187 words of j2.
Matines
Jared/Jensen; PG.
::
It's not yet six and the sky above the jagged line of evergreens outside Jared's window is pink and orange over a watercolor-grey. There's a contented huff and a jangle of medals from the dogs on the carpet, unseen, and next to him Jensen sports an accidental mohawk and obscene lips and skin dark enough this time of year for the freckles to stand out, across his nose and shoulders and hips, where paler constellations dust the line of muscles Jared loves to follow with his tongue.
He could kiss and mouth and lick every inch of the acres of bare skin presented to him in the tangle of wrecked sheets, bring a flush of blood closer to the surface with teeth and tongue and breath. He could, but he doesn't, not yet.
He shifts to find a foot under the sheets instead, a hairy ankle, and goes back to sleep. When the alarm goes off in an hour, there'll be just enough time for a groggy morning fuck, half a pot of coffee, and the realisation that he doesn't remember any of his lines, only Jensen's.