obstinatrix | The Moon Is New

"Hey." Misha's voice rings clear as a bell through the thin panels of the door, light and teasing. "You coming outta there any time soon, kiddo? I know it takes it out of a guy, but you'll never get your breath back if you don't get something in your stomach."

"Man cannot live on protein alone," Matt puts in from somewhere a little further away, and then they're both tittering, Misha's obviously muffled against his hand. Jared sighs and pulls the pillow over his head.

"Not hungry," he calls out. Then, realising his mistake, he removes the pillow and tries it over. "Not hungry yet."

There's a brief pause, during which Jared can practically hear Misha fighting for control of his voice. Then Misha says, "Plenty for Jensen too, you know."

"Shit," Jensen mutters, hiding his face in Jared's collarbone. "It's Thursday," he hisses. "Misha's never here this time on Thursdays. He should be over at the wharf with Seb."

Jared rubs at Jensen's shoulder sympathetically, wide circles, smoothing out the wrinkles in his mussed shirt. "Guess he decided to stay home," he breathes into Jensen's hair. Jensen's hair. It's soft and it smells good, like lemon thyme, and Jared might be more upset about Misha's (really inevitable) prying, did he not have Jensen tucked up close against his side. As consolation goes, it isn't bad.

"Yeah," Jensen says, shifting his hips uncomfortably, "to humiliate me." Jensen's still wearing the underwear and suit-pants he came in -- in both senses. Jared knows it can't be comfortable, even if everything else is, mostly because he's in the same situation himself.

"Could go out the window," he suggests. Jensen snorts.

"Wouldn't give him the satisfaction. Knows I'm here anyway; I may as well own up so I can take a shower before I have to walk home." He takes a deep breath, and then, raising his voice, "Did you cook? Because if you cooked, I gotta politely decline, Mish."

There's some cut-off laughter, triumphal, on the other side of the door, quickly stifled. Then Matt says, "I cooked, actually. Meatloaf. Okay?"

"Okay," Jensen concedes, rolling over onto his back and stretching, spine pulling straight like a cat's. "In that case, thanks and we'll join you." He swings his legs over the edge of the bed and sits up, shaking out the muscles in his arms where they cramped when he was sleeping. When they were sleeping, Jared's head in the crook of Jensen's shoulder. "Gimme five minutes to clean up."

More laughter. Misha's voice, when it comes, is thick and smirking. "Sure thing."

From his easy sprawl on the bed, Jared smiles a little, studying the line of Jensen's back, the breadth of his shoulders under the ruined shirt. Jensen's still sitting there, head ducked a little, no sign of further movement, and while he's within reach, Jared can't help stretching out an arm to touch him, fingers brushing the strip of bare skin where his shirt has rucked up at the waist. "You knew he'd do that," he points out, gently. "He saw us in the bar."

Jensen laughs a little; turns and catches Jared's eye over his shoulder. "Yeah, well. Doesn't mean I don't get to boggle over just how predictable he is." His hand drifts almost casually to his throat, unhooking the first button, and then the next. "That's the bathroom right there, isn't it? Or is that a closet door? Do I have to go out?" And the next. And the next. Jared swallows.

"No," he says, faintly, "that's the bathroom. It, uh. It has two doors."

"Oh, I know," Jensen says. He's nearing his navel, now, the two sides of his shirt placket starting to part. "I've been in the bathroom before, Jared." And the next. And the -- last. "Just not in your room." Jensen stretches; rolls his shoulders and shrugs the shirt off and down his arms. It lands on the bed behind him with a soft rustle of cloth.

"Huh," Jared says, strained, and then, "...yeah."

Jared is a very articulate kid.

Jensen still hasn't moved, but his eyes have narrowed a little, green and steady on Jared's face. "What?" he demands lightly, but he knows. Jared has absolutely no doubt that he knows.

Jensen's back is like a goddamn work of art. Jared has never really paid much attention to anyone's back before, having always thought that the interesting parts lay elsewhere, but Jensen's -- he could look at Jensen's forever. Look, and touch, and --

He's so caught up in the sight of it, Jensen's bare pale shoulders and the wings of his shoulder blades, that he doesn't realise he's moving his hand until Jensen draws in a breath, sharp through his teeth. Jared's fingers look very dark against the sun-warmed ivory of Jensen's lower back, the ingrained tan of so many outdoor summers making a stark contrast with Jensen's Irish-white skin. There's a dip through which his spine runs, a long, shadowed valley, and Jared trails his fingers along the line of it, tentative. Jensen's skin is smooth here, downy, like the surface of a peach, and Jared feels his own breath shorting as he rubs the pads of his fingers over it, tracing the vertebrae of Jensen's spine.

