Fic: Aural Fixation (SPN RPF, J2, 2900+ words, NC-17)
Title: Aural Fixation
Fandom: SPN RPF
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: J2
Characters: Jensen Ackles, Jared Padalecki
Warnings: None.
Summary: Jensen can't stop thinking about the noises Jared makes every time Sam gets strangled or choked. Do you know Sam Winchester? That happens a lot.
Author's note: This was inspired by something Jared said at a con. It's a birthday gift for agelade, who encouraged me to start writing J2 so is ultimately to blame. Thanks to Becky for the beta!
Sam Winchester is constantly getting strangled. Vampires, shapeshifters, demons, djinn; it can feel at times like there isn’t a monster in America able to keep its hands away from the temptation of that long, strong throat. Temptation? Jensen uses the word deliberately. He’s developed a theory that the creatures get off on it: not just on the sensation of Sam’s power coiled under their thumbs, but more specifically on the sounds Jared makes while he’s being choked out. Jensen knows these noises well. They begin with a rapid, shallow panting; drop into intermittent groaning as Sam struggles loose; and when he finally frees himself from whatever's attacking him, the noises end in a series of deep, desperate gasps for air that leave Jared’s chest heaving and Jensen dizzy with arousal and shame.
OK. Yeah. Maybe the monsters aren’t the only ones who have it hot for Sam’s moans.
Thing is, Jensen isn’t some supernatural creepy crawly who can write off this weird fixation as just another perverted desire. He’s Jared’s co-worker, his buddy, his best friggin’ friend: his beer-drinking, football-following, totally platonic pal. Their friendship’s the best thing that’s happened to Jensen in years, the best thing about the very good thing that was getting cast on this show. And he doesn’t want to fuck it up. Which is a serious problem: because best friends, as far as Jensen is aware, aren’t supposed to find themselves sitting in the sound truck struggling to hide a hard-on as their buddy groans into a mike. They’re definitely not meant to lie awake in bed imagining, six nights out of seven, the creative ways in which they might coax a similar set of sounds out of his mouth in private. And most of all, they’re not supposed to keep on doing it, letting the fantasy feed like a parasite on the fodder of their everyday lives; hoarding the touches and the smiles and the friendly joking and incubating them into something quite different, reliving and reworking them until they’re all tainted dark with desire. It’s not nice, not decent; it’s just not fair to exploit Jared’s innocent friendship this way.
But Jensen does, and he has, and he is, and he can’t seem to stop.
Thank fuck, he has at least managed to evade Jared’s repeated suggestions that Jensen join him in the gym or out on a run. Jared seems to think it’s because Jensen’s lazy, because he hates working out; and Jensen’s happily fallen in line, telling Jared that he’s locked himself in, with that beautiful body, to a constant cycle of arduous exercise that Jensen would rather avoid.
“Start as you mean to go on,” he tells Jared, patting his stomach; flat enough, but soft and comfortable where Jared is chiselled and strong. “In five years you’ll regret it when you’re still out training every night and I’m fat and happy, kicking back on the couch with a beer.”
“Five years,” laughs Jared. Wouldn’t that be sweet?
The truth, of course, is that Jensen’s pretty sure that if he and Jared ever went running together, he’d end up jumping into Vancouver harbour just to keep himself cool. The vision of it, Jared sweaty and pink in the face and breathing hard, pounding along next to him, shoulder nudging his, is enough in itself to fuel several nights of Jensen’s unforgivable dreams. Inevitably, in these imaginary excursions, things... progress; and dream-Jared’s soon shucking his T-shirt and track pants, pushing Jensen desperately up against a tree or a wall. “Jared,” says Jensen; and the cityscape and the people around them dissolve, leaving a nebulous nothing where all he can feel is the line of Jared’s body against him, all he can hear the irregular huff of Jared’s breath over his cheek.
