Fic: And In Your Arms Defeated - Jensen/Misha, NC-17
Title: And In Your Arms Defeated
Author: qthelights
Pairing: Jensen/Misha
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: 7000
Summary: Jensen is responsible for fixing people, but sometimes people have other plans.
Disclaimer: Not mine, never happened.
Warnings: None
A/N: For my darling kriari who graciously bid for this fic in aid of help_japan. She wanted wrap party fic, and hopefully this fulfills :) Endless thanks for the invaluable beta and support of nanoochka who made this so much better than it would have been.
And In Your Arms Defeated
They don’t know if there will be a seventh season when they wrap up the sixth. It doesn’t officially put a damper on the celebrations, they’ve done this enough to know it doesn’t mean anything, necessarily. And never let it be said that the Supernatural crew can’t throw a party when a party needs being thrown.
But everything is a little too...something. Jared gets a little too drunk and his handsy pawing is starting to get on some peoples’ nerves, Gen none the least of them. Eric doesn’t bother to turn up. Sera calls in with congratulations and a, Have a cosmo or three for me, but doesn’t make it either. There’s plenty of beer left, bottles dotting the soundstage in large buckets of ice, but the hard liquor has been hit harder than usual. A forced edge tinges the laughter and hilarity, casts a pall over the relief and exuberance of a season well earned.
Even the music is wrong. Instead of the hyperactive dance and pop that usually graces these shindigs, tonight it’s turned slower and more melodious, a steady trance-like lulling, weaving and fluttering through their collective mindset. The set is dark, the lighting guys having gone all out in creating an intimate atmosphere. Jewel-toned lighting envelopes the make-shift bar along the far wall, the small pockets of lounges and ottomans arranged around low tables.
Jensen is peacemaker, making his way between techies and cast, make-up and directors, plays devil’s advocate, or maybe God’s. They’re just waiting for the new head honcho. Our ratings were fine, we’ve done worse before. Without Smallville there’s no way they’re canning us, don’t worry about it.
He’s enacted this role before, is expected to, as unasked leader of the unruly gang. It’s a burden he shares with Jared, but one that Jared often doesn’t perform, absconding from the role and leaving Jensen with his ‘reasonableness’ and ‘magnanimity’ and gosh-darn-country-boy manners to soothe frayed nerves and keep the good ship Supernatural on its course.
And because Jensen is Jensen, generous to a fault and ever the consummate actor, not to mention his father’s son, he does his duty without complaint. Everyone has their break from acting but for Jensen it doesn’t end. A wrap party is just another mask to slip into; to paper-mâché to his skin with strips of glue and false cheer.
Hell, he wouldn’t mind so much except that he’s the one who has to pull it off later, deal with his own emotions by himself; peeling away the adhesive, pulling the hairs and leaving rashes across his soul.
But it’s part of the job, and he loves his job, and he knows sometimes he just has to shut the fuck up and grow a pair. Like tonight, when damage control is sorely needed to keep the party from see-sawing into pity. So he does the rounds.
Phil and Bob sit quietly at one of the round tables, toasting each other with ever-sloppier shots of gin. They chat amicably, old friends in arms. Jensen puts in his time, acts up into vast maturity to match their knowledge and years. He’s one of them, an old soul, wise and knowing. The Bombay Sapphire burns down his throat and lies bitter across his tongue; he tastes liquorice in the back of his throat, almonds under his tongue. They aren’t morose, but it’s there, the uncertainty, the knowledge that it has to end eventually because it always does; they ought to know, they’ve done this many a time before.
Jensen drinks with them for awhile, half an ear on their war stories, the rest of his attention scanning the room, evaluating where everyone is at, who he needs to chat with, who he might have missed. He spots Misha tucked into a darkened corner of the bar, sitting almost unnaturally still, alone. His heart kicks against his ribs and he puts down his glass; clearly he’s had enough if it’s giving him palpitations. For a moment, he wonders if he should go over. Misha rarely needs cheering up. If anything, Misha takes some of the pressure off Jensen, naturally cheering people by his sheer force of will. So it feels almost demeaning to think he might need...
His gaze lingers, watching as Misha glances up and says something that makes the tall, blond bartender laugh. The alcohol turns over unpleasantly in Jensen’s stomach, and he pushes the glass further away. He definitely should not drink gin, and Misha...well, Misha is Misha.
He decides not to go over, feels vaguely guilty but can’t pinpoint why. Instead, he continues to monitor the rest of the room. Jim is in a corner, settled into the couches the guys have set up where usually there would be directors chairs and camera rigging. He’s clearly on about his fourth cuba libre; Jensen can tell by the glazed look in his eyes, the slight smile on his lips and clear adoration at being surrounded by half the girls from make-up. Jim looks up and sees Jensen watching him, nods his baseball-capped head in acknowledgment. They’re good.
Jared has finally been corralled by Gen and they sit together, smushed into a large armchair and chatting with Jeannie and Shannon. Jared has his humongous head on Gen’s tiny shoulder. Jensen smiles at the sight, happy that Jay found someone willing to put up with is childishness in order to discover the seriousness behind it.
The alcohol already in his system sloshes in his stomach, triprushtraipses down his legs as he stands up with knees that pop. He’s not drunk, but he’s definitely approaching tipsy. Jensen surveys the room again, ingrained habit at this point, and is surprised to find that he’s seen to everyone at least once.
Almost everyone, he amends, as he his gaze falls once more on Misha; still at the bar, nursing a glass of amber liquid on the rocks, a half-empty bottle to his side and poking idly at his phone. The quiet solemnity of the tableau is too many shades of wrong for Jensen to ignore a second time, even if something he doesn’t understand makes him want to pull back.
Waving off the yell of, “Ackles!” that comes from an overly loud - and apparently woken up - Jared from across the stage, and it’s chorus of echoing giggles, Jensen threads his way around the lounges and chairs, people and alcohol.
He slips onto the barstool next to Misha almost fluidly, nudges the other man’s shoulder gently with his own.
“‘Sup?” he asks, as Misha’s dark-eyed gaze flitters up and catches in what feels like Jensen’s throat. He swallows against it, motions at Misha's bottle of whiskey to the bartender from before with a flick of his wrist. A tumbler is placed in front of him and Jensen fills it with a finger of liquid, not bothering to ask Misha if he can share in case he can’t.
A smile flits across Misha’s mouth, but it’s too quick and too tight to be genuine. “Just keeping up my role as master of the universe,” Misha says, only slightly slurring the ends of his words. He waves his iPhone at Jensen as if providing incontrovertible proof.
Jensen raises an eyebrow, but decides not to call him on it. A skittish Misha is a dangerous Misha, he’s learnt that from experience. Jared has the scar on his ankle to prove it. There’s something wrong here, but he’s not going to be able to mend it, as is his duty, if he does something rash like call Misha on it.
Instead, Jensen brings the glass to his lips, watches Misha over the rim for a moment before sliding it back, tipping the liquid down his throat in one smooth burn. He’s aware of Misha watching, following the glass from lips back to the table. If Misha changes when he’s drunk it’s only in that his obvious curiosity is a shade more conspicuous, but the baseline of inappropriate staring is always there. It was never Castiel’s.
Most of the time, Jensen doesn’t know what to do with it. Misha is a scholar, he watches and he catalogues, usually for his own nefarious ways. Jensen’s gotten used to it, same as everyone, because it’s just who Misha is. Sometimes, though, like now, the intensity is too much, burning up Jensen’s veins in a way that makes him uncomfortable. A skitter of something like shame that winds its way around the adrenaline.
Jensen fills both their glasses this time; one finger turns to two without comment.
“What about you?” Misha asks, his voice a low rumble as he holds the glass up to toast against Jensen’s. The clink as they touch is muted by the murmur of voices and crescendo of music.
Jensen shrugs, sips slower this time. “Me? I’m great. Time off, man. Always good.”
Misha snorts and swallows his own drink. Jensen watches the way Misha’s adam's apple bobs as the liquid slides down his throat.
“Sure,” Misha laughs, but it’s dark and disbelieving.
“You know,” Jensen says, drawing his fingertips through the condensation on the bar, “you’re not one of the one’s I'd have thought I'd need to cheer tonight.”
And maybe he’s just a littler drunker than he thought, because he’s much closer to calling Misha on his broodiness than he knows is wise.
“Who says you need to cheer me?” Misha snits, long fingers wrapping around the neck of the bottle.
Jensen shrugs. Again. “Dunno, man, you don’t seem all that happy to me. Hiding in a corner most of the way through a bottle of Jack? Not your usual annoying style.”
“That doesn’t mean it’s your job to fix me,” Misha replies, sets the bottle down a little too hard. “Doesn’t it get tiring, Jen? Having to play happy families all the time?”
The words are mean, but the intent is not. Jensen finds himself staring at Misha as Misha stares back, pupils wide and eyes dark. Something passes between them, recognition perhaps, maybe something else. Jensen’s tipsy and can’t untangle his feelings. Misha’s lips turn up at the corner.
