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Black Holes and Revelations

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There’s a categorized list of Shit That Jensen Takes Seriously.

His job is like, numbers one, two and three.

Only his closest friends know that he works as a reviewer for sex toys, and that’s more due to a concerted avoidance of prying questions about his sex life (or lack thereof). Jensen gets laid often enough, thanks.

He started while he was in college, it helped pay the bills, and uh--free orgasms? Was that even a question? He’d worked it out as a system of checks and balances. Good test grades led to a fabulous release.

He’s twenty-six now, four years clean from college and still going strong in his profession of choice.

He’d majored in journalism, so who cares if he’s utilizing his degree in a less than conventional manner? Mama Ackles probably would, but she’s blissfully in the dark, where she will remain until Jensen’s been six feet deep for a modicum of at least seven years.

Did he mention that he gets to watch porn as a perk of his job? It's not strictly necessary, but he shoves things up his ass for a living, and gets to detail the experience. He can do whatever he wants.

So basically, he sets up Friday evenings as tester days, and Sundays he gets down to business. His love life has been gone with the wind for like, three months now, and he’s perfectly content with this arrangement.

Content enough.

Right now he’s really into a series of dildos that have a flat support attached to the bottom. The added feature acts as a thin vibrator for his own rim. It slides up so easy, like a plug, wide at the base, and then when you use the adjoining remote control--Jensen is so ready to compose odes to this machine.

Like sonnets. Wherefore-hast-thou-been all his life type shit. So, he’s like, knee deep in an article praising the merits of The Satisfaction, (even the name is tasteful), when his phone rings. This is always irritating because only two people would call him on Sunday.

His mother, even though he’s explained to her countless times that he continues to reserve Sunday for catching up on work and Church--although he’s about twelve years slacking on the latter, and Danni, who literally works with him, and therefore should be observant to all his idiosyncrasies concerning this job.

He almost knocks his Iphone off of his desk, and he glances forlornly between Mac and phone before sliding the button to Answer.

“If you’re not calling me drunk from the throes of a post-orgasm high, m’hanging up.” Jensen says tersely. There’s a distinctly unladylike snort from the other end, and then what sounds like the clang of an oven door.

Jensen sighs. She’s fucking baking again. Why she can’t bake in silence he’ll never understand.

“You sure you tested anything on Friday, Jay?” Danni says, her voice slightly muffled, probably due to the fact that the oven-mitts she’s wearing are blocking her speakers. Again.

“Doesn’t sound like there’s any room in your ass alongside that stick you’re already keeping warm.” Danni says, and it’s almost saccharine sweet. He’s halfway into a laugh before he remembers he was supposed to be offended, but then he thinks, fuck it.

It’s not that serious, and it’s not the first time she’s done this, and he highly doubts it’ll be the last. “Alright Sin City,” Jensen says, clacking half-heartedly at his keys, “any particular reason you called right in the middle of my inspiration block?”

Danni sighs like she’s sitting down, and then speaks. “So you know The King, right?” Danni says hesitantly, and Jensen is already halfway to hanging up.

“Wait!” She hollers, and Jensen pauses long enough to let her redeem herself.

“There's a thing,” Danni says. “He's got a thing. He's doing a thing,” she tries again.

Jensen is so not in the mood.

“What's The King up to now,” Jensen says, saying the (fucking pretentious) name with as much sarcasm as he can muster.

“His last trilogy of movies was gold and you know it,” Danni says, and there's a little bit of kickback to her voice that gives Jensen pause.

Jensen’s googling the movies even as he snorts derisively.

Supernatural is apparently a three movie arc about the otherworldly properties of The King’s dick. His dick. Jensen’s irritated and morbidly intrigued all at the same time. Danni’s still talking, and now her words are slurred, probably with the fresh baked cookies she’s shoving into her mouth.

“So like, you know the last movie in the Supernatural series, where like, he has to save the world?” Danni says.

