Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/643947.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural_RPF
  Relationship:
      Jensen_Ackles/Jared_Padalecki
  Character:
      Jensen_Ackles, Jared_Padalecki, Christian_Kane
  Additional Tags:
      Seduction, Riding, Barebacking, Age_Difference, First_Time
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-01-18 Words: 15330
****** Bad Men ******
by crumbler
Summary
     For a prompt by the_miss_lv over at the SPN Kink Meme: There are lots
     of prompts with the older Jared/Jensen seducing the younger Jensen/
     Jared but never the other way around. Jensen is 14-18 and he knows
     he's a little twink, he sees the way men look at him and he doesn't
     mind, the attention helps him gain a new found self confidence. But
     even though men may look at him, Jensen not actually interested. The
     only one for him is Jared, who he's crushed on since he was like
     five. Jared can be his stepfather, neighbor, teacher, father's
     friend, man who kid's Jensen babysits, whatever annon wants as long
     as Jared is significantly older. Points for a Jared being very
     reluctant because of the age gap while Jensen just coaxes him in.
     Jared's always been so nice and thoughtful, so Jensen never expected
     him to be so rough and controlling in the bed, or that he'd love it.
Notes
     Posted here on livejournal.
Jensen's always known what men wanted from him. Mother always told him to be
careful. Josh hovered over him at the candy store like a bad-tempered
hurricane, twisting around to dole out glares and bare his teeth, waited to
walk him home from school, always held his hand in the park for years. Father
came into his room one day when he was 6, awkward, leaning his head against the
doorjamb like he could melt into it, and told Jensen about naughty touches,
about bad men, all things Jensen had already known.

Jensen knows about those bad men. He knows their eyes don't rest on his lips as
he absently sucks up the last of his milkshake noisily, or on the curve of his
ass as he bends over the jukebox at the diner, out of mere affection. Those
eyes stalk him like the hungriest of predators, sliding him out of his baggy
hoodie, the thin shirt underneath, the loose-legged jeans, with every blink.

He's always known why some men can never seem to stop touching him - fluttering
fingers on his shoulder, like they've trapped the finest-boned bird in the cage
of them; warm, huge, calloused hands sliding over the back of his neck just so;
thumbs brushing slowly over his cheekbones, where the smattering of freckles
seems to darken every year.

When he was younger, there was a parade of huge hands - some calloused, some
riddled with wrinkles, some with cold, heavy rings - reaching out for him.

"What a lovely boy," someone would say or, "Five years old and already breaking
hearts, aren't you?", and those hands would arrange him in the cradle of a lap
and smooth over his thighs, and there'd be warm, wet breath misting against his
nape, ruffling the hair there.

He's seen it all - at soccer games, some dads tote cameras which follow him
around when their wives look away; at school, his Mathematics teacher leans
back against the desk and watches Jensen when he reaches up to scrawl formulas
in chalk, back curving just the way Jensen knows he likes it; there's a
lifeguard with a hairy chest and a belly at the pool whose whole shift revolves
around Jensen every time he comes in for a swim.

He's heard it all - his teammates huddled in the locker room when he came in
earlier than he usually did, talking about his lips and his lashes, the bow of
his legs; ragged breaths pressed up against the back of his head in crowded
buses.

When he's 12, he learns the smell of it - thick and musky under a kaleidoscope
of scents. Sometimes it's heavy cologne, or a dash of aftershave from the man
in the suit who always finds his way to Jensen on the subway; other times it's
peppermint from the sweet Mr. Beaver's been sucking on before he came to check
on Jensen in his favourite corner of the library, like he always does, like he
never does anybody else; sometimes it's the scent of freshly laundered sheets
at the dry cleaners where the man behind the counter always makes sure to brush
his fingers against Jensen's when he's passing him Father's blazer, or Josh's
newest suit for prom.

He's 14 when the older boys and girls from school start inviting him to
parties. The first time, Jensen could hardly believe it so he let Jeff from the
college swim team take him by the wrist and lead him into the house, let him
press cup after cup of punch into his hands until he felt hazy and loose and
flushed, let Jeff lay him out on the couch, bend over him and press their lips
together.

Jensen lets Jeff pant into his ear, wet, moist, dirty words that trace the
shell of his ear and make him tremble just like Jeff's hands carefully undoing
the buttons of the shirt Mother picked out for him make him quiver and blink,
dazedly.

"Feeling hot, huh, buddy? Let's take this off, hey? You know I think you're the
coolest kid in middle school, right? The coolest. The prettiest too, you know
that, Jen?" and Jensen lets Jeff flick the lobe of his ear with his tongue.

He lets Jeff thumb his nipples, lets him drag his tongue over them, then his
teeth, and all the while he lets Jeff mumble in his ear, loud even with the
thumping music around them: "God, Jen, soft, soft skin all over, aren't you?
You gonna let me lick your nipples again? Can I lick your tits some more? So
pretty and pink, Jen. How about that red, little mouth - can I have that too?
Huh, Jen?"

Jensen lets Jeff lick him under shirt, lets Jeff push his tongue into his mouth
- even sucks on it for a while, moans brokenly a little, just enough for Jeff
to groan right back into his mouth like an echo. He lets Jeff lift him by his
underarms onto Jeff's lap - just like all those other laps, but this time he
lets Jeff lift him up and down, lets Jeff lift his own hips and grind into his
ass, lets Jeff gasp, ragged, into his ear and stiffen before he relaxes into a
sprawl, pressing Jensen back against his chest.

Jensen doesn't let him touch him under the waistband, doesn't let hi inside,
where he knows Jeff wants to be - that secret place Mother told him was just
for him until he found the right man, a nice man, that hot, cramped place he
slid a curious finger into just last week when he woke up one Sunday morning
with his cock straining against his briefs. Jensen just tilts his head back to
brush a kiss against Jeff's cheek, spiky with stubble, swivels his hips down
once, twice over Jeff's sticky lap. He hears Jeff groan in his ear, but he
shrugs Jeff's arm off and gets up off the couch on shaky legs, buttons his
shirt up the wrong way, and walks out the door so he can hitch a ride home with
one of Josh's classmates who never bats an eyelid and never breathes a word to
Josh as long as Jensen keeps looking at him that way, shy, from under the fan
of his lashes, as long as Jensen leans in some times and laughs into his
shoulder, and tells him Jensen loves him, and he's always been Jensen's
favourite.

Jensen's been around bad men all his life, seen them in the shadows, in the
hallways of school, across his parents from dinner table with their wedding
rings and their tow-headed children, and he's been practising since he was
five, reeling them in slowly, with little smiles on lips stained with blueberry
pancakes, with fat, hot tears after skinned knees, and pushing them away ever
time he knows things could go too far. Or when he gets bored - which he always
does.

Because what Mother doesn't know, or Father, or Josh, or Mac even, is that
Jense has ound the right man. The nicest man. And once Jensen reels him in just
like he did the others, he'll keep this one.

Mr Padalecki was just his best friend's daddy at first. Their families lived
right beside each other so Jensen saw him every single day, and it was a small
town, so Jensen saw him everywhere. Mr Padalecki wasn't like most other dads.
He had a secret candy section in the fridge and Jensen was always bumping into
him at the candy store, where Mr Padalecki would buy him an extra bag of gummy
worms; his hair was longer than any other dad Jensen had seen, and it was so
smooth and s shiny; he laughed like he was having convulsions and smiled till
he dimpled and lifted his leg up and farted all over the house and he even let
Jensen and Chris stay up late watching zombie movies with him when they were
seven; he didn't live with his wife, didn't have a heavy ring circling any of
the fingers on this big, broad hands - and Jensen had loved him, secretly,
crazy with longing, since he was five.

When Jensen had woken up the night of his first sleepover curled up in a
sleeping bag on Chris' bedroom floor, and felt his briefs sticking to his
thighs, the hot, dampness still trickling, he had burst into tears. Mother and
Father has been trying to break that, and it had been three weeks since he last
woke up, legs swaddled in wet sheets, that burning shame making his cheeks
flush and his eyes tear, and his breath escape in moist, rattling gasps.

He was a big boy now, though, so he quietly crawled out of the sleeping bag,
carefully, so Chris wouldn't wake, and wiggled out of his wet briefs, wadding
them up loosely in the palm of his hand and making way to the toilet just down
the hallway. He was a big boy now, so he kept his sniffles as soft as he could,
tried to swallow down the choking sobs so they rose as little hiccups instead.
His thighs kept sliding against each other, sticky, with every step, and he
couldn't see anything - eyes all wet with tears, and nose starting to get
stuffy with mucus.

The door to Mr Padalecki's room swung open just a crack, just enough for Mr
Padalecki to poke his head out through the sliver of light streaming out of his
room, and blink at Jensen.

"Jensen?" he asked, softly. He shook his hair out of his eyes and Jensen burned
with shame, knew Mr Padalecki could see him, one palm clawed against the wall,
the other nursing his stained briefs, could see him with his nose starting to
run so Jensen could taste the saltiness beading above his upper lip, could see
his teary eyes, and he would know what Jensen had done - just inches away from
where Chris slept - how dirty Jensen was.

"I'm suh- suh- sorry, Mr Padalecki. I didn't mean to. I didn't want to be
dirty. Suh- sorry," Jensen had choked out, feeling hot tears spilling over down
his cheeks, and flinched away, embarrassed, when Mr Padalecki stepped out of
the room. But all Mr Padalecki did, was rest his huge, warm hand on the back of
Jensen's neck and squat down, tilting Jensen's face up with his other hand. All
he did was rub the tears away with his thumbs, rough like a cat's tongue, and
poke Jensen in the cheek with a finger.