The problem with Misha is that he’s way too attentive for his own good. Carrying all that knowledge, all those observations in his head...it must be tiring, too. They turn back to their drinks, sitting side by side in amicable silence. It’s Misha who breaks it.
“You know, this’ll probably be the last time we’re at one of these together,” he mutters lowly and it feels like an out, Misha changing the topic to move away from something dangerous.
Automatically, Jensen finds himself slipping into counsellor mode, just as he has been all night. “We’ll hear about pickups-”
“Fuck that,” Misha snaps quietly, cutting him off, eyes flashing angry. “You can’t bullshit me into placation, Jen. Even if we hear about pickups, and even if there’s another one, we both know I won’t be in it much. If at all.”
“I know no such thing,” Jensen replies immediately, because it’s true and there is no other option.
Misha’s gaze is pensive, sad. “Come on, man. Who’re you trying to kid? I had less screen-time this year than I did as a guest star.”
Jensen swallows against the sudden scratch in his throat. “They’ll use you more next time, Mish. They just fucked up this year.”
Misha hmm’s as if disbelieving. “And what if it isn’t them that says no?” he asks, too matter-of-fact to mask the doubt underneath.
And that’s not something Jensen has ever considered. The scratch turns into a lump and he pushes his glass towards the other side of the bar.
“Are you going to say no?” he asks, doesn’t quite hit nonchalant and knows they both hear the failure.
Misha shrugs, face sombre. “Dunno.”
Suddenly, Jensen doesn’t feel like playing host anymore. His throat feels tight with nausea and fatigue and the whiskey sits heavy in his gut.
“Let’s get out of here,” he says, lets the words fall off his tongue without input from his brain. He knows he can’t just leave, that Jensen Ackles would never just leave. And yet he offers that. To Misha.
Misha just stares at him, too many seconds beating past, evaluating something Jensen doesn’t understand. And then he nods. “‘Kay.”
Misha slides off his barstool, iPhone pocketed like second nature. Jensen isn’t so graceful, but he manages not to trip. Misha’s hand steadies him, a warm bleed low on his spine and he’s grateful even as he shivers.
Together they leave via a side door, into the cool night beyond. It’s pitch black outside, pockets of halogen light pooling in angelic halos from building corners, but doing little to penetrate the darkness. They aim without discussion for the parking lot, breaths puffing out in moist little clouds, despite the fact that it’s fall and not winter any longer.
Misha doesn’t keep a car in Vancouver anymore, or a house. When it became clear he wouldn’t be needed as much, it didn’t make sense. So they head by unspoken agreement towards Jensen’s pick up. The taillights flash like demon eyes in the darkness as Jensen thumbs the automatic lock on his keys.
It’s not until they’re inside the muted space of the vehicle, Jensen sliding the key into the ignition, that it occurs to him he doesn’t know what they’re doing or where they’re going. It occurs to him, furthermore, that Misha hasn’t asked.
If Jared saw them leave and, being Jared, of course he did, he’d be making lewd innuendo right about now. And Jensen can admit it doesn’t look good, slipping out of a party into the dark with a co-star. But it’s clear that Misha isn’t doing well, and it’s Jensen’s duty to help. That’s all.
They can think whatever they want.
In the dark, Misha’s eyes are nothing but a wet, white glint in the darkness as Jensen turns to him. “My place?”
“Sure,” Misha agrees amicably, settling comfortably into the passenger seat, long legs stretching as much as they can under the dash. “Your place.”
And it’s just that easy, so Jensen refuses to question it as the car rumbles to life underneath them, a strong slow purr of power and possibility.
The drive to Jensen’s isn’t long, ten minutes at this time of night with no one on the roads. Still, he’s aware the alcohol in his system would probably put him close to the limit so he drives slow, stretches the drive to fifteen just to be sure. He switches on the radio, some late night talk show, turns the dial down so all they hear is its soft murmur for company. Since Misha doesn’t say anything Jensen assumes he’s fine with it. They don’t talk, each lost, or so Jensen assumes, in their own thoughts, wading through morose waters and trying not to drown.
The headlights swing and dip across concrete as Jensen pulls into his apartment complex in the not so shabby but not too posh area of town the CW put them up in. He angles the pickup into his usual parking space, in between a Porsche that’s seen better days and a tiny blue Mini. They just sit there for a moment in the dark, listening to the tick tick tick of the engine as it cools down.
After a moment, Jensen laughs, soft but unexpected. “Jesus, we’re so...” But he doesn’t finish, trailing off into silence again as if the words would make it somehow lesser. “C’mon. There’s more alcohol upstairs.”
“Are you trying to get me drunk?” Misha asks, unbuckling his seatbelt with a sharp clack.
“I don’t think I need to at this point,” Jensen answers, affected blasé despite the skitterthump of his heartbeat.
“No. Probably not,” Misha agrees and then he’s slipping out of the car, cold air rushing into the fragile warmth they’ve built.
They head up to Jensen’s apartment, kicking their shoes off in the entryway. Misha makes his way to the living room as if it’s his place, not Jensen’s, home from a long day at work. Jensen follows, amused and, with each passing step, a little less drunk. In the morning he’s sure he’ll berate himself for driving himself home, let alone another person. His parents raised him better than that. But for now, he’s too tired and emotionally wiped to really care. He’s sick of being the responsible one.
To prove it, he forgoes the Shiner he knows he has chilling in the fridge and heads straight for the liquor cabinet.
Misha makes an approving hmmming sound as he flops down onto Jensen’s couch, lying across it like he’s planning on sleeping right the fuck now. His body stretches the length of it, sock-clad feet resting over the arm at one end, tossled head of dark hair against the other.
Sleep is not a bad plan, only, Jensen reasons as he unscrews the top off of a bottle of Grey Goose, it’s hard to drink when you’re asleep; and that’s a definite disadvantage. When he brings the vodka over, Misha’s “gimme” hands seem to indicate he agrees.
“Don’t spill on the couch,” Jensen says mildly. Misha’s slender fingers brush against his, soft and cool, as he takes the drink.
“Yes, dad,” Misha says, corner of his mouth tugging into something dirty and playful. Jensen reasons that the tug low in his gut is in recognition of Misha finally seeming less depressed.
He settles across from him, sinking into one of the matching armchairs. Misha squirms, tilting his body on an angle to get an arm under his head and room to drink, t-shirt and shirt twisting and rucking up at his waist as he does so.
The difference between Jensen sober and Jensen drunk is nowhere near as subtle as with Misha. Jensen knows he’s staring at the sliver of pale skin exposed along Misha’s stomach. And he knows that sober, he’d have that carefully tucked away where it need never be examined.
In fact, it’s so extremely not subtle that Misha watches him knowingly with liquid-dark eyes as he lets the vodka slide past his lips. For a moment Jensen panics, because he doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing. This certainly wasn’t what he was thinking when he invited Misha home.
At least, he doesn’t think he was.
But Misha doesn’t call him on his inappropriate gaze, just smiles softy and says nothing. It leaves Jensen off-kilter, grateful and yet confused. He frowns into his vodka.
“So, why’d you leave your post, then?” Misha asks softly, lids heavy. His fingers are wrapped around the glass, three lower ones nestled against each other, his index finger slightly higher, on its own.
“Um..huh?” Jensen asks, drags his attention back to Misha’s face.
“Your post,” Misha prompts. “As party caretaker?”
“Oh,” Jensen smiles wryly as he ducks his head, swirls the vodka in his glass and watches the whirlpool of liquid. “Like you said, I guess. It’s not my job to fix everyone.”
“And yet I get the impression you’re currently still trying to fix me,” Misha says, and it’s just a fact, no judgements, or accusations.
Misha’s always been too sharp for his own good. It’d be far too easy to get cut on his jagged edges. And yet somehow, Jensen wants to throw himself against them. Sometimes.
“Do you need to be fixed?” Jensen asks instead of voicing such a random, terrifying sentiment.
“No,” Misha says, and it’s simple. Jensen looks up at him, Misha is cataloguing again, open and honest. “No. But I get the feeling this is more about you.”
Jensen startles. “Huh?”
Misha blinks owlishly, pausing for a long moment, mouth twisting to the side in consideration. “Well, for instance. If I did this-” Misha says, and dips his index finger straight into his glass.
“Misha-”
“Shh,” Misha hushes, as if Jensen is a rowdy four year old. And yet it works, because Jensen shuts up.
Misha’s finger leaves the liquid, rivulets of clear vodka dripping into the glass. Misha’s eyes stay locked on Jensen. It’s intimidating and makes Jensen feel the need to get up, to run. But he stays where he is, can’t help it.
“If I did this,” Misha starts again quietly, “What would you do?” And then he’s sliding his wet finger away from the glass, hand moving down his torso to the sliver of skin. It glistens wetly in the down-lights as he drags it slip-slidingly slow along the strip of exposed skin, hipbone to hipbone.
Jensen forgets to breathe.
Time freezes, Misha staring at Jensen with eyes too supernaturally blue to be real. The sounds of lone cars outside, the hum of the central air inside, dying down into molasses. Condensation on their glasses stops mid-drip. Jensen would be alarmed that he isn’t responding, but frankly he isn’t sure it’s occurred to him that he’s meant to.
