J2 postcards
Sliding on over to post two little teeny J2 ficlets I wrote and put up on my Tumblr over the past month or so based on Jared and Jensen's vacation excursions.
Turks & Caicos
Jensen wakes up on Thanksgiving morning with a pounding headache and a really very disturbing amount of sand in the crack of his ass. He sits up, bleary, scooches down the bed and hisses as the sheets tug across his sunburnt skin. Jesus. What even happened last night? He can only remember patches of it, fuzzy recollections. The matching white grins of the guys at the crab shack. Jared shrugging on a T-shirt, muscles rippling. The grit of the beach under his hands and knees.
Beside him, Jared groans and lifts his head from the pillow. There’s seaweed in his hair, and he has a bright yellow cocktail umbrella tucked behind his ear. “Muurgggggh,” he says.
He rolls over onto his back; looks up at Jensen and smiles, his dimples deepening slow. “My stomach’s all sticky,” he says.
In a shining moment of absolute clarity, Jensen remembers doing body shots off Jared’s abs; ridges of hard muscle glistening wet. He can still feel the burn of the rum at the back of his throat.
Jensen coughs, looks down at Jared’s tan body. “I could probably help you out with that.” He moves to straddle Jared’s legs; winces. Jesus. That sand gets everywhere.
Jared beams at him. “Happy Thanksgiving, baby,” he says.
(images here and here)
Whistler
Jensen and Jared are on the ski lift, heading up, and Jared keeps swinging his legs. It’s fine except it’s not fine because his legs are stupidly long, and he has stupid long skis on the end of them too, and so the whole thing sets the cradle rocking wildly back and forth and Jensen finds himself clinging tight with mittened hands to the bar.
“Quit it, Jared,” he says.
“Why?” says Jared. “It’s nice to be out in the sun.”
“I’m serious,” Jensen says, gripping hard. “Just… quit it, okay?”
Jared looks over at him, pouts, and stops swinging his legs. There are a few moments of blissful peace, just the blue sky and the dark green trees and down on the slow below them, the brightly coloured figures of skiiers whizzing down the hill. Jensen looks up toward the sunshine, closes his eyes.
Then Jared sneaks his icy cold fingers under Jensen’s jacket, brushing the warm skin of his lower back.
Jensen jumps about a foot in the air, or tries to except that he’s held in place. “Dude!”
“Just trying to get cosy,” Jared says, all dimples. He leans in for a kiss.
Jensen bats him away. “We’re in public,” he hisses.
Jared’s face falls. “Come on,” he says. “Nobody can see us up here. Or anyway, nobody can tell it’s us.”
Jensen huffs, looks away, looks back. Jared’s gone all droopy, leaning glumly against the back of the seat. Jensen doesn’t care. He doesn’t care, because one of them has to be sensible.
Jared’s skis hang mournful, absolutely still.
“Alright,” Jensen says. “Alright. Just a quick one.”
Jared beams. He snuggles up close, setting the carriage rocking again, and kisses Jensen, softly at first but soon open-mouthed and wet. It shouldn’t be hot. He’s like a huge great puppy, pawing at Jensen through their layers of insulation. But, somehow, it is, and Jensen kind of forgets himself, squeezing Jared’s face between the shiny padding of his gloves. He’s actually. It’s actually quite warm up here.
It takes a wolf-whistle, disconcertingly close, to shake Jensen out of his haze. Shit. They’re approaching the lift station fast, and the people below them on the mountain are suddenly just feet away instead of comfortable yards. Some guy in a neon yellow jacket is laughing up at them. “Go for it, man!” he yells.
“Oh my God,” says Jensen, sinking low into his scarf.
“It’s okay,” says Jared. He pulls off his glove with his teeth, holds it in his mouth while he digs Jensen’s sunglasses out of his jacket and settles them on Jensen’s nose. “There you go,” he says. “Incognito.”
Jensen doesn’t have time to make any more fuss: too busy tucking himself back into place and sliding careful forward off the lift. As they reach the bottom of the little low slope, making their way wide-legged towards the run, Jared puts on his own glasses. They make him look like a movie star, long-haired and glamorous.
At the top of the slope, Jared leans over and kisses Jensen on the cheek. “Oops!” he says, and pushes away, gliding rapid down the hill with Jensen following determined in his wake.
“Jerkwad!” Jensen calls.
Jared twists back to look at him. “I’ll jerk your wad!” he says, and catches his skis in a soft pile of snow. He falls over immediately. Jensen’s not too concerned, but he slows to a halt as he reaches Jared’s side and looks down at Jare where his idiot boy is laughing up at him, spreadeagled in the drift. There’s snow in Jared’s hair and his nose is red and his cheeks are flushed strawberry pink.
“You’re the worst,” Jensen tells him.
