SPN RPS: Going Down, Jensen/Misha (NC-17)
Jun. 19th, 2010 11:56 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
annundrielGoing Down
Jensen/Misha
NC-17
2727
Failing to heed the warning signs, Jensen willingly follows Misha into an elevator.
Massive thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
qthelights for helping me make this that much better.
When Jensen turns the corner and sees Misha standing in front of the hotel’s elevators, a shiver of warning skitters down his spine. Reaches out to tangle with the finger-shaped bruises smudged against his hips.
And when Misha looks up from his study of the carpet and offers Jensen a smile shot through with I know what—and who—you did last night, Jensen knows he should turn around and take the stairs.
Sadly, Jensen’s sense of self-preservation is failing him these days, and he joins Misha there with a smile and a Hey. The elevator arrives and dings, and Jensen follows Misha in even though he knows being alone with Misha in a tiny enclosed space is a Very Bad Idea.
Being alone with Misha is generally a Very Bad Idea. Especially if it’s in semi-public.
Even more so if Jensen only very recently made it back to his own room because he wanted to shower on his own, no distractions.
He follows Misha, and he really shouldn’t, because no sooner do the doors begin their slide shut than Misha’s on him, invading his personal space like he’s really the owner and Jensen’s late with the rent.
Jensen can resist.
Probably.
Jensen can probably resist.
Except the rush he gets when Misha looks at him like that is kind of addictive and he can still feel every place Misha’s mouth touched down the night before like it was only seconds ago.
Misha presses forward, forcing Jensen to step back until he’s against the wall, cool through his two layers of shirts, the bar around the perimeter of the elevator digging into his ass.
Hot all down Jensen’s front, Misha pins him there. His breath smells like mint—squeaky clean when Jensen knows that Misha is anything but—and his fingers mold around Jensen through his jeans. The grin he turns on Jensen when he finds him well on his way to hard is devious and feral.
Jensen shudders, grips Misha’s arms. Swallows hard. Can’t believe—
“Are we really going to do this here?”
“You shouldn’t have left, Jen.” Misha’s hand is tight on Jensen’s hip, the other coaxing him harder through the denim before slipping up to find the buckle on his belt. “You deprived me.”
Fingers flexing on Misha’s arms, Jensen draws in a stuttering breath, says, “You’re deprived of something all right.”
Shame. Good sense, maybe. The ability to keep it in his pants.
Misha laughs, incisors glinting in the artificial light, and doesn’t contradict him.
He’s apparently rubbing off on Jensen, more than literally, because Jensen does not do things like this. He does not get off on sex in public—or semi-public—places. He may be an actor, but he’s not an exhibitionist. Not really. Not when he can’t control who is watching.
What Jensen does get off on, however, is Misha. His hands and his voice, eyes and lips and tongue. Even the crazy shit that comes out of Misha’s mouth gets Jensen going, good or bad, makes him want to take action.
Misha just…does it for him.
Jensen is seriously, magnificently screwed.
“I bet,” Misha says, voice like hot caramel, coating everything and gumming up Jensen’s internal processor. “I bet I can get you off before we have to, well, get off.”
This is when Jensen should push him away. This is exactly when Jensen should practice some of his own self-control, because down this road lies madness. But Misha is right there, leading Jensen from sanity like some perverted Pied Piper. He smells like toothpaste and hotel-provided shampoo and the sheets Jensen slept on, and Jensen can’t do anything but hold on tight and push his hips into Misha’s touch, beg for more.
Misha gives it to him, leans in and drowns everything else out with his hands on Jensen’s dick and his tongue in Jensen’s mouth.
The kiss is filthy. Jensen groans into it, shoving against Misha enough to encourage but not enough to push away. He can’t remember why he ever thought he needed to shower alone. He should have just rolled over and into Misha when he’d woken up instead of disappearing. They could have done this in a bed, in the shower, against the closet door.
For a few seconds, Jensen forgets himself completely—Misha makes him forget himself—and then Misha’s pulling away, fingers quick on Jensen’s belt, reversing his work. Jensen’s about to protest because, seriously, what the hell, when he comes out of his Misha-induced haze and realizes the elevator has stopped and the doors are opening, revealing a crowd of people waiting to push in.
