Fic: Texts From Last Night
....ohdeargod. It happened.
I may or may not have written J2 porn.
I HAVE AN OUT, OKAY? This is for chica_charlie, because she's adorable and awesome and having a really bad day.
DO NOT JUDGE ME. *flees*
Title: Texts From Last Night
Pairing: Jared/Jensen (I know, I know. HYPOCRITE, they cried.)
Rating: NC-17
Genre: This is completely PWP. And a little crack - Jensen + bubble bath. Just sayin'.
Word Count: 3,166
Disclaimer: Oh come on, do I really have to say it? I'm already embarrassed enough that I wrote the goddamn thing. >.o I am a lying liar who lies.
Summary: A nice Cabernet with a vodka chaser... not a good idea.
Notes: Okay. *cough* This is for chica_charlie, because she needs a hug. And since hugs are not within my jurisdiction to give, damn long-distance internet, I provide porn in their stead. Capice? I hope this makes you feel a little better, bb. *keeses*
~ ~ ~
Jensen’s just settled into his nice, warm, comforting, pleasantly-scented-with-just-the-right-amount-of-masculinity bubble bath when his fucking phone rings, the too-familiar jingle of The B-52’s screaming through what was supposed to be a tranquil silence. He doesn’t have to look to know who it is. Who else but Jared would demand to have the twanging beats of Rock Lobster as their caller ID?
“I’ve got to get you a new ID tone,” he says flatly, settling down onto his back into a swirl of steaming water.
“I can’t do it anymore.”
Jensen blinks. “Uh. I think you dialed the wrong number, Jay. Suicide hotline is 1-800-“
“She’s driving me crazy,” Jared cuts in, exasperated. “I thought I could do it but I just can’t, Jen. I can’t. I’m gonna rip my hair out over this shit.”
“Don’t do that,” Jensen sighs. “You have nice hair.” He squeezes bubbles from his sea sponge. “What’s going on, Jay?”
Jared gives a melodramatic sigh. “It’s Sadie.”
Jensen rolls his eyes. Glances at his watch. Sips his wine with an approving hum.
“She misses you. She won’t stop - staring at me, and I feel, I don’t know. I feel like I set her favorite toy on fire or drowned a nun or something. She’s so soulful, and I swear she’s crying.”
“Like whimpering?”
“Like crying crying, with the tears and the - and the snot.” When Jared gives a quiet noise of disgust, Jensen pictures him swiping one of those bear mitts he likes to call hands down the leg of his jeans, streaking the denim with gross sticky dog drool. He smiles to himself; it’s something he’s seen far too often, and yet not enough, through X number of years living with the guy. “Seriously,” Jared says, whiplashing Jensen back to the present. “There’s tears. I’m not even lying.”
Jensen snorts. “Dogs don’t cry.”
“Yes they do.”
“Nnh-nnh,” Jensen says through another swallow of sauvignon. California reserve, vintage 2004. A little piney behind the forefront of cherries and oak. It’s not bad. “No tear ducts,” he finishes.
“Augh, whatever, she’s crying, tear ducts or not. I think I should bring her over.”
Suddenly the wall and Jensen’s bathwater - goddammit - are spattered with deep maroon splotches. “Now?” he coughs. “Dude, it’s eleven at night. We gotta shoot in the morning.”
“So?” Jared challenges, and grrrhhf Jensen hates when he does that - gets that snarky fourteen-year-old princess attitude to his voice. He’s been a brat his whole life, never accustomed to not getting what he wants. And, well, Jensen’s never been good at telling him no, so logic train follows that Jensen’s already pulling the stopper out of the drain and sponging bubbles off his body by the time Jared says anything else.
“Are you doing anything?” he asks, obviously just for amusement. The little bastard’s milking his victory a little longer, Jensen thinks. Spoiled fucking brat, is what he was. Gloating and all. Sometimes Jensen resents him for it, but then they’ll punch each other in the arm and start going at it, jabbing elbows and knuckling skulls, usually breaking at least one fragile object, before they’ll spread out on their backs and laugh laugh laugh about it till their chests ache so fucking bad they’ll be sore the next day.
“I’m, uh - no, just -“ Jensen stutters. Having a glass of rosé and a bubble bath doesn’t quite sound manly enough, so he settles on, “Watchin’ TV, havin’ a beer. You know. Winding down.”
“Is that water?”
