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apocalypsosPart One/Part Two
*
As soon as Jared gets home that day, still smelling a little bit like sex and wondering if he could market and sell it as “that perfume that makes you smell as if you just spent three hours having an insane amount of orgasms with Jensen Ackles” (which, hey, he'd buy it, probably in bulk), he walks right into the office and declares, “I fucked Jensen Ackles last night.”
Chad drops the Wii he's playing with onto the nearest bean bag chair and says, “Oh, shut the hell up, you did not.”
... what? Jared promised he wouldn't tell a soul about the night before. He never claimed his best friend had a soul. He couldn't even claim Chad had any Barry White songs on his iPod, 'cause he deleted them all to make room for something that was more likely to get him laid by hot young girls like the entire Panic At The Disco catalogue.
“I did, too,” Jared says, flopping down in his chair and spinning around. “I had criminal amounts of sex with Jensen Ackles, the straightest man in Hollywood. I think I should get a medal.”
Chad snorts derisively and says, “Yeah, right. Was this before or after Scarlett Johansson and I defiled the hell out of that chair?”
“Bullshit,” Jared singsongs, but he bolts up out on the chair anyway because just the thought of Chad having imaginary sex with anyone in that chair is enough to make him want to dip it in lye and disavow it ever existed. Not enough 'ew' on the planet, honest to fuck.
Chad picks the Wii up again and says, “Exactly, dude. Bull. Shit.”
“Come on,” Jared says. “Don't you have any faith in my abilities?”
“Some,” Chad says, “but not that much.”
“Oh, baby, why you gotta be that way?” Jared says.
He grabs onto Chad before he can swing his arm to faux-bowl again, and then laughs hysterically as Chad tries to wriggle out of his grasp, all, “Get the fuck off me, asshat. You smell like sex, seriously. Who the hell did you really fuck? You had big gay sex with Bob Saget, didn't you, you goddamn pervert. I'm never going to be able to jerk off thinking about Robin Sparkles anymore without you ruining it, am I?”
Jared lets him go but can't answer because, really, it's possible he has to cancel all of his appointments for the next few days just to alternate between laughing at Chad and reliving last night. Well, the bits he remembers, anyway.
His shirt smells a little like Jensen, so instead of tossing it into the laundry like the rest of his clothes he just shoves it into the drawer with all of his sex toys. It'll make for nice sexual-fantasy fodder, if nothing else.
*
And then things start getting really fucking weird.
*
Jared's at this charity thing representing the show, surrounded by almost-completely-naked porn stars and talking about how great it is to live in a country where he makes a living telling people blind items about Tom Cruise making Katie Holmes dress up like Donna Reed and do obscene things to him with one of those cheap feather dusters, which are just completely unusable afterwards. He doesn't expect Jensen to be there but he is, his arm draped over Danneel's shoulders, and his gaze completely and totally focused on the back of Jared's neck.
Oh, not that Jared's seen him doing it or anything. Every time he turns around Jensen's focused on Danneel or his beer or that bright yellow feathery carpet that Bai Ling's wearing which, hell, everybody's staring at that thing. Somewhere Big Bird's mother can't stop crying. It's fucking ludicrous.
But he can feel it.
This one time, when one of the Duff sisters – Jared thinks it might be some sister he's ever heard of but then again he's been swilling champagne since he walked through the door and he might even be hallucinating a third even more untalented sister named Happy, who the fuck knows – snuggles up against his side for a photo op, he could swear he feels a goddamn hand on his neck.
He glances over at Jensen, but he's entirely too focused on the lobster canapes at the catering table.
If Jared were a lot more drunk and a little more of a bitch, he'd totally post a blind item tomorrow about Jensen Ackles having some sort of shellfish fetish.
*
Two days later, he's stopping at this gym he doesn't go to all that often after his morning run for one of the kickass cucumber and white grape smoothies they make and he walks through the front door just as Jensen's walking out.
They don't stop, neither of them, but Jensen looks up at him and he looks back and suddenly Jared hasn't needed to jerk off so badly in his entire life.
Which is saying a lot, really. You know, considering.
*
A day or so after that, Jared's at home alone fucking around on the 'net playing Alchemy and waiting for Paris to email him whatever juicy story she's got on the last shiny new BFF she fucked over. He already posted something this morning about Lindsay's leggings line and he's spent the past few hours reading blog comments about how leggings are so 2005 so maybe it's totally apt that she's selling them, and how if you wear them your mom turns into a selfish overbleached fame whore and your career goes down the crapper, and also how if you buy a pair you develop a severe allergy to pants and never wear them again.
Jared has nightmares where Lindsay holds a gun to his head and makes him wear leggings to the supermarket and the butcher abducts him and announces a special on Polish sausage over the PA system.
No, seriously.
He almost cried once after he woke up from one of those stupid fucking dreams, but instead he ordered a pizza from his favorite parlor and gave the cute delivery guy a blowjob, which made both of them feel way better afterwards.
His cell phone rings, and he thinks about letting it go to voice mail, but it's probably Sandy telling him about the naked orphaned Sudanese kid she had to stupidly ask for directions on her reality show and how she's adopting him now and naming him Bob or something, but instead it's Jensen.
Yeah, like, that Jensen.
He stares at the phone for almost a beat too long, like if he does it's going to stop ringing and the screen will say, “HA! Never mind, just kidding.” But then his brain kicks in and seriously, what the fuck is he even doing?
When he says hello, there's no answer at the other end, unless that scene in Chasing Amy where Brody and Alyssa compare their scars playing on the TV in the background counts as an answer. Then Jensen clears his throat all raspy and husky and says, “Hey.”
“Uh, hey,” Jared says.
One word and he's already got a fucking erection. Great, Jensen broke his cock. It hears his voice and it thinks it's getting awesome hetero-questioning sex with quite possibly the hottest guy Jared's ever seen outside of an anime.
Jensen says nothing.
And Jared's really willing to just sit there silently forever and, like, play Alchemy until he finally beats the damn thing or at least gets past that level where they just start resorting to Chinese symbols and five hundred and seven different shades of green. He supposes he could put on some porn, turning up the volume, and seeing if that'll get a reaction out of Jensen, but just thinking about it makes his balls twitch. Yes, even if he's totally willing to pull that shit on Mariah Carey during a phone interview because every song of hers is all, “Hey, isn't it awesome my ginormous ass fits into this dress the size of a postage stamp?”, and even if he did it to Justin Timberlake during a podcast and got shots of him absolutely not running from the room. And seriously, any guy who claims to be straight but hangs around to ask how gay porn stars bend like that is so not firmly entrenched in the far end of the Kinsey scale.
But then Jensen's still not talking because he's probably ... fuck, Jared doesn't even know. Maybe he's lifting weights shirtless while watching lesbian porn and driving a Humvee just to make up the fact that he's got to have drunk-dialed his gay one-night stand. It's not like he's come clean about being smashed but Jared would definitely have to be drunk to call Sandy and then not say anything. Okay, mostly because she'd start talking about her singing career again and he'd be too drunk to verbalize just how almost becoming the twenty-seventh member of the Pussycat Dolls does not constitute a singing career.
Jared's patience last approximately three minutes and forty-seven seconds.
“Okay, look, are you going to say anything or should I just start rambling on about whatever inane bullshit pops into my head? 'Cause you know I get paid good money to do that, right?”
There's this huffing sound, and then this click, and then it's pretty apparent that Jensen's hung up on him.
Jared groans and mutters, “Smooth, jackass, really fucking smooth.”
*
Somebody at Drew Barrymore's party that weekend grabs his ass.
Wait, hold up, that's totally not fair. Grabbing his ass at these parties is sort of, like, a thing. If we're being honest here, his ass got grabbed five times. But Drew so doesn't count because that's how she says hello to him, and that one skeevy agent's been trying to get into his sparkly pants for months now ever since he cannonballed naked into the pool off the roof at Robert Downey Jr.'s Christmas party (and there wasn't any liquor there for obvious reasons, so he wasn't even drunk). And then Cameron asked him if she could because she wanted a new screensaver on her iPhone, and then Drew did it again just because she could.
But somebody else grabs his ass, too, and he thinks it was Jensen.
