RPS/Heroes: Dissonance - Jensen Ackles/Peter Petrelli - R
This is for iz_factor who asked for Sam/Peter, originally, but I just can't write it, so she sweetly asked for Jensen/Peter instead.
Yeah. Jensen/Peter. And may all the Jareds, Nathans, and Mohinders in my head forgive me. Also, can someone teach me how to write short, please? *laughs*
So many thanks to B, because she fixes my mistakes, makes me better, and lets me have my tiramisu. ;)
Title: Dissonance
Fandom, Pairing: CWRPS/Heroes, Jensen Ackles/Peter Petrelli
Rating: R
Word Count: 1734
Summary: Jensen sees a familiar face in the hotel bar after the CW Upfronts.
Jensen sits at the far end of the counter at the hotel bar after the Upfronts; his back's to the wall, the bartender's scowling at his Bud and Jack, and down the bar the advance scout for a group of fans orders drinks and looks like she'd like to eat him for lunch, dinner, dessert. He's happy for Jared, really he is, but he's never hated that "Painter of Light" gig more. Swigging off his beer, he refuses to make eye contact with the girl and considers contributing to cloning research.
A familiar figure catches his attention - he never forgets an ass he's tapped, and Jensen breaks into a grin. Yeah, kid got a new tailor. Rocky franchise owns him now, so that's no surprise. But there's just no mistaking those O.C. emo-bangs or the shy twist of his smile when he's caught staring.
Jensen flags down the bartender. "2012, Ackles. Send a bottle of Jack, a six of Bud, and-" What's O.C. drink? Ah, yeah, how could he forget? Pussy. "A carafe of O.J. and a bottle of Jordan J to my room."
Without waiting for the yes, sir a Texan actor from a teen network's never going to get in the city, Jensen collects Ventimiglia's gaze, settles his feet on the floor, then tilts his head toward the side exit -- away from the lobby, and the fangirls. Eyes going wide-okay, yeah, the last time was, what, four years ago at Rosenbaum's pad? - the kid turns to the guy beside him. He looks vaguely familiar, but so would half of Hollywood.
There's rapid-fire communication, most of it wordless, then finally the guy - who's got Sly's jaw, but looks better than Sly on his best day - crosses his arms over his chest, nods. From Ventimiglia's eyeroll and sappy smile combination, it seems like maybe this guy, not the franchise, owns his ass.
Whatever. That's between the kid and his handler. No secrets, no lover's quarrels, no bar brawls, and Jensen's good. Jared would probably tell him it's not a good idea, but Jared's not here. If he were Jensen it'd be a floppy mop and not emo-hair he'd be hoping to sink his hands into. Not that that had ever happened…yet.
Ventimiglia follows him out, and neither of them says anything until the elevator door closes. Jensen doesn't bother about talking then either. He and the kid never did have much to say to each other.
Nah, no need for talking not between gos. He crowds the kid up against the mirrored walls of the elevator and lays one on him. Nothing girly-just hands on his hips tugging him up against Jensen's half-hard dick, teeth sinking in to his bottom lip.
Ventimiglia's hands hit his shoulders, push back. The kid always did put up a token protest, like he thought - so cute - he might end up on top if he didn't bare belly like an eager-to-please puppy. Jensen presses in, and when Ventimiglia opens his mouth, Jensen claims the space with his tongue before the "oh god, Jensen, fuck me fuck me fuck me" can tumble out.
The kid gives, but it's weird. Feels different, like he's choosing to belly up instead of doing it because his toes are curling in his Converse - wingtips, Jensen reminds himself, around the rising heat at the unexpected show of strength. He's not even sure which of them groans first when the elevator dings announcing their arrival at the 20th floor.
Used to be, he had to arch eyebrow and glare to get Ventimiglia to shut it on the way to the room. Next nearest thing to openly bi, he couldn't have cared less whether the network caught him screwing Jensen Ackles. Jensen, on the other hand, well, his family still doesn't know and never will.
Which is why he's feeling pretty grateful by the time he keys them into the room. He's even thinking maybe he'll suck Ventimiglia's brain out through his dick before he rides his ass first star to the right and straight on 'til morning.
