Fic: Let 'Em Rest Unrepressed (Jared/Jensen/Misha, NC-17)
Title: Let 'Em Rest Unrepressed
Pairing: Jared/Jensen/Misha
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Lies!
Prompt: 'Jared riding Jensen while Misha fucks his mouth.' That is this fic in its entirety. Here on Blindfold.
When he'd pictured it - and, oh, hell, Misha had pictured it, and then some, the two of them together - it hadn't exactly been like this. He'd had a number of different scenarios drawn up and ready to go whenever he needed them, but they'd all involved Jensen on his back, legs around Jared's waist or over his shoulders; Jared half-lifting him off the bed as he thrust inside him. This is...not the configuration he'd expected.
Not that it isn't a really fucking hot configuration, now that Misha's watching them unravel from up close, eyes shut, mouths damp and parted as they move. It's just that he hadn't counted on Jared going slack like that, wanting, when Jensen tugged him over into his lap - hadn't counted, even, on just how good he'd look with the long muscles pulling in his thighs as he worked himself up and down on Jensen's cock.
And, okay, so, Misha's been horribly guilty of making size-based assumptions. Fine. It's just that it never occurred to him that a guy built like Jared would make such an enthusiastic bottom. Apparently, his powers of imagination have failed him, because Jared - Jared brings whole new worlds of meaning to 'enthusiastic'.
The thing is, it's not like Jared isn't the most enthusiastic person Misha's ever met, just in general, because, hell, he really, really is. Seeing that translate into the way his hips roll down onto Jensen's fingers, the way his face goes all smoothed out and breathless when they press just right inside of him - Misha never thought about it before, but now he can't remember why not. Jared's gorgeous like this, long body loose like a skein of silk and trusting, God, he trusts Jensen so goddamn much. His head dips forward, hair fallen soft into his eyes, and when Jensen says, "That's it, sweetheart," Misha remembers all of a sudden that Jared is younger; was barely more than a boy when he and Jensen first met. Jensen says, "I got you," all whisky-soft-low, and Jared whimpers tightly in the back of his throat.
He's sweating, the small of his back shining with it, and Misha wants to touch him, wants to reach out and gentle him, as if he were a nervous horse. There's nothing nervous, though, about the white-knuckled grip of Jared's long hand on the back of the sofa, the tension in his muscles as he lifts and lowers himself in strong, smooth motions. Jensen's hands are on his waist at the narrowest point, fingers skimming the curve of his ass, and Jared's making punched-out little sounds on every downward thrust: fuck and yeah and God and Jensen.
"Jared," Jensen breathes, in response, his hips jerking upward in incremental motions. There's something reserved about him, even like this, but there are tells in the shiver in his voice, in the press of his fingers into Jared's flesh, that say he more than wants this - tells that make it clear enough that he couldn't live without it. He's beautiful, eyebrows drawn together in concentration as he moves, and Misha can't resist leaning over to touch his thumb to the little furrow between, as if he could smooth it out again.
Jensen laughs, and when he raises his eyes to Misha's, they're dark, deep-sea green, shiny with intent. He turns his face, deliberately, so that Misha's fingers will trail naturally over his cheekbone, find the curve of his jaw. "Isn't he good at this?" he says, lifting one hand from Jared's waist to take hold of Misha's wrist, fingers damp with Jared's sweat. He rocks up hard, sudden and sharp and deep, and the sound Jared makes is loud and unfettered, pleasure startled out of him. Misha feels his own blood thumping hot between his legs, and he shifts closer, tracing his thumb over the soft jut of Jensen's lower lip.
"He's perfect," he says, voice emerging rough and disused. "You both are." He reaches out, unprompted, to card his fingers through the front of Jared's hair, pushing back the swathe of it that's fallen into his eyes.
Jared pushes into it, wordlessly, like a cat, head tipping back, making his long throat longer. Jensen laughs a little and nips at Misha's thumb with his teeth. "Pull," he says, in that same dark-dappled voice, and his hips make little circles, sweat prickling along his collarbone. "Go on, pull it. He likes that, don't you, baby?"
