Fucked...
Title: Fucked...
Author: kadiel_krieger
Pairing: Jensen/Misha
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: 10K+
Warnings: Porns. Childish behavior. Boyhood.
Disclaimer: They do not belong to me. I just borrow them.
A/N: This is all qthelights' fault. Oh, and thanks to her for the beta as well. Which only makes it more her fault.
Summary: People don't deny Misha. Especially not in public. (Set the night Misha crashes the J2 panel at JIB con.)
Five minutes.
Jensen should know better than to expect any more or less. When con season rolls around, his weekends evolve into a whirlwind of glad-handing and questions he's answered a dozen times over, all of it sprinkled with a disturbingly large helping of Jared being randomly inappropriate. It doesn't matter that it's already midnight in Rome or that he's spent the last sixteen hours being accommodating or that he hasn't even untied his boots.
Five minutes is all he ever gets.
He has learned from experience to use the tools given him and the peep hole is an invaluable member of the arsenal, critical in preventing wayward fangirls with too much information from stampeding into his room. Hotel security does the best it can and even though Clif's just across the hall, there have been incidents in the past. He's always managed, somehow, to get out alive. Unfortunately, when he nudges his cheek up against the door to peer through, all that greets him is the telltale pinkish glow of fluorescents cast through skin. It means he has a worthy adversary. Or at least someone who knows how to slap a palm over the peep hole.
So much for that.
Jensen contemplates calling Clif to deal with it, but he quite literally punches out when he drops Jensen and Jared safely at their suite doors, so has probably been asleep for an hour. There haven't been any security breaches on their floor, yet. But just to be safe, he leaves the chain engaged when he flips the deadbolt over and opens the door.
Misha grins at him through the crack, wild-eyed and manic, his fingers wrapped and tapping around the neck of what looks to be a half-spent champagne bottle. He murmurs out a, "May I?" that is more statement than question.
It always is.
For that very reason, Jensen considers leaving the door firmly shut once he pushes it closed to slide the chain free. Misha makes assumptions on top of presumptions like it’s his job to keep Jensen off-balance. Jensen’s not against it necessarily. Good company and good booze are just what he needs to wind down from the day's hectic schedule. Every once in awhile, he likes to buck the system. You know, on principle. Fucking with Misha's just gravy.
Mostly, it's because Misha's hilarious when he doesn't get his way, all honed sarcasm and vitriol laced with vaguely insulting back-handed compliments that inevitably leave him questioning his manhood. After a whole day spent smiling and aw shucks-ing at the masses, Jensen maybe needs a dash of that to lash him back down. Not that he doesn't appreciate the fans, he does, but conventions are still a little bit of a mindfuck for him - thousands of people who don't know him from Adam paying exorbitant sums of money to come tell him how awesome he is. And yeah, he's pretty fucking awesome but there's no way they'd know that and it feels a little like prostitution minus the money shot.
Misha has no use for that particular kind of bullshit and as such will have no problem telling Jensen he's being an ass for letting him stand in the hallway a full two minutes.
It’s refreshing.
Metal scrapes dully against metal and then rattles against the wood door as he lets the chain drop. Predictably, Misha barely allows him time enough to step out of the way before he pushes on through. One of these days, Jensen swears he'll be too slow and end up with a black eye.
If it was anyone but Misha.
Jensen sighs and smiles in spite of himself. Manners still make the man, according to his momma, and even though Misha never requires much in the way of tending, it'd be a shame to forget them now. "Come on in. Make yourself at-" The word 'home' dies on his lips, rendered moot by the fact that Misha's already thrust the bottle of champagne into a bucket of mostly melted ice. In the space of thirty seconds he has also discarded his shoes, socks, and one of two shirts. All Jensen can actually see of Misha's face is a narrow band of forehead crowned by a riot of dark hair because Misha's in the process of stripping off the second shirt when he turns.
"Dude," is the most coherent thing Jensen can work from brain to mouth. Not that Misha's spontaneous state of undress is completely unprecedented, it's just that they usually talk about it before it happens.
Long as the day has been, Jensen's pretty sure he'd remember having that conversation.
Probably.
Watching the bunch of muscle, the smooth stretch of skin over bone as Misha twists and drops the bundle of thin cotton atop the rest of the haphazard pile, Jensen can't say he minds this surprise either. Misha's hands move, negotiating the slip of leather and metal jangle of belt buckle with practiced ease, and it's not until they go still save one thumb circling over the button beneath that Jensen realizes he's staring.
"Hey," Misha says, tone sharp and shattered, spun with steel and glass. Jensen meets Misha’s gaze, blue glint caught carefully behind lowered lashes, and gives himself a mental shake. "Get with the fucking program, Jen."
"What fucking program, Meesh?" Jensen spits back on instinct even though he's pretty sure he's more confused than annoyed. With Misha it's always hard to tell and it's never just one or the other. "Must've missed the memo."
Misha's eyes squeeze shut for a second and all the tendons in his neck flex as he finds a convenient patch of carpet to glare at. "Allow me to summarize. Strip the fuck down, right the fuck now, so I can fuck you and get back to the very important business of getting shitfaced."
Which is - okay.
Yeah.
Usually Jensen can get behind Misha's startling candor, revel in his irreverence and sarcasm. In this case, not so much. Doesn't mean he's interested in escalating the problem by getting unnecessarily pissed off though, so he snorts and says, "Let me get right on that," hoping Misha will take the hint. Instead of his boot laces, Jensen reaches for the discarded bottle of champagne.
Luck keeps him from getting a grip - not good luck, but then every once in awhile he has the other kind. No matter how charmed his life may seem to the outside observer, he's still human. Misha puts himself between Jensen and the ice bucket, the look in his eyes careening carelessly away from wild through a weird middling place Jensen can't put a finger on until it finds a Castiel place to live - the one that Misha affectionately calls, "I'm gonna smite a bitch."
Jensen finds it hard to stand his ground against that, especially when Misha shimmies right up into his personal space again and says, "A debt's a debt and my patience with this - hell, I've never had the patience for this," then grabs at Jensen's hips to pull him flush.
And yeah, maybe the mood's all about the fact that Misha gets exactly what he wants when he wants it. Jensen can't be sure though, will never be sure because the jigsaw jumble of Misha fits differently every single time they come together like this. He can only surmise, and if Misha has his heart set on being childish, that's just too fucking bad.
Jensen's already exceeded his recommended daily allowance of petulance. He steps back.
"Don't owe you anything," he hears himself say. It feels far away, because he's not that guy. Granted, he’s never been Little Suzy Sharer either, he just, y'know, cares. Obviously, someone or something's done a number on Misha. And while Jensen knows he should be trying to laugh it off, distract Misha instead of fanning the flames, he can't seem to stop himself. There's only so much a man can take. He's had a long day too and Misha has no right to put this on him.
Fuck no. There's sarcasm and there's teasing, and then there's whatever this is.
Misha crowds him anyway, brushes him back more efficiently than he's ever done on camera, smile incongruent with his words, "See, that's where you're wrong," when he says them. They thrum with a cold, calculating confidence that Jensen could never lay claim to. Jensen craves, though, like anyone does and maybe that's why he lets it happen, maybe because even with all the bullshit posturing, Misha just fucking does it for him.
His cock seems to think so.
But there's no good to be had in the sharp cut of Misha's eyes, glittering hard and remote in the overhead light. Nothing good in the twist of Jensen's gut either, feeling like he's on the cusp of a brand new kind of damage. And that's not what this is about, not what it's supposed to be about. It ticks him off even more. So when his shoulders finally hit the wall, Jensen pushes back hard enough to send Misha rocking on his heels.
"Beg to differ," Jensen says, and he does, because today may have made him a great many things, but indebted to Misha isn't one of them.
At least, he doesn't think so. Jensen filters through the handful of moments they spent together quickly as he can -a hurried breakfast, sixty seconds of so concealed by curtains and moving in opposite directions, an hour at lunch surrounded by friends and cast mates, less than thirty seconds on stage when Misha crashed his panel with Jared.
Hell, Jensen doesn't even know for sure when it became a question of owing anyone anything. As he understood it, all of this - whatever - was just for kicks, blowing off steam when they fucking felt like it. But Misha won't take no for an answer, and will remain thoroughly convinced they need to settle up until he decides otherwise. Whether Jensen actually begs or not, differing doesn't make a damn bit of difference.
He expects resistance, maybe even to catch a shove of his own, but it never comes. Misha goes hard and silent, like he's pulled a shell down around him and that's somehow worse because he doesn't stop. Misha's fingers find his collar, tugging impatiently before Jensen has a chance to even process what the movement means. Not that he doesn't want - still has a dick and all, and yeah, he always wants, can almost feel the slick slide of Misha's tongue on his skin, but it's - weird. Any other time they've done this, Jensen can't get him to shut the hell up and he hates to admit that he's kind of gotten used to the endless litany of things Misha's going to do, things Misha wants done, muttered odes to his mouth and his cock and his ass that would make Jenna Jameson blush and pull her robe closed.
At best, the silence is unnerving.
"Misha?"
No answer. Misha works furiously at the remaining buttons on Jensen's dress shirt, rough enough that the last one pops free and rolls across the gilded carpet in a lazy circle. The script's screwed all to hell and back and Jensen has no idea where they even are at this point. He reaches up, tries to wrap his fingers around Misha's wrists to anchor them down, make him answer and gets his hands smacked like an errant toddler.
"The fuck?"
It earns him a glare, Misha's brow quirked into a sharp curve, his teeth bared wide and bright and into something too feral to be called a smile. That's when Jensen begins to piece together how well and truly fucked he might be.
"Mish-"
Misha cuts him off, fists wound into the fabric of his shirt, their weight hot and heavy on his chest. "I wouldn't. You'll only make it worse," Misha says as he drags him in and shoves him over, his ankles turning at odd angles that make Jensen stumble and almost trip over his own feet.
"Wouldn't-"
"Talk."
The warning, of course, has the opposite effect. Instead of cowing him to silence, it stirs a fire in Jensen's belly that flares on the fumes of hours-old Cuervo. He's done jack and shit to deserve Misha's bitchy behavior and isn't exactly keen on being told what he should or should not do by a guy who breaks every rule that's ever been dreamed of, much less written down.
That doesn't mean he's any less inclined to fuck Misha into a right way of thinking. Hell, Jensen will take all kinds of pleasure in pulling Misha apart in spite of himself. So, because he can sometimes be patient, he waits, lets Misha push the shirt off his shoulders and go to work on his fly before he drags Misha back in by his belt loops and leans close, pulls until he feels Misha's breath on his face.
Jensen smiles into it, wets his lips with a slow swipe of tongue and says, "I do as I please. You of all people should respect that."
Again, if memory serves, the surest way to bend Misha to his will is kiss him loose and pliable and stupid.
Seven of ten experts agree.
Only, Misha's not where Jensen expects him to be - a twist, a quick rustle and Jensen's left grasping at air. Hell, by the time Jensen manages to pry his eyes open, there’s a hot palm flushed up against sternum and an even more ominous curl creeping across Misha's lips.
Fan-fucking-tastic.
"Think so?" Misha looks up at him, eyes flashing bright and furious before he continues, "Maybe you do as I please. Maybe I'm just humoring you."
The words land and Jensen feels them in his chest when it goes tight. He shoves at Misha's hips, tries to get himself some room to sift through the cyclone spinning up in his head, but Misha won't budge, even when Jensen grunts and says, "Back the hell off."
At first Misha simply stares but then there’s a blur, a scrape of nails and pressure behind his knee, insistent fingers fanned out across his chest. And in that second, he's wrenched off balance, falling back at a pace that gives him just enough time to hope they're close but not too close to the bed. He'd rather not be subject to emergency first-aid while half-naked if he can help it.
The bed creaks and Jensen narrowly misses knocking himself out on the headboard. Misha laughs - not the bright, open sound of genuine amusement but pitted and crackling with a dark promise. And even though Jensen feels his stomach clench and quail, fuck if his dick doesn't twitch too, like it's tied to the vibration of Misha's vocal chords.