They’re smiling, sunny and bright, laughing loudly at something someone at the back of their group just said. Jensen catches something about breakfast buffets and “Don’t let Bob near anything that says, ‘all you can eat,’” followed by another laugh and a protesting “Hey!” An older man sporting a fanny pack smiles widely at them as he enters.
“Sorry,” he says. “Looks like we’ve all got to get a little friendly this morning.”
Jensen offers him a tight-lipped smile and shoves his hands in his pockets, hopes it will cover how hard he is.
Misha just chuckles, pulling Jensen along the wall, back into the corner.
Jensen digs his hands deeper, resists the urge to strangle him.
“No problem,” Misha says. “We don’t bite.”
That’s a goddamn lie. Jensen’s got the marks to prove it. They both do.
Misha uses Jensen’s elbow to maneuver him, shuffling them both to his satisfaction until Jensen can feel Misha behind him. There’s a part of Jensen—his dick mostly—that feels hugely disappointed by the interruption, hates everyone for existing, even Misha. Especially Misha, since it’s his fault Jensen’s hard in the first place. His fault Jensen’s still hard, even though he’s surrounding by strangers with camera bags and sunburns, because he can feel Misha behind him, his whole body attune to that unique focus at his back.
There’s another part of him that’s relieved, though, because, yeah, Very Bad Idea.
He looks over his shoulder at Misha, ready to shrug and share a look of oh well, maybe later.
The look Misha gives him very clearly says, You aren’t getting off that easily, mister. He even somehow manages to acknowledge the word play in one glance. It’s impressive, what Misha can convey in a look.
Jensen starts when Misha’s hands find his hips, pulling Jensen back into him until they’re plastered front to back, Misha’s knees knocking against his. Jensen’s gaze snaps forward, eyes skipping over their fellow passengers. No one’s paying any attention to them—they’re all talking about how well they slept, how great the water pressure is even up on the twentieth floor—and Jensen thanks his lucky fucking stars that they ended up with a group of tourists who aren’t fans of the show.
Breathing heavily through his nose, Jensen tries to settle the boiling in his blood. Finds it impossible with Misha’s fingers skimming beneath the hems of his shirts, hot trails left in their wake like sparklers on the Fourth of July.
There is one thing to be thankful for; Jensen dressed for comfort, shirts untucked, hanging long and a little loose. Ready to hide a multitude of sins as Misha’s hands slide under them.
One of the men in front of Jensen turns his head away from the woman next to him to cough, catches Jensen’s eye from beneath the brim of his visor and nods.
Jensen nods back, tries to act normal when normal has been getting blown out of the fucking water since he met Misha. Heart thudding wildly in his chest, Jensen knows he probably looks constipated. He digs his fingernails into his palms, reminding himself not to move, not to touch. If he takes his hands out of his pockets, he’ll be too tempted to jump Misha or kill him. He doesn’t want an audience for either.
Misha’s fingers slide just below the waistband of Jensen’s pants, slip past the elastic of his underwear, glide back between them to find the crease of his ass, the tip of one finger teasing between his cheeks. He doesn’t get far, for which Jensen is grateful, but that one finger, so near yet so far from where Jensen would really like it, makes Jensen throb with want. Makes him want to undo his belt himself, make things that much easier, screw the consequences.
He flexes his ass, muscles tightening, and knows Misha feels it when Misha’s breath gusts hot and heavy against the back of Jensen’s neck, the contrast with the air conditioned elevator making Jensen shiver.
Misha’s finger disappears and his hands find Jensen’s belt loops, pulling Jensen back and pressing his hips forward until there’s no doubt in Jensen’s mind that Misha’s as hard as he is, the kinky fucker.
Of course, who is Jensen to talk?
Of all the places Jensen ever thought he’d want to get off? A crowded elevator was not one of them.
Christ, he can’t believe he’s still hard.
Misha rubs against him, his cock a hot ridge against Jensen’s ass even through the layers of denim.
Jensen bites back a triumphant grin—he’s not completely without control here—and remembers that they did this not so long ago with so much less between them. Misha’s chest against Jensen’s back, cock following fingers where they’d slid with sweat and lube between Jensen’s cheeks. Remembers how full he’d felt when Misha had finally stopped teasing him—teasing the both of them—and pushed forward, slid all of the way home until Jensen was gasping, grasping, fucking and being fucked and—
The elevator stops again and Jensen tenses, brought back to the here and now. He does not need more people in here until they’re packed like sardines. The doors open to reveal another group, as large as the last. They take one look inside and, chuckling, say they’ll wait for the next one.
