Lost in Transition (1 of 2)
Title: Lost in Transition
Authors: qthelights and kadiel_krieger
Pairings: Jeff/Jensen/Misha/Christian
[JDM/MC], [JA/MC], [JA/JDM], [CK/MC], [CK/JA/MC], vague [CK/JA]
Rating: Adult
Wordcount: 18k
Disclaimer: Yeah. Not even remotely real.
Warnings: Angst and porn. Lots of both.
Summary: Jensen finds something he didn't even know he was looking for.
A/N: Thank you cupiscent for pulling beta duty.
As parties go, it could be better.
It could also be much, much worse. As of yet no one has vomited a Jaeger bomb into the corner pocket of his pool table, so it already beats the last shindig he threw.
Really, there's nothing to suggest that this isn't an awesome party. His friends are all here - most of them anyway. Apparently having a party 'because of hiatus' is good enough reason for them to come celebrate. Then again, it's not like they'd get to see him any other time. Even Jeff is in from out of town, a rare break from filming whatever-the-hell he's filming right now. The best part is that Jensen can legitimately have a hangover for the rest of next week, if he so chooses.
Of course Jared is the notable exception, and maybe that's why the party doesn't feel quite as loud or big - it's missing the loudest, biggest part. Jensen can already tell this will be one of those things Jared never lets him live down, but it's just not Jensen's fault that the world doesn't revolve around Jared's schedule. And he sure as shit isn't gonna pass up an opportunity to get stinking drunk just because Padalecki has to go see his momma every five minutes. Jensen refuses to feel guilty about it.
Christian's around here somewhere, probably with Steve in tow or a girl up against a wall. He's already made it clear he plans to drink Jensen under the table. Which may well happen. Jensen will at least have his dignity in the morning. More than Chris will anyway, and he'll call that a win.
Loud music thumps through the walls, complete with a catchy baseline that has him bobbing his head; a sea of gorgeous girls flows around him, each of them giving him the once-over as they eddy on by. Jensen wonders just how he managed to end up in this life again. It always hits him in these surreal moments, surrounded by musicians and actors and Hollywood's more down-to-earth but still undeniably pretty people, that this is not where he had thought he'd end up.
It kicks weird feelings around him, swirly dust tornadoes that froth up his stomach. Maybe that's just the jello-shot Misha handed him.
Speaking of Misha, Jensen has no idea where he is, though he's pretty sure he was meant to be bringing him a beer to make up for the jello. That was fifteen minutes back though and Jensen sorely needs a drink. He surveys the crowd in front of him, nearest and dearest and total fucking strangers, all having a fine old time.
No Misha. Not that he keeps tabs on him or anything, because he doesn't. He just wants that beer.
Chris sidles up beside him, throws an arm around his shoulders. "Hey pretty boy, what's up?"
"Misha and my beer, apparently," Jensen replies, ignoring the name but sliding an answering arm around Chris' waist.
Chris pulls his arm away almost instantly. "Whatever, man. Get your own beer. Don't rely on flaky bits of ass for the important shit."
Jensen doesn't know what crawled up Kane's ass and died. Well, that's not entirely true. He's been shitty since he found out Jeff was here. Whatever. He'll work it out of his system soon enough. Jensen just rides it out. "Like alcohol?"
"Damn straight. A man needs to be in charge of his own booze. Angel-eyes ain't stable enough to be bringing you a steady stream of beer."
"I think he'll manage." Jensen finds himself on the defensive all of a sudden, and he doesn't really know why.
"Whatever, man," Chris says and shrugs. "I'm not the one without a beer." Chris shakes his head at Jensen solemnly, like giving up on the already deranged, and then apparently declares the conversation over. He raises his long-neck in mock salute as he steps backwards and disappears into the living room.
Jensen pulls out his phone.
* * *
It's odd to be wandering around Jensen's house without him in tow.
Still, Misha's been here often enough now that he could find his way almost anywhere by simple touch.
Everything's off though; the gentle earth tones splashed across Jensen's walls have been turned flat by the bright, burning lights of the party. Upstairs, the story's altogether different - the shadows cut deeper and breaths pulled more shallow, and Misha's just glad that he doesn't meet anyone in the hallway that he'd rather not see.
Even if he can't put his finger on why he doesn't want to see them.
Maybe because he doesn't want to explain why he knows the third door on the left leads to the guest suite. Or that he's never had occasion to use it. Or why he's trailing Jeff so closely.
With the soft click of tumblers falling into place, Misha sighs. Now, nothing less than solid oak stands between him and Jeff and the cacophony buzzing up the stairs. The hum dies down to a blessedly subtle thump of steady bass bleeding through the carpet and between Misha's toes. Jeff made no move to flick the lights on when he commandeered the room, Misha either, and so the only illumination is the warm wash of gold sliding under the door, the seep of streetlight through curtains.
Jeff seems to know the layout just as well as he does, because even in the half-light he easily finds and sprawls into the lone armchair near the window, joint in one hand, glass of amber liquid in the other. Ice clinks from within, the rings wrapped around his fingers tapping from without.
Misha hesitates.
There are no rules for this beyond those of common decency, and save the fact that fucking one's co-star is neither common nor decent in the strictest sense, Misha can't help but wonder whether sneaking off with one of Jensen's friends for possibly questionable purposes constitutes a breach of their completely unspoken agreement. Unfortunately, the nature of unspoken agreements is exactly that, unspoken, and he hasn't a clue what Jensen would or would not think about him fucking someone else under his roof.
All Misha knows is how he would feel.
So instead of sprawling across the bed, he settles cross-legged on the floor, back flattened to the wall beneath the window and drapes ruffling his hair. It's some bastardized parody of an eager child awaiting his lesson, but at least it's not openly suggestive.
Instead of knowledge, Jeff passes him the joint.
Given a choice, Misha would much rather spend a luxuriously slow amount of time picking Jeff apart to see what makes him tick, but contrary to popular opinion, these offers don't fall in his lap every day and he's found that the truth of a person often surfaces in the most unlikely ways. He found Jensen's in the bottom of a bottle of tequila, Jared's in a frosty pre-dawn doze with Sadie drooling on his stomach. His own is a riddle that has yet to be written. This strikes him as a way to discover the why of Jeff.
It also strikes him that he's feeling particularly devil-may-care right this moment. Itchy and uncomfortable in his own skin, in Jensen's house, surrounded by Jensen's best ever through-the-depths-of-hell buddies.
The irony isn't lost on him.
So he accepts the escape Jeff offers, unsure if he means the joint or Jeff himself and not really caring either way.
It's only polite, after all.
"So you think you've got what it takes?" Jeff says, voice tight around a practiced exhale.
"I've always risen to the occasion before," Misha responds, even though he's at a loss as to what exactly Jeff is referring to. He became a master in the art of prolonging bullshit to serve his own ends so many years ago he can't remember a time he didn't have the instinct. He feels his brows pull together, an unfortunate reflex, and he sniffs at the moist paper caught between his fingertips.
He can already tell the blend's more potent than anyone can get stateside without a prescription, but that has little bearing on the warm tendrils curling up his spine, making him loose and languid and entirely too agreeable. That he blames entirely on Jeff - the curve of Jeff's fingers, the slow stretching grin, the way he rubs the glass against his lips before he sucks down another sip.
So when Jeff slides a smile his way and grunts, Misha's not sure whether to smoke or pass the joint back untouched. He's fairly certain he doesn't need an herbal mood enhancer gumming up the investigative works.
"Sound pretty sure of yourself," Jeff says and pulls another long draught of whiskey from his glass.
Misha grins up at him and shrugs. "Any reason I shouldn't be?"
The laugh starts as a twinkle tucked into the corner of Jeff's eye, but quickly blooms into a rib-cracking sort of full body shudder. "Oh sweetheart, the things you don't know."
And really, Misha knows he ought to bristle, ought to pursue the thought down whatever dark and inevitably thorny path it takes him, because that's where he knows the answers must live. But then Jeff tongues at his top lip, an errant drop of liquor falling prey to the wet slide, and he simply forgets. It's what makes his mind up for him, in the end - the desire to engage such a creature in the oldest kind of hunt.
Maybe, just maybe, that's where Jeff's truth lives. And if it isn't, well, so be it. He'll have learned something all the same.
He unfurls his legs from under him and slides to his knees, shuffles forward between Jeff's knees. The front of the chair presses against his thighs, solid and welcome. Jeff is watching him, more than a hint of predatory humour glinting in his gaze. He'd be lying if he said it didn't do things to him. Then again, Misha's never had a problem with lying.
He steadies himself with a hand on Jeff's thigh, leans in and presses the joint to the pink of Jeff's lips.
Jeff's fingers wrap tight around his hand, holding it in place, and Misha smiles up the length of his arm, reveling in the rub of gently-callused skin across his knuckles. Time slows at Jeff's inhale, his ribs bumping against Misha's elbow as he pulls the smoke deep. At the count of twelve, Jeff whips his hand away and Misha almost loses the joint in a shower of coal and ash. For half a second, he's thinking about how pissed Jensen's going to be about the brand-spanking-new patch of singed carpet, but then Jeff's other hand fists in the front of his shirt, hauling him in until the firm press of Jeff's lips seal over his own with an almost violent exhale.
Misha's not expecting it and has to fight to keep from coughing the smoke back over. Even so he takes time to catalog the subtleties of Jeff's aftershave as it wars with the weed for dominance, the scratch of stubble across his chin. It's so distracting he nearly forgets to inhale - until he doesn't.
His eyes slide shut as he breathes in the smoke, takes it with the air from Jeff's lungs. The suddenness of the act burns his throat, but he holds it, lets the need for oxygen overpower him before letting it go in a shaky tremor. He's still only millimeters from Jeff's mouth, held in place by the fist wrapped in his shirt, and he can feel the smoke echo back to him as it bounces off proximate skin.
When Misha opens his eyes, a pause taken to let himself settle, he's greeted by Jeff's lazy smile, a wide expanse of blinding teeth, clearly amused by the successful advantage he's taken. Clearly approving that Misha has just gone with it, hasn't pulled away or uttered protest.
Misha thinks Jeff is altogether way too sure of himself. Even if he does have every damn reason to be.
And so he leans in.
Were he of another mind, Misha might've already snatched up what was so plainly on offer, but he isn't or wasn't, and it's Jeff so there's a moment of hesitation, a decision hung in the balance before he flings his misbegotten caution to the wind and takes Jeff's lips with a purpose. It gives him the illusion of control at the very least, a fevered daydream that spins out and dies when Jeff tugs him in tighter, hand splayed wide between his shoulder blades, Jeff's jaw working slower as his tongue slips out and finds the roof of Misha's mouth in a slow, seductive slide. There's no manhandling or ferocity about it, but Jeff reclaims his mantle as surely as he does anything.
The hand caught up in his shirt slackens its grip, and Misha feels it shift, gliding up across the planes of his chest until fingers seat in the hollow behind his ear. Jeff's rings are a cool scrape against sensitive skin and Misha hisses in spite of himself, Jeff's grin slipping wider against his lips.
