Fic: Left Foot Green (Jensen/Misha, NC-17)
Author: obstinatrix
Written for: thehighwaywoman for spn_j2_xmas
Title: Left Foot Green
Pairing: Jensen/Misha (...Jared/JDM, sort of? How'd that get in there?)
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 10,708
Summary: thehighwaywoman's prompts were deliciously varied. In the end, I sort of smushed together a request for Jensen/Misha over the holidays, and one for Misha and both Js 'doing whatever their hearts desired'. Apparently, what their hearts desired was a psuedo-Christmas party with drunken Twister, devious Misha, and a grumpy Jensen who's rather less grumpy by the end of the night.
Disclaimer: I wish fervently that this was true, but unfortunately, it's just a product of my fevered imagination.
Warnings: These are all 'sort of' warnings, which means they're only here to be on the safe side. VERY SLIGHT D/s (maybe). Public sex (but not really). And, uh, object insertion.
Final Thing: Thanks to starcrossedgirl, as ever, for making me keep going with this and generally being awesome and encouraging and helpful.
The bitch of it is, Jensen thinks, twitching his nose as if that could even begin to stop it itching, that this shit is never his idea. Never. If it isn’t Jared putting his enormous paws all over Jensen while fifty million camera bulbs flash in manic glee, it’s Misha, playing the audience, setting all phasers to ‘havoc’. Jensen wouldn’t mind, but their audience is more than a little unbalanced, when it wants to be; and it’s somehow never either of them who ends up on the ass-end of the joke; oh, no. It just wouldn’t be right, Jensen thinks, huffing grumpily through his teeth, if the evening didn’t end with him in some kind of unfortunate position, either metaphorical or physical.
Tonight, it seems, that position is this: chest upward, both hands and feet on the floor, and an almighty ache beginning to spread all up the muscle of his right side. Misha’s crotch is about two inches from his nose. Jensen’s pretty sure he put his foot on that particular blue square on purpose.
“Left foot red,” says Jeff, somewhere out of Jensen’s eyeline. Jared grins a satisfied little grin that Jensen can hear, even if he can’t see Jared’s face, and moves his foot a couple of inches to the right of its original position. Jensen can’t bite back his grunt of aggrieved disbelief.
“You sound displeased,” says Misha, in his Castiel voice. Jensen’s arms are beginning to burn. He contemplates stretching up to snap at Misha’s crotch, show him fucking displeased, but it would only make all his aches worse, and Misha would probably like it anyway, perverted little fucker that he is. He contents himself with rolling his eyes extravagantly. His eyelashes brush against denim when he moves. It’s more than a little disconcerting. Displeased, holy Jesus.
“You try holding this position for fifteen minutes,” he offers. “See whether you’re not displeased, when everyone else just keeps getting to move their fucking feet a little bit every time it’s their turn. I swear to God, I’m starting to think this shit is rigged.”
“I can promise you,” Jeff says, dubiously, “I’m telling you what the board tells me, nothing more or less. But, you know, this is why I opted out.”
“And deprived us all,” Jared puts in, making grabby hands. Jared is grabby at the best of times, but after three beers and an unspecifiable quantity of eggnog, he becomes this octopus thing, long vowels and long arms and long embraces. Jeff doesn’t seem to mind too much; stands up and approaches the mat, lets himself be snuggled overenthusiastically, Jared’s face in the crook of his neck.
“Jensen,” Misha says, “Why was this great romance kept from me?”
“I’m blocking it out,” Jensen tells him, curtly, and rolls his shoulders. It would be easier, maybe, to kind of lift his arms and stretch them up and back over his shoulders, the way gymnasts do it, but that would really put him in a humiliating position. Better to hold himself up on shivering forearms, elbows threatening to lock at any minute. At least it doesn’t make him look like a thirteen year old Russian girl at her first Olympics.
“He’s jealous,” Jared corrects, his tone conspiratorial and low. He pushes his fingers into the thick of Jeff’s hair, and leers.
“For crying out loud,” says Jensen, rolling his eyes.
“Okay,” Jeff puts in, laughing, “All right. That’s enough. Jared.”
Jared huffs dramatically and pulls the puppy face, but Jeff is firm. Jensen’s always liked that about him.
“I have to get back,” Jeff says, “so I’m afraid you’ll have to either stop, or man the twirly-thing yourselves.” He looks at his watch, absent-mindedly steering Jared back into a freestanding position with his other hand braced against Jared’s collarbone.
“The twirly thing,” Misha says solemnly, “is the technical term. Really.”
Upside down, his eyes look even more freakishly huge than usual. He looks, Jensen thinks, like one of those Japanese comic book people, except without the schoolgirl outfit.
“Really,” says Jensen, his voice unrelentingly sceptical. “Christ, my arms ache. Lemme up so I can get a beer.” He nudges the inside of Misha’s thigh with his nose.
He’s not sure whether he thinks Misha might give up gracefully or not - although his money’s on not - but he would have liked to be allowed to be disappointed. Instead, what happens is that Misha’s barely had time to breathe before Jared’s enormous palm shoots out in protest, flattening against Jensen’s sternum.
“Dude,” says Jared, voice sharp with the outrage of the drunk. “No, you can’t just get up. Everybody knows this game ends when everyone’s fallen down, and not before.”
He’s gone pop-eyed with insistence. Jensen looks up at Misha, and sighs. There’s never any reasoning with Jared, once his face has gotten its bitch on like that. Jensen briefly contemplates just sitting the fuck down, then; getting out of it that way, but he somehow suspects that this would be the best way to end up the unwilling base of a three-man pyramid. He juts his jaw.
“I want,” he grits, irritably, “a fucking beer. I’ll come right back to this after, okay? Promise. And Misha can man the twirly thing with his foot, or something.”
“I do have shockingly dexterous toes,” Misha puts in, contemplatively.
As far as Jensen’s concerned, he’s being way more freaking magnanimous than they deserve; but Jared seems to think otherwise. “You don’t get to take breaks in Twister, man,” he protests.
Jeff cocks his head and does that little Dadly frown that makes Jensen immediately start feeling guilty about things he hasn’t even done yet/only did on TV/last did on an abandoned football field in 1993. “Jare,” he says, reasonably, “it’s only a game, y’know.”
“I will get him a beer!” Jared announces, flailing his arms at Jeff and donning that earnest expression that’s caused so much trouble for them all in the past. “Look, I will get him a beer. Just -”
He leans across the mat, feet still planted firmly on their designated squares of colour, one hand on Misha’s shoulder for support as he gropes for the bottles on the coffee table.
“You’ll never make that,” Jensen says, sceptically.
The nearest unopened bottle is half an inch from Jared’s fingertips. Jared lifts all but the tips of his toes off the furthest square, thrusting his weight more heavily onto Misha, and Misha all but buckles under the onslaught.
“Jesus Christ,” he says, belligerently. Just that, like it conveys everything he wants it to all on its own: Jesus Christ.
Misha is weird.
Jared twists his face apologetically, but the next second, he’s crying out in triumph as his fingers close around the bottleneck. “Beer! I have beer.” He leans up, brandishing the bottle like a prize. “I have beer!”
Misha snatches it from him, all discontent gone. That’s never a good sign.
“Awesome,” he says, glancing down at Jensen with a quirk of a grin that Jensen does not trust at all. “Hey, Jeff - pass me the bottle opener, wouldja?”
The look on Jared’s face, as Jeff languidly steps around the mat to transport the bottle opener from the table to Misha’s outstretched hand, is priceless. Jensen would laugh if he wasn’t so afraid - or, you know, more like convinced - that this would land him on his ass with an outraged Jared on his chest, under the impression that he’s feinting just to be devious. As it is, he just bites his lip on his grin and pretends to have been studying Misha’s (obviously fascinating) inseam the whole time.
“I really am gonna have to get back,” Jeff interjects, jabbing his thumb in the direction of the door. “Just in case anyone wants to, you know, say goodbye to me or anything.” He shrugs expansively. “Anything at all.”
Jeff’s on a flying visit, passing through on his way to shoot something undoubtedly bigger and more important than Supernatural. Jensen organised the impromptu gathering apropos of his phone call that morning, making time to see him. Misha organised the Twister, and Jensen is not gonna be blamed for that.
“Just a second, Jeff,” Jared protests, thrusting out one hand backward as if to keep him from moving. Jensen wonders idly whether he thinks he has some of Sam’s mojo going on, when he’s drunk. He wouldn’t put it past him. Either way, Jeff smiles long-sufferingly, crosses his arms, and waits. Jared flashes him a grin, and then looks at Misha. “You got that open?”
“Just,” Misha says brightly. Looking up, Jensen realises that, indeed, the cap of the bottle is gone, and Misha’s hand is descending towards Jensen’s face. He blinks violently and turns his head in surprise.
“Dude!”
“Open up, Jensen,” Misha commands, in that same chirpy tone, completely undeterred by the epic level of dissent Jensen’s trying to project. He cups his hand around Jensen’s chin and turns it upwards, holding him in place. Jensen jerks his head again, but Misha is, apparently, stronger than he looks, and his grip holds.
“Jensen,” Jared says, like he thinks he’s being eminently reasonable. “Thought you said you wanted a beer?”
Jensen closes his eyes for a minute. Just - a minute. He never thought people actually did that in real life - actually felt the need to block out the world when the embarrassment and incredulity got too much - but then Misha showed up, and he and Jared managed to combine to become the most fucking unbelievable trainwreck ever to happen to Jensen’s public image. Possibly the most fucking unbelievable trainwreck that could ever have happened, even in the realms of fantasy and nightmare. The worst part of it is that Jensen finds himself just going along with it.
Fuck them and their audience-pleasing faces.
“I didn’t mean -” Jensen starts, when he feels like he can talk. Starts, because there’s most of a bottleneck in his mouth before he can continue, Misha’s other hand threading into his hair, gentle and encouraging as his smile. Jensen sputters, for form’s sake, because everyone’s expecting it. The bottle’s pretty much at the right angle, though, not glugging liquid down Jensen’s throat, but just kind of letting it pool gently on his tongue, and given the state of Jared right now, Jensen’s pretty fucking impressed by this. Because it seems like basically his only choice, he swallows; looks up and meets Misha’s eyes, eyebrows raised as if seeking approval. Okay? he tries to say, with the muscles of his face. You got me. I’m doin’ it. Now let me go.
Unfortunately, it seems like Jensen’s going to need a few more lessons in facial semaphore, because Misha doesn’t exactly get the message he’s supposed to. Then again, maybe he does, and he’s choosing to ignore it. With Misha, that’s pretty likely, too. At any rate, Misha’s smile widens when he sees Jensen swallow, sees the shift of muscle in his throat as the first mouthful of beer glides down. The hand on Jensen’s chin moves, thumb stroking gently, tracing the underside of Jensen’s lower lip where the rim of the bottle stretches it a little downwards.
“Good boy,” Misha coaxes. “That’s better, isn’t it?” His eyes are wide and dark, the blue gone inky the way it does when he’s all intense. The beer is good, Jensen reasons, rich and cold as it collects on the flat of his tongue, and pleasing Misha like this is kind of nice, too. He doesn’t mean anything by what he does, after all. Jensen supposes he can indulge him a little while longer.
Jeff, though, doesn’t have any little whiles left. “O-kay,” he calls, from the other side of the mat, and Jensen starts at the sound, like for a moment he’d forgotten Jeff was there. Which is stupid, of course, because - well, because it is. It’s not like he was caught up in Misha’s ridiculously appealing kitten eyes, or anything. That’s just dumb. But, even so.
“Not for nothing, boys,” he goes on, “but I think I got enough to take to the police.”
“N’aw, he likes it,” Misha reassures, lifting his eyes to flash a grin at Jeff.
“It’s his favourite beer,” Jared adds, nodding very earnestly.
Jeff sighs. “Jensen?”
Misha gives him a look, unreadable, and thumbs the bottleneck out of his mouth. Jared doesn’t react; just lets it rest there, sweating cold against the side of Jensen’s face. Jensen takes the hint, swallows, and says, “‘m okay. It’s fine, dude. You go on. Thanks for coming! It was great to see you, man.”
Misha nods when Jensen’s finished, like he’s said all the right things, and pushes the bottleneck back into his mouth. Jensen can practically hear Jeff rolling his eyes; definitely hears his tread as he approaches.
“Fine. Just don’t come crying to me when they drunkenly violate you with a glass bottle, you got it?”
He leans down, solid and warm and smelling reassuringly of Old Spice, to hug Jensen goodbye. Normally, they keep it to a fairly respectable cuffing gesture, sometimes with a manly back-pat for good measure; but Jensen’s almost horizontal, and has no viable limbs, and this makes masculine posturing difficult to achieve. He mostly ends up kind of smooshed into the curve of Jeff’s neck, and possibly gets kissed on the temple, although he’s not sure about that. Jared’s letting the beer flow again, tipping the bottle up a little so Jensen can swallow it down in overly-dainty sips, so that’s kind of taking up most of his attention. He really had needed a fucking beer.
“Is it really violation,” Misha asks, the pitch of his voice suggesting that he’s really thinking hard about this, “if you have permission?”
“It’s just beer,” Jared dismisses, like he’s absolutely and completely missed Misha’s point. Really, Jensen kind of hopes he has. There are some things about Misha that Jared really doesn’t need to be exposed to. Things that Jensen wishes he’d never been forcibly subjected to himself. Like, oh, the time he walked out onto the soundstage after hours, and found Misha with most of his tongue down the throat of some guy from the lighting department.
Jensen was fucking traumatised for weeks.
He isn’t sure Jeff’s missed Misha’s point, not given the look he flashes in Misha’s direction. Still, he moves on - probably deciding that it isn’t his business until someone dies, or gets his penis bitten off, or something - and pulls Jared into his arms.
