
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/6801913.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural_RPF
  Relationship:
      Jensen_Ackles/Misha_Collins
  Additional Tags:
      Underage_Sex, Alternate_Universe_-_Student/Teacher, teacher_misha, Object
      Penetration, Spanking, Barebacking, Bottom_Jensen, Dubious_Consent,
      Underage_Drinking
  Series:
      Part 3 of SPN_Kink_Meme/Blindfold_Fills
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-05-09 Words: 2559
****** I'm the Stain on Your Shirt ******
by kelleigh_(girlfromcarolina)
Summary
     Misha, a teacher, discovers sixteen year-old Jensen drinking on
     school property late one night and decides to teach him a lesson.
Notes
     From a prompt on the spnkink_meme: Misha, a teacher, discovers
     sixteen year-old Jensen drinking on school property late one night
     and decides to teach him a lesson. All kinks were included in the
     original prompt *facepalm*
     Why I picked this prompt is still a mystery to me. Beta, you ask? WHO
     WOULD WANT TO BETA THIS? No one, that's who.
Things change. It's one of Misha's many accepted life philosophies. Things are
always changing: emotional things, physical things, things he has no control
over.
For instance, Misha used to think that walking through the wide, vaulted halls
of Exeter Academy at night was one of the most bone-chilling experiences a
person could have. Something about being all alone in a space meant for
hundreds of students felt wrong. But that changed the longer he worked for the
exclusive prep school. Now, Misha prefers his own lonely company, staying late
to finish grading photography projects and setting up equipment, and wandering
the very halls that used to freeze the blood in his veins. The quiet is
peaceful and the emptiness is almost a relief after jam-packed days facing the
gripes and aspirations of dozens of wealthy, entitled students, having to
endure the youthful perfection of their bodies in close proximity. Misha
rejoices in the solitude of late nights.
A light catches his attention, a soft glow where there should be none. Misha
approaches carefully, peering through scratched glass on the door to one of the
many art studios. He stands still, admiring the brave student staying long past
propriety. The young man's features are a thing of beauty and complexity,
drawing Misha's discerning eye. Angled cheekbones lend grace to the young face,
full lips a sensuality beyond his adolescence. But Misha sees the student's
strong gaze focused on the canvas in front of him as if willing it to reveal
some secret. Misha laughs despite himself.
He's about to continue on his way, aware that he's been staring long enough to
be as inappropriate as the student's trespass, but that's when he sees the
bottle. Long-necked and brown, sitting perfectly in the dip of the teen's plush
lower lip. Misha shakes off the sudden spike of want and replaces it with
disappointment.
He lets himself into the room.
"It's one thing to be here after hours, but drinking on school property?" Misha
shakes his head, face impassive as the teenager wobbles and nearly falls off of
his stool. The near-empty beer bottle is not so lucky, slipping from slim
fingers and clattering to the linoleum. "Now, I think we have a problem."
"Oh god, I was just..."
Misha cuts him off with a stern look. "What's your name, young man?"
"Jensen, sir. Jensen Ackles."
"Alright, Jensen. What gave you the idea that it was okay to sneak into the
school with beer?"
Jensen looks stupefied, eyelashes fluttering. Aware that there's no right
answer for the teenager to come up with, Misha stands and waits, arms-crossed
in a picture of patience. He knows he's far from the most intimidating teacher
at the school; he's the mild-mannered guy who teaches photography and sculpture
to anyone looking to pick up an extra art credit. Misha is private and subdued,
keeping his personal life and deeply personal secrets away from the nosy
faculty. But Jensen continues to be horrified by his mere presence. That fluffs
Misha's feathers, so to speak.
"I can't just let this go, young man." He means to call Jensen by name, but the
way he purrs young man just slips out. His carefully controlled personality is
splintering; all it takes to shred his control is a wide-eyed stare and the
devil hiding in the corner of Jensen's lips.
"I know," Jensen mutters, hanging his head. The bottle has rolled to rest
against his shoes. "It's just that I'm behind on this project and I needed more
time than what I get in class, and I'm so sorry for sneaking in, but the door
was unlocked so I thought it might be okay."
"You know, I was ready to let the whole thing slide. I know what it's like to
be consumed with a project." Misha sighs. "But I can't forgive the drinking."
Jensen bites his lip. Misha silently promises that he'll punish himself twice
as hard tonight for even thinking about taking advantage of the teenager, no
matter how tempting Jensen's distress might be. He forces a lopsided smile.
"Maybe they'll let you spend your detentions somewhere you can paint."
"Detentions? That's all?"
"I may be a teacher, Jensen, but I remember being young." And beautiful, and
naive like you. "Detentions seem fair since this is your first offense, right?"
"Right."
Looking for a diversion, Misha walks towards Jensen and his canvas, picking up
Jensen's heavy sketchbook from the table beside him. "You do good work," he
remarks, flipping through a few pages before folding the cover closed. "Keep it
up and don't get in any more trouble, young man."