The booze waits on a white clothed roll-in table, and though his mouth's dry, he shoves Ventimiglia past it to the bed. The kid sprawls, and Jensen blinks away the impression that he might've hovered long enough to splay his thighs. He hasn't had that much to drink and that would just be crazy.
Jensen crawls up onto the bed, gets between those conveniently splayed thighs, and plants his hands by Ventimiglia's shoulders. He drops his head between his arms, and takes the kid's mouth again, aggressive, twisting his head to grind him down into the DreamTechnology fluff-down pillows.
This time there's no resistance. Ventimiglia's legs wrap around his hips, pull him down on top of him. It's a little more emo than Jensen's looking for, but it's always been that way with the kid. And it's not like Jensen's going to object to having something flat and well-muscled to rub his dick against.
When he pushes up five minutes later, glassy eyes and candied-apple lips smile up at him. Still sweet but not as innocent as he used to be.
"I'm not complaining-"
"Good." Jensen slides his hand along Ventimiglia's elegantly snug inseam and cups his balls. "Don't."
The kid makes a sound somewhere between a sigh and a whimper, then struggles onto his elbows. "Like I said, I'm not complaining. I'm easy for broad shoulders and a pretty mouth, but I usually at least say hello first."
So much for the kid having outgrown the habit of talking his way through sex. Jensen doesn't pause in his assault on the pinstriped charcoal trousers, just rolls his eyes. "Since when?"
The kid frowns, and he's heard the expression of brows knitting, but this is the first time he's ever seen it. "Always."
Jensen shakes his head at that. Grins, cocky. "Drugs get to your brain, O.C.?"
Rough laugh from Ventimiglia at that, then he says, "If only," and something so deep and bitter cuts through his eyes, he looks like someone else entirely.
It evens out into a deep brown softness so like Jared on a bad day that Jensen stops unzipping the kid's fly long enough to squeeze his shoulder. "Kidding, O.C. You good?"
The kid smiles a bit. "Yeah. Good as I'll ever be." There's a beat of silence between them, and then Ventimiglia cocks his head. Those ridiculous emo-bangs slide across his eyes. "O.C.?"
"You know, Orange County. Where you're from? Mike and I've been calling you O.C. for years. Hell of a time to get squirrely about it."
Confusion floods the kid's face, and Jensen sits up, fast. Ventimiglia's always been a bit of a bimbo for the press, and he's such an easy bottom it makes him kind of flaky. But this? He can only think one thing; Daddy down in the bar's been abusing him.
Jensen rucks up the kid's shirt to look for bruises. Nothing visible, but he runs his hands over the kid's ribs to feel for wincing. He breathes out a long sigh at finding nothing. "You sure you're okay? You can tell me if you're not. I know we've never been friends, Milo, but I'll help."
Milo's lips press together; he peers at Jensen from under those bangs like he's trying to see straight into his brain. Then all of the sudden, he grins, lopsided. "I think there's been a misunderstanding. Nice to meet you, Mr. Ackles." The kid sticks out his hand, which is even more ridiculous than the bangs with his dick poking through his zipper and boxers like an alien ambassador to Hollywood.
Jensen's cheeks heat. "Jesus." He scrubs at his face with both hands. "O.C., this is so far from funny…"
"It's not a joke, Jensen." He lifts his hips. "Wallet's in my back pocket if you want it. My name's Peter. Peter Petrelli. My brother Nathan's running for Congress. You might've seen his face on, oh, a couple thousand billboard's since you got here."
One hand rubbing through his hair, he looks at Ventimiglia-Peter, right-from under his bicep. This is a universe of bad, is his first thought. Jared's going to laugh his fool-dork ass off, is his second. "Shit." The grin turns up a notch, and Jensen can't help but smile and shake his head. "Shit," he says again, after a minute. "Sorry."
