Ficlet: Toast - Jensen/Misha, PG
For blue_fjords prompt - Debating the merits of different breakfast cereals.
Toast - Jensen/Misha, PG
The problem with waking up at Jared and Jensen’s place is that they have nothing to eat for breakfast.
Eventually, Jensen will respond to the muffled bangs and thuds as Misha tries to raid their kitchen, show up in the doorway, hair skewed adorably everywhere, t-shirt riding up his stomach, boxers hanging low on sharp hipbones.
Jensen goes to the freezer, rummages around and comes out with a loaf of frozen bread. He hands it wordlessly to Misha.
They’ve had this argument before. Misha thinks breakfast needs to include more than coffee and processed carbohydrates.
“Fruit?” he laments, as he always does, hoping that keeping things simple will eventually get his point across.
“Toast,” Jensen counters, voice gravelly with sleep.
Misha sighs. Sometimes it’s hard interacting with people other than himself.
He resigns himself to toast and coffee; follows it up with lashings of Jensen, the delicate skin skimming an iliac crest hot and slightly salty under the laving of Misha’s tongue. It isn’t yoghurt or muesli, but it satiates him nonetheless.
The next morning that Misha stays over, he is handed a loaf of raisin toast.
“Fruit,” Jensen nods sagely before turning to pad back up the hall to the recently vacated warmth of his bed.
Which is about the point, warmth blooming in his belly and chest tightening, that Misha realises he’s completely and utterly toast.
Toast - Jensen/Misha, PG
The problem with waking up at Jared and Jensen’s place is that they have nothing to eat for breakfast.
Eventually, Jensen will respond to the muffled bangs and thuds as Misha tries to raid their kitchen, show up in the doorway, hair skewed adorably everywhere, t-shirt riding up his stomach, boxers hanging low on sharp hipbones.
Jensen goes to the freezer, rummages around and comes out with a loaf of frozen bread. He hands it wordlessly to Misha.
They’ve had this argument before. Misha thinks breakfast needs to include more than coffee and processed carbohydrates.
“Fruit?” he laments, as he always does, hoping that keeping things simple will eventually get his point across.
“Toast,” Jensen counters, voice gravelly with sleep.
Misha sighs. Sometimes it’s hard interacting with people other than himself.
He resigns himself to toast and coffee; follows it up with lashings of Jensen, the delicate skin skimming an iliac crest hot and slightly salty under the laving of Misha’s tongue. It isn’t yoghurt or muesli, but it satiates him nonetheless.
The next morning that Misha stays over, he is handed a loaf of raisin toast.
“Fruit,” Jensen nods sagely before turning to pad back up the hall to the recently vacated warmth of his bed.
Which is about the point, warmth blooming in his belly and chest tightening, that Misha realises he’s completely and utterly toast.