I ficced! YEARS OF SILENCE, BROKEN!!!1!
So, yeah. This was really difficult to write, because I love READING J2, but never thought I'd actually write it, and have no bunnies unless supplied for me, like here, and I feel like it reads like a pale reflection of all kinds of better J2 stories, and, and, and. But, y'know, it feels REALLY FUCKING GOOD to finally FINISH a creative piece, which I haven't done, in -- well, it's been six years almost to the day since And in Arcadia I, and five and a half since I remixed a story of deepsix's here, and everything I've written since are all just WIPs sitting on my hard drive. So, without further ado:
Title: Dislocation
Author: Catja (kitsune13)
Pairing: Jared/Jensen
Rating: NC-17 (woot!)
Length: 2,546
Summary: Around Jared, Jensen is reduced to an assortment of body parts, and the most important part, the one who leads all the others, is always, always the one closest to Jared.
Notes: For blueeyedliz, for the spn_j2_xmas exchange. You asked for "much angsting with happy endings," which I did my best to deliver, and also "bottom!Jared and possessive!Jensen" and "Jared hurt on set, featuring freakedout!Jensen," which I also kind of delivered -- certainly the "freakedout!Jensen" bit. :D Major thanks to the lovely lazy_daze, beta/cheerleader extraordinaire, who gave me awesome plot advice. Everything good in this fic is her doing, everything sucky is mine.
Dislocation
Jared always runs a degree or two above normal, and Jensen has always clung to him on cold days, his very own human space heater. One day, after they’d been out in the snow for hours, and Jensen’s fingernails were turning blue in his too-thin gloves, Jared grabs Jensen’s hands, pulls off his gloves, unzips his own coat, and shoves them under the layers of sweaters against his stomach. Before Jensen could gasp at the heat-shock of Jared’s skin, Jared had pulled his sweaters down over Jensen’s hands and pulled the rest of Jensen close into a bear hug, folding him in under his enormous coat. His breath is hot against Jensen’s ear when he mutters, “You know why your hands are always cold, right?”
“Enlighten me,” said Jensen, staring at Jared’s collar; he won’t meet Jared’s eyes, afraid of what he’ll give away - numb as they are, his hands want to slide over Jared’s damp, smooth skin, and they’re just too close.
“Well, all your blood rushes to your uterus, see, in case there’s a baby there.”
“Dude, I don’t even want to know what fanfiction you’ve been reading.”
“No fanfiction, just observation.” He can feel Jared’s vulpine grin against his ear. “No guy could possibly have an ass as pretty as yours, ergo-“
“Padalecki! Ackles! Stop cuddling and get your asses over here!” Jensen doesn’t know whether he wants to kiss or strangle Kim, but he dutifully untangles himself from Jared’s embrace and wipes his suddenly sweaty palms on his jeans.
Around Jared, Jensen is reduced to an assortment of body parts, and the most important part, the one who leads all the others, is always, always the one closest to Jared. Jensen’s entire consciousness narrows to his left thigh (when Jared’s leg is pressed against it on the couch), the stretch of muscles below his collarbone (where Jared’s knuckles rest when he grabs Jensen’s jacket lapels), that space between his shoulder blades (that was made to fit Jared’s hand). When Jared moves away, Jensen feels like one of those creepy porcelain dolls, one that’s been broken and clumsily reassembled, and the sharp line of Jared’s remembered heat marks the site of the last fracture.
This thing, Jensen doesn’t understand it, but he’s sick with it. Most days - most moments of most days - it’s fine, and that’s no lie. (As good as Jensen is at lying to himself, he knows that’s true.) He can do his job, he can love Jared like his best friend, he can spend his every waking moment with his knee or his elbow or the side of his hand pressed against Jared, and it’s fine. But there are times - more of them, and they’re getting worse - when it’s too much, too close, and the world slips sideways and Jensen is dizzy, almost nauseous, with the low thrum of desire deep in his gut.
