Special Hell: SPN Fic
Title:I worship at the shrine of Paul McDermott’s ass
Author: vayshti.
Beta:by_starkiller
Pairing: Paul McDermott / Jensen Ackles
Warning: Crack and Purple Prose. Contains RPS, rimming, oral, mutual masturbation, irreverence, and hairy butt-cheeks. Ice play.
Rating: NC-17.
Summary: It’s hot in the Good News Week Green Room.
Word Count: 3329
Disclaimer: This is in fun, a completely fictitious scenario, and in no way reflects on the real people’s identities who I have borrowed without asking. Definitely no monies being made here.
Author’s note: written after seeing the juicy videos from Jensen’s recent Australian promo-tour (google for sheer brilliance), and musing with by_starkiller over our mutual timeshare TV boyfriends. Of course, they’d choose each other, wouldn’t they???
Cross-posted to jensenfic and supernaturalfic.
I worship at the shrine of Paul McDermott’s ass
Paul had gone out for the obligatory schmoozing right after Good News Week filming had stopped, allotting himself fifteen minutes. He’d learnt back in the dim, dark, days of DAAS, that fans would not let you go home, but, if you had to duck back inside the building for some reason, they’d be happy enough with that minor brush with celebrity-dom and would fuck off.
He didn’t really have to go back inside the building. His PA had already dealt with everything that needed dealing with, but there was always free booze in the Green Room, ostensibly for the other show guests, but ultimately just there for the regulars of Good News Week to chuck back post filming. And he definitely needed a drink tonight. It was stinking hot outside, it had been stinking hot on set, and he was definitely antsy. He would have tried to do something about that, but it was too hot to do anything but wallow. Or drink. So drinking it would have to be to take some of that twitch out of his system.
He chuckled to himself; anyone seeing him now, on his single-minded pursuit of alcohol, with that twitch, would think a very horny teenage boy currently inhabited his body. And that was a mental image that really didn’t help things.
Mikey had tossed him a tinnie before the door to the Green Room was even half open, but it was expected - part of the easy routine they had fallen into: Mikey would wait with Paul’s beer in hand, nursing it as if it were his own before Paul’s arrival. He said that nursing it was almost as good as drinking it, and if it helped him keep off the weight he’d shed, then who would argue with his logic? So Paul already had his hand out to catch the flying beverage, and had cracked it even as he took a flying leap into his usual spot on the couch.
Except that the couch was already occupied. He could see it was occupied even as he was air-borne, but by then it was too late to stop himself from crashing into his previously unseen guest. Beer and expletives flew, including a particularly loud, ‘FUCK ME!’
He was assailed by the soft drawl of his guest’s voice. ‘Yanno, I’d heard that Australians weren’t backwards about coming forwards, but I can’t say I was expecting to be liberally doused in alcohol and have someone in my lap asking me to shag them within thirty seconds of them entering the room.’
Paul stood up quickly, reaching over to the low table hidden by cheap-arse horses-doovers and a now melty swan ice-sculpture with tropical fruit as a centrepiece. He grabbed a bunch of paper napkins to mop up the beer he had spilt on himself, and in the lap of the interloper on his chair. This was so not what the host of a nationally syndicated show should have done. He muttered ‘I’m so sorry, so sorry’ over and over as he mopped at the sodden pair of jeans that were displayed in front of him.
Mikey laughed from the corner. ‘Er, Paul. You got beer on you.’
He turned to Mikey, ‘No shit, Sherlock. By the way, couldn’t you have warned me before I was airborne?’
Mikey shot him a look of mock innocence, ‘What? And miss all this fun? Not bloody likely!’
And finally, because there was nowhere else to look, nothing else that could divert Paul’s attention, he had to make eye-contact with his guest: Jensen Ackles...
… who was grinning at him, obviously amused by Paul’s jittery embarrassment and not at all concerned by his beer-sodden crotch. ‘I gather that you normally have this room to yourself after the show?’
Paul paused, caught up again with listening to the music made by the way Jensen held his “r”s in his throat, which then made him think about Jensen’s throat, which then meant he had to wrench himself back to reality to answer. ‘Yeah. The people that Ten get in for cross-promotion shtick - they’re in and out pretty quick. Always got bigger and better parties to go to.’
He grabbed himself a replacement beer, taking a quick, fizzy swallow, savouring the icy cold liquid as it slid down his throat. The air-conditioner in the Green Room was working, but it was so hot that it felt like it barely made a difference. He pressed the cold, condensation-coated tin to his face, before continuing, ‘So the obvious question is - why are you not at your bigger and better parties?’
Jensen shrugged, and looked uncomfortable. ‘That’s really not my thing.’
