Fic: OK Computer (Jared/Misha, NC-17)
Author: obstinatrix
Written for: thehighwaywoman for spn_j2_xmas
Title: OK Computer
Pairing: Jared/Misha
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 5,113
Summary/Notes: thehighwaywoman delighted me altogether too much with all the unusual pairings she requested. I've been kind of boggled for a while by the lack of Jared/Misha, so even after I'd written the main piece for the exchange, I kept looking at her prompts and thinking, 'man, I want to write a tiny little Jared/Misha PWP as a bonus.' So, uh. This is a Jared/Misha PWP, but it ended up not being tiny. Unlike Misha, in contrast to Jared. Suffice it to say that the working title of this fic was: 'the one where Jared is drunk after a party and Misha uses him as an enormous mandildo.' Read at your peril.
Disclaimer: I wish fervently that this was true, but unfortunately, it's just a product of my fevered imagination.
Warnings: Uh, see summary? Potential dub-con, given that Jared is rather drunk. Extremely bossy Misha.
So Misha’s, like, tiny.
Really. Like, seriously, the man is pocket-sized, all neat little waist and pretty little mouth, all of it making those fuck-off huge blue eyes look even huger. Hell, Jared could pick that guy up with one hand.
...yeah, okay. So, fine, it’s not like he’s actually incredibly fucking small in the grand scheme of things. Jared could probably lift Antarctica with two fingers these days, so it don’t say much that he can heft up Misha by the scruff like it ain’t no thing. Misha is, probably, a perfectly proportional guy, out there in the real world.
But, like. This is Supernatural. Ain’t nothing real here. It’s not Jared’s fault he’s spent the last six years standing next to Jensen Ackles and thinking of his six-foot ass as short. Not Jared’s fault, either, that a man can be above average height and Jared’ll still tower over him like the fucking Empire State Building in lumberjack flannels. It’s just, the way things are. And the way things are, Misha’s, like, tiny.
Seriously. Tiny.
Anyway.
So, most people seem to think Misha’s sixteen different kinds of crazy, but Jared? Jared kinda likes that about him. Misha’s ideas, far as he can see, are usually pretty much awesome. Sometimes, when he goes along with them? He even gets candy out of it. So that’s nice. And like, this idea? Yeah, Jared likes this one. Specially now he’s drunk.
Man, is Jared drunk. Jared is really fuckin’ drunk. Not, like, you know, fallin’ down drunk or nothin’, sure as hell not can’t get it up drunk, because it takes a lot to dismantle a human mountain, but nicely fuckin’ drunk. Misha’s possibly a little less with the drunk, but that’s okay. This way, Misha’s crazy and Jared’s crazy meet nicely in the middle and make all kindsa crazy babies. Anyway, Misha’s all up in Jared’s lap right now, his own shirt on the floor and workin’ on Jared’s, and that’s, yeah, that’s the good kinda crazy, that right there. It really, really is.
What’s particularly nice about it, actually, is that it was a surprise. Jared’s never quite grown out of that sense of childish wonder at surprises of any kind, and this is a good one. Specially once Misha gets done with their shirts and jeans-zippers, and gets his tiny little hands around Jared’s cock, because out of all the surprises a man can get, surprise handjobs are surely among the greatest.
He doesn’t actually need any, as it were, encouragement, so pleased is he with the whole surprise thing. But Misha goes at it anyway, curling his fingers around and squeezing, which, you know - okay. Jared squints down at him working, fascinated as ever, and Misha grins and shoves him down onto his back.
“Fuck,” Jared complains, from his sprawl.
“Indeed,” Misha says, cryptically. Jared fuckin’ hates when he’s cryptic, as a rule; but on the other hand, Misha’s still jerking him off, so he’s willing to let it pass on this occasion.
Thing is, Misha’s all - up there. Jared isn’t used to Misha being Up There. It’s wrong. Misha’s supposed to be something cute to look down at, permanent view of the line of his nose and cheekbones, the way his hair kinda sticks up at the top of his head. Plus, handjobs aren’t meant to be given from a distance, not even when they’re surprise ones.
“Hey,” Jared gets out, long fingers fumbling for something to grab. “Get down here.”
Misha just laughs, kind of a nasty laugh in the back of his throat, and Jared doesn’t know what that means but hell if it isn’t kinda hot regardless. “You giving me orders, Jared?”
“Huh?” Jared blinks up at Misha soundlessly for a second. He’s kind of confused by the question, because, yeah, technically, he was kind of giving an order, but really, he’d prefer to think of it as asking nicely; although, now he comes to think of it, maybe it was just a rhetorical question anyway?
He’s just about decided that it must’ve been, and that he’s just gonna damn well ignore it and get on with dragging Misha down by his most readily available extremity (in point of fact, his cock) when Misha cuts him off with a hand on his wrist and a raised eyebrow. “That’s not how this is going to work, you hear me?”
Jared can, you know, actually talk. No, seriously. Under normal circumstances, Jared could talk for almighty Texas, or so says his momma. He’s a vocal kinda guy. It’s just that this, right here; this thing where Misha’s half-naked on top of him and saying shit all low in the back of his throat, like he’s made himself king of everything and he wants to make damn sure Jared knows it - these, okay, these are not normal circumstances. So, yeah, Jared may only be able to say “Buh?” but he would, any other time, have said something intelligent. Intelligible, even. Whatever.
Happily, it doesn’t seem like Misha really cares too much. Seems, in fact, like Misha maybe even can run a buh ----> English translation, which actually just ratchets Jared’s admiration for the man up another notch, because that is one useful fuckin’ skill right there.
“Good,” is what Misha, in fact, says, and then hefts himself up with one hand on Jared’s shoulder, lifting his ass right up off of Jared’s thighs. His other hand goes to the loosened waistband of his jeans, which unfortunately means that it’s no longer on Jared’s cock; but, then again, it’s workin’ on the waistband of Misha’s jeans, so Jared thinks he can probably live with it. He contents himself with only one little irritated sound.
“Little help here,” Misha says, through an irritated huff of his own.
Jared blinks. Apparently, this is not the help Misha’s lookin’ for. The next sound he makes is a helluva lot more irritated, and the hand in his jeans relocates itself swiftly to Jared’s wrist, fingers making a game attempt to encircle it entirely.
“Help,” he repeats, pressing Jared’s hand to the skin of his own waist and then reaching out to repeat the gesture with the other one. “Off. Now.”