“Jensen,” Misha prompts, a low burr of noise in the silent vacuum of the room, and time seems to stretch and snap back, whiplashing into Jensen’s chest as breath rushes back in.
“Misha...what...I...what?” Jensen stumbles on his words.
Misha doesn’t mock his lack of eloquence, though; the smile is small but genuine. “Your decision, Jen.”
His decision, Jensen thinks, blinking stupidly at Misha; at the stupid line of vodka glistening over his stomach, the way he’s stretched out over his couch like something to be taken. His decision. Jensen wasn’t even aware there was a question until now.
Except for where, maybe, he was.
“Hey,” Misha murmurs, draws Jensen’s eyes back to his. Jensen expects him to go on, to say something that explains what the fuck has just happened, or... or something. But Misha is silent, possessed by the strange unnatural calm Jensen noticed at the bar.
He doesn’t know why exactly he does it, but somewhere in the place inside where he’s freaking out, he just decides to stop. To stop trying to fix people, to stop being the adult. To just be Jensen.
He places his glass on the coffee table with a muted thud and finds himself sliding to his knees. Shuffling over to the couch and Misha’s insane, terrifying gaze. He hesitates, for just a second, as he kneels next to the couch, feels the warmth coming off Misha in waves, the trust in his eyes almost too much to look at.
And then he lets go.
The first touch of his mouth to Misha’s hipbone is like an electric shock. He hears Misha’s breath hitch, feels the skin twitch under the tip of his tongue. Misha’s skin is hot, but the trail of mostly-evaporated vodka is cool. It’s muted and smooth across his tastebuds, tingling cool before nestling warmer in the back of his throat. He leans over Misha, sliding his tongue glacially slow across the expanse of skin. Misha’s shirts tickle against his cheek as he moves, the soft line of hair he passes midway against his tongue. Misha’s stomach jumps beneath his mouth, and Jensen can practically feel the restraint shivering off him, forcing himself to stay still under Jensen’s ministrations.
He reaches the opposite hipbone what feels like minutes later but can only be seconds. It’s sharp and there and Jensen is too far gone past his line of do-not-cross that it simply doesn’t matter anymore, and so he sucks the raised bone in-between his lips. The groan that emanates from Misha’s chest goes straight to Jensen’s cock.
With one last swipe of his tongue, Jensen pulls away, rocking back onto his heels so he can see Misha, and Misha can see him.
A flush has crept up Misha’s cheeks, pink blooms of rose in their centres, and his eyes have blown inky and dark with want.
“Fuck,” he swears, his throat clicking as he swallows and tongue darting out to slide across his lips.
Jensen wants to respond with the things he’s meant to say, like If you play your cards right or I do hope so, or yes please but he doesn’t want to act anymore. His nerves are thrumming like plucked guitar strings and despite his cock filling in his jeans, he doesn’t know what this is. Instead he just smiles, tries not to feel like the shy teenage girl in a John Hughes retrospective.
Misha full-body shudders as Jensen watches him, and a hot stab of pride flares behind Jensen’s ribs. It’s all he needs to move closer, press his lips to Misha’s. They’re plump and soft and Misha’s mouth opens without hesitation, his tongue darting tentatively before sliding sinfully in earnest. Jensen angles his mouth, one hand propping himself against the floor, the other clutching carefully at the side of the couch. Misha is gentle and oxymoronic, lips melding against his, small puffs of air against his mouth. He doesn’t touch Jensen anywhere else, a fact of which Jensen is keenly aware. Even as Misha’s tongue touches the roof of his mouth, slides across his teeth, it feels chaste, careful.
When air becomes a pressing need Jensen pulls back, enjoys the way Misha tries to follow. He’s waiting for Misha to comment; to make some lewd joke to break the tension, accuse him of kissing better than Jared or tell him he left his gum behind. But again, Misha says nothing, just tongues tentatively at his kiss-swollen lips. And then he raises his glass, the one he’s been holding all this time at his crooked elbow, and downs the last of his vodka in one swallow.
Jensen raises an eyebrow at him. Is he affecting nonchalance? Is this all run-of-the-mill? But before he can turn the gesture into something warped, Misha is sitting himself up, swinging his legs down next to Jensen’s kneeling body and standing up.
Holding out a hand.
Confused, Jensen takes it; lets Misha’s fingers wrap around his and tug him gently up into his space. Misha kisses him, softly, briefly, before smiling. “We are so not doing this on your sofa, Jen.”
Which is the last thing he expected to come from Misha’s mouth. “We aren’t?” he asks, instead of ‘Doing what?’
Misha laughs and tugs Jensen out of the room, down the short hall to Jensen’s bedroom. Jensen would object to being led around his own house if he weren’t upside down and inside out and wondering if Misha isn’t secretly a pod person.
Misha leaves the light off as he passes the switch and Jensen follows suit; there’s enough ambient light filtering in from the hall to see. Enough shadow to take the edge off Jensen’s thoughts. Misha turns, letting Jensen’s hand drop and then he’s backing towards the bed, sitting as the back of his knees hit the mattress and crawling backwards towards the pillows. Propping himself there. Waiting.
Again, a decision, one that Jensen is almost positive he wants to make. One that he’s going to make regardless.
He follows Misha to the bed. Crawls over the dark blue sheets and up over Misha’s body, knees to either side of his hips. Their breaths mingle and the silence is almost overbearing; but it’s alright, because it’s Misha.
“You’re so quiet,” Jensen murmurs, hands to either side of Misha’s shoulders against the headboard, holding himself separate. Just.
Misha shrugs, smiles softly. “Sometimes I can be.”
“It’s fucking weird,” Jensen mutters as he leans in and noses behind Misha’s ear, inhales the smell of Misha’s warm skin, his sweat and soap.
“Oh, I can be loud, too,” Misha murmurs, low and promising. Jensen shivers as if touched by a draft of cool air.
“Jesus, this is a bad idea isn’t it?” he says against Misha’s earlobe before sucking it between his lips to taste, sliding his tongue over the smooth flesh.
Misha laughs silently, Jensen can feel it in the tremor of Misha’s throat where his hand has come to rest. “I hope that’s a rhetorical question, Jen.”
Jensen smiles around Misha’s earlobe and then nips lightly with his teeth. He pulls back, nose to nose with Misha. “I think so,” he says against Misha’s lips right before they touch, lips sliding and tongues exploring.
Jensen feels his breath hitch on the beginning of a moan as he lets his arms bend, pressing his body to Misha’s. Hands slide up around his waist to his back, Misha’s long fingers pressing to his spine. The urge for more blindsides him and he wants with sudden, blinding clarity. He deepens the kiss, feels the click of their teeth as Misha adjusts, the burn of Misha’s stubble against his lips as he tries to devour him.
They kiss for long minutes, breathing into each other and touching gently, learning, and then Jensen finds himself being pushed back with a gentle hand to his breastbone.
The reason becomes quickly apparent as Misha sits up further, slides Jensen’s t-shirt up his chest. His fingernails dragging softly against his skin as Jensen lifts his arms to aid in Misha’s plan. His shirt slides up and over his head and Misha tosses it to the floor.
Jensen’s hands immediately find Misha’s shoulders, sliding under the lapels of his outer shirt, hitching the cotton down his arms and hands. He can’t help but take a moment to slide his fingertips down the fragile bones of Misha’s wrists, feel the delicate skin against his own. Misha leans forward, allowing his shirt to be slipped from out behind him. But when Jensen goes back for the t-shirt, Misha stills his hands, wraps his own around Jensen’s.
Jensen looks up, asks a silent question, but Misha just smiles enigmatically and shakes his head. He pushes at Jensen’s chest, cradles his shoulder and guides Jensen onto his back. Jensen’s erection is obvious, a tented bulge at his crotch, and even though he can see that Misha is similarly interested, Misha isn’t the one suddenly on display.
“What are you doing?” he can’t help but ask, feeling suddenly vulnerable and exposed.
“Fixing you,” Misha says with the hint of a grin as he settles over Jensen, knees to either side of his thighs, their warmth bracketing Jensen, anchoring him.
“What makes you think I need to be fixed?” Jensen asks, imitating their earlier conversation.
Misha just raises an eyebrow and the grin is real this time, crinkling his eyes and nose, erupting in Cheshire teeth.
Jensen tries to squirm, to buck up under Misha, just a little.
“Tsk tsk, Jen,” Misha says, before reaching down and whipping his own t-shirt over his head, adding it to the pile on the floor. “Patience comes to those who wait.”
Jensen swallows, gazes up at the pale expanse of skin and muscle now on display. Misha is a lot more built than he’d given him credit for.
“What If I don’t want to be patient?” he asks, lowering his voice into dirt and coyness. He reaches out with a finger, draws it down the line of Misha’s sternum, enjoying the way that Misha’s eyelids flutter.
Misha smiles, though Jensen sees the darkened blowing of his pupils, even in the darkness. “Remember how it isn’t always your responsibility? Let’s work with that.”
“Misha,” Jensen grits, and it comes dangerously close to a whine.
