motion. When that didn't work, he shifted, holding them together as he rolled Chris beneath him. Chris's legs lifted to bracket Jensen's hips, his feet flat on bed, and Jensen pulled one up higher as he braced himself and started to move. Chris just growled Jensen's name, didn't fight the motion, didn't even try to touch himself, just let the press of their bellies and the stroke of Jensen's cock over his prostate and their lips bumping together in a breath-sharing imitation of a kiss get him off.
Jensen was used to hearing a stream of dirty talk during sex - his Chris was a talker - but the only noise Chris was making was a chant of Jensen's name, a broken record in his ear.
"Fuck, Jen!" was the only warning Jensen had before Chris was squeezing tight all around him, filling every sense with his orgasm. Burying his face in the soft hair pooled against the pillow by Chris's neck, Jensen let himself go.
Jensen finally gathered the wits to move off Chris and flop onto his back, grimacing as he shifted to take care of the condom. He was staring blindly at the ceiling, wondering where that possessive streak had come from and how to explain it, when Chris rolled onto his side, grabbing his discarded t-shirt, and brushed it over both their torsos in a cursory clean-up. Jensen eyed the darkening marks on Chris's neck and shoulders with a mix of embarrassment and pride. As if he knew what Jen was thinking, Chris reached out to touch them, feathering his fingers over them lightly.
He cocked his head, and his smile held a curious combination of satisfaction and peace and intent.
"Got any shirtless scenes in the first couple of episodes of the season, darlin'?" The sound of Christian's voice, the way Jensen liked it best, rough, rumbling from deep in his chest, made him shiver.
Warily, he answered, "Dunno." A pause, while he thought about it. "Don't think so."
Chris rolled so that he was on top of Jensen again, and lowered his head so that his words were whispered directly into Jen's ear.
"Good. S'my turn."
Fin.
Constructive criticism is greatly appreciated.