The boy looked far too easy to tease, ‘No? Then why did you get into acting if you weren’t after the screaming fan-girls…and boys?’
Jensen chose to ignore the naughty twinkle in Paul’s eye. He knew exactly what Paul was doing, but chose to give him a straight answer. ‘Family Business.’
He winced as he replayed his own words in his head, but it appeared that Paul had missed the dire pun he’d just made. Either Paul didn’t watch Supernatural, or he was savvy enough to realise he shouldn’t draw attention to it. Either way was fine with him. ‘Back to your party question - I’m actually not great with people. Fine with people I’ve had a chance to talk to already, like you two,’ he nodded at both Paul and Mikey, who saluted him with his Diet Coke, ‘but a new party, a room full of strangers, would not be my idea of fun. Too much hard work; especially in this heat.’
Mikey decided that the serious Jensen was also ripe for teasing, ‘You sound like an old man, Jensen. Come on, you’re young enough to be Paul’s kid.’
‘Hey!’ Paul picked up a toothpick with a cube of Coon cheddar and a piece of cabana on it and threw it at Mikey, ‘I am not!’
Jensen smirked. ‘Actually you are. Well, at least physically. Mentally? Let me get back to you on that.’
Paul folded his arms. ‘I am not old enough to be your Dad.’
Jensen raised his hands in mock surrender. ‘Hey, you were fifteen when I was born. That makes you old enough. You’re not the only one who knows how to surf the Internet, you know.’
The expression on Paul’s face changed immediately from the one that expressed horror over his age, to one that was piqued with interest over the notion that Jensen had been researching him. Rather than dwell on the warm fuzzy feeling that thought raised, he changed the direction of the conversation. ‘I bet you didn’t find any sites with the title “I worship at the shrine of Paul McDermott’s arse” though.’
Jensen shook his head, ‘No. Is there really a site devoted to my ass?’
Although he had directed the question at Paul, deliberately probing for a reaction, it was Mikey that answered. The answer, however, still gave him the information he needed. ‘Yes, there is. The RA may have found it, but Paul couldn’t help but show the site to everyone who came within cooee of his desk.’
The information itself could be interpreted through many lenses, none of which were conclusive as to the right interpretation. However, when coupled with the hard look that Paul was giving him, the way he flicked his tongue around the indentation on the can to lick up the rogue drops of beer, Jensen knew everything he needed to know. He met Paul’s gaze, and held it. And held it.
‘Right,’ Mikey slammed his empty Diet Coke-bottle down on the table, ‘I would say that was my cue to depart.’ He nodded his head at Jensen before winking at his friend, ‘Just remember that it is hot tonight, and you need to watch your fluid intake.’
Paul watched his colleague depart with an expression of bewilderment, but the look, Jensen was amused to note, was the bewilderment of “How did he know what was going through my head,” rather than the bewilderment of “Why the fuck did Mikey just leave?”
Jensen carefully put his drink to one side - he did not need any more alcohol in his lap - before grabbing Paul’s jaw in his hand, turning his face to meet his, ‘It has been pretty obvious, Paul.’
‘Obvious?’ Paul spluttered.
Jensen laughed, but did not break contact, stroking the stubble-lined jaw of the face that was now only inches away from his own. ‘Yes, obvious. You were making grabby-hands motions behind my butt during filming for god’s sake. Mikey could see that, and knew what it meant, just as well as I could.’
Paul broke Jensen’s contact with his skin, preferring the safety of contact with his beverage. ‘Oh.’
He let the silence sit between them while he worked up the courage to speak once more, Jensen equally happy to let the silence continue so he could run his eyes over the man squirming in front of him without interruption. When Paul spoke again, Jensen was delighted by the sound of insecure hope in his voice, ‘So… you staying back here was not just to avoid going to the bigger and better parties?’
In reply, Jensen reached for Paul’s jaw again, tilting his face upwards so he could gently brush his lips against the pair that faintly trembled. ‘My hotel has a pool. It’s hot. You do the math.’
As if that phrase was the sexual equivalent of a starter’s gun, the phrase for them to begin their frantic dash to the finish line - all limbs pumping, heavy breathing, sweat - the two of them locked lips. Teeth clicked against teeth, tongues fought duels to invade and explore mouths, arms wrapped around waists, hands threaded through soft hair. They frenetically pawed flesh, needing to touch every inch of skin both visible and hidden.
Hot, clammy skin stuck and peeled apart painfully, or slid out of reach, sweat destroying firm grips, deep exploration of the other body’s juts and hollows impossible in the sauna conditions of a tight embrace. It was Jensen who broke for cool air first, a single query panted into the gap between their bodies, ‘Door?’
