ScotchVerse: The Glenrothes
Title: The Glenrothes
Verse: Scotch
Author: kadiel_krieger
Pairing: Jensen/Misha
Rating: NC17
Disclaimer: Real people are real. These are not.
Warnings: PWP, liek whoa.
Summary: Jensen's just spent the entire day rigged in a wire harness and getting thrown against a wall. Misha invites him in for a nightcap. Wackiness ensues. (Depending upon your definition of wackiness that is.)
Previous Installments
Laphroaig
The third time Jensen finds himself at the mercy of both Misha and scotch, it's an accident. Hell, if the mere idea of putting pen to that particular mountain of paperwork didn't make him blush like a chastised Catholic schoolgirl, he might consider filing for workman's comp. Which is to say, it's entirely Kripke's fault.
No. Kripke didn't buy the bottle of Glenrothes '85 that just so happens to be collecting dust in the top of Misha's pantry. He also didn't force Misha to tilt that smile at Jensen across the wide backseat and offer a nightcap in a beguiling tone that suggests dangerous things are afoot.
Still.
Kripke or Sera and by extension the entire creative team seem to get their collective rocks off torturing Dean Winchester. What they seem to sometimes forget is that Jensen also gets tortured in the process. So he blames them and the six and a half hours he's just spent either strapped in a wire-rig or getting slammed into a wall for his momentary weakness.
It's easier to fault them than himself when he's standing on Misha's stoop watching Cliff pull away before he realizes he actually said the word "Sure," out loud.
"Fuck."
Misha manages to make a bad situation worse by slicing a grin off over the sharp slope of his shoulder and nudging the door open with an elbow. Jensen has never felt more like prey in his entire life, and if he could remember which pocket his cell was shoved in, he'd totally call Cliff and beg him to come back and get him.
He's stupid tired to the point all he wants is to fall face first on a soft surface and sleep until call on Monday. Instead he's hovering, glaring at an open door he doesn't have the energy or desire to walk through and trying to figure out whether he can hoof the three and a half miles to his place without passing out. Misha takes the decision out of his hands, leans and tugs him inside like a sack of potatoes, and Jensen just lets him do it. It's the worst kind of headspace to be occupying for any kind of encounter with Misha, not to mention one that will soon be laced with scotch.
When Misha smoothly divests him of both jacket and bag then pushes him in the general direction of the couch, Jensen has to wonder what alternate universe he's landed in, because this is not the way it works with them. Like, ever. It makes him frown and study the nap of the carpet, trailing after Misha when he wanders away towards what he guesses must be the kitchen. Shit, the only normal thing about all this is when Misha grabs him by the shoulders and walks him back into the living room, shoves him down on the couch and says, "Sit. Stay," then pats his head like he's a damned German shepherd.
Jensen feels like he should argue, for the sake of his rapidly dwindling dignity if nothing else, but the couch cushions are nice and soft and he can absolutely get on fucking board with that. He even kicks his boots off, lets his head fall back against the overstuffed bolster, because if he agrees with Dean Winchester about anything it's that you got to take comfort where and when you can.
At some point, he dozes off. Or, he assumes as much, since it's the only logical conclusion to reach after you snort yourself awake. There's also the fact his throat feels like fine grit sandpaper and his lips like baked desert dunes, and he couldn't swear to it - having been unconscious and all - but he thinks maybe he was snoring. It takes a minute for reality to wind its way back into his brain, but when it does he peels one eye open cautiously.
"There you are," Misha says and smiles, and somehow the slightly patronizing lilt doesn't grate Jensen's nerves like it usually does. Maybe because his nerves are already a parmesan cheese sprinkle all over the floor of the yawning green-screen soundstage thirty five miles south. More likely it's because Misha's perched bare-chested and cross-legged on the coffee table right in front of him, swishing a swallow of scotch in a tumbler and staring. On anyone else, it'd be just the wrong side of creepy. On Misha, well - it's already been established that normal rules don't apply and Jensen's wrung out body seems to agree, flushing hot with a rush of spreading warmth that might be affection.
Because Misha Collins waits for no man. Except it seems, Jensen, when he's feeling uncharacteristically magnanimous.
"Yeah," he says, all sleep and gravel, thinking he should say something else or at least ask why he's being studied like a lab rat. Misha wouldn't give a straight answer anyway and Jensen doesn't have the brain for two-syllable words, much less verbal fisticuffs. So when Misha's smile stretches wider and he pours a liberal splash of scotch into a second glass, Jensen takes it without raising anything but a brow.
And fuck, it's good - honey and cocoa and candied oranges, a kick of cedar on the back of his tongue - all the things he loves about Christmas in a single sip. Good enough to make him moan and toss the rest back in a single stinging pull, sweet brightness unfurling in hints of toasted walnut, cinnamon, and nutmeg. Jensen sucks the dregs between his teeth, then rests the glass against his knee, closing his eyes to relish the complex mingling of flavors. Glass clinks together somewhere in the near distance, followed by another liquid gurgle, and Jensen wishes he had the inclination for no but he doesn't.
He does have it in him to say, "Misha," and breathe. That's a step in the right direction, at least, because hey - two syllables. But he can't for the life of him remember where that particular conversational thread was spinning.
Not that it matters.
Because Misha hums and sips noisily, obviously too invested in his own nearly orgasmic scotch experience to bother with words. After a long moment draws out in silence, slumber tickles the back of Jensen's neck again. The gently lulling fog only gives way when he feels the glass plucked out of his hand followed by the slippery slide of lips against his and his eyes snap open. It's a little surreal. He's usually less tired and more drunk when it happens, but in this case surreal does not equal bad. Misha's focus and attention are unparalleled among mere mortals, and to have it visited on him in this condition seems almost like a waste of talent. Then Misha's tongue snakes past his lips soaked with the fruity notes of Glenrothes and Jensen could give a shit about wasted, lets his eyelids droop, and settles in to savor. Sleep still sits, curled and waiting in the back of his mind but for now the heat of Misha crouched so close is keeping it at bay.
After a long, lazy while, Misha pulls back, teeth tugging at Jensen's lower lip as he goes. Misha's hands slide up under the tail of his T-shirt before he can assemble what's left of his scattered sense and Jensen's left in a sort of lurch. Because yeah, there's scotch and there's Misha but he's tired as hell and aching all over and the absolute last thing he should be considering is the admittedly delicious but inconceivably strenuous wrestling match that's about to ensue if Misha actually wrangles him out of his shirt.
