EXCITEMENT and a FIC [How It Goes - Jared/Jensen - M]
So, before we go on to the PORNOS, I just have to say:
HOUSE TONIGHT. HOUSE PREMIRE. WITH JANITOR-TALKING, AND SNARKY FORMER PLASTIC SURGEON AND APPARENTLY HALLUCINATED CHASE AND CAMERON AND FOREMAN. AND HOUSE. YAAAAAAY, HOUSE.
Also, SPN isn't on until May or something, if I know this correctly? So, apparently I have until May to figure out how to, you know, pirate CW on to my TV. ANY TIPS? ANY? HELP? OKAY, OCTOBER, ACTUALLY. I NEED TO PIRATE THE CW ONTO MY TV BY OCTOBER 4TH. AND BE TOTALLY LOST FOR THE ENTIRE THIRD SEASON. Damnit.
RIGHT, I COME BARING PORNOS.
Fandom: CWRPS
Title: How It Goes
Pairing: Jared/Jensen
Rating: M
Warnings: vague mentions of het and slash, lots of kissing, mentions of blowjobs.
Summary: This is how he leads his life
Notes: I have not quite graduated up to alter-verse AU/AR stuff, but I am so working on it. In the meantime, Jensen lies about his love life.
The Lie
Her name is Victory, but she likes to be called Vicky. She wears her hair in stylish, floppy buns, and on the weekends she goes around in oversized Cowboy shirts and talks about the Broncos in a southern drawl to piss you off. You laugh about her, smile like a dreamy fool, bring her to the premiere of your new movie in a Vera Wong dress that dips low on her bust.
Once, she had a nipple ring. Now she has six tattoos and a tongue ring, and you know the feeling of cold metal on your dick-but that doesn’t get out to the press in any way you’d like. That gets out to the press with shots of you kissing in the dark and apparent eye-witnesses saying the both of you fucked in a Starbucks’ bathroom.
Like you would be caught dead fucking in Starbucks after the age of seventeen.
She calls you dah-ling, and says she’s from Massachusetts when her accent reeks of Indiana. Nobody asks many questions. You met her in Vancouver, six weeks into those precious first shoots for Kripke’s Supernatural, and you told everyone it was love from the get-go. You can’t say what she did, or why she was there, but there you have it. Love from the get-go.
Some press release for some tabloid says you’re cheating or she’s cheating or you’re both pregnant with a third party’s child. On late night talk shows, you both respectively laugh about how ridiculous the whole thing is-not your love, oh no, but the way people must slander your adoration for each other.
Can’t people be in love any more? You are dreamy-eyed and she has a thousand-watt smile.
You share an apartment in Burbank that neither of you really spend much time in-she’s away and you’re away, and sometimes people ask you how you make it work. True love is the only answer, and you tell them or she tells them and they offer their congratulations and wonder when you’ll pop the question. She has cats and speaks of children; you laugh and say you’re too young to be tied down. You never take your eyes off her.
Once, you confess with laughter and bright eyes, she wanted you to take a script in which you’d play a gay man. How everyone laughed, you and her not the least of which, but you smile and tell her through the camera that you’ve got no problem with it, as long as she won’t get jealous. Rumors go out, those same sort-you’re cheating or she’s cheating or It’s ALL Over, folks! but you are dreamy eyed and romantic.
You both hope it lasts a while longer. Mostly for your sake.
-----
The Truth
He had a cameo in Smallville, during the season you were on, and smiled with dimples deeper than any you’d ever seen. Michael was an ass about the whole thing, offered to introduce you to his cock, if it’d make you feel better. You have no qualms with the life you lead, but have no relish for destroying it over one sick fantasy about a guy you saw for one week-two-on the set.
He leaves your mind, never to return for a whole year, until Devour wraps up and you’re in Vancouver again, now for Kripke's Supernatural, and there he is again, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Still, he smiles like a fool, with dimples deep and laughter loud. You try to find ways to ignore him, to distract yourself. You even half succeed.
He has a girlfriend. It’ll never work says Chris, and you’re glad for his support.
But the shoot keeps going, and the show is renewed, and there he is on your doorstep during a hiatus-you’ve stayed in Vancouver because Victory is in Burbank and you don’t want to see her right now. He’s soaking wet and smells of whiskey, and he kisses you like you’ve hardly ever been kissed before.
You fuck, and in the morning he is there, and you run your fingers through his hair and hate that you think you might have feelings for him or something. He’s beautiful, though a bitch in the morning. While you shower, he sneaks in, mutters something against your neck about last night, ruts against you until you’re panting and pressing back.
He reminds you of being fourteen and practically choking for it, but you don’t tell him that.