Seconds passed as Paul’s brain slowly reconciled the word that rolled off Jensen’s tongue with anything that made sense, but when the synapses finally did their job, he dashed across the room, slammed the door closed, a simple flick of his wrist shooting the bolt home. Jensen was already taking his shirt off, a grin on his face and fire in his eyes as Paul returned to him, his shirt and dishevelled tie also discarded before they resumed their race, their competition of who could lose themselves more completely, who could sate their desire the more fully.
Paul bit Jensen’s lower lip, gently pulling so that Jensen’s lip popped out swollen, pouting. As Jensen dove forward for another kiss, Paul avoided it, beginning a trail of kisses that snaked its way down Jensen’s torso, pausing at both taut nipples, his tongue flicking around each raised bud as well as around the hollow of Jensen’s navel. A line of saliva traced the form of Jensen’s ribs and abdomen before Paul paused at the barriers of beer-sodden denim and elasticised cotton. He did not bother with being gentle; a firm grip on either sides of Jensen’s hips, and he’d yanked the offending garments down, exposing Jensen’s cock to the world, or at least, to his world. Jensen gasped, the sudden removal of clothes allowing his cock to bob in the thick air of the Green Room only twice before Paul had fastened his hand around its shaft and tugged on it experimentally. It sat heavy in his hand, its violent twitches in time with Jensen’s heartbeat setting up an echo of twitches in Paul’s own tightly wound groin. He chuckled; Auden’s “Tower of Power” had nothing on Jensen’s proud manhood.
Jensen stilled in his grasp. ‘Are you laughing at my junk?’
Paul shook his head, his hair brushing softly against Jensen’s stomach, making him shudder. ‘This isn’t junk. This is a salute to American glory.’
Jensen thought about trying to explain the finer points of American slang, but decided to just ride the compliment. Paul ran his tongue around Jensen’s head, pleased when Jensen involuntarily whimpered. He spoke lines of mindless devotion between each wet corkscrew-flick of his tongue; ‘Glorious column,’ ‘Divine manhood to do Michelangelo proud,’ ‘All-American beef,’ ‘Quarter-pounder’ - Jensen carried away in both merriment at the stupid words that fell from Paul’s tongue as much as he was by the pleasure it caused. ‘Just as long as there isn’t any all-American cheese.’
Paul stopped, pulled away, before snapping off a wing from the melting ice swan. Bunched in his fist, he let drips of icy water fall on Jensen’s cock, revelling in Jensen’s sharp intake of breath as he slapped the ice onto Jensen’s bare torso. He dragged it over Jensen’s nipples, running his tongue over Jensen’s abdomen to collect the quickly heated sheets of sweat-salted water that ran to his waiting mouth. His second hand was still busy fisting Jensen’s cock in a rhythm set up by the gentle roll of Jensen’s hips.
Jensen was lost in the contrast between the icy block on his chest, and the warm, wet heat of Paul’s tongue and fist, but not so lost that he could not regain control. He placed a hand under Paul’s chin, before gently withdrawing his throbbing cock from Paul’s clutching hands. ‘Your turn.’
Paul nodded, docile, as Jensen undid his own trousers, slowly reaching past the hot thatch of dark, coarse hair to his neglected cock. Jensen was moving far too slow, and Paul tried in vain to speed things up, but his efforts were stilled by Jensen’s strong grip on his wrist. Jensen flipped him around, pushing him over the low table. Luckily, Paul was over the part of the table where there were only platters of cheese and cold meats, and not the dangerous forest of toothpick spikes. Jensen still had one of his arms forced behind his back, but with his free hand he selected a piece of melon, delicately sliding it in to Paul’s mouth before withdrawing it slightly once again, enjoying the faux fellatio as much as if it were his own cock sliding between those moist lips.
But Paul’s lips were not the part of his body that he meant to give service to. He knelt behind Paul, spreading his fuzzed buttocks with splayed hands, shuddering at the mental image of him gripping that hair tightly with his hands, controlling every movement of Paul’s body while they were locked together up to the pubis.
He paused, running his eyes over the veritable treasure that was displayed in front of him. Unlike Paul’s buttocks, the hidden join, the pink pucker that twitched under Jensen’s breath, and Paul’s balls, was clear of hair. It was a veritable shrine to the act of rimming. He dove downwards, running his tongue along the sweaty groove. He surfaced from between Paul’s cheeks, unable to let his query go. ‘No hair…’
‘Nair,’ came back the single word reply, before Paul’s vocal cords were caught again on the mindless act of groaning out his pleasure, Jensen diving back in and running his tongue around Paul’s entrance, pushing it into that pucker, noting how Paul’s body pulsed in response, wanting more of it. It would take his tongue in if he let it. He went lower and sucked one of Paul’s balls, both of which sat tight against his body, despite the sweltering heat He laughed, his voice muffled by his mouthful, but the sound was still clear enough for Paul to decipher what he said; ‘I worship at the shrine of Paul McDermott’s ass.’
