Fic: Thrones, Dominations -- Part 1 (Jared/Misha, NC-17)

[obstinatrix]

masterpost

Cowering. There was no other word for what the little man was doing: he cowered, shrunken in on himself, on the Persian carpet that covered the tile floor in front of Misha's chair.

"Sir," the little man insisted, "we looked where you said, but he wasn't there. He wasn't." His head was bowed, all his spindly limbs drawn in on his body. Perhaps he was hoping it would make him look inconspicuous, not worth Misha's time to punish. In actuality, it just made him look pathetic, expendable. Misha could dispose of him and still have a hundred better men to do his bidding. Men who might actually come back with something useful.

Misha sighed heavily. It was nine-thirty at night; he didn't want to be wasting his evening on crap like this, useless vermin like this weasel of a man. There was a speck of dirt on the white sleeve of his suit jacket. He flicked it off idly with the backs of his fingers and let his gaze flicker dully to the angelfish swimming like rainbows inside the hollow Perspex wall that divided this room from the next. In actual fact, the water feature was one of his most beloved acquisitions, and his bored affect was rather feigned, but Misha was well practised in projecting what he had to. When the minions thought the overlord was bored: that was when they really began to worry, and Misha did so like to see them squirm.

Jared, by this juncture, was quite well-practised too. Misha didn't consciously remember teaching him the fine art of manipulation, but either he had picked it up under his own steam or he had the best lucky timing in the world. At any rate, he always managed to intervene at just the most helpful moments -- for Misha -- with a well-placed whisky and soda, a half-smile only Misha could detect. Misha was just at the point of contemplating where to shift his gaze, for best results, when Jared entered the room, soundless on bare feet, and came to rest at Misha's elbow. His eyes found Misha's in quiet solidarity before he held up the tumbler of whisky, and Misha let his face betray a rush of warmth as he took it. "Oh, thank you, Jared. You always know how to make me feel better." A beat. "Unlike some useless worms."

The little man's full-body flinch was palpable. Jared smiled a little, mouth quirking up at the corners, but he didn't say anything. Jared never said anything when they were in public: this was one of the great things about him. Misha didn't remember having crafted the persona Jared now adopted around the lowlifes on Misha's payroll, but a persona he wore all the same: the ominously silent, barefoot houseboy, massively tall and beautifully built, hovering at Misha's elbow in his sailorboy sweater and white jeans. The outfit never varied -- in reality, Jared had a wardrobe full of identical items for when they had company. The pose did change, dependent on what Jared felt the situation called for. Misha didn't know how, but he was always right. Sometimes, he would perch on the clear glass arm of Misha's chair, eyes trained on the hapless victim. Sometimes, he carried a rifle. Jared had never shot a rifle in his life, but Misha was the only one who knew this, and so the affectation was always effective.

Sometimes, as today, Jared would saunter languidly around to the front of Misha's chair and sit at his feet, folding down like some great wild cat, tame for Misha alone. Misha let his hand creep out to curl around the nape of Jared's neck, feeling the tensile strength in the tendons there, the subtle shift of his shoulders with his breathing. Jared didn't look up. He was looking at the man on the carpet. Misha smiled to himself and followed Jared's example.

"Let me make you a deal," he suggested mildly.

"Oh!" The man's eagerness was pathetic. "Oh, yes, sir -- anything! I can do it, I can, if you just give me time, if you --"

"I need him brought to me, Smith," Misha cut in. The man's name wasn't Smith -- or maybe it was; Misha wasn't particularly bothered. Everybody was Smith to him. "I am this close to assembling everything I need to run the replicator. I'm still one step ahead of Ackles, for now, but it's only one step. And I don't like having to look over my shoulder. Capisce?"

The little man nodded feverishly, almost tripping over his own feet in his eagerness to clasp his hands, prostrate himself, do something else similarly disgusting. "Yes, sir! Yes!"

Misha nodded, just once -- enough to show acknowledgement, but not quite enough to indicate approval. The man didn't deserve that. "Good. So, you will understand that I want him brought to me, as soon as possible. You can understand that, right?"

The little man gulped. Misha's hand had drifted to the base of Jared's skull and Jared pushed back against it in silent encouragement. Misha threaded his hands into Jared's thick hair, let it slip between the vees of his fingers. Jared's head tipped back more fully, baring his long throat, but his eyes never shifted from the little man's face, and Misha could barely contain a smile at the expression of unconcealed fear in the man's eyes. He stroked a thumb across the nape of Jared's neck and prompted: "Right, Smith?"

