So, about three weeks ago, while looking at pretty Jensen pictures,
I promised Angela I would write bachelor auction fic. This is that fic, in all its ridiculous glory. How Kelly Kapour showed up and took over, I still don't know.
And she was nice enough to beta her own present, how sweet is that?
Read Me Like a Book (That's Fallen Down Between Your Knees)
RPS; Jared/Jensen; NC-17; 7,681 words.
OK, so he's fully clothed, but Jensen is pretty sure he's never felt more naked in his entire life. Not even during that recurring dream where his sweatpants disappear in the middle of cheer practice and George Clooney just happens to be hanging out in the bleachers eating a hot dog.
Which is ridiculous, because George Clooney wasn't even on his radar in high school, but anyway, the thing is, Jensen has this new publicist. And it is very, very hard for him to say no to her. Jared insists it's because hot girls make him uncomfortable, but that's not it. It's more like here's this fresh new person he hasn't disappointed yet, and that's rare. He wants to keep it intact for as long as possible.
This is how he ends up squinting into the side mirror of a catering van on his half-day off, trying to remember how a bow tie is supposed to look. He's pretty sure the current floppy thing poking out from his collar is nowhere near correct. He's proven right when Jared comes bounding up next to him in ripped jeans and says, “Are you wearing an ascot?”
“Oh, that's it. Screw this, I'm getting a clip-on.”
Jensen starts trying to yank the thing off, but then Jared's hands tangle with his and he figures he might as well let him give it a shot. Jared's long fingers unravel the cloth and smooth the tie's panels down against Jensen's chest. Jensen just stands there, hands dangling uselessly at his sides, feeling all of four years old.
“I can't believe you let Sylvia talk you into this,” Jared says, like he should be ashamed or something.
“What? It's for charity.”
Jared's hands bump his Jensen's chin slightly as he wraps the bow tie around itself. He pauses, tongue sticking out the corner of his mouth as if he's trying to remember what comes next. There's a smudge of sticky fake blood on his cheek that he almost manages to lick accidentally. When he speaks, he doesn't take his eyes off the task.
“Did she wave her boobs in front of your face? Is that how she hypnotized you into thinking this was a good idea?”
Jared finally makes a decision, pulling one part of the knot through the other experimentally. Wary, Jensen glances at his reflection in the van's tinted window. He can't quite answer the question, since he doesn't especially think tonight is a good idea. But, as his agent is so fond of reminding him, he has an image problem, so his opinion doesn't count.
“No boobs,” he says.
He leaves out the part where Sylvia looked up at him with big shiny eyes and insisted that this was, like, the best charity ever, and babbled about saltwater estuaries in a tone of voice he remembered from when his sister discovered dolphins in the sixth grade and tried to adopt one over the phone.
Jared tugs on the ends of the bow tie, looking smug. Jensen's reflection reveals some nice handiwork. Wherever the guy learned to do that, he learned good.
“Jen...” Jared says, suddenly quiet.
“Yeah?”
Jared steps forward, takes over all of Jensen's personal space, easy and subtle, his hand on Jensen's lower back just a little more than a friendly gesture. “Blow it off?”
Jensen lets out a nervous huff of air disguised as a laugh.
“Can't. Car'll be here any minute.”
“So? Tell them you're sick and come home with me instead. They can auction off some other pretty boy. I think Dohring's in town.”
Jared's hand ventures lower until he's practically cupping Jensen's ass. His nose nudges Jensen's ear, breath moist against the sensitive skin there, and Jensen's pretty sure there's nowhere else he'd rather be in the entire universe, but he still has to push Jared away, because hello, broad daylight.
“I promised,” he says, stepping back.
As if on cue, a black SUV pulls into the lot, Sylvia's shape recognizable in the passenger seat. Jensen steps out from between the cars and nods in response to her enthusiastic wave.
“Fine, be that way,” Jared says, leaning back against the grill of the van and watching the way she bounces out of the car with the same kind of amusement his dogs usually command. “You look so fuckin' hot.”
He's probably not talking to Jensen's publicist.
Jensen frowns as Sylvia attempts to herd him into the backseat, circling around like a sheepdog on crack.
“Save me?” he calls out as the door shuts in his face. He's pretty sure Jared's laughing too hard to hear.
So, the thing is, Sylvia is really hot, especially all dolled up and strapless, but she reminds him of a more annoying, high-strung version of his sister, and that combined with hot works out to barely even lukewarm. He shouldn't have listened to his agent. He doesn't need or want a publicist. This is absurd.
“This is gonna be so awesome for your image, Jensen,” Sylvia's saying, and she's sucking down a Starbucks drink with about a million black marker notations on the cup. Her hands are vibrating. “And I totally promise, just this one little local thing will, like, make you for the year.”