Okay, so, Jared may be well on his way to the dizzy isle of the drunk, but that’s pretty clear. Misha’s real smooth here, just under the place where his pants would normally sit, and Jared can’t help but run his fingers over the skin a little, sliding them around to the dip of Misha’s spine, the shallow of the small of his back. Misha makes a soft little hnnh sound that’s, yeah, definitely more approving than anything, and damn if it doesn’t just spur him on, make his cock jerk and his fingers bold enough to shove under the elastic of Misha’s shorts, skimming the curve of his ass.
“Fuck,” Misha grunts, and his hips rock jaggedly forward in this little burst of thrusts, “Fuck, yeah. Come on.”
Jared goes with it without even thinking, shoving jeans and shorts together down over Misha’s hips, over the warm smooth swell of him that, fuck, he just can’t help pausing to grab. Misha makes this tight little laughing sound and rocks his hips again, and it’s hot, ‘cept the fabric’s all bunched up at the top of his thighs, now, and that really will have to go. Jared grunts his irritation, hefts Misha by the backside and hauls the whole mess off with his other hand till Misha can kick it the rest of the way off.
“Yeah,” Misha pants, this wispy exhalation of breath all pleased and hot in the back of his throat, and he sits back down right across Jared’s hips. He looks gorgeous there, far as Jared’s concerned, like he could, hell, sit there all day every day if he suddenly developed a need to. He’s got this waist, all neat and narrow and Jared’s hands go up automatically to span it, thumbs smoothing the skin under the navel, fingers curling right around the sides of him. Jared’s all set to pretty much go to town on it, maybe scratch up the length of Misha’s back a ways, maybe thumb at his nipples a little till they stand out some, but Misha reaches up after a second, stops him.
“Stop fucking about,” he says, in this voice that’s all dark grit and gravel. He shoves Jared’s hands down lower, way down to his cock; holds one there and keeps pushing at the other till it’s under him, almost, a loose kind of cradle ‘round his balls. “You don’t need to play with me first; it’s highly unlikely to make me spontaneously self-lubricate, unless that extra chromosome has finally kicked in without my knowledge.”
Jared is too fuckin’ drunk for this. Just - it’s not like he isn’t used to Misha spewing this kind of incomprehensible shit; of course he fuckin’ is. You can’t really spend more’n ten minutes in his company without hearing a whole slew of it, and Jared’s been hanging out with Misha for a helluva lot longer’n that. He just - okay, sure, this is the first time he’s been in this position with Misha, so he probably shouldn’t have been making any assumptions at all, but - he just sort of thought Misha’d maybe give it a rest when he was, you know. Naked. Except that here’s Misha, butt-naked and hard and looking like he needs to be stroked all over, from where Jared’s laying, and he’s talking crap about self-lubrication and wanting to get straight to business.
It might all be easier if Jared was actually clear about what that business was gonna be.
“What?” Jared demands. It seems easiest.
Misha rolls his eyes elaborately and Jared can’t help but laugh a little; and then Misha makes a sound that has him worried for a second, ‘fore he realises that, oh, yeah - Misha’s cock is still in his hand, and Jared’s kind of stroking it idly, firm motions up and down the shaft, deft little flick at the top. He sort of hadn’t noticed he was doing it, but, eh. It’s not like he does this a whole lot (or, you know, ever, really), but apparently it’s pretty much second nature to him to jerk a cock when he’s holding it, even when it belongs to some other guy.
Misha makes this hot little indistinct sound, all throaty and approving, with his eyes squeezed shut for a second. Then he says, “Fingers one at a time, okay? There’s lube on the nightstand.” His eyes flicker down, unmistakably, to Jared’s cock, still straining against his stomach in a puddle of its own slick. His eyebrows do this tilting thing, like he’s, hell, calculating, or something. Then he says, “Three. Normally I like to show off and go from two, but yeah, three.”
There’s this brittle moment when Jared’s still waitin’ on understanding, narrowing his eyes up at Misha. And then the combination of three fingers and lube on the nightstand passes through the filter of alcohol and comes out right way up, and Jared says, “oh fuck,” and starts jerking Misha faster.
“Christ,” Misha says, hips rocking forward at the sudden onslaught. Jared’s ready to take the bucking of his hips as the seal of approval that, in any other guy, it surely would be, but apparently he’s miscalculated again. Misha’s fingers wrap around Jared’s wrist, holding it fiercely still, and boy’s got some strength in him, goddamn.
“Jared,” he says, in a voice gone weirdly tight, “I’m not going to have much of a chance of coming on your cock if you jerk it all out of me before you’ve even gotten in there, now, am I?” He squeezes again, as if for emphasis, and Jared feels the bones in his wrist grinding together; which, uh, yeah, uncomfortable. (Although the look on Misha’s face as he does it is apparently, according to his dick, hot. Jared isn’t sure whether he’s in agreement with his dick on this point.)
“Fingers,” Misha says again, and the tone of his voice makes it definitely, definitely an order, now. “Lube.” He lifts up, thigh-muscles straining, and waits there for a second, eyebrows raised pointedly. Jared, to his credit, only blinks at him for half a second before he’s reaching over for the lube, squirting far too much of it over his fingers, but hey, you can never have too much lube with gay sex, right?
Right?
Misha will know. Misha always has the crack on stuff like this.
“Here,” Misha says, making another grab for Jared’s wrist. Jared braces himself, waiting on another rough grinding, but seems like Misha’s interested in a whole other kind of grinding, right now, and his grip is walkin’ the fine edge of firm, but not quite tipping over into bruising. Misha’s steady with it, self-assured; rocks himself forward as he manhandles Jared’s hand until Jared gets the picture, holds him still by the hipbone and presses into him, one finger, smooth hard push.
For the record, turns out you really can’t have too much lube.
Misha makes this hissing sound, hips jerking forward like a piston. He’s struggling to stay upright, Jared’s been noticing for a while, and he lets himself fall forward, now, catching himself with a palm flat over Jared’s heart. His fingernails dig in, these little crescents of scratchy, focused pain, and Jared makes a little ow noise, because, you know, Misha probably doesn’t realise that this actually kinda hurts.
For some reason, Misha hears ow as some sort of signal to curl his fingers, pressing the nails a little harder into skin.
For some reason, prob’ly ‘cause he’s been too exposed to Misha for too long and it has warped his mind, Jared finds he doesn’t actually give a fuck.
