So, um. Yeah. This is what I get for requesting drabble prompts? IDEFK GUYS, this was supposed to be 100 words. Oops? LA LA LA! 2000 words later we have this...thing. More prompts coming. Swears and cross my heart.

qthelights' request read as such:

Man, I totally had a bunny before when I was replying to your other post.. but now that you've asked for it, do you think I can remember it???

Um okay, how about Jensen/Misha, something domestic and schmoopy. It'll soothe your soul.

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Title: The Socio-Political Ramifications of a Shared Sock Drawer (aka Mundane Tasks and Their Masters)
Rating: Adult
Pairing: Jensen/Misha
Wordcount: 2000
Summary: As long as he can find something to wear, Misha's not always particular where he finds it. Jensen...is.


Cohabitation has never been Misha's strong suit. For all its many and varied advantages - spontaneous bouts of half-dressed grappling principal among them - he often finds himself chafing against the constant presence of someone else's opinion in his life. Most of the time, he ignores what he can and deflects what he can't by kissing Jensen senseless. It's much easier to get one's way when there's not a motivated second party slumped across the table from you pouting.

Most of the time, it works.

When Jensen isn't being obstinate, it works.

What Jensen fails to recognize is that parading around in a series of progressively tighter T-shirts - Misha's own T-shirts - is not the sort of thing that inspires proper laundry habits. If anything, it makes them worse, and in Misha's not-so-humble opinion, Jensen is being ridiculous.

"Jensen?"

Jensen hums a soft, quizzical sort of sound that just might pass as distracted if Misha didn't know him so well. But he does, down to the bones and the infuriatingly fussy guts of him. He knows that appearances can be deceiving, and that Jensen's careful sprawl against the couch cushions is exactly that - careful. He knows that Jensen's not reading the magazine he has spread open in his lap, despite the nearly hypnotic pattern of hand to mouth, the quick, pink flash of tongue across fingertip before he turns the page. He knows when those fingers hook into the neck of the T-shirt and tug, it's a purposeful gesture, not an absent one. He knows that Jensen's waiting for him to break - completely convinced that if he's constant and patient, this time he'll win.

Eventually, he thinks Jensen will discover he's mistaken about a great many things.

Misha supposes he might feel differently if he actually cared about the condition of his shirts, but for every one Jensen has managed to stretch beyond saving, he has five others tucked safely away in one of the drawers mutually agreed upon as "his." The immediate problem lies in the fact that a handful of Jensen's shirts have magically migrated across that invisible line of demarcation as well.

By some crazy, random happenstance it also, apparently, means war.

Ridiculous.

Every second Jensen draws out the charade it becomes more absurd, because at the end of the day Jensen doesn't mind fishing for a second shirt any more than he minds fixing Misha a sandwich when he's already got the bread and cold-cuts spread across the counter.

Then again, games don't always follow rational patterns.

He stares at the tense line of Jensen's neck, the flex of tendons in his hand as he flips page after glossy page. The trees beyond the window sway idly in the glare, framed by dramatic, high-contrast advertisements for cologne and frivolously expensive wristwatches, and Misha uncoils.

Three long strides condensed to two, and then he's smiling down at Jensen, the magazine efficiently liberated before he casts it aside. Jensen's eyes slit down to slashes when he looks up, his arms crossed and Adam's apple bobbing.

"What?" he asks, tone easing over into petulant.

Misha simply lets his grin spread until his cheeks ache, because this, this works for him in ways he should probably be ashamed of - if he still had a passing acquaintance with shame, that is.

Thankfully, he fell out of its favor long ago.

That measure of freedom is what allows him to say, "Your fashion sense has improved of late," and sidle closer, pluck at the fraying edge of a sleeve pulled taut against bicep.

Regardless of what Jensen evokes in him, Misha plans to keep his principles - what little is left of them - intact. He refuses to give Jensen the satisfaction of asking for his shirt back, or capitulating to his admittedly sensible demands. After all, he has a reputation to protect.

But then Jensen huffs a laugh that does interesting things to the way all that cotton pulls across his stomach, hem riding up just enough to reveal a tan slice of skin, and Misha decides the best possible way to protect his reputation is to reclaim his property by force.

Somehow, someway, he ends up astride Jensen's thighs, hands swept into a futile slide across fabric until he curls his fingers in the small of Jensen's back, knuckles knocked against the knobs of Jensen's spine leaving him with a satisfying fistful of T-shirt. Unfortunately, when he starts to yank at it, tries to peel it up and off, Jensen simply quirks a brow and squares his shoulders against the couch.

"Something you want?" Jensen asks, as if he's truly oblivious, and even in the midst of his tantrum, he can't quite keep the smile off his ridiculous, exasperating face.

"Just for future reference, the blushing virgin act usually works better when the audience does not have recent, intimate proof to the contrary."

Jensen does flush then, all the way to the tips of his ears, and Misha can tell by the way his gaze drifts that he's remembering, maybe even reveling. It's distraction enough that when Misha pulls a second time, Jensen leans up to accommodate automatically.

Victory secured, Misha discards the shirt without a second thought, choosing instead to concentrate on settling this particular debate permanently. It's past time.