It's the sound Jared makes, more than anything, that forces Misha's hand; a wrenched-out groan in the back of his throat as his fingers clench and unclench frenetically on the sofa's upright back. It's a yes if Misha's ever heard one, and Jared's eyes say yes too when they lift to Misha's, heavy-lidded and unguarded. Misha swallows against the metallic rush of lust in his throat, and tightens his fist, tugging just a little.
"Fuck," Jared breathes, hips jackknifing forward reflexively, and beneath him, Jensen's panting, cut-off little whimpers. "Fuck, Misha."
They're shifting faster now, both of them, firmer, but at the same time more erratic, and Misha aches at the sight of it, the sounds they make going straight to his neglected cock. His hand in Jared's hair, his fingers on Jensen's face, are his only points of contact with them, and it's not enough, but it's good even still, the way they nuzzle into his hands, the way Jared twists deliberately so Misha's grip will hurt.
"Such a slut for that," Jensen says, catching the direction of Misha's gaze, the rough catch of his breathing. He looks at Jared; jerks his hips up hard, as if to get his attention. "Want to feel him fucking your mouth, don't you, baby? Want Misha to pull on your hair while he fucks you? You want to let us both stuff you full?"
At any other time, Misha would probably be quietly boggling at hearing stuff like this from a man like Jensen, but right now he's a little too distracted by Jared's bone-deep groan, the way his face tenses up with wanting. His own breath punches out of him in a tight whimper he can't quite contain, cock swelling against his zipper, unbearable and perfect. "Jesus Christ," he manages, over Jared's strangled "God, yes, fuck."
"Ask him for it," says Jensen, low and nasty, and Misha full-on groans, grinds himself forward against Jared's sweat-damp flank. "Come on, Jared, show Misha your good Texas manners, huh? Ask nice."
By the time Jared turns his face to Misha, they're both a little dazed, sweaty and slack and panting. Then Jared says "Please," and Misha feels like he's breaking apart from the inside out. "Please, Misha. Want you to fuck my mouth."
Their hands find the fastenings of his jeans together, both fumbling and inept, and it's Jensen who gets the zipper down, the button out of its hole. "Stand up," Jensen says, and Misha makes himself, by some great effort, move, even as Jared's clawing at his waistband, big hand closing around his cock.
He's so turned on that the touch is almost painful, and his hand twists hard in Jared's hair in pure reaction. He's leaking, the whole crown smeared with it, and Jared whines at the sight of it. When he thumbs at the head, Misha's head falls back on a cry, and Jensen says, "That's it, baby. Open up your mouth real wide, now."
When Jared takes him into his mouth, Misha screams. There isn't another word for it. There's no tentative playing of his tongue at the head; no jacking and gradual descent. There's just Jared's mouth, wide and wet and everywhere, taking him deep and deeper till Misha's nudging the back of his throat. "Fuck," Misha gets out, barely more than a squeak, and Jensen laughs, all breathy and tight as his hips roll up, one hand warm on Misha's waist as he moves.
"Good, isn't he?" Jensen says, head fallen back, body the long-limbed image of sprawled out hedonism. "Throat fluttering around you, God, he's always gagging for it. Aren't you, Jay?" And there's that thrust of his hips again, possessive, sparking a cry out of Jared that Misha feels vibrating through him from the core. Jared's got one hand still on the back of the sofa, holding him up as he works himself against Jensen, but the other is on Misha's hip, keeping him steady as he tongues and sucks at him, tight wet clutch of his throat.
"Go on," Jensen says, words hitching with his thrusts, "go ahead and fuck him - Christ - he wants you to. Why'd you think I don't let him cut his hair?"
Jared's groan around him at that almost spells the end right there. Misha can feel his orgasm shaping already, laced up tight in the pit of his stomach, and he bites his lip, hips jerking forward in spite of his attempts to hold back.