And the thing is, Jared makes it so easy to fuck up, to read things the way Jensen wants to. When Jared’s hands and eyes and words are all over him, every hour of every day, how can he tell if a touch or a look or a pitch in Jared’s voice actually means something? Jensen had to reassess his lines when he met Jared, only for Jared, and now he’s lost in the desert without a compass. This raw, crazy thing inside him is only moments away from clawing to the surface, cracking out of his chest and leaving nothing behind but bleaching bones and his lifeblood draining uselessly to the ground.
He knows Jared wouldn’t be cruel. That’s the worst of it. Jared doesn’t know, he can’t know, what he does to Jensen, and he would sooner tear out his own heart than Jensen’s. So he’d stop everything, keep a respectful distance, and do his best not to make things weird - but Jensen, he’s a walking force-field of awkward, and Jared’s compassion would be infinitely worse than Jared’s ignorance, so.
So. It’s fine because it has to be.
-----
Jared belongs to everyone. Everybody gets to have some of Jared’s attention, his affection, his casual confidences, his easy smile. And Jensen knows he gets more, much more, than anyone else, but he’s greedy. And it’s not like he wants Jared not to love and be loved by everyone - a Jared who wasn’t universally adored and adoring wasn’t Jared, and Jensen isn’t Ike Turner, for fuck’s sake - but. More of the same is more of the same, and Jensen wants something just for himself. And not in a small, mean, robin-redbreast in a cage way (well, not most of the time), but, just. He wants to feel special. And he knows he is, but not special enough.
Misha doesn’t help. Jensen likes the guy fine - no, wait, scratch that. Misha is everything Jensen normally likes: smart, good-natured, well-read, easygoing, bone-dry sense of humor, great storyteller. Problem is, Jared likes all that too, and Jared totally gets off on it when Misha starts going on about the cultural capital of genre television, or something, and he listens with that alert look that he used to have only for Jensen’s stories.
So they’re in this bar, and Jensen’s lost count of the empty glasses in front of them (fuck Jared and his fucking tequila shots) and Misha and Jared are having some discussion about the awesomeness of Obama and how he’s going to help the growing American underclass that Jensen would love to join, but a) he’s too drunk and b) they aren’t paying attention to him anyway. Jared is beside him, his arm draped across the back of the booth, and his knee presses against Jensen’s under the table. Jensen gives up on trying to form a coherent sentence, and tips his head onto Jared’s shoulder. Jared lifts his arm from the back of the booth and wraps it around Jensen, pulling him even closer. Misha downs his beer and grins at them, and asks if they want another round.
“Yeah, man,” Jared answers, his voice a low vibration against Jensen’s side. “Heineken for me, water for this one. Thanks.”
Misha salutes, and leaves. Jensen’s right arm is sandwiched at an awkward angle between himself and Jared, and he wriggles it out and flops his hand across Jared’s thigh. Jared is warm and solid, and Jensen finds himself tracing the inside seam of Jared’s jeans with his fingertips. He feels Jared suck in a deep breath, and realizes that his hand is about two-thirds of the way up Jared’s thigh, well beyond the pale of “friendly pat on buddy’s leg”: he freezes, his stomach dropping.
“Want some attention?” Jared’s voice, low in his ear, and Jensen’s sober now, all right, but his hand won’t move, and Jared’s arm tightens around him, and Jensen wants nothing more than to turn and hide his burning face in Jared’s shoulder (and maybe, maybe slide his hand further up Jared’s thigh and see-) but he breathes out “Yeah,” and Christ, could he be any more of a jealous fuck? Jared smiles.
“You’ve always got that,” he says.
------
This thing where Jensen can’t control his extremities is new for him, but Jared has never been able to.
“You need another brain in your ass. Like a brontosaurus,” Jensen says, after Jared bangs his head on a low doorway, his elbow on a light, and his knees on the prop table.
“They’re called ‘apatosauruses.’ And only if I get a tail,” Jared grunts, rubbing his elbow.
“No, that would just be one more thing for you to trip over.”
Jared eloquently flips him off, and gets up to amble toward the sound check booth. Jensen watches him go, grinning.
A few minutes later - given their conversation, he should have timed it - a resounding crash comes from the direction Jared had gone. When Jensen gets there, Jared is lying in a tangle of fallen lights, a cord wrapped around his ankle; Jensen has a weird flash of thank god it wasn’t his neck, but Jared is looking as pale and dazed as if he had just escaped strangulation by a vicious lamp cord. Jensen drops to his knees, grabs Jared’s hand with both of his, and rubs his right thumb over the inside of Jared’s wrist.
