spn rps: game on (jared/misha/matt; nc17)
And then I wrote porn. IDEK. If you dislike things that are mostly about upbeat people having lots of sex, you might want to give this a pass.
Game On
SPN RPS. Matt/Misha, Jared/Misha, Matt/Jared, Matt/Misha/Jared. NC17. Warning: drug use. Thank you to![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
callowyn for betareading.
Set during some fictional con. "Your games are their games are everyone's games." ~4000 words
"You're insatiable," Misha murmurs, but he supposes that's why he's drawn to Matt in the first place. Maybe Misha really does have a type: a little younger, off-the-walls, and apparently good in bed. It's not that he thinks of himself as an older man, but Matt makes him think things like I also used to think like that and I also used to feel that way and I also used to be able to drink several shots and recite excerpts from Fight Club still standing.
Misha is blissed out and spent and already starting to slip into a light doze when Matt starts kissing his way down his chest, quick detour to bite his left nipple. He blazes a trail with his mouth down Misha's stomach to nose at his cock, and Misha laughs and says, "Oh, Matt, I don't think so." But then Matt proceeds to go down on him for the next half hour and proves him wrong. Matt is full of delightful qualities like that.
Misha is sore and a little out of sorts, but Matt is patient, lazily sucking at the head of his cock, the tip of the tongue lightly teasing along the length of him in patterns that agitate but don't deliver, at least at first. Matt deep-throats sparingly. As far as cycles go, it's not the most vicious Misha has been stuck in. As far as dilemmas go, it's one of his most pleasant: should he fuck Matt's face, or should he continue letting the guy drive him insane one lick at a time?
Matt fists Misha's cock and mouths at his balls, and Misha thinks insanity isn't so bad.
Eventually, Matt lets him come. It's the kind of straining edgeless orgasm that draws itself out, coaxed by Matt's soft lips and wandering tongue. Misha rides a wave of pleasure that doesn't seem to end, some warm slow tide spreading from his groin to the rest of him, leaving him wrung out and sated and dumb.
Matt wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and says, "Booyah," because he is a classy guy like that. He flops down next to Misha on the bed and grins, and reaches for his cellphone on the nightstand. Then he checks the screen, yells, "Goddamn, I'm on in five minutes!" and is gone from Misha's hotel room in a whirl of clothes and promises to hang out tomorrow.
It is suddenly very quiet.
Misha has not been able to utter a word since halfway through the blow job, so he reaches over the bed and grabs his own phone from his jeans. He texts Matt, your shirt is on backwards.
+
Misha wakes up at three in the morning to an insistent knocking at his door, and it's Matt, of course. He pulls on a shirt and answers, and Matt immediately invades his personal space.
"I wanna fuck you," he murmurs against Misha's cheek, fingers already hooking into the waistband of his boxers . "I'm gonna fuck you right now."
"Sure you are," Misha says, because Matt stinks of booze and is unsteady on his feet.
"Hey, did you and Jared really use to fuck?" Matt asks loudly, and it's definitely time to close the door.
Misha raises an eyebrow, smiling slow. "Which little birdie told you that?"
"I'd still fuck you," Matt assures him, and kisses him as if to make a point of it.
Misha turns his head. "Maybe you should come back another time."
"You want me to? Fuck you?"
"Don't you have that panel with Mini Mary tomorrow morning?"
Matt puts on the Tarzan voice. "Mini Mary, I, Mini John." Then drops it and becomes very serious. "Except you know. I'm not mini. You know."
Misha runs his fingers through Matt's hair, smoothing it. "I know."
"So did you?"
"Did I what?"
"Did you fuck Jared. Did you give it to him up the ass."
A smile spreads slowly on Misha's face. "Are you jealous?"
"Did he give it to you up the ass?"
"How'd you hear about me and Jared?"
"Jared," Matt replies.
"Ah."
Then Misha distracts Matt by asking him what he thinks about this whole business with season seven, and Matt starts spouting off all his opinions about the importance of having another episode set in the seventies. Misha grabs his keycard from the table and says "uh-huh" at key points as he walks Matt to down the hall his room. "Keep your voice down," Misha says.
"Castiel should come along," Matt decides, "and then he and John can watch Grease and fuck in the theater."
"That is an awesome idea," Misha agrees.
After the fourth attempt with the keycard, Misha takes it from Matt and opens the door for him. Matt shuffles inside.
Misha gives him a mock salute. "Good night, Matt."
Matt frowns. There is a thought in his head swimming through the alcohol and losing against the tides. "Wait," he says slowly, "we were gonna fuck."
Misha closes the door.
He stands there for a few seconds, waiting to see if Matt would open it again. The door remains closed, and Misha hears the stumbling noises from inside, and a soft "god fucking damn it" concurrent with a thump. He shakes his head.
Where do these boys come from? How do they keep slinking up to him with their brash joy and long limbs, their disarming way of smiling into his kisses, their willingness to play his games?
"Your games are their games are everyone's games," Mark told him once (Sheppard, not Pellegrino) during a particularly confessional drinking session. "How do you know you're not the target?"
"That boy," said Mark another time (Pellegrino, not Sheppard), "has a damn fine ass."
