Work Text:
Jared would love to be able to say they ‘stayed in contact’ after that party. That they exchanged texts in the mornings and evenings and sometimes in between and that that eventually led to a bit more. But: three hours after Ackles triple-confirms that the number he physically watches Jared putting into his phone does, in fact, belong to Jared, three hours after they went their separate ways (Ackles in that massive car, holy shit), Jared receives some of the utmost indecent pictures of the male anatomy. Since he doesn’t see them until the next day, he has to, has to apologize for his delay in (deserved) worship by sending some X-rated shit back—only polite, right?
Ackles might crop his ‘private’ photos religiously, but, thanks to FusionCore Solutions’ intranet, only a few clicks separate Jared from professional face shots. Marketing and R&D occupy different floors, so face-to-face isn’t daily. During the stray meetings, Jared does his best to look through—or, better yet, not look at all at their marketing director. That works. Pretty well, even. He almost pukes only the first time.
Jared should know better. He should. But…holy shit, how is he supposed to pass up those sexts? Their second go at the party four weeks in tops the first, and hadn’t that already been the best sex of Jared’s life? Just the thought of Ackles makes Jared so…needy that he’s starting to accept that a) yes, he definitely should know better and b) this is his life now. And the worst thing? Ackles apparently is just as interested! He’s not even trying to take it slow or to play waiting games… Jared sends a text and he’s bound to get one back within the next half hour, no matter the hour (which should be another red flag, but, you know). Five minutes if it’s a dick pic. … Jared takes a lot of dick pics these days.
Attention, serotonin… Jared jerks off so much he’s sore, and when Ackles brings up that hotel room he accidentally overbooked for a business trip two states over, well, Jared…books a flight, because everything about that sounds like one sound variation.
How all that turns into Jared spending five out of seven nights a week at Ackles’ city penthouse, he has no freaking clue. He blames the insane sex.
So fucking insane.
In the same breath of ‘sure, plenty of space on the bathroom counter, just put your crap there’, Ackles insists on ‘keeping it straight’—they are not a couple, he is not looking for something steady or exclusive and that if Jared doesn’t agree, he is welcome to move the fuck on. Ackles’ divorce from his freaking wife of, like, two decades, comes up as some sort of appendage to…God, Jared forgot. He’s been forgetting a lot, recently, outside of work and outside of the black hole that is FusionCore Solutions Inc’s marketing director.
At work, everything remains hunky dory. Contrary to what Ackles’ very persistent paranoia insists on, Jared is perfectly capable of separating work from private matters, thank you very much. Not that this…‘situation’ has been what he had been aiming for when he fell into bed with his boss’ boss’ boss’ boss, but…honestly? Bathing in a director’s positive attention, even indirectly and around a bunch of corners, isn’t half bad. Despite threats of legal action against Jared for opening his mouth to the wrong tune in front of any FusionCore soul, Ackles himself uses every chance he has to commend Jared’s work.
“His designs are innovative and functional. They bridge the gaps marketing has been experiencing lately due to the restructuring within operations and tech design. If we get a free ticket like that to push our visions to the market, we better seize it. But that’s just my humble opinion.”
Spoken like a true bootlicker… Jared clenches every muscle to keep his mouth shut during (and after) the meeting. That sharp glare through those glasses when nobody else is looking at Ackles anymore isn’t even necessary. No, Jared learns with Ackles, aside from new, surprising ways to shorten his refractory period, first and foremost: even if it’s funny, don’t say it. Especially if it’s funny. Just…shut up and lay back (when he tells you to).
“—re you even listening?”
Abruptly zoomed out of the freckle on the inside of Ackles’ bottom lip, Jared blurts, “Process maps on every project from the past two quarters—yeah, I’ll get those to you by the end of today, sir, no problem. And the reports, I’ll draw those up but it’ll take a bit, uh. One week max, if that’s okay.”
Ackles’ eyes narrow.
Jared holds onto his camouflage smile and leans back in his chair while the three remaining pairs of eyes in the room flash nervously back to Ackles in front of Jared’s desk. Vest, tie, slacks—he gelled his hair back so hard not even Jared’s teeth could upset it, and the way the creases in the corners of Ackles’ mouth twitch would put the fear of God in Jared if he wasn’t…well, himself. The guy Jens—Ackles treated to a spectacular steak two nights ago because he had a spontaneous fit about protein replenishment.
“… Don’t you want to write that down?”
“Uh, I’m good.” A beat. Jared’s smile widens in sheer survival instinct. “I’ve got it.”
Ackles looks like he wants to say something (nobody in the room breathes) but just ends up turning on the spot and leaving to bark orders at someone else. Something about that puzzled frown tugs at strings Jared publicly denies exist because what they do to his knees and his facial expression is simply… embarrassing. A weird weight bears down on Jared as he turns back to his work and a double-take drives him a few inches back with his chair, because, Jesus. His coworkers are staring. At him. With their whole bodies.
