tatty bojangles (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
apocalypsos) wrote2008-05-23 06:50 am
apocalypsos) wrote2008-05-23 06:50 am
Fic: I Taught Your Boyfriend That Thing You Like (3/3)
Part One/Part Two/Part Three
*
Yeah, so here's the thing.
Jared is pretty realistic, for the most part. Just because he secretly nails half of Hollywood on a regular basis doesn't mean he expects any of them to, like, jump up and down on Oprah's couch and tell everybody what a great lay he is, and how sometimes he's even nice enough to order Hawaiian pizza for breakfast the next day. Sometimes he even gets them the cinnamon sticks while he's at it.
But, yeah, he doesn't have these stupid romantic fantasies where some guy drops his entire career so they can hook up and have a big gay wedding and he can get married in a pink silk suit that costs a trillion dollars. He's kind of a complete asshole when it comes to romance, really. This one time he was secretly not maybe dating the guy who played Jennifer Aniston's pot-addled baby brother in that Judd Apatow movie about falling in love with an older woman or whatever, and when their two-month wasn't-really-an-anniversary rolled around he bought the kid a year's supply of Red Bull. Which, hey, he totally should have appreciated it considering he pretty much lived off that and pancakes and sausage on a stick.
So when he answers his cell phone two days later and Jensen says, “So I broke up with Danneel,” Jared nearly drops his phone in the garbage can next to his desk before he says, “Wait, what?”
“I broke up with my girlfriend,” Jensen says, except this time he says it slow and deliberate like maybe Jared's got a brain injury or something. His voice is all warm and excited. “You can post about it on your website, if you want. I'm not going to call down my lawyers or anything.”
And now Jared's really glad that they're not filming today, and Chad's off somewhere snorting ground-up Ritalin off a hooker's ass or whatever. He has this sneaking suspicion that he's going to end up having fabulous phone sex that ends with his leg behind his head and the entire lower body covered in lube and chocolate sauce so, yeah, Chad might not want to be here for this. “Aw, you gave me gossip? That's so sweet. That's totally worth at least a handjob.”
Jensen makes this really weird choking sound on the other end of the phone, or at least it sounds like that, and then he says, “Would you believe me if I told you that Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt are really having triplets?”
“Shut up, they are not. She probably wouldn't even tell Brad that. She'd just let him think her uterus turned into a clown car for laughs.”
“So not worth another handjob then?”
“Jen, that's not even worth free porn.”
Jared laughs a little, and he's totally thinking of a cool way to segue this into what's it's going to take to get Jensen to throw his arm out of his socket jerking off when Jensen says, “Um, I need you to not tell millions of people something for me. At least for a little while.”
“I'm already not telling millions of people that we slept together. What else would – oh, dude, you're not really a hermaphrodite, are you? I didn't miss a spare vagina while I was down there, did I?”
“What? Oh, gross. No. I just ... I'm taking some time off.”
“Oh, boy, vacation time. Actors never go on vacation.”
“It's not a vacation. I'm doing a real movie.”
If nothing else this horribly amuses Jared, if only because he's got a life-size poster of Jensen on the opposite wall that says otherwise. “As opposed to the fake ones you've been making all these years?”
He expects Jensen to keep teasing, but instead there's another pause in the conversation before Jensen says in all seriousness, “It's a good script. A really good script. And nothing blows up, and at the end I don't single-handedly liberate a Middle Eastern country.”
“Well, that's just great. How are we going to achieve peace in the Middle East without you?”
“Can you stop being sarcastic for five seconds here?” Jensen asks, although at least he has the good sense of preservation in regards to his future homosexual escapades as far as Jared's concerned to sound only a little annoyed.
“Not really. I'm professionally sarcastic, remember?” Jensen doesn't really say much to that, and for a second Jared feels like a total tool because he's just not used to this. Famous people don't just tell him stuff unless it's that their boyfriend cheated on them with a three-breasted stripper who plays professional air guitar or whatever. It sounds kind of weird, Jensen venting about his career over the phone, and then something hits Jared and he thinks that maybe he should not get that lobotomy scheduled anytime soon since apparently he's already had one. “Wait, do you seriously have no one else to talk to about this? 'Cause that's just sad.”
“You're easy to talk to,” Jensen says, quiet and totally serious, and there's something so off-putting about that in a really great way that Jared blurts out, “No, really, that's just sad,” and feels loads better when Jensen laughs.
“Well, it's not like I'm going to win an Oscar blowing shit up every Fourth of July weekend, right?”
“Oh, please. Daniel Day-Lewis blows shit up and kills people all the time in his movies. You just have to dress terribly at premieres and cobble your own ugly shoes. How hard is that?”
There's this long pause again before Jensen says, “Come over later?”
Something in Jared's head bounds around happily and shouts, We're getting laid! We're getting laid! which, okay, it's not like he doesn't hear that voice a lot. But it's Jensen, so he covers his giddy urge to babble incoherently by saying, “Come over what?”
Jensen chuckles, sounds more than a little grossed out and says, “You are so disgusting.”
“Aw, you know you love me,” Jared says.
And Jensen goes silent on the other end of the line, clears his throat and says, “Yeah, maybe I do,” and maybe Jared doesn't have to jerk off anymore because it wouldn't feel as good.
*
Jared's got a ton of stuff to do today if he wants to spend the rest of it doing obscene things to Jensen Ackles. When Chad barrels into the office five minutes later wearing a wrinkled shirt that says “When I pass out later, don't put stuff in my ass” and bitching about Alona's skeevy boyfriend walking in on Chad and Sophie having sex and asking them if they're using the mayo because there isn't any in the fridge, Jared's enormously relieved. You know, except for that description of Chad's day.
So for the next few hours Jared's giving an interview and turning down party invites and picking up an exorbitant amount of groceries because he was too freaking dumb to eat something first. Plus, his body wants something but can't have it yet, not until Jared is a Very Responsible Roommate and picks up steaks and Vitamin Water and baking potatoes and a couple of bags of Fritos and oh, hey, they have cake mix ice cream? Why the hell wasn't he ever informed?
He's so focused on getting to Jensen's that he pretty much drops the groceries in the kitchen, puts away the fridge and freezer stuff, then opens the office door and yells in, “Put away the groceries I left, you lazy fucker,” before hopping back into the car and speeding towards Jensen's house. It's probably a bad idea because explaining to an arresting officer that no, sir, driving really fast does not turn him on that much. But he just ... he can't sit still, and he needs to get to Jensen's or else he's totally going to vibrate until he shatters like that guy at the end of Terminator 2.
By the time Jared pulls up to the front gate of Jensen's ridiculously enormous mansion he's completely prepared. Seriously, he double-checked before he left the house and everything. He's got more than enough lube and all of his pockets are overflowing with condoms and okay, maybe he brought handcuffs and casually forgot the keys. He's completely wired and if he were anywhere near a wall he'd be gleefully bouncing off it. He's just that fucking gone.
He parks in front of the gate and gets out, and maybe it's smug of him but he's a little surprised when the gate doesn't just suddenly open and ... hell, he doesn't know. Shouldn't a Louis Armstrong song start up while he walks up the driveway to make out with Jensen in a magically appearing field of wildflowers? Come on, he's seen more than enough Nora Ephron movies, he knows how this works.
Two security guards stand there, and they don't say anything, and Jared's starting to feel a little bit like he wants to throw up. “Oh. Hey,” he says. “Uh, is Jensen home?”
“You Jared Padalecki?”
“Yeah, that's me,” Jared says, even though a part of him feels really fucking defensive because, damn it, everybody knows him. He's famous on the Internet, right? That's got to count for something.
“Mr. Ackles requested we give this to you.”
The security guard passes him a folded piece of paper through the gate and just looking at it makes Jared want to curl into a ball and whimper. He takes it and unfolds it, opens it up and sees a computer printout of a webpage with a familiar swirly pink header and a blog title he has on his business cards and a impressively clear picture taken through a pool house window of Jensen Ackles making out with some guy.
Jensen making out with him.
Jared doesn't even need to look at the timestamp, because if he didn't post it then he knows damn well who did.
“Oh, that cock-gargling sheepfucker,” he says.
The security guard's eyes narrow. Jared doesn't really give a shit.
*
When Jared gets back to the house, Chad's standing in the yard moving around the lawn gnomes he bought because he thought they were hilariously cheesy and putting them in obscene positions. It kind of makes Jared want to kick him in the nuts, except for the vehement hissing voice in his head that says he's retarded if he thinks Chad even has any fucking nuts.
“Hey, Jared!” Chad yells.
He looks like he's about to tell Jared one of his moronic stories about mooning the neighbors or whatever, but then Jared storms up to him and punches him in the face and that shuts him up pretty quickly.
Chad staggers backward and rubs at his jaw, which gives Jared this great grim sense of satisfaction. “Ow!”