Jensen nods, happy that he doesn't have any silence to fill. His nerves are starting to act up and his throat feels like there's a meatball stuck in there, and he'd rather not make small talk at the moment. Or ever. This is only gonna get worse. He runs a fingernail along the trim on the SUV's upholstery and lets her chatter away.
“See, I told you I'd figure out a kickass way for you to get visible without even leaving town. This is gonna be so great, you'll see. Just one night and tons of awesome press, plus they'll all be like, 'Wow, this Jensen Ackles guy really cares!'... which is good because your agent is really concerned about your likeability factor, did you know that?”
“Uh.”
“Anyway, I told him, honestly, what's not to like? But then he told me this random story about bees, and... well, I didn't really get what he was getting at? But the point is, he thinks you've got kind of a prickly thing going on right now, and that's cool, I mean, that can be really sexy - look at Russell Crowe, right? I know! He's such an asshole, but oh my god.”
Her inflection keeps changing, as if Jensen's actually responding. It's odd, but somewhat relaxing - a conversation he has to put zero effort into. If it wasn't for the stiff feel of his clothes, he'd probably manage to zone out completely.
*
So, there's this thing between him and Jared.
He's not exactly sure what to call it, because they never talk about it, but it's been there pretty much since day one, and it has all these little dimensions to it that kinda blow Jensen's mind. Like how even on the weird days where their schedules don't match up, Jared somehow finds a way to spend a few minutes in Jensen's trailer, eating all the raisins out of his salad. And how the look in Jared's eyes when they're bickering about whatever is pretty much the opposite of the annoyance you'd expect to find there.
And then, well, there's the sex. That sort of happened one day and kept happening and now it's just another thing they don't talk about, along with the way Jared's underwear always manages to find its way into Jensen's laundry, and how Jensen sometimes buys dog treats because he was at the supermarket, and they were on sale anyway, and it's not anything special.
It's really not.
*
“Hey, so does somebody own you yet? Can I talk to them?”
Jensen can't glare at Jared over the phone, so he settles for glaring at Sylvia, who is too wrapped up in ogling the waiter to notice.
“No. And also, no.”
Jensen pokes at his salad, sulking.
“Was that second no really necessary?” Jared says.
Jensen wishes he would stop sounding so damn amused about this whole thing. It's already humiliating enough on its own, thanks.
“Yes,” Jensen says. “Like hell I'm letting you talk to whatever psycho lady pays for the pleasure of my company. You'll put all kinds of ideas in her head.”
“C'mon, Jen, I just wanted to tell her - or him, you know, could be a him - to treat you nice. Oh, and to bring you back in one piece.”
“It won't be a him.”
“Oh, really,” Jared says, drawing the words out like he's enjoying the taste of them. “So you read the fine print that laid out the gender regulations for this little event, did you?”
“Shut up, Padalecki.”
Jensen can just imagine him, sitting on his couch in boxers and a t-shirt, dingy socks on the coffee table, cold beer resting against his hip. Heaven, basically. Jensen's socks are itchy and his too-new shoes are making his toes numb.
“No, no, really, I'm interested. Tell me, Jen, what do the rules and regulations have to say about she-males? Or, hey, what if you get bought by a corporation, wouldn't that be fun? Spend the night with Microsoft? Or an animal, I bet that monkey from Friends is pretty damn rich.”
Jensen rubs the heel of his hand into his eye hard enough to see stars. Either this conversation, the fact that he hasn't eaten all day, or a combo of the two has caused his head to start throbbing. Sometimes he thinks there's a switch hidden under all that hair that shows Jared's default state as 'infuriating'.
He looks up to find Sylvia and a few other people from their table peering at him with interest, and he wants to tell Jared to just fuck off and quit ribbing him already, but instead what comes out is, “That monkey from Friends would be, like, 700 years old in monkey years. No way it's still alive.”
“Whatever, McAckles.”
“It won't be a him,” Jensen says again, lowering his voice and cupping a hand over his phone.
He looks around the room at a sea of women, all of whom are apparently wearing similar satiny dresses and these massive ropes of jewelry. It seems to be the style. Everyone is perfectly manicured and sporting a vaguely bored expression. Jensen has a sudden vision of himself up on the stage, and instead of terrifying enthusiasm, he's facing a room full of total silence.
He must gasp or gulp or something because Jared says, “Hey, you need me to come down there and rescue you?”
“You are not coming in here and buying me out of pity. Just... no.”
If the idea of facing silence was humiliating, the thought of Jared's voice cutting through it to announce to the entire world that Jensen's last-ditch backup is his goofy costar is ten times worse. It would be kind of like going to the prom with his much taller male cousin, and trying to pretend there's nothing weird about it. Or something. Jensen's too nervous for analogies.
“I'm not talking about buying you, I'm talking about busting you outta there before they start peddling the goods.”
“Bust me out? It's not jail, Jay.”
