![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
apocalypsosTitle: I Taught Your Boyfriend That Thing You Like
Author: trollprincess
Fandom: CW RPS
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 22,000 words
Pairing: Jensen/Jared
Disclaimer: They're not having sex. It's just fun pretending they are.
Summary: AU. Jared is a big gay celebrity gossip blogger. Jensen is the biggest straightest action star in Hollywood. Boysex ensues.
Author's note: This was supposed to be my Bigbang. Obviously, I didn't quite make it in time. But hey, I got it finished in the end, so yay for me. Also,![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
keepaofthecheez is the awesomest awesome who ever awesomed. In summation, \o/. (Hey, it's early. I'm not exactly verbose right about now.)
***
I Taught Your Boyfriend That Thing You Like
***
Part One
*
It all started when Jared's best friend's girlfriend's roommate turned out to be a massive slut.
Okay, so “slut” isn't exactly the prettiest word in the world and it practically drips with liquid sexism (which, as a metaphor ... ew), but when it came to Alona it was frighteningly apt. The thing was, she was totally proud of it. You didn't even have to ask to get her to tell you about how she'd gone down on one of the Coen brothers for a bit part in their new movie, which was totally awesome unless you counted the weird dialogue and the Wal-Mart straight-from-the-sweatshop clothes they'd put her in. It was totally worth the possible threat of Frances McDormand coming to their apartment and maybe accidentally beating Sophia up instead of her, even though Alona couldn't even tell you if she blew the one Frances McDormand was married to or not. She just knew that she'd had to wear two-dollar flipflops for three days and somehow that'd be great for her career in the long run.
But, yeah. Anyway.
Jared hadn't decided to become a gossip columnist. It just sort of fell into his lap, sort of like when Rose McGowan had tumbled drunkenly into the lap of his pink PVC pants at a gay bar on the Strip that one time. He'd been in college and ran the LGBT club and had all these great plans where he, like, wrote all of the exclusives with newly outed actors for the Advocate or reviewed movies or maybe lucked out and got to be the new bitch at Go Fug Yourself.
The blog had been a fucking joke, really. Chad and Sophia fought all the time over stupid shit like the coconut scent of her new shampoo or the fact that he secretly liked the Keira Knightley version of Pride and Prejudice and that clearly made him gay since she didn't even have tits. But Sophia was, you know, theirs. His and Chad's. Chad's because ... well, and Jared's because when Sandy wasn't quite living up to her hag potential (which was often) Sophia made for a good back-up.
But then Alona had started pulling this crazy shit where she'd let her druggie boyfriend with the questionable hygiene sleep over and piss in the sink and walk around naked, and Chad and Jared had both fucking had it. So Chad had made the blog (all pink and sparkly and if Jared had any fucking self-respect he would have asked for a change, but ... you know) and Jared had written up this really awesome snarky post about how Alona had blown a Coen brother and fucked numerous Lakers and had maybe gotten gonorrhea from a Baldwin. Jared had been hoping it was the one who'd given up women and drugs and rock music to become a Bible-thumping homophobic skateboarder or whatever, but then again that shit was funny.
Somehow, the link had gotten around, and oh, man.
It didn't take long for Jared to realize that he knew a lot more celebrity gossip than he'd thought. Okay, sure, he was in his fourth year at UCLA and that didn't really mean anything other than that he could hold his liquor and negotiate traffic. But Chad practically lived on![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
ohnotheydidnt and had all these, like, connections, and Sophia had Alona (who never really gave a damn about the whole telling-everybody-who-she-fucked-on-the-internet thing) and her makeup jobs and her skeevy boyfriend who laid down track at Dreamworks, and Sandy was rich and gorgeous and had an enormous trust fund and kept getting invited to parties where morons with record deals tried to grab her ass.
So, yeah. Why they hadn't thought of it sooner, Jared didn't know. Maybe they all had brain damage from Chad. Lots of time spent around Chad was bound to make anyone certifiably retarded, right?
The TV show, though. That was unexpected.
See, E! had this break in their TV schedule because ... hell, Jared still doesn't know. The Kardashians had stopped acting like spoiled brainless tarts in public or gotten real jobs or something. Who the hell knew? Anyway, open time slot. And they thought, Hey! Let's do another celebrity gossip show! Except let's not use Perez, let's use that gay guy who's hot and doesn't look like he smells like gym socks and crotch.
So they called Jared.
And that's how two years later Jared ended up fucking Jensen Ackles.
*
Okay, so maybe there's a little more to the story. Just give me a minute.
*
“So I shoved a gerbil up Jake Gyllenhaal's ass last night.”
“Fuck you, you did not,” Chad says, and shoves Alona off his lap.
Jared curls over in his chair and can't stop laughing because, okay, seriously, he cannot tell his audience that Jake Gyllenhaal likes to have rodents stuffed into his butt by Hollywood's official free bicycle (the female version, anyway). Nobody really believes that shit about Richard Gere, for crying out loud, and Jared had heard from a very reliable source – after two blowjobs and some felching, and yeah, some guys really need to learn the meaning of appropriate post-fuck conversation, okay? -- that Richard Gere had used a baby rat and a jelly glass and Jared was definitely not sucking off that guy ever again.
Alona huffs and tosses her long blond hair, tilts her hips and says, “Okay, so maybe it wasn't shoving but the gerbils were on sale. And that thing crawled right in there with almost no help from me, I swear to God. I think he keeps a wheel and some wooden chewy things up there.”
Chad claps his hand over his ears. “Oh, man, would you stop talking? I don't want to know about the contents of Jake Gyllenhaal's ass, much less whether or not he's got an entire pet store up there.” He waves his hand in Jared's direction and says, “Tell that gay motherfucker about that shit. That's his job, not mine.”
Jared grins. “So if I want a Flash animation of the gerbil crawling back out and waving --”
“No, seriously, you shut the fuck up too,” Chad snaps. He puts earbuds in his ears and turns up his iPod all the way until Jared can hear what he could swear is Wham from all the way on the other side of the office.
Alona, meanwhile, flops down in the nearest chair with all of the elegance of a dead turkey. She picks the purple velvet chair, which is comfortably overstuffed and which Jared now thinks is going to have to be, like, Febreezed or something. Their office is set away from the house so Chad and Jared don't have to worry about cameramen from the show pissing all over their toilets or the second-unit director deciding to rifle through Jared's sex toys like they did that one time. They got the show to swear off on the house after that because seriously, that was just gross. It's one thing to own a ball gag. It's another thing entirely for your grandma to see it on national TV somewhere between the butt plug and the maple-flavored lube. (Chad once tried it on pancakes after he lost a bet. According to him ... not that bad.)
They could have called in an interior designer but they finally realized that ... well, fuck it, they weren't the kind of people who hired interior designers anyway and nobody expected their office to have classy Chippendale chairs from the 19th century or whatever shit passed as stylish these days. Jared didn't fucking know, since he'd stopped reading In Style after they'd done that bullshit story on Tom Welling's rocking new bachelor pad while casually shooting their pictures around the bald male mental patient he was currently spending most of his free time blowing all over the damn apartment. Seriously, Welling makes movies where gay cowboys eat babies with transsexual truckers and their precocious daughters who get gang-raped offscreen by circus performers, so it's not like fucking a bald guy would be the weirdest or most offensive thing he's done.
But, yeah. Their agent nearly had a fit when she saw their office for the first time. They really did go a little nuts with the weird furniture and okay, maybe she had a point about how nobody wants to sit on a giant velvet shoe or a waterbed that they'd turned into a couch or that ugly-ass hand chair, but that's kind of a point. And the poster of the porn star with her legs spread and her ass tilted up is tacky, but it's only fair considering that if Jared can put up a life-size poster of Jensen Ackles shirtless and grimy and sporting an automatic weapon in that movie about the karate instructor who captures bin Ladin's cousin or whatever, then Chad deserves spank material too.
Jared tries to feel guilty, he really does, but it's their place and they can do what they want with it and if anyone gets turned off by a naked poster of a porn star they're sure as hell not going to like working with Chad. Chad's an irritating douche on his best days – loudmouthed, horny, and prone to sticking his hand down his pants when you're not looking. Seriously, he's like a toddler with that thing.
Alona kicks his chair with her Jimmy Choo slingbacks. “Talk to me,” she says.
Jared shakes his head, checking his email to see if anybody's sent him any new leads. Nothing. That really fucking sucks because now it means he has to, like, talk to Alona. And yeah, okay, they owe her and she's harmless if you're a guy who likes cock as much as she does. Honestly, though, he'd rather talk to the porn poster.
“I can't talk,” he says. “My fabulous ass has to make an appearance at a premiere today.”
