electricalgwen (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
electricalgwen) wrote2012-02-07 08:15 pm
electricalgwen) wrote2012-02-07 08:15 pm
Entry tags:
Fic: More Than Words (CWRPF AU, Jensen/Misha, NC-17)
Last year, ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
dancetomato very kindly bid on me and won in my only charity fic offer to date. She also graciously accepted that I wouldn't be working on it until after ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
spn_j2_bigbang drafts were due. And then I got really stuck on what I was trying to write her, and then I had to get the actual bigbang fic up, and then I hit a black hole and disappeared.
DT, I'm so sorry. I'm taking babysteps back here. I still want to finish the fic in question, but I offer this in the meantime, in the hopes that messy blow-job PWP is relevant to your interests. (Originally sparked by a prompt in a kink meme, asking for poet!Misha and fan!Jensen, but I didn't finish it on time. Spot the pattern.) ~3K words, NC-17 rating, standard disclaimers apply. Graciously beta'd bylaisserais.
More Than Words
Jensen feels stupid and conspicuous, waiting in line.
Author readings don’t usually draw much of a crowd in this town. Romance novelists and mystery authors can maybe half-fill the place, but poetry readings get sparse attendance. A few teenage girls with spiral-bound notebooks full of emo love poems, some wanna-be artistic twenty-somethings all in black who sneer at anything that isn’t post-modern and depressing as hell, a couple of retired English teachers, cat ladies…. basically, no one even remotely resembling Jensen. His presence as an employee is accepted, but that doesn’t explain him lining up to talk to the author.
The turn-out tonight is particularly thin on the ground. Jeff had raised his eyebrows a bit when Jensen suggested they book Misha Collins for a reading, but it’s not like it costs much to keep the store open and lit for a couple more hours. Anything that keeps them visible and active in the community is good; life is tough for independent booksellers these days. Misha’s a local boy, Jensen argued. The arts community has to stick together.
Thing is, he likes Misha’s poetry. He works in a bookstore, he can afford to be picky about the stuff he reads, and Misha’s work is good. Spare, clean, and with an odd, almost alien perspective on the simplest of things. Reading it, Jensen sometimes feels like he’s turning inside out: Misha’s poetry breaks the usual, timeworn ruts of his thinking, gives him new ways to consider things. Not that he’s going to say anything of the sort to Misha, of course. Jensen can appreciate words, but he’s not at ease with using them.
Plus, Misha’s hot as hell. That alone ensured the teenage girl contingent would turn out in force.
It also renders Jensen even less verbal than usual. When Misha arrived, Jensen had gestured him in and managed a sentence or two. He hadn’t gotten as far as introducing himself, though, before Jeff had swept in and taken over. Jeff ushered Misha to the makeshift podium, pointing out the autograph table displaying small stacks of his book, and chatted easily with Misha until it was time for the reading to start. At that point, he’d vanished back into his office. Jensen hadn’t figured he’d stay for the actual poetry.
A dozen or so people line up after the reading. A few of them even buy a book for Misha to sign; the rest just want to talk. Jensen moves around the shop, thanking people for coming and tidying up discarded paper cups.
There are only five people left in line – the girls giggling and blushing and shoving each other forward – when he picks up his copy of Misha’s book and stands behind them.
Misha charms his admirers, listens to one of them recite some lyrics and nods gravely. He says a few encouraging words, and winks at them as they leave. Jensen watches them like a hawk until they’ve actually left the store. They look like nice enough kids, but the last thing he needs is for one of them to make off with Misha’s shoe or something as a souvenir.
He turns back as soon as the door clicks shut behind them, to find Misha regarding him quizzically.
“You didn’t just buy that tonight.”
He gestures to the book Jensen’s holding. Jensen’s good to books, but there’s a crease on the spine, a little wear on the corners. Marks on the fore-edge from where his thumb habitually rests.
“No,” Jensen admits. “I got it a few months back.” He rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. “I like your stuff. ‘S really good.”
Misha smiles. “Thank you.” He holds out a hand for the book. “Do I have you to thank for the invitation, then?”
