Surprise!Tilted
Surprise!Tilted ♥
I wrote these a couple weeks back over at comment-fic and failed to remember to post them here. Bad me; no cookie.
But! Making up for lost time:
"Laugh Like Broken Waves"
Pairing: Jared/Jensen (Tilted AU)
Rating: PG
W/C: 295
There's a list of reasons why Jensen fell for Jared. They've got nothing to do with what he looks like.
"Hey Jen -- heads' up!"
"Son of a bitch!" Jensen doesn't duck, though he could. Jared's so loud with his splashing, as eager as Hannah in the water, that Jensen knows as precisely where Jared is as if they were hand in hand. But he takes the splash of briny water right to the face and spits out a mouthful with pretend indignation. "You're paying for that one, buster."
"Gotta catch me first."
"You don't think I can?"
"I know you can," Jared says. He fake-splashes away. "If I take it easy on you. C'mon, Jen, bring it."
Jensen shakes water out of his hair. Two steps to the right and he could tackle Jared. Crash-land them both, flip them underwater and bring them upright on the crest of the next shallow wave.
But not yet.
Times like these, when Jared knows Jensen's limitations, understands them, and doesn't let them stop him, the feelings beat as loud in Jensen's mind as the ocean in his ears. It's why even though he knows exactly where Jared is and he could dodge the next splash, he doesn't.
It's so strange, but sometimes Jensen's glad he can't look with his eyes. It's better than he could have dreamed to see Jared with everything else. It's better to feel the hard crash of Jared's body against his and to know him flesh to flesh as they slip beneath the water than to name him hazel, brown, white, tan.
Being able to play again and to laugh in the breaking waves is more than reason enough to love a man. And with Jared, it's only the start of the list.
"Ten Over, Three Across"
Pairing: Jared/Jensen (Tilted AU)
Rating: PG
W/C: 475
Note: I seemed to have developed a thing for counting while writing these. *baffled*
Counting is something Jensen does. He learned it when he was first figuring out this new life and he never really stopped. Six steps to the washing machine. One right, mind the broken step, and three down to the yard. Ten over and three across like his life is a crossword puzzle.
He thinks it's because of that he tends to mark down what other people do on a list inside his head. The predictability appeals, promising stability and comfort.
Jared's not really either. Yet he's both at the same time, too, and Jensen takes note of it in small ways.
For example, Jared has a routine at the end of a work day, and Jensen doesn't think Jared's ever noticed it. Maybe someday he'll point it out, but maybe not. It'd ruin the pleasure of counting off the steps inside his head, anticipating how each one brings Jared closer to him.
First, he drops his keys before he gets them in the lock. Always. Jangle-jangle and down they go. Then there's the grunt, the muttered curse, and the dullness of sand under work boots and the whisper-hiss of sun-warmed denim stretching when Jared crouches to scoop them up and try again.
Second, when the keys are in the bowl by the door where they live, Jared stops to let the cool dark of the downstairs apartment engulf him. Jensen's touched him before during this moment and he can see it all under the pads of his fingertips. Jared rolls his shoulders, his neck, takes a deep breath and parts his lips, sniffs the air for any promise of food, and even if he's glossy with sweat he'll shiver contentedly. The whole thing reminds Jensen of a happy puppy that's found its den.
Third, he kicks off his boots.
Fourth, Jared laughs at Jensen for gagging and complaining at the smell.
Fifth, there's the rattle-shake-clink of the shower, where sometimes Jensen joins him. More often he sits outside, drowsing, half-lulled to sleep by the patter of water on tile.
Sixth there's the couch, where Jared's weight settles in next to Jensen's. He's wet and smells of shampoo and soap and clean clothes, still as warm as if he never left the sunlight. Maybe he'll whisper something wanton in Jensen's ear, or maybe he'll beg prettily for a snack before dinner. Maybe he'll flop his head in Jensen's lap and laze, or he'll only linger for a moment before he's up again, hauling Jensen with him to the beach, the backyard, upstairs, wherever.
And seventh is when Jared kisses him, whether light and quick or slow and dirty-deep.
That's where the list stops. Jensen has no room left in his head for secret amusements when Jared is by him, with him, in him. Jared is his world, and the rest fades away with the outgoing tide.
"What You're Waiting For"
Pairing: Chris Kane/Steve Carlson (Tilted AU)
Rating: PG-13
W/C: 254
The spirit is willing; the body still ain't all the way there. Steve's hand spasms between bedside table and bed, between glass and sip. He flinches, curses, sticky-sweet and stinging whiskey spilled out over his chest. Shit. Goddamn useless, worse when it's raining and if it's this bad now what's it going to be like when he's an old man?. His guitar's gathering dust in the closet and if he can't so much as hold a fucking glass --
"Hey now." Chris stops anything before it can start. He raps his knuckles against the top of Steve's head, not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to startle Steve's attention to him. "That stops right there. Hear me?"
Steve watches Chris take the emptied shot glass and push it behind him, somewhere under the pillows as if it's of no import. And maybe --
Maybe it's not, not when Chris has other things on his mind. He presses his mouth, open and wet, to Steve's chest, and Steve feels the slick, smooth drag of Chris's tongue lapping up the spill.