“I still don't get that.” She twirls her hair around her finger like she's practicing being the most vapid thing in the room. Jared might be a little bitter that her honey-blond hair is just naturally that gorgeous shade. He pays Jose Eber hundreds of bucks every other week to freshen up his highlights so he doesn't end up looking like fucking Perez. “You tell people who's screwing who. Why do they keep inviting you to movie premieres?”
Chad laughs. “Maybe 'cause they don't want to see the shitty movies they ask him to come to? You know what he's going to see today? The new Olsen twins idiot-fest. They don't even have big enough tits to make it worthwhile.”
“Pride and Prejudice,” Jared singsongs.
“Don't even,” Chad snaps back.
Jared gets up out of his chair. “It won't be that bad,” he says.
“You can't get blown by the romantic lead in the bathroom at every movie premiere, Jared. It's mathematically impossible, even for you.”
“Oh, fuck you very much. You flunked math.”
“Yeah, and I'm still smart enough to know you can't do it.”
Jared scowls 'cause, really, he looks fucking hot, all right? He runs four miles every morning because that's how long his “songs to kick ass during a street fight” playlist lasts, he has awesome hair, he's got an amazing playful smile, and he's freaking huge. Plus, he's funny, smart and a great lay. Obviously, he's perfect. They should clone him and sell them at Christmas. They'd be like Cabbage Patch Dolls but, you know, heavier.
But he's just six and a half feet of pure sex. That's just a law of nature. He can turn any guy no matter how straight, or at least tempt them out of the closet for long enough for him to lick their asshole. Look at that douchebag comedian who stole half of his jokes from other comedians and usually just sounded like he had a speech impediment. Jared got that guy to jerk him off in Ashlee Simpson's bathroom that one time and now he flinches and makes a run for it every time Jared walked into the room. Hell, he should run. He spent the whole fucking time moaning “Oh, Keanu,” into Jared's ear. Ew.
Of course, who the hell would he want to nail at the premiere of an Olsen twins movie?
“Maybe I should just let you go instead of me,” Jared says, stretching until he almost touched the ceiling. “That's your crowd, right? Skeletal and barely legal?”
Chad throws a pen at his head.
*
Jared is in Hell.
No, really, this is Hell. When he dies and all of those fucking religious nutjobs with the delightfully homophobic placards at military funerals turn out to be right, this is what he's going to suffer for all eternity. A hundred and one minutes of Mary-Kate and Ashley – or maybe it's Ashley and Mary-Kate; Jared has always loved how they'd done that hair-dying stunt as if anyone actually gave a shit which one of them was which – saving puppies and running to job interviews and generally acting at about the same talent level as they did when they were three. Also, he's out of Milk Duds.
So, okay. He supposes he could get away with leaving now because it's not like he's an actual movie reviewer or anything. He's pretty sure even the guy at the candy counter knows he's going to go home and tell his audience that the Olsen twins think that “Isn't it funny how nobody can tell us apart?” schtick is seriously going to last them, like, their whole lives. One of these days one of them is going to get plowed down at a semi or something and the other one is just going to toddle around in a brainless daze for the next forty years, honestly.
But, yeah, he could go, he figures. He really doesn't want to have to stay until the end and fake being polite, and he can see the two of them sitting way far down by the screen as if they like staring up at themselves. Or at least he thinks he can see them. That might just be a couple of really skinny bag ladies. Who the hell knows?
He sneaks out just as the climactic final sequence begins where Ashley (he thinks) finds the lost puppy's owner and everybody finally figures out there's two of them and holy Christmas, that explains everything! Jared's positive he can declare today as a total waste of oxygen, that's for damn sure.
He ducks out the back door of the theater just to make sure he isn't caught or anything and nearly runs smack into a guy in a baseball cap with a cigarette dangling from his lips. “Oh, fuck, I'm sorry,” he blurts out, and then ...
Then.
Look, Jared is totally fucking calm around famous people. Seriously, he even managed to be relatively sedate that time he had to interview Madonna for Entertainment Weekly for one of those wink-wink puff pieces by celebrities they don't intend to give real jobs, although he did tell her her breasts were magnificent and she said that meant a lot coming from a gay guy. Sometimes he rereads that article and has these, like, horribly pornographic dreams where he strips off her dancewear and finds out she's secretly got a dick and has a kink for slutty gossip columnists. Yeah, his dreams are just not as weird as most other people's dirty dreams, but then again he's been caught having sex with a sixty-year-old record executive in a bunny costume so really, his real sex life is strange enough already.
So you'd think he'd be equally totally fucking calm around Jensen Ackles. Okay, sure, he's been using the guy as primo spank fodder since Jensen was first on that dumb soap opera his mom watched, and thank God for catching mono from the class president senior year because that month he'd spent at home watching Jensen's character steal his sister's baby (which was probably his incest baby, too) and feed it to sharks before faking his death and running off to become a carnival worker was the best month ever.
And he is calm. He is. Except for the fact that he's having a serious and really intense debate in his head about whether or not it would be out of line to drop to his knees on a sidewalk outside some shitty movie theater in the suburbs, he's steady as a fucking minister. Or, uh, something. He's kind of secretly losing his mind at the moment, so metaphors are a little hard to come by right now.
“No, man, don't worry about it,” Jensen says, waving him off and smiling, and oh. Wow, you think he's pretty and growly on a fifty-foot screen and then he's standing right in front of you sucking on a Newport and flashing you a friendly grin and oh, staying out here with Jensen fucking Ackles within grabbing distance is such a bad idea.
Somehow Jared remembers that he does in fact have two brain cells to rub together and blurts out, “All right, I give. How much is the blackmail?”
“Come again?'
“I wish,” Jared mutters. Okay, that was a little cheap but he had to say it, even if Jensen's giving him this weird look like Jared may be two seconds away from crawling into his pants and he's not exactly sure whether to run away screaming or finish his cigarette first. “Somebody's got video of you with a particularly cute farm animal, right? Or maybe a llama?”
It takes Jensen a long moment to figure out what Jared's getting at, during which Jared gets a chance to give him a once-over – clean new green and brown Skechers, perfectly fit jeans, a faded green T-shirt that clings to his chest which, damn – and then Jensen says, “Oh, my girlfriend was in a movie with them.”
Girlfriend ... oh, right, this week it's Danneel Harris. If Jared remembers correctly, one of her first appearances before she got onto that lame sitcom was in one of the Olsen twins' straight-to-video cutefests. He can never remember if it was the one where they save the family farm and nobody can tell which one of them is which but boy, aren't they cute, or the one where one of them is an honor student and the other one is a stripper and boy, isn't it weird that they look exactly alike?
Okay, so maybe he made that last one up. But it's pretty sad that it sounds like one of their movies, isn't it?
“Was she being punished for something?” Jared asks, leaning against the same wall that Jensen's using to prop himself up. It's sunny and warm, a perfect day in L.A., as if there's any other kind. Except that Jared didn't even know what Jensen Ackles smelled like up close before – for the record, it's a little like a New Age store run by lumberjacks, earthy and musky and really fucking yummy -- so maybe he was wrong about what perfect days are like. Who the hell knows? “Ooo, did she kill a man just to watch him die?”
Jensen just chuckles, a flash of white teeth and the mischievous green flicker of his eyes, and he gives Jared the same once-over that Jared gave him except, you know, probably with fewer thoughts about how much he wanted to blow him. “And what did you do to earn a seat?”
And okay, now Jared feels a little weirded out. He could totally take that the wrong way and be all defensive, except there's something about the way Jensen's looking at him that makes him believe that he probably doesn't think Jared had a threesome with the Olsen twins or their interior decorator or whoever.
“Oh, I'm Jared Padalecki,” he says. “I'm sort of, um, a gossip columnist, I guess. I have a show on E!, if that helps.”
Jensen shrugs. “Not really. I don't watch a lot of TV. Not a lot of time, you know?”
Grinning, Jared says, “Yeah, I get that,” because it makes an assload of sense. Honestly, if he were Jensen Ackles, why would he want to watch TV in between movies when he could be doing more important things? Staring in the mirror for hours on end and jerking off until he gets rug burn on his dick comes to mind, for one thing.
“So,” Jensen says, dropping the rest of the cigarette on the ground and flattening it under the toe of his sneaker. He's got some excellent stubble action going on, and Jared has a brief flash of what it would feel like rubbing against the skin of his inner thighs and dies happily a little inside. “You going to the party after this?”
“There's a party?”
“Supposedly there's something at the twins' house. You hadn't heard?”
Jared shakes his head. He's not really surprised he hadn't been told, although if he had been he probably would have laughed in some publicist's face, which wouldn't have gone over so well. Like, yeah, sure, he'd love to go to a party sponsored by the Olsens, which probably means you have to dress like a bag lady and visit the vomitorium before you leave or something. “Strangely enough, I think I'd have more fun going to a hair salon in the Valley to watch old ladies get their chins tweezed.”