“I guess,” Jensen says. “Jeff was looking for suggestions.”
“Well. A double thank you, then.” Misha opens the book to the frontispiece. “What name should I put?”
Jensen is watching the way Misha’s fingers twine around the pen, and has to play back the question in his head before he can answer. “Jensen. Uh, with two E’s.”
He reads upside-down as Misha writes in a neat hand:
to Jensen
a lover
(of poetry)
He sucks in a quick, shocked breath, and looks up from the page. Misha’s tongue is curled over his lower lip as he signs his name.
“Perhaps I’m being overly forward,” Misha says quietly, and his voice never had that tone during the reading, deep and tense and erotic. “But you’ve been staring at me all evening. And I’d love to know if you’re as delicious as you look.”
He licks his lips, slowly, deliberately, leaving a shiny trail. Jensen swallows hard. His pulse starts hammering double-time, which just means his dick fills all the faster. He’s hard in seconds, straining against his fly.
Misha, still seated behind the table, looks straight at Jensen’s crotch and smiles faintly. He shoves his chair back and lets his legs fall apart. The material of his dress pants stretches taut over his groin, revealing his own impressive erection.
Jensen’s mouth waters. He very nearly drops to his knees right there under the table.
“Jeff’ll be out soon,” he manages to choke out. “To lock up. He’s been doing the books in the back room. He’s, uh. Not much for poetry.”
Misha blinks, then stands, adjusting himself. “Right.”
“You could,” Jensen starts. “If you. I mean. You could wait for me? Outside? I won’t be long. I should just let him know we’re gone.”
Misha smiles, but before he says anything, they hear Jeff’s footsteps coming down the creaky back hallway. Misha scoops up his trenchcoat and slides it on. Jensen’s jacket is too short to conceal his own condition; he strategically positions himself behind a chair.
“Everything go okay?” Jeff says as he enters.
“Fine,” Jensen answers. “Small crowd, but they had a good time, and we sold some books.” He grins. “Even a few of Misha’s.”
“Great,” Jeff says. “Good to have you, Mr. Collins. We like to support local talent.”
Jensen keeps a straight face at that.
“I appreciate it very much,” Misha says. “Thanks for publicizing tonight. I think the audience enjoyed themselves.” He pauses. “At least, they enjoyed your coffee, and put up with me.”
Jeff laughs. “I’m sure you were a big hit.”
He looks around. “Got everything? I can show you out. Jensen, do you mind closing up?” He holds out the keys.
“No problem,” Jensen says, swallowing his objections and pasting on a smile. “See you tomorrow.”
It only takes him a few minutes to straighten things up in the main room and shut down the computer. He tries to keep half an eye on what might be happening on the sidewalk outside, but he has to go check the washrooms and kill the lights in the back office. By the time he’s on the front doorstep and turning Jeff’s key in the lock, there’s no one in sight. Jeff’s car is gone from its reserved parking space.
Damn it. Did Jeff offer to drive Misha home? Or – the thought hits him like a brick, jealousy curling ugly in the pit of his stomach – take him home?
He looks up and down the empty street, frowns, and starts walking south. He only gets as far as the corner of the building, when there’s movement in the corner of his vision. He turns, and there’s Misha, a dark shape in the alley beside the bookstore. He’s leaning back against the wall, one leg drawn up, the trenchcoat hanging open.
Jensen already knows there’s nobody to see him, but he takes another quick look around before ducking into the alley.
“Thought you left.”
“And miss this? I told your Mr. Morgan I’d brought my bike.” Misha tilts his head back against the wall, baring the long line of his throat. Putting himself on display. Jensen wants to lick, bite, mark.
“In times I’ve not yet lived,” Misha murmurs, “the fleeting moments, the ephemera.”
The familiar words hit Jensen, send his head spinning.
“Half-glimpsed in the shadows. Echoes. The small made significant.”
Christ, if Misha keeps reciting poetry during this, it’s going to be over embarrassingly fast.
“Most real of all my days.”
He crowds Misha up against the wall, hands on his chest, legs bracketing Misha’s, and stops the flow of words with his mouth.
Misha kisses like he writes: intensely, passionately, with a sort of ordered recklessness.
