Fandom: SPN RPS (AU)
Pairing: Jensen/Misha, with guest appearances by Danneel Harris and Tom Welling.
Warnings: sexual content, snark, a brief mention of CMM.
Disclaimer: All characters belong to themselves. This never happened. Title is from e.e. cumming's "i like my body when it is with your", which is also the poem Misha reads later on.
Notes: A huge thank you to the swift thevinegarworks and her ninja skills for the beta. ♥
ETA: The lovely an_angels_light was kind enough to record this into a podfic which you can find here.
ETA2: weimar27 has recorded another version, which you can find here.
Jensen hasn’t even lost a bet, or anything else that could suffice as a decent excuse; why he’s willingly accompanying his friends to a freaking poetry reading is beyond him. Well, he isn’t exactly ‘willing’; gently coerced is more like it. Danneel claimed he could "use some civilization,” lecturing him about the spiritual and educational values of poetry— to which Jensen retorted with a sophisticated, “I’m only half gay, y’know.” That earned him a sharp blow to his ribs from Mr. Politically-Correct Tom Welling, and the next thing he knows he’s being manhandled to the SUV (and he’s going to deny that part later, thank you very much). Jared, the fucker, had the nerve to make actual plans on a Saturday night, and was spared from the “enlightening” experience. (He’s also the same size as Tom, and therefore Welling had no leverage.) Granted, Jensen would rather attend a stupid poetry reading than get involved in whatever it is Chad Michael Murray likes to do on a Saturday night.
So now Jensen’s stuck here, sitting stiffly between Tom and Danneel, forced to listen as some teenaged emo chick reads a poem about… well, Jensen’s not entirely sure what it’s about. Possibly about grasshoppers or worshiping the devil, for all he can tell.
Tom and Danneel whisper excitedly when she’s done, murmuring something about how the stain on the shirt was a metaphor for the stains of the human soul, and Jensen just sinks lower in his seat. One of the employees of the coffee shop gets on the stage then, and Jensen mentally prepares himself for a poem about coffee grinders and the hardship of the food industry. Instead, the girl shyly announces they’re taking a ten minute break and invites them to refresh themselves with beverages and pastries. Jensen literally growls in relief as he springs off his chair and marches to stand in line for his caffeine fix, eager to get away from his friends (who are still discussing some shit that makes absolutely no sense).
The line is long, though, and Jensen is at the end of the tail. That’s not enough to deter him, however, because he really doesn’t want to fall asleep in the middle of someone’s poem—that would be rude, and Jensen’s a classy guy. He rubs his tired eyes and glances at the clock, noticing that (thankfully) it should only go on for about another hour. He’s almost certain he can survive that. Possibly. Probably? Assuming there aren’t any more angsty teenagers presenting.
Jensen studies the menu board above the serving counter and contemplates getting an iced drink when someone comes to stand behind him. He glances over his shoulder, going for a brief glimpse to satisfy his curiosity.
It doesn’t quiet work out that way.
The guy is of pale complexion—smooth and flawless even under the scrutinizing lighting of the coffee-shop—and it contrasts with the dark, disarrayed hair framing his angular face. Full, pastel lips curve upwards as the guy gives him a brief, friendly smile for politeness’ sake. He’s maybe an inch shorter than Jensen, wearing a simple white button-down and loose-fitted jeans with a dark belt slung through the loops.
“That was brutal, huh?” Jensen smirks, lopsided and charming—it’s a technique he’s mastered, and it has yet to fail in getting him what he wants.
The guy fixes a curious, piercingly blue—possibly the bluest ever—gaze on him, confusion dancing in his eyes.
“This whole shebang,” Jensen montions to the stage by way of explanation. “Poetry sucks. Seriously, how messed up was that poem about the mermaids? I think these people are not well in the head.”
The guy blinks at him, his orbs still astonishingly, freakishly blue. He outright pouts before turning on his heels without a single word, coffee forgotten. Jensen stares after him in bafflement, can’t help but watch the jeans ride his perky, perfect ass—which he really wanted to stare at the entire time but couldn’t, because that would be obvious (and remember, Jensen’s a classy guy).
