The Academy of Absent Fathers - Jensen/Misha, NC-17 - Chapter Seven
Title: The Academy of Absent Fathers - Chapter Seven
Pairing: Jensen/Misha
Authors: qthelights & kriari
Rating: Eventual NC-17
Warnings & Notes See Chapter One for full warnings, disclaimers and notes. WIP.
Summary: As one of the premiere boarding schools on the east coast, Ellis Academy plays host to the preeminent financiers, businessmen, and politicians of tomorrow. The very dirt stinks of privilege and as a long-time foster child, Misha Collins has no idea how he ended up here. To make matters worse, he's stuck rooming with the equivalent of Ellis royalty. Jensen Ackles is a lifer - captain of the lacrosse team, do-gooder and textbook overachiever. And they hate each other. Mostly. But as they move from hate to something more, secrets from their unknown yet inextricably linked pasts threaten to destroy everything they've built. And the worst part? They have no idea what's coming...
Previous chapters
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
After Thanksgiving, things are strange. Granted, more for Jared and Jensen than Misha and Jensen. But still.
Jared pretty much stops talking to Jensen, as far as Misha can tell from the smoldering death glares that come their way down various school corridors. For his part, he seems to have been forgiven by Jensen, a half-day of the silent treatment before he reluctantly put it aside to help Misha with English homework he had no need for help with. It was a peace offering; they both knew it. And yet Jensen accepted it anyway. When Jensen had nodded at his question, dragged his own chair over to Misha’s desk and raised an eyebrow impatiently - what’s the problem? - Misha fought to keep the grin off his face that wanted to accompany the warm flush of gratitude that swept up from his stomach.
Friends were not something he was used to having, and yet somewhere during the year, Jensen had become just that.
It’s something that both pleases and scares the shit out of him.
Still. It’s new enough that he knows he has to play by the rules of association and do what friends are meant to do, even if he has little first hand experience in the matter. And one of the things he knows friends do is support each other in their endeavors. Jensen’s just happens to be a sport. Which is just Misha’s fucking luck.
He will never understand the desire to get up at the ass-crack of dawn, on a weekend, and go out to get the snot beaten out of you by really large boys with sticks. But lacrosse is Jensen’s thing, so somewhere during the season Misha started dragging his own ass out of bed to go and watch. The home games, anyway.
At first, sure, he’d taken a book with him. He wasn’t a fucking martyr after all. But he’d actually started to enjoy himself. Not the sport, of course. He didn’t have the first fucking clue what was going on. There was a ball and it whizzed through the air a fair bit. The clashing of wood as sticks were defended. Every so often people around him would cheer so he knew something good must have happened.
What he actually does, is watch Jensen.
Jensen on the field is entirely unlike Jensen off the field. Off the field he’s fun, sure, but reserved and befitting the heir to his father’s fortune. It’s only when they’re alone that Jensen opens up a little, shares an easy smile. But there’s still something not completely at ease.
Not that Misha can complain; he has more of a mask on than any of the mommy’s boys in the school. Not even Jensen knows where his parents really are. Or where they were last time he’d cared enough to pay attention.
On the field, though, shin pads strapped in place, stick in his hand and fire in his eyes, Jensen is entirely different. So Misha watches. The way Jensen runs, lithe and long, muscles cording in his thighs as he sprints upfield. The way his whole body turns to the white rubber ball as if his every fiber of being is in sync with its vibrations. The way he focuses so determinedly, eyes never leaving the game, always calculating, always strategizing. How elated Jensen gets when they win, storming back into their dorm room sweaty and red in the face, eyes glistening and breath panting out of him in a way that makes Misha want to follow the heaving gusts of oxygen to the source.
So yeah, okay. Misha goes to the lacrosse games to support Jensen by completely objectifying him. It’s fine as long as Jensen doesn’t know. And as long as Misha doesn’t jump Jensen’s bones when seeing him that way - completely in control, fluid and at ease and commanding? They’ll be fine.
Some days are easier than others.
It’s the qualifying final where things go wrong. About a month after Thanksgiving and Misha is sitting on the bleachers, his ass frozen to the splintered wood and losing feeling in his fingers. It’s worth it, though, because Jensen is in his element. Everything depends on them winning the final, since from there they can enter the regionals. And for Jensen, it really is everything. Misha knows from the pacing that went on last night that Jensen couldn’t sleep, the soft shuffling footsteps a litany of nerves.
But Jensen plays the best when he has the most riding on the outcome. As the game draws closer to the end, the score tied at one all, Misha finds he doesn’t even have to act at being excited. He’s up on his feet with the crowds around him, cheering himself hoarse.
Jensen is giving it everything he has, checking the other players ‘sticks with resounding smacks that echo across the field. The opponents keep flinging themselves at Jensen and more than once he ends up on his knees, sliding in the recently wet grass.
Despite the all the Ellis team is giving it, the maroon colors of the opposing team seem to swamp the guys every chance at goal they get. It’s frustrating and the crowd sits on the edge of their seats, groaning in frustration each time the opportunity to break in front is thwarted.
Time is called; it’s a draw.
The sudden-death tiebreak sees the opponent hit the post of the net on the first try. The Ellis crowd erupts in cheering that Misha hopes isn’t hubris before the fall.
He shouldn’t worry; Jensen’s aim is better. The sphere of rubber goes zinging out of Jensen’s net, a perfect arc too fast for the goal keeper to see let alone stop.
They’ve done it!
The crowd around him erupts in cheers so loud Misha thinks he might go deaf. Or he would be thinking that, if he weren’t cheering just as loud, jumping up on his seat and yelling himself hoarse for Jensen. All around him kids are laughing and twirling their scarves above their heads like navy woollen helicopters. A paper plane goes careening down over their heads and is trodden into the grass by hapless feet.
The bleachers begin to empty as soon as the players are whisked away into the changing rooms, but the excitement remains high, loud whoops of joy coming from the younger boys and calls of a less than cheerful nature from the opposing school traipsing back to the buses.
Misha wants to wait around for Jensen to come out, but knows from past experience it could be ages. Often the team does long post-game debriefs and then the guys go out to lunch. It’ll probably be hours before he can congratulate Jensen in person. With a last glance at the squat sports building that houses his friend, Misha turns and heads back to the dorms.
Navigating the hallways turns out to be more of an ordeal than he expected. It reminds him, with a somewhat homesick lurch of his stomach, of rush hour in New York, with more hands... and shorter people. Never has he been so glad to be on the other side of the door than when it shuts with a firm ‘snick’, ensconcing him in the peace of the empty room.
He throws himself down on his bed with a heaved sigh. The problem with watching Jensen get all hot and bothered on the field is that it gets Misha all hot and bothered off the field. And while, granted, he has the time for a quick session with his fist most days after the game, it doesn’t stop him from feeling slightly weird when Jensen eventually does walk through the door.