It’s like Jensen’s outside his own head, watching as someone else gets their hands all over this insanely hot man who puts words together in ways that speak to his soul. Details catch his attention: the rough scrape of fabric against the brick as he shifts his weight; the texture of Misha’s shirt under his grasping hands; the weird patchouli smell of Misha’s aftershave.
He bends his neck and opens his mouth over Misha’s collarbone, tasting the salt of his skin. He bites down gently; that elicits a groan, and Misha tilting his head to the side, encouraging access.
He licks and mouths his way up Misha’s neck, pausing to suck over the pulse point. When he lifts his head briefly, there’s a reddening mark. He continues, trails his tongue up, sucks on Misha’s earlobe. Misha honest-to-god whimpers at that, head rolling against the brick, hips canting out, shoving against Jensen’s.
He swirls his tongue around the whorls of Misha’s ear, darts it in, pulls back and blows cool air very gently across the wet skin. Misha goes wild, rutting frantically forward, one hand grabbing Jensen’s ass while the other works his shirt out of his pants.
Jensen grinds forward, then pulls away, giving Misha’s ear one last bite. He holds Misha’s gaze and licks his lips, as his hands work at Misha’s belt and open his pants. He gets his hand in, closes it over the hard hot line of Misha’s dick through his underwear.
Misha groans again, rolling his hips into Jensen’s grip while his hands stroke up and down Jensen’s back. Jensen leans in and bites at Misha’s mouth, teeth worrying the lower lip before he licks over it, soothing any sting. Misha’s dick is throbbing in his hand, and when he swipes his thumb over the head he can feel wetness soaking through the fabric.
It’s not until he drops to his knees that he notices Misha is wearing bright orange boxers. They kind of suit him, actually, but they’re in Jensen’s way and he yanks them down, tucking the elastic waistband under Misha’s sac. Misha’s cock slaps against his belly, stiff and leaking, but his balls look so nice displayed like that, Jensen decides to start there.
He sucks one into his mouth gently, rolls it on his tongue. His hands grip Misha’s thighs, thumbs kneading. Misha’s hands land in his hair, but he doesn’t try to steer Jensen, just settles his fingertips behind Jensen’s ears and massages slightly, matching Jensen’s rhythm.
Jensen hums around Misha’s sac, letting his teeth graze the delicate skin ever so gently. Misha’s cock jerks at that, spilling more precome that trickles down the shaft. The scent is sharp and immediate in Jensen’s nostrils, sparking another flare of want, making his dick leak in turn and his mouth water even more.
He releases Misha’s balls and licks a long stripe up the pretty cock in front of him, gathering the taste. Tongueing the slit elicits a growl and another burst of warmth that paints his lower lip. He tilts his head back and looks up at Misha’s face, letting all the lust searing through him show in his eyes.
Jensen knows he looks good on his knees; he’s been told so often enough. He may not be good with words, but his mouth is skilled in other ways.
He considers for a moment the tableau they’re making, right out in the open for anyone to see. There’s not a lot of light in the alley, but there’s enough that Misha’s erection gleams, slick fluid catching and reflecting the moon. It’s beautiful, wanton and needy, and all for Jensen.
Misha makes a pleading, incoherent noise and Jensen smiles.
He surges forward and takes Misha all the way down, relishing the way the thick length stretches his jaw, bumps against the back of his throat. He alternates between swirling his tongue along the underside, and corkscrewing up and down, varying speed and suction. It’s wet and sloppy and so good, spit and precome escaping from the corners of his mouth to pool in the coarse hair tickling his nose and chin. Misha’s hands are more demanding now, curling around the back of Jensen’s skull and pulling as he fucks Jensen’s mouth hard and fast.
Jensen works a hand into his pants, and can’t help groaning as he gets a grip on his own aching dick. Misha evidently likes the vibrations, grunting and slamming forward even harder. Jensen picks up the pace, squeezing his dick in time with Misha’s thrusts. It’s awkward; his pants are too confining and the angle’s wrong to jack himself properly, but it takes the edge off, allows him to concentrate on blowing Misha’s mind.