"Hey, hey, Jensen. It's all right, sweetheart. It's okay. It was an accident.
How about we get you into the toilet, get you cleaned up. Not feeling too good
right now, are you, darling?" and he wrapped one of Jensen's hands in that hand
of his - that big, warm hand Jensen would dream about and pine over for years
and years and years when he was older - and took him into the toilet, washed
him clean, and crooned at him, soft, comforting sounds Jensen couldn't
understand through his tears and his shame. He washed Jensen's briefs and hung
them up to dry, gave Jensen a pair of Chris' boxers to slip into which swished
around his knees like a skirt, cleaned out the sleeping bag, and took him down
to the kitchen for some hot chocolate and a noisy packet of ruffled crisps.

They sat on the couch in the living room and Mr Paladecki told him all about
when he was little - how could such a big, big man ever be little like Jensen?
- he wet his bed too, that Jensen wasn't the only one, and it wasn't dirty, and
he was so good, trying so hard for Mother and Father. Mr Padalecki told him
about camping when he was little, and how his own daddy used to catch fish with
his bare hands and smoke them by the river, and they watched DVDs of old
cartoons, and giggled at each other, trying to stop the packet of crisps from
rustling and waking Chris up.

"Thank you, Mr Padalecki," Jensen had told him, shyly, trying to hide in the
corner of the couch. And Mr Padalecki had laughed, and dragged Jensen right
into his lap and wrapped his arms around him like a snake and rested his chin
on the top of Jensen's head, and called him a sweetheart, and wasn't Chris
lucky to have a best friend like him.

Jensen sat there, in the circle of Mr Padalecki's arm, smelling hot chocolate
and feeling the soft, soft strands of Mr Padalecki's hair against his cheek,
and the big, muscled arms Chris always said he would have one day, just like
his daddy. He listened to Mr Padalecki ramble on about how Jensen's mother made
the best Thanksgiving turkey, and how was Josh, and did Jensen like gummy bears
or pop tarts or cheeseburgers.

Nobody really talked to him much. They stared at him, touched him, talked at
him, about how pretty he was, and did he like candy, and what precious little
lips he had, what soft cheeks, what lovely freckles.

It was so safe there, curled up in Mr Padalecki's lap with the lights from the
TV strobing over the two of them - nothing at all like those other laps, with
the curious hands stroking over his thighs, again and again and again. Mr
Padalecki's hands just scrabbled around inside the packet of crisps, or
extended in front of them to demonstrate how his own dad had skinned a rabbit
and Jensen just sat there, still, afraid to even move, and loved Mr Padalecki -
loved him, loved him, loved him with everything in him.

Jensen had waited ten years since that night - and he would have waited more.
He had planned to wait more, till he was 18, or maybe 20 and halfway through
college, when Mr Padalecki would stop seeing him as Chris' best friend, the
little boy who peed in his briefs and cried, but he had to move quick.

15 wasn't that young anyway, and Jensen was sure he could please Mr Padalecki -
he'd learnt to kiss from older boys and working men, how to shape his mouths
around theirs and coax their tongues into his mouth, he knew what they really
wanted from his lips but would never get, he knew seeing him in gym class with
his shorts brushing over the top of lean white thighs made men and boys alike
leak in their pants, he knew how to make a man come undone with his hips and
his hands, and the flutter of his lashes over his eyes, knew how to coax an
orgasm out with just his voice - pleading wantonly for them to touch him,
tongue his mouth, let him ride them (pants on, his ass rubbing and rubbing and
rubbing against the tent in their jeans), please, please rub your cock against
me, let them nestle their hot, thick erections in the crack of his ass,
separated by layers of fabric; letting out those shattered little moans he
couldn't help in the throes of pleasure, the ragged screams he tried to muffle
in the crook between shoulder and neck. He could please a man, and there was no
man he wanted to please more than Mr Padalecki.

So, when that new divorcee with the fake breasts moved into town, setting up
her lair of depravity right across the street from Mr Padalecki and started
coming over with pie, and for sugar, went out for morning jogs in her sports
bra timed just right so she could bump into Jared on his way out to work, an
oh, look, I've locked myself out, silly me hile Jensen watched from his bedroom
window, he knew he had to stake his claim.

He knew the small things worked the best - that it drove men crazy when they
discovered they could come apart just from Jensen dragging his tongue messily
all over his lips, or when he dripped ice-cream down his chin on hot days.
They'd grind him onto their laps and grunt out "You little slut, you know what
you're doing don't you - your tongue, fuck. Your fucking tongue licking up that
mess you made, all over your chin. You know what it looks like. Gonna get my
cock between those lips, make the same mess you made, and you'll love it.
You've been waiting for it, haven't you?"

Of course Jensen knew, and of course he'd been waiting for it - but not fro
them, not from any man, not from the parade of bad men who made their way into
his life like an oil spill, tried to get their hands into his pants, up his
hole to make way for their cocks.

So, Jensen started with the little things. He hung around Chris' house every
day after school. They'd shoot hoops in the backyard, play with water guns on
hot days, do their homework while watching TV. Mr Padalecki had a job as a
mechanic the past few years, and he'd come home with sweat stains under his
arms, his shirt wet and clinging to his broad, broad back. He'd smell like gas
and gasoline and salt, and he'd still be dripping sweat from his hair after
short drive back from his house - and the first thing he'd do would be to call
for Chris and Jensen as he unlocked the front door, like Jensen was meant to be
in the house, waiting for him like a wife, every time he got home.

The appearance of the new divorcee threw a wrench in that. Some days, she'd be
lurking in the driveway, waiting for Mr Padalecki to pull up in his beat up
little car. Jensen would watch from the window right beside the door, where he
always was five minutes before five, five days a week, while Chris would shrug
and stomp up to his bedroom to strum his guitar idly after throwing Jensen a
"Dude, you're not his wife. Just come up and hang out for a while instead of
pressing yourself up against the front door waiting for him." or a "Give dad a
kiss for me when he gets back, mommy."

The woman would pounce on Mr Padalecki once he stepped out of the car,
cornering him with her fast-moving lips - those slick, glossy pink lips - and
her breasts, and a pastry of some sort which Jensen knew she'd nipped out to
the baker's to buy, and Mr Padalecki would blink at her, and humour he because
he was nice. He was nice to everybody, Jensen realised, and it made his heart
ache - twist almost physically in his chest - every time he saw Mr Padalecki
offering his grin up easily as anything, or offer the crook of his arm, that
sweet little bend in the midst of all that corded muscle, to ladies and
children.

When she finally cleared out of the driveway and was safely ensconced in her
house, where nobody else except her angry-looking chihuahua had to suffer
through perfume fumes and potentially being crushed to death by cleavage, Jared
(who always leaned against his car and watched her till she was safely back
home - as if any car could mow her down on the street on her way back without
denting their fender on her breasts) would run a hand through his hair, tired,
and sigh. He no longer ran up the stairs and threw open the front door,
whipping his head around to grin at Jensen. He'd take the steps up to the front
door in a slow, ambling gait, and when he opened the door, he'd chuck the keys
onto the sidetable, and only remember Jensen when he turned and saw him there,
smiling shyly. Mr Padalecki would reach a hand out then, and clap Jensen
heavily on the shoulder with a wry grin in return.

Jensen started wearing his gym shorts over to Chris', and his worn gym t-
shirts, butter-soft, with the wide, loose collar offering the view of his
collarbones like a sacrifice. He loved his gym shirts, knew they offered the
best view of his nipples, straining pink and stiff against the white material
and he knew what his nipples did to some men. They'd spend minutes on them,
nipping, licking, pinching and rolling, sucking on them so hungrily Jensen
wondered if they expected fat droplets of milk to well up to the surface. There
was a man, the father of a boy he was working with for a class project, who
liked dragging his beard across them, watching them pucker with every pass of
his chin, liked hearing Jensen's cries to stop, please, it tickles, you'll make
me come like this, I don't want to dirty my briefs, please, please. He'd heard
men whisper dirtily to his nipples, call them his tits, talk about how ripe
they looked, or how sweet they were, are they blushing just for me, Jenny?

So the weekend his parents are off to his grandparents with Mac, and Josh is
out with his girlfriend, Jensen packs his gym shirts into his overnight bag and
accosts Mr Padalecki on Saturday morning with the sight of his smooth, white
thighs and his pink nipples, the tempting glimpse of them behind the gauze of
his shirt, in the kitchen where Mr Padalecki is chugging down a pot of coffee
one-handed.

Jensen makes sure to stretch when he yawns, raising the shirt just a little,
just enough to show his belly, where hairs are starting to sprout, the tops of
his hipbones. He makes sure to scratch at his thigh idly, sliding the leg of
his shorts up, up, up so Mr Padalecki can see the muscles of his inner thigh,
the shape of it. And because he loves Mr Padalecki, he adds in a special -
presses himself against the kitchen table opposite Mr Padalecki, places his
palms flat on the surface and leans over a little to peer up at him. He knows
his eyes are beautiful in the sunlight, and his freckles look darker, and his
gaping collar will slip over one shoulder.

"All right there, Mr Padalecki? Looking a little peaked this morning." he asks,
and raises a hand to press against the side of Mr Padalecki's face, where the
stubble scratches against his palm and blinks up at him softly. "Anything I can
do for you?"

Mr Padalecki adds more blinking to his repertoire, then raises his coffee pot
and gulps the remnants down like a man dying of thirst. Jensen leaves the table
and bends over inside the fridge, reaching down to the lowest shelf for milk,
feeling his shorts pull taut against his ass, riding up at the back to expose
just the shyest glimpse of the curved muscle where his ass meets thigh. Mr
Padalecki makes a noise like a dying man and splutters a bit.

"Uh... shorts," he's saying a little incoherently. "Aren't you cold?"

