Useful Illusions: Bleed the Taste of Life
Title: Bleed the Taste of Life
Series: Useful Illusions
Rating: Adult
Pairing: Jensen/Misha
Disclaimer: So not mine. Would be nice, but no. RPS.
Author's Note: Title from We Carry On by Portishead.
Summary: Making the peace is complicated.
Previous Installments
Being Jeffrey Beaumont by kadiel_krieger
Being Misha Collins by elizah_jane
Behind the Line by kadiel_krieger
Once Around the Weekend by kadiel_krieger
Hornswaggled by kadiel_krieger
Some Things are Better Left Unsaid by elizah_jane
Morning, such as it is, suffers from the distinct disadvantage of being too fucking early.
It's one of those sad facts of life that plague Jensen's daily existence, and when combined with the low-level whine pealing harsh and bright against the inside of his skull because Jared didn't come home last night, well, it's enough to drive a man to drink. Which says something, he guesses, but he has no earthly idea what. Already the day is shaping up like a string of sun-baked cow patties, his nerves rubbed ragged by a harrowing lack of caffeine. Even knowing that it's his own damn fault, that he's the one who fibbed the little white fib that sent them rolling on past the drive-thru and the beautiful, steaming salvation waiting behind those grease-smeared windows doesn't make it any better.
He's not worried.
Padalecki's a big, no monstrously-sized, boy and can take care of himself. Jensen just wants to be first in line to laugh at the long-limbed pretzel Jared's undoubtedly turned into from sleeping on the short sagging couch in his trailer. And yeah, maybe Jensen's stomach does a weird clenching thing when he crests the hill and the windows are still dark, but what-the-fuck ever. When he tries the door it's locked, and really, trying at all is just a formality Jensen's compelled to observe even though the place feels deserted. Jared, even Jared sleeping, tends to give off a vibe Jensen can sense in a sort of vaguely Winchestery way. It's not something he spares much thought for, just thanks his lucky fucking stars for the heads-up it gives him when Jared's about to dump something over his head or down his pants.
Still, he's not Jared's momma and if he doesn't make call, it's not Jensen's fault.
Really.
Things only get more interesting when he rounds the end of Jared's trailer and sees every light burning bright in his own. It stops him mid-stride and he almost trips, because there are any number of people on set that could lay their hands on that key, including half of the production staff. And Jensen doesn't remember if he's had the lock changed since that time he slid a dupe into the back pocket of that mind-bogglingly chesty brunette he quite literally ran into at the bar.
He also can't decide whether to hope it's Jared or not.
Standing outside blowing the chill off his hands isn't really an option though, so if it is Jared and he's about to have a really uncomfortable conversation, Jensen figures he might as well bite the goddamn bullet. Once he's inside, it takes five seconds flat for him to realize it's not Jared.
It's so much worse.
As unprepared as he is to deal with the pointed questions and razor truths Jared seems so fond of thrusting out into the world, he's even less eager to deal with Misha's slinky sideways logic and lash-lined knowing looks. This is in no small part due to the fact that with Misha, Jensen has apparently lost all control over those little non-verbals he instinctually keeps locked down. Because the long line of Misha's lean stirs things in places it shouldn't. Because the lazy dangle of Misha's fingers against his thigh makes Jensen suck a sharp breath. Because the way the muscle in Misha's neck moves, stretching and twisting when he swings his head Jensen's way flares something citrusy in his stomach and pulls his teeth together in a slow grind. Because his hand twitches and his arm swings loose in its socket, reaching to touch before he can stamp the urge down.
Yeah, it's fucking worse. But Jensen's had a lifetime of practice at covering his tracks.
"How did you get in here?"
Jensen watches Misha mull it over, the way the gears turn tight and fast, and clenches his jaw harder because he's not in the mood for cute. It doesn't help that Misha's got his lower lip clamped between his teeth and every bone in Jensen's body is screaming at him to do something about it. Which is, of course, the very last thing he should be thinking because he's still kind of pissed. More than kind of.
But when Misha says, "I have my ways," all he can do is roll his eyes because it's just a little too Boris Badenov for Jensen's tastes.
"What? D'you go down on the new PA?"
Jensen wishes he could say otherwise, but it's not even that improbable. Misha obviously knows his way around the game and may well have opened more doors with his mouth than his hands. Okay, maybe not more. Jensen ignores the twitch that skitters up his spine, planting steel. Ignores it because he can, at least for the moment, and he's got no interest in meandering down that little primrose path.
That's what he tells himself, anyway, but there's a renegade sliver of his subconscious that goes right on tripping along the cobblestones, pulling tattered scraps of things long lost out of the recesses of his brain.
Jensen doesn't much care for the idea of Misha on his knees for anyone but him.
But what the fuck can he do with that? It's so ludicrous to even think... Whatever. Misha's still a fantastic lay, regardless of where else his mouth may or may not have been. Jensen swallows hard and decides not to think about it. He's good at that. Mostly. Less so, lately.
"Jensen Ackles. Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?"
The flush crawls up the back of his neck into his ears, and, yeah, that helps but it's not near enough to clear the clinging cobwebs of unwanted, fuck, he might as well just admit it - jealousy. Because those moans and that mouth, the muscled arch of bowed back are his and he'll deck anyone who'd argue otherwise. And he doesn't give a shit what else that might mean, because right now - right now he just wants to make absolutely sure Misha understands. But first it might be a good idea to find out why Misha's here in the first place.
"What do you want?" he grits out, trying to keep his tone cold and even. The deck's already stacked against him and it wouldn't do to show his hand too soon, if ever.
Then Misha holds out the thermos thing he's been gesticulating around with a smile.
"I brought you coffee," he says without the slightest hint of irony and Jensen's - confused and grateful and fucking hell grateful, because in that moment Misha is his own personal slim-hipped sexy-as-fuck jinn without the psychotic soul-sucking strings. Barbara Eden and her see-through pink pants can just take a flying leap.
But there's always an angle.
"Coffee."
"Just the way you like it."
Misha sounds pretty pleased with himself, honestly. And Jensen has no idea how or why or when Misha decided it was worth knowing how he takes his coffee, but he's practical enough not to look too far into that particular gift horse's mouth, because he has coffee.
So maybe he's a little wary when he takes the mug from Misha, but he's been on the wrong end of so many of Jared's practical jokes it behooves him to be somewhat cautious. The first swallow slides down his throat, hot and sweet, cream and sugar and beautiful caffeine soothing all the frayed ends of his nerves until he feels warm all the way down in his toes. He doesn't remember closing his eyes, but when he opens them Misha's leaned back against the wall watching, the corners of his lips caught in a pleased little curl.
And maybe this is all it was about. Making peace. Making a point of...something. Jensen can't figure out what exactly, but then his brain is a slow, thrumming tangle of sweet, sweet java and the angle of Misha's head nudged up against the doorjamb.
Coffee, yeah. He tips the mug back and pulls another long, sipping draught, a moan stringing up out of his chest, because yeah it's that fucking good, and he mutters, "Christ," under his breath.
"Close enough," Misha says, and Jensen rolls his eyes again, because, really?
Then Misha follows it up with, "I thought it might go well with your morning pastry."
Leave it to Misha to ruin such a wondrous gesture by being an insufferable smartass. Sometimes Misha's mouth should just not move. No, that's not right. Sometimes Misha's mouth shouldn't make words. There are things its better suited to in Jensen's opinion.
He grunts out a, "Fuck you," and starts to edge away, but Misha catches him, slender fingers slid into the corner of his front pocket. The heat seeps slowly through thin cotton, makes Jensen reconsider his retreat.
Then Misha says, "That would be the general idea," and Jensen springs roots, because this is just impossibly impossible. That Misha would not only get it, but just know how to...yeah. When he feels his brows tug together in a tight furrow, Jensen pushes the thought back down, distracts himself with another long pull off the cup.
