Early Mornings and Late Nights Under Overcast Sky (Jensen/Jared RPS) -- 37/? (WIP)
Title: Early Mornings and Late Nights Under Overcast Sky
Characters/Pairing: Jensen Ackles / Jared Padalecki; Jensen Ackles / Luanne (OFC); Jared Padalecki/Pete (OMC); Jared/Eric Kripke/JDM; stated Jared/Sandy; stated Jared/Rebecca (OFC) and stated Jared/Ryan (OMC)
POV: Jensen Ackles
Author's Notes: It’s fiction. That means it’s not real, folks. Jensen and Jared are real people. So is Eric Kripke. The show “Supernatural” is a real TV show on the WB11. If anything else in this is real, I wasn’t aware of it.
I'm not going to say when or if the next chapter will be posted...
I just now (after twenty-five chapters and nearly 60,000 words) admitted to even writing this. Yes, I am responsible for this epic debacle!
But really, it took on a mind/life of it's own... So... read at your own risk. I would enjoy feedback, but I'll understand if you don't want to start reading a WIP with no end in sight or in the works. I really have no idea what's coming next here.
Summary: Jared’s girl (Sandra) breaks up with him. Jensen tries to help. Things go (rapidly) downhill from there... then fester... then get better?
Come on! Hop in the handbasket! There be room here for everyone!
Spoilers: Overall there’s really nothing to see here… there are a few very vague spoilers for “Bugs” and some minor spoilers for “Faith” and “Bloody Mary”.
-------------------------
Chapter Thirty-Seven: Shadows Come from Dark Places
Rating: hard R/borderline NC-17, adult themes, medical themes, het imagery, homosexual imagery, vulgarity, language
Pairing: Jensen/Jared kinda sorta; stated Jensen/Luanne
Word Count: 2,556
Mentions of; slight spoilers for “Bloody Mary”
And we’re going on willing suspension of disbelief again… I have Jensen talking about passing out from panic attacks. At least I’m keeping continuity in the story.
Chapter Thirty-Seven: Shadows Come from Dark Places
Jared rambles about the contraption they had him wearing today, tells me how uncomfortable it was, what a project it was to talk around it. “At least it required less makeup than bleeding from the eyes.” He says, referring to the hours he spent in makeup to get his eyes to bleed for Bloody Mary.
“Eric let us go early.” He says finally, his voice quiet and tired. “I’m glad…”
I am, too. Jared looked about a second and a strong wind away from collapsing on set when Eric finally waved us off and gave his blessing in leaving. And he’d fallen asleep in his trailer waiting for me. “Me, too…”
“I was pretty tired.” Jared sighs, leaning back against the cushions. He lets his head fall back onto the lip of them, turns to look at me with a lopsided grin, which suddenly fades with his next words. “You… saw the scar.”
“Jared…” I’m not sure what he wants me to say. I did see it. Touched it again. I’m not going to apologize.
“I…” He turns his head away as though he’s ashamed, and when he whispers, “I’m sorry… I didn’t mean for you… I didn’t want you to see that,” I realize that’s exactly what it is-he’s ashamed of it.
“Jared.”
He smiles sadly, and his hand goes to his midsection, and he rubs his shirt idly over the skin where I know the scar is. I reach out and grab his wrist, stopping him. I never noticed before, but he does it a lot-rub where the scar is. I don’t even think he knows he’s doing it half the time.
“Jare.” I whisper. “Don’t be sorry.”
He looks down at my hand, which encircles his wrist. “It’s… just a reminder.” He says finally. “It’s a reminder that I’m weak… and different… that I’ll never quite fit in and that I don’t belong… That I’m not like you… or…”
“Jared!” I can’t believe the words coming from his mouth. I don’t believe them, and I don’t want to believe that what I’m hearing is really how he thinks of himself. “Jared… do you… do you really think that?”
His hand moves over the scar again. “It’s ugly…” He whispers, looking down again as I still his movement. He won’t look at me.
