(no subject)
Title: Cliff Huxtable Wants His Sweater Back
Pairing: Jensen Ackles/Misha Collins
Rating: NC-17
Summary: A pornlet based on the theory that this sweater? Is evil.
Word Count: 2,880
Disclaimer: I claim nothing. Misha and Jensen can claim themselves.
Beta: raynemaiden is love.
Note: My apologies to Misha, as I genuinely like the sweater. It’s quirky! And kind of snow bunny-ish.
See below for update regarding title change.
Also at AO3.
It's more atrocious than anything in Padalecki's wardrobe-including his collection of pink shirts.
It's lurid: a violent clash of radioactive orange and squashed Smurf blue, stripes of red and yellow like linear ketchup and mustard stains, and ecru.
It's an affront to sweaters everywhere; an affront to textiles, period.
It's a threat to everyone's ophthalmic health.
It's absofuckinglutely adorable.
This realization isn't as startling to Jensen as is the revelation that he wants to use his hands to cover as much of Misha's ugly-ass sweater as possible. He wants to push his hands up into the plush pile of cotton, run his hands down Misha's chest and pull that thing right off his body-inch by inch, stripe by garish stripe.
What surprises him most of all-later, when he's finally thinking straight, or you know, ish-is that he actually does it.
Not surprisingly, it seems to surprise Misha even more. When Jensen corners him in between two trailer ends, Misha's eyes go so wide it's even more unnerving than usual, even more unnerving than when Misha is in character and not blinking and so intense that Jensen thinks he might truly be capable of seeing into his soul. It is even more unsettling than his sweater. The only way Jensen can fathom dealing with this suddenly disquieting vision of extra wide, possibly extra blue-gray, possibly thus extra sexy eyes-well, the only thing Jensen can think to do is block them out by pulling that sweater up over them. The objective of getting the sweater completely off being part of this as well.
Jensen's not usually impulsive like this, not usually this careless. Even with one or two or nine beers in him, he's still moderately reserved and well-behaved. So now, being completely sober and not even a tinge sleep-deprived, what excuse does he have? He decides it must be the sweater. The sweater is to blame.
It's not the easiest thing to get rid of, what with Misha still being mostly in it and kind of struggling and making noises that are somewhat muffled but audible enough that Jensen reasonably assumes they might be curses. When Jensen has the sweater mostly off, save for the part of the sleeve caught on Misha's wristwatch, he feels triumphant. Until he hears Misha's loud swallow, a nervous click in his throat, and Misha says, "Is this... is this a prank?"
At that, Jensen's heart rate picks up even more-which Jensen thinks must be close to lethal by now, what with the adrenaline pumping through his veins and the exertion of sweater-snatching making his pulse quicken too, and with his pulse pounding even harder at the proximity of half-naked Misha. Yet that? That gives Jensen pause. Then he does his best imitation of Castiel: tilts his head to one side, tucks his chin under, looks up from beneath his furrowed brow and sets Misha with a hard, heavy stare.
"No," Jensen says slowly, voice low and rough. "My pranks are much more... pedestrian."
Misha opens his mouth as if to explain or make an excuse. Jensen doesn't give him a chance to say it, whatever it is he's planning to say. He's pretty certain that mouth can do much better things than talk.
Jensen tugs the sweater free from Misha's wristwatch, tosses it to the side-if into a puddle, then all the better-and pushes his fingers up into Misha's already sweater-mussed hair and brings Misha's face to his.
It's all teeth at first, clacking against each other as Misha makes confused noises and Jensen makes his best effort to clear up that confusion by angling his head the right way and finding Misha's lips. And sliding his bottom lip up beneath Misha's bottom lip, he makes a noise of his own. The quiet groan that slips out with that first meeting of lips only deepens when he feels Misha's tongue slip out between them. The tip of it curls up, underneath the middle of Jensen's upper lip, pulling slightly. Jensen takes his cue. He opens his mouth and pulls Misha in, kissing him hard, so hard their chins collide, sandpaper scratch of stubble catching as they move against each other, with each other. Misha's tongue licks lazily along the inside of Jensen's mouth, quickening as Jensen's kisses come faster, shorter, hastening to tease his tongue along Misha's, twining them together until he's humming and breathless with the contact.
