Work Text:
The apartment is mostly dark when Sam walks in. Save for the one lone corner lamp the place came with, the only light comes from the street lamps outside, filtered through blinds on the living room windows. Jacob should be home by now, having texted him hours earlier he was done filming for the day, but Sam doesn't see any signs of life. Maybe he went out; there was a new movie showing at the local theater he knew Jacob was wanting to see. He sighs, kicks off his shoes into their designated corner by the front door, tosses his keys and sunglasses into the bowl on the coffee table nearby.
Exhaustion weighs him down enough that he considers just falling into bed as is, fake blood and all. But he knows he'll regret it later so he locks the door and hangs up his backpack, takes his water bottle to the sink to be washed later, and trudges on to his bedroom. Pausing at the door, he yawns, jaw cracking from the force of it, and that's when he hears the faint, low murmuring of music coming from Jacob's room down the hall.
Sam listens for a moment; sounds like tracks from the new album he's been working on, or maybe his inspo playlist on Spotify. But he doesn't hear any voices and assumes Jacob is already asleep. He reminds himself to check in on Jacob later, and heads into his room to gather his things for a shower.
The apartment isn't tiny but it isn't very big either. Two bedrooms, a shared bathroom, a kitchen big enough for a small island and a dining table tucked into a corner, and a living room only spacious enough for a two seater sofa and one arm chair that doesn't even match; Jacob made sure the space was cozy and comfortable with blankets and too many throw pillows and a few movie posters he's been collecting since July. Movies from the video rental store take up most of the space on their little coffee table and the minimal counter space in the kitchen is overtaken by various types of coffee mugs and brands of tea and coffee, snacks they both like because there's never the time to cook a proper meal unless it's the weekend.
The bedrooms are small, too, but thankfully have the room for queen sized beds. It's a tight fit, with only enough space for one nightstand and they have to put all their clothes in the closet on hangers and in storage bins because a dresser won't fit anywhere, but they make the rooms work. Honestly Sam loves it. He and Jacob shared an apartment in Prague when they returned after the strike, both of them eagerly jumping at the chance to be practically in each other's pockets for a few months, so shared housing in Toronto wasn't any different than shared housing in Prague. He's got his own space, he's with his best friend, doing the job he loves; he could live in a trailer for all he cares.
Sam maneuvers his way around the room to the closet, where he grabs clean boxers and a clean t-shirt, the only ones he has left. His hamper is full, overflowing with clothes from the last several days of shooting and no time to wash, and he groans, eyes rolling. He'll have to force himself to make the time tomorrow. That in mind, he takes his things and heads back out into the hallway. On his way across to the bathroom he hears a noise over the hum of Jacob's music.
It's barely there and he's so tired he probably imagined it, but it came from Jacob's room. Sam tilts his head and waits to see if he hears anything again. After several seconds he sighs, shaking his head and rubbing his eyes. He's definitely hearing things. Except as he's shutting the bathroom door he hears the same sound again, and he pops his head out, staring down the hall to Jacob's room, brows furrowed.
He listens again, a few seconds tick by, and then hears it once more. Curious now he turns and drops his clothes onto the sink, hurries out of the bathroom and down the hallway, and comes to a stop at Jacob's door. It's cracked open barely an inch, warm light from Jacob's lamp spilling out in a sliver; inside he can hear the faintest noises.
Coming from Jacob, Sam realizes. Little whines, or grunts, he's not sure; the tiniest whimper over Raleigh Ritchie's crooning voice. Sexual in nature and shooting to Sam's groin in an instant. He pauses just long enough to consider leaving or not. It isn't the first time he's been witness to Jacob having some alone time; usually he turns around and leaves, or he might linger a moment or two or five, then go take care of himself in his own room, fist in his mouth so Jacob doesn't hear his moans. That's what he's about to do now when he hears another noise, much louder this time, sounding like it's being punched straight from Jacob's chest.
