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Misha smiles his way through the weekend.
He's mostly exhausted from the flight and yeah, probably the emotional fallout from the finale and Mark's absence is a definite punch in the gut every time he thinks about it. Even getting truly smashed loses its appeal but he makes an effort, and just ends up tired, maybe even a little tired at Jensen because he's a happy-flirty-handsy motherfucker when he's drunk and he loves Rome and loves Jibcon and generally any chance he gets to be himself.
Misha actually finds himself getting annoyed by it before he reminds himself he's being an asshole. It wasn't always like this. There was a time Jensen was the uptight mopey one, and Misha had to practically unhook the stars from the sky to get a genuine smile out of him.
Jensen's a little hungover during the panel and has to be nursing a killer headache, but he's turning the antics up to eleven like he didn't spend his morning debating on throwing up and dealing with the sore throat or just putting up with being sick for the day. He pulls enough crap to entertain for both of them and Misha appreciates it and plays along. It's always easy when he's around Jared, but it's been a long three days and he's getting a little thin at the edges.
Jensen's got him covered, though; he takes one look at Misha before they hop on stage and starts over accommodating to the point that Misha's shocked into a good mood.
Later, Misha knows people will over-analyze the videos frame-by-frame, but he tries not think about that shit, otherwise he'd never make it through the day. It's the same reason Jensen stayed disconnected from the fanbase for so long, took him years to set up a goddamn Twitter account, but that was before and Misha keeps smiling (mostly) and he thinks he pulls off cheerful.
He doesn't remember whose bright idea it was to attempt to drink off their lingering hangovers that night (he's fairly certain that was Jared, and is further convinced when he realizes that's whose room they're currently in — "Hair of the dog, Mish."), but it's not-quite-tomorrow when he gives up, a little tipsy and thinking longingly of a warm bed at the end of the hall. Rob's passed out in Jared's bed, and Rich is currently kicking everyone else's ass at poker. Misha mumbles something about a shower as he folds, and doesn't even realize he's being followed until he's out the door.
He doesn't say anything, just does the cursory check of the hallway to make sure they're alone. Jensen switched to whiskey after his third beer and Misha's lost track of how many he's had, and the gentle balance that is whatever this is only works if at least one of them is not being a complete idiot. He barely confirms the place is empty before hands slip around his waist, and Jensen's chest is warm and solid against his back, his nose nuzzling in behind Misha’s ear. Misha puts his hands over Jensen's, follows them as they dip low on his hips, and Jensen makes that little "Rrrrrrrr," noise and Misha can't help but laugh, shocked by how loud it sounds in the empty hall.
"You're wasted," Misha feels obligated to point out. He's not even sure which room they've ended up at; Jensen's leading from behind, tucking a key through the slot and they barely make it over the threshold before Jensen has him backed up against the door.
Warm hands skirt under Misha's t-shirt and Jensen's making a meal of his throat, careful with his teeth and never sucking in one place too long. "Not that wasted," and Jesus Christ, Jensen's voice has dropped to that same octave he uses for Dean whenever he's pissed and snaps out Cas, and if Misha wasn't already getting hard, that alone would've done the trick. "I told you I'd show you later."
Misha's already got a hand on Jensen's belt and is wrestling with the clasp. It's hard with one hand, especially with Jensen grinding into him, slipping a thigh between his legs and lifting up just so, but Misha isn't about to tell him to stop.
"Yeah, well, next time you wanna flash a fucking semi at me on stage, you might wanna give me a head's up. Asshole," he adds, just as he gets his hand inside. Jensen's rock hard and hot against his palm, and Jensen's teeth get a little careless at Misha’s throat before aborting, biting down on his clothed shoulder instead.
"Fuck," Jensen mumbles into his shoulder and cants his hips, sliding his cock through Misha's curled fingers. Misha keeps his touch loose, just giving the occasional gentle squeeze of promise. This part is always his favorite, when Jensen hasn't quite gotten his rhythm and Misha's still coherent enough to tease him. Jensen's mouthing at his neck again, dragging teeth along the junction of his neck and shoulder; not hard enough to mark, just hard enough that Misha almost doesn't care, makes him want to tell him fuck it because when Jensen gets him hot he loses his goddamn mind.
Misha's almost grateful when Jensen breaks away to tug the jackets off their shoulders, barely gets Misha's t-shirt over his head and not-quite-off his arms before he's dropping lower; soft lips and sharp stubble dragging over his collarbone, the dip in his chest, down over a nipple.
Jensen does bite him there, too hard and perfect; the door thunks as Misha's head falls against it, and he's going to have to skip any poolsides in the near future. Jensen twists the other in his fingers and Misha curses, fingers scrambling for purchase in Jensen's hair but it's too short along the sides, now — don't even get him started on that fucking haircut (when Jensen met him at the gate in LAX, he nearly dragged them both into the First Class toilet the moment they were wheels up) so he digs his fingers into the back of his neck instead, and has to remind himself not to scratch.