Shamefacedly stripping the sheets from his bed for the third time that week, Jensen vows that he’s gonna put a stop to it, for real this time. He’s a little fuzzy on how exactly that’s going to work out, but he knows that it probably ought to start with him keeping well away this afternoon while Jared’s recording ADR for the fight scene they shot last week. That was what started this whole humiliating spiral: listening to Jared heavy breathe on cue for the sound on an early episode. It had taken about ten seconds of that for Jensen’s smart-guy smirk to wither, for his tease (‘what is this, a porno, Jared?’) to vanish on his lips, submerged in a rising tide of unfamiliar heat. Horrified, paralysed, he’d sat for the next forty minutes unlearning everything he’d thought he knew about himself, what he wanted and who he wanted it from.
He’s lost count of the times it’s happened since then; the hours he’s spent in that godforsaken trailer, trembling with longing and sick with the fear that Jared must surely see. His lust in those moments is so overwhelming he can’t believe it isn’t stark on his face. But Jared, lost somewhere in his own imagination - probably fucking doing his job and thinking about how Sam is feeling - doesn’t seem to notice, not ever, just keeps up with the gasping and moaning, and Jensen keeps up with the fixed-on smile and the hands gripping hard on the table. Fuck. Even thinking about it has him prickling queasy and warm inside. If he’s serious about ending this ridiculous, adolescent lunacy then he can’t, he absolutely must not go with Jared this afternoon.
Three pm rolls around, and Jensen’s in the sound truck. His headphones are on and Jared is panting violently into his ear. Come on, thinks Jensen. Get a goddamn grip. But it’s Jared’s grip he’s thinking about, Jared’s hands; Jared slowly stroking himself in his trailer or his bedroom, thinking of Jensen just as Jensen thinks always, inescapably, of him. Jared would make sounds just like this, then. Jensen can see him: can visualise the sweat beading in the hollow of his throat, the muscles cording tight in his neck and across his shoulders, the pink inside of his mouth and tongue exposed in the O of a moan. Jensen himself is barely breathing, tensing in sympathy with the Jared inside his head, poised alongside him as Jared strokes himself faster and breathes more urgently and
And then suddenly, Jared, the real life Jared who is standing beside Jensen in the trailer on the set, breathes himself into a dizzy fit and stumbles forward, arm outstretched. For Jensen, the warmth of Jared’s hand as it lands heavy on his shoulder is shattering; it sends a shock of guilt and arousal right through him, tingling horrible and pleasurable right down to his toes. Shit. Shit. Before he’s even properly conscious of what’s happening, Jensen has shed his headphones and flung himself out of the door, sprinting desperate across the asphalt to his trailer. Jared’s shouting and confused behind him, but Jensen can’t stop, has to get away.
Inside, he slams into the tiny bathroom and leans against the wall, heart thudding. His cheek is burning against the cool glass of the mirror and his crotch is throbbing, painful and hard and insistent. No, he thinks, no way: but he can feel himself so close; can feel the shadow of Jared’s hand on his back, the ghost of Jared’s groan in his ear.
Surrendering to his own inevitable weakness, he unzips his pants. He barely has a hand on himself when there’s a bang at the door outside.
“Jensen?” It’s Jared, of course.
Jensen is silent: mortified, caught.
“Jensen?”
Jensen closes his eyes.
“JENSEN!” Jared yells; and that’s it. There’s something, a rasping desperation, in Jared’s voice that just does for Jensen, tipping him finally over the edge on which he’s been balancing so dangerously long. The whole force of all of it, the shame and the desire and the constant, inescapable, suffocating tension between the two, boils down into a burning pool of liquid in the pit of his gut. With only the slightest tensing of his hand, he comes, hot and messy, over his fingers and the front of his jeans.
Just as it happens, there’s an almighty crash. Jared’s made it through into the trailer. Jensen is trapped.
Blindsided, terrified even while he’s still shaking with the shock of release, “I’m in the bathroom,” Jensen calls. He’s aiming for outrage, although he’s sure that Jared must see through his transparently wavering tone. But, really, what’s he gonna do? The whole thing is completely ridiculous: wedged in a cubicle with his embarrassment spattered all over him. He’d be hard pushed to feel worse.