And, okaaaaay. Why are the hottest guys the biggest dicks?
“Our last reader of the night,” the shy girl in the uniform says into the mike, and Jensen nearly breaks out in dance, because those must be the most liberating words in the English language, “is Misha Collins.”
Jensen is just about to take another sip from his coffee and tune out for the last five minutes, when a blur of elegant paleness registers in his peripheral vision. And it’s a good thing he hasn’t actually sipped the coffee yet, because the liquid would have been spat out on the floor.
Up on the stage is the hot guy he’d tried to hit on during the break—thin-rimmed glasses perched on his nose, making him even… more inhumanly hot, if at all possible. He chuckles nervously after greeting the crowd and opens his notebook.
His voice is steady and low when he begins reading, and Jensen’s can’t help but being affected by the sound. The guy’s a little fidgety, but other than that his demeanor is calm. Jensen can’t really bring himself to focus on the poem—too distracted by the way the guy’s tongue rolls in his mouth as he reads, the way it pushes out to moisten his lips, the way his right hand is shoved in his jeans pocket and the way his right hip is angled in a come-hither fashion (okay, Jensen might be reading a little wee too much into that). But the poem must be pretty good, as far as poems go, because Danneel and Tommy are awed beside him, and the crowd cheers a little more enthusiastically than it has the entire night once he’s done.
And Jensen must be the stupidest, least tactful person on the entire planet, because he’s managed to insult a ridiculously hot poet.
Danneel’s latest obsession involves figure drawing. An obsession which shouldn’t in any way affect Jensen’s life, but evidently does, because Danneel threatens to send some very incriminating photos to his mother if he does not accompany her to her Friday night class. Because clearly Danneel is out to ruin his life.
“You’re late,” she accuses once Jensen arrives and points her charcoal pencil at him.
Jensen rolls his eyes and doesn’t point out that there’s still five minutes until the beginning of the class. Instead, he says, “You know, I have other things to do on Friday nights.”
It’s Danneel’s turn to roll her eyes at him. She sharpens her pencils and says, “There’s more to life than beer and video games, Jen.”
“You’re right,” Jensen admits with a sly grin. “There’s also food and sex.”
Danneel opens her mouth to reply, but the teacher chooses that moment to make her entrance, and Jensen’s jaw drops.
Hot Poet Guy is by her side.
“Hello,everyone, welcome to another evening of figure drawing. Please grab an easel and let’s get started,” she greets with a pleasant smile. “Misha, we’re ready whenever you are.”
Ready? Jensen thinks as the guy—Misha—takes off his black t-shirt and makes his way to the small podium in the center of the room. For the briefest moment, his eyes meet Jensen’s. Then, his jeans are unzipped and lowered down his hips—
And he’s naked.
Because apparently, hot poets slash nude models don’t bother with underwear.
And Jensen’s a real fucking idiot, because he’s managed to insult a really hot poet with a really big dick.
He’s not happy about that.
Misha’s naked, is the point. Utterly, gloriously naked as the day he was born. And Jensen wonders why he even bothers putting clothes on, because surely there must be laws against it when you look like that under all that fabric.
Misha’s lithe and graceful, nothing like the big bulky Hollywood types that look like they’ve been popping steroids since puberty. No—Misha’s hips are narrow, stomach taut with a solid definition of abs and a thin, dark trail of hair leading from his navel to his cock.
Jensen swallows a pint of saliva, grateful that he’s permitted to appreciate the view – because hey, he’s supposed to draw that. He’s fairly certain he’s not supposed to drool, though, and he’s about two seconds away from doing just that.
“I hate you,” he murmurs to Danneel, unable to tear his gaze away from the man posing for their benefit.
But Danneel’s too busy studying the outline of Misha’s cock before copying it down on the canvas.
Jensen spends the duration of the class fiddling with his pencil and fighting inappropriate erections. He’s not an artist by any means; the best he can do is press the pencil to the canvas and hope the sketch will maintain some semblance to a human figure.