Jensen balls a fist and, as stupid as it might be, extends his middle finger at the water now swirling around his heels. He clears his throat auspiciously. “It’s… Jaws. Jaws is on TV.” That same fist comes up to punch at his temple. Jaws? Really?
“Right, well,” Jared chimes. “Put your clothes on, Ethel, I’ll be over in ten.”
Jensen snorts, cursing under his breath because it’s really annoying how Jared always seems to just know. Is he made of fucking glass or something, what the fuck? Does Jared really have him mapped out that intricately? Jensen can’t decide if the thought that he might is more disturbing or comforting.
He whips a towel around his waist and cards through the wet spikes of his hair, still not used to having it crew-cut after it got so shaggy over the summer hiatus. He’s got the Dean Cut again now, though; short, cropped spikes and no beard, not even a little stubble. He feels… unprotected now, or something, ever since he walked on set for the first time in three months and Jared beamed nice haircut at him. He can’t put it to words. “Nah,” he teases dryly, “I thought I’d just sit around on my couch in the buff until you get here.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Jared says by way of a goodbye, and hangs up.
~ ~ ~
He’s not even sure how it happens. One minute he’s got - of all things - Kung Fu Panda playing out behind him, Sadie sleeping in a contented heap of fur beside him, and a half-empty bottle of Tito’s in front of him, thick translucent glass clinking against the already-empty bottle of spicy Californian 2004 Cabernet Sauvignon. The next, he’s got Jared’s tongue down his throat and one of those impossibly huge hands shoved down the front of his pants, jerking him off in short strokes because he couldn’t be bothered with the technicalities of disrobing.
It just kind of ends up that way.
So he gets plopped down into the middle of this scene, this frenzied freshman-like fumble of open mouths and pawing hands, and he doesn’t quite know what to do. Luckily he is Jensen Ackles, master of improvisational coolness, so he pulls back from Jared’s bitter strangling kisses and pants out, “Bed.” And Jared doesn’t nod, because he’s smart enough to know it’s not a request.
Somewhere in the melee Jensen loses his shirt and blacks out while he’s staring at the way Jared’s back moves in front of him when he reaches up above his head to remove his too. Jesus H. Christ, the boy’s a fucking Adonis, might as well be carved out of marble, he’s fucking perfect model architecture, and wait, when the fuck did Jensen start thinking about his best friend like this?
When he comes to, he’s on his back on the bed and Jared is pushing all four corners of his body down with his impossible crushing weight. Part of Jensen wants to maybe stop - not because it’s wrong, or because he doesn’t want to, but because he’s so fucking drunk he can’t decide if he’s just really turned on, or if he is in fact about to horf over the side of the bed. His head is spinning, diving and swooping around, feeling like a balloon, but Jared’s ripping off his jeans and kicking his own onto the floor, and - okay. Yeah. This is happening.
This is totally happening. Jensen can deal with that.
Or rather he doesn’t have a choice but to deal with that, because Jared is tonguing a wet line along the slide of his collarbone and Jensen is moaning - whoa, when did that happen? - and he can only hope that Jared’s ridiculous ADHD-kid-on-bad-crack levels of energy don’t also pertain to the sack, because if they do, Jensen is pretty sure he’s going to be DOA by the time the sky ever goes bright outside. And while there are definitely worse fates out there than dying of a myocardial infarction while Jared Padalecki is fucking your brains out, Jensen would at least like to live long enough to see a repeat performance of tonight at least once or twice or six hundred times, only maybe not so skewed with alcohol.
His fucking head, Jesus Christ, it can’t stay focused with how Jared is squirming and grinding over him, keeping Jensen pinned down so he can’t move. He manages to choke out, “Jay,” and Jared grunts in response. Doesn’t even stop blazing the trail his tongue started, long wet trails skimming down Jensen’s torso, swirling around one nipple and his belly button until Jared pauses to suck deep stippled red marks into the subtle curves of Jensen’s hipbones.
“Fucking - Christ, Jay, the - you - got -…” Jensen kind of kicks himself because he sounds like an idiot and he knows this, but with the way Jared’s mouth is moving over his skin, blooming across his hipbones between sharp nips of teeth and hot slides of tongue, talking seems pretty goddamn ridiculous at this point. Especially when Jared shoves his fingers inside of Jensen’s mouth and he gives some weird kind of croaking bwuh? noise that’s even more embarrassing than his lack of conversational prowess. After that he just shuts the fuck up and stops trying.