"This is really fucking good."
Jensen feels Misha's knuckles rock into the hollow of his hipbone, his fingers hooking tight, drawing him closer. Near enough to feel the puff of Misha's breath against his skin when he speaks, near enough to feel the bubble of Misha's personal space close around his back.
"I was always taught that good behavior should be rewarded."
Because Misha is always on his best behavior. Right.
"Huh. And what about bad behavior?" And really, this morning, Misha has been as pliable and cooperative and accommodating as he can possibly be. Well, as much as Jensen imagines he can be. But, there's still the problem of how he managed to get in here at all. That carefully deflected question about the PA still hangs between them unanswered. So, okay. Maybe his first instinct was the right one after all.
"Who's bad behavior are we talking about?
"Yours."
Misha hums softly, pries the coffee cup from between his fingers, and Jensen wonders what the fuck he's playing at. He's a handful of seconds away from telling Misha where he can fuck off to when Misha tilts his head again, his neck a sweep of supple skin and tendon that begs for lips and tongue and, Jesus Christ, it shouldn't get to him that much, the subtle slant of his head, but it does. Jensen's so focused on the taut twist of muscle he almost misses when Misha responds.
"In that case, bad behavior should be rewarded more."
"You think so?"
Right the fuck now, Jensen's inclined to agree, so he bends closer, just inches of air and fabric between them, his palm slapped flat against the wall beside Misha's head, watching Misha's eyes darken, his pupils flare wider.
"What'd you have in mind?" Jensen asks, not even sure why he says it, because he has plenty of things swirling in tight, brightening spirals in his brain. And to be quite honest he doesn't care. He wants, no, fucking needs to stripe Misha's skin with the rough drag of his fingers, the cut of his teeth, and just. Shit. More. Has to wipe away even the thought of that faceless, nameless PA that Misha probably doesn't even know.
And damn if something important doesn't snap and shatter when Misha cuts a sly grin at him and says, "You're a smart guy Jensen. I'm sure you can come up with something."
Jensen manages to hold on, pull the heat that's thrumming in his thighs up the back of his neck out of his voice, manages to say, "Thank you for the coffee," with careful control, but his gaze wanders a wayward path, drinking in all the planes and rolling crests mapped out under Misha's skin.
"Now that's just good manners. I know you have those, " Misha says, "Try again." Then he shakes his head, slow, the coil and uncoil of the muscles in his shoulders doing incredibly interesting things as he does, and Jensen just about fucking loses it, almost pulls Misha flush, almost latches on tight.
Somewhere in the misty fog clamped down around his mind, Jensen finds the words he's seeking, closes the last inches of distance until his lips hover just beyond Misha's reach, until he can taste Misha's breath on his tongue and feel the heat radiating off his skin. He smiles, because it's sweet and so goddamn good balanced here on the edge with Misha caged between him and the wall.
"You gonna be my tart this morning, Misha?"
Misha starts to say something, but Jensen could give fuck all for words right now.
Because he's done with pretense, with restraint, being fixated on things he can't change. Misha's lips are poised - parted and ripe for the taking. So he does, pours every bit of the frustration, every bit of the jealousy into it. Digs his fingers into flesh, reclaims that sweet, sly mouth and tongue as his, because they are, even if Misha doesn't know it yet, kisses harder when all he tastes is coffee and the bloom of sugar. And maybe Misha has some idea, because he flushes up against Jensen in a rush, hurricane wild, his hands hot and just as urgent as the pulse tattooing itself up Jensen's spine.
His heart hammers out a broken, crushing beat against his breastbone that borders on arrhythmia and fuck if Jensen knows why, but he just lets it. Lets Misha wrap his fingers tighter, lets him slide right on past the sentries guarding the gate. Lets him sidestep his way through fences and barbed wire, across swampy moats filled to brimming carnivorous wildlife without challenge.
Lets him because he doesn't want to stop it.
At the same time, he's never wanted anything more.
Anyone who passes that way, winds the treacherous, rock-littered path into the places Jensen keeps hidden leaves a mark, a stain, a chink. They put holes in the carefully constructed defenses he's spent so much time erecting. It's the worst idea in the world to allow Misha, of all people, a pass. Misha with his twisting smiles and subtle schemes, the havoc he's capable of wreaking is immeasurable. Epic.
Right now, though, with the splay of Misha's hand blazing across the back of his neck, fingers drawn down tight, with Misha's lips moving against his like he might be in the same fucking place, Jensen's control escapes him. He can almost feel the armor slough off, hear it clank loud and hollow against the floor of the trailer, and he hopes to hell it's just temporary. For the moment other things take precedence. To be with Misha, really with Misha, devoid of all the bullshit barriers he stacks high for comfort is intoxicating.
So when he should be turning away, throwing shutters in his eyes to hide the things that Misha's wrenching open inside him, all he can bring himself to do is lean back enough to warn.
"Don't leave any marks."
Because there's really no other explanation for five oval bruises on your neck and he has no interest in explaining anything to anyone about this. Ever.
Misha's answering laugh ghosts across his chin and there's a spark of memory that flashes free when he says, "Wouldn't want that," that makes Jensen take a half step back to catch it.
Misha clamped down tight around him, the ladder of his back pressed against Jensen's chest and the curve of his shoulder just asking, begging...
His body lurches forward before he tells it to, instinct far smarter than the muddled grey matter sloshing around in his skull, because yeah. He remembers.
Fuck.
Then he can't move fast enough, his fingers clumsy at the neck of Misha's shirt stretching it roughly until he can see, can touch, can sense shit breaking in his chest all over again. Because Misha's unabashed, wearing it proudly like he wears his whole fucking life, and all Jensen wants is to lay his tongue against it, fit his teeth to it until it darkens and blooms bright anew.
Instead he draws a shaky breath and licks his lips, tries to drag himself away, tries to find Misha's eyes but can't, he just can't. It's too much of everything he wants.
"I can feel it every time I move my arm. Every time my shirt brushes over it."
Misha whispers it against his ear like the dirtiest secret known to God or man, and Jesus, Misha's going to drive him insane or die trying, because now he's going to be thinking about it too. He'll be attuned and every time Misha's hand strays to his shoulder when they're rehearsing a scene, every time he winces a little when he turns his head, Jensen's going to want to grunt and stamp his feet like a goddamn bull, knowing that they both know why. A noise spills, unbidden from his lips and it sounds as ragged as he feels because he's never needed to possess something so completely in his life.
"Do you mark everyone like this, or am I special?"
"Fuck," he says aloud, or maybe not, maybe it's just rings so thunderous inside his head that he thinks he says it. Then he flattens Misha between him and the wall, attacks his lips with teeth and all the barely contained fervor that's aching in his joints, and pulls back breathless.
"Maybe I just like the idea of you walking around thinking about me all day," he grits out, and tangles his fingers in the soft cotton of Misha's T-shirt, futile yanks that make his blood simmer until Misha gets with the program and raises his arms to help.
And the view gets impossibly better without all the fabric screwing it up, a perfect crescent of mottled skin not yet purpled and healing, deep enough that Misha will wear it for three, maybe four days and fuck. Jensen doesn't mark anyone, not usually. Most people he fucks with aren't worth the time it takes or the consideration and all he can figure is that Misha is special. That something about their slow, carefully choreographed dance has altered Jensen in a fundamental way he's only now beginning to discover.
Which is either good, or very fucking bad.
Either way, he can't seem to stop staring, because Misha may be the sexiest thing on two legs right now. Still completely confident under Jensen's open appraisal, leaned back against the wall like an invitation, enticingly bare-chested with his jeans riding low across his hips. Jeans Jensen wants to peel open and back until he can see his fingertips painted in red and purple on Misha's hipbone too.