"Right!" The man was now, God help them all, doing something that perhaps approximated a bow in his stupid little brain. He looked terrified, as if he were agreeing to this on the basis of its being a last-ditch opportunity to escape with his life. Misha didn't really believe this worm would come back to him with Ackles; but that wasn't really the point. Misha had bigger fish on the job, and they were getting close. The point of this was -- well. Cat and mouse. All the more fun to play a little with the mouse, let it think it had escaped, before reeling it back in to kill it just when it was sure of its safety.

It had occurred to Misha that, perhaps, he was not a very nice person, but that hardly seemed important. Nice people didn't build up multi-million-dollar corporations on the backs of their scientific know-how, charming manners and utter lack of scruple. Nice people certainly did not discover means by which whole-object replication -- of food, of money, of animals, of humans -- could be possible. Misha was not a nice person, but he was only one Lord Howe Island Stick Insect away from becoming the richest man on earth, if only he could get rid of Ackles. Jensen Ackles had once been an animal welfare activist and now fancied himself some sort of superhero and, probably, a nice person. Misha had absolutely had enough of him.

Still, tomorrow was another day. Misha was tired, and he had both a ten thousand dollar whirlpool bath upstairs and an attractive youth of godlike proportions to rub his back (and front, and dick) in it. He wanted rid of the redshirt, and fast.

He tried a smile. The man recoiled, which evidently meant that Misha was doing something right. Misha said, "All right, Smith."

"All -- all right?" The man's eyes bugged incredulously. There was a bald spot on the top of his head that gleamed palely in the artificial light. Misha felt his gall rise at the sight of it. He waved a hand impatiently.

"Yes, yes, all right. Get out, you're making the place look untidy."

He pointed to the door. Jared, still curled at his feet, set up a low, vibrating almost-sound like a growl, eyes still fixed on the man's face, metaphorical hackles palpably raised. The man swallowed.

"Yes, sir," he babbled, backing away from the chair as if afraid to turn his back on Misha. Not, perhaps, entirely moronic, then. "I won't disappoint you, sir; I won't!"

"He will," Misha said bitterly, leaning back in the chair and stretching as the door closed behind their visitor. "Urgh. Back's killing me."

"You're the one who insisted on the goddamn glass throne," Jared pointed out, not unreasonably. Misha scowled. He hated when people were reasonable.

"It's a chair," he contended pedantically.

"It's fucking uncomfortable," Jared retorted. "And also uncomfortable for fucking. Mmm. Do that again."

"What did your last slave die of?" Misha demanded. But Jared's hair was blissfully soft, and carding his fingers through it was no hardship, so he did it again. And again, and again, until Jared's shoulders were flat to Misha's knees and his head was tipped back against Misha's thigh. His face looked smoothed out, utterly carefree. Misha's dick was beginning to compete with his aching back for attention. He was pretty sure he knew a way to kill two birds with one stone.

"Hey." He thumbed at Jared's mouth; pulled his hand away when Jared nipped at the pad of his thumb and suckled at it briefly. "Bath?"

Jared's eyes had gone to slits, but he opened them fully now and laughed. "You just want to get me out of my clothes."

"So?"

Jared shrugged. "At least you're open about your deviance, I guess." He stood up slowly, groaning, all the miles and miles of him unfurling. Misha cast an appreciative eye over the taut curves of Jared's backside in those pants, goddamn. That there was nothing underneath them was abundantly clear -- all the more so when Jared turned around, a smirk dancing in his eyes as he crossed his arms over his chest, took hold of the hem of his sweater. Misha leaned back in his chair (it in no way qualified as a throne, whatever Jared said) and let his legs splay akimbo, making room for the growing swell of his erection. Jared tossed him a wink, and pulled the sweater up and over his head in one fluid movement.

"Oh, baby." Misha's hand went straight to his crotch. The white suit was effective in conveying the right impression; time and experience had proven this, but he always felt uncomfortably starched and buttoned up by the end of the day, especially when Jared started up with -- with this shit. The fat bulge of Misha's cock pressed up against the zipper of his neat suit trousers, and he covered it now with his palm, kneaded lightly, biting back a groan.