Misha kneels and grabs for his ankle, pulls at his bootlaces until they loosen. "As if it were up to you," he says lightly, matter-of-factly, cupping the heel of the first boot and tugging it off.
There's a story in the set of Misha's jaw, but no context to frame it - certainly not memory even though Jensen can feel it tripping across the tip of his tongue tasting of sweat, like he's missing the point but only by inches, centimeters.
The first boot thuds against the opposite wall as it's tossed carelessly away.
The wedge of Misha's shoulder presses against the inside of his knee when he reaches to untie the other set of laces. Jensen watches him do it, watches the muscles in his jaw work in fitful little jerks, his brows knitted together, every bit of him drawn in so tight Jensen's surprised the air's not singing with it. All in all, it's pretty fucking surreal. His rational brain tells him this is absolutely the same guy that pawed lazily at him two days ago when they were newly jetlagged and aching. The same guy who breathed some undoubtedly dirty Italian across his lips and punctuated it with a grin that could blind the sun, a kiss that could debauch a nun.
Too bad logic has nothing to do with this.
Too bad he can't quite put a stop to it either.
Okay, that's not completely true. He could, of course. Thanks to the advanced street fighting training ala Winchester, Jensen can think of a thousand and one ways to effectively lay Misha out, half of them without even hurting him. But then he'd never know where the hell this came from, what it was that turned Misha into - this. If he's being honest with himself, it also means he wouldn't know how to keep it from happening again or which heads need busting, but those thoughts aren't for here and now or ever.
Also, selfishly, kicking Misha in the head seems counterproductive as Jensen plans on getting blown tonight, and seeing as Misha's already on his knees and they're both half-naked that would be an awful waste.
That still leaves him at loose ends, scrabbling for purchase in a foreign land because it's not like Misha comes with an instruction manual. Even after all the time they've spent together, Jensen can only come up with a single sure distraction - the one they're currently meandering towards.
Sex.
They're good at sex.
Jensen closes his eyes, listens to sound of Misha's breath, the tiny involuntary huffs of frustration when a section of the bootlace proves more stubborn than he wants it to be. They're too close to other noises Misha makes under completely different conditions and, yeah, fuck - sex could work in more ways than one.
His second boot thumps alongside the first, and Jensen uses it to his advantage, moving in Misha's blind spot, leaning up to get a good grip and haul Misha onto the bed with him. It might have been a move worthy of Dean Winchester's legendary skills, but Misha squirms then goes rigid and Jensen overbalances, leaving Misha spread in a sloppy heap across his chest, limbs akimbo. It's not all bad though, because his lips are right there, his tongue a flash of pink that moves across them and finally Jensen thinks he's found solid ground.
Hand settled into the curve of Misha's waist, he smiles and starts to close the distance, grateful to have been offered an opportunity that makes sense to take. If there's one thing he's learned from Misha, it's that thinking too much sometimes ruins the fun, so he hasn't thought much about the odd pattern they've fallen into over the past couple of months.
There's really no point.
This is simple. Physical, nothing more. That's why when Misha blinks and rears back, righting himself with an uneven sigh and a full-body shake, Jensen's adrift again. Instinct tells him to grab Misha and pin him down until he either talks or leaves, but given the success of his last maneuver, he's also pretty sure he doesn't have a fucking clue what's really going on here.
Still, Misha's a warm heavy weight and that doesn't suck. The sharp bones of Misha's knees press against his thighs in a stutter step as Misha shifts and slides, perches precariously on the edge of bed as he turns his attention to getting Jensen out of his jeans, Jensen's own knees the only thing that stand between Misha and a graceless sprawl on the floor.
It would be easy, too easy. And Jensen would swear Misha hears the thought because in the next breath his zipper's drawn down entirely too fast for any sane person’s comfort.
"Hey, watch the goods," Jensen says, grabbing at Misha's wrists again to keep him from doing anything rash.
Misha snorts and shifts his weight, slides away to shove his hands between skin and fabric with jerky, violent motions that Jensen might be able to appreciate more were they applied anywhere else. Not that he hates them now especially, not the way Misha's thumbs stripe hot and sure against every sensitive spot Jensen's fucking got even when he's not paying attention. But then, he's suddenly painfully aware of his dick, the ache blooming low in his belly, the hiss pushing past his lips thanks to the relative chill of the room - aware because he's breathing, painfully because Misha ignores it like he's being paid for his indifference.
Then suddenly Misha's gone, the weight, the warmth. He doesn't get far, a couple of feet maybe, his hands working quickly, efficiently to ditch the rest of his own clothes. The look he throws Jensen's way is hard and cold and so unlike Misha that it leaves him a little dumbstruck.
"Off," Misha says, kicking away the tangle of fabric now pooled around his ankles.
Jensen's pretty sure Misha's referring to his pants, but he can only blink and try to remember how to breathe. Every time they do this he has a moment where he can't quite believe it's happening, that Misha - crazy, ridiculous, impossible Misha - wants this, maybe even needs it. Jensen hums through his distraction, eyes squeezed shut to hang on to the memory because sometimes he wishes for things he shouldn't and knows better than to question.
Misha's voice snaps him back into focus. "Don't make me ask again."
As much as he feels like a bitch for giving in, it's obvious Misha's working through something, and Jensen's too fucking tired and too fucking horny to give a shit about such a small capitulation when he's fairly certain he's about to take it up the ass. The other very important thing he's learned in the past couple of months is that there's absolutely no point in being an immovable object when Misha's focused and hurtling your way. Jensen's man enough to admit he'd rather bend than break in the face of it so he levers his hips up enough to slide his jeans and boxers the rest of the way off and kick them away as well.
A quiet but oh-so-telling, "Fuck," finds its way past Misha's lips.
Jensen takes that as his cue to reach again, pull all that hot, lithe skin down against him where it will actually do some good, but Misha sidesteps and his fingers catch air.
Okay.
There's a hitch in Misha's breathing that wasn't there thirty seconds ago when he says, "Hands on the fucking headboard," and slips around the edge of the bed to stand at the foot. "You let go, I'm as good as gone."
Okay. Not his thing, usually, though he's not against it per se, just not - shit, like it matters. With his dick doing all the thinking, he's willing to do whatever it takes to get off. If that means letting Misha toss orders at him like a drill sergeant, so be it.
Jensen complies, skin dragging against the sheets until he's situated with his fingers locked firmly around the headboard and legs splayed. He feels ridiculously exposed, the ache in his belly turning over on itself and morphing into embarrassment because Misha's still just staring, working his cock with slow, even strokes like he has all the time in the world. And it's not like Jensen minds being watched. Contrary to popular opinion he's not a damn wilted daisy clinging to the walls in terror or confusion.
Shit, he knows he's hot.
That's not what this is about, though. Misha's gaze isn't heated or appraising or even fond. It's like he's doing his best to shame Jensen, humiliate him, but can't quite manage to focus in the face of all the other shit swimming around in his head.
"Mish-" Jensen starts and Misha shuts down again, reverts to his clenched jaw and pattern of swift, mechanical movements. It's fucking frustrating.
"What did we say about talking?"
"It's a-"
"Bad idea," Misha finishes for him. "There's only one thing I need to hear from you and you're nowhere near ready to say it yet."
Jensen bites his tongue to keep from making a smartass remark he'll probably regret, because that's at least more information than he's had up to this point. Misha must approve of the silence because he abandons his post at the foot of the bed, moves forward instead of away for what feels like the first time tonight. And just as Jensen thinks, finally, Misha's fingers graze the insides of his ankles with such an infuriatingly light touch that he has to grit his teeth against the words that catch in his throat.
Misha's lips follow, then his tongue, the wild ruff of his hair tickling against alternating calves. Jensen's own lips are in a permanent catch between his teeth because Jesus fucking Christ Misha's mouth is transcendent - warm and slick and skilled and Jensen can't help but remember what that tongue feels like curling over the head of his cock, snaking into his mouth with a brazen ownership no one else has ever dared. His hips buck on their own when the work-worn pads of Misha's fingertips dip into the hollow behind his knee and catch.
There's something freeing about just letting it happen - letting Misha do as he will - especially when that means Misha's teeth worrying at the tender skin of his inner thigh, Misha's shoulder warm and solid in the bend of his knee, spreading him wider. It's horrible and amazing and even though he knows logically that he wouldn't be able to breathe if his lungs actually caved in, it still feels that way, his ribs wrapping tight bands of pressure against them.
Then Misha moves again, an effortless twist of muscle and tendon, his tongue riding the groove where hip meets thigh and up, and Jensen can't help rocking into it, straining to guide Misha where he needs him with all his typical tools stripped away. He can't ask for it, can't thread his fingers into the mess of Misha's hair and hold him there.
Mercy has never been Misha's strong suit, so it stands to reason there's no chance of him starting now. It's relevant, a fact Jensen clings to when he suddenly finds his knees shoved roughly up against his chest, Misha's breath moist and impossibly warm against already overheated skin. Jensen braces, thighs twitching hard against his stomach, waiting for Misha to decide, ready to bite back the moan when he does. Five long seconds pass, and when nothing happens Jensen rolls up as best he can, looks down and finds Misha waiting too, watching Jensen react. As soon as he has Jensen's full attention, Misha strikes, his tongue firm and soft all at once, sweeping and dipping, his teeth raising a line of marks from hip to navel, drifting ever closer to Jensen’s cock but never close enough. Jensen holds on as long as he can, until he has to turn his head and sink his own teeth into his arm to keep from giving Misha the satisfaction of making noises.
It’s still not enough because he can see Misha watching out of the corner of his eye and that makes everything worse - the little cat-like licks Misha's laying down on his stomach, Misha’s fingers digging into the muscle as if he's afraid of falling if he lets go, the appreciative noises Jensen's not entirely sure Misha realizes he's making.
It's - hell, it's enough to drive a man insane.
That's the excuse he allows himself anyway when Misha's tongue drags lower, presses harder, always skirting away at the last second, and Jensen can't keep quiet or still anymore.
"Fucking fuck Misha, just-," Jensen says without thinking, not knowing how to end that particular sentence. He doesn't get a chance to try because Misha turns loose and before Jensen's heels catch comforter, Misha's just there, knees tight against Jensen's hips.
The bed dips again when Misha tips forward, his fingers curled into the covers and framing Jensen in, his lips slick and parted and so fucking close Jensen can almost taste them, wants to taste them. Nothing in the rule book says that he can't take what's offered, so Jensen shifts his hips and curls in on himself, gets his feet braced against the mattress for extra leverage.
Then Misha isn't there, and Jensen's left with nothing more than a warm draft of air carrying the scent of Misha's skin.
Fuck.
This time, it's so close that the corner of Misha's mouth catches against his jaw in an odd stuttered drag of stubble and skin. He has half a second to wonder if it's intentional because in this at least they're consistently attuned, so much so it flirts with choreography, always most comfortable in that rare space where words become extraneous window dressing between the grunts and flutters of muscle that mean so much more.
Then Misha's teeth find the curve of his collarbone and he's not thinking much at all beyond that heat, the bright flare of pain, and Misha’s tongue swiping slow after. It comes easy to tilt his head back, let it fall against the pillows to give Misha room to work because goddamn Misha's good at this. Good at taking him out of himself, good at finding and pressing the right sequence of buttons, just so damn good.
Misha also knows how to take his time. Maybe a little too well. Jensen doesn't want to give him the gasp, hell no, but when Misha licks a wet line up his throat, when his teeth sink home against his jaw, he can't help it. His dick twitches as Misha slides and gives Jensen his full weight as his hips curve under, his back bowed and just-fuck. Jensen swallows hard, shuts his eyes against the room to focus, revel in the slip of Misha hard against him, his hands braced against the headboard.
Jensen can feel the gentle ebb and flow of Misha's breath on his face again, taste the champagne. When he peels his eyes open his field of vision's filled with Misha - blue eyes bright and open like maybe, finally, they've fallen into step. But when Jensen moves to kiss him, just a subtle slant and tilt of his head so he can really taste, Misha moves with him, back and away, out of reach without blinking or breathing, holding the distance between them with some twisted purpose.
