FIC: If At First You Don't Succeed, Suck Seed
Title: If At First You Don't Succeed, Suck Seed
Author: balefully
Pairing: Jared/Jensen (Jensen/OCs)
Rating: NC-17
Words: 19,060
Summary: AU. Jared gets dragged to the Moonlite BunnyRanch, where he meets Jensen. After an initial misunderstanding, things won't ever be the same for either of them.
Disclaimer: This is merely a product of my fevered imagination.
Notes: For the lovely fryadvocate, in accordance with her spn_holidays prompt "hookerfic for either J2 or SPN". It's pretty hilarious that we got each other and each chose to write for the other's hookerfic prompt. Hee! As for the premise of this fic, Cathouse is a real HBO documentary series about the girls and business workings of the Moonlite BunnyRanch, which is a real brothel actually located near Carson City. Isabella, Brooke, Suzette, Air Force Amy, and Dennis are all real people. Sadly, there aren't really any male bunnies working at the actual BunnyRanch. It's still a fantastic series, and if you haven't seen it, you should, though it definitely isn't necessary in order to understand the fic.
Infinite thanks to stellabelle for being my cheerleader from the beginning, all the people I talked to about it along the way, and my lazy_daze for being a sounding board (as always) and lightning-fast beta. <3!
Part 1 | Part 2
If At First You Don't Succeed, Suck Seed
"Where the hell are you even taking me?" Jared says, pulling his hat down lower against his forehead. They're driving deeper into the desert with every mile, and he could swear they passed the ass-crack of nowhere about half an hour ago. Carson City, Nevada is not exactly a sparkling oasis.
"It's a surprise, man," Chad says with a cocked eyebrow. Jared learned long ago never to trust that look, but there isn't much he can do about it unless he wants to hitchhike his way back to LA.
"You've been fucked up for like, months now. I know she was your girl, but Jesus, Jared. There's a limit, y'dig?"
"Yeah, sure, I dig," Jared huffs, sliding down as far as he can in the bucket seat of Chad's F150. "I feel like I'm in a gangster movie and you're gonna make me kneel in the dust with a hood over my head when you shoot me in the back."
Chad laughs, obnoxious and genuine. "Fuck, no. You're gonna like this a shitload more than a hole in the head, lemme tell you."
Jared isn't exactly convinced. He grins, though, and turns up the music. Chad is listening to Chamillionaire, and brooked no argument when Jared tried to switch to something that didn't scream lame-ass poser louder than Chad's truck screamed honkytonk. It's a lose-lose situation; Jared gave up fighting it years back.
By the time gravel finally starts crunching under the tires, Jared has almost fallen asleep. He wakes up to a stark sign-black block letters on white, almost like it's homemade-visible before they even pull into the parking lot. "No. No way-you're shitting me." He gapes, speechless.
"The Moonlite BunnyRanch, motherfucker," Chad says. "Such stuff as dreams are made on. Dreams, and the best fuckin' reality show on TV. More T and A than you can shake a dick at, but like-it's on HBO, so you know it's gotta be classy."
Jared groans and smacks his head against the window. Repeatedly.
"And don't think you're getting out of it," Chad says, punching Jared on the arm. "You're getting laid, is what you're getting. And you're gonna fucking like it."
Jared doesn't even know where to start. "Dude," he stalls, "I don't-I don't even have any money on me. We gotta go back and-"
"Got you covered," Chad says with a wicked smile, pulling a wad of hundreds out of his pocket. "You're doing this; quit looking for a way to pussy out."
Jared pointedly doesn't make any pussy jokes. The fact that Chad doesn't either is a minor miracle. "I'll-" There seriously isn't a single excuse left in the entire universe that would work in this particular situation. "I'll go inside with you," he says, and Chad pumps his fist in victory, "but that is it. I am not-I repeat: not-having sex with a prostitute, you douche. I'm not even having a conversation with one. And that is final."
Chad's patronizing nod really doesn't help matters. "Sure, J-Dog. You're pure as the driven snow, nothing will mend the black hole of your broken heart, I get it."
Jared rolls his eyes and gets out of the truck. The sooner he's in there, the sooner he can fucking leave, and the less likely he'll be to contract an impressive cocktail of mutant airborne STDs from a harem of professional skanks.
They are ugly. They are all ugly. Maybe not hideous, but certainly not what Jared would call conventionally attractive. There's one girl, cute and curvy with brown hair and sweet smile, who looks like maybe she could pass for normal on a good day. All the other ones just look-well, like whores, really. He frowns and busies himself pretending Chad isn't salivating and probably popping a boner just looking at them.
"Um," he says, trying not to seem too optically violated. There isn't really anywhere else to look, though. It's like a car wreck. A car wreck with lots and lots of tits. A car wreck where a van full of porn stars careened into a van full of hair extensions, Halloween costumes, and silicon implants.
Chad starts pawing at the young, smiley brunette immediately after they all finish introducing themselves. Jared hadn't really been paying attention to their names, which is probably considered really rude, and he isn't sure what to do about it now without asking them all to repeat themselves. Which would be even ruder.
"So, Isabella, what say you and me, you know, make-" Chad whispers, and Jared tunes out, deciding now definitely isn't the time to eavesdrop. He casts a furtive look over at the bar, and the madam appears by his side to escort him there with a broad, fake smile.
"Some fellas like to knock a few back first," she says, winking. "Loosens 'em up. You can chat to the girls, too-get to know 'em before you decide if you want to really party." She beckons a few of the girls over, and sits herself down on a stool to talk to a huge bald guy. He's older, and loud, and has no less than four pliant girls draped all over him.
"That's Dennis," says a tall blonde, fake tits bursting impressively from a translucent purple mini-dress. She leans close to Jared's ear, brushing her lips against it as she whispers, "He's our daddy," and giggles. "If you know what I mean." She licks the shell of his ear. Licks it. Jared swallows audibly. The girl's tits rub insistently against his arm and her perfume is seriously about to suffocate him.
"Ah." He blinks desperately at the bartender, who slides him something red and syrupy over ice. He drinks it, trying not to retch. Everything's just-so surreal. Pink and plastic and completely, completely insane. Like it's all some big joke and everyone's in on it except him, and Chad is going to jump out and scream "Gotcha, sucker!" at any second.
He doesn't, though.
Jared manages to hold off the inevitable for over an hour. He chats with a few of the other guys in the lounge area: two incredibly drunk members of a bachelor party crowd, a divorcé, and a nerdy-looking dude who says his girlfriend sent him to the BunnyRanch to learn what to do with a G-spot. Smiling and nodding seems to be the order of the evening-that, and trying not to blush fuchsia as girls get naked and make out and smack each other's bare asses and make general spectacles of themselves all over the bar.
Jared's pretty sure he's seen more boobs in the past hour than he's ever seen together in one place before, except maybe that time in the men's room at Paris Hilton's birthday party. He's on his fifth syrupy red thing when Dennis himself comes and sits next to Jared, jowly but smiling. "You enjoying yourself?" he asks, glancing around. Jared figures Dennis probably notices the lack of working girls in the general vicinity and is attempting to rectify the situation.
"Oh, you know," Jared begins. "This is. I mean, I'm not really-"
"Nervous type, huh?" Dennis says.
"Not really nervous, no. I'm just not-" Jared makes a vague, sweeping hand gesture and tries to telepathically beam his amorphous issues into Dennis's brain.
Dennis raises an eyebrow. "I think I know what you need," he says, voice lowered. He's still louder than all the patrons of his establishment combined. "Just to take a quick break, huh?" He slips Jared a small brass key with a wink, and leaves through a door to the back before Jared can think of anything to say at all.
Jared slides off his stool on slightly shaky legs, definitely a little more buzzed than he'd expected. He follows Dennis-thinks he ought to at least figure out what the key is to, exactly. There's a hall of numbered doors on the other side of the bar itself, but no Dennis in sight.
Jared shrugs and leans haphazardly against the wall, checking for a number on the key: 12. He ambles his way down the hall, ignoring all the suspicious sounds issuing from the other doors. Number twelve is blissfully quiet, and he unlocks it and enters with a relieved sigh.
The room is nice but nondescript, decorated in muted colors and rich wood furnishings. There's a huge California king, an overstuffed armchair, and an odd-shaped bench next to the dresser. One entire wall is mirrored floor-to-ceiling, and Jared laughs quietly to himself as he eyes the bed. He really doesn't trust it, but it smells of expensive laundry detergent and the sheets and comforter look fresh, so he throws caution to the wind and flops down on it.
It's officially the most comfortable thing Jared has ever felt, and clearly Dennis should be canonized as soon as humanly possible. Jared rolls onto his back, lets his eyes drift closed and his mind go blank.
It doesn't last for long, though. Someone clears their throat from next to the bed, and Jared jerks up with a startled huff. "Hey, man," because it is a man, not another scantily clad woman, "I'm really sorry, I didn't know there was someone in here. I just. I got this key from the Dennis guy, and he said-"
The guy laughs, toweling his wet hair. Jared blinks owlishly, because shit, this guy. This guy is probably the single best-looking man Jared has ever seen. Ever. So stupidly handsome he's actually beautiful, there's no other word for it. And he's only wearing a robe, and he smiles with these crinkles by his ridiculously green eyes, and god. God, this guy's lips. No one real has lips like that. No one.
Jared has obviously had one too many of the slippery nipples or screaming orgasms or whatever-the-fuck the bartender had been pouring down him all evening. He seems to have turned into one of those six-beer queer types. Except with a much higher blood alcohol content.
"That you looked like you needed a break?" the guy says, throwing his towel back into the bathroom, leaving it where it lands on the floor in a damp pile.
Jared can't even remember what he'd been saying. "Exactly," he manages eventually. He scoots back on the bed, leaning against the headboard. "So." He laughs awkwardly. "I'm Jared, by the way. I guess I should probably leave now-looks like Dennis didn't know the room was occupied already."
"Hi Jared," the guy says, still looking amused. "I'm Jensen. And you don't have to leave. I'm finished, and not expecting anyone else."
"Oh," Jared says, confused. "Did you just-I mean. Wow. You don't, uh. Don't seem the type."
Jensen raises his eyebrows, pursing his ridiculous lips. "Seem the type?"
"I mean. A guy who looks like you. I can't imagine you'd ever have to pay for sex. Ever. Even if you were into some sick, kinky shit, I mean, there would be people-" Jared claps a hand over his mouth. "God, I'm sorry, I'll shut up. That was way out of line. It's just, I've had kind of more to drink than I-" he's blushing, he's sure of it, and he just wants to sink right into the mattress and die. Why can't he ever keep his fucking mouth shut?
Except instead of being angry, Jensen starts laughing. Like, really laughing, deep and warm. "Jared," he says once he catches his breath, "you have got to be fucking kidding me." He sits on the end of the bed, legs crossed under his robe, face open and relaxed.
Jared doesn't actually know what he's supposed to be kidding about, and he feels lame enough already anyway, so he just shrugs and becomes suddenly fascinated by the menu-of services-perched on the bedside table.
"So things got a little crazy out there for you, huh?" Jensen says after a moment. He's still just sitting there, not making a move to get dressed or collect his things and leave. Jared wonders for a second if maybe brothels are like motels, and you can pay for a room for the whole night, even if it's for a-solitary occupant. Rather than a-couple.
"Just a little. I've never. I've never done this sort of thing before, got dragged here by a friend because my girlfriend-okay, well. You probably really don't care, so I'll just shut up now. Not like I'm paying for your time."
Jensen smiles enigmatically. "Yes you are."
"He did say-wait, what?"
"You are. Paying for my time. Or, if you aren't, someone damn well is. I don't entertain for free, even if I'm just sitting around in my robe listening to you talk about your girlfriend."
Jared stares at Jensen for at least half a minute, completely silent except for the grinding of the gears in his head, trying to process. "Oh. Oh, you're. Oh. Then why-what's-" He trails off, at a loss.
Jensen gets up and makes his way over to a mini-fridge in the corner that Jared hadn't noticed, and pours two glasses of white wine. "I just finished up a party," Jensen says. "Got the fresh sheets and stuff on the bed, had a shower. I was going to go out and join the festivities in the lounge, but you know. No need to advertise the wares when I've got someone like you waiting in my boudoir," he twirls his fingers, playing up his sarcastic tone, "already, right?"