For a long, long moment, that's the only sound Jared hears: the rush of his own breath in his ears, and Jensen's, low and soft, his body still and tensed beneath Jared's gentle touches. Like this, the curve of his spine describes a perfect, elegant line, dipping in sinuously above the waist, cresting up between his shoulder blades. His muscles shift beneath the skin with every exhalation, and Jared can't tear his eyes away; watches the slide and push intensify as Jensen's breaths deepen. When his hands flatten in the centre of Jensen's back, it is almost accidental, a natural pursuit of his curiosity. The sound Jensen makes in response is not accidental at all, a tight, hitched groan in the back of his throat that makes Jared's blood rush violently southwards, cock twitching between his legs.

"Jared," Jensen says, voice gone deep and rough. Jared bites his lip, shoves his palms upward a little, relishing the drag of smooth skin against them, and waits for the what are you doing, but it never comes. Jensen's head drops forward, the upper knob of his spine jutting up under the skin at the nape of his neck. "Jared."

He sounds wrecked, wanting, and Jared's whole world narrows, immediate and fierce, to a single point: the faint sheen of sweat on Jensen's nape, the sliver of shadow cast by the uppermost vertebra upon his skin. He groans, the lurch forward instant and irresistible, and Jensen's soft moan when he seals his mouth there, over the vulnerable spur of bone, only strengthens the pull, makes Jared's belly flip dangerously.

"Jesus." It's almost a whisper, Jensen's body gone lax at that first touch of Jared's mouth, shoulders loose where Jared's hands have drifted up to grip them. He shifts a little, shaking his head so his spine slips under Jared's mouth, against his parted lips. "Yeah."

He has no idea what he's doing, Jared realises. A moment ago, Jensen was on his way to shower, clean off the uncomfortable residue of the clothed rutting that had been quite amazing enough for Jared; and now he's snugged up against Jensen's back, half-consciously pushing his cock against the small of it while Jensen moans under his mouth. He has no idea what he's doing, but Jensen likes it, is half-naked under his hands and breathing like a racehorse, and that makes Jared dizzy all on its own. The scrape of his teeth over the blunt crest of Jensen's spine is half-instinct, half-accident, but Jensen torques back under it, whimpers, and Jared moans reflexively against his back; laves his tongue over the faint red mark and bites down more firmly. When he pulls back, the bolt of bone is spit-slick and shining, the pink indentations of Jared's teeth marring the upper curve of it, and Jensen groans at the loss, one hand snaking back up over his shoulder to fist in Jared's hair, urging him back again.

"More," Jensen says, darkly, and it might have been begging but for the command in it, the steel undertone. "Suck."

There's no question of resisting that voice, and Jared has no desire to try. Jensen's skin tastes as good as it smells, warm and faintly salt with sweat, and his atlas vertebra fits snug in Jared's mouth as if it were fashioned for it. It's instinctive, by this juncture, just to go on sucking; to draw the blood hot and dark to the surface over the anterior arch of the bone, teething at it while Jensen shivers and jerks, breath stuttering out in a series of broken sounds. There's a bruise there, when he shifts lower; scrapes his teeth down the curve of Jensen's cervical spine to the centre of his back and flattens his tongue there. They're shifting against each other almost unconsciously, Jensen's back arching and curving in response to every scrape and bite and long, dragging lick; and Jared can't help but rut up against him. Jensen's thighs are spread as if to accommodate an erection, and his hips work incrementally even between the twitches and shifts of his back, the sudden long slides of his spine as he jerks forward when Jared hits a good spot. He's hard, Jared thinks; both of them so hard for this, and Jared doesn't even know what this is. Doesn't care, either, because it feels good enough to nip and bite his way over the whole span of Jensen's perfect back that he doesn't need to give any thought to it; slides a hand down from Jensen's shoulder without thinking, thumbs at the peaked nub of his nipple.

"Shit," Jensen spits, and the forward surge of his body is like a whiplash, violent and stingingly hard. His hand wraps around Jared's wrist, hard enough to grind bones, and it should hurt, Jared is dimly aware -- it does hurt, even, but for some reason the sudden dull ache only makes him trip over his breath, moan against the nape of Jensen's neck and fuck his hips forward.

"Jensen," he wrenches out, damp and strained, and Jensen breathes in tightly; pushes, and then there's smooth skin sliding under Jared's palm, the slight divoted edges of Jensen's ribs, the muscles in his stomach. Cotton over hardness, blood-hot and straining, and that's, shit, that's Jensen's cock against his palm, Jensen's cock, and Jared's going to die; keens helplessly against Jensen's back, because he isn't going to survive this.