There's no way it's anything other than intentional.
And it's the last fucking straw, because as much as it would suck to have to jerk off after all the damn build-up, at this point Jensen's convinced he's not going to be getting shit anyway.
His knuckles ache when he pries his fingers loose, and he watches Misha's gaze flick quickly, furtively up and then back down to lock with his own.
"Masochistic until the end, I see," Misha says, his lips pulled into a pout, his shoulders into a shrug, but then he starts to disentangle and Jensen’s hold on rational thought slips for a handful of seconds.
He loses it in a flurry of limbs, a series of startled huffs and elbows thrust into tender places, his legs wrapped around and through Misha’s like his life depends on hanging on. The dark shock of Misha’s hair flies past and then tilts out of frame.
Things are very different when the world rights itself.
Most importantly, Misha's not gone.
If the look is anything to go by though, he's fucking furious. Probably because he's pinioned to the bed, Jensen's hands wrapped tight enough to grind all the bones in his wrists to meal. He's flushed and panting, squirming against the starched hotel sheets, his hair doing its best impression of a porcupine. He's so fucking edible and Jensen's so fucking hard that he can hardly see straight.
So he doesn't think, just ducks in and presses his mouth to the thin white line of Misha's lips quick and dirty, hoping for the best.
Misha's mouth opens under his, sure, but without an ounce of surrender. And even though Jensen may not typically be into this either, he can't stop the full-body tremor that takes him when Misha's teeth catch again and draw blood.
It shouldn't be hot. But, God it is. Jensen tongues at the split sliced in his lip, smiles around it and Misha's eyes narrow down to slits.
"That how you're gonna play it?" Jensen asks, unwraps his hands enough to rub thumbs against the pulse points in Misha's wrists, feel the skitter-stop stutter of Misha's blood pumping, heart racing in spite of his apparent detachment.
And that's enough, just enough to give Jensen purchase, a grasping handhold that keeps him from fumbling headfirst off an unforgiving cliff, because Misha wants too. He just needs to be convinced.
It's a skill no man worth a shit ever really forgets - one Jensen learned in Lisa Morgan's coat closet when he was thirteen. Earlier really - he's been coaxing spooked horses back to stable since he was old enough to catch and hold the reins.
This is no different. Misha's just green broke and needs to be reminded of his manners.
So Jensen licks his lip clean and leans in again, flushing their bodies together in all sorts of awesome ways. He's even expecting the sharp sting of teeth, tenses for the buck of Misha's hips trying to unseat him but they never come. Instead he gets the curve of Misha's jaw skating past his mouth and the slow, shaky push of Misha's breath in his ear.
Just, what the fuck?
Misha’s ineffable at the best of times, but this - this is something else.
Jensen decides to go with the sure thing, painting spit-slick patterns against the pale stretch of Misha's throat and turning Misha's wrists loose completely because he's got a thousand better uses for his hands right now.
Granted, he expects the push back too. When Misha's hands land on his shoulders and shove, Jensen moves with it just enough to put him where he really wanted to be in the first place. And he's poised, ready, lower lip tender and aching and he needs to unravel Misha, pull him into stubborn little pieces.
Misha's eyes stop him cold, even though his arms have gone slack, his palms resting rather than pushing and Jensen wants to dig that out too before it gets put away and forgotten in the slap of sweat-soaked skin. That's why he asks - against his better judgment and his nature and every fucking guy code in the lexicon. He asks.
"Hey. You good?"
Misha laughs again, and it jangles against Jensen's nerves like cheap wind chimes made of hollow old ox bones. It hurts to hear. And Christ he hates it - because he knows it too well, has done it himself a time or ten when there was nothing else left to do. It means Misha's a dozen time zones away from good and Jensen hates that it even matters.
"Fuck, Misha," Jensen says and sighs, knocks their foreheads together so he doesn't have to see all of that...whatever peering back at him through Misha's eyes. "Give me something, okay. I don't. You can't. Fuck."
"Don't mistake me for your personal Pagliacci simply because I sometimes wear greasepaint," Misha says, and it's nearly a whisper but no less venomous for it.
Too bad Jensen hasn't a clue what he's talking about. Thank fucking God, Misha doesn't make him ask.
"It's not your job to embellish me, Jensen," he continues, his fingers thrust hard into muscle like if he could just tattoo the significance under Jensen's skin, bruise it in bright blue blooms, everything would make perfect sense.
It doesn't. But Jensen can translate well enough to get the jist. Still, he can't quite man up, so he stays right where he is with Misha comfortably shrouded in a multi-colored blur he can't quite bring to focus. He stays and says, "Sorry," to the host of stubble gritting Misha's chin and feels the tension wring out of the body beneath him on a hot rush of breath Jensen wants to drink down.
Which means, of course, that he's fucked in the head because he hasn't done shit to apologize for, certainly hasn't embellished Misha and what does that even...?
Misha's hands drift and flit, finally settling across Jensen's shoulder blades, and Misha very deliberately looks away.
Epiphanies are funny things. Jensen always expects to anticipate the next one or the one after that. Even knowing they are by their very nature surprises, he can't help feeling like he should have figured it out sooner. Though doing so would negate the dots connecting in the here and now.
Answers, like car keys, are always in the last fucking place you look.
If he were into making excuses, Jensen might blame the jet lag or the Cuervo, but he's old enough to realize that excuses just get in the way most of the time. Facts are simpler and a hell of a lot more productive.
In this case, he just wasn't aware enough of Misha and his mood. Hell, he never imagined that Misha would get worked up about trivial bullshit. If he’d known it'd cause this much grief, he might have just stuck it out, let Misha plant one on him in front of a room full of screaming fangirls.
Honestly, he's gotten so used to playing against Jared, Jensen takes for granted that he's there to catch this question or that smartass remark and never stopped to think maybe Misha hadn't heard the protracted discussion about Castiel's issue with personal space. Not like it's news to anyone with eyes, but he was making a point that that seems to have pissed Misha off. It's childish, of course, and ridiculous - completely and utterly beyond comprehension. But really, Misha's mostly outside his ken and even though they're fucking like testosterone-ridden bunnies, Jensen doesn't know Misha well enough to avoid his triggers.
Of course, he also doesn't consider any of that bullshit worthy of being called an epiphany - just logic finally catching up to him in a pattern of painfully obvious signals.
The epiphany is that he wants to know, wants to make amends for slights born out of ignorance.
Jensen breathes deep into the subtle, bronzed slope of Misha's neck and begins again.
There was a time not so long ago Jensen expected Misha to taste like something untouchable - wild and sharp, maybe even fizzy - more than human. That's before this thing between them veered away from the comfortable off-handed innuendo and stumbled into the passing lane. Three unexpected hours spent grappling drunkenly in a stranger's bedroom can do that. So, he'd been surprised the first time in the small part of his brain that still let him believe in fanciful things.
He doesn't miss the fantasy though, not now, not here with Misha's skin drawn tight against his lips, stubble prickling, chest heaving evenly. The real Misha tastes of clean sweat and the soap beneath, hotel shampoo and fabric softener, solid and more familiar than Jensen cares to think about.
Fuck it. There's time enough to worry about that later when Misha's not laid out under him, warm and wanting, when he himself isn't jittery and exhausted and turned the fuck on in spite of everything. For the moment, he'll fix it the best way he knows and hope Misha lets him.
A wise man once told him that thinking's overrated anyway.
He eases back, feels the slip of Misha's fingers down his back, the flutter of muscles twitching and dancing and driving him fucking crazy, and Jensen can't do anything else.
He kisses Misha - all Rhett fucking Butler or Clark Gable or who the hell knows anymore because Misha sure as shit ain't wearing hoopskirts. That doesn't keep him from latching his hands around the back of Misha's neck, fingertips threaded through the fine hair at his nape. The act of misplaced contrition doesn't take him to knee, but Misha opens to him again anyway, willingly this time and Jensen takes it, lets Misha read whatever he needs to into the slow sweep of tongue and press of lips. Because he actually is sorry that Misha flipped out, even if there was no reason to.
Misha moans and comes suddenly alive beneath him, as if he was simply waiting for this, waiting for what he'd been denied and denying for longer than any sane person would. It's Misha though, and even at the best of times Misha only has a passing acquaintance with sanity.
These are not the best of times.
Or they are, because he's kissing Misha and he's naked and Misha's naked and the flame of Misha's irrational ire is guttering, his hands rough still but with a different purpose. When Jensen breaks away, Misha chases him.
He can't help smiling. Really he can't. So he does, drops another quick kiss laced with promises against Misha's lips, and says, "Hold that thought," then plants his hands against the bed to brace.
Whether the sins are worth the penance, he doesn't mind paying if this is the currency. Working Misha into enough of a frenzy to forget is a pleasure, one he's never had occasion to explore fully. And Misha's such a whore for it, choked gasps when Jensen's teeth find his collarbone, breath hissed through his teeth when Jensen tongues at his nipple, hips catching a languid rocking rhythm when Jensen sucks bruises into the hollow cut there by bone. Misha's hands scrabble helplessly at the tangle of sheets for a second before they land, one in Jensen's hair, the other around his cock.
Jensen catches the motion, just a flash at first as Misha's fingers cinch tight and stroke down, the angle sure and grip perfect and Jensen's dick twitches without being touched because if he didn't do another thing, he's pretty sure Misha would take care of it himself unabashedly. It's too much though, not enough, and Jensen swings his gaze up the long line of Misha's torso to find him watching intently, lids lowered and lips parted and fuck it's not fair.
The knobs of Misha's knuckles taste of salt and skin, Misha's pace slowing to something more deliberate when Jensen's tongue finds them. He watches Misha watch him, the slick head of Misha's cock glancing in and out of his periphery in a blur as he follows the pattern. In his hair, Misha's fingers curl and unfurl without anything to catch on and that's a signal that requires no translation. Neither does the grunt that emanates from somewhere deep in Misha's chest when Jensen laps away the pre-come beading and finally closes his mouth around all that hard heat.
Misha bucks hard, not bothering with the niceties of trying to hold himself still and Jensen has to back off or risk choking. He slaps his forearm across the narrow span of Misha's hips to keep them both from the unpleasantness associated with gag reflexes and the tripping thereof. In the time it takes for skin to strike skin Misha gasps, the hand caught in his hair ratcheting down, the sting on his scalp pulling Jensen in and holding him fast.
And Misha's other fingers are right there, firm hold and sure strokes that bump up against Jensen's lips and Jensen wants to savor them too, wants to tease a little longer because it's not like Misha deserves any less with the shit he's pulled tonight. He feels Misha's thighs tense when he pulls off, smiles again as Misha twists against his hold and makes one of those unconscious exasperated noises Jensen could spend all day lost in.
Misha pushes his name out onto the air, the word caught between a whine and a growl Jensen probably enjoys a little too much. He flicks his gaze up to meet Misha's briefly before catching Misha's wrist to tug his hand away from his cock. It's a testament to how far gone Misha already is that he doesn't fight it. He squirms again - uselessly, fitfully - moaning long and low when Jensen sucks three fingers down to the last joint and curls his tongue between them.
It's hot as fucking hell and Jensen's torn between giving up the ghost and humping the bed like a horny preteen or trusting his balance enough to put his mostly idle hand to better use. Misha's back bows artfully when he nips at the pad of his middle finger and that's enough to make his mind up for him. He licks a whorl into Misha's palm, feels the shudder work up Misha's arm and settle in the clench of his stomach with involuntary little twitches that Jensen wants to feel under his lips too. It's bordering on sensory overload when he shoves Misha's hand back where it needs to be, curls his fingers atop Misha's for the first slow strokes that set a rhythm.