Jared swallows audibly and feels his face burning. And he thought he'd been blushing before. Jensen is staring holes through him, that irritatingly perfect smile just-taunting him. "Why, uh. Why would Dennis send me back here? I mean. Chad brought me to get a girl, and he said he was paying, but he ran off with the brunette and I don't really think I want, uh. I didn't know there even were male-um. Bunnies. Why did I get your key?"
Jensen raises one perfectly-plucked eyebrow. "I'm guessing you would know better than I would," he says dryly.
"I'm not. I've never-" Jared splutters. He makes to get off the bed, but Jensen's hand closes around his arm, pulling him back with more force than Jared would've expected.
"You clearly are," he says with a smirk. "Look at you, Jared. Can hardly string a sentence together when you're looking at me. You want it, man, and you want it bad." Jensen licks his lips, leans forward onto his knees, hands rubbing a scorching path up Jared's thighs through his jeans. "I'm a professional, I can tell these things."
No, no. Jared isn't-he isn't, and he doesn't, and Jensen hasn't got the first goddamn clue about Jared or Jared's life. Doesn't know what he's had to go through with Sandy, the way things fell apart, how fucking fucked up he was. Is.
Confusion and fear war for dominance, welling up in him, turning into bubbling rage. He can't stop it. Jensen just watches him darkly, all smolder, like all he needs is a little time to con Jared out of his cash and into his bed.
"Fuck you!" Jared shouts, the words bursting from him like he doesn't have a choice. He pulls his arm out of Jensen's grasp, shoving off of the bed. "You can't fucking tell me what I want. You don't-you don't know anything about me. You're just a god-goddamn whore, for Christ's sake, and you've only known my name for like, what. Five minutes? Fuck you, man. I'm out of here. And I'll make sure Chad reimburses you for your fucking precious time." With that, he storms out, dropping the key unceremoniously on the carpet. He feels hot, and shaky, and so, so fucking confused.
Chad, of course, has not returned to the bar in the brief time Jared's been away. Which means Jared has no way of getting back into the truck, which means he has to hang around the bar looking sheepish, trying not to meet anyone's eyes while he calms down. It's okay at first; they've all pretty much figured out he's a lost cause, and he keeps up a steady stream of drink orders, so it's not like they aren't milking him for cash one way or another.
Not too long after he takes up residence on one of the velvet lounge couches, head in his hands, thoughts spinning, the madam-Suzette? Jared is pretty sure her name's Suzette-rings a bell, a customer coming through the gates just after. The girls all take up their positions in line, posing and primping as the man enters. He wears a huge Stetson, a pair of snakeskin cowboy boots, a belt with a silver buckle as big as Jared's fist, and an honest-to-god bolo tie complete with tacky turquoise slide.
Jared has to try really hard not to laugh, because that would probably not be good for business, and would probably get him kicked out. And Jared's not exactly keen on standing around outside, by himself, in the middle of the night, in front of a sexual entertainment establishment.
The man completely ignores the line-up, however, and Suzette cheerily tries to discern what he thinks he's there for, if not to pick out a girl. But Jensen comes through from the back at just that moment, and the question is pretty much answered without any further words exchanged.
Jensen's not wearing a shirt, and he's liberally oiled up so he gleams, skin glowing and perfect, burnished under the low lights, tantalizing freckles sprinkled everywhere. His jeans are practically painted on, ripped so much they're more holes than jeans, soft pale gold crease of flesh from thighs to ass-cheeks on blatant display. The button-fly is partially undone, folded down so the hard lines of his hips are completely visible, leading to dark curling hair tucked under the obscenely low waistband.
Jared's mouth drops open, throat suddenly beyond dry, and he tries not to make any embarrassing noises or spill his drink all over himself or spontaneously orgasm in his pants.
Stetson Man blows past the lined-up hookers and grabs Jensen's hand without hesitation, pulling him over to the bar, whispering in his ear the whole way. Jensen presses up against him and gives him a long, burning look. He tosses back the whiskey Stetson Man slides him in one smooth gulp, throat working.
Jared coughs and takes a sip of his own drink, trying to ignore the way the guy slides the tips of his fingers under the frayed edges of Jensen's jeans, cupping his ass, pressing finger-shaped red crescents into his smooth skin only feet away from where Jared sits. It isn't working very well.
Okay. Okay, so maybe Jensen was-not right, per se. But maybe-not wrong. Not entirely. Maybe.
*
Jensen really doesn't mind the assholes. It's no skin off his nose if they're self-loathing gays, bullying straights, or anything in between. Jensen always gets his money, security guards are on constant stand-by, and it's not like some random loser calling him a whore is going to ruin his day.
After all, he is a whore. A slut, a tramp, a rent-boy, a male prostitute. He has sex with people-both men and women-for a living, and he likes it. And really? That's all that matters. It's not like he can't do anything else; he'd been an actor once, actually, and it really wasn't a hell of a lot different from being a "working girl," as his fellow bunnies call themselves. He'd also been a catalogue model, a ranch hand, and a retail drone, all of which were the most miserable occupations anyone could ever have. So in the end, as far as Jensen is concerned, having orgasms for money instead is definitely the best option.
Usually, though. Usually the assholes are not fucking hot. He can count on two hands the number of times someone genuinely gorgeous has wanted to party with him, and even then, those kinky fucks can't hold a candle to this Jared kid.
Thurston Belvedere Horblitt III, Jensen's current client, is not one of those precious few. Unfortunately. He is, however, pretty much palming Jensen's balls through the assless seat of his jeans, and Jensen makes convincing noises-mostly soft, muffled groans-while his mind wanders. He had been an actor, after all. And a fucking awesome one, at that.
Thurston, besides being fond of semi-public groping, also like Jensen to tell him "stories". Which basically means he likes to jerk off while Jensen recounts explicit past encounters for him. Except he always wants to hear about boyfriends Jensen has had, and Jensen, well. He doesn't do boyfriends. Or girlfriends, although the former would be more likely than the latter. He's never been in a relationship, never wants to be in a relationship, and loves sex way, way too much to fuck it up with feelings and shit. It sounds cliché, and he cringes whenever he thinks about it-hardened, sex-crazed whore stereotypes are no more true than any stereotypes, on the whole. It just so happens that he can't get it up for commitment, polyamory is too complicated, and being a bunny leaves little time for much else in the way of interpersonal relations.
There's no trauma in his past, he's perfectly happy, certainly makes a fair amount of money and has enough to support himself. He's got friends here, friends from back home, a nice family who think he's still in the acting business. His life has pretty much finally come together, and he's working it with no regrets.
*
Dennis comes back out into the lounge looking cheerful and sated, and Jared tries not to gag. "You done already?" he asks, settling on the couch next to Jared. His lap is immediately occupied by a little bottle-blonde, apparently called Brooke, if the moaning girl whose tits she'd been sucking earlier had it right.
"Um. Yeah, about that," Jared starts, nervously pushing at his cuticles and avoiding eye-contact. "It, uh. It wasn't really. I'm not-"
Dennis raises an eyebrow and looks like he's trying not to laugh. "Sorry, man," he says with a shrug. "I just thought you'd like something different. You were lookin' kind of tense, and Jensen. Jensen's the best we got for deep relaxation massages. Got fucking magic hands."
Jared's face went numb about three shots ago, but it suddenly feels hot, and his tongue is sticking to the roof of his mouth. "I might've. Um. Well, you know, he thought I wanted," Jared mutters, nervously tucking his hair behind his ear, "-but I didn't. And I might've yelled. A little. And I'm really, really sorry, I didn't mean to get all-you know. Like that. But he was just. And I didn't think."
Jared stops abruptly when Dennis smacks his shoulder, hand thick and heavy. "I get it, man. You don't have to explain to me. I've heard it all. You just think about it, you hear? And if you change your mind, get your shit straightened out, you know where we are. Jensen'll be waiting for you. Don't get many appointments with your type; I'm sure he'd be glad to see you. Sticks and stones may break his bones but words ain't ever hurt him." Dennis has a mercenary glint in his eye, but he also has a point.
Jared takes a shaky breath and nods, running a sweaty hand over his face. He at least has to see Jensen again to apologize. The guy was just doing his job, and Jared had been a complete douche, and it just-it's ripping him up. Sobriety is rushing back to him at an alarming pace, and suddenly he can't deny that manners are manners.
Chad chooses that moment to stumble back into the lounge with his shirt buttoned askew, three sheets to the wind and grinning like a maniac. Jared rolls his eyes and pushes off from the bar, prepared for damage control but glad for a distraction, grabbing Chad's arm to guide him to the door. Dennis watches him with a dark smile.
"Thank you for the lovely time, ladies," Chad says, somehow managing to sound genuinely grateful yet smarmy at the same time.
"Yeah," Jared says with an awkward smile at no one in particular. "Thanks." He feels himself flushing as he escorts Chad past the girls in varying states of undress in the lobby out into the parking lot. They're all staring at him. Probably judging him just because he didn't fuck anyone. Maybe they've already heard about what a fucking jerk he was, too.
"Isabella totally dug me, man," Chad slurs, still beaming once they make it past the gate. "Said. Said if they were allowed. She'd, she'd'a totally paid me. Showed her, fucking-fucking showed her a thing or two."
Jared throws one of Chad's arms over his shoulder and half-carries him to the truck. "Sure. Sure you did, you sly dog," Jared says, sighing. It really isn't worth the effort to make his support believable. Not like Chad will even remember in the morning.
Once Jared gets him loaded in the passenger seat, Chad slumps forward, forehead pressed to the dash. "Said I rocked her world." He muffles his laugh into the sleeve of his shirt and belches grotesquely. After a long moment, he mumbles, "It's okay you're queer."
"What?" Jared stills, seatbelt only part-way to the buckle.
Chad leans against the window, his eyes drifting shut. "You wear too much pink already anyway."
The click of Jared's seatbelt sounds like a gunshot in the silence of the truck cab. "Right," he whispers, turning the ignition and driving out of the parking lot, depressingly sober. His fingers shake on the wheel, and he's completely numb all over but for the remnants of heated handprints still pressing into his thighs.
*
"He cried, Jensen."
"Are you fucking with me?"
"No. No, I am totally not even shitting you. Check the security tapes. He cried. And it took him about an hour and half to get it up. And he fucking called me Sophia. After spending like, twenty really awkward drunken minutes telling me 'Isabella' is the prettiest name in the entire Western hemisphere. Or something. I don't even know, I stopped listening after he took off his shirt. He was fucking ripped. But he came on my knee," Isabella says, head pillowed on Jensen's chest, feet and calves hanging over the edge of his bed.
"Hot dudes are always the crazy ones," Jensen grumbles. "Why can't they just give us a good hard fuck and shut up with all their pussy whining?"
"Honey, if they could shut up with all their pussy whining, they wouldn't fucking need us. I'm just glad I had something pretty to look at while I was being whined at. Usually I don't get the privilege."
"I'm a lot less bitter about not getting off if they're hot. True." Jensen sits up, eyeing the clock. "Don't you have a party in like. Ten minutes?"
"It's a Girlfriend Experience this time. More realistic if I keep 'em waiting with Suzette for a while."
Jensen laughs, cynical. "At least I don't have to deal with that shit. I've had to play the boyfriend, like. I don't know. Five times? Ever? And one time I had to play the girlfriend, but the less said about that one, the better."
Isabella smirks knowingly. "So what were your parties today? Same-old?"
"I had an appointment with a couple in the afternoon. Funny-looking, old, but nice. I'd barely gotten them out of the room when-"
"Oh my god, it was that sex-ass kid, wasn't it? Seven feet tall and built like a fucking brick shithouse?" Isabella rolls over, propping her chin up in her hands. "That friend of Lame Chad."
"I like how we've christened him Lame Chad, now," Jensen says with a laugh. "But yeah, it was that guy." He scrubs a hand through his hair, settling back into the pillows. "He just. Appeared. Just lying on the bed like a Playguy centerfold when I got out of the shower. I thought I was hallucinating. Or suddenly had some fucking competition, you know? But Dennis just-smelled it on him or whatever it is Dennis does, and sent him back here to see me. The kid thinks he's fucking straight," Jensen says, all in a rush. He hadn't realized how badly he was dying to dish about Jared, but now that he's started, he can't seem to stop. "I was trying to sell him on a party, you know, coax him into spending something worthwhile. And he fucking shut me down! Got all pissy and yelled and ran off."
