Genre: J2 AU
Word count: 2500
Notes: Warnings for underage catholic schoolboys. Written for smpc (late, but it's probably still morning somewhere in the world, yeah?). About a week ago, I tripped across a quote which rattled around my head and wouldn't let me go. It turned into the first line of this story. In the interest of transparency, most of the love notes are original, but I did gank a few from varying meanderings around the internet.
Summary: God is love, but Satan does that thing you like with his tongue.
God is love, but Satan does that thing you like with his tongue.
It's during third period when Jared finds the first message, a bathroom pass clutched in his hand like a golden ticket. Asylum from Sister Veronica and that scowl that's as black as her habit, the ruler that she slaps against her palm as if she believes that the laws against corporal punishment might not actually apply to her.
Blocky letters and black, indelible marker, and Jared's stuck staring, crammed into the only bathroom stall that has a door, breathing in ammonia and stale cigarette smoke. It isn't the act of vandalism itself that makes Jared freeze. Everyone at this school might be catholic, but not all of them are all that catholic. This is a step above the typical cartoon dicks and your momma jokes. It feels personal, somehow. Like a love letter.
It's the littlest thing, but it repeats in Jared's head during his next three classes. Sticks like a song all through his mother's mashed potatoes and sitcom reruns and straight into the next day, when Jared makes a detour before his first class to find it gone, washed away and industrially disinfected.
Wednesday is confession, and Jared skims along the top of his insurrections then goes with a couple of his greatest hits. He's used the lord's name in vain half a dozen times, called his kid sister an assmunch and earns an Our Father for that one, a couple of Hail Mary's for the rest. The penitent are lined up like ducks in a row and Jared takes his place at the end of them, about head taller than everyone else and prays forgiveness for the small sins, all the while keeping the big ones locked away.
There's a new message on the bathroom wall, one that makes his schoolboy tie feel too tight and his blood thrum in his veins.
All my confessions are lies. I think it means I'm doubling down.
Under the first line is another, the letters smaller and cramped. Rushed.
I think about you more than I should. That's the real one.
Jared traces the last sentence and it smudges some. Fresh ink that leaves a smear on his thumb like he's been fingerprinted, identified. His soul had been scrubbed clean from confession minutes earlier and now he's gone and made a mess of it again.
It turns into a ritual as important as making the sign of the cross from his forehead to his chest with damp fingers. Each time Jared lights a votive he's not asking mother Mary to call in a miracle for his aunt's bum leg. Not anymore.
Sometimes the messages are dirty and sometimes they're sweet, and Jared's favorites are a little of both. You are all my little devils, makes Jared lean his forehead against the thin, flimsy metal and breathe. Just breathe, because there are times when the world seems too big, and knowing that there's someone close by who might share his secrets brings it back down to size.
After the fourth note, Jared had started to write them down. A collection of gum wrappers safe in his pockets, folded carefully and tucked in between the pages of books. He makes stacks of them, puts them in chronological order and then rearranges them in order of preference. On some level, he knows that this sort of behavior isn't normal, so he bends the definition of the word until it fits. Everyone collects lovenotes. These are his.
Nothing has shown up for a week and a half and Jared's started to chew his fingernails again. The pinky nail on his left hand is down to the quick. It stings as he slides the black sharpie marker across the drugstore counter and counts out quarters to pay for it.
I miss you.
Jared's hands are shaking as he writes it and he totally fucks up the first letter. A strange quirk at the bottom of the 'I' and he wants to take it back even before he's finished, write something smarter and less true.
The bell is ringing as Jared ducks into Sister Imelda's English Lit class and he slides into his seat in the back and spends the next hour listening to her suck all the joy out of Milton. He avoids the boy's bathroom outside of the junior lockers until the end of the day when he simply can't wait anymore.
His note is still there and under it is something that sends his stomach into a swoop and makes him grin so big it hurts.
What would you ask for, if you knew I would say yes?