Jared was still smirking, but Misha knew better than to buy his pretence of perfect calm. For one thing, his dick was attempting to force its way through the white denim of his jeans. They were damn good quality jeans, but Jared's dick was both massive and forceful. Misha wouldn't like to take a bet on the winner of that set-to.

"Pervert," Jared said. He flattened both hands on his chest, drew the tips of his fingers in idle curlicues around the taut buds of his nipples. He was staring Misha down as if Misha were the only one daring to enjoy this, but Misha was an attentive guy. The fat thrust of Jared's cock was thickening, impossibly, as his hands descended to his waistband, mapping the contours of his chest, the flat plain of his stomach. His shoulders heaved with his breaths. By the time his thumbs found their way into the waistband of his jeans, they were both breathless.

"Exhibitionist," Misha accused, as if he cared. As if he didn't want Jared just to pop the button on those indecently tight jeans and, God -- yeah, like that. Unzip the zipper slowly, splay the fabric wide until his cock sprang up out of the open vee.

"Yeah?" Jared said, his voice breathy. He worked the jeans down over the spurs of his hips, first one side, and then the other. His thumbs were still hooked under the waistband, pornographically long fingers splayed out over the outside, pointing downward like arrows. The open fly of his jeans was now pushed down to below the base of his cock, framing it to such perfect effect that Misha almost wanted Jared to stop, right there, just like that. He almost wanted it, but not as much as he wanted him to keep going.

"Mmmm," he said, a slurred affirmative. "Hey, turn around while you take 'em off, would you? Show me what I really keep a domestic slut for."

Jared snorted. "Fuck you. You keep me because you'd be lost without me, and you know it." He didn't turn around, but he shoved at his pants all the same, eyes on Misha's face as he worked them down over the long muscles of his thighs, down to his knees. Further. When he kicked them off, he spread his hands a little, as if to say, well?

"Nnngh," Misha said, coherent as only a genius could be in the face of such a performance. "Jared, baby, did I ever tell you what a fucking perfect animal you are?"

Jared smiled, slow, enough to show his teeth. Misha was absolutely in love with Jared's teeth. They were comic-book white, perfectly straight, and yet endearingly uneven along the bottom edge. They were exquisite, like the rest of Jared.

"Tell me again," Jared said. His cock jutted up, long and thick and hard, towards his flat stomach, the tip of it just beginning to glisten in anticipation. Misha was still trying to summon the breath to speak when Jared wrapped a hand around the root of it, stroked it smooth and slow to the tip and back again. And again, and again, until his head fell back slightly, feet planted wide to maintain the balance of his body.

"Urgh, you whore, " Misha protested, because it was the only alternative to saying Jesus fuck, how can you be so hot and live? and Misha tried not to say that to Jared too often. He didn't want him to end up with a massively inflated ego, after all. He didn't think Jared was the sort of person likely to develop anything like that, but one never knew. Misha pointed in the direction of the door. "Go upstairs. Run me a goddamn whirlpool bath so I can fuck you in it."

Jared's smile was half-scathing, but Misha didn't miss the way his dick jerked against his stomach, and Misha knew that Jared knew that Misha hadn't missed it. Jared liked being ordered around, big and smart and gorgeous though he was. It was Jared's love of taking orders that had brought them together in the first place, after all, years ago when Jared was still skulking uncertainly around the edges of the fetish scene and Misha was still going out in public without a four-man bodyguard. That had been four years ago. Now, they were solid, inseparable. Misha may have been the one who gave the orders, but Jared was his constant source of support and encouragement. Without Jared, Misha had no doubt, he would never have risen to half the heights he had.

When Jared left the room, he didn't wait for Misha. That was part of the arrangement: Misha liked to follow at his own pace, still fully clothed and fully hard in his neatly pressed suit, watching the long naked shape of Jared, Jared his boy, mounting the stairs in front of him. The muscles in Jared's back bunched and flexed as his hand shifted on the banister. His ass clenched and shifted enticingly, the heavy hang of his balls and the dark place between his legs showing with every upward step he took. By the time Jared reached the bathroom, Misha could feel his heartbeat whirring in his throat, pounding under his jaw, and Jared was -- God. Hard enough to pound nails, quite evidently, and leaking slow and steady from the slit when he turned to face Misha, the backs of his thighs pressed to the rim of the bath.

