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Entry tags:
yield strength, JA/Kane, NC-17
Title: Yield Strength
Fandom: CWrps
Pairing: Jensen/Christian
Rating/Warnings: NC-17; D/s
Disclaimer: Oh, this so never happened. Never. EVER.
Notes: Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
without_me's birthday.
Thanks tosynecdochic for gut-checking this about halfway through; and to beanside, gracecourage, kestrelsan, and nu_breed for sharp eyes and fast betas.
This is set several years prior to Enough (written bywithout_me and yours truly) and immediately follows Made to be Broken, by without_me.
Jensen hates this; Chris can see it in every line of his body, the way he tenses when Chris laughs with someone else, leans over to share a few words where Jensen can't hear--or a kiss he very definitely can see.
Or maybe Chris should say that Jensen hates that being here at Chris's feet, being, not ignored, but not in control is getting him off. This isn't his thing--Chris knows he's here only because he won't back down from a challenge--but he's flushed and sweating and Chris can see how his hands clench and unclench on his crossed wrists as he keeps his arms up behind his back.
The thing is, like it or not, he's good at it. Chris sees the admiring glances thrown his way, shrugs off more than one request to share. He thinks about it, toys with the idea, just to see how far he can push Jen, how far he can push himself, but when some punkass twit goes so far as to touch Jensen, running his thumb over that perfect cheekbone, Chris doesn't even try to put words to the growl ripping out of his throat.
Jensen's head snaps up; before he can move, Chris gets his hand into the hair at the base of his skull and twists. Jensen fights it for a second but lets go when Chris tightens his hand.
He keeps his hand locked even as he stares down the little fuckwit wannabe. "You're lucky you didn't lose that finger, son," Chris says, and his face might be smiling but his eyes are snarling and he maybe enjoys watching the smirk fade to something a lot less cocky a whole lot more than he should. "No touching," he adds, and this time, he's not so much smiling as baring his teeth.
He settles back in his chair and loosens the grip he has on Jensen's hair, but he keeps his hand right there, lets his thumb rub down the side of Jen's neck, along the curve of his shoulder and back up. He makes himself take a long drink--water instead of beer--but it doesn't do much to cool him down and it doesn't take him long to admit that the public part of this evening is pretty much over. There's no one in the room, hell, in the city, who comes close to catching Chris's interest the way Jensen has, even when he's not kneeling at Chris's feet, all but vibrating under his hand. Maybe, if this ever happens again--and please, God, it will, but Chris isn't taking anything for granted--he'll pick someone worthy of Jen and let them put their hands on him, but not tonight. Tonight, this--Jensen--is all for Chris and Chris wants him somewhere with no distractions; laid out, there for Chris to pleasure... or not.
Jensen follows him out of the club easily enough, but that's still in public, and Chris isn't sure if all of this is gonna disappear as soon as it's just the two of them. The silence stretches out after they get in the truck, not strained, but not quite easy either and it takes Chris a stupid amount of time to realize that Jensen isn't backing off, that he's not saying anything because he's waiting to be addressed.
Chris lets that settle deep in his gut, holding it close and savoring it until he pulls up at a stoplight and he can look at Jensen. "That get you hard back there, Jen? Showing how pretty you can kneel for me?"
Jensen's quiet for long enough that Chris is about to push for an answer, but then he says, "Yeah," his voice rough and low, wired straight to Chris's dick.
"Show me." Chris smiles when Jensen's breath hisses in, but then it's his turn to feel like there's not enough oxygen in the world, because Jensen's hands are moving, not quite smoothly, but steady, and his pants, those neatly-pressed, bland, boring jeans, are open. Chris is going to kill them both because he can't tear his eyes off the porn flick that's happening next to him, can't take his eyes off Jensen, jeans unzipped and spread open, shirt rucked up and boxers pushed down far enough that Chris can see the hard curve of his dick. Jensen sits quietly, not touching himself, showing Chris what he asked for, and holy fucking hell, Chris thinks, this is really going to happen.
That thought steadies him, brings him back into himself, at least enough to let him drive and to figure out Jensen's not nearly as calm as he's projecting either. Chris reaches over to where his thumb's twisting the heavy silver ring he wears and pushes his hand flat.
"Easy now," Chris says. "Long night to go." He brushes his hand along the length of Jensen's cock, fingertips skimming the soft hot skin and smiles at the low murmur Jensen can't quite bite back. "So fucking pretty," he growls. "Everyone wanted you, coulda whored you out all night." Jensen breathes in sharp and quick and Chris's smile deepens.
"Next time, baby," he promises. He keeps his strokes light, nothing more than a tease, drinks in Jensen's tension and need and lets it settle sweet and low in his gut. "If you ask me real nice, I'll let you take two at once."
"You sure that's what you want?" Jensen answers, but his breath's coming shallow and fast. Chris keeps his hand moving, starts dragging his nails along the same path.
"I figure," he says, "as long as I can count on your lifting your ass for me after, I'll manage to enjoy watching you take a cock up your ass the same time you've got one down your throat."
Jensen looks at him, eyes him up and down. "Bring it on, cowboy."
Jensen's eyes are dead serious and fuck if he doesn't know how many buttons it's gonna be punching for Chris to watch Jensen get used by someone else. Chris acknowledges the challenge and files it away for later. He won't be able to let it go now, not until he knows what it feels like to fuck Jensen after he's serviced however many people Chris picks out for him.
He keeps his hand on Jensen--thigh, cock, balls--for the rest of the trip. He'd like nothing better than to keep on like that, walk Jensen up to the apartment by his dick, but it's not all that late, and the chance of running into a neighbor is a little too high. He settles for watching while Jensen puts himself back together, then wrapping his hand around Jensen's wrist and leading him that way.
