The cast and crew have a good time celebrating after wrapup - or rather, vegging out at the tables with beers and fooling around.

I don't even bother disguising my unrivalled repulsion for Matt, glaring deplorably at him across the room the entire time.

He finally approaches me with the intention of talking it out, and despite having no idea what he's done to push my buttons, he apologizes profusely.

But the apology falls on deaf ears, because I stopped blessing that piece of shit with my friendship after the time he told the audience that Cockles was an amalgamation of Cohen and Ackles.

Yeah...

I'm sitting in the autograph room, the laughter and chatter of the crew and lingering fans echoing around me, when Jared strides up to my seat.

"Dude, check out these pictures of you and Misha." He snaps me out of my thoughts by thrusting a handful under my nose. "Looks like he's got you in an - angelic embrace."

Looking distractedly up from the table, I'm met with several explicit, nude shots of Misha and I that make my whole body freeze and my breath catch in my throat. The two of us in bed, naked.

They fucking know, is my first thought.

We've been caught.

It's over.

I'm frantically trying to figure out how the hell they caught us on camera all those nights when I realize: these photos aren't real.

This is just fan art. Incredibly hot, eerily realistic fan art that almost gave me a heart attack, but they're manipulated images nonetheless. And, most importantly, they're of Cas and Dean, not Misha and I.

Although, damn, the fans are not far off.

I inspect the works while my racing heart slows down, making a mental note to try some of these positions with Misha when we're alone tonight.

Some of it looks insane, but then again, he's been inhumanly flexible his whole life. It's a birth defect, some condition with his back that allows him to bend it at pretty incredible angles.

I would know.

As he explained in a rather hilarious panel with Jim and Rachel and Samantha, Mish was the most flexible boy in school...in pretty much the history of the school. He hasn't been the same since his biking accident, of course, but it's still amazingly hot what he can do.

"Destiel is so beautiful, isn't it," Jared carries on obliviously. "So raw and organic and erotic-"

"Alright, that's enough, man. Let me see what else you've got there."

"Oh, these," he sniggers, producing a handful of other papers buried under the current pile. These renditions are less artistic and more crudely-drawn, but just as sexual. "We made these. Like, the crew and I."

"You guys are sick," I laugh breathily, still not completely over the close call.

"I prefer hot," Jared smirks, tapping one particular drawing of him and Misha for emphasis. It should be noted that there are no pants involved. "It's not as good as the fans' drawings, but...we gave it a try."

"Oh, I've seen this one," I snort. Sure enough, our signatures are all on it, including Misha's. I grab the pen out of Jared's hand and immediately set about defacing his drawing, much to his chagrin.

We spend the next few hours this way, killing time while the workers take the stage down.

When I'm not trying to make Matt shit his pants with my glares, I'm ogling Misha. Which is dangerous, because his hotness can literally melt my eyeballs.

Seriously, volcanic lava has nothing on him.

And whenever he trains those hotter-than-magma blue eyes on me, I have to fight all sorts of lovely compulsive instincts to take him like an animal right here on the autograph tables.

I don't, of course.

But I can't fight the urge to at least go over there and talk to him. He's sitting in one of the fold-out chairs with a few remaining fans, and I approach him from behind, leaning sensually close.

It takes an incredible amount of willpower not to start tonguing his ear and inhaling his scent, driving him as crazy as he's been driving me all day. The anticipation has been killing me, incredible electric sensations flowing through our connection so strongly that words simply aren't needed.

"Mmm," I murmur into his ear, delighting in the goosebumps that appear on his neck. "Did you see the picture Jared drew where you're jerking him?"

"I drew that," Misha clarifies unabashedly.

"You drew the black penis?"

Misha replies confidently.

"Mhmm."

I close my eyes, overcome by despairing affection. Such is the man I fell in love with.

Unwilling to leave him alone just yet, I lean closer, ruffling his hair slightly as we chuckle.

"Well, did you see the picture of you and me with towels going around our waists? The drawing?"

Misha shakes his head remorsefully.

"I missed that one..."

"You signed it, too," I huff indignantly.

Misha suddenly brightens as the memory dawns on him.

"Oh, oh, oh! It was like a real draw-"

"Yes-"

"Like an ani - a Japanese...?"

"Yup. And I drew speech bubbles and I'm like, who the fuck are you?"

