A Goddamn Decathlon

Second in the “thanks for the fic rec” series. This one’s for bellisle-destiel, who asked for: 

I’d really like a Cockles fic where they have a pillow fight.

Here goes. Hey, fanspired: stop reading now.

A Goddamn Decathlon 

The first blow catches you by surprise.

The second catches you in the face.

You stumble, your knees knocking the coffee table, and you get a snap of green as you reel.

Ok. Ok. If that’s the way he wants to play it.

You duck the next blow, go to your knees and snag the nearest pillow from the couch.

He’s swinging, too much energy in a single direction and there it is, your opening.

You jerk up, plant the paisley right in his beautiful mouth and howl as he falls back in surprise.

His eye finds yours and for a moment, there’s detente.

You can hear the Moose in the kitchen, singing to himself as he shuffles around at the bar and you’re kind of glad he’s not here to see this.

Because this is between you and Jen.

Whatever this is.

He dances away, takes three steps back towards the front door. Draws you out as only he can.

And you take the bait, even though you can see this move for what it is. You know what he’s planning.

But fuck it. Who cares?

You follow, watch him get a better grip on the big white fluff that must have come from Jared’s bed, from Gen’s, and that’s a whole level of weird that even you’re not ready to deal with quite yet.

Oh, the things that pillow could say.

Other than oof! as it catches you in the chest.

Or thunk! as it finds your side.

Or godyespleasemisha as he drops it, pretends it’s because it caught you, because he’s sorry, but really it’s just because you’ve found the foyer, gotten far enough from Jay that he can’t see you kiss.

Ok, to be fair:

That he can’t see Jen maul you, go fingers and teeth at your chest and growl as his tongue meets yours.


Better for Jay not to see this.

Whatever this is.

You go with it, go with him, like you always do. Let him drive you in a wedge beside a table or a hatstand or some dumb shit like that until his hands creep under your shirt, his fingers find your back, until your cock is doing backflips in your jeans as he bites your lip. His breath hitches when you moan, when you make that little needy sound that you’ve put together just for him, that only he gets to hear in stereophonic sound when you’re like this, when he’s all over you and you are so fucking golden with that that it’s not even funny, not even a question what you’ll do to drive him here, to get him to put his dick in fucking park.

Even smacking him over the head with a goddamn pillow from Pier One or some shit that matches the motherfucking couch which means Gen picked it out for sure and why are you thinking about upholstery when this man has his hands all over you, when he’s whispering pleasefucknow, wannasuckyou, hadyourcockinmyheadallgoddamnday, canweiknowwherethere’sabathroom, jay’llnevermissusifwe–

“Hey,” you hear the Moose say, somewhere back in normal life. “Where’d you guys go?”

And Jen’s panting, in that way he does when he’s wound really tight, when you’ve gone like a week without touching, which is weird because it’s only been a few hours since you were on the floor, his jeans in your fists and his cock slip slop sliding over your lips, but he’s acting like it’s been a month now, pushing that beautiful thing into your hip and digging deep into your mouth and oh christ oh fuck this isn’t a good idea, even for you, because it’s only a matter of time before-

“Guys?” Jay calls, and you push Jen away, which frankly you deserve a medal for, and you’ll totally applying to the Olympic committee to make GISWISHES a sport and you’ll just add Jensen Ackles to the list, because damn if kissing him, needing him isn’t akin to a goddamn decathlon.

Your eyes meet and for a second you kind of hope he’ll grab you back, knock you against the wall and rut and fuck whatever Jay sees because the boy’s a goddamn saint compared to the two of you. He’ll probably go blind or something.

But he doesn’t, Jen. Just holds your gaze for a moment too long and then he winks.

The son-of-a-fucking-bitch winks at you, curls his tongue over his lips as a promise, a dare, and calls: “Out here, Jay!”

He picks up the pillow and he’s gone, leaves you hanging, leaves you wondering, as always:

What happens next?

4 thoughts on “A Goddamn Decathlon

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