Not enough to stop him going to the game, mind you.
He contemplates the merits of a bit of quality time with his right hand, but he’s too edgy, too hyped up on the win. It’ll go one of two ways, too fast and over so quickly he’ll be left wanting more before he’s even finished dirtying his hand, or, he won’t be able to come at all, too jittery with nervousness that he’ll pull himself raw and end up stuck on a never-ending precipice of almost.
Really, it isn’t a choice. One way or the other, he’s got to do something with the blood rattling around his body. His fingers slip to his jeans, sliding the brass button through its denim prison.
Which is exactly the moment Jensen barges into their room, the door swinging open on its hinges to hit the wall behind it with a smack.
“We won!” Jensen crows as Misha scrambles to his feet to hide what he’s doing.
He quirks an eyebrow, covering his embarrassment with cockiness. “I know, I was there.”
Jensen is grinning, smile so wide it seems to be splitting his face. He’s got smudges of dirt on his forehead and across his reddened cheeks, and he’s still sweating from the exertion of the game, a slight sheen of sparkle across his skin. “Don’t be a fucking dick, man, WE WON!” he shouts with a laugh, grabs Misha’s shoulders and shakes him.
Misha laughs despite himself, his hands reaching out of their own accord to slip around Jensen’s chest and pull him in close. It’s just a hug. A manly hug. And Jensen clearly thinks so too, his arms wrapping around Misha in turn and squeezing him crushingly tight. It’s over before it begins, leaving Misha bereft and wanting, but Jensen doesn’t move far away. Instead he’s inches closer than he should be, staring at Misha with the same ecstatic grin.
“This means we’re in the playoffs, you realize,” Jensen laughs. “Fuck, we’ve been trying every year, man. I can’t fucking believe we did it!”
“I can,” Misha smiles. “You were awesome out there.”
“Thanks,” Jensen grins. “I think you must be my good luck charm, ya know? Ever since you started watching something has just clicked.”
Misha snorts. “Victory makes you sappy, man.”
Jensen chuckles, dark and deep and so full of joy that it steals Misha’s breath away. Jensen’s eyes are sparkling and his cheeks are flushed and fuck, Misha’s only human for fuck’s sake.
Before he can stop himself he’s stepped into Jensen’s space and pressed his lips to Jensen’s. He expects to be pushed back, to be shoved and hit and disowned. He expects it so much he can taste it, but it doesn’t happen. Instead Jensen makes a surprised huffing sound and stays still as a statue.
Misha can’t help but notice Jensen doesn’t pull away.
And so he presses a little bit more, cupping Jensen’s bottom lip in the cradle of his, just feeling it against his own. Jensen’s mouth opens on a sigh and something inside Misha dies and is reborn in an instant.
In reality, he knows it isn’t a good thing. Not like this. Dreams, in Misha’s experience, never come true. Sure, they might start out in damn good imitation, but in the end, it’s all sticks and stones, blood and mortar. But he can’t help the moan that wends its way out of him, dark and needy or the way his fingers clutch abortively at Jensen’s hips, the synthetic material of his jersey sliding sweat-damp against his fingertips.
And fuck, but Jensen’s kissing him. His tongue is in his mouth, tentative, but there. Jensen’s body is pressed up against his, hot and solid and smelling like the grass and mud of the lacrosse field.
But Misha’s moan hits Jensen’s ears. He knows it does, because Jensen hitches in a breath so sharp it could cut glass, and he jerks away, the back of his hand swiping at his mouth.
Misha stands stock still, his lip still wet with Jensen’s saliva. He isn’t sure, but he thinks maybe Jensen stole his voice away in the kiss because, when he opens his mouth to say something, anything, to stop Jensen backing away - eyes wild and undeniably angry - nothing comes out.
And then Jensen’s gone, slipping out of the room as suddenly as he came in, the door slamming with a bang.
“Well, fuck,” Misha remarks dryly.
Jensen doesn’t come back until it’s dark. And from the way he stumbles into the room, bumping against the furniture in the blackness, he’s been drinking.
It’s okay. Misha pretty well expected as much. He’s never had to wonder who he wanted to fuck and whether that was okay or not. But Jensen has grown up in an entirely different world to him, and it’s clearly not so cut and dry.
Not to mention the part where his supposedly best friend molested him, unbidden ,in the middle of their room.
Misha knew he shouldn’t have done it, and he’s proven himself right. Fantastic.
He keeps his eyes closed and pretends to be asleep.
* * *
The next couple of days are weird. They don’t talk about the kiss. Hell, they hardly talk at all. Jensen avoids him, refuses to look in his eye. In class the next day they’re both sullen, so quiet and moody that Mr Beaver accuses them of staying up too late gossiping like a pair of girls. Nothing could be further than the truth. Jensen only returns to their room when it’s time for the light to go off, the cloak of darkness removing any necessity to talk.
The school has gone loopy about Jensen since the game, slapping him on the back, whooping his name in the halls and congratulating him like he brought home an Oscar. And despite the fact that his best friend has had this monumentally great thing happen, Misha can only look on from a distance. Because he fucked up.
Everything comes to a head midway through the week. Jensen comes back from wherever he spent the afternoon, probably in Jared’s room, and he’s pissed. Math books are shoved haphazardly across his desk and when he accidentally trips on his lacrosse stick in the corner, sending it tumbling to the floor, Jensen glares at it like it’s personally betrayed him.
Misha sits cross-legged on his own bed and watches with a raised eyebrow. “Four days ago I thought I’d have to get you and that stick another room. Divorce so soon?”
“I thought we’d got over this,” Jensen snaps, glaring at him from the corner of the room. He rights the lacrosse stick with more force than is necessary.
“Over what?” Misha asks, genuinely confused.
“This,” Jensen growls, waving between him and Misha angrily. “You. Fucking with me.”
Misha’s eyebrows climb into his hairline. “Pardon?”
“What, were the last few months all an elaborate game to make me think we were friends?”
“You have got to be joking,” Misha says, deadpan. It belies the jumping panic in his throat.
“Then what?” Jensen bites out, hands on his hips and jaw set so tight it looks ready to snap.
“What what!?” Misha cries, hands flailing up in exasperation.
“The kiss,” Jensen spits out with such venom, Misha almost flinches.
“You think that was a joke?” Misha asks incredulously.
Jensen laughs mockingly, shaking his head angrily. “Drop the act, Misha. We both know it was.”
Of all the ways Misha expected Jensen to react to the kiss, he’d never considered that Jensen would think it was part of a game. He uncrosses his legs and scoots back on the bed, back against the wall, drawing his knees drawn up to his chest. It’s a protective posture and he knows it, but he’s also fine with that. “It wasn’t an act,” he says calmly.
Jensen rolls his eyes. “Sure. You expect me to believe that all this time you’ve been secretly waiting to jump my bones?”
