Fic: The Impala Chronicles: Episode 1
May. 17th, 2008 04:11 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
aeroport_artTitle: Jared Padalecki is a Felching Slut, and Jensen Ackles DOES NOT WEAR SKIRTS
Characters: Jared(pervson)Jensen, Jensen(wuvs)JDM, CMM, Milo Ventimiglia
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
aeroport_art
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: CRACK. Inappropriate insults to famous people and their mothers.
Word Count: 2,269
Disclaimer: Not mine, no money being made.
Notes: Shamelessly inspired by The Vespa Diaries, one of the funniest, most innovative stories I have ever read. I loved it to death, but it never got finished D: Anyway, after the cliffhanger of SPN 3.16, I just needed something silly and goobery-fun. I never write crack, so I seriously can't tell if this SUCKS--consider it a test run. Read at your own risk as this is a complete WIP. Still, Feedback = ♥, especially since this is kind of a new foray for me. SOMEBODY HOLD MY HAND I DON'T KNOW WHAT I'M DOING
Summary: In this CRACKILICIOUS story, Jared is a walking hard-on and Jensen Ackles is a high school cheerleader. Oh, wait.
San Antonio, TX. The Ackles home. In a small bedroom down the hall…
Jensen twists off the plastic nozzle from a tube of Elmer’s. Squirts some white glue into his left palm, holds it over his head and… How does this work again?
“—Shit!” The cupped glue trickles from between his fingers and down his wrist. God, this is probably the stupidest idea ever, but Jensen can’t go out tonight looking like a complete fairy with his too-long hair acting up the way it’s been all week, all curling over his cheeks and being wavy and stuff. Like, seriously—he can’t.
Tonight’s the first home game of the basketball season, and Jensen…well, let’s just say Jensen won’t be playing center court. Or warming any benches, for that matter.
He curses his mother for the umpteenth time—It’s an Ackles tradition, honey, she’d pleaded—except she always conveniently leaves out the part where only the Ackles women have been participating in this familial penchant for punishment. Like, seriously. While Jensen’s not really sure how far sexual liberation’s come since the days of his father’s youth, he really can’t picture his dad in a cheerleading uniform (male uniform, notwithstanding).
Ugh, just THINKING about cheerleading uniforms makes Jensen want to flip his parents the bird and ditch the game. Of course, that’d only land his ass in more trouble than it’s worth, so instead—Jensen grabs the bottle of glue and, with newfound determination, squeezes out another cup or so onto his disgusting, goo-dribbled hands; hey, if a bunch of huffing teenagers can invent this technique, then Jensen sure as hell can figure it out on his own.
He scrunches his face up and just goes for it, rubbing the giant puddle of glue together to coat both palms, then plunks them into his hair with a sickly splat.
Gross, he thinks, even as he mashes the paste around, ignoring the squelching noises and opaque bubbles forming between his fingers.
His eyes dart to the watch on his desk—shit, Jared’s gonna be here any minute. Jensen quickly squeezes out the excess crap from his hair and hastily combs the strands towards the ceiling, repeating the movement and grinning with slow triumph as his hair stops keeling over like it’s been socked in the gut, grudgingly materializing into—yes—SPIKES. Spikes stiff enough to skewer a bird if it fell from the sky.
Jensen backs up a couple steps to look in the mirror. He looks like he stuck a fork into an electrical socket—in other words, it’s perfect.
There’s a gentle knock on his door. In a muffled voice, his mother says, “Jenny, honey. JT’s here for you.”
Ugh, wonderful. “Tell him he can suck my cock!” Jensen shouts. Beyond the door, his mom murmurs something unintelligible and he hears Jared’s voice go it’s alright.
Still, if Jared’s here it means it’s time to go. There’s a game to catch—Jared playing small forward on the team (the irony is lost on no one), Jensen one of the back spotters on the booster squad.
Jensen glances down at his watch—they’re gonna be late if he doesn’t move his ass. He hurriedly peels the white glue off his palms as best he can, tossing it into a pile of what looks like dead snakeskin on his desk. Grabs the duffel bag off the bed and strides out of his room.
When he enters the living room, his mother shrieks.
“Honey, your hair! What happened!?”
Jensen shrugs noncommittally, rolling the leftover glue on his palms into little balls and littering them onto the carpet. “Whatever.”
“You can’t—you couldn’t possibly go out like… like this,” she cries, reaching for his hair in jerky, abortive movements like it might eat her alive, or something.