When he pulls back to catch his breath, Jensen looks Misha up and down. The first thing he notices is how the cold, damp air has drawn Misha's nipples into taut points. And then how flushed Misha's skin is, all the way up to the tips of his ears and nose-maybe not just from the cold. And how bright pink and swollen his lips are-probably not at all from the cold. His hair looks a mess from where Jensen had gripped it and kneaded it. Where Jensen still holds on, feeling the thick, gelled tufts slide between his fingers. He smoothes his thumbs down Misha's temples and looks him in the eyes. And maybe it's the way Misha's eyes have gone a deep, slate blue around his widened pupils, or maybe it's the way the corner of his mouth is twitching into a bemused smirk. Maybe it's the fact that Jensen still hasn't gotten enough air back into his lungs. But he feels a little off center, a little imbalanced, a little self-conscious and a lot turned on. Even more than before. Which makes him feel even more off balance.
When Misha backs away from him, eyes locked on his, not even breaking contact when he reaches down to pick up his sweater (just inches away from a puddle), slowly stepping around the corner, with that smirk still on his face even though he's biting his bottom lip... well, what can Jensen do but follow?
They barely make it to the nearest trailer-which Jensen's pretty sure is his-and barely make it up the steps. The door proves even harder to close than it is to open. Jensen uses his ass, deciding that, when Misha shoves up against him and the door thumps, clicks and rattles, it's probably sufficiently shut.
Misha is smaller than Jensen, slightly shorter and kind of boney in his thinness. Maybe not boney, just angular. So when he says, well, what he says, in that smokey rasp he usually reserves for when he's playing Castiel, it takes Jensen a moment to figure out how to respond to such a dominating tone. Misha says, "On your knees." And Jensen's knees bend slightly of their own accord-which maybe means that the rest of his body responds better and faster than his brain. But then, his brain controls his body, so maybe it's just that part of his brain is keeping secrets from the other parts of his brain. Which, when he considers the sudden rush of blood somewhere that is definitely not his brain, well. Jensen just gets on his knees.
The jeans Misha's wearing are worn out and frayed. They hang loose around his waist, sitting low enough that his hipbones curve out prominently from them. With his finger, Jensen follows the indentation between abdomen and hip, eliciting a shiver and a raising of gooseflesh in his wake. So he does it again, this time dipping lower, beneath the waistband, fingertips brushing lightly against coarse hair. Jensen idly thumbs a belt loop that has gone threadbare at one end and come loose, then, with his fingers still hooked beneath the waistband, tugs hard, hard enough to pull Misha closer, close enough to get his mouth on Misha's stomach. And on Misha's hip. And in the crease between both, and down. He reaches his tongue as far as it will go past the denim, opening his jaw wide, and scraping his teeth against Misha's fly. He can feel Misha twitch beneath him, can feel the hard push of his cock through his jeans. He can feel the moan that's so low and so shuddering that it practically vibrates on Jensen's lips. He trails his tongue up the flap of Misha's fly, tasting dry cotton. He nudges the zipper pull onto his bottom teeth and bites down, tasting bitter metallic. He drags the zipper down, anticipating the taste of Misha.
With his jeans open and his sweater off and his hair a wreck, Misha already looks thoroughly debauched. Jensen hopes he can do even better. He locks eyes with Misha for a moment while he tugs his jeans and underwear down to his knees, smoothes his hands up the backs of Misha's thighs and leans forward.
He opens his mouth to take Misha in, and... Misha's cock slips right past his lips and smears along his cheek.
Okay, so Jensen's not a complete novice at this sort of thing. Really. But that doesn't mean he knows what he's doing, despite what certain people-certain people by the name of Chris-say about his lips and where they may or may not get him in the industry. Sure, he knows what he likes, knows what feels good and what feels even better when he's getting sucked off. But it's not exactly like he took notes. It seems fairly simple: insert cock and suck and suck and suck like you're trying to eat peanut butter through a drinking straw. A good place to start though is insert cock.
