FIC, The Mile-High Club, J2, NC-17
Summary: Jared and Jensen have a quickie in the airplane bathroom during the LA to Vancouver flight.
Word count: 908 words
Warnings: Sex in a cramped and semi-public place, wallsex, size kink, cream pie, bottom!Jensen, smug-and-sex-happy!Jared
Disclaimer: I don’t own Jared and Jensen.
Author’s Note: So I’m gonna go ahead and blame this one on karmicunderpath
The airplane bathroom is barely big enough for Jared, much less Jared and Jensen both, but they somehow manage to squish themselves into it without busting out into the narrow aisleway outside, mainly because Jared has hefted Jensen up onto the sink—Jensen’s back is hitting the mirror and his knees almost knock against the flimsy plastic door, but they fit and that’s what’s important.
Jared is between Jensen’s legs and they’re kissing and it’s kind of ridiculous how hard it is to get Jensen’s shoes and pants off, so Jensen’s jeans end up hanging crazily off one leg while he braces himself as best he can and Jared pushes his thighs up and in, exposing Jensen’s asshole for him so he can slip in one long, lube-slippery finger.
Jensen groans and his feet sort of kick a little against the opposite walls, and Jared says, “Shh, Jen, I gotcha,” all quiet-like and low, and he covers Jensen’s mouth with his own when slips the second finger in.
Jensen’s head bangs against the mirror and he says, “Oh fuck Jay, Jay, oh fuck man,” and that’s when Jared slicks his cock up and slides it in, the V of his opened fly pressing pink tracks into Jensen’s skin, and Jensen tenses up all around him and Jared has to clap his hand over Jensen’s mouth just to keep the noises in.
Once Jensen’s adjusted to Jared’s cock inside him, Jared starts fucking him in earnest; Jensen’s hips are bucking up into his thrusts and it’s so, so amazingly goddamned good, and Jensen’s probably going to have a bruise from the sink spout later but he doesn’t even care because Jared’s tongue is in his mouth and his knees are hooked over the crooks of Jared’s arms and he’s so full of JaredJaredJared that all he can think of is how good it is to have this again: Jared’s hands and tongue and teeth and skin, his cock, his amazing stupid dimples that, when they’re gone, Jensen misses like breathing, his lazy Texas drawl that goes all deep and growl-y, his silly floppy sweaty soft grabbable hair that Jensen loves to dig his fingers into just like he’s doing now.
Jensen’s trying to stay on the sink but with Jared’s movements resonating through his whole body that’s pretty much impossible, so Jared’s taking most of Jensen’s weight—is fucking pinning Jensen against the mirror with just his own strength, the muscles of his arms and shoulders bulging, and he’s starting to sweat and when Jensen licks at his neck he tastes salt and soap and Jared and Jared’s pulse-point flutters fast and warm against Jensen’s tongue and sends Jensen right over the edge, cursing and coming and his whole body clenching for a few long instants: his asshole clamps down on Jared’s cock and Jared grunts and pushes in a few more times and then he’s coming too, spilling hot and wet into Jensen’s ass.
They stay like that a little longer, Jared panting into Jensen’s collarbone while Jensen sags back against the mirror, loose and limp, until Jensen says, “Dude, get offa me,”—not unkindly—and Jared grumbles and backs up some, slipping out of Jensen with a lewd little squelch and tucking himself back into his underwear; zipping up his jeans.
“I need a shower,” complains Jensen, squirming ’cause his ass is all drippy with lube and Jared’s come, and Jared says, “We’re almost in Vancouver, you can have one then,” and rubs his finger soft and steady against the tender ring of Jensen’s asshole, easing it in.
“Jared?” says Jensen, startled by the unexpected intimacy of the gesture; this is not the way they do things, Jensen doesn’t know if Jared wants another round or what, but Jared just says, “Well, you don’t want it coming out while you’re in your seat, do you?” and crooks his finger, moves it in and out a few times until all his come has slithered down into the sink. Jensen blushes; doesn’t know what to say, so he doesn’t say anything.
It’s as difficult to get Jensen’s jeans back on as it was to get them off in the first place, but after a lot of bumping into each other and cursing they manage it.
Jensen’s shirtfront is covered in come so they try to wash it off but only end up with a humongous wet spot, so Jared ends up lending him his overshirt, which is far too big but smells faintly of clean laundry and sweat and dogs. Jensen doesn’t complain.
They do a half-assed cleanup of the bathroom after that and wash their hands, and they’re all rumpled and Jensen’s wearing Jared’s shirt and his lips are red and swollen, for christssake—they’re not fooling anybody—but there’s no help for that.
Jensen goes out first and pretends to be invisible; keeps his head down the whole way back to his place because everyone in the plane must know what he and Jared had been doing, must have guessed, and he doesn’t want to see their faces, their judgments.
Jared saunters over a few minutes later and plops down in his seat, right next to Jensen and he’s smiling so big and easy that he either doesn’t know or (more likely) doesn’t care that people are staring, and he puts his hand high on Jensen’s thigh and keeps it there all the rest of the flight.