(Furious Angels) Bring You Back to Me
Title: (Furious Angels) Bring You Back to Me
Pairings: Misha/Jensen, some Jared/Jensen, some Chris/Jensen, some Jared/Chris/Jensen
Rating: NC-17 like whoa.
Words: 3100
Warnings: dub!con, talk of non!con, talk of murder, gun!porn, object insertion, dirty talk, rough sex, a plot hiding in the corner, breathplay, DARK!boys
Disclaimer: I don't own the boys. Or a Ferrari.
Summary: Jensen's past breaks out of prison and has some vengeance to exact.
Author Notes: Part of a series I've been writing in my notebook involving darkdarkDARK boys, but have yet to post. Purely PWP - I have no excuse. Nor do I have a beta.
Jensen starts throwing his things in a duffel bag the minute that he sees the news report. He ignores Chris’ growls and demands for him to stop, even going so far as to trick him into the hallway and then locking him out of the bedroom. It’s a split-second decision and definitely not his best, but in the time it would take for Chris to pick the lock or get the door off the frame, Jensen could be out the window and down the street. He’s a little more worried about Jared, but he’s the one who taught Jared everything he knows about locks, and he kept some things for himself. Jensen’s had a lot of practice with locks, windows, and getting the fuck out really fucking fast. That’s just how it is; Jared’s the grifter, Chris is the muscle, and Jensen was the thief.
What he doesn’t count on is Jared’s ability to climb anything, including buildings. Jensen doesn’t even notice when he comes through the window until he’s latching it behind him, blocking Jensen’s other exit.
“Whatcha doin’, Jen?” Jared leans against the window sill. Chris is no longer yelling and banging on the door, but Jensen knows that he’s still out there, waiting, should Jensen try his luck that way. He’s trapped. Again.
“He’s gonna kill me, Jared.” Jensen’s scared, fucking terrified, and he’s got no qualms about admitting it. “You know he is.”
Jared honest-to-God chuckles at him. “He’s not gonna kill you, baby, he loves you.”
“Are you insane?” Jensen shoulders the bag. One way or another, he’s getting the hell out of here now. “I’m the whole reason he’s in prison!”
“Was in prison,” Jared corrects. He grins, shakes his head, and starts toward Jensen. “He’s just been waiting ‘til we got the band back together, Jen.”
“We don’t have the band back together!” Jared’s eyebrows hit his hairline at Jensen’s shout, but he plows on anyway. “I’m not part of the band anymore, Jared, I never will be. And I sure as hell don’t see Chad crawling back!”
Jared’s eyes have gone dark, Jensen notices, his whole body a stern, immovable line. “Quit yelling at me,” he snaps. “I’m trying to be gentle here.”
Jensen swallows, tries to calm himself long enough to get his point across without triggering Jared’s need to dominate. “He broke out of a maximum security prison,” he says, voice shaking. “He broke out of a maximum security prison that I put him in, Jared. Chris nearly killed me, and he wasn’t even the one I gave up!”
Jared strides over to him and pulls the bag off of his shoulder. Jensen doesn’t even bother to protest; he knows that Jared can keep him here, that he doesn’t have a chance in hell of making it out that door past Chris. Jared and Chris are stronger than him, much stronger. They always have been, and they always will be.
“You’re not going anywhere.” Jared’s tone is low and firm, laced with the darkness that Jensen knows better than to mess with, the darkness that’s barely controlled, humming underneath Jared’s skin. “You don’t get to run this time.”
Jensen sighs and sits down on the bed. He’s never been able to get away, not really, not since they grabbed him from what was left of his old crew and made him theirs in every way possible. Jensen sometimes felt like they were all connected somehow, able to sniff each others’ souls out of six billion others. Not for the first time, he wondered where Chad had gone, if Chad was stalking him via some kind of technology that was far above them all.
“Fuck,” he breathes. He’s still terrified, brain short circuiting and palms sweating, panic building. The door opens, Chris finally managing to jimmy the lock or shoot it or something, and Jensen knows that he’s well and truly trapped. “God, fuck.”
“He ain’t gonna kill you,” Chris echoes. He pulls Jensen in so that he can stroke his hair, and Jensen watches Jared unpack his bag with growing dread. Eventually, Chris pushes him down onto the bed. Jensen lets his eyes close as Jared joins them, and takes the kisses and rough touches for the distractions they’re meant to be.