It would be infuriating if it weren't completely turning him on, arousal mixing with the pleasant buzz of the drug invading his system, the cocksure ownership of his mouth, the room, the party beyond.
Jeff's mouth is wet and wanton, pockets of cold where the whiskey has traced its path. His whiskers scratch at Misha's face, sharp and feathery all at once. Misha lift his hand off Jeff's thigh, held in place firmly enough not to lose his balance. He threads his fingers into the scruff of Jeff's almost-beard, reveling in the way his fingertips slide through it, the way Jeff's breath hitches as he scratches blunt nails down the side of his jaw.
Then and only then does Misha unearth what he's truly after. Jeff surges up in a rush of oddly perfumed air and want, their lips smacking apart with a sigh and a whimper as Jeff crowds him. He shuffles a step, then two, until the edge of the bed nudges at the backs of his knees and they hinge obediently. Misha remembers the joint just in time, and even though it sprays the comforter with a tiny rain of sparks, none of them flare, so he figures at the worst he'll end up replacing some bedding.
Jeff stands between his knees, sipping at his whiskey, staring down with a telltale quirk to his lips. Misha stares back, not with defiance, but with a sweet, sharp burn coiling in his belly. He has no idea what the hell Jeff intends to do with him now.
"Jensen said you were a handful," Jeff says, his voice low and even, but shot through with more gravel than Jensen could ever hope to muster.
Misha smirks then, cozies the joint against his lips and takes a deep, satisfying pull. The smoke builds a haze up between them and through it he watches Jeff set his glass aside, hears the clink as the tumbler meets the bedside table. When he exhales, Jeff slides through the cloud like some fantastical figment of his imagination, all beautiful bronzed skin and sinew, something Misha can't quite pin down until the mattress beside him gives and there's a warm body flushed against his flank.
Misha hands the joint back to Jeff, who takes it between his fingers, tip flaring orange and bright in the darkened room as he drags its bounty into his lungs. Jeff's thigh is hot against his own, and there's something thrumming between them. He isn't sure if it's the weed or his self-admitted reverence for what the man beside him effortlessly embodies, or if perhaps he's getting off a little on the idea of letting Jeff own him so easily. Especially when part of him knows that they shouldn't be, given where they are.
And who they're here for.
"If you think I'm only a convenient magnolia, you're sorely mistaken," Misha says, some monstrosity caught between a chuckle and a giggle sticking in his throat.
Jeff's eyes narrow and he drops the rest of the joint into the dregs of his whiskey with a sizzle. He doesn't seem confused, though Misha might expect him to be. It's not like they've spent enough time in the same city - not to mention the same room - for Jeff to follow. He does though, the flash of comprehension and following smirk wakens something strange in the back of Misha's brain.
But Jeff chooses the other route. "I think you're looking pretty convenient right now."
Jeff settles a hand on Misha's knee and slides it tantalizingly slow up his thigh. And Misha can't even begin to protest, words having traitorously deserted him. Jeff's hand gets to his hip, and as if by some twist of fate or divine intervention or perhaps even eternally bad luck, it's right then that Misha's phone starts to vibrate, buzzing directly between his thigh and Jeff's hand.
Of course.
When Misha finally extricates the cell from his pocket Jeff's fingers slide into the void left behind, smoothing denim and swirling small, soothing circles against his hipbone. Between the booze and the pot he's already mellowed nearly beyond coherence, his brain tripping off in random, fuzzy directions. It's not until the phone buzzes a second time against his palm that he sighs and touches the screen to wake it up.
[10:32:08] Acklantis: The fuck?
[10:35:22] Acklantis: Where the hell r u?
Misha smiles in spite of himself, not that he should, not that he has any right to. Still, even in the crushing swarm of well-wishers downstairs, Jensen noticed his absence.
"Jensen," he says to Jeff, shaking his phone awkwardly, and feels the hum against the side of neck, the scratch of whiskers a pleasant burn as an arm bands tight across his waist. Apparently, Jeff could care less about what Jensen might or might not have to say, and as Misha doesn't care either he taps out a perfunctory response.
[10:37:44] Guest suite. High. With Jeff. Handsy fucker.
With the message sent, consequences be damned, Misha loses himself in the heady feel of Jeff filling his senses. Jeff's teeth sink into his throat as his hands roam confidently, briefly pressing against the bulge in Misha's pants and eliciting a whimper that Misha will later swear did not come from his lips.
Jeff's mouth is back on his, Jeff's hands holding and tilting his head in place for easy access. It's slow and so fucking sure, as if they've spent years doing just this, not ten minutes after meeting a half hour before. Misha suspects Jeff has this effect on everyone.
He's so caught up in the lazy teasing slide, the warmth radiating off Jeff, the strong arms enveloping him, that he doesn't even notice the minutes it takes for his phone to buzz against his leg where it fell earlier.
[10:43:13] Acklantis: Ok.
[10:43:57] Acklantis: ??
Which maybe makes Misha smile just a little more.
[10:44:32] Here kitty, kitty.
As soon as he hits send, Misha turns the thing off. Either Jensen will come or he won't, and regardless of what the outcome might be, Misha intends to enjoy himself. He angles into Jeff's body, tangling their legs together. Five minutes from now, he's sure he'll be wishing for fewer layers and more time, more booze to keep him bobbing lazily in the currents Jeff's rippling on the air. Five minutes and Jensen won't have shit to say about anything.
It doesn't take that long. It doesn't even take two, and Misha wonders how long he stood outside the door before he sent the last message.
The doorknob turns and the door opens hesitantly. Light from the hallway spills in as bright as the sun, peals of laughter and music flooding up from downstairs. A Jensen-shaped shadow slides inside and the door clicks softly closed.
Misha pulls his mouth away from Jeff's and they both turn to where Jensen stands inside the door, eyes wide and black as he adjusts to the lack of light in the room.
Jeff's arms stay where they are around Misha's waist, but his hand slips down to palm at Misha's cock through his jeans. It's an obvious play, Jeff letting Jensen know he can have whoever he wants whenever he wants, and being used that way makes Misha want in all the wrong ways. He simply cannot help the groan that rattles in the base of his throat or the way his hips jerk up into Jeff's hand.
Just like he can't help but notice the way Jensen's eyes flicker from Jeff's hands up to Misha's face at the noise. The way Jensen stays where he is. Says nothing.
Jeff finds his tongue first. "I taught you better, Jensen," he murmurs, then licks a wet patch onto Misha's collarbone. "Shouldn't leave your toys lying around."
As much as he'd like to protest that he's not anyone's toy, in this particular instance he feels like it may well be an incorrect assertion. There's also the fact that protestations could interfere with the hands currently guiding him into a pleasant state of loose-limbed bliss, and that would be very, very unfortunate. Yet, Misha can feel the tension skittering off Jensen in wild, overwhelming waves, even if he can't place the cause - not really. Apparently though, there's a history he's not been made aware of until just now. It leaves him flying a little blind, but Misha's always been reckless with things that don't really matter.
Sometimes, he's reckless with things that do.
The silence strung out between them makes a hard left toward oppressive, so much so that Misha hears Jensen lick his lips, the soft clack of his teeth as they part then snap shut.
Misha's about to say something, despite not really understanding just what exactly is going on. Tension is not his thing, especially when it's interfering with his current state of nirvana. His mind, slow and doped up as it is, however, is not playing ball. It's randomly cycling through alternatives and he's skipped from 'sharing is caring' to something involving action figures which really isn't all that funny and won't do anything to fix the current situation. Saved by the bell seems to be the theme of the night though, as the second Misha opens his mouth, mildly curious as to what his mind is going to push out of it, the clear sound of chiming comes from the vicinity of Jensen's pants.
Jensen blinks, startled, and shakes his head as if clearing something from his vision before he reaches for the phone in his back pocket. His gaze doesn't waiver right up until he has his phone in front of him, sliding a thumb across its surface before he finally looks down.
Misha feels the room sigh in relief, wonders if he should disentangle himself from Jeff's limbs. Wonders why he should wonder that.
***
[10:50:04] CK: Do I look like a bitch, Ackles?
The air bends around the quiet, "Fuck," that slips unbidden between Jensen's lips. And while he only has eyes for the lithe pair of bodies currently writhing like a couple of fucking teenagers in heat all over his good guest linens, he's still sober enough to spare a thought or two for how royally, utterly, and completely screwed he's going to be if Chris manages to hunt them down.
Chris will never understand, and while Jensen appreciates the sentiment - fuck yes, he does - he already has a pretty overbearing older brother to answer to. And Jared.
With any luck, he'll be presumed otherwise engaged and simply left alone
He hopes.
Misha makes that tight, choking sound in the back of his throat that Jensen loves so much and his eyes dart back to the bed.
Shit, he is otherwise engaged.
He knows he needs to answer. If he doesn't, Chris will plough through that door and all hell will break loose. Jensen knows this, but the sight in front of him is short-circuiting things in his cerebral cortex. The logic needed to form a reply, to avert the apocalypse of Kane, is simply too hard to reach. The phone stays in his hand but his arm has already fallen to his side. Instead of answering he finds himself taking a hesitant step forward.
Jeff grins at him across the narrow expanse of Misha's chest, and it's awesome in all the ways he remembers - it gets his blood up and makes his cock twitch because even it knows what that smile means. But it's also horrible in all the ways he remembers, especially when Jeff's lips meet Misha's skin, his gaze never once wavering from Jensen's.
Because it's empty. Just fucking.
And he'll be damned if he's going to come over all chick-flicked with that sprawled and waiting for him, but he can't stop the memories from putting a lump in his throat.
Something must telegraph out, find a home in the twist of his lips or the set of his chin, even though that's the last thing in the world Jensen wants. Before he stamps down whatever it is that's betrayed him, Jeff's grin fades down to something like guilt and he's pulling back, sliding free, and Misha makes another noise that Jensen used to love.
He doesn't even notice when his phone slips between his fingers and falls with a quiet thump onto the floor.
Misha looks confused and rumpled, and Jensen can't help but think it somehow works for him. It isn't his fault, after all; Misha doesn't know the story, and why should he? There's no reason that Jensen should be feeling like he maybe should have said something earlier.
Jeff extricates himself and slides off the bed, slumps back into the armchair in a familiar sprawl. He's all rings and bracelets, black and denim, liquid sex - everything exactly as Jensen left it four years ago, down to the curl of his lip. It tightens something in Jensen's chest and draws into sharp relief just how far he's come.
And how far he hasn't.
Jeff grins at him, but it's wry and strangely regretful. "You didn't say. Sorry, kid." He holds his hands up in the universal signal for backing off.
Misha is glancing between the two of them, brows creasing together. "Wait...huh?"
Apologies are pretty damn useless in the long-run, and Jeff's already reached his quota, so Jensen feels justified letting a bit of his frustration seep out around the edges when he says, "Shouldn't have to," and conveniently forgets to return the smile.