"Yeah," Jensen breathes as he moves, makes a fist in Jared's hair. "Like that, like that, like - God -"
Jensen's voice breaks off, throat going tight with effort, and Misha can't help but stare in fascination as his teeth drive hard into his lower lip, thrusts turning spasmodic and fierce. "Jared," Jensen rasps; fucks up hard and short in little stutters, and Jared cries out every time, throat shuddering around Misha's cock.
When Jensen comes, it's almost silent, fist slamming hard against the chair as he pistons upward, freezing on an upstroke. His head falls back, face clenched up with effort, until the burn has shuddered out of him and his mouth falls open on a soft groan of relief. It's hotter than it has any kind of right to be, and Misha can tell that he isn't the only one left rather less than relieved at the sight of it.
Misha's fingers tighten in Jared's hair, pulling him forward onto his cock half-unconsciously as his breath shorts and thickens. "Fuck," he pants, "Jared, Jesus, fuck," and then Jensen's hand is on Jared's cock, fisting smooth and tight and quick. It's obscene, the sound of it, slick and sticky and Jared's moaning around him, Jensen sprawled all loose and lazy and fucked-out-smug beneath them.
"Loves this," Jensen says, in a voice still rough in the aftermath of his orgasm. "Loves being fucked, fucked open, my come inside him, don't you? Fuck, Misha, look at him. Doesn't even need my hand on him, really - wants to feel you shoot down his throat, such a slut for it. Look at him taking you like that. Go on, give him what he wants, huh? C'mon, Misha, give him your come."
Misha's never been talked to like this in his life, nasty and low and fierce and filthy, but the way Jared's keening says it's often like this, Jensen spouting off like you'd never guess he even could. Misha feels his orgasm spark up to the sound of Jensen's voice; tugs on Jared's hair at the roots as he fucks and jerks and gives up on being quiet. There's nobody to hear him, anyway, but them; nobody to care if he throws back his head and fucking cries like an animal in death-raptures as he spends down Jared's throat. Jared starts shuddering around him even as he's coming, pulling back to suck the last from the head as he finishes. When Misha can see again, Jared's still bucking into Jensen's hand, but he's close, so fucking close just from this, the slickness of Misha's come shining on his wet open mouth.
When Jensen shifts enough to slip out of him, Jared keens like he's on the cusp of dying, and Misha, still dizzy with recoil, can't find it in himself to blame him. But then Jensen's working his fingers between Jared's legs, thrusting up hard through the mess of his own come, and Jared seizes up, head falling back as his whole body shudders, clenching around Jensen with every muscle in his body.
"That's it, baby," Jensen says, one hand fisting Jared's cock while the other works inside him, short sharp thrusts. "So good, you were so good, I got you, come on -" and then Jared's coming, screaming the force of it out of him like some kind of fucked up exorcism. Beside him, Misha's hand is still petting reflexively at his hair, smoothing it damp over the softness of his nape. When Jared goes abruptly limp, Misha's muscles seem to take it as a signal to disintegrate into jelly, and he falls to his knees on the floor, forehead pressed to Jared's thigh.
"Holy Christ," he manages, after a long moment of absolute incapacity.
"He prefers Jensen," Jared gets out, lifting his head weakly from its place on Jensen's shoulder to throw Misha a loose grin.
Jensen doesn't say anything, but he laughs a little, ducks his head shyly, like he has any right to shyness after a display like that. Jared grins a little, leans in to kiss him, and it's gentle, God, ridiculous in its sweetness by contrast to the filth Jensen was spouting earlier.
"A man of many facets," Misha says, because it's pretty much what he's thinking. He's not really up to making a division between thought and speech just yet.
"Could be," says Jared, and nudges Jensen pointedly in the chest.
Reluctantly, with a slow roll of his eyes, Jensen concedes the point, like a man under extreme duress. Misha can't help laughing, it's so utterly Jensen a thing to do.
