raeschae | Let Me Count the Ways

Title: Let Me Count the Ways
Author:

raeschae
Pairing: J2
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1250

Summary: Jensen used to think it was weird, the way Jared likes to look at him, touch him, and talk to him after sex. He's starting to get used to it, though.

Notes: For

dugindeep, because she wanted schmoop, post-coital style. I found inspiration in this face and these hands. Merry Christmas, bb!

(Also, for the love of all things bi-bro, I will write some Jared-worship next! This Jensendulgence is getting ridiculous.)

Vaguely hiding on the outskirts of his memory, Jensen remembers sex before Jared. He remembers stumbling into some guy's bedroom, blindly groping, tumbling into bed, and rolling right back out when it was all over. He remembers walking away, forgetting about it until a few nights later, when he rinsed and repeated with a new guy in a new place.

Those memories are fading farther into the recesses all the time.

The first time Jared rolled over while Jensen was still trying to catch his breath after sex, pressed a kiss to his shoulder, and then started touching his back and his sides, Jensen thought it was weird. He's never been a cuddler and he wasn't all that interested in starting with Jared.

The thing is, Jared is kind of like a cat, though. He just keeps touching Jensen, brushing against his skin and pressing against his side whether Jensen likes it or not.

Jensen's starting to like it.

“One. Two. Three. Four,” Jared whispers against the shell of Jensen's ear, each count punctuated with a tap of his index finger against the curve of Jensen's shoulder.

“What're you doin'?” Jensen asks, voice muffled in the bend of his elbow, words dripping lazy contentment.

“Counting.”

With a grunt, Jensen lifts his head enough to look over his shoulder. Jared's face is right there, lips finding Jensen's briefly, grinning as though there is no place in the world he'd rather be right now. His eyes drop to Jensen's back and Jensen's gaze follows.

“Five. Six. Seven.” He looks up again and catches his tongue between his teeth. “You might as well make yourself comfortable,” he says, pressing another quick kiss to the corner of Jensen's eye. “You got a lotta freckles here.”

Doing his best to feign irritation, Jensen narrows his eyes and flips over onto his back. Unfortunately, he doesn't have the energy to hold the furrowed brow or do much more than inhale deeply and release another sigh. It occurs to him that Jared isn't the only one who doesn't want to be anywhere else at the moment.

If his intention was to stop Jared from counting his freckles, Jensen realizes that he has failed miserable in his attempt. Upon turning over, Jared's finger is in his face, running along the contour of his cheekbone. It used to bother him when people would look too close, see all the things that he thought were blemishes and imperfections. Now that Jared seems to love all of those flaws and marks, they don't seem so bad anymore.

“Man, you're such a freak,” he says on a laugh, more amused by Jared's fascination than bothered.

Jared just bites his ear in response, growling in his throat like a puppy with a new chew toy before repositions himself on top of Jensen. It's pretty graceful for a guy who somehow manages to lose his footing without obstacles half the time. Hands on either side of Jensen's face, he leans in and drags his bottom lip over Jensen's.

If Jensen wasn't rung out and completely exhausted from the sex marathon they just finished, he would be rutting against Jared as his tongue slips into Jensen's mouth. Instead, he finds the energy to raise one hand and tangle it in the back of Jared's hair, holding him against the indolent kiss while Jared moans and rubs his soft cock against Jensen's thigh.

When Jared pulls away, face still too close for Jensen to make out his features, Jared whispers, “I'm not done with you yet.”

Laughing, Jensen allows his hand to fall back to the bed, a gesture of fatigue and surrender. “Man, I can't,” he starts to argue.

Jared's lips spread into a knowing, chastising grin. “Perv,” he accuses playfully, using one arm to balance himself while the thumb of his other hand traces the wrinkle line on Jensen's forehead. “I meant your face.”

Jensen runs his tongue along his lower lip, chasing the puff of Jared's breath against his mouth. His eyes drift shut, air hitching in his chest when Jared brushes his thumb over the lashes and then uses two fingers to outline his cheekbone again.

There's no intent in the touch, nothing more than a tactile appreciation of the things he loves most, but it's more sensual than Jensen thinks it probably should be, relaxing and exciting at the same time.

Jared uses his thumb to smooth over the bridge of Jensen's nose, his hips rolling against Jensen's in a languid motion of instinct more than desperation.

When that thumb ghosts over Jensen's bottom lip and stops, Jensen opens one eye, questioning eyebrow raised. “What?” he asks as best he can with Jared's big thumb pressed to his lip.

Pulling back enough for Jensen to see the mischievous grin, Jared winks and says, “This is my favorite.”

“Favorite what?” The temptation to run his tongue along the edge of Jared's finger, to taste the salty skin, is too much. He'd pull it into his mouth if he thought he could get away with it.

“You have freckles on your lips,” Jared informs him, as though maybe the fact maybe escaped Jensen somewhere along the way. “This one, right here in the middle, is my favorite.”

The force of his laugh causes Jared to move his hand away, to steady himself as Jensen's body shakes enough to throw them off balance. “You have a favorite freckle? What is wrong with you?”

Jared smiles easily in return, lifts his hand to pinch Jensen's lips together between his index finger and thumb. “There are a lot of things I like about your duck lips, baby,” he teases, licking quickly at the seam of them before Jensen gets his legs around Jared's thighs and does his best to flip them.

Jared is heavy, but Jensen manages to roll him onto his side before Jared gets an arm around his head and wedges Jensen's face under his arm. He loves these playful moments in bed with Jared; he does not love being forced to smell his sweaty armpit.

He says as much with a muffled nghugh, which only makes Jared squeeze harder before he relaxes his grip. “You love me.” He says it like an accusation.

Jensen can't deny that he's guilty as charged. He doesn't say as much as that would be admitting defeat, but in his head, he knows it's true.

They're tangled so tightly together that Jensen's toes start to tingle and he shifts, trying to get the circulation going without breaking the contact with Jared's warm, naked legs.

“Don't even think you're goin' anywhere,” Jared warns him, propped up on one elbow while his other hand draws abstract circles on against Jensen's side, sweeping over his hip. “I haven't gotten below your neck yet.” With a wicked grin, he adds, “I still have a brilliant sonnet to share involving your bow legs, cowboy.”

What is supposed to be a sarcastic, Man, get off me, comes out as a sharp laugh of surprise. Jensen just falls back against the mattress and lets Jared continue. If he's learned one thing about Jared, it's that resistance is futile. Besides, his mom always told him to pick his battles and fighting Jared's post-coital body tours isn't really a war that Jensen even wants to wage.