“Like those people who did this to you.” I whisper, leaning close to his ear and resting my chin on his shoulder. I wonder when I got so touchy-feely. Jared’s always been the more tactile of the two of us. Maybe just because he’s more used to it than I am, because admittedly, I’ve been very physical with Luanne in the past, and I’ve certainly been touching Jared an awful lot lately.
“Like me…” He counters quietly.
My hand flies from his wrist to his cheek, turning his face to mine. “No! Not. Like. You.” My voice is harsher than I intend, and Jared flinches at the sound, and the roughness of my touch. I take a breath to settle my emotions, force my hand to relax against his skin. “You’re not ugly, Jare...” I don’t know why I can’t just come out and tell him he’s beautiful, inside and out, but it’s not that easy for me. “You may be… a lot of things. But ugly is not one of them.”
His face falls, and in that instant, everything makes sense. Or at least some jumbled semblance of sense. The drinking and the sleeplessness when Sandy broke up with him… the irritability with me, which had always struck me as somewhat odd-he’d never been that edgy around me-the flubbed lines and the not eating and the illness settling in so fast. How quiet he’d been.
He’d always been a bit of a loner, but he’d always been able to smile and joke around like he was one of the guys… after Sandy, things changed fast. Looking in his sad eyes now, it makes a sort of sense I never wanted it to make.
Jared’s been hiding. From everyone. From me. From his past, himself, who he is.
He puts on fronts and shows you what he thinks you want to see, like all of us do to some extent, but his run deeper. He’s hidden everything. His feelings, who he is. Seeing him-really seeing him-because he’s finally letting me, just hurts.
He’s so broken inside. So afraid of being rejected, so afraid he’ll never have a home other than his house and family thousands of miles away in Texas. I don’t know what made him trust me. But I vow to myself that I’ll never break that trust. I may hurt him… I don’t know how not to… but I’ll never betray him. I’m not going to be responsible for another invisible scar on his heart.
I don’t know how to fix him.
I know that I want to try.
That I want to try hits hard, like a punch to my gut, sends my thoughts swirling and my heart pounding. I can’t do this. I take a breath. This can’t happen right now. I can not have a panic attack right now. Not when I have to talk to Jared and get him talking to me. He needs to know that I don’t think he’s weak… that he may be different, but it’s not a bad different…
I don’t know how to make that clear to him though. And the more I think about it, the clammier my palms get. ‘no… no… no… this is not happening right now’. That train of thought, of course, just makes it worse.
That we’re both sitting here trying to deal with our own demons is the last coherent thought I have before the all-encompassing panic takes over, and it strikes an odd chord of irony with me.
I’m barely aware of Jared’s fingers pressing warm and gentle against my mouth, his voice quiet and caring telling me to swallow and his hands, strong and sure, holding the glass of water for me.
The Xanax works same as always, dulls and melds the edges of pain and panic, settles me to the point where I know first and foremost that I’ve got to do something to prevent the attacks. I’ve had too many recently, one or two comparatively close to being as bad as the ones that got a friend to take me to the hospital in Los Angeles.
Less coffee and more sleep would be a good start, followed by making sure I get into the gym regularly. And I should eat regularly. Eddie’s told me quite often actually that regularly scheduled meals, in combination with sufficient sleep and regular exercise, can help reduce the frequency of panic attacks. Thing is, with my schedule, it’s hard to eat regularly or healthy.
When I fully come back to myself, I’m aware of lying on the couch on my back, head resting in Jared’s lap. His fingers are tangled in my hair and he’s reading something-a pamphlet. I recognize it quickly as the handful of papers and brochures Eddie sent me a while back about panic disorder-they like to call it panic disorder, like it’s something more than just what I feel is an inability to cope at times… like it’s this chronic… disease… I guess maybe it is-that I never got around to reading.
Jared looks down at me when I sigh. “Reading up on my affliction?” I ask him.
“Do you really get all of these?” He motions up and down the length of the list of symptoms he’s studying. “I know you get the nightmares… I’ve felt your heart pounding, and I’ve felt you shaking… but… what about the rest of them?”
