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obstinatrixTitle: The Theory of Relativity
Pairing: Misha Collins/Matt Cohen (MC2?), past Jensen/Misha
Rating: NC-17
Summary: As the illicitly homosexual proprietor of a speakeasy in 1920s New York, Misha's always thought himself the kind of man for whom any ordinary sort of happiness is out of reach. Then Matt shows up. It turns out 'ordinary' is relative.
Notes: This is for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kriari, who requested Matt/Misha when she won my ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
help_japan auction. Of course, somewhere along the way this thing took on a life of its own (and is set in the same universe as this little J2 snippet), so I may end up writing you Jensen/JDM too, at some point, kriari, because the level of self-indulgence in this thing is high. ;) _mournthewicked, I thank and curse you in equal measure. ♥
In the darkest corner of the club, Jensen is smirking. It probably wouldn't be obvious to anyone who didn't know him inside out like Misha does, given the way his hat is tipped down over his face, smoke curling up under the brim, but Misha knows that set to his shoulders, the splay of his legs. Jensen thinks there's something fucking funny, and Misha's irritably certain he knows what it is.
"Fucker," he hisses in Jensen's ear, leaning down over him in the pretence of collecting his empty shotglass from the bar. "You can stop that right now, y'hear me?"
Jensen laughs softly; takes the cigarette out of his mouth between finger and thumb and rolls it daintily. "Stop what, baby?"
His voice is low, the same voice that used to whisper God, you're so hot into all the hidden places of Misha's body when they fucked, brown-sugar and smoke and sin. Misha frowns; straightens up and throws Jensen his best cut-glass glare. It isn't as if Jensen was ever his boyfriend, or anything, so he has no business being jealous. Jensen doesn't do boyfriends, as he'd be the first to admit.
"Laughing at me," he says, shortly. "You got something to say, say it. Otherwise, vamoose. It's closing time."
Jensen hums gently in his throat; reaches up to flick at the brim of his fedora with two fingers so the light falls on his face. His eyes hold Misha's for a moment, smirking, and then shift pointedly over in the direction of the piano, set against the wall on the opposite side of the room. "And are we gonna lose Mr Music at closing time, too?" he asks, lightly.
Misha colours. Behind him, the soft sounds of jazz roll lazily on, even though the club is empty, the patrons slunk off to their wives and their children and their staid, unsecret lives. He can tell from the languor of it, the elided grace-notes, that Matt is tiring, probably sunk down on his stool with his arms gone lax, long fingers barely kissing the keys. Jensen, Misha thinks, probably knows that Misha can tell. That's why he looks so goddamn cynical.
Misha owes Jensen a whole lot - long years of friendship, for a start, and, on a more mercenary note, most of the alcohol he serves - but he doesn't owe him this. Jensen can survive on sex and smoke and the thrill of the black market chase, but Misha isn't like that. Misha needs a certain measure of stability, and right now, the brightest stable spot in his dingy life is Matt. Jensen can ask questions if he likes - Misha thinks he's earned the right - but he can't expect anything other than blunt, undiluted responses.
"No," Misha says, smartly. "Matt's staying." He leans one elbow on the bar and half-turns toward the piano; catches Jensen's eye and then looks away. Matt, cigarette smouldering low between his lips, flashes a grin and nods his head in acknowledgement, fingers coaxing out a little additional curlicue just for Misha. Misha laughs, claps his hands. "Beautiful," he calls.
"And smart, too," Matt shoots back, not missing a beat.
When Misha looks back to Jensen's face, there's a smile there that says fine, I get it, you're cute as clearly as any words could have done. It's a smile of resignation, more than anything else, but there's acceptance there, too, an appreciation that Matt, at least, will never give Jensen a reason to send men with baseball bats to Misha's door. Jensen will deny it, but he's nothing if not overprotective. When he stands up, his hand lingers on Misha's shoulder a little longer than it ordinarily might, but Misha knows already that there will be no kiss when Jensen leaves him at the door, no thumb grazing the curve of his jaw. Jensen is the world's biggest fan of clean breaks.
"Next run might take me a while," Jensen says as they cross the room together. His tone is nonchalant, but Misha had half-expected something like that. It isn't that rum-running doesn't always take a great deal of organisation and time investment, but Jensen has grown shockingly good at it over the years. When runs take him a while, they do so for reasons entirely within his own control.
Misha sets a hand on Jensen's wrist, stops him by the door. "Okay," he says. "That's okay. But you look after yourself, all right?" He hesitates a second, and then tips the hat back down over Jensen's face. "I'll be here."
"I know," Jensen says. It's tight, curt; but then his mouth twitches a little afterward and he says it again, "I know," this time encompassing everything: I know this won't change things. I know you'll still want me here. It will change things, of course, if Misha achieves - whatever it is he's thinking of with Matt. It would be foolhardy to expect anything else. But still, it warms him to hear that tone to Jensen's voice, to see him make the obvious effort to summon it there.
"You spill a drop of my gold-dust and I'll fucking kill you," Misha says, and the fondness in the words is palpable. Jensen laughs; makes a guardsman's salute, and the shadow of it shows against the wall when he opens the door, the sound of his laughter leaking out into the night. Jensen's always been like that, all shadow and stars.
There is no shadow in Matt. When the door is locked behind Jensen and Misha retreats back into the club, the jazz from the piano has slowed to a crawl, and Matt's smile is entirely sunshine.
"All done," Misha tells him, tilting his head. He feels tired, all of a sudden, the emptiness of the club seeming to sink into him suddenly, but the look on Matt's face fills the tired places in him with a new energy, low and warm.
Matt laughs; trips a little over the last few notes of his tune (which he's overelaborated, Misha notices, beyond the constraints of the sheet music). "Time for sleep?" he asks, lightly.
Misha has his own rooms upstairs, and Matt's been sleeping in the guest room for the six weeks he's been playing piano in the club, as Jensen well knows. Any other night, now would be the time for lock-up and a companionable traipse upstairs and into their respective beds, but Misha has things to attend to first, tonight. He shakes his head a little, takes a half-step closer. The top of the piano is smooth, mirroring the dim lights still burning in the corners of the room. Misha leans an elbow on it and smiles down at Matt hesitantly.
"I liked that one," he says, nodding towards the sheet music. "What you just played. Kinda different when you play it, though, isn't it?"
Matt laughs, long throat shifting with it. From this angle he looks, if possible, even more attractive than he genuinely is, all strong jaw and white teeth flashing, dark blue eyes. The lines of his face are well-cut, finely fashioned, and Misha wonders, for an idle moment, where he came from with that black Irish colouring. Where he came from, and how it brought him to Misha's little club with those fingers and that face, offering himself for the pianist vacancy and another Misha hadn't known was open.
It's been a long time since Misha's dared have anything close to a long-term companion; but then, it's been a long time since Misha's met anyone he's liked half as much as he likes Matt.
"I tend to - uh - improve on the originals," Matt says wryly, his eyes warm and dark. He's looking at Misha as if he is saying something else entirely, and Misha is sure there has been no misinterpretation. Matt watches him warmly, open-faced and patient, and Misha made the decision early in their association not to keep his preferences a secret from him. This establishment is contraband in more ways than one, and Misha is increasingly sure that Matt was aware of it before he showed up at the door, hat in hand, wanting to be part of it.
The difficulty lies only in knowing how and when to move; but then, this has always been Misha's greatest challenge.