Jensen's found his pace, teeth and tongue and lips leaving white-hot trails in Misha's chest as he sinks lower. He's got Misha by the hips, pinning him hard against the door like Misha might try to bolt, and Misha can tell where this is going — when Jensen narrows his focus like this he's only got one goal in mind, and Misha knows he'll be begging him for it by the end. Jensen'll give it to him, eventually, but not before he's had his way, and his way generally leaves Misha completely fucking wrecked, strung-out and sore and bruised.
Misha's grateful for it, needs to forget why he had to try so hard to smile during the panels and the ops, wash out the leftover emotional build up from filming that finale and seeing the backlash from it (though, that lasted a whole two days, thanks Jared). Covets how his whole world funnels down to the hands pulling at his belt loose and palming him firmly through his jeans, the teeth cutting across the jut of his hip, the lust-blown green eyes flickering up to make sure he's got Misha's attention.
Misha does manage to grab him by the hair when Jensen tugs him out of his pants and puts his mouth on Misha, and god, deny it all he wants but Jensen fucking loves this and he's so good at it — so, so good — doesn't even build up to it, just swirls his tongue like he does this for a living and goes to town, sits up on his knees a little higher and angles his head just so to get Misha as deep as he can, cheeks hollowed and nose buried deep in the hair of his groin. His hands work the length as he pulls back to mouth at the head, and Misha's eyes roll back as he fucks into that mouth without apology, groans deep in his chest when Jensen scrapes his bottom teeth along the vein.
The door rattles on its hinges as Misha slams his other hand flat against it to keep his balance as Jensen takes him deep again and swallows when Misha hits the back of his throat.
"Jensen," Misha says. Or he tries to, but it catches in his throat and sort of trips its way out of his mouth. Jensen is rolling his balls in his palm when he pulls that filthy popsicle trick around the head of Misha's cock. "Shit, Jen, I'm — " Jensen pulls off, smooth as you please, grips the base of Misha's dick to stave off the impending orgasm and tongues idly at the foreskin, swollen lips pink and brushing soft and wet against the glans.
There's an obscene thread of saliva and precome stuck to his bottom lip. It's the sort of moment Misha wishes he could catch with a photo for those long weeks apart, but they can't risk the existence of such a thing so Misha commits it to memory, runs his fingers along Jensen's cheek and mouth, worries the mess there with his thumb.
Jensen sucks that into his mouth, too, teeth nipping at the fleshy pad of his finger as he pulls his hand away. When he stands up and presses Misha against the door with another kiss, Misha tastes himself on Jensen's tongue and that familiar dizzy tingle starts to creep in. It's not the buzz from the beer — he knows — it's all Jensen, how he strokes Misha loosely between them, keeping Misha right on that razor's edge while his other hand is opening his own jeans a little more so he can palm at his own erection. He groans into Misha's open mouth and Misha can feel it crawl down his spine, filling up the empty spaces inside with violent heat.
When he pulls back, Misha's still trying to catch his breath as Jensen finishes pulling Misha's shirt up and off, and Misha nearly trips trying to shuck his own shoes and pants off as Jensen tugs him by the wrist until they're in the middle of the room and Misha is standing there, completely naked, while Jensen looks him over. He's still palming himself through his stupid underwear, jeans open but otherwise fully dressed. He casts his eyes down at the floor, then back at Misha, and quirks an eyebrow.
"I'm not drunk enough to suck you off while you're wearing those," and okay, that's mostly a lie. It's not the liquor, though — Misha would suck him off just about anytime and anywhere; Jensen could be wearing a clown suit and it wouldn't make a difference.
It's a little dark but he can see Jensen grin as he pushes his jeans off his hips and goddammit, the stupid things really do go down to mid-thigh, tight and smooth and they'd be sexy as hell on him if not for the grizzly bear graphic.
"C'mon, Mishka," he says, and Misha rolls his eyes. That joke was old the first time he told it.
Jensen kicks his shoes and jeans away, then turns around. There’s enough ambient light Misha can make out the back of those ridiculous underwear. Jensen’s looking over his shoulder with this massive grin and he's just so damn proud of himself and that's what makes Misha laugh more than the bubbling brook running through a forest plastered on Jensen’s ass.
Jensen seems to notice something's off, though, and Misha wonders how well he played it this weekend, realizes that the laugh he was trying for came out as a helpless sort of chuckle that tapers off at the end, so emotionally drained that expressing anything with enthusiasm at this point would be like trying to boil the ocean they just flew over.
Misha starts when a gentle hand brushes against his cheek. He leans into it, hums contentment when large fingers card through his hair. He can't see Jensen's expression this close, face bathed in shadow, but can feel the lips moving against his forehead as Jensen says, "We don't have to," and fuck that. Misha might be tired of pretending but he's not too tired for this, and right now, it's the only thing keeping him sane.