Misha just shrugs.
“I don’t believe that, Jensen says, finally sitting down on his own bed, mirroring Misha’s position. “This is just another of your stupid games.”
“You can believe what you want,” Misha says, still unable to put any inflection into his voice, afraid the strong pull of hurt being tamped down inside him will somehow get out.
“You don’t even care, do you?” Jensen asks incredulously.
It spikes a flare of something painful inside Misha’s chest that reminds him all too keenly of the conversations with foster parents, the ones who tell him he’s going back to child services ‘just for a while’. “Of course I fucking care, Jen,” he spits, finally allowing some of his emotion to break out. “And you know what? You can get as angry and hateful as you want to me. We both know the reason you’re throwing this little temper tantrum is because you kissed me back, and you don’t have a clue in fucking hell how to deal with that.”
Jensen’s eyes go wide and his mouth drops open slightly in what Misha presumes is shock, if not realization. It’d be satisfying, if it weren’t about this. About them.
“Yeah. That’s what I thought,” Misha says, nodding, mostly to himself. He unwinds himself and gets up from his bed. He’s almost at the door before Jensen stops him.
“Where are you going?”
Misha doesn’t even bother looking back. “Out. Let me know when you’re over your little gay freak-out and we can talk about this like adults.”
* * *
He spends the night after the argument in Rob’s room, uncomfortably rolled in blankets on the floor. Rob, as it turns out, snores. After that he goes back to his own room, refusing to think of it as going home. Jensen doesn’t say anything, but he has the decency to look somewhat cowed.
Misha can’t help putting up walls. The fact that Jensen could think of him as someone who would fuck with a friend, using sex of all things, hurts. That the idea of Jensen wanting Misha is so revolting that Jensen can’t even deal with it? Hurts.
So Misha can’t help but needle him. Stepping too close, just a smidgen too far into Jensen’s personal space when reaching for the door handle. Brushing the back of his hand against Jensen’s as they squeeze past each other in the narrow space between their beds. Plucking Jensen’s cigarette from his fingers and shamelessly inhaling, blowing the smoke out of the corner of his mouth and pressing the cigarette back into Jensen’s mouth, his fingertips briefly pressing against his lips. Watching Jensen as he chews the end of a pencil while he does his trig homework, until Jensen realizes he’s being observed and looks up to find Misha’s steady gaze.
He can tell, though, from the way Jensen watches Misha loosen the knot of his constricting school tie, slides it undone in a sinuous curve of silk, that he’s having an effect. The way Jensen swallows and furtively averts his eyes as Misha undoes the buttons of the white school shirt, one by one, long, tan fingers slipping nimbly over the small buttons in a slow-motion strip-tease. The way Jensen’s eyes blow dark when Misha gets that inch too close.
But nothing happens. Jensen never acknowledges his desire, and Misha is too scared to push further. He wants Jensen, sure. But he wants his friendship more. He has half a mind to just let it go, ignore what happened just as Jensen seems able to. Be he wants, and Misha has never been good at self-control.
And so they hover around each other, a mess of denial, tension and stubbornness.
* * *
A week after the kiss, Misha is lying on his bed reading a dog-eared copy of Slaughterhouse-Five that Sam let him pilfer from the library, when he hears a shuffling scrape outside the window. Jensen is off helping with some Christmas committee or something, so he doubts there are any plans with Kane that might warrant a mid-afternoon visit. And certainly, Kane isn’t about to visit Misha anytime soon, which about rules out all the possibilities Misha can think of for someone climbing the trellis up to the second-floor balcony and not just using the door. He sits up, watching the space above the railing and waiting to see whom their visitor is.
He doesn’t know whom to expect, but even so, he’s surprised at the mop of golden-blonde hair that peeks over the edge.
It’s Alona.
She’s grinning as she swings herself over the railing and comes quickly to the window, tapping impatiently on the cold glass with her mittens. Misha scrambles to unlatch the window, swearing under his breath as the frosty air blasts inside with Alona. It may not snow this far south, but it’s still fucking cold after all the months of cloying humidity.
“Hi.” Alona grins at him, all white teeth and cheekiness. She’s got a bright red scarf wrapped around her neck and a huge, puffy jacket that makes her look like a snowman.
“What brings you to our fine establishment?” Misha asks, unable to stop the smile that spreads across his face at Alona’s infectious happiness.
“Jared’s being a dick,” she replies matter-of-factly, shedding the ridiculous coat and splaying herself across Jensen’s bed. Misha takes his previous position across his own.
“Usually is to me,” Misha mutters, only half-jokingly.
“Well, that’s cause he thinks you’re stealing his precious Jensen away from him,” Alona says, tucking a strand of wayward hair behind her ear.
Misha snorts. “Like hell.”
Something must tell in his tone of voice, because Alona’s eyes light up and she’s suddenly on his bed with him.
“Oh my god, what happened?”
“Nothing,” Misha replies mulishly.
“You are such a bad liar!” Alona crows gleefully, clapping her hands together in a way that makes her seem nine. “Did you have sex?”
“You’re such a pervert,” Misha remarks.
“You did, didn’t you,” she laughs, poking him in the chest with an index finger.
He rolls his eyes. “No, we didn’t. We kissed, that’s all.”
“And?” she asks, but this time it’s quieter.
“And what?” Misha counters, not ready to paint himself as the victim of a thwarted romance here. It was just a fucking kiss, that’s all. “Jensen’s not interested. Big deal.”
“Seriously?” Alona says. “You’ve seen the way he stares at you, right? Tell me you’re not so stupid as to have missed that.”
Misha pulls himself up, leaning back against the headboard with his legs stuck out beside Alona. “Well, apparently that’s a moot point. Jensen doesn’t do dick.”
Alona is the one to roll her eyes this time. “Boys,” she grumbles. “Jensen will come around. You can’t act like that around someone and not want to fuck ‘em sideways.”
Misha raises an eyebrow at her. “Doesn’t matter anyway. It’s just sex. I’ve moved on.”
“Sure,” Alona replies, sounding like she doesn’t believe a word he just said.
“I have,” he insists and to prove it he surges forward, knocking her onto her back, hair spilling across the mattress. He means it to be masterfully sexy, but, naturally, it doesn’t work like that. Alona takes one look at his face as he stares down at her and bursts into peals of laughter.
“You really know how to wound a guy,” Misha remarks, holding himself above her so as not to squash her.
“You’re such a dork,” Alona laughs, and she wraps her fingers around the back of his neck and pulls him down to her.
Their lips meet in a messy kiss. It’s playful and not at all serious, but fun nonetheless. Misha’s tongue curls around hers teasingly. He knows quite well he wants to be kissing someone else, someone with a dick, and he has no doubt Alona is similarly not interested in him in any capacity more than curiosity. But why the fuck shouldn’t they, Misha thinks. Sometimes a little comfort can go a long way.