Looking at Matt, Misha can't exactly picture him having the same kinds of problems Misha grew up with, the uncertainties and the long, long years of self-loathing pasted over with layers of cynicism and dark humour. Misha's over that now - no small thanks to Jensen - but at Matt's age, he was still right in the thick of it, still praying out of desperation to a God he no longer believed in, trying to drum up some interest in Tessa Lloyd next door. And yet here's Matt, smiling up at Misha from under long eyelashes like the whole carnival of angst just skated on by him, and Misha's stunned by that as much as he's grateful for it.
Part of him thinks it must have been the Prohibition that did it. Certainly, it worked that way on the last of Misha's doubt, a brutal inversion of what, presumably, was supposed to have transpired in his brain. It was as if it hit him all at once, that any state puritanical enough to institute a goddamn ridiculous law like that one couldn't be trusted to know whether its other 'moral' laws made any damn sense or not; and anyway, Napoleon had legalised it, hadn't he? There was a man who knew what was what. If Misha was going to be an enemy of the state with regard to the alcohol - and he had absolutely no intention of shutting down his club - then he might as well throw his self-righteous towel into the ring and embrace it all, tobacco and beer and boys, and damn everything this stupid government said. Misha's pretty sure that the same thought probably occurred to a lot of people, Matt included, although there's something in his nature that makes Misha feel he'd never quite have reached Misha's rock-bottom even without all this, the new culture of secrecy and swing. Matt does what he wants, trusts his own ideas of what's right. That's part of what Misha, goddamn his sudden unaccustomed attack of sentimentality, likes so much about him.
"Penny for 'em." Matt's voice is low and warm as he drops his arms, folds his hands in his lap, languorous and unconcerned. Misha blushes, despite his best efforts, and presses his lips together. He hadn't meant to stand there so long, all pensive open mouth and not one of his too many thoughts escaping in word form, but this isn't the first time it's happened around Matt. It's part of what made him decide enough was enough, right before his body decided it actually wasn't enough yet and it wanted to stand around a little longer, thank you.
And he's doing it again even now. Jesus Christ.
"Sorry," Misha gets out, and that's a little better; that's a start, at least. Opening his mouth and actually making words with it shouldn't be an improvement, but Misha's long past the point of being able to worry about that. Now he has to take what he can get. "I was just..."
There was more to it than that, really there was. It isn't Misha's fault that Matt takes this opportunity to push back his stool from the piano and get to his feet, all long boy-limbs and the soft fall of his hair, muscles in his forearms swelling out from under the rolled-up cuffs of his shirt. It isn't Misha's fault that his proximity, the way the sweat gleams gently in the hollow of his throat and the firm line of his jaw, make his mouth go dry.
"Let's go to bed," Matt says gently.
It could have been innocent, his little half-step towards the stairs and the catlike tilt of his head, but then Matt's fingers are skating the inner bone of Misha's wrist and the gesture, though chaste, is revelatory, taking this from sleepiness to sin. Misha's heart kicks up in his throat, thundering under the fine skin below his ear, but Matt's so unconcerned, so unapologetically patient, that the spurt slows after a moment, leaving Misha with no choice but to swallow and turn his hand, lacing his fingers through Matt's.
He's holding hands with a boy, right here in the middle of his club. Sure, he's closed up for the night, but Jensen wouldn't have held his hand if his life had depended on it. Jensen isn't like that - they weren't like that.
Matt is like that, all wide-eyed and waiting, and Misha hears himself saying, "Okay," before he realises the decision's been made. Perhaps he made it weeks and weeks ago, after all, when Matt moved his three carpet bags of worldly possessions into Misha's guest-room. "Okay," Misha says, and Matt's smile is blinding.
The thing about the journey up the stairs together is that it's pretty much identical to what happened after close-up yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that. The third step still creaks. The lock on the door at the stairhead is still stiff, in dire need of oiling. The living room is still overcrowded with stacks of books and sheet music when they cross it, the curtains a little uneven on the rail, the rug kicked up at one corner. So far, so utterly unremarkable, and Misha's chest feels weirdly hollow with it, cavernous with anticipation.
The first sign of change, what's wrong with this picture, spot the difference, is Matt's broad palm settling at the base of Misha's spine when he opens his bedroom door, the subtle shift forward into Misha's personal space. The heat of him is palpable, a long living line of it all down Misha's back, and it makes his heart catch, sets the cavern in his ribcage suddenly alive with energy. He clenches his jaw, shoves the door open fully, and the warmth stays with him as he reaches up to loosen the knot of his tie, as he turns to close the door behind himself - the usual bedtime rituals. Except that this is Matt in his bedroom, Matt with a hand still skimming the small of Misha's back, and that is an addition Misha doesn't dare hope might one day become ritual, the wide bed unmade and theirs.
Shit. Misha's just about to chide himself thoroughly for getting ahead of himself when Matt's other hand comes up to cradle his jaw, guiding gently until their eyes meet.
"Hey," Matt says. "You're not exhausted, are you?"
His mouth is soft and pink, shining damply where it parts, and Misha's eyes go to it instinctively. Matt's close, his big hand warm on Misha's face, and any shred of tiredness he felt before has vanished somewhere between the two factors. He blinks a little. "No-o," he allows, "not exhausted."
Matt's mouth twitches up at one corner in amusement or relief or both - such a responsive mouth. Misha wants to kiss it, except Matt saves him the trouble with a whispered, "Good," right before he leans in to close the distance, pressing their mouths together.
Matt's lips are soft but the kiss is firm from the start, no hesitant brushing of dry, closed mouths but a sure, warm pressure that makes Misha's belly dip hotly in reaction. The hand on his jaw grips steadily as Matt nudges his lips apart, tonguing lightly at the seam until Misha goes slack, opens his mouth and lets Matt press in. It's full-on and hot and exactly what Misha imagined in the moments when he let his mind wander traitorously abroad, and he sees no reason not to open filthy-wide for the onslaught, both hands sliding up and into Matt's soft hair.
God, but Matt's good at this. The thought shoots a dart of heat into the pit of Misha's stomach as Matt shifts closer, free arm curving around Misha's waist to snug their bodies together shoulder to hip. There's something in his youthful intensity that burns against Misha like wildfire sparking in every pulse of his blood, and the soft animal sounds Matt makes in his throat make Misha want to divest him of his clothes immediately, swallow him down until he really makes some noise. His mouth is so hot, the wet inside of it catching at the swell of Misha's lower lip in the second before he shifts to suck at the outer curve, the gesture intimate and fiercely good. It's as if every nerve in Misha's body has reseated itself in that single tiny stretch of skin, Matt's lips brushing over and over it until Misha can feel the blood rushing up to meet him, the way his mouth must look kiss-bitten and bruised.
By the time Matt's tongue pushes into his mouth, curling up to lick at his soft palate, Misha's breath is coming quickly through his nose, hands making fists of all Matt's thick, soft
hair. He's shifting, pelvis aching with the urge to fuck forward into something, and he can't even care any more - not with Matt stroking over his back like this, sucking on his tongue, thumbs riding the ridges of Misha's hipbones through his pants. Matt's big and close and if Misha wants him, right now that's nobody's fault but Matt's, so Misha doesn't feel much like taking responsibility for his actions.