Jared laughs. “And you're not a carton of cigarettes. Got it.”
“Very funny.”
Jensen really needs to hang up soon, because any longer and he's going to say yes to Jared sneaking him out a bathroom window or something.
“I can make it worth your while,” Jared says, the words a little muffled, like he doesn't want to be overheard. Which is nuts, because Jared's sitting alone, at home, and that right there is exactly the kind of indefinable weirdness between them that they usually prefer not to talk about.
So Jensen says, “Hey, Godzilla, don't you have a bunch of yummy villagers to terrorize? Better get on that.”
Jared just laughs. “Have you ever even seen a Godzilla movie?”
Jensen hasn't, but he's not going to dignify that question with a response.
“Gotta go, Jay, Sylvia just showed me her tits.”
He hangs up just before Sylvia yanks the phone out of his hand. Turns out she's been paying more attention to the conversation than he thought.
“Sorry,” Jen says, biting his lip to keep from smiling outright at the look of outrage on her face. “It's kind of a... joke... we have.”
“No more phone for you,” she says.
She shifts forward a bit and then tucks the slim black phone into her cleavage like it's something she does all the time, adjusting the neckline so it doesn't show.
“So there.”
Sylvia pats her chest with a satisfied smirk.
Jensen takes a deep breath and goes back to staring at his water glass.
*
It's only after all his escape options have been cut off that he realizes the full extent of how screwed he really is.
Somehow when Sylvia described this, she made it sound like no big deal, something people did all the time. She made it sound like he was the weird one for not being okay with the idea, and Jensen foolishly bought into that because, well, he's used to being a little weird. But now that he's backstage, perched on a folding chair that is about two lengths of wire from falling to pieces, it's all becoming clear.
Panic exists for a reason, and in this case the reason was to keep a local newscaster from making vaguely filthy comments about his ass before selling him off by the pound like a slab of beef.
Good to know. For the record, Jensen will listen to his gut next time.
For now, though, he's stuck listening to Sylvia as she rakes her fingers through his hair and tells him how great he is. He's believing her less and less.
“So, I talked to a few press people while you were in the bathroom. There are some really cool magazines here, like all this alternative environmental stuff and those subversive subculture ones that are so, so popular right now. I'm thinking we can schedule phone interviews for next week, that way you can do your homework and find out more about the cause, you know? Then your name will totally become linked in everyone's mind with mercury poisoning!”
She sounds like this is the best thing that could ever possibly happen.
“Um. That's great?”
“It's awesome. You're gonna be the Angelina Jolie of dead fish.”
Jensen thinks he might have actually stopped breathing at that, thinks his brain might have short circuited and forgotten how to run all those automatic functions that keep him alive. He starts again with a gasp and sucks down some spit, spends a little while trying not to choke to death and hoping that when he catches his breath he'll have created enough of a distraction that she's no longer talking about fish.
Instead she's yanking him up from the chair and smoothing her hands over his butt, and he hardly has time to react to the touch before she's moved on to grabbing his cuffs and tugging the wrinkles out of his pants.
“Uh,” he says, although to tell the truth he's not entirely unaccustomed to being manhandled by girls in party dresses.
“You're on,” she says, quickly brushing her palms along his shoulders and down his back.
Sure enough, the glorified weatherman onstage is wrapping up the results of the evening's silent auction and seguing into the next part of the evening, which is the part that involves Jensen trying not to vomit on his shoes.
“Get out there!” Sylvia whispers.
The host is saying something about marine life and chiseled features. It all makes very little sense to Jensen, but then the guy says his name, so he presses his lips together and puts on a tight smile, and steps out onto the stage.
There's a sea of people before him, blurry with movement. The newscaster says something into his mic that Jensen doesn't quite catch, and most of the crowd jiggles with soft laughter. Jensen chuckles and waves awkwardly at the faces he can see, which isn't many.
It's all kind of a blur, and he can't hear most of the announcer's words - too much echo, too far from the monitors, something, but he does make out, “... dinner and dancing with one of the lovely ladies here tonight...”
He's feeling sort of triumphant about the word 'ladies', but then he realizes the word 'dancing' accompanied it and he's pretty sure he's going to strangle Sylvia, and his agent for forcing him to hire her in the first place, and Jared for good measure. And then himself, for going along with it all. He jams his hands into his pockets and fantasizes about his upcoming multiple-murder/suicide combo (sure to cause an uproar in all the right kinds of press), and that eases the butterflies in his stomach a little, until he realizes the bidding has started and the gaggle of squawking geese he's hearing is actually a chorus of enthusiastic takers.
“Do I hear fifteen hundred?”