“You and me both,” Jensen says with a laugh which, how fucking hot can one man be when agreeing to the worst date on the planet? You know, not counting any date involving the moronic waste of an hour and a half they'd just shared.
Jensen pushes away from the wall, adjusts his hat and walks away like somebody who'd just rode a horse all the way from Texas. Jared dated a lot of guys who were a little bowlegged, although for entirely different reasons than Jensen, that's for goddamn sure, unless Jensen's joined the U.S. Goatse Acrobatic Team and Jared definitely would have heard rumors about that. Instead he's heard rumors about secret love children (yawn) and quietly large donations to charities (yay but, yeah, yawn) and not a single whispered story about how Jensen fucking a twink over a giant barrel of Vegemite in Nicole Kidman's pantry. It's disappointing, is what it is.
“Look,” Jensen says, and then he looks at Jared and oh. Oh. Jared's never been really good at the whole hopeless romantic thing, but ... wow. Now he kind of wants to sing so loudly happy woodland creatures come of nowhere with bright happy smiles and hand him lube and glow-in-the-dark condoms. Except, you know, that might be awkward. “This party, it's just going to be a bunch of people telling the girls what artistic geniuses they are, and you've got to come, too, man, if only so that I'm not the only one there who's not telling them how much they suck.”
“Uh,” Jared says, and it's reflex to turn him down except it's Jensen fucking Ackles and he's pretty sure he could never say no to him even if he brought out, like, two girls and a cup. “Okay, whatever.”
Jensen grins and claps him on the shoulder.
Oh, fuck, Jared thinks, and tries not to keel over.
*
Jared hates after-parties. Usually he avoids them like Brad Pitt avoids deodorant because part of going to them is going up to whomever is throwing the party and being all, “Oh, your movie was the best thing I've seen all year long!”, even though the ones he gets invited to mostly provide enough suck to vacuum the theater's carpeting without a Hoover. And yeah, Jared has to do massive amounts of cheesy schmoozing to get anything done these days, because even with the Internet and text-messaging the people to talk to for the best gossip are still the people who were probably doing most of the gossip in the first place.
But nobody said he had to be nice to them, and he's not dumb enough to think they're not using him for their own precious careers. Britney Spears did not tell him every sordid detail of that night she flopped down in the street in front of her house and cried while high on everything but the contents of her toilet because she was trying to keep it secret. Honestly, man. Come on.
So yeah, after-parties suck, but Jensen Ackles is enough of a lure for anyone, guy or girl, gay or straight.
Danneel seems nice enough. Jared racks his brain for any bad gossip he can remember about her and all he can come up with is that one time at some party he can't recall where she held Kimberly Stewart's hair back while she puked on Jensen's shoes and maybe that's how they met, which, ew. Not like Jared's about to ask or anything, because he's too busy avoiding the Olsens while Jensen and Danneel wait in their orbit to tell them they're, like, going to sweep the Oscars or some bullshit.
Jared spends most of the party driving the caterers up a wall stealing entire trays of food from them and texting Chad pictures of the Olsen twins and their guests in deeper and deeper stages of intoxication. They've given up the anorexia but apparently booze is fair game. Jared tries making small talk with a few of the party guests but mostly feels like he's made a wrong turn into the Severe Head Injury Convention. And he knows from stupid people. You haven't experienced the lows that stupidity can dip to until you've hosted a Jackass launch party and seen Steve-O fart into the punch bowl. Jared hadn't stuck around to find out who drank from it, but the fact that Bam never sued him said a lot.
After fifteen minutes of Jared secretly sprawling on the ginormous bed in one of the spare bedrooms and imagining naughty dress-up party sex up against the wall with Jensen, his daydream's interrupted by an exhausted sigh and a heavy body sinking down hard next to him on the bed. It takes Jared a second to focus because holy fuck, he is on a bed with Jensen fucking Ackles, which is exactly what he wished for when he blew out the candles on his last birthday cake, except he pictured fewer pants and more sex toys.
Then again, Jared is starting to think this is one of the twins' bedrooms and if anyone should have sex toys he doesn't want to touch for fear of catching whatever it was that made Dave Coulier act like that, it's definitely those two.
“So I'm bored out of my fucking mind,” Jensen says.
Jared tilts his head back on the bedspread – it feels like silk and it's pink and Jared thinks he may have found the surface of his home planet which should totally excuse all the inadvertent snuggling he keeps doing – to look up at Jensen. It's weird looking up at him like this, because of seeing pretty much the hottest guy who's ever lived all he can see is up Jensen's nostrils and that his eyes look crooked or something.
“Tell me about it,” Jared says. “Did you know they actually released every season of Full House on DVD? 'Cause now you do.”
He points toward the shelves on the wall which hold, like, fifteen million movies and TV shows and shit, and if you squint you can see these weird pastel ugly-ass boxes. John Stamos's mullet is visible from across the room. Jared doesn't even want to think about why you would want John Stamos's mullet in the same room as you while you sleep, and he'd totally be tempted to ask Rebecca Romijn the next time he sees her except she's really tall and is somewhere high up on the list he and Chad made once of girls who could beat the crap out of him with one hand tied behind their back.
Jensen cringes and says, “Okay, that's it. You want to get the hell out of here?”
For a second Jared is sure that he misheard him because, seriously. Jensen Ackles is asking him to leave. With him, not because Jared's done some creepy stalkerish thing like break into his house and eat an Arby's roast beef sandwich in his bathtub or something. He's almost tempted to look around for the guy Jensen's actually talking to, except maybe he's secretly got multiple personality disorder and he's talking to the hot gay guy who uses his body on weekends and during insipid Hollywood parties and shit.
But no, Jensen's got this expectant look on his face and he's staring at Jared, and Jared kind of wonders if he'd changed his mind if Jared started squealing like a deranged fangirl and then puked into the wee little trashcan next to the bed. “Um, what about Danneel?”
“She's going out with the girls to some club I've never even heard of. I'd rather go to a real bar, you know? Beer on tap, Mavs on the television.”
And yeah, Jared's not exactly surprised that that's the direction that Jensen's tastes lean toward. He stars in those kind of movies where he's just a really great cop with a bad attitude until his girlfriend gets eaten by rabid drug lords or kidnapped by wild packs of grannies or whatever, and then he throws his badge at someone and says, “Someone's got to do something, damn it.” And then a car blows up and a terrorist gets thrown off the Eiffel Tower. It's not exactly the most politically correct or creative genre.
“I would be really fucking impressed if you could find a place around here that plays Texas sports on the big screen.”
“I know a place,” Jensen says. “Come on, Jared, don't give up on me now, man.”
Jared frowns, props himself up on his elbows and wonders what the hell Jensen Ackles would possibly want to do with a guy wearing pink leopard print and eyeliner. This is, like, the worst idea ever, maybe even worse than that time he slept with Sandy just to try sex with a girl which ... seriously, it's lucky they're best friends because he's never tried to have sex with someone who giggled like that or that much, unless you count Ryan Seacrest. Jared blows the hair out of his eyes, smiles awkwardly and says, “You do realize I'm a little bit gay, right?”
Jensen rolls his eyes. “I'm pretty sure you're all of the gay, actually.”
“Oh, fuck you,” Jared says, and reaches out to shove Jensen off the bed, which he probably shouldn't because if he breaks him he probably has to buy him and Jared's pretty sure he can't afford a multimillionaire who looks like that. He makes bank telling people which celebutantes spent five hundred thousand dollars on fancy panties and then wore none of them out in public, yeah, but still.
“Thanks, but I'd rather just stick with the beers,” Jensen says with a grin.
“Yeah, but I am just really gay,” Jared says, because he can't possibly go out in public with Jensen Ackles. Some photographer's going to get pictures of them together getting wasted at some bar and Jared's going to do what he always does when he's drunk, which is drape himself over the closest warm male body and start sucking on their ear. Then “Jensen's Big Gay Love Affair” will end up in the tabloids and every cud-chewing redneck who pays seven bucks a pop to see him blow up guys in turbans or whatever onscreen will stop going, and then Jensen will end up on, like, Celebrity Shear Genius and the gay mafia will kill Jared. You know, if they could pry themselves away from the weekly Project Runway marathon on Bravo, which Jared will now consider his saving grace because fuck if he can leave the TV when it's on either, okay?
Jensen sighs heavily. “You're not going to keep saying it all night long, are you? Because that's probably going to stop being an interesting topic of conversation after a while.”
“No, I just ... do you really want to be seen with me in public? I mean, I wouldn't if I were you, unless I wanted everybody to think I had a thing for gigantic oversexed gay guys who wear a lot of pink and can't shut up. And okay, I do, I have a metric assload in common with guys like that, but still.”
