CELEBRATION PORN \o/ - Hair of the Dog [NC-17, Jensen/Misha]
RENEGADE FIC = DONE AND SUBMITTED.
SEE THAT? THAT IS THE AMOUNT OF RELIEF I AM FEELING RIGHT NOW.
ghosts: I fucking love you so hard right now.
And in celebration, I bring you: PORN! Of the Jensen/Misha variety, because...why not?
Title: ...um, I never thought of one. Suggestions, anyone? Hair of the Dog (thank you, elvisglasses5! You rock hardcore. ♥)
Pairing: Jensen/Misha
Warnings: Blatant, unrepentant porn. And tequila. And a little schmoop, IDEFK.
Word Count: 3,490
Disclaimer: All in good fun. And I do mean fun.
Summary: ...really? In which Jensen is wickedly hungover, does in-bed body shots with Misha, and has the best fucking birthday of his anyone's life.
A/N: Unabashed PWP for the wondrous fullonswayzeed's birthday earlier this month. I'm just now posting it since Renegade had me all tied up, and not even in the good, kinky way either.
Be gentle with me; I wrote this in like three hours on a whim.
~ ~ ~
Jensen is fucking trashed.
Or rather he was trashed last night, when it was still February and he’d for some stupid reason let Jared talk him into going out for a birthday margarita or two. Or three or eight or fucking seventy-four, plus a couple of Patron shots, and some Coronas, and there may or may not have been something about sombreros, and that’s how Jensen had ended up in this wretched state of entropy he’s currently suffering through.
Not trashed any more, just really. Fucking. Hungover.
He wants to destroy the alarm clock as it burns a hard line into him, skinny red 9:43 that reads instead as a very clear fuck you to Jensen. He groans out loud and when he flips over, the room tilts so badly he wonders for a fleeting moment if Jared somehow talked him into falling asleep in a fucking rowboat in the middle of the ocean or something, instead of his own bed. His stomach gives a sudden lurch and clenches, and he’s almost positive he’s about to Linda Blair this shit and projectile vomit tequila all over his bedroom, but then he hears a quiet nnnnhhhh beside him and everything else but the low growl of voice and the gentle soft warmth of a body fitted to his side fades entirely.
The covers shift and wind around the cocoon-like form beside him, and Jensen’s so out of it he doesn’t even realize for a full minute that the movement pulled all the covers from his own body and left him lying quite spectacularly naked and sprawled out without so much as a pity scrap of sheet to cover up his danglies. He grunts and yanks at the bundle of covers spitefully, surprised when the weight of a body comes with them and lands hard against his abdomen. A strangled oof punches out of his mouth and the covers kick around, quick flash of hand flailing around to fight the sheets back. Jensen scrambles to get his body covered, unnaturally timid as he is, and watches as the sheet peel back to reveal a crown of the craziest bedhead Jensen’s ever seen. He actually laughs because of it. Honest to god fucking laughs, even with as shitty as he’s feeling right now.
A short sigh and the covers dip down just enough for a pair of eyes as blue as flame to blink up at Jensen. His grin widens by leaps and fucking bounds as thin white fingers curl over the blanket and tug it down just enough to expose the perfect fine line of a nose and the precise curves of two perfectly-arched cheekbones. Those same sleep-swollen eyes blink in unsynchronized slow motion as Jensen swallows back another laugh.
“Is it time to get up already?” Misha asks, words slurred by the press of covers across his lips. Jensen thinks about it for a minute, rolls the idea around in his head, but ultimately ends up jerking the alarm clock’s plug out of the wall and settling his arm around the thin bend of Misha’s waist again, legs all tangled up and their bodies meeting like a question-mark curl, Misha’s back to Jensen’s chest, as they catnap the afternoon away.
~ ~ ~
Jensen wakes up at - well, actually he doesn’t know what time he wakes up, because he went and unplugged the damn alarm clock earlier and he has no earthly idea where his watch ended up last night. Maybe in his car; maybe in some pool hustler’s pocket; maybe in the reckless pile of discarded clothes torn off in a storm, treasure trail leading from the front door to the bed.
So Jensen has no idea when he wakes up, only that he wakes up with something warm squirming around on his neck that must be a tongue with how slippery and hot it feels. Jensen shivers and bucks away from the contact, because it fucking tickles, okay?, and he hears Misha laugh in response, and that’s when he notices that he can’t really move anywhere very sufficiently because he’s got the full weight of Misha’s body straddling his hips.
And that’s definitely an acceptable way to wake up every morning, Jensen thinks, with one hotass Misha Collins sitting on your lap, tonguing at your throat with the same careful precision he’d used on your cock just last night.
Yeah, Jensen could get used to this.