Misha takes the opportunity, everyone distracted around them, to reach around and cup Jensen through his jeans, shirttails obscuring the view. Jensen’s hips jerk violently, surprised, and Misha moves his hand away from Jensen’s cock to slip beneath Jensen’s shirts, soothing and maddening as he shushes him. Like Jensen needs the reminder to play this close to his chest.
“You’re a bad influence,” Jensen gets out through gritted teeth as the doors close, trying to push his ass back against Misha without looking like he’s encouraging someone to fuck him in public.
Misha’s breath is hot on the back of his neck, tickling the short hairs. “That’s a matter of perspective, Jensen,” Misha says. “For example, I think I’m a pretty good influence.”
His hand sneaks down the plane of Jensen’s stomach, fingers slipping between Jensen’s belly and belt, tickling through the line of hair, following it downward only to stop out of reach of anything good, the tips of his fingers tantalizing hints of focused heat just short of Jensen’s cock.
It drives Jensen crazy.
He squirms against Misha, rocks on his heels, the balls of his feet, tries to get Misha to go a little bit farther. Touch him where he wants to be touched.
Misha’s hands on him are firm, though, steady. Misha may be affected, but this is still Misha’s show to run.
There’s a surge of laughter from the group, starting somewhere in the middle and rippling outward.
“You’re much more relaxed, you know,” Misha whispers into the curve of his neck, almost drowned out by the sound surrounding them, “after I’ve fucked you. I know you like that. Know you like it when I spread you open, work you with my fingers. I know you like my hands, Jensen. There’s no denying that, not with the way you watch them.”
It’s true, it’s so fucking true. Misha has him pegged; unfairly, since Misha’s still at least half a conundrum himself. Misha’s hands will be his undoing, his downfall. They touch him and know him, slip around him and inside him and…
A small groan escapes and Jensen blushes, hates that he’s getting off on having Misha—no, on Misha having him like this.
Misha leans closer, Jensen feeling the words against his skin as much as hearing them. “What was that, Jen? Were you denying it?”
Jensen squeezes his eyes shut, shakes his head. He opens his eyes and licks his lips, stares resolutely at the canary-yellow dye job in front of him.
“You seemed to like my influence last night”—Misha’s fingers find Jensen’s hip, fit against it one, two, three, pinky smoothing over skin—“back in my room”—a hint of teeth against the shell of Jensen’s ear—“seemed to like it a lot.”
Jensen bites his lip, resists the urge to groan again. “That was—” He swallows, his voice thick. “Those were different circumstances.”
“Ah,” Misha says, and Jensen’s cock throbs at the way it comes out, less understanding and more breathy pleasure as Misha pushes forward. Jensen shifts his weight and pushes back, welcomes it.
Misha’s hand slides across Jensen’s skin, beneath his shirt, the tip of a finger dipping into his navel before he moves on to Jensen’s other hip. He finds his hold there unerringly, like Jensen’s an instrument Misha’s an expert at playing.
And, fuck, Misha is, he really is. He presses his fingers against the marks he left on Jensen’s skin. Presses his dick against Jensen’s ass, his lips to the hollow behind Jensen’s ear, his tongue flickering out. “Jensen,” Misha says, his voice dipping into the low tones that make goose bumps stand out on Jensen’s skin, his hips a slow drag behind Jensen, fingers insistent. “Jensen. The circumstances don’t matter. You know you want this. You want this as much as you wanted it last night. As much as you wanted it a week ago. A month.”
Jensen nods, can no more deny that than he can deny Misha.
“Then quit fighting it,” Misha says, forehead pressed to the curve of Jensen’s head, tip of his nose tickling against Jensen’s neck. “Come on, Jensen. Come.”
Jensen tries to hold it together, tries to keep himself from flying apart in a million pieces, but with Misha’s hands on his skin, Misha’s voice in his ear, he can’t anymore. Can’t deny it, can’t stop it. Doesn’t want to. Gives in and comes, bright lights bursting across his eyelids as he squeezes them shut, bottom lip sore as he fights to keep quiet. He trembles against Misha. Shakes apart under Misha’s knowing hands and clever fingers, Misha’s voice and Misha’s touch crowding everything else out until there’s nothing left but the two of them at the eye of the storm, charged stillness in the back corner of a crowded elevator.