I sit up and lean into him, reading over his shoulder. I drag my pointer finger down the list, running through symptoms I’ve manifested. “Some of them I get with every attack… others are rare but I’ve had them… like the shortness of breath I only get occasionally, that’s usually paired with the dizziness or faintness-the couple times I’ve passed out… Pounding heart… shaking… those you’ve seen-er, felt-for yourself. I get those pretty regularly. Sweating and chills…”
“Feeling of choking?” He reads off one I’ve skipped.
“Rarely. Very rarely. Only when it’s really bad.” I skip over the nausea and upset stomach purposely, not wanting to answer questions of ‘have you ever thrown up’, because I have, and I did, just last night. I’ve never experienced numbness or tingling so I skip past those also. “Chest pain is rare for me… the fear is always there during an attack… dying… losing control. Detachment from self is common for me… and the nightmares you’re well aware of.”
“You sleepwalk.”
“Sometimes.” It’s not listed as a symptom, specifically, and Eddie’s never mentioned it even as being a rare symptom. I think it’s just something I do when I’m stressed out.
I settle against him as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, and without a second thought until I am-warm and pressed close to him, chin on his shoulder with my nose nuzzling his stubble-covered cheek.
He swats lightly at me. “I know. I have to shave.”
“It’s kinda cute.” I reply. I can still smell hints of the cologne he’d splashed on before leaving the trailer when he apparently thought I’d let him go to a club in his condition-asleep on his feet.
He holds up the pamphlets. “So it says here you should work out regularly…”
“I’ve been going to the gym.”
“…and get adequate sleep… …don’t even try to tell me you’ve been.” He says, cutting me off when I open my mouth to say something. “…and I told you that pouring your coffee down the drain was for your health.” He says, seeing the part about cutting back on caffeine intake.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, Dr. Padalecki.” I grumble.
He smiles, then the smile fades. “What’s this here about regular meals?” He asks.
“My doctor told me about that.” I tell him. “It’s just… with what we do, that’s hard. You know that, Jare… filming half the day… we break and grab a bite when we can.”
“Do you think it’d help?”
I shrug. It probably would. It definitely would. I know at least for me, during the time I was without work in Los Angeles, starting to eat three meals a day, with a mid-day snack if I was jonesing for something, really helped cut back on the attacks, and helped me get them under control after they released me from the hospital. “Maybe?”
He nods, continues to read the pamphlet. “This true?” He asks. “You afraid of having another one?”
“All the time.” I whisper seriously. “It hurts… to have one. It’s… terrifying, Jare.” I admit, not really aware that I’m nestling my face closer to his neck until it’s there and done.
Everything he’d said earlier replays itself in my head as I feel his rough stubble against my face, breathe in his scent and feel the movement of his jaw and throat as he speaks-words I’m not hearing for thought.
“It’s… just a reminder… It’s a reminder that I’m weak… and different… that I’ll never quite fit in and that I don’t belong… That I’m not like you. It’s ugly… Like me.” His hand still rests on the fabric of his shirt covering the long mark on his skin, and he’s again idly rubbing at it.
“Does it hurt?” I ask him, glancing at his hand.
“Huh?” He looks at me, follows my gaze and nod of my chin towards where his hand rests on his midsection, stops rubbing. “Oh… that?” He asks, and doesn’t see me nod in reply. “No… no it doesn’t. It’s…” He breaks off.
“You keep rubbing at it.” I reach down to take his hand from his shirt. “Thought maybe it still... bothered you.”
He snatches his hand back and lays it back where it was, fingers playing nervously at his shirt. “It’s fine…” he murmurs nervously, and bunches the material between his fingers as if it’s a conscious effort he makes to keep from rubbing the skin.
It bothers him still, whether he’ll admit it or not, and not in the physical sense. It’s emotional pain now. A physical and an emotional scar left behind by people too stupid to accept someone for being different.
At ten, Jared asks if I want to take a sleeping pill, doesn’t push when I shake my head no. He says he’s going to bed, and I don’t argue with him.