"I want to," he says, and turns his head to kiss Jensen's palm, "need to," kisses his wrist, voice dropping low, "get me out of my head," kisses the lips that find his in the dark, "please."
The last word is barely out and the hand in his hair twists, and Misha gasps against Jensen's mouth and his knees buckle under him. That's more like it.
He grips at Jensen's hips, snaps the waistband of his underwear and hisses, "But for the love of god, take these off first," and Jensen's laughing at him now but that's okay, because he breaks away to tug them off, along with his shirt and they're both naked and Misha feels a little bit less like a begging slut. Not that he particularly minds, and Jensen seems to get off on it, anyway.
"I've been thinking about fucking your mouth all goddamn day." Jensen punctuates with a truly filthly kiss, running the flat of his tongue right along Misha's, and Jensen’s had enough to drink that Misha knows he can look forward to getting an earful of that kind of talk all night long.
For thinking about it all day, Jensen doesn't seem to be in a terrible rush; they make out for a while, kiss going deep and a little lazy, and Jensen's got both their dicks in hand and matches the pace. It's nice and a little dirty and mostly sweet like Jensen can get sometimes, but it's not what Misha needs tonight.
He bites at Jensen's bottom lip, hoping to snap him out of it. "Are you planning on doing something about that?"
And there it is, the slight shift in Jensen's eyes that always hits Misha like a punch to the gut, and he's being pushed to his knees. The carpets aren't cheap, but they're not so soft that he doesn't feel the burn as he shifts to sit up and get at the right level. Jensen's dick is like the rest of him; beautiful and thick and larger than it looks until you're right up next to it, and it's a good thing they're done with the con because Misha's throat is going to be sore as all hell tomorrow.
"Just to be clear," Jensen says, voice low. He's tracing Misha's lips with the head of his cock as he speaks. "How far out of your head do you want to get?"
Misha’s tongue darts out, just enough to tease under the head and steal a taste, before mouthing along the side of his length, eyes flicking up because he knows Jensen gets off on that, likes it when Misha watches Jensen take him apart. "Put me on the fucking moon."
It might be too dim to see but Misha can feel Jensen's gaze darken, slips into that low gear Misha's been seeing more and more over the years. Jensen used to be ashamed of it, and not because of the whole bisexual awakening thing; he seems to wrestle with reconciling being like this in private and who he is in public, whether he's on camera or on stage or just sitting on a couch with friends watching a game. That whole no-really-he's-a-super-nice-guy sticker that actually applies to him, dirty jokes and asshole comments notwithstanding, and Misha doesn't know if it's just him or if Jensen's like this with his wife but Misha likes to think it's all his, wants to maintain the fantasy that he gets to keep this secret part of Jensen all to himself.
The only warning he gets is Jensen's cock pulling back, and then his open palm connects with Misha's cheek so hard it whips his head to the side. The shock just enhances the effect, that beautiful sting ricocheting across his skin, the faint ache in his jaw. He drops his head back, and barely meets Jensen's eyes before his head snaps to the same side, heat flaming across his cheek. Jensen has to be feeling it, too, because he's not holding back, not warming up to it like he usually does, and Misha has to grip the base of his own dick to stave off accidentally coming right now.
Misha's panting when Jensen takes him by the chin and forces him to look up. They've never talked about this and Misha's aware that's stupid — he's not an idiot — but this sort of evolved over time and there's this precarious balance he's learned to maintain between just fucking Jensen (which is fantastic in its own right) and this twisted shit they both love dragging out of each other. Misha knows there's no shame in it but it's a process with Jensen, something that's gotten better with age — like everything else about him — from his attitude toward the fans and the cons to the way he's filled out. Thick thighs and broad shoulders, arms that can hold Misha down (and it's not like he's some fucking twink) and deliver a blow that will have Misha begging like a whore before Jensen's done with him.
Jensen doesn't say a word, just waits for Misha to nod — a barely perceivable dip of his head — and runs the pad of his thumb along Misha's bottom lip before releasing him. Misha closes his eyes and waits. The anticipation is half the rush and Jensen never follows a pattern, uses light touches along his jaw and his brow to lull Misha into relaxing before he strikes him again. Sometimes it's the same side, sometimes he switches it up and Misha's starting to feel a little disconnected from the pain, skin becoming numb and prickly, and the only sound apart from the sharp slap of skin against skin is his own breathing.
He's brought back a little by the nudge of a cock against his cheek and that can't be comfortable, he hasn't shaved since — but Jensen's not rubbing, just feeling the heat there and that's...that's fine, and also kind of hot, who knew, and Misha kind of wishes they'd turned a light on so Jensen could see it and not just feel it.
Jensen lets out a low chuckle somewhere above him and says, "You want me to get you a mirror?" and Misha realizes he must have said that out loud. Actually, a mirror would be kind of awesome, and Misha wonders why they never get hotel suites with those mirror along the walls or the walk-ins that are not-so-subtly placed directly opposite the beds. He wonders if it's too late to switch rooms for the next trip.
