Jensen learned a long time ago not to bite his lip. Too many makeup artists and directors complaining about the odd indentations and chewed up flesh on what are supposed to be his perfect, marketable lips taught him that lesson. So he learned to bite on his hand or arm. Anything to keep himself quiet. He hates to hear himself groaning with abandon and grunting with pleasured effort. And most of all he hates hearing himself whimper in ecstasy and desperately begging for more. It’s not befitting of a man to lose himself so utterly to carnal joy. So he bites his hands. He bites his arms. He buries his face in the sheets.
That’s why sometimes Misha has to take a little initiative. Getting Jensen on his back is the easy part. Even getting his ass up on Misha’s lap so he can fuck into him at a nice downward angle that kills his thighs but drills Jensen’s prostate is pretty easy to finagle. Getting Jensen’s hands under his control is little more difficult, but once he’s got their fingers threaded together, he can slide them up the smooth sheets and pin them to the mattress just above Jensen’s head. When he leans forward to put his weight on Jensen’s hands so he can’t move them—he’s got him.
Jensen struggles a little at first. He strains to pull his arms free, but quickly learns he can’t. He pushes back with his lower body, but all that accomplishes is firmly settling Misha balls deep in his ass and eliciting a loud moan from them both. He immediately bites down on his lip to cut off the next groan that comes from spreading his legs wider for Misha.
Misha leans down and kisses his abused lip. “Careful. Careful, Jensen.” He licks the tender line where his teeth dig into that beautiful, plush lip that’s already swollen from Misha’s kisses.
Jensen squeezes his eyes closed and turns his head to the side as he bites out a sharp, “Fuck.”
Misha smiles and increases his pace, tightens his grip on Jensen’s hands.
“Let me hear you.”
It only takes another minute or so of hard thrusts, gentle rolling of his hips, and whispered coaxing for Jensen to let go.
His voice pours out of him unrestrained and uncensored. It’s rough and deep and primal. Every time he growls an approving obscenity, Misha’s cock throbs with the need to come. And then it changes. His voice becomes smoother, almost melodic, and Misha moves his body in his lover to make him sing. Finally, his voice becomes a sweet, high pitched whimper. An incessant appeal for more, for release, for love. He comes so close to crying when he gets like that. And Jensen’s voice, thick with tears and needy devotion, is Misha’s undoing.
He bites his lip to stifle his own exultant cry (who would notice any damage on his chapped lips anyway?) so he can better hear Jensen’s voice as he shouts and hums and gasps and grunts through his orgasm. Every sound he makes causes Misha’s cock to twitch again inside him.
They still, only capable of focusing on evening out their breathing and heart rates. When Misha’s confident he won’t pass out, he gingerly uncurls his fingers from Jensen’s and they both wince at the painful stiffness their orgasms induced. Jensen looks up at him, and then manages a partial frown.
“You fucker,” he grouses and looks away.
Misha laughs and gently pulls out so he can lie beside him. He nuzzles his nose against Jensen’s still flushed cheek.
“Sing for me.”
Jensen doesn’t reply. They lie in silence as the house settles around them and dust motes dance in the late evening sunlight.
Then softly, almost like it’s a secret, Jensen’s voice begins to sing.