#remivel

1. What would you do if you’ll found yourself to be an only survivor of apocalypse? -Watch every show I've ever wanted to watch, every movie, every book I've wanted to read, go to places I haven't been able to go... slowly go insane probably.

2. How you’d describe your eyes? Sometimes they look small and sometimes big. The color is something like greyish blue. Usually they are behind glasses.

3. Do prefer dark or light colours when it is about clothing? Dark probably. Though I like staying in the middle. BRIGHT colors.

4. Favourite instruments? I can't play anything, but to listen... the piano.

5. If you must date one character from Twilight, who would that be? Alice probably.

6. What things you would tell about your country if somebody haven’t never heard of it? The traditional stuff, about sauna and midsummer and how dark it is in winter. The snow...

7. What language is the most beautiful? For some strange reason I love the Norwegian language.

8. Is there any difference to you between hatred of women and hatred of men? It depends on the reasons for said hate, but I guess no.

9. What word do you use most often? "Hei?" (Hi) or "Ei." (no)

10. Do you like oranges? I don't particularly love them, but I'll eat basically anything. 

11. What things do you like most of yourself? My imagination and way with words when it comes to being funny in a written conversation. My hands are also okay.

“This has to be the ugliest sweater I’ve ever seen,” Misha murmurs against Jensen’s ear before he gets back down to the business of kissing his neck.  He stops to nibble, giddy with spiked eggnog and the heady feel of Jensen’s body beneath his on the too-small trailer bed.  They were going to go somewhere further and roomier, but the Supernatural crew Christmas party left them both too tipsy to drive and more than a little wanton, so here they are.

“Gift from a friend,” Jensen answers breathlessly, arching under Misha’s weight even as his fingers mold to the curve of Misha’s ass and pulls his hips down harder.   Misha grabs the soft red fabric and twists, yanking it up, aching with the need to feel Jensen’s skin.  The hitch in Jensen’s breath makes it more than worth the effort.

“Some friend,” Misha says, a smile playing at the corners of his lips as he mouths the curve of Jensen’s jaw.  When his teeth scrape on stubbled skin, Jensen arches again, a thready whimper vibrating in his chest.  Misha bites again, gentle and slow and wet.  The fabric of the sweater gives in his twisting fingers, the bright red with green and white accents ripping at the hem as he gives it another rough tug.

“He’s colorblind,” Jensen mutters in a chuckled voice that’s thick with rum and want as his fingers close over Misha’s and he pulls at the sweater, too.  Since Misha’s shirt barely made it in the door before it landed on the floor, every inch they gain with the hideous Christmas sweater presses hot skin to skin.  His breath comes in ragged gasps against Jensen’s throat as they work together to rid themselves of every scrap of fabric.

By the time the sweater lands unceremoniously on the floor, it’s half-torn and completely ruined, a condition Misha was hoping for when he gave Jensen the stupid thing to begin with.  As their long legs tangle, Misha’s thigh pressed to the hardness of Jensen’s cock through the fabric of their jeans, Jensen’s nails are already dragging stinging lines across Misha’s shoulders.

Their hips move in a familiar rhythm, the delicious friction of Misha’s cock grinding against the inside of his underwear driving his thrusts quicker and quicker.  He reaches up, palm finding Jensen’s jaw to tilt his head for a proper kiss, deep and wet, tongues twisting against one another’s as their lips crush together.  Jensen tastes of rum and peppermint and Misha’s other hand comes to rest against the side of his neck, holding him in place as he presses the kiss deeper.

Jensen moans, his hands on Misha’s hips, grabbing desperately to steady Misha’s thrusts as they rut together.  Misha breaks the kiss, panting against Jensen’s lips, pausing for sharp nips to draw the groans and growls from Jensen’s throat that he so enjoys.  Jensen’s hands are frantic on Misha’s ass, then the small of his back, then his hips again; he pulls and pushes even as he arches up, the force of his thrusts nearly pushing Misha off him entirely.

Kissing forgotten in the shared breaths and swallowed moans that leave their lips pressed together, Misha redoubles his efforts.  He rolls his hips down sharply so he can feel the press of Jensen’s cock alongside his own, the denim between them deliciously frustrating.  It starts at the base of his spine, a tingling heat that slides up, sets his body trembling as his nerve endings misfire.

In the confined space of the trailer, the sounds of harsh breathing echo, filling the air with a primal sound that adds to the hoarse moans and half-articulated “fuck” and “oh” and “so good”.  Misha lifts his head long enough to look at Jensen, loving the view of those green eyes clouded with lust when he’s teetering on the brink.  Jensen huffs a shivering breath even as he raises one hand to grab the back of Misha’s head and pull him in for a kiss, the fingers of his other hand slipping into the back pocket of Misha’s jeans, pulling frantically.

Lack of oxygen combined with too much eggnog makes Misha’s head spin as Jensen kisses him thoroughly, tongue darting over the line of his teeth, teasing against the roof of his mouth.  Misha, never one to deny himself, lets the rhythm of Jensen’s hips drive the heat that builds in the pit of his stomach and snakes up to grab his lungs, squeezing his thumping heart.  Jensen’s wide chest sticks on Misha’s, skin damp and nipples hard as their bodies grind slowly.  

It’s Jensen’s fingers tangled in Misha’s hair, pulling his head back to gain access to his throat that finally tips Misha over the ledge.  His cock stiffens, jerks in his underwear as release flows out from the bonfire lit under his ribcage to the tingling ends of his fingers.  His muscles pull tight, curling his body against Jensen’s as he ruts mercilessly, panting and voicing his pleasure in high-pitched, inarticulate moans.

Jensen’s body goes hard, curls as his teeth sink into Misha’s shoulder and he sucks to stifle a cry of pleasure, suction that borders on painful and that Misha knows will leave a mark.  He turns his head, nips imprecisely at the curve of Jensen’s ear as he feels Jensen’s stomach contract beneath his own on hard breaths and the tell-tale spasms of orgasm.

It’s inelegant like this, stolen moments in Jensen’s trailer, but it’s the way Misha likes it.  The slick mess in his underwear is uncomfortable when he starts to catch his breath, but he can’t help the way his hips still press to Jensen’s, still seeking friction and contact.  Ragged breaths give way to tender kisses and the nuzzle of scruffy jaw against jaw and still-tipsy laughter.

When Misha finally lifts his head to look at Jensen again, his green-eyed lover’s face is flushed deep-pink and his lips are plump and red from shared kisses.  Jensen smiles, his fingers drifting lazily up the dip of Misha’s spine.  Misha shivers and clears his throat, his voice coming out smokey and low when he tells Jensen teasingly, “Tell your colorblind friend I’m sorry I ripped your sweater.”