FIC: Catch the Light (Jared/Jensen NC-17)
Feb. 8th, 2015 02:04 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tebtoscaTitle: Catch the Light
Pairing: Jared/Jensen
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 2098
Warnings: blasphemy, pink panties, face-fucking, nippleplay, Edith Piaf
Summary: The Rapture begins but Jensen's still here.
Author's Notes: Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
smpc for the month of February. I'm blaming this on the random docu-drama on the Rapture that I watched on the History Channel while I was home sick lol.
Thank you to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
fiercelynormal for the super-fast beta!
Jensen starts out a good Christian boy. He swears it is so.
Bright eyes and freckled cheeks and a cowlick sticking up to say ‘hello there, world’ are what Jensen presents, sitting there so sweet and pure, cross-legged on the floor of the rectory as Miss Smith teaches them of wild beasts and great floods and grace so righteous as to overwhelm all other lesser things.
Jensen sings the hymns, lashes wet upon those freckled cheeks, vocal cords vibrating with the rock solid foundation of belief.
Good boy, says Mama’s face, her eyes lit like fire on a mountain speaking to a prophet. She stands next to him, over him, watching him.
Jensen feels those eyes upon him when the body changes come. When his limbs lengthen and the vibration in his throat breaks on high. When the swelling in his nether regions come and he resists the urge to press one palm against it, just for one tiny moment of relief.
Sin comes in a polo shirt and khaki shorts. Sin is named Matthew. Sin is the son of the Pastor but no son of God, and Jensen is fourteen years old and feels that sin coursing through his veins at the very thought of it.
Wants that sin to course through other parts of him, but Jensen is a good Christian boy.
There’s no relief for him.
==
The End of Times comes as Jensen puts his good Christian hand over that of his good Christian bride.
She’s kind and round and her eyes have no fire in them. He thinks of his good Christian hand cupping her good Christian breast, and nothing courses through him but that’s just fine because if his Mama’s not watching then Jesus surely is.
It’s over in a blink. One minute his bride is standing there, lace at her throat and one tear running towards the dimple in her cheek, and the next minute she’s gone like she never even existed.
There’s a cry from the pews, and Jensen turns to look. There are blank spaces where his guests once sat, pockets of emptiness that relay the phenomenon at hand.
Jensen closes his eyes quickly, opening them again and seeing the same spaces as before.
The Rapture has begun. The Pastor falls to his knees. But he has knees to fall upon because he’s still here, because he was not chosen either.
Jensen holds out his hands, counts ten fingers, solid as he was seconds ago before it began. Jensen’s still here as well, and he doesn’t know what that means exactly but he knows that’s he’s mad as hell about it.
One doesn’t spend one’s whole life not sinning just to be left behind when the reward for it is finally being given.
There’s a cry again and he recognizes it then.
His Mama looks up at him, eyes less fire and more fear as she takes in the blank spaces on either side of her. The one in front of her. The one behind her. All her righteousness drains out of her as she realizes that she’s still here, too.
It calms Jensen, that fear. Knows that she finally understands how he’s felt his entire life, if only for a moment.
Jensen rips off his bow tie and marches down the aisle of the church. Away from that fear.
It might be the End of Times, but, for Jensen, it’s just the beginning.
==
Seven years of trials and tribulations are to come. The world is at turns confused, bitter, and scared.
Jensen’s not.
Tribulation number one has blond hair, just a touch of stubble, and no gag reflex.
Tribulation number two speaks in tongues but there’s nothing godly dripping from those lips.
Tribulation number three has a twin brother named Tribulation number four who learned that sharing is caring at a young age.
No, Jensen’s not confused or scared at all anymore.
Maybe a little bitter, but Tribulation number five will be sure to suck that right out of him.
==
It’s years into it and Jensen finds himself in one of those places. The dark ones with red lights and worn couches and weary people waiting out the end of the world while not really believing it’s coming at all.
It’s storming outside and the thump-thump-thump in the air might be locusts hitting the brick or might just be the bass from the speaker next to the stage. Inside it doesn’t matter much, and Jensen shrugs off the wet leather around his chest and sinks into the worn velvet to find another tribulation to check off the list.