Jensen’s looking at screencaps from the first movie, and he’s fairly sure there’s a slew of people dressed like witches, or--or demons, but he can’t be sure, not from that angle.

“So like, he has to fuck his way through Hell, right? To claim the Throne?” Danni continues, and that’s enough to make Jensen pause in his diligent effort to right-click and zoom.

“Wait, what?” Jensen sputters. “Like, with his dick? Like, what, fuck his way through Dante’s Inferno?” Jensen says, and he’s well aware that his voice is too loud for the confines of his modest two-bedroom apartment, but the idea is beyond preposterous.

“Yesss,” Danni elongates, and Jensen gets the feeling that this is going nowhere good, and fast. “Apparently, he goes through like twelve guys--I haven’t finished it though, I was planning on doing that today.” Danni says. “Maybe with you, if you weren’t acting like such an ass right now--” Jensen growls into the phone and cuts her off mid-rant.

“Danneel. There’s an honest-to-God reason why you’re telling me all this, right?” Jensen says, and he hears Danni hum under her breath.

“So, apparently the movies are so popular that they’re making a line of toys.” Danni pauses. “Based on the series.” Danni stops speaking entirely.

Jensen’s mouth is so dry he actually hacks up a lung trying to respond. “You mean, based off his dick,” Jensen says, for lack of a more substantial comeback. He can practically hear Danni’s placating nod on the other end, and Jensen stands, clips his knee against the edge of his desk.

He wanders into his living room, aimless, and he barely focuses on the off-white beige of his couch. He flops down theatrically, and ignores Danni’s sigh.

“You know Collins is gonna call you,” Danni says needlessly, and Jensen can hear the jealousy under the platitude.

“You can have it,” Jensen says stubbornly, and Danni laughs, long and annoyingly into his ear. Jensen picks at a loose thread on his couch and pointedly does not hang up on her.

“Baby, The King is the toppiest bastard around right now.” Danni says. “He’s not marketing to straight little girls like me.”

Jensen groans. “I know. I know that.” Danni’s quiet for a record-breaking thirty seconds and then, “It’s not his fault Jay,” and Jensen knows he should’ve quit while he was ahead. “I mean,” Danni continues, “it’s not The King’s fault that Ty could only, ya know, get his engine in gear--”

“Danneel.” Jensen says, but she shushes him. “We don’t talk about this,” Danni says. “You never let me talk about this!” Danni yells. Jensen’s so flustered that now he kind of wants to apologize to her for not allowing her the proper grief over his dismal love life.

“It was weird. He was weird about it.” Danni’s voice is lower, more soothing, and Jensen closes his eyes. “You just have to try the thing. Write a review, and then never speak of it again.” Danni finishes, dramatically.

“He ruined my relationship,” Jensen whines, and it’s half-inarticulate, but pained, nonetheless. Danni doesn’t say anything for a second, and then her voice comes on clear, first time this entire conversation.

“I know, baby. I know.”


They call him.

He’s not surprised at all, he’s been reviewing toys like this since his twinkish college days, and now the only stipulation he has is that they don’t show his face.

He’s used to comments detailing how they wish they were the ones “stuffing that hungry ass,” but Jensen has lost the ability to even smile wryly at the disgraceful porn-speak.

He can fill his own ass, thanks, and then write a critical review on the pros and cons of the instrument.

His boss calls him not but an hour after he hangs up with Danni, and subsequently turns on Transformers 3, which ostensibly remains his favorite. Action movies are his comfort time, and when his phone lights up, he almost curses Danni out before looking at it.

Instead, he has time to school his voice into nonchalance as his boss excitedly explains to him that he’ll need to pump out a review concerning the first in The King’s new line of sex toys. Collins is practically gushing over the line, and Jensen wonders, for the umpteenth time, how she can wear all-white for the entirety of the movie and not get a speck of dirt anywhere.

“Jensen?” Jensen snaps back to the conversation at hand and clears his throat. “Sorry, Collins,” Jensen replies, and he hears his boss sigh. “Are you watching Transformers again?” Jensen rolls his eyes to high heaven and curses the fact that he and his boss are such good friends.

