He's only twenty-nine, and healthy as a motherfucking horse. There is no reason for this bull shit, and Jared is pissed. Grabbing a pen off the floor is not supposed to wrench his back. It's fucking stupid that he can't walk without flinching.
Luckily, Jensen's been in San Diego all day, and Brayden's out, so nobody's been around to see, or mock, his suffering. If he's honest, he's just glad they're not here to worry about it. They would laugh while they do it, but Jensen's eyes would be questioning everything, and he'd probably demand that Jared see a doctor or something.
If anybody's gonna worry about his fucked up back, it's going to be him. He's never had a mom, and he doesn't need one hovering and babying him now.
He's lying in the bed, on his stomach, enjoying the fact that he doesn't have to move, when he hears Jensen coming up the stairs. He enters wordlessly, which is weird, but Jared's thinking too much about the tension in his lower back to worry about it.
It's not until he feels strong, bare thighs bracketing his, and the point of Jensen's tongue dragging down his spine, that he knows he's in trouble. Because, logically, his brain knows that his body can’t enjoy this.
Still, his upstairs and downstairs brains don’t seem to be on the same page, so he figures he can grit his teeth and bear it. Maybe it’ll be better than he thinks. Maybe Jensen’s cock has some healing powers that will make everything better again.
There’s a driving metal beat coming from the stereo across the room, Jared’s personal brand of relaxation music, and it’s the only sound between them.
Jensen uses his mouth against Jared’s skin like Jared uses a paint brush on a canvas. Like he’s telling a story and expressing things he’ll never even try to put into words. Normally, the curve of Jared’s spine, the way he arches into Jensen’s touch, and writhes in demand of more is his way of collaborating. It’s just another form of a communication for them, a shared language that no one else can translate.
He tries. Dammit, he really fucking tries, but Jensen’s just talking to himself today.
It’s inevitable when his mouth stops, just above the swell of Jared’s ass, and rests a hand on his side. “What’s with you?”
“You stopped,” Jared informs him.
“Yeah, ‘cause you’re layin’ there like a giant, dead fuckin’ fish. You don’t wanna do this?”
He probably sounds less-than-convincing when he says, “I always wanna do this.”
“You sure?”
There’s concern creeping into the corners of Jensen’s question, so Jared rests his face on his arms and nods. “Continue,” he encourages, shifting to spread his legs and then thrusting his ass back as though presenting it to Jensen.
Pt 1/2
Date: 2010-04-10 07:01 pm (UTC)Luckily, Jensen's been in San Diego all day, and Brayden's out, so nobody's been around to see, or mock, his suffering. If he's honest, he's just glad they're not here to worry about it. They would laugh while they do it, but Jensen's eyes would be questioning everything, and he'd probably demand that Jared see a doctor or something.
If anybody's gonna worry about his fucked up back, it's going to be him. He's never had a mom, and he doesn't need one hovering and babying him now.
He's lying in the bed, on his stomach, enjoying the fact that he doesn't have to move, when he hears Jensen coming up the stairs. He enters wordlessly, which is weird, but Jared's thinking too much about the tension in his lower back to worry about it.
It's not until he feels strong, bare thighs bracketing his, and the point of Jensen's tongue dragging down his spine, that he knows he's in trouble. Because, logically, his brain knows that his body can’t enjoy this.
Still, his upstairs and downstairs brains don’t seem to be on the same page, so he figures he can grit his teeth and bear it. Maybe it’ll be better than he thinks. Maybe Jensen’s cock has some healing powers that will make everything better again.
There’s a driving metal beat coming from the stereo across the room, Jared’s personal brand of relaxation music, and it’s the only sound between them.
Jensen uses his mouth against Jared’s skin like Jared uses a paint brush on a canvas. Like he’s telling a story and expressing things he’ll never even try to put into words. Normally, the curve of Jared’s spine, the way he arches into Jensen’s touch, and writhes in demand of more is his way of collaborating. It’s just another form of a communication for them, a shared language that no one else can translate.
He tries. Dammit, he really fucking tries, but Jensen’s just talking to himself today.
It’s inevitable when his mouth stops, just above the swell of Jared’s ass, and rests a hand on his side. “What’s with you?”
“You stopped,” Jared informs him.
“Yeah, ‘cause you’re layin’ there like a giant, dead fuckin’ fish. You don’t wanna do this?”
He probably sounds less-than-convincing when he says, “I always wanna do this.”
“You sure?”
There’s concern creeping into the corners of Jensen’s question, so Jared rests his face on his arms and nods. “Continue,” he encourages, shifting to spread his legs and then thrusting his ass back as though presenting it to Jensen.