See, it isn't a real grab. It's this fucking caress, this weird touch that's practically a pet in the middle of this roomful of people, his back centimeters away from the back of someone else who, yeah, okay, could be Jensen. He's there, Jared knows he's there, he just hasn't seen him and didn't expect Jensen to be standing right there behind him.
And it's totally within reason that he's just been driven fucking delusional because Jensen's making his shiny psychological damage his new hobby, but ... seriously, come on.
There's a part of his brain that's being completely responsible and mature and saying things like, “Oh, somebody's ego needs a slow handjob in a dirty bathroom,” and for a while there Jared's gotten himself convinced that it wasn't Jensen and that he's indulging in a stupid fantasy and it was probably somebody creepy like Tom Green gatecrashing after escaping from whatever cage Jay Leno keeps him in.
As Jared's outside in the driveway leaving a message on Sandy's voicemail telling what a kickass party she's missing, Jensen walks out the front door alone headed towards a waiting car idling in the driveway, spots Jared standing there, and freezes.
They both freeze, actually. Jared stops talking about whatever he was babbling about for a second, which was probably something stupid like how he thinks Victoria Beckham's wearing an entire boa constrictor as a hat, and spicy heat pools in his stomach at the conflicted look in Jensen's eyes. Jensen's jaw tightens, like he wants to say something but can't, and oh, hey, there are about five billion paparazzi down the block practically pissing themselves to get a shot of Jensen Ackles doing anything. Going down on Paris Hilton, reading out of a phone book, slumped on his couch eating Funions and playing Guitar Hero badly ... anything.
Jared seriously doubts that the “anything” in question includes giving one of the biggest gay guys in Hollywood what he's pretty sure are fuck-me eyes, so he just sort of waves and Jensen jolts out of whatever reverie he's in and then he's in the car and ... you know, gone.
Just like that.
*
So okay, Sandy is on this reality show that is like the worst thing ever, maybe even worse than every movie Uwe Boll's ever made combined, if you pureed their craptasticness and drizzled it in a sauce made out of his own juiced overblown ego. Like Jared should talk, right, because his producers have had him do things like try to crash Suri Cruise's birthday party dressed as a giraffe. But someone at VH-1 thought it would be a brilliant idea to merge the obscenely materialistic with something good for the planet, and it wasn't like Sandy needed to lose weight or date an airhead, unless you count that guy from The Hills that Jared punched backstage at the MTV Movie Awards. Which, let's face it, was pretty much the best thing ever except for the fact that Jared didn't get to use a two-by-four.
But, yeah. The show's now in its fifth season, which means that every once in a while they send her and her overstuffed Louis Vuitton luggage off to somewhere in the world where she can say something outrageously stupid to a guy who makes, like, twenty cents a year. And then she feels really bad about the whole thing, because she couldn't be that dumb in a billion years but she's never claimed to be the best actress on the planet so if she walked off a plane quoting Socrates the press would think she was reading it off her Blackberry, loosely translated from the l33t-speak.
After she comes back from filming she's always a completely catty bitch for a month to make up for the month of acting like a drooling moron. Jared kind of wishes she'd give up the whole thing and just go back to power-shopping for the homeless or whatever.
Sandy comes back to Los Angeles two days after Drew's party, heads immediately to Jared's house dripping paparazzi along the way, stomps into the office past a phalanx of cameramen doing new second unit footage of the pool and basketball court for the show, and declares, “All right, who'd you fuck?”
“Who hasn't he fucked?” Chad pipes up from his office chair.
“Good point.”
“Oh, blow me, the both of you,” Jared grumbles. “Take turns. Chad can go first before the syphilis melts his brain.”
Sandy ignores him and sits herself in his lap, completely obliterating his view of the computer and ruining his view of his last blog post about which contestant on Bravo's new reality show about circus clowns was in gay porn. Fuck, Bravo's obligated to hire at least one contestant for every season of every reality show of theirs who was in gay porn. It's like a law or something by now. “You haven't called me in two fucking weeks, you gigantic gay doofus,” she says.
Jared rolls his eyes and contemplates pushing her off his lap, but instead he gives her a snuggly bear hug and says, “I did, too. I left you a message, like, two days ago.”
“That wasn't a message, assbag.” She smacks his arm, and he winces and Chad laughs because now Jared's going to spend the whole day bitching about the humongous bruise on his arm. Sandy girly-slaps like a linebacker, seriously. “That was you taunting me with the same flailing bullshit I could get off your website. 'I heart caterers! Oh, Drew likes my ass! Ooo, Posh dresses funny!'”
“Jesus tapdancing Christ, what do you want out of me? Do you want an annotated list of everybody I've had sex with since you went to sponge-bathe the homeless for national television?”
Sandy perks up. “God, can you do that?”
“No! Worry about your own sex life.”
Chad snorts derisively without looking up from the iBook on his lap. “She doesn't have to. That's why she has a publicist.”
“And a pet homosexual,” Sandy says, snuggling close to Jared again.
“I hate both of you.”
Sandy sighs and gets up, tugging at her little red Stella McCartney sundress so it's not giving everybody in the room a free lesson in human sexuality that none of them really need and all of them could probably teach. “No, seriously, who have you been having sex with? He's obviously important 'cause usually I leave town and you leave me thirty-minute messages about how flexible that guy from Fall-Out Boy is, which ... ew, gross.”
Chad groans and pauses whatever he's been watching on his laptop, which honestly could be anything from old episodes of the Gummi Bears cartoon to leather tranny porn. “Would you just tell her who you've been screwing so she'll stop screeching in my ear? Or maybe you can tell her that fat throbbing line of bullshit you were feeding me the other day --”
“I'll tell everybody on the website that you've stuck your tongue into at least three of Tara Reid's bodily orifices and you weren't even drunk, I swear to God,” Jared snaps, 'cause the last thing Sandy needs to hear is how he had some weird casual one-night stand with Jensen Ackles and now he's, like, rubbing up against him at parties and probably sitting at home reading Jared's website and licking the computer screen. Who the fuck knows?
“What is so embarrassing about anybody you could have had sex with? Really, come on now. You could have had a public orgy in a fountain with three dead guys and a goat in a dress and nobody would bat an eye.” Sandy narrows her eyes and Jared squirms a little at the look on her face. He ends up on TMZ more often than not when she looks at him like that. “The only thing that would shock me at this point is if it were the same guy for two straight weeks.”
“I have not been fucking someone for two weeks straight.”
“Yeah, he definitely would have sprained something by now,” Chad says.
Jared snatches a half-eaten bag of Cheetos from the desk and flings it at Chad's head. “Oh, shut the fuck up.”
Sandy gets his attention again by giving him a good shove to one shoulder. “Come on, spill. You can't hold out on a hag. I want dish.”
“Then go shop at Crate and Barrel 'cause you're not getting any here,” Jared says.
And then Sandy gives him that look again, that one that makes him think that, oh, fuck, her entire brain's been stifled for way too long and now it's working overtime and she can probably move things with her mind and see the future and shit. She just keeps staring and staring and staring, and Jared can't stop fidgeting, and Chad's being his completely oblivious self while he eats Cheetos and flirts with sixteen-year-olds on MySpace.
Sandy glares at Chad and says, “Don't you have a Catholic schoolgirl you could be dating? Or at least someone wearing the uniform because you paid her to?”
Jared can see what's coming, and kind of wants to sink into his office chair.
Looking vaguely distracted, Chad glances up from his computer and says, “I'm sorry, I nodded off. What did you say about your sex tape again?”
Just for that, Sandy smacks him upside the back of the head. “Go somewhere else, you verbal bag of hair.”
“Ow!” Chad gives her a dirty look as he rubs at the back of his head, and Jared thinks about making a run of it but he's pretty sure Sandy would tackle him right in front of the second unit crew. “What was that for? Have you been taking extra-strength bitch pills lately?”
Sandy's only response is to pretty much grab onto Chad and, like, haul him out of the room her own damn self in her adorable sundress and four-inch-heels, which she can totally get away with because nobody expects that shit from a Paris Hilton knockoff.
As soon as she shuts the door behind Chad and stalks over to sit down on the edge of the desk, Sandy crosses her arms and puts on her best 'srs bznss' face. It's a little like being threatened by a wee baby bunny rabbit. “You've got a crush on someone,” she says.
“Oh, I do not,” Jared says, carefully avoiding her gaze because he doesn't put mind-reading past her right now. Maybe if he irritates her enough she'll be able to shoot laser beams from her eyes, which would be more than a little awesome.
