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spn rps: red light, green light (misha/matt; nc17)
Okay, Blindfold fill #1! Prompt: "Misha/Matt- non!AU, drunk!sex, public. Matt and Misha get drunk one night at a Con and Misha decides he has to have Matt right the fuck now. Cue public sex. Wherever you want it that they can hide from the fangirls, elevators, closets, outside behind the hotel. Just don’t let them get caught!"
Sort of relatedly, WHAT ARE YOU DOING, MATT COHEN??
Red Light, Green Light
SPN RPF. Misha Collins/Matt Cohen. NC17.
Drunk blow jobs in a closet and also there are some mops. ~1200 words
"This is a monumentally bad idea," Misha says, because he is drunk, so feels it doubly necessary to emphasize that he does in fact know what's going on. There is a part of him that's disappointed in himself for becoming so clumsy after not that much to drink. His younger self used to be able to drink much more and perform twice as many acts of public lechery.
"It's also your idea," Matt says, and what's with that smile? Fuck that smile. If it weren't for Matt Cohen's smile then perhaps Misha would not have pulled them both into a closet to engage in lewd acts.
There is not a lot of room.
Misha pushes Matt against the wall and displaces a few mops, which clatter everywhere. Someone kicks over a bucket. Matt curses as the back of his head thuds against the wall, and Misha latches onto that exposed throat with his mouth and sucks. He bites, accidentally, and Matt inhales sharply but Misha doesn't let up; he knows Matt likes it rough. Matt has one hand tangled in Misha's hair, and the other grabs him by a belt loop and pulls their hips flush together.
"Ow, jesus--" Misha gasps. That might've bent a finger the wrong way. He is having enough trouble with Matt's zipper as is.
"What are you doing?" Matt laughs, and shoves him off, unbuttoning his jeans himself. Misha flails off-balance for two seconds and crashes back against the door, which - to their horror - slams open. Misha and some mops tumble out into the world.
Everything is silent. All is still. Misha looks to the left, to the right; the hallway is thankfully, thankfully empty. He looks back at the closet, where Matt has a deer-in-headlights look, frozen mid-pushing-his-pants-down.
From around the corner: "Did you hear something?"
"Shit!" Misha hisses, and scrambles back inside. He tries to close the door.
"Grab the mops!" Matt blurts out.
"The what?"
"The--oh for fuck's sake."
And then Matt grabs the mops that are currently acting as doorstops, and clutches them to his chest as if they mean the world. Misha closes the door. Matt locks it.
"Look," Matt whispers from behind the mop heads, "maybe we should just go up to my room."
"Too far. Get these things out of the way, what the fuck." Misha swats at the mops' hanging dreadlocks, catching momentary sight of Matt's bemused expression behind it. He holds them open like a curtain and pecks Matt on the lips. "You have to relax. One would think you've never engaged in public debauchery before."
"I never said I have."
"We can remedy that immediately. Shall we get these mops out of the way or do you prefer having them close, for emotional support?" But before Matt can reply, Misha drops to his knees and palms his crotch. "Like a security blanket maybe?"
He nudges the mop handles aside, all the better to pull Matt's pants down and wrap his hand around his cock.
"Jesus," Matt gasps, and Misha gives an obliging lick.
He has always been good with his mouth. Genetics gave him a long tongue and barely any gag reflex, and those come in handy in situations like this. Situations where he's swirling his tongue over the head of Matt's cock before taking it into his mouth in teasing increments until it nudges the back of his throat. He pulls back and does it again.
A voice muffled from outside: "I swear it was coming from around here."
And Misha feels Matt go rigid under him as if already caught in the act, as if being very still might avert disaster if the staff just so happens to decide to unlock the closet door. It's not exactly that Misha and Matt have crossed the point of no return here, but Misha is a big believer of making his own returnless points, and also he is kind of a dick. So he continues sucking Matt off.
"Fuck," Matt breathes. "Fuck," and hitches his hips forward, but this just makes the mops in his arms clack against each other, so he goes very still again. This is too easy, Misha thinks, sliding the flat of his tongue against the slit. Matt bites down on a moan, and when Misha looks up to gauge his reaction, all he sees is a quivering forest of mop heads.
Outside the door, someone says, "There it is again."
"I don't hear anything, man."
