[SPN RPS] By Foot it's a Slow Climb :: Jensen/Misha :: NC-17
Title: By Foot it’s a Slow Climb
Author: ionchannel (formerly veggie17)
Pairing: Jensen/Misha
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: 5.18
Disclaimer: This never happened. I don’t know these people, unfortunately. Title is from Fiona Apple’s Extraordinary Machine.
Thank you to the magnificent rogue_pixie88 for the beta and encouragement. ♥
Summary: Jensen has seen Misha naked plenty of times, but this is the first time he’s laid himself bare, wide open for Jensen to see.
Acting, Jensen has discovered, is a tug-of-war between masochism and sadism. His fascination with the human psyche is what led him to his vocation as an actor; for reasons he isn’t sure of, or perhaps isn’t comfortable acknowledging, it’s the grim and tragic side he’s been drawn to the most. Acting is the opportunity to live vicariously through a character, of experiencing pain and emerging largely unscathed. Jensen’s daily life is all about order and control, defences and tactics; the luxury to fall apart is a rarity that guards his sanity, even if he does so swathed in a character. His favourite scripts are the ones where the words are heavy enough to weigh down the pages in his hands and wrap around him like a second skin, leave him shaken down to his bones. When he’s done reading such a script - and he’s been lucky enough to be handed a fair share in the past five years - he’s terrifyingly exhilarated at the opportunity to bleed himself open, and it’s when he does his best work. There’s something cathartic and immensely satisfying about the experience, an art form like no other, and it’s precisely why Jensen has recognized it as his calling.
Jensen might be an actor, but he doesn’t know how to fake a feeling. Dean Winchester isn’t merely a borrowed costume he slips into for fourteen-hour workdays; isn’t simply an inconsequential fictional character. He recalls with strikingly vivid detail the moment he’d realized there’s more to Dean than charm and witty one-liners: sitting in his and Jared’s living room, feet up on the coffee table, a bottle of Bud in one hand and the script for Home in the other. By the time he’d read Hope, he knew he was in over his head, that this part wouldn’t be easy to shake. He sheds out of Dean’s clothes at the end of each day, but the remnants have long since interwoven into Jensen’s DNA. It’s a price he’s more than willing to pay.
Though they’ve never discussed it in so many words, Misha’s foray into acting had been catalyzed by entirely different motivations. Jensen guesses it had to have been the promise of freedom that lured him in: the opportunity to hop from one job to the next, to be a yoga instructor one month and a car thief the next. (Frankly, Jensen’s still unsure as to why Misha ever signed the Supernatural contract, though he’s grateful for it nonetheless.)
Misha’s philosophy of life is all about the present; he thrives on the unknown. He begrudges the concept of identity, finds it too limiting, nothing but a set of restrictive labels under which to operate, never stretching wide enough to encompass all that he is and wishes to become. Jensen’s always admired Misha’s peculiarity, his refusal to succumb to trifling norms; in truth, though, he’s looking forward to fitting all of the puzzle pieces to get a clear picture.
“It’s not here,” Misha said when Jensen had spent an afternoon studying him, cataloguing eccentricities in hopes of synthesizing a typology. “Whatever it is you’re looking for, Jen, it’s not here. I don’t know who I’ll be tomorrow, or next month, or next year. All I know is who I am right now, in this moment.” Misha had licked the convictions into his mouth, and Jensen promptly filed the prosodic pattern of his speech in memory for later analysis. Later, alone in his apartment, he would understand this was Misha’s way of professing he can’t offer anything beyond the present, won’t feed Jensen empty promises of eternity. Strangely, it’s that honesty that assures Jensen they have a future.
There are moments when Jensen is convinced he’s managed to find a path through the labyrinth that guards Misha’s truths; mostly, these are moments when Misha is spread naked on their sheets, open and vulnerable, and Jensen gets to mould his fingerprints onto the canvas of his skin. Then, there are moments like this one, when Jensen realizes his navigation has steered him miles off the map, and he can’t differentiate north from south.
“I gave everything for you, and this is what you give to me?”