Naturally, as Misha is thinking this, his fingers threading into Alona’s hair and nipping at her bottom lip to make her giggle, Jensen decides, once again, that flying through the door unannounced would be a fantastic idea.
To be fair, he simply opens the door and walks in. He makes it a step before faltering.
Misha scrambles off Alona, who looks up at Jensen from upside down and says, “Hi, Jenny!”
“Um,” Jensen says, clearly at a loss for words. Anger, confusion and other unidentified emotions flicker over his face.
“It’s not what it looks like,” Misha tries feebly.
“It looks like you’re about to have sex with Jared’s little sister,” Jensen says, and his voice is deep and dangerous.
“Well, see, that’s exactly why it isn’t what it looks like.”
“What, do you have some weird kissing fetish or something?” Jensen asks, ignoring him. “It’s kinda messed up, man.”
“Fuck off,” Misha snaps. “Just because you don’t want to stick your tongue down my throat doesn’t mean others feel the same.”
Jensen glares and Alona pipes up from the bed, “I’m just gonna...” She waves at the window with one hand, grabbing her coat with the other. Misha spares her a glance and a rueful smile, which she returns with a shooing motion meant, he assumes, that he should make things right with Jensen.
Another draft of cold air and Alona is gone, shimmying over the balcony and out of sight.
“Well,” Misha dares, standing his ground in front of Jensen.
“I don’t want to talk about this again,” Jensen says angrily, and spins back to the door to escape.
“No fucking way,” Misha growls, and in two steps he’s caught up with Jensen, an arm out and leaning on the door to keep it closed.
“Misha, let me out,” Jensen says icily.
“No,” Misha replies, crowding Jensen back against the door. If they’re going to have this out they’re going to do it properly. “Not until you admit you have feelings for me too.”
“Misha,” Jensen warns again.
“Fuck, Jensen!” Misha snaps, loudly, throwing his hands up in near defeat. If Jensen leaves, he leaves. “Is the idea really so repulsive to you?”
“Seriously?” Jensen is incredulous, but he makes no move to leave. “You’re the one who’s fucking with my feelings.”
Misha can feel the heat coming off Jensen’s body in waves, the tension radiating from his tensed fight-or-flight stance.
“Oh my god, Jensen. How fucking dense are you? For the next Dux of the school you’re being a god damned idiot. I already told you: I don’t want to fuck with you, I want to fuck you. Big difference.”
Jensen opens his mouth to reply, but then shuts it again. His eyes are a dark green that reminds Misha of wet moss. They stare at each other, neither saying anything. Jensen seems to be processing, or maybe planning Misha’s death, he can’t quite tell. Misha’s about to pull away, to spare them from a stalemate of anger that will have them standing there all night, when Jensen seems to shiver and take a breath. Jensen’s hand darts out to catch Misha’s wrist before he can move away.
“I don’t... I never...” Jensen babbles.
“First time for everything,” Misha says softly, not allowing the hope building in his heart to take flight.
Jensen nods and then, as easy as if they’ve done it a million times, he’s pulling Misha into him, his mouth finding Misha’s.
Misha goes slow, allowing Jensen to take control of the pace, scared he’s going to run again. But Jensen has clearly made up his mind, and having done so, Misha notes, he’s clearly going to try and excel at it like he does everything else. Jensen opens to him, gasping as Misha presses himself in, presses Jensen back against the door with the weight of his body. Jensen matches him move for move, pulling at Misha’s belt loops and hauling him in flush. Their kiss is a battle for dominance that neither wants to lose, or win.
Their breath mingles, the temperature rising between them as the kiss deepens, sharing and darkly intimate in a way Misha can’t remember it ever being with someone before. Jensen sucks on Misha’s tongue, runs his own over Misha’s bottom lip before pulling back to suck on that too.
When Misha moans, instead of pulling away, Jensen slides his hands around Misha’s waist, up to his shoulder blades and down again, touching and clawing, pulling at Misha’s t-shirt. A second later, as Misha presses his filling erection into Jensen’s thigh, Jensen moans for himself.
Mutually, they decide to move. Misha fumbles with the chair at his desk, scraping it loudly across the floor and jamming it under the doorknob as a makeshift lock. Then they’re shuffling backwards towards the bed, a mess of arms and legs and lips. They hit Jensen’s bed first, and suddenly the world turns horizontal as they lie side-by-side, hands petting and touching. Learning.
Misha can’t help the goofy smile he wears as he takes in Jensen’s pink-flushed lips and cheeks. Their legs tangle together as Misha darts back in, presses his lips to a pulse point in Jensen’s neck and sucks in a way that makes Jensen shiver and press his own hardening cock against Misha.
They go slow, Misha checking each step of the way to make sure that Jensen is still okay, to the point where Jensen rolls his eyes and takes control, flattening Misha to the bed and though somewhat cautiously, mapping and marking every inch of Misha’s body. In the end, they go for fumbled hand-jobs, mostly clothed, Jensen’s breath hitching and his voice catching in glorious mewls as Misha brings him to orgasm with his fingers wrapped tight and lovingly around his cock. The look of wonder that transforms Jensen’s face is worth every argument they had to get to this point.
Misha starts to bring himself off, careful to not assume Jensen is ready to touch another guy’s cock, but Jensen stops him, gently removing Misha’s hand and replacing it with his own, kissing Misha slowly and sure as he does it. Misha’s moans get swallowed by Jensen’s mouth; he tries to be quiet. It’s imperative that they are, that they don’t draw attention to themselves, draw a teacher, or, worse, the dean. But he can’t help it. Jensen’s hand is firm and warm, pulling against his sensitive cock, and the gasps and growls that come out of him are not Misha’ fault. When he comes, stunned and breathless, Jensen pulls back and looks at him with such amazement that Misha almost has to look away, unused to such raw emotion being thrown his way. But he doesn’t. Couldn’t, anyway.
As they fall asleep on Misha’s bed to avoid the mess, Misha can’t help but think that maybe coming down here, to this school and its entitlement, its money and expectations, wasn’t all that bad. He nudges Jensen’s nose with his own.
“What?” Jensen asks, a sleepy mumble.
“I told you I wasn’t fucking with you,” Misha says.
“Okay. I might believe you now.”
“You’re pretty magnanimous that way,” Misha concedes.
“I am,” Jensen agrees cockily and squeezes Misha with such familiarity and ease that Misha can’t believe this is the same boy that was so angry with him these last few weeks - hell, even an hour ago.
This development, the warm body in his arms, Jensen slipping into sleep contentedly, doesn’t change anything. He’s still determined to get out of here the second he turns eighteen next year.
But, he thinks, allowing his own eyelids to slide closed, his thoughts to muddle and swirl in the dance into unconsciousness, it just got a hell of a lot harder.