When Jensen rolls his hips up, smooth shove of his dick into Jared's hand, every muscle in Jared's body seems to seize up, teetering on the edge of something white-hot and vertiginous. When he hears the sound of Jensen's zipper, fumbled open between Jensen's fingers and his own, he can't help but dig his teeth into his lower lip as if it will keep him from flying apart, shattering into a thousand pieces.

"Jensen," he's murmuring, damp and hot and pointless as he rocks against the small of Jensen's back, "Jensen -- Jen --"

"Sssh," Jensen chides, but his voice is shaking almost as badly as Jared's as he pushes Jared's hand lower, curling his fingers around skin like heated silk over iron, the fat jut of his cock. "Sssh, Jay, just -- shit --"

He's wet, Jared registers through the fug of imminent orgasm; his cock hot and thick in Jared's hand, slippery-slick with precome as he fucks into the tunnel of Jared's fingers. So fucking wet, more of it oozing from the slit as Jared's thumb flicks over it instinctively, Jensen's head falling back on a long groan as he lifts his hips and moves. From this angle, arm crooked around Jensen's waist, it's a lot like jerking himself, the motions coming easily enough, familiar under the foreignness of Jensen's cock in his hand, the particular curve of it, its weight and heft. Under other circumstances, he might have taken a moment to marvel, to collect himself, but like this, there's barely space even to breathe; time only to let muscle memory take over. It's fast, Jensen bucking his hips into Jared's strokes, the two of them working together now so quickly Jared can feel the blur of it, and Jensen's hardening impossibly further in Jared's hand, twitching on the edge of something heady and huge and --

"Fuck!" Jensen rasps out; rocks back against the aching bulge of Jared's cock in his pants; "Jared, fuck!" and he's coming, just like that, shooting hot and wet over Jared's knuckles and his own stomach and the mercifully bare floorboards. It's so violent that Jared can't bite back a sympathetic moan of his own; snatches his hand back to snap open the buttons of his pants the moment Jensen's thrusts have slowed. One brush of his thumb to the head of his cock, a shivering grasp of the shaft, and he's done, spurting copious and quick over the small of Jensen's back, slicking the gorgeous curve of it white.

"Oh, God," Jensen groans, as the spatter-wax heat of it hits him; "Jared --"

"Sssh," Jared pants, the moment he can find the breath, "Ssh, I just --" and then he's ducking his head, pulse still rushing hotly in every extremity as he scoots back on the bed, drags his tongue through the mess in the dip of Jensen's spine.

"Jared, fuck!" Jensen spits, voice high and shocked, but he isn't protesting, doesn't move away, and so Jared only holds him by the waist and licks him as the last bursts of arousal stutter out of him, electric; licks him till there's nothing between them but spit and sweat.

When the exhaustion hits him, it's delayed, spreading through him hand-in-hand with a wave of sudden clarity as he presses his forehead to Jensen's spine and breathes. Against him, Jensen is quite still but for the way his ribcage shifts with his breaths, but Jared's mouth tastes like his own come, earthy and bitter. Jared's mouth tastes like his own come, licked out of the hollows of Jensen's body, and Jensen -- Jensen probably thinks --

"Sorry," Jared tries, tentative, muffled in the dip of Jensen's spine, fighting a sudden spike of mortification. "I, um -- I don't --"

"If you say you don't know why you did that," Jensen breaks in tightly, "so help me, Jared, I will kick your ass." He turns, abrupt, and Jared can't help his little reflexive flinch, suddenly unsure. But then Jensen's leaning in, licking at Jared's mouth -- at his slick, filthy mouth, sucking the taste from his tongue until there's nothing left, and -- okay, clearly Jensen isn't disgusted. Jared relaxes incrementally, lets himself press back, and Jensen laughs a little, pulls him close.

"You," he mutters, "are gonna be the death of me. Jesus Christ, boy."

Jared laughs, wide-mouthed and pleased. "Hope not," he says around a grin, and kisses Jensen back.

By the time Jensen finally extricates himself to go shower, Misha and Matt seem to have given up on waiting, to judge by the silence in the apartment outside, evidently empty. The club will be open by now, Jared realises, glancing at his watch. It's late. He has a shift in half an hour, which is barely time to eat if he has to take his own turn in the shower first.

Still. He somehow can't bring himself to feel too torn up about it. It's been one hell of an interesting afternoon.

It's a long time since Jensen's been disappointed to have been relegated to his own bed. Ordinarily it comes as a relief to him to be smiled at languidly by somebody who expects to have his space vacated when Jensen's done cleaning up, when the room reeks of sex and sweat and Jensen's heart is still going double time. He isn't what anybody would dare to label a 'cuddler'; rather, he's the sort of man you can always depend on to be out of your house before the dust has settled, long before there's any chance of being stumbled upon by the long arm of the law.