Jensen knows the way as well as Chris, he could walk alongside Chris like it's nothing out of the ordinary, but he's not, he's allowing himself to be led and that right there gets caught in Chris's head. He knows Jensen well enough to know how fucking close he guards himself, knows him well enough to stop when they get to his front door and make his hand let go of Jensen's wrist, because he goddamned needs to be sure.
"You want this?" His voice is rough, but fuck, he wants it, too and he doesn't figure it'll hurt if Jen knows it.
"Yeah," Jensen whispers, and takes a deep breath. "I--yeah."
Chris digs his nails into the palm of his hand, the quick, sharp pain pulling him back into his head. "Limits?" he grinds out.
"I--there's a meeting next week, not quite a reading, but ..." Jensen's eyes are almost black in the low light. "My face... No marks, nothing that anyone can see."
Chris nods, considering. Face and neck; hell, wrists, too, he thinks. It's fine; he'll still have everything else to work over. "Safeword?"
Jensen closes his eyes for a long second, but they're open and steady when he says, "Red."
"Red," Chris repeats, taking a deep breath of his own and finally giving in to the need to touch Jensen. He keeps it short, only a quick, teasing brush of his thumb over Jensen's mouth, because once he starts, he isn't sure he can stop. "You fucking use it if you need it, Jen."
"Yeah," Jensen breathes. "I will."
Chris promises himself right there that the only time that's going to happen is if he consciously decides to push Jensen that far, swears to himself that he will stay in control, no matter what, starting right now.
"All right," he says, taking a step back. "Strip."
Jensen's eyes dart left and right, considering--he's against the wall, and with the way Chris is angled, he'll be mostly blocked if anyone walks by--but they're still standing on the sidewalk, in front of twenty condos, there's no getting around that.
"Okay," Jensen whispers, and Chris lets out the breath he didn't realize he was holding. Shoes and socks first, then shirt, the easy stuff settling him enough that Chris doesn't need to say anything else before jeans and boxers are on the pile of neatly folded clothes and Jensen's shifting a little, weight moving from one leg to the next, and Chris takes the all the time he wants to look his fill.
He doesn't keep them there for long, not really. It's maybe only a minute, but he can feel the seconds ticking off, slow and steady, and if it feels long to him, when he knows he's going to be ending it soon, those same seconds have to be twisting Jensen up hard.
He touches Jensen again, one more light brush over his mouth and along his jaw, a long, slow glide down his arm before he wraps one hand around a smooth, strong wrist and unlocks the door with his other.
Jensen comes with him, moves easily, but his pulse jackrabbits under Chris's thumb. Chris takes him straight into the bedroom, leaves him standing just inside the door. The duffel's still on the bed, right where Chris left it; it only takes Chris a few seconds to find what he needs.
The cuffs are wide and leather and padded, so they won't leave any marks behind, and the cock ring is made of the same black leather. They're cool against his skin, but Chris knows how quickly they warm, how quickly Jensen's body will heat them.
When he turns around, Jensen's still standing where Chris left him, back against the wall, eyes down, only the quickness of his breath giving a lie to his surface calm. Chris drops the cuffs and cock ring at his feet, and he looks up with eyes that are wide and dark.
"Go on," Chris tells him. "I want to watch you."
Jensen nods once, biting his lip as he crouches to retrieve the first cuff. Chris watches carefully, not at all sure where the line is, but Jensen's done this before, has to have, the way he doesn't fumble with them. His hands are steady as he stretches a cuff out on his thigh, then lays his wrist down on it, tugging it tight with one hand and finishing it off with his teeth.
He keeps his eyes down as he works and Chris isn't sure who that's turning on more, but he is sure that it's been a long time since he's seen anything better than the way the black leather draws attention to the easy grace in Jensen's movements.
Chris nudges the cock ring with the toe of his boot, pushing it closer to Jensen's knee. "Don't stop now," he says. "Get your dick ready for me, too."
Jensen's already half-hard--has been since he stripped for Chris--and his breath hisses in at the first touch of his hands.
"Yeah," Chris growls. "Play with yourself; let me see how you get yourself hard." Jensen wraps his hand around his dick, biting back a low noise, and Chris gets his hand in Jensen's hair, pulling hard enough to let Jensen know he means it, let him know that Chris wants him to pay special attention. "None of that, Jen. You like something, I want to hear it."
Chris tightens his hand until Jensen's head is tipped back and his breath is coming in short, tight gasps, smiling when Jensen's eyes flick up to meet his. "Keep going," he says, and if his own voice is a little hoarse and greedy, he's fine with that.
Jensen swallows, throat muscles working against the strain Chris is putting them under, but his hands start moving again, slowly stripping his cock and every time he rubs his thumb over the head, he makes a quiet almost-whimper that goes straight to Chris's dick.
It's tempting to keep him like that, arched back and spread out, but there's so much more Chris wants, more than he's ever even thought about. He pulls one last time, sharp and hard and right on the edge of cruel, then lets go suddenly and watches Jensen catch himself on shaking arms.
It takes Jensen three tries to get the leather strap around his dick and snapped tight; every second of watching him struggle with it is burned in Chris's brain. He crouches in front of where Jensen's still kneeling, his own dick aching and hard from watching, and tips Jensen's chin up, tacit permission to look at Chris.
"Good," Chris whispers, because he couldn't find his voice if his life depended on it, not with everything that he's reading in Jensen's eyes. "So fucking beautiful like this," he says, leaning in to finally taste that mouth, bite along the lower lip, push his tongue inside and swallow down the soft moans. Jensen settles under the kiss, relaxes into it, into Chris, opening for him and giving anything Chris asks for.