The few times when the instructor walks by Jensen to check on his work, she gives him a patient smile and helps guide his hand along the canvas. He’s grateful when she doesn’t comment on his poor progress.
He finds himself drawn to Danneel’s sketch, trying to imitate the elegant movements of her wrist as she lifts the pencil and breathes life onto the paper. It doesn’t work, but Jensen can’t help but admire her talent.
When Misha bends down to pick up his jeans and slide them back on his long legs—giving Jensen a generous view of his ass—Jensen sighs in relief. He follows the dark mop of hair across the room, where it disappears into the small room in the back. If he’s going to do anything, this is his chance.
He turns to Danneel, ready to offer some half-decent explanation for bailing on the rest of the night, only to find her fully packed and grinning.
“I told you you’d like figure drawing,” she all but sings, tone smug and superior. She grabs her purse and stands up to leave. “Enjoy Misha. I hear he’s very bendy,” she winks, and Jensen doesn’t manage to get a word out as he watches her leave.
Did Danneel just set him up with the guy who models for her class?
Jensen barely manages to erase the dumbfounded expression from his face when Misha reenters the room, a backpack slung over one slender shoulder. Jensen hurries over, fingers locking around Misha’s bicep in a strong grip to get his attention.
“Hi,” he says awkwardly, realizing he didn’t actually plan what he would say. He just wanted to stop Misha from leaving. “Look, um. I’m sorry for the… well, I’m sorry for being a jerk at the poetry reading. It’s not really my thing, y’know… and I… well, I obviously hadn’t considered it was yours.”
Misha’s expression doesn’t betray any kind of emotion, and he seems perfectly comfortable with letting silence stretch between them. Jensen’s all but ready to write this whole thing off as one of his most embarrassing conquests.
“It takes a lot more than that to offend me,” Misha states, a flicker of amusement dancing in his eyes.
“Is that so?” Jensen can’t help the flirtatious grin that spreads on his face.
“Yeah,” Misha nods, expression turning serious and pensive. “Although, that comes pretty close,” he lifts his chin in the direction of Jensen’s easel, where a poorly-drawn, incomplete sketch stretches across the canvas.
“Yeah, um,” Jensen scratches his neck awkwardly, “I’m not really much of an artist.”
Misha’s raises one eyebrow. “And yet, here you are, in a figure-drawing class.”
Jensen lets a laugh babble out of his throat. “Yeah, that’s my friend’s doing.”
“Would that be the same friend who dragged you to a poetry reading you had no intention of attending?”
“One of them, actually, yeah,” Jensen admits.
It’s Misha’s turn to laugh, and his whole body shakes with amusement. “Well, until you get better friends,” he adds, turning serious again, “perhaps you would benefit from a one-on-one lesson? If you have some time, of course.”
“Yeah,” the reply comes automatically, and Jensen can only hope Misha means what he thinks he does. “Yeah, I have some time.”
“Excellent,” Misha grins, gesturing towards the door, “then I suggest we get out of here, Jensen.”
Jensen’s jaw nearly hits the floor, but he doesn’t get the obvious question out as Misha walks out the door.
“So. I was thinking we could start with the basics, seeing as how you lack the fundamentals,” Misha says as he takes off his jacket, and Jensen freezes in place. “Think it’d be easier if we use a different pose?”
Crap. He can’t be serious, can he?
The corners of Misha’s lips tug upwards, his expression all seduction and games. Jensen’s momentarily torn between the need to punch him and kiss the smirking shit out of him.
“No wonder you don’t like poetry,” Misha suddenly states, “you overanalyze everything.”
Jensen blinks at him in confusion. “Uh, aren’t you supposed to analyze it and shit?”
“Poetry is… fluid,” Misha replies, words rolling off his tongue with precision and confidence, “we can never know the true intention of the words; we can merely hope to create a reconstruction at best. The poet’s true meaning is lost to anyone but him or herself. Poetry is not about disjointing adjectives and forcing meaning into them. It’s about how the words make you feel, how they taste on your tongue.”
Jensen’s can do nothing but let the words hang in the air, let them sink in an attempt to decipher their meaning.