Not that there's a lot of raiding going on at the moment -- they aren't even paying particular attention to illegal alcohol joints, let alone the underground dens of vice that have always been there. But still, some people enjoy that level of safety, and Jensen has always been delighted to provide it. He likes his bed, likes his smooth, clean sheets, untouched by foreign skin, his soft-washed pillow. He likes to spread out, undisturbed and alone, and sleep however the hell he wants. Misha was the exception, but even then, Jensen only stayed with him afterward because they were friends and he knew how much Misha liked to be held. The whole thing, as far as Jensen was concerned, was a favour, and would never have happened if Misha hadn't fully understood the score.

With Jared, Jensen has the feeling he's the one who's possibly failing to understand.

He can't remember the last time he went slow like this, touching through clothes, mouthing at the long curve of Jared's throat in the darkness of the club, making out with him wet and deep and then pulling back, cock aching and unsatisfied while the look on Jared's face is somehow almost satisfaction in itself. His arms ache with the need to spread Jared out underneath him on his narrow bed, to skim his fingers over the smooth expanse of his chest, his long naked thighs, the golden tan that runs all the way down into the hollows of him. He wants to touch him, with his mouth and his hands, wants to find every secret place that makes Jared twitch and cry out, shove his hips up into the air, seeking Jensen's touch. He wants to fuck him, wants to sheath himself inside of him and get lost there, but -- that's the problem. The thick, unfamiliar pressure in Jensen's chest says he will lose his way there, in the heat of Jared's body, and Jared won't even realise how singular it is, how discordant with everything Jensen stands for. He will be Jared's first, the first man ever to burn a brand on his body, and it will mean so much to Jared, necessarily, that he won't understand how long it's been since Jensen has been as equally invested as his partner.

It's terrifying. Jensen doesn't scare easily, but he's scared by this.

Probably, he should stay away. He should check in with all of his regulars, see what needs to be done; take stock of his accounts and balance his books and bury himself in something that will distract him from the constantly present desire to bury himself in Jared. It isn't as if he has any business being sexually frustrated, after all. An orgasm is an orgasm, and he had several yesterday at Jared's hands, all of them torn out of him from somewhere deep-rooted and desperate. But the ache beneath his breastbone is like a craving for something other than that, something beyond, and while it's that uncharted factor that frightens him most, it's also that warning flutter that leaves him unable to settle, turning his thoughts towards the speakeasy as if magnetised. Three in the afternoon, and his brain hasn't stopped whirring all day, the papers before him only half-done, too many of them discarded in the wastebasket under the table. Jared's just some kid, says the rational part of his brain; he's just another long-legged street boy for Jensen to enjoy and overcome.

Then he lets himself think about him, about Jared's voice and his hands and the way he moves like he knows Jensen, and all his defensive walls tumble down under the hurricane force of it.

The bar generally gets busy around seven thirty on its popular nights. Jensen succeeds in unproductively pacing around his apartment until seven forty-five, at which point he decides to give his pride up for lost and head out. His heart is pounding under his ribs, pulse tripping sparks under the skin in his throat, but by this stage, he's almost used to that. He feels like a man deprived of his drug, like the ricket-legged, stumbling addicts he sometimes sees on the hunt for opium, and it's stupid, Jesus, it's ridiculous, but apparently it's just the way things are today. Jensen needs his fix: maybe just one time will satiate the craving.

In his core, he has no real hope this will prove to be true, but the thought serves to sustain him, provided he doesn't let himself dwell on it.

There's something at least a little reassuring in the fact that he's barely two steps into the speakeasy before Jared's grasping at his waist, smiling at him nervous and wide when Jensen turns around.

"Hey," Jared says, and he's pawing at him, all hands, working the buttons of Jensen's overcoat before Jensen even realises he's doing it. "Wondered if you were coming." He tugs the coat down Jensen's arms; leans over to hang it up on the hat stand by the door, and his every motion is jerky, distracted, like he'd rather be doing something else, something skin on skin. His eyes keep flicking back to Jensen's face, to his mouth, lingering there and skittering away again. Jensen feels his heart swell a little in his chest, hot and full.

"Course I was gonna come," he says, hand curving naturally around the strong, sharp line of Jared's jaw. It's an obvious line, he hears after he's said it, but Jared doesn't laugh; just turns his face into Jensen's palm as a slow blush rises, licking over his cheekbones. He's not the blushing kind, as a general rule, but when it does happen, it's genuine, and Jensen loves that authenticity in him, traces the flush of colour with the pads of his fingers.