"I won't, Mr. Collins," Jensen says as he stands.
Misha tries to lighten the atmosphere with a laugh. "I'm glad I don't have to
introduce myself. Now, clean up and get going."
Jensen bends to pick up the beer bottle and the sight of his young, firm ass is
temptation beyond reason. A greater man might be able to resist but Misha is
not a great man – he’s a man with secrets, with twists and turns and back
alleyways into which no one should venture alone – and his arm is swinging
before he can stop, bringing the sketchbook down hard on Jensen's ass.
"What!"
Misha wants to say he's sorry in the wake of Jensen's exclamation, that he
doesn't know what's come over him, but he knows full well. Embarrassment stains
Jensen's cheeks and Misha can't resist doing it again. Jensen's posture snaps
rigid, his spine an iron rod under thin gray cotton.
"Mr. Collins," he gasps. "Please!"
"Please?" Not stop. Such a small distinction but it makes all the difference in
the world to Misha.
Again and again, Misha brings the sketchbook down, Jensen's spine dipping lower
with each blow. Jensen's almost doubled over, hands spread on his knees for
leverage, ass turned to Misha's eyes. The back of his thighs are trembling;
Misha pulls him gently to the left, forcing Jensen's upper body over the paint-
smeared table. It's clinical at first, as if Misha's hands are acting
independently from the rest of his body. Nothing past the slap of the notebook
on fabric until Misha needs to hear more.
Jensen backs into every hit, full lips parted and panting against the grain of
the tabletop. He mumbles – maybe a protest, maybe not – when Misha tugs his
jeans down. Misha admires the stretch of cotton briefs over hot skin before
those are pulled down too.
"No..."
"No?" Misha questions, slapping Jensen once, lightly. "Isn't this better than
detention, Jensen?" To his own ears, his voice sounds deeper and more
authoritative, the added gravitas of lust. Commands come easily to his tongue.
"Now stay still for me and your punishment will go a lot faster."
Jensen makes a garbled noise at the word punishment. Misha tries to tell Jensen
what he's done wrong but the lies don't make it past his lips – Misha is the
one in the wrong right now. There's no lesson in this, it's punishment for its
own sake.
Misha loves the resiliency of young skin, the supple way it bounces back from
the impact of his palm. Jensen's certainly not obeying his orders, writhing
around on the table top, fingers clawing through the wet paint and marking up
the dark surface. Like studying a depraved work of art, Misha stares down into
the swirls and frantic fingerprints. It's beautiful, an image his brain is
going to come back to over and over in the future.
"Mr. Collins, please..."
The plea comes again, more strangled. The flush on Jensen's face is nearly as
red as the blooming pattern on his ass, but Misha's eyes are elsewhere. He
watches the little hitches of Jensen's hips at the edge of the table. He knows
Jensen's hard without reaching around.
"How can you like this?" Misha accuses, disbelief channeled from some deep,
hidden place in his mind. "How can you let me do this?"
Jensen doesn't answer, of course. And Misha finds he doesn't particularly want
him to.
Misha doesn't outweigh Jensen by much, has always considered himself on the
lean side of attractive, but he feels powerful. It's addictive and powerful and
Misha leashes that heady feeling when he picks up the beer bottle that had
touched Jensen's lips so obscenely earlier. Things are about to get much, much
dirtier.
"We shouldn't leave things lying around," Misha says, setting it on the table.
His fingers detour on the way back, slipping through the saliva connecting
Jensen's mouth to the table. Wet, he brings them back and puts pressure on
Jensen's hole, heat surrounding his entire hand. Jensen's spine tenses but he
doesn't buck away from the pressure of Misha's fingers, allowing the intrusion
into his tight ass.
Misha wants nothing more than for Jensen to take – no words, no reactions, no
reciprocation – but the teenager's arousal is painted on the table and on his
clothing. Misha's free hand is covered in paint, leaving possessive prints all
over the back of Jensen's shirt, bright marks contrasting with the dark gray.
Jensen's hole swallows two of Misha's fingers, his knuckles rubbing together
inside Jensen's body. The teenager is panting, open-mouthed cries against the
table, but mixed in are calls for more, deeper. Giving Jensen another finger
would shift the balance of control and that's the last thing Misha wants.
Instead, he picks up the beer bottle, amber drops clinging to the thick brown
glass.
With no warning, Misha replaces his fingers with the bottleneck, holding the
breath in his lungs as cold glass spears between Jensen's cheeks, invading him
brutally and impersonally.
"No," Jensen moans. "That's not..."
"It's what I'm giving you right now," Misha says, leaving it as a commandment
not to be questioned.
