Fic: Barcelona - Jensen/Misha, NC-17
Title: Barcelona
Author: qthelights
Pairing: Jensen/Misha
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount:1460
Disclaimer: Not mine, didn't happen.
A/N: Written on twitter, slightly cleaned up afterwards.
Summary: Sometimes the romance of a city seeps into its visitors.
Barcelona
Maybe it's because they're in a foreign city, the romance of the exotic getting under hardened skin.
Maybe it's because the heat means there are buttons undone and sleeves rolled up, skin on display, and usually, they're bundled up like eskimos under layers of protection from the Vancouver chill.
Whatever it is, Jensen can't help it when he pulls Misha aside down a Barcelonan alley in the dusk with a sharp tug on his wrist, presses him up against sun warmed bricks and fits his hands around Misha's waist so easily. Lips drifting, brushing, teasing, until Misha's impatient whine makes him grin and capture Misha’s bottom lip with a bite.
Misha hums appreciatively, his own hands coming to rest on Jensen's hips, pulling him in close, and then Jensen stops teasing, both Misha and himself, and presses his mouth to Misha's. It opens beneath his straight away, as it always does, and the kiss is slow, heat building and tongues sliding. The skin of Misha's bare wrists slides along Jensen's waist as his hands creep up under the back of Jensen's shirt.
It's deliciously freeing and the slip slide of warm skin and absence of Canadian cold, the sound of the surf hitting the beach in the background, makes Jensen want to do all sorts of wanton things with Misha that they cannot do back home without freezing to death.
Jensen's worn blue jeans whisper as they brush against Misha's equally denim-clad thighs as he insinuates a leg between Misha’s. He wants to undress Misha, right here in the darkened alley that smells like heated clay and Geraniums, to slide his fingers to the catch of Misha's jeans, pull him out and jerk him off. But he can't seem to let go of Misha's waist, his fingers curling around the curve of the muscle of his side.
It’s ridiculous, how slim and muscled Misha is at the same time, how easily he could push him up against the stonework. Hitch him up like he was a slightly-built girl. But the power in Misha's arms as they pull Jensen's hips flush reminds him that he very plainly isn't.
Not by a long shot.
With only the thin cotton of their shirts on Jensen can feel acutely the heat of Misha's body as their ribs press together. The ring on Misha's index finger is hard and smooth against Jensen's skin as Misha's fingers slide down the back of his jeans, warm skin against skin. It makes Jensen shiver and push Misha harder into the wall; press his growing erection into the hard curve of Misha's hip. Misha whimpers into Jensen's mouth, fingers digging into the flesh of Jensen's ass.
But then Misha is laughing, Jensen can feel it in Misha's chest where it presses against his. He pulls back, amused. "Seriously?"
Misha grins, grinding his hips forward, lets Jensen feel the answering press of Misha's cock against his hip. "You really think fucking me in an alley in the middle of Spain is a good idea?"
Jensen considers Misha. The way his shirt is falling open at the neck, where it's hitched up under Jensen's palm at his waist, the swollen darkness of Misha's lips, obvious, even in the rapidly fading light as night descends. He shakes his head, presses back in and swipes his tongue over them, Misha chasing his mouth with his own when he pulls away.
"No. Not fuck,” Jensen says evenly, calmly. “I am totally going to blow you though."
Misha groans, which Jensen feels where they're pressed together. "God yes," Misha says, "Please..."
And Jensen is sliding down to crouch in the paved stone alley.
Misha's jeans are worn and soft, lighter in places that have been distracting Jensen all day, and now he knows why, can see the impression of Misha's erection where it fills out the lighter patch of denim.
Jensen's fingers slip the button of Misha's jeans and pull the zip down, Misha's fingers coming to rest in his hair. Jensen taps at the inside of Misha's knee, urging him to spread his legs wider. He complies. Jensen balances on the balls of his feet, his jeans tight against his thighs and uncomfortably digging in against his own erection. He doesn't care, lets the denim provide friction as he focuses on what’s in front of him instead.
In seconds he has Misha's cock out, palmed in his hand, the hot softness encasing hard muscle beneath, velvet under his tongue when he dips forward and slides it over the glistening bead at the head. Misha's hips stutter forward and Jensen lets his mouth encase the tip of his cock, slides his fingers up to press gently at Misha's stomach, hold him in place. Misha’s breath hitches and Jensen smiles around his mouthful of cock, drags his lips down the length, sucks him in.
Time slows and quickens in the same instance, the sound of laughter echoing down the streets from drunken revelers, the warm glow of lights coming on in the surrounding apartments bathing the shadows in orange highlights.
Jensen is keenly aware of the way they could be found at any moment. But he cares only for Misha's cock, heavy against his tongue, the scent of sweat and skin filling his senses, the soft tickle of curls as pubic hair brushes his lips, catches in the whiskers around his bearded mouth.
Misha is twitching above him, taut stomach muscles jumping against the pads of Jensen's fingertips. He brings his other hand up from where it rests on Misha's knee, wraps it around the base of Misha's cock and starts to stroke in time with the laves of his tongue and movement of his mouth.