"You have to turn it on," Misha pointed out. His voice grated its way out of his throat, embarrassingly wrecked.

Jared's fingers tripped along the rim of the bath towards the on switch. He turned it deftly, the bath behind him starting up with a whooshing sound. "Oh, it's turned on," Jared said, eyes steady and hot on Misha's face. Misha wasn't stupid enough to think he was only talking about the jacuzzi.

"It definitely is," Misha said, slow. Jared held his gaze for a moment, smouldering, before he broke and tipped his head back on a laugh, the whole tan length of his body shaking with it.

"The general idea of a bath involves us both being naked," he pointed out. "C'mon, Misha. Take it off."

"You're not getting a show," Misha grumbled, shrugging off his jacket and setting it down on the wicker chair in the corner of the room. Jared lifted one shoulder.

"I'll get one whether you mean it or not," he said, chin upraised, voice mocking. Misha narrowed his eyes as he worked at the buttons of his shirt, although his fingers were moving fast enough to betray the true intensity of his interest.

"You are a really crappy sub," he said.

Jared grinned and shook his head. The gesture tossed his soft hair into his face, made the light catch golden in it. "I think you've gotten confused somewhere in the middle of your evil genius act. I didn't sign a D/s contract. I'm only your sub when we fuck." The grin widened. "And I'm awesome at that."

"You're a cheeky son of a bitch," Misha countered, dropping his shirt to the carpet and tearing at his belt.

Jared raised one eyebrow, then half turned to look over his shoulder. Following the line of his gaze, Misha saw that the bath was sufficiently full to accommodate them both easily. It filled damn fast -- which, of course, was one of the major reasons it was (allegedly) worth the $10,000 Misha had paid for it.

"You like it," Jared said, and turned to step into the bath.

After that, it was the work of moments for Misha to dispose of his pants and undershorts. Jared was a long blurred shape beneath the bubbling water, and Misha really, really wanted to get under there with him, to trace that shape with his hands, define the indistinct edges of it with his fingers.

The water enveloped him like a lover as he slipped into it, powerful jets kneading at the knots in his back, skating down his spine, finding all the tight places. He groaned, long and low; tipped his head back against the edge of the bath. "Guh. Jesus, that's good."

Jared's voice sounded diffracted, the effect of all the water lapping up around Misha's ears. "Jared, go upstairs and run a bath so I can fuck you in it," he mimicked in a falsetto that resembled Misha's voice in absolutely no particular. "Or, you could go to sleep against the side of the tub like an old man."

"'m not an old man," Misha grumbled, but it felt like a lie in that moment. God, the water felt so good and his muscles felt so tired. The jets were like clever fingers, massaging his shoulders, his lower back, his ass, his -- dick, his --

"Yeah," Jared murmured, low and approving, as Misha arched up half-consciously into his hand. "Yeah, that's what you wanted, isn't it, huh?"

"Shit," Misha muttered, the renewed sparks of heat in his gut taking him almost by surprise, but -- yeah, it was what he wanted, or at least the beginnings of it. Jared's hands were so big and so clever, wrapping all the way around him so easily, working him with the benefit of long and thorough experience. Misha had never been into monogamy before Jared -- still wasn't, in principle, but in reality, once he'd found Jared, doing anything with anyone else had felt kind of pointless, the few times he'd tried it. Nobody else had such big hands, such white teeth, such a pink, fuckable mouth. Nobody else had Jared's soft hair that feathered around his face when he got fucked; nobody else bit their lower lip the way Jared did when he was concentrating, or made the gorgeous noises Jared made when Misha hit the spot just right. Misha didn't want to be a sap -- it would ruin his reputation -- but the truth of it was, Jared was the best he'd ever had, and there was no reason to go looking for second best after that. If he'd been the kind of guy who craved tits occasionally, things might have been different, but Misha only liked cock, and in that department, Jared could satisfy all his needs quite admirably.

