Fic: Carpal Knowledge (Jared/Jensen, NC-17)
*clears throat* Okay, out come the blindfold_spn fills! Stand back.
Title: Carpal Knowledge
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Jared/Jensen
Disclaimer: Clearly, this is a pile of lies.
Prompt: 'I would LOVE to read something about one of the boys having a wrist!kink that they indulge with the other. You know, maybe kissing the inside of their wrist or holding them down by the wrists during sex.' Posted here.
NB: How could I not write this when it asked for wrist!kink? I thought I was the only person on earth with a wrist!kink.
He has no idea he’s doing it. It’s not always that way with Jared - some days, Jensen has no doubt at all that there’s a degree of calculation between the sidelong smiles and languid stretch of limbs, muscles standing out in sharp relief when Jared moves. When Jared wants attention, he’s fully capable of making it very obvious, and Jensen doesn’t have it in him to refuse him.
This, though - there’s nothing conscious in it, in the loose vee of Jared’s legs, the pull of his shoulders bunching under his t-shirt. He’s hunched forward, elbows on his knees, jaw resting in the flat of one big palm. His forearms look long and brown in the soft afternoon light, cuffs unbuttoned and shoved up over the first swell of muscle, and his other hand is thrust into his hair, pushing it back so that strands of it spill between long fingers. He’s thinking, his face gone tight in concentration, and his upraised wrists are strangely narrow and neat in their nakedness, bones fine-cut in contrast to the broad palms branching from them. Jared’s heavy watch, clunky and wide and silver, only serves to accentuate the curious vulnerability of the one wrist; the other, circled only by that damn black bangle, never removed, is more exposed still. They’re beautiful, and Jensen wants, in a sudden, visceral surge, to taste Jared’s pulse there, warm against his lips through fine skin.
“Don’t hurt yourself,” Jensen says, voice emerging from somewhere deep in his throat as he sets down his unopened Diet Coke on the table. Five minutes ago, fetching that Coke had felt like the most important thing in the world; but now Jared’s flexing his fingers idly in his hair, and other things have suddenly developed a greater appeal.
Jared looks up slowly, mouth quirking almost sleepily, brow still furrowed. “Huh?”
“Looked like you were thinking pretty hard, there, buddy.”
Jared snorts; pulls himself up in his chair and stretches, reaching up to hook one hand behind his head, pushing the elbow down with the opposite forearm. It’s a sport-stretch, ingrained through years of high school basketball, and it tautens all the tendons in Jared’s throat. Jensen shifts his weight, slow heat rising between his legs.
“I think I’ll live, thanks,” Jared says; and then looks up under raised eyebrows and grins. “Jen? You can sit, you know. It’s allowed.”
Jensen laughs a little, suddenly realising how strange he must look like this, fidgeting from foot to foot in the middle of the floor. But Jared was all - stretching, the bones in the back of his wrist pushing up at the skin, and Jensen can’t be blamed for getting a little distracted. Still, his lap is free, now, Jared’s long-ass arms folded up and out of the way, and Jensen would have to be an idiot not to take advantage of that. It’s a very inviting lap.
The sound Jared makes when Jensen settles his weight on Jared’s thighs is a little less inviting, but Jensen stopped paying attention to crap like that a long time ago. If he actually listened every time Jared announced that Jensen was fuckin’ heavy, he’d probably have developed some kind of eating disorder by now. So he ignores Jared’s exaggerated grunt of protest, pressing his knees into the cushion of the armchair either side of Jared’s waist, and leans forward.
"Oh, that's what's up, huh?" Jared says; and he's laughing, but the way his eyes flush darker makes it pretty clear he doesn't actually disapprove. "Wanted a piece of this right here?"
Jared makes as if to lower his arms, slack and confident, ready to pull Jensen closer, resettle him the way Jared wants. The look on his face when Jensen stops him, fingers gliding up smooth forearms to encircle Jared's wrists, is such a priceless example of certainty derailed that Jensen finds himself dearly wishing he had a camera.
Hell, it's not like he'd have any shortage of further uses for it.
"Something wrong, Jay?" Jensen can't resist teasing a little.
Jared's face twists irritably, but Jensen's intrigued to note that, when Jared rolls his hips up against Jensen's, it doesn't exactly feel like he's irritated at all.