“God, don’t be so melodramatic, Mom,” he complains. Jensen picks his keys up and makes for the door, trying to wrestle out of the house before she can guilt him into taking the stuff out (like he even knows how).
“But everyone will see, and tonight’s your…”
Jensen pays her no heed, angling for the front door. He’s almost there…
“C’mere, Jensen.” Jared’s frame suddenly blocks the exit and Jensen bounces off him like a quarter. “Why don’t you do what your mom tells you? At least for tonight.”
Oh, god, here it comes. Jensen feels his dinner make a valiant effort to leap out of his stomach, then uses whatever energy is left from quelling it to glare up at his next-door neighbor.
Jared just smiles down magnanimously, then reaches for the backpack slung over his shoulder to pull out a square of fabric that looks remarkably similar to the bandanna currently trapping his own lame-ass hair. Donna Ackles watches them hopefully as Jared smashes down all of Jensen’s hard work, then firmly ties the fabric over the crushed spikes as Jensen squirms around like a stuck pig.
“Does that look alright to you, Mrs. Ackles?” Jared asks as he smoothes the wrinkles from Jensen’s hair scarf. Jared’s grin is all charming-like, the asshole.
“Oh, thank you, Jared,” she says tearfully. “You’re such a lovely boy, I’m sure your mother never has any trouble with you.” She shoots Jensen a dirty look.
For the love of… “Can we go now?” Jensen says impatiently.
Donna shoos the boys out of her living room, blowing red-lipstick kisses until the door snicks shut behind them.
Outside, in the ensuing silence, Jensen asserts: “I fucking hate you, you know.”
Jared bursts into laughter, throwing a heavy, letter-jacketed arm over Jensen’s hunched shoulders. All former traces of politeness or deference quickly vanish—Jared gives a cocky toss of his head, and grins like a lion licking its chops. “God, that woman loves me. She’d fuck me if I wasn’t your age.”
“Dude, you’re not my age. You’re a junior,” Jensen says savagely, unlocking Jared’s door for him before rounding his Chevy Impala to the driver side. He gets in, throws his bag in back and slams the door shut, the car rocking from the force. In the silence, Jared’s smirk is deafening.
“Oh, fuck you, ” Jensen growls before he throws the car in gear, slams his foot on the gas pedal, and shoots out the driveway. He nearly backs up into a Beemer—the driver honking loudly as it zooms past—and all the while, even with their lives in mortal peril, Jensen can feel Jared’s smile invading his personal space.
Jensen hopes Jared tears a muscle, smirking that goddamned hard.
-----
The story goes like this: 1985, Alan and Donna Ackles relocate to San Antonio, from their hometown of Dallas, TX. They bring with them their two sons and newborn daughter to this lovely city, moving into a lovely duplex located in an equally lovely neighborhood. Their next-door neighbors, the Padaleckis (lovely people, the both of them) just so happen to have two boys and a daughter of their own—a match made in heaven. Practically.
In the boys’ locker room, ten minutes before show time, Jared elbows Jensen in the side and says, “Hey, check it out,” with a finger pointing down at himself. Jensen makes the mistake of looking.
“Whoa, God,” Jensen cries, leaping back a foot on the bench and covering his eyes with a balled-up t-shirt. “You’re such a fucking pervert, Jared!! ”
Jared snickers, pulling his basketball shorts up over his obvious erection. “What can I say? I got a soft spot for cheerleaders,” he says, leering at Jensen in his state of undress. Behind them, the rest of the basketball team goes about with their business, unfazed by Jared’s flagrant appreciation for dick in a men’s locker room.
Of course, it’s not like the rest of the guys aren’t homophobes—no, no. Where do you think this is, San Francisco? Only Jared gets to be the exception. The brat’s infamous for his inclination to fuck anything with a pulse (though not a strict requirement)— a particular quality any red-blooded male can get behind.
Jensen would figure, somebody boasting even half of Jared’s “Been There, Done Her” list would be heartily avoided with a ten-foot-pole for fear of contracting an STD—but as it stands, Jared Padalecki is the beast of James Madison High. It probably doesn’t hurt that he’s got his slutty fingers in every nameable club and sport at the school while floating a 4.3 GPA. He might as well have a banner permanently fixed behind him screaming Going Somewhere!