Still, Matt has the temerity to look mildly stunned when Misha pulls back, sitting down abruptly on the end of the bed and reaching for his tie. More than stunned, he looks debauched, a flush spreading down his neck and into the open collar of his shirt, mouth all blurred and pink with kissing. His cock is pressing up against his seam, the shape of it swollen and unmistakable in his pants. Saliva floods Misha's mouth just at the sight of it and, deciding he'd as soon be hung for a sheep as for a lamb, he shifts up the bed a little; leans back on his elbows and spreads his thighs slightly, making room.
"Hey," he says. His voice is rough, breathless, giving him away. "Get down here, wouldja?"
There's always a certain awkwardness about the whole undressing part, recalcitrant buttons and uncooperative pant legs, which is, by definition, even worse than usual when it's your first time with someone. That's just the rule. Except that, apparently, Matt is the kind of charmed, special person to whom rules don't apply, because the way he shucks his shirt and slacks is nothing but sex; and, more unjustly still, he manages to look sexy as he crawls up the bed on his knees, fingers fumbling open the buttons on Misha's vest and tugging off his tie in one long, unbroken movement. There's a smile on his face that looks to be on the verge of breaking into a laugh, warm and pleased and painfully hot. Misha doesn't know whether to surrender to admiration or jealousy. Then Matt leans down to pop the button on Misha's pants, pausing to press the heel of his hand against his erection, and the question becomes abruptly unimportant.
Matt's gorgeous like this, all smooth clean lines and the front of his hair rucked out of its careful comma by Misha's fingers, falling forward into his eyes. His palm is a firm warm pressure against the spine of Misha's cock and Misha can't bite back a hiss as he arches up into it, feet flattening against the mattress. "Shit, Matt," he manages, hands stroking aimlessly over the hot-silk skin of Matt's bare shoulders, the jut of his clavicle. He takes a moment to imagine all that skin against him, muscle shifting under his hands, and his throat flutters involuntarily at the thought. He digs in his fingernails, lifts his hips again. "C'mere."
Matt's on him immediately, fingers making quick work of Misha's buttons, half-lifting him off the bed to peel the shirt off him and toss it aside. When he settles his weight, there's nothing between them but the sheen of sweat licking over their skin, and Misha groans at the first warm contact; leans up to swallow Matt's soft sound in his mouth. He's perfect, the shape of him between Misha's legs, and Misha thrusts his tongue hard and slick against Matt's, the push of it fierce and possessive.
He expects Matt to kiss back; to bite at his lips and grind down against Misha so their cocks slide together with only the thin barrier of their undershorts between; expects his hands and his mouth and his heat. What he doesn't expect is the way Matt shivers under Misha's touch, mouth dropping away from the kiss after a moment when he cranes his neck upward, exposing his throat like a smooth new canvas ready to be marked. He's hard, the slick of him beginning to leak through the fabric, and it gives Misha momentary pause to see him arch away like that instead of pushing down closer as Jensen would have done; to see him hold himself still as he lays himself open. It's not at all in keeping with what Misha has been used to, possession and certainty and strong, pinioning hands, holding him down and working him open. The thing is - the thing is that, looking up at Matt like this, the slight furrow pulled in between his brows and the softness of his mouth, the heat in Misha's stomach overrides his confusion, the pull of yes arrowing down into his groin like this is right, here; this is them. It's unfamiliar, but the tilt of Matt's head is so patiently trusting that Misha finds himself leaning up despite himself, tugging Matt down by the thick of his hair. Matt shifts against him, gasps out encouragement, and it's easy, after that, to lick at the tendon in his neck, seal his mouth over a patch of skin and suck.
The sound Matt makes, a cry wrenched out of his throat like a sinner's confession, is so clean-cut an approval that Misha feels the knife-edge of it slicing hot through the pit of his stomach, a deep twist of want. God, Matt wants this, his whole body trembling above Misha's as Misha laps at his throat, draws up the blood to bloom deep mauve just under the skin. He wants it so hard it's as if he's crumbling under the force of it, body dipping lower to the bed with the trembling of his bracing arms, and Misha swiftly finds himself drunk on it, pressing rhythmically against the flat of Matt's thigh while he worries at the bruise with his teeth between licks.
He doesn't realise he's rolled them over until close to a minute after he's done it, freezing in the act of nipping up to the space behind Matt's ear as the fact occurs to him that he's leaning down, pinning Matt in place with the weight of his own body. This is something else Misha isn't generally accustomed to, having found himself more usually underneath, but Matt's clearly perfectly content with the turn of events, to judge by the bruising grip on Misha's hips that holds him down, keeps him there. He's content, and when Misha swivels his pelvis down firm against him, Matt's head falls back, encouragement breaking out of him in a soft, wordless sound in his throat.
"Misha," he says, like he's pleading, "Misha," and his fingers trace the knobs of Misha's spine, find the small of his back and press. The action draws Misha against him, urges Misha into him, and Misha can't help the way he bucks under the pressure; the way understanding bursts like a dam in his mind, some strange knowledge of the two of them here like this with Matt laid out and beloved and his. It spurs him on like nothing else, like electric charge surging under his skin, and all Matt does is cry out and thrust back when Misha groans and fucks against him, suddenly and decisively possessive.
It's curiously natural, after that, to kick Matt's legs wide so Misha's full weight is pressing him down into the mattress, hips shoved up flush between Matt's spread thighs. When Matt lifts his hips, Misha moves instinctively, recognising the gesture as one he's used himself as a wordless demand for nakedness, for more. It's on Misha, now, to take care of things; to work Matt's undershorts down over his hips so his cock slaps up stiff against his belly, and he never realised until now quite how much he enjoys that Matt is younger, gives in to him easily in the sure knowledge of being looked after. The new knowledge - the way Matt looks up at him under long eyelashes and smiles as his hips roll up - bleeds a warm heat through Misha from the pit of his stomach outward, the sense of being trusted like this so gratifying, a responsibility he has no intention of failing to honour. Matt sought him out, after all, so many weeks ago, sought the solace of his speakeasy and his smile. Now that Misha has him entirely, cock smearing slick onto the shallow of his perfect stomach, he feels he'd sooner die than disappoint him.
He's half-concerned, as he fumbles the Vaseline awkwardly out of the night-table, that this will be a first for Matt, despite his breeziness, but by the time he actually gets his fingers between Matt's legs he's pretty sure that it isn't. Matt's tight here, clenched where Misha's fingertips circle him, but he presses back immediately, whole body arching up into the touch like it remembers. Misha's arms are shaking with a fatal combination of nerves and desperation, but while the motions of Matt's hips do absolutely nothing for the latter, he lets himself relax a little at the knowledge that he won't be the first; won't hurt Matt out of incompetence. It stops seeming so complicated, anyway, when Matt angles himself and pushes back easily onto Misha's finger, taking him easily while his hands find Misha's hair, the sweat-damp nape of his neck.
"It's okay," he says. "Not gonna break, okay?" And then he's shifting again; rocks down on Misha's finger until some torque of his hips makes him gasp. The sound shoots a tight, tingling heat down the length of Misha's spine, makes him press his own hips involuntarily into the mattress, and after that it's easy to work a second finger inside; to crook both up and stroke until Matt's shivering beneath him. Fuck, yes, Misha knows this part - knows the coil-spark sensations that have Matt wound up and trembling right now, the way it feels when he thrusts in deep enough to hit that spot inside that has him crying out. There's a curious power in it, intoxicating, and Misha finds himself entranced by the sight of Matt falling apart like this around his hands, all the lithe muscle of him tensing and releasing at Misha's instigation. He rolls his hips into the mattress; lurches sideways drunkenly to lap at Matt's stomach while he works his wrist, and then Matt's half-laughing through his whimpers, grabbing at Misha's hair and jerking him back.