Without warning, Misha deep-throats him and gives his balls a gentle squeeze, and Matt makes a sound that sort of sounds like "AHGODFUCK" except quieter, tighter, more desperate, and accompanied by the swishy sounds of mop heads knocking against each other.
"There! Did you hear it?"
"Hear what?"
"I don't know, it's kind of like... some animal sound."
"What?"
Matt goes completely still as Misha jacks him off unconcernedly, twisting on the upstroke, tracing lightly over the vein with his tongue. Or at least, Matt tries to go completely still. He trembles with the effort of it.
"You serious, you didn't just hear that?"
"Whatever, Lou. Let's go see if they got extra booze at the cocktail party."
Misha bobs his head in steady rhythm, and Matt's breathing quickens.
"But--"
"Come on. You take your job too fucking seriously, anyone ever tell you that?"
When the footsteps have faded to silence, Matt hisses, "You are so fucking--" and then there is a flurry of movement as he deposits the mops noisily against the opposite wall. Matt tangles his fingers in Misha's hair and thrusts.
Misha steadies himself with his hands against the wall, and Matt fucks his mouth and is a mess of harsh breathing and little "ah" sounds that turn him on to an insane degree. If there is anything sexier than the sights and sounds of Matt Cohen about to fall apart, Misha has yet to discover it. He pulls Misha's hair too hard, but the discomfort is forgivable, because just look at Matt's eyes glazing over with lust. Look at those soft lips parting, the tongue darting out to moisten them, the mouth on the verge of a shout.
"Fuck," Matt gasps, "fuck, yeah, god, f--" and then he meets Misha's eyes, and that's it, it's over. Matt bites his lip and throws his head back against the wall as he comes, thrusting into Misha's mouth with slow rolling motions, and Misha takes it all. He swallows, working his throat around Matt's cock, and Matt takes advantage by thrusting and holding it there, forcing himself in deep, before pulling out and doing it again. It's kind of painful, but Misha is no stranger to pain and he will get his later.
"Oh my fucking--" Matt gasps when he finally lets Misha go. "I... I think you just blew me back to sober."
Misha rises to his feet and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "You wanna drink back to drunk and do round two?"
Matt frowns in exaggerated contemplation as he tucks himself back in and zips himself up. "Sure, why not." And then that fucking smile.
Misha smiles back and wipes his hand on Matt's jeans. "Excellent."
Sort of relatedly, WHAT ARE YOU DOING, MATT COHEN??
Red Light, Green Light
SPN RPF. Misha Collins/Matt Cohen. NC17.
Drunk blow jobs in a closet and also there are some mops. ~1200 words
"This is a monumentally bad idea," Misha says, because he is drunk, so feels it doubly necessary to emphasize that he does in fact know what's going on. There is a part of him that's disappointed in himself for becoming so clumsy after not that much to drink. His younger self used to be able to drink much more and perform twice as many acts of public lechery.
"It's also your idea," Matt says, and what's with that smile? Fuck that smile. If it weren't for Matt Cohen's smile then perhaps Misha would not have pulled them both into a closet to engage in lewd acts.
There is not a lot of room.
Misha pushes Matt against the wall and displaces a few mops, which clatter everywhere. Someone kicks over a bucket. Matt curses as the back of his head thuds against the wall, and Misha latches onto that exposed throat with his mouth and sucks. He bites, accidentally, and Matt inhales sharply but Misha doesn't let up; he knows Matt likes it rough. Matt has one hand tangled in Misha's hair, and the other grabs him by a belt loop and pulls their hips flush together.
"Ow, jesus--" Misha gasps. That might've bent a finger the wrong way. He is having enough trouble with Matt's zipper as is.
"What are you doing?" Matt laughs, and shoves him off, unbuttoning his jeans himself. Misha flails off-balance for two seconds and crashes back against the door, which - to their horror - slams open. Misha and some mops tumble out into the world.
Everything is silent. All is still. Misha looks to the left, to the right; the hallway is thankfully, thankfully empty. He looks back at the closet, where Matt has a deer-in-headlights look, frozen mid-pushing-his-pants-down.
From around the corner: "Did you hear something?"
"Shit!" Misha hisses, and scrambles back inside. He tries to close the door.
"Grab the mops!" Matt blurts out.
"The what?"
"The--oh for fuck's sake."