Jensen stares at the guy's plastic hair and listens as the voices steadily call out numbers. When they get to five thousand, the bidding slows down a little, and he is suddenly aware of the deep, burning flush in his cheeks as the numbers keep climbing. He's thinking now that silence might have been better. At least then he could have said something self-deprecating and taken a bow, and he'd already be locked in a bathroom stall trying to convince himself that standing on the toilet seat to avoid detection by plucky publicists is juvenile and unnecessary.
Instead he's trying to keep his smile from turning creepy and automatic. He steals a glance offstage at Sylvia, but she's not even watching. Instead she's patting down her boobs and digging his phone out from its hiding place, looking perturbed, like it vibrated and scared the crap out of her. She takes a look at the display and her eyebrows do a kind of twitchy thing before she turns her attention back to Jensen.
Still, the numbers get higher. He thinks he hears someone call out the word 'beefcake', and if he thought his face couldn't get any redder, then that word is definitely all the encouragement it needs.
There's this one redhead near the front, her face lit up by the reflection of a stage light, wide-mouthed and square-jawed and far, far too vocal. She keeps interrupting the announcer (Jensen refuses to even think the word auctioneer), finishing all his sentences with prices called out in a voice that's cigarette-rough. Her hand, index finger extended, stays perpetually in the air above her head.
Jensen tries to imagine what his evening of dinner and dancing with this woman would be like. She'd probably excuse herself to smoke about a dozen times. Then again, from the predatory look in her eyes, maybe she'd invest in the patch. Jensen wonders if he could bring the date to an early close by grossing her out. He could talk about mercury levels and toxic algae and bloated, floating fish. Maybe he'll bring pictures.
Sylvia would kill him. Might be fun.
He sees her out of the corner of his eye, fucking around with his phone, and she might be saying something, but the rush of blood past Jensen's eardrums makes it hard to hear much of anything, although the word 'thousand' keeps making its way through, hammering home the ridiculousness of this entire evening, of people competing against each other to shell out larger and larger amounts of cash for a block of what will probably be seriously uncomfortable time spent in his company. He understands the whole donating to charity status thing, but come on. This is crazy.
It's so crazy, in fact, that when a guy's voice clearly calls out, “Eight thousand,” above the much higher-pitched din, he hardly flinches. Everyone else is clambering for a piece of him, why not let the dudes have a shot? Even if it means Jared was right.
Jensen does this thing sometimes that Jared calls listening in reverse. It's when he answers a question before actually hearing it, so that when it finally unscrambles inside his brain he has to go back and correct himself for having said yes when he meant no, or blue when he meant twelve.
There must be a variation of this happening right now in his head, because it's taken him this long to realize that not only was Jared right about the possibility of guys bidding on his ass, but that the voice currently upping Jensen's price to just under ten thousand dollars actually belongs to Jared. Which makes Jensen really glad they didn't lay any bets on the subject, because damn, he hates to be hustled, especially on a technicality.
And he can't see him, is the thing, can't find him in the crowd. There's just this voice, distinctive and with a hint of mischief, one-upping the strong-jawed redhead every chance it gets, and without seeing Jared's face, Jensen has no way of knowing how to react. Peeking out from backstage, Sylvia's scanning the crowd, too, her mouth quirked up nervously and sending occasional wary glances in Jensen's direction, like it's his behaviour she needs to worry about and not that of the Brazil nut he calls a best friend.
Jensen just shoves his hands deeper into his pockets and lets a little nervous laughter escape. A really hot blonde about two tables back drops out of the bidding war with a pout, which Jensen tries not to imitate. He could have made do with that. Instead, Jared is somewhere in the room, goading the scary redhead into a whole new price bracket.
They fly right past ten grand, and it's mostly her and Jared now, although sometimes if one of them pauses long enough another woman will put her two cents in. What's funny is, it seems like no one can find Jared. People are leaning back in their seats, straining their necks like timid meerkats as they look around. Jensen shields his eyes from the light, but it's no use.
The most horrible thought hits him then. It involves Jared in a pair of heels, with those fake jelly boobs he found so hilariously squishy that one time when the waitress at Mikey's birthday party turned out to be the waiter at Mikey's birthday party. He pictures Jared wobbling up the stairs in giant pumps and throwing Jensen over his shoulder like a sack of flour, and the mortification is so great it actually feels like someone is standing behind him pushing down on his shoulders.
Which is why it's almost a relief when Jared finally appears, heading in the general direction of the stage, edging his way between the room's large round tables. And he's not crossdressed, at least not in any way that Jensen can see. Thank god for small favours.
Actually, he's looking really good. Like, good enough that Jensen's pretty sure there must have been some level of planning involved in this. At least a shower, because there's no more smeary fake blood everywhere, and his hair is sort of artfully flopping into his eyes. And he's wearing a damn suit and a silver-flecked tie and the evilest grin in his repertoire.