"Oh, fuck meeee—" Sam flushes instantly. Jacob sounds wrecked, his voice cracking and breathy as he moans. "Baby, baby, god. So tight." And, oh, that's interesting. Is he talking to Ash? Thinking of her while he gets himself off? But he doesn't hear another voice, other than the track that's currently playing over the noises Jacob is making. Sam leans closer, one hand on the knob to keep the door steady so he can press his ear to the wood. Jacob lets out another moan and there's the undeniable squelch of lube, a deeper moan, and Sam really should leave. Go take his shower, prepare for bed, get the sleep he so desperately—"Fuck, Sam!"
Sam freezes. Did Jacob just—?!
"Sam, Sam, fuck, baby—!" Jacob babbles, and Sam's brain fizzles and pops and screeches to a sudden halt. All the blood that wasn't already heading south is there now, dick filling faster than he ever remembers it doing, even when he was a teenager. He gets a little lightheaded from it. "So big, so big, fill me up so fuckin'—shit, so good, Sam," followed by a whimper, the squeak of the mattress, a deep guttural moan.
Sam bites his lip to keep his own moan from slipping out. He can't believe he's hearing this! There has always been tension between them. For years. Since day one. But neither of them has ever been brave enough to act on it, not when Jacob has a wife and two girls, and Sam has Pip. The feelings, the tension, all of it has been too big to name, to put a face to, and so they haven't.
He should walk away.
And yet Sam can't make his feet move. He swallows, tightens his hand around the door knob. Jacob pants and the mattress squeaks again, and Sam is only human. Cursing himself silently he slowly, gently pushes the door open a crack wider, just enough to see. If he could just get a glimpse, enough of a look to fuel his illicit fantasies for awhile, he'd be fine. Thankfully the hinges don't creak, and Sam breathes a quiet sigh of relief as he looks through the space he's created.
At first he's not sure if he's seeing things right. He expected to see Jacob on his back, hand on his cock, head thrown back into the pillows as he stroked himself to completion while thinking of Sam. That's usually where his mind goes all the times he's accidentally heard Jacob in the middle of his own personal time. But this time—
Jacob is on his hands and knees, wearing nothing but what looks to be one of Sam's gray t-shirts, hips tilted back and sinking slowly onto a fake dick suctioned to the headboard. It looks girthy, thick, about the same size as Sam actually, which really throws him for a loop and makes his dick twitch. Sam can barely see Jacob's face but he imagines those plush lips are parted on yet another breathy moan, eyebrows furrowed, as he rocks backwards another inch and impales himself on the dildo. Sam is frozen to the spot watching, his erection pressing uncomfortably against the zipper of his jeans.
Jacob wiggles back a little, tilts his hips the tiniest bit more, and sinks fully onto the cock with a low, vibrating moan of, "Sam." The sound shoots straight to Sam's dick. His gaze travels from Jacob's ass to his thighs, the dip of his spine, his biceps bulging to keep himself upright. It's a stunning sight. Even more stunning when he starts to move after a moment of stillness. The muscles in his thighs work as he rocks forward then pushes back, taking the full length of the dildo in one smooth glide. Sam wishes he could see Jacob's face.
For what feels like long torturous minutes Sam watches. He's too stunned and turned on to do much else than hold onto the door knob and just stare. Jacob is a vision fucking himself on the fake dick; muscles straining, skin shining in the lamplight with a sheen of sweat, biceps trembling as he begins to struggle to stay upright. And the noises: breathy moaning, slick lube, a shout of Sam's name. Sam is harder than he's ever been in his life, and wants to touch himself so badly. But he won't. He keeps telling himself it's not wrong to watch as long as he doesn't touch himself yet.
Eventually Jacob tires of being on hands and knees. With a soft whine he drops to his forearms, and in doing so his hips tilt further, his knees slip wider on the sheets, and the dildo slides deeper on his next thrust back. He chokes on his next moan and Sam's erection is throbbing now, leaking into his underwear. He has to bite his fist to keep his own noises from alerting Jacob to his presence. Jacob curses loudly and starts fucking himself in earnest; Sam's eyes widen when one of Jacob's hands disappears between his legs and starts stroking. He can't see it, but he knows Jacob's hand is moving on his dick, jerking himself off in time with his thrusts.