“Jensen,” Misha parrots and rocks his hips down into Jensen’s unexpectedly, their matching erections pressing hard against each other.
“Oh,” Jensen says stupidly at the spark of pleasure that floods him. He immediately tries to press back up, but Misha backs off, inches out of reach.
“Oh, indeed,” Misha muses smugly and Jensen would respond, would snap and deflect with some well placed sarcasm but Misha is moving again, sliding down against him, the silky skin of his chest pressing into Jensen’s own. It feels fucking amazing.
“Just relax,” Misha murmurs against his throat and Jensen feels a tongue flicker out to trail along a tendon. Feels the scrape of Misha’s teeth and the answering swell of his cock jerking in the confines of his pants.
“Relaxing isn’t likely to happen anytime soon,” Jensen mutters, mostly to himself, but he feels Misha’ amused huff of warm air against his throat. He presses his head back into the pillow, neck arching to allow Misha access. The burn of Misha’s stubble slides against the skin of his throat, his Adam’s apple, his clavicle. Misha’s lips are hot and soft, pressing kisses and licks across his collarbone.
There’s friction, a slow frisson of touch as Misha moves downwards. Jensen can feel Misha’s cock now, a hot press of pressure against his hipbone, then the top of his thigh. Jensen presses his ankle against the mattress, shifts just enough to push his leg against the hardness of Misha’s erection.
Misha moans, presses downwards seemingly without thought, his denim-clad cock sliding hard, back then forward again, just above Jensen’s knee. Jensen thanks god and presses his own pelvis up, his cock hitting the hard cartilage of Misha’s ribs.
For a second he thinks he’s won, stopped this slow aching pace that’s too vulnerable, too open to doubt and judgement. And then Misha’s weight on him is gone and Jensen’s eyes flicker open - he doesn’t even remember shutting them - to find Misha kneeling between his legs, watching him.
“What the fuck, man?” Jensen huffs, hackles raising and lashing out.
“You really can’t let go, can you?” Misha asks, his tone curious yet calm, as if he hadn’t just been rubbing his dick against Jensen’s leg.
Jensen rolls his eyes. He’s opening his mouth to give a smart ass answer when Misha’s fingers land on his belt buckle. Misha makes quick work of it, sliding open the clasp and pressing the metal from its notch. With a strong yank the belt flies from Jensen’s belt loops, a long snake of leather slithering out before being flung away. The pressure of Misha’s touch makes Jensen groan, his breath panting out of his mouth.
“Sometimes,” Misha says, still quiet despite the quick recklessness of his fingers, sliding brass through buttonholes and drawing down the fly of Jensen’s pants, flaring the denim apart, “you need to let other people take care of you, Jensen.”
And with that, Jensen feels Misha’s fingers slide under the material of his briefs, pull it down, his hot cock exposed to the cool air.
“Mish, please,” Jensen huffs, and this time it really is close to begging. He doesn’t give a fuck.
“Let me do this, Jensen,” Misha mutters. But then Misha’s fingers are wrapped around Jensen’s cock and his lips are against the head, murmuring words against the firm, spongey softness and sending a rush of blood along Jensen’s cock so fast his head feels like it’s spinning.
His hips jack-knife upwards and only Misha’s other hand, suddenly pressing down on his hipbone, keeps him from stabbing Misha in the face. It would have been so embarrassing a moment there’d have been no choice but to get up and leave immediately. Even if it’s his apartment.
“Easy, Jen,” Misha smiles, his tongue flickering out to lap at the bead of pre-come Jensen can see, can feel. “I’ve got you.”
Jensen groans at the sight. The sound is loud in the delicate silence and he doesn’t care that he’s breaking it. Misha’s eyes flash and he surges forward, sucking Jensen’s cock into his mouth in an instant. Misha’s mouth is too hot, too wet, the suction too insane and Jensen moans, fingers clutching at the bedspread in an aching death-grip.
Tongue flat against the underside of his cock, Misha laves upwards in a hard long stroke. The pressure disappears and then his tongue is back, tip teasing at the crease of head and shaft.
“Fuck, fuck, Misha,” Jensen moans, “I can’t...”
Misha pulls off with a slick pop, his fist still around the base of Jensen, jacking him slowly. “Sure you can, Jen, you just gotta let it happen.”
Then Misha’s mouth is back on him, lips meeting the curl of his fist and sensation flowing from root to tip. It’s too much, Misha is sucking and licking and worshiping his cock and he’s never done anything to deserve it, never even asked for it, and yet Misha’s giving it freely, as if it’s the only thing in the world he exists for.
Looking up, Misha’s eyelids flutter open and Jensen’s view is filled with wide blue eyes and stretched pink lips. Misha’s cheeks hollow as he sucks then relax as Jensen’s cock slips from his mouth, eyes not moving an inch from Jensen’s as he lets the wet cock slide against his cheek.
Misha uses the back of his hand to wipe at the saliva and pre-come smeared across his mouth. “Told you,” he says before sliding his lips along Jensen’s length and taking the head back into his mouth.
Jensen can’t keep his eyes off the image, afraid that if he looks away Misha will disappear. He focuses on the wet heat, the gentle suction, the way his cock head slips to the side and pushes Misha’s cheek out in an obscene pornographic bulge. He can feel his orgasm building, pooling at the bottom of his spine and tightening the skin along his thighs. His fingers clench and unclench at the sheets, dark blue scrunches of cotton between his fingers.
And then Misha’s other hand leaves its anchor on Jensen’s hip and his fingers are smudging down under Jensen’s cock, gentling at the soft skin of his balls, fondling and trailing and it blows Jensen’s senses, short-circuits and fizzles, and the pressure is too much. Jensen’s orgasm overtakes him and hurtles in a headlong rush through his body head to toe, pushing and pulsing out of him into Misha’s mouth.
As he comes back down he can hear Misha moaning, feel the little licks of Misha’s tongue against the sensitive slit of his cock.
He stays still a moment more, eyes closed, lets the pleasure and serenity flow through his veins, relaxes in a way he hasn’t all night, all week. Maybe longer.
When he finally opens his eyes it’s because Misha’s mouth leaves his cock and the cool air hits the saliva and come that’s left there. That and Misha’s little hitches of breath and bitten-off sounds are increasing, which doesn’t make sense.
But as he looks down, he understands why. Somewhere in the last moments of Jensen’s delirium, Misha has gotten his own pants open, his flushed and hard cock out and in his hand. He’s kneeling up, stroking back and forth, the head of his cock red and disappearing in and out of the circle of his fingers.
“Oh..Jesus fuck, Misha ,” Jensen breathes in a strangled groan as his spent and softening cock gives an almost painful jerk.
Misha’s smile is small and strained, his mouth falling slightly open. Jensen can’t help it, as boneless as he is he simply...must. He heaves himself up on weak arms, Misha startled to suddenly have Jensen in his face, but he doesn’t care, he has to kiss him. And so he does, mouth sealing to Misha’s and swallowing the gasp. Misha tastes like his come, which is almost too much to take, and then Misha moans low in his throat and his hand hastens, hitting against Jensen’s stomach where they’re crushed together.
Jensen’s arms slide around Misha’s shoulders, holding each other up and Jensen pulls his mouth from Misha’s, ignores the whimper and slides his mouth to Misha’s ear. “Come on, Misha, let me help you too.”
And Misha loses it, crying out and coming hot between them, coating Jensen’s stomach and dripping down their jeans to the sheets below.
Misha’s head falls forward, nuzzling into Jensen’s shoulder and throat, breaths rasping and harsh against him, and so Jensen just holds him, finally able to soothe him the way he’s wanted all night.
They’re quiet for long moments, but neither pulls away. Finally Misha lifts his head. He smiles, lip curling, voice raspy and low. “I know what you’re doing, Jensen.”
“What?” Jensen says, and he can’t help but grin, the tension of the night bled away and forgotten.
Misha just shakes his head and presses their mouths together.
It’s not until after, when they’ve showered, enveloped in steam and hot water, hands sliding over wet skin, mapping, learning and teasing, and are safely ensconced in Jensen’s bed, covers pulled up around them to keep out the cold, that Jensen remembers what Misha said earlier in the evening.
He tightens his arm around the warm, naked body pressed against chest, sleepily nuzzles at the damp hair that smells like his shampoo and tickles at his nose.
“Hey,” he says softly, quietly; finally understanding Misha’s need to keep things soft, safe.
“Mmmm?” Misha’s sleepy response questions and Jensen can feel the sound through Misha’s back, vibrating into his chest.
“What you said, before, about saying no if they asked. You wouldn’t, would you?”
Misha is silent for a moment, and then turns in Jensen’s arms to face him. He studies Jensen once again, shadows playing across his face. “Maybe, Jen. I don’t know.”
Jensen nods, confused by the surge of emotions swirling inside him. “Or you could maybe, just, not say no,” he offers.
Misha smiles and then turns back around, sliding once more into the cocoon of Jensen’s arms. “Or I could not say no,” he says softly, fondly.