Misha teeters as Jensen steps away and blinks as light floods the room. It's just the small lamp by the bed, but it's shocking compared to the previous darkness. His eyes adjust as Jensen comes back into his space, and steadies him with a gentle hand along the back of his head. His other hand is on his cock, working himself in slow, firm strokes, and when Misha leans forward to mouth at the head, he's rewarded with the salty tang of precome and Jensen groaning, long and low.
When Misha looks up he's so fucking thankful for the light because now he can see the beautiful pink flush working its way over Jensen's chest and shoulders, creeping up his neck as he rocks his hips forward.
Jensen may love doing this but Misha's fucking addicted to it. It's not easy fitting him in and Misha's had to put some serious work into suppressing his gag reflex but it's been worth it. He relaxes his jaw and lets Jensen slide neatly inside, tongue flat against the vein and letting out a soft moan as Jensen sinks in to his base, head of cock brushing the back of his throat, and swallows.
Jensen twists the hand in Misha's hair as he starts to move and Misha focuses on keeping his teeth out of the way, on breathing through his nose, on curling a hand through Jensen's legs and slipping between his cheeks, on the sound Jensen makes when Misha lets his fingers probe deeper.
"Fuck, Mish." It's a barely-there mumble, and when Misha looks up Jensen's head is tipped back, throat exposed, and the hand in Misha's hair is gripping too hard; Jensen's close, and Misha is more than ready for it, can't wait to taste it, but apparently Jensen has other plans and pulls back. Misha almost falls on his face but Jensen's there to catch him, drag him to his feet and manhandle him over to the bed so fast that Misha's dizzy when his ass hits the mattress. Jensen's cradling his face, oddly tender, and Misha closes his eyes and leans into it, sucks at the fingers gently probing his lips, smearing the mess of saliva on his chin.
He's not expecting the slap when it hits, and the edge of Jensen's palm catches his swollen lip. It hurts and it’s perfect and he barely gets time to recover before Jensen leans down and kisses him. It's gentle again and Misha gets lost in the whiplash, fuzzy-tingly sensation tickling at the edges of his senses.
He recognizes it for what it is, and it's definitely stupid doing this now; he trusts Jensen completely, but Jensen's been drinking and they'll be parting ways at LAX. If Misha crashes it's going to majorly suck but he needs this right now, needs as much as Jensen's willing to give him, and part of him thinks Jensen wants this too, maybe needs it as much as he does. Or maybe he's being selfish and irresponsible and just maintaining a fantasy to justify what they're doing, but the look Jensen gives him when he surfaces, hands gentle and soft, is all the reassurance he needs.
They still need to talk about this. Maybe afterwards or in the morning or hell, even on the flight back — and then Jensen slaps that thought right out of him, lights up the left side of his face with fire, and blacks out everything except the two of them; Jensen pushing him back up on the bed and flipping him over, Misha's hands fisting at the sheets as Jensen pulls his hips up, spreads him open, and hits him again.
Misha has no idea what he says, but it gathers a laugh from Jensen, a low dirty chuckle that has Misha curling his toes as a shiver crawls up his spine like a snake. "I didn't bring any props, and you should keep in mind we've got'a thirteen hour flight in the morning."
Large hands are massaging his ass, fingers brushing deeper with every pass, and Misha pushes back against them and gets another hard slap. "Fuck, you're hot like this," he can feel Jensen's breath against his ass; Misha groans and cants his hips, "and such a needy slut, Christ."
Misha's entire focus is on that mouth and picks up the slight southern twang on the word slut and groans again. If there's one constant with Jensen and sex it's his filthy goddamn mouth, and Misha can never get enough of it.
Speaking of his filthy goddamn mouth — "Jesus Christ," Misha echoes, and then yelps when Jensen slaps his ass again.
Misha's going to have a really interesting flight tomorrow if Jensen keeps that up, trying to sit on just his left ass-cheek while Jensen snickers at him in the next seat. He mumbles something about not having had a shower since the morning and Jensen answers with a long, slow lick right up the middle of his ass, stubble scraping the tender skin there, and Misha completely forgets whatever point he was trying to make.
Jensen's only done this to him once before, and he was so drunk he kept laughing through it and it was kind of weird but still good in the way sex with Jensen used to be, half awkward and half lightning hot. It only went on for about five minutes because Jensen was giggling like a teenage girl and kept making jokes that were bordering on ruining the mood. It's different, now — Jensen's not giggling and not cracking jokes. He's dragging both hands down over Misha's back and hips, nails leaving hot, stinging trails in his skin, while flicking his tongue over the tight ring of muscle begging entrance, and Misha barely has the wherewithal to shove his own fist in his mouth to stifle his moan.
