Fic: Song of the Open Road (Jared/Jensen/Misha, R)
So spnspringfling wrapped up! I'm sure anyone who read this probably guessed it was mine, but there you are. Originally posted here; reposted for archiving purposes, mostly.
Title: Song of the Open Road
Pairing: Jensen/Jared/Misha
Rating: R
Words: ~1200
Summary: The boys take their life less ordinary out on the open road. College roadtrip AU, essentially.
When spring semester ends, they take a road trip. California first, along the coast road beyond which the sea billows out, fathomless and ancient. Then Nevada, the craggy mountains, the dry-as-dust Mojave in their rain shadow. Jared says it looks like God upended a bag of rocks by mistake, and he's right, but there are no speed limits in Nevada, and that makes up for it. There are no rules here, either, or so it seems; Jensen takes the highway at ninety with Misha folded up in the footwell, mouth on Jared's cock, and nobody stops them. Everyone's too busy peering up at the billboard advertisements for casinos and sex by the hour, so nobody but Jensen sees the way Jared's mouth falls open on a gasp, the sweat gleaming damply on the long curve of his throat. Misha's hands on his thighs, long neat fingers; his hair clutched messy in Jared's fists.
"Hey," Jared says, breathless, head rolling against the seat-back, "gonna give you road head later, man." He's hitching his hips, mouth flushed red from the assault of his own teeth, and Jensen wants to swerve onto the verge, push him out and fuck him in the scrub. Misha moans around Jared's cock, low, like he knows, and Jensen shakes his head, turns back to the road.
"Sure you will," he says, dismissive, but his hand creeps out to tangle with Misha's, fingers entwined on Jared's thigh.
Afterwards, when the daylight starts to fade, they pull over in a desert of nothing, and Misha rides him rough and quick in the front seat. Jared's up on his elbow, kissing Jensen through it, and Jensen can't remember why life can't be like this, on the road, always.
Motels, they're always looked at sideways, two queens between three of them, but hey, as Jared says, they'd seem weirder still if they booked a goddamn king like they'd prefer. Some kind of safety regulation about that, no more'n two people in a room, or else they would. Misha's of the opinion that it's discriminatory anyway, prejudice against guys hot enough to bag two boyfriends.
Jensen rolls his eyes, cuffs him across the head, and things dissolve into tussling on the closest of the beds, the three of them a mess of limbs and flailing hands, all shrieks and laughter. Turns out a queen takes three guys well enough, so long as they're willing to snug up close when the fighting's transmuted itself into a leisurely fuck, sweat and sex and skin.
Jensen doesn't wake up in the morning before coffee's been injected intravenously. It's kind of a running gag, Jensen rolling over like a corpse shifting under persuasion, groaning out, "Coffee, bitch," in sepulchral tones when the prodding doesn't cease. Jared likes the motels that have coffee makers in the bathroom - still thinks it's kinda neat after all these miles - so it's usually ready for him, brewed black as pitch, just the way he likes it.
"Shame," Misha says, "you can't do body-shots with coffee, or maybe we'd have a better way to bring him back to life in the morning."
"Shame," Jared agrees, and tackles Misha sideways, pins his arms up over his head and kicks his legs apart. Jensen fucked him well enough last night to know he's gotta be slick and pink still from the invasion, so he isn't surprised when Jared rolls forward into him after the minimum of prep, one smooth push.
"Fuck," Misha groans, lifting into it; then, "Hey, lazybones, you're missing the party, y'know."
"Goin' on on top of me, dude," Jensen points out mildly, chugging his coffee. Jared pauses mid-thrust to shoot him a sceptical look, and sure, okay, maybe he isn't exactly as disinterested as all that. Still, Jensen has to have his coffee before he gets involved. Nobody wants to fuck a dead man. Coffee downed, he's all too happy to crawl over the bed to straddle Misha's face, heft him under the shoulders until the angle's good.
Misha hums pleasedly around Jensen's cock, clever tongue in his hot wet mouth, and yeah, this is better now. Better now he can feel, even if it's sometimes nice to wake up to the sensation, somebody's quick slick lips sliding down his length. That way, it's dulled, more coaxed out of him as time progresses and his mind comes fully back into being. Like this, it's immediate, fuck-shudder-slide, and Jared can fuck Jensen's mouth with his tongue, deep and filthy, while Jensen rides Misha's face. He can certainly think of worse ways to wake up.
After Nevada comes Arizona, the wild mountain west. They camp out in the emptiness, the first night, spread beneath the stars, and it's probably illegal without the appropriate permit, but Jensen's too warm and loose to care.
"Should do this every year," Misha says, hand in Jensen's hair, and there's a promise there, a sometime-forever.
Jensen exhales a long mouthful of smoke, watches it curl up into the heavens. He traces the line of Jared's jaw with his fingers; brushes his thumb over the softness of his mouth.
"Okay," he says. The sky is full of stars like stitches of silk, silvered and small. "Sure."
