Fancy Rained Like Grace; Chapter Eight

[salire]

Title: Fancy Rained Like Grace; Chapter Eight
Pairings: Jensen/Jared, Drew Nelson/Sandy McCoy, Misha Collins/Rachel Miner
Word Count: 3047
Rating: PG
Beta: lexicale
Warnings: see masterpost for complete list thus far
Author’s Note: A fill for this prompt on spn_hardcore
Summary: Orphaned as a child and heatless, therefore mateless, at twenty-seven, Jared has spent most of

Comments

[lexicale]

Yay! Grats on getting this up, hon!

It's great to read more of this verse -- especially a chapter with a nice little bit of nuzzling X) I know the angst is far from over, but it's good to see Jared getting some affection from his mate.

[salire]

thank you, bb~ couldn't have done it without you ♥

[katsheswims]

Yay! Another installment!

I can see Jared's putting himself down already. I hope Jensen notices soon, but he's busy running things-humans are probably going to be a problem soon-and he's going to have blinders on because he'll be happy he's finally mated to Jared. It will be easy for him to only see the good things for a while.

I can't wait to read more.

[salire]

Yes, Jensen is definitely in basking mode right now. :)

Thank you, bb~ Glad you enjoyed!

[gypsy_atavari]

Such an intriguing verse. Love the little details you've put in that could potentially lead to angsty-times later if Jensen and Jared make assumptions. So looking forward to the next chapter. :-)

[salire]

Thank you! Glad you're enjoying so far :)

[shadowygame]

wheee. happy valentines too, this is just perfect for this day.

is it just me who loves the angst? maybe because i know the sadder and more insecure jared feels, the more jensen has to do to make him happy.

[salire]

Haha, of course it's not just you! If they could bottle angst, I'd eat it with a spoon :)

Thanks for reading ♥!

[slightlysatanic]

EXCUSE ME WHILE I CRY. POOR JARED.

Two questions tho- where is your title from, and do you know how long this story is gonna be? :D

[salire]

My title is from a poem~

Ex Machina
BY LINDA GREGERSON

When love was a question, the message arrived
in the beak of a wire and plaster bird. The coloratura
was hardly to be believed. For flight,

it took three stagehands: two
on the pulleys and one on the flute. And you
thought fancy rained like grace.

Our fog machine lost in the Parcel Post, we improvised
with smoke. The heroine dies of tuberculosis after all.
Remorse and the raw night air: any plausible tenor

might cough. The passions, I take my clues
from an obvious source, may be less like climatic events
than we conventionalize, though I’ve heard

of tornadoes that break the second-best glassware
and leave everything else untouched.
There’s a finer conviction than seamlessness

elicits: the Greeks knew a god
by the clanking behind his descent.
The heart, poor pump, protests till you’d think

it’s rusted past redemption, but
there’s tuning in these counterweights,
celebration’s assembled voice.
To me, the line my title comes from basically means that

[slightlysatanic]

Oh, that's lovely. I'll have to look up more of her stuff :) /English major, poetry nerd

[salire]

Haha, same on both counts :)