“How did you do that?” gasp-whispers Plotnick.
McNiven mouths what the fuck. Huffmann just stares.
Jared opens his mouth and—he should have something ready to go for situations like this, shit—chokes out a nervous laugh and throws in an awkward shrug, and then he makes sure to look a little uneasy as he grabs his keyboard to supposedly set Heaven and Hell into motion for the notorious Mr. Ackles. No more questions, then, though lunch break’s gonna be…rough. Jared might work through it just to buy himself some more time before he faces the rumor mill.
The latter is already grinding down, of course—not for explicit reasons, mind you; Ackles refuses to even greet Jared in public (“I’m not that stupid.”), let alone invite him for a quick one to some deserted archive room or one of the three private management bathrooms on the R&D floor alone. Oh, no. It’s way stupider than that.
Ackles is…to say it very bluntly, a complete asshole. He’s a bully, a textbook narcissist, and he has no qualms with proving that daily to whoever commits sins as grave as, oh, you know, breathing in his general direction. And Jared, apparently—apparent to all on mostly first glance and especially to Ackles’ favorite punching bags who can identify not only Ackles’ person but also his mood and current caffeine meter by his footfall—remains unaffected by the devil’s wrath. Coincidence? Possible, but unlikely. ‘No, there must be more to it’, the entire company must be thinking… Jared doesn’t blame them. Well, regardless: he’s also gonna eat his own shoe before he hints that, possibly, Mr. Ackles should perhaps reevaluate his course of action a tiny bit. Maybe.
Look—Ackles is old enough. Could almost be Jared’s dad, as Jared finds out, rather embarrassingly, from some random gossip paper he pulls up on his laptop solely out of accident and totally not during one of his sleepless, drink-addled nights in his own, rather lonely apartment. Thirty-seven; Jesus. … And here Jared thought the guy couldn’t get any hotter.
If Ackles inspires you to something, it’s taking care of your body with whichever witchcraft rituals he utilizes to maintain the looks and potency of a college graduate.
After Chad, Jared had sworn himself to give love a good and thoughtful break.
Jared had also sworn to himself to learn how to say ‘no’ and to stop scrolling through his and Ackles’ chat log when he can’t fall asleep.
The Rolex on Ackles’ bedside drawer tells a squinting Jared that the nine-thirty mark has been successfully passed. As if on cue, the shower in the en-suite bathroom shuts off. Jared lets his head roll back into the stupid-fluffy, not-as-clean-as-an-hour-ago pillow. He sighs through his nose and rakes his sweaty hair out of his eyes to stare at the ceiling some more. Ackles’ nighttime routine runs its course—Jared can retrace the steps from hearing alone. He closes his eyes, imagines: the steam-free mirror because of course Ackles would have paid someone to think of that. The various pots and tubes of brands whose price range gave Jared a minor heart attack when he looked it up… Pick up, screw, screw, screw—scoop, smear—screw, screw, screw, put away—next one…
On Ackles’ playing field of a bed, even a guy of Jared’s dimensions may forget they’re not a toddler laid down for a nap. Two pretty fantastic nuts and of course a long Thursday of work urge Jared to take a breather for the first time since being pulled through that front door two hours ago. Eventually, the bed dips and Jared startles awake.
“Mmh, hey… Done already?”
Something gets tossed his way and for a horrible split of a second, Jared thinks it’s his phone that he, once again, did not place correctly into the weird disinfectant device at Ackles’ coat area. Alas, this is an iPad.
“Uh…?”
“Interested?” is all Ackles wants to know, and Jared’s groin aches instinctively, but then—he takes an actual look at what has been pulled up on the device: text, no ‘inspiring’ pictures or videos.
Jared’s eyes widen at the headline and he cranes his neck towards the screen midway through the first paragraph. All the while, Ackles continues to busy himself with his nails. Which, for the record, have been immaculate before he took that file to them.
“Th-this…is…!”
“I know y’all are pretty busy as is, but I figured it might be up your alley.”
Jared nods, still reading.
Oh. Oh, man.
Oh, Jesus.
He’s blushing. He can’t—he can’t not!
When Jared turns his eyes to Ackles, the man, of course, is neither looking at him nor does even one atom in his expression hint at him having any sorts of feelings about just having offered Jared an incredibly prestigious internship in his freaking department.
The latest courses for the management board had sparked general outrage for more in-depth cross-department projects. So, the offer might occur solely because Ackles was told to come up with something, but…this project is clearly custom-cut for someone with Jared’s (highly unique) skill set. He wants Jared to work alongside him. In direct cooperation, even—project lead J. Ackles…! Jared swallows and averts his eyes when Ackles’ irritation tells him he’s doing the puppy dog eye thing again.