And by now Jensen's practically on the fucking floor, he's laughing so hard, and Jared's feeling maybe a little like a gigantic tool. He wonders if he's blushing as much as he thinks he is or if all that heat in his skin's just because he's just been set on fire by the vengeful underpants gnomes that live under the bed and he just can't see it yet because his legs end, like, fifteen miles from here. Jensen's head's tilted back, and there's this line of perfect tanned skin on his neck that makes Jared's stomach growl.
“I'll take my chances,” Jensen says. “Come on, let's get the hell out of here and go get wasted before they make us put on leggings or something.”
And hell, how is Jared supposed to turn that down, right?
*
“Motherfucker.”
That's what Jared wakes up to, some familiar sleep-rough voice cursing next to him in bed. It's not like this is anything new – waking up in an empty bed makes him feel like he's wasting his youth or some shit, and waking up with the dogs makes him feel like he's starring in some skeevy bestiality version of To Catch A Predator. Seriously, he wakes up more often to some poor deluded soap star loudly questioning his heterosexuality next to him in bed at seven in the morning than he does to an actual alarm clock. For his last birthday Sandy cornered Adrian Pasdar at some Heroes event and recorded him saying, “Holy fuck, I've never blown a guy before!” onto Jared's cell phone. It works a hell of a lot better to wake him up than that alarm clock Chad got him that, like, rolls off the nightstand and into the kitchen where it fills the sugar bowl with salt and replaces your shampoo with Nair or whatever. That thing's just fucking evil.
But, yeah. Anyway.
It's just, he knows that voice. He's jerked off to that voice. He's done really fucking obscene things on his parents' couch with a tube of grape-flavored lube, anal beads and a pocket pussy to that voice.
“Oh, man,” Jared groans into his pillow, mostly because this is just not fair. He can't remember last night. He vaguely remembers some awful karaoke, more pitchers of beer than he's ever seen in his life, and lots of freckles and then things start to get hazy. And loud. And smell like come.
He cracks open one eye and looks up at the man sitting up in bed next to him.
Jensen Ackles stares down at him, bare-ass naked and gaping and oh, man, did Jared really leave all those bite marks all over him? 'Cause that's definitely a taste he would prefer to remember and okay, now he's totally wondering if Jensen would let him suck on his nipples for a while. He's guessing he'd probably get a no, which is a shame because that's one taste Jared wouldn't mind carrying to the fucking grave, and then beyond, and possibly describe to everybody he met in the afterlife.
Jensen coughs.
Jared rolls over and blinks up at him.
Jensen coughs again.
“Are you catching a cold?” Jared asks.
If Jared were a betting man, he'd say that Jensen is totally about to bolt. Okay, so maybe he really does love a good bet, if you count all of those times he and Chad bet each other they could bang the celebrity of the other's choice. Jared still wishes Chad had won that Helen Mirren bet, if only so Chad could stop using up all the damn tissues every time Calendar Girls reruns on HBO.
Jensen doesn't look grossed out or anything, which is a plus because Jared's had one-night stands act all affronted and call him a greasy faggot before dumping champagne over his head and tossing him outside without his clothes or wallet. Chad still laughs about that one, the evil fucker, although Saint Asstard of the Questionably Legal has no room to talk.
But Jensen doesn't look like he's about to go all hate-crime on his ass, he just looks ... uh, wary? That's probably the best word for it. Like, “I slept with a guy last night ... ooo-kay.” Which – fuck, Jared doesn't even know, okay? He's never heard about Jensen Ackles so much as hinting at liking guys, unless you count routinely ripping off his shirt, holding his partner/fellow soldier/enemy with questionable ethics close as he dies in Jensen's arms, and blowing shit up as some sort of cinematic euphemism for frottage. And if anybody would know which guys in Hollywood are manly men in the sense that they're astoundingly hetero and which ones are manly men in the sense that they really like it when you stick a dildo up their ass, it's Jared.
Jensen looks him up and down, and Jared just barely manages to keep himself from flashing a smug smile. 'Cause yeah, okay, he's looking really good lately, and the sheet's riding low enough on his hips to let his pubes peek out and show off his abs. Seriously, if you have a cock and you're going to question your sexuality, Jared's totally the one to do it with.
Jensen sighs. “No offense,” he says, “but you're just about the worst guy I could have done this with.”
Jared's mood slips. “Oh,” he says.
“It's not --” Jensen groans, turns around and sits on the edge of the bed, plants his feet on the floor and runs his fingers through his hair. Jared tries to focus on the fact that Jensen is, like, ridiculously gorgeous, so pretty that even the curved line of his spine looks yummy and lickable. Otherwise he has to start thinking about his dream guy sitting there regretting a one-night stand with him which, nice.
“Sorry,” Jensen says quietly. Somewhere outside Jared can hear cars pulling up to the front of the hotel or wherever they are and birds whistling, and it's still dark outside but that doesn't mean this isn't going to be hella-uncomfortable anyway. Also, Jensen's hair sticks up funny in the back, and there's still creases in his cheek from the pillow. He looks hot and fuckable and tired, and Jared's ass is sore, and all right, maybe he feels a little guilty about this whole situation right now. “I've just never done anything like this before.”
Jared grins and forces a laugh. “Hey, don't worry about it. I don't fuck and tell.”
Jensen just gives him this look over his shoulder, deep and patronizing, and Jared rolls his eyes. Sometimes his reputation really helps with that whole getting-laid-on-a-regular-basis thing, and sometimes it just sucks on toast with jelly and jam. “About me, okay? Now if you want to go outside and bareback a pizza delivery guy, you're fair game.”
Jensen toys with the sheets, avoids looking at Jared, and the corner of his lips tugs upward in an awkward smile. “Thanks, I think.”
And suddenly it hits Jared that hey, Jensen's not flipping out and tossing money at him to shut him up and making a run for the door, which ... you know, odd. It's not outside the realm of possibility that Jensen's just bullshitting about never having done this before, but then again maybe that just means one-night stands with guys. Maybe when he usually wants to fuck a guy he's got some aspiring dancer from Pasadena in tiny shorts he puts up in an apartment and screws all over the place in the comfort and security of a decently priced condo.
It would really probably help if Jared could remember anything about last night. He just has this vague memory of thinking that this was quite possibly the most awkward sex he'd ever had and yet he'd totally do it again every day – morning, noon, and night – except for that bit where he wakes up the next morning with sex amnesia. Which officially proves that sex with Jensen Ackles blows your mind, as far as Jared's concerned.
“Do you remember any of last night?” he asks.
Jared takes it as a good sign that Jensen smiles a little when he nods. “Some.”
And Jared figures, okay, if Jensen's going to be all uptight and acting like this is not the worst thing ever, but definitely high up on the coyote-ugly list, then Jared's just going to go with turning the whole thing into one big joke, because that never fails. “See, I'm told that I'm fabulous in the sack,” he says. “Like, really awesome. You may have noticed I gave you a raging case of sex amnesia.”
Jensen can't help but laugh at that one. “Yeah, that much, I noticed.”
“Good. I'd hate to be an embarrassment and suck.”
Jensen's still not looking at him, and his breath shudders out of his chest in one quivering exhale. If he thought he could get away with it, Jared would totally sit up and wrap his arms around Jensen's waist and press soft little kisses all over his shoulders, and maybe he should try not falling a little bit in love with the decidedly straight (except for that time he slept with Jared Padalecki, oh, man) most popular action hero in Hollywood.
“You're not ...” Jensen pauses and looks back at Jared. “Look, I'm not embarrassed, okay? This is just going to be a bitch to deal with if it gets out, and you're ... well, you're you.”
“Huh. I can't argue that.” Jared chews at his bottom lip, feeling like a complete douchenozzle. Honestly, this fucking sucks. He's sort of a great big tramp, yeah, but he's not untrustworthy about his sex life or anything. He never tells on anybody he fucks or lets fuck him, although okay, maybe he does have the occasional, “Can you do me a favor?” moments that make the testicles of famous guys all of Hollywood crawl back up into their bodies before they bound off to do whatever he asks for. It's not like he's actually going to tell or anything, and if they seriously think he wants to be known as that guy who outed half of Hollywood they're totally nuts.
He crosses his fingers and then draws a big X across his chest with them. “I won't tell. Scout's honor,” he says, although he thinks after he kisses the tips of his crossed fingers and holds them up that that's probably not an officially sanctioned pledge from the Boy Scouts, unless there's some news story on AfterElton he missed out on.
“No one?” Jensen asks hopefully, and he sounds kind of like he needs protecting or something and maybe it makes Jared want to wriggle over and give him another blowjob but he's not about to admit it.