"Maybe he really is straight," Isabella says hopefully.
"No, no. Definitely hot for me. I mean, that doesn't make him gay or whatever. But there's a cockslut in there somewhere. I know it when I see it."
"You probably scarred him for life."
"Yeah, well. I got more than reimbursed for my time. He'll probably go home and fuck his girlfriend stupid, all confused about why he's so horny-everything will be fine, he'll convince himself he's straight and never darken my door again." Jensen grins and smacks idly at Isabella, but he isn't really feeling it.
*
Hiatuses are usually really busy for Jared, and this year is no different.
"I need to be at the studio by nine, if you can," he says, almost dropping the coffee pot while he tries to talk on the phone, feed his dogs, and get himself breakfast all at the same time. He's miraculously hangover-less, but he may very well pass out from sleep deprivation as a result of driving all night and into the morning to get back from Nevada in time for work.
"Sure thing, Mr. Padalecki," the driver says. The fact that MTV is sending someone to pick him up and not just leaving him to fend for himself is certainly nice enough, but Jared can't figure out why he has to be the one to clue the guy in to his schedule. Hosting Room 401 for Ashton Kutcher isn't exactly hitting the big-time, though, so he's not all that surprised, either.
"Honk or somethin' when you get here, and I'll be right out." He snaps the phone shut and flops onto a barstool at his kitchen counter, Sadie nosing around his feet. It's not that weird being without Sandy; when he was filming, he didn't really see her that much anyway. What's weird is being here without Sandy, in the kitchen in his LA house, making coffee and feeding the dogs and nuking some frozen French toast without her hands sneaking around his waist or her crazy bed hair tickling his arms.
The Kinkade hilarity is, thankfully, behind him, and Jared already dreads its premiere in a year's time; every lame chunky-knit hat is another reminder of the series of awkward phone conversations leading up to the messy breakup with the girl he thought he'd marry, and the inevitable downward spiral his life took afterwards.
The moment he and his co-stars got the call that Supernatural was renewed for a third season, Jared started looking for homes in Vancouver and a permanent way out of the hell LA has become, everywhere he goes seeing friends of Sandy's, places they'd been, things they'd done together. Things he doesn't think he can have anymore. It's hard, and it hurts, and he's not sure if he ever really fell out of love with her at all, or if she just convinced him he had. Maybe he'd only loved the idea of her, and that's what he misses now, her normal, sweet, grounding presence that isn't there to keep him from disappearing inside himself.
That's what she got tired of in the end, probably. How she constantly had to drag him back up to the surface, to keep him from brooding and dwelling on shit. Jared's a piece of work, really, no matter how happy-go-lucky he seems. It hadn't always been like that, of course. His reputation for being loud and cheerful and overly exuberant was honestly come-by. It's just that he's been feeling-stifled. Like he's not sure who he is anymore. He's been in a rut since he was twenty-one, doing everything because it's easy and expected and what he's supposed to do. It feels like he's lived this life forever, and it's better to keep on truckin' than to strike out, shake things up. Figure out what he really wants.
He's had the thought before, but when Jared stands in his kitchen with his forehead resting on the door of the refrigerator, Harley licking insistently behind his knee, the memory of perfect lips and freckled skin makes him seriously consider that maybe, just maybe, he already knows exactly what the problem is.
On his second day of shooting in front of a greenscreen with the bejesus ironed out of his hair, Jared sticks his hand in the pocket of his jeans and pulls out a business card, crumpled but readable, that he doesn't even remember keeping.
It's for the BunnyRanch.
*
"You got a call, Jen," Suzette says over the intercom linked into Jensen's room. "Wants to book for, uh," the tinny sound of papers rustling filters across the room, "Wednesday. Uh, Wednesday early evening."
Jensen puts down his razor, only too happy to be interrupted in the middle of a pube-grooming session to make some more money. "What're we talking, here?" he asks.
"Wants to make the appointment under 'Jared', didn't say what kind of party he was looking for, just that he wanted you. I figure you'll squeeze something good out of him when he gets here, right?"
"So to speak," Jensen says absently. Jared. He doesn't want to get his hopes up, sure that it won't turn out to be Closet-Case Jared from a few days ago, back to show Jensen how a real man fucks ass, but. There's always a but. As it were.
"Four o'clock, if you're up for it. Then again, you're always up for it, aren't you, sweetie?"
"That I am, Suzette. Book it." Jensen can't help whistling as he rinses the shaving gel off his balls.
Wednesday afternoon begins just like any other in Jensen's considerable time at the Ranch. He finishes his morning appointment with a shower and he's in the bar by three-thirty, fooling around with the girls and generally having a good day at work. Just after four, the bell rings, the girls line up, and near six and a half feet of scorching hotness walks through the door.
"Jared," Jensen says, bypassing the line-up. He can feel his heart pounding already, horny like he didn't just get off an hour ago. His memory clearly didn't do the guy justice. Or maybe a sober Jared is just that much better looking than a drunk, pissy Jared. Tall and ripped and tan, perfect moles and perfect hair and Jensen was obviously a philanthropist in a past life to deserve this.
Jared's twitchy already, and he's hardly even in the front door. He clears his throat, epitome of awkward, and nods to Jensen. "Hi," he says, and the bunnies make a series of ridiculous faces behind his back, clearly jealous of Jensen and endlessly amused by Jared's aw-shucks routine.
"How about a drink?" Jensen asks with a quirk of his lips. Jared's obviously not taking the lead, here, and Jensen's more than happy to get things rolling. Jared just nods, slipping his hands in his pockets and shrugging like he'd rather be anywhere else. Jensen knows better.
George the bartender slides Jensen a martini, and he sips it as he cocks his hip and leans back against the bar, white tank dragging up his stomach. "My friend here'll have the same," Jensen says, and pulls Jared over, hand firm on his forearm. His fucking rock hard forearm, smooth and muscled and Christ but Jensen wants Jared's dick up his ass right now. Or the other way around, even. He's the opposite of picky at the moment, and more than a little annoyed about it. It's hard to play a good game and work over a client when he's practically gagging for it, but it does happen occasionally.
Jared downs most of his drink in one gulp, and as much as Jensen's enjoying watching Jared squirm, it's kind of awkward when the kid won't even talk to him. "So what do you do? You know, for a living," Jensen says, hopping up onto the stool next to Jared. He rubs a foot idly against Jared's leg, going the coy footsy route. It's nice to play it up when he actually kind of means it.
"Um," Jared starts, staring into his glass. Jensen catches the quick sideways flicks of his eyes, though. He's got a finely tuned sense of being checked out, and Jared's zeroing in on the tight crotch of his jeans, the pull of them across his thighs, the unbuttoned waistband. The rucked-up hem of his barely-there shirt. Jensen smiles, because Jared's ashamed, self-conscious like he doesn't even know he's the hottest thing to walk through the door of the BunnyRanch in, oh, ever.
He likes that; when the sexy ones don't even know it. Not that he doesn't like arrogant pricks, rightly full of themselves and total show-offs when they fuck, but Isabella contends that Jensen's got a Julia Roberts buried somewhere deep under his nymphomania, and at times like this, Jensen might just be inclined to agree.
"Ah, one of those," Jensen says. Some guys just want to forget about everything when they come here. "You can make something up, if you don't wanna talk about it. Or, how about-what did you always want to be when you were a little kid?"
That earns him a little smile, even if it is aimed at Jared's martini. "A rock star," Jared says, and finally looks up. "Eddie Vedder." His eyes are hazel in that way where they're every color at once, and Jensen can't help but smile back, a shiver running down his spine. He must be going delirious with the need to get to the sex part; his cock is stirring already, and it's nice to know he's not completely dependent on Viagra to get through the work week.
"Then a rock star you shall be. At least for tonight." Jensen throws him a corny wink, hamming it up to put Jared at ease, and sips a little more of his drink. Jared falls silent again after that, and Jensen isn't sure how much more of this he's willing to endure just for the sake of getting Jared relaxed. It doesn't seem humanly possible. When he met Jared before, the guy was a veritable font of verbal diarrhea. As badly as that turned out, it's preferable to the silent treatment. "So, you wanna get out of here?" Jensen says, letting his hand rest on Jared's thigh, heat bleeding through his jeans. He can't help himself, and clenches his fingers just to feel the hard muscle give a little in his grip.
"I bet you say that to all the guys," Jared says with a twist to his lips. It looks almost sad. Then something changes, though, like maybe Jared just decided he needs to buck up, and his jaw sets.
"Probably the safest bet you'll ever make." Jensen knows when honesty's the best policy. He leads the way out the door to the hall, grabbing Jared's wrist loosely as they walk. They're only just around the corner from the bar when suddenly he's jerked back, turned, and pressed up against the wall. Jared's eyes go dark and intense, and he's got to be half a nanosecond away from straight-up devouring Jensen.
Jensen throws up his arm, right at neck-level for Jared, effectively blocking him while Jensen ducks away in a lame kind of darting side-step. "Fuck, Jared," he heaves, and gives the safe sign to the nearest security camera. Jared snaps out of it, blushing to his roots. He backs up to the other side of the hall from Jensen, practically shaking, and won't meet Jensen's eyes, like he's about to bolt at any second. "Hey, no, it's okay, just." Jensen swallows audibly, frowning. "Dammit, Jared, you have to follow the rules. This isn't like renting a fucking paddleboat. You can't just do-whatever you want. Well, I mean. You can eventually, but not yet, and not in the fucking hall, and not without talking about it first."
"Shit, I'm. God, you must fucking hate my guts-all I ever do is fuck up with you. I'm so sorry, I don't know what-no, god, that's a total lie. I know exactly what happened. But-" Jared's scrubbing his hand over his face, slumping down the wall.
"Nah, I don't hate your guts," Jensen says, interrupting before Jared can sink too far into his Issues-with-a-capital-I. He sidles closer, then pulls Jared's fingers away from his face, easy touches to show him Jensen's not afraid, not angry, not repulsed. Jensen knows a thing or two about people after all this time. "In fact, I'm kinda flattered you're so eager." He smiles, knocks his hip against Jared's. It's all true. "Plus I mean, I'm pretty sure that was about to be one hell of a kiss. You just save it for ten minutes or so and I'll be balls-deep in the exact opposite of hating your guts."
Jared looks kind of spacey still, but he nods, bites at his bottom lip until it's pink and jutting and Jensen is clearly the luckiest fucking slut this whorehouse has ever had. "Okay, so. Take two, right?" Jensen says when he thinks he's got the all-clear.
"Right. Okay. No touching 'til you say."
"Oh, you can touch." Jensen slides Jared's fingers under the bottom edge of his shirt, flirty smile on automatic. Jared's breath hitches, and it's like finding out the best secret in the world. "Just can't taste quite yet."
They make it to Jensen's room with no further incidents, and he sits Jared on the bed with gentle hands. "So," Jared says, playing with his cuticles like it's a nervous habit and hiding behind the curtain of his bangs.
"So." Jensen pulls off his shirt and starts thumbing at the button of his jeans. "Want to get a look at the merchandise before we get down to business?" He's smiling, can hardly wait to show off for Jared and turn him into a stuttering mess. The rush of power he gets in situations like these is dizzying.
Jared looks up with wide eyes, eyebrows shooting into his hairline. "No! No, just," he swallows audibly. "Don't you need to tell me the whole, like," he rubs a hand nervously over the back of his neck, "deal? Just talk?"
Jensen blinks, feeling his dick wilt and balls shrivel. Just talk, god. They're his two least favorite words in the entire English language. Unless "dirty" is also involved, obviously. "Right. Okay, well. Let me explain things first. You need to pay up front, credit card or check and ID unless you want to go the cash route. Five hundred down for the first hour, flat rate, then we re-up for hour two, and it's only two hundred dollars more if you want to stay. Probably more after the second hour, depending on what you want. It'll be more for some things, like if you're here for-" Jared shakes his head vehemently, and Jensen trails off. He crosses his arms over his chest, impatient.