Then Jensen really does find a better use for his hand, his dick bobbing against his palm and fuck if he isn't going to end up jacking off after all. He starts to laugh at the ridiculous irony of it but finds he doesn't have the air for it and ends up huffing breath instead. For a second he lets himself have it, squeezes his eyes shut and inhales, thumbs at the head of his cock and almost pitches forward it feels so good. Misha always does this to him, the shameless sprawl and hunger, the million and one mysteries spun and shimmering behind his eyes falling away until the want is all there is.
And it's like Misha hears him again because there are blunt nails cut against Jensen's scalp in a flash, the last of Misha's patience finally slipping in the urgent press against his crown.
Jensen's more than happy to oblige.
Mostly.
Misha's watching again, eyes glittering behind a dark fan of lashes, so Jensen smirks and strokes himself into a gasp, feels Misha shudder around him, Misha's eyes on him, Misha's hand working faster.
Fuck.
Even with all the weight shifted against him, Misha somehow manages to buck up at the slick slide of Jensen's lips around him, knees knocking elbows as he braces against the bed, heels digging in for extra leverage. Jensen has to work hard at not over-balancing in the aftermath, hard enough his mouth slips lower, down over the firm curl of Misha's fingers still wrapped up tight, and Misha groans like he's rattling apart at the seams.
Any other day, when he hasn't been subjected to the burden of transcontinental travel and jet lag and Misha's earlier weirdness, Jensen could have come just from that. He won't, no matter how much he wants to. It puts too much into the space between them, says too much of what he's not willing to voice. Even with the exhaustion threatening to pull him under, Jensen has to clamp his hand tight and breathe through a surge of want that skitters, electric, just beneath his skin.
It's fucking ridiculous how effortlessly and unintentionally Misha reduces him to this wanton crouching thing grabbing at his cock to keep from tripping over the edge accidentally. It pisses Jensen off enough that he hollows his cheeks on the upstroke, feels the tremble in Misha's hand, in the lean muscles of Misha's thighs, Misha's fingers like needles against the back of his neck keeping him there and working.
Too bad it's nigh on impossible to smile with a dick in your mouth because Jensen really wants to. Instead he tongues slowly at the sensitive bundle of nerves clustered just beneath the head of Misha's cock and watches him writhe, feels Misha's thumb scrape against the inside of his cheek and has to close his eyes at the garbled mess of throaty nonsense spilling out of Misha.
"Christ-so. So. So fucking pretty with your mouth on me. Ngh-don't. Don't move. Right. Fuck, Jensen. Right there. Right. Fuck. Fu-"
Misha never warns him when he finally hits the edge, which is plenty fine with Jensen because he likes to ride it out, likes to savor the fruits of his labors, likes to wear the bruise where Misha's fist rode up against his lips like a badge of fucking honor because he did that.
And he did it to Misha.
So he doesn't mind the sudden salty splash or the way Misha's heels dig into his lower back like he's kicking a stubborn stallion to trot, barely notices the gentle drift of several loose hairs against his bare shoulders with Misha locked down and coming undone.
Because like this he can see - the arch of Misha's neck, the erratic flutter of lashes, the dancing muscle in his jaw as he grunts again and goes boneless, the burden of his sigh easing him back down until his legs land hard, bouncing against the bed.
Jensen sucks hard one last time before he rocks back and pulls away, just to watch Misha jerk and scramble for purchase. It's gratifying when he does and Jensen can rest assured that sometimes he still gets his way.
Except, of course, for the part where he's still hard and aching and needs to come yesterday and Misha doesn't appear to be in any hurry to help out. But that's beside the point. Only not, because Jesus.
Misha's head thumps against the headboard hard, but he's so blissed out he doesn't react beyond the rush of breath from his lungs and the soft, "Fuck me," that escapes with it.
All the crazy tension bubbles up in Jensen's gut and he presses his forehead against the sweat-slicked skin of Misha's stomach. The soft, wet line of Misha’s spent cock nudged against his throat makes him laugh. It feels good and he can't help it, even with the weight between his legs slowly eating away at his sanity. But if he doesn't chill the fuck out he's going to pop like a cork as soon as Misha touches him.
So he breathes, presses his lips to Misha's navel for a split second and says, "That an invitation? 'Cause if it is, I need a minute to-" Jensen lets the sentence trail off and hopes that Misha's current state of euphoria lets it pass unnoticed.
He'd really prefer not to have to explain himself, because the why is not something he cares to own up to.
Jensen levers up onto his knees just in case Misha tries to make him. He doesn't. Thankfully. Too far gone to care, Jensen figures, his lids lowered and mouth turned up at the corners, looking exactly like one of those sated, sun-warmed jungle cats.
A chuckle rumbles in Misha's chest and he stretches in a spread of long, lithe limbs that turns the volume up on Jensen's need. Given the state Misha was in when he showed up, Jensen's pretty fucking pleased with himself and the results.
Granted, the dick in his hand keeps him from being completely pleased.
He tries to hold his voice steady when he says, "Misha," and gives himself a mental high-five when he manages. Mostly.
Misha's eyes snap open, the tension reeling back into his muscles slowly, and Jensen can see it as he pulls himself together. With any luck, it'll be that other Misha - the one of lazy, coffee-laced kisses with his hand wrapped around both their cocks - that shows up when everything finally congeals.
A host of emotions move like wildfire through Misha's eyes, too fast for Jensen to pin them down and if things were different he'd try to catch them, hunt them until they made sense but fuck. He wants, needs, is way past fucking ready to come and then pass out between the tiny clean scraps of sheet.
It's not the other Misha that greets him though, it's something new and intense and focused and Jensen looks away because he can't, but Misha reaches down to hook his hands behind his knees and draw them up. Misha stares right through him and says it again, "Fuck me." It's a plea and a demand and Jensen wonders how the hell he got here.
But then he remembers where it is he got to, who it is offering themselves to him and stops caring about how. He squeezes his eyes shut to shake the cobwebs clear and when he opens them there's a tube of lube and a condom perched on Misha's stomach.
It's a stupid, simple thing, but Jensen's chest goes tight because it slams the thread of thought that's been winding around him all night into impossible focus.
Because yeah. Against all common sense, including the sense of self-preservation, Jensen wants to keep him.
For fucks sake.
"You my fairy godmother now?" he says, hoping it comes out right, better than it sounds in his head.
"Why Jensen, you've got a hard-on for Tinkerbell too? Kinky." Misha smirks down at him and rolls his hips. The tube slides lower with the motion. "I'm sure there are dozens of minions two floors down that would be thrilled to donate their wings in the interest of fulfilling your every wicked fancy."
"Fuck you," Jensen says, but he doesn't really mean it. The moment's passed and he sees his hand reach for the lube before his brain registers that he's doing it.
Misha snorts, then turns suddenly, strangely serious. "Jensen, I-"
And Jensen wants to know but doesn't and he's too drained to have this conversation tonight. Seriously. He needs to get off and then die. Right the fuck now.
The thought stirs him to action, foil between his teeth and the cap off the lube arcing through the air to land somewhere in the neighborhood of his open suitcase. To be fair, Jensen doesn't pay much attention once it's not in his way, more concerned with smoothing the condom down and the sweet pressure of his own hand, the stupid thrust of Misha's chin as he squirms and pulls his knees tighter against his chest. If he had the patience, he'd take the time to work Misha back up, but his endurance has stretched beyond breaking and as it stands all the consideration Jensen can offer is that he's going to try like hell not to go too hard, too fast, too soon.
Not that he really needs to worry about it. Misha's still a loose collection of muscle and sinew on the heels of his orgasm, so much so that when Jensen slicks his fingers to press in he only meets token resistance, Misha pushing back like he wants the burn and Jesus, yeah, that works. It wipes away the guilt of the cursory prep, and even lost as he is Jensen can't help but rub his thumb against the sensitive skin stretched tight around his fingers just to feel it quiver and constrict and he's through caring whether it hurts a little because he can't wait anymore.
Can't.
The noise Misha makes as he slides his hand free takes the edge off his control, but Misha curls complacently when Jensen shoves hard against his hips, pulls Jensen in with heel and calf when he lines up, still greedy and urging and wanting to be in control even now. Someone probably should be, because Jensen just - isn't.
He wants too much, Misha opening to him at the first push, a soft sigh as the muscle gives and Jensen bites his lip as a distraction so he doesn't bury himself in one long thrust. His hands shake with it and he knows Misha must feel it, sense his rapid unraveling at the very least because he sees too much even without the tells.
Jensen waits for the twisted smile, the mocking tone, the smartass barb - but they never come.
Instead, Misha shifts beneath him, an awkward, impossible move that rolls him up even further, leg draped across Jensen's shoulder. And Jensen goes willingly when Misha curves a palm across the back of his neck to pull him in, lips swollen, kisses desperate, the angle all wrong because he can't get as deep as he wants. All for the taste of Misha, the chance to swallow his soft grunts, lap at his gasps like candy. All for the chance to see exactly what each shallow thrust does, to watch Misha's pupils dilate and eyes go wide when Jensen hits that spot and, shit, he's not going to last, can already feel the bowstring drawing taut and ready.
Then Misha looks at him, stripped back and naked, something jagged and pained behind his eyes for a flash before he says, "Please," and Jensen falls - a trip and stumble over the edge that surprises him the way Misha always does, every nerve-ending sparking and singing and his breath just gone, lungs empty and aching as he comes harder than he has in years.
He's dimly aware of Misha clinging to him, around him, the scent of Misha high and tight in his nostrils as his brain blanks out. He's more aware of the fact he never wants to move. Ever again. Because Misha's hard in the right places and soft in the right places and Jensen's so fucking tired he can't see straight. Misha doesn't make him, which is new. But when his breath finally slows to something approaching normal, Jensen starts to feel the ache in his stomach, the sticky chill coating his cock and yeah, it's not comfortable anymore so he rolls away, strips and ties the condom off before tossing it in the general direction of the wastebasket.
Under normal circumstances, this would be where one of them gets dressed and leaves.
Under normal circumstances, it would be Misha.
Misha's not moving.
Jensen could care less whether or not Misha stays. And hell, that's not even the truth. He cares maybe a little too much, but he doesn't know what he wants save one very important thing - one he'd probably never admit to if he wasn't officially dying.
Still, the ceiling is pretty damn fascinating if it keeps him from having to look at Misha.
"Not that I don't appreciate the impromptu booty call, because I do. A lot. Just, um, talk to me next time, okay? Like if I pissed you off somehow. Chances are I didn't mean to."
Misha breathes deep and doesn't move, doesn't turn towards him or away and Jensen wonders if the fog of sleep slipping silently around him has made him too honest. They're still fucking adults. Adults talk shit out. Or so he's heard.
He tries again, "I didn't mean -" is all he gets out before words fail him and he resorts to repeating himself. "Seriously. Talk to me, okay?"
Jensen isn't sure what to expect when Misha finally deigns to acknowledge his existence again, but Misha just sighs theatrically and rolls his eyes. "Jesus Jensen, yes. Okay. I will inform you promptly of any mild or wild variation of my mood that can be attributed directly or indirectly to your actions. Please establish a 1-800 number in the morning." The words are carefully careless and Misha's a good actor, but Jensen hears the undercurrents even if Misha won't acknowledge them.
"Awesome. I'll set up something with my service."
"Poor Mandy."
"Yeah. Poor Mandy having to talk to your sorry ass a dozen times a day." Jensen smiles around a yawn that makes his jaw pop and tugs the comforter up. Really, he should go shower because it's going to be even more disgusting in the morning, but he's only thirty percent sure he'd keep his feet. His eyes are closed and he can't remember when it happened.
Long. Ass. Day.
"Jensen, I-" Misha trails off again. Jensen doesn't push. The bed springs shift and shimmy beside him and there's a gentle tug on the section of sheet crumpled in the small of his back. Jensen shifts without having to be asked and scratches to cover it up. When he lies flat again, the knot of fabric is suspiciously absent.
"Just don't hog the blankets," he says, and if Misha answers, Jensen's none the wiser. He's already gone, lost to sleep and adrift on the tide of dreams.
Five minutes may be all he ever gets, but sometimes it's enough.
