Fic: RPS (Jared/Jensen): Texas | NC-17 | 3300 words
Title: Texas
Author: dragonspell
Fandom: RPS
Pairing: Jared/Jensen
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: None. Or cliches.
Summary: Like Texas, Jensen likes 'em big, Southern, jean-clad and straight. He's such a fucking cliche.
Word Count: 3300
A/N: Written for juice817's salt_burn_porn prompt I'm such a cliche.
Texas likes ‘em big. Texas likes ‘em outsized. Texas likes ‘em as large as the damn state in which they’re born. Texas also likes ‘em Southern, jean-clad, and straight. Jensen tries not to think about what a goddamned cliché he is, but sometimes he just can’t outrun it. It catches up to him and stares him in the face like some vacant, brain-addled cow.
Jensen was born with a Bible in his hand, thick enough to beat out all sinful thoughts. It worked until he was about fourteen, when he discovered that all the prayers and willpower in the world wasn’t going to stop him from having wet dreams about Rick Saracuse and how he seemed to handle a ball just so. It was then that Jensen knew that he was destined for Hell and that he might as well enjoy the ride since it was on the way. He learned how to say one thing and then go right out and do another. Come Sunday, he’d be in the pew, dutifully singing praises to Jesus with lips that had been just around Rick Saracuse’s cock.
He’d kept saying how he was going to get better, how this would be the day that he’d stop fucking guys, but he never seemed to get around to changing. It all ended the same way that it always had and the world kept on spinning, taking Jensen one step closer to the pit.
There was a period of self-loathing-disgust at himself for his wants and desires. The Bible said that it was wrong and wasn’t that good enough for him? Didn’t he want to be a good Christian? Be a good son, a good man, a good father? Didn’t he want to go to Heaven? Some guys didn’t know what to make of him, how he gave all the right signals only to end up putting his fist in their mouths. Some, though, knew him better than he knew himself. They didn’t waste their time.
It got worse when he arrived in Hollywood, ready to be a star. The movie industry loves a good cocksucker but it hates an obvious one. Be willing and able but when the questions get asked, have an alibi handy and be ready to deny, deny, deny. Jensen did a lot of things that he wasn’t proud of, lead people on that he shouldn't have, and probably should have wound up dead a long time ago.
It took him a long while to come to terms with himself, get himself sorted out, and find a modicum of self-esteem. It hit him one day, out of the blue, that he couldn’t live his life like he had been. A man can only go so long hating his life before he has to either learn to accept it or flat-out reject it. Jensen wanted to stay in the world a little bit longer, so he chose the former rather than the latter. He stopped sneaking around for late-night fucks, broke up with the girl he’d been pretending that he wanted, and surprised the hell out of his on-again, off-again fuck buddy by asking if he’d like to be seen together with Jensen in public. Mike had thought that Jensen had been joking at first, or maybe that he just hadn’t heard right, because it was so out of left field that it should have been in the next ballpark over.
Things hadn’t lasted with Mike, but, then again, Jensen hadn’t expected them to. Mike hadn’t been the type of guy that Jensen wanted to spend his life with-he’d been a symbol, a beginning. Jensen still thought of him fondly even though Mike had ended up stealing Jensen’s TV when Jensen had kicked him out. With Mike, Jensen had begun a new chapter in his life, one that wouldn’t spend its time paying lip service to Jesus and wishing that his heart would do the same. He wasn’t going to be that guy anymore who hated himself because he was gay even while he was cruising at the club. He was a good son, but he couldn’t pretend to be the man that his parents wanted him to be-that he never had been and that was alright.
It wasn’t like God could keep out all the homos, right? Some had to slip in every now and then, through the bars on the gate, and, even if he couldn’t, then Jensen would have a grand old time in Hell. He’d been done being a fucking cliché.
He liked football, loved beer, and adored cock. The best part of life was a pair of well-worn jeans, the kind with the holes in the knees because you loved them so much, but he dumped his twang and was so far from straight, he came back around to meet himself. He wasn’t a cliché. He was Jensen Ross Ackles and that was okay.
