jiggle the slot with the thing, j/j, R
Title: jiggle the slot with the thing, you’re in.
Pairing: Jared/Jensen [Mike/Tom]
Rating: R [mostly for language]
WC: approx 2,000
AN: oh man, I Googled a lot of objectionable things for this story. It’s really STUPID but I had fun writing it, and I hope you have fun reading it. feedback=love.
You can’t remember where you’ve been.
Or how you ended up here.
You’re even having trouble pronouncing your name. It’s a tricky one.
It was Jared’s idea. Well, you think it was Jared’s idea and you’re both going to be too hung over to argue in the morning. So, yeah, this whole - let’s break into Mikey’s place and steal the Cubans he bought last time he went to Mexico - thing? Definitely Jared’s idea. You don’t think you’ve ever smoked a cigar but you’re here, on Mikey’s porch, attempting some Dean-esque thing with your keycard while Jared has a giggle fit behind you; so maybe you just can’t remember that, either.
“Hurry up,” Jared whines, right behind you, his hands tucked under the waistband of your jeans, jigging you about.
“Dude,” you hiss, hoarsely, because the worst part about this? Mikey’s in there, sleeping, and neither of you have the good sense to knock on the door. That would kind of defeat the purpose. “This is fuckin’ art, okay? I’m making art. Step the fuck off.”
On the contrary, Jared steps in closer and his hands move from your back to your front, torturously slow, and you have to stop mid-break-in as one of his massive paws sinks down lower to cup you; you groan, half want and half annoyance, trying not to laugh but a grin breaking out just to spite you. “Dude. Stop. You want to suck on a Cuban in there or just me out here?”
“Is that a trick question?” Jared purrs at the shell of your ear, his bottom lip touch, touch, touch like Morse code. There are no secret messages here; you both know what you want. “This whole criminal thing is kinda hot,” Jared growls and you won’t admit to letting out a not so manly giggle.
“If you’d just-” Suddenly, the door makes a funny clicking noise and you both stop.
“Did you just …?”
You try the doorknob. It turns all the way, stops, and you pull it out, watching with drunken fascination as it swings open. You opened it. Jared laughs and it’s not unlike a horse whinny. Somewhere, in the hazy recesses of your mind, you had imagined getting too horny for this bullshit; taking a taxi back to one of your apartments and fucking until you passed out. But. You opened it. This changes the game, dramatically.
Jared’s howling now, even when you tell him to shut up, shaking his head like this is the funniest thing since Eric getting his hand stuck in a broken garbage disposal. Irony at it’s finest. “You just … and then it … and we’re …” he says incoherently, doubles over, his head on your shoulder for support. His hand is still on your now half-hard dick and although it pains you, you wrestle it out. He’s still laughing.
“Is this motherfucker crazy?” you ask in a loud whisper. “He’s a goddamn TV star and two drunken idiots can break in with a Visa card. Jesus.” Jared’s still giggling as you both stumble in; you’re trying to do that thing Dean does, look around corners all cautious, stay low, hand on your gun. Thankfully, you don’t have a real gun, so you settle for your hands clasped and your fingers pointed.
“What are we doing again?” Jared asks, too loud, and your warning ssshhhhh is probably louder still. You’re bumping into walls and kicking furniture and you can’t even see your own hands in front of you. It’s not like you know every inch of Mikey’s house: is the kitchen left or right, and goddamn, where is the toilet? You really need to take a leak.
“Stealing cigars,” you tell Jared, who’s trailing behind you, holding onto your jacket.
“Oh, yeah. Do I smoke cigars?”
“No,” you answer and finally, finally, you come to a clearing, the moon shining through the window. Apparently you took a right turn, because you’re in the kitchen, the outlines and shadows of bench tops giving you some balance. Mikey’s a bit of an extravagant fella, your own kitchen would fit into his three times over; and all of his appliances are funky, red and black and white and chrome. His floor tiles are chequered and so you stand in one with your arm poked out and say, “Dude, let’s play real life chess like they do in Harry Potter.”
