(no subject)
Title: Anterior View
Rating: I refuse to rate this. Very, very low. PG at best.
Pairing: Padackles (god, I love that word.)
Jensen likes to think that he's sort of like an athlete.
So what if the only real sports training he's ever come near was as a cheerleader, from the track around the field instead of on it. He was happier just to watch, and every injury out on the field would bring a mental checklist into play, broken Humerus or Ulna or maybe even Radius.
Acting is almost like athletics. You need a game face, you’ve always got to be focused, you…well, that’s pretty much it. But either way, Jensen is like an athlete. Because Jason Teague was an athlete, and Jensen was sort of Jason, and…yeah. Jensen is an athlete of sorts, if you squint and tilt your head to the left.
Jared, however, is actually an athlete. They deviate on very few things, but this is one of those. It’s undeniable; you can tell that just by looking at him. He was built for athletics. Take right now, for instance. He's lying sprawled out on Jensen's couch, the light of the flickering TV (Return of the King, and Jared never manages to stay awake for an entire Peter Jackson movie) highlighting his sleeping form in TSN freeze-frames.
He’s long limbs and muscles that are intrinsic -- hell, Jared can eat an entire green room’s worth of petty candy and never show the worse for it. His hands are huge, like he was meant to palm footballs and slap asses afterwards in the locker room, and he’s always steady on his feet (unlike Jensen, who has been tripping all over his - measly, compared to Jared - six feet ever since he was thirteen.)
Jensen had actually played football for a year, when he was a junior. It just didn’t go so well, because under the Texan he’s a little bit of a pretty boy. Okay, maybe he’s a lot of a pretty boy. He’ll get dirty and roughed up on camera where he knows that it’s safe, but on the field, pretty much anything can happen. One sprained ankle, and he’d walked away from it. He ain’t no sissy, but he ain’t stupid, either. He’s got assets to protect.
Cheerleading had happened the next year, quite by accident. He still can’t tell you how he got roped into that one, other than that it involved a pretty blonde and an even prettier brunette, and a promise that drama club and cheerleading weren’t so different; after all, weren’t both types of performing? Next thing he knew, he was going to out of town games and hanging out with half-dressed girls in their hotel rooms while they painted their toenails and called him “Jenny”. The nickname had stuck to him like a bad rumor, unfortunately.
They say that there’s life outside the walls of high school, but Jensen never much believed it or cared for the idea. High school was a bubble of safety and predictability, both of which Jensen valued above most everything else. He had everything that he thought he needed there, and he was more than happy to travel from Drama class to Biology to after school practice all day, everyday.
Drama and Biology were vertebra and vertebra on his radar there, for a while. They were all he needed to be happy, even if he admittedly ruined his eyes reading Bio textbooks late into the night when his friends thought that he was fucking the head cheerleader. The glasses came less than a year later, the summer between graduation and Fame with a capital F, and the cheerleader never did.
Acting won out in the end, but Jensen still harbors his fascination with the human body. His exes have been learning tools - scientific skeletons, experiments to teach the scientific methods, and hot plates that burn you should you accidentally touch down for too long. He toys with all of the elements, hoping to find the one that combusts with Californium.
Jared asked about the textbooks, once. They sit on Jensen’s shelf amongst the encyclopedias, poetry anthologies and the leather-bound Shakespeare that he’ll never read. Jensen laughed his tinny laugh and rattled off something about decoration and facade, never letting on that they’re anything more to him, that they actually mean something - that there's a safety net on his living room shelf and that he’s just a circus clown.
Jensen stares intently at Jared’s unmoving form again, flickering blue and green and black in the light cast off by the television. He’s borrowing Clark Kent’s x-ray vision for a moment; starting at the bottom and tracing up lightly with a finger, whispering to himself as he goes. “Metatarsals. Tarsals. Fibula. Tibia. Patella. Femur.”
Jared wakes up then with a confused murmur, and Jensen smiles at him before ducking his head, pressing his lips and tongue to the area of Jared’s hip exposed by his raised t-shirt. “Ilium.” Higher up, to his chest and shoulders. “Scapula. Clavicle. Mandible.” Leaving little marks and bruises in his wake as scientific evidence while Jared watches with interest, a hint of amusement manifesting in his sleepy smile.
He reaches down and pulls Jensen up with one of those big hands, whisper just barely heard over Sean Astin's sobbing.