He gives up on finding an appropriate response, watches Misha cross the living room, reaching for a book from one of his overstocked shelves. The hardcover is an ancient red, and the pages look worn. Misha scans the pages quickly, finding the passage he’s looking for with practiced ease. He begins reading in a smooth, even tone, accentuating every word as if it were a world of its own:
“i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite new a thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones, and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which i will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz
of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh ... And eyes big love-crumbs,
and possibly i like the thrill
of under me you so quite new”
Jensen tugs on his shirt collar, because he’s suddenly very, very hot. His insides are surging with fire, ears ringing with the melodic sound of Misha’s voice. Misha reads poetry like the words have been itching on his vocal-cords, like he’s been waiting for the opportunity to release the words.
“What does that make you feel, Jensen?” Misha asks, voice hoarse and dark and low. Tonight, it’s not Jensen who’s doing the seducing.
Jensen moistens his lips, his own voice unintentionally dropping an octave as he replies, “fire. Want. Yearning.”
“Show me, Jensen,” the words are calculated and sensual, and Misha’s expression is of naked, dark lust.
Jensen swallows so hard and fast he’s a little concerned his Adam’s apple just found its way to his colon. Or, he would’ve been, if he weren’t so incredibly, painfully hard.
He takes a small, hesitant step forward, closing the distance between them. Jensen’s never met a person as passionate as Misha before… and the thing about passion is, it spreads like wildfire; it doesn’t start or end with a single spark.
He places a palm on the back of Misha’s head, bringing their faces close enough so their breaths mingle, and waits. He remembers something about going the 90 per cent when kissing someone, and letting the other person go the extra 10. And, yeah, okay, Hitch is just a movie, and Misha’s definitely not a girl, but Will Smith is as credible source as any other, as far as Jensen’s concerned.
Misha smiles—a small, secretive smile like he knows exactly what Jensen’s doing—before leaning in. The pressure is so soft and gentle it takes Jensen a moment to realize their mouths are pressed together, to feel the tingling sensation on his lips. His hands reach for Misha’s waist, pulling him closer, but he doesn’t dare try deepening the kiss. Misha’s elegant hands fall to the front of his shirt as he breaks the kiss, untugs the fabric from his pants. They exchange sloppy, open mouthed kisses, and excitement coils in Jensen’s belly. Settles down low and comfortable as he realizes they aren’t going to make it to the bedroom, no matter how slowly things are unfolding.
“You up for some rug burns?” Misha asks, lips curved in half smile, half challenge.
“Fuck yeah,” Jensen murmurs, because he isn’t one to pass on a challenge. He only has a brief millisecond to ponder how insanely hot this is going to be before Misha tackles him to the carpeted floor, the full weight of his body pressing down against Jensen’s. His hands are entirely too calloused for one of such gentle occupation, yet their tactility on Jensen’s skin is nothing short of sensational. There’s a light yank on the hem of his t-shirt, and Jensen arches his back to allow Misha to pull it over his head. Soft-hued lips press between the hollow of his neck and collarbone, delicate fingertips exploring the skin of his abdomen.
Misha’s tongue peeks out against his neck, teasingly jabbing at random bits of skin until Jensen’s breath hitches in his throat and he’s making needy, guttural sounds. His partner seems content at that, his lips tugging up in a smile against Jensen’s neck as fingertips find their way to the waistband of his jeans. He breaks their contact to remove his own tee-shirt, revealing that lithe, neatly-sculpted torso, disposing the fabric somewhere across the room. Their chests are flushed together, hips grinding against one another, their jean-clad erections rubbing and sending jolts of electricity throughout their bodies. With an elegant snap of his wrist, Misha pops the single button on Jensen’s confining denims, pulls down the zipper and lurches that sinful mouth of his back on Jensen’s torso. His tongue wets every reachable patch of skin, lapping circles until finally closing around Jensen’s erect nipple. It swifts and moistens the hard knobs, switching from one to the other for equal attention. Jensen fights to keep his eyes open as pleasure overwhelms him, not wanting to miss any of the devious things Misha is doing to him or the expressions on his face as he does them.