Misha is tensing beneath him; he can feel the hardening pulse against his tongue. He slides his fingers up further under Misha's shirt scrapes a thumbnail against a nipple and feels him break.
He pulls off, pumps his hand over Misha's cock and watches as Misha's eyelids flutter and dark eyes catch his own. Misha is the only lover he’s ever had who opens their eyes when they come. And Misha is coming, slicking Jensen's hand and splattering on the stones at their feet.
Misha slumps against the building and Jensen licks him clean best he can, tucks him back in and zips him up before sliding up Misha's body, careful to keep him propped up standing.
He finds Misha's mouth and kisses him. Deep and sweet. Tasting. Feeling
Misha takes a shuddery breath, lungs expanding and pressing at Jensen's chest. And then Jensen is tugged and turned, flattened against the mud brick wall and Misha's hands are on his pants, unbuttoning, unzipping.
And then Misha's fingers - God, Misha's fucking fingers - are sliding in between jeans and cotton and skin. Wrapping and tugging and gliding and it only takes minutes, maybe seconds, before Jensen is falling too, coating the inside of his underwear, Misha's hand, as he comes hard with a groan and shaken breath.
Misha leans his forehead against Jensen’s and he can feel hot breath puffing past his cheek.
They stay like that, in the warm night air, for stolen moments - too long and too exposed - before Misha is pulling back, removing his hand from Jensen's pants, wiping it ineffectually against the wall
Misha's smile is warm and happy, sated. And Jensen knows his is matching, that they probably look like fools. He laughs and it echoes down the alley, and Misha grins.
Jensen does himself back up and tugs on Misha's wrist when he's ready, leads them back down to the main street where music and light plays happily with tourists.
The streets are full of exuberant people, the enticing smells of spices and foods that he can’t wait to try, the sound of guitars and castanets. It’s put on for the tourists, he knows, but he loves it nonetheless. Jensen’s shoulder brushes against Misha’s as they walk, their physical proximity covered by the crowds jostling past them.
Later, when they’re full of paella and shrimp, intoxicated on Sangria and the night begins to swirl around them, Jensen will lay Misha out on the bed of his hotel room, a salty warm breeze sliding over sweat-sheened skin as he lavishes attention on the parts of Misha’s body unattended in their back-alley groping.
Misha will squirm and pant beneath his mouth, then flip him over and sink down onto him, letting pretty moans fall from his mouth and get lost in the cries of the gulls outside the windows as dawn breaks low and glittering white over the sea.
Jensen thinks it’s ridiculous and harlequin, but as far as foreign cities go, where such things can be indulged and not talked of back home, Barcelona agrees with him.
Author: qthelights
Pairing: Jensen/Misha
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount:1460
Disclaimer: Not mine, didn't happen.
A/N: Written on twitter, slightly cleaned up afterwards.
Summary: Sometimes the romance of a city seeps into its visitors.
Barcelona
Maybe it's because they're in a foreign city, the romance of the exotic getting under hardened skin.
Maybe it's because the heat means there are buttons undone and sleeves rolled up, skin on display, and usually, they're bundled up like eskimos under layers of protection from the Vancouver chill.
Whatever it is, Jensen can't help it when he pulls Misha aside down a Barcelonan alley in the dusk with a sharp tug on his wrist, presses him up against sun warmed bricks and fits his hands around Misha's waist so easily. Lips drifting, brushing, teasing, until Misha's impatient whine makes him grin and capture Misha’s bottom lip with a bite.
Misha hums appreciatively, his own hands coming to rest on Jensen's hips, pulling him in close, and then Jensen stops teasing, both Misha and himself, and presses his mouth to Misha's. It opens beneath his straight away, as it always does, and the kiss is slow, heat building and tongues sliding. The skin of Misha's bare wrists slides along Jensen's waist as his hands creep up under the back of Jensen's shirt.
It's deliciously freeing and the slip slide of warm skin and absence of Canadian cold, the sound of the surf hitting the beach in the background, makes Jensen want to do all sorts of wanton things with Misha that they cannot do back home without freezing to death.
Jensen's worn blue jeans whisper as they brush against Misha's equally denim-clad thighs as he insinuates a leg between Misha’s. He wants to undress Misha, right here in the darkened alley that smells like heated clay and Geraniums, to slide his fingers to the catch of Misha's jeans, pull him out and jerk him off. But he can't seem to let go of Misha's waist, his fingers curling around the curve of the muscle of his side.
It’s ridiculous, how slim and muscled Misha is at the same time, how easily he could push him up against the stonework. Hitch him up like he was a slightly-built girl. But the power in Misha's arms as they pull Jensen's hips flush reminds him that he very plainly isn't.
Not by a long shot.
With only the thin cotton of their shirts on Jensen can feel acutely the heat of Misha's body as their ribs press together. The ring on Misha's index finger is hard and smooth against Jensen's skin as Misha's fingers slide down the back of his jeans, warm skin against skin. It makes Jensen shiver and push Misha harder into the wall; press his growing erection into the hard curve of Misha's hip. Misha whimpers into Jensen's mouth, fingers digging into the flesh of Jensen's ass.
