Where I Want to Go (disclaimer!verse) 2/2
Oct. 6th, 2009 01:14 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
raeschaeTitle: Where I Want to Go
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
raeschae
Rating: NC-17 (for once, I know what to rate this one)
Pairings:Jared/Jensen, brief appearance by Chad at the end
Warnings: Lots of graphic sex. Well, lots for me, anyway.
Word Count: 4900 and change
Disclaimer: This entire 'verse exists only inside my mind – and I guess the minds of everyone who reads it. It is fiction, and therefore not intended to depict any actual person, place, or event. Translation: It's. Not. Real.
Summary: In September '06, a skater walks into a tattoo parlor . . . the rest, as they say, is history. Prequel to Disclaimer: We Will Not Be Held Responsible.
A/N: Thanks again be to my beta and all-around authority on all things manly,neutraldeviance. My greatest desire in writing this story is for it to read as authentic enough that you can believe this version of Jared and Jensen exist somewhere in Santa Monica right now. So comments like, “'Kay. Yeah. Whole paragraph is so girly. . . you totally fangirled my boys!” are so fucking appreciated, he doesn't even know. I bow at the altar of all things you, baby.
I should probably mention that I did change a few things after he was done with his edits, so any mistakes herein rest solely on my shoulders. Credit to him, blame to me. :)
(Graphics under the cut)
This morning, if you told Jensen that he was going to be strolling the Santa Monica Pier with the hottest guy he's ever seen, belly full of the best steak he's ever eaten outside Texas, he probably would have rolled his eyes and laughed you off. Possibly would have told you to fuck off and stop being ridiculous.
Chris calls him emo, but Jensen's pretty sure his friend doesn't understand just what that term means. Sure, he dresses like a punk-rock wannabe, and he listens to a lot of music that could fit into that category. But he's not an emotional guy. He's not stoic or anything. Just doesn't get worked up over much, one way or the other.
But pretty much from the second he walked into Slinging Ink, his feelings have been spiking all over the place. Everything Jared says and does, all of the things he doesn't say and do, are driving Jensen out of his mind. Hell, just sitting across the table from him at the restaurant was it's own brand of delicious torture. When Jensen wasn't staring at Jared's mouth and imagining what his lips would looked like stretched around his cock, instead of his steak? He was drawn to the roll of the younger man's muscled shoulders every time he moved his fork or lifted his drink to his lips. And don't even get Jensen started on the distraction Jared's inhumanly long fingers cause. Jesus.
Chris teased him pretty incessantly after they left the shop earlier this afternoon. Kept asking Jensen what he was going to wear on his date, and if he had specific nail polish and eyeliner in mind for such a special occasion. Bull shit that would get his ass kicked on any other day. But today was different. Jensen was too busy being excited to worry about what Chris has to say. His brain was steadily filling with all of the questions he wanted to ask Jared, all of the things he wanted to know, to pay much attention to his friend at all.
Over dinner in a casual steakhouse, Jensen learned that Jared moved to Santa Monica right after his eighteenth birthday, and that he hasn't really thought about going back to Texas since. He knows how this twenty-three-year-old wonder-kid came to own his own business, and how he's become one of the premier artists in Southern California. Found out that Jared considers the previous owner of Slinging Ink, Ed, the absolute coolest guy he knows to this day. Also, the guy's real name is Ben, but Jared developed the nickname from dude's last name because it drives the older man completely fucking nuts.
They've talked music (Jared could live on Marilyn Manson and Nine Inch Nails, as long as he could have old-school Metallica thrown in for variety on occasion), and movies (Jared's a fan of classic and B-grade horror, but it's not so hard to drag him to a good action flick). He doesn't have cable access in his apartment because he and Chad couldn't afford it when they first moved in, and haven't bothered to get it now that money isn't an issue. They're not really home enough to enjoy it, anyway.
He was surprised to find that Jared is also one of the most well-read guys Jensen's ever met. Everything from Vonnegut to Kerouac to Palahnuik to Ellis. Jensen's never been much of a reader, and hearing Jared talk about books like Slaughterhouse Five and American Psycho makes him feel like kind of a tool, especially since he didn't even know Fight Club was a book first.
By the time they tumble out of the restaurant and start down the pier, toward the first club of the night, Jensen barely notices that Jared doesn't really talk about where he came from. Truthfully, there's enough to know about who this guy is now to worry about who he was before Jensen met him.
Jensen, on the other hand, talks about growing up in Richardson, a suburb of Dallas, more than he talks about anything he's doing these days. It doesn't bother Jared to hear the guy talk about his past. It also doesn't inspire him to talk about his own. Where he came from doesn't matter. And Jensen doesn't push, which wins him epic cool points in Jared's book.
Jared now knows that Jensen started entering competitions with his art when he was fourteen. He also knows that he never told his parents about the prize money he raked in through high school because he didn't want them to make him give part of it to the church. It's kind of impressive, Jared thinks, that Jensen grew up a gay man in a Christian home and still doesn't despise religion, in general. He's never been a spiritual kind of guy, but the way Jensen talks about his faith is kind of inspiring. He can appreciate someone who has come to their own acceptance of God, even if he doesn't share the sentiment.
Jensen listens to what Chad likes to call 'wrist-slitting emo garbage' and he's a fan of bands nobody's ever heard of, mostly. He doesn't really care for Chris's brand of rockabilly blues, but he can appreciate some of the more mellow, less twangy stuff because it's well-written and bordering on emo. He also shares Jared's love of Japanese horror and Mystery Science Theater.
Earlier, while he was inking Jensen's arm, he heard the stories behind each of the four tattoos he already had. The flag inside his wrist was more or less a fuck you to his parents when he came out of the closet at sixteen. He got the nautical stars on each of his elbows to symbolize the blazing of his own path in life. The cross on his left bicep bears a scroll and the word 'faith' – that one's pretty self-explanatory. The last one, which Jared has yet to see, is placed somewhere beneath the waistband of Jensen's jeans, and it's a design that he spent a week crafting because, in Jensen's words, every artist who's going to bother being tattooed should wear their own work somewhere.