Chris keeps one hand on Jensen even after he pulls back, curves it up and around the back of Jensen's head, guiding him back to sit on his heels. Jensen's neck is warm and strong under Chris's hand, his skin smooth. Chris draws one arm up behind his back, then the other, wrists crossed and cuffs aligned. Jensen holds the position with a small sigh, nothing more than a slow exhalation, while Chris threads a carabiner through the D-rings on the cuffs.
He's almost shocked at the pleasure he's taking in arranging Jensen, in putting him on display. At the club, it had been enough to have Jensen at his feet, but here, now, Chris wants Jensen tense and pure, spread out only for him. He runs his hands over every inch of skin, coaxing Jensen's back straighter, his shoulders square, easing his knees further apart. He stops and starts, steps back to get that perspective, moves back to touch and guide, until Jensen's in classic pose. He leans in and bites Jensen's mouth red and swollen, then pinches and twists his nipples until they match. Jensen's shaking under him, but he's silent until Chris starts working over his dick, teasing at the slit, rolling his balls roughly, dragging his nails along the length. Every moan slides up under Chris's skin and makes it that much harder to stop.
Chris has no idea how long he spends touching him, petting him, but when he stops, Jensen's fucking perfect and, at least for tonight, he belongs to Chris.
"Beautiful," Chris says, again. "Just like this, I want you to stay here for me." Jensen nods and Chris makes himself leaves Jensen there for the little bit of time it takes to grab a bottle of water out of the refrigerator and bump the AC a couple of degrees warmer. He stops outside the bedroom door to take three deep breaths and get his center back, but it's still a gut punch, coming back into the room and seeing Jensen waiting for him, knees still spread, dick still hard, eyes still down. He's been there long enough that his shoulders have to be stiff and his thighs and legs going numb, but it doesn't look as if he's so much as shifted while Chris was out of the room.
"Here," Chris says, stroking under Jensen's jaw and raising his head enough that he can drink. Chris gets about half the bottle into him in small sips, then lets him drop back into position while Chris finishes the rest of it and idly traces his foot along Jensen's leg. Jensen doesn't move, but his breath catches and that's too tempting to ignore. Chris runs the toe of one boot along the inside of one thigh, light pressure against Jensen's dick and balls, then back down the other thigh. Again, and then once more, leaning in each time with more weight.
"God, Chris." Jensen's voice is stripped down and bare. Chris tells himself he probably should stop, but the raw, shaking noises Jensen's making, the way he's not holding anything back, how hard he's fighting to keep still, not get away from anything Chris is giving him--it all twists under Chris's skin, reeling him in like he's never been before.
His hands aren't quite steady; it takes a second try to get his pants open, but then he's jerking Jensen's head up and back, pushing his dick past those pretty lips, hard and fast. Jensen takes the first thrust, but gags on the second and Chris takes a half-step back and makes sure Jensen's looking right at him when he reaches out and slaps him.
It's quiet and still in the room; Chris doesn't have to raise his voice at all. "That won't mark," he tells Jensen, and it won't. He knows exactly how hard to hit; it won't bruise, he knows he got it right. "But the next one probably will."
That's a lie; if Chris hits him again, he'll pull it even more, but right now, with the adrenaline and endorphin rush, he's betting that Jensen won't have the first clue.
Chris didn't come close to hitting him hard enough to knock him down, but it's still enough that when Jensen's lifts his head, his eyes are dark, almost all pupil. Chris waits for him to safeword, but he pulls himself back up, as close as he can to how Chris had him before. The tremors under his skin are so fine, so subtle Chris almost misses them. He opens his mouth again and takes Chris back in with a gasp that sounds more like a sob and Chris wants to echo it.
Instead, he twists his fingers in Jensen's hair and fucks his throat, holding back only enough to keep from coming. He could keep going, come down Jensen's throat until he's choking on it, but if this is the only time he gets to do this, he wants his mark all over Jensen, wants to see it for as long as he can. Jensen gags twice more and Chris doesn't hesitate. His pulse is pounding and his hand is hot from where he's hit Jensen--where he's hit Jensen, Jesus Christ--and he wouldn't be surprised if he has a heart attack when he finally lets himself come, but Jensen's leaning into him, so there's no fucking way he's stopping now.
He doesn't lose control, not exactly, but Jensen's whimpering around his dick; small, helpless, eager noises that heat his blood like lightning, and it doesn't matter when he pulls out that his hand is rough and harsh on his dick, nothing like Jensen's mouth. He strokes himself once, twice and it all slams through him. He can't tear his eyes away from come splattering white and thick across freckled skin, on reddened, swollen lips.
Before his heart even starts slowing down, he drags his thumb over Jensen's mouth, come and sweat slick against his skin. Jensen licks at him, sucks him in between panting breaths and they stay like that, touching only there until Chris has captured all the streaks, smeared them and rubbed them into Jensen's skin. He's edged back close, close enough that Jensen can rock against his leg, moaning every time his dick slides along the soft leather pants Chris still wears.
"Yeah," Chris breathes. "C'mon, Jen, tell me how bad you want it." He shifts then, pushing Jensen back on his heels and lifting his foot to press his boot up against Jensen's balls, smiling when Jensen chokes out a sharp cry. "C'mon, baby, tell me."
"Chris, fuck, fuck."
Chris puts a little more weight behind his foot, pushes up a little harder, smoothes his thumb over the high arch of Jensen's cheekbone.
"Tell me," he repeats, coaxing, encouraging, promising. He might have started this whole thing without thinking about it--it wouldn't be the first time he's done something boneheaded--and Jensen might have gone into it only because he won't back down from a challenge, but it's way beyond all that now. Chris can see the need in Jensen's eyes and he's not easing off until he gets Jen across that line.