“Another,” Misha rasps out, and, oh, yeah, Jared’s all up in his headspace, now; Jared hears and understands. He works in another finger beside the first; thrusts them both in and out a couple times and then scissors them apart, the way he’s heard is helpful (okay, okay, so he read it in a fanfiction once. Screw you.) Misha hums pleasedly and moves with him, rolling his hips in hard, jerky counterpoint to the in-and-out motion of Jared’s fingers. It’s nothing like the way he’d normally do it, all slow and shallow and teasing, but Misha’s made it pretty fucking clear that teasing isn’t really what he’s looking for.
Jared’s kind of loath to piss Misha off. His wrist is still suffering.
“You’re not diseased, are you?” says Misha suddenly. Or at least, that’s what Jared hears; but it seems like such a weird thing for Misha to have said that Jared really thinks he’s misheard, or something; that the words got all mixed up in Misha’s panting and grunting. Like maybe he asked if Jared was easily pleased, or if he liked peas. Or, or, maybe if he knew how to be at ease, which would make sense, because Misha’s kinda militaristic when he’s like this.
Still, the upshot of all this is that Jared’s pretty fucking unclear on what he was just asked. So he says, “Huh?” and shoves another finger up inside Misha, corkscrewing it in where he’s all hot and tight.
“Fuck,” says Misha, distractedly, and rocks back down so hard that Jared’s hand ends up inside him right past the knuckles. Which is, okay, kind of, extremely, hot. Jared finds himself starting to get on board with Misha’s whole no fucking about thing. Maybe this is why gay guys do it, everyone all fired up and ready to rumble, all go and no waiting. Jared can certainly see the charm. Of course, now he’s got Misha all lithe and breathless above him, the swell of his lower lip caught between his teeth, Jared’s a little disappointed that Misha doesn’t seem interested in kissing. He’s got one hell of a mouth on him, especially sex-flushed like that, all bitten and pink, and Jared kind of wants, in that deep, pit-of-the-stomach way, to bite it a little more. But hey, Misha’s in charge here; he isn’t gonna complain. You win some, you lose some.
Right now, there’s kind of one particular thing he’s interested in winning, and when Misha hefts himself up, pulls off Jared’s fingers, he figures he’s a hand’s length closer to getting it.
“You’re clean, right?” Misha says, urgently, and yeah, okay, this time there’s not really any chance at all that he said anything else. Jared raises his eyebrows dubiously.
“Uh, yeah, but Mish - “
“Certified?”
“ - well, yeah, but - “
“Good,” says Misha tightly, and makes a grab for Jared’s dick, and fuck.
Fuck.
Misha’s tight, holy, fucking Jesus Christ is he tight. Even after all that scissoring and finger-fucking (and Jared’ll be damned if he ever trusts fandom again) it still feels like he’s trying to fit a planet into a shoe, or something, while the shoe is also on fire. The clench of him is so fierce that it’s actually verging on painful, and yet - and yet. Misha’s eyes are screwed tight shut, the tendons in his throat standing out with effort, teeth a flash of white against the damp pink of his lip. He looks wrecked, breathless, but he’s still pushing down, splitting himself open in these hard, jerky little thrusts and fuck, okay, Jared can probably live with Misha being a couple of sizes too small.
“I’ll adjust,” Misha grits out, like he’s been reading Jared’s mind or something (and actually, Jared might not put it past him). The hand on Jared’s chest flexes again, fingernails biting. “Just - don’t fucking move, all right? Don’t - just - “ Misha’s still working himself downwards, agonisingly slowly. Jared grits his teeth; looks away. Misha’s stupidly hot like this, and looking up at him there, Jared mostly wants to a) rub his hands all over him, which Misha has already vetoed as an option, and also b) thrust up into him till he’s choking on cock, and yeah, Misha probably wouldn’t think much of that either. So he closes his eyes; lowers his hands to his own hips where his splayed-open jeans are still clinging.
“Okay,” comes Misha’s voice, after a second. Or, you know, some parody of Misha’s voice, all roughened and shredded; the way Misha’s voice sounds when he’s got the whole of Jared’s cock stuffed inside of him. And it’s definitely - yep - Jared dares a glance - it’s the whole of Jared’s cock. Jared tries not to make an unmanly noise, but he guesses he’s probably failing at that.
“All right,” says Misha, and his other hand comes down hard to join the first, muscles standing out all lithe and ropey in his arms. He clenches, or something, like he’s trying it out, and yeah, it’s easier when Jared jerks up a little, tentatively; like Misha’s body’s gotten with the programme and made accommodations. Misha rasps out a laugh, all hot and pleased, and then he’s pulling himself up, muscles in his thighs twitching with effort as he moves, and Jared sees what he’s going for immediately. He takes hold of him by the hips, taking the bulk of his weight, and then drags him back down till he’s flush against Jared’s abdomen.
Misha makes this long, low sound in the back of his throat, head falling forward between his dipped shoulders, which Jared takes to mean he’s doing something right. “Fuuuuuuck,” Misha pants, after a second, which pretty much confirms the theory. “Yes. Okay, computer; you just do that, all right?”
Jared’s long since given up on trying to separate out all the little bits and pieces of incomprehensible crap that get mixed through every remark Misha makes. He’s particularly unwilling to bother right now, what with being buried balls-deep in Misha and fuck, yes, he wants to do that again. So he shifts his hands a little, reasserting his grip on the sweaty skin, and lifts Misha upward; pulls him back down. It’s a smooth slide, now, if still ridiculously fucking narrow, and Misha’s light enough that it’s not exactly a hardship to fuck him up and down like this, like a girl. Misha clenches his fingers, grits out a moan and starts thrusting down as Jared pulls, and yeah, Jared can totally work with this.
Once they get going, it’s actually pretty - natural. Jared’s not sure why exactly he thought it wouldn’t be, short of the fact that he’s just pretty much worked a guy open a little way with his fingers and then rammed a cock up his ass, which on the face of it, doesn’t sound like it’d be either easy or fun. But Misha seems to be enjoying himself, all right, narrow little hips twisting down in accord with Jared’s guiding hands. It doesn’t even matter that Jared can’t exactly thrust in this position, because there’s no real need for leverage when you have Misha, fucking down hard like he’s on the home stretch of the motherfucking Derby, all these hot little sounds shivering out of him on every push.