…And said beast’s hand is currently creeping up Jensen’s thigh, which, what the fuck. Jensen snatches his duffel bag up to his bare chest, dashes into an empty shower stall, and yanks the curtain shut with a loud rattle of cheap plastic rings. In here, maybe he can actually finish changing in peace without Jared’s horndog eyes tracking his every move. Jensen shudders.
Outside the shower stall, somebody chortles, “You’re such a fag, Padalecki.” It sounds like Murray, the team’s back-up forward. Oh, Chad Michael Murray—Jensen hates the guy almost as much as he loathes Jared. Almost.
“Yeah, well,” Jared hums. “Jen’s just so pretty, I can’t help myself. Bet his ass’ll look great in a skirt.” A chorus of hollers rises from the locker room and Jensen stamps down the urge to run out and take on the entire basketball team by himself, wielding nothing but his booster megaphone and fists. Nah—deep breath—Jensen’s a God-fearing pacifist, dammit.
So instead, all he does is yell through the curtain: “I’m not wearing a skirt, you fucktards!” as he roughly yanks his uniform on—navy blue track pants with his rugby-striped polo stuffed down them, thank you very much.
Gritting his teeth, Jensen storms out of the shower stall and glares at all the players, daring them to say a word. Only Murray makes a peep—in the form of a slimy little snicker—but Jensen will let that one go, ‘cause Murray’s never going to stop being a dick whether Jensen kicks up a fuss or not. Milo, a quiet but well-liked kid in Jared’s year, scratches at his greasy hair. The other ten or so players quickly lose interest and go back to their conversations, but Jared—Jared’s still staring at him like Jensen’s the first course in a buffet. Then again, that’s how Jared always looks at him (the pervert).
Jensen half-considers heading into the gym prematurely to escape Jared’s unabashed stare, but then the office door lurches open and Coach Morgan steps inside, hitting his clipboard against an empty locker with a loud clang.
Jensen jolts upright, thinking, Fuck. Supreme embarrassment manifests itself across his face in the form of heated cheeks, as out of the entire room of jersey-dressed basketball players, Jensen’s the odd one out. The cheerleader. He will kill his mother if he gets out of this alive.
Coach Morgan sweeps his gaze across the room, when his warm brown eyes land on Jensen’s wide, green irises. He gives an encouraging sort of smile, and Jensen just turns redder.
Finally, Coach calls: “C’mon boys, what’re you all staring at? Let’s get out there and start warming up!”
At the inarguable cue, the team files out of the room, whooping and thumping the lockers with metallic bangs as they pass through the doors and spill out into the gym. Even though Jensen remains inside, his nervousness skyrockets in tandem with the crescendo of noise, as packed bleachers break out into raucous cheers for their beloved Madison High Mavericks.
From his post inside the locker room, Jensen groans inwardly and rubs his hands over his face, dreading the fate that confronts him not twenty feet away. He thinks about how the moment his sneakers touch the waxed floor out there, Jensen’s gonna be, like, objectified and shit, being taken for some pretty-boy drooling-idiot booster performing tricks for catcalls like a circus freak-show.
Hell, the school doesn’t even need him to stir up the crowd—it’s so loud already, Jensen thinks there is freaking well enough pep in the stands for five schools. No one’s gonna bat an eyelash if Jensen doesn’t flap his arms and shout into a plastic cone in favor of going M.I.A. Shandra can lift herself six feet in the air, for all Jensen cares.
You know what? he thinks, feeling a thrilling, burgeoning sense of liberation. SCREW THIS.
Seriously, screw this. Jensen makes up his mind in a matter of seconds—does an about-turn in place and makes a beeline for his duffel bag, which sits forlornly on an abandoned bench. But before he gets there—
“Oomph, ” he grunts, as a wide palm firmly smacks against his chest.
“Hey. Where do you think you’re going?”
Jensen whips around, frozen like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “Ah, shit—I mean. Uh.”
It’s Coach Morgan. He gives Jensen a wry smile. “You’re not gonna let us down, are you? My boys need you out there, Jensen. I bet you can cheer louder than all the girls put together.”
Jensen swallows convulsively, watching as the older man cocks his head ever-so-slightly, looking at Jensen like he’s transparent.
Jensen gives a kind of choked noise in reply. It might pass for a “M’not a fucking cheerleader,” but it all becomes moot point, really, because Jensen hightails it out of the locker room…
…but of course, he picks the wrong direction to flee in.
On the way into the gymnasium, Jensen curses his mother one last time, for good measure.