Jared leaves teeth marks on the marker's cap as he writes. He doesn't fuck it up this time. Maybe the letters are a bit too big, but that doesn't matter.
A conversation is forming, questions that sometimes take an hour to get an answer or sometimes a couple of days.
Who are you?
Jared writes it, not really expecting a response. The one he gets three hours later makes his head feel light and his heart lodge in his throat.
Who do you want me to be?
Beside the question is a red gummy heart, stuck to the wall with spit, and above that the boy has left him a kiss. A sticky, cherry-flavored mark of his mouth. Jared peels the heart from the wall. He kinda wants to save it for later, but he only has one gum wrapper and a designated purpose for it. Instead he pops it in, thinking only briefly about the viral microcosm of a high school boy's bathroom.
For the rest of the day he closely eyes everyone he passes in the hall, searching for a candy-coated mouth and fingers riddled with black ink.
Where are you?
Jared scribbles it fast. He's running late. The stretch of wall has started to look dingier from months of this treatment, a square foot of bland beige now bearing a definite grey tinge. Two days go by and worry is starting to drill into Jared's chest. The answer makes the wait worth it.
Under your skin.
Something else is beneath it, ghostly and barely there, like he wrote it then quickly changed his mind and tried to scrub it off.
You don't have to hope, Jared writes. You're there.
How many fingers can you fit inside?
With a groan trapped in his throat, Jared asks, Where?
Your ass. Your mouth. Your heart.
At home, Jared locks himself in the bathroom, turns the shower on hot until steam clouds up the mirror and his reflection loses all definition, becomes anonymous. He wraps one hand around his cock and shoves two fingers of the other hand into his mouth. Goes for three and gags on four. The next day he writes, All of them, as long as they're shaped like yours.
The answer he gets is visceral. Sharp slashes of black.
On Friday Jared asks, What would it be like to kiss you?
On Monday he has his answer.
Like chewing on razorblades. Or strawberries.
The teachers are onto them now, and Jared has to pass by three times before the shop teacher abandons his post at the bathroom door. Once he can finally get inside he writes quickly.
What are you into?
Boys. Literature. Orgasms. You?
Boys. Orgasms. Literature. You.
The conversation takes a week and Jared moves it to the top of the stack. Rearranges all of his gum wrappers.
Jared's not into sports but he's watching the lacrosse game anyway. It's easier to participate than to answer his mother's questions. He's on his way to the dinky concession stand, head down, counting the cracks in the pavement. Someone clears his throat. Jared looks up to find Jensen there, and Jared's heart lurches the way it always does when he sees him.
Jensen's unattainably pretty and unbelievably shy, blushing past his freckles whenever the teacher calls on him in their lit class, always wearing sweats under his gym shorts. He played the lead role in every one of Jared's jerk off fantasies the summer before last. The summer Jared had finally stopped ignoring the fact that ponytails tied up with pink ribbons and short skirts just didn't do it for him, when his biggest secret carved itself a spot in his chest and decided to stick around.
Now Jensen's blocking his path, licking his lips and holding his hand up, palm toward the sky. A cherry red heart rests in the center of it and Jared can't move, can't even blink. Those long, slender fingers start to curl and Jensen begins to take a hesitant step backward, then staggers like he's taken a hit. Jared leaps forward, steals Jensen's candy heart and all but swallows it whole as Jensen pulls him along, past the concession stand and under the bleachers.
On the field, someone scores, and cheers and foot stomps rattle the metal, but Jared can hear Jensen when he whispers, "I hope. I hope."
They're inches apart. Jensen's face is flushed from the cold and he's still wearing his school uniform, his tie in a perfect trinity knot and his trousers creased to a knife edge.
"How did you know?" Jared says. The hand Jensen has around his wrist is sticky, clutching hard.
"You draw the letter 'a' in a very specific way. Like a typewriter," Jensen says and Jared's about to float away, leave his skin and blood and bones behind because Jensen has paid attention, has spent time thinking about him in real and unreal ways.