He's not one to fall quickly into anything more than animal lust, but even as Jared leads Jensen into a darkened, underground club in downtown Santa Monica, he has to admit that this kid is getting to him. He wants to hear Jensen talk about himself, about his life and his opinions, almost as much as he wants to hear his own name growled out of the other man's fucked-raw throat. And he wants to see that wicked grin on those too-full-to-be-masculine lips almost as much as he wants to see them wrapped around his own dick. He wants to touch him and taste him and make him come apart, but he also wants to drink and laugh and talk with him. It's a new feeling for Jared, but it doesn't totally suck.
“I don't dance,” Jensen says as they wade through the writhing sea of bodies toward the bar in the back of the room. Jared's cool, and there's nothing he wants more than to feel that long, hard body pressed up against him. But he's not about to do it in the middle of a floor full of other people, thank you very much. Even this guy, who's pretty much the sexiest thing Jensen's ever seen in his nearly-three decades on Earth, is not going to convince him otherwise.
The bartender notices Jared immediately and hands him two sweating bottles without a word. When he turns and offers one to Jensen, Jared smirks. “Neither do I,” he nods over his shoulder and leads the way to a set of stairs off to the left of the bar.
The view as Jensen climbs after Jared is not terrible.
Jared says 'hi' to a few people lazing about in the VIP lounge, and continues on to the back corner of the room, lowering himself onto the soft leather sofa. He spreads his arm over the back and takes a drink of his beer, smiling into the lip when Jensen takes his seat pressed full against Jared's side. It shouldn't be this easy, should it? There's got to be something wrong with this picture . . . something completely horrific right around the corner. He's going to find out Jensen's a pedophile, or a serial killer or something, isn't he?
“You ever kill a man, Jensen?” he asks easily.
Without missing a beat, Jensen turns his face to Jared's, looks him dead in the eye, and says, “Only once. Clean up's a bitch, though. Too lazy to do it again.”
Jared laughs, rolls his eyes, and realizes that his fingers are playing with the hairs at the base of Jensen's neck. His eyes are focused on those sinfully full lips again, and it's like he's lost all control of his own actions as he leans in to taste Jensen's beer-flavored mouth.
Jensen's not a big fan of kissing. Not when there's so many other kinds of fun to be had with someone else. But Jared? Goddamn, Jared makes kissing as much an art form as the tats he etches for a living. It's not desperate or hurried, but it's not hesitant or gentle, either. Jared knows what he wants, and he's taking it. Jensen's more than happy to give it.
Between making out like teenagers, sprawled across the couch, Jared and Jensen talk and drink and laugh. A few people stop by to say 'hi' and Jared introduces Jensen with quick explanations of every person.
“Jesus, man,” Jensen finally shakes his head as a couple of pierced girls walk away hand-in-hand. “You're like the fucking mayor of Santa Monica or some shit,” he shakes his head and chuckles.
Jared doesn't deny it. Doesn't seem remotely embarrassed by the observation, either. “Been here a few years. Business is good. People know me,” he shrugs.
“Not the impressive part,” Jensen shakes his head and angles to sit fully on couch, and not as much in Jared's lap. “Makes sense they all know you,” he goes on. “But you remember every one of them. It's very cool, man.”
It's not that bigga deal, Jared doesn't think. Yeah, he remembers people. Because it's polite, and maybe because he knows a little bit what it's like not to be remembered. “Basic human decency, dude,” he plays Jensen's praise off with another shrug and a tip of his bottle.
They leave the club around three, the sleeve of Jensen's tee shirt rubbing gently against Jared's bare shoulder. It never really gets cold here, but there's definitely a chill blowing in. At least, that's why he tells himself there's an invisible shiver running down his spine at the moment anyway.
“So, why tats?” Jensen asks suddenly when they're back in Jared's truck, weaving through the nearly-deserted streets.
His eyebrow shoots up as he turns his head to the side and then back to the road. “Um, I'm a sadist?” he offers. Jensen rolls his eyes , and it makes Jared want to say something else to elicit the same response. Sarcasm, Jared thinks, is just fucking sexy on this kid. “Figure, why paint, or pencils, or whatever when you can jab someone with needles instead?”
Jensen huffs out a laugh and figures he won't get any straighter answer than that out of the giant tonight. Jared is perfectly content to pepper his sincere responses with complete bull shit, delivered in a deadpan that hasn't failed to crack him up yet.
Jared drives for a few minutes before making an executive decision in his head. Pulling his cell phone from its resting place on the truck's dash, he hits the speed dial and waits for the man on the other end to answer. “Where are you?” If he notices Jensen's raised eyebrow from the corner of his eye, he doesn't let on. “Headed that way. Just,” he stops and then turns his head to meet Jensen's gaze, illuminated only by the gleam of passing street lights as he smiles dangerously, “Don't come home tonight.”
By the time Jared tosses the phone back onto the dash, Jensen's brain is properly functioning again. “Domestic troubles?” he questions.
With a short shake of his head, Jared rakes his fingers through his hair and his grin only widens. Again, with the deadpan. “Figured you don't want Chad seein' you all naked and spread out on my bed.”
Well. That's settled, then.
They're barely in the front door before Jensen has Jared pinned against the wall, fingers buried deep in that hair that's been driving him crazy all night. For a split second, he thinks maybe he should defer to his host for the night, but he's never been one to hesitate where sex is concerned, and he's not about to start now. Not when he'd rather just touch every delectable inch of the man writhing against him now.
Jared captures Jensen's face in his enormous hands and manages to guide them through the entry and the living room. They crash into the wall just outside Jared's bedroom, but how the hell does one make it gracefully from one room to another while also attempting to manhandle two hundred pounds or more without looking?