They’re Carver’s words, recited in Castiel’s voice, directed at Dean. They jolt Jensen like the first unexpected strike of lightening. The execution is flawless, controlled, but Jensen is well-versed in Misha’s subtleties, and he detects the note of vulnerability in it: he can see it in Misha’s eyes, can feel it in the curl of his fingers around Dean’s jacket. Jensen’s been on the receiving end of a fair share of Misha’s stares: smug, lustful, secretive or scolding - he’s felt the weight of them all. But this one - this one is new.
Misha’s eyes are cold, lost and pleading all at the same time.
Misha’s modus operandi is different than Jensen’s in all walks of life; the sudden personal note to his acting has Jensen wondering what’s foddering it, what experiences Misha is drawing upon. Selfishly, all he can hope for is that the memories don’t involve him. They’ve been strangely, irrationally solid since this thing between them started a year ago, functional despite their unconventionality. No one is more surprised than Jensen that he’s found a constant in someone as erratic as Misha, but he doesn’t want it any other way, doesn’t want anything to compromise it.
Jensen had always assumed portraying a being as alien and distant as Castiel would serve as protection, keep the character from impeding on Misha’s day-to-day life - he’d been hoping Castiel won’t scar Misha the way Dean has left mars on Jensen. In retrospect, it had been a foolish thought, though he never could have predicted the plot developments Castiel would have to face. He’s been noticing Misha sinking under Castiel’s weight; after all, he’s all too familiar with the process of being consumed. The emotional toll is evident in the awkward slope of Misha’s shoulders, heavy with burden; the meticulous attention he’s been paying to his surroundings; the wide-eyed, lost expression on his face. Misha likes to pretend he’s invincible, but Jensen has long since discovered he’s as fragile as the rest of them. Characters are fictitious, but it doesn’t detract from their ability to teach actors a thing or four about themselves, to make an impact.
Still, he’s not prepared for where all of this has led them. He’s sacrificed plenty for his craft, but there are lines he isn’t willing to cross. At times when Dean weighs him down, he prefers to keep to himself. There have been times he’d declined an outing after a particularly bad shooting when everyone else seemed relived at the prospect of drinking the night away. It might have earned him a few disappointed looks, but it’s kept him from taking out Dean’s bullshit on anybody else. Jensen’s used to battering his own psyche for Dean’s sake, but he isn’t willing to let the fractured pieces of Dean and Castiel’s relationship puncture his.
“Cut!” Phil’s voice blares through the set, and Misha’s fingers unwrap from Jensen’s - Dean’s - collar. It’s only then that Jensen remembers they’re surrounded by crew members, cameras are rolling and he has a part to play. “Guys? Can we get through this last take? We’d all like to go home sooner than later.”
Jensen feels like an amateur. It’s past midnight and they’ve been shooting what’s sure to be a three-minute scene for over an hour, waiting for equipment to get set up and filming different angles; of course everyone is tired and want to go home. “Sure thing,” he takes his cue, offering an apologetic smile to the crew. Beside him, Misha lets out something that sounds suspiciously like fuck, and Jensen’s doesn’t even try to decipher the subsequent weary sigh.
~*~
Jensen hasn’t spared a glance at the clock - it’s easier to deceive his body if he doesn’t know just how sleep-deprived he is - but he’s certain it’s been over fifteen minutes since production broke for the night. Usually, on nights when their schedules coincide, Misha’s in Jensen’s trailer five minutes after the set’s been cleared, despite the extra layers he has to shed.
He hesitates outside of Misha’s trailer, pausing with his hand on the door-handle. They’d planned on spending the night at Misha’s, figuring they’ll be too tired for anything other than a couple of celebratory drinks after a long day of shooting, neither one of them wanting to make it into an extravagant affair. Misha’s car is still in the parking lot, but Jensen wonders if it’s best to call a cab and postpone their plans altogether, leave Misha to his own devices. The door to the trailer opens before he can act on the thought. Misha barely glances at him before throwing Jensen his car keys and walking towards his parking space.
