Chad had completely forgotten saying it - he couldn't remember everything funny he said in a day; no one had that much memory space - when he finally heard the front door of their apartment open. He spat out his mouthful of toothpaste into the sink, and shouted, "Hey man." He bent down to rinse, and when he straightened, Jared was behind him, leaning against the doorframe in the mirror, and Chad said, "Finally. I was wondering if you'd left me for some blonde eighteen-year-old with perky tits. You come via Swaziland or something?" Jared didn't say anything, just stepped into the bathroom, right up behind Chad - and for a skinny motherfucker he sure could loom - and when Chad tried to turn around, Jared stopped him with a hand on his shoulder and crowded him up against the sink, leaning down, eyes glittering, to mutter, "Bad at it, am I?" in Chad's ear. He remembered it real quick after that -- Dude, you're bad at the reach-around, OK? -- because Jared tugged down his sweatpants (the only thing he was wearing) and ran his thumb down Chad's cock, murmuring, "You can't just say shit like that, man." Chad gripped the edge of the sink, his knuckles almost as white as the porcelain, and grit his teeth, but all his blood - treacherous fucking stuff - was rushing to be under Jared's hands. He was hardening steadily against Jared's wide, weighing palm, Jared's thumb idling just short of the head, and Chad managed to say in some sort of normal voice, "This isn't funny, J." Jared smiled lazily in the mirror, just behind Chad's ear, and said, "Who's laughing?" He curled his hand, his great gawping paw, around Chad's cock. Chad felt - saw, in his reflection in the mirror - his lip twitch up like it did, like the corner of a sneer; dead goddamn giveaway and he just couldn't fucking help it. Jared was still smiling dark and indolent over Chad's shoulder. He bit at Chad's ear and Chad jerked his head aside, tried to shove out of this completely, but Jared didn't budge, pressing him harder against the sink, cold porcelain against the top of his thighs. The jostling moved Jared's hand on Chad, skin catching against skin and tugging, and Jared hummed consideringly and unwound his fingers. And then lifted his hand to his mouth, over Chad's shoulder, and licked it, a slow swipe of his tongue, palm to fingertip. Chad's breath hitched; Jared's was steady against his neck as he reached down - reached around - and took hold of Chad's cock again. One long, languid stroke, base to tip and back again, and Chad was swaying a little, denying it, his eyes focused on his own elbow in the mirror because he couldn't look at Jared, not at his dark eyes and his mouth almost against Chad's neck, not at his hand and what it was doing, slowly, casually, smoothly. He took a breath that only shook a little - as Jared twisted his fucking fingers on the stroke - and said, "Jared..." A little huff of breath against his ear. "What?" Chad was glancing up in the mirror before he thought better of it; Jared's face was a little turned in against his neck, but his eyes were open and watching. Chad had forgotten what he'd been going to say, if he'd ever even known. Stop. Please stop. Don't stop. Jared smiled. "You like it," he said, palm sliding over the head of Chad's cock, sticky with pre-come. Even as Chad opened his mouth, Jared's hand slipped back around him, and he pumped hard. Chad jerked, jack-knifed forward, one palm hitting the glass and smearing even as the other braced against the sink, near the faucet. He heard himself, a high whimpery grunt, his breath bouncing back into his face off a mirror he couldn't see because his eyes seemed to have slipped shut. He forced them back open, forced himself back closer to upright, straightening his elbows until he had them locked against the hard-n-fast pace that Jared was setting, dragging him closer with every flick of the wrist. Chad's brain was giving up, shutting down, skittering about, from the memory of Jared slinging his arm around Chad's shoulder - "Our place, man, fucking party central" - to how he'd looked sleeping, sprawled out on his stomach, hugging the pillow, his mouth open-- --his mouth twisted into that little smirk and his other hand against Chad's ribs, pulling him back against Jared's body. Chad went with it, his breath coming in little panting gasps that he'd be embarrassed about if he could think of anything past Jared's hand on his cock - if he could think at all. He bit his lip against it, as Jared smoothed his hand across Chad's chest, thumb strumming across a nipple, coming back to pinch, and then he splayed his fingers over Chad's skin. He held him so tightly Chad had nowhere to go when he bucked into Jared's fist, into Jared's voice in his ear saying, "Yeah, c'mon, that's it, baby." Chad came, knocking his head back against Jared's shoulder - so wrong that the fucker was that tall - and seeing stars from it as his hips juddered against Jared's grip. "Oh god," he gasped. "Oh fuck." Jared held him steady, wringing it out of him, implacable. He sagged forward when Jared let him go, resting his forehead against the cold glass of the mirror. Jared pressed up against him, turning on the water and washing his hands - washing his fucking hands - as Chad's skin prickled. "Bad at it," Jared repeated, smug as a motherfucker. Chad pushed himself back a little, enough to see that smirking grin. "Hah, bitch." And Jared laid both hands, still wet, on Chad's hips as he leaned in to crow in Chad's ear. "I fucking own you." He gave Chad a little nudge with his hips as he pushed away, striding out of the bathroom. Leaving Chad to get his pulse back under control, breathing fog against the mirror, sweatpants still around his knees.