The volume level takes a sudden dip as Jared nears the front of the room. Even the host stutters over thirteen five and then pauses, flustered. Jensen's glaring at Jared so hard his eyes are starting to ache. It's sort of a mix of horror and adrenaline and confusion and yeah, throw some lust in there too, because damn if Jared isn't filling out that suit in all the right ways while he slowly tortures Jensen to death. It's what makes this especially cruel.
The goof almost knocks someone in the head with his elbow coming out from between the last two tables, and then he's right in front, and without much of a place to park his giant self. He looks up at Jensen with a little waist-level wave and a quiet, “Hey,” that pretty much carries to the far corners of the ballroom.
“Hey,” Jensen says back. He's hoarse, his voice all twisted around itself. He still hasn't blinked.
“How you doin'?”
“Uh,” Jensen says. He looks out at the sea of quiet faces. Glances over at Sylvia, who is calmly observing the situation, arms crossed and lips pressed firmly closed. “I'm alright.”
“Sorry,” Jared says. “I just gotta...” He makes a vague, rolling gesture toward the host. “What were we up to, again?”
The redhead clears her throat. She's almost directly behind Jared, long legs crossed in front of her, not looking too impressed.
“Fourteen,” she says.
Jared spins easily around to face her and gives her a warm smile.
“Right. So I go fourteen five, then. Your turn.”
“Excuse me?”
The announcer gets back into the game.
“We have fourteen five, do we hear fifteen?”
“Fifteen,” the woman says through pursed lips.
“Fifteen five,” Jared says. He's all casual about it, the ass, turning back around to watch Jensen try to do something with his hands, of which he currently seems to have two too many.
“Do I hear...”
“Sixteen,” the redhead says.
“Eighteen.”
“You can't just--” She cuts herself off, frustrated, and throws both hands up in the air.
“Nineteen,” Jared says, grinning right up at Jensen like this is all a big joke. Worse, like it's a big joke that they share, which Jensen is about 99% sure isn't the case.
“Can he outbid himself like that?” the woman asks, getting to her feet.
There's a drone of conversation that quickly turns to a buzz and then a full-blown hum, so that they once again have to raise their voices to be heard. The host shrugs, gaze bouncing from one to the other like he's watching a tennis match at high speed.
“Fine,” she says, and kind of bites her lip a little before putting in another bid. “Twenty thousand, then.”
She's starting to crumble, Jared can tell, and he's got a wolfish glint in his eyes. His voice is all sweetness, though, when he addresses her. “Twenty five. You should know, I'm pretty much okay with doing this all night.”
“Thirty,” she says, decisive. Angry.
Jensen's tongue is so dry that he thinks it may actually be permanently stuck to the roof of his mouth. Otherwise he'd probably be telling Jay to cool it already, because whatever he's doing, it's not worth pissing this chick off enough that she'll take it out on Jensen later.
“Forty thousand.”
So much for cooling it.
The crowd shuffles and quiets again, and the announcer finds his voice and uses it to try to save Jared from what is obviously a horrendous mistake. The redhead certainly isn't going to do it. She's sullenly going back to her seat, defeated.
“We have a bid of forty thousand. Do I hear forty-five?”
Jensen looks to Sylvia, expecting to find her red-faced and ready to kill, but she's still just blinking out at him, calmly watching. Probably shell-shocked.
“Forty-one? Do I hear forty-one?”
Jared leans one hip against the stage and crosses his arms over his chest. Everything about him is just oh so casual, like what he's bought is just a case of beer and he's waiting for the stockroom guy to roll it out to him.
“Forty thousand going once...”
“Jay...” Jensen croaks, his voice sounding far too loud in his ears, tongue rasping against his teeth. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Forty going twice...”
“Saving some marine life,” Jared says with a smirk. “Whole lot of it, actually.”
“Sold to the gentleman up front for forty thousand dollars. Thank you very much for your contribution!”
There's some polite applause, drowned out quickly by a swell of animated conversation. Jensen's feet feel like baked potatoes. He thinks maybe he's supposed to say thank you, or take a bow, or give a salute or something. At least get off the stage. Getting off the stage would be just about the best thing ever.
The newscaster keeps talking, going over the specifics, again with the dinner and the dancing and all of that garbage, and then Jared just hops right up there and slaps one of his big hands on Jensen's shoulder. For a second, Jensen's sure Jared's about to kiss him, just lean right in, soft press of lips and a possessive hand climbing to the nape of his neck, in front of everyone. But then he just waves at the crowd and leads Jensen right into his publicist's waiting arms.
Literally. Like, Sylvia is wrapping herself around Jensen and squeezing so hard he might be a different clothing size when she's done.
“Oh. My. God. Oh, my God! That was unbelievable. I mean, wow. I mean...”
And then she pulls back and slaps Jared hard on the arm.
“Ow!”
“You!”
“Ow,” he says again, rubbing his arm, milking it.
“You tell me before doing something like that. Got it? And dirty text messages three seconds before do not count.”