They fall onto the bed in an uncoordinated lump and Jared's still trying to catch his breath when he feels a sting in his left shoulder. Pulling back, he looks down at the impish grin on Jensen's full lips. “Dude, did you just bite me?”
His only response is Jensen taking advantage of his surprise to flip the younger man onto his back and straddle his trim hips. “Be glad I waited until we were alone,” he answers, dipping his head to skim his teeth along Jared's collarbone, and the wizard tattooed in vibrant blue over the swell of his right shoulder. “Been wantin' to sink my teeth into these muscles all fuckin' day, man,” he adds.
Jared doesn't consider himself vanilla in the least, but dammit if he didn't know being nipped and licked like a human salt block could take him from half-hard to diamond-cutter in less than a second. “Dude, come on,” he protests, attempting to maneuver Jensen back to his mouth.
But Jensen's perfectly content to trace every last drop of ink on Jared's hot, tanned skin with his tongue. In fact, he's determinedto do it. Doesn't really care if it takes him all damn night, and part of tomorrow. The fact that Jared's muscles jump and roll beneath his tongue only drives Jensen further, despite the constant protests of the other man on the bed.
By the time Jensen's stripped him out of his clothes, and he's working hot, wet open-mouthed kisses over the 'live life loud' script on his hip, Jared thinks he's going to lose his mind. He is absolutely not going to come just from being licked. No matter how badly his body wants to. “The fuck are you doin' to me, man?” he breathes into the stillness of the air around him, and he's almost sure he's referring to Jensen's actions. Maybe.
The answer to his inquiry is an increase of suction low on his pelvic bone and Jared's hips jerk from the bed instinctively. Jensen raises his eyes, his tongue dragging back to Jared's hip until his teeth clamp over the cut of the muscle and bone there. He doesn't speak, but the laughter that rumbles low from his chest vibrates against Jared's skin.
Jared comes violently without warning, chest heaving and eyes clenched tightly. He's never, not even when he was a kid, come without so much as a hint of a touch to his cock. Or, at the very least, his ass. Jensen hasn't laid a finger on him yet. In fact, his hands are held behind his back, like he's making a conscious effort not to use them.
He feels like he should embarrassed by his astounding lack of stamina, but Jensen's had Jared on edge since they met, and he's been thinking about fucking him since they left the shop earlier tonight. Last night. Whatever. Truthfully, he deserves a goddamn medal for holding out as long as he has.
Also, it's hard to be embarrassed about anything when Jensen is back to licking, this time gathering the come from Jared's stomach onto his tongue while his eyes flutter shut in what appears to be total bliss. “Oh, fuck,” he groans and lets his head fall back onto the mattress. He cannot watch that right now. Not if he wants to be anything resembling useful for the next few hours.
Sliding onto the bed, Jensen presses his fully clothed form flush against Jared's side and leans in to capture the lobe of his left ear between his teeth. “Jesus, Jay,” he breathes, moist air caressing Jared's cheek and neck. “So fuckin' hot.”
For the first time in his life, Jared feels out of his depth. He's usually the aggressor in the bedroom. Normally, he's the one who's manhandling and setting the pace and teasing and torturing his plaything of the moment. But Jensen? Jensen's all but made him forget his own damn name. And Jared can't find the motivation to be bothered by it.
Not that he's going to take it lying down. Can't let Jensen think he's a lightweight, after all. When his breathing returns to normal, Jared hitches himself up on his elbow and lets his eyes roam the length of Jensen's body. “Off,” he yanks on the tee shirt and Jensen takes the hint with ease.
No shame. Not an ounce of self-consciousness. Not one single shred of hesitation as Jensen backs off the bed, rips his tee shirt over his head and toes his big-ass shoes off. He doesn't even bother unbuttoning his pants before sliding them over his hips and kicking them away, too. Completely unabashed as he stands before Jared's scrutiny.
Of course, Jared can't see a damn thing Jensen should be ashamed of. He's not muscles on top of more muscles like Jared is, but he's damn toned. More so than your average skinny emo kid. His eyes fixate for just a second on the interlocking vector design of circles and arrows etched low on Jensen's hip. The one that he hasn't seen yet. It's intricate, and later, when he's thinking with his upstairs brain, he'll have to make sure to let Jensen know just how impressive it is.
For now, he just says, “Damn,” and reaches forward to grab Jensen's wrist before the older man can so much as protest.
Jensen watches, satisfied smirk on his lips, as he's led to the spot between Jared's knees. Firm fingers grip his hips and he's not sure what that dangerous glint in Jared's eye is until the younger man leans forward and catches the silver nipple ring in his teeth. When he tugs on it, Jensen's head falls back, the sensations sending a bolt of desire straight to his cock. He's never been so glad to own anything, ever.
It feels like an eternity that Jared tongues and sucks at the ring. And then he pulls back, and notices the other one. Jensen clutches Jared's hair in one hand, and braces the other against his shoulder just to stay upright. There are these rough, animalistic growls sounding from Jared's throat, and his fingers are pressing, kneading, the globes of Jensen's ass. His teeth are alternating between the rings, and his warm chest is rubbing against Jensen's impossibly hard cock. All of it adds up to a sensory overload that Jensen's pretty sure he's not going to be able to withstand much longer.
“Dude,” he gasps when Jared scoots forward on the mattress enough to trap Jensen's erection between them. “Jesus . . . fuck, Jared,” he grunts, eyes dropping to see the man who has stopped with the nipple play suddenly.
When their eyes meet, Jared lays his tongue flat against Jensen's sternum and drags it up as far as he can before grabbing the back of the older man's head and pulling him down. He rocks forward to maintain contact, yanking Jensen's head back to expose the column of his throat, where he sucks and nips exactly as Jensen did to him earlier. “Shit,” Jensen manages to growl as Jared releases his head and plunges his tongue into Jensen's mouth the second his face snaps forward again.