Misha loses track of time for a spell, brain floating on a pleasant cloud of pleasure about four feet over his head, and he's probably making too much noise and tries to bury his face in a pillow to stifle it but Jensen doesn't let up, just molds Misha's ass with his hands and tongue-fucks him until Misha can feel tears prickling the corners of his eyes. He's going to have stubble burn on his ass in the morning and can't even bring himself to care, because there's nothing else in the room except the two of them and the mattress holding them up, clean and dry underneath Misha while Jensen is hard on his ass, cheeks rough, lips and tongue filthy and wet . Misha's eyes are closed but still roll back as he starts to rock his hips, tries to get Jensen deeper and he can feel Jensen's groan inside of him, nails raking down his ass and the backs of his thighs.
Misha imagines when he looks at himself in a mirror later, it's going to look like his ass got mauled by a wild animal. He says as much, and Jensen surfaces and motherfucker, now he's giggling again.
"Yeah?" he says, placing a kiss at the small of Misha's back. He slides over him, gets right behind Misha's ear and makes that stupid fucking rrrrrrr noise again and Misha hits him in the face with a pillow.
Jensen ducks, tucking his face into the curve of Misha's neck, laughing and placing a kiss there. Then another, and another, and rolls his hips against Misha's ass, and the kisses turn into a moan as his dick slots right between Misha's cheeks and the slick there. Misha turns his head to catch his mouth and it's a bad angle and a little sloppy but that's kind of why it's so hot, and even if Misha had the leverage he can't concentrate on a kiss while Jensen's rubbing his cock into Misha's ass, shaft dragging back and forth as Misha grinds back to meet him.
Misha's trying to kiss him and talk at the same time, and it ends up coming out as a babbled-sort-of-whine he's going to vehemently deny making later. Jensen pulls away, pressing a kiss to his temple. "What was that?"
"I said," and Misha rocks back, twists his hips, and Jensen growls behind his ear, "stop being such a fucking tease."
Jensen bites down on his shoulder, probably a little too hard, but at this point Misha's sure he's got red tracks up and down his back and thighs already, anyway; it's fine, because they're not filming for a while and he doesn't have any shoots, but he's going to have to be careful with what he wears when he's working out or livestreaming. He should be good by the time they're back on stage in June, a fresh canvas for Jensen to sink his teeth into.
Jensen rests his weight on Misha's back as a hand curls underneath him, circling Misha's cock and fuck, he was so out of it he completely forgot about that, and it jumps in Jensen's grip as he gives it a firm stroke. Jensen's other hand is drifting down his back between their bodies, and Misha can feel a sweat-and-spit-slick finger prod at his entrance. It burns a little, because they don't often get enough privacy to do this near the finale and it's been a while.
"I really, really wanna fuck you," Jensen says in his ear, voice low and sexy as fucking hell. He slips one finger in up to the second knuckle and Misha arches against him. "Fuck, baby, you're so wet for me, I don't even need the lube, I could just," Jensen slides in a second finger along the first while he works Misha's dick, and Misha makes a noise only dogs and bats can hear, "slip right in, and fuck you until you scream for me."
Misha feels a shudder roll through him and Jensen's lips curve against the back of his neck, because he has to feel it — he's all over Misha, inside and out — and Misha needs more.
"Do it." If Jensen says until he screams Misha knows he means it, so Misha's going to have to make sure he's got something to gag himself with and he hopes Jensen's actually kidding about the lube, but as long as he gets Jensen's dick in his ass, he's not going to complain. "Fucking do it already, you complete assh — " and Jensen crooks his fingers just so and everything whites out for a moment, and when the world restarts Misha’s biting his own shoulder so hard he sees teeth impressions when he lets go.
Jensen slides his fingers out and in again, almost lazy, except for the fact that he's brushing the pads of his fingers just shy of where Misha wants them. "I'll make use of my belt if you keep mouthin' off, see if I fuckin' won't," and as if that isn't bad enough, he's slipped into that drawl again, has to be doing it on purpose, playing dirty because he's a shithead like that.
It's tempting, but all Misha really wants right now is Jensen inside of him, so he lets his forehead drop against his forearm and keeps his mouth shut, arching his back, and Jensen slides the hand around Misha's cock up and over his ass, rubs soothing little circles against the small of his back. "And trust me, I wanna, I do, baby." Misha can barely hear him above the buzz in his ears, just rocks back and forth as Jensen drags his fingers in and out, slowly working Misha so close to coming that it's kind of embarrassing, "but I didn't bring any, uh," and Misha crests the top of whatever rollercoaster high he's been riding and tries to push himself up, but Jensen's still on top of him and has the weight advantage.
"Are you kidding me?" Misha demands, knows he's whining and really doesn't give a shit. "After all that, you're — " Jensen still has two fingers buried inside of him, and reminds him by pushing in deep and whatever else Misha was about to say is instantly forgotten.
"Shh, baby," the soothing words match his movements, calm and slow and driving Misha insane, "I wasn't," Jensen kisses the shell of his ear, lets his lips linger there, "I wasn't sure you'd be in the mood."