“Yes!” Jared agrees, and apparently he needs to brush up on the rules because he leaps on you like a flying fox, legs and arms spread, landing on you like a 747 and. God. Fuck. You both fall to the floor, you huffing and trying to be angry while Jared giggle, giggle, giggles like a schoolgirl. Oh, God. Schoolgirls.
”Padalecki! This isn’t a fucking convention, you can’t just fucking attack me any time you like!”
“Just any time you like,” he teases, and he’s on all fours above you, sweaty with the booze and the blood circling round inside him, confused and trying to find its way down to his dick no doubt. His hair is falling down into his face and his grin is wide and okay, okay you’re on your back and you think your knee might be broken but, really. He’s gorgeous. He can take you any time he likes. Except. Goddamn.
“I gotta piss.”
“Why?” Jared whines, and his mouth is playing kiss chasey with your neck, you trying to move out from under him while he tries to keep you there; one hand fisting the top of your boxers, every stubborn fibre of you resisting the urge to buck up into him.
“All the drinking might have done it,” you quip, and before he can get in a witty retort [though Jared’s lucky to get out any retort when he’s drunk, reduced to tittering and the desperate need to fuck] something flashes bright and you have to squint your eyes against the pain. Jared groans and falls down on top of you, hiding his face in your neck.
“You dirty little fuckers better not be mating on my kitchen floor.”
You squeeze your eyelids shut, half because they’re hurting and half because you kind of want to disappear now, thanks; and when all the little star-like-dots behind your eyelids vanish you peer up to see who’d spoken. Mikey’s rested against the doorframe, a baseball bat over one shoulder. He’s only wearing sweatpants and his eyes are red and puffy and you’re his buddies, kind of, but he looks ready to beat you up anyway.
“Oh, hey,” you mutter while Jared laughs into your neck.
“Hey? Hey? What the fuck are you doing in my house?”
“We’re looking for Cubans,” Jared tells him, voice muffled by your neck and you squirm because it tickles and you really don’t want to laugh right now. You don’t want to piss off Mikey and you don’t want to piss your pants. Mike’s staring at you in disbelief. His brow is crinkled. You count the lines.
“Looking to spice up your sex life?”
You cough. “Cigars.”
The expressions on Mikes face flash from one to the next, and it’s kind of amusing to watch, feels like a sideshow. “You broke into my house to steal my fucking cigars? Are you both insane?”
“Drunk,” Jared corrects and then finally, finally has the decency to face him, rolling off you, the manoeuvre causing unwanted friction. You really, really need to piss. Your bladder is basically screaming at you. The cold tiles stinging your back don’t help.
“What? You can’t afford your own fucking Cubans?”
“Not ones from Mexico,” Jared pouts, even if it’s a lie.
“They’re Canadian cigars, you douches. I bought them down the fucking road!”
So, the funny thing is, Mikey’s angry. You do care, really, and you feel guilty that you’ve come into a guys home without his express permission and all that but. Well. “I really need to piss,” you say, and you swear it’s the last time, getting up on your feet with a stagger and a sway. Jared doesn’t move to help you, the bastard, and he’s still smiling. Still. Even though Mike’s honing his best Lex Luthor right now and holding a baseball bat like it’s an improvised weapon.
“Wassgoinon?” a voice slurs behind Mike and then Tom’s there and he’s not wearing much of anything, but enough to cover up his Super-Junk. Thank God. You want to run out of here, yesterday, but you don’t want to be rude, so you do a hop, hop on your feet, a little jig. Mike smirks.
“Tweedle ass and Tweedle assier broke into my house.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Even I couldn’t make this shit up.”
“It’s not our fault!” Jared protests from his spot on the floor, and not only is he amused, he’s sporting a fair sized tent in his jeans. “It was pretty fucking easy to get in here.”
“Yeah, man.” You have to agree. “I just jiggled my thing in the slot and bingo. Winners.”