It's the pause between acts and Jensen can feel that knowledge burn beneath his skin, even though he can't put a finger on where the last scene gasped out its denouement. Instead, he goes on instinct, goes with what he knows. Answers are slippery as fucking eels and he hasn't any to offer Misha, much less himself. So he slinks in to straddle Misha's hips and kisses the questions completely and thoroughly away.
It has absolutely nothing to do with Jeff, really it doesn't. Easier to convince himself of that when Misha's lips part willingly beneath his and Jensen tastes the pot, the sharp flavor of whisky on Misha's tongue - easier still when Misha's hands settle on his thighs, fingertips gone to sharp points when he sighs into Jensen's mouth.
It's heady and familiar and just as much of a rush as it always is, even if the taste of Jeff on Misha's skin twists a weird knot in his gut.
He buries the feeling by burying himself into Misha. Digs down underneath his skin and Jeff-flavouring with his tongue down Misha's throat, his hands sliding under the hem of Misha's shirt to splay against the heated skin. Misha is loose-limbed and slithers against him, slides over and around him without moving from under his weight. The fingers that clutch at his hips are a welcome distraction to the swirling in Jensen's head.
He wishes they'd shared the pot. Wishes Misha'd brought him that beer.
Misha is making jerky little movements against the insides of Jensen's thighs, trying to increase friction but not in a position to negotiate it. The power of the position, the lack of power in Misha's current state of being, goes to Jensen's head and cock simultaneously. The knowledge that Jeff is sitting only feet away, watching him take back his playthings, watching him devour Misha, and the way Jensen knows that he looks - back curved, thighs splayed, hips beginning a slow grind against his captive - might be what does him in.
Because he isn't going to stop. He's going to fuck Misha on the bed in his guest room with Jeff unable to touch him, to touch them, with a whole houseful of guests downstairs and the strange kick of something in his chest.
Jensen reaches back, catches the cotton spread across his shoulder blades, and starts to strip it off.
Just his fucking luck, of course, that he's half-tangled in his shirt when the door bangs open hard enough it rattles the stop screwed into the baseboard with a metallic twang. He blinks at the sudden splash of light from the hallway cutting across the carpet, squints when the overhead light clicks on.
He hears someone mutter, "Christ, Jensen," before the light clicks off and the door slams.
Misha shifts beneath him again, flesh rubbing in all sorts of intoxicating ways, and even though Jensen knows that wasn't just someone, he ignores it in favor of tugging his shirt off the rest of the way and savoring the way Misha's fingers stripe hot against his stomach.
The second time the door bangs open, Chris does them all the courtesy of leaving the light alone.
Chris slams the door shut, him on the inside now and faces the three of them, stance wide and body apprehensively twisted with tension.
Jensen has his wits about him enough to at least think the 'fuck'.
Misha glances calmly over his shoulder to see, a bemused and openly curious expression flitting across his features. Jensen's own neck is craned towards the door.
"What in the fuck?" Chris growls.
Jeff snorts from his viewing post in the chair, and that garners Chris' full attention. "Calm down, Christian," Jeff drawls, pulling Chris' full name out like taffy. "Nothing you need to be concerned about."
Jensen knows the second Jeff speaks that this is not going to go down well. Chris doesn't do pacified.
Then again, Jeff has never really given a flying fuck about whose tail-feathers he ruffles or how askew he leaves them. And Chris has always made his opinion of Jeff's proclivities loudly and vehemently clear, made no apologies for his foundless accusations that Jeff lacks anything remotely resembling a soul.
When Chris eats up the distance in three quick strides, Jensen's already begun mentally preparing himself for a trip to the emergency room.
He should know better than to be surprised by anything Misha does, but Jensen can't help it when Misha leans up, flushing their chests together at odd angles and mutters at him, "Be thankful you're pretty and worth the high maintenance bullshit, Jensen."
A smile creeps across his lips in spite of the situation and the imminent threat of violence, so he doesn't find time to sputter out his indignation before he's dumped unceremoniously onto the bed and Misha pushes himself up into a dishevelled pillar of awesome between Jeff and Chris.
Jensen sometimes wonders just how much Misha there is in Castiel, because even wearing a rumpled green button-down and a pair of distressed jeans that got there by way of wear rather than a fancy pair of fashionista shears - and fucking barefoot for God's sake - Misha slips into his authority like a second skin, no billowing trench coat required.
Misha must judge Chris the more dangerous of the two, because it's him he faces, back to Jeff. Jeff who hasn't moved a muscle, lifted so much as a finger, or removed the smirk from his lips in the face of Kane stalking towards him.
Jensen is interested in how this is going to play out, even if there's no way in this situation that he can win.
Misha simply stares at Chris serenely, unperturbed by the glower leveled at him. He raises a hand up, hovers it near Chris' chest but doesn't set it down, as if anyone, let alone him, can stop Christian Fucking Kane when he's got an inkling in his head that there's some blood that needs spilling.
Chris' eyebrow is raised in incredulous rage. "Seriously?"
"I'm always serious," Misha replies with a little shrug of his shoulders.
"I hear otherwise." Chris' voice has gone tight.
Between one breath and the next, Jensen finds himself wishing once again for a flask or a bottle of beer or another joint, anything to take the edge off. Chris is full of shit. The only person he knows who has any interest - vested or not - in Misha's many personality quirks is sitting right the fuck here inside Jensen's skin.
He hasn't said anything of the sort.
"Can't imagine who'd be saying such things," Misha says quietly, certainly, but his eyes flick sideways to meet Jensen's for a split second before they land on Chris again. "I hear you find mangling the faces of Jen's friends a riveting pastime. Suppose we might both do well to reconsider the stock we put in what they say."
Chris deflates ever so slightly and transfers the weight of his glare from Misha to Jeff.
It's then that Misha lets his hand finally fall.
Chris startles, looking down at Misha's hand on his breastbone before jerking his head back up to look at Misha directly. "What the hell, man?"
"Aww, c'mon baby, don't be like that," Misha grins seductively as he closes the space between them and slides his free hand around Chris' waist.
Jensen's feels his eyebrows arch up his forehead in surprise. He wants to glance at Jeff, to see what he makes of this, see if someone else feels like they just fell down the rabbit hole, but he can't seem to take his gaze off Misha and Chris in front of him.
Chris barks a short sharp laugh straight from his belly and Jensen lets out a breath he didn't even know he was holding. "You're fucking nuts, boy," Chris says to Misha, splitting into the grin he uses to melt girls' panties. Jensen has seen that look, a lot. This is uncharted context though. He's not even sure there's a map for it to be off of.
Of course, Misha's never really had use for maps. Things like longitude and latitude are relegated to concepts for other people to concern themselves with. Ninety percent of the time, Jensen would swear on his momma's grave that Misha operates on a highly alternative plane of existence. Some people might find it frustrating, even annoying, but Jensen - he's ashamed to say he sometimes lives for those surprises, counts on them to keep him sharp and shaken instead of settled. It's why they work. Or why they would if there was any kind of they to worry about.
But there isn't, and there's as much chance of Chris trying to snatch Misha up as there is of a blizzard rolling through Dallas in the middle of August. For all the other things Chris may be, he's loyal to a fucking fault and he'd never hone in on something, someone that Jensen's already marked as his.
Not that Misha is, he's not. He's - an eternal work-in-progress at this point and likely to stick in the in-between forever. Jensen's good with that.
So when Misha smiles his best toothy smile and says, "Well, yes. But I'm an endlessly charming basket case," then sweeps a lazy hand up the length of Chris' spine, Jensen just leans back on his elbows to watch.
Chris glances over at Jensen. The anger is still simmering, Jensen can see it in the way that the tendons in his neck flex, but there's definitely amusement in there too. And while Jensen knows that Chris can hold a grudge like nobody's business, his spur of the moment anger is a flash in the pan. He must see something in Jensen's face, or perhaps even in the faux-casual way Jensen's now propping himself up on the bed, something that is giving him latitude anyway, because Chris turns back to Misha and wraps his fingers tight around Misha's hipbones.
"You wanna play that game, Collins? Really?"
* * *
Chris has no idea what in the hell just happened, or how. One minute he was about to punch the ever living shit out of Jeff - Fuck 'Em and Fuck 'Em Up - Morgan, and the next Misha is standing in front of him, taking up his entire field of vision, an arm around his waist and long fingers warm and flat against his breastbone.
Misha raises an eyebrow, slides the hand resting on his chest slowly up the curve of his neck, fingers sliding and tangling tight in the hair at Chris' nape. "I've made my opening gambit. I'd say the game is well and truly already in play, wouldn't you?"
And fuck it all, even though he knows that he's being played, that he's being distracted from his goal of bloodying up Jeff's face, he can't help but grin at the complete and utter ridiculousness of Misha playing chicken with him.
Jensen snorts from where he's sprawled on the bed and Chris spares him a quick glance. If anyone is gonna have a problem with this, it's gonna be Jensen. Jensen might not know what the hell he has going on with Misha, playing it glib and casual, but Chris knows from the endless telephone calls of "Misha did this," and "Misha's coming by later" that the boy has it bad.
That usually means trouble when it comes to Jensen. So damn pretty that everyone wants a piece. So damn naïve that they usually got it.
For the moment though, Jensen seems fine - interested, in fact, in what is playing out in front of him. When Chris looks back, Misha actually smirks at him, fucking smirks, like he's not twirling a red flag in front of an angry ox. And it is so fucking on. If the kid wants to play in the big leagues, he's gonna have to put his money where his smart-assed mouth is.
"You're a cocky sonofabitch, you know that?" he says and yanks hard on Misha's hips.
Misha stumbles into him, despite being the one to start all this, and his elbow jars sharply into Chris' ribs.
He ignores it, concentrating instead on the feel of Misha half-hard against his thigh. The way the breathy escape of air through Misha's lips is definitely laced with a whimper of arousal at the contact.
Chris knows not to lose his momentum now, not when he has his kill dangling on a hook before him, it's the pivotal moment in the chase, and he knows it well. So he strengthens his grip, grinds his hips slow and hard against Misha's groin and crushes his mouth to Misha's before the other can even un-flutter his eyelashes.
Happily, Misha responds in kind, his tongue fierce in Chris' mouth. Of course, if this is all it takes to knock Misha off his game? The kid ain't even worthy of Jensen.
He can't quite set Morgan aside though, not even in favor of dealing with the more immediate threat to Jen's damn peace of mind. Tall, dark, and deserving-of-a-beatdown looks to be slithering under a warm rock and feigning boredom like the good god-damned rattlesnake he is. So long as he doesn't get any ideas.
Misha, well, he's a long stretch of trouble. If Chris ever had a lick of doubt about it, the proof's standing right in front of him, humping his leg like a damn dog. But he can't make Jen see it, no matter how straight he lays it out. Mostly, he thinks it's because Misha doesn't know what the fuck he wants. Takes one to know and all, but Chris has at least gotten a damn sight better at figuring what it is he doesn't want.