As he fucks his tongue into that pliant mouth, Jared feels Jensen's hips begin to rock beneath his hands. “C'mon, Jen,” he pulls back enough to grit the command into Jensen's mouth. “Just . . . fuckin' come on me,” he encourages, fingers barely whispering over the crack of his fuckably round ass. “C'mon, man. Let it go,” he continues, words jagged and raw against the backdrop of their heavy breathing and Jensen's muted whimpers. A strangled grunt sounds just before he feels the first splash against his chest, and Jared's hand instinctively fists Jensen's cock, milking him through several more brutal thrusts. He's exploding hot, in volume, against Jared's chest, coating him and covering like a volcanic eruption or some shit. “Goddammit, Jensen, fuck,” he mutters as the older man's spine bows, his forehead falling onto Jared's shoulder.
After what feels like an eternity of coming every coherent thought he's ever had out through his dick, Jensen collapses against Jared in an awkward heap. “Jesus Christ,” he huffs, barely rolling away in time to see Jared trail his fingers through the sticky mess Jensen left behind. “Oh god,” he grunts, rolling his head away from the tantalizing sight.
With a chuckle, Jared rolls onto his side and lowers his head to catch Jensen's earlobe, much like the older man did to him before. “Taste so fuckin' good, Jen,” he whispers, and Jensen doesn't have to look to know that Jared has licked the fingers he was just running over his chest.
“You keep that shit up, you're gonna fuckin' kill me, man,” Jensen warns, his voice thin and tired to his own ears.
The laughter rumbles from Jared's throat as he trails the backs of his fingers down the center of Jensen's chest. “Don't you dare fall asleep on me, old man,” he teases. “Not even close to done with you yet.”
It takes all of his waning energy, but Jensen rolls himself over and manages to pin Jared's arms above his head. “Oh, don't you worry, Junior,” he sinks his teeth once more into Jared's shoulder and smirks against the skin when the younger man groans. “I will wear your ass out.”
“Jesus Christ!”
The exclamation startles Jared's eyes open, but he can't bolt upright at the sound of Chad's voice because he's being weighed down by a heated mass of freckled skin, wrapped and tangled around him like the ivy vines on the side of a building. Rolling his head, Jared notes that the clock proclaims it only nine thirty in the morning. Which means he's only been asleep for two hours. Shit.
“Shut your motherfucking door, asshole,” Chad goes on, as though Jared's actually listening to him. “Nobody wants to come home and find your big ass all fucked out naked in plain view of the front fucking door.” He doesn't bother hanging around to hear Jared's response, but his words are echoing off the hall between their two bedrooms even as he leaves. “Smells like sex in here. Buncha cockwhores.”
The statement makes Jared laugh quietly, shaking his head at the total Chadness of the wake up call. It's not the first time he's seen Jared's naked ass, and it's not the first time he's complained about it. Won't be the last, either, he's pretty sure.
With the one arm not pinned under Jensen's body, Jared scrubs his hand over his face and then rakes his fingers through his hair. He's usually hot when he wakes up, and having Jensen draped across him should be uncomfortable. It's not. And maybe that doesn't mean a goddamn thing. But maybe it does.
“The fuck is wrong with him?” Jensen grumbles against Jared's shoulder when Chad screeches like a girl fifteen minutes later and screams something that sounds like 'fuckin' cum on the goddamn shower wall, nasty motherfuckers' like he's never fucked anyone in that shower himself.
Jared just smiles at the green hair resting against his skin. “The fuck isn't wrong with him?” he shoots back.
“Sleep,” Jensen commands as Jared starts to withdraw his arm and free himself to start the coffee and close the damn door so Chad can shut the fuck up.
“Got a client in an hour,” he answers, fighting the urge to drop a kiss on the side of Jensen's face when he burrows further into Jared's side. For a second, he doesn't move. Just sits there, staring at this emo skater kid with smudged eyeliner and the most ridiculously sexy bedhead Jared's ever seen. Jensen grumbles and fucking whines before heaving a pillow in defiance of the morning in general. “You can sleep as long as you want, Jen. Don't have to leave.”
It's not an offer he's ever made before, and probably one he shouldn't even be making now. Except that it kind of feels . . . right.
For a brief second, Jensen wishes he was the kind of guy that has the decency to at least roll his lazy ass out of bed when his host for the night does. Thinks maybe he should at least get up and thank Jared for saving him from another ho-down at The Boar's Nest. Or, ya know, for the most amazing sex anyone's ever had. Ever. Porn stars and Tommy Lee included.
Instead, Jensen drifts back into a peaceful sleep, wrapped tightly in a blanket he hadn't really needed when Jared was laying next to him like a human fucking furnace.
When he awakes three hours later, the house is quiet and it takes him a few minutes to figure out just where he is and why his legs feel as sturdy as wet noodles. Struggling to sit, he takes a minute to stare at the floor, run his fingers through his hair, and stretch his back. He is the best kind of sore in the world, and if he can never rid himself of the kinks and cricks in his neck and shoulders, he's pretty sure he won't fucking care.
Finally, his eyes drift to Jared's side of the bed, and more specifically, the note laying against his pillow.
Party in the Hills tonight. Pick ya up at 11. Wear somethin' pretty for me. There's a hastily-drawn smiley skull winking back at him from the bottom of the page and Jensen just huffs a laugh as he tosses the paper back to the bed and runs his hands over his face again.
It should probably be weird, this feeling of waking up in a virtual stranger's house, all fucked out and alone. What should probably feel weirder is Jared's assumption that Jensen's going to come with him to some party in the Hollywood Hills or, more importantly, his complete lack of desire to do anything else.
But not a damn thing about it feels anything but exactly right. Instinctively rubbing the nautical star on his left elbow, he grins at the thought that maybe, just maybe he had to come all the way to California to find his way home.