All the same, he paws at his eyes with too-heavy hands and groans unintelligibly. Misha laughs again, a whisper-thin snicker, before there is a quiet chk-chk and a glug, then a ridiculously enticing shllllp as Misha’s tongue sweeps all along the line of Jensen’s collarbone.
Jensen’s eyes open, and he’d have to be a fucking robot not to shiver at the sight of Misha sitting back with that cat-who-got-the-cream smirk on his face and a bottle of tequila in his hand, bare-chested and licking at his lips with this glint in his too-blue eyes that Jensen can only describe as hungry. “Morning, sunshine,” Misha chimes smoothly.
Jensen fucking beams then, grinning so wide he’s not sure how his face doesn’t split clean in half. He groans again, not really capable of speech just yet because a) he’s still hung over as fuck, and b.) Misha has this way of impairing the higher brain functions of anyone within his immediate vicinity, Jensen most of all. A mighty yawn cracks out of his throat as he stretches up and instantly relaxes again. “What’re you doing?”
Misha shrugs one shoulder, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, and says, “Body shots.”
One of Jensen’s eyebrows hooks up and his hands finds Misha’s hips like magnets. “Don’t you need two players for that?”
Misha lifts one of Jensen’s wrists and flips it over, licking a long stripe across the pale streak of flesh before shaking salt onto it. Jensen squirms lightly, the one hand left on Misha’s hipbone kneading slightly, because Jesus Christ, watching Misha lick at his wrist like that, his eyes set firmly on Jensen’s face the whole time? Yeah, that’s probably enough to set half the world’s collective panties on fire ten times over. Jensen’s pretty sure he could come just from that, and maybe he would if he wasn’t still so fucked-out and muscle-knotted from their rabid grappling fuckfest last night.
Jensen can’t help the sudden laugh that bubbles out of his throat at the thought. Yeah, he had an awesome pre-birthday party.
“What’s funny?” Misha asks nonchalantly as he pivots and positions Jensen’s wrist around, a determined frown creasing between his eyebrows.
And as stupid as it is - stupid because there’s not a millimeter of his body that hasn’t already been seen, touched, licked, sucked, or fucked by Misha at this point - Jensen feels his cheeks darken with a blush. “Just - thinking about last night.”
Misha gives an understanding ah and sucks the salt from Jensen’s skin without warning. He cleans it all off, then tosses back a pull of Cuervo, and goddamn if Jensen knows how he got so fucking lucky to be able to have this. To be able to have Misha. The bottle lowers and he hisses out a breath, and Jensen is thinking something sappy and uncharacteristic, holy shit this man is a work of art or something along those tracklines ghosting through his head and luckily not jumping out of his mouth. Instead he’s just grinning stupidly, like a total dope, as Misha smiles wide and bright and says, under his breath, “Your turn.”
Jensen whines and bats the bottle away. “Tequila - evil. No. No more.”
“Ah, come on,” Misha jeers.
“No, dude, I’m - I feel like a got hit by a garbage truck as it is.”
“So?” Misha snerks. “Drink away the pain then. Alcohol numbs the pain receptors, you know. Fuck your nervous system.”
“You gonna pay for my liver transplant?”
“You are such a fucking brat.”
One of Jensen’s hands falls across his eyes as he forces out a melodramatic sigh. Works every time, though, because Misha sighs sharply and Jensen feels the pressure over his hips resituate as he leans over to set the bottle on the end table with a quiet clink. When Jensen doesn’t move or respond with anything but a quiet mmf, Misha says, “Well since you’re such a wuss, I got a better idea.”
Then suddenly there are warm hands planing across his chest and twisting at his nipples, the wet heat of a mouth suckling at his throat, and Jensen’s entire body judders like somebody rigged him up with spark plugs. And even with as much crazy amounts of marathon sex they no doubt had last night - and Jensen is never going to stop kicking the shit out of himself because he doesn’t quiet remember all of it, and that’s just not fair at all - Jensen’s body isn’t swayed and he’s at all systems go in about five seconds flat.
It’s not surprising, really, considering Misha is sitting on top of him, and Misha is sighing warm moist air across his neck, and grinding his hips down against Jensen’s already hard cock, and Misha is just Misha. Jensen only has to look at the guy and he’s walking around with a damn boner for the rest of the day, for crying out loud.
See, Misha’s got this thing about him. He’s always got something simmering under the surface, some gleam sparking in his eyes of that secret that hangs heavy between them. On set, Jensen can feel when Misha watches him, the slow crawling press of his eyes. During filming or between scenes, Misha is always watching, he’s constantly observing and dissecting every move of Jensen’s body. Jensen thinks it might be some possessive thing, some voyeuristic thrill of that’s mine and nobody else knows, or maybe Misha’s just plotting out all the dirty things he’s going to do to him once the slate clicks and they’re all wandering home. Whatever it is, though, he likes it, which is odd considering Jensen’s not exactly an attention whore or anything. Put him in front of a camera and he’s a regular ham, but behind closed doors he’s an avid practitioner of the only speak when you’re spoken to rule, for the most part.
