FIC: Face of Heaven
May. 4th, 2009 05:11 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nilchanceTitle: Face of Heaven
Author:nilchance
Rating: Adult
Pairing: Misha Collins/JDM
A/N: Sequel to If Bird or Devil. Jeff is a dom, Misha is his boy, Jensen is complicated. Smutty interlude.
Months ago, before the first murder, Jeff had managed to carve Fridays out of his work schedule. Most of his clients wanted weekend time, and he needed a day to run errands or do laundry or nap beside Misha.
He's regretting that now. He didn't expect Jensen. But then, how could he? Jensen is disruptive as a stray cat and just as quick to exit, leaving confusion and mess in his wake. Now it's too quiet, road noise muffled by the thick walls of Jeff's studio. Jeff tucked Misha into bed upstairs even while Misha tried to convince Jeff that he's fine, just fine, despite nearly seizing out of a kitchen chair. He can hear if Misha needs him, he thinks.
He hopes.
He's never had to wonder about that before. They didn't move into this place for fear of dark gods or serial killers. He has no frame of reference for this kind of fear; his first instinct is to deflect it onto himself, like he did with his stepfather, kicking and spitting and cursing until he's too big of a target to ignore. But he can't take this from Misha's shoulders, and he's not sure anyone can save Jensen from himself. He couldn't save Renee.
He kneels on the floor and slices canvases out of their frames with a box cutter, because it's the least of what he wants to do. Jeff wants to shove the work table's contents onto the floor. He wants to throw a chair against the wall, crack the plaster and the windows with his rage. He wants to change something, anything, even if it doesn't really matter. And in that, maybe he can see why Jensen packed weapons in the trunk and left Renee's body behind him.
Something scratches against the windows. Jeff glances up and sees the flit of dark wings. Bad omen, no Oracles necessary.
"Jeff?"
Damn, so much for hearing Misha. Jeff turns, the box cutter still in hand, and Misha's leaning in the doorway like the frame is holding him up. His eyes are fey, pupils blown. Lips parted on shallow breaths, his hair rumpled like he raked a hand through the chaos. There's a tube of slick in his hand.
The rage seems to twist in on itself, centering on Misha. Setting aside the box cutter, Jeff drags his eyes down Misha's body until he sees the bold press of his dick through loose yoga sweatpants. It skews the fit of Misha's clothes, baring pale belly and a strip of dark hair. Jeff thinks of the way Misha felt under his hands while he seized, rigid and electric, and wants to scrub away that feeling with a new one. A better one.
"Come here," he says. "Close the door."
A shiver ripples through Misha's body, but he doesn't stop watching Jeff with a hunger that borders on animal. Misha steps into Jeff's studio, pulling the door shut behind him. Jeff starts to get up, to meet him halfway, but then Misha's on him. The lube hits the floor with a thud. Misha's straddling his lap, pinning Jeff to the floor with his weight as he slides a hand into Jeff's hair and tugs Jeff's head back to better devour his mouth. Misha kisses with teeth, hot and slick with sharp little nips. Jeff growls into him, settling his hands on Misha's waist, pressing his thumbs into the hollow of Misha's hipbones. A hiss escapes through Misha's closed teeth, as if he's scalded, and then he shimmies forward to better press their bodies together. All the blood surges to Jeff's dick; if not for those clothes he could push up and inside, into friction and unbearable tightness, he could listen to the low hurt noises spill from Misha like an overflow.
Misha curls those long carver's fingers around Jeff's nape, bitten nails scraping as Misha moans and licks at Jeff's mouth, riding Jeff's lap in hard rhythmic jerks. Hungry, sloppy, his. Jeff hooks his thumbs in Misha's waistband and yanks down, growling as the elastic is caught between Misha's thighs and his own. One of them moves, Jeff thinks he might just lift Misha out of the way so he can pull the sweatpants down around Misha's knees. No underwear, only hot skin under his roaming hands. Misha makes a low yearning sound, arching under Jeff's touch, dragging his nails in burning lines up under Jeff's shirt. That small hurt is a catalyst, a match to the bonfire.