Jensen’s entire body convulses when Misha’s tongue dips lower, sucking on his hip bone, fingers bruising the sides of his body with their hungry enthusiasm. The slick muscle of Misha’s tongue is so glorious and well-versed it should have its own star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame.
Jensen’s pants are finally discarded, joining the ever-growing pile of clothes on the floor. His plain navy boxers are quick to follow, the sudden chill causing him to shiver. He reaches to unbuckle Misha’s belt, fumbling a little but finally managing the task. He’s aiming for the button when Misha moves away to do it himself, speeding the process. He’s not wearing any underwear, and that can’t possibly be as hot as Jensen’s dick seems to think it is.
Jensen embarks upon his journey to investigate every milky patch of skin stretched in front of him, clutching the hard ridges of Misha’s torso. When he places a kiss on the sternum Misha flings his hands away, diving between Jensen’s legs as he starts licking at his thighs. Because he’s more than positive if this is what Misha’s tongue feels like on him, his cock is going to feel epic inside him.
Misha places two firm palms on the inside of Jensen thighs, spreads his legs open. He grabs the back of each knee and lifts them up on his shoulders. Before Jensen can even comprehend what’s going on, there’s a quick, wet pressure on one of his balls, and Jensen’s eyes rolls back in his head at the overwhelming pleasure coursing through his veins.
Misha kisses the inside of Jensen’s thighs, leaving shiny saliva ghosting over his skin where the cold air vibrates against it. Misha’s arms wrap around the small of his back, fingers dancing over the curves of his spine. It’s methodic and well-coordinated, Misha’s tongue lapping to an unspoken rhythm he masters. He wraps his pastel lips over Jensen’s cock, dragging his mouth slowly all the way from base to the tip, letting go with a very loud, wet pop. Then, he starts blowing on it—and Jensen’s about to mention that the blow in blowjob isn’t supposed to be literal, but he is completely unprepared for how mindblowingly good it feels.
Misha’s hands find their way to Jensen’s ass-cheeks, fingers gently tracing the cleft and pressing their bodies closer to one another; skin meeting skin as their erections slide together. The expression on Misha’s face is one of pure bliss as he rocks against Jensen, before he unexpectedly pulls away.
“Lube and condoms,” he throws over his shoulder by way of explanation, disappearing into the bathroom. Jensen pants and stares at the bland ceiling, his heart beating so fast he’s certain it’s going to explode right out of his ribcage.
He takes hold of his throbbing cock, stroking lightly and finding a rhythm when suddenly his wrists are grabbed, his arms pinned over his head.
“Playing without me?” Misha purrs in his ear. “That’s not very nice, now is it?”
“Well, then why don’t you do something rather than talk about it,” Jensen retorts, glaring at Misha with what he’s certain is a very effective, angry scowl—but the fucker just smirks and presses his mouth against Jensen’s. Misha’s kissing technique has the fluidity of a seasoned dancer; his tongue dancing to a soft, rhythmic tune he seems to know by heart.
Jensen places urgent kisses across Misha’s jaw-line, coarse hair of his stubble rubbing against Jensen’s neck.
Certainly, all the teasing is nice and arousing, but Jensen is getting impatient. After all, one of the advantages of being with a guy is that you don’t have to spend all that much time on foreplay; you both just want to get off. Misha, apparently, has either been left off the mailing list or plainly didn’t bother reading the memo. It’s up to Jensen to deliver the message.
He reaches for Misha’s cock, fisting it in a firm grip and pulling. Misha hisses through his arousal, and Jensen licks the shell of his ear before whispering, “I said do something.”
Misha bucks his hips forward as Jensen bites on his lobe, fighting the shudder raking through his body. “You’re a feisty one, aren’t you?”
“Only one way to find out,” Jensen grins, all teeth and gums and the epitome of seduction.