Steve's hand seizes again when he's got it knotted in Chris's hair, pulling him up body-to-body, but this time he barely notices. And when Chris groans and bites the tip of his chin, kisses him with the taste of molasses whiskey thick in his mouth, Steve forgets to be bothered by his limits.
He licks a drop off Chris's chin instead, once, and then again, only wanting more of what he has here, now.
"Slide Over Here and Kiss Me"
Pairing: Chris Kane/Steve Carlson (Tilted AU)
Rating: PG
W/C: 382
(It's better these days.)
Chris lives for this, now. Early afternoons, time in the ocean, and home together early before the daylight starts to fade. Time that's their alone, when they pick at their guitars or nap.
(Truth be told Chris didn't think he could do it; could forget what's outside these doors. Thought he'd hear lightning every time he let himself sit still or go quiet. He was wrong.)
They've been here an hour, maybe two, he in a corner with his guitar in his lap and a song starting to make itself known in the back of his head.
(Sometimes, it's so damn good.)
Steve's long since curled up opposite but not far, worn out but peaceful with it. There's nothing but the sunlight filtering through from outside to trace its fine path over Steve's face and illuminate him, slow and careful, like he's fine art being painted stroke by stroke. His lashes brush his cheeks, feather-soft-shadow, and his eyes move beneath with the slow lassitude of a waking dreamer. Half-dry strands of hair cling to his cheek, dusted white with a smudge of sand and salt his towel missed. He's prone to that, drying off haphazard and leaving the most of it to chance.
(Pretty when he smiles. It's been too long.)
Chris's chords slide to a lazy pace, stretched out to match the ebbing of the sunlight and the lengthening shadows, but it's not until he hears Steve's breathing change that he knows he's stopped altogether.
Steve yawns, curls up tighter, eases down with one arm out at his side. He doesn't look, and doesn't speak, but doesn't have to. Chris can hear him again now that he's learned to listen between the lines of what's said and what isn't.
(Jensen is the one that's blind; Chris knew that, always, but never understood how he'd lost sense in equal measure.)
There's a stand in the corner just for Chris's guitar, and it finds its home there. Chris takes Steve's scarred hand and uses it to guide his way into that open arm that's shaped perfectly like him. Tucks his head on Steve's shoulder and presses his mouth, haphazard, to the corner of Steve's.
(Outside, Hannah barks and Jared laughs. Or is that Jensen? Doesn't matter.
Steve is smiling.)
I wrote these a couple weeks back over at comment-fic and failed to remember to post them here. Bad me; no cookie.
But! Making up for lost time:
"Laugh Like Broken Waves"
Pairing: Jared/Jensen (Tilted AU)
Rating: PG
W/C: 295
There's a list of reasons why Jensen fell for Jared. They've got nothing to do with what he looks like.
"Hey Jen -- heads' up!"
"Son of a bitch!" Jensen doesn't duck, though he could. Jared's so loud with his splashing, as eager as Hannah in the water, that Jensen knows as precisely where Jared is as if they were hand in hand. But he takes the splash of briny water right to the face and spits out a mouthful with pretend indignation. "You're paying for that one, buster."
"Gotta catch me first."
"You don't think I can?"
"I know you can," Jared says. He fake-splashes away. "If I take it easy on you. C'mon, Jen, bring it."
Jensen shakes water out of his hair. Two steps to the right and he could tackle Jared. Crash-land them both, flip them underwater and bring them upright on the crest of the next shallow wave.
But not yet.
Times like these, when Jared knows Jensen's limitations, understands them, and doesn't let them stop him, the feelings beat as loud in Jensen's mind as the ocean in his ears. It's why even though he knows exactly where Jared is and he could dodge the next splash, he doesn't.
It's so strange, but sometimes Jensen's glad he can't look with his eyes. It's better than he could have dreamed to see Jared with everything else. It's better to feel the hard crash of Jared's body against his and to know him flesh to flesh as they slip beneath the water than to name him hazel, brown, white, tan.
Being able to play again and to laugh in the breaking waves is more than reason enough to love a man. And with Jared, it's only the start of the list.
"Ten Over, Three Across"
Pairing: Jared/Jensen (Tilted AU)
Rating: PG
W/C: 475
Note: I seemed to have developed a thing for counting while writing these. *baffled*
Counting is something Jensen does. He learned it when he was first figuring out this new life and he never really stopped. Six steps to the washing machine. One right, mind the broken step, and three down to the yard. Ten over and three across like his life is a crossword puzzle.
He thinks it's because of that he tends to mark down what other people do on a list inside his head. The predictability appeals, promising stability and comfort.
Jared's not really either. Yet he's both at the same time, too, and Jensen takes note of it in small ways.
For example, Jared has a routine at the end of a work day, and Jensen doesn't think Jared's ever noticed it. Maybe someday he'll point it out, but maybe not. It'd ruin the pleasure of counting off the steps inside his head, anticipating how each one brings Jared closer to him.
