It starts with the body hair. He's not really a hairy guy — not like Clay, who is totally Bear of the Year 20 years running — but he's nowhere near as hairless as he needs to be.
He could wax — throw down a few hundred at some no-name waxing place that asks no questions — but he's a total candyass when it comes to having things ripped out of his body. And all those Amazon reviews for hair removal cream have pretty much wrecked that plan.
So he shaves. He uses cheap-ass disposable razors — buying those giant 100 packs and going through them like candy, but he has high-quality shaving soap and a real boar's hair brush, producing an epic lather that slides on perfectly.
He starts with his legs and feet, sliding the razor over every inch of skin, slipping up his thighs, sliding against the backs of his knees, ever-so-delicately shaving his feet and toes. His mom used to make jokes about his Hobbit feet, so it's not an easy job, but it looks great when he's done.
Quick rinse with the shower, and he's lathering up his chest. His nipples harden when he runs the brush over them, and he takes a longer time shaving, running his other hand over his skin afterwards, feeling the smoothness as he keeps going down. The muscles of his stomach jump under his fingers as he shaves downwards, and he grins, rubbing his fingers against his skin.
When he rinses, goose-pimples form where the hot water hits his sensitized skin. He turns the shower off in between rinses, keeping the water hot. He tried this once with the water just constantly running, and trying to shave his balls in cold water is definitely an experience he doesn't want to try again.
He wipes away the condensation on the mirror above the sink, and brushes the lather under his arms. He makes sure he gets every inch, watching himself in the mirror as he does it. His chest gleams in the overhead light, and he gets briefly distracted by a single droplet slipping down between his pecs.
He knows he's nowhere near as big as he's supposed to be, but it still looks fantastic, clean and smooth skin, lightly tanned, nipples small and hard, pecs rising and falling with each breath.
Yeah. He's definitely getting there.
He rinses under his arms, and starts lathering up his pubes.
This is a little trickier, and not just because he needs to keep on rinsing his razor, and not because, hello, sharp item near his dick, but because it's not about sight at all. It's just going based on touch, and feeling, and making sure he stretches out his skin just so, taut and comfortable.
He stretches out his leg against the rim of the bathtub, lowering his other knee to get just the right angle for that spot between his balls and his thigh. The brush is rough and smooth at the same time, making his balls tighten, his dick stiffen. The rinse feels even more amazing, all fresh smooth skin, extra sensitive against his fingers.
It's a bit more work to shave his taint, and, okay, yeah, his ass, might as well admit it, but, hell, he's not bendy and fond of touching himself for nothing. It's all slow breaths, easy movements, and the faint shiver afterwards of pleasure as he rinses.
It's not his usual thing, y'know, being shaved all over, but you do some crazy things for love sometimes. And he'll itch like a motherfucker for a few weeks, but he's got three weeks of nothing but beer and beach in Mazatlan to look forward to, so it'll be fine.
Once he rinses one final time, he rubs a hot washcloth on his face. This is going to be the hardest part, because this is what makes him what he is — his signature look. But if all of this is gonna be done, it's gonna be done right.
For this, he actually gets out of the shower and stands in front of the mirror, slowly building up a proper lather on his brush before he starts to cover his face. He looks at himself in the mirror, takes a deep breath, and slowly exhales before putting the razor to his face.
He takes almost as much time as he did for his pubes. It's not just about getting rid of the goatee, although that sure hurts his soul, it's about making sure every single millimeter of his face is baby smooth.
Once he's done, he hops back into the shower, runs it hot and fast, rubbing all over with homemade salt scrub Jenny made (in a "World's Best Uncle!" jar), then with body wash and a Japanese nylon bathtowel, making his skin pink and gleaming in the heat. His entire body is singing by the time he's done, every inch tingling and alive.
He towels off slowly with the softest towel he owns, then dusts himself with talc, using a giant natural powder brush that he knows everyone would make fun of him for owning. But it makes him unbelievably dry and smooth, without a hint of sweat or dampness. He combs his wet hair, letting it lie flat with a smooth side part, then strolls into the bedroom, whistling to himself as he walks around naked, bare skin and a wide grin.
The costume is already laid out on the bed. He could've gone for latex, which would've just been sweaty, or, Christ, spandex, which would've just been pathetic, but when he told Jacks about this entire thing, she just gave him that 'Why are we related again?' look, spent 10 minutes buying a collection of leather and canvas, and told him he was buying her a professional heavy duty sewing machine.
That's what he gets for being the little brother of a former Ren Faire geek — she's gonna make sure he has it right.
The boxers are olive drab, cut to Army standards, just a little bit tighter than any soldier would ever actually wear, snug against his ass. Jacks knitted the socks herself, following the exact pattern their great-grandmother used to knit socks for all her sweethearts in-between her flights all over the East Coast as a WASP, and they're perfectly tailored to his feet and ridiculously comfy.
He'd wear them all the time, if they weren't so boring.
The plain cotton t-shirt is incredibly tight, snug in all the right places, and combined with the socks and boxers, he can feel himself getting into the role. Clean-cut. Ready to serve. Innocent in so many ways.
When Cougar told him about this, about what he wanted, he didn't get it at first. Okay, yeah, he got the whole "had a poster above my bed when I was growing up" thing and the "first boyfriend was a blond altar boy" thing — Hell, that was why he had a thing for tough skeptic redheads in pantsuits — but taking it to this level...
But then they tried it one night. Not the full-on costume thing, but pretending. Ignoring the body hair and the goatee and the glasses and just pretending Jensen was this icon of World War II.
And along with how easily it totally shorted out Cougar's brain (and, wow, that was amazing), there was seriously something to this for him too. Being ready to serve and lead at the same time. Taking orders and giving orders.
Let's just say that Cougar untapped the secret reason he actually joined the Army in the first place, okay?
And pulling on the pants just drives it home. His back stiffens, military straight like he hasn't had to do in years, and as he does up the buttons, he can feel something else getting stiff.
He's starting to get a little lust-drunk now as he puts on the jacket, doing up the snaps, zippers and buckles, occasionally fumbling. The jacket's tight around his middle, almost like a corset, but more flexible and ready for action.
All sorts of action.
Which is totally turning him on like fuck, and he hasn't even put on all the holsters.
He hears the key in the front door and swears under his breath, grabbing the final pieces and quickly slipping them on before the door opens. The gloves go on last, thick red leather, smooth and strong and ready for almost anything.
He doesn't get much feeling through them, but imagining Cougar's face when he's running them down his body...
He hears footsteps down the hall towards the bedroom, and takes another deep breath. Everything further away than around two feet is a fuzzy blur, because superheroes don't need glasses, so he's not actually looking towards the doorway when Cougar comes in. He's looking at the mirror, checking out the costume one final time.
He hears Cougar's sharp intake of breath, and yeah, okay, his boxers are feeling ridiculously tight right now.
"Like it?" he says, his voice rough.
Cougar comes up next to him, and traces a finger over the white star on his chest. "Yes."
This The Losers story was written by Kate Bolin. If you liked it, there's plenty more at http://www.dymphna.net/fanfic/. And you can feedback her at dymphna@dymphna.net.