Paul wiggled his arse, ‘Hey, that’s not my arse you’re currently worshiping.’ He felt his testicle pop from between Jensen’s pout, before Jensen murmured against his skin, his hot breath caressing his arsehole. ‘I’ll have to rectify that.’
‘Damned straight.’
Paul heard the sharp chink of ice being broken, before he felt the tip of the ice swan’s beak nudging his entrance.
‘Hey, Mikey said I needed to watch my fluid intake, but I’m not sure this is what he had in mind.’
‘Well, I could use my fingers instead.’
He could, but Paul could hear the disappointment in the man’s voice already. Besides, did Paul really want something so warm inside him during this insufferable heat? He shook his head, ‘It is right and proper to give sacrifice during worship - it is fitting that the ice-sculpture had to die.’
Jensen chuckled, nudging the frozen beak into Paul’s convulsing orifice, sliding it back and forth, fascinated by the run-off that this simple introduction of body heat and friction created. ‘Take this, the body of the ice-bird, so that thou may take flight.’
Paul reached through gap formed by his own spread legs, taking Jensen’s cock in his hand, jerking it in time to the beat Jensen set with the unconventional dildo. Jensen inched forward so that he brushed up against the fine hairs on Paul’s right thigh whilst he reached around, taking Paul’s cock in his own free hand. Jensen ached for more contact, and would have replaced the shaft of ice with his own shaft of gristle if he thought he could have borne the proximal heat.
As Paul’s body relaxed, Jensen pushed more of the ice inside, slowly introducing the icy head, then twisting the hooked neck to ensure that he hit that sweet spot. Each touch, each prod caused Paul to buck, which in turn caused Paul to pull harder on Jensen’s throbbing member. Both their speed and the pressure of their grips increased, the finish line in sight, but it was not clear who would stumble, tip over that magic line first.
Jensen felt his breath hitch, his vision grow white around the edges, knew he was not getting enough oxygen, and wondered if this was his moment to die, even as he knew that this was just another “Little death.”
Paul heard Jensen take a huge gasp, before there was no breathing at all, the body behind him rigid and still before he exhaled in a long moan, spilling his seed over Paul’s still pumping fist. It ran over his knuckles and collected on his thighs and the much-abused carpet of the studio’s Green Room.
Paul felt his own buttocks clench around the icy invader, as the sound of Jensen’s release, knowing that it was he who had caused it, was enough for Paul to lurch towards the finish line himself. He crossed mere seconds afterwards, before they both collapsed in a sweaty heap on the floor. Their limbs would no longer support them; the levels of pain and muscle fatigue they had ignored in their pursuit of pleasure coming upon them twice as hard now that their climax had been achieved. And it was still too hot for Paul despite the icy dildo having melted to almost nothing.
Jensen fumbled with the contents of the low table, scooping up fragments of cool melon, grapes and strawberries, grateful for the opportunity to break contact with Paul’s over-hot flesh without withdrawing completely. He knew he could have stood up and left straight away - they had not set up any rules of engagement, and this one-off rutting did not require any post-coital canoodling. Yet Jensen craved just that. He fed Paul the slices of melon, the fragments of fruit eagerly sucked from his sticky fingers. The older man lent up, running another line of nectar-filled kisses along Jensen’s collarbone. ‘Our own private bacchanalia; complete with arse-worship and ice-sculpture sacrifice. We should do this again, sometime.’
He snatched the last piece of melon in Jensen’s hand between his teeth, before leaning up to feed it back to him, ending it in a fruity kiss. Jensen smiled.
‘How about right now?’
Glossary of Aussieisms by by_starkiller and vayshti.
Chuck: throw, toss.
Tinnie: can of beer.
Cheap-arse: penny-pinching. Often used to describe ½ price cinema days (“Cheap-arse Tuesdays”).
Arse: butt, bum. “Ass” is just for donkeys, yanno.
Horses-doovers: slang for hors d'oeurves.
Coon cheddar: a brand of Australian cheese. Comes in mild, tasty and light.
Cabana: a sausage in the pepperoni family, often used in pizza toppings. Not to be confused with cabaña (or cabana boys \o/). Both foodstuffs together on a toothpick is a staple of bad party food.
Cooee: a loud greeting usually shouted; made to announce one's presence. IE, "Cooee, here I am."