“Give me one good reason why I shouldn't castrate you with a spoon,” Jared says. He's never been the kind of guy who gets into a lot of fights – dude, his clothes are too hellishly expensive to tempt ruination, and guys who give you shit for liking cock inevitably back down when they realize you're six-foot-five and built like a brick outhouse – but he's totally not against pulling out a guy's kidneys through his dick if he's been an unforgivable shit. Which, let's face it, Chad usually does five times before breakfast and twice during.
“'Cause it'd fucking hurt? Dude, what the hell is the matter with you?” Chad says, giving him a good shove.
“This is what's the matter with me, you dickless wonder.”
Jared shoves the crumpled paper into Chad's hands, and as soon as he flattens it to look at it Chad looks almost proud of himself. Jared's contemplating what it would take to kick him in the balls to death when Chad says, “Oh, fuck, come on. I thought you'd be glad I scooped Perez. You know what that fucker would have done with these pictures? You know, after he –”
“If you complete that sentence, I will throw up and I will aim for your face.” Jared snatches the paper back and flattens it out some more. Okay, so maybe he shouldn't have gotten mad in the car and squished it into a teeny ball and flung it into the back seat, then had to pull over and climb back to get it again just so he could uncrumple it and get mad all over again.
As soon as he flattens it enough, he holds it up so Chad can see and says, “Squint.”
Chad gives him this totally disgusted look and squints, giving the picture a better look. The he looks up at Jared with this big stupid grin on his face and seriously, Jared should just replace him with a cocker spaniel because he'd get the same sorts of expression out of one. “So you really did dick the prom king?”
Jared shoves the paper at Chad's chest and snaps, “When have I ever lied to you about who I have sex with? I even told you about that time I had sex with that guy who looked exactly like Harrison Ford. Old Harrison Ford.”
“Yeah, but it wasn't Harrison Ford.”
“It could have been.”
Sighing, Chad folds up the paper and stuffs it into the pocket of his baggy ass-hanging jeans which will hopefully go out of fashion in the next ten seconds so Jared can totally mock his wardrobe and call him a douche for that, too. “Okay, look,” Chad says, “I'm sorry your ass is all over the website, but this is really good gossip. I mean, I could have probably bribed the guy and bought myself, like, a Hummer or an elephant or something.”
And it's not like they ever really do that, even if they did threaten to do that one time and Anderson Cooper laughed in their faces and since they were totally expecting that it didn't even fucking matter. But when Chad says that Jared just sort of deflates because yeah, okay, things could have worse. At least Chad didn't elaborate on the pictures much, since aside from his sense of humor being dead in the water he probably would have said something profoundly stupid like, “Oh, hey, and who's that guy with his hand on Jensen's cock? Let's take a poll!”
Jared runs his fingers through his hair, which probably means it's all over the place now, and takes a few deep breaths to try and calm down before flopping down on the hammock in the front yard and saying, “I have to apologize to him.”
“Dude, you never apologize,” Chad says, looking at him a little like he's about to put his hand on Jared's forehead and maybe check him for malaria.
Jared sighs and says, “I know.”
He swings back and forth for a minute, his feet banging awkwardly against the ground and seriously, whoever made his legs so damn long can just go get fucked royally by an elderly lap dancer of questionable gender. He closes his eyes because he's starting to feel really fucking nauseated, and maybe if he closes his eyes he won't turn into some weird puke fountain in love with someone he probably can't even have secretly now. He's perfectly content just to listen to the sounds of cars on the highway and that shitty techno from next door that's always playing regardless of how many times he and Chad send male strippers over there to dance along on the lawn in zebra-striped Speedos, but then Chad says, “Holy fuck, are you in love with him?”
Jared doesn't even know what he's supposed to say, for fuck's sake, so he just looks up at Chad.
Chad almost flinches at the look in his eyes before blurting out, “Stay there. I need to get a camera. And the million dollars Sandy now owes me,” before heading into the house and leaving Jared alone to wallow in this stupid horrible whatever-it-is.
*
It's not like it really takes all that long for this sort of shit to get around, so within a few hours it's all over the freaking place. The office phones won't stop ringing because, like, Best Week Ever wants him to go on and pretend to flirt with Jensen on the show and People wants a statement and the guys from AfterElton keep calling all, “Seriously? No, seriously?!”
Jared is so totally going to overdose on Rolaids at this rate, he swears to fucking God.
Maybe he'll end up getting an aneurysm and it'll end up on the evening news, and everybody will put two and two together, and then somewhere in the middle of accusing Jensen of being a raving homosexual they'll accuse of having lousy taste in guys, too.
By the time midnight rolls around Jared's just really fucking drunk. Chad does him the favor of going out and buying him margarita mix and a bottle of vodka and whatever else he needs to get absolutely shit-faced. And let's face it, there's nothing more dignified than responding to the outing on your own stupid website of the guy you're totally in love with by chugging margaritas for four straight hours and passing out on the kitchen floor in a puddle of what in a worst-case scenario may actually be your roommate's puke. Also, it helps if you leave on the TV tuned to CNN on a night where apparently the most interesting and exciting news in the country is that the biggest box-office draw in America has been fucking a guy into blinding temporary amnesia.
At about one o'clock in the morning, Jared's cell phone plays “Baby Got Back,” which means it's time for the drunk dial he figured he'd be set for by now. Yeah, nobody could accuse him of not thinking ahead.
Jared scrambles over to the cabinets and props himself up against them, dialing Jensen's number and hoping more than a little that Jensen won't answer the phone. He's way too drunk to answer anything coherently so he's pretty sure that if Jensen answered and said he never wanted to see him again Jared would do something really embarrassing like cry or ask him if it's okay if he calls him back if Jensen goes blind or something. But instead he gets Jensen's voicemail, and he breathes a sigh of relief at that.
“Uh, hey,” he says. “I don't ... okay, this is really fucking weird. I'm not supposed to be apologizing for this stuff, you know? But I wasn't the one who posted those pictures, I swear. Did I ever mention that my business partner's kind of a dick? Because he is. He's just ... he's really fucking useless. I'm debating barbecuing him and feeding him to wolverines. You think that's too extreme?”
He waits for an answer for a sec and then realizes okay, duh, Jensen didn't answer. Wow, he is more way more plastered than he thought he was.
“Yeah, you're right, I shouldn't restrain myself,” he says, and then he laughs and it comes out sounding all high-pitched and crazy like the Joker. Great. “Uh, call me? I mean it, Jensen. I mean ... I know this sucks. Okay, I know this sucks because usually I'm the one making it suck, but still. Just ... if you need someone to talk to or you want to yell at me or, hell, if you just want to let off steam and get fucking laid and okay, so maybe that might be a bad idea.”
Jared sighs, and he thinks he has something else to say but nothing comes to mind that doesn't make him sound like a total moron. He gives up and disconnects, and the next morning when he wakes up reeking of strawberries with his neck all sore from sleeping funny he really wishes he would have added, “going to his bed” to his to-do list.
*
The next two days suck out loud. Jensen's not answering Jared's calls, or anybody else's if the media is any indication. Jared has this mental image of Jensen sitting in his big stupid house crying into a pillow like a little girl over the mean things everybody has been saying – especially on Jared's own blog which, honestly, why come be homophobic douchebags on his blog when they can go be homophobic douchebags on Ann Coulter's fucking website where they'll fit in, Jesus -- but then he actually fucking listens to himself and wants to hit himself in the face with a shovel.
Jared pours himself into work for both days, filming segments for the show and putting off the one on the pictures which the network is practically salivating for. He posts on the blog and breaks up fights in the comments and just barely resists chasing down a couple of IPs and pulling some serious Jay And Silent Bob Strike Back shit on their bigoted asses. He nearly breaks his computer before Chad finally makes me him get up and go back in the house to cool off, and then he orders Jared three extra-large bacon double cheeseburger stuffed pizzas and a Strip-O-Gram.
The stripper's a nice guy, Jared will give him that much, because one minute he's yanking off his detachable pants and the next minute the two of them are sitting on the back porch having this heart-to-heart about Jensen and the stripper's ex and how the world just sucks sometimes. When Chad finds them, he sighs like he's about to yell but pretty much deflates after that and says, “You gay motherfuckers are completely goddamn helpless, you know that shit?” before stealing half of one of Jared's pizzas, that asshole.
The thing is, Jared's fine. He is. He's a realist, right? He knows that sometimes this shit happens, where you're having clandestine gay sex with a famous actor and it blows up in the media and ... okay, so maybe that doesn't happen to everybody. It only happens to him, apparently, and he's fine with it and fine with it and fine with it until ...
Well, until he isn't.
*
Theoretically there should be five million paparazzi dangling from the trees outside Jensen's house with ginormous cameras hanging from their necks, but apparently Jensen's security team has a Seven-Foot-Tall Invisible Ninja clean-up division because there's not even scattered piles of the bodies of fat guys in those stupid vests lying around. Jared's a little surprised he even makes it to the gate without being attacked by pirates or astronauts or something. But he does, and then the same security guard as before is there, and okay, he doesn't open the gate but he doesn't shoot Jared with lasers from his eyes. So, hey, bonus.
