Fic: Nonconformist (Jared/Misha, NC-17)
Archiving post! I think everyone who might have wanted to read this has already read it here, at transfixeddream's meme, so do please ignore. :)
Title: Nonconformist
Pairing: Jared/Misha
Rating: NC-17
Words: ~1000
Summary: Misha's come across Jared's type before. Sure, he's big, but something about him says fill me.
It was never unexpected, not really. Misha's come across Jared's type before -- all that bottled-up energy waiting to be harnessed, needing direction; the love me grin, impossible to say no to. He's a big guy, sure, but Misha's always been conscious of his youngness as well as his size, the way his face goes soft and pleased when he's praised. There's something flamboyant in his gestures, in his sartorial decisions, something about the way he tosses his hair out of his face that made Misha sit up and pay attention, wondering. Suspecting. Jared's fucking hot, all the smooth, tan miles of him, and Misha's thought about getting his hands inside him, tangling fingers in that hair hard enough to hurt. Jared never pushed for it, exactly, but he never protested, either, when Misha brushed fingers across the rise of his cheekbone, traced the muscles of his back through his shirt. It was all -- interesting -- and so, although it's gratifying that they've wound up here like this, it isn't unexpected; isn't something Misha would never have imagined. Truth is, he was pretty sure Jared would be into this.
Shit, though, is he into it. Misha's no stranger to semi-public sex, can usually keep his own voice constrained to the occasional bitten-off gasp, but Jared has no such restraint, is as intense in this as he is in everything. He's doing his best, long fingers white-knuckled on the arms of the chair as Misha fucks up into him, but his best is apparently a low, pleading moan in his throat as opposed to all-out yelling, and it's, damn, it is not subtle.
"Jared," Misha says, one hand slipping up from the spur of Jared's hip, over the flat muscles of his stomach. Jared whines, hips jerking hotly in a jagged figure-eight on Misha's cock, and it isn't exactly what Misha had in mind, but it makes it kind of hard for him to stay focused. His thumb finds Jared's nipple, rubs over the bud of it while he finds his breath again.
"Jared." Up, then, over the promontory of Jared's clavicle where the sweat has licked along the bone. Jared's not listening, thighs splayed long and golden either side of Misha's hips as he fucks down onto him. He's gorgeous, one long symphony of muscles pulling and slackening under his skin as he lifts himself at the crest of every thrust, lets gravity split him open again. Misha's hips pulse up instinctually into Jared's heat, but all the effort is Jared's, the tendons straining in his neck as he fucks himself, wanton and hard. Misha curls his fingers, for a moment, around Jared's throat; waits for his breath to hitch a little before he pulls away, thrusts fingers unceremoniously into Jared's hair and makes a fist. "Jared."
"Shit," Jared hisses through his teeth, and the word is a protest, but the way he jackknifes forward is not, and Misha feels the heat of that thought shoot through him, wrapping itself around the base of his spine. "Misha --"
"Lot of people out there, Jared," Misha puts in, cutting him off, and his hand tightens in Jared's hair, tugs at it, all wrist. "You really want the whole crew to know what a slut you are for this, huh?"
"Christ," Jared groans, pulse of precome pearling at the slit of his cock, and fuck, he does. He does, and Misha's abruptly hot and cold all over, imagining it. Imagining --
"Gonna hear you, babe." His voice is low and dark, obscenely rough in his own ears, but there's no affectation prompting it, only the clench and shift of Jared's body making his chest go strange, his nerves thready. Jared's still moving, faster, now, and Misha tugs again at his stupid long hair and fucks up hard. "Gonna hear you, if you go on like this, whining for it." Another tug, and Jared shoves forward on an inchoate sound, whole body trembling. "You want that, don't you? Want everyone to see how good you are, how much you fucking love taking my cock, huh? Don't you?"
He hadn't meant to get into this, this kind of spewed filth, but the way Jared's moaning, cock slapping up against his belly, makes it hard to stop, even if it's doing absolutely nothing to actually keep the noise down. Jared's, Christ, Jared's close, his thrusts becoming erratic and desperate, ass clenching around Misha's cock, and Misha can't ignore the way Jared's cries get sharper with Misha's every word; can't stop thinking about the way they must look like this, himself clothed and Jared naked, a golden god come undone on Misha's cock. Shit.
"God, you do," he growls, and Jared's half-frantic, now, forearms trembling with the effort of holding himself up as he moves. "Want them to see you, want Jensen to see you letting me fuck your ass like a whore, letting -- "
"Fuck," Jared spits out, almost a sob as his body convulses, rhythm shattering into splinters. "Fuck, fuck," and like that, he's coming, cock jerking, wetness spattering his own belly and Misha's shirt. "God -- "
Misha doesn't need the soundtrack, not really, or even the visual, not with how good Jared feels on his dick, but they certainly help, Jesus. He turns his face, nips at the curve of Jared's jaw and clenches his hand at Jared's hip, holding him steady as he rocks up hard. "Yeah," he mutters; pins Jared steady as he takes things over for the last few strokes, fucking up hard into Jared's body. "God, so fucking hot, shit --"
He comes like a punch, and Jared makes a soft sound of assent at the feel of it, of Misha filling him up.
*
Later, at lunch, Misha leans over casually to push Jared's hair behind his ear, just to see him blush, the way he looks away from Jensen all hot guilt and conflict.
