Fic: Collared and Felled - Jensen/Misha, PG-13
Title: Collared and Felled
Author: qthelights
Pairing: Jensen/Misha
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Angst
Summary: Sometimes hello feels like goodbye.
Words: 658
Disclaimer: Not mine, never happened.
A/N: Because in a certain light, this looked so very serious, that intrigued me. Thanks to obstinatrix for the reassurance.
Collared and Felled
Jensen shoves him up against the wall.
Their feet stumble and Misha’s hand slaps back hard against the brickwork to steady him; there’ll be scratches later. There’s a moment, a split second that feels like an eternity, when nothing is said, Jensen’s breath harsh and pushing; pulsing and hesitant against Misha’s mouth. Jensen’s eyes are dark and full of emotion and Misha can’t pull his gaze away.
When the moment snaps it slingshots into Jensen’s mouth descending on Misha’s. The kiss is brutal, rough and demanding. Jensen’s tongue takes and claims, his lips pressed hard against Misha’s mouth. One of Jensen’s hands winds its way into Misha’s hair and grips tightly, the other flat lies flat and possessive over his collarbone and throat. Jensen’s body smothers him into submission.
If it wasn’t a goodbye, it’d be a hell of a hello.
Even though Misha knows what it is, his cock stirs and his mouth whimpers.
The sound is loud in the quiet of the street and Jensen pulls back with a smack of his lips, eyes full of sadness and pain. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, and then he’s gone. Misha’s lapels fall back into place, Jensen’s footsteps echoing up the alley.
Misha closes his eyes. It’s not often that he’s pulled so entirely off guard, has his axis tilted so far out from under him that he has no hope of regaining balance. He’s made a lifetime of avoiding it. Yo Yos and spinning tops were never the toys he liked to play with.
And yet all it took is one moment where the hilarity stuttered, one moment where Jensen looked at him with a raised eyebrow, one moment where he opened his heart to someone who hadn’t passed his 15 year loyalty test. One moment. And the guard slipped.
And now he is here. Emotions frayed and sliding off him like shedding scales. Alone in an alley that smells like piss, with a press line a block away. Eric and Sera and network execs and people he can’t afford to blow off just yards from where he’s been mauled. Figuratively and literally.
His lips taste like Jensen and dazedly he swipes at the saliva with the back of his hand. Jensen’s wearing chapstick, Misha can feel the slight grease of it smeared over his mouth.
But he doesn’t have time.
He shoves it all down, as far as the ache at the bottom of his throat. The mask is harder to pull on, tight and constricting in a way protection never was before. His second skin has shrunk in the wash. It feels only like deception.
The press line beckons and he smiles with his mouth, if not his eyes. Jokes and flirts as much as his mind will allow on autopilot. He isn’t really there but they won’t notice. Probably. He stills his limbs into calm; feigning ease, mocking relaxed. But he can’t help swiping at his lips, sure that gloss shines across their tender surface.
And then he feels it, the shivering rise of hair on the back of his arms. Jensen.
Fingers on the back of his neck, loops and whorls branding his nape. The faux-smile slides off his face and Misha is helpless to stop it. Jensen, for it can only be Jensen, tugs and flexes at his shirt. Misha’s gaze darts left and right, trying to see but not wanting to. In the end, all he can do is freeze, play dead and hope he lives.
The collar that Jensen himself pulled askew is now perfect. No trace of them remains except the pink of Misha’s bitten lips.
Jensen pats his shoulders, slaps his ass. An apology, a knife wound, cached in the trappings of male solidarity. He moves on.
The cracks in the mask split open in gashes of truth and pain.
He opens his mouth, to rebuild the illusion, but nothing comes out.
He falls.
Author: qthelights
Pairing: Jensen/Misha
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Angst
Summary: Sometimes hello feels like goodbye.
Words: 658
Disclaimer: Not mine, never happened.
A/N: Because in a certain light, this looked so very serious, that intrigued me. Thanks to obstinatrix for the reassurance.
Collared and Felled
Jensen shoves him up against the wall.
Their feet stumble and Misha’s hand slaps back hard against the brickwork to steady him; there’ll be scratches later. There’s a moment, a split second that feels like an eternity, when nothing is said, Jensen’s breath harsh and pushing; pulsing and hesitant against Misha’s mouth. Jensen’s eyes are dark and full of emotion and Misha can’t pull his gaze away.
When the moment snaps it slingshots into Jensen’s mouth descending on Misha’s. The kiss is brutal, rough and demanding. Jensen’s tongue takes and claims, his lips pressed hard against Misha’s mouth. One of Jensen’s hands winds its way into Misha’s hair and grips tightly, the other flat lies flat and possessive over his collarbone and throat. Jensen’s body smothers him into submission.
If it wasn’t a goodbye, it’d be a hell of a hello.
Even though Misha knows what it is, his cock stirs and his mouth whimpers.
The sound is loud in the quiet of the street and Jensen pulls back with a smack of his lips, eyes full of sadness and pain. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, and then he’s gone. Misha’s lapels fall back into place, Jensen’s footsteps echoing up the alley.
Misha closes his eyes. It’s not often that he’s pulled so entirely off guard, has his axis tilted so far out from under him that he has no hope of regaining balance. He’s made a lifetime of avoiding it. Yo Yos and spinning tops were never the toys he liked to play with.
And yet all it took is one moment where the hilarity stuttered, one moment where Jensen looked at him with a raised eyebrow, one moment where he opened his heart to someone who hadn’t passed his 15 year loyalty test. One moment. And the guard slipped.
And now he is here. Emotions frayed and sliding off him like shedding scales. Alone in an alley that smells like piss, with a press line a block away. Eric and Sera and network execs and people he can’t afford to blow off just yards from where he’s been mauled. Figuratively and literally.
His lips taste like Jensen and dazedly he swipes at the saliva with the back of his hand. Jensen’s wearing chapstick, Misha can feel the slight grease of it smeared over his mouth.
But he doesn’t have time.
He shoves it all down, as far as the ache at the bottom of his throat. The mask is harder to pull on, tight and constricting in a way protection never was before. His second skin has shrunk in the wash. It feels only like deception.
The press line beckons and he smiles with his mouth, if not his eyes. Jokes and flirts as much as his mind will allow on autopilot. He isn’t really there but they won’t notice. Probably. He stills his limbs into calm; feigning ease, mocking relaxed. But he can’t help swiping at his lips, sure that gloss shines across their tender surface.
And then he feels it, the shivering rise of hair on the back of his arms. Jensen.
Fingers on the back of his neck, loops and whorls branding his nape. The faux-smile slides off his face and Misha is helpless to stop it. Jensen, for it can only be Jensen, tugs and flexes at his shirt. Misha’s gaze darts left and right, trying to see but not wanting to. In the end, all he can do is freeze, play dead and hope he lives.
The collar that Jensen himself pulled askew is now perfect. No trace of them remains except the pink of Misha’s bitten lips.
Jensen pats his shoulders, slaps his ass. An apology, a knife wound, cached in the trappings of male solidarity. He moves on.
The cracks in the mask split open in gashes of truth and pain.
He opens his mouth, to rebuild the illusion, but nothing comes out.
He falls.