I stay up for a couple more hours, drink the beer Jared wouldn’t let me have earlier, stare out the living room window at nothing in particular for hours. I drift in and out of shadows and darkness, eventually pick up the phone after debating while, and at eleven-thirty, call Luanne.
She’s sugar like always, sweet and southern-sounding even though she’s not, tells me how she went and got her nails done today. Her hair she says is long, she can feel it tickling her back, she can feel my fingers combing through it.
I listen to her through a haze, not sure why I called her in the first place. Maybe to get her out of my mind, maybe as proof to myself that the interest is no longer there.
When she tells me how she’d unzip my pants with her teeth though, I can’t deny my cock’s interest, and settle myself on the couch. She talks to me, and like the yellow pages, I let my fingers do the walking, down beneath the elastic of my boxers and over the sensitive skin of my dick.
Somewhere between her telling me about how she’d suck me off and how she imagines it’d feel with her hand in my hair and me nose-deep in her cunt, I see her pushing me lower and lower, and instead of coming face-to-face with her wet heat, I’m face-to-face with a strap-on, and she’s telling me to suck, that I know I want to, that I’m nothing but a whore, I’d do it for anybody.
“You’d do it for Jared, though, wouldn’t you?” She taunts, pushes her hips towards me so the hard plastic dildo presses past my lips and painfully into my teeth. She tangles manicured claws in my hair, yanks back painfully, and when I cry out, moves just enough to shove the strap-on deep into my mouth.
“That’s it, you little whore. Suck my cock…” And her voice changes then, deepens, becomes more masculine. “You’re a faggot, Jensen. I always knew you were. You’re a whore, a cocksucker, you’re a whore for cock, aren’t you…” The cock in my mouth is alive, pulsing and throbbing and hot and heavy against my tongue, pressing painfully against my throat. I gag, try to identify the voice or the face… but there is no face… just a cock, dark pubic hair that’s scratchy against my mouth. “Aren’t you? Jenny…”
I wake up screaming at midnight, cum drying on one hand, the phone in my other. There’s an empty bottle of beer on the coffee table, and I honestly can’t remember if I actually called Luanne or not.
-------------------------
Characters/Pairing: Jensen Ackles / Jared Padalecki; Jensen Ackles / Luanne (OFC); Jared Padalecki/Pete (OMC); Jared/Eric Kripke/JDM; stated Jared/Sandy; stated Jared/Rebecca (OFC) and stated Jared/Ryan (OMC)
POV: Jensen Ackles
Author's Notes: It’s fiction. That means it’s not real, folks. Jensen and Jared are real people. So is Eric Kripke. The show “Supernatural” is a real TV show on the WB11. If anything else in this is real, I wasn’t aware of it.
I'm not going to say when or if the next chapter will be posted...
I just now (after twenty-five chapters and nearly 60,000 words) admitted to even writing this. Yes, I am responsible for this epic debacle!
But really, it took on a mind/life of it's own... So... read at your own risk. I would enjoy feedback, but I'll understand if you don't want to start reading a WIP with no end in sight or in the works. I really have no idea what's coming next here.
Summary: Jared’s girl (Sandra) breaks up with him. Jensen tries to help. Things go (rapidly) downhill from there... then fester... then get better?
Come on! Hop in the handbasket! There be room here for everyone!
Spoilers: Overall there’s really nothing to see here… there are a few very vague spoilers for “Bugs” and some minor spoilers for “Faith” and “Bloody Mary”.
-------------------------
Chapter Thirty-Seven: Shadows Come from Dark Places
Rating: hard R/borderline NC-17, adult themes, medical themes, het imagery, homosexual imagery, vulgarity, language
Pairing: Jensen/Jared kinda sorta; stated Jensen/Luanne
Word Count: 2,556
Mentions of; slight spoilers for “Bloody Mary”
And we’re going on willing suspension of disbelief again… I have Jensen talking about passing out from panic attacks. At least I’m keeping continuity in the story.