When he reaches for Misha’s cock, it’s more out of fascination, maybe, than anything else. Jared doesn’t really consider himself a cock kind of guy, and the fact that he sort of wants to tongue all over Misha’s is obviously just a side-effect of the way Misha’s writhing on top of him, all golden skin and breathy noises and the musky smell of sex. But it’s, like, leaking all over, jumping interestingly when the downthrust hits a specially good spot, and fuck if it doesn’t look more than a little neglected. Giving it a hand is pretty much the only decent thing to do.
The moment Jared gets his hand around it, though, he can tell from the way Misha seizes up that it’s the beginning of the end. He makes this little high-pitched whining sound, muscles going all tense and shivery from his shoulders on down, and then suddenly the stride of his firm, hard thrusts is irreparably ruined in favour of these desperate little jerks, stuttering his hips into Jared’s hand and rocking frenetically backward onto his cock.
“Christ,” Jared gasps out, can’t help it, and Misha starts to laugh; claws hard at Jared’s chest as the laugh becomes a moan. Jared works his hand faster, fingers now apart, now together; circles his thumb over the leaking head and Misha cries out; starts rolling his hips in circles.
“Harder,” he grits out, and there’s precome spurting over Jared’s fingers, warm and salt-sticky and enabling the glide. “Would you fucking - harder, come on.”
“It’ll hurt,” Jared gets out, hand slick-sliding furiously over Misha’s cock.
Misha, the fucker, just presses his fingernails a little more deeply into Jared’s chest, five little points of pain. Jared, who’s getting pretty adept in the silent language of Misha, takes this to mean that he doesn’t give a flying fuck. He shrugs, and squeezes tighter.
It’s raw, now, almost frictionless; tight the way Misha was tight around Jared at first; tight in a way that makes Jared’s stomach clench unhappily but which is apparently driving Misha crazy. He’s crying out sharply on every jerk, caught between Jared’s hand and his cock, working himself in relentless counterpoint to both. His voice sounds like it hurts, sounds like it burns, and Jared can feel his own throat aching sympathetically. There’s stickiness pearling up out of Misha’s slit, great pulses of it every time Jared moves, and he grits his teeth, pushes his thumb in there; catches the edge of the tiny opening with his thumbnail.
He shouldn’t really be surprised that this is what does it for Misha. It’s not like he’s in any doubt any more about exactly what a kinky little fucker he is. Still, he’s not prepared for the way Misha’s body suddenly rears up like a startled horse, all the muscles pulling tight to bone, mouth falling open against the shockwave of orgasm. The cry it rips out of him sounds like it must be taking the surface off his throat, and the abrupt clench of his body, the way the muscles flutter, take Jared immediately from yes to holy fuck, unexpected abyss.
He expects, maybe, for Misha to fall forward onto him after, while the last of it pulses out of him; maybe gasp for breath against the side of Jared’s neck and give Jared an opportunity to lick a little at his slack mouth and no, he hasn’t been thinking about this, at all; why would anyone even say that? (Misha’s mouth is hot. Jared can’t be blamed. There are too many men in his life whose mouths just cry out to be abused, and he can’t fuckin’ help it if his dick can’t tell when a guy is too masculine for his cocksucking lips to be something he can stare at.)
…anyway. The point is that Misha - doesn’t - fall anywhere. He just kind of sits there, for a minute, chest heaving, and while it’s hot and all, looking up at him like that with his own come smeared all over him from navel to neck, it’s not - it’s kinda -
Jared tries to give him a moment, he really does. But a minute stretches into something closer to two, and Jared’s so ready it hurts and he’s just giving into it, just biting his lip and thrusting up cautiously when Misha lifts himself, thighs shivering, all the way off.
Jared doesn’t think he’s ever been surprised into an orgasm before; but, then, there’s a first time for everything.
Like - okay. So maybe it was partly the anticipation that did it, and partly the drag of muscle up his shaft, and partly the way the rim caught him as he slipped fully free. And maybe, okay, it was partly the fact that Misha steadied himself with a hand on Jared’s fucking cock, gripping it like a support-rail on a public bus as he lifted up with a groan and a shivering breath.
But mostly, mostly, it was surprise. Jared’s coming all over the insides of Misha’s thighs, over the slick mess of lube that’s smeared across his perineum, before he even feels it start, and Misha laughs a little at the clutch of Jared’s fingers in the sheet; at the way he yells out “Shit!” like he’s just seen a bird on direct dive-bomb course for a plate of glass. Overall, it’s kind of the strangest orgasm ever, but it rips right out from the core of him, that place where all his muscles seem to start from.
He’s just fallen back flat onto the mattress, cock still weakly pulsing out little dribbles of fluid, when Misha says brightly, “I always prefer not to have to scoop come out of my ass,” and climbs off of him.
Jared blinks up at him. It’s kind of the only thing he can do, now that the aftermath of the orgasm’s washing over him, all lax and slack and warm, like water or sleep. Misha smirks, like he’s noticed, like he thinks it’s cute or some shit. He leans over, in all his sweat-damp nakedness; says, “Hey, this was a nice dream, huh, Jared?”
Jared opens his mouth. He’s pretty sure he’s opening it with the intention of saying something, but ultimately, there are two problems with this. The first is that he doesn’t know what to say. The second is that Misha’s tongue is in there before he can actually start to say anything; Misha’s kissing him all dirty and wet, thrust of his tongue over the flat of Jared’s, loose flicker of it up against the roof of his mouth.
“Nnngh,” says Jared, reaching up to cup Misha’s face in his hands.
“Mmm,” Misha chides, half-laughing, as he pulls away.
Jared would protest, wants to protest, but he’s too far gone for that. He’s melting into the surface that’s supporting him, whatever the fuck it is. He doesn’t even know any more.
“Mish,” he manages, hand groping blindly for - something.
The last thing he remembers is the curl of Misha’s fingers; the warmth of his eyes, complicated and blue.
By the time Jared’s dragged himself down in search of breakfast the next morning, head thumping with the violent rhythm of a bad mixed-alcohol hangover, he’s almost convinced himself that it was all some truly, ridiculously fucked-up dream.
Misha shows up when he’s working on a round of pancakes, bright-eyed and smiling. “Hey, Jared,” he says, bright as you please. “Good night?” And he winks, head turned away from Jensen close behind him.
Jared narrows his eyes. The headache pounds behind them, sluggish and slow. He’s imagining it, all of it, he must be.
And yet, when Misha walks away, there’s a limp in his stride; something a little awkward about the way he holds his hips.
It’s not until later - when Jared’s feeling a little more human, if wiped, as he pulls off his shirt to shower - that he finds the little ring of crescent-shaped marks on his chest.
