Fic :: CWRPS :: I'm Growing Fond of You
I'm Growing Fond of You
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: J2
Summary: There are three facts of life: some guys are growers, some guys are showers, and there is only ever one way to settle cock-related disputes.
Posting date: June 2008
*
Even by their standards, this is a pretty weird night.
“It’s okay, you know,” Jared’s insisting right now. “Nothing to be ashamed of. It’s the nature of the universe-- fact of life and shit. Some of us are showers-”
“Don’t finish that sentence,” Jensen breaks in, hopelessly.
Jared ignores him. “-And some of us are growers.”
“You said it. I can’t believe you said it.” Jensen groans and scrubs his palm across his face, flicking the plastic ruler back onto the coffee table; it clatters noisily across the expensive glass top, rattling like laughter. He buries his face in his hands. “I can’t believe we’re even having this conversation.”
Jared smacks him on the back with all the good-natured cheer of a guy with a really big cock, and says, “I just want you to know, this doesn’t affect my opinion of you in any way. I’ll always know you’re an extremely manly individual who drinks lots of beer and wears boots all the time and stuff.”
“If you’re measuring masculinity by footwear-” Jensen gives his eye sockets one last, edge-of-painful dig with the heels of his palms; maybe if he presses hard enough, he’ll wake up and it’ll all have been an awful, male-bonding dream. “-then you’re pretty much screwed.”
Dropping his hands, he shucks his boxers back up over his hips, staring across at the widescreen plasma TV- Jared’s latest pride and joy- and the muted TV show flickering across its ridiculously big screen. He can still kind of see the strip of flesh between the bottom of Jared’s shirt and the top of Jared’s jeans, on the edge of his peripheral vision, everything just... hanging out. Even at the best of times, two beers is all it takes for the guy to start stripping. Fucking exhibitionist.
“Flip-flops are practical and comfortable,” Jared is saying, as earnest as a Jehovah’s Witness; one day, he’ll pull out pamphlets, and nobody will be surprised.
“Yeah, yeah,” Jensen snorts. He snags his still half-full beer up from the coffee table, and adds, “We all know you wish you could get Sandy’s shoes in your size.”
“Man, if only.” Jared lets out a wistful sigh, then he’s leaning across and smacking Jensen on the arm, and when Jensen chances a glance to the side- still no sign of putting his pants back on any time soon- Jared’s eyebrows are waggling up a storm. “But, on the plus side, you know what they say about guys with big feet.”
“God, not this again.”
“Don’t hate on my fantastic cock.” Jared thrusts his hips up helpfully, as if Jensen weren’t quite sure where said ‘fantastic cock’ was hanging. “I’m a shower.”
“You’re a moron,” Jensen says. He turns back to the TV, back to the beautiful sight of that which is not Jared’s really big cock. It’s one of those generic ‘make me famous for fifteen minutes’ talent shows flashing across the screen, all blues and electric whites in the late night gloom, and the girl currently on camera is really belting it out. Could be good. He can’t wait to turn the sound back on and find out.
Jared’s hand closes around Jensen’s wrist as he fumbles for the remote control, tugging his fingers up and away from it-- from the promise of teenaged, warbly distraction. Jensen looks up to be met by Jared’s grin, wide and bright and impish.
“You’re totally a grower, man,” he says.
“Yeah, okay.” Jensen gives his hand a cautious tug, and Jared’s grip tightens in response. It’s only playful, but Jensen’s pretty sure the pads of Jared’s fingers, pressed into his pulse, are hot enough to burn. “I’m a grower, Jared. You got me.”
“I bet,” Jared continues cheerfully, “you grow more than me. That probably makes you more manly than I am.”
Jensen breathes out slow. “Probably.”
Jared gives his arm an affectionate shake, then lets it drop back down onto the couch. The edge of Jensen’s thumb brushes against the TV remote, but he focuses on his beer instead, taking a deep gulp from the nearing-empty bottle. It’s the commercial break now, anyway.
“Bet you grow way more than me,” Jared says. “Hey, man, bet you $10 you kick my ass at growing.”
“Don’t you have flip-flops to buy, or something?”
“Aw, what’s the matter, Jen? Scared of a measly, little $10 wager?” Jared is still grinning, when Jensen chances another look, as sincere- as what’s the problem, Jensen? as a children’s TV presenter. “Promise I’ll still respect you in the morning.”