"Come upstairs," Jared says, so low that, for a moment, Jensen thinks he's only imagined it, a wish blurred through the jangle of the music. He catches his breath, waiting, but then Jared's leaning in closer, mouth to Jensen's ear, reaffirming it: "I'm not on shift tonight -- I was just waiting for you. Come upstairs?"

Jensen wants, with a sudden visceral urge, to kiss him right there: pin him to the wall with an arm across his clavicle, fuck Jared's mouth with his tongue. "God," he says, when the crest of the wave has ebbed, "Jared -- sure." He glances over Jared's head, makes a quick, scanning survey. Misha's behind the bar, talking to Danni; Matt's at the piano, heard but not seen. Jensen lets his hand slip lower, curls it around Jared's wrist. "This way," he says, tugging a little. "Don't want to go up the main stairs in front of all those people."

The quirk of Jared's mouth is wide and unexpected. "You're shy," he accuses, sounding delighted. He flattens a hand in the centre of Jensen's chest, and Jensen flushes hot, starts to search for an answer; but Jared only pushes, clearly not needing one. "Come on, then." And he starts to move, until he is tugging and Jensen is tugged, two steps behind him with a hand around his wrist.

Jensen spares a thought for the shed skin of his overcoat, but Jared is moving already, the door open a sliver onto the night. The coat can look after itself, he thinks, and follows.

Upstairs, the apartment feels strange without Misha in it, dark and closed for the rest of the evening, but Jared crosses it easily, something determined and knowing in the way he moves, his hand still firm in Jensen's. Jensen's stomach twists a little, wondering what Jared is aiming towards; whether it's to fill the same hollows Jensen needs to. He's so young, and even in the light filtering in from the street, Jensen can see that: the narrow nip of his waist, his boyish hips, still cartoonishly smaller than his shoulders. The confidence in him is not the knowing gait of the whores Jensen's met, that cunning unsuited to their years, but a teenage kind of confidence, thrumming with nervousness, running on adrenaline. Jensen can almost smell it in the air as they move, feels as if he could draw it in with his breath, a kick of youthful courage. Jared doesn't know what it is he's wanting, but he knows he wants it. Jensen could almost come apart right here, thinking about it.

From the moment they reach the bedroom, Jensen can feel that things are different. It's the same room as before, but the look on Jared's face is different; the way he smiles as he shifts over towards the bed. Jensen can feel his own breath coming quickly, can hear Jared's, and they're no less desperate than last time -- Jared is no less nervous, even -- but his nervousness has taken on a different guise. The air seems to crackle where it touches their skin. The click of the door as it settles in its jamb resonates low and final. Jensen wets his lips, mouth abruptly dry. "Jared," he begins, gently, and then trails off.

Fortunately, Jared appears to have the situation more fully in hand. "Jensen," he shoots back, and it's level, almost practised. As if he'd planned this, rehearsed it, mouthing the words to himself, miming the actions. Take up a position by the bed, like so: legs astride, to show off the length of them, hands on hips for a moment, emphasising the arrowing of the body from shoulders to waist. Hold it -- wait until his eyes flash -- then cross the arms across the torso, take hold of the hem of the shirt, carefully unbuttoned already enough to pull over the head without incident. Lift the arms -- slowly. This much, Jensen thinks, through the increasingly hectic fog of his own breath catching in his head, Jared has rehearsed. He tosses the shirt to the floor, drops his arms to his sides, and God, this was premeditated, this was --

"Jensen," Jared says, again, and his voice is quieter, now, unsteady, as if he had expected Jensen to shift forward immediately -- as if this is where the plan ended. His shoulders are beginning to curl in, instinctive, protective. He takes a step back, and something in Jensen's dazed mind clicks, some fundamental neurone firing: move. This is the moment, the axis of everything, and it is Jensen's turn now, to act before Jared withdraws and the deck has to be painstakingly stacked again.

Jensen doesn't want that. If he could stand here, half-paralytic, and drink in his fill of Jared's smooth chest, his broad shoulders, the line of hair skimming down over his stomach from his navel, then he might have done it for hours, but he doesn't have hours. This is his chance, for this evening at least, and so Jensen takes it. "Yeah," he says, sharp and hurried, before Jared can curl into himself further. "Let's do this properly, Jared." His mouth is dry again, lips feeling chapped where they catch against his teeth, but his voice knows how to do this; responds appropriately. "Get on the bed."