Yeah, right. All it took was one Texan straight boy with big shoulders and an even bigger laugh to make him realize that he was just as cliché as they came. Like Texas, Jensen apparently liked ‘em big, Southern, jean-clad, and straight. He’d met Jared Padalecki in a small room one day and it had led to a Texas-sized crush that just wouldn’t stop. Jared moved from girl to girl like he was a mayfly, trying to pack his entire life into every day. Jensen watched him with envious eyes and knew that he’d never be that free. There’d always be something holding him back. The movie industry liked a good cocksucker but hated an obvious one. Playboys, however, had no such restrictions-so long as you kept your dick in some girl and out of the papers, you were good to go.
Jensen tried hating Jared. He lasted all of a day. Jared had turned his puppy dog pout on him, wondering why Jensen was mad, and Jensen had crumpled like a paper towel. They’d become friends, despite Jensen’s best efforts, and Jared had curled himself up in Jensen’s heart and refused to leave.
Jensen blamed it on the beer.
Every Saturday night would find Jared at Jensen’s door or Jensen’s at Jared’s, a case of beer in one hand and take-out in the other. They’d put on a game and drink their way through the case plus another in the fridge and if that wasn’t enough, there was always the whiskey in the cupboard. The beer spilled secrets like a broken glass, buried truths dropping out of Jensen’s mouth before he had a chance to catch them.
Jared hadn’t been surprised when he’d learned that Jensen was gay. Jensen had been offended for about five minutes and then had rolled his eyes at Jared’s playful grin and grabbed the bottle of Jack to pour himself another. He’d followed it up with a story about the time that he’d stolen the sheriff’s car with John Weatherbee, a PK if there’d ever been one. Jared’s eyes had widened satisfactorily with that one.
In return, Jared had told Jensen all of his secrets, though in his case, they weren’t exactly hidden truths but more just ones that he hadn’t gotten around to telling just yet. Jensen had learned that Jared had broken into his high school more times that he could actually remember, had his first drink when he was fifteen, and lost his virginity shortly after the first drink. He’d also learned that Jared wasn’t the pure straight slut that Jensen had always thought. Jensen’s heart had pounded in his chest while Jared had drunkenly shared the story of the first, and only, time that he put his hand down another guy’s pants. It had ended with the guy puking on Jared’s shoes and Jared had concluded that he preferred girls; they seemed to puke less on him.
It hadn’t done much to stop Jensen’s hopeless crush.
Like take now for instance. Jared is sitting on the couch, a beer in one hand and a piece of pizza in another. A guy trips on the field on TV and Jared laughs out loud, points with his beer, and shoves the rest of the pizza into his big, gaping mouth. He nearly chokes but manages to swallow, still laughing. There’s pizza sauce in the corner of Jared’s mouth and on the front of his shirt, and Jared hasn’t bathed in days. By all rights, he should be disgusting. Yet Jensen can’t stop sneaking looks at him out of the corner of his eye, even though he really shouldn’t because well-worn jeans are comfortable but they don’t do much for hiding things. Jensen kind of, maybe, wants to slide himself over into Jared’s lap and lick the pizza sauce away before getting a taste of the piss-warm beer that Jared’s been drinking all night.
He keeps his eyes on the game, though he couldn’t even guess what the score is. It doesn’t seem to matter like it should.
If Jensen were ten years younger, he would have left by now. He would have been somewhere in some dive going down on a guy whose name he’d never know. If he were fifteen years younger, he’d be licking at Jared’s ear and then exploding into a million shame-filled pieces. He’s not either of those, though, so he stays where he is and accepts it, just like he’s done for years now. He pours himself a shot of Southern Comfort and hopes that it doesn’t come back to haunt him later.
He catches Jared looking at him but when he looks back, Jared’s back in the game, cheering on San Diego or New York or whoever the hell is playing. Jensen chalks it up to Jared being Jared or perhaps the Southern Comfort being Southern Comfort and pretends like he gives a flying fuck who wins.
He’s pouring himself another drink when Jared takes the bottle out of his hand. “I’m not done with that,” he says, or at least he means to. It gets hard to talk when Jared sticks his tongue down Jensen’s throat.
Jensen’s shocked enough to sit there, wondering if Jared left hours ago and this is all just a drunken hallucination brought on by too much Southern and not enough comfort. Jared’s hand feels warm and heavy on his knee, and Jared’s hair falls forward to tease at Jensen’s skin. Jensen blinks once, twice, and then figures that he should start working on making a decision.