Author: vayshti.
Beta:by_starkiller
Pairing: Paul McDermott / Jensen Ackles
Warning: Crack and Purple Prose. Contains RPS, rimming, oral, mutual masturbation, irreverence, and hairy butt-cheeks. Ice play.
Rating: NC-17.
Summary: It’s hot in the Good News Week Green Room.
Word Count: 3329
Disclaimer: This is in fun, a completely fictitious scenario, and in no way reflects on the real people’s identities who I have borrowed without asking. Definitely no monies being made here.
Author’s note: written after seeing the juicy videos from Jensen’s recent Australian promo-tour (google for sheer brilliance), and musing with by_starkiller over our mutual timeshare TV boyfriends. Of course, they’d choose each other, wouldn’t they???
Cross-posted to jensenfic and supernaturalfic.
I worship at the shrine of Paul McDermott’s ass
Paul had gone out for the obligatory schmoozing right after Good News Week filming had stopped, allotting himself fifteen minutes. He’d learnt back in the dim, dark, days of DAAS, that fans would not let you go home, but, if you had to duck back inside the building for some reason, they’d be happy enough with that minor brush with celebrity-dom and would fuck off.
He didn’t really have to go back inside the building. His PA had already dealt with everything that needed dealing with, but there was always free booze in the Green Room, ostensibly for the other show guests, but ultimately just there for the regulars of Good News Week to chuck back post filming. And he definitely needed a drink tonight. It was stinking hot outside, it had been stinking hot on set, and he was definitely antsy. He would have tried to do something about that, but it was too hot to do anything but wallow. Or drink. So drinking it would have to be to take some of that twitch out of his system.
He chuckled to himself; anyone seeing him now, on his single-minded pursuit of alcohol, with that twitch, would think a very horny teenage boy currently inhabited his body. And that was a mental image that really didn’t help things.
Mikey had tossed him a tinnie before the door to the Green Room was even half open, but it was expected - part of the easy routine they had fallen into: Mikey would wait with Paul’s beer in hand, nursing it as if it were his own before Paul’s arrival. He said that nursing it was almost as good as drinking it, and if it helped him keep off the weight he’d shed, then who would argue with his logic? So Paul already had his hand out to catch the flying beverage, and had cracked it even as he took a flying leap into his usual spot on the couch.
Except that the couch was already occupied. He could see it was occupied even as he was air-borne, but by then it was too late to stop himself from crashing into his previously unseen guest. Beer and expletives flew, including a particularly loud, ‘FUCK ME!’
He was assailed by the soft drawl of his guest’s voice. ‘Yanno, I’d heard that Australians weren’t backwards about coming forwards, but I can’t say I was expecting to be liberally doused in alcohol and have someone in my lap asking me to shag them within thirty seconds of them entering the room.’
Paul stood up quickly, reaching over to the low table hidden by cheap-arse horses-doovers and a now melty swan ice-sculpture with tropical fruit as a centrepiece. He grabbed a bunch of paper napkins to mop up the beer he had spilt on himself, and in the lap of the interloper on his chair. This was so not what the host of a nationally syndicated show should have done. He muttered ‘I’m so sorry, so sorry’ over and over as he mopped at the sodden pair of jeans that were displayed in front of him.
Mikey laughed from the corner. ‘Er, Paul. You got beer on you.’
He turned to Mikey, ‘No shit, Sherlock. By the way, couldn’t you have warned me before I was airborne?’
Mikey shot him a look of mock innocence, ‘What? And miss all this fun? Not bloody likely!’
And finally, because there was nowhere else to look, nothing else that could divert Paul’s attention, he had to make eye-contact with his guest: Jensen Ackles...
… who was grinning at him, obviously amused by Paul’s jittery embarrassment and not at all concerned by his beer-sodden crotch. ‘I gather that you normally have this room to yourself after the show?’
Paul paused, caught up again with listening to the music made by the way Jensen held his “r”s in his throat, which then made him think about Jensen’s throat, which then meant he had to wrench himself back to reality to answer. ‘Yeah. The people that Ten get in for cross-promotion shtick - they’re in and out pretty quick. Always got bigger and better parties to go to.’
He grabbed himself a replacement beer, taking a quick, fizzy swallow, savouring the icy cold liquid as it slid down his throat. The air-conditioner in the Green Room was working, but it was so hot that it felt like it barely made a difference. He pressed the cold, condensation-coated tin to his face, before continuing, ‘So the obvious question is - why are you not at your bigger and better parties?’
Jensen shrugged, and looked uncomfortable. ‘That’s really not my thing.’