"Not that I don't appreciate the thought, because I really do," Misha purrs, and Jensen watches him stretch, slinky and seductive, all the subtle swells of muscle twitching in tandem until he feels fucking hypnotized by it. His mouth's gone dry by the time he realizes he's still staring and tears his gaze away, forces it past the mark at Misha's shoulder to find his face.
"But if you believe I need a physical reminder to keep me thinking of this all day, you're underestimating us both."
Jensen feels the reaction break on his face like a sunrise before he can completely shut it down and he's off again, thrown in a way that he can't pin down. That Misha doesn't need it, but allows it because Jensen does. That Misha, bruises or no, marks or no, would still have been thinking about him. Him, not the sex. Because this is not sex, yet. But sex is safe and Jensen, even given the conditional passage he's granted Misha, Jensen can't. Just can't even think about what that means.
So he sticks with safe. Physical. Sweat and spit and skin. It's enough to silence the alarm bells clanging in his skull. For the moment.
It only gets easier once he has Misha hemmed in, once he feels the warmth spilling off Misha's skin, once he knows that he can forge the moment into whatever he wants, just like he always has.
"You talk too fucking much," he says, and it couldn't be more true. Jensen hasn't yet decided what to do about it. He's torn. Half of him wants to shove Misha to his knees, fuck that pretty mouth of his that always seems to get both of them in trouble. The other half, the half that thought it was a good idea to let Misha in, wants to kiss him again, wants force remembrance down Misha's throat that has nothing to do with sex at all.
Which is not okay.
"Says the man currently charged with shutting me up."
Misha grins and the look in his eyes is enough to make a lesser man spontaneously combust, but Jensen is no lesser man. It does, however, make the decision for him. He closes the distance in a rush, can feel the bite of his own teeth bruising his lips. His hands wander and he can't make them settle, because all they're after is more, more flesh, more sweat, more Misha.
Then he's moaning despite himself, a long drawn out, "Fuck," that leaves him gasping.
It affects him more than it should, the curl of Misha's hand around his cock. It sends intense almost electric sensations skittering under his skin, bright and blinding. Jensen wishes he could chalk it up to distraction, that he was so intent on conquering the sweet swell of Misha's lips that he didn't feel his hand snake between them, but he can't. The only thing he can chalk it up to is Misha and the unfathomable rightness of him. That he knows just how much pressure, just the angle and speed that drive Jensen fucking crazy.
So when he asks, "What do you want Jensen?" and pulls, soft and tight and like they have all the time in the world for this, when he says, "Do you want me to suck you off?" so plainly, like all Misha wants is to please him, it cracks whatever measure of control Jensen thought he'd regained and strips him back to bare bones, makes him want what he's always wanted.
He wants Misha to be his. Needs it like fucking oxygen, has to lay his marks down as a warning so anyone who matters will know. Because Jensen already cares more than he should and Misha is as changeable as the winds. And who the fuck would want-
"Fuck."
Even he doesn't know why exactly, why he needs it so fucking much, why his gaze is drawn to the half moon of abused skin and muscle. He only knows that it quiets things inside him, lets him linger in some semblance of sweet certainty, fills him to brimming with the languid sense of satisfaction he finds himself craving now that Misha has wound around him in more ways than one.
Misha huffs a breath nearer a laugh than a gasp and tilts his head, says, "Like a goddamn vampire." Wraps those long hot fingers around the back of Jensen's neck to guide him in. "Not in the same place. Other side."
Fuck.
If Jensen weren't so invested in drawing this out, keeping Misha caught in the tangle of his desire so damn conciliatory and malleable, so eager to please, he could have let himself go just at that. Because to have Misha bend willingly and bare his neck is maybe too much for Jensen to handle and still keep his sanity. He's committed though, to lasting out, and takes what's offered graciously. Mouths the side of Misha's neck and tongues the slope into shoulder, only using teeth once he's meandered to the sharp dip of his collarbone. He feels the working of Misha's throat against his cheek, hears the unfettered fall of his head against the flimsy trailer wall, and knows. Knows that Misha wants it as much as he does, never mind anything he says otherwise.
Heat flares low in his belly with that knowledge, makes him grab and paw at Misha, lock his hands down around the curve of his hips, holding him steady, smiling and shaking a little, a moan spilling out over his lips when Misha curses and squirms against him. He breathes into the sweep of Misha's neck, trying so hard to hold himself in balance, still and aching, but he can't quite manage and he closes his teeth against skin, reveling in the stutter it puts in Misha's rhythm. Basking in the knowledge that Misha is coming undone just as surely as Jensen.
At least until Misha gasps and whispers into his hair, "Jesus, Jensen. Do you have any idea what you do to me?"
It's too close to the same thought, much too much about the things left uneasy, unresolved between them and not about sex at all, he can hear that in the tone. His body locks down on him, caught like a deer in headlights thinking those things that he really fucking shouldn't.
He wants nothing more than to have Misha like this, to mark those places that can't be seen, to affect Misha so thoroughly he can't string his thoughts together or make his muscles behave. He wants more, all the mischievous oddities of Misha. And maybe he wants it for reasons he can't quite admit to yet.
Because, yeah, he could fucking get used to this.
"Fuck, I'm sorry. You drive me to distraction," Misha says, apparently shaken from his own unknowable stupor.
The tightness in Jensen's chest eases when Misha moves again, when his hand finds a rhythm again, pulling him out of the dark snarl of his thoughts. When Misha's fingers close on the nape of his neck, drawing focus back to skin and sweat and the simple things they are to each other.
"I wish- Fuck. I wish we had more time," he says and fuck if Jensen doesn't wish it too, even if he'd never say it aloud. But there's no denying that Misha carves him up into ribbons expertly and sometimes, he deserves it. For whatever reason, Misha always seems to stick around to braid him back together, and Jensen has no experience with that and so no signposts to direct him down the proper path of dealing with it.
He turns his attention, his teeth to Misha's skin reserved again but focused on the urgent pump of Misha's hand, the motion of the muscles under his lips and he's thrusting into it, his cock leaking and so goddamn hard it hurts, and he wonders idly if Misha knows what he does to Jensen.
Jensen figures, yeah, he probably does when Misha bares his neck again, a goddamn supernova rushing up Jensen's spine that wipes away everything but Misha's gasp and the words, "Fucking do it."
And that's just it, he fuses himself to Misha, hips driving on without a brain to guide them because Jensen's already tipping and tottering on the edge, his teeth sunk in hard and bruising, just this side of breaking skin. Then the warmth bleeds through his limbs shaking him into his orgasm, his jaw clamping and choked, strangled sounds from somewhere deep inside spilling against Misha's skin in a furious jumble of sensation. And Fucking Christ he's never come so hard in his life.
It leaves him stupid and aching, powerless to do much more than keep his legs under him and breathe, wholly incapable of pulling the breastplate he so desperately needs right now back on.
Then Misha says his name and he looks up without thinking, thoroughly bared and open and with it just enough to be fucking terrified of it, but Misha seems almost as wrecked, the "Please," spilling out in a breathy rush that ties Jensen up in knots.
So he says," Yeah," and hedges in, presses everything he can't say into Misha's mouth with his tongue, learning all the subtleties that make it Misha's, and Jesus he feels like his ribs must be cracked with how much it all aches. How much he wants to unravel Misha the way Misha unravels him. It's only fair, and when he pushes another, "Yeah," out against Misha's lips, Jensen lets his knees buckle, feels them slide against the cheap linoleum, the press against his kneecaps just short of painful as that first shock jitters up his thighs.
