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When Jensen Ackles puts the cheap black and orange “Help Wanted” sign in the window of his coffee shop Uncommon Grounds, he doesn’t expect a nearly six-and-a-half foot, shaggy haired, polo-wearing guy to walk in.
For God’s sake, Uncommon Grounds is Austin’s most alternative coffee shop, and Jensen embodies every bit of it. Jensen, originally from Richardson, Texas, has short-cropped dirty blond hair and full sleeves of tattoos on both arms. He regularly sports black leather cuffs on each wrist and has a closet full of black shirts and black jeans from which to choose. He favors combat boots and Converse and has enough metal in his ears to cause any airport security to go haywire. And until today, he was sure the whole of Austin was aware of that.
But in comes a guy who looks like he wandered out of a Lacoste catalogue, wearing bootcut blue jeans, boat shoes, and a pink polo. His hair brushes his shoulders, thick and chestnut brown, and his eyes are never one color—usually hazel, occasionally green or amber, sometimes blue. Jensen isn’t sure what the kid was there for until he gestures toward the sign.
“I saw your sign?” The guy offers lamely, putting his hand to the hair at the nape of his neck, ruffling it anxiously.
“Uh, yeah. We’re hiring,” Jensen concedes, a little startled.
“Do you have an application?”
“Uh, not really. Do you know how to make coffee?”
“I’m a fast learner. Just graduated from UT, looking to make ends meet before I start up at the law school, you know?”
Jensen turns the new information over in his head. He hadn’t even expected a response to the sign, to be honest, and he only needs help in the mornings, usually.
“You’re hired. What’s your name, kid?”
“Really? Uh, Jared. Jared Padalecki.”
“Jared, come grab an apron, and I’ll get you started.” And though when Jared puts the apron on, it’s a little short and it doesn’t do much of a job covering his broad chest from potential coffee spills. Jared’s enthusiastic and excitable, and Jensen finds, true to his word, that he is a quick learner.
**
As the days go by, Jared and Jensen fall into a rhythm, Jensen parking his motorcycle in the alley behind the shop and meeting Jared at the front door promptly at 4:30am. They open together, prepping for the 6-8am rush in quiet but amicable synchronicity. Jensen keeps wearing his boots and black tees and Jared shows up time and again in his polo shirts and jeans that cost more than some people’s car payments.
Jensen can’t deny that Jared’s beautiful. His shoulders are wide as a barn door and his waist tapers into an enviable set of narrow hips. Jensen doesn’t want to admit it, but he’s a bit jealous of the guy’s height, too. Any time Jared has to bend for anything, he has to nearly fold himself in half to reach—usually baring a tan stretch of skin that sits sweetly exposed between the hem of his polo and his low-rise jeans. The guy’s gorgeous, but Jensen, stubborn and business-driven, is determined not to let the summer help get to his head.
As the morning rush begins to die around 9am, Jared lifts the neck of his apron over his head and ties it so that the cloth is just covering his waist. Jensen wipes his forehead and glances over to ask Jared to grind a new batch of beans for the lunch rush, but the words die on his lips.
Jensen, as metal-pierced, inked-up, and combat-booted as he is, is made mute by what he is absolutely positive is the outline of two metal nubs on either side of Jared’s right nipple, where his polo is tight as he stretches his arms to shake off the morning chaos.
Jensen shakes his head and turns away, clearing his throat.
That’s obviously not a piercing. On Jared? Mr. Lacoste himself? Clean-cut lawyer-to-be? Impossible. So Jensen puts it out of his mind and throws himself into the lunch rush that bleeds into the 2:30 slump, his pierced ears red with tension.
**
Jensen sleeps poorly that night, his mind filled with images of his hands on broad, defined pecs, gripping tight at wide shoulders, stripping the length of Jared’s cock. Time and again, the image of his fingers touching the piercing that might be there—that possibility that was hinted at the day before—never leaves his mind. He wakes up hard in his pants in the middle of the night and has to jerk off before he can even consider going back to sleep. It’s 3:30am when he checks his watch, and decides that the next half hour of sleep will be a wash anyway, all things considered.
He showers quickly, laboriously avoiding the tender flesh of his cock and moving through the motions as rapidly as possible. He dresses, yanking on a pair of black jeans and his well-loved Def Leppard shirt, and is out the door in minutes, the heat of the Austin morning already growing, the humid weight like an cat working its way into crevices, pressing into the fold of Jensen’s jeans at the seams, at the curves of his his bone-tired joints.
Heat is a living thing in Texas, licking into bodies and living under skin, a beast that cannot be hunted. It’s really too hot for Jensen to ride his motorcycle, but he does so anyway, straddling the bike and reveling in its heat and power beneath his thighs, the hard thrum of the engine that lights up his arms and through his core like fire barely contained. And though the drive is short, the wind in his face and the focus he has to place on the ride clear his mind, so that when he pulls up to Uncommon Grounds, he has a near smile on his face. There are small lines at the corner of his green eyes, a tranquil pleasure in his face.