Jared’s in his face again, jerking his fingers all wet and stringy with spit out of Jensen’s mouth. Jensen has just enough time to think hey, that’s kind of gross before Jared is kissing him again, bleeding all the common sense out of his brain with it. Licking at Jensen’s teeth and sucking at his tongue, pouring hungry groans and whimpers into Jensen’s mouth. And - goddamn, who would have ever guessed that Jared was such a wildcat underneath all those gawking limbs and floppy hair and puppy dog eyes?
Not Jensen, of course, because he’s never thought about him that way. Never thought about Jared, his gummy-worm loving, fucking twelve-foot-tall Sasquatch of a co-star/best friend that way, because that’s just it. They’re best friends, and this is the just the mixture of the wine and vodka talking (and what dumbass came up with that idea anyway? Wine with a vodka chaser, really?), and Jensen doesn’t even like vodka, and it’s -
“I want you to fuck me. Will you fuck me?”
Jensen blinks. And again with the feeling like a jackass, because the only thing he can come up with to say is, “Huh?”
“Will you fuck me?” Jared repeats, clear and staring hard down into Jensen’s face, and whoa, okay, was not expecting that. Of all the things that could have come out of Jared’s mouth at that moment, that’s probably one of the last ones Jensen expected. That’s like - that’s not even out of left field. That’s not out of a field at all, what the fuck?
Jensen’s dying to say something like this - where did all this come from anyway? are we seriously that shitfaced? have I died and gone to paradise? - but thank God, his body works in mysterious ways. “Yeah,” he chokes out before his brain can play catch-up. He nods, happily letting autopilot take the wheel. “Yeah, Jay, yeah. Fuck yeah.”
There’s a flurry where Jensen blanks out again, but then Jared is on his back and Jensen’s digging through the nightstand, not even knowing what he’s looking for until his fingertips brush the small bottle kept there in case of emergency. Or - okay, well, in case of something. Jensen’s never had to use it before, but he was bored and in a sex shop one day and strawberry-flavored lube sounded like a good idea, so he bought it and shoved it into the back of his night table drawer where he hoped Jared wouldn’t go digging around and find it one day. He felt like a weirdo buying strawberry lube and some porno with punk chicks and a mohawked guy with XX POISON XX tattooed on his dick, but luckily Candie’s has a confidentiality agreement and hey, whaddayaknow, the damn stuff ended up coming in handy after all.
Incidentally, the porno was a disheartening letdown; lots of potential, but too much plaid and safety pins for Jensen’s liking. He left it as a present on Jared’s pillow the day he moved out. No telling where it ended up.
The impatient roll of Jared’s hips tells him to hurry up. More so, Jared himself does - “Come on, Jen,” he rasps, sending jolts of electricity straight through Jensen’s body, scalp to fucking toes, to settle bright and blinding at the base of his spine. When Jared grabs at his hand and maneuvers it down between his legs, every bit of the charge shoots straight to Jensen’s dick. He doesn’t let the mechanics of it trip him up though, or the weird thought that he’s shoving two fingers inside of his best friend’s body right now, Jared’s body, because Jared is keening and scrabbling at his shoulders with one hand and tangling the other up in his own hair, and it’s stupidly hot. Hot enough that Jensen doesn’t give a damn about the weirdness of it - he just goes with it.
Jared’s back bows up from the bed when Jensen resituates, the angle of it tight and delicious as Jensen slots his hands into place where it curves the sharpest. His hands, still all slippery with the lube that seems to have somehow gotten everywhere in the short time Jensen’s hand it on his hands and his cock and maybe Jared’s cock once or twice because it’s really hard to resist the urge to watch his eyes flutter and roll back when Jensen touches him like that. For a fleeting moment Jensen stops to worry about how long his bedroom is going to smell like fucking Strawberry Shortcake, but then Jared says, “Do it,” so he does it, and oh sweet fucking mother of God Jensen just about shortcircuits.
Jared makes this incredible noise, part moan, part laugh, part muffled curse words. Short bursts of breaths are coming out of his lips between when he licks at them, quick pink flash of tongue darting out of his mouth that Jensen wants so badly to lick and ravage and crush against his own. He didn’t wait before starting to rock and his movements are getting quicker already, losing their rhythm, and he thinks he might be hurting Jared, which is completely not cool in any way.