“Do too,” she says. “I'm not blind, you know.”
“It's not a crush. Thirteen-year-old girls have crushes.”
“Oh, honey, don't make me go raid your wardrobe, rifle through your DVD collection, dig out the highlights of your CDs, and pull the posters off your walls,” Sandy says, ticking off each one on her fingers. “Honestly, the only thing keeping you from actually being a thirteen-year-old girl is an embarrassing story about getting your first period during gym class.”
“It's not a crush.”
“Well, it's not falling in love,” she says, and she laughs a little, and he'd laugh too because seriously, he doesn't fall in love. He gets into a series of one-night stands with guys who know more dirty tricks in the sack than you'd think. They're not exactly guys he wants to hang out with or talk to or whatever.
Except with Jensen, he kind of does. And not just because it would give him plenty of opportunities to have fantastic society-destroying sex with pretty much the hottest guy he's ever met. He's been stifling the desire for days to, like, call him and ask him to read from the classifieds just so the two of them can make fun of the people selling old vibrators or cases of lube or whatever.
“What if it were?” Jared asks.
Sandy looks about as surprised as he does that he actually said it, like she'd expected him to make up some sob story about somebody's hot personal assistant dicking him over and stealing his favorite styling gel. “Then I have to go to Vegas and make a bet,” she says. “A big one.”
He shakes his head. “It's not. It's so not.”
“Of course not,” she says, patting him on the arm, except she couldn't sound more patronizing if she tried. And then she singsongs, “But if it is, I'm going to laugh at you,” and he thinks, Yeah, I'm probably going to laugh at me, too.
*
So, Jared has this rule. Well, okay, he has a lot of rules when it comes to sex, like always carry lube or something that works as lube anyway because you never know when you might need it, and if they have to ask how to get in touch with him or if they can do it again sometime he's definitely not going to call them, or that the peanut-butter-and-come diet that Chad says he found on the internet does not do a damn thing for love handles and it's a moral imperative that he disavow anyone he meets who mentions it of the notion.
But he's also got simpler rules. Floss. Buy condoms in bulk. Don't fuck anybody from the CW.
And above all else, lock the fucking door.
The problem is that sometimes he breaks the rules. Sometimes he means to, like when he kept seeing that waiter with the gigantic cock who clearly had no clue who Jared was and thought he played for the Lakers for about a week and a half, and sometimes he doesn't mean to, like when he forgets to lock the door when he's in a spare bedroom at Rumer Willis's birthday party blowing one of Ashton's idiot buddies and Jensen walks in.
Jared's still got his lips wrapped around a mouthful of cock when he spots Jensen out of the corner of his eye, this dazed look in his eyes as Danneel hangs off his arm, clapping a hand over her mouth to cover up her sudden case of the giggles. And Jensen's stammering apologies and Danneel's running off to tell all of her fucking friends what's going on, and Ashton's moronic but pretty friend starts yanking the hell out of his hair so Jared pulls off before the guy drunkenly scalps him or whatever.
Jensen keep talking in these two-word bursts, all, “I'm sorry ... I just ... I didn't ... I should ... Jesus Christ,” before he bolts.
“What the hell was that about?” Ashton's friend slurs, swinging his bottle of beer towards the door and nearly splashing Corona all over Jared's hair. Then he passes out.
Jared shouldn't care about any of this, really, except he kind of does, and he shoots to his feet and takes off after him for reasons he can't even begin to fathom. Okay, they totally had a one-night stand, but they both agreed that you do not talk about Fight Club, and that Fight Club didn't even mean anything, and that if Jared wants to go off with some hot guy and not talk about Fight Club while trying to suck said guy's brains out through his dick, then when Jensen stumbles in to give his current girlfriend the what-for in fifteen different positions they should just wish each other a good time and go back to engaging in the sort of sexual deviancy that would scare farm animals in Nebraska.
Except Jensen can't, and considering the pace at which Jared is trying to catch up with him he can't either, and this is just really fucked up.
He finally finds Jensen – after passing Danneel and her friends, who look up and giggle like they're all thirteen years old and give him a congratulatory high-five as he passes which, lame -- behind the pool house, taking swigs from a fresh longneck. He tilts his head back, his neck in this perfect curve and his skin glowing in the waning light of day, and Jared's going to lose it, he's just going to fucking lose it.
Instead, he manages to hold it together and say, “What the hell is your problem?”, startling the fuck out of Jensen, who nearly spills an entire bottle of beer, or what's left of it, down the front of his shirt.
Jensen's barely holding up, too, it looks like, and if he keeps glaring at Jared with that much heat Jared's going to burst into flames, and not in the metaphorical sense or anything. “Do you just blow anyone who crosses your path? Is that what that was?”
“Are you kidding me?”
“You ... you can't keep doing that, Jared,” Jensen says, and for a second Jared thinks he's going to start giving him reasons why he shouldn't, like maybe he's going to cause the world's first male pregnancy or he'll get drunk some night and end up in bed with somebody who used to be in a hair band. But instead he finishes off most of the rest of his beer in one swig, and Christ, Jared thinks, Jensen had better not get really trashed and fuck him or else he's going to look like such a hypocrite.
Granted, Jared's not against hot sex with a naked hypocrite, but still.
“Why not? It's fun, it's harmless, and the last time I checked it wasn't illegal. Or at least that wasn't illegal. There's a box of sex toys at my parents' house that I really should get --”
“Is this what you want to do with your life? Just fuck anyone and everyone you can?”
And it's not like Jared hasn't heard it before – from Chad, from Sandy, even from some of the guys he's just had sex with – but it sounds so fucking ridiculous coming from Jensen. For crying out loud, Jared could count the number of starlets and singers Jensen's nailed since he got famous on one hand, if one of Jared's hands had thirty-four fingers on it. “Oh, please. Remember what I do for a living, Jensen? I probably know more of your embarrassing sex stories than you do.”
Jensen makes this disgusted face, looks around like he wants to make sure no one's around and says, “Do you know what these people say about you behind your back? They think --”
“I don't care what they think,” Jared says.
Jensen takes another step closer and it suddenly hits Jared what they've been doing the past minute or so, advancing on one another and not even noticing because they're too busy arguing. And so when Jensen takes that one little step and tosses his now-empty bottle of beer aside, he's right fucking there, warm and tense and smelling all yummy and intoxicating. His eyes sparkle green and fierce with barely restrained anger, and something about the faint glint from the Chinese lanterns in the backyard brings out his freckles, and Jared has this ridiculous thought that maybe if he nips at the skin there Jensen will taste just as spicy as he smells.
“Oh, for fuck's sake,” Jared says, and drops to his knees.
He yanks Jensen's zipper down before he can protest, except he really doesn't, not even a little bit. And he shouldn't, damn it, because if all of this drama has taught Jared anything it's that last year's Sexiest Man Alive needs the best fucking blowjob of his life. Luckily for him, Jared majored in blowjobs in college. Or you know, got an unpaid internship giving them to most of the football team. Whatever.
Jensen's hand settles on Jared's hair just as Jared pulls aside his tailored pants and boxer-briefs to reveal his half-hard cock and it's readily apparent that life is just really goddamn unfair. Jared has this great one-night stand and this gorgeous fucking dick in his ass and he can't even remember any of it. He's either got to repeat the whole night ASAP or he's got to invest in some quality regressive hypnosis.
He practically pets the fucking thing, long soft strokes of his hand over the heated flesh. For a second he's totally thinking up pet names and trying to decide where he could get a nice leash which, seriously, it's a great dick and he knows all the best adult stores in the city. He could totally find a nice leash and a collar and maybe even a chew toy and yeah, okay, he just totally lost the metaphor.
Above him, Jensen makes this noise, this whimper of surrender. Somewhere in between his knees nearly collapsing underneath him before Jared makes a grab for his thighs and the ragged sob that tears from his throat as Jared drags his tongue up the length of Jensen's red weeping cock, Jensen says, “We can't do this.”
“Speak for yourself,” Jared says, giving Jensen's erection another good lap of his tongue. Oh, man, if he never does this again he totally wants there to be lollipops that are Jensen-Ackles's-cock-flavored. He'd live off them. Or give them to Chad and laughs at the faces he'd make. One or the other. Okay, most of one and a couple of the other. Whatever.