Jensen unlocks the shop and turns on the lights, decides to turn on some music while he works. Led Zeppelin comes from the speakers behind the counter as he preps the first batch of coffee, and he feels the tension begin to release from his shoulders and arms, bleeding out of him almost palpably. As he works, the bitter aroma of coffee and the sweet smells of hazelnut and vanilla fill the shop, lighting through the tables and chairs. Slowly, the sun breaks through the large window at the front of the store, the tattoo-style lettering that reads Uncommon Grounds on the front window becomes a moving shadow on the tile floor.
Jensen’s mind is nearly empty until the bell over the door rings, and he realizes it’s already 4:30 and Jared’s there, standing in the door, taking up the bulk of its space. The sun shines around his outline, a steadily-brightening halo around him.
Jared comes through the door with his long-legged walk, smooth and easy, his hair barely damp at the ends and dripping on his shirt. Jensen realizes, with not a small amount of terror, that Jared’s wearing a white wifebeater, thin and tired from being washed a half a dozen times too many.
And today, there is no doubting what he saw yesterday. Through the bud of each of Jared’s nipples are metal bars, not disguised at all. Jensen coughs hard, tries to clear his throat.
“Uh, dude, was it laundry day, or something?” Jensen stammers.
Jared looks down and then laughs, rubs his hand through the hair at the base of his skull. “Yeah, sorry, roommate broke the washing machine and I haven’t had a chance to run to the laundromat. Do I need to change, or should I bum a shirt from a friend or something?”
Jensen tries to stay focused, but his eyes are continually drawn to the metal he spies under the cotton.
“Uh, no, that’s fine, just, uh, grab an apron. You’re good.” Jensen prays the morning rush hits early today and hopes it lasts longer than usual. His hands are unsteady, and he’s pretty sure he’s going to misspell the names of anyone who orders coffee to go, but he decides to suck it up and focus on the task at hand.
**
The shop is packed the whole day, and Jensen isn’t sure if it’s because it’s a Friday or if it’s because he’s been praying for it to be so all day, but he doesn’t question it. It’s nearly eight at night by the time the evening rush dies down, and he’s exhausted. He’s wiping the front counter, and Jared’s wiping down tables, and Jensen makes the mistake of looking up from what he’s doing.
Jared’s bent nearly double over one of the tables he’s wiping down because of his incredible height, and his jeans are riding low, barely covering the top of his ass and his wifebeater has ridden up because of the tension the apron string puts on his midsection. There’s a healthy slice of tan skin exposed between cotton and denim, and Jensen nearly knocks over the cake tray of macarons because he’s caught off guard. He manages to keep the glass cloche from falling to the ground and shattering, but only just—and not without a rather large amount of noise.
Jared startles at the sound and turns around briskly, concern writ large on his face.
“Sorry. Clumsy.” Jensen chuffs, tossing the rag he was using to clean on the counter. “Let’s just call it a night, man, I’m wiped.”
Jared throws his rag over his shoulder and brushes his hair out of his eyes with a sigh. “Me too, Jen. I wouldn’t mind a drink right now, after the day we had.” Jared’s large hands go behind his back and undo the small knot he had made to secure his apron. He pulls it over his head and folds his rag into the black canvas, moving toward the back office to put them away.
Jensen’s fingers go to the barbell through the top of his ear, barely touching, an old nervous tic. Jared’s statement had seemed almost throwaway, too easy and casual to be serious.
“I wouldn’t mind a drink, myself, either,” Jensen offers cautiously.
Jared offers an easy grin, relaxed and loose.
“I have a good bottle of whiskey at my place. And by good, I mean I bought it for twenty bucks cause I liked the label. Don’t judge me.” He tosses a pointed but playful glare Jensen’s way, which coaxes a laugh from the older man.
“Your secret is safe with me, Jared.”
Jared laughs, and they make short work of shutting the coffee shop down, a familiar rhythm between them in flicking lights and shutting blinds, locking the door behind them as they step out into the oppressive south Texas evening. It soaks through their skin and feels like it must touch their cores. There’s immediately sweat on Jared’s brow, and Jensen feels drops form on his spine, the ever-present heat nosing its way through his skin and bones.
Jared wipes his brow and turns to make his way to his apartment. Jensen knew he lived close, but didn’t realize he was in a set of lofts just a few streets away. The walk is pleasantly quiet, amicable despite Jensen’s nerves. As Jensen runs through a thousand what ifs, Jared ambles easily down the sidewalks, turning once, then twice, and making his way up to the door that leads to the stairs of his loft.