Written for: thehighwaywoman for spn_j2_xmas
Title: OK Computer
Pairing: Jared/Misha
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 5,113
Summary/Notes: thehighwaywoman delighted me altogether too much with all the unusual pairings she requested. I've been kind of boggled for a while by the lack of Jared/Misha, so even after I'd written the main piece for the exchange, I kept looking at her prompts and thinking, 'man, I want to write a tiny little Jared/Misha PWP as a bonus.' So, uh. This is a Jared/Misha PWP, but it ended up not being tiny. Unlike Misha, in contrast to Jared. Suffice it to say that the working title of this fic was: 'the one where Jared is drunk after a party and Misha uses him as an enormous mandildo.' Read at your peril.
Disclaimer: I wish fervently that this was true, but unfortunately, it's just a product of my fevered imagination.
Warnings: Uh, see summary? Potential dub-con, given that Jared is rather drunk. Extremely bossy Misha.
So Misha’s, like, tiny.
Really. Like, seriously, the man is pocket-sized, all neat little waist and pretty little mouth, all of it making those fuck-off huge blue eyes look even huger. Hell, Jared could pick that guy up with one hand.
...yeah, okay. So, fine, it’s not like he’s actually incredibly fucking small in the grand scheme of things. Jared could probably lift Antarctica with two fingers these days, so it don’t say much that he can heft up Misha by the scruff like it ain’t no thing. Misha is, probably, a perfectly proportional guy, out there in the real world.
But, like. This is Supernatural. Ain’t nothing real here. It’s not Jared’s fault he’s spent the last six years standing next to Jensen Ackles and thinking of his six-foot ass as short. Not Jared’s fault, either, that a man can be above average height and Jared’ll still tower over him like the fucking Empire State Building in lumberjack flannels. It’s just, the way things are. And the way things are, Misha’s, like, tiny.
Seriously. Tiny.
Anyway.
So, most people seem to think Misha’s sixteen different kinds of crazy, but Jared? Jared kinda likes that about him. Misha’s ideas, far as he can see, are usually pretty much awesome. Sometimes, when he goes along with them? He even gets candy out of it. So that’s nice. And like, this idea? Yeah, Jared likes this one. Specially now he’s drunk.
Man, is Jared drunk. Jared is really fuckin’ drunk. Not, like, you know, fallin’ down drunk or nothin’, sure as hell not can’t get it up drunk, because it takes a lot to dismantle a human mountain, but nicely fuckin’ drunk. Misha’s possibly a little less with the drunk, but that’s okay. This way, Misha’s crazy and Jared’s crazy meet nicely in the middle and make all kindsa crazy babies. Anyway, Misha’s all up in Jared’s lap right now, his own shirt on the floor and workin’ on Jared’s, and that’s, yeah, that’s the good kinda crazy, that right there. It really, really is.
What’s particularly nice about it, actually, is that it was a surprise. Jared’s never quite grown out of that sense of childish wonder at surprises of any kind, and this is a good one. Specially once Misha gets done with their shirts and jeans-zippers, and gets his tiny little hands around Jared’s cock, because out of all the surprises a man can get, surprise handjobs are surely among the greatest.
He doesn’t actually need any, as it were, encouragement, so pleased is he with the whole surprise thing. But Misha goes at it anyway, curling his fingers around and squeezing, which, you know - okay. Jared squints down at him working, fascinated as ever, and Misha grins and shoves him down onto his back.
“Fuck,” Jared complains, from his sprawl.
“Indeed,” Misha says, cryptically. Jared fuckin’ hates when he’s cryptic, as a rule; but on the other hand, Misha’s still jerking him off, so he’s willing to let it pass on this occasion.
Thing is, Misha’s all - up there. Jared isn’t used to Misha being Up There. It’s wrong. Misha’s supposed to be something cute to look down at, permanent view of the line of his nose and cheekbones, the way his hair kinda sticks up at the top of his head. Plus, handjobs aren’t meant to be given from a distance, not even when they’re surprise ones.
“Hey,” Jared gets out, long fingers fumbling for something to grab. “Get down here.”
Misha just laughs, kind of a nasty laugh in the back of his throat, and Jared doesn’t know what that means but hell if it isn’t kinda hot regardless. “You giving me orders, Jared?”
“Huh?” Jared blinks up at Misha soundlessly for a second. He’s kind of confused by the question, because, yeah, technically, he was kind of giving an order, but really, he’d prefer to think of it as asking nicely; although, now he comes to think of it, maybe it was just a rhetorical question anyway?
He’s just about decided that it must’ve been, and that he’s just gonna damn well ignore it and get on with dragging Misha down by his most readily available extremity (in point of fact, his cock) when Misha cuts him off with a hand on his wrist and a raised eyebrow. “That’s not how this is going to work, you hear me?”
Jared can, you know, actually talk. No, seriously. Under normal circumstances, Jared could talk for almighty Texas, or so says his momma. He’s a vocal kinda guy. It’s just that this, right here; this thing where Misha’s half-naked on top of him and saying shit all low in the back of his throat, like he’s made himself king of everything and he wants to make damn sure Jared knows it - these, okay, these are not normal circumstances. So, yeah, Jared may only be able to say “Buh?” but he would, any other time, have said something intelligent. Intelligible, even. Whatever.
Happily, it doesn’t seem like Misha really cares too much. Seems, in fact, like Misha maybe even can run a buh ----> English translation, which actually just ratchets Jared’s admiration for the man up another notch, because that is one useful fuckin’ skill right there.
“Good,” is what Misha, in fact, says, and then hefts himself up with one hand on Jared’s shoulder, lifting his ass right up off of Jared’s thighs. His other hand goes to the loosened waistband of his jeans, which unfortunately means that it’s no longer on Jared’s cock; but, then again, it’s workin’ on the waistband of Misha’s jeans, so Jared thinks he can probably live with it. He contents himself with only one little irritated sound.
“Little help here,” Misha says, through an irritated huff of his own.
Jared blinks. Apparently, this is not the help Misha’s lookin’ for. The next sound he makes is a helluva lot more irritated, and the hand in his jeans relocates itself swiftly to Jared’s wrist, fingers making a game attempt to encircle it entirely.
“Help,” he repeats, pressing Jared’s hand to the skin of his own waist and then reaching out to repeat the gesture with the other one. “Off. Now.”
