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A pair of 8-eye patent leather docs, pink and shiny as a blowpop’s center, show up on Jensen’s side of Jared’s bed.
Jensen can only curl weak arms around his underage-flat chest, staring with a softly parted mouth. He pets the not-just-boots boots for hours, runny-nosed. Wants to call Danni and tell her all about his new shoes and his new life and ...
Only one person on the bus can be sure to know the exact princessy size of Jensen Ackles’ little childporn feet.
Because they’ve held them, and mouthed at them, and blown a warm load onto them, and had them on their shoulders uncountable times, now.
~
Five shows after they met, they fucked to Ruby Soho.
Jensen’s life was lived in increments by then, marked by events rather than time: songs on the radio, the color of Chad’s trihawk, which scraps of panties Jensen had on at that moment, if any.
It might’ve been nine days real time, but in the hazed over barsmoke world they live in – it’ll be referred to as five shows. Jensen, with his worry-thin legs in the air. Jared, with his eyes open the entire time like witnessing an execution. And Tim Armstrong singing while Jensen sobbed like a babe.
It’s not fit for his doodlepad memoir notebook, but Jenny-boy will die with the knowledge that that night was the one when he knew he was fucked with a capital L.
And it’ll be too long before Jensen even recognizes the background tragedy of the song.
~
(Destination unknown.)
~
A girl Jared used to dick is standing only three people apart from Jensen in the all-gender bathroom, leaned over the sinks, artfully smearing rockabilly red onto her lips.
When Jensen sways sideways a bit to see, careful and in secret and with eyes cut low, he gets a fairly full view. She’s teetering on super-platform creepers that make her legs look like it’d take a week’s journey to get up into her skirt, and she’s got a teeny hands’ grip ass sitting up top.
Talon nails, little glinty dermal piercings above each cheekbone.
She’s unbearably beautiful, of course.
Jensen’s just coming out of the furthest stall, readjusting the fallen strings of his baby-sized Operation Ivy tank and opening his teddy bear coin purse where he keeps his stash of dum-dum lollipops and Planned Parenthood condoms when he catches the one name in the world that feels best sighed out of his breathless mouth.
“Does Jared know you’re here?” a girl with a venom smile says, checking her head at all angles in the mirror, making sure none of her liberty spikes have gone flat. “Is it surefire this time?”
The doll next to her, the pretty one with the 1950’s Barbie body, snarls cutely. Rolls her cat-eye eyes.
“Told you, fuckface. Portland was a fluke. That rent-a-popo had me by the balls all night, blocked me every fucking step. Wasn’t Jared’s fault he didn’t see me. I forgive him.”
“So you’re still gonna—“
“Uhh, of course,” she says, producing a slim can of hairspray from somewhere – her gaping canyon cunt, Jensen decides, already feeling cunty himself – and taming her babyhairs. “Three cities back to back. I’ll get him. Seattle’s my lucky star.”
“First time you barfed on his dick, yeah?”
“I fucking didn’t, you piece of shit,” she laughs, kissing Spike’s cheek like a punch and leaving a goopy print behind. “I said almost. It’s damn big, alright? Lesser bitches have died on it, probs…”
When they go, the commotion continues without them even if everything in Jensen is very very still.
Squeezing bodies, toilets flushing, the sick-shock tempo of the first band’s opener making the pinned up flyers flutter against the walls like falltime leaves, dead and brittling, and little Jensen Ackles sags against the closest one, looks indirectly into the smear smudgy mirror they stood at moments ago and bravely tries to remind himself just whose ass Jared’s been eating.
Nightly, morningly, backstage after sound check sometimes.
It’s no use, though. Jensen’s angry as a skinned cat and weirdly, weirdly pained.
~
Adri comes out of one of the stalls all blush-necked and winded, and a girl the size of Jensen’s thumb trails out after, lips and lashes looking satisfyingly liquid.
He can feel Adri’s prison yard hard eyes on him and just can’t quite make his own lift up. If she heard. If she heard that he heard. He’s mortified in an undefined way and busies himself with picking dried jizz out of his fingernails until they, too, have fucked off and gone.
Thinks he maybe should have said something to Spike and Dolly – but. But what? Smell my breath?
Let them get a whiff of after-cock from half an hour ago? See if Dolly recognized the sweet scent, maybe?
In his 9th grader heart, he knows that Jared – Jared Padalecki that louderthanwar.com called ‘a generational best’ – wouldn’t give half a shit if he ever ran into any of the dicks Jensen’s sat on. But it’s not the same.
It’s not.
Jensen’s been 73% in love with Jared since he first saw him up on that stage in the summertime swelter. Everything, when it comes to Jared, hurts.
~
A nineteen year old boy, ragged as a cornstalk and worse for thin, walked into an ink shop called Jolly Rogers and paid three months’ worth of savings to get his tongue cauterized in half like Satan’s serpent.
Jensen was elsewhere in Texas, probably six or seven years old learning about addition and subtraction the day it happened, but he likes to dream of that afternoon and reimagine how it might’ve gone.
Jared all rakish and teen troubled, wristbones sticking out like Frankenstein bolts, hair matted into unintentional dreads. Jensen’s seen photos on the internet from those years. They’re enough to make his pussy weep and weep.
It took two weeks to heal, then two more for the dirty sewer boy to get a couple of snake bites put in, two big silver barbells at the tip of each tongue-half and these days, ain’t no one on the planet that can go down on an asshole quite like Fuckpig’s grungy guitar boy.
Sometimes, though, Jensen decides, sometimes the best thing ever ever ever is just being able to press little girlfriend-like kisses to it, soft and shy like he’s hardly once been.
~
Real math is: 1 Jensen minus 1 Jared = 2 jars full of heartblood.
~
It’s a smaller venue so it’s a sellout show.
One of those places that’ll say the Sex Pistols themselves rolled through town one smoggy night long ago and screamed a few songs beneath those very same lights, though it’ll never be proven.
Jensen lingers over by the pit entrance, not so close that he’ll knock elbows with any of the acid wash girls – the ones blinking thick-eyeliner stares up at Jeff and Co., getting wet for the words and the band and Jared’s long fingerbang fingers slicing the chords – but never far from his beloved.
Fuckpig is somewhere around the fifth song of the night and Jensen’s still thinking the thoughts of a scorned wife.
He’s fucking ridiculous. Shit for brains and cock-dumb, but he wonders anyway if Jared’s seen her in the audience already. If he’ll sneak away before Jensen can get to him again and ride her too-delicate throat inside out.
Diary of a Crybaby, Jensen will write in his spiral later, bitter.
He thinks of that cute thing and her grabbable hips and cherry bright smile, thinks of himself in his week old skin and faded pink goodwill chucks and it’s an easy choice Jared probably doesn’t even have to make. Jared has lots of choices in lots of cities. By the 8th song, Jensen’s numb from over-feeling.
~
There’s a mural on the back wall past the bunks.
Some of it’s started to slither out to edge along the windows, and it looks like spiraled euphoria when you’re blitzed out of your mind on pills you got from somebody’s somebody, shared between Jared’s spit and yours. You giggle and say, “Do you think those are really Robert Smith’s lips?” and Jared idly fingers your bellybutton and tells you you’re cute.
It’s a cumulative collection of everyone’s musichearts on display.
The things they heard when they were getting periods and puberty and the shit that shaped them from the soul out. It’s nostalgia and sorrow and songs to ride dick to. There’s an assload of Misfits posted up, but Tommy James and the Shondells are up there right beside.
Record sleeves and CD booklets taken out of the cases and ducktaped up like a teenage basement bedroom.
Jensen doesn’t even have to ask to know which contributions are Jared’s. Clusters of Moz and the Pumpkins and a mistreated copy of Superunknown, some Mad Season. Placebo. Every Good Boy Deserves Fudge.
If he looks close enough, he can almost see the pick-shredded whorls of Jared’s thumb prints ironed into the corners. Jensen, whose come-crusted insides have the same patterns engraved in them by now, feels like an expert.
~
They add to the wall every now and then, the whole band, and Jensen was privileged enough to see it once:
Walked into the used music shop trailing a big bearded fuck with devilwing brows, a medusa-haired blonde chick tall as a starved thin model, a silvering, leather vested shitbag you absolutely didn’t wanna turn your back on, and a gorgeous boy with a messy knot piled on his head, Jensen’s little handjob hand smoothed into the boy’s big chokehold one, fingers all doubleknotted together like lunchtime loves.
They wandered the skinny, dust-carpeted aisles in twos and threes, then one by one, circling back and holding a plastic case in the air now and again, pulling someone aside to say jesus fuckass, look at this, and then for a real long time just not talking at all.
Some places in the world are stand-in churches. Holier, too.
Jensen flitted at the Ace of Base — Anthrax section, flipping through the stacks, trying super hard not to look up and check to see if there were cameras placed anywhere along the ceiling.