"Was a hot night," Jensen replies. "Woke up burning all over. My thighs were
all sticky with sweat. I was sticky all over, really."

The way Mr Padalecki's eyes drag down his thighs makes Jensen want to perch his
own ass on the kitchen table and wrap his thighs around Mr Padalecki's hips.

"Dude," comes Chris' voice from the doorway, and just like that all the
simmering heat evaporates as Mr Padalecki's eyes widen and drag right back up
and away from Jensen. "Those shorts make you look like jailbait. Put that ass
away."

Jensen turns to level a glare at his best friend, who rolls his eyes. "Yeah,
yeah, have fun with Jen today dad. I'm off for band practice in a bit. See you
two crazy kids later!"

When Jensen turns back to Mr Padalecki, he's already banging two pans on stove,
and juggling a few eggs with that easy smile back in place, asking how many
eggs Jensen wants for breakfast, and wanna help him wash the car?, and Jensen
knows he'll have to bring out the big guns.

Jensen loves Mr Padalecki but, really, he's just a little too nice, just a bit
too sweet. So unsuspecting - like divorcees rubbing their breasts against him
and Jensen wearing his pedobait shorts with his ass cheeks hanging out weren't
increasingly desperate cries t hellooo, please fuck me already. So damn stupid
it made things kinda easy. He should have folded that long, broad body into his
car, told Jensen oh would you look at that something cropped up at work, so
please entertain yourself - how about a movie? - if he didn't want the Saturday
to end the way Jensen knew it would.

Treating Jensen just like he had before - just a kid, just Chris' best friend -
meant the whole Saturday Mr Padalecki had planned for the both of them was the
perfect set-up for seduction, really. And Jensen was pretty much out on the
prowl, all out.

He calls Chris on his phone and tells him, you owe me a favour for writing that
essay for you, so you gotta stay out late tonight, okay, Chris?

"Dude, I know. I ain't gonna come home when I know my dad's gonna be dicking
you all over the house. Just call me when you're all done and it's safe for me
to come home. ...Ugh come ome. I think I'm gonna barf. And he's an old man,
Jen, so don't break him, you complete and utter slut. I kinda need him to pay
for college, just so you know. Actually, maybe you should sex him up good so
he'll get me a new guitar or something. Just use your magical pedo-gobbling ass
or something," Chris says, which is why he's Jensen's best friend.

It's a hot morning when they start on Mr Padalecki's car, so that makes it
perfectly fine for Jensen to wind the hose around his wrist and spray himself
with it, let water cascade right down on him, let his lips get glossy and
slick, his lashes clump together and bead with the tiniest droplets of water -
like jewels, his soccer coach had told him when he had Jensen bent over his
knees in the empty locker room and had spanked him with a hard, unforgiving
palm through his shorts for missing the penalty, you crying for me, baby?, just
gonna make wanna work your ass over harder, again and again, to see those
tears, Jenny, does it hurt?

Mr Padalecki had been assiduously polishing the sideview mirror, where Jensen
saw himself reflected, for the past few minutes, which is flattering, and sort
of sweet that Mr Padalecki thinks staring at Jensen while pretending not to
stare makes it any less obvious.

Jensen's nipples are already peaking under his shirt in response to the cold
water, and he's so horny after seeing Mr Padalecki sponging the car down gently
with hands so big they should be clumsy. Jensen just really wants to slide
those hands up over his own body, even doesn't mind using his own fingers to
play with his nipples, pinch them till his cock twitches - they're aching so
badly for the touch of a finger or of a tongue, maybe some stubble so it burns
just the way he likes. He sort of settles for rubbing them against the door of
the car subtly as he sponges it down, and tells Mr Padalecki: "It's such a hot
day, Mr Padalecki, isn't it? I swear I'm all hot all over. Feels like i'm
burning from the inside out, urgh. If my skin's this hot, how hot do you think
it is inside me, huh?"

Mr Padalecki almost slips on the sidewalk, which he's almost done a lot while
the both of them have been washing the car, but, hey, Jensen thinks, you don't
let the horny 15-year-old who's been in love with you for pretty much a decade
wash your car without expecting some sort of Paris Hilton routine all over it.
This time he excuses himself, stuttering a little, and wringing those thick
fingers a lot.

"I feel a bit peaky, buddy - got to be the sun and old age acting up on me.
Mind finishing my baby off while I nip back inside? I'll get some food in you
when you get back in," says Mr Padalecki - sweet and stupid as always, because
Jensen doesn't want a couple of ham and cheese sandwiches in him even if Mr
Padalecki's are the best. He tries to shuffle away, which is adorable - seeing
that mountain of a man bent nearly in half and hobbling ad though that would
hide the outline of his giant dick pressed up against his trousers instead of
draw attention to it.

Jensen doesn't really do seduction - he didn't usually need tactics or
strategies, didn't usually spend the night planning out how to get a man to
haul him onto his lap, to palm the curves of his ass and lick his wet, hot
mouth wide open. Seduction was built into him, not something to be deliberated
over. He'd learnt how to get men up since he was small, just hip-high and still
clutching tight to Father's thighs, when he saw how men licked their lips when
he licked his own, or how their breaths got hotter when he wiggled in their
laps, how when he smiled, they smiled back, helplessly, widely, as though they
couldn't believe Jensen could be looking at them.

He always knows what to do, knows what will happen next, so it's hard to get
his mind around why Mr Padalecki doesn't just throw him into the backseat of
the car, lick his nipples through his sopping shirt, and feed Jensen dick
through his mouth or hole - Jensen's not picky.

Jensen's a little grumpy as he hoses the whole car down, pressing a palm
against his nipple where it feels puffy, like he's so desperate and horny his
come's started leaking out of him.

When he gets back in, Mr Padalecki is mixing up a jar of lemonade and has a
plate of sandwiches ready. The big smile he offers Jensen is a little
embarrassed and Jensen wonders if it's because Mr Padalecki was jerking off in
the toilet thinking of him, dragging that big, rough palm over his cock.

Mr Padalecki doesn't press Jensen against the dining table, or the sink, or the
refrigerator, and Jensen is getting antsy. When they eat, they chat just like
normal - Mr Padalecki doesn't try to lick at Jensen's ear or try to get him out
of his chair and into Mr Padalecki's lap. Mr Padalecki even passes him a
popsicle from the freezer after lunch, just like normal, like he's not passing
Jensen a phallic symbol on a stick to feast on after Jensen's rubbed his
nipples all over his car and his sex appeal all over Mr Padalecki's face.

This time Jensen eats the popsicle like he's cramming his mouth full of cock.
He laps at the tip with the point of his tongue, lets the pink muscle slither
its way from the tip to the base of it before he sucks it into his mouth and
down his throat. He nurses it in his throat for so long, he can feel himself
going a little dizzy, feel his cheeks start to burn as his lungs burn for air.
When he drags his throat off the popsicle, tugs it out of his mouth, it leaves
the circle of his lips with a noisy pop. The sound is so filthy, Jensen can't
help but moan and lift his hips a little under the table.

"That was delicious. Really needed that. You always know what I need Mr
Padalecki," Jensen says shyly, between broad licks of his tongue.

Mr Padalecki twitches in his chair, and Jensen gets ready to be pounced on.
He's already contemplating whether Mr Padalecki will slide his cock down
Jensen's throat, or just rub it over his lips, drag the messy tip all over
Jensen's face to let his precome cover every single one of Jensen's freckles,
or if he'll press his cock up Jensen's hole straight away.

When Mr Padalecki starts cleaning up noisily, stammering about watching a
movie, Jensen can't help but bite through half of his popsicle with
frustration.

It has to be some kind of giant cosmic joke that Jensen can make all the men he
feels nothing but a vague sense of pity for, a short-lived, heady rush of power
over, fall to their knees for the chance to touch him or have him touch them,
and here he is with Mr Padalecki who he's actually gone through lengths to
seduce, being completely and utterly shut down with every deliberate shake of
his ass.

Maybe he's unappealing - after all he's older now, and some men don't bend as
easily to his will or his voice, roughening with age; the muscles that threaten
to harden the smooth, endless lines of his arms and legs, the softness of his
belly; how his limbs are beginning to lengthen and some men struggle to contain
all of him in the cage of their arms now, like never before. Maybe he's not as
pretty as he used to be now, not pretty enough for Mr Padalecki to keep him and
love him.

"Mannn, it's karma, Jen," Chris had told Jensen one of the nights he was
sleeping over, head poking out over the edge of his bed. "If you're gonna walk
around making guys come in their pants, and wander off right after that lik
ooh, I don't care, I just have a quota of sperm to milk out of people, you're
gonna get served. The universe doesn't like cockteases, Jen."

Jensen has done nothing but been a cocktease all Saturday long, but Mr
Padalecki is still this humongous stone wall (covered wit uhn, beautiful tanned
skin, sweating away like he always does, even when he's doing absolutely
nothing but eat popcorn noisily, oh god Jensen's gonna start leaking from his
ass in sheer desperation or something).

Jensen's done everything except tug his shorts down - or tug them up just those
few inches over his ass cheeks - and sit on Mr Padalecki's cock. He's been so
horny the whole day, he's wanked in the toilet twice, stuffing his own fingers
up his ass and stealing one of Mr Padalecki's faded shirts from the laundry
basket to hold up to his nose.

He's licked and sucked on so many things he can't even remember a time when his
mouth wasn't full and his lips swollen; he's run through his whole repertoire
of outrageously bad innuendos so that he's even resorted to dipping into Chris'
stash; he's pressed nearly every part of him against Mr Padalecki from where
they're tucked up against each other in the ratty two-seater which has probably
been around even before Jensen was born.