“Fine, then,” Jensen says. His hand absently strokes Jared's cheek, cupping the sharp edge of his jaw. “I can't do this.”
“But you want to.”
“That's not the point,” Jensen says, and he's almost whining.
Jared responds by leaning forward and nuzzling at the soft trail of hair leading down to Jensen's crotch, at the defined line of Jensen's hipbone, at the weight and curves of his balls. He goes for the gentle approach, nice and safe and no pushing. It totally works for straight guys who want to experiment but don't want to fuck a guy, hesitant guys, the ones who are probably bi but have never felt anything about another guy that involves their dick unless it was annoyance over losing a pissing contest.
Jared leans forward, sucks a hot wet kiss on the velvet-smooth skin of Jensen's cock. Jensen sags in his arms, practically drapes himself over Jared and groans, “Oh, fuck,” so loudly Jared has to resist the urge to put a hand over his mouth.
Jared tilts his head back, drifts soft casual touches along Jensen's thighs, the backs of his knees, the tanned patches of skin revealed by his parted fly. “We can go in the pool house I won't say a word. And unless this place has suddenly gotten a security system worthy of a Mission: Impossible movie, there aren't any cameras in there.” He holds on tight to Jensen's legs, a part of his brain telling him he'd have to be a brainless moron to want to let go, and says in the most sincere tone of voice he can manage, “You can do whatever you want.”
And he means it. God, he means it in every way he can fucking think of. Jensen can do whatever the hell he wants with him. He could ask Jared to, like, have sex with him on the red carpet at the Oscars dressed like Mickey Mouse and Jared would probably even learn how to do the voice just to see if it got him off.
But, yeah. Whatever Jensen wants. He should get that, just like anyone else. Jared knows what his job is, that he makes his outrageous paycheck off the fact that Jensen just can't, that none of them can, and it's the first time in a long time he's genuinely hated every little thing about his stupid intrusive materialistic job.
There's this long quiet moment where Jensen just stares down at him, thinking, thinking, and then it's like he just fucking snaps.
Later on, Jared doesn't quite remember all of the details of how they get into the pool house, or even if there's anybody else in there when they go in even though he doesn't think so, but he does remember to lock the door this time around somewhere in the middle of Jensen tearing aside his shirt and sucking at his collarbone as if he's suddenly made of lollipops or something. And now he knows what a fabulous entertainment set-up Ashton and Demi have for their guests, because it's really all that he can see after Jensen tears his pants open, yanks them down and fumbles for lube until Jared finally slips him the tube he keeps in his jacket pocket for just such an occasion. He's such a fucking Boy Scout, honestly, except not in that creepy Adam-Sandler-skit kind of a way.
They tumble onto the huge guest bed in the middle of the room, and Jensen's hands are all over him, his neck and sides, his fucking cock, which pretty much just breaks out in the Hallelujah Chorus when Jensen grips him in a tight sure grasp. Jared loses track of time for a minute, seconds where his clothes vanish, long moments where Jensen goes from dressed and nipping at Jared's bottom lip to naked and whimpering into Jared's neck as he thrusts his painfully hard cock against Jared's hip.
And okay, Jared's had this dream before but it's never felt like this, this white-hot frenzy with Jensen's slick fingers easing him open and Jared biting every inch of delectable skin that's in reach and everything's moving so damn fast, Jared doesn't think he can breathe.
Then everything kind of whites out in a haze of pleasure and heat and friction and yeah, seriously, this losing his mind over Jensen's got to stop.
Not the actual sex, right, but definitely the brain frying.
*
If there's one thing Jared loves about sex, it's that he sleeps like a fucking champion afterwards. And he doesn't even mean that in the obvious way, he means that in a way like he feels like he should wake up completely refreshed with the World Fucking Champion ring slid around the base of his dick from where the sex symbol of his choice put it on there with his lips and tongue.
So when he wakes up to butterfly-soft touches on his skin and sees Jensen looking down at him, Jared can't get help but grin. Seriously, all he needs is the World Fucking Champion ring right now and he's totally fucking there.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey,” Jensen says right back.
There's really not much more Jared can manage, because Jensen's sort of propped himself up next to Jared on the bed and set to work tracing every line and curve in Jared's bared flesh with his fingers. It's incredibly fucking distracting. Honestly, everybody should have Jensen Ackles come over to their house and memorize every goddamn line of their bodies with just the tip of one finger, just this one little touch that teases the fuck of Jared.
“We have to go,” Jensen says. This apologetic look crosses his face, and Jared gets it. Like, yeah, sure, he'd love to stay, just curl up here with Jared and never leave, fuck themselves to death in some really weird position that'd be all over the Smoking Gun once they were found.
But they can't because ... well.
“Yeah, okay,” Jared says.
And it isn't until Jensen pulls away and the two of them slide out of bed and start wandering around picking up their discarded clothes and getting dressed that Jared thinks, what the fuck is wrong with him? He's standing there holding his electric blue briefs (which, okay, was he huffing spray paint when he put those on?) and even if he can't remember what the two of them just did he just knows it was pretty much the best sex of his life, and that's counting the weekend before he graduated at UCLA when Alona hooked him up with this guy who had even less inhibitions than he did. No, really. Jared came out of that hotel room happy, bow-legged, still a little sticky, sporting two sprained wrists and wondering if maybe now he had to give up his gayitude and go write for Christian cartoons featuring singing frozen dinners or something.
Seriously, though, he can't just stand there and get dressed and skip off on his merry way after this or whatever it is Jensen's going to want him to do. He can't do that.
He lifts his head and looks over at Jensen, and Jensen looks up from his jeans at the exact same time, and Jared hears himself say, “Wait, just fucking wait.”
He doesn't really know how he gets across the room so fast – what the hell, does Jensen Ackles give off some weird gay amnesia aura or something? -- but the next thing he knows he's fucking on Jensen, manhandling him backwards until the two of them slam against the wall. Jared can smell Juicyfruit and beer on the air, the scent of whatever Jensen exhales as he clutches at Jared, and Jared thinks, Okay, that's a weird combo as he's licking the taste from Jensen's mouth.
After a minute or so of making out like they're both going to pass out if they don't get some air, Jared is totally contemplating kissing Jensen until they suffocate to death, which considering Jensen's enthusiastic reaction he's up for. Great, now not only does having sex with Jensen cause some strange fucked-up mind blur where all he can remember is this all-encompassing warmth and what seriously feels like a twenty-seven-minute long orgasm, but kissing him encourages this rare mental respiratory disorder. He'd happily give up oxygen if he could keep making out with Jensen, which should last something like four minutes or so if that time that cute guy from one of the Harry Potter movies couldn't get the mouth zipper unstuck in the leather hood Jared had been wearing.
“Oh, God,” Jared says, pulling away, “if we don't leave right now, I'm totally moving in. And I think Bruce Willis would kill me if I did that.” Which, let's be honest, might be true and might not. Ashton's still walking around out there somewhere, like, letting hot girls steal his camera and take pictures down their shirts or whatever. Anything's possible.
Jensen chuckles at that, this low purring rumble in his chest. “You know what? I'm not about to fight Bruce Willis for this pool house.” He glances around for a second, and Jared takes the opportunity to lick a path up from his collarbone to his ear, catching it between his teeth and tugging, and Jensen makes this weird half-moan, half-gurgle like he's about to choke on his own tongue. And hey, if anybody around here was going to choke on Jensen's tongue it was totally Jared's job. Hello.
But there's late-night party sounds outside the window, murmurs and laughter and what sounds suspiciously like Leonardo DiCaprio telling that dirty joke about a dead frog on a string, and maybe Jared's losing it but there may be two other people fucking in the bathroom, which he's so not going to check.
He cups Jensen's jaw, stares down into flecks of gold and green and that pornographic fucking mouth of his and says, “Danneel's probably waiting for you,” because it's possible he really is that goddamn stupid.
Jensen doesn't even flinch, though, just gets this sad look in his eyes for a second and says, “Right.”
Jared nods, because he feel like, okay, now he's supposed to say something. Except he's naked and maybe a little hard, even now, and he doesn't know what that would be affecting his vocal cords but it sure is now.
“Right,” Jensen says again, and then he reaches up and brushes his lips across Jared's, this quick flash of the tip of his tongue, and then like magic he's gone.
Again.