~*~
Jensen’s foot feels heavy as it finds the accelerator, his grip on the steering-wheel tense enough to bleach his knuckles white. In the passenger seat, Misha is staring out the window, shaking hand resting on his left knee, fingers clenched in a fist. Jensen’s body mirrors the tension in Misha’s, shoulders hunching to accommodate the oppressive weight around them. He’s not used to feeling on guard and uncomfortable around Misha, has no manual on the proper way to handle it. He drives on autopilot, the scenery of downtown Vancouver nothing but a blur that barely registers in his peripheral vision.
When Jensen brings the car to a stop in front of his apartment building, Misha’s out of the car before the engine is off. Jensen’s slow to follow, wanting to give Misha the space he seems to crave. Again, he contemplates hailing a cab and going to his own apartment; he doesn’t dare act on it, though, not sure if the instinct is an attempt to cater to Misha’s needs or a knee-jerk reaction to flee the unknown.
When he finally makes his way up to Misha’s apartment, Jensen is relieved to find his door ajar, an invitation to accept. The living-room is cast with the harsh orange glow of streetlamps, seeping in from the window outlooking into the street. Misha’s standing next to his mahogany coffee table, back turned to Jensen. The threadbare grey t-shirt Jensen’s never sure will survive the next laundry cycle does nothing to hide the tension lodged in his shoulder-blades. He turns around when Jensen locks the door, seeming both surprised and relieved to find him standing in his living-room - like he wasn’t sure if Jensen would follow. Like there was ever a doubt.
Jensen takes a step forward, emboldened when there is no sign of protest from Misha. He closes the gap between them in two long strides only to find himself pinned to the wall before he can make another move, Misha’s body crowding him, hands on either side of his head, hesitant. Even when Misha’s being reckless, he’s always careful with Jensen.
“Jen,” Misha whispers, the sound of it foreign, raw, tone an octave lower than it normally is; and just like that, Jensen gets it. Misha might not be telling him what’s going on - might not ever, because that’s not who he is, not who they are - but he isn’t hiding behind charming quips and humour; he’s comfortable enough with Jensen to allow him a glimpse at his most vulnerable. Jensen has seen Misha naked plenty of times, but this is the first time he’s laid himself bare, wide open for Jensen to see.
“Mish,” Jensen manages in response, tracing the arch of a high cheekbone with the pad of his thumb. He wonders if he’ll be met with recoil, if the action is too tender to be permissible. Misha buries his head in the crook of Jensen’s neck, breath moist on his collarbone, eyelashes tickling the sensitive skin under his ear. His hands travel to the expanse of Jensen’s torso, hanging tight, confirming his tangibility. His touch is feather-light as his thumbs hook over each individual rib, up and down, like Jensen’s body is a xylophone and he wants to discover what melodies might erupt. His palms splay at the bottom of Jensen’s ribcage, like he’s at a loss, not having calculated this far. Misha always leaves Jensen feeling utterly dismantled; he’d never stopped to consider his presence might have a similar effect on Misha.
Jensen stays silent, letting his own hands rest on the small of Misha’s back, kissing the exposed skin of Misha’s neck, right above his pulse point. Misha forces his head up, thumb insistent under Jensen’s chin, but the anticipated kiss never comes; it’d be easy to rectify, their lips only inches apart, breaths mingling. Jensen doesn’t act, though he wants to, not sure what’s appropriate, what is it that Misha wants or needs.
