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When Jensen arrives at the convention he spies Misha immediately, his senses finely schooled to Misha’s voice and his shape, able to tune in to his presence in any crowd, even if he hadn’t been actively seeking him out, which he had.

Misha’s wearing the blue shirt that’s Jensen’s favorite; the one that follows the slope of his shoulders, the line of his slender ribcage, the narrowing of his toned waist, all without overtly clinging to every contour and ridge. Jensen knows that Misha knows it’s Jensen’s favorite; so Jensen knows the shirt wasn’t casually selected this morning, picked out because it was clean or handy, but selected with intent and purpose.

If he hadn’t known before he got here, Jensen knows now, with certainty, he’s going to get laid today. And he knows Misha’s going to get laid – hell, they’re going to lay each other.

Misha glances over, catches Jensen’s eye and his mouth curls up slightly at one side in a knowing smile as he turns his head back to the person he’s speaking to, without a break in the conversation, his lips still forming unknown words. Jensen watches as Misha subtly shifts his body at an angle towards Jensen, running a long, narrow finger along the neckline of his shirt where the buttons are open enough to reveal a smooth triangle of lightly tanned skin. Misha pops another button at his neck, opening the shirt wider to run his finger round the deeper expanse of skin, before fastening the button again, then repeating the whole performance. Jensen watches, mesmerized, thinking ahead to when he will get to undo the rest of those buttons, to run his fingertips like a ghost down Misha’s sternum to his stomach and lower until Misha’s needy cock is hard and hot in his hand.

Jensen shakes his head suddenly to clear it, mutters a quiet “fuck” under his breath, fighting down his arousal and hoping the warm flush he can feel starting on his neck isn’t too obvious. Misha notices, of course. He would. The bastard’s smiling. Jensen grins back, ruefully. It’s going to be a long day.

Jensen doesn’t know whether to be relieved or sorry that he doesn’t see Misha after that for a couple of hours in the endless rush of interviews, panels and photo shoots that is a Supernatural convention. Sorry he decides when he catches sight of Misha during his interview with yet another TV fan magazine. Misha’s leaning lazily against a doorframe, making sure Jensen knows he’s there, watching him, eyes laughing but also dark and lustful, daring him to acknowledge in some way what they both know they’re going to do later. Jensen obliges, licking his lower lip slowly with just the very tip of a pink, wet tongue before nibbling at one side as he puts the pretence of thought into the interviewer’s latest inane question. Jensen knows Misha has a thing about his mouth, how he likes to watch as Jensen opens up and sucks him in, how he liked to bite and suckle on the soft flesh of his lip before he fucks him. Jensen’s rewarded by the sight of Misha’s adam’s apple bobbing in his pale throat as he gulps a breath before smiling at Jensen with a subtle hint of an adjusting wriggle of his hips and disappears back into the crowd.

At their joint panel they’re on top form; supercharged with adrenalin and pure flirtatious, anticipatory, pre-sex energy. The audience is whooping and laughing as Jensen and Misha tell new stories and some of their favorite old ones. This is one time where they have permission to touch, it’s even expected. The hands on shoulders, forearms, knees all go unremarked these days it’s so commonplace. It’s hiding in plain sight at its easiest.

The audience has no idea that every time Jensen places a warm hand on Misha’s forearm, the gentle squeeze is full of promise. They have no idea that when Misha breathes a kiss on the back of Jensen’s neck as they talk again about personal space, that Misha’s tongue slips through his lips to slick wet and hot against Jensen’s skin. They’re totally unaware that as Jensen stands slightly to one side and slightly behind Misha, a hand on the small of his back in a friendly gesture, that Jensen’s fingers slip briefly past the waistband of Misha’s jeans and the index finger slides neatly down into the cleft between his cheeks where his ass meets his tailbone. They’re totally unaware of the soft intakes of breath they both take as they drop the microphones out of hearing range and recover their equilibrium, with slapstick joking.

