Bad Men (1/2)
Title: Bad Men
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Underage, relentless cockteasery, jailbait!Jenny
Summary: For the prompt over at spnkink_meme: There are lots of prompts with the older Jared/Jensen seducing the younger Jensen/Jared but never the other way around. Jensen is 14-18 and he knows he's a little twink, he sees the way men look at him and he doesn't mind, the attention helps him gain a new found self confidence. But even though men may look at him, Jensen not actually interested. The only one for him is Jared, who he's crushed on since he was like five. Jared can be his stepfather, neighbor, teacher, father's friend, man who kid's Jensen babysits, whatever annon wants as long as Jared is significantly older. Points for a Jared being very reluctant because of the age gap while Jensen just coaxes him in. Jared's always been so nice and thoughtful, so Jensen never expected him to be so rough and controlling in the bed, or that he'd love it.
Jensen's always known what men wanted from him. Mother always told him to be careful. Josh hovered over him at the candy store like a bad-tempered hurricane, twisting around to dole out glares and bare his teeth, waited to walk him home from school, always held his hand in the park for years. Father came into his room one day when he was 6, awkward, leaning his head against the doorjamb like he could melt into it, and told Jensen about naughty touches, about bad men, all things Jensen had already known.
Jensen knows about those bad men. He knows their eyes don't rest on his lips as he absently sucks up the last of his milkshake noisily, or on the curve of his ass as he bends over the jukebox at the diner, out of mere affection. Those eyes stalk him like the hungriest of predators, sliding him out of his baggy hoodie, the thin shirt underneath, the loose-legged jeans, with every blink.
He's always known why some men can never seem to stop touching him - fluttering fingers on his shoulder, like they've trapped the finest-boned bird in the cage of them; warm, huge, calloused hands sliding over the back of his neck just so; thumbs brushing slowly over his cheekbones, where the smattering of freckles seems to darken every year.
When he was younger, there was a parade of huge hands - some calloused, some riddled with wrinkles, some with cold, heavy rings - reaching out for him.
"What a lovely boy," someone would say or, "Five years old and already breaking hearts, aren't you?", and those hands would arrange him in the cradle of a lap and smooth over his thighs, and there'd be warm, wet breath misting against his nape, ruffling the hair there.
He's seen it all - at soccer games, some dads tote cameras which follow him around when their wives look away; at school, his Mathematics teacher leans back against the desk and watches Jensen when he reaches up to scrawl formulas in chalk, back curving just the way Jensen knows he likes it; there's a lifeguard with a hairy chest and a belly at the pool whose whole shift revolves around Jensen every time he comes in for a swim.
He's heard it all - his teammates huddled in the locker room when he came in earlier than he usually did, talking about his lips and his lashes, the bow of his legs; ragged breaths pressed up against the back of his head in crowded buses.
When he's 12, he learns the smell of it - thick and musky under a kaleidoscope of scents. Sometimes it's heavy cologne, or a dash of aftershave from the man in the suit who always finds his way to Jensen on the subway; other times it's peppermint from the sweet Mr. Beaver's been sucking on before he came to check on Jensen in his favourite corner of the library, like he always does, like he never does anybody else; sometimes it's the scent of freshly laundered sheets at the dry cleaners where the man behind the counter always makes sure to brush his fingers against Jensen's when he's passing him Father's blazer, or Josh's newest suit for prom.
He's 14 when the older boys and girls from school start inviting him to parties. The first time, Jensen could hardly believe it so he let Jeff from the college swim team take him by the wrist and lead him into the house, let him press cup after cup of punch into his hands until he felt hazy and loose and flushed, let Jeff lay him out on the couch, bend over him and press their lips together.
Jensen lets Jeff pant into his ear, wet, moist, dirty words that trace the shell of his ear and make him tremble just like Jeff's hands carefully undoing the buttons of the shirt Mother picked out for him make him quiver and blink, dazedly.
"Feeling hot, huh, buddy? Let's take this off, hey? You know I think you're the coolest kid in middle school, right? The coolest. The prettiest too, you know that, Jen?" and Jensen lets Jeff flick the lobe of his ear with his tongue.
He lets Jeff thumb his nipples, lets him drag his tongue over them, then his teeth, and all the while he lets Jeff mumble in his ear, loud even with the thumping music around them: "God, Jen, soft, soft skin all over, aren't you? You gonna let me lick your nipples again? Can I lick your tits some more? So pretty and pink, Jen. How about that red, little mouth - can I have that too? Huh, Jen?"
Jensen lets Jeff lick him under shirt, lets Jeff push his tongue into his mouth - even sucks on it for a while, moans brokenly a little, just enough for Jeff to groan right back into his mouth like an echo. He lets Jeff lift him by his underarms onto Jeff's lap - just like all those other laps, but this time he lets Jeff lift him up and down, lets Jeff lift his own hips and grind into his ass, lets Jeff gasp, ragged, into his ear and stiffen before he relaxes into a sprawl, pressing Jensen back against his chest.
Jensen doesn't let him touch him under the waistband, doesn't let him inside, where he knows Jeff wants to be - that secret place Mother told him was just for him until he found the right man, a nice man, that hot, cramped place he slid a curious finger into just last week when he woke up one Sunday morning with his cock straining against his briefs. Jensen just tilts his head back to brush a kiss against Jeff's cheek, spiky with stubble, swivels his hips down once, twice over Jeff's sticky lap. He hears Jeff groan in his ear, but he shrugs Jeff's arm off and gets up off the couch on shaky legs, buttons his shirt up the wrong way, and walks out the door so he can hitch a ride home with one of Josh's classmates who never bats an eyelid and never breathes a word to Josh as long as Jensen keeps looking at him that way, shy, from under the fan of his lashes, as long as Jensen leans in some times and laughs into his shoulder, and tells him Jensen loves him, and he's always been Jensen's favourite.
Jensen's been around bad men all his life, seen them in the shadows, in the hallways of school, across his parents from dinner table with their wedding rings and their tow-headed children, and he's been practising since he was five, reeling them in slowly, with little smiles on lips stained with blueberry pancakes, with fat, hot tears after skinned knees, and pushing them away ever time he knows things could go too far. Or when he gets bored - which he always does.
Because what Mother doesn't know, or Father, or Josh, or Mac even, is that Jensen has found the right man. The nicest man. And once Jensen reels him in just like he did the others, he'll keep this one.
Mr Padalecki was just his best friend's daddy at first. Their families lived right beside each other so Jensen saw him every single day, and it was a small town, so Jensen saw him everywhere. Mr Padalecki wasn't like most other dads. He had a secret candy section in the fridge and Jensen was always bumping into him at the candy store, where Mr Padalecki would buy him an extra bag of gummy worms; his hair was longer than any other dad Jensen had seen, and it was so smooth and so shiny; he laughed like he was having convulsions and smiled till he dimpled and lifted his leg up and farted all over the house and he even let Jensen and Chris stay up late watching zombie movies with him when they were seven; he didn't live with his wife, didn't have a heavy ring circling any of the fingers on this big, broad hands - and Jensen had loved him, secretly, crazy with longing, since he was five.
When Jensen had woken up the night of his first sleepover curled up in a sleeping bag on Chris' bedroom floor, and felt his briefs sticking to his thighs, the hot, dampness still trickling, he had burst into tears. Mother and Father has been trying to break that, and it had been three weeks since he last woke up, legs swaddled in wet sheets, that burning shame making his cheeks flush and his eyes tear, and his breath escape in moist, rattling gasps.
He was a big boy now, though, so he quietly crawled out of the sleeping bag, carefully, so Chris wouldn't wake, and wiggled out of his wet briefs, wadding them up loosely in the palm of his hand and making way to the toilet just down the hallway. He was a big boy now, so he kept his sniffles as soft as he could, tried to swallow down the choking sobs so they rose as little hiccups instead. His thighs kept sliding against each other, sticky, with every step, and he couldn't see anything - eyes all wet with tears, and nose starting to get stuffy with mucus.
The door to Mr Padalecki's room swung open just a crack, just enough for Mr Padalecki to poke his head out through the sliver of light streaming out of his room, and blink at Jensen.
"Jensen?" he asked, softly. He shook his hair out of his eyes and Jensen burned with shame, knew Mr Padalecki could see him, one palm clawed against the wall, the other nursing his stained briefs, could see him with his nose starting to run so Jensen could taste the saltiness beading above his upper lip, could see his teary eyes, and he would know what Jensen had done - just inches away from where Chris slept - how dirty Jensen was.