“The first one,” Jensen lies, and Collins sounds relieved. “Good. I’m having it sent over this evening, so get your ass in gear.” Collins guffaws loudly at his own pun, and Jensen manages a weak laugh, because Collins uses the same one every time.

“This is good shit, Jay,” Collins continues. “This is a publicist dream.” Jensen smiles against his will. “It’s astonishing, I can literally hear you preparing to kiss ass--over the phone,” Jensen says.

Collins cackles. Witch-like. “Good luck, Jensen. Talk to you later.”

Jensen shoves his phone deep down between the couch cushions and wonders if Optimus Prime ever has these problems. Probably not, Jensen surmises. Cause he’s a robot. So.


It’s called the Hellhound.

Jensen’s afraid to unwrap the damn thing when it shows up on his doorstep, so he waits three days--the most he can manage to hold out, before he tears the box open.

It’s a Wednesday.

It’s wrapped in styrofoam and bubble-wrap, the annoying kind with the over-huge bubbles.

Jensen pops two, loudly, out of spite.

It’s certainly--majestic looking. It’s all black, and it’s twelve inches long. Jensen’s good at marking length just by sight, can do it in less than three seconds. He sniffs. It’s supposed to be modeled exactly after The King’s dick.

Jensen seriously has his doubts that the guy is this long and thick around, but he’s probably wrong. After all, Ty made sure he saw the guy's dick up close and personal every fucking chance he got. Jensen wants to throw the damn thing across the room, but he settles for sharply sucking in his air instead.

It’s surprisingly lightweight without being flimsy. It’s thick in his hand, and he guesses it must be around 4 inches wide, maybe a little bit more. He curls his hand around it experimentally, and shivers. The whole shaft is realistically ridged, and Jensen almost drops the damn thing when he realizes it’s definitely fashioned off of The King’s dick.

There’s even a smooth scar running down the left-hand side of the shaft, and Jensen vaguely remembers reading about The King detailing a shaving incident from when he was younger.

It was a good interview, Jensen thinks mildly. Jensen grips the base tightly. It doesn’t flare out into scrotum, like some others do, and Jensen’s pleased about that. He thinks it detracts from the aesthetics. He likes the free swing of balls to ass when he’s getting fucked, anyway.

He’s not. Getting fucked, that is.

There’s complimentary lube in the bottom of the box, some plain-scented thing, and Jensen grabs it on an afterthought. Doesn’t want to waste his own stash on this thing, anyway.

Jensen’s three-fourths of the way to his room when he stops in his tracks. It’s Wednesday. He thinks about his options for a second. He could re-package the thing and wait until the required day.

He glances back at the mess he’s made of his living room, styrofoam flecks blending in with his couch, dark grey carpeting strewn with cardboard.

Jensen braces his hand against the wall.

Better to get it out of the way, then.

Jensen flops down onto his bed with a heavy sigh, untangles the red-wine sheets from his calves.

He’s not gonna lie, it does look nice. It’s not very unlike other dildos he’s used, and he’s used a plethora, but there’s something pleasing about the simplicity of it. Like it’s just gonna do a good job.

He lifts it to his mouth and his tongue snakes out for a taste. He’s way past being embarrassed about anything he does in the bedroom, but the fact that this is The King’s dick makes him flush hotly.

He shrugs his basketball shorts off quickly, suddenly more than ready to get started.

He gets the tip spit-shiny and leans back on the bed, left arm crooked on the elbow so he can watch the proceedings. His legs flop open shamelessly and he runs the crown over the furl of his hole. It’s only slightly damp with his spit now, but his whole lower body flexes with anticipation.

Jensen’s tearing open the packet of lube beside him in a sudden hurry, and he scoops a healthy amount out with two fingers, and some of it falls onto his palm in his haste to slather the Hellhound with it. The black gleams in the dull light, and Jensen screws his legs wider in silent invitation.