Author:
raeschaeRating: NC-17 (for once, I know what to rate this one)
Pairings:Jared/Jensen, brief appearance by Chad at the end
Warnings: Lots of graphic sex. Well, lots for me, anyway.
Word Count: 4900 and change
Disclaimer: This entire 'verse exists only inside my mind – and I guess the minds of everyone who reads it. It is fiction, and therefore not intended to depict any actual person, place, or event. Translation: It's. Not. Real.
Summary: In September '06, a skater walks into a tattoo parlor . . . the rest, as they say, is history. Prequel to Disclaimer: We Will Not Be Held Responsible.
A/N: Thanks again be to my beta and all-around authority on all things manly,
neutraldeviance. My greatest desire in writing this story is for it to read as authentic enough that you can believe this version of Jared and Jensen exist somewhere in Santa Monica right now. So comments like, “'Kay. Yeah. Whole paragraph is so girly. . . you totally fangirled my boys!” are so fucking appreciated, he doesn't even know. I bow at the altar of all things you, baby.I should probably mention that I did change a few things after he was done with his edits, so any mistakes herein rest solely on my shoulders. Credit to him, blame to me. :)
(Graphics under the cut)
This morning, if you told Jensen that he was going to be strolling the Santa Monica Pier with the hottest guy he's ever seen, belly full of the best steak he's ever eaten outside Texas, he probably would have rolled his eyes and laughed you off. Possibly would have told you to fuck off and stop being ridiculous.
Chris calls him emo, but Jensen's pretty sure his friend doesn't understand just what that term means. Sure, he dresses like a punk-rock wannabe, and he listens to a lot of music that could fit into that category. But he's not an emotional guy. He's not stoic or anything. Just doesn't get worked up over much, one way or the other.
But pretty much from the second he walked into Slinging Ink, his feelings have been spiking all over the place. Everything Jared says and does, all of the things he doesn't say and do, are driving Jensen out of his mind. Hell, just sitting across the table from him at the restaurant was it's own brand of delicious torture. When Jensen wasn't staring at Jared's mouth and imagining what his lips would looked like stretched around his cock, instead of his steak? He was drawn to the roll of the younger man's muscled shoulders every time he moved his fork or lifted his drink to his lips. And don't even get Jensen started on the distraction Jared's inhumanly long fingers cause. Jesus.
Chris teased him pretty incessantly after they left the shop earlier this afternoon. Kept asking Jensen what he was going to wear on his date, and if he had specific nail polish and eyeliner in mind for such a special occasion. Bull shit that would get his ass kicked on any other day. But today was different. Jensen was too busy being excited to worry about what Chris has to say. His brain was steadily filling with all of the questions he wanted to ask Jared, all of the things he wanted to know, to pay much attention to his friend at all.
Over dinner in a casual steakhouse, Jensen learned that Jared moved to Santa Monica right after his eighteenth birthday, and that he hasn't really thought about going back to Texas since. He knows how this twenty-three-year-old wonder-kid came to own his own business, and how he's become one of the premier artists in Southern California. Found out that Jared considers the previous owner of Slinging Ink, Ed, the absolute coolest guy he knows to this day. Also, the guy's real name is Ben, but Jared developed the nickname from dude's last name because it drives the older man completely fucking nuts.
They've talked music (Jared could live on Marilyn Manson and Nine Inch Nails, as long as he could have old-school Metallica thrown in for variety on occasion), and movies (Jared's a fan of classic and B-grade horror, but it's not so hard to drag him to a good action flick). He doesn't have cable access in his apartment because he and Chad couldn't afford it when they first moved in, and haven't bothered to get it now that money isn't an issue. They're not really home enough to enjoy it, anyway.
He was surprised to find that Jared is also one of the most well-read guys Jensen's ever met. Everything from Vonnegut to Kerouac to Palahnuik to Ellis. Jensen's never been much of a reader, and hearing Jared talk about books like Slaughterhouse Five and American Psycho makes him feel like kind of a tool, especially since he didn't even know Fight Club was a book first.
By the time they tumble out of the restaurant and start down the pier, toward the first club of the night, Jensen barely notices that Jared doesn't really talk about where he came from. Truthfully, there's enough to know about who this guy is now to worry about who he was before Jensen met him.
Jensen, on the other hand, talks about growing up in Richardson, a suburb of Dallas, more than he talks about anything he's doing these days. It doesn't bother Jared to hear the guy talk about his past. It also doesn't inspire him to talk about his own. Where he came from doesn't matter. And Jensen doesn't push, which wins him epic cool points in Jared's book.
Jared now knows that Jensen started entering competitions with his art when he was fourteen. He also knows that he never told his parents about the prize money he raked in through high school because he didn't want them to make him give part of it to the church. It's kind of impressive, Jared thinks, that Jensen grew up a gay man in a Christian home and still doesn't despise religion, in general. He's never been a spiritual kind of guy, but the way Jensen talks about his faith is kind of inspiring. He can appreciate someone who has come to their own acceptance of God, even if he doesn't share the sentiment.
Jensen listens to what Chad likes to call 'wrist-slitting emo garbage' and he's a fan of bands nobody's ever heard of, mostly. He doesn't really care for Chris's brand of rockabilly blues, but he can appreciate some of the more mellow, less twangy stuff because it's well-written and bordering on emo. He also shares Jared's love of Japanese horror and Mystery Science Theater.
Earlier, while he was inking Jensen's arm, he heard the stories behind each of the four tattoos he already had. The flag inside his wrist was more or less a fuck you to his parents when he came out of the closet at sixteen. He got the nautical stars on each of his elbows to symbolize the blazing of his own path in life. The cross on his left bicep bears a scroll and the word 'faith' – that one's pretty self-explanatory. The last one, which Jared has yet to see, is placed somewhere beneath the waistband of Jensen's jeans, and it's a design that he spent a week crafting because, in Jensen's words, every artist who's going to bother being tattooed should wear their own work somewhere.