Minutes or moments or years later, the elevator dings at the lobby and Jensen blinks his eyes open, watches the elevator empty, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t turn around. Focuses instead on the obscenely yellow hair, a voice that must be Bob floating back, wondering if the buffet really is all you can eat or if that’s false advertising. Mr. Fanny Pack asks if they have an itinerary for the day or if they’re just winging it.
Jensen knows Misha is grinning behind him, looking insufferably pleased; he doesn’t need to turn around to see it.
He’s flushed and his underwear is sticking to him and he should be downright pissed at Misha, he should be livid.
He’s not.
“Told you I could do it,” Misha says, hands sliding from Jensen’s skin.
Jensen steps away, pulling his hands from his pockets, stretching his fingers. He turns to find Misha looking at him like he’s not sure how Jensen’s actually going to react now that the deed is done. “I didn’t exactly try to stop you.”
Misha watches him contemplatively as the last few people move through the door. His pupils are blown and his lips look as wrecked as Jensen’s must be—pink and full and bitten. “Mmm,” he hums. “No, you didn’t.”
Jensen takes another step, presses the number for their floor. Hits the button marked “door close” for good measure. Misha’s eyes are wide when Jensen turns back to him.
“We forgot something upstairs,” Jensen says, grinning, all teeth.
The doors slide shut behind him.
Jensen/Misha
NC-17
2727
Failing to heed the warning signs, Jensen willingly follows Misha into an elevator.
Massive thanks to
qthelights for helping me make this that much better.When Jensen turns the corner and sees Misha standing in front of the hotel’s elevators, a shiver of warning skitters down his spine. Reaches out to tangle with the finger-shaped bruises smudged against his hips.
And when Misha looks up from his study of the carpet and offers Jensen a smile shot through with I know what—and who—you did last night, Jensen knows he should turn around and take the stairs.
Sadly, Jensen’s sense of self-preservation is failing him these days, and he joins Misha there with a smile and a Hey. The elevator arrives and dings, and Jensen follows Misha in even though he knows being alone with Misha in a tiny enclosed space is a Very Bad Idea.
Being alone with Misha is generally a Very Bad Idea. Especially if it’s in semi-public.
Even more so if Jensen only very recently made it back to his own room because he wanted to shower on his own, no distractions.
He follows Misha, and he really shouldn’t, because no sooner do the doors begin their slide shut than Misha’s on him, invading his personal space like he’s really the owner and Jensen’s late with the rent.
Jensen can resist.
Probably.
Jensen can probably resist.
Except the rush he gets when Misha looks at him like that is kind of addictive and he can still feel every place Misha’s mouth touched down the night before like it was only seconds ago.
Misha presses forward, forcing Jensen to step back until he’s against the wall, cool through his two layers of shirts, the bar around the perimeter of the elevator digging into his ass.
Hot all down Jensen’s front, Misha pins him there. His breath smells like mint—squeaky clean when Jensen knows that Misha is anything but—and his fingers mold around Jensen through his jeans. The grin he turns on Jensen when he finds him well on his way to hard is devious and feral.
Jensen shudders, grips Misha’s arms. Swallows hard. Can’t believe—
“Are we really going to do this here?”
“You shouldn’t have left, Jen.” Misha’s hand is tight on Jensen’s hip, the other coaxing him harder through the denim before slipping up to find the buckle on his belt. “You deprived me.”
Fingers flexing on Misha’s arms, Jensen draws in a stuttering breath, says, “You’re deprived of something all right.”
Shame. Good sense, maybe. The ability to keep it in his pants.
Misha laughs, incisors glinting in the artificial light, and doesn’t contradict him.
He’s apparently rubbing off on Jensen, more than literally, because Jensen does not do things like this. He does not get off on sex in public—or semi-public—places. He may be an actor, but he’s not an exhibitionist. Not really. Not when he can’t control who is watching.
What Jensen does get off on, however, is Misha. His hands and his voice, eyes and lips and tongue. Even the crazy shit that comes out of Misha’s mouth gets Jensen going, good or bad, makes him want to take action.
Misha just…does it for him.