Chapter Thirty-Seven: Shadows Come from Dark Places
Jared rambles about the contraption they had him wearing today, tells me how uncomfortable it was, what a project it was to talk around it. “At least it required less makeup than bleeding from the eyes.” He says, referring to the hours he spent in makeup to get his eyes to bleed for Bloody Mary.
“Eric let us go early.” He says finally, his voice quiet and tired. “I’m glad…”
I am, too. Jared looked about a second and a strong wind away from collapsing on set when Eric finally waved us off and gave his blessing in leaving. And he’d fallen asleep in his trailer waiting for me. “Me, too…”
“I was pretty tired.” Jared sighs, leaning back against the cushions. He lets his head fall back onto the lip of them, turns to look at me with a lopsided grin, which suddenly fades with his next words. “You… saw the scar.”
“Jared…” I’m not sure what he wants me to say. I did see it. Touched it again. I’m not going to apologize.
“I…” He turns his head away as though he’s ashamed, and when he whispers, “I’m sorry… I didn’t mean for you… I didn’t want you to see that,” I realize that’s exactly what it is-he’s ashamed of it.
“Jared.”
He smiles sadly, and his hand goes to his midsection, and he rubs his shirt idly over the skin where I know the scar is. I reach out and grab his wrist, stopping him. I never noticed before, but he does it a lot-rub where the scar is. I don’t even think he knows he’s doing it half the time.
“Jare.” I whisper. “Don’t be sorry.”
He looks down at my hand, which encircles his wrist. “It’s… just a reminder.” He says finally. “It’s a reminder that I’m weak… and different… that I’ll never quite fit in and that I don’t belong… That I’m not like you… or…”
“Jared!” I can’t believe the words coming from his mouth. I don’t believe them, and I don’t want to believe that what I’m hearing is really how he thinks of himself. “Jared… do you… do you really think that?”
His hand moves over the scar again. “It’s ugly…” He whispers, looking down again as I still his movement. He won’t look at me.
“Like those people who did this to you.” I whisper, leaning close to his ear and resting my chin on his shoulder. I wonder when I got so touchy-feely. Jared’s always been the more tactile of the two of us. Maybe just because he’s more used to it than I am, because admittedly, I’ve been very physical with Luanne in the past, and I’ve certainly been touching Jared an awful lot lately.
“Like me…” He counters quietly.
My hand flies from his wrist to his cheek, turning his face to mine. “No! Not. Like. You.” My voice is harsher than I intend, and Jared flinches at the sound, and the roughness of my touch. I take a breath to settle my emotions, force my hand to relax against his skin. “You’re not ugly, Jare...” I don’t know why I can’t just come out and tell him he’s beautiful, inside and out, but it’s not that easy for me. “You may be… a lot of things. But ugly is not one of them.”
His face falls, and in that instant, everything makes sense. Or at least some jumbled semblance of sense. The drinking and the sleeplessness when Sandy broke up with him… the irritability with me, which had always struck me as somewhat odd-he’d never been that edgy around me-the flubbed lines and the not eating and the illness settling in so fast. How quiet he’d been.
He’d always been a bit of a loner, but he’d always been able to smile and joke around like he was one of the guys… after Sandy, things changed fast. Looking in his sad eyes now, it makes a sort of sense I never wanted it to make.
Jared’s been hiding. From everyone. From me. From his past, himself, who he is.
He puts on fronts and shows you what he thinks you want to see, like all of us do to some extent, but his run deeper. He’s hidden everything. His feelings, who he is. Seeing him-really seeing him-because he’s finally letting me, just hurts.
He’s so broken inside. So afraid of being rejected, so afraid he’ll never have a home other than his house and family thousands of miles away in Texas. I don’t know what made him trust me. But I vow to myself that I’ll never break that trust. I may hurt him… I don’t know how not to… but I’ll never betray him. I’m not going to be responsible for another invisible scar on his heart.
I don’t know how to fix him.
I know that I want to try.