Apparently though, his head has little, if any, say in the matter, because his arms respond on autopilot - shoulders screaming when he lifts them.
"Fuck," Jensen breathes, can't even stop the spill of it from his lips, and he must pull a face because Misha actually sounds more concerned than amused when he answers.
"Jensen?"
He grunts in response, but can't quite pry his eyes open, his lids leaden and lashes seemingly knitted together. Misha exhales against his cheek, a warm, frustrated puff of breath. Then Jensen hears an awful lot of clattering and banging that he can't be assed to care about until Misha tugs at his arm and his inner ear telegraphs to his brain that he's about to fall face-fucking-first on the floor. It makes him tense (which may be the worst idea he's had all day) and clutch at the cushions, back flattened against the couch. Misha curses, pulls harder, and Christ he's strong - stronger than the wiry twist of muscle and bone implies. It might even surprise him if it were anyone else, but Misha's singularity has been impressed upon him so often Jensen would be more shocked if something about him actually fit within the frame of any preconceived mold.
It's enough to pull a sigh from his chest and slit his eyes open again, even though that's the very last thing in the world he wants to do.
"The hell?" is what he tries to say, but it smears together in a sleepy tangle that doesn't sound like words at all. Thankfully, it seems Misha has grown adept at interpreting his inebriated speech patterns. Through the haze of exhaustion and scotch, he sees that the coffee table's been relocated and the space is now occupied by a blurry combination of a pissed-looking Misha and what might be a yoga mat - if, of course, Jensen had any clue what a fucking yoga mat looked like.
"Stop being a stubborn ass and let me fix you. You're no good to me like this."
If he had half a mind, he'd probably be offended, but right now he's about a quarter shy of that. This time when Misha yanks, Jensen's not ready. Misha puts his weight behind it and they end up on the floor in a knot of limbs and skin, chests crushed together at acute angles. Of course, Misha grins wide and writhes, pulls some kind of crazily fluid, undulating shimmy that deposits Jensen unceremoniously on the floor - half on and half off the mat. Whatever. At least he managed to fall on his back and doesn't have a broken nose to contend with in addition to the harrowing heap of other aches sending out pain signals from all kinds of previously undiscovered bodily territories.
Then he feels Misha's fingers, warm and firm, working methodically at his pants. The jangle of his buckle coming loose is cacophonous against the soundtrack of their quiet breathing. Jensen swats at Misha half-heartedly, hears him bark out a low, gritty laugh punctuated by the brisk rasp of leather on denim as Jensen's belt flies free.
"Coy doesn't become you, Jensen," Misha whispers, equal parts soft and insistent, his lips suddenly nestled into the swell of Jensen's cheek. He feels a smile break on Misha's face when his body reacts to the touch, arching into the contact even though it twangs uncomfortably everywhere else. A jaw cracking groan builds between his molars, and Jensen can't tell if it's born of pleasure or pain. Which is, yeah, pretty fucking confusing. Made all the more so when Misha shifts, cold metal scraped against nipple, and a noise he will never admit to making pushes its way past his lips.
"Getting there," Misha purrs, then turns back to the task at hand, knees tucked tight and sharp against Jensen's hip when he says, "Up," and tugs his jeans down over his thighs and off, socks carried along in the wake, little fluttering white flags of surrender. He kind of loses track of things after that, but he ends up on his stomach somehow with every muscle in his back spasmed tight and cramping where the harness was locked down. Then Misha knuckles into the columns of knotted meat running up either side of his spine and Jensen would swear on a stack of Bibles that he sees the face of God.
Because just like every other thing in the fucking universe, Misha's an expert at this.
His fingers find every pressure point, every snarled little cluster that needs worked, rough hands clutching and squeezing away all the tension by force. It's relaxing and oddly tender for someone whose primary purpose in life has been to drive Jensen stark raving. Okay, maybe not primary, but still. He acknowledges he's a pretty damn good lay when he wants to be, but he's never seen Misha work for anything, and wonders what on Earth might inspire him to start.
All the higher brain functions required for things like wondering snap off abruptly thirty seconds later when Misha's thumbs slide under the fabric of his boxers and dig into the sensitive skin stretched along his inner thighs, soft palms cupped against the curve of Jensen's ass - way more liberties taken than would be proper in any massage parlor that doesn't specialize in happy endings. But then, it's to be expected. Misha only observes the boundaries that suit him anyway. Which means for the most part he's a wilderness wandering kind of guy, stomping down fences with big shit-kicker boots. It's an essential element of his off-beat charisma, and if Jensen's being painfully honest with himself - it's a primary (no, the primary) reason behind the attraction.
Misha is fearless and unpredictable and it's fucking intoxicating.
Case in point, all Jensen feels as Misha's fingers creep higher is the involuntary clench and drift as his legs slip farther apart - some brand spanking new set of Misha-inspired reflexes sparking to life under his ministrations. When this is over, he and his body are going to have a serious heart-to-heart, because it's so far beyond the definition of un-cool it has swung back around to cool. And Jesus, Misha takes advantage, his hands petting more than kneading now, fingers teasing ever closer to the hot, hidden places that have always defined them, but falling just short every fucking time.
Yeah. He's awake now, shuddering out of his skin a little more every second and not entirely able to catch his breath, but definitely, completely, achingly alert. It occurs to him that he's perhaps neglected to ask Misha about some pretty important things. If, for instance, he's into tantra. Because the way he's moving, like he has a spare eon or two to spend coaxing unwilling noises out of Jensen, it's maddening. And Misha is totally that guy.
The thought doesn't even have a chance to coil completely up Jensen's brainstem before Misha's on the move, and he'd thank every member of the holy host personally except that for whatever reason the motion takes Misha away and that's not better. When he wrenches his head back to look, Jensen thinks, Yeah, okay, maybe the worry was a bit hasty. For one, his back doesn't have anything to say about the angle of his neck. All things considered, that alone is pretty damn remarkable. Secondly, Misha has taken the opportunity to shuck the two layers that stand between him and a state of glorious nakedness. Jensen will never, ever get tired of that. There was a third thing, he could have sworn there was, but it's gone - lost forever in the feline roll of Misha's hips as he slinks back with party favors in tow.
