The Apocolypse Is Upon Us (better write some pr0n)

By Poisontaster, solo

Pairing: Jared/Jensen
Rating: R
Warnings: Prostitution. Language. Slash.
Word Count: ~900

Jared’s had too much of the expensive fizzy champagne and his client keeps pressing more on him, to the point where Jared wants to lean into his face and ask him, “You know you don’t have to get me drunk to fuck me, right?”

But he’s not that drunk yet. Maybe after this next glass.

When the client isn’t looking—Jared thinks his name is Rod or Todd or something like that. He knows the name of every dog in the kennel, every creature at La Hacienda that has a name, for that matter, but he hardly ever bothers to remember the clients’ anymore. Unless they have a special yen to hear him screaming it out as they fuck him.

Jared’s not sure how he feels about that. The forgetting, not the fucking. He’s crystal clear on his feelings about the fucking. But forgetting names…

It might be maudlin, but it feels like a little piece of himself that’s falling by the wayside, changed by this place and not for the better.

Finally Rod-Todd mutters into Jared’s neck, “Let’s go outside,” and Jared follows him out onto the big stone verandah.

It’s not more private out here, it’s a party, and nearly every inch of the house’s public areas are littered with milling guests and working staff. It is cooler, though; the breeze creeps up from the ocean to skim uneasily through his hair and across the damp nape of his neck. Jared’s client seats him on the wide stone balustrade—because it puts them at a level—and proceeds to paw him, apparently uncaring of who might be paying attention.

Hell, Jared thinks tiredly, maybe that even makes it better.

Hot-Rod Todd snuffles wetly at Jared’s neck. It makes his skin crawl and Jared runs through a half dozen excuses for his goose bumps in his head before coming to the weary realization that his client won’t give a shit what Jared’s feeling one way or the other about his damp kisses. At best, they want him to fake it. At worst, they just don’t care at all and Jared could be a Real Doll in the shape of Jared Padalecki, one-time Hollywood star.

Or wannabe star, anyway, Jared thinks and has to marvel at his own uncharacteristic bitterness.

Stop thinking so much. Jared can hear Jensen’s voice as clearly as if the words were whispered in his ear, exasperation and concern cross-cutting through his tone. Just…turn that big brain off and go with it.

Jared closes his eyes and tips his head back, trying to go somewhere else while Rod-Todd makes use of his body. The truth, though, is that Jared just can’t relinquish control that way, no matter how hard he tries. It’s only a moment later before he lets his breath sigh out and opens his eyes again.

As if summoned by the memory of his voice in Jared’s head, he can see Jensen, standing above him on the second story terrace with his client—a woman for a change and beautiful enough that she shouldn’t have to pay for sex, even with someone as gorgeous as Jensen himself.

Jared looks at their faces, so close together. Jensen’s smiling faintly, the sun lines at the corners of his eyes lines of dark shadow that almost look like they’re drawn in eyeliner. One hand is curved over his date’s shoulder and the other trails lightly down her arm, knuckles just barely brushing the full surge of her breast. The light’s good enough that Jared watches her nipple harden, a sharp peak beneath the soft, clinging cloth of her gown. Her head tips back onto Jensen’s shoulder, smile mirroring his and Jared feels lightheaded and strange watching them, wondering if even Jensen is that good an actor, to fake the interest and attraction in every line of his body.

He saw Jensen kiss Jeff in what feels like a lifetime ago, but Jeff is just one man and he’s seen Jensen with dozens of women. Okay, there’s Michael too, but two men—three if you count Jared—do not a queer man make.

Jensen’s hand slips back up the sleek front of the woman’s gown, thigh to the flat stomach, through the center of the torso and cleavage to trace around the roundness of her breast, caress her neck with the back of his knuckles. The murmur of conversation and the white noise of the waves cover her gasp, but Jared sees her mouth open and her eyes flinch shut. He knows what it feels like to have those fingers roam your naked skin.

Even as Rod-Todd nudges Jared’s thighs apart, Jared feels his stomach roil and burn with a strange and unaccustomed jealousy, imagining Jensen like this before, in the old days. Before the plague, when he could have his pick of women—or men, for that matter. He wonders if that’s all he is to Jensen; just…what’s left.

Jensen’s head dips to brush his lips across the woman’s shoulder. When his head comes up, though, he spots Jared. Or Jared thinks he must, from the wide, pleased grin that spreads across Jensen’s face. He winks, quick but deliberate, and Jared smiles back, feeling Jensen’s grin and wink like a touch across the space that divides them.

Jensen mouths something that looks like “later” and blows a kiss before returning his attention to his client. Having watched Jensen drop the act, Jared’s aware of the dividing line when Jensen picks it up again and the awareness of it is warm and sweet as the champagne filling up his veins. Even his client’s tugging hands and muttered, “c’mon,” can’t break it, Jared’s armor and defense.

Jared takes it with him as the client leads him off the verandah and into the bushes, where it’s dark.

~

On to Best Of A Bad Situation