Jensen finally falls asleep thanks to what he suspects is a sleeping-pill laced snack, and wakes in the middle of the night. The timing is not unusual, because they don’t exactly run on normal schedules and they’re all fucking nocturnal. He’s alone in the bed, and that’s not unusual either; Chris and Jared don’t sleep nearly as much as he does. What is unusual is the fact that he wakes at all. It may be the equivalent of noon for him, but he had only been asleep for a couple of hours.
He blinks and realizes that it’s the light from the hallway that woke him, a barely there crack that disappears when the door closes. There’s someone there, standing by the door, and as his eyes adjust, Jensen’s blood runs cold. He knows that figure, knows that almost inhuman blue eyes are glittering in the dark at him.
“Hello,” Misha says, low and easy. The sound of the lock flipping is almost deafening, sharp and terrifying. Chris and Jared defer to Misha, and that locked door will keep them out better than any concrete wall that Jensen could build, simply because it was Misha that locked it. Jensen sits up, sheets rustling around him, and as soon as he does, Misha flips on the lamp on the dresser.
He can’t help it - Jensen drinks in the sight of Misha, of his dark, mussed hair and his small, almost friendly smile. There’s new bulk on him, muscles where there hadn’t been before, but he’s still lithe and shorter than Jensen, and Jensen’s hardwired to be completely okay with the fact that Misha can still hold him down with a look. His eyes, though, so impossibly blue, glitter with something dark and furious, a kind of hunger and power. They’re brought out by the deep blue of his button-down, and as Jensen drags his eyes down Misha’s form, away from his face, he finally sees the gun. It’s loose in his hand, but it catches Jensen’s gaze and keeps it there.
“It’s been awhile,” Misha says, still in that maddeningly even tone. “Jared tells me you’ve been doing well.”
Jensen finally wraps his brain around his motor skills. “Th-they-“ he manages, then licks his dry lips. “They said… Jared said you wouldn’t-“
Misha laughs softly, dark and low. “Jared doesn’t call the shots, does he, Jensen? You know that.” He steps closer, trailing his fingers along the dresser, gun glinting off the light. “Not going to ask how I’ve been? That’s very rude.”
Jensen can’t formulate a reply. Misha quirks an eyebrow, then levels the gun at Jensen’s forehead.
“Ask me how I’ve been, Jensen.” His voice is still quiet, but more of that anger is filtering in, like he’s barely got control of it as it is. “That’s an order.”
Jensen’s tongue darts out to wet his lips again, eyes wide. “H-h-how have you been?” he gets out, shaky and soft.
The words are barely out of his mouth when the handgun connects with the side of his face. Jensen hits the floor, his cheekbone stinging from the impact, and he stays down. He curls where he lands until Misha hauls him up again and slams him back into the bedroom wall, hard enough that the mirror rattles.
“I’ve been in prison, Jensen,” he hisses. “How the fuck do you think I’ve been?” The gun presses against Jensen’s stomach, and Jensen finally remembers that he’s still naked from earlier. “You know what it’s like there, don’t you? Oh, wait, no, that’s right.” Misha presses himself close, leans in to whisper harshly in his ear. “I went so you didn’t have to, you selfish little fuck.”
“I’m sorry,” Jensen whispers as Misha slides the muzzle of the gun up, dragging it up his skin to rest at the hollow of his throat.
“I don’t even think you realize what you’re sorry for.” Misha steps back, giving him a bare minimum of room. “Get on your knees.”
Jensen drops instantly, obedient in the hopes that he can get out of this alive. Misha’s hand forces his mouth open, and he expects his cock, craves it even, somewhere in the sick, thrilled part of his brain. Instead, he gets cold, hard metal shoved between his teeth. His eyes go wide, darting up to Misha in terror.
“I was on my knees a lot,” Misha says. “And let me tell you, Jen, it feels damn good to be the one standing.” He shoves the gun even deeper. Jensen has to focus to breathe through his nose. “Here’s what’s going to happen. You, Jensen, are going to give me the best blowjob of my life. Then, if I’m feeling generous, you’re gonna crawl to the bed, and you’re gonna bend over, and you’re gonna beg me to fuck you.”
