annundriel (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
annundriel) wrote2010-05-25 04:35 pm
annundriel) wrote2010-05-25 04:35 pm
SPN RPS Fic: Falling, Jensen/Misha (NC-17)
Falling
Jensen/Misha
NC-17
2050
A follow-up to Slipping.
Jensen's life gets a little more complicated.
Many thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
olivelavonne and qthelights for giving this a look.
When Jensen opens the door to his trailer to leave, a flutter of paper against the window catches his eye. It’s folded in half, taped to the glass. He pulls it from the window, unfolds it there in the doorway.
Jensen doesn’t have to read past the White House letterhead to know it’s from Misha.
I noticed you had some difficulty in that last scene. Next time something like that pops up, come see me instead of running off.
I’m sure it’s something we can work on together.
- Misha
He wonders when exactly Misha taped the note on his door. Was it while he’d had his hand down his pants? Or after he’d gotten his dick out, hand wrapped around it? Had Misha been taping the note to the door while Jensen was only a few feet away on the other side, biting his lip in an effort to stay quiet, coming to the thought of Misha’s hands and lips and teeth and tongue?
Jensen shudders at the thought, almost enough to get him hard again, wishes…
No, he doesn’t wish. Things are the way they are, and that’s the way they’re going to stay. Thank God filming’s almost over for the season.
He just hopes he was as quiet as he thought he was being.
Tossing the note on the counter, Jensen turns to leave, only to find Misha standing right there at the bottom of the steps.
Jensen startles, hip hitting the counter. “Jesus Christ!”
Misha grins and his teeth glint in the gathering darkness outside, the light pouring from the trailer. “Flattering,” he says. “But I’m not the Messiah.”
Jensen swallows and ignores that, his heart pounding with adrenaline and what might be something else against his ribs. “What can I do for you?”
“I thought we could have a drink.”
It’s strange, but it’s not unheard of for Misha to stop by at the end of filming. Jensen debates asking for a rain check; he wants to get away and go home, regain the equilibrium he lost every time his back hit that wall.
Misha’s watching him expectantly, and Jensen finally nods and steps back, lets Misha in. “Sure.”
Going to the fridge, he grabs two bottles, takes a moment to breathe deep and settle his shaken nerves. “You gotta dial back the method acting, dude,” he says, turning around. He opens the bottles and hands one to Misha. “Or we’ll have to put bells on you.”
Misha leans against the counter, hip cocked, and takes a sip. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? To be able to hear me coming.”
Jensen almost chokes on his mouthful of beer, coughing and spluttering, and then Misha’s hand is on his back, rubbing soothing circles, warm even through the layers Jensen is wearing.
“Sorry,” Misha says. “I wasn’t actually trying to kill you.”
Setting his beer down next to Misha’s, Jensen wipes at his chin. “Sure you weren’t. Today guest star status, tomorrow top billing.”
“Oh, if I wanted top billing, I’d be in Jared’s trailer.” Misha tilts his head, eyes unfocused just past Jensen. “Or Eric’s.”
“And you’re in mine because…?”
Misha’s eyes focus on him again, hand going still on Jensen’s back, and suddenly Jensen’s aware of how close they’re standing now, how warm Misha is. How good that hand feels.
Shifting, Misha moves from Jensen’s side, stepping around until he’s standing in front of him. “You left the set awfully fast, Jensen,” he says.
Jensen hates the way his cheeks heat up. “I had—I had things to take care of.”
Misha steps a little closer, and Jensen can feel his breath against his face.
“Pressing matters?”
Jensen nods, licks his lips. Misha’s eyes catch the movement, follow it.
“I meant what I wrote,” he says.
This is the point where Jensen should put a stop to this, push everything he’s feeling about Misha away with a sweep of his arm that would send Misha back a step, gain Jensen some breathing room. Because Misha is a co-star and Misha is male and Misha is…
Misha is…
Fuck. Misha is Misha, and there’s no real way Jensen can shove him aside, not really.
The sooner he admits he’s fucked, the sooner he can accept he’s fucked. And the sooner he does that, the sooner he might be able to get fucked.
Jensen swallows, feels the rush of adrenaline that comes with making a decision like this. “Yeah,” he says. “Okay.”
Misha grins, all teeth and wicked intent, and Jensen’s cock jumps in the confines of his pants. “Excellent,” Misha says, and then he’s pressing forward, pressing Jensen back against the counter, hands on either side of his body.
He’s so close, Jensen can almost taste him.