Misha has to admit that they both have very good points.
+
Look, there's a perfectly reasonable explanation for why Misha and Jared are making out in the elevator.
See, somewhere along the way, Jared had asked, "You and Matt aren't like exclusive, are you?" Perhaps one thing led to another from there. Or maybe it was before that, at the beginning of the conversation. Maybe it was the way Misha's foot nudged Jared's calf under the table and stayed there. Jared's grin widened; he leaned forward, all ears.
Misha is pretty sure it was that grin that first made him entertain thoughts of all the debauchery he and Jared could get up to. It was the easy affection, or perhaps it was the pranks. (It's easy to confuse the two.) When Misha asked Jared out for a drink after shooting, Jared said, "Hell yeah." When Misha caught his chin and raised his head in a wordless question, Jared answered it with tongue and teeth, followed by the breathy proclamation that he knew somewhere they could go. Misha was not the only person whose eyes naturally went to Jared when he entered a room, but he was perhaps one of the few who endeavored and succeeded in making Jared react likewise. On set during the following weeks, Jared's buffet of casual touches reached levels of obscenity previously unseen, but no one minded because Jared is Jared, and if he wanted to shove his foot in Misha's balls, then that was between him and his god. And Misha.
"This is another prank, right?" Misha had asked one time when Jensen was shooting another crying scene or something, and Jared practically dragged Misha to his trailer and locked the door behind them.
"Best one yet," Jared replied, then he pushed Misha against the wall and dropped to his knees.
Casey from wardrobe later asked where the stain on the trenchcoat came from, and Misha said it was ectoplasm.
It wasn't like Misha decided, "Okay, today I will stop sleeping with Jared." It just tapered off, is all, for no particular reason. There were never strings attached and thus no strings to cut. If the right time and place came up, then yes, Misha would probably fuck Jared again.
Jared said, "I got forty-five minutes before my photo op."
So here they are, making out in an elevator. It dings once on the fourth floor, where they break apart and pretend not to know each other, except the girl who comes onto the elevator is wearing a shirt with a devil's trap on it, so that charade is lost. They learn that her favorite episode of Supernatural is "On the Head of a Pin" and isn't it a shame what happened to Anna? Can she have their autographs? The only thing she has for them to sign is her train pass. Misha signs one side; Jared signs the other.
"Where's Jensen?" she asks.
They regretfully inform her that they don't know.
They don't resume making out after she leaves, though Jared does smack Misha's ass and dance away when Misha tries to retaliate.
"You're in an elevator, where're you gonna go?" Misha laughs, but then the elevator dings on their floor and Jared goes, "Beep beep," like the roadrunner and sails out between the doors. Misha gives chase.
Twenty minutes later, Jared is balls deep in Misha and Misha is moaning with the strain of it, reminded of this, how Jared already knows his body, knows how to bring forth these sounds from him, these sensations. Jared's cock hits that sweet spot again and again and Misha wonders if it would be very rude of him to fuck two co-stars at the same time, not that Matt is even a co-star anymore these days. Yes? No? He is being fucked breathless by one of his favorite lays, and he can only think about how he wants more.
"Matt any good at this?" Jared pants.
Jared thrusts again and again, and Misha feels the orgasm building and wonders, Maybe a threesome?
"Oh fuck," Misha gasps, "oh fuck, fuck, fu—" And then he ceases to think at all.
+
You know that feeling you get when you're drinking a beer with one Matt Cohen and then Jared Padalecki rises out of the crowd and gives Matt Cohen a noogie? Overall it is an enjoyable feeling, but Misha tenses nonetheless, waiting to see where this would take him, whether it is something to defuse or encourage. Matt is taking it well enough, laughing and trying to slap Jared away, but it is impossible to escape Jared once he has you in his grip. Misha would know.
"Don't make me ground you, boy!" Matt warns.
"All I want's to go to college, Dad!" Jared sobs. "I just want to go to college and be a mathlete!"
"Clean your guns and make some salt rounds!"
"I don't waaaaaaannaaa."
So Jared pulls up a chair and the conversation turns into a discussion on the finer points of panel-crashing and how Sebastian is becoming a menace. It's like rugarus, they decide. Once you take that first bite of con anarchy, there is no going back. There is no putting Sebastian back in the box, so expect him singing and asking questions about wing sizes and waltzing onstage to hijack you into an impromptu mambo session while the audience screams and transforms into an ocean of flash photography.
Jared's hand is on Misha's thigh under the table.
Let it stay there, Misha thinks. Matt muses that there should be more cons by the beach, like maybe a Miami Con, or a Bali Con. Ibiza Con?
Misha's foot slides over to Jared's.
"What about like a Reykjavik Con," Misha says. "I've always wanted to go to Iceland."
...There is already someone at Jared's foot.
"Really?" Matt asks. "Why Iceland?"
"Because," Misha shrugs, and goes into some protracted bullshit about volcanoes and geysers and black sand beaches as he ponders these new sub-table developments. He leans back in his seat in such a way that his feet push forward, nudging Matt's feet. Foot. Misha crosses his feet at the ankles and his toes brush against what is surely Matt's leg, which is angled towards Jared. Interesting.