"Sam, Sam, Sam, fuck me, Sam—" Jacob begins chanting, his voice growing ragged and breathy. Sam desperately wants to see his face. So he takes the risk and nudges the door open another inch, and then another until he can see most of Jacob's face. His eyes are screwed shut, sweat dripping off his nose, muscles shifting under his skin as he strokes his cock.
Sam presses the heel of his hand to the bulge in his jeans, lets out the smallest groan before he can stop himself, eyes fluttering shut. The creaking of the mattress pauses, the slicks sounds falter. Sam hardly notices, too focused on easing the pressure in his groin. Then it all starts back up again, and Sam squeezes his dick over his jeans, the relief making him sigh. Jacob is moaning again, louder this time, the sound of his hand on his cock more obvious the faster he moves his hand.
Cock throbbing in time with his heartbeat, Sam pops the button on his jeans, sighs in even greater relief. Unzips and rubs his thumb back and forth across the base of his dick, and opens his eyes. His breathing snags in his chest.
Jacob is looking right at him. Eyes half-lidded, bottom lip caught between his teeth, cheeks ruddy and flushed and sweaty. Sam blinks rapidly; surely he's imagining things. Surely the door still mostly hides his face so only he can see Jacob and not the other way around. But Jacob's stare is intense, full of intent as he looks at Sam through bleary eyes.
Look away, look away, Sam thinks as his pulse rate skyrockets. Jacob doesn't look away. Instead his hand moves faster, he rides the dildo erratically, moans punched out of his throat with every thrust. Sam can't move, his muscles feel frozen, his feet feel like they're glued into place. Then Jacob is raising up onto his one arm; he's pushing himself up and back, eyes rolling in pleasure at the change in angle. Sam can just see the bulging head of his cock slipping in and out of the tight tunnel of his fist.
"Sam," Jacob breathes, and he's looking Sam's way again. Sam can't look away. He should. He should—
Jacob is cumming, crying out Sam's name, cock spilling over his fist and shooting across the sheets. Jacob falls to his forearm again, grinding back onto the dildo until he's twitching from overstimulation. With a deep groan he falls forward, and Sam sees it when the dildo pops out of him, shiny with lube. He moans as he flips himself onto his back, wraps his hand back around himself and strokes a few more times, languid and slow, a final drop of cum wrung from his spent dick and sliding down the underside over his knuckles. Sam can see his release splattered on the front of the borrowed gray shirt.
"Fuck, Sam," Jacob sighs, hand finally slowing to a stop. He raises his hand to his mouth and licks his fingers clean; Sam swears he sees his eyes flicker to the door again.
He can't stand it anymore. Sam eases the door shut then races to the bathroom, waddling with discomfort. Once safely inside, door locked behind him, he strips and gets his hand around his erection. It only takes one, two, threefourfive pumps of his fist before he's cumming in thick ropes onto his knuckles and belly, knees nearly buckling underneath him.
Chest heaving, Sam slumps against the sink. Takes a look at himself in the mirror and feels a mix of shame and guilt curling in his gut.
The next morning Sam sits at the small dining table, mug of coffee in one hand and phone in the other. He hears Jacob moving around, and a moment later he's emerging from the hallway freshly showered and dressed to head to set.
"Mornin'," he mutters as he fixes himself a mug. Sam hums in reply and takes a sip from his own.
"Sleep well?" Sam asks nonchalantly.
Jacob smiles and nods. "Yeah, actually. Slept great!"
Sam looks at him over the rim of his mug. He's staring intently at Sam, coffee clutched between his palms as he sips at it. "Good, that's good," he murmurs.
"What about you?" Jacob asks. "Have a good night?" There's a tension there, but Sam doesn't acknowledge it. Won't acknowledge it unless Jacob does first.
"Yeah. Pretty boring night in actually. Did you go out?" Sam takes another sip, hums and puts his mug down onto the table. "I figured you'd be home before me, since you were finished on set before me."
Jacob just shrugs, plucks a poptart from the open box next to the toaster, and heads for the living room. "I didn't go anywhere. I was here," he says, shrugging as he passes Sam.
"Okay." Sam smiles when Jacob does, nods once and goes back to his phone.
"Okay."