A waitress comes over. She’s got a bored expression on her face and a t-shirt that says “Maybe it’s aliens” tight around her ample chest. He orders something hard and dark, then shoos her away with one hand when the thump-thump-thump that is now definitely the bass from the stage starts up with renewed vigor.
There’s a light beaming down into the middle of the stage, highlighting an old school standing microphone. There was a time, long ago, when Jensen imagined a light like that coming down for him. The sky would open up and the trumpets would sound, and the Lord Himself would cradle Jensen in his hands and tell him all the struggle was worth it. All the lonely nights and self-loathing and bruised knees from praying to a God that never heard him.
The sky opened up, alright, but the only hands cradling Jensen were his own.
But now the light beams on the stage and another type of angel comes striding out to catch it.
Jensen gasps, fingers digging into denim-covered thighs.
This angel looks more like a giant, seven feet of muscle shined to baby-oiled perfection shoved into thigh-high leather boots and a pair of white wings. His chest is bare, nipples rouged as red as the supple cherry popsicle shine of his wide slash of mouth. His cock is full and heavy, tucked into bulging pink satin ready to burst at the seams.
The thump-thump-thump of the bass stops as the angel strides to the standing mic and peers out at the no-longer-weary audience from underneath a shag of too-long chestnut bangs. He tucks his blood-plump bottom lip between his teeth, face melting into an expression that says ignore the wings and the boots and the cock and look at how shy I am, really misters, that’s right ma’am, it’s true.
There’s a whistle from the crowd, not buying it, but enjoying the ruse just the same.
The angel’s lip pops out, redder than before, spit shining in the middle like a promise. The corners of that mouth curl up now, the devil himself cratering those flushed cheeks into bottomless pits of sin.
He wraps one giant hand around the microphone, cradling it in a way that makes Jensen’s dick throb in his pants. He pulls it to his mouth, tilting the mic stand just enough so that he can wrap one long shining leg around it like a serpent, the serpent, the muscle in this thigh flexing in time to the music that starts blaring out.
The trumpets are sounding as Jensen’s false angel presses his lips to the mic and purrs out something that Miss Smith never sang on Sundays at the rectory.
Non... rien de rien…Non je ne regrette rien
Jensen wants to laugh, thinks he’s should be laughing, but the oiled masterpiece onstage is singing his heart out, whole beautiful body into it, hair swaying and wings shimmering. It’s mesmerizing.
Aujourd'hui... ça commence avec toi
By the end of the song, every man in the room is hard as steel, but his false angel’s eyes are focused only on Jensen as he unwraps his limbs from the mic, blows a cherry-flavored kiss to the crowd and saunters back into the darkness.
The loudest thump-thump-thump right now is the sound of Jensen’s heart beating.
Before he even has time to put his wet leather back on, the bored waitress is coming back towards his table. She doesn’t have a drink for him this time, instead tossing a scrap of paper onto the table with what he thinks is supposed to be a wink but might be a nervous tic.
He doesn’t bother to watch her walk away, just grabs the tiny slip in his hands and opens it up to see what awaits him.
Jared – Back Alley – 15 mins. The handwriting is a neat scrawl in purple ink, the name underlined twice with two smiley faces bracketing the invitation.
There’s a strange sensation bubbling up in Jensen then, and with astonishment he realizes that it’s anticipation. He’s spent years floating around the world, doing what he wants to do, yes, but never really wanting anything.
It’s only at this moment when he realizes that there is a difference between the two.
Jensen throws back the rest of his drink, slips on his wet leather, and throws a couple twenties on the table for the bored waitress-turned-messenger. He pushes open the door and curves around the building to see what awaits him.
The man, angel, devil, Jared, is waiting for him. He’s leaning against the brick, head tipped back. He’s still wearing the boots and panties, but they are just peeking out now, mostly hidden by a long t-shirt that clings to the damp planes of his body.
The wings are gone, but that’s alright. Jensen hasn’t needed the angels in a long, long time.
Jensen walks over, threads both hands in too-long strands of hair, and takes.
Those spit-slick cherry lips open to him without hesitation, allowing Jensen in, accepting his tongue like a communion wafer. Jensen tugs Jared down, holds his head in his hands as his mouth plunders, teeth clacking, hungry and desperate like the end of the world actually means something.