Jensen moves a hand away from Misha's thigh and wraps it around the base of Misha's cock, cupping and rubbing over his balls on the way there because-well, who doesn't like that? Misha does, apparently, and he's already rocking halfway into Jensen's mouth when he opens it again. And this time Jensen gets it right, his mouth full and stretching wide over the tip of Misha's cock. Heat and salt and musk overwhelm his senses as he pulls him in. Misha's uncut, and Jensen can feel the foreskin wrinkling back from the head. It feels odd on his tongue, the way it slides between the tip of his tongue and the thicker skin of Misha's cock right beneath it. As he toys with it, he watches Misha's eyelids drop lower then snap up again as he fights to keep them open. Misha's mouth is hanging open, tongue flicking absently against the corner of his lips. Jensen smiles around Misha and pulls back far enough to flick his tongue against the slit in Misha's cock. Misha nearly bites his own tongue in response. Which shouldn't be funny or hot at all. But it is even less funny and more hot when Misha reaches down and grabs a fistful of Jensen's hair and presses the heel of his hand down into the top of Jensen's head so that he has no choice but to go down too.
Jensen swallows Misha down until he hits the back of his tongue, until his gag reflex starts to tickle a small warning at the back of his throat. It's not much, but with his fist tight around Misha's cock to make up the difference, it should be enough. He pulls off and plunges down again and Misha cries out. Jensen almost has a second to feel smug before he realizes he'd left his teeth uncovered. When he sucks back again, he feels a trickle of precome on his tongue and figures it can't have been that bad. But he draws his swollen, tender lips over his teeth when he bobs down again.
It's not too difficult to set a rhythm, not when Misha's setting it for him, fucking Jensen's mouth with quick, shallow thrusts until Jensen's lips feel tingly, then feel numb. His eyes are close to watering and he doesn't want Misha to get the wrong impression from them, but he steals a quick glance up and sees that Misha's head is thrown back and lolling against his shoulder where his arm is raised, pushing into the wall, his hand splayed wide and fingers almost curled into a claw. Misha's neck is long and arched. His jaw cuts a sharp line against it. If Jensen wasn't otherwise occupied, he would have to bite that jaw, right down the hard line of it to his chin. And he'd bite that too, then bite the soft place right beneath it. Then he'd bite his way down the column of Misha's throat and take hold of that Adam's apple that's fluttering like he's swallowing over and over again. Like he's swallowing in time with Jensen's mouth swallowing over his cock.
Jensen realizes Misha is swallowing in time with the pace of Jensen's mouth, like he's trying to eat air. He realizes this right as Misha stops swallowing, gasps, stills completely and-
"Oh god, I'm-"
Misha's nails dig into Jensen's scalp and Jensen's hand holds hard to the back of Misha's thigh as Misha comes in his mouth. Quick pulses of hot come fill Jensen and he swallows it down. He pulls back, sucking tightly on Misha's cock, so tight his jaw aches, aches even more than before. He sucks once more at the head of Misha's cock, come still coating his tongue. Then he opens his mouth, breathing hard but still licking at Misha, feeling the last of his orgasm stutter against his lips and tongue. He squeezes his fist up the length of Misha's cock. A last trickle of come collects in the juncture of Jensen's thumb and forefinger and Jensen laps at it as he sits back. His other hand strokes Misha's thigh, sliding over the quivering muscle and sweat-dampened hairs, sliding up to rub slow circles over his hip, sliding fingertips into the flesh of his ass. Jensen's other hand slides up his own thigh, a thin streak of come discoloring his jeans. The heel of his hand presses into his straining cock, grinds in quick, hard circles, out of rhythm with his hand on Misha.
As he watches Misha come down, he slips a finger behind him, down between Misha's legs. Misha groans weakly, eyes wrinkling tight, as Jensen strokes a finger from his balls, over his perineum and stops short of his hole. He strokes hard at his own crotch, zipper teeth and rough denim scratching brushburns into his skin. The thought of stopping, getting his pants open, wrapping his hand around himself-hot, moist skin on hot, moist skin? It crosses his mind. But he can't. He can't. His muscles are pulled tight. And his balls are pulled tight. And he can feel Misha, all warm and slick flesh, under his fingers. And if he stops, if he stops right now, he might cry. And that would be undignified.
More undignified than being on one's knees and rubbing oneself off in front of the guy to whom you just gave head.
Yeah, and that guy is watching Jensen with an intent stare. Again. As if it's his default setting. That stare goes right through him, makes him shudder... could almost be enough to make him come.