"I'm suh- suh- sorry, Mr Padalecki. I didn't mean to. I didn't want to be dirty. Suh- sorry," Jensen had choked out, feeling hot tears spilling over down his cheeks, and flinched away, embarrassed, when Mr Padalecki stepped out of the room. But all Mr Padalecki did, was rest his huge, warm hand on the back of Jensen's neck and squat down, tilting Jensen's face up with his other hand. All he did was rub the tears away with his thumbs, rough like a cat's tongue, and poke Jensen in the cheek with a finger.
"Hey, hey, Jensen. It's all right, sweetheart. It's okay. It was an accident. How about we get you into the toilet, get you cleaned up. Not feeling too good right now, are you, darling?" and he wrapped one of Jensen's hands in that hand of his - that big, warm hand Jensen would dream about and pine over for years and years and years when he was older - and took him into the toilet, washed him clean, and crooned at him, soft, comforting sounds Jensen couldn't understand through his tears and his shame. He washed Jensen's briefs and hung them up to dry, gave Jensen a pair of Chris' boxers to slip into which swished around his knees like a skirt, cleaned out the sleeping bag, and took him down to the kitchen for some hot chocolate and a noisy packet of ruffled crisps.
They sat on the couch in the living room and Mr Paladecki told him all about when he was little - how could such a big, big man ever be little like Jensen? - he wet his bed too, that Jensen wasn't the only one, and it wasn't dirty, and he was so good, trying so hard for Mother and Father. Mr Padalecki told him about camping when he was little, and how his own daddy used to catch fish with his bare hands and smoke them by the river, and they watched DVDs of old cartoons, and giggled at each other, trying to stop the packet of crisps from rustling and waking Chris up.
"Thank you, Mr Padalecki," Jensen had told him, shyly, trying to hide in the corner of the couch. And Mr Padalecki had laughed, and dragged Jensen right into his lap and wrapped his arms around him like a snake and rested his chin on the top of Jensen's head, and called him a sweetheart, and wasn't Chris lucky to have a best friend like him.
Jensen sat there, in the circle of Mr Padalecki's arm, smelling hot chocolate and feeling the soft, soft strands of Mr Padalecki's hair against his cheek, and the big, muscled arms Chris always said he would have one day, just like his daddy. He listened to Mr Padalecki ramble on about how Jensen's mother made the best Thanksgiving turkey, and how was Josh, and did Jensen like gummy bears or pop tarts or cheeseburgers.
Nobody really talked to him much. They stared at him, touched him, talked at him, about how pretty he was, and did he like candy, and what precious little lips he had, what soft cheeks, what lovely freckles.
It was so safe there, curled up in Mr Padalecki's lap with the lights from the TV strobing over the two of them - nothing at all like those other laps, with the curious hands stroking over his thighs, again and again and again. Mr Padalecki's hands just scrabbled around inside the packet of crisps, or extended in front of them to demonstrate how his own dad had skinned a rabbit and Jensen just sat there, still, afraid to even move, and loved Mr Padalecki - loved him, loved him, loved him with everything in him.
Jensen had waited ten years since that night - and he would have waited more. He had planned to wait more, till he was 18, or maybe 20 and halfway through college, when Mr Padalecki would stop seeing him as Chris' best friend, the little boy who peed in his briefs and cried, but he had to move quick.
15 wasn't that young anyway, and Jensen was sure he could please Mr Padalecki - he'd learnt to kiss from older boys and working men, how to shape his mouths around theirs and coax their tongues into his mouth, he knew what they really wanted from his lips but would never get, he knew seeing him in gym class with his shorts brushing over the top of lean white thighs made men and boys alike leak in their pants, he knew how to make a man come undone with his hips and his hands, and the flutter of his lashes over his eyes, knew how to coax an orgasm out with just his voice - pleading wantonly for them to touch him, tongue his mouth, let him ride them (pants on, his ass rubbing and rubbing and rubbing against the tent in their jeans), please, please rub your cock against me, let them nestle their hot, thick erections in the crack of his ass, separated by layers of fabric; letting out those shattered little moans he couldn't help in the throes of pleasure, the ragged screams he tried to muffle in the crook between shoulder and neck. He could please a man, and there was no man he wanted to please more than Mr Padalecki.
So, when that new divorcee with the fake breasts moved into town, setting up her lair of depravity right across the street from Mr Padalecki and started coming over with pie, and for sugar, went out for morning jogs in her sports bra timed just right so she could bump into Jared on his way out to work, and oh, look, I've locked myself out, silly me while Jensen watched from his bedroom window, he knew he had to stake his claim.
He knew the small things worked the best - that it drove men crazy when they discovered they could come apart just from Jensen dragging his tongue messily all over his lips, or when he dripped ice-cream down his chin on hot days. They'd grind him onto their laps and grunt out "You little slut, you know what you're doing don't you - your tongue, fuck. Your fucking tongue licking up that mess you made, all over your chin. You know what it looks like. Gonna get my cock between those lips, make the same mess you made, and you'll love it. You've been waiting for it, haven't you?"
Of course Jensen knew, and of course he'd been waiting for it - but not from them, not from any man, not from the parade of bad men who made their way into his life like an oil spill, tried to get their hands into his pants, up his hole to make way for their cocks.
So, Jensen started with the little things. He hung around Chris' house every day after school. They'd shoot hoops in the backyard, play with water guns on hot days, do their homework while watching TV. Mr Padalecki had a job as a mechanic the past few years, and he'd come home with sweat stains under his arms, his shirt wet and clinging to his broad, broad back. He'd smell like gas and gasoline and salt, and he'd still be dripping sweat from his hair after short drive back from his house - and the first thing he'd do would be to call for Chris and Jensen as he unlocked the front door, like Jensen was meant to be in the house, waiting for him like a wife, every time he got home.
The appearance of the new divorcee threw a wrench in that. Some days, she'd be lurking in the driveway, waiting for Mr Padalecki to pull up in his beat up little car. Jensen would watch from the window right beside the door, where he always was five minutes before five, five days a week, while Chris would shrug and stomp up to his bedroom to strum his guitar idly after throwing Jensen a "Dude, you're not his wife. Just come up and hang out for a while instead of pressing yourself up against the front door waiting for him." or a "Give dad a kiss for me when he gets back, mommy."
The woman would pounce on Mr Padalecki once he stepped out of the car, cornering him with her fast-moving lips - those slick, glossy pink lips - and her breasts, and a pastry of some sort which Jensen knew she'd nipped out to the baker's to buy, and Mr Padalecki would blink at her, and humour he because he was nice. He was nice to everybody, Jensen realised, and it made his heart ache - twist almost physically in his chest - every time he saw Mr Padalecki offering his grin up easily as anything, or offer the crook of his arm, that sweet little bend in the midst of all that corded muscle, to ladies and children.
When she finally cleared out of the driveway and was safely ensconced in her house, where nobody else except her angry-looking chihuahua had to suffer through perfume fumes and potentially being crushed to death by cleavage, Jared (who always leaned against his car and watched her till she was safely back home - as if any car could mow her down on the street on her way back without denting their fender on her breasts) would run a hand through his hair, tired, and sigh. He no longer ran up the stairs and threw open the front door, whipping his head around to grin at Jensen. He'd take the steps up to the front door in a slow, ambling gait, and when he opened the door, he'd chuck the keys onto the sidetable, and only remember Jensen when he turned and saw him there, smiling shyly. Mr Padalecki would reach a hand out then, and clap Jensen heavily on the shoulder with a wry grin in return.
Jensen started wearing his gym shorts over to Chris', and his worn gym t-shirts, butter-soft, with the wide, loose collar offering the view of his collarbones like a sacrifice. He loved his gym shirts, knew they offered the best view of his nipples, straining pink and stiff against the white material and he knew what his nipples did to some men. They'd spend minutes on them, nipping, licking, pinching and rolling, sucking on them so hungrily Jensen wondered if they expected fat droplets of milk to well up to the surface. There was a man, the father of a boy he was working with for a class project, who liked dragging his beard across them, watching them pucker with every pass of his chin, liked hearing Jensen's cries to stop, please, it tickles, you'll make me come like this, I don't want to dirty my briefs, please, please. He'd heard men whisper dirtily to his nipples, call them his tits, talk about how ripe they looked, or how sweet they were, are they blushing just for me, Jenny?
So the weekend his parents are off to his grandparents with Mac, and Josh is out with his girlfriend, Jensen packs his gym shirts into his overnight bag and accosts Mr Padalecki on Saturday morning with the sight of his smooth, white thighs and his pink nipples, the tempting glimpse of them behind the gauze of his shirt, in the kitchen where Mr Padalecki is chugging down a pot of coffee one-handed.