“You can’t take my pulse with your thumb, dumbass. Your own heartbeat gets in the way, and you can’t tell them apart.”
Jared’s voice is strained, but his eyes, when Jensen meets them, are clear and steady. Jensen presses his thumb down on Jared’s pulse, and he’s right: Jensen can’t tell if it’s his heart or Jared’s hammering under the skin. He holds Jared’s gaze, and is surprised by the color high on Jared’s cheekbones, shocking on his still-pale face. Jensen feels his own face heating up in response, and his left hand clutches Jared’s and his fingers drift over the delicate skin on the inside of Jared’s arm. Jared still isn’t looking away, and Jensen’s about to come out of his skin, this thing rattling up his spine, and -
“Padalecki! What the fuck!” Kim’s face flashes from furious to worried to furious again, once he realizes Jared isn’t bleeding, unconscious, or dead, just shaken. “You are a fucking menace to yourself and others. Jensen, take him back to his trailer and don’t let him move for at least half an hour - if he stays absolutely still, he can’t break anything else.”
Jensen lost his voice between the shaky beats of his (Jared’s) pulse, but he drags it out from somewhere. “Don’t be too sure of that.” He helps Jared untangle himself, and slips a hand under Jared’s elbow, the one he didn’t hurt, and leads him toward Jared’s trailer. Jensen can’t shake the feeling that he’s walking toward his own execution, and Jared, who never shuts up, Jared doesn’t speak. He just allows Jensen to manhandle him inside and onto the couch, and looks up at Jensen standing awkwardly over him, expectation in his eyes.
“You, uh. You want an ice pack or something?”
“No, I’m fine. Sit with me?”
Jensen quashes his instinct to flee, and settles in next to Jared, keeping a few inches between their bodies. Jared fucks him up and no mistake, and he can’t read anything right anymore. Jared bumps his knee against Jensen’s, and here we go again. Jensen digs his fingertips into his thigh, knowing - knowing - that he could run his hands over Jared’s body, check for bruises, sprains, cracked bones, and Jared would let him; he should do it, he should, it’s the responsible thing, but Jared will feel his too-slow hands and then he’ll know too, and his eyes are already too gentle, and -
“Jen?”
Jensen forces himself to look at Jared, forces a smile. “Sorry, man. Zoned out for a sec. Can I - do you want me to do anything?”
Jared bites his lip, and there’s that flush on his cheekbones again. “Jen, um. If I. God.” He runs his hand through his hair. “You know I’d never want to. Embarrass you, or something. Right?”
“Except for all the times you do.” Jared flinches at that, and Jensen rushes to explain. “I just meant. Like, when you tell reporters I sleep with a teddy bear, or, like dance where people can see you. I don’t mind that. Wait, what are you talking about?”
Jared looks away. “Just. I don’t. I don’t get you, man. Sometimes I think you want - but then you, you freeze up, or something, and god, I. There’s so much I want to - but I don’t know if it’s okay, and I hope it’s okay.”
“Jared. Um. What do you hope is okay?”
Jared meets his eyes, and Jensen can see him make a decision. He turns Jensen toward him, like he has a million times before, but he slides his hand up Jensen’s shoulder, and dips his fingertips just below the collar of Jensen’s shirt. Jensen stops breathing, a low, dark heat uncurling at the base of his spine, as Jared drags his fingers along Jensen’s collarbone, stopping at the dip in his throat. Jared’s eyes are wide, his color hectic, and though he’s had his hands all over Jensen, it’s nothing like this, and Jensen closes his eyes, he has to, because if he looks any longer at Jared he’ll lose what little control he has left, and he wants to draw this out, this crazy crashing joy, as long as possible.