They’ve been drinking on and off for hours now, ever since filming ended for the day and the weekend was officially begun, and Jensen’s pretty sure that’s the only reason why it seems like a good idea to throw his hands up in the air in defeat and exclaim, “Okay, okay. Jesus. Let’s find out if I’m a fucking grower, if it’ll shut you up.”
Jared smirks contentedly at him, looking less victorious than he does the cat with a lifetime’s supply of cream. “You can even,” he drawls out, and even his voice is a self-satisfied stretch of vowels; Jared’s always the most Texan when he’s really fucking pleased. “You can even put the sound back on, if you like.”
“Man, I am not jerking off to a soundtrack of the crushed showbiz dreams of America,” Jensen says, tugging his boxers back down- again, Christ- and wincing at the rush of cooler air. “Second we’re done here, I’m calling Sandy. I think she needs to know you’ve got an unhealthy interest in the size of my cock.”
“She’s met Chad. Nothing I say or do can ever shock her now.” Jared sounds sleepy, and pleased with himself. When Jensen chances a glance at him, he’s thumbing at the waistband of his boxers still hoiked down around his thighs, gaze fixed on the TV. “Simon Cowell, man,” he murmurs, fingers brushing up to his hipbone, down again. “What’s that about?”
Jensen clears his throat. This still isn’t the most awkward, embarrassing, or just plain weird moment of his life. It’s not even in the top ten, and he’s not sure whether that’s a good thing or not. “Okay,” he says. He palms at his cock, grips it tightly and watches as Jared’s gaze flickers towards him in a flash of greenish brown, dark and heated. “Okay.”
“Okay,” Jared echoes. He curls his hand around his own cock, the dark weight of it- reddish and heavy-looking, already growing hard.
Jensen closes his eyes. In the silence, with nothing but the rustle of fabric and skin and slow breaths that could belong to anyone, it’s easy to imagine that he’s alone; jerking off in the privacy of his own home, twisting his wrist in the way he likes- just so- and rubbing at the soft, tight skin at the base of his cock. Then Jared exhales on Jensen’s inhale, or shifts back against the couch, and it’s like being a teenager again- when everyone had just discovered what their junk was for and they wanted the world to know all about it.
Jensen blinks his eyes back open again and frowns up at the ceiling instead. “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he murmurs, voice fuzzy with arousal in his ears. “I’m a thirty-year-old man. I’ve got a mortgage. I do laundry.”
“Yeah,” Jared breathes, “Yeah,” and then, “Jensen.”
There’s something in his voice that draws Jensen’s eyes to him, and to the sight of Jared’s flushed cock rock-hard in his grip, hips rolling lazily in time with the movement of his wrist. He’s looking at Jensen, head lolling back against the top of the couch-- looking at him as if he’s had his eyes on Jensen from the moment they started playing this stupid, macho-validation game. It’s the kind of gaze that rolls hotly in Jensen’s belly, shivering down his arms until he has to squeeze his fingers so tight around his cock, a low groan on his lips. Jared watches.
“See?” he murmurs. “Told you-- you’re a grower.”
“You wanna--” Jensen has to lick his gone-dry lips, remember how to breathe. “You wanna, y’know, measure? To be sure?”
There’s a pause, the air shivering with heavy breathing, then,“Nope.”
Someone moves first. Someone has to have moved first, because Jared couldn’t keep a secret about his socks let alone the discovery of teleportation, but everything is lost to the white-noise beating against Jensen’s ears. It’s just one moment they’re not touching and the next they are; with stupidly huge hands pulling on Jensen’s hips as Jared presses his knees into the couch, framing Jensen’s thighs, and holds on tight with a hot, hot grip.
“Don’t need to measure,” he growls out, grabbing the hem of Jensen’s t-shirt and tugging up. “Don’t need-- God, God, Jen.” Hands splay across his ribs, and Jensen can feel Jared’s hips shifting against his own, rocking forwards, the burning pressure of Jared’s cock against his thigh. “Need to-- c’mon, man, lift a finger. C’mon. Gotta--”
Jensen’s pinned to the couch by Jared’s knees, and skin, and voice. “Hey,” he says, pushing at the heavy weight of Jared’s shoulders. “Wait, wait, we can’t--”
Jared groans, “We can. We can,” and presses forward to seek out Jensen’s mouth, searching with his lips against Jensen’s face- like he’s a blind man and Jensen is the light- mouthing hot, messy kisses across Jensen’s jaw. His teeth scrape against stubble and skin, tongue darting out to taste, an unstoppable force.
