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stephanometraAnd by "little story" I mean "long rambling MSN chatlog." In reference to this video of Christian Kane hoodsurfing:
[17:20]![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
stephanometra: chris do you really hood surf y/n
[17:20]unperfectwolf: hahaha
[17:20]ellipsisblack: video evidence suggests yes
[17:20]unperfectwolf: hah
[17:21]ellipsisblack: also, that kinda looks like a shirt jensen would wear
[17:21]unperfectwolf: hhhhaaaa
[17:21]unperfectwolf: I was thinking it looked like the paley shirts
[17:21]waterofthemoon: hahahaha. it's totally Jen's shirt.
[17:21]stephanometra: chris and jensen sometimes share clothes, you know
[17:22]ellipsisblack: heh.
[17:22]unperfectwolf: SOMEONE (NOT ME) WRITE THIS PLEASE
[17:22]stephanometra: when chris shows up at jensen's place in the middle of the night smelling like cigarettes and tequila
[17:22]unperfectwolf: Where is Dean when we need him?
[17:22]waterofthemoon: make Dean write it!
[17:22]ellipsisblack: make D write it. she goes for this stuff-yeah
[17:22]ellipsisblack: XD
[17:22]stephanometra: and jensen is like "what the shit, you reek"
[17:22]ellipsisblack: he. it's too early for pronouns.
[17:22]stephanometra: "you are not coming in here smelling like that"
[17:23]unperfectwolf: hahaha, steph
[17:23]stephanometra: and so chris shucks off all his clothes on jensen's doorstep and then they have lots and lots of sex
[17:23]unperfectwolf: hahahahhaha
[17:23]stephanometra: and chris has to wear jen's clothes home because he left his outside and somebody made off with them!
[17:24]stephanometra: DAMMIT GUYS, SERIOUSLY WHERE IS JENNY
[17:24]stephanometra: HE NEEDS TO BE WRITING THIS, NOT ME
[17:24]stephanometra: I DON'T WRITE RPS
[17:24]unperfectwolf: DOOOO
[17:25]stephanometra: NO
[17:25]stephanometra: oh, christ, i'm going to do it
[17:25]waterofthemoon: YAY
[17:25]stephanometra: BUT IT'S GOING TO BE SHORT AND I AM GOING TO BE VERY ASHAMED OF MYSELF AFTER
[17:25]unperfectwolf: thats okay
[17:25]unperfectwolf: we will love you still
(There was also much speculation about this picture, in which Steve Carlson appears to be wearing a different one of Jensen's shirts, and Jensen himself is standing in the back looking totally adorable.)
So, anyway. In lieu of trying to getnamegoeshere to write me this fic, I decided to write it for him instead. ♥
So now that we've got that bit of insanity out of the way...
Title: Don't Take Kindly to Serious
Pairing: Jensen/Chris. DON'T JUDGE ME.
Rating: Hard R, prolly.
Summary: In which I increase my going-to-hellness by at least 150%.
Warnings: None!
Notes: For my best-belovednamegoeshere on the occasion of his birthday (or the day before his birthday, as the case may be, but I doubt he minds)! Title is from House Rules, by Kane of course. 1600 words.
***
It's coming up on 3 A.M. when Jensen's phone rings.
He doesn't usually get calls that late, mostly because he doesn't hang out with idiot kids (well, except for Jared) who think it's hilarious to wake his ass up in the middle of the night. But for once he's not actually asleep -- it's one of those rare weeks during hiatus when his agent doesn't have him running around every which-way, reading, talking to people. For a few halcyon days, he gets to just sit still, catch his breath. He likes that. It lets him catch up on his reading.
So he's awake at 2:45, totally engrossed in a book his sister insisted he'd like. He hasn't touched his contacts in three days, hasn't shaved in two. There are four beer bottles sitting on his nightstand in various stages of emptiness. And since he's awake, he grabs his phone, flicks it open even though it's really obscenely late.