"Let it go, man," Chris says, holding Jensen's eyes. "I got you." He's almost holding his breath: Jensen's stubborn as fuck even when he's not right on the edge and Chris isn't sure how much of what he's saying is getting through, or even if it is, if it's enough. All he knows is that stopping isn't what Jensen needs, even if he can't admit he needs it yet.
Jensen breaks the gaze, his eyes skittering left and right. He's shaking, but still not talking and Chris is almost ready to take him down, put him on the floor and take away that last bit of control when he takes a long, sobbing breath.
"Please," he says, so soft and hesitant Chris has to strain to hear him. "Chris, I need--please."
Chris is dropping to his knees before Jensen finishes, one quick tug unsnapping the leather around Jensen's dick. Chris knows Jensen, knows what it cost for Jen to say it and maybe the next time he might make Jensen spell it out, but right now, he gets his hand on Jensen's dick and drags his nails along the length of it.
"Come for me," he growls, rubbing his thumb across the tip, once and then again and again, too hard, not letting Jensen move away. "Now, Jensen."
Chris leans in and bites down along the curve of neck into shoulder and Jensen stiffens under him, coming with a low, helpless keen that goes on and on. Chris jacks him through it, short, sharp strokes that match the frantic in and out of Jensen's breath.
He lets Jensen lick his hand clean, then sets him back on his heels and draws him up again. Jensen doesn't fight him, moves slowly but without hesitation and Chris pets him gently in reward.
"Did you like that?"
Jensen shifts restlessly before he whispers, "Yes."
"Did you want it?"
Jensen's voice is even softer. "Yes."
Chris traces short, easy strokes over the back of Jensen's neck with his thumb. "What do you say when someone gives you something that you want?"
Jensen goes absolutely still under him; he knows what Chris wants to hear. Chris lets the silence spin out, breaks it only when he reaches out and slaps Jensen one last time, a backhand across the other cheek. He keeps his voice low, but lets his displeasure at having to repeat himself sharpen his tone and hopes like hell it does the trick.
"What do you say?"
Jensen shudders once, a short, hard spasm of muscle and sinew, before he whispers, "Thank you."
"My pleasure," Chris answers, cupping Jensen's face in his hand, smoothing gently over the red marks he's left behind before he unsnaps the carabiner and catches Jensen as he folds to the floor.
***
"Try not to be a complete moron, Ackles." Chris isn't budging on this one, even if Jensen does have that stubborn set to his jaw, kinda like a mule digging in. "You're not getting behind the wheel; you're not calling a cab; you're not sleeping on the fucking couch."
Chris pushes Jensen onto the bed, one quick shove that sits him right back down. Jensen glares at him, hair spiky and messy from the shower, but it's like being faced down by a sleepy kindergartener.
"Crash out for a couple of hours," Chris suggests. "See what's what after that." There's a fleece blanket at the foot of the bed; Chris holds it out silently.
Jensen eyes him and that's the thing: Jensen knows Chris, knows every single line and dodge Chris can pull, which leaves Chris with nothing to hide behind. Not that he's trying to hide, not now, but he doesn't blame Jensen for double-checking.
"Fine," Jensen sighs, taking the blanket and twisting around to fight with the pillows. "You coming?"
"Nah, man," Chris says. "I'm good, a little too wired still. I'm just gonna..." He gestures vaguely toward the bathroom.
"Right," Jensen says, after a second. "Sure." He nods and Chris thinks, nowhere to hide, but then he's stretching out on the bed and Chris is moving to turn out the light.
The living room's trashed, pizza boxes and empty bottles of Gatorade and the Ziploc with ice that he'd fixed, to make as sure as he could that there was nothing to see on Jensen's face. He really is wired, so he finds a trash bag and wanders around, filling it up before he hits the shower. He stays in a long time, until he finishes off the hot water, but he's still jittery when he gets out.
Jensen's out cold, still and relaxed; Chris watches him for a while, then leaves the last bottle of Gatorade next to the bed and grabs a beer for himself. Times like these, he tells himself, the remote is a man's best friend. He settles in the living room, feet up on the table and starts flipping. One of the dozen sports channels he gets is showing highlights from the Calgary Stampede; watching the top riders go at it brings back memories of summers back home, dust and horses and watching the local circuit with something close to awe. It settles him some, enough that he can fall asleep, even with the endless loop of thankyouthankyouthankyou whispering in his head.
***
"Chris." Jensen's hand is warm on Chris's shoulder. "Chris, man, I'm taking off."
Chris pries his eyes open--it's light outside and Jensen's watching him with a scrutiny that leaves Chris acutely conscious of the infomercial blaring on the TV and the open bottle of beer still cradled between his legs. Somewhere between night and day, Jensen got back his usual calm and it's Chris who's way the hell off-balance.
"Yeah," he says, rubbing at the bridge of his nose and making an effort to sit up. "Okay."
"I stole the last of your OJ," Jensen says, holding up the carton. "Sorry."
"No, you're not," Chris mutters.
Jensen slants a wicked grin at him and takes a long drink. It's like every other morning that one of them has passed out at the other's place, at least until Jensen wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and Chris can't make himself look away.
"Later, man," Jensen says, moving toward the door. He's got it open before Chris can find his voice.
"Jen," he says, and it'd be easy to blame how uneven his voice is on having slept for only a couple of hours, and that sitting up on the damn couch, but he knows it for the lie it is. Jensen turns back to look at him; maybe he knows it, too. "Thank you."
Jensen tilts his head, like he's going to smile, but he stays serious. "My pleasure," he answers and closes the door quietly behind him.