Misha is always in the mood what is Jensen even talking about, and it's not like they need it anyway if — and Misha snaps out of his haze a little when he hesitates, because they're verging close to that edge of acknowledgement that tends to make Jensen bolt like a spooked horse and ignore Misha's calls and texts for a couple of days or weeks or however long it takes him to pull his head out of his ass.
Well, fuck it. "Sweetheart, unless you've been sticking it anywhere else, I really don't give a damn."
Anywhere else is one of those things that doesn't need to be defined beyond the words, but it turns out Misha's worrying about nothing because Jensen just groans against Misha's ear and rocks his hips. "Fuck. All right. Just," and Misha gasps a little at the cold when Jensen slides off him, rolls off the bed and starts digging around in a small bag on the bedside table. Misha shivers as Jensen throws what looks like shaving cream on the floor before he finds what he's looking for, and tosses Misha a grin. "Glad I didn't forget this, then, huh?"
"I would've made do with spit," Misha mumbles. He shivers again; Jensen seems to notice, tossing the lube on the bed and crawling back up behind him, running his hands down Misha's back and over his ass. He's using slow, firm strokes, working the warmth back in, and Misha melts under his touch.
"I wish you could see your ass, right now," and any reply Misha has to that is cut off by a completely unexpected slap. He actually yelps, and Jensen pauses, hand lightly working the tender spot. "Okay?"
His voice is low, barely-there, and Misha is nodding before he realizes Jensen probably can't see it. "Fuck, yes," he gasps out, presses back against the fingers, "I'm not going to fucking break, Jen."
Misha barely manages to muffle himself — biting down on his forearm — from the slap that follows; if he's not careful he's going to end up marking himself up into wearing long-sleeves in fucking LA.
The lube can't be that cold but it’s shocking against his skin after Jensen's through with his ass; the first finger goes in easily, slippery and cold and takes over what Jensen started with his tongue. The wet, smacking sounds are loud and obscene and Jensen is being oddly quiet and slow, almost gentle, one hand working him open and the other molding his ass, fingernails scraping against the tender parts of the flesh. Misha shoots a glance over his shoulder (it's not like they haven't done this before) and Jensen's kneeling behind him, mouth slightly open, heavy-lidded eyes watching his hands work.
He catches Misha looking, and all the warning Misha gets is the slight uptick of the corner of his mouth before a second finger slides in alongside the first.
Misha drops his forehead back to the mattress and groans; he rocks his hips, willing the fingers deeper. It burns a little, but the pain is muted against the raw skin on his ass and thighs and the dull ache along his jaw. If anything, Jensen's not hurting him enough. Misha starts to say "Jens — " but the end cuts off, high until his voice cracks when Jensen leans up, twists his wrist, and sets off fireworks right behind his eyes.
"So impatient," Jensen tells him, voice low and calm and not like he's got two fingers up his best friend's ass, rubbing at his prostate so insistently Misha can't distinguish up from down and ends up banging his head against the headboard. Thankfully, it's got some kind of plush leather cover and it's cool against his skin, and Misha is grounded between that and Jensen's hands. "I ain't in a rush, baby. I could do this all night."
Oh, god. Misha really fucking hopes so.
He jumps and twists his head against the headboard as Jensen slaps his ass again, fingers sinking deep as he clenches, and Misha loses himself in the pillows and the heat radiating up his back and doesn't even notice right away when Jensen adds another finger. There's a mouth on his ass again, too, teeth scraping across the sensitive skin, then tongue teasing around rim clenched tight over Jensen's fingers, and Misha forgets to breathe.
Misha makes a noise of grievance when that tongue pulls away, and gets another slap for it. He feels Jensen spread him wider, and Misha moves his knees to make it easier, wants Jensen to break him in half and fuck him already; he feels the cool dribble of more lube slip between his cheeks, then hears Jensen slicking something else with it.
But it's a tongue that slips back into his ass, indifferent to the lube and greedy, no gentle strokes or teasing flicks; Jensen's tongue means fucking business, licks a thick stripe from his balls to his hole and plunges in, and Misha has to grab his sorely neglected cock to keep from coming right then and there.
The pillows are long gone so Misha makes do with the sheets, tries in vain to bite down on the mattress and just stuffs his face into it. He can't hold in the noises coming out of his mouth, can't stop the please, please, fuckjenplease as Jensen grips his ass too hard, nails digging into his skin and scrapes them down over the curve of his ass and the insides of his thighs, stubble burning in between Misha's cheeks as he works his jaw.
Misha's concentration is slipping, barely hanging on just enough to rock backwards, trying to get Jensen deeper. His tongue is hot and huge and Jensen's jaw must be killing him but he hums pleasantly and Misha thinks he might be sobbing into the bed and is six exits past giving a shit.
