Fic: Cuts and Bruises - Jensen/Misha, PG-13
Title: Cuts and Bruises
Author: qthelights
Pairing: Jensen/Misha
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1171
Summary: It's just sex. Except it might not be.
Disclaimer: Not mine, didn't happen.
Warnings: None
A/N: For kadiel_krieger because she was having a horribly stressful day and I wanted to cheer her up, I hope you like it, bb. Which thanks to blue_fjords and hils for their once overs!
Cuts and Bruises
Jensen isn’t back at 3am, around the time when Misha is lying on the couch, staring at the ceiling and wondering if it is too early to freak out and send a search party. Or call Jared.
Both options would have consequences far greater than he really feels up to dealing with this early on a Sunday morning
Jensen often goes out without him. Hell, he often goes out without Jensen. They aren’t joined at the fucking hip, nor are they each other’s keeper. But sometimes, what they aren’t is far too easy to define, whereas what they are is somewhat harder to pin down.
It had started out as something casual. Stress relief after work, boredom relief during. Someone to suck and fuck and empty oneself into when the need or whim arose.
It was still that, really. Just that it had become easier to stick around before in case they had the time, or inclination, to shove each other up against the nearest upright object. Easier to stick around after, in case recovery times were quick, or often, in case there was nothing to do an hour from then.
So Jensen often ends up at Misha’s, running lines or watching the game, and Misha finds himself at Jensen’s, messing around on the computer or reading bits of the paper out loud to Jensen while leaning up against his kitchen counter.
And when half-time rolls around or the internet fails to provide, well, more often than not they end up sliding sweat-slick against each other tangled in Jensen’s sheets, or tasting each others skin with slow measured glides while pressed into the corner of Misha’s couch.
It’s just sex, and as such there’s no real reason to announce their actions to the world, or their mothers or God, when it comes right down to it.
So Misha is lying on the couch, bathed in the blue light from the infomercials sliding across the television, unsure whether he should go to bed or grow concerned that Jensen hasn’t meandered back yet like he usually does, often fairly quickly, sloshed and complaining of lame crowds or watered-down beer.
Jensen invariably comes home drunk and Misha knows from experience that drunken Jensen is a thing to wait for. Drunk, Jensen is all loose limbs and pawing hands, eager to please. He tastes of whiskey and fucks like a whore. Misha is happy to indulge.
But he hasn’t returned, hasn’t even sent a drunken text to say he’s crashing at Jared’s.
When Jensen’s key slides home in the front door lock, Misha fights down the urge to be relieved. He doesn’t have to call in the cavalry or call up feelings that have no right intruding on their carefully laid casualness.
Feelings that morph and churn in his stomach when he notices the dark bruise swelling around Jensen’s left eye. Misha is up and in Jensen’s personal space before he even knows he’s moved.
“What the fuck, Jen?” Misha’s fingers dart up to the eye, fingertips hovering over the skin, the bloody cut to the side, careful not to make contact. Jensen winces anyway.
“It’s nothing.”
Jensen shrugs him off gruffly, throws his keys down on the kitchen counter and heads towards the fridge. Misha hangs back, unsure where he fits in this scenario. He keeps his voice soft, un-antagonising. “It doesn’t look like nothing.”
Jensen snorts and wrenches the door to the fridge open, pulls out a beer. As he shuts the door Misha sees the split and bloodied knuckles.
“Seriously, what the fuck, Jensen. Are you ten years old?” Misha pulls the beer bottle from his hand and sets it on the counter, grabs Jensen’s uninjured hand and pulls him towards the bathroom.
Amazingly, Jensen allows him the illusion of control. Follows in his wake.
Flipping the light on, he pushes Jensen down onto the lip of the bath and begins opening cabinets. Jensen just watches him, eyes large and dark despite the fluorescent glare of the bathroom lighting.
Misha grabs a washcloth, flicks the hot tap on and leaves his fingers in the stream as it begins to heat up. He watches Jensen openly and Jensen watches back, but neither of them says a word. The silence isn’t oppressive, but it’s charged with something nonetheless.
Temperature achieved, he soaks the towel, turns off the tap, slides to his knees on the bathmat between Jensen’s legs. Misha looks up, silently asking permission and something in Jensen’s eyes softens, slips from defence to acquiescence, and he lets Misha take his bloodied hand.