His fingers fumble at Misha's fly, clumsy and eager in a way he thought he'd forgotten, but even after he's got it open, even after Misha's cock bobs inches in front of his face, it's the pattern of bruises that draw him, the five-fingered press of Jensen on Misha's skin that clenches around his heart and squeezes. He can't help but drag fingertips across the purpling ovals, but then he remembers why he's there in the first place and as entranced as he may be, he wants to rend Misha and watch him fall apart.
It's as easy as falling, breathing, to wrap his fingers around the base of Misha's cock, to slide his lips over the hot jutting hardness, tongue the vein wet and careless, driving Misha right up on that edge he's no doubt riding. Misha's hands fall, cup the crown of his head, fingers carding through his hair not urging or pushing, just settled and accepting. And Misha's making soft encouraging noises in his chest he doesn't even seem to realize are coming from him. It works for Jensen in every fucking way.
"God, you look so..." Misha half whispers it into the air.
Jensen's heard that often enough, he knows he's pretty, knows full well what he looks like with his lips wrapped around Misha's cock. But he's never heard it sighed out with something nearing reverence, with some emotion threaded between the words that calls up more than the simplicity of his lips and tongue. It makes him look up, try to figure out what it is, but Misha is far too complex to pull apart so easily. So he'll simply have to settle for knowing there's something, whatever that something might be. It makes him hungry and, impossibly, more eager. Uncovers that need to please that's always swirling, waiting to be unleashed, makes him hum against Misha's length, his own body vibrating with the fact there's something.
When he looks up again, he catches Misha's gaze and holds it, tongue twisting and wrapping then hollows his cheeks in a long slick slide. He sees the moment Misha falls, the warm spill over his tongue and down his throat completely secondary to the wide-eyed shudder that works the length of Misha's limbs.
Secondary.
And that's not okay, but Jensen is way too wrung out to worry about it, he just pulls off Misha's softening cock with a pop, swipes at his mouth with the back of his hand and rocks onto his heels. His knees tremble when he straightens them to stand, and he's not entirely sure whether it's the linoleum or the crushing intensity of what just happened causing it. He's going to go with linoleum.
Jensen doesn't trust himself to look at Misha yet, so he just focuses on righting himself, hears the rasp of a zipper as Misha does the same and it feels fucking awkward in a way he's not used to, because he wants to say things like, "That was fucking awesome," and "Misha, you don't even know," and other things that are far too frightening to even allow them purchase in his brain.
Yeah. Not fucking okay.
So he doesn't meet Misha's eyes, reaches past him for the abandoned coffee, even though his fingers are itching for skin and Misha's still leaned back, a long line of bare chest and Jensen's bruises. It's too much, but he forces himself to stick, not step back, not slide away out of fear or uncertainty. He can do that much.
"Thanks for this," he says, grateful that it sounds normal when it trips past his lips.
He settles the cup against his lips, tilts it up, lets the caffeine do its work again, a lukewarm liquid balm that spreads and seeps into those places Misha's torn open with his lips and hands. Misha laughs like it's not really funny, and okay, he'd be right. Jensen's only just pulled himself back together enough to form sentences that won't betray things. Funny will just have to wait.
"If I didn't know any better, I would think you were trying to wash the taste of me out of your mouth," Misha says, that sharp, slightly sardonic tone riding the words.
It's just what Jensen needs, and he could fucking kiss Misha for pulling them back into normal, back to easy. But kissing Misha would kind of defeat the purpose at this point, so he lets the walls start to come back up, feels his breath come in an effortless draw for the first time in what seems like for-fucking-ever, and smiles.
"Now that's just ridiculous. Your jizz tastes like cotton candy and sunshine," is what he says, but even now he knows he'll be thinking about more than the pretty dappled stretch of Misha's skin all day.
When Misha laughs again, it's open and honest, and if it flares something in Jensen's chest he's just going to have to be okay with that. He's too goddamn content for much in the way of navel-gazing at the moment. The best orgasm ever and a tall cup of perfectly prepared coffee will do things to a man. So he just smiles wider in response and tips the cup up again, letting himself just fucking be for second. It's nice. At least until the silence stretches, Misha watching him with a weird, kind of indulgent smile curving his lips. It raises his hackles a little, but only a little, the comfortable hum still softening the edges.
Still, he can't help but ask, "What?" when Misha keeps right on staring.
"Nothing. Just. Sated is a good look on you," Misha says.
And that twangs in Jensen's gut, not in a bad way, but in the best way that's still pretty fucking bad because it tends to make him blush and glow like a damn prom queen winning the crown. The grin sneaks up unbidden. As many times as people say things like that to him, he'll never deep-down believe it. From Misha though, it feels different, because what ulterior motive could he have for saying it? Misha doesn't need to angle his way into Jensen's life or bed, so he takes it at face value, probably the way it was intended and covers the flush by dipping his head and sliding a sideways glance Misha's way.
"What isn't a good look on me?"
"Touché," Misha says, and then purses his lips the way he does when he's trying to work out how exactly to say something. Yet again, Jensen decides he'll worry about the fact he knows that much later. There's another long awkward silence before Misha sighs.
"Do you have a shirt I can borrow? I should probably go to the lovely ladies in make-up before they come searching for me and if I go like this..."
The absent wave of his hand draws Jensen's attention back to the admittedly distracting swath of bare skin, the fresh scrapes and bruises pink and angry. And Jesus he's going to be half-hard all day thinking about it. When he realizes he's staring, he wets his lips, nods before managing to pull a smartass comment out of the ether that makes it mostly tolerable.
"They still trying to make you look pretty?" Fuck, trying? Misha could make a dirty fucking paper bag look sexy, but he turns away and says, "Don't they know it's a lost cause," instead because he's afraid Misha might see the truth in his eyes and Misha's ego is already the size of fucking Manhattan. He doesn't need the help.
"Jealousy is an ugly thing," he hears Misha say, a tight almost self-deprecating laugh riding its tail-feathers. "You'd probably wear that well too."
Jensen swallows, eternally grateful to have his back to Misha so he doesn't have to duck his head to hide the secret smile. If Misha only knew, but he doesn't and that's just fine and fucking dandy in Jensen's opinion. He digs through drawers for a minute, longer than absolutely necessary, looking for something that might begin to fit Misha, but Jensen's shoulders are too broad for that to really work out. So he settles on selfish, tugs free the t-shirt he wears to sleep in when he has one of those rare stretches of uninterrupted time on set where no one needs him for any fucking thing. Because the thought of Misha wearing that, maybe even wearing it under his Castiel costume, that shirt stretched over all the pretty colors Jensen's painted on his skin is just too sweet to pass on. Just one more way to mark Misha as his.
Of course, he can't tell Misha that.
So he just grunts, tosses it in Misha's general direction and says, "Only wore this once."
Jensen has to physically lock this throat down around the whine of disappointment that threatens when Misha says, "Thanks," and covers up his canvas. He's even still a little distracted by it when Misha adds, "I should -"
Go. "Yeah," and his feet move without his permission, but he's okay with that. He resists the urge to reach out and tug at the neck of his shirt to reveal the fresh crescent of red, but it's a close thing. Manages to nod instead and mutter out an awkward sounding, "So, yeah." What do you say? What can he say? They don't make greeting cards for 'Thanks for the handjob, man' or any of the other varied things Misha's done to him this morning.
All Jensen knows is that he feels alive in a way he hasn't in years and when he comes down off the endorphins he's going to freak the fuck out about it.
But for now, they're still singing in his veins, tripping happy little switches that make him smile.
Then Misha's leaning in, pressing an almost chaste kiss against his lips. It pushes him all the way into stupid.
"I'll see you in a bit," Misha says, his hand already resting on the doorknob, but his eyes are caught up in something that Jensen's probably not hiding well enough.