The boy looked far too easy to tease, ‘No? Then why did you get into acting if you weren’t after the screaming fan-girls…and boys?’
Jensen chose to ignore the naughty twinkle in Paul’s eye. He knew exactly what Paul was doing, but chose to give him a straight answer. ‘Family Business.’
He winced as he replayed his own words in his head, but it appeared that Paul had missed the dire pun he’d just made. Either Paul didn’t watch Supernatural, or he was savvy enough to realise he shouldn’t draw attention to it. Either way was fine with him. ‘Back to your party question - I’m actually not great with people. Fine with people I’ve had a chance to talk to already, like you two,’ he nodded at both Paul and Mikey, who saluted him with his Diet Coke, ‘but a new party, a room full of strangers, would not be my idea of fun. Too much hard work; especially in this heat.’
Mikey decided that the serious Jensen was also ripe for teasing, ‘You sound like an old man, Jensen. Come on, you’re young enough to be Paul’s kid.’
‘Hey!’ Paul picked up a toothpick with a cube of Coon cheddar and a piece of cabana on it and threw it at Mikey, ‘I am not!’
Jensen smirked. ‘Actually you are. Well, at least physically. Mentally? Let me get back to you on that.’
Paul folded his arms. ‘I am not old enough to be your Dad.’
Jensen raised his hands in mock surrender. ‘Hey, you were fifteen when I was born. That makes you old enough. You’re not the only one who knows how to surf the Internet, you know.’
The expression on Paul’s face changed immediately from the one that expressed horror over his age, to one that was piqued with interest over the notion that Jensen had been researching him. Rather than dwell on the warm fuzzy feeling that thought raised, he changed the direction of the conversation. ‘I bet you didn’t find any sites with the title “I worship at the shrine of Paul McDermott’s arse” though.’
Jensen shook his head, ‘No. Is there really a site devoted to my ass?’
Although he had directed the question at Paul, deliberately probing for a reaction, it was Mikey that answered. The answer, however, still gave him the information he needed. ‘Yes, there is. The RA may have found it, but Paul couldn’t help but show the site to everyone who came within cooee of his desk.’
The information itself could be interpreted through many lenses, none of which were conclusive as to the right interpretation. However, when coupled with the hard look that Paul was giving him, the way he flicked his tongue around the indentation on the can to lick up the rogue drops of beer, Jensen knew everything he needed to know. He met Paul’s gaze, and held it. And held it.
‘Right,’ Mikey slammed his empty Diet Coke-bottle down on the table, ‘I would say that was my cue to depart.’ He nodded his head at Jensen before winking at his friend, ‘Just remember that it is hot tonight, and you need to watch your fluid intake.’
Paul watched his colleague depart with an expression of bewilderment, but the look, Jensen was amused to note, was the bewilderment of “How did he know what was going through my head,” rather than the bewilderment of “Why the fuck did Mikey just leave?”
Jensen carefully put his drink to one side - he did not need any more alcohol in his lap - before grabbing Paul’s jaw in his hand, turning his face to meet his, ‘It has been pretty obvious, Paul.’
‘Obvious?’ Paul spluttered.
Jensen laughed, but did not break contact, stroking the stubble-lined jaw of the face that was now only inches away from his own. ‘Yes, obvious. You were making grabby-hands motions behind my butt during filming for god’s sake. Mikey could see that, and knew what it meant, just as well as I could.’
Paul broke Jensen’s contact with his skin, preferring the safety of contact with his beverage. ‘Oh.’
He let the silence sit between them while he worked up the courage to speak once more, Jensen equally happy to let the silence continue so he could run his eyes over the man squirming in front of him without interruption. When Paul spoke again, Jensen was delighted by the sound of insecure hope in his voice, ‘So… you staying back here was not just to avoid going to the bigger and better parties?’
In reply, Jensen reached for Paul’s jaw again, tilting his face upwards so he could gently brush his lips against the pair that faintly trembled. ‘My hotel has a pool. It’s hot. You do the math.’
As if that phrase was the sexual equivalent of a starter’s gun, the phrase for them to begin their frantic dash to the finish line - all limbs pumping, heavy breathing, sweat - the two of them locked lips. Teeth clicked against teeth, tongues fought duels to invade and explore mouths, arms wrapped around waists, hands threaded through soft hair. They frenetically pawed flesh, needing to touch every inch of skin both visible and hidden.
Hot, clammy skin stuck and peeled apart painfully, or slid out of reach, sweat destroying firm grips, deep exploration of the other body’s juts and hollows impossible in the sauna conditions of a tight embrace. It was Jensen who broke for cool air first, a single query panted into the gap between their bodies, ‘Door?’