He made it past Danzig and INXS and got so far as Oingo Boingo before he felt the dickpull he always feels when Jared’s too nearby, found him a few jumps back, carding through the letter E, near The Exploited or something, maybe, Jensen wasn’t looking at music. Not anymore.
He was looking at a lovesong. He was looking at Jared.
So he said, “I think I might get this” and grabbed the closest thing to him that he recognized, a yellowing thing with four dark silhouettes in profile.
Jared spared a glance at him, at his choice, turned away again. Flared his fairy nose and mumbled, “okay.”
Jensen looked down at what was in his hands — Songs to Learn & Sing, a comp album of Danni's that she swore was the best audio for getting fingered to — and up again just a little to see if, yeah, Jared was snubbing him.
Drifted away to the H’s.
Horrorpops and Harris, Emmylou and h-e-a-r-t-b-r-e-a-k spelled right out.
Jensen put Echo & the Bunnymen away and, puptail ‘tween his legs, went to tiptoe alongside Jason who smacked him on the butt and threw an elbow around Jensen’s little applecore neck and asked him what he thought of Soulfly, did he like Sepultura, and it was a good distraction from the yanking flip in his chest that felt like he’d done something horribly, horribly wrong.
~
He’s definitely Jensen’s boyfriend.
The lipstick-your-name-on-my-thigh kind of boyfriend. Jensen hasn’t even thought about another cock in weeks. It stings and ruptures and feels like true love.
But none of that means that Jensen is Jared’s – anything. His bodied gloryhole, maybe.
~
“Now, please. Now, please,” Jensen says again, CD skip repetitive.
His voice has gone high and babylight and he’s got gut-scream tears in his eyes like something perfectly infant.
“Gonna die.”
He’s on the sacrilege couch, waist down naked on his nine life knees, holding his cheeks apart like good girls don’t but great girls do. Jared’s on the rumbly bus floor behind him, big huge hand in his jeans, smelling of stage sweat and Marlboro Black 100s, smiling a small thing each time Jensen’s fingers slip, when they scrabble frantically back into place.
“Be nice,” Jared says, not as careful as a whisper but something so barely there it feels Sunday sacred.
Jensen chews blisters into his lips and hums, sucks in with his belly. Tightens his starfucker asshole so Jared can see.
A shift of motion and one of Jared’s scarred and scabbed hands smooths over Jensen’s mouth and nose, lingers so Jensen can huff the smell in, think about where that palm just was.
Jensen’s a scummy boy and Jared is romantic in ways only an angel like Jensen could appreciate.
Jared’s cock is Jensen’s perfume.
“Babies gotta ask sweetly,” Jared says, mouthing behind Jensen’s pierced ear. It's the one he got done in the mall at Claire’s with little miss Harris two lifetimes ago, just the one side fag-style, carefully and so selectively picking out a soft pink gem stud for it; morganite, the saleschick said.
Jensen gasps like the slut he is. “Would. Would you mind— Can you.” Tiny tremor, Jared nosetipping by his nape.
He gives up. Begs to be kissed.
Jared is kind and giving, so he hardly ever makes Jensen ask more than once.
Slides down a back that still belongs in PE uniforms and on laundered kiddy bedsheets and puts his smoker’s mouth to the little curl of him. Jensen’s real cute on the inside just like he is on the out and Jared lovingly tells him so between each deep red frenchkiss.
~
“Which do you prefer,” Jensen asked once, when he was markering away on notebook paper at 3 o’clock in the morning, somewhere near Pocatello. “Red or pink?”
Jared looked up from his copy of The Barrens and a smirk fluttered up.
“Not. Not like, hearts and flowers,” Jensen said, hasty, young. He didn’t mean—
“Like cunts and slaughters?” Jared’s finger was gashing his novel, then, marking the page.
Jensen turned tints of both and Jared reached out, tugged him over by the gappy waistband of his slasher jeans, peeked into the back where he was underwearless and daisy pale. Jared breathed hard. Said between his teeth, “I like pink that I can turn red.”
And he did that night, again.
Jensen left off filling in the dream-art he was drawing for Jared’s newest song. Jared hadn’t let him hear it yet, but it was something about immature love and suicide pacts.
~
It’s a fine night for everyone on the bus.
Jeff’s got him a tenderling all curled up and purring, collared with a jingly bell, while Momo busted out a velvet pouch of some ganja he called White Widow Jr. and was last seen plucking the strings on a banjitar and full of wonder telling Adri, who fell asleep wearing a sheeny layer of pussydrip lipgloss, a dream he had three nights ago.
Jared yawned his way through the first chappy of a book on ancient autopsies, not for boredom but for having had his dick tirelessly ridden by an unquenchable brat with a strangling need for cock. And Jensen himself is snuggled up now against Jared’s rib bones, creamed inside and dreamy-eyed.
They don’t use any of the free rubbers Danni death-threated him into swearing he would carry always, nah. Not for real. Not for anything genuine. Maybe as come collectors that later become Jensen’s tube-shots. But. Jared would’ve made him a mother twenty times over by now.
Probably given him triplets a few cities ago.
Jensen sighs, clutches Jared’s skinny-boy waist in his little-girl arms and goes to sleep half-pregnant and happy, even if something is leeching at him, irritating, cooing one night down, two to go into his insecure ear.
~
“She’s so lovely." Jensen was all sighs that night.
With his hungover head on Jared’s bony shoulder and a shrinking jawbreaker on his tongue; sucking without thought, like nature intended.
True crime paperback, photos included, and Jared looked over at him and smiled. Not with teeth, not even with dimple, just a trace of something real and shared with one little boy.
“Think so?”
Jensen nodded, disgustingly dick-smitten with anything Jared said or did or read or wrote.
And Jared leaned down some, said secretish, “she was even lovelier afterwards.”
He flipped the page for Jensen to see and — she was, oh. She really was. Rotting sweetly in a bed of earth, body torn and split in two, her torso over here, her pelvis over there. Spread-legged like a trucklot lizard, hairy like ‘70s porn. Her mouth was savaged apart and Jensen gasped, groaned.
She was magnificent even in necrosis.
Jensen got lovefucked just minutes gone by with his face slamming into a ceramic vagina ashtray, bent over the small, useless, built in table while the mile markers and rest stop signs blurred past them. Jensen didn’t even get his pants down all the way, just enough to get pussypopped and rode hard, and maybe he said some real bad shit that night.
Maybe when he was jacking his little handful dick and pulsing pearl drops all over the crumbed floor, maybe he said he wanted to be a crime scene, wanted to be corpse-cute, and maybe it sounded to Jared like a cupped hand confession, like an accidental I love you during cripplingly good head.
Jensen was still thinking about pretty Elizabeth Short and her sawed-in-half short life while he was dripping nut down his kneebacks, while Jared was taking an afterfuck piss out the window because someone was hugging the toilet like Jensen had been in the pink of dawn.
“Morning sickness,” Jensen had heard Jared say to someone or no one, drugged and dorky. It made Jensen’s belly swoop like butterfly windshield splatter.
~
Looking back, later, when Jensen’s standing in the picked over cosmetics aisle at an unmodern Kmart off I-90, trying to decide between pocketing a sparkle pink queenie gloss and a tube of Brody Dalle red cream lipstick, he’ll really wish Jared had answered him about the colors.
He swipes both, and a backup black polish for his toes, too. Sticks them in the kangaroo pocket at the front of his hoodie and walks out careful as an altar boy. The old denture guy manning the door is real priestlike, too, busy staring at little boy ass hanging out of homemade cutoffs.
~
Jensen lost ¾ of his wardrobe when he escaped his hell-home to be a milk carton kid.
All his favorites were left behind when he ran – his crushed cherry docs, all his overworn band shirts scissored and stitched back to tighter, skankier shapes, even his cherished Babes in Toyland tee, signed by Kat B. herself, sob – and he misses those treasures but not enough to ever ever go back.
But maybe he lingers at storefront windows, maybe he glares pitifully in, jealous of the mannequins in their buckle boots and 1994 chokers, thinks that the rose-print over-the-knee socks would look a hundred times cuter on the shape of his pushed out legs. Whatever.
Olympia last night and today the band’s doing Tacoma, playing at some shitass joint called Jazzbones that looks about as interesting as soft cat shit but that has a fond place in Jeff’s soul.
“Oooh, right there, pull in here,” Adri says, popping out of her seat and stomping to the head of the bus. Points out the windshield. “Suzy’s. Yeah.”
Suzy’s Sweethearts is a little building painted in lavender like a left behind love mark, with blacked out windows and neon signs lit in the daytime. Heart shapes and lip prints and the mudflap girl. 24 HRS, a flashing blue one blinks. As soon as Jensen realizes what the fuck it is, he’s up and out.
Or, he tries.