First, he drops his keys before he gets them in the lock. Always. Jangle-jangle and down they go. Then there's the grunt, the muttered curse, and the dullness of sand under work boots and the whisper-hiss of sun-warmed denim stretching when Jared crouches to scoop them up and try again.
Second, when the keys are in the bowl by the door where they live, Jared stops to let the cool dark of the downstairs apartment engulf him. Jensen's touched him before during this moment and he can see it all under the pads of his fingertips. Jared rolls his shoulders, his neck, takes a deep breath and parts his lips, sniffs the air for any promise of food, and even if he's glossy with sweat he'll shiver contentedly. The whole thing reminds Jensen of a happy puppy that's found its den.
Third, he kicks off his boots.
Fourth, Jared laughs at Jensen for gagging and complaining at the smell.
Fifth, there's the rattle-shake-clink of the shower, where sometimes Jensen joins him. More often he sits outside, drowsing, half-lulled to sleep by the patter of water on tile.
Sixth there's the couch, where Jared's weight settles in next to Jensen's. He's wet and smells of shampoo and soap and clean clothes, still as warm as if he never left the sunlight. Maybe he'll whisper something wanton in Jensen's ear, or maybe he'll beg prettily for a snack before dinner. Maybe he'll flop his head in Jensen's lap and laze, or he'll only linger for a moment before he's up again, hauling Jensen with him to the beach, the backyard, upstairs, wherever.
And seventh is when Jared kisses him, whether light and quick or slow and dirty-deep.
That's where the list stops. Jensen has no room left in his head for secret amusements when Jared is by him, with him, in him. Jared is his world, and the rest fades away with the outgoing tide.
"What You're Waiting For"
Pairing: Chris Kane/Steve Carlson (Tilted AU)
Rating: PG-13
W/C: 254
The spirit is willing; the body still ain't all the way there. Steve's hand spasms between bedside table and bed, between glass and sip. He flinches, curses, sticky-sweet and stinging whiskey spilled out over his chest. Shit. Goddamn useless, worse when it's raining and if it's this bad now what's it going to be like when he's an old man?. His guitar's gathering dust in the closet and if he can't so much as hold a fucking glass --
"Hey now." Chris stops anything before it can start. He raps his knuckles against the top of Steve's head, not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to startle Steve's attention to him. "That stops right there. Hear me?"
Steve watches Chris take the emptied shot glass and push it behind him, somewhere under the pillows as if it's of no import. And maybe --
Maybe it's not, not when Chris has other things on his mind. He presses his mouth, open and wet, to Steve's chest, and Steve feels the slick, smooth drag of Chris's tongue lapping up the spill.
Steve's hand seizes again when he's got it knotted in Chris's hair, pulling him up body-to-body, but this time he barely notices. And when Chris groans and bites the tip of his chin, kisses him with the taste of molasses whiskey thick in his mouth, Steve forgets to be bothered by his limits.
He licks a drop off Chris's chin instead, once, and then again, only wanting more of what he has here, now.
"Slide Over Here and Kiss Me"
Pairing: Chris Kane/Steve Carlson (Tilted AU)
Rating: PG
W/C: 382
(It's better these days.)
Chris lives for this, now. Early afternoons, time in the ocean, and home together early before the daylight starts to fade. Time that's their alone, when they pick at their guitars or nap.
(Truth be told Chris didn't think he could do it; could forget what's outside these doors. Thought he'd hear lightning every time he let himself sit still or go quiet. He was wrong.)
They've been here an hour, maybe two, he in a corner with his guitar in his lap and a song starting to make itself known in the back of his head.
(Sometimes, it's so damn good.)
Steve's long since curled up opposite but not far, worn out but peaceful with it. There's nothing but the sunlight filtering through from outside to trace its fine path over Steve's face and illuminate him, slow and careful, like he's fine art being painted stroke by stroke. His lashes brush his cheeks, feather-soft-shadow, and his eyes move beneath with the slow lassitude of a waking dreamer. Half-dry strands of hair cling to his cheek, dusted white with a smudge of sand and salt his towel missed. He's prone to that, drying off haphazard and leaving the most of it to chance.
(Pretty when he smiles. It's been too long.)
Chris's chords slide to a lazy pace, stretched out to match the ebbing of the sunlight and the lengthening shadows, but it's not until he hears Steve's breathing change that he knows he's stopped altogether.
Steve yawns, curls up tighter, eases down with one arm out at his side. He doesn't look, and doesn't speak, but doesn't have to. Chris can hear him again now that he's learned to listen between the lines of what's said and what isn't.
(Jensen is the one that's blind; Chris knew that, always, but never understood how he'd lost sense in equal measure.)
There's a stand in the corner just for Chris's guitar, and it finds its home there. Chris takes Steve's scarred hand and uses it to guide his way into that open arm that's shaped perfectly like him. Tucks his head on Steve's shoulder and presses his mouth, haphazard, to the corner of Steve's.
(Outside, Hannah barks and Jared laughs. Or is that Jensen? Doesn't matter.
Steve is smiling.)