Jared sits outside of Jensen's house for two hours before he starts really regretting this whole idea. This is a bad plan, just an awful fucking plan. For one thing, he is doing exactly what he said he would not do and making a public spectacle of himself, although he changed out of the pink leopard-print shirt so at least he's got that going for him. And for another thing, Jensen's got some ginormous security guards. Honestly, those fuckers make Jared feel like a spastic toddler or that guy from Willow or something. They keep glaring at him through the bars, and it goes to show just how galactically gross the last few weeks have been that the fact that they're not laughing at him is totally an upside.
About a half-hour after he leaves Jensen the first of several embarrassingly heartfelt phone messages, most of which sound like he's really drunk and possibly watched Beaches one too many times, Chad texts him with, if that lousy fucker can't get up off his ass and DO SOMETHING, let's go out tonight to that bar where the porn stars hang out. COCK. You know you want to.
It's possibly the most coherent Jared's ever seen him. He seriously wonders if Sophia did all of the typing for him.
About an hour later, there's still no movement in Jensen's financially ridiculous yet environmentally sound clusterfuck of an estate and Sandy texts him with, i will buy u a new fucktoy, ok?
Ten minutes later, Alona texts, did I ever tell you i had a threesome with the olsen twins? I forget.
Jared turns off his phone after that because it's just ... it's not that. This whole thing isn't his sex life in stasis, some twisted phase he's going through where he's thinking about leather weddings and matching cock rings or whatever. Fuck, he can't even think about having fun casual sex anymore. Damn it, he had to go to an industry party the other day where he met Colin Farrell and he didn't even stare at his crotch. Clearly there is something wrong with him. Jensen really did break his cock.
And Jared's brain, while he was at it, because he's just not thinking about sex the way he usually does. He's not thinking about sex at all, honestly, unless it's with Jensen, and now he can only jerk off thinking about Jensen's tongue lapping at the head of his dick. Oh, and Jensen the dildo – which he is totally not renaming, shut the hell up – has been getting way too much of a workout of late. It's really, like, compatible, if that's what you even want to call it. All it needs to do is want respect in the acting industry and Jared could just go home and hook up with it.
Except he won't, because he wants Jensen. Which is just weird, because four weeks ago he would have been totally satisfied with Jensen the dildo and now he just ... he just can't, is all.
Jared sighs and gets up to get the blood recirculating in his legs because they're going totally like that time he fucked --
He stops, glances over at the security guards as if they can read his thoughts which, okay, maybe they can. Jensen can afford to hire insanely talented security people, after all. Maybe they all have superstrength and can shoot laser beams out of their eyes, too. He wouldn't be all that surprised.
What he is surprised about – and a little annoyed by – is his sudden realization just how much of everything he does he ends up relating to his sex life.
It seems like a fucked-up place to realize it, standing outside the gate of the home of a Sexiest Man Alive with his thumb shoved up his ass waiting for his dream guy to fucking listen, but ... look, he loves his sex life. He really, really does. He loves that he can get laid no matter what room he walks into, even if he walked into the Focus on the Family national convention wearing something he raided from Freddie Mercury's closet. He loves that he's slept with eighty percent of the members in at least four different boy bands. He loves sex in every shape and form, with outfits and toys and food, anywhere and anyplace and okay, he really sounds like one of those creeps who show up on Celebrity Rehab who end up having their cell phones checked for gay porn when they walk in the door.
But, yeah, he can't keep doing that. He can't keep doing that and have Jensen, and he wants. God, he wants. He wants Jensen so damn much he's pretty sure he's either going to have to have him or start the Cult of Jensen, where he vows a life of celibacy except when it comes to stopping whenever you see a picture of Jensen on a billboard or poster or whatever and masturbating until you black out. Hell, it'd at least make more sense and be less annoying than Scientology.
The security guard currently glaring at him from behind the gate suddenly turns and says, “Mr. Ackles wants to see you.”
Jared thinks that maybe he's gone a little hysterically deaf or something for a minute, but then he realizes no, he's not having some twisted hallucination. Jensen really does want to see him, which could mean he wants to talk and could also mean he wants to wait until Jared walks up to the front door of the house and pour hot oil on him from the roof. It could go either way. “He's not going to set me on fire or anything, is he?”
The security guard doesn't confirm it, but he sure as hell doesn't deny it, either.
Jared holds up a hand as the gate swings open. “Never mind. Don't answer that.”
*
When Jared gets up to the front door it's wide open. Jared has this brief flash of fear, which is so not his style. It suddenly hits him, just, “Oh, fuck, I'm about to go into an actor's house and beg him to stay with me,” and then he starts thinking about the why of it, and then he remembers he's in love with the nervous son of a bitch and he kinda wants to have a flailing heart attack right here in the driveway.
He hears a rustling sound from inside, something soft like someone's moving but trying not to be heard. Jared steels himself and walks through the front door, closing it behind him, thoroughly expecting some jerk dressed like a ninja to jump him and pound on him until he finally gets all of the glitter Chad poured into his fifty-dollar shampoo out of his hair.
What he gets, though, is Jensen.
All of him, every damn inch of him, pressing against Jared, grabbing onto him with trembling hands, clutching his shirt and shoving him against the nearest wall and just .. just holding. He doesn't look up at Jared and Jared's almost afraid to lift his chin to look into his eyes, so instead he just lets Jensen breathe hot and steady and deep against his neck and tries desperately to ignore just how fucking hard he's getting.
They're alone, in this huge house with its fabulous furniture and gorgeous expensive artwork and holy fuck, Jared could cut the screen from that flatscreen and use it as a circus tent. But then Jensen leans forward just so, his warm temple pressing against the unshaven edge of Jared's jaw. It's funny, because a minute ago Jared could swear he knew how to breathe, but now his breath won't stop hitching and he might in fact be two seconds away from a panic attack.
“I can't,” Jensen says, and then he stops and leans forward and inhales Jared's spicy cologne. “I can't do this.”
Jared freezes, fully expecting Jensen to shove him out the front door again and tell all of the tabloids he's a jerk and a liar and a fucking horrible lay, too. He's still tensing when Jensen nips at his jaw, a light quick snap of teeth, and Jared may have keened but you're never going to get him to admit that.
He huffs out a loud breath and tilts his head back, glittering green eyes looking up at Jared past thick black lashes so lush you'd have to pay a makeup artist to apply if they weren't real, and if Jared wasn't pretty sure he hadn't already fallen in love with the guy just that look right fucking there would be enough for him to start planning really blasphemous weddings.
“I can't give this up,” Jensen says quietly, and then he kisses Jared.
Jared's on that shit in a fucking heartbeat, sucking on his tongue and slipping his hand down until it's hovering right over Jensen's crotch, cupping his cock as Jensen squirms and pushes against him. It's like he can't stop touching Jared, like he's terrified one of those bigoted fuckwits on Fox News is going to show up and bitch about how now he has to explain the intricate workings of gay sex to his five-year-old because Jensen just can't give up kissing him. He pulls at Jared's vintage pink bowling shirt, tugs and yanks and makes this frustrated sound in the back of his throat, and that's just fucking it.
Jared pulls the shirt over his head his own goddamn self before Jensen does something terrible like rip one of his favorite shirts in the process of getting lucky, then swings the two of them around and pushes Jensen against the wall at the foot of the stairway, biting and licking at the skin at the curve of Jensen's throat. Jensen gasps and clutches at him, panting breaths past Jared's ears, and he can feel the surprise coming off Jensen in waves. He doesn't remember that first night either, not all that well, and nobody who looks at Jared expects him to be a pushy bitch in the sack, snapping jaws and tight holds, rough and tough and no holding back.
And then there's that blur again, that fast happy frenzy of shedding clothes and stumbling up the stairs until they tumble to the carpet on the landing halfway up the steps and just give the hell up. This could be really fucking messy but Jared's gleefully not caring, hands all over Jensen and perfectly content to do the same sort of dry-humping he gave up in, like, his second year of college when he discovered pretty much every other sexual practice on the planet.
But even this much is ... wow. Wow. Explosive doesn't even begin to cover what this feels like, just being here, sucking dark marks onto Jensen's neck and maybe wondering if he can spell his name on Jensen's skin if he does this right. Because he's allowed, right? It's not against the rules to mark him up and send him out into the world and make sure everybody knows Jensen's his if it's true.
Jensen's breath hitches once, twice, and the next second Jared's pretty sure Jensen's coming but he can't tell because he's just fucking gone.
Someone's murmuring, “Oh, my God,” in, like, fifteen different inflections, up and down and inside out. Maybe it's Jensen and maybe it's Jared, but all Jared's knows is that he's not tired. He's fucking wired, is what he is, even after a seriously amazing orgasm.