Mr Padalecki's eyes heat, his gaze lingers, and he chokes on his words like he
can't help it, chokes on his tongue like he's trying to stop it from sliding
right out of his mouth to touch Jensen's own, but he never does anything every
other man's done to Jensen.

It's almost nightfall and the light in the room is a little red, a little
purple where it sneaks in through the window and Jensen can't stop looking at
Mr Padalecki, has graduated from glances from the corner of his eyes, to pretty
much staring at the man.

Mr Padalecki watches movies like he wants to get sucked right into the
television screen, and Jensen had thought that succeeding in dragging Mr
Padalecki's eyes a record number of times off hoardes of teenagers being hacked
to death meant he was getting to the man - but his shorts are still on, and Mr
Padalecki's pretty much still munching on popcorn like he doesn't know how many
uses Jensen has for that mouth of his.

So Jensen turns the TV off, shoves the giant bowl of popcorn off his rightful
place in Mr Padalecki's lap and waits for Mr Padalecki to stop spluttering and
trying to hack popcorn out of his windpipe.

It's a really nice lap - the nicest lap Jensen has ever been in. Jensen could
stay there for hours, for days, just perched there, shifting a little so he can
feel the muscles in Mr Padalecki's hard, huge thighs twitching, so he can hook
his arms around Mr Padalecki's neck and stare him in the face - the closest
he's been to it since he was 11 and Mr Padalecki stopped lifting him and Chris
up, tossing them around the house to hear them giggle.

It looks just the tiniest bit different now. He's still the handsomest man
Jensen's seen, but his eyes are tired and there are little frown lines that
shouldn't be swarming his mouth - maybe from the three years he spent trying to
juggle two jobs to save up for Chris' tuition - and Jensen just wants to lick
them away, tiny kitten flicks of the tongue, and make Mr Padalecki happy.

"You're a little too big for my lap, buddy," Mr Padalecki ends up saying,
jokingly, but it makes Jensen flinch to hear those words.

Of course. Too big, too old. Maybe Jensen shouldn't have worried about being
old enough to please Mr Padalecki, maybe it had been wrong to listen to Chris
when he said "Hold on there Jailbait Jenny, you gotta let the pedofairy grant
you a few more years before you start trying to bang my dad. He'll just freak
out, you know?", maybe he'd lost his chance a few years back, back when he was
still small enough to clamber into a lap and have men gather his small body
into their arms.

Jensen actually starts tearing in frustration, leaning forward to tuck his head
under Mr Padalecki's chin, to press his hot cheek against that expanse of
throat, feeling tears leak out the corner of his eyes.

Mr Padalecki's arms wrap around Jensen a little awkwardly, one big palm coming
up to run up and down Jensen's back soothingly, gently, like he's patting a
trapped bird made out of bones so fine they'd shatter with a careless touch.
"There, there, Jen. It's okay, buddy, it's gonna be fine," he says, a little
confused, in that voice of his, rich and thick like hot chocolate melting all
over Jensen.

"It's not. It'll never be fine," Jensen kind of whispers into Mr Padalecki's
neck, and just presses his face into Mr Padalecki's neck, breathes him in, and
cries, and cries, and cries with shuddering gulps.

Mr Padalecki just sits there and holds him close - the only way Jensen will
ever be this close to Mr Padalecki, the very last time - and strokes his back,
pats his hair, lets Jensen cry himself boneless, lets him cry until his nose is
blocked and he's snuffling and sniffling and thinking about how unsexy it is to
rub strings of mucus all over Mr Padalecki.

Jensen lets Mr Padalecki peel his gross, sticky face, gooey from tears and snot
and saliva, away from his neck, and tilt Jensen's face up to his.

"You gonna tell me what's wrong, buddy?" he asks.

"I love you," Jensen tells him, and Mr Padalecki blinks down at him, confused,
that floppy hair falling into his eyes. Mr Padalecki's body has gone stiff all
over, rigid, except for where his mouth is slack with shock, or disgust. Mr
Padalecki's mouth struggles to move a litte, to shape out a response, but
Jensen clamps it back shut with sticky fingers. Mr Padalecki kinda squints at
him then, a furrow growing between his brows, like Jensen is going crazy -
which Jensen kinda is, but see how you'd cope with having the man you've loved
since you were 5 never, ever love you back.

"I love you," Jensen decides to tell him again, because insanity is doing the
same things over and over again and expecting different results, expecting Mr
Padalecki to kiss him and hold him and love him instead of just sit there with
his arms fallen to his side.

And so Jensen desperately, crazily says it again and again, setting the words
to motion now - pressing his moving lips against Mr Padalecki's forehead, the
corners of those slanted eyes, his eyelids, his cheeks, then, lips trembling,
to the corner of Mr Padalecki's mouth. He rests his lips on Mr Padalecki's ear
and whispers the words again and again like a prayer.

"I love you, I love you, Mr Padalecki, love you, love you, love you. I've loved
you since that night when I was five and I wet the sleeping bag, remember? And
you found me in the hallway and wiped my tears away, and fed me hot chocolate,
and ruffled crisps which my parents never get me, and told me about how your
father skinned a rabbit, and you put me on your lap and held me. Love you, love
you, love you, Mr Padalecki, really, really love you. I've loved you for ten
years, and you're always so nice, and you always make me laugh, and I even love
that you're the gassiest person on earth, and the sweatiest, and even though
Chris says you have emo hair because you're having a mid-life crisis, I love
your hair too, and I don't want you to be alone anymore - I can make you happy,
or I could, or I really want to, and I've wanted to love you for ten years, Mr
Padalecki. But maybe now I'm too old, and I'm not pretty enough anymore, and I
know you don't have to let me, of course you don't have to do anything at all -
but please, could I keep on loving you? I won't touch you anymore, and I'll
won't stick around and try to make you dinner in time for you to get home and
end up burning all your eggs and your pans, and everything, but, please, Mr
Padalecki, maybe, if you wouldn't mind it terribly, could I just... stay here,
like this, on your lap for a while, and even if you don't love me, maybe you
can just pretend to - just for a while, just hold me for a while?"

Jensen still has his mouth - that useless mouth that every man but Mr Padalecki
seems to want - pressed up against Mr Padalecki's ear when he finishes, and
it's such a lovely ear - Jensen could spend a lifetime rubbing his lips against
the shell of it, feeling Mr Padalecki's hair poke against his cheek and his
nose, that it's a bit of a surprise to have that pretty, pretty ear with its
earlobe - fat and so soft-looking, like it's begging for Jensen to lick it and
tug it into his mouth and nibble on it - ripped right away from him, to have
his breath feather out against the wet hot nside of a mouth instead.

It feels a little like he's drowning. Jensen's lungs burn, his cheeks flush, he
can't breathe properly - not out his nose, still a little stuffy with snot, not
out his mouth where Mr Padalecki's tongue has taken up residence, not that he
needs to breathe now that Mr Padalecki, Mr Padalecki, is kissing him so
desperately Jensen can hear the squelch of spit and wet lips, can feel strings
of saliva stretching between them each time Mr Padalecki draws back only to
descend again, a huge hand cupping one side of Jensen's face, his other hand
wrapped around both of Jensen's wrist, pulling his arms tight over his head,
holding him still so Mr Padalecki can plunder him effortlessly, dip his tongue
into Jensen again and again.

He's drowning - he has to be, battered by the waves of heat rolling Mr
Padalecki's body, clinging by his lips and his teeth to Mr Padalecki's tongue
in an effort to keep himself afloat.

Jensen's tasted many mouths - guarded by chapped lips, or thin lips, or thick,
wet lips, like sausages. He's tasted the insides of countless mouths, felt the
grooves of teeth, ran his tongue softly over the sensitive palate, but it's
never been anything like this. Mr Padalecki still tastes like caramel popcorn,
and when Jensen lets himself flick his tongue into Mr Padalecki's mouth, shy,
hardly daring to believe he can, he dislodges a little chunk of popcorn that's
gotten itself lodged between Mr Padalecki's teeth and swallows it right down.

Then there's Mr Padalecki's chest, which keeps rubbing against his own - their
nipples catching on each other's, Jensen's feeling so plush and soft and
swollen, like Mr Padalecki's nipples, hard like the rest of him, could sink
into them, slide right into the puffy tips, right into Jensen.

Mr Padalecki is sweating on him, all over him, that giant hand cradling
Jensen's cheek, manhandling Jensen's face to tilt him left and right, up and
down so Mr Padalecki can slide his tongue around Jensen's mouth from every
angle physically possible, Mr Padalecki's upper lip beading sweat - salty
little droplets Jensen keeps wanting to catch, moaning and moaning and kissing
them up with lips and teeth and whispers of please, please, please, don't stop.

When Mr Padalecki slides his thumb over Jensen's cheekbone, pulling his mouth
away while Jensen tries to cling on, lips trembling, teeth refusing to give Mr
Padalecki's wet, thick tongue up, when Mr Padalecki draws back and just stares
at Jensen with soft eyes, rests his big, hot body on top of Jensen so that his
nipples press right into Jensen's, everything is so perfect - so wildly,
crazily perfect - that Jensen can't help his body from jerking, toes curling,
lips parting, scream building in his throat and ripping right out of him while
he comes in his pants.

He's trembling when he stops filling his shorts with come, stops getting his
own seed all over his thighs and balls, and Mr Padalecki is lifting him up
carefully, pulling the both of them up so that he's slouching back heavily on
the couch with Jensen spilled out all over his lap, their chests heaving and
pressing together through sweaty shirts, lips still swollen and aching to swell
even more, Jensen's thighs parting a little to stop them from sticking together
with his sweat and come.