"Fuck," Jensen says when he pulls back. His breath is too hot against the stubble burn, and Misha wants his tongue back, wants Jensen to turn him inside out with it, but then Jensen dips a couple of fingers back inside instead and Misha decides that's just fine, too. His other hand reaches between his legs, eases Misha's hand off his cock and takes its place, and Misha groans and shifts his hips as he begins to stroke him. "I could make you come just from this, couldn't I. I wouldn't have to touch you at all. Just," he bends the fingers buried inside Misha, and Misha's eyes roll back, "tongue-fuck it out of you."
Misha wouldn't care either way if he could focus, but everything's gotten pleasantly soft around the edges again. He tries to say something, isn't sure exactly what, but Jensen chuckles against his hip and bites gently down on the mound of his ass. "Yeah, yeah. You're such a cockslut, Mish."
The fingers inside him pull out and Misha could fucking cry with relief when Jensen pulls Misha's hips back and lines himself up. Even with the tongue and finger prep, Misha's hands curl in the bedsheet as Jensen pushes forward.
He's always gentle when they do this part, goes so slow and soft Misha's pretty sure it could be classified as torture. Misha is not sorry at all Jensen forgot the damn condoms because he would have been missing out if they never did this, the feel of skin against flesh; he's so much hotter than Misha's used to, and he can feel everything as Jensen slides in nice and steady, can feel every pulse of Jensen's heartbeat deep inside of him.
Jensen pulls back halfway there while Misha's clawing the fitted sheet off the corners of the bed — and then Jensen slides right back in, chest sliding across Misha's back as he bottoms out, balls slapping heavily against his ass. Jensen kisses his shoulder and rocks his hips, slips a hand into Misha's hair and pulls until Misha's bent back and arches under him, doesn't ever want Jensen to move, would be perfectly content to spend his life right here like this, filled up and scraped raw.
"Why the fuck have we never done this before?" Jensen mumbles into his shoulder, punctuates it with his teeth and a twist of the hand in Misha's hair until Misha's curling his toes. "Oh my god, you feel incredible."
Misha moans his agreement and presses back against him and Jensen finally gives in, and Misha loses time when Jensen starts to move, life ticking by the pace set by Jensen's hips. Between Jensen's tongue and the lube there isn’t any pain at all, just a dull ache Misha knows will be back with a vengeance tomorrow and can't wait, hopes it last for days so he can remember this with every twinge. Jensen lets out a low moan above him and Misha wants to hear more of that, shoves back hard and gets his wish.
"Can you even hear yourself?" Misha can't, but when he tries to say that, Jensen sits back and his cockhead slides right over his prostate and Misha forgets they were talking at all. "The sounds you make, fuck, I just," Jensen’s balls are slapping his ass as he moves, his thumbs spreading Misha wide, "I wish you could see this. You're beautiful like this, the way you open up for me. How you sound when I," Misha knows he makes a noise, can feel his throat catch on it as Jensen thrusts hard into him and the hand on the small of his back holding him down, but he can't hear anything except Jensen's voice and the wet smack of their hips. "I wish you could see how you beg for it, how you loved to get slapped around," and Misha's ass jumps under Jensen's hand, "how you like to be held down and hurt, until you're begging me to fuck you, fill you up, because you're such a whore for my cock."
That sounds like a fantastic idea, actually, and Misha's pretty sure he can see Jensen's phone right there on the bedside table next to his head.
He must have said it out loud, because Jensen stills as if he's considering it. "That's... tempting, baby, but — "
Misha manages to grab it without dislodging himself — he knows this, too, it’s beyond stupid, but he's so high on sensation he can't bring himself to care — and tosses it behind him. It thumps quietly as it hits the mattress. "Show me."
He doesn't look back to see if Jensen does it or not, but Jensen is stationary inside him for a beat longer before he begins to move again; slow, even thrusts that Misha rocks back to meet, feels Jensen slip out and right back in a few times, hissing between his teeth.
Misha curses when Jensen snaps his hips, a hand swatting him hard on every downstroke so Misha clenches tight as he pulls out. Misha drops his forehead to the bed and feels each individual finger dig into his hip, feels the hand sliding up his side and the sweat on Jensen's chest as he leans over Misha and wraps an arm around to clamp a hand down on his mouth. Misha feels the hum of his voice against it, tastes the sweat on Jensen's hand as he cries out.
The sheets and the wall and the headboard start to blur and blend together, soft and hazy and every inch of Misha tingles like the entirety of his skin has fallen asleep. It's enticingly warm and he sinks deeper into it, lets it wash over him and swallow him up.
The world tilts, picks up speed and spins and Misha's empirically aware he's on his back because he can see Jensen looming over him, hands pulling his hips up and moving his legs this way and that until Misha's bent in half. He didn't think it was possible for Jensen to get any deeper but he was wrong and thrilled about it, wants more if he can have it. Every stroke is sending jolts of pleasure skirting up his spine, pushing Misha deeper into the warm fog he's gotten lost in.
"That's it, that's it, baby," Jensen is right over him but sounds a long way off, and Misha lets it roll over him and sinks into it. "C'mon, darlin', you're so close, just let go. I wanna see you come for me," and it's like Misha's body was just waiting for permission and it doesn't hurt at all, just floods him with warmth and Misha feels his eyes close and his head tip back.