Mish tilts his head back on a hearty chuckle while I clap him on the shoulder.

[There should be a GIF or video here. Update the app now to see it.]

I hear the cooing behind me as I walk away, a telltale sign that I may have forgotten myself again and leaned in just a little too close.

It wouldn't be the first time.

I wonder if Misha ever noticed all the subtle little shit I used to pull at conventions before we became lovers.

Little does he know, I was pining for him way before my confession. I always wanted to touch him, wanted to be nearer to him, sometimes even...adjusting...myself so it would happen.

There were moments - more than a few - when I realized last-minute that I was letting my cover down and tried to cover up my actions, retract my hand, do something to dispel the sudden awkwardness.

Misha would tense whenever I came on too strong with the touching, and I swear, if he hadn't given me those subtle warnings, I would've forgotten all about the cameras and crowds and done a lot of regrettable shit.

But in the middle of side-splitting laughter, my hand has always sought the grounding feel of his body; during interviews together, my leg seeks the comforting warmth of his, with no regard for decency or decorum.

I wonder if he ever made anything of those little things.

Did he even notice any of it? My hand on his thigh under the tables, my reactions to the simplest of his touches...

the way I would gaze at him...

the number of times he caught me staring at him when I didn't think he was looking...

Very awkward...

Even that one time I told an interviewer that I wanted to watch Misha Wiggle, Wiggle, Wiggle - and while that train of thought is at the station, I have to ask myself: was there ever a time, before or after realizing I wasn't straight, when I didn't want to see Misha wiggle his ass?

I'm thinking a resounding no.

Misha doesn't know this but I've had it bad for him since the day I met him. I couldn't and didn't tell a soul, of course, and I aggressively bullied myself into dropping that gay shit for years. But the evidence is there, immortalized by the cameras that followed us around. I was obsessed with him.

I would always get a thrill out of seeing him: when he'd crash a panel or interrupt an interview or just show up somewhere unexpectedly - he took my breath away so bad I wanted to kiss him, long before our relationship began.

But I managed not to.

Barely.

Misha's been subjecting me to these kinds of crazy compulsions since the day I met him; I realized right away that he was different from the other men in my life.

I knew, for example, that I never had to fight this hard to control myself around Jared. Whereas Misha made me want to drop my pants on the spot when he interrupted my interviews, Jared could literally slap my ass and barely get a casual hey buddy out of me in response.

Something was up from the start; I wasn't so stupid as to deny it. But even though I knew on some level that Mish was different, I wasn't ready to come to terms with it yet.

And yet, by the time I finally got him alone at Jared's cottage and confessed my feelings, the truth had already been revealed little by little through a thousand seemingly-innocent gestures over the years. I was mad with longing.

But I've always known he was off limits. So I became worse than a bitch in heat: bitter, vengeful, repressed, angry at my sexuality and myself and Misha and the world for getting in between us. I was cold, standoffish. People dismissed it, got used to me biting their heads off. Misha didn't understand. But he was dangled in my face all the time and it was insufferable how I couldn't have him.

I never meant to hurt Mish. But when the producers came out with the Destiel news, it was like they were taunting a starving man, saying there was a mouthwatering, full-course meal in the next room over. But I couldn't have it.

I couldn't bear the fact that Vicki got to have him. The fans got to have him. Even the guys on set were getting more of that sexy little minx than I was.

Like Cohen...

My favourite little man-whore...

The worst part about Misha grinding him on stage was that he was completely oblivious to how the act made me feel - that, or Mish was trying to rile me up on purpose.

I couldn't let on that I was watching them out of the corner of my eye the entire time, couldn't afford more than a sidelong glance, but damn did I want to run out and buy myself a customized guillotine just for my good chum Cohen.

Buddy better stay away from Misha in the future or I will go all-out hot, livid Texan on him and he won't be getting back up.

On a side note, Misha did look delicious on that stage; he really knew how how to work his best asset, and I may or may not have envisioned fucking that asset of his into my hotel room mattress. I was transfixed by it even back then, so horny for him I could barely breathe.

But I had to breathe, to cool it, close my jaw, tell my dick to abort mission. I still have to do it now, even though we're together. Because...cameras.

But it's difficult, when your body's been conditioned to kissing someone's lips raw, to then have to move your mouth away at the last minute and hug them instead.