"Wanna touch you," Jared says, jerking his wrists a little in Jensen's grip. The thing is, though - see, the thing is - if Jared wanted out as much as all that, he could jerk Jensen off him with one motion of his arm, and they both know it. And yet, he - hasn't; is mouthing off about it, but his arms are still immobile, largely unprotesting in Jensen’s grip. The implications of that fact make Jensen's stomach tighten, dark and hot, and he slides his hands up further, threads his fingers through Jared's and pushes, until the backs of Jared's hands are flush against the back of the chair above his head, inner wrists outfacing.
"You're touching me," Jensen points out softly, squeezing Jared's hands in his own. Beneath him, Jared's warm and solid, and when Jensen rocks down a little, half instinctively, Jared shifts his head against the chairback, soft little sound emerging between parted lips. Jensen smiles; takes a moment, one quiet moment, just to survey his domain. Jared's gorgeous like this, all pinned and uncertain and wanting it, regardless, and the veins on his paleskinned inner arms are blue beneath the skin. Jensen leans in; blows softly at the smooth place behind Jared's ear until Jared laughs, thighs falling loose beneath Jensen as the sound shivers through him.
When Jensen's tongue finds Jared’s wrist, he stops laughing. His arm jerks reflexively in Jensen's grip, breathy little gasp of surprise and heat hitching out of him. He's warm, here, the skin ridiculously pale and fine when Jensen nuzzles his cheek against it, and there's no masking the stutter of Jared's hips, the way his breathing shallows as Jensen trips his tongue along the vein, flattening it just below the heel of Jared's hand.
"Jen, you -" Jared gets out, and Jensen is pleased to note the broken edge to it, the familiar breathless tone that won't ever stop being hot. "What -"
"Want me to stop?" Jensen raises his eyebrows; opens his mouth against warm skin and sucks at the thunder of Jared's pulse, quickening. Jared moans, hips rolling upward in something like a rhythm, now, and Jensen matches him in it, pressing down against the bulge of Jared's erection in his jeans until Jared's head falls back, muscles tensing involuntarily in his forearms.
“I’ll take that as a no,” Jensen breathes against the place where Jared’s wrists overlap; noses at the strap of Jared’s watch as he shifts to curl his tongue around the jut of a wristbone. The action forces him further down against Jared, more of his weight flush against Jared’s cock, and Jared whimpers, arching his back off the chair, seeking contact, seeking more. Jensen’s own breath is short and laboured at the sounds Jared’s making, the tension in the long body under him, and he traces circles with his tongue over the fine lines that bracelet Jared’s wrist; drags his tongue up, after, flat and wet, over the heel of Jared’s palm.
When he sucks there, Jared surges half off the chair, and the motion is so unexpected that it sets a thrill rocketing up through Jensen’s spine to emerge as an embarrassing little whimper of want. Jared doesn’t seem to have noticed, though; is pulsing his hips up against Jensen’s, heat and pressure and his face is back-tilted, mouth open and slack, tight little lines of concentration between his brows.
“Fuck, Jensen,” Jared grits between his teeth, eyes finding Jensen’s, beaten-grass green. “Kiss me.” He licks at his lips, not salaciously, guilelessly, and there’s a flush creeping up from the neck of his shirt. He’s on edge, hot and close and pinioned, and Jensen couldn’t have resisted if he’d wanted to.
Their mouths meet in a muddle of teeth and tongue, Jared licking heatedly at the seam of Jensen’s lips until they part, pressing the kiss jaw-achingly deep within seconds. Jensen groans into it, thumbs still sweeping to and fro over the insides of Jared’s wrists, and Jared lets him do it for a moment until it gets too much and he twists, working his hands free. Jensen’s fingers are lax, now, with sex-rush, and he’s past the point of wanting to protest. He’s made his point. What he wants now is the familiar grip of Jared’s big hands around his face, holding him steady as they kiss; the brush of fingers at the nape of his neck as they rock against each other. Jared’s throbbing against him, sheen of sweat on his throat when Jensen’s fingers settle there, and Jensen’s powerless to do anything but ride the heat of him, grinding their cocks hard against each other through their jeans.