***
***
Yield strength is the point at which a material can no longer reform itself after being stressed. In layman's terms, the breaking point. If you're good, you know exactly how much stress the material you're working with can take before it's permanently deformed, and you work just under that. /engineer
Fandom: CWrps
Pairing: Jensen/Christian
Rating/Warnings: NC-17; D/s
Disclaimer: Oh, this so never happened. Never. EVER.
Notes: Written for
without_me's birthday.Thanks to
synecdochic for gut-checking this about halfway through; and to beanside, gracecourage, kestrelsan, and nu_breed for sharp eyes and fast betas. This is set several years prior to Enough (written by
without_me and yours truly) and immediately follows Made to be Broken, by without_me.Jensen hates this; Chris can see it in every line of his body, the way he tenses when Chris laughs with someone else, leans over to share a few words where Jensen can't hear--or a kiss he very definitely can see.
Or maybe Chris should say that Jensen hates that being here at Chris's feet, being, not ignored, but not in control is getting him off. This isn't his thing--Chris knows he's here only because he won't back down from a challenge--but he's flushed and sweating and Chris can see how his hands clench and unclench on his crossed wrists as he keeps his arms up behind his back.
The thing is, like it or not, he's good at it. Chris sees the admiring glances thrown his way, shrugs off more than one request to share. He thinks about it, toys with the idea, just to see how far he can push Jen, how far he can push himself, but when some punkass twit goes so far as to touch Jensen, running his thumb over that perfect cheekbone, Chris doesn't even try to put words to the growl ripping out of his throat.
Jensen's head snaps up; before he can move, Chris gets his hand into the hair at the base of his skull and twists. Jensen fights it for a second but lets go when Chris tightens his hand.
He keeps his hand locked even as he stares down the little fuckwit wannabe. "You're lucky you didn't lose that finger, son," Chris says, and his face might be smiling but his eyes are snarling and he maybe enjoys watching the smirk fade to something a lot less cocky a whole lot more than he should. "No touching," he adds, and this time, he's not so much smiling as baring his teeth.
He settles back in his chair and loosens the grip he has on Jensen's hair, but he keeps his hand right there, lets his thumb rub down the side of Jen's neck, along the curve of his shoulder and back up. He makes himself take a long drink--water instead of beer--but it doesn't do much to cool him down and it doesn't take him long to admit that the public part of this evening is pretty much over. There's no one in the room, hell, in the city, who comes close to catching Chris's interest the way Jensen has, even when he's not kneeling at Chris's feet, all but vibrating under his hand. Maybe, if this ever happens again--and please, God, it will, but Chris isn't taking anything for granted--he'll pick someone worthy of Jen and let them put their hands on him, but not tonight. Tonight, this--Jensen--is all for Chris and Chris wants him somewhere with no distractions; laid out, there for Chris to pleasure... or not.
Jensen follows him out of the club easily enough, but that's still in public, and Chris isn't sure if all of this is gonna disappear as soon as it's just the two of them. The silence stretches out after they get in the truck, not strained, but not quite easy either and it takes Chris a stupid amount of time to realize that Jensen isn't backing off, that he's not saying anything because he's waiting to be addressed.
Chris lets that settle deep in his gut, holding it close and savoring it until he pulls up at a stoplight and he can look at Jensen. "That get you hard back there, Jen? Showing how pretty you can kneel for me?"
Jensen's quiet for long enough that Chris is about to push for an answer, but then he says, "Yeah," his voice rough and low, wired straight to Chris's dick.
"Show me." Chris smiles when Jensen's breath hisses in, but then it's his turn to feel like there's not enough oxygen in the world, because Jensen's hands are moving, not quite smoothly, but steady, and his pants, those neatly-pressed, bland, boring jeans, are open. Chris is going to kill them both because he can't tear his eyes off the porn flick that's happening next to him, can't take his eyes off Jensen, jeans unzipped and spread open, shirt rucked up and boxers pushed down far enough that Chris can see the hard curve of his dick. Jensen sits quietly, not touching himself, showing Chris what he asked for, and holy fucking hell, Chris thinks, this is really going to happen.
That thought steadies him, brings him back into himself, at least enough to let him drive and to figure out Jensen's not nearly as calm as he's projecting either. Chris reaches over to where his thumb's twisting the heavy silver ring he wears and pushes his hand flat.
"Easy now," Chris says. "Long night to go." He brushes his hand along the length of Jensen's cock, fingertips skimming the soft hot skin and smiles at the low murmur Jensen can't quite bite back. "So fucking pretty," he growls. "Everyone wanted you, coulda whored you out all night." Jensen breathes in sharp and quick and Chris's smile deepens.
"Next time, baby," he promises. He keeps his strokes light, nothing more than a tease, drinks in Jensen's tension and need and lets it settle sweet and low in his gut. "If you ask me real nice, I'll let you take two at once."
"You sure that's what you want?" Jensen answers, but his breath's coming shallow and fast. Chris keeps his hand moving, starts dragging his nails along the same path.
"I figure," he says, "as long as I can count on your lifting your ass for me after, I'll manage to enjoy watching you take a cock up your ass the same time you've got one down your throat."
Jensen looks at him, eyes him up and down. "Bring it on, cowboy."
Jensen's eyes are dead serious and fuck if he doesn't know how many buttons it's gonna be punching for Chris to watch Jensen get used by someone else. Chris acknowledges the challenge and files it away for later. He won't be able to let it go now, not until he knows what it feels like to fuck Jensen after he's serviced however many people Chris picks out for him.
He keeps his hand on Jensen--thigh, cock, balls--for the rest of the trip. He'd like nothing better than to keep on like that, walk Jensen up to the apartment by his dick, but it's not all that late, and the chance of running into a neighbor is a little too high. He settles for watching while Jensen puts himself back together, then wrapping his hand around Jensen's wrist and leading him that way.