It’s not long before Misha is pulling him forward by his belt loops, rocking his hips against Jensen’s, semi-hard cock rubbing against his thigh. Jensen wonders how the moment turned into this, thinks maybe they shouldn’t be doing this now, this isn’t what Misha needs, but his protest is stolen by the taste of a desperate kiss. Jensen opens instantaneously, the same way he’s lowered all of his walls and armours when Misha showed up, mapping teeth and gums with his tongue. Misha’s hips become more demanding in their movements, urgent, cock lining up with Jensen’s quickly hardening one. Zippers are pulled down and belts are unbuckled with practiced synchronization, and then it’s skin against glorious skin. No matter how many times they do this, how acquainted he is with every inch of Misha’s skin, with every place that makes him moan and quiver, Jensen can’t get enough, can’t resist relearning. Misha pants into the hollow space above Jensen’s collarbone, a shiver running up his spine at the first touch of their bare cockheads. Jensen lifts his palm to his mouth, licking, leaving a long, wet strip of saliva; he repeats the action until he’s satisfied, and the slurping noises cause Misha to look up. His eyes flash with longing and desperation, flutter shut when Jensen takes both their cocks in hand, squeezing the way he knows Misha likes it, just on the verge of painful. He watches, transfixed, as pre-come beads on the head, starts spreading it along their shafts. A low grunting noise escapes from the back of Misha’s throat as he bucks into Jensen’s hand and dick, the chafe coaxing a loud moan from both of them.
“JenJenJen,” Misha breathes wetly into Jensen’s neck, the sound of it wretched, like the rest of the sentence - the plea - has been swallowed by doubt. Jensen knows better than to seek answers, so when Misha’s lips press against his, tongue swiping across the residue of unvoiced questions, Jensen concedes immediately, relearning the shape of Misha’s mouth, touching the tip of his tongue to Misha’s. It strikes Jensen how perfectly their mouths fit, how perfectly their bodies align, how all is said without the utterance of meaningless words. He teases a thumb between their swollen cocks as Misha sucks on his tongue, hands pulling on his hair, hips pinning him so hard against the wall Jensen’s afraid there will be an indent. Misha pulls back, attention migrating towards Jensen’s neck, licking a long line from the divot of collarbone to the column of his throat, stopping to nip at Jensen’s ear. They aren’t usually so careless, don’t normally leave marks for people to question, but this isn’t a typical night and Jensen can’t bring himself to care. His free hand slips into the back pocket of Misha’s jeans, bringing him closer still; he doesn’t know how else to assure that he’s here, genuine and solid for as long as Misha will have him, how else to say I’ll give you everything.
Misha stills, biting his lower lip to stifle his groans, chest heaving against Jensen’s, hips losing rhythm - sure signs that he’s close. Jensen tightens his grip on their cocks, pumps faster, harder, riding the edge of release. He snakes a hand under the hem of Misha’s t-shirt, fingers crawling up the bumps of his spine. Misha bites on the ball of Jensen’s shoulder, coating Jensen’s hand with his release. The only sounds in the room are Misha’s laboured breathes, adjusting back to normal, and the flap of flesh against flesh as Jensen milks him through the aftershocks. They’re never this quiet during sex, never this desperate; Jensen hopes the things he wants to say crept through the silence, have succeeded in permeating the barrier Misha tried to create. Four, five more thrusts against Misha’s hip and Jensen’s right behind him, white clouding his vision and electricity shooting up his spine, come dribbling down his wrist.
Loose-limbed and tired, Jensen wipes his come-stained hand on his jeans and slides down the wall until his ass hits the carpeted floor, dragging Misha with him until he lands in his lap. It’s an uncomfortable position: Jensen’s spine pressed against the cold drywall, Misha’s legs bent in two on either side of him. They’re both going to feel the aches and pains tomorrow, but that doesn’t seem to matter right now. Misha’s hands gravitate to Jensen’s waist, under the hem of his shirt, warm on his lower back. When he lowers his head to rest on Jensen’s chest, Jensen can feel the scratch of his stubble through his thin t-shirt. This is Misha’s way of saying I’m sorry and thank you, of that he’s certain, as unnecessary as it is.
Jensen doesn’t know how long they stay that way, minutes disguised as hours. Without the warm thrust of another body against his, he’s cold; they left the window open, and the wind is picking up, raising goose-bumps on his bare arms. Jensen’s sure Misha has fallen asleep when he suddenly speaks, the sound of spit parting his dry lips loud in the speechless bubble they created.
“Happy anniversary, Jen.”
“Yeah,” Jensen replies, a smile tugging on his lips. “Yeah, you too, Mish.”