“Come on, come on,” he says, and hauls Jensen to his feet even as Jensen's trying to shove him up and away, not in a bad way but because he needs Jared off him and standing if he's going to drag Jared after him into the bedroom, tripping over himself and latching his teeth quick and sharp and possessive into the back of Jensen's neck.
The door slams shut behind them, loud and decisive.
Jared can't help but think as he's pushed up against it and Jensen slowly drops to his knees that that's exactly how it should be.
*
“So what happens now?”
The two of them have been lying in bed together for fifteen minutes now, face to face, not sleeping or anything. Just cuddling or whatever, these half-kisses, these whisper-soft brushes of skin against one another that are electrifying and warm and ticklish all at once. Jared's had to take a leak in the worst way ever since about two seconds after he came that last time, and yeah, maybe they should clean up a little more than they've already done because the entire room reeks of sex. They should, like, crack a window or light a candle or something, except Jared kind of hopes they don't, because for once messy feels pretty damn spectacular.
Jensen doesn't frown or look confused or anything, he just says, “What do you mean?”
Jared sighs. “Look, I know I'm like the big gay town bicycle for the major metropolitan Los Angeles area, but I ... I want this. I want us. I mean, if you don't, that's okay, I just –“
“I do,” Jensen says.
He reaches out and rubs the pad of his thumb over the angle of Jared's cheekbones, probably swiping away a stray eyelash, probably not. It's possible that Jared's turned into a complete and total sap, because just that touch and just those words are enough to make him grin like an idiot.
Jensen leans forward and presses his lips against Jared's, a soft quick touch. Jared could never leave this room again and be perfectly happy, just stay here and make out and devote his life to giving blowjobs to Jensen Ackles. That would be just about the best job ever, except that lying in bed with him and just looking at him is pretty fucking awesome, too.
“You're asking for it, you know,” he says, when Jensen pulls away.
Jensen shrugs, although it looks more like a full-body squirm than anything else, and then Jared pictures Jensen the way he was before, happily writhing underneath him with these awesome little moans that went straight to Jared's cock, and now he seriously can't be expected to think very hard about anything. God, he really hopes Jensen doesn't suddenly develop a post-sex need to discuss eighteenth-century Russian literature because if that happens he is so goddamn fucked it isn't even funny.
“I'll learn to deal,” Jensen says.
He smiles, wide and happy and maybe a little dizzy, or maybe Jared's just seeing what he's feeling, this weird giddy swirly sensation in his stomach that just won't go away. And then Jensen's forehead presses against his, their breath mingling, Jensen's fingers sliding through Jared's thick hair as he cradles Jared's skull and ... and yeah, Jared can deal with this. He can handle those asshat paparazzi who dress like they're going into combat when they're only trailing after Britney Spears into the bathroom of a minimart for this, and he can put up with those fuckoffs on the CNN comment boards who'll claim he turned Jensen Ackles into a big gay movie star with the queer vibes coming out of his dick if he means he gets to have this.
He can do this.
They can do this.
*
Eleven months later
Sundance is ...
Okay, Jared's not even sure he likes Sundance. It's full of people he's never even heard of who make movies about, like, crossdressing midgets who win the lottery and have torrid love affairs with drunken elderly librarians with one leg. Sometimes it's the midget who has one leg. And sometimes there's a monkey, or someone who dies of rabies, or the monkey dies of rabies.
Look, whatever. Jared's not an idiot by a longshot, he's just never been into this whole artsy acting thing. You can't really write up gossip about independent movie actors, because half of the time people are like, “... wait, who are we talking about again?” and then you have to add, “You remember, that guy who's married to that hot chick from the West Wing and owns a vineyard,” or whatever. His job doesn't exactly jive with, like, whoever or whatever that is currently writhing against Parker Posey in the corner. And seriously, you'd think that'd loosen her up some, since she's been pissy all weekend about how she's gotten old enough to start playing moms now, even if this one is a mom who smokes pot at PTA meetings and is having a lesbian affair with the confused extra-extra-Christian home economics teacher.
This is just not his scene. But Jensen had asked him nicely if he'd kind of pull it back this weekend for his sake, for Jensen and his new audience and the freaking amazing little independent movie he's starring in about striking miners who start a band. He's so going to get an Oscar nomination for it, and at least this isn't exactly a black-tie affair because honestly, he is fucking whipped. No pink, no sparkles, and absolutely nothing leopard-print. Just, like, jeans and a parka and his yellow bunny-ears hat he sometimes wears to the clubs, which it turned out wasn't all that out of place when Christina Ricci's on the other side of the room wearing what looks like a skinned Muppet.
Jared's just got done talking to William H. Macy about ... um, something, he really can't remember because it's William H. Fucking Macy and the only thing he can be pretty sure about is that he didn't ask the guy if he could blow him in the bathroom. Felicity doesn't beat him unconscious, which is a good sign since he's positive she could take him in a fight and he'd totally brag about it. She just laughs at whatever he says and touches his arm and ... okay, you did hear the part where she touched his arm, right?
So, yeah, Sundance sucks, except not quite, because --
“William H. Macy and Felicity Huffman.”
Jensen can't stop smiling later. “I heard you the first time,” he says, about five seconds away from laughing. The two of them are snuggled up on a couch in the back of the room, Jensen's arm slung around Jared's shoulders, and the party's still at full swing at two in the morning. Jared kinda wants to pour a little of his appletini on Jensen's neck and lave at his skin with long teasing licks just because nobody in the room would bat an eye.
“Maybe you didn't hear me,” Jared says, nipping at Jensen's earlobe. “I said, Filliam H. Muffman.”
“Dude, shut up, don't say that in front of people,” Jensen hisses, and then he's practically wrestling Jared into the couch, and there's legs and arms all over the place and Jensen shuts him up by shoving his tongue into Jared's mouth.
Somebody nearby whistles, but Jared doesn't give a damn. He's too busy making out with his boyfriend to find out who the hell it is so he can tell thirty-nine million viewers they've got crabs so big the inside of their underwear looks like a Deadliest Catch marathon.
Which, you know, still feels weird – the whole “boyfriend” thing, not the briefs full of crustaceans. Although that would probably feel weird, too. The point is that Jared didn't do monogamy, unless “Monogamy” was the name of an all-male Christian basketball team who were bad enough at that abstinence shit that their ball-handling wasn't only good on the court. And Jensen didn't do guys, so Jared had never expected the relationship to last longer than the new season of Top Chef.
Except here they are, and it's nearly a year later and they're doing some impressively obscene things to each other on the couch of Paul Giamatti's sprawling vacation house. Fuck, Jared could be working, okay, because film festivals have the best gossip. Everybody keeps talking about whatever sexually deviant thing some random actress has done with a goat, three bottles of whiskey, and a top hat, and he could --
Jensen slides his hand along his thigh, quick and sure and then gone again, and Jared thinks, Oh, holy hell, he's not going to give me a handjob here, is he? But then he winks and moves away, pulls back and settles in on the couch as a waiter offers him another drink.
Jared rights himself and says, “You have such a public sex kink, you slut.”
“Boy, I wonder where I learned that from,” Jensen says, and grins.
It's wide and playful, teasing and cock-eyed, and Jared's stomach goes heated and tight from the look in his eyes. Jensen had better not think they're trying anything here, because as much as he'd gleefully have sex with him at center court during halftime at a Clippers game if he asked, Jensen's ... you know, his. Almost a year they've been together now and Jared hasn't once been tempted to fuck anyone else, not even a little, not even when the guy who played Brian on Queer as Folk walked into the fancy restaurant they'd been having dinner in one night and Jared had through pure reflex born out of many a weekend DVD marathon gotten a massive hard-on that completely distracted his train of thought and put him right off the shrimp ceviche he'd been finishing off.
Jensen had dragged him home and fucked him until even the thought of achieving another erection made him want to sob like a little girl.
The waiter leaves, and the two of them are alone with a pair of martinis and a couple of aspiring Oscar winners for Best Supporting Actress currently making out on the love seat across from them. Jensen turns to wave at a friend, says hi in that rough deep voice that send heat rushing through Jared's veins.
Jared leans over, breathes heavy and dark against Jensen, and his answering shudder is them. It's them, a single movement, a small but violent reaction, and he'll take it over all of the inappropriate sex in the world.
Besides, no one said he couldn't have inappropriate sex with the love of his life. Just wait until later, when he could get caught bending Jensen over a ski lift at sunrise.
It'll be fucking perfect. Just like everything else in Jared's life.
**
THE END. OR SOMETHING. UH, HI.
**
Hey, look, another author's note: So, yeah, that was going to be my Bigbang and instead it's just my Really Long Fic. Heh. I may do a "deleted scenes" sort of thing, because this really was supposed to be a LOT longer, and I'll probably do a post about writing it and whatnot, but now I need a nap and a snack and the bed my cat is currently commandeering. Le sigh.