Jensen makes sure to stretch when he yawns, raising the shirt just a little, just enough to show his belly, where hairs are starting to sprout, the tops of his hipbones. He makes sure to scratch at his thigh idly, sliding the leg of his shorts up, up, up so Mr Padalecki can see the muscles of his inner thigh, the shape of it. And because he loves Mr Padalecki, he adds in a special - presses himself against the kitchen table opposite Mr Padalecki, places his palms flat on the surface and leans over a little to peer up at him. He knows his eyes are beautiful in the sunlight, and his freckles look darker, and his gaping collar will slip over one shoulder.
"All right there, Mr Padalecki? Looking a little peaked this morning." he asks, and raises a hand to press against the side of Mr Padalecki's face, where the stubble scratches against his palm and blinks up at him softly. "Anything I can do for you?"
Mr Padalecki adds more blinking to his repertoire, then raises his coffee pot and gulps the remnants down like a man dying of thirst. Jensen leaves the table and bends over inside the fridge, reaching down to the lowest shelf for milk, feeling his shorts pull taut against his ass, riding up at the back to expose just the shyest glimpse of the curved muscle where his ass meets thigh. Mr Padalecki makes a noise like a dying man and splutters a bit.
"Uh... shorts," he's saying a little incoherently. "Aren't you cold?"
"Was a hot night," Jensen replies. "Woke up burning all over. My thighs were all sticky with sweat. I was sticky all over, really."
The way Mr Padalecki's eyes drag down his thighs makes Jensen want to perch his own ass on the kitchen table and wrap his thighs around Mr Padalecki's hips.
"Dude," comes Chris' voice from the doorway, and just like that all the simmering heat evaporates as Mr Padalecki's eyes widen and drag right back up and away from Jensen. "Those shorts make you look like jailbait. Put that ass away."
Jensen turns to level a glare at his best friend, who rolls his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, have fun with Jen today dad. I'm off for band practice in a bit. See you two crazy kids later!"
When Jensen turns back to Mr Padalecki, he's already banging two pans on stove, and juggling a few eggs with that easy smile back in place, asking how many eggs Jensen wants for breakfast, and wanna help him wash the car?, and Jensen knows he'll have to bring out the big guns.
Jensen loves Mr Padalecki but, really, he's just a little too nice, just a bit too sweet. So unsuspecting - like divorcees rubbing their breasts against him and Jensen wearing his pedobait shorts with his ass cheeks hanging out weren't increasingly desperate cries to hellooo, please fuck me already. So damn stupid it made things kinda easy. He should have folded that long, broad body into his car, told Jensen oh would you look at that something cropped up at work, so please entertain yourself - how about a movie? - if he didn't want the Saturday to end the way Jensen knew it would.
Treating Jensen just like he had before - just a kid, just Chris' best friend - meant the whole Saturday Mr Padalecki had planned for the both of them was the perfect set-up for seduction, really. And Jensen was pretty much out on the prowl, all out.
He calls Chris on his phone and tells him, you owe me a favour for writing that essay for you, so you gotta stay out late tonight, okay, Chris?
"Dude, I know. I ain't gonna come home when I know my dad's gonna be dicking you all over the house. Just call me when you're all done and it's safe for me to come home. ...Ugh, come home. I think I'm gonna barf. And he's an old man, Jen, so don't break him, you complete and utter slut. I kinda need him to pay for college, just so you know. Actually, maybe you should sex him up good so he'll get me a new guitar or something. Just use your magical pedo-gobbling ass or something," Chris says, which is why he's Jensen's best friend.
It's a hot morning when they start on Mr Padalecki's car, so that makes it perfectly fine for Jensen to wind the hose around his wrist and spray himself with it, let water cascade right down on him, let his lips get glossy and slick, his lashes clump together and bead with the tiniest droplets of water - like jewels, his soccer coach had told him when he had Jensen bent over his knees in the empty locker room and had spanked him with a hard, unforgiving palm through his shorts for missing the penalty, you crying for me, baby?, just gonna make wanna work your ass over harder, again and again, to see those tears, Jenny, does it hurt?
Mr Padalecki had been assiduously polishing the sideview mirror, where Jensen saw himself reflected, for the past few minutes, which is flattering, and sort of sweet that Mr Padalecki thinks staring at Jensen while pretending not to stare makes it any less obvious.
Jensen's nipples are already peaking under his shirt in response to the cold water, and he's so horny after seeing Mr Padalecki sponging the car down gently with hands so big they should be clumsy. Jensen just really wants to slide those hands up over his own body, even doesn't mind using his own fingers to play with his nipples, pinch them till his cock twitches - they're aching so badly for the touch of a finger or of a tongue, maybe some stubble so it burns just the way he likes. He sort of settles for rubbing them against the door of the car subtly as he sponges it down, and tells Mr Padalecki: "It's such a hot day, Mr Padalecki, isn't it? I swear I'm all hot all over. Feels like i'm burning from the inside out, urgh. If my skin's this hot, how hot do you think it is inside me, huh?"
Mr Padalecki almost slips on the sidewalk, which he's almost done a lot while the both of them have been washing the car, but, hey, Jensen thinks, you don't let the horny 15-year-old who's been in love with you for pretty much a decade wash your car without expecting some sort of Paris Hilton routine all over it. This time he excuses himself, stuttering a little, and wringing those thick fingers a lot.
"I feel a bit peaky, buddy - got to be the sun and old age acting up on me. Mind finishing my baby off while I nip back inside? I'll get some food in you when you get back in," says Mr Padalecki - sweet and stupid as always, because Jensen doesn't want a couple of ham and cheese sandwiches in him even if Mr Padalecki's are the best. He tries to shuffle away, which is adorable - seeing that mountain of a man bent nearly in half and hobbling ad though that would hide the outline of his giant dick pressed up against his trousers instead of draw attention to it.
Jensen doesn't really do seduction - he didn't usually need tactics or strategies, didn't usually spend the night planning out how to get a man to haul him onto his lap, to palm the curves of his ass and lick his wet, hot mouth wide open. Seduction was built into him, not something to be deliberated over. He'd learnt how to get men up since he was small, just hip-high and still clutching tight to Father's thighs, when he saw how men licked their lips when he licked his own, or how their breaths got hotter when he wiggled in their laps, how when he smiled, they smiled back, helplessly, widely, as though they couldn't believe Jensen could be looking at them.
He always knows what to do, knows what will happen next, so it's hard to get his mind around why Mr Padalecki doesn't just throw him into the backseat of the car, lick his nipples through his sopping shirt, and feed Jensen dick through his mouth or hole - Jensen's not picky.
Jensen's a little grumpy as he hoses the whole car down, pressing a palm against his nipple where it feels puffy, like he's so desperate and horny his come's started leaking out of him.
When he gets back in, Mr Padalecki is mixing up a jar of lemonade and has a plate of sandwiches ready. The big smile he offers Jensen is a little embarrassed and Jensen wonders if it's because Mr Padalecki was jerking off in the toilet thinking of him, dragging that big, rough palm over his cock.
Mr Padalecki doesn't press Jensen against the dining table, or the sink, or the refrigerator, and Jensen is getting antsy. When they eat, they chat just like normal - Mr Padalecki doesn't try to lick at Jensen's ear or try to get him out of his chair and into Mr Padalecki's lap. Mr Padalecki even passes him a popsicle from the freezer after lunch, just like normal, like he's not passing Jensen a phallic symbol on a stick to feast on after Jensen's rubbed his nipples all over his car and his sex appeal all over Mr Padalecki's face.
This time Jensen eats the popsicle like he's cramming his mouth full of cock. He laps at the tip with the point of his tongue, lets the pink muscle slither its way from the tip to the base of it before he sucks it into his mouth and down his throat. He nurses it in his throat for so long, he can feel himself going a little dizzy, feel his cheeks start to burn as his lungs burn for air. When he drags his throat off the popsicle, tugs it out of his mouth, it leaves the circle of his lips with a noisy pop. The sound is so filthy, Jensen can't help but moan and lift his hips a little under the table.
"That was delicious. Really needed that. You always know what I need Mr Padalecki," Jensen says shyly, between broad licks of his tongue.
Mr Padalecki twitches in his chair, and Jensen gets ready to be pounced on. He's already contemplating whether Mr Padalecki will slide his cock down Jensen's throat, or just rub it over his lips, drag the messy tip all over Jensen's face to let his precome cover every single one of Jensen's freckles, or if he'll press his cock up Jensen's hole straight away.