“Don’t be a stranger, y’hear me?” Jared commands, face all crushed up against the top of Jeff’s head. His one hand is still holding Jensen’s beer, but the other has tangled itself into Jeff’s hair, like Jared thinks it desperately needs to be there. Jeff laughs, and when Jared presses their foreheads together, he goes with it. It’s usually the easiest thing, with Jared.
“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” he warns.
“Nuh-uh,” Jared says, his voice gone all lazy and Texan. Jeff goes to pull away, Jared pulls his hair and kisses him hard on the mouth, and this is all a dance Jensen’s seen far too many times before.
Jesus Christ.
(Jensen’s willing to concede that, maybe, Misha has it right. For now, there’s really nothing else that needs to be said.)
“Looks like you’re the one being violated,” Misha observes mildly, as Jeff disentangles himself.
“Yeah, well.” Jeff ruffles Jared’s hair, pulling it rough and messy over his forehead. “I’m used to it.” He sets his hand on the doorhandle.
“So’s Jensen,” Misha replies, brightly. “So I guess we’re okay.”
There’s a sense of foreboding growing in the pit of Jensen’s stomach, only exacerbated when the door finally slams home behind Jeff. The following five seconds of silence feel like the longest of Jensen’s life. Hell, it probably is about the longest time he’s ever spent in silence with Misha and Jared. He goes on swallowing obediently, but the uncertain feeling is prickling up his spine like a rash.
He’s not the only one who seems to think the room feels strange like this, though, too full of the sound of their breathing. Eventually, Jared says, “Gotcha,” too loud and too late, and then busts out the manic laughter.
“Dude,” says Misha, blinking over Jensen’s head. “You sound like Norman Bates.”
Jared pauses mid-inhale, staggering to a halt. “Did Norman Bates actually laugh, ever?” He reaches up to scratch his nose idly, the way he always does when he’s trying to think, as if it stimulates the brainwaves in some way. The other hand, no longer the focus of Jared’s attention, slumps a little, sending a rivulet of beer coursing down Jensen’s cheek from the corner of his mouth. It’s only a very little dribble, but the way Jared is going, his next great period of concentration will result in the rest of the beer sloshing down the front of Jensen’s shirt, and that - that would really be the last thing Jensen wants. Accordingly, he makes a little sound of protest, and clinks his teeth against the bottleneck.
Jared, struggling for mastery of his memory, barely even blinks, but Misha is obviously paying closer attention. “Hey,” he chides, straightening Jared’s wrist, “you’re wasting it. Can’t have that, can we, Jen?”
He’s leaned down slightly, face upside-down over Jensen’s, white teeth looking strangely whiter from this angle. Jensen gives him a smile, because hey, he doesn’t want this beer wasted. It’s good beer. Misha clearly knows which way is up.
And then Misha’s reaching out, finger curling to catch the trail of beer where it’s just about to drip over the line of Jensen’s jaw, and Jensen’s uncertainty is suddenly back with a vengeance. He stiffens under the touch, eyebrows projecting what he hopes is a clear what the fuck? But apparently, Misha is uninterested in the language of Jensen’s eyebrows, on this, as on every other, occasion. The thin trail of liquid cradled in the crook of his finger; the finger knuckling at the corner of Jensen’s mouth - these are not reassuring things.
“Open up,” croons Misha, in a tone about as reassuring as a nuclear explosion on the rise; and that’s all the warning Jensen gets before the finger is pushing into his mouth alongside the neck of the bottle, rubbing the soft inside of Jensen’s cheek. Those fucking blue eyes are heated and close, dark-washed focus on Jensen’s own. The symbolism isn’t exactly lost on him.
The real question here is why it isn’t exactly repulsing him, either.
“My God,” says Misha, like he’s discovered something momentous, “You like this stuff, don’t you? You want all of it? Gonna keep on swallowing?”
He’s rolling the words all slow around the front of his mouth, his voice a languid drawl that could be affected mockery, or just the effect of drunk Texas boys and osmosis. He sounds fucking ridiculous, low and obvious; and it’s not Jensen’s fault that his body didn’t get that memo; that the base of his spine resonates to Misha’s voice.
“Dude,” Jared laughs, oblivious, “you sound like porn.”
Jensen fervently hopes that his blush isn’t burning as bright as it feels like it is.
Misha only smirks and withdraws his finger, dragging it slow and gentle over Jensen’s lower lip. It’s slick, of course, the light catching the sheen of beer and spit. Misha shrugs and sticks it unceremoniously into his own mouth; pulls it out neat and only slightly damp, Jensen’s messy wetness sucked away and swallowed down.
It is absolutely no fault of Jensen’s that he has to close his eyes.
Somewhere in the background, the iPod dock has wandered off of its standard playlist fare, and is now belting out something that sounds like an Irish ballad on steroids, all misery and electric fiddles. This is not Jensen’s fault, either - and he strongly doubts that it’s Jared’s - but with his eyes closed, the sound of it is more immediate, more real. He thrusts himself mindlessly into it, makes himself really listen hard enough to make out the words, hard enough to forget about the closeness of Misha and the solidity of the bottleneck between his lips. It’s almost working - almost - when he feels Misha’s fingers creep back up into his hair; hears Misha’s voice by his ear - “Too much for you?”
His cock leaps, and he thinks: fuck Twister. He jerks his head back, mindless of Misha behind him and the beer leaking down the side of his neck. “Fuck you,” he spits, and lets his shaking arms finally give way. “Enough of this. I fold.”
“Literally, I see,” Misha says, smiling. Jared is still blinking at nothing while the beer dribbles thinly to the mat a little to the left of Jensen’s head, but Misha - the bastard - looks knowing, collected. Smug.
“My arms hurt,” Jensen protests, defensively. One knee is drawn up just a little, shadowing the shallow rise in his pants; and while he’s sure it’s enough to fool Jared, he isn’t half so certain about Misha. The knowledge makes him uncomfortable; makes him feel vulnerable, here on the floor between Misha’s feet. He reaches out for Jared with his socked foot; pokes him in the shin.
Jared looks down at him slowly, with a look on his face that says he’s surprised to see Jensen all the way down there. “You quit,” he observes, after a long minute.
“We’re lying down now,” Jensen tells him, shooting a glance at Misha. Daring him to protest, the fucker.
Misha only raises an eyebrow, and sits. “You heard the man.”
Jared collapses all in one motion, crumpling to the floor like clothes falling from a peg. Jensen isn’t even sure, for a second, that he meant to move at all, until he lands, somehow, cross-legged, clasping his hands around his bare toes and grinning vaguely. “Suits me. I was gettin’ tired of standin’ up, anyways.”
Jensen closes his eyes again, smiling. Jared always gets like this, slipsliding back to the Lone Star State the moment he starts gitin’ tired. For a minute, he lets himself drift, remembering long nights in high school and the sound of the cicadas. His head is light with alcohol, and the music isn’t half so bad once you get yourself a little used to it.
When he opens his eyes again, Jared isn’t sitting up any more. He’s mostly flat on his back, although his overlong legs are still weirdly entangled, and he’s got an arm thrown up over his face in a way that might look strange if Jensen hadn’t seen it a thousand times before. You don’t get through several seasons of sixteen hour days without becoming intimately acquainted with what your costar looks like when he’s sleeping, and Jared? Jared looks like this.
“I think he’s out for the count.”
He’s not expecting Misha’s voice when it comes, a hair’s breadth from Jensen’s ear and sweet with the whiskey they knocked back earlier, two fingers each on the rocks. He’s so close that Jensen feels the vibration skirting the helix of his ear, tickling the nautilus, prickling down the tendon in his neck. He turns his face just slightly; finds Misha stretched out lazily on his front, one elbow drawn up under him, chin in the palm of his hand. His eyes bear down calmly into Jensen’s. He’s altogether, entirely too close.
“Personal space, man,” Jensen says, trying for jocular and getting something just this side of panicked. “I shouldn’t gotta tell you these things. You’re not Cas.”
Misha smiles a little more broadly, spit shine in the corners of his mouth, glinting on the whiteness of his teeth. “That I’m not,” he agrees, blithely. He shifts hands, props himself up on the opposite elbow so that the hand nearest to Jensen is free. Jensen’s immediately concerned.
“What’re you doing?”
The smile transgresses over into smirk territory. Misha reaches out; thumbs the point of Jensen’s jaw. Runs the thumb up slowly to the soft space a little behind his ear, and Jensen can’t help the full-body shiver that seizes him, much as he’d give anything to take it back.
Misha, though. Misha seems to enjoy the shiver. At any rate, he leans closer in the wake of it, close enough that his lips almost brush Jensen’s when he speaks. “What’s it look like?”
Holy fuck, but Jensen must be drunk. He must be drunk, because Misha’s proximity shouldn’t be making him twitch and shift like this, hips suddenly tensed against the urge to thrust up, seeking the heat of the body over him. It looks like Misha’s about to do something incredibly ill-advised, but it doesn’t exactly feel that way, if you ask the blood that’s rushing a little faster through Jensen’s veins. He takes a breath, although Misha’s so close that it’s difficult.
“I don’t know,” he lies, low and soft.
Misha has to know it’s a lie, but the way he bites his lip indicates that he doesn’t much mind. “Okay,” he says, fingers tracing the outline of Jensen’s ear. “That’s okay, Jensen. Learning is more fun when we do it together, hmm?”
The end of the hmm blurs into vibration, tail-end of the sound pushed into Jensen’s mouth under the blunt pressure of Misha’s lips. It’s so soft, the whisper-warmth of skin coaxing out his acquiescence, that Jensen’s melted into it before he’s even thought about how to resist. A moment ago, he might have said he felt a little past buzzed, but now it’s as if Misha’s mouth is a catalyst for the alcohol coursing through his system, triggering that languid, spacey feeling that comes when you’re reaching your limit. Jensen’s on his back, and it’s the only place he’s ever wanted to be. Misha’s tongue flirts along the seam of his lips, and he opens unthinkingly to meet it.
For long seconds, there’s nothing he can do but go with it, one hand lifting all on its own to thread into Misha’s hair, pulling the kiss deeper. Misha’s almost careful, at first, but the taste of him is sweet, the first cautious thrust of his tongue flooding Jensen with guilty heat, and Jensen pushes back against him, provokes him, suddenly reckless with want. Misha makes a dark sound into Jensen’s mouth as teeth graze his lower lip; fists his hands in Jensen’s hair and tongues his soft palate, and it’s good, fuck, rough drunken good. Jensen arches up, chest uplifted, seeking closer contact, and Misha silently obliges, elbows either side of Jensen’s ribcage, fingers massaging his scalp as he pulls Jensen’s lower lip into his mouth.
It’s the elbow just under his armpit that forces Jensen to remember where they are. Which is to say, on the floor, mostly on the rumpled Twister mat, tonguing each other’s mouths with ever-increasing intensity with Jared curled into a man-pretzel not two feet away. The realisation makes Jensen cringe a little, mortified sweat breaking out at the nape of his neck, and he jerks his mouth unceremoniously out of Misha’s reach.
“Mish, we can’t.” He struggles to keep his voice low; widens his eyes and nods his head in Jared’s direction before Misha can misinterpret things. This is a really fucking terrible idea on every front, and Jensen knows it, but he’s sufficiently worked up now that okay, he’d rather not stop, especially not when Misha is exactly the best kind of guy to do something like this with, trustworthy and knowledgeable and the king of no-strings. It’s just that Jensen is very much of the opinion that houses are fitted with bedrooms for a reason. For one, his back will thank him for a mattress. For another - well - “What if he wakes up?”
Misha makes a sound that Jensen supposes would be best described as a scoff. He’s not sure he’s ever actually heard someone literally scoff in real life, but Misha seems totally comfortable with it, even as he insinuates one thigh between Jensen’s and presses his wrists flat to the floor.
Jensen would be lying if he said the hotness of that didn’t inch out the fourteen types of discomfort, even if only by a small margin.
“He’s not gonna wake up.” Misha’s voice is low and honeyed with amusement, smooth against Jensen’s skin. Misha’s face, with its perpetual ‘I never learned to shave my vessel’ stubble, is a different matter entirely, rasping against Jensen’s as teeth close over his lower lip and tug.
It’s a persuasive argument. Misha releases his grip on Jensen’s wrists gradually, as if still uncertain of Jensen’s co-operation, but Jensen only lowers his hands to Misha’s shoulders, to his back, and grips. Misha’s t-shirt has ridden up a little above the waist of his jeans, and Jensen’s fingers gravitate naturally towards skin, inching beneath the waistband where it’s loose. Misha shivers; resettles his weight more firmly and then thrusts down hard against Jensen, rubbing their cocks together through their jeans. It’s such a needed contact, the friction of it slow-burning and delicious, that Jensen can’t but let himself fall into it, licking up into Misha’s mouth. They’re kissing deep and wet again within seconds, tongues and teeth and Misha’s little satisfied sounds, and Jensen’s just beginning to feel himself floating out of time with the rush of it when Misha pops open the buttons on his jeans.
He doesn’t want to give in to the uncertainty again, he really doesn’t. But, while he knows for a fact that Misha’s - performed - in front of three, four, however many people at a time in the past, Jensen isn’t exactly that kind of boy. Jensen, on the contrary, is a stand-up guy from Richardson who loves his mama and blushes when people appreciate his face. His hand snakes down between their bodies, circling Misha’s wrist, holding it still.
“Are you sure we shouldn’t take this elsewhere?”
Misha laughs. “What, him?”
He flexes his fingers, the fine bones of his wrist shifting until Jensen’s grip falters and falls away. Freed of its restraints, Misha’s hand wriggles under the waistband of Jensen’s shorts; cradles his cock unceremoniously. Jensen’s just in the process of arching up into Misha’s hand, shocked and wanting and whimpering despite his best efforts, when Misha leans over and kicks Jared hard in the shin.
Jensen’s whimper transubstantiates into a yelp of alarm, both hands jerking up to flatten against Misha’s chest, pushing. “Misha - what the fuck - “
“Ssshhh.” Misha, the bastard, still sounds fucking amused, and Jensen’s too busy freaking out about that to notice what’s going on until he finds his hands flat to the floor again, over his head. Misha leans down over him and breathes, soft and pleased, in his ear.
