fic: finger lickin' good
Title: finger lickin' good
Genre: Jared/Jensen
Rating: nc-17
Word Count: 1,100
Notes: written for tebtosca's boathouse shindig a while ago. originally posted here. If plot is what you want, this is not the droid you're looking for.
Summary: Jensen has a hand kink and likes to watch Jared lick barbecue sauce off of his fingers when they go to their favorite joint for lunch.
"I think they named this place after Benjamin," Jared says. He hikes his thumb over his shoulder and points out the sign that hangs above the door, crooked and worn with 'Franklin' printed on it in bold, blocky letters. He's barreling through his second pulled pork sandwich, more like a sloppy, enormous pile of meat with a couple of pieces of bread thrown in as an afterthought.
Jensen grunts. "Somehow I doubt that the founding fathers had a lot of interest in barbecue." He gnaws on a sparerib, tries not to fixate on the way Jared catches a drip of barbecue sauce as it courses down the side of his wrist, soft pink tongue working up and up along the heel of his palm until he gets to his thumb, then he sucks that in too, lips all snug and slick around it.
As he flicks the pile of napkins a bit closer to Jared's side of the table Jensen mutters, dry-mouthed and shaky, "You have the table manners of a Neanderthal."
"Homo erectus," Jared corrects him. He moves onto his index finger, slides it into his mouth up to the second knuckle, in and out, then gives his middle finger the same treatment, curls his tongue around it and licks up its entire length, from his palm to his fingertip.
So maybe Jensen's got a thing for Jared's hands. He'd stopped putting himself under a microscope where Jared is concerned a while ago. He gets off on everything else about the kid, the span of his shoulders and his narrow hips, that goddamn dip at the small of his back right above the tight curve of his ass, and there's no reason that Jared's hands should be excluded from the party. They're kinda perfect, really, broad square palms and long, long fingers. Slender now that Jared's gotten skinnier, but still strong. Strong enough to wrap almost all the way around both of Jensen's wrists, pin them above his head and keep them there.
Helpless, Jensen watches, tries to be subtle about reaching under the table to press his palm to his cock, already thick and damp and getting harder. But Jared's onto him at this point, the bastard, decides now is the perfect chance to take two of his fingers in at the same goddamn time.
Their waiter checks on them and even then Jared doesn't stop, leaves it up to Jensen to give the guy an unintelligible mumble and a feeble thumbs up. Something clatters distantly in the kitchen and a group of folks are singing Happy Birthday at the other corner of the room and Jared still doesn't stop. Jensen's starting to wonder if he's considering going for three when Jared pulls them out, smacks his lips, slides out of his side of the booth and into Jensen's.
"No. No," Jensen tries, but there's a wicked glint in Jared's eyes that Jensen's seen a thousand times before. It's the same dark look that Jensen first saw nine years ago, before that bar fight they got themselves into. It's the look that's preceded every single one of Jared's really good, really bad ideas, and more times than not Jensen's ended up either hung over, almost arrested, inappropriately horny or with a bad case of rug burn on his chin.
Jared chuckles low. "C'mon. I know you like this sorta thing. Remember that time at that one network party when-"
"Fucker," Jensen interrupts. "I had to trash a two thousand dollar suit because of you."
"Not my fault you were too chickenshit to take it to the drycleaner. It's not like it would be the first time the guy had to clean come off of Armani."
Before Jensen can wrap his head around a response, Jared's managed to unhook his belt, snap open the top two buttons on his jeans and get a hand on his cock. He works him, base to tip, a dirty little flick of his thumb on the upstroke and an even dirtier twist of his wrist on the way back down, slow and teasing.
Jensen's biting on the inside of his cheek and his face is hot, so flushed it could probably glow in the dark at this point. "If you're getting barbecue sauce on my dick right now, I swear to god."
"Just saving myself a little something for later," Jared tells him in a whisper. "Think I can get you off before the waiter comes back?"
"You're gonna have to go faster than that," Jensen says, and miracle of miracles, Jared does speed up, tightens his grip. Jared's forearm moves against Jensen's lower belly and it's a good thing it's there, the only thing that's holding him back from fucking into Jared's hand, making it even more obvious than it already is.
"I like it when your dick hijacks your mouth."
"I like it even more when my dick hijacks your mouth," Jensen shoots back.
Jared makes this soft sound, half moan, half sigh, and his hips jerk up. "You shouldn't say that sorta thing in public."
"Really, Jared? Really?"
There's the muffled slap of skin on skin and Jensen can't help but spread his knees further apart and sink into the fake leather of the booth. They're one stray glance or one shitty cell phone picture away from an indecent exposure wrap and a fuck ton of real problematic tabloid headlines, but he doesn't really care at this point. He can't, because Jared's hand is hot and slick on his cock, fingers conformed in a snug, perfect ring.
Jared's cheeks are coloring now too, a thin sheen of sweat has collected at the base of his throat and he's biting at his bottom lip. He leans in close and for a startling moment Jensen thinks he's gonna kiss him, right here, right now, in front of the Sunday after-church-crowd, and for an even more startling moment, Jensen's about to let him, wants him to. Instead Jared breathes in deep, as if filling his nose up is the next best thing to tasting him and it's that thought that makes Jensen come, makes him shoot sloppy and wet all over Jared's hand.
Jared slips back to his side of the booth and leaves Jensen's to put himself back together, ignores the napkins as he slowly licks his fingers clean, one at a time.
"I'm still hungry," Jared says. He sounds breathy, still wound up tight. "There's this ice cream place down the block. I wanna see what you can do with a double scoop."