*
Yeah, so here's the thing.
Jared is pretty realistic, for the most part. Just because he secretly nails half of Hollywood on a regular basis doesn't mean he expects any of them to, like, jump up and down on Oprah's couch and tell everybody what a great lay he is, and how sometimes he's even nice enough to order Hawaiian pizza for breakfast the next day. Sometimes he even gets them the cinnamon sticks while he's at it.
But, yeah, he doesn't have these stupid romantic fantasies where some guy drops his entire career so they can hook up and have a big gay wedding and he can get married in a pink silk suit that costs a trillion dollars. He's kind of a complete asshole when it comes to romance, really. This one time he was secretly not maybe dating the guy who played Jennifer Aniston's pot-addled baby brother in that Judd Apatow movie about falling in love with an older woman or whatever, and when their two-month wasn't-really-an-anniversary rolled around he bought the kid a year's supply of Red Bull. Which, hey, he totally should have appreciated it considering he pretty much lived off that and pancakes and sausage on a stick.
So when he answers his cell phone two days later and Jensen says, “So I broke up with Danneel,” Jared nearly drops his phone in the garbage can next to his desk before he says, “Wait, what?”
“I broke up with my girlfriend,” Jensen says, except this time he says it slow and deliberate like maybe Jared's got a brain injury or something. His voice is all warm and excited. “You can post about it on your website, if you want. I'm not going to call down my lawyers or anything.”
And now Jared's really glad that they're not filming today, and Chad's off somewhere snorting ground-up Ritalin off a hooker's ass or whatever. He has this sneaking suspicion that he's going to end up having fabulous phone sex that ends with his leg behind his head and the entire lower body covered in lube and chocolate sauce so, yeah, Chad might not want to be here for this. “Aw, you gave me gossip? That's so sweet. That's totally worth at least a handjob.”
Jensen makes this really weird choking sound on the other end of the phone, or at least it sounds like that, and then he says, “Would you believe me if I told you that Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt are really having triplets?”
“Shut up, they are not. She probably wouldn't even tell Brad that. She'd just let him think her uterus turned into a clown car for laughs.”
“So not worth another handjob then?”
“Jen, that's not even worth free porn.”
Jared laughs a little, and he's totally thinking of a cool way to segue this into what's it's going to take to get Jensen to throw his arm out of his socket jerking off when Jensen says, “Um, I need you to not tell millions of people something for me. At least for a little while.”
“I'm already not telling millions of people that we slept together. What else would – oh, dude, you're not really a hermaphrodite, are you? I didn't miss a spare vagina while I was down there, did I?”
“What? Oh, gross. No. I just ... I'm taking some time off.”
“Oh, boy, vacation time. Actors never go on vacation.”
“It's not a vacation. I'm doing a real movie.”
If nothing else this horribly amuses Jared, if only because he's got a life-size poster of Jensen on the opposite wall that says otherwise. “As opposed to the fake ones you've been making all these years?”
He expects Jensen to keep teasing, but instead there's another pause in the conversation before Jensen says in all seriousness, “It's a good script. A really good script. And nothing blows up, and at the end I don't single-handedly liberate a Middle Eastern country.”
“Well, that's just great. How are we going to achieve peace in the Middle East without you?”
“Can you stop being sarcastic for five seconds here?” Jensen asks, although at least he has the good sense of preservation in regards to his future homosexual escapades as far as Jared's concerned to sound only a little annoyed.
“Not really. I'm professionally sarcastic, remember?” Jensen doesn't really say much to that, and for a second Jared feels like a total tool because he's just not used to this. Famous people don't just tell him stuff unless it's that their boyfriend cheated on them with a three-breasted stripper who plays professional air guitar or whatever. It sounds kind of weird, Jensen venting about his career over the phone, and then something hits Jared and he thinks that maybe he should not get that lobotomy scheduled anytime soon since apparently he's already had one. “Wait, do you seriously have no one else to talk to about this? 'Cause that's just sad.”
“You're easy to talk to,” Jensen says, quiet and totally serious, and there's something so off-putting about that in a really great way that Jared blurts out, “No, really, that's just sad,” and feels loads better when Jensen laughs.
“Well, it's not like I'm going to win an Oscar blowing shit up every Fourth of July weekend, right?”
“Oh, please. Daniel Day-Lewis blows shit up and kills people all the time in his movies. You just have to dress terribly at premieres and cobble your own ugly shoes. How hard is that?”
There's this long pause again before Jensen says, “Come over later?”
Something in Jared's head bounds around happily and shouts, We're getting laid! We're getting laid! which, okay, it's not like he doesn't hear that voice a lot. But it's Jensen, so he covers his giddy urge to babble incoherently by saying, “Come over what?”
Jensen chuckles, sounds more than a little grossed out and says, “You are so disgusting.”
“Aw, you know you love me,” Jared says.
And Jensen goes silent on the other end of the line, clears his throat and says, “Yeah, maybe I do,” and maybe Jared doesn't have to jerk off anymore because it wouldn't feel as good.
*
Jared's got a ton of stuff to do today if he wants to spend the rest of it doing obscene things to Jensen Ackles. When Chad barrels into the office five minutes later wearing a wrinkled shirt that says “When I pass out later, don't put stuff in my ass” and bitching about Alona's skeevy boyfriend walking in on Chad and Sophie having sex and asking them if they're using the mayo because there isn't any in the fridge, Jared's enormously relieved. You know, except for that description of Chad's day.
So for the next few hours Jared's giving an interview and turning down party invites and picking up an exorbitant amount of groceries because he was too freaking dumb to eat something first. Plus, his body wants something but can't have it yet, not until Jared is a Very Responsible Roommate and picks up steaks and Vitamin Water and baking potatoes and a couple of bags of Fritos and oh, hey, they have cake mix ice cream? Why the hell wasn't he ever informed?
He's so focused on getting to Jensen's that he pretty much drops the groceries in the kitchen, puts away the fridge and freezer stuff, then opens the office door and yells in, “Put away the groceries I left, you lazy fucker,” before hopping back into the car and speeding towards Jensen's house. It's probably a bad idea because explaining to an arresting officer that no, sir, driving really fast does not turn him on that much. But he just ... he can't sit still, and he needs to get to Jensen's or else he's totally going to vibrate until he shatters like that guy at the end of Terminator 2.
By the time Jared pulls up to the front gate of Jensen's ridiculously enormous mansion he's completely prepared. Seriously, he double-checked before he left the house and everything. He's got more than enough lube and all of his pockets are overflowing with condoms and okay, maybe he brought handcuffs and casually forgot the keys. He's completely wired and if he were anywhere near a wall he'd be gleefully bouncing off it. He's just that fucking gone.
He parks in front of the gate and gets out, and maybe it's smug of him but he's a little surprised when the gate doesn't just suddenly open and ... hell, he doesn't know. Shouldn't a Louis Armstrong song start up while he walks up the driveway to make out with Jensen in a magically appearing field of wildflowers? Come on, he's seen more than enough Nora Ephron movies, he knows how this works.
Two security guards stand there, and they don't say anything, and Jared's starting to feel a little bit like he wants to throw up. “Oh. Hey,” he says. “Uh, is Jensen home?”
“You Jared Padalecki?”
“Yeah, that's me,” Jared says, even though a part of him feels really fucking defensive because, damn it, everybody knows him. He's famous on the Internet, right? That's got to count for something.
“Mr. Ackles requested we give this to you.”
The security guard passes him a folded piece of paper through the gate and just looking at it makes Jared want to curl into a ball and whimper. He takes it and unfolds it, opens it up and sees a computer printout of a webpage with a familiar swirly pink header and a blog title he has on his business cards and a impressively clear picture taken through a pool house window of Jensen Ackles making out with some guy.
Jensen making out with him.
Jared doesn't even need to look at the timestamp, because if he didn't post it then he knows damn well who did.
“Oh, that cock-gargling sheepfucker,” he says.
The security guard's eyes narrow. Jared doesn't really give a shit.
*
When Jared gets back to the house, Chad's standing in the yard moving around the lawn gnomes he bought because he thought they were hilariously cheesy and putting them in obscene positions. It kind of makes Jared want to kick him in the nuts, except for the vehement hissing voice in his head that says he's retarded if he thinks Chad even has any fucking nuts.
“Hey, Jared!” Chad yells.
He looks like he's about to tell Jared one of his moronic stories about mooning the neighbors or whatever, but then Jared storms up to him and punches him in the face and that shuts him up pretty quickly.
Chad staggers backward and rubs at his jaw, which gives Jared this great grim sense of satisfaction. “Ow!”