Jensen knows the way as well as Chris, he could walk alongside Chris like it's nothing out of the ordinary, but he's not, he's allowing himself to be led and that right there gets caught in Chris's head. He knows Jensen well enough to know how fucking close he guards himself, knows him well enough to stop when they get to his front door and make his hand let go of Jensen's wrist, because he goddamned needs to be sure.
"You want this?" His voice is rough, but fuck, he wants it, too and he doesn't figure it'll hurt if Jen knows it.
"Yeah," Jensen whispers, and takes a deep breath. "I--yeah."
Chris digs his nails into the palm of his hand, the quick, sharp pain pulling him back into his head. "Limits?" he grinds out.
"I--there's a meeting next week, not quite a reading, but ..." Jensen's eyes are almost black in the low light. "My face... No marks, nothing that anyone can see."
Chris nods, considering. Face and neck; hell, wrists, too, he thinks. It's fine; he'll still have everything else to work over. "Safeword?"
Jensen closes his eyes for a long second, but they're open and steady when he says, "Red."
"Red," Chris repeats, taking a deep breath of his own and finally giving in to the need to touch Jensen. He keeps it short, only a quick, teasing brush of his thumb over Jensen's mouth, because once he starts, he isn't sure he can stop. "You fucking use it if you need it, Jen."
"Yeah," Jensen breathes. "I will."
Chris promises himself right there that the only time that's going to happen is if he consciously decides to push Jensen that far, swears to himself that he will stay in control, no matter what, starting right now.
"All right," he says, taking a step back. "Strip."
Jensen's eyes dart left and right, considering--he's against the wall, and with the way Chris is angled, he'll be mostly blocked if anyone walks by--but they're still standing on the sidewalk, in front of twenty condos, there's no getting around that.
"Okay," Jensen whispers, and Chris lets out the breath he didn't realize he was holding. Shoes and socks first, then shirt, the easy stuff settling him enough that Chris doesn't need to say anything else before jeans and boxers are on the pile of neatly folded clothes and Jensen's shifting a little, weight moving from one leg to the next, and Chris takes the all the time he wants to look his fill.
He doesn't keep them there for long, not really. It's maybe only a minute, but he can feel the seconds ticking off, slow and steady, and if it feels long to him, when he knows he's going to be ending it soon, those same seconds have to be twisting Jensen up hard.
He touches Jensen again, one more light brush over his mouth and along his jaw, a long, slow glide down his arm before he wraps one hand around a smooth, strong wrist and unlocks the door with his other.
Jensen comes with him, moves easily, but his pulse jackrabbits under Chris's thumb. Chris takes him straight into the bedroom, leaves him standing just inside the door. The duffel's still on the bed, right where Chris left it; it only takes Chris a few seconds to find what he needs.
The cuffs are wide and leather and padded, so they won't leave any marks behind, and the cock ring is made of the same black leather. They're cool against his skin, but Chris knows how quickly they warm, how quickly Jensen's body will heat them.
When he turns around, Jensen's still standing where Chris left him, back against the wall, eyes down, only the quickness of his breath giving a lie to his surface calm. Chris drops the cuffs and cock ring at his feet, and he looks up with eyes that are wide and dark.
"Go on," Chris tells him. "I want to watch you."
Jensen nods once, biting his lip as he crouches to retrieve the first cuff. Chris watches carefully, not at all sure where the line is, but Jensen's done this before, has to have, the way he doesn't fumble with them. His hands are steady as he stretches a cuff out on his thigh, then lays his wrist down on it, tugging it tight with one hand and finishing it off with his teeth.
He keeps his eyes down as he works and Chris isn't sure who that's turning on more, but he is sure that it's been a long time since he's seen anything better than the way the black leather draws attention to the easy grace in Jensen's movements.
Chris nudges the cock ring with the toe of his boot, pushing it closer to Jensen's knee. "Don't stop now," he says. "Get your dick ready for me, too."
Jensen's already half-hard--has been since he stripped for Chris--and his breath hisses in at the first touch of his hands.
"Yeah," Chris growls. "Play with yourself; let me see how you get yourself hard." Jensen wraps his hand around his dick, biting back a low noise, and Chris gets his hand in Jensen's hair, pulling hard enough to let Jensen know he means it, let him know that Chris wants him to pay special attention. "None of that, Jen. You like something, I want to hear it."
Chris tightens his hand until Jensen's head is tipped back and his breath is coming in short, tight gasps, smiling when Jensen's eyes flick up to meet his. "Keep going," he says, and if his own voice is a little hoarse and greedy, he's fine with that.
Jensen swallows, throat muscles working against the strain Chris is putting them under, but his hands start moving again, slowly stripping his cock and every time he rubs his thumb over the head, he makes a quiet almost-whimper that goes straight to Chris's dick.
It's tempting to keep him like that, arched back and spread out, but there's so much more Chris wants, more than he's ever even thought about. He pulls one last time, sharp and hard and right on the edge of cruel, then lets go suddenly and watches Jensen catch himself on shaking arms.
It takes Jensen three tries to get the leather strap around his dick and snapped tight; every second of watching him struggle with it is burned in Chris's brain. He crouches in front of where Jensen's still kneeling, his own dick aching and hard from watching, and tips Jensen's chin up, tacit permission to look at Chris.
"Good," Chris whispers, because he couldn't find his voice if his life depended on it, not with everything that he's reading in Jensen's eyes. "So fucking beautiful like this," he says, leaning in to finally taste that mouth, bite along the lower lip, push his tongue inside and swallow down the soft moans. Jensen settles under the kiss, relaxes into it, into Chris, opening for him and giving anything Chris asks for.