He's not one to fall quickly into anything more than animal lust, but even as Jared leads Jensen into a darkened, underground club in downtown Santa Monica, he has to admit that this kid is getting to him. He wants to hear Jensen talk about himself, about his life and his opinions, almost as much as he wants to hear his own name growled out of the other man's fucked-raw throat. And he wants to see that wicked grin on those too-full-to-be-masculine lips almost as much as he wants to see them wrapped around his own dick. He wants to touch him and taste him and make him come apart, but he also wants to drink and laugh and talk with him. It's a new feeling for Jared, but it doesn't totally suck.
“I don't dance,” Jensen says as they wade through the writhing sea of bodies toward the bar in the back of the room. Jared's cool, and there's nothing he wants more than to feel that long, hard body pressed up against him. But he's not about to do it in the middle of a floor full of other people, thank you very much. Even this guy, who's pretty much the sexiest thing Jensen's ever seen in his nearly-three decades on Earth, is not going to convince him otherwise.
The bartender notices Jared immediately and hands him two sweating bottles without a word. When he turns and offers one to Jensen, Jared smirks. “Neither do I,” he nods over his shoulder and leads the way to a set of stairs off to the left of the bar.
The view as Jensen climbs after Jared is not terrible.
Jared says 'hi' to a few people lazing about in the VIP lounge, and continues on to the back corner of the room, lowering himself onto the soft leather sofa. He spreads his arm over the back and takes a drink of his beer, smiling into the lip when Jensen takes his seat pressed full against Jared's side. It shouldn't be this easy, should it? There's got to be something wrong with this picture . . . something completely horrific right around the corner. He's going to find out Jensen's a pedophile, or a serial killer or something, isn't he?
“You ever kill a man, Jensen?” he asks easily.
Without missing a beat, Jensen turns his face to Jared's, looks him dead in the eye, and says, “Only once. Clean up's a bitch, though. Too lazy to do it again.”
Jared laughs, rolls his eyes, and realizes that his fingers are playing with the hairs at the base of Jensen's neck. His eyes are focused on those sinfully full lips again, and it's like he's lost all control of his own actions as he leans in to taste Jensen's beer-flavored mouth.
Jensen's not a big fan of kissing. Not when there's so many other kinds of fun to be had with someone else. But Jared? Goddamn, Jared makes kissing as much an art form as the tats he etches for a living. It's not desperate or hurried, but it's not hesitant or gentle, either. Jared knows what he wants, and he's taking it. Jensen's more than happy to give it.
Between making out like teenagers, sprawled across the couch, Jared and Jensen talk and drink and laugh. A few people stop by to say 'hi' and Jared introduces Jensen with quick explanations of every person.
“Jesus, man,” Jensen finally shakes his head as a couple of pierced girls walk away hand-in-hand. “You're like the fucking mayor of Santa Monica or some shit,” he shakes his head and chuckles.
Jared doesn't deny it. Doesn't seem remotely embarrassed by the observation, either. “Been here a few years. Business is good. People know me,” he shrugs.
“Not the impressive part,” Jensen shakes his head and angles to sit fully on couch, and not as much in Jared's lap. “Makes sense they all know you,” he goes on. “But you remember every one of them. It's very cool, man.”
It's not that bigga deal, Jared doesn't think. Yeah, he remembers people. Because it's polite, and maybe because he knows a little bit what it's like not to be remembered. “Basic human decency, dude,” he plays Jensen's praise off with another shrug and a tip of his bottle.
They leave the club around three, the sleeve of Jensen's tee shirt rubbing gently against Jared's bare shoulder. It never really gets cold here, but there's definitely a chill blowing in. At least, that's why he tells himself there's an invisible shiver running down his spine at the moment anyway.
“So, why tats?” Jensen asks suddenly when they're back in Jared's truck, weaving through the nearly-deserted streets.
His eyebrow shoots up as he turns his head to the side and then back to the road. “Um, I'm a sadist?” he offers. Jensen rolls his eyes , and it makes Jared want to say something else to elicit the same response. Sarcasm, Jared thinks, is just fucking sexy on this kid. “Figure, why paint, or pencils, or whatever when you can jab someone with needles instead?”
Jensen huffs out a laugh and figures he won't get any straighter answer than that out of the giant tonight. Jared is perfectly content to pepper his sincere responses with complete bull shit, delivered in a deadpan that hasn't failed to crack him up yet.
Jared drives for a few minutes before making an executive decision in his head. Pulling his cell phone from its resting place on the truck's dash, he hits the speed dial and waits for the man on the other end to answer. “Where are you?” If he notices Jensen's raised eyebrow from the corner of his eye, he doesn't let on. “Headed that way. Just,” he stops and then turns his head to meet Jensen's gaze, illuminated only by the gleam of passing street lights as he smiles dangerously, “Don't come home tonight.”
By the time Jared tosses the phone back onto the dash, Jensen's brain is properly functioning again. “Domestic troubles?” he questions.
With a short shake of his head, Jared rakes his fingers through his hair and his grin only widens. Again, with the deadpan. “Figured you don't want Chad seein' you all naked and spread out on my bed.”
Well. That's settled, then.
They're barely in the front door before Jensen has Jared pinned against the wall, fingers buried deep in that hair that's been driving him crazy all night. For a split second, he thinks maybe he should defer to his host for the night, but he's never been one to hesitate where sex is concerned, and he's not about to start now. Not when he'd rather just touch every delectable inch of the man writhing against him now.
Jared captures Jensen's face in his enormous hands and manages to guide them through the entry and the living room. They crash into the wall just outside Jared's bedroom, but how the hell does one make it gracefully from one room to another while also attempting to manhandle two hundred pounds or more without looking?
