(no subject)
Title: Leavening
Pairing: Jared/Jensen
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Combine two boys. Let sit overnight. Heat slowly until halves fuse. Makes one serving.
Word Count: 228
Disclaimer: See “fiction” in your nearest dictionary.
Notes: Thank you to raynemaiden for advice and support.
Also at AO3.
It could have happened with anyone. Too many days spent together, too-long hours. A few more hours in the day than most-those few needed to take you from wiped to wired to borderline inebriated. Now, pliant, loose-skinned, ease-limbed. Arms splaying, legs sprawling farther apart; closer together.
It could have been some other hand hooking around a thigh, some other tongue tip crooking like a finger at the corner of lips-inviting and hiding all at once. Because, all at once, it’s too much and not enough. Rising in you and flattening you too.
His skin slides under yours, adding layers, not thickening but thinning you out, stretching you into new-old shapes. Folded over, he fills your center.
You’re unmeasured, chancing it to handfuls, scooping tender undersides of chin, knees, wrists. But well-timed, this, moving in a muscle rhythm-kneading, needing every knuckle deep.
It’s heat, chemistry-all the clichés. All true; all unsatisfactory. At the end of the day, no words fit. Just you. Together. Stuck and sticking, and only peeling apart enough to test the give, taste the taut pinch of flesh where you meet, cross over, repeat.
It’s unwritten; doesn’t follow any of the rules. Yet it turns out right, just right.
Put it to your mouth. Keep it under your tongue. A small grace, unsaid, shared between you at the end of each day.
Pairing: Jared/Jensen
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Combine two boys. Let sit overnight. Heat slowly until halves fuse. Makes one serving.
Word Count: 228
Disclaimer: See “fiction” in your nearest dictionary.
Notes: Thank you to raynemaiden for advice and support.
Also at AO3.
It could have happened with anyone. Too many days spent together, too-long hours. A few more hours in the day than most-those few needed to take you from wiped to wired to borderline inebriated. Now, pliant, loose-skinned, ease-limbed. Arms splaying, legs sprawling farther apart; closer together.
It could have been some other hand hooking around a thigh, some other tongue tip crooking like a finger at the corner of lips-inviting and hiding all at once. Because, all at once, it’s too much and not enough. Rising in you and flattening you too.
His skin slides under yours, adding layers, not thickening but thinning you out, stretching you into new-old shapes. Folded over, he fills your center.
You’re unmeasured, chancing it to handfuls, scooping tender undersides of chin, knees, wrists. But well-timed, this, moving in a muscle rhythm-kneading, needing every knuckle deep.
It’s heat, chemistry-all the clichés. All true; all unsatisfactory. At the end of the day, no words fit. Just you. Together. Stuck and sticking, and only peeling apart enough to test the give, taste the taut pinch of flesh where you meet, cross over, repeat.
It’s unwritten; doesn’t follow any of the rules. Yet it turns out right, just right.
Put it to your mouth. Keep it under your tongue. A small grace, unsaid, shared between you at the end of each day.