“Give me one good reason why I shouldn't castrate you with a spoon,” Jared says. He's never been the kind of guy who gets into a lot of fights – dude, his clothes are too hellishly expensive to tempt ruination, and guys who give you shit for liking cock inevitably back down when they realize you're six-foot-five and built like a brick outhouse – but he's totally not against pulling out a guy's kidneys through his dick if he's been an unforgivable shit. Which, let's face it, Chad usually does five times before breakfast and twice during.
“'Cause it'd fucking hurt? Dude, what the hell is the matter with you?” Chad says, giving him a good shove.
“This is what's the matter with me, you dickless wonder.”
Jared shoves the crumpled paper into Chad's hands, and as soon as he flattens it to look at it Chad looks almost proud of himself. Jared's contemplating what it would take to kick him in the balls to death when Chad says, “Oh, fuck, come on. I thought you'd be glad I scooped Perez. You know what that fucker would have done with these pictures? You know, after he –”
“If you complete that sentence, I will throw up and I will aim for your face.” Jared snatches the paper back and flattens it out some more. Okay, so maybe he shouldn't have gotten mad in the car and squished it into a teeny ball and flung it into the back seat, then had to pull over and climb back to get it again just so he could uncrumple it and get mad all over again.
As soon as he flattens it enough, he holds it up so Chad can see and says, “Squint.”
Chad gives him this totally disgusted look and squints, giving the picture a better look. The he looks up at Jared with this big stupid grin on his face and seriously, Jared should just replace him with a cocker spaniel because he'd get the same sorts of expression out of one. “So you really did dick the prom king?”
Jared shoves the paper at Chad's chest and snaps, “When have I ever lied to you about who I have sex with? I even told you about that time I had sex with that guy who looked exactly like Harrison Ford. Old Harrison Ford.”
“Yeah, but it wasn't Harrison Ford.”
“It could have been.”
Sighing, Chad folds up the paper and stuffs it into the pocket of his baggy ass-hanging jeans which will hopefully go out of fashion in the next ten seconds so Jared can totally mock his wardrobe and call him a douche for that, too. “Okay, look,” Chad says, “I'm sorry your ass is all over the website, but this is really good gossip. I mean, I could have probably bribed the guy and bought myself, like, a Hummer or an elephant or something.”
And it's not like they ever really do that, even if they did threaten to do that one time and Anderson Cooper laughed in their faces and since they were totally expecting that it didn't even fucking matter. But when Chad says that Jared just sort of deflates because yeah, okay, things could have worse. At least Chad didn't elaborate on the pictures much, since aside from his sense of humor being dead in the water he probably would have said something profoundly stupid like, “Oh, hey, and who's that guy with his hand on Jensen's cock? Let's take a poll!”
Jared runs his fingers through his hair, which probably means it's all over the place now, and takes a few deep breaths to try and calm down before flopping down on the hammock in the front yard and saying, “I have to apologize to him.”
“Dude, you never apologize,” Chad says, looking at him a little like he's about to put his hand on Jared's forehead and maybe check him for malaria.
Jared sighs and says, “I know.”
He swings back and forth for a minute, his feet banging awkwardly against the ground and seriously, whoever made his legs so damn long can just go get fucked royally by an elderly lap dancer of questionable gender. He closes his eyes because he's starting to feel really fucking nauseated, and maybe if he closes his eyes he won't turn into some weird puke fountain in love with someone he probably can't even have secretly now. He's perfectly content just to listen to the sounds of cars on the highway and that shitty techno from next door that's always playing regardless of how many times he and Chad send male strippers over there to dance along on the lawn in zebra-striped Speedos, but then Chad says, “Holy fuck, are you in love with him?”
Jared doesn't even know what he's supposed to say, for fuck's sake, so he just looks up at Chad.
Chad almost flinches at the look in his eyes before blurting out, “Stay there. I need to get a camera. And the million dollars Sandy now owes me,” before heading into the house and leaving Jared alone to wallow in this stupid horrible whatever-it-is.
*
It's not like it really takes all that long for this sort of shit to get around, so within a few hours it's all over the freaking place. The office phones won't stop ringing because, like, Best Week Ever wants him to go on and pretend to flirt with Jensen on the show and People wants a statement and the guys from AfterElton keep calling all, “Seriously? No, seriously?!”
Jared is so totally going to overdose on Rolaids at this rate, he swears to fucking God.
Maybe he'll end up getting an aneurysm and it'll end up on the evening news, and everybody will put two and two together, and then somewhere in the middle of accusing Jensen of being a raving homosexual they'll accuse of having lousy taste in guys, too.
By the time midnight rolls around Jared's just really fucking drunk. Chad does him the favor of going out and buying him margarita mix and a bottle of vodka and whatever else he needs to get absolutely shit-faced. And let's face it, there's nothing more dignified than responding to the outing on your own stupid website of the guy you're totally in love with by chugging margaritas for four straight hours and passing out on the kitchen floor in a puddle of what in a worst-case scenario may actually be your roommate's puke. Also, it helps if you leave on the TV tuned to CNN on a night where apparently the most interesting and exciting news in the country is that the biggest box-office draw in America has been fucking a guy into blinding temporary amnesia.
At about one o'clock in the morning, Jared's cell phone plays “Baby Got Back,” which means it's time for the drunk dial he figured he'd be set for by now. Yeah, nobody could accuse him of not thinking ahead.
Jared scrambles over to the cabinets and props himself up against them, dialing Jensen's number and hoping more than a little that Jensen won't answer the phone. He's way too drunk to answer anything coherently so he's pretty sure that if Jensen answered and said he never wanted to see him again Jared would do something really embarrassing like cry or ask him if it's okay if he calls him back if Jensen goes blind or something. But instead he gets Jensen's voicemail, and he breathes a sigh of relief at that.
“Uh, hey,” he says. “I don't ... okay, this is really fucking weird. I'm not supposed to be apologizing for this stuff, you know? But I wasn't the one who posted those pictures, I swear. Did I ever mention that my business partner's kind of a dick? Because he is. He's just ... he's really fucking useless. I'm debating barbecuing him and feeding him to wolverines. You think that's too extreme?”
He waits for an answer for a sec and then realizes okay, duh, Jensen didn't answer. Wow, he is more way more plastered than he thought he was.
“Yeah, you're right, I shouldn't restrain myself,” he says, and then he laughs and it comes out sounding all high-pitched and crazy like the Joker. Great. “Uh, call me? I mean it, Jensen. I mean ... I know this sucks. Okay, I know this sucks because usually I'm the one making it suck, but still. Just ... if you need someone to talk to or you want to yell at me or, hell, if you just want to let off steam and get fucking laid and okay, so maybe that might be a bad idea.”
Jared sighs, and he thinks he has something else to say but nothing comes to mind that doesn't make him sound like a total moron. He gives up and disconnects, and the next morning when he wakes up reeking of strawberries with his neck all sore from sleeping funny he really wishes he would have added, “going to his bed” to his to-do list.
*
The next two days suck out loud. Jensen's not answering Jared's calls, or anybody else's if the media is any indication. Jared has this mental image of Jensen sitting in his big stupid house crying into a pillow like a little girl over the mean things everybody has been saying – especially on Jared's own blog which, honestly, why come be homophobic douchebags on his blog when they can go be homophobic douchebags on Ann Coulter's fucking website where they'll fit in, Jesus -- but then he actually fucking listens to himself and wants to hit himself in the face with a shovel.
Jared pours himself into work for both days, filming segments for the show and putting off the one on the pictures which the network is practically salivating for. He posts on the blog and breaks up fights in the comments and just barely resists chasing down a couple of IPs and pulling some serious Jay And Silent Bob Strike Back shit on their bigoted asses. He nearly breaks his computer before Chad finally makes me him get up and go back in the house to cool off, and then he orders Jared three extra-large bacon double cheeseburger stuffed pizzas and a Strip-O-Gram.
The stripper's a nice guy, Jared will give him that much, because one minute he's yanking off his detachable pants and the next minute the two of them are sitting on the back porch having this heart-to-heart about Jensen and the stripper's ex and how the world just sucks sometimes. When Chad finds them, he sighs like he's about to yell but pretty much deflates after that and says, “You gay motherfuckers are completely goddamn helpless, you know that shit?” before stealing half of one of Jared's pizzas, that asshole.
The thing is, Jared's fine. He is. He's a realist, right? He knows that sometimes this shit happens, where you're having clandestine gay sex with a famous actor and it blows up in the media and ... okay, so maybe that doesn't happen to everybody. It only happens to him, apparently, and he's fine with it and fine with it and fine with it until ...
Well, until he isn't.
*
Theoretically there should be five million paparazzi dangling from the trees outside Jensen's house with ginormous cameras hanging from their necks, but apparently Jensen's security team has a Seven-Foot-Tall Invisible Ninja clean-up division because there's not even scattered piles of the bodies of fat guys in those stupid vests lying around. Jared's a little surprised he even makes it to the gate without being attacked by pirates or astronauts or something. But he does, and then the same security guard as before is there, and okay, he doesn't open the gate but he doesn't shoot Jared with lasers from his eyes. So, hey, bonus.