He drops down flat on his back and rests the Hellhound just in between his legs. He uses the remaining lube to re-slick his fingers, and shivers with the permission. He’s pressing his middle finger forward before he can second guess himself, and his body is taut like wire. He grunts a little with the intrusion, but it’s nothing his body isn’t intimately used to.

He presses his index in alongside his other finger and sighs openly. He loves opening himself up like this, the thick stretch and burn, the way anyone could come in and see him like this, naked and wide on his bed, humping his own hand.

His dick livens up even further with that thought, and he feels the tacky sweep of pre-come against his abs. He uses a third finger for caution’s sake, and then he allows his right hand to slide free. He can feel the gasp of his hole, and he fumbles a little over the slide of the Hellhound.

He grips just above the base with shaking fingers, and begins the slow descent. He moans at the first breach; he hasn’t tested anything in a few weeks because Collins hadn’t found anything up to par.

This, though.

Jensen squirms against his blankets and mewls as he bottoms out. He can’t breathe around this dick. He makes it a habit to not be a size queen, picks out 8 or 9’s to use in general.

He feels the Hellhound in his soul. He’s pretty sure he re-arranged some organs in his desperation to get this thing inside.

His hips lurch up and his cock’s pointing straight to the ceiling, red-tinged and lightly wet at the tip. He brushes his fingers against his own shaft and groans.

He grips the Hellhound for the push back out, and the slow-drag is exquisite. With that first shove his body lights up, and he feels a tingling warmth spread throughout his hole. It takes him a few more drags to realize that the lube is warming. His right leg twitches involuntarily with pleasure at the idea.

He begins thrusting harder, and tosses his neck back. He knows he’s flushed, his nipples are tingling and normally he’d play with them, but he hasn’t got the heart to move his hand away from this damn dildo.

His hand is sliding too much on the glide back in, and he moves it down lower to grip firmly at the base. He shoves hard at the bottom with his palm, and the Hellhound slots back up inside and Jensen’s mouth falls open on a loud moan.

He could come like this, right now, one stroke and he’d blow.


He thrusts faster now, because he’s close, and two things happen all at once. He must hit something on the base, because the Hellhound comes to life in his ass. It’s not a vibrator, per se, because the crown is the only thing that’s buzzing.

The vibration is laser-focused in that region, and it shoves against his prostate so exquisitely that he starts crying. The lube suddenly fades from the white-hot blaze of feeling to an icy chill that creeps along his limbs with the drastic change in temperature.

The combination of the prostate massage and the frost-bitten glide are the end to Jensen, and even as he’s coming, he knows it. His legs spasm violently and his hand falls away from the Hellhound, where it continues to whir inside him.

When he wakes up thirty minutes later, his come is cold and crusty on his stomach, and the Hellhound is still faintly buzzing in his ass.

It was alright.


Unrealistic proportions lent themselves to unrealistic expectations. Disclaimers should always be warned for, folks.

Very admirable for a first toy; all things considered, there is room for growth, but this does not undermine the achievements at hand.

Collins throws the paper directly into Jensen’s face, and, to be honest, Jensen thought he’d get worse.

“Jensen Ackles,” Collins says, and it doesn’t even sound like his voice.

“Misha,” Jensen says, in the same bland tone.

“Do you want a job? Do you want a bed to sleep in, cable on your TV?” Collins roars, and it’s so un-Collins-like that Jensen snorts out a laugh.

“Objective review, Mish,” Jensen offers, and his boss whirls around on him, black hair flyaway on his scalp. His cardigan is hanging haphazardly on his body, and Jensen schools his face into repentance.

“Jensen Ross Ackles, you have never, not once, given a review this poor.” Collins says. Jensen shrugs. “There’s a first time for everything,” Jensen says.

“No. No.” Collins says, and Jensen raises his brows. “This is not done. This doesn’t make sense.” Collins says. “Why--why on earth--” Collins stutters, and Jensen almost takes pity on him.

