Fic: Truth - Jensen/Misha, R
Author: qthelights
Title: Truth
Pairing: Jensen/Misha
Rating: R
Spoilers: None
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: Not mine and never happened. No disrespect intended.
Summary:Sometimes it isn't the truth that hurts the most.
Truth
Jensen decides that he doesn’t like listening to Misha do his convention panels. Usually he and Jared, or whoever was around at the time with nothing on, would sit in the wings or up the back in shadow, and listen to whoever happened to be under the spotlight, under the grill at that particular moment.
Usually, Jensen loved that. Seeing his colleagues squirm and twist under the shrewd gaze of a room full of finicky switched-on women.
But he finds he doesn’t like watching Misha.
Misha teases and coaxes and flaunts every single rule of ‘dealing with fans’ that Jensen has learned. And he learned them the hard way. He thinks it’s only fair that newcomers learn them that way too.
But, whatever. Life was too short, and if Misha had the golden ticket - or tongue - and could get away with murder, then more power to him.
No, what bothered him was something else. Misha’s answers were too perfect. Too slick. Like oil coating the back of his tongue. He says, apparently, all the right things. Has the crowd in giggles and sighs and fucking adoring him as he insults them right to their faces.
It’s quite the talent.
At first, Jensen has to admit, if he’s honest, that he was a bit awestruck by it all. Wanted to rush to wherever Misha was and watch him bend the fans around his fingers.
And he was fucking hilarious at it too. He’d hit just the right note of insanity and mix it in with a smidge of seeming depth, a little too much honesty to be accidental and top it all off with a childhood story, a little titbit to make the fans feel as if they were privy to some deeply personal insight. That they were worthy of such attention. They were trusted. Special.
And Jensen fell too; tumbled headfirst into the dizzying depths of Misha’s spell. It was so easy. Of course, it was meant to be. But it was glorious all the same.
Until he realised that what he saw there wasn’t Misha.
It was a show. Oh so carefully constructed. Beautifully constructed. Until you began to pick at the edges and the tightly wound drama began to fray and warp.
A night up late or a question too many and the sarcasm became more biting. Not too far that the fans would notice. But that Jensen could.
The answers slowed, became more contrary and a hell of a lot more nonsensical. There’d be deliberate baiting, cast only for the smack-down that would have them adoring even harder, hooked through the mouth and gasping for air but flipping and flopping in ecstasy as they came aground.
Smooth dialogue would become jilted and tense, an undercurrent of ‘fuck you’ contempt hitting each word surrendered to each mind-game question. Every story, every tease a cover. A diversion.
Misha was good at bait and switch. Too good. Protection honed and twisted and lashed around him with bloodied fingernails.
Arrows veiled as witty retorts, skilful and deadly to anything approaching, anything with the slightest ability to pierce through the armour. But they were fun and funny, until they were, you know, not.
It got to the ‘not’ part quicker once he worked it out and Jensen stopped bothering to watch; he had better things to do with his time. He couldn’t un-see what he’d eventually seen.
Later, Misha would turn up at his hotel room door. A soft tentative knock. No less sure of its reception, despite the repetition of countless times before.
The Misha who he opened the door to was always tired. Eyes heavy-lidded and dulled to shadowed grey. Misha would smile, soft and wry, but it wouldn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Can I?” A gesture, a flutter of fingers at the room beyond Jensen’s shoulder.
“Of course.” The answer was always the same. The door opened wider and a move aside to let him pass.
Misha would hesitate, but then go straight to the bed, perch on the end and flop back, eyes closed. A sigh of relief puffing through cracked lips.
“How’d it go?”
Though he knew the answer.
“Mmmf,” or a variation of the sound, would come from the back of Misha’s throat.
Jensen would sit next to him. Close, but not closing the extra couple of inches. Let Misha have his moment to collect himself. Invariably though, Misha wouldn’t need that long.
Or maybe it was just that other needs became more important than solace.
Misha’s hand would blindly seek out Jensen’s thigh and rest there, fingers splayed tan on blue against the curve. Warmth slowly seeping through faded denim. The tips of his fingers absently flexing would spread jittery tingles along Jensen’s leg.
That would be all he did though. Misha wouldn’t make any further move. That wasn’t what this was.
And, when Misha’s eyes flickered back open, some kind of respite hard won, it would be Jensen who moved.
He’d stand, reach out with open palms. Misha’s smile would hit closer to his eyes -closer but not close enough - as he placed his hands in Jensen’s, allowed him to lever him back up to sitting.
Kneeling in between his knees Jensen would trail his fingers along Misha’s sides. Slowly up, following the bumps and dips of his ribs hidden under the soft cloth. Misha would remain silent, but his eyes would be focused on Jensen’s face.
When his fingers came back down again he’d play with the hem of Misha’s t-shirt. Rub the material through his fingers. Let them slip to brush against the hot skin of Misha’s hips beneath. Smooth them forwards, trailing stomach. The tightening muscles the only indication of affect.
He’d lean forward, place soft lips innocently against Misha’s mouth before tugging the t-shirt up, Misha’s arms rising in quiet assistance.
