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After, Jensen doesn’t feel like hanging out, spending time in mixed company. His blood’s still pumping hot and heavy through his veins, his skin too tight, so he heads back upstairs, back to his room.

It adjoins to Misha’s, and Jensen has a plan.

He times it carefully, knows about when Misha’s panel ends, roughly how long it takes him to get away, get upstairs. Jensen makes sure the doors between their rooms are open, grabs supplies from his bag, and then strips and waits.

Waits, and thinks. Remembers the feel of Misha’s tie beneath his fingers, the lining of Misha’s waistcoat against the back of his hand, Misha’s tongue in his mouth and Misha’s hands on his hips.

Jensen closes his eyes and remembers, strokes himself until he’s hard, spreads his legs against the sheets and works himself open, imagines Misha’s fingers there instead, knowing and clever.

His timing turns out to be impeccable.

He’s just starting to really hunger for something more, his own hand and fingers inadequate, when he hears Misha at the door. The sheets are already damp with sweat beneath him. He hears Misha’s door open, Misha talking to someone in the hall with him and, shit, Jensen hopes he’s alone, that someone didn’t follow him upstairs, hoping for a little one-on-one with their favorite fallen angel. Hopes that when Misha said later, he meant as soon as I’m done with my adoring fans and not after he’s boozed and schmoozed and opened himself publically in ways Jensen still struggles with.

His heart hammers in his chest, nothing to do with how hard he is or how much he hopes Misha fucks him.

Misha says good-bye to whoever he’s talking to, though, and Jensen breathes a sigh of relief. He closes his eyes and gives his cock a stroke of reassurance, leaves his hand loose around his dick as he dips the fingers of his other hand lower to press against his ass, slipping back inside. He hears Misha move farther into his room, hears him near the connecting doors, the sharp inhalation of breath, and knows that he’s found Jensen, noticed him spread across the sheets as inviting as he can make himself.

Jensen knows exactly what kind of picture he makes, naked, his legs wide. His skin is glossed with sweet, shiny with lube, slick fingerprints that lead from his cock to his balls, disappearing lower. A trail he left for Misha to follow.

Opening his eyes, stilling his hand, Jensen looks up at Misha and tries not to look smug at the look he finds there, the way Misha’s eyes are wide and dark, surprised. Like he wasn’t expecting to come back and find Jensen laid out for his—Jensen shivers at the press of his own fingers—for both of their entertainment.

Maybe he wasn’t. This thing between them, whatever it might be, is still new, fresh. They’re still feeling each other out, figuratively and literally. Maybe Misha didn’t think Jensen had it in him.

Well, he’s going to have it in him. With the way Misha’s looking at him, he’s pretty sure about that.

Stalled between their rooms, framed in the doorway, Misha’s quite a picture himself. He’s got his jacket off, folded over one arm, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. There’s color high on his cheeks, the hair at his temples curling. Licking his lips, Jensen wants to reach out and touch, wants Misha to reach out and touch him.

“’bout time you got done down there,” Jensen says, voice coming out rough, unused. He rolls his hips, draws his fingers from his ass, let’s Misha see.

Misha’s eyes follow Jensen’s fingers up, narrowing, focusing. Jensen fights the urge to shudder at the heat in that look.

“Impatient, are we?” Misha flashes him a grin, all teeth and flirt, and takes a step into the room. He casually drops his jacket on a chair near the door. His hands move nonchalantly to his fly, like this is all no big deal even though Jensen can tell that he’s hard already, knows for sure when Misha gets the zipper lowered, pulls his cock out.


Whatever the fans got to see downstairs, whatever smiles they got, laughs they shared, they didn’t get to see this.

This is private, and Jensen soaks it in.

Misha looks good, he looks edible, hotter than he has the right to be all buttoned up and buttoned down. It suits him, though, the grays and blacks, the burgundy. The pink where his skin is flushed at his face and neck, the head of his dick where it peeks through his fist. The hand moves, and the buttons on his waistcoat glint, drawing Jensen’s eye back and forth between the tie he so wants to grab, yank on, and the cock he so wants to feel, taste, touch, have inside him.