“This is…”
“Banks is making everyone do these—” ah, there we go “—and I figured, if I have to babysit, at least let it be someone with intact brain matter.”
“… Thanks.”
Ackles’, “You’re welcome,” sounds both so uninterested and non-sarcastic that Jared still kinda wants to laugh. Ackles’ nails pass the final inspection and he half-turns to Jared after placing the file on the nightstand with his watch. Jared huffs through his nose and dares to cup a firm, subtly tanned forearm.
“This means… Man. That you’re asking me, out of everyone—”
“As said—” Ackles retrieves the iPad to turn it off and toss it into one of the drawers “—you get some decent credit for your CV and I get to dread that project a good five to eight percent less.”
“… Thank you.”
God, Ackles is so gorgeous. It’s not fair. Jared’s face might be doing stuff again, since Ackles’ nose wrinkles slightly despite him sliding his warm-warm palm up Jared’s sheet-blanketed thigh.
Before he even says it, Jared knows that that muttered, “You don’t know what that means to me. Seriously,” goes way too far—thankfully, Ackles’ process shaves off the worst of it and he ends up scoffing, smirking.
“But I know how you can show your appreciation.”
He slides his hand under the blanket and, without further ado, goes to town on Jared’s balls. Jared’s groaning mouth gets sealed with one peeled-smooth, lotioned set of lips—Ackles smells like ten products and nothing like a human being, and somehow, that makes Jared moan even more. The guy brushed his teeth already while Jared’s still got lube drying in his pubes.
“A-again…?”
“You get ten minutes. Better be hard by then.”
Jared groans.
Ackles chuckles and lifts his silk-boxers-wrapped ass off the bed so he can flip the sheet back and reveal his favorite treat. Jared grabs a handful of hair as he flinches and gasps, mostly for the lingering oversensitivity—not that any of that would stop Ackles’ mouth. Enrapt, shivering and tense, Jared can only watch while all that tongue, throat and jaw work. When he’s limp like this, Ackles can take the whole thing easily. Jared still can’t believe it.
That internship—side by side with Ackles, meetings nearly every day… Unaware or not, clearly, Ackles wants them to be closer, right…? Why else would he…? Oh, Jesus, why does he have to be so good with his mouth…
Jared blabbers, “C-can you even come again?” and regrets that since Ackles has to pull off his cock to answer.
And, worse yet: “Who says I want to come again?”
Jared groans, covers his eyes with his forearm—lets Ackles have at it, spreads his thighs. Despite the marathon sex from earlier (and yesterday, and the day before that), Jared’s reproductive system decides that, actually, sure, he can go a bit longer if they’re being asked this nicely. Jared wets his lip, swallows…reaches for the waistband of those boxers, finally, and Ackles is quick to slip those right off and straddle Jared’s shoulders, and before Jared can decide whether he’s too tired to be an active part of this, there’s an ass in his face and a ballsack on his chin, and. There’s only so much arguing you can do in that position with your brain getting sucked out through your cock.
Ackles’ waist fits wonderfully into Jared’s arms; he laps at what Ackles cleaned so dutifully for him a second time today. The mental imagery of Ackles thoroughly fingering himself in that shower while Jared was over here, merely existing…! Yeah, he’s not gonna need the entire ten minutes to warm up. He can already feel himself stretching the limits of Ackles’ esophagus with all that…inspiration.
“Almost there, huh? Good boy.”
Ackles’ ass doesn’t lend Jared the opportunity to thank him. Or to verbalize in general.
Ackles’ vice of a fist spreads the fresh sheen of wet a little more evenly before he spits some more of it directly onto Jared’s glans.
There don’t have to be fingers on Jared’s balls to make them jump.
“Nice and thick. As always.”
Ackles accentuates the praise with a brain-dissolving churn-and-twist of his fist.
“Kinda makes me want to see if we can make you gush a third time. Or just edge it until you cry. … Or both.”
Jared makes a noise that he would sue Ackles for if he ever brought it up again. The bastard just laughs.
“What? Like you’ve ever regretted anything I’ve done to you so far…”
Ackles running his dirty mouth and wringing Jared’s cock like he wants him to shoot in under two minutes has Jared writhing. He does his best to stay focused on giving as well as he receives, but who is he kidding, he was about to fall asleep three minutes ago. Not that Ackles’ ass needs any more prep after that earlier workout… He’s swollen soft and open, a dream to lave and kiss and suck at. Exhaustion and overexertion be damned, Jared still whimpers as Ackles repositions himself over his crotch.
Makes sense now why Ackles hadn’t bothered to stow the lube earlier.