But it's nothing compared to the intent behind it-when Misha lets go of the wall, reaches behind himself, laces his fingers over Jensen's and pushes in between his legs, guiding Jensen's finger toward the ring of muscle, nudging up against his hole. The pad of Jensen's finger slips over the entrance. Misha pushes on Jensen's knuckle. The tip of Jensen's finger pushes inside. Misha's eyes fall shut, but Jensen's not looking, doesn't notice that. All he knows is the tight, tight heat surrounding his finger, the way it grips him, just his finger. And he imagines that tight heat around his cock. He imagines those muscles gripping hard around him, and he comes right then and there in his pants, comes while he's cupping his crotch with a fast grip that can't even begin to compare to how Misha must feel, how it must feel to fuck Misha.
"Fuck," he says, with Misha's name little more than a quiet whistle of consonants between his teeth.
When his heart slows and his head clears, he starts to slump back against the door, muscles aching and bones... feeling nonexistent. A harsh knock jars the door and jars Jensen, sending his heart racing again.
"Five minutes, Jensen!" he hears the P.A. through the other side.
"Okay!" he calls, wincing as he realizes how close he is, wondering if that will make her wonder what he was doing so close to the door. Not that being close to the door means you're doing anything... or anyone.
When Jensen looks back at Misha, Misha's scowling at him. Jensen looks down at the sweater in Misha's hands, dirty and muddy with clumps of gravel clinging to it. But there's a smile lurking beneath Misha's scowl, and Jensen takes a chance and says, "Serves it right."
"What?" Misha tries to look offended, but it's not working. Jensen can see the smile winning over. "I like this sweater."
And Jensen has to admit that, now? He likes it too.
In fact, he can't wait to discover whatever other abominations are lurking in Misha's closet. Maybe he'll even talk Misha into borrowing one of Jared's florid pink shirts.
Feedback is always very welcome. <3
Additional note (almost ten years later, WTF):
Formerly titled: "Bill Cosby Wants His Sweater Back."
I wrote this fic well before the news emerged about Bill Cosby's sexual assault cases. Oh, those halcyon days before he pissed all over our childhoods and - much more importantly - gravely affected multiple women's lives. So I considered switching out the title with "Cliff Huxtable" instead. And then I considered it too late and a bit superfluous to change out. But now, after more time has passed and more awfulness has come to light, I see that name and cringe hard. His affable mask slipped away to reveal so much sleaze, smug remorselessness, and general douchebaggery (to put it lightly). Hence the title change. The fictional character from the (now nearly ruined) TV show was the one known for the eccentric sweaters anyway.
Pairing: Jensen Ackles/Misha Collins
Rating: NC-17
Summary: A pornlet based on the theory that this sweater? Is evil.
Word Count: 2,880
Disclaimer: I claim nothing. Misha and Jensen can claim themselves.
Beta: raynemaiden is love.
Note: My apologies to Misha, as I genuinely like the sweater. It’s quirky! And kind of snow bunny-ish.
See below for update regarding title change.
Also at AO3.
It's more atrocious than anything in Padalecki's wardrobe-including his collection of pink shirts.
It's lurid: a violent clash of radioactive orange and squashed Smurf blue, stripes of red and yellow like linear ketchup and mustard stains, and ecru.
It's an affront to sweaters everywhere; an affront to textiles, period.
It's a threat to everyone's ophthalmic health.
It's absofuckinglutely adorable.
This realization isn't as startling to Jensen as is the revelation that he wants to use his hands to cover as much of Misha's ugly-ass sweater as possible. He wants to push his hands up into the plush pile of cotton, run his hands down Misha's chest and pull that thing right off his body-inch by inch, stripe by garish stripe.
What surprises him most of all-later, when he's finally thinking straight, or you know, ish-is that he actually does it.
Not surprisingly, it seems to surprise Misha even more. When Jensen corners him in between two trailer ends, Misha's eyes go so wide it's even more unnerving than usual, even more unnerving than when Misha is in character and not blinking and so intense that Jensen thinks he might truly be capable of seeing into his soul. It is even more unsettling than his sweater. The only way Jensen can fathom dealing with this suddenly disquieting vision of extra wide, possibly extra blue-gray, possibly thus extra sexy eyes-well, the only thing Jensen can think to do is block them out by pulling that sweater up over them. The objective of getting the sweater completely off being part of this as well.
Jensen's not usually impulsive like this, not usually this careless. Even with one or two or nine beers in him, he's still moderately reserved and well-behaved. So now, being completely sober and not even a tinge sleep-deprived, what excuse does he have? He decides it must be the sweater. The sweater is to blame.