“Excuse me?” Jared says, amused and a bit perplexed by the way Sylvia keeps whacking him whenever she speaks. “I didn't write anything dirty.”
She rolls her eyes, but she's still just abuzz with energy. “Well, fine. Plain old text messages, then. But it's an even better story if they're dirty. I swear, my phone's about to start buzzing like Lindsay Lohan's brain on drugs. I can feel it. I mean, this is totally better than just some stupid fish bullshit. Jensen! Say something!”
“I...” Jensen attempts. “Uh.”
“You just became, like, a thousand percent more famous. Seriously.”
See, and this is why hiring this publicist is the worst thing Jensen's ever been conned into doing. Because of course ten times more of whatever he has is without a doubt a good thing, and anyone who doesn't think so must be crazy. Because, no matter what she says, Sylvia would rather be representing the very famous train wreck of a person he's about to become than the slightly boring jackass she described to him earlier tonight. Because, quite simply, she's evil. And she doesn't even know it, which is the worst part.
As predicted, her phone starts jittering around in her hand like a Mexican jumping bean. Jensen can't listen. He just can't. Plus he's feeling a severe need to shove Jared.
“Dude, did you just agree to pay forty grand to hang out with me?”
Jared's hands fly up, mockingly defensive. “What? I was told there'd be dinner and dancing. And dammit, there better be.”
“Forty thousand dollars, Jared.”
Jensen needs a drink. Of hard liquor, really, but water will do, so he starts walking, searching for the table littered with bottles he spotted in the hallway on his way backstage.
“So I eat ramen for a while,” Jared jokes.
Jensen can't help but laugh at that.
“I told you I didn't need rescuing, dork. This is all you.”
“Is that still what you think this is?” Jared says, sly and quiet, fingers pressing into the cream tablecloth. “Rescue?”
Jensen cracks open a bottle of water and takes a long drink. He suddenly starts sorting it out. Of course it's not rescue. Rescue, even the misguided Jared type, wouldn't be this nerve-wracking. No, this is something else.
When Jensen puts down the bottle, Jared's watching him, his chin tucked awkwardly against his chest as he tries to meet Jensen's downcast eyes.
“I gave you so many outs, man,” Jared says, speech awkward at this angle.
He rolls his eyes and then he's kissing Jensen, bumping nose and forehead and bracing Jensen's jaw with his thumbs before bringing their mouths together. Jensen's not sure what he was expecting, but it's barely a kiss, more warmth than anything, Jared's lips closing over his, then pressed wetly at the corner of his mouth, then gone.
It's what he'll remember as a 'you're an idiot and I love you' kiss, because yeah, he thinks he might be seeing the light now, or something like it.
“You're an idiot,” Jared says, and strokes his thumb just under Jensen's ear.
Jensen lets out an awkward yelp of a laugh.
“I know.”
*
So, this thing between him and Jared? The thing they don't really talk about?
Yeah, it's really something.
*
“Nononono, leave the bow tie on.”
Jared swats Jensen's hands away, movements loose and playful after a couple of drinks. Jensen laughs, low in his throat, and tips backwards onto the mattress, attempting to wriggle out of his shirt without removing the tie, which is a little bit impossible.
“So that's what this is all about, huh? You only want me for my fancy clothes? I feel so cheap.”
“Don't,” Jared says, flopping next to him and rolling into Jensen's side like he's giving in to gravity. “You're not cheap. You're the opposite of cheap.” He curls his fingers into Jensen's belt, tugs himself closer.
“No shit,” Jensen says. He blinks up at his bedroom ceiling, thinking it's strange and a little scary, how Jared knows exactly what to say to make his cheeks burn up, just when his blood should be rushing to other places. Jared's lips graze the hot tip of his ear, and when he whispers, Jensen can hear the bright grin there.
“You were very, very expensive,” Jared says, undoing buckles and buttons, then groping Jensen through his pants when he can't get there fast enough. “Kinda like buying a BMW.”
Jensen can only answer with a shuddering breath. He grabs what he can of Jared's clothes, somehow manages to pull his tie off messily over his head, then untucks Jared's shirt, traces the curve of hip bone with quick fingers.
“You're crazy,” he mutters. Makes a muffled 'oomf' as Jared rolls on top of him, tangling their legs together.
“Yeah.” Jared's breathless, laying hungry, harsh kisses on Jensen's jaw. “Total nut job.”
His long fingers sort out Jensen's collar from the band of his tie, and Jensen shrugs out of his shirt just before Jared's mouth finds his, kisses deeper, slower, taste of beer, slightly stale. He's shifting lazily over Jensen, rutting against his thigh and making stifled, needy noises in the back of his throat. Jensen's hand snakes up the front of Jared's shirt until he's pressing his palm firmly to Jared's heart. Jared stills, lips parted, waiting.