Characters: Jared(pervson)Jensen, Jensen(wuvs)JDM, CMM, Milo Ventimiglia
Author:
aeroport_artRating: PG-13
Warnings: CRACK. Inappropriate insults to famous people and their mothers.
Word Count: 2,269
Disclaimer: Not mine, no money being made.
Notes: Shamelessly inspired by The Vespa Diaries, one of the funniest, most innovative stories I have ever read. I loved it to death, but it never got finished D: Anyway, after the cliffhanger of SPN 3.16, I just needed something silly and goobery-fun. I never write crack, so I seriously can't tell if this SUCKS--consider it a test run. Read at your own risk as this is a complete WIP. Still, Feedback = ♥, especially since this is kind of a new foray for me. SOMEBODY HOLD MY HAND I DON'T KNOW WHAT I'M DOING
Summary: In this CRACKILICIOUS story, Jared is a walking hard-on and Jensen Ackles is a high school cheerleader. Oh, wait.
San Antonio, TX. The Ackles home. In a small bedroom down the hall…
Jensen twists off the plastic nozzle from a tube of Elmer’s. Squirts some white glue into his left palm, holds it over his head and… How does this work again?
“—Shit!” The cupped glue trickles from between his fingers and down his wrist. God, this is probably the stupidest idea ever, but Jensen can’t go out tonight looking like a complete fairy with his too-long hair acting up the way it’s been all week, all curling over his cheeks and being wavy and stuff. Like, seriously—he can’t.
Tonight’s the first home game of the basketball season, and Jensen…well, let’s just say Jensen won’t be playing center court. Or warming any benches, for that matter.
He curses his mother for the umpteenth time—It’s an Ackles tradition, honey, she’d pleaded—except she always conveniently leaves out the part where only the Ackles women have been participating in this familial penchant for punishment. Like, seriously. While Jensen’s not really sure how far sexual liberation’s come since the days of his father’s youth, he really can’t picture his dad in a cheerleading uniform (male uniform, notwithstanding).
Ugh, just THINKING about cheerleading uniforms makes Jensen want to flip his parents the bird and ditch the game. Of course, that’d only land his ass in more trouble than it’s worth, so instead—Jensen grabs the bottle of glue and, with newfound determination, squeezes out another cup or so onto his disgusting, goo-dribbled hands; hey, if a bunch of huffing teenagers can invent this technique, then Jensen sure as hell can figure it out on his own.
He scrunches his face up and just goes for it, rubbing the giant puddle of glue together to coat both palms, then plunks them into his hair with a sickly splat.
Gross, he thinks, even as he mashes the paste around, ignoring the squelching noises and opaque bubbles forming between his fingers.
His eyes dart to the watch on his desk—shit, Jared’s gonna be here any minute. Jensen quickly squeezes out the excess crap from his hair and hastily combs the strands towards the ceiling, repeating the movement and grinning with slow triumph as his hair stops keeling over like it’s been socked in the gut, grudgingly materializing into—yes—SPIKES. Spikes stiff enough to skewer a bird if it fell from the sky.
Jensen backs up a couple steps to look in the mirror. He looks like he stuck a fork into an electrical socket—in other words, it’s perfect.
There’s a gentle knock on his door. In a muffled voice, his mother says, “Jenny, honey. JT’s here for you.”
Ugh, wonderful. “Tell him he can suck my cock!” Jensen shouts. Beyond the door, his mom murmurs something unintelligible and he hears Jared’s voice go it’s alright.
Still, if Jared’s here it means it’s time to go. There’s a game to catch—Jared playing small forward on the team (the irony is lost on no one), Jensen one of the back spotters on the booster squad.
Jensen glances down at his watch—they’re gonna be late if he doesn’t move his ass. He hurriedly peels the white glue off his palms as best he can, tossing it into a pile of what looks like dead snakeskin on his desk. Grabs the duffel bag off the bed and strides out of his room.
When he enters the living room, his mother shrieks.
“Honey, your hair! What happened!?”
Jensen shrugs noncommittally, rolling the leftover glue on his palms into little balls and littering them onto the carpet. “Whatever.”
“You can’t—you couldn’t possibly go out like… like this,” she cries, reaching for his hair in jerky, abortive movements like it might eat her alive, or something.
“God, don’t be so melodramatic, Mom,” he complains. Jensen picks his keys up and makes for the door, trying to wrestle out of the house before she can guilt him into taking the stuff out (like he even knows how).