It's not the easiest thing to get rid of, what with Misha still being mostly in it and kind of struggling and making noises that are somewhat muffled but audible enough that Jensen reasonably assumes they might be curses. When Jensen has the sweater mostly off, save for the part of the sleeve caught on Misha's wristwatch, he feels triumphant. Until he hears Misha's loud swallow, a nervous click in his throat, and Misha says, "Is this... is this a prank?"
At that, Jensen's heart rate picks up even more-which Jensen thinks must be close to lethal by now, what with the adrenaline pumping through his veins and the exertion of sweater-snatching making his pulse quicken too, and with his pulse pounding even harder at the proximity of half-naked Misha. Yet that? That gives Jensen pause. Then he does his best imitation of Castiel: tilts his head to one side, tucks his chin under, looks up from beneath his furrowed brow and sets Misha with a hard, heavy stare.
"No," Jensen says slowly, voice low and rough. "My pranks are much more... pedestrian."
Misha opens his mouth as if to explain or make an excuse. Jensen doesn't give him a chance to say it, whatever it is he's planning to say. He's pretty certain that mouth can do much better things than talk.
Jensen tugs the sweater free from Misha's wristwatch, tosses it to the side-if into a puddle, then all the better-and pushes his fingers up into Misha's already sweater-mussed hair and brings Misha's face to his.
It's all teeth at first, clacking against each other as Misha makes confused noises and Jensen makes his best effort to clear up that confusion by angling his head the right way and finding Misha's lips. And sliding his bottom lip up beneath Misha's bottom lip, he makes a noise of his own. The quiet groan that slips out with that first meeting of lips only deepens when he feels Misha's tongue slip out between them. The tip of it curls up, underneath the middle of Jensen's upper lip, pulling slightly. Jensen takes his cue. He opens his mouth and pulls Misha in, kissing him hard, so hard their chins collide, sandpaper scratch of stubble catching as they move against each other, with each other. Misha's tongue licks lazily along the inside of Jensen's mouth, quickening as Jensen's kisses come faster, shorter, hastening to tease his tongue along Misha's, twining them together until he's humming and breathless with the contact.
When he pulls back to catch his breath, Jensen looks Misha up and down. The first thing he notices is how the cold, damp air has drawn Misha's nipples into taut points. And then how flushed Misha's skin is, all the way up to the tips of his ears and nose-maybe not just from the cold. And how bright pink and swollen his lips are-probably not at all from the cold. His hair looks a mess from where Jensen had gripped it and kneaded it. Where Jensen still holds on, feeling the thick, gelled tufts slide between his fingers. He smoothes his thumbs down Misha's temples and looks him in the eyes. And maybe it's the way Misha's eyes have gone a deep, slate blue around his widened pupils, or maybe it's the way the corner of his mouth is twitching into a bemused smirk. Maybe it's the fact that Jensen still hasn't gotten enough air back into his lungs. But he feels a little off center, a little imbalanced, a little self-conscious and a lot turned on. Even more than before. Which makes him feel even more off balance.
When Misha backs away from him, eyes locked on his, not even breaking contact when he reaches down to pick up his sweater (just inches away from a puddle), slowly stepping around the corner, with that smirk still on his face even though he's biting his bottom lip... well, what can Jensen do but follow?
They barely make it to the nearest trailer-which Jensen's pretty sure is his-and barely make it up the steps. The door proves even harder to close than it is to open. Jensen uses his ass, deciding that, when Misha shoves up against him and the door thumps, clicks and rattles, it's probably sufficiently shut.
Misha is smaller than Jensen, slightly shorter and kind of boney in his thinness. Maybe not boney, just angular. So when he says, well, what he says, in that smokey rasp he usually reserves for when he's playing Castiel, it takes Jensen a moment to figure out how to respond to such a dominating tone. Misha says, "On your knees." And Jensen's knees bend slightly of their own accord-which maybe means that the rest of his body responds better and faster than his brain. But then, his brain controls his body, so maybe it's just that part of his brain is keeping secrets from the other parts of his brain. Which, when he considers the sudden rush of blood somewhere that is definitely not his brain, well. Jensen just gets on his knees.