Jared pulls back, flushing just a little and looking uncertain for once in his damn life. Jensen decides that if this is a hallucination, then it’s one of the good ones and if it’s not, they’ll sort it out later. He grabs Jared around the neck, his hands sliding back and up to sink into hair long enough to get a good hold, and surges forward, pushing Jared back against the couch. Jared’s big and solid as Jensen slides over top of him, large enough to give a satisfying stretch to Jensen’s legs and Jensen has to brace himself against the floor. He greedily bites at Jared’s lip and refuses to give an inch. His fingers tug at Jared’s hair.
Big hands slide around Jensen’s body, lifting up his shirt to get at skin, and then they sink beneath the waistband of his jeans. Jensen changes the angle of the kiss, his own hand moving downward to rest against Jared’s chest, feeling the thump of Jared’s heart beneath his palm. His own heart is beating rabbit scared because this is as real as real can get. Jared shifts his leg, bending it at the knee, and it grazes against Jensen’s cock. Jensen breaks away and touches his head to Jared’s shoulder, just feeling for a moment, riding out the wave. He’s panting hard and fast.
Jared keeps kissing him, little sucks that slip down his neck and turn into nips that make Jensen shiver. “What are we doing?” Jensen asks, his voice a whisper against Jared’s chest. He waits, not moving as Jared stops to consider. Hundreds of thoughts and excuses and denials knot themselves together in his head but he can’t bring himself to say any of them. They’re drunk; they’re bored; they’re stupid; they’ll regret this; they can forget it ever happened. For him, he knows that it’s none of the above, but he’ll say anything Jared wants him to. He doesn’t think that he can give Jared up quite yet.
“Something good,” Jared says finally and goes back to licking at Jensen’s neck.
Jensen shudders. His eyes are closed because he doesn’t know if this will end if he opens them. “You’re drunk,” he offers. It’s a way out if Jared wants to take it.
“Not that drunk,” Jared answers and drags Jensen upward to silence him with a kiss. Jensen leans into it.
Jared’s jeans are rasping against Jensen’s own, denim on denim, until Jared reaches down and pops the buttons. His fingers graze against Jensen’s cock, sending a thrill skittering up Jensen’s spine, and Jensen rolls his hips, rubbing the cotton of his boxers against Jared’s hand. Jared cups him, holds him, and Jensen forgets how to breath. Then Jared’s pushing down the elastic band and there’s just skin against skin. Jensen gasps, expelling the last of the air he had left in his lungs.
Jensen’s own fingers are unsteady as they slip beneath Jared’s jeans, shaking in a way that he’ll deny later. It feels like this is his first time with his hand in another guy’s pants, like he’s fifteen all over again and barely brave enough to steal a kiss. He’s shaking and nervous like he hasn’t been for years. Jared’s underwear is black like sin when they peek through the open zipper of his jeans. Jensen flattens his hand against them, feeling Jared’s length and closing his eyes. Jared’s hard-and big.
Everything about Jared is big, from his shoulders to his personality, and he makes even Jensen feel small sometimes. Jensen used to feel as big as Texas; then he learned that Texas was bigger.
Jared groans when Jensen slides him out of his underwear, gives a little wiggle that makes Jensen’s body thrum, and Jared’s head drops back against the arm of the couch. He throbs in Jensen’s hand, hot and hard. Jensen runs his thumb over the tip of Jared’s cock, sliding through the little pearl of slick at the top. Jared’s breath stutters and his hips flex, while his hand gives Jensen a little answering squeeze.
Jensen licks his lips. He curls his fingers and slides them down Jared’s length, forming a tight circle around the base of Jared’s cock and he can feel Jared’s balls just beneath the side of his hand. Jared does the opposite, his thumb mimicking Jensen’s move from just a moment ago. Jensen trembles and the arm that’s been holding him up buckles. Little stings of pleasure are biting into him. With one big hand, Jared hauls Jensen in for a kiss and Jensen loses himself.