Misha’s cock swells even more, and Jensen guesses he’s about to shoot. He pulls back slightly. The thin skin, stretched so taut, slides against his back molars and Misha whines, but it’s a noise of pleasure rather than pain – or maybe both.
He sucks hard on the fat cockhead, and with a curse Misha blows his load, spilling pulse after pulse into Jensen’s eager mouth. He comes a lot; just when Jensen thinks he’s done, the spasms slowing, Misha’s hips drive forward and he slams a fist back against the wall, spurting again before finally slumping back, breathing hard and still mumbling filth.
Jensen manages to swallow it all down. He continues to suckle the tip of Misha’s cock gently, tongue curling around the head and cleaning him up, while he fumbles with his zipper and button, finally getting his pants open and yanking his briefs down.
He gets a better grip on his dick and starts pumping fast and purposefully. Misha looks like his brain’s gonna be offline for a while yet – and Jensen does feel a touch smug about that, thank you very much – and with the noise he was just making, they’d better get moving before getting arrested for public indecency. At this point, though, Jensen’s not sure he could stop if a whole platoon of cops showed up. His cock is so hard it hurts; he needs to get off, now.
Misha’s dick slips from his mouth as his lips fall open in a helpless groan. He leans back on his heels and thrusts faster into his fist, his other hand sliding down to tug at his balls.
“Get up here,” Misha mutters. He bends and hooks a hand under Jensen’s left elbow, hauling him to his feet. His shirt is still rucked up, boxers shoved down; when he pulls Jensen to him, Jensen’s knuckles brush against the bare skin of his stomach. He reaches down and wraps a hand around Jensen’s, twining their fingers.
They jerk Jensen off together. Jensen sets the pace; Misha keeps it going when Jensen loses all coordination. He drops his forehead onto Misha’s shoulder and bites down, muffling the shout he can’t repress when his orgasm hits.
He’s covered in Misha: Misha’s hand on him, Misha’s coat in his mouth, Misha’s voice in his ear, crooning poetry once again. He returns the favor, jizzing thick and messy all over Misha’s fingers, belly, dress shirt, stupid orange boxers.
He stays a moment, panting erratically as his heartbeat gradually slows and his dick softens. Aftermath is mildly awkward at the best of times, and he’s never had sex with an idol of his before. Words, even pedestrian, non-poetical ones, fail him.
He leans his shoulder into the brick and rolls away from Misha, standing next to him against the wall. He tucks himself in, straightens his shirt and fastens his pants. There’s surprisingly little mess on his own clothes, just the incriminating dirt on his knees.
Misha is quiet beside him, making no move to tidy himself up. Finally, Jensen gives in and looks over. Misha is staring straight at him, eyes knowing. It’s all Jensen can do not to crack, not to look away from the intensity and challenge in that blue gaze.
Misha raises his hand to his mouth. His eyes flicker down, breaking contact; Jensen lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He watches Misha’s pink tongue wind catlike around his own fingers, cleaning them of Jensen’s come.
He sucks the index finger into his mouth last. It presses against the inside of his cheek, small visible bulge, as his lips work around it. He pulls it free with a wet pop and Jensen’s dick, which should have been satisfied for hours after coming that hard, gives a faint twitch of interest.
“Thank you,” Misha says, finally pulling his clothes together. They’re a hopeless cause; he doesn’t even bother trying to wipe at them with Kleenex or something, just fastens his pants and pulls his coat shut to hide the evidence. “That was… inspirational.”
He slants an inscrutable look at Jensen.
“You’re welcome?” Jensen manages. “And, uh, you too. Thanks, I mean.”
“I enjoyed the whole evening,” Misha says. “Perhaps we could consider a return engagement?”
“It’s important to support local talent,” Jensen says without thinking.
They look at each other for a beat, then crack up.
And just like that, it’s easy.
“I think we could definitely manage that,” Jensen says. “You know where to find me.”
Misha nods gravely. “I do know where to come.”
Jensen snorts inelegantly. Misha grins. It’s a good look on him.