Halfway through shoots for the second season, Eric takes you aside and asks if some thing’s up, and you tell Eric you’ve been screwing around but it’s not going to get awkward. Kim thinks it’s funny-but then, Kim writes weird shit and you’ve noticed the tension has been going up and up between Sam and Dean in every episode Kim writes.
He keeps coming back to your door, most of the time drunk, and you keep letting him in. More then once he’s sucked you off, then fucked you. More often then not, you’re on your stomach, sobbing for it and moaning, and his hands are everywhere and his body is hot.
You want to make it stop-this can’t go on-but you just can’t.
CW parties and red-carpet appearances come and go. Sandy is gone now. He drapes on you on the carpet and some of the tabloids have questions. He jokes around and you try to erase the hurt from your voice in interviews and commentaries, and you try not to let it show.
Finally, the show is done, and you are back in Burbank, then in the Bay, then in NYC. At times, you detour into Texas. A few movies take you on. You confess to Victory-she confesses to her own, and the both of you smile and laugh and forget about the past. Maybe one day you’ll pop the question. Or, maybe, she’ll move on when nobody’s looking, and someone else will fill the gap.
You’re in London when it happens.
He’s soaking wet, just come from a shoot, still in costume, and you don’t even ask how he knew you were there, just take him in your arms and kiss him until you’re gasping through the kisses. His words run together-things like missed you and wanna? and Jensen, baby, and finally, love you. You strip him down and run your fingers over his skin-soft and cold and a little clammy. You laugh and tell him he’ll be sick. You shove him into the shower and breathe as deeply as you can. Your hands smell like his cologne.
Afterwards, he pushes you onto the bed, bigger than you, kissing and worshiping like he never did in heady Vancouver nights. His hands, huge and gentle and lightly calloused, feel perfect on your skin. When you go to remove your glasses, ready to roll over and take it, he stops you and kisses you and says it again: love you.
You hate that you say it back but know this can never work.
Two years-three years-five years down the road, you’re in L.A and so is he, and you meet on the red carpet. Neither of you have dates. You laugh and walk on each other’s arms, dark suits blending your bodies together. You miss Vancouver. You miss London. He inhales the smell of your hair during one picture; you hate him for what he does to you.
At the after party, some press guy asks him if the two of you are in love. This time, he looks at you, smiles, waits for your answer. You’re already sitting in his lap, drunk and feeling a bit like a fourteen year old slut again. You leer at the press guy, and don’t answer.
His mouth tastes just as sweet as it did that very first time.
HOUSE TONIGHT. HOUSE PREMIRE. WITH JANITOR-TALKING, AND SNARKY FORMER PLASTIC SURGEON AND APPARENTLY HALLUCINATED CHASE AND CAMERON AND FOREMAN. AND HOUSE. YAAAAAAY, HOUSE.
Also, SPN isn't on until May or something, if I know this correctly? So, apparently I have until May to figure out how to, you know, pirate CW on to my TV. ANY TIPS? ANY? HELP? OKAY, OCTOBER, ACTUALLY. I NEED TO PIRATE THE CW ONTO MY TV BY OCTOBER 4TH. AND BE TOTALLY LOST FOR THE ENTIRE THIRD SEASON. Damnit.
RIGHT, I COME BARING PORNOS.
Fandom: CWRPS
Title: How It Goes
Pairing: Jared/Jensen
Rating: M
Warnings: vague mentions of het and slash, lots of kissing, mentions of blowjobs.
Summary: This is how he leads his life
Notes: I have not quite graduated up to alter-verse AU/AR stuff, but I am so working on it. In the meantime, Jensen lies about his love life.
The Lie
Her name is Victory, but she likes to be called Vicky. She wears her hair in stylish, floppy buns, and on the weekends she goes around in oversized Cowboy shirts and talks about the Broncos in a southern drawl to piss you off. You laugh about her, smile like a dreamy fool, bring her to the premiere of your new movie in a Vera Wong dress that dips low on her bust.
Once, she had a nipple ring. Now she has six tattoos and a tongue ring, and you know the feeling of cold metal on your dick-but that doesn’t get out to the press in any way you’d like. That gets out to the press with shots of you kissing in the dark and apparent eye-witnesses saying the both of you fucked in a Starbucks’ bathroom.
Like you would be caught dead fucking in Starbucks after the age of seventeen.
She calls you dah-ling, and says she’s from Massachusetts when her accent reeks of Indiana. Nobody asks many questions. You met her in Vancouver, six weeks into those precious first shoots for Kripke’s Supernatural, and you told everyone it was love from the get-go. You can’t say what she did, or why she was there, but there you have it. Love from the get-go.
Some press release for some tabloid says you’re cheating or she’s cheating or you’re both pregnant with a third party’s child. On late night talk shows, you both respectively laugh about how ridiculous the whole thing is-not your love, oh no, but the way people must slander your adoration for each other.