He wonders how Jared might feel about making room for two.
Title: Nonconformist
Pairing: Jared/Misha
Rating: NC-17
Words: ~1000
Summary: Misha's come across Jared's type before. Sure, he's big, but something about him says fill me.
It was never unexpected, not really. Misha's come across Jared's type before -- all that bottled-up energy waiting to be harnessed, needing direction; the love me grin, impossible to say no to. He's a big guy, sure, but Misha's always been conscious of his youngness as well as his size, the way his face goes soft and pleased when he's praised. There's something flamboyant in his gestures, in his sartorial decisions, something about the way he tosses his hair out of his face that made Misha sit up and pay attention, wondering. Suspecting. Jared's fucking hot, all the smooth, tan miles of him, and Misha's thought about getting his hands inside him, tangling fingers in that hair hard enough to hurt. Jared never pushed for it, exactly, but he never protested, either, when Misha brushed fingers across the rise of his cheekbone, traced the muscles of his back through his shirt. It was all -- interesting -- and so, although it's gratifying that they've wound up here like this, it isn't unexpected; isn't something Misha would never have imagined. Truth is, he was pretty sure Jared would be into this.
Shit, though, is he into it. Misha's no stranger to semi-public sex, can usually keep his own voice constrained to the occasional bitten-off gasp, but Jared has no such restraint, is as intense in this as he is in everything. He's doing his best, long fingers white-knuckled on the arms of the chair as Misha fucks up into him, but his best is apparently a low, pleading moan in his throat as opposed to all-out yelling, and it's, damn, it is not subtle.
"Jared," Misha says, one hand slipping up from the spur of Jared's hip, over the flat muscles of his stomach. Jared whines, hips jerking hotly in a jagged figure-eight on Misha's cock, and it isn't exactly what Misha had in mind, but it makes it kind of hard for him to stay focused. His thumb finds Jared's nipple, rubs over the bud of it while he finds his breath again.
"Jared." Up, then, over the promontory of Jared's clavicle where the sweat has licked along the bone. Jared's not listening, thighs splayed long and golden either side of Misha's hips as he fucks down onto him. He's gorgeous, one long symphony of muscles pulling and slackening under his skin as he lifts himself at the crest of every thrust, lets gravity split him open again. Misha's hips pulse up instinctually into Jared's heat, but all the effort is Jared's, the tendons straining in his neck as he fucks himself, wanton and hard. Misha curls his fingers, for a moment, around Jared's throat; waits for his breath to hitch a little before he pulls away, thrusts fingers unceremoniously into Jared's hair and makes a fist. "Jared."
"Shit," Jared hisses through his teeth, and the word is a protest, but the way he jackknifes forward is not, and Misha feels the heat of that thought shoot through him, wrapping itself around the base of his spine. "Misha --"
"Lot of people out there, Jared," Misha puts in, cutting him off, and his hand tightens in Jared's hair, tugs at it, all wrist. "You really want the whole crew to know what a slut you are for this, huh?"
"Christ," Jared groans, pulse of precome pearling at the slit of his cock, and fuck, he does. He does, and Misha's abruptly hot and cold all over, imagining it. Imagining --
"Gonna hear you, babe." His voice is low and dark, obscenely rough in his own ears, but there's no affectation prompting it, only the clench and shift of Jared's body making his chest go strange, his nerves thready. Jared's still moving, faster, now, and Misha tugs again at his stupid long hair and fucks up hard. "Gonna hear you, if you go on like this, whining for it." Another tug, and Jared shoves forward on an inchoate sound, whole body trembling. "You want that, don't you? Want everyone to see how good you are, how much you fucking love taking my cock, huh? Don't you?"
He hadn't meant to get into this, this kind of spewed filth, but the way Jared's moaning, cock slapping up against his belly, makes it hard to stop, even if it's doing absolutely nothing to actually keep the noise down. Jared's, Christ, Jared's close, his thrusts becoming erratic and desperate, ass clenching around Misha's cock, and Misha can't ignore the way Jared's cries get sharper with Misha's every word; can't stop thinking about the way they must look like this, himself clothed and Jared naked, a golden god come undone on Misha's cock. Shit.
"God, you do," he growls, and Jared's half-frantic, now, forearms trembling with the effort of holding himself up as he moves. "Want them to see you, want Jensen to see you letting me fuck your ass like a whore, letting -- "
"Fuck," Jared spits out, almost a sob as his body convulses, rhythm shattering into splinters. "Fuck, fuck," and like that, he's coming, cock jerking, wetness spattering his own belly and Misha's shirt. "God -- "
Misha doesn't need the soundtrack, not really, or even the visual, not with how good Jared feels on his dick, but they certainly help, Jesus. He turns his face, nips at the curve of Jared's jaw and clenches his hand at Jared's hip, holding him steady as he rocks up hard. "Yeah," he mutters; pins Jared steady as he takes things over for the last few strokes, fucking up hard into Jared's body. "God, so fucking hot, shit --"
He comes like a punch, and Jared makes a soft sound of assent at the feel of it, of Misha filling him up.
*
Later, at lunch, Misha leans over casually to push Jared's hair behind his ear, just to see him blush, the way he looks away from Jensen all hot guilt and conflict.
He wonders how Jared might feel about making room for two.