That I want to try hits hard, like a punch to my gut, sends my thoughts swirling and my heart pounding. I can’t do this. I take a breath. This can’t happen right now. I can not have a panic attack right now. Not when I have to talk to Jared and get him talking to me. He needs to know that I don’t think he’s weak… that he may be different, but it’s not a bad different…
I don’t know how to make that clear to him though. And the more I think about it, the clammier my palms get. ‘no… no… no… this is not happening right now’. That train of thought, of course, just makes it worse.
That we’re both sitting here trying to deal with our own demons is the last coherent thought I have before the all-encompassing panic takes over, and it strikes an odd chord of irony with me.
I’m barely aware of Jared’s fingers pressing warm and gentle against my mouth, his voice quiet and caring telling me to swallow and his hands, strong and sure, holding the glass of water for me.
The Xanax works same as always, dulls and melds the edges of pain and panic, settles me to the point where I know first and foremost that I’ve got to do something to prevent the attacks. I’ve had too many recently, one or two comparatively close to being as bad as the ones that got a friend to take me to the hospital in Los Angeles.
Less coffee and more sleep would be a good start, followed by making sure I get into the gym regularly. And I should eat regularly. Eddie’s told me quite often actually that regularly scheduled meals, in combination with sufficient sleep and regular exercise, can help reduce the frequency of panic attacks. Thing is, with my schedule, it’s hard to eat regularly or healthy.
When I fully come back to myself, I’m aware of lying on the couch on my back, head resting in Jared’s lap. His fingers are tangled in my hair and he’s reading something-a pamphlet. I recognize it quickly as the handful of papers and brochures Eddie sent me a while back about panic disorder-they like to call it panic disorder, like it’s something more than just what I feel is an inability to cope at times… like it’s this chronic… disease… I guess maybe it is-that I never got around to reading.
Jared looks down at me when I sigh. “Reading up on my affliction?” I ask him.
“Do you really get all of these?” He motions up and down the length of the list of symptoms he’s studying. “I know you get the nightmares… I’ve felt your heart pounding, and I’ve felt you shaking… but… what about the rest of them?”
I sit up and lean into him, reading over his shoulder. I drag my pointer finger down the list, running through symptoms I’ve manifested. “Some of them I get with every attack… others are rare but I’ve had them… like the shortness of breath I only get occasionally, that’s usually paired with the dizziness or faintness-the couple times I’ve passed out… Pounding heart… shaking… those you’ve seen-er, felt-for yourself. I get those pretty regularly. Sweating and chills…”
“Feeling of choking?” He reads off one I’ve skipped.
“Rarely. Very rarely. Only when it’s really bad.” I skip over the nausea and upset stomach purposely, not wanting to answer questions of ‘have you ever thrown up’, because I have, and I did, just last night. I’ve never experienced numbness or tingling so I skip past those also. “Chest pain is rare for me… the fear is always there during an attack… dying… losing control. Detachment from self is common for me… and the nightmares you’re well aware of.”
“You sleepwalk.”
“Sometimes.” It’s not listed as a symptom, specifically, and Eddie’s never mentioned it even as being a rare symptom. I think it’s just something I do when I’m stressed out.
I settle against him as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, and without a second thought until I am-warm and pressed close to him, chin on his shoulder with my nose nuzzling his stubble-covered cheek.
He swats lightly at me. “I know. I have to shave.”
“It’s kinda cute.” I reply. I can still smell hints of the cologne he’d splashed on before leaving the trailer when he apparently thought I’d let him go to a club in his condition-asleep on his feet.
He holds up the pamphlets. “So it says here you should work out regularly…”
“I’ve been going to the gym.”
“…and get adequate sleep… …don’t even try to tell me you’ve been.” He says, cutting me off when I open my mouth to say something. “…and I told you that pouring your coffee down the drain was for your health.” He says, seeing the part about cutting back on caffeine intake.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, Dr. Padalecki.” I grumble.
He smiles, then the smile fades. “What’s this here about regular meals?” He asks.
“My doctor told me about that.” I tell him. “It’s just… with what we do, that’s hard. You know that, Jare… filming half the day… we break and grab a bite when we can.”
“Do you think it’d help?”