"I am the god of fuck…"
A week of acting all normal and shit, like Jared hadn't jacked him off in the bathroom, their bathroom, for fuck's sake. Like it was no big deal, nothing, man, like he did this sort of this all the time (and maybe he did, not like they'd ever discussed, y'know, that sort of thing). A week of biding his time, clowning around with Elisa between takes, ripping into Paris behind her back (and sometimes in front of her, not like she was smart enough to notice), kicking Jared's ass at PSP during the long ass days on set. A week of living together like nothing had ever happened, of taking turns walking the dogs and fighting over the last slice of pizza and bitching at the other about using all the hot water and leaving wet towels on the floor, and it was like everything was normal. Except for that smirking glint that Jared sometimes got when he looked at Chad when he thought Chad wasn't looking. And fuck that, man; if J wanted to play dirty, then two could most motherfucking assuredly play at that game. Paris had decided that everyone needed a night off to blow off steam from all their 'hard work' (although, near as Chad could tell, that cunt didn't even know the meaning of the word, man, but whatever) and had announced that she'd arranged for a night out for the cast and crew at some swank club called Talk or Tank or something. When Paris had turned her lazy eyes towards them and asked if they'd be there, Jared had answered for the both of them, like Chad was Jared's damn bitch now. If Chad didn't re-establish his place at the top of the food chain PDQ, then it was just gonna get worse. He emphatically did not think about the memory of Jared's hand or Jared's mouth on him. The club was about what Chad had expected it to be – sleek and dark and full of pretentious assholes getting their shine on. Nice to know some things were universal. As expected, Paris caused a mob scene going inside, with all the usual gawkers and stalkers hanging around, cameras flashing like crazy, all that. Jared just rolled his eyes and clapped a hand on Chad's back; a warm, familiar weight, like everything was all cool between them. Chad just smiled back. Just wait, man, just fucking wait... Once inside, Paris and her entourage disappeared to the VIP booths, and Chad spent the first hour dancing with Elisha, keeping her company with small talk and his admittedly bad rhythm, keeping the creeps off her back. Every once in awhile, he spotted Jared pogoing to some song or another, grin in place, cheeks flushed like they always were after Jared'd had a few to drink, usually with some petite thing or another hanging on his jock. He wasn't hard to keep track of, gawking lanky-ass motherfucker that he was. Cocksucking bastard. Someone bumped into him and, for a frozen moment, all he could feel was the hard press of Jared's body pushing him against cool porcelain, Jared's breath in his ear. He blinked and shook his head to dispel the image – not giving in, not doing it, fuck that – and told Elisha that he needed another drink. He made his way to the bathroom and splashed some cool water on his face, meeting his own eyes in the mirror. He could almost see Jared behind him. He took a deep breath, let it out slowly. He loosened his grip on the sides of the sink and pushed himself away, then made his way through the crowd, keeping an eye out for Jared. Showtime. Chad really couldn't have planned it any better if he'd tried, man. Jared was alone (for once), standing on the edge of the dance floor just behind the waist-high railing, bopping to the beat of Marilyn Manson screaming about tainted love, and it would be ironic, except Chad didn't believe in irony. Not tonight. Another deep breath to center himself, and he flipped it on, from friend to predator, in the step it took for him to press against Jared's back. Jared jumped, started to turn, and Chad placed a hand between his shoulder blades, held it there, heat against heat, burning through the thin fabric of Jared's shirt. "No," Chad commanded, breathing the word across the back of