But he's till struck dumb, so he simply says, "Yeah," again and watches Misha go.
Series: Useful Illusions
Rating: Adult
Pairing: Jensen/Misha
Disclaimer: So not mine. Would be nice, but no. RPS.
Author's Note: Title from We Carry On by Portishead.
Summary: Making the peace is complicated.
Previous Installments
Being Jeffrey Beaumont by kadiel_krieger
Being Misha Collins by elizah_jane
Behind the Line by kadiel_krieger
Once Around the Weekend by kadiel_krieger
Hornswaggled by kadiel_krieger
Some Things are Better Left Unsaid by elizah_jane
Morning, such as it is, suffers from the distinct disadvantage of being too fucking early.
It's one of those sad facts of life that plague Jensen's daily existence, and when combined with the low-level whine pealing harsh and bright against the inside of his skull because Jared didn't come home last night, well, it's enough to drive a man to drink. Which says something, he guesses, but he has no earthly idea what. Already the day is shaping up like a string of sun-baked cow patties, his nerves rubbed ragged by a harrowing lack of caffeine. Even knowing that it's his own damn fault, that he's the one who fibbed the little white fib that sent them rolling on past the drive-thru and the beautiful, steaming salvation waiting behind those grease-smeared windows doesn't make it any better.
He's not worried.
Padalecki's a big, no monstrously-sized, boy and can take care of himself. Jensen just wants to be first in line to laugh at the long-limbed pretzel Jared's undoubtedly turned into from sleeping on the short sagging couch in his trailer. And yeah, maybe Jensen's stomach does a weird clenching thing when he crests the hill and the windows are still dark, but what-the-fuck ever. When he tries the door it's locked, and really, trying at all is just a formality Jensen's compelled to observe even though the place feels deserted. Jared, even Jared sleeping, tends to give off a vibe Jensen can sense in a sort of vaguely Winchestery way. It's not something he spares much thought for, just thanks his lucky fucking stars for the heads-up it gives him when Jared's about to dump something over his head or down his pants.
Still, he's not Jared's momma and if he doesn't make call, it's not Jensen's fault.
Really.
Things only get more interesting when he rounds the end of Jared's trailer and sees every light burning bright in his own. It stops him mid-stride and he almost trips, because there are any number of people on set that could lay their hands on that key, including half of the production staff. And Jensen doesn't remember if he's had the lock changed since that time he slid a dupe into the back pocket of that mind-bogglingly chesty brunette he quite literally ran into at the bar.
He also can't decide whether to hope it's Jared or not.
Standing outside blowing the chill off his hands isn't really an option though, so if it is Jared and he's about to have a really uncomfortable conversation, Jensen figures he might as well bite the goddamn bullet. Once he's inside, it takes five seconds flat for him to realize it's not Jared.
It's so much worse.
As unprepared as he is to deal with the pointed questions and razor truths Jared seems so fond of thrusting out into the world, he's even less eager to deal with Misha's slinky sideways logic and lash-lined knowing looks. This is in no small part due to the fact that with Misha, Jensen has apparently lost all control over those little non-verbals he instinctually keeps locked down. Because the long line of Misha's lean stirs things in places it shouldn't. Because the lazy dangle of Misha's fingers against his thigh makes Jensen suck a sharp breath. Because the way the muscle in Misha's neck moves, stretching and twisting when he swings his head Jensen's way flares something citrusy in his stomach and pulls his teeth together in a slow grind. Because his hand twitches and his arm swings loose in its socket, reaching to touch before he can stamp the urge down.
Yeah, it's fucking worse. But Jensen's had a lifetime of practice at covering his tracks.
"How did you get in here?"
Jensen watches Misha mull it over, the way the gears turn tight and fast, and clenches his jaw harder because he's not in the mood for cute. It doesn't help that Misha's got his lower lip clamped between his teeth and every bone in Jensen's body is screaming at him to do something about it. Which is, of course, the very last thing he should be thinking because he's still kind of pissed. More than kind of.
But when Misha says, "I have my ways," all he can do is roll his eyes because it's just a little too Boris Badenov for Jensen's tastes.
"What? D'you go down on the new PA?"
Jensen wishes he could say otherwise, but it's not even that improbable. Misha obviously knows his way around the game and may well have opened more doors with his mouth than his hands. Okay, maybe not more. Jensen ignores the twitch that skitters up his spine, planting steel. Ignores it because he can, at least for the moment, and he's got no interest in meandering down that little primrose path.
That's what he tells himself, anyway, but there's a renegade sliver of his subconscious that goes right on tripping along the cobblestones, pulling tattered scraps of things long lost out of the recesses of his brain.
Jensen doesn't much care for the idea of Misha on his knees for anyone but him.
But what the fuck can he do with that? It's so ludicrous to even think... Whatever. Misha's still a fantastic lay, regardless of where else his mouth may or may not have been. Jensen swallows hard and decides not to think about it. He's good at that. Mostly. Less so, lately.
"Jensen Ackles. Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?"
The flush crawls up the back of his neck into his ears, and, yeah, that helps but it's not near enough to clear the clinging cobwebs of unwanted, fuck, he might as well just admit it - jealousy. Because those moans and that mouth, the muscled arch of bowed back are his and he'll deck anyone who'd argue otherwise. And he doesn't give a shit what else that might mean, because right now - right now he just wants to make absolutely sure Misha understands. But first it might be a good idea to find out why Misha's here in the first place.
"What do you want?" he grits out, trying to keep his tone cold and even. The deck's already stacked against him and it wouldn't do to show his hand too soon, if ever.
Then Misha holds out the thermos thing he's been gesticulating around with a smile.
"I brought you coffee," he says without the slightest hint of irony and Jensen's - confused and grateful and fucking hell grateful, because in that moment Misha is his own personal slim-hipped sexy-as-fuck jinn without the psychotic soul-sucking strings. Barbara Eden and her see-through pink pants can just take a flying leap.
But there's always an angle.
"Coffee."
"Just the way you like it."
Misha sounds pretty pleased with himself, honestly. And Jensen has no idea how or why or when Misha decided it was worth knowing how he takes his coffee, but he's practical enough not to look too far into that particular gift horse's mouth, because he has coffee.
So maybe he's a little wary when he takes the mug from Misha, but he's been on the wrong end of so many of Jared's practical jokes it behooves him to be somewhat cautious. The first swallow slides down his throat, hot and sweet, cream and sugar and beautiful caffeine soothing all the frayed ends of his nerves until he feels warm all the way down in his toes. He doesn't remember closing his eyes, but when he opens them Misha's leaned back against the wall watching, the corners of his lips caught in a pleased little curl.
And maybe this is all it was about. Making peace. Making a point of...something. Jensen can't figure out what exactly, but then his brain is a slow, thrumming tangle of sweet, sweet java and the angle of Misha's head nudged up against the doorjamb.
Coffee, yeah. He tips the mug back and pulls another long, sipping draught, a moan stringing up out of his chest, because yeah it's that fucking good, and he mutters, "Christ," under his breath.
"Close enough," Misha says, and Jensen rolls his eyes again, because, really?
Then Misha follows it up with, "I thought it might go well with your morning pastry."
Leave it to Misha to ruin such a wondrous gesture by being an insufferable smartass. Sometimes Misha's mouth should just not move. No, that's not right. Sometimes Misha's mouth shouldn't make words. There are things its better suited to in Jensen's opinion.
He grunts out a, "Fuck you," and starts to edge away, but Misha catches him, slender fingers slid into the corner of his front pocket. The heat seeps slowly through thin cotton, makes Jensen reconsider his retreat.
Then Misha says, "That would be the general idea," and Jensen springs roots, because this is just impossibly impossible. That Misha would not only get it, but just know how to...yeah. When he feels his brows tug together in a tight furrow, Jensen pushes the thought back down, distracts himself with another long pull off the cup.