"Could be," he agrees, and smiles until Jensen smiles back.
Pairing: Jared/Jensen/Misha
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Lies!
Prompt: 'Jared riding Jensen while Misha fucks his mouth.' That is this fic in its entirety. Here on Blindfold.
When he'd pictured it - and, oh, hell, Misha had pictured it, and then some, the two of them together - it hadn't exactly been like this. He'd had a number of different scenarios drawn up and ready to go whenever he needed them, but they'd all involved Jensen on his back, legs around Jared's waist or over his shoulders; Jared half-lifting him off the bed as he thrust inside him. This is...not the configuration he'd expected.
Not that it isn't a really fucking hot configuration, now that Misha's watching them unravel from up close, eyes shut, mouths damp and parted as they move. It's just that he hadn't counted on Jared going slack like that, wanting, when Jensen tugged him over into his lap - hadn't counted, even, on just how good he'd look with the long muscles pulling in his thighs as he worked himself up and down on Jensen's cock.
And, okay, so, Misha's been horribly guilty of making size-based assumptions. Fine. It's just that it never occurred to him that a guy built like Jared would make such an enthusiastic bottom. Apparently, his powers of imagination have failed him, because Jared - Jared brings whole new worlds of meaning to 'enthusiastic'.
The thing is, it's not like Jared isn't the most enthusiastic person Misha's ever met, just in general, because, hell, he really, really is. Seeing that translate into the way his hips roll down onto Jensen's fingers, the way his face goes all smoothed out and breathless when they press just right inside of him - Misha never thought about it before, but now he can't remember why not. Jared's gorgeous like this, long body loose like a skein of silk and trusting, God, he trusts Jensen so goddamn much. His head dips forward, hair fallen soft into his eyes, and when Jensen says, "That's it, sweetheart," Misha remembers all of a sudden that Jared is younger; was barely more than a boy when he and Jensen first met. Jensen says, "I got you," all whisky-soft-low, and Jared whimpers tightly in the back of his throat.
He's sweating, the small of his back shining with it, and Misha wants to touch him, wants to reach out and gentle him, as if he were a nervous horse. There's nothing nervous, though, about the white-knuckled grip of Jared's long hand on the back of the sofa, the tension in his muscles as he lifts and lowers himself in strong, smooth motions. Jensen's hands are on his waist at the narrowest point, fingers skimming the curve of his ass, and Jared's making punched-out little sounds on every downward thrust: fuck and yeah and God and Jensen.
"Jared," Jensen breathes, in response, his hips jerking upward in incremental motions. There's something reserved about him, even like this, but there are tells in the shiver in his voice, in the press of his fingers into Jared's flesh, that say he more than wants this - tells that make it clear enough that he couldn't live without it. He's beautiful, eyebrows drawn together in concentration as he moves, and Misha can't resist leaning over to touch his thumb to the little furrow between, as if he could smooth it out again.
Jensen laughs, and when he raises his eyes to Misha's, they're dark, deep-sea green, shiny with intent. He turns his face, deliberately, so that Misha's fingers will trail naturally over his cheekbone, find the curve of his jaw. "Isn't he good at this?" he says, lifting one hand from Jared's waist to take hold of Misha's wrist, fingers damp with Jared's sweat. He rocks up hard, sudden and sharp and deep, and the sound Jared makes is loud and unfettered, pleasure startled out of him. Misha feels his own blood thumping hot between his legs, and he shifts closer, tracing his thumb over the soft jut of Jensen's lower lip.
"He's perfect," he says, voice emerging rough and disused. "You both are." He reaches out, unprompted, to card his fingers through the front of Jared's hair, pushing back the swathe of it that's fallen into his eyes.
Jared pushes into it, wordlessly, like a cat, head tipping back, making his long throat longer. Jensen laughs a little and nips at Misha's thumb with his teeth. "Pull," he says, in that same dark-dappled voice, and his hips make little circles, sweat prickling along his collarbone. "Go on, pull it. He likes that, don't you, baby?"