Jared shakes his head. “Not a soul.”
*
Part Two
Author: trollprincess
Fandom: CW RPS
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 22,000 words
Pairing: Jensen/Jared
Disclaimer: They're not having sex. It's just fun pretending they are.
Summary: AU. Jared is a big gay celebrity gossip blogger. Jensen is the biggest straightest action star in Hollywood. Boysex ensues.
Author's note: This was supposed to be my Bigbang. Obviously, I didn't quite make it in time. But hey, I got it finished in the end, so yay for me. Also,
keepaofthecheez is the awesomest awesome who ever awesomed. In summation, \o/. (Hey, it's early. I'm not exactly verbose right about now.) I Taught Your Boyfriend That Thing You Like
***
Part One
*
It all started when Jared's best friend's girlfriend's roommate turned out to be a massive slut.
Okay, so “slut” isn't exactly the prettiest word in the world and it practically drips with liquid sexism (which, as a metaphor ... ew), but when it came to Alona it was frighteningly apt. The thing was, she was totally proud of it. You didn't even have to ask to get her to tell you about how she'd gone down on one of the Coen brothers for a bit part in their new movie, which was totally awesome unless you counted the weird dialogue and the Wal-Mart straight-from-the-sweatshop clothes they'd put her in. It was totally worth the possible threat of Frances McDormand coming to their apartment and maybe accidentally beating Sophia up instead of her, even though Alona couldn't even tell you if she blew the one Frances McDormand was married to or not. She just knew that she'd had to wear two-dollar flipflops for three days and somehow that'd be great for her career in the long run.
But, yeah. Anyway.
Jared hadn't decided to become a gossip columnist. It just sort of fell into his lap, sort of like when Rose McGowan had tumbled drunkenly into the lap of his pink PVC pants at a gay bar on the Strip that one time. He'd been in college and ran the LGBT club and had all these great plans where he, like, wrote all of the exclusives with newly outed actors for the Advocate or reviewed movies or maybe lucked out and got to be the new bitch at Go Fug Yourself.
The blog had been a fucking joke, really. Chad and Sophia fought all the time over stupid shit like the coconut scent of her new shampoo or the fact that he secretly liked the Keira Knightley version of Pride and Prejudice and that clearly made him gay since she didn't even have tits. But Sophia was, you know, theirs. His and Chad's. Chad's because ... well, and Jared's because when Sandy wasn't quite living up to her hag potential (which was often) Sophia made for a good back-up.
But then Alona had started pulling this crazy shit where she'd let her druggie boyfriend with the questionable hygiene sleep over and piss in the sink and walk around naked, and Chad and Jared had both fucking had it. So Chad had made the blog (all pink and sparkly and if Jared had any fucking self-respect he would have asked for a change, but ... you know) and Jared had written up this really awesome snarky post about how Alona had blown a Coen brother and fucked numerous Lakers and had maybe gotten gonorrhea from a Baldwin. Jared had been hoping it was the one who'd given up women and drugs and rock music to become a Bible-thumping homophobic skateboarder or whatever, but then again that shit was funny.
Somehow, the link had gotten around, and oh, man.
It didn't take long for Jared to realize that he knew a lot more celebrity gossip than he'd thought. Okay, sure, he was in his fourth year at UCLA and that didn't really mean anything other than that he could hold his liquor and negotiate traffic. But Chad practically lived on
ohnotheydidnt and had all these, like, connections, and Sophia had Alona (who never really gave a damn about the whole telling-everybody-who-she-fucked-on-the-internet thing) and her makeup jobs and her skeevy boyfriend who laid down track at Dreamworks, and Sandy was rich and gorgeous and had an enormous trust fund and kept getting invited to parties where morons with record deals tried to grab her ass.So, yeah. Why they hadn't thought of it sooner, Jared didn't know. Maybe they all had brain damage from Chad. Lots of time spent around Chad was bound to make anyone certifiably retarded, right?
The TV show, though. That was unexpected.
See, E! had this break in their TV schedule because ... hell, Jared still doesn't know. The Kardashians had stopped acting like spoiled brainless tarts in public or gotten real jobs or something. Who the hell knew? Anyway, open time slot. And they thought, Hey! Let's do another celebrity gossip show! Except let's not use Perez, let's use that gay guy who's hot and doesn't look like he smells like gym socks and crotch.
So they called Jared.
And that's how two years later Jared ended up fucking Jensen Ackles.
*
Okay, so maybe there's a little more to the story. Just give me a minute.
*
“So I shoved a gerbil up Jake Gyllenhaal's ass last night.”
“Fuck you, you did not,” Chad says, and shoves Alona off his lap.
Jared curls over in his chair and can't stop laughing because, okay, seriously, he cannot tell his audience that Jake Gyllenhaal likes to have rodents stuffed into his butt by Hollywood's official free bicycle (the female version, anyway). Nobody really believes that shit about Richard Gere, for crying out loud, and Jared had heard from a very reliable source – after two blowjobs and some felching, and yeah, some guys really need to learn the meaning of appropriate post-fuck conversation, okay? -- that Richard Gere had used a baby rat and a jelly glass and Jared was definitely not sucking off that guy ever again.
Alona huffs and tosses her long blond hair, tilts her hips and says, “Okay, so maybe it wasn't shoving but the gerbils were on sale. And that thing crawled right in there with almost no help from me, I swear to God. I think he keeps a wheel and some wooden chewy things up there.”
Chad claps his hand over his ears. “Oh, man, would you stop talking? I don't want to know about the contents of Jake Gyllenhaal's ass, much less whether or not he's got an entire pet store up there.” He waves his hand in Jared's direction and says, “Tell that gay motherfucker about that shit. That's his job, not mine.”
Jared grins. “So if I want a Flash animation of the gerbil crawling back out and waving --”
“No, seriously, you shut the fuck up too,” Chad snaps. He puts earbuds in his ears and turns up his iPod all the way until Jared can hear what he could swear is Wham from all the way on the other side of the office.
Alona, meanwhile, flops down in the nearest chair with all of the elegance of a dead turkey. She picks the purple velvet chair, which is comfortably overstuffed and which Jared now thinks is going to have to be, like, Febreezed or something. Their office is set away from the house so Chad and Jared don't have to worry about cameramen from the show pissing all over their toilets or the second-unit director deciding to rifle through Jared's sex toys like they did that one time. They got the show to swear off on the house after that because seriously, that was just gross. It's one thing to own a ball gag. It's another thing entirely for your grandma to see it on national TV somewhere between the butt plug and the maple-flavored lube. (Chad once tried it on pancakes after he lost a bet. According to him ... not that bad.)
They could have called in an interior designer but they finally realized that ... well, fuck it, they weren't the kind of people who hired interior designers anyway and nobody expected their office to have classy Chippendale chairs from the 19th century or whatever shit passed as stylish these days. Jared didn't fucking know, since he'd stopped reading In Style after they'd done that bullshit story on Tom Welling's rocking new bachelor pad while casually shooting their pictures around the bald male mental patient he was currently spending most of his free time blowing all over the damn apartment. Seriously, Welling makes movies where gay cowboys eat babies with transsexual truckers and their precocious daughters who get gang-raped offscreen by circus performers, so it's not like fucking a bald guy would be the weirdest or most offensive thing he's done.
But, yeah. Their agent nearly had a fit when she saw their office for the first time. They really did go a little nuts with the weird furniture and okay, maybe she had a point about how nobody wants to sit on a giant velvet shoe or a waterbed that they'd turned into a couch or that ugly-ass hand chair, but that's kind of a point. And the poster of the porn star with her legs spread and her ass tilted up is tacky, but it's only fair considering that if Jared can put up a life-size poster of Jensen Ackles shirtless and grimy and sporting an automatic weapon in that movie about the karate instructor who captures bin Ladin's cousin or whatever, then Chad deserves spank material too.
Jared tries to feel guilty, he really does, but it's their place and they can do what they want with it and if anyone gets turned off by a naked poster of a porn star they're sure as hell not going to like working with Chad. Chad's an irritating douche on his best days – loudmouthed, horny, and prone to sticking his hand down his pants when you're not looking. Seriously, he's like a toddler with that thing.
Alona kicks his chair with her Jimmy Choo slingbacks. “Talk to me,” she says.
Jared shakes his head, checking his email to see if anybody's sent him any new leads. Nothing. That really fucking sucks because now it means he has to, like, talk to Alona. And yeah, okay, they owe her and she's harmless if you're a guy who likes cock as much as she does. Honestly, though, he'd rather talk to the porn poster.
“I can't talk,” he says. “My fabulous ass has to make an appearance at a premiere today.”