Jared moves like a deer in the headlights, wide-eyed, but he's moving, at least, and that's good, that means Jensen still has his chance in his hands. More than that, Jared's watching him, and the knowledge of it, those eyes roving all over him, make heat flash down Jensen's spine as his hands go to the buttons of his vest; as the vest hits the floor. Tie, then, and he's always found something sexy in the way the silk slithers out from under his collar, but the way Jared's breath hitches on a moan ratchets it up several notches, making his own stomach roil sympathetically. His eyes are fixed on Jared's face now, mapping its every flicker as he detaches collar from shirt and begins the slow descent down the row of pearl-front buttons. Jared's seen this much before, but never like this -- never revealed before him so deliberately, inch by slow inch -- and Jensen knows it; makes himself, against all the urges of his trembling arms, move unhurriedly.

"Oh," Jared says, as the shirt, finally, hits the floor, and Jensen can hear in it that it's involuntary, wrenched out of him. It's endearing, the surprised-by-joy aspect of it, and it makes Jensen pause a little, smile curving his lips as he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his pants and waits, inhale, exhale. His cock is a thick, hot weight between his legs, shoving up against the thin barrier of fabric, and he can't help the leap of blood there as Jared's eyes track down his stomach and fix on the bulge. He clears his throat, shifts his weight a little on the creaking floorboards, and thinks that if Jared is going to go on looking at him like that, he doesn't know whether doing it properly will be possible.

"Pants," he says, on a split-second decision, and tears his eyes away as he unbuttons his own. "Just -- get 'em off."

He daren't look at Jared again to check whether or not his instructions are being obeyed, but when he crawls up over the length of Jared's body, spread out on the bed like a skein of silk, he's naked to his underwear, golden and perfect and untouched.

Jensen swallows; thinks frantically of the sea, of riverboats, anything, as he settles himself between Jared's spread thighs, arms braced either side of his body. It's almost working until Jared hitches up against him, instinctive, so their cocks brush through cotton that is suddenly as nothing.

"Jared," Jensen breathes in reaction, and Jared hmms in his throat, hand slipping down the dip of Jensen's spine to rest in the curve above his ass.

"Are you gonna fuck me?" Jared says, thin and mildly defiant.

All Jensen's careful attempts at control promptly derail themselves off the nearest cliff. "Shit," he rasps out, fingers clenching in the bedclothes, white-knuckled, "yes," and he's nothing now but the ache between his legs, the throb of his blood, everywhere. "Jesus Christ, yes."

It's instinctive, after that, to wriggle frantically out of their underwear, Jared panting hard as he lifts his shoulders off the bed, bites his lip, fingers getting all tangled up with Jensen's when he raises his hips and squirms. The squirming does nothing, for a long span of seconds, but force their lower bodies into close and inadvisable contact, and it's torture, dangerous, until Jared lets out a cry of triumph and falls back naked onto the bed. Then there's a space between them that might have been a thousand miles wide, though it's only a couple of inches, because Jared's cock is jutting up, thick and full, and Jensen wants nothing more than to rut against it, to snake down Jared's body and taste the moisture glistening at the head.

But that -- that isn't what they came up here for. Jensen holds his breath, counts backwards from ten as his thumbs rub at the blades of Jared's hips, skirt the cuts of his pelvis. Jared's shivering, eyes fallen closed somewhere around the time that Jensen's hands met his skin, and a tiny furrow has formed between his brows, his teeth a glint of white against the pink of his lip. Jared has probably forgotten what they came here for, exactly because he's seventeen and naked and desperate, and his body only wants to get off, but Jensen isn't quite so uncontrolled, even if Jared makes him feel that way. The lines of Jared's body are lithe and young, untested, and Jensen means to be the first to test them.

When his hand curls around the heft of Jared's cock, Jared sucks in a breath through his teeth, helpless, and his hips push up into the circle of Jensen's fingers. "Hey," Jensen soothes, nonsense words, "It's okay. You're okay." He pulls, once, a long stroke from root to tip, and Jared moans beneath him, twisting his upper body, rubbing his cheek against the pillow.

"Jensen," Jared manages, and Jensen knows what he's trying to say.

"I know." He slides his hand smoothly up and off, deft little twist at the end of the stroke, and swallows down the bolt of want that rises up in his chest at Jared's bitten-off moan. Jared is trembling, stomach-muscles tense and quivering, walking the fine edge of orgasm just from this, Jensen's hand on him, their bodies tangled skin on skin. Part of Jensen thinks it might be better to take the edge off first, leave Jared loose with climax, the better to take his fingers, but somehow he doesn't want that; knows Jared doesn't, either. Jared's going to come on his cock with all his edges firmly in place, Jensen thinks, then bites his lip and spreads Jared's thighs with his palms.

"Lift for me," he murmurs, low and soft, entirely steadier than he feels. Jared groans at the feather-touch of his fingers, but his legs go wide and splayed obediently, thighs lifting. The long muscles up the backs of them flex at the motion, shift under the skin, and Jensen can't prevent a sharp inhale as his hands go to them immediately, holding them in place, tensile teenaged strength. Above him, Jared is watching, trusting and breathless and pink under his tan. Jensen says, "Good," on a voice that rasps, and descends.