“You thought about this earlier, didn’t you?” Misha asks, voice gone low and quiet between them. “That’s why you had to leave. I had you pressed up against that wall and you—”
“Jesus,” Jensen says, hands grabbing Misha’s hips, pulling them to him. He can feel Misha hard against him, his own cock responding in kind. The last thing he wants to do is discuss this. “Do you ever stop talking?”
When Misha opens his mouth to answer, Jensen makes sure he can’t.
Misha’s lips against his are soft in all of the right ways, hard in all of the others, and Jensen thinks he catches a gasp somewhere in there, like he might have surprised Misha just a little. He’d grin if his mouth wasn’t otherwise occupied.
The kiss is messy and lewd and over too quickly, Misha’s mouth sliding away, their stubble scraping together as he sucks kisses against Jensen’s skin.
“Fuck,” Jensen gasps when Misha’s lips find the corner of his jaw, tongue teasing against his skin. “God.”
“Mmmm,” Misha hums, vibrations sweeping through Jensen, making his skin tingle. “Not God, either.” His lips brush against Jensen’s ear, and there’s a hint of teeth on Jensen’s earlobe, before Misha pulls back to look at him, considering. “Though if you’d like to get on your knees for me, don’t let me stop you.”
There’s a thought. Floor hard beneath his knees, Misha standing over him, hands—God, those hands—cupped against his head, fingers caressing as Jensen sucks him down. Or maybe in a bed, where it’d be easier on Jensen’s knees, the two of them fitting together like a pornographic jigsaw puzzle.
Yeah, Jensen could do that.
“Maybe later,” he says, and that’s all it takes to cement that this is happening, that it’s going to happen again.
The corners of Misha’s mouth tip upward—like the cat with the fucking cream—and then he’s pressing Jensen more firmly against the counter, hands finding Jensen’s hips. His tongue slides across Jensen’s lips, a gliding tease before dipping between to curl against Jensen’s tongue.
It’s good, it’s so good. Better than good. Misha’s mouth is hot and perfect against his, undeniable. Everything Jensen’s been imagining and more. Hands creeping beneath shirts to find skin, chests and hips and thighs pressed tight together, Misha pins him there, just like he had earlier. Only this time they’re them. This time instead of Cas’ hand over Dean’s mouth, it’s Misha’s mouth over Jensen’s.
His hands are busy elsewhere.
They move from Jensen’s hips, teasing beneath the hem of his shirt to slip across his back, tracing patterns that might mean nothing or anything or everything, with Misha he can’t be sure. Jensen arches into it, leans back and pushes forward, wants more and more and more, his own hands finding Misha’s ass, pulling him even closer.
Misha makes a sound against him, like he wanted to chuckle but didn’t quite have the breath for it, and Jensen feels victorious for making Misha lose that insane cool he carries around with him.
And he has. Misha’s skin is flushed, his eyes dark and bright. His lips are pink, wet and shiny with spit. He’s breathing heavy.
From the way Misha’s looking at him, Jensen’s sure he doesn’t look much different. From the way he feels, he knows he doesn’t.
Hands sliding from Jensen’s back, Misha pulls away enough to slip them between them, fingers finding the fastening on Jensen’s pants. He doesn’t say a word, just watches Jensen as he gets the button undone, carefully lowers the zipper.
He looks down at his hands, back up at Jensen through his lashes, and then his hand is sliding into Jensen’s underwear to wrap around his cock and pull him free.
“Misha,” Jensen groans, fingers flexing against him.
“This is what you were thinking about earlier, isn’t it, Jen?” Misha says, forehead pressed against Jensen’s, lips brushing his cheek. “This is what you wanted. My hands on you.”
Jensen can’t deny that, doesn’t even want to, not when Misha’s got him pinned. When Misha’s hands on him are hot and capable, grip somewhere between too much and not enough, and so fucking right Jensen can hardly stand it.
“Jensen,” Misha breathes against him, fingers squeezing, palm flexing. “All you had to do was ask.”
Turning his face toward Misha’s, Jensen finds Misha’s mouth with his own, kisses him hard, leaving no room for doubt. “Consider this my official request,” he says. His hands move from Misha’s ass to the front of his pants, fingers brushing Misha’s cock as he gets them open, pushing them down and out of the way until he’s got Misha out, hot and smooth in his hand.
Misha pants against him, groaning and biting his lip. Which just isn’t fair because Jensen wants to bite it.