Doesn't want to see Jen hurt, for starters. Morgan left years worth of scar tissue when he fucked off to become a big movie star, and Chris ain't of the mind - hell, ain't got the time - for Doctor Frankensteining Jensen back into shape again.
So yeah, fuck Collins and his free love social abstraction bullshit. Crushed cheekbones ache just the same whether you've interned for the White House or not.
There are simpler ways to get down to brass tacks though, and showing Jen just how easy Misha gives it up to anyone with a pulse might put them all on the same page of music without the inconvenient ambulances and unwanted attention from the pigs. Shame. He's itching for it, but there's a whole mess of mostly polite company downstairs that doesn't need to be sniffing Jen's dirty shorts. It'll have to do.
Chris plans to show Misha a thing or two. He works his way past the warning voice tickling at the back of his neck, the one trying to tell him exactly how bad a notion this is, and goes for the throat. He also aims to kiss Misha breathless like all those sweet barflies with their quivering thighs and cigarette-scented hair just because he can. Ultimately, the goal is always to work his magic just as quick and dirty as he does in dressing rooms from here to fucking Poughkeepsie, get Misha on his knees and show Jen what he won't hear.
Turns out Misha's not as cooperative as he thought.
In fact, he's like a damned tidal wave - what Chris took for easy abandon turns slow and fierce and completely fucking focused. For half a minute Chris wonders if he's finally managed to bite off more than he's able to choke down, but when Misha's fingers wrap up in his hair and pull hard enough to sting his scalp, when Misha makes him spit moans right alongside the nails, it's all the proof he needs.
Then there's a tongue against his throat, wriggling like a netted bluegill, and it feels good until Misha laughs right in his fucking ear and says, "Doesn't taste red," on a breath too even for Chris' liking.
He should shove Misha off, put him down with a fist to the gut after all, but then Misha does some crazy shit to his neck, sucking and licking and biting down hard enough to leave marks. And if he's honest, it feels damn good. Good enough that he's starting to strain at the zip of his denims.
Chris loops his arms around Misha's waist and pulls him closer. Normally, Misha would probably have a good couple of inches on him, but the crazy hippy is bare-footed, and with Chris wearing his boots - the boots that Jensen fondly calls him a fuckin' red-necked old Okie for wearin' all over town - they're coming up even. With the height diminished and the fact that Misha is nowhere near as built as he is, tall and lean and not built for tusslin' the way Chris is, he can almost imagine it's a slender-hipped bit of pussy he's haulin' into his arms.
But then Misha's mouth is back, hot and deliberately fucking lazy on his and there's stubble burning a rash against Chris' cheek, a cock pressing hard and insistent against his stomach, and he remembers that Misha ain't no girl.
It's never bothered Chris where he gets his kicks. Just as long as there's a money shot in there somewhere. If the body he's working on is male or female or just this side of long-horned cattle it doesn't really matter. Though he has to admit, he does like it when they're lookers. And despite what he thinks of Misha and his intentions towards Jen, the boy is fuckin' pretty as sin He's just sayin', he can see why Jensen would want it.
And that's just gonna make it easier to show Jen why he's a bad idea.
Misha squirms against him, and his breath is starting to rasp when they break for breath. And then Misha's nibbling at his jaw like it's a piece of corn on the cob and damned if he doesn't hone in on one of Chris' kinks like he's been there before.
The moan that lodges in Chris' throat before it slides up in sinful reverberation is not even slightly for show. "Fuck," he grits through his teeth on the back of a hiss. Because, really.
It's turning him on in all the right ways, so much so that he's momentarily distracted from where he is, and why he's there in the first place. That is until he hears the low voice come from over behind Misha's shoulder, demanding and sure in its pathetically couched casualness.
Just one word.
"Jensen."
And Chris sees red.
He knows the tone - shit, heard it before a time or two when they were all playing at trying to be nice. Back in the day, he hadn't recognized, or had been too fucked up himself to care what it meant. Jeff pushing himself away from the table at some restaurant trailing Jensen's name behind him like a lure is all he really remembers.
Well, that and the fact it'd been the night he finally found out. Unlucky as fuck time to need to take a piss. Jensen'd pushed out of a stall with a sleeve against his chin, Morgan tumbling after with a smug smile plastered all over his face.
Sometimes Chris wonders if the secret of it was what's stuck in his teeth all these years. But when he hooks his chin over Misha's shoulder and sees Jensen slide, already on his knees and just a hair above crawling like a fucking bitch in heat, he knows better.
Morgan's hands find the zip of Jensen's fly and that's it. Ain't no way in hell Chris' going to be the only one seeing red tonight. He's already winding himself up to tear straight through Misha with his teeth if he still seems keen on interfering when Collins smacks him on the ass.
"Eyes on the prize, Buffalo Bill." Misha might as well have snapped fingers in his face like a petulant patron demanding the check.
Which yeah. It's one thing to be distracting him with a bit of ass when he's momentarily angry, not knowing if he has any solid reason to be going in swinging. But for Misha to be side-tracking him when he actually does have a reason, the reason that is currently settling itself on his knees between Jeff's whore-spread legs? Not gonna happen.
Whip-crack fast Chris lets go of Misha's waist and has his hands up on his chest, shoving away angrily.
But Misha apparently doesn't know what's good for him and the fucker actually pushes back.The strength behind it's so surprising that he actually backs the hell up, lets Misha move him the five or so steps it takes for his back to hit the door with a loud thumpf that has Chris' breath knocking out of his lungs.
"Jesus Christ, Kane," Misha snaps at his ear, his voice low and hitting what Chris vaguely knows is his angel register. "Stop being such a fucking cowboy and pay attention."
Which is exactly what he's been doing. Is exactly why he's about to go redneck on the situation, fer fucks sake.
But then he hears the low breathy moan that comes from the other side of the room.
From Jensen.
Jensen who is on his knees, but is twisted around to watch with eyes blown large and black. It's almost enough to let him ignore the fact that Jeff has his pants unzipped, cock out, blood-swollen and obscene as he lazily strokes himself, rings flashing as he pushes and pulls the head of his cock between his fisted fingers mere inches from Jensen's face.
Because despite that, Jensen isn't watching Jeff.
He's watching them.
This time when Chris pushes, Misha goes easily, letting himself be manhandled around and into the wall, his shoulders meeting the sheet-rock with another solid thump that rattles the door in its frame and tears a sound up Jensen's throat Chris could swear he's only heard in the dirtiest, low budget pornos. Hell, he should be happy as a pig in shit that Jensen's not paying Morgan any mind, and he would be - fuck yes, he would - if not for all the inconvenient confusion.
He's thought on it a time or two, never with any sort of intent to follow through. Who wouldn't? Jensen's pretty as the day is long and ain't no man ever met him that didn't spare a second to think what it'd be like to slide his dick between those sweet lips. Hell, he's chased a dozen or so off himself.
They've never been that though, and Jensen was his best fucking friend before he'd had a chance to turn it into something else.
Now though, it feels like Jensen's changing the rules.
Maybe just for tonight, maybe forever. Either way, Chris is in no mood to be looking gift horses in the mouth. Doesn't mean he won't be having words with Collins though, because this ain't a right way to treat Jensen when his heart's set.
So yeah, he gets right up in Misha's face, because you should look a man in the eye if you're gonna fuck 'em, even if you only want to fuck him over. "You get off on someone eyeballin' you?"
Misha's tongue swipes slow across his lower lip, but his gaze darts to Jensen before he nods. "You have met me, I thought that was a given," Misha says, then laughs quietly, his voice dipping into conspiratorial territory. "One has nothing to do with the other, though."
If Chris weren't so wrapped up in his own head, he'd have seen it coming, but he is, so when Misha kisses him again, open-mouthed and sloppy, it catches Chris off-balance.
He's kissing back with a fervour that belies the situation before he even knows what the hell is happening. The moan that skitters up out of Misha's mouth and into his own at the taking he's doing is nearly enough to undo him.
They're back against the wall and he has Misha pinned in hard, forgetting the options he was weighing up in the unexpected need to make Misha fly apart at the seams.
He pulls his mouth away from Misha's lips, plants his teeth in against his jaw instead and bites down hard enough to sting. The gasp that echoes from Misha and Jensen at the same time nearly derails him again, but he clings with his fingernails to Misha's hips, sets himself back on track.
Misha is squirming but Chris keeps him in place with his pelvis, moves his hands to either side of Misha's face and holds him where he wants him. Bites back to Misha's ear and sucks the lobe between his lips quick and dirty, flicks it with his tongue. It's only when he lets the flesh slip from his mouth that he drops his voice down to danger level and growls into Misha's ear. "You and me ain't done, kid."
"I wasn't aware we'd started, kid," Misha says, and it might bite a bit more if he wasn't already breathing hard against the side of Chris' neck. "Had I known, I'd have been trying harder."
Then those freakishly long fingers slide down between their bodies, making quick work of belt buckle and button and zip, and fuck if they don't feel just as good around his dick as he thought they would - because if Collins takes anything seriously, this is it. Not that Jen's been flapping his jaw about it, they were both raised right after all, but he wouldn't be flapping it about the other shit he has been if he weren't otherwise satisfied.
Even with Misha working him over, it's a strong enough impulse to pull him through mostly coherent.
"Much as I appreciate the sentiment, you shouldn't," Chris says, even though he can't help rocking his hips into Misha's grip. "Jen's near as blood as it gets and the fact that you've got your hand in my fucking pants at all makes me doubt your intentions."
"I'm sorry," Misha breathes, hand clamping down hard enough it trips along that pain-pleasure barrier Chris is so fond of riding. "Didn't know this was just for show."
"The fuck does that mean?"
Misha sighs, a sound so world-weary that Chris can almost understand, even though he knows it's his own fault for causing it, knows Misha's counting to ten and trying to simple it up for the thick-headed asshole kicking him questions. "Jensen's not concerned with my intentions or lack thereof. Unless you're his mother, you've got no business in his business. Ergo, the dick in my hand must be my vivid, disturbingly overactive imagination playing tricks on me again. Or the pot, of course."
Half the time, Chris isn't even sure that Misha knows what the hell he's saying. But the fact that he's beginning to pant and groan at the feel of Misha's fingers playing him so damn right, is proof enough that there ain't no tricks going on.
"Even you ain't that dense, Misha," Chris says, forgoing the distancing of surnames and epithets to be brutally honest. He pokes a finger into Misha's chest angrily. "Just don't fuck with him. Don't fuck him up. This is your one and only warning."
Misha's eyes are wide and full of something Chris can't identify, comprehension or doubt or lord only knows what. It's enough of a reaction to appease him given it isn't just outright scoffing or bravado. The fingers that stutter against his cock tell him even more.
But his voice must have risen with the sentiment behind his words, because it isn't Misha who answers him. It's Jensen.
"Fuck, Chris," Jensen moans from his position on the floor and Chris turns, quick as a covey of spring pheasants flushed from a briar patch, to catch Jensen's gaze. Because the sound that Jensen makes as he says his name is all kinds of broken and fucked up.
And it's dawning on him that maybe Misha has a point.