"Nnngh," Misha protests, straining against the grip. Matt's thick and hot and there, the sex-smell of him sweaty and human, and suddenly all Misha wants is to swallow him down as far as he can get, hear the sounds Matt makes with Misha in him and on him both at once.
Matt, though, to judge by his death-grip on Misha's hair, has other ideas. "You do that," he says, low and cautionary, "and I'll come."
Misha laughs, even while his cock is busy pulsing out precome on the back of the slow roll of heat the words engender in him. "Isn't that the exercise?" Matt's tight around him, hot and clenching around Misha's fingers, and Misha can't resist another slow pull out, a fuck back in that makes Matt cry out and squirm, tug at Misha's hair a little harder in half-hearted protest.
"Mmm, not like this," he manages to get out. Misha, who knows pretty much exactly how Matt must be feeling right now, is actually fairly impressed. Then Matt clarifies, "Want to come with you fucking me," and there's suddenly no longer room for any kind of rational contemplation in Misha's brain, everything lost beneath the molten wave of heat that rips through him like lava. Misha bites back a groan, rocks forward.
"Jesus, Matt," he protests, breathlessly, "Say things like that and I might not be up to it. Shit."
Matt laughs a little, but he's not in the mood for banter right now, and neither, for all too many reasons, is Misha. The soft sound Matt makes when Misha withdraws his hand almost undoes him. It's only by gripping the base of his cock as he crawls up over Matt's body that he manages to hold it together long enough to position himself correctly, and even then, the first press of the head to Matt's slicked-up rim is a dizzying rush that crackles hotly in every nerve of his body.
"Push," Matt tells him, gently; reaches up to grip Misha's bicep. His eyes are wide and blue when Misha takes an unsteady breath and looks up at him, and he's smiling, despite the urgency that has him shivering all over. Misha couldn't deny that face, even if he wanted to - and Jesus Christ, he absolutely doesn't want to. He wants to bury himself in Matt, in his stupid jokes and sideways grins and his boyish, ridiculous good looks; wants to get lost in him, and it's huge, but Matt's just saying push like it's nothing, like he wants that too. Like Misha can have this, slide on into him and never stop.
He hesitates, biting his lip as if to keep himself together.
"Push," Matt says, again and softer.
Misha lets the word snake into the hollow places inside him, sink in around his bones, and gives in.
The long-stoppered groan claws its way out of him as he inches in, slow at first until Matt pushes back and they meet in the middle, Misha sheathed to the hilt. Matt's hot, fuck, clenched tight as a fist around him, but he's shifting his hips incrementally, fingernails digging into Misha's arm, and Misha can't help but jerk forward after a long second's grace. It's a little rough, at first, short little stutters of his hips, but he's deep already and Matt cries out in the wake of the third stroke; claws at Misha's shoulders and says something like yes. By the fifth stroke, there's sweat licking the base of Misha's spine and his head is buzzing with something like white static, but he's sliding out some before he presses back in, Matt's body making accommodations for him. Matt's boneless underneath him, chest damp and heaving for breath, and when Misha pulls out almost all the way and slams back in, he curves up off the bed like the back of a bow, yelling out wordless and unfettered and half-surprised.
After that, there isn't any holding back. Misha doesn't remember consciously thinking it might be a good idea to shove at the underside of Matt's thigh until his leg bent back, almost to his chest, but somewhere along the way he must have done. Matt doesn't seem to mind when Misha leans his weight forward on the upraised knee and starts fucking in earnest, the whole of sliding in and out again on every stroke. On the contary, he presses back into it; curls up an arm around Misha's neck to tug him down, and Misha lets himself be awkwardly pulled until they're mouthing slackly against one another, teeth clashing with the force of Misha's thrusting. It's more than a little sloppy, unpractised and hard, but God, it's good, the full-bodied slam of it vibrating through Misha right to the back teeth, and Matt underneath him is all near-constant sound, enough that Misha's pretty damn sure the feeling's mutual. Fuck, he can't believe they've waited weeks to do this, Matt all tight and breathless and pushing back onto him, and his hips work faster as the impossible incline ramps up in his head, heart pounding furiously against his ribs.
"Fuck," Matt whimpers, soft among his moans, and Misha can tell by the sound how close he is; can hear the end in the reed-thin words. He clenches down on the wave of orgasm, picking up the pace until everything blurs, like he could be travelling in time, lost among the stars.
"It's okay," he gets out; nudges Matt's jaw. "Matt, c'mon, I got you, s'okay - "
Matt stills abruptly, back snapping taut, and then he's coming, abrupt and hard and wet, pulsing all over his sweat-sticky stomach. Every muscle in his body seems to go into spasm, and Misha feels the ripple of it working around him, clenching around his cock, pulling him in.
"God," he breathes; pulls out and fucks in a little harder, and Matt's going boneless underneath him but he's too far gone to care, blood vessels straining behind his eyes. He bites down on his lip, fucks in deep and then, shit, he hits it, feels it break over him as he spurts and shoots inside of Matt, feels it shake him apart and leave him deep and still.
He turns his head, gasps for breath. It comes slow; he sees colours.
"Holy shit," Matt says, after a long moment of breathlessness and shivering, and it's exactly what Misha was thinking, genuinely. No more, no less. He slumps down abruptly onto Matt's chest, nuzzles at the hollow of his throat and laughs.
"We have got to do that again," Misha says. His throat sounds raspy and thick, like he's just gone ten rounds with a hookah, and that's kind of strange when he hasn't even given a blowjob tonight. Perhaps it was only all the yelling. Misha normally does his level best not to be noisy enough to draw attention to himself, but something about Matt and his candidness makes reserve kind of difficult to achieve.
"I was kind of counting on it," Matt says. He hooks an arm around Misha's shoulder, lips brushing idly against his temple in something almost like a kiss. The domesticity of it is palpable - more than not just being a one night stand kind of gesture, it's not just a casual sex-buddy gesture, either. There's something deep and sure in Misha that tells him Matt wants to keep this, and a year ago, he couldn't have imagined feeling that and not freaking out. Evidently, though, Matt's warped him completely, because the idea of spooning up with Matt like this - tonight, but also all the other hypothetical nights beyond - is somehow no longer scary. It feels good, clawing his breath back tucked into Matt's body like this. Feels...nice.
Misha hasn't done nice for a good long time, now. He's a sarcastic, grimly-humorous man from nowhere who breaks the law on at least two counts every day; just ask anyone who visits the speakeasy and the story'd be the same. Misha's not nice. Except, apparently, Matt's nice enough for the both of them.
Sickening, really. Misha should be climbing out of this bed right now before he lets himself get in too deep - before the roots of this wind right down into his soft tissues, deep enough that they'd hurt like a bitch if torn out. Misha should be on his guard, the way he's been all these years.
Matt's fingers are gentle in his hair, stroking it back from his forehead. "Thinking too hard again," he says. "Go to sleep, huh?"
And Misha does. God help him, but it's far too late now for protest.
**
When Jensen rolls back into town after his difficult run and finds that Misha's place is now their place, he takes it more than graciously, as if he'd known to expect it, which is kind of annoying. As time wears on, though, Misha begins to notice that he's not as immune to domesticity, himself, as he'd always claimed to be, which takes some of the edge off the irritation factor.
But that's another story.