Author: kadiel_krieger
Pairing: Jensen/Misha
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: 10K+
Warnings: Porns. Childish behavior. Boyhood.
Disclaimer: They do not belong to me. I just borrow them.
A/N: This is all qthelights' fault. Oh, and thanks to her for the beta as well. Which only makes it more her fault.
Summary: People don't deny Misha. Especially not in public. (Set the night Misha crashes the J2 panel at JIB con.)
Five minutes.
Jensen should know better than to expect any more or less. When con season rolls around, his weekends evolve into a whirlwind of glad-handing and questions he's answered a dozen times over, all of it sprinkled with a disturbingly large helping of Jared being randomly inappropriate. It doesn't matter that it's already midnight in Rome or that he's spent the last sixteen hours being accommodating or that he hasn't even untied his boots.
Five minutes is all he ever gets.
He has learned from experience to use the tools given him and the peep hole is an invaluable member of the arsenal, critical in preventing wayward fangirls with too much information from stampeding into his room. Hotel security does the best it can and even though Clif's just across the hall, there have been incidents in the past. He's always managed, somehow, to get out alive. Unfortunately, when he nudges his cheek up against the door to peer through, all that greets him is the telltale pinkish glow of fluorescents cast through skin. It means he has a worthy adversary. Or at least someone who knows how to slap a palm over the peep hole.
So much for that.
Jensen contemplates calling Clif to deal with it, but he quite literally punches out when he drops Jensen and Jared safely at their suite doors, so has probably been asleep for an hour. There haven't been any security breaches on their floor, yet. But just to be safe, he leaves the chain engaged when he flips the deadbolt over and opens the door.
Misha grins at him through the crack, wild-eyed and manic, his fingers wrapped and tapping around the neck of what looks to be a half-spent champagne bottle. He murmurs out a, "May I?" that is more statement than question.
It always is.
For that very reason, Jensen considers leaving the door firmly shut once he pushes it closed to slide the chain free. Misha makes assumptions on top of presumptions like it’s his job to keep Jensen off-balance. Jensen’s not against it necessarily. Good company and good booze are just what he needs to wind down from the day's hectic schedule. Every once in awhile, he likes to buck the system. You know, on principle. Fucking with Misha's just gravy.
Mostly, it's because Misha's hilarious when he doesn't get his way, all honed sarcasm and vitriol laced with vaguely insulting back-handed compliments that inevitably leave him questioning his manhood. After a whole day spent smiling and aw shucks-ing at the masses, Jensen maybe needs a dash of that to lash him back down. Not that he doesn't appreciate the fans, he does, but conventions are still a little bit of a mindfuck for him - thousands of people who don't know him from Adam paying exorbitant sums of money to come tell him how awesome he is. And yeah, he's pretty fucking awesome but there's no way they'd know that and it feels a little like prostitution minus the money shot.
Misha has no use for that particular kind of bullshit and as such will have no problem telling Jensen he's being an ass for letting him stand in the hallway a full two minutes.
It’s refreshing.
Metal scrapes dully against metal and then rattles against the wood door as he lets the chain drop. Predictably, Misha barely allows him time enough to step out of the way before he pushes on through. One of these days, Jensen swears he'll be too slow and end up with a black eye.
If it was anyone but Misha.
Jensen sighs and smiles in spite of himself. Manners still make the man, according to his momma, and even though Misha never requires much in the way of tending, it'd be a shame to forget them now. "Come on in. Make yourself at-" The word 'home' dies on his lips, rendered moot by the fact that Misha's already thrust the bottle of champagne into a bucket of mostly melted ice. In the space of thirty seconds he has also discarded his shoes, socks, and one of two shirts. All Jensen can actually see of Misha's face is a narrow band of forehead crowned by a riot of dark hair because Misha's in the process of stripping off the second shirt when he turns.
"Dude," is the most coherent thing Jensen can work from brain to mouth. Not that Misha's spontaneous state of undress is completely unprecedented, it's just that they usually talk about it before it happens.
Long as the day has been, Jensen's pretty sure he'd remember having that conversation.
Probably.
Watching the bunch of muscle, the smooth stretch of skin over bone as Misha twists and drops the bundle of thin cotton atop the rest of the haphazard pile, Jensen can't say he minds this surprise either. Misha's hands move, negotiating the slip of leather and metal jangle of belt buckle with practiced ease, and it's not until they go still save one thumb circling over the button beneath that Jensen realizes he's staring.
"Hey," Misha says, tone sharp and shattered, spun with steel and glass. Jensen meets Misha’s gaze, blue glint caught carefully behind lowered lashes, and gives himself a mental shake. "Get with the fucking program, Jen."
"What fucking program, Meesh?" Jensen spits back on instinct even though he's pretty sure he's more confused than annoyed. With Misha it's always hard to tell and it's never just one or the other. "Must've missed the memo."
Misha's eyes squeeze shut for a second and all the tendons in his neck flex as he finds a convenient patch of carpet to glare at. "Allow me to summarize. Strip the fuck down, right the fuck now, so I can fuck you and get back to the very important business of getting shitfaced."
Which is - okay.
Yeah.
Usually Jensen can get behind Misha's startling candor, revel in his irreverence and sarcasm. In this case, not so much. Doesn't mean he's interested in escalating the problem by getting unnecessarily pissed off though, so he snorts and says, "Let me get right on that," hoping Misha will take the hint. Instead of his boot laces, Jensen reaches for the discarded bottle of champagne.
Luck keeps him from getting a grip - not good luck, but then every once in awhile he has the other kind. No matter how charmed his life may seem to the outside observer, he's still human. Misha puts himself between Jensen and the ice bucket, the look in his eyes careening carelessly away from wild through a weird middling place Jensen can't put a finger on until it finds a Castiel place to live - the one that Misha affectionately calls, "I'm gonna smite a bitch."
Jensen finds it hard to stand his ground against that, especially when Misha shimmies right up into his personal space again and says, "A debt's a debt and my patience with this - hell, I've never had the patience for this," then grabs at Jensen's hips to pull him flush.
And yeah, maybe the mood's all about the fact that Misha gets exactly what he wants when he wants it. Jensen can't be sure though, will never be sure because the jigsaw jumble of Misha fits differently every single time they come together like this. He can only surmise, and if Misha has his heart set on being childish, that's just too fucking bad.
Jensen's already exceeded his recommended daily allowance of petulance. He steps back.
"Don't owe you anything," he hears himself say. It feels far away, because he's not that guy. Granted, he’s never been Little Suzy Sharer either, he just, y'know, cares. Obviously, someone or something's done a number on Misha. And while Jensen knows he should be trying to laugh it off, distract Misha instead of fanning the flames, he can't seem to stop himself. There's only so much a man can take. He's had a long day too and Misha has no right to put this on him.
Fuck no. There's sarcasm and there's teasing, and then there's whatever this is.
Misha crowds him anyway, brushes him back more efficiently than he's ever done on camera, smile incongruent with his words, "See, that's where you're wrong," when he says them. They thrum with a cold, calculating confidence that Jensen could never lay claim to. Jensen craves, though, like anyone does and maybe that's why he lets it happen, maybe because even with all the bullshit posturing, Misha just fucking does it for him.
His cock seems to think so.
But there's no good to be had in the sharp cut of Misha's eyes, glittering hard and remote in the overhead light. Nothing good in the twist of Jensen's gut either, feeling like he's on the cusp of a brand new kind of damage. And that's not what this is about, not what it's supposed to be about. It ticks him off even more. So when his shoulders finally hit the wall, Jensen pushes back hard enough to send Misha rocking on his heels.
"Beg to differ," Jensen says, and he does, because today may have made him a great many things, but indebted to Misha isn't one of them.
At least, he doesn't think so. Jensen filters through the handful of moments they spent together quickly as he can -a hurried breakfast, sixty seconds of so concealed by curtains and moving in opposite directions, an hour at lunch surrounded by friends and cast mates, less than thirty seconds on stage when Misha crashed his panel with Jared.
Hell, Jensen doesn't even know for sure when it became a question of owing anyone anything. As he understood it, all of this - whatever - was just for kicks, blowing off steam when they fucking felt like it. But Misha won't take no for an answer, and will remain thoroughly convinced they need to settle up until he decides otherwise. Whether Jensen actually begs or not, differing doesn't make a damn bit of difference.
He expects resistance, maybe even to catch a shove of his own, but it never comes. Misha goes hard and silent, like he's pulled a shell down around him and that's somehow worse because he doesn't stop. Misha's fingers find his collar, tugging impatiently before Jensen has a chance to even process what the movement means. Not that he doesn't want - still has a dick and all, and yeah, he always wants, can almost feel the slick slide of Misha's tongue on his skin, but it's - weird. Any other time they've done this, Jensen can't get him to shut the hell up and he hates to admit that he's kind of gotten used to the endless litany of things Misha's going to do, things Misha wants done, muttered odes to his mouth and his cock and his ass that would make Jenna Jameson blush and pull her robe closed.
At best, the silence is unnerving.
"Misha?"
No answer. Misha works furiously at the remaining buttons on Jensen's dress shirt, rough enough that the last one pops free and rolls across the gilded carpet in a lazy circle. The script's screwed all to hell and back and Jensen has no idea where they even are at this point. He reaches up, tries to wrap his fingers around Misha's wrists to anchor them down, make him answer and gets his hands smacked like an errant toddler.
"The fuck?"
It earns him a glare, Misha's brow quirked into a sharp curve, his teeth bared wide and bright and into something too feral to be called a smile. That's when Jensen begins to piece together how well and truly fucked he might be.
"Mish-"
Misha cuts him off, fists wound into the fabric of his shirt, their weight hot and heavy on his chest. "I wouldn't. You'll only make it worse," Misha says as he drags him in and shoves him over, his ankles turning at odd angles that make Jensen stumble and almost trip over his own feet.
"Wouldn't-"
"Talk."
The warning, of course, has the opposite effect. Instead of cowing him to silence, it stirs a fire in Jensen's belly that flares on the fumes of hours-old Cuervo. He's done jack and shit to deserve Misha's bitchy behavior and isn't exactly keen on being told what he should or should not do by a guy who breaks every rule that's ever been dreamed of, much less written down.
That doesn't mean he's any less inclined to fuck Misha into a right way of thinking. Hell, Jensen will take all kinds of pleasure in pulling Misha apart in spite of himself. So, because he can sometimes be patient, he waits, lets Misha push the shirt off his shoulders and go to work on his fly before he drags Misha back in by his belt loops and leans close, pulls until he feels Misha's breath on his face.
Jensen smiles into it, wets his lips with a slow swipe of tongue and says, "I do as I please. You of all people should respect that."
Again, if memory serves, the surest way to bend Misha to his will is kiss him loose and pliable and stupid.
Seven of ten experts agree.
Only, Misha's not where Jensen expects him to be - a twist, a quick rustle and Jensen's left grasping at air. Hell, by the time Jensen manages to pry his eyes open, there’s a hot palm flushed up against sternum and an even more ominous curl creeping across Misha's lips.
Fan-fucking-tastic.
"Think so?" Misha looks up at him, eyes flashing bright and furious before he continues, "Maybe you do as I please. Maybe I'm just humoring you."
The words land and Jensen feels them in his chest when it goes tight. He shoves at Misha's hips, tries to get himself some room to sift through the cyclone spinning up in his head, but Misha won't budge, even when Jensen grunts and says, "Back the hell off."
At first Misha simply stares but then there’s a blur, a scrape of nails and pressure behind his knee, insistent fingers fanned out across his chest. And in that second, he's wrenched off balance, falling back at a pace that gives him just enough time to hope they're close but not too close to the bed. He'd rather not be subject to emergency first-aid while half-naked if he can help it.
The bed creaks and Jensen narrowly misses knocking himself out on the headboard. Misha laughs - not the bright, open sound of genuine amusement but pitted and crackling with a dark promise. And even though Jensen feels his stomach clench and quail, fuck if his dick doesn't twitch too, like it's tied to the vibration of Misha's vocal chords.