Except around Misha, because Misha’s got this easy charm that puts anyone around him at ease better than a Swedish fucking massage. Jensen doesn’t understand it.
He also doesn’t understand how Misha can be so quiet and gentle, yet at the same time commanding and persistent when he sets his sights on something he wants. Jensen’s back goes rigid when Misha’s mouth first encircles his cock, splendid wet heat that wrings a loud moan from somewhere deep in Jensen’s belly. “Shit, Misha,” he sighs as his back settles, then arches up again when Misha fucking deepthroats him without warning. “Fuck, you don’t - don’t waste any time, do you?”
Misha hums and slinks up Jensen’s body, lithe as a shadow, deft fingers working where his mouth left off. He stilts an elbow beside Jensen’s head and doesn’t try to hide it that he’s staring straight down at what his hand is doing. In fact he makes it a point to let Jensen know he’s watching. “You should be used to that by now,” he says, conversational but smooth and rich as molasses pouring over Jensen’s body. The words alone make Jensen shudder, and Misha grins like a Cheshire cat. “You too fucked-out?”
Jensen’s eyes blink open even though he doesn’t ever remember closing them. Misha is staring up at his face now, honestly waiting for an answer while his hand still strokes and teases soft slides along Jensen’s cock. And Jensen’s kind of thinking that’s unfair, that Misha is using some tactic on him that should be illegal, because with those spectacular hands of his working Jensen closer and closer to the edge like he is, how the fuck is Jensen supposed to tell him to stop?
“No,” he sighs raggedly, but Misha doesn’t seem convinced. His eyes narrow to slits, lips softly bending into an incredulous half-smirk. Jensen can see the cogs turning in his head. He can see that Misha is calculating, working to figure him out before he says anything. So Jensen forces a smile even though he feels like a shit sandwich, and gropes at Misha’s hips, slipping slick fingertips below the line of his boxers. “No, I’m good.”
“You look like shit,” Misha says plainly. Add that to the list of things about Misha that Jensen finds continually amazing: that he can say something like you look like shit and make it sound warm and affectionate and just right. Jensen supposes it’s how he means it, the soft sympathy of his voice, that does it. “You sure you can manage the physical demands of fucking right now?”
And yeah, Jensen might feel like he’s just woken up all carpet-tongued and sore from a month-long bender and getting fucked seven ways from Sunday just last night, but Misha is still straddling his hips and rubbing the soft skin of his belly up against Jensen’s cock, and he’s fucking aching for it, so he’d agree to just about anything at this point. He snorts back a laugh and nudges Misha’s boxers down a little more. “Well when you put it like that, I don’t even feel hungover anymore.”
“I don’t believe you,” Misha purrs with a smirk that makes Jensen’s pulse rev. He pushes back and resituates just enough to kick out of his boxers and settle back down, lower, one knee on each side of Jensen’s thighs, and Jensen can’t stop staring at the subtle bronze streak of his chest, or the lean muscles of his waist, the thin perfect length of his arms, the bite mark hovering just above his hip that Jensen put there twelve hours ago.
“You should,” Jensen answers, proud when his voice doesn’t waver.
“Should I?”
“Definitely.”
“Why?”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re lying.” Misha grins when he says it, that same dark tease sinking into his features. He wraps a hand around Jensen’s cock and slithers back down, licks a long line from base to tip. His eyes don’t leave Jensen’s face the entire time, and he pushes his free hand quite firmly against Jensen’s hips when they instinctively buck up from the bed. Some noise that’s vaguely a nnnghhh rolls out of Jensen’s mouth when Misha pulls back and laughs, warm puffs of air teasing his cock with every word Misha says. “I fucked you stupid last night, Jen, you can’t tell me your ass isn’t sore.”
Jensen slams his eyes shut and gasps at the words. He’d be blushing with anyone else right now, because dirty talk is just not his thing, never has been, but Misha’s perfected it to a science. A fucking art form. It’s as natural as breathing to him, just another puzzle piece of his confidence and his enigma that draws Jensen to him like iron to a magnet. He can make dialogue ripped straight out of a porno sound graceful, what the fuck.