"Unnn," Jensen manages, a little out of it, letting his head roll back so he
can look up into Mr Padalecki's face - his hair wild, eyes wandering all over
Jensen's face - and Mr Padalecki leans down a plants the softest, sweetest kiss
on Jensen's sweaty forehead. Jensen's lips still feel fat, heavy, and when he
touches at them gingerly, they're so plush - Mr Padaleckidid this to them,
kissed them till they swelled - and achey Jensen just wants Mr Padalecki to
soothe them with his fingers and lips some more.

"Shitttt," Mr Padalecki sighs instead, and tilts his head back on the couch. "I
should not have done that. Shouldn't have done that at all. God, nope, nope,
shouldn't have done that. Would you believe me in the slightest if I told you I
tripped and fell on your... your mouth?"

He stutters somewhere near the end of the sentence, eyes glued to Jensen's
lips. Jensen tilts his head closer to Mr Padalecki's and licks his lips, licks
Mr Padalecki's drying spit off them, and Mr Padalecki's hips jerk a little
under Jensen, his hands clenching into white-knuckled fists at his side, veins
rippling.

"Okay," Mr Padalecki is saying now. "Okay, hold on, let's just hold on for a
while, buddy. Okay, Jensen? Let's just... talk about it. Firstly, I'm sorry. I
shouldn't have... taken advantage of you - I mean, okay, let's think about
this. Jensen, you're young and you're good-looking. Crazy good-looking. Like,
so good-looking it hurts, and I'm rambling - am I rambling? What was I
saying? Stop it, stop licking your lips just for a while, I can't think with
that... that tongue, fuck."

Jensen balances himself on his knees in Mr Padalecki's lap, loops a possessive
arm around Mr Padalecki's neck and presses their faces close together. Mr
Padalecki goes a little cross-eyed, adorable, with how he's helplessly trying
to keep his eyes on Jensen's face. Jensen presses even closer, lets their noses
touch, lets his eyelashes flutter against Mr Padalecki's.

He's always measured his attractiveness by the effect he has on men - how long
would it take them to spill their seed all over themselves when he rubbed up
against them, how many minutes did it take before they caved and slid their
hands all over him, can he drive the breath out of a man's lungs just by
smiling at him (he can).

"Do you think I'm pretty, Mr Padalecki?" he asks, even though he knows the
answer now.

"Well, yeah," Mr Padalecki shrugs, a little awkward, a little like duh, "I'm
old, not blind, Jen. I'm sure everyone tells you you're..."

"I don't care what anyone else says. I've always just wanted to hear it from
you," Jensen confides in a whisper and lets his lips press tiny kisses along
the side of Mr Padalecki's face, up and down that strong jaw, the jut of his
cheekbone, that wide forehead. "Do you love me back?"

Mr Padalecki's body kinda tries to stiffen and slump at the same time, so
Jensen soothes his shoulders with gentle hands, lets his fingers run up and
down the slope of them, like Mr Padalecki's a spooked horse - which is kinda
true, he's so broad and strong and graceful, so beautiful. If Jensen has to
break him in, feed him cubes of sugar from his palm and sweet words from his
lips, feed Mr Padalecki the soft, dizzyingly hot insides his mouth, his tongue
and red lips, before he can saddle Mr Padalecki up and ride him - ride his lap,
or strong thigh, or that cock he's been fantasising about for as long as he's
been able to masturbate - he'll do it.

"You know how old I am right, buddy? I'm 38, not 28. That's over 20 years
between us-"

"I know," Jensen interrupts a little sulkily, "I can do Maths. I'm fifteen, not
five."

Mr Padalecki's laughter makes his chest rumble from where it's pressed against
Jensen. All Jensen can think of is tasting that laugh in his mouth, gulping it
down.

"So I take it you feel better, seeing how you're getting your sass back."

"I feel amazing," Jensen tells him happily, shifting a little to feel his
thighs stick together. "I'm all sticky because of you, Mr Padalecki. Please,
could I kiss you again? Don't you want my lips again, Mr Padalecki? They're
yours, all yours - I can suck you so good, your tongue, your... your cock, I
can make you so happy, let you come right inside my mouth and swallow all of
you down. Please, may I? May I taste you some more?"

"Fuckkkkk," Mr Padalecki groans, slamming the back of his head down on the top
of the couch again. "Jesus fuck. Stop with the slutty Oliver Twist, please.
Jen, okay, buddy, look at me. No, not my lips, up here - here, Jen, focus, it's
kinda hard for me to talk with your tongue there, and we really have to talk."

It's frustrating how just a few minutes ago, if Mr Padalecki had spoken, his
words would have spilled off his tongue right onto Jensen's, that Jensen could
have slid their tongues together and molded his replies right back, and now Mr
Padalecki has the back of his head pressed into the back of the couch as far as
he can go.

It's frustrating how Jensen is sitting there in his dirty shorts and Mr
Padalecki is sitting there with the heavy bulge of his erection spoiling the
line of his trousers, and he keeps talking about it's wrong, buddy, you're too
young, maybe you're confused, huh, because we hang out all the time, yeah,
that's it! and I know you're a teen, and it's normal for you to be confused, to
be trying to figure yourself out, maybe you should look for someone else,
someone younger?

"If you don't want me, just tell me, Mr Padalecki," Jensen says bravely, only
he has on his liquid eyes, that little, put-off pout to his mouth that he knows
will get him what he wants.

Now that Mr Padalecki's built Jensen's shattered confidence in his own
attractiveness back up with every swipe of his tongue, Jensen will get what he
wants even if he has to grind his ass against Mr Padalecki's cock until he's
teetering on the brink of orgasm, then raise himself right back up and deny Mr
Padalecki the chance to spill his seed, do that again and again all night long,
until Mr Padalecki is begging for Jensen to let him come, please please please.

"It's not that I don't want you - it's that I... can't? Jen..." Mr Padalecki is
saying, sounding mostly unconvinced, while Jensen lets his fingers trail down
to Mr Padalecki's chest. God, he can't believe he's touching those firm pecs
through Mr Padalecki's shirt, can't believe Mr Padalecki's letting him circle
his fingers around those nipples, wow, he's gonna come in his pants again just
from the pleasure of being able to press his palm to Mr Padalecki's chest and
feel his heart thumping away loudly, quickly, just for Jensen.

"I think you can," Jensen purrs, letting his hand drop to run his knuckles over
Mr Padalecki's erection. Mr Padalecki's hips rock up, once, twice, then still.
He's sweating horribly now - reduced to a wet, salty mess Jensen just wants to
suck into his mouth - so Jensen licks the sweat from his brow and his upper
lip, sips all those sweaty droplets down.

"So if you can, is it something to do with me? Is it my ass? Should I work on
it?" Jensen asks, peeling Mr Padalecki's hands away from where they're held
stiffly to his side, and spreading those warm palms out over his ass,
generously lets them cup a cheek each, presses Mr Padalecki's thumbs into his
crease.

"No! It's perfect! I mean, it's a nice ass... a good ass. For... walking and
things. Oh and putting in jeans. You know, jeans? Definitely not... those
shorts, oh god, stop pulling them up, Jen, please," Mr Padalecki is stammering,
but his thumbs keep parting Jensen's ass cheeks a little, keep trying to stop
from wandering closer and closer to that tightly-puckered hole where Jensen's
the hottest.

"I put them in these shorts for you, Mr Padalecki," Jensen tells him,
disappointed, looking up from where he's been sliding his shorts up over his
sticky thighs. "Just for you."

"...Thank you. Just slap on "Jensen Ackle's ass was the death of him. P.S. Burn
those shorts." on my headstone," Mr Padalecki mutters while Jensen mouths his
way around his face. "You're just too young, Jensen. By the time you're out of
college, I'll be well on my way to 50."

"And I'll still love you. I'll suck every single one of your fingers even if
they're all wrinkly, lick any sunspots you get, I'll even let you lay back if
you have weak heart, I'll do all the work. I'll ride you and suck you, bounce
on your cock for you,"

"Oh god, my son's best friend is a porn star," Mr Padalecki groans.

"I can be your porn star," Jensen offers, eagerly, ridiculously. 

"Don't worry, Mr Padalecki, don't be scared. I'll still love you, I've loved
you for ten years, even before you got all those wrinkles around your mouth -
(thanks, Mr Padalecki mutters) no! I love them, I really do. And I love you,
I've loved you for so long. So just touch me, let me touch you, let me show you
how good it can be, Mr Padalecki. I can make you like it, make you love it, and
want it. I want it, and I know you've been lonely. You used to go out every
second Friday of each month before me and Chris turned 13. And you'd get back
late in the morning, with your hair all messy, your mouth all smudged, and I'd
find lipstick stains on your dress shirts in the laundry basket when I came
over - but you've been working so hard the past 2 years, I haven't seen you out
since."

"It's kind of flattering that you've been stalking me, but also really creepy,
Jen. You're lucky you're gorgeous," Mr Padalecki says, while Jensen very
helpfully helps the man squeeze those giant paws of his around each ass cheek.

"It's because I love you," Jensen tells him mournfully, and Mr Padalecki just
sighs and gestures for him to go on.

"So I know how much you need it, need someone to love you - and you have me.
I'll make you feel so good, Mr Padalecki. If you let me, I'll try so hard, make
you come your brains out. I'm fifteen, and you've always been the one to tell
me I'm an old soul, that I'm mature for my age, that you can trust to tell me
your problems and have me listen and know just what to say. And I've thought
about this, about you, for years, Mr Padalecki. Spent every single waking
minute thinking of you. And when I'm not awake thinking about your hair and
your laugh and the way you suck at Wii Bowling, I'm asleep busy dreaming of you
anyway. I've had so much time to think and sort myself out, work out any
confusion - there's no excuse, Mr Padalecki. I've thought of you in the shower,
I've put my fingers in me and I've come screaming your name. Put my fingers
right up me," Jensen whispers, guiding those one of Mr Padalecki's thumb up,
hiking the leg of his shorts a little higher to let that thumb press against
the tightly-furled pucker of his hole which clenches a little under the
pressure.