“Sorry, pussycat,” Jeff says, strangely sympathetic. “Doubt they’d let you past the front counter. Even with that pornstar pucker.”
“Oh,” Jensen says, breath all tripped up in his throat, suddenly hideously aware of his age.
Of how he’s Different from the others. From Jared.
Jared, who turns back on the second stair out the bus door, like he’s suddenly remembering too.
That Jensen’s the kind of kid pig-bellied old men land in genpop for. That he’s still got the face of school picture days and the body of an undernourished cheerleader.
Jensen sits back down, docile and scolded, scampering.
“Won’t be long,” Jared says, coming back over to where his child bride is childishly slumped, toe-scuffing the floor and thinking to himself don’t you dare cry, shithead, so all he sees are Jared’s dingy checkered slip on Vans and the thorned rosary tattoo that wraps around his foot and up his shin, ending with an unbloomed rose vs. a cross.
Jared presses a soft, humiliatingly gentle kiss to Jensen’s crown and is gone.
Jensen growls, punches himself on the thigh fives times, and knuckles away the couple of saltdrops that fell despite his big kid efforts.
He cracks open Jared’s morbidities book and reads a couple pages at the beginning, feeling stubbornly stiff-lipped over the fact that he’d eaten five dicks before he turned twelve and still he’s shunned.
~
Once, and only once, Jared let Jensen kiss him wherever he wanted. And wherever was gems and jewels.
He’s got a bleached out heart that doesn’t always work quite right, and Jensen learned this quick. Things unnerve Jared, agitate his found rhythm.
Plastic affection for the most part doesn’t sit well with him, but on occasion he allows it. Hardly ever after sex but sometimes in the middle of it. Between songs when he’ll rush to sidestage and bend down so Jensen can eat at the ends of his tongue.
Most frequently in the hours after a speedball.
Given free reign, though, Jensen laid lips to the point of Jared’s tippy nose, and the smooth soft space between his brows, and, on a very thorough check, one on every old pink polka dot needlemark scar Jensen found. Those ones required boyspit and babyteeth, extra treasuring.
Because it’s a very intravenous love, theirs.
~
It’s raining like breakup tears when they get to the bar.
Jensen stays on the bus for a while, watching through water-bogged windows as the roadies that Jensen should be helping throw up their hoods and start unloading.
Watches Jeff and the tour manager that Jensen never remembers the name of go over the setlist for the fifth time under a setup tarp.
Watches what looks to be a young brother and sister lift their shirts to tit-flash as Momo walks by all gator grinning.
Watches skywater plip plop against Jared’s gauntboy cheekbones like a jealous god’s baptism and Jensen’s busy thinking no — he’s mine, he’s mine.
And then he hurries to do something about it.
~
Deadboy blue is what Chad’s rocking right now. Last week his hair was pisspoorly done in oranges and yellows and skunky as a tabby.
In the mile-high sized bathroom that’s housed just as many quickwet fucks, Jensen claws through the carnage and clutter and finds the big tub of powder he’s after, a couple of chunky bottles.
With someone’s old toothbrush, Jensen dips into his concoction and sweeps the mess into his hair, covers every golden boy lock until it dries and crusts over.
~
Jensen re-screws a couple of spikes that fell off his favorite vest thanks to Jared’s after-show aggression and puts big lashy eyes to his reflection like he’s in a bulb-lined vanity mirror and not a cheap thrifted one hung on a thumbtack. He feels gorg as Jayne and Mae and Norma Jeane.
Pammy, too, in her pre-Tommy post-Bret years.
(Jensen Ross Ackles’ lips were born bombshell better than all theirs, though, sorry babes.)
He lowers his voice deep as it’ll go, which isn’t very. “Would you fuck me?”
Jensen plucks at his tiny tit, shimmies some. Reaches down and tucks a skinny cock between skinny legs. Smiles meanly. “I’d fuck me.”
His hair’s bright shock-white now and he pouts in the mirror like a Hollywood Classic, skips out of the bus like a teen drama.
~
Endearingly, Jensen was absolutely ripped when he said it, high on life and on something that wasn’t a Flintstones vitamin.
Jeff had some old folks’ music going, a couple of nothing-boys already nutted up and plugged full, and Jeff was known to revert to the years of his seedy and seeded youth in his most sated moments.
They were in San Francisco, maybe. It felt like San Francisco anyway. The night was Chinatown pretty when Jensen squeezed his slug eyes and then opened them up real fast. Possibly that might’ve just been the chicken lights on the 18 wheeler passing them up.
“You ever feel like,” kicky legs, on his tummy on Jared’s spunk-spill bed. "Like. Uhhh." Jared sitting on the floor on a plushy hippy van rug. “Hm. I dunno how’ta—” On a babied snarl, “Fuck.”
“Yeah you do,” Jared whispered playfully.
“Sigh,” he said, and meant it. Puppet grin, all Jensen’s cloud-white teeth showing.
“Say it.”
“Like. You ever just wanted someone so bad? I mean real bad. Bad like you’d fuck ‘em anywhere.” Jensen flipped over, spread his kaleidoscoping fingers like encompassing something grand. “Anywhere. A port-a-potty, even. Just. And – and it wouldn’t matter.”
Jared’s scribbling bled out to a stop and his shoulders hunched thoughtfully. His ponytail was knotted spiky that night, messy hot. Jensen blew on it like dandelion seeds might woosh out.
“Never?”
Resuming wording his thoughts with lead, Jared said in a decibel for libraries and confessionals, “maybe”, and Jensen stared up at the colorfully stickered roof, drew cursive words in the air with his little finger and let himself go swimmy thinking on all of Jared’s mights and maybes.
~
Jensen’s worst fear is named Alice, a thing he learns too soon, and she was actually friends with Chad first.
She’s there by the speakers when Jensen makes it inside – leaned up on the railing in wet-look leggings and icepick ankle boots; a backless tee that shows her red bra. When Alice turns, Jensen can see that her mouth is the same high dollar whore hue and it kicks him in the nuts again: knowing Jared’s fucked that. That she knows how Jared feels when he’s moving inside.
Instead of gagging his heart-bits up like it feels like he might just do, Jensen wanders around the merch area until the lights go horrorshow dim and the mics crackle on, buzz gone electric.
But even then, he hangs back.
They play half of Cuntwrecker, and some new stuff they’re still testing out. A song called Queer Queen Queef that he knows Jared wrote not long back but has never heard played in full. It’s grossly amorous and Adri pounds the shit out of her solo, Jeff’s black tar voice going solid for it.
Jensen thinks, with all the bias in the world, that nobody does lyrics like Jared.
Momo’s pick that night, so they cover some early Anselmo stuff and Jeff makes a couple cracks about a newbie band called Ghost. Says all honeydrip that there’s only room for one fucking Papa.
Jason even wears the heavy duty BDSM hood they all threw defiled dollars in for earlier. It’s a pig face, but a happy looking kiddie show type. It's fucking disturbing.
Pure pink expensive leather with a breathable metal mouth hole. Laces up the back with a matching cord and they drown the crowd on three sweat-flying songs with that thing up on Momo’s shoulders, half the sugarboys in the place partway to spunking their boxers.
It’s a good set, or it should be, but Jensen's distracted. Keeps finding the pageant pretty face in row one, can’t help blinking away right after, closing his eyes blackout-shut like he’s giving his boycherry away all over again to his ugly-faced big-dicked cousin after Uncle Ronny’s tasteful funeral service.
Jensen’s almost glad when it’s over, which makes him feel miserable, and then murderous.
Nobody’s ears love Fuckpig more than Jensen’s little handlebar ones do, and here he is again out on the fucking edges of the mob menstruating and wound-lapping instead of moshing and concussing and getting groped crowdsurfing.
~
There are unspoken rules in the music world*. Things you just don’t do.
1.) You’re not to touch an instrument that isn’t your own on a show-day unless permitted. Bad, bad juju.
2.) Never start buddyfucking a bandmate until at least halfway through the tour.
3.) Don’t shittalk the lead singer’s necessarily prissy evening drink. It’s for the vocal chords and you’ll do well to keep your mouths closed.
4.) Misplace a drumstick – you’re DOA.
5.) Never, ever, ever ask Jared Padalecki what the ‘D’ tattoo next to the baby rose stands for. (‘Don’t ever fucking joke that it’s a D for dick,’ Momo says wisely, contrite.)
*these may or may not just be Fuckpig bus rules. Jensen’s still navigating.
~
“You know you don’t need that shit, right babe?”
In the peeky edge of his heart-shaped compact, Jensen can see Adri watching him.
He feels like a dirty douche the second he rolls his eyes, especially at Adri, but he can’t take it back and wouldn’t anyway. He finishes applying, presses his lips together in his lil’ mirror ‘til the color stains all over; smacks twice for effect. “Oh jeez, if this is some natural beauty bullshit—”
“Yeah, alright ya little comebubble.”