They start a rhythm, each mirroring the other, and Jensen doesn’t who’s leading and who’s following because they blend into one. Each time he swirls his thumb over the head of Jared’s cock, Jared does the same to him, and each time Jared pumps him tight and sure, Jensen follows suit. Jensen’s hips roll with the motion, thrusting into the warm circle of Jared’s hand while Jared explores the inside of his mouth, swiping over his teeth and flicking against Jensen’s tongue.
Jensen slips, catching himself against the couch. Somewhere in the distance, he hears the sound of a bottle hitting the floor. He can’t be bothered to look.
Jensen feels himself start to come long before he actually does, his entire body tightening muscle by muscle, his thrusts losing their rhythm. Jared’s muttering nonsense against his lips in between kisses, the words and phrases slurring together. “Come on, yeah, do it, God, yeah, fuck, Jensen…” Jensen clenches his teeth together, bucks forward, and comes. Jared keeps stroking him, keeps talking.
Jensen’s eyes flutter open when something slick and wet coats his hand but he squeezes them shut again with a shiver as he realizes what it is: Jared’s taken some of Jensen’s come and dropped it onto his cock, using it as makeshift lube. Jensen jerks in Jared’s hand. Jared’s words run faster and faster until finally they cut off altogether, descending into a rough kind of growl that makes Jensen’s breath catch. Jared arches upward when he comes, his head digging into the arm of the couch. He clamps a hand over Jensen’s, forcing Jensen to pump hard and fast while he makes a mess out of his shirt.
Jared’s face contorts into a snarl, then relaxes inch by slow inch into a sort of slack-jawed satisfaction. His grip eases, too, releasing its bruising hold on Jensen’s hand as a smile curls Jared’s lips. Jared laughs a little, not his big Texas laugh, but the little huff he does when he’s out of breath and exhausted. Jensen’s heart squeezes in his chest. “That was…” Jared starts and then doesn’t finish. Jensen holds his breath, waiting for Jared’s next word, but Jared turns his head and looks at the TV. “Who’s winning?” he asks.
Jensen’s back to being 22 and wanting to plant his fist in a guy’s face for touching his dick. Experience lets him uncurl his hands and tuck himself in instead. He stands up and realizes that his sock is wet, soaked by Jared’s spilled beer. “Don’t go.” Jared grazes a hand over Jensen’s hip, fingers fumbling over his jeans.
“Don’t think that I should stay.” Jensen forces his face to be neutral. He wonders what this makes them, if it means anything at all, if it’s going to happen again.
“I don’t think you should go,” Jared counters and his finger wraps itself around a belt loop.
Jensen thins his lips. He’s in no mood for games. “You are drunk,” he says, offering Jared the out again.
Jared’s brain-damaged because he refuses to take Jensen up on it. “No, I’m not.”
“Then you’re what, Jared? Bored? Experimenting?” The words come out harsher than Jensen intended, whip cracks when he only meant a gentle prodding.
Jared shrugs. “Seeing where this goes,” he replies. The wind goes out of Jensen’s sails and he gives in when Jared tugs him down. He sits on the couch and stares at the TV. Red lines scrawl across a freeze frame, showing where the quarter back’s been and where he’s heading. Jensen wishes that somebody would do that for his life. “You okay?” Jared asks and when Jensen looks at him, he’s wearing his big, Texas-sized heart on his sleeve.
No, Jensen wants to say. Yes. Maybe. Instead, he says, “You’re supposed to be straight.”
Jared blinks. “Supposed to be?” Jensen doesn’t explain and Jared narrows his eyes in thought. “Is it okay if I’m not?” It’s Jensen’s turn to shrug. “’Cause…” Jared nods meaningfully at Jensen’s lap. “I think I might be okay with cock.”
“It’s only the second one you’ve seen,” Jensen says. The Seattle Seahawks are ahead by 7 and his sock is still wet.
“Third, actually,” Jared counters and Jensen whips his head around to stare. “I didn’t tell you about Ryan?”
Jensen’s silence speaks for itself and Jared launches into a story fit for Texas, complete with cows and hay barns and a tanned farmhand named Ryan King. It’s almost a cliché, except for the swapped blowjobs. Jared’s big grin comes back and his hand starts creeping over towards Jensen’s.
Like Texas, Jensen likes ‘em big, Southern and jean-clad, though he’s glad to take back the straight part. He thinks that he’s willing to see where this goes.