Even the ones that think they know everything, cocky and too clever, are always rewardingly surprised by this, and Jared isn't one of those. When Jensen spreads him open, thumbs and palms pushing, Jared makes a whining sound of disbelief even before Jensen leans in fully, licks a swipe across his hole. He's tight -- Christ, of course, he's a virgin, and Jensen remembers it with every touch, feeling the furl of muscle twitch against his tongue. But this -- this is Jensen's special skill, the easiest way to leave the most tightly-wound boys defenceless and liquid underneath him, and Jared is no exception.

"Jensen," he rasps out, almost alarmed, but Jensen only laughs against him, nuzzles him and licks back in, fingers digging into the meat of Jared's thighs to hold him still, hitch him closer. Jared squirms and shudders when Jensen circles him slickly, wanting, but possibly not quite trusting, but Jensen's dealt with that before. Jared will yield.

Another slow lick, and another, and Jared's thighs go wider every time, muscles shuddering under Jensen's restraining hands until the restraint is no longer necessary, till he's working with Jensen instead of against him, and Jensen's whole body is coursing hot with it. Jared's head falls back on a moan the moment Jensen breaches the core of him, quick little stab of his tongue, and that, that's it, there. When Jensen presses his mouth slick to his rim and sucks, Jared's gone on a cry, fingers clenching helplessly in Jensen's hair. Jensen shifts against the mattress and hums his approval, shoves his hips against the sheets to take some of the pressure off his aching erection. Stupid, probably, but he can't quite help it, not with the way Jared's collapsing so fast around him all of a sudden, resistance abruptly shattered, fucking back against Jensen's face and crying out like every jolt of new pleasure is a surprise. Jensen kisses him; pulls back and fucks his tongue deeper, and Jared outright moans at that, rough and desperate and sure.

It's all Jensen can take. Another time, maybe, he'll make Jared shake himself apart just from this, the push of Jensen's tongue inside of him, hot and wet. But Jensen is the one in control right now, he reminds himself, the one with the obligation to the Plan, and he makes himself pull back despite Jared's groan of protest, leans up Jared's body and brushes two fingers against his mouth. "Hey," he whispers, not trusting his voice, "Open up, baby."

Jared is panting, loose and long and dazed, and he opens his lips without question, which is enough in itself to make Jensen's cock twitch. When he pushes his fingers inside, it is worse, watching Jared's cheeks hollow in around them, tongue licking up and in between them on instinct. Jensen closes his eyes, fucks his fingers twice, three times into Jared's mouth and then withdraws them without looking, his breath coming shallow and short.

"Not gonna hurt you," he says, "but you gotta relax, okay?" His fingers glisten in the half-light with Jared's saliva; Jared glistens a little between his legs, too, and Jensen finds him swift and easily, pushes one finger deep. "Just -- just open up, Jay, that's it -- I got you -- that's it --"

Jared's moaning, breath shuddering out long and low as Jensen works his finger in a slow deep circle, and when Jensen braces himself and crooks upward, Jared's tight, clear cry is perfect and immediate. "Yeah," Jensen rasps out, "yeah, you see --" and he pulls out slow; crooks his fingers together and works them back in, pushing through the scant resistance. "You like that, huh?" He pulls out carefully almost to the tips of his fingers, spits into the dark place where they breach Jared's body and thrusts back in, not gently, but slicker. "Yeah?"

"Fuck," Jared spits, and he's rocking, now, hips shoving back frenetically against Jensen's fingers. When Jensen pulls out again, jabs back in harder, Jared rears up almost off the bed, grasps at Jensen's shoulders and digs in his fingernails. "Jensen, shit, come on, I can --"

And that's the thing about Jared: he can. Jensen has always been sure of that.

"Yeah," he manages, although the back of his throat feels as if it's closed itself off and his pulse seems to be beating now only in his cock. "Okay, sweetheart, you just gotta -- hold still --" He slips his fingers out gently; shoves his underwear down and over his hips, kicks it away. Jared pinches his eyes tight shut and lifts his hips, feet planted on the mattress, splayed apart, face pressed into the pillow as if it's almost too much. Jensen smears the slick of himself over the head and down, pinches himself at the base and takes a moment to remember how to breathe.

It shouldn't be like this, says a flicker deep in his chest; it isn't Jensen's first time all over again, after all.

But then Jared pulses his hips up, whimpers in the back of his throat, and Jensen forgets about the voice in favour of fumbling with the tube of lotion he brought in a faint, forlorn hope, smearing it over himself without a thought for how cold it is. "Ready?" he prompts, shoving Jared's thighs back a little higher, nudging the crown of his cock up against him.