And then Matt grabs the mops that are currently acting as doorstops, and clutches them to his chest as if they mean the world. Misha closes the door. Matt locks it.
"Look," Matt whispers from behind the mop heads, "maybe we should just go up to my room."
"Too far. Get these things out of the way, what the fuck." Misha swats at the mops' hanging dreadlocks, catching momentary sight of Matt's bemused expression behind it. He holds them open like a curtain and pecks Matt on the lips. "You have to relax. One would think you've never engaged in public debauchery before."
"I never said I have."
"We can remedy that immediately. Shall we get these mops out of the way or do you prefer having them close, for emotional support?" But before Matt can reply, Misha drops to his knees and palms his crotch. "Like a security blanket maybe?"
He nudges the mop handles aside, all the better to pull Matt's pants down and wrap his hand around his cock.
"Jesus," Matt gasps, and Misha gives an obliging lick.
He has always been good with his mouth. Genetics gave him a long tongue and barely any gag reflex, and those come in handy in situations like this. Situations where he's swirling his tongue over the head of Matt's cock before taking it into his mouth in teasing increments until it nudges the back of his throat. He pulls back and does it again.
A voice muffled from outside: "I swear it was coming from around here."
And Misha feels Matt go rigid under him as if already caught in the act, as if being very still might avert disaster if the staff just so happens to decide to unlock the closet door. It's not exactly that Misha and Matt have crossed the point of no return here, but Misha is a big believer of making his own returnless points, and also he is kind of a dick. So he continues sucking Matt off.
"Fuck," Matt breathes. "Fuck," and hitches his hips forward, but this just makes the mops in his arms clack against each other, so he goes very still again. This is too easy, Misha thinks, sliding the flat of his tongue against the slit. Matt bites down on a moan, and when Misha looks up to gauge his reaction, all he sees is a quivering forest of mop heads.
Outside the door, someone says, "There it is again."
"I don't hear anything, man."
Without warning, Misha deep-throats him and gives his balls a gentle squeeze, and Matt makes a sound that sort of sounds like "AHGODFUCK" except quieter, tighter, more desperate, and accompanied by the swishy sounds of mop heads knocking against each other.
"There! Did you hear it?"
"Hear what?"
"I don't know, it's kind of like... some animal sound."
"What?"
Matt goes completely still as Misha jacks him off unconcernedly, twisting on the upstroke, tracing lightly over the vein with his tongue. Or at least, Matt tries to go completely still. He trembles with the effort of it.
"You serious, you didn't just hear that?"
"Whatever, Lou. Let's go see if they got extra booze at the cocktail party."
Misha bobs his head in steady rhythm, and Matt's breathing quickens.
"But--"
"Come on. You take your job too fucking seriously, anyone ever tell you that?"
When the footsteps have faded to silence, Matt hisses, "You are so fucking--" and then there is a flurry of movement as he deposits the mops noisily against the opposite wall. Matt tangles his fingers in Misha's hair and thrusts.
Misha steadies himself with his hands against the wall, and Matt fucks his mouth and is a mess of harsh breathing and little "ah" sounds that turn him on to an insane degree. If there is anything sexier than the sights and sounds of Matt Cohen about to fall apart, Misha has yet to discover it. He pulls Misha's hair too hard, but the discomfort is forgivable, because just look at Matt's eyes glazing over with lust. Look at those soft lips parting, the tongue darting out to moisten them, the mouth on the verge of a shout.
"Fuck," Matt gasps, "fuck, yeah, god, f--" and then he meets Misha's eyes, and that's it, it's over. Matt bites his lip and throws his head back against the wall as he comes, thrusting into Misha's mouth with slow rolling motions, and Misha takes it all. He swallows, working his throat around Matt's cock, and Matt takes advantage by thrusting and holding it there, forcing himself in deep, before pulling out and doing it again. It's kind of painful, but Misha is no stranger to pain and he will get his later.
"Oh my fucking--" Matt gasps when he finally lets Misha go. "I... I think you just blew me back to sober."
Misha rises to his feet and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "You wanna drink back to drunk and do round two?"
Matt frowns in exaggerated contemplation as he tucks himself back in and zips himself up. "Sure, why not." And then that fucking smile.
Misha smiles back and wipes his hand on Matt's jeans. "Excellent."