*
Part Three
*
As soon as Jared gets home that day, still smelling a little bit like sex and wondering if he could market and sell it as “that perfume that makes you smell as if you just spent three hours having an insane amount of orgasms with Jensen Ackles” (which, hey, he'd buy it, probably in bulk), he walks right into the office and declares, “I fucked Jensen Ackles last night.”
Chad drops the Wii he's playing with onto the nearest bean bag chair and says, “Oh, shut the hell up, you did not.”
... what? Jared promised he wouldn't tell a soul about the night before. He never claimed his best friend had a soul. He couldn't even claim Chad had any Barry White songs on his iPod, 'cause he deleted them all to make room for something that was more likely to get him laid by hot young girls like the entire Panic At The Disco catalogue.
“I did, too,” Jared says, flopping down in his chair and spinning around. “I had criminal amounts of sex with Jensen Ackles, the straightest man in Hollywood. I think I should get a medal.”
Chad snorts derisively and says, “Yeah, right. Was this before or after Scarlett Johansson and I defiled the hell out of that chair?”
“Bullshit,” Jared singsongs, but he bolts up out on the chair anyway because just the thought of Chad having imaginary sex with anyone in that chair is enough to make him want to dip it in lye and disavow it ever existed. Not enough 'ew' on the planet, honest to fuck.
Chad picks the Wii up again and says, “Exactly, dude. Bull. Shit.”
“Come on,” Jared says. “Don't you have any faith in my abilities?”
“Some,” Chad says, “but not that much.”
“Oh, baby, why you gotta be that way?” Jared says.
He grabs onto Chad before he can swing his arm to faux-bowl again, and then laughs hysterically as Chad tries to wriggle out of his grasp, all, “Get the fuck off me, asshat. You smell like sex, seriously. Who the hell did you really fuck? You had big gay sex with Bob Saget, didn't you, you goddamn pervert. I'm never going to be able to jerk off thinking about Robin Sparkles anymore without you ruining it, am I?”
Jared lets him go but can't answer because, really, it's possible he has to cancel all of his appointments for the next few days just to alternate between laughing at Chad and reliving last night. Well, the bits he remembers, anyway.
His shirt smells a little like Jensen, so instead of tossing it into the laundry like the rest of his clothes he just shoves it into the drawer with all of his sex toys. It'll make for nice sexual-fantasy fodder, if nothing else.
*
And then things start getting really fucking weird.
*
Jared's at this charity thing representing the show, surrounded by almost-completely-naked porn stars and talking about how great it is to live in a country where he makes a living telling people blind items about Tom Cruise making Katie Holmes dress up like Donna Reed and do obscene things to him with one of those cheap feather dusters, which are just completely unusable afterwards. He doesn't expect Jensen to be there but he is, his arm draped over Danneel's shoulders, and his gaze completely and totally focused on the back of Jared's neck.
Oh, not that Jared's seen him doing it or anything. Every time he turns around Jensen's focused on Danneel or his beer or that bright yellow feathery carpet that Bai Ling's wearing which, hell, everybody's staring at that thing. Somewhere Big Bird's mother can't stop crying. It's fucking ludicrous.
But he can feel it.
This one time, when one of the Duff sisters – Jared thinks it might be some sister he's ever heard of but then again he's been swilling champagne since he walked through the door and he might even be hallucinating a third even more untalented sister named Happy, who the fuck knows – snuggles up against his side for a photo op, he could swear he feels a goddamn hand on his neck.
He glances over at Jensen, but he's entirely too focused on the lobster canapes at the catering table.
If Jared were a lot more drunk and a little more of a bitch, he'd totally post a blind item tomorrow about Jensen Ackles having some sort of shellfish fetish.
*
Two days later, he's stopping at this gym he doesn't go to all that often after his morning run for one of the kickass cucumber and white grape smoothies they make and he walks through the front door just as Jensen's walking out.
They don't stop, neither of them, but Jensen looks up at him and he looks back and suddenly Jared hasn't needed to jerk off so badly in his entire life.
Which is saying a lot, really. You know, considering.
*
A day or so after that, Jared's at home alone fucking around on the 'net playing Alchemy and waiting for Paris to email him whatever juicy story she's got on the last shiny new BFF she fucked over. He already posted something this morning about Lindsay's leggings line and he's spent the past few hours reading blog comments about how leggings are so 2005 so maybe it's totally apt that she's selling them, and how if you wear them your mom turns into a selfish overbleached fame whore and your career goes down the crapper, and also how if you buy a pair you develop a severe allergy to pants and never wear them again.
Jared has nightmares where Lindsay holds a gun to his head and makes him wear leggings to the supermarket and the butcher abducts him and announces a special on Polish sausage over the PA system.
No, seriously.
He almost cried once after he woke up from one of those stupid fucking dreams, but instead he ordered a pizza from his favorite parlor and gave the cute delivery guy a blowjob, which made both of them feel way better afterwards.
His cell phone rings, and he thinks about letting it go to voice mail, but it's probably Sandy telling him about the naked orphaned Sudanese kid she had to stupidly ask for directions on her reality show and how she's adopting him now and naming him Bob or something, but instead it's Jensen.
Yeah, like, that Jensen.
He stares at the phone for almost a beat too long, like if he does it's going to stop ringing and the screen will say, “HA! Never mind, just kidding.” But then his brain kicks in and seriously, what the fuck is he even doing?
When he says hello, there's no answer at the other end, unless that scene in Chasing Amy where Brody and Alyssa compare their scars playing on the TV in the background counts as an answer. Then Jensen clears his throat all raspy and husky and says, “Hey.”
“Uh, hey,” Jared says.
One word and he's already got a fucking erection. Great, Jensen broke his cock. It hears his voice and it thinks it's getting awesome hetero-questioning sex with quite possibly the hottest guy Jared's ever seen outside of an anime.
Jensen says nothing.
And Jared's really willing to just sit there silently forever and, like, play Alchemy until he finally beats the damn thing or at least gets past that level where they just start resorting to Chinese symbols and five hundred and seven different shades of green. He supposes he could put on some porn, turning up the volume, and seeing if that'll get a reaction out of Jensen, but just thinking about it makes his balls twitch. Yes, even if he's totally willing to pull that shit on Mariah Carey during a phone interview because every song of hers is all, “Hey, isn't it awesome my ginormous ass fits into this dress the size of a postage stamp?”, and even if he did it to Justin Timberlake during a podcast and got shots of him absolutely not running from the room. And seriously, any guy who claims to be straight but hangs around to ask how gay porn stars bend like that is so not firmly entrenched in the far end of the Kinsey scale.
But then Jensen's still not talking because he's probably ... fuck, Jared doesn't even know. Maybe he's lifting weights shirtless while watching lesbian porn and driving a Humvee just to make up the fact that he's got to have drunk-dialed his gay one-night stand. It's not like he's come clean about being smashed but Jared would definitely have to be drunk to call Sandy and then not say anything. Okay, mostly because she'd start talking about her singing career again and he'd be too drunk to verbalize just how almost becoming the twenty-seventh member of the Pussycat Dolls does not constitute a singing career.
Jared's patience last approximately three minutes and forty-seven seconds.
“Okay, look, are you going to say anything or should I just start rambling on about whatever inane bullshit pops into my head? 'Cause you know I get paid good money to do that, right?”
There's this huffing sound, and then this click, and then it's pretty apparent that Jensen's hung up on him.
Jared groans and mutters, “Smooth, jackass, really fucking smooth.”
*
Somebody at Drew Barrymore's party that weekend grabs his ass.
Wait, hold up, that's totally not fair. Grabbing his ass at these parties is sort of, like, a thing. If we're being honest here, his ass got grabbed five times. But Drew so doesn't count because that's how she says hello to him, and that one skeevy agent's been trying to get into his sparkly pants for months now ever since he cannonballed naked into the pool off the roof at Robert Downey Jr.'s Christmas party (and there wasn't any liquor there for obvious reasons, so he wasn't even drunk). And then Cameron asked him if she could because she wanted a new screensaver on her iPhone, and then Drew did it again just because she could.
But somebody else grabs his ass, too, and he thinks it was Jensen.
See, it isn't a real grab. It's this fucking caress, this weird touch that's practically a pet in the middle of this roomful of people, his back centimeters away from the back of someone else who, yeah, okay, could be Jensen. He's there, Jared knows he's there, he just hasn't seen him and didn't expect Jensen to be standing right there behind him.
