Starch-dry, white hot, heavy summer days. Stubborn animals. Humans that give 'em a run for their money. In the sunlight, everything complains and nothing moves if it can help it. Jared's a six-foot ball and chain of his own weight, dragging himself along the ground like a dying man, forcing the voice to his throat as he rides, his weight pressing into the horse's heart thick as plaque. It's unfair to the both of them.
Jensen's light and scrappy, and the sunshine gives him energy. He gidyaps and rustles the cattle and frowns at Jared for not having the gumption to shake off the sun's oppressive heat like so many droplets of water. Jared watches him through glazed eyes. He's an impossibility is what he is. He shouldn't be. He should have melted into syrup for all the sweat that pours from his brow.
But at night, when the wind finally picks up along the hills, Jensen shudders, paralyzed, cold seeping into his bones. He glares and huddles closer to the fire when Jared tells him ghost stories, and he scoffs at the legends of dead cowboys whose spirits still haunt these hills. Once in a while he gets angry. He stands, faces Jared, crosses his arms and declares he won't hear of another word. Firelight reflects in his eyes and Jared thinks he's possessed. He backs off. Usually. Most nights.
Not this night. This night there's dry lightning brewing, distant clouds and dust storms, and Jared's remembering an old legend and feeling unsettled, lie he can't stay still. He starts talking, because when his mouth is still he feels like he's holding a whirlwind inside, and Jensen gets up and crosses his arms and says "Not another word, not one more word."
Thunder grumbles its disagreement. Jared stares. There's a crackle in the air, an electric snap, and Jensen licks his lips, the wet freshness of them like an oasis in the desert of the bone-dry night.
"Right," he says. "Not one more word."
He raises his palm, runs the heel of it over Jensen's jaw. Jensen swallows, his throat bobbing.
A flash in the skies, quick, searing heat lighting like tinder, and Jensen's body is molded against Jared's, arching, taking. Their lips have met, their bodies have found each other's. They're indistinguishable, two silhouettes in the flashes of brilliance that illuminate the dark sky, and when one moans, the other finishes the sound and they meet in the middle, the bridge where their mouths have joined. Jensen's fingertips trail down Jared's shirt, sliding between buttons. Jared's hand go straight for Jensen's belt buckle.
There's a loop of rope there, sliding coarse against his fingers. A thrill of lust goes through Jared. "God damn," he breathes brokenly, "wanna use that the wrong way."
Jensen gasps, his body tightens, and he pushes himself against Jared. "Such a big talker," he says, then grabs Jared's lower lip between his and sucks on it, tongue dancing across the underside.
"Right." Jared undoes the buckle, pulls out the rope, then the belt itself. "Forgot. no more talking."
"Don't know where in the hell you get your energy," Jensen complains, shuddering and pressing himself further into Jared's embrace as wind picks up and clouds start to gather.
"Think that about you every day," Jared retorts, kissing the hollow of his throat. Jensen moans and clutches the back of his head, grabbing a scruff of hair.
Jared figures maybe it's the same energy, maybe they've been sharing it all along. Jensen gets it in the daytime, Jared at night. And when they're together like this, they can share it.
Because, when Jensen opens up beneath him and the heavens open up above, they both have enough energy to ignore the rain and just keep moving.
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Date: 2011-05-19 01:17 pm (UTC)Jensen's light and scrappy, and the sunshine gives him energy. He gidyaps and rustles the cattle and frowns at Jared for not having the gumption to shake off the sun's oppressive heat like so many droplets of water. Jared watches him through glazed eyes. He's an impossibility is what he is. He shouldn't be. He should have melted into syrup for all the sweat that pours from his brow.
But at night, when the wind finally picks up along the hills, Jensen shudders, paralyzed, cold seeping into his bones. He glares and huddles closer to the fire when Jared tells him ghost stories, and he scoffs at the legends of dead cowboys whose spirits still haunt these hills. Once in a while he gets angry. He stands, faces Jared, crosses his arms and declares he won't hear of another word. Firelight reflects in his eyes and Jared thinks he's possessed. He backs off. Usually. Most nights.
Not this night. This night there's dry lightning brewing, distant clouds and dust storms, and Jared's remembering an old legend and feeling unsettled, lie he can't stay still. He starts talking, because when his mouth is still he feels like he's holding a whirlwind inside, and Jensen gets up and crosses his arms and says "Not another word, not one more word."
Thunder grumbles its disagreement. Jared stares. There's a crackle in the air, an electric snap, and Jensen licks his lips, the wet freshness of them like an oasis in the desert of the bone-dry night.
"Right," he says. "Not one more word."
He raises his palm, runs the heel of it over Jensen's jaw. Jensen swallows, his throat bobbing.
A flash in the skies, quick, searing heat lighting like tinder, and Jensen's body is molded against Jared's, arching, taking. Their lips have met, their bodies have found each other's. They're indistinguishable, two silhouettes in the flashes of brilliance that illuminate the dark sky, and when one moans, the other finishes the sound and they meet in the middle, the bridge where their mouths have joined. Jensen's fingertips trail down Jared's shirt, sliding between buttons. Jared's hand go straight for Jensen's belt buckle.
There's a loop of rope there, sliding coarse against his fingers. A thrill of lust goes through Jared. "God damn," he breathes brokenly, "wanna use that the wrong way."
Jensen gasps, his body tightens, and he pushes himself against Jared. "Such a big talker," he says, then grabs Jared's lower lip between his and sucks on it, tongue dancing across the underside.
"Right." Jared undoes the buckle, pulls out the rope, then the belt itself. "Forgot. no more talking."
"Don't know where in the hell you get your energy," Jensen complains, shuddering and pressing himself further into Jared's embrace as wind picks up and clouds start to gather.
"Think that about you every day," Jared retorts, kissing the hollow of his throat. Jensen moans and clutches the back of his head, grabbing a scruff of hair.
Jared figures maybe it's the same energy, maybe they've been sharing it all along. Jensen gets it in the daytime, Jared at night. And when they're together like this, they can share it.
Because, when Jensen opens up beneath him and the heavens open up above, they both have enough energy to ignore the rain and just keep moving.