He doesn’t know what it is about Jared that makes this acceptable, this frantic rutting through their clothes like they’re both fifteen again and actual skin-on-skin is still a thing forbidden. There is something, though, something that makes Jensen forget all his embarrassment in favour of this relentless pressing and thrusting as they bite each other’s mouths, suck each other’s tongues. They’ve neither of them lost a single item of clothing, but Jensen’s still sweating out adrenaline, breathless and giddy on how hot he gets from this, just this, just him and Jared.
“Fuck,” Jared’s chanting, mouth gone slack and wet against Jensen’s; “Jesus Christ, Jen - “ and Jensen can feel him shaking, thighs gone stiff and tight. Jensen clenches his jaw, feeling the heat pulsing in his cock; grips the back of the chair and rocks down hard, rutting frantic and fierce against the swell of Jared’s dick in his jeans.
He knows the moment Jared comes by the way his head snaps back, eyes wide and blind and green. “Shit,” he rasps, and his cock is spurting against denim, soaking through the fabric and jumping under Jensen’s, and that, fuck, that’s fucking it.
Jensen’s barely got his zipper open before he’s coming in his shorts, head dipped low between his shoulders. “Fuck,” he manages; bites his lip and squeezes at himself, milking out the last thready stings of aftershock. Beneath him, Jared’s flushed and breathless, smiling as his hand settles on top of Jensen’s. They sit like that for a moment, just regaining equilibrium, until the sticky is too sticky and the gross is too gross.
Jensen stands up stiffly; shoves his jeans down in one motion. Jared, sprawled back against the back of the chair, cocks an eyebrow and leers.
“So,” he says, stretching out his arms along the back of the chair. “Wrists, huh?”
“Shut up,” Jensen says, and scowls.
Jared smirk makes it pretty clear that he doesn’t buy Jensen’s show of irritation. “I gotta try that sometime,” he says.
Jensen shifts a little, blushes. “We need to shower, man,” he points out.
“You’re taking your wrists in with you, right?”
Jensen can’t help smiling at that; hooks his fingers in the waistband of his nasty, sticky underwear and shoves it down over his hips.
They don’t actually make it all the way to the shower, but Jensen somehow finds he doesn’t exactly mind.
Title: Carpal Knowledge
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Jared/Jensen
Disclaimer: Clearly, this is a pile of lies.
Prompt: 'I would LOVE to read something about one of the boys having a wrist!kink that they indulge with the other. You know, maybe kissing the inside of their wrist or holding them down by the wrists during sex.' Posted here.
NB: How could I not write this when it asked for wrist!kink? I thought I was the only person on earth with a wrist!kink.
He has no idea he’s doing it. It’s not always that way with Jared - some days, Jensen has no doubt at all that there’s a degree of calculation between the sidelong smiles and languid stretch of limbs, muscles standing out in sharp relief when Jared moves. When Jared wants attention, he’s fully capable of making it very obvious, and Jensen doesn’t have it in him to refuse him.
This, though - there’s nothing conscious in it, in the loose vee of Jared’s legs, the pull of his shoulders bunching under his t-shirt. He’s hunched forward, elbows on his knees, jaw resting in the flat of one big palm. His forearms look long and brown in the soft afternoon light, cuffs unbuttoned and shoved up over the first swell of muscle, and his other hand is thrust into his hair, pushing it back so that strands of it spill between long fingers. He’s thinking, his face gone tight in concentration, and his upraised wrists are strangely narrow and neat in their nakedness, bones fine-cut in contrast to the broad palms branching from them. Jared’s heavy watch, clunky and wide and silver, only serves to accentuate the curious vulnerability of the one wrist; the other, circled only by that damn black bangle, never removed, is more exposed still. They’re beautiful, and Jensen wants, in a sudden, visceral surge, to taste Jared’s pulse there, warm against his lips through fine skin.
“Don’t hurt yourself,” Jensen says, voice emerging from somewhere deep in his throat as he sets down his unopened Diet Coke on the table. Five minutes ago, fetching that Coke had felt like the most important thing in the world; but now Jared’s flexing his fingers idly in his hair, and other things have suddenly developed a greater appeal.
Jared looks up slowly, mouth quirking almost sleepily, brow still furrowed. “Huh?”