Misha kisses him again, placing Jensen’s legs back on his shoulders. He coats his index finger with lube, placing it on Jensen’s hole and gently messaging around it. He’s got Jensen gasping and trembling in a matter of seconds. After adding more lube into the mix, he slowly pushes the tip of two fingers inside in a steady motion. Jensen gasps and tries to relax his muscles, getting used to the intrusion. Misha scissors his fingers a little, stretching Jensen further and looking for the spot that will make all the pain worthwhile. When his finger brushes the gland lightly, Jensen arches his back and lets out a long, throaty moan of encouragement. Misha gently messages the prostate before adding in a third. The stretch burns, but it’s not wholly uncomfortable.
“You ready for more?” he asks. His voice has dropped an octave, and it’s colored with every streak of desire Jensen feels.
Jensen merely nods in reply, not trusting his vocal cords to do anything but moan. Misha carefully retrieves his fingers from Jensen’s opening and puts on the condom. After squirting more lube out of the tube and spreading it on his cock with graceful precision, he lines himself with Jensen’s hole, grabbing his hips and awaiting permission. Jensen nods again, panting hard and licking some moisture back to his lips. Misha pushes in slowly, mumbling incoherently into Jensen’s ear by way of reassurance. Jensen does his best to relax his muscles as he’s stretched wider, squinting his eyes shut when Misha is halfway inside him. Misha leans down to steal a deep, probing kiss and pushes the rest of the way inside. He stays still, waiting for Jensen to adjust.
“Oh, fuck,” he murmurs as he buries his face where Jensen’s neck and collarbone meet.
“M-move,” Jensen mutters, and he’d be ashamed of the naked neediness in his voice if his cognitive resources weren’t completely depleted.
Misha thrusts out and back in, long and languid and deep.He kisses down Jensen’s shoulders, neck and collarbone as he eases into a steady rhythm.
“Fuck, yeah,” Jensen moans underneath him, sweat beading on his forehead, “see, this is a much better use of your goddamn passion.”
Misha smirks fondly at the words, increasing his pace and biting on his lower lip. Jensen traces a thumb over his sharp features, outlines the corners of his lips.
“Come on, let me hear it. Let me hear you scream.” Misha moans at the words alone, and Jensen is further encouraged to make him produce those sinful noises. “Come on, Misha. What do I make you feel?” he teases, a perfect imitation of Misha’s words earlier in the evening, “how do I feel wrapped around your cock?”
“Hot,” Misha replies automatically. “You’re so goddamn tight, Jensen. Fuck. It’s almost too much.”
“Come on, poetry boy,” Jensen purrs, proud of the smugness in his tone considering he’s getting fucked stupid here. “Go harder. Deeper. Fuck me. Don’t you want to feel it, Misha? Don’t you want to feel my muscles closing around you, hard enough to squeeze every last drop of come you’ve got to give?”
“Christ, Jensen.” Misha hisses and closes his eyes as he thrusts harder—almost brutally fast— and digs his nails on Jensen’s skin. Jensen pants and squeezes on Misha’s abdominals in return.
“Fuck, yes,” Jensen breaths out, thrashing about on the carpet. Misha uses the momentum to bite on his exposed neck, darting his tongue over bulging veins. His fingers curl around Jensen’s cock; light, slow strokes that he feels down to his toes. Jensen clamps a hand on Misha’s neck and pulls him in for a kiss, coaxing his tongue inside like Misha’s mouth is a blank canvas he’s eager to fill up. It only takes a few more thrusts, a brush of fingertips on the crown of his cock and Jensen’s coming hard and fast.
Jensen’s still trembling from the aftershocks when he hears Misha gasp, opens his eyes just in time to witness Misha’s own orgasm. His lips are parted in obscene, plush “O”; neck stretched and tempting; eyelashes dark and fragile against high, pale cheekbones.
He collapses on top of Jensen, their breathing labored and their sweat mingling. They still search for the other’s skin, fingers brushing against random parts just so they can keep touching.
“Fuck.” Jensen exclaims, exhaustion scratching his throat. “That was…”
“Yeah,” Misha replies with a caress to Jensen’s hipbone.
When they finally crawl under the sheets in the bed they refrained from using, Jensen is content to find out Misha still smells of sex, coffee and faded ink on tattered paper.