As the panel draws towards its conclusion Jensen gets braver; knowing they can afford to risk flushed skin and arousal when they’re about to leave the stage and they have time to will them away with distance and a discrete heel of a hand in the appropriate place. Jensen tells his favorite story; the one where Jared rolls off the table and starts to distract Misha by running a hand up the inside of Misha’s thigh. This is his favorite because he gets to demonstrate, visually, every time. His hand starts just above Misha’s knee on his inner thigh and strokes upwards towards his crotch, usually stopping after just a few inches. Today he spreads his fingers, stretches his thumb upwards, risks stroking up so far the blunt nail of his thumb brushes ever so briefly against the crotch seam of Misha’s jeans before sliding his hand seductively down Misha’s inside thigh back to his knee. Misha’s tense under his fingers, every muscle taut and it’s lucky this is Jensen’s story to tell because Misha can’t speak right now. Jensen just hopes his own voice isn’t as strained to other ears as it seems to his own.

When Jensen reluctantly takes his hand away, Misha turns his back to the audience with the pretence of getting water from the stand behind the chairs. Jensen knows better, can see Misha’s jeans filling at his crotch as he faces away from the audience. The audience may see Jensen’s small secret smile but they don’t know what it means.

Misha turns back to him, grinning, his mouth to Jensen’s ear, out of reach of microphones, out of sight of lip readers. “I’m just imagining my mouth round your dick right now and I’m going to suck you so hard your knees are going to buckle when you come.” He pulls away, turns back to the audience, innocent smile on his face as he thanks them for coming to the panel. Jensen smiles wide, swallows and sits quickly, the stuffed toy he’s been given strategically placed on his lap.

The autograph session at the end of the day finally does for them, but after this they get a break. Knowing this probably doesn’t help when they’re trying to keep the tension down.

What also doesn’t help is Misha turning up with a smug expression and what Jensen calls Misha’s sex hair, number 14. For some reason, no-one else notices. Misha and messy hair are not sufficiently out of the ordinary. But then no-one else knows what Jensen knows; that this is the hair Jensen sees after Misha’s thrown his head back into the pillow, his neck one long pale taut line of flesh, the dark stubble standing out wanton and inviting, his hips high on Jensen’s thighs, his cock hard and begging and leaking on to his belly as Jensen thrusts hard into his ass making him shake and stutter into the pillow. Although Jensen bites his lip and thinks of dead puppies, trying to control his burgeoning erection under the table, they’re sitting too close for success.

It sets the tone for the rest of the session. Their arms brush against each other, the small hairs all standing on end with the electricity thrumming through them; their hands reach for the same pen or coffee cup at exactly the same time; their fingers ‘accidentally’ meet as they make a show of each conceding to the other. They’re joking and teasing and surreptitiously moving their fists to press against their groins. Because it’s become too unbearable. Jensen really fucking needs Misha right now, and he can see the rising heat in Misha’s skin that says he feels the same. Jensen needs to see him naked and sweaty and writhing and have a finger, or two or three, in his ass; to nibble and suck bruises on those delicious hips…and this line of thought is really not helping.

He glances sideways at Misha. Misha is stirring his drink with his finger and when he notices Jensen looking he pulls the finger out, slippery and dripping, and up to his mouth. He sucks it in between his pale lips and makes an obscene slurping noise. Misha pulls his finger from his mouth with a soft pop and a string of saliva clinging like a lifeline between his lips and the tip of his long, slender digit. He winks. And Jensen has completely lost focus on whatever the fan was just saying to him because fuck.

They have half an hour before they need to be at the drinks reception for the sponsors and invited big wigs. They leave quickly once the autograph session is over, and too bad if anyone thinks they’re being rude. They walk close laughing and whispering; conspiratorial, bumping hips, brushing knuckles, seemingly casual and friendly, two good friends having a candid conversation. Jensen knows where they’re going, he scoped it out earlier, and Misha follows him, trusting. It’s not far. He can’t afford for it to be far.