Pairing: Misha Collins/Matt Cohen (MC2?), past Jensen/Misha
Rating: NC-17
Summary: As the illicitly homosexual proprietor of a speakeasy in 1920s New York, Misha's always thought himself the kind of man for whom any ordinary sort of happiness is out of reach. Then Matt shows up. It turns out 'ordinary' is relative.
Notes: This is for
kriari, who requested Matt/Misha when she won my help_japan auction. Of course, somewhere along the way this thing took on a life of its own (and is set in the same universe as this little J2 snippet), so I may end up writing you Jensen/JDM too, at some point, kriari, because the level of self-indulgence in this thing is high. ;) _mournthewicked, I thank and curse you in equal measure. ♥In the darkest corner of the club, Jensen is smirking. It probably wouldn't be obvious to anyone who didn't know him inside out like Misha does, given the way his hat is tipped down over his face, smoke curling up under the brim, but Misha knows that set to his shoulders, the splay of his legs. Jensen thinks there's something fucking funny, and Misha's irritably certain he knows what it is.
"Fucker," he hisses in Jensen's ear, leaning down over him in the pretence of collecting his empty shotglass from the bar. "You can stop that right now, y'hear me?"
Jensen laughs softly; takes the cigarette out of his mouth between finger and thumb and rolls it daintily. "Stop what, baby?"
His voice is low, the same voice that used to whisper God, you're so hot into all the hidden places of Misha's body when they fucked, brown-sugar and smoke and sin. Misha frowns; straightens up and throws Jensen his best cut-glass glare. It isn't as if Jensen was ever his boyfriend, or anything, so he has no business being jealous. Jensen doesn't do boyfriends, as he'd be the first to admit.
"Laughing at me," he says, shortly. "You got something to say, say it. Otherwise, vamoose. It's closing time."
Jensen hums gently in his throat; reaches up to flick at the brim of his fedora with two fingers so the light falls on his face. His eyes hold Misha's for a moment, smirking, and then shift pointedly over in the direction of the piano, set against the wall on the opposite side of the room. "And are we gonna lose Mr Music at closing time, too?" he asks, lightly.
Misha colours. Behind him, the soft sounds of jazz roll lazily on, even though the club is empty, the patrons slunk off to their wives and their children and their staid, unsecret lives. He can tell from the languor of it, the elided grace-notes, that Matt is tiring, probably sunk down on his stool with his arms gone lax, long fingers barely kissing the keys. Jensen, Misha thinks, probably knows that Misha can tell. That's why he looks so goddamn cynical.
Misha owes Jensen a whole lot - long years of friendship, for a start, and, on a more mercenary note, most of the alcohol he serves - but he doesn't owe him this. Jensen can survive on sex and smoke and the thrill of the black market chase, but Misha isn't like that. Misha needs a certain measure of stability, and right now, the brightest stable spot in his dingy life is Matt. Jensen can ask questions if he likes - Misha thinks he's earned the right - but he can't expect anything other than blunt, undiluted responses.
"No," Misha says, smartly. "Matt's staying." He leans one elbow on the bar and half-turns toward the piano; catches Jensen's eye and then looks away. Matt, cigarette smouldering low between his lips, flashes a grin and nods his head in acknowledgement, fingers coaxing out a little additional curlicue just for Misha. Misha laughs, claps his hands. "Beautiful," he calls.
"And smart, too," Matt shoots back, not missing a beat.
When Misha looks back to Jensen's face, there's a smile there that says fine, I get it, you're cute as clearly as any words could have done. It's a smile of resignation, more than anything else, but there's acceptance there, too, an appreciation that Matt, at least, will never give Jensen a reason to send men with baseball bats to Misha's door. Jensen will deny it, but he's nothing if not overprotective. When he stands up, his hand lingers on Misha's shoulder a little longer than it ordinarily might, but Misha knows already that there will be no kiss when Jensen leaves him at the door, no thumb grazing the curve of his jaw. Jensen is the world's biggest fan of clean breaks.
"Next run might take me a while," Jensen says as they cross the room together. His tone is nonchalant, but Misha had half-expected something like that. It isn't that rum-running doesn't always take a great deal of organisation and time investment, but Jensen has grown shockingly good at it over the years. When runs take him a while, they do so for reasons entirely within his own control.
Misha sets a hand on Jensen's wrist, stops him by the door. "Okay," he says. "That's okay. But you look after yourself, all right?" He hesitates a second, and then tips the hat back down over Jensen's face. "I'll be here."
"I know," Jensen says. It's tight, curt; but then his mouth twitches a little afterward and he says it again, "I know," this time encompassing everything: I know this won't change things. I know you'll still want me here. It will change things, of course, if Misha achieves - whatever it is he's thinking of with Matt. It would be foolhardy to expect anything else. But still, it warms him to hear that tone to Jensen's voice, to see him make the obvious effort to summon it there.
"You spill a drop of my gold-dust and I'll fucking kill you," Misha says, and the fondness in the words is palpable. Jensen laughs; makes a guardsman's salute, and the shadow of it shows against the wall when he opens the door, the sound of his laughter leaking out into the night. Jensen's always been like that, all shadow and stars.
There is no shadow in Matt. When the door is locked behind Jensen and Misha retreats back into the club, the jazz from the piano has slowed to a crawl, and Matt's smile is entirely sunshine.
"All done," Misha tells him, tilting his head. He feels tired, all of a sudden, the emptiness of the club seeming to sink into him suddenly, but the look on Matt's face fills the tired places in him with a new energy, low and warm.
Matt laughs; trips a little over the last few notes of his tune (which he's overelaborated, Misha notices, beyond the constraints of the sheet music). "Time for sleep?" he asks, lightly.
Misha has his own rooms upstairs, and Matt's been sleeping in the guest room for the six weeks he's been playing piano in the club, as Jensen well knows. Any other night, now would be the time for lock-up and a companionable traipse upstairs and into their respective beds, but Misha has things to attend to first, tonight. He shakes his head a little, takes a half-step closer. The top of the piano is smooth, mirroring the dim lights still burning in the corners of the room. Misha leans an elbow on it and smiles down at Matt hesitantly.
"I liked that one," he says, nodding towards the sheet music. "What you just played. Kinda different when you play it, though, isn't it?"
Matt laughs, long throat shifting with it. From this angle he looks, if possible, even more attractive than he genuinely is, all strong jaw and white teeth flashing, dark blue eyes. The lines of his face are well-cut, finely fashioned, and Misha wonders, for an idle moment, where he came from with that black Irish colouring. Where he came from, and how it brought him to Misha's little club with those fingers and that face, offering himself for the pianist vacancy and another Misha hadn't known was open.
It's been a long time since Misha's dared have anything close to a long-term companion; but then, it's been a long time since Misha's met anyone he's liked half as much as he likes Matt.
"I tend to - uh - improve on the originals," Matt says wryly, his eyes warm and dark. He's looking at Misha as if he is saying something else entirely, and Misha is sure there has been no misinterpretation. Matt watches him warmly, open-faced and patient, and Misha made the decision early in their association not to keep his preferences a secret from him. This establishment is contraband in more ways than one, and Misha is increasingly sure that Matt was aware of it before he showed up at the door, hat in hand, wanting to be part of it.
The difficulty lies only in knowing how and when to move; but then, this has always been Misha's greatest challenge.