“But everyone will see, and tonight’s your…”
Jensen pays her no heed, angling for the front door. He’s almost there…
“C’mere, Jensen.” Jared’s frame suddenly blocks the exit and Jensen bounces off him like a quarter. “Why don’t you do what your mom tells you? At least for tonight.”
Oh, god, here it comes. Jensen feels his dinner make a valiant effort to leap out of his stomach, then uses whatever energy is left from quelling it to glare up at his next-door neighbor.
Jared just smiles down magnanimously, then reaches for the backpack slung over his shoulder to pull out a square of fabric that looks remarkably similar to the bandanna currently trapping his own lame-ass hair. Donna Ackles watches them hopefully as Jared smashes down all of Jensen’s hard work, then firmly ties the fabric over the crushed spikes as Jensen squirms around like a stuck pig.
“Does that look alright to you, Mrs. Ackles?” Jared asks as he smoothes the wrinkles from Jensen’s hair scarf. Jared’s grin is all charming-like, the asshole.
“Oh, thank you, Jared,” she says tearfully. “You’re such a lovely boy, I’m sure your mother never has any trouble with you.” She shoots Jensen a dirty look.
For the love of… “Can we go now?” Jensen says impatiently.
Donna shoos the boys out of her living room, blowing red-lipstick kisses until the door snicks shut behind them.
Outside, in the ensuing silence, Jensen asserts: “I fucking hate you, you know.”
Jared bursts into laughter, throwing a heavy, letter-jacketed arm over Jensen’s hunched shoulders. All former traces of politeness or deference quickly vanish—Jared gives a cocky toss of his head, and grins like a lion licking its chops. “God, that woman loves me. She’d fuck me if I wasn’t your age.”
“Dude, you’re not my age. You’re a junior,” Jensen says savagely, unlocking Jared’s door for him before rounding his Chevy Impala to the driver side. He gets in, throws his bag in back and slams the door shut, the car rocking from the force. In the silence, Jared’s smirk is deafening.
“Oh, fuck you, ” Jensen growls before he throws the car in gear, slams his foot on the gas pedal, and shoots out the driveway. He nearly backs up into a Beemer—the driver honking loudly as it zooms past—and all the while, even with their lives in mortal peril, Jensen can feel Jared’s smile invading his personal space.
Jensen hopes Jared tears a muscle, smirking that goddamned hard.
-----
The story goes like this: 1985, Alan and Donna Ackles relocate to San Antonio, from their hometown of Dallas, TX. They bring with them their two sons and newborn daughter to this lovely city, moving into a lovely duplex located in an equally lovely neighborhood. Their next-door neighbors, the Padaleckis (lovely people, the both of them) just so happen to have two boys and a daughter of their own—a match made in heaven. Practically.
In the boys’ locker room, ten minutes before show time, Jared elbows Jensen in the side and says, “Hey, check it out,” with a finger pointing down at himself. Jensen makes the mistake of looking.
“Whoa, God,” Jensen cries, leaping back a foot on the bench and covering his eyes with a balled-up t-shirt. “You’re such a fucking pervert, Jared!! ”
Jared snickers, pulling his basketball shorts up over his obvious erection. “What can I say? I got a soft spot for cheerleaders,” he says, leering at Jensen in his state of undress. Behind them, the rest of the basketball team goes about with their business, unfazed by Jared’s flagrant appreciation for dick in a men’s locker room.
Of course, it’s not like the rest of the guys aren’t homophobes—no, no. Where do you think this is, San Francisco? Only Jared gets to be the exception. The brat’s infamous for his inclination to fuck anything with a pulse (though not a strict requirement)— a particular quality any red-blooded male can get behind.
Jensen would figure, somebody boasting even half of Jared’s “Been There, Done Her” list would be heartily avoided with a ten-foot-pole for fear of contracting an STD—but as it stands, Jared Padalecki is the beast of James Madison High. It probably doesn’t hurt that he’s got his slutty fingers in every nameable club and sport at the school while floating a 4.3 GPA. He might as well have a banner permanently fixed behind him screaming Going Somewhere!
…And said beast’s hand is currently creeping up Jensen’s thigh, which, what the fuck. Jensen snatches his duffel bag up to his bare chest, dashes into an empty shower stall, and yanks the curtain shut with a loud rattle of cheap plastic rings. In here, maybe he can actually finish changing in peace without Jared’s horndog eyes tracking his every move. Jensen shudders.