When Mr Padalecki starts cleaning up noisily, stammering about watching a movie, Jensen can't help but bite through half of his popsicle with frustration.
It has to be some kind of giant cosmic joke that Jensen can make all the men he feels nothing but a vague sense of pity for, a short-lived, heady rush of power over, fall to their knees for the chance to touch him or have him touch them, and here he is with Mr Padalecki who he's actually gone through lengths to seduce, being completely and utterly shut down with every deliberate shake of his ass.
Maybe he's unappealing - after all he's older now, and some men don't bend as easily to his will or his voice, roughening with age; the muscles that threaten to harden the smooth, endless lines of his arms and legs, the softness of his belly; how his limbs are beginning to lengthen and some men struggle to contain all of him in the cage of their arms now, like never before. Maybe he's not as pretty as he used to be now, not pretty enough for Mr Padalecki to keep him and love him.
"Mannn, it's karma, Jen," Chris had told Jensen one of the nights he was sleeping over, head poking out over the edge of his bed. "If you're gonna walk around making guys come in their pants, and wander off right after that like ooh, I don't care, I just have a quota of sperm to milk out of people, you're gonna get served. The universe doesn't like cockteases, Jen."
Jensen has done nothing but been a cocktease all Saturday long, but Mr Padalecki is still this humongous stone wall (covered with uhn, beautiful tanned skin, sweating away like he always does, even when he's doing absolutely nothing but eat popcorn noisily, oh god Jensen's gonna start leaking from his ass in sheer desperation or something).
Jensen's done everything except tug his shorts down - or tug them up just those few inches over his ass cheeks - and sit on Mr Padalecki's cock. He's been so horny the whole day, he's wanked in the toilet twice, stuffing his own fingers up his ass and stealing one of Mr Padalecki's faded shirts from the laundry basket to hold up to his nose.
He's licked and sucked on so many things he can't even remember a time when his mouth wasn't full and his lips swollen; he's run through his whole repertoire of outrageously bad innuendos so that he's even resorted to dipping into Chris' stash; he's pressed nearly every part of him against Mr Padalecki from where they're tucked up against each other in the ratty two-seater which has probably been around even before Jensen was born.
Mr Padalecki's eyes heat, his gaze lingers, and he chokes on his words like he can't help it, chokes on his tongue like he's trying to stop it from sliding right out of his mouth to touch Jensen's own, but he never does anything every other man's done to Jensen.
It's almost nightfall and the light in the room is a little red, a little purple where it sneaks in through the window and Jensen can't stop looking at Mr Padalecki, has graduated from glances from the corner of his eyes, to pretty much staring at the man.
Mr Padalecki watches movies like he wants to get sucked right into the television screen, and Jensen had thought that succeeding in dragging Mr Padalecki's eyes a record number of times off hoardes of teenagers being hacked to death meant he was getting to the man - but his shorts are still on, and Mr Padalecki's pretty much still munching on popcorn like he doesn't know how many uses Jensen has for that mouth of his.
So Jensen turns the TV off, shoves the giant bowl of popcorn off his rightful place in Mr Padalecki's lap and waits for Mr Padalecki to stop spluttering and trying to hack popcorn out of his windpipe.
It's a really nice lap - the nicest lap Jensen has ever been in. Jensen could stay there for hours, for days, just perched there, shifting a little so he can feel the muscles in Mr Padalecki's hard, huge thighs twitching, so he can hook his arms around Mr Padalecki's neck and stare him in the face - the closest he's been to it since he was 11 and Mr Padalecki stopped lifting him and Chris up, tossing them around the house to hear them giggle.
It looks just the tiniest bit different now. He's still the handsomest man Jensen's seen, but his eyes are tired and there are little frown lines that shouldn't be swarming his mouth - maybe from the three years he spent trying to juggle two jobs to save up for Chris' tuition - and Jensen just wants to lick them away, tiny kitten flicks of the tongue, and make Mr Padalecki happy.
"You're a little too big for my lap, buddy," Mr Padalecki ends up saying, jokingly, but it makes Jensen flinch to hear those words.
Of course. Too big, too old. Maybe Jensen shouldn't have worried about being old enough to please Mr Padalecki, maybe it had been wrong to listen to Chris when he said "Hold on there Jailbait Jenny, you gotta let the pedofairy grant you a few more years before you start trying to bang my dad. He'll just freak out, you know?", maybe he'd lost his chance a few years back, back when he was still small enough to clamber into a lap and have men gather his small body into their arms.
Jensen actually starts tearing in frustration, leaning forward to tuck his head under Mr Padalecki's chin, to press his hot cheek against that expanse of throat, feeling tears leak out the corner of his eyes.
Mr Padalecki's arms wrap around Jensen a little awkwardly, one big palm coming up to run up and down Jensen's back soothingly, gently, like he's patting a trapped bird made out of bones so fine they'd shatter with a careless touch. "There, there, Jen. It's okay, buddy, it's gonna be fine," he says, a little confused, in that voice of his, rich and thick like hot chocolate melting all over Jensen.
"It's not. It'll never be fine," Jensen kind of whispers into Mr Padalecki's neck, and just presses his face into Mr Padalecki's neck, breathes him in, and cries, and cries, and cries with shuddering gulps.
Mr Padalecki just sits there and holds him close - the only way Jensen will ever be this close to Mr Padalecki, the very last time - and strokes his back, pats his hair, lets Jensen cry himself boneless, lets him cry until his nose is blocked and he's snuffling and sniffling and thinking about how unsexy it is to rub strings of mucus all over Mr Padalecki.
Jensen lets Mr Padalecki peel his gross, sticky face, gooey from tears and snot and saliva, away from his neck, and tilt Jensen's face up to his.
"You gonna tell me what's wrong, buddy?" he asks.
"I love you," Jensen tells him, and Mr Padalecki blinks down at him, confused, that floppy hair falling into his eyes. Mr Padalecki's body has gone stiff all over, rigid, except for where his mouth is slack with shock, or disgust. Mr Padalecki's mouth struggles to move a litte, to shape out a response, but Jensen clamps it back shut with sticky fingers. Mr Padalecki kinda squints at him then, a furrow growing between his brows, like Jensen is going crazy - which Jensen kinda is, but see how you'd cope with having the man you've loved since you were 5 never, ever love you back.
"I love you," Jensen decides to tell him again, because insanity is doing the same things over and over again and expecting different results, expecting Mr Padalecki to kiss him and hold him and love him instead of just sit there with his arms fallen to his side.
And so Jensen desperately, crazily says it again and again, setting the words to motion now - pressing his moving lips against Mr Padalecki's forehead, the corners of those slanted eyes, his eyelids, his cheeks, then, lips trembling, to the corner of Mr Padalecki's mouth. He rests his lips on Mr Padalecki's ear and whispers the words again and again like a prayer.
"I love you, I love you, Mr Padalecki, love you, love you, love you. I've loved you since that night when I was five and I wet the sleeping bag, remember? And you found me in the hallway and wiped my tears away, and fed me hot chocolate, and ruffled crisps which my parents never get me, and told me about how your father skinned a rabbit, and you put me on your lap and held me. Love you, love you, love you, Mr Padalecki, really, really love you. I've loved you for ten years, and you're always so nice, and you always make me laugh, and I even love that you're the gassiest person on earth, and the sweatiest, and even though Chris says you have emo hair because you're having a mid-life crisis, I love your hair too, and I don't want you to be alone anymore - I can make you happy, or I could, or I really want to, and I've wanted to love you for ten years, Mr Padalecki. But maybe now I'm too old, and I'm not pretty enough anymore, and I know you don't have to let me, of course you don't have to do anything at all - but please, could I keep on loving you? I won't touch you anymore, and I'll won't stick around and try to make you dinner in time for you to get home and end up burning all your eggs and your pans, and everything, but, please, Mr Padalecki, maybe, if you wouldn't mind it terribly, could I just... stay here, like this, on your lap for a while, and even if you don't love me, maybe you can just pretend to - just for a while, just hold me for a while?"
Jensen still has his mouth - that useless mouth that every man but Mr Padalecki seems to want - pressed up against Mr Padalecki's ear when he finishes, and it's such a lovely ear - Jensen could spend a lifetime rubbing his lips against the shell of it, feeling Mr Padalecki's hair poke against his cheek and his nose, that it's a bit of a surprise to have that pretty, pretty ear with its earlobe - fat and so soft-looking, like it's begging for Jensen to lick it and tug it into his mouth and nibble on it - ripped right away from him, to have his breath feather out against the wet, hot inside of a mouth instead.