“Yeah, yeah, we can. We fuckin’ can, but--” Jensen groans, and it shakes out of his throat as if he’s a fucking teenaged prom date, hands grabbing at Jared’s shirt. “Not with you sitting on me. Fucking-- too big. Can’t breathe as it is, without you crushin’ my ribs.”
Jared stills- hands and mouth, and he might be holding his breath too but Jensen’s breathing too hard to tell- and he draws back a little. In the darkness, just the flickering light from the TV haloed behind him, his grin is a slow creep of gleaming white. “You,” he says, uncurling a hand from the small of Jensen’s back to tap his chest instead-- plain old touchy-feely Jared until his fingers stroke slowly back down to the hem of Jensen’s t-shirt again, “are the brains of this operation.”
It almost sets the couch shaking- the sudden shift of weight from one end to the other as Jared pulls off of Jensen, the precarious balance sending him crashing back down against the cushions; and then the sudden shift of weight as he reaches for Jensen and pulls until he’s practically in his lap, bracing himself on either side of Jared’s hips with his hands gripping the back of the couch. Jared’s breathing raggedly, all joking gone from his face as he stares up at Jensen with wide, dark eyes. His hands are curled at the nape of Jensen’s neck, stroking slowly up and down the ridge of his spine.
“This is--” he begins, trailing off on a questioning note. They’re sharing breathing space, his words brushing across Jensen’s skin.
“Yeah,” Jensen says, and he dips his head down.
Jared kisses the same way he does anything-- like it’s his favourite goddamn thing; like it’s going out of style and he wants the world to know all about it; earnest and heartfelt and so fucking hot, with his giant hands cupping Jensen’s face and his teeth nipping at Jensen’s bottom lip and his hips rocking up, up, up to grind their cocks together. Jensen has to let go of the couch and grip onto Jared’s shoulders instead, fingers clammy and trembling, and Jared catches hold of his wrist, tugs it up to lick a stripe down Jensen’s palm. His lips are spit-slick, flushed red, mouthing at Jensen’s fingers like they belong in goddamn porn.
“Oh Jesus,” Jensen groans. “Oh fuck.” He grinds down against Jared, hard as he can but it’s still not hard enough, and his free hand drops down between them, fisting their cocks together, slick with sweat and precome and the sheer goddamn heat of it.
“Yeah, oh yeah, that’s--” Jared’s tugging him in closer, one hand sliding down to meet Jensen’s, to wrap around it, fingers tangling together. His other hand, at Jensen’s face, pulling him down for kiss after kiss after-- sloppy and burning and as erratic as their rhythm, as their breathing, with Jensen dipping down to lick at the pulse in Jared’s neck and Jared nipping at his collarbone, the sweat at the hollow of his throat.
Jensen can’t breathe, doesn’t need to breathe, not with the press of Jared skin-to-skin against him and their cocks fucking up into each other’s fists, grip so tight the pleasure’s edged with pain, and Jared-- Jared breathing raggedly into the crook of his neck, hair sticking sweat-slick to Jensen’s skin; Jared’s nails scratching down the small of Jensen’s back; Jared’s hips snapping up as he throws his head back, mouth wide and silent as he comes, comes, comes across their chests. It’s the sexist fucking thing Jensen’s ever seen, and he has to bite down on Jared’s shoulder to contain the noise building up inside of him, so hot and tight and shivering through him, fuck fuck fuck--
He comes tasting copper.
When Jensen can breathe again, he lifts his head and pulls back to study Jared. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for, or what he’s hoping to see, but something loosens up inside of him anyway as Jared meets his gaze with a lazy, sated grin.
“You,” he says, voice gravelly with sex, “owe me ten bucks.”
“So now I feel like a hooker,” Jensen muses. He can’t keep his own smile off of his face though, not with Jared’s eyes crinkling like that.
“Cheap hooker, too.”
Jensen snorts, peeling himself away from Jared with a wince; cold air and drying come and sweat still dripping down his ribcage. “Cheap and sticky.”
“Ah ah.” Jared raises a finger to Jensen’s lips, smirking. “Cheap and sticky and a grower.”
Rolling his eyes, he bats Jared’s hand away and lifts himself up out of Jared’s lap, slumping back down against the couch. His muscles are already beginning to scream; getting too old for this shit. Jensen pulls a face, rubbing a hand through the mess on his stomach. “Do I get a medal?” he asks, as he twists around to wipe his hand clean on Jared’s shoulder.
Jared sticks his tongue out. “I’ll make you one next time,” he says, contentedly. “Promise.”