"Fuck that," Jared says, squeezing Misha's thigh. "Buenos Aires, man. Let's have a con in Buenos Aires."
"I hear they have good wines in Argentina," Matt says, shifting in his seat and Misha feels another foot come to rest on top of his. Jared makes as if to stretch, and then there is the weight of another foot.
"Excellent reds," Misha concurs.
His feet are beginning to hurt. What is going on?
Matt leans forward on his elbows and grins a shit-eating grin. "Well. Now that we're all here, and bigger fans of footsie than I anticipated..."
Someone kicks Misha lightly under the table. Jared slides his hand up his thigh and does a terrible job of looking innocent.
"Misha," Jared says. "We have a proposition for you."
Misha smiles, anticipatory, mischievous. "What's that?"
Jared looks at Matt and makes a "c'mere" motion with his hand. Matt leans forward, and Jared kisses him.
+
"I think there are cameras in this thing," Matt says as Jared and Misha make out in the elevator.
"Embrace your exhibitionism kink, Cohen," Misha says, except the last syllable is lost when Jared grabs his face and shoves his tongue down his throat. Misha reaches out and blindly gropes for Matt, grabbing him by the collar and tugging him close. There is barely space enough to take a breath as Misha switches from kissing Jared to kissing Matt, and Matt gasps as Jared latches his mouth onto Matt's neck and sucks.
The elevator dings to a stop on the third floor. When the middle-aged woman steps aboard, she finds herself sharing the elevator with three men discussing the weather.
"I hear it's going to rain tomorrow," she tells them with a knowing nod. "You best bring an umbrella. My brother lives here just uptown? He says the weather can turn on you just like that, so you be careful out there. It's flu season, you know."
They assure her they will.
"Don't forget the umbrella," she says, wagging a finger.
They promise they won't forget the umbrella.
+
Jared hangs the 'Do Not Disturb' sign on the door and Misha already has Matt backed up against the wall, sucking kisses into his neck. He tastes the bitter chemical of cologne, the salt of sweat. Matt sighs against him, tangles his fingers in Misha's hair.
"Oh no you don't," Jared says, and takes Misha's arms and hooks them behind his back. He spins them around so Jared's the one against the wall.
"But officer, I'm innocent," Misha laughs.
"We're not much for roleplay," Matt says, sinking to his knees in front of him.
'We'? How long have they been a 'we'? The question is swept out of the way as Misha watches Matt watch him, those bright eyes all keen and hungry. The quick peek of tongue as Matt wets his lip and undoes Misha's belt, and Misha's mouth goes dry.
"The point," says Jared lowly, almost a purr, "is that you are exactly who you are."
Misha swallows and leans back against Jared, tipping his head back when Jared mouths wetly against his neck. "Sounds good," he says hoarsely. He can feel Jared's hard-on against his ass.
Matt unzips Misha's pants.
+
"I don't know if Matt told you the whole story," Jared says, squeezing lube on his fingers.
They have moved to the bed. Misha sits up against the headboard, and Matt is sprawled stomach-down as he jacks Misha slowly, leisurely. Jared is the only one wearing a stitch of clothing among them, sitting in his jeans as he rubs the lube between his fingers. He squeezes lube on Matt's crack, and Matt shifts his legs, parting them that much more.
"This was when I told him we used to fuck, Misha," Jared says, in the tone of someone saying "and then I went to the grocery store and picked up more milk". He runs his fingers down the crack of Matt's ass, eliciting a noise that sounds suspiciously like a whimper. Matt tightens his grip around Misha's cock, and Misha groans. He hasn't come. Jared hadn't let him come, hadn't let Matt make him come.
"That was..." Misha licks his lips. "You were—Matt was hammered that night."
"Three sheets to the motherfucking wind," Matt mutters.
Even though he has a bad visual line on it, Misha can't take his eyes off Jared's hand, the heel on Matt's ass and two fingers sliding up and down the crack, going deeper, deeper. Jared's middle finger crooks, and then his index finger, rubbing against one spot. Matt groans and jacks Misha harder; Misha closes his eyes, bites his lip.
"Full disclosure," Jared says. "There were hand jobs involved. Matt's good with his hands. I am too. But you already know both those things."
Misha opens his eyes, watches Jared's finger begin to dip in, gentle and in increments. A small push, and then a slow bend, and then another small push, a leisurely wriggle.
Matt gasps, "Fuck, Jared—"
Jared says, "It just kind of happened."
He loses his rhythm, and the pulls on Misha's cock becoming uncoordinated, Matt making these needy noises and pushing back against Jared, who uses his other hand to hold Matt down. Misha would be more annoyed at Matt's erratic tugs if he weren't so enthralled by the sight of Matt moaning into the mattress and Jared paying absurdly little mind.
"I can see why you like him," Jared continues. "He comes apart so prettily, Misha. He moans real nice." He pushes his middle finger in to the second knuckle and Matt gasps, curses, tightens his hold on Misha's cock to an almost painful degree, but the sensation only sets him afire. He needs to fuck something. He needs to be fucked.
"I hope you're going somewhere with this," Matt grates out.