“God…!”
“No God, only me,” Ackles reminds, throaty because the first push-in is always so…! “Y-you’re—taking over in a bit, and if you complain—I will make you come…!” Jared nods, fishes for that face—that kiss—with both hands, while Ackles’ ass sinks flush with his pelvis.
Yeah, no, he’s right; in contrast to Ackles, God at least had pity for some of His sheep.
~
Mr. Spenzer’s waxy smile wanes even before the elevator doors have fully closed; Jensen holds onto his until he turns to face the petrified bubble of idiots huddled behind him. A familiar pling from the elevator announces that the number on its display just climbed by one count.
Everyone all but jumps aside for Jensen to get up in Padalecki’s face.
“What the fuck were you THINKING?!”
“I—I was trying to be helpful?”
“By undercutting me in front of my boss AND the CEO?!”
Padalecki’s helpless fish-mouthing does not elevate that dreaded numbness that has settled north of Jensen’s shirt collar. Not a bit.
The meeting ended late, thirteen past eleven, and Jensen finds himself back in his office, fuming and sore-throated—and with that horrible sense of relief he can’t quite place—at twenty-seven past eleven, which leaves him with a gap of over ten minutes. Judging by the deathly silence in the corridor, Jensen can take an educated guess on what he did during those ten minutes.
He stands on the wrong side of his desk. Just stands, staring down, fists balled at his sides. He counts but the anger, the sourness of humiliation…! Ugh, God, yeah—here comes the dread. There’s the first snippet of what he blacked out: Padalecki, mortified, on Jensen’s floor, clutching those notes.
Turns out even a guy that tall can shrink.
Jensen mumbles, “Fuck,” and rubs his eyes under his glasses before he catches himself, straightens, inhales. Slow through the nose and out through the mouth; coffee, yeah, coffee will help… Water, schnapps, something; fuck. He thumbs the quick dial on his phone and tells the room, “Diet coke, please; cold,” and Jane’s immediate of course, sir cuts off midway as he hangs up. Okay… Retrace your steps.
Jensen sits, closes his eyes. Kneads the bridge of his nose, not his eyes.
Meeting, yadda yadda, Mr. Spenzer bitching about that nebulous vision he’s been so obsessed with after that leadership resort crap in Sydney, Jensen reminding him nicely that his team can’t pull invisible bunnies out of their asses like that, Spenzer arguing that point, and then—Padalecki, Jesus fucking Christ. New on board, a fresh face, and Spenzer in his frenzy would of course cling to anything, so why not that? And R&D, of course, their culture’s different, they shoot the shit and it’s all about innovation and they’re techies, they don’t know how to fucking navigate around a fucking CEO; of fucking course Padalecki happily went ahead and parroted the CEO-unfriendly version of what Jensen had elaborated with him and the team.
‘What do YOU think about this?’ means you tell them what they want to hear, not what’s actually going on!
Fucking hell. They’ll have to redo everything.
“Your job was to spec this shit out, not cry about it to Spenzer!! And you barely managed THAT, so what made you think you’d be qualified to even open your fucking mouth in there, huh?!” - “S-sorry, I didn’t know—” - “EXACTLY! And thanks to THAT, we can ALL start from scratch, we can ALL work overtime and weekends to scramble and try to fix what YOU just ROYALLY fucked UP!! You are SO—”
“Your drink, sir.”
“Uh, thanks, just put it down.”
Jensen cringes and pretends to be staring at his monitor instead of through it while Jane does her job. She religiously avoids his eyes and is gone before her aura of (still noticeable) lackluster shampoo and perfume can irritate Jensen any further.
“It won’t happen again—” - “You’re damn right it won’t, not on my team!! I have no idea what I was thinking, getting you onto this project—don’t bother coming back up here after lunch, you pack your crap and fuck off so the rest of us can get some WORK done!!”
Jensen swallows, half-blinks.
A leather coaster protects the mahogany desk from the condensation that blooms on the can of Coke. The large potted plants by the eternally shut floor-to-ceiling windows help the high-end humidifier and A/C with maintaining the levels of air quality Mackenzie’s Feng Shui person swears on for improved ‘chakra balance’. Jensen’s dizzy regardless.
Silence fizzes between Jensen’s ears. The storm is over. The damage has been done.
With a nasal sigh, he reaches under his desk to grab his phone from the fingerprint-locked private drawer.
Contacts, Sheppard, call. Not even muffled ringing or a printer going at it cut through the eerie silence outside of Jensen’s office. Sheppard picks up on the fifth ring.
“I might have fucked up,” Jensen says.
“What else is new.” Cooking noises. Sheppard leans away from the phone to yell at his toddler. “No, seriously, what did you do?” Jensen sums that up and Sheppard answers, “Hm, okay,” and, “I see.”