The jeans Misha's wearing are worn out and frayed. They hang loose around his waist, sitting low enough that his hipbones curve out prominently from them. With his finger, Jensen follows the indentation between abdomen and hip, eliciting a shiver and a raising of gooseflesh in his wake. So he does it again, this time dipping lower, beneath the waistband, fingertips brushing lightly against coarse hair. Jensen idly thumbs a belt loop that has gone threadbare at one end and come loose, then, with his fingers still hooked beneath the waistband, tugs hard, hard enough to pull Misha closer, close enough to get his mouth on Misha's stomach. And on Misha's hip. And in the crease between both, and down. He reaches his tongue as far as it will go past the denim, opening his jaw wide, and scraping his teeth against Misha's fly. He can feel Misha twitch beneath him, can feel the hard push of his cock through his jeans. He can feel the moan that's so low and so shuddering that it practically vibrates on Jensen's lips. He trails his tongue up the flap of Misha's fly, tasting dry cotton. He nudges the zipper pull onto his bottom teeth and bites down, tasting bitter metallic. He drags the zipper down, anticipating the taste of Misha.
With his jeans open and his sweater off and his hair a wreck, Misha already looks thoroughly debauched. Jensen hopes he can do even better. He locks eyes with Misha for a moment while he tugs his jeans and underwear down to his knees, smoothes his hands up the backs of Misha's thighs and leans forward.
He opens his mouth to take Misha in, and... Misha's cock slips right past his lips and smears along his cheek.
Okay, so Jensen's not a complete novice at this sort of thing. Really. But that doesn't mean he knows what he's doing, despite what certain people-certain people by the name of Chris-say about his lips and where they may or may not get him in the industry. Sure, he knows what he likes, knows what feels good and what feels even better when he's getting sucked off. But it's not exactly like he took notes. It seems fairly simple: insert cock and suck and suck and suck like you're trying to eat peanut butter through a drinking straw. A good place to start though is insert cock.
Jensen moves a hand away from Misha's thigh and wraps it around the base of Misha's cock, cupping and rubbing over his balls on the way there because-well, who doesn't like that? Misha does, apparently, and he's already rocking halfway into Jensen's mouth when he opens it again. And this time Jensen gets it right, his mouth full and stretching wide over the tip of Misha's cock. Heat and salt and musk overwhelm his senses as he pulls him in. Misha's uncut, and Jensen can feel the foreskin wrinkling back from the head. It feels odd on his tongue, the way it slides between the tip of his tongue and the thicker skin of Misha's cock right beneath it. As he toys with it, he watches Misha's eyelids drop lower then snap up again as he fights to keep them open. Misha's mouth is hanging open, tongue flicking absently against the corner of his lips. Jensen smiles around Misha and pulls back far enough to flick his tongue against the slit in Misha's cock. Misha nearly bites his own tongue in response. Which shouldn't be funny or hot at all. But it is even less funny and more hot when Misha reaches down and grabs a fistful of Jensen's hair and presses the heel of his hand down into the top of Jensen's head so that he has no choice but to go down too.
Jensen swallows Misha down until he hits the back of his tongue, until his gag reflex starts to tickle a small warning at the back of his throat. It's not much, but with his fist tight around Misha's cock to make up the difference, it should be enough. He pulls off and plunges down again and Misha cries out. Jensen almost has a second to feel smug before he realizes he'd left his teeth uncovered. When he sucks back again, he feels a trickle of precome on his tongue and figures it can't have been that bad. But he draws his swollen, tender lips over his teeth when he bobs down again.
It's not too difficult to set a rhythm, not when Misha's setting it for him, fucking Jensen's mouth with quick, shallow thrusts until Jensen's lips feel tingly, then feel numb. His eyes are close to watering and he doesn't want Misha to get the wrong impression from them, but he steals a quick glance up and sees that Misha's head is thrown back and lolling against his shoulder where his arm is raised, pushing into the wall, his hand splayed wide and fingers almost curled into a claw. Misha's neck is long and arched. His jaw cuts a sharp line against it. If Jensen wasn't otherwise occupied, he would have to bite that jaw, right down the hard line of it to his chin. And he'd bite that too, then bite the soft place right beneath it. Then he'd bite his way down the column of Misha's throat and take hold of that Adam's apple that's fluttering like he's swallowing over and over again. Like he's swallowing in time with Jensen's mouth swallowing over his cock.