Out of the corner of his eye, he catches the glint of glass and a long, flawless stretch of skin as Misha sinks effortlessly to his knees then rocks back on his heels. Jensen starts to turn over and reach for his tumbler because honestly he needs the distraction, but Misha flattens a palm between his shoulder blades to gentle him back down. It really shouldn't make him sigh and close his eyes, shouldn't make him press his cheek against the floor, his cock stirring to languid life pinned beneath him at an odd angle. But Misha deals daily in shouldn'ts, so it's an assumption that Jensen would traffic in the same currency.
Then Misha's fingers slip beneath the waistband of his boxers, slim stripes of heat blooming on his skin where they touch, and he obeys the unspoken request happily when Misha's thumbs crook to ease that last scrap of fabric still caught between them down over his hips.
"You seem to be under the mistaken impression I'm your handmaiden," Misha says, his voice as infuriatingly even as ever.
Jensen pillows his head on his arms and arches his back, delighted when there's only the barest phantom of pain singing against his spine when he does. Oh yeah, Misha's good.
"I seem to remember there being some feudal lands ceded. You'd have to call my accountant," he responds, a sly smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, the nubby surface of the mat a strange sensation against his lips.
He hears Misha shift, feels the warmth of him hovering just beyond his reach and if Jensen were in any other condition, it'd be too much to take - Misha so close but not touching him. As it is, he's having a hard time staying put, all of his senses tuned and painfully aware, aching for...what? More is all he can say with certainty. Just. More. But if there was ever a good time, tonight is the night to beat Misha at his own game.
Which is, of course, why Misha chooses that precise moment to change it.
Misha's hand falls again, fingers flared wide and urgent across Jensen's shoulders. It's a good thing too, because when the first drops of liquid spill in the small of his back, Jensen's initial instinct is to tuck and roll, shove Misha across the room.
"What the fu..." is all he gets out before Misha bends, his tongue curling hot and slick, gathering up every last bit of what's been spilt with deliberate swipes that Jensen feels every-fucking-where. The scotch isn't cold exactly, he just wasn't expecting...
"Fuck!" Jensen grunts, and this time gets the entire word out, all the muscles in his back drawn bowstring tight because this time it is cold, splashing as it is over the places Misha's tongue has just bathed. The hand spread against his shoulders pushes harder, just enough to gently flex his ribs, force the air from his lungs and damn if his cock doesn't twitch like it has a mind of its own.
Because really, if he wanted to, he could take Misha.
But he won't.
Misha's fingerprints etch into his skin. A puddle of lukewarm liquid pools precariously in the hollow at the base of his spine, sending out shivering little rivulets every time he twitches. Misha's other hand, the one not engaged in keeping him still, is roving, dragging swirls of scotch into nonsense patterns all over his back - so gentle and, fuck, sure and soothing that Jensen has to cinch his eyes shut tighter, sink his teeth into his forearm just to keep from breaking Misha's concentration.
Yeah, he won't.
Because he's never been this turned on. Ever. To the point his brain can't really handle anymore when Misha dips his head again, tongues him clean, tiny mewling sounds caught in the back of his throat that spread and flare and light Jensen right the fuck up. Because he's being handled. No, not just handled, tended to with such all-encompassing care it makes him ache in places he doesn't remember giving permission to exist.
He never believed Misha capable of so much authenticity.
Another splash of scotch finds his skin, more liberal than the last two - tiny streams twisting down the slope of both hips, the crease of his ass.
And just. Fuck.
Misha chases them all, teeth scraping skin as he collects what's readily accessible before moving to...
"Misha," Jensen sighs, and shudders when Misha hums against him.
"Are you...?"
Jensen flushes hot and squirms, can't even ask the rest of the question because it's just too fucking much. But then Misha's fingers close vise-tight around his hips, yanking him to his knees, and Jensen dimly hears the scrape of metal on glass around the pounding in his ears.
Just. Fuck. Can't breathe. Can't. With the angle and the...
Another splash at the very tip of his tailbone and this time he feels it cut wet meandering paths down his thighs, feels Misha shift again and settle, knees tucked between Jensen's. Misha leads with his tongue, of course, then his lips, moist and soft, breath coming quick now and Jensen takes a moment to savor that small triumph before Misha's thumbs find just the right place to land and then...
Fucking fuck.
It takes everything Jensen has, every last shred of his self-control to not fly away or apart or kill them both in a spastic flurry of limbs, because he's never. Never. Never.
And it's so fucking good. Every nerve in Jensen's body comes alive, stringing stinging latticework patterns out from where Misha's tongue connects, his grip on Jensen's ass tightening briefly then easing, a silent but completely necessary reassurance that, yeah, he gets it. Jensen tries to assemble the tatters of his mind enough to remember how to breathe. The air sears his lungs raw when he sucks it through his teeth, redolent with sweat and Glenrothes and sex.
Misha isn't helping matters, because even as he pulls back to give him time to...freak the fuck out he supposes, Jensen still feels him waiting, poised and jungle-cat eager, brow a heavy scorching weight against his hip, teeth nipping absently because he can't seem to stop.
Can't stop, and Jesus, that sings under his skin like a choir of dearly depraved angels, pulls a series of quivers up the inside of his thighs and over the crest of his ass until he's shifting back, reaching for Misha the only way he can. He can do this. Fuck yeah, he can. So he pulls himself to his elbows, exhales slow and shaky, then braces.
Jensen feels ridiculous, spread and bared with no idea what to say but, "Misha," and that's not something that happens to him. Ever. Jensen is the guy that rolls with the punches, the guy that makes molehills of everyone else's mountains and prides himself on it. But thank fucking God Misha gets it, hears the please and yes so he doesn't actually have to say it.
Because when Misha's tongue finally touches down again, Jensen's vocabulary shrinks down to a single word.
"Fuuuuck."
Two words.
"Misha, fuck."
Then Misha hums again and swirls and pushes, and Jensen feels his heart skitter right up the ladder of his ribcage to lodge in his throat, until he's gulping like a goddamned guppy leagues away from his watery home, fighting desperately to hold himself still and open. Too good, too - fuck. Misha huffs a breath, nose flattened into the crease of Jensen's ass, and that nearly does him in completely. Because now, now he's thinking about the quirk of Misha's brow and that wide Cheshire smirk and that it's his tongue pulling Jensen inside out with sweet, measured thrusts and curls. His elbows go out from under him all of a sudden, like his arms have just given up the fucking ghost, and he moans exactly how he wants to, no biting it back, like the only thing in the world that matters is Misha. Misha's lips. Misha's tongue. Just Misha and those rough little cat-licks he's using to open Jensen up.
