Fic: the same big and little words (Jensen/Misha, NC-17)
...I'm really not sure where this came from. I've been working on my dc_everafter all day, and then suddenly there was Misha having ~feelings all over everything. IDEK.
Title: the same big and little words
Pairing: Jensen/Misha
Rating: R
Word Count: ~1000
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, and consequently completely untrue.
Summary: He likes Jensen, though. He likes Jensen too much, such that everything seems to turn to gold in Jensen's fine-cut hands.
Jensen's mouth is a cavern of sweet smoke, the rich taste of loose tobacco meeting Misha's tongue when he pushes it inside. It turns him on, and it shouldn't, Christ, because a) Jensen quit smoking over a year ago, partly because b) it's Bad For His Health, like it says on all the posters, but also because c) Misha complained more than once about the nicotine scent on his clothes, the stale tar-taste on his tongue. Jensen used to smoke Marlboros, cheap and sour and soothing behind his trailer, and Misha used to hate it, so really he ought to be snatching the thing from Jensen's hand right now, crushing it out under the heel of his boot.
Facts in evidence:
#1: He isn't.
#2: He has absolutely no desire to.
Jensen curls his tongue, crooking at the roof of Misha's mouth, and Misha hums through his nose, thumbing the undeviating line of Jensen's jaw. He tastes earthy, like leaves after rain, the crushed-acorn flavour of roll-your-owns and old paper and sex. If he licks in deep, Misha can almost imagine he's tasting himself there, drawing an hours-old rush of want back out from under Jensen's tongue. Jensen's back is flat to the wall, cigarette smouldering between his fingers, and Misha feels anachronistic, a man from anywhere, unstuck in time.
Jensen pushes him back after a long moment; nips his mouth and murmurs, "Later," teeth flashing afterward, white and quick. He holds Misha's eyes as he raises his hand to his lips and hollows his mouth for a long last draw. Misha's legs go liquid at the sight, Pavlovian, and Jensen, because he is a bastard, notices and laughs, tipping his head back to show his long throat. Misha wants his tongue all over the hollows of it, wants to paint his claim on Jensen in spit and scratches, mark him up rough and dirty. The want rises up in his throat in a low, hot gasp.
"No," he says. "Now."
The flash in Jensen's eyes is, oh, predictable, but it's a prediction Misha likes that he sees there, as Jensen drops his cigarette in the dirt and reaches out, long-armed and unhesitating. They fall against each other in a blur of scrapes, teeth and stubble and fingernails, and Jensen grits out, "Misha, dammit," as his fingertips snake under Misha's waistband. The zipper buzzes open under the heel of his hand, and Misha lets his head tip forward, biting at Jensen's mouth as his own fingers work under layers of fabric to wrap around Jensen's cock.
"Holy - " Jensen rasps, voice Winchester-deep, and Misha doesn't know if it's the smoke or the sex that does it, but he likes it too much to give a fuck about the why. He rubs with his thumb; jacks his hand in rough up-and-down strokes, squeezing, and Jensen fucking keens in his throat; pushes off the wall to crush his mouth against Misha's. It's not a kiss, not quite, too slack and too brutal, but it shoots down hard to catch Misha between the legs where Jensen's hand's moving, working deep groans out of him. Misha clenches his thighs and shivers and rocks, little circles of his hips into Jensen's hand.
Jensen's voice stops before he comes, like a record cutting out, this break in the sound before the peak of a crescendo: oh oh oh and then nothing, just wetness pulsing out hot over Misha's hand. His fingernails clench, biting into Misha's arm through the shirt, and his other hand stills at its work for a moment, face going tight and then slackening after. Misha takes the opportunity to draw in a breath, and the air smells of Jensen, his smoke and sweat and sex.
"Christ," Jensen mutters, and starts up again.
It's only moments, then, before Misha feels his muscles seize up with it, white-hot rush banking up in his spine until it shoots out hard into Jensen's coaxing hand. He bites back his cry in his throat and Jensen hums approval; leans up and kisses him again, and fuck, Misha could kiss that mouth forever. He rubs off his hand against the bricks at Jensen's back; reaches up to grip Jensen's face, and kisses him, hard wet kisses that nuzzle and cling until their mouths tingle hard enough to break them apart.
Later, Jensen says, in wardrobe, almost like it's an afterthought: "I thought you said you didn't like it when I smoke?"
Misha shrugs his shoulders, glancing up and over at him sidelong. "I don't," he says. "You knew that already."
"And all that earlier," Jensen says, "that was you not liking smoking?"
"That earlier," Misha corrects, "was me liking you."
"Even with my filthy habits?" Jensen asks, grin beginning to birth itself at the corners of his mouth.
"That mouth," Misha mutters, "come on, Jensen, really," and Jensen only laughs, leaves it there and turns away.
He looked like a man in a black-and-white, there by the bricks, but Misha doesn't say what a picture he made; doesn't tell Jensen how much he likes the acorn-smell, or the look Jensen gets with his head tipped back like that, staring at nothing through a cloud of smoke. Jensen quit smoking months ago, and Misha doesn't like it.
He likes Jensen, though. He likes Jensen too much, such that everything seems to turn to gold in Jensen's fine-cut hands. He isn't going to say that. He isn't going to say anything, not even when the look in Jensen's eyes says he knows already; says he knows the way it feels.
Later, in the dark, Misha kisses Jensen's temple and says, "I don't want you to get cancer and die," completely apropos of nothing.