They fall onto the bed in an uncoordinated lump and Jared's still trying to catch his breath when he feels a sting in his left shoulder. Pulling back, he looks down at the impish grin on Jensen's full lips. “Dude, did you just bite me?”
His only response is Jensen taking advantage of his surprise to flip the younger man onto his back and straddle his trim hips. “Be glad I waited until we were alone,” he answers, dipping his head to skim his teeth along Jared's collarbone, and the wizard tattooed in vibrant blue over the swell of his right shoulder. “Been wantin' to sink my teeth into these muscles all fuckin' day, man,” he adds.
Jared doesn't consider himself vanilla in the least, but dammit if he didn't know being nipped and licked like a human salt block could take him from half-hard to diamond-cutter in less than a second. “Dude, come on,” he protests, attempting to maneuver Jensen back to his mouth.
But Jensen's perfectly content to trace every last drop of ink on Jared's hot, tanned skin with his tongue. In fact, he's determinedto do it. Doesn't really care if it takes him all damn night, and part of tomorrow. The fact that Jared's muscles jump and roll beneath his tongue only drives Jensen further, despite the constant protests of the other man on the bed.
By the time Jensen's stripped him out of his clothes, and he's working hot, wet open-mouthed kisses over the 'live life loud' script on his hip, Jared thinks he's going to lose his mind. He is absolutely not going to come just from being licked. No matter how badly his body wants to. “The fuck are you doin' to me, man?” he breathes into the stillness of the air around him, and he's almost sure he's referring to Jensen's actions. Maybe.
The answer to his inquiry is an increase of suction low on his pelvic bone and Jared's hips jerk from the bed instinctively. Jensen raises his eyes, his tongue dragging back to Jared's hip until his teeth clamp over the cut of the muscle and bone there. He doesn't speak, but the laughter that rumbles low from his chest vibrates against Jared's skin.
Jared comes violently without warning, chest heaving and eyes clenched tightly. He's never, not even when he was a kid, come without so much as a hint of a touch to his cock. Or, at the very least, his ass. Jensen hasn't laid a finger on him yet. In fact, his hands are held behind his back, like he's making a conscious effort not to use them.
He feels like he should embarrassed by his astounding lack of stamina, but Jensen's had Jared on edge since they met, and he's been thinking about fucking him since they left the shop earlier tonight. Last night. Whatever. Truthfully, he deserves a goddamn medal for holding out as long as he has.
Also, it's hard to be embarrassed about anything when Jensen is back to licking, this time gathering the come from Jared's stomach onto his tongue while his eyes flutter shut in what appears to be total bliss. “Oh, fuck,” he groans and lets his head fall back onto the mattress. He cannot watch that right now. Not if he wants to be anything resembling useful for the next few hours.
Sliding onto the bed, Jensen presses his fully clothed form flush against Jared's side and leans in to capture the lobe of his left ear between his teeth. “Jesus, Jay,” he breathes, moist air caressing Jared's cheek and neck. “So fuckin' hot.”
For the first time in his life, Jared feels out of his depth. He's usually the aggressor in the bedroom. Normally, he's the one who's manhandling and setting the pace and teasing and torturing his plaything of the moment. But Jensen? Jensen's all but made him forget his own damn name. And Jared can't find the motivation to be bothered by it.
Not that he's going to take it lying down. Can't let Jensen think he's a lightweight, after all. When his breathing returns to normal, Jared hitches himself up on his elbow and lets his eyes roam the length of Jensen's body. “Off,” he yanks on the tee shirt and Jensen takes the hint with ease.
No shame. Not an ounce of self-consciousness. Not one single shred of hesitation as Jensen backs off the bed, rips his tee shirt over his head and toes his big-ass shoes off. He doesn't even bother unbuttoning his pants before sliding them over his hips and kicking them away, too. Completely unabashed as he stands before Jared's scrutiny.
Of course, Jared can't see a damn thing Jensen should be ashamed of. He's not muscles on top of more muscles like Jared is, but he's damn toned. More so than your average skinny emo kid. His eyes fixate for just a second on the interlocking vector design of circles and arrows etched low on Jensen's hip. The one that he hasn't seen yet. It's intricate, and later, when he's thinking with his upstairs brain, he'll have to make sure to let Jensen know just how impressive it is.
For now, he just says, “Damn,” and reaches forward to grab Jensen's wrist before the older man can so much as protest.
Jensen watches, satisfied smirk on his lips, as he's led to the spot between Jared's knees. Firm fingers grip his hips and he's not sure what that dangerous glint in Jared's eye is until the younger man leans forward and catches the silver nipple ring in his teeth. When he tugs on it, Jensen's head falls back, the sensations sending a bolt of desire straight to his cock. He's never been so glad to own anything, ever.
It feels like an eternity that Jared tongues and sucks at the ring. And then he pulls back, and notices the other one. Jensen clutches Jared's hair in one hand, and braces the other against his shoulder just to stay upright. There are these rough, animalistic growls sounding from Jared's throat, and his fingers are pressing, kneading, the globes of Jensen's ass. His teeth are alternating between the rings, and his warm chest is rubbing against Jensen's impossibly hard cock. All of it adds up to a sensory overload that Jensen's pretty sure he's not going to be able to withstand much longer.
“Dude,” he gasps when Jared scoots forward on the mattress enough to trap Jensen's erection between them. “Jesus . . . fuck, Jared,” he grunts, eyes dropping to see the man who has stopped with the nipple play suddenly.
When their eyes meet, Jared lays his tongue flat against Jensen's sternum and drags it up as far as he can before grabbing the back of the older man's head and pulling him down. He rocks forward to maintain contact, yanking Jensen's head back to expose the column of his throat, where he sucks and nips exactly as Jensen did to him earlier. “Shit,” Jensen manages to growl as Jared releases his head and plunges his tongue into Jensen's mouth the second his face snaps forward again.