So he does. Leaning forward, Jensen licks into Misha’s mouth, nips at that bottom lip that’s been driving him crazy, sucks on that clever tongue. Somebody’s moaning, and Jensen’s not sure which one of them it is. Doesn’t really care.
He only cares when Misha stops, hand going still and disappearing to push Jensen’s jeans down farther, out of the way. And then his mouth is back on Jensen’s and his hand, instead of returning to Jensen’s cock, presses against Jensen’s hip. Reaching between them, he removes Jensen’s hand from where he knows he’s working Misha toward a pretty good orgasm.
“Wait,” Jensen starts. “What?”
Misha doesn’t answer, just threads their fingers together and completely takes over Jensen’s personal space, pressing them together and pulling their shirts up and out of the way so they’re belly to belly, cock to cock.
Jensen groans and shudders, cock sliding against Misha’s skin, and throws his free arm around Misha’s neck, pulling Misha to him and kissing him for all he’s worth.
A slick slide of tongue, a press of teeth, and Misha’s kissing him back, nothing withheld. That strangely manic shell of calm cracked to pieces beneath Jensen’s hands and mouth. Pushing and pulling, nipping and licking and grunting and groaning, they take each other apart against Jensen’s counter, their cocks tucked together.
They come like that, all grasping hands and desperate mouths, hips working against each other, cocks pulsing between them.
The counter supports their weight as they lean against it, catching their breath. Misha’s mouth turns soft against his, and they swap lush kisses as come cools between them.
Misha’s hands keep smoothing over Jensen’s back, up and down. It’s nice, and Jensen feels warm and sated, face tucked into Misha’s neck. He’s come twice, and he’s ready to curl up and fall asleep.
It’s kind of not fair that Misha’s only had the chance to come once.
Jensen must say that out loud, because Misha pulls back and looks at him, the wicked gleam in his eye sparking aftershocks of pleasure across Jensen’s skin.
“Who says I didn’t go back to my own trailer and do the exact same thing?”
Jensen blinks at him because that is…that is something to picture.
Misha interrupts that thought with a smacking kiss before he pulls away completely, looking down at the mess on their fronts with a grin. “You can make it up to me, though,” he says, reaching for the tissues on the counter.
“Yeah?” His slowing heartbeat trips upward for a couple of beats.
“If you’re worried about being fair.”
Jensen grins back. “I wouldn’t want you to think I was stingy.”
“Of course not,” Misha says. “Now, your place or mine?”
Jensen/Misha
NC-17
2050
A follow-up to Slipping.
Jensen's life gets a little more complicated.
Many thanks to
olivelavonne and qthelights for giving this a look.When Jensen opens the door to his trailer to leave, a flutter of paper against the window catches his eye. It’s folded in half, taped to the glass. He pulls it from the window, unfolds it there in the doorway.
Jensen doesn’t have to read past the White House letterhead to know it’s from Misha.
I noticed you had some difficulty in that last scene. Next time something like that pops up, come see me instead of running off.
I’m sure it’s something we can work on together.
- Misha
He wonders when exactly Misha taped the note on his door. Was it while he’d had his hand down his pants? Or after he’d gotten his dick out, hand wrapped around it? Had Misha been taping the note to the door while Jensen was only a few feet away on the other side, biting his lip in an effort to stay quiet, coming to the thought of Misha’s hands and lips and teeth and tongue?
Jensen shudders at the thought, almost enough to get him hard again, wishes…
No, he doesn’t wish. Things are the way they are, and that’s the way they’re going to stay. Thank God filming’s almost over for the season.
He just hopes he was as quiet as he thought he was being.
Tossing the note on the counter, Jensen turns to leave, only to find Misha standing right there at the bottom of the steps.
Jensen startles, hip hitting the counter. “Jesus Christ!”
Misha grins and his teeth glint in the gathering darkness outside, the light pouring from the trailer. “Flattering,” he says. “But I’m not the Messiah.”
Jensen swallows and ignores that, his heart pounding with adrenaline and what might be something else against his ribs. “What can I do for you?”
“I thought we could have a drink.”
It’s strange, but it’s not unheard of for Misha to stop by at the end of filming. Jensen debates asking for a rain check; he wants to get away and go home, regain the equilibrium he lost every time his back hit that wall.
Misha’s watching him expectantly, and Jensen finally nods and steps back, lets Misha in. “Sure.”
Going to the fridge, he grabs two bottles, takes a moment to breathe deep and settle his shaken nerves. “You gotta dial back the method acting, dude,” he says, turning around. He opens the bottles and hands one to Misha. “Or we’ll have to put bells on you.”