Jensen can’t help the tiny sound of pure want that escapes him around the gun. It’s terrifying, but it’s also so fucking exciting, the fear just adding an edge to the adrenaline that Jensen already can’t get enough of. He’s hard between his legs, leaking precome all over himself.
“There’s something you should remember, Jensen,” Misha adds, and Jensen can hear the click of the safety being flipped off. “You’re useless to me right now. You don’t have a job here anymore. This is your opportunity to show me that you can be valuable to me.” Misha gets rid of things that don’t serve a purpose anymore; Jensen reads the warning loud and clear.
When Misha finally pulls the gun out slow to press it against his temple, Jensen leaves his lips parted. He wants Misha’s cock, more than he’s wanted anything in a long time. He wants the weight of it, the velvet skin against his tongue and the smell of Misha surrounding him and overwhelming him. Misha undoes his pants and pulls himself out, fisting a hand in Jensen’s hair to drag him down onto his cock without a single fucking care if Jensen’s ready or not. Jensen knows Misha’s finger is on the trigger, knows that Misha could blow his brains out right the fuck here and probably get off on it, the sick fuck, and Jensen lets out a moan. This is it, the raw power and fear and everything he fucking needs like breathing. The sound of it, the vibrations, have Misha tightening his grip on Jensen’s hair and hissing, thrusting his hips deeper and nearly choking Jensen.
“Suck, slut.” Misha’s voice has gone gravel-rough, and Jensen obeys, bobbing his head with his fingers in Misha’s belt loops, pants still around his hips. Jensen loves it, fuck, and Misha knows it. He drags his teeth just on the side of too much and Misha gives him a not-so-gentle tap with the gun - he really wouldn’t have many qualms about shooting Jensen and letting Chris and Jared deal with the mess when he’s this angry. Jensen whimpers a little, eyes darting up to Misha’s face, watches Misha’s expression twist as he groans and growls and forces Jensen to take more, inch by inch. He finally stops and holds Jensen there when his zipper is rubbing at Jensen’s skin and Jensen’s nose is buried in Misha’s pubes. His eyes are watering and he can’t fucking breathe, but Misha’s just watching him, caressing his cheek with the muzzle of the gun.
“You feel so fucking good, Jensen,” Misha breathes out. “Trying to breathe… you know, your throat convulses when you start to suffocate, and you just keep fucking squeezing me. This is all you’re good for now, isn’t it, Jensen? Choking on my cock and liking it, you little whore.”
Jensen’s vision is edging black when Misha finally pulls back and lets him breathe. There are tears on his cheeks, drool on his chin, and he coughs, but he’s still hard and wanting. It takes him a moment to realize that Misha’s cock is in his own hand, the head still trailing across his lips, and Jensen closes his eyes and drops his mouth open on instinct. When Misha comes, he growls out Jensen’s name and rips the gun away from his head. Jensen doesn’t dare move as the hot, sticky spurts hit his face, dripping onto his tongue as it darts out to catch them. Misha’s hand is back in his hair, and he yanks Jensen’s head to the side. There’s a sudden loud bang right beside his ear, and Jensen’s eyes snap open.
His ears are ringing, and he barely hears Misha growl out the command, “Bed.” He doesn’t even have time to dwell on the fact that there is a bullet hole in the wall next to his head, a fucking bullet hole, before Misha yanks him up and shoves him, apparently too impatient to watch him crawl. Jensen hits the side of the bed and tries to scramble up onto the mattress, but Misha’s already kicking his legs apart, his knees still on the floor.
Misha’s hand falls on the back of his neck, adding come to the sweat-damp skin there. After a moment, he hauls Jensen’s head up and back, stretching his neck and shoving two fingers in front of his face, gun having been dropped on the mattress.
“Suck,” Misha commands, twisting his hand in Jensen’s hair so that his mouth falls open as a gasp of pain escapes him. “’s all you’re fuckin’ getting, all you deserve.”
Jensen sucks like his life fucking depends on it, like his jaw doesn’t hurt from the gun and Misha’s cock, like his lips aren’t swollen, because for all he knows, his life fucking does. When Misha shoves the first finger in, it hurts far less than Jensen expected.