"Yeah Jared I hope you're going somewhere with this, ffffffuck," Misha gasps as Matt takes his cock in his mouth again.
"All in due time," Jared murmurs. He fingerfucks Matt steady and deep until Matt is crazy with it, until Misha is making obscene noises of his own, before pushing in a second finger. "Okay, maybe I lied," Jared admits, as Matt cries out. "Maybe it didn't just 'kind of happened'. Maybe I've been watching him. Maybe I've been watching the two of you."
Matt pushes back against Jared's hand, and this time Jared lets him.
"Misha," Jared says. "You have a type. And Matt..." Matt cries out around Misha's cock, damn near chokes on it. Matt raises his head but loses no time – he grabs Misha's cock with his hand and starts jacking him off.
"Jesus fucking..." Misha wheezes.
"Matt, you're real easy," Jared says. "Don't worry, I think we like that here."
"Jared," Matt says muzzily, "if you don't fuck me—"
"Misha," Jared says. "Would you like to fuck him?"
"Fuck yes," Misha gasps.
Jared nods at the nightstand. "Condoms are in the drawer."
"Fucking Christ," Matt mumbles into the mattress. "Jared—" He curses as Jared does something sharp and quick with his hand.
"You sit tight, Cohen. You'll get yours."
Why is it that it's that much more difficult to get a condom on the more desperately you need to fuck? It's very hard not to watch Matt moan softly as he fucks himself on Jared's hand, and this condom wrapper is not cooperating. "Move over," he says to Jared, once it's miraculously on.
"You're the boss," Jared says, and wipes his hand on his jeans. "I'll roll us a joint."
Misha positions himself behind Matt, touching the tip of his cock to Matt's hole, pink and glistening. He grips Matt's hips and slowly eases him backward, not enough to penetrate him, but enough to make Matt grab fistfuls of bedsheets and curse in a broken voice.
Jared asks, "Any last words, Matt?"
"Fuck me now," he says through gritted teeth.
"Amen," Jared agrees.
Misha thrusts.
+
"So first, I gave him a hand job," Matt says, pointing at Jared with the joint, "and that naturally led to business talks."
"The business being you," Jared says, and Misha has no idea how he's talking. If he were fucking someone, he would hardly be able to say anything. He wouldn't want to. Misha is on his back with Jared fucking him slow and deep, and why is anyone still talking when all he can see is stars?
"And we hatched this plan," Matt says, and takes another toke. He kneels next to Jared and cups the back of his head, and Jared turns and kisses him easily, sucking the smoke from his mouth. The sight of it makes Misha moan despite himself, the way Jared's eyes flutter shut, the way Matt tips his head up and reveals that line of throat. The memory of an hour (two hours? a lifetime?) ago with Misha aroused and frustrated by Matt's merciless mouth, restrained by Jared against the wall, and then Matt kissing Jared over Misha's shoulder, their desire rumbling in his ear. Misha turned his head and tried to join in, but Matt only laughed and helped Jared manhandle him to the bed.
"Come here," Misha rasps, and Matt looks at him dazedly as Jared exhales, the smoke looking like ghosts, Jared looking like Adonis. Matt doesn't look away from Misha as he takes another hit, and then he bends low over him, low and slow until Misha can see the whites of his eyes, and then Matt kisses him.
"Jack him off," Jared says, and Matt does so with an obedience that makes Misha wonder if there was more between them than hand jobs and scheming. It would make sense. There is a magpie quality to Jared and Matt; they collect people who please them, and are easily distracted by a flash of gold and a jangling of bells. Misha can just see it – the two of them colliding into each other in a mess of open laughter and exuberant bullshit, and staying collided. Who kissed whom first? Matt has a habit of seeing nothing wrong with his first impulses, but Jared has a surprisingly devious side hidden under all that golden Texan charm.
Misha exhales smoke and the command, "Harder," at the same time. Both Matt and Jared comply.
"The thing is, Misha," Jared says, as the haze spreads slow through Misha's head, as the orgasm builds, "you are completely predictable."
Jared rams in balls deep and holds himself there, rutting without thrusting, and Matt twists on the upstroke, and Misha is coming, coming, he is yelling, and it's really fucking messy, short-circuiting his nerves and shutting down all higher functions. Misha curses their names, curses the world and everything in it as he faintly registers come spattering on his stomach and his chest, says yes and yes and yes, and waits for the feeling to never ever end.
+
It's really fucking sticky. Misha doesn't mind.
A few hours have gone by if the clock is to be believed, and Misha will give it the benefit of the doubt. It has felt like entire worlds have gone by, and now all he can do is lie there on the bed, sore and spent in a confluence of fluids as Matt lies next to him, and Jared bends over the coffee table, rolling another joint.
"Hey," Misha says. "Am I really that predictable?"
"As predictable as you are dastardly," Matt murmurs into his shoulder, and nuzzles his neck. Misha lifts a hand and tangles his fingers in Matt's hair.
"Am I really so dastardly?"
"Yes," Matt replies, at the same time Jared answers, "On occasion."
"I never got to fuck you," Matt laments.
"There's always next time," Jared says, looking up at them with a raised eyebrow and a smile, and Misha cannot help smiling back.