“This client is huge. Jared Padalecki is fucking huge!” Collins almost screams, and Jensen knows he must be worked up to scream a client’s full name.

“The office is gonna kill us.” Collins murmurs, and Jensen feels abruptly bad. “Shit, Mish, I can re-do it, it hasn’t even been released very long--” but Collins waves him off.

“M’headed back to go sort this out.” Collins says, and turns to him brightly, albeit a bit dimmed. “Your ass is usually spot-on,” Collins remarks. “If the ass says it’s a no-go…” Collins says, trailing off as he closes Jensen’s front door behind him.

Jensen’s head thumps back against his couch and he rubs at his temples.

Well, fuck.


Danni calls him every name but a child of God and asks if he’s ready to financially support her shopping habits and loud sex when she moves in with him because they’re out of a job.

Jensen knows he deserves every bit of this, so he allows her to throw his own placemats at his face, gives her a kickass foot rub and buys her a new dress.

She’s slightly mollified when she passes out on his couch that evening, wine-drunk, but Jensen’s still worried.


It’s a week after Kingsgate that Jensen’s woken up to loud-ass pounding on his door.

It’s not really angry pounding, more like two firm knocks by a heavy hand. It’s like four in the afternoon, no time for a nap, but he’s had a lot of downtime this week, and Danni’s exhausting.

He’s only in grey sweatpants, but he figures it’s one of his two best friends back to yell/coddle him, and he’s not one to break with routine.

His first thought when he opens the door is that maybe the Hellhound sent him straight to the fires of Hell, and he’s been dead all this time.

There’s absolutely no reason for his fish-gape face as he looks up (and up) to see the broad face of Jared “The King” Padalecki himself on his doorstep.

Then Jared’s smoothly slid his way inside, past Jensen’s comatose body, and Jensen closes the door on autopilot.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Jensen yells, and immediately regrets it. He should not be yelling at the King. He should not be riling the King up. He’s been known to fuck people into submission. Jensen’s dick gives a traitorous little jump at the thought.

Hell no, not with him.

But Jared doesn’t look angry at all, in fact, he looks like he could be on his way to the gym, except for the fact that he smells like pine and isn’t sweating at all. He’s in athletic shorts and basketball shoes, and his shirt is a simple black V-neck.

He’s also a fucking giant and he’s dwarfing the chi out of Jensen’s living room.

“I hear unrealistic proportions lend themselves to unrealistic expectations,” The King (Jared, he’s in Jensen’s living room, he ought to call the man by his government name), looks calm and happy, and Jensen notices he’s got a small Nike backpack hooked on his right shoulder.

Jensen face flushes.

“It’s an article, Mr. Padalecki,” Jensen says haughtily, hopes he didn’t butcher the King’s last name. “I hope you don’t make it a habit of coming to private residences to protest things you don’t like reading about yourself.” Jensen says. He’s really proud of that sentence; he sounds like he’s not sweating bullets in front of this man.

Who is handsome as hell, hair carefully tucked behind one ear. Jared grins. “Nah,” he says, a hint of southern twang in his mouth.

“I do make it a habit to correct people that are wrong, though.” Jared says, waves his hand negligently. “And the way I figure it, s’not exactly your fault.” Jared says.

Jensen backs up until his thighs clip his dining room table. “W-what?” Jensen says dumbly.

“See,” Jared says, and he’s practically stalking closer to Jensen. Is the room getting smaller or--god forbid--is the King just getting even bigger?

“You’ve never taken the real thing, right here.” Jared says, and he’s so close to Jensen that he boxes him in, curves his arms around Jensen’s shoulders to brace his palms against the table.

“So, ‘course the toy’s unrealistic.” Jared says. Jared leans his head down, hair brushing against Jensen’s cheek. “But if you wanted the real deal, sweetheart,” Jared purrs, “then you didn’t have to get nasty. Could’ve just asked.” Jared says.

Jensen’s face is flushed pink, and he knows his body, can tell the rest of his body is too. What the fuck is happening, what is this?