--fin
Genre: Jared/Jensen
Rating: nc-17
Word Count: 1,100
Notes: written for tebtosca's boathouse shindig a while ago. originally posted here. If plot is what you want, this is not the droid you're looking for.
Summary: Jensen has a hand kink and likes to watch Jared lick barbecue sauce off of his fingers when they go to their favorite joint for lunch.
"I think they named this place after Benjamin," Jared says. He hikes his thumb over his shoulder and points out the sign that hangs above the door, crooked and worn with 'Franklin' printed on it in bold, blocky letters. He's barreling through his second pulled pork sandwich, more like a sloppy, enormous pile of meat with a couple of pieces of bread thrown in as an afterthought.
Jensen grunts. "Somehow I doubt that the founding fathers had a lot of interest in barbecue." He gnaws on a sparerib, tries not to fixate on the way Jared catches a drip of barbecue sauce as it courses down the side of his wrist, soft pink tongue working up and up along the heel of his palm until he gets to his thumb, then he sucks that in too, lips all snug and slick around it.
As he flicks the pile of napkins a bit closer to Jared's side of the table Jensen mutters, dry-mouthed and shaky, "You have the table manners of a Neanderthal."
"Homo erectus," Jared corrects him. He moves onto his index finger, slides it into his mouth up to the second knuckle, in and out, then gives his middle finger the same treatment, curls his tongue around it and licks up its entire length, from his palm to his fingertip.
So maybe Jensen's got a thing for Jared's hands. He'd stopped putting himself under a microscope where Jared is concerned a while ago. He gets off on everything else about the kid, the span of his shoulders and his narrow hips, that goddamn dip at the small of his back right above the tight curve of his ass, and there's no reason that Jared's hands should be excluded from the party. They're kinda perfect, really, broad square palms and long, long fingers. Slender now that Jared's gotten skinnier, but still strong. Strong enough to wrap almost all the way around both of Jensen's wrists, pin them above his head and keep them there.
Helpless, Jensen watches, tries to be subtle about reaching under the table to press his palm to his cock, already thick and damp and getting harder. But Jared's onto him at this point, the bastard, decides now is the perfect chance to take two of his fingers in at the same goddamn time.
Their waiter checks on them and even then Jared doesn't stop, leaves it up to Jensen to give the guy an unintelligible mumble and a feeble thumbs up. Something clatters distantly in the kitchen and a group of folks are singing Happy Birthday at the other corner of the room and Jared still doesn't stop. Jensen's starting to wonder if he's considering going for three when Jared pulls them out, smacks his lips, slides out of his side of the booth and into Jensen's.
"No. No," Jensen tries, but there's a wicked glint in Jared's eyes that Jensen's seen a thousand times before. It's the same dark look that Jensen first saw nine years ago, before that bar fight they got themselves into. It's the look that's preceded every single one of Jared's really good, really bad ideas, and more times than not Jensen's ended up either hung over, almost arrested, inappropriately horny or with a bad case of rug burn on his chin.
Jared chuckles low. "C'mon. I know you like this sorta thing. Remember that time at that one network party when-"
"Fucker," Jensen interrupts. "I had to trash a two thousand dollar suit because of you."
"Not my fault you were too chickenshit to take it to the drycleaner. It's not like it would be the first time the guy had to clean come off of Armani."
Before Jensen can wrap his head around a response, Jared's managed to unhook his belt, snap open the top two buttons on his jeans and get a hand on his cock. He works him, base to tip, a dirty little flick of his thumb on the upstroke and an even dirtier twist of his wrist on the way back down, slow and teasing.
Jensen's biting on the inside of his cheek and his face is hot, so flushed it could probably glow in the dark at this point. "If you're getting barbecue sauce on my dick right now, I swear to god."
"Just saving myself a little something for later," Jared tells him in a whisper. "Think I can get you off before the waiter comes back?"
"You're gonna have to go faster than that," Jensen says, and miracle of miracles, Jared does speed up, tightens his grip. Jared's forearm moves against Jensen's lower belly and it's a good thing it's there, the only thing that's holding him back from fucking into Jared's hand, making it even more obvious than it already is.
"I like it when your dick hijacks your mouth."
"I like it even more when my dick hijacks your mouth," Jensen shoots back.
Jared makes this soft sound, half moan, half sigh, and his hips jerk up. "You shouldn't say that sorta thing in public."
"Really, Jared? Really?"
There's the muffled slap of skin on skin and Jensen can't help but spread his knees further apart and sink into the fake leather of the booth. They're one stray glance or one shitty cell phone picture away from an indecent exposure wrap and a fuck ton of real problematic tabloid headlines, but he doesn't really care at this point. He can't, because Jared's hand is hot and slick on his cock, fingers conformed in a snug, perfect ring.
Jared's cheeks are coloring now too, a thin sheen of sweat has collected at the base of his throat and he's biting at his bottom lip. He leans in close and for a startling moment Jensen thinks he's gonna kiss him, right here, right now, in front of the Sunday after-church-crowd, and for an even more startling moment, Jensen's about to let him, wants him to. Instead Jared breathes in deep, as if filling his nose up is the next best thing to tasting him and it's that thought that makes Jensen come, makes him shoot sloppy and wet all over Jared's hand.
Jared slips back to his side of the booth and leaves Jensen's to put himself back together, ignores the napkins as he slowly licks his fingers clean, one at a time.
"I'm still hungry," Jared says. He sounds breathy, still wound up tight. "There's this ice cream place down the block. I wanna see what you can do with a double scoop."
--fin