She rakes doused curls off her face and kicks open the green room door, turning fully like fuck you.
“Hey wait,” Jensen says, eyes fallen remorseful fast. “What. Um. What were you gonna say?”
She looks over her muscled shoulder, a stabby sort of stare. Assesses him like maybe he’s not worth it anymore. Was he ever? “That you don’t have to do all that extra bullshit, if it’s for.” She wipes her sweaty forehead with a bicep brawnier than Jensen’s cutlet thigh and frowns.
His mouth tastes waxy, smells like color pencils. Scarlet River #3, the label said.
The terrible truth is that even Jared’s fucking bandmates can see how sprung and stupid and unstable he is.
“But, it’s not. I mean, there’s not just – me.” Jensen tucks his mirror into his front vest pocket, nervy meth-head motions. Quiet, even though they’re relatively alone in the corridor, “he has others.”
“A whole world, even.”
“I know that. That’s why—”
“Look,” she says, pinching her barbelled bridge, 28 and already too old for the babymama drama. “That's your boy, right?" Nod, nod, vicious nod. "And I'd say I know that guy about as well as you can know someone you share shit buckets with a quarter of the year, so—”
Little chirpy laugh.
Followed by Jared’s sheet-soil voice down the hall.
Jensen’s barely breathing body goes sideways for it, turns to see. Like his hips are hooked loyal to a chain leash Padalecki’s holding. Rattle, rattle. And Alice is against the far wall, backfuckingstage, looking up at Jared (Jensen’s Jared) like his cock fucked the moon and jizzed out the stars.
She’s so small and Clairol-blonde and unnervingly perfect even in profile. He panics, bad.
~
Back in U.S. Geography, Jensen’s teacher was something of a pleasurist.
He took a real glee in making the eighth graders’ spines snap with the authentic sort of fright that hauling a once-working guillotine into the classroom for educational purposes brings.
“Cleave off the head and the heart’ll stop immediately,” he told them, all plain insouciance as he lead them one by one to the device, settled them in, had them pose for a fucking Polaroid. “But there’s still maybe 15-20 seconds of consciousness before the brain shuts off for good, at finish.”
Girly gasps, from the boys especially. XX chromosomes are always tougher.
“And in those few moments, you do feel everything.”
It was only last schoolyear, but Jensen won’t ever forget that class period’s lesson. Even if he’s still learning it.
~
“Oh god,” Jensen says, cold and nauseous, dog-sick, “oh fuck.” Beheaded, he looks to Adri for help, the littlest mercy.
She sighs like a windstorm and yanks him into her tits, motorboats his face into hiding.
“C’mon, let’s go in here.” Her steel toes are still holding the door wedged open. “Maybe we can play poor fucker’s bowling with my dongs. See if you can take all ten at once, strike it out.”
Jensen, scooped small but still prideful, is choking out the words “bet I can,” when Chad skitters out from a crack in the wall, bitching and whining hard, wondering where the fuck everyone went, who has the keys, and, “Man, are you wearing lipstick?”
Jensen glares acidly, tries to scrub it off with the back of one hot hand, still hanging onto Adri like one of her best bitches, and all he does is slime it across his chin and cheek.
“Chad,” Adri spits. She jerks her head for something discrete.
Like Jensen isn’t already ten seconds from walking out the doubledoors and bending over for the first prick’s prick that he sees, just to fuck the heart-hurt out, for however long it lasts.
“What? What’s going—” Chad stops. Looks beyond their spot, studies the shapes. “Is that. Hey, that’s Alice.”
Jensen grinds cavitied molars.
Something tense and silent as a wound is happening between Chad and Adri but Jensen would much rather stare at his ruffled socks, his ripped up shoes.
“Dude, no. No,” Chad says, stoner stunned, and Adri squeezes Jensen’s birdish shoulders to grind him to bonedust, says,
“That’s what I was attempting to fucking tell him, but.” Jostle.
“Fuck that,” Chad’s hand shoots out, abruptly takes hold of Jensen’s in a lover’s mock. Then pulls to rip out his arm like doll parts. “Walk, walk, walk.”
~
“Show me how much,” Jared said one night, in a mood, and Jensen spidered up on top of him while Momo and Jeff were watching vom videos on a laptop a bunk over, for fun.
For dick fun. The bus already smelled faintly of precome by then.
It was the kind of night that made Jeff say later, in the cockcrow of day, “jesus, kid, maybe you do need to take a piss test.”
Little and waify, he curled himself over Jared’s anal-gape thickness and shoved down, rode and rode hard, and the distant sounds of retching and noisy messes left a little puddle of watery young spunk in Jared’s navel, left a thick wad of the usual in Jensen’s girl slit.
What they were measuring the quantity of, Jared never said. But Jensen knew. They both did.
~
Jared (still, eternally) looks like something that came to life on Jensen’s birthday candle wish: ungroomed, hardly washed, a shreddy faded old Bauhaus shirt with the sleeves ripped off and baggy along the throat. Neck sweat, suck-pink mouth, something lit hanging out of it.
Jared’s always been the sort of beautiful that calls for violent fuckings and teary recollections.
Just looking at him makes Jensen run his tongue over his cocksucker tattoo, makes it plump up with yearning.
“Damn girl. It’s been a hell of a minute,” Chad greets ‘em, interrupting cringingly.
In the dank dark dumpster hall, he one-arm hugs Alice, bro-style and quick, while still holding Jensen’s babysoft palm.
Jared backs up some, shadowed, and goes back to his oft silent state, gargoyled into the concrete wall.
“Murray,” she says, happy to see him. She doesn’t have any lipstick on her teeth at all. Jensen has it all over his lower face. His heart pounds ugly, gunshot hard. And he feels like a real poof, eyes bubbling up.
The little pig poker knife Jensen lifetime-borrowed at a flea market and keeps in his sock pressed against his ankle says that it’d kill to give the girl a really flattering Glasgow grin. But then, upsettingly, she’d only be even more divine. Like Jared’s book lady. And yet, he longs.
Jensen looks anywhere but at him, and couldn’t know that Jared is only looking at Jensen, down at Jensen’s hand still wrongly stuck in Chad’s.
Chad, who erupts.
Shows her his new smiley piercing, tells her about the shit they’ve been up to since, man, when was it, carnival in Salem, yeah, that’s right, hey who’s been doing your ink – and he won’t let go of Jensen’s polished pretty fingers, even when Jensen’s standing there all quiet and quivery, his favorite I ♡ ANAL crop top showing his hard-heaving belly beneath his open vest.
“Um,” Jensen says, test tugging.
Chad delivers a wicked sort of wink his way.
“Um,” he says again, softer, for himself, but it’s smothered with a too-low, too-lethal, “What is this?” that takes a stuttering second for Jensen to realize came from Jared, animaled out.
“Oh fuck, right. Forgot the introducts.” Chad's on some deathwish drugs, maybe, talking over a Jared who’s suddenly close again and very, very large. Only ash on his tongue now.
“Chad,” Jared says, courtesy kill.
Jensen wiggles his fingers, desperate, dire. And a bonus ill-timed fatty is growthspurting in his shorts.
Bullet-graze, fire-singe, John Doe close to something chilling, Jared says, “Give him back.”
Happy to keep all his teeth as souvenirs, Chad does of course, drops Jensen’s makeup-sticky hand which gets immediately scooped up by Jared’s coiling fist, and then Jensen’s going tumbling down the hall again, barely on his toe-tips, back the way they came, and he can hear Chad saying, “Jenny, this is m’girl Alice. Alice, that’s Jared’s – well. That’s Jared’s.”
Clown-mouthed and shaking with the need to be dangled on the end of a pony cock, Jensen thinks that’s all he’s ever really wanted to be.
~
His favorite bedtime story is the cemetery love affair one. To a tiny sapling boy in a coat of glitter mascara and safety pin ballpoint tattoos, there was nothing greater. Or more idyllic.
Jensen read Please Kill Me: The Uncensored Oral History of Punk so many times that the back cover tattered off, lost in an old school locker. Certain pages marked with red pen-hearts.
Having Jared only makes the idea of being buried together sound not just charming, but crucial.
~
A mad Jared isn’t a mean Jared. At least not with Jensen. He’s muted and in his head and making murder spree plans.
That’s how his eyes look anyway. Chloroform ready, trash bag silenced.
He does Jensen, once and fast and right next to a Pepsi machine. The old, ancient kind that hiss and hum and’ll cost you six quarters before anything pops out. And it’ll be 7Up instead of cherry cola.
Jensen’s legs knot up around Jared’s wasp-born waist and Jared doesn’t talk at all, not to say ride it or eat it or dirty little bitch like he sometimes will. He feeds his undry dick into Jensen, rude and no time for games, and Jensen spoiledly enjoys how Jared leaks like crazy, how much DNA he leaves behind.