Jensen is seriously, magnificently screwed.
“I bet,” Misha says, voice like hot caramel, coating everything and gumming up Jensen’s internal processor. “I bet I can get you off before we have to, well, get off.”
This is when Jensen should push him away. This is exactly when Jensen should practice some of his own self-control, because down this road lies madness. But Misha is right there, leading Jensen from sanity like some perverted Pied Piper. He smells like toothpaste and hotel-provided shampoo and the sheets Jensen slept on, and Jensen can’t do anything but hold on tight and push his hips into Misha’s touch, beg for more.
Misha gives it to him, leans in and drowns everything else out with his hands on Jensen’s dick and his tongue in Jensen’s mouth.
The kiss is filthy. Jensen groans into it, shoving against Misha enough to encourage but not enough to push away. He can’t remember why he ever thought he needed to shower alone. He should have just rolled over and into Misha when he’d woken up instead of disappearing. They could have done this in a bed, in the shower, against the closet door.
For a few seconds, Jensen forgets himself completely—Misha makes him forget himself—and then Misha’s pulling away, fingers quick on Jensen’s belt, reversing his work. Jensen’s about to protest because, seriously, what the hell, when he comes out of his Misha-induced haze and realizes the elevator has stopped and the doors are opening, revealing a crowd of people waiting to push in.
They’re smiling, sunny and bright, laughing loudly at something someone at the back of their group just said. Jensen catches something about breakfast buffets and “Don’t let Bob near anything that says, ‘all you can eat,’” followed by another laugh and a protesting “Hey!” An older man sporting a fanny pack smiles widely at them as he enters.
“Sorry,” he says. “Looks like we’ve all got to get a little friendly this morning.”
Jensen offers him a tight-lipped smile and shoves his hands in his pockets, hopes it will cover how hard he is.
Misha just chuckles, pulling Jensen along the wall, back into the corner.
Jensen digs his hands deeper, resists the urge to strangle him.
“No problem,” Misha says. “We don’t bite.”
That’s a goddamn lie. Jensen’s got the marks to prove it. They both do.
Misha uses Jensen’s elbow to maneuver him, shuffling them both to his satisfaction until Jensen can feel Misha behind him. There’s a part of Jensen—his dick mostly—that feels hugely disappointed by the interruption, hates everyone for existing, even Misha. Especially Misha, since it’s his fault Jensen’s hard in the first place. His fault Jensen’s still hard, even though he’s surrounding by strangers with camera bags and sunburns, because he can feel Misha behind him, his whole body attune to that unique focus at his back.
There’s another part of him that’s relieved, though, because, yeah, Very Bad Idea.
He looks over his shoulder at Misha, ready to shrug and share a look of oh well, maybe later.
The look Misha gives him very clearly says, You aren’t getting off that easily, mister. He even somehow manages to acknowledge the word play in one glance. It’s impressive, what Misha can convey in a look.
Jensen starts when Misha’s hands find his hips, pulling Jensen back into him until they’re plastered front to back, Misha’s knees knocking against his. Jensen’s gaze snaps forward, eyes skipping over their fellow passengers. No one’s paying any attention to them—they’re all talking about how well they slept, how great the water pressure is even up on the twentieth floor—and Jensen thanks his lucky fucking stars that they ended up with a group of tourists who aren’t fans of the show.
Breathing heavily through his nose, Jensen tries to settle the boiling in his blood. Finds it impossible with Misha’s fingers skimming beneath the hems of his shirts, hot trails left in their wake like sparklers on the Fourth of July.
There is one thing to be thankful for; Jensen dressed for comfort, shirts untucked, hanging long and a little loose. Ready to hide a multitude of sins as Misha’s hands slide under them.
One of the men in front of Jensen turns his head away from the woman next to him to cough, catches Jensen’s eye from beneath the brim of his visor and nods.
Jensen nods back, tries to act normal when normal has been getting blown out of the fucking water since he met Misha. Heart thudding wildly in his chest, Jensen knows he probably looks constipated. He digs his fingernails into his palms, reminding himself not to move, not to touch. If he takes his hands out of his pockets, he’ll be too tempted to jump Misha or kill him. He doesn’t want an audience for either.
