
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/12624771.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural_RPF
  Relationship:
      Jensen_Ackles/Jared_Padalecki, Jensen_Ackles/Jeffrey_Dean_Morgan
  Character:
      Jensen_Ackles, Jeffrey_Dean_Morgan, Jared_Padalecki
  Additional Tags:
      Voyeurism, Stripping, Masturbation, Not-Quite_Infidelity, Abusive_Song
      Lyrics, Violent_Song_Lyrics, hole_spanking, Scent_Kink, Implied/
      Referenced_Underage_Sex, Underage_Jensen, Exhibitionism, Teasing,
      Implied/Referenced_Drug_Use
  Collections:
      Fuckpig_Verse
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-11-04 Words: 2811
****** pistol whipped ******
by Exaggerated_Specificity
Summary
     Someone put up a portable stripper pole in the Fuckpig bus’s ‘living
     room’ and bored little Jenny can’t help but try it out when he thinks
     everyone else is asleep. Turns out he’s got an audience. Good thing
     he doesn’t mind being watched.
     Song featured is "Pistol Whipped" by Marilyn Manson: https://
     youtu.be/SeMtOrsWO28
     I definitely recommend listening to it on repeat while you read.
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
Life on board a tour bus has a distinct set of positives and negatives.
Most days Jensen lives with his feet planted firmly in the positive column,
perfectly content with his tiny niche in Fuckpig’s universe. Sure, it meant
sharing very close quarters with some very large and often very fragrant
people, lugging around sound equipment that weighed more than he did, and
running to 7-Eleven for lube, laundry detergent, and Flamin’ Hot Cheetos at all
hours of the night. Even so, Jensen would happily fold himself up origami-style
and travel down in the cargo hold with the gear if he had to if it meant
staying with Jared, being part of something bigger than himself.
Jensen keeps the few check-marks he’s scratched in the negative column to
himself but there’s a lot of time to fill between show and sleep. Mostly, the
could-be boredom of crisscrossing the highways of middle America melts away
when there’s always something to suck, fuck, snort, watch or listen to. Mostly.
Right now though, it’s three in the morning, everyone else is sound asleep, and
he really shouldn’t have had that last bump of coke before they’d rolled into
the rest area. They were somewhere outside Boise and it was quiet and dark.
There were no bright-white fluorescents outside to test the strength of their
black-out blinds, no all-night diner or convenience store to occupy Jensen’s
anxious mind.
Jared had crashed hours ago and even Jensen’s twenty-minute, all-stops-pulled
attempt to nurse his dick hard again had failed. Coke high fading, bladder-
full, and brain caffeine wired from the extra-large, extra shot Dunkin’ Donuts
Almond Joy latte Adri treated him to at their last stop, Jensen finally
extracts himself from between Jared and the wall of his bunk and wanders out
into rarely quiet common area.
Even the fucking cat was asleep.
When Jensen’s bathroom-door-open, extra-loud, coffee scented piss didn’t seem
to stir the natives he finds his way to the couch, plopping down on the side
closest to the bus’s most recent decorative addition: a light up stripper pole.
Jensen extends his left leg and flips the switch at the base with his lavender-
socked big toe, bathing the small, dingy space in twinkling rainbow light.
Jensen wasn’t entirely sure where the thing came from or who had installed it.
He thinks it showed up when the bus broke down and they were stuck in
Indianapolis for an extra night a few months back. He hadn’t even noticed it
until they were 500 miles and two shows away from that Midwestern armpit. It
was honestly surprising they hadn’t installed one sooner.
It reminded Jensen of one of those tacky, antique brass-toned spring rods that
used to hold up the frilly ruffled shower curtains back at his mama’s house,
only installed floor-to-ceiling instead of wall-to-wall. It was made of some
kind of strong, see-through plastic with chrome fittings on either end. As an
added feature, with the help of three AAA batteries, internal LED lights