Author: dragonspell
Fandom: RPS
Pairing: Jared/Jensen
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: None. Or cliches.
Summary: Like Texas, Jensen likes 'em big, Southern, jean-clad and straight. He's such a fucking cliche.
Word Count: 3300
A/N: Written for juice817's salt_burn_porn prompt I'm such a cliche.
Texas likes ‘em big. Texas likes ‘em outsized. Texas likes ‘em as large as the damn state in which they’re born. Texas also likes ‘em Southern, jean-clad, and straight. Jensen tries not to think about what a goddamned cliché he is, but sometimes he just can’t outrun it. It catches up to him and stares him in the face like some vacant, brain-addled cow.
Jensen was born with a Bible in his hand, thick enough to beat out all sinful thoughts. It worked until he was about fourteen, when he discovered that all the prayers and willpower in the world wasn’t going to stop him from having wet dreams about Rick Saracuse and how he seemed to handle a ball just so. It was then that Jensen knew that he was destined for Hell and that he might as well enjoy the ride since it was on the way. He learned how to say one thing and then go right out and do another. Come Sunday, he’d be in the pew, dutifully singing praises to Jesus with lips that had been just around Rick Saracuse’s cock.
He’d kept saying how he was going to get better, how this would be the day that he’d stop fucking guys, but he never seemed to get around to changing. It all ended the same way that it always had and the world kept on spinning, taking Jensen one step closer to the pit.
There was a period of self-loathing-disgust at himself for his wants and desires. The Bible said that it was wrong and wasn’t that good enough for him? Didn’t he want to be a good Christian? Be a good son, a good man, a good father? Didn’t he want to go to Heaven? Some guys didn’t know what to make of him, how he gave all the right signals only to end up putting his fist in their mouths. Some, though, knew him better than he knew himself. They didn’t waste their time.
It got worse when he arrived in Hollywood, ready to be a star. The movie industry loves a good cocksucker but it hates an obvious one. Be willing and able but when the questions get asked, have an alibi handy and be ready to deny, deny, deny. Jensen did a lot of things that he wasn’t proud of, lead people on that he shouldn't have, and probably should have wound up dead a long time ago.
It took him a long while to come to terms with himself, get himself sorted out, and find a modicum of self-esteem. It hit him one day, out of the blue, that he couldn’t live his life like he had been. A man can only go so long hating his life before he has to either learn to accept it or flat-out reject it. Jensen wanted to stay in the world a little bit longer, so he chose the former rather than the latter. He stopped sneaking around for late-night fucks, broke up with the girl he’d been pretending that he wanted, and surprised the hell out of his on-again, off-again fuck buddy by asking if he’d like to be seen together with Jensen in public. Mike had thought that Jensen had been joking at first, or maybe that he just hadn’t heard right, because it was so out of left field that it should have been in the next ballpark over.
Things hadn’t lasted with Mike, but, then again, Jensen hadn’t expected them to. Mike hadn’t been the type of guy that Jensen wanted to spend his life with-he’d been a symbol, a beginning. Jensen still thought of him fondly even though Mike had ended up stealing Jensen’s TV when Jensen had kicked him out. With Mike, Jensen had begun a new chapter in his life, one that wouldn’t spend its time paying lip service to Jesus and wishing that his heart would do the same. He wasn’t going to be that guy anymore who hated himself because he was gay even while he was cruising at the club. He was a good son, but he couldn’t pretend to be the man that his parents wanted him to be-that he never had been and that was alright.
It wasn’t like God could keep out all the homos, right? Some had to slip in every now and then, through the bars on the gate, and, even if he couldn’t, then Jensen would have a grand old time in Hell. He’d been done being a fucking cliché.
He liked football, loved beer, and adored cock. The best part of life was a pair of well-worn jeans, the kind with the holes in the knees because you loved them so much, but he dumped his twang and was so far from straight, he came back around to meet himself. He wasn’t a cliché. He was Jensen Ross Ackles and that was okay.
