Fic: Friday - Jensen/Misha, NC-17
Title: Friday
Author: qthelights
Pairing: Jensen/Misha
Rating: NC-17
Words: 1591
Disclaimer: Not mine, Didn't happen.
Summary: Jensen overhears something he shouldn't.
Notes: Written for Day 7 of mmom Continuation of Wound Down, Wound Up.
Jensen tosses his shirt in the direction of the hamper on the other side of the room, the material hitting with a soft thud and the plastic click of buttons hitting plaster before it slides down into the basket beneath. Score.
He sits down on the edge of his bed and toes off his ratty shoes and then his socks (score, score). He really ought to have a shower right now. He's grimy and slightly odourous from a whole day on set filming fight scenes, and the thought of scalding hot water pounding down on his shoulders? Hell yeah.
But his bed is soft, and it smells like sleep and comfort, and so he really can't help lying back down. Just for a minute.
Which is where he is, eyes blinking sleepily at the white blanket of the ceiling when his phone loops into view from his peripheral vision, arcs through the air and lands with a slap against the bare skin of his chest.
He doesn't even blink.
"What?" He grunts out in the direction of the door where he knows Jared will be standing.
"Dude. Call Misha before your lazy ass falls asleep."
He represses the urge to whine like a little kid being roused for school. Barely. "Why can't you do it, ferfucksake."
He slaps his hand down on his ribs, pulls the cold metal of his phone into his fingers.
"'Cause he's more likely to come if you call, and we both know it. Though god only knows why he's all BFF with your scrawny ass."
Jensen sighs. It's true, he knows it's true. For whatever reason, Misha will be more likely to turn up if the invite comes from him than Jay. Stupid as that is. He suspects it's some weird imprinting thing, that Jensen was the first person to get to know Misha and so now he's forever safer than Jared.
Which hey, stupider things have been thought. Jared is pretty fucking scary.
"Fine," he agrees, mostly to get Jared to go away so he can go back to sleepy-times.
He can practically feel the nod of Jared's satisfaction, but can't be fucked sitting up to have the conversation like a civilized person. Jared won't be offended that he's conversing with the ceiling anyway, he knows the kind of bone-deep tired that comes off a day of lunging and throwing.
"Good. I'm gonna take the kids for a run. Be back in 30. Order pizza, yeah?"
"Anchovies?"
"Try it, fucker, and you'll be walking funny for a week."
Jensen snorts his amusement, feels the bed bounce softly beneath him. As if. Jared wouldn't hurt a hair on his pretty damn head. Though he might put ex-lax in his coffee.
He listens to the jangle of the dogs' leads being pulled off their pegs and the scampering clattering of claws on the floor boards. Then the door thudding shut and silence. Blessed silence. He closes his eyes and lets himself drift a second before remembering he needs to call Misha before he actually passes out.
Without bothering to sit up, legs still crooked over the side of the bed, feet flat on the floor, he lifts the phone up to squint at the screen, thumbs the contacts and hits 'M'. Misha is third on the list. He hits the green phone symbol and cradles the phone to his ear, free hand scratching absently at his stomach.
The phone clicks and connects and he listens to the rings trill. One. Two. Threefour. He's about to hang up, sure Misha isn't near his phone because he's always pretty prompt to pick up, when there's a silence followed by a fumbling sound.
"Jensen?" Misha's voice comes through the phone with a curious undertone of suspicion. It's not like he never calls him for crying out loud.
"Misha?" He replies, briefly flicks his gaze sideways and up to the alarm clock to check the time. "Hey man, I was just wondering if you wanted to come round for a beer tomorrow. Jared has some half-assed idea that bonding and booze is in order."
"Um," there's another protracted pause on Misha's end. "Yeah, sure."
Which is a bit... brief, but whatever. If Misha doesn't wanna come over, he's more than capable of saying no. Jensen shrugs it off.
"Cool, well come over any time. Game's at 2."
"Uh huh, Yup." Misha's voice comes back in answer, soft and distracted. And then there's another pause.
"Er...," Jensen starts, not sure what the hell is going on. "You okay, man?" he finishes, lamely.