Part 2
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Underage, relentless cockteasery, jailbait!Jenny
Summary: For the prompt over at spnkink_meme: There are lots of prompts with the older Jared/Jensen seducing the younger Jensen/Jared but never the other way around. Jensen is 14-18 and he knows he's a little twink, he sees the way men look at him and he doesn't mind, the attention helps him gain a new found self confidence. But even though men may look at him, Jensen not actually interested. The only one for him is Jared, who he's crushed on since he was like five. Jared can be his stepfather, neighbor, teacher, father's friend, man who kid's Jensen babysits, whatever annon wants as long as Jared is significantly older. Points for a Jared being very reluctant because of the age gap while Jensen just coaxes him in. Jared's always been so nice and thoughtful, so Jensen never expected him to be so rough and controlling in the bed, or that he'd love it.
Jensen's always known what men wanted from him. Mother always told him to be careful. Josh hovered over him at the candy store like a bad-tempered hurricane, twisting around to dole out glares and bare his teeth, waited to walk him home from school, always held his hand in the park for years. Father came into his room one day when he was 6, awkward, leaning his head against the doorjamb like he could melt into it, and told Jensen about naughty touches, about bad men, all things Jensen had already known.
Jensen knows about those bad men. He knows their eyes don't rest on his lips as he absently sucks up the last of his milkshake noisily, or on the curve of his ass as he bends over the jukebox at the diner, out of mere affection. Those eyes stalk him like the hungriest of predators, sliding him out of his baggy hoodie, the thin shirt underneath, the loose-legged jeans, with every blink.
He's always known why some men can never seem to stop touching him - fluttering fingers on his shoulder, like they've trapped the finest-boned bird in the cage of them; warm, huge, calloused hands sliding over the back of his neck just so; thumbs brushing slowly over his cheekbones, where the smattering of freckles seems to darken every year.
When he was younger, there was a parade of huge hands - some calloused, some riddled with wrinkles, some with cold, heavy rings - reaching out for him.
"What a lovely boy," someone would say or, "Five years old and already breaking hearts, aren't you?", and those hands would arrange him in the cradle of a lap and smooth over his thighs, and there'd be warm, wet breath misting against his nape, ruffling the hair there.
He's seen it all - at soccer games, some dads tote cameras which follow him around when their wives look away; at school, his Mathematics teacher leans back against the desk and watches Jensen when he reaches up to scrawl formulas in chalk, back curving just the way Jensen knows he likes it; there's a lifeguard with a hairy chest and a belly at the pool whose whole shift revolves around Jensen every time he comes in for a swim.
He's heard it all - his teammates huddled in the locker room when he came in earlier than he usually did, talking about his lips and his lashes, the bow of his legs; ragged breaths pressed up against the back of his head in crowded buses.
When he's 12, he learns the smell of it - thick and musky under a kaleidoscope of scents. Sometimes it's heavy cologne, or a dash of aftershave from the man in the suit who always finds his way to Jensen on the subway; other times it's peppermint from the sweet Mr. Beaver's been sucking on before he came to check on Jensen in his favourite corner of the library, like he always does, like he never does anybody else; sometimes it's the scent of freshly laundered sheets at the dry cleaners where the man behind the counter always makes sure to brush his fingers against Jensen's when he's passing him Father's blazer, or Josh's newest suit for prom.
He's 14 when the older boys and girls from school start inviting him to parties. The first time, Jensen could hardly believe it so he let Jeff from the college swim team take him by the wrist and lead him into the house, let him press cup after cup of punch into his hands until he felt hazy and loose and flushed, let Jeff lay him out on the couch, bend over him and press their lips together.
Jensen lets Jeff pant into his ear, wet, moist, dirty words that trace the shell of his ear and make him tremble just like Jeff's hands carefully undoing the buttons of the shirt Mother picked out for him make him quiver and blink, dazedly.
"Feeling hot, huh, buddy? Let's take this off, hey? You know I think you're the coolest kid in middle school, right? The coolest. The prettiest too, you know that, Jen?" and Jensen lets Jeff flick the lobe of his ear with his tongue.
He lets Jeff thumb his nipples, lets him drag his tongue over them, then his teeth, and all the while he lets Jeff mumble in his ear, loud even with the thumping music around them: "God, Jen, soft, soft skin all over, aren't you? You gonna let me lick your nipples again? Can I lick your tits some more? So pretty and pink, Jen. How about that red, little mouth - can I have that too? Huh, Jen?"
Jensen lets Jeff lick him under shirt, lets Jeff push his tongue into his mouth - even sucks on it for a while, moans brokenly a little, just enough for Jeff to groan right back into his mouth like an echo. He lets Jeff lift him by his underarms onto Jeff's lap - just like all those other laps, but this time he lets Jeff lift him up and down, lets Jeff lift his own hips and grind into his ass, lets Jeff gasp, ragged, into his ear and stiffen before he relaxes into a sprawl, pressing Jensen back against his chest.
Jensen doesn't let him touch him under the waistband, doesn't let him inside, where he knows Jeff wants to be - that secret place Mother told him was just for him until he found the right man, a nice man, that hot, cramped place he slid a curious finger into just last week when he woke up one Sunday morning with his cock straining against his briefs. Jensen just tilts his head back to brush a kiss against Jeff's cheek, spiky with stubble, swivels his hips down once, twice over Jeff's sticky lap. He hears Jeff groan in his ear, but he shrugs Jeff's arm off and gets up off the couch on shaky legs, buttons his shirt up the wrong way, and walks out the door so he can hitch a ride home with one of Josh's classmates who never bats an eyelid and never breathes a word to Josh as long as Jensen keeps looking at him that way, shy, from under the fan of his lashes, as long as Jensen leans in some times and laughs into his shoulder, and tells him Jensen loves him, and he's always been Jensen's favourite.
Jensen's been around bad men all his life, seen them in the shadows, in the hallways of school, across his parents from dinner table with their wedding rings and their tow-headed children, and he's been practising since he was five, reeling them in slowly, with little smiles on lips stained with blueberry pancakes, with fat, hot tears after skinned knees, and pushing them away ever time he knows things could go too far. Or when he gets bored - which he always does.
Because what Mother doesn't know, or Father, or Josh, or Mac even, is that Jensen has found the right man. The nicest man. And once Jensen reels him in just like he did the others, he'll keep this one.
Mr Padalecki was just his best friend's daddy at first. Their families lived right beside each other so Jensen saw him every single day, and it was a small town, so Jensen saw him everywhere. Mr Padalecki wasn't like most other dads. He had a secret candy section in the fridge and Jensen was always bumping into him at the candy store, where Mr Padalecki would buy him an extra bag of gummy worms; his hair was longer than any other dad Jensen had seen, and it was so smooth and so shiny; he laughed like he was having convulsions and smiled till he dimpled and lifted his leg up and farted all over the house and he even let Jensen and Chris stay up late watching zombie movies with him when they were seven; he didn't live with his wife, didn't have a heavy ring circling any of the fingers on this big, broad hands - and Jensen had loved him, secretly, crazy with longing, since he was five.
When Jensen had woken up the night of his first sleepover curled up in a sleeping bag on Chris' bedroom floor, and felt his briefs sticking to his thighs, the hot, dampness still trickling, he had burst into tears. Mother and Father has been trying to break that, and it had been three weeks since he last woke up, legs swaddled in wet sheets, that burning shame making his cheeks flush and his eyes tear, and his breath escape in moist, rattling gasps.
He was a big boy now, though, so he quietly crawled out of the sleeping bag, carefully, so Chris wouldn't wake, and wiggled out of his wet briefs, wadding them up loosely in the palm of his hand and making way to the toilet just down the hallway. He was a big boy now, so he kept his sniffles as soft as he could, tried to swallow down the choking sobs so they rose as little hiccups instead. His thighs kept sliding against each other, sticky, with every step, and he couldn't see anything - eyes all wet with tears, and nose starting to get stuffy with mucus.
The door to Mr Padalecki's room swung open just a crack, just enough for Mr Padalecki to poke his head out through the sliver of light streaming out of his room, and blink at Jensen.
"Jensen?" he asked, softly. He shook his hair out of his eyes and Jensen burned with shame, knew Mr Padalecki could see him, one palm clawed against the wall, the other nursing his stained briefs, could see him with his nose starting to run so Jensen could taste the saltiness beading above his upper lip, could see his teary eyes, and he would know what Jensen had done - just inches away from where Chris slept - how dirty Jensen was.