Looking at Matt, Misha can't exactly picture him having the same kinds of problems Misha grew up with, the uncertainties and the long, long years of self-loathing pasted over with layers of cynicism and dark humour. Misha's over that now - no small thanks to Jensen - but at Matt's age, he was still right in the thick of it, still praying out of desperation to a God he no longer believed in, trying to drum up some interest in Tessa Lloyd next door. And yet here's Matt, smiling up at Misha from under long eyelashes like the whole carnival of angst just skated on by him, and Misha's stunned by that as much as he's grateful for it.
Part of him thinks it must have been the Prohibition that did it. Certainly, it worked that way on the last of Misha's doubt, a brutal inversion of what, presumably, was supposed to have transpired in his brain. It was as if it hit him all at once, that any state puritanical enough to institute a goddamn ridiculous law like that one couldn't be trusted to know whether its other 'moral' laws made any damn sense or not; and anyway, Napoleon had legalised it, hadn't he? There was a man who knew what was what. If Misha was going to be an enemy of the state with regard to the alcohol - and he had absolutely no intention of shutting down his club - then he might as well throw his self-righteous towel into the ring and embrace it all, tobacco and beer and boys, and damn everything this stupid government said. Misha's pretty sure that the same thought probably occurred to a lot of people, Matt included, although there's something in his nature that makes Misha feel he'd never quite have reached Misha's rock-bottom even without all this, the new culture of secrecy and swing. Matt does what he wants, trusts his own ideas of what's right. That's part of what Misha, goddamn his sudden unaccustomed attack of sentimentality, likes so much about him.
"Penny for 'em." Matt's voice is low and warm as he drops his arms, folds his hands in his lap, languorous and unconcerned. Misha blushes, despite his best efforts, and presses his lips together. He hadn't meant to stand there so long, all pensive open mouth and not one of his too many thoughts escaping in word form, but this isn't the first time it's happened around Matt. It's part of what made him decide enough was enough, right before his body decided it actually wasn't enough yet and it wanted to stand around a little longer, thank you.
And he's doing it again even now. Jesus Christ.
"Sorry," Misha gets out, and that's a little better; that's a start, at least. Opening his mouth and actually making words with it shouldn't be an improvement, but Misha's long past the point of being able to worry about that. Now he has to take what he can get. "I was just..."
There was more to it than that, really there was. It isn't Misha's fault that Matt takes this opportunity to push back his stool from the piano and get to his feet, all long boy-limbs and the soft fall of his hair, muscles in his forearms swelling out from under the rolled-up cuffs of his shirt. It isn't Misha's fault that his proximity, the way the sweat gleams gently in the hollow of his throat and the firm line of his jaw, make his mouth go dry.
"Let's go to bed," Matt says gently.
It could have been innocent, his little half-step towards the stairs and the catlike tilt of his head, but then Matt's fingers are skating the inner bone of Misha's wrist and the gesture, though chaste, is revelatory, taking this from sleepiness to sin. Misha's heart kicks up in his throat, thundering under the fine skin below his ear, but Matt's so unconcerned, so unapologetically patient, that the spurt slows after a moment, leaving Misha with no choice but to swallow and turn his hand, lacing his fingers through Matt's.
He's holding hands with a boy, right here in the middle of his club. Sure, he's closed up for the night, but Jensen wouldn't have held his hand if his life had depended on it. Jensen isn't like that - they weren't like that.
Matt is like that, all wide-eyed and waiting, and Misha hears himself saying, "Okay," before he realises the decision's been made. Perhaps he made it weeks and weeks ago, after all, when Matt moved his three carpet bags of worldly possessions into Misha's guest-room. "Okay," Misha says, and Matt's smile is blinding.
The thing about the journey up the stairs together is that it's pretty much identical to what happened after close-up yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that. The third step still creaks. The lock on the door at the stairhead is still stiff, in dire need of oiling. The living room is still overcrowded with stacks of books and sheet music when they cross it, the curtains a little uneven on the rail, the rug kicked up at one corner. So far, so utterly unremarkable, and Misha's chest feels weirdly hollow with it, cavernous with anticipation.
The first sign of change, what's wrong with this picture, spot the difference, is Matt's broad palm settling at the base of Misha's spine when he opens his bedroom door, the subtle shift forward into Misha's personal space. The heat of him is palpable, a long living line of it all down Misha's back, and it makes his heart catch, sets the cavern in his ribcage suddenly alive with energy. He clenches his jaw, shoves the door open fully, and the warmth stays with him as he reaches up to loosen the knot of his tie, as he turns to close the door behind himself - the usual bedtime rituals. Except that this is Matt in his bedroom, Matt with a hand still skimming the small of Misha's back, and that is an addition Misha doesn't dare hope might one day become ritual, the wide bed unmade and theirs.
Shit. Misha's just about to chide himself thoroughly for getting ahead of himself when Matt's other hand comes up to cradle his jaw, guiding gently until their eyes meet.
"Hey," Matt says. "You're not exhausted, are you?"
His mouth is soft and pink, shining damply where it parts, and Misha's eyes go to it instinctively. Matt's close, his big hand warm on Misha's face, and any shred of tiredness he felt before has vanished somewhere between the two factors. He blinks a little. "No-o," he allows, "not exhausted."
Matt's mouth twitches up at one corner in amusement or relief or both - such a responsive mouth. Misha wants to kiss it, except Matt saves him the trouble with a whispered, "Good," right before he leans in to close the distance, pressing their mouths together.
Matt's lips are soft but the kiss is firm from the start, no hesitant brushing of dry, closed mouths but a sure, warm pressure that makes Misha's belly dip hotly in reaction. The hand on his jaw grips steadily as Matt nudges his lips apart, tonguing lightly at the seam until Misha goes slack, opens his mouth and lets Matt press in. It's full-on and hot and exactly what Misha imagined in the moments when he let his mind wander traitorously abroad, and he sees no reason not to open filthy-wide for the onslaught, both hands sliding up and into Matt's soft hair.
God, but Matt's good at this. The thought shoots a dart of heat into the pit of Misha's stomach as Matt shifts closer, free arm curving around Misha's waist to snug their bodies together shoulder to hip. There's something in his youthful intensity that burns against Misha like wildfire sparking in every pulse of his blood, and the soft animal sounds Matt makes in his throat make Misha want to divest him of his clothes immediately, swallow him down until he really makes some noise. His mouth is so hot, the wet inside of it catching at the swell of Misha's lower lip in the second before he shifts to suck at the outer curve, the gesture intimate and fiercely good. It's as if every nerve in Misha's body has reseated itself in that single tiny stretch of skin, Matt's lips brushing over and over it until Misha can feel the blood rushing up to meet him, the way his mouth must look kiss-bitten and bruised.
By the time Matt's tongue pushes into his mouth, curling up to lick at his soft palate, Misha's breath is coming quickly through his nose, hands making fists of all Matt's thick, soft
hair. He's shifting, pelvis aching with the urge to fuck forward into something, and he can't even care any more - not with Matt stroking over his back like this, sucking on his tongue, thumbs riding the ridges of Misha's hipbones through his pants. Matt's big and close and if Misha wants him, right now that's nobody's fault but Matt's, so Misha doesn't feel much like taking responsibility for his actions.
Still, Matt has the temerity to look mildly stunned when Misha pulls back, sitting down abruptly on the end of the bed and reaching for his tie. More than stunned, he looks debauched, a flush spreading down his neck and into the open collar of his shirt, mouth all blurred and pink with kissing. His cock is pressing up against his seam, the shape of it swollen and unmistakable in his pants. Saliva floods Misha's mouth just at the sight of it and, deciding he'd as soon be hung for a sheep as for a lamb, he shifts up the bed a little; leans back on his elbows and spreads his thighs slightly, making room.