“Looked like you were thinking pretty hard, there, buddy.”
Jared snorts; pulls himself up in his chair and stretches, reaching up to hook one hand behind his head, pushing the elbow down with the opposite forearm. It’s a sport-stretch, ingrained through years of high school basketball, and it tautens all the tendons in Jared’s throat. Jensen shifts his weight, slow heat rising between his legs.
“I think I’ll live, thanks,” Jared says; and then looks up under raised eyebrows and grins. “Jen? You can sit, you know. It’s allowed.”
Jensen laughs a little, suddenly realising how strange he must look like this, fidgeting from foot to foot in the middle of the floor. But Jared was all - stretching, the bones in the back of his wrist pushing up at the skin, and Jensen can’t be blamed for getting a little distracted. Still, his lap is free, now, Jared’s long-ass arms folded up and out of the way, and Jensen would have to be an idiot not to take advantage of that. It’s a very inviting lap.
The sound Jared makes when Jensen settles his weight on Jared’s thighs is a little less inviting, but Jensen stopped paying attention to crap like that a long time ago. If he actually listened every time Jared announced that Jensen was fuckin’ heavy, he’d probably have developed some kind of eating disorder by now. So he ignores Jared’s exaggerated grunt of protest, pressing his knees into the cushion of the armchair either side of Jared’s waist, and leans forward.
"Oh, that's what's up, huh?" Jared says; and he's laughing, but the way his eyes flush darker makes it pretty clear he doesn't actually disapprove. "Wanted a piece of this right here?"
Jared makes as if to lower his arms, slack and confident, ready to pull Jensen closer, resettle him the way Jared wants. The look on his face when Jensen stops him, fingers gliding up smooth forearms to encircle Jared's wrists, is such a priceless example of certainty derailed that Jensen finds himself dearly wishing he had a camera.
Hell, it's not like he'd have any shortage of further uses for it.
"Something wrong, Jay?" Jensen can't resist teasing a little.
Jared's face twists irritably, but Jensen's intrigued to note that, when Jared rolls his hips up against Jensen's, it doesn't exactly feel like he's irritated at all.
"Wanna touch you," Jared says, jerking his wrists a little in Jensen's grip. The thing is, though - see, the thing is - if Jared wanted out as much as all that, he could jerk Jensen off him with one motion of his arm, and they both know it. And yet, he - hasn't; is mouthing off about it, but his arms are still immobile, largely unprotesting in Jensen’s grip. The implications of that fact make Jensen's stomach tighten, dark and hot, and he slides his hands up further, threads his fingers through Jared's and pushes, until the backs of Jared's hands are flush against the back of the chair above his head, inner wrists outfacing.
"You're touching me," Jensen points out softly, squeezing Jared's hands in his own. Beneath him, Jared's warm and solid, and when Jensen rocks down a little, half instinctively, Jared shifts his head against the chairback, soft little sound emerging between parted lips. Jensen smiles; takes a moment, one quiet moment, just to survey his domain. Jared's gorgeous like this, all pinned and uncertain and wanting it, regardless, and the veins on his paleskinned inner arms are blue beneath the skin. Jensen leans in; blows softly at the smooth place behind Jared's ear until Jared laughs, thighs falling loose beneath Jensen as the sound shivers through him.
When Jensen's tongue finds Jared’s wrist, he stops laughing. His arm jerks reflexively in Jensen's grip, breathy little gasp of surprise and heat hitching out of him. He's warm, here, the skin ridiculously pale and fine when Jensen nuzzles his cheek against it, and there's no masking the stutter of Jared's hips, the way his breathing shallows as Jensen trips his tongue along the vein, flattening it just below the heel of Jared's hand.
"Jen, you -" Jared gets out, and Jensen is pleased to note the broken edge to it, the familiar breathless tone that won't ever stop being hot. "What -"
"Want me to stop?" Jensen raises his eyebrows; opens his mouth against warm skin and sucks at the thunder of Jared's pulse, quickening. Jared moans, hips rolling upward in something like a rhythm, now, and Jensen matches him in it, pressing down against the bulge of Jared's erection in his jeans until Jared's head falls back, muscles tensing involuntarily in his forearms.