Seconds passed as Paul’s brain slowly reconciled the word that rolled off Jensen’s tongue with anything that made sense, but when the synapses finally did their job, he dashed across the room, slammed the door closed, a simple flick of his wrist shooting the bolt home. Jensen was already taking his shirt off, a grin on his face and fire in his eyes as Paul returned to him, his shirt and dishevelled tie also discarded before they resumed their race, their competition of who could lose themselves more completely, who could sate their desire the more fully.
Paul bit Jensen’s lower lip, gently pulling so that Jensen’s lip popped out swollen, pouting. As Jensen dove forward for another kiss, Paul avoided it, beginning a trail of kisses that snaked its way down Jensen’s torso, pausing at both taut nipples, his tongue flicking around each raised bud as well as around the hollow of Jensen’s navel. A line of saliva traced the form of Jensen’s ribs and abdomen before Paul paused at the barriers of beer-sodden denim and elasticised cotton. He did not bother with being gentle; a firm grip on either sides of Jensen’s hips, and he’d yanked the offending garments down, exposing Jensen’s cock to the world, or at least, to his world. Jensen gasped, the sudden removal of clothes allowing his cock to bob in the thick air of the Green Room only twice before Paul had fastened his hand around its shaft and tugged on it experimentally. It sat heavy in his hand, its violent twitches in time with Jensen’s heartbeat setting up an echo of twitches in Paul’s own tightly wound groin. He chuckled; Auden’s “Tower of Power” had nothing on Jensen’s proud manhood.
Jensen stilled in his grasp. ‘Are you laughing at my junk?’
Paul shook his head, his hair brushing softly against Jensen’s stomach, making him shudder. ‘This isn’t junk. This is a salute to American glory.’
Jensen thought about trying to explain the finer points of American slang, but decided to just ride the compliment. Paul ran his tongue around Jensen’s head, pleased when Jensen involuntarily whimpered. He spoke lines of mindless devotion between each wet corkscrew-flick of his tongue; ‘Glorious column,’ ‘Divine manhood to do Michelangelo proud,’ ‘All-American beef,’ ‘Quarter-pounder’ - Jensen carried away in both merriment at the stupid words that fell from Paul’s tongue as much as he was by the pleasure it caused. ‘Just as long as there isn’t any all-American cheese.’
Paul stopped, pulled away, before snapping off a wing from the melting ice swan. Bunched in his fist, he let drips of icy water fall on Jensen’s cock, revelling in Jensen’s sharp intake of breath as he slapped the ice onto Jensen’s bare torso. He dragged it over Jensen’s nipples, running his tongue over Jensen’s abdomen to collect the quickly heated sheets of sweat-salted water that ran to his waiting mouth. His second hand was still busy fisting Jensen’s cock in a rhythm set up by the gentle roll of Jensen’s hips.
Jensen was lost in the contrast between the icy block on his chest, and the warm, wet heat of Paul’s tongue and fist, but not so lost that he could not regain control. He placed a hand under Paul’s chin, before gently withdrawing his throbbing cock from Paul’s clutching hands. ‘Your turn.’
Paul nodded, docile, as Jensen undid his own trousers, slowly reaching past the hot thatch of dark, coarse hair to his neglected cock. Jensen was moving far too slow, and Paul tried in vain to speed things up, but his efforts were stilled by Jensen’s strong grip on his wrist. Jensen flipped him around, pushing him over the low table. Luckily, Paul was over the part of the table where there were only platters of cheese and cold meats, and not the dangerous forest of toothpick spikes. Jensen still had one of his arms forced behind his back, but with his free hand he selected a piece of melon, delicately sliding it in to Paul’s mouth before withdrawing it slightly once again, enjoying the faux fellatio as much as if it were his own cock sliding between those moist lips.
But Paul’s lips were not the part of his body that he meant to give service to. He knelt behind Paul, spreading his fuzzed buttocks with splayed hands, shuddering at the mental image of him gripping that hair tightly with his hands, controlling every movement of Paul’s body while they were locked together up to the pubis.
He paused, running his eyes over the veritable treasure that was displayed in front of him. Unlike Paul’s buttocks, the hidden join, the pink pucker that twitched under Jensen’s breath, and Paul’s balls, was clear of hair. It was a veritable shrine to the act of rimming. He dove downwards, running his tongue along the sweaty groove. He surfaced from between Paul’s cheeks, unable to let his query go. ‘No hair…’
‘Nair,’ came back the single word reply, before Paul’s vocal cords were caught again on the mindless act of groaning out his pleasure, Jensen diving back in and running his tongue around Paul’s entrance, pushing it into that pucker, noting how Paul’s body pulsed in response, wanting more of it. It would take his tongue in if he let it. He went lower and sucked one of Paul’s balls, both of which sat tight against his body, despite the sweltering heat He laughed, his voice muffled by his mouthful, but the sound was still clear enough for Paul to decipher what he said; ‘I worship at the shrine of Paul McDermott’s ass.’