"Right here, right up my hole, slid them as far up as they could go and
pretended they were yours, so don't tell me I have to think things through when
I've done nothing but think about it, dream about it, fantasise about it for
ten years."

Jensen loves how nice Mr Padalecki is, how he's never selfish, and always
thinks of others first - mostly makes pancakes for breakfast when Jensen's over
even though Jensen knows Mr Padalecki likes waffles best, but this game of to
fuck or not to fuck has gone on way too long.

His lost confidence, built up over the years by lingering eyes, wrinkled
fingers smoothing over his thighs and face, stubble brushing against his lips
and nipples and cheeks, and momentarily faltering at the thought that Mr
Padalecki might find him unattractive, unappealing, slides right back into
place like a key, winding Jensen right back up like a horny clockwork doll with
limbs flexible enough to hump up against Mr Padalecki with.

Because everything he needs to know is Mr Padalecki thinks he's pretty, Mr
Padalecki kissed him, Mr Padalecki loves him, and would probably kiss him again
if it weren't for something as stupid as age - just twenty odd years, hmph,
like Jensen would let those two decades get between the both of them.

So Jensen slides his way out of Mr Padalecki's lap, hits the carpeted floor
hard on his knees and reaches up to unzip Mr Padalecki's pants.

Mr Padalecki is flailing around a bit, mumbling no and oh, god, I'm going to
hell, demons are going to crack my nuts open and feast on them, oh my god,
reaching out to try to tug Jensen's head away from where he's breathing onto Mr
Padalecki's groin.

Jensen slaps one of those hands away gently, looking up to glare. "Behave, Mr
Padalecki. You're almost 38, I'm sure you can sit still and behave yourself."

Mr Padalecki whimpers.

Jensen draws Mr Padalecki's cock out of his open fly gently, tenderly, cradling
it in trembling palms like it's the most precious treasure ever - and it might
as well be with how fervently he's been dreaming of it, chasing after it.

Jensen's dedicated a lot of time to sketching Mr Padalecki's cock out in his
imagination, sometimes drooling in the middle of class a little, eyes going a
little hazy at the thought of how it's probably as big as the rest of Mr
Padalecki. He's wondered about how heavily Mr Padalecki's balls will hang,
fantasised about how Mr Padalecki's cock would look curled up against his
thighs when he's soft.

He's never actually seen another man's cock up close before, always insisted
men keep theirs tucked away under layers of fabric, or he'd walk away, leave
them with their balls all twisted up in desire, leaking come all over their
stomachs. If every man's cock looks like Mr Padalecki, Jensen's been missing
out.

It's much, much bigger than Jensen's and so heavy and thick in his palms, so
fat all the way around. The head of it is beautiful - an angry red, curved -
and rising up from a mess of wiry hair where the musky smell of Mr Padalecki is
the strongest.

Jensen lets his nose skim through all that hair, breathes in deeply and feels a
little dizzy with how good it feels. Precome is beading lethargically from the
tip of Mr Padalecki's cock, one huge drop trying to fight its way to the slit
slow as molasses, so thick and so delicious Jensen wants to lap it up and roll
it over his tongue like cream.

Jensen can see the veins winding their way under the skin of Mr Padalecki's
cock, ridged, wants to thumb the heaviest vein at the underside of that cock
and flick his tongue up and down it again and again, wants to fuck his mouth on
that cock and feel the veins rub against the inside of his throat.

Mr Padalecki moans when Jensen runs his cheek over that cock, drags his burning
face from base to tip, nuzzles it and noses at it, drags that messy, drooling
tip all over hs face so the precome leaves a slick, glossy trail, like melted
silver, all over his nose and chin and cheeks.

Jensen lets his tongue poke out a bit, lets the very tip of it dip into the
leaking slit at the head of Mr Padalecki's cock. Mr Padalecki's whole body
jerks before he collapses back against the couch, boneless, with an expulsion
of air that sounds like it's been punched out of him, legs splayed wide open so
Jensen can wiggle his way more comfortably right between them, pull those
thighs close around him.

It tastes salty, strange - Jensen doesn't know if he actually likes it, maybe
he should taste more, sip at the head and suck all that come out.

So Jensen tugs Mr Padalecki's jeans halfway down those heavily-muscled thighs,
wraps one hand around the base of that cock, fingers winding their way through
the scratchy hair, and kisses the top of Mr Padalecki's cock, finally puts
those cock-sucking lips of his to actual use.

That coaxes another dollop of precome out of Mr Padalecki, another ragged moan,
makes Mr Padalecki stroke the curve of Jensen's bottom lip with a thumb, press
against it. Jensen kisses that thumb, then turns his head away, lets his lips
part wider, lets his mouth slide down the length of that cock, a quarter of a
way down, sucks hard enough for his cheeks to hollow and the insides of them to
rub against the sides of Mr Padalecki's cock.

It's a little different from all the popsicles Jensen's practised on - for one,
it's so hot, almost scorching, and it's so wide and fat in his mouth that his
lips feel like they'll unravel around Mr Padalecki's cock, so heavy on his
tongue, and salty. And it moves - twitches a little, rocks a little back and
forth, in and out, with how Mr Padalecki's hips are trying their hardest not to
move but failing.

Jensen pulls off it and stares it down, stares it right in its winking eye
where its tearing precome, sees his saliva coating it and dribbling down the
sides, strings of spit starting to nestle in the hair at the base. He licks the
sides of it with broad sweeps of the flat of his tongue, kisses his way up and
down it, then parts his lips to let Mr Padalecki's cock right back in.

Jensen's always been a quick learner, but Mr Padalecki's an even quicker study,
reactions and expressions so unguarded Jensen feels like his heart is right out
there on display. When Jensen does something Mr Padalecki likes, he knows -
like how he now knows Mr Padalecki goes a little wild when Jensen looks up at
him with his big, green eyes, tearing a little from how hard he's struggling to
cram Mr Padalecki's cock into his mouth; how Mr Padalecki loves to see him lap
at the tip of his cock like a kitten, making pleased, cooing noises; knows Mr
Padalecki's thighs twitch when Jensen tongues that fat, sensitive head.

Jensen threads his fingers through Mr Padalecki's, guides his hands down to
hold his head still, makes wanton, pleading noises when Mr Padalecki finally
starts lifting his hips up to fuck up into Jensen's mouth, into Jensen's
throat, hips moving faster and faster each time Jensen lets his moans vibrate
around his mouthful of cock, each time Jensen's throat constricts when he gags
a little as Mr Padalecki's cock burrows its way down his throat.

When Jensen wrestles Mr Padalecki's hips down and slides his mouth off, the
both of them are a mess. Jensen has tears spilling down his cheek from how hard
Mr Padalecki's fucked his throat, how hard and deep he choked Jensen, helpless
to stop even as his mouth begged I'm so sorry, Jen, oh god, shit, I gotta stop,
oh my god, why aren't my hips listening to me, I think you broke me, fuck, and
there are thick globs of spit all over Mr Padalecki's cock, smeared all around
Jensen's mouth.

Jensen nurses the head of Mr Padalecki's cock, lets it rest in his mouth
shallowly, milking it with pursing motions of his lips, letting his tongue skim
lazily over it. It's probably his favourite part of Mr Padalecki's cock - head
like a helmet, the fattest, shapeliest part of him with a perfect slit that
keeps letting precome bubble out like it knows Jensen wants more, and more, and
more.

Jensen tugs Mr Padalecki's cock out of his mouth again to a disappointed moan,
so he pats the sides soothingly, lovingly, holds it flat against his cheek for
him to nuzzle and coo at, so pretty, nnn, just want to eat you up, suck all the
juice out of you.

"Don't worry, Mr Padalecki. I'll suck all the come out of you another day,"
Jensen says comfortingly, sliding back up onto Mr Padalecki's lap and feeling
that heavy cock knock against his thighs. He runs his hands through Mr
Padalecki's hair, pushing a few strands back from where they're plastered to
his forehead with sweat and desperation.

Mr Padalecki is holding himself so still, body taut, eyes hooded like Jensen's
never seen before. When Jensen kneels up on the couch and tugs his shorts down,
over his ass, over his legs, kicks it carelessly off and lets Mr Padalecki get
an eyeful of his own blushing cock, sweetly pink, balls already tight, Mr
Padalecki's eyes slam shut and he groans like he's dying.

Jensen lines their cocks up, tells Mr Padalecki to look at us, to look at their
cocks pressed against each other, Mr Padalecki's cock so much fatter, its head
so much more swollen - so perfect, so much prettier than Jensen's own. He drags
the head of Mr Padalecki's cock all over his, gets himself slicked up with Mr
Padalecki's pre-come, wraps both his palms around both their cocks, rubbing up
and down.

"Want to fuck me, Mr Padalecki? Come inside me? Cus I want you to, want to ride
you into the couch, hold you inside me and squeeze you till you come," Jensen
says, letting one hand leave their cocks so he can suck on his fingers, so he
can lead that slick digits behind him, press them against his hole and coax it
open.

"Oh my god," Mr Padalecki replies, eyes wide, gathering Jensen close to him so
he can rest his chin on Jensen's shoulder and look down to see Jensen's fingers
moving between his ass cheeks, fighting to cram their way up that tiny hole.

Jensen usually fucks himself on his fingers with copious amounts of a cocktail
of lube and spit. He likes to take his time, slide one finger after another
inside him, spread all that lube around dreamily, likes to feel all of it
dribble and drip down his fingers and wrist. He loves to hear the wet noises,
the squelching, all the greedy sounds his hole makes as it sucks wet and greedy
at his fingers when they withdraw only to burrow their way right back in.