* * *
Chapter Eight
Also posted at dreamwidth. Please comment wherevs.
Pairing: Jensen/Misha
Authors: qthelights & kriari
Rating: Eventual NC-17
Warnings & Notes See Chapter One for full warnings, disclaimers and notes. WIP.
Summary: As one of the premiere boarding schools on the east coast, Ellis Academy plays host to the preeminent financiers, businessmen, and politicians of tomorrow. The very dirt stinks of privilege and as a long-time foster child, Misha Collins has no idea how he ended up here. To make matters worse, he's stuck rooming with the equivalent of Ellis royalty. Jensen Ackles is a lifer - captain of the lacrosse team, do-gooder and textbook overachiever. And they hate each other. Mostly. But as they move from hate to something more, secrets from their unknown yet inextricably linked pasts threaten to destroy everything they've built. And the worst part? They have no idea what's coming...
Previous chapters
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
After Thanksgiving, things are strange. Granted, more for Jared and Jensen than Misha and Jensen. But still.
Jared pretty much stops talking to Jensen, as far as Misha can tell from the smoldering death glares that come their way down various school corridors. For his part, he seems to have been forgiven by Jensen, a half-day of the silent treatment before he reluctantly put it aside to help Misha with English homework he had no need for help with. It was a peace offering; they both knew it. And yet Jensen accepted it anyway. When Jensen had nodded at his question, dragged his own chair over to Misha’s desk and raised an eyebrow impatiently - what’s the problem? - Misha fought to keep the grin off his face that wanted to accompany the warm flush of gratitude that swept up from his stomach.
Friends were not something he was used to having, and yet somewhere during the year, Jensen had become just that.
It’s something that both pleases and scares the shit out of him.
Still. It’s new enough that he knows he has to play by the rules of association and do what friends are meant to do, even if he has little first hand experience in the matter. And one of the things he knows friends do is support each other in their endeavors. Jensen’s just happens to be a sport. Which is just Misha’s fucking luck.
He will never understand the desire to get up at the ass-crack of dawn, on a weekend, and go out to get the snot beaten out of you by really large boys with sticks. But lacrosse is Jensen’s thing, so somewhere during the season Misha started dragging his own ass out of bed to go and watch. The home games, anyway.
At first, sure, he’d taken a book with him. He wasn’t a fucking martyr after all. But he’d actually started to enjoy himself. Not the sport, of course. He didn’t have the first fucking clue what was going on. There was a ball and it whizzed through the air a fair bit. The clashing of wood as sticks were defended. Every so often people around him would cheer so he knew something good must have happened.
What he actually does, is watch Jensen.
Jensen on the field is entirely unlike Jensen off the field. Off the field he’s fun, sure, but reserved and befitting the heir to his father’s fortune. It’s only when they’re alone that Jensen opens up a little, shares an easy smile. But there’s still something not completely at ease.
Not that Misha can complain; he has more of a mask on than any of the mommy’s boys in the school. Not even Jensen knows where his parents really are. Or where they were last time he’d cared enough to pay attention.
On the field, though, shin pads strapped in place, stick in his hand and fire in his eyes, Jensen is entirely different. So Misha watches. The way Jensen runs, lithe and long, muscles cording in his thighs as he sprints upfield. The way his whole body turns to the white rubber ball as if his every fiber of being is in sync with its vibrations. The way he focuses so determinedly, eyes never leaving the game, always calculating, always strategizing. How elated Jensen gets when they win, storming back into their dorm room sweaty and red in the face, eyes glistening and breath panting out of him in a way that makes Misha want to follow the heaving gusts of oxygen to the source.
So yeah, okay. Misha goes to the lacrosse games to support Jensen by completely objectifying him. It’s fine as long as Jensen doesn’t know. And as long as Misha doesn’t jump Jensen’s bones when seeing him that way - completely in control, fluid and at ease and commanding? They’ll be fine.
Some days are easier than others.
It’s the qualifying final where things go wrong. About a month after Thanksgiving and Misha is sitting on the bleachers, his ass frozen to the splintered wood and losing feeling in his fingers. It’s worth it, though, because Jensen is in his element. Everything depends on them winning the final, since from there they can enter the regionals. And for Jensen, it really is everything. Misha knows from the pacing that went on last night that Jensen couldn’t sleep, the soft shuffling footsteps a litany of nerves.
But Jensen plays the best when he has the most riding on the outcome. As the game draws closer to the end, the score tied at one all, Misha finds he doesn’t even have to act at being excited. He’s up on his feet with the crowds around him, cheering himself hoarse.
Jensen is giving it everything he has, checking the other players ‘sticks with resounding smacks that echo across the field. The opponents keep flinging themselves at Jensen and more than once he ends up on his knees, sliding in the recently wet grass.
Despite the all the Ellis team is giving it, the maroon colors of the opposing team seem to swamp the guys every chance at goal they get. It’s frustrating and the crowd sits on the edge of their seats, groaning in frustration each time the opportunity to break in front is thwarted.
Time is called; it’s a draw.
The sudden-death tiebreak sees the opponent hit the post of the net on the first try. The Ellis crowd erupts in cheering that Misha hopes isn’t hubris before the fall.
He shouldn’t worry; Jensen’s aim is better. The sphere of rubber goes zinging out of Jensen’s net, a perfect arc too fast for the goal keeper to see let alone stop.
They’ve done it!
The crowd around him erupts in cheers so loud Misha thinks he might go deaf. Or he would be thinking that, if he weren’t cheering just as loud, jumping up on his seat and yelling himself hoarse for Jensen. All around him kids are laughing and twirling their scarves above their heads like navy woollen helicopters. A paper plane goes careening down over their heads and is trodden into the grass by hapless feet.
The bleachers begin to empty as soon as the players are whisked away into the changing rooms, but the excitement remains high, loud whoops of joy coming from the younger boys and calls of a less than cheerful nature from the opposing school traipsing back to the buses.
Misha wants to wait around for Jensen to come out, but knows from past experience it could be ages. Often the team does long post-game debriefs and then the guys go out to lunch. It’ll probably be hours before he can congratulate Jensen in person. With a last glance at the squat sports building that houses his friend, Misha turns and heads back to the dorms.
Navigating the hallways turns out to be more of an ordeal than he expected. It reminds him, with a somewhat homesick lurch of his stomach, of rush hour in New York, with more hands... and shorter people. Never has he been so glad to be on the other side of the door than when it shuts with a firm ‘snick’, ensconcing him in the peace of the empty room.
He throws himself down on his bed with a heaved sigh. The problem with watching Jensen get all hot and bothered on the field is that it gets Misha all hot and bothered off the field. And while, granted, he has the time for a quick session with his fist most days after the game, it doesn’t stop him from feeling slightly weird when Jensen eventually does walk through the door.