Semi-public sex in an alley. Dirt on his knees. Rasp in his voice from his throat being fucked raw. Corny puns. It’s not flowery or romantic or metaphysical. But it’s a poem all the same.
dancetomato very kindly bid on me and won in my only charity fic offer to date. She also graciously accepted that I wouldn't be working on it until after spn_j2_bigbang drafts were due. And then I got really stuck on what I was trying to write her, and then I had to get the actual bigbang fic up, and then I hit a black hole and disappeared. DT, I'm so sorry. I'm taking babysteps back here. I still want to finish the fic in question, but I offer this in the meantime, in the hopes that messy blow-job PWP is relevant to your interests. (Originally sparked by a prompt in a kink meme, asking for poet!Misha and fan!Jensen, but I didn't finish it on time. Spot the pattern.) ~3K words, NC-17 rating, standard disclaimers apply. Graciously beta'd by
laisserais.More Than Words
Jensen feels stupid and conspicuous, waiting in line.
Author readings don’t usually draw much of a crowd in this town. Romance novelists and mystery authors can maybe half-fill the place, but poetry readings get sparse attendance. A few teenage girls with spiral-bound notebooks full of emo love poems, some wanna-be artistic twenty-somethings all in black who sneer at anything that isn’t post-modern and depressing as hell, a couple of retired English teachers, cat ladies…. basically, no one even remotely resembling Jensen. His presence as an employee is accepted, but that doesn’t explain him lining up to talk to the author.
The turn-out tonight is particularly thin on the ground. Jeff had raised his eyebrows a bit when Jensen suggested they book Misha Collins for a reading, but it’s not like it costs much to keep the store open and lit for a couple more hours. Anything that keeps them visible and active in the community is good; life is tough for independent booksellers these days. Misha’s a local boy, Jensen argued. The arts community has to stick together.
Thing is, he likes Misha’s poetry. He works in a bookstore, he can afford to be picky about the stuff he reads, and Misha’s work is good. Spare, clean, and with an odd, almost alien perspective on the simplest of things. Reading it, Jensen sometimes feels like he’s turning inside out: Misha’s poetry breaks the usual, timeworn ruts of his thinking, gives him new ways to consider things. Not that he’s going to say anything of the sort to Misha, of course. Jensen can appreciate words, but he’s not at ease with using them.
Plus, Misha’s hot as hell. That alone ensured the teenage girl contingent would turn out in force.
It also renders Jensen even less verbal than usual. When Misha arrived, Jensen had gestured him in and managed a sentence or two. He hadn’t gotten as far as introducing himself, though, before Jeff had swept in and taken over. Jeff ushered Misha to the makeshift podium, pointing out the autograph table displaying small stacks of his book, and chatted easily with Misha until it was time for the reading to start. At that point, he’d vanished back into his office. Jensen hadn’t figured he’d stay for the actual poetry.
A dozen or so people line up after the reading. A few of them even buy a book for Misha to sign; the rest just want to talk. Jensen moves around the shop, thanking people for coming and tidying up discarded paper cups.
There are only five people left in line – the girls giggling and blushing and shoving each other forward – when he picks up his copy of Misha’s book and stands behind them.
Misha charms his admirers, listens to one of them recite some lyrics and nods gravely. He says a few encouraging words, and winks at them as they leave. Jensen watches them like a hawk until they’ve actually left the store. They look like nice enough kids, but the last thing he needs is for one of them to make off with Misha’s shoe or something as a souvenir.
He turns back as soon as the door clicks shut behind them, to find Misha regarding him quizzically.
“You didn’t just buy that tonight.”
He gestures to the book Jensen’s holding. Jensen’s good to books, but there’s a crease on the spine, a little wear on the corners. Marks on the fore-edge from where his thumb habitually rests.
“No,” Jensen admits. “I got it a few months back.” He rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. “I like your stuff. ‘S really good.”
Misha smiles. “Thank you.” He holds out a hand for the book. “Do I have you to thank for the invitation, then?”
“I guess,” Jensen says. “Jeff was looking for suggestions.”
“Well. A double thank you, then.” Misha opens the book to the frontispiece. “What name should I put?”