But then Jared cards his fingers through Jensen’s too-short hair and pulls him close, those ridiculously long ET fingers bruising long streaks against the back of Jensen’s neck when he jerks him close and their mouths hit so hard Jensen swears he sees birdies.
He fists a hand around Jared’s cock and pulls, swallowing down the desperate purrs and moans he makes. In lieu of the words building and exploding on the back of his tongue, because he just can’t make himself stop kissing Jared for anything, Jensen rolls his hips hard, grinding all the crystals out of his tightened muscles with the movement, and Jared loses it. Goes completely batshit and ferocious, and Jensen can’t quite believe how insanely hot this is. How insanely hot Jared is, and he thinks - just for a split second - that he maybe knew that all along.
Jensen mouths his way over Jared’s neck and jaw, kisses open, wet and noisy, humming as he goes along. There’s a white-hot heat coiling up in his hips, the tightening tingly feeling that he recognizes too late. Because with the change of position something must have happened, something to set Jared on fire, and right when he comes and cinches up every muscle and tendon in his body, it drags something deep out of Jensen’s core and he’s coming too, waves rolling over him and smacking right into him like a speeding freight train, fast and unstoppable and completely unexpected.
Part of him wants to bitch about the fact that it’d been too quick for any multi-positional fun, and another part of him just wants to lie the fuck down and sleep for ten years. The latter part wins out and he stumbles into Jared’s side with some lovechild of a growl and a sigh, nearly concussing his forehead against Jared’s chin when he faceplants.
“Holy - Jen,” Jared says, but there’s nothing at the end of it.
They’re filthy, strawberry-slick and sweaty, but Jensen feels like his bones have been transformed into Jell-O and he can’t bring himself to move. At all. Not even an inch, least of all to the shower. Jared wiggles his arm that’s still trapped under Jensen, tugging at it until Jensen pushes a noise out of the Sahara-dry back of his throat that sounds vaguely like the word quit. So Jared does; he stills completely
Jensen hears him swallow, tastes the astringent burn of vodka still on his tongue, on Jared’s tongue, bled between their mouths. There’s a vague motion collecting in the back of his head, the brief flash of I hope this doesn’t fuck something up, because they’ve got careers to wrestle and contracts to fulfill. Plus, they’re still best friends. Jensen might have moved out, but he’s only fifteen minutes away - with traffic - and it’s not like they don’t spend twelve hours out of every day together anyhow. It’s almost as if he never left, and really, when he thinks hard about it, he’s not sure why he did.
All of this spiking on his tongue, stinging there like an insect bite, but Jared rolls over with a huff and throws one of those freakish long steel-toned arms over Jensen’s back possessively. Lazily, Jensen cracks one eye open, just long enough to see Jared lick at his lips and nuzzle comfortably into the pillow. Jensen’s lived long enough with him to know what that means - he’s out. Down for the count. Completely fucking done, and there wasn’t going to be any rousing him until he deemed it a worthy hour. And then he would wake up, stretch out all languid and bronzed in the white gold light, and he would be in Jensen’s bed, and -
Jensen’s stomach pretzels up as he buries his face in the pillow, lips pushing into Jared’s bicep and resting there.
This just had all kinds of potential for disaster, didn’t it?
It’s thoughts like this that are running on a ticker-tape through Jensen’s head, which is why it surprises him when he feels a rough pat on his back. He nearly jolts clean out of his skin.
“Don’worry,” Jared slurs, though he doesn’t bother to open his eyes. A smile tugs at the corners of his lips, though, a tiny contented curling that comforts Jensen more than a hot bath and steaming cup of cocoa.
…Even Jensen’s not sure when he started gauging his comfort levels according to hot chocolate. What the fuck? pokes at his brain with its splintering stick of embarrassment, but he squints his eyes into tight commas and flushes it away.
Anyway, Jared smiles a little, the movement lazy and miniscule.
“Worry bout what?” Jensen risks, whispering for some reason. He has no idea why, other than that it just feels right, and that he’s really damn thirsty.
“I won’t be weird if you won’t be weird,” Jared says, following suit and whispering. He still hasn’t opened his eyes. “Deal?”
Jensen grins and snuggles down, letting the solid warm stripe of Jared’s arm weight him to the mattress. “Deal.”
HELP ME YOU GUYS, I FEEL - I DON'T KNOW. I'M LOST AND SHIVERING. CQD.