Not enough to stop him going to the game, mind you.
He contemplates the merits of a bit of quality time with his right hand, but he’s too edgy, too hyped up on the win. It’ll go one of two ways, too fast and over so quickly he’ll be left wanting more before he’s even finished dirtying his hand, or, he won’t be able to come at all, too jittery with nervousness that he’ll pull himself raw and end up stuck on a never-ending precipice of almost.
Really, it isn’t a choice. One way or the other, he’s got to do something with the blood rattling around his body. His fingers slip to his jeans, sliding the brass button through its denim prison.
Which is exactly the moment Jensen barges into their room, the door swinging open on its hinges to hit the wall behind it with a smack.
“We won!” Jensen crows as Misha scrambles to his feet to hide what he’s doing.
He quirks an eyebrow, covering his embarrassment with cockiness. “I know, I was there.”
Jensen is grinning, smile so wide it seems to be splitting his face. He’s got smudges of dirt on his forehead and across his reddened cheeks, and he’s still sweating from the exertion of the game, a slight sheen of sparkle across his skin. “Don’t be a fucking dick, man, WE WON!” he shouts with a laugh, grabs Misha’s shoulders and shakes him.
Misha laughs despite himself, his hands reaching out of their own accord to slip around Jensen’s chest and pull him in close. It’s just a hug. A manly hug. And Jensen clearly thinks so too, his arms wrapping around Misha in turn and squeezing him crushingly tight. It’s over before it begins, leaving Misha bereft and wanting, but Jensen doesn’t move far away. Instead he’s inches closer than he should be, staring at Misha with the same ecstatic grin.
“This means we’re in the playoffs, you realize,” Jensen laughs. “Fuck, we’ve been trying every year, man. I can’t fucking believe we did it!”
“I can,” Misha smiles. “You were awesome out there.”
“Thanks,” Jensen grins. “I think you must be my good luck charm, ya know? Ever since you started watching something has just clicked.”
Misha snorts. “Victory makes you sappy, man.”
Jensen chuckles, dark and deep and so full of joy that it steals Misha’s breath away. Jensen’s eyes are sparkling and his cheeks are flushed and fuck, Misha’s only human for fuck’s sake.
Before he can stop himself he’s stepped into Jensen’s space and pressed his lips to Jensen’s. He expects to be pushed back, to be shoved and hit and disowned. He expects it so much he can taste it, but it doesn’t happen. Instead Jensen makes a surprised huffing sound and stays still as a statue.
Misha can’t help but notice Jensen doesn’t pull away.
And so he presses a little bit more, cupping Jensen’s bottom lip in the cradle of his, just feeling it against his own. Jensen’s mouth opens on a sigh and something inside Misha dies and is reborn in an instant.
In reality, he knows it isn’t a good thing. Not like this. Dreams, in Misha’s experience, never come true. Sure, they might start out in damn good imitation, but in the end, it’s all sticks and stones, blood and mortar. But he can’t help the moan that wends its way out of him, dark and needy or the way his fingers clutch abortively at Jensen’s hips, the synthetic material of his jersey sliding sweat-damp against his fingertips.
And fuck, but Jensen’s kissing him. His tongue is in his mouth, tentative, but there. Jensen’s body is pressed up against his, hot and solid and smelling like the grass and mud of the lacrosse field.
But Misha’s moan hits Jensen’s ears. He knows it does, because Jensen hitches in a breath so sharp it could cut glass, and he jerks away, the back of his hand swiping at his mouth.
Misha stands stock still, his lip still wet with Jensen’s saliva. He isn’t sure, but he thinks maybe Jensen stole his voice away in the kiss because, when he opens his mouth to say something, anything, to stop Jensen backing away - eyes wild and undeniably angry - nothing comes out.
And then Jensen’s gone, slipping out of the room as suddenly as he came in, the door slamming with a bang.
“Well, fuck,” Misha remarks dryly.
Jensen doesn’t come back until it’s dark. And from the way he stumbles into the room, bumping against the furniture in the blackness, he’s been drinking.
It’s okay. Misha pretty well expected as much. He’s never had to wonder who he wanted to fuck and whether that was okay or not. But Jensen has grown up in an entirely different world to him, and it’s clearly not so cut and dry.
Not to mention the part where his supposedly best friend molested him, unbidden ,in the middle of their room.
Misha knew he shouldn’t have done it, and he’s proven himself right. Fantastic.
He keeps his eyes closed and pretends to be asleep.
* * *
The next couple of days are weird. They don’t talk about the kiss. Hell, they hardly talk at all. Jensen avoids him, refuses to look in his eye. In class the next day they’re both sullen, so quiet and moody that Mr Beaver accuses them of staying up too late gossiping like a pair of girls. Nothing could be further than the truth. Jensen only returns to their room when it’s time for the light to go off, the cloak of darkness removing any necessity to talk.
The school has gone loopy about Jensen since the game, slapping him on the back, whooping his name in the halls and congratulating him like he brought home an Oscar. And despite the fact that his best friend has had this monumentally great thing happen, Misha can only look on from a distance. Because he fucked up.
Everything comes to a head midway through the week. Jensen comes back from wherever he spent the afternoon, probably in Jared’s room, and he’s pissed. Math books are shoved haphazardly across his desk and when he accidentally trips on his lacrosse stick in the corner, sending it tumbling to the floor, Jensen glares at it like it’s personally betrayed him.
Misha sits cross-legged on his own bed and watches with a raised eyebrow. “Four days ago I thought I’d have to get you and that stick another room. Divorce so soon?”
“I thought we’d got over this,” Jensen snaps, glaring at him from the corner of the room. He rights the lacrosse stick with more force than is necessary.
“Over what?” Misha asks, genuinely confused.
“This,” Jensen growls, waving between him and Misha angrily. “You. Fucking with me.”
Misha’s eyebrows climb into his hairline. “Pardon?”
“What, were the last few months all an elaborate game to make me think we were friends?”
“You have got to be joking,” Misha says, deadpan. It belies the jumping panic in his throat.
“Then what?” Jensen bites out, hands on his hips and jaw set so tight it looks ready to snap.
“What what!?” Misha cries, hands flailing up in exasperation.
“The kiss,” Jensen spits out with such venom, Misha almost flinches.
“You think that was a joke?” Misha asks incredulously.
Jensen laughs mockingly, shaking his head angrily. “Drop the act, Misha. We both know it was.”
Of all the ways Misha expected Jensen to react to the kiss, he’d never considered that Jensen would think it was part of a game. He uncrosses his legs and scoots back on the bed, back against the wall, drawing his knees drawn up to his chest. It’s a protective posture and he knows it, but he’s also fine with that. “It wasn’t an act,” he says calmly.
Jensen rolls his eyes. “Sure. You expect me to believe that all this time you’ve been secretly waiting to jump my bones?”