Misha’s fingers slide just below the waistband of Jensen’s pants, slip past the elastic of his underwear, glide back between them to find the crease of his ass, the tip of one finger teasing between his cheeks. He doesn’t get far, for which Jensen is grateful, but that one finger, so near yet so far from where Jensen would really like it, makes Jensen throb with want. Makes him want to undo his belt himself, make things that much easier, screw the consequences.
He flexes his ass, muscles tightening, and knows Misha feels it when Misha’s breath gusts hot and heavy against the back of Jensen’s neck, the contrast with the air conditioned elevator making Jensen shiver.
Misha’s finger disappears and his hands find Jensen’s belt loops, pulling Jensen back and pressing his hips forward until there’s no doubt in Jensen’s mind that Misha’s as hard as he is, the kinky fucker.
Of course, who is Jensen to talk?
Of all the places Jensen ever thought he’d want to get off? A crowded elevator was not one of them.
Christ, he can’t believe he’s still hard.
Misha rubs against him, his cock a hot ridge against Jensen’s ass even through the layers of denim.
Jensen bites back a triumphant grin—he’s not completely without control here—and remembers that they did this not so long ago with so much less between them. Misha’s chest against Jensen’s back, cock following fingers where they’d slid with sweat and lube between Jensen’s cheeks. Remembers how full he’d felt when Misha had finally stopped teasing him—teasing the both of them—and pushed forward, slid all of the way home until Jensen was gasping, grasping, fucking and being fucked and—
The elevator stops again and Jensen tenses, brought back to the here and now. He does not need more people in here until they’re packed like sardines. The doors open to reveal another group, as large as the last. They take one look inside and, chuckling, say they’ll wait for the next one.
Misha takes the opportunity, everyone distracted around them, to reach around and cup Jensen through his jeans, shirttails obscuring the view. Jensen’s hips jerk violently, surprised, and Misha moves his hand away from Jensen’s cock to slip beneath Jensen’s shirts, soothing and maddening as he shushes him. Like Jensen needs the reminder to play this close to his chest.
“You’re a bad influence,” Jensen gets out through gritted teeth as the doors close, trying to push his ass back against Misha without looking like he’s encouraging someone to fuck him in public.
Misha’s breath is hot on the back of his neck, tickling the short hairs. “That’s a matter of perspective, Jensen,” Misha says. “For example, I think I’m a pretty good influence.”
His hand sneaks down the plane of Jensen’s stomach, fingers slipping between Jensen’s belly and belt, tickling through the line of hair, following it downward only to stop out of reach of anything good, the tips of his fingers tantalizing hints of focused heat just short of Jensen’s cock.
It drives Jensen crazy.
He squirms against Misha, rocks on his heels, the balls of his feet, tries to get Misha to go a little bit farther. Touch him where he wants to be touched.
Misha’s hands on him are firm, though, steady. Misha may be affected, but this is still Misha’s show to run.
There’s a surge of laughter from the group, starting somewhere in the middle and rippling outward.
“You’re much more relaxed, you know,” Misha whispers into the curve of his neck, almost drowned out by the sound surrounding them, “after I’ve fucked you. I know you like that. Know you like it when I spread you open, work you with my fingers. I know you like my hands, Jensen. There’s no denying that, not with the way you watch them.”
It’s true, it’s so fucking true. Misha has him pegged; unfairly, since Misha’s still at least half a conundrum himself. Misha’s hands will be his undoing, his downfall. They touch him and know him, slip around him and inside him and…
A small groan escapes and Jensen blushes, hates that he’s getting off on having Misha—no, on Misha having him like this.
Misha leans closer, Jensen feeling the words against his skin as much as hearing them. “What was that, Jen? Were you denying it?”
Jensen squeezes his eyes shut, shakes his head. He opens his eyes and licks his lips, stares resolutely at the canary-yellow dye job in front of him.
“You seemed to like my influence last night”—Misha’s fingers find Jensen’s hip, fit against it one, two, three, pinky smoothing over skin—“back in my room”—a hint of teeth against the shell of Jensen’s ear—“seemed to like it a lot.”
Jensen bites his lip, resists the urge to groan again. “That was—” He swallows, his voice thick. “Those were different circumstances.”
“Ah,” Misha says, and Jensen’s cock throbs at the way it comes out, less understanding and more breathy pleasure as Misha pushes forward. Jensen shifts his weight and pushes back, welcomes it.