Jeff moves one hand from Misha's spine to his neck. He presses Misha back, baring his throat, pressing his thumb into the vulnerable hollow of Misha's jaw. Misha nearly purrs, leaning to give Jeff more: more of the arch of his body, more of his throat, more surrender. His cock juts proudly up, wet and red. Painful, like Jeff had teased him for hours instead of only minutes.
"Need it bad, don't you." Jeff barely knows the rough scrape of his own voice.
Shuddering, Misha swallows and tips his head into Jeff's hand. Seeking touch.
With his free hand, Jeff lowers his zipper. Then he reaches for the tube of slick. When he pops the top, Misha starts to pant a little, anticipating.
"Yeah." Jeff slicks up his fingers, getting them so wet his fingers part with small sloppy noises, then encircles his own dick. It's intense, feels so good it hurts some. He exhales like he just took a mouthful of smoke, and Misha shifts restlessly in his grip. Jeff smiles, feeling the teeth in it. "You want this? You want somebody to fuck you hard, make you feel it? Take care of that sweet ass?"
Misha nods jerkily, as much as he can.
Wet noises rising as he lazily fucks his fist, Jeff says, "Ask me. Say it."
Misha makes a tortured sound like this is the hardest task on Earth, like Jeff asked him to crawl on his belly through fire. Jeff strokes himself faster, lets Misha hear the messy slap of it, and Misha gasps out, "Jeff. Jeff. Want it. Need it, I, sir, let me-- give me your cock--"
It's enough. Jeff lets himself go and pulls Misha against him by the hip and the throat. The position pushes Misha's legs apart. "Take it," he says.
Misha doesn't hesitate or protest that Jeff's still holding him. He fumbles a hand down between them, taking hold of Jeff, and moves into Jeff's restraining hand to take him in. At first Jeff slips, painting a stripe of lube and precome up Misha's taint, then Misha grits his teeth and tries again.
"Tight," Jeff murmurs. "Always like this. Hurts?"
Misha grunts, his eyes squeezed shut, his face pink with effort and desire. Jeff feels the first painful grip of him, the pulsing struggle of friction and heat, tight as a fist. Relaxing his grip on Misha, Jeff breathes, "There, sweetheart, c'mon. Let me in."
Misha squirms, awkward with the praise, then sighs and yields inside. Jeff feels the slick puddling beneath them as Misha sinks down, taking him, taking it all. Slow. Misha's cock nudges his belly, and Jeff lets go of his hip to run his palm over the head. Misha hitches, eyes opening, and stares at Jeff like he's pinned.
"Good," Jeff says, and strokes his throat. "Good boy."
Misha blinks sweat out of his eyes, then hums and shifts in place. Crosses his legs behind Jeff's hips, awkwardness changing to a sudden intake of breath as the angle becomes something better. Sweeter.
Sliding his hand to the base of Misha's throat, Jeff rocks them together. It's good, grinding and messy, Misha's hand slapping down on Jeff's hip as he shivers wildly. Jeff means to take the next stroke as slow, to tease, but Misha tightens inside when Jeff strokes his dick, and that plan is lost. He grips Misha's throat and pushes up into him, moves Misha on him, finding the angle that makes Misha whimper. "Yeah," Jeff says, shaky and excited, "yeah..."
When the next thrust slides true over Misha's prostate, Misha stiffens and grabs Jeff's shoulders. Digs his nails in, stinging lines that leave a lingering burn. Jeff presses his thumb against the hammering pulse in Misha's throat, a teasing warning, but that only makes Misha strain into his hand. It's a struggle to think, to coordinate the grip on Misha's throat and the one on Misha's cock, pleasuring and restraining until the one bleeds into the other. Misha is burning inside, sweet torture, all lewd wet noises and slick grip, Jeff could sink inside him forever, twine together like this until they starved...