Jensen is watching the way Misha’s fingers twine around the pen, and has to play back the question in his head before he can answer. “Jensen. Uh, with two E’s.”
He reads upside-down as Misha writes in a neat hand:
to Jensen
a lover
(of poetry)
He sucks in a quick, shocked breath, and looks up from the page. Misha’s tongue is curled over his lower lip as he signs his name.
“Perhaps I’m being overly forward,” Misha says quietly, and his voice never had that tone during the reading, deep and tense and erotic. “But you’ve been staring at me all evening. And I’d love to know if you’re as delicious as you look.”
He licks his lips, slowly, deliberately, leaving a shiny trail. Jensen swallows hard. His pulse starts hammering double-time, which just means his dick fills all the faster. He’s hard in seconds, straining against his fly.
Misha, still seated behind the table, looks straight at Jensen’s crotch and smiles faintly. He shoves his chair back and lets his legs fall apart. The material of his dress pants stretches taut over his groin, revealing his own impressive erection.
Jensen’s mouth waters. He very nearly drops to his knees right there under the table.
“Jeff’ll be out soon,” he manages to choke out. “To lock up. He’s been doing the books in the back room. He’s, uh. Not much for poetry.”
Misha blinks, then stands, adjusting himself. “Right.”
“You could,” Jensen starts. “If you. I mean. You could wait for me? Outside? I won’t be long. I should just let him know we’re gone.”
Misha smiles, but before he says anything, they hear Jeff’s footsteps coming down the creaky back hallway. Misha scoops up his trenchcoat and slides it on. Jensen’s jacket is too short to conceal his own condition; he strategically positions himself behind a chair.
“Everything go okay?” Jeff says as he enters.
“Fine,” Jensen answers. “Small crowd, but they had a good time, and we sold some books.” He grins. “Even a few of Misha’s.”
“Great,” Jeff says. “Good to have you, Mr. Collins. We like to support local talent.”
Jensen keeps a straight face at that.
“I appreciate it very much,” Misha says. “Thanks for publicizing tonight. I think the audience enjoyed themselves.” He pauses. “At least, they enjoyed your coffee, and put up with me.”
Jeff laughs. “I’m sure you were a big hit.”
He looks around. “Got everything? I can show you out. Jensen, do you mind closing up?” He holds out the keys.
“No problem,” Jensen says, swallowing his objections and pasting on a smile. “See you tomorrow.”
It only takes him a few minutes to straighten things up in the main room and shut down the computer. He tries to keep half an eye on what might be happening on the sidewalk outside, but he has to go check the washrooms and kill the lights in the back office. By the time he’s on the front doorstep and turning Jeff’s key in the lock, there’s no one in sight. Jeff’s car is gone from its reserved parking space.
Damn it. Did Jeff offer to drive Misha home? Or – the thought hits him like a brick, jealousy curling ugly in the pit of his stomach – take him home?
He looks up and down the empty street, frowns, and starts walking south. He only gets as far as the corner of the building, when there’s movement in the corner of his vision. He turns, and there’s Misha, a dark shape in the alley beside the bookstore. He’s leaning back against the wall, one leg drawn up, the trenchcoat hanging open.
Jensen already knows there’s nobody to see him, but he takes another quick look around before ducking into the alley.
“Thought you left.”
“And miss this? I told your Mr. Morgan I’d brought my bike.” Misha tilts his head back against the wall, baring the long line of his throat. Putting himself on display. Jensen wants to lick, bite, mark.
“In times I’ve not yet lived,” Misha murmurs, “the fleeting moments, the ephemera.”
The familiar words hit Jensen, send his head spinning.
“Half-glimpsed in the shadows. Echoes. The small made significant.”
Christ, if Misha keeps reciting poetry during this, it’s going to be over embarrassingly fast.
“Most real of all my days.”
He crowds Misha up against the wall, hands on his chest, legs bracketing Misha’s, and stops the flow of words with his mouth.
Misha kisses like he writes: intensely, passionately, with a sort of ordered recklessness.