As he fucks his tongue into that pliant mouth, Jared feels Jensen's hips begin to rock beneath his hands. “C'mon, Jen,” he pulls back enough to grit the command into Jensen's mouth. “Just . . . fuckin' come on me,” he encourages, fingers barely whispering over the crack of his fuckably round ass. “C'mon, man. Let it go,” he continues, words jagged and raw against the backdrop of their heavy breathing and Jensen's muted whimpers. A strangled grunt sounds just before he feels the first splash against his chest, and Jared's hand instinctively fists Jensen's cock, milking him through several more brutal thrusts. He's exploding hot, in volume, against Jared's chest, coating him and covering like a volcanic eruption or some shit. “Goddammit, Jensen, fuck,” he mutters as the older man's spine bows, his forehead falling onto Jared's shoulder.
After what feels like an eternity of coming every coherent thought he's ever had out through his dick, Jensen collapses against Jared in an awkward heap. “Jesus Christ,” he huffs, barely rolling away in time to see Jared trail his fingers through the sticky mess Jensen left behind. “Oh god,” he grunts, rolling his head away from the tantalizing sight.
With a chuckle, Jared rolls onto his side and lowers his head to catch Jensen's earlobe, much like the older man did to him before. “Taste so fuckin' good, Jen,” he whispers, and Jensen doesn't have to look to know that Jared has licked the fingers he was just running over his chest.
“You keep that shit up, you're gonna fuckin' kill me, man,” Jensen warns, his voice thin and tired to his own ears.
The laughter rumbles from Jared's throat as he trails the backs of his fingers down the center of Jensen's chest. “Don't you dare fall asleep on me, old man,” he teases. “Not even close to done with you yet.”
It takes all of his waning energy, but Jensen rolls himself over and manages to pin Jared's arms above his head. “Oh, don't you worry, Junior,” he sinks his teeth once more into Jared's shoulder and smirks against the skin when the younger man groans. “I will wear your ass out.”
“Jesus Christ!”
The exclamation startles Jared's eyes open, but he can't bolt upright at the sound of Chad's voice because he's being weighed down by a heated mass of freckled skin, wrapped and tangled around him like the ivy vines on the side of a building. Rolling his head, Jared notes that the clock proclaims it only nine thirty in the morning. Which means he's only been asleep for two hours. Shit.
“Shut your motherfucking door, asshole,” Chad goes on, as though Jared's actually listening to him. “Nobody wants to come home and find your big ass all fucked out naked in plain view of the front fucking door.” He doesn't bother hanging around to hear Jared's response, but his words are echoing off the hall between their two bedrooms even as he leaves. “Smells like sex in here. Buncha cockwhores.”
The statement makes Jared laugh quietly, shaking his head at the total Chadness of the wake up call. It's not the first time he's seen Jared's naked ass, and it's not the first time he's complained about it. Won't be the last, either, he's pretty sure.
With the one arm not pinned under Jensen's body, Jared scrubs his hand over his face and then rakes his fingers through his hair. He's usually hot when he wakes up, and having Jensen draped across him should be uncomfortable. It's not. And maybe that doesn't mean a goddamn thing. But maybe it does.
“The fuck is wrong with him?” Jensen grumbles against Jared's shoulder when Chad screeches like a girl fifteen minutes later and screams something that sounds like 'fuckin' cum on the goddamn shower wall, nasty motherfuckers' like he's never fucked anyone in that shower himself.
Jared just smiles at the green hair resting against his skin. “The fuck isn't wrong with him?” he shoots back.
“Sleep,” Jensen commands as Jared starts to withdraw his arm and free himself to start the coffee and close the damn door so Chad can shut the fuck up.
“Got a client in an hour,” he answers, fighting the urge to drop a kiss on the side of Jensen's face when he burrows further into Jared's side. For a second, he doesn't move. Just sits there, staring at this emo skater kid with smudged eyeliner and the most ridiculously sexy bedhead Jared's ever seen. Jensen grumbles and fucking whines before heaving a pillow in defiance of the morning in general. “You can sleep as long as you want, Jen. Don't have to leave.”
It's not an offer he's ever made before, and probably one he shouldn't even be making now. Except that it kind of feels . . . right.
For a brief second, Jensen wishes he was the kind of guy that has the decency to at least roll his lazy ass out of bed when his host for the night does. Thinks maybe he should at least get up and thank Jared for saving him from another ho-down at The Boar's Nest. Or, ya know, for the most amazing sex anyone's ever had. Ever. Porn stars and Tommy Lee included.
Instead, Jensen drifts back into a peaceful sleep, wrapped tightly in a blanket he hadn't really needed when Jared was laying next to him like a human fucking furnace.
When he awakes three hours later, the house is quiet and it takes him a few minutes to figure out just where he is and why his legs feel as sturdy as wet noodles. Struggling to sit, he takes a minute to stare at the floor, run his fingers through his hair, and stretch his back. He is the best kind of sore in the world, and if he can never rid himself of the kinks and cricks in his neck and shoulders, he's pretty sure he won't fucking care.
Finally, his eyes drift to Jared's side of the bed, and more specifically, the note laying against his pillow.
Party in the Hills tonight. Pick ya up at 11. Wear somethin' pretty for me. There's a hastily-drawn smiley skull winking back at him from the bottom of the page and Jensen just huffs a laugh as he tosses the paper back to the bed and runs his hands over his face again.
It should probably be weird, this feeling of waking up in a virtual stranger's house, all fucked out and alone. What should probably feel weirder is Jared's assumption that Jensen's going to come with him to some party in the Hollywood Hills or, more importantly, his complete lack of desire to do anything else.
But not a damn thing about it feels anything but exactly right. Instinctively rubbing the nautical star on his left elbow, he grins at the thought that maybe, just maybe he had to come all the way to California to find his way home.
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Date: 2009-10-06 07:59 pm (UTC)