It’s not a promise, nor should it be, but Jensen appreciates Misha letting him fix things. Just for now.
end.
Author: qthelights
Pairing: Jensen/Misha
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: 7000
Summary: Jensen is responsible for fixing people, but sometimes people have other plans.
Disclaimer: Not mine, never happened.
Warnings: None
A/N: For my darling kriari who graciously bid for this fic in aid of help_japan. She wanted wrap party fic, and hopefully this fulfills :) Endless thanks for the invaluable beta and support of nanoochka who made this so much better than it would have been.
And In Your Arms Defeated
They don’t know if there will be a seventh season when they wrap up the sixth. It doesn’t officially put a damper on the celebrations, they’ve done this enough to know it doesn’t mean anything, necessarily. And never let it be said that the Supernatural crew can’t throw a party when a party needs being thrown.
But everything is a little too...something. Jared gets a little too drunk and his handsy pawing is starting to get on some peoples’ nerves, Gen none the least of them. Eric doesn’t bother to turn up. Sera calls in with congratulations and a, Have a cosmo or three for me, but doesn’t make it either. There’s plenty of beer left, bottles dotting the soundstage in large buckets of ice, but the hard liquor has been hit harder than usual. A forced edge tinges the laughter and hilarity, casts a pall over the relief and exuberance of a season well earned.
Even the music is wrong. Instead of the hyperactive dance and pop that usually graces these shindigs, tonight it’s turned slower and more melodious, a steady trance-like lulling, weaving and fluttering through their collective mindset. The set is dark, the lighting guys having gone all out in creating an intimate atmosphere. Jewel-toned lighting envelopes the make-shift bar along the far wall, the small pockets of lounges and ottomans arranged around low tables.
Jensen is peacemaker, making his way between techies and cast, make-up and directors, plays devil’s advocate, or maybe God’s. They’re just waiting for the new head honcho. Our ratings were fine, we’ve done worse before. Without Smallville there’s no way they’re canning us, don’t worry about it.
He’s enacted this role before, is expected to, as unasked leader of the unruly gang. It’s a burden he shares with Jared, but one that Jared often doesn’t perform, absconding from the role and leaving Jensen with his ‘reasonableness’ and ‘magnanimity’ and gosh-darn-country-boy manners to soothe frayed nerves and keep the good ship Supernatural on its course.
And because Jensen is Jensen, generous to a fault and ever the consummate actor, not to mention his father’s son, he does his duty without complaint. Everyone has their break from acting but for Jensen it doesn’t end. A wrap party is just another mask to slip into; to paper-mâché to his skin with strips of glue and false cheer.
Hell, he wouldn’t mind so much except that he’s the one who has to pull it off later, deal with his own emotions by himself; peeling away the adhesive, pulling the hairs and leaving rashes across his soul.
But it’s part of the job, and he loves his job, and he knows sometimes he just has to shut the fuck up and grow a pair. Like tonight, when damage control is sorely needed to keep the party from see-sawing into pity. So he does the rounds.
Phil and Bob sit quietly at one of the round tables, toasting each other with ever-sloppier shots of gin. They chat amicably, old friends in arms. Jensen puts in his time, acts up into vast maturity to match their knowledge and years. He’s one of them, an old soul, wise and knowing. The Bombay Sapphire burns down his throat and lies bitter across his tongue; he tastes liquorice in the back of his throat, almonds under his tongue. They aren’t morose, but it’s there, the uncertainty, the knowledge that it has to end eventually because it always does; they ought to know, they’ve done this many a time before.
Jensen drinks with them for awhile, half an ear on their war stories, the rest of his attention scanning the room, evaluating where everyone is at, who he needs to chat with, who he might have missed. He spots Misha tucked into a darkened corner of the bar, sitting almost unnaturally still, alone. His heart kicks against his ribs and he puts down his glass; clearly he’s had enough if it’s giving him palpitations. For a moment, he wonders if he should go over. Misha rarely needs cheering up. If anything, Misha takes some of the pressure off Jensen, naturally cheering people by his sheer force of will. So it feels almost demeaning to think he might need...
His gaze lingers, watching as Misha glances up and says something that makes the tall, blond bartender laugh. The alcohol turns over unpleasantly in Jensen’s stomach, and he pushes the glass further away. He definitely should not drink gin, and Misha...well, Misha is Misha.
He decides not to go over, feels vaguely guilty but can’t pinpoint why. Instead, he continues to monitor the rest of the room. Jim is in a corner, settled into the couches the guys have set up where usually there would be directors chairs and camera rigging. He’s clearly on about his fourth cuba libre; Jensen can tell by the glazed look in his eyes, the slight smile on his lips and clear adoration at being surrounded by half the girls from make-up. Jim looks up and sees Jensen watching him, nods his baseball-capped head in acknowledgment. They’re good.
Jared has finally been corralled by Gen and they sit together, smushed into a large armchair and chatting with Jeannie and Shannon. Jared has his humongous head on Gen’s tiny shoulder. Jensen smiles at the sight, happy that Jay found someone willing to put up with is childishness in order to discover the seriousness behind it.
The alcohol already in his system sloshes in his stomach, triprushtraipses down his legs as he stands up with knees that pop. He’s not drunk, but he’s definitely approaching tipsy. Jensen surveys the room again, ingrained habit at this point, and is surprised to find that he’s seen to everyone at least once.
Almost everyone, he amends, as he his gaze falls once more on Misha; still at the bar, nursing a glass of amber liquid on the rocks, a half-empty bottle to his side and poking idly at his phone. The quiet solemnity of the tableau is too many shades of wrong for Jensen to ignore a second time, even if something he doesn’t understand makes him want to pull back.
Waving off the yell of, “Ackles!” that comes from an overly loud - and apparently woken up - Jared from across the stage, and it’s chorus of echoing giggles, Jensen threads his way around the lounges and chairs, people and alcohol.
He slips onto the barstool next to Misha almost fluidly, nudges the other man’s shoulder gently with his own.
“‘Sup?” he asks, as Misha’s dark-eyed gaze flitters up and catches in what feels like Jensen’s throat. He swallows against it, motions at Misha's bottle of whiskey to the bartender from before with a flick of his wrist. A tumbler is placed in front of him and Jensen fills it with a finger of liquid, not bothering to ask Misha if he can share in case he can’t.
A smile flits across Misha’s mouth, but it’s too quick and too tight to be genuine. “Just keeping up my role as master of the universe,” Misha says, only slightly slurring the ends of his words. He waves his iPhone at Jensen as if providing incontrovertible proof.
Jensen raises an eyebrow, but decides not to call him on it. A skittish Misha is a dangerous Misha, he’s learnt that from experience. Jared has the scar on his ankle to prove it. There’s something wrong here, but he’s not going to be able to mend it, as is his duty, if he does something rash like call Misha on it.
Instead, Jensen brings the glass to his lips, watches Misha over the rim for a moment before sliding it back, tipping the liquid down his throat in one smooth burn. He’s aware of Misha watching, following the glass from lips back to the table. If Misha changes when he’s drunk it’s only in that his obvious curiosity is a shade more conspicuous, but the baseline of inappropriate staring is always there. It was never Castiel’s.
Most of the time, Jensen doesn’t know what to do with it. Misha is a scholar, he watches and he catalogues, usually for his own nefarious ways. Jensen’s gotten used to it, same as everyone, because it’s just who Misha is. Sometimes, though, like now, the intensity is too much, burning up Jensen’s veins in a way that makes him uncomfortable. A skitter of something like shame that winds its way around the adrenaline.
Jensen fills both their glasses this time; one finger turns to two without comment.
“What about you?” Misha asks, his voice a low rumble as he holds the glass up to toast against Jensen’s. The clink as they touch is muted by the murmur of voices and crescendo of music.
Jensen shrugs, sips slower this time. “Me? I’m great. Time off, man. Always good.”
Misha snorts and swallows his own drink. Jensen watches the way Misha’s adam's apple bobs as the liquid slides down his throat.
“Sure,” Misha laughs, but it’s dark and disbelieving.
“You know,” Jensen says, drawing his fingertips through the condensation on the bar, “you’re not one of the one’s I'd have thought I'd need to cheer tonight.”
And maybe he’s just a littler drunker than he thought, because he’s much closer to calling Misha on his broodiness than he knows is wise.
“Who says you need to cheer me?” Misha snits, long fingers wrapping around the neck of the bottle.
Jensen shrugs. Again. “Dunno, man, you don’t seem all that happy to me. Hiding in a corner most of the way through a bottle of Jack? Not your usual annoying style.”
“That doesn’t mean it’s your job to fix me,” Misha replies, sets the bottle down a little too hard. “Doesn’t it get tiring, Jen? Having to play happy families all the time?”
The words are mean, but the intent is not. Jensen finds himself staring at Misha as Misha stares back, pupils wide and eyes dark. Something passes between them, recognition perhaps, maybe something else. Jensen’s tipsy and can’t untangle his feelings. Misha’s lips turn up at the corner.
The problem with Misha is that he’s way too attentive for his own good. Carrying all that knowledge, all those observations in his head...it must be tiring, too. They turn back to their drinks, sitting side by side in amicable silence. It’s Misha who breaks it.