Jensen really can’t keep the fucking smile off of his face.
*
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: J2
Summary: There are three facts of life: some guys are growers, some guys are showers, and there is only ever one way to settle cock-related disputes.
Posting date: June 2008
*
Even by their standards, this is a pretty weird night.
“It’s okay, you know,” Jared’s insisting right now. “Nothing to be ashamed of. It’s the nature of the universe-- fact of life and shit. Some of us are showers-”
“Don’t finish that sentence,” Jensen breaks in, hopelessly.
Jared ignores him. “-And some of us are growers.”
“You said it. I can’t believe you said it.” Jensen groans and scrubs his palm across his face, flicking the plastic ruler back onto the coffee table; it clatters noisily across the expensive glass top, rattling like laughter. He buries his face in his hands. “I can’t believe we’re even having this conversation.”
Jared smacks him on the back with all the good-natured cheer of a guy with a really big cock, and says, “I just want you to know, this doesn’t affect my opinion of you in any way. I’ll always know you’re an extremely manly individual who drinks lots of beer and wears boots all the time and stuff.”
“If you’re measuring masculinity by footwear-” Jensen gives his eye sockets one last, edge-of-painful dig with the heels of his palms; maybe if he presses hard enough, he’ll wake up and it’ll all have been an awful, male-bonding dream. “-then you’re pretty much screwed.”
Dropping his hands, he shucks his boxers back up over his hips, staring across at the widescreen plasma TV- Jared’s latest pride and joy- and the muted TV show flickering across its ridiculously big screen. He can still kind of see the strip of flesh between the bottom of Jared’s shirt and the top of Jared’s jeans, on the edge of his peripheral vision, everything just... hanging out. Even at the best of times, two beers is all it takes for the guy to start stripping. Fucking exhibitionist.
“Flip-flops are practical and comfortable,” Jared is saying, as earnest as a Jehovah’s Witness; one day, he’ll pull out pamphlets, and nobody will be surprised.
“Yeah, yeah,” Jensen snorts. He snags his still half-full beer up from the coffee table, and adds, “We all know you wish you could get Sandy’s shoes in your size.”
“Man, if only.” Jared lets out a wistful sigh, then he’s leaning across and smacking Jensen on the arm, and when Jensen chances a glance to the side- still no sign of putting his pants back on any time soon- Jared’s eyebrows are waggling up a storm. “But, on the plus side, you know what they say about guys with big feet.”
“God, not this again.”
“Don’t hate on my fantastic cock.” Jared thrusts his hips up helpfully, as if Jensen weren’t quite sure where said ‘fantastic cock’ was hanging. “I’m a shower.”
“You’re a moron,” Jensen says. He turns back to the TV, back to the beautiful sight of that which is not Jared’s really big cock. It’s one of those generic ‘make me famous for fifteen minutes’ talent shows flashing across the screen, all blues and electric whites in the late night gloom, and the girl currently on camera is really belting it out. Could be good. He can’t wait to turn the sound back on and find out.
Jared’s hand closes around Jensen’s wrist as he fumbles for the remote control, tugging his fingers up and away from it-- from the promise of teenaged, warbly distraction. Jensen looks up to be met by Jared’s grin, wide and bright and impish.
“You’re totally a grower, man,” he says.
“Yeah, okay.” Jensen gives his hand a cautious tug, and Jared’s grip tightens in response. It’s only playful, but Jensen’s pretty sure the pads of Jared’s fingers, pressed into his pulse, are hot enough to burn. “I’m a grower, Jared. You got me.”
“I bet,” Jared continues cheerfully, “you grow more than me. That probably makes you more manly than I am.”
Jensen breathes out slow. “Probably.”
Jared gives his arm an affectionate shake, then lets it drop back down onto the couch. The edge of Jensen’s thumb brushes against the TV remote, but he focuses on his beer instead, taking a deep gulp from the nearing-empty bottle. It’s the commercial break now, anyway.
“Bet you grow way more than me,” Jared says. “Hey, man, bet you $10 you kick my ass at growing.”
“Don’t you have flip-flops to buy, or something?”
“Aw, what’s the matter, Jen? Scared of a measly, little $10 wager?” Jared is still grinning, when Jensen chances another look, as sincere- as what’s the problem, Jensen? as a children’s TV presenter. “Promise I’ll still respect you in the morning.”
They’ve been drinking on and off for hours now, ever since filming ended for the day and the weekend was officially begun, and Jensen’s pretty sure that’s the only reason why it seems like a good idea to throw his hands up in the air in defeat and exclaim, “Okay, okay. Jesus. Let’s find out if I’m a fucking grower, if it’ll shut you up.”