CONTINUE
Authors: qthelights and kadiel_krieger
Pairings: Jeff/Jensen/Misha/Christian
[JDM/MC], [JA/MC], [JA/JDM], [CK/MC], [CK/JA/MC], vague [CK/JA]
Rating: Adult
Wordcount: 18k
Disclaimer: Yeah. Not even remotely real.
Warnings: Angst and porn. Lots of both.
Summary: Jensen finds something he didn't even know he was looking for.
A/N: Thank you cupiscent for pulling beta duty.
As parties go, it could be better.
It could also be much, much worse. As of yet no one has vomited a Jaeger bomb into the corner pocket of his pool table, so it already beats the last shindig he threw.
Really, there's nothing to suggest that this isn't an awesome party. His friends are all here - most of them anyway. Apparently having a party 'because of hiatus' is good enough reason for them to come celebrate. Then again, it's not like they'd get to see him any other time. Even Jeff is in from out of town, a rare break from filming whatever-the-hell he's filming right now. The best part is that Jensen can legitimately have a hangover for the rest of next week, if he so chooses.
Of course Jared is the notable exception, and maybe that's why the party doesn't feel quite as loud or big - it's missing the loudest, biggest part. Jensen can already tell this will be one of those things Jared never lets him live down, but it's just not Jensen's fault that the world doesn't revolve around Jared's schedule. And he sure as shit isn't gonna pass up an opportunity to get stinking drunk just because Padalecki has to go see his momma every five minutes. Jensen refuses to feel guilty about it.
Christian's around here somewhere, probably with Steve in tow or a girl up against a wall. He's already made it clear he plans to drink Jensen under the table. Which may well happen. Jensen will at least have his dignity in the morning. More than Chris will anyway, and he'll call that a win.
Loud music thumps through the walls, complete with a catchy baseline that has him bobbing his head; a sea of gorgeous girls flows around him, each of them giving him the once-over as they eddy on by. Jensen wonders just how he managed to end up in this life again. It always hits him in these surreal moments, surrounded by musicians and actors and Hollywood's more down-to-earth but still undeniably pretty people, that this is not where he had thought he'd end up.
It kicks weird feelings around him, swirly dust tornadoes that froth up his stomach. Maybe that's just the jello-shot Misha handed him.
Speaking of Misha, Jensen has no idea where he is, though he's pretty sure he was meant to be bringing him a beer to make up for the jello. That was fifteen minutes back though and Jensen sorely needs a drink. He surveys the crowd in front of him, nearest and dearest and total fucking strangers, all having a fine old time.
No Misha. Not that he keeps tabs on him or anything, because he doesn't. He just wants that beer.
Chris sidles up beside him, throws an arm around his shoulders. "Hey pretty boy, what's up?"
"Misha and my beer, apparently," Jensen replies, ignoring the name but sliding an answering arm around Chris' waist.
Chris pulls his arm away almost instantly. "Whatever, man. Get your own beer. Don't rely on flaky bits of ass for the important shit."
Jensen doesn't know what crawled up Kane's ass and died. Well, that's not entirely true. He's been shitty since he found out Jeff was here. Whatever. He'll work it out of his system soon enough. Jensen just rides it out. "Like alcohol?"
"Damn straight. A man needs to be in charge of his own booze. Angel-eyes ain't stable enough to be bringing you a steady stream of beer."
"I think he'll manage." Jensen finds himself on the defensive all of a sudden, and he doesn't really know why.
"Whatever, man," Chris says and shrugs. "I'm not the one without a beer." Chris shakes his head at Jensen solemnly, like giving up on the already deranged, and then apparently declares the conversation over. He raises his long-neck in mock salute as he steps backwards and disappears into the living room.
Jensen pulls out his phone.
* * *
It's odd to be wandering around Jensen's house without him in tow.
Still, Misha's been here often enough now that he could find his way almost anywhere by simple touch.
Everything's off though; the gentle earth tones splashed across Jensen's walls have been turned flat by the bright, burning lights of the party. Upstairs, the story's altogether different - the shadows cut deeper and breaths pulled more shallow, and Misha's just glad that he doesn't meet anyone in the hallway that he'd rather not see.
Even if he can't put his finger on why he doesn't want to see them.
Maybe because he doesn't want to explain why he knows the third door on the left leads to the guest suite. Or that he's never had occasion to use it. Or why he's trailing Jeff so closely.
With the soft click of tumblers falling into place, Misha sighs. Now, nothing less than solid oak stands between him and Jeff and the cacophony buzzing up the stairs. The hum dies down to a blessedly subtle thump of steady bass bleeding through the carpet and between Misha's toes. Jeff made no move to flick the lights on when he commandeered the room, Misha either, and so the only illumination is the warm wash of gold sliding under the door, the seep of streetlight through curtains.
Jeff seems to know the layout just as well as he does, because even in the half-light he easily finds and sprawls into the lone armchair near the window, joint in one hand, glass of amber liquid in the other. Ice clinks from within, the rings wrapped around his fingers tapping from without.
Misha hesitates.
There are no rules for this beyond those of common decency, and save the fact that fucking one's co-star is neither common nor decent in the strictest sense, Misha can't help but wonder whether sneaking off with one of Jensen's friends for possibly questionable purposes constitutes a breach of their completely unspoken agreement. Unfortunately, the nature of unspoken agreements is exactly that, unspoken, and he hasn't a clue what Jensen would or would not think about him fucking someone else under his roof.
All Misha knows is how he would feel.
So instead of sprawling across the bed, he settles cross-legged on the floor, back flattened to the wall beneath the window and drapes ruffling his hair. It's some bastardized parody of an eager child awaiting his lesson, but at least it's not openly suggestive.
Instead of knowledge, Jeff passes him the joint.
Given a choice, Misha would much rather spend a luxuriously slow amount of time picking Jeff apart to see what makes him tick, but contrary to popular opinion, these offers don't fall in his lap every day and he's found that the truth of a person often surfaces in the most unlikely ways. He found Jensen's in the bottom of a bottle of tequila, Jared's in a frosty pre-dawn doze with Sadie drooling on his stomach. His own is a riddle that has yet to be written. This strikes him as a way to discover the why of Jeff.
It also strikes him that he's feeling particularly devil-may-care right this moment. Itchy and uncomfortable in his own skin, in Jensen's house, surrounded by Jensen's best ever through-the-depths-of-hell buddies.
The irony isn't lost on him.
So he accepts the escape Jeff offers, unsure if he means the joint or Jeff himself and not really caring either way.
It's only polite, after all.
"So you think you've got what it takes?" Jeff says, voice tight around a practiced exhale.
"I've always risen to the occasion before," Misha responds, even though he's at a loss as to what exactly Jeff is referring to. He became a master in the art of prolonging bullshit to serve his own ends so many years ago he can't remember a time he didn't have the instinct. He feels his brows pull together, an unfortunate reflex, and he sniffs at the moist paper caught between his fingertips.
He can already tell the blend's more potent than anyone can get stateside without a prescription, but that has little bearing on the warm tendrils curling up his spine, making him loose and languid and entirely too agreeable. That he blames entirely on Jeff - the curve of Jeff's fingers, the slow stretching grin, the way he rubs the glass against his lips before he sucks down another sip.
So when Jeff slides a smile his way and grunts, Misha's not sure whether to smoke or pass the joint back untouched. He's fairly certain he doesn't need an herbal mood enhancer gumming up the investigative works.
"Sound pretty sure of yourself," Jeff says and pulls another long draught of whiskey from his glass.
Misha grins up at him and shrugs. "Any reason I shouldn't be?"
The laugh starts as a twinkle tucked into the corner of Jeff's eye, but quickly blooms into a rib-cracking sort of full body shudder. "Oh sweetheart, the things you don't know."
And really, Misha knows he ought to bristle, ought to pursue the thought down whatever dark and inevitably thorny path it takes him, because that's where he knows the answers must live. But then Jeff tongues at his top lip, an errant drop of liquor falling prey to the wet slide, and he simply forgets. It's what makes his mind up for him, in the end - the desire to engage such a creature in the oldest kind of hunt.
Maybe, just maybe, that's where Jeff's truth lives. And if it isn't, well, so be it. He'll have learned something all the same.
He unfurls his legs from under him and slides to his knees, shuffles forward between Jeff's knees. The front of the chair presses against his thighs, solid and welcome. Jeff is watching him, more than a hint of predatory humour glinting in his gaze. He'd be lying if he said it didn't do things to him. Then again, Misha's never had a problem with lying.
He steadies himself with a hand on Jeff's thigh, leans in and presses the joint to the pink of Jeff's lips.
Jeff's fingers wrap tight around his hand, holding it in place, and Misha smiles up the length of his arm, reveling in the rub of gently-callused skin across his knuckles. Time slows at Jeff's inhale, his ribs bumping against Misha's elbow as he pulls the smoke deep. At the count of twelve, Jeff whips his hand away and Misha almost loses the joint in a shower of coal and ash. For half a second, he's thinking about how pissed Jensen's going to be about the brand-spanking-new patch of singed carpet, but then Jeff's other hand fists in the front of his shirt, hauling him in until the firm press of Jeff's lips seal over his own with an almost violent exhale.
Misha's not expecting it and has to fight to keep from coughing the smoke back over. Even so he takes time to catalog the subtleties of Jeff's aftershave as it wars with the weed for dominance, the scratch of stubble across his chin. It's so distracting he nearly forgets to inhale - until he doesn't.
His eyes slide shut as he breathes in the smoke, takes it with the air from Jeff's lungs. The suddenness of the act burns his throat, but he holds it, lets the need for oxygen overpower him before letting it go in a shaky tremor. He's still only millimeters from Jeff's mouth, held in place by the fist wrapped in his shirt, and he can feel the smoke echo back to him as it bounces off proximate skin.
When Misha opens his eyes, a pause taken to let himself settle, he's greeted by Jeff's lazy smile, a wide expanse of blinding teeth, clearly amused by the successful advantage he's taken. Clearly approving that Misha has just gone with it, hasn't pulled away or uttered protest.
Misha thinks Jeff is altogether way too sure of himself. Even if he does have every damn reason to be.
And so he leans in.
Were he of another mind, Misha might've already snatched up what was so plainly on offer, but he isn't or wasn't, and it's Jeff so there's a moment of hesitation, a decision hung in the balance before he flings his misbegotten caution to the wind and takes Jeff's lips with a purpose. It gives him the illusion of control at the very least, a fevered daydream that spins out and dies when Jeff tugs him in tighter, hand splayed wide between his shoulder blades, Jeff's jaw working slower as his tongue slips out and finds the roof of Misha's mouth in a slow, seductive slide. There's no manhandling or ferocity about it, but Jeff reclaims his mantle as surely as he does anything.
The hand caught up in his shirt slackens its grip, and Misha feels it shift, gliding up across the planes of his chest until fingers seat in the hollow behind his ear. Jeff's rings are a cool scrape against sensitive skin and Misha hisses in spite of himself, Jeff's grin slipping wider against his lips.