“You fucker, you better let me the fuck up right this second,” Jensen hisses, embarrassment making him frantic. Matter-of-factly, Misha kisses him quiet, fights him until he gives in and lets himself kiss back. When Misha finally pulls away, it occurs to Jensen that Jared hasn’t sat up and left in disgust, or leaned over to attempt to prevent potential date-rape, or anything like that. Jared, clearly, is still asleep.
Misha smiles as if he’s heard what Jensen’s thinking, which is just really fucking unfair. “See? Comatose. I told you.”
Most of Jensen is busy dissolving in relief, blood rerouting busily to his dick, but there’s still a little part of him that frowns at that. There really had been a lot of beer. “He is breathing, isn’t he?”
They look at each other, and then, simultaneously, look over at Jared. He’s moved since the last time Jensen glanced his way, one leg pulled up almost to his chest. Moreover, he’s shifted onto his side, facing away from them. Jensen’s dick immediately votes this development to be an improvement.
“Breathing,” Misha confirms, turning back after a second and smiling down at Jensen reassuringly. “But out. So that’s good, right?”
He relinquishes Jensen’s wrists, trailing his fingers down the soft insides of his arms where the skin is fine and pale. Jensen shivers a little, as Misha evidently knew that he would. When Misha gets his hands under the hem of Jensen’s shirt, jerking it up and over his head, he shivers for real, the air suddenly cold on his skin. “Hey - “ Jensen begins.
Misha leans down to trace the outline of one nipple with his tongue; presses the tip there after a second, and then bites.
“ - nnnngh,” Jensen finishes.
Misha’s mouth is every bit as clever as his reputation demands, teeth scraping lightly over the pebbled nub of Jensen’s nipple, then biting a little harder, and then withdrawing until there’s only the hot slickness of his tongue. It’s distracting enough that Jensen doesn’t even really care that Misha’s thumbs are in his underwear, inching it down over his hipbones; doesn’t do anything but arch his back and clutch at Misha’s hair. Misha hums his approval against Jensen’s chest, and jerks jeans and shorts together down over the curve of Jensen’s ass.
Things are a helluva lot colder, suddenly, goosepimples breaking out on Jensen’s thighs, but Misha’s fingers curling around his cock go a considerable distance towards alleviating that minor discomfort. Jensen’s breathing harsh between his teeth, hips jerking abortively into Misha’s hand, when Misha says, almost contemplatively, “Or maybe it’s not.”
Jensen’s brain, now mostly occupied with just how fucking good it feels to have Misha thumbing the leaking tip of his dick, can’t even begin to process that. The words are disconnected, a fragment. Jensen can almost see the little green grammar-Nazi wiggle underwriting the remark. “Huh?”
Misha laughs, twisting his wrist in just such a way that Jensen finds himself biting back something like a keen. “I’m just saying, maybe it’s not good, you know.” He presses a kiss to Jensen’s stomach, misleadingly, disarmingly innocuous. “That he’s out. In the boring way, as opposed to the kind of ‘out’ where you dance on tables in a sparkly catsuit.”
Jensen wants to feel like things are all perfectly clear now, he really does; but the fact of the matter is that he’s a little bit distracted, and he has no fucking clue what sparkly catsuits have to do with anything. He squirms into Misha’s hand, and pants. “ - what?”
“So fucking coy, aren’t you, Jen?”
Jensen’s about to protest that he’s nothing of the sort - he’s just confused - when Misha ducks his head abruptly, sucking the head of Jensen’s dick into his mouth. Jensen thrusts upwards, surprised, and it feels like he’s just hit Misha in the tonsils, but he doesn’t seem to mind. Jensen doesn’t even care any more that he’s apparently being laughed at, not when he can feel it vibrating right into his bloodstream. He’s just getting into it, biting at his lower lip and twisting one hand into a fist in Misha’s hair, when Misha pulls off; shoves jeans and underwear the rest of the way down Jensen’s legs and tosses them somewhere; Jensen isn’t really paying attention. His cock is aching, drooling precome from the slit; there’s more of it smeared at the corners of Misha’s mouth. He tugs at Misha’s hair insistently.
“Knew you wanted it,” Misha says, in a voice gone dark as thick molasses. He presses a kiss to the shaft, low down, and fuck, it isn’t anything close to what Jensen wants. He grits his teeth, trembling with the effort of holding still, and Misha laughs again. “Pretending to be such a good ol’ boy, Jensen, but that’s crap, isn’t it? Just look at you.”
He skims his thumbs down the outsides of Jensen’s thighs; presses his palms flat to Jensen’s hipbones, holding him forcefully still. “Such a fucking slut for it, aren’t you? Hell, Jensen, what if he wakes up, huh? Sees you like this, all naked and writhing around on the living room floor? That what you want?”
And God, no, Jensen doesn’t; he really, really doesn’t want Jared to see him like this, ever, because he’d never manage to live long enough for the jokes to get old. The mere idea of it turns him hot and cold with trepidation; makes his stomach flip over, tight and unhappy. But something about Misha suggesting it - Misha, with his big soft baby blues, telling Jensen what a fucking slut he is, how much he wants everyone to know it - it’s absolute shit, but fucked if it isn’t hot shit.
Jensen’ll worry about how screwed up he is when he’s done squirming with frustration, mortification somehow not detracting from his arousal, but aggrandising it.
“Misha,” he gets out, fingers curling around the nape of Misha’s neck. “Come on, man. Please. Just - “ He tilts his hips, angling them in obvious invitation.
Misha lifts one hand, trailing it down the length of Jensen’s cock to encircle the shaft, and for a moment, Jensen thinks he’s taking pity on him. Then Misha says, “Christ. You’d let me do anything I wanted with you, wouldn’t you?” and tightens the circle of his thumb and forefinger around the base, holding Jensen off, holding him still.
It’s not true, what he says. Jensen’s not so far gone that he’d let Misha, for example, put him in some kind of genital harness, or jerk him off in front of the open window, or anything like that. Misha’s just talking out of his ass again, as Misha so frequently does. Hell, it’s not like Jensen’s tied down, here. If he really wanted to get off, he could reach down and jerk himself off. He could do that, easily. He could.
If Misha thinks Jensen is going to let him do anything he wants, then Misha has another think coming.
“Hey,” Misha says, softly; leans down to rub his mouth over the head of Jensen’s cock. “Turn over for me, huh? Hands and knees.”
Jensen’s on all fours before Misha is even done speaking, the carpet rough against one palm, the plastic mat a little tacky under the other. Misha’s mouthing at the base of his spine before he even realises what the hell just happened, and even then, he doesn’t understand how Misha managed it. It’s not like Jensen likes obeying orders; he certainly doesn’t like exhibiting himself like the fucktoy half the world seems to think he should be.
Except that, when Misha’s hand creeps between his legs from behind, knuckling at the space behind his balls, it feels good in a way that has as much to do with Misha’s eyes on him as with the physical sensation, and that’s embarrassing and, he guesses, narcissistic, and also really, really fucking hot. Misha’s still fully clothed, for fuck’s sake, and Jensen’s somehow let himself be stripped down to nothing, and while that should make him feel humiliated - and does, to a certain extent, because hell, he’s still Jensen - there’s also something else to it, something that trips his arousal like an electric shock.
“God, you’re pretty,” Misha breathes; and the pleased flush in Jensen’s abdomen at that is what makes him quite sure that he’s lost it. If there’s anything Jensen hates, it’s being called pretty, years of insinuations about his mouth and eyelashes turning it into a dirty word.
He doesn’t understand why dirty words sound so good in Misha’s mouth.
The first touch of Misha’s tongue to the back of his thigh makes him rock forward, hips thrusting down into nothingness even while some small, isolated part of his brain curls in on itself in shame. The slick heat of Misha’s mouth moves slowly, slowly; fingers trailing a connective line of fire across Jensen’s backside in the brief space before the sensation reasserts itself on the opposite thigh, a wet rasp of tastebuds on warm skin.
“Misha,” Jensen says, and the word betrays neither acceptance nor dissent, but only a strange, transcendent awe.
“I’ve got you,” Misha says, pressing a kiss to Jensen’s tailbone where the line of it breaks sharp under the skin. There’s a rustling - the sound of plastic, reluctantly tearing - and then Misha’s fingers are wet between Jensen’s legs, finding him, circling.
Jensen takes a moment to offer a fervent prayer that the little packet in Misha’s jeans wasn’t actually diner mayonnaise - Jensen wouldn’t put it past him - but then the tip of one finger begins pressing into him in earnest, and he loses all capacity for thought.
“All right?” comes Misha’s voice, gentle and, for a rare moment, earnest. His finger is still moving, inching incrementally into Jensen’s body, but his pace is slow, uncharacteristically cautious. Jensen could stop him, if he wanted; could reject the invasive touch, the unfamiliar burn. Jensen could stop this right now with only a word, and Misha’s making certain he knows it.
“Jensen?” Misha prompts, his fingertip grazing a place that makes Jensen’s stomach tighten at first touch, and his whole body spasm when the touch is repeated.
“Yeah,” Jensen pants, squirming back against Misha’s hand, seeking more, wanting sparks. “Fuck - Misha - “ and if Misha laughs, Jensen doesn’t care enough to notice.
Jensen’s tried this before, in moments of nocturnal curiosity denied in the morning, but his courage has only ever extended to a single finger. Misha has no such reservations, the pad of his forefinger circling and stretching for less than a minute before Jensen feels the burn of a second. He bites his lip; huffs out a protest through his teeth.
Misha hushes him, a warm exhalation against his back. “I got you. Hey. It’s okay. You can take a hell of a lot more than this, I promise.”
As promises go, it’s not the most reassuring one Jensen’s ever heard, not with the raw feeling still vibrating through his nerves. But Misha’s fingers are clever, and after the initial push, they move gently, easing; muscle yielding until the burn fades to a dull ache, easily ignored. Jensen can feel his body loosening, and when Misha works in a third finger, he’s no longer alarmed, confident that he can take it. He arches his back, making room for manoeuvre, and Misha’s smile is tangible.
“You see?”
There’s nothing mocking in his tone anymore, nothing but the gut-deep warmth of something close to approval, and Jensen opens his mouth to agree, to say yeah, yeah, I do. It’s comforting, that note in Misha’s voice, a woodsmoke whiskey glow to it that Jensen wants more of. But then Misha’s moving his fingers again; twisting them as he withdraws; thrusting them back in before the emptiness can register, and the crest of feeling as they jar against Jensen’s prostate makes a measured response impossible.
“Jesus - fuck!”
Too loud for caution, and Jensen knows it, but his whole body feels whiplashed, back arching in reaction. His breath is coming harsh and fast, rasping over the dry back of his throat. Misha withdraws - repeats - withdraws - repeats - and each successive time, Jensen means to be quieter, to regain control of himself. Each successive time, he fails. When, finally, the fingers withdraw entirely, he feels as if his insides have been hollowed out, neglected cock pulsing precome onto the plastic mat that will never be fit for use again.
He cries out. He doesn’t mean to, but registers, nevertheless, that he has, the sound of it echoing strangely in his skull. “Misha - would you just - “
“Fuck you?”
For a moment, Jensen can’t discern where Misha’s voice is coming from. His spatial awareness is shot to ribbons, the whole room reeling drunkenly around him. The need to be filled is the only thing still solid. Then Misha’s fingers, sticky with lube, flatten against his hip, and there’s a wet heat at the base of his spine, trending upward. Jensen whimpers unintelligibly, arching, catlike, into the touch.
He feels, rather than hears, Misha breathing Jensen’s name against his skin, lips brushing warm at the small of his back. The fingers of his other hand trace lower again, skirting Jensen’s rim, and Jensen feels himself clench. It would be mortifying, if he wasn’t too desperate to care.
“Jensen. Do you want me to fuck you?”
The question shoots straight to his cock, sparking a vein of heat so deep that for a moment - a heart-stopping, vertiginous moment - Jensen actually thinks he’s going to come, just from the fucked-up, delirious want of it. He holds himself very still, unbreathing, and lets out the tension slow, in a whine from the back of his throat.
“Jensen.” Impatience, now, in Misha’s voice, and then a sharp flare of pain to the back of Jensen’s thigh, so unexpected that he almost can’t believe he felt it. There’s no mistaking the jerk of his body in response, though; the bitten-off cry of surprise and twisted arousal.
“Yeah,” he pants, squeezing his eyes shut, voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah, c’mon, please. Do it.”
At any other time, Jensen knows, he’d be kicking himself for this, for giving in in response to violence like a five-year-old child. But he wants, so much wanting all knotted up like a pain in the pit of his stomach, and Misha, Misha can give. When Misha’s fingers stroke over the sore spot, soothing the hurt where his palm made contact, Jensen has his approval. When the fingers drift down to dip briefly inside of him, he has his promise. Misha eases out of him gently; kisses the small of his back. Jensen breathes deep and waits.
The next thing he registers is cold, the slick blunt pressure of something not-human nudging at his heat. Misha works it inside of him easily, corkscrewing it so that it catches all the raw edges of Jensen’s nerves, and Jensen rasps out an approving sound, his body clutching at straws his mind is still doubtful of. But the more of it there is inside of him - the more of it rigid in the tight grasp of Jensen’s muscles, too many edges and lines - the more the strangeness of it overshadows the good, and Jensen has to know. This isn’t the slight artificiality of latex over skin, not with Misha’s jeans still buttoned, the warmth of Misha’s body too far away to feel. This is something else, something else inside of him, and Jensen’s confusion wins out.
“Misha, what the hell?”
Misha laughs, and Jensen can tell from the coarse edges of it that he’s on edge, now; that he’s wanting. “Fucking you, Jen,” he says, broken-glass velvet voice against the small of Jensen’s back, breathing damp heat into the hollows of him. He draws out the - whatever it is, slow and smooth, and then thrusts it back deep into Jensen’s body, and even if Jensen bites off his cry, he can’t hold back the shudder that shoots through him.