"I'm suh- suh- sorry, Mr Padalecki. I didn't mean to. I didn't want to be dirty. Suh- sorry," Jensen had choked out, feeling hot tears spilling over down his cheeks, and flinched away, embarrassed, when Mr Padalecki stepped out of the room. But all Mr Padalecki did, was rest his huge, warm hand on the back of Jensen's neck and squat down, tilting Jensen's face up with his other hand. All he did was rub the tears away with his thumbs, rough like a cat's tongue, and poke Jensen in the cheek with a finger.
"Hey, hey, Jensen. It's all right, sweetheart. It's okay. It was an accident. How about we get you into the toilet, get you cleaned up. Not feeling too good right now, are you, darling?" and he wrapped one of Jensen's hands in that hand of his - that big, warm hand Jensen would dream about and pine over for years and years and years when he was older - and took him into the toilet, washed him clean, and crooned at him, soft, comforting sounds Jensen couldn't understand through his tears and his shame. He washed Jensen's briefs and hung them up to dry, gave Jensen a pair of Chris' boxers to slip into which swished around his knees like a skirt, cleaned out the sleeping bag, and took him down to the kitchen for some hot chocolate and a noisy packet of ruffled crisps.
They sat on the couch in the living room and Mr Paladecki told him all about when he was little - how could such a big, big man ever be little like Jensen? - he wet his bed too, that Jensen wasn't the only one, and it wasn't dirty, and he was so good, trying so hard for Mother and Father. Mr Padalecki told him about camping when he was little, and how his own daddy used to catch fish with his bare hands and smoke them by the river, and they watched DVDs of old cartoons, and giggled at each other, trying to stop the packet of crisps from rustling and waking Chris up.
"Thank you, Mr Padalecki," Jensen had told him, shyly, trying to hide in the corner of the couch. And Mr Padalecki had laughed, and dragged Jensen right into his lap and wrapped his arms around him like a snake and rested his chin on the top of Jensen's head, and called him a sweetheart, and wasn't Chris lucky to have a best friend like him.
Jensen sat there, in the circle of Mr Padalecki's arm, smelling hot chocolate and feeling the soft, soft strands of Mr Padalecki's hair against his cheek, and the big, muscled arms Chris always said he would have one day, just like his daddy. He listened to Mr Padalecki ramble on about how Jensen's mother made the best Thanksgiving turkey, and how was Josh, and did Jensen like gummy bears or pop tarts or cheeseburgers.
Nobody really talked to him much. They stared at him, touched him, talked at him, about how pretty he was, and did he like candy, and what precious little lips he had, what soft cheeks, what lovely freckles.
It was so safe there, curled up in Mr Padalecki's lap with the lights from the TV strobing over the two of them - nothing at all like those other laps, with the curious hands stroking over his thighs, again and again and again. Mr Padalecki's hands just scrabbled around inside the packet of crisps, or extended in front of them to demonstrate how his own dad had skinned a rabbit and Jensen just sat there, still, afraid to even move, and loved Mr Padalecki - loved him, loved him, loved him with everything in him.
Jensen had waited ten years since that night - and he would have waited more. He had planned to wait more, till he was 18, or maybe 20 and halfway through college, when Mr Padalecki would stop seeing him as Chris' best friend, the little boy who peed in his briefs and cried, but he had to move quick.
15 wasn't that young anyway, and Jensen was sure he could please Mr Padalecki - he'd learnt to kiss from older boys and working men, how to shape his mouths around theirs and coax their tongues into his mouth, he knew what they really wanted from his lips but would never get, he knew seeing him in gym class with his shorts brushing over the top of lean white thighs made men and boys alike leak in their pants, he knew how to make a man come undone with his hips and his hands, and the flutter of his lashes over his eyes, knew how to coax an orgasm out with just his voice - pleading wantonly for them to touch him, tongue his mouth, let him ride them (pants on, his ass rubbing and rubbing and rubbing against the tent in their jeans), please, please rub your cock against me, let them nestle their hot, thick erections in the crack of his ass, separated by layers of fabric; letting out those shattered little moans he couldn't help in the throes of pleasure, the ragged screams he tried to muffle in the crook between shoulder and neck. He could please a man, and there was no man he wanted to please more than Mr Padalecki.
So, when that new divorcee with the fake breasts moved into town, setting up her lair of depravity right across the street from Mr Padalecki and started coming over with pie, and for sugar, went out for morning jogs in her sports bra timed just right so she could bump into Jared on his way out to work, and oh, look, I've locked myself out, silly me while Jensen watched from his bedroom window, he knew he had to stake his claim.
He knew the small things worked the best - that it drove men crazy when they discovered they could come apart just from Jensen dragging his tongue messily all over his lips, or when he dripped ice-cream down his chin on hot days. They'd grind him onto their laps and grunt out "You little slut, you know what you're doing don't you - your tongue, fuck. Your fucking tongue licking up that mess you made, all over your chin. You know what it looks like. Gonna get my cock between those lips, make the same mess you made, and you'll love it. You've been waiting for it, haven't you?"
Of course Jensen knew, and of course he'd been waiting for it - but not from them, not from any man, not from the parade of bad men who made their way into his life like an oil spill, tried to get their hands into his pants, up his hole to make way for their cocks.
So, Jensen started with the little things. He hung around Chris' house every day after school. They'd shoot hoops in the backyard, play with water guns on hot days, do their homework while watching TV. Mr Padalecki had a job as a mechanic the past few years, and he'd come home with sweat stains under his arms, his shirt wet and clinging to his broad, broad back. He'd smell like gas and gasoline and salt, and he'd still be dripping sweat from his hair after short drive back from his house - and the first thing he'd do would be to call for Chris and Jensen as he unlocked the front door, like Jensen was meant to be in the house, waiting for him like a wife, every time he got home.
The appearance of the new divorcee threw a wrench in that. Some days, she'd be lurking in the driveway, waiting for Mr Padalecki to pull up in his beat up little car. Jensen would watch from the window right beside the door, where he always was five minutes before five, five days a week, while Chris would shrug and stomp up to his bedroom to strum his guitar idly after throwing Jensen a "Dude, you're not his wife. Just come up and hang out for a while instead of pressing yourself up against the front door waiting for him." or a "Give dad a kiss for me when he gets back, mommy."
The woman would pounce on Mr Padalecki once he stepped out of the car, cornering him with her fast-moving lips - those slick, glossy pink lips - and her breasts, and a pastry of some sort which Jensen knew she'd nipped out to the baker's to buy, and Mr Padalecki would blink at her, and humour he because he was nice. He was nice to everybody, Jensen realised, and it made his heart ache - twist almost physically in his chest - every time he saw Mr Padalecki offering his grin up easily as anything, or offer the crook of his arm, that sweet little bend in the midst of all that corded muscle, to ladies and children.
When she finally cleared out of the driveway and was safely ensconced in her house, where nobody else except her angry-looking chihuahua had to suffer through perfume fumes and potentially being crushed to death by cleavage, Jared (who always leaned against his car and watched her till she was safely back home - as if any car could mow her down on the street on her way back without denting their fender on her breasts) would run a hand through his hair, tired, and sigh. He no longer ran up the stairs and threw open the front door, whipping his head around to grin at Jensen. He'd take the steps up to the front door in a slow, ambling gait, and when he opened the door, he'd chuck the keys onto the sidetable, and only remember Jensen when he turned and saw him there, smiling shyly. Mr Padalecki would reach a hand out then, and clap Jensen heavily on the shoulder with a wry grin in return.
Jensen started wearing his gym shorts over to Chris', and his worn gym t-shirts, butter-soft, with the wide, loose collar offering the view of his collarbones like a sacrifice. He loved his gym shirts, knew they offered the best view of his nipples, straining pink and stiff against the white material and he knew what his nipples did to some men. They'd spend minutes on them, nipping, licking, pinching and rolling, sucking on them so hungrily Jensen wondered if they expected fat droplets of milk to well up to the surface. There was a man, the father of a boy he was working with for a class project, who liked dragging his beard across them, watching them pucker with every pass of his chin, liked hearing Jensen's cries to stop, please, it tickles, you'll make me come like this, I don't want to dirty my briefs, please, please. He'd heard men whisper dirtily to his nipples, call them his tits, talk about how ripe they looked, or how sweet they were, are they blushing just for me, Jenny?
So the weekend his parents are off to his grandparents with Mac, and Josh is out with his girlfriend, Jensen packs his gym shirts into his overnight bag and accosts Mr Padalecki on Saturday morning with the sight of his smooth, white thighs and his pink nipples, the tempting glimpse of them behind the gauze of his shirt, in the kitchen where Mr Padalecki is chugging down a pot of coffee one-handed.