It would be infuriating if it weren't completely turning him on, arousal mixing with the pleasant buzz of the drug invading his system, the cocksure ownership of his mouth, the room, the party beyond.
Jeff's mouth is wet and wanton, pockets of cold where the whiskey has traced its path. His whiskers scratch at Misha's face, sharp and feathery all at once. Misha lift his hand off Jeff's thigh, held in place firmly enough not to lose his balance. He threads his fingers into the scruff of Jeff's almost-beard, reveling in the way his fingertips slide through it, the way Jeff's breath hitches as he scratches blunt nails down the side of his jaw.
Then and only then does Misha unearth what he's truly after. Jeff surges up in a rush of oddly perfumed air and want, their lips smacking apart with a sigh and a whimper as Jeff crowds him. He shuffles a step, then two, until the edge of the bed nudges at the backs of his knees and they hinge obediently. Misha remembers the joint just in time, and even though it sprays the comforter with a tiny rain of sparks, none of them flare, so he figures at the worst he'll end up replacing some bedding.
Jeff stands between his knees, sipping at his whiskey, staring down with a telltale quirk to his lips. Misha stares back, not with defiance, but with a sweet, sharp burn coiling in his belly. He has no idea what the hell Jeff intends to do with him now.
"Jensen said you were a handful," Jeff says, his voice low and even, but shot through with more gravel than Jensen could ever hope to muster.
Misha smirks then, cozies the joint against his lips and takes a deep, satisfying pull. The smoke builds a haze up between them and through it he watches Jeff set his glass aside, hears the clink as the tumbler meets the bedside table. When he exhales, Jeff slides through the cloud like some fantastical figment of his imagination, all beautiful bronzed skin and sinew, something Misha can't quite pin down until the mattress beside him gives and there's a warm body flushed against his flank.
Misha hands the joint back to Jeff, who takes it between his fingers, tip flaring orange and bright in the darkened room as he drags its bounty into his lungs. Jeff's thigh is hot against his own, and there's something thrumming between them. He isn't sure if it's the weed or his self-admitted reverence for what the man beside him effortlessly embodies, or if perhaps he's getting off a little on the idea of letting Jeff own him so easily. Especially when part of him knows that they shouldn't be, given where they are.
And who they're here for.
"If you think I'm only a convenient magnolia, you're sorely mistaken," Misha says, some monstrosity caught between a chuckle and a giggle sticking in his throat.
Jeff's eyes narrow and he drops the rest of the joint into the dregs of his whiskey with a sizzle. He doesn't seem confused, though Misha might expect him to be. It's not like they've spent enough time in the same city - not to mention the same room - for Jeff to follow. He does though, the flash of comprehension and following smirk wakens something strange in the back of Misha's brain.
But Jeff chooses the other route. "I think you're looking pretty convenient right now."
Jeff settles a hand on Misha's knee and slides it tantalizingly slow up his thigh. And Misha can't even begin to protest, words having traitorously deserted him. Jeff's hand gets to his hip, and as if by some twist of fate or divine intervention or perhaps even eternally bad luck, it's right then that Misha's phone starts to vibrate, buzzing directly between his thigh and Jeff's hand.
Of course.
When Misha finally extricates the cell from his pocket Jeff's fingers slide into the void left behind, smoothing denim and swirling small, soothing circles against his hipbone. Between the booze and the pot he's already mellowed nearly beyond coherence, his brain tripping off in random, fuzzy directions. It's not until the phone buzzes a second time against his palm that he sighs and touches the screen to wake it up.
[10:32:08] Acklantis: The fuck?
[10:35:22] Acklantis: Where the hell r u?
Misha smiles in spite of himself, not that he should, not that he has any right to. Still, even in the crushing swarm of well-wishers downstairs, Jensen noticed his absence.
"Jensen," he says to Jeff, shaking his phone awkwardly, and feels the hum against the side of neck, the scratch of whiskers a pleasant burn as an arm bands tight across his waist. Apparently, Jeff could care less about what Jensen might or might not have to say, and as Misha doesn't care either he taps out a perfunctory response.
[10:37:44] Guest suite. High. With Jeff. Handsy fucker.
With the message sent, consequences be damned, Misha loses himself in the heady feel of Jeff filling his senses. Jeff's teeth sink into his throat as his hands roam confidently, briefly pressing against the bulge in Misha's pants and eliciting a whimper that Misha will later swear did not come from his lips.
Jeff's mouth is back on his, Jeff's hands holding and tilting his head in place for easy access. It's slow and so fucking sure, as if they've spent years doing just this, not ten minutes after meeting a half hour before. Misha suspects Jeff has this effect on everyone.
He's so caught up in the lazy teasing slide, the warmth radiating off Jeff, the strong arms enveloping him, that he doesn't even notice the minutes it takes for his phone to buzz against his leg where it fell earlier.
[10:43:13] Acklantis: Ok.
[10:43:57] Acklantis: ??
Which maybe makes Misha smile just a little more.
[10:44:32] Here kitty, kitty.
As soon as he hits send, Misha turns the thing off. Either Jensen will come or he won't, and regardless of what the outcome might be, Misha intends to enjoy himself. He angles into Jeff's body, tangling their legs together. Five minutes from now, he's sure he'll be wishing for fewer layers and more time, more booze to keep him bobbing lazily in the currents Jeff's rippling on the air. Five minutes and Jensen won't have shit to say about anything.
It doesn't take that long. It doesn't even take two, and Misha wonders how long he stood outside the door before he sent the last message.
The doorknob turns and the door opens hesitantly. Light from the hallway spills in as bright as the sun, peals of laughter and music flooding up from downstairs. A Jensen-shaped shadow slides inside and the door clicks softly closed.
Misha pulls his mouth away from Jeff's and they both turn to where Jensen stands inside the door, eyes wide and black as he adjusts to the lack of light in the room.
Jeff's arms stay where they are around Misha's waist, but his hand slips down to palm at Misha's cock through his jeans. It's an obvious play, Jeff letting Jensen know he can have whoever he wants whenever he wants, and being used that way makes Misha want in all the wrong ways. He simply cannot help the groan that rattles in the base of his throat or the way his hips jerk up into Jeff's hand.
Just like he can't help but notice the way Jensen's eyes flicker from Jeff's hands up to Misha's face at the noise. The way Jensen stays where he is. Says nothing.
Jeff finds his tongue first. "I taught you better, Jensen," he murmurs, then licks a wet patch onto Misha's collarbone. "Shouldn't leave your toys lying around."
As much as he'd like to protest that he's not anyone's toy, in this particular instance he feels like it may well be an incorrect assertion. There's also the fact that protestations could interfere with the hands currently guiding him into a pleasant state of loose-limbed bliss, and that would be very, very unfortunate. Yet, Misha can feel the tension skittering off Jensen in wild, overwhelming waves, even if he can't place the cause - not really. Apparently though, there's a history he's not been made aware of until just now. It leaves him flying a little blind, but Misha's always been reckless with things that don't really matter.
Sometimes, he's reckless with things that do.
The silence strung out between them makes a hard left toward oppressive, so much so that Misha hears Jensen lick his lips, the soft clack of his teeth as they part then snap shut.
Misha's about to say something, despite not really understanding just what exactly is going on. Tension is not his thing, especially when it's interfering with his current state of nirvana. His mind, slow and doped up as it is, however, is not playing ball. It's randomly cycling through alternatives and he's skipped from 'sharing is caring' to something involving action figures which really isn't all that funny and won't do anything to fix the current situation. Saved by the bell seems to be the theme of the night though, as the second Misha opens his mouth, mildly curious as to what his mind is going to push out of it, the clear sound of chiming comes from the vicinity of Jensen's pants.
Jensen blinks, startled, and shakes his head as if clearing something from his vision before he reaches for the phone in his back pocket. His gaze doesn't waiver right up until he has his phone in front of him, sliding a thumb across its surface before he finally looks down.
Misha feels the room sigh in relief, wonders if he should disentangle himself from Jeff's limbs. Wonders why he should wonder that.
***
[10:50:04] CK: Do I look like a bitch, Ackles?
The air bends around the quiet, "Fuck," that slips unbidden between Jensen's lips. And while he only has eyes for the lithe pair of bodies currently writhing like a couple of fucking teenagers in heat all over his good guest linens, he's still sober enough to spare a thought or two for how royally, utterly, and completely screwed he's going to be if Chris manages to hunt them down.
Chris will never understand, and while Jensen appreciates the sentiment - fuck yes, he does - he already has a pretty overbearing older brother to answer to. And Jared.
With any luck, he'll be presumed otherwise engaged and simply left alone
He hopes.
Misha makes that tight, choking sound in the back of his throat that Jensen loves so much and his eyes dart back to the bed.
Shit, he is otherwise engaged.
He knows he needs to answer. If he doesn't, Chris will plough through that door and all hell will break loose. Jensen knows this, but the sight in front of him is short-circuiting things in his cerebral cortex. The logic needed to form a reply, to avert the apocalypse of Kane, is simply too hard to reach. The phone stays in his hand but his arm has already fallen to his side. Instead of answering he finds himself taking a hesitant step forward.
Jeff grins at him across the narrow expanse of Misha's chest, and it's awesome in all the ways he remembers - it gets his blood up and makes his cock twitch because even it knows what that smile means. But it's also horrible in all the ways he remembers, especially when Jeff's lips meet Misha's skin, his gaze never once wavering from Jensen's.
Because it's empty. Just fucking.
And he'll be damned if he's going to come over all chick-flicked with that sprawled and waiting for him, but he can't stop the memories from putting a lump in his throat.
Something must telegraph out, find a home in the twist of his lips or the set of his chin, even though that's the last thing in the world Jensen wants. Before he stamps down whatever it is that's betrayed him, Jeff's grin fades down to something like guilt and he's pulling back, sliding free, and Misha makes another noise that Jensen used to love.
He doesn't even notice when his phone slips between his fingers and falls with a quiet thump onto the floor.
Misha looks confused and rumpled, and Jensen can't help but think it somehow works for him. It isn't his fault, after all; Misha doesn't know the story, and why should he? There's no reason that Jensen should be feeling like he maybe should have said something earlier.
Jeff extricates himself and slides off the bed, slumps back into the armchair in a familiar sprawl. He's all rings and bracelets, black and denim, liquid sex - everything exactly as Jensen left it four years ago, down to the curl of his lip. It tightens something in Jensen's chest and draws into sharp relief just how far he's come.
And how far he hasn't.
Jeff grins at him, but it's wry and strangely regretful. "You didn't say. Sorry, kid." He holds his hands up in the universal signal for backing off.
Misha is glancing between the two of them, brows creasing together. "Wait...huh?"
Apologies are pretty damn useless in the long-run, and Jeff's already reached his quota, so Jensen feels justified letting a bit of his frustration seep out around the edges when he says, "Shouldn't have to," and conveniently forgets to return the smile.