It’s so fucked-up, this; the not-knowing and the gut-deep wanting and the way Misha’s breath and his hands are so warm, his body so fucking far away. “Don’t you want it?” Misha says, soft against Jensen’s skin, and that’s just it; Jensen’s had enough.
“Do you not have a cock, or something?”
There’s a pause, and for a second, Jensen’s suddenly unsure again, something cold and uncertain crawling in to wrap around his intestines. Then he hears the unmistakable sound of a zipper being pulled, and the next thing he knows is a fine trail of wet heat, circling, on the curve of his backside; Misha’s warmth against him and the line of his cock pressed hot and heavy to Jensen’s ass.
“I have one,” Misha retorts, breath hitching, and Jensen closes his eyes against the surge of desire that rolls through him like a wave, finding its release everywhere it can, in the pulsing of his cock and the whimper that breaks from his lips.
“Then,” he manages, “can you do me a favour, Mish? Can you get that fucking thing, whatever the hell it is, out of me? And then do you think you can take your fucking cock and put it in me, before I kill you?”
He registers Misha’s low groan as a triumph. Misha’s fingers are shaking as he extracts the intrusive object from Jensen, tossing it down haphazardly onto the mat. Jensen’s empty without it, shifting and impatient, but he can’t resist dipping his head below his shoulders to look. It’s rolled between his knees, innocuous: the beer-bottle, mostly empty, its neck shiny with lube. Of course. He laughs softly. “Thought you’d violate me after all, huh?”
Misha’s trembling finely as he positions himself, jeans shucked down his thighs, t-shirt damp and sticky and still in place. Jensen hears the rustle of foil; a pause while Misha rolls the condom on, stalling. His voice, when it comes, sounds wrecked. “Thought we agreed - “ one hand curls around Jensen’s hipbone, gripping it like an anchor “ - it wasn’t violation if you had - fuck - permission?”
“Oh, yeah.” Jensen pushes back, rubbing himself against the blunt head of Misha’s cock, loving Misha’s strangled sound too much to care about how undignified he probably looks. “Well - you want an engraved invitation, or what?”
He doesn’t know where it’s coming from, smart mouth and no inhibitions, but maybe it’s partly the alcohol, and maybe it’s partly the way it feels as if he’s gonna lose it if Misha doesn’t do something soon, doesn’t fill him up tight and lock everything in where it’s meant to be inside of him. Misha’s broken laugh says Jensen’s not the only one who’s noticed, but then Misha is pressing into him, steady and sure, and Jensen, impatient, thrusts back hard, impaling himself.
“Slut,” Misha chides, as he rolls his hips, other hand clutching at Jensen’s waist for support. Jensen doesn’t care; lets the frisson of shame roll right down his spine like water, lets it spark his blood and doesn’t think on it further. He wants this, wants Misha; wants the quickening pace of his thrusts, the smack of skin and the scrape of denim against his ass, and for now, that’s just dandy.
They’ve teased too long, and Jensen’s whole body feels like it’s on fire, sensation rocketing through him at every desperate jackhammer thrust against his prostate. When Misha’s fingers slip from the safe haven of his hipbone, brushing against the wet head of his cock, it’s too much, too everything, and Misha’s next thrust knocks Jensen’s arms out from under him, leaves him face down on his folded hands.
“Fuck,” he chokes out, incoherent, but Misha only grips him tight and upraises his hips, fingers tracing the ridges of Jensen’s cockhead as his pelvis moves rhythmic and fierce. Jensen breathes deep, staving off hyperventilation, and turns his face, cheek pressed sweaty to the back of his own hand.
Turns out, looking to the left is a bad idea.
Somewhere along the way, Jensen had sort of forgotten that they weren’t alone in the room, some part of his brain repressing the fact for his comfort, Jensen has no doubt. But now he’s here, face to the floor, and Jared’s there, two feet to his left, and at some point he must have rolled in his sleep because he’s facing Jensen and
”Shit!” Jensen rasps out, vision going white around the edges as Misha’s fingers tighten around him, “Shitshitshitshit-”
He needs to be quiet; needs to keep this in before this ends in disaster the likes of which Jensen can barely imagine, but Misha’s thundering into him now, every touch ratcheting him closer to the imminent edge. Every bitten-back curse seems to break out as a whimper, some long, low sound in the back of Jensen’s throat, and he can’t stop now; fuck. He couldn’t take it.
Some deep-rooted, frantic part of him wants him to keep his eyes open, to track Jared’s face for any sign of wakefulness, but he’s mostly well aware of how entirely horrendous an idea that is. If he does wake, after all, it’s not as if Jensen’s gonna be able to explain this away with a simple “So I tripped and fell on Misha’s cock,” and if he doesn’t, well, it’s all good, and Jensen really doesn’t need to be watching Jared drool while Misha fucks his brains out. He turns his face back into his hands, squeezes his eyes shut, and tries not to let his spine melt entirely.
Misha’s pace is becoming erratic, now, the rhythm lost somewhere in the chaos, and Jensen’s sure that his own backward thrusts aren’t helping. He’s so fucking close, though, rolling his hips forward into Misha’s hand, fucking Misha’s fist through a sheen of his own slick, and Misha, behind him, is reckless, grip hard enough to bruise. He needs it, needs it all, Misha’s thick heat in him and cradling his urgency and the sudden loss of Misha’s hand is inexplicable and excruciating.
“Fuck,” he rasps out, voice high with desperation as Misha’s fingers trail up his chest, circle his nipples, “- Misha - Misha, don’t - Misha, touch me, you fucker, I can’t, can’t,” and he’s squirming, shivering, bucking against the air, tears starting up in his eyes at the shock of abandonment. He thrusts himself backwards, too hard and too urgent; reaches around to grasp at Misha’s hand. “Come on, come on, touchmetouchmetouchme!”
“You’ll wake him up, you nympho,” Misha laughs, dark and low in Jensen’s ear. His hand dips lower, ghosts against the tip of Jensen’s cock, and he’s done, just like that, game over.
It’s sudden and fierce as a busted main, flooding out of Jensen in spurts, and when Misha’s hand closes again around him, he can’t bite back a strangulated, animal cry. He can’t remember the last time he came this hard, great strings of it white on the mat underneath him, his fingers and toes gone numb. When it finally ends, he’s lightheaded, boneless; struggling for breath with his face smushed into his hands.
Misha, behind him, laughs and rolls him over bodily onto his back. It’s easier this way, breathing without his hands in the way. It’s not until he hears the plasticky sound of the condom being removed that he realises Misha hasn’t come; opens his eyes in consternation.
Above him, Misha doesn’t look concerned at all. On the contrary, on his knees like that, he looks wild, wanton, head tipped back so the long line of his throat shows sweaty and tan and beautiful. His cock is beautiful, too, flushed and hard and slipping through his hand as he fists it, precome shooting from the head in little pulses.
“Fuck,” Jensen breathes. “Misha - you could’ve - “
“Didn’t want to,” Misha cuts him off, guttural and gasped between breaths. “Wanted - God, Jensen - just -”
And then he’s coming, shooting, thick white ropes of it over Jensen’s chest and left shoulder, the left side of his face. Unthinkingly, Jensen turns towards him, letting the spunk spatter wet across his cheeks, his lips, like hot wax. The sound Misha makes when he flickers out his tongue to lick the taste from his lower lip is hotter than the sun.
Half a beat later, Misha is in his arms, crawling all over him, holding him down. “God,” he’s murmuring, licking at Jensen’s mouth, “God, you fucker, you perfect little slut,” and then his tongue is hot and everywhere, cleaning his come from Jensen’s cheeks. When he’s satisfied, he pulls back a little, looking at Jensen almost warily, but Jensen only smiles, cups a hand around his nape and pulls him in. The inside of his mouth tastes like jizz, salt-sweat-bitter, and Jensen licks it from the soft wet hollows of his cheeks.
They kiss like that for a long, slow time. Jensen knows it’s a long time because, by the time Misha pulls away, he can feel his fingers and toes again, and his heart has slowed to something less than a gallop. His limbs still feel like water, though; loose and liquid and trickling toward sleep.
When Misha moves to climb off him, Jensen protests, a disgruntled murmur in the back of his throat. Misha kisses his forehead, and laughs softly. “Jen. Come on. We need to shower.” He touches his fingers to the tacky mess on Jensen’s stomach, as if in demonstration. “Jared’s not going to sleep forever, you know.”
Jensen blinks. For a second, it’s a blink of uncomprehension. Then, memory crashes in around him, too bright and too soon, and he groans. “Oh, shit.”
He pulls himself to his feet awkwardly, every muscle screaming in protest. The floor is a disaster area, the mat rumpled, clothes and empty bottles scattered everywhere. Jensen runs his hands through his hair and glares wide-eyed at Misha.
“I told you we should have gone to the bedroom. Now there’s - I mean - we can’t exactly just leave him here, to wake up on a Twister mat covered in jizz.” He flails his hands wildly.
Misha shrugs. “These mats are wipe-clean,” he offers, brightly. “Ages eight and up!”
Jensen throws a t-shirt at him, and stalks off to the bathroom.
What haze of drunkenness had settled over him has mostly disappeared, which is lucky, Jensen thinks, as he turns on the shower, because staying upright is difficult enough already on his sex-weakened legs. He reaches for the first bottle he can find, and works up a brisk lather. It’s not exactly an absorbing task, but Jensen has a horror of shampoo in the eyes, so what with the sound of the shower and his self-induced blindness, he doesn’t notice Misha’s arrival until there are arms slipping wet around his waist, pulling him close.
“Mmm,” says Misha, soft vibration at the nape of Jensen’s neck. “You smell like a chai latte. Or - no - maybe cinnamon pumpkin spice?”
Jensen snorts. “Thanks. I think this shit is Jared’s.”
Misha kisses the side of his neck, lips smack-sliding comically, deliberately, against the wet skin. “Well,” he says, reaching past Jensen for the bottle, “I don’t want to be the only one who doesn’t smell like hipster coffee, in that case.”
Jensen laughs; leans back a little against Misha’s body. He’s neat, compact, and it’s only natural, surely, that Jensen’s mind starts contemplating the fact that Misha never actually got naked during all that dirty sex before; that it’s only fair that he should get to see the lay of the land as well. Casually, he turns in Misha’s arms; follows the tapering of his sides down to his waist. “Great.” He rolls his eyes. “They’ll be able to sell us at Starbucks. Tall, grande, and venti comatose downstairs.”
“Fangirls would love that,” Misha says, eyes squinted shut against the trickle of foam inching down his forehead. “But I am not gonna be the little one.”
“Sorry,” Jensen grins, “but them’s the breaks.” He leans over, kisses Misha’s mouth; and it’s gentle, casual, not sexual, and the easiness of it is strange. “Speaking of Venti,” he prompts, before he can dwell on that too much.
“Oh, I rolled him off the mat,” Misha says, tilting his head back to let the shampoo run down his back. “I had to shove pretty hard, but he didn’t wake up. Just said something about hedgehogs and then rolled onto his front -” Misha held up one hand like a Shakespearean actor “ - as if dead.”
Jensen laughs. “Hedgehogs?”
“Hedgehogs,” Misha confirms, with a nod of his head.
“Well,” says Jensen, “I seriously hope you got rid of the mat. Thing wasn’t fit to be seen.”
“Oh, I kept it,” Misha shoots back, blithe and quick. “Those come-stains will make me my fortune.”
It says a lot about Misha, Jensen thinks, as he reaches for the soap, that Jensen isn’t 100% sure he’s kidding.
Fifteen minutes and a bit of teenage groping later, Jared’s still right where Misha left him, curled up into himself like a seriously huge French pastry.
“Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m not gonna give myself a hernia trying to lug that up the stairs,” says Jensen, crossing his arms.
“That’s because you’re a puny human,” returns Misha. “I could carry him, easy.”
Jensen raises an eyebrow. “You’re not serious.”
“Yeah, not even the tiniest little bit.”
They survey Jared for a moment in contemplative silence. Then Misha says, “You know, I’m not even feeling that charitable for a man who’s just gotten it good,” right when Jensen says, “There are cushions on the couch?”
They look at each other. Five seconds later, Jensen’s lifting Jared’s head enough that Misha can shove a pillow under it and save him from waking up with a seventh-circle crick in his neck, before groping for the throw from the couch.
“It’s not long enough.”
“No,” Misha corrects, “He’s too long.” He straightens, wiping his hands on his (Jensen’s, actually) soft pyjama bottoms. “And I’m wiped, so...” He gestures vaguely toward the couch. “Want me to...?”
“What?” For a moment, Jensen is utterly confused. Then it all comes back to him in a rush, through the veil of warmth that the shared shower did nothing to dispel: this isn’t, they aren’t, anything, and Misha’s not the type to presume. Misha probably knows what he’s doing. Misha’s done plenty of this; knows how to keep strings from forming.
But. Jensen, in the right mood, is a cuddle slut, and he says, “Hell, no. My bed could take four.”
“I’ll bear that in mind for next time,” Misha says, turning toward him. Something dances across his face, unidentifiable, but Jensen can tell it’s something good, not caution or reluctance. Next thing he knows is Misha’s hand in his, Misha’s mouth soft against Jensen’s jaw.
“Just for tonight, huh?” Misha says, soft wisp of voice in Jensen’s ear.
Jensen nods, whatever, because Misha’s not going anywhere. Not tonight, not tomorrow, and even if this isn’t supposed to be a Something, Jensen can’t help feeling like it is. Just maybe, in some way, it is. And that’s - incredibly - okay.
They slot together like the proverbial spoons in a drawer. The curve of Misha’s back fits warm to Jensen’s front like it was made to rest there, and their fingers tangle casual and fond.
“Night,” Jensen says; rubs his nose against the bolt of Misha’s jaw.