Jensen makes to squirm out from around the cage of Jared, but the man’s fucking firm and solid. He doesn’t move. “I--I don’t know--” Jensen tries, but Jared’s shaking his head.

“You do know,” Jared says, and then his big hands snake down and slide underneath Jensen’s sweatpants.

Jensen’s not wearing boxers.

Jared groans, heavily in his throat, and Jensen’s knees actually buckle. “You’re so damn pretty, sweetheart.” Jared says, leans down to nip at Jensen’s neck. “You alright if I call you Jensen?” Jared breathes, soothes his tongue over the slight wound.

Jensen’s head is not his own, because it fucking nods in acceptance. Jared leans back, digs those long fingers into the fleshy meat of Jensen’s ass. Jensen mewls in place and arches forward. Jared’s smile is feral and hungry and so dark that Jensen could go blind in it.

“You alright with this darlin’?” Jared says, and his voice still holds a sex-accent, but Jensen knows he’s really asking.

Jensen wasn’t okay with it--but that was like fifteen minutes before the King walked into his house. Jensen tips his head back in that innocent way that makes men paw at him. “Uh-huh,” Jensen says (because he doesn’t know what words are at this point) and Jared’s shoving his sweatpants down his legs.

“Lift for me, sweetheart,” Jared says, and Jensen kicks himself free of the fabric. Jared’s lifting him then, and he doesn’t so much as grunt as Jensen swings his legs around Jared’s waist.

“Where’s your bed, darlin’?” Jared says, and Jensen whimpers. Since when have endearments done anything for his libido?

“I found it,” Jared says, and that’s definitely a smile in his voice. “Don’t worry.” If Jensen thought he’d have a reprieve once they got to his room, he was definitely wrong. Jared sets him down gently on his own bed and then the man is stripping naked with a finesse that speaks of long years of experience.

And, oh.

Oh, GOD.

“Now,” Jared says, and he’s doing his predator impression again. “I’ve been hard since before I got here,” Jared explains, and Jensen scrambles away from him as Jared descends upon the bed. He’s not a virgin. He’s not, but Jared is some otherworldly creature.

“But--you’re--you’re the King,” Jensen sputters, and there it is, the smoothest thing he’s ever said, right here.

Jared’s face softens infinitesimally, and then Jensen’s locked in the curtain of his arms, again. “Today though,” Jared says, “I’ll be good with you just yellin’ Jared.” Jared’s grin is filthy, and Jensen’s legs part without his consent.

“Jesus, you’re pretty,” Jared says, and this time time it seems like he didn’t mean to say it. Jared runs his hand up the soft of Jensen’s open thigh, and Jensen manfully refrains from making noise. Jensen can see his dick, making a scene.

It’s flushed closer to red than pink, and Jared thumbs the crown. Jensen’s entire body shudders, and he watches in fascination as Jared’s eyes darken.

“Christ, I like that,” Jared says, and his voice has become one smooth drawl. Jared pushes his way in between Jensen’s legs and then his mouth closes over top of Jensen’s dick, no preamble.

Jensen looks down at the broad shoulders in between the bow of his legs, the dark hair bobbing up and down. And then Jared does a weird trick with his tongue, against the tip, and Jensen moans. “F-fuck, Jared,” Jensen whispers, and Jared dislodges far enough to laugh.

“Hold still now,” Jared says, and then he locks Jensen in place, one large palm settled on the jut of each hipbone.

Jared leans down all the way to the base and slurps loudly. Jensen’s neck snaps sharply to the side, and he can hear himself hyperventilating as if from far away.

Jared pulls up and off his dick, and then tugs sharply on Jensen’s balls in the same motion. Jensen’s face twists up in unexpected pleasure-pain, and then Jared’s mouth falls over top of them and he sucks one inside entirely.

Jensen’s eyes are welling up from the hot burn of agony and sweetness, and then Jared is switching to the other testicle.