Okay, so, Jared may be well on his way to the dizzy isle of the drunk, but that’s pretty clear. Misha’s real smooth here, just under the place where his pants would normally sit, and Jared can’t help but run his fingers over the skin a little, sliding them around to the dip of Misha’s spine, the shallow of the small of his back. Misha makes a soft little hnnh sound that’s, yeah, definitely more approving than anything, and damn if it doesn’t just spur him on, make his cock jerk and his fingers bold enough to shove under the elastic of Misha’s shorts, skimming the curve of his ass.
“Fuck,” Misha grunts, and his hips rock jaggedly forward in this little burst of thrusts, “Fuck, yeah. Come on.”
Jared goes with it without even thinking, shoving jeans and shorts together down over Misha’s hips, over the warm smooth swell of him that, fuck, he just can’t help pausing to grab. Misha makes this tight little laughing sound and rocks his hips again, and it’s hot, ‘cept the fabric’s all bunched up at the top of his thighs, now, and that really will have to go. Jared grunts his irritation, hefts Misha by the backside and hauls the whole mess off with his other hand till Misha can kick it the rest of the way off.
“Yeah,” Misha pants, this wispy exhalation of breath all pleased and hot in the back of his throat, and he sits back down right across Jared’s hips. He looks gorgeous there, far as Jared’s concerned, like he could, hell, sit there all day every day if he suddenly developed a need to. He’s got this waist, all neat and narrow and Jared’s hands go up automatically to span it, thumbs smoothing the skin under the navel, fingers curling right around the sides of him. Jared’s all set to pretty much go to town on it, maybe scratch up the length of Misha’s back a ways, maybe thumb at his nipples a little till they stand out some, but Misha reaches up after a second, stops him.
“Stop fucking about,” he says, in this voice that’s all dark grit and gravel. He shoves Jared’s hands down lower, way down to his cock; holds one there and keeps pushing at the other till it’s under him, almost, a loose kind of cradle ‘round his balls. “You don’t need to play with me first; it’s highly unlikely to make me spontaneously self-lubricate, unless that extra chromosome has finally kicked in without my knowledge.”
Jared is too fuckin’ drunk for this. Just - it’s not like he isn’t used to Misha spewing this kind of incomprehensible shit; of course he fuckin’ is. You can’t really spend more’n ten minutes in his company without hearing a whole slew of it, and Jared’s been hanging out with Misha for a helluva lot longer’n that. He just - okay, sure, this is the first time he’s been in this position with Misha, so he probably shouldn’t have been making any assumptions at all, but - he just sort of thought Misha’d maybe give it a rest when he was, you know. Naked. Except that here’s Misha, butt-naked and hard and looking like he needs to be stroked all over, from where Jared’s laying, and he’s talking crap about self-lubrication and wanting to get straight to business.
It might all be easier if Jared was actually clear about what that business was gonna be.
“What?” Jared demands. It seems easiest.
Misha rolls his eyes elaborately and Jared can’t help but laugh a little; and then Misha makes a sound that has him worried for a second, ‘fore he realises that, oh, yeah - Misha’s cock is still in his hand, and Jared’s kind of stroking it idly, firm motions up and down the shaft, deft little flick at the top. He sort of hadn’t noticed he was doing it, but, eh. It’s not like he does this a whole lot (or, you know, ever, really), but apparently it’s pretty much second nature to him to jerk a cock when he’s holding it, even when it belongs to some other guy.
Misha makes this hot little indistinct sound, all throaty and approving, with his eyes squeezed shut for a second. Then he says, “Fingers one at a time, okay? There’s lube on the nightstand.” His eyes flicker down, unmistakably, to Jared’s cock, still straining against his stomach in a puddle of its own slick. His eyebrows do this tilting thing, like he’s, hell, calculating, or something. Then he says, “Three. Normally I like to show off and go from two, but yeah, three.”
There’s this brittle moment when Jared’s still waitin’ on understanding, narrowing his eyes up at Misha. And then the combination of three fingers and lube on the nightstand passes through the filter of alcohol and comes out right way up, and Jared says, “oh fuck,” and starts jerking Misha faster.
“Christ,” Misha says, hips rocking forward at the sudden onslaught. Jared’s ready to take the bucking of his hips as the seal of approval that, in any other guy, it surely would be, but apparently he’s miscalculated again. Misha’s fingers wrap around Jared’s wrist, holding it fiercely still, and boy’s got some strength in him, goddamn.
“Jared,” he says, in a voice gone weirdly tight, “I’m not going to have much of a chance of coming on your cock if you jerk it all out of me before you’ve even gotten in there, now, am I?” He squeezes again, as if for emphasis, and Jared feels the bones in his wrist grinding together; which, uh, yeah, uncomfortable. (Although the look on Misha’s face as he does it is apparently, according to his dick, hot. Jared isn’t sure whether he’s in agreement with his dick on this point.)
“Fingers,” Misha says again, and the tone of his voice makes it definitely, definitely an order, now. “Lube.” He lifts up, thigh-muscles straining, and waits there for a second, eyebrows raised pointedly. Jared, to his credit, only blinks at him for half a second before he’s reaching over for the lube, squirting far too much of it over his fingers, but hey, you can never have too much lube with gay sex, right?
Right?
Misha will know. Misha always has the crack on stuff like this.
“Here,” Misha says, making another grab for Jared’s wrist. Jared braces himself, waiting on another rough grinding, but seems like Misha’s interested in a whole other kind of grinding, right now, and his grip is walkin’ the fine edge of firm, but not quite tipping over into bruising. Misha’s steady with it, self-assured; rocks himself forward as he manhandles Jared’s hand until Jared gets the picture, holds him still by the hipbone and presses into him, one finger, smooth hard push.
For the record, turns out you really can’t have too much lube.
Misha makes this hissing sound, hips jerking forward like a piston. He’s struggling to stay upright, Jared’s been noticing for a while, and he lets himself fall forward, now, catching himself with a palm flat over Jared’s heart. His fingernails dig in, these little crescents of scratchy, focused pain, and Jared makes a little ow noise, because, you know, Misha probably doesn’t realise that this actually kinda hurts.
For some reason, Misha hears ow as some sort of signal to curl his fingers, pressing the nails a little harder into skin.
For some reason, prob’ly ‘cause he’s been too exposed to Misha for too long and it has warped his mind, Jared finds he doesn’t actually give a fuck.