Outside the shower stall, somebody chortles, “You’re such a fag, Padalecki.” It sounds like Murray, the team’s back-up forward. Oh, Chad Michael Murray—Jensen hates the guy almost as much as he loathes Jared. Almost.
“Yeah, well,” Jared hums. “Jen’s just so pretty, I can’t help myself. Bet his ass’ll look great in a skirt.” A chorus of hollers rises from the locker room and Jensen stamps down the urge to run out and take on the entire basketball team by himself, wielding nothing but his booster megaphone and fists. Nah—deep breath—Jensen’s a God-fearing pacifist, dammit.
So instead, all he does is yell through the curtain: “I’m not wearing a skirt, you fucktards!” as he roughly yanks his uniform on—navy blue track pants with his rugby-striped polo stuffed down them, thank you very much.
Gritting his teeth, Jensen storms out of the shower stall and glares at all the players, daring them to say a word. Only Murray makes a peep—in the form of a slimy little snicker—but Jensen will let that one go, ‘cause Murray’s never going to stop being a dick whether Jensen kicks up a fuss or not. Milo, a quiet but well-liked kid in Jared’s year, scratches at his greasy hair. The other ten or so players quickly lose interest and go back to their conversations, but Jared—Jared’s still staring at him like Jensen’s the first course in a buffet. Then again, that’s how Jared always looks at him (the pervert).
Jensen half-considers heading into the gym prematurely to escape Jared’s unabashed stare, but then the office door lurches open and Coach Morgan steps inside, hitting his clipboard against an empty locker with a loud clang.
Jensen jolts upright, thinking, Fuck. Supreme embarrassment manifests itself across his face in the form of heated cheeks, as out of the entire room of jersey-dressed basketball players, Jensen’s the odd one out. The cheerleader. He will kill his mother if he gets out of this alive.
Coach Morgan sweeps his gaze across the room, when his warm brown eyes land on Jensen’s wide, green irises. He gives an encouraging sort of smile, and Jensen just turns redder.
Finally, Coach calls: “C’mon boys, what’re you all staring at? Let’s get out there and start warming up!”
At the inarguable cue, the team files out of the room, whooping and thumping the lockers with metallic bangs as they pass through the doors and spill out into the gym. Even though Jensen remains inside, his nervousness skyrockets in tandem with the crescendo of noise, as packed bleachers break out into raucous cheers for their beloved Madison High Mavericks.
From his post inside the locker room, Jensen groans inwardly and rubs his hands over his face, dreading the fate that confronts him not twenty feet away. He thinks about how the moment his sneakers touch the waxed floor out there, Jensen’s gonna be, like, objectified and shit, being taken for some pretty-boy drooling-idiot booster performing tricks for catcalls like a circus freak-show.
Hell, the school doesn’t even need him to stir up the crowd—it’s so loud already, Jensen thinks there is freaking well enough pep in the stands for five schools. No one’s gonna bat an eyelash if Jensen doesn’t flap his arms and shout into a plastic cone in favor of going M.I.A. Shandra can lift herself six feet in the air, for all Jensen cares.
You know what? he thinks, feeling a thrilling, burgeoning sense of liberation. SCREW THIS.
Seriously, screw this. Jensen makes up his mind in a matter of seconds—does an about-turn in place and makes a beeline for his duffel bag, which sits forlornly on an abandoned bench. But before he gets there—
“Oomph, ” he grunts, as a wide palm firmly smacks against his chest.
“Hey. Where do you think you’re going?”
Jensen whips around, frozen like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “Ah, shit—I mean. Uh.”
It’s Coach Morgan. He gives Jensen a wry smile. “You’re not gonna let us down, are you? My boys need you out there, Jensen. I bet you can cheer louder than all the girls put together.”
Jensen swallows convulsively, watching as the older man cocks his head ever-so-slightly, looking at Jensen like he’s transparent.
Jensen gives a kind of choked noise in reply. It might pass for a “M’not a fucking cheerleader,” but it all becomes moot point, really, because Jensen hightails it out of the locker room…
…but of course, he picks the wrong direction to flee in.
On the way into the gymnasium, Jensen curses his mother one last time, for good measure.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2008-05-17 10:32 am (UTC)I wanna read more of this.
no subject
Date: 2008-05-17 06:04 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-05-17 06:06 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-05-17 12:48 pm (UTC)Thanks a lot
And sorry i'm late for wishing you Happy birthday!