The air is damp around them, mist swirling around in a hazy blanket. There is wetness on Jensen’s skin, and he uses it to glide his hands down Jared’s neck towards the thin cotton covering the flushed peaks of his nipples. He thumbs them through the material, coy raindrops darkening the nubs fighting to break though.
Jared groans low in his throat, and Jensen wants to eat the sound, bite kisses down the length of him, devour him whole. Jensen twists his nipples then, hard, pulling Jared’s body flush to his with his fingers like clamps.
They exist like that for a long moment, breathing into each other’s mouths, connected only by the bite of Jensen’s nails on the swollen buds on Jared’s chest. Jensen can feel them pulsating under his touch, and he squeezes harder just to feel Jared’s gasp against his lips.
Jensen releases them at once and it’s like a puppet with its strings cut as Jared falls to his knees, patent leather boots in a biblical rain puddle.
Jared just hums, a low purr coming out from somewhere deep inside of him as he rubs the side of his cheeks against the straining bulge of Jensen’s cock in his Levi’s. Jensen reaches down and curls his fingers in those long strands of hair again, twisting them around his knuckles until he has just the right amount of leverage to tug and guide.
Jared’s lips curl up as he gets the flap open and finally releases Jensen’s cock, those hellfire dimples on brazen display. He leans forward, opening his mouth wide and running the crown of Jensen’s cock along the ski-slope slant of his front teeth before he slides it along his tongue and back towards his throat.
Jared gives head like he’s drowning, all wet sounds and gasping breaths and clenching throat, both hands clutching onto Jensen’s denim-covered ass, begging for harder, deeper, more.
Jensen gives it to him, bracing himself with one hand on the alley wall as he fucks Jared’s throat so hard that his head starts banging against the brick.
Jensen looks down right before he pulls out and comes, spraying white all over Jared’s lax, content face. The face of true rapture, seed of life dripping down his chin.
He pulls Jared to his feet then, holds the supple body in his arms and slides his hand down to find Jared’s own dick sticky and spent just from sucking Jensen’s cock.
Jensen doesn’t bother with words, just slips his hand in Jared’s and pulls him towards his car. He has a perfectly good hotel room, with an empty bed big enough for two.
The second coming will happen soon enough. Jensen’s hoping his own variation will be happening tonight.
Pairing: Jared/Jensen
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 2098
Warnings: blasphemy, pink panties, face-fucking, nippleplay, Edith Piaf
Summary: The Rapture begins but Jensen's still here.
Author's Notes: Written for
smpc for the month of February. I'm blaming this on the random docu-drama on the Rapture that I watched on the History Channel while I was home sick lol.Thank you to
fiercelynormal for the super-fast beta!Jensen starts out a good Christian boy. He swears it is so.
Bright eyes and freckled cheeks and a cowlick sticking up to say ‘hello there, world’ are what Jensen presents, sitting there so sweet and pure, cross-legged on the floor of the rectory as Miss Smith teaches them of wild beasts and great floods and grace so righteous as to overwhelm all other lesser things.
Jensen sings the hymns, lashes wet upon those freckled cheeks, vocal cords vibrating with the rock solid foundation of belief.
Good boy, says Mama’s face, her eyes lit like fire on a mountain speaking to a prophet. She stands next to him, over him, watching him.
Jensen feels those eyes upon him when the body changes come. When his limbs lengthen and the vibration in his throat breaks on high. When the swelling in his nether regions come and he resists the urge to press one palm against it, just for one tiny moment of relief.
Sin comes in a polo shirt and khaki shorts. Sin is named Matthew. Sin is the son of the Pastor but no son of God, and Jensen is fourteen years old and feels that sin coursing through his veins at the very thought of it.
Wants that sin to course through other parts of him, but Jensen is a good Christian boy.
There’s no relief for him.
==
The End of Times comes as Jensen puts his good Christian hand over that of his good Christian bride.
She’s kind and round and her eyes have no fire in them. He thinks of his good Christian hand cupping her good Christian breast, and nothing courses through him but that’s just fine because if his Mama’s not watching then Jesus surely is.
It’s over in a blink. One minute his bride is standing there, lace at her throat and one tear running towards the dimple in her cheek, and the next minute she’s gone like she never even existed.
There’s a cry from the pews, and Jensen turns to look. There are blank spaces where his guests once sat, pockets of emptiness that relay the phenomenon at hand.
