Snippet: Smoke Gets In Your Eyes (J2, R)
Um. _mournthewicked made me do this. Or rather, it is her fault that the entire concept of Prohibition!J2 has been stuck in my head for days now. This is just porn, so it should basically make sense out of context, but the context...may yet appear in a fic that will probably need to be A MILLION WORDS LONG. En bref: Jensen is a rumrunner, Misha owns a speakeasy, Jared is an orphaned 17-year-old newsboy Misha rescued off the street. Jensen meets him when he gets back from one of his illegal alcohol runs, and then they dun sex.
Like I said, en bref. Uh, on second thought, this probably makes no sense. Move along, move along. ;)
Jared's gotten the knack of rolling them now, tongue flashing pink as he dampens the paper, tamps it down and holds out the finished article for Jensen to light.
"Shoddy," Jensen chastises, because he has to, and Jared flashes a grin, tossing his hair out of his eyes.
"It's perfect, and you know it," he counters. "Now: got a light? Sir?"
"What'll you give me?" Jensen shoots back, smiling idly.
Jared's eyes flash green, as Jensen knew they would. It's what happens when Jared's rising to a challenge, and this kid rises like the goddamn tide.
Jensen's fedora is still on the bedpost where he put it, three hours and as many fucks ago. Jared flicks at it deftly with his toes - which are freakishly, stupidly dexterous - and catches it on a raised knee, then spreads his arms like a circus performer seeking applause. Jensen snorts.
"And?"
"Impatient," Jared says, teasing. Christ, he's getting above himself, Jensen thinks, and ignores the strange warm rush pooling in the pit of his stomach, the unaccustomed sense of fondness. He's just a kid showing off, and not especially impressively. That's all.
Except that, when Jared smirks and jams the hat onto his head - when he leans back against the headboard and unfurls himself, all long tan limbs and cock hardening again - he's - okay, he's kind of impressive. Jensen shifts, debating for a moment, and then swings a leg over to straddle him.
Jared makes a little surprised sound in his throat, but he's grinning still more broadly now, like the little alley-cat that's gotten the cream. Jensen'll show him.
The cigarette's still loose between Jared's fingers. Jensen leans forward, retracts it with his lips and rolls it to the corner of his mouth with his tongue while his fingers find Jared's wrists and encircle them. Jared laughs a little, body shifting slightly under Jensen's.
"That's mine," he says, gently. Jensen only quirks an eyebrow and leans forward, pushing Jared's hands up and back, over his head. Against the bedposts.
"Gotta earn it," he says, drawling a little around the cigarette. "My tobacco, wasn't it? Hold 'em."
Jared, to his credit, doesn't move when Jensen leans away in search of his long-abandoned tie, pale green and pure silk like Jared had never come across before Misha'd scooped him up like a lost kitten from his streetcorner. When he returns, Jared's smirking at him still, but he's breathing quick and shallow, chest shifting with it. When Jensen coils one end of the tie around the bedpost, catching Jared's wrist in the process, the breaths shiver out in a soft moan.
"Hey," Jensen chides, low. "Still, you hear me?"
The combination of long tie and narrow bed make it easy enough to reach across and bind Jared's other wrist firm against its pinion, the silk sliding whisper-smooth under his hands. Jared tips his head back, eyes glassy, mouth half-open, and Jensen takes the opportunity to indulge himself briefly, rocking down against him.
"Jensen," Jared protests, rolling his hips pointedly.
"Oh, right," Jensen says, in mock apology. "You wanted something, didn't you?"
His lighter, his favourite with his initials on it, is on the bedstand and Jensen leans over, lights up the cigarette between his lips. "I don't know if you can manage this with no hands, Jay," he says, pensively. He takes a long draw: blows the smoke out in a slow blue curl, and Jared makes a frustrated sound, bucks up against Jensen again.
"And whose fault is that?" he demands. Jensen grins.