Misha kneels and grabs for his ankle, pulls at his bootlaces until they loosen. "As if it were up to you," he says lightly, matter-of-factly, cupping the heel of the first boot and tugging it off.
There's a story in the set of Misha's jaw, but no context to frame it - certainly not memory even though Jensen can feel it tripping across the tip of his tongue tasting of sweat, like he's missing the point but only by inches, centimeters.
The first boot thuds against the opposite wall as it's tossed carelessly away.
The wedge of Misha's shoulder presses against the inside of his knee when he reaches to untie the other set of laces. Jensen watches him do it, watches the muscles in his jaw work in fitful little jerks, his brows knitted together, every bit of him drawn in so tight Jensen's surprised the air's not singing with it. All in all, it's pretty fucking surreal. His rational brain tells him this is absolutely the same guy that pawed lazily at him two days ago when they were newly jetlagged and aching. The same guy who breathed some undoubtedly dirty Italian across his lips and punctuated it with a grin that could blind the sun, a kiss that could debauch a nun.
Too bad logic has nothing to do with this.
Too bad he can't quite put a stop to it either.
Okay, that's not completely true. He could, of course. Thanks to the advanced street fighting training ala Winchester, Jensen can think of a thousand and one ways to effectively lay Misha out, half of them without even hurting him. But then he'd never know where the hell this came from, what it was that turned Misha into - this. If he's being honest with himself, it also means he wouldn't know how to keep it from happening again or which heads need busting, but those thoughts aren't for here and now or ever.
Also, selfishly, kicking Misha in the head seems counterproductive as Jensen plans on getting blown tonight, and seeing as Misha's already on his knees and they're both half-naked that would be an awful waste.
That still leaves him at loose ends, scrabbling for purchase in a foreign land because it's not like Misha comes with an instruction manual. Even after all the time they've spent together, Jensen can only come up with a single sure distraction - the one they're currently meandering towards.
Sex.
They're good at sex.
Jensen closes his eyes, listens to sound of Misha's breath, the tiny involuntary huffs of frustration when a section of the bootlace proves more stubborn than he wants it to be. They're too close to other noises Misha makes under completely different conditions and, yeah, fuck - sex could work in more ways than one.
His second boot thumps alongside the first, and Jensen uses it to his advantage, moving in Misha's blind spot, leaning up to get a good grip and haul Misha onto the bed with him. It might have been a move worthy of Dean Winchester's legendary skills, but Misha squirms then goes rigid and Jensen overbalances, leaving Misha spread in a sloppy heap across his chest, limbs akimbo. It's not all bad though, because his lips are right there, his tongue a flash of pink that moves across them and finally Jensen thinks he's found solid ground.
Hand settled into the curve of Misha's waist, he smiles and starts to close the distance, grateful to have been offered an opportunity that makes sense to take. If there's one thing he's learned from Misha, it's that thinking too much sometimes ruins the fun, so he hasn't thought much about the odd pattern they've fallen into over the past couple of months.
There's really no point.
This is simple. Physical, nothing more. That's why when Misha blinks and rears back, righting himself with an uneven sigh and a full-body shake, Jensen's adrift again. Instinct tells him to grab Misha and pin him down until he either talks or leaves, but given the success of his last maneuver, he's also pretty sure he doesn't have a fucking clue what's really going on here.
Still, Misha's a warm heavy weight and that doesn't suck. The sharp bones of Misha's knees press against his thighs in a stutter step as Misha shifts and slides, perches precariously on the edge of bed as he turns his attention to getting Jensen out of his jeans, Jensen's own knees the only thing that stand between Misha and a graceless sprawl on the floor.
It would be easy, too easy. And Jensen would swear Misha hears the thought because in the next breath his zipper's drawn down entirely too fast for any sane person’s comfort.
"Hey, watch the goods," Jensen says, grabbing at Misha's wrists again to keep him from doing anything rash.
Misha snorts and shifts his weight, slides away to shove his hands between skin and fabric with jerky, violent motions that Jensen might be able to appreciate more were they applied anywhere else. Not that he hates them now especially, not the way Misha's thumbs stripe hot and sure against every sensitive spot Jensen's fucking got even when he's not paying attention. But then, he's suddenly painfully aware of his dick, the ache blooming low in his belly, the hiss pushing past his lips thanks to the relative chill of the room - aware because he's breathing, painfully because Misha ignores it like he's being paid for his indifference.
Then suddenly Misha's gone, the weight, the warmth. He doesn't get far, a couple of feet maybe, his hands working quickly, efficiently to ditch the rest of his own clothes. The look he throws Jensen's way is hard and cold and so unlike Misha that it leaves him a little dumbstruck.
"Off," Misha says, kicking away the tangle of fabric now pooled around his ankles.
Jensen's pretty sure Misha's referring to his pants, but he can only blink and try to remember how to breathe. Every time they do this he has a moment where he can't quite believe it's happening, that Misha - crazy, ridiculous, impossible Misha - wants this, maybe even needs it. Jensen hums through his distraction, eyes squeezed shut to hang on to the memory because sometimes he wishes for things he shouldn't and knows better than to question.
Misha's voice snaps him back into focus. "Don't make me ask again."
As much as he feels like a bitch for giving in, it's obvious Misha's working through something, and Jensen's too fucking tired and too fucking horny to give a shit about such a small capitulation when he's fairly certain he's about to take it up the ass. The other very important thing he's learned in the past couple of months is that there's absolutely no point in being an immovable object when Misha's focused and hurtling your way. Jensen's man enough to admit he'd rather bend than break in the face of it so he levers his hips up enough to slide his jeans and boxers the rest of the way off and kick them away as well.
A quiet but oh-so-telling, "Fuck," finds its way past Misha's lips.
Jensen takes that as his cue to reach again, pull all that hot, lithe skin down against him where it will actually do some good, but Misha sidesteps and his fingers catch air.
Okay.
There's a hitch in Misha's breathing that wasn't there thirty seconds ago when he says, "Hands on the fucking headboard," and slips around the edge of the bed to stand at the foot. "You let go, I'm as good as gone."
Okay. Not his thing, usually, though he's not against it per se, just not - shit, like it matters. With his dick doing all the thinking, he's willing to do whatever it takes to get off. If that means letting Misha toss orders at him like a drill sergeant, so be it.
Jensen complies, skin dragging against the sheets until he's situated with his fingers locked firmly around the headboard and legs splayed. He feels ridiculously exposed, the ache in his belly turning over on itself and morphing into embarrassment because Misha's still just staring, working his cock with slow, even strokes like he has all the time in the world. And it's not like Jensen minds being watched. Contrary to popular opinion he's not a damn wilted daisy clinging to the walls in terror or confusion.
Shit, he knows he's hot.
That's not what this is about, though. Misha's gaze isn't heated or appraising or even fond. It's like he's doing his best to shame Jensen, humiliate him, but can't quite manage to focus in the face of all the other shit swimming around in his head.
"Mish-" Jensen starts and Misha shuts down again, reverts to his clenched jaw and pattern of swift, mechanical movements. It's fucking frustrating.
"What did we say about talking?"
"It's a-"
"Bad idea," Misha finishes for him. "There's only one thing I need to hear from you and you're nowhere near ready to say it yet."
Jensen bites his tongue to keep from making a smartass remark he'll probably regret, because that's at least more information than he's had up to this point. Misha must approve of the silence because he abandons his post at the foot of the bed, moves forward instead of away for what feels like the first time tonight. And just as Jensen thinks, finally, Misha's fingers graze the insides of his ankles with such an infuriatingly light touch that he has to grit his teeth against the words that catch in his throat.
Misha's lips follow, then his tongue, the wild ruff of his hair tickling against alternating calves. Jensen's own lips are in a permanent catch between his teeth because Jesus fucking Christ Misha's mouth is transcendent - warm and slick and skilled and Jensen can't help but remember what that tongue feels like curling over the head of his cock, snaking into his mouth with a brazen ownership no one else has ever dared. His hips buck on their own when the work-worn pads of Misha's fingertips dip into the hollow behind his knee and catch.
There's something freeing about just letting it happen - letting Misha do as he will - especially when that means Misha's teeth worrying at the tender skin of his inner thigh, Misha's shoulder warm and solid in the bend of his knee, spreading him wider. It's horrible and amazing and even though he knows logically that he wouldn't be able to breathe if his lungs actually caved in, it still feels that way, his ribs wrapping tight bands of pressure against them.
Then Misha moves again, an effortless twist of muscle and tendon, his tongue riding the groove where hip meets thigh and up, and Jensen can't help rocking into it, straining to guide Misha where he needs him with all his typical tools stripped away. He can't ask for it, can't thread his fingers into the mess of Misha's hair and hold him there.
Mercy has never been Misha's strong suit, so it stands to reason there's no chance of him starting now. It's relevant, a fact Jensen clings to when he suddenly finds his knees shoved roughly up against his chest, Misha's breath moist and impossibly warm against already overheated skin. Jensen braces, thighs twitching hard against his stomach, waiting for Misha to decide, ready to bite back the moan when he does. Five long seconds pass, and when nothing happens Jensen rolls up as best he can, looks down and finds Misha waiting too, watching Jensen react. As soon as he has Jensen's full attention, Misha strikes, his tongue firm and soft all at once, sweeping and dipping, his teeth raising a line of marks from hip to navel, drifting ever closer to Jensen’s cock but never close enough. Jensen holds on as long as he can, until he has to turn his head and sink his own teeth into his arm to keep from giving Misha the satisfaction of making noises.
It’s still not enough because he can see Misha watching out of the corner of his eye and that makes everything worse - the little cat-like licks Misha's laying down on his stomach, Misha’s fingers digging into the muscle as if he's afraid of falling if he lets go, the appreciative noises Jensen's not entirely sure Misha realizes he's making.
It's - hell, it's enough to drive a man insane.
That's the excuse he allows himself anyway when Misha's tongue drags lower, presses harder, always skirting away at the last second, and Jensen can't keep quiet or still anymore.
"Fucking fuck Misha, just-," Jensen says without thinking, not knowing how to end that particular sentence. He doesn't get a chance to try because Misha turns loose and before Jensen's heels catch comforter, Misha's just there, knees tight against Jensen's hips.
The bed dips again when Misha tips forward, his fingers curled into the covers and framing Jensen in, his lips slick and parted and so fucking close Jensen can almost taste them, wants to taste them. Nothing in the rule book says that he can't take what's offered, so Jensen shifts his hips and curls in on himself, gets his feet braced against the mattress for extra leverage.
Then Misha isn't there, and Jensen's left with nothing more than a warm draft of air carrying the scent of Misha's skin.
Fuck.
This time, it's so close that the corner of Misha's mouth catches against his jaw in an odd stuttered drag of stubble and skin. He has half a second to wonder if it's intentional because in this at least they're consistently attuned, so much so it flirts with choreography, always most comfortable in that rare space where words become extraneous window dressing between the grunts and flutters of muscle that mean so much more.
Then Misha's teeth find the curve of his collarbone and he's not thinking much at all beyond that heat, the bright flare of pain, and Misha’s tongue swiping slow after. It comes easy to tilt his head back, let it fall against the pillows to give Misha room to work because goddamn Misha's good at this. Good at taking him out of himself, good at finding and pressing the right sequence of buttons, just so damn good.
Misha also knows how to take his time. Maybe a little too well. Jensen doesn't want to give him the gasp, hell no, but when Misha licks a wet line up his throat, when his teeth sink home against his jaw, he can't help it. His dick twitches as Misha slides and gives Jensen his full weight as his hips curve under, his back bowed and just-fuck. Jensen swallows hard, shuts his eyes against the room to focus, revel in the slip of Misha hard against him, his hands braced against the headboard.
Jensen can feel the gentle ebb and flow of Misha's breath on his face again, taste the champagne. When he peels his eyes open his field of vision's filled with Misha - blue eyes bright and open like maybe, finally, they've fallen into step. But when Jensen moves to kiss him, just a subtle slant and tilt of his head so he can really taste, Misha moves with him, back and away, out of reach without blinking or breathing, holding the distance between them with some twisted purpose.