It’s like Jensen’s outside his own head, watching as someone else gets their hands all over this insanely hot man who puts words together in ways that speak to his soul. Details catch his attention: the rough scrape of fabric against the brick as he shifts his weight; the texture of Misha’s shirt under his grasping hands; the weird patchouli smell of Misha’s aftershave.
He bends his neck and opens his mouth over Misha’s collarbone, tasting the salt of his skin. He bites down gently; that elicits a groan, and Misha tilting his head to the side, encouraging access.
He licks and mouths his way up Misha’s neck, pausing to suck over the pulse point. When he lifts his head briefly, there’s a reddening mark. He continues, trails his tongue up, sucks on Misha’s earlobe. Misha honest-to-god whimpers at that, head rolling against the brick, hips canting out, shoving against Jensen’s.
He swirls his tongue around the whorls of Misha’s ear, darts it in, pulls back and blows cool air very gently across the wet skin. Misha goes wild, rutting frantically forward, one hand grabbing Jensen’s ass while the other works his shirt out of his pants.
Jensen grinds forward, then pulls away, giving Misha’s ear one last bite. He holds Misha’s gaze and licks his lips, as his hands work at Misha’s belt and open his pants. He gets his hand in, closes it over the hard hot line of Misha’s dick through his underwear.
Misha groans again, rolling his hips into Jensen’s grip while his hands stroke up and down Jensen’s back. Jensen leans in and bites at Misha’s mouth, teeth worrying the lower lip before he licks over it, soothing any sting. Misha’s dick is throbbing in his hand, and when he swipes his thumb over the head he can feel wetness soaking through the fabric.
It’s not until he drops to his knees that he notices Misha is wearing bright orange boxers. They kind of suit him, actually, but they’re in Jensen’s way and he yanks them down, tucking the elastic waistband under Misha’s sac. Misha’s cock slaps against his belly, stiff and leaking, but his balls look so nice displayed like that, Jensen decides to start there.
He sucks one into his mouth gently, rolls it on his tongue. His hands grip Misha’s thighs, thumbs kneading. Misha’s hands land in his hair, but he doesn’t try to steer Jensen, just settles his fingertips behind Jensen’s ears and massages slightly, matching Jensen’s rhythm.
Jensen hums around Misha’s sac, letting his teeth graze the delicate skin ever so gently. Misha’s cock jerks at that, spilling more precome that trickles down the shaft. The scent is sharp and immediate in Jensen’s nostrils, sparking another flare of want, making his dick leak in turn and his mouth water even more.
He releases Misha’s balls and licks a long stripe up the pretty cock in front of him, gathering the taste. Tongueing the slit elicits a growl and another burst of warmth that paints his lower lip. He tilts his head back and looks up at Misha’s face, letting all the lust searing through him show in his eyes.
Jensen knows he looks good on his knees; he’s been told so often enough. He may not be good with words, but his mouth is skilled in other ways.
He considers for a moment the tableau they’re making, right out in the open for anyone to see. There’s not a lot of light in the alley, but there’s enough that Misha’s erection gleams, slick fluid catching and reflecting the moon. It’s beautiful, wanton and needy, and all for Jensen.
Misha makes a pleading, incoherent noise and Jensen smiles.
He surges forward and takes Misha all the way down, relishing the way the thick length stretches his jaw, bumps against the back of his throat. He alternates between swirling his tongue along the underside, and corkscrewing up and down, varying speed and suction. It’s wet and sloppy and so good, spit and precome escaping from the corners of his mouth to pool in the coarse hair tickling his nose and chin. Misha’s hands are more demanding now, curling around the back of Jensen’s skull and pulling as he fucks Jensen’s mouth hard and fast.
Jensen works a hand into his pants, and can’t help groaning as he gets a grip on his own aching dick. Misha evidently likes the vibrations, grunting and slamming forward even harder. Jensen picks up the pace, squeezing his dick in time with Misha’s thrusts. It’s awkward; his pants are too confining and the angle’s wrong to jack himself properly, but it takes the edge off, allows him to concentrate on blowing Misha’s mind.
Misha’s cock swells even more, and Jensen guesses he’s about to shoot. He pulls back slightly. The thin skin, stretched so taut, slides against his back molars and Misha whines, but it’s a noise of pleasure rather than pain – or maybe both.