"You say that like it's an insurmountable problem, baby," he says. "I'm an entrepeneur, you know. Real problem-solver, so they say."
His next draw is deliberate, smooth and long, lips forming an exaggerated 'o' around the cigarette just so Jared's eyes will go straight to it. There's sweat licking the hollow of his throat, now; he's leaking, pearly slick against his belly. Jensen had forgotten how easy kids are to rile up.
When he leans in, Jared's waiting for him, mouth giving soft under Jensen's, opening wide for him. Jensen cups his jaw and exhales, thick sweet smoke pouring out of his mouth and into Jared's, throat working under Jensen's thumb as he swallows. When it's gone, Jared presses up against him and Jensen leans in obligingly, fucking his tongue into Jared's mouth, deep wet thrust of it right to his back teeth.
The shifting increases, Jared's hips rocking into his, Jared making tight little breathy noises in his throat, and Jensen knows just how long he can press it; just how long before breaking away, leaning back on his heels and out of Jared's reach.
Underneath him, Jared's dark-eyed and flushed, hair sweat-dampened at his temples. Jensen studies him lazily; takes another draw on the cigarette, and Jared shifts again, whimpers irritably. "Jen," he protests, and it's not more nicotine he wants. Jensen knows that much.
And that's just tough luck. Jensen's having too much fun to back off now.
"Another?" he offers innocently, raising the cigarette. Jared rolls his eyes.
"I'm done," he says, curtly. "Jen - "
"Aw," Jensen cuts him off, in the same calm tones as before. "But I'm not. Guess you'll just have to wait, won't you?"
He sees the precise moment when understanding dawns on Jared in the drawing-together of his brows, the way his hips hitch helplessly. Jensen smiles at him, nods a little, and Jared tenses his shoulders; breathes out long and shuddering and opens his mouth.
Jensen's stomach spikes a little at that, a bloom of heat that rips through his gut like shrapnel. God, the boy's a fast learner. He knows what Jensen's game is, here; knows he'll have to wait, and yet - he will. For Jensen. Shit.
"Attaboy," Jensen says, and if his voice is a little rough around the edges, nobody could blame him. He sets the cigarette between his lips again; takes another pull. "Ready?"
Jared is.
*
not cross-posted anywhere because of too much crazy.
Like I said, en bref. Uh, on second thought, this probably makes no sense. Move along, move along. ;)
Jared's gotten the knack of rolling them now, tongue flashing pink as he dampens the paper, tamps it down and holds out the finished article for Jensen to light.
"Shoddy," Jensen chastises, because he has to, and Jared flashes a grin, tossing his hair out of his eyes.
"It's perfect, and you know it," he counters. "Now: got a light? Sir?"
"What'll you give me?" Jensen shoots back, smiling idly.
Jared's eyes flash green, as Jensen knew they would. It's what happens when Jared's rising to a challenge, and this kid rises like the goddamn tide.
Jensen's fedora is still on the bedpost where he put it, three hours and as many fucks ago. Jared flicks at it deftly with his toes - which are freakishly, stupidly dexterous - and catches it on a raised knee, then spreads his arms like a circus performer seeking applause. Jensen snorts.
"And?"
"Impatient," Jared says, teasing. Christ, he's getting above himself, Jensen thinks, and ignores the strange warm rush pooling in the pit of his stomach, the unaccustomed sense of fondness. He's just a kid showing off, and not especially impressively. That's all.
Except that, when Jared smirks and jams the hat onto his head - when he leans back against the headboard and unfurls himself, all long tan limbs and cock hardening again - he's - okay, he's kind of impressive. Jensen shifts, debating for a moment, and then swings a leg over to straddle him.
Jared makes a little surprised sound in his throat, but he's grinning still more broadly now, like the little alley-cat that's gotten the cream. Jensen'll show him.
The cigarette's still loose between Jared's fingers. Jensen leans forward, retracts it with his lips and rolls it to the corner of his mouth with his tongue while his fingers find Jared's wrists and encircle them. Jared laughs a little, body shifting slightly under Jensen's.