“You know, this’ll probably be the last time we’re at one of these together,” he mutters lowly and it feels like an out, Misha changing the topic to move away from something dangerous.
Automatically, Jensen finds himself slipping into counsellor mode, just as he has been all night. “We’ll hear about pickups-”
“Fuck that,” Misha snaps quietly, cutting him off, eyes flashing angry. “You can’t bullshit me into placation, Jen. Even if we hear about pickups, and even if there’s another one, we both know I won’t be in it much. If at all.”
“I know no such thing,” Jensen replies immediately, because it’s true and there is no other option.
Misha’s gaze is pensive, sad. “Come on, man. Who’re you trying to kid? I had less screen-time this year than I did as a guest star.”
Jensen swallows against the sudden scratch in his throat. “They’ll use you more next time, Mish. They just fucked up this year.”
Misha hmm’s as if disbelieving. “And what if it isn’t them that says no?” he asks, too matter-of-fact to mask the doubt underneath.
And that’s not something Jensen has ever considered. The scratch turns into a lump and he pushes his glass towards the other side of the bar.
“Are you going to say no?” he asks, doesn’t quite hit nonchalant and knows they both hear the failure.
Misha shrugs, face sombre. “Dunno.”
Suddenly, Jensen doesn’t feel like playing host anymore. His throat feels tight with nausea and fatigue and the whiskey sits heavy in his gut.
“Let’s get out of here,” he says, lets the words fall off his tongue without input from his brain. He knows he can’t just leave, that Jensen Ackles would never just leave. And yet he offers that. To Misha.
Misha just stares at him, too many seconds beating past, evaluating something Jensen doesn’t understand. And then he nods. “‘Kay.”
Misha slides off his barstool, iPhone pocketed like second nature. Jensen isn’t so graceful, but he manages not to trip. Misha’s hand steadies him, a warm bleed low on his spine and he’s grateful even as he shivers.
Together they leave via a side door, into the cool night beyond. It’s pitch black outside, pockets of halogen light pooling in angelic halos from building corners, but doing little to penetrate the darkness. They aim without discussion for the parking lot, breaths puffing out in moist little clouds, despite the fact that it’s fall and not winter any longer.
Misha doesn’t keep a car in Vancouver anymore, or a house. When it became clear he wouldn’t be needed as much, it didn’t make sense. So they head by unspoken agreement towards Jensen’s pick up. The taillights flash like demon eyes in the darkness as Jensen thumbs the automatic lock on his keys.
It’s not until they’re inside the muted space of the vehicle, Jensen sliding the key into the ignition, that it occurs to him he doesn’t know what they’re doing or where they’re going. It occurs to him, furthermore, that Misha hasn’t asked.
If Jared saw them leave and, being Jared, of course he did, he’d be making lewd innuendo right about now. And Jensen can admit it doesn’t look good, slipping out of a party into the dark with a co-star. But it’s clear that Misha isn’t doing well, and it’s Jensen’s duty to help. That’s all.
They can think whatever they want.
In the dark, Misha’s eyes are nothing but a wet, white glint in the darkness as Jensen turns to him. “My place?”
“Sure,” Misha agrees amicably, settling comfortably into the passenger seat, long legs stretching as much as they can under the dash. “Your place.”
And it’s just that easy, so Jensen refuses to question it as the car rumbles to life underneath them, a strong slow purr of power and possibility.
The drive to Jensen’s isn’t long, ten minutes at this time of night with no one on the roads. Still, he’s aware the alcohol in his system would probably put him close to the limit so he drives slow, stretches the drive to fifteen just to be sure. He switches on the radio, some late night talk show, turns the dial down so all they hear is its soft murmur for company. Since Misha doesn’t say anything Jensen assumes he’s fine with it. They don’t talk, each lost, or so Jensen assumes, in their own thoughts, wading through morose waters and trying not to drown.
The headlights swing and dip across concrete as Jensen pulls into his apartment complex in the not so shabby but not too posh area of town the CW put them up in. He angles the pickup into his usual parking space, in between a Porsche that’s seen better days and a tiny blue Mini. They just sit there for a moment in the dark, listening to the tick tick tick of the engine as it cools down.
After a moment, Jensen laughs, soft but unexpected. “Jesus, we’re so...” But he doesn’t finish, trailing off into silence again as if the words would make it somehow lesser. “C’mon. There’s more alcohol upstairs.”
“Are you trying to get me drunk?” Misha asks, unbuckling his seatbelt with a sharp clack.
“I don’t think I need to at this point,” Jensen answers, affected blasé despite the skitterthump of his heartbeat.
“No. Probably not,” Misha agrees and then he’s slipping out of the car, cold air rushing into the fragile warmth they’ve built.
They head up to Jensen’s apartment, kicking their shoes off in the entryway. Misha makes his way to the living room as if it’s his place, not Jensen’s, home from a long day at work. Jensen follows, amused and, with each passing step, a little less drunk. In the morning he’s sure he’ll berate himself for driving himself home, let alone another person. His parents raised him better than that. But for now, he’s too tired and emotionally wiped to really care. He’s sick of being the responsible one.
To prove it, he forgoes the Shiner he knows he has chilling in the fridge and heads straight for the liquor cabinet.
Misha makes an approving hmmming sound as he flops down onto Jensen’s couch, lying across it like he’s planning on sleeping right the fuck now. His body stretches the length of it, sock-clad feet resting over the arm at one end, tossled head of dark hair against the other.
Sleep is not a bad plan, only, Jensen reasons as he unscrews the top off of a bottle of Grey Goose, it’s hard to drink when you’re asleep; and that’s a definite disadvantage. When he brings the vodka over, Misha’s “gimme” hands seem to indicate he agrees.
“Don’t spill on the couch,” Jensen says mildly. Misha’s slender fingers brush against his, soft and cool, as he takes the drink.
“Yes, dad,” Misha says, corner of his mouth tugging into something dirty and playful. Jensen reasons that the tug low in his gut is in recognition of Misha finally seeming less depressed.
He settles across from him, sinking into one of the matching armchairs. Misha squirms, tilting his body on an angle to get an arm under his head and room to drink, t-shirt and shirt twisting and rucking up at his waist as he does so.
The difference between Jensen sober and Jensen drunk is nowhere near as subtle as with Misha. Jensen knows he’s staring at the sliver of pale skin exposed along Misha’s stomach. And he knows that sober, he’d have that carefully tucked away where it need never be examined.
In fact, it’s so extremely not subtle that Misha watches him knowingly with liquid-dark eyes as he lets the vodka slide past his lips. For a moment Jensen panics, because he doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing. This certainly wasn’t what he was thinking when he invited Misha home.
At least, he doesn’t think he was.
But Misha doesn’t call him on his inappropriate gaze, just smiles softy and says nothing. It leaves Jensen off-kilter, grateful and yet confused. He frowns into his vodka.
“So, why’d you leave your post, then?” Misha asks softly, lids heavy. His fingers are wrapped around the glass, three lower ones nestled against each other, his index finger slightly higher, on its own.
“Um..huh?” Jensen asks, drags his attention back to Misha’s face.
“Your post,” Misha prompts. “As party caretaker?”
“Oh,” Jensen smiles wryly as he ducks his head, swirls the vodka in his glass and watches the whirlpool of liquid. “Like you said, I guess. It’s not my job to fix everyone.”
“And yet I get the impression you’re currently still trying to fix me,” Misha says, and it’s just a fact, no judgements, or accusations.
Misha’s always been too sharp for his own good. It’d be far too easy to get cut on his jagged edges. And yet somehow, Jensen wants to throw himself against them. Sometimes.
“Do you need to be fixed?” Jensen asks instead of voicing such a random, terrifying sentiment.
“No,” Misha says, and it’s simple. Jensen looks up at him, Misha is cataloguing again, open and honest. “No. But I get the feeling this is more about you.”
Jensen startles. “Huh?”
Misha blinks owlishly, pausing for a long moment, mouth twisting to the side in consideration. “Well, for instance. If I did this-” Misha says, and dips his index finger straight into his glass.
“Misha-”
“Shh,” Misha hushes, as if Jensen is a rowdy four year old. And yet it works, because Jensen shuts up.
Misha’s finger leaves the liquid, rivulets of clear vodka dripping into the glass. Misha’s eyes stay locked on Jensen. It’s intimidating and makes Jensen feel the need to get up, to run. But he stays where he is, can’t help it.
“If I did this,” Misha starts again quietly, “What would you do?” And then he’s sliding his wet finger away from the glass, hand moving down his torso to the sliver of skin. It glistens wetly in the down-lights as he drags it slip-slidingly slow along the strip of exposed skin, hipbone to hipbone.
Jensen forgets to breathe.
Time freezes, Misha staring at Jensen with eyes too supernaturally blue to be real. The sounds of lone cars outside, the hum of the central air inside, dying down into molasses. Condensation on their glasses stops mid-drip. Jensen would be alarmed that he isn’t responding, but frankly he isn’t sure it’s occurred to him that he’s meant to.