Fucking the bottle in and out smoothly – Misha has no desire to actually harm
Jensen – tempers his needs for only a short time. He's jealous of the bottle,
wanting that tightness wrapped around his cock, not some extension of his body.
Jensen should feel Misha, warm, living and throbbing, and not the unforgiving
width of the bottle. And Misha needs to feel Jensen; the delicious reactions of
the teenager’s body are wasted on an inanimate object.
The bottle comes out, a quick tug and a sharp cry bursting from Jensen’s
throat. He’s begging for more – at least that’s what Misha thinks he hears –
while Misha unzips his slacks and tugs his cock out from his boxers. No need,
and no time, to undress properly, Misha just wants to be inside Jensen as soon
as possible.
Jensen rocks back against Misha’s pelvis before he’s fully seated, ass
swallowing Misha’s cock in one go. Misha’s long past worrying about a condom –
protection would be the least of his problems if he and Jensen were discovered.
His lungs are tight, air barely able to escape as he fucks Jensen steadily.
What’s nirvana to Misha must still not be enough for Jensen, his narrow hips
thrusting out of time with Misha’s rhythm, searching for some other kind of
stimulation. His blown pupils, overtaking the green irises, land on the bottle
Misha had set aside. Jensen’s fingers inch towards the filthy beer bottle,
closing around the glass and bringing it to his mouth.
Misha stops breathing.
The devil in Jensen's smile comes out to play, possessing the young man's body
and torturing Misha in whole new ways. He deserves no less, after all. Jensen's
lips are wrapped around the bottle, coating the neck liberally with spit.
Blowing it, for all intents and purposes. Misha imagines using the bottle on
Jensen's ass again, fitting it back in Jensen's hole along with his own cock,
breaking every limit Jensen has. For now he allows Jensen to spit-roast
himself, storing every image in vivid Technicolor to revisit later.
Jensen’s a fucked-out mess, sweat mixing with paint on the table. He screams,
the bottle gagging the sharper edges of every sound, but continues to suck and
moan as Misha drills deeper.
Misha can’t stop himself from coming, orgasm held at bay for far too long. He
explodes into Jensen, feels his own come sloppy and wet around his cock,
knowing that if he pulls out right now, he’d drag a messy trail of semen out
with him. But that’s its own kind of temptation. Instead, he waits, feels the
aftershocks quake through his body and nearly dies when Jensen’s hole tightens
even further around him as the teenager comes, untouched, against the table.
Muscles in atrophy from pleasure, Misha has no choice but to pull out and lean
on the table to keep his balance. Jensen’s spine sags, weight on his elbows so
he doesn’t collapse on the floor.
“Mr. Collins?”
Misha snaps at the low whisper of his name. He can’t bear to talk to Jensen;
he’s already fucked up unforgivably tonight.
"Get out of here."
Jensen doesn’t say anything else, keeping his face turned away as he squats
down to find his jeans and hastily pulls them up over his raw skin. Misha
restrains his primal side, leashing the urge to demand that Jensen remain
exposed and vulnerable, putting Misha's work on display. He can't move to give
Jensen space, not even to tuck his softening dick back in his pants. His feet
are cemented to the floor, heavy with guilt but dead from shock.
Never once does Jensen look back as he dresses and gathers his things. He's a
mess with his paint-stained shirt and blotchy complexion, red-rimmed eyes and
drooping eyelids, but Misha doesn’t offer any kind of help, Misha simply lets
the teenager walk out of the studio without another word, body coming out of
shock only when he's completely alone.
Later when he's home, Misha can't eat. He keeps a tight rein on his thoughts
and tries to meditate the want away. But the image of Jensen's upturned ass,
red from Misha's hand, is stubborn and it sticks. He's going to need something
a hell of a lot stronger than meditation to control himself tonight.
                                      ~~~
The bell rings at the end of second period and Misha stands at the door while
his advanced photography class files out into the melee. Students fight for
space in the hallway, a tempting press of flesh on a normal day, but Misha
schools his urges, watching with more detachment than usual.
Until he walks by.
Misha sees the shirt before he sees the face, an obscene pattern of paint
smeared across heather gray. He has to lean against the doorjamb because his
knees wobble alarmingly. Jensen walks by him, the barest of nods given in
Misha's direction. Young hips swaying, slender throat exposed by the t-shirt's
stretched out collar.
As Jensen passes by, Misha fails to look away. For that, he's able to see the
back of Jensen's shirt, see the handprints he'd left there the night before.
Jensen is taunting him. Bold-faced and intentional. Behind his back, Misha’s
fingernails dig into the wooden door, anchoring him lest he shove his way
through the throng to get to Jensen.
Misha promised himself that he’d never let the darker side of his personality
control him, never allow things to go too far. He wouldn’t be the kind of man
who took advantage even when the opportunity was right there, spread-eagled in
front of him.
But, Misha also thinks, things do change.
It’s unavoidable.
 
FIN.
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