A quick glance up and down the empty corridor and he turns quickly, spinning Misha round and pinning him back, with a surprised oomph, against a plain door set into the wall. Jensen pauses only briefly to appreciate the sight of Misha’s lust-blown pupils in what Jensen assumes can only be a reflection of his own. Misha’s close enough to lick now, and he wants to, but inside, somewhere they won’t be interrupted. He reaches round behind Misha who’s just standing there, waiting and so damned fuckable, and when Jensen grasps and then turns the door handle they both tumble through. The small room is used to store furniture. There are chairs in stacks and a table pushed against one wall, but it’s otherwise blessedly empty.

Misha shuts the door behind them with a backward kick as Jensen holds onto his shoulders and pushes him back against the inside of the now closed door, leaning in and against him, touching from forehead to chest, to hip, to thigh feeling Misha’s breath warm and wet against the skin of his cheek, his heart beating fast through his ribcage.

Momentarily distracted by Misha twisting supplely under him, he allows him to escape and pull away, but only briefly. Misha’s smiling like a predator and Jensen steals the smile away with his mouth urgently pressed into Misha’s because this isn’t about games and taking their time; this is about want and need and right the fuck now.

Misha’s fingers reach forward and slide into the belt loops in Jensen’s belt, drawing him back in close against him as he starts to walk Jensen backwards, lips locked, hips flush until the back of Jensen’s thighs hit the edge of the table. Misha’s hand reaches down to cup him through his jeans and Jensen hisses with the sudden sensation. He’s been waiting for this all fucking day and he’s fully hard and aching for pressure and friction and the heat of Misha’s hand on him.

Misha’s murmuring Jensen’s name into his mouth as his agile fingers move, fondle, squeeze, and push in all he right places. His mouth moves away from Jensen’s and his tongue is suddenly on Jensen’s neck and Jensen arches into the warm slippery … ohgodfuck … Misha bites into his collar bone, teasing the flesh with his tongue and the soft insides of his lips under and round the teeth, hurting then soothing and Jensen shivers from his head to his toes, his fingers curling round the edge of the table gripping it tight.

He brings a hand up and with practiced fingers, quickly undoes the buttons on Misha’s shirt, splaying his hand over his chest, feeling his heart beating regular and fast, feeling the breaths coming short and ragged. Jensen strokes across to a nipple, teasing the already hard bud between his thumb and forefinger, flicking his thumb over the top lightly eliciting a moan and Misha’s head dropping into the curve of his shoulder.

He strokes his hand down Misha’s chest, to his stomach, pausing to dip his index finger in and around Misha’s belly button. He can feel the muscles in Misha’s abdomen taut and contracting under his touch, leaving a gap between his jeans and his skin, and Jensen’s hand dips under the waistband of Jeans and briefs, until he just touches the head of Misha’s cock before pulling out to a frustrated groan against his shoulder. Jensen grabs at Misha’s belt buckle, undoing it, quickly followed by the buttons on Misha’s jeans; Misha’s pants and briefs are both lowered as one to mid thigh by a deft flick of Jensen’s fingers and wrist.

Misha whimpers as the chill air hits his exposed cock and it’s released, hard and erect between them, pointing at Jensen in obscene invitation. But Misha’s still handling Jensen through his clothes and Jensen’s too dressed. He pulls his shirt, buttons and all over his head and quickly undoes his pants; his briefs and pants drop to his ankles.

Misha puts a hand behind Jensen, sliding down the curve of his ass before resting on the back of his upper thigh and with more strength than he looks as if he should have, he lifts Jensen slightly and awkwardly, so Jensen perches on the edge of the table, and he can feel the cold surface of the wood veneer that covers the chipboard on his ass, and then he’s falling onto his back as Misha pushes him back onto the table and leans in to swallow his aching cock in that fucking awesome mouth.