Jared kissed well, too, which had sadly not always been the case with the guys Misha had fucked in the past. A lot of people seemed to set no stock by kissing, but Misha, even after all these years of boys in high heels and corset piercings and hogties, had still found no way he preferred of starting things off than with a good makeout session, and Jared, happily, seemed to agree. He leaned in now, and his mouth was damp with the steam from the jacuzzi when it found Misha's, hot and soft against his. The motion of his hand was strange, under the water, as if there were something between the familiar skin of Jared's palm and fingers and the shaft of Misha's dick, but it was good-strange, interesting, like when Misha palmed Jared through his favourite silk panties and the weirdness of it just diffused the sensation, made Jared gasp and squirm and cry out like a slut. God, just the memory of Jared in those panties, his long golden legs and the obscene thrust of his cock shunting the delicate scrap of material to one side, made Misha's breath hitch in his throat, a pulse of precome spooling out into the water.

Jared, quite evidently, noticed; perhaps felt the compulsive twitch of Misha's dick in his hand, because he laughed against Misha's mouth, pulled back to teethe at the swell of his lower lip. "What?" he prompted. His voice was a low rumble from deep in his chest; Misha could feel Jared's body vibrating with want, the sensation making Misha feel dizzy and hot and powerful, although he wasn't stupid enough to think he had any kind of absolute control here.

"Mmmm," Misha hummed, lazily. He felt lazy, languid and relaxed under the impetus of the water and Jared's hands, although the sense of calm didn't do anything towards eradicating the lust that pounded through his body with his blood. His hands found Jared's nipples under the water; thumbed at them until they tightened and then descended over Jared's chest, tracking the paths he had watched Jared track earlier, skirting the spurs of his hipbones. "I was just thinkin' about you, baby."

Jared laughed softly, the sound of it half-startled, half-pleased. "Why you gotta think about me when I'm right here?" His knee crept in between Misha's, nudged them apart so Jared could slot himself in between, narrow hips between Misha's thighs, fat cock brushing against Misha's under the water. His mouth tripped along the line of Misha's jaw, found the soft place behind his ear, and Misha tipped his head back to make things easier.

"Thinkin' about you wearing your little panties for me," he said, airlessly, and savoured the hitch in Jared's breath, the way his hips punched forward.

"Yeah?" Jared's hand was still at work on Misha's dick, but he was pushing himself up, now, taking advantage of his weightlessness under the water to propel himself upward, splaying his thighs wide over Misha's. "You like me better in those than naked, huh?" His voice was wet and warm in the hollow of Misha's throat, and his hair was damp when Misha tangled his fingers in it, pulled Jared's head back slowly.

"Like fucking you in 'em," Misha said.

Jared looked down at him heavy-lidded, the angle making the lines of his cheekbones standing out starkly. "You want me to put 'em on for you?"

The idea was tempting, Misha had to admit, but Jared was rocking down against him, now, the soft swell of his ass rubbing against Misha's dick, pressing against his balls, lifting up again. Misha didn't have it in him to wait, not when faced with this, right in his lap, ready to go. "Not right now, baby," he said, one hand slipping between Jared's thighs. "I think you're good."

"Mmm, you sure?" Jared was pushed up above him, both hands braced on the rim of the bath, hair fallen forward into his face as he rocked his hips in increments. The water sloshed around their waists in circular motions, and Misha smiled, catching his lower lip between his teeth.

"Yeah," he said, low. "C'mon, spread 'em for me."

The way Jared bit his lip was reward enough in itself, his head falling forward, hips bucking as he splayed his thighs as far as he could manage. Misha pressed his knuckles into the smooth skin of Jared's perineum, just to feel him jerk, and then worked his way backward inch by inch until he found what he was looking for, caught at Jared's rim with two fingers.

"Shit," Jared groaned, thighs shaking with a sudden tremor. "Misha, come on, I'm not a fucking blushing virgin."

"Don't I know it," Misha said, eyes darting up to catch Jared's, but Jared wasn't looking, face scrunched up and closed against the sensation of Misha's fingers rubbing deft little circles around his entrance, a little strange and soft and unfamiliar because of the cushion of the water. Misha knew the water was misleading -- they were going to need lube at some point, no matter what -- but his first finger slipped in easily enough, Jared whining only in encouragement as he pushed down onto it. The sound made Misha's heartbeat kick up enough to override his common sense, and he chanced a second finger, felt Jared's body open up to swallow it and felt his own stomach clench up fitfully in response.

"God," he murmured, as he crooked his fingers against Jared's inner walls, searching for his prostate. "God, baby, take me so easy every time, don't you? You love this." His fingertips found the spongey bump of the gland, made hard little circles there, and the way Jared bucked and contorted and cried made Misha's breath catch on a moan. "Fuck, you do. You want me in you, Jared, huh?"

