Fic: Like Dip On A Chip (Jensen/Misha/Jared, NC-17)
FIRST FIC OF 2011. \o/
Title: Like Dip On A Chip
Pairing: Jensen/Misha/Jared
Rating: NC-17
Word Count ~2000
Disclaimer: Alas, lies.
Summary: ...do I really need to try and summarise this right now? Uh. The prompt was here: drinking and silly flirting at a party lead to other things. Because I can only write one 'plot' for these guys. Or, you know, what plot?
"If you were a chip," Jared tells Misha, eyes wide with earnestness, "I'd be on you like dip, man."
Okay, so, maybe he's had a little too much to drink. Maybe they all have; Jensen can't be sure, but everything certainly seems kinda funnier than it should, up to and including the way Misha grins in the wake of Jared's remark, hand coming up to cradle his jaw.
"You're always all over everything, dude," Jensen points out, hand at the small of Jared's back where his t-shirt's ridden up. The skin there is radiating heat, a faint sheen of sweat just beginning to gather in the hollow of Jared's spine, and if Jensen kinda wants to lick it off, that, that's okay, right? That's okay. He's drunk. So, everything's okay.
"Let's say I'm a chip," Misha says, in a voice that's far too eminently reasonable. "I'm a chip, and you're like, tzatziki, or something."
His eyes dart to the side, even as Jensen watches; hand darting out to catch Jensen's, sliding up over his wrist, flattening his palm against Jared's back. Their eyes meet, for a moment, and Misha's are, fuck, inky-black-blue, all wide and liquid, and suddenly it's all Jensen can do to breathe.
"He's a fuckin' chip, man," he says, to Jared, although his eyes are still on Misha's. "What you gonna do about it?"
The alcohol in Jensen's blood is like a slow burn, this beautiful, dizzying looseness coursing through him, and he sees the same thing mirrored in Jared's languid grin, in the way he moves towards Misha uninhibited. "He's a chip, huh?"
"Yeah," Jensen breathes; squirms a little closer and licks at the back of Jared's neck, suddenly wanting nothing more than to see. "Yeah, Jared. Wants you all over him."
And, Jensen knows Jared really, really fuckin' well; knows the way he looks when he's sleeping and the way he moves when he's embarrassed, but he's never heard him make this sound before; this hitching, delectable noise in the back of his throat as he moves in, forcing Misha's mouth flush to his. Not that Misha needs much encouragement, lips opening wet against Jared's almost instantly, tongue curling out to tease at Jared's, encouraging.
"Christ," Jensen manages; rubs his mouth, unthinking, at the bolt of Jared's jaw, sucking lightly at the soft place beneath his ear as he watches. "Fuck, all over him, huh? You gonna get all over him?"
It's nonsense, what he's saying; he knows that the moment it leaves his mouth, this stuff that starts in his throat and moves without any say-so from his brain. But the others don't seem to care, Misha groaning gravelly in his throat as his mouth moves on Jared's, slack and damp and glistening in the glare from the lamp overhead. Jared's doing that thing he does with his hands, that thing Jensen's always thought was hot: holding Misha in place with a hand on each side of his skull, pressing deep, like he wants to swallow him up. Jensen can feel his blood thumping between his legs, swimming in too much whisky to think with anything except his downstairs brain.
"God," he manages; plasters himself to Jared's back, and starts fumbling with the hem of his sweat-damp t-shirt. Jared hrmmms a little; shifts himself, like he's trying to help, and Jensen peels the thing off him in one motion, waiting for Jared to pull away so he can shuck it over his head and toss it away. Next thing he knows, Jared's all warm skin and muscle against him, and he's turning his head back over his shoulder, catching Jensen's mouth all teeth and tongue.
"Guys," Misha says, and his voice seems to be coming from a long way away, although Jensen's pretty sure that's Misha's hand in his hair, all of a sudden, cupping the base of his skull. "Jesus Christ, Jensen. You look like - "
"Yeah," Jensen murmurs; grips Jared's jaw in his hand and presses the kiss a little deeper. Jared tastes like whisky, like old-country beer and candy, and Jensen licks it out of him, licks until there's nothing but Jared and an overtone that has to be Misha, the taste of them both on Jared's tongue.