Kane, the caller ID says. "Why are you calling me in the middle of the night?"
Chris laughs. "Because you're not answering your door, jackass. Come let me in, it's fucking gross out here."
Jensen rolls his eyes, but he gets out of bed and pads out of his bedroom towards the front door. "Okay, why are you knocking on my door at quarter to three on a Tuesday?" he asks the phone. "Do you not have anyone else to bother? Steve still in Chicago?"
"Getting back tomorrow."
"Lousy bastard."
"Yeah, tell me about it."
He snaps shut his phone and opens the door, scowling when the humidity hits him; it is fucking gross outside. "How'd you know I was up?"
"Didn't." Chris grins and shoves his hands in his pockets.
Jensen eyes him critically, takes in the bangs falling into his eyes, catches a faint whiff of cigarettes and cheap tequila. "You smell like a dive bar."
"Well, that's what happens. You gonna invite me in?"
He thinks about it. "You can come in, but your clothes can't. I just had the place cleaned, don't need you rednecking it up so soon."
Christian gives him an incredulous look. "Jen."
"Chris. Seriously, dude, you reek."
They stare at each other for a minute, and then Chris shrugs, pulls his baseball tee over his head. "You know," he says, pausing to unbuckle his belt, "if you want me naked, all you have to do is ask."
Jensen smirks. "Think I just did."
Chris laughs again, languid and whiskey-rough, as he toes off his boots and shucks off his jeans. Hooking his thumbs in the waist of his boxers, he arches an eyebrow at Jensen, questioning.
"Keep going, cowboy," Jensen drawls, and when Chris has dropped his underwear onto the porch, Jensen grabs him by the elbow and hauls him into the house.
Chris tastes like smoke and Maker's Mark, rough and hot on Jensen's tongue, and he kisses like he's starving for it, his need as naked as he is. Jensen steers them towards the kitchen, stumbling over his feet because he won't tear his lips from Chris' or his hands from the smooth, golden plane of Chris' back.
Dragging his tongue over the stubble on Jensen's jaw, Chris murmurs, "You've got too many clothes on, Jenny," hands reaching for the button on Jensen's jeans.
"Nah, you're just shameless."
"Yeah, I get that a lot," Chris says, and Jensen grins.
"Why'd you come over, anyway? Bet there were half a dozen girls at that bar who're dying to suck Christian Kane's cock."
Chris backs him up against the kitchen counter, palms him through his boxers. "Probably," he agrees, "but I was dying to suck yours."
"Well, uh." Jensen leans in for another kiss, licking into Chris' mouth. "Have at it."
Smiling into his mouth, Chris says, "You say the prettiest things." And then he drops to his knees, kissing a bruise into the jut of Jensen's hip before gently sucking the head of Jensen's dick into his mouth.
"Oh fuck yes, your mouth," Jensen groans, and Chris hums contentedly around his cock, hands skating up Jensen's thighs to cup his balls, circle the base.
He tangles his fingers in Chris' hair, not pressuring or moving him around, just wanting to feel the strands between his fingers. Chris quirks a brow, looking up with smiling eyes as he works Jensen's crown with his tongue.
Fuck, it's so good. Jensen has never understood what it is about Chris that drives him crazy, that can send him from cold to coming in minutes like he's fucking sixteen again. "God, Chris, stop," he moans, stroking over Chris' cheekbone with his thumb.
Chris blinks fever-bright eyes, pulls off. "What," he says, licking his slick lips, looking like sin incarnate.
Jensen forgets what he was going to say; "Fuck, you're gorgeous," is what comes out of his mouth, and Chris just chuckles and swallows him down again like he really is dying to suck Jensen dry.
Jensen doesn't stand a chance, really. He barely manages a whimpered warning before he comes.
Chris swallows eagerly and then sits back on his heels, taking himself in hand. "Jesus, Jen, so hot," he gasps, hand flying on his cock.