It's the sound Jared makes, more than anything, that forces Misha's hand; a wrenched-out groan in the back of his throat as his fingers clench and unclench frenetically on the sofa's upright back. It's a yes if Misha's ever heard one, and Jared's eyes say yes too when they lift to Misha's, heavy-lidded and unguarded. Misha swallows against the metallic rush of lust in his throat, and tightens his fist, tugging just a little.
"Fuck," Jared breathes, hips jackknifing forward reflexively, and beneath him, Jensen's panting, cut-off little whimpers. "Fuck, Misha."
They're shifting faster now, both of them, firmer, but at the same time more erratic, and Misha aches at the sight of it, the sounds they make going straight to his neglected cock. His hand in Jared's hair, his fingers on Jensen's face, are his only points of contact with them, and it's not enough, but it's good even still, the way they nuzzle into his hands, the way Jared twists deliberately so Misha's grip will hurt.
"Such a slut for that," Jensen says, catching the direction of Misha's gaze, the rough catch of his breathing. He looks at Jared; jerks his hips up hard, as if to get his attention. "Want to feel him fucking your mouth, don't you, baby? Want Misha to pull on your hair while he fucks you? You want to let us both stuff you full?"
At any other time, Misha would probably be quietly boggling at hearing stuff like this from a man like Jensen, but right now he's a little too distracted by Jared's bone-deep groan, the way his face tenses up with wanting. His own breath punches out of him in a tight whimper he can't quite contain, cock swelling against his zipper, unbearable and perfect. "Jesus Christ," he manages, over Jared's strangled "God, yes, fuck."
"Ask him for it," says Jensen, low and nasty, and Misha full-on groans, grinds himself forward against Jared's sweat-damp flank. "Come on, Jared, show Misha your good Texas manners, huh? Ask nice."
By the time Jared turns his face to Misha, they're both a little dazed, sweaty and slack and panting. Then Jared says "Please," and Misha feels like he's breaking apart from the inside out. "Please, Misha. Want you to fuck my mouth."
Their hands find the fastenings of his jeans together, both fumbling and inept, and it's Jensen who gets the zipper down, the button out of its hole. "Stand up," Jensen says, and Misha makes himself, by some great effort, move, even as Jared's clawing at his waistband, big hand closing around his cock.
He's so turned on that the touch is almost painful, and his hand twists hard in Jared's hair in pure reaction. He's leaking, the whole crown smeared with it, and Jared whines at the sight of it. When he thumbs at the head, Misha's head falls back on a cry, and Jensen says, "That's it, baby. Open up your mouth real wide, now."
When Jared takes him into his mouth, Misha screams. There isn't another word for it. There's no tentative playing of his tongue at the head; no jacking and gradual descent. There's just Jared's mouth, wide and wet and everywhere, taking him deep and deeper till Misha's nudging the back of his throat. "Fuck," Misha gets out, barely more than a squeak, and Jensen laughs, all breathy and tight as his hips roll up, one hand warm on Misha's waist as he moves.
"Good, isn't he?" Jensen says, head fallen back, body the long-limbed image of sprawled out hedonism. "Throat fluttering around you, God, he's always gagging for it. Aren't you, Jay?" And there's that thrust of his hips again, possessive, sparking a cry out of Jared that Misha feels vibrating through him from the core. Jared's got one hand still on the back of the sofa, holding him up as he works himself against Jensen, but the other is on Misha's hip, keeping him steady as he tongues and sucks at him, tight wet clutch of his throat.
"Go on," Jensen says, words hitching with his thrusts, "go ahead and fuck him - Christ - he wants you to. Why'd you think I don't let him cut his hair?"
Jared's groan around him at that almost spells the end right there. Misha can feel his orgasm shaping already, laced up tight in the pit of his stomach, and he bites his lip, hips jerking forward in spite of his attempts to hold back.