"Yeah fine...Sorry. In the middle of something. I'll catch you at 2, k?"
Jensen's about to reply when he hears the muffled sound of flesh muffling against the phone's mic and then a soft thump like Misha's dropped the phone.
What the fuck?
"Misha?"
There's no reply. He pulls back the phone to look at the screen. The call is still active, so Misha didn't just hang up on him. He brings it back to his ear and listens again to make sure the conversation is over before he disconnects from his end.
Which is when he hears Misha.
Specifically, hears Misha groan, long and dark and gutturally Castiel-like.
And the bottom drops out of his fucking stomach. 'Cause the situation slams into his visual cortex with all the delicacy of a Mack truck and everything about the weird phonecall suddenly makes sense. Misha is making sex noises. Misha is having sex. Jensen is listening to Misha have sex.
Jensen sucks in a sharp breath, feels his cock jerk suddenly and painfully inside his jeans. Feels the blood swirl and dip down his veins and rush unbidden to his dick.
He should hang up the phone. He knows he should hang up the phone. It's not cool to listen to your friends in their intimate moments, right? He's had to stuff pillows over his head and ipods into his ears enough times when Jared is being overenthusiastic with a girlfriend in the next room after all.
And yet...he doesn't hang up the phone. Instead finds himself biting his bottom lip to stay quiet and pry more information out of the speaker at his ear.
There's only a soft almost-sound. Maybe breathing? Maybe just shifting among bedsheets or sofa cushions. Who's to say.
Then he catches a soft mewling gasp that makes his cock throb and the hand not pressing the phone to his ear for dear life slide down his stomach and pop the button of his jeans before he knows what he's doing.
The noise comes again, stronger this time, and by itself. Jensen's eyes slam shut with the knowledge that what he's hearing isn't Misha having sex. It's Misha jerking himself off. He knows it with blinding clarity as the image of Misha, long and lithe and stretched out naked across a bed, hand stroking up and down a hard cock, invades his mind and settles there like a hot poker.
He knows he shouldn't be doing this. He shouldn't... but he can't not, and Jensen yanks at the zip to his jeans, pulls his impossibly hard cock out of his briefs and clamps his hand down around himself with a soft moan of his own. Begins to tug and pull and fucking jerk himself, hard and fast. He needs to come now, even if that's ridiculous, even if he couldn't begin to be this hard, this fast. Hasn't ever.
But he is.
He's holding his breath, keeping his own sounds internal so he can cling to the noise through the phone. Prays that Misha doesn't notice the phone, doesn't stop. Doesn't anything other than continue to make the sharpening stuttery breaths and the tiny cries of pleasure lacing each one.
He can hear them, coming faster, hitching and breaking and deepening and Jensen tightens his grip, allows the skin to stay fast to his palm and move over the hardened muscle beneath, feels his hips buck up off the bed, helped by the balls of his feet arching off the floor.
And then he can hear Misha falling. Misha groaning. Misha coming.
The pressure coils in his gut, pulses through him in potential waves, building and threatening on the edge of heaven.
And then he hears the unmistakable sound of the phone being fumbled and a sharp intake of breath and he knows that Misha is realising his mistake, can see Misha bringing the phone to his ear.
And then he hears it, Misha's tentative worried voice, roughened and grumbling from his orgasm. "Jen?"
And Jensen's done for, his breath stutters out of his chest, his throat catches and his orgasm hits him from within, potential turning kinetic, and come spurting out over his hand and stomach. Vaguely he's aware of the moan that threads through him, the rush of breath and bliss. He can't even stop the "Fuck, Misha," that slips from his tongue in the heady daze of it all.
There's another soft gasp and then noise on the other end. And then silence.
Jensen blinks his eyes open, the ceiling swimming in his vision slightly.
And realises that he just came to the sound of Misha jerking off.
And Misha heard it.
Fuck.
*
When Jared asks him later if Misha is coming round for the game, he shakes his head. "Nah, said he was busy or something."
Jared rolls his eyes. "Whatever. I'm gonna pound his ass on Monday."
Jensen tries not to blanch and forces out a laugh.
Yeah. Monday.