I shrug. It probably would. It definitely would. I know at least for me, during the time I was without work in Los Angeles, starting to eat three meals a day, with a mid-day snack if I was jonesing for something, really helped cut back on the attacks, and helped me get them under control after they released me from the hospital. “Maybe?”
He nods, continues to read the pamphlet. “This true?” He asks. “You afraid of having another one?”
“All the time.” I whisper seriously. “It hurts… to have one. It’s… terrifying, Jare.” I admit, not really aware that I’m nestling my face closer to his neck until it’s there and done.
Everything he’d said earlier replays itself in my head as I feel his rough stubble against my face, breathe in his scent and feel the movement of his jaw and throat as he speaks-words I’m not hearing for thought.
“It’s… just a reminder… It’s a reminder that I’m weak… and different… that I’ll never quite fit in and that I don’t belong… That I’m not like you. It’s ugly… Like me.” His hand still rests on the fabric of his shirt covering the long mark on his skin, and he’s again idly rubbing at it.
“Does it hurt?” I ask him, glancing at his hand.
“Huh?” He looks at me, follows my gaze and nod of my chin towards where his hand rests on his midsection, stops rubbing. “Oh… that?” He asks, and doesn’t see me nod in reply. “No… no it doesn’t. It’s…” He breaks off.
“You keep rubbing at it.” I reach down to take his hand from his shirt. “Thought maybe it still... bothered you.”
He snatches his hand back and lays it back where it was, fingers playing nervously at his shirt. “It’s fine…” he murmurs nervously, and bunches the material between his fingers as if it’s a conscious effort he makes to keep from rubbing the skin.
It bothers him still, whether he’ll admit it or not, and not in the physical sense. It’s emotional pain now. A physical and an emotional scar left behind by people too stupid to accept someone for being different.
At ten, Jared asks if I want to take a sleeping pill, doesn’t push when I shake my head no. He says he’s going to bed, and I don’t argue with him.
I stay up for a couple more hours, drink the beer Jared wouldn’t let me have earlier, stare out the living room window at nothing in particular for hours. I drift in and out of shadows and darkness, eventually pick up the phone after debating while, and at eleven-thirty, call Luanne.
She’s sugar like always, sweet and southern-sounding even though she’s not, tells me how she went and got her nails done today. Her hair she says is long, she can feel it tickling her back, she can feel my fingers combing through it.
I listen to her through a haze, not sure why I called her in the first place. Maybe to get her out of my mind, maybe as proof to myself that the interest is no longer there.
When she tells me how she’d unzip my pants with her teeth though, I can’t deny my cock’s interest, and settle myself on the couch. She talks to me, and like the yellow pages, I let my fingers do the walking, down beneath the elastic of my boxers and over the sensitive skin of my dick.
Somewhere between her telling me about how she’d suck me off and how she imagines it’d feel with her hand in my hair and me nose-deep in her cunt, I see her pushing me lower and lower, and instead of coming face-to-face with her wet heat, I’m face-to-face with a strap-on, and she’s telling me to suck, that I know I want to, that I’m nothing but a whore, I’d do it for anybody.
“You’d do it for Jared, though, wouldn’t you?” She taunts, pushes her hips towards me so the hard plastic dildo presses past my lips and painfully into my teeth. She tangles manicured claws in my hair, yanks back painfully, and when I cry out, moves just enough to shove the strap-on deep into my mouth.
“That’s it, you little whore. Suck my cock…” And her voice changes then, deepens, becomes more masculine. “You’re a faggot, Jensen. I always knew you were. You’re a whore, a cocksucker, you’re a whore for cock, aren’t you…” The cock in my mouth is alive, pulsing and throbbing and hot and heavy against my tongue, pressing painfully against my throat. I gag, try to identify the voice or the face… but there is no face… just a cock, dark pubic hair that’s scratchy against my mouth. “Aren’t you? Jenny…”
I wake up screaming at midnight, cum drying on one hand, the phone in my other. There’s an empty bottle of beer on the coffee table, and I honestly can’t remember if I actually called Luanne or not.
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