There's no way it's anything other than intentional.
And it's the last fucking straw, because as much as it would suck to have to jerk off after all the damn build-up, at this point Jensen's convinced he's not going to be getting shit anyway.
His knuckles ache when he pries his fingers loose, and he watches Misha's gaze flick quickly, furtively up and then back down to lock with his own.
"Masochistic until the end, I see," Misha says, his lips pulled into a pout, his shoulders into a shrug, but then he starts to disentangle and Jensen’s hold on rational thought slips for a handful of seconds.
He loses it in a flurry of limbs, a series of startled huffs and elbows thrust into tender places, his legs wrapped around and through Misha’s like his life depends on hanging on. The dark shock of Misha’s hair flies past and then tilts out of frame.
Things are very different when the world rights itself.
Most importantly, Misha's not gone.
If the look is anything to go by though, he's fucking furious. Probably because he's pinioned to the bed, Jensen's hands wrapped tight enough to grind all the bones in his wrists to meal. He's flushed and panting, squirming against the starched hotel sheets, his hair doing its best impression of a porcupine. He's so fucking edible and Jensen's so fucking hard that he can hardly see straight.
So he doesn't think, just ducks in and presses his mouth to the thin white line of Misha's lips quick and dirty, hoping for the best.
Misha's mouth opens under his, sure, but without an ounce of surrender. And even though Jensen may not typically be into this either, he can't stop the full-body tremor that takes him when Misha's teeth catch again and draw blood.
It shouldn't be hot. But, God it is. Jensen tongues at the split sliced in his lip, smiles around it and Misha's eyes narrow down to slits.
"That how you're gonna play it?" Jensen asks, unwraps his hands enough to rub thumbs against the pulse points in Misha's wrists, feel the skitter-stop stutter of Misha's blood pumping, heart racing in spite of his apparent detachment.
And that's enough, just enough to give Jensen purchase, a grasping handhold that keeps him from fumbling headfirst off an unforgiving cliff, because Misha wants too. He just needs to be convinced.
It's a skill no man worth a shit ever really forgets - one Jensen learned in Lisa Morgan's coat closet when he was thirteen. Earlier really - he's been coaxing spooked horses back to stable since he was old enough to catch and hold the reins.
This is no different. Misha's just green broke and needs to be reminded of his manners.
So Jensen licks his lip clean and leans in again, flushing their bodies together in all sorts of awesome ways. He's even expecting the sharp sting of teeth, tenses for the buck of Misha's hips trying to unseat him but they never come. Instead he gets the curve of Misha's jaw skating past his mouth and the slow, shaky push of Misha's breath in his ear.
Just, what the fuck?
Misha’s ineffable at the best of times, but this - this is something else.
Jensen decides to go with the sure thing, painting spit-slick patterns against the pale stretch of Misha's throat and turning Misha's wrists loose completely because he's got a thousand better uses for his hands right now.
Granted, he expects the push back too. When Misha's hands land on his shoulders and shove, Jensen moves with it just enough to put him where he really wanted to be in the first place. And he's poised, ready, lower lip tender and aching and he needs to unravel Misha, pull him into stubborn little pieces.
Misha's eyes stop him cold, even though his arms have gone slack, his palms resting rather than pushing and Jensen wants to dig that out too before it gets put away and forgotten in the slap of sweat-soaked skin. That's why he asks - against his better judgment and his nature and every fucking guy code in the lexicon. He asks.
"Hey. You good?"
Misha laughs again, and it jangles against Jensen's nerves like cheap wind chimes made of hollow old ox bones. It hurts to hear. And Christ he hates it - because he knows it too well, has done it himself a time or ten when there was nothing else left to do. It means Misha's a dozen time zones away from good and Jensen hates that it even matters.
"Fuck, Misha," Jensen says and sighs, knocks their foreheads together so he doesn't have to see all of that...whatever peering back at him through Misha's eyes. "Give me something, okay. I don't. You can't. Fuck."
"Don't mistake me for your personal Pagliacci simply because I sometimes wear greasepaint," Misha says, and it's nearly a whisper but no less venomous for it.
Too bad Jensen hasn't a clue what he's talking about. Thank fucking God, Misha doesn't make him ask.
"It's not your job to embellish me, Jensen," he continues, his fingers thrust hard into muscle like if he could just tattoo the significance under Jensen's skin, bruise it in bright blue blooms, everything would make perfect sense.
It doesn't. But Jensen can translate well enough to get the jist. Still, he can't quite man up, so he stays right where he is with Misha comfortably shrouded in a multi-colored blur he can't quite bring to focus. He stays and says, "Sorry," to the host of stubble gritting Misha's chin and feels the tension wring out of the body beneath him on a hot rush of breath Jensen wants to drink down.
Which means, of course, that he's fucked in the head because he hasn't done shit to apologize for, certainly hasn't embellished Misha and what does that even...?
Misha's hands drift and flit, finally settling across Jensen's shoulder blades, and Misha very deliberately looks away.
Epiphanies are funny things. Jensen always expects to anticipate the next one or the one after that. Even knowing they are by their very nature surprises, he can't help feeling like he should have figured it out sooner. Though doing so would negate the dots connecting in the here and now.
Answers, like car keys, are always in the last fucking place you look.
If he were into making excuses, Jensen might blame the jet lag or the Cuervo, but he's old enough to realize that excuses just get in the way most of the time. Facts are simpler and a hell of a lot more productive.
In this case, he just wasn't aware enough of Misha and his mood. Hell, he never imagined that Misha would get worked up about trivial bullshit. If he’d known it'd cause this much grief, he might have just stuck it out, let Misha plant one on him in front of a room full of screaming fangirls.
Honestly, he's gotten so used to playing against Jared, Jensen takes for granted that he's there to catch this question or that smartass remark and never stopped to think maybe Misha hadn't heard the protracted discussion about Castiel's issue with personal space. Not like it's news to anyone with eyes, but he was making a point that that seems to have pissed Misha off. It's childish, of course, and ridiculous - completely and utterly beyond comprehension. But really, Misha's mostly outside his ken and even though they're fucking like testosterone-ridden bunnies, Jensen doesn't know Misha well enough to avoid his triggers.
Of course, he also doesn't consider any of that bullshit worthy of being called an epiphany - just logic finally catching up to him in a pattern of painfully obvious signals.
The epiphany is that he wants to know, wants to make amends for slights born out of ignorance.
Jensen breathes deep into the subtle, bronzed slope of Misha's neck and begins again.
There was a time not so long ago Jensen expected Misha to taste like something untouchable - wild and sharp, maybe even fizzy - more than human. That's before this thing between them veered away from the comfortable off-handed innuendo and stumbled into the passing lane. Three unexpected hours spent grappling drunkenly in a stranger's bedroom can do that. So, he'd been surprised the first time in the small part of his brain that still let him believe in fanciful things.
He doesn't miss the fantasy though, not now, not here with Misha's skin drawn tight against his lips, stubble prickling, chest heaving evenly. The real Misha tastes of clean sweat and the soap beneath, hotel shampoo and fabric softener, solid and more familiar than Jensen cares to think about.
Fuck it. There's time enough to worry about that later when Misha's not laid out under him, warm and wanting, when he himself isn't jittery and exhausted and turned the fuck on in spite of everything. For the moment, he'll fix it the best way he knows and hope Misha lets him.
A wise man once told him that thinking's overrated anyway.
He eases back, feels the slip of Misha's fingers down his back, the flutter of muscles twitching and dancing and driving him fucking crazy, and Jensen can't do anything else.
He kisses Misha - all Rhett fucking Butler or Clark Gable or who the hell knows anymore because Misha sure as shit ain't wearing hoopskirts. That doesn't keep him from latching his hands around the back of Misha's neck, fingertips threaded through the fine hair at his nape. The act of misplaced contrition doesn't take him to knee, but Misha opens to him again anyway, willingly this time and Jensen takes it, lets Misha read whatever he needs to into the slow sweep of tongue and press of lips. Because he actually is sorry that Misha flipped out, even if there was no reason to.
Misha moans and comes suddenly alive beneath him, as if he was simply waiting for this, waiting for what he'd been denied and denying for longer than any sane person would. It's Misha though, and even at the best of times Misha only has a passing acquaintance with sanity.
These are not the best of times.
Or they are, because he's kissing Misha and he's naked and Misha's naked and the flame of Misha's irrational ire is guttering, his hands rough still but with a different purpose. When Jensen breaks away, Misha chases him.
He can't help smiling. Really he can't. So he does, drops another quick kiss laced with promises against Misha's lips, and says, "Hold that thought," then plants his hands against the bed to brace.
Whether the sins are worth the penance, he doesn't mind paying if this is the currency. Working Misha into enough of a frenzy to forget is a pleasure, one he's never had occasion to explore fully. And Misha's such a whore for it, choked gasps when Jensen's teeth find his collarbone, breath hissed through his teeth when Jensen tongues at his nipple, hips catching a languid rocking rhythm when Jensen sucks bruises into the hollow cut there by bone. Misha's hands scrabble helplessly at the tangle of sheets for a second before they land, one in Jensen's hair, the other around his cock.
Jensen catches the motion, just a flash at first as Misha's fingers cinch tight and stroke down, the angle sure and grip perfect and Jensen's dick twitches without being touched because if he didn't do another thing, he's pretty sure Misha would take care of it himself unabashedly. It's too much though, not enough, and Jensen swings his gaze up the long line of Misha's torso to find him watching intently, lids lowered and lips parted and fuck it's not fair.
The knobs of Misha's knuckles taste of salt and skin, Misha's pace slowing to something more deliberate when Jensen's tongue finds them. He watches Misha watch him, the slick head of Misha's cock glancing in and out of his periphery in a blur as he follows the pattern. In his hair, Misha's fingers curl and unfurl without anything to catch on and that's a signal that requires no translation. Neither does the grunt that emanates from somewhere deep in Misha's chest when Jensen laps away the pre-come beading and finally closes his mouth around all that hard heat.
Misha bucks hard, not bothering with the niceties of trying to hold himself still and Jensen has to back off or risk choking. He slaps his forearm across the narrow span of Misha's hips to keep them both from the unpleasantness associated with gag reflexes and the tripping thereof. In the time it takes for skin to strike skin Misha gasps, the hand caught in his hair ratcheting down, the sting on his scalp pulling Jensen in and holding him fast.
And Misha's other fingers are right there, firm hold and sure strokes that bump up against Jensen's lips and Jensen wants to savor them too, wants to tease a little longer because it's not like Misha deserves any less with the shit he's pulled tonight. He feels Misha's thighs tense when he pulls off, smiles again as Misha twists against his hold and makes one of those unconscious exasperated noises Jensen could spend all day lost in.
Misha pushes his name out onto the air, the word caught between a whine and a growl Jensen probably enjoys a little too much. He flicks his gaze up to meet Misha's briefly before catching Misha's wrist to tug his hand away from his cock. It's a testament to how far gone Misha already is that he doesn't fight it. He squirms again - uselessly, fitfully - moaning long and low when Jensen sucks three fingers down to the last joint and curls his tongue between them.
It's hot as fucking hell and Jensen's torn between giving up the ghost and humping the bed like a horny preteen or trusting his balance enough to put his mostly idle hand to better use. Misha's back bows artfully when he nips at the pad of his middle finger and that's enough to make his mind up for him. He licks a whorl into Misha's palm, feels the shudder work up Misha's arm and settle in the clench of his stomach with involuntary little twitches that Jensen wants to feel under his lips too. It's bordering on sensory overload when he shoves Misha's hand back where it needs to be, curls his fingers atop Misha's for the first slow strokes that set a rhythm.