“… And?”
“‘And’ nothing. I don’t know, sounds like a normal Tuesday for you.”
“But I fired him.”
“So?”
Jensen opens his mouth—and pauses.
Yeah, idiot. ‘So’?
“Listen, I’m kinda busy right now—can we circle back to this in your next session?”
“Uh. Yeah. Okay. Sure.”
They hang up.
Whatever hallway chatter has managed to revive itself dies down as soon as Jensen emerges from his bunker of an office to grab his meal-prep lunch salad from the tea kitchen fridge.
~
Jay: Man, that sure left an impression.
Jay: Everyone keeps saying ‘guess the honeymoon’s over’. ‘That’s the Ackles we all know and love.’
Jay: LOL
…
Jay: You really made your point.
Jay: Not to be sarcastic or anything.
Jay: I get it. I screwed up. It was great to work on such a level, though. I really learned a lot.
Jay: Thank you for the opportunity. Seriously.
Seated upright on his yoga mat in front of his elementary-schooler-sized TV, still slightly out of breath from the hour-long Vinyasa flow that, surprise, did fuck all to center him, Jensen stares at his phone in disbelief.
Not even now can this idiot be angry? Not even now can he give Jensen an easy way out?
You: Don’t worry about it.
You: You’re still coming over tomorrow night, right?
Jay: Uh.
Jay: If you still want that?
You: Sure. Your incompetence does not touch upon the skills you need in my bed.
Jay: Wow.
You: Take it or leave it.
That ellipsis comes and goes. Man. The shit Jensen would give to read the dozen things Jared ends up not sending him.
Jay: I’ll be downstairs. Seven on the dot, as always. Looking forward to it.
Jensen smiles to himself. And even that feels fucking lame. And fake. And fucking horrible.
Jensen thinks of sending me too but Jared swoops in just in time.
Jay: Bet you’ve got a whole schedule ready for me, huh?
Jay: Please tell me spanking’s on it.
Jensen scoffs. Goddamn.
You: What kind of punishment would that be if you’re gonna enjoy yourself?
~
Of course, the whole point is that the boy enjoys himself. That he flies and swims, that he floats with Jensen and never looks back.
That he doesn’t look at the ground or count Jensen’s fingers, or spot a clock with its hands racing in circles.
The boy’s supposed to love fucking Jensen so much he never even realizes what a scumbag Jensen is.
In Jensen’s doorway, he tries not to duck—gives Jensen that big ol’ smile, big bag of sunshine and puppies and ‘it’s not like you berated and fired me in front of a crowd in the last forty-eight hours’ and says, soft as ever, “Hey,” and—Jensen’s fingers itch, the fucking back of his eyes does.
“You’re early.”
“Uh, no? I—oh.” Padalecki checks his cheap fitness watch. Jensen closes the door he crowds the nervously chuckling boy up against, gets a large hand to his waist, automatic. Padalecki corrects himself, still smiling, eyes cast down: “Half a minute. Right. You’re right.”
“Told you.”
Padalecki goes quiet, closes his eyes for the kiss. Sighs, eventually, when Jensen won’t let him up, when Jensen leans in and in and takes and takes.
Padalecki always arrives showered, ready to go. His taste in cologne sends the hairs on the back of Jensen’s neck upright, it does, and yet, every time Jensen buries his nose against this skin, into the thicket of this stupid-long, soft hair, the urge to complain, to improve… It simply dissolves. Jensen forgets about it. Padalecki’s abs clench under Jensen’s roaming palm. Under his cheap, thin sweater, no shirt underneath. Jensen mumbles, “That’s two things you’ll make up to me,” and Padalecki breathes over the crown of Jensen’s styled-again hair, fastens his now two-handed hold on Jensen’s flanks. Jensen cups between those legs. (The weight alone draws Jensen under.) He puts his lips to an ear. “You’ll be good, hm? Do what I say?”
“Yes,” no hesitation, all the swallowing, the eager nodding. The slide of hands to Jensen’s ass, first over the robe and then to the front where it splits and can be invaded. Jensen doesn’t bother to stop fondling these balls while airy linen gets slid off his skin; that tongue gets recaptured and he sucks on it, sucks until Padalecki sighs again, half a moan, and only then does he step back so the robe can drop all the way. Jensen hooks a finger into one of those beltloops and orders, “Follow,” and Padalecki, like any pedigree pup, obeys.
Bedroom, since all the toys are here if either of them gets in the mood for any—for now, though, that mouth, those hands, that always so pleasantly responsive cock thrill Jensen just fine. Padalecki gasps, “Fuck,” and, “Wait, wait,” like Jensen missed some lingering illusion of authority, but Jensen can (and will) forgive the misstep since he’s not physically stopped, since those hands knead and squeeze and pull and don’t interfere with Jensen unzipping and shoving down those jeans and then stepping to get them to those ankles because no way he’s bending over outside of getting fucked. Padalecki groans around Jensen’s tongue, and with one hand on Jensen’s cheek and one on his cock, Jensen has to accept he’s anything but cold himself. Fuck.