He tries to say, "Misha," again, but even to his ears it just sounds like, "Mrmpsh," because if he moves a muscle save the gentle rocking rhythm he can't quite help, he's going to come all over himself like some fucking teenager. Then there's more pressure and the slick slide of Misha's fingers fitting alongside his tongue. Jensen gasps, a choked gurgling sound that originates somewhere deep in his chest, back arched, hips canted and urgent, the answering strangled moan that Misha breathes against his skin only pushing him higher, harder, faster.
So fucking good.
But that is it.
"Fuck Misha," he pants, and sinks his teeth into his lower lip, blood blooming on his tongue. "Can we get on with it? Please?"
Misha laughs quietly, muffled but satisfied, like this was the point all along. Jensen could give a shit about games now, his knees and legs and dick aching, his spine spring-loaded and just fucking ready. But then Misha leans back on a symphony of obscene, wet noises that wrap around his cock as surely as any hand, presses a sloppy closed-mouthed kiss against the round of his ass, and Jensen rocks against the fingers still stroking out their exasperatingly languid rhythm.
"What are we supposed to be getting on with exactly? I for one am perfectly..."
"Bullshit," Jensen growls, thrusts back again until he sees stars, until he feels fingernail scrape against that spot, long before Misha has time to react and deny him the pleasure. "You want me to beg, I'll beg. You want me to whine like a goddamn bitch in heat, I'll do that too. But really, I'd rather you just fuck me without all the theatrics."
Jensen feels Misha's dick twitch sticky against the back of his thigh and it makes him brazen, makes him flatten one hand to the floor to prop himself up, makes him reach for Misha with the other and pull him flush.
"I'm askin'," he says and sighs, shoots a glance over his shoulder that he regrets almost immediately. Misha looks ready to eat him alive, teeth bared and pupils blown so wide there's only a sliver of blue left, and there's no hiding from that kind of intensity, even if he wanted to. Jensen watches Misha's chest heave twice then lets his head drop along with his hand, feels the loss when Misha frees his fingers, tries not to think about how much it's going to hurt.
Because in the grand scheme, it doesn't matter. He wants it, bad enough to ask, and Misha's moving, indistinct shuffling rustles and clicks that grind his teeth together. Then he's lining up, slick and soft and Jensen's muscles start to cramp with waiting, every molecule aching to push back and seat himself. Patience is a virtue he's short on right now, and he's ten seconds from saying something or getting up and going home when Misha sighs his name on the air and puts his back into it.
And Christ it hurts, just the first couple of inches, but Misha's rubbing wide, sweeping ovals against the base of his spine, murmuring nonsense he can't quite make out but that sounds like good and tight and perfect, and when the wave subsides the next thrust comes easier. Misha takes his time, working his way in with the kind of serene single-mindedness Jensen has always envied. Even though they're both dripping sweat now, twitching skitters bouncing between them in jittery feedback loops Jensen thinks he could live in, he still wants more. So he takes matters into his own hands, coils himself tight and pushes back until he feels so fucking full he could die from it, Misha's hipbones arched against his ass the only thing anchoring him to reality.
"Fuck," he breathes, because apparently he's back to that.
But Misha must be right there with him, because he echoes the sentiment, all that unflappable eloquence stripped down to basics now that he's sunk deep and shaking. Jensen moans, loud and long, when he rolls his hips just so. And something in Misha breaks open or apart and he grunts, a low feral sound that shatters Jensen into a thousand tiny pieces. It doesn't take long, Misha gone wild against him, slipping in sweat, and when his hand sneaks around to touch, wrap Jensen's cock up tight, the angle changes and all that's left is a cluster of comets sizzling against his retinas, his orgasm perched right there in the sharp slap of Misha's thighs against his, the twist and rub of Misha's barely-there calluses.
Just fuck.
It's truly over when Misha reaches to brace himself, his fingertips five hot points of pain in Jensen's shoulder and really he had no idea that was a kink until his bones grind together. Then Misha bears down harder and picks up speed, his nerves jangling and buzzing like an antique switchboard, and he does fly apart.
Everything washes white, tremors racking through him as he gasps and lets go all over Misha's hand and Misha curses again behind him, turns loose of his twitching cock to fit a palm against his hip, stutters out another half dozen rough thrusts and goes still, tight little animal noises bubbling up as he rocks his way through it.
Yeah.
Misha collapses against his back, panting, his heartbeat fluttering fast against Jensen's spine. And despite the sticky mess, when Misha's fingers fall against the nape of his neck, ruffling up the short hair, Jensen turns into it and sighs. He wishes they could stay like this, locked in the bright, fuzzy afterglow, but his knees have already voted down that idea and the exhaustion of the week's worth of stunts begins to creep back in, cracking his jaw with a yawn.
Apparently it's the appropriate response, because Misha chuckles and kisses the sweat-soaked patch of skin between his shoulder blades before sighing and starting to extricate himself.
"So's that really what nightcap means?" Jensen slurs and Misha almost-but-not-quite snorts. "If so, I've turned down way too many over the years."
"Only in my native tongue."
Jensen yawns again and stretches, rocks back onto his heels and starts sorting through the monsoon of clothes strewn, well, everywhere. Frankly, he's surprised as fuck his pants aren't hanging from the ceiling fan. They should totally do this more often.
He's halfway through fumbling with a sock and failing miserably, before Misha's fingers close around his wrist, not pushing or pulling or doing anything but resting and giving him the option to decline when Misha says, "Stay." And damn if Misha doesn't fidget, his eyes darting to the door, the corners of the room, the floor, Jensen's fucking bellybutton - finding anything to focus on but Jensen's face while he waits for his answer.
How do you say no to that?
So instead of tugging his sock on the rest of the way, Jensen tosses it over his shoulder. Then he reaches, bends his hand around long, elegant arch of Misha's neck, sweeps his thumb against that place behind Misha's ear that he knows makes him shudder, and knocks their foreheads together gently before he breathes out the word, "Sure," for the second time. Then he's up, battle waged and won, his fingers hooked hard around the neck of the scotch bottle.