"God, Jensen," Misha's saying, and then Jensen's hand is in Misha's; Jensen's hand is flat against Misha's - bare? - chest, thumbing at a nipple, and Misha's groaning, deep in his throat, wanting and low. "You know, when I first got to Vancouver, I thought - "
"Yeah," Jensen says, again; because, he knows, he knows. He pulls away from Jared, leaves his mouth spit-shiny and slack, and leans over his shoulder to suck on Misha's tongue, threading the fingers of his spare hand into Misha's hair. "Everyone does, I know. And you wanted in the middle of it, huh?"
Misha gasps agreement into Jensen's mouth: holyfuckyes, and Jared's laughing as he licks at Jensen's ear, tongue flicking lightly, purposefully, at his earlobe.
"Yeah," Misha repeats, as Jensen's mouth drags lower, to his throat; his clavicle; his nipple. "Yeah, wanted - " and then Jared's leaning over, tugging Jensen's t-shirt over his head one-handed as his mouth finds Misha's again. Jensen's too drunk to protest; shrugs himself, snakelike, out of the fabric, and then there are all these hands, everywhere, and Jensen's breath is quickening.
Jeans are a funny thing, Jensen thinks, indistinctly. Funny because, one minute there were, oh, so many of them, and the next, there were Misha's thighs, all naked and smooth, and he didn't bet on Jared having that much coordination, but apparently he's smoother than Jensen would have anticipated. Because, okay, he notices when his own are pulled off him, gently, large hands working them down over his thighs, but the rest of it kind of went on when he was off somewhere in his mind, like everything became this carnival of skin while he wasn't looking. The room's emptied - he knows that - everybody filtered out, in various stages of sobriety, into the wintery night. But it's still, you know, somebody's living room floor, and the three of them are still, apparently, naked on it, and Jensen's sober enough to laugh at the thought of what Kripke would say, if he knew.
"Awesome publicity," says Jared, against the nape of Jensen's neck, and Jensen squirms, laughs a little manically.
"Did I say that out loud?"
"Yeah, man." Fingers at the small of his back, now - Jared's - and Misha's mouth all over his ear, tongue curling into the intricacies of the nautilus.
"S'okay, Jensen," Misha tells him, soft, deep voice in his ear; wet heat of it at his throat, consoling, encouraging. "We got you. We're takin' care of it."
And, God, he should know better than this, he should, but it's so easy to give in to that; to let himself be opened by the wet circles of Jared's fingers, and, moments later, by his tongue, holy fuck, licking Jensen open while Misha's slicks the insides of his molars. It's not like him, to let himself be vulnerable like this, but this is Jared (fingers in him, now; one, two, and God, there's the tip of a third working at him, which is kind of scary, but Jared's a big guy, so, if things are going the way he thinks they might, it's probably all for the best) and Misha (guiding his head lower; lifting his hips until Jensen's lips are wet and open around the head of Misha's cock) and Jensen doesn't care.
And, fuck, it's good, sometimes, this not-caring thing. It's good, letting himself cry out as Jared presses into him, slow burn of heat splitting Jensen open as Misha tips his head back, drunk on the sight, groan breaking out of him from the picture of them alone. Jared's big, too big, at first, inside of Jensen, but he's done this before; he can make himself relax, until the burn is nothing but an edge to the pleasure, the jolt of heat that makes him cry out in surprise as Jared finds his prostate.
"Christ, Jensen," Misha's murmuring, all darkness and heat as his fingers fist in Jensen's hair, "so hot like this, aren't you, God, so hot," and then he's nudging at Jensen's mouth again, smearing his slick over the seam of Jensen's lips. Jensen doesn't need asking twice, jaw loosening willingly on a surge of want. Misha pushes in, leaking and slick, and Jensen sucks at him; rocks forward onto him until the muscles of his throat are fluttering soft around the tip, making Misha arch back, eyes closing in something like reverence.
"Jen," Jared's saying, as his fingers find purchase in Jensen's hair; "Jesus - fucking - " and, yeah, he's fucking, all right, hips pistoning forward into Jensen, hands gripping Jensen's waist as he shivers and thrusts. Jensen moans, deep-throated around Misha's cock, and Misha echoes it, hand steadying Jensen's head as he rocks into him.