Yes, he thinks fondly as Matt nips his ear. There is always that.
Game On
SPN RPS. Matt/Misha, Jared/Misha, Matt/Jared, Matt/Misha/Jared. NC17. Warning: drug use. Thank you to
callowyn for betareading.Set during some fictional con. "Your games are their games are everyone's games." ~4000 words
"You're insatiable," Misha murmurs, but he supposes that's why he's drawn to Matt in the first place. Maybe Misha really does have a type: a little younger, off-the-walls, and apparently good in bed. It's not that he thinks of himself as an older man, but Matt makes him think things like I also used to think like that and I also used to feel that way and I also used to be able to drink several shots and recite excerpts from Fight Club still standing.
Misha is blissed out and spent and already starting to slip into a light doze when Matt starts kissing his way down his chest, quick detour to bite his left nipple. He blazes a trail with his mouth down Misha's stomach to nose at his cock, and Misha laughs and says, "Oh, Matt, I don't think so." But then Matt proceeds to go down on him for the next half hour and proves him wrong. Matt is full of delightful qualities like that.
Misha is sore and a little out of sorts, but Matt is patient, lazily sucking at the head of his cock, the tip of the tongue lightly teasing along the length of him in patterns that agitate but don't deliver, at least at first. Matt deep-throats sparingly. As far as cycles go, it's not the most vicious Misha has been stuck in. As far as dilemmas go, it's one of his most pleasant: should he fuck Matt's face, or should he continue letting the guy drive him insane one lick at a time?
Matt fists Misha's cock and mouths at his balls, and Misha thinks insanity isn't so bad.
Eventually, Matt lets him come. It's the kind of straining edgeless orgasm that draws itself out, coaxed by Matt's soft lips and wandering tongue. Misha rides a wave of pleasure that doesn't seem to end, some warm slow tide spreading from his groin to the rest of him, leaving him wrung out and sated and dumb.
Matt wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and says, "Booyah," because he is a classy guy like that. He flops down next to Misha on the bed and grins, and reaches for his cellphone on the nightstand. Then he checks the screen, yells, "Goddamn, I'm on in five minutes!" and is gone from Misha's hotel room in a whirl of clothes and promises to hang out tomorrow.
It is suddenly very quiet.
Misha has not been able to utter a word since halfway through the blow job, so he reaches over the bed and grabs his own phone from his jeans. He texts Matt, your shirt is on backwards.
+
Misha wakes up at three in the morning to an insistent knocking at his door, and it's Matt, of course. He pulls on a shirt and answers, and Matt immediately invades his personal space.
"I wanna fuck you," he murmurs against Misha's cheek, fingers already hooking into the waistband of his boxers . "I'm gonna fuck you right now."
"Sure you are," Misha says, because Matt stinks of booze and is unsteady on his feet.
"Hey, did you and Jared really use to fuck?" Matt asks loudly, and it's definitely time to close the door.
Misha raises an eyebrow, smiling slow. "Which little birdie told you that?"
"I'd still fuck you," Matt assures him, and kisses him as if to make a point of it.
Misha turns his head. "Maybe you should come back another time."
"You want me to? Fuck you?"
"Don't you have that panel with Mini Mary tomorrow morning?"
Matt puts on the Tarzan voice. "Mini Mary, I, Mini John." Then drops it and becomes very serious. "Except you know. I'm not mini. You know."
Misha runs his fingers through Matt's hair, smoothing it. "I know."
"So did you?"
"Did I what?"
"Did you fuck Jared. Did you give it to him up the ass."
A smile spreads slowly on Misha's face. "Are you jealous?"
"Did he give it to you up the ass?"
"How'd you hear about me and Jared?"
"Jared," Matt replies.
"Ah."
Then Misha distracts Matt by asking him what he thinks about this whole business with season seven, and Matt starts spouting off all his opinions about the importance of having another episode set in the seventies. Misha grabs his keycard from the table and says "uh-huh" at key points as he walks Matt to down the hall his room. "Keep your voice down," Misha says.
"Castiel should come along," Matt decides, "and then he and John can watch Grease and fuck in the theater."
"That is an awesome idea," Misha agrees.
After the fourth attempt with the keycard, Misha takes it from Matt and opens the door for him. Matt shuffles inside.
Misha gives him a mock salute. "Good night, Matt."
Matt frowns. There is a thought in his head swimming through the alcohol and losing against the tides. "Wait," he says slowly, "we were gonna fuck."
Misha closes the door.
He stands there for a few seconds, waiting to see if Matt would open it again. The door remains closed, and Misha hears the stumbling noises from inside, and a soft "god fucking damn it" concurrent with a thump. He shakes his head.
Where do these boys come from? How do they keep slinking up to him with their brash joy and long limbs, their disarming way of smiling into his kisses, their willingness to play his games?
"Your games are their games are everyone's games," Mark told him once (Sheppard, not Pellegrino) during a particularly confessional drinking session. "How do you know you're not the target?"
"That boy," said Mark another time (Pellegrino, not Sheppard), "has a damn fine ass."
Misha has to admit that they both have very good points.
