.0123 - Nothing Quite Like Texas on a Saturday Night
Jensen/Jared (Jensen/Danneel, Jared/Genevieve)
334 words
Title by Willie Nelson
A/N: Inspired by a Tumblr post:
crying because I can picture Jared and Jensen sneaking out of their houses late at night to go sit on each other’s porches and drink beer and star at the stars and talk and just doing nothing but being in each others presence
Written in like ten minutes, so read at your own risk.
A stripe of moonlight in an open window, like a ribbon, a ball of thread leading from the labyrinth. A single shadow on the backdrop of moving silver liquid.
Jared sits down on the pier and bumps his shoulder against Jensen’s, a smile he cannot even see acknowledging his presence.
"Thought you said you were gonna stay in tonight."
Jensen nods, drags his feet through the murky water rippling below. “Yeah.”
Jared dips his toes into the lake, slides his leg over Jensen’s, soft whisper of cold skin. “Yeah.”
There are bottles of chilled beer, the clink of a secret toast.
Jensen lies back onto the darkened wharf boards and looks up, reaches his hand out. Pale skin on obsidian dark and gold freckles of stars.
"What are you doing?"
"Touching the stars. They seem to be so close here."
He walks his fingers over the sky, following the paths demarcated millenniums ago, to the man on the moon, and back. Along the highway of the Milky Way.
Jared’s eyes, meanwhile, take a trip over Jensen. From the wonder in his eyes, invisible, but undoubtedly there, over the bow of his upper lip, and the rise and fall of his chest. To the flat plains of his stomach and firm thighs in worn denim. He touches his fingers to Jensen’s face, tracing the contour of his jaw, the hollow of his throat.
Jensen turns his head to look at him, soft rasp of his stubble beneath Jared’s fingertips. “What are you doing?”
"Touching the star. You feel so close here."
He leans in, close enough to feel the warmth of Jensen’s body, taste the beer on his breath and sea on his skin. Breathes him in. Breathes him out on a sigh.
It’s stupid, he knows, reckless, selfish. But he can’t help it, can’t help the push-pull of want, the drag out of before, of yesterdays.
Jensen’s fingers are warm at the nape of his neck, his mouth a wet heat beneath his lips.
334 words
Title by Willie Nelson
A/N: Inspired by a Tumblr post:
crying because I can picture Jared and Jensen sneaking out of their houses late at night to go sit on each other’s porches and drink beer and star at the stars and talk and just doing nothing but being in each others presence
Written in like ten minutes, so read at your own risk.
A stripe of moonlight in an open window, like a ribbon, a ball of thread leading from the labyrinth. A single shadow on the backdrop of moving silver liquid.
Jared sits down on the pier and bumps his shoulder against Jensen’s, a smile he cannot even see acknowledging his presence.
"Thought you said you were gonna stay in tonight."
Jensen nods, drags his feet through the murky water rippling below. “Yeah.”
Jared dips his toes into the lake, slides his leg over Jensen’s, soft whisper of cold skin. “Yeah.”
There are bottles of chilled beer, the clink of a secret toast.
Jensen lies back onto the darkened wharf boards and looks up, reaches his hand out. Pale skin on obsidian dark and gold freckles of stars.
"What are you doing?"
"Touching the stars. They seem to be so close here."
He walks his fingers over the sky, following the paths demarcated millenniums ago, to the man on the moon, and back. Along the highway of the Milky Way.
Jared’s eyes, meanwhile, take a trip over Jensen. From the wonder in his eyes, invisible, but undoubtedly there, over the bow of his upper lip, and the rise and fall of his chest. To the flat plains of his stomach and firm thighs in worn denim. He touches his fingers to Jensen’s face, tracing the contour of his jaw, the hollow of his throat.
Jensen turns his head to look at him, soft rasp of his stubble beneath Jared’s fingertips. “What are you doing?”
"Touching the star. You feel so close here."
He leans in, close enough to feel the warmth of Jensen’s body, taste the beer on his breath and sea on his skin. Breathes him in. Breathes him out on a sigh.
It’s stupid, he knows, reckless, selfish. But he can’t help it, can’t help the push-pull of want, the drag out of before, of yesterdays.
Jensen’s fingers are warm at the nape of his neck, his mouth a wet heat beneath his lips.