“I still don't get that.” She twirls her hair around her finger like she's practicing being the most vapid thing in the room. Jared might be a little bitter that her honey-blond hair is just naturally that gorgeous shade. He pays Jose Eber hundreds of bucks every other week to freshen up his highlights so he doesn't end up looking like fucking Perez. “You tell people who's screwing who. Why do they keep inviting you to movie premieres?”
Chad laughs. “Maybe 'cause they don't want to see the shitty movies they ask him to come to? You know what he's going to see today? The new Olsen twins idiot-fest. They don't even have big enough tits to make it worthwhile.”
“Pride and Prejudice,” Jared singsongs.
“Don't even,” Chad snaps back.
Jared gets up out of his chair. “It won't be that bad,” he says.
“You can't get blown by the romantic lead in the bathroom at every movie premiere, Jared. It's mathematically impossible, even for you.”
“Oh, fuck you very much. You flunked math.”
“Yeah, and I'm still smart enough to know you can't do it.”
Jared scowls 'cause, really, he looks fucking hot, all right? He runs four miles every morning because that's how long his “songs to kick ass during a street fight” playlist lasts, he has awesome hair, he's got an amazing playful smile, and he's freaking huge. Plus, he's funny, smart and a great lay. Obviously, he's perfect. They should clone him and sell them at Christmas. They'd be like Cabbage Patch Dolls but, you know, heavier.
But he's just six and a half feet of pure sex. That's just a law of nature. He can turn any guy no matter how straight, or at least tempt them out of the closet for long enough for him to lick their asshole. Look at that douchebag comedian who stole half of his jokes from other comedians and usually just sounded like he had a speech impediment. Jared got that guy to jerk him off in Ashlee Simpson's bathroom that one time and now he flinches and makes a run for it every time Jared walked into the room. Hell, he should run. He spent the whole fucking time moaning “Oh, Keanu,” into Jared's ear. Ew.
Of course, who the hell would he want to nail at the premiere of an Olsen twins movie?
“Maybe I should just let you go instead of me,” Jared says, stretching until he almost touched the ceiling. “That's your crowd, right? Skeletal and barely legal?”
Chad throws a pen at his head.
*
Jared is in Hell.
No, really, this is Hell. When he dies and all of those fucking religious nutjobs with the delightfully homophobic placards at military funerals turn out to be right, this is what he's going to suffer for all eternity. A hundred and one minutes of Mary-Kate and Ashley – or maybe it's Ashley and Mary-Kate; Jared has always loved how they'd done that hair-dying stunt as if anyone actually gave a shit which one of them was which – saving puppies and running to job interviews and generally acting at about the same talent level as they did when they were three. Also, he's out of Milk Duds.
So, okay. He supposes he could get away with leaving now because it's not like he's an actual movie reviewer or anything. He's pretty sure even the guy at the candy counter knows he's going to go home and tell his audience that the Olsen twins think that “Isn't it funny how nobody can tell us apart?” schtick is seriously going to last them, like, their whole lives. One of these days one of them is going to get plowed down at a semi or something and the other one is just going to toddle around in a brainless daze for the next forty years, honestly.
But, yeah, he could go, he figures. He really doesn't want to have to stay until the end and fake being polite, and he can see the two of them sitting way far down by the screen as if they like staring up at themselves. Or at least he thinks he can see them. That might just be a couple of really skinny bag ladies. Who the hell knows?
He sneaks out just as the climactic final sequence begins where Ashley (he thinks) finds the lost puppy's owner and everybody finally figures out there's two of them and holy Christmas, that explains everything! Jared's positive he can declare today as a total waste of oxygen, that's for damn sure.
He ducks out the back door of the theater just to make sure he isn't caught or anything and nearly runs smack into a guy in a baseball cap with a cigarette dangling from his lips. “Oh, fuck, I'm sorry,” he blurts out, and then ...
Then.
Look, Jared is totally fucking calm around famous people. Seriously, he even managed to be relatively sedate that time he had to interview Madonna for Entertainment Weekly for one of those wink-wink puff pieces by celebrities they don't intend to give real jobs, although he did tell her her breasts were magnificent and she said that meant a lot coming from a gay guy. Sometimes he rereads that article and has these, like, horribly pornographic dreams where he strips off her dancewear and finds out she's secretly got a dick and has a kink for slutty gossip columnists. Yeah, his dreams are just not as weird as most other people's dirty dreams, but then again he's been caught having sex with a sixty-year-old record executive in a bunny costume so really, his real sex life is strange enough already.
So you'd think he'd be equally totally fucking calm around Jensen Ackles. Okay, sure, he's been using the guy as primo spank fodder since Jensen was first on that dumb soap opera his mom watched, and thank God for catching mono from the class president senior year because that month he'd spent at home watching Jensen's character steal his sister's baby (which was probably his incest baby, too) and feed it to sharks before faking his death and running off to become a carnival worker was the best month ever.
And he is calm. He is. Except for the fact that he's having a serious and really intense debate in his head about whether or not it would be out of line to drop to his knees on a sidewalk outside some shitty movie theater in the suburbs, he's steady as a fucking minister. Or, uh, something. He's kind of secretly losing his mind at the moment, so metaphors are a little hard to come by right now.
“No, man, don't worry about it,” Jensen says, waving him off and smiling, and oh. Wow, you think he's pretty and growly on a fifty-foot screen and then he's standing right in front of you sucking on a Newport and flashing you a friendly grin and oh, staying out here with Jensen fucking Ackles within grabbing distance is such a bad idea.
Somehow Jared remembers that he does in fact have two brain cells to rub together and blurts out, “All right, I give. How much is the blackmail?”
“Come again?'
“I wish,” Jared mutters. Okay, that was a little cheap but he had to say it, even if Jensen's giving him this weird look like Jared may be two seconds away from crawling into his pants and he's not exactly sure whether to run away screaming or finish his cigarette first. “Somebody's got video of you with a particularly cute farm animal, right? Or maybe a llama?”
It takes Jensen a long moment to figure out what Jared's getting at, during which Jared gets a chance to give him a once-over – clean new green and brown Skechers, perfectly fit jeans, a faded green T-shirt that clings to his chest which, damn – and then Jensen says, “Oh, my girlfriend was in a movie with them.”
Girlfriend ... oh, right, this week it's Danneel Harris. If Jared remembers correctly, one of her first appearances before she got onto that lame sitcom was in one of the Olsen twins' straight-to-video cutefests. He can never remember if it was the one where they save the family farm and nobody can tell which one of them is which but boy, aren't they cute, or the one where one of them is an honor student and the other one is a stripper and boy, isn't it weird that they look exactly alike?
Okay, so maybe he made that last one up. But it's pretty sad that it sounds like one of their movies, isn't it?
“Was she being punished for something?” Jared asks, leaning against the same wall that Jensen's using to prop himself up. It's sunny and warm, a perfect day in L.A., as if there's any other kind. Except that Jared didn't even know what Jensen Ackles smelled like up close before – for the record, it's a little like a New Age store run by lumberjacks, earthy and musky and really fucking yummy -- so maybe he was wrong about what perfect days are like. Who the hell knows? “Ooo, did she kill a man just to watch him die?”
Jensen just chuckles, a flash of white teeth and the mischievous green flicker of his eyes, and he gives Jared the same once-over that Jared gave him except, you know, probably with fewer thoughts about how much he wanted to blow him. “And what did you do to earn a seat?”
And okay, now Jared feels a little weirded out. He could totally take that the wrong way and be all defensive, except there's something about the way Jensen's looking at him that makes him believe that he probably doesn't think Jared had a threesome with the Olsen twins or their interior decorator or whoever.
“Oh, I'm Jared Padalecki,” he says. “I'm sort of, um, a gossip columnist, I guess. I have a show on E!, if that helps.”
Jensen shrugs. “Not really. I don't watch a lot of TV. Not a lot of time, you know?”
Grinning, Jared says, “Yeah, I get that,” because it makes an assload of sense. Honestly, if he were Jensen Ackles, why would he want to watch TV in between movies when he could be doing more important things? Staring in the mirror for hours on end and jerking off until he gets rug burn on his dick comes to mind, for one thing.
“So,” Jensen says, dropping the rest of the cigarette on the ground and flattening it under the toe of his sneaker. He's got some excellent stubble action going on, and Jared has a brief flash of what it would feel like rubbing against the skin of his inner thighs and dies happily a little inside. “You going to the party after this?”
“There's a party?”
“Supposedly there's something at the twins' house. You hadn't heard?”
Jared shakes his head. He's not really surprised he hadn't been told, although if he had been he probably would have laughed in some publicist's face, which wouldn't have gone over so well. Like, yeah, sure, he'd love to go to a party sponsored by the Olsens, which probably means you have to dress like a bag lady and visit the vomitorium before you leave or something. “Strangely enough, I think I'd have more fun going to a hair salon in the Valley to watch old ladies get their chins tweezed.”
