coastlines (dean/jo, r)
written for who_favor_fire, dean/jo, falling back in again
many apologies for my bastardization of mathematics. seriously.
it’s a pattern with them: they fight and they fuck and they fall in and out of love.
jo likes the predictability.
i. (fight)
space-filling curves don’t cross lines. they’re not lateral. they shouldn’t touch.
her knuckles don’t neatly fit against his jaw. his fingers don’t curl all the way around her throat. (her mouth slots to his, slick and warm and wet. perfect.)
fuck you, and it circles back to her in one smooth and clean motion. like a boomerang.
maybe dean and her are sub-curves, because they can connect.
ii. (fuck)
she moves her thumb over his wrist.
we’re fractal, she says. broken and fractured. self-similar objects. we’re coastlines.
he grins and says, shit, you’re fucking crazy, and then he kisses her.
with her knees on either side of his hips, she pins his hands over his head and rides him hard and fast, tits bouncing, as she moves the tips of her fingers across the bright-blue veins in his arms, fragmented under his skin.
iii. (fall in)
when jo can’t sleep, she whispers number sequences in the dark. one, two, three, five, eight.
she can go three weeks without seeing dean. three weeks where he doesn’t call and three weeks where she doesn’t get herself off on how he looks when he comes, all sticky and messy on her stomach, her fingers curling up inside of her.
thirteen, twenty-one, thirty-four.
he always comes back on the fourth week. dean is a straight-lined constant.
and when he sits her down on his cock and slowly pumps in and out of her, she’ll count the freckles on the tops of his shoulders, all in small groups of threes and fours.
(and he’ll smile and hold her)
iv. (fall out)
they’re the only two variables in the equation.
and jo knows that there are rules.
a kite and a dart. it can’t work. mathematically, it shouldn’t, but it does.
he puts his lips to her neck, asks, what are you talking about?
rhombuses. she leans towards him, curling their fingers together.
many apologies for my bastardization of mathematics. seriously.
it’s a pattern with them: they fight and they fuck and they fall in and out of love.
jo likes the predictability.
i. (fight)
space-filling curves don’t cross lines. they’re not lateral. they shouldn’t touch.
her knuckles don’t neatly fit against his jaw. his fingers don’t curl all the way around her throat. (her mouth slots to his, slick and warm and wet. perfect.)
fuck you, and it circles back to her in one smooth and clean motion. like a boomerang.
maybe dean and her are sub-curves, because they can connect.
ii. (fuck)
she moves her thumb over his wrist.
we’re fractal, she says. broken and fractured. self-similar objects. we’re coastlines.
he grins and says, shit, you’re fucking crazy, and then he kisses her.
with her knees on either side of his hips, she pins his hands over his head and rides him hard and fast, tits bouncing, as she moves the tips of her fingers across the bright-blue veins in his arms, fragmented under his skin.
iii. (fall in)
when jo can’t sleep, she whispers number sequences in the dark. one, two, three, five, eight.
she can go three weeks without seeing dean. three weeks where he doesn’t call and three weeks where she doesn’t get herself off on how he looks when he comes, all sticky and messy on her stomach, her fingers curling up inside of her.
thirteen, twenty-one, thirty-four.
he always comes back on the fourth week. dean is a straight-lined constant.
and when he sits her down on his cock and slowly pumps in and out of her, she’ll count the freckles on the tops of his shoulders, all in small groups of threes and fours.
(and he’ll smile and hold her)
iv. (fall out)
they’re the only two variables in the equation.
and jo knows that there are rules.
a kite and a dart. it can’t work. mathematically, it shouldn’t, but it does.
he puts his lips to her neck, asks, what are you talking about?
rhombuses. she leans towards him, curling their fingers together.