“After you,” Jared gestures after unlocking the door. Jensen, all combat boots and tattoos, obliges without argument, climbing the stairs to Jared’s loft one at a time, counting them as he goes.
**
Jared’s couch looks out a wide window that overlooks downtown Austin. The Frost Bank building stands high along the skyline, a bright geometric spire in the near-dark of the summer night. The streets have begun to brighten with lamplight, people making their way from work and to their homes, to the bars, to the libraries of the University of Texas. They are just three floors up, but the people below Jensen seem far away.
Jared serves him two fingers whiskey in a highball glass, on the rocks, and sits next to him on the couch, stretching his body out long and lean, his arm slung over the back of the furniture and encroaching on Jensen’s space. Jared puts the open bottle of whiskey on a side table after pouring his own glass, then rolls his head back against the couch and exposes a long, tan line of throat. Jensen thinks he can barely make out his pulse in the dim light of the apartment.
The whiskey burns, hot like the night from which they just sought shelter, and Jensen’s head goes light after a few measured sips, not drunk, but toeing the line close as can be. The whiskey is good—not great, but Jared was right, the bottle was nice, and the whiskey lights a fire in Jensen’s throat just as it should. He sighs deeply, placing the highball glass on the worn knee of his black jeans, the condensation rolling off the glass and kissing the denim where it lands. He takes another sip, rolls it across his tongue, enjoys the spice of it before swallowing.
“The view is spectacular,” Jensen says, choosing something inconsequential to start with.
“Part of why I love it here,” Jared murmurs over the rim of his glass, taking a deep sip of whiskey. Jensen finishes off his glass, and Jared refills it quickly, three fingers’ worth this time.
“Trying to get me drunk, man?” Jensen asks. Jared only smirks in response, exposing his dimples, hair in his eyes, nearly hiding them from view. Quietly, Jensen obliges him, sipping from the refilled highball, knowing that if he finishes this drink, he’ll be well on his way to tipsy. As the city darkens in front of him, he finds he’s not averse to getting tipsy on a leather couch next to Jared, whose arm is draped nearly behind him, close enough for Jensen to feel the heat of it. He hears the clink of glass as Jared refills his own highball, and they settle into silence, nothing but the sound of traffic and voices out the window in front of them to break it.
“Why my coffee shop?” Jensen finally asks, softly, barely above a whisper.
“Recommendation from a friend,” Jared replies, “And a good recommendation, at that.”
Jensen smirks.
“It’s so not you.” He rebuffs, gesturing lightly toward Jared with his right hand, “You with your polos and your boat shoes and all.” Jared laughs aloud at that, his nose crinkling as he does so.
“Oh, really?” Jared retorts, “You mean besides the nipple piercings?”
Jensen’s mouth goes dry when he says it, and he feels his pierced ears go red, a flush running down his body all the way along his tattooed arms.
“I mean, I—“ Jensen begins, but Jared doesn’t let him finish.
“Yes, I mean those things you were staring at all day.” He’s looking Jensen right in the eye, daring him to make the next move.
Jensen is quiet a moment, steeling himself, he takes a large swig of whiskey.
“I guess I just, you know, didn’t expect you to have those.” He’s fumbling with his words and caught off guard. Jared places his highball glass on the side table and coaxes Jensen’s from his hand. Jensen stills, waiting for Jared’s movement.
Jared moves slowly, grasping his wifebeater at the collar at the back of his neck and pulling it over his head, exposing miles upon miles of hard, tanned skin. Jensen’s breath catches in his throat as the metal through Jared’s nipples is finally exposed, bare for him to admire. His fingers are tight over his knee, gripping because his hand so desperately wishes to touch, to caress. Jensen kills a small whine that threatens to escape his throat.
“Jensen, for fuck’s sake, touch me,” Jared keens, his voice a hard, gravely whisper.
As he leans over, Jensen’s hand is a nearly-controlled tremble as he lifts it, and when his fingers brush the metal under Jared’s skin, Jared hisses like he’s been burned, and the sound makes Jensen hard in his pants. Gently, he rubs his thumb over the bud of hardened nipple and Jared’s breath goes ragged, and Jensen can feel it on his cheek, hot and husky.
With a dip of his head, Jared’s crushing Jensen’s lips, biting and licking in, opening Jensen’s mouth and moaning into him. Jared’s hands card in the short scruff of the hair at the base of Jensen’s skull, then move down to grasp at Jensen’s shirt, yanking on it, just parting their lips when he lifts it over Jensen’s head. Jensen’s hands work at Jared’s belt and then his own, and breaks the kiss as he stands to shuck his jeans to the floor, toeing out of his boots as Jared does the same.
“Face the window,” Jared’s voice is raw and fucked out, rasped and hard. Jensen’s eyes go wide, and he stills.