Jensen watches for a moment, slack-jawed, and then curls a hand around Chris' bicep, tugs him up. "Don't," he says, grabbing Chris' wrist, stilling the hand working his dick.
Groaning, Chris says, "What now?"
"Don't come," Jensen breathes, leaning in to nip at Chris' earlobe. "Please."
"Why the fuck not?"
"Because you've been drinking, asshole, and I want you to fuck me."
"Oh, fucking hell." Chris groans, his head dropping back and the hand on his cock moving to squeeze at the base, trying to keep from coming. Then the moment passes, and he looks at Jensen with hot, half-lidded eyes before grabbing Jensen's arm and dragging him towards the bedroom.
***
Christian wakes up in an empty bed, the other side still warm from Jensen's body. The clock on the nightstand cheerfully announces that it's 10:16, and he glares at it until the minute rolls over, in hopes that it'll change its mind.
He rolls out of bed, naked, and follows the smell of coffee, picking up the jeans Jensen finally managed to lose halfway between the kitchen and his bedroom, pulling them on. They're too long, swallowing his feet, dragging on the carpet.
"Morning," he says, grabbing the cup of sweet, black coffee Jensen has set out for him.
Jensen nods, sipping his own coffee, leafing through one of the random magazines sitting on his kitchen counter. "Rained last night."
"Oh, hell." Chris puts down his coffee, running a hand through his hair agitatedly, and goes to the front door.
His clothes are a sodden mess on the porch, of course. Chris pokes at one of his boots with his toe and winces.
Jensen comes to stand in the doorway, still nonchalantly drinking his coffee.
"I don't suppose the clothes can come in and use your dryer?" Chris asks.
"What would you do if I said no?"
"Uh." Chris considers a moment, bends down to pick up his shirt. It drips onto his feet, soaks the cuff of his borrowed jeans. "I could always wear 'em wet."
When Jensen doesn't respond, Chris looks up at him, questioning; Jensen's coffee cup is stilled halfway to his mouth, his eyes dark and unfocused.
"Jen?"
Jensen's gaze snaps to his, and then Chris is suddenly being hauled to his feet, pulled back inside and pressed against the front door.
"You can't just say shit like that," Jensen growls, leaning in kiss him roughly, biting at Chris' lower lip.
Chris opens for him, groans into the kiss, but he really does have to get those stupid clothes inside. "Need to get my pants, Jen," he says.
Jensen murmurs a negative, moves to suck bruises into Chris' throat. "Nope. Bed, now."
"Can't." Chris squirms, tries to get out from between Jensen and the door. "I've got a lunch meeting I can't miss."
"Cancel it."
"Can't. Come on, man, at least let me wash my goddamn jeans --"
"Later." Then Jensen is manhandling him back down the hallway, and Chris kind of forgets exactly why he's protesting.
***
Steve is the first to arrive for the meeting, which is weird; the producer won't show for half an hour more, of course, but Chris has spent so long as an actor that he barely even understands fashionable lateness. Frankly, it's enough to make any self-respecting musician weep.
The hostess shows him to the table, and he sits down to wait, a little annoyed because he didn't cut his trip to Chicago short to sit around a restaurant he doesn't like with just an iced tea for company.
Christian shuffles in ten minutes later looking sleepy and well-fucked, landing in his chair with a groan.
"You're late," Steve says.
"I know," Chris says, tugging at the collar of the buttondown he's wearing, fingers lingering on his collarbone, and Steve suddenly realizes that he knows that shirt.
He glances down at the floor, takes in the too-long jeans almost covering flip-flops that Chris would never, ever buy. "Wild night?" he asks, trying and failing to hide his smirk.
"Something like that." Chris flags down a waitress, begs her for a cup of coffee.
"Nice shirt," Steve says, casually nonchalant as he looks over his menu.
"What? Oh, thanks."
"It looks better on Jensen, but it's good on you, too."
Chris sips his coffee and flips him off, which coming from Chris is as good as an admission of guilt.
Steve grins. "Hey, I'm not complaining. At least he left you enough time to shower this time."
