Knowing
Title: Knowing
Author: kadiel_krieger
Pairing: Jensen/Misha
Rating: Adult
Wordcount: 700
Disclaimer: Real people are real. These are not.
Warnings: Um. Schmoop?
A/N Quick!Ficlet cheer-up for qthelights
Jensen hates filming the last three episodes of a season, doesn't matter which season really - they've all sucked in their own very special ways. Even with two extended hiatuses, hiatusi...breaks, they're still running a ragged race against time and special effects and the legion of editors wanting the footage yesterday. It doesn't matter that they're just as organized as they are for the other nineteen episodes. Finales are that big.
The headaches that accompany them live up to their legendary causes.
For Jensen, it means a second night spent curled up in his trailer instead of going home. There's no point. It'd take Clif over an hour to get them all to their respective abodes, and then an hour to get them back. It's 3:34 and some brainiac scheduled a sunrise shot for tomorrow - no, this morning. He feels like reheated ass on a stale cracker and all that's keeping him sane at this point is the promise of thirty-six unencumbered hours once he makes it through the next five.
When he yawns, his jaw cracks in a series of ominous sounding pops. Awesome.
In the end, Jensen can't be sure how he made it into bed, much less out of the ridiculous parka and sixteen layers worth of wardrobe, but it doesn't much matter because right now that cheap mattress perched atop faux wood-grain risers seems like the last, best heaven he can ask for.
He's dreaming before the pillow can even put creases in his cheek.
***
Two hours and change later, he's awake - at least in theory. In practice, he's conscious, but no more so than is absolutely necessary to wonder what roused him and start the haphazard tumble back under. Forty-three minutes left on the clock and Jensen intends to use every single one.
His shoulder aches from the odd angle of his arm, his elbow tucked beneath his head and forearm smashed against the trailer wall. Turning out of the pretzel to stretch is such a base instinct, Jensen doesn't even think. He's sprawled half on his stomach before his sleep-deprived brain begins to process and the arm slung loosely across his hip locks down to reel him back in.
Oh.
If he were any less exhausted, Jensen swears he'd muster up at least a token protest, but he's run ragged and the bed's suddenly a lot more comfortable with warm breath on his nape, hard planes of muscle pressed against his back, so he doesn't really see the point.
"You're up," Misha murmurs, winding himself tighter, and Jensen lets him, focuses on the rasp of stubble, the wide splay of Misha's hand over his navel.
It doesn't suck, and Jensen finds himself fighting off a drowsy meander down memory lane because Misha's hands were what ultimately sealed the deal for him. Like everything else about Misha they're a puzzle, somehow both elegant and infinitely capable at the same time, and the first time they drew him in - the first time those long fingers curved over his scalp, Jensen knew he was screwed.
Still, he's only had seven solid hours of sleep in the past three days.
"No'm not. Fuck off."
He feels the grin spread on Misha's face, the slow southward slide of palm, teeth and tongue finding that place Jensen refuses to acknowledge. Misha has no such qualms.
So when his hand pushes past cotton and elastic to find Jensen already half-hard, Misha simply says," I beg to differ," and wraps him up, works him over with such a slow single-mindedness, it makes Jensen's teeth ache from biting back the moans.
Just because he can, Misha draws it out, until Jensen gives up and in and reaches back to pull Misha flush so he can feel that answering need in the slow drag of Misha's hips. And when he goes it's with Misha whispering the dirtiest shit he's ever heard into the shell of his ear.
After, when he's slipping back down towards oblivion, sticky shorts and all, the script changes and in the twilight between him and his dreams, Misha says the things he needs to hear when he can pretend not to hear them.
Author: kadiel_krieger
Pairing: Jensen/Misha
Rating: Adult
Wordcount: 700
Disclaimer: Real people are real. These are not.
Warnings: Um. Schmoop?
A/N Quick!Ficlet cheer-up for qthelights
Jensen hates filming the last three episodes of a season, doesn't matter which season really - they've all sucked in their own very special ways. Even with two extended hiatuses, hiatusi...breaks, they're still running a ragged race against time and special effects and the legion of editors wanting the footage yesterday. It doesn't matter that they're just as organized as they are for the other nineteen episodes. Finales are that big.
The headaches that accompany them live up to their legendary causes.
For Jensen, it means a second night spent curled up in his trailer instead of going home. There's no point. It'd take Clif over an hour to get them all to their respective abodes, and then an hour to get them back. It's 3:34 and some brainiac scheduled a sunrise shot for tomorrow - no, this morning. He feels like reheated ass on a stale cracker and all that's keeping him sane at this point is the promise of thirty-six unencumbered hours once he makes it through the next five.
When he yawns, his jaw cracks in a series of ominous sounding pops. Awesome.
In the end, Jensen can't be sure how he made it into bed, much less out of the ridiculous parka and sixteen layers worth of wardrobe, but it doesn't much matter because right now that cheap mattress perched atop faux wood-grain risers seems like the last, best heaven he can ask for.
He's dreaming before the pillow can even put creases in his cheek.
***
Two hours and change later, he's awake - at least in theory. In practice, he's conscious, but no more so than is absolutely necessary to wonder what roused him and start the haphazard tumble back under. Forty-three minutes left on the clock and Jensen intends to use every single one.
His shoulder aches from the odd angle of his arm, his elbow tucked beneath his head and forearm smashed against the trailer wall. Turning out of the pretzel to stretch is such a base instinct, Jensen doesn't even think. He's sprawled half on his stomach before his sleep-deprived brain begins to process and the arm slung loosely across his hip locks down to reel him back in.
Oh.
If he were any less exhausted, Jensen swears he'd muster up at least a token protest, but he's run ragged and the bed's suddenly a lot more comfortable with warm breath on his nape, hard planes of muscle pressed against his back, so he doesn't really see the point.
"You're up," Misha murmurs, winding himself tighter, and Jensen lets him, focuses on the rasp of stubble, the wide splay of Misha's hand over his navel.
It doesn't suck, and Jensen finds himself fighting off a drowsy meander down memory lane because Misha's hands were what ultimately sealed the deal for him. Like everything else about Misha they're a puzzle, somehow both elegant and infinitely capable at the same time, and the first time they drew him in - the first time those long fingers curved over his scalp, Jensen knew he was screwed.
Still, he's only had seven solid hours of sleep in the past three days.
"No'm not. Fuck off."
He feels the grin spread on Misha's face, the slow southward slide of palm, teeth and tongue finding that place Jensen refuses to acknowledge. Misha has no such qualms.
So when his hand pushes past cotton and elastic to find Jensen already half-hard, Misha simply says," I beg to differ," and wraps him up, works him over with such a slow single-mindedness, it makes Jensen's teeth ache from biting back the moans.
Just because he can, Misha draws it out, until Jensen gives up and in and reaches back to pull Misha flush so he can feel that answering need in the slow drag of Misha's hips. And when he goes it's with Misha whispering the dirtiest shit he's ever heard into the shell of his ear.
After, when he's slipping back down towards oblivion, sticky shorts and all, the script changes and in the twilight between him and his dreams, Misha says the things he needs to hear when he can pretend not to hear them.