I have a thing for holiday sensory ficlets, I guess.
I made kashmir1 write me Dean with fireworks fic and promised some J2 in return. And you know that whole 'stylistic-risk' thing I was talking about? This is...different, that's for sure. Jules was fabulous and beta'd for me.
and i'm looking for you in the silence that we share (x)
[Jared/Jensen, light R - 500+ words]
Soft tinker of some melody wafting through thick night air and his heart beats too loud. The shift into one another's space is inevitable, thighs pressed tight side-to-side, both boxed in by the still warm metal truck bed, sun-heat seeped.
The cold drip-slide of condensation over his fingertips does little to cool the warmth stewing at the very core of his body, so he just goes with it, allowing himself to spiral-sink downward, just like the sip of beer trickling down the back of his throat.
It starts.
Bright crackle-hiss of motion and color exploding outward from the smallest slice of light streaking up the sky. The flashes white out the ever present twinkle of its permanent residents, steady points sharing their domain with showy imposters who burn out too quick, fade away. Only puffs of smoke remain, the humid press of atmosphere shifting them along in a lazy afterthought.
Loud, the echoes. They reverberate back, pulsing through his chest and washing out the beat within and he tears his gaze from the sky; shifts it over and sees. Sees his face, upturned and bathed in strobe-like Technicolor wash, cut of cheek and curve of lip: yellow, green, red. The brilliant white sparkle of teeth wide, eyes round in simple contentment and awe.
It starts.
Home, Texas that, and home, body solid and sure at his side. Sizzle in the sky and puff of breath against column of neck, unblemished skin begging to be marked in purples and blues. He turns, sensing; turns and the world stills, if only for the single moment where the static charge of light and sound collide to ratchet the dull ache to a simmering burn.
Slide molasses smooth, ice cream melt and lips brush. It’s more natural than he thought: no jolt rocketing through him, no electric-shock battery when tongues dart and touch, stroke.
Light still dances at the corners of his eyes, crisscrossing along his lids when muscles shift and spine twists, when the hard press of truck bed bites into him on one side and the hard press of cock and chest does the same on the other. Constant roaming fingers and wet lips and the lingering taste of blueberries and bitter and it bleeds, blends and shifts.
The cacophony of it all drowns him, sensation overwhelming, emotion too complex to do anything with but feel, let it possess and propel him forward with gentle urgency. It explodes, a blindfold of heat and light, full-body ache and bone-deep finality, arms entwined, space too small, skin too tight for the race of blood beneath the surface.
Pin-pricks of light burn themselves once more into the backdrop of darkness, reclaiming their place as the final wisps of invading smoke float away. Cotton sticks damp with sweat and release, the hair at his nape drenched wet and far too hot for the slide of calloused skin there, but he says nothing, simply tilts and shifts until eyes and lips, shoulders align. He says nothing; he doesn’t have to.
The shift is inevitable and it is then, under the broad and familiar canopy of home and family and together, that it starts.
and i'm looking for you in the silence that we share (x)
[Jared/Jensen, light R - 500+ words]
Soft tinker of some melody wafting through thick night air and his heart beats too loud. The shift into one another's space is inevitable, thighs pressed tight side-to-side, both boxed in by the still warm metal truck bed, sun-heat seeped.
The cold drip-slide of condensation over his fingertips does little to cool the warmth stewing at the very core of his body, so he just goes with it, allowing himself to spiral-sink downward, just like the sip of beer trickling down the back of his throat.
It starts.
Bright crackle-hiss of motion and color exploding outward from the smallest slice of light streaking up the sky. The flashes white out the ever present twinkle of its permanent residents, steady points sharing their domain with showy imposters who burn out too quick, fade away. Only puffs of smoke remain, the humid press of atmosphere shifting them along in a lazy afterthought.
Loud, the echoes. They reverberate back, pulsing through his chest and washing out the beat within and he tears his gaze from the sky; shifts it over and sees. Sees his face, upturned and bathed in strobe-like Technicolor wash, cut of cheek and curve of lip: yellow, green, red. The brilliant white sparkle of teeth wide, eyes round in simple contentment and awe.
It starts.
Home, Texas that, and home, body solid and sure at his side. Sizzle in the sky and puff of breath against column of neck, unblemished skin begging to be marked in purples and blues. He turns, sensing; turns and the world stills, if only for the single moment where the static charge of light and sound collide to ratchet the dull ache to a simmering burn.
Slide molasses smooth, ice cream melt and lips brush. It’s more natural than he thought: no jolt rocketing through him, no electric-shock battery when tongues dart and touch, stroke.
Light still dances at the corners of his eyes, crisscrossing along his lids when muscles shift and spine twists, when the hard press of truck bed bites into him on one side and the hard press of cock and chest does the same on the other. Constant roaming fingers and wet lips and the lingering taste of blueberries and bitter and it bleeds, blends and shifts.
The cacophony of it all drowns him, sensation overwhelming, emotion too complex to do anything with but feel, let it possess and propel him forward with gentle urgency. It explodes, a blindfold of heat and light, full-body ache and bone-deep finality, arms entwined, space too small, skin too tight for the race of blood beneath the surface.
Pin-pricks of light burn themselves once more into the backdrop of darkness, reclaiming their place as the final wisps of invading smoke float away. Cotton sticks damp with sweat and release, the hair at his nape drenched wet and far too hot for the slide of calloused skin there, but he says nothing, simply tilts and shifts until eyes and lips, shoulders align. He says nothing; he doesn’t have to.
The shift is inevitable and it is then, under the broad and familiar canopy of home and family and together, that it starts.