"Just brush your fucking teeth before you come to bed."
Continue
Verse: Scotch
Author: kadiel_krieger
Pairing: Jensen/Misha
Rating: NC17
Disclaimer: Real people are real. These are not.
Warnings: PWP, liek whoa.
Summary: Jensen's just spent the entire day rigged in a wire harness and getting thrown against a wall. Misha invites him in for a nightcap. Wackiness ensues. (Depending upon your definition of wackiness that is.)
Previous Installments
Laphroaig
The third time Jensen finds himself at the mercy of both Misha and scotch, it's an accident. Hell, if the mere idea of putting pen to that particular mountain of paperwork didn't make him blush like a chastised Catholic schoolgirl, he might consider filing for workman's comp. Which is to say, it's entirely Kripke's fault.
No. Kripke didn't buy the bottle of Glenrothes '85 that just so happens to be collecting dust in the top of Misha's pantry. He also didn't force Misha to tilt that smile at Jensen across the wide backseat and offer a nightcap in a beguiling tone that suggests dangerous things are afoot.
Still.
Kripke or Sera and by extension the entire creative team seem to get their collective rocks off torturing Dean Winchester. What they seem to sometimes forget is that Jensen also gets tortured in the process. So he blames them and the six and a half hours he's just spent either strapped in a wire-rig or getting slammed into a wall for his momentary weakness.
It's easier to fault them than himself when he's standing on Misha's stoop watching Cliff pull away before he realizes he actually said the word "Sure," out loud.
"Fuck."
Misha manages to make a bad situation worse by slicing a grin off over the sharp slope of his shoulder and nudging the door open with an elbow. Jensen has never felt more like prey in his entire life, and if he could remember which pocket his cell was shoved in, he'd totally call Cliff and beg him to come back and get him.
He's stupid tired to the point all he wants is to fall face first on a soft surface and sleep until call on Monday. Instead he's hovering, glaring at an open door he doesn't have the energy or desire to walk through and trying to figure out whether he can hoof the three and a half miles to his place without passing out. Misha takes the decision out of his hands, leans and tugs him inside like a sack of potatoes, and Jensen just lets him do it. It's the worst kind of headspace to be occupying for any kind of encounter with Misha, not to mention one that will soon be laced with scotch.
When Misha smoothly divests him of both jacket and bag then pushes him in the general direction of the couch, Jensen has to wonder what alternate universe he's landed in, because this is not the way it works with them. Like, ever. It makes him frown and study the nap of the carpet, trailing after Misha when he wanders away towards what he guesses must be the kitchen. Shit, the only normal thing about all this is when Misha grabs him by the shoulders and walks him back into the living room, shoves him down on the couch and says, "Sit. Stay," then pats his head like he's a damned German shepherd.
Jensen feels like he should argue, for the sake of his rapidly dwindling dignity if nothing else, but the couch cushions are nice and soft and he can absolutely get on fucking board with that. He even kicks his boots off, lets his head fall back against the overstuffed bolster, because if he agrees with Dean Winchester about anything it's that you got to take comfort where and when you can.
At some point, he dozes off. Or, he assumes as much, since it's the only logical conclusion to reach after you snort yourself awake. There's also the fact his throat feels like fine grit sandpaper and his lips like baked desert dunes, and he couldn't swear to it - having been unconscious and all - but he thinks maybe he was snoring. It takes a minute for reality to wind its way back into his brain, but when it does he peels one eye open cautiously.
"There you are," Misha says and smiles, and somehow the slightly patronizing lilt doesn't grate Jensen's nerves like it usually does. Maybe because his nerves are already a parmesan cheese sprinkle all over the floor of the yawning green-screen soundstage thirty five miles south. More likely it's because Misha's perched bare-chested and cross-legged on the coffee table right in front of him, swishing a swallow of scotch in a tumbler and staring. On anyone else, it'd be just the wrong side of creepy. On Misha, well - it's already been established that normal rules don't apply and Jensen's wrung out body seems to agree, flushing hot with a rush of spreading warmth that might be affection.
Because Misha Collins waits for no man. Except it seems, Jensen, when he's feeling uncharacteristically magnanimous.
"Yeah," he says, all sleep and gravel, thinking he should say something else or at least ask why he's being studied like a lab rat. Misha wouldn't give a straight answer anyway and Jensen doesn't have the brain for two-syllable words, much less verbal fisticuffs. So when Misha's smile stretches wider and he pours a liberal splash of scotch into a second glass, Jensen takes it without raising anything but a brow.
And fuck, it's good - honey and cocoa and candied oranges, a kick of cedar on the back of his tongue - all the things he loves about Christmas in a single sip. Good enough to make him moan and toss the rest back in a single stinging pull, sweet brightness unfurling in hints of toasted walnut, cinnamon, and nutmeg. Jensen sucks the dregs between his teeth, then rests the glass against his knee, closing his eyes to relish the complex mingling of flavors. Glass clinks together somewhere in the near distance, followed by another liquid gurgle, and Jensen wishes he had the inclination for no but he doesn't.
He does have it in him to say, "Misha," and breathe. That's a step in the right direction, at least, because hey - two syllables. But he can't for the life of him remember where that particular conversational thread was spinning.
Not that it matters.
Because Misha hums and sips noisily, obviously too invested in his own nearly orgasmic scotch experience to bother with words. After a long moment draws out in silence, slumber tickles the back of Jensen's neck again. The gently lulling fog only gives way when he feels the glass plucked out of his hand followed by the slippery slide of lips against his and his eyes snap open. It's a little surreal. He's usually less tired and more drunk when it happens, but in this case surreal does not equal bad. Misha's focus and attention are unparalleled among mere mortals, and to have it visited on him in this condition seems almost like a waste of talent. Then Misha's tongue snakes past his lips soaked with the fruity notes of Glenrothes and Jensen could give a shit about wasted, lets his eyelids droop, and settles in to savor. Sleep still sits, curled and waiting in the back of his mind but for now the heat of Misha crouched so close is keeping it at bay.
After a long, lazy while, Misha pulls back, teeth tugging at Jensen's lower lip as he goes. Misha's hands slide up under the tail of his T-shirt before he can assemble what's left of his scattered sense and Jensen's left in a sort of lurch. Because yeah, there's scotch and there's Misha but he's tired as hell and aching all over and the absolute last thing he should be considering is the admittedly delicious but inconceivably strenuous wrestling match that's about to ensue if Misha actually wrangles him out of his shirt.