flashed and changed color. It was trashy as fuck and so obviously Jensen loved
it.
For a while the bus became amateur stripper central. Every flavor of boy and
girl had tried their hand at working the pole, some with more success than
others. Sadly, the novelty had worn off sometime after their last stop in Vegas
and now it was just one more prop in the booze-drenched, come-covered
background of their lives. Rainbow twinkle lights or not. No one had paid it
any attention in a while.
Lost in thought, Jensen toes off his socks one by one and extends his leg
again, bringing the other one to join it this time, crisscrossing his feet at
the ankles and letting the slightly damp pads of his toes skitter-stop along
the smooth, clear surface of the pole. He watches the light play on his skin,
his pale pink toenail polish changing color with the shifts, squirming as his
tiny cutoffs start riding up between his bare ass cheeks. His recently and very
well used hole aches from the friction. Fuck it.
Sure, no one was awake to watch but Jensen was such a little exhibitionist he’d
be just as into it if the skanky little white tuft of fur curled up on the
other side of the couch was his only audience. Snowball’s ear twitches and he
stretches out his hind leg in his sleep. It was as good an invitation as any at
this point.
Jensen gets up and tugs the frayed denim out of his ass crack before spreading
his feet on the sticky floor and folding himself in half for a quick stretch.
The coke and caffeine are still making his skin tingle so he runs his hands
down his leg slowly before grabbing his right ankle. He flexes the muscles in
his legs and tips his hips up and back, letting the stretch ripple all along
his body before switching his grip to the other ankle and doing it one more
time.
He goes upright again and puts his feet together, reaching his hands up toward
the ceiling, linking his fingers and twisting his wrists, arching his back and
pointing his toes to stretch like some kind of trailer-trash ballerina getting
ready to take the stage.
He reaches for the pole then, wrapping his hands around it and giving it a
long, slow stroke before tightening his grip and tipping back on his heels to
let it take his weight. He tips his head back, letting it roll on his
shoulders. In the pole’s glow he sees someone is seated at the kitchen table. A
single red point of light, the cherry of Jeff’s cigarette, glows a little
brighter as he sucks down a lungful of smoke.
“Don’t let me stop you,” Jeff says, the smirk on his shadowed face reads clear
as day in the tone of his voice.
The music starts then, soft and low on Jeff’s phone. A grinding, pulsing,
guitar riff that grows louder as he gets up from the kitchenette and walks
slowly into the living room, an ashtray in one hand and his phone in the other.
He moves with quiet carefulness, like he’s afraid Jensen will get spooked and
run if he makes too quick a movement.
Jensen watches Jeff with as impassive of an expression as he can manage, unable
to keep himself from the coy little grin that ends up painting his lips once
Jeff sits down, his legs spread wide. Jeff sits the phone down on the cushion
beside him one cushion over. The sound is tinny and muffled from its small,
shitty speakers but it’s enough.
“I like this song,” Jensen says softly, stretching his arms above his head
again, rolling his hips a little for Marilyn Manson’s filthy growl.
“Good,” Jeff grunts, his half-smoked cigarette dangling as he leans over to
look at his phone. “Me too.”
He taps the screen a few times and then stubs out his cigarette in the ashtray
before setting it down on the floor by his boot. The song starts over, on
repeat now, and Jeff nudges up the volume a little more.
Jeff was here for a show and they both knew Jensen was more than willing to
give it to him.
The song starts with Manson panting hot and heavy into the microphone. It’s
sexy as fuck. Then the lyrics start, brutal and dirty, throbbing like a bruise.
His voice sounds exactly how Jeff’s gaze feels on Jensen in this moment. It
makes him chub up a little against the half-down zipper of his cutoffs.
 