*
End
*
Continued: Monday
Author: qthelights
Pairing: Jensen/Misha
Rating: NC-17
Words: 1591
Disclaimer: Not mine, Didn't happen.
Summary: Jensen overhears something he shouldn't.
Notes: Written for Day 7 of mmom Continuation of Wound Down, Wound Up.
Jensen tosses his shirt in the direction of the hamper on the other side of the room, the material hitting with a soft thud and the plastic click of buttons hitting plaster before it slides down into the basket beneath. Score.
He sits down on the edge of his bed and toes off his ratty shoes and then his socks (score, score). He really ought to have a shower right now. He's grimy and slightly odourous from a whole day on set filming fight scenes, and the thought of scalding hot water pounding down on his shoulders? Hell yeah.
But his bed is soft, and it smells like sleep and comfort, and so he really can't help lying back down. Just for a minute.
Which is where he is, eyes blinking sleepily at the white blanket of the ceiling when his phone loops into view from his peripheral vision, arcs through the air and lands with a slap against the bare skin of his chest.
He doesn't even blink.
"What?" He grunts out in the direction of the door where he knows Jared will be standing.
"Dude. Call Misha before your lazy ass falls asleep."
He represses the urge to whine like a little kid being roused for school. Barely. "Why can't you do it, ferfucksake."
He slaps his hand down on his ribs, pulls the cold metal of his phone into his fingers.
"'Cause he's more likely to come if you call, and we both know it. Though god only knows why he's all BFF with your scrawny ass."
Jensen sighs. It's true, he knows it's true. For whatever reason, Misha will be more likely to turn up if the invite comes from him than Jay. Stupid as that is. He suspects it's some weird imprinting thing, that Jensen was the first person to get to know Misha and so now he's forever safer than Jared.
Which hey, stupider things have been thought. Jared is pretty fucking scary.
"Fine," he agrees, mostly to get Jared to go away so he can go back to sleepy-times.
He can practically feel the nod of Jared's satisfaction, but can't be fucked sitting up to have the conversation like a civilized person. Jared won't be offended that he's conversing with the ceiling anyway, he knows the kind of bone-deep tired that comes off a day of lunging and throwing.
"Good. I'm gonna take the kids for a run. Be back in 30. Order pizza, yeah?"
"Anchovies?"
"Try it, fucker, and you'll be walking funny for a week."
Jensen snorts his amusement, feels the bed bounce softly beneath him. As if. Jared wouldn't hurt a hair on his pretty damn head. Though he might put ex-lax in his coffee.
He listens to the jangle of the dogs' leads being pulled off their pegs and the scampering clattering of claws on the floor boards. Then the door thudding shut and silence. Blessed silence. He closes his eyes and lets himself drift a second before remembering he needs to call Misha before he actually passes out.
Without bothering to sit up, legs still crooked over the side of the bed, feet flat on the floor, he lifts the phone up to squint at the screen, thumbs the contacts and hits 'M'. Misha is third on the list. He hits the green phone symbol and cradles the phone to his ear, free hand scratching absently at his stomach.
The phone clicks and connects and he listens to the rings trill. One. Two. Threefour. He's about to hang up, sure Misha isn't near his phone because he's always pretty prompt to pick up, when there's a silence followed by a fumbling sound.
"Jensen?" Misha's voice comes through the phone with a curious undertone of suspicion. It's not like he never calls him for crying out loud.
"Misha?" He replies, briefly flicks his gaze sideways and up to the alarm clock to check the time. "Hey man, I was just wondering if you wanted to come round for a beer tomorrow. Jared has some half-assed idea that bonding and booze is in order."
"Um," there's another protracted pause on Misha's end. "Yeah, sure."
Which is a bit... brief, but whatever. If Misha doesn't wanna come over, he's more than capable of saying no. Jensen shrugs it off.
"Cool, well come over any time. Game's at 2."
"Uh huh, Yup." Misha's voice comes back in answer, soft and distracted. And then there's another pause.
"Er...," Jensen starts, not sure what the hell is going on. "You okay, man?" he finishes, lamely.