“Oh, little slut’s been busy, huh?” Misha purrs and lets Jensen drop his head to the bed to hide his sudden blush. “Fucked open from Jared and Chris? Fucking cockslut, little fucking whore.”
He stretches Jensen rough, and Jensen revels in the burn, enjoys it far more than he really
should. Misha pulls his fingers out and Jensen can’t help the whimper that escapes at the loss. Misha chuckles, hard again, the length of him pressing against the swell of Jensen’s ass.
“Wanna be full, baby?” Misha asks, almost tenderly. “Want my dick?”
“God, please,” Jensen whimpers. He’s rutting against the sheets absently, desperate, and Misha’s never given a fuck if he gets off or not - if he does, it’s like a little bonus. Misha only cares about getting himself off, and that’s what really gets Jensen going, the thought of being used. “Want it bad, please…”
“I don’t think you’ve earned it.” Misha’s hand is back on Jensen’s neck, forcing his head down onto the bed, turning it to the side. His other hand is strangely absent, up until Jensen feels the press of skin-warmed metal against the base of his spine. Jensen moans brokenly as it drags down the mess of his hole, the lube and come from earlier dripping, and thrusts up into the tangled sheets. The gun finally stops, resting against his hole.
“Beg for it,” Misha demands, voice a heady mix of steel and honey.
Jensen almost can’t find the words to explain how badly he wants it. “Please,” he gasps. “Oh, God, please, Misha, fuck me, please… I missed you, fucking need it, please.”
“Beg me to fuck with the gun.”
Jensen’s impossibly hard, he can’t fucking breathe, he’s so hard, he’s going to die if Misha doesn’t fuck him with something right now. “Want you to fuck me, want the gun, your dick, anything, please…!”
It slides in, finally, cold and unforgiving. Jensen claws at the blankets - it burns and stretches and holy fuck yesMishaplease. He’s babbling and his voice goes into a high keen when Misha gives the gun a vicious twist.
“Could kill you right now.” Misha’s voice is ragged, shot to hell. “On your knees and begging for it, fucking slut, could fucking kill you right now.”
And that’s it, Jensen’s gone, orgasm hitting him like a fucking getaway car doing 120, with a gun up his ass and his life hanging in the balance. Before he can think again, let alone function, Misha yanks the gun out of his ass and throws it to the side; it hits the floor, goes off, and the mirror shatters almost instantaneously.
Misha hauls Jensen up onto the bed and flips him, brings his head down to bite roughly at Jensen’s neck and Jensen keens. Misha thrusts into him in one fluid movement, and Jensen has to grab onto the covers to keep from sliding up the bed to hit his head on the wall.
“Whore, fuck,” Misha growls, leaving dark bruises on Jensen’s jawline. “Came on a fucking gun, pretty little whore, take it, fucking take it!” He fists one hand in Jensen’s hair and yanks his head back to get at his throat, teeth vicious and deliciously painful. “Begged for it, fucking filthy.” He leans back, looking Jensen in the eye while he fucks into him, and closes his hand over Jensen’s throat.
Fuck, suddenly Jensen really can’t breathe, Misha’s hand stopping all oxygen from getting in or out. He’s going to die with Misha’s cock up his ass and Misha’s come on his tongue, and it’s exactly how he thought he’d go, Christ.
Misha’s grip flexes and Jensen’s vision whites out for a moment. Misha comes, hips driving in hard and deep, and he slumps onto Jensen, releasing his hold. Jensen sucks in air, the world spinning around him. They stay like that for a while, breathing, until Jensen can see again and the world is mostly stationary.
“…I really am sorry,” Jensen manages. His voice is fucked, his throat burns like he ate a fucking porcupine or something. “I should have-“
Misha’s hand slides from where it’s resting on his throat to cover his mouth, and the man rolls onto his side, slipping out of Jensen. “You couldn’t have handled it,” he says. Every trace of anger is gone, for the time being, and he’s soft and easy, like Jensen remembers. “It turned out for the best. We didn’t have to share you, and you get to stay sane.”
The scariest thing, Jensen thinks sometimes, is how Misha can go from violent and angry to calm and quiet in the span of a blink. Still, curled here on the bed, coming off of an adrenaline high that he hasn’t felt in years, with Jared and Chris in the rooms below them, and the mirror shattered, and his muscles aching…
Jensen hasn’t felt so at home in weeks.