Yeah, right. All it took was one Texan straight boy with big shoulders and an even bigger laugh to make him realize that he was just as cliché as they came. Like Texas, Jensen apparently liked ‘em big, Southern, jean-clad, and straight. He’d met Jared Padalecki in a small room one day and it had led to a Texas-sized crush that just wouldn’t stop. Jared moved from girl to girl like he was a mayfly, trying to pack his entire life into every day. Jensen watched him with envious eyes and knew that he’d never be that free. There’d always be something holding him back. The movie industry liked a good cocksucker but hated an obvious one. Playboys, however, had no such restrictions-so long as you kept your dick in some girl and out of the papers, you were good to go.
Jensen tried hating Jared. He lasted all of a day. Jared had turned his puppy dog pout on him, wondering why Jensen was mad, and Jensen had crumpled like a paper towel. They’d become friends, despite Jensen’s best efforts, and Jared had curled himself up in Jensen’s heart and refused to leave.
Jensen blamed it on the beer.
Every Saturday night would find Jared at Jensen’s door or Jensen’s at Jared’s, a case of beer in one hand and take-out in the other. They’d put on a game and drink their way through the case plus another in the fridge and if that wasn’t enough, there was always the whiskey in the cupboard. The beer spilled secrets like a broken glass, buried truths dropping out of Jensen’s mouth before he had a chance to catch them.
Jared hadn’t been surprised when he’d learned that Jensen was gay. Jensen had been offended for about five minutes and then had rolled his eyes at Jared’s playful grin and grabbed the bottle of Jack to pour himself another. He’d followed it up with a story about the time that he’d stolen the sheriff’s car with John Weatherbee, a PK if there’d ever been one. Jared’s eyes had widened satisfactorily with that one.
In return, Jared had told Jensen all of his secrets, though in his case, they weren’t exactly hidden truths but more just ones that he hadn’t gotten around to telling just yet. Jensen had learned that Jared had broken into his high school more times that he could actually remember, had his first drink when he was fifteen, and lost his virginity shortly after the first drink. He’d also learned that Jared wasn’t the pure straight slut that Jensen had always thought. Jensen’s heart had pounded in his chest while Jared had drunkenly shared the story of the first, and only, time that he put his hand down another guy’s pants. It had ended with the guy puking on Jared’s shoes and Jared had concluded that he preferred girls; they seemed to puke less on him.
It hadn’t done much to stop Jensen’s hopeless crush.
Like take now for instance. Jared is sitting on the couch, a beer in one hand and a piece of pizza in another. A guy trips on the field on TV and Jared laughs out loud, points with his beer, and shoves the rest of the pizza into his big, gaping mouth. He nearly chokes but manages to swallow, still laughing. There’s pizza sauce in the corner of Jared’s mouth and on the front of his shirt, and Jared hasn’t bathed in days. By all rights, he should be disgusting. Yet Jensen can’t stop sneaking looks at him out of the corner of his eye, even though he really shouldn’t because well-worn jeans are comfortable but they don’t do much for hiding things. Jensen kind of, maybe, wants to slide himself over into Jared’s lap and lick the pizza sauce away before getting a taste of the piss-warm beer that Jared’s been drinking all night.
He keeps his eyes on the game, though he couldn’t even guess what the score is. It doesn’t seem to matter like it should.
If Jensen were ten years younger, he would have left by now. He would have been somewhere in some dive going down on a guy whose name he’d never know. If he were fifteen years younger, he’d be licking at Jared’s ear and then exploding into a million shame-filled pieces. He’s not either of those, though, so he stays where he is and accepts it, just like he’s done for years now. He pours himself a shot of Southern Comfort and hopes that it doesn’t come back to haunt him later.
He catches Jared looking at him but when he looks back, Jared’s back in the game, cheering on San Diego or New York or whoever the hell is playing. Jensen chalks it up to Jared being Jared or perhaps the Southern Comfort being Southern Comfort and pretends like he gives a flying fuck who wins.
He’s pouring himself another drink when Jared takes the bottle out of his hand. “I’m not done with that,” he says, or at least he means to. It gets hard to talk when Jared sticks his tongue down Jensen’s throat.
Jensen’s shocked enough to sit there, wondering if Jared left hours ago and this is all just a drunken hallucination brought on by too much Southern and not enough comfort. Jared’s hand feels warm and heavy on his knee, and Jared’s hair falls forward to tease at Jensen’s skin. Jensen blinks once, twice, and then figures that he should start working on making a decision.