"Fuck, I don't know what the hell is going on," Jared manages, looking miserable. "I just came here to apologize to you, Jensen. I don't-I didn't-want to do anything. I wanted-need to say that I'm an asshole, that I shouldn't have shouted at you, but things are kind of-"
"Shitty?" Jensen sighs, and sits on the bed next to Jared, his bare shoulder rubbing against the soft, worn cotton of Jared's t-shirt.
"To say the least. I've just been so fucking confused lately, and feeling like I'm-" He gestures expansively, clearly wishing he could find the words but doesn't even know what he wants to say. "Whatever. And I meet you, and you're just," he blushes bright pink, and Jensen smiles. "You know you're gorgeous, you must. More than gorgeous. And you just make everything worse and you say what I'm thinking but don't want to let myself think, and I just." His fists clench on his thighs; he's frustrated and embarrassed and lost. Jensen just nods.
He pretends to listen and be compassionate, knows just how to act to get Jared to open up. And opening up means Jared will be willing to pay more, to be seduced. It's all part of the game. "It's hard, I know," he says, voice soft and convincing. "I'm sorry I pushed you, but I didn't see any of that. Didn't think someone like you would have it that bad." Jensen pulls his legs up onto the bed, turning towards Jared, hunched to look more vulnerable; anything to get the extra hours and extra dough. He wonders if he should put his shirt back on.
"That's part of it. I shouldn't. I've got everything. Big warm family down in Texas, great life and friends in LA, steady work. And it doesn't feel like enough anymore. Like there's a whole chunk of shit that's missing." Jared shrugs, the set of his shoulders heavy and tired. "Every time I close my eyes, let my thoughts drift-I remember you," he says, quiet and earnest. Under normal circumstances, Jensen would want to laugh at that admission, make a joke out of it. Mock Jared. He doesn't now, though. His breath gets tight in his throat and he feels warm all over, even as goosebumps prickle on his arms.
"I think I get it," he says, feeling all twisted up inside for trying to drain this kid dry. And he never feels guilty. But even through the muddled words and the lack of anything resembling eloquence, there's something beautiful about Jared trying to talk, something unavoidably sexy.
Jensen sets his hand on Jared's thigh, tense under his warm fingers. He can do compassionate and comforting, of course he can. Especially when Jared's just so confused, soft around the eyes and strung tight everywhere else. Jensen rubs, not gunning for more for once in his life, actually just trying to ground this guy, keep him from disappearing too far into his own head.
Jensen's in the business of giving people what they need, even if they don't know what it is yet. He moves to grip just above Jared's elbow, runs his hand up the thick curve of Jared's bicep to tuck in at his neck, thumb running, intimate, down to the hidden dip of collar bone. Jensen can feel Jared's pounding heartbeat, the sweet smoothness of his skin, golden-brown and summer-warm, so incongruous to his rough, good ol' boy build, clothes, past. "It's okay," Jensen says, words feeling woefully inadequate. "Nothing leaves this room." He stops, tilting Jared's face up gently, smiling like he means it. Because he does. "Them's the rules."
Jared hands him five one-hundred dollar bills, never once looking away. Jensen feels wrong for the first time ever.
*
After a moment, Jared slides his empty wallet back into his pocket and licks his lips, a reflexive motion he can't even help. His face tingles where Jensen's fingers pressed. He almost can't believe he's doing this, only wanted to come to say his piece and be done with it, but. But. "I just need to know if I-Jensen. Can I-"
"Yeah, Jared," Jensen says, reading him just like that, and leans in, breath soft against Jared's cheek.
Technically, Jared kisses him first, brushing his mouth over Jensen's, tentative and shaky. It's what he wants, though. It is, and it's the first thing he's been sure about in a long time. Jensen kisses him back, shifting up to fit their lips together right. Jared doesn't know what to expect, thought maybe Jensen would kiss like a porn star, all tongue and working jaw. He doesn't, though, doesn't even open his mouth at first, coaxing Jared forward with gentle pressure, kisses to the corners of his mouth and just above the dip of his top lip, all quiet sounds and fingers slack at Jared's wrists.
Jared loses the scant resolve he had, and tips his head just so, lets his lips go slack so he can taste Jensen, the bite of spearmint from toothpaste or gum. He breathes through his nose, slow and deep, taking his time as the tip of Jensen's tongue teases along Jared's lips, over the edges of his teeth, barely-there and taunting him to open up. He responds in kind, pressing closer as his hands slide up Jensen's bare forearms, thumbs brushing over the impossibly soft skin on the insides of his elbows.
Jensen stiffens, breathing awkwardly, and his perfectly in-sync kisses stop abruptly. Jared's instantly worried and pulls back, cups the side of Jensen's face with one hand and asks, "Shit, Jensen, you okay? I'm sorry, I-"
"That fucking tickled, man," Jensen half-wheezes, catching his breath. "I was just trying not to snort into your mouth. These right here," he adds, pointing to the exact places by his elbows Jared had been stroking, "are really fucking sensitive. And you were working them over but good with those amazing hands."
Jared laughs, the tension draining from his shoulders, and runs his fingers through his hair. "Oh my god, I thought I was so horrible you were, like, having a bad-kiss-induced seizure. Good to know you're just a ticklish wuss."
Jensen punches Jared's arm playfully, and scoots back against the headboard. "Shut the fuck up. You really are an asshole," he says, broad grin belying his words. "C'mere."
Jared slides over to sit next to Jensen, cradled by the ridiculous amounts of pillows. Jensen grabs Jared's hand, entwining their fingers for a second before dragging his hand over Jared's wrist, then up his arm, brushing over the soft insides of Jared's elbows just like he'd been doing earlier. Jared smiles, but doesn't laugh. "I'm not ticklish," he gloats.
"Everyone's ticklish," Jensen says, pouting his lips out. They're slick and dark pink from kissing, and Jared wants to bite them so goddamn badly.
"Well. Everyone except me, then," he says, and he's shocked he can even form sentences. He feels like his mouth is on fire, like his nerves are lighting up like a Christmas tree where Jensen's touching him. He's hard as fuck, and there's no way Jensen could possibly miss it.
"Maybe you just haven't found the right place, yet," Jensen whispers, and pushes his hand the rest of the way up Jared's arm, over his shoulder, to his chin. Jared goes with it, letting Jensen pull him into another kiss as if it weren't the only thing he can ever imagine himself doing for the rest of his life.
Jensen's doing everything right. Perfectly, even. And it's just-it's too fucking good, and Jared has to stop now or he never will. He pulls away from Jensen's lips with a slick noise, and removes Jensen's hand from the side of his face, fingers deep in Jared's hair. It hurts, how much Jared wants this, but that's why he can't have it. "Hey, hey, man," he says, trying to remember what he came here for. "I. Uh."
"You're paid up for the next half an hour," Jensen says, two spots of pink color high on his cheeks. "We haven't even gotten to the good part yet." He looks almost disappointed, and Jared can't tell what's real and what's an act.
"No, I can't, um. I can't ever get to the good part. Not like this. Jensen, thank you so much, really. I. You're amazing. You're fucking-yeah. And thank you for helping me figure this out, but I'm not-" Jensen raises an eyebrow "-I'm not this guy. I'm not the guy who slips away after work to drive six hours to a-a brothel. To-you know."
"Get his rocks off with some random rent-boy for a couple hours because he's not man enough to be himself in his real life?"
"Or something," Jared says, lacking conviction.
"An admirable sentiment." Jensen sighs and flops back on the pillows, pulling his hand out of Jared's grasp. "You know, Jared, you're really fucking hot."
Jared blinks at the non sequitur. "What? I mean, thanks, I guess, but I'm not-"
"And I really wanted you to fuck me," Jensen says, completely deadpan, blasé. "You've got a monster cock, I can tell, and I am fucking gagging for it as far up my ass as you can possibly shove it. Over and over. Until you come so deep in me I'm sneezing jizz for a week."
Jared somehow inhales some spit or something and ends up having a coughing fit for a whole minute while Jensen smacks him on the back and offers him some water. "Thanks," Jared manages, and takes a sip. He seriously considers pouring it over his head, instead. He settles for getting up and pacing a little, ending up by the door.
"Sorry, just. You know. You're probably the hottest guy who's ever partied with me, ever, and I was hoping for more than just some talking and making out. Like, a lot more. But I should've known it was too good to be true, right?" Jensen sighs, kicking back with his arms behind his head. He looks over to Jared with a wave, clearly expecting him to leave.
Jared doesn't think there's anything appropriate to say in situations like these. Miss Manners probably never covered hooker etiquette. "S-sorry? You know, you could just go out to a club somewhere and have sex with anyone you wanted. Hot as you could stand. Do you seriously only do it for money?"
"Usually. It's just sex," Jensen shrugs, smirking. "Everyone does it. I'm just smart enough to get paid for it."
*
A long, monotonous week passes. A week during which he hangs out with Brooke and Isabella and Shelly, usually the best girls in the place as far as having a good time goes, but he's bored and listless pretty much all the time. Their raunchy games don't do anything for him, he can't be bothered to expend the effort to watch TV with them, and he keeps to almost entirely online bookings, not up to flirting and putting himself on display in the lounge like usual.
"What crawled up your ass and died?" Isabella says, barging in even though Jensen yelled through the door for her to go away when she knocked.
"I went on a crazy drug binge last weekend and I'm still crashing," Jensen says, voice muffled in his pillow.
"Yeah the fuck right. You won't even take Ibuprofen, you 'tard." Isabella lands on the bed with an impressive bounce, and rolls directly on top of Jensen. "Seriously, is it that fucking time of the month? Spent so much time with us bunnies you start bleeding out of your ass for a whole week twelve times a year?"
Jensen dry-heaves audibly, then bucks Isabella off with little trouble. "Oh my god, I'm going to pretend you never said that."
"I wish I could pretend you haven't been a raging cunt all week," she snaps.
"I'm just sick of fucking ugly people!" Jensen shouts, surprising himself.
Isabella blinks and falls silent for a long moment. "Woah. Random."
"It's that Jared guy," Jensen mumbles, head in his hands. "What a fucking assface."
Isabella gapes. "He came back and you didn't fucking tell me?"
"Suzette booked it, I just assumed she would've told everyone."
"I'm going to have stern words with her, believe you me."
"Anyway," Jensen says, rolling his hands to move the conversation along. "He was here a week ago, ostensibly to apologize for being a jerk, or whatever. And I was sure I could sucker him into a good hard fuck, but he just wanted to kiss and talk and he left after half an hour." He's pouting, but he doesn't fucking care. He deserves a rant.
"Ouch." Isabella scowls on Jensen's behalf, and he feels a little better already just for getting it out there. "That's harsh."
"Am I losing my touch or something? What the fuck gives? He's younger than I am, he's got Cockzilla tucked in his jeans, and he was so obviously turned on I'm surprised he didn't blow a fuse. There's nothing better in the universe to work with than that. I should've had him booking a week-long appointment and shelling out tens of thousands of dollars to keep me on my back through all of it, but I couldn't get a single red cent out of him beyond the flat rate he had to pay to talk to me." Jensen smacks the headboard violently with a fist.
"Maybe he's just so hot he makes it hard for you to get your game working, you know?" Isabella says, all logic. "It happens, Jen. No big. We're professionals, but we're not like. Sexbots. So you lost a little bit of potential income. Or, okay, kind of a lot of potential income. So what? You'll get over it, you'll make it back double when you can get your fucking act together-"
"So to speak," Jensen interjects, already feeling a little better. Isabella just rolls her eyes.
"Right. Anyway, don't get your panties in a twist. You'll be fine."
Jensen nods and swings his legs over the side of the bed. "Thanks. Now go pull yourself a good one; I've got a kinky party in an hour and I have to get ready."
"Ooh, it isn't Diaper Man is it?"
"It's the stomper guy, actually. Gotta polish my combat boots."
"Sexy," Isabella says, dripping with sarcasm. She lets herself out as Jensen starts digging through his closet. He refuses to think about the fact that he didn't even want to take Jared's money-it was a fluke. Doesn't mean anything. He was just off his game, that's all.
And then Suzette pipes up over the intercom, and pathetic hope starts bubbling in Jensen's chest.