Misha’s hand slides across Jensen’s skin, beneath his shirt, the tip of a finger dipping into his navel before he moves on to Jensen’s other hip. He finds his hold there unerringly, like Jensen’s an instrument Misha’s an expert at playing.
And, fuck, Misha is, he really is. He presses his fingers against the marks he left on Jensen’s skin. Presses his dick against Jensen’s ass, his lips to the hollow behind Jensen’s ear, his tongue flickering out. “Jensen,” Misha says, his voice dipping into the low tones that make goose bumps stand out on Jensen’s skin, his hips a slow drag behind Jensen, fingers insistent. “Jensen. The circumstances don’t matter. You know you want this. You want this as much as you wanted it last night. As much as you wanted it a week ago. A month.”
Jensen nods, can no more deny that than he can deny Misha.
“Then quit fighting it,” Misha says, forehead pressed to the curve of Jensen’s head, tip of his nose tickling against Jensen’s neck. “Come on, Jensen. Come.”
Jensen tries to hold it together, tries to keep himself from flying apart in a million pieces, but with Misha’s hands on his skin, Misha’s voice in his ear, he can’t anymore. Can’t deny it, can’t stop it. Doesn’t want to. Gives in and comes, bright lights bursting across his eyelids as he squeezes them shut, bottom lip sore as he fights to keep quiet. He trembles against Misha. Shakes apart under Misha’s knowing hands and clever fingers, Misha’s voice and Misha’s touch crowding everything else out until there’s nothing left but the two of them at the eye of the storm, charged stillness in the back corner of a crowded elevator.
Minutes or moments or years later, the elevator dings at the lobby and Jensen blinks his eyes open, watches the elevator empty, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t turn around. Focuses instead on the obscenely yellow hair, a voice that must be Bob floating back, wondering if the buffet really is all you can eat or if that’s false advertising. Mr. Fanny Pack asks if they have an itinerary for the day or if they’re just winging it.
Jensen knows Misha is grinning behind him, looking insufferably pleased; he doesn’t need to turn around to see it.
He’s flushed and his underwear is sticking to him and he should be downright pissed at Misha, he should be livid.
He’s not.
“Told you I could do it,” Misha says, hands sliding from Jensen’s skin.
Jensen steps away, pulling his hands from his pockets, stretching his fingers. He turns to find Misha looking at him like he’s not sure how Jensen’s actually going to react now that the deed is done. “I didn’t exactly try to stop you.”
Misha watches him contemplatively as the last few people move through the door. His pupils are blown and his lips look as wrecked as Jensen’s must be—pink and full and bitten. “Mmm,” he hums. “No, you didn’t.”
Jensen takes another step, presses the number for their floor. Hits the button marked “door close” for good measure. Misha’s eyes are wide when Jensen turns back to him.
“We forgot something upstairs,” Jensen says, grinning, all teeth.
The doors slide shut behind him.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2010-06-20 08:22 am (UTC)“No problem,” Misha says. “We don’t bite.”
That’s a goddamn lie. Jensen’s got the marks to prove it. They both do.
Snickering most of the way through, but this did make me laugh out loud. Thank you - such fun!!
(no subject)
Date: 2010-06-21 05:39 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2010-06-20 08:40 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2010-06-21 05:45 am (UTC)I'm so happy you liked it. ;D
(no subject)
Date: 2010-06-20 10:04 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2010-06-21 05:57 am (UTC)Also, thank you again for lending me your beta skills. <3
(no subject)
Date: 2010-06-20 01:38 pm (UTC)*blushes*
Damn, that was HOT! Misha.... Misha's hands.... yeah, I'll be distracted all day at work today. I need my bunk!
(no subject)
Date: 2010-06-21 06:05 am (UTC)Misha's hands are wonderfully distracting, aren't they? Mmmmm.
I'm so glad you liked it. Thank you!
(no subject)
Date: 2010-06-20 04:49 pm (UTC)Jensen and me and a whooooole lot of other people. Jesus.
...Do I get to pester about what happens in the hotel room? Also now I kind of want to see Jensen unravel Misha, even though I think that might not be possible. XD
(no subject)
Date: 2010-06-21 06:09 am (UTC)It's true, he is. And we love him for it.
Also now I kind of want to see Jensen unravel Misha, even though I think that might not be possible.