Misha just shrugs.
“I don’t believe that, Jensen says, finally sitting down on his own bed, mirroring Misha’s position. “This is just another of your stupid games.”
“You can believe what you want,” Misha says, still unable to put any inflection into his voice, afraid the strong pull of hurt being tamped down inside him will somehow get out.
“You don’t even care, do you?” Jensen asks incredulously.
It spikes a flare of something painful inside Misha’s chest that reminds him all too keenly of the conversations with foster parents, the ones who tell him he’s going back to child services ‘just for a while’. “Of course I fucking care, Jen,” he spits, finally allowing some of his emotion to break out. “And you know what? You can get as angry and hateful as you want to me. We both know the reason you’re throwing this little temper tantrum is because you kissed me back, and you don’t have a clue in fucking hell how to deal with that.”
Jensen’s eyes go wide and his mouth drops open slightly in what Misha presumes is shock, if not realization. It’d be satisfying, if it weren’t about this. About them.
“Yeah. That’s what I thought,” Misha says, nodding, mostly to himself. He unwinds himself and gets up from his bed. He’s almost at the door before Jensen stops him.
“Where are you going?”
Misha doesn’t even bother looking back. “Out. Let me know when you’re over your little gay freak-out and we can talk about this like adults.”
* * *
He spends the night after the argument in Rob’s room, uncomfortably rolled in blankets on the floor. Rob, as it turns out, snores. After that he goes back to his own room, refusing to think of it as going home. Jensen doesn’t say anything, but he has the decency to look somewhat cowed.
Misha can’t help putting up walls. The fact that Jensen could think of him as someone who would fuck with a friend, using sex of all things, hurts. That the idea of Jensen wanting Misha is so revolting that Jensen can’t even deal with it? Hurts.
So Misha can’t help but needle him. Stepping too close, just a smidgen too far into Jensen’s personal space when reaching for the door handle. Brushing the back of his hand against Jensen’s as they squeeze past each other in the narrow space between their beds. Plucking Jensen’s cigarette from his fingers and shamelessly inhaling, blowing the smoke out of the corner of his mouth and pressing the cigarette back into Jensen’s mouth, his fingertips briefly pressing against his lips. Watching Jensen as he chews the end of a pencil while he does his trig homework, until Jensen realizes he’s being observed and looks up to find Misha’s steady gaze.
He can tell, though, from the way Jensen watches Misha loosen the knot of his constricting school tie, slides it undone in a sinuous curve of silk, that he’s having an effect. The way Jensen swallows and furtively averts his eyes as Misha undoes the buttons of the white school shirt, one by one, long, tan fingers slipping nimbly over the small buttons in a slow-motion strip-tease. The way Jensen’s eyes blow dark when Misha gets that inch too close.
But nothing happens. Jensen never acknowledges his desire, and Misha is too scared to push further. He wants Jensen, sure. But he wants his friendship more. He has half a mind to just let it go, ignore what happened just as Jensen seems able to. Be he wants, and Misha has never been good at self-control.
And so they hover around each other, a mess of denial, tension and stubbornness.
* * *
A week after the kiss, Misha is lying on his bed reading a dog-eared copy of Slaughterhouse-Five that Sam let him pilfer from the library, when he hears a shuffling scrape outside the window. Jensen is off helping with some Christmas committee or something, so he doubts there are any plans with Kane that might warrant a mid-afternoon visit. And certainly, Kane isn’t about to visit Misha anytime soon, which about rules out all the possibilities Misha can think of for someone climbing the trellis up to the second-floor balcony and not just using the door. He sits up, watching the space above the railing and waiting to see whom their visitor is.
He doesn’t know whom to expect, but even so, he’s surprised at the mop of golden-blonde hair that peeks over the edge.
It’s Alona.
She’s grinning as she swings herself over the railing and comes quickly to the window, tapping impatiently on the cold glass with her mittens. Misha scrambles to unlatch the window, swearing under his breath as the frosty air blasts inside with Alona. It may not snow this far south, but it’s still fucking cold after all the months of cloying humidity.
“Hi.” Alona grins at him, all white teeth and cheekiness. She’s got a bright red scarf wrapped around her neck and a huge, puffy jacket that makes her look like a snowman.
“What brings you to our fine establishment?” Misha asks, unable to stop the smile that spreads across his face at Alona’s infectious happiness.
“Jared’s being a dick,” she replies matter-of-factly, shedding the ridiculous coat and splaying herself across Jensen’s bed. Misha takes his previous position across his own.
“Usually is to me,” Misha mutters, only half-jokingly.
“Well, that’s cause he thinks you’re stealing his precious Jensen away from him,” Alona says, tucking a strand of wayward hair behind her ear.
Misha snorts. “Like hell.”
Something must tell in his tone of voice, because Alona’s eyes light up and she’s suddenly on his bed with him.
“Oh my god, what happened?”
“Nothing,” Misha replies mulishly.
“You are such a bad liar!” Alona crows gleefully, clapping her hands together in a way that makes her seem nine. “Did you have sex?”
“You’re such a pervert,” Misha remarks.
“You did, didn’t you,” she laughs, poking him in the chest with an index finger.
He rolls his eyes. “No, we didn’t. We kissed, that’s all.”
“And?” she asks, but this time it’s quieter.
“And what?” Misha counters, not ready to paint himself as the victim of a thwarted romance here. It was just a fucking kiss, that’s all. “Jensen’s not interested. Big deal.”
“Seriously?” Alona says. “You’ve seen the way he stares at you, right? Tell me you’re not so stupid as to have missed that.”
Misha pulls himself up, leaning back against the headboard with his legs stuck out beside Alona. “Well, apparently that’s a moot point. Jensen doesn’t do dick.”
Alona is the one to roll her eyes this time. “Boys,” she grumbles. “Jensen will come around. You can’t act like that around someone and not want to fuck ‘em sideways.”
Misha raises an eyebrow at her. “Doesn’t matter anyway. It’s just sex. I’ve moved on.”
“Sure,” Alona replies, sounding like she doesn’t believe a word he just said.
“I have,” he insists and to prove it he surges forward, knocking her onto her back, hair spilling across the mattress. He means it to be masterfully sexy, but, naturally, it doesn’t work like that. Alona takes one look at his face as he stares down at her and bursts into peals of laughter.
“You really know how to wound a guy,” Misha remarks, holding himself above her so as not to squash her.
“You’re such a dork,” Alona laughs, and she wraps her fingers around the back of his neck and pulls him down to her.
Their lips meet in a messy kiss. It’s playful and not at all serious, but fun nonetheless. Misha’s tongue curls around hers teasingly. He knows quite well he wants to be kissing someone else, someone with a dick, and he has no doubt Alona is similarly not interested in him in any capacity more than curiosity. But why the fuck shouldn’t they, Misha thinks. Sometimes a little comfort can go a long way.