Pairings: Misha/Jensen, some Jared/Jensen, some Chris/Jensen, some Jared/Chris/Jensen
Rating: NC-17 like whoa.
Words: 3100
Warnings: dub!con, talk of non!con, talk of murder, gun!porn, object insertion, dirty talk, rough sex, a plot hiding in the corner, breathplay, DARK!boys
Disclaimer: I don't own the boys. Or a Ferrari.
Summary: Jensen's past breaks out of prison and has some vengeance to exact.
Author Notes: Part of a series I've been writing in my notebook involving darkdarkDARK boys, but have yet to post. Purely PWP - I have no excuse. Nor do I have a beta.
Jensen starts throwing his things in a duffel bag the minute that he sees the news report. He ignores Chris’ growls and demands for him to stop, even going so far as to trick him into the hallway and then locking him out of the bedroom. It’s a split-second decision and definitely not his best, but in the time it would take for Chris to pick the lock or get the door off the frame, Jensen could be out the window and down the street. He’s a little more worried about Jared, but he’s the one who taught Jared everything he knows about locks, and he kept some things for himself. Jensen’s had a lot of practice with locks, windows, and getting the fuck out really fucking fast. That’s just how it is; Jared’s the grifter, Chris is the muscle, and Jensen was the thief.
What he doesn’t count on is Jared’s ability to climb anything, including buildings. Jensen doesn’t even notice when he comes through the window until he’s latching it behind him, blocking Jensen’s other exit.
“Whatcha doin’, Jen?” Jared leans against the window sill. Chris is no longer yelling and banging on the door, but Jensen knows that he’s still out there, waiting, should Jensen try his luck that way. He’s trapped. Again.
“He’s gonna kill me, Jared.” Jensen’s scared, fucking terrified, and he’s got no qualms about admitting it. “You know he is.”
Jared honest-to-God chuckles at him. “He’s not gonna kill you, baby, he loves you.”
“Are you insane?” Jensen shoulders the bag. One way or another, he’s getting the hell out of here now. “I’m the whole reason he’s in prison!”
“Was in prison,” Jared corrects. He grins, shakes his head, and starts toward Jensen. “He’s just been waiting ‘til we got the band back together, Jen.”
“We don’t have the band back together!” Jared’s eyebrows hit his hairline at Jensen’s shout, but he plows on anyway. “I’m not part of the band anymore, Jared, I never will be. And I sure as hell don’t see Chad crawling back!”
Jared’s eyes have gone dark, Jensen notices, his whole body a stern, immovable line. “Quit yelling at me,” he snaps. “I’m trying to be gentle here.”
Jensen swallows, tries to calm himself long enough to get his point across without triggering Jared’s need to dominate. “He broke out of a maximum security prison,” he says, voice shaking. “He broke out of a maximum security prison that I put him in, Jared. Chris nearly killed me, and he wasn’t even the one I gave up!”
Jared strides over to him and pulls the bag off of his shoulder. Jensen doesn’t even bother to protest; he knows that Jared can keep him here, that he doesn’t have a chance in hell of making it out that door past Chris. Jared and Chris are stronger than him, much stronger. They always have been, and they always will be.
“You’re not going anywhere.” Jared’s tone is low and firm, laced with the darkness that Jensen knows better than to mess with, the darkness that’s barely controlled, humming underneath Jared’s skin. “You don’t get to run this time.”
Jensen sighs and sits down on the bed. He’s never been able to get away, not really, not since they grabbed him from what was left of his old crew and made him theirs in every way possible. Jensen sometimes felt like they were all connected somehow, able to sniff each others’ souls out of six billion others. Not for the first time, he wondered where Chad had gone, if Chad was stalking him via some kind of technology that was far above them all.
“Fuck,” he breathes. He’s still terrified, brain short circuiting and palms sweating, panic building. The door opens, Chris finally managing to jimmy the lock or shoot it or something, and Jensen knows that he’s well and truly trapped. “God, fuck.”
“He ain’t gonna kill you,” Chris echoes. He pulls Jensen in so that he can stroke his hair, and Jensen watches Jared unpack his bag with growing dread. Eventually, Chris pushes him down onto the bed. Jensen lets his eyes close as Jared joins them, and takes the kisses and rough touches for the distractions they’re meant to be.