Jensen groans, the hand on his cock tightening, fingers of his other hand twitching, itching to sink back inside.

Misha smirks, stepping forward until his knees are brushing the end of the bed, his focus on Jensen’s hand sweeping upward to Jensen’s face. “Tsk,” Misha says, sound crisp in the air. His tongue darts out across his bottom lip. “Who knew you were such a kinky fucker?”

Jensen shrugs against the pillows. He’s not ashamed of this, not of his wants and desires, his needs. Not of Misha and what they’re doing. “Takes one to know one.”

That gets him a grin, all teeth and promise.

“I’m not the one with a surprise up his sleeve.”

Jensen makes a show of looking down at himself, hand leaving his cock to palm his balls, before he stops touching himself completely and gestures. “I’m not the one wearing sleeves.”

“For which I am grateful.”

“You don’t call that suit a surprise?”

“Mmmm,” Misha hums, “no. But I’m thinking about calling it a reward.”

Jensen’s skin tingles, heart racing in his chest. He licks his lips. “Oh yeah?”

“Yes,” Misha says. He slides his hand up his cock once, then back down. Releases it only to lean forward and wrap his hands around Jensen’s ankles.

Jensen gets as far as opening his mouth to ask what Misha’s doing when Misha gives him a yank, pulling Jensen down the bed toward him. It takes more than one to get Jensen there, where Misha apparently wants him.

“What the fuck, Misha?” Jensen asks, doing his best to ignore the way his cock jumped at how readily, how easily Misha manhandled him. How willing he was for it to happen. How interested he might be in it happening again.

Misha grins down at him. “Exactly.”

Jensen doesn’t get a chance to ask anything else, because Misha’s got his hands on him, fingers sliding past Jensen’s dick, his balls, circling Jensen where he’s loose and ready and waiting.

Misha’s a goddamn tease with those hands. Jensen tries to push against them, tries to get Misha’s finger inside, where he wants it, but Misha’s stronger than he looks and his hands are firm, holding him down, holding him still.

Jensen squirms, and Misha lets him. Circles his hole, presses the tip of a finger inward. Jensen arches his back and clutches at what he can reach, fingers tangling in the sheets, leaving imprints on Misha’s bare forearms.

He’ll have to wear long sleeves for the next couple of days.

Of, fuck, maybe that jacket again.

Jensen grips Misha’s arm, likes the sound of that. “Misha,” he says, the sound of his breathing loud in his ears. “Misha, would you just—”

Misha slides one finger in, easy, and Jensen gasps. “Did you want something, Jensen? I thought this was all for me. Don’t I get to do what I want?”

Jensen swallows and nods, tries to focus beyond the way Misha slides another finger in beside the first. “Yes,” he manages. “Sure. As long as you—”

He doesn’t get a chance to finish that sentence, that thought, because Misha’s fingers disappear, replaced by Misha’s cock, and Misha’s hands are locked around his hips, lifting and angling Jensen, sliding in, sliding deeper, and all of Jensen’s words disappear, lost, floating out of Jensen’s reach as Misha pushes inside of him.

The sound Jensen makes is absolutely not a whimper.

“You’ve been thinking about this, haven’t you?”

Jensen opens his mouth to answer—or try to, anyway; he’s having trouble formulating words and sentences, can’t quite get past how smoothly Misha slid home, how full he feels, how every movement and twitch of Misha’s hips cause fireworks to spark beneath Jensen’s skin.

“I—” He swallows, tries again. “Yes, I—”

Misha stops him with a slow grind, settling himself deeper. “This is what you really wanted downstairs, isn’t it? Not just a quick handjob against the wall.” He pulls out, a slow drag of skin on skin. “You wanted this, didn’t you, Jensen? That’s why you were up here getting yourself ready for me. While I was downstairs, you were up here fingering yourself open, making yourself slick and sticky.”

It’s true, it’s all true, and Jensen nods, eyes focused on his feet up next to Misha’s ears because he can’t quite look Misha in the eye. Knows if he does that’ll be it.

Because, God, he doesn’t know how Misha does it, doesn’t know how Misha knows. He just does. He came up, took one very long look at Jensen spread and ready, and knew not to take the suit off, knew just what Jensen wanted.