“Another,” Misha rasps out, and, oh, yeah, Jared’s all up in his headspace, now; Jared hears and understands. He works in another finger beside the first; thrusts them both in and out a couple times and then scissors them apart, the way he’s heard is helpful (okay, okay, so he read it in a fanfiction once. Screw you.) Misha hums pleasedly and moves with him, rolling his hips in hard, jerky counterpoint to the in-and-out motion of Jared’s fingers. It’s nothing like the way he’d normally do it, all slow and shallow and teasing, but Misha’s made it pretty fucking clear that teasing isn’t really what he’s looking for.
Jared’s kind of loath to piss Misha off. His wrist is still suffering.
“You’re not diseased, are you?” says Misha suddenly. Or at least, that’s what Jared hears; but it seems like such a weird thing for Misha to have said that Jared really thinks he’s misheard, or something; that the words got all mixed up in Misha’s panting and grunting. Like maybe he asked if Jared was easily pleased, or if he liked peas. Or, or, maybe if he knew how to be at ease, which would make sense, because Misha’s kinda militaristic when he’s like this.
Still, the upshot of all this is that Jared’s pretty fucking unclear on what he was just asked. So he says, “Huh?” and shoves another finger up inside Misha, corkscrewing it in where he’s all hot and tight.
“Fuck,” says Misha, distractedly, and rocks back down so hard that Jared’s hand ends up inside him right past the knuckles. Which is, okay, kind of, extremely, hot. Jared finds himself starting to get on board with Misha’s whole no fucking about thing. Maybe this is why gay guys do it, everyone all fired up and ready to rumble, all go and no waiting. Jared can certainly see the charm. Of course, now he’s got Misha all lithe and breathless above him, the swell of his lower lip caught between his teeth, Jared’s a little disappointed that Misha doesn’t seem interested in kissing. He’s got one hell of a mouth on him, especially sex-flushed like that, all bitten and pink, and Jared kind of wants, in that deep, pit-of-the-stomach way, to bite it a little more. But hey, Misha’s in charge here; he isn’t gonna complain. You win some, you lose some.
Right now, there’s kind of one particular thing he’s interested in winning, and when Misha hefts himself up, pulls off Jared’s fingers, he figures he’s a hand’s length closer to getting it.
“You’re clean, right?” Misha says, urgently, and yeah, okay, this time there’s not really any chance at all that he said anything else. Jared raises his eyebrows dubiously.
“Uh, yeah, but Mish - “
“Certified?”
“ - well, yeah, but - “
“Good,” says Misha tightly, and makes a grab for Jared’s dick, and fuck.
Fuck.
Misha’s tight, holy, fucking Jesus Christ is he tight. Even after all that scissoring and finger-fucking (and Jared’ll be damned if he ever trusts fandom again) it still feels like he’s trying to fit a planet into a shoe, or something, while the shoe is also on fire. The clench of him is so fierce that it’s actually verging on painful, and yet - and yet. Misha’s eyes are screwed tight shut, the tendons in his throat standing out with effort, teeth a flash of white against the damp pink of his lip. He looks wrecked, breathless, but he’s still pushing down, splitting himself open in these hard, jerky little thrusts and fuck, okay, Jared can probably live with Misha being a couple of sizes too small.
“I’ll adjust,” Misha grits out, like he’s been reading Jared’s mind or something (and actually, Jared might not put it past him). The hand on Jared’s chest flexes again, fingernails biting. “Just - don’t fucking move, all right? Don’t - just - “ Misha’s still working himself downwards, agonisingly slowly. Jared grits his teeth; looks away. Misha’s stupidly hot like this, and looking up at him there, Jared mostly wants to a) rub his hands all over him, which Misha has already vetoed as an option, and also b) thrust up into him till he’s choking on cock, and yeah, Misha probably wouldn’t think much of that either. So he closes his eyes; lowers his hands to his own hips where his splayed-open jeans are still clinging.
“Okay,” comes Misha’s voice, after a second. Or, you know, some parody of Misha’s voice, all roughened and shredded; the way Misha’s voice sounds when he’s got the whole of Jared’s cock stuffed inside of him. And it’s definitely - yep - Jared dares a glance - it’s the whole of Jared’s cock. Jared tries not to make an unmanly noise, but he guesses he’s probably failing at that.
“All right,” says Misha, and his other hand comes down hard to join the first, muscles standing out all lithe and ropey in his arms. He clenches, or something, like he’s trying it out, and yeah, it’s easier when Jared jerks up a little, tentatively; like Misha’s body’s gotten with the programme and made accommodations. Misha rasps out a laugh, all hot and pleased, and then he’s pulling himself up, muscles in his thighs twitching with effort as he moves, and Jared sees what he’s going for immediately. He takes hold of him by the hips, taking the bulk of his weight, and then drags him back down till he’s flush against Jared’s abdomen.
Misha makes this long, low sound in the back of his throat, head falling forward between his dipped shoulders, which Jared takes to mean he’s doing something right. “Fuuuuuuck,” Misha pants, after a second, which pretty much confirms the theory. “Yes. Okay, computer; you just do that, all right?”
Jared’s long since given up on trying to separate out all the little bits and pieces of incomprehensible crap that get mixed through every remark Misha makes. He’s particularly unwilling to bother right now, what with being buried balls-deep in Misha and fuck, yes, he wants to do that again. So he shifts his hands a little, reasserting his grip on the sweaty skin, and lifts Misha upward; pulls him back down. It’s a smooth slide, now, if still ridiculously fucking narrow, and Misha’s light enough that it’s not exactly a hardship to fuck him up and down like this, like a girl. Misha clenches his fingers, grits out a moan and starts thrusting down as Jared pulls, and yeah, Jared can totally work with this.
Once they get going, it’s actually pretty - natural. Jared’s not sure why exactly he thought it wouldn’t be, short of the fact that he’s just pretty much worked a guy open a little way with his fingers and then rammed a cock up his ass, which on the face of it, doesn’t sound like it’d be either easy or fun. But Misha seems to be enjoying himself, all right, narrow little hips twisting down in accord with Jared’s guiding hands. It doesn’t even matter that Jared can’t exactly thrust in this position, because there’s no real need for leverage when you have Misha, fucking down hard like he’s on the home stretch of the motherfucking Derby, all these hot little sounds shivering out of him on every push.