Fuck, the way this boy has him whipped.
Jensen quietly informs, “I’ll do what I want. Since that’s apparently what we’re doing.”
Padalecki’s ass curls into Jensen’s hand and he gasps sweet, is shock-tight but wet like a good boy so Jensen’s giving him one to the knuckle and pumps his cock with his other hand, nice and slow. A twist across the head sends those hips lurching and Padalecki’s eyes flash hot. His pink-pink lips part and Jensen stares at them until they finally kiss him again.
No pause from either hand. Soon, he’s got the boy fucking himself back and forth, awkward and unsure, and as if he senses the upcoming order, he spreads Jensen’s cheeks with one hand and knuckles the other where Jensen’s gonna make him cream himself in due time. Jensen watches—the hard flush high in those cheeks, the desperate wobble to that now-bitten lip. Padalecki already can’t even open his eyes right anymore.
“Y-you… I’d…”
“Yes?”
“Y-you can… Fuck, I’m so sensitive today, you’re…!”
“That’s good, isn’t it?”
Padalecki whimpers. Jensen adds a second finger to dig into that good, firm spot.
“As long as you do what I say, you can squirm as much as you want.”
“Mmh, oh, f-fuck…!” Jensen kisses, works both hands and gets his ass fingered all together. Padalecki manages to gasp between slurping kisses: “Y-you’re so—f-fuck, how do I…?”
“Wait until you’re inside me, for one.”
“Fuck…”
Jensen squeezes that cock in emphasis. His own erection nudges Padalecki’s inner thigh. “You can do that, right? Surely, you’re not that useless.”
“Wanna get you off,” the boy babbles. “Please, f-fuck…” He’s trying to get a hand under Jensen’s thigh and hoist it up, nail the angle, but Jensen refuses. Mostly because it makes Padalecki whine so sweetly. “Fuck… Can I? Let me. I’ll make it so good for you… You know I can.”
“Hm, I bet. That you’d like that, I mean.”
“Fuck… Fuck, fuck…!”
Jensen sucks the lip Padalecki bites to muffle whatever noise he would have made for getting his pec gnawed on, his nipple twisted.
When Jensen sinks to his knees, Padalecki sounds about ready to cry.
“Shut up, you love it.”
Jensen snickers around the weight of these perfectly waxed, leaping balls, the skin pulled all tight and wrinkling against his lips as he sucks them nice and slow, one by one, before zeroing in on the protagonist. Two pats to the boy’s shin earn Jensen, regardless of the accompanying whine, an angling and lifting leg. That foot finds the edge of Jensen’s bed and Jensen’s wrist finds a much more comfortable angle to finger this prostate. All that cock twitches in Jensen’s mouth; fully erect as is but this shit always gets Padalecki that extra half an inch harder, longer, fatter—Jensen swivels his fist on all those inches he can’t quite force down without some proper warmup, but that’s not the goal, anyway. Not tonight.
“I’m, I’m gonna—! I-if you don’t—!”
Jensen pulls off to laugh. “You wouldn’t dare.”
He removes his fingers, smears them on Padalecki’s leg and then gets up to manipulate Padalecki onto the bed. Climbs him—gets rolled on top of. Kisses, wraps his arms around all that neck and lets the boy get his knees under himself, lets him find his footing and drive their cocks together. All those muscles flex, that sweater pulled off on second thought, finally. Funny, how soon Padalecki goes from tiptoeing around an edge to humping at Jensen like a stud in heat.
When Jensen squeezes, “Yeah. Go,” in between those too-close, too-wet, too-everything kisses, Padalecki obeys immediately.
It’s been weeks since he talked this one into barebacking, but that first grind inside—thick, endless—still, still outshines the extra time and costs Jensen has to spend on those tests. Jensen tenses, some primal part of him at a depth he can’t control (not for lack of trying), and Padalecki pushes through that, too, trained and perfect and Jensen grunts, stuck and shivering, so full not even he has the capacity to come up with improvements.
Jensen’s good boy knows better than to let him wait, though he lets it come dangerously close, this time. Just holds himself deep, balls flush with Jensen’s tailbone and his tongue at tonsil-depth, and. Holding . There’s so much cock, so much weight crammed up Jensen’s ass that he can’t clench even if he tries—must soften up and accept it, must take it, and thank God Padalecki remembers how his glutes work just as Jensen becomes aware of how buried he is. Padalecki grunts, happy and sloppy and if Jensen could get away with it he’d tell him to quit and would hire him instead—for this. Sex on demand. Padalecki ’s real number one skill. Jensen’s little live-in masturbator.