Mike and Tom are looking at you like you have fungus on your face. “What the hell did you break in for?”
“Cigars!” Jared screeches.
“What, the ones he got from the place down the road?”
That’s it. You’ve had enough. You push past Mike and Tom, head down the hall with a crash and a bang, hip and shouldering the walls. You hear Mike say, “Make sure it’s the toilet and not the fishbowl!” to which Tom cries, “Man, that was one time, shut the fuck up!” but you don’t care because you swear your bladder just tore.
You turn on every light, closet, closet, bedroom; when finally, finally you open the right door. You pull out and brace yourself against the back wall with your hand and at last, at last. It’s the greatest relief since Curall. Over the last trickles you hear the boys carrying on in the kitchen, more laughter, maybe Mike says, crazy stupid Winchester freaks, and something heavy falls against the toilet door.
“Jeeeeeeeeeeen,” Jared groans and you can just imagine him standing there with his face plastered against the door, his cheek and lips pushed out. You’re in no state to do more than one thing at once, so you don’t answer him as you tuck yourself in and flush the toilet. When you turn around the door is open and Jared is standing there, grinning.
“Dude. We broke into his house.”
You can’t help it. You laugh. It all seems to hit you at once, like Jared’s tickling fingers at the curve of your calf [bastard knows all your sensitive spots]; and you fall into him, silent laughter, stomach bobbing. He holds you with two hands on your arms and you clutch at his jacket, and Jared says, “We hate smoking,” and this is all so fucking stupid but you’re laughing. You can’t help it.
With control now, Jared turns you round and gently nudges you up against the wall; he may be drunk, but he knows this, and you, like he knows that the sun comes up in the morning. You look at him with half a smile, drag your hand back through his hair, lean in and kiss, kiss, kiss at his face, his chin, his freckles, his nose.
You’re thinking about a quick fuck right here and then maybe something to eat, you’re hungry; and Jared moves right in to push your chests together, talks to your cheek. “We should steal a roll of toilet paper.”
You hope he doesn’t want to smoke it.
-end-
Pairing: Jared/Jensen [Mike/Tom]
Rating: R [mostly for language]
WC: approx 2,000
AN: oh man, I Googled a lot of objectionable things for this story. It’s really STUPID but I had fun writing it, and I hope you have fun reading it. feedback=love.
You can’t remember where you’ve been.
Or how you ended up here.
You’re even having trouble pronouncing your name. It’s a tricky one.
It was Jared’s idea. Well, you think it was Jared’s idea and you’re both going to be too hung over to argue in the morning. So, yeah, this whole - let’s break into Mikey’s place and steal the Cubans he bought last time he went to Mexico - thing? Definitely Jared’s idea. You don’t think you’ve ever smoked a cigar but you’re here, on Mikey’s porch, attempting some Dean-esque thing with your keycard while Jared has a giggle fit behind you; so maybe you just can’t remember that, either.
“Hurry up,” Jared whines, right behind you, his hands tucked under the waistband of your jeans, jigging you about.
“Dude,” you hiss, hoarsely, because the worst part about this? Mikey’s in there, sleeping, and neither of you have the good sense to knock on the door. That would kind of defeat the purpose. “This is fuckin’ art, okay? I’m making art. Step the fuck off.”
On the contrary, Jared steps in closer and his hands move from your back to your front, torturously slow, and you have to stop mid-break-in as one of his massive paws sinks down lower to cup you; you groan, half want and half annoyance, trying not to laugh but a grin breaking out just to spite you. “Dude. Stop. You want to suck on a Cuban in there or just me out here?”
“Is that a trick question?” Jared purrs at the shell of your ear, his bottom lip touch, touch, touch like Morse code. There are no secret messages here; you both know what you want. “This whole criminal thing is kinda hot,” Jared growls and you won’t admit to letting out a not so manly giggle.
“If you’d just-” Suddenly, the door makes a funny clicking noise and you both stop.
“Did you just …?”