"I really wasn't complaining." Peter rests a hand on his arm. "Supernatural's about the only show I watch since…" That bitter sadness creeps into his eyes again, and Jensen almost asks, but he figures it's even less his business now than it would be if the kid were Ventimiglia. "I think I stood up and cheered when Dean shot the Yellow Eyed Demon in the forehead."
Oh, fabulous. A fanboy. "Uh, thanks." He starts to stand.
"It's not like that. I just…" Peter shrugs. "It's kind of complicated, being a Petrelli, and it'd be nice if a bullet could take out our demons. You know?"
Jensen relaxes again, settles back next to the kid on the bed. "Yeah, I can understand that."
The silence isn't as awkward as it maybe ought to be, but Jensen can't just roll over and start mauling a complete stranger, a fan - especially not in a hotel room with a bottle of champagne chilling at his back. Shit. Then the kid rubs his thumb over Jensen's hand. And that ought to be real damned awkward, but the kid has a way about him.
Now that he knows he's not Ventimiglia, Jensen can't imagine how he missed the warmth, the sadness, and the empathy running so much deeper than Orange County-vegetarian compassion. "So, huh. You're really not O.C.," he says, because he has to say something.
The kid, Peter, laughs. "Never heard of him."
Jensen suppresses a surge of triumph that Peter tunes into the CW just for Supernatural. "Rent Gilmore Girls from Netflix, man. He looks just like you. It's freaky."
"You don't know the half of it." Against his better judgment, Jensen's about to offer to care, but Peter curls a hand around his neck and pulls him down. When his breath warms Jensen's lips, Peter smiles. "More interested in fucking than talking, if you don't mind."
As a rule, Jensen avoids fucking fans. But he figures maybe for Ventimiglia's clone, he can make an exception.
Other first kisses:
the truth according to Sam (SPN, Sam/Dean, R)
let it fill the space between (Heroes, Mohinder/Peter, PG13)
passing glimmer warms beneath your skin (Heroes, Nathan/Mohinder, R)
just an ordinary day (CWRPS, Jared/Jensen, R)
on the effect of nine well-chosen words (DCU, Bruce/Dick, R)
variations on a theme or three (Heroes/SPN, Claire kisses John W., but not romantically, PG)
kiss by number (SGA, Rodney/Ronon, PG13)
Yeah. Jensen/Peter. And may all the Jareds, Nathans, and Mohinders in my head forgive me. Also, can someone teach me how to write short, please? *laughs*
So many thanks to B, because she fixes my mistakes, makes me better, and lets me have my tiramisu. ;)
Title: Dissonance
Fandom, Pairing: CWRPS/Heroes, Jensen Ackles/Peter Petrelli
Rating: R
Word Count: 1734
Summary: Jensen sees a familiar face in the hotel bar after the CW Upfronts.
Jensen sits at the far end of the counter at the hotel bar after the Upfronts; his back's to the wall, the bartender's scowling at his Bud and Jack, and down the bar the advance scout for a group of fans orders drinks and looks like she'd like to eat him for lunch, dinner, dessert. He's happy for Jared, really he is, but he's never hated that "Painter of Light" gig more. Swigging off his beer, he refuses to make eye contact with the girl and considers contributing to cloning research.
A familiar figure catches his attention - he never forgets an ass he's tapped, and Jensen breaks into a grin. Yeah, kid got a new tailor. Rocky franchise owns him now, so that's no surprise. But there's just no mistaking those O.C. emo-bangs or the shy twist of his smile when he's caught staring.
Jensen flags down the bartender. "2012, Ackles. Send a bottle of Jack, a six of Bud, and-" What's O.C. drink? Ah, yeah, how could he forget? Pussy. "A carafe of O.J. and a bottle of Jordan J to my room."
Without waiting for the yes, sir a Texan actor from a teen network's never going to get in the city, Jensen collects Ventimiglia's gaze, settles his feet on the floor, then tilts his head toward the side exit -- away from the lobby, and the fangirls. Eyes going wide-okay, yeah, the last time was, what, four years ago at Rosenbaum's pad? - the kid turns to the guy beside him. He looks vaguely familiar, but so would half of Hollywood.