It's the pause between acts and Jensen can feel that knowledge burn beneath his skin, even though he can't put a finger on where the last scene gasped out its denouement. Instead, he goes on instinct, goes with what he knows. Answers are slippery as fucking eels and he hasn't any to offer Misha, much less himself. So he slinks in to straddle Misha's hips and kisses the questions completely and thoroughly away.
It has absolutely nothing to do with Jeff, really it doesn't. Easier to convince himself of that when Misha's lips part willingly beneath his and Jensen tastes the pot, the sharp flavor of whisky on Misha's tongue - easier still when Misha's hands settle on his thighs, fingertips gone to sharp points when he sighs into Jensen's mouth.
It's heady and familiar and just as much of a rush as it always is, even if the taste of Jeff on Misha's skin twists a weird knot in his gut.
He buries the feeling by burying himself into Misha. Digs down underneath his skin and Jeff-flavouring with his tongue down Misha's throat, his hands sliding under the hem of Misha's shirt to splay against the heated skin. Misha is loose-limbed and slithers against him, slides over and around him without moving from under his weight. The fingers that clutch at his hips are a welcome distraction to the swirling in Jensen's head.
He wishes they'd shared the pot. Wishes Misha'd brought him that beer.
Misha is making jerky little movements against the insides of Jensen's thighs, trying to increase friction but not in a position to negotiate it. The power of the position, the lack of power in Misha's current state of being, goes to Jensen's head and cock simultaneously. The knowledge that Jeff is sitting only feet away, watching him take back his playthings, watching him devour Misha, and the way Jensen knows that he looks - back curved, thighs splayed, hips beginning a slow grind against his captive - might be what does him in.
Because he isn't going to stop. He's going to fuck Misha on the bed in his guest room with Jeff unable to touch him, to touch them, with a whole houseful of guests downstairs and the strange kick of something in his chest.
Jensen reaches back, catches the cotton spread across his shoulder blades, and starts to strip it off.
Just his fucking luck, of course, that he's half-tangled in his shirt when the door bangs open hard enough it rattles the stop screwed into the baseboard with a metallic twang. He blinks at the sudden splash of light from the hallway cutting across the carpet, squints when the overhead light clicks on.
He hears someone mutter, "Christ, Jensen," before the light clicks off and the door slams.
Misha shifts beneath him again, flesh rubbing in all sorts of intoxicating ways, and even though Jensen knows that wasn't just someone, he ignores it in favor of tugging his shirt off the rest of the way and savoring the way Misha's fingers stripe hot against his stomach.
The second time the door bangs open, Chris does them all the courtesy of leaving the light alone.
Chris slams the door shut, him on the inside now and faces the three of them, stance wide and body apprehensively twisted with tension.
Jensen has his wits about him enough to at least think the 'fuck'.
Misha glances calmly over his shoulder to see, a bemused and openly curious expression flitting across his features. Jensen's own neck is craned towards the door.
"What in the fuck?" Chris growls.
Jeff snorts from his viewing post in the chair, and that garners Chris' full attention. "Calm down, Christian," Jeff drawls, pulling Chris' full name out like taffy. "Nothing you need to be concerned about."
Jensen knows the second Jeff speaks that this is not going to go down well. Chris doesn't do pacified.
Then again, Jeff has never really given a flying fuck about whose tail-feathers he ruffles or how askew he leaves them. And Chris has always made his opinion of Jeff's proclivities loudly and vehemently clear, made no apologies for his foundless accusations that Jeff lacks anything remotely resembling a soul.
When Chris eats up the distance in three quick strides, Jensen's already begun mentally preparing himself for a trip to the emergency room.
He should know better than to be surprised by anything Misha does, but Jensen can't help it when Misha leans up, flushing their chests together at odd angles and mutters at him, "Be thankful you're pretty and worth the high maintenance bullshit, Jensen."
A smile creeps across his lips in spite of the situation and the imminent threat of violence, so he doesn't find time to sputter out his indignation before he's dumped unceremoniously onto the bed and Misha pushes himself up into a dishevelled pillar of awesome between Jeff and Chris.
Jensen sometimes wonders just how much Misha there is in Castiel, because even wearing a rumpled green button-down and a pair of distressed jeans that got there by way of wear rather than a fancy pair of fashionista shears - and fucking barefoot for God's sake - Misha slips into his authority like a second skin, no billowing trench coat required.
Misha must judge Chris the more dangerous of the two, because it's him he faces, back to Jeff. Jeff who hasn't moved a muscle, lifted so much as a finger, or removed the smirk from his lips in the face of Kane stalking towards him.
Jensen is interested in how this is going to play out, even if there's no way in this situation that he can win.
Misha simply stares at Chris serenely, unperturbed by the glower leveled at him. He raises a hand up, hovers it near Chris' chest but doesn't set it down, as if anyone, let alone him, can stop Christian Fucking Kane when he's got an inkling in his head that there's some blood that needs spilling.
Chris' eyebrow is raised in incredulous rage. "Seriously?"
"I'm always serious," Misha replies with a little shrug of his shoulders.
"I hear otherwise." Chris' voice has gone tight.
Between one breath and the next, Jensen finds himself wishing once again for a flask or a bottle of beer or another joint, anything to take the edge off. Chris is full of shit. The only person he knows who has any interest - vested or not - in Misha's many personality quirks is sitting right the fuck here inside Jensen's skin.
He hasn't said anything of the sort.
"Can't imagine who'd be saying such things," Misha says quietly, certainly, but his eyes flick sideways to meet Jensen's for a split second before they land on Chris again. "I hear you find mangling the faces of Jen's friends a riveting pastime. Suppose we might both do well to reconsider the stock we put in what they say."
Chris deflates ever so slightly and transfers the weight of his glare from Misha to Jeff.
It's then that Misha lets his hand finally fall.
Chris startles, looking down at Misha's hand on his breastbone before jerking his head back up to look at Misha directly. "What the hell, man?"
"Aww, c'mon baby, don't be like that," Misha grins seductively as he closes the space between them and slides his free hand around Chris' waist.
Jensen's feels his eyebrows arch up his forehead in surprise. He wants to glance at Jeff, to see what he makes of this, see if someone else feels like they just fell down the rabbit hole, but he can't seem to take his gaze off Misha and Chris in front of him.
Chris barks a short sharp laugh straight from his belly and Jensen lets out a breath he didn't even know he was holding. "You're fucking nuts, boy," Chris says to Misha, splitting into the grin he uses to melt girls' panties. Jensen has seen that look, a lot. This is uncharted context though. He's not even sure there's a map for it to be off of.
Of course, Misha's never really had use for maps. Things like longitude and latitude are relegated to concepts for other people to concern themselves with. Ninety percent of the time, Jensen would swear on his momma's grave that Misha operates on a highly alternative plane of existence. Some people might find it frustrating, even annoying, but Jensen - he's ashamed to say he sometimes lives for those surprises, counts on them to keep him sharp and shaken instead of settled. It's why they work. Or why they would if there was any kind of they to worry about.
But there isn't, and there's as much chance of Chris trying to snatch Misha up as there is of a blizzard rolling through Dallas in the middle of August. For all the other things Chris may be, he's loyal to a fucking fault and he'd never hone in on something, someone that Jensen's already marked as his.
Not that Misha is, he's not. He's - an eternal work-in-progress at this point and likely to stick in the in-between forever. Jensen's good with that.
So when Misha smiles his best toothy smile and says, "Well, yes. But I'm an endlessly charming basket case," then sweeps a lazy hand up the length of Chris' spine, Jensen just leans back on his elbows to watch.
Chris glances over at Jensen. The anger is still simmering, Jensen can see it in the way that the tendons in his neck flex, but there's definitely amusement in there too. And while Jensen knows that Chris can hold a grudge like nobody's business, his spur of the moment anger is a flash in the pan. He must see something in Jensen's face, or perhaps even in the faux-casual way Jensen's now propping himself up on the bed, something that is giving him latitude anyway, because Chris turns back to Misha and wraps his fingers tight around Misha's hipbones.
"You wanna play that game, Collins? Really?"
* * *
Chris has no idea what in the hell just happened, or how. One minute he was about to punch the ever living shit out of Jeff - Fuck 'Em and Fuck 'Em Up - Morgan, and the next Misha is standing in front of him, taking up his entire field of vision, an arm around his waist and long fingers warm and flat against his breastbone.
Misha raises an eyebrow, slides the hand resting on his chest slowly up the curve of his neck, fingers sliding and tangling tight in the hair at Chris' nape. "I've made my opening gambit. I'd say the game is well and truly already in play, wouldn't you?"
And fuck it all, even though he knows that he's being played, that he's being distracted from his goal of bloodying up Jeff's face, he can't help but grin at the complete and utter ridiculousness of Misha playing chicken with him.
Jensen snorts from where he's sprawled on the bed and Chris spares him a quick glance. If anyone is gonna have a problem with this, it's gonna be Jensen. Jensen might not know what the hell he has going on with Misha, playing it glib and casual, but Chris knows from the endless telephone calls of "Misha did this," and "Misha's coming by later" that the boy has it bad.
That usually means trouble when it comes to Jensen. So damn pretty that everyone wants a piece. So damn naïve that they usually got it.
For the moment though, Jensen seems fine - interested, in fact, in what is playing out in front of him. When Chris looks back, Misha actually smirks at him, fucking smirks, like he's not twirling a red flag in front of an angry ox. And it is so fucking on. If the kid wants to play in the big leagues, he's gonna have to put his money where his smart-assed mouth is.
"You're a cocky sonofabitch, you know that?" he says and yanks hard on Misha's hips.
Misha stumbles into him, despite being the one to start all this, and his elbow jars sharply into Chris' ribs.
He ignores it, concentrating instead on the feel of Misha half-hard against his thigh. The way the breathy escape of air through Misha's lips is definitely laced with a whimper of arousal at the contact.
Chris knows not to lose his momentum now, not when he has his kill dangling on a hook before him, it's the pivotal moment in the chase, and he knows it well. So he strengthens his grip, grinds his hips slow and hard against Misha's groin and crushes his mouth to Misha's before the other can even un-flutter his eyelashes.
Happily, Misha responds in kind, his tongue fierce in Chris' mouth. Of course, if this is all it takes to knock Misha off his game? The kid ain't even worthy of Jensen.
He can't quite set Morgan aside though, not even in favor of dealing with the more immediate threat to Jen's damn peace of mind. Tall, dark, and deserving-of-a-beatdown looks to be slithering under a warm rock and feigning boredom like the good god-damned rattlesnake he is. So long as he doesn't get any ideas.
Misha, well, he's a long stretch of trouble. If Chris ever had a lick of doubt about it, the proof's standing right in front of him, humping his leg like a damn dog. But he can't make Jen see it, no matter how straight he lays it out. Mostly, he thinks it's because Misha doesn't know what the fuck he wants. Takes one to know and all, but Chris has at least gotten a damn sight better at figuring what it is he doesn't want.