You try the doorknob. It turns all the way, stops, and you pull it out, watching with drunken fascination as it swings open. You opened it. Jared laughs and it’s not unlike a horse whinny. Somewhere, in the hazy recesses of your mind, you had imagined getting too horny for this bullshit; taking a taxi back to one of your apartments and fucking until you passed out. But. You opened it. This changes the game, dramatically.
Jared’s howling now, even when you tell him to shut up, shaking his head like this is the funniest thing since Eric getting his hand stuck in a broken garbage disposal. Irony at it’s finest. “You just … and then it … and we’re …” he says incoherently, doubles over, his head on your shoulder for support. His hand is still on your now half-hard dick and although it pains you, you wrestle it out. He’s still laughing.
“Is this motherfucker crazy?” you ask in a loud whisper. “He’s a goddamn TV star and two drunken idiots can break in with a Visa card. Jesus.” Jared’s still giggling as you both stumble in; you’re trying to do that thing Dean does, look around corners all cautious, stay low, hand on your gun. Thankfully, you don’t have a real gun, so you settle for your hands clasped and your fingers pointed.
“What are we doing again?” Jared asks, too loud, and your warning ssshhhhh is probably louder still. You’re bumping into walls and kicking furniture and you can’t even see your own hands in front of you. It’s not like you know every inch of Mikey’s house: is the kitchen left or right, and goddamn, where is the toilet? You really need to take a leak.
“Stealing cigars,” you tell Jared, who’s trailing behind you, holding onto your jacket.
“Oh, yeah. Do I smoke cigars?”
“No,” you answer and finally, finally, you come to a clearing, the moon shining through the window. Apparently you took a right turn, because you’re in the kitchen, the outlines and shadows of bench tops giving you some balance. Mikey’s a bit of an extravagant fella, your own kitchen would fit into his three times over; and all of his appliances are funky, red and black and white and chrome. His floor tiles are chequered and so you stand in one with your arm poked out and say, “Dude, let’s play real life chess like they do in Harry Potter.”
“Yes!” Jared agrees, and apparently he needs to brush up on the rules because he leaps on you like a flying fox, legs and arms spread, landing on you like a 747 and. God. Fuck. You both fall to the floor, you huffing and trying to be angry while Jared giggle, giggle, giggles like a schoolgirl. Oh, God. Schoolgirls.
”Padalecki! This isn’t a fucking convention, you can’t just fucking attack me any time you like!”
“Just any time you like,” he teases, and he’s on all fours above you, sweaty with the booze and the blood circling round inside him, confused and trying to find its way down to his dick no doubt. His hair is falling down into his face and his grin is wide and okay, okay you’re on your back and you think your knee might be broken but, really. He’s gorgeous. He can take you any time he likes. Except. Goddamn.
“I gotta piss.”
“Why?” Jared whines, and his mouth is playing kiss chasey with your neck, you trying to move out from under him while he tries to keep you there; one hand fisting the top of your boxers, every stubborn fibre of you resisting the urge to buck up into him.
“All the drinking might have done it,” you quip, and before he can get in a witty retort [though Jared’s lucky to get out any retort when he’s drunk, reduced to tittering and the desperate need to fuck] something flashes bright and you have to squint your eyes against the pain. Jared groans and falls down on top of you, hiding his face in your neck.
“You dirty little fuckers better not be mating on my kitchen floor.”
You squeeze your eyelids shut, half because they’re hurting and half because you kind of want to disappear now, thanks; and when all the little star-like-dots behind your eyelids vanish you peer up to see who’d spoken. Mikey’s rested against the doorframe, a baseball bat over one shoulder. He’s only wearing sweatpants and his eyes are red and puffy and you’re his buddies, kind of, but he looks ready to beat you up anyway.
“Oh, hey,” you mutter while Jared laughs into your neck.
“Hey? Hey? What the fuck are you doing in my house?”