"Shut up, Carlson."
***
So, uh. Happy birthday, Jenny! ♥
[17:20]
stephanometra: chris do you really hood surf y/n[17:20]
unperfectwolf: hahaha[17:20]
ellipsisblack: video evidence suggests yes[17:20]
unperfectwolf: hah[17:21]
ellipsisblack: also, that kinda looks like a shirt jensen would wear[17:21]
unperfectwolf: hhhhaaaa[17:21]
unperfectwolf: I was thinking it looked like the paley shirts[17:21]
waterofthemoon: hahahaha. it's totally Jen's shirt.[17:21]
stephanometra: chris and jensen sometimes share clothes, you know[17:22]
ellipsisblack: heh. [17:22]
unperfectwolf: SOMEONE (NOT ME) WRITE THIS PLEASE[17:22]
stephanometra: when chris shows up at jensen's place in the middle of the night smelling like cigarettes and tequila[17:22]
unperfectwolf: Where is Dean when we need him?[17:22]
waterofthemoon: make Dean write it![17:22]
ellipsisblack: make D write it. she goes for this stuff-yeah[17:22]
ellipsisblack: XD[17:22]
stephanometra: and jensen is like "what the shit, you reek"[17:22]
ellipsisblack: he. it's too early for pronouns.[17:22]
stephanometra: "you are not coming in here smelling like that"[17:23]
unperfectwolf: hahaha, steph[17:23]
stephanometra: and so chris shucks off all his clothes on jensen's doorstep and then they have lots and lots of sex[17:23]
unperfectwolf: hahahahhaha[17:23]
stephanometra: and chris has to wear jen's clothes home because he left his outside and somebody made off with them![17:24]
stephanometra: DAMMIT GUYS, SERIOUSLY WHERE IS JENNY[17:24]
stephanometra: HE NEEDS TO BE WRITING THIS, NOT ME[17:24]
stephanometra: I DON'T WRITE RPS[17:24]
unperfectwolf: DOOOO[17:25]
stephanometra: NO[17:25]
stephanometra: oh, christ, i'm going to do it[17:25]
waterofthemoon: YAY[17:25]
stephanometra: BUT IT'S GOING TO BE SHORT AND I AM GOING TO BE VERY ASHAMED OF MYSELF AFTER[17:25]
unperfectwolf: thats okay[17:25]
unperfectwolf: we will love you still(There was also much speculation about this picture, in which Steve Carlson appears to be wearing a different one of Jensen's shirts, and Jensen himself is standing in the back looking totally adorable.)
So, anyway. In lieu of trying to get
namegoeshere to write me this fic, I decided to write it for him instead. ♥So now that we've got that bit of insanity out of the way...
Title: Don't Take Kindly to Serious
Pairing: Jensen/Chris. DON'T JUDGE ME.
Rating: Hard R, prolly.
Summary: In which I increase my going-to-hellness by at least 150%.
Warnings: None!
Notes: For my best-beloved
namegoeshere on the occasion of his birthday (or the day before his birthday, as the case may be, but I doubt he minds)! Title is from House Rules, by Kane of course. 1600 words.It's coming up on 3 A.M. when Jensen's phone rings.
He doesn't usually get calls that late, mostly because he doesn't hang out with idiot kids (well, except for Jared) who think it's hilarious to wake his ass up in the middle of the night. But for once he's not actually asleep -- it's one of those rare weeks during hiatus when his agent doesn't have him running around every which-way, reading, talking to people. For a few halcyon days, he gets to just sit still, catch his breath. He likes that. It lets him catch up on his reading.
So he's awake at 2:45, totally engrossed in a book his sister insisted he'd like. He hasn't touched his contacts in three days, hasn't shaved in two. There are four beer bottles sitting on his nightstand in various stages of emptiness. And since he's awake, he grabs his phone, flicks it open even though it's really obscenely late.
Kane, the caller ID says. "Why are you calling me in the middle of the night?"