Jared smirks contentedly at him, looking less victorious than he does the cat with a lifetime’s supply of cream. “You can even,” he drawls out, and even his voice is a self-satisfied stretch of vowels; Jared’s always the most Texan when he’s really fucking pleased. “You can even put the sound back on, if you like.”
“Man, I am not jerking off to a soundtrack of the crushed showbiz dreams of America,” Jensen says, tugging his boxers back down- again, Christ- and wincing at the rush of cooler air. “Second we’re done here, I’m calling Sandy. I think she needs to know you’ve got an unhealthy interest in the size of my cock.”
“She’s met Chad. Nothing I say or do can ever shock her now.” Jared sounds sleepy, and pleased with himself. When Jensen chances a glance at him, he’s thumbing at the waistband of his boxers still hoiked down around his thighs, gaze fixed on the TV. “Simon Cowell, man,” he murmurs, fingers brushing up to his hipbone, down again. “What’s that about?”
Jensen clears his throat. This still isn’t the most awkward, embarrassing, or just plain weird moment of his life. It’s not even in the top ten, and he’s not sure whether that’s a good thing or not. “Okay,” he says. He palms at his cock, grips it tightly and watches as Jared’s gaze flickers towards him in a flash of greenish brown, dark and heated. “Okay.”
“Okay,” Jared echoes. He curls his hand around his own cock, the dark weight of it- reddish and heavy-looking, already growing hard.
Jensen closes his eyes. In the silence, with nothing but the rustle of fabric and skin and slow breaths that could belong to anyone, it’s easy to imagine that he’s alone; jerking off in the privacy of his own home, twisting his wrist in the way he likes- just so- and rubbing at the soft, tight skin at the base of his cock. Then Jared exhales on Jensen’s inhale, or shifts back against the couch, and it’s like being a teenager again- when everyone had just discovered what their junk was for and they wanted the world to know all about it.
Jensen blinks his eyes back open again and frowns up at the ceiling instead. “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he murmurs, voice fuzzy with arousal in his ears. “I’m a thirty-year-old man. I’ve got a mortgage. I do laundry.”
“Yeah,” Jared breathes, “Yeah,” and then, “Jensen.”
There’s something in his voice that draws Jensen’s eyes to him, and to the sight of Jared’s flushed cock rock-hard in his grip, hips rolling lazily in time with the movement of his wrist. He’s looking at Jensen, head lolling back against the top of the couch-- looking at him as if he’s had his eyes on Jensen from the moment they started playing this stupid, macho-validation game. It’s the kind of gaze that rolls hotly in Jensen’s belly, shivering down his arms until he has to squeeze his fingers so tight around his cock, a low groan on his lips. Jared watches.
“See?” he murmurs. “Told you-- you’re a grower.”
“You wanna--” Jensen has to lick his gone-dry lips, remember how to breathe. “You wanna, y’know, measure? To be sure?”
There’s a pause, the air shivering with heavy breathing, then,“Nope.”
Someone moves first. Someone has to have moved first, because Jared couldn’t keep a secret about his socks let alone the discovery of teleportation, but everything is lost to the white-noise beating against Jensen’s ears. It’s just one moment they’re not touching and the next they are; with stupidly huge hands pulling on Jensen’s hips as Jared presses his knees into the couch, framing Jensen’s thighs, and holds on tight with a hot, hot grip.
“Don’t need to measure,” he growls out, grabbing the hem of Jensen’s t-shirt and tugging up. “Don’t need-- God, God, Jen.” Hands splay across his ribs, and Jensen can feel Jared’s hips shifting against his own, rocking forwards, the burning pressure of Jared’s cock against his thigh. “Need to-- c’mon, man, lift a finger. C’mon. Gotta--”
Jensen’s pinned to the couch by Jared’s knees, and skin, and voice. “Hey,” he says, pushing at the heavy weight of Jared’s shoulders. “Wait, wait, we can’t--”
Jared groans, “We can. We can,” and presses forward to seek out Jensen’s mouth, searching with his lips against Jensen’s face- like he’s a blind man and Jensen is the light- mouthing hot, messy kisses across Jensen’s jaw. His teeth scrape against stubble and skin, tongue darting out to taste, an unstoppable force.