“I mean it, Jared, this is... You could have said something.”
“I'm pretty sure I just did that,” Jared says.
He grins and pushes Jensen's pants down past his hips, tries to lean in close to kiss him again, but Jensen's hand remains a steady pressure on Jared's chest. Jared's heart is thumping out a hell of a drum solo.
“I mean before there were thousands of dollars involved. Just a thought.”
“Yeah, well. Now you're officially mine.”
Jensen snickers, and Jared somehow takes that as a cue to start licking at his mouth, which makes it sort of hard to talk or think or breathe. It's probably the worst time bring up the awkward specifics of what happened tonight, so of course Jensen feels compelled to do just that.
Uneasy, but trying to be casual about it, he says, “You think it'll come off as a joke, or...”
“Hmm!” Jared says. He stops, tilts his head like a cartoon character pondering some deep cartoony thought. “Funny, I don't really care.”
He quickly gets rid of his pants, then unbuttons his shirt, tripping up where Jensen has it all bunched together at the bottom and finally just chucking it over his head. Jensen just stares at him.
Puzzled, Jared rubs at his mouth and cheeks like he's trying to wipe off crumbs. “What?” His dimples dig themselves deeper when he looks at Jensen.
“Huh,” Jensen says. “Nothing.”
Jared growls, sharp and evil, and suddenly drags Jensen's shorts down, yanks everything down his legs until Jensen's kicking off a bundle of wrinkled cloth, looking especially dorky in just a pair droopy black socks and a bow tie, his eager cock leaking precome onto his belly.
Its funny how he can't seem to escape the night's humiliation, how Jared won't let him escape, practically forcing the ridiculous tie on him. Yet he's so hard he's trembling, and just the thought of Jared - fucking Jared - letting his voice carry over everything else, wanting Jensen, enough to say it, to show it, has Jensen biting back a moan and trying desperately not to come all over himself.
Jared's fingers graze his stomach, his arms, soft fluttery touches, like he doesn't know where to start. His cock trails hot moisture over Jensen's hip, his thigh.
“God, Jen...”
“Mmm?”
“I just... ugh, that woman, you know?” he says, breathy laugh turning rough. “Just the thought of her and you on some kinda fake date, I just... I know it's dumb but... I couldn't fucking stand it.”
Jensen smirks. “Really? Because I was really looking forward to it, I mean -”
“Shut up. Ass.” Jared licks his hand before bringing it to Jensen's cock, long fingers trailing over the soft skin, then grasping him firmly. Jensen makes a needy sound he can't quite control, hips jerking up in response. “Drives me crazy. God, Jensen, I want... so much.”
“Yeah.” Jensen's voice breaks on the single word, his volume control completely gone as Jared strokes him.
“Never wanted anything this much.”
Jensen can't help the quick huff of breath that comes out of him. His tone is uneven, on the edge between teasing and taunting when he says, “I bet the redhead would have let me fuck her.”
Jared's lip quirks up, and he starts to laugh even as he forces his face into a pissy scowl.
“What did I tell you about talking?”
Fuck, the fake authority thing goes straight to Jensen's cock. It's a little ridiculous.
He grabs Jared's shoulders and flips them both, straddling Jared's hips, hands traveling over the hard muscles of his chest.
“You gonna let me fuck you?”
“Oh, hell yeah.”
Jensen stretches and goes for the lube in the nightstand, then almost tips right off the bed, arms flailing out at weird angles. He recovers quickly, but Jared's laughing his ass off, head thrown back. Jensen sees his chance and goes for it, biting right into the softest, fleshiest part of Jared's throat. He gets a gurgle in response, and then a quiet gasp when he flattens his tongue against the skin, soaking up the taste of salt and a vague sweetness that is all Jared.
He presses slick fingers to Jared's hole, feeling the flesh give a little, then slips a fingertip inside, and Jared's hips immediately tilt into the touch, pushing against him. There's something about how bad Jared wants this, the hungry, open look on his face, that is just too much for Jensen. Sweat beads at Jared's hairline, along his neck. Jensen presses his lips there, feels them sting with salt. He adds another finger and Jared gasps and tightens around him, then slowly relaxes as Jensen's hand twists and explores.
When the tinny sound of Amy Grant's Baby Baby reaches his ears, Jensen's perfectly content to ignore it and concentrate on the body writhing underneath him. But it keeps playing and Jared suddenly snorts.
“S'my phone...” he says, breathless, and he's entirely too articulate, so Jensen crooks his fingers in just the right way, makes him groan with urgent pleasure.
“Don't even think about it,” Jensen grunts. He slips a third finger inside, feeling out the tightness and the heat, anticipating the way it'll feel around his cock.
“No, it's... fuck, Jen...” Jared says, and he hooks his thumb in the band of Jensen's tie, which has twisted halfway around his neck. “That's your phone... calling mine.”