*
Part Two
Author: balefully
Pairing: Jared/Jensen (Jensen/OCs)
Rating: NC-17
Words: 19,060
Summary: AU. Jared gets dragged to the Moonlite BunnyRanch, where he meets Jensen. After an initial misunderstanding, things won't ever be the same for either of them.
Disclaimer: This is merely a product of my fevered imagination.
Notes: For the lovely fryadvocate, in accordance with her spn_holidays prompt "hookerfic for either J2 or SPN". It's pretty hilarious that we got each other and each chose to write for the other's hookerfic prompt. Hee! As for the premise of this fic, Cathouse is a real HBO documentary series about the girls and business workings of the Moonlite BunnyRanch, which is a real brothel actually located near Carson City. Isabella, Brooke, Suzette, Air Force Amy, and Dennis are all real people. Sadly, there aren't really any male bunnies working at the actual BunnyRanch. It's still a fantastic series, and if you haven't seen it, you should, though it definitely isn't necessary in order to understand the fic.
Infinite thanks to stellabelle for being my cheerleader from the beginning, all the people I talked to about it along the way, and my lazy_daze for being a sounding board (as always) and lightning-fast beta. <3!
Part 1 | Part 2
If At First You Don't Succeed, Suck Seed
"Where the hell are you even taking me?" Jared says, pulling his hat down lower against his forehead. They're driving deeper into the desert with every mile, and he could swear they passed the ass-crack of nowhere about half an hour ago. Carson City, Nevada is not exactly a sparkling oasis.
"It's a surprise, man," Chad says with a cocked eyebrow. Jared learned long ago never to trust that look, but there isn't much he can do about it unless he wants to hitchhike his way back to LA.
"You've been fucked up for like, months now. I know she was your girl, but Jesus, Jared. There's a limit, y'dig?"
"Yeah, sure, I dig," Jared huffs, sliding down as far as he can in the bucket seat of Chad's F150. "I feel like I'm in a gangster movie and you're gonna make me kneel in the dust with a hood over my head when you shoot me in the back."
Chad laughs, obnoxious and genuine. "Fuck, no. You're gonna like this a shitload more than a hole in the head, lemme tell you."
Jared isn't exactly convinced. He grins, though, and turns up the music. Chad is listening to Chamillionaire, and brooked no argument when Jared tried to switch to something that didn't scream lame-ass poser louder than Chad's truck screamed honkytonk. It's a lose-lose situation; Jared gave up fighting it years back.
By the time gravel finally starts crunching under the tires, Jared has almost fallen asleep. He wakes up to a stark sign-black block letters on white, almost like it's homemade-visible before they even pull into the parking lot. "No. No way-you're shitting me." He gapes, speechless.
"The Moonlite BunnyRanch, motherfucker," Chad says. "Such stuff as dreams are made on. Dreams, and the best fuckin' reality show on TV. More T and A than you can shake a dick at, but like-it's on HBO, so you know it's gotta be classy."
Jared groans and smacks his head against the window. Repeatedly.
"And don't think you're getting out of it," Chad says, punching Jared on the arm. "You're getting laid, is what you're getting. And you're gonna fucking like it."
Jared doesn't even know where to start. "Dude," he stalls, "I don't-I don't even have any money on me. We gotta go back and-"
"Got you covered," Chad says with a wicked smile, pulling a wad of hundreds out of his pocket. "You're doing this; quit looking for a way to pussy out."
Jared pointedly doesn't make any pussy jokes. The fact that Chad doesn't either is a minor miracle. "I'll-" There seriously isn't a single excuse left in the entire universe that would work in this particular situation. "I'll go inside with you," he says, and Chad pumps his fist in victory, "but that is it. I am not-I repeat: not-having sex with a prostitute, you douche. I'm not even having a conversation with one. And that is final."
Chad's patronizing nod really doesn't help matters. "Sure, J-Dog. You're pure as the driven snow, nothing will mend the black hole of your broken heart, I get it."
Jared rolls his eyes and gets out of the truck. The sooner he's in there, the sooner he can fucking leave, and the less likely he'll be to contract an impressive cocktail of mutant airborne STDs from a harem of professional skanks.
They are ugly. They are all ugly. Maybe not hideous, but certainly not what Jared would call conventionally attractive. There's one girl, cute and curvy with brown hair and sweet smile, who looks like maybe she could pass for normal on a good day. All the other ones just look-well, like whores, really. He frowns and busies himself pretending Chad isn't salivating and probably popping a boner just looking at them.
"Um," he says, trying not to seem too optically violated. There isn't really anywhere else to look, though. It's like a car wreck. A car wreck with lots and lots of tits. A car wreck where a van full of porn stars careened into a van full of hair extensions, Halloween costumes, and silicon implants.
Chad starts pawing at the young, smiley brunette immediately after they all finish introducing themselves. Jared hadn't really been paying attention to their names, which is probably considered really rude, and he isn't sure what to do about it now without asking them all to repeat themselves. Which would be even ruder.
"So, Isabella, what say you and me, you know, make-" Chad whispers, and Jared tunes out, deciding now definitely isn't the time to eavesdrop. He casts a furtive look over at the bar, and the madam appears by his side to escort him there with a broad, fake smile.
"Some fellas like to knock a few back first," she says, winking. "Loosens 'em up. You can chat to the girls, too-get to know 'em before you decide if you want to really party." She beckons a few of the girls over, and sits herself down on a stool to talk to a huge bald guy. He's older, and loud, and has no less than four pliant girls draped all over him.
"That's Dennis," says a tall blonde, fake tits bursting impressively from a translucent purple mini-dress. She leans close to Jared's ear, brushing her lips against it as she whispers, "He's our daddy," and giggles. "If you know what I mean." She licks the shell of his ear. Licks it. Jared swallows audibly. The girl's tits rub insistently against his arm and her perfume is seriously about to suffocate him.
"Ah." He blinks desperately at the bartender, who slides him something red and syrupy over ice. He drinks it, trying not to retch. Everything's just-so surreal. Pink and plastic and completely, completely insane. Like it's all some big joke and everyone's in on it except him, and Chad is going to jump out and scream "Gotcha, sucker!" at any second.
He doesn't, though.
Jared manages to hold off the inevitable for over an hour. He chats with a few of the other guys in the lounge area: two incredibly drunk members of a bachelor party crowd, a divorcé, and a nerdy-looking dude who says his girlfriend sent him to the BunnyRanch to learn what to do with a G-spot. Smiling and nodding seems to be the order of the evening-that, and trying not to blush fuchsia as girls get naked and make out and smack each other's bare asses and make general spectacles of themselves all over the bar.
Jared's pretty sure he's seen more boobs in the past hour than he's ever seen together in one place before, except maybe that time in the men's room at Paris Hilton's birthday party. He's on his fifth syrupy red thing when Dennis himself comes and sits next to Jared, jowly but smiling. "You enjoying yourself?" he asks, glancing around. Jared figures Dennis probably notices the lack of working girls in the general vicinity and is attempting to rectify the situation.
"Oh, you know," Jared begins. "This is. I mean, I'm not really-"
"Nervous type, huh?" Dennis says.
"Not really nervous, no. I'm just not-" Jared makes a vague, sweeping hand gesture and tries to telepathically beam his amorphous issues into Dennis's brain.
Dennis raises an eyebrow. "I think I know what you need," he says, voice lowered. He's still louder than all the patrons of his establishment combined. "Just to take a quick break, huh?" He slips Jared a small brass key with a wink, and leaves through a door to the back before Jared can think of anything to say at all.
Jared slides off his stool on slightly shaky legs, definitely a little more buzzed than he'd expected. He follows Dennis-thinks he ought to at least figure out what the key is to, exactly. There's a hall of numbered doors on the other side of the bar itself, but no Dennis in sight.
Jared shrugs and leans haphazardly against the wall, checking for a number on the key: 12. He ambles his way down the hall, ignoring all the suspicious sounds issuing from the other doors. Number twelve is blissfully quiet, and he unlocks it and enters with a relieved sigh.
The room is nice but nondescript, decorated in muted colors and rich wood furnishings. There's a huge California king, an overstuffed armchair, and an odd-shaped bench next to the dresser. One entire wall is mirrored floor-to-ceiling, and Jared laughs quietly to himself as he eyes the bed. He really doesn't trust it, but it smells of expensive laundry detergent and the sheets and comforter look fresh, so he throws caution to the wind and flops down on it.
It's officially the most comfortable thing Jared has ever felt, and clearly Dennis should be canonized as soon as humanly possible. Jared rolls onto his back, lets his eyes drift closed and his mind go blank.
It doesn't last for long, though. Someone clears their throat from next to the bed, and Jared jerks up with a startled huff. "Hey, man," because it is a man, not another scantily clad woman, "I'm really sorry, I didn't know there was someone in here. I just. I got this key from the Dennis guy, and he said-"
The guy laughs, toweling his wet hair. Jared blinks owlishly, because shit, this guy. This guy is probably the single best-looking man Jared has ever seen. Ever. So stupidly handsome he's actually beautiful, there's no other word for it. And he's only wearing a robe, and he smiles with these crinkles by his ridiculously green eyes, and god. God, this guy's lips. No one real has lips like that. No one.
Jared has obviously had one too many of the slippery nipples or screaming orgasms or whatever-the-fuck the bartender had been pouring down him all evening. He seems to have turned into one of those six-beer queer types. Except with a much higher blood alcohol content.
"That you looked like you needed a break?" the guy says, throwing his towel back into the bathroom, leaving it where it lands on the floor in a damp pile.
Jared can't even remember what he'd been saying. "Exactly," he manages eventually. He scoots back on the bed, leaning against the headboard. "So." He laughs awkwardly. "I'm Jared, by the way. I guess I should probably leave now-looks like Dennis didn't know the room was occupied already."
"Hi Jared," the guy says, still looking amused. "I'm Jensen. And you don't have to leave. I'm finished, and not expecting anyone else."
"Oh," Jared says, confused. "Did you just-I mean. Wow. You don't, uh. Don't seem the type."
Jensen raises his eyebrows, pursing his ridiculous lips. "Seem the type?"
"I mean. A guy who looks like you. I can't imagine you'd ever have to pay for sex. Ever. Even if you were into some sick, kinky shit, I mean, there would be people-" Jared claps a hand over his mouth. "God, I'm sorry, I'll shut up. That was way out of line. It's just, I've had kind of more to drink than I-" he's blushing, he's sure of it, and he just wants to sink right into the mattress and die. Why can't he ever keep his fucking mouth shut?
Except instead of being angry, Jensen starts laughing. Like, really laughing, deep and warm. "Jared," he says once he catches his breath, "you have got to be fucking kidding me." He sits on the end of the bed, legs crossed under his robe, face open and relaxed.
Jared doesn't actually know what he's supposed to be kidding about, and he feels lame enough already anyway, so he just shrugs and becomes suddenly fascinated by the menu-of services-perched on the bedside table.
"So things got a little crazy out there for you, huh?" Jensen says after a moment. He's still just sitting there, not making a move to get dressed or collect his things and leave. Jared wonders for a second if maybe brothels are like motels, and you can pay for a room for the whole night, even if it's for a-solitary occupant. Rather than a-couple.
"Just a little. I've never. I've never done this sort of thing before, got dragged here by a friend because my girlfriend-okay, well. You probably really don't care, so I'll just shut up now. Not like I'm paying for your time."
Jensen smiles enigmatically. "Yes you are."
"He did say-wait, what?"
"You are. Paying for my time. Or, if you aren't, someone damn well is. I don't entertain for free, even if I'm just sitting around in my robe listening to you talk about your girlfriend."
Jared stares at Jensen for at least half a minute, completely silent except for the grinding of the gears in his head, trying to process. "Oh. Oh, you're. Oh. Then why-what's-" He trails off, at a loss.
Jensen gets up and makes his way over to a mini-fridge in the corner that Jared hadn't noticed, and pours two glasses of white wine. "I just finished up a party," Jensen says. "Got the fresh sheets and stuff on the bed, had a shower. I was going to go out and join the festivities in the lounge, but you know. No need to advertise the wares when I've got someone like you waiting in my boudoir," he twirls his fingers, playing up his sarcastic tone, "already, right?"