I may or may not have written J2 porn.
I HAVE AN OUT, OKAY? This is for chica_charlie, because she's adorable and awesome and having a really bad day.
DO NOT JUDGE ME. *flees*
Title: Texts From Last Night
Pairing: Jared/Jensen (I know, I know. HYPOCRITE, they cried.)
Rating: NC-17
Genre: This is completely PWP. And a little crack - Jensen + bubble bath. Just sayin'.
Word Count: 3,166
Disclaimer: Oh come on, do I really have to say it? I'm already embarrassed enough that I wrote the goddamn thing. >.o I am a lying liar who lies.
Summary: A nice Cabernet with a vodka chaser... not a good idea.
Notes: Okay. *cough* This is for chica_charlie, because she needs a hug. And since hugs are not within my jurisdiction to give, damn long-distance internet, I provide porn in their stead. Capice? I hope this makes you feel a little better, bb. *keeses*
~ ~ ~
Jensen’s just settled into his nice, warm, comforting, pleasantly-scented-with-just-the-right-amount-of-masculinity bubble bath when his fucking phone rings, the too-familiar jingle of The B-52’s screaming through what was supposed to be a tranquil silence. He doesn’t have to look to know who it is. Who else but Jared would demand to have the twanging beats of Rock Lobster as their caller ID?
“I’ve got to get you a new ID tone,” he says flatly, settling down onto his back into a swirl of steaming water.
“I can’t do it anymore.”
Jensen blinks. “Uh. I think you dialed the wrong number, Jay. Suicide hotline is 1-800-“
“She’s driving me crazy,” Jared cuts in, exasperated. “I thought I could do it but I just can’t, Jen. I can’t. I’m gonna rip my hair out over this shit.”
“Don’t do that,” Jensen sighs. “You have nice hair.” He squeezes bubbles from his sea sponge. “What’s going on, Jay?”
Jared gives a melodramatic sigh. “It’s Sadie.”
Jensen rolls his eyes. Glances at his watch. Sips his wine with an approving hum.
“She misses you. She won’t stop - staring at me, and I feel, I don’t know. I feel like I set her favorite toy on fire or drowned a nun or something. She’s so soulful, and I swear she’s crying.”
“Like whimpering?”
“Like crying crying, with the tears and the - and the snot.” When Jared gives a quiet noise of disgust, Jensen pictures him swiping one of those bear mitts he likes to call hands down the leg of his jeans, streaking the denim with gross sticky dog drool. He smiles to himself; it’s something he’s seen far too often, and yet not enough, through X number of years living with the guy. “Seriously,” Jared says, whiplashing Jensen back to the present. “There’s tears. I’m not even lying.”
Jensen snorts. “Dogs don’t cry.”
“Yes they do.”
“Nnh-nnh,” Jensen says through another swallow of sauvignon. California reserve, vintage 2004. A little piney behind the forefront of cherries and oak. It’s not bad. “No tear ducts,” he finishes.
“Augh, whatever, she’s crying, tear ducts or not. I think I should bring her over.”
Suddenly the wall and Jensen’s bathwater - goddammit - are spattered with deep maroon splotches. “Now?” he coughs. “Dude, it’s eleven at night. We gotta shoot in the morning.”
“So?” Jared challenges, and grrrhhf Jensen hates when he does that - gets that snarky fourteen-year-old princess attitude to his voice. He’s been a brat his whole life, never accustomed to not getting what he wants. And, well, Jensen’s never been good at telling him no, so logic train follows that Jensen’s already pulling the stopper out of the drain and sponging bubbles off his body by the time Jared says anything else.
“Are you doing anything?” he asks, obviously just for amusement. The little bastard’s milking his victory a little longer, Jensen thinks. Spoiled fucking brat, is what he was. Gloating and all. Sometimes Jensen resents him for it, but then they’ll punch each other in the arm and start going at it, jabbing elbows and knuckling skulls, usually breaking at least one fragile object, before they’ll spread out on their backs and laugh laugh laugh about it till their chests ache so fucking bad they’ll be sore the next day.
“I’m, uh - no, just -“ Jensen stutters. Having a glass of rosé and a bubble bath doesn’t quite sound manly enough, so he settles on, “Watchin’ TV, havin’ a beer. You know. Winding down.”
“Is that water?”