Can’t people be in love any more? You are dreamy-eyed and she has a thousand-watt smile.
You share an apartment in Burbank that neither of you really spend much time in-she’s away and you’re away, and sometimes people ask you how you make it work. True love is the only answer, and you tell them or she tells them and they offer their congratulations and wonder when you’ll pop the question. She has cats and speaks of children; you laugh and say you’re too young to be tied down. You never take your eyes off her.
Once, you confess with laughter and bright eyes, she wanted you to take a script in which you’d play a gay man. How everyone laughed, you and her not the least of which, but you smile and tell her through the camera that you’ve got no problem with it, as long as she won’t get jealous. Rumors go out, those same sort-you’re cheating or she’s cheating or It’s ALL Over, folks! but you are dreamy eyed and romantic.
You both hope it lasts a while longer. Mostly for your sake.
-----
The Truth
He had a cameo in Smallville, during the season you were on, and smiled with dimples deeper than any you’d ever seen. Michael was an ass about the whole thing, offered to introduce you to his cock, if it’d make you feel better. You have no qualms with the life you lead, but have no relish for destroying it over one sick fantasy about a guy you saw for one week-two-on the set.
He leaves your mind, never to return for a whole year, until Devour wraps up and you’re in Vancouver again, now for Kripke's Supernatural, and there he is again, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Still, he smiles like a fool, with dimples deep and laughter loud. You try to find ways to ignore him, to distract yourself. You even half succeed.
He has a girlfriend. It’ll never work says Chris, and you’re glad for his support.
But the shoot keeps going, and the show is renewed, and there he is on your doorstep during a hiatus-you’ve stayed in Vancouver because Victory is in Burbank and you don’t want to see her right now. He’s soaking wet and smells of whiskey, and he kisses you like you’ve hardly ever been kissed before.
You fuck, and in the morning he is there, and you run your fingers through his hair and hate that you think you might have feelings for him or something. He’s beautiful, though a bitch in the morning. While you shower, he sneaks in, mutters something against your neck about last night, ruts against you until you’re panting and pressing back.
He reminds you of being fourteen and practically choking for it, but you don’t tell him that.
Halfway through shoots for the second season, Eric takes you aside and asks if some thing’s up, and you tell Eric you’ve been screwing around but it’s not going to get awkward. Kim thinks it’s funny-but then, Kim writes weird shit and you’ve noticed the tension has been going up and up between Sam and Dean in every episode Kim writes.
He keeps coming back to your door, most of the time drunk, and you keep letting him in. More then once he’s sucked you off, then fucked you. More often then not, you’re on your stomach, sobbing for it and moaning, and his hands are everywhere and his body is hot.
You want to make it stop-this can’t go on-but you just can’t.
CW parties and red-carpet appearances come and go. Sandy is gone now. He drapes on you on the carpet and some of the tabloids have questions. He jokes around and you try to erase the hurt from your voice in interviews and commentaries, and you try not to let it show.
Finally, the show is done, and you are back in Burbank, then in the Bay, then in NYC. At times, you detour into Texas. A few movies take you on. You confess to Victory-she confesses to her own, and the both of you smile and laugh and forget about the past. Maybe one day you’ll pop the question. Or, maybe, she’ll move on when nobody’s looking, and someone else will fill the gap.
You’re in London when it happens.
He’s soaking wet, just come from a shoot, still in costume, and you don’t even ask how he knew you were there, just take him in your arms and kiss him until you’re gasping through the kisses. His words run together-things like missed you and wanna? and Jensen, baby, and finally, love you. You strip him down and run your fingers over his skin-soft and cold and a little clammy. You laugh and tell him he’ll be sick. You shove him into the shower and breathe as deeply as you can. Your hands smell like his cologne.
Afterwards, he pushes you onto the bed, bigger than you, kissing and worshiping like he never did in heady Vancouver nights. His hands, huge and gentle and lightly calloused, feel perfect on your skin. When you go to remove your glasses, ready to roll over and take it, he stops you and kisses you and says it again: love you.
You hate that you say it back but know this can never work.
Two years-three years-five years down the road, you’re in L.A and so is he, and you meet on the red carpet. Neither of you have dates. You laugh and walk on each other’s arms, dark suits blending your bodies together. You miss Vancouver. You miss London. He inhales the smell of your hair during one picture; you hate him for what he does to you.
At the after party, some press guy asks him if the two of you are in love. This time, he looks at you, smiles, waits for your answer. You’re already sitting in his lap, drunk and feeling a bit like a fourteen year old slut again. You leer at the press guy, and don’t answer.
His mouth tastes just as sweet as it did that very first time.