Slutty forgetmenots.
Jensen never will.
But he looks at the cement bed at Jensen’s back, only touches him where he’s holding him up, and it feels more argument than ardent all the way through. He doesn’t kiss Jensen at all.
It’s a skeletal victory when Chad and Alice walk by as Jared’s stuffing his boy-scented dick in his pants and Jensen’s pulling his daisies back into place.
When Alice pauses unsure, almost steps right in the dribble spills on the floor.
When Jared mumbles “laters” to them and horseshoes a deadly hand around the back of Jensen’s neck and pushwalks him out of the back lobby, quiet as gravestones.
“11 skulls found. A grisly head in the refrigerator,” an old headline said.
~
(Two lovers in the bedroom and the other starts to shout.)
~
If it’s punishment, it doesn’t feel like it.
Jared’s face is a fantasy a nightmare could never know.
“I’m sorry,” Jensen tries to say, because an apology seems appropriate despite not knowing what it’s rooted to, what he did. He did something. But Jared ignores it, says, “Further.”
And everybody knows that Jensen Ackles, 14 ½ and 86 lbs, is liquid-muscled, made of silks, so this is easy. He almost tried out for the cheer team before they broke the news to him that he wouldn’t get the Barely Legal skirt uniform like the others. Jensen’s seen his own dick upside down.
When his bowtie thighs are balanced in the air, his spine sloped in an upward pinup curve, Jared leans back against his bunk pillows and nods.
“Pretend it’s me,” he says.
Alarmed, Jensen’s head spins like bad molly, Jared, Jared, I—
Flash of cobra eyes. A matching tongue flicking at a couple of teeth, darkly clinking metal against enamel. “No one’s listening, shh. Go on. Pretend.”
But Jensen – can’t. He can’t. There’s a shape and a flavor to Jared that’s unmatchable. Jensen’s tiny pink thing is too irrelevant to consider. He’s not even hard.
The perma-incense smell of the bus thickens, someone putting a fresh stick between the wooden stripper’s hands, giving her her pole back. A bumpy-road spill of gas mart tequila. Jeff telling the Guntersville jail cell orgy story again. Snowball in the litterbox. Chad doing Chad things.
Make believing won’t be happening, not even fractionally, but Jensen still earns the Good Girl I.D. bracelet he found in some uptown darling’s Chanel hobo. Asthma-breathy and folded in two like a love letter, salacious, he does it.
Dear Jared. Love, Jensen.
Pulls his knees back until they’re poking up beside his red-rush ears and just – goes for it. Cranes up with his neck, sucks in near his ribs, and licks his own bubblegum dicktip.
He feels narcissistic immediately. Gets his gay-gorgeous mouth around it fully like a pacifier and gives one hard suck just to feel his stomach shake. ‘This is what Jared tastes,’ he thinks, reckless, and closes his little eyes through an admittedly professional blowjob. He’s, like, really good at this.
And halfway through it, Jared sticks his B-chord finger in the fucked-daily slip of Jensen’s ass.
Jensen’s always been pretty in a pearl necklace.
~
Six miles before the Kent exit, Jared touches his mouth to Jensen’s new hair that’s the delicious color of coke binges. Plays with it. Smiles. “Love it,” he says, and Jensen hears something else.
Down on Hail Mary knees, Jensen unteeths Jared’s zipper, takes out his favorite shade of rose. Touches his mouth to it. Plays with it. Smiles. “Love it,” he giggles, and Jensen means something else.
He ends the night looking up at Jared’s seraphic face, serenely gargling his baby’s babies.
~
“Those penis and butthole guys?” Jeff’s morning-wood voice said, somewhere outside of the curtain one drizzly 8:34 a.m., complete sincerity.
Jason almost shat himself laughing, and it was enough to wake Jensen from his peaceful doze, head pillowed on Jared’s bare crotch where he’d fallen asleep attempting to set some dicksucking record. (It was later confirmed that he was successful. Miss Pinched-Nose Deepthroat 2016.)
“No, you fucking fossil,” Adri said, smile coating her crass. Corrected him.
Jeff grumbled, said lazy around the lip of a bottle that he had a vague remembrance.
“But I don’t recall any of this ‘2D romance’, shitheads.”
“What the fuck,” Chad said, raccoon banging around the kitchen shelving. “They were definitely boning. On that couch probably. Seen how violated that thing was?”
“Fucking thank you,” Adri said. “Jeff, put your glasses back on.” Some key clicks, fast typing. Stone Temple Pilots. And Adri turned the volume up, barked at Momo to shut it, we’re proving a fucking point here.
“Listen, listen,” she shushed. Angled the lappy Jeff’s way so he could hear Butt-Head debating dying his hair Scott Weiland orange. And then Beavis’s quiet, coy, “you’d look good, Butt-Head.”
Jeff groaned. Sounded like an eyeroll so hard they spasmed out of the sockets and rolled away squishy.
“Nah, nah, for real.” Jason. “Show him Sober.”
Click click click, some early 90’s Maynard, Butt-Head talking about his future dream house. Too quickly picked up by Beavis: “But there’s only one bed.” Tinny pause. “Where am I gonna sleep?”
Chad, Adri, Momo (and secretly Jensen) all waited for the official ruling.
“A’right,” Jeff conceded at last. “Blondie mighta been after it, but that doesn’t mean...”
Jensen grinned gently against Jared’s pubic bone, tuned out of a debate that’d continue for years, and eyed Jared’s plump but limp cock thoughtfully, sleepily. Put the gorgeous thing in his mouth and nursed himself back to sleep on it as Momo dug up more evidence from the archives.
~
It’s a different morning, though, this one. Something sincere in the air, solemn.
He slips like an out of wedlock whore from under Jared’s death-heavy arm slung over his pale little belly, quietly unbraids himself from Jared’s other three limbs, slowly extracts the sleep-soft fifth from his ass, and creeps off.
He finds something quick to put on (a pair of Jared’s boxers he has to roll at the waist three times to get them to stay up on his hips, but it makes them stripper short and Jensen’s heart thumps softly) and wanders the bus.
Adri’s only just waking up, reaching for a pack and a zippo, one eye still dead closed and Jensen makes himself even tinier, insects into her bed, into her lap, and does nothing but hug and hug her.
She lets him.
Pats his back in the most non-maternal way he’s ever had done and he grins loose into her smokepit hair, feels the cherub smile grow on his face when she says “k, that’s enough”, wiggles him off of her, tells him that this close up, he smells like splooge.
He really, really worships her.
Saying thanks is hard. It’s always been, for him. He’s better using his sin-born mouth for wordless things. His point comes across truer that way. Plus he always, always means it. Dick is Jensen’s native tongue. And even though he probably wouldn’t even mind that much giving Chad a Thank You blowie – it feels wrong. There’s only Jared. And there’s only Jensen.
Instead, he does all the sweat-stain, blood-stain, come-stain, piss-stain (and in Jensen’s case, tear-stain) laundry when it comes time and even folds it somewhat prettily. Chad will understand this language.
~
“He’s drunk,” Jensen mumbles songfully, honeymoon-mouthed. “He tastes like candy, he’s so beautiful.”
Finishes lacing up a muddy pink sneaker.
The light slicing in through the bus windows brushes a holographic shimmer through Jared’s hair, over part of his sleeping beauty face.
Lord Courtney is never wrong with her words. Jensen will light a candle for her later.
After he wakes Jared up with a good morning kiss to his throatfucker dick. Strawberry lollicock.
~
Day 3 is part of a fest.
It’s Seattle, so the energy is high and the ass is in abundance. Walking titmags and live action bukkake boys. Weatherman says today looks like bodily fluids drizzled thick.
The clothing’s optional, yes, but the devotion is mandatory. Everybody’s gathered to do some form of praying. Down on their knees for good fucking music, hymns, hands ready to bless the sky. Jensen feels a soothing sense of home. Sunday mass in an outdoor cathedral.
He weaves through the booths and carts decorating the front entrance walkway, all the way out into the field area. T-shirts and albums and stickers from all the bands on the lineup. Handmade jewelry up on racks, in cases, specialty black-light vegan makeup, a mobile bong and pipe store. Just nosing around, seeing what kind of shit he can get up to before his favorite band goes on and other things in the world stop mattering again.
Jensen passes a group of kids wearing the gagball pig face on their cheeks like an earned teardrop tattoo and his initial punkbaby instinct is to sneer. But he ends up smiling. Nods at one of the little sissyboys who’s probably who Jensen was five years ago. Pre-Cock Queen.
Somewhere in the crowd, someone’s testing out their new glasswear. The air turns sweetsour green. He lets his lost and found LA FACE WITH AN OAKLAND BOOTY tee (that was left on the front floorboards and probably belonged to one of Adri’s zipcode hos) drape off one freshly freckled shoulder and shoves his way through the bodies, sniffing out the source.