He clutches at Jared’s sleeve, pulling him in close, so close, until Jared’s mouth is right there, and he breathes out, “Okay, it’s okay,” and presses his mouth to Jared’s. Jared’s lips open immediately, and Jensen has to taste, he’s been needing this for as long as he can remember, and he licks into Jared’s mouth, their teeth clacking together, but Jared just moans and Jensen feels it too, and control is totally overrated. He pushes Jared back onto the couch, and Jared goes willingly, opening his legs for Jensen, and jesus, Jensen’s never been this hard in his life. He kisses Jared again, and it’s almost savage, but Jared meets him, biting at Jensen’s lower lip and licking at his teeth. Jensen can’t hold himself away from Jared’s body anymore, he needs to feel, and he lowers himself against Jared, and can’t stop the embarrassing needy sound that tears from his throat, because finally, finally. Jared writhes underneath him, wrapping his impossibly long legs around Jensen’s hips, and Jensen has to thrust down, has to relieve the friction, and Jared’s just as hard as he is, and his mouth is against Jared’s throat, and it’s too much, too much after months (years) of frustrated longing, and Jensen won’t be able to hold out much longer. Over the pounding of the blood in his ears, Jensen makes out Jared’s voice, low and rough and breathless, and Jared is saying he wants this, he’s always wanted it, and please, please, Jensen, god, more, please -
Jared’s hips stutter under Jensen’s, his fingers dig into Jensen’s shoulders, he gasps his release into Jensen’s mouth, and oh, god, Jensen’s almost there, and Jared moans against Jensen’s lips, “Please, god, Jen, want you to fuck me,” and Jensen is done. His orgasm feels wrung from the very marrow of his bones, his body knitting together in pure crashing need, white-hot fire careening through every limb.
After eternity and a day passes, he manages to raise his head from its comfortable niche at the juncture of Jared’s neck and shoulder, and is met with Jared’s finest canary-eating grin. He can’t help the goofy smile that spreads across his own face, and Jared wriggles happily underneath him.
“Dude, that was awesome.”
Jensen cracks up. “Your pillow talk is ever so romantic.”
“Hey, I just call it like I see it.” He pulls Jensen down for a kiss, slow now, without the urgency of before, though if they keep going much longer, Jensen will be ready again, sticky pants be damned. But Jared just smiles.
“Jen,” he says, between kisses, “This. I want this. Us.”
Jensen stops then, and looks at Jared, his mussed hair, his swollen lips - and his uncertain eyes.
“Yes,” he says, into Jared’s mouth, ”Yes.” And this is where he was, and this is what he was, and Jared would hold him together. And that was just fine.
Title: Dislocation
Author: Catja (kitsune13)
Pairing: Jared/Jensen
Rating: NC-17 (woot!)
Length: 2,546
Summary: Around Jared, Jensen is reduced to an assortment of body parts, and the most important part, the one who leads all the others, is always, always the one closest to Jared.
Notes: For blueeyedliz, for the spn_j2_xmas exchange. You asked for "much angsting with happy endings," which I did my best to deliver, and also "bottom!Jared and possessive!Jensen" and "Jared hurt on set, featuring freakedout!Jensen," which I also kind of delivered -- certainly the "freakedout!Jensen" bit. :D Major thanks to the lovely lazy_daze, beta/cheerleader extraordinaire, who gave me awesome plot advice. Everything good in this fic is her doing, everything sucky is mine.
Dislocation
Jared always runs a degree or two above normal, and Jensen has always clung to him on cold days, his very own human space heater. One day, after they’d been out in the snow for hours, and Jensen’s fingernails were turning blue in his too-thin gloves, Jared grabs Jensen’s hands, pulls off his gloves, unzips his own coat, and shoves them under the layers of sweaters against his stomach. Before Jensen could gasp at the heat-shock of Jared’s skin, Jared had pulled his sweaters down over Jensen’s hands and pulled the rest of Jensen close into a bear hug, folding him in under his enormous coat. His breath is hot against Jensen’s ear when he mutters, “You know why your hands are always cold, right?”
“Enlighten me,” said Jensen, staring at Jared’s collar; he won’t meet Jared’s eyes, afraid of what he’ll give away - numb as they are, his hands want to slide over Jared’s damp, smooth skin, and they’re just too close.
“Well, all your blood rushes to your uterus, see, in case there’s a baby there.”