“Yeah, yeah, we can. We fuckin’ can, but--” Jensen groans, and it shakes out of his throat as if he’s a fucking teenaged prom date, hands grabbing at Jared’s shirt. “Not with you sitting on me. Fucking-- too big. Can’t breathe as it is, without you crushin’ my ribs.”
Jared stills- hands and mouth, and he might be holding his breath too but Jensen’s breathing too hard to tell- and he draws back a little. In the darkness, just the flickering light from the TV haloed behind him, his grin is a slow creep of gleaming white. “You,” he says, uncurling a hand from the small of Jensen’s back to tap his chest instead-- plain old touchy-feely Jared until his fingers stroke slowly back down to the hem of Jensen’s t-shirt again, “are the brains of this operation.”
It almost sets the couch shaking- the sudden shift of weight from one end to the other as Jared pulls off of Jensen, the precarious balance sending him crashing back down against the cushions; and then the sudden shift of weight as he reaches for Jensen and pulls until he’s practically in his lap, bracing himself on either side of Jared’s hips with his hands gripping the back of the couch. Jared’s breathing raggedly, all joking gone from his face as he stares up at Jensen with wide, dark eyes. His hands are curled at the nape of Jensen’s neck, stroking slowly up and down the ridge of his spine.
“This is--” he begins, trailing off on a questioning note. They’re sharing breathing space, his words brushing across Jensen’s skin.
“Yeah,” Jensen says, and he dips his head down.
Jared kisses the same way he does anything-- like it’s his favourite goddamn thing; like it’s going out of style and he wants the world to know all about it; earnest and heartfelt and so fucking hot, with his giant hands cupping Jensen’s face and his teeth nipping at Jensen’s bottom lip and his hips rocking up, up, up to grind their cocks together. Jensen has to let go of the couch and grip onto Jared’s shoulders instead, fingers clammy and trembling, and Jared catches hold of his wrist, tugs it up to lick a stripe down Jensen’s palm. His lips are spit-slick, flushed red, mouthing at Jensen’s fingers like they belong in goddamn porn.
“Oh Jesus,” Jensen groans. “Oh fuck.” He grinds down against Jared, hard as he can but it’s still not hard enough, and his free hand drops down between them, fisting their cocks together, slick with sweat and precome and the sheer goddamn heat of it.
“Yeah, oh yeah, that’s--” Jared’s tugging him in closer, one hand sliding down to meet Jensen’s, to wrap around it, fingers tangling together. His other hand, at Jensen’s face, pulling him down for kiss after kiss after-- sloppy and burning and as erratic as their rhythm, as their breathing, with Jensen dipping down to lick at the pulse in Jared’s neck and Jared nipping at his collarbone, the sweat at the hollow of his throat.
Jensen can’t breathe, doesn’t need to breathe, not with the press of Jared skin-to-skin against him and their cocks fucking up into each other’s fists, grip so tight the pleasure’s edged with pain, and Jared-- Jared breathing raggedly into the crook of his neck, hair sticking sweat-slick to Jensen’s skin; Jared’s nails scratching down the small of Jensen’s back; Jared’s hips snapping up as he throws his head back, mouth wide and silent as he comes, comes, comes across their chests. It’s the sexist fucking thing Jensen’s ever seen, and he has to bite down on Jared’s shoulder to contain the noise building up inside of him, so hot and tight and shivering through him, fuck fuck fuck--
He comes tasting copper.
When Jensen can breathe again, he lifts his head and pulls back to study Jared. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for, or what he’s hoping to see, but something loosens up inside of him anyway as Jared meets his gaze with a lazy, sated grin.
“You,” he says, voice gravelly with sex, “owe me ten bucks.”
“So now I feel like a hooker,” Jensen muses. He can’t keep his own smile off of his face though, not with Jared’s eyes crinkling like that.
“Cheap hooker, too.”
Jensen snorts, peeling himself away from Jared with a wince; cold air and drying come and sweat still dripping down his ribcage. “Cheap and sticky.”
“Ah ah.” Jared raises a finger to Jensen’s lips, smirking. “Cheap and sticky and a grower.”
Rolling his eyes, he bats Jared’s hand away and lifts himself up out of Jared’s lap, slumping back down against the couch. His muscles are already beginning to scream; getting too old for this shit. Jensen pulls a face, rubbing a hand through the mess on his stomach. “Do I get a medal?” he asks, as he twists around to wipe his hand clean on Jared’s shoulder.
Jared sticks his tongue out. “I’ll make you one next time,” he says, contentedly. “Promise.”
Jensen really can’t keep the fucking smile off of his face.
*