It should be too much, probably; should be demeaning, to be fucked like this, to be used, to be filled. But, mostly, Jensen just feels wanted. His skin is tingling, the alcohol dulling the sharpness of things, to an extent, but that only serves to change it, to alter it; to set his orgasm building like a forest fire in his gut, shivering out to his extremities in minute pulses as the others cry out, speed up.
It's good. There's no other word for it, for the way Jensen's building, climbing, mounting the crest of climax without a hand on him as Jared pounds into him; as Misha tugs at his hair and shoots, back arching as he pulses over Jensen's tongue. Jensen groans, swallowing what he can, but there's a lot of it, and the remainder is still dribbling down his chin when Misha seizes him by the hair to crush their mouths together.
"Fuck," Jared grits out, teeth clenched tight as his fist in Jensen's hair; "You two - Jesus, Jesus - " and that's it, enough to make him seize up tight inside Jensen, pulsing out bare all over Jensen's insides. Stupid, he knows, to do this that way, without anything, but it's them, and there's something, something hot about having Jared slicking him like that, even as he takes a deep breath and slides out again. Something hot about the way Jared slides down Jensen's spine; presses his tongue there and licks the slick out of him as Misha licks at his mouth, thrusting his tongue in where Jensen's lax and wet, and fuck -
"Fuck - " Jensen stutters, and comes, in this heady undulation that leaves him breathless, panting, spreadeagled on the carpet, his own stomach sticky with ejaculate.
"Christ," Misha says, and then he's leaning over Jensen's shoulder, and Jensen notes dazedly that Jared's wriggled up, somehow, and is licking the taste of Jensen into Misha's mouth, dribbling it white between their lips.
"Misha," Jensen manages, after a moment, when his poor spent cock is done twitching.
Misha half-laughs; pulls back from Jared to smile. "Yeah?"
"Should be a chip more often, man."
Jared grins, then; cups his hand around the nape of Misha's neck, and it's hot, the possessive curl of long fingers.
"Next time," he says, "maybe I could be the chip instead?"
"...yeah," Jensen says, and laughs; rolls over onto his back.
"Yeah," Misha says, and he's slack and languid and theirs.
It's good, Jensen thinks, hand curled loose on his abdomen. It's good.
Title: Like Dip On A Chip
Pairing: Jensen/Misha/Jared
Rating: NC-17
Word Count ~2000
Disclaimer: Alas, lies.
Summary: ...do I really need to try and summarise this right now? Uh. The prompt was here: drinking and silly flirting at a party lead to other things. Because I can only write one 'plot' for these guys. Or, you know, what plot?
"If you were a chip," Jared tells Misha, eyes wide with earnestness, "I'd be on you like dip, man."
Okay, so, maybe he's had a little too much to drink. Maybe they all have; Jensen can't be sure, but everything certainly seems kinda funnier than it should, up to and including the way Misha grins in the wake of Jared's remark, hand coming up to cradle his jaw.
"You're always all over everything, dude," Jensen points out, hand at the small of Jared's back where his t-shirt's ridden up. The skin there is radiating heat, a faint sheen of sweat just beginning to gather in the hollow of Jared's spine, and if Jensen kinda wants to lick it off, that, that's okay, right? That's okay. He's drunk. So, everything's okay.
"Let's say I'm a chip," Misha says, in a voice that's far too eminently reasonable. "I'm a chip, and you're like, tzatziki, or something."
His eyes dart to the side, even as Jensen watches; hand darting out to catch Jensen's, sliding up over his wrist, flattening his palm against Jared's back. Their eyes meet, for a moment, and Misha's are, fuck, inky-black-blue, all wide and liquid, and suddenly it's all Jensen can do to breathe.
"He's a fuckin' chip, man," he says, to Jared, although his eyes are still on Misha's. "What you gonna do about it?"
The alcohol in Jensen's blood is like a slow burn, this beautiful, dizzying looseness coursing through him, and he sees the same thing mirrored in Jared's languid grin, in the way he moves towards Misha uninhibited. "He's a chip, huh?"
"Yeah," Jensen breathes; squirms a little closer and licks at the back of Jared's neck, suddenly wanting nothing more than to see. "Yeah, Jared. Wants you all over him."
