![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
King of the Road
Dec. 8th, 2009 08:16 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
essene_backupfor ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
spn_30snapshots
Pairing: Jared/Jensen
Rating: Adult
Table: A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words
Prompt: 17
“I like the cheapest hotels, the $39 specials where it smells like someone has been smoking 15 packs of cigarettes a day and you go ‘ewww, gross’. Awesome!”
“It is fun to stay in places you’d never stay in. I wouldn’t if I was by myself but with the dogs laying next to me growling at the door every time someone walks past, they’re not going to rob my room, they’ll rob the next place.”
What he leaves out of the reasons why he likes dive motels is 1) usually no one recognizes him and 2) no one asks any questions. These are crucial bits of information to note when you’re a television star tooling around the Vancouver countryside with your equally famous best-friend cum lover looking for places you can be alone and fuck each other into the mattress.
It’s not something they ever plan beforehand—it’d probably be simpler if they did. Generally, one of them just looks at the other and asks, “Roadtrip?” and they’re grabbing extra clothes from their trailer cupboards, or the cleanest t-shirt and jeans from the nearest pile and jamming them into duffels and they’re off.
Usually it’s just for a night. Occasionally it’s just a couple hours. Once it was for an entire epic weekend.
Doesn’t matter who drives, doesn’t matter which direction they head, Jared can usually find a ramshackle motor-lodge or a bedraggled motel within an hour’s drive any way they head--years of practice in on Texas highways in high school has given him some sort of no-tell-motel-sixth-sense.
Once they get on the outskirts of Vancouver and the traffic whittles down to nothing but them and one or two other cars every now and again, hands start roaming. And it’s not always the driver who receives. Jared recalls one particularly memorable ride when Jensen managed to finger him open with his right hand until Jared was rocking back onto three of Jensen's fingers without taking his left hand off the wheel, or his eyes off the road, from Garabaldi to Pemberton.
It’s an unspoken agreement that only one of them will go to the registration desk. Sometimes Jared goes, sometimes it’s Jensen, neither of them wants to tempt fate and ruin what they’ve got going with a chance recognition that would only be reinforced by both of their faces side-by-side. Plus, it heightens the thrill of what they’re doing, maintains the illicit nature of this secret that binds them together.
It’s rare that they make it past the door frame before one of them is stripping off clothing. Their first touches are frantic, heated affairs. Hot sucking mouths all over sweating skin, nipping and biting of lips and nipples, palming each other’s dicks. Sometimes Jared comes first, dick gripped tight in Jensen’s hand, sliding next to Jensen’s hard cock, slicking the way for faster and faster friction, foreheads propped against each other watching their hips snap in rhythm until he feels his balls rise up, feels his groin tighten, feels his stomach coil and ripple with the urge to come—but Jensen doesn’t stop, he keeps up the pace, keeps their cocks pressed tight, keeps his wrist twisting and turning over the girth of them. Best of all he starts talking...
“Come on Jared, come for me, wet me down, soak me in jizz, coat me with it, come on, come on, come on….” And so Jared does, knees locking up as his thighs shake and his dick pulses, striping Jensen with spurt after spurt of hot sperm. He grips Jensen’s shoulders for support and hears his breath whistling in and out as Jensen quickens his pace now, drag eased by the wet spunk dripping down over his hand, rolling down from the crisp curl of his pubes, even as he talks himself through his own orgasm.
“Fuck yeah, love the way your come feels, hot and sticky on me, got your fucking spunk all over me, Jared, covered me in it, got me so filthy…” and then Jensen’s dirty whispering shorts out as he throws his head back and slams his hips forward, wrist working furiously, bringing himself off against the over sensitized flesh of Jared’s prick. Jared lets his hand fall down then, gripping everything—both their cocks and Jensen’s hand—in his own and squeezing firmly as Jensen’s hips stutter through the last of his climax.
It doesn’t matter who comes first, or how they come, it’s just the staging for the rest of the time they spend in whatever flea-bag they wind up in. Which is reason #3 that Jared doesn’t mention: the hotel /motel doesn’t matter…Jared’s not going to be spending a huge amount of time paying attention to his accommodations. All he needs is a bed and Jensen (and sometimes not even a bed).
spn_30snapshots Pairing: Jared/Jensen
Rating: Adult
Table: A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words
Prompt: 17
“I like the cheapest hotels, the $39 specials where it smells like someone has been smoking 15 packs of cigarettes a day and you go ‘ewww, gross’. Awesome!”