"Yes," Jared grits, grappling one-handed at Jensen's shoulder, and Jensen's had enough of waiting like a gentleman. That is an invitation not to be misconstrued. He pulls himself up, inhales slowly.

"Okay," he acknowledges, and leans in, shoving the fat head of his cock through the clench of resistance; waits a moment, and then thrusts again, again, tiny tight jabs of his hips in sequence so that Jared has no time to reject him, so he can roll on in until he's bottomed out, and then, then, Jared can breathe.

"Shit," Jensen manages, when he's fully sheathed, "Jay?"

"Jensen," Jared hitches, "move." He digs his nails cruelly into Jensen's shoulders, and Jensen groans at the sharp pain, at the heat of Jared so tight all around his cock.

"Okay," he breathes again, "I got you."

It is his last clear thought. Shit, but seriously, seriously, Jared is tight, muscles forced open around Jensen's dick but still clinging like a vice, not quite slick enough so the friction burns hot all up and down the length of him as he shoves in, breathes, pulls out a little way and shoves back and back and back till Jared cries out. After that, it's easy, jackhammer snap of his hips surging up out of him on instinct, fingers digging into the sweaty skin of Jared's hips, marking him up. There'll be bruises there later, Jensen's five-fingered imprint, but somehow that doesn't seem important right now, except in the sense that he almost wants it.

"Jesus," Jared sobs out, lifting his hips into it, "Jensen -- shit --"

Jensen scrabbles for air from some place deep in his chest and pulls out almost all the way, a long, sliding stroke as he shoves Jared's thighs up a little further towards his torso, folding him almost in half as he fucks back in again, giving it all the way. "That's it," he's panting, nonsensical and thick through the burn of heat spilling out of him everywhere, now, tingling right to the tips of his fingers. "That's it, baby, I got you," and every stroke is slamming right against that place in the depths of Jared's body, he can tell by the way he jerks like a puppet with its strings cut and cries out hard and wrenching, every time.

By the time Jensen feels himself starting to dissolve into static, Jared's cries have devolved into a drawn-out moan, low and long, a constant keening. Jensen's spine is white-hot, all sparks and aching, and he lunges forward at the end of a thrust to find Jared's throat with his teeth, lave over it with his mouth. Jared grasps at his hair and shouts, and that's enough to snap his hips into overdrive, stab stab stab frenetic motions of his pelvis through the last of it, the pinnacle of the build until it's seizing up their muscles and Jared arches his back and comes.

It's not a surprise by the time it hits, wrenched out of Jared in long spurts all over his belly, but Jensen groans anyway against the curve of Jared's neck, feels his cry shoot its way down the curved bow of his spine. Another stuttered thrust after that is all he has in him, pinning Jared still with his hands and all his weight for another hitched second, and another, and another, "Jared --" And Jared pushes up and moans with aftershock, and that, shit, there. Orgasm takes Jensen like sin, rips through him like a bullet, and he fucks Jared through it, teeth gritted, and collapses on him after without a second thought.

Lying there in the comedown, Jared's heart skipping under his ear, that little voice says: you don't do this, but it's barely audible through the staticky everywhere feeling of ramped-up joy. Jared's big smooth hand in his hair; Jared's chest heaving, sweat-salt and damp, under his weight -- he doesn't want to move; shoves away the voice just to nuzzle down closer, letting his cock slip out of its own accord when it's soft, fingers making tiny twitching circles on Jared's skin.

"Okay?" he manages, after a long, breathless moment, and Jared laughs, smiles at him like the sun. It doesn't exactly spur him into brisk clean-up mode.

"Yeah," Jared says, and God, he looks happy. Jensen put that look there on his beautiful face, took what was special to him and did right by it. He can't stop thinking it; doesn't want to. Jared says, "Yeah...God, Jensen," and Jensen's stomach turns over with pride.

"Go to sleep," he says, through the pull of a smile that doesn't seem to want to fade. Jared's heavy-lidded, lax and worn-out, and Jensen's more than a little drained himself. "Just for a second. It's okay."

Jensen doesn't sleep with people after; doesn't curl up on anyone's chest. But Jared isn't people, or anyone. Jared is Jared, and it's different. His hand is soft in Jensen's hair, warm when it slips to his shoulder, and Jensen's every impulse pulls him down into the cradle of Jared's body, lulls him into sleep. It's warm, too warm and perfect to leave to regret and analyse, panic and critique.

Tomorrow, perhaps. When he's slept.

Jensen tucks an arm into the space between Jared's spine and the mattress, mouths a sleepy kiss to his nipple, and gives in.