+
Look, there's a perfectly reasonable explanation for why Misha and Jared are making out in the elevator.
See, somewhere along the way, Jared had asked, "You and Matt aren't like exclusive, are you?" Perhaps one thing led to another from there. Or maybe it was before that, at the beginning of the conversation. Maybe it was the way Misha's foot nudged Jared's calf under the table and stayed there. Jared's grin widened; he leaned forward, all ears.
Misha is pretty sure it was that grin that first made him entertain thoughts of all the debauchery he and Jared could get up to. It was the easy affection, or perhaps it was the pranks. (It's easy to confuse the two.) When Misha asked Jared out for a drink after shooting, Jared said, "Hell yeah." When Misha caught his chin and raised his head in a wordless question, Jared answered it with tongue and teeth, followed by the breathy proclamation that he knew somewhere they could go. Misha was not the only person whose eyes naturally went to Jared when he entered a room, but he was perhaps one of the few who endeavored and succeeded in making Jared react likewise. On set during the following weeks, Jared's buffet of casual touches reached levels of obscenity previously unseen, but no one minded because Jared is Jared, and if he wanted to shove his foot in Misha's balls, then that was between him and his god. And Misha.
"This is another prank, right?" Misha had asked one time when Jensen was shooting another crying scene or something, and Jared practically dragged Misha to his trailer and locked the door behind them.
"Best one yet," Jared replied, then he pushed Misha against the wall and dropped to his knees.
Casey from wardrobe later asked where the stain on the trenchcoat came from, and Misha said it was ectoplasm.
It wasn't like Misha decided, "Okay, today I will stop sleeping with Jared." It just tapered off, is all, for no particular reason. There were never strings attached and thus no strings to cut. If the right time and place came up, then yes, Misha would probably fuck Jared again.
Jared said, "I got forty-five minutes before my photo op."
So here they are, making out in an elevator. It dings once on the fourth floor, where they break apart and pretend not to know each other, except the girl who comes onto the elevator is wearing a shirt with a devil's trap on it, so that charade is lost. They learn that her favorite episode of Supernatural is "On the Head of a Pin" and isn't it a shame what happened to Anna? Can she have their autographs? The only thing she has for them to sign is her train pass. Misha signs one side; Jared signs the other.
"Where's Jensen?" she asks.
They regretfully inform her that they don't know.
They don't resume making out after she leaves, though Jared does smack Misha's ass and dance away when Misha tries to retaliate.
"You're in an elevator, where're you gonna go?" Misha laughs, but then the elevator dings on their floor and Jared goes, "Beep beep," like the roadrunner and sails out between the doors. Misha gives chase.
Twenty minutes later, Jared is balls deep in Misha and Misha is moaning with the strain of it, reminded of this, how Jared already knows his body, knows how to bring forth these sounds from him, these sensations. Jared's cock hits that sweet spot again and again and Misha wonders if it would be very rude of him to fuck two co-stars at the same time, not that Matt is even a co-star anymore these days. Yes? No? He is being fucked breathless by one of his favorite lays, and he can only think about how he wants more.
"Matt any good at this?" Jared pants.
Jared thrusts again and again, and Misha feels the orgasm building and wonders, Maybe a threesome?
"Oh fuck," Misha gasps, "oh fuck, fuck, fu—" And then he ceases to think at all.
+
You know that feeling you get when you're drinking a beer with one Matt Cohen and then Jared Padalecki rises out of the crowd and gives Matt Cohen a noogie? Overall it is an enjoyable feeling, but Misha tenses nonetheless, waiting to see where this would take him, whether it is something to defuse or encourage. Matt is taking it well enough, laughing and trying to slap Jared away, but it is impossible to escape Jared once he has you in his grip. Misha would know.
"Don't make me ground you, boy!" Matt warns.
"All I want's to go to college, Dad!" Jared sobs. "I just want to go to college and be a mathlete!"
"Clean your guns and make some salt rounds!"
"I don't waaaaaaannaaa."
So Jared pulls up a chair and the conversation turns into a discussion on the finer points of panel-crashing and how Sebastian is becoming a menace. It's like rugarus, they decide. Once you take that first bite of con anarchy, there is no going back. There is no putting Sebastian back in the box, so expect him singing and asking questions about wing sizes and waltzing onstage to hijack you into an impromptu mambo session while the audience screams and transforms into an ocean of flash photography.
Jared's hand is on Misha's thigh under the table.
Let it stay there, Misha thinks. Matt muses that there should be more cons by the beach, like maybe a Miami Con, or a Bali Con. Ibiza Con?
Misha's foot slides over to Jared's.
"What about like a Reykjavik Con," Misha says. "I've always wanted to go to Iceland."
...There is already someone at Jared's foot.
"Really?" Matt asks. "Why Iceland?"
"Because," Misha shrugs, and goes into some protracted bullshit about volcanoes and geysers and black sand beaches as he ponders these new sub-table developments. He leans back in his seat in such a way that his feet push forward, nudging Matt's feet. Foot. Misha crosses his feet at the ankles and his toes brush against what is surely Matt's leg, which is angled towards Jared. Interesting.