Jensen doesn’t know what he’d been looking for, but he knows Misha was wrong; he has found it, right here, in this moment.
Author: ionchannel (formerly veggie17)
Pairing: Jensen/Misha
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: 5.18
Disclaimer: This never happened. I don’t know these people, unfortunately. Title is from Fiona Apple’s Extraordinary Machine.
Thank you to the magnificent rogue_pixie88 for the beta and encouragement. ♥
Summary: Jensen has seen Misha naked plenty of times, but this is the first time he’s laid himself bare, wide open for Jensen to see.
Acting, Jensen has discovered, is a tug-of-war between masochism and sadism. His fascination with the human psyche is what led him to his vocation as an actor; for reasons he isn’t sure of, or perhaps isn’t comfortable acknowledging, it’s the grim and tragic side he’s been drawn to the most. Acting is the opportunity to live vicariously through a character, of experiencing pain and emerging largely unscathed. Jensen’s daily life is all about order and control, defences and tactics; the luxury to fall apart is a rarity that guards his sanity, even if he does so swathed in a character. His favourite scripts are the ones where the words are heavy enough to weigh down the pages in his hands and wrap around him like a second skin, leave him shaken down to his bones. When he’s done reading such a script - and he’s been lucky enough to be handed a fair share in the past five years - he’s terrifyingly exhilarated at the opportunity to bleed himself open, and it’s when he does his best work. There’s something cathartic and immensely satisfying about the experience, an art form like no other, and it’s precisely why Jensen has recognized it as his calling.
Jensen might be an actor, but he doesn’t know how to fake a feeling. Dean Winchester isn’t merely a borrowed costume he slips into for fourteen-hour workdays; isn’t simply an inconsequential fictional character. He recalls with strikingly vivid detail the moment he’d realized there’s more to Dean than charm and witty one-liners: sitting in his and Jared’s living room, feet up on the coffee table, a bottle of Bud in one hand and the script for Home in the other. By the time he’d read Hope, he knew he was in over his head, that this part wouldn’t be easy to shake. He sheds out of Dean’s clothes at the end of each day, but the remnants have long since interwoven into Jensen’s DNA. It’s a price he’s more than willing to pay.
Though they’ve never discussed it in so many words, Misha’s foray into acting had been catalyzed by entirely different motivations. Jensen guesses it had to have been the promise of freedom that lured him in: the opportunity to hop from one job to the next, to be a yoga instructor one month and a car thief the next. (Frankly, Jensen’s still unsure as to why Misha ever signed the Supernatural contract, though he’s grateful for it nonetheless.)
Misha’s philosophy of life is all about the present; he thrives on the unknown. He begrudges the concept of identity, finds it too limiting, nothing but a set of restrictive labels under which to operate, never stretching wide enough to encompass all that he is and wishes to become. Jensen’s always admired Misha’s peculiarity, his refusal to succumb to trifling norms; in truth, though, he’s looking forward to fitting all of the puzzle pieces to get a clear picture.
“It’s not here,” Misha said when Jensen had spent an afternoon studying him, cataloguing eccentricities in hopes of synthesizing a typology. “Whatever it is you’re looking for, Jen, it’s not here. I don’t know who I’ll be tomorrow, or next month, or next year. All I know is who I am right now, in this moment.” Misha had licked the convictions into his mouth, and Jensen promptly filed the prosodic pattern of his speech in memory for later analysis. Later, alone in his apartment, he would understand this was Misha’s way of professing he can’t offer anything beyond the present, won’t feed Jensen empty promises of eternity. Strangely, it’s that honesty that assures Jensen they have a future.
There are moments when Jensen is convinced he’s managed to find a path through the labyrinth that guards Misha’s truths; mostly, these are moments when Misha is spread naked on their sheets, open and vulnerable, and Jensen gets to mould his fingerprints onto the canvas of his skin. Then, there are moments like this one, when Jensen realizes his navigation has steered him miles off the map, and he can’t differentiate north from south.
“I gave everything for you, and this is what you give to me?”