It's a tighter fit right now with just drying spit and precome on his fingers.
Jensen can't help the tiny, pained stutters as his fingers burn inside him, rub
raw against his walls, but Mr Padalecki's eyes are so dark, so hot, Jensen will
die if he doesn't get that thick cock he's been rolling around in his mouth
just before this work its way into him. He has to have it, has to have it now.

He reaches out to grip Mr Padalecki's cock one-handed, his other hand still
working frantically between his legs, desperate to open himself up enough to
slide his way down Mr Padalecki's cock.

Jensen kneels right over that straining cock, pushes its fat head up against
the rim of his hole, a little sloppy but still feeling frighteningly small,
just the slightest bit looser - enough to fit a couple of fingers, but perhaps
not a cock. But then Jensen's a little beyond caring, keeps rocking his hips
down, scrabbling to pull his hole open with two slick fingers, to let Mr
Padalecki's cock slide inside him.

It's a little stubborn today, his hole, a little shy, winking open and shut
coyly, desperately rippling around the tip of Mr Padalecki's cock like it's
trying to wring the come out of it - but never enough to let it pierce him
properly.

Jensen whimpers, fingers scissoring inside him, trying to get himself wide open
for Mr Padalecki, wanting so badly to fit that cock in him and ride it till he
passes out. The muscles in his arm are straining with every twist of his
finger, and he leans his forehead against Mr Padalecki's collar bone, panting,
grunting, and almost sobbing, begging his body to open, open up, I want to feel
that cock in me, please.

"Hey, calm down, buddy," Mr Padalecki says, and his fingers are suddenly there,
tracing the swollen rim around Jensen's jerking fingers.

"I want it so bad, please, Mr Padalecki, need it. Why won't it fit? It
won't fit, and I want it to, please," Jensen almost sobs, and guides one of Mr
Padalecki's fingers inside him, twines it in two of his own and fucks himself
on all three of them. The angle's awkward, and the rough skin on the pad of Mr
Padalecki's finger feels different - amazing, like he's sanding Jensen down
gently from the inside.

Jensen lets Mr Padalecki replace Jensen's fingers with his own, lets him pull
the hole open with his thumbs, and rub the rim till it softens, till Jensen
feels like he's melting open. Mr Padalecki's thumbs sink into him and stretch
him. He slicks his fingers up with precome - or the spit Jensen licks right
onto them, Jensen's tongue trying to pull those prodding fingers deeper and
deeper until he gags a little on the tips - and keeps pressing fingers into
Jensen, thrusting them shallowly, then a little deeper, working him open with
crooked fingers so Jensen can feel the knuckles scrape against his walls.

He's never had anything up this deep, and these are just Mr Padalecki's
sweetly-working fingers, not yet his cock, his beautiful, fat cock. Just
thinking about it makes Jensen's own twitch against his tummy.

When Mr Padalecki's knuckled him and scissored him, grazed that spot inside him
that makes Jensen shout and his cock spurt pre-come a little, violent, he
finally, finally slides his fingers out. Finally places both their hands on his
cock - so dark with blood Jensen feels a little ashamed by how selfish his hole
was, how long it took to stretch it open, how many touches it begged for before
it was finally ready - and Jensen backs up to sit on it, on that pillowy head.

This time, his hole does let Mr Padalecki in, lets Mr Padalecki's cock push
through its tender pucker, and Jensen trembles, in an awkward half-squat,
poised with just the head of Mr Padalecki's cock in him. Mr Padalecki is
rubbing his sides now with gentle hands, telling him good boy, easy does it,
Jensen, easy.

Jensen rocks himself down a little, swallowing up a little more of that thick
cock, feels Mr Padalecki let out a tiny, pleasured moan. It's such a sweet
sound, and Jensen can hardly believe he's the one to milk it out of this big,
strong man. So badly wants to hear more.

So he lets his weight drop down, lets Mr Padalecki's cock spear him wide open,
force his walls apart, and sits on the entirety of it, clenches it tight inside
him, sobbing a little at the pain.

This time Mr Padalecki actually lets out a hoarse shout, spasming on the couch,
hands reaching out to grab Jensen by the ass cheeks and topple Jensen forward
into his chest, eyes falling shut. He takes a while to recover so Jensen sits
there, trying to blink away tears, mouths at Mr Padalecki's nipple instead, at
that wildly-heaving chest.

"I said, slowly, Jen. Oh my god. How was that taking it easy?! Did I tear you?"
Mr Padalecki asks, worried, letting his hands rest on Jensen's hips. "Let's
lift you up, Jen, make sure you're okay."

But when Mr Padalecki's fingers massage the rim of his hole - spread wide open
around Mr Padalecki's cock, already feeling ravaged and sore, and twitching a
little with the tremors running through Jensen's body - the man moans a little,
wildly.

"Stretched so tight around me, fuck. God, Jensen, just look at this little
mouth of yours stuffed full of my cock."

Jensen feels a little better now - starts to realise how he's filled to the
brim with that thick cock of Mr Padalecki's, how he can feel the swollen head
nestled deep in him, farther up than anything's ever been. Mr Padalecki's cock
is twitching inside him - Jensen swears he can feel it pulsing a little, and
it's a weird feeling.

Jensen rocks a little, and, oh god, there's something - the ridge of a vein,
the jutting curve that separates the pretty head of Mr Padalecki's cock from
the rest of the shaft, something, he doesn't really care what - pressing
against that sweet spot inside him, the one that makes his cock drool crazily
in pleasure. He puts his hands on Mr Padalecki's shoulders, let those broad
golden shoulders anchor him, then he slides all the way up, and lets himself
drop back down, lets his hips roll and swivel and pull choked sounds right out
of Mr Padalecki, lets himself feel Mr Padalecki's balls, that thatch of hair
between his thighs, rub against his ass.

Jensen lets his fingers tangle in Mr Padalecki's hair so he can drag his head
down onto Jensen's chest, can arch his back to knock his nipples against Mr
Padalecki's nose - those stiff peaks which Jensen's rubbed raw all day long. He
guides Mr Padalecki's face around his nipples, teaches him where to lick,
teaches him to nip down, hard, tells him to kiss them suck them, milk them
please, until Mr Padalecki's had enough, until Mr Padalecki pulls back to rest
his head on the couch, leaving Jensen's nipples so stuffed with blood sucked
greedily to the surface that they feel heavy, that they feel like they bounce a
little every time Jensen himself bounces, jiggle a little with every movement
he makes.

His thighs ache, the muscles in them bunching as he bounces up and down, as he
rolls his hips and clenches his insides, coaxes little grunts and pants and
groans from Mr Padalecki. Jensen won't let himself blink, keeps his eyes on Mr
Padalecki's face - Mr Padalecki who Jensen's reduced into a squirming mess,
head thrown back and eyes clenched shut tightly, hands spasming uselessly
around Jensen's hips.

It's so fucking hot, Jensen can barely stand it - he has to lean in and kiss Mr
Padalecki on the lips, has to let his whimpers out into that mouth, to feel
their breaths mingle and mist. But it's still not nearly enough, not fast
enough or hard enough, and Jesen's thighs are starting to cramp with the
strain. He pants against Mr Padalecki in frustration, humping his cock against
Mr Padalecki's stomach, pleading "Please, faster, please, please, wanna make
you come."

He'd always thought sex with Mr Padalecki would be sweet, gentle. Mr Padalecki
would place Jensen on his back and prop himself up over him on his elbows, kiss
him with each thrust, moan love you when he came. Sex with him would be
careful, tender, polite.

But Mr Padalecki - no matter how adorable, how gentle, how sweet he usually is,
how big a goof - is more a beast than a gentleman in bed, Jensen discovers when
their lips meet, when Jensen takes the chance to remind Mr Padalecki he loves
him, whispers that into his mouth, still suspended halfway on Mr Padalecki's
cock. He expects to feel strong thighs under him, and instead finds that cock
ripped right out of him so suddenly it feels like he's being stabbed in
reverse, like he's being drained, emptied out from the inside, hollow.

Jensen whimpers in loss, hands scrabbling where they've been gouging holes into
Mr Padalecki's shoulders, tries to push the man back onto the couch and his
gorgeous cock back inside him so he can ride it hard and fast till the both of
them are shivering and covered in come.

Instead Mr Padalecki lifts Jensen right off his cock like Jensen weighs nothing
at all, like Jensen might as well be a toy, a helpless rag doll, those thick
fingers of his clutching so hard at Jensen's hips and sides Jensen knows
there'll be bruises, hopes they'll stick around for weeks.

Jensen finds himself spun almost in mid-air, before he's slammed down on his
belly, crying out in shock as his cock finds itself rubbing against the
scratchy material of the couch. He whimpers at the burn, the friction against
the already weeping head of his cock, tries to wriggle his hips back, away from
the pain, but he can't move right now - can't do anything but cry out into the
couch as Mr Padalecki fucks into him.

Mr Padalecki's giant hand is wrapped around the back of his neck, pinning
Jensen down casually, effortlessly so that his face is pressed into the couch,
so that all Jensen can do is bite down onto the cushion next to his head as Mr
Padalecki knocks his thighs open with his knees, and feeds him the entirety of
his cock, the whole seemingly-endless length of it, in a strong thust that
knocks all the air out of Jensen's lungs.

Jensen's always been the one in control - he always, always sets the pace,
always lets men know when their time is up and he's had enough, always rides
them stupid, and leaves them once he's had his fun.