It's funny that you say that. ;) Because two days after my first elevator!porn notes, I made a note about Jensen getting back at Misha and that it would be neat to see the tables turned a little. If possible. So, um. It's on my mind? :D
(no subject)
From:(no subject)
Date: 2010-06-20 05:48 pm (UTC)'Jensen is seriously, magnificently screwed.'
In more ways than one, it sounds like ;)
(no subject)
Date: 2010-06-21 06:12 am (UTC)And he loooves it. Don't let his cranky face fool you. He knows a good thing when it's got him. ;)
(no subject)
From:(no subject)
Date: 2010-06-20 07:03 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2010-06-21 06:14 am (UTC)And what would Misha be, without the tease?
(no subject)
Date: 2010-06-20 07:10 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2010-06-21 06:15 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2010-06-20 07:12 pm (UTC)“I bet,” Misha says, voice like hot caramel, coating everything and gumming up Jensen’s internal processor.
i just love that line. i will never think about hot caramel the same away again! *g*
(no subject)
Date: 2010-06-21 06:24 am (UTC)i will never think about hot caramel the same away again!
Same here. (I kept thinking caramel apples while writing for some reason.) I'll also never see elevators quite the same.
(no subject)
Date: 2010-06-20 07:31 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2010-06-21 06:26 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2010-06-20 07:59 pm (UTC)Lovely, well done :D
(no subject)
Date: 2010-06-21 06:28 am (UTC)Thank you!
(no subject)
Date: 2010-06-20 08:32 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2010-06-21 06:31 am (UTC)Thank you! I'm so happy you liked it!
(no subject)
Date: 2010-06-20 08:43 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2010-06-22 06:19 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2010-06-20 09:20 pm (UTC)oh really? i dont think so *chuckle*
btw, castiel running for president? im so supporting that.
(no subject)
Date: 2010-06-22 05:51 am (UTC)I'm so glad you enjoyed it! :D
(no subject)
Date: 2010-06-20 09:34 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2010-06-22 05:58 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2010-06-20 11:59 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2010-06-22 06:00 am (UTC)I love that you can't really blame Jensen for caving and you can't really blame Misha for not keeping his hands to himself. ;)
(no subject)
Date: 2010-06-21 03:08 am (UTC)Fantastic as ever. I particularly love the way Misha is characterized in this story. Sneaky Misha. ;)
(no subject)
Date: 2010-06-22 06:03 am (UTC)Same. You'd think that prior to writing it I'd have some idea, but noooooo....
Thank you! I am so happy you liked Misha! As with anything, I think the more I write Misha, the more comfortable I'll be about it.
(no subject)
Date: 2010-06-21 06:09 am (UTC)Oh god this is so hot and so "inappropriate" (all those people, such a small space!) and I love it. Seriously, this is fantastic & as always so well written. You're still (and always) the reigning queen of awesome!
(no subject)
Date: 2010-06-22 06:15 am (UTC)I'm so glad you liked it!
(no subject)
Date: 2010-06-21 10:26 am (UTC)Epic!Fail on my part.
ANYWAY.
The urgency of this is delicious. Jensen torn between "ho shit", desire, and fear of being caught all while being expertly handled by Misha? Nothing short of awesome.
♥
(no subject)
Date: 2010-06-22 06:38 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2010-06-21 04:05 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2010-06-22 06:43 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2010-06-22 04:45 am (UTC)i'm mostly inarticulate now because HAWT.
(no subject)
Date: 2010-06-22 06:54 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2010-06-22 09:05 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2010-06-23 05:59 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2010-06-22 03:05 pm (UTC)Wow that was hot!
We need to see Jensen's revenge now, we really really do! *flutters eyelashes*
(no subject)
Date: 2010-06-23 06:01 am (UTC)I'll admit, Jensen's revenge is definitely on my mind. ;) We'll see if it gets any farther.
(no subject)
Date: 2010-06-22 11:44 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2010-06-23 06:03 am (UTC)Misha is a tease, but at least he eventually follows through. ;D
(no subject)
Date: 2010-06-23 11:33 pm (UTC)Whooo girl you are feeding my Jensen/Misha habit like my own personal crack supplier.
(no subject)
Date: 2010-06-24 06:09 am (UTC)Glad I could be of service. ;)