In the morning, he wakes up late and slowly, and the coffee is barely even necessary.
Title: Song of the Open Road
Pairing: Jensen/Jared/Misha
Rating: R
Words: ~1200
Summary: The boys take their life less ordinary out on the open road. College roadtrip AU, essentially.
When spring semester ends, they take a road trip. California first, along the coast road beyond which the sea billows out, fathomless and ancient. Then Nevada, the craggy mountains, the dry-as-dust Mojave in their rain shadow. Jared says it looks like God upended a bag of rocks by mistake, and he's right, but there are no speed limits in Nevada, and that makes up for it. There are no rules here, either, or so it seems; Jensen takes the highway at ninety with Misha folded up in the footwell, mouth on Jared's cock, and nobody stops them. Everyone's too busy peering up at the billboard advertisements for casinos and sex by the hour, so nobody but Jensen sees the way Jared's mouth falls open on a gasp, the sweat gleaming damply on the long curve of his throat. Misha's hands on his thighs, long neat fingers; his hair clutched messy in Jared's fists.
"Hey," Jared says, breathless, head rolling against the seat-back, "gonna give you road head later, man." He's hitching his hips, mouth flushed red from the assault of his own teeth, and Jensen wants to swerve onto the verge, push him out and fuck him in the scrub. Misha moans around Jared's cock, low, like he knows, and Jensen shakes his head, turns back to the road.
"Sure you will," he says, dismissive, but his hand creeps out to tangle with Misha's, fingers entwined on Jared's thigh.
Afterwards, when the daylight starts to fade, they pull over in a desert of nothing, and Misha rides him rough and quick in the front seat. Jared's up on his elbow, kissing Jensen through it, and Jensen can't remember why life can't be like this, on the road, always.
Motels, they're always looked at sideways, two queens between three of them, but hey, as Jared says, they'd seem weirder still if they booked a goddamn king like they'd prefer. Some kind of safety regulation about that, no more'n two people in a room, or else they would. Misha's of the opinion that it's discriminatory anyway, prejudice against guys hot enough to bag two boyfriends.
Jensen rolls his eyes, cuffs him across the head, and things dissolve into tussling on the closest of the beds, the three of them a mess of limbs and flailing hands, all shrieks and laughter. Turns out a queen takes three guys well enough, so long as they're willing to snug up close when the fighting's transmuted itself into a leisurely fuck, sweat and sex and skin.
Jensen doesn't wake up in the morning before coffee's been injected intravenously. It's kind of a running gag, Jensen rolling over like a corpse shifting under persuasion, groaning out, "Coffee, bitch," in sepulchral tones when the prodding doesn't cease. Jared likes the motels that have coffee makers in the bathroom - still thinks it's kinda neat after all these miles - so it's usually ready for him, brewed black as pitch, just the way he likes it.
"Shame," Misha says, "you can't do body-shots with coffee, or maybe we'd have a better way to bring him back to life in the morning."
"Shame," Jared agrees, and tackles Misha sideways, pins his arms up over his head and kicks his legs apart. Jensen fucked him well enough last night to know he's gotta be slick and pink still from the invasion, so he isn't surprised when Jared rolls forward into him after the minimum of prep, one smooth push.
"Fuck," Misha groans, lifting into it; then, "Hey, lazybones, you're missing the party, y'know."
"Goin' on on top of me, dude," Jensen points out mildly, chugging his coffee. Jared pauses mid-thrust to shoot him a sceptical look, and sure, okay, maybe he isn't exactly as disinterested as all that. Still, Jensen has to have his coffee before he gets involved. Nobody wants to fuck a dead man. Coffee downed, he's all too happy to crawl over the bed to straddle Misha's face, heft him under the shoulders until the angle's good.
Misha hums pleasedly around Jensen's cock, clever tongue in his hot wet mouth, and yeah, this is better now. Better now he can feel, even if it's sometimes nice to wake up to the sensation, somebody's quick slick lips sliding down his length. That way, it's dulled, more coaxed out of him as time progresses and his mind comes fully back into being. Like this, it's immediate, fuck-shudder-slide, and Jared can fuck Jensen's mouth with his tongue, deep and filthy, while Jensen rides Misha's face. He can certainly think of worse ways to wake up.
After Nevada comes Arizona, the wild mountain west. They camp out in the emptiness, the first night, spread beneath the stars, and it's probably illegal without the appropriate permit, but Jensen's too warm and loose to care.
"Should do this every year," Misha says, hand in Jensen's hair, and there's a promise there, a sometime-forever.
Jensen exhales a long mouthful of smoke, watches it curl up into the heavens. He traces the line of Jared's jaw with his fingers; brushes his thumb over the softness of his mouth.
"Okay," he says. The sky is full of stars like stitches of silk, silvered and small. "Sure."
In the morning, he wakes up late and slowly, and the coffee is barely even necessary.