Misha is silent, but Jensen hears him smiling in the dark.
*
Written for: thehighwaywoman for spn_j2_xmas
Title: Left Foot Green
Pairing: Jensen/Misha (...Jared/JDM, sort of? How'd that get in there?)
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 10,708
Summary: thehighwaywoman's prompts were deliciously varied. In the end, I sort of smushed together a request for Jensen/Misha over the holidays, and one for Misha and both Js 'doing whatever their hearts desired'. Apparently, what their hearts desired was a psuedo-Christmas party with drunken Twister, devious Misha, and a grumpy Jensen who's rather less grumpy by the end of the night.
Disclaimer: I wish fervently that this was true, but unfortunately, it's just a product of my fevered imagination.
Warnings: These are all 'sort of' warnings, which means they're only here to be on the safe side. VERY SLIGHT D/s (maybe). Public sex (but not really). And, uh, object insertion.
Final Thing: Thanks to starcrossedgirl, as ever, for making me keep going with this and generally being awesome and encouraging and helpful.
The bitch of it is, Jensen thinks, twitching his nose as if that could even begin to stop it itching, that this shit is never his idea. Never. If it isn’t Jared putting his enormous paws all over Jensen while fifty million camera bulbs flash in manic glee, it’s Misha, playing the audience, setting all phasers to ‘havoc’. Jensen wouldn’t mind, but their audience is more than a little unbalanced, when it wants to be; and it’s somehow never either of them who ends up on the ass-end of the joke; oh, no. It just wouldn’t be right, Jensen thinks, huffing grumpily through his teeth, if the evening didn’t end with him in some kind of unfortunate position, either metaphorical or physical.
Tonight, it seems, that position is this: chest upward, both hands and feet on the floor, and an almighty ache beginning to spread all up the muscle of his right side. Misha’s crotch is about two inches from his nose. Jensen’s pretty sure he put his foot on that particular blue square on purpose.
“Left foot red,” says Jeff, somewhere out of Jensen’s eyeline. Jared grins a satisfied little grin that Jensen can hear, even if he can’t see Jared’s face, and moves his foot a couple of inches to the right of its original position. Jensen can’t bite back his grunt of aggrieved disbelief.
“You sound displeased,” says Misha, in his Castiel voice. Jensen’s arms are beginning to burn. He contemplates stretching up to snap at Misha’s crotch, show him fucking displeased, but it would only make all his aches worse, and Misha would probably like it anyway, perverted little fucker that he is. He contents himself with rolling his eyes extravagantly. His eyelashes brush against denim when he moves. It’s more than a little disconcerting. Displeased, holy Jesus.
“You try holding this position for fifteen minutes,” he offers. “See whether you’re not displeased, when everyone else just keeps getting to move their fucking feet a little bit every time it’s their turn. I swear to God, I’m starting to think this shit is rigged.”
“I can promise you,” Jeff says, dubiously, “I’m telling you what the board tells me, nothing more or less. But, you know, this is why I opted out.”
“And deprived us all,” Jared puts in, making grabby hands. Jared is grabby at the best of times, but after three beers and an unspecifiable quantity of eggnog, he becomes this octopus thing, long vowels and long arms and long embraces. Jeff doesn’t seem to mind too much; stands up and approaches the mat, lets himself be snuggled overenthusiastically, Jared’s face in the crook of his neck.
“Jensen,” Misha says, “Why was this great romance kept from me?”
“I’m blocking it out,” Jensen tells him, curtly, and rolls his shoulders. It would be easier, maybe, to kind of lift his arms and stretch them up and back over his shoulders, the way gymnasts do it, but that would really put him in a humiliating position. Better to hold himself up on shivering forearms, elbows threatening to lock at any minute. At least it doesn’t make him look like a thirteen year old Russian girl at her first Olympics.
“He’s jealous,” Jared corrects, his tone conspiratorial and low. He pushes his fingers into the thick of Jeff’s hair, and leers.
“For crying out loud,” says Jensen, rolling his eyes.
“Okay,” Jeff puts in, laughing, “All right. That’s enough. Jared.”
Jared huffs dramatically and pulls the puppy face, but Jeff is firm. Jensen’s always liked that about him.
“I have to get back,” Jeff says, “so I’m afraid you’ll have to either stop, or man the twirly-thing yourselves.” He looks at his watch, absent-mindedly steering Jared back into a freestanding position with his other hand braced against Jared’s collarbone.
“The twirly thing,” Misha says solemnly, “is the technical term. Really.”
Upside down, his eyes look even more freakishly huge than usual. He looks, Jensen thinks, like one of those Japanese comic book people, except without the schoolgirl outfit.
“Really,” says Jensen, his voice unrelentingly sceptical. “Christ, my arms ache. Lemme up so I can get a beer.” He nudges the inside of Misha’s thigh with his nose.
He’s not sure whether he thinks Misha might give up gracefully or not - although his money’s on not - but he would have liked to be allowed to be disappointed. Instead, what happens is that Misha’s barely had time to breathe before Jared’s enormous palm shoots out in protest, flattening against Jensen’s sternum.
“Dude,” says Jared, voice sharp with the outrage of the drunk. “No, you can’t just get up. Everybody knows this game ends when everyone’s fallen down, and not before.”
He’s gone pop-eyed with insistence. Jensen looks up at Misha, and sighs. There’s never any reasoning with Jared, once his face has gotten its bitch on like that. Jensen briefly contemplates just sitting the fuck down, then; getting out of it that way, but he somehow suspects that this would be the best way to end up the unwilling base of a three-man pyramid. He juts his jaw.
“I want,” he grits, irritably, “a fucking beer. I’ll come right back to this after, okay? Promise. And Misha can man the twirly thing with his foot, or something.”
“I do have shockingly dexterous toes,” Misha puts in, contemplatively.
As far as Jensen’s concerned, he’s being way more freaking magnanimous than they deserve; but Jared seems to think otherwise. “You don’t get to take breaks in Twister, man,” he protests.
Jeff cocks his head and does that little Dadly frown that makes Jensen immediately start feeling guilty about things he hasn’t even done yet/only did on TV/last did on an abandoned football field in 1993. “Jare,” he says, reasonably, “it’s only a game, y’know.”
“I will get him a beer!” Jared announces, flailing his arms at Jeff and donning that earnest expression that’s caused so much trouble for them all in the past. “Look, I will get him a beer. Just -”
He leans across the mat, feet still planted firmly on their designated squares of colour, one hand on Misha’s shoulder for support as he gropes for the bottles on the coffee table.
“You’ll never make that,” Jensen says, sceptically.
The nearest unopened bottle is half an inch from Jared’s fingertips. Jared lifts all but the tips of his toes off the furthest square, thrusting his weight more heavily onto Misha, and Misha all but buckles under the onslaught.
“Jesus Christ,” he says, belligerently. Just that, like it conveys everything he wants it to all on its own: Jesus Christ.
Misha is weird.
Jared twists his face apologetically, but the next second, he’s crying out in triumph as his fingers close around the bottleneck. “Beer! I have beer.” He leans up, brandishing the bottle like a prize. “I have beer!”
Misha snatches it from him, all discontent gone. That’s never a good sign.
“Awesome,” he says, glancing down at Jensen with a quirk of a grin that Jensen does not trust at all. “Hey, Jeff - pass me the bottle opener, wouldja?”
The look on Jared’s face, as Jeff languidly steps around the mat to transport the bottle opener from the table to Misha’s outstretched hand, is priceless. Jensen would laugh if he wasn’t so afraid - or, you know, more like convinced - that this would land him on his ass with an outraged Jared on his chest, under the impression that he’s feinting just to be devious. As it is, he just bites his lip on his grin and pretends to have been studying Misha’s (obviously fascinating) inseam the whole time.
“I really am gonna have to get back,” Jeff interjects, jabbing his thumb in the direction of the door. “Just in case anyone wants to, you know, say goodbye to me or anything.” He shrugs expansively. “Anything at all.”
Jeff’s on a flying visit, passing through on his way to shoot something undoubtedly bigger and more important than Supernatural. Jensen organised the impromptu gathering apropos of his phone call that morning, making time to see him. Misha organised the Twister, and Jensen is not gonna be blamed for that.
“Just a second, Jeff,” Jared protests, thrusting out one hand backward as if to keep him from moving. Jensen wonders idly whether he thinks he has some of Sam’s mojo going on, when he’s drunk. He wouldn’t put it past him. Either way, Jeff smiles long-sufferingly, crosses his arms, and waits. Jared flashes him a grin, and then looks at Misha. “You got that open?”
“Just,” Misha says brightly. Looking up, Jensen realises that, indeed, the cap of the bottle is gone, and Misha’s hand is descending towards Jensen’s face. He blinks violently and turns his head in surprise.
“Dude!”
“Open up, Jensen,” Misha commands, in that same chirpy tone, completely undeterred by the epic level of dissent Jensen’s trying to project. He cups his hand around Jensen’s chin and turns it upwards, holding him in place. Jensen jerks his head again, but Misha is, apparently, stronger than he looks, and his grip holds.
“Jensen,” Jared says, like he thinks he’s being eminently reasonable. “Thought you said you wanted a beer?”
Jensen closes his eyes for a minute. Just - a minute. He never thought people actually did that in real life - actually felt the need to block out the world when the embarrassment and incredulity got too much - but then Misha showed up, and he and Jared managed to combine to become the most fucking unbelievable trainwreck ever to happen to Jensen’s public image. Possibly the most fucking unbelievable trainwreck that could ever have happened, even in the realms of fantasy and nightmare. The worst part of it is that Jensen finds himself just going along with it.
Fuck them and their audience-pleasing faces.
“I didn’t mean -” Jensen starts, when he feels like he can talk. Starts, because there’s most of a bottleneck in his mouth before he can continue, Misha’s other hand threading into his hair, gentle and encouraging as his smile. Jensen sputters, for form’s sake, because everyone’s expecting it. The bottle’s pretty much at the right angle, though, not glugging liquid down Jensen’s throat, but just kind of letting it pool gently on his tongue, and given the state of Jared right now, Jensen’s pretty fucking impressed by this. Because it seems like basically his only choice, he swallows; looks up and meets Misha’s eyes, eyebrows raised as if seeking approval. Okay? he tries to say, with the muscles of his face. You got me. I’m doin’ it. Now let me go.
Unfortunately, it seems like Jensen’s going to need a few more lessons in facial semaphore, because Misha doesn’t exactly get the message he’s supposed to. Then again, maybe he does, and he’s choosing to ignore it. With Misha, that’s pretty likely, too. At any rate, Misha’s smile widens when he sees Jensen swallow, sees the shift of muscle in his throat as the first mouthful of beer glides down. The hand on Jensen’s chin moves, thumb stroking gently, tracing the underside of Jensen’s lower lip where the rim of the bottle stretches it a little downwards.
“Good boy,” Misha coaxes. “That’s better, isn’t it?” His eyes are wide and dark, the blue gone inky the way it does when he’s all intense. The beer is good, Jensen reasons, rich and cold as it collects on the flat of his tongue, and pleasing Misha like this is kind of nice, too. He doesn’t mean anything by what he does, after all. Jensen supposes he can indulge him a little while longer.
Jeff, though, doesn’t have any little whiles left. “O-kay,” he calls, from the other side of the mat, and Jensen starts at the sound, like for a moment he’d forgotten Jeff was there. Which is stupid, of course, because - well, because it is. It’s not like he was caught up in Misha’s ridiculously appealing kitten eyes, or anything. That’s just dumb. But, even so.
“Not for nothing, boys,” he goes on, “but I think I got enough to take to the police.”
“N’aw, he likes it,” Misha reassures, lifting his eyes to flash a grin at Jeff.
“It’s his favourite beer,” Jared adds, nodding very earnestly.
Jeff sighs. “Jensen?”
Misha gives him a look, unreadable, and thumbs the bottleneck out of his mouth. Jared doesn’t react; just lets it rest there, sweating cold against the side of Jensen’s face. Jensen takes the hint, swallows, and says, “‘m okay. It’s fine, dude. You go on. Thanks for coming! It was great to see you, man.”
Misha nods when Jensen’s finished, like he’s said all the right things, and pushes the bottleneck back into his mouth. Jensen can practically hear Jeff rolling his eyes; definitely hears his tread as he approaches.
“Fine. Just don’t come crying to me when they drunkenly violate you with a glass bottle, you got it?”
He leans down, solid and warm and smelling reassuringly of Old Spice, to hug Jensen goodbye. Normally, they keep it to a fairly respectable cuffing gesture, sometimes with a manly back-pat for good measure; but Jensen’s almost horizontal, and has no viable limbs, and this makes masculine posturing difficult to achieve. He mostly ends up kind of smooshed into the curve of Jeff’s neck, and possibly gets kissed on the temple, although he’s not sure about that. Jared’s letting the beer flow again, tipping the bottle up a little so Jensen can swallow it down in overly-dainty sips, so that’s kind of taking up most of his attention. He really had needed a fucking beer.
“Is it really violation,” Misha asks, the pitch of his voice suggesting that he’s really thinking hard about this, “if you have permission?”
“It’s just beer,” Jared dismisses, like he’s absolutely and completely missed Misha’s point. Really, Jensen kind of hopes he has. There are some things about Misha that Jared really doesn’t need to be exposed to. Things that Jensen wishes he’d never been forcibly subjected to himself. Like, oh, the time he walked out onto the soundstage after hours, and found Misha with most of his tongue down the throat of some guy from the lighting department.
Jensen was fucking traumatised for weeks.
He isn’t sure Jeff’s missed Misha’s point, not given the look he flashes in Misha’s direction. Still, he moves on - probably deciding that it isn’t his business until someone dies, or gets his penis bitten off, or something - and pulls Jared into his arms.
“Don’t be a stranger, y’hear me?” Jared commands, face all crushed up against the top of Jeff’s head. His one hand is still holding Jensen’s beer, but the other has tangled itself into Jeff’s hair, like Jared thinks it desperately needs to be there. Jeff laughs, and when Jared presses their foreheads together, he goes with it. It’s usually the easiest thing, with Jared.