T-shirt removed, Jensen would lean forward again, press his lips to Misha’s lips, still and on precipice until Misha opened on a sigh and he’d sweep his tongue into his mouth. Caress and curl and give. His hands would slip around to Misha’s shoulder blades, mimic the movements against skin.
Minutes later, one or many, but enough to make Jensen’s knees begin to ache and he’d pull back, press his palms against bare chest with gentle force. Wait for Misha to scoot back on the bed and lay back down. And then Jensen would unwrap him further. Unzip his jeans and drag them down Misha’s thighs, over his knees until they pooled around his ankles where Jensen would stop to remove socks and shoes.
He always forgot the socks and shoes.
Stripping himself quickly, their clothing a discarded sprawl of armour on the carpet, he’d settle back down, lay himself over Misha. Cover him from sight and sound. He’d slide lower, mouth hot on Misha’s clavicle. Suck the delicate skin between his lips, tongue swiping and tasting; sweat, salt and stage lights.
Misha would flush under him, fingertips digging near painfully deep into Jensen’s upper arms.
This was Misha.
Honest and just as fucking unsure as the rest of them.
Misha would animate as the tension built, squirm and huff hitched-up little sounds against the skin of his throat. Shiver and claw with a desperate ferocity that belied the oil. He would look up at Jensen, eyes dark and curtained by lashes, and confess his sins without a word.
And Jensen would dip his head, find Misha’s lips, and absolve him.
When Misha shuddered his release, it was with Jensen’s name on his lips.
And when Jensen shattered after him, it was with Misha’s come on his.
Afterwards they’d lie there, in the dark. Hotel linen scratching against their skin, click-hum of the air-conditioning unit the pulse of the room, and Jensen would listen to Misha talk, low and gravelled and without any bite or tease.
Of aspirations and searches for a place in the world where he’d fit just right, wedged into life and ensconced in its suffocating beauty.
Of a childhood hard and gritty around the edges but with laughter and eccentricity that floated, bubble-like, above the dirt.
Of disappointments and failed salvations that couldn’t be escaped.
Of doing his own thing and living through the taunting that came with it. Doing it anyway and learning it was best to do even more, to live ‘fuck you’, and mean it.
Of sometimes wanting something else.
Jensen would exist in the rumble of Misha’s words, Misha’s world, and absorb the fears and joys, the stories behind the cute asides. He’d hear the quiet pleas for validation that would never ever be said aloud. And he’d do it again and again.
Because it was true.
And it was Misha.
And for truth, he could forgive.
Title: Truth
Pairing: Jensen/Misha
Rating: R
Spoilers: None
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: Not mine and never happened. No disrespect intended.
Summary:Sometimes it isn't the truth that hurts the most.
Truth
Jensen decides that he doesn’t like listening to Misha do his convention panels. Usually he and Jared, or whoever was around at the time with nothing on, would sit in the wings or up the back in shadow, and listen to whoever happened to be under the spotlight, under the grill at that particular moment.
Usually, Jensen loved that. Seeing his colleagues squirm and twist under the shrewd gaze of a room full of finicky switched-on women.
But he finds he doesn’t like watching Misha.
Misha teases and coaxes and flaunts every single rule of ‘dealing with fans’ that Jensen has learned. And he learned them the hard way. He thinks it’s only fair that newcomers learn them that way too.
But, whatever. Life was too short, and if Misha had the golden ticket - or tongue - and could get away with murder, then more power to him.
No, what bothered him was something else. Misha’s answers were too perfect. Too slick. Like oil coating the back of his tongue. He says, apparently, all the right things. Has the crowd in giggles and sighs and fucking adoring him as he insults them right to their faces.
It’s quite the talent.
At first, Jensen has to admit, if he’s honest, that he was a bit awestruck by it all. Wanted to rush to wherever Misha was and watch him bend the fans around his fingers.
And he was fucking hilarious at it too. He’d hit just the right note of insanity and mix it in with a smidge of seeming depth, a little too much honesty to be accidental and top it all off with a childhood story, a little titbit to make the fans feel as if they were privy to some deeply personal insight. That they were worthy of such attention. They were trusted. Special.
And Jensen fell too; tumbled headfirst into the dizzying depths of Misha’s spell. It was so easy. Of course, it was meant to be. But it was glorious all the same.
Until he realised that what he saw there wasn’t Misha.
It was a show. Oh so carefully constructed. Beautifully constructed. Until you began to pick at the edges and the tightly wound drama began to fray and warp.
A night up late or a question too many and the sarcasm became more biting. Not too far that the fans would notice. But that Jensen could.
The answers slowed, became more contrary and a hell of a lot more nonsensical. There’d be deliberate baiting, cast only for the smack-down that would have them adoring even harder, hooked through the mouth and gasping for air but flipping and flopping in ecstasy as they came aground.
Smooth dialogue would become jilted and tense, an undercurrent of ‘fuck you’ contempt hitting each word surrendered to each mind-game question. Every story, every tease a cover. A diversion.