“I know,” Jared says. “You love me anyway, though.”
(images here and here)
Turks & Caicos
Jensen wakes up on Thanksgiving morning with a pounding headache and a really very disturbing amount of sand in the crack of his ass. He sits up, bleary, scooches down the bed and hisses as the sheets tug across his sunburnt skin. Jesus. What even happened last night? He can only remember patches of it, fuzzy recollections. The matching white grins of the guys at the crab shack. Jared shrugging on a T-shirt, muscles rippling. The grit of the beach under his hands and knees.
Beside him, Jared groans and lifts his head from the pillow. There’s seaweed in his hair, and he has a bright yellow cocktail umbrella tucked behind his ear. “Muurgggggh,” he says.
He rolls over onto his back; looks up at Jensen and smiles, his dimples deepening slow. “My stomach’s all sticky,” he says.
In a shining moment of absolute clarity, Jensen remembers doing body shots off Jared’s abs; ridges of hard muscle glistening wet. He can still feel the burn of the rum at the back of his throat.
Jensen coughs, looks down at Jared’s tan body. “I could probably help you out with that.” He moves to straddle Jared’s legs; winces. Jesus. That sand gets everywhere.
Jared beams at him. “Happy Thanksgiving, baby,” he says.
(images here and here)
Whistler
Jensen and Jared are on the ski lift, heading up, and Jared keeps swinging his legs. It’s fine except it’s not fine because his legs are stupidly long, and he has stupid long skis on the end of them too, and so the whole thing sets the cradle rocking wildly back and forth and Jensen finds himself clinging tight with mittened hands to the bar.
“Quit it, Jared,” he says.
“Why?” says Jared. “It’s nice to be out in the sun.”
“I’m serious,” Jensen says, gripping hard. “Just… quit it, okay?”
Jared looks over at him, pouts, and stops swinging his legs. There are a few moments of blissful peace, just the blue sky and the dark green trees and down on the slow below them, the brightly coloured figures of skiiers whizzing down the hill. Jensen looks up toward the sunshine, closes his eyes.
Then Jared sneaks his icy cold fingers under Jensen’s jacket, brushing the warm skin of his lower back.
Jensen jumps about a foot in the air, or tries to except that he’s held in place. “Dude!”
“Just trying to get cosy,” Jared says, all dimples. He leans in for a kiss.
Jensen bats him away. “We’re in public,” he hisses.
Jared’s face falls. “Come on,” he says. “Nobody can see us up here. Or anyway, nobody can tell it’s us.”
Jensen huffs, looks away, looks back. Jared’s gone all droopy, leaning glumly against the back of the seat. Jensen doesn’t care. He doesn’t care, because one of them has to be sensible.
Jared’s skis hang mournful, absolutely still.
“Alright,” Jensen says. “Alright. Just a quick one.”
Jared beams. He snuggles up close, setting the carriage rocking again, and kisses Jensen, softly at first but soon open-mouthed and wet. It shouldn’t be hot. He’s like a huge great puppy, pawing at Jensen through their layers of insulation. But, somehow, it is, and Jensen kind of forgets himself, squeezing Jared’s face between the shiny padding of his gloves. He’s actually. It’s actually quite warm up here.
It takes a wolf-whistle, disconcertingly close, to shake Jensen out of his haze. Shit. They’re approaching the lift station fast, and the people below them on the mountain are suddenly just feet away instead of comfortable yards. Some guy in a neon yellow jacket is laughing up at them. “Go for it, man!” he yells.
“Oh my God,” says Jensen, sinking low into his scarf.
“It’s okay,” says Jared. He pulls off his glove with his teeth, holds it in his mouth while he digs Jensen’s sunglasses out of his jacket and settles them on Jensen’s nose. “There you go,” he says. “Incognito.”
Jensen doesn’t have time to make any more fuss: too busy tucking himself back into place and sliding careful forward off the lift. As they reach the bottom of the little low slope, making their way wide-legged towards the run, Jared puts on his own glasses. They make him look like a movie star, long-haired and glamorous.
At the top of the slope, Jared leans over and kisses Jensen on the cheek. “Oops!” he says, and pushes away, gliding rapid down the hill with Jensen following determined in his wake.
“Jerkwad!” Jensen calls.
Jared twists back to look at him. “I’ll jerk your wad!” he says, and catches his skis in a soft pile of snow. He falls over immediately. Jensen’s not too concerned, but he slows to a halt as he reaches Jared’s side and looks down at Jare where his idiot boy is laughing up at him, spreadeagled in the drift. There’s snow in Jared’s hair and his nose is red and his cheeks are flushed strawberry pink.
“You’re the worst,” Jensen tells him.
“I know,” Jared says. “You love me anyway, though.”
(images here and here)