“I’ll take that as a no,” Jensen breathes against the place where Jared’s wrists overlap; noses at the strap of Jared’s watch as he shifts to curl his tongue around the jut of a wristbone. The action forces him further down against Jared, more of his weight flush against Jared’s cock, and Jared whimpers, arching his back off the chair, seeking contact, seeking more. Jensen’s own breath is short and laboured at the sounds Jared’s making, the tension in the long body under him, and he traces circles with his tongue over the fine lines that bracelet Jared’s wrist; drags his tongue up, after, flat and wet, over the heel of Jared’s palm.
When he sucks there, Jared surges half off the chair, and the motion is so unexpected that it sets a thrill rocketing up through Jensen’s spine to emerge as an embarrassing little whimper of want. Jared doesn’t seem to have noticed, though; is pulsing his hips up against Jensen’s, heat and pressure and his face is back-tilted, mouth open and slack, tight little lines of concentration between his brows.
“Fuck, Jensen,” Jared grits between his teeth, eyes finding Jensen’s, beaten-grass green. “Kiss me.” He licks at his lips, not salaciously, guilelessly, and there’s a flush creeping up from the neck of his shirt. He’s on edge, hot and close and pinioned, and Jensen couldn’t have resisted if he’d wanted to.
Their mouths meet in a muddle of teeth and tongue, Jared licking heatedly at the seam of Jensen’s lips until they part, pressing the kiss jaw-achingly deep within seconds. Jensen groans into it, thumbs still sweeping to and fro over the insides of Jared’s wrists, and Jared lets him do it for a moment until it gets too much and he twists, working his hands free. Jensen’s fingers are lax, now, with sex-rush, and he’s past the point of wanting to protest. He’s made his point. What he wants now is the familiar grip of Jared’s big hands around his face, holding him steady as they kiss; the brush of fingers at the nape of his neck as they rock against each other. Jared’s throbbing against him, sheen of sweat on his throat when Jensen’s fingers settle there, and Jensen’s powerless to do anything but ride the heat of him, grinding their cocks hard against each other through their jeans.
He doesn’t know what it is about Jared that makes this acceptable, this frantic rutting through their clothes like they’re both fifteen again and actual skin-on-skin is still a thing forbidden. There is something, though, something that makes Jensen forget all his embarrassment in favour of this relentless pressing and thrusting as they bite each other’s mouths, suck each other’s tongues. They’ve neither of them lost a single item of clothing, but Jensen’s still sweating out adrenaline, breathless and giddy on how hot he gets from this, just this, just him and Jared.
“Fuck,” Jared’s chanting, mouth gone slack and wet against Jensen’s; “Jesus Christ, Jen - “ and Jensen can feel him shaking, thighs gone stiff and tight. Jensen clenches his jaw, feeling the heat pulsing in his cock; grips the back of the chair and rocks down hard, rutting frantic and fierce against the swell of Jared’s dick in his jeans.
He knows the moment Jared comes by the way his head snaps back, eyes wide and blind and green. “Shit,” he rasps, and his cock is spurting against denim, soaking through the fabric and jumping under Jensen’s, and that, fuck, that’s fucking it.
Jensen’s barely got his zipper open before he’s coming in his shorts, head dipped low between his shoulders. “Fuck,” he manages; bites his lip and squeezes at himself, milking out the last thready stings of aftershock. Beneath him, Jared’s flushed and breathless, smiling as his hand settles on top of Jensen’s. They sit like that for a moment, just regaining equilibrium, until the sticky is too sticky and the gross is too gross.
Jensen stands up stiffly; shoves his jeans down in one motion. Jared, sprawled back against the back of the chair, cocks an eyebrow and leers.
“So,” he says, stretching out his arms along the back of the chair. “Wrists, huh?”
“Shut up,” Jensen says, and scowls.
Jared smirk makes it pretty clear that he doesn’t buy Jensen’s show of irritation. “I gotta try that sometime,” he says.
Jensen shifts a little, blushes. “We need to shower, man,” he points out.
“You’re taking your wrists in with you, right?”
Jensen can’t help smiling at that; hooks his fingers in the waistband of his nasty, sticky underwear and shoves it down over his hips.
They don’t actually make it all the way to the shower, but Jensen somehow finds he doesn’t exactly mind.