"Yeah fine...Sorry. In the middle of something. I'll catch you at 2, k?"
Jensen's about to reply when he hears the muffled sound of flesh muffling against the phone's mic and then a soft thump like Misha's dropped the phone.
What the fuck?
"Misha?"
There's no reply. He pulls back the phone to look at the screen. The call is still active, so Misha didn't just hang up on him. He brings it back to his ear and listens again to make sure the conversation is over before he disconnects from his end.
Which is when he hears Misha.
Specifically, hears Misha groan, long and dark and gutturally Castiel-like.
And the bottom drops out of his fucking stomach. 'Cause the situation slams into his visual cortex with all the delicacy of a Mack truck and everything about the weird phonecall suddenly makes sense. Misha is making sex noises. Misha is having sex. Jensen is listening to Misha have sex.
Jensen sucks in a sharp breath, feels his cock jerk suddenly and painfully inside his jeans. Feels the blood swirl and dip down his veins and rush unbidden to his dick.
He should hang up the phone. He knows he should hang up the phone. It's not cool to listen to your friends in their intimate moments, right? He's had to stuff pillows over his head and ipods into his ears enough times when Jared is being overenthusiastic with a girlfriend in the next room after all.
And yet...he doesn't hang up the phone. Instead finds himself biting his bottom lip to stay quiet and pry more information out of the speaker at his ear.
There's only a soft almost-sound. Maybe breathing? Maybe just shifting among bedsheets or sofa cushions. Who's to say.
Then he catches a soft mewling gasp that makes his cock throb and the hand not pressing the phone to his ear for dear life slide down his stomach and pop the button of his jeans before he knows what he's doing.
The noise comes again, stronger this time, and by itself. Jensen's eyes slam shut with the knowledge that what he's hearing isn't Misha having sex. It's Misha jerking himself off. He knows it with blinding clarity as the image of Misha, long and lithe and stretched out naked across a bed, hand stroking up and down a hard cock, invades his mind and settles there like a hot poker.
He knows he shouldn't be doing this. He shouldn't... but he can't not, and Jensen yanks at the zip to his jeans, pulls his impossibly hard cock out of his briefs and clamps his hand down around himself with a soft moan of his own. Begins to tug and pull and fucking jerk himself, hard and fast. He needs to come now, even if that's ridiculous, even if he couldn't begin to be this hard, this fast. Hasn't ever.
But he is.
He's holding his breath, keeping his own sounds internal so he can cling to the noise through the phone. Prays that Misha doesn't notice the phone, doesn't stop. Doesn't anything other than continue to make the sharpening stuttery breaths and the tiny cries of pleasure lacing each one.
He can hear them, coming faster, hitching and breaking and deepening and Jensen tightens his grip, allows the skin to stay fast to his palm and move over the hardened muscle beneath, feels his hips buck up off the bed, helped by the balls of his feet arching off the floor.
And then he can hear Misha falling. Misha groaning. Misha coming.
The pressure coils in his gut, pulses through him in potential waves, building and threatening on the edge of heaven.
And then he hears the unmistakable sound of the phone being fumbled and a sharp intake of breath and he knows that Misha is realising his mistake, can see Misha bringing the phone to his ear.
And then he hears it, Misha's tentative worried voice, roughened and grumbling from his orgasm. "Jen?"
And Jensen's done for, his breath stutters out of his chest, his throat catches and his orgasm hits him from within, potential turning kinetic, and come spurting out over his hand and stomach. Vaguely he's aware of the moan that threads through him, the rush of breath and bliss. He can't even stop the "Fuck, Misha," that slips from his tongue in the heady daze of it all.
There's another soft gasp and then noise on the other end. And then silence.
Jensen blinks his eyes open, the ceiling swimming in his vision slightly.
And realises that he just came to the sound of Misha jerking off.
And Misha heard it.
Fuck.
*
When Jared asks him later if Misha is coming round for the game, he shakes his head. "Nah, said he was busy or something."
Jared rolls his eyes. "Whatever. I'm gonna pound his ass on Monday."
Jensen tries not to blanch and forces out a laugh.
Yeah. Monday.
*
End
*
Continued: Monday