And it's totally within reason that he's just been driven fucking delusional because Jensen's making his shiny psychological damage his new hobby, but ... seriously, come on.
There's a part of his brain that's being completely responsible and mature and saying things like, “Oh, somebody's ego needs a slow handjob in a dirty bathroom,” and for a while there Jared's gotten himself convinced that it wasn't Jensen and that he's indulging in a stupid fantasy and it was probably somebody creepy like Tom Green gatecrashing after escaping from whatever cage Jay Leno keeps him in.
As Jared's outside in the driveway leaving a message on Sandy's voicemail telling what a kickass party she's missing, Jensen walks out the front door alone headed towards a waiting car idling in the driveway, spots Jared standing there, and freezes.
They both freeze, actually. Jared stops talking about whatever he was babbling about for a second, which was probably something stupid like how he thinks Victoria Beckham's wearing an entire boa constrictor as a hat, and spicy heat pools in his stomach at the conflicted look in Jensen's eyes. Jensen's jaw tightens, like he wants to say something but can't, and oh, hey, there are about five billion paparazzi down the block practically pissing themselves to get a shot of Jensen Ackles doing anything. Going down on Paris Hilton, reading out of a phone book, slumped on his couch eating Funions and playing Guitar Hero badly ... anything.
Jared seriously doubts that the “anything” in question includes giving one of the biggest gay guys in Hollywood what he's pretty sure are fuck-me eyes, so he just sort of waves and Jensen jolts out of whatever reverie he's in and then he's in the car and ... you know, gone.
Just like that.
*
So okay, Sandy is on this reality show that is like the worst thing ever, maybe even worse than every movie Uwe Boll's ever made combined, if you pureed their craptasticness and drizzled it in a sauce made out of his own juiced overblown ego. Like Jared should talk, right, because his producers have had him do things like try to crash Suri Cruise's birthday party dressed as a giraffe. But someone at VH-1 thought it would be a brilliant idea to merge the obscenely materialistic with something good for the planet, and it wasn't like Sandy needed to lose weight or date an airhead, unless you count that guy from The Hills that Jared punched backstage at the MTV Movie Awards. Which, let's face it, was pretty much the best thing ever except for the fact that Jared didn't get to use a two-by-four.
But, yeah. The show's now in its fifth season, which means that every once in a while they send her and her overstuffed Louis Vuitton luggage off to somewhere in the world where she can say something outrageously stupid to a guy who makes, like, twenty cents a year. And then she feels really bad about the whole thing, because she couldn't be that dumb in a billion years but she's never claimed to be the best actress on the planet so if she walked off a plane quoting Socrates the press would think she was reading it off her Blackberry, loosely translated from the l33t-speak.
After she comes back from filming she's always a completely catty bitch for a month to make up for the month of acting like a drooling moron. Jared kind of wishes she'd give up the whole thing and just go back to power-shopping for the homeless or whatever.
Sandy comes back to Los Angeles two days after Drew's party, heads immediately to Jared's house dripping paparazzi along the way, stomps into the office past a phalanx of cameramen doing new second unit footage of the pool and basketball court for the show, and declares, “All right, who'd you fuck?”
“Who hasn't he fucked?” Chad pipes up from his office chair.
“Good point.”
“Oh, blow me, the both of you,” Jared grumbles. “Take turns. Chad can go first before the syphilis melts his brain.”
Sandy ignores him and sits herself in his lap, completely obliterating his view of the computer and ruining his view of his last blog post about which contestant on Bravo's new reality show about circus clowns was in gay porn. Fuck, Bravo's obligated to hire at least one contestant for every season of every reality show of theirs who was in gay porn. It's like a law or something by now. “You haven't called me in two fucking weeks, you gigantic gay doofus,” she says.
Jared rolls his eyes and contemplates pushing her off his lap, but instead he gives her a snuggly bear hug and says, “I did, too. I left you a message, like, two days ago.”
“That wasn't a message, assbag.” She smacks his arm, and he winces and Chad laughs because now Jared's going to spend the whole day bitching about the humongous bruise on his arm. Sandy girly-slaps like a linebacker, seriously. “That was you taunting me with the same flailing bullshit I could get off your website. 'I heart caterers! Oh, Drew likes my ass! Ooo, Posh dresses funny!'”
“Jesus tapdancing Christ, what do you want out of me? Do you want an annotated list of everybody I've had sex with since you went to sponge-bathe the homeless for national television?”
Sandy perks up. “God, can you do that?”
“No! Worry about your own sex life.”
Chad snorts derisively without looking up from the iBook on his lap. “She doesn't have to. That's why she has a publicist.”
“And a pet homosexual,” Sandy says, snuggling close to Jared again.
“I hate both of you.”
Sandy sighs and gets up, tugging at her little red Stella McCartney sundress so it's not giving everybody in the room a free lesson in human sexuality that none of them really need and all of them could probably teach. “No, seriously, who have you been having sex with? He's obviously important 'cause usually I leave town and you leave me thirty-minute messages about how flexible that guy from Fall-Out Boy is, which ... ew, gross.”
Chad groans and pauses whatever he's been watching on his laptop, which honestly could be anything from old episodes of the Gummi Bears cartoon to leather tranny porn. “Would you just tell her who you've been screwing so she'll stop screeching in my ear? Or maybe you can tell her that fat throbbing line of bullshit you were feeding me the other day --”
“I'll tell everybody on the website that you've stuck your tongue into at least three of Tara Reid's bodily orifices and you weren't even drunk, I swear to God,” Jared snaps, 'cause the last thing Sandy needs to hear is how he had some weird casual one-night stand with Jensen Ackles and now he's, like, rubbing up against him at parties and probably sitting at home reading Jared's website and licking the computer screen. Who the fuck knows?
“What is so embarrassing about anybody you could have had sex with? Really, come on now. You could have had a public orgy in a fountain with three dead guys and a goat in a dress and nobody would bat an eye.” Sandy narrows her eyes and Jared squirms a little at the look on her face. He ends up on TMZ more often than not when she looks at him like that. “The only thing that would shock me at this point is if it were the same guy for two straight weeks.”
“I have not been fucking someone for two weeks straight.”
“Yeah, he definitely would have sprained something by now,” Chad says.
Jared snatches a half-eaten bag of Cheetos from the desk and flings it at Chad's head. “Oh, shut the fuck up.”
Sandy gets his attention again by giving him a good shove to one shoulder. “Come on, spill. You can't hold out on a hag. I want dish.”
“Then go shop at Crate and Barrel 'cause you're not getting any here,” Jared says.
And then Sandy gives him that look again, that one that makes him think that, oh, fuck, her entire brain's been stifled for way too long and now it's working overtime and she can probably move things with her mind and see the future and shit. She just keeps staring and staring and staring, and Jared can't stop fidgeting, and Chad's being his completely oblivious self while he eats Cheetos and flirts with sixteen-year-olds on MySpace.
Sandy glares at Chad and says, “Don't you have a Catholic schoolgirl you could be dating? Or at least someone wearing the uniform because you paid her to?”
Jared can see what's coming, and kind of wants to sink into his office chair.
Looking vaguely distracted, Chad glances up from his computer and says, “I'm sorry, I nodded off. What did you say about your sex tape again?”
Just for that, Sandy smacks him upside the back of the head. “Go somewhere else, you verbal bag of hair.”
“Ow!” Chad gives her a dirty look as he rubs at the back of his head, and Jared thinks about making a run of it but he's pretty sure Sandy would tackle him right in front of the second unit crew. “What was that for? Have you been taking extra-strength bitch pills lately?”
Sandy's only response is to pretty much grab onto Chad and, like, haul him out of the room her own damn self in her adorable sundress and four-inch-heels, which she can totally get away with because nobody expects that shit from a Paris Hilton knockoff.
As soon as she shuts the door behind Chad and stalks over to sit down on the edge of the desk, Sandy crosses her arms and puts on her best 'srs bznss' face. It's a little like being threatened by a wee baby bunny rabbit. “You've got a crush on someone,” she says.
“Oh, I do not,” Jared says, carefully avoiding her gaze because he doesn't put mind-reading past her right now. Maybe if he irritates her enough she'll be able to shoot laser beams from her eyes, which would be more than a little awesome.