Jared pulls back, flushing just a little and looking uncertain for once in his damn life. Jensen decides that if this is a hallucination, then it’s one of the good ones and if it’s not, they’ll sort it out later. He grabs Jared around the neck, his hands sliding back and up to sink into hair long enough to get a good hold, and surges forward, pushing Jared back against the couch. Jared’s big and solid as Jensen slides over top of him, large enough to give a satisfying stretch to Jensen’s legs and Jensen has to brace himself against the floor. He greedily bites at Jared’s lip and refuses to give an inch. His fingers tug at Jared’s hair.
Big hands slide around Jensen’s body, lifting up his shirt to get at skin, and then they sink beneath the waistband of his jeans. Jensen changes the angle of the kiss, his own hand moving downward to rest against Jared’s chest, feeling the thump of Jared’s heart beneath his palm. His own heart is beating rabbit scared because this is as real as real can get. Jared shifts his leg, bending it at the knee, and it grazes against Jensen’s cock. Jensen breaks away and touches his head to Jared’s shoulder, just feeling for a moment, riding out the wave. He’s panting hard and fast.
Jared keeps kissing him, little sucks that slip down his neck and turn into nips that make Jensen shiver. “What are we doing?” Jensen asks, his voice a whisper against Jared’s chest. He waits, not moving as Jared stops to consider. Hundreds of thoughts and excuses and denials knot themselves together in his head but he can’t bring himself to say any of them. They’re drunk; they’re bored; they’re stupid; they’ll regret this; they can forget it ever happened. For him, he knows that it’s none of the above, but he’ll say anything Jared wants him to. He doesn’t think that he can give Jared up quite yet.
“Something good,” Jared says finally and goes back to licking at Jensen’s neck.
Jensen shudders. His eyes are closed because he doesn’t know if this will end if he opens them. “You’re drunk,” he offers. It’s a way out if Jared wants to take it.
“Not that drunk,” Jared answers and drags Jensen upward to silence him with a kiss. Jensen leans into it.
Jared’s jeans are rasping against Jensen’s own, denim on denim, until Jared reaches down and pops the buttons. His fingers graze against Jensen’s cock, sending a thrill skittering up Jensen’s spine, and Jensen rolls his hips, rubbing the cotton of his boxers against Jared’s hand. Jared cups him, holds him, and Jensen forgets how to breath. Then Jared’s pushing down the elastic band and there’s just skin against skin. Jensen gasps, expelling the last of the air he had left in his lungs.
Jensen’s own fingers are unsteady as they slip beneath Jared’s jeans, shaking in a way that he’ll deny later. It feels like this is his first time with his hand in another guy’s pants, like he’s fifteen all over again and barely brave enough to steal a kiss. He’s shaking and nervous like he hasn’t been for years. Jared’s underwear is black like sin when they peek through the open zipper of his jeans. Jensen flattens his hand against them, feeling Jared’s length and closing his eyes. Jared’s hard-and big.
Everything about Jared is big, from his shoulders to his personality, and he makes even Jensen feel small sometimes. Jensen used to feel as big as Texas; then he learned that Texas was bigger.
Jared groans when Jensen slides him out of his underwear, gives a little wiggle that makes Jensen’s body thrum, and Jared’s head drops back against the arm of the couch. He throbs in Jensen’s hand, hot and hard. Jensen runs his thumb over the tip of Jared’s cock, sliding through the little pearl of slick at the top. Jared’s breath stutters and his hips flex, while his hand gives Jensen a little answering squeeze.
Jensen licks his lips. He curls his fingers and slides them down Jared’s length, forming a tight circle around the base of Jared’s cock and he can feel Jared’s balls just beneath the side of his hand. Jared does the opposite, his thumb mimicking Jensen’s move from just a moment ago. Jensen trembles and the arm that’s been holding him up buckles. Little stings of pleasure are biting into him. With one big hand, Jared hauls Jensen in for a kiss and Jensen loses himself.