When he reaches for Misha’s cock, it’s more out of fascination, maybe, than anything else. Jared doesn’t really consider himself a cock kind of guy, and the fact that he sort of wants to tongue all over Misha’s is obviously just a side-effect of the way Misha’s writhing on top of him, all golden skin and breathy noises and the musky smell of sex. But it’s, like, leaking all over, jumping interestingly when the downthrust hits a specially good spot, and fuck if it doesn’t look more than a little neglected. Giving it a hand is pretty much the only decent thing to do.
The moment Jared gets his hand around it, though, he can tell from the way Misha seizes up that it’s the beginning of the end. He makes this little high-pitched whining sound, muscles going all tense and shivery from his shoulders on down, and then suddenly the stride of his firm, hard thrusts is irreparably ruined in favour of these desperate little jerks, stuttering his hips into Jared’s hand and rocking frenetically backward onto his cock.
“Christ,” Jared gasps out, can’t help it, and Misha starts to laugh; claws hard at Jared’s chest as the laugh becomes a moan. Jared works his hand faster, fingers now apart, now together; circles his thumb over the leaking head and Misha cries out; starts rolling his hips in circles.
“Harder,” he grits out, and there’s precome spurting over Jared’s fingers, warm and salt-sticky and enabling the glide. “Would you fucking - harder, come on.”
“It’ll hurt,” Jared gets out, hand slick-sliding furiously over Misha’s cock.
Misha, the fucker, just presses his fingernails a little more deeply into Jared’s chest, five little points of pain. Jared, who’s getting pretty adept in the silent language of Misha, takes this to mean that he doesn’t give a flying fuck. He shrugs, and squeezes tighter.
It’s raw, now, almost frictionless; tight the way Misha was tight around Jared at first; tight in a way that makes Jared’s stomach clench unhappily but which is apparently driving Misha crazy. He’s crying out sharply on every jerk, caught between Jared’s hand and his cock, working himself in relentless counterpoint to both. His voice sounds like it hurts, sounds like it burns, and Jared can feel his own throat aching sympathetically. There’s stickiness pearling up out of Misha’s slit, great pulses of it every time Jared moves, and he grits his teeth, pushes his thumb in there; catches the edge of the tiny opening with his thumbnail.
He shouldn’t really be surprised that this is what does it for Misha. It’s not like he’s in any doubt any more about exactly what a kinky little fucker he is. Still, he’s not prepared for the way Misha’s body suddenly rears up like a startled horse, all the muscles pulling tight to bone, mouth falling open against the shockwave of orgasm. The cry it rips out of him sounds like it must be taking the surface off his throat, and the abrupt clench of his body, the way the muscles flutter, take Jared immediately from yes to holy fuck, unexpected abyss.
He expects, maybe, for Misha to fall forward onto him after, while the last of it pulses out of him; maybe gasp for breath against the side of Jared’s neck and give Jared an opportunity to lick a little at his slack mouth and no, he hasn’t been thinking about this, at all; why would anyone even say that? (Misha’s mouth is hot. Jared can’t be blamed. There are too many men in his life whose mouths just cry out to be abused, and he can’t fuckin’ help it if his dick can’t tell when a guy is too masculine for his cocksucking lips to be something he can stare at.)
…anyway. The point is that Misha - doesn’t - fall anywhere. He just kind of sits there, for a minute, chest heaving, and while it’s hot and all, looking up at him like that with his own come smeared all over him from navel to neck, it’s not - it’s kinda -
Jared tries to give him a moment, he really does. But a minute stretches into something closer to two, and Jared’s so ready it hurts and he’s just giving into it, just biting his lip and thrusting up cautiously when Misha lifts himself, thighs shivering, all the way off.
Jared doesn’t think he’s ever been surprised into an orgasm before; but, then, there’s a first time for everything.
Like - okay. So maybe it was partly the anticipation that did it, and partly the drag of muscle up his shaft, and partly the way the rim caught him as he slipped fully free. And maybe, okay, it was partly the fact that Misha steadied himself with a hand on Jared’s fucking cock, gripping it like a support-rail on a public bus as he lifted up with a groan and a shivering breath.
But mostly, mostly, it was surprise. Jared’s coming all over the insides of Misha’s thighs, over the slick mess of lube that’s smeared across his perineum, before he even feels it start, and Misha laughs a little at the clutch of Jared’s fingers in the sheet; at the way he yells out “Shit!” like he’s just seen a bird on direct dive-bomb course for a plate of glass. Overall, it’s kind of the strangest orgasm ever, but it rips right out from the core of him, that place where all his muscles seem to start from.
He’s just fallen back flat onto the mattress, cock still weakly pulsing out little dribbles of fluid, when Misha says brightly, “I always prefer not to have to scoop come out of my ass,” and climbs off of him.
Jared blinks up at him. It’s kind of the only thing he can do, now that the aftermath of the orgasm’s washing over him, all lax and slack and warm, like water or sleep. Misha smirks, like he’s noticed, like he thinks it’s cute or some shit. He leans over, in all his sweat-damp nakedness; says, “Hey, this was a nice dream, huh, Jared?”
Jared opens his mouth. He’s pretty sure he’s opening it with the intention of saying something, but ultimately, there are two problems with this. The first is that he doesn’t know what to say. The second is that Misha’s tongue is in there before he can actually start to say anything; Misha’s kissing him all dirty and wet, thrust of his tongue over the flat of Jared’s, loose flicker of it up against the roof of his mouth.
“Nnngh,” says Jared, reaching up to cup Misha’s face in his hands.
“Mmm,” Misha chides, half-laughing, as he pulls away.
Jared would protest, wants to protest, but he’s too far gone for that. He’s melting into the surface that’s supporting him, whatever the fuck it is. He doesn’t even know any more.
“Mish,” he manages, hand groping blindly for - something.
The last thing he remembers is the curl of Misha’s fingers; the warmth of his eyes, complicated and blue.
By the time Jared’s dragged himself down in search of breakfast the next morning, head thumping with the violent rhythm of a bad mixed-alcohol hangover, he’s almost convinced himself that it was all some truly, ridiculously fucked-up dream.
Misha shows up when he’s working on a round of pancakes, bright-eyed and smiling. “Hey, Jared,” he says, bright as you please. “Good night?” And he winks, head turned away from Jensen close behind him.
Jared narrows his eyes. The headache pounds behind them, sluggish and slow. He’s imagining it, all of it, he must be.
And yet, when Misha walks away, there’s a limp in his stride; something a little awkward about the way he holds his hips.
It’s not until later - when Jared’s feeling a little more human, if wiped, as he pulls off his shirt to shower - that he finds the little ring of crescent-shaped marks on his chest.