There's rapid-fire communication, most of it wordless, then finally the guy - who's got Sly's jaw, but looks better than Sly on his best day - crosses his arms over his chest, nods. From Ventimiglia's eyeroll and sappy smile combination, it seems like maybe this guy, not the franchise, owns his ass.
Whatever. That's between the kid and his handler. No secrets, no lover's quarrels, no bar brawls, and Jensen's good. Jared would probably tell him it's not a good idea, but Jared's not here. If he were Jensen it'd be a floppy mop and not emo-hair he'd be hoping to sink his hands into. Not that that had ever happened…yet.
Ventimiglia follows him out, and neither of them says anything until the elevator door closes. Jensen doesn't bother about talking then either. He and the kid never did have much to say to each other.
Nah, no need for talking not between gos. He crowds the kid up against the mirrored walls of the elevator and lays one on him. Nothing girly-just hands on his hips tugging him up against Jensen's half-hard dick, teeth sinking in to his bottom lip.
Ventimiglia's hands hit his shoulders, push back. The kid always did put up a token protest, like he thought - so cute - he might end up on top if he didn't bare belly like an eager-to-please puppy. Jensen presses in, and when Ventimiglia opens his mouth, Jensen claims the space with his tongue before the "oh god, Jensen, fuck me fuck me fuck me" can tumble out.
The kid gives, but it's weird. Feels different, like he's choosing to belly up instead of doing it because his toes are curling in his Converse - wingtips, Jensen reminds himself, around the rising heat at the unexpected show of strength. He's not even sure which of them groans first when the elevator dings announcing their arrival at the 20th floor.
Used to be, he had to arch eyebrow and glare to get Ventimiglia to shut it on the way to the room. Next nearest thing to openly bi, he couldn't have cared less whether the network caught him screwing Jensen Ackles. Jensen, on the other hand, well, his family still doesn't know and never will.
Which is why he's feeling pretty grateful by the time he keys them into the room. He's even thinking maybe he'll suck Ventimiglia's brain out through his dick before he rides his ass first star to the right and straight on 'til morning.
The booze waits on a white clothed roll-in table, and though his mouth's dry, he shoves Ventimiglia past it to the bed. The kid sprawls, and Jensen blinks away the impression that he might've hovered long enough to splay his thighs. He hasn't had that much to drink and that would just be crazy.
Jensen crawls up onto the bed, gets between those conveniently splayed thighs, and plants his hands by Ventimiglia's shoulders. He drops his head between his arms, and takes the kid's mouth again, aggressive, twisting his head to grind him down into the DreamTechnology fluff-down pillows.
This time there's no resistance. Ventimiglia's legs wrap around his hips, pull him down on top of him. It's a little more emo than Jensen's looking for, but it's always been that way with the kid. And it's not like Jensen's going to object to having something flat and well-muscled to rub his dick against.
When he pushes up five minutes later, glassy eyes and candied-apple lips smile up at him. Still sweet but not as innocent as he used to be.
"I'm not complaining-"
"Good." Jensen slides his hand along Ventimiglia's elegantly snug inseam and cups his balls. "Don't."
The kid makes a sound somewhere between a sigh and a whimper, then struggles onto his elbows. "Like I said, I'm not complaining. I'm easy for broad shoulders and a pretty mouth, but I usually at least say hello first."
So much for the kid having outgrown the habit of talking his way through sex. Jensen doesn't pause in his assault on the pinstriped charcoal trousers, just rolls his eyes. "Since when?"
The kid frowns, and he's heard the expression of brows knitting, but this is the first time he's ever seen it. "Always."
Jensen shakes his head at that. Grins, cocky. "Drugs get to your brain, O.C.?"
Rough laugh from Ventimiglia at that, then he says, "If only," and something so deep and bitter cuts through his eyes, he looks like someone else entirely.
It evens out into a deep brown softness so like Jared on a bad day that Jensen stops unzipping the kid's fly long enough to squeeze his shoulder. "Kidding, O.C. You good?"
The kid smiles a bit. "Yeah. Good as I'll ever be." There's a beat of silence between them, and then Ventimiglia cocks his head. Those ridiculous emo-bangs slide across his eyes. "O.C.?"