Jensen finally falls asleep thanks to what he suspects is a sleeping-pill laced snack, and wakes in the middle of the night. The timing is not unusual, because they don’t exactly run on normal schedules and they’re all fucking nocturnal. He’s alone in the bed, and that’s not unusual either; Chris and Jared don’t sleep nearly as much as he does. What is unusual is the fact that he wakes at all. It may be the equivalent of noon for him, but he had only been asleep for a couple of hours.
He blinks and realizes that it’s the light from the hallway that woke him, a barely there crack that disappears when the door closes. There’s someone there, standing by the door, and as his eyes adjust, Jensen’s blood runs cold. He knows that figure, knows that almost inhuman blue eyes are glittering in the dark at him.
“Hello,” Misha says, low and easy. The sound of the lock flipping is almost deafening, sharp and terrifying. Chris and Jared defer to Misha, and that locked door will keep them out better than any concrete wall that Jensen could build, simply because it was Misha that locked it. Jensen sits up, sheets rustling around him, and as soon as he does, Misha flips on the lamp on the dresser.
He can’t help it - Jensen drinks in the sight of Misha, of his dark, mussed hair and his small, almost friendly smile. There’s new bulk on him, muscles where there hadn’t been before, but he’s still lithe and shorter than Jensen, and Jensen’s hardwired to be completely okay with the fact that Misha can still hold him down with a look. His eyes, though, so impossibly blue, glitter with something dark and furious, a kind of hunger and power. They’re brought out by the deep blue of his button-down, and as Jensen drags his eyes down Misha’s form, away from his face, he finally sees the gun. It’s loose in his hand, but it catches Jensen’s gaze and keeps it there.
“It’s been awhile,” Misha says, still in that maddeningly even tone. “Jared tells me you’ve been doing well.”
Jensen finally wraps his brain around his motor skills. “Th-they-“ he manages, then licks his dry lips. “They said… Jared said you wouldn’t-“
Misha laughs softly, dark and low. “Jared doesn’t call the shots, does he, Jensen? You know that.” He steps closer, trailing his fingers along the dresser, gun glinting off the light. “Not going to ask how I’ve been? That’s very rude.”
Jensen can’t formulate a reply. Misha quirks an eyebrow, then levels the gun at Jensen’s forehead.
“Ask me how I’ve been, Jensen.” His voice is still quiet, but more of that anger is filtering in, like he’s barely got control of it as it is. “That’s an order.”
Jensen’s tongue darts out to wet his lips again, eyes wide. “H-h-how have you been?” he gets out, shaky and soft.
The words are barely out of his mouth when the handgun connects with the side of his face. Jensen hits the floor, his cheekbone stinging from the impact, and he stays down. He curls where he lands until Misha hauls him up again and slams him back into the bedroom wall, hard enough that the mirror rattles.
“I’ve been in prison, Jensen,” he hisses. “How the fuck do you think I’ve been?” The gun presses against Jensen’s stomach, and Jensen finally remembers that he’s still naked from earlier. “You know what it’s like there, don’t you? Oh, wait, no, that’s right.” Misha presses himself close, leans in to whisper harshly in his ear. “I went so you didn’t have to, you selfish little fuck.”
“I’m sorry,” Jensen whispers as Misha slides the muzzle of the gun up, dragging it up his skin to rest at the hollow of his throat.
“I don’t even think you realize what you’re sorry for.” Misha steps back, giving him a bare minimum of room. “Get on your knees.”
Jensen drops instantly, obedient in the hopes that he can get out of this alive. Misha’s hand forces his mouth open, and he expects his cock, craves it even, somewhere in the sick, thrilled part of his brain. Instead, he gets cold, hard metal shoved between his teeth. His eyes go wide, darting up to Misha in terror.
“I was on my knees a lot,” Misha says. “And let me tell you, Jen, it feels damn good to be the one standing.” He shoves the gun even deeper. Jensen has to focus to breathe through his nose. “Here’s what’s going to happen. You, Jensen, are going to give me the best blowjob of my life. Then, if I’m feeling generous, you’re gonna crawl to the bed, and you’re gonna bend over, and you’re gonna beg me to fuck you.”