"Hey," he says. His voice is rough, breathless, giving him away. "Get down here, wouldja?"
There's always a certain awkwardness about the whole undressing part, recalcitrant buttons and uncooperative pant legs, which is, by definition, even worse than usual when it's your first time with someone. That's just the rule. Except that, apparently, Matt is the kind of charmed, special person to whom rules don't apply, because the way he shucks his shirt and slacks is nothing but sex; and, more unjustly still, he manages to look sexy as he crawls up the bed on his knees, fingers fumbling open the buttons on Misha's vest and tugging off his tie in one long, unbroken movement. There's a smile on his face that looks to be on the verge of breaking into a laugh, warm and pleased and painfully hot. Misha doesn't know whether to surrender to admiration or jealousy. Then Matt leans down to pop the button on Misha's pants, pausing to press the heel of his hand against his erection, and the question becomes abruptly unimportant.
Matt's gorgeous like this, all smooth clean lines and the front of his hair rucked out of its careful comma by Misha's fingers, falling forward into his eyes. His palm is a firm warm pressure against the spine of Misha's cock and Misha can't bite back a hiss as he arches up into it, feet flattening against the mattress. "Shit, Matt," he manages, hands stroking aimlessly over the hot-silk skin of Matt's bare shoulders, the jut of his clavicle. He takes a moment to imagine all that skin against him, muscle shifting under his hands, and his throat flutters involuntarily at the thought. He digs in his fingernails, lifts his hips again. "C'mere."
Matt's on him immediately, fingers making quick work of Misha's buttons, half-lifting him off the bed to peel the shirt off him and toss it aside. When he settles his weight, there's nothing between them but the sheen of sweat licking over their skin, and Misha groans at the first warm contact; leans up to swallow Matt's soft sound in his mouth. He's perfect, the shape of him between Misha's legs, and Misha thrusts his tongue hard and slick against Matt's, the push of it fierce and possessive.
He expects Matt to kiss back; to bite at his lips and grind down against Misha so their cocks slide together with only the thin barrier of their undershorts between; expects his hands and his mouth and his heat. What he doesn't expect is the way Matt shivers under Misha's touch, mouth dropping away from the kiss after a moment when he cranes his neck upward, exposing his throat like a smooth new canvas ready to be marked. He's hard, the slick of him beginning to leak through the fabric, and it gives Misha momentary pause to see him arch away like that instead of pushing down closer as Jensen would have done; to see him hold himself still as he lays himself open. It's not at all in keeping with what Misha has been used to, possession and certainty and strong, pinioning hands, holding him down and working him open. The thing is - the thing is that, looking up at Matt like this, the slight furrow pulled in between his brows and the softness of his mouth, the heat in Misha's stomach overrides his confusion, the pull of yes arrowing down into his groin like this is right, here; this is them. It's unfamiliar, but the tilt of Matt's head is so patiently trusting that Misha finds himself leaning up despite himself, tugging Matt down by the thick of his hair. Matt shifts against him, gasps out encouragement, and it's easy, after that, to lick at the tendon in his neck, seal his mouth over a patch of skin and suck.
The sound Matt makes, a cry wrenched out of his throat like a sinner's confession, is so clean-cut an approval that Misha feels the knife-edge of it slicing hot through the pit of his stomach, a deep twist of want. God, Matt wants this, his whole body trembling above Misha's as Misha laps at his throat, draws up the blood to bloom deep mauve just under the skin. He wants it so hard it's as if he's crumbling under the force of it, body dipping lower to the bed with the trembling of his bracing arms, and Misha swiftly finds himself drunk on it, pressing rhythmically against the flat of Matt's thigh while he worries at the bruise with his teeth between licks.
He doesn't realise he's rolled them over until close to a minute after he's done it, freezing in the act of nipping up to the space behind Matt's ear as the fact occurs to him that he's leaning down, pinning Matt in place with the weight of his own body. This is something else Misha isn't generally accustomed to, having found himself more usually underneath, but Matt's clearly perfectly content with the turn of events, to judge by the bruising grip on Misha's hips that holds him down, keeps him there. He's content, and when Misha swivels his pelvis down firm against him, Matt's head falls back, encouragement breaking out of him in a soft, wordless sound in his throat.
"Misha," he says, like he's pleading, "Misha," and his fingers trace the knobs of Misha's spine, find the small of his back and press. The action draws Misha against him, urges Misha into him, and Misha can't help the way he bucks under the pressure; the way understanding bursts like a dam in his mind, some strange knowledge of the two of them here like this with Matt laid out and beloved and his. It spurs him on like nothing else, like electric charge surging under his skin, and all Matt does is cry out and thrust back when Misha groans and fucks against him, suddenly and decisively possessive.
It's curiously natural, after that, to kick Matt's legs wide so Misha's full weight is pressing him down into the mattress, hips shoved up flush between Matt's spread thighs. When Matt lifts his hips, Misha moves instinctively, recognising the gesture as one he's used himself as a wordless demand for nakedness, for more. It's on Misha, now, to take care of things; to work Matt's undershorts down over his hips so his cock slaps up stiff against his belly, and he never realised until now quite how much he enjoys that Matt is younger, gives in to him easily in the sure knowledge of being looked after. The new knowledge - the way Matt looks up at him under long eyelashes and smiles as his hips roll up - bleeds a warm heat through Misha from the pit of his stomach outward, the sense of being trusted like this so gratifying, a responsibility he has no intention of failing to honour. Matt sought him out, after all, so many weeks ago, sought the solace of his speakeasy and his smile. Now that Misha has him entirely, cock smearing slick onto the shallow of his perfect stomach, he feels he'd sooner die than disappoint him.
He's half-concerned, as he fumbles the Vaseline awkwardly out of the night-table, that this will be a first for Matt, despite his breeziness, but by the time he actually gets his fingers between Matt's legs he's pretty sure that it isn't. Matt's tight here, clenched where Misha's fingertips circle him, but he presses back immediately, whole body arching up into the touch like it remembers. Misha's arms are shaking with a fatal combination of nerves and desperation, but while the motions of Matt's hips do absolutely nothing for the latter, he lets himself relax a little at the knowledge that he won't be the first; won't hurt Matt out of incompetence. It stops seeming so complicated, anyway, when Matt angles himself and pushes back easily onto Misha's finger, taking him easily while his hands find Misha's hair, the sweat-damp nape of his neck.
"It's okay," he says. "Not gonna break, okay?" And then he's shifting again; rocks down on Misha's finger until some torque of his hips makes him gasp. The sound shoots a tight, tingling heat down the length of Misha's spine, makes him press his own hips involuntarily into the mattress, and after that it's easy to work a second finger inside; to crook both up and stroke until Matt's shivering beneath him. Fuck, yes, Misha knows this part - knows the coil-spark sensations that have Matt wound up and trembling right now, the way it feels when he thrusts in deep enough to hit that spot inside that has him crying out. There's a curious power in it, intoxicating, and Misha finds himself entranced by the sight of Matt falling apart like this around his hands, all the lithe muscle of him tensing and releasing at Misha's instigation. He rolls his hips into the mattress; lurches sideways drunkenly to lap at Matt's stomach while he works his wrist, and then Matt's half-laughing through his whimpers, grabbing at Misha's hair and jerking him back.