“It is fun to stay in places you’d never stay in. I wouldn’t if I was by myself but with the dogs laying next to me growling at the door every time someone walks past, they’re not going to rob my room, they’ll rob the next place.”
--Jared Padalecki, Sunday Mercury Interview
What he leaves out of the reasons why he likes dive motels is 1) usually no one recognizes him and 2) no one asks any questions. These are crucial bits of information to note when you’re a television star tooling around the Vancouver countryside with your equally famous best-friend cum lover looking for places you can be alone and fuck each other into the mattress.
It’s not something they ever plan beforehand—it’d probably be simpler if they did. Generally, one of them just looks at the other and asks, “Roadtrip?” and they’re grabbing extra clothes from their trailer cupboards, or the cleanest t-shirt and jeans from the nearest pile and jamming them into duffels and they’re off.
Usually it’s just for a night. Occasionally it’s just a couple hours. Once it was for an entire epic weekend.
Doesn’t matter who drives, doesn’t matter which direction they head, Jared can usually find a ramshackle motor-lodge or a bedraggled motel within an hour’s drive any way they head--years of practice in on Texas highways in high school has given him some sort of no-tell-motel-sixth-sense.
Once they get on the outskirts of Vancouver and the traffic whittles down to nothing but them and one or two other cars every now and again, hands start roaming. And it’s not always the driver who receives. Jared recalls one particularly memorable ride when Jensen managed to finger him open with his right hand until Jared was rocking back onto three of Jensen's fingers without taking his left hand off the wheel, or his eyes off the road, from Garabaldi to Pemberton.
It’s an unspoken agreement that only one of them will go to the registration desk. Sometimes Jared goes, sometimes it’s Jensen, neither of them wants to tempt fate and ruin what they’ve got going with a chance recognition that would only be reinforced by both of their faces side-by-side. Plus, it heightens the thrill of what they’re doing, maintains the illicit nature of this secret that binds them together.
It’s rare that they make it past the door frame before one of them is stripping off clothing. Their first touches are frantic, heated affairs. Hot sucking mouths all over sweating skin, nipping and biting of lips and nipples, palming each other’s dicks. Sometimes Jared comes first, dick gripped tight in Jensen’s hand, sliding next to Jensen’s hard cock, slicking the way for faster and faster friction, foreheads propped against each other watching their hips snap in rhythm until he feels his balls rise up, feels his groin tighten, feels his stomach coil and ripple with the urge to come—but Jensen doesn’t stop, he keeps up the pace, keeps their cocks pressed tight, keeps his wrist twisting and turning over the girth of them. Best of all he starts talking...
“Come on Jared, come for me, wet me down, soak me in jizz, coat me with it, come on, come on, come on….” And so Jared does, knees locking up as his thighs shake and his dick pulses, striping Jensen with spurt after spurt of hot sperm. He grips Jensen’s shoulders for support and hears his breath whistling in and out as Jensen quickens his pace now, drag eased by the wet spunk dripping down over his hand, rolling down from the crisp curl of his pubes, even as he talks himself through his own orgasm.
“Fuck yeah, love the way your come feels, hot and sticky on me, got your fucking spunk all over me, Jared, covered me in it, got me so filthy…” and then Jensen’s dirty whispering shorts out as he throws his head back and slams his hips forward, wrist working furiously, bringing himself off against the over sensitized flesh of Jared’s prick. Jared lets his hand fall down then, gripping everything—both their cocks and Jensen’s hand—in his own and squeezing firmly as Jensen’s hips stutter through the last of his climax.
It doesn’t matter who comes first, or how they come, it’s just the staging for the rest of the time they spend in whatever flea-bag they wind up in. Which is reason #3 that Jared doesn’t mention: the hotel /motel doesn’t matter…Jared’s not going to be spending a huge amount of time paying attention to his accommodations. All he needs is a bed and Jensen (and sometimes not even a bed).
no subject
Date: 2009-12-09 02:24 am (UTC)(and sometimes not even a bed)
was great.
p.s. STUTTER!
no subject
Date: 2009-12-10 02:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-10 03:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-10 02:55 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-10 03:34 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-10 03:45 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-10 10:42 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-11 05:39 pm (UTC)