"This is really fucking good."
Jensen feels Misha's knuckles rock into the hollow of his hipbone, his fingers hooking tight, drawing him closer. Near enough to feel the puff of Misha's breath against his skin when he speaks, near enough to feel the bubble of Misha's personal space close around his back.
"I was always taught that good behavior should be rewarded."
Because Misha is always on his best behavior. Right.
"Huh. And what about bad behavior?" And really, this morning, Misha has been as pliable and cooperative and accommodating as he can possibly be. Well, as much as Jensen imagines he can be. But, there's still the problem of how he managed to get in here at all. That carefully deflected question about the PA still hangs between them unanswered. So, okay. Maybe his first instinct was the right one after all.
"Who's bad behavior are we talking about?
"Yours."
Misha hums softly, pries the coffee cup from between his fingers, and Jensen wonders what the fuck he's playing at. He's a handful of seconds away from telling Misha where he can fuck off to when Misha tilts his head again, his neck a sweep of supple skin and tendon that begs for lips and tongue and, Jesus Christ, it shouldn't get to him that much, the subtle slant of his head, but it does. Jensen's so focused on the taut twist of muscle he almost misses when Misha responds.
"In that case, bad behavior should be rewarded more."
"You think so?"
Right the fuck now, Jensen's inclined to agree, so he bends closer, just inches of air and fabric between them, his palm slapped flat against the wall beside Misha's head, watching Misha's eyes darken, his pupils flare wider.
"What'd you have in mind?" Jensen asks, not even sure why he says it, because he has plenty of things swirling in tight, brightening spirals in his brain. And to be quite honest he doesn't care. He wants, no, fucking needs to stripe Misha's skin with the rough drag of his fingers, the cut of his teeth, and just. Shit. More. Has to wipe away even the thought of that faceless, nameless PA that Misha probably doesn't even know.
And damn if something important doesn't snap and shatter when Misha cuts a sly grin at him and says, "You're a smart guy Jensen. I'm sure you can come up with something."
Jensen manages to hold on, pull the heat that's thrumming in his thighs up the back of his neck out of his voice, manages to say, "Thank you for the coffee," with careful control, but his gaze wanders a wayward path, drinking in all the planes and rolling crests mapped out under Misha's skin.
"Now that's just good manners. I know you have those, " Misha says, "Try again." Then he shakes his head, slow, the coil and uncoil of the muscles in his shoulders doing incredibly interesting things as he does, and Jensen just about fucking loses it, almost pulls Misha flush, almost latches on tight.
Somewhere in the misty fog clamped down around his mind, Jensen finds the words he's seeking, closes the last inches of distance until his lips hover just beyond Misha's reach, until he can taste Misha's breath on his tongue and feel the heat radiating off his skin. He smiles, because it's sweet and so goddamn good balanced here on the edge with Misha caged between him and the wall.
"You gonna be my tart this morning, Misha?"
Misha starts to say something, but Jensen could give fuck all for words right now.
Because he's done with pretense, with restraint, being fixated on things he can't change. Misha's lips are poised - parted and ripe for the taking. So he does, pours every bit of the frustration, every bit of the jealousy into it. Digs his fingers into flesh, reclaims that sweet, sly mouth and tongue as his, because they are, even if Misha doesn't know it yet, kisses harder when all he tastes is coffee and the bloom of sugar. And maybe Misha has some idea, because he flushes up against Jensen in a rush, hurricane wild, his hands hot and just as urgent as the pulse tattooing itself up Jensen's spine.
His heart hammers out a broken, crushing beat against his breastbone that borders on arrhythmia and fuck if Jensen knows why, but he just lets it. Lets Misha wrap his fingers tighter, lets him slide right on past the sentries guarding the gate. Lets him sidestep his way through fences and barbed wire, across swampy moats filled to brimming carnivorous wildlife without challenge.
Lets him because he doesn't want to stop it.
At the same time, he's never wanted anything more.
Anyone who passes that way, winds the treacherous, rock-littered path into the places Jensen keeps hidden leaves a mark, a stain, a chink. They put holes in the carefully constructed defenses he's spent so much time erecting. It's the worst idea in the world to allow Misha, of all people, a pass. Misha with his twisting smiles and subtle schemes, the havoc he's capable of wreaking is immeasurable. Epic.
Right now, though, with the splay of Misha's hand blazing across the back of his neck, fingers drawn down tight, with Misha's lips moving against his like he might be in the same fucking place, Jensen's control escapes him. He can almost feel the armor slough off, hear it clank loud and hollow against the floor of the trailer, and he hopes to hell it's just temporary. For the moment other things take precedence. To be with Misha, really with Misha, devoid of all the bullshit barriers he stacks high for comfort is intoxicating.
So when he should be turning away, throwing shutters in his eyes to hide the things that Misha's wrenching open inside him, all he can bring himself to do is lean back enough to warn.
"Don't leave any marks."
Because there's really no other explanation for five oval bruises on your neck and he has no interest in explaining anything to anyone about this. Ever.
Misha's answering laugh ghosts across his chin and there's a spark of memory that flashes free when he says, "Wouldn't want that," that makes Jensen take a half step back to catch it.
Misha clamped down tight around him, the ladder of his back pressed against Jensen's chest and the curve of his shoulder just asking, begging...
His body lurches forward before he tells it to, instinct far smarter than the muddled grey matter sloshing around in his skull, because yeah. He remembers.
Fuck.
Then he can't move fast enough, his fingers clumsy at the neck of Misha's shirt stretching it roughly until he can see, can touch, can sense shit breaking in his chest all over again. Because Misha's unabashed, wearing it proudly like he wears his whole fucking life, and all Jensen wants is to lay his tongue against it, fit his teeth to it until it darkens and blooms bright anew.
Instead he draws a shaky breath and licks his lips, tries to drag himself away, tries to find Misha's eyes but can't, he just can't. It's too much of everything he wants.
"I can feel it every time I move my arm. Every time my shirt brushes over it."
Misha whispers it against his ear like the dirtiest secret known to God or man, and Jesus, Misha's going to drive him insane or die trying, because now he's going to be thinking about it too. He'll be attuned and every time Misha's hand strays to his shoulder when they're rehearsing a scene, every time he winces a little when he turns his head, Jensen's going to want to grunt and stamp his feet like a goddamn bull, knowing that they both know why. A noise spills, unbidden from his lips and it sounds as ragged as he feels because he's never needed to possess something so completely in his life.
"Do you mark everyone like this, or am I special?"
"Fuck," he says aloud, or maybe not, maybe it's just rings so thunderous inside his head that he thinks he says it. Then he flattens Misha between him and the wall, attacks his lips with teeth and all the barely contained fervor that's aching in his joints, and pulls back breathless.
"Maybe I just like the idea of you walking around thinking about me all day," he grits out, and tangles his fingers in the soft cotton of Misha's T-shirt, futile yanks that make his blood simmer until Misha gets with the program and raises his arms to help.
And the view gets impossibly better without all the fabric screwing it up, a perfect crescent of mottled skin not yet purpled and healing, deep enough that Misha will wear it for three, maybe four days and fuck. Jensen doesn't mark anyone, not usually. Most people he fucks with aren't worth the time it takes or the consideration and all he can figure is that Misha is special. That something about their slow, carefully choreographed dance has altered Jensen in a fundamental way he's only now beginning to discover.
Which is either good, or very fucking bad.
Either way, he can't seem to stop staring, because Misha may be the sexiest thing on two legs right now. Still completely confident under Jensen's open appraisal, leaned back against the wall like an invitation, enticingly bare-chested with his jeans riding low across his hips. Jeans Jensen wants to peel open and back until he can see his fingertips painted in red and purple on Misha's hipbone too.