Chris keeps one hand on Jensen even after he pulls back, curves it up and around the back of Jensen's head, guiding him back to sit on his heels. Jensen's neck is warm and strong under Chris's hand, his skin smooth. Chris draws one arm up behind his back, then the other, wrists crossed and cuffs aligned. Jensen holds the position with a small sigh, nothing more than a slow exhalation, while Chris threads a carabiner through the D-rings on the cuffs.
He's almost shocked at the pleasure he's taking in arranging Jensen, in putting him on display. At the club, it had been enough to have Jensen at his feet, but here, now, Chris wants Jensen tense and pure, spread out only for him. He runs his hands over every inch of skin, coaxing Jensen's back straighter, his shoulders square, easing his knees further apart. He stops and starts, steps back to get that perspective, moves back to touch and guide, until Jensen's in classic pose. He leans in and bites Jensen's mouth red and swollen, then pinches and twists his nipples until they match. Jensen's shaking under him, but he's silent until Chris starts working over his dick, teasing at the slit, rolling his balls roughly, dragging his nails along the length. Every moan slides up under Chris's skin and makes it that much harder to stop.
Chris has no idea how long he spends touching him, petting him, but when he stops, Jensen's fucking perfect and, at least for tonight, he belongs to Chris.
"Beautiful," Chris says, again. "Just like this, I want you to stay here for me." Jensen nods and Chris makes himself leaves Jensen there for the little bit of time it takes to grab a bottle of water out of the refrigerator and bump the AC a couple of degrees warmer. He stops outside the bedroom door to take three deep breaths and get his center back, but it's still a gut punch, coming back into the room and seeing Jensen waiting for him, knees still spread, dick still hard, eyes still down. He's been there long enough that his shoulders have to be stiff and his thighs and legs going numb, but it doesn't look as if he's so much as shifted while Chris was out of the room.
"Here," Chris says, stroking under Jensen's jaw and raising his head enough that he can drink. Chris gets about half the bottle into him in small sips, then lets him drop back into position while Chris finishes the rest of it and idly traces his foot along Jensen's leg. Jensen doesn't move, but his breath catches and that's too tempting to ignore. Chris runs the toe of one boot along the inside of one thigh, light pressure against Jensen's dick and balls, then back down the other thigh. Again, and then once more, leaning in each time with more weight.
"God, Chris." Jensen's voice is stripped down and bare. Chris tells himself he probably should stop, but the raw, shaking noises Jensen's making, the way he's not holding anything back, how hard he's fighting to keep still, not get away from anything Chris is giving him--it all twists under Chris's skin, reeling him in like he's never been before.
His hands aren't quite steady; it takes a second try to get his pants open, but then he's jerking Jensen's head up and back, pushing his dick past those pretty lips, hard and fast. Jensen takes the first thrust, but gags on the second and Chris takes a half-step back and makes sure Jensen's looking right at him when he reaches out and slaps him.
It's quiet and still in the room; Chris doesn't have to raise his voice at all. "That won't mark," he tells Jensen, and it won't. He knows exactly how hard to hit; it won't bruise, he knows he got it right. "But the next one probably will."
That's a lie; if Chris hits him again, he'll pull it even more, but right now, with the adrenaline and endorphin rush, he's betting that Jensen won't have the first clue.
Chris didn't come close to hitting him hard enough to knock him down, but it's still enough that when Jensen's lifts his head, his eyes are dark, almost all pupil. Chris waits for him to safeword, but he pulls himself back up, as close as he can to how Chris had him before. The tremors under his skin are so fine, so subtle Chris almost misses them. He opens his mouth again and takes Chris back in with a gasp that sounds more like a sob and Chris wants to echo it.
Instead, he twists his fingers in Jensen's hair and fucks his throat, holding back only enough to keep from coming. He could keep going, come down Jensen's throat until he's choking on it, but if this is the only time he gets to do this, he wants his mark all over Jensen, wants to see it for as long as he can. Jensen gags twice more and Chris doesn't hesitate. His pulse is pounding and his hand is hot from where he's hit Jensen--where he's hit Jensen, Jesus Christ--and he wouldn't be surprised if he has a heart attack when he finally lets himself come, but Jensen's leaning into him, so there's no fucking way he's stopping now.
He doesn't lose control, not exactly, but Jensen's whimpering around his dick; small, helpless, eager noises that heat his blood like lightning, and it doesn't matter when he pulls out that his hand is rough and harsh on his dick, nothing like Jensen's mouth. He strokes himself once, twice and it all slams through him. He can't tear his eyes away from come splattering white and thick across freckled skin, on reddened, swollen lips.
Before his heart even starts slowing down, he drags his thumb over Jensen's mouth, come and sweat slick against his skin. Jensen licks at him, sucks him in between panting breaths and they stay like that, touching only there until Chris has captured all the streaks, smeared them and rubbed them into Jensen's skin. He's edged back close, close enough that Jensen can rock against his leg, moaning every time his dick slides along the soft leather pants Chris still wears.
"Yeah," Chris breathes. "C'mon, Jen, tell me how bad you want it." He shifts then, pushing Jensen back on his heels and lifting his foot to press his boot up against Jensen's balls, smiling when Jensen chokes out a sharp cry. "C'mon, baby, tell me."
"Chris, fuck, fuck."
Chris puts a little more weight behind his foot, pushes up a little harder, smoothes his thumb over the high arch of Jensen's cheekbone.
"Tell me," he repeats, coaxing, encouraging, promising. He might have started this whole thing without thinking about it--it wouldn't be the first time he's done something boneheaded--and Jensen might have gone into it only because he won't back down from a challenge, but it's way beyond all that now. Chris can see the need in Jensen's eyes and he's not easing off until he gets Jen across that line.