And, Jensen knows Jared really, really fuckin' well; knows the way he looks when he's sleeping and the way he moves when he's embarrassed, but he's never heard him make this sound before; this hitching, delectable noise in the back of his throat as he moves in, forcing Misha's mouth flush to his. Not that Misha needs much encouragement, lips opening wet against Jared's almost instantly, tongue curling out to tease at Jared's, encouraging.
"Christ," Jensen manages; rubs his mouth, unthinking, at the bolt of Jared's jaw, sucking lightly at the soft place beneath his ear as he watches. "Fuck, all over him, huh? You gonna get all over him?"
It's nonsense, what he's saying; he knows that the moment it leaves his mouth, this stuff that starts in his throat and moves without any say-so from his brain. But the others don't seem to care, Misha groaning gravelly in his throat as his mouth moves on Jared's, slack and damp and glistening in the glare from the lamp overhead. Jared's doing that thing he does with his hands, that thing Jensen's always thought was hot: holding Misha in place with a hand on each side of his skull, pressing deep, like he wants to swallow him up. Jensen can feel his blood thumping between his legs, swimming in too much whisky to think with anything except his downstairs brain.
"God," he manages; plasters himself to Jared's back, and starts fumbling with the hem of his sweat-damp t-shirt. Jared hrmmms a little; shifts himself, like he's trying to help, and Jensen peels the thing off him in one motion, waiting for Jared to pull away so he can shuck it over his head and toss it away. Next thing he knows, Jared's all warm skin and muscle against him, and he's turning his head back over his shoulder, catching Jensen's mouth all teeth and tongue.
"Guys," Misha says, and his voice seems to be coming from a long way away, although Jensen's pretty sure that's Misha's hand in his hair, all of a sudden, cupping the base of his skull. "Jesus Christ, Jensen. You look like - "
"Yeah," Jensen murmurs; grips Jared's jaw in his hand and presses the kiss a little deeper. Jared tastes like whisky, like old-country beer and candy, and Jensen licks it out of him, licks until there's nothing but Jared and an overtone that has to be Misha, the taste of them both on Jared's tongue.
"God, Jensen," Misha's saying, and then Jensen's hand is in Misha's; Jensen's hand is flat against Misha's - bare? - chest, thumbing at a nipple, and Misha's groaning, deep in his throat, wanting and low. "You know, when I first got to Vancouver, I thought - "
"Yeah," Jensen says, again; because, he knows, he knows. He pulls away from Jared, leaves his mouth spit-shiny and slack, and leans over his shoulder to suck on Misha's tongue, threading the fingers of his spare hand into Misha's hair. "Everyone does, I know. And you wanted in the middle of it, huh?"
Misha gasps agreement into Jensen's mouth: holyfuckyes, and Jared's laughing as he licks at Jensen's ear, tongue flicking lightly, purposefully, at his earlobe.
"Yeah," Misha repeats, as Jensen's mouth drags lower, to his throat; his clavicle; his nipple. "Yeah, wanted - " and then Jared's leaning over, tugging Jensen's t-shirt over his head one-handed as his mouth finds Misha's again. Jensen's too drunk to protest; shrugs himself, snakelike, out of the fabric, and then there are all these hands, everywhere, and Jensen's breath is quickening.
Jeans are a funny thing, Jensen thinks, indistinctly. Funny because, one minute there were, oh, so many of them, and the next, there were Misha's thighs, all naked and smooth, and he didn't bet on Jared having that much coordination, but apparently he's smoother than Jensen would have anticipated. Because, okay, he notices when his own are pulled off him, gently, large hands working them down over his thighs, but the rest of it kind of went on when he was off somewhere in his mind, like everything became this carnival of skin while he wasn't looking. The room's emptied - he knows that - everybody filtered out, in various stages of sobriety, into the wintery night. But it's still, you know, somebody's living room floor, and the three of them are still, apparently, naked on it, and Jensen's sober enough to laugh at the thought of what Kripke would say, if he knew.
"Awesome publicity," says Jared, against the nape of Jensen's neck, and Jensen squirms, laughs a little manically.
"Did I say that out loud?"
"Yeah, man." Fingers at the small of his back, now - Jared's - and Misha's mouth all over his ear, tongue curling into the intricacies of the nautilus.