J ensen reminds, “Don’t come,” and Padalecki acknowledges vaguely. Jensen lets him work himself to a decent pace before he taps that shoulder thrice. The boy might groan but h e ends up relenting, ends up pulling out and lying on his back like the signal tells him to , and he’s still scowling when Jensen sinks down on him (but not long after).
With Jared’s—with Padalecki’s hands on him, helping him lift and drop, with all that heat bundled up underneath and inside Jensen, with those belly-deep groans to spur him on, J ensen doesn’t feel like reminding that Jared’s welcome to fuck off, that they can stop, that Jensen’s gonna leave him alone, no questions asked. For the first time since that post-meeting rage, nothing but blessed static fills Jensen’s head— his own voice and Jared’s, the slap of his skin against Jared’s, the squelch of lube he had worked into himself in the bathroom, just in time. Padalecki’s lashes flutter for the unannounced grip on his throat, just below his chin, and he… Fuck, he’d let Jensen get away with anything. Is .
Jensen could ask him to quit F CS altogether, couldn’t he?
( And move in with you. Be your polite little pet. Introduce you to his folks; buy a dog with you . ) “ I’ll get myself close. And then I want you to throw me off, mount me from behind and get me off.”
“Jesus—”
“Be rough about it.” Jensen squeezes that throat in emphasis before letting go altogether to refocus on riding this cock. Grunting under his breath with the impact. “I want to feel it.”
You’d think a guy like Padalecki would have to be reined in constantly, but the opposite’s the case. Jensen should hate it. Should be annoyed that he has to spell it out (doesn’t everything about Jensen make Padalecki want to rip his throat out with his teeth?). Jared nods, nods quick and short and then focuses on giving Jensen as much as he can in this position; lifts his ass off the bed for the downstrokes and has his lips tucked so tightly that those fucking dimples show up. He is nearly cross-eyed with focus and so Jensen is left taking, is left staring and grinding and groaning.
The past few weeks have been crazy, even by his standards. When was the last time Jensen felt like squeezing a booty call or some selfish five minutes into his day ? J ust recalling this cock’s perimeters is enough to send Jensen spinning. He grits his teeth, eyes shut so he can focus on the sensations. On the resistance, the hardness of what he slams up his guts, what fills him, spears him open. Jensen can’t remember the last time he wasn’t some level of sore from this exact cock, nor the last time he came outside of a ten-foot radius of that thing—and worse yet: he doesn’t want to. All there is is the craving for more.
Jensen doesn’t have to try to come hands-free on this one. Can just bounce away on it and no matter the exact angle, this cock will hit all the good spots. As the lube thins and friction builds, so does that urgency, that good pressure that makes Jensen want to drool and moan and little else. At least as hard as the boy’s, Jensen’ s cock slaps and drips over Padalecki’s perfectly trimmed treasure trail with every stroke. Tension and that deep fluttering and then he’s tapping Padalecki’s shoulder while he gulps back an even-for-him pathetic noise, and then. Padalecki obliges.
God. Does he ever.
Gasps, “Like that? Like that?” while Jensen’s still so whiplashed from being grabbed, tossed and turned like some fairy-boned twink he never was that all he comes up with, aside from being rocketed into this orgasm, are choked-up gasps and then those deep, chest-rumbling groans that he can’t control whatsoever, not with how laser-focused Padalecki beats him up from the inside.
Christ. Jensen’s ass hurts from the outside from how hard the boy lays into him.
“Fuck—fuck, yeah, I can feel it—Jen—! Jensen—!”
Increasingly fused with mattress and pillows, Jensen does his best to keep breathing. Is just an upturned ass, at this point, held up because there’s bones in him and a steel-grip on his hips, and he’s just. Empty. Floating. Worked-open and buried and aching and gushing and wringing, and. Thank God he’s incoherent, or he’d ask for handholding.
Jared fucks him. Fucks and fucks until Jensen taps out and then unearths his cock from Jensen’s ass like he’s been scorched—hisses, groans, but makes a point of helping Jensen to flatten out, lies down next to him, dripping with sweat and lube and… Man, his hair. His eyes, like that, pupils blown to shit and cheeks burning, and…
“You didn’t finish, right?”
Jared shakes his head against Jensen’s cupped, trembling palm.
Jensen grins. Jared doesn’t.
“Good boy.”
Rest, and then some water. Espresso. Making out. Jensen sucks that cock again after he sends Jared to the shower and then joins him after all. Despite of how gross Jared is. Of how Jensen cherishes practicality in the shower.
“Y-yeah, l-like—!”