"Yeah," Jensen breathes as he moves, makes a fist in Jared's hair. "Like that, like that, like - God -"
Jensen's voice breaks off, throat going tight with effort, and Misha can't help but stare in fascination as his teeth drive hard into his lower lip, thrusts turning spasmodic and fierce. "Jared," Jensen rasps; fucks up hard and short in little stutters, and Jared cries out every time, throat shuddering around Misha's cock.
When Jensen comes, it's almost silent, fist slamming hard against the chair as he pistons upward, freezing on an upstroke. His head falls back, face clenched up with effort, until the burn has shuddered out of him and his mouth falls open on a soft groan of relief. It's hotter than it has any kind of right to be, and Misha can tell that he isn't the only one left rather less than relieved at the sight of it.
Misha's fingers tighten in Jared's hair, pulling him forward onto his cock half-unconsciously as his breath shorts and thickens. "Fuck," he pants, "Jared, Jesus, fuck," and then Jensen's hand is on Jared's cock, fisting smooth and tight and quick. It's obscene, the sound of it, slick and sticky and Jared's moaning around him, Jensen sprawled all loose and lazy and fucked-out-smug beneath them.
"Loves this," Jensen says, in a voice still rough in the aftermath of his orgasm. "Loves being fucked, fucked open, my come inside him, don't you? Fuck, Misha, look at him. Doesn't even need my hand on him, really - wants to feel you shoot down his throat, such a slut for it. Look at him taking you like that. Go on, give him what he wants, huh? C'mon, Misha, give him your come."
Misha's never been talked to like this in his life, nasty and low and fierce and filthy, but the way Jared's keening says it's often like this, Jensen spouting off like you'd never guess he even could. Misha feels his orgasm spark up to the sound of Jensen's voice; tugs on Jared's hair at the roots as he fucks and jerks and gives up on being quiet. There's nobody to hear him, anyway, but them; nobody to care if he throws back his head and fucking cries like an animal in death-raptures as he spends down Jared's throat. Jared starts shuddering around him even as he's coming, pulling back to suck the last from the head as he finishes. When Misha can see again, Jared's still bucking into Jensen's hand, but he's close, so fucking close just from this, the slickness of Misha's come shining on his wet open mouth.
When Jensen shifts enough to slip out of him, Jared keens like he's on the cusp of dying, and Misha, still dizzy with recoil, can't find it in himself to blame him. But then Jensen's working his fingers between Jared's legs, thrusting up hard through the mess of his own come, and Jared seizes up, head falling back as his whole body shudders, clenching around Jensen with every muscle in his body.
"That's it, baby," Jensen says, one hand fisting Jared's cock while the other works inside him, short sharp thrusts. "So good, you were so good, I got you, come on -" and then Jared's coming, screaming the force of it out of him like some kind of fucked up exorcism. Beside him, Misha's hand is still petting reflexively at his hair, smoothing it damp over the softness of his nape. When Jared goes abruptly limp, Misha's muscles seem to take it as a signal to disintegrate into jelly, and he falls to his knees on the floor, forehead pressed to Jared's thigh.
"Holy Christ," he manages, after a long moment of absolute incapacity.
"He prefers Jensen," Jared gets out, lifting his head weakly from its place on Jensen's shoulder to throw Misha a loose grin.
Jensen doesn't say anything, but he laughs a little, ducks his head shyly, like he has any right to shyness after a display like that. Jared grins a little, leans in to kiss him, and it's gentle, God, ridiculous in its sweetness by contrast to the filth Jensen was spouting earlier.
"A man of many facets," Misha says, because it's pretty much what he's thinking. He's not really up to making a division between thought and speech just yet.
"Could be," says Jared, and nudges Jensen pointedly in the chest.
Reluctantly, with a slow roll of his eyes, Jensen concedes the point, like a man under extreme duress. Misha can't help laughing, it's so utterly Jensen a thing to do.
"Could be," he agrees, and smiles until Jensen smiles back.