Another lick, another gasp. “Yyyyheah, but -…”
Jensen’s got just enough time to open his eyes when he feels Misha lift away from his thighs, just enough time to choke out a wait that sounds too desperate for his liking, but then Misha’s crawling up his body and holding onto his dick just right, sinking down with one hand on Jensen’s stomach and fucking riding him, and Jensen feels like his goddamn head might as well just explode right the fuck now, because he absolutely can. Not. Take. This.
His hands grip Misha’s hips tighter, rough enough to bleach the skin white beneath his fingertips, when he feels Misha’s hips meet his and he knows he’s as far inside as he can get. It’s deliciously hot, so fucking tight it almost hurts Jensen, so he knows it’s got to be hurting Misha.
But Misha’s not showing it if it is. His head tips back and he moans long and low, the sound something wicked and profane that shouldn’t even be possible because it’s so goddamn hot, before he starts moving. Slow, at first, then gaining a rhythm that’s still apprehensive but determined at the same time. Jensen’s brain isn’t exactly firing on all pistons, what with being wrung out like a sponge with the dehydration of way too many drinks last night, but his body’s catching up quick to the quiet sighs and whimpers Misha’s making, hushed fuck fuck fucks that have Jensen holding onto the bony dips of Misha’s hipbones so hard his finger-bones ache.
He breathes out Misha’s name, sighs a dozen or so extra syllables into it, and the sound seems to drive Misha up the fucking wall. He’s gone wild in a flash, scrabbling at Jensen’s chest and shoulders, stomach, wrists, anything he can reach. One of Jensen’s hands is ripped from his hip, maneuvered forcibly to wrap around Misha’s cock and directed in a less-than-gentle rhythm that matches the newly restless cadence his hips have picked up. Jensen hikes up his knees behind Misha, palms his cock and squeezes just the way he knows Misha likes it. It’s dizzying and blisteringly hot, and Jensen’s body is slick with sweat in places he didn’t even know he could sweat, one of Misha’s hands coming up to fist in his hair as he leans forward to change the angle just slightly, that one final nudge, and then the dominoes are falling and Jensen’s head bleaches out with the sound of Misha saying fuck, Jen, fucking Christ, the clamp of Misha’s muscles around Jensen’s cock sending him straight onto the edge ready to jump the fuck off.
And he does, too, when there’s a quick hot splash across his stomach and his knees lock up, literally fucking lock up, snap flat against the bed when Misha’s muscles jerk tighter than should even be fucking possible, Jensen thinks, and he comes in a sudden bright flare that feels like a bodywide flashburn.
Misha’s rolling off of him a second later, crashing to the bed with a throaty groan in the shape of Jensen’s name. And Jensen can’t quite see or think or function beyond base biological reactions - arrhythmia happening in his chest, sucking air like breathing underwater, neurons and chemicals firing off in overdrive, dopamine or adrenaline or what the fuck ever flooding his system en masse - but Jensen knows he can’t stop his hands from shaking, and he knows his tongue is dry in his mouth and moving to form words before he means to.
“Holy fuck, Misha, you are a fucking God.” It slips out of his throat before his own ears even catch up to the sound of it. Any other time he might find it embarrassing, such a bared admission of awe, but he’s sated and burning and it still feels like drowning by inches, so they’re just going to have to fucking deal.
Misha laughs, sort of, this weird-sounding twist of air pushing out of his lungs between clumsy gasps and pants. He squirms around, inches up the bed to get closer, and then all Jensen can think about is how fucking spectacular Misha’s mouth feels moving against his own. Soft and warm and tangy with tequila still, his tongue smoothly lapping at the roof of Jensen’s mouth, curling expertly with Jensen’s own. He opens his mouth just enough, sighs into Jensen’s mouth just enough, and Jesus fucking Christ on a pogo stick, he kisses like a goddamn porn star if anyone ever has before.
He pulls away though, leaving Jensen clutching at air and blinking fogged eyes over at him. One side of his lips curl up, kiss-stained and delectable and addictive, and he laughs again, and Jensen’s caught gaping like a complete dumbass but he doesn’t care. Because Misha’s hair is sticking to his forehead in random places, his skin flushed and hot and glowing, and Jensen’s just thinking how he is really, really just goddamn beautiful like this.
Misha licks at his lips and twists around until he’s flat on his back again, head resting against the curve of Jensen’s chest. He tugs at Jensen’s arm until it comes free, easy since Jensen has no fucking control over his muscles anymore anyway, and maneuvers it around until it’s curled protectively around Misha’s shoulders. They’re tangled up and crooked, skewed all across the bed with the blankets kicked onto the floor and the sheets full-on soaked through, Misha’s head fit to the bend of Jensen’s ribs like it was meant to go there, with Misha absently fooling around with Jensen’s fingers and pulling them up every once in a while to kiss them, and Jensen just smiles, smiles like a kid in a candy store because he can’t think of a better way to spend his birthday than this.