I'm sorry i'm late
hugs
no subject
Date: 2008-05-17 06:05 pm (UTC)Thanks for the bday wishes!! :D:D:D
no subject
Date: 2008-05-17 04:49 pm (UTC)I needed this A LOT (I think we all do!) and it just...yay!
Ee, the hair thing! Oh, Jensen!
And Jared as the boy who unashamedly fucks anything? HOLY CRAP. Hot.
I love, love, love the scene where Jared starts hitting on Jensen in the locker room -- guh, that hit so many of my kink buttons!
Darling, I *cheerlead* you in continuing this! It would be SO ENJOYED. And if you ever need someone to hold your hand on it, you're welcome to hit me up!
:D!
no subject
Date: 2008-05-17 06:07 pm (UTC)Hey, I don't know if you beta read, but you wanna beta this for me? (oh god, that sounds like a come-on) I was too excited to post it last night so I didn't bother digging someone up, but before I actually post it to comms or anything I'd like to get it looked over :D:D:D *bats eyelashes*
no subject
Date: 2008-05-20 09:26 pm (UTC)As far as what I can do as a beta: I do not consider myself qualified to do any hardcore beta-ing, but I like to offer my services of being a second set of eyes. Usually that means, commenting on anything and everything from grammar, word choice, sentence structure, and plot holes, but in a relatively informal way. I also like to give my opinions on certain scenes, so there's usually a lot of: Oh GOD SO CUTE, or ee! they kissed!
Let me know if you're still interested, hon!
no subject
Date: 2008-05-21 03:27 pm (UTC)ttyl hon.
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Date: 2008-05-21 08:11 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-05-19 12:57 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-05-18 11:07 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-05-19 01:04 am (UTC)I dunno how far I'm going with it...I'm unsure because I never write crack, and it's just. I feel like I'm straddling the line between funny or just plain BAD WRITING, and I can't tell which side it's landing on :O *flails* I'm usually fine with not having any sort of audience for my fic, especially when I'm writing weirder "literary" junk that's hard to digest, but when it's shameless and guilty-pleasure reading I want people to LIKE it. Does that make any sense? D:
I think I just need a beta. But I want someone I know-ish, because I'd be more apt to trust their sense of humor instead of somebody I find off
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Date: 2008-05-25 08:12 am (UTC)Actually, I'm intensely curious as to where you're going with this. I'm imaginging a sort of 80's vibe, with Jensen falling in love with somebody else, Milo? And Jared getting all jealous, Jensen's oblivious until... BOYSEX. Angstysomkin'hotfartsinbedBOYSEX. And yes, I may have thought about it a little too much. Or maybe I'm twisted.
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Date: 2008-05-25 03:36 pm (UTC)I wanna work on this after bigbang. Thanks for letting me know you like it, it makes me more excited about the project!
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Date: 2008-05-25 07:42 pm (UTC)And also, off-topicly? I'm re-reading Paper Airplanes. I loved the original with Sam and Dean, but you were SO right when you said it'd work better as Jsquared. Because Jensen in glasses? So hot. Er... see icon for proof.
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Date: 2008-07-12 10:36 pm (UTC)Pleaseeeeeeee tell me you are going to continue??!!
:(
Pretty please!
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Date: 2008-07-13 02:49 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-14 08:36 am (UTC)Please let there be more? PlEEEEEASE? ;_;
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Date: 2008-12-14 05:06 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-16 11:01 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-24 05:07 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-02-03 01:23 pm (UTC)Are you going to continue it? I hope so because it was fantastic. I love your slut/Jared and well, there is no word for Jensen, he has my heart!
You said you were new at this in your notes but you're awesome at it, keep up the good work!!
In your comments you said something about a bigbang, are you really going to writte this story for it? It would be great!
Sorry for my grammatical mistakes! I'm spanish. By the way, I found you LJ while I was looking for fics... I hope yo don't mind!
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Date: 2009-02-07 07:00 am (UTC)pokes this fic
Date: 2011-01-09 02:19 am (UTC)My puppy dog eyes are not very good but I can pout with the best ov'em, and I'm not afraid to use it.
Do you require help/support/friendly prodding/booze/inspiration/etc?
:(
Re: pokes this fic
Date: 2011-01-13 02:50 am (UTC)