Jensen blurts, “Fuck,” wedged between tiles and man, his feet no longer planted. His next noise is equally dignified because, holy shit, the waterproof lube means business—and he’s scrambling more than Jared to stay up, has to really hold on and wring his arms around those insane shoulders and groans because Jared’s humping at him like gravity doesn’t apply here. He’s straining all over, every muscle bulges against Jensen’s skin but somehow, Jensen remains the only one visibly struggling. The hot water from above makes their skin slide, bullies into Jensen’s eyes and mouth. And Jared just grunts, forearms under the back of Jensen’s knees, and jackhammers.
Jensen ends up coming again, though not necessarily voluntarily. He’s still aware that such an achievement merits a reward: he makes sure to get the boy all nice and dry before he lays him out on the bed, gets cozy between those furry thighs and instructs him to hold his legs back himself so Jensen’s got all the room he needs.
For a picture book top with a porn star cock like that, Jared sure makes amazing noises for getting his ass eaten.
Jensen has to remind, “Only inside of me,” between sloppy wet French kisses and snickering, nose to that bulging taint and that beautiful cock and balls twitching all lonely and overdue right above his nose. The veins on Jared’s cock stand out so rough and he’s flexing and dribbling so plenty Jensen has to be careful not to go too far. But that’s a sacrifice he’s willing to make.
Slow, long drags of his tongue, the occasional eye contact…or whatever it’s called when one party can’t even focus and you’re just watching them losing it. Jensen chuckles, presses a flat kiss to that well-kissed pucker. If he could get hard again, he’d be.
“Ready?” A weak nod. “Hmm, yeah. You’ve been so good… Here, let’s… Yeah. Careful, now…!”
The boy’s reduced to tears. Just sniffles and stammers and brings his hands to Jensen’s waist and—God, he’s hot, so much blood in this cock even Jensen’s destroyed ass can feel the difference.
As he bottoms out in one smooth drop of his hips, Jensen hums, “Come,” and, boy. Padalecki never disappoints.
The distortion of that face, the sheer overwhelm. More tears, and then some clawing when Jensen teases with half a figure-eight, and then just…melting. Heat, spreading and perfect and too-much, and not even Jensen can leave that mouth alone. Is welcomed, pulled in when he leans down, and so that’s a fine five minutes. He climbs off, eventually. The mess spreads and makes him shiver, but Jared’s way too sweet to abandon. So, Jensen gets comfortable, at least for now. Jared on his back, still (Jensen might have broken him), unnaturally quiet. Still reeling, too, though. Jensen smirks, chin on that chest, watching.
“Uh… … Is there something on my face, or…?”
“No. I’m just looking. If that’s allowed.”
“I…guess.” A hesitant hand pets Jensen’s arm. Jensen wonders if Jared’s ex ever appreciated this specific mole on his cheek. “…You’re freaking me out a little.”
“I can stop.”
“You don’t—I mean, I’m just…” A tense sigh. Jensen waits it out. Four, three, two, one… “… You’re not still mad at me, right?”
“Oh, I am. Professionally.”
“… Uh…”
“I’m off the clock now, though, so it doesn’t matter. Don’t worry.”
“…”
“… You look like you’re about to tell me I’m weird for saying that.”
Softly, wincing, Jared tells him, “It’s kinda insane, yeah,” and Jensen—sighs. Beds his temple against the boy’s shoulder and…enjoys that. That it’s still here. Despite everything.
“You know, my therapist really likes you.”
“Your…? Never mind.”
“What? Can’t I have a therapist?”
“No, no, uh… Go on…? They, uh…they like me, huh?”
“Him. Mark.”
“Ah.”
“I’m starting to suspect he likes you more than me.”
“Hm.” Jared nods like one nods at very small, very dumb babies. Or senile elderlies.
“Maybe I talk too much about you,” Jensen offers, and Jared blinks, and then he gets it. He tends to, with the right pointers, with horrible accuracy. “Anyway. I heard your head department’s looking to promote you.”
“They are.”
“Good for you.” Jensen adds, “And I mean that,” and Jared finally begins to smile.
“I know. … And, yeah, uh. The fact that I kept my cool impressed some higher-ups, I think…”
“‘Kept his cool around the infamous Mr. Ackles’, yeah… Yeah, that’s worth a promotion.” Jared laughs nervously. Jensen remains unfazed, cheek bedded on all that chest. “… So it wasn’t all crap that I roped you into this goddamn project.”
“… You think it was crap?”
“… No. … No, not all of it.”
Jared hesitates to follow Jensen’s lead to intertwine their fingers on top of his chest, but eventually, he takes pity. Jensen ignores the heat pooling in his cheeks. If Jared notices, he doesn’t mention it.
Thank God Jared doesn’t kiss him.