“Do too,” she says. “I'm not blind, you know.”
“It's not a crush. Thirteen-year-old girls have crushes.”
“Oh, honey, don't make me go raid your wardrobe, rifle through your DVD collection, dig out the highlights of your CDs, and pull the posters off your walls,” Sandy says, ticking off each one on her fingers. “Honestly, the only thing keeping you from actually being a thirteen-year-old girl is an embarrassing story about getting your first period during gym class.”
“It's not a crush.”
“Well, it's not falling in love,” she says, and she laughs a little, and he'd laugh too because seriously, he doesn't fall in love. He gets into a series of one-night stands with guys who know more dirty tricks in the sack than you'd think. They're not exactly guys he wants to hang out with or talk to or whatever.
Except with Jensen, he kind of does. And not just because it would give him plenty of opportunities to have fantastic society-destroying sex with pretty much the hottest guy he's ever met. He's been stifling the desire for days to, like, call him and ask him to read from the classifieds just so the two of them can make fun of the people selling old vibrators or cases of lube or whatever.
“What if it were?” Jared asks.
Sandy looks about as surprised as he does that he actually said it, like she'd expected him to make up some sob story about somebody's hot personal assistant dicking him over and stealing his favorite styling gel. “Then I have to go to Vegas and make a bet,” she says. “A big one.”
He shakes his head. “It's not. It's so not.”
“Of course not,” she says, patting him on the arm, except she couldn't sound more patronizing if she tried. And then she singsongs, “But if it is, I'm going to laugh at you,” and he thinks, Yeah, I'm probably going to laugh at me, too.
*
So, Jared has this rule. Well, okay, he has a lot of rules when it comes to sex, like always carry lube or something that works as lube anyway because you never know when you might need it, and if they have to ask how to get in touch with him or if they can do it again sometime he's definitely not going to call them, or that the peanut-butter-and-come diet that Chad says he found on the internet does not do a damn thing for love handles and it's a moral imperative that he disavow anyone he meets who mentions it of the notion.
But he's also got simpler rules. Floss. Buy condoms in bulk. Don't fuck anybody from the CW.
And above all else, lock the fucking door.
The problem is that sometimes he breaks the rules. Sometimes he means to, like when he kept seeing that waiter with the gigantic cock who clearly had no clue who Jared was and thought he played for the Lakers for about a week and a half, and sometimes he doesn't mean to, like when he forgets to lock the door when he's in a spare bedroom at Rumer Willis's birthday party blowing one of Ashton's idiot buddies and Jensen walks in.
Jared's still got his lips wrapped around a mouthful of cock when he spots Jensen out of the corner of his eye, this dazed look in his eyes as Danneel hangs off his arm, clapping a hand over her mouth to cover up her sudden case of the giggles. And Jensen's stammering apologies and Danneel's running off to tell all of her fucking friends what's going on, and Ashton's moronic but pretty friend starts yanking the hell out of his hair so Jared pulls off before the guy drunkenly scalps him or whatever.
Jensen keep talking in these two-word bursts, all, “I'm sorry ... I just ... I didn't ... I should ... Jesus Christ,” before he bolts.
“What the hell was that about?” Ashton's friend slurs, swinging his bottle of beer towards the door and nearly splashing Corona all over Jared's hair. Then he passes out.
Jared shouldn't care about any of this, really, except he kind of does, and he shoots to his feet and takes off after him for reasons he can't even begin to fathom. Okay, they totally had a one-night stand, but they both agreed that you do not talk about Fight Club, and that Fight Club didn't even mean anything, and that if Jared wants to go off with some hot guy and not talk about Fight Club while trying to suck said guy's brains out through his dick, then when Jensen stumbles in to give his current girlfriend the what-for in fifteen different positions they should just wish each other a good time and go back to engaging in the sort of sexual deviancy that would scare farm animals in Nebraska.
Except Jensen can't, and considering the pace at which Jared is trying to catch up with him he can't either, and this is just really fucked up.
He finally finds Jensen – after passing Danneel and her friends, who look up and giggle like they're all thirteen years old and give him a congratulatory high-five as he passes which, lame -- behind the pool house, taking swigs from a fresh longneck. He tilts his head back, his neck in this perfect curve and his skin glowing in the waning light of day, and Jared's going to lose it, he's just going to fucking lose it.
Instead, he manages to hold it together and say, “What the hell is your problem?”, startling the fuck out of Jensen, who nearly spills an entire bottle of beer, or what's left of it, down the front of his shirt.
Jensen's barely holding up, too, it looks like, and if he keeps glaring at Jared with that much heat Jared's going to burst into flames, and not in the metaphorical sense or anything. “Do you just blow anyone who crosses your path? Is that what that was?”
“Are you kidding me?”
“You ... you can't keep doing that, Jared,” Jensen says, and for a second Jared thinks he's going to start giving him reasons why he shouldn't, like maybe he's going to cause the world's first male pregnancy or he'll get drunk some night and end up in bed with somebody who used to be in a hair band. But instead he finishes off most of the rest of his beer in one swig, and Christ, Jared thinks, Jensen had better not get really trashed and fuck him or else he's going to look like such a hypocrite.
Granted, Jared's not against hot sex with a naked hypocrite, but still.
“Why not? It's fun, it's harmless, and the last time I checked it wasn't illegal. Or at least that wasn't illegal. There's a box of sex toys at my parents' house that I really should get --”
“Is this what you want to do with your life? Just fuck anyone and everyone you can?”
And it's not like Jared hasn't heard it before – from Chad, from Sandy, even from some of the guys he's just had sex with – but it sounds so fucking ridiculous coming from Jensen. For crying out loud, Jared could count the number of starlets and singers Jensen's nailed since he got famous on one hand, if one of Jared's hands had thirty-four fingers on it. “Oh, please. Remember what I do for a living, Jensen? I probably know more of your embarrassing sex stories than you do.”
Jensen makes this disgusted face, looks around like he wants to make sure no one's around and says, “Do you know what these people say about you behind your back? They think --”
“I don't care what they think,” Jared says.
Jensen takes another step closer and it suddenly hits Jared what they've been doing the past minute or so, advancing on one another and not even noticing because they're too busy arguing. And so when Jensen takes that one little step and tosses his now-empty bottle of beer aside, he's right fucking there, warm and tense and smelling all yummy and intoxicating. His eyes sparkle green and fierce with barely restrained anger, and something about the faint glint from the Chinese lanterns in the backyard brings out his freckles, and Jared has this ridiculous thought that maybe if he nips at the skin there Jensen will taste just as spicy as he smells.
“Oh, for fuck's sake,” Jared says, and drops to his knees.
He yanks Jensen's zipper down before he can protest, except he really doesn't, not even a little bit. And he shouldn't, damn it, because if all of this drama has taught Jared anything it's that last year's Sexiest Man Alive needs the best fucking blowjob of his life. Luckily for him, Jared majored in blowjobs in college. Or you know, got an unpaid internship giving them to most of the football team. Whatever.
Jensen's hand settles on Jared's hair just as Jared pulls aside his tailored pants and boxer-briefs to reveal his half-hard cock and it's readily apparent that life is just really goddamn unfair. Jared has this great one-night stand and this gorgeous fucking dick in his ass and he can't even remember any of it. He's either got to repeat the whole night ASAP or he's got to invest in some quality regressive hypnosis.
He practically pets the fucking thing, long soft strokes of his hand over the heated flesh. For a second he's totally thinking up pet names and trying to decide where he could get a nice leash which, seriously, it's a great dick and he knows all the best adult stores in the city. He could totally find a nice leash and a collar and maybe even a chew toy and yeah, okay, he just totally lost the metaphor.
Above him, Jensen makes this noise, this whimper of surrender. Somewhere in between his knees nearly collapsing underneath him before Jared makes a grab for his thighs and the ragged sob that tears from his throat as Jared drags his tongue up the length of Jensen's red weeping cock, Jensen says, “We can't do this.”
“Speak for yourself,” Jared says, giving Jensen's erection another good lap of his tongue. Oh, man, if he never does this again he totally wants there to be lollipops that are Jensen-Ackles's-cock-flavored. He'd live off them. Or give them to Chad and laughs at the faces he'd make. One or the other. Okay, most of one and a couple of the other. Whatever.