Apparently though, his head has little, if any, say in the matter, because his arms respond on autopilot - shoulders screaming when he lifts them.
"Fuck," Jensen breathes, can't even stop the spill of it from his lips, and he must pull a face because Misha actually sounds more concerned than amused when he answers.
"Jensen?"
He grunts in response, but can't quite pry his eyes open, his lids leaden and lashes seemingly knitted together. Misha exhales against his cheek, a warm, frustrated puff of breath. Then Jensen hears an awful lot of clattering and banging that he can't be assed to care about until Misha tugs at his arm and his inner ear telegraphs to his brain that he's about to fall face-fucking-first on the floor. It makes him tense (which may be the worst idea he's had all day) and clutch at the cushions, back flattened against the couch. Misha curses, pulls harder, and Christ he's strong - stronger than the wiry twist of muscle and bone implies. It might even surprise him if it were anyone else, but Misha's singularity has been impressed upon him so often Jensen would be more shocked if something about him actually fit within the frame of any preconceived mold.
It's enough to pull a sigh from his chest and slit his eyes open again, even though that's the very last thing in the world he wants to do.
"The hell?" is what he tries to say, but it smears together in a sleepy tangle that doesn't sound like words at all. Thankfully, it seems Misha has grown adept at interpreting his inebriated speech patterns. Through the haze of exhaustion and scotch, he sees that the coffee table's been relocated and the space is now occupied by a blurry combination of a pissed-looking Misha and what might be a yoga mat - if, of course, Jensen had any clue what a fucking yoga mat looked like.
"Stop being a stubborn ass and let me fix you. You're no good to me like this."
If he had half a mind, he'd probably be offended, but right now he's about a quarter shy of that. This time when Misha yanks, Jensen's not ready. Misha puts his weight behind it and they end up on the floor in a knot of limbs and skin, chests crushed together at acute angles. Of course, Misha grins wide and writhes, pulls some kind of crazily fluid, undulating shimmy that deposits Jensen unceremoniously on the floor - half on and half off the mat. Whatever. At least he managed to fall on his back and doesn't have a broken nose to contend with in addition to the harrowing heap of other aches sending out pain signals from all kinds of previously undiscovered bodily territories.
Then he feels Misha's fingers, warm and firm, working methodically at his pants. The jangle of his buckle coming loose is cacophonous against the soundtrack of their quiet breathing. Jensen swats at Misha half-heartedly, hears him bark out a low, gritty laugh punctuated by the brisk rasp of leather on denim as Jensen's belt flies free.
"Coy doesn't become you, Jensen," Misha whispers, equal parts soft and insistent, his lips suddenly nestled into the swell of Jensen's cheek. He feels a smile break on Misha's face when his body reacts to the touch, arching into the contact even though it twangs uncomfortably everywhere else. A jaw cracking groan builds between his molars, and Jensen can't tell if it's born of pleasure or pain. Which is, yeah, pretty fucking confusing. Made all the more so when Misha shifts, cold metal scraped against nipple, and a noise he will never admit to making pushes its way past his lips.
"Getting there," Misha purrs, then turns back to the task at hand, knees tucked tight and sharp against Jensen's hip when he says, "Up," and tugs his jeans down over his thighs and off, socks carried along in the wake, little fluttering white flags of surrender. He kind of loses track of things after that, but he ends up on his stomach somehow with every muscle in his back spasmed tight and cramping where the harness was locked down. Then Misha knuckles into the columns of knotted meat running up either side of his spine and Jensen would swear on a stack of Bibles that he sees the face of God.
Because just like every other thing in the fucking universe, Misha's an expert at this.
His fingers find every pressure point, every snarled little cluster that needs worked, rough hands clutching and squeezing away all the tension by force. It's relaxing and oddly tender for someone whose primary purpose in life has been to drive Jensen stark raving. Okay, maybe not primary, but still. He acknowledges he's a pretty damn good lay when he wants to be, but he's never seen Misha work for anything, and wonders what on Earth might inspire him to start.
All the higher brain functions required for things like wondering snap off abruptly thirty seconds later when Misha's thumbs slide under the fabric of his boxers and dig into the sensitive skin stretched along his inner thighs, soft palms cupped against the curve of Jensen's ass - way more liberties taken than would be proper in any massage parlor that doesn't specialize in happy endings. But then, it's to be expected. Misha only observes the boundaries that suit him anyway. Which means for the most part he's a wilderness wandering kind of guy, stomping down fences with big shit-kicker boots. It's an essential element of his off-beat charisma, and if Jensen's being painfully honest with himself - it's a primary (no, the primary) reason behind the attraction.
Misha is fearless and unpredictable and it's fucking intoxicating.
Case in point, all Jensen feels as Misha's fingers creep higher is the involuntary clench and drift as his legs slip farther apart - some brand spanking new set of Misha-inspired reflexes sparking to life under his ministrations. When this is over, he and his body are going to have a serious heart-to-heart, because it's so far beyond the definition of un-cool it has swung back around to cool. And Jesus, Misha takes advantage, his hands petting more than kneading now, fingers teasing ever closer to the hot, hidden places that have always defined them, but falling just short every fucking time.
Yeah. He's awake now, shuddering out of his skin a little more every second and not entirely able to catch his breath, but definitely, completely, achingly alert. It occurs to him that he's perhaps neglected to ask Misha about some pretty important things. If, for instance, he's into tantra. Because the way he's moving, like he has a spare eon or two to spend coaxing unwilling noises out of Jensen, it's maddening. And Misha is totally that guy.
The thought doesn't even have a chance to coil completely up Jensen's brainstem before Misha's on the move, and he'd thank every member of the holy host personally except that for whatever reason the motion takes Misha away and that's not better. When he wrenches his head back to look, Jensen thinks, Yeah, okay, maybe the worry was a bit hasty. For one, his back doesn't have anything to say about the angle of his neck. All things considered, that alone is pretty damn remarkable. Secondly, Misha has taken the opportunity to shuck the two layers that stand between him and a state of glorious nakedness. Jensen will never, ever get tired of that. There was a third thing, he could have sworn there was, but it's gone - lost forever in the feline roll of Misha's hips as he slinks back with party favors in tow.