"Not that I don't appreciate the thought, because I really do," Misha purrs, and Jensen watches him stretch, slinky and seductive, all the subtle swells of muscle twitching in tandem until he feels fucking hypnotized by it. His mouth's gone dry by the time he realizes he's still staring and tears his gaze away, forces it past the mark at Misha's shoulder to find his face.
"But if you believe I need a physical reminder to keep me thinking of this all day, you're underestimating us both."
Jensen feels the reaction break on his face like a sunrise before he can completely shut it down and he's off again, thrown in a way that he can't pin down. That Misha doesn't need it, but allows it because Jensen does. That Misha, bruises or no, marks or no, would still have been thinking about him. Him, not the sex. Because this is not sex, yet. But sex is safe and Jensen, even given the conditional passage he's granted Misha, Jensen can't. Just can't even think about what that means.
So he sticks with safe. Physical. Sweat and spit and skin. It's enough to silence the alarm bells clanging in his skull. For the moment.
It only gets easier once he has Misha hemmed in, once he feels the warmth spilling off Misha's skin, once he knows that he can forge the moment into whatever he wants, just like he always has.
"You talk too fucking much," he says, and it couldn't be more true. Jensen hasn't yet decided what to do about it. He's torn. Half of him wants to shove Misha to his knees, fuck that pretty mouth of his that always seems to get both of them in trouble. The other half, the half that thought it was a good idea to let Misha in, wants to kiss him again, wants force remembrance down Misha's throat that has nothing to do with sex at all.
Which is not okay.
"Says the man currently charged with shutting me up."
Misha grins and the look in his eyes is enough to make a lesser man spontaneously combust, but Jensen is no lesser man. It does, however, make the decision for him. He closes the distance in a rush, can feel the bite of his own teeth bruising his lips. His hands wander and he can't make them settle, because all they're after is more, more flesh, more sweat, more Misha.
Then he's moaning despite himself, a long drawn out, "Fuck," that leaves him gasping.
It affects him more than it should, the curl of Misha's hand around his cock. It sends intense almost electric sensations skittering under his skin, bright and blinding. Jensen wishes he could chalk it up to distraction, that he was so intent on conquering the sweet swell of Misha's lips that he didn't feel his hand snake between them, but he can't. The only thing he can chalk it up to is Misha and the unfathomable rightness of him. That he knows just how much pressure, just the angle and speed that drive Jensen fucking crazy.
So when he asks, "What do you want Jensen?" and pulls, soft and tight and like they have all the time in the world for this, when he says, "Do you want me to suck you off?" so plainly, like all Misha wants is to please him, it cracks whatever measure of control Jensen thought he'd regained and strips him back to bare bones, makes him want what he's always wanted.
He wants Misha to be his. Needs it like fucking oxygen, has to lay his marks down as a warning so anyone who matters will know. Because Jensen already cares more than he should and Misha is as changeable as the winds. And who the fuck would want-
"Fuck."
Even he doesn't know why exactly, why he needs it so fucking much, why his gaze is drawn to the half moon of abused skin and muscle. He only knows that it quiets things inside him, lets him linger in some semblance of sweet certainty, fills him to brimming with the languid sense of satisfaction he finds himself craving now that Misha has wound around him in more ways than one.
Misha huffs a breath nearer a laugh than a gasp and tilts his head, says, "Like a goddamn vampire." Wraps those long hot fingers around the back of Jensen's neck to guide him in. "Not in the same place. Other side."
Fuck.
If Jensen weren't so invested in drawing this out, keeping Misha caught in the tangle of his desire so damn conciliatory and malleable, so eager to please, he could have let himself go just at that. Because to have Misha bend willingly and bare his neck is maybe too much for Jensen to handle and still keep his sanity. He's committed though, to lasting out, and takes what's offered graciously. Mouths the side of Misha's neck and tongues the slope into shoulder, only using teeth once he's meandered to the sharp dip of his collarbone. He feels the working of Misha's throat against his cheek, hears the unfettered fall of his head against the flimsy trailer wall, and knows. Knows that Misha wants it as much as he does, never mind anything he says otherwise.
Heat flares low in his belly with that knowledge, makes him grab and paw at Misha, lock his hands down around the curve of his hips, holding him steady, smiling and shaking a little, a moan spilling out over his lips when Misha curses and squirms against him. He breathes into the sweep of Misha's neck, trying so hard to hold himself in balance, still and aching, but he can't quite manage and he closes his teeth against skin, reveling in the stutter it puts in Misha's rhythm. Basking in the knowledge that Misha is coming undone just as surely as Jensen.
At least until Misha gasps and whispers into his hair, "Jesus, Jensen. Do you have any idea what you do to me?"
It's too close to the same thought, much too much about the things left uneasy, unresolved between them and not about sex at all, he can hear that in the tone. His body locks down on him, caught like a deer in headlights thinking those things that he really fucking shouldn't.
He wants nothing more than to have Misha like this, to mark those places that can't be seen, to affect Misha so thoroughly he can't string his thoughts together or make his muscles behave. He wants more, all the mischievous oddities of Misha. And maybe he wants it for reasons he can't quite admit to yet.
Because, yeah, he could fucking get used to this.
"Fuck, I'm sorry. You drive me to distraction," Misha says, apparently shaken from his own unknowable stupor.
The tightness in Jensen's chest eases when Misha moves again, when his hand finds a rhythm again, pulling him out of the dark snarl of his thoughts. When Misha's fingers close on the nape of his neck, drawing focus back to skin and sweat and the simple things they are to each other.
"I wish- Fuck. I wish we had more time," he says and fuck if Jensen doesn't wish it too, even if he'd never say it aloud. But there's no denying that Misha carves him up into ribbons expertly and sometimes, he deserves it. For whatever reason, Misha always seems to stick around to braid him back together, and Jensen has no experience with that and so no signposts to direct him down the proper path of dealing with it.
He turns his attention, his teeth to Misha's skin reserved again but focused on the urgent pump of Misha's hand, the motion of the muscles under his lips and he's thrusting into it, his cock leaking and so goddamn hard it hurts, and he wonders idly if Misha knows what he does to Jensen.
Jensen figures, yeah, he probably does when Misha bares his neck again, a goddamn supernova rushing up Jensen's spine that wipes away everything but Misha's gasp and the words, "Fucking do it."
And that's just it, he fuses himself to Misha, hips driving on without a brain to guide them because Jensen's already tipping and tottering on the edge, his teeth sunk in hard and bruising, just this side of breaking skin. Then the warmth bleeds through his limbs shaking him into his orgasm, his jaw clamping and choked, strangled sounds from somewhere deep inside spilling against Misha's skin in a furious jumble of sensation. And Fucking Christ he's never come so hard in his life.
It leaves him stupid and aching, powerless to do much more than keep his legs under him and breathe, wholly incapable of pulling the breastplate he so desperately needs right now back on.
Then Misha says his name and he looks up without thinking, thoroughly bared and open and with it just enough to be fucking terrified of it, but Misha seems almost as wrecked, the "Please," spilling out in a breathy rush that ties Jensen up in knots.
So he says," Yeah," and hedges in, presses everything he can't say into Misha's mouth with his tongue, learning all the subtleties that make it Misha's, and Jesus he feels like his ribs must be cracked with how much it all aches. How much he wants to unravel Misha the way Misha unravels him. It's only fair, and when he pushes another, "Yeah," out against Misha's lips, Jensen lets his knees buckle, feels them slide against the cheap linoleum, the press against his kneecaps just short of painful as that first shock jitters up his thighs.