Jared and his stupid novelty rings. Jensen won't be able to call him ever again without visibly cringing at the thought of some severely cheesy song playing on the other end of the line.
The song's chorus repeats as Jensen slides his fingers out, smearing lube on Jared's thigh as he gets into position and slicks himself up. Jared's whimpering and tugging on the tie, the slight constriction at Jensen's throat uncomfortable but not altogether unpleasant.
“I'll leave a message,” Jensen says, and then he pushes the head of his cock inside, his breath leaving him as he stills.
The cheesy music stops, and Jared mutters, “C'mon...”
Jensen goes deep, fucks him nice and slow, and Jared's legs curl up around him, urging him on. Heat coils low in Jensen's belly, making him groan as he thrusts a little harder, a little faster.
“So damn tight, God, Jay.”
Jared's hand twists somehow, winding the cloth band around two fingers and pulling it tight. It digs into Jensen's neck, and his breath becomes rough and pained. He tries to speak, gets out a hoarse little noise, and then Jared's other hand runs through his hair and along his spine, and he says, “You trust me, right?”
Jensen makes a face like he's not so sure, but he lets Jared do whatever he's doing and just keeps moving, fucking into Jared with quick animal jerks it's getting harder and harder to control. Jared's groaning with pleasure, getting louder every time Jensen's cock hits his prostate. He thinks he should probably be jerking Jared off, but the whole bow tie thing is throwing him and if it's already difficult enough for him to have a coherent thought during sex, it's damn near impossible now that he can't get enough air.
When he comes, it's silent and all-consuming, spots pulsing through his field of vision as he empties himself deep inside Jared, shuddering again and again as it rolls through him. He collapses onto Jared before it's through, a solid warmth he lies there trembling against, his cock somehow refusing to get the message that it's over. The cinch around his neck loosens, allowing him to gasp in huge gulps of air. He's dizzy and disoriented, and all he wants to do is kiss Jared forever, so he tilts his head up lazily and does that, Jared meeting his lips like he was expecting it, licking softly into Jensen's slack mouth.
He pulls out, his cock spent and tender, Jared's fingers stroking the nape of his neck. Jared's cock is still stiff between them, every bit of him fevered and tense. Jensen shifts onto one elbow, loose, fumbling fingers grasping Jared's erection, and Jared fucks into his slippery fist, jerking and desperate, and immediately comes with a low groan, spurting between their bellies. Some of it hits Jensen's neck and jaw, and he's definitely stained the tie, which is just unfortunate. Jensen wipes his face up with his thumb; sucks it into his mouth, watching as Jared's sleepy eyes follow the movement.
“That was...” Jensen says, but there's no real way for 'thanks for choking me' to not sound weird, so he just trails off.
“Yeah,” Jared says.
Jensen kisses him again then, hopes it makes up for all the other things that sound too weird to say.
*
He's in the bathroom, cleaning up and taking a leak, when he hears Jared's whoop of laughter.
“What?” Jensen calls through the door, but Jared's just busting a gut and ignoring him.
He loosens the bow tie then unravels it awkwardly. It's not so bad after all - wipe it off with a couple of tissues and he might be able to take it to a dry cleaner without dying of humiliation.
When he steps back into the room, Jared's looking far too delighted. He's sitting cross-legged on the messy bed and holding up his cell.
“You did leave a message,” he says with a wicked laugh.
He hits play and the squawky speakerphone starts up, the familiar voice coming through in its usual bubbly quality.
“Hi, Jared, it's Jensen's publicist Sylvia! I had such a blast tonight, seriously, you are such an adorable little wildcard! Who does your press? You should give me a call, okay? Listen, silly Jensen forgot his phone in my bra, so if you guys happen to see each other, can you just pass this on? I'm on the phone right now with some people at ABC, and they are sooo excited about Jensen. You will never guess what they said. They want him to go on The View!”
“Oh, God,” Jensen says, smacking his forehead into the doorframe he still hasn't made it out of.
The voice on the phone just keeps babbling. “I know, right? I mean, can you think of anything more awesome? I mean, they are on hold right now because I just got so excited I just had to stop, and like, breathe and call Jensen and just, oh my god. This is so huge, I just can't...”
“Shit shit shit shit.” Jensen's head is getting very well acquainted with the doorframe.
“Okay, well I should get back because they're gonna want to know more about the fundraiser and all the, like, fish and stuff. That are in danger. He is going to be so huge.”
Jared's lips are pressed together, trying to hold in his smile, as Jensen crosses the room and flops onto the bed. They just look at each other for a long moment, and then Jensen throws an arm over his eyes and says, “You can say it.”
“You have got to fire her. Right now, before she makes you appear on reality television or run for congress.”
“I know. I know.” He has to say it twice to psych himself up. “Gimme the phone.”