Jensen can’t help the tiny sound of pure want that escapes him around the gun. It’s terrifying, but it’s also so fucking exciting, the fear just adding an edge to the adrenaline that Jensen already can’t get enough of. He’s hard between his legs, leaking precome all over himself.
“There’s something you should remember, Jensen,” Misha adds, and Jensen can hear the click of the safety being flipped off. “You’re useless to me right now. You don’t have a job here anymore. This is your opportunity to show me that you can be valuable to me.” Misha gets rid of things that don’t serve a purpose anymore; Jensen reads the warning loud and clear.
When Misha finally pulls the gun out slow to press it against his temple, Jensen leaves his lips parted. He wants Misha’s cock, more than he’s wanted anything in a long time. He wants the weight of it, the velvet skin against his tongue and the smell of Misha surrounding him and overwhelming him. Misha undoes his pants and pulls himself out, fisting a hand in Jensen’s hair to drag him down onto his cock without a single fucking care if Jensen’s ready or not. Jensen knows Misha’s finger is on the trigger, knows that Misha could blow his brains out right the fuck here and probably get off on it, the sick fuck, and Jensen lets out a moan. This is it, the raw power and fear and everything he fucking needs like breathing. The sound of it, the vibrations, have Misha tightening his grip on Jensen’s hair and hissing, thrusting his hips deeper and nearly choking Jensen.
“Suck, slut.” Misha’s voice has gone gravel-rough, and Jensen obeys, bobbing his head with his fingers in Misha’s belt loops, pants still around his hips. Jensen loves it, fuck, and Misha knows it. He drags his teeth just on the side of too much and Misha gives him a not-so-gentle tap with the gun - he really wouldn’t have many qualms about shooting Jensen and letting Chris and Jared deal with the mess when he’s this angry. Jensen whimpers a little, eyes darting up to Misha’s face, watches Misha’s expression twist as he groans and growls and forces Jensen to take more, inch by inch. He finally stops and holds Jensen there when his zipper is rubbing at Jensen’s skin and Jensen’s nose is buried in Misha’s pubes. His eyes are watering and he can’t fucking breathe, but Misha’s just watching him, caressing his cheek with the muzzle of the gun.
“You feel so fucking good, Jensen,” Misha breathes out. “Trying to breathe… you know, your throat convulses when you start to suffocate, and you just keep fucking squeezing me. This is all you’re good for now, isn’t it, Jensen? Choking on my cock and liking it, you little whore.”
Jensen’s vision is edging black when Misha finally pulls back and lets him breathe. There are tears on his cheeks, drool on his chin, and he coughs, but he’s still hard and wanting. It takes him a moment to realize that Misha’s cock is in his own hand, the head still trailing across his lips, and Jensen closes his eyes and drops his mouth open on instinct. When Misha comes, he growls out Jensen’s name and rips the gun away from his head. Jensen doesn’t dare move as the hot, sticky spurts hit his face, dripping onto his tongue as it darts out to catch them. Misha’s hand is back in his hair, and he yanks Jensen’s head to the side. There’s a sudden loud bang right beside his ear, and Jensen’s eyes snap open.
His ears are ringing, and he barely hears Misha growl out the command, “Bed.” He doesn’t even have time to dwell on the fact that there is a bullet hole in the wall next to his head, a fucking bullet hole, before Misha yanks him up and shoves him, apparently too impatient to watch him crawl. Jensen hits the side of the bed and tries to scramble up onto the mattress, but Misha’s already kicking his legs apart, his knees still on the floor.
Misha’s hand falls on the back of his neck, adding come to the sweat-damp skin there. After a moment, he hauls Jensen’s head up and back, stretching his neck and shoving two fingers in front of his face, gun having been dropped on the mattress.
“Suck,” Misha commands, twisting his hand in Jensen’s hair so that his mouth falls open as a gasp of pain escapes him. “’s all you’re fuckin’ getting, all you deserve.”
Jensen sucks like his life fucking depends on it, like his jaw doesn’t hurt from the gun and Misha’s cock, like his lips aren’t swollen, because for all he knows, his life fucking does. When Misha shoves the first finger in, it hurts far less than Jensen expected.
“Oh, little slut’s been busy, huh?” Misha purrs and lets Jensen drop his head to the bed to hide his sudden blush. “Fucked open from Jared and Chris? Fucking cockslut, little fucking whore.”