Y/y? Maybe?
SEE THAT? THAT IS THE AMOUNT OF RELIEF I AM FEELING RIGHT NOW.
ghosts: I fucking love you so hard right now.
And in celebration, I bring you: PORN! Of the Jensen/Misha variety, because...why not?
Title: ...um, I never thought of one. Suggestions, anyone? Hair of the Dog (thank you, elvisglasses5! You rock hardcore. ♥)
Pairing: Jensen/Misha
Warnings: Blatant, unrepentant porn. And tequila. And a little schmoop, IDEFK.
Word Count: 3,490
Disclaimer: All in good fun. And I do mean fun.
Summary: ...really? In which Jensen is wickedly hungover, does in-bed body shots with Misha, and has the best fucking birthday of his anyone's life.
A/N: Unabashed PWP for the wondrous fullonswayzeed's birthday earlier this month. I'm just now posting it since Renegade had me all tied up, and not even in the good, kinky way either.
Be gentle with me; I wrote this in like three hours on a whim.
~ ~ ~
Jensen is fucking trashed.
Or rather he was trashed last night, when it was still February and he’d for some stupid reason let Jared talk him into going out for a birthday margarita or two. Or three or eight or fucking seventy-four, plus a couple of Patron shots, and some Coronas, and there may or may not have been something about sombreros, and that’s how Jensen had ended up in this wretched state of entropy he’s currently suffering through.
Not trashed any more, just really. Fucking. Hungover.
He wants to destroy the alarm clock as it burns a hard line into him, skinny red 9:43 that reads instead as a very clear fuck you to Jensen. He groans out loud and when he flips over, the room tilts so badly he wonders for a fleeting moment if Jared somehow talked him into falling asleep in a fucking rowboat in the middle of the ocean or something, instead of his own bed. His stomach gives a sudden lurch and clenches, and he’s almost positive he’s about to Linda Blair this shit and projectile vomit tequila all over his bedroom, but then he hears a quiet nnnnhhhh beside him and everything else but the low growl of voice and the gentle soft warmth of a body fitted to his side fades entirely.
The covers shift and wind around the cocoon-like form beside him, and Jensen’s so out of it he doesn’t even realize for a full minute that the movement pulled all the covers from his own body and left him lying quite spectacularly naked and sprawled out without so much as a pity scrap of sheet to cover up his danglies. He grunts and yanks at the bundle of covers spitefully, surprised when the weight of a body comes with them and lands hard against his abdomen. A strangled oof punches out of his mouth and the covers kick around, quick flash of hand flailing around to fight the sheets back. Jensen scrambles to get his body covered, unnaturally timid as he is, and watches as the sheet peel back to reveal a crown of the craziest bedhead Jensen’s ever seen. He actually laughs because of it. Honest to god fucking laughs, even with as shitty as he’s feeling right now.
A short sigh and the covers dip down just enough for a pair of eyes as blue as flame to blink up at Jensen. His grin widens by leaps and fucking bounds as thin white fingers curl over the blanket and tug it down just enough to expose the perfect fine line of a nose and the precise curves of two perfectly-arched cheekbones. Those same sleep-swollen eyes blink in unsynchronized slow motion as Jensen swallows back another laugh.
“Is it time to get up already?” Misha asks, words slurred by the press of covers across his lips. Jensen thinks about it for a minute, rolls the idea around in his head, but ultimately ends up jerking the alarm clock’s plug out of the wall and settling his arm around the thin bend of Misha’s waist again, legs all tangled up and their bodies meeting like a question-mark curl, Misha’s back to Jensen’s chest, as they catnap the afternoon away.
~ ~ ~
Jensen wakes up at - well, actually he doesn’t know what time he wakes up, because he went and unplugged the damn alarm clock earlier and he has no earthly idea where his watch ended up last night. Maybe in his car; maybe in some pool hustler’s pocket; maybe in the reckless pile of discarded clothes torn off in a storm, treasure trail leading from the front door to the bed.
So Jensen has no idea when he wakes up, only that he wakes up with something warm squirming around on his neck that must be a tongue with how slippery and hot it feels. Jensen shivers and bucks away from the contact, because it fucking tickles, okay?, and he hears Misha laugh in response, and that’s when he notices that he can’t really move anywhere very sufficiently because he’s got the full weight of Misha’s body straddling his hips.
And that’s definitely an acceptable way to wake up every morning, Jensen thinks, with one hotass Misha Collins sitting on your lap, tonguing at your throat with the same careful precision he’d used on your cock just last night.
Yeah, Jensen could get used to this.