“Jensen,” Misha prompts, a low burr of noise in the silent vacuum of the room, and time seems to stretch and snap back, whiplashing into Jensen’s chest as breath rushes back in.
“Misha...what...I...what?” Jensen stumbles on his words.
Misha doesn’t mock his lack of eloquence, though; the smile is small but genuine. “Your decision, Jen.”
His decision, Jensen thinks, blinking stupidly at Misha; at the stupid line of vodka glistening over his stomach, the way he’s stretched out over his couch like something to be taken. His decision. Jensen wasn’t even aware there was a question until now.
Except for where, maybe, he was.
“Hey,” Misha murmurs, draws Jensen’s eyes back to his. Jensen expects him to go on, to say something that explains what the fuck has just happened, or... or something. But Misha is silent, possessed by the strange unnatural calm Jensen noticed at the bar.
He doesn’t know why exactly he does it, but somewhere in the place inside where he’s freaking out, he just decides to stop. To stop trying to fix people, to stop being the adult. To just be Jensen.
He places his glass on the coffee table with a muted thud and finds himself sliding to his knees. Shuffling over to the couch and Misha’s insane, terrifying gaze. He hesitates, for just a second, as he kneels next to the couch, feels the warmth coming off Misha in waves, the trust in his eyes almost too much to look at.
And then he lets go.
The first touch of his mouth to Misha’s hipbone is like an electric shock. He hears Misha’s breath hitch, feels the skin twitch under the tip of his tongue. Misha’s skin is hot, but the trail of mostly-evaporated vodka is cool. It’s muted and smooth across his tastebuds, tingling cool before nestling warmer in the back of his throat. He leans over Misha, sliding his tongue glacially slow across the expanse of skin. Misha’s shirts tickle against his cheek as he moves, the soft line of hair he passes midway against his tongue. Misha’s stomach jumps beneath his mouth, and Jensen can practically feel the restraint shivering off him, forcing himself to stay still under Jensen’s ministrations.
He reaches the opposite hipbone what feels like minutes later but can only be seconds. It’s sharp and there and Jensen is too far gone past his line of do-not-cross that it simply doesn’t matter anymore, and so he sucks the raised bone in-between his lips. The groan that emanates from Misha’s chest goes straight to Jensen’s cock.
With one last swipe of his tongue, Jensen pulls away, rocking back onto his heels so he can see Misha, and Misha can see him.
A flush has crept up Misha’s cheeks, pink blooms of rose in their centres, and his eyes have blown inky and dark with want.
“Fuck,” he swears, his throat clicking as he swallows and tongue darting out to slide across his lips.
Jensen wants to respond with the things he’s meant to say, like If you play your cards right or I do hope so, or yes please but he doesn’t want to act anymore. His nerves are thrumming like plucked guitar strings and despite his cock filling in his jeans, he doesn’t know what this is. Instead he just smiles, tries not to feel like the shy teenage girl in a John Hughes retrospective.
Misha full-body shudders as Jensen watches him, and a hot stab of pride flares behind Jensen’s ribs. It’s all he needs to move closer, press his lips to Misha’s. They’re plump and soft and Misha’s mouth opens without hesitation, his tongue darting tentatively before sliding sinfully in earnest. Jensen angles his mouth, one hand propping himself against the floor, the other clutching carefully at the side of the couch. Misha is gentle and oxymoronic, lips melding against his, small puffs of air against his mouth. He doesn’t touch Jensen anywhere else, a fact of which Jensen is keenly aware. Even as Misha’s tongue touches the roof of his mouth, slides across his teeth, it feels chaste, careful.
When air becomes a pressing need Jensen pulls back, enjoys the way Misha tries to follow. He’s waiting for Misha to comment; to make some lewd joke to break the tension, accuse him of kissing better than Jared or tell him he left his gum behind. But again, Misha says nothing, just tongues tentatively at his kiss-swollen lips. And then he raises his glass, the one he’s been holding all this time at his crooked elbow, and downs the last of his vodka in one swallow.
Jensen raises an eyebrow at him. Is he affecting nonchalance? Is this all run-of-the-mill? But before he can turn the gesture into something warped, Misha is sitting himself up, swinging his legs down next to Jensen’s kneeling body and standing up.
Holding out a hand.
Confused, Jensen takes it; lets Misha’s fingers wrap around his and tug him gently up into his space. Misha kisses him, softly, briefly, before smiling. “We are so not doing this on your sofa, Jen.”
Which is the last thing he expected to come from Misha’s mouth. “We aren’t?” he asks, instead of ‘Doing what?’
Misha laughs and tugs Jensen out of the room, down the short hall to Jensen’s bedroom. Jensen would object to being led around his own house if he weren’t upside down and inside out and wondering if Misha isn’t secretly a pod person.
Misha leaves the light off as he passes the switch and Jensen follows suit; there’s enough ambient light filtering in from the hall to see. Enough shadow to take the edge off Jensen’s thoughts. Misha turns, letting Jensen’s hand drop and then he’s backing towards the bed, sitting as the back of his knees hit the mattress and crawling backwards towards the pillows. Propping himself there. Waiting.
Again, a decision, one that Jensen is almost positive he wants to make. One that he’s going to make regardless.
He follows Misha to the bed. Crawls over the dark blue sheets and up over Misha’s body, knees to either side of his hips. Their breaths mingle and the silence is almost overbearing; but it’s alright, because it’s Misha.
“You’re so quiet,” Jensen murmurs, hands to either side of Misha’s shoulders against the headboard, holding himself separate. Just.
Misha shrugs, smiles softly. “Sometimes I can be.”
“It’s fucking weird,” Jensen mutters as he leans in and noses behind Misha’s ear, inhales the smell of Misha’s warm skin, his sweat and soap.
“Oh, I can be loud, too,” Misha murmurs, low and promising. Jensen shivers as if touched by a draft of cool air.
“Jesus, this is a bad idea isn’t it?” he says against Misha’s earlobe before sucking it between his lips to taste, sliding his tongue over the smooth flesh.
Misha laughs silently, Jensen can feel it in the tremor of Misha’s throat where his hand has come to rest. “I hope that’s a rhetorical question, Jen.”
Jensen smiles around Misha’s earlobe and then nips lightly with his teeth. He pulls back, nose to nose with Misha. “I think so,” he says against Misha’s lips right before they touch, lips sliding and tongues exploring.
Jensen feels his breath hitch on the beginning of a moan as he lets his arms bend, pressing his body to Misha’s. Hands slide up around his waist to his back, Misha’s long fingers pressing to his spine. The urge for more blindsides him and he wants with sudden, blinding clarity. He deepens the kiss, feels the click of their teeth as Misha adjusts, the burn of Misha’s stubble against his lips as he tries to devour him.
They kiss for long minutes, breathing into each other and touching gently, learning, and then Jensen finds himself being pushed back with a gentle hand to his breastbone.
The reason becomes quickly apparent as Misha sits up further, slides Jensen’s t-shirt up his chest. His fingernails dragging softly against his skin as Jensen lifts his arms to aid in Misha’s plan. His shirt slides up and over his head and Misha tosses it to the floor.
Jensen’s hands immediately find Misha’s shoulders, sliding under the lapels of his outer shirt, hitching the cotton down his arms and hands. He can’t help but take a moment to slide his fingertips down the fragile bones of Misha’s wrists, feel the delicate skin against his own. Misha leans forward, allowing his shirt to be slipped from out behind him. But when Jensen goes back for the t-shirt, Misha stills his hands, wraps his own around Jensen’s.
Jensen looks up, asks a silent question, but Misha just smiles enigmatically and shakes his head. He pushes at Jensen’s chest, cradles his shoulder and guides Jensen onto his back. Jensen’s erection is obvious, a tented bulge at his crotch, and even though he can see that Misha is similarly interested, Misha isn’t the one suddenly on display.
“What are you doing?” he can’t help but ask, feeling suddenly vulnerable and exposed.
“Fixing you,” Misha says with the hint of a grin as he settles over Jensen, knees to either side of his thighs, their warmth bracketing Jensen, anchoring him.
“What makes you think I need to be fixed?” Jensen asks, imitating their earlier conversation.
Misha just raises an eyebrow and the grin is real this time, crinkling his eyes and nose, erupting in Cheshire teeth.
Jensen tries to squirm, to buck up under Misha, just a little.
“Tsk tsk, Jen,” Misha says, before reaching down and whipping his own t-shirt over his head, adding it to the pile on the floor. “Patience comes to those who wait.”
Jensen swallows, gazes up at the pale expanse of skin and muscle now on display. Misha is a lot more built than he’d given him credit for.
“What If I don’t want to be patient?” he asks, lowering his voice into dirt and coyness. He reaches out with a finger, draws it down the line of Misha’s sternum, enjoying the way that Misha’s eyelids flutter.
Misha smiles, though Jensen sees the darkened blowing of his pupils, even in the darkness. “Remember how it isn’t always your responsibility? Let’s work with that.”
“Misha,” Jensen grits, and it comes dangerously close to a whine.