Jensen balls a fist and, as stupid as it might be, extends his middle finger at the water now swirling around his heels. He clears his throat auspiciously. “It’s… Jaws. Jaws is on TV.” That same fist comes up to punch at his temple. Jaws? Really?
“Right, well,” Jared chimes. “Put your clothes on, Ethel, I’ll be over in ten.”
Jensen snorts, cursing under his breath because it’s really annoying how Jared always seems to just know. Is he made of fucking glass or something, what the fuck? Does Jared really have him mapped out that intricately? Jensen can’t decide if the thought that he might is more disturbing or comforting.
He whips a towel around his waist and cards through the wet spikes of his hair, still not used to having it crew-cut after it got so shaggy over the summer hiatus. He’s got the Dean Cut again now, though; short, cropped spikes and no beard, not even a little stubble. He feels… unprotected now, or something, ever since he walked on set for the first time in three months and Jared beamed nice haircut at him. He can’t put it to words. “Nah,” he teases dryly, “I thought I’d just sit around on my couch in the buff until you get here.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Jared says by way of a goodbye, and hangs up.
~ ~ ~
He’s not even sure how it happens. One minute he’s got - of all things - Kung Fu Panda playing out behind him, Sadie sleeping in a contented heap of fur beside him, and a half-empty bottle of Tito’s in front of him, thick translucent glass clinking against the already-empty bottle of spicy Californian 2004 Cabernet Sauvignon. The next, he’s got Jared’s tongue down his throat and one of those impossibly huge hands shoved down the front of his pants, jerking him off in short strokes because he couldn’t be bothered with the technicalities of disrobing.
It just kind of ends up that way.
So he gets plopped down into the middle of this scene, this frenzied freshman-like fumble of open mouths and pawing hands, and he doesn’t quite know what to do. Luckily he is Jensen Ackles, master of improvisational coolness, so he pulls back from Jared’s bitter strangling kisses and pants out, “Bed.” And Jared doesn’t nod, because he’s smart enough to know it’s not a request.
Somewhere in the melee Jensen loses his shirt and blacks out while he’s staring at the way Jared’s back moves in front of him when he reaches up above his head to remove his too. Jesus H. Christ, the boy’s a fucking Adonis, might as well be carved out of marble, he’s fucking perfect model architecture, and wait, when the fuck did Jensen start thinking about his best friend like this?
When he comes to, he’s on his back on the bed and Jared is pushing all four corners of his body down with his impossible crushing weight. Part of Jensen wants to maybe stop - not because it’s wrong, or because he doesn’t want to, but because he’s so fucking drunk he can’t decide if he’s just really turned on, or if he is in fact about to horf over the side of the bed. His head is spinning, diving and swooping around, feeling like a balloon, but Jared’s ripping off his jeans and kicking his own onto the floor, and - okay. Yeah. This is happening.
This is totally happening. Jensen can deal with that.
Or rather he doesn’t have a choice but to deal with that, because Jared is tonguing a wet line along the slide of his collarbone and Jensen is moaning - whoa, when did that happen? - and he can only hope that Jared’s ridiculous ADHD-kid-on-bad-crack levels of energy don’t also pertain to the sack, because if they do, Jensen is pretty sure he’s going to be DOA by the time the sky ever goes bright outside. And while there are definitely worse fates out there than dying of a myocardial infarction while Jared Padalecki is fucking your brains out, Jensen would at least like to live long enough to see a repeat performance of tonight at least once or twice or six hundred times, only maybe not so skewed with alcohol.
His fucking head, Jesus Christ, it can’t stay focused with how Jared is squirming and grinding over him, keeping Jensen pinned down so he can’t move. He manages to choke out, “Jay,” and Jared grunts in response. Doesn’t even stop blazing the trail his tongue started, long wet trails skimming down Jensen’s torso, swirling around one nipple and his belly button until Jared pauses to suck deep stippled red marks into the subtle curves of Jensen’s hipbones.
“Fucking - Christ, Jay, the - you - got -…” Jensen kind of kicks himself because he sounds like an idiot and he knows this, but with the way Jared’s mouth is moving over his skin, blooming across his hipbones between sharp nips of teeth and hot slides of tongue, talking seems pretty goddamn ridiculous at this point. Especially when Jared shoves his fingers inside of Jensen’s mouth and he gives some weird kind of croaking bwuh? noise that’s even more embarrassing than his lack of conversational prowess. After that he just shuts the fuck up and stops trying.