All the same, he paws at his eyes with too-heavy hands and groans unintelligibly. Misha laughs again, a whisper-thin snicker, before there is a quiet chk-chk and a glug, then a ridiculously enticing shllllp as Misha’s tongue sweeps all along the line of Jensen’s collarbone.
Jensen’s eyes open, and he’d have to be a fucking robot not to shiver at the sight of Misha sitting back with that cat-who-got-the-cream smirk on his face and a bottle of tequila in his hand, bare-chested and licking at his lips with this glint in his too-blue eyes that Jensen can only describe as hungry. “Morning, sunshine,” Misha chimes smoothly.
Jensen fucking beams then, grinning so wide he’s not sure how his face doesn’t split clean in half. He groans again, not really capable of speech just yet because a) he’s still hung over as fuck, and b.) Misha has this way of impairing the higher brain functions of anyone within his immediate vicinity, Jensen most of all. A mighty yawn cracks out of his throat as he stretches up and instantly relaxes again. “What’re you doing?”
Misha shrugs one shoulder, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, and says, “Body shots.”
One of Jensen’s eyebrows hooks up and his hands finds Misha’s hips like magnets. “Don’t you need two players for that?”
Misha lifts one of Jensen’s wrists and flips it over, licking a long stripe across the pale streak of flesh before shaking salt onto it. Jensen squirms lightly, the one hand left on Misha’s hipbone kneading slightly, because Jesus Christ, watching Misha lick at his wrist like that, his eyes set firmly on Jensen’s face the whole time? Yeah, that’s probably enough to set half the world’s collective panties on fire ten times over. Jensen’s pretty sure he could come just from that, and maybe he would if he wasn’t still so fucked-out and muscle-knotted from their rabid grappling fuckfest last night.
Jensen can’t help the sudden laugh that bubbles out of his throat at the thought. Yeah, he had an awesome pre-birthday party.
“What’s funny?” Misha asks nonchalantly as he pivots and positions Jensen’s wrist around, a determined frown creasing between his eyebrows.
And as stupid as it is - stupid because there’s not a millimeter of his body that hasn’t already been seen, touched, licked, sucked, or fucked by Misha at this point - Jensen feels his cheeks darken with a blush. “Just - thinking about last night.”
Misha gives an understanding ah and sucks the salt from Jensen’s skin without warning. He cleans it all off, then tosses back a pull of Cuervo, and goddamn if Jensen knows how he got so fucking lucky to be able to have this. To be able to have Misha. The bottle lowers and he hisses out a breath, and Jensen is thinking something sappy and uncharacteristic, holy shit this man is a work of art or something along those tracklines ghosting through his head and luckily not jumping out of his mouth. Instead he’s just grinning stupidly, like a total dope, as Misha smiles wide and bright and says, under his breath, “Your turn.”
Jensen whines and bats the bottle away. “Tequila - evil. No. No more.”
“Ah, come on,” Misha jeers.
“No, dude, I’m - I feel like a got hit by a garbage truck as it is.”
“So?” Misha snerks. “Drink away the pain then. Alcohol numbs the pain receptors, you know. Fuck your nervous system.”
“You gonna pay for my liver transplant?”
“You are such a fucking brat.”
One of Jensen’s hands falls across his eyes as he forces out a melodramatic sigh. Works every time, though, because Misha sighs sharply and Jensen feels the pressure over his hips resituate as he leans over to set the bottle on the end table with a quiet clink. When Jensen doesn’t move or respond with anything but a quiet mmf, Misha says, “Well since you’re such a wuss, I got a better idea.”
Then suddenly there are warm hands planing across his chest and twisting at his nipples, the wet heat of a mouth suckling at his throat, and Jensen’s entire body judders like somebody rigged him up with spark plugs. And even with as much crazy amounts of marathon sex they no doubt had last night - and Jensen is never going to stop kicking the shit out of himself because he doesn’t quiet remember all of it, and that’s just not fair at all - Jensen’s body isn’t swayed and he’s at all systems go in about five seconds flat.
It’s not surprising, really, considering Misha is sitting on top of him, and Misha is sighing warm moist air across his neck, and grinding his hips down against Jensen’s already hard cock, and Misha is just Misha. Jensen only has to look at the guy and he’s walking around with a damn boner for the rest of the day, for crying out loud.
See, Misha’s got this thing about him. He’s always got something simmering under the surface, some gleam sparking in his eyes of that secret that hangs heavy between them. On set, Jensen can feel when Misha watches him, the slow crawling press of his eyes. During filming or between scenes, Misha is always watching, he’s constantly observing and dissecting every move of Jensen’s body. Jensen thinks it might be some possessive thing, some voyeuristic thrill of that’s mine and nobody else knows, or maybe Misha’s just plotting out all the dirty things he’s going to do to him once the slate clicks and they’re all wandering home. Whatever it is, though, he likes it, which is odd considering Jensen’s not exactly an attention whore or anything. Put him in front of a camera and he’s a regular ham, but behind closed doors he’s an avid practitioner of the only speak when you’re spoken to rule, for the most part.