“Jensen,” Misha parrots and rocks his hips down into Jensen’s unexpectedly, their matching erections pressing hard against each other.
“Oh,” Jensen says stupidly at the spark of pleasure that floods him. He immediately tries to press back up, but Misha backs off, inches out of reach.
“Oh, indeed,” Misha muses smugly and Jensen would respond, would snap and deflect with some well placed sarcasm but Misha is moving again, sliding down against him, the silky skin of his chest pressing into Jensen’s own. It feels fucking amazing.
“Just relax,” Misha murmurs against his throat and Jensen feels a tongue flicker out to trail along a tendon. Feels the scrape of Misha’s teeth and the answering swell of his cock jerking in the confines of his pants.
“Relaxing isn’t likely to happen anytime soon,” Jensen mutters, mostly to himself, but he feels Misha’ amused huff of warm air against his throat. He presses his head back into the pillow, neck arching to allow Misha access. The burn of Misha’s stubble slides against the skin of his throat, his Adam’s apple, his clavicle. Misha’s lips are hot and soft, pressing kisses and licks across his collarbone.
There’s friction, a slow frisson of touch as Misha moves downwards. Jensen can feel Misha’s cock now, a hot press of pressure against his hipbone, then the top of his thigh. Jensen presses his ankle against the mattress, shifts just enough to push his leg against the hardness of Misha’s erection.
Misha moans, presses downwards seemingly without thought, his denim-clad cock sliding hard, back then forward again, just above Jensen’s knee. Jensen thanks god and presses his own pelvis up, his cock hitting the hard cartilage of Misha’s ribs.
For a second he thinks he’s won, stopped this slow aching pace that’s too vulnerable, too open to doubt and judgement. And then Misha’s weight on him is gone and Jensen’s eyes flicker open - he doesn’t even remember shutting them - to find Misha kneeling between his legs, watching him.
“What the fuck, man?” Jensen huffs, hackles raising and lashing out.
“You really can’t let go, can you?” Misha asks, his tone curious yet calm, as if he hadn’t just been rubbing his dick against Jensen’s leg.
Jensen rolls his eyes. He’s opening his mouth to give a smart ass answer when Misha’s fingers land on his belt buckle. Misha makes quick work of it, sliding open the clasp and pressing the metal from its notch. With a strong yank the belt flies from Jensen’s belt loops, a long snake of leather slithering out before being flung away. The pressure of Misha’s touch makes Jensen groan, his breath panting out of his mouth.
“Sometimes,” Misha says, still quiet despite the quick recklessness of his fingers, sliding brass through buttonholes and drawing down the fly of Jensen’s pants, flaring the denim apart, “you need to let other people take care of you, Jensen.”
And with that, Jensen feels Misha’s fingers slide under the material of his briefs, pull it down, his hot cock exposed to the cool air.
“Mish, please,” Jensen huffs, and this time it really is close to begging. He doesn’t give a fuck.
“Let me do this, Jensen,” Misha mutters. But then Misha’s fingers are wrapped around Jensen’s cock and his lips are against the head, murmuring words against the firm, spongey softness and sending a rush of blood along Jensen’s cock so fast his head feels like it’s spinning.
His hips jack-knife upwards and only Misha’s other hand, suddenly pressing down on his hipbone, keeps him from stabbing Misha in the face. It would have been so embarrassing a moment there’d have been no choice but to get up and leave immediately. Even if it’s his apartment.
“Easy, Jen,” Misha smiles, his tongue flickering out to lap at the bead of pre-come Jensen can see, can feel. “I’ve got you.”
Jensen groans at the sight. The sound is loud in the delicate silence and he doesn’t care that he’s breaking it. Misha’s eyes flash and he surges forward, sucking Jensen’s cock into his mouth in an instant. Misha’s mouth is too hot, too wet, the suction too insane and Jensen moans, fingers clutching at the bedspread in an aching death-grip.
Tongue flat against the underside of his cock, Misha laves upwards in a hard long stroke. The pressure disappears and then his tongue is back, tip teasing at the crease of head and shaft.
“Fuck, fuck, Misha,” Jensen moans, “I can’t...”
Misha pulls off with a slick pop, his fist still around the base of Jensen, jacking him slowly. “Sure you can, Jen, you just gotta let it happen.”
Then Misha’s mouth is back on him, lips meeting the curl of his fist and sensation flowing from root to tip. It’s too much, Misha is sucking and licking and worshiping his cock and he’s never done anything to deserve it, never even asked for it, and yet Misha’s giving it freely, as if it’s the only thing in the world he exists for.
Looking up, Misha’s eyelids flutter open and Jensen’s view is filled with wide blue eyes and stretched pink lips. Misha’s cheeks hollow as he sucks then relax as Jensen’s cock slips from his mouth, eyes not moving an inch from Jensen’s as he lets the wet cock slide against his cheek.
Misha uses the back of his hand to wipe at the saliva and pre-come smeared across his mouth. “Told you,” he says before sliding his lips along Jensen’s length and taking the head back into his mouth.
Jensen can’t keep his eyes off the image, afraid that if he looks away Misha will disappear. He focuses on the wet heat, the gentle suction, the way his cock head slips to the side and pushes Misha’s cheek out in an obscene pornographic bulge. He can feel his orgasm building, pooling at the bottom of his spine and tightening the skin along his thighs. His fingers clench and unclench at the sheets, dark blue scrunches of cotton between his fingers.
And then Misha’s other hand leaves its anchor on Jensen’s hip and his fingers are smudging down under Jensen’s cock, gentling at the soft skin of his balls, fondling and trailing and it blows Jensen’s senses, short-circuits and fizzles, and the pressure is too much. Jensen’s orgasm overtakes him and hurtles in a headlong rush through his body head to toe, pushing and pulsing out of him into Misha’s mouth.
As he comes back down he can hear Misha moaning, feel the little licks of Misha’s tongue against the sensitive slit of his cock.
He stays still a moment more, eyes closed, lets the pleasure and serenity flow through his veins, relaxes in a way he hasn’t all night, all week. Maybe longer.
When he finally opens his eyes it’s because Misha’s mouth leaves his cock and the cool air hits the saliva and come that’s left there. That and Misha’s little hitches of breath and bitten-off sounds are increasing, which doesn’t make sense.
But as he looks down, he understands why. Somewhere in the last moments of Jensen’s delirium, Misha has gotten his own pants open, his flushed and hard cock out and in his hand. He’s kneeling up, stroking back and forth, the head of his cock red and disappearing in and out of the circle of his fingers.
“Oh..Jesus fuck, Misha ,” Jensen breathes in a strangled groan as his spent and softening cock gives an almost painful jerk.
Misha’s smile is small and strained, his mouth falling slightly open. Jensen can’t help it, as boneless as he is he simply...must. He heaves himself up on weak arms, Misha startled to suddenly have Jensen in his face, but he doesn’t care, he has to kiss him. And so he does, mouth sealing to Misha’s and swallowing the gasp. Misha tastes like his come, which is almost too much to take, and then Misha moans low in his throat and his hand hastens, hitting against Jensen’s stomach where they’re crushed together.
Jensen’s arms slide around Misha’s shoulders, holding each other up and Jensen pulls his mouth from Misha’s, ignores the whimper and slides his mouth to Misha’s ear. “Come on, Misha, let me help you too.”
And Misha loses it, crying out and coming hot between them, coating Jensen’s stomach and dripping down their jeans to the sheets below.
Misha’s head falls forward, nuzzling into Jensen’s shoulder and throat, breaths rasping and harsh against him, and so Jensen just holds him, finally able to soothe him the way he’s wanted all night.
They’re quiet for long moments, but neither pulls away. Finally Misha lifts his head. He smiles, lip curling, voice raspy and low. “I know what you’re doing, Jensen.”
“What?” Jensen says, and he can’t help but grin, the tension of the night bled away and forgotten.
Misha just shakes his head and presses their mouths together.
It’s not until after, when they’ve showered, enveloped in steam and hot water, hands sliding over wet skin, mapping, learning and teasing, and are safely ensconced in Jensen’s bed, covers pulled up around them to keep out the cold, that Jensen remembers what Misha said earlier in the evening.
He tightens his arm around the warm, naked body pressed against chest, sleepily nuzzles at the damp hair that smells like his shampoo and tickles at his nose.
“Hey,” he says softly, quietly; finally understanding Misha’s need to keep things soft, safe.
“Mmmm?” Misha’s sleepy response questions and Jensen can feel the sound through Misha’s back, vibrating into his chest.
“What you said, before, about saying no if they asked. You wouldn’t, would you?”
Misha is silent for a moment, and then turns in Jensen’s arms to face him. He studies Jensen once again, shadows playing across his face. “Maybe, Jen. I don’t know.”
Jensen nods, confused by the surge of emotions swirling inside him. “Or you could maybe, just, not say no,” he offers.
Misha smiles and then turns back around, sliding once more into the cocoon of Jensen’s arms. “Or I could not say no,” he says softly, fondly.
It’s not a promise, nor should it be, but Jensen appreciates Misha letting him fix things. Just for now.
end.