“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” he warns.
“Nuh-uh,” Jared says, his voice gone all lazy and Texan. Jeff goes to pull away, Jared pulls his hair and kisses him hard on the mouth, and this is all a dance Jensen’s seen far too many times before.
Jesus Christ.
(Jensen’s willing to concede that, maybe, Misha has it right. For now, there’s really nothing else that needs to be said.)
“Looks like you’re the one being violated,” Misha observes mildly, as Jeff disentangles himself.
“Yeah, well.” Jeff ruffles Jared’s hair, pulling it rough and messy over his forehead. “I’m used to it.” He sets his hand on the doorhandle.
“So’s Jensen,” Misha replies, brightly. “So I guess we’re okay.”
There’s a sense of foreboding growing in the pit of Jensen’s stomach, only exacerbated when the door finally slams home behind Jeff. The following five seconds of silence feel like the longest of Jensen’s life. Hell, it probably is about the longest time he’s ever spent in silence with Misha and Jared. He goes on swallowing obediently, but the uncertain feeling is prickling up his spine like a rash.
He’s not the only one who seems to think the room feels strange like this, though, too full of the sound of their breathing. Eventually, Jared says, “Gotcha,” too loud and too late, and then busts out the manic laughter.
“Dude,” says Misha, blinking over Jensen’s head. “You sound like Norman Bates.”
Jared pauses mid-inhale, staggering to a halt. “Did Norman Bates actually laugh, ever?” He reaches up to scratch his nose idly, the way he always does when he’s trying to think, as if it stimulates the brainwaves in some way. The other hand, no longer the focus of Jared’s attention, slumps a little, sending a rivulet of beer coursing down Jensen’s cheek from the corner of his mouth. It’s only a very little dribble, but the way Jared is going, his next great period of concentration will result in the rest of the beer sloshing down the front of Jensen’s shirt, and that - that would really be the last thing Jensen wants. Accordingly, he makes a little sound of protest, and clinks his teeth against the bottleneck.
Jared, struggling for mastery of his memory, barely even blinks, but Misha is obviously paying closer attention. “Hey,” he chides, straightening Jared’s wrist, “you’re wasting it. Can’t have that, can we, Jen?”
He’s leaned down slightly, face upside-down over Jensen’s, white teeth looking strangely whiter from this angle. Jensen gives him a smile, because hey, he doesn’t want this beer wasted. It’s good beer. Misha clearly knows which way is up.
And then Misha’s reaching out, finger curling to catch the trail of beer where it’s just about to drip over the line of Jensen’s jaw, and Jensen’s uncertainty is suddenly back with a vengeance. He stiffens under the touch, eyebrows projecting what he hopes is a clear what the fuck? But apparently, Misha is uninterested in the language of Jensen’s eyebrows, on this, as on every other, occasion. The thin trail of liquid cradled in the crook of his finger; the finger knuckling at the corner of Jensen’s mouth - these are not reassuring things.
“Open up,” croons Misha, in a tone about as reassuring as a nuclear explosion on the rise; and that’s all the warning Jensen gets before the finger is pushing into his mouth alongside the neck of the bottle, rubbing the soft inside of Jensen’s cheek. Those fucking blue eyes are heated and close, dark-washed focus on Jensen’s own. The symbolism isn’t exactly lost on him.
The real question here is why it isn’t exactly repulsing him, either.
“My God,” says Misha, like he’s discovered something momentous, “You like this stuff, don’t you? You want all of it? Gonna keep on swallowing?”
He’s rolling the words all slow around the front of his mouth, his voice a languid drawl that could be affected mockery, or just the effect of drunk Texas boys and osmosis. He sounds fucking ridiculous, low and obvious; and it’s not Jensen’s fault that his body didn’t get that memo; that the base of his spine resonates to Misha’s voice.
“Dude,” Jared laughs, oblivious, “you sound like porn.”
Jensen fervently hopes that his blush isn’t burning as bright as it feels like it is.
Misha only smirks and withdraws his finger, dragging it slow and gentle over Jensen’s lower lip. It’s slick, of course, the light catching the sheen of beer and spit. Misha shrugs and sticks it unceremoniously into his own mouth; pulls it out neat and only slightly damp, Jensen’s messy wetness sucked away and swallowed down.
It is absolutely no fault of Jensen’s that he has to close his eyes.
Somewhere in the background, the iPod dock has wandered off of its standard playlist fare, and is now belting out something that sounds like an Irish ballad on steroids, all misery and electric fiddles. This is not Jensen’s fault, either - and he strongly doubts that it’s Jared’s - but with his eyes closed, the sound of it is more immediate, more real. He thrusts himself mindlessly into it, makes himself really listen hard enough to make out the words, hard enough to forget about the closeness of Misha and the solidity of the bottleneck between his lips. It’s almost working - almost - when he feels Misha’s fingers creep back up into his hair; hears Misha’s voice by his ear - “Too much for you?”
His cock leaps, and he thinks: fuck Twister. He jerks his head back, mindless of Misha behind him and the beer leaking down the side of his neck. “Fuck you,” he spits, and lets his shaking arms finally give way. “Enough of this. I fold.”
“Literally, I see,” Misha says, smiling. Jared is still blinking at nothing while the beer dribbles thinly to the mat a little to the left of Jensen’s head, but Misha - the bastard - looks knowing, collected. Smug.
“My arms hurt,” Jensen protests, defensively. One knee is drawn up just a little, shadowing the shallow rise in his pants; and while he’s sure it’s enough to fool Jared, he isn’t half so certain about Misha. The knowledge makes him uncomfortable; makes him feel vulnerable, here on the floor between Misha’s feet. He reaches out for Jared with his socked foot; pokes him in the shin.
Jared looks down at him slowly, with a look on his face that says he’s surprised to see Jensen all the way down there. “You quit,” he observes, after a long minute.
“We’re lying down now,” Jensen tells him, shooting a glance at Misha. Daring him to protest, the fucker.
Misha only raises an eyebrow, and sits. “You heard the man.”
Jared collapses all in one motion, crumpling to the floor like clothes falling from a peg. Jensen isn’t even sure, for a second, that he meant to move at all, until he lands, somehow, cross-legged, clasping his hands around his bare toes and grinning vaguely. “Suits me. I was gettin’ tired of standin’ up, anyways.”
Jensen closes his eyes again, smiling. Jared always gets like this, slipsliding back to the Lone Star State the moment he starts gitin’ tired. For a minute, he lets himself drift, remembering long nights in high school and the sound of the cicadas. His head is light with alcohol, and the music isn’t half so bad once you get yourself a little used to it.
When he opens his eyes again, Jared isn’t sitting up any more. He’s mostly flat on his back, although his overlong legs are still weirdly entangled, and he’s got an arm thrown up over his face in a way that might look strange if Jensen hadn’t seen it a thousand times before. You don’t get through several seasons of sixteen hour days without becoming intimately acquainted with what your costar looks like when he’s sleeping, and Jared? Jared looks like this.
“I think he’s out for the count.”
He’s not expecting Misha’s voice when it comes, a hair’s breadth from Jensen’s ear and sweet with the whiskey they knocked back earlier, two fingers each on the rocks. He’s so close that Jensen feels the vibration skirting the helix of his ear, tickling the nautilus, prickling down the tendon in his neck. He turns his face just slightly; finds Misha stretched out lazily on his front, one elbow drawn up under him, chin in the palm of his hand. His eyes bear down calmly into Jensen’s. He’s altogether, entirely too close.
“Personal space, man,” Jensen says, trying for jocular and getting something just this side of panicked. “I shouldn’t gotta tell you these things. You’re not Cas.”
Misha smiles a little more broadly, spit shine in the corners of his mouth, glinting on the whiteness of his teeth. “That I’m not,” he agrees, blithely. He shifts hands, props himself up on the opposite elbow so that the hand nearest to Jensen is free. Jensen’s immediately concerned.
“What’re you doing?”
The smile transgresses over into smirk territory. Misha reaches out; thumbs the point of Jensen’s jaw. Runs the thumb up slowly to the soft space a little behind his ear, and Jensen can’t help the full-body shiver that seizes him, much as he’d give anything to take it back.
Misha, though. Misha seems to enjoy the shiver. At any rate, he leans closer in the wake of it, close enough that his lips almost brush Jensen’s when he speaks. “What’s it look like?”
Holy fuck, but Jensen must be drunk. He must be drunk, because Misha’s proximity shouldn’t be making him twitch and shift like this, hips suddenly tensed against the urge to thrust up, seeking the heat of the body over him. It looks like Misha’s about to do something incredibly ill-advised, but it doesn’t exactly feel that way, if you ask the blood that’s rushing a little faster through Jensen’s veins. He takes a breath, although Misha’s so close that it’s difficult.
“I don’t know,” he lies, low and soft.
Misha has to know it’s a lie, but the way he bites his lip indicates that he doesn’t much mind. “Okay,” he says, fingers tracing the outline of Jensen’s ear. “That’s okay, Jensen. Learning is more fun when we do it together, hmm?”
The end of the hmm blurs into vibration, tail-end of the sound pushed into Jensen’s mouth under the blunt pressure of Misha’s lips. It’s so soft, the whisper-warmth of skin coaxing out his acquiescence, that Jensen’s melted into it before he’s even thought about how to resist. A moment ago, he might have said he felt a little past buzzed, but now it’s as if Misha’s mouth is a catalyst for the alcohol coursing through his system, triggering that languid, spacey feeling that comes when you’re reaching your limit. Jensen’s on his back, and it’s the only place he’s ever wanted to be. Misha’s tongue flirts along the seam of his lips, and he opens unthinkingly to meet it.
For long seconds, there’s nothing he can do but go with it, one hand lifting all on its own to thread into Misha’s hair, pulling the kiss deeper. Misha’s almost careful, at first, but the taste of him is sweet, the first cautious thrust of his tongue flooding Jensen with guilty heat, and Jensen pushes back against him, provokes him, suddenly reckless with want. Misha makes a dark sound into Jensen’s mouth as teeth graze his lower lip; fists his hands in Jensen’s hair and tongues his soft palate, and it’s good, fuck, rough drunken good. Jensen arches up, chest uplifted, seeking closer contact, and Misha silently obliges, elbows either side of Jensen’s ribcage, fingers massaging his scalp as he pulls Jensen’s lower lip into his mouth.
It’s the elbow just under his armpit that forces Jensen to remember where they are. Which is to say, on the floor, mostly on the rumpled Twister mat, tonguing each other’s mouths with ever-increasing intensity with Jared curled into a man-pretzel not two feet away. The realisation makes Jensen cringe a little, mortified sweat breaking out at the nape of his neck, and he jerks his mouth unceremoniously out of Misha’s reach.
“Mish, we can’t.” He struggles to keep his voice low; widens his eyes and nods his head in Jared’s direction before Misha can misinterpret things. This is a really fucking terrible idea on every front, and Jensen knows it, but he’s sufficiently worked up now that okay, he’d rather not stop, especially not when Misha is exactly the best kind of guy to do something like this with, trustworthy and knowledgeable and the king of no-strings. It’s just that Jensen is very much of the opinion that houses are fitted with bedrooms for a reason. For one, his back will thank him for a mattress. For another - well - “What if he wakes up?”
Misha makes a sound that Jensen supposes would be best described as a scoff. He’s not sure he’s ever actually heard someone literally scoff in real life, but Misha seems totally comfortable with it, even as he insinuates one thigh between Jensen’s and presses his wrists flat to the floor.
Jensen would be lying if he said the hotness of that didn’t inch out the fourteen types of discomfort, even if only by a small margin.
“He’s not gonna wake up.” Misha’s voice is low and honeyed with amusement, smooth against Jensen’s skin. Misha’s face, with its perpetual ‘I never learned to shave my vessel’ stubble, is a different matter entirely, rasping against Jensen’s as teeth close over his lower lip and tug.
It’s a persuasive argument. Misha releases his grip on Jensen’s wrists gradually, as if still uncertain of Jensen’s co-operation, but Jensen only lowers his hands to Misha’s shoulders, to his back, and grips. Misha’s t-shirt has ridden up a little above the waist of his jeans, and Jensen’s fingers gravitate naturally towards skin, inching beneath the waistband where it’s loose. Misha shivers; resettles his weight more firmly and then thrusts down hard against Jensen, rubbing their cocks together through their jeans. It’s such a needed contact, the friction of it slow-burning and delicious, that Jensen can’t but let himself fall into it, licking up into Misha’s mouth. They’re kissing deep and wet again within seconds, tongues and teeth and Misha’s little satisfied sounds, and Jensen’s just beginning to feel himself floating out of time with the rush of it when Misha pops open the buttons on his jeans.
He doesn’t want to give in to the uncertainty again, he really doesn’t. But, while he knows for a fact that Misha’s - performed - in front of three, four, however many people at a time in the past, Jensen isn’t exactly that kind of boy. Jensen, on the contrary, is a stand-up guy from Richardson who loves his mama and blushes when people appreciate his face. His hand snakes down between their bodies, circling Misha’s wrist, holding it still.
“Are you sure we shouldn’t take this elsewhere?”
Misha laughs. “What, him?”
He flexes his fingers, the fine bones of his wrist shifting until Jensen’s grip falters and falls away. Freed of its restraints, Misha’s hand wriggles under the waistband of Jensen’s shorts; cradles his cock unceremoniously. Jensen’s just in the process of arching up into Misha’s hand, shocked and wanting and whimpering despite his best efforts, when Misha leans over and kicks Jared hard in the shin.
Jensen’s whimper transubstantiates into a yelp of alarm, both hands jerking up to flatten against Misha’s chest, pushing. “Misha - what the fuck - “
“Ssshhh.” Misha, the bastard, still sounds fucking amused, and Jensen’s too busy freaking out about that to notice what’s going on until he finds his hands flat to the floor again, over his head. Misha leans down over him and breathes, soft and pleased, in his ear.