“Hands on the window, Jensen.” Jensen’s cock is hard against his stomach and the sound of Jared’s voice is too much to resist, even if it means that anyone who looks up from the sidewalk or anyone who looks out their window will see absolutely everything that’s going on. As his hands touch the window, there’s a moment where the glass fogs around his hand print, his fingers tighten at the heat of the glass, not cooled yet after the late sunset. His reflection is beginning to form in the glass now that the sky is going dark, but he can’t make out more than Jared’s movement behind him. What he does recognize is the tell-tale snick of a cap opening, then closing.
With just a few steps, Jared’s lips are at Jensen’s pierced ear.
“Are you going to be good for me?” He asks, his breath a thick rasp against the shell of Jensen’s ear.
Jensen can only nod, as he’s biting his lip so hard he wonders if it might give way and bleed. He feels Jared’s fingers, slick with lube against the cleft of his ass, barely touching, ghosting along his hole. Jensen’s fingers curl against the window and he looks out at the people passing by just floors below, waiting for someone to look up, to see him with his cock hard against his belly with Jared behind him.
Jared’s index finger is wider than he expected, and as it breaches him, Jensen offers a hard grunt. The pain is there, a slow burn, but Jared twists his finger and just brushes at the bundle of nerves within Jensen and the pain is a small presence, nearly a memory beneath the rush of pleasure, and Jensen arches his back, hungry for more.
Jared tests Jensen, working his index finger in and out, slowly stretching Jensen’s hole before adding a second finger, scissoring them. Jensen pushes back, flattening his forearms against the glass with a soft thump. He grunts at the addition and revels in the movement of Jared’s fingers.
“Fucking Christ, Jared,” his teeth are bared, his breath flitting between them and his lips tight against his gums, his jaw tense but his mind singing with the lack of control, with the exposure. “More, please, fuck.”
Jared stretches his fingers apart, opening Jensen up, and then pulls them out, and Jensen chuffs at the loss, and goes to turn his head. Jared’s large hand goes to his neck, holding his head forward, forcing his gaze out the glass.
“Be good for me, Jensen; you said you would be.” Jared’s voice is firm. The skin underneath Jensen’s tattoos on his arm turns to gooseflesh and he immediately presses into Jared’s hard grip with a nod. He can feel Jared’s cock at his hole, slick and hot, and he keens, a mendicant’s sound.
“Good boy,” Jared murmurs, and slides into Jensen. The heat is searing and there’s pain, sharp and overarching in Jensen’s mind, but Jensen focuses on the touch of Jared’s large hand on his neck, the heat of his control and the warmth of the glass under his fingers and arms.
Jensen breathes a soft fuck and Jared begins to move, his hips rolling, meeting the hard flesh of Jensen’s ass with each thrust, his hand never moving from the base of Jensen’s skull. Each thrust has Jensen growing more and more tense under Jared’s firm grasp. His cock is still hard against his belly, leaking and unattended as Jared thrusts.
“They can see us up here, Jensen,” Jared whispers as he continues to fuck in and out of him, “If they just look up, they can watch me fuck you.”
Jensen can’t help the strangled moan that escapes his gritted teeth when Jared says it. Jared redoubles his efforts, thrusting harder, gaining a punishing rhythm that has Jensen’s breath coming in short huffs, hot and needy. Jensen’s fingers are leaving prints against the glass each time Jared thrusts, small smears of sweat and body heat on the window, marking time, thrust by thrust.
With a quick movement, Jared lets go of the back of Jensen’s neck and presses his body flush to Jensen’s, his head just over Jensen’s shoulder. Jensen can feel the metal through Jensen’s skin against his back and his hand slides down the glass an inch, then two, desperate to touch himself.
“No,” Jared commands. Jensen fists his hand against the glass with a small cry. Jared’s thrusts don’t stop, his hips rolling in short movements so that each thrust has his cock slipping up against Jensen’s most sensitive nerves within. Jensen can’t control himself, with each thrust he grunts, the noise coming louder and louder.
Jared finally wraps his hand around Jensen’s cock, stripping it once, then twice, then: “Be good for me, Jensen.”
It’s all it takes to send Jensen over the edge with a shout, his come painting the window in front of him in white streaks, and Jared grunts right in his ear, and he’s coming too, thrusting hard and spilling into Jensen.
Jensen’s hands go slack, and he leans forward, pressing his forehead to the slowly-cooling glass in front of him. He sees the sun has finally set, and the lights of the city are all that’s left in front of him, their glow a soft gold.
Jared runs his hand through Jensen’s hair and kisses him gently on the neck, then wraps his arm around his chest, pressing their skin together. They stand there, looking out the window and bathed in the city light, waiting for the other to speak. But they don’t, don’t need to. Their silence says enough.