Jared's neck. "Chad, man, what –?" "Shut up." The retort was whip-fast. Chad slid his other hand under Jared's untucked shirt, along Jared's inseam. He could almost hear the zipper rasping down, even over the music. He brushed his fingers over Jared's cock (already half-hard, and he'd think about the implication of that later) and smiled at the resultant shiver. "The only thing I want to hear you say is my name when I make you come," he said, and leaned up to bite the tip of Jared's ear to drive the point home. Jared jerked, started forward – nuh uh, man, not that easy – and Chad tightened his hold, stroked up, fast and dirty. "I said no," he growled, and angled his body so his hips were nestled against Jared's ass, sliding his free hand down to dig just below Jared's waist. The weight of Jared's cock was familiar in a way, if one ignored that it wasn't his, the length and curve of it fitting comfortably in his palm. He rested his chin on Jared's shoulder (he refused to let it bother him that Jared was still taller), watched the dance floor with feigned interest as he closed tight fingers over Jared's cock, started moving. He could feel each one of Jared's ragged breaths. "Own me, do you?" Chad murmured, conversationally, like he wasn't currently jerking Jared off in the middle of a crowded club, with only the railing, the shadows and the bottom of Jared's shirt keeping them from discovery (and possible arrest). The thought of it sent a dark thrill up Chad's spine. Jared's hips twitched helplessly, and he reached down to grip at Chad's thigh, rocking in perfect time with Chad's hand. He braced his other on the railing, next to his untouched drink, and Chad could see Jared's knuckles turning white from the strain. "Fuck you," Chad rasped, and scraped his teeth along the pulse fluttering under Jared's neck. His skin tasted dark, foreign, decadent. "You're my bitch right now." "Ch –" "Shut up." Another hard stroke, thumb brushing over the head, smearing pre-come all over the tips of his fingers. "My turn now, J. My turn." Jared's head dropped forward, in supplication, in pleasure, Chad wasn't sure and didn't really care. Power surged through him like a drug, raced along each nerve. The song changed, some rap/techno combo with a pounding bass line and Chad matched each stroke to the rhythm, pressing his lips to Jared's shoulder to hide his smile. He could hear, feel Jared's breath coming in locomotion chuffs, each one music to Chad's ears. Jared's fingers squeezed into Chad's thigh, and the sense memory of Jared's hand stroking him hit him like a gut-punch. His grip faltered – a split-second of Jared's voice in his ear, urging him on – then he blinked, cleared his head, cleared his thoughts. My turn. He changed speed, fast, then slow, wrist curling in short, sharp flicks, sliding over heated flesh like he owned it. Every trick he'd ever used on himself he applied with ruthless skill to Jared. He flicked his tongue out to lap at the salty skin just under Jared's jaw, savoring Jared's choked moan. He bit at Jared's jugular, dragging his fist, razor-sharp and tight, over Jared's length, letting the force of it burn them both. He had a split-second of warning – Jared's hips twitching and a muffled moan that might've been Chad's name – before Jared came, hard and fast, over Chad's hand. Chad held him through the shudders, murmuring indistinct nonsense in his ear - promises, threats, didn't matter, it was all the same. When Jared could stand on his own, fingers relaxing their death grip on both the railing and his thigh, Chad stepped back, fishing a handful of bar napkins out of his pocket and wiping his fingers clean as best he could. Jared lolled his head back as he turned, half-stumbling into the railing. Their eyes met and held. Jared's still had the glaze of orgasm. Triumph rushed through Chad's blood in painfully sharp spikes. Chad smiled then, satisfied and more than a little cruel. "My bitch," he stated and tossed the balled up napkins at Jared's feet as he strode away.
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