But then Misha is laughing, Jensen can feel it in Misha's chest where it presses against his. He pulls back, amused. "Seriously?"
Misha grins, grinding his hips forward, lets Jensen feel the answering press of Misha's cock against his hip. "You really think fucking me in an alley in the middle of Spain is a good idea?"
Jensen considers Misha. The way his shirt is falling open at the neck, where it's hitched up under Jensen's palm at his waist, the swollen darkness of Misha's lips, obvious, even in the rapidly fading light as night descends. He shakes his head, presses back in and swipes his tongue over them, Misha chasing his mouth with his own when he pulls away.
"No. Not fuck,” Jensen says evenly, calmly. “I am totally going to blow you though."
Misha groans, which Jensen feels where they're pressed together. "God yes," Misha says, "Please..."
And Jensen is sliding down to crouch in the paved stone alley.
Misha's jeans are worn and soft, lighter in places that have been distracting Jensen all day, and now he knows why, can see the impression of Misha's erection where it fills out the lighter patch of denim.
Jensen's fingers slip the button of Misha's jeans and pull the zip down, Misha's fingers coming to rest in his hair. Jensen taps at the inside of Misha's knee, urging him to spread his legs wider. He complies. Jensen balances on the balls of his feet, his jeans tight against his thighs and uncomfortably digging in against his own erection. He doesn't care, lets the denim provide friction as he focuses on what’s in front of him instead.
In seconds he has Misha's cock out, palmed in his hand, the hot softness encasing hard muscle beneath, velvet under his tongue when he dips forward and slides it over the glistening bead at the head. Misha's hips stutter forward and Jensen lets his mouth encase the tip of his cock, slides his fingers up to press gently at Misha's stomach, hold him in place. Misha’s breath hitches and Jensen smiles around his mouthful of cock, drags his lips down the length, sucks him in.
Time slows and quickens in the same instance, the sound of laughter echoing down the streets from drunken revelers, the warm glow of lights coming on in the surrounding apartments bathing the shadows in orange highlights.
Jensen is keenly aware of the way they could be found at any moment. But he cares only for Misha's cock, heavy against his tongue, the scent of sweat and skin filling his senses, the soft tickle of curls as pubic hair brushes his lips, catches in the whiskers around his bearded mouth.
Misha is twitching above him, taut stomach muscles jumping against the pads of Jensen's fingertips. He brings his other hand up from where it rests on Misha's knee, wraps it around the base of Misha's cock and starts to stroke in time with the laves of his tongue and movement of his mouth.
Misha is tensing beneath him; he can feel the hardening pulse against his tongue. He slides his fingers up further under Misha's shirt scrapes a thumbnail against a nipple and feels him break.
He pulls off, pumps his hand over Misha's cock and watches as Misha's eyelids flutter and dark eyes catch his own. Misha is the only lover he’s ever had who opens their eyes when they come. And Misha is coming, slicking Jensen's hand and splattering on the stones at their feet.
Misha slumps against the building and Jensen licks him clean best he can, tucks him back in and zips him up before sliding up Misha's body, careful to keep him propped up standing.
He finds Misha's mouth and kisses him. Deep and sweet. Tasting. Feeling
Misha takes a shuddery breath, lungs expanding and pressing at Jensen's chest. And then Jensen is tugged and turned, flattened against the mud brick wall and Misha's hands are on his pants, unbuttoning, unzipping.
And then Misha's fingers - God, Misha's fucking fingers - are sliding in between jeans and cotton and skin. Wrapping and tugging and gliding and it only takes minutes, maybe seconds, before Jensen is falling too, coating the inside of his underwear, Misha's hand, as he comes hard with a groan and shaken breath.
Misha leans his forehead against Jensen’s and he can feel hot breath puffing past his cheek.
They stay like that, in the warm night air, for stolen moments - too long and too exposed - before Misha is pulling back, removing his hand from Jensen's pants, wiping it ineffectually against the wall
Misha's smile is warm and happy, sated. And Jensen knows his is matching, that they probably look like fools. He laughs and it echoes down the alley, and Misha grins.
Jensen does himself back up and tugs on Misha's wrist when he's ready, leads them back down to the main street where music and light plays happily with tourists.
The streets are full of exuberant people, the enticing smells of spices and foods that he can’t wait to try, the sound of guitars and castanets. It’s put on for the tourists, he knows, but he loves it nonetheless. Jensen’s shoulder brushes against Misha’s as they walk, their physical proximity covered by the crowds jostling past them.
Later, when they’re full of paella and shrimp, intoxicated on Sangria and the night begins to swirl around them, Jensen will lay Misha out on the bed of his hotel room, a salty warm breeze sliding over sweat-sheened skin as he lavishes attention on the parts of Misha’s body unattended in their back-alley groping.
Misha will squirm and pant beneath his mouth, then flip him over and sink down onto him, letting pretty moans fall from his mouth and get lost in the cries of the gulls outside the windows as dawn breaks low and glittering white over the sea.
Jensen thinks it’s ridiculous and harlequin, but as far as foreign cities go, where such things can be indulged and not talked of back home, Barcelona agrees with him.