FICLET: Habitual Concerns 1/1 Jared / Jensen
He said let’s not make a habit out of this, waking up with sheets stuck to your thighs by sweat, cum slipping from your insides, dripping down to the silvered-cotton mattress, both crude and abrupt. He said this was a mistake, something brewed out of curiosity, a drunken night and too much familiarity with not enough knowledge of consequence. He has a girlfriend you know, and he loves her, you know?
Don’t look at him like that, he can’t stand it. You’re so dissociated and you confuse him. You’re older, but you know nothing less than what he knows more of.
Of course, he laughs nervously, he can see that you’ve stopped breathing. He can see the red color creeping around your freckled ears as you stare out away into nowhere, stuck in headspace, his words tangled like the dark brown hair on his head.
He remembers how his tongue felt licking the lines of your skin, his mouth absorbing the tangy musk of your body, his teeth nipping at sharp curves and tender flesh. The tickle of hairs over your red-heat flushed pink cock brushing against his cheek still feels like new and not last night, but he turns his shoulders to you, anyway, stretching his tree limb like arms up into the air. The muscles on his back dance, pulsate to the rhythm of his reach, but you look away before he can see you, before he notices that you’re breaking, clutching the sheets, praying that he’ll keep quiet and just leave, and just shut the fuck up.
He said let’s not make a habit out of this, it’s not going to happen again. He just slipped, got a little too close and now it’s time to pull back, to retract and forget about it. As he says this, you wish you smoked cigarettes or kept a flask in the drawer of your nightstand because you long for the distraction of smoke, a liquored deterrent or something -anything. He keeps talking though -won’t shut the fuck up- keeps saying that this was an accident, that it won’t happen again and you two really shouldn’t have gotten so drunk. He babbles like a brook. He pisses you off.
You want to laugh, call him a liar and a phony. He only had two beers, you had four, but that is neither here nor there, you’re both fixed in now and he’s slithering maroon boxer briefs over his long, thick legs.
He’s saying it again, let’s not make a habit out of this and for the first time you look at him, meet his eyes and stare. You don’t say anything, you just stare. He’s your friend, a very good friend and if you were a thirteen year old girl, you’d say maybe he’s your bestest friend in the whole wide world. However, right now, he is just some stranger standing awkwardly in your bedroom, his tanned white skin prickled by the air-conditioner on cool-blast and his hair disarrayed; bed tussled strands tossed around his big ole head.
“Jen…Jensen…this was just…it was…” he trails off; words mean nothing when he cannot find them.
“I get it. Let’s not make a habit out of this. I got that part...I got it.” You say coldly throwing his recycled words back at him like trash. You can still feel the bite marks against the blades of your shoulders, between your thighs and on your neck. You can still feel the sting of nails dragged across your ribcage with a grunt and a growl of ownership. There are tiny crescent moons pressed into your skin. You can still feel him inside you; the beautiful aching burn in your backside makes you vaguely reflective.
Now you look away, stare back down at the sheets and pretend that you don’t hear him stepping into his ripped up blue jeans. He’s almost dressed. He’ll leave soon and yeah, you’ll try not to make a habit out of feeling.
/FIN
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Don’t look at him like that, he can’t stand it. You’re so dissociated and you confuse him. You’re older, but you know nothing less than what he knows more of.
Of course, he laughs nervously, he can see that you’ve stopped breathing. He can see the red color creeping around your freckled ears as you stare out away into nowhere, stuck in headspace, his words tangled like the dark brown hair on his head.
He remembers how his tongue felt licking the lines of your skin, his mouth absorbing the tangy musk of your body, his teeth nipping at sharp curves and tender flesh. The tickle of hairs over your red-heat flushed pink cock brushing against his cheek still feels like new and not last night, but he turns his shoulders to you, anyway, stretching his tree limb like arms up into the air. The muscles on his back dance, pulsate to the rhythm of his reach, but you look away before he can see you, before he notices that you’re breaking, clutching the sheets, praying that he’ll keep quiet and just leave, and just shut the fuck up.
He said let’s not make a habit out of this, it’s not going to happen again. He just slipped, got a little too close and now it’s time to pull back, to retract and forget about it. As he says this, you wish you smoked cigarettes or kept a flask in the drawer of your nightstand because you long for the distraction of smoke, a liquored deterrent or something -anything. He keeps talking though -won’t shut the fuck up- keeps saying that this was an accident, that it won’t happen again and you two really shouldn’t have gotten so drunk. He babbles like a brook. He pisses you off.
You want to laugh, call him a liar and a phony. He only had two beers, you had four, but that is neither here nor there, you’re both fixed in now and he’s slithering maroon boxer briefs over his long, thick legs.
He’s saying it again, let’s not make a habit out of this and for the first time you look at him, meet his eyes and stare. You don’t say anything, you just stare. He’s your friend, a very good friend and if you were a thirteen year old girl, you’d say maybe he’s your bestest friend in the whole wide world. However, right now, he is just some stranger standing awkwardly in your bedroom, his tanned white skin prickled by the air-conditioner on cool-blast and his hair disarrayed; bed tussled strands tossed around his big ole head.
“Jen…Jensen…this was just…it was…” he trails off; words mean nothing when he cannot find them.
“I get it. Let’s not make a habit out of this. I got that part...I got it.” You say coldly throwing his recycled words back at him like trash. You can still feel the bite marks against the blades of your shoulders, between your thighs and on your neck. You can still feel the sting of nails dragged across your ribcage with a grunt and a growl of ownership. There are tiny crescent moons pressed into your skin. You can still feel him inside you; the beautiful aching burn in your backside makes you vaguely reflective.
Now you look away, stare back down at the sheets and pretend that you don’t hear him stepping into his ripped up blue jeans. He’s almost dressed. He’ll leave soon and yeah, you’ll try not to make a habit out of feeling.
/FIN
FEEDBACK IS LOVE!
Complete Fiction List fic updates at
maddys_slash