He sucks hard on the fat cockhead, and with a curse Misha blows his load, spilling pulse after pulse into Jensen’s eager mouth. He comes a lot; just when Jensen thinks he’s done, the spasms slowing, Misha’s hips drive forward and he slams a fist back against the wall, spurting again before finally slumping back, breathing hard and still mumbling filth.
Jensen manages to swallow it all down. He continues to suckle the tip of Misha’s cock gently, tongue curling around the head and cleaning him up, while he fumbles with his zipper and button, finally getting his pants open and yanking his briefs down.
He gets a better grip on his dick and starts pumping fast and purposefully. Misha looks like his brain’s gonna be offline for a while yet – and Jensen does feel a touch smug about that, thank you very much – and with the noise he was just making, they’d better get moving before getting arrested for public indecency. At this point, though, Jensen’s not sure he could stop if a whole platoon of cops showed up. His cock is so hard it hurts; he needs to get off, now.
Misha’s dick slips from his mouth as his lips fall open in a helpless groan. He leans back on his heels and thrusts faster into his fist, his other hand sliding down to tug at his balls.
“Get up here,” Misha mutters. He bends and hooks a hand under Jensen’s left elbow, hauling him to his feet. His shirt is still rucked up, boxers shoved down; when he pulls Jensen to him, Jensen’s knuckles brush against the bare skin of his stomach. He reaches down and wraps a hand around Jensen’s, twining their fingers.
They jerk Jensen off together. Jensen sets the pace; Misha keeps it going when Jensen loses all coordination. He drops his forehead onto Misha’s shoulder and bites down, muffling the shout he can’t repress when his orgasm hits.
He’s covered in Misha: Misha’s hand on him, Misha’s coat in his mouth, Misha’s voice in his ear, crooning poetry once again. He returns the favor, jizzing thick and messy all over Misha’s fingers, belly, dress shirt, stupid orange boxers.
He stays a moment, panting erratically as his heartbeat gradually slows and his dick softens. Aftermath is mildly awkward at the best of times, and he’s never had sex with an idol of his before. Words, even pedestrian, non-poetical ones, fail him.
He leans his shoulder into the brick and rolls away from Misha, standing next to him against the wall. He tucks himself in, straightens his shirt and fastens his pants. There’s surprisingly little mess on his own clothes, just the incriminating dirt on his knees.
Misha is quiet beside him, making no move to tidy himself up. Finally, Jensen gives in and looks over. Misha is staring straight at him, eyes knowing. It’s all Jensen can do not to crack, not to look away from the intensity and challenge in that blue gaze.
Misha raises his hand to his mouth. His eyes flicker down, breaking contact; Jensen lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He watches Misha’s pink tongue wind catlike around his own fingers, cleaning them of Jensen’s come.
He sucks the index finger into his mouth last. It presses against the inside of his cheek, small visible bulge, as his lips work around it. He pulls it free with a wet pop and Jensen’s dick, which should have been satisfied for hours after coming that hard, gives a faint twitch of interest.
“Thank you,” Misha says, finally pulling his clothes together. They’re a hopeless cause; he doesn’t even bother trying to wipe at them with Kleenex or something, just fastens his pants and pulls his coat shut to hide the evidence. “That was… inspirational.”
He slants an inscrutable look at Jensen.
“You’re welcome?” Jensen manages. “And, uh, you too. Thanks, I mean.”
“I enjoyed the whole evening,” Misha says. “Perhaps we could consider a return engagement?”
“It’s important to support local talent,” Jensen says without thinking.
They look at each other for a beat, then crack up.
And just like that, it’s easy.
“I think we could definitely manage that,” Jensen says. “You know where to find me.”
Misha nods gravely. “I do know where to come.”
Jensen snorts inelegantly. Misha grins. It’s a good look on him.
Semi-public sex in an alley. Dirt on his knees. Rasp in his voice from his throat being fucked raw. Corny puns. It’s not flowery or romantic or metaphysical. But it’s a poem all the same.
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that is all XDDDD
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