                              You look so pretty
                                 When you cry
                              Don't wanna hit you
                              But the only thing
                              Between our love is
                                 A bloody nose
                                   Busted lip
                                And a black eye
 
Jensen bites his lip, licking over a spot where it’s a little chapped, trying
to bloody it again, hungry for that coppery taste to pair with the dark
violence of Manson’s words.
He moves so he’s in profile to the couch to Jeff a good view. He gets his right
hand around the pole and extends his left leg to push the slightly askew coffee
table a bit more out of the way. He wants room to move.
 
                            You're a little pistol
                        And I'm fucking pistol whipped
 
Jensen pulls himself flush with the pole, pressing into it sternum to belly
before he wraps his leg around and hooks his foot against it for stability. He
leans back, peeling back from the pole in a pretty arch, his hips grinding his
half-hard dick into the back of his zipper. He liked the bite of it and his
insides throb in tune with the grinding guitar.
He shakes his would-be tits and then slinks himself upright again, reaching
down to the hem of his black MANEATER tank top, slowly peeling it up and off.
If he’d known this was on the menu for the night, he would have put something
lacy or strappy on underneath his ratty clothes. Still, the silent, subtle
games that he and Jeff played never seemed to need that extra flare. It was raw
and secret and hole-clenching, all look and no touch. It didn’t have to be
pretty. Not for Jeff. From what Jensen could tell, he preferred it not to be.
 
                              When I undo my belt
                          You melt and you walk away
                           With a red, red, red welt
                               (Or so they say)
 
The too-loud clank of the buckle on Jeff’s cheap nylon-web belt makes Jensen
smile like a Cheshire cat and that spot in his lip he’s been gnawing finally
splits open again as he tosses his shirt to the floor.
He laps at the metallic salt of his own blood and works the pole like it’s
Jared’s dick. He dips down low and pops his ass out, the seam of his shorts
biting into his balls and raking over his cunt lips as he sways his hips back
and forth in tune with the song.
 
                            I wanna have your ache
                               And beat you too
                                        
                            I wanna have your ache
                               And beat you too
                                        
                            I wanna have your ache
                               And beat you too
 
God, this was such a fucking Jeff song. When Jared was up later maybe Jensen
would try to convince him that Fuckpig should cover it live. Only he and Jeff
would know why it was special.
The song loops back to the beginning and Jensen turns to face his audience, his
back to the pole now, one arm up high holding him on his tip toes, his body a
long, lean line against it. He slides his other hand down between his tits,
over his flat little hairless belly and down into his cutoffs to adjust his
stiffy. He angles it so the tip peeks out just above the ‘V’ of zipper where
he’d used a pair of pliers to crimp the slider into place.
He drags his fingers in a slow ‘S’ up the teeth of the zipper and over the
oozing tip of his little pink dick just as Manson reminds Jensen how pretty he
looks when he cries. Like Jared would ever let him forget. Teary eyes and a
runny nose were synonymous with Jensen’s weeping slit.
He sucks the precome from his fingertips and rolls his shoulders, looking down
at his flat little chest that’s presently glowing violet in the ever-changing
light. The slightly wet slapping sound of Jeff beating off to his teasing makes
Jensen’s nipples hard.
 