Jared swallows audibly and feels his face burning. And he thought he'd been blushing before. Jensen is staring holes through him, that irritatingly perfect smile just-taunting him. "Why, uh. Why would Dennis send me back here? I mean. Chad brought me to get a girl, and he said he was paying, but he ran off with the brunette and I don't really think I want, uh. I didn't know there even were male-um. Bunnies. Why did I get your key?"
Jensen raises one perfectly-plucked eyebrow. "I'm guessing you would know better than I would," he says dryly.
"I'm not. I've never-" Jared splutters. He makes to get off the bed, but Jensen's hand closes around his arm, pulling him back with more force than Jared would've expected.
"You clearly are," he says with a smirk. "Look at you, Jared. Can hardly string a sentence together when you're looking at me. You want it, man, and you want it bad." Jensen licks his lips, leans forward onto his knees, hands rubbing a scorching path up Jared's thighs through his jeans. "I'm a professional, I can tell these things."
No, no. Jared isn't-he isn't, and he doesn't, and Jensen hasn't got the first goddamn clue about Jared or Jared's life. Doesn't know what he's had to go through with Sandy, the way things fell apart, how fucking fucked up he was. Is.
Confusion and fear war for dominance, welling up in him, turning into bubbling rage. He can't stop it. Jensen just watches him darkly, all smolder, like all he needs is a little time to con Jared out of his cash and into his bed.
"Fuck you!" Jared shouts, the words bursting from him like he doesn't have a choice. He pulls his arm out of Jensen's grasp, shoving off of the bed. "You can't fucking tell me what I want. You don't-you don't know anything about me. You're just a god-goddamn whore, for Christ's sake, and you've only known my name for like, what. Five minutes? Fuck you, man. I'm out of here. And I'll make sure Chad reimburses you for your fucking precious time." With that, he storms out, dropping the key unceremoniously on the carpet. He feels hot, and shaky, and so, so fucking confused.
Chad, of course, has not returned to the bar in the brief time Jared's been away. Which means Jared has no way of getting back into the truck, which means he has to hang around the bar looking sheepish, trying not to meet anyone's eyes while he calms down. It's okay at first; they've all pretty much figured out he's a lost cause, and he keeps up a steady stream of drink orders, so it's not like they aren't milking him for cash one way or another.
Not too long after he takes up residence on one of the velvet lounge couches, head in his hands, thoughts spinning, the madam-Suzette? Jared is pretty sure her name's Suzette-rings a bell, a customer coming through the gates just after. The girls all take up their positions in line, posing and primping as the man enters. He wears a huge Stetson, a pair of snakeskin cowboy boots, a belt with a silver buckle as big as Jared's fist, and an honest-to-god bolo tie complete with tacky turquoise slide.
Jared has to try really hard not to laugh, because that would probably not be good for business, and would probably get him kicked out. And Jared's not exactly keen on standing around outside, by himself, in the middle of the night, in front of a sexual entertainment establishment.
The man completely ignores the line-up, however, and Suzette cheerily tries to discern what he thinks he's there for, if not to pick out a girl. But Jensen comes through from the back at just that moment, and the question is pretty much answered without any further words exchanged.
Jensen's not wearing a shirt, and he's liberally oiled up so he gleams, skin glowing and perfect, burnished under the low lights, tantalizing freckles sprinkled everywhere. His jeans are practically painted on, ripped so much they're more holes than jeans, soft pale gold crease of flesh from thighs to ass-cheeks on blatant display. The button-fly is partially undone, folded down so the hard lines of his hips are completely visible, leading to dark curling hair tucked under the obscenely low waistband.
Jared's mouth drops open, throat suddenly beyond dry, and he tries not to make any embarrassing noises or spill his drink all over himself or spontaneously orgasm in his pants.
Stetson Man blows past the lined-up hookers and grabs Jensen's hand without hesitation, pulling him over to the bar, whispering in his ear the whole way. Jensen presses up against him and gives him a long, burning look. He tosses back the whiskey Stetson Man slides him in one smooth gulp, throat working.
Jared coughs and takes a sip of his own drink, trying to ignore the way the guy slides the tips of his fingers under the frayed edges of Jensen's jeans, cupping his ass, pressing finger-shaped red crescents into his smooth skin only feet away from where Jared sits. It isn't working very well.
Okay. Okay, so maybe Jensen was-not right, per se. But maybe-not wrong. Not entirely. Maybe.
*
Jensen really doesn't mind the assholes. It's no skin off his nose if they're self-loathing gays, bullying straights, or anything in between. Jensen always gets his money, security guards are on constant stand-by, and it's not like some random loser calling him a whore is going to ruin his day.
After all, he is a whore. A slut, a tramp, a rent-boy, a male prostitute. He has sex with people-both men and women-for a living, and he likes it. And really? That's all that matters. It's not like he can't do anything else; he'd been an actor once, actually, and it really wasn't a hell of a lot different from being a "working girl," as his fellow bunnies call themselves. He'd also been a catalogue model, a ranch hand, and a retail drone, all of which were the most miserable occupations anyone could ever have. So in the end, as far as Jensen is concerned, having orgasms for money instead is definitely the best option.
Usually, though. Usually the assholes are not fucking hot. He can count on two hands the number of times someone genuinely gorgeous has wanted to party with him, and even then, those kinky fucks can't hold a candle to this Jared kid.
Thurston Belvedere Horblitt III, Jensen's current client, is not one of those precious few. Unfortunately. He is, however, pretty much palming Jensen's balls through the assless seat of his jeans, and Jensen makes convincing noises-mostly soft, muffled groans-while his mind wanders. He had been an actor, after all. And a fucking awesome one, at that.
Thurston, besides being fond of semi-public groping, also like Jensen to tell him "stories". Which basically means he likes to jerk off while Jensen recounts explicit past encounters for him. Except he always wants to hear about boyfriends Jensen has had, and Jensen, well. He doesn't do boyfriends. Or girlfriends, although the former would be more likely than the latter. He's never been in a relationship, never wants to be in a relationship, and loves sex way, way too much to fuck it up with feelings and shit. It sounds cliché, and he cringes whenever he thinks about it-hardened, sex-crazed whore stereotypes are no more true than any stereotypes, on the whole. It just so happens that he can't get it up for commitment, polyamory is too complicated, and being a bunny leaves little time for much else in the way of interpersonal relations.
There's no trauma in his past, he's perfectly happy, certainly makes a fair amount of money and has enough to support himself. He's got friends here, friends from back home, a nice family who think he's still in the acting business. His life has pretty much finally come together, and he's working it with no regrets.
*
Dennis comes back out into the lounge looking cheerful and sated, and Jared tries not to gag. "You done already?" he asks, settling on the couch next to Jared. His lap is immediately occupied by a little bottle-blonde, apparently called Brooke, if the moaning girl whose tits she'd been sucking earlier had it right.
"Um. Yeah, about that," Jared starts, nervously pushing at his cuticles and avoiding eye-contact. "It, uh. It wasn't really. I'm not-"
Dennis raises an eyebrow and looks like he's trying not to laugh. "Sorry, man," he says with a shrug. "I just thought you'd like something different. You were lookin' kind of tense, and Jensen. Jensen's the best we got for deep relaxation massages. Got fucking magic hands."
Jared's face went numb about three shots ago, but it suddenly feels hot, and his tongue is sticking to the roof of his mouth. "I might've. Um. Well, you know, he thought I wanted," Jared mutters, nervously tucking his hair behind his ear, "-but I didn't. And I might've yelled. A little. And I'm really, really sorry, I didn't mean to get all-you know. Like that. But he was just. And I didn't think."
Jared stops abruptly when Dennis smacks his shoulder, hand thick and heavy. "I get it, man. You don't have to explain to me. I've heard it all. You just think about it, you hear? And if you change your mind, get your shit straightened out, you know where we are. Jensen'll be waiting for you. Don't get many appointments with your type; I'm sure he'd be glad to see you. Sticks and stones may break his bones but words ain't ever hurt him." Dennis has a mercenary glint in his eye, but he also has a point.
Jared takes a shaky breath and nods, running a sweaty hand over his face. He at least has to see Jensen again to apologize. The guy was just doing his job, and Jared had been a complete douche, and it just-it's ripping him up. Sobriety is rushing back to him at an alarming pace, and suddenly he can't deny that manners are manners.
Chad chooses that moment to stumble back into the lounge with his shirt buttoned askew, three sheets to the wind and grinning like a maniac. Jared rolls his eyes and pushes off from the bar, prepared for damage control but glad for a distraction, grabbing Chad's arm to guide him to the door. Dennis watches him with a dark smile.
"Thank you for the lovely time, ladies," Chad says, somehow managing to sound genuinely grateful yet smarmy at the same time.
"Yeah," Jared says with an awkward smile at no one in particular. "Thanks." He feels himself flushing as he escorts Chad past the girls in varying states of undress in the lobby out into the parking lot. They're all staring at him. Probably judging him just because he didn't fuck anyone. Maybe they've already heard about what a fucking jerk he was, too.
"Isabella totally dug me, man," Chad slurs, still beaming once they make it past the gate. "Said. Said if they were allowed. She'd, she'd'a totally paid me. Showed her, fucking-fucking showed her a thing or two."
Jared throws one of Chad's arms over his shoulder and half-carries him to the truck. "Sure. Sure you did, you sly dog," Jared says, sighing. It really isn't worth the effort to make his support believable. Not like Chad will even remember in the morning.
Once Jared gets him loaded in the passenger seat, Chad slumps forward, forehead pressed to the dash. "Said I rocked her world." He muffles his laugh into the sleeve of his shirt and belches grotesquely. After a long moment, he mumbles, "It's okay you're queer."
"What?" Jared stills, seatbelt only part-way to the buckle.
Chad leans against the window, his eyes drifting shut. "You wear too much pink already anyway."
The click of Jared's seatbelt sounds like a gunshot in the silence of the truck cab. "Right," he whispers, turning the ignition and driving out of the parking lot, depressingly sober. His fingers shake on the wheel, and he's completely numb all over but for the remnants of heated handprints still pressing into his thighs.
*
"He cried, Jensen."
"Are you fucking with me?"
"No. No, I am totally not even shitting you. Check the security tapes. He cried. And it took him about an hour and half to get it up. And he fucking called me Sophia. After spending like, twenty really awkward drunken minutes telling me 'Isabella' is the prettiest name in the entire Western hemisphere. Or something. I don't even know, I stopped listening after he took off his shirt. He was fucking ripped. But he came on my knee," Isabella says, head pillowed on Jensen's chest, feet and calves hanging over the edge of his bed.
"Hot dudes are always the crazy ones," Jensen grumbles. "Why can't they just give us a good hard fuck and shut up with all their pussy whining?"
"Honey, if they could shut up with all their pussy whining, they wouldn't fucking need us. I'm just glad I had something pretty to look at while I was being whined at. Usually I don't get the privilege."
"I'm a lot less bitter about not getting off if they're hot. True." Jensen sits up, eyeing the clock. "Don't you have a party in like. Ten minutes?"
"It's a Girlfriend Experience this time. More realistic if I keep 'em waiting with Suzette for a while."
Jensen laughs, cynical. "At least I don't have to deal with that shit. I've had to play the boyfriend, like. I don't know. Five times? Ever? And one time I had to play the girlfriend, but the less said about that one, the better."
Isabella smirks knowingly. "So what were your parties today? Same-old?"
"I had an appointment with a couple in the afternoon. Funny-looking, old, but nice. I'd barely gotten them out of the room when-"
"Oh my god, it was that sex-ass kid, wasn't it? Seven feet tall and built like a fucking brick shithouse?" Isabella rolls over, propping her chin up in her hands. "That friend of Lame Chad."
"I like how we've christened him Lame Chad, now," Jensen says with a laugh. "But yeah, it was that guy." He scrubs a hand through his hair, settling back into the pillows. "He just. Appeared. Just lying on the bed like a Playguy centerfold when I got out of the shower. I thought I was hallucinating. Or suddenly had some fucking competition, you know? But Dennis just-smelled it on him or whatever it is Dennis does, and sent him back here to see me. The kid thinks he's fucking straight," Jensen says, all in a rush. He hadn't realized how badly he was dying to dish about Jared, but now that he's started, he can't seem to stop. "I was trying to sell him on a party, you know, coax him into spending something worthwhile. And he fucking shut me down! Got all pissy and yelled and ran off."