"Oh," Misha says suddenly, eyes opening wide, beautiful, Jeff's beautiful boy. "Oh, oh fuck, oh, Jeff--"
Jeff leans into Misha and bites the pale curve of his throat, sets his teeth and sucks until he almost tastes the blood beneath the skin. Misha moans like he's dying, grabbing the back of Jeff's head, holding him against the marks he's leaving. Jeff growls, stroking ruthlessly, his thrusts growing fiercer until Misha is crying out with each one. Jeff's pulse drums in his head like war, like beating wings.
His.
In that close moment, the seconds just before he spills... he can taste Jensen in Misha. In his blood, beneath his skin. That protection. But Misha was his first, his always, his to keep. Jeff doesn't cut his palm open for a circle; he encircles Misha with his body, pierces him, fucks his protection into him--
Misha jolts on Jeff, closing around him, holding tight; Jeff closes his eyes, gives in, comes in hard shuddering pulses. Heat spills into Jeff's hand, onto his belly and his groin, and he feels them like part of coming so hard he feels it in his marrow. Jeff stops biting to breathe instead, his jaw aching, his face pressed in the curve of Misha's shoulder. His eyes feel watery.
After a while, his pulse stops filling his ears. He hears Misha breathing, feels him sprawled limp in his lap. Hears Bisou snuffling curiously on the other side of the door. He feels drained, emptied out, too wiped to stand. It's hard to just rub a hand over Misha's hair and mutter, "Y'alright?"
Misha grunts and burrows deeper into Jeff.
Yeah. Jeff hears that. Leaning back into the leg of his desk, Jeff nuzzles his cheek against Misha. "Bit you."
Voice muffled, Misha mumbles, "Dracula."
"No cape." Fumbling a hand up, Jeff tries to check Misha for blood and ends up smearing come on his throat. The fact that Misha doesn't budge speaks to either Jeff's prowess or Misha's need for a nap. "Was that, y'know. Um. Oracle shit?"
"Probably," Misha says, slurring, "I..."
Jeff waits, but that was the end of Misha's sentence, because there's a hair-ruffling snore. No nightmares, no monsters. Misha, safe.
"Yeah," Jeff says to the empty room. "Yeah, okay."
Author:
nilchanceRating: Adult
Pairing: Misha Collins/JDM
A/N: Sequel to If Bird or Devil. Jeff is a dom, Misha is his boy, Jensen is complicated. Smutty interlude.
Months ago, before the first murder, Jeff had managed to carve Fridays out of his work schedule. Most of his clients wanted weekend time, and he needed a day to run errands or do laundry or nap beside Misha.
He's regretting that now. He didn't expect Jensen. But then, how could he? Jensen is disruptive as a stray cat and just as quick to exit, leaving confusion and mess in his wake. Now it's too quiet, road noise muffled by the thick walls of Jeff's studio. Jeff tucked Misha into bed upstairs even while Misha tried to convince Jeff that he's fine, just fine, despite nearly seizing out of a kitchen chair. He can hear if Misha needs him, he thinks.
He hopes.
He's never had to wonder about that before. They didn't move into this place for fear of dark gods or serial killers. He has no frame of reference for this kind of fear; his first instinct is to deflect it onto himself, like he did with his stepfather, kicking and spitting and cursing until he's too big of a target to ignore. But he can't take this from Misha's shoulders, and he's not sure anyone can save Jensen from himself. He couldn't save Renee.
He kneels on the floor and slices canvases out of their frames with a box cutter, because it's the least of what he wants to do. Jeff wants to shove the work table's contents onto the floor. He wants to throw a chair against the wall, crack the plaster and the windows with his rage. He wants to change something, anything, even if it doesn't really matter. And in that, maybe he can see why Jensen packed weapons in the trunk and left Renee's body behind him.
Something scratches against the windows. Jeff glances up and sees the flit of dark wings. Bad omen, no Oracles necessary.
"Jeff?"
Damn, so much for hearing Misha. Jeff turns, the box cutter still in hand, and Misha's leaning in the doorway like the frame is holding him up. His eyes are fey, pupils blown. Lips parted on shallow breaths, his hair rumpled like he raked a hand through the chaos. There's a tube of slick in his hand.