Jensen makes sure to stretch when he yawns, raising the shirt just a little, just enough to show his belly, where hairs are starting to sprout, the tops of his hipbones. He makes sure to scratch at his thigh idly, sliding the leg of his shorts up, up, up so Mr Padalecki can see the muscles of his inner thigh, the shape of it. And because he loves Mr Padalecki, he adds in a special - presses himself against the kitchen table opposite Mr Padalecki, places his palms flat on the surface and leans over a little to peer up at him. He knows his eyes are beautiful in the sunlight, and his freckles look darker, and his gaping collar will slip over one shoulder.
"All right there, Mr Padalecki? Looking a little peaked this morning." he asks, and raises a hand to press against the side of Mr Padalecki's face, where the stubble scratches against his palm and blinks up at him softly. "Anything I can do for you?"
Mr Padalecki adds more blinking to his repertoire, then raises his coffee pot and gulps the remnants down like a man dying of thirst. Jensen leaves the table and bends over inside the fridge, reaching down to the lowest shelf for milk, feeling his shorts pull taut against his ass, riding up at the back to expose just the shyest glimpse of the curved muscle where his ass meets thigh. Mr Padalecki makes a noise like a dying man and splutters a bit.
"Uh... shorts," he's saying a little incoherently. "Aren't you cold?"
"Was a hot night," Jensen replies. "Woke up burning all over. My thighs were all sticky with sweat. I was sticky all over, really."
The way Mr Padalecki's eyes drag down his thighs makes Jensen want to perch his own ass on the kitchen table and wrap his thighs around Mr Padalecki's hips.
"Dude," comes Chris' voice from the doorway, and just like that all the simmering heat evaporates as Mr Padalecki's eyes widen and drag right back up and away from Jensen. "Those shorts make you look like jailbait. Put that ass away."
Jensen turns to level a glare at his best friend, who rolls his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, have fun with Jen today dad. I'm off for band practice in a bit. See you two crazy kids later!"
When Jensen turns back to Mr Padalecki, he's already banging two pans on stove, and juggling a few eggs with that easy smile back in place, asking how many eggs Jensen wants for breakfast, and wanna help him wash the car?, and Jensen knows he'll have to bring out the big guns.
Jensen loves Mr Padalecki but, really, he's just a little too nice, just a bit too sweet. So unsuspecting - like divorcees rubbing their breasts against him and Jensen wearing his pedobait shorts with his ass cheeks hanging out weren't increasingly desperate cries to hellooo, please fuck me already. So damn stupid it made things kinda easy. He should have folded that long, broad body into his car, told Jensen oh would you look at that something cropped up at work, so please entertain yourself - how about a movie? - if he didn't want the Saturday to end the way Jensen knew it would.
Treating Jensen just like he had before - just a kid, just Chris' best friend - meant the whole Saturday Mr Padalecki had planned for the both of them was the perfect set-up for seduction, really. And Jensen was pretty much out on the prowl, all out.
He calls Chris on his phone and tells him, you owe me a favour for writing that essay for you, so you gotta stay out late tonight, okay, Chris?
"Dude, I know. I ain't gonna come home when I know my dad's gonna be dicking you all over the house. Just call me when you're all done and it's safe for me to come home. ...Ugh, come home. I think I'm gonna barf. And he's an old man, Jen, so don't break him, you complete and utter slut. I kinda need him to pay for college, just so you know. Actually, maybe you should sex him up good so he'll get me a new guitar or something. Just use your magical pedo-gobbling ass or something," Chris says, which is why he's Jensen's best friend.
It's a hot morning when they start on Mr Padalecki's car, so that makes it perfectly fine for Jensen to wind the hose around his wrist and spray himself with it, let water cascade right down on him, let his lips get glossy and slick, his lashes clump together and bead with the tiniest droplets of water - like jewels, his soccer coach had told him when he had Jensen bent over his knees in the empty locker room and had spanked him with a hard, unforgiving palm through his shorts for missing the penalty, you crying for me, baby?, just gonna make wanna work your ass over harder, again and again, to see those tears, Jenny, does it hurt?
Mr Padalecki had been assiduously polishing the sideview mirror, where Jensen saw himself reflected, for the past few minutes, which is flattering, and sort of sweet that Mr Padalecki thinks staring at Jensen while pretending not to stare makes it any less obvious.
Jensen's nipples are already peaking under his shirt in response to the cold water, and he's so horny after seeing Mr Padalecki sponging the car down gently with hands so big they should be clumsy. Jensen just really wants to slide those hands up over his own body, even doesn't mind using his own fingers to play with his nipples, pinch them till his cock twitches - they're aching so badly for the touch of a finger or of a tongue, maybe some stubble so it burns just the way he likes. He sort of settles for rubbing them against the door of the car subtly as he sponges it down, and tells Mr Padalecki: "It's such a hot day, Mr Padalecki, isn't it? I swear I'm all hot all over. Feels like i'm burning from the inside out, urgh. If my skin's this hot, how hot do you think it is inside me, huh?"
Mr Padalecki almost slips on the sidewalk, which he's almost done a lot while the both of them have been washing the car, but, hey, Jensen thinks, you don't let the horny 15-year-old who's been in love with you for pretty much a decade wash your car without expecting some sort of Paris Hilton routine all over it. This time he excuses himself, stuttering a little, and wringing those thick fingers a lot.
"I feel a bit peaky, buddy - got to be the sun and old age acting up on me. Mind finishing my baby off while I nip back inside? I'll get some food in you when you get back in," says Mr Padalecki - sweet and stupid as always, because Jensen doesn't want a couple of ham and cheese sandwiches in him even if Mr Padalecki's are the best. He tries to shuffle away, which is adorable - seeing that mountain of a man bent nearly in half and hobbling ad though that would hide the outline of his giant dick pressed up against his trousers instead of draw attention to it.
Jensen doesn't really do seduction - he didn't usually need tactics or strategies, didn't usually spend the night planning out how to get a man to haul him onto his lap, to palm the curves of his ass and lick his wet, hot mouth wide open. Seduction was built into him, not something to be deliberated over. He'd learnt how to get men up since he was small, just hip-high and still clutching tight to Father's thighs, when he saw how men licked their lips when he licked his own, or how their breaths got hotter when he wiggled in their laps, how when he smiled, they smiled back, helplessly, widely, as though they couldn't believe Jensen could be looking at them.
He always knows what to do, knows what will happen next, so it's hard to get his mind around why Mr Padalecki doesn't just throw him into the backseat of the car, lick his nipples through his sopping shirt, and feed Jensen dick through his mouth or hole - Jensen's not picky.
Jensen's a little grumpy as he hoses the whole car down, pressing a palm against his nipple where it feels puffy, like he's so desperate and horny his come's started leaking out of him.
When he gets back in, Mr Padalecki is mixing up a jar of lemonade and has a plate of sandwiches ready. The big smile he offers Jensen is a little embarrassed and Jensen wonders if it's because Mr Padalecki was jerking off in the toilet thinking of him, dragging that big, rough palm over his cock.
Mr Padalecki doesn't press Jensen against the dining table, or the sink, or the refrigerator, and Jensen is getting antsy. When they eat, they chat just like normal - Mr Padalecki doesn't try to lick at Jensen's ear or try to get him out of his chair and into Mr Padalecki's lap. Mr Padalecki even passes him a popsicle from the freezer after lunch, just like normal, like he's not passing Jensen a phallic symbol on a stick to feast on after Jensen's rubbed his nipples all over his car and his sex appeal all over Mr Padalecki's face.
This time Jensen eats the popsicle like he's cramming his mouth full of cock. He laps at the tip with the point of his tongue, lets the pink muscle slither its way from the tip to the base of it before he sucks it into his mouth and down his throat. He nurses it in his throat for so long, he can feel himself going a little dizzy, feel his cheeks start to burn as his lungs burn for air. When he drags his throat off the popsicle, tugs it out of his mouth, it leaves the circle of his lips with a noisy pop. The sound is so filthy, Jensen can't help but moan and lift his hips a little under the table.
"That was delicious. Really needed that. You always know what I need Mr Padalecki," Jensen says shyly, between broad licks of his tongue.
Mr Padalecki twitches in his chair, and Jensen gets ready to be pounced on. He's already contemplating whether Mr Padalecki will slide his cock down Jensen's throat, or just rub it over his lips, drag the messy tip all over Jensen's face to let his precome cover every single one of Jensen's freckles, or if he'll press his cock up Jensen's hole straight away.