And, fuck, it’s kind of pathetic that one direct look at Misha will push him over the edge, but he’s been working himself toward it since he came upstairs, primed by their encounter by the icemaker. And Misha’s wearing that suit, that goddamn wonderful suit, and the trousers brush against Jensen’s ass every time Misha thrusts forward. The waistcoat is warm with Misha’s body heat against his thighs, the backs of his knees. The sound of fabric rustling, rumpling, tickles at Jensen’s ears under the noises they’re both making.

It’s good, it’s really fucking good. Everything Jensen let himself think about while he waited and more.

Misha shifts him, hands hard on Jensen’s hips, leaving bruises the shape and size of his fingerprints, dark smudges in places no one else will get to see. Jensen grunts, groans, closes his eyes, and trades his grip on the sheets for twin grips on Misha’s naked forearms, skin smooth and muscles tense beneath Jensen’s palms.

They’re both panting now, breaths in sharp counterpoint to the steady, muffled sound of flesh against fabric.

Misha lifts him or shifts him, bends his own knees or cants his hips, Jensen’s not sure. All he knows is that Misha does something that ups everything and Jensen feels like he’s falling apart.

“Jensen,” Misha breathes, something warm and soft and wet tickling the inside of Jensen’s ankle. “Jensen, look at me.”

Jensen does, can’t refuse. Opening his eyes, he finds Misha’s lips against the pale skin of his ankle, the line that never quite goes away where Jensen goes from tan to white. Misha presses his mouth there, breathes Jensen’s name, holds Jensen’s hips steady and thrusts into him, thrusts against him. Misha’s eyes pull Jensen in, hook him, and suddenly Jensen’s coming with a shout, shooting against his skin.

His hands tight on Misha’s arms, his ass tightens on Misha’s cock, and Misha races after him, fingers gripping, hips snapping, tensing and pulsing inside Jensen, the both of them losing it. Lost.

Jensen slumps against the mattress, feels heavy and boneless. Catches his breath. Looking up, he watches Misha catch his, feels the weight of Misha leaning against the bed, against his legs, hands running away from Jensen’s hips and up his thighs, down against the grain of hair there. It’s nice, soothing, Jensen’s lower back is going to hate him really soon.

He knocks his toes against Misha’s hair, and Misha blinks down at him, eyes still dark and glinting. Jensen shivers with anticipation.

Misha withdraws, carefully lowering one of Jensen’s legs, then the other. Jensen makes his move, takes the opportunity to reach out and wrap his hand around Misha’s tie. He’s got ideas involving that tie. He tugs on it, enjoys the feel of it against his fingers, the sound it makes as it slithers out of Misha’s waistcoat, dangling from his neck as Jensen uses it to drag him down, close enough to kiss.

Misha comes willingly, readily, lets Jensen take what he wants, lips sliding and tongues meeting. He tastes sugary, like Coke, and like something else Jensen’s coming to associate with Misha himself. It’s addictive, which is seriously annoying. As if Misha needs anything else going for him.

Jensen pulls away, knows he should get up and clean up, but doesn’t want to yet, not when his legs feel like they’re made of Jell-O. Instead, he uses his hold on Misha’s tie to pull him toward the head of the bed with him where he wraps his legs around Misha’s waist, wraps himself as tightly around Misha as his fingers are wrapped around the tie. Kisses him, soft and dirty, until they’re both well on their way to breathless again.

“Why?” Jensen asks, eventually, the word slipping between them.

“Why what, Jen?” Misha pulls back, just out of the reach of Jensen’s mouth, the ends of their noses brushing, bumping. “Specificity is the soul of all good communication.”

Jensen slaps him on the ass.

Misha laughs, pulls back farther. “Oh, now comes the spanking.”

There’s a thought.

“Why the suit?”

Misha shrugs. “Why not?”

Just another whim of Misha’s. One that Jensen can totally get behind, as long as he gets this after Misha’s done mixing and mingling.

Misha’s dry cleaning bill is going to go through the roof.

He’ll make sure Misha doesn’t mind.