Misha leans against the counter, hip cocked, and takes a sip. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? To be able to hear me coming.”
Jensen almost chokes on his mouthful of beer, coughing and spluttering, and then Misha’s hand is on his back, rubbing soothing circles, warm even through the layers Jensen is wearing.
“Sorry,” Misha says. “I wasn’t actually trying to kill you.”
Setting his beer down next to Misha’s, Jensen wipes at his chin. “Sure you weren’t. Today guest star status, tomorrow top billing.”
“Oh, if I wanted top billing, I’d be in Jared’s trailer.” Misha tilts his head, eyes unfocused just past Jensen. “Or Eric’s.”
“And you’re in mine because…?”
Misha’s eyes focus on him again, hand going still on Jensen’s back, and suddenly Jensen’s aware of how close they’re standing now, how warm Misha is. How good that hand feels.
Shifting, Misha moves from Jensen’s side, stepping around until he’s standing in front of him. “You left the set awfully fast, Jensen,” he says.
Jensen hates the way his cheeks heat up. “I had—I had things to take care of.”
Misha steps a little closer, and Jensen can feel his breath against his face.
“Pressing matters?”
Jensen nods, licks his lips. Misha’s eyes catch the movement, follow it.
“I meant what I wrote,” he says.
This is the point where Jensen should put a stop to this, push everything he’s feeling about Misha away with a sweep of his arm that would send Misha back a step, gain Jensen some breathing room. Because Misha is a co-star and Misha is male and Misha is…
Misha is…
Fuck. Misha is Misha, and there’s no real way Jensen can shove him aside, not really.
The sooner he admits he’s fucked, the sooner he can accept he’s fucked. And the sooner he does that, the sooner he might be able to get fucked.
Jensen swallows, feels the rush of adrenaline that comes with making a decision like this. “Yeah,” he says. “Okay.”
Misha grins, all teeth and wicked intent, and Jensen’s cock jumps in the confines of his pants. “Excellent,” Misha says, and then he’s pressing forward, pressing Jensen back against the counter, hands on either side of his body.
He’s so close, Jensen can almost taste him.
“You thought about this earlier, didn’t you?” Misha asks, voice gone low and quiet between them. “That’s why you had to leave. I had you pressed up against that wall and you—”
“Jesus,” Jensen says, hands grabbing Misha’s hips, pulling them to him. He can feel Misha hard against him, his own cock responding in kind. The last thing he wants to do is discuss this. “Do you ever stop talking?”
When Misha opens his mouth to answer, Jensen makes sure he can’t.
Misha’s lips against his are soft in all of the right ways, hard in all of the others, and Jensen thinks he catches a gasp somewhere in there, like he might have surprised Misha just a little. He’d grin if his mouth wasn’t otherwise occupied.
The kiss is messy and lewd and over too quickly, Misha’s mouth sliding away, their stubble scraping together as he sucks kisses against Jensen’s skin.
“Fuck,” Jensen gasps when Misha’s lips find the corner of his jaw, tongue teasing against his skin. “God.”
“Mmmm,” Misha hums, vibrations sweeping through Jensen, making his skin tingle. “Not God, either.” His lips brush against Jensen’s ear, and there’s a hint of teeth on Jensen’s earlobe, before Misha pulls back to look at him, considering. “Though if you’d like to get on your knees for me, don’t let me stop you.”
There’s a thought. Floor hard beneath his knees, Misha standing over him, hands—God, those hands—cupped against his head, fingers caressing as Jensen sucks him down. Or maybe in a bed, where it’d be easier on Jensen’s knees, the two of them fitting together like a pornographic jigsaw puzzle.
Yeah, Jensen could do that.
“Maybe later,” he says, and that’s all it takes to cement that this is happening, that it’s going to happen again.
The corners of Misha’s mouth tip upward—like the cat with the fucking cream—and then he’s pressing Jensen more firmly against the counter, hands finding Jensen’s hips. His tongue slides across Jensen’s lips, a gliding tease before dipping between to curl against Jensen’s tongue.
It’s good, it’s so good. Better than good. Misha’s mouth is hot and perfect against his, undeniable. Everything Jensen’s been imagining and more. Hands creeping beneath shirts to find skin, chests and hips and thighs pressed tight together, Misha pins him there, just like he had earlier. Only this time they’re them. This time instead of Cas’ hand over Dean’s mouth, it’s Misha’s mouth over Jensen’s.
His hands are busy elsewhere.