“You fucker, you better let me the fuck up right this second,” Jensen hisses, embarrassment making him frantic. Matter-of-factly, Misha kisses him quiet, fights him until he gives in and lets himself kiss back. When Misha finally pulls away, it occurs to Jensen that Jared hasn’t sat up and left in disgust, or leaned over to attempt to prevent potential date-rape, or anything like that. Jared, clearly, is still asleep.
Misha smiles as if he’s heard what Jensen’s thinking, which is just really fucking unfair. “See? Comatose. I told you.”
Most of Jensen is busy dissolving in relief, blood rerouting busily to his dick, but there’s still a little part of him that frowns at that. There really had been a lot of beer. “He is breathing, isn’t he?”
They look at each other, and then, simultaneously, look over at Jared. He’s moved since the last time Jensen glanced his way, one leg pulled up almost to his chest. Moreover, he’s shifted onto his side, facing away from them. Jensen’s dick immediately votes this development to be an improvement.
“Breathing,” Misha confirms, turning back after a second and smiling down at Jensen reassuringly. “But out. So that’s good, right?”
He relinquishes Jensen’s wrists, trailing his fingers down the soft insides of his arms where the skin is fine and pale. Jensen shivers a little, as Misha evidently knew that he would. When Misha gets his hands under the hem of Jensen’s shirt, jerking it up and over his head, he shivers for real, the air suddenly cold on his skin. “Hey - “ Jensen begins.
Misha leans down to trace the outline of one nipple with his tongue; presses the tip there after a second, and then bites.
“ - nnnngh,” Jensen finishes.
Misha’s mouth is every bit as clever as his reputation demands, teeth scraping lightly over the pebbled nub of Jensen’s nipple, then biting a little harder, and then withdrawing until there’s only the hot slickness of his tongue. It’s distracting enough that Jensen doesn’t even really care that Misha’s thumbs are in his underwear, inching it down over his hipbones; doesn’t do anything but arch his back and clutch at Misha’s hair. Misha hums his approval against Jensen’s chest, and jerks jeans and shorts together down over the curve of Jensen’s ass.
Things are a helluva lot colder, suddenly, goosepimples breaking out on Jensen’s thighs, but Misha’s fingers curling around his cock go a considerable distance towards alleviating that minor discomfort. Jensen’s breathing harsh between his teeth, hips jerking abortively into Misha’s hand, when Misha says, almost contemplatively, “Or maybe it’s not.”
Jensen’s brain, now mostly occupied with just how fucking good it feels to have Misha thumbing the leaking tip of his dick, can’t even begin to process that. The words are disconnected, a fragment. Jensen can almost see the little green grammar-Nazi wiggle underwriting the remark. “Huh?”
Misha laughs, twisting his wrist in just such a way that Jensen finds himself biting back something like a keen. “I’m just saying, maybe it’s not good, you know.” He presses a kiss to Jensen’s stomach, misleadingly, disarmingly innocuous. “That he’s out. In the boring way, as opposed to the kind of ‘out’ where you dance on tables in a sparkly catsuit.”
Jensen wants to feel like things are all perfectly clear now, he really does; but the fact of the matter is that he’s a little bit distracted, and he has no fucking clue what sparkly catsuits have to do with anything. He squirms into Misha’s hand, and pants. “ - what?”
“So fucking coy, aren’t you, Jen?”
Jensen’s about to protest that he’s nothing of the sort - he’s just confused - when Misha ducks his head abruptly, sucking the head of Jensen’s dick into his mouth. Jensen thrusts upwards, surprised, and it feels like he’s just hit Misha in the tonsils, but he doesn’t seem to mind. Jensen doesn’t even care any more that he’s apparently being laughed at, not when he can feel it vibrating right into his bloodstream. He’s just getting into it, biting at his lower lip and twisting one hand into a fist in Misha’s hair, when Misha pulls off; shoves jeans and underwear the rest of the way down Jensen’s legs and tosses them somewhere; Jensen isn’t really paying attention. His cock is aching, drooling precome from the slit; there’s more of it smeared at the corners of Misha’s mouth. He tugs at Misha’s hair insistently.
“Knew you wanted it,” Misha says, in a voice gone dark as thick molasses. He presses a kiss to the shaft, low down, and fuck, it isn’t anything close to what Jensen wants. He grits his teeth, trembling with the effort of holding still, and Misha laughs again. “Pretending to be such a good ol’ boy, Jensen, but that’s crap, isn’t it? Just look at you.”
He skims his thumbs down the outsides of Jensen’s thighs; presses his palms flat to Jensen’s hipbones, holding him forcefully still. “Such a fucking slut for it, aren’t you? Hell, Jensen, what if he wakes up, huh? Sees you like this, all naked and writhing around on the living room floor? That what you want?”
And God, no, Jensen doesn’t; he really, really doesn’t want Jared to see him like this, ever, because he’d never manage to live long enough for the jokes to get old. The mere idea of it turns him hot and cold with trepidation; makes his stomach flip over, tight and unhappy. But something about Misha suggesting it - Misha, with his big soft baby blues, telling Jensen what a fucking slut he is, how much he wants everyone to know it - it’s absolute shit, but fucked if it isn’t hot shit.
Jensen’ll worry about how screwed up he is when he’s done squirming with frustration, mortification somehow not detracting from his arousal, but aggrandising it.
“Misha,” he gets out, fingers curling around the nape of Misha’s neck. “Come on, man. Please. Just - “ He tilts his hips, angling them in obvious invitation.
Misha lifts one hand, trailing it down the length of Jensen’s cock to encircle the shaft, and for a moment, Jensen thinks he’s taking pity on him. Then Misha says, “Christ. You’d let me do anything I wanted with you, wouldn’t you?” and tightens the circle of his thumb and forefinger around the base, holding Jensen off, holding him still.
It’s not true, what he says. Jensen’s not so far gone that he’d let Misha, for example, put him in some kind of genital harness, or jerk him off in front of the open window, or anything like that. Misha’s just talking out of his ass again, as Misha so frequently does. Hell, it’s not like Jensen’s tied down, here. If he really wanted to get off, he could reach down and jerk himself off. He could do that, easily. He could.
If Misha thinks Jensen is going to let him do anything he wants, then Misha has another think coming.
“Hey,” Misha says, softly; leans down to rub his mouth over the head of Jensen’s cock. “Turn over for me, huh? Hands and knees.”
Jensen’s on all fours before Misha is even done speaking, the carpet rough against one palm, the plastic mat a little tacky under the other. Misha’s mouthing at the base of his spine before he even realises what the hell just happened, and even then, he doesn’t understand how Misha managed it. It’s not like Jensen likes obeying orders; he certainly doesn’t like exhibiting himself like the fucktoy half the world seems to think he should be.
Except that, when Misha’s hand creeps between his legs from behind, knuckling at the space behind his balls, it feels good in a way that has as much to do with Misha’s eyes on him as with the physical sensation, and that’s embarrassing and, he guesses, narcissistic, and also really, really fucking hot. Misha’s still fully clothed, for fuck’s sake, and Jensen’s somehow let himself be stripped down to nothing, and while that should make him feel humiliated - and does, to a certain extent, because hell, he’s still Jensen - there’s also something else to it, something that trips his arousal like an electric shock.
“God, you’re pretty,” Misha breathes; and the pleased flush in Jensen’s abdomen at that is what makes him quite sure that he’s lost it. If there’s anything Jensen hates, it’s being called pretty, years of insinuations about his mouth and eyelashes turning it into a dirty word.
He doesn’t understand why dirty words sound so good in Misha’s mouth.
The first touch of Misha’s tongue to the back of his thigh makes him rock forward, hips thrusting down into nothingness even while some small, isolated part of his brain curls in on itself in shame. The slick heat of Misha’s mouth moves slowly, slowly; fingers trailing a connective line of fire across Jensen’s backside in the brief space before the sensation reasserts itself on the opposite thigh, a wet rasp of tastebuds on warm skin.
“Misha,” Jensen says, and the word betrays neither acceptance nor dissent, but only a strange, transcendent awe.
“I’ve got you,” Misha says, pressing a kiss to Jensen’s tailbone where the line of it breaks sharp under the skin. There’s a rustling - the sound of plastic, reluctantly tearing - and then Misha’s fingers are wet between Jensen’s legs, finding him, circling.
Jensen takes a moment to offer a fervent prayer that the little packet in Misha’s jeans wasn’t actually diner mayonnaise - Jensen wouldn’t put it past him - but then the tip of one finger begins pressing into him in earnest, and he loses all capacity for thought.
“All right?” comes Misha’s voice, gentle and, for a rare moment, earnest. His finger is still moving, inching incrementally into Jensen’s body, but his pace is slow, uncharacteristically cautious. Jensen could stop him, if he wanted; could reject the invasive touch, the unfamiliar burn. Jensen could stop this right now with only a word, and Misha’s making certain he knows it.
“Jensen?” Misha prompts, his fingertip grazing a place that makes Jensen’s stomach tighten at first touch, and his whole body spasm when the touch is repeated.
“Yeah,” Jensen pants, squirming back against Misha’s hand, seeking more, wanting sparks. “Fuck - Misha - “ and if Misha laughs, Jensen doesn’t care enough to notice.
Jensen’s tried this before, in moments of nocturnal curiosity denied in the morning, but his courage has only ever extended to a single finger. Misha has no such reservations, the pad of his forefinger circling and stretching for less than a minute before Jensen feels the burn of a second. He bites his lip; huffs out a protest through his teeth.
Misha hushes him, a warm exhalation against his back. “I got you. Hey. It’s okay. You can take a hell of a lot more than this, I promise.”
As promises go, it’s not the most reassuring one Jensen’s ever heard, not with the raw feeling still vibrating through his nerves. But Misha’s fingers are clever, and after the initial push, they move gently, easing; muscle yielding until the burn fades to a dull ache, easily ignored. Jensen can feel his body loosening, and when Misha works in a third finger, he’s no longer alarmed, confident that he can take it. He arches his back, making room for manoeuvre, and Misha’s smile is tangible.
“You see?”
There’s nothing mocking in his tone anymore, nothing but the gut-deep warmth of something close to approval, and Jensen opens his mouth to agree, to say yeah, yeah, I do. It’s comforting, that note in Misha’s voice, a woodsmoke whiskey glow to it that Jensen wants more of. But then Misha’s moving his fingers again; twisting them as he withdraws; thrusting them back in before the emptiness can register, and the crest of feeling as they jar against Jensen’s prostate makes a measured response impossible.
“Jesus - fuck!”
Too loud for caution, and Jensen knows it, but his whole body feels whiplashed, back arching in reaction. His breath is coming harsh and fast, rasping over the dry back of his throat. Misha withdraws - repeats - withdraws - repeats - and each successive time, Jensen means to be quieter, to regain control of himself. Each successive time, he fails. When, finally, the fingers withdraw entirely, he feels as if his insides have been hollowed out, neglected cock pulsing precome onto the plastic mat that will never be fit for use again.
He cries out. He doesn’t mean to, but registers, nevertheless, that he has, the sound of it echoing strangely in his skull. “Misha - would you just - “
“Fuck you?”
For a moment, Jensen can’t discern where Misha’s voice is coming from. His spatial awareness is shot to ribbons, the whole room reeling drunkenly around him. The need to be filled is the only thing still solid. Then Misha’s fingers, sticky with lube, flatten against his hip, and there’s a wet heat at the base of his spine, trending upward. Jensen whimpers unintelligibly, arching, catlike, into the touch.
He feels, rather than hears, Misha breathing Jensen’s name against his skin, lips brushing warm at the small of his back. The fingers of his other hand trace lower again, skirting Jensen’s rim, and Jensen feels himself clench. It would be mortifying, if he wasn’t too desperate to care.
“Jensen. Do you want me to fuck you?”
The question shoots straight to his cock, sparking a vein of heat so deep that for a moment - a heart-stopping, vertiginous moment - Jensen actually thinks he’s going to come, just from the fucked-up, delirious want of it. He holds himself very still, unbreathing, and lets out the tension slow, in a whine from the back of his throat.
“Jensen.” Impatience, now, in Misha’s voice, and then a sharp flare of pain to the back of Jensen’s thigh, so unexpected that he almost can’t believe he felt it. There’s no mistaking the jerk of his body in response, though; the bitten-off cry of surprise and twisted arousal.
“Yeah,” he pants, squeezing his eyes shut, voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah, c’mon, please. Do it.”
At any other time, Jensen knows, he’d be kicking himself for this, for giving in in response to violence like a five-year-old child. But he wants, so much wanting all knotted up like a pain in the pit of his stomach, and Misha, Misha can give. When Misha’s fingers stroke over the sore spot, soothing the hurt where his palm made contact, Jensen has his approval. When the fingers drift down to dip briefly inside of him, he has his promise. Misha eases out of him gently; kisses the small of his back. Jensen breathes deep and waits.
The next thing he registers is cold, the slick blunt pressure of something not-human nudging at his heat. Misha works it inside of him easily, corkscrewing it so that it catches all the raw edges of Jensen’s nerves, and Jensen rasps out an approving sound, his body clutching at straws his mind is still doubtful of. But the more of it there is inside of him - the more of it rigid in the tight grasp of Jensen’s muscles, too many edges and lines - the more the strangeness of it overshadows the good, and Jensen has to know. This isn’t the slight artificiality of latex over skin, not with Misha’s jeans still buttoned, the warmth of Misha’s body too far away to feel. This is something else, something else inside of him, and Jensen’s confusion wins out.
“Misha, what the hell?”
Misha laughs, and Jensen can tell from the coarse edges of it that he’s on edge, now; that he’s wanting. “Fucking you, Jen,” he says, broken-glass velvet voice against the small of Jensen’s back, breathing damp heat into the hollows of him. He draws out the - whatever it is, slow and smooth, and then thrusts it back deep into Jensen’s body, and even if Jensen bites off his cry, he can’t hold back the shudder that shoots through him.