Maybe he’ll make some friends.
~
The band has rituals. Not Keith Richards-rituals, but rituals.
Before a show, Momo will usually set something on fire. The press-on nail someone found in an undisclosed place on the bus. A 'papier-mâché' nutsack Chad made that’s just a couple of balled up taco wrappers with a bendy straw shoved between. A sprig of pubes. Some honey packets.
Adri smokes half a ciggy exactly and puts the remainder in The One Beer Can.
When the band speaks of it, it even sounds capitalized.
Jensen still isn’t sure how anyone determines one can from the next but somehow everyone else seems to identify it fine, every time.
Jeff sharpens his short handle trench knives. Jared hmms the chorus of Christian Woman and beats his meat just a little.
(It’s really a good thing, Jensen is sure, that Jared declined the Peter Steele-esque offer for a foldout spread in some popular nu-metal softcore mag, full frontal glory immortalized. Jensen’s chafey dick can only handle so much stimuli. Plus he’s kind of snapjaw possessive, already.
4ever.)
~
“Okay, but I thought—” Jensen stopped, chewed viciously at his stubbornly stubbed thumbnail. Re-sorted his heart, ran through his brain. Then he pouted hard. “I thought Jared—”
Chad lifted a brow, one that had two neat razor slices in it. He was still sitting on the toilet lid in the bitty bathroom where Jensen had stuffed the two of them into, door closed and locked peculiarly. Nobody ever locked it. But this was locked-diary stuff here. Powder room secrets.
“I thought he liked dick,” Jensen said, shrill. It bounced pathetically in the small space. “I. I mean—That girl.”
A quiet Chad made an uneasy Jensen.
“I get it, I think. She’s so—she’s so.” Overwhelmingly unfaulted. A savage sort of stunning. “But.”
Chad got up before Jensen could finish up a thought or a breath. The shoulder-knock might’ve been on purpose. It hurt a little. Before it hurt a lot. And so quiet it was almost nonverbal, Chad said, “She has one. Don’t be an asshole.”
“Oh,” Jensen said, alone again, alone deservedly. And felt every bit of his young, dumb, shitcrumb age.
~
There’s been minimal bloodshed and alcohol poisoning thus far in the day, but it’s just past five in the afternoon and only pussy bands have played so far. Wait a couple hours and add in some piggy metal and faces will start to morph into an artist’s canvas, a gallery in shades of red.
Jensen licks his lips at the fruitful thought.
But for now he’s been hanging around the First Aid tent, peachy jailbait butt in the air, halfheartedly flirting with one of the cuter EMTs.
His sticky nametag says he’s Dameon and that he’d love to save your life today.
His flustery smile also says that he’d love to hold Jensen’s hand while he softly eats him out for hours, and he’s got the eyes of a shyboy that keep sweeping around virginally when Jensen, happy and high, starts observing all the alternate uses for medical equipment. But really it’s just for bullshit. A timepasser. Something to do while the band rehearses some cover stuff.
Well, for Jensen it’s bullshit.
He couldn’t know that the poor sucker of a soul will be dazed and drunk for months to come on a tiny boy wearing a half-eaten candy garter on his thigh and Jared’s guitar pick chained around his throat.
“These groups are – cool,” Dameon says, when a pit veteran he’d been working on stumbles back out with his head gash patched up, back to GA, fingers horned up.
“Yeah,” Jensen agrees, twisting his ankle all bored busty babysitter.
It’s adorably apparent Dameon’s talking out of his ass. He probably likes watery Top 40 sludge. But he’s attempting something here. Jensen bats his new toy around a little more, just to see it spin. “It’s one continuous orgasm.”
Predictably, Dameon’s high cheeks go a merry magenta. “Are you—” rapid schoolcrush blink, “here to see anyone in particular?”
“Mmm, yeah, maybe.” See, hear, suck, swallow. “Pig boys. You heard ‘em?”
“Not. Not really,” Dameon admits, softened down. He’s being fiddly with ointment packs and gauze thingies but his eyes linger wartime longingly on Jensen’s mouth. “Isn’t one of them a chick though?”
Jensen finds him precious. Like week-old mutts and movies with only an R rating. So pure.
He bites the plumpy pout of his candy-tacky lip just to toss a bone, give the guy a new dream. He laughs like a sweetheart, says again, “Yeah, maybe. But the drummer’s got the biggest hog of ‘em all.”
“Uh.”
“I’m talkin’ kneegrazer.” Jensen’s in such a good mood today. Glowy. Radiant. Fuck, maybe he is preggers. “I’d sit on it if she let me.”
The stretcher in the corner seems dangerously near being used by Dameon himself – the guy looks really fucking faint, swoony – if Jensen doesn’t shut his hole and soon. But Jensen’s never been very good at that. So.
The nasty little creature with head-breath drifts merrily away (kiss blow, goodbye soldier) and leaves dizzy, dumbfounded Dameon to think about daddy dicks and diamond-hearted boys for the rest of the heatwave day. He wanders to the next booth, and the next.
~
Danni’s brother has favorite adult film stars. He calls them that, too, like that makes him classier and more distinguished and not just some fuckboy with his stubby dick in his fist.
He likes the ones that do it all. There was one girl that was known for saying Yes on film to anything – barring children, animals, and anything dead. She’s one of Jensen’s idols. Though he doesn’t remember her name.
When Jared says drink it, Jensen does.
When Jared says sit down on it, Jensen takes a seat.
When Jared says “cry on my dick,” Jensen always will.
But he doesn’t even really need to be told. Only allowed.
~
“Steady, steady,” Jensen can still hear Jason saying, the night of the butch brawl that the band kept playing through, note for punch, riff for kick.
Can still feel the bus wheels rolling over poor-town train tracks that made Jensen’s knees buzz and numb; pastel pink nails digging restlessly into his own frail flesh. Still taste the oozy saliva backing all thirty-one teeth. Smell the thick of Jared’s after-hours cock coming out of his worn out jeans like bookmarked porn.
See pretty pretty Jared leaning against the bunk railing, pants down, shirt lifted up to show his Betty Ford belly, flat and starved and jumping with tension, how Jared laughed, drowsy-smiled.
How he mumbled to Jason while he looked at Jensen, “you try being fuckin’ steady when that’s waiting for you”, how that meant Jensen, how it sounded like words Jensen shouldn’t have heard.
Still remember Momo holding the rosebulb tip of Jared like such a fucking bud, keeping him parallel, Jared too shaky and wired to hold anything but his own beautiful body upright.
Can still picture Adri coming in from the drug lab kitchenette, holding a baggy and a red plastic Dairy Queen spoon. How she smoothed a little of the stuff between her bottom lip and her gums, how she said, “all set?” and didn’t care if anyone answered or not, she was doing it. Fuck bitches, get money.
Laid a laughably uneven line of carnation white from the head of Jared’s cock to the edge of his sweat-matted pubes.
And like a dream’s oilspill mirage, Jensen can still so clearly recall Jared weak-handedly grabbing for his phone, almost dropping it, shuttering off photo after photo of Jensen snorting Hell off of Heaven.
~
This one’s a trinket trap.
Magnets and bumper clings, little chinese bamboo fans that really aren’t bamboo at all but plastic painted dull brown. They probably cost $1 for a box of twenty. But they come in blues and reds, threaded through with rich gold patterning and they’ve got little dangle charms too.
Jensen picks one up, unfolds it, covers the lower half of his face and doll-lashes at the mirror.
He looks cute. He looks like he’d fuck your dad dry while mom’s weeping into the petunias.
Jensen wants it desperately, but he puts it back. No funds and no more prostituting mouth.
“I totally fucking saw his dick on YouTube.”
It’s a couple of girls dressed in mismatched black. New black, wet black, blue black, fuzzy pilled-sweater black. They’ve got more titanium on their faces than actual face, and paling vampire mouths. The boy with them looks like a rotten vine, hair in greasy coal strings.
“Pause it at 2:49,” one of the witch den says. “I screenshot it last week. Look.”
They could be talking about anybody, but Jensen has to know. He’s a roach. And concerned only with that which lays within their grey cloud, they don’t notice the little sunshine thing peeking into it.
Momo.
Of course it’s Jason’s jimmy. Of course it’s on the internet. Of course someone has it as their lockscreen already. He’s got a snapping koi dragon inked all along it. It’s fine art either way, though.
“Swear I’d die just to be punched in the face with that,” one mouth lust-sighs, and the boy with them flutters violently in the background. “He’s single, isn’t he? Actually. Aren’t they all?”
“Please, oh god,” another ghouly says. “LaVey.” Runs an opaled translucent finger over the screen, but her eyes are closed. Jensen’s over this booth. Puke puke puke. “Tell me Jared’s accepting a harem. I’m on my back already. Cunt me.”
Sharp whine. Jensen thinks it’s the boy.