"You know, Orange County. Where you're from? Mike and I've been calling you O.C. for years. Hell of a time to get squirrely about it."
Confusion floods the kid's face, and Jensen sits up, fast. Ventimiglia's always been a bit of a bimbo for the press, and he's such an easy bottom it makes him kind of flaky. But this? He can only think one thing; Daddy down in the bar's been abusing him.
Jensen rucks up the kid's shirt to look for bruises. Nothing visible, but he runs his hands over the kid's ribs to feel for wincing. He breathes out a long sigh at finding nothing. "You sure you're okay? You can tell me if you're not. I know we've never been friends, Milo, but I'll help."
Milo's lips press together; he peers at Jensen from under those bangs like he's trying to see straight into his brain. Then all of the sudden, he grins, lopsided. "I think there's been a misunderstanding. Nice to meet you, Mr. Ackles." The kid sticks out his hand, which is even more ridiculous than the bangs with his dick poking through his zipper and boxers like an alien ambassador to Hollywood.
Jensen's cheeks heat. "Jesus." He scrubs at his face with both hands. "O.C., this is so far from funny…"
"It's not a joke, Jensen." He lifts his hips. "Wallet's in my back pocket if you want it. My name's Peter. Peter Petrelli. My brother Nathan's running for Congress. You might've seen his face on, oh, a couple thousand billboard's since you got here."
One hand rubbing through his hair, he looks at Ventimiglia-Peter, right-from under his bicep. This is a universe of bad, is his first thought. Jared's going to laugh his fool-dork ass off, is his second. "Shit." The grin turns up a notch, and Jensen can't help but smile and shake his head. "Shit," he says again, after a minute. "Sorry."
"I really wasn't complaining." Peter rests a hand on his arm. "Supernatural's about the only show I watch since…" That bitter sadness creeps into his eyes again, and Jensen almost asks, but he figures it's even less his business now than it would be if the kid were Ventimiglia. "I think I stood up and cheered when Dean shot the Yellow Eyed Demon in the forehead."
Oh, fabulous. A fanboy. "Uh, thanks." He starts to stand.
"It's not like that. I just…" Peter shrugs. "It's kind of complicated, being a Petrelli, and it'd be nice if a bullet could take out our demons. You know?"
Jensen relaxes again, settles back next to the kid on the bed. "Yeah, I can understand that."
The silence isn't as awkward as it maybe ought to be, but Jensen can't just roll over and start mauling a complete stranger, a fan - especially not in a hotel room with a bottle of champagne chilling at his back. Shit. Then the kid rubs his thumb over Jensen's hand. And that ought to be real damned awkward, but the kid has a way about him.
Now that he knows he's not Ventimiglia, Jensen can't imagine how he missed the warmth, the sadness, and the empathy running so much deeper than Orange County-vegetarian compassion. "So, huh. You're really not O.C.," he says, because he has to say something.
The kid, Peter, laughs. "Never heard of him."
Jensen suppresses a surge of triumph that Peter tunes into the CW just for Supernatural. "Rent Gilmore Girls from Netflix, man. He looks just like you. It's freaky."
"You don't know the half of it." Against his better judgment, Jensen's about to offer to care, but Peter curls a hand around his neck and pulls him down. When his breath warms Jensen's lips, Peter smiles. "More interested in fucking than talking, if you don't mind."
As a rule, Jensen avoids fucking fans. But he figures maybe for Ventimiglia's clone, he can make an exception.
Other first kisses:
the truth according to Sam (SPN, Sam/Dean, R)
let it fill the space between (Heroes, Mohinder/Peter, PG13)
passing glimmer warms beneath your skin (Heroes, Nathan/Mohinder, R)
just an ordinary day (CWRPS, Jared/Jensen, R)
on the effect of nine well-chosen words (DCU, Bruce/Dick, R)
variations on a theme or three (Heroes/SPN, Claire kisses John W., but not romantically, PG)
kiss by number (SGA, Rodney/Ronon, PG13)