Uncontroversial Behavior

Controversial

-Summmary-

 Misha and Jensen are at a Con. A long day of foreplay is ahead of them.

When Jensen arrives at the convention he spies Misha immediately, his senses finely schooled to Misha's voice and his shape, able to tune in to his presence in any crowd, even if he hadn't been actively seeking him out, which he had.

Misha's wearing the blue shirt that's Jensen's favorite; the one that follows the slope of his shoulders, the line of his slender ribcage, the narrowing of his toned waist, all without overtly clinging to every contour and ridge. Jensen knows that Misha knows it's Jensen's favorite; so Jensen knows the shirt wasn't casually selected this morning, picked out because it was clean or handy, but selected with intent and purpose.

If he hadn't known before he got here, Jensen knows now, with certainty, he's going to get laid today. And he knows Misha's going to get laid – hell, they're going to lay each other.

Misha glances over, catches Jensen's eye and his mouth curls up slightly at one side in a knowing smile as he turns his head back to the person he's speaking to, without a break in the conversation, his lips still forming unknown words. Jensen watches as Misha subtly shifts his body at an angle towards Jensen, running a long, narrow finger along the neckline of his shirt where the buttons are open enough to reveal a smooth triangle of lightly tanned skin. Misha pops another button at his neck, opening the shirt wider to run his finger round the deeper expanse of skin, before fastening the button again, then repeating the whole performance. Jensen watches, mesmerized, thinking ahead to when he will get to undo the rest of those buttons, to run his fingertips like a ghost down Misha's sternum to his stomach and lower until Misha's needy cock is hard and hot in his hand.

Jensen shakes his head suddenly to clear it, mutters a quiet "fuck" under his breath, fighting down his arousal and hoping the warm flush he can feel starting on his neck isn't too obvious. Misha notices, of course. He would. The bastard's smiling. Jensen grins back, ruefully. It's going to be a long day.

Jensen doesn't know whether to be relieved or sorry that he doesn't see Misha after that for a couple of hours in the endless rush of interviews, panels and photo shoots that is a Supernatural convention. Sorry he decides when he catches sight of Misha during his interview with yet another TV fan magazine. Misha's leaning lazily against a doorframe, making sure Jensen knows he's there, watching him, eyes laughing but also dark and lustful, daring him to acknowledge in some way what they both know they're going to do later. Jensen obliges, licking his lower lip slowly with just the very tip of a pink, wet tongue before nibbling at one side as he puts the pretence of thought into the interviewer's latest inane question. Jensen knows Misha has a thing about his mouth, how he likes to watch as Jensen opens up and sucks him in, how he liked to bite and suckle on the soft flesh of his lip before he fucks him. Jensen's rewarded by the sight of Misha's adam's apple bobbing in his pale throat as he gulps a breath before smiling at Jensen with a subtle hint of an adjusting wriggle of his hips and disappears back into the crowd.

At their joint panel they're on top form; supercharged with adrenalin and pure flirtatious, anticipatory, pre-sex energy. The audience is whooping and laughing as Jensen and Misha tell new stories and some of their favorite old ones. This is one time where they have permission to touch, it's even expected. The hands on shoulders, forearms, knees all go unremarked these days it's so commonplace. It's hiding in plain sight at its easiest.

The audience has no idea that every time Jensen places a warm hand on Misha's forearm, the gentle squeeze is full of promise. They have no idea that when Misha breathes a kiss on the back of Jensen's neck as they talk again about personal space, that Misha's tongue slips through his lips to slick wet and hot against Jensen's skin. They're totally unaware that as Jensen stands slightly to one side and slightly behind Misha, a hand on the small of his back in a friendly gesture, that Jensen's fingers slip briefly past the waistband of Misha's jeans and the index finger slides neatly down into the cleft between his cheeks where his ass meets his tailbone. They're totally unaware of the soft intakes of breath they both take as they drop the microphones out of hearing range and recover their equilibrium, with slapstick joking.