The rage seems to twist in on itself, centering on Misha. Setting aside the box cutter, Jeff drags his eyes down Misha's body until he sees the bold press of his dick through loose yoga sweatpants. It skews the fit of Misha's clothes, baring pale belly and a strip of dark hair. Jeff thinks of the way Misha felt under his hands while he seized, rigid and electric, and wants to scrub away that feeling with a new one. A better one.
"Come here," he says. "Close the door."
A shiver ripples through Misha's body, but he doesn't stop watching Jeff with a hunger that borders on animal. Misha steps into Jeff's studio, pulling the door shut behind him. Jeff starts to get up, to meet him halfway, but then Misha's on him. The lube hits the floor with a thud. Misha's straddling his lap, pinning Jeff to the floor with his weight as he slides a hand into Jeff's hair and tugs Jeff's head back to better devour his mouth. Misha kisses with teeth, hot and slick with sharp little nips. Jeff growls into him, settling his hands on Misha's waist, pressing his thumbs into the hollow of Misha's hipbones. A hiss escapes through Misha's closed teeth, as if he's scalded, and then he shimmies forward to better press their bodies together. All the blood surges to Jeff's dick; if not for those clothes he could push up and inside, into friction and unbearable tightness, he could listen to the low hurt noises spill from Misha like an overflow.
Misha curls those long carver's fingers around Jeff's nape, bitten nails scraping as Misha moans and licks at Jeff's mouth, riding Jeff's lap in hard rhythmic jerks. Hungry, sloppy, his. Jeff hooks his thumbs in Misha's waistband and yanks down, growling as the elastic is caught between Misha's thighs and his own. One of them moves, Jeff thinks he might just lift Misha out of the way so he can pull the sweatpants down around Misha's knees. No underwear, only hot skin under his roaming hands. Misha makes a low yearning sound, arching under Jeff's touch, dragging his nails in burning lines up under Jeff's shirt. That small hurt is a catalyst, a match to the bonfire.
Jeff moves one hand from Misha's spine to his neck. He presses Misha back, baring his throat, pressing his thumb into the vulnerable hollow of Misha's jaw. Misha nearly purrs, leaning to give Jeff more: more of the arch of his body, more of his throat, more surrender. His cock juts proudly up, wet and red. Painful, like Jeff had teased him for hours instead of only minutes.
"Need it bad, don't you." Jeff barely knows the rough scrape of his own voice.
Shuddering, Misha swallows and tips his head into Jeff's hand. Seeking touch.
With his free hand, Jeff lowers his zipper. Then he reaches for the tube of slick. When he pops the top, Misha starts to pant a little, anticipating.
"Yeah." Jeff slicks up his fingers, getting them so wet his fingers part with small sloppy noises, then encircles his own dick. It's intense, feels so good it hurts some. He exhales like he just took a mouthful of smoke, and Misha shifts restlessly in his grip. Jeff smiles, feeling the teeth in it. "You want this? You want somebody to fuck you hard, make you feel it? Take care of that sweet ass?"
Misha nods jerkily, as much as he can.
Wet noises rising as he lazily fucks his fist, Jeff says, "Ask me. Say it."
Misha makes a tortured sound like this is the hardest task on Earth, like Jeff asked him to crawl on his belly through fire. Jeff strokes himself faster, lets Misha hear the messy slap of it, and Misha gasps out, "Jeff. Jeff. Want it. Need it, I, sir, let me-- give me your cock--"
It's enough. Jeff lets himself go and pulls Misha against him by the hip and the throat. The position pushes Misha's legs apart. "Take it," he says.
Misha doesn't hesitate or protest that Jeff's still holding him. He fumbles a hand down between them, taking hold of Jeff, and moves into Jeff's restraining hand to take him in. At first Jeff slips, painting a stripe of lube and precome up Misha's taint, then Misha grits his teeth and tries again.
"Tight," Jeff murmurs. "Always like this. Hurts?"