Out of the corner of his eye, he catches the glint of glass and a long, flawless stretch of skin as Misha sinks effortlessly to his knees then rocks back on his heels. Jensen starts to turn over and reach for his tumbler because honestly he needs the distraction, but Misha flattens a palm between his shoulder blades to gentle him back down. It really shouldn't make him sigh and close his eyes, shouldn't make him press his cheek against the floor, his cock stirring to languid life pinned beneath him at an odd angle. But Misha deals daily in shouldn'ts, so it's an assumption that Jensen would traffic in the same currency.
Then Misha's fingers slip beneath the waistband of his boxers, slim stripes of heat blooming on his skin where they touch, and he obeys the unspoken request happily when Misha's thumbs crook to ease that last scrap of fabric still caught between them down over his hips.
"You seem to be under the mistaken impression I'm your handmaiden," Misha says, his voice as infuriatingly even as ever.
Jensen pillows his head on his arms and arches his back, delighted when there's only the barest phantom of pain singing against his spine when he does. Oh yeah, Misha's good.
"I seem to remember there being some feudal lands ceded. You'd have to call my accountant," he responds, a sly smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, the nubby surface of the mat a strange sensation against his lips.
He hears Misha shift, feels the warmth of him hovering just beyond his reach and if Jensen were in any other condition, it'd be too much to take - Misha so close but not touching him. As it is, he's having a hard time staying put, all of his senses tuned and painfully aware, aching for...what? More is all he can say with certainty. Just. More. But if there was ever a good time, tonight is the night to beat Misha at his own game.
Which is, of course, why Misha chooses that precise moment to change it.
Misha's hand falls again, fingers flared wide and urgent across Jensen's shoulders. It's a good thing too, because when the first drops of liquid spill in the small of his back, Jensen's initial instinct is to tuck and roll, shove Misha across the room.
"What the fu..." is all he gets out before Misha bends, his tongue curling hot and slick, gathering up every last bit of what's been spilt with deliberate swipes that Jensen feels every-fucking-where. The scotch isn't cold exactly, he just wasn't expecting...
"Fuck!" Jensen grunts, and this time gets the entire word out, all the muscles in his back drawn bowstring tight because this time it is cold, splashing as it is over the places Misha's tongue has just bathed. The hand spread against his shoulders pushes harder, just enough to gently flex his ribs, force the air from his lungs and damn if his cock doesn't twitch like it has a mind of its own.
Because really, if he wanted to, he could take Misha.
But he won't.
Misha's fingerprints etch into his skin. A puddle of lukewarm liquid pools precariously in the hollow at the base of his spine, sending out shivering little rivulets every time he twitches. Misha's other hand, the one not engaged in keeping him still, is roving, dragging swirls of scotch into nonsense patterns all over his back - so gentle and, fuck, sure and soothing that Jensen has to cinch his eyes shut tighter, sink his teeth into his forearm just to keep from breaking Misha's concentration.
Yeah, he won't.
Because he's never been this turned on. Ever. To the point his brain can't really handle anymore when Misha dips his head again, tongues him clean, tiny mewling sounds caught in the back of his throat that spread and flare and light Jensen right the fuck up. Because he's being handled. No, not just handled, tended to with such all-encompassing care it makes him ache in places he doesn't remember giving permission to exist.
He never believed Misha capable of so much authenticity.
Another splash of scotch finds his skin, more liberal than the last two - tiny streams twisting down the slope of both hips, the crease of his ass.
And just. Fuck.
Misha chases them all, teeth scraping skin as he collects what's readily accessible before moving to...
"Misha," Jensen sighs, and shudders when Misha hums against him.
"Are you...?"
Jensen flushes hot and squirms, can't even ask the rest of the question because it's just too fucking much. But then Misha's fingers close vise-tight around his hips, yanking him to his knees, and Jensen dimly hears the scrape of metal on glass around the pounding in his ears.
Just. Fuck. Can't breathe. Can't. With the angle and the...
Another splash at the very tip of his tailbone and this time he feels it cut wet meandering paths down his thighs, feels Misha shift again and settle, knees tucked between Jensen's. Misha leads with his tongue, of course, then his lips, moist and soft, breath coming quick now and Jensen takes a moment to savor that small triumph before Misha's thumbs find just the right place to land and then...
Fucking fuck.
It takes everything Jensen has, every last shred of his self-control to not fly away or apart or kill them both in a spastic flurry of limbs, because he's never. Never. Never.
And it's so fucking good. Every nerve in Jensen's body comes alive, stringing stinging latticework patterns out from where Misha's tongue connects, his grip on Jensen's ass tightening briefly then easing, a silent but completely necessary reassurance that, yeah, he gets it. Jensen tries to assemble the tatters of his mind enough to remember how to breathe. The air sears his lungs raw when he sucks it through his teeth, redolent with sweat and Glenrothes and sex.
Misha isn't helping matters, because even as he pulls back to give him time to...freak the fuck out he supposes, Jensen still feels him waiting, poised and jungle-cat eager, brow a heavy scorching weight against his hip, teeth nipping absently because he can't seem to stop.
Can't stop, and Jesus, that sings under his skin like a choir of dearly depraved angels, pulls a series of quivers up the inside of his thighs and over the crest of his ass until he's shifting back, reaching for Misha the only way he can. He can do this. Fuck yeah, he can. So he pulls himself to his elbows, exhales slow and shaky, then braces.
Jensen feels ridiculous, spread and bared with no idea what to say but, "Misha," and that's not something that happens to him. Ever. Jensen is the guy that rolls with the punches, the guy that makes molehills of everyone else's mountains and prides himself on it. But thank fucking God Misha gets it, hears the please and yes so he doesn't actually have to say it.
Because when Misha's tongue finally touches down again, Jensen's vocabulary shrinks down to a single word.
"Fuuuuck."
Two words.
"Misha, fuck."
Then Misha hums again and swirls and pushes, and Jensen feels his heart skitter right up the ladder of his ribcage to lodge in his throat, until he's gulping like a goddamned guppy leagues away from his watery home, fighting desperately to hold himself still and open. Too good, too - fuck. Misha huffs a breath, nose flattened into the crease of Jensen's ass, and that nearly does him in completely. Because now, now he's thinking about the quirk of Misha's brow and that wide Cheshire smirk and that it's his tongue pulling Jensen inside out with sweet, measured thrusts and curls. His elbows go out from under him all of a sudden, like his arms have just given up the fucking ghost, and he moans exactly how he wants to, no biting it back, like the only thing in the world that matters is Misha. Misha's lips. Misha's tongue. Just Misha and those rough little cat-licks he's using to open Jensen up.