"Fuck that," Jared says, squeezing Misha's thigh. "Buenos Aires, man. Let's have a con in Buenos Aires."
"I hear they have good wines in Argentina," Matt says, shifting in his seat and Misha feels another foot come to rest on top of his. Jared makes as if to stretch, and then there is the weight of another foot.
"Excellent reds," Misha concurs.
His feet are beginning to hurt. What is going on?
Matt leans forward on his elbows and grins a shit-eating grin. "Well. Now that we're all here, and bigger fans of footsie than I anticipated..."
Someone kicks Misha lightly under the table. Jared slides his hand up his thigh and does a terrible job of looking innocent.
"Misha," Jared says. "We have a proposition for you."
Misha smiles, anticipatory, mischievous. "What's that?"
Jared looks at Matt and makes a "c'mere" motion with his hand. Matt leans forward, and Jared kisses him.
+
"I think there are cameras in this thing," Matt says as Jared and Misha make out in the elevator.
"Embrace your exhibitionism kink, Cohen," Misha says, except the last syllable is lost when Jared grabs his face and shoves his tongue down his throat. Misha reaches out and blindly gropes for Matt, grabbing him by the collar and tugging him close. There is barely space enough to take a breath as Misha switches from kissing Jared to kissing Matt, and Matt gasps as Jared latches his mouth onto Matt's neck and sucks.
The elevator dings to a stop on the third floor. When the middle-aged woman steps aboard, she finds herself sharing the elevator with three men discussing the weather.
"I hear it's going to rain tomorrow," she tells them with a knowing nod. "You best bring an umbrella. My brother lives here just uptown? He says the weather can turn on you just like that, so you be careful out there. It's flu season, you know."
They assure her they will.
"Don't forget the umbrella," she says, wagging a finger.
They promise they won't forget the umbrella.
+
Jared hangs the 'Do Not Disturb' sign on the door and Misha already has Matt backed up against the wall, sucking kisses into his neck. He tastes the bitter chemical of cologne, the salt of sweat. Matt sighs against him, tangles his fingers in Misha's hair.
"Oh no you don't," Jared says, and takes Misha's arms and hooks them behind his back. He spins them around so Jared's the one against the wall.
"But officer, I'm innocent," Misha laughs.
"We're not much for roleplay," Matt says, sinking to his knees in front of him.
'We'? How long have they been a 'we'? The question is swept out of the way as Misha watches Matt watch him, those bright eyes all keen and hungry. The quick peek of tongue as Matt wets his lip and undoes Misha's belt, and Misha's mouth goes dry.
"The point," says Jared lowly, almost a purr, "is that you are exactly who you are."
Misha swallows and leans back against Jared, tipping his head back when Jared mouths wetly against his neck. "Sounds good," he says hoarsely. He can feel Jared's hard-on against his ass.
Matt unzips Misha's pants.
+
"I don't know if Matt told you the whole story," Jared says, squeezing lube on his fingers.
They have moved to the bed. Misha sits up against the headboard, and Matt is sprawled stomach-down as he jacks Misha slowly, leisurely. Jared is the only one wearing a stitch of clothing among them, sitting in his jeans as he rubs the lube between his fingers. He squeezes lube on Matt's crack, and Matt shifts his legs, parting them that much more.
"This was when I told him we used to fuck, Misha," Jared says, in the tone of someone saying "and then I went to the grocery store and picked up more milk". He runs his fingers down the crack of Matt's ass, eliciting a noise that sounds suspiciously like a whimper. Matt tightens his grip around Misha's cock, and Misha groans. He hasn't come. Jared hadn't let him come, hadn't let Matt make him come.
"That was..." Misha licks his lips. "You were—Matt was hammered that night."
"Three sheets to the motherfucking wind," Matt mutters.
Even though he has a bad visual line on it, Misha can't take his eyes off Jared's hand, the heel on Matt's ass and two fingers sliding up and down the crack, going deeper, deeper. Jared's middle finger crooks, and then his index finger, rubbing against one spot. Matt groans and jacks Misha harder; Misha closes his eyes, bites his lip.
"Full disclosure," Jared says. "There were hand jobs involved. Matt's good with his hands. I am too. But you already know both those things."
Misha opens his eyes, watches Jared's finger begin to dip in, gentle and in increments. A small push, and then a slow bend, and then another small push, a leisurely wriggle.
Matt gasps, "Fuck, Jared—"
Jared says, "It just kind of happened."
He loses his rhythm, and the pulls on Misha's cock becoming uncoordinated, Matt making these needy noises and pushing back against Jared, who uses his other hand to hold Matt down. Misha would be more annoyed at Matt's erratic tugs if he weren't so enthralled by the sight of Matt moaning into the mattress and Jared paying absurdly little mind.
"I can see why you like him," Jared continues. "He comes apart so prettily, Misha. He moans real nice." He pushes his middle finger in to the second knuckle and Matt gasps, curses, tightens his hold on Misha's cock to an almost painful degree, but the sensation only sets him afire. He needs to fuck something. He needs to be fucked.
"I hope you're going somewhere with this," Matt grates out.
"Yeah Jared I hope you're going somewhere with this, ffffffuck," Misha gasps as Matt takes his cock in his mouth again.