“Fine, then,” Jensen says. His hand absently strokes Jared's cheek, cupping the sharp edge of his jaw. “I can't do this.”
“But you want to.”
“That's not the point,” Jensen says, and he's almost whining.
Jared responds by leaning forward and nuzzling at the soft trail of hair leading down to Jensen's crotch, at the defined line of Jensen's hipbone, at the weight and curves of his balls. He goes for the gentle approach, nice and safe and no pushing. It totally works for straight guys who want to experiment but don't want to fuck a guy, hesitant guys, the ones who are probably bi but have never felt anything about another guy that involves their dick unless it was annoyance over losing a pissing contest.
Jared leans forward, sucks a hot wet kiss on the velvet-smooth skin of Jensen's cock. Jensen sags in his arms, practically drapes himself over Jared and groans, “Oh, fuck,” so loudly Jared has to resist the urge to put a hand over his mouth.
Jared tilts his head back, drifts soft casual touches along Jensen's thighs, the backs of his knees, the tanned patches of skin revealed by his parted fly. “We can go in the pool house I won't say a word. And unless this place has suddenly gotten a security system worthy of a Mission: Impossible movie, there aren't any cameras in there.” He holds on tight to Jensen's legs, a part of his brain telling him he'd have to be a brainless moron to want to let go, and says in the most sincere tone of voice he can manage, “You can do whatever you want.”
And he means it. God, he means it in every way he can fucking think of. Jensen can do whatever the hell he wants with him. He could ask Jared to, like, have sex with him on the red carpet at the Oscars dressed like Mickey Mouse and Jared would probably even learn how to do the voice just to see if it got him off.
But, yeah. Whatever Jensen wants. He should get that, just like anyone else. Jared knows what his job is, that he makes his outrageous paycheck off the fact that Jensen just can't, that none of them can, and it's the first time in a long time he's genuinely hated every little thing about his stupid intrusive materialistic job.
There's this long quiet moment where Jensen just stares down at him, thinking, thinking, and then it's like he just fucking snaps.
Later on, Jared doesn't quite remember all of the details of how they get into the pool house, or even if there's anybody else in there when they go in even though he doesn't think so, but he does remember to lock the door this time around somewhere in the middle of Jensen tearing aside his shirt and sucking at his collarbone as if he's suddenly made of lollipops or something. And now he knows what a fabulous entertainment set-up Ashton and Demi have for their guests, because it's really all that he can see after Jensen tears his pants open, yanks them down and fumbles for lube until Jared finally slips him the tube he keeps in his jacket pocket for just such an occasion. He's such a fucking Boy Scout, honestly, except not in that creepy Adam-Sandler-skit kind of a way.
They tumble onto the huge guest bed in the middle of the room, and Jensen's hands are all over him, his neck and sides, his fucking cock, which pretty much just breaks out in the Hallelujah Chorus when Jensen grips him in a tight sure grasp. Jared loses track of time for a minute, seconds where his clothes vanish, long moments where Jensen goes from dressed and nipping at Jared's bottom lip to naked and whimpering into Jared's neck as he thrusts his painfully hard cock against Jared's hip.
And okay, Jared's had this dream before but it's never felt like this, this white-hot frenzy with Jensen's slick fingers easing him open and Jared biting every inch of delectable skin that's in reach and everything's moving so damn fast, Jared doesn't think he can breathe.
Then everything kind of whites out in a haze of pleasure and heat and friction and yeah, seriously, this losing his mind over Jensen's got to stop.
Not the actual sex, right, but definitely the brain frying.
*
If there's one thing Jared loves about sex, it's that he sleeps like a fucking champion afterwards. And he doesn't even mean that in the obvious way, he means that in a way like he feels like he should wake up completely refreshed with the World Fucking Champion ring slid around the base of his dick from where the sex symbol of his choice put it on there with his lips and tongue.
So when he wakes up to butterfly-soft touches on his skin and sees Jensen looking down at him, Jared can't get help but grin. Seriously, all he needs is the World Fucking Champion ring right now and he's totally fucking there.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey,” Jensen says right back.
There's really not much more Jared can manage, because Jensen's sort of propped himself up next to Jared on the bed and set to work tracing every line and curve in Jared's bared flesh with his fingers. It's incredibly fucking distracting. Honestly, everybody should have Jensen Ackles come over to their house and memorize every goddamn line of their bodies with just the tip of one finger, just this one little touch that teases the fuck of Jared.
“We have to go,” Jensen says. This apologetic look crosses his face, and Jared gets it. Like, yeah, sure, he'd love to stay, just curl up here with Jared and never leave, fuck themselves to death in some really weird position that'd be all over the Smoking Gun once they were found.
But they can't because ... well.
“Yeah, okay,” Jared says.
And it isn't until Jensen pulls away and the two of them slide out of bed and start wandering around picking up their discarded clothes and getting dressed that Jared thinks, what the fuck is wrong with him? He's standing there holding his electric blue briefs (which, okay, was he huffing spray paint when he put those on?) and even if he can't remember what the two of them just did he just knows it was pretty much the best sex of his life, and that's counting the weekend before he graduated at UCLA when Alona hooked him up with this guy who had even less inhibitions than he did. No, really. Jared came out of that hotel room happy, bow-legged, still a little sticky, sporting two sprained wrists and wondering if maybe now he had to give up his gayitude and go write for Christian cartoons featuring singing frozen dinners or something.
Seriously, though, he can't just stand there and get dressed and skip off on his merry way after this or whatever it is Jensen's going to want him to do. He can't do that.
He lifts his head and looks over at Jensen, and Jensen looks up from his jeans at the exact same time, and Jared hears himself say, “Wait, just fucking wait.”
He doesn't really know how he gets across the room so fast – what the hell, does Jensen Ackles give off some weird gay amnesia aura or something? -- but the next thing he knows he's fucking on Jensen, manhandling him backwards until the two of them slam against the wall. Jared can smell Juicyfruit and beer on the air, the scent of whatever Jensen exhales as he clutches at Jared, and Jared thinks, Okay, that's a weird combo as he's licking the taste from Jensen's mouth.
After a minute or so of making out like they're both going to pass out if they don't get some air, Jared is totally contemplating kissing Jensen until they suffocate to death, which considering Jensen's enthusiastic reaction he's up for. Great, now not only does having sex with Jensen cause some strange fucked-up mind blur where all he can remember is this all-encompassing warmth and what seriously feels like a twenty-seven-minute long orgasm, but kissing him encourages this rare mental respiratory disorder. He'd happily give up oxygen if he could keep making out with Jensen, which should last something like four minutes or so if that time that cute guy from one of the Harry Potter movies couldn't get the mouth zipper unstuck in the leather hood Jared had been wearing.
“Oh, God,” Jared says, pulling away, “if we don't leave right now, I'm totally moving in. And I think Bruce Willis would kill me if I did that.” Which, let's be honest, might be true and might not. Ashton's still walking around out there somewhere, like, letting hot girls steal his camera and take pictures down their shirts or whatever. Anything's possible.
Jensen chuckles at that, this low purring rumble in his chest. “You know what? I'm not about to fight Bruce Willis for this pool house.” He glances around for a second, and Jared takes the opportunity to lick a path up from his collarbone to his ear, catching it between his teeth and tugging, and Jensen makes this weird half-moan, half-gurgle like he's about to choke on his own tongue. And hey, if anybody around here was going to choke on Jensen's tongue it was totally Jared's job. Hello.
But there's late-night party sounds outside the window, murmurs and laughter and what sounds suspiciously like Leonardo DiCaprio telling that dirty joke about a dead frog on a string, and maybe Jared's losing it but there may be two other people fucking in the bathroom, which he's so not going to check.
He cups Jensen's jaw, stares down into flecks of gold and green and that pornographic fucking mouth of his and says, “Danneel's probably waiting for you,” because it's possible he really is that goddamn stupid.
Jensen doesn't even flinch, though, just gets this sad look in his eyes for a second and says, “Right.”
Jared nods, because he feel like, okay, now he's supposed to say something. Except he's naked and maybe a little hard, even now, and he doesn't know what that would be affecting his vocal cords but it sure is now.
“Right,” Jensen says again, and then he reaches up and brushes his lips across Jared's, this quick flash of the tip of his tongue, and then like magic he's gone.
Again.
*
Part Three