"Yeah," Jared spat. His hips were working erratically now, sketchy figure-eights making the water slosh haphazardly up against the sides of the tub. Misha bit his lip, thrust his fingers shallowly in and out again, and Jared cried out obligingly, responsive as ever. Jared was always like this, noisy and nervy and wanton, his movements unselfconscious and exaggerated and full-on. Misha slid his free hand down the long smooth outside of Jared's thigh, right to the soft underside of his knee, and Jared shuddered at that, too, pushing down onto Misha's fingers, spearing himself. God, it was hot; it was hot and it was glorious and Jared was a fucking golden god that Misha needed to be inside of right now. Misha needed to be inside of that yesterday. The need ached like a wound in his stomach, a heavy throb of arousal, and he worked his fingers out carefully but without ceremony, stretching along the rim of the bath for the flat place where the soap dispenser lived.

"Gimme a second, babe," he soothed, squirting a dollop into his hand. Soap wasn't the best, too much lather and not enough lasting slide, but they were underwater already and Misha didn't really trust that any of their waterproof lubes were genuinely capable of doing what it said on the tin. Besides, this soap was thick and more than part petroleum jelly anyway; it would do. He crooked his fingers to keep hold of it as he put his hand back under the water; managed to retain at least half a fingerful. Jared bit his lip, whimpered, and Misha didn't know if it was an act -- he knew Jared was damn good when he wanted to be -- but frankly, it was so hot that he couldn't bring himself to give a damn. He made a couple of quick circles, instead, and then pushed two fingers, newly slippery with soap, up into the tight clench of Jared's body.

"Aw, shit, Misha!" Jared was a Texas boy, and never did it come out more clearly than when he was like this, strung out on Misha's fingers, spread wide and opened up and vulnerable. Misha loved the way the drawl drew out his vowels, rolled his r's, made his words all southern-slurry, and the quickest way to exacerbate the effect was to stuff Jared as full of dick as he could manage, as quickly as he could.

He could fuck around getting another finger in there, but Jared was whimpering already, shifting his hips and rocking his body and shivering, and frankly, Misha didn't have the patience. It wasn't as if Jared couldn't take it; it wasn't as if, either, Jared didn't enjoy a little bit of a burn when one was offered. Misha withdrew his fingers swiftly, slid them up the insides of Jared's thighs and took hold of his hips. His cock bobbed, buoyed by the water, against the underside of Jared's balls. He nipped at Jared's mouth, ran his tongue along the inside of his front teeth for a long, slow second before he pulled back, kissed him almost chastely, incongruously, and said, "Jared."

Jared knew immediately what was indicated; of course he did. He made a low sound, reached between them, and curled his hand around the root of Misha's dick, holding it upright and firmly in place for him to sink down onto. Misha felt the sharp, shocking thrill of it as Jared pushed the head against his hole, and then, a second later, the crazy hot clench of Jared's body as he shoved down and took in the first fat inch. That was the hardest part, the widest part; there were inches and inches still to go but Misha could already feel himself getting close, orgasm banking up hot and sure in his groin at the sheer, impossible heat of Jared, the tightness of his grip.

"Fuck," Jared breathed. The word rolled slow off his tongue, barely voiced, and Misha tipped his head back to watch the way Jared's face tightened in concentration, mouth half-open, eyes tightly shut. He was straining, every muscle in his body standing out in sharp definition, and Misha felt his belly dip hotly at the way Jared's tongue crooked out, incongruously childlike as he worked himself down, took Misha in. He moved slowly, but with a surety that fired heat like a rocket through Misha's spine as Jared sheathed him, swallowed him to the root. At the end of it, when Jared's balls were snugged up against the pan of Misha's pelvis, Jared exhaled slowly, tipped his head forward so his forehead came to rest against Misha's, and Misha felt tenderness claw at his insides.

"That's it, baby," he murmured -- sweetly, although he'd deny it vehemently if challenged. Jared's long thighs were trembling where they straddled Misha's, and Misha smoothed his hands up their lengths in wide strokes until his fingers slipped into the cleft of Jared's ass, touched the place where their bodies were joined. "So damn good at this. So fucking sexy."