Chris laughs. "Because you're not answering your door, jackass. Come let me in, it's fucking gross out here."
Jensen rolls his eyes, but he gets out of bed and pads out of his bedroom towards the front door. "Okay, why are you knocking on my door at quarter to three on a Tuesday?" he asks the phone. "Do you not have anyone else to bother? Steve still in Chicago?"
"Getting back tomorrow."
"Lousy bastard."
"Yeah, tell me about it."
He snaps shut his phone and opens the door, scowling when the humidity hits him; it is fucking gross outside. "How'd you know I was up?"
"Didn't." Chris grins and shoves his hands in his pockets.
Jensen eyes him critically, takes in the bangs falling into his eyes, catches a faint whiff of cigarettes and cheap tequila. "You smell like a dive bar."
"Well, that's what happens. You gonna invite me in?"
He thinks about it. "You can come in, but your clothes can't. I just had the place cleaned, don't need you rednecking it up so soon."
Christian gives him an incredulous look. "Jen."
"Chris. Seriously, dude, you reek."
They stare at each other for a minute, and then Chris shrugs, pulls his baseball tee over his head. "You know," he says, pausing to unbuckle his belt, "if you want me naked, all you have to do is ask."
Jensen smirks. "Think I just did."
Chris laughs again, languid and whiskey-rough, as he toes off his boots and shucks off his jeans. Hooking his thumbs in the waist of his boxers, he arches an eyebrow at Jensen, questioning.
"Keep going, cowboy," Jensen drawls, and when Chris has dropped his underwear onto the porch, Jensen grabs him by the elbow and hauls him into the house.
Chris tastes like smoke and Maker's Mark, rough and hot on Jensen's tongue, and he kisses like he's starving for it, his need as naked as he is. Jensen steers them towards the kitchen, stumbling over his feet because he won't tear his lips from Chris' or his hands from the smooth, golden plane of Chris' back.
Dragging his tongue over the stubble on Jensen's jaw, Chris murmurs, "You've got too many clothes on, Jenny," hands reaching for the button on Jensen's jeans.
"Nah, you're just shameless."
"Yeah, I get that a lot," Chris says, and Jensen grins.
"Why'd you come over, anyway? Bet there were half a dozen girls at that bar who're dying to suck Christian Kane's cock."
Chris backs him up against the kitchen counter, palms him through his boxers. "Probably," he agrees, "but I was dying to suck yours."
"Well, uh." Jensen leans in for another kiss, licking into Chris' mouth. "Have at it."
Smiling into his mouth, Chris says, "You say the prettiest things." And then he drops to his knees, kissing a bruise into the jut of Jensen's hip before gently sucking the head of Jensen's dick into his mouth.
"Oh fuck yes, your mouth," Jensen groans, and Chris hums contentedly around his cock, hands skating up Jensen's thighs to cup his balls, circle the base.
He tangles his fingers in Chris' hair, not pressuring or moving him around, just wanting to feel the strands between his fingers. Chris quirks a brow, looking up with smiling eyes as he works Jensen's crown with his tongue.
Fuck, it's so good. Jensen has never understood what it is about Chris that drives him crazy, that can send him from cold to coming in minutes like he's fucking sixteen again. "God, Chris, stop," he moans, stroking over Chris' cheekbone with his thumb.
Chris blinks fever-bright eyes, pulls off. "What," he says, licking his slick lips, looking like sin incarnate.
Jensen forgets what he was going to say; "Fuck, you're gorgeous," is what comes out of his mouth, and Chris just chuckles and swallows him down again like he really is dying to suck Jensen dry.
Jensen doesn't stand a chance, really. He barely manages a whimpered warning before he comes.
Chris swallows eagerly and then sits back on his heels, taking himself in hand. "Jesus, Jen, so hot," he gasps, hand flying on his cock.
Jensen watches for a moment, slack-jawed, and then curls a hand around Chris' bicep, tugs him up. "Don't," he says, grabbing Chris' wrist, stilling the hand working his dick.