Jensen closes his eyes quickly, opening them again and seeing the same spaces as before.
The Rapture has begun. The Pastor falls to his knees. But he has knees to fall upon because he’s still here, because he was not chosen either.
Jensen holds out his hands, counts ten fingers, solid as he was seconds ago before it began. Jensen’s still here as well, and he doesn’t know what that means exactly but he knows that’s he’s mad as hell about it.
One doesn’t spend one’s whole life not sinning just to be left behind when the reward for it is finally being given.
There’s a cry again and he recognizes it then.
His Mama looks up at him, eyes less fire and more fear as she takes in the blank spaces on either side of her. The one in front of her. The one behind her. All her righteousness drains out of her as she realizes that she’s still here, too.
It calms Jensen, that fear. Knows that she finally understands how he’s felt his entire life, if only for a moment.
Jensen rips off his bow tie and marches down the aisle of the church. Away from that fear.
It might be the End of Times, but, for Jensen, it’s just the beginning.
==
Seven years of trials and tribulations are to come. The world is at turns confused, bitter, and scared.
Jensen’s not.
Tribulation number one has blond hair, just a touch of stubble, and no gag reflex.
Tribulation number two speaks in tongues but there’s nothing godly dripping from those lips.
Tribulation number three has a twin brother named Tribulation number four who learned that sharing is caring at a young age.
No, Jensen’s not confused or scared at all anymore.
Maybe a little bitter, but Tribulation number five will be sure to suck that right out of him.
==
It’s years into it and Jensen finds himself in one of those places. The dark ones with red lights and worn couches and weary people waiting out the end of the world while not really believing it’s coming at all.
It’s storming outside and the thump-thump-thump in the air might be locusts hitting the brick or might just be the bass from the speaker next to the stage. Inside it doesn’t matter much, and Jensen shrugs off the wet leather around his chest and sinks into the worn velvet to find another tribulation to check off the list.
A waitress comes over. She’s got a bored expression on her face and a t-shirt that says “Maybe it’s aliens” tight around her ample chest. He orders something hard and dark, then shoos her away with one hand when the thump-thump-thump that is now definitely the bass from the stage starts up with renewed vigor.
There’s a light beaming down into the middle of the stage, highlighting an old school standing microphone. There was a time, long ago, when Jensen imagined a light like that coming down for him. The sky would open up and the trumpets would sound, and the Lord Himself would cradle Jensen in his hands and tell him all the struggle was worth it. All the lonely nights and self-loathing and bruised knees from praying to a God that never heard him.
The sky opened up, alright, but the only hands cradling Jensen were his own.
But now the light beams on the stage and another type of angel comes striding out to catch it.
Jensen gasps, fingers digging into denim-covered thighs.
This angel looks more like a giant, seven feet of muscle shined to baby-oiled perfection shoved into thigh-high leather boots and a pair of white wings. His chest is bare, nipples rouged as red as the supple cherry popsicle shine of his wide slash of mouth. His cock is full and heavy, tucked into bulging pink satin ready to burst at the seams.
The thump-thump-thump of the bass stops as the angel strides to the standing mic and peers out at the no-longer-weary audience from underneath a shag of too-long chestnut bangs. He tucks his blood-plump bottom lip between his teeth, face melting into an expression that says ignore the wings and the boots and the cock and look at how shy I am, really misters, that’s right ma’am, it’s true.
There’s a whistle from the crowd, not buying it, but enjoying the ruse just the same.
The angel’s lip pops out, redder than before, spit shining in the middle like a promise. The corners of that mouth curl up now, the devil himself cratering those flushed cheeks into bottomless pits of sin.
He wraps one giant hand around the microphone, cradling it in a way that makes Jensen’s dick throb in his pants. He pulls it to his mouth, tilting the mic stand just enough so that he can wrap one long shining leg around it like a serpent, the serpent, the muscle in this thigh flexing in time to the music that starts blaring out.
The trumpets are sounding as Jensen’s false angel presses his lips to the mic and purrs out something that Miss Smith never sang on Sundays at the rectory.
Non... rien de rien…Non je ne regrette rien
Jensen wants to laugh, thinks he’s should be laughing, but the oiled masterpiece onstage is singing his heart out, whole beautiful body into it, hair swaying and wings shimmering. It’s mesmerizing.