“And like, when he fucking smiles.”
Yeah. Jensen’s not leaving this booth now, not yet.
Lessons learned in tears don’t wash off.
He buries his ankles in the ground, bows out his knees even more, and squeaks out his voice to something kittenish, non-threatening. “I heard JP’s been swept up already. I think.”
Lots of white-out contacts, some coffin black. They blink at him, suddenly aware of Another.
“Speak. Tell us.” They shift as one. The shop guy now at their backs makes a spoiled meat face, flicks his shades back down.
“Um, yeah,” Jensen says, swishing the toe of one chuck back and forth in God’s dirt. “Someone got him to, like, settle down.” The most darling lie Jensen’s ever tasted, but it feels so good going down. Their shushed gasps alone are worth it. They shadow in closer. Jensen twirls at a lock of lapdancer white falling on his forehead. “He’s been bitten.”
Which is some sort of black magic word because Jensen swears they start levitating.
“What do you mean?” they cry. “When. How.”
“Oh gosh, I don’t know. It happened on this tour, though. Some sites are saying he Nancy’d up some lucky fucker and takes ‘em to every show. But locked on that big fucking bus, too swollen with load after load to move. Like, weighted and waiting. I dunno.” Jensen’s own bullshit is making him have to clamp his legs Catholic girl tight. “It’s mostly criminal though, I bet.”
“Fuckingkillme,” the boy finally says, and his voice is well-bottom deep. Nothing like Jensen expected.
“I can see it,” matte black lips say. “Heard that guy’s a sick puppy, too.”
“So sick,” glossy black agrees.
“The sickest,” Jensen echoes, nodding like a dashboard Jesus.
They leave the little area in a plume of mournful doom, funeral veils pulled down for the occasion, the somber news of Jared Padalecki’s betrothal grounds for an emergency session with the Ouija, not buying a thing. The shop guy goes back to reorganizing his junk trays.
“And I heard his bitch’ll cut a bitch,” Jensen calls out after them. “Hashtag psychotic!” Murmurs between his canines, tell all your friends.
~
When the battle dust’s settled and his cat-scratch claws have been re-sheathed, Jensen takes in the shop owner fully: beard in a little braid touching his chest, lots of scalp ink, a Donnie Darko shirt. And a too-seeing look on his goddamn smirky face that makes Jensen think oh shit.
“So,” he says, sunglasses up on his dome.
“Real nice place, mister,” Jensen says, scooching out. But the guy jams a stick into his mouth, lights up. Holds the softpack out like jail yard nicotine negotiations. Jensen’s so easy.
“So I take it you’re with,” puff, puff, smile, “the band?”
And Jensen fucking blushes, radically, from his hairline to his tits. Feels hooked and caught, trapped. But also – kinda set free.
Cuz this ain’t just about Fuckpig...right? It’s not even really about Fuckpig at all.
“Yeah.” Toys with his smoke. Itchy. “Yeah. But listen, don’t. Don’t say anything, okay? I don’t think it’s— I’m probably not supposed to—”
“Anyway, talent and crew get 50% off,” he says, over Jensen’s stumbled stammer. “But you can pick something out for free. I’m feeling gifty.”
Jensen breathes. High and rattled and sharp through his nose. Releases when he’s decided this isn’t horseshit.
A perfectly nice stranger among a million walking abortions. Huh. And he doesn’t even have to lick anyone’s rancid fuck-stick.
He gets his dinky little fan and a pair of girl-pretty sunglasses, too. Puts them on right away.
“Real nice place, mister,” he says, shivery happy this time. Yes, he’s with the band. Damn right bitch.
~
7:30, half an hour til stage time.
Day just darkening, Jensen gets the box of snouts they brought in with them to pass out and wanders the second stage GA area, groups and singles and couples half a toke away from having security drag them out by their grinding genitals. Hands out little pink pig noses hung on elastic strings to anyone who wants one. Jensen starts to run out in just under ten minutes.
Alice, both expectedly and unexpectedly, is there in the uncalm of the crowd, with her friend again.
She sees Jensen and Jensen sees her, and time doesn’t fucking stop or anything, not with everyone psyching out and chanting already, but it pauses for a timewarp instant, just long enough to remind Jensen that they’ve both held Jared’s heartbeat in their throats. Had Jared love them for a breath.
She doesn’t smile, neither does he.
But he does reach down and dig out the last few oinkers he’s got left. Gives her friend one, gives Alice two. She takes them, and when she looks back up to the stage, dismissive, her doublestacked lashes show a sheeny hint of wet hurt. Watching from the rails is all she’s got left.
He tosses the emptied out cardboard onto a pile of garbage next to an overfull waste barrel.
She’s brave, Jensen thinks. Is all he can think. Without Jared now, Jensen would be a past tense name.
~
(Little lover’s in the distance as she wipes a tear from her eye.)
~
He doesn’t see it coming because he’s facing the other way.
Walking feline and questionmarked to crisscross through the bodies. Standing, sitting, shoving, smacking. Limbs everywhere. A body garden. Jensen’s snaking through it all, weaving the web of blankets out near the grass hill, looking for the dude who was just charitying out pink lemonades and lukewarm water, when it comes car-crashing into him, no airbag, all metal.
It being the big, 10-fucking-foot tall guy in a pig mask and kneerip jeans.
The one who hauls him up like a troublesome tantrumming toddler, little bones held safe within big ones, and slams him ass first into an empty Honey Bucket stall, the fifth one in a row of twenty.
~
It’s an aquamarine dream.
More suffocating than a solitary cell, less padded than a loony bin. And for a moment, the only thing Jensen can raggedly think is it’s still somewhat clean.
Jared is skinny, but he’s strong, and the breadth of his back must look like wings when he holds Jensen up against nothing but air and does him standing up, bringing him down on his porn-prince cock again and again, always on mute, licking Jensen’s cheek like bad men in ice cream trucks.
“Jared, Jared,” Jensen says, arms clutched around Jared’s veined-out neck, damselish, but no sound ever actually comes out. It’s just sketches and drafts.
Jared kisses him. Not just tongue, but lips too. Almost moral. It feels nervous.
And embarrassingly, too-reactively, Jensen starts moaning for it. Eyelashes flapping around at his cheeks, thighs working frantically to pull more of Jared into him, soak him, and he never sees the look on Jared’s face when Jared brings their temples together, says beside Jensen’s ear, “maybe.”
~
They leave together. In a stink of sex, they duck out.
The mask is back on Jared’s face. Jensen’s blue cotton girl-section panties are hanging out of Jared’s back pocket, stained all milky and puppy loved.
And best of all, worst of all, nobody even knows that that weird little kid who walked funny before and walks even funnier after just got turned inside out on the dick of a guy who’s about to take the stage in less than five.
They’ll have no knowledge that the fingers beating the strings smell like fresh cunt, that the forever-freshman snarling every single fuckdrip song with a kiss-busted lip is all wifed up sticky on the inside, that things were changed and words were said, and that nobody has ever felt their one exact feeling.
Jensen maybes him, too. Jensen maybes Jared so so so much.
~
1 lovebuzzed Jensen 1 post-show Jared = a hundred beautifully bad decisions.
~
After three of those tummy-yummy ice cold strawberry lemon freezes and a few panting sips at the fountain, Jensen’s almost bulging with it.
Probably how three months along would look on a sprout like him. It's a leg buckling thought.
“Yo, Jace,” Jared says, kneeling down in the murder red glow of the bus’s taillights. “You feel like getting flagged on instagram tonight?”
It’s just like pulling out a six-figure ring, feels just as paralyzing, as storybook, when he tugs Jensen’s trailerpark girl hipbones closer ‘til he’s stood fawn-like between Jared’s squat-spread thighs.
Phone in hand, Momo rushes over, long tongue rolled out on a sadist’s grin.
Confused but trusting, Jensen doesn’t move. Not when Jared starts messing with Jensen’s zipper, snicks it down. Not when he scoops Jensen’s dick out that looks even younger in Jared’s big adult hand. Not when Jared looks up, smiles too soft to be a wakeful moment, says, “Just go. It’s okay.”
Jason gives a quick thumbs up: Recording.
Recording everything but Jensen’s little illegal face.
“I can’t,” Jensen starts to say, red as a whore’s toenails. But Jared’s watching, and waiting, and something floating behind his once-in-a-lifetime eyes is saying how much more yours do you want me to be?
And Jensen lets go.
It’s so much. This flying-moth feeling is so much. Jared wears gold like a king.
~
Within an hour, it’s pulled. But not before it got 3.7k likes, 152 comments, and whatever whatever that Jensen can’t keep track of.
The world knows now. Jared is someone’s.
~
An old song of Jeff’s is playing when they skunk up the bus stairs, all piss-wet, kiss-wet nasty.