When Jared comes up for air, Jensen takes another good look at his dick. The dick Jensen’s already inadvertently had inside him. Jensen can almost trace the shaving scar, thin line running the length of the shaft.

Jared’s smirking at him, but Jensen literally wants that dick inside him, yesterday. “You can touch it,” Jared says lowly. “S’proportional, I promise.” Jared caresses the words until they sound even filthier than they should.

Jensen glances up, tries to calm his heaving chest. “Rather have you fuck me with it instead,” Jensen breathes out, and he’s proud of himself, because while he’s not vanilla, he’s never been exactly savvy with dirty talk in the bedroom.

It seems to be enough for Jared, because Jared leans forward and shoves Jensen’s legs so far apart he actually hears the joints pop.

Jared hovers above him for a second before reaching over to Jensen’s nightstand and ripping the entire drawer out of its hinges. Jensen surges up in anger, but then Jared’s coming back with Jensen’s favorite bottle of lube in his hand.

“Did you use mine,” Jared says quietly, and Jensen gets the abrupt feeling that this man is dangerous. “Uh-huh,” Jensen says.

“Good,” Jared replies, and then presses inside Jensen’s hole, two fingers slick. “I choose it for you special,” Jared grunts, and then Jared pulls his fingers apart and down at the same time, brushing over that white-hot place inside.

Jensen mewls and Jared blankets his big body across Jensen’s supine one.

“Ch-christ, Jared, slow--slow down,” Jensen huffs, but Jared just lifts his head up far enough to grin.

“That what you want?” Jared asks, corkscrews his fingers sharply and then just as quickly forms a makeshift cock-ring around the base of Jensen’s dick with his other hand. Jensen’s orgasm pauses in its tracks, and Jensen looks up at Jared in confusion, tears in his eyes.

“M’paying attention to you,” Jared offers by way of explanation, and then Jared’s removing the three fingers he quickly worked himself up to. Jared’s looming, got one hand wrapped around his monster of a dick, and it’s shiny with lube.

“Might be a bit bigger than the Hellhound,” Jared says, and he sounds mildly apologetic. “We didn’t want it to seem--unrealistic,” Jared says, and Jensen realizes the sound he mistook for remorse was actually regret.

Jared reaches down and then Jensen’s turning in the air, flat on his stomach. His limbs are dead inside and he can feel the phantom ache in his ass. Christ, he’s about to get fucked within an inch of his life by the King, and that’s not something he ever thought he would say.

Jensen’s hips squirm in anticipation, and then Jared jerks his ass up to the cool air of the room. “Jus’ like that,” Jared slurs, and then he hooks one hand around Jensen’s hip and lunges forward.

It feels familiar, Jensen thinks, and that’s the last coherent thought that passes through his head.

Jensen gasps his way through it, because Jared doesn’t stop or slow, pushes inside Jensen’s hole at the same slow, steady pace he set at the start. Jensen’s sweating and shaking by the time Jared’s balls press against his own, and he can hear the low-grade moan from his own mouth.

“Can you feel me,” Jared says, and his voice sounds tighter than it was before. Jensen immediately presses a hand to his abdomen and groans aloud. He can just feel the ridge of Jared’s dick inside him, and he rocks back a bit, ignores the searing burn that erupts at the movement.

Jared grabs onto his hips again.

“Ready?” Jared asks, and then he’s backing out and shoving back in without waiting for an answer. Jared takes one hand and cups the back of Jensen’s head, pushing him face-first down into his pillow. Jensen’s screams are muffled as Jared really starts giving it to him then, swivels his hips counter-clockwise.

Jared pulls out just to catch the crown of his dick on Jensen’s swollen rim. Jensen can feel the pressure keeping him open and he cries out.

“Fuck, please, please come back,” Jensen babbles, and he barely hears Jared’s fond laugh.

He can feel the sharp sting of Jared’s nails against his flesh, and Jensen tries to give a little back, twists his own hips. Jared growls and pushes down on Jensen’s neck.