Blood thrums up under Misha's skin when he bends to catch Jensen's lips and draw him in. He's so close, too close sometimes to losing himself in the leisurely stretch of Jensen's smile, the molasses that seeps into Jensen’s speech, elongating each syllable into two or three as his walls come down. If Misha were the type to scare easily, it might frighten him how much he wants, maybe even needs to be that person - the one allowed behind the meticulously maintained defenses.

He's not, though, and even if he were, it would be worth it.

Jensen gasps into his mouth, draws a shaky breath before he opens willingly, the callused pads of his fingers working slow but sure under the waistband of Misha's jeans. Every tiny patch where skin meets skin lights up, electric, and Misha spares a moment to wonder how Jensen does it - if he's had some chance run-in with a radioactive spider somewhere along the way - because no one else has ever, ever managed to sustain in him that teeth-grinding, heart-thumping zing of novelty. It nearly makes him forget his purpose. Nearly.

The button on Jensen's jeans pops open so easily, Misha wonders if it’s been rigged. He’s certain it hasn’t, though it does give him ideas – ones that might be realized given a utility knife and an afternoon to himself with Jensen’s wardrobe. It’s momentarily distracting to consider, a flight of fancy that he files away for later and then focuses, concentrates on the metallic rasp as zipper teeth slip steadily apart, the heat radiating off Jensen’s skin bleeds into his hands, crawls up his arms, urging him on. Perhaps he's the impatient one, because he can't bear to squander the seconds it would take to strip Jensen down completely. Instead he chooses to simply thread his fingers through convenient openings and take, wrap them tight when Jensen’s thighs twitch. He feels the grin spread again as Jensen hisses and throws his head back, neck bowed just so and Misha can't ignore the invitation, teeth and tongue finding all those places he knows pull Jensen apart from the inside.

It takes an iron will to keep himself from flying headfirst into the fathomless sea of Jensen's desire, but somehow he manages, barely manages. What he can't do is drag himself away, so when he stills, his lips slip against the hard curve of Jensen's collarbone.

"So it's settled, then?"

Jensen doesn't breathe beneath him so much as sigh, and Misha tightens his grip, sweeps a thumb through the slick beads clinging to the tip, forcing that sigh into a moan.

Misha does move then, leans back in one slow, graceful motion that lets him savor the soft whine Jensen can’t quite bite back. It’s dirty pool he’s playing, he knows that, but sometimes the ends really do justify the means.

Sometimes he enjoys the means so thoroughly the ends don’t make much of a difference at all.

This, he thinks, may well become one of those times if he’s not careful. Jensen’s eyelids ease open in a languid sweep of dark lashes and Misha’s stomach does an off-kilter kind of cartwheel that leaves him teetering and fighting for balance.

Then Jensen looks at him, really looks – eyes more pupil than iris, hair tufted in all directions, bright patches of pink painted on his skin, those obscene lips of his plump and parted, wet and waiting. His. All of it his.

One day, maybe one day soon, Jensen Ackles will mean the end of him, Misha’s certain of it. At the moment though, he can’t be bothered to care. All he needs now is to hear it, to know he’s bent Jensen to his will before he can let go.

“Say yes, Jensen,” he says, and strokes slow, twists his wrist a quarter turn then a half, until Jensen moans again, lids drooping but not sliding shut.

It takes a handful of seconds before Jensen’s brows knit together, a couple false starts before he successfully manages to form actual words.

Even then, all that comes out is, “What?”

“Say yes, so I can suck you off and haul you back to bed.”

And that’s all it takes to secure Jensen’s undivided attention apparently, because he goes tense, fingers firmly buried into the crest of Misha’s hips, lower lip caught between his teeth, the corner of his mouth quirked with that exclusively Jensen brand of wry.

Wonderful.

“You’re serious?”

Their teeth clack together once before Misha remembers to tilt his head, the shape of Jensen’s neck seared against his palm, and for once he wishes the production team allowed Dean longer locks because he can’t get a grip that satisfies him. It doesn’t stop him from licking into Jensen’s mouth, mapping the sharp spades of his teeth, tonguing the sensitive spot just behind them that only he knows about, and when he withdraws far enough to breathe, he strips Jensen’s cock from root to tip half a dozen times. Jensen bucks into it, back arching, shoulders slipping against the couch cushions. It’s exactly what Misha was looking for.

“As a funeral.”

Three stuttered breaths and half a thousand turns of the gears in Jensen’s head later, Jensen laughs again and shakes his head.

“You know you’re fucking impossible, right?”

Misha mulls that over before answering, takes the time to swipe his thumb through the stray trickle of pre-come meandering its way into more interesting places. And Jensen doesn’t protest when Misha presses that thumb between his lips, he just pulls a harsh rush of breath through his nose and sucks it clean.

“I know that I’ll put my clothes, and yours, anywhere I damn well please.”

That earns him a nip, a sharp flare of not-quite-pain that skitters out like wildfire and settles in his dick. Jensen smiles at him down the length of his arm - because yes, he also knows exactly what he’s doing - before he lets go, before he drops an strangely tender kiss atop the red marks he’s raised on the skin and sighs.

“Fine. No more wet towels in the floor though, okay?”

Misha smirks when Jensen tugs him close, hands fisting in the front of his shirt, but he certainly doesn’t say yes.