Word Count: 2200
Notes: written for this prompt over at spn_masquerade.
Summary: (from the prompt) Jensen's in the middle of the massive crowd at a rock concert, everyone packed in tight, when she feels a guy press up behind her. She can't turn to see what he's doing, but he can feel his huge hands roaming over her body, sliding up under her skirt.
The lights go out there's a rush toward the stage. Jensen's caught up in it, has a second to be glad she'd thought to wear her steel-toed combat boots, the real ass-kickers with ironic girly pink ribbons for laces, before she loses control to the crowd. It's hive mentality at its most basic, this drive to get closer and see better. Jensen loves it, loves being able to relinquish the commands in a way she rarely allows herself. She stops trying and just moves with the masses, gets separated from Mike, but that's no big deal. Happens all the time and anyway, they know where to meet up after the show.
There's another push forward as the band takes the stage and the roar intensifies, cut through with shrill shrieks and whistles. Jensen gets smashed flush against the woman in front of her as the first chords spiral out over top of the crowd, tries to take a step back but someone's right there, a big someone by the feel of it, a chest like a motherfucking brick wall shoved up tight against her shoulders.
The guy behind her squeezes her upper arm. Jensen reads it as an apology, a kinda what can ya do? and she tries to turn around, crane her neck to let him know that it's fine, but they're jammed in so tight that she can't, has to settle for an awkward thumbs up.
The band is into the meat of the song now, sound ripping out of the wall of speakers and the whole crowd sways, pulses like a heartbeat that's hardwired into the bass line. Jensen manages to raise her arms and swings her hips, feet set wide to keep a little bit of control over her balance. She closes her eyes and buries herself in the sound as one song ends and the band speeds into the next, snaps back to attention when she feels the guy behind her sync up to the sway of her hips, begin to counteract it.
One hand lands on her waist, fingers timid, hardly there and Jensen could put a stop to it. She grew up with brothers, knows how to take care of herself, could have this guy limping away with her boot marks on his feet and a bruise in the shape of her elbow rising up on his side, if she wants to. If she wants to.
Instead she covers his hand with her own, presses hard, sways her hips back when the guy grinds in. It's a huge hand. Long, slender fingers. He crowds in even closer, close enough that his hair tickles Jensen's temple and his breath falls on the crook of her neck like a cool breeze on her overheated skin. Jensen still can't turn, only gets a flash of sloppy brown hair and a cute ski slope of a nose out of her peripheral vision. It's not much, but plenty enough to know that she wouldn't mind seeing the rest of him.
His other hand slides against her middle, slips under her shirt and spreads wide on her stomach. Jensen leans against his broad chest, feels the flex of his muscles and gets all wrapped up in the smell of him, the sharp spike of boy-sweat that sometimes makes her stomach roil and at other times inexplicably drives her out of her goddamn mind, gets her so hot so fast that it's like someone has lit a fire under her skin.
Jensen looks down. It's dark, and she can feel more than see it as the guy glides his hand further north, her t-shirt bunching up at his wrist. She lets her head fall back to his shoulder, thrusts her ass backward, up and down and now she can also feel the ridge of his cock, hard and hot on her lower back, notched snug against her spine. He moves his hand from under her shirt to press two fingers to her mouth and Jensen opens up for him, has a quick-flash thought about where those fingers might have been and decides that she doesn't give a fuck, has more important things to think about like where she'd like them to end up. She sucks them in, swallows down the salty taste of her own sweat, nips at them, curls her tongue all around and between them.
He pulls his fingers out, takes the easy route and slips them down the loose, wide neck of her shirt. Jensen can't hear the appreciative hum when he discovers she's not wearing a bra, but a happy vibration passes from his chest to her back, sinks into her skin and creates an aching sort of warmth between her legs. He latches onto the nape of her neck and lets her feel his teeth, tiny little sucks and kitten licks and the whole time his hand is moving lower in her shirt until he's rubbing along the underside of her breast, touching and teasing and learning the shape of her. He traces her nipple, fingers moving easily across her skin from all the sweat and the spit, catches it between his first and second finger and gently tugs, sends a shockwave through Jensen's system.
The outline of his hand is clear through her t-shirt as he kneads at her breast, rolls her nipple between his fingers until it's so hard it almost hurts with a unique, sweet sort of pain. It's somehow more intimate this way, not being able to see the skin-on-skin contact, only the ridges of his knuckles and the spidery shape of his fingers through the thin cotton. It heightens the sensation, makes it more acute, a small, private secret inside of a crowd of thousands.
The guys on stage launch into another song and the crowd gives a massive response. It's a popular one, a song that's on the radio right now and everyone around them lurches forward. Someone slams into Jensen from the side and she trips, heart in her throat as she loses her footing for an instant, and she's not sure what it says about her that she's more concerned about the stranger taking his hand back than the possible risk of life and limb. But the guy's like a roadblock, steady as a mountain and he fetches her up, plenty of balance for the both of them.