They’re Carver’s words, recited in Castiel’s voice, directed at Dean. They jolt Jensen like the first unexpected strike of lightening. The execution is flawless, controlled, but Jensen is well-versed in Misha’s subtleties, and he detects the note of vulnerability in it: he can see it in Misha’s eyes, can feel it in the curl of his fingers around Dean’s jacket. Jensen’s been on the receiving end of a fair share of Misha’s stares: smug, lustful, secretive or scolding - he’s felt the weight of them all. But this one - this one is new.
Misha’s eyes are cold, lost and pleading all at the same time.
Misha’s modus operandi is different than Jensen’s in all walks of life; the sudden personal note to his acting has Jensen wondering what’s foddering it, what experiences Misha is drawing upon. Selfishly, all he can hope for is that the memories don’t involve him. They’ve been strangely, irrationally solid since this thing between them started a year ago, functional despite their unconventionality. No one is more surprised than Jensen that he’s found a constant in someone as erratic as Misha, but he doesn’t want it any other way, doesn’t want anything to compromise it.
Jensen had always assumed portraying a being as alien and distant as Castiel would serve as protection, keep the character from impeding on Misha’s day-to-day life - he’d been hoping Castiel won’t scar Misha the way Dean has left mars on Jensen. In retrospect, it had been a foolish thought, though he never could have predicted the plot developments Castiel would have to face. He’s been noticing Misha sinking under Castiel’s weight; after all, he’s all too familiar with the process of being consumed. The emotional toll is evident in the awkward slope of Misha’s shoulders, heavy with burden; the meticulous attention he’s been paying to his surroundings; the wide-eyed, lost expression on his face. Misha likes to pretend he’s invincible, but Jensen has long since discovered he’s as fragile as the rest of them. Characters are fictitious, but it doesn’t detract from their ability to teach actors a thing or four about themselves, to make an impact.
Still, he’s not prepared for where all of this has led them. He’s sacrificed plenty for his craft, but there are lines he isn’t willing to cross. At times when Dean weighs him down, he prefers to keep to himself. There have been times he’d declined an outing after a particularly bad shooting when everyone else seemed relived at the prospect of drinking the night away. It might have earned him a few disappointed looks, but it’s kept him from taking out Dean’s bullshit on anybody else. Jensen’s used to battering his own psyche for Dean’s sake, but he isn’t willing to let the fractured pieces of Dean and Castiel’s relationship puncture his.
“Cut!” Phil’s voice blares through the set, and Misha’s fingers unwrap from Jensen’s - Dean’s - collar. It’s only then that Jensen remembers they’re surrounded by crew members, cameras are rolling and he has a part to play. “Guys? Can we get through this last take? We’d all like to go home sooner than later.”
Jensen feels like an amateur. It’s past midnight and they’ve been shooting what’s sure to be a three-minute scene for over an hour, waiting for equipment to get set up and filming different angles; of course everyone is tired and want to go home. “Sure thing,” he takes his cue, offering an apologetic smile to the crew. Beside him, Misha lets out something that sounds suspiciously like fuck, and Jensen’s doesn’t even try to decipher the subsequent weary sigh.
~*~
Jensen hasn’t spared a glance at the clock - it’s easier to deceive his body if he doesn’t know just how sleep-deprived he is - but he’s certain it’s been over fifteen minutes since production broke for the night. Usually, on nights when their schedules coincide, Misha’s in Jensen’s trailer five minutes after the set’s been cleared, despite the extra layers he has to shed.
He hesitates outside of Misha’s trailer, pausing with his hand on the door-handle. They’d planned on spending the night at Misha’s, figuring they’ll be too tired for anything other than a couple of celebratory drinks after a long day of shooting, neither one of them wanting to make it into an extravagant affair. Misha’s car is still in the parking lot, but Jensen wonders if it’s best to call a cab and postpone their plans altogether, leave Misha to his own devices. The door to the trailer opens before he can act on the thought. Misha barely glances at him before throwing Jensen his car keys and walking towards his parking space.
