Jeff is not old. He feels old, sometimes, but he knows, rationally, that he’s still a fairly healthy man not quite outside of his prime, yet. And Jensen is not some young kid, either. He’s on the other side of 30, now, with crow’s feet and rough stubble and a much broader frame than the laughably twinky character posing with horses and pristine cowboy hats he used to be.
But Jensen is shaming him.
They don’t get a lot of time, together. They never do. Jeff knows what kind of schedule Jensen is slaving under for Supernatural, and how protective both Jared and Danneel can be over the time they get with Jensen, even if they’ve learned to share with each other. So when the rare weekend or free time over hiatus allows Jensen to grace Jeff’s doorstep with his sexy grin and bedroom eyes, they damn sure try to make the most of it.
Jensen’s mouth had been on his before he’d even gotten the door closed, and he’d hit his knees before Jeff had a chance to recognize the flavors on Jensen’s tongue, figure out what he’d been drinking on the plane.
They’d fucked in the living room, half-on the area rug just outside of the foyer. Jeff’s back was rough and red in a diagonal line from shoulder to waist from Jensen’s weight grinding down on him as he rode Jeff’s cock.
Jensen had come on his chest, panting Jeff Jeff Jeff, and didn’t move from Jeff’s hard-on while he smeared semen across hair and skin. By the time Jensen’s fingers had gone from slick to tacky, so that Jensen had to suck them wet again to wipe them across Jeff’s nipples, Jensen’s dick was hard enough to rub across Jeff’s groin slickly.
Jensen had ridden him again, slower, smirking and teasing as Jeff wriggled his way more comfortably on the rug. Jensen’s eyes had been hot as Jeff had held Jensen’s hips, using the strength in his arms and hips to fuck up into him Don’t move, baby, just take it. That’s it, sweetheart, that’s so good. Jeff had finally come, holding Jensen immobile and impaled deep as his cock jerked and Jeff groaned like a wounded animal. Jensen had come for a second time, hand a blur on his own dick, before Jeff was even done.
That had been Friday. By Sunday morning, Jeff was completely fucked out, and knew he couldn’t even try to fuck Jensen again. He’d done everything else he could possibly think of to make Jensen come every time he looked at Jeff with sex-hot eyes and a hard-on that just wouldn’t. Fucking. Quit.
He’s sucked Jensen’s cock, hot and squirming in Jeff’s bed. He’s bent him over the couch in front of SportsCenter to lick him open, shuddering and gasping as he came around Jeff’s tongue. He’s pushed him face-first against the cool tile wall of the shower and talked him through one, two, three, four of Jensen’s fingers in his own ass So fuckin gorgeous, Jensen, pretty pink hole stretched around your own fingers. Is this how you come when you think of me? Can’t have my cock, so you fuck yourself on your hand?
Jeff’s erection rebounded by the time Jensen was shakily thrusting all four fingers in his hole and whimpering his orgasm against the tile. He used it to fuck Jensen’s mouth rough and dirty the way Jensen loved, lips stretched and swollen, freckles vivid against the pink of his cheeks as he all but strangled his own cock.
Getting a hard-on felt like a pipe dream by the time Jensen stumbled in to his kitchen and straight to the coffee maker. The window next to the table was pushed open to allow the breeze to draw the smoke from Jeff’s cigarette out into the Seattle mist, and Jensen quirked a brow at it as he thumped down in the chair beside him.
“You know, old man, you might get more fucking done over the weekend if you quit smoking.”
“I wouldn’t be smoking if I hadn’t got so much fucking done over the weekend.” Jensen rolled his eyes and snagged a cigarette from the crumpled pack next to Jeff’s coffee mug and leaned in for a light from Jeff’s old Zippo. “Besides, more sex than what I got and my heart might just give out.”
“Since it’d probably happen mid-fuck, I’d just have to resuscitate you. Don’t need me dyin’ of blue balls, next.”
Jeff snorted, ashes from the tip of his cigarette scattering across the table. He and Jensen sat quietly until both coffee and cigarettes were gone, when Jensen got up to take their mugs to the sink. He turned back around, leaning against the counter and looking stupidly, ridiculously hot in his loose pajama pants and greasy bedhair.
“What time’s your flight?” Jeff’s voice was hoarse and smoke-rough, and Jensen smiled as he flushed.
“Seven.” Jensen’s voice, of course, was smooth and clear, if not a little sad. Jeff pushed himself away from the table and towards Jensen’s purposely insolent slouch. He sank his thumbs into the indent of Jensen’s hipbones, not at all covered by his pajamas.
“What do you say you give the old man a break, and fuck him into the mattress?”
Jensen growled and knotted his fingers in Jeff’s hair and they were right back where they started, Jensen’s mouth on his.
“Yeah,” Jensen’s coffee-and-tobacco breath mingled with his. “I can do that.”
When Jensen left that evening, Jeff was a well-fucked boneless pile in his own bed, face smushed against the pillow, ass sore, come gluing his belly and groin to the sweat-damp sheets.