Groaning, Chris says, "What now?"
"Don't come," Jensen breathes, leaning in to nip at Chris' earlobe. "Please."
"Why the fuck not?"
"Because you've been drinking, asshole, and I want you to fuck me."
"Oh, fucking hell." Chris groans, his head dropping back and the hand on his cock moving to squeeze at the base, trying to keep from coming. Then the moment passes, and he looks at Jensen with hot, half-lidded eyes before grabbing Jensen's arm and dragging him towards the bedroom.
Christian wakes up in an empty bed, the other side still warm from Jensen's body. The clock on the nightstand cheerfully announces that it's 10:16, and he glares at it until the minute rolls over, in hopes that it'll change its mind.
He rolls out of bed, naked, and follows the smell of coffee, picking up the jeans Jensen finally managed to lose halfway between the kitchen and his bedroom, pulling them on. They're too long, swallowing his feet, dragging on the carpet.
"Morning," he says, grabbing the cup of sweet, black coffee Jensen has set out for him.
Jensen nods, sipping his own coffee, leafing through one of the random magazines sitting on his kitchen counter. "Rained last night."
"Oh, hell." Chris puts down his coffee, running a hand through his hair agitatedly, and goes to the front door.
His clothes are a sodden mess on the porch, of course. Chris pokes at one of his boots with his toe and winces.
Jensen comes to stand in the doorway, still nonchalantly drinking his coffee.
"I don't suppose the clothes can come in and use your dryer?" Chris asks.
"What would you do if I said no?"
"Uh." Chris considers a moment, bends down to pick up his shirt. It drips onto his feet, soaks the cuff of his borrowed jeans. "I could always wear 'em wet."
When Jensen doesn't respond, Chris looks up at him, questioning; Jensen's coffee cup is stilled halfway to his mouth, his eyes dark and unfocused.
"Jen?"
Jensen's gaze snaps to his, and then Chris is suddenly being hauled to his feet, pulled back inside and pressed against the front door.
"You can't just say shit like that," Jensen growls, leaning in kiss him roughly, biting at Chris' lower lip.
Chris opens for him, groans into the kiss, but he really does have to get those stupid clothes inside. "Need to get my pants, Jen," he says.
Jensen murmurs a negative, moves to suck bruises into Chris' throat. "Nope. Bed, now."
"Can't." Chris squirms, tries to get out from between Jensen and the door. "I've got a lunch meeting I can't miss."
"Cancel it."
"Can't. Come on, man, at least let me wash my goddamn jeans --"
"Later." Then Jensen is manhandling him back down the hallway, and Chris kind of forgets exactly why he's protesting.
Steve is the first to arrive for the meeting, which is weird; the producer won't show for half an hour more, of course, but Chris has spent so long as an actor that he barely even understands fashionable lateness. Frankly, it's enough to make any self-respecting musician weep.
The hostess shows him to the table, and he sits down to wait, a little annoyed because he didn't cut his trip to Chicago short to sit around a restaurant he doesn't like with just an iced tea for company.
Christian shuffles in ten minutes later looking sleepy and well-fucked, landing in his chair with a groan.
"You're late," Steve says.
"I know," Chris says, tugging at the collar of the buttondown he's wearing, fingers lingering on his collarbone, and Steve suddenly realizes that he knows that shirt.
He glances down at the floor, takes in the too-long jeans almost covering flip-flops that Chris would never, ever buy. "Wild night?" he asks, trying and failing to hide his smirk.
"Something like that." Chris flags down a waitress, begs her for a cup of coffee.
"Nice shirt," Steve says, casually nonchalant as he looks over his menu.
"What? Oh, thanks."
"It looks better on Jensen, but it's good on you, too."
Chris sips his coffee and flips him off, which coming from Chris is as good as an admission of guilt.
Steve grins. "Hey, I'm not complaining. At least he left you enough time to shower this time."
"Shut up, Carlson."