"Maybe he really is straight," Isabella says hopefully.
"No, no. Definitely hot for me. I mean, that doesn't make him gay or whatever. But there's a cockslut in there somewhere. I know it when I see it."
"You probably scarred him for life."
"Yeah, well. I got more than reimbursed for my time. He'll probably go home and fuck his girlfriend stupid, all confused about why he's so horny-everything will be fine, he'll convince himself he's straight and never darken my door again." Jensen grins and smacks idly at Isabella, but he isn't really feeling it.
*
Hiatuses are usually really busy for Jared, and this year is no different.
"I need to be at the studio by nine, if you can," he says, almost dropping the coffee pot while he tries to talk on the phone, feed his dogs, and get himself breakfast all at the same time. He's miraculously hangover-less, but he may very well pass out from sleep deprivation as a result of driving all night and into the morning to get back from Nevada in time for work.
"Sure thing, Mr. Padalecki," the driver says. The fact that MTV is sending someone to pick him up and not just leaving him to fend for himself is certainly nice enough, but Jared can't figure out why he has to be the one to clue the guy in to his schedule. Hosting Room 401 for Ashton Kutcher isn't exactly hitting the big-time, though, so he's not all that surprised, either.
"Honk or somethin' when you get here, and I'll be right out." He snaps the phone shut and flops onto a barstool at his kitchen counter, Sadie nosing around his feet. It's not that weird being without Sandy; when he was filming, he didn't really see her that much anyway. What's weird is being here without Sandy, in the kitchen in his LA house, making coffee and feeding the dogs and nuking some frozen French toast without her hands sneaking around his waist or her crazy bed hair tickling his arms.
The Kinkade hilarity is, thankfully, behind him, and Jared already dreads its premiere in a year's time; every lame chunky-knit hat is another reminder of the series of awkward phone conversations leading up to the messy breakup with the girl he thought he'd marry, and the inevitable downward spiral his life took afterwards.
The moment he and his co-stars got the call that Supernatural was renewed for a third season, Jared started looking for homes in Vancouver and a permanent way out of the hell LA has become, everywhere he goes seeing friends of Sandy's, places they'd been, things they'd done together. Things he doesn't think he can have anymore. It's hard, and it hurts, and he's not sure if he ever really fell out of love with her at all, or if she just convinced him he had. Maybe he'd only loved the idea of her, and that's what he misses now, her normal, sweet, grounding presence that isn't there to keep him from disappearing inside himself.
That's what she got tired of in the end, probably. How she constantly had to drag him back up to the surface, to keep him from brooding and dwelling on shit. Jared's a piece of work, really, no matter how happy-go-lucky he seems. It hadn't always been like that, of course. His reputation for being loud and cheerful and overly exuberant was honestly come-by. It's just that he's been feeling-stifled. Like he's not sure who he is anymore. He's been in a rut since he was twenty-one, doing everything because it's easy and expected and what he's supposed to do. It feels like he's lived this life forever, and it's better to keep on truckin' than to strike out, shake things up. Figure out what he really wants.
He's had the thought before, but when Jared stands in his kitchen with his forehead resting on the door of the refrigerator, Harley licking insistently behind his knee, the memory of perfect lips and freckled skin makes him seriously consider that maybe, just maybe, he already knows exactly what the problem is.
On his second day of shooting in front of a greenscreen with the bejesus ironed out of his hair, Jared sticks his hand in the pocket of his jeans and pulls out a business card, crumpled but readable, that he doesn't even remember keeping.
It's for the BunnyRanch.
*
"You got a call, Jen," Suzette says over the intercom linked into Jensen's room. "Wants to book for, uh," the tinny sound of papers rustling filters across the room, "Wednesday. Uh, Wednesday early evening."
Jensen puts down his razor, only too happy to be interrupted in the middle of a pube-grooming session to make some more money. "What're we talking, here?" he asks.
"Wants to make the appointment under 'Jared', didn't say what kind of party he was looking for, just that he wanted you. I figure you'll squeeze something good out of him when he gets here, right?"
"So to speak," Jensen says absently. Jared. He doesn't want to get his hopes up, sure that it won't turn out to be Closet-Case Jared from a few days ago, back to show Jensen how a real man fucks ass, but. There's always a but. As it were.
"Four o'clock, if you're up for it. Then again, you're always up for it, aren't you, sweetie?"
"That I am, Suzette. Book it." Jensen can't help whistling as he rinses the shaving gel off his balls.
Wednesday afternoon begins just like any other in Jensen's considerable time at the Ranch. He finishes his morning appointment with a shower and he's in the bar by three-thirty, fooling around with the girls and generally having a good day at work. Just after four, the bell rings, the girls line up, and near six and a half feet of scorching hotness walks through the door.
"Jared," Jensen says, bypassing the line-up. He can feel his heart pounding already, horny like he didn't just get off an hour ago. His memory clearly didn't do the guy justice. Or maybe a sober Jared is just that much better looking than a drunk, pissy Jared. Tall and ripped and tan, perfect moles and perfect hair and Jensen was obviously a philanthropist in a past life to deserve this.
Jared's twitchy already, and he's hardly even in the front door. He clears his throat, epitome of awkward, and nods to Jensen. "Hi," he says, and the bunnies make a series of ridiculous faces behind his back, clearly jealous of Jensen and endlessly amused by Jared's aw-shucks routine.
"How about a drink?" Jensen asks with a quirk of his lips. Jared's obviously not taking the lead, here, and Jensen's more than happy to get things rolling. Jared just nods, slipping his hands in his pockets and shrugging like he'd rather be anywhere else. Jensen knows better.
George the bartender slides Jensen a martini, and he sips it as he cocks his hip and leans back against the bar, white tank dragging up his stomach. "My friend here'll have the same," Jensen says, and pulls Jared over, hand firm on his forearm. His fucking rock hard forearm, smooth and muscled and Christ but Jensen wants Jared's dick up his ass right now. Or the other way around, even. He's the opposite of picky at the moment, and more than a little annoyed about it. It's hard to play a good game and work over a client when he's practically gagging for it, but it does happen occasionally.
Jared downs most of his drink in one gulp, and as much as Jensen's enjoying watching Jared squirm, it's kind of awkward when the kid won't even talk to him. "So what do you do? You know, for a living," Jensen says, hopping up onto the stool next to Jared. He rubs a foot idly against Jared's leg, going the coy footsy route. It's nice to play it up when he actually kind of means it.
"Um," Jared starts, staring into his glass. Jensen catches the quick sideways flicks of his eyes, though. He's got a finely tuned sense of being checked out, and Jared's zeroing in on the tight crotch of his jeans, the pull of them across his thighs, the unbuttoned waistband. The rucked-up hem of his barely-there shirt. Jensen smiles, because Jared's ashamed, self-conscious like he doesn't even know he's the hottest thing to walk through the door of the BunnyRanch in, oh, ever.
He likes that; when the sexy ones don't even know it. Not that he doesn't like arrogant pricks, rightly full of themselves and total show-offs when they fuck, but Isabella contends that Jensen's got a Julia Roberts buried somewhere deep under his nymphomania, and at times like this, Jensen might just be inclined to agree.
"Ah, one of those," Jensen says. Some guys just want to forget about everything when they come here. "You can make something up, if you don't wanna talk about it. Or, how about-what did you always want to be when you were a little kid?"
That earns him a little smile, even if it is aimed at Jared's martini. "A rock star," Jared says, and finally looks up. "Eddie Vedder." His eyes are hazel in that way where they're every color at once, and Jensen can't help but smile back, a shiver running down his spine. He must be going delirious with the need to get to the sex part; his cock is stirring already, and it's nice to know he's not completely dependent on Viagra to get through the work week.
"Then a rock star you shall be. At least for tonight." Jensen throws him a corny wink, hamming it up to put Jared at ease, and sips a little more of his drink. Jared falls silent again after that, and Jensen isn't sure how much more of this he's willing to endure just for the sake of getting Jared relaxed. It doesn't seem humanly possible. When he met Jared before, the guy was a veritable font of verbal diarrhea. As badly as that turned out, it's preferable to the silent treatment. "So, you wanna get out of here?" Jensen says, letting his hand rest on Jared's thigh, heat bleeding through his jeans. He can't help himself, and clenches his fingers just to feel the hard muscle give a little in his grip.
"I bet you say that to all the guys," Jared says with a twist to his lips. It looks almost sad. Then something changes, though, like maybe Jared just decided he needs to buck up, and his jaw sets.
"Probably the safest bet you'll ever make." Jensen knows when honesty's the best policy. He leads the way out the door to the hall, grabbing Jared's wrist loosely as they walk. They're only just around the corner from the bar when suddenly he's jerked back, turned, and pressed up against the wall. Jared's eyes go dark and intense, and he's got to be half a nanosecond away from straight-up devouring Jensen.
Jensen throws up his arm, right at neck-level for Jared, effectively blocking him while Jensen ducks away in a lame kind of darting side-step. "Fuck, Jared," he heaves, and gives the safe sign to the nearest security camera. Jared snaps out of it, blushing to his roots. He backs up to the other side of the hall from Jensen, practically shaking, and won't meet Jensen's eyes, like he's about to bolt at any second. "Hey, no, it's okay, just." Jensen swallows audibly, frowning. "Dammit, Jared, you have to follow the rules. This isn't like renting a fucking paddleboat. You can't just do-whatever you want. Well, I mean. You can eventually, but not yet, and not in the fucking hall, and not without talking about it first."
"Shit, I'm. God, you must fucking hate my guts-all I ever do is fuck up with you. I'm so sorry, I don't know what-no, god, that's a total lie. I know exactly what happened. But-" Jared's scrubbing his hand over his face, slumping down the wall.
"Nah, I don't hate your guts," Jensen says, interrupting before Jared can sink too far into his Issues-with-a-capital-I. He sidles closer, then pulls Jared's fingers away from his face, easy touches to show him Jensen's not afraid, not angry, not repulsed. Jensen knows a thing or two about people after all this time. "In fact, I'm kinda flattered you're so eager." He smiles, knocks his hip against Jared's. It's all true. "Plus I mean, I'm pretty sure that was about to be one hell of a kiss. You just save it for ten minutes or so and I'll be balls-deep in the exact opposite of hating your guts."
Jared looks kind of spacey still, but he nods, bites at his bottom lip until it's pink and jutting and Jensen is clearly the luckiest fucking slut this whorehouse has ever had. "Okay, so. Take two, right?" Jensen says when he thinks he's got the all-clear.
"Right. Okay. No touching 'til you say."
"Oh, you can touch." Jensen slides Jared's fingers under the bottom edge of his shirt, flirty smile on automatic. Jared's breath hitches, and it's like finding out the best secret in the world. "Just can't taste quite yet."
They make it to Jensen's room with no further incidents, and he sits Jared on the bed with gentle hands. "So," Jared says, playing with his cuticles like it's a nervous habit and hiding behind the curtain of his bangs.
"So." Jensen pulls off his shirt and starts thumbing at the button of his jeans. "Want to get a look at the merchandise before we get down to business?" He's smiling, can hardly wait to show off for Jared and turn him into a stuttering mess. The rush of power he gets in situations like these is dizzying.
Jared looks up with wide eyes, eyebrows shooting into his hairline. "No! No, just," he swallows audibly. "Don't you need to tell me the whole, like," he rubs a hand nervously over the back of his neck, "deal? Just talk?"
Jensen blinks, feeling his dick wilt and balls shrivel. Just talk, god. They're his two least favorite words in the entire English language. Unless "dirty" is also involved, obviously. "Right. Okay, well. Let me explain things first. You need to pay up front, credit card or check and ID unless you want to go the cash route. Five hundred down for the first hour, flat rate, then we re-up for hour two, and it's only two hundred dollars more if you want to stay. Probably more after the second hour, depending on what you want. It'll be more for some things, like if you're here for-" Jared shakes his head vehemently, and Jensen trails off. He crosses his arms over his chest, impatient.