His fingers fumble at Misha's fly, clumsy and eager in a way he thought he'd forgotten, but even after he's got it open, even after Misha's cock bobs inches in front of his face, it's the pattern of bruises that draw him, the five-fingered press of Jensen on Misha's skin that clenches around his heart and squeezes. He can't help but drag fingertips across the purpling ovals, but then he remembers why he's there in the first place and as entranced as he may be, he wants to rend Misha and watch him fall apart.
It's as easy as falling, breathing, to wrap his fingers around the base of Misha's cock, to slide his lips over the hot jutting hardness, tongue the vein wet and careless, driving Misha right up on that edge he's no doubt riding. Misha's hands fall, cup the crown of his head, fingers carding through his hair not urging or pushing, just settled and accepting. And Misha's making soft encouraging noises in his chest he doesn't even seem to realize are coming from him. It works for Jensen in every fucking way.
"God, you look so..." Misha half whispers it into the air.
Jensen's heard that often enough, he knows he's pretty, knows full well what he looks like with his lips wrapped around Misha's cock. But he's never heard it sighed out with something nearing reverence, with some emotion threaded between the words that calls up more than the simplicity of his lips and tongue. It makes him look up, try to figure out what it is, but Misha is far too complex to pull apart so easily. So he'll simply have to settle for knowing there's something, whatever that something might be. It makes him hungry and, impossibly, more eager. Uncovers that need to please that's always swirling, waiting to be unleashed, makes him hum against Misha's length, his own body vibrating with the fact there's something.
When he looks up again, he catches Misha's gaze and holds it, tongue twisting and wrapping then hollows his cheeks in a long slick slide. He sees the moment Misha falls, the warm spill over his tongue and down his throat completely secondary to the wide-eyed shudder that works the length of Misha's limbs.
Secondary.
And that's not okay, but Jensen is way too wrung out to worry about it, he just pulls off Misha's softening cock with a pop, swipes at his mouth with the back of his hand and rocks onto his heels. His knees tremble when he straightens them to stand, and he's not entirely sure whether it's the linoleum or the crushing intensity of what just happened causing it. He's going to go with linoleum.
Jensen doesn't trust himself to look at Misha yet, so he just focuses on righting himself, hears the rasp of a zipper as Misha does the same and it feels fucking awkward in a way he's not used to, because he wants to say things like, "That was fucking awesome," and "Misha, you don't even know," and other things that are far too frightening to even allow them purchase in his brain.
Yeah. Not fucking okay.
So he doesn't meet Misha's eyes, reaches past him for the abandoned coffee, even though his fingers are itching for skin and Misha's still leaned back, a long line of bare chest and Jensen's bruises. It's too much, but he forces himself to stick, not step back, not slide away out of fear or uncertainty. He can do that much.
"Thanks for this," he says, grateful that it sounds normal when it trips past his lips.
He settles the cup against his lips, tilts it up, lets the caffeine do its work again, a lukewarm liquid balm that spreads and seeps into those places Misha's torn open with his lips and hands. Misha laughs like it's not really funny, and okay, he'd be right. Jensen's only just pulled himself back together enough to form sentences that won't betray things. Funny will just have to wait.
"If I didn't know any better, I would think you were trying to wash the taste of me out of your mouth," Misha says, that sharp, slightly sardonic tone riding the words.
It's just what Jensen needs, and he could fucking kiss Misha for pulling them back into normal, back to easy. But kissing Misha would kind of defeat the purpose at this point, so he lets the walls start to come back up, feels his breath come in an effortless draw for the first time in what seems like for-fucking-ever, and smiles.
"Now that's just ridiculous. Your jizz tastes like cotton candy and sunshine," is what he says, but even now he knows he'll be thinking about more than the pretty dappled stretch of Misha's skin all day.
When Misha laughs again, it's open and honest, and if it flares something in Jensen's chest he's just going to have to be okay with that. He's too goddamn content for much in the way of navel-gazing at the moment. The best orgasm ever and a tall cup of perfectly prepared coffee will do things to a man. So he just smiles wider in response and tips the cup up again, letting himself just fucking be for second. It's nice. At least until the silence stretches, Misha watching him with a weird, kind of indulgent smile curving his lips. It raises his hackles a little, but only a little, the comfortable hum still softening the edges.
Still, he can't help but ask, "What?" when Misha keeps right on staring.
"Nothing. Just. Sated is a good look on you," Misha says.
And that twangs in Jensen's gut, not in a bad way, but in the best way that's still pretty fucking bad because it tends to make him blush and glow like a damn prom queen winning the crown. The grin sneaks up unbidden. As many times as people say things like that to him, he'll never deep-down believe it. From Misha though, it feels different, because what ulterior motive could he have for saying it? Misha doesn't need to angle his way into Jensen's life or bed, so he takes it at face value, probably the way it was intended and covers the flush by dipping his head and sliding a sideways glance Misha's way.
"What isn't a good look on me?"
"Touché," Misha says, and then purses his lips the way he does when he's trying to work out how exactly to say something. Yet again, Jensen decides he'll worry about the fact he knows that much later. There's another long awkward silence before Misha sighs.
"Do you have a shirt I can borrow? I should probably go to the lovely ladies in make-up before they come searching for me and if I go like this..."
The absent wave of his hand draws Jensen's attention back to the admittedly distracting swath of bare skin, the fresh scrapes and bruises pink and angry. And Jesus he's going to be half-hard all day thinking about it. When he realizes he's staring, he wets his lips, nods before managing to pull a smartass comment out of the ether that makes it mostly tolerable.
"They still trying to make you look pretty?" Fuck, trying? Misha could make a dirty fucking paper bag look sexy, but he turns away and says, "Don't they know it's a lost cause," instead because he's afraid Misha might see the truth in his eyes and Misha's ego is already the size of fucking Manhattan. He doesn't need the help.
"Jealousy is an ugly thing," he hears Misha say, a tight almost self-deprecating laugh riding its tail-feathers. "You'd probably wear that well too."
Jensen swallows, eternally grateful to have his back to Misha so he doesn't have to duck his head to hide the secret smile. If Misha only knew, but he doesn't and that's just fine and fucking dandy in Jensen's opinion. He digs through drawers for a minute, longer than absolutely necessary, looking for something that might begin to fit Misha, but Jensen's shoulders are too broad for that to really work out. So he settles on selfish, tugs free the t-shirt he wears to sleep in when he has one of those rare stretches of uninterrupted time on set where no one needs him for any fucking thing. Because the thought of Misha wearing that, maybe even wearing it under his Castiel costume, that shirt stretched over all the pretty colors Jensen's painted on his skin is just too sweet to pass on. Just one more way to mark Misha as his.
Of course, he can't tell Misha that.
So he just grunts, tosses it in Misha's general direction and says, "Only wore this once."
Jensen has to physically lock this throat down around the whine of disappointment that threatens when Misha says, "Thanks," and covers up his canvas. He's even still a little distracted by it when Misha adds, "I should -"
Go. "Yeah," and his feet move without his permission, but he's okay with that. He resists the urge to reach out and tug at the neck of his shirt to reveal the fresh crescent of red, but it's a close thing. Manages to nod instead and mutter out an awkward sounding, "So, yeah." What do you say? What can he say? They don't make greeting cards for 'Thanks for the handjob, man' or any of the other varied things Misha's done to him this morning.
All Jensen knows is that he feels alive in a way he hasn't in years and when he comes down off the endorphins he's going to freak the fuck out about it.
But for now, they're still singing in his veins, tripping happy little switches that make him smile.
Then Misha's leaning in, pressing an almost chaste kiss against his lips. It pushes him all the way into stupid.
"I'll see you in a bit," Misha says, his hand already resting on the doorknob, but his eyes are caught up in something that Jensen's probably not hiding well enough.
But he's till struck dumb, so he simply says, "Yeah," again and watches Misha go.