"Not your -- baby --" Jared managed, cheeks going pink, but that was okay. Jared had a weird way of protesting against Misha's pet names when Misha was fucking him, hands in his hair or bruising his hips, even though he never offered any objection the rest of the time. It was like a game they played, Jared letting himself slip into some place in his head where this was all a delicious humiliation, and Misha loved the way it made Jared's dick twitch, hearing it and hating it and loving it and ducking away while Misha bit marks into his neck.

So Misha said, "Sweetheart," and tangled his fingers into the thick of Jared's hair, pulled out a fraction and then pistoned up jaggedly into his body, once and again and again. Jared bit his lip, eyes clenched shut, but he cried out as every thrust found its mark, slamming up just right inside of him. His arms were around Misha's neck, anchoring, submissive, but he found his feet after a moment and started working himself in tandem with Misha's thrusts, long muscles in his thighs pulling as he lifted himself, slammed back down, and -- God. God, yeah, that was good; Jared was so good at this.

Misha couldn't help but tell him so, licking the words into his skin: "God, Jared, baby, so fucking hot, so fucking good for me, such a fucking whore." Jared liked to be demeaned a little towards the end, and Misha felt the trembling start up slow in his stomach, water sloshing up and over the sides of the bath as their movements grew more erratic, Jared slamming more forcefully down onto Misha's cock as Misha drove up into him. Jared's breath rasped out of his throat in rough little gasps, breaking into sobs, and his forearms were loose and liquid, fingers laced together at the nape of Misha's neck, sweat licking the sharp line of his collarbone. Shit, but he was gorgeous like this, young and pliant and moving like a thing possessed, and the best part of it was that Misha did possess him, entirely. In this moment, Jared was his, the long smooth lines of his body and the thick weight of his dick in Misha's hand. The thought made Misha crazy, balled up all the offshoots of his arousal into a single heated knot in his stomach, arrowing down towards his dick, God.

"Jesus Christ, Jared," he spat, hips breaking their rhythm as he hauled Jared downward, held him still. The heat took hold, began to spread like atomic fallout, and Misha felt himself starting to come, deep and hot and wrenching. Above him, around him, Jared bucked and moaned, jackknifing forward and mouthing wet and desperate at Misha's jaw, at his mouth gone slack with orgasm.

"Misha," Jared ground out, "Misha, shit, you bastard, please!" Misha was boneless, shivering with it, but the desperation in Jared's voice got him together enough to remember his manners and jack at Jared's dick, weakly but with intent. Jared was close, too, his whole body taut and tensed for it, and sure enough it only took a swipe of Misha's thumb across his slit before he was seizing up and coming, jets of it white and alien-looking in the water.

Misha's breath caught in his chest, dick twitching feebly in aftershock at the way Jared's body tensed around him, clenched up. "God," he murmured -- went loose and lax against the side of the bath like a puppet with its strings cut. "God, Jay. So fucking glad I kept you, baby, you have no idea."

Jared followed after a minute, and Misha stroked his hair. Their legs entangled under the water, chests shifting against each other as their breaths slowed, and it was peaceful, for a while, as things rarely were in this house. That was the price, Misha guessed, of being a genius. It wasn't his fault that the route to ending world poverty entailed the -- contribution -- of a couple of endangered species; nor was it his fault that Jensen fucking Ackles, environmentalist extraordinaire, had decided to get on his case about it. Like it was any of his goddamn business.

At times like this, Misha was gladder than ever that he'd never let Jared go; that Jared had never left him.

As if on cue, Jared lifted his head slowly, pressed his forehead to Misha's and smiled. It was a lazy smile, warm, his post-coital expression of quiet bliss, the rest of the world blocked out. Just for a moment, Misha felt lit up from the inside at the sight of it, the plain truth that Jared, at least, would always be here, however many other idiots he might have to kill.

"Hey," Jared said, laughingly, and pressed a darting kiss to Misha's mouth.

Misha smiled back. "Hey," he said, fingers still stroking through Jared's hair. "Let's go to bed, huh?"

They went.



Misha often found himself dreaming of water just before he woke, these days. He didn't bother looking for any great Freudian significance to it: the reason behind it was quite obvious, given that he tended to be woken -- gently -- by the wet heat of Jared's mouth on his dick, swallowing him slow and sure. They weren't bad dreams, and Misha enjoyed being woken that way well enough that he could dismiss their repetitiveness as just mildly tiresome. If he spent a lot of time thinking about Lord Howe Island, too -- well, maybe that was a contributing factor, but Misha couldn't be bothered to devote much energy to worrying about it. Ackles should be the one worrying about that. After all, he was the one who was going to suffer for Misha's dedication.