They start a rhythm, each mirroring the other, and Jensen doesn’t who’s leading and who’s following because they blend into one. Each time he swirls his thumb over the head of Jared’s cock, Jared does the same to him, and each time Jared pumps him tight and sure, Jensen follows suit. Jensen’s hips roll with the motion, thrusting into the warm circle of Jared’s hand while Jared explores the inside of his mouth, swiping over his teeth and flicking against Jensen’s tongue.
Jensen slips, catching himself against the couch. Somewhere in the distance, he hears the sound of a bottle hitting the floor. He can’t be bothered to look.
Jensen feels himself start to come long before he actually does, his entire body tightening muscle by muscle, his thrusts losing their rhythm. Jared’s muttering nonsense against his lips in between kisses, the words and phrases slurring together. “Come on, yeah, do it, God, yeah, fuck, Jensen…” Jensen clenches his teeth together, bucks forward, and comes. Jared keeps stroking him, keeps talking.
Jensen’s eyes flutter open when something slick and wet coats his hand but he squeezes them shut again with a shiver as he realizes what it is: Jared’s taken some of Jensen’s come and dropped it onto his cock, using it as makeshift lube. Jensen jerks in Jared’s hand. Jared’s words run faster and faster until finally they cut off altogether, descending into a rough kind of growl that makes Jensen’s breath catch. Jared arches upward when he comes, his head digging into the arm of the couch. He clamps a hand over Jensen’s, forcing Jensen to pump hard and fast while he makes a mess out of his shirt.
Jared’s face contorts into a snarl, then relaxes inch by slow inch into a sort of slack-jawed satisfaction. His grip eases, too, releasing its bruising hold on Jensen’s hand as a smile curls Jared’s lips. Jared laughs a little, not his big Texas laugh, but the little huff he does when he’s out of breath and exhausted. Jensen’s heart squeezes in his chest. “That was…” Jared starts and then doesn’t finish. Jensen holds his breath, waiting for Jared’s next word, but Jared turns his head and looks at the TV. “Who’s winning?” he asks.
Jensen’s back to being 22 and wanting to plant his fist in a guy’s face for touching his dick. Experience lets him uncurl his hands and tuck himself in instead. He stands up and realizes that his sock is wet, soaked by Jared’s spilled beer. “Don’t go.” Jared grazes a hand over Jensen’s hip, fingers fumbling over his jeans.
“Don’t think that I should stay.” Jensen forces his face to be neutral. He wonders what this makes them, if it means anything at all, if it’s going to happen again.
“I don’t think you should go,” Jared counters and his finger wraps itself around a belt loop.
Jensen thins his lips. He’s in no mood for games. “You are drunk,” he says, offering Jared the out again.
Jared’s brain-damaged because he refuses to take Jensen up on it. “No, I’m not.”
“Then you’re what, Jared? Bored? Experimenting?” The words come out harsher than Jensen intended, whip cracks when he only meant a gentle prodding.
Jared shrugs. “Seeing where this goes,” he replies. The wind goes out of Jensen’s sails and he gives in when Jared tugs him down. He sits on the couch and stares at the TV. Red lines scrawl across a freeze frame, showing where the quarter back’s been and where he’s heading. Jensen wishes that somebody would do that for his life. “You okay?” Jared asks and when Jensen looks at him, he’s wearing his big, Texas-sized heart on his sleeve.
No, Jensen wants to say. Yes. Maybe. Instead, he says, “You’re supposed to be straight.”
Jared blinks. “Supposed to be?” Jensen doesn’t explain and Jared narrows his eyes in thought. “Is it okay if I’m not?” It’s Jensen’s turn to shrug. “’Cause…” Jared nods meaningfully at Jensen’s lap. “I think I might be okay with cock.”
“It’s only the second one you’ve seen,” Jensen says. The Seattle Seahawks are ahead by 7 and his sock is still wet.
“Third, actually,” Jared counters and Jensen whips his head around to stare. “I didn’t tell you about Ryan?”
Jensen’s silence speaks for itself and Jared launches into a story fit for Texas, complete with cows and hay barns and a tanned farmhand named Ryan King. It’s almost a cliché, except for the swapped blowjobs. Jared’s big grin comes back and his hand starts creeping over towards Jensen’s.
Like Texas, Jensen likes ‘em big, Southern and jean-clad, though he’s glad to take back the straight part. He thinks that he’s willing to see where this goes.