"S'okay, Jensen," Misha tells him, soft, deep voice in his ear; wet heat of it at his throat, consoling, encouraging. "We got you. We're takin' care of it."
And, God, he should know better than this, he should, but it's so easy to give in to that; to let himself be opened by the wet circles of Jared's fingers, and, moments later, by his tongue, holy fuck, licking Jensen open while Misha's slicks the insides of his molars. It's not like him, to let himself be vulnerable like this, but this is Jared (fingers in him, now; one, two, and God, there's the tip of a third working at him, which is kind of scary, but Jared's a big guy, so, if things are going the way he thinks they might, it's probably all for the best) and Misha (guiding his head lower; lifting his hips until Jensen's lips are wet and open around the head of Misha's cock) and Jensen doesn't care.
And, fuck, it's good, sometimes, this not-caring thing. It's good, letting himself cry out as Jared presses into him, slow burn of heat splitting Jensen open as Misha tips his head back, drunk on the sight, groan breaking out of him from the picture of them alone. Jared's big, too big, at first, inside of Jensen, but he's done this before; he can make himself relax, until the burn is nothing but an edge to the pleasure, the jolt of heat that makes him cry out in surprise as Jared finds his prostate.
"Christ, Jensen," Misha's murmuring, all darkness and heat as his fingers fist in Jensen's hair, "so hot like this, aren't you, God, so hot," and then he's nudging at Jensen's mouth again, smearing his slick over the seam of Jensen's lips. Jensen doesn't need asking twice, jaw loosening willingly on a surge of want. Misha pushes in, leaking and slick, and Jensen sucks at him; rocks forward onto him until the muscles of his throat are fluttering soft around the tip, making Misha arch back, eyes closing in something like reverence.
"Jen," Jared's saying, as his fingers find purchase in Jensen's hair; "Jesus - fucking - " and, yeah, he's fucking, all right, hips pistoning forward into Jensen, hands gripping Jensen's waist as he shivers and thrusts. Jensen moans, deep-throated around Misha's cock, and Misha echoes it, hand steadying Jensen's head as he rocks into him.
It should be too much, probably; should be demeaning, to be fucked like this, to be used, to be filled. But, mostly, Jensen just feels wanted. His skin is tingling, the alcohol dulling the sharpness of things, to an extent, but that only serves to change it, to alter it; to set his orgasm building like a forest fire in his gut, shivering out to his extremities in minute pulses as the others cry out, speed up.
It's good. There's no other word for it, for the way Jensen's building, climbing, mounting the crest of climax without a hand on him as Jared pounds into him; as Misha tugs at his hair and shoots, back arching as he pulses over Jensen's tongue. Jensen groans, swallowing what he can, but there's a lot of it, and the remainder is still dribbling down his chin when Misha seizes him by the hair to crush their mouths together.
"Fuck," Jared grits out, teeth clenched tight as his fist in Jensen's hair; "You two - Jesus, Jesus - " and that's it, enough to make him seize up tight inside Jensen, pulsing out bare all over Jensen's insides. Stupid, he knows, to do this that way, without anything, but it's them, and there's something, something hot about having Jared slicking him like that, even as he takes a deep breath and slides out again. Something hot about the way Jared slides down Jensen's spine; presses his tongue there and licks the slick out of him as Misha licks at his mouth, thrusting his tongue in where Jensen's lax and wet, and fuck -
"Fuck - " Jensen stutters, and comes, in this heady undulation that leaves him breathless, panting, spreadeagled on the carpet, his own stomach sticky with ejaculate.
"Christ," Misha says, and then he's leaning over Jensen's shoulder, and Jensen notes dazedly that Jared's wriggled up, somehow, and is licking the taste of Jensen into Misha's mouth, dribbling it white between their lips.
"Misha," Jensen manages, after a moment, when his poor spent cock is done twitching.
Misha half-laughs; pulls back from Jared to smile. "Yeah?"
"Should be a chip more often, man."
Jared grins, then; cups his hand around the nape of Misha's neck, and it's hot, the possessive curl of long fingers.
"Next time," he says, "maybe I could be the chip instead?"
"...yeah," Jensen says, and laughs; rolls over onto his back.
"Yeah," Misha says, and he's slack and languid and theirs.
It's good, Jensen thinks, hand curled loose on his abdomen. It's good.