Cockroaches in new light, everyone scatters away from Momo’s phone when the door shuts. And then the applause crashes in. Junkie warbling. Chad hurrying his way to Jared with a stolen motel towel.
“White chalk, written on red brick…” Jeff’s doing something that sounds more like a grating chuckle than real words.
Adri beats a hard tune on her harder thigh. “Our love, told in a heart.”
Jensen’s bubble-eyed and empty-bladdered, and still really, really confused until someone turns the volume up high as it’ll go and every last son of a bitch on the bus joins in to go hard on it. “I love Jennifer Eccles.” Brassy whistle like surround sound. “I know that she loves meee.”
“Holyfuck,” Jared says, stilled, dragging a soggy wad of hair out of his eyes, not a droplet of embarrassment for Jensen’s liquid contents drying in river-tracks all down his neck, but color all along his nose and cheeks for what’s happening in here. Momo’s headbanging.
Jared bows his head and shame-walks it to the bathroom, flipping everyone off along the way, motherfucker by motherfucker. And he’s dimpling up, just a little.
~
A life’s chapter away from this open-heart moment, though Jensen couldn’t know it now, the band will stop at a place to get bacon fries and smoothies, will Beatle-walk a couple blocks to Amoeba Music.
Jensen will wait outside. He’ll sip the rest of Jared’s bananaberry drink, chew on the straw, leave traces of the unicorn-lilac lipstick he’s taken to wearing along the kinked edge of it.
They won’t be long.
Jared will come back out after a few and sit beside him on the curb, hawk spit into the street, seduce a cig out of the box with those fucking fingers, share it together.
They’ll re-board, travel on.
And somewhere between here and nowhere, Chad will look at Adri will look at Momo will look at Jeff will look at Jared will look at Jensen and Jared’ll tip his chin, concede, and someone will eventually say, “wanna add something?” and Jensen will take painful beautiful eternities to realize they mean him, they’re talking to him.
He’ll baby blink and slutgirl swallow, and he’ll stare salty at his bare toes for a minute. He’ll nod noiselessly. He’ll know this means the whole fucking world.
Jensen won’t have to go searching. Won’t have to make a new purchase anywhere.
He’ll find his faded red cheetah print backpack all holed over and lived-through and he’ll dig graves until he finds it. It’ll be stored safe between smudgy pages of his dollar store spiral. Music that he’s going through puberty with, that’s modeling him into a truer shape, that he lost his love-cherry to.
You can only fall in love for the very first time once.
Fuckpig. CUNTWRECKER.
Goes up onto the wall. Takes the empty little space next to Jared’s grungebaby collection.
~
Everybody’s awake.
Everybody, though involved in their own conversations and existing through various levels of inebriation, can hear Jensen’s hormonally sharp breaths, Jared’s 10-inch grunts.
The noises of opening pink.
Everybody on the vehicle knows what’s happening behind the Hello Kitty-printed bedsheet that lives as Jared’s brothel curtain, heavy duty stapled up onto the wooden railing.
Even if they don’t see Jared pulling Jensen’s head far, far back so he can suck at Jensen’s lips til they’re a glossy, fatter red, they’re aware.
There’s a smell that cherry jasmine incense and the after-cling of someone else’s roadwhore’s body spray on their clothes can’t dampen down. The scent of Jensen’s ass on Jared’s cock.
It’s one of Jeff’s very favorites.
And this is the slowest Jared’s ever done him.
~
It feels too much like relief when Jared slicks into Jensen’s body. When he turns him over and does him convict-style, Jensen drooling into the sheets from two places, Jared holding him down like don’t move, you little fag and it makes Jensen sigh all hot and huge and in love.
His lashes feel dragqueen heavy, throat expanding on words he knows he’s not ready to say.
It’s too soon and he’s too little and it won’t sound like enough. Or it’ll sound like too much. And Jared wouldn’t say it back anyway.
So good, so fucking good when Jared pulls his cheeks apart, red and rosy and love-colored from being bred often. When Jared runs needy fingers along the rubberbanded stretch of Jensen’s stuffed asshole, rubs the paled out pink of it, groans soft like he’s been stabbed where it matters.
Young pussy is the best pussy, and Jensen’s got the prettiest one ever made.
He used to look at it in one of his gran’s vintage handheld silver mirrors when he was littler, loved to make it wink and pucker. It must look beautiful right now, around Jared. He milks a small squeeze with it, just to feel Jared lose it a little behind him. He sounds so husband.
Jared thick-dicks him for ages, whoring him open so good. Drags out, beats back in, and talks in that way he has that requires no letters in his words.
So when he does speak, it feels like the smallest miracle.
“Wasn’t gonna do it,” with his forehead pressed to the back of Jensen’s spine. Where Jensen can’t see him. Jared’s smart. He doesn’t get cornered. But he does get tormented. Noises little hurt sounds against Jensen’s angelbaby shoulder blade even while he fucks the devil out of him.
~
When Jensen gets it, he shoves up with his elbows, goes to his back. He's best on his back. Mama made him magazine pretty, it's not his fault. And he has to do this face to face.
Jared sighs, gaspy, recenters Jensen down on him. Gets both gymnastic elastic knees under his palms and origamis Jensen in half.
"Kiss me," Jensen says, in a sudden fit of love. He needs it right now. Needs Jared to want him, need him, keep him; show him. Jensen's overwhelmed, verging emotional. He's seen Snapped. He gets it now. Understands those women. "Please. You have to, you have to."
And for a very real minute, it seems like Jared could just fade him out. Clamp a hand to his mouth, press a shiv to the kidney, pull out and roll over. Deal with the messy stuff later. But, from the beginning, from the moment they touched, Jensen's been the messiest, sorriest little boy and Jared likes to keep him unclean.
It's a scary kiss, with three tongues and a monstrous, growing love, and they choke on it again and again. Jared hugs him, and shhs him, and one fuck blurs into the next.
~
“Look at you,” Jared says, “fuck. Look.” His throat sounds slit.
And Jensen's just glad that Jared is. Looking. At him. Because sometimes it feels like there's a ghost in bed with them. Something long-decayed but real once. Too real. Like maybe – maybe Jared stares at him because if he closes his eyes, someone else will be lurking in the shadow of his pulse.
He pushes Jensen’s half-shirt high up on his back, rucks it up to puddle at his neck noose-like. Jared can’t see Jensen’s LA face right now, but he’s making frantic love to the second part of that lyric. Jensen’s already sore-holed and seeded twice, punchy noises leaving him on every wet thrust.
Jared enjoys the look of Jensen’s extra small hands on his extra big dick, hot and gummy at the tip for it, said once that it looked like porn you can’t find in a store, teddy bear dreams. But tonight he grips Jensen between the legs, soothes him there, and it feels like a kick to his little loins.
He gets tummy tickled and rib-rubbed and Jared's instrumental hands slide up to hold on to his sweet teen tits. Jensen hangs his head and doesn't care that his bouncing stiffy is spitting white romance everywhere, everywhere, that he's half a comestain away from crying for real.
~
He likes it when Jared nails him like a dog.
When he makes Jensen snuffle and whimper, bury his face in his paws. When Jared mounts him like a big show pedigree, Jensen’s skinny wet pink dripping clear. When they howl together.
Jensen goes dreamy for it, woofs like the most grateful stray. Jared always keeps him fed full.
Staying on your hands and knees for extended periods of time is a neat trick Jensen only had to learn once. Good boy, good boy.
~
“I just wasn’t sure if you’d rather have,” Jensen says, miserable sounding. “If I wasn’t.”
Jared’s holding onto his babyless belly, nothing inside but slushy boylove from all the times Jared’s adored him, adored right into his cry-wet mouth.
“If that was your girl, you know, and I – was messing things up.”
Jared stops; the frothy, sloppy length of him still halfway buried in his little fuckdoll.
He looks like he’s rewinding back.
Looks like he didn’t expect Jensen to start going bitch suddenly and start barfing up his still unhealed heart. And now Jensen’s looking up at him with a wetness even the most lifelike of hand-painted marionettes couldn’t ever accurately possess, wondering why he had to go and say anything at all. Please keep fucking me, he thinks.
Jensen makes little fists around Jared’s decorated forearms, not ready to let go ever ever, but,
Jared closes his unknowable eyes at last. Doesn’t stop rawdicking him until Jensen’s legs and lips and heart are all shaking. “You’re my girl,” he says.
~
With an ivory-rimmed nostril and his freebie purple heart-shaped glasses on, Jensen lays in a nest of pillows, basking. He feels like a book cover, like a really filthy poem about Dolores Haze kinda children.
And Jensen knows now that you have to earn it; love things. You don’t take a blowdryer or a hammer to a pair of fresh Doc Martens. You walk in them. You earn the laces just like you earn your heart. Like the first time you listen to a CD all the way through, no skipping.
They might be in New Mexico now. Or it could be Reno. It doesn’t matter. Jensen’s still here.