"All in due time," Jared murmurs. He fingerfucks Matt steady and deep until Matt is crazy with it, until Misha is making obscene noises of his own, before pushing in a second finger. "Okay, maybe I lied," Jared admits, as Matt cries out. "Maybe it didn't just 'kind of happened'. Maybe I've been watching him. Maybe I've been watching the two of you."
Matt pushes back against Jared's hand, and this time Jared lets him.
"Misha," Jared says. "You have a type. And Matt..." Matt cries out around Misha's cock, damn near chokes on it. Matt raises his head but loses no time – he grabs Misha's cock with his hand and starts jacking him off.
"Jesus fucking..." Misha wheezes.
"Matt, you're real easy," Jared says. "Don't worry, I think we like that here."
"Jared," Matt says muzzily, "if you don't fuck me—"
"Misha," Jared says. "Would you like to fuck him?"
"Fuck yes," Misha gasps.
Jared nods at the nightstand. "Condoms are in the drawer."
"Fucking Christ," Matt mumbles into the mattress. "Jared—" He curses as Jared does something sharp and quick with his hand.
"You sit tight, Cohen. You'll get yours."
Why is it that it's that much more difficult to get a condom on the more desperately you need to fuck? It's very hard not to watch Matt moan softly as he fucks himself on Jared's hand, and this condom wrapper is not cooperating. "Move over," he says to Jared, once it's miraculously on.
"You're the boss," Jared says, and wipes his hand on his jeans. "I'll roll us a joint."
Misha positions himself behind Matt, touching the tip of his cock to Matt's hole, pink and glistening. He grips Matt's hips and slowly eases him backward, not enough to penetrate him, but enough to make Matt grab fistfuls of bedsheets and curse in a broken voice.
Jared asks, "Any last words, Matt?"
"Fuck me now," he says through gritted teeth.
"Amen," Jared agrees.
Misha thrusts.
+
"So first, I gave him a hand job," Matt says, pointing at Jared with the joint, "and that naturally led to business talks."
"The business being you," Jared says, and Misha has no idea how he's talking. If he were fucking someone, he would hardly be able to say anything. He wouldn't want to. Misha is on his back with Jared fucking him slow and deep, and why is anyone still talking when all he can see is stars?
"And we hatched this plan," Matt says, and takes another toke. He kneels next to Jared and cups the back of his head, and Jared turns and kisses him easily, sucking the smoke from his mouth. The sight of it makes Misha moan despite himself, the way Jared's eyes flutter shut, the way Matt tips his head up and reveals that line of throat. The memory of an hour (two hours? a lifetime?) ago with Misha aroused and frustrated by Matt's merciless mouth, restrained by Jared against the wall, and then Matt kissing Jared over Misha's shoulder, their desire rumbling in his ear. Misha turned his head and tried to join in, but Matt only laughed and helped Jared manhandle him to the bed.
"Come here," Misha rasps, and Matt looks at him dazedly as Jared exhales, the smoke looking like ghosts, Jared looking like Adonis. Matt doesn't look away from Misha as he takes another hit, and then he bends low over him, low and slow until Misha can see the whites of his eyes, and then Matt kisses him.
"Jack him off," Jared says, and Matt does so with an obedience that makes Misha wonder if there was more between them than hand jobs and scheming. It would make sense. There is a magpie quality to Jared and Matt; they collect people who please them, and are easily distracted by a flash of gold and a jangling of bells. Misha can just see it – the two of them colliding into each other in a mess of open laughter and exuberant bullshit, and staying collided. Who kissed whom first? Matt has a habit of seeing nothing wrong with his first impulses, but Jared has a surprisingly devious side hidden under all that golden Texan charm.
Misha exhales smoke and the command, "Harder," at the same time. Both Matt and Jared comply.
"The thing is, Misha," Jared says, as the haze spreads slow through Misha's head, as the orgasm builds, "you are completely predictable."
Jared rams in balls deep and holds himself there, rutting without thrusting, and Matt twists on the upstroke, and Misha is coming, coming, he is yelling, and it's really fucking messy, short-circuiting his nerves and shutting down all higher functions. Misha curses their names, curses the world and everything in it as he faintly registers come spattering on his stomach and his chest, says yes and yes and yes, and waits for the feeling to never ever end.
+
It's really fucking sticky. Misha doesn't mind.
A few hours have gone by if the clock is to be believed, and Misha will give it the benefit of the doubt. It has felt like entire worlds have gone by, and now all he can do is lie there on the bed, sore and spent in a confluence of fluids as Matt lies next to him, and Jared bends over the coffee table, rolling another joint.
"Hey," Misha says. "Am I really that predictable?"
"As predictable as you are dastardly," Matt murmurs into his shoulder, and nuzzles his neck. Misha lifts a hand and tangles his fingers in Matt's hair.
"Am I really so dastardly?"
"Yes," Matt replies, at the same time Jared answers, "On occasion."
"I never got to fuck you," Matt laments.
"There's always next time," Jared says, looking up at them with a raised eyebrow and a smile, and Misha cannot help smiling back.
Yes, he thinks fondly as Matt nips his ear. There is always that.