Except around Misha, because Misha’s got this easy charm that puts anyone around him at ease better than a Swedish fucking massage. Jensen doesn’t understand it.
He also doesn’t understand how Misha can be so quiet and gentle, yet at the same time commanding and persistent when he sets his sights on something he wants. Jensen’s back goes rigid when Misha’s mouth first encircles his cock, splendid wet heat that wrings a loud moan from somewhere deep in Jensen’s belly. “Shit, Misha,” he sighs as his back settles, then arches up again when Misha fucking deepthroats him without warning. “Fuck, you don’t - don’t waste any time, do you?”
Misha hums and slinks up Jensen’s body, lithe as a shadow, deft fingers working where his mouth left off. He stilts an elbow beside Jensen’s head and doesn’t try to hide it that he’s staring straight down at what his hand is doing. In fact he makes it a point to let Jensen know he’s watching. “You should be used to that by now,” he says, conversational but smooth and rich as molasses pouring over Jensen’s body. The words alone make Jensen shudder, and Misha grins like a Cheshire cat. “You too fucked-out?”
Jensen’s eyes blink open even though he doesn’t ever remember closing them. Misha is staring up at his face now, honestly waiting for an answer while his hand still strokes and teases soft slides along Jensen’s cock. And Jensen’s kind of thinking that’s unfair, that Misha is using some tactic on him that should be illegal, because with those spectacular hands of his working Jensen closer and closer to the edge like he is, how the fuck is Jensen supposed to tell him to stop?
“No,” he sighs raggedly, but Misha doesn’t seem convinced. His eyes narrow to slits, lips softly bending into an incredulous half-smirk. Jensen can see the cogs turning in his head. He can see that Misha is calculating, working to figure him out before he says anything. So Jensen forces a smile even though he feels like a shit sandwich, and gropes at Misha’s hips, slipping slick fingertips below the line of his boxers. “No, I’m good.”
“You look like shit,” Misha says plainly. Add that to the list of things about Misha that Jensen finds continually amazing: that he can say something like you look like shit and make it sound warm and affectionate and just right. Jensen supposes it’s how he means it, the soft sympathy of his voice, that does it. “You sure you can manage the physical demands of fucking right now?”
And yeah, Jensen might feel like he’s just woken up all carpet-tongued and sore from a month-long bender and getting fucked seven ways from Sunday just last night, but Misha is still straddling his hips and rubbing the soft skin of his belly up against Jensen’s cock, and he’s fucking aching for it, so he’d agree to just about anything at this point. He snorts back a laugh and nudges Misha’s boxers down a little more. “Well when you put it like that, I don’t even feel hungover anymore.”
“I don’t believe you,” Misha purrs with a smirk that makes Jensen’s pulse rev. He pushes back and resituates just enough to kick out of his boxers and settle back down, lower, one knee on each side of Jensen’s thighs, and Jensen can’t stop staring at the subtle bronze streak of his chest, or the lean muscles of his waist, the thin perfect length of his arms, the bite mark hovering just above his hip that Jensen put there twelve hours ago.
“You should,” Jensen answers, proud when his voice doesn’t waver.
“Should I?”
“Definitely.”
“Why?”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re lying.” Misha grins when he says it, that same dark tease sinking into his features. He wraps a hand around Jensen’s cock and slithers back down, licks a long line from base to tip. His eyes don’t leave Jensen’s face the entire time, and he pushes his free hand quite firmly against Jensen’s hips when they instinctively buck up from the bed. Some noise that’s vaguely a nnnghhh rolls out of Jensen’s mouth when Misha pulls back and laughs, warm puffs of air teasing his cock with every word Misha says. “I fucked you stupid last night, Jen, you can’t tell me your ass isn’t sore.”
Jensen slams his eyes shut and gasps at the words. He’d be blushing with anyone else right now, because dirty talk is just not his thing, never has been, but Misha’s perfected it to a science. A fucking art form. It’s as natural as breathing to him, just another puzzle piece of his confidence and his enigma that draws Jensen to him like iron to a magnet. He can make dialogue ripped straight out of a porno sound graceful, what the fuck.
Another lick, another gasp. “Yyyyheah, but -…”
Jensen’s got just enough time to open his eyes when he feels Misha lift away from his thighs, just enough time to choke out a wait that sounds too desperate for his liking, but then Misha’s crawling up his body and holding onto his dick just right, sinking down with one hand on Jensen’s stomach and fucking riding him, and Jensen feels like his goddamn head might as well just explode right the fuck now, because he absolutely can. Not. Take. This.