~*~
Jensen’s foot feels heavy as it finds the accelerator, his grip on the steering-wheel tense enough to bleach his knuckles white. In the passenger seat, Misha is staring out the window, shaking hand resting on his left knee, fingers clenched in a fist. Jensen’s body mirrors the tension in Misha’s, shoulders hunching to accommodate the oppressive weight around them. He’s not used to feeling on guard and uncomfortable around Misha, has no manual on the proper way to handle it. He drives on autopilot, the scenery of downtown Vancouver nothing but a blur that barely registers in his peripheral vision.
When Jensen brings the car to a stop in front of his apartment building, Misha’s out of the car before the engine is off. Jensen’s slow to follow, wanting to give Misha the space he seems to crave. Again, he contemplates hailing a cab and going to his own apartment; he doesn’t dare act on it, though, not sure if the instinct is an attempt to cater to Misha’s needs or a knee-jerk reaction to flee the unknown.
When he finally makes his way up to Misha’s apartment, Jensen is relieved to find his door ajar, an invitation to accept. The living-room is cast with the harsh orange glow of streetlamps, seeping in from the window outlooking into the street. Misha’s standing next to his mahogany coffee table, back turned to Jensen. The threadbare grey t-shirt Jensen’s never sure will survive the next laundry cycle does nothing to hide the tension lodged in his shoulder-blades. He turns around when Jensen locks the door, seeming both surprised and relieved to find him standing in his living-room - like he wasn’t sure if Jensen would follow. Like there was ever a doubt.
Jensen takes a step forward, emboldened when there is no sign of protest from Misha. He closes the gap between them in two long strides only to find himself pinned to the wall before he can make another move, Misha’s body crowding him, hands on either side of his head, hesitant. Even when Misha’s being reckless, he’s always careful with Jensen.
“Jen,” Misha whispers, the sound of it foreign, raw, tone an octave lower than it normally is; and just like that, Jensen gets it. Misha might not be telling him what’s going on - might not ever, because that’s not who he is, not who they are - but he isn’t hiding behind charming quips and humour; he’s comfortable enough with Jensen to allow him a glimpse at his most vulnerable. Jensen has seen Misha naked plenty of times, but this is the first time he’s laid himself bare, wide open for Jensen to see.
“Mish,” Jensen manages in response, tracing the arch of a high cheekbone with the pad of his thumb. He wonders if he’ll be met with recoil, if the action is too tender to be permissible. Misha buries his head in the crook of Jensen’s neck, breath moist on his collarbone, eyelashes tickling the sensitive skin under his ear. His hands travel to the expanse of Jensen’s torso, hanging tight, confirming his tangibility. His touch is feather-light as his thumbs hook over each individual rib, up and down, like Jensen’s body is a xylophone and he wants to discover what melodies might erupt. His palms splay at the bottom of Jensen’s ribcage, like he’s at a loss, not having calculated this far. Misha always leaves Jensen feeling utterly dismantled; he’d never stopped to consider his presence might have a similar effect on Misha.
Jensen stays silent, letting his own hands rest on the small of Misha’s back, kissing the exposed skin of Misha’s neck, right above his pulse point. Misha forces his head up, thumb insistent under Jensen’s chin, but the anticipated kiss never comes; it’d be easy to rectify, their lips only inches apart, breaths mingling. Jensen doesn’t act, though he wants to, not sure what’s appropriate, what is it that Misha wants or needs.