Misha grunts, his eyes squeezed shut, his face pink with effort and desire. Jeff feels the first painful grip of him, the pulsing struggle of friction and heat, tight as a fist. Relaxing his grip on Misha, Jeff breathes, "There, sweetheart, c'mon. Let me in."
Misha squirms, awkward with the praise, then sighs and yields inside. Jeff feels the slick puddling beneath them as Misha sinks down, taking him, taking it all. Slow. Misha's cock nudges his belly, and Jeff lets go of his hip to run his palm over the head. Misha hitches, eyes opening, and stares at Jeff like he's pinned.
"Good," Jeff says, and strokes his throat. "Good boy."
Misha blinks sweat out of his eyes, then hums and shifts in place. Crosses his legs behind Jeff's hips, awkwardness changing to a sudden intake of breath as the angle becomes something better. Sweeter.
Sliding his hand to the base of Misha's throat, Jeff rocks them together. It's good, grinding and messy, Misha's hand slapping down on Jeff's hip as he shivers wildly. Jeff means to take the next stroke as slow, to tease, but Misha tightens inside when Jeff strokes his dick, and that plan is lost. He grips Misha's throat and pushes up into him, moves Misha on him, finding the angle that makes Misha whimper. "Yeah," Jeff says, shaky and excited, "yeah..."
When the next thrust slides true over Misha's prostate, Misha stiffens and grabs Jeff's shoulders. Digs his nails in, stinging lines that leave a lingering burn. Jeff presses his thumb against the hammering pulse in Misha's throat, a teasing warning, but that only makes Misha strain into his hand. It's a struggle to think, to coordinate the grip on Misha's throat and the one on Misha's cock, pleasuring and restraining until the one bleeds into the other. Misha is burning inside, sweet torture, all lewd wet noises and slick grip, Jeff could sink inside him forever, twine together like this until they starved...
"Oh," Misha says suddenly, eyes opening wide, beautiful, Jeff's beautiful boy. "Oh, oh fuck, oh, Jeff--"
Jeff leans into Misha and bites the pale curve of his throat, sets his teeth and sucks until he almost tastes the blood beneath the skin. Misha moans like he's dying, grabbing the back of Jeff's head, holding him against the marks he's leaving. Jeff growls, stroking ruthlessly, his thrusts growing fiercer until Misha is crying out with each one. Jeff's pulse drums in his head like war, like beating wings.
His.
In that close moment, the seconds just before he spills... he can taste Jensen in Misha. In his blood, beneath his skin. That protection. But Misha was his first, his always, his to keep. Jeff doesn't cut his palm open for a circle; he encircles Misha with his body, pierces him, fucks his protection into him--
Misha jolts on Jeff, closing around him, holding tight; Jeff closes his eyes, gives in, comes in hard shuddering pulses. Heat spills into Jeff's hand, onto his belly and his groin, and he feels them like part of coming so hard he feels it in his marrow. Jeff stops biting to breathe instead, his jaw aching, his face pressed in the curve of Misha's shoulder. His eyes feel watery.
After a while, his pulse stops filling his ears. He hears Misha breathing, feels him sprawled limp in his lap. Hears Bisou snuffling curiously on the other side of the door. He feels drained, emptied out, too wiped to stand. It's hard to just rub a hand over Misha's hair and mutter, "Y'alright?"
Misha grunts and burrows deeper into Jeff.
Yeah. Jeff hears that. Leaning back into the leg of his desk, Jeff nuzzles his cheek against Misha. "Bit you."
Voice muffled, Misha mumbles, "Dracula."
"No cape." Fumbling a hand up, Jeff tries to check Misha for blood and ends up smearing come on his throat. The fact that Misha doesn't budge speaks to either Jeff's prowess or Misha's need for a nap. "Was that, y'know. Um. Oracle shit?"
"Probably," Misha says, slurring, "I..."
Jeff waits, but that was the end of Misha's sentence, because there's a hair-ruffling snore. No nightmares, no monsters. Misha, safe.
"Yeah," Jeff says to the empty room. "Yeah, okay."
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Date: 2009-05-04 11:38 pm (UTC)