He tries to say, "Misha," again, but even to his ears it just sounds like, "Mrmpsh," because if he moves a muscle save the gentle rocking rhythm he can't quite help, he's going to come all over himself like some fucking teenager. Then there's more pressure and the slick slide of Misha's fingers fitting alongside his tongue. Jensen gasps, a choked gurgling sound that originates somewhere deep in his chest, back arched, hips canted and urgent, the answering strangled moan that Misha breathes against his skin only pushing him higher, harder, faster.
So fucking good.
But that is it.
"Fuck Misha," he pants, and sinks his teeth into his lower lip, blood blooming on his tongue. "Can we get on with it? Please?"
Misha laughs quietly, muffled but satisfied, like this was the point all along. Jensen could give a shit about games now, his knees and legs and dick aching, his spine spring-loaded and just fucking ready. But then Misha leans back on a symphony of obscene, wet noises that wrap around his cock as surely as any hand, presses a sloppy closed-mouthed kiss against the round of his ass, and Jensen rocks against the fingers still stroking out their exasperatingly languid rhythm.
"What are we supposed to be getting on with exactly? I for one am perfectly..."
"Bullshit," Jensen growls, thrusts back again until he sees stars, until he feels fingernail scrape against that spot, long before Misha has time to react and deny him the pleasure. "You want me to beg, I'll beg. You want me to whine like a goddamn bitch in heat, I'll do that too. But really, I'd rather you just fuck me without all the theatrics."
Jensen feels Misha's dick twitch sticky against the back of his thigh and it makes him brazen, makes him flatten one hand to the floor to prop himself up, makes him reach for Misha with the other and pull him flush.
"I'm askin'," he says and sighs, shoots a glance over his shoulder that he regrets almost immediately. Misha looks ready to eat him alive, teeth bared and pupils blown so wide there's only a sliver of blue left, and there's no hiding from that kind of intensity, even if he wanted to. Jensen watches Misha's chest heave twice then lets his head drop along with his hand, feels the loss when Misha frees his fingers, tries not to think about how much it's going to hurt.
Because in the grand scheme, it doesn't matter. He wants it, bad enough to ask, and Misha's moving, indistinct shuffling rustles and clicks that grind his teeth together. Then he's lining up, slick and soft and Jensen's muscles start to cramp with waiting, every molecule aching to push back and seat himself. Patience is a virtue he's short on right now, and he's ten seconds from saying something or getting up and going home when Misha sighs his name on the air and puts his back into it.
And Christ it hurts, just the first couple of inches, but Misha's rubbing wide, sweeping ovals against the base of his spine, murmuring nonsense he can't quite make out but that sounds like good and tight and perfect, and when the wave subsides the next thrust comes easier. Misha takes his time, working his way in with the kind of serene single-mindedness Jensen has always envied. Even though they're both dripping sweat now, twitching skitters bouncing between them in jittery feedback loops Jensen thinks he could live in, he still wants more. So he takes matters into his own hands, coils himself tight and pushes back until he feels so fucking full he could die from it, Misha's hipbones arched against his ass the only thing anchoring him to reality.
"Fuck," he breathes, because apparently he's back to that.
But Misha must be right there with him, because he echoes the sentiment, all that unflappable eloquence stripped down to basics now that he's sunk deep and shaking. Jensen moans, loud and long, when he rolls his hips just so. And something in Misha breaks open or apart and he grunts, a low feral sound that shatters Jensen into a thousand tiny pieces. It doesn't take long, Misha gone wild against him, slipping in sweat, and when his hand sneaks around to touch, wrap Jensen's cock up tight, the angle changes and all that's left is a cluster of comets sizzling against his retinas, his orgasm perched right there in the sharp slap of Misha's thighs against his, the twist and rub of Misha's barely-there calluses.
Just fuck.
It's truly over when Misha reaches to brace himself, his fingertips five hot points of pain in Jensen's shoulder and really he had no idea that was a kink until his bones grind together. Then Misha bears down harder and picks up speed, his nerves jangling and buzzing like an antique switchboard, and he does fly apart.
Everything washes white, tremors racking through him as he gasps and lets go all over Misha's hand and Misha curses again behind him, turns loose of his twitching cock to fit a palm against his hip, stutters out another half dozen rough thrusts and goes still, tight little animal noises bubbling up as he rocks his way through it.
Yeah.
Misha collapses against his back, panting, his heartbeat fluttering fast against Jensen's spine. And despite the sticky mess, when Misha's fingers fall against the nape of his neck, ruffling up the short hair, Jensen turns into it and sighs. He wishes they could stay like this, locked in the bright, fuzzy afterglow, but his knees have already voted down that idea and the exhaustion of the week's worth of stunts begins to creep back in, cracking his jaw with a yawn.
Apparently it's the appropriate response, because Misha chuckles and kisses the sweat-soaked patch of skin between his shoulder blades before sighing and starting to extricate himself.
"So's that really what nightcap means?" Jensen slurs and Misha almost-but-not-quite snorts. "If so, I've turned down way too many over the years."
"Only in my native tongue."
Jensen yawns again and stretches, rocks back onto his heels and starts sorting through the monsoon of clothes strewn, well, everywhere. Frankly, he's surprised as fuck his pants aren't hanging from the ceiling fan. They should totally do this more often.
He's halfway through fumbling with a sock and failing miserably, before Misha's fingers close around his wrist, not pushing or pulling or doing anything but resting and giving him the option to decline when Misha says, "Stay." And damn if Misha doesn't fidget, his eyes darting to the door, the corners of the room, the floor, Jensen's fucking bellybutton - finding anything to focus on but Jensen's face while he waits for his answer.
How do you say no to that?
So instead of tugging his sock on the rest of the way, Jensen tosses it over his shoulder. Then he reaches, bends his hand around long, elegant arch of Misha's neck, sweeps his thumb against that place behind Misha's ear that he knows makes him shudder, and knocks their foreheads together gently before he breathes out the word, "Sure," for the second time. Then he's up, battle waged and won, his fingers hooked hard around the neck of the scotch bottle.
"Just brush your fucking teeth before you come to bed."
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