Jared’s in his face again, jerking his fingers all wet and stringy with spit out of Jensen’s mouth. Jensen has just enough time to think hey, that’s kind of gross before Jared is kissing him again, bleeding all the common sense out of his brain with it. Licking at Jensen’s teeth and sucking at his tongue, pouring hungry groans and whimpers into Jensen’s mouth. And - goddamn, who would have ever guessed that Jared was such a wildcat underneath all those gawking limbs and floppy hair and puppy dog eyes?
Not Jensen, of course, because he’s never thought about him that way. Never thought about Jared, his gummy-worm loving, fucking twelve-foot-tall Sasquatch of a co-star/best friend that way, because that’s just it. They’re best friends, and this is the just the mixture of the wine and vodka talking (and what dumbass came up with that idea anyway? Wine with a vodka chaser, really?), and Jensen doesn’t even like vodka, and it’s -
“I want you to fuck me. Will you fuck me?”
Jensen blinks. And again with the feeling like a jackass, because the only thing he can come up with to say is, “Huh?”
“Will you fuck me?” Jared repeats, clear and staring hard down into Jensen’s face, and whoa, okay, was not expecting that. Of all the things that could have come out of Jared’s mouth at that moment, that’s probably one of the last ones Jensen expected. That’s like - that’s not even out of left field. That’s not out of a field at all, what the fuck?
Jensen’s dying to say something like this - where did all this come from anyway? are we seriously that shitfaced? have I died and gone to paradise? - but thank God, his body works in mysterious ways. “Yeah,” he chokes out before his brain can play catch-up. He nods, happily letting autopilot take the wheel. “Yeah, Jay, yeah. Fuck yeah.”
There’s a flurry where Jensen blanks out again, but then Jared is on his back and Jensen’s digging through the nightstand, not even knowing what he’s looking for until his fingertips brush the small bottle kept there in case of emergency. Or - okay, well, in case of something. Jensen’s never had to use it before, but he was bored and in a sex shop one day and strawberry-flavored lube sounded like a good idea, so he bought it and shoved it into the back of his night table drawer where he hoped Jared wouldn’t go digging around and find it one day. He felt like a weirdo buying strawberry lube and some porno with punk chicks and a mohawked guy with XX POISON XX tattooed on his dick, but luckily Candie’s has a confidentiality agreement and hey, whaddayaknow, the damn stuff ended up coming in handy after all.
Incidentally, the porno was a disheartening letdown; lots of potential, but too much plaid and safety pins for Jensen’s liking. He left it as a present on Jared’s pillow the day he moved out. No telling where it ended up.
The impatient roll of Jared’s hips tells him to hurry up. More so, Jared himself does - “Come on, Jen,” he rasps, sending jolts of electricity straight through Jensen’s body, scalp to fucking toes, to settle bright and blinding at the base of his spine. When Jared grabs at his hand and maneuvers it down between his legs, every bit of the charge shoots straight to Jensen’s dick. He doesn’t let the mechanics of it trip him up though, or the weird thought that he’s shoving two fingers inside of his best friend’s body right now, Jared’s body, because Jared is keening and scrabbling at his shoulders with one hand and tangling the other up in his own hair, and it’s stupidly hot. Hot enough that Jensen doesn’t give a damn about the weirdness of it - he just goes with it.
Jared’s back bows up from the bed when Jensen resituates, the angle of it tight and delicious as Jensen slots his hands into place where it curves the sharpest. His hands, still all slippery with the lube that seems to have somehow gotten everywhere in the short time Jensen’s hand it on his hands and his cock and maybe Jared’s cock once or twice because it’s really hard to resist the urge to watch his eyes flutter and roll back when Jensen touches him like that. For a fleeting moment Jensen stops to worry about how long his bedroom is going to smell like fucking Strawberry Shortcake, but then Jared says, “Do it,” so he does it, and oh sweet fucking mother of God Jensen just about shortcircuits.
Jared makes this incredible noise, part moan, part laugh, part muffled curse words. Short bursts of breaths are coming out of his lips between when he licks at them, quick pink flash of tongue darting out of his mouth that Jensen wants so badly to lick and ravage and crush against his own. He didn’t wait before starting to rock and his movements are getting quicker already, losing their rhythm, and he thinks he might be hurting Jared, which is completely not cool in any way.