"Let it go, man," Chris says, holding Jensen's eyes. "I got you." He's almost holding his breath: Jensen's stubborn as fuck even when he's not right on the edge and Chris isn't sure how much of what he's saying is getting through, or even if it is, if it's enough. All he knows is that stopping isn't what Jensen needs, even if he can't admit he needs it yet.
Jensen breaks the gaze, his eyes skittering left and right. He's shaking, but still not talking and Chris is almost ready to take him down, put him on the floor and take away that last bit of control when he takes a long, sobbing breath.
"Please," he says, so soft and hesitant Chris has to strain to hear him. "Chris, I need--please."
Chris is dropping to his knees before Jensen finishes, one quick tug unsnapping the leather around Jensen's dick. Chris knows Jensen, knows what it cost for Jen to say it and maybe the next time he might make Jensen spell it out, but right now, he gets his hand on Jensen's dick and drags his nails along the length of it.
"Come for me," he growls, rubbing his thumb across the tip, once and then again and again, too hard, not letting Jensen move away. "Now, Jensen."
Chris leans in and bites down along the curve of neck into shoulder and Jensen stiffens under him, coming with a low, helpless keen that goes on and on. Chris jacks him through it, short, sharp strokes that match the frantic in and out of Jensen's breath.
He lets Jensen lick his hand clean, then sets him back on his heels and draws him up again. Jensen doesn't fight him, moves slowly but without hesitation and Chris pets him gently in reward.
"Did you like that?"
Jensen shifts restlessly before he whispers, "Yes."
"Did you want it?"
Jensen's voice is even softer. "Yes."
Chris traces short, easy strokes over the back of Jensen's neck with his thumb. "What do you say when someone gives you something that you want?"
Jensen goes absolutely still under him; he knows what Chris wants to hear. Chris lets the silence spin out, breaks it only when he reaches out and slaps Jensen one last time, a backhand across the other cheek. He keeps his voice low, but lets his displeasure at having to repeat himself sharpen his tone and hopes like hell it does the trick.
"What do you say?"
Jensen shudders once, a short, hard spasm of muscle and sinew, before he whispers, "Thank you."
"My pleasure," Chris answers, cupping Jensen's face in his hand, smoothing gently over the red marks he's left behind before he unsnaps the carabiner and catches Jensen as he folds to the floor.
"Try not to be a complete moron, Ackles." Chris isn't budging on this one, even if Jensen does have that stubborn set to his jaw, kinda like a mule digging in. "You're not getting behind the wheel; you're not calling a cab; you're not sleeping on the fucking couch."
Chris pushes Jensen onto the bed, one quick shove that sits him right back down. Jensen glares at him, hair spiky and messy from the shower, but it's like being faced down by a sleepy kindergartener.
"Crash out for a couple of hours," Chris suggests. "See what's what after that." There's a fleece blanket at the foot of the bed; Chris holds it out silently.
Jensen eyes him and that's the thing: Jensen knows Chris, knows every single line and dodge Chris can pull, which leaves Chris with nothing to hide behind. Not that he's trying to hide, not now, but he doesn't blame Jensen for double-checking.
"Fine," Jensen sighs, taking the blanket and twisting around to fight with the pillows. "You coming?"
"Nah, man," Chris says. "I'm good, a little too wired still. I'm just gonna..." He gestures vaguely toward the bathroom.
"Right," Jensen says, after a second. "Sure." He nods and Chris thinks, nowhere to hide, but then he's stretching out on the bed and Chris is moving to turn out the light.
The living room's trashed, pizza boxes and empty bottles of Gatorade and the Ziploc with ice that he'd fixed, to make as sure as he could that there was nothing to see on Jensen's face. He really is wired, so he finds a trash bag and wanders around, filling it up before he hits the shower. He stays in a long time, until he finishes off the hot water, but he's still jittery when he gets out.
Jensen's out cold, still and relaxed; Chris watches him for a while, then leaves the last bottle of Gatorade next to the bed and grabs a beer for himself. Times like these, he tells himself, the remote is a man's best friend. He settles in the living room, feet up on the table and starts flipping. One of the dozen sports channels he gets is showing highlights from the Calgary Stampede; watching the top riders go at it brings back memories of summers back home, dust and horses and watching the local circuit with something close to awe. It settles him some, enough that he can fall asleep, even with the endless loop of thankyouthankyouthankyou whispering in his head.
"Chris." Jensen's hand is warm on Chris's shoulder. "Chris, man, I'm taking off."
Chris pries his eyes open--it's light outside and Jensen's watching him with a scrutiny that leaves Chris acutely conscious of the infomercial blaring on the TV and the open bottle of beer still cradled between his legs. Somewhere between night and day, Jensen got back his usual calm and it's Chris who's way the hell off-balance.
"Yeah," he says, rubbing at the bridge of his nose and making an effort to sit up. "Okay."
"I stole the last of your OJ," Jensen says, holding up the carton. "Sorry."
"No, you're not," Chris mutters.
Jensen slants a wicked grin at him and takes a long drink. It's like every other morning that one of them has passed out at the other's place, at least until Jensen wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and Chris can't make himself look away.
"Later, man," Jensen says, moving toward the door. He's got it open before Chris can find his voice.
"Jen," he says, and it'd be easy to blame how uneven his voice is on having slept for only a couple of hours, and that sitting up on the damn couch, but he knows it for the lie it is. Jensen turns back to look at him; maybe he knows it, too. "Thank you."
Jensen tilts his head, like he's going to smile, but he stays serious. "My pleasure," he answers and closes the door quietly behind him.
***
***
Yield strength is the point at which a material can no longer reform itself after being stressed. In layman's terms, the breaking point. If you're good, you know exactly how much stress the material you're working with can take before it's permanently deformed, and you work just under that. /engineer
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