It’s not long before Misha is pulling him forward by his belt loops, rocking his hips against Jensen’s, semi-hard cock rubbing against his thigh. Jensen wonders how the moment turned into this, thinks maybe they shouldn’t be doing this now, this isn’t what Misha needs, but his protest is stolen by the taste of a desperate kiss. Jensen opens instantaneously, the same way he’s lowered all of his walls and armours when Misha showed up, mapping teeth and gums with his tongue. Misha’s hips become more demanding in their movements, urgent, cock lining up with Jensen’s quickly hardening one. Zippers are pulled down and belts are unbuckled with practiced synchronization, and then it’s skin against glorious skin. No matter how many times they do this, how acquainted he is with every inch of Misha’s skin, with every place that makes him moan and quiver, Jensen can’t get enough, can’t resist relearning. Misha pants into the hollow space above Jensen’s collarbone, a shiver running up his spine at the first touch of their bare cockheads. Jensen lifts his palm to his mouth, licking, leaving a long, wet strip of saliva; he repeats the action until he’s satisfied, and the slurping noises cause Misha to look up. His eyes flash with longing and desperation, flutter shut when Jensen takes both their cocks in hand, squeezing the way he knows Misha likes it, just on the verge of painful. He watches, transfixed, as pre-come beads on the head, starts spreading it along their shafts. A low grunting noise escapes from the back of Misha’s throat as he bucks into Jensen’s hand and dick, the chafe coaxing a loud moan from both of them.
“JenJenJen,” Misha breathes wetly into Jensen’s neck, the sound of it wretched, like the rest of the sentence - the plea - has been swallowed by doubt. Jensen knows better than to seek answers, so when Misha’s lips press against his, tongue swiping across the residue of unvoiced questions, Jensen concedes immediately, relearning the shape of Misha’s mouth, touching the tip of his tongue to Misha’s. It strikes Jensen how perfectly their mouths fit, how perfectly their bodies align, how all is said without the utterance of meaningless words. He teases a thumb between their swollen cocks as Misha sucks on his tongue, hands pulling on his hair, hips pinning him so hard against the wall Jensen’s afraid there will be an indent. Misha pulls back, attention migrating towards Jensen’s neck, licking a long line from the divot of collarbone to the column of his throat, stopping to nip at Jensen’s ear. They aren’t usually so careless, don’t normally leave marks for people to question, but this isn’t a typical night and Jensen can’t bring himself to care. His free hand slips into the back pocket of Misha’s jeans, bringing him closer still; he doesn’t know how else to assure that he’s here, genuine and solid for as long as Misha will have him, how else to say I’ll give you everything.
Misha stills, biting his lower lip to stifle his groans, chest heaving against Jensen’s, hips losing rhythm - sure signs that he’s close. Jensen tightens his grip on their cocks, pumps faster, harder, riding the edge of release. He snakes a hand under the hem of Misha’s t-shirt, fingers crawling up the bumps of his spine. Misha bites on the ball of Jensen’s shoulder, coating Jensen’s hand with his release. The only sounds in the room are Misha’s laboured breathes, adjusting back to normal, and the flap of flesh against flesh as Jensen milks him through the aftershocks. They’re never this quiet during sex, never this desperate; Jensen hopes the things he wants to say crept through the silence, have succeeded in permeating the barrier Misha tried to create. Four, five more thrusts against Misha’s hip and Jensen’s right behind him, white clouding his vision and electricity shooting up his spine, come dribbling down his wrist.
Loose-limbed and tired, Jensen wipes his come-stained hand on his jeans and slides down the wall until his ass hits the carpeted floor, dragging Misha with him until he lands in his lap. It’s an uncomfortable position: Jensen’s spine pressed against the cold drywall, Misha’s legs bent in two on either side of him. They’re both going to feel the aches and pains tomorrow, but that doesn’t seem to matter right now. Misha’s hands gravitate to Jensen’s waist, under the hem of his shirt, warm on his lower back. When he lowers his head to rest on Jensen’s chest, Jensen can feel the scratch of his stubble through his thin t-shirt. This is Misha’s way of saying I’m sorry and thank you, of that he’s certain, as unnecessary as it is.
Jensen doesn’t know how long they stay that way, minutes disguised as hours. Without the warm thrust of another body against his, he’s cold; they left the window open, and the wind is picking up, raising goose-bumps on his bare arms. Jensen’s sure Misha has fallen asleep when he suddenly speaks, the sound of spit parting his dry lips loud in the speechless bubble they created.
“Happy anniversary, Jen.”
“Yeah,” Jensen replies, a smile tugging on his lips. “Yeah, you too, Mish.”
Jensen doesn’t know what he’d been looking for, but he knows Misha was wrong; he has found it, right here, in this moment.