But then Jared cards his fingers through Jensen’s too-short hair and pulls him close, those ridiculously long ET fingers bruising long streaks against the back of Jensen’s neck when he jerks him close and their mouths hit so hard Jensen swears he sees birdies.
He fists a hand around Jared’s cock and pulls, swallowing down the desperate purrs and moans he makes. In lieu of the words building and exploding on the back of his tongue, because he just can’t make himself stop kissing Jared for anything, Jensen rolls his hips hard, grinding all the crystals out of his tightened muscles with the movement, and Jared loses it. Goes completely batshit and ferocious, and Jensen can’t quite believe how insanely hot this is. How insanely hot Jared is, and he thinks - just for a split second - that he maybe knew that all along.
Jensen mouths his way over Jared’s neck and jaw, kisses open, wet and noisy, humming as he goes along. There’s a white-hot heat coiling up in his hips, the tightening tingly feeling that he recognizes too late. Because with the change of position something must have happened, something to set Jared on fire, and right when he comes and cinches up every muscle and tendon in his body, it drags something deep out of Jensen’s core and he’s coming too, waves rolling over him and smacking right into him like a speeding freight train, fast and unstoppable and completely unexpected.
Part of him wants to bitch about the fact that it’d been too quick for any multi-positional fun, and another part of him just wants to lie the fuck down and sleep for ten years. The latter part wins out and he stumbles into Jared’s side with some lovechild of a growl and a sigh, nearly concussing his forehead against Jared’s chin when he faceplants.
“Holy - Jen,” Jared says, but there’s nothing at the end of it.
They’re filthy, strawberry-slick and sweaty, but Jensen feels like his bones have been transformed into Jell-O and he can’t bring himself to move. At all. Not even an inch, least of all to the shower. Jared wiggles his arm that’s still trapped under Jensen, tugging at it until Jensen pushes a noise out of the Sahara-dry back of his throat that sounds vaguely like the word quit. So Jared does; he stills completely
Jensen hears him swallow, tastes the astringent burn of vodka still on his tongue, on Jared’s tongue, bled between their mouths. There’s a vague motion collecting in the back of his head, the brief flash of I hope this doesn’t fuck something up, because they’ve got careers to wrestle and contracts to fulfill. Plus, they’re still best friends. Jensen might have moved out, but he’s only fifteen minutes away - with traffic - and it’s not like they don’t spend twelve hours out of every day together anyhow. It’s almost as if he never left, and really, when he thinks hard about it, he’s not sure why he did.
All of this spiking on his tongue, stinging there like an insect bite, but Jared rolls over with a huff and throws one of those freakish long steel-toned arms over Jensen’s back possessively. Lazily, Jensen cracks one eye open, just long enough to see Jared lick at his lips and nuzzle comfortably into the pillow. Jensen’s lived long enough with him to know what that means - he’s out. Down for the count. Completely fucking done, and there wasn’t going to be any rousing him until he deemed it a worthy hour. And then he would wake up, stretch out all languid and bronzed in the white gold light, and he would be in Jensen’s bed, and -
Jensen’s stomach pretzels up as he buries his face in the pillow, lips pushing into Jared’s bicep and resting there.
This just had all kinds of potential for disaster, didn’t it?
It’s thoughts like this that are running on a ticker-tape through Jensen’s head, which is why it surprises him when he feels a rough pat on his back. He nearly jolts clean out of his skin.
“Don’worry,” Jared slurs, though he doesn’t bother to open his eyes. A smile tugs at the corners of his lips, though, a tiny contented curling that comforts Jensen more than a hot bath and steaming cup of cocoa.
…Even Jensen’s not sure when he started gauging his comfort levels according to hot chocolate. What the fuck? pokes at his brain with its splintering stick of embarrassment, but he squints his eyes into tight commas and flushes it away.
Anyway, Jared smiles a little, the movement lazy and miniscule.
“Worry bout what?” Jensen risks, whispering for some reason. He has no idea why, other than that it just feels right, and that he’s really damn thirsty.
“I won’t be weird if you won’t be weird,” Jared says, following suit and whispering. He still hasn’t opened his eyes. “Deal?”
Jensen grins and snuggles down, letting the solid warm stripe of Jared’s arm weight him to the mattress. “Deal.”
HELP ME YOU GUYS, I FEEL - I DON'T KNOW. I'M LOST AND SHIVERING. CQD.