"Fuck, I don't know what the hell is going on," Jared manages, looking miserable. "I just came here to apologize to you, Jensen. I don't-I didn't-want to do anything. I wanted-need to say that I'm an asshole, that I shouldn't have shouted at you, but things are kind of-"
"Shitty?" Jensen sighs, and sits on the bed next to Jared, his bare shoulder rubbing against the soft, worn cotton of Jared's t-shirt.
"To say the least. I've just been so fucking confused lately, and feeling like I'm-" He gestures expansively, clearly wishing he could find the words but doesn't even know what he wants to say. "Whatever. And I meet you, and you're just," he blushes bright pink, and Jensen smiles. "You know you're gorgeous, you must. More than gorgeous. And you just make everything worse and you say what I'm thinking but don't want to let myself think, and I just." His fists clench on his thighs; he's frustrated and embarrassed and lost. Jensen just nods.
He pretends to listen and be compassionate, knows just how to act to get Jared to open up. And opening up means Jared will be willing to pay more, to be seduced. It's all part of the game. "It's hard, I know," he says, voice soft and convincing. "I'm sorry I pushed you, but I didn't see any of that. Didn't think someone like you would have it that bad." Jensen pulls his legs up onto the bed, turning towards Jared, hunched to look more vulnerable; anything to get the extra hours and extra dough. He wonders if he should put his shirt back on.
"That's part of it. I shouldn't. I've got everything. Big warm family down in Texas, great life and friends in LA, steady work. And it doesn't feel like enough anymore. Like there's a whole chunk of shit that's missing." Jared shrugs, the set of his shoulders heavy and tired. "Every time I close my eyes, let my thoughts drift-I remember you," he says, quiet and earnest. Under normal circumstances, Jensen would want to laugh at that admission, make a joke out of it. Mock Jared. He doesn't now, though. His breath gets tight in his throat and he feels warm all over, even as goosebumps prickle on his arms.
"I think I get it," he says, feeling all twisted up inside for trying to drain this kid dry. And he never feels guilty. But even through the muddled words and the lack of anything resembling eloquence, there's something beautiful about Jared trying to talk, something unavoidably sexy.
Jensen sets his hand on Jared's thigh, tense under his warm fingers. He can do compassionate and comforting, of course he can. Especially when Jared's just so confused, soft around the eyes and strung tight everywhere else. Jensen rubs, not gunning for more for once in his life, actually just trying to ground this guy, keep him from disappearing too far into his own head.
Jensen's in the business of giving people what they need, even if they don't know what it is yet. He moves to grip just above Jared's elbow, runs his hand up the thick curve of Jared's bicep to tuck in at his neck, thumb running, intimate, down to the hidden dip of collar bone. Jensen can feel Jared's pounding heartbeat, the sweet smoothness of his skin, golden-brown and summer-warm, so incongruous to his rough, good ol' boy build, clothes, past. "It's okay," Jensen says, words feeling woefully inadequate. "Nothing leaves this room." He stops, tilting Jared's face up gently, smiling like he means it. Because he does. "Them's the rules."
Jared hands him five one-hundred dollar bills, never once looking away. Jensen feels wrong for the first time ever.
*
After a moment, Jared slides his empty wallet back into his pocket and licks his lips, a reflexive motion he can't even help. His face tingles where Jensen's fingers pressed. He almost can't believe he's doing this, only wanted to come to say his piece and be done with it, but. But. "I just need to know if I-Jensen. Can I-"
"Yeah, Jared," Jensen says, reading him just like that, and leans in, breath soft against Jared's cheek.
Technically, Jared kisses him first, brushing his mouth over Jensen's, tentative and shaky. It's what he wants, though. It is, and it's the first thing he's been sure about in a long time. Jensen kisses him back, shifting up to fit their lips together right. Jared doesn't know what to expect, thought maybe Jensen would kiss like a porn star, all tongue and working jaw. He doesn't, though, doesn't even open his mouth at first, coaxing Jared forward with gentle pressure, kisses to the corners of his mouth and just above the dip of his top lip, all quiet sounds and fingers slack at Jared's wrists.
Jared loses the scant resolve he had, and tips his head just so, lets his lips go slack so he can taste Jensen, the bite of spearmint from toothpaste or gum. He breathes through his nose, slow and deep, taking his time as the tip of Jensen's tongue teases along Jared's lips, over the edges of his teeth, barely-there and taunting him to open up. He responds in kind, pressing closer as his hands slide up Jensen's bare forearms, thumbs brushing over the impossibly soft skin on the insides of his elbows.
Jensen stiffens, breathing awkwardly, and his perfectly in-sync kisses stop abruptly. Jared's instantly worried and pulls back, cups the side of Jensen's face with one hand and asks, "Shit, Jensen, you okay? I'm sorry, I-"
"That fucking tickled, man," Jensen half-wheezes, catching his breath. "I was just trying not to snort into your mouth. These right here," he adds, pointing to the exact places by his elbows Jared had been stroking, "are really fucking sensitive. And you were working them over but good with those amazing hands."
Jared laughs, the tension draining from his shoulders, and runs his fingers through his hair. "Oh my god, I thought I was so horrible you were, like, having a bad-kiss-induced seizure. Good to know you're just a ticklish wuss."
Jensen punches Jared's arm playfully, and scoots back against the headboard. "Shut the fuck up. You really are an asshole," he says, broad grin belying his words. "C'mere."
Jared slides over to sit next to Jensen, cradled by the ridiculous amounts of pillows. Jensen grabs Jared's hand, entwining their fingers for a second before dragging his hand over Jared's wrist, then up his arm, brushing over the soft insides of Jared's elbows just like he'd been doing earlier. Jared smiles, but doesn't laugh. "I'm not ticklish," he gloats.
"Everyone's ticklish," Jensen says, pouting his lips out. They're slick and dark pink from kissing, and Jared wants to bite them so goddamn badly.
"Well. Everyone except me, then," he says, and he's shocked he can even form sentences. He feels like his mouth is on fire, like his nerves are lighting up like a Christmas tree where Jensen's touching him. He's hard as fuck, and there's no way Jensen could possibly miss it.
"Maybe you just haven't found the right place, yet," Jensen whispers, and pushes his hand the rest of the way up Jared's arm, over his shoulder, to his chin. Jared goes with it, letting Jensen pull him into another kiss as if it weren't the only thing he can ever imagine himself doing for the rest of his life.
Jensen's doing everything right. Perfectly, even. And it's just-it's too fucking good, and Jared has to stop now or he never will. He pulls away from Jensen's lips with a slick noise, and removes Jensen's hand from the side of his face, fingers deep in Jared's hair. It hurts, how much Jared wants this, but that's why he can't have it. "Hey, hey, man," he says, trying to remember what he came here for. "I. Uh."
"You're paid up for the next half an hour," Jensen says, two spots of pink color high on his cheeks. "We haven't even gotten to the good part yet." He looks almost disappointed, and Jared can't tell what's real and what's an act.
"No, I can't, um. I can't ever get to the good part. Not like this. Jensen, thank you so much, really. I. You're amazing. You're fucking-yeah. And thank you for helping me figure this out, but I'm not-" Jensen raises an eyebrow "-I'm not this guy. I'm not the guy who slips away after work to drive six hours to a-a brothel. To-you know."
"Get his rocks off with some random rent-boy for a couple hours because he's not man enough to be himself in his real life?"
"Or something," Jared says, lacking conviction.
"An admirable sentiment." Jensen sighs and flops back on the pillows, pulling his hand out of Jared's grasp. "You know, Jared, you're really fucking hot."
Jared blinks at the non sequitur. "What? I mean, thanks, I guess, but I'm not-"
"And I really wanted you to fuck me," Jensen says, completely deadpan, blasé. "You've got a monster cock, I can tell, and I am fucking gagging for it as far up my ass as you can possibly shove it. Over and over. Until you come so deep in me I'm sneezing jizz for a week."
Jared somehow inhales some spit or something and ends up having a coughing fit for a whole minute while Jensen smacks him on the back and offers him some water. "Thanks," Jared manages, and takes a sip. He seriously considers pouring it over his head, instead. He settles for getting up and pacing a little, ending up by the door.
"Sorry, just. You know. You're probably the hottest guy who's ever partied with me, ever, and I was hoping for more than just some talking and making out. Like, a lot more. But I should've known it was too good to be true, right?" Jensen sighs, kicking back with his arms behind his head. He looks over to Jared with a wave, clearly expecting him to leave.
Jared doesn't think there's anything appropriate to say in situations like these. Miss Manners probably never covered hooker etiquette. "S-sorry? You know, you could just go out to a club somewhere and have sex with anyone you wanted. Hot as you could stand. Do you seriously only do it for money?"
"Usually. It's just sex," Jensen shrugs, smirking. "Everyone does it. I'm just smart enough to get paid for it."
*
A long, monotonous week passes. A week during which he hangs out with Brooke and Isabella and Shelly, usually the best girls in the place as far as having a good time goes, but he's bored and listless pretty much all the time. Their raunchy games don't do anything for him, he can't be bothered to expend the effort to watch TV with them, and he keeps to almost entirely online bookings, not up to flirting and putting himself on display in the lounge like usual.
"What crawled up your ass and died?" Isabella says, barging in even though Jensen yelled through the door for her to go away when she knocked.
"I went on a crazy drug binge last weekend and I'm still crashing," Jensen says, voice muffled in his pillow.
"Yeah the fuck right. You won't even take Ibuprofen, you 'tard." Isabella lands on the bed with an impressive bounce, and rolls directly on top of Jensen. "Seriously, is it that fucking time of the month? Spent so much time with us bunnies you start bleeding out of your ass for a whole week twelve times a year?"
Jensen dry-heaves audibly, then bucks Isabella off with little trouble. "Oh my god, I'm going to pretend you never said that."
"I wish I could pretend you haven't been a raging cunt all week," she snaps.
"I'm just sick of fucking ugly people!" Jensen shouts, surprising himself.
Isabella blinks and falls silent for a long moment. "Woah. Random."
"It's that Jared guy," Jensen mumbles, head in his hands. "What a fucking assface."
Isabella gapes. "He came back and you didn't fucking tell me?"
"Suzette booked it, I just assumed she would've told everyone."
"I'm going to have stern words with her, believe you me."
"Anyway," Jensen says, rolling his hands to move the conversation along. "He was here a week ago, ostensibly to apologize for being a jerk, or whatever. And I was sure I could sucker him into a good hard fuck, but he just wanted to kiss and talk and he left after half an hour." He's pouting, but he doesn't fucking care. He deserves a rant.
"Ouch." Isabella scowls on Jensen's behalf, and he feels a little better already just for getting it out there. "That's harsh."
"Am I losing my touch or something? What the fuck gives? He's younger than I am, he's got Cockzilla tucked in his jeans, and he was so obviously turned on I'm surprised he didn't blow a fuse. There's nothing better in the universe to work with than that. I should've had him booking a week-long appointment and shelling out tens of thousands of dollars to keep me on my back through all of it, but I couldn't get a single red cent out of him beyond the flat rate he had to pay to talk to me." Jensen smacks the headboard violently with a fist.
"Maybe he's just so hot he makes it hard for you to get your game working, you know?" Isabella says, all logic. "It happens, Jen. No big. We're professionals, but we're not like. Sexbots. So you lost a little bit of potential income. Or, okay, kind of a lot of potential income. So what? You'll get over it, you'll make it back double when you can get your fucking act together-"
"So to speak," Jensen interjects, already feeling a little better. Isabella just rolls her eyes.
"Right. Anyway, don't get your panties in a twist. You'll be fine."
Jensen nods and swings his legs over the side of the bed. "Thanks. Now go pull yourself a good one; I've got a kinky party in an hour and I have to get ready."
"Ooh, it isn't Diaper Man is it?"
"It's the stomper guy, actually. Gotta polish my combat boots."
"Sexy," Isabella says, dripping with sarcasm. She lets herself out as Jensen starts digging through his closet. He refuses to think about the fact that he didn't even want to take Jared's money-it was a fluke. Doesn't mean anything. He was just off his game, that's all.
And then Suzette pipes up over the intercom, and pathetic hope starts bubbling in Jensen's chest.
*
Part Two