"What's the word for lips?"
Rating: I refuse to rate this. Very, very low. PG at best.
Pairing: Padackles (god, I love that word.)
Jensen likes to think that he's sort of like an athlete.
So what if the only real sports training he's ever come near was as a cheerleader, from the track around the field instead of on it. He was happier just to watch, and every injury out on the field would bring a mental checklist into play, broken Humerus or Ulna or maybe even Radius.
Acting is almost like athletics. You need a game face, you’ve always got to be focused, you…well, that’s pretty much it. But either way, Jensen is like an athlete. Because Jason Teague was an athlete, and Jensen was sort of Jason, and…yeah. Jensen is an athlete of sorts, if you squint and tilt your head to the left.
Jared, however, is actually an athlete. They deviate on very few things, but this is one of those. It’s undeniable; you can tell that just by looking at him. He was built for athletics. Take right now, for instance. He's lying sprawled out on Jensen's couch, the light of the flickering TV (Return of the King, and Jared never manages to stay awake for an entire Peter Jackson movie) highlighting his sleeping form in TSN freeze-frames.
He’s long limbs and muscles that are intrinsic -- hell, Jared can eat an entire green room’s worth of petty candy and never show the worse for it. His hands are huge, like he was meant to palm footballs and slap asses afterwards in the locker room, and he’s always steady on his feet (unlike Jensen, who has been tripping all over his - measly, compared to Jared - six feet ever since he was thirteen.)
Jensen had actually played football for a year, when he was a junior. It just didn’t go so well, because under the Texan he’s a little bit of a pretty boy. Okay, maybe he’s a lot of a pretty boy. He’ll get dirty and roughed up on camera where he knows that it’s safe, but on the field, pretty much anything can happen. One sprained ankle, and he’d walked away from it. He ain’t no sissy, but he ain’t stupid, either. He’s got assets to protect.
Cheerleading had happened the next year, quite by accident. He still can’t tell you how he got roped into that one, other than that it involved a pretty blonde and an even prettier brunette, and a promise that drama club and cheerleading weren’t so different; after all, weren’t both types of performing? Next thing he knew, he was going to out of town games and hanging out with half-dressed girls in their hotel rooms while they painted their toenails and called him “Jenny”. The nickname had stuck to him like a bad rumor, unfortunately.
They say that there’s life outside the walls of high school, but Jensen never much believed it or cared for the idea. High school was a bubble of safety and predictability, both of which Jensen valued above most everything else. He had everything that he thought he needed there, and he was more than happy to travel from Drama class to Biology to after school practice all day, everyday.
Drama and Biology were vertebra and vertebra on his radar there, for a while. They were all he needed to be happy, even if he admittedly ruined his eyes reading Bio textbooks late into the night when his friends thought that he was fucking the head cheerleader. The glasses came less than a year later, the summer between graduation and Fame with a capital F, and the cheerleader never did.
Acting won out in the end, but Jensen still harbors his fascination with the human body. His exes have been learning tools - scientific skeletons, experiments to teach the scientific methods, and hot plates that burn you should you accidentally touch down for too long. He toys with all of the elements, hoping to find the one that combusts with Californium.
Jared asked about the textbooks, once. They sit on Jensen’s shelf amongst the encyclopedias, poetry anthologies and the leather-bound Shakespeare that he’ll never read. Jensen laughed his tinny laugh and rattled off something about decoration and facade, never letting on that they’re anything more to him, that they actually mean something - that there's a safety net on his living room shelf and that he’s just a circus clown.
Jensen stares intently at Jared’s unmoving form again, flickering blue and green and black in the light cast off by the television. He’s borrowing Clark Kent’s x-ray vision for a moment; starting at the bottom and tracing up lightly with a finger, whispering to himself as he goes. “Metatarsals. Tarsals. Fibula. Tibia. Patella. Femur.”
Jared wakes up then with a confused murmur, and Jensen smiles at him before ducking his head, pressing his lips and tongue to the area of Jared’s hip exposed by his raised t-shirt. “Ilium.” Higher up, to his chest and shoulders. “Scapula. Clavicle. Mandible.” Leaving little marks and bruises in his wake as scientific evidence while Jared watches with interest, a hint of amusement manifesting in his sleepy smile.
He reaches down and pulls Jensen up with one of those big hands, whisper just barely heard over Sean Astin's sobbing.
"What's the word for lips?"