"Nnngh," Misha protests, straining against the grip. Matt's thick and hot and there, the sex-smell of him sweaty and human, and suddenly all Misha wants is to swallow him down as far as he can get, hear the sounds Matt makes with Misha in him and on him both at once.
Matt, though, to judge by his death-grip on Misha's hair, has other ideas. "You do that," he says, low and cautionary, "and I'll come."
Misha laughs, even while his cock is busy pulsing out precome on the back of the slow roll of heat the words engender in him. "Isn't that the exercise?" Matt's tight around him, hot and clenching around Misha's fingers, and Misha can't resist another slow pull out, a fuck back in that makes Matt cry out and squirm, tug at Misha's hair a little harder in half-hearted protest.
"Mmm, not like this," he manages to get out. Misha, who knows pretty much exactly how Matt must be feeling right now, is actually fairly impressed. Then Matt clarifies, "Want to come with you fucking me," and there's suddenly no longer room for any kind of rational contemplation in Misha's brain, everything lost beneath the molten wave of heat that rips through him like lava. Misha bites back a groan, rocks forward.
"Jesus, Matt," he protests, breathlessly, "Say things like that and I might not be up to it. Shit."
Matt laughs a little, but he's not in the mood for banter right now, and neither, for all too many reasons, is Misha. The soft sound Matt makes when Misha withdraws his hand almost undoes him. It's only by gripping the base of his cock as he crawls up over Matt's body that he manages to hold it together long enough to position himself correctly, and even then, the first press of the head to Matt's slicked-up rim is a dizzying rush that crackles hotly in every nerve of his body.
"Push," Matt tells him, gently; reaches up to grip Misha's bicep. His eyes are wide and blue when Misha takes an unsteady breath and looks up at him, and he's smiling, despite the urgency that has him shivering all over. Misha couldn't deny that face, even if he wanted to - and Jesus Christ, he absolutely doesn't want to. He wants to bury himself in Matt, in his stupid jokes and sideways grins and his boyish, ridiculous good looks; wants to get lost in him, and it's huge, but Matt's just saying push like it's nothing, like he wants that too. Like Misha can have this, slide on into him and never stop.
He hesitates, biting his lip as if to keep himself together.
"Push," Matt says, again and softer.
Misha lets the word snake into the hollow places inside him, sink in around his bones, and gives in.
The long-stoppered groan claws its way out of him as he inches in, slow at first until Matt pushes back and they meet in the middle, Misha sheathed to the hilt. Matt's hot, fuck, clenched tight as a fist around him, but he's shifting his hips incrementally, fingernails digging into Misha's arm, and Misha can't help but jerk forward after a long second's grace. It's a little rough, at first, short little stutters of his hips, but he's deep already and Matt cries out in the wake of the third stroke; claws at Misha's shoulders and says something like yes. By the fifth stroke, there's sweat licking the base of Misha's spine and his head is buzzing with something like white static, but he's sliding out some before he presses back in, Matt's body making accommodations for him. Matt's boneless underneath him, chest damp and heaving for breath, and when Misha pulls out almost all the way and slams back in, he curves up off the bed like the back of a bow, yelling out wordless and unfettered and half-surprised.
After that, there isn't any holding back. Misha doesn't remember consciously thinking it might be a good idea to shove at the underside of Matt's thigh until his leg bent back, almost to his chest, but somewhere along the way he must have done. Matt doesn't seem to mind when Misha leans his weight forward on the upraised knee and starts fucking in earnest, the whole of sliding in and out again on every stroke. On the contary, he presses back into it; curls up an arm around Misha's neck to tug him down, and Misha lets himself be awkwardly pulled until they're mouthing slackly against one another, teeth clashing with the force of Misha's thrusting. It's more than a little sloppy, unpractised and hard, but God, it's good, the full-bodied slam of it vibrating through Misha right to the back teeth, and Matt underneath him is all near-constant sound, enough that Misha's pretty damn sure the feeling's mutual. Fuck, he can't believe they've waited weeks to do this, Matt all tight and breathless and pushing back onto him, and his hips work faster as the impossible incline ramps up in his head, heart pounding furiously against his ribs.
"Fuck," Matt whimpers, soft among his moans, and Misha can tell by the sound how close he is; can hear the end in the reed-thin words. He clenches down on the wave of orgasm, picking up the pace until everything blurs, like he could be travelling in time, lost among the stars.
"It's okay," he gets out; nudges Matt's jaw. "Matt, c'mon, I got you, s'okay - "
Matt stills abruptly, back snapping taut, and then he's coming, abrupt and hard and wet, pulsing all over his sweat-sticky stomach. Every muscle in his body seems to go into spasm, and Misha feels the ripple of it working around him, clenching around his cock, pulling him in.
"God," he breathes; pulls out and fucks in a little harder, and Matt's going boneless underneath him but he's too far gone to care, blood vessels straining behind his eyes. He bites down on his lip, fucks in deep and then, shit, he hits it, feels it break over him as he spurts and shoots inside of Matt, feels it shake him apart and leave him deep and still.
He turns his head, gasps for breath. It comes slow; he sees colours.
"Holy shit," Matt says, after a long moment of breathlessness and shivering, and it's exactly what Misha was thinking, genuinely. No more, no less. He slumps down abruptly onto Matt's chest, nuzzles at the hollow of his throat and laughs.
"We have got to do that again," Misha says. His throat sounds raspy and thick, like he's just gone ten rounds with a hookah, and that's kind of strange when he hasn't even given a blowjob tonight. Perhaps it was only all the yelling. Misha normally does his level best not to be noisy enough to draw attention to himself, but something about Matt and his candidness makes reserve kind of difficult to achieve.
"I was kind of counting on it," Matt says. He hooks an arm around Misha's shoulder, lips brushing idly against his temple in something almost like a kiss. The domesticity of it is palpable - more than not just being a one night stand kind of gesture, it's not just a casual sex-buddy gesture, either. There's something deep and sure in Misha that tells him Matt wants to keep this, and a year ago, he couldn't have imagined feeling that and not freaking out. Evidently, though, Matt's warped him completely, because the idea of spooning up with Matt like this - tonight, but also all the other hypothetical nights beyond - is somehow no longer scary. It feels good, clawing his breath back tucked into Matt's body like this. Feels...nice.
Misha hasn't done nice for a good long time, now. He's a sarcastic, grimly-humorous man from nowhere who breaks the law on at least two counts every day; just ask anyone who visits the speakeasy and the story'd be the same. Misha's not nice. Except, apparently, Matt's nice enough for the both of them.
Sickening, really. Misha should be climbing out of this bed right now before he lets himself get in too deep - before the roots of this wind right down into his soft tissues, deep enough that they'd hurt like a bitch if torn out. Misha should be on his guard, the way he's been all these years.
Matt's fingers are gentle in his hair, stroking it back from his forehead. "Thinking too hard again," he says. "Go to sleep, huh?"
And Misha does. God help him, but it's far too late now for protest.
**
When Jensen rolls back into town after his difficult run and finds that Misha's place is now their place, he takes it more than graciously, as if he'd known to expect it, which is kind of annoying. As time wears on, though, Misha begins to notice that he's not as immune to domesticity, himself, as he'd always claimed to be, which takes some of the edge off the irritation factor.
But that's another story.
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Date: 2011-05-09 12:02 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-05-09 08:23 am (UTC)