Paul wiggled his arse, ‘Hey, that’s not my arse you’re currently worshiping.’ He felt his testicle pop from between Jensen’s pout, before Jensen murmured against his skin, his hot breath caressing his arsehole. ‘I’ll have to rectify that.’
‘Damned straight.’
Paul heard the sharp chink of ice being broken, before he felt the tip of the ice swan’s beak nudging his entrance.
‘Hey, Mikey said I needed to watch my fluid intake, but I’m not sure this is what he had in mind.’
‘Well, I could use my fingers instead.’
He could, but Paul could hear the disappointment in the man’s voice already. Besides, did Paul really want something so warm inside him during this insufferable heat? He shook his head, ‘It is right and proper to give sacrifice during worship - it is fitting that the ice-sculpture had to die.’
Jensen chuckled, nudging the frozen beak into Paul’s convulsing orifice, sliding it back and forth, fascinated by the run-off that this simple introduction of body heat and friction created. ‘Take this, the body of the ice-bird, so that thou may take flight.’
Paul reached through gap formed by his own spread legs, taking Jensen’s cock in his hand, jerking it in time to the beat Jensen set with the unconventional dildo. Jensen inched forward so that he brushed up against the fine hairs on Paul’s right thigh whilst he reached around, taking Paul’s cock in his own free hand. Jensen ached for more contact, and would have replaced the shaft of ice with his own shaft of gristle if he thought he could have borne the proximal heat.
As Paul’s body relaxed, Jensen pushed more of the ice inside, slowly introducing the icy head, then twisting the hooked neck to ensure that he hit that sweet spot. Each touch, each prod caused Paul to buck, which in turn caused Paul to pull harder on Jensen’s throbbing member. Both their speed and the pressure of their grips increased, the finish line in sight, but it was not clear who would stumble, tip over that magic line first.
Jensen felt his breath hitch, his vision grow white around the edges, knew he was not getting enough oxygen, and wondered if this was his moment to die, even as he knew that this was just another “Little death.”
Paul heard Jensen take a huge gasp, before there was no breathing at all, the body behind him rigid and still before he exhaled in a long moan, spilling his seed over Paul’s still pumping fist. It ran over his knuckles and collected on his thighs and the much-abused carpet of the studio’s Green Room.
Paul felt his own buttocks clench around the icy invader, as the sound of Jensen’s release, knowing that it was he who had caused it, was enough for Paul to lurch towards the finish line himself. He crossed mere seconds afterwards, before they both collapsed in a sweaty heap on the floor. Their limbs would no longer support them; the levels of pain and muscle fatigue they had ignored in their pursuit of pleasure coming upon them twice as hard now that their climax had been achieved. And it was still too hot for Paul despite the icy dildo having melted to almost nothing.
Jensen fumbled with the contents of the low table, scooping up fragments of cool melon, grapes and strawberries, grateful for the opportunity to break contact with Paul’s over-hot flesh without withdrawing completely. He knew he could have stood up and left straight away - they had not set up any rules of engagement, and this one-off rutting did not require any post-coital canoodling. Yet Jensen craved just that. He fed Paul the slices of melon, the fragments of fruit eagerly sucked from his sticky fingers. The older man lent up, running another line of nectar-filled kisses along Jensen’s collarbone. ‘Our own private bacchanalia; complete with arse-worship and ice-sculpture sacrifice. We should do this again, sometime.’
He snatched the last piece of melon in Jensen’s hand between his teeth, before leaning up to feed it back to him, ending it in a fruity kiss. Jensen smiled.
‘How about right now?’
Glossary of Aussieisms by by_starkiller and vayshti.
Chuck: throw, toss.
Tinnie: can of beer.
Cheap-arse: penny-pinching. Often used to describe ½ price cinema days (“Cheap-arse Tuesdays”).
Arse: butt, bum. “Ass” is just for donkeys, yanno.
Horses-doovers: slang for hors d'oeurves.
Coon cheddar: a brand of Australian cheese. Comes in mild, tasty and light.
Cabana: a sausage in the pepperoni family, often used in pizza toppings. Not to be confused with cabaña (or cabana boys \o/). Both foodstuffs together on a toothpick is a staple of bad party food.
Cooee: a loud greeting usually shouted; made to announce one's presence. IE, "Cooee, here I am."