“We’re looking for Cubans,” Jared tells him, voice muffled by your neck and you squirm because it tickles and you really don’t want to laugh right now. You don’t want to piss off Mikey and you don’t want to piss your pants. Mike’s staring at you in disbelief. His brow is crinkled. You count the lines.
“Looking to spice up your sex life?”
You cough. “Cigars.”
The expressions on Mikes face flash from one to the next, and it’s kind of amusing to watch, feels like a sideshow. “You broke into my house to steal my fucking cigars? Are you both insane?”
“Drunk,” Jared corrects and then finally, finally has the decency to face him, rolling off you, the manoeuvre causing unwanted friction. You really, really need to piss. Your bladder is basically screaming at you. The cold tiles stinging your back don’t help.
“What? You can’t afford your own fucking Cubans?”
“Not ones from Mexico,” Jared pouts, even if it’s a lie.
“They’re Canadian cigars, you douches. I bought them down the fucking road!”
So, the funny thing is, Mikey’s angry. You do care, really, and you feel guilty that you’ve come into a guys home without his express permission and all that but. Well. “I really need to piss,” you say, and you swear it’s the last time, getting up on your feet with a stagger and a sway. Jared doesn’t move to help you, the bastard, and he’s still smiling. Still. Even though Mike’s honing his best Lex Luthor right now and holding a baseball bat like it’s an improvised weapon.
“Wassgoinon?” a voice slurs behind Mike and then Tom’s there and he’s not wearing much of anything, but enough to cover up his Super-Junk. Thank God. You want to run out of here, yesterday, but you don’t want to be rude, so you do a hop, hop on your feet, a little jig. Mike smirks.
“Tweedle ass and Tweedle assier broke into my house.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Even I couldn’t make this shit up.”
“It’s not our fault!” Jared protests from his spot on the floor, and not only is he amused, he’s sporting a fair sized tent in his jeans. “It was pretty fucking easy to get in here.”
“Yeah, man.” You have to agree. “I just jiggled my thing in the slot and bingo. Winners.”
Mike and Tom are looking at you like you have fungus on your face. “What the hell did you break in for?”
“Cigars!” Jared screeches.
“What, the ones he got from the place down the road?”
That’s it. You’ve had enough. You push past Mike and Tom, head down the hall with a crash and a bang, hip and shouldering the walls. You hear Mike say, “Make sure it’s the toilet and not the fishbowl!” to which Tom cries, “Man, that was one time, shut the fuck up!” but you don’t care because you swear your bladder just tore.
You turn on every light, closet, closet, bedroom; when finally, finally you open the right door. You pull out and brace yourself against the back wall with your hand and at last, at last. It’s the greatest relief since Curall. Over the last trickles you hear the boys carrying on in the kitchen, more laughter, maybe Mike says, crazy stupid Winchester freaks, and something heavy falls against the toilet door.
“Jeeeeeeeeeeen,” Jared groans and you can just imagine him standing there with his face plastered against the door, his cheek and lips pushed out. You’re in no state to do more than one thing at once, so you don’t answer him as you tuck yourself in and flush the toilet. When you turn around the door is open and Jared is standing there, grinning.
“Dude. We broke into his house.”
You can’t help it. You laugh. It all seems to hit you at once, like Jared’s tickling fingers at the curve of your calf [bastard knows all your sensitive spots]; and you fall into him, silent laughter, stomach bobbing. He holds you with two hands on your arms and you clutch at his jacket, and Jared says, “We hate smoking,” and this is all so fucking stupid but you’re laughing. You can’t help it.
With control now, Jared turns you round and gently nudges you up against the wall; he may be drunk, but he knows this, and you, like he knows that the sun comes up in the morning. You look at him with half a smile, drag your hand back through his hair, lean in and kiss, kiss, kiss at his face, his chin, his freckles, his nose.
You’re thinking about a quick fuck right here and then maybe something to eat, you’re hungry; and Jared moves right in to push your chests together, talks to your cheek. “We should steal a roll of toilet paper.”
You hope he doesn’t want to smoke it.
-end-