“Dude, I don’t even want to know what fanfiction you’ve been reading.”
“No fanfiction, just observation.” He can feel Jared’s vulpine grin against his ear. “No guy could possibly have an ass as pretty as yours, ergo-“
“Padalecki! Ackles! Stop cuddling and get your asses over here!” Jensen doesn’t know whether he wants to kiss or strangle Kim, but he dutifully untangles himself from Jared’s embrace and wipes his suddenly sweaty palms on his jeans.
Around Jared, Jensen is reduced to an assortment of body parts, and the most important part, the one who leads all the others, is always, always the one closest to Jared. Jensen’s entire consciousness narrows to his left thigh (when Jared’s leg is pressed against it on the couch), the stretch of muscles below his collarbone (where Jared’s knuckles rest when he grabs Jensen’s jacket lapels), that space between his shoulder blades (that was made to fit Jared’s hand). When Jared moves away, Jensen feels like one of those creepy porcelain dolls, one that’s been broken and clumsily reassembled, and the sharp line of Jared’s remembered heat marks the site of the last fracture.
This thing, Jensen doesn’t understand it, but he’s sick with it. Most days - most moments of most days - it’s fine, and that’s no lie. (As good as Jensen is at lying to himself, he knows that’s true.) He can do his job, he can love Jared like his best friend, he can spend his every waking moment with his knee or his elbow or the side of his hand pressed against Jared, and it’s fine. But there are times - more of them, and they’re getting worse - when it’s too much, too close, and the world slips sideways and Jensen is dizzy, almost nauseous, with the low thrum of desire deep in his gut.
And the thing is, Jared makes it so easy to fuck up, to read things the way Jensen wants to. When Jared’s hands and eyes and words are all over him, every hour of every day, how can he tell if a touch or a look or a pitch in Jared’s voice actually means something? Jensen had to reassess his lines when he met Jared, only for Jared, and now he’s lost in the desert without a compass. This raw, crazy thing inside him is only moments away from clawing to the surface, cracking out of his chest and leaving nothing behind but bleaching bones and his lifeblood draining uselessly to the ground.
He knows Jared wouldn’t be cruel. That’s the worst of it. Jared doesn’t know, he can’t know, what he does to Jensen, and he would sooner tear out his own heart than Jensen’s. So he’d stop everything, keep a respectful distance, and do his best not to make things weird - but Jensen, he’s a walking force-field of awkward, and Jared’s compassion would be infinitely worse than Jared’s ignorance, so.
So. It’s fine because it has to be.
-----
Jared belongs to everyone. Everybody gets to have some of Jared’s attention, his affection, his casual confidences, his easy smile. And Jensen knows he gets more, much more, than anyone else, but he’s greedy. And it’s not like he wants Jared not to love and be loved by everyone - a Jared who wasn’t universally adored and adoring wasn’t Jared, and Jensen isn’t Ike Turner, for fuck’s sake - but. More of the same is more of the same, and Jensen wants something just for himself. And not in a small, mean, robin-redbreast in a cage way (well, not most of the time), but, just. He wants to feel special. And he knows he is, but not special enough.
Misha doesn’t help. Jensen likes the guy fine - no, wait, scratch that. Misha is everything Jensen normally likes: smart, good-natured, well-read, easygoing, bone-dry sense of humor, great storyteller. Problem is, Jared likes all that too, and Jared totally gets off on it when Misha starts going on about the cultural capital of genre television, or something, and he listens with that alert look that he used to have only for Jensen’s stories.
So they’re in this bar, and Jensen’s lost count of the empty glasses in front of them (fuck Jared and his fucking tequila shots) and Misha and Jared are having some discussion about the awesomeness of Obama and how he’s going to help the growing American underclass that Jensen would love to join, but a) he’s too drunk and b) they aren’t paying attention to him anyway. Jared is beside him, his arm draped across the back of the booth, and his knee presses against Jensen’s under the table. Jensen gives up on trying to form a coherent sentence, and tips his head onto Jared’s shoulder. Jared lifts his arm from the back of the booth and wraps it around Jensen, pulling him even closer. Misha downs his beer and grins at them, and asks if they want another round.