Misha’s got one hand on Jensen’s chest, thumb stroking almost absent-mindedly across Jensen’s nipple. He wants to touch but he can’t reach enough skin or flesh. His desperately scrabbling hand reaches up to grip into Misha’s hair and holds on, tugging as Misha sucks and twirls his agile tongue around the head of Jensen’s cock, teasing the tip into the slit, before swallowing him down and sucking so hard Jensen can see his cheeks hollowing out. Jensen throws his head back with a ramble of incoherent moans and a loud thud as he hits the table and he’s not sure if he’s seeing stars because of that or because of the fucking awesome tongue action going on.

He focuses enough to maneuver a knee between Misha’s legs, pushing up to give Misha something to rut against, after all it seems only fair and he’s just succeeded when he feels his knees being lifted slightly, just enough to expose the hole in his ass, and without preamble – because they really don’t have time - a saliva slick finger is teasing at the puckered muscle and pushed in to one knuckle. He clenches then relaxes under Misha’s small movements. As soon as he’s relaxed, Misha pushes the finger all the way in. It’s closely followed by a second as soon as Jensen’s ready and he doesn’t know whether to thrust onto Misha’s fingers or into his mouth, which is still circling his cock in slow, lazy slips and slides.

Misha’s making deep moans in his throat that are reverberating over the head of his cock and down the length and Jensen’s movements are becoming erratic as he feels his orgasm building. Misha’s fingers are fucking his ass and they bend and curl and … fuck... when they push against his prostate, not once but twice, he’s done for. He jerks Misha’s head off his cock just in time to shoot strings of white cum over his lips and face and he’s gasping and his whole body spasms with the intensity of his orgasm after eight hours of foreplay. And Misha deserves a bloody medal for that.

Jensen’s spent and part of him doesn’t want to move as the last of the contractions die down, but most of him does because Misha hasn’t come yet and Jensen’s going to rectify that; so he slides from the table as Misha pulls his fingers from his ass. He grips Misha’s waist, sliding his hands down and over the jutting hipbones, and round to cup his ass as he drops to his knees and pulls Misha’s hips in towards him so he can tease him into his mouth. He moves one hand round to hold the base of Misha’s cock and his hand and mouth move in synchronized strokes as Misha looks down and watches, his eyes staring, heavy-lidded at Jensen’s lips pink, swollen and wet sliding up and down his heavy erection, his breaths getting shorter and faster. Jensen moves his other hand between Misha’s legs to fondle and stroke at his testicles and he’s rewarded by a loud growled “fuck…yes” as Misha throws his head up to stare blindly in front of him grasping wildly at Jensen’s hair to warn him but Jensen holds tight and sucks. Hard. Misha gasps through his orgasm in aching, short grunts as Jensen licks and swallows the cum that shoots hard against the roof and back of his mouth.

As he finally pulls away, a thin string of slick white connects the end of Misha’s softening cock with his lips. Misha looks down through half-closed eyes, smiling and pulls Jensen up to lean into him. They kiss, Misha’s tongue lapping at his own cum round and in Jensen’s mouth before Jensen pulls Misha’s head in to rest a stubbled chin on his shoulder and they hold each other up, while they get their breath back and calm their hearts to something even vaguely normal.

“We should go,” Misha murmurs after several minutes. Jensen doesn’t want to move. Misha’s warm and all skin beside him, but he’s right.

Cleaned up as best they can, clothed, hair combed back down, still smelling of sex but maybe only they’ll notice, they open the door a crack to check outside. The corridor’s clear, but Jensen pulls Misha back in for just a minute, kisses him long and slow.

“Are you staying tonight?” He knows there’s want and desire in his voice, but doesn’t mind. They’re past caring about laying themselves open and bare.

“Of course.”

Jensen smiles, opens the door wide to let them both out. They walk down the corridor bumping hips and brushing knuckles.