He stretches Jensen rough, and Jensen revels in the burn, enjoys it far more than he really
should. Misha pulls his fingers out and Jensen can’t help the whimper that escapes at the loss. Misha chuckles, hard again, the length of him pressing against the swell of Jensen’s ass.
“Wanna be full, baby?” Misha asks, almost tenderly. “Want my dick?”
“God, please,” Jensen whimpers. He’s rutting against the sheets absently, desperate, and Misha’s never given a fuck if he gets off or not - if he does, it’s like a little bonus. Misha only cares about getting himself off, and that’s what really gets Jensen going, the thought of being used. “Want it bad, please…”
“I don’t think you’ve earned it.” Misha’s hand is back on Jensen’s neck, forcing his head down onto the bed, turning it to the side. His other hand is strangely absent, up until Jensen feels the press of skin-warmed metal against the base of his spine. Jensen moans brokenly as it drags down the mess of his hole, the lube and come from earlier dripping, and thrusts up into the tangled sheets. The gun finally stops, resting against his hole.
“Beg for it,” Misha demands, voice a heady mix of steel and honey.
Jensen almost can’t find the words to explain how badly he wants it. “Please,” he gasps. “Oh, God, please, Misha, fuck me, please… I missed you, fucking need it, please.”
“Beg me to fuck with the gun.”
Jensen’s impossibly hard, he can’t fucking breathe, he’s so hard, he’s going to die if Misha doesn’t fuck him with something right now. “Want you to fuck me, want the gun, your dick, anything, please…!”
It slides in, finally, cold and unforgiving. Jensen claws at the blankets - it burns and stretches and holy fuck yesMishaplease. He’s babbling and his voice goes into a high keen when Misha gives the gun a vicious twist.
“Could kill you right now.” Misha’s voice is ragged, shot to hell. “On your knees and begging for it, fucking slut, could fucking kill you right now.”
And that’s it, Jensen’s gone, orgasm hitting him like a fucking getaway car doing 120, with a gun up his ass and his life hanging in the balance. Before he can think again, let alone function, Misha yanks the gun out of his ass and throws it to the side; it hits the floor, goes off, and the mirror shatters almost instantaneously.
Misha hauls Jensen up onto the bed and flips him, brings his head down to bite roughly at Jensen’s neck and Jensen keens. Misha thrusts into him in one fluid movement, and Jensen has to grab onto the covers to keep from sliding up the bed to hit his head on the wall.
“Whore, fuck,” Misha growls, leaving dark bruises on Jensen’s jawline. “Came on a fucking gun, pretty little whore, take it, fucking take it!” He fists one hand in Jensen’s hair and yanks his head back to get at his throat, teeth vicious and deliciously painful. “Begged for it, fucking filthy.” He leans back, looking Jensen in the eye while he fucks into him, and closes his hand over Jensen’s throat.
Fuck, suddenly Jensen really can’t breathe, Misha’s hand stopping all oxygen from getting in or out. He’s going to die with Misha’s cock up his ass and Misha’s come on his tongue, and it’s exactly how he thought he’d go, Christ.
Misha’s grip flexes and Jensen’s vision whites out for a moment. Misha comes, hips driving in hard and deep, and he slumps onto Jensen, releasing his hold. Jensen sucks in air, the world spinning around him. They stay like that for a while, breathing, until Jensen can see again and the world is mostly stationary.
“…I really am sorry,” Jensen manages. His voice is fucked, his throat burns like he ate a fucking porcupine or something. “I should have-“
Misha’s hand slides from where it’s resting on his throat to cover his mouth, and the man rolls onto his side, slipping out of Jensen. “You couldn’t have handled it,” he says. Every trace of anger is gone, for the time being, and he’s soft and easy, like Jensen remembers. “It turned out for the best. We didn’t have to share you, and you get to stay sane.”
The scariest thing, Jensen thinks sometimes, is how Misha can go from violent and angry to calm and quiet in the span of a blink. Still, curled here on the bed, coming off of an adrenaline high that he hasn’t felt in years, with Jared and Chris in the rooms below them, and the mirror shattered, and his muscles aching…
Jensen hasn’t felt so at home in weeks.