"You're good, sweetheart. I got you. Not going anywhere," he says, rough, breathless voice that comes across as a whisper even though Jensen knows he has to be nearly shouting to be heard over the music.
The sound of it lands directly between her legs, molten heat spreading spreading north and south. She presses her thighs together, tries to ease the insistent, pulsing throb. She's wet, so fucking wet, panties soaked through and clinging to her in all the wrong places, damp and slick where her thighs meet her body, creeping up between the cheeks of her ass.
At any other time Jensen might be embarrassed about it, getting this amped up this fast, a vestige of a failed attempt at a prim and proper upbringing that for all the times she's drank whisky from the bottle and her inclination for conversational cussing, she's never quite been able to kick. There's something liberating about this however, a freedom in knowing that she's just another anonymous, fucked-up soul in the good company of several thousand other anonymous, fucked-up souls. A glance tells her that the folks jammed in on either side of her are oblivious, or if they're know then they're not letting on.
She wants to turn, to be able to see this stranger fully, push it to see how far she might go and see how far he'd go too, maybe climb him like a ladder and get his cock inside of her. She has the idea that he's got enough juice to hold her and screw her standing up, keep her steady as she writhed on his cock, but his arm is tight around her middle, as strong as a strut. He's thumbing almost absently at her nipple now, too busy pawing her ass with his other hand, making her skirt ride higher and higher, a few inches past the point of decency.
All around them, the crowd is roaring through the chorus, a sea of arms in the air, and to Jensen's ears the music has stopped making sense, been rendered into a sorta staticy white noise under the rush of blood in her ears. Her insides are melting and the guy is toying with her panties, pulling them tight against her until the slippery cotton slides against her clit and makes her gush even wetter. Jensen bites the inside of her cheek to stifle a moan, remembers where she is and the second one she lets out, loud and long.
His hand skitters along her hip and his fingers dig in to yank her flush against him, easy, sure command in the way he steers her and keeps her there. He licks along her neck, sucks on her earlobe while he reaches up under her skirt and lightly touches her through her panties. Jensen swears she can feel him shiver a little.
"Fuck, babe. So hot," he says directly into her ear, and Jensen could do without all the pet names, but she's not gonna sweat it, not when he slips her panties to the side and rubs a finger along her slit, slides further and further back each time, spreads her slick all over, getting her sloppy and soft. He knows his way around down there, teases her clit until it's nearly too much then eases off and cups her against his huge hand.
Jensen spreads her legs a little, gives him more room, slots her fingers alongside his where they've gone still on her breast. He says something else, inaudible, lost inside of the music and barely slips inside of her, only one fingertip circling, spreading her open. She throws an arm back, fits her palm to the curve of his skull, cards her fingers into sweaty, damp hair. Jensen grabs a fistful as his hips jab against her ass, crash into her with enough force to shove her forward, drive his finger way down deep inside of her, shockingly, amazingly fast. He pulls it out then slides back in with what's got to be two this time, and it's tighter, better, motherfucking fantastic the way he plows into her, his other fingers rubbing against the creases of her thighs.
"Everybody having a good time?" That voice comes through loud and clear, the singer smiling widely for the audience.
The stranger's laughter is a rumble against Jensen's neck and he starts to fuck into her faster, harder, egged on by the way Jensen's clenching around him, bucking against him, trying to pull him in deeper, keep him there. Her knees feel shaky, her thighs tremble and she pushes them together, can't manage to catch a breath when he lifts her up, one arm wrapped around her ribs. She's surrounded by him entirely. Her toes skim the floor and she latches onto his wrist for support, holds him still and rides his hand, stuttering and uncoordinated. The pounding ache shifts to immediate then white hot, a buzz that lights up her whole body as she comes, staggered and breathless with his teeth set painlessly into the back of her neck.
Slow and gentle, he lowers her to the ground. Her head's not with it and everything seems hazy, like she's looking at the world through thin silk and this time she makes a stronger effort to turn around. After all, he got her off. Fair is fair.
He puts his hands on her shoulders, the right one still damp and shiny and it sends another tremor along Jensen's spine.
"Stay put, sweetheart," he says.
"But--" Jensen starts.
"I'm good. So fucking good." He slips his hand into the back pocket of her skirt, gives her one last squeeze then disappears.
Jensen stands next to the flagpole near the north entrance, waiting for Mike to float out of the exiting mass of people. The insides of her thighs are still damp and her panties are in the trashcan beside her because no way in hell is she up to sitting in them for the hour it'll take them to get home. Floating and exhausted, she empties her pockets, weeds out crumpled dollar bills and tosses stray gum wrappers, discovers to two ticket stubs instead of one. She turns them over and finds a phone number scrawled on one of them, the first two digits smudged but still legible. Chewing on her bottom lip, she holds them over the trashcan and pauses.
She could call him if she wanted to. If she wanted to.