Again, thanks be to Misha for having more self-control than me and reminding me subtly that we're in public by resisting these reflexive advances of mine, because it definitely merits reiterating: cameras.

But there are no cameras upstairs in Misha's hotel room. And oh fuck, do we exploit that fact. 

Our last night together is a one-way ticket all the way to seventh heaven; I lose my breath and my brain function to more wonderful sensations than I've ever experienced in the space of a few hours.

As soon as the door locks behind us, I lift him up off the ground bridal style, and it's game on.

Misha and I have absolutely nothing left to give by the time we're through, dry-coming a few times at the end until I'm forced to give in to the limits of my body.

But limits are meant to be tested.

Misha seems to know this, because just when I think I'll never be able to get it up again, he starts talking Russian to me in that deep, sexy baritone of his.

The next thing I know, I'm pouncing on him.

Suffice it to say that his motor abilities are reduced to those of a newborn calf by the time I'm finished with him.

I don't even have the energy to pull out after the last round; my dick just remains happily parked inside Misha, idling. He's chill about it, lying on his stomach and nonchalantly flicking through his Twitter while we simply talk until sunrise. That's partner goals.

I was sure the only shuteye I'd be getting would be the moments when my eyes close mid-blink. But I do get a little bit of sleep with my head on Misha's lap. He sits slumped against the backboard of the hotel bed, gently caressing my face and fawning over me, and I drift off to the batting of his attractive lashes.

It's staring up at him this way that I realize: there must be a God. Because Misha exists.

And my last conscious thought before sleep claims me is that he's by far the most beautiful creation in existence.

***

The morning sun's rays pierce through my fog of sleep, rousing me. Instantly, my body seizes with dreaded recognition: this is it.

We're going home today.

I sit up abruptly and throw off the blankets, uncovering Misha and I.

Then I wince at my own rashness, quickly checking to see if I've woken him. He hasn't moved from his position against the headboard.

Great. In addition to not being able to walk, he's going to have an awful cramp in his neck. That's no condition to be driving in, but as much as I regret sending him off this way...I don't.

After rearranging his limp body against the pillows, I sit on the edge of the hotel bed with my hands digging into the mattress, contemplating how I might prolong our time together.

Maybe if I set the bedside clock back an hour or two...

I'd have to do it to our phones as well, and quickly, before he wakes up, but damn, we could do a lot in an a hour and a half...

My heart starts racing with fiendish delight as I reach for the black alarm clock on the nightstand.

"No, baby, no." Misha's groggy voice makes me freeze in the act.

Damn it.

I turn to see him scolding me with a one-eyed look, feeling like a guilty puppy. "Step away from the clock."

"Sorry," I mumble, my proverbial tail between my legs. I bite back the urge to stubbornly refuse leaving this room.

Misha sighs, wearily drawing a hand over his face.

"Get over here, you child."

I crawl overtop of him, stopping when our faces are inches apart, and he pulls me in by the back of my neck.

Our mouths move together as one in a final kiss, panting breaths escaping us between soft, sensual sucks of each other's lips.

I don't want to let him go when it's over, instead pressing my lips and my nose and my whole damn face against his skin, kissing and snuggling his sweet-smelling neck, swallowing his taste eagerly.

When he finally pulls away, I dip my tongue into his ear and pour out awed whispers and streams of affection, voicing my longing to stay with him.

Misha lifts my head to face him and thumbs gently at my chin, brushing the pad over my lips and across my cheeks.

Shit, I'm going to miss him.

But it's not like we have any legitimate reason to live together all the time. People would start asking questions if we were always together. They've already noticed details like the same distinct light fixtures in the background of our separate livestreams that indicate our arrangement. The more time we spend together, the more clues we drop inadvertently.

Anything more than this just isn't realistic, isn't feasible. I've always known that something more - the whole nine yards - wouldn't be a possibility with Misha.

We'll always be stuck pretending we're nothing, but the thought will be even harder to bear in his absence. At least when he's with me I can draw comfort from the fact that I know about us. But a month apart and I fear that even I'll starting to doubt the reality of our secret relationship. I need to touch him constantly, feel him and see for myself that he's real and he still wants me, loves me in spite of everything.

I love him, too - so much it's beyond my ability to express - but, isn't that all the more reason to let him be happy with his own family? Doesn't he deserve that?

Isn't it selfish of me to make him lie to his wife and kids and betray them like this, make him live in guilt for the rest of his life?