His hands grip Misha’s hips tighter, rough enough to bleach the skin white beneath his fingertips, when he feels Misha’s hips meet his and he knows he’s as far inside as he can get. It’s deliciously hot, so fucking tight it almost hurts Jensen, so he knows it’s got to be hurting Misha.
But Misha’s not showing it if it is. His head tips back and he moans long and low, the sound something wicked and profane that shouldn’t even be possible because it’s so goddamn hot, before he starts moving. Slow, at first, then gaining a rhythm that’s still apprehensive but determined at the same time. Jensen’s brain isn’t exactly firing on all pistons, what with being wrung out like a sponge with the dehydration of way too many drinks last night, but his body’s catching up quick to the quiet sighs and whimpers Misha’s making, hushed fuck fuck fucks that have Jensen holding onto the bony dips of Misha’s hipbones so hard his finger-bones ache.
He breathes out Misha’s name, sighs a dozen or so extra syllables into it, and the sound seems to drive Misha up the fucking wall. He’s gone wild in a flash, scrabbling at Jensen’s chest and shoulders, stomach, wrists, anything he can reach. One of Jensen’s hands is ripped from his hip, maneuvered forcibly to wrap around Misha’s cock and directed in a less-than-gentle rhythm that matches the newly restless cadence his hips have picked up. Jensen hikes up his knees behind Misha, palms his cock and squeezes just the way he knows Misha likes it. It’s dizzying and blisteringly hot, and Jensen’s body is slick with sweat in places he didn’t even know he could sweat, one of Misha’s hands coming up to fist in his hair as he leans forward to change the angle just slightly, that one final nudge, and then the dominoes are falling and Jensen’s head bleaches out with the sound of Misha saying fuck, Jen, fucking Christ, the clamp of Misha’s muscles around Jensen’s cock sending him straight onto the edge ready to jump the fuck off.
And he does, too, when there’s a quick hot splash across his stomach and his knees lock up, literally fucking lock up, snap flat against the bed when Misha’s muscles jerk tighter than should even be fucking possible, Jensen thinks, and he comes in a sudden bright flare that feels like a bodywide flashburn.
Misha’s rolling off of him a second later, crashing to the bed with a throaty groan in the shape of Jensen’s name. And Jensen can’t quite see or think or function beyond base biological reactions - arrhythmia happening in his chest, sucking air like breathing underwater, neurons and chemicals firing off in overdrive, dopamine or adrenaline or what the fuck ever flooding his system en masse - but Jensen knows he can’t stop his hands from shaking, and he knows his tongue is dry in his mouth and moving to form words before he means to.
“Holy fuck, Misha, you are a fucking God.” It slips out of his throat before his own ears even catch up to the sound of it. Any other time he might find it embarrassing, such a bared admission of awe, but he’s sated and burning and it still feels like drowning by inches, so they’re just going to have to fucking deal.
Misha laughs, sort of, this weird-sounding twist of air pushing out of his lungs between clumsy gasps and pants. He squirms around, inches up the bed to get closer, and then all Jensen can think about is how fucking spectacular Misha’s mouth feels moving against his own. Soft and warm and tangy with tequila still, his tongue smoothly lapping at the roof of Jensen’s mouth, curling expertly with Jensen’s own. He opens his mouth just enough, sighs into Jensen’s mouth just enough, and Jesus fucking Christ on a pogo stick, he kisses like a goddamn porn star if anyone ever has before.
He pulls away though, leaving Jensen clutching at air and blinking fogged eyes over at him. One side of his lips curl up, kiss-stained and delectable and addictive, and he laughs again, and Jensen’s caught gaping like a complete dumbass but he doesn’t care. Because Misha’s hair is sticking to his forehead in random places, his skin flushed and hot and glowing, and Jensen’s just thinking how he is really, really just goddamn beautiful like this.
Misha licks at his lips and twists around until he’s flat on his back again, head resting against the curve of Jensen’s chest. He tugs at Jensen’s arm until it comes free, easy since Jensen has no fucking control over his muscles anymore anyway, and maneuvers it around until it’s curled protectively around Misha’s shoulders. They’re tangled up and crooked, skewed all across the bed with the blankets kicked onto the floor and the sheets full-on soaked through, Misha’s head fit to the bend of Jensen’s ribs like it was meant to go there, with Misha absently fooling around with Jensen’s fingers and pulling them up every once in a while to kiss them, and Jensen just smiles, smiles like a kid in a candy store because he can’t think of a better way to spend his birthday than this.
Y/y? Maybe?