Jared sits outside of Jensen's house for two hours before he starts really regretting this whole idea. This is a bad plan, just an awful fucking plan. For one thing, he is doing exactly what he said he would not do and making a public spectacle of himself, although he changed out of the pink leopard-print shirt so at least he's got that going for him. And for another thing, Jensen's got some ginormous security guards. Honestly, those fuckers make Jared feel like a spastic toddler or that guy from Willow or something. They keep glaring at him through the bars, and it goes to show just how galactically gross the last few weeks have been that the fact that they're not laughing at him is totally an upside.
About a half-hour after he leaves Jensen the first of several embarrassingly heartfelt phone messages, most of which sound like he's really drunk and possibly watched Beaches one too many times, Chad texts him with, if that lousy fucker can't get up off his ass and DO SOMETHING, let's go out tonight to that bar where the porn stars hang out. COCK. You know you want to.
It's possibly the most coherent Jared's ever seen him. He seriously wonders if Sophia did all of the typing for him.
About an hour later, there's still no movement in Jensen's financially ridiculous yet environmentally sound clusterfuck of an estate and Sandy texts him with, i will buy u a new fucktoy, ok?
Ten minutes later, Alona texts, did I ever tell you i had a threesome with the olsen twins? I forget.
Jared turns off his phone after that because it's just ... it's not that. This whole thing isn't his sex life in stasis, some twisted phase he's going through where he's thinking about leather weddings and matching cock rings or whatever. Fuck, he can't even think about having fun casual sex anymore. Damn it, he had to go to an industry party the other day where he met Colin Farrell and he didn't even stare at his crotch. Clearly there is something wrong with him. Jensen really did break his cock.
And Jared's brain, while he was at it, because he's just not thinking about sex the way he usually does. He's not thinking about sex at all, honestly, unless it's with Jensen, and now he can only jerk off thinking about Jensen's tongue lapping at the head of his dick. Oh, and Jensen the dildo – which he is totally not renaming, shut the hell up – has been getting way too much of a workout of late. It's really, like, compatible, if that's what you even want to call it. All it needs to do is want respect in the acting industry and Jared could just go home and hook up with it.
Except he won't, because he wants Jensen. Which is just weird, because four weeks ago he would have been totally satisfied with Jensen the dildo and now he just ... he just can't, is all.
Jared sighs and gets up to get the blood recirculating in his legs because they're going totally like that time he fucked --
He stops, glances over at the security guards as if they can read his thoughts which, okay, maybe they can. Jensen can afford to hire insanely talented security people, after all. Maybe they all have superstrength and can shoot laser beams out of their eyes, too. He wouldn't be all that surprised.
What he is surprised about – and a little annoyed by – is his sudden realization just how much of everything he does he ends up relating to his sex life.
It seems like a fucked-up place to realize it, standing outside the gate of the home of a Sexiest Man Alive with his thumb shoved up his ass waiting for his dream guy to fucking listen, but ... look, he loves his sex life. He really, really does. He loves that he can get laid no matter what room he walks into, even if he walked into the Focus on the Family national convention wearing something he raided from Freddie Mercury's closet. He loves that he's slept with eighty percent of the members in at least four different boy bands. He loves sex in every shape and form, with outfits and toys and food, anywhere and anyplace and okay, he really sounds like one of those creeps who show up on Celebrity Rehab who end up having their cell phones checked for gay porn when they walk in the door.
But, yeah, he can't keep doing that. He can't keep doing that and have Jensen, and he wants. God, he wants. He wants Jensen so damn much he's pretty sure he's either going to have to have him or start the Cult of Jensen, where he vows a life of celibacy except when it comes to stopping whenever you see a picture of Jensen on a billboard or poster or whatever and masturbating until you black out. Hell, it'd at least make more sense and be less annoying than Scientology.
The security guard currently glaring at him from behind the gate suddenly turns and says, “Mr. Ackles wants to see you.”
Jared thinks that maybe he's gone a little hysterically deaf or something for a minute, but then he realizes no, he's not having some twisted hallucination. Jensen really does want to see him, which could mean he wants to talk and could also mean he wants to wait until Jared walks up to the front door of the house and pour hot oil on him from the roof. It could go either way. “He's not going to set me on fire or anything, is he?”
The security guard doesn't confirm it, but he sure as hell doesn't deny it, either.
Jared holds up a hand as the gate swings open. “Never mind. Don't answer that.”
*
When Jared gets up to the front door it's wide open. Jared has this brief flash of fear, which is so not his style. It suddenly hits him, just, “Oh, fuck, I'm about to go into an actor's house and beg him to stay with me,” and then he starts thinking about the why of it, and then he remembers he's in love with the nervous son of a bitch and he kinda wants to have a flailing heart attack right here in the driveway.
He hears a rustling sound from inside, something soft like someone's moving but trying not to be heard. Jared steels himself and walks through the front door, closing it behind him, thoroughly expecting some jerk dressed like a ninja to jump him and pound on him until he finally gets all of the glitter Chad poured into his fifty-dollar shampoo out of his hair.
What he gets, though, is Jensen.
All of him, every damn inch of him, pressing against Jared, grabbing onto him with trembling hands, clutching his shirt and shoving him against the nearest wall and just .. just holding. He doesn't look up at Jared and Jared's almost afraid to lift his chin to look into his eyes, so instead he just lets Jensen breathe hot and steady and deep against his neck and tries desperately to ignore just how fucking hard he's getting.
They're alone, in this huge house with its fabulous furniture and gorgeous expensive artwork and holy fuck, Jared could cut the screen from that flatscreen and use it as a circus tent. But then Jensen leans forward just so, his warm temple pressing against the unshaven edge of Jared's jaw. It's funny, because a minute ago Jared could swear he knew how to breathe, but now his breath won't stop hitching and he might in fact be two seconds away from a panic attack.
“I can't,” Jensen says, and then he stops and leans forward and inhales Jared's spicy cologne. “I can't do this.”
Jared freezes, fully expecting Jensen to shove him out the front door again and tell all of the tabloids he's a jerk and a liar and a fucking horrible lay, too. He's still tensing when Jensen nips at his jaw, a light quick snap of teeth, and Jared may have keened but you're never going to get him to admit that.
He huffs out a loud breath and tilts his head back, glittering green eyes looking up at Jared past thick black lashes so lush you'd have to pay a makeup artist to apply if they weren't real, and if Jared wasn't pretty sure he hadn't already fallen in love with the guy just that look right fucking there would be enough for him to start planning really blasphemous weddings.
“I can't give this up,” Jensen says quietly, and then he kisses Jared.
Jared's on that shit in a fucking heartbeat, sucking on his tongue and slipping his hand down until it's hovering right over Jensen's crotch, cupping his cock as Jensen squirms and pushes against him. It's like he can't stop touching Jared, like he's terrified one of those bigoted fuckwits on Fox News is going to show up and bitch about how now he has to explain the intricate workings of gay sex to his five-year-old because Jensen just can't give up kissing him. He pulls at Jared's vintage pink bowling shirt, tugs and yanks and makes this frustrated sound in the back of his throat, and that's just fucking it.
Jared pulls the shirt over his head his own goddamn self before Jensen does something terrible like rip one of his favorite shirts in the process of getting lucky, then swings the two of them around and pushes Jensen against the wall at the foot of the stairway, biting and licking at the skin at the curve of Jensen's throat. Jensen gasps and clutches at him, panting breaths past Jared's ears, and he can feel the surprise coming off Jensen in waves. He doesn't remember that first night either, not all that well, and nobody who looks at Jared expects him to be a pushy bitch in the sack, snapping jaws and tight holds, rough and tough and no holding back.
And then there's that blur again, that fast happy frenzy of shedding clothes and stumbling up the stairs until they tumble to the carpet on the landing halfway up the steps and just give the hell up. This could be really fucking messy but Jared's gleefully not caring, hands all over Jensen and perfectly content to do the same sort of dry-humping he gave up in, like, his second year of college when he discovered pretty much every other sexual practice on the planet.
But even this much is ... wow. Wow. Explosive doesn't even begin to cover what this feels like, just being here, sucking dark marks onto Jensen's neck and maybe wondering if he can spell his name on Jensen's skin if he does this right. Because he's allowed, right? It's not against the rules to mark him up and send him out into the world and make sure everybody knows Jensen's his if it's true.
Jensen's breath hitches once, twice, and the next second Jared's pretty sure Jensen's coming but he can't tell because he's just fucking gone.
Someone's murmuring, “Oh, my God,” in, like, fifteen different inflections, up and down and inside out. Maybe it's Jensen and maybe it's Jared, but all Jared's knows is that he's not tired. He's fucking wired, is what he is, even after a seriously amazing orgasm.