"Yeah," Jensen says, after a minute. "I know. I love you, too."
**
Title: the same big and little words
Pairing: Jensen/Misha
Rating: R
Word Count: ~1000
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, and consequently completely untrue.
Summary: He likes Jensen, though. He likes Jensen too much, such that everything seems to turn to gold in Jensen's fine-cut hands.
Jensen's mouth is a cavern of sweet smoke, the rich taste of loose tobacco meeting Misha's tongue when he pushes it inside. It turns him on, and it shouldn't, Christ, because a) Jensen quit smoking over a year ago, partly because b) it's Bad For His Health, like it says on all the posters, but also because c) Misha complained more than once about the nicotine scent on his clothes, the stale tar-taste on his tongue. Jensen used to smoke Marlboros, cheap and sour and soothing behind his trailer, and Misha used to hate it, so really he ought to be snatching the thing from Jensen's hand right now, crushing it out under the heel of his boot.
Facts in evidence:
#1: He isn't.
#2: He has absolutely no desire to.
Jensen curls his tongue, crooking at the roof of Misha's mouth, and Misha hums through his nose, thumbing the undeviating line of Jensen's jaw. He tastes earthy, like leaves after rain, the crushed-acorn flavour of roll-your-owns and old paper and sex. If he licks in deep, Misha can almost imagine he's tasting himself there, drawing an hours-old rush of want back out from under Jensen's tongue. Jensen's back is flat to the wall, cigarette smouldering between his fingers, and Misha feels anachronistic, a man from anywhere, unstuck in time.
Jensen pushes him back after a long moment; nips his mouth and murmurs, "Later," teeth flashing afterward, white and quick. He holds Misha's eyes as he raises his hand to his lips and hollows his mouth for a long last draw. Misha's legs go liquid at the sight, Pavlovian, and Jensen, because he is a bastard, notices and laughs, tipping his head back to show his long throat. Misha wants his tongue all over the hollows of it, wants to paint his claim on Jensen in spit and scratches, mark him up rough and dirty. The want rises up in his throat in a low, hot gasp.
"No," he says. "Now."
The flash in Jensen's eyes is, oh, predictable, but it's a prediction Misha likes that he sees there, as Jensen drops his cigarette in the dirt and reaches out, long-armed and unhesitating. They fall against each other in a blur of scrapes, teeth and stubble and fingernails, and Jensen grits out, "Misha, dammit," as his fingertips snake under Misha's waistband. The zipper buzzes open under the heel of his hand, and Misha lets his head tip forward, biting at Jensen's mouth as his own fingers work under layers of fabric to wrap around Jensen's cock.
"Holy - " Jensen rasps, voice Winchester-deep, and Misha doesn't know if it's the smoke or the sex that does it, but he likes it too much to give a fuck about the why. He rubs with his thumb; jacks his hand in rough up-and-down strokes, squeezing, and Jensen fucking keens in his throat; pushes off the wall to crush his mouth against Misha's. It's not a kiss, not quite, too slack and too brutal, but it shoots down hard to catch Misha between the legs where Jensen's hand's moving, working deep groans out of him. Misha clenches his thighs and shivers and rocks, little circles of his hips into Jensen's hand.
Jensen's voice stops before he comes, like a record cutting out, this break in the sound before the peak of a crescendo: oh oh oh and then nothing, just wetness pulsing out hot over Misha's hand. His fingernails clench, biting into Misha's arm through the shirt, and his other hand stills at its work for a moment, face going tight and then slackening after. Misha takes the opportunity to draw in a breath, and the air smells of Jensen, his smoke and sweat and sex.
"Christ," Jensen mutters, and starts up again.
It's only moments, then, before Misha feels his muscles seize up with it, white-hot rush banking up in his spine until it shoots out hard into Jensen's coaxing hand. He bites back his cry in his throat and Jensen hums approval; leans up and kisses him again, and fuck, Misha could kiss that mouth forever. He rubs off his hand against the bricks at Jensen's back; reaches up to grip Jensen's face, and kisses him, hard wet kisses that nuzzle and cling until their mouths tingle hard enough to break them apart.
Later, Jensen says, in wardrobe, almost like it's an afterthought: "I thought you said you didn't like it when I smoke?"
Misha shrugs his shoulders, glancing up and over at him sidelong. "I don't," he says. "You knew that already."
"And all that earlier," Jensen says, "that was you not liking smoking?"
"That earlier," Misha corrects, "was me liking you."
"Even with my filthy habits?" Jensen asks, grin beginning to birth itself at the corners of his mouth.
"That mouth," Misha mutters, "come on, Jensen, really," and Jensen only laughs, leaves it there and turns away.
He looked like a man in a black-and-white, there by the bricks, but Misha doesn't say what a picture he made; doesn't tell Jensen how much he likes the acorn-smell, or the look Jensen gets with his head tipped back like that, staring at nothing through a cloud of smoke. Jensen quit smoking months ago, and Misha doesn't like it.
He likes Jensen, though. He likes Jensen too much, such that everything seems to turn to gold in Jensen's fine-cut hands. He isn't going to say that. He isn't going to say anything, not even when the look in Jensen's eyes says he knows already; says he knows the way it feels.
Later, in the dark, Misha kisses Jensen's temple and says, "I don't want you to get cancer and die," completely apropos of nothing.
"Yeah," Jensen says, after a minute. "I know. I love you, too."
**