It’s so fucked-up, this; the not-knowing and the gut-deep wanting and the way Misha’s breath and his hands are so warm, his body so fucking far away. “Don’t you want it?” Misha says, soft against Jensen’s skin, and that’s just it; Jensen’s had enough.
“Do you not have a cock, or something?”
There’s a pause, and for a second, Jensen’s suddenly unsure again, something cold and uncertain crawling in to wrap around his intestines. Then he hears the unmistakable sound of a zipper being pulled, and the next thing he knows is a fine trail of wet heat, circling, on the curve of his backside; Misha’s warmth against him and the line of his cock pressed hot and heavy to Jensen’s ass.
“I have one,” Misha retorts, breath hitching, and Jensen closes his eyes against the surge of desire that rolls through him like a wave, finding its release everywhere it can, in the pulsing of his cock and the whimper that breaks from his lips.
“Then,” he manages, “can you do me a favour, Mish? Can you get that fucking thing, whatever the hell it is, out of me? And then do you think you can take your fucking cock and put it in me, before I kill you?”
He registers Misha’s low groan as a triumph. Misha’s fingers are shaking as he extracts the intrusive object from Jensen, tossing it down haphazardly onto the mat. Jensen’s empty without it, shifting and impatient, but he can’t resist dipping his head below his shoulders to look. It’s rolled between his knees, innocuous: the beer-bottle, mostly empty, its neck shiny with lube. Of course. He laughs softly. “Thought you’d violate me after all, huh?”
Misha’s trembling finely as he positions himself, jeans shucked down his thighs, t-shirt damp and sticky and still in place. Jensen hears the rustle of foil; a pause while Misha rolls the condom on, stalling. His voice, when it comes, sounds wrecked. “Thought we agreed - “ one hand curls around Jensen’s hipbone, gripping it like an anchor “ - it wasn’t violation if you had - fuck - permission?”
“Oh, yeah.” Jensen pushes back, rubbing himself against the blunt head of Misha’s cock, loving Misha’s strangled sound too much to care about how undignified he probably looks. “Well - you want an engraved invitation, or what?”
He doesn’t know where it’s coming from, smart mouth and no inhibitions, but maybe it’s partly the alcohol, and maybe it’s partly the way it feels as if he’s gonna lose it if Misha doesn’t do something soon, doesn’t fill him up tight and lock everything in where it’s meant to be inside of him. Misha’s broken laugh says Jensen’s not the only one who’s noticed, but then Misha is pressing into him, steady and sure, and Jensen, impatient, thrusts back hard, impaling himself.
“Slut,” Misha chides, as he rolls his hips, other hand clutching at Jensen’s waist for support. Jensen doesn’t care; lets the frisson of shame roll right down his spine like water, lets it spark his blood and doesn’t think on it further. He wants this, wants Misha; wants the quickening pace of his thrusts, the smack of skin and the scrape of denim against his ass, and for now, that’s just dandy.
They’ve teased too long, and Jensen’s whole body feels like it’s on fire, sensation rocketing through him at every desperate jackhammer thrust against his prostate. When Misha’s fingers slip from the safe haven of his hipbone, brushing against the wet head of his cock, it’s too much, too everything, and Misha’s next thrust knocks Jensen’s arms out from under him, leaves him face down on his folded hands.
“Fuck,” he chokes out, incoherent, but Misha only grips him tight and upraises his hips, fingers tracing the ridges of Jensen’s cockhead as his pelvis moves rhythmic and fierce. Jensen breathes deep, staving off hyperventilation, and turns his face, cheek pressed sweaty to the back of his own hand.
Turns out, looking to the left is a bad idea.
Somewhere along the way, Jensen had sort of forgotten that they weren’t alone in the room, some part of his brain repressing the fact for his comfort, Jensen has no doubt. But now he’s here, face to the floor, and Jared’s there, two feet to his left, and at some point he must have rolled in his sleep because he’s facing Jensen and
”Shit!” Jensen rasps out, vision going white around the edges as Misha’s fingers tighten around him, “Shitshitshitshit-”
He needs to be quiet; needs to keep this in before this ends in disaster the likes of which Jensen can barely imagine, but Misha’s thundering into him now, every touch ratcheting him closer to the imminent edge. Every bitten-back curse seems to break out as a whimper, some long, low sound in the back of Jensen’s throat, and he can’t stop now; fuck. He couldn’t take it.
Some deep-rooted, frantic part of him wants him to keep his eyes open, to track Jared’s face for any sign of wakefulness, but he’s mostly well aware of how entirely horrendous an idea that is. If he does wake, after all, it’s not as if Jensen’s gonna be able to explain this away with a simple “So I tripped and fell on Misha’s cock,” and if he doesn’t, well, it’s all good, and Jensen really doesn’t need to be watching Jared drool while Misha fucks his brains out. He turns his face back into his hands, squeezes his eyes shut, and tries not to let his spine melt entirely.
Misha’s pace is becoming erratic, now, the rhythm lost somewhere in the chaos, and Jensen’s sure that his own backward thrusts aren’t helping. He’s so fucking close, though, rolling his hips forward into Misha’s hand, fucking Misha’s fist through a sheen of his own slick, and Misha, behind him, is reckless, grip hard enough to bruise. He needs it, needs it all, Misha’s thick heat in him and cradling his urgency and the sudden loss of Misha’s hand is inexplicable and excruciating.
“Fuck,” he rasps out, voice high with desperation as Misha’s fingers trail up his chest, circle his nipples, “- Misha - Misha, don’t - Misha, touch me, you fucker, I can’t, can’t,” and he’s squirming, shivering, bucking against the air, tears starting up in his eyes at the shock of abandonment. He thrusts himself backwards, too hard and too urgent; reaches around to grasp at Misha’s hand. “Come on, come on, touchmetouchmetouchme!”
“You’ll wake him up, you nympho,” Misha laughs, dark and low in Jensen’s ear. His hand dips lower, ghosts against the tip of Jensen’s cock, and he’s done, just like that, game over.
It’s sudden and fierce as a busted main, flooding out of Jensen in spurts, and when Misha’s hand closes again around him, he can’t bite back a strangulated, animal cry. He can’t remember the last time he came this hard, great strings of it white on the mat underneath him, his fingers and toes gone numb. When it finally ends, he’s lightheaded, boneless; struggling for breath with his face smushed into his hands.
Misha, behind him, laughs and rolls him over bodily onto his back. It’s easier this way, breathing without his hands in the way. It’s not until he hears the plasticky sound of the condom being removed that he realises Misha hasn’t come; opens his eyes in consternation.
Above him, Misha doesn’t look concerned at all. On the contrary, on his knees like that, he looks wild, wanton, head tipped back so the long line of his throat shows sweaty and tan and beautiful. His cock is beautiful, too, flushed and hard and slipping through his hand as he fists it, precome shooting from the head in little pulses.
“Fuck,” Jensen breathes. “Misha - you could’ve - “
“Didn’t want to,” Misha cuts him off, guttural and gasped between breaths. “Wanted - God, Jensen - just -”
And then he’s coming, shooting, thick white ropes of it over Jensen’s chest and left shoulder, the left side of his face. Unthinkingly, Jensen turns towards him, letting the spunk spatter wet across his cheeks, his lips, like hot wax. The sound Misha makes when he flickers out his tongue to lick the taste from his lower lip is hotter than the sun.
Half a beat later, Misha is in his arms, crawling all over him, holding him down. “God,” he’s murmuring, licking at Jensen’s mouth, “God, you fucker, you perfect little slut,” and then his tongue is hot and everywhere, cleaning his come from Jensen’s cheeks. When he’s satisfied, he pulls back a little, looking at Jensen almost warily, but Jensen only smiles, cups a hand around his nape and pulls him in. The inside of his mouth tastes like jizz, salt-sweat-bitter, and Jensen licks it from the soft wet hollows of his cheeks.
They kiss like that for a long, slow time. Jensen knows it’s a long time because, by the time Misha pulls away, he can feel his fingers and toes again, and his heart has slowed to something less than a gallop. His limbs still feel like water, though; loose and liquid and trickling toward sleep.
When Misha moves to climb off him, Jensen protests, a disgruntled murmur in the back of his throat. Misha kisses his forehead, and laughs softly. “Jen. Come on. We need to shower.” He touches his fingers to the tacky mess on Jensen’s stomach, as if in demonstration. “Jared’s not going to sleep forever, you know.”
Jensen blinks. For a second, it’s a blink of uncomprehension. Then, memory crashes in around him, too bright and too soon, and he groans. “Oh, shit.”
He pulls himself to his feet awkwardly, every muscle screaming in protest. The floor is a disaster area, the mat rumpled, clothes and empty bottles scattered everywhere. Jensen runs his hands through his hair and glares wide-eyed at Misha.
“I told you we should have gone to the bedroom. Now there’s - I mean - we can’t exactly just leave him here, to wake up on a Twister mat covered in jizz.” He flails his hands wildly.
Misha shrugs. “These mats are wipe-clean,” he offers, brightly. “Ages eight and up!”
Jensen throws a t-shirt at him, and stalks off to the bathroom.
What haze of drunkenness had settled over him has mostly disappeared, which is lucky, Jensen thinks, as he turns on the shower, because staying upright is difficult enough already on his sex-weakened legs. He reaches for the first bottle he can find, and works up a brisk lather. It’s not exactly an absorbing task, but Jensen has a horror of shampoo in the eyes, so what with the sound of the shower and his self-induced blindness, he doesn’t notice Misha’s arrival until there are arms slipping wet around his waist, pulling him close.
“Mmm,” says Misha, soft vibration at the nape of Jensen’s neck. “You smell like a chai latte. Or - no - maybe cinnamon pumpkin spice?”
Jensen snorts. “Thanks. I think this shit is Jared’s.”
Misha kisses the side of his neck, lips smack-sliding comically, deliberately, against the wet skin. “Well,” he says, reaching past Jensen for the bottle, “I don’t want to be the only one who doesn’t smell like hipster coffee, in that case.”
Jensen laughs; leans back a little against Misha’s body. He’s neat, compact, and it’s only natural, surely, that Jensen’s mind starts contemplating the fact that Misha never actually got naked during all that dirty sex before; that it’s only fair that he should get to see the lay of the land as well. Casually, he turns in Misha’s arms; follows the tapering of his sides down to his waist. “Great.” He rolls his eyes. “They’ll be able to sell us at Starbucks. Tall, grande, and venti comatose downstairs.”
“Fangirls would love that,” Misha says, eyes squinted shut against the trickle of foam inching down his forehead. “But I am not gonna be the little one.”
“Sorry,” Jensen grins, “but them’s the breaks.” He leans over, kisses Misha’s mouth; and it’s gentle, casual, not sexual, and the easiness of it is strange. “Speaking of Venti,” he prompts, before he can dwell on that too much.
“Oh, I rolled him off the mat,” Misha says, tilting his head back to let the shampoo run down his back. “I had to shove pretty hard, but he didn’t wake up. Just said something about hedgehogs and then rolled onto his front -” Misha held up one hand like a Shakespearean actor “ - as if dead.”
Jensen laughs. “Hedgehogs?”
“Hedgehogs,” Misha confirms, with a nod of his head.
“Well,” says Jensen, “I seriously hope you got rid of the mat. Thing wasn’t fit to be seen.”
“Oh, I kept it,” Misha shoots back, blithe and quick. “Those come-stains will make me my fortune.”
It says a lot about Misha, Jensen thinks, as he reaches for the soap, that Jensen isn’t 100% sure he’s kidding.
Fifteen minutes and a bit of teenage groping later, Jared’s still right where Misha left him, curled up into himself like a seriously huge French pastry.
“Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m not gonna give myself a hernia trying to lug that up the stairs,” says Jensen, crossing his arms.
“That’s because you’re a puny human,” returns Misha. “I could carry him, easy.”
Jensen raises an eyebrow. “You’re not serious.”
“Yeah, not even the tiniest little bit.”
They survey Jared for a moment in contemplative silence. Then Misha says, “You know, I’m not even feeling that charitable for a man who’s just gotten it good,” right when Jensen says, “There are cushions on the couch?”
They look at each other. Five seconds later, Jensen’s lifting Jared’s head enough that Misha can shove a pillow under it and save him from waking up with a seventh-circle crick in his neck, before groping for the throw from the couch.
“It’s not long enough.”
“No,” Misha corrects, “He’s too long.” He straightens, wiping his hands on his (Jensen’s, actually) soft pyjama bottoms. “And I’m wiped, so...” He gestures vaguely toward the couch. “Want me to...?”
“What?” For a moment, Jensen is utterly confused. Then it all comes back to him in a rush, through the veil of warmth that the shared shower did nothing to dispel: this isn’t, they aren’t, anything, and Misha’s not the type to presume. Misha probably knows what he’s doing. Misha’s done plenty of this; knows how to keep strings from forming.
But. Jensen, in the right mood, is a cuddle slut, and he says, “Hell, no. My bed could take four.”
“I’ll bear that in mind for next time,” Misha says, turning toward him. Something dances across his face, unidentifiable, but Jensen can tell it’s something good, not caution or reluctance. Next thing he knows is Misha’s hand in his, Misha’s mouth soft against Jensen’s jaw.
“Just for tonight, huh?” Misha says, soft wisp of voice in Jensen’s ear.
Jensen nods, whatever, because Misha’s not going anywhere. Not tonight, not tomorrow, and even if this isn’t supposed to be a Something, Jensen can’t help feeling like it is. Just maybe, in some way, it is. And that’s - incredibly - okay.
They slot together like the proverbial spoons in a drawer. The curve of Misha’s back fits warm to Jensen’s front like it was made to rest there, and their fingers tangle casual and fond.
“Night,” Jensen says; rubs his nose against the bolt of Misha’s jaw.
Misha is silent, but Jensen hears him smiling in the dark.
*