Jensen walks backward, stops once his spine is against a metal strut and Jared keeps going until they're flush together, until the whole of Jensen is pressed all shivery and warm against his body. Jensen stares up at him, still chewing on his lips as if he intends to inflict damage, so Jared puts a stop to it with his mouth. Licks at lips that are wet and sweet, fevered from the time Jensen's spent biting at them, slides his tongue inside and feels Jensen's flick his own, so soft and curious while he slips a hand around Jared's back. His fingertips play at Jared's waistband and his arms pull Jared in closer.
There's sweat dripping down the small of Jared's back and an aching want in his cock and Jensen knows it, grinds their hips together and moans in a way that sounds like relief.
"Like strawberries," Jared says, whispering into Jensen's ears as he comes in his pants and Jensen jolts, eyes closed and mouth in set in something that can't quite be called a smile.
"Oh god. God," Jensen breathes and Jared moves to kiss him again, maybe drag him down to the dirt and pin him there a little while. Jensen spins out of his grasp, however, a wet spot obvious on the crotch of his pants that his hastily yanked out shirt tail doesn't cover very well, his skin glowing red from his collar straight to the tips of his ears.
Jared's frozen, heart beating out thunderclaps, watching as Jensen jogs away. Not a flat out run, but close.
Try again. I'll do better next time, I promise. I swear.
Jensen's underlined the last word twice. Jared flattens his hand against it and believes him, later trips behind Jensen as he pulls them back under the bleachers during gym class and immediately sinks to his knees.
"What?" Jared manages, dizzy and out of his head because Jensen has his fingers curled around the waist of his gym shorts and is tugging them down, kissing his lower stomach, setting his teeth in the sharp knob of Jared's hipbone.
Jensen nuzzles at Jared's crotch, soaks Jared's boxers with his spit. Between licks he says, deep and breathy, "I want you to like me."
Dropping a hand to the back of Jensen's head, Jared says, "I do. I already like you."
"I want you to like me more."
"It's not possible," Jared tries to protest. It gets lost in the warmth of Jensen's mouth as he pulls Jared's dick free and runs his lips along the underside of it, flicks his tongue against Jared's slit to gather the beads of precome. Jensen closes his eyes and opens his mouth, chokes and gags when he tries to take too much in and that only makes it better. He wraps his hand around the base of Jared's cock where his mouth can't reach and hollows his cheeks, works Jared in long sucking strokes. The only thing Jared can do is barely hold on, keep his hand on the back of Jensen's head and feel the silky slip of his hair between his fingers, the way the muscles in his neck strain. He shudders as Jensen finally looks up at him, heat and want shouldering aside Jensen's wide-eyed fear from before.
Jared doesn't last. He tries, but he can't. He's fifteen years old and this is the first time someone else has had a hand on his cock and it's Jensen. Jensen's mouth stretch snug around him, groaning against his skin, hands holding on tight. Jensen, so sweet and filthy and determined to get it right.
When he shoots, Jared's knees start to give, long limbs in a barely controlled freefall that lands him mostly on Jensen. Jensen doesn't seem to mind, catches as much of Jared as he can then follows him the rest of the way down. His mouth is swollen, puffy pink and sloppy with Jared's spunk, but he doesn't seem to mind that either. He's grinning at Jared, eyes bright and incredibly green.
"Gimme a sec," Jensen says when Jared tries to kiss him, lick the taste of himself off of his mouth. It's a raspy, hoarse croak that shouldn't be as sexy as it is. Jensen pulls a marker out of the pocket of his sweatpants, lets the cap fall onto the ground.
Jared snatches it from him, a fresh wave of affection washing over him. He pulls Jensen's arm straight, asks permission with a glance as he rolls up Jensen's sleeve. He writes in small letters, close to the crook of Jensen's elbow because he gets it. Some things need to stay hidden. Some things are just for them. The last word he underlines twice.
I promise. I swear.
Thanks for reading!