“Jen?” says Jared, “Are you OK?” Jensen almost jumps out of his skin: Jared’s there, right there on the other side of the door, speaking soft and small and apologetic right up against his ear.
“Jesus, Jared,” he says. “I’ll be out in a second.” He flushes the toilet ostentatiously, scrubs off his hands and dabs a towel ineffectually over his crotch. It’s a lost cause, for sure, but he’d like at least to try and preserve a little dignity if he can.
Jensen opens the door almost into Jared’s face, catches a flash of the sweet sweaty scent of him, and watches as Jared falls back several paces into the middle of the trailer. Seeing Jensen out and okay, Jared turns uncertain: eyes lowered, limbs gangly, fingers flexing against his sides.
“Sorry about your door,” he says.
Jensen looks at it, cracked and buckling, cold air breezing through at the sides of the frame. When he looks back, he notices with a sick, dull lack of surprise that Jared’s eyes have made their way to his groin, to the wet stain discolouring his jeans.
There’s a moment when neither of them speaks. Then
“Did you -” Jared begins. He stops. His brow furrows. “What -”
Lost for an explanation, lost for anything, lost altogether, Jensen holds out his hands for mercy, palms up. He should say something, offer some kind of excuse, but he’s looking at Jared’s beautiful face and he can’t bring himself to carry on lying.
“Fuck, Jared,” he says, heavily. “The noises you make.”
Jared’s eyes widen. His eyebrows lift, and his lower lip drops open softly. His nostrils flare.
Jensen’s stomach is churning. “Sorry. I’m sorry,” he says.
Jared doesn’t say anything. His chest is rising and falling, shallow and fast. Jensen shouldn’t look at it, should turn tail and walk out right now, but he can’t bring himself to do it in case this is the last time, in case Jared never wants to see him ever again. So he doesn’t move, doesn’t do anything, just watches and waits.
“The noises…” says Jared, finally.
“The noises. You make,” Jensen says.
It lasts another second, this frozen moment with the two of them staring tense across the trailer into each other’s eyes. And then Jared’s moving swift across the floor and he’s right there, inches away from Jensen with his palms against the wall behind him. Strong arms bracket Jensen’s face, biceps flexing at the edge of his vision. Jensen thinks he might melt with the heat of it.
“Me,” says Jared, and his blue green hazel eyes are dark.
“You,” says Jensen. His voice comes out alien, strangled and desperate, like Jared’s got a hand inside him squeezing the breath from his lungs.
Jared drops his hands from the wall, lands them on Jensen's face; and kisses him, twice or three times, open-mouthed and wet. Dizzy, unbelieving, Jensen goes limp, opens pliant as Jared pushes forward harder, working his jaw.
Just as Jensen is starting to process what's happening, Jared pulls back, breathing hard. His face is anxious, soft.
"You want this, right?"
"Yes," says Jensen, almost stifling on the thick delight of it. "Yes. God, Jared, please."
Jared flashes him a bright, white, grin. He kisses Jensen again, certain now, and Jensen drags himself out of his paralysis and responds. He moves his mouth and his tongue against Jared’s, tastes him new and unfamiliar and terrifying and good. Every connector in his brain is short-circuiting, so that it’s almost all he can do to hold on to reality; and he finds himself clutching fingers into Jared’s shirt, gripping him tight like an anchor when really of course he’s the disorienting source of Jensen’s dizzying, helium joy.
Jared pushes closer towards him, his right hand cupping the back of Jensen’s head, his left forearm braced against the wall. He crushes his chest firm and heavy into Jensen’s own, slots his legs between Jensen’s, presses against him close. They’re tucked so tightly together that Jensen can feel Jared’s heart knocking his ribs, feel the skipping rhythm as it syncs with his.
Feeling that, knowing that Jared’s just as desperate as he is, makes Jensen brave. He moves his right hand up to twine his fingers into the curls at the base of Jared's neck. Giddy with daring, Jensen pulls.
Jared gasps, a small, surprised noise. Yes, thinks Jensen; and he tugs again, so that Jared gets with it and tips back his head to expose the long line of his throat.