Doesn't want to see Jen hurt, for starters. Morgan left years worth of scar tissue when he fucked off to become a big movie star, and Chris ain't of the mind - hell, ain't got the time - for Doctor Frankensteining Jensen back into shape again.
So yeah, fuck Collins and his free love social abstraction bullshit. Crushed cheekbones ache just the same whether you've interned for the White House or not.
There are simpler ways to get down to brass tacks though, and showing Jen just how easy Misha gives it up to anyone with a pulse might put them all on the same page of music without the inconvenient ambulances and unwanted attention from the pigs. Shame. He's itching for it, but there's a whole mess of mostly polite company downstairs that doesn't need to be sniffing Jen's dirty shorts. It'll have to do.
Chris plans to show Misha a thing or two. He works his way past the warning voice tickling at the back of his neck, the one trying to tell him exactly how bad a notion this is, and goes for the throat. He also aims to kiss Misha breathless like all those sweet barflies with their quivering thighs and cigarette-scented hair just because he can. Ultimately, the goal is always to work his magic just as quick and dirty as he does in dressing rooms from here to fucking Poughkeepsie, get Misha on his knees and show Jen what he won't hear.
Turns out Misha's not as cooperative as he thought.
In fact, he's like a damned tidal wave - what Chris took for easy abandon turns slow and fierce and completely fucking focused. For half a minute Chris wonders if he's finally managed to bite off more than he's able to choke down, but when Misha's fingers wrap up in his hair and pull hard enough to sting his scalp, when Misha makes him spit moans right alongside the nails, it's all the proof he needs.
Then there's a tongue against his throat, wriggling like a netted bluegill, and it feels good until Misha laughs right in his fucking ear and says, "Doesn't taste red," on a breath too even for Chris' liking.
He should shove Misha off, put him down with a fist to the gut after all, but then Misha does some crazy shit to his neck, sucking and licking and biting down hard enough to leave marks. And if he's honest, it feels damn good. Good enough that he's starting to strain at the zip of his denims.
Chris loops his arms around Misha's waist and pulls him closer. Normally, Misha would probably have a good couple of inches on him, but the crazy hippy is bare-footed, and with Chris wearing his boots - the boots that Jensen fondly calls him a fuckin' red-necked old Okie for wearin' all over town - they're coming up even. With the height diminished and the fact that Misha is nowhere near as built as he is, tall and lean and not built for tusslin' the way Chris is, he can almost imagine it's a slender-hipped bit of pussy he's haulin' into his arms.
But then Misha's mouth is back, hot and deliberately fucking lazy on his and there's stubble burning a rash against Chris' cheek, a cock pressing hard and insistent against his stomach, and he remembers that Misha ain't no girl.
It's never bothered Chris where he gets his kicks. Just as long as there's a money shot in there somewhere. If the body he's working on is male or female or just this side of long-horned cattle it doesn't really matter. Though he has to admit, he does like it when they're lookers. And despite what he thinks of Misha and his intentions towards Jen, the boy is fuckin' pretty as sin He's just sayin', he can see why Jensen would want it.
And that's just gonna make it easier to show Jen why he's a bad idea.
Misha squirms against him, and his breath is starting to rasp when they break for breath. And then Misha's nibbling at his jaw like it's a piece of corn on the cob and damned if he doesn't hone in on one of Chris' kinks like he's been there before.
The moan that lodges in Chris' throat before it slides up in sinful reverberation is not even slightly for show. "Fuck," he grits through his teeth on the back of a hiss. Because, really.
It's turning him on in all the right ways, so much so that he's momentarily distracted from where he is, and why he's there in the first place. That is until he hears the low voice come from over behind Misha's shoulder, demanding and sure in its pathetically couched casualness.
Just one word.
"Jensen."
And Chris sees red.
He knows the tone - shit, heard it before a time or two when they were all playing at trying to be nice. Back in the day, he hadn't recognized, or had been too fucked up himself to care what it meant. Jeff pushing himself away from the table at some restaurant trailing Jensen's name behind him like a lure is all he really remembers.
Well, that and the fact it'd been the night he finally found out. Unlucky as fuck time to need to take a piss. Jensen'd pushed out of a stall with a sleeve against his chin, Morgan tumbling after with a smug smile plastered all over his face.
Sometimes Chris wonders if the secret of it was what's stuck in his teeth all these years. But when he hooks his chin over Misha's shoulder and sees Jensen slide, already on his knees and just a hair above crawling like a fucking bitch in heat, he knows better.
Morgan's hands find the zip of Jensen's fly and that's it. Ain't no way in hell Chris' going to be the only one seeing red tonight. He's already winding himself up to tear straight through Misha with his teeth if he still seems keen on interfering when Collins smacks him on the ass.
"Eyes on the prize, Buffalo Bill." Misha might as well have snapped fingers in his face like a petulant patron demanding the check.
Which yeah. It's one thing to be distracting him with a bit of ass when he's momentarily angry, not knowing if he has any solid reason to be going in swinging. But for Misha to be side-tracking him when he actually does have a reason, the reason that is currently settling itself on his knees between Jeff's whore-spread legs? Not gonna happen.
Whip-crack fast Chris lets go of Misha's waist and has his hands up on his chest, shoving away angrily.
But Misha apparently doesn't know what's good for him and the fucker actually pushes back.The strength behind it's so surprising that he actually backs the hell up, lets Misha move him the five or so steps it takes for his back to hit the door with a loud thumpf that has Chris' breath knocking out of his lungs.
"Jesus Christ, Kane," Misha snaps at his ear, his voice low and hitting what Chris vaguely knows is his angel register. "Stop being such a fucking cowboy and pay attention."
Which is exactly what he's been doing. Is exactly why he's about to go redneck on the situation, fer fucks sake.
But then he hears the low breathy moan that comes from the other side of the room.
From Jensen.
Jensen who is on his knees, but is twisted around to watch with eyes blown large and black. It's almost enough to let him ignore the fact that Jeff has his pants unzipped, cock out, blood-swollen and obscene as he lazily strokes himself, rings flashing as he pushes and pulls the head of his cock between his fisted fingers mere inches from Jensen's face.
Because despite that, Jensen isn't watching Jeff.
He's watching them.
This time when Chris pushes, Misha goes easily, letting himself be manhandled around and into the wall, his shoulders meeting the sheet-rock with another solid thump that rattles the door in its frame and tears a sound up Jensen's throat Chris could swear he's only heard in the dirtiest, low budget pornos. Hell, he should be happy as a pig in shit that Jensen's not paying Morgan any mind, and he would be - fuck yes, he would - if not for all the inconvenient confusion.
He's thought on it a time or two, never with any sort of intent to follow through. Who wouldn't? Jensen's pretty as the day is long and ain't no man ever met him that didn't spare a second to think what it'd be like to slide his dick between those sweet lips. Hell, he's chased a dozen or so off himself.
They've never been that though, and Jensen was his best fucking friend before he'd had a chance to turn it into something else.
Now though, it feels like Jensen's changing the rules.
Maybe just for tonight, maybe forever. Either way, Chris is in no mood to be looking gift horses in the mouth. Doesn't mean he won't be having words with Collins though, because this ain't a right way to treat Jensen when his heart's set.
So yeah, he gets right up in Misha's face, because you should look a man in the eye if you're gonna fuck 'em, even if you only want to fuck him over. "You get off on someone eyeballin' you?"
Misha's tongue swipes slow across his lower lip, but his gaze darts to Jensen before he nods. "You have met me, I thought that was a given," Misha says, then laughs quietly, his voice dipping into conspiratorial territory. "One has nothing to do with the other, though."
If Chris weren't so wrapped up in his own head, he'd have seen it coming, but he is, so when Misha kisses him again, open-mouthed and sloppy, it catches Chris off-balance.
He's kissing back with a fervour that belies the situation before he even knows what the hell is happening. The moan that skitters up out of Misha's mouth and into his own at the taking he's doing is nearly enough to undo him.
They're back against the wall and he has Misha pinned in hard, forgetting the options he was weighing up in the unexpected need to make Misha fly apart at the seams.
He pulls his mouth away from Misha's lips, plants his teeth in against his jaw instead and bites down hard enough to sting. The gasp that echoes from Misha and Jensen at the same time nearly derails him again, but he clings with his fingernails to Misha's hips, sets himself back on track.
Misha is squirming but Chris keeps him in place with his pelvis, moves his hands to either side of Misha's face and holds him where he wants him. Bites back to Misha's ear and sucks the lobe between his lips quick and dirty, flicks it with his tongue. It's only when he lets the flesh slip from his mouth that he drops his voice down to danger level and growls into Misha's ear. "You and me ain't done, kid."
"I wasn't aware we'd started, kid," Misha says, and it might bite a bit more if he wasn't already breathing hard against the side of Chris' neck. "Had I known, I'd have been trying harder."
Then those freakishly long fingers slide down between their bodies, making quick work of belt buckle and button and zip, and fuck if they don't feel just as good around his dick as he thought they would - because if Collins takes anything seriously, this is it. Not that Jen's been flapping his jaw about it, they were both raised right after all, but he wouldn't be flapping it about the other shit he has been if he weren't otherwise satisfied.
Even with Misha working him over, it's a strong enough impulse to pull him through mostly coherent.
"Much as I appreciate the sentiment, you shouldn't," Chris says, even though he can't help rocking his hips into Misha's grip. "Jen's near as blood as it gets and the fact that you've got your hand in my fucking pants at all makes me doubt your intentions."
"I'm sorry," Misha breathes, hand clamping down hard enough it trips along that pain-pleasure barrier Chris is so fond of riding. "Didn't know this was just for show."
"The fuck does that mean?"
Misha sighs, a sound so world-weary that Chris can almost understand, even though he knows it's his own fault for causing it, knows Misha's counting to ten and trying to simple it up for the thick-headed asshole kicking him questions. "Jensen's not concerned with my intentions or lack thereof. Unless you're his mother, you've got no business in his business. Ergo, the dick in my hand must be my vivid, disturbingly overactive imagination playing tricks on me again. Or the pot, of course."
Half the time, Chris isn't even sure that Misha knows what the hell he's saying. But the fact that he's beginning to pant and groan at the feel of Misha's fingers playing him so damn right, is proof enough that there ain't no tricks going on.
"Even you ain't that dense, Misha," Chris says, forgoing the distancing of surnames and epithets to be brutally honest. He pokes a finger into Misha's chest angrily. "Just don't fuck with him. Don't fuck him up. This is your one and only warning."
Misha's eyes are wide and full of something Chris can't identify, comprehension or doubt or lord only knows what. It's enough of a reaction to appease him given it isn't just outright scoffing or bravado. The fingers that stutter against his cock tell him even more.
But his voice must have risen with the sentiment behind his words, because it isn't Misha who answers him. It's Jensen.
"Fuck, Chris," Jensen moans from his position on the floor and Chris turns, quick as a covey of spring pheasants flushed from a briar patch, to catch Jensen's gaze. Because the sound that Jensen makes as he says his name is all kinds of broken and fucked up.
And it's dawning on him that maybe Misha has a point.
CONTINUE