“Yeah, man,” Jared answers, his voice a low vibration against Jensen’s side. “Heineken for me, water for this one. Thanks.”
Misha salutes, and leaves. Jensen’s right arm is sandwiched at an awkward angle between himself and Jared, and he wriggles it out and flops his hand across Jared’s thigh. Jared is warm and solid, and Jensen finds himself tracing the inside seam of Jared’s jeans with his fingertips. He feels Jared suck in a deep breath, and realizes that his hand is about two-thirds of the way up Jared’s thigh, well beyond the pale of “friendly pat on buddy’s leg”: he freezes, his stomach dropping.
“Want some attention?” Jared’s voice, low in his ear, and Jensen’s sober now, all right, but his hand won’t move, and Jared’s arm tightens around him, and Jensen wants nothing more than to turn and hide his burning face in Jared’s shoulder (and maybe, maybe slide his hand further up Jared’s thigh and see-) but he breathes out “Yeah,” and Christ, could he be any more of a jealous fuck? Jared smiles.
“You’ve always got that,” he says.
------
This thing where Jensen can’t control his extremities is new for him, but Jared has never been able to.
“You need another brain in your ass. Like a brontosaurus,” Jensen says, after Jared bangs his head on a low doorway, his elbow on a light, and his knees on the prop table.
“They’re called ‘apatosauruses.’ And only if I get a tail,” Jared grunts, rubbing his elbow.
“No, that would just be one more thing for you to trip over.”
Jared eloquently flips him off, and gets up to amble toward the sound check booth. Jensen watches him go, grinning.
A few minutes later - given their conversation, he should have timed it - a resounding crash comes from the direction Jared had gone. When Jensen gets there, Jared is lying in a tangle of fallen lights, a cord wrapped around his ankle; Jensen has a weird flash of thank god it wasn’t his neck, but Jared is looking as pale and dazed as if he had just escaped strangulation by a vicious lamp cord. Jensen drops to his knees, grabs Jared’s hand with both of his, and rubs his right thumb over the inside of Jared’s wrist.
“You can’t take my pulse with your thumb, dumbass. Your own heartbeat gets in the way, and you can’t tell them apart.”
Jared’s voice is strained, but his eyes, when Jensen meets them, are clear and steady. Jensen presses his thumb down on Jared’s pulse, and he’s right: Jensen can’t tell if it’s his heart or Jared’s hammering under the skin. He holds Jared’s gaze, and is surprised by the color high on Jared’s cheekbones, shocking on his still-pale face. Jensen feels his own face heating up in response, and his left hand clutches Jared’s and his fingers drift over the delicate skin on the inside of Jared’s arm. Jared still isn’t looking away, and Jensen’s about to come out of his skin, this thing rattling up his spine, and -
“Padalecki! What the fuck!” Kim’s face flashes from furious to worried to furious again, once he realizes Jared isn’t bleeding, unconscious, or dead, just shaken. “You are a fucking menace to yourself and others. Jensen, take him back to his trailer and don’t let him move for at least half an hour - if he stays absolutely still, he can’t break anything else.”
Jensen lost his voice between the shaky beats of his (Jared’s) pulse, but he drags it out from somewhere. “Don’t be too sure of that.” He helps Jared untangle himself, and slips a hand under Jared’s elbow, the one he didn’t hurt, and leads him toward Jared’s trailer. Jensen can’t shake the feeling that he’s walking toward his own execution, and Jared, who never shuts up, Jared doesn’t speak. He just allows Jensen to manhandle him inside and onto the couch, and looks up at Jensen standing awkwardly over him, expectation in his eyes.
“You, uh. You want an ice pack or something?”
“No, I’m fine. Sit with me?”
Jensen quashes his instinct to flee, and settles in next to Jared, keeping a few inches between their bodies. Jared fucks him up and no mistake, and he can’t read anything right anymore. Jared bumps his knee against Jensen’s, and here we go again. Jensen digs his fingertips into his thigh, knowing - knowing - that he could run his hands over Jared’s body, check for bruises, sprains, cracked bones, and Jared would let him; he should do it, he should, it’s the responsible thing, but Jared will feel his too-slow hands and then he’ll know too, and his eyes are already too gentle, and -
“Jen?”