Misha was good at bait and switch. Too good. Protection honed and twisted and lashed around him with bloodied fingernails.
Arrows veiled as witty retorts, skilful and deadly to anything approaching, anything with the slightest ability to pierce through the armour. But they were fun and funny, until they were, you know, not.
It got to the ‘not’ part quicker once he worked it out and Jensen stopped bothering to watch; he had better things to do with his time. He couldn’t un-see what he’d eventually seen.
Later, Misha would turn up at his hotel room door. A soft tentative knock. No less sure of its reception, despite the repetition of countless times before.
The Misha who he opened the door to was always tired. Eyes heavy-lidded and dulled to shadowed grey. Misha would smile, soft and wry, but it wouldn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Can I?” A gesture, a flutter of fingers at the room beyond Jensen’s shoulder.
“Of course.” The answer was always the same. The door opened wider and a move aside to let him pass.
Misha would hesitate, but then go straight to the bed, perch on the end and flop back, eyes closed. A sigh of relief puffing through cracked lips.
“How’d it go?”
Though he knew the answer.
“Mmmf,” or a variation of the sound, would come from the back of Misha’s throat.
Jensen would sit next to him. Close, but not closing the extra couple of inches. Let Misha have his moment to collect himself. Invariably though, Misha wouldn’t need that long.
Or maybe it was just that other needs became more important than solace.
Misha’s hand would blindly seek out Jensen’s thigh and rest there, fingers splayed tan on blue against the curve. Warmth slowly seeping through faded denim. The tips of his fingers absently flexing would spread jittery tingles along Jensen’s leg.
That would be all he did though. Misha wouldn’t make any further move. That wasn’t what this was.
And, when Misha’s eyes flickered back open, some kind of respite hard won, it would be Jensen who moved.
He’d stand, reach out with open palms. Misha’s smile would hit closer to his eyes -closer but not close enough - as he placed his hands in Jensen’s, allowed him to lever him back up to sitting.
Kneeling in between his knees Jensen would trail his fingers along Misha’s sides. Slowly up, following the bumps and dips of his ribs hidden under the soft cloth. Misha would remain silent, but his eyes would be focused on Jensen’s face.
When his fingers came back down again he’d play with the hem of Misha’s t-shirt. Rub the material through his fingers. Let them slip to brush against the hot skin of Misha’s hips beneath. Smooth them forwards, trailing stomach. The tightening muscles the only indication of affect.
He’d lean forward, place soft lips innocently against Misha’s mouth before tugging the t-shirt up, Misha’s arms rising in quiet assistance.
T-shirt removed, Jensen would lean forward again, press his lips to Misha’s lips, still and on precipice until Misha opened on a sigh and he’d sweep his tongue into his mouth. Caress and curl and give. His hands would slip around to Misha’s shoulder blades, mimic the movements against skin.
Minutes later, one or many, but enough to make Jensen’s knees begin to ache and he’d pull back, press his palms against bare chest with gentle force. Wait for Misha to scoot back on the bed and lay back down. And then Jensen would unwrap him further. Unzip his jeans and drag them down Misha’s thighs, over his knees until they pooled around his ankles where Jensen would stop to remove socks and shoes.
He always forgot the socks and shoes.
Stripping himself quickly, their clothing a discarded sprawl of armour on the carpet, he’d settle back down, lay himself over Misha. Cover him from sight and sound. He’d slide lower, mouth hot on Misha’s clavicle. Suck the delicate skin between his lips, tongue swiping and tasting; sweat, salt and stage lights.
Misha would flush under him, fingertips digging near painfully deep into Jensen’s upper arms.
This was Misha.
Honest and just as fucking unsure as the rest of them.
Misha would animate as the tension built, squirm and huff hitched-up little sounds against the skin of his throat. Shiver and claw with a desperate ferocity that belied the oil. He would look up at Jensen, eyes dark and curtained by lashes, and confess his sins without a word.
And Jensen would dip his head, find Misha’s lips, and absolve him.
When Misha shuddered his release, it was with Jensen’s name on his lips.
And when Jensen shattered after him, it was with Misha’s come on his.
Afterwards they’d lie there, in the dark. Hotel linen scratching against their skin, click-hum of the air-conditioning unit the pulse of the room, and Jensen would listen to Misha talk, low and gravelled and without any bite or tease.
Of aspirations and searches for a place in the world where he’d fit just right, wedged into life and ensconced in its suffocating beauty.
Of a childhood hard and gritty around the edges but with laughter and eccentricity that floated, bubble-like, above the dirt.
Of disappointments and failed salvations that couldn’t be escaped.
Of doing his own thing and living through the taunting that came with it. Doing it anyway and learning it was best to do even more, to live ‘fuck you’, and mean it.
Of sometimes wanting something else.
Jensen would exist in the rumble of Misha’s words, Misha’s world, and absorb the fears and joys, the stories behind the cute asides. He’d hear the quiet pleas for validation that would never ever be said aloud. And he’d do it again and again.
Because it was true.
And it was Misha.
And for truth, he could forgive.