So when Mr Padalecki puts those humongous paws all over him, uses them to
spread Jensen's thighs wide open, uses them to clutch Jensen's hips and pull
him back into every violent thrust, Jensen's caught off guard - especially
because this is Mr Padalecki, the gentle giant who cries watching movies about
dogs, and who doesn't really like eating gummy bears becauseI can feel their
eyes on me, Jen, I feel so horrible chewing on them while they stare at me.

And yet here he is, being pounded so hard into the couch he's sure the old
thing will shatter into pieces under him, and loving it, begging for more,
screaming for harder and faster and make me wet, Mr Padalecki, make me drip.
Every snap of Mr Padalecki's hips sends his cock piercing up into Jensen,
opening him up in tender places, sends it hammering in so high and deep,
Jensen's convinced Mr Padalecki wants to stuff it deep enough that Jensen will
be spitting Mr Padalecki's come out when he orgasms. His balls slap against the
back of Jensen's thigh with each thrust and it starts to feel like he's being
spanked - if he looks, he knows he'll be red back there, glowing hot.

And Mr Padalecki's started biting him, gnawing at him, really, teeth dragging
around the back of his neck, his back, nibbling hard enough on his ear that
Jensen whimpers into the pillow in pain.

When Mr Padalecki notices him chewing desperately on the pillow, almost
drowning in his own spit, he tears it away cruelly, mouths the side of Jensen's
neck and tells him to scream louder, he's gunna fuck scream after scream out of
Jensen, gonna make him come and shout and cry till his throat is sore, is this
fast enough, Jen, is it deep enough for you, huh tells him all of this in this
dark whisper Jensen's never, ever, ever heard before, not even when Mr
Padalecki got angry at him and Chris for busting the TV with a baseball bat one
day back in middle school.

Mr Padalecki is filthy in bed - positively dirty, scorchingly rough. He palms
Jensen's body all over like Jensen belongs to him and he just wants to check
everything is in working order - everything's ready to be fucked. His hip
snapping back and forth mercilessly while he manhandles Jensen, while he turns
Jensen onto his back with his cock is still inside him, so that it spins in
him, rubs him everywhere, so good, so amazingly good that Jensen can't help but
come.

He comes so hard it feels like his cock and balls are about to turn inside out,
comes so violently his seed shoots out of him and hits him square in the face,
spurts right out onto his chest and neck, all while he's keening, and sobbing
"oh, oh, ohhh" into thin air, wishing Mr Padalecki would lean over and kiss
him, swallow the sounds he's making down.

Mr Padalecki just leans close, nonchalant as fuck, and licks the come off
Jensen's face while Jensen trembles and whimpers, licks Jensen's come up onto
his tongue and feeds it back into Jensen through his mouth, lets Jensen suck
his tongue down and keep it in his mouth for a while as Mr Padalecki's hips
keep snapping.

He tugs Jensen's limbs every which way, ordering Jensen to hold your knees like
this, wanna be a good boy for me, Jen? lift your hips higher for me, clamp your
thighs around me, come on, first splaying Jensen's thighs open wide around his
waist, then grabbing Jensen by the back of his knees and folding him right into
half so that his knees are pressed tight against his chest, rubbing against his
swollen nipples. He makes Jensen hug his knees to himself with his arms, so
that he can let his own big hands wander, so he can cup his fingers around the
base of his cock, pressing against Jensen's hole so he can feel himself sliding
in and out, so he can rub at the rim and hook it with a finger to pull it open,
so he can slide that finger inside Jensen, right up against his cock.

Mr Padalecki wriggles his finger, like Jensen's insides are his to rummage
through as and when he likes, slides his finger further and further up so he
can prod at Jensen's sweet spot, press down on it and flick it hard with the
tip of his finger, while his cock is still rocking in and out of Jensen with
wet, squelchy noises.

"What a greedy hole, Jen. Just look at it, gobbling down every single thing
I've fed it - my fingers, my cock, just wanna let it swallow my fist up one
day, wanna seal it up with a butt plug, keep your insides spread open for me,
how about it? Maybe get you a playdate one day, let him press his cock into you
right next to mine, you gonna take it for me, gonna let two cocks fight their
way inside you? Gonna be a good boy for me, suck the come out of me with your
hole?"

Jensen tries to sob out a yes from over his knees, but the sound is garbled,
broken. It's apparently enough for Mr Padalecki, because he bends forward,
leans all his weight on Jensen's knees, almost crushing Jensen into half, and
kisses Jensen - kisses him and kisses him and kisses him, sucks all the air
right out of his lungs through his mouth, only retreating when Jensen's nearly
passed out from lack of it.

Mr Padalecki's hands slide up Jensen's thighs, gripping them and then pulling
Jensen backward so that he's curled up like an embryo, his whole back almost
off the couch, all the weight resting on the back of his skull, the tense
column of his neck.

Mr Padalecki's thrusts grow a little jagged now, more shallow thrusts that rock
him back and forth than long strokes in and out, that deep dicking motion that
makes Jensen's hole clench needily each time the tip of Mr Padalecki's cock
backs out of him.

When Mr Padalecki comes, he roars, rising up to his knees and slapping his
balls against Jensen's ass with the last few motions of his hips. And, oh god,
Jensen's never felt this before, never felt hot seed spill out of another man's
body right into his own, never felt anyone spray hot come inside him ever and
fill him up, their dick twitching and stoppering him up, keeping all the come
inside him, and the pressure and heat is so good, he kinda passes out, arms
falling uselessly to his side and letting his caged knees slip free.

When Jensen comes to, Mr Padalecki is peering at him, cupping his cheek gently,
wiping at Jensen's neck and face and body with a warm, wet washcloth, and
asking him are you okay, jesus, you scared me back there, buddy.

"Mmmkay," Jensen manages to string together. Oh, he's more than okay, he feels
so good and so pleased, so well-fucked with how he's aching deep inside, how
when he clenches his hole he can feel wetness trickling from it, can still feel
how thick Mr Padalecki's cock had been, how it spread him open and held him
open without mercy, how it had plundered him and stole its pleasure from him,
left him full of its seed.

Mr Padalecki gently spreads his thighs and wipes them down, all that sticky
drying come, runs the cloth lightly around Jensen's hole, scratching at his rim
and making it bloom open without Jensen's permission, making it pulse open and
shut, desperate to drag Mr Padalecki's fingers right back in - drag the cloth
in along with them, anything as long as it gets fed.

Mr Padalecki rubs at his stomach softly, pressing down a little, spreads the
cloth out under Jensen and tells him to push, to empty himself out, it's gotta
be uncomfortable, huh? Jensen does that half-heartedly, rocking his hips
slightly and clenching his hole open and shut lazily, feels some of Mr
Padalecki's come trickle out, then tells Mr Padalecki please, let me keep your
seed in me, and places his palm over Mr Padalecki's on his belly to link their
fingers.

Jensen manages to gather just enough strength for him to tilt his head up for a
kiss. Mr Padalecki willingly obliges, licking him open gently and sucking
softly on Jensen's lower lip - sweet as ever, with those gentle eyes and that
wide grin, like he hadn't almost broken Jensen into half, almost fucked his way
into, and right back out of Jensen's body just a while ago.

"Love you," Jensen tells him, whispers against those lips.

He feels the grin unfurl even wider, knows Mr Padalecki has to be dimpling now,
irresistible, but all Jensen needs to hear is Mr Padalecki whispering right
back, "Love you too, Jen. Like I ever stood a chance against you", before he
seals his lips over Jensen's again, lets Jensen wrap his arms and legs around
him, clinging like a monkey, trying to shimmy his way up Mr Padalecki and
already starting to rub his dick against that hard stomach.

"You're gonna be the death of me, buddy, gonna break my dick right in half.
This is why the 20 years had me worried, you know," Mr Padalecki tells him, but
it gets lost in the kiss, swallowed up somewhere among their rolling tongues,
completely forgotten later on when Jensen starts coaxing moans out of Mr
Padalecki, when Mr Padalecki pounds screams out of Jensen in retribution.

Jensen can't remember falling asleep, but when his eyes blink open the next
time he can remember, sunlight is pouring through the windows, slanting over
them where they're still curled up on the couch.

Jensen's head is lying on Mr Padalecki's arm, the kitchen tablecloth wrapped
around their bodies tightly, their legs lying together underneat, sweaty, in a
tangled mess, and Mr Padalecki's cock is kinda lying really nicely in the
crease of Jensen's ass, hardening a little every time Jensen moves back against
it. Jensen clenches his ass cheeks around it, wants to fuck the crease of his
ass on that dick as Mr Padalecki comes awake, muttering huh, what, what's
happening confusedly before that morphs into oh my god, Jen, my dick is gonna
fall off one day, and then what will you do, and Jensen so just wants to get
fucked again, even though his hole feels a little puffy still when he clenches
it, even though Mr Padalecki probably broke it in last night, riding it hard
and wild.

Mr Padalecki starts nuzzling at Jensen's neck, unwrapping the tablecloth from
around them, his dick filling up quickly with blood and his hips already
squirming against Jensen, oh god, how perfect was that, please, please let him
get fucked again.

Except Chris' voice comes floating right out of the kitchen, before Chris
himself ambles out onto the living room, carton of milk in hand.

"Morning, sunshines! Had a good night, huh, dad? Nabbed yourself a slice of hot
virgin pie, eh? So now that you got yourself a pretty new wife, how about
getting me a new guitar and- ...what the fuck, you guys, what the
fuck? Seriously, dad, again? Seriously, what, did you not fuck the jailbait
juice out of your system all night long? I didn't sleep in the car last night
to come home to front row seats at your creepy fuckathon, jesus fucking christ!
And, oh my god, Jensen Ackles, you spit that cock right of your ass right now
before I superglue that slutty hole of yours shut. I swear to god-"

Well. Almost perfect.
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