When Mr Padalecki starts cleaning up noisily, stammering about watching a movie, Jensen can't help but bite through half of his popsicle with frustration.
It has to be some kind of giant cosmic joke that Jensen can make all the men he feels nothing but a vague sense of pity for, a short-lived, heady rush of power over, fall to their knees for the chance to touch him or have him touch them, and here he is with Mr Padalecki who he's actually gone through lengths to seduce, being completely and utterly shut down with every deliberate shake of his ass.
Maybe he's unappealing - after all he's older now, and some men don't bend as easily to his will or his voice, roughening with age; the muscles that threaten to harden the smooth, endless lines of his arms and legs, the softness of his belly; how his limbs are beginning to lengthen and some men struggle to contain all of him in the cage of their arms now, like never before. Maybe he's not as pretty as he used to be now, not pretty enough for Mr Padalecki to keep him and love him.
"Mannn, it's karma, Jen," Chris had told Jensen one of the nights he was sleeping over, head poking out over the edge of his bed. "If you're gonna walk around making guys come in their pants, and wander off right after that like ooh, I don't care, I just have a quota of sperm to milk out of people, you're gonna get served. The universe doesn't like cockteases, Jen."
Jensen has done nothing but been a cocktease all Saturday long, but Mr Padalecki is still this humongous stone wall (covered with uhn, beautiful tanned skin, sweating away like he always does, even when he's doing absolutely nothing but eat popcorn noisily, oh god Jensen's gonna start leaking from his ass in sheer desperation or something).
Jensen's done everything except tug his shorts down - or tug them up just those few inches over his ass cheeks - and sit on Mr Padalecki's cock. He's been so horny the whole day, he's wanked in the toilet twice, stuffing his own fingers up his ass and stealing one of Mr Padalecki's faded shirts from the laundry basket to hold up to his nose.
He's licked and sucked on so many things he can't even remember a time when his mouth wasn't full and his lips swollen; he's run through his whole repertoire of outrageously bad innuendos so that he's even resorted to dipping into Chris' stash; he's pressed nearly every part of him against Mr Padalecki from where they're tucked up against each other in the ratty two-seater which has probably been around even before Jensen was born.
Mr Padalecki's eyes heat, his gaze lingers, and he chokes on his words like he can't help it, chokes on his tongue like he's trying to stop it from sliding right out of his mouth to touch Jensen's own, but he never does anything every other man's done to Jensen.
It's almost nightfall and the light in the room is a little red, a little purple where it sneaks in through the window and Jensen can't stop looking at Mr Padalecki, has graduated from glances from the corner of his eyes, to pretty much staring at the man.
Mr Padalecki watches movies like he wants to get sucked right into the television screen, and Jensen had thought that succeeding in dragging Mr Padalecki's eyes a record number of times off hoardes of teenagers being hacked to death meant he was getting to the man - but his shorts are still on, and Mr Padalecki's pretty much still munching on popcorn like he doesn't know how many uses Jensen has for that mouth of his.
So Jensen turns the TV off, shoves the giant bowl of popcorn off his rightful place in Mr Padalecki's lap and waits for Mr Padalecki to stop spluttering and trying to hack popcorn out of his windpipe.
It's a really nice lap - the nicest lap Jensen has ever been in. Jensen could stay there for hours, for days, just perched there, shifting a little so he can feel the muscles in Mr Padalecki's hard, huge thighs twitching, so he can hook his arms around Mr Padalecki's neck and stare him in the face - the closest he's been to it since he was 11 and Mr Padalecki stopped lifting him and Chris up, tossing them around the house to hear them giggle.
It looks just the tiniest bit different now. He's still the handsomest man Jensen's seen, but his eyes are tired and there are little frown lines that shouldn't be swarming his mouth - maybe from the three years he spent trying to juggle two jobs to save up for Chris' tuition - and Jensen just wants to lick them away, tiny kitten flicks of the tongue, and make Mr Padalecki happy.
"You're a little too big for my lap, buddy," Mr Padalecki ends up saying, jokingly, but it makes Jensen flinch to hear those words.
Of course. Too big, too old. Maybe Jensen shouldn't have worried about being old enough to please Mr Padalecki, maybe it had been wrong to listen to Chris when he said "Hold on there Jailbait Jenny, you gotta let the pedofairy grant you a few more years before you start trying to bang my dad. He'll just freak out, you know?", maybe he'd lost his chance a few years back, back when he was still small enough to clamber into a lap and have men gather his small body into their arms.
Jensen actually starts tearing in frustration, leaning forward to tuck his head under Mr Padalecki's chin, to press his hot cheek against that expanse of throat, feeling tears leak out the corner of his eyes.
Mr Padalecki's arms wrap around Jensen a little awkwardly, one big palm coming up to run up and down Jensen's back soothingly, gently, like he's patting a trapped bird made out of bones so fine they'd shatter with a careless touch. "There, there, Jen. It's okay, buddy, it's gonna be fine," he says, a little confused, in that voice of his, rich and thick like hot chocolate melting all over Jensen.
"It's not. It'll never be fine," Jensen kind of whispers into Mr Padalecki's neck, and just presses his face into Mr Padalecki's neck, breathes him in, and cries, and cries, and cries with shuddering gulps.
Mr Padalecki just sits there and holds him close - the only way Jensen will ever be this close to Mr Padalecki, the very last time - and strokes his back, pats his hair, lets Jensen cry himself boneless, lets him cry until his nose is blocked and he's snuffling and sniffling and thinking about how unsexy it is to rub strings of mucus all over Mr Padalecki.
Jensen lets Mr Padalecki peel his gross, sticky face, gooey from tears and snot and saliva, away from his neck, and tilt Jensen's face up to his.
"You gonna tell me what's wrong, buddy?" he asks.
"I love you," Jensen tells him, and Mr Padalecki blinks down at him, confused, that floppy hair falling into his eyes. Mr Padalecki's body has gone stiff all over, rigid, except for where his mouth is slack with shock, or disgust. Mr Padalecki's mouth struggles to move a litte, to shape out a response, but Jensen clamps it back shut with sticky fingers. Mr Padalecki kinda squints at him then, a furrow growing between his brows, like Jensen is going crazy - which Jensen kinda is, but see how you'd cope with having the man you've loved since you were 5 never, ever love you back.
"I love you," Jensen decides to tell him again, because insanity is doing the same things over and over again and expecting different results, expecting Mr Padalecki to kiss him and hold him and love him instead of just sit there with his arms fallen to his side.
And so Jensen desperately, crazily says it again and again, setting the words to motion now - pressing his moving lips against Mr Padalecki's forehead, the corners of those slanted eyes, his eyelids, his cheeks, then, lips trembling, to the corner of Mr Padalecki's mouth. He rests his lips on Mr Padalecki's ear and whispers the words again and again like a prayer.
"I love you, I love you, Mr Padalecki, love you, love you, love you. I've loved you since that night when I was five and I wet the sleeping bag, remember? And you found me in the hallway and wiped my tears away, and fed me hot chocolate, and ruffled crisps which my parents never get me, and told me about how your father skinned a rabbit, and you put me on your lap and held me. Love you, love you, love you, Mr Padalecki, really, really love you. I've loved you for ten years, and you're always so nice, and you always make me laugh, and I even love that you're the gassiest person on earth, and the sweatiest, and even though Chris says you have emo hair because you're having a mid-life crisis, I love your hair too, and I don't want you to be alone anymore - I can make you happy, or I could, or I really want to, and I've wanted to love you for ten years, Mr Padalecki. But maybe now I'm too old, and I'm not pretty enough anymore, and I know you don't have to let me, of course you don't have to do anything at all - but please, could I keep on loving you? I won't touch you anymore, and I'll won't stick around and try to make you dinner in time for you to get home and end up burning all your eggs and your pans, and everything, but, please, Mr Padalecki, maybe, if you wouldn't mind it terribly, could I just... stay here, like this, on your lap for a while, and even if you don't love me, maybe you can just pretend to - just for a while, just hold me for a while?"
Jensen still has his mouth - that useless mouth that every man but Mr Padalecki seems to want - pressed up against Mr Padalecki's ear when he finishes, and it's such a lovely ear - Jensen could spend a lifetime rubbing his lips against the shell of it, feeling Mr Padalecki's hair poke against his cheek and his nose, that it's a bit of a surprise to have that pretty, pretty ear with its earlobe - fat and so soft-looking, like it's begging for Jensen to lick it and tug it into his mouth and nibble on it - ripped right away from him, to have his breath feather out against the wet, hot inside of a mouth instead.
Part 2