Misha runs the washcloth over his knuckles gently, guilt flaring as the hiss of Jensen’s breath slips into the silence of the room. The blood is soon gone, leaving only raw pink skin that Misha dips his mouth to and soothes with the flat of his tongue.
The soft exhalation of air that puffs against the top of Misha’s head is not pain this time, but something that sounds closer to surprise laced with desire. When he looks up Misha finds an echoing image in Jensen’s gaze.
Rising to his knees he takes Jensen’s face gently between his hands, tilts to get a better look at the bruised eye. The cut there is only superficial; it’s long since stopped bleeding and only a smear of rust remains.
He doesn’t want to touch it with the harsh scratch of fabric and so he leans forward without really thinking about it, slides his tongue against the delicate surface to the side of Jensen’s eye. Slicks the metallic taste off Jensen’s skin.
“Misha,” Jensen stutters softly, his name puffing warm against Misha’s cheek.
“Shh...”
Misha bends and captures Jensen’s lips softly but sure. It’s chaste and gentle, in a way that they’ve never really done. As if in all the stolen kisses, frantic and hurried, delving and rough, they’ve somehow forgotten to do it. Missed the first one and jumped straight to the second and third.
Jensen’s mouth opens and Misha’s tongue flickers at his lips, tentative and sweet. It’s Jensen who initiates more, and then their mouths are sliding against each other, tongues slipping in slow undulations with no rush to do anything more.
Jensen does indeed taste like whiskey, but this time there is nothing licentious in the way his fingers curl around the cuff of Misha’s sleeve, the way his throat hitches with strange little tremors that Misha feels against his own fingers.
When they finally part, lips full and glistening pink, they still say nothing.
Misha stands and tugs Jensen upwards, backs out of the bathroom but doesn’t turn away until they leave the room.
“You need ice on that,” Misha murmurs, drawing them back to the kitchen where the beer is now standing in a puddle of its own condensation. He plucks it up and deposits it back in the fridge with its brothers, retrieves the icepack from the freezer as Jensen watches silently.
“Come,” he says and heads to the bedroom, trusting that Jensen will follow.
He does.
Author: qthelights
Pairing: Jensen/Misha
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1171
Summary: It's just sex. Except it might not be.
Disclaimer: Not mine, didn't happen.
Warnings: None
A/N: For kadiel_krieger because she was having a horribly stressful day and I wanted to cheer her up, I hope you like it, bb. Which thanks to blue_fjords and hils for their once overs!
Cuts and Bruises
Jensen isn’t back at 3am, around the time when Misha is lying on the couch, staring at the ceiling and wondering if it is too early to freak out and send a search party. Or call Jared.
Both options would have consequences far greater than he really feels up to dealing with this early on a Sunday morning
Jensen often goes out without him. Hell, he often goes out without Jensen. They aren’t joined at the fucking hip, nor are they each other’s keeper. But sometimes, what they aren’t is far too easy to define, whereas what they are is somewhat harder to pin down.
It had started out as something casual. Stress relief after work, boredom relief during. Someone to suck and fuck and empty oneself into when the need or whim arose.
It was still that, really. Just that it had become easier to stick around before in case they had the time, or inclination, to shove each other up against the nearest upright object. Easier to stick around after, in case recovery times were quick, or often, in case there was nothing to do an hour from then.
So Jensen often ends up at Misha’s, running lines or watching the game, and Misha finds himself at Jensen’s, messing around on the computer or reading bits of the paper out loud to Jensen while leaning up against his kitchen counter.
And when half-time rolls around or the internet fails to provide, well, more often than not they end up sliding sweat-slick against each other tangled in Jensen’s sheets, or tasting each others skin with slow measured glides while pressed into the corner of Misha’s couch.
It’s just sex, and as such there’s no real reason to announce their actions to the world, or their mothers or God, when it comes right down to it.
So Misha is lying on the couch, bathed in the blue light from the infomercials sliding across the television, unsure whether he should go to bed or grow concerned that Jensen hasn’t meandered back yet like he usually does, often fairly quickly, sloshed and complaining of lame crowds or watered-down beer.