Things had all been moving along quite steadily, even with Ackles's protests, until he'd stepped up his game, goddamn him, and bought the freaking island. So much for his People's Princess act, or whatever it was he was trying to project as his public image; what the hell kind of private individual had enough pocket change on hand to buy an island the size of Lord Howe? Sure, he headed some hippy-dippy charity, but it was a charity. Its remit was not to buy islands. Misha knew there was something else going on there, something suspicious, and whatever it was, it had brought the juggernaut of Collins Enterprises to an unwelcome halt, which meant it was time to play dirty. Nobody pissed on the best laid plans of Collins Enterprises and lived to tell the tale -- not unless they took the appropriate steps back when heavily cautioned. Ackles had been cautioned, and cautioned again. Misha figured it was time for a final warning, and then...well. And then.

He hoped Ackles would cooperate. All things considered, he'd hate to have to make that pretty face disappear. For a start, it would be a PR nightmare, but from a less professional standpoint there was also the fact that Ackles had a mouth (and backside, and shoulders) that Misha felt the world should not be deprived of, even if he did have a stick up his ass bigger than Jared's dick. Still, if it came to that, Misha had ways. He was, after all, on the verge of launching the greatest invention the world had ever seen. The thing was built, all the plans had been drawn up; all that remained was the insurmountable obstacle of the fucking endangered stick insect, whose exact chemical composition would apparently brook no substitution. Misha was going to be the king of the world, Jared would be his Antonous, and nothing was going to stand in their way. For now, Misha was quite content with waking up to blowjobs while he waited for an imminent breakthrough.

Unfortunately for everyone, this morning, Misha wasn't given the chance. Both he and Jared were still fast asleep in the impractically white tangle of their bedclothes when a knock sounded at the door, far too forceful and insistent to ignore.

"Sir!" Urgency in the voice, and then more hammering to follow it up. "Mr Collins! Sir, are you awake?"

"Wha --?" Misha was, to put it mildly, not a morning person. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, the room lurching around him in protest against the hour. Beside him, Jared was blinking awake, pulling himself up on his elbows, but Misha was still at the stage where nothing but the warmth of the bedcovers made sense. Moving had not yet become an option.

"Mish," Jared murmured, sleepy. His fingers found Misha's hair, smoothed it back from his forehead. "What's goin' on?" He always got all southern in the morning, words loose and lazy, and Misha would have rolled him right over and licked all the Texas out of him, were it not for the fact that the guy at the door just would not quit.

"Sir!"

More pounding. Misha was just about to haul himself out of bed and go berate the idiot when the man raised his voice again, strident, and said, "Ackles is in the reception room, Mr Collins. I think you should see him."

That did it. Misha paused in the act of stretching to glance sidelong at Jared; caught his wide-eyed expression looking back. "Thank you," he called in the direction of the door, although his eyes never left Jared's. "I'll be down in a minute!"

A pause, and then footsteps marking the flunkey's retreat from the bedroom door, presumably back downstairs. Misha threw Jared a sideways smile before he slid out of bed and began casting around for clothes.

"Ackles?" Jared was still in bed, the sheet slipped down to pool around his waist. "How'd they manage that one?"

"We'll see, I guess," Misha said, scrambling into his pants. His tone was nonchalant, but the facade of casualness was a lie, and he knew Jared knew it. Not that he cared. Jared knew everything about him, not least the way he felt about those who stood in the way of his dreams. One-handed, he indicated the bureau with a sweeping gesture of his arm. "C'mon, dude, put some pants on, would you? I need you."

Jared laughed a little, but he got out of bed anyway and proceeded to execute the order at once, so Misha didn't mind it much. When it came down to it, Jared always did what he was asked to; always gave Misha what he needed, whatever that happened to be. Jared would shop for Misha's clothes or take out his trash or kill for him, whatever the situation might demand. It was good. Misha was lucky. Barefoot in white jeans, Jared was still more threatening than most bodyguards Misha had ever seen, and that made every situation infinitely easier to face.

The Ackles thing would be a cakewalk.



part two