The suit took Jensen by surprise. He’s used to Misha in worn tees and untucked button-downs, familiar with the man’s god awful taste in sweaters, intimate with the pale expanse of Misha’s skin. And yeah, okay, he’s seen Misha in a suit more often than not, thanks to Castiel’s never-changing wardrobe.
But when Misha disappeared at the con only to reappear in an actual goddamn three-piece suit?
Jensen was floored, hard and aching in his jeans between one heartbeat and the next. Needing.
He’d lured Misha away—as much as Misha can be lured, as much as he lets himself. Corralled Misha down a hallway until the only sign of the convention going on around them was the distant din of the crowd, until he’d gotten Misha alone and pinned.
They might as well be in their own world, tucked around a corner beside an icemaker, the hum of it hiding the sound of their panting, the harsh in-out of breath, the muted whimpers and groans that happen to make it out between kisses, sneaking past swollen lips.
The suit is foreign beneath Jensen’s hands, different from all of the other things he’s used to feeling between Misha’s skin and his own. Body heat bleeds through it, sinks into Jensen’s front, his palms, drives him crazy, makes him want.
Misha’s agreeable; he lets Jensen take, leans back against the wall as Jensen’s tongue pushes between his lips to mingle with Misha’s, fingers fumbling at the fly of his trousers.
It’s impossible, designed to be frustrating, out to cockblock him, and Jensen swears, teeth sharp against Misha’s bottom lip.
Misha chuckles, the sound vibrating through his chest and into Jensen’s.
Jensen nips at his lip in warning, licks at it in apology. Finally gets the button undone, the zipper open, kisses in triumph as the aftershocks of Misha’s chuckle turn into a groan, rolling and rumbling between them when Jensen gets his hand on hot, sensitive skin.
Mouth sliding wider, welcoming Jensen deeper, Misha’s hips urge him onward, twitching and jerking against Jensen as Jensen slides a leg between his, finds a spot at Misha’s hip to rub against.
Misha pulls away, panting, eyes gone dark and bottomless as he licks his lips, tongue pink and tempting, teasing. His hands clutch at Jensen’s hips, burning through the layers of Jensen’s clothes. “What brought this on?” Misha asks, teeth glinting. “All the fangirl hormones finally get to you?”
If Misha’s asking questions, Jensen’s not doing something right.
Jensen changes his grip, the waistcoat of Misha’s suit brushing against the inside of his wrist, tickling the tender skin there. Leaning in, Jensen runs his nose down the length of Misha’s neck, follows the line of his throat until he’s at his collar, the knot of Misha’s tie smooth and hard against his skin. Tongue darting out, Jensen dips behind it to taste the salt on Misha’s skin.
Misha’s breath hitches, his fingers flex. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows.
Jensen knows the minute, the second, that he gets it.
“Fuck, Jen,” Misha gasps, hips moving in the best way against Jensen’s dick. “If I’d known you had a thing for—”
He stops Misha with his mouth, had rejoiced the day he found an effective way to get Misha to shut up. Effective and enjoyable and so fucking good it makes Jensen’s toes curl.
Misha kisses him back, lips and teeth and tongue, and Jensen feels greedy, feels on top of the world, feels victorious that this is his and his alone, no matter what sort of attention Misha lavishes on other people.
This is between the two of them. This is theirs.
No one else makes Misha pant like this, arch like this, grunt and grind and moan like this.
Jensen slides his free hand between them, slipping it beneath Misha’s waistcoat, over the shirt warmed by his skin, not quite damp with sweat yet, to tangle his fingers in Misha’s tie. It’s hot and silky against his fingertips, sensations that are nothing when compared with the way Misha’s cock feels against his palm.
He jerks Misha off, rubs himself against him, until they’re not so much kissing as sharing breath, panting and open-mouthed and unwilling to pull away as they shudder and come, locked together in an empty hallway.
Misha is flushed and fucking glowing when Jensen pulls away, and Jensen feels a hint of jealousy that he doesn’t want to acknowledge. Misha’s supposed to be on stage soon. This grinning, blissful, loose-limbed version isn’t meant for those people in the audience, but there Misha will go, adored and adoring, when Jensen would rather drag him back upstairs, see just how dirty and rumpled he can make that suit, how fucked out Misha can be.
Jensen’s hand is sticky, his underwear uncomfortable. There’s come on his shirt and he thanks God he wore layers because, yeah, there’s something you don’t want eagle-eyed fans spotting and asking about.
He shucks the shirt, catches Misha’s eyes on him as he balls it up in his fist, wiping his fingers against it. He looks contemplative and happy.
Misha grins, hard enough that his nose wrinkles, and Jensen’s heart absolutely does not do somersaults at the sight of it. “Nothing,” Misha says, looking down and tucking himself in, zipping and buttoning back up. “You’re cute when you’re jealous.”
Jensen opens his mouth to reply, but Misha pushes off from the wall, wraps a hand around Jensen’s wrist and brings his fingers to his mouth, sucks one down, tongue teasing at the base, and all of Jensen’s words are lost to time and space.
“Later,” Misha says, breath blowing across Jensen’s wet skin before Misha drops his hand and brushes past him, heading back down the hall.
Jensen shudders, stares down at his hand—at Misha’s spit shining on it, the remnants of Misha’s come—before wiping it against his shirt again. He takes comfort in the fact that when Misha goes on stage, his tie will be wrecked and wrinkled by Jensen’s fingers and no one will know but the two of them.