Aujourd'hui... ça commence avec toi
By the end of the song, every man in the room is hard as steel, but his false angel’s eyes are focused only on Jensen as he unwraps his limbs from the mic, blows a cherry-flavored kiss to the crowd and saunters back into the darkness.
The loudest thump-thump-thump right now is the sound of Jensen’s heart beating.
Before he even has time to put his wet leather back on, the bored waitress is coming back towards his table. She doesn’t have a drink for him this time, instead tossing a scrap of paper onto the table with what he thinks is supposed to be a wink but might be a nervous tic.
He doesn’t bother to watch her walk away, just grabs the tiny slip in his hands and opens it up to see what awaits him.
Jared – Back Alley – 15 mins. The handwriting is a neat scrawl in purple ink, the name underlined twice with two smiley faces bracketing the invitation.
There’s a strange sensation bubbling up in Jensen then, and with astonishment he realizes that it’s anticipation. He’s spent years floating around the world, doing what he wants to do, yes, but never really wanting anything.
It’s only at this moment when he realizes that there is a difference between the two.
Jensen throws back the rest of his drink, slips on his wet leather, and throws a couple twenties on the table for the bored waitress-turned-messenger. He pushes open the door and curves around the building to see what awaits him.
The man, angel, devil, Jared, is waiting for him. He’s leaning against the brick, head tipped back. He’s still wearing the boots and panties, but they are just peeking out now, mostly hidden by a long t-shirt that clings to the damp planes of his body.
The wings are gone, but that’s alright. Jensen hasn’t needed the angels in a long, long time.
Jensen walks over, threads both hands in too-long strands of hair, and takes.
Those spit-slick cherry lips open to him without hesitation, allowing Jensen in, accepting his tongue like a communion wafer. Jensen tugs Jared down, holds his head in his hands as his mouth plunders, teeth clacking, hungry and desperate like the end of the world actually means something.
The air is damp around them, mist swirling around in a hazy blanket. There is wetness on Jensen’s skin, and he uses it to glide his hands down Jared’s neck towards the thin cotton covering the flushed peaks of his nipples. He thumbs them through the material, coy raindrops darkening the nubs fighting to break though.
Jared groans low in his throat, and Jensen wants to eat the sound, bite kisses down the length of him, devour him whole. Jensen twists his nipples then, hard, pulling Jared’s body flush to his with his fingers like clamps.
They exist like that for a long moment, breathing into each other’s mouths, connected only by the bite of Jensen’s nails on the swollen buds on Jared’s chest. Jensen can feel them pulsating under his touch, and he squeezes harder just to feel Jared’s gasp against his lips.
Jensen releases them at once and it’s like a puppet with its strings cut as Jared falls to his knees, patent leather boots in a biblical rain puddle.
Jared just hums, a low purr coming out from somewhere deep inside of him as he rubs the side of his cheeks against the straining bulge of Jensen’s cock in his Levi’s. Jensen reaches down and curls his fingers in those long strands of hair again, twisting them around his knuckles until he has just the right amount of leverage to tug and guide.
Jared’s lips curl up as he gets the flap open and finally releases Jensen’s cock, those hellfire dimples on brazen display. He leans forward, opening his mouth wide and running the crown of Jensen’s cock along the ski-slope slant of his front teeth before he slides it along his tongue and back towards his throat.
Jared gives head like he’s drowning, all wet sounds and gasping breaths and clenching throat, both hands clutching onto Jensen’s denim-covered ass, begging for harder, deeper, more.
Jensen gives it to him, bracing himself with one hand on the alley wall as he fucks Jared’s throat so hard that his head starts banging against the brick.
Jensen looks down right before he pulls out and comes, spraying white all over Jared’s lax, content face. The face of true rapture, seed of life dripping down his chin.
He pulls Jared to his feet then, holds the supple body in his arms and slides his hand down to find Jared’s own dick sticky and spent just from sucking Jensen’s cock.
Jensen doesn’t bother with words, just slips his hand in Jared’s and pulls him towards his car. He has a perfectly good hotel room, with an empty bed big enough for two.
The second coming will happen soon enough. Jensen’s hoping his own variation will be happening tonight.