                            You're a little pistol
                        And I'm fucking pistol whipped
                                        
                            You're a little pistol
                        And I'm fucking pistol whipped
 
He twirls to face the pole again, both hands on it, sliding down, down, down
until he’s ass up, shoulders down at knee level. He plants his bare feet wide
and lets his entire body start writhing to the music again. The tiny strip of
jean material isn’t enough to keep Jensen’s tight little balls contained. The
fabric slides over to the right of them and drags cruelly across Jensen’s ass
crack as he moves. He reaches one hand back and hooks it in the material,
pulling it aside fully, giving Jeff the completely uncensored view of his
jailbait bits.
Jeff was seated only a few feet away, so close that he could probably see the
stubble starting to grow in on Jensen’s taint, smell Jared’s come curing deep
up in his guts.
“Fuck,” Jeff huffs, jacking his dick in earnest now.
Jensen can feel the rush of Jeff’s breath on the swollen pink he’s flashing and
his eyes slip shut with a shudder. He’d fucking kill for a tongue up his ass
right now, the sloppy grind of rough stubble to mar his most tender parts. For
now he’d have to settle for the spit-slicked slap of his own skinny fingers.
Satan willing, once he’d had his fun here, Jensen would climb back up into
Jared’s bunk and sink down directly onto his baby’s morning wood.
He wraps his left arm around the pole and pulls himself up a little, turning to
look at Jeff before letting go of it and making a big show of sliding his
fingers, locked in a scout’s salute, knuckle deep into mouth. He pets them
roughly over his tongue, poking at his tonsils to trigger his gag reflex a
little and fill his mouth with saliva. He pulls them out slow, letting a long
string of spit connect the tip of his index finger to his lip, watching it
catch the light as it shifts from green back into pink.
Manson’s panting at the start of the song again. Perfect.
Jensen puts his weight back onto his heels and reaches back to pull his jeans
aside again, the fingers of his other hand dripping spit onto the floor. His
ass is still tipped up, his hole bared, and the biggest, baddest Daddy he’s
ever seen is watching his every move. It wasn’t gonna take much.
The sound of Jensen’s fingers slapping hard and wet over his cunt is so loud
that he swears it echoes of dingy walls. Jensen does it again anyway, even
harder. Fuck, it hurts so fucking good. He forces his watery eyes open to watch
Jeff over his shoulder, stroking his fat dick for him in the pretty glow of the
sparkling stripper pole.
Jensen hisses involuntarily on the third slap. He presses his fingers down hard
over his throbbing hole, rubbing at it to try and ease the sting. He can smell
Jeff’s sweat, that musky hint of yeast that came part and parcel with wearing
jeans as snug as Jeff’s tended to be. His mouth is watering, his rim is aching,
so he pushes his fingers in, pad first. He loses it then, teeth sinking into
his bloody lip to help bite back the yelp he makes as he shoots his load,
hands-free, onto the floor between his feet.
He sags against the pole, grabbing it with his free hand and panting, knees
going wobbly. His fingertips are still inelegantly spearing his rhythmically
clenching hole as he hears Jeff grunt behind him, his only reward for a job
well done. He stays bent over, breathing hard, with his knees locked and one
sweaty palm tightly gripping the plastic pole as he comes down from the rush.
He can hear Jeff rustle behind him, standing up and walking into the kitchen
while Manson continues growling filth into Jensen’s ears. Jensen watches as
Jeff slings the come out of his palm into the tiny kitchen sink. It makes a
laughably loud splash among the abandoned hair-dye bowls and mostly empty
spaghetti-o cans.
Jensen rights himself, taking care not to step in the puddle of jizz shining
gold then purple then blue near the chrome base of the stripper pole. He
reaches for his abandoned tank top and mops it up, sucking spit and ass off his
fingers before he chucks the shirt back onto the floor next to his abandoned
socks.
“Night, Jeff,” he says quietly, licking his lips and hazarding a little smirk
his way.
“Night, kid,” Jeff replies, slapping Jensen’s ass gently as he passes on his
way to Jared’s bunk. “Hope you can get some shuteye now.”
 
                                      ~~~
 
Jeff comes back to the couch and scoops up his phone, shutting off the music
and sliding it into his back pocket before zipping up his jeans, ignoring the
belt.
Snowball is spread out now on the couch on his side, eyes mostly closed, a look
on his face as serene as Jeff’s own as he sinks back onto his still-warm
cushion. The cat starts purring loudly as Jeff sinks his hand into his soft,
white fur.
“Quite a show. Huh, buddy?” Jeff whispers as he reaches into his shirt pocket
and drags a Camel out of the nearly empty pack. “Well, I won’t tell if you
won’t.”
End Notes
     Based on the following Coven convo:
     E: the bus needs a stripper pole. Even if there’s not that much room
     to do cool tricks, the bus needs a stripper pole. Just a simple one
     that locks in place by pressure, nothing serious. But maybe one of
     the ones that has rainbow lights in it too.
     M: little Jensen slinking around on it. Maybe he thinks he’s alone
     and everyone is sleeping so he’s being all fantasy sexy. Doesn’t
     realize he has an audience.
     L: Jeff. Jacking off as he watches Jensen. Jensen teasing back. No
     touching, no talking. Silently egging one another on.
     E: Jensen opening the button on his ratty shorts, enough that Jeff
     can see he’s not wearing panties; hardly ever is. Jensen starts
     dancing to some music that’s playing soft and low on Jeff’s phone.
     Jared asleep in his bunk, dick used just a few hours ago and still
     smelling like Jensen. But Jensen is awake now at 3am not making
     noise, not saying a word, but fucking Jeff with his eyes and watching
     every movement Jeff’s hand makes in his pants…
     M: Jared never knows. Jenny crawls back into bed with him and Jeff
     sprawls out on the couch rubbing his empty balls and dreaming while
     he smokes.
     E: The only one who saw what happened was Snowball and Snowball ain’t
     saying shit. He’s Jared’s bro but he ain’t a snitch.
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