“You and me both,” Jensen says with a laugh which, how fucking hot can one man be when agreeing to the worst date on the planet? You know, not counting any date involving the moronic waste of an hour and a half they'd just shared.
Jensen pushes away from the wall, adjusts his hat and walks away like somebody who'd just rode a horse all the way from Texas. Jared dated a lot of guys who were a little bowlegged, although for entirely different reasons than Jensen, that's for goddamn sure, unless Jensen's joined the U.S. Goatse Acrobatic Team and Jared definitely would have heard rumors about that. Instead he's heard rumors about secret love children (yawn) and quietly large donations to charities (yay but, yeah, yawn) and not a single whispered story about how Jensen fucking a twink over a giant barrel of Vegemite in Nicole Kidman's pantry. It's disappointing, is what it is.
“Look,” Jensen says, and then he looks at Jared and oh. Oh. Jared's never been really good at the whole hopeless romantic thing, but ... wow. Now he kind of wants to sing so loudly happy woodland creatures come of nowhere with bright happy smiles and hand him lube and glow-in-the-dark condoms. Except, you know, that might be awkward. “This party, it's just going to be a bunch of people telling the girls what artistic geniuses they are, and you've got to come, too, man, if only so that I'm not the only one there who's not telling them how much they suck.”
“Uh,” Jared says, and it's reflex to turn him down except it's Jensen fucking Ackles and he's pretty sure he could never say no to him even if he brought out, like, two girls and a cup. “Okay, whatever.”
Jensen grins and claps him on the shoulder.
Oh, fuck, Jared thinks, and tries not to keel over.
*
Jared hates after-parties. Usually he avoids them like Brad Pitt avoids deodorant because part of going to them is going up to whomever is throwing the party and being all, “Oh, your movie was the best thing I've seen all year long!”, even though the ones he gets invited to mostly provide enough suck to vacuum the theater's carpeting without a Hoover. And yeah, Jared has to do massive amounts of cheesy schmoozing to get anything done these days, because even with the Internet and text-messaging the people to talk to for the best gossip are still the people who were probably doing most of the gossip in the first place.
But nobody said he had to be nice to them, and he's not dumb enough to think they're not using him for their own precious careers. Britney Spears did not tell him every sordid detail of that night she flopped down in the street in front of her house and cried while high on everything but the contents of her toilet because she was trying to keep it secret. Honestly, man. Come on.
So yeah, after-parties suck, but Jensen Ackles is enough of a lure for anyone, guy or girl, gay or straight.
Danneel seems nice enough. Jared racks his brain for any bad gossip he can remember about her and all he can come up with is that one time at some party he can't recall where she held Kimberly Stewart's hair back while she puked on Jensen's shoes and maybe that's how they met, which, ew. Not like Jared's about to ask or anything, because he's too busy avoiding the Olsens while Jensen and Danneel wait in their orbit to tell them they're, like, going to sweep the Oscars or some bullshit.
Jared spends most of the party driving the caterers up a wall stealing entire trays of food from them and texting Chad pictures of the Olsen twins and their guests in deeper and deeper stages of intoxication. They've given up the anorexia but apparently booze is fair game. Jared tries making small talk with a few of the party guests but mostly feels like he's made a wrong turn into the Severe Head Injury Convention. And he knows from stupid people. You haven't experienced the lows that stupidity can dip to until you've hosted a Jackass launch party and seen Steve-O fart into the punch bowl. Jared hadn't stuck around to find out who drank from it, but the fact that Bam never sued him said a lot.
After fifteen minutes of Jared secretly sprawling on the ginormous bed in one of the spare bedrooms and imagining naughty dress-up party sex up against the wall with Jensen, his daydream's interrupted by an exhausted sigh and a heavy body sinking down hard next to him on the bed. It takes Jared a second to focus because holy fuck, he is on a bed with Jensen fucking Ackles, which is exactly what he wished for when he blew out the candles on his last birthday cake, except he pictured fewer pants and more sex toys.
Then again, Jared is starting to think this is one of the twins' bedrooms and if anyone should have sex toys he doesn't want to touch for fear of catching whatever it was that made Dave Coulier act like that, it's definitely those two.
“So I'm bored out of my fucking mind,” Jensen says.
Jared tilts his head back on the bedspread – it feels like silk and it's pink and Jared thinks he may have found the surface of his home planet which should totally excuse all the inadvertent snuggling he keeps doing – to look up at Jensen. It's weird looking up at him like this, because of seeing pretty much the hottest guy who's ever lived all he can see is up Jensen's nostrils and that his eyes look crooked or something.
“Tell me about it,” Jared says. “Did you know they actually released every season of Full House on DVD? 'Cause now you do.”
He points toward the shelves on the wall which hold, like, fifteen million movies and TV shows and shit, and if you squint you can see these weird pastel ugly-ass boxes. John Stamos's mullet is visible from across the room. Jared doesn't even want to think about why you would want John Stamos's mullet in the same room as you while you sleep, and he'd totally be tempted to ask Rebecca Romijn the next time he sees her except she's really tall and is somewhere high up on the list he and Chad made once of girls who could beat the crap out of him with one hand tied behind their back.
Jensen cringes and says, “Okay, that's it. You want to get the hell out of here?”
For a second Jared is sure that he misheard him because, seriously. Jensen Ackles is asking him to leave. With him, not because Jared's done some creepy stalkerish thing like break into his house and eat an Arby's roast beef sandwich in his bathtub or something. He's almost tempted to look around for the guy Jensen's actually talking to, except maybe he's secretly got multiple personality disorder and he's talking to the hot gay guy who uses his body on weekends and during insipid Hollywood parties and shit.
But no, Jensen's got this expectant look on his face and he's staring at Jared, and Jared kind of wonders if he'd changed his mind if Jared started squealing like a deranged fangirl and then puked into the wee little trashcan next to the bed. “Um, what about Danneel?”
“She's going out with the girls to some club I've never even heard of. I'd rather go to a real bar, you know? Beer on tap, Mavs on the television.”
And yeah, Jared's not exactly surprised that that's the direction that Jensen's tastes lean toward. He stars in those kind of movies where he's just a really great cop with a bad attitude until his girlfriend gets eaten by rabid drug lords or kidnapped by wild packs of grannies or whatever, and then he throws his badge at someone and says, “Someone's got to do something, damn it.” And then a car blows up and a terrorist gets thrown off the Eiffel Tower. It's not exactly the most politically correct or creative genre.
“I would be really fucking impressed if you could find a place around here that plays Texas sports on the big screen.”
“I know a place,” Jensen says. “Come on, Jared, don't give up on me now, man.”
Jared frowns, props himself up on his elbows and wonders what the hell Jensen Ackles would possibly want to do with a guy wearing pink leopard print and eyeliner. This is, like, the worst idea ever, maybe even worse than that time he slept with Sandy just to try sex with a girl which ... seriously, it's lucky they're best friends because he's never tried to have sex with someone who giggled like that or that much, unless you count Ryan Seacrest. Jared blows the hair out of his eyes, smiles awkwardly and says, “You do realize I'm a little bit gay, right?”
Jensen rolls his eyes. “I'm pretty sure you're all of the gay, actually.”
“Oh, fuck you,” Jared says, and reaches out to shove Jensen off the bed, which he probably shouldn't because if he breaks him he probably has to buy him and Jared's pretty sure he can't afford a multimillionaire who looks like that. He makes bank telling people which celebutantes spent five hundred thousand dollars on fancy panties and then wore none of them out in public, yeah, but still.
“Thanks, but I'd rather just stick with the beers,” Jensen says with a grin.
“Yeah, but I am just really gay,” Jared says, because he can't possibly go out in public with Jensen Ackles. Some photographer's going to get pictures of them together getting wasted at some bar and Jared's going to do what he always does when he's drunk, which is drape himself over the closest warm male body and start sucking on their ear. Then “Jensen's Big Gay Love Affair” will end up in the tabloids and every cud-chewing redneck who pays seven bucks a pop to see him blow up guys in turbans or whatever onscreen will stop going, and then Jensen will end up on, like, Celebrity Shear Genius and the gay mafia will kill Jared. You know, if they could pry themselves away from the weekly Project Runway marathon on Bravo, which Jared will now consider his saving grace because fuck if he can leave the TV when it's on either, okay?
Jensen sighs heavily. “You're not going to keep saying it all night long, are you? Because that's probably going to stop being an interesting topic of conversation after a while.”
“No, I just ... do you really want to be seen with me in public? I mean, I wouldn't if I were you, unless I wanted everybody to think I had a thing for gigantic oversexed gay guys who wear a lot of pink and can't shut up. And okay, I do, I have a metric assload in common with guys like that, but still.”