Then Jensen really does find a better use for his hand, his dick bobbing against his palm and fuck if he isn't going to end up jacking off after all. He starts to laugh at the ridiculous irony of it but finds he doesn't have the air for it and ends up huffing breath instead. For a second he lets himself have it, squeezes his eyes shut and inhales, thumbs at the head of his cock and almost pitches forward it feels so good. Misha always does this to him, the shameless sprawl and hunger, the million and one mysteries spun and shimmering behind his eyes falling away until the want is all there is.
And it's like Misha hears him again because there are blunt nails cut against Jensen's scalp in a flash, the last of Misha's patience finally slipping in the urgent press against his crown.
Jensen's more than happy to oblige.
Mostly.
Misha's watching again, eyes glittering behind a dark fan of lashes, so Jensen smirks and strokes himself into a gasp, feels Misha shudder around him, Misha's eyes on him, Misha's hand working faster.
Fuck.
Even with all the weight shifted against him, Misha somehow manages to buck up at the slick slide of Jensen's lips around him, knees knocking elbows as he braces against the bed, heels digging in for extra leverage. Jensen has to work hard at not over-balancing in the aftermath, hard enough his mouth slips lower, down over the firm curl of Misha's fingers still wrapped up tight, and Misha groans like he's rattling apart at the seams.
Any other day, when he hasn't been subjected to the burden of transcontinental travel and jet lag and Misha's earlier weirdness, Jensen could have come just from that. He won't, no matter how much he wants to. It puts too much into the space between them, says too much of what he's not willing to voice. Even with the exhaustion threatening to pull him under, Jensen has to clamp his hand tight and breathe through a surge of want that skitters, electric, just beneath his skin.
It's fucking ridiculous how effortlessly and unintentionally Misha reduces him to this wanton crouching thing grabbing at his cock to keep from tripping over the edge accidentally. It pisses Jensen off enough that he hollows his cheeks on the upstroke, feels the tremble in Misha's hand, in the lean muscles of Misha's thighs, Misha's fingers like needles against the back of his neck keeping him there and working.
Too bad it's nigh on impossible to smile with a dick in your mouth because Jensen really wants to. Instead he tongues slowly at the sensitive bundle of nerves clustered just beneath the head of Misha's cock and watches him writhe, feels Misha's thumb scrape against the inside of his cheek and has to close his eyes at the garbled mess of throaty nonsense spilling out of Misha.
"Christ-so. So. So fucking pretty with your mouth on me. Ngh-don't. Don't move. Right. Fuck, Jensen. Right there. Right. Fuck. Fu-"
Misha never warns him when he finally hits the edge, which is plenty fine with Jensen because he likes to ride it out, likes to savor the fruits of his labors, likes to wear the bruise where Misha's fist rode up against his lips like a badge of fucking honor because he did that.
And he did it to Misha.
So he doesn't mind the sudden salty splash or the way Misha's heels dig into his lower back like he's kicking a stubborn stallion to trot, barely notices the gentle drift of several loose hairs against his bare shoulders with Misha locked down and coming undone.
Because like this he can see - the arch of Misha's neck, the erratic flutter of lashes, the dancing muscle in his jaw as he grunts again and goes boneless, the burden of his sigh easing him back down until his legs land hard, bouncing against the bed.
Jensen sucks hard one last time before he rocks back and pulls away, just to watch Misha jerk and scramble for purchase. It's gratifying when he does and Jensen can rest assured that sometimes he still gets his way.
Except, of course, for the part where he's still hard and aching and needs to come yesterday and Misha doesn't appear to be in any hurry to help out. But that's beside the point. Only not, because Jesus.
Misha's head thumps against the headboard hard, but he's so blissed out he doesn't react beyond the rush of breath from his lungs and the soft, "Fuck me," that escapes with it.
All the crazy tension bubbles up in Jensen's gut and he presses his forehead against the sweat-slicked skin of Misha's stomach. The soft, wet line of Misha’s spent cock nudged against his throat makes him laugh. It feels good and he can't help it, even with the weight between his legs slowly eating away at his sanity. But if he doesn't chill the fuck out he's going to pop like a cork as soon as Misha touches him.
So he breathes, presses his lips to Misha's navel for a split second and says, "That an invitation? 'Cause if it is, I need a minute to-" Jensen lets the sentence trail off and hopes that Misha's current state of euphoria lets it pass unnoticed.
He'd really prefer not to have to explain himself, because the why is not something he cares to own up to.
Jensen levers up onto his knees just in case Misha tries to make him. He doesn't. Thankfully. Too far gone to care, Jensen figures, his lids lowered and mouth turned up at the corners, looking exactly like one of those sated, sun-warmed jungle cats.
A chuckle rumbles in Misha's chest and he stretches in a spread of long, lithe limbs that turns the volume up on Jensen's need. Given the state Misha was in when he showed up, Jensen's pretty fucking pleased with himself and the results.
Granted, the dick in his hand keeps him from being completely pleased.
He tries to hold his voice steady when he says, "Misha," and gives himself a mental high-five when he manages. Mostly.
Misha's eyes snap open, the tension reeling back into his muscles slowly, and Jensen can see it as he pulls himself together. With any luck, it'll be that other Misha - the one of lazy, coffee-laced kisses with his hand wrapped around both their cocks - that shows up when everything finally congeals.
A host of emotions move like wildfire through Misha's eyes, too fast for Jensen to pin them down and if things were different he'd try to catch them, hunt them until they made sense but fuck. He wants, needs, is way past fucking ready to come and then pass out between the tiny clean scraps of sheet.
It's not the other Misha that greets him though, it's something new and intense and focused and Jensen looks away because he can't, but Misha reaches down to hook his hands behind his knees and draw them up. Misha stares right through him and says it again, "Fuck me." It's a plea and a demand and Jensen wonders how the hell he got here.
But then he remembers where it is he got to, who it is offering themselves to him and stops caring about how. He squeezes his eyes shut to shake the cobwebs clear and when he opens them there's a tube of lube and a condom perched on Misha's stomach.
It's a stupid, simple thing, but Jensen's chest goes tight because it slams the thread of thought that's been winding around him all night into impossible focus.
Because yeah. Against all common sense, including the sense of self-preservation, Jensen wants to keep him.
For fucks sake.
"You my fairy godmother now?" he says, hoping it comes out right, better than it sounds in his head.
"Why Jensen, you've got a hard-on for Tinkerbell too? Kinky." Misha smirks down at him and rolls his hips. The tube slides lower with the motion. "I'm sure there are dozens of minions two floors down that would be thrilled to donate their wings in the interest of fulfilling your every wicked fancy."
"Fuck you," Jensen says, but he doesn't really mean it. The moment's passed and he sees his hand reach for the lube before his brain registers that he's doing it.
Misha snorts, then turns suddenly, strangely serious. "Jensen, I-"
And Jensen wants to know but doesn't and he's too drained to have this conversation tonight. Seriously. He needs to get off and then die. Right the fuck now.
The thought stirs him to action, foil between his teeth and the cap off the lube arcing through the air to land somewhere in the neighborhood of his open suitcase. To be fair, Jensen doesn't pay much attention once it's not in his way, more concerned with smoothing the condom down and the sweet pressure of his own hand, the stupid thrust of Misha's chin as he squirms and pulls his knees tighter against his chest. If he had the patience, he'd take the time to work Misha back up, but his endurance has stretched beyond breaking and as it stands all the consideration Jensen can offer is that he's going to try like hell not to go too hard, too fast, too soon.
Not that he really needs to worry about it. Misha's still a loose collection of muscle and sinew on the heels of his orgasm, so much so that when Jensen slicks his fingers to press in he only meets token resistance, Misha pushing back like he wants the burn and Jesus, yeah, that works. It wipes away the guilt of the cursory prep, and even lost as he is Jensen can't help but rub his thumb against the sensitive skin stretched tight around his fingers just to feel it quiver and constrict and he's through caring whether it hurts a little because he can't wait anymore.
Can't.
The noise Misha makes as he slides his hand free takes the edge off his control, but Misha curls complacently when Jensen shoves hard against his hips, pulls Jensen in with heel and calf when he lines up, still greedy and urging and wanting to be in control even now. Someone probably should be, because Jensen just - isn't.
He wants too much, Misha opening to him at the first push, a soft sigh as the muscle gives and Jensen bites his lip as a distraction so he doesn't bury himself in one long thrust. His hands shake with it and he knows Misha must feel it, sense his rapid unraveling at the very least because he sees too much even without the tells.
Jensen waits for the twisted smile, the mocking tone, the smartass barb - but they never come.
Instead, Misha shifts beneath him, an awkward, impossible move that rolls him up even further, leg draped across Jensen's shoulder. And Jensen goes willingly when Misha curves a palm across the back of his neck to pull him in, lips swollen, kisses desperate, the angle all wrong because he can't get as deep as he wants. All for the taste of Misha, the chance to swallow his soft grunts, lap at his gasps like candy. All for the chance to see exactly what each shallow thrust does, to watch Misha's pupils dilate and eyes go wide when Jensen hits that spot and, shit, he's not going to last, can already feel the bowstring drawing taut and ready.
Then Misha looks at him, stripped back and naked, something jagged and pained behind his eyes for a flash before he says, "Please," and Jensen falls - a trip and stumble over the edge that surprises him the way Misha always does, every nerve-ending sparking and singing and his breath just gone, lungs empty and aching as he comes harder than he has in years.
He's dimly aware of Misha clinging to him, around him, the scent of Misha high and tight in his nostrils as his brain blanks out. He's more aware of the fact he never wants to move. Ever again. Because Misha's hard in the right places and soft in the right places and Jensen's so fucking tired he can't see straight. Misha doesn't make him, which is new. But when his breath finally slows to something approaching normal, Jensen starts to feel the ache in his stomach, the sticky chill coating his cock and yeah, it's not comfortable anymore so he rolls away, strips and ties the condom off before tossing it in the general direction of the wastebasket.
Under normal circumstances, this would be where one of them gets dressed and leaves.
Under normal circumstances, it would be Misha.
Misha's not moving.
Jensen could care less whether or not Misha stays. And hell, that's not even the truth. He cares maybe a little too much, but he doesn't know what he wants save one very important thing - one he'd probably never admit to if he wasn't officially dying.
Still, the ceiling is pretty damn fascinating if it keeps him from having to look at Misha.
"Not that I don't appreciate the impromptu booty call, because I do. A lot. Just, um, talk to me next time, okay? Like if I pissed you off somehow. Chances are I didn't mean to."
Misha breathes deep and doesn't move, doesn't turn towards him or away and Jensen wonders if the fog of sleep slipping silently around him has made him too honest. They're still fucking adults. Adults talk shit out. Or so he's heard.
He tries again, "I didn't mean -" is all he gets out before words fail him and he resorts to repeating himself. "Seriously. Talk to me, okay?"
Jensen isn't sure what to expect when Misha finally deigns to acknowledge his existence again, but Misha just sighs theatrically and rolls his eyes. "Jesus Jensen, yes. Okay. I will inform you promptly of any mild or wild variation of my mood that can be attributed directly or indirectly to your actions. Please establish a 1-800 number in the morning." The words are carefully careless and Misha's a good actor, but Jensen hears the undercurrents even if Misha won't acknowledge them.
"Awesome. I'll set up something with my service."
"Poor Mandy."
"Yeah. Poor Mandy having to talk to your sorry ass a dozen times a day." Jensen smiles around a yawn that makes his jaw pop and tugs the comforter up. Really, he should go shower because it's going to be even more disgusting in the morning, but he's only thirty percent sure he'd keep his feet. His eyes are closed and he can't remember when it happened.
Long. Ass. Day.
"Jensen, I-" Misha trails off again. Jensen doesn't push. The bed springs shift and shimmy beside him and there's a gentle tug on the section of sheet crumpled in the small of his back. Jensen shifts without having to be asked and scratches to cover it up. When he lies flat again, the knot of fabric is suspiciously absent.
"Just don't hog the blankets," he says, and if Misha answers, Jensen's none the wiser. He's already gone, lost to sleep and adrift on the tide of dreams.
Five minutes may be all he ever gets, but sometimes it's enough.