Naturally, as Misha is thinking this, his fingers threading into Alona’s hair and nipping at her bottom lip to make her giggle, Jensen decides, once again, that flying through the door unannounced would be a fantastic idea.
To be fair, he simply opens the door and walks in. He makes it a step before faltering.
Misha scrambles off Alona, who looks up at Jensen from upside down and says, “Hi, Jenny!”
“Um,” Jensen says, clearly at a loss for words. Anger, confusion and other unidentified emotions flicker over his face.
“It’s not what it looks like,” Misha tries feebly.
“It looks like you’re about to have sex with Jared’s little sister,” Jensen says, and his voice is deep and dangerous.
“Well, see, that’s exactly why it isn’t what it looks like.”
“What, do you have some weird kissing fetish or something?” Jensen asks, ignoring him. “It’s kinda messed up, man.”
“Fuck off,” Misha snaps. “Just because you don’t want to stick your tongue down my throat doesn’t mean others feel the same.”
Jensen glares and Alona pipes up from the bed, “I’m just gonna...” She waves at the window with one hand, grabbing her coat with the other. Misha spares her a glance and a rueful smile, which she returns with a shooing motion meant, he assumes, that he should make things right with Jensen.
Another draft of cold air and Alona is gone, shimmying over the balcony and out of sight.
“Well,” Misha dares, standing his ground in front of Jensen.
“I don’t want to talk about this again,” Jensen says angrily, and spins back to the door to escape.
“No fucking way,” Misha growls, and in two steps he’s caught up with Jensen, an arm out and leaning on the door to keep it closed.
“Misha, let me out,” Jensen says icily.
“No,” Misha replies, crowding Jensen back against the door. If they’re going to have this out they’re going to do it properly. “Not until you admit you have feelings for me too.”
“Misha,” Jensen warns again.
“Fuck, Jensen!” Misha snaps, loudly, throwing his hands up in near defeat. If Jensen leaves, he leaves. “Is the idea really so repulsive to you?”
“Seriously?” Jensen is incredulous, but he makes no move to leave. “You’re the one who’s fucking with my feelings.”
Misha can feel the heat coming off Jensen’s body in waves, the tension radiating from his tensed fight-or-flight stance.
“Oh my god, Jensen. How fucking dense are you? For the next Dux of the school you’re being a god damned idiot. I already told you: I don’t want to fuck with you, I want to fuck you. Big difference.”
Jensen opens his mouth to reply, but then shuts it again. His eyes are a dark green that reminds Misha of wet moss. They stare at each other, neither saying anything. Jensen seems to be processing, or maybe planning Misha’s death, he can’t quite tell. Misha’s about to pull away, to spare them from a stalemate of anger that will have them standing there all night, when Jensen seems to shiver and take a breath. Jensen’s hand darts out to catch Misha’s wrist before he can move away.
“I don’t... I never...” Jensen babbles.
“First time for everything,” Misha says softly, not allowing the hope building in his heart to take flight.
Jensen nods and then, as easy as if they’ve done it a million times, he’s pulling Misha into him, his mouth finding Misha’s.
Misha goes slow, allowing Jensen to take control of the pace, scared he’s going to run again. But Jensen has clearly made up his mind, and having done so, Misha notes, he’s clearly going to try and excel at it like he does everything else. Jensen opens to him, gasping as Misha presses himself in, presses Jensen back against the door with the weight of his body. Jensen matches him move for move, pulling at Misha’s belt loops and hauling him in flush. Their kiss is a battle for dominance that neither wants to lose, or win.
Their breath mingles, the temperature rising between them as the kiss deepens, sharing and darkly intimate in a way Misha can’t remember it ever being with someone before. Jensen sucks on Misha’s tongue, runs his own over Misha’s bottom lip before pulling back to suck on that too.
When Misha moans, instead of pulling away, Jensen slides his hands around Misha’s waist, up to his shoulder blades and down again, touching and clawing, pulling at Misha’s t-shirt. A second later, as Misha presses his filling erection into Jensen’s thigh, Jensen moans for himself.
Mutually, they decide to move. Misha fumbles with the chair at his desk, scraping it loudly across the floor and jamming it under the doorknob as a makeshift lock. Then they’re shuffling backwards towards the bed, a mess of arms and legs and lips. They hit Jensen’s bed first, and suddenly the world turns horizontal as they lie side-by-side, hands petting and touching. Learning.
Misha can’t help the goofy smile he wears as he takes in Jensen’s pink-flushed lips and cheeks. Their legs tangle together as Misha darts back in, presses his lips to a pulse point in Jensen’s neck and sucks in a way that makes Jensen shiver and press his own hardening cock against Misha.
They go slow, Misha checking each step of the way to make sure that Jensen is still okay, to the point where Jensen rolls his eyes and takes control, flattening Misha to the bed and though somewhat cautiously, mapping and marking every inch of Misha’s body. In the end, they go for fumbled hand-jobs, mostly clothed, Jensen’s breath hitching and his voice catching in glorious mewls as Misha brings him to orgasm with his fingers wrapped tight and lovingly around his cock. The look of wonder that transforms Jensen’s face is worth every argument they had to get to this point.
Misha starts to bring himself off, careful to not assume Jensen is ready to touch another guy’s cock, but Jensen stops him, gently removing Misha’s hand and replacing it with his own, kissing Misha slowly and sure as he does it. Misha’s moans get swallowed by Jensen’s mouth; he tries to be quiet. It’s imperative that they are, that they don’t draw attention to themselves, draw a teacher, or, worse, the dean. But he can’t help it. Jensen’s hand is firm and warm, pulling against his sensitive cock, and the gasps and growls that come out of him are not Misha’ fault. When he comes, stunned and breathless, Jensen pulls back and looks at him with such amazement that Misha almost has to look away, unused to such raw emotion being thrown his way. But he doesn’t. Couldn’t, anyway.
As they fall asleep on Misha’s bed to avoid the mess, Misha can’t help but think that maybe coming down here, to this school and its entitlement, its money and expectations, wasn’t all that bad. He nudges Jensen’s nose with his own.
“What?” Jensen asks, a sleepy mumble.
“I told you I wasn’t fucking with you,” Misha says.
“Okay. I might believe you now.”
“You’re pretty magnanimous that way,” Misha concedes.
“I am,” Jensen agrees cockily and squeezes Misha with such familiarity and ease that Misha can’t believe this is the same boy that was so angry with him these last few weeks - hell, even an hour ago.
This development, the warm body in his arms, Jensen slipping into sleep contentedly, doesn’t change anything. He’s still determined to get out of here the second he turns eighteen next year.
But, he thinks, allowing his own eyelids to slide closed, his thoughts to muddle and swirl in the dance into unconsciousness, it just got a hell of a lot harder.
* * *
Chapter Eight
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