Jensen realizes Misha is swallowing in time with the pace of Jensen's mouth, like he's trying to eat air. He realizes this right as Misha stops swallowing, gasps, stills completely and-
"Oh god, I'm-"
Misha's nails dig into Jensen's scalp and Jensen's hand holds hard to the back of Misha's thigh as Misha comes in his mouth. Quick pulses of hot come fill Jensen and he swallows it down. He pulls back, sucking tightly on Misha's cock, so tight his jaw aches, aches even more than before. He sucks once more at the head of Misha's cock, come still coating his tongue. Then he opens his mouth, breathing hard but still licking at Misha, feeling the last of his orgasm stutter against his lips and tongue. He squeezes his fist up the length of Misha's cock. A last trickle of come collects in the juncture of Jensen's thumb and forefinger and Jensen laps at it as he sits back. His other hand strokes Misha's thigh, sliding over the quivering muscle and sweat-dampened hairs, sliding up to rub slow circles over his hip, sliding fingertips into the flesh of his ass. Jensen's other hand slides up his own thigh, a thin streak of come discoloring his jeans. The heel of his hand presses into his straining cock, grinds in quick, hard circles, out of rhythm with his hand on Misha.
As he watches Misha come down, he slips a finger behind him, down between Misha's legs. Misha groans weakly, eyes wrinkling tight, as Jensen strokes a finger from his balls, over his perineum and stops short of his hole. He strokes hard at his own crotch, zipper teeth and rough denim scratching brushburns into his skin. The thought of stopping, getting his pants open, wrapping his hand around himself-hot, moist skin on hot, moist skin? It crosses his mind. But he can't. He can't. His muscles are pulled tight. And his balls are pulled tight. And he can feel Misha, all warm and slick flesh, under his fingers. And if he stops, if he stops right now, he might cry. And that would be undignified.
More undignified than being on one's knees and rubbing oneself off in front of the guy to whom you just gave head.
Yeah, and that guy is watching Jensen with an intent stare. Again. As if it's his default setting. That stare goes right through him, makes him shudder... could almost be enough to make him come.
But it's nothing compared to the intent behind it-when Misha lets go of the wall, reaches behind himself, laces his fingers over Jensen's and pushes in between his legs, guiding Jensen's finger toward the ring of muscle, nudging up against his hole. The pad of Jensen's finger slips over the entrance. Misha pushes on Jensen's knuckle. The tip of Jensen's finger pushes inside. Misha's eyes fall shut, but Jensen's not looking, doesn't notice that. All he knows is the tight, tight heat surrounding his finger, the way it grips him, just his finger. And he imagines that tight heat around his cock. He imagines those muscles gripping hard around him, and he comes right then and there in his pants, comes while he's cupping his crotch with a fast grip that can't even begin to compare to how Misha must feel, how it must feel to fuck Misha.
"Fuck," he says, with Misha's name little more than a quiet whistle of consonants between his teeth.
When his heart slows and his head clears, he starts to slump back against the door, muscles aching and bones... feeling nonexistent. A harsh knock jars the door and jars Jensen, sending his heart racing again.
"Five minutes, Jensen!" he hears the P.A. through the other side.
"Okay!" he calls, wincing as he realizes how close he is, wondering if that will make her wonder what he was doing so close to the door. Not that being close to the door means you're doing anything... or anyone.
When Jensen looks back at Misha, Misha's scowling at him. Jensen looks down at the sweater in Misha's hands, dirty and muddy with clumps of gravel clinging to it. But there's a smile lurking beneath Misha's scowl, and Jensen takes a chance and says, "Serves it right."
"What?" Misha tries to look offended, but it's not working. Jensen can see the smile winning over. "I like this sweater."
And Jensen has to admit that, now? He likes it too.
In fact, he can't wait to discover whatever other abominations are lurking in Misha's closet. Maybe he'll even talk Misha into borrowing one of Jared's florid pink shirts.
Feedback is always very welcome. <3
Additional note (almost ten years later, WTF):
Formerly titled: "Bill Cosby Wants His Sweater Back."
I wrote this fic well before the news emerged about Bill Cosby's sexual assault cases. Oh, those halcyon days before he pissed all over our childhoods and - much more importantly - gravely affected multiple women's lives. So I considered switching out the title with "Cliff Huxtable" instead. And then I considered it too late and a bit superfluous to change out. But now, after more time has passed and more awfulness has come to light, I see that name and cringe hard. His affable mask slipped away to reveal so much sleaze, smug remorselessness, and general douchebaggery (to put it lightly). Hence the title change. The fictional character from the (now nearly ruined) TV show was the one known for the eccentric sweaters anyway.