“Come on, come on,” he says, and hauls Jensen to his feet even as Jensen's trying to shove him up and away, not in a bad way but because he needs Jared off him and standing if he's going to drag Jared after him into the bedroom, tripping over himself and latching his teeth quick and sharp and possessive into the back of Jensen's neck.
The door slams shut behind them, loud and decisive.
Jared can't help but think as he's pushed up against it and Jensen slowly drops to his knees that that's exactly how it should be.
*
“So what happens now?”
The two of them have been lying in bed together for fifteen minutes now, face to face, not sleeping or anything. Just cuddling or whatever, these half-kisses, these whisper-soft brushes of skin against one another that are electrifying and warm and ticklish all at once. Jared's had to take a leak in the worst way ever since about two seconds after he came that last time, and yeah, maybe they should clean up a little more than they've already done because the entire room reeks of sex. They should, like, crack a window or light a candle or something, except Jared kind of hopes they don't, because for once messy feels pretty damn spectacular.
Jensen doesn't frown or look confused or anything, he just says, “What do you mean?”
Jared sighs. “Look, I know I'm like the big gay town bicycle for the major metropolitan Los Angeles area, but I ... I want this. I want us. I mean, if you don't, that's okay, I just –“
“I do,” Jensen says.
He reaches out and rubs the pad of his thumb over the angle of Jared's cheekbones, probably swiping away a stray eyelash, probably not. It's possible that Jared's turned into a complete and total sap, because just that touch and just those words are enough to make him grin like an idiot.
Jensen leans forward and presses his lips against Jared's, a soft quick touch. Jared could never leave this room again and be perfectly happy, just stay here and make out and devote his life to giving blowjobs to Jensen Ackles. That would be just about the best job ever, except that lying in bed with him and just looking at him is pretty fucking awesome, too.
“You're asking for it, you know,” he says, when Jensen pulls away.
Jensen shrugs, although it looks more like a full-body squirm than anything else, and then Jared pictures Jensen the way he was before, happily writhing underneath him with these awesome little moans that went straight to Jared's cock, and now he seriously can't be expected to think very hard about anything. God, he really hopes Jensen doesn't suddenly develop a post-sex need to discuss eighteenth-century Russian literature because if that happens he is so goddamn fucked it isn't even funny.
“I'll learn to deal,” Jensen says.
He smiles, wide and happy and maybe a little dizzy, or maybe Jared's just seeing what he's feeling, this weird giddy swirly sensation in his stomach that just won't go away. And then Jensen's forehead presses against his, their breath mingling, Jensen's fingers sliding through Jared's thick hair as he cradles Jared's skull and ... and yeah, Jared can deal with this. He can handle those asshat paparazzi who dress like they're going into combat when they're only trailing after Britney Spears into the bathroom of a minimart for this, and he can put up with those fuckoffs on the CNN comment boards who'll claim he turned Jensen Ackles into a big gay movie star with the queer vibes coming out of his dick if he means he gets to have this.
He can do this.
They can do this.
*
Eleven months later
Sundance is ...
Okay, Jared's not even sure he likes Sundance. It's full of people he's never even heard of who make movies about, like, crossdressing midgets who win the lottery and have torrid love affairs with drunken elderly librarians with one leg. Sometimes it's the midget who has one leg. And sometimes there's a monkey, or someone who dies of rabies, or the monkey dies of rabies.
Look, whatever. Jared's not an idiot by a longshot, he's just never been into this whole artsy acting thing. You can't really write up gossip about independent movie actors, because half of the time people are like, “... wait, who are we talking about again?” and then you have to add, “You remember, that guy who's married to that hot chick from the West Wing and owns a vineyard,” or whatever. His job doesn't exactly jive with, like, whoever or whatever that is currently writhing against Parker Posey in the corner. And seriously, you'd think that'd loosen her up some, since she's been pissy all weekend about how she's gotten old enough to start playing moms now, even if this one is a mom who smokes pot at PTA meetings and is having a lesbian affair with the confused extra-extra-Christian home economics teacher.
This is just not his scene. But Jensen had asked him nicely if he'd kind of pull it back this weekend for his sake, for Jensen and his new audience and the freaking amazing little independent movie he's starring in about striking miners who start a band. He's so going to get an Oscar nomination for it, and at least this isn't exactly a black-tie affair because honestly, he is fucking whipped. No pink, no sparkles, and absolutely nothing leopard-print. Just, like, jeans and a parka and his yellow bunny-ears hat he sometimes wears to the clubs, which it turned out wasn't all that out of place when Christina Ricci's on the other side of the room wearing what looks like a skinned Muppet.
Jared's just got done talking to William H. Macy about ... um, something, he really can't remember because it's William H. Fucking Macy and the only thing he can be pretty sure about is that he didn't ask the guy if he could blow him in the bathroom. Felicity doesn't beat him unconscious, which is a good sign since he's positive she could take him in a fight and he'd totally brag about it. She just laughs at whatever he says and touches his arm and ... okay, you did hear the part where she touched his arm, right?
So, yeah, Sundance sucks, except not quite, because --
“William H. Macy and Felicity Huffman.”
Jensen can't stop smiling later. “I heard you the first time,” he says, about five seconds away from laughing. The two of them are snuggled up on a couch in the back of the room, Jensen's arm slung around Jared's shoulders, and the party's still at full swing at two in the morning. Jared kinda wants to pour a little of his appletini on Jensen's neck and lave at his skin with long teasing licks just because nobody in the room would bat an eye.
“Maybe you didn't hear me,” Jared says, nipping at Jensen's earlobe. “I said, Filliam H. Muffman.”
“Dude, shut up, don't say that in front of people,” Jensen hisses, and then he's practically wrestling Jared into the couch, and there's legs and arms all over the place and Jensen shuts him up by shoving his tongue into Jared's mouth.
Somebody nearby whistles, but Jared doesn't give a damn. He's too busy making out with his boyfriend to find out who the hell it is so he can tell thirty-nine million viewers they've got crabs so big the inside of their underwear looks like a Deadliest Catch marathon.
Which, you know, still feels weird – the whole “boyfriend” thing, not the briefs full of crustaceans. Although that would probably feel weird, too. The point is that Jared didn't do monogamy, unless “Monogamy” was the name of an all-male Christian basketball team who were bad enough at that abstinence shit that their ball-handling wasn't only good on the court. And Jensen didn't do guys, so Jared had never expected the relationship to last longer than the new season of Top Chef.
Except here they are, and it's nearly a year later and they're doing some impressively obscene things to each other on the couch of Paul Giamatti's sprawling vacation house. Fuck, Jared could be working, okay, because film festivals have the best gossip. Everybody keeps talking about whatever sexually deviant thing some random actress has done with a goat, three bottles of whiskey, and a top hat, and he could --
Jensen slides his hand along his thigh, quick and sure and then gone again, and Jared thinks, Oh, holy hell, he's not going to give me a handjob here, is he? But then he winks and moves away, pulls back and settles in on the couch as a waiter offers him another drink.
Jared rights himself and says, “You have such a public sex kink, you slut.”
“Boy, I wonder where I learned that from,” Jensen says, and grins.
It's wide and playful, teasing and cock-eyed, and Jared's stomach goes heated and tight from the look in his eyes. Jensen had better not think they're trying anything here, because as much as he'd gleefully have sex with him at center court during halftime at a Clippers game if he asked, Jensen's ... you know, his. Almost a year they've been together now and Jared hasn't once been tempted to fuck anyone else, not even a little, not even when the guy who played Brian on Queer as Folk walked into the fancy restaurant they'd been having dinner in one night and Jared had through pure reflex born out of many a weekend DVD marathon gotten a massive hard-on that completely distracted his train of thought and put him right off the shrimp ceviche he'd been finishing off.
Jensen had dragged him home and fucked him until even the thought of achieving another erection made him want to sob like a little girl.
The waiter leaves, and the two of them are alone with a pair of martinis and a couple of aspiring Oscar winners for Best Supporting Actress currently making out on the love seat across from them. Jensen turns to wave at a friend, says hi in that rough deep voice that send heat rushing through Jared's veins.
Jared leans over, breathes heavy and dark against Jensen, and his answering shudder is them. It's them, a single movement, a small but violent reaction, and he'll take it over all of the inappropriate sex in the world.
Besides, no one said he couldn't have inappropriate sex with the love of his life. Just wait until later, when he could get caught bending Jensen over a ski lift at sunrise.
It'll be fucking perfect. Just like everything else in Jared's life.
**
THE END. OR SOMETHING. UH, HI.
**
Hey, look, another author's note: So, yeah, that was going to be my Bigbang and instead it's just my Really Long Fic. Heh. I may do a "deleted scenes" sort of thing, because this really was supposed to be a LOT longer, and I'll probably do a post about writing it and whatnot, but now I need a nap and a snack and the bed my cat is currently commandeering. Le sigh.