"That's mine," he says, gently. Jensen only quirks an eyebrow and leans forward, pushing Jared's hands up and back, over his head. Against the bedposts.
"Gotta earn it," he says, drawling a little around the cigarette. "My tobacco, wasn't it? Hold 'em."
Jared, to his credit, doesn't move when Jensen leans away in search of his long-abandoned tie, pale green and pure silk like Jared had never come across before Misha'd scooped him up like a lost kitten from his streetcorner. When he returns, Jared's smirking at him still, but he's breathing quick and shallow, chest shifting with it. When Jensen coils one end of the tie around the bedpost, catching Jared's wrist in the process, the breaths shiver out in a soft moan.
"Hey," Jensen chides, low. "Still, you hear me?"
The combination of long tie and narrow bed make it easy enough to reach across and bind Jared's other wrist firm against its pinion, the silk sliding whisper-smooth under his hands. Jared tips his head back, eyes glassy, mouth half-open, and Jensen takes the opportunity to indulge himself briefly, rocking down against him.
"Jensen," Jared protests, rolling his hips pointedly.
"Oh, right," Jensen says, in mock apology. "You wanted something, didn't you?"
His lighter, his favourite with his initials on it, is on the bedstand and Jensen leans over, lights up the cigarette between his lips. "I don't know if you can manage this with no hands, Jay," he says, pensively. He takes a long draw: blows the smoke out in a slow blue curl, and Jared makes a frustrated sound, bucks up against Jensen again.
"And whose fault is that?" he demands. Jensen grins.
"You say that like it's an insurmountable problem, baby," he says. "I'm an entrepeneur, you know. Real problem-solver, so they say."
His next draw is deliberate, smooth and long, lips forming an exaggerated 'o' around the cigarette just so Jared's eyes will go straight to it. There's sweat licking the hollow of his throat, now; he's leaking, pearly slick against his belly. Jensen had forgotten how easy kids are to rile up.
When he leans in, Jared's waiting for him, mouth giving soft under Jensen's, opening wide for him. Jensen cups his jaw and exhales, thick sweet smoke pouring out of his mouth and into Jared's, throat working under Jensen's thumb as he swallows. When it's gone, Jared presses up against him and Jensen leans in obligingly, fucking his tongue into Jared's mouth, deep wet thrust of it right to his back teeth.
The shifting increases, Jared's hips rocking into his, Jared making tight little breathy noises in his throat, and Jensen knows just how long he can press it; just how long before breaking away, leaning back on his heels and out of Jared's reach.
Underneath him, Jared's dark-eyed and flushed, hair sweat-dampened at his temples. Jensen studies him lazily; takes another draw on the cigarette, and Jared shifts again, whimpers irritably. "Jen," he protests, and it's not more nicotine he wants. Jensen knows that much.
And that's just tough luck. Jensen's having too much fun to back off now.
"Another?" he offers innocently, raising the cigarette. Jared rolls his eyes.
"I'm done," he says, curtly. "Jen - "
"Aw," Jensen cuts him off, in the same calm tones as before. "But I'm not. Guess you'll just have to wait, won't you?"
He sees the precise moment when understanding dawns on Jared in the drawing-together of his brows, the way his hips hitch helplessly. Jensen smiles at him, nods a little, and Jared tenses his shoulders; breathes out long and shuddering and opens his mouth.
Jensen's stomach spikes a little at that, a bloom of heat that rips through his gut like shrapnel. God, the boy's a fast learner. He knows what Jensen's game is, here; knows he'll have to wait, and yet - he will. For Jensen. Shit.
"Attaboy," Jensen says, and if his voice is a little rough around the edges, nobody could blame him. He sets the cigarette between his lips again; takes another pull. "Ready?"
Jared is.
*
not cross-posted anywhere because of too much crazy.