“Nah, sweetheart, this one’s mine.” Jared says, and Jensen’s body sags with the command.

Jared pauses in his frantic movement for just a second, and then Jensen feels his finger come up to encircle Jensen’s rim, trace the place where they’re connected. Jensen shudders at the slight touch.

Jensen feels the cool of lube, and then Jared’s index hooks in between rim and his own dick. Jensen can barely speak as Jared wedges his finger in alongside his cock and continues to thrust.

“J-Jared,” Jensen begins, but Jared just laughs. “S’about to get fun, baby,” Jared replies, and then Jensen feels something cooler, and it’s a familiar feeling, but he can’t quite place it--

It’s not until Jared is pulling, oh so gentle at the skin of his rim, splitting him open even further, that he realizes that he knows what it is.

“Y-you can’t--it won’t fit,” Jensen gasps, because where the fuck did Jared get the Hellhound from? Jensen has it hidden in the bottom of his closet--and then Jensen recalls the backpack Jared was carrying.

“Y-you--you planned this,” Jensen huffs out, because Jared’s dick is scraping his prostate raw, and he needs to come so bad. He can feel his dick waving on empty air, and it hurts.

“Sure did,” Jared admits shamelessly. “Want you to take all’a me, then tell me if it made you see God,” Jared says, and there’s no hint of teasing left as the crown of the Hellhound slides in alongside Jared.

Jensen’s gonna die. He’s gonna split open on Jared’s dick and die here, in his bed.

Jensen can feel himself crying, but the stretch hurts so right, and he can barely breathe through this. “You’re alright, darlin,’” Jared’s saying, and he feels another three or so inches press in.

Jensen screams.

“You wanna stop,” Jared says, and everything pauses as Jared waits for his answer.

“Wanna,” Jensen says. “Want you to break me.” Jensen’s voice is low, but that seems to be the exact answer Jared was looking for, because he presses the last few inches within and Jensen’s only held up by the stabilizing hand on his waist.

“Oh, fuck,” Jared says, and he sounds honestly enthralled, like he’s never seen anything like this before. “Oh Jesus, Christ, fuck you’re gorgeous like this, all split open on my dick like this, can’t even get away--” and Jared’s babbling, but Jensen’s tight and warm with the loss of Jared’s control.

Jared fucks him with both, slow and sure, and when Jared comes, the ride between both becomes so smooth that Jensen ruts into the sheets beneath him.

Jared’s still holding the Hellhound snug in his ass, and when Jensen tries to sneak a hand in between the sheets to jerk himself off, Jared hums his dissent.

“Use your sheets, baby, just the sheets. Lemme see it,” and Jared sounds kind of wrecked, so broken and needy that Jensen squirms obligingly and humps his way to the most spectacular orgasm of his life.


When Jensen wakes up (again), his ass still feels comfortably full, and he realizes the Hellhound is still tightly sheathed within. He sits up, or tries to, but Jared’s hand on his pauses the action.

Jensen blinks up at the man blearily, realizes he’s clean, but still naked, tucked in his sheets and plugged tight with the King’s surrogate dick.

Jared’s got his basketball shorts on, and there’s water gleaming on the diamond-cut of his abs.

“You’re back,” he says, and it’s so soft that Jensen turns away.

“Thought you’d be gone,” Jensen mutters, and when he chances a look at Jared, the man looks a little disturbed.

Then his face crinkles into a heavily dimpled smile, something Jensen’s never seen on him before.

“Sweetheart. You thought you weren’t mine now?” Jared says, and there’s something heady in the way he says mine, the playfulness underscored by the currently latent intent in his eyes.

Jensen knows he looks slack-jawed, so, of course, he says the first thing that pops into his head.

“My ex and I broke up over you!” Jensen says. To his credit, Jared doesn’t even look phased, just leans down to brush his lips over Jensen’s. He cups his hand around Jensen’s pink cheek and smiles again.

“Well then,” Jared drawls, “that’ll make a great story for our first date.”