And by now Jensen's practically on the fucking floor, he's laughing so hard, and Jared's feeling maybe a little like a gigantic tool. He wonders if he's blushing as much as he thinks he is or if all that heat in his skin's just because he's just been set on fire by the vengeful underpants gnomes that live under the bed and he just can't see it yet because his legs end, like, fifteen miles from here. Jensen's head's tilted back, and there's this line of perfect tanned skin on his neck that makes Jared's stomach growl.
“I'll take my chances,” Jensen says. “Come on, let's get the hell out of here and go get wasted before they make us put on leggings or something.”
And hell, how is Jared supposed to turn that down, right?
*
“Motherfucker.”
That's what Jared wakes up to, some familiar sleep-rough voice cursing next to him in bed. It's not like this is anything new – waking up in an empty bed makes him feel like he's wasting his youth or some shit, and waking up with the dogs makes him feel like he's starring in some skeevy bestiality version of To Catch A Predator. Seriously, he wakes up more often to some poor deluded soap star loudly questioning his heterosexuality next to him in bed at seven in the morning than he does to an actual alarm clock. For his last birthday Sandy cornered Adrian Pasdar at some Heroes event and recorded him saying, “Holy fuck, I've never blown a guy before!” onto Jared's cell phone. It works a hell of a lot better to wake him up than that alarm clock Chad got him that, like, rolls off the nightstand and into the kitchen where it fills the sugar bowl with salt and replaces your shampoo with Nair or whatever. That thing's just fucking evil.
But, yeah. Anyway.
It's just, he knows that voice. He's jerked off to that voice. He's done really fucking obscene things on his parents' couch with a tube of grape-flavored lube, anal beads and a pocket pussy to that voice.
“Oh, man,” Jared groans into his pillow, mostly because this is just not fair. He can't remember last night. He vaguely remembers some awful karaoke, more pitchers of beer than he's ever seen in his life, and lots of freckles and then things start to get hazy. And loud. And smell like come.
He cracks open one eye and looks up at the man sitting up in bed next to him.
Jensen Ackles stares down at him, bare-ass naked and gaping and oh, man, did Jared really leave all those bite marks all over him? 'Cause that's definitely a taste he would prefer to remember and okay, now he's totally wondering if Jensen would let him suck on his nipples for a while. He's guessing he'd probably get a no, which is a shame because that's one taste Jared wouldn't mind carrying to the fucking grave, and then beyond, and possibly describe to everybody he met in the afterlife.
Jensen coughs.
Jared rolls over and blinks up at him.
Jensen coughs again.
“Are you catching a cold?” Jared asks.
If Jared were a betting man, he'd say that Jensen is totally about to bolt. Okay, so maybe he really does love a good bet, if you count all of those times he and Chad bet each other they could bang the celebrity of the other's choice. Jared still wishes Chad had won that Helen Mirren bet, if only so Chad could stop using up all the damn tissues every time Calendar Girls reruns on HBO.
Jensen doesn't look grossed out or anything, which is a plus because Jared's had one-night stands act all affronted and call him a greasy faggot before dumping champagne over his head and tossing him outside without his clothes or wallet. Chad still laughs about that one, the evil fucker, although Saint Asstard of the Questionably Legal has no room to talk.
But Jensen doesn't look like he's about to go all hate-crime on his ass, he just looks ... uh, wary? That's probably the best word for it. Like, “I slept with a guy last night ... ooo-kay.” Which – fuck, Jared doesn't even know, okay? He's never heard about Jensen Ackles so much as hinting at liking guys, unless you count routinely ripping off his shirt, holding his partner/fellow soldier/enemy with questionable ethics close as he dies in Jensen's arms, and blowing shit up as some sort of cinematic euphemism for frottage. And if anybody would know which guys in Hollywood are manly men in the sense that they're astoundingly hetero and which ones are manly men in the sense that they really like it when you stick a dildo up their ass, it's Jared.
Jensen looks him up and down, and Jared just barely manages to keep himself from flashing a smug smile. 'Cause yeah, okay, he's looking really good lately, and the sheet's riding low enough on his hips to let his pubes peek out and show off his abs. Seriously, if you have a cock and you're going to question your sexuality, Jared's totally the one to do it with.
Jensen sighs. “No offense,” he says, “but you're just about the worst guy I could have done this with.”
Jared's mood slips. “Oh,” he says.
“It's not --” Jensen groans, turns around and sits on the edge of the bed, plants his feet on the floor and runs his fingers through his hair. Jared tries to focus on the fact that Jensen is, like, ridiculously gorgeous, so pretty that even the curved line of his spine looks yummy and lickable. Otherwise he has to start thinking about his dream guy sitting there regretting a one-night stand with him which, nice.
“Sorry,” Jensen says quietly. Somewhere outside Jared can hear cars pulling up to the front of the hotel or wherever they are and birds whistling, and it's still dark outside but that doesn't mean this isn't going to be hella-uncomfortable anyway. Also, Jensen's hair sticks up funny in the back, and there's still creases in his cheek from the pillow. He looks hot and fuckable and tired, and Jared's ass is sore, and all right, maybe he feels a little guilty about this whole situation right now. “I've just never done anything like this before.”
Jared grins and forces a laugh. “Hey, don't worry about it. I don't fuck and tell.”
Jensen just gives him this look over his shoulder, deep and patronizing, and Jared rolls his eyes. Sometimes his reputation really helps with that whole getting-laid-on-a-regular-basis thing, and sometimes it just sucks on toast with jelly and jam. “About me, okay? Now if you want to go outside and bareback a pizza delivery guy, you're fair game.”
Jensen toys with the sheets, avoids looking at Jared, and the corner of his lips tugs upward in an awkward smile. “Thanks, I think.”
And suddenly it hits Jared that hey, Jensen's not flipping out and tossing money at him to shut him up and making a run for the door, which ... you know, odd. It's not outside the realm of possibility that Jensen's just bullshitting about never having done this before, but then again maybe that just means one-night stands with guys. Maybe when he usually wants to fuck a guy he's got some aspiring dancer from Pasadena in tiny shorts he puts up in an apartment and screws all over the place in the comfort and security of a decently priced condo.
It would really probably help if Jared could remember anything about last night. He just has this vague memory of thinking that this was quite possibly the most awkward sex he'd ever had and yet he'd totally do it again every day – morning, noon, and night – except for that bit where he wakes up the next morning with sex amnesia. Which officially proves that sex with Jensen Ackles blows your mind, as far as Jared's concerned.
“Do you remember any of last night?” he asks.
Jared takes it as a good sign that Jensen smiles a little when he nods. “Some.”
And Jared figures, okay, if Jensen's going to be all uptight and acting like this is not the worst thing ever, but definitely high up on the coyote-ugly list, then Jared's just going to go with turning the whole thing into one big joke, because that never fails. “See, I'm told that I'm fabulous in the sack,” he says. “Like, really awesome. You may have noticed I gave you a raging case of sex amnesia.”
Jensen can't help but laugh at that one. “Yeah, that much, I noticed.”
“Good. I'd hate to be an embarrassment and suck.”
Jensen's still not looking at him, and his breath shudders out of his chest in one quivering exhale. If he thought he could get away with it, Jared would totally sit up and wrap his arms around Jensen's waist and press soft little kisses all over his shoulders, and maybe he should try not falling a little bit in love with the decidedly straight (except for that time he slept with Jared Padalecki, oh, man) most popular action hero in Hollywood.
“You're not ...” Jensen pauses and looks back at Jared. “Look, I'm not embarrassed, okay? This is just going to be a bitch to deal with if it gets out, and you're ... well, you're you.”
“Huh. I can't argue that.” Jared chews at his bottom lip, feeling like a complete douchenozzle. Honestly, this fucking sucks. He's sort of a great big tramp, yeah, but he's not untrustworthy about his sex life or anything. He never tells on anybody he fucks or lets fuck him, although okay, maybe he does have the occasional, “Can you do me a favor?” moments that make the testicles of famous guys all of Hollywood crawl back up into their bodies before they bound off to do whatever he asks for. It's not like he's actually going to tell or anything, and if they seriously think he wants to be known as that guy who outed half of Hollywood they're totally nuts.
He crosses his fingers and then draws a big X across his chest with them. “I won't tell. Scout's honor,” he says, although he thinks after he kisses the tips of his crossed fingers and holds them up that that's probably not an officially sanctioned pledge from the Boy Scouts, unless there's some news story on AfterElton he missed out on.
“No one?” Jensen asks hopefully, and he sounds kind of like he needs protecting or something and maybe it makes Jared want to wriggle over and give him another blowjob but he's not about to admit it.
Jared shakes his head. “Not a soul.”
*
Part Two