Jensen invariably comes home drunk and Misha knows from experience that drunken Jensen is a thing to wait for. Drunk, Jensen is all loose limbs and pawing hands, eager to please. He tastes of whiskey and fucks like a whore. Misha is happy to indulge.
But he hasn’t returned, hasn’t even sent a drunken text to say he’s crashing at Jared’s.
When Jensen’s key slides home in the front door lock, Misha fights down the urge to be relieved. He doesn’t have to call in the cavalry or call up feelings that have no right intruding on their carefully laid casualness.
Feelings that morph and churn in his stomach when he notices the dark bruise swelling around Jensen’s left eye. Misha is up and in Jensen’s personal space before he even knows he’s moved.
“What the fuck, Jen?” Misha’s fingers dart up to the eye, fingertips hovering over the skin, the bloody cut to the side, careful not to make contact. Jensen winces anyway.
“It’s nothing.”
Jensen shrugs him off gruffly, throws his keys down on the kitchen counter and heads towards the fridge. Misha hangs back, unsure where he fits in this scenario. He keeps his voice soft, un-antagonising. “It doesn’t look like nothing.”
Jensen snorts and wrenches the door to the fridge open, pulls out a beer. As he shuts the door Misha sees the split and bloodied knuckles.
“Seriously, what the fuck, Jensen. Are you ten years old?” Misha pulls the beer bottle from his hand and sets it on the counter, grabs Jensen’s uninjured hand and pulls him towards the bathroom.
Amazingly, Jensen allows him the illusion of control. Follows in his wake.
Flipping the light on, he pushes Jensen down onto the lip of the bath and begins opening cabinets. Jensen just watches him, eyes large and dark despite the fluorescent glare of the bathroom lighting.
Misha grabs a washcloth, flicks the hot tap on and leaves his fingers in the stream as it begins to heat up. He watches Jensen openly and Jensen watches back, but neither of them says a word. The silence isn’t oppressive, but it’s charged with something nonetheless.
Temperature achieved, he soaks the towel, turns off the tap, slides to his knees on the bathmat between Jensen’s legs. Misha looks up, silently asking permission and something in Jensen’s eyes softens, slips from defence to acquiescence, and he lets Misha take his bloodied hand.
Misha runs the washcloth over his knuckles gently, guilt flaring as the hiss of Jensen’s breath slips into the silence of the room. The blood is soon gone, leaving only raw pink skin that Misha dips his mouth to and soothes with the flat of his tongue.
The soft exhalation of air that puffs against the top of Misha’s head is not pain this time, but something that sounds closer to surprise laced with desire. When he looks up Misha finds an echoing image in Jensen’s gaze.
Rising to his knees he takes Jensen’s face gently between his hands, tilts to get a better look at the bruised eye. The cut there is only superficial; it’s long since stopped bleeding and only a smear of rust remains.
He doesn’t want to touch it with the harsh scratch of fabric and so he leans forward without really thinking about it, slides his tongue against the delicate surface to the side of Jensen’s eye. Slicks the metallic taste off Jensen’s skin.
“Misha,” Jensen stutters softly, his name puffing warm against Misha’s cheek.
“Shh...”
Misha bends and captures Jensen’s lips softly but sure. It’s chaste and gentle, in a way that they’ve never really done. As if in all the stolen kisses, frantic and hurried, delving and rough, they’ve somehow forgotten to do it. Missed the first one and jumped straight to the second and third.
Jensen’s mouth opens and Misha’s tongue flickers at his lips, tentative and sweet. It’s Jensen who initiates more, and then their mouths are sliding against each other, tongues slipping in slow undulations with no rush to do anything more.
Jensen does indeed taste like whiskey, but this time there is nothing licentious in the way his fingers curl around the cuff of Misha’s sleeve, the way his throat hitches with strange little tremors that Misha feels against his own fingers.
When they finally part, lips full and glistening pink, they still say nothing.
Misha stands and tugs Jensen upwards, backs out of the bathroom but doesn’t turn away until they leave the room.
“You need ice on that,” Misha murmurs, drawing them back to the kitchen where the beer is now standing in a puddle of its own condensation. He plucks it up and deposits it back in the fridge with its brothers, retrieves the icepack from the freezer as Jensen watches silently.
“Come,” he says and heads to the bedroom, trusting that Jensen will follow.
He does.