They move from Jensen’s hips, teasing beneath the hem of his shirt to slip across his back, tracing patterns that might mean nothing or anything or everything, with Misha he can’t be sure. Jensen arches into it, leans back and pushes forward, wants more and more and more, his own hands finding Misha’s ass, pulling him even closer.
Misha makes a sound against him, like he wanted to chuckle but didn’t quite have the breath for it, and Jensen feels victorious for making Misha lose that insane cool he carries around with him.
And he has. Misha’s skin is flushed, his eyes dark and bright. His lips are pink, wet and shiny with spit. He’s breathing heavy.
From the way Misha’s looking at him, Jensen’s sure he doesn’t look much different. From the way he feels, he knows he doesn’t.
Hands sliding from Jensen’s back, Misha pulls away enough to slip them between them, fingers finding the fastening on Jensen’s pants. He doesn’t say a word, just watches Jensen as he gets the button undone, carefully lowers the zipper.
He looks down at his hands, back up at Jensen through his lashes, and then his hand is sliding into Jensen’s underwear to wrap around his cock and pull him free.
“Misha,” Jensen groans, fingers flexing against him.
“This is what you were thinking about earlier, isn’t it, Jen?” Misha says, forehead pressed against Jensen’s, lips brushing his cheek. “This is what you wanted. My hands on you.”
Jensen can’t deny that, doesn’t even want to, not when Misha’s got him pinned. When Misha’s hands on him are hot and capable, grip somewhere between too much and not enough, and so fucking right Jensen can hardly stand it.
“Jensen,” Misha breathes against him, fingers squeezing, palm flexing. “All you had to do was ask.”
Turning his face toward Misha’s, Jensen finds Misha’s mouth with his own, kisses him hard, leaving no room for doubt. “Consider this my official request,” he says. His hands move from Misha’s ass to the front of his pants, fingers brushing Misha’s cock as he gets them open, pushing them down and out of the way until he’s got Misha out, hot and smooth in his hand.
Misha pants against him, groaning and biting his lip. Which just isn’t fair because Jensen wants to bite it.
So he does. Leaning forward, Jensen licks into Misha’s mouth, nips at that bottom lip that’s been driving him crazy, sucks on that clever tongue. Somebody’s moaning, and Jensen’s not sure which one of them it is. Doesn’t really care.
He only cares when Misha stops, hand going still and disappearing to push Jensen’s jeans down farther, out of the way. And then his mouth is back on Jensen’s and his hand, instead of returning to Jensen’s cock, presses against Jensen’s hip. Reaching between them, he removes Jensen’s hand from where he knows he’s working Misha toward a pretty good orgasm.
“Wait,” Jensen starts. “What?”
Misha doesn’t answer, just threads their fingers together and completely takes over Jensen’s personal space, pressing them together and pulling their shirts up and out of the way so they’re belly to belly, cock to cock.
Jensen groans and shudders, cock sliding against Misha’s skin, and throws his free arm around Misha’s neck, pulling Misha to him and kissing him for all he’s worth.
A slick slide of tongue, a press of teeth, and Misha’s kissing him back, nothing withheld. That strangely manic shell of calm cracked to pieces beneath Jensen’s hands and mouth. Pushing and pulling, nipping and licking and grunting and groaning, they take each other apart against Jensen’s counter, their cocks tucked together.
They come like that, all grasping hands and desperate mouths, hips working against each other, cocks pulsing between them.
The counter supports their weight as they lean against it, catching their breath. Misha’s mouth turns soft against his, and they swap lush kisses as come cools between them.
Misha’s hands keep smoothing over Jensen’s back, up and down. It’s nice, and Jensen feels warm and sated, face tucked into Misha’s neck. He’s come twice, and he’s ready to curl up and fall asleep.
It’s kind of not fair that Misha’s only had the chance to come once.
Jensen must say that out loud, because Misha pulls back and looks at him, the wicked gleam in his eye sparking aftershocks of pleasure across Jensen’s skin.
“Who says I didn’t go back to my own trailer and do the exact same thing?”
Jensen blinks at him because that is…that is something to picture.
Misha interrupts that thought with a smacking kiss before he pulls away completely, looking down at the mess on their fronts with a grin. “You can make it up to me, though,” he says, reaching for the tissues on the counter.
“Yeah?” His slowing heartbeat trips upward for a couple of beats.
“If you’re worried about being fair.”
Jensen grins back. “I wouldn’t want you to think I was stingy.”
“Of course not,” Misha says. “Now, your place or mine?”
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