Jensen's words turn nonsensical and Misha's dimly aware of a sharp pain in his thigh when Jensen bites down and fucks him through it, thrusts losing rhythm entirely. Misha reaches out, finds the hand beside his head and clings to it, feels Jensen thread their fingers together and holds on for his life.
It feels like days before he comes back down.
The first thing he hears is Jensen's voice and his consciousness wanders towards it like a dog with a scent until the words start to make sense. "Mish. Miiiiish, baby. Hey. There you are." Misha blinks a few times until Jensen comes into focus. Jensen grins at him, sharp smile dulled by soft features. "Hi."
It's still too dark to be morning. "Hi," Misha attempts, but his throat has other plans and he ends up coughing.
He lets Jensen help him sit up, and drinks from the glass pressed to his lips. The water's cool, not too cold. "Hi," he tries again. The sound of his own voice sounds strange.
Jensen takes the glass back and Misha starts to shiver, and Jensen's already wrapping him up in the sheets, rubbing broad strokes across Misha's shoulders and Misha leans in, leaching warmth from his chest. Misha's hand makes a grab for him before Jensen's had a chance to stand, but Jensen wraps that in the blankets, too. He presses a kiss to Misha's temple. "I'll be right back."
Misha waits, curls into the covers and tries to will the cold away. Jensen's only gone a few minutes, comes back and coaxes Misha off the bed. His ass hurts and his thighs are sore and his knees can't seem to remember how to bend but Jensen takes most of his weight, pulls him into the ensuite bathroom and tests the water in the tub before pulling off the sheets.
He helps Misha in first and climbs in after him, and between the hot water and the warm chest at his back, the cold is gone and Misha settles back with a happy sigh, content to go to sleep right here if Jensen'll let him.
He dozes through most of the bath but feels Jensen's hands moving over him; it's kind of amusing how gentle he is like this, considering what those hands were doing to him earlier. He's still a little giddy from the rush, and when Jensen feels the giggle cut short, he asks what's funny, so Misha tells him.
Nails dig into his knee and scrape up Misha's thigh, not hard enough to mark, but hard enough to pull a gasp out of him. He lets his head drop back to Jensen's shoulder, and shivers when Jensen mouths gently at his neck.
"Speaking of which," Jensen says against his skin, lips trailing up to Misha's ear, "we really should have a conversation about all that next time you're coherent."
The words break through the fog a little bit, and Misha finds his voice. "Yeah," he agrees, and the warmth of the water and Jensen and relief loosen the lingering stiffness in his limbs. "Yeah, we should."
Jensen nudges his chin until Misha turns his head and kisses him. It's sloppy and awkward and absolutely perfect.
Getting back into bed doesn't take as long since Misha's limbs are working again, well enough that he manages to brush his teeth with the little complimentary toothbrush. He may lean a little on Jensen while he does it, but it's more for the contact than support. He even manages to finish first. He waits until Jensen's rinsed and turned off the water before taking his face in his hands and kissing him, walking him backwards until they hit the bed and keeps kissing him even as Jensen gropes around for the extra sheets and wrapping them both up in them.
Jensen pulls away abruptly, like he's just thought of something. "Hey," he says, and accepts the chaste kiss Misha insists upon before pushing gently back. "You fucking call me this time, okay? If you need to."
It's not a good memory, the first time they stumbled right past rough sex into something else, and Misha found out the hard way just how shitty a bad drop was; fortunately, they were still filming, and when Misha didn't show for a call and Jensen found him, he'd been so angry it scared the living shit out Misha. "Yeah," Misha says. "I will."
Jensen just studies him for a moment, green eyes looking for lies. "Okay," he says, when they come up empty. He pulls Misha back in, lets the kiss linger a little. "All right. Good."
He pulls back to swat at the light until it's off and then reels Misha back in, gets them properly tangled together before settling. Misha wriggles in until he has his nose buried somewhere between Jensen's jaw and collarbone and stretches out against him, grateful for his warmth. They'll both be exhausted in the morning but they can always nap on the flight, and it's not like they're not used to functioning on only four hours, anyway.
The darkness curls around them like comfort and Misha thinks Jensen's already asleep and is wandering that direction himself when Jensen says, "So is that what you meant by when in Rome ?" and what an asshole. That was totally supposed to be Misha's joke to make.
"I dunno," Misha says around a yawn, and blurts the rest before his brain has time to process it, "it'd be more the other way around with them, don't you think?"
It's quiet for long enough that Misha picks up his head to look at him, crick in his neck be damned. His eyes have adjusted to the dark; he can see the edge of Jensen's lips quirk, and Misha is aware he's kind of in love with this idiot to a degree that is truly fucking stupid.
He can feel more than hear the laugh through Jensen's chest as he grudgingly admits, "Yeah, probably."