Jensen forces himself to look at Jared, forces a smile. “Sorry, man. Zoned out for a sec. Can I - do you want me to do anything?”
Jared bites his lip, and there’s that flush on his cheekbones again. “Jen, um. If I. God.” He runs his hand through his hair. “You know I’d never want to. Embarrass you, or something. Right?”
“Except for all the times you do.” Jared flinches at that, and Jensen rushes to explain. “I just meant. Like, when you tell reporters I sleep with a teddy bear, or, like dance where people can see you. I don’t mind that. Wait, what are you talking about?”
Jared looks away. “Just. I don’t. I don’t get you, man. Sometimes I think you want - but then you, you freeze up, or something, and god, I. There’s so much I want to - but I don’t know if it’s okay, and I hope it’s okay.”
“Jared. Um. What do you hope is okay?”
Jared meets his eyes, and Jensen can see him make a decision. He turns Jensen toward him, like he has a million times before, but he slides his hand up Jensen’s shoulder, and dips his fingertips just below the collar of Jensen’s shirt. Jensen stops breathing, a low, dark heat uncurling at the base of his spine, as Jared drags his fingers along Jensen’s collarbone, stopping at the dip in his throat. Jared’s eyes are wide, his color hectic, and though he’s had his hands all over Jensen, it’s nothing like this, and Jensen closes his eyes, he has to, because if he looks any longer at Jared he’ll lose what little control he has left, and he wants to draw this out, this crazy crashing joy, as long as possible.
He clutches at Jared’s sleeve, pulling him in close, so close, until Jared’s mouth is right there, and he breathes out, “Okay, it’s okay,” and presses his mouth to Jared’s. Jared’s lips open immediately, and Jensen has to taste, he’s been needing this for as long as he can remember, and he licks into Jared’s mouth, their teeth clacking together, but Jared just moans and Jensen feels it too, and control is totally overrated. He pushes Jared back onto the couch, and Jared goes willingly, opening his legs for Jensen, and jesus, Jensen’s never been this hard in his life. He kisses Jared again, and it’s almost savage, but Jared meets him, biting at Jensen’s lower lip and licking at his teeth. Jensen can’t hold himself away from Jared’s body anymore, he needs to feel, and he lowers himself against Jared, and can’t stop the embarrassing needy sound that tears from his throat, because finally, finally. Jared writhes underneath him, wrapping his impossibly long legs around Jensen’s hips, and Jensen has to thrust down, has to relieve the friction, and Jared’s just as hard as he is, and his mouth is against Jared’s throat, and it’s too much, too much after months (years) of frustrated longing, and Jensen won’t be able to hold out much longer. Over the pounding of the blood in his ears, Jensen makes out Jared’s voice, low and rough and breathless, and Jared is saying he wants this, he’s always wanted it, and please, please, Jensen, god, more, please -
Jared’s hips stutter under Jensen’s, his fingers dig into Jensen’s shoulders, he gasps his release into Jensen’s mouth, and oh, god, Jensen’s almost there, and Jared moans against Jensen’s lips, “Please, god, Jen, want you to fuck me,” and Jensen is done. His orgasm feels wrung from the very marrow of his bones, his body knitting together in pure crashing need, white-hot fire careening through every limb.
After eternity and a day passes, he manages to raise his head from its comfortable niche at the juncture of Jared’s neck and shoulder, and is met with Jared’s finest canary-eating grin. He can’t help the goofy smile that spreads across his own face, and Jared wriggles happily underneath him.
“Dude, that was awesome.”
Jensen cracks up. “Your pillow talk is ever so romantic.”
“Hey, I just call it like I see it.” He pulls Jensen down for a kiss, slow now, without the urgency of before, though if they keep going much longer, Jensen will be ready again, sticky pants be damned. But Jared just smiles.
“Jen,” he says, between kisses, “This. I want this. Us.”
Jensen stops then, and looks at Jared, his mussed hair, his swollen lips - and his uncertain eyes.
“Yes,” he says, into Jared’s mouth, ”Yes.” And this is where he was, and this is what he was, and Jared would hold him together. And that was just fine.