“Oh God,” Jensen says, somewhere outside of himself, and lowers his mouth; half sucking, half biting at Jared’s skin, tasting the sweet soft spot where shoulder meets neck. Jared moans, a low sound deep in his gullet. He grips Jensen’s shoulder tight in his hand, grinds his pelvis forward where it’s snug against Jensen’s thigh. Jensen flexes his knee, trying to give Jared the friction he needs; but really he's focused on working with his lips and his teeth and his tongue.
Jared's panting now, really panting, and when Jensen lifts his head he sees a slick sheen of moisture over Jared's skin. They kiss, again, meeting messy and demanding; but Jared’s thrusts are growing more urgent and Jensen wants, he wants. He lowers his hand, fumbling for a moment, groping between them for the button of Jared’s fly.
As soon as his fingers first make contact with the bulge in Jared’s jeans, Jared’s lips fall slack and open and he gives a shuddering little gasp right into Jensen’s mouth. Jensen wants to swallow it, all of it, everything, gulp down the whole moment and keep it inside himself where nobody can take it away. Instead, he splays his fingers out over the front of Jared’s crotch. Jared’s breath catches again as he does it, and when Jensen settles his hand more firmly, he’s rewarded with a shuddery exhale.
“Please,” says Jared, raw and guttural. “Oh, God, please.”
Jensen pushes his other hand soft against Jared’s shoulder, flips them so that now it’s Jared with his back to the wall. He kisses Jared, again, kisses his jaw and the mole on his chin; and then, fingers shaking, he unbuttons Jared’s jeans, notches down the zip and fumbles Jared’s erection free.
Jensen rests his head against Jared's shoulder and looks down into the narrow space between them, disbelieving, looks at the wonder that is Jared's cock hard in his hand. He grips it, slides; experimental and without any real rhythm, but Jared hardly seems to care. He jerks his hips forward, thrusting slick against Jensen’s palm, punctuating every movement with a sharp, noisy breath. It's sweet, so sweet, everything that Jensen’s been wanting and more, so he tries his best to match Jared's rhythm and to feel it all happening around him, tries to memorise the touch and the taste and God, above all, the sound of it.
Jared is still rutting against him, breathing hot nonsense into his ear, yes Jen, so good, Jen, oh, please, Jensen, yes. Jensen thinks, OK, and begins to twist his wrist as he tugs. Jared moans, ah-ah-ah, so Jensen does it again, twice, three times; and looks on marvelling as Jared comes, loud and incoherent, his cock spurting slippy and thick over Jensen’s stomach and wrist. Jensen guides him through it, gentling his movements, stopping finally as Jared drops his head back and breathes.
"Oh," says Jared. "Oh." His expression is blissful, dazed. He slumps against the wall behind him and slides, soft-legged, down onto the floor. Jensen steps to the right, turns backward and follows him; so that they're sitting together, shoulder to shoulder, propped against the wall.
Jared looks at Jensen sideways, smiling full force. His cheeks are flushed and his hair is messy and he's probably the best thing Jensen has ever seen. Just as Jensen’s thinking that, Jared leans forward and kisses him, sloppy and affectionate, on the side of the mouth. He doesn't seem to want to take his eyes off Jensen’s face. Jensen realises that he's smiling, too; and what a ridiculous picture the two of them must make, beaming and sticky and sweaty beside the broken door.
"So," Jared says, "You too."
“Mmm,” says Jensen. “Just a bit.”
Jared’s still grinning. He starts to laugh. “When you just took off out of the truck, dude -”
“Shut up,” says Jensen, without malice.
“You old perv,” Jared says. “All that time I was working hard and you were getting your rocks off.”
“Come on, man,” Jensen says. “It wasn’t like that. It was torture. It wasn’t fun.”
Jared shakes his head, damp strands of hair clinging to his face. He smiles, not sunny this time, but dangerous. “Oh no,” he says. “Oh no. You forget, man, now I know what you like. I’m gonna… Well. Just you wait. You haven’t seen torture yet.”