Mishi: I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you

Mishi: also, where are you? we're gonna be late

I send Misha a quick apology text embedded in kissy emojis, explaining that Jared and the others held me up over the phone, before digging out a pair of designer sunglasses from the glove compartment and slipping out of the car. Security takes up position around me as I cross the parking lot and make my way into the Random Acts building.

The receptionist buzzes Misha and then, completely unbidden, proceeds to hit on me in the foyer. She's still coming on strong when my fiancé steps out of the elevator, takes the scene in, grabs his things and a handful of my sleeve, and barrels through the revolving doors onto the busy street.

He doesn't say a word until we're at my car, at which point he abruptly turns me around, hooks two fingers under my collar and lays a kiss on me that makes the parking lot fucking spin.

"I don't want to fire her," he says breathlessly. "I like all of my staff. So from now on, you'll have to wear a paper bag whenever you visit." He draws back an inch and I smile dazedly, swaying forward slightly. "Capiche?"

"And this coming from the guy who used to try to pimp me out to Ian," I grin, ring glinting on my finger as my hand comes up to trail the length of his suit jacket lapel. "Now, I would hazard the guess that you're jealous."

Misha gives a small groan of distress and buries his face against my neck.

"That was before I realized I couldn't live without you, and you know it. Now come on, before we miss our appointment."

I open Misha's door for him, but step up behind him to press against his back just before he enters the car.

"Funny," I murmur. "I wasn't even putting on the moves. Why does everyone try and flirt with me when I'm clearly not looking to mess around?"

Misha tilts his head to give me some room when I put my mouth on the soft spot behind his ear. He tries and fails to hide his smile.

"Don't make me say it."

"Come on," I plead, resting my chin on his shoulder. "Just remind me one more time..."

Misha turns around with a reluctant sigh and cradles my face in his hands.

"Because," he recites, voice buoyant with suppressed laughter, "you are a strong, handsome, virile man..."

"And?"

"And you ooze masculinity and power..."

"And?"

"And all you have to do is give them one firm look and they'll be slobbering all over your dick like it's their last meal. And I'll fucking destroy them."

"Mm, you spoil me, Mish."

I draw him into a hard kiss, and Misha laughs against my mouth. It's a beautiful laugh, like a waterfall tumbling over rocks.

"Come on, honeybuns," I sigh at last, pulling away with a hard smack to his ass. "Cake awaits."

The car ride to the bakery is spent discussing calligraphers and photographers. Light & Grace Photography™ is offering us a major discount on their services for the wedding, and I like what they've done capturing Misha at conventions, so they seem like the obvious choice. Colour swatches and venue viewings and a million other things make Misha light up and make it difficult for me to wait until we're queued up at a stoplight to lean over and press a kiss to his cheek. He turns his head to kiss me properly, leaning into my side for the rest of the ride.

The baker's assistant has arranged platters of miniature cake models for us to sample - pound cake and red velvet and butter pecan and vanilla and dark forest and so on. I'm in seventh heaven, cheeks puffed up shamelessly like a chipmunk while Misha alternates between making intelligent remarks to the baker over his half-eaten cake and feeding the rest to me with a fork. I'm too busy pigging out to pay attention to the cake quality, so I'm unprepared to answer Misha's question.

"What do you think, love?"

I swallow my last mouthful and cock an eyebrow stupidly.

"Huh, what."

"What do you think about this one?" Misha reaches over to brush the cake crumbs away from my mouth and nods his head towards a three-tier cake with lavender icing, the one I was just sampling. I move up behind him and shift my weight to my left foot, bringing me minutely closer to him in front of the display.

"Oh." Running my hand down his shoulder to his bent elbow, I grip Misha's forearm gently. "It's good. But not the best thing I've ever eaten." Turning him around, I hook my fingers in his belt loops and draw him close.

"Sorry about him," Misha tells the baker offhandedly, like I can't see his face turning the same colour as the red velvet.

"A man's gotta eat, ya know," I wink conspiratorially.

After scandalizing the poor baker just a little bit more, we settle on buttercream and chocolate ganache with white chocolate filling and frosting. And I opt for marshmallows. For our cake, that is. Since a single cake can't feed a thousand guests, the solution we come up with is one moderately-sized cake for us and the wedding party, with a separate, fucking massive cake for the guests. The latter will be of astounding proportions and appropriate elegance for the grandeur of the event, and Misha and I still get to enjoy a classic and personalized cake. One we can actually cut together without needing a chainsaw.

Afterwards, Misha and I drive through town for the rest of our appointments du jour. At this point, the photographers trailing behind us on the streets, desperate to report sightings of the It Couple, are like flies buzzing in my peripheral vision: an irritating but inevitable constant. Lately it's been nothing but Jensen Ackles and Misha Collins spotted doing this or Jensen Ackles and Misha Collins spotted doing that. Particularly because it's unconventional for celebrities to go store to store together. When most stars are shopping for their weddings, options are whittled down by professionals with impeccable taste, who have access to the best food, clothing and shoes; everything gets brought to them. It's infantilization; assistants feed and dress and advise us celebrities in every regard.

But that's not Misha. Not only is he a fuck-all-stereotypes kind of guy in general, but his childhood was too rough for him to ever be able to adopt that kind of Hollywood lifestyle. He's always had to work hard to get what he wants; nothing ever came easy to him.

Plus, this means too much to both of us for us not to make it a personal experience. However hard it is and however accustomed we may be at this point to being waited on hand and foot, our jobs and charities and other obligations can wait a few months while we make this wedding what we want it to be.

Misha and I check out a couple of wineries together, doing some sampling and talking to the owners. Our head planner has also set up tours of all the best botanical gardens in the state for the engagement photoshoot. So Misha and I stroll hand-in-hand through majestic, French-style gardens, furnished with ornate sculptures and boasting of harps and herbs and fountains.

We also visit the farmer's market together to peruse the selections for flower arrangements. I'm immediately overwhelmed by row upon row of orchids and buttercups and hydrangeas and peonies and roses. I don't know jackshit where flowers are concerned - Venus fly traps would look good in my humble opinion - but Misha is trailing his fingers across the plants and murmuring weird names like ranunculus and villa lollies, debating ivory or burgundy, gushing over how each plant symbolizes this or that and wondering aloud if we could please order miniatures for the boutonnieres. And I just smile and tell him as you wish and try not to scandalize too many people with the way my hands and lips are loving all over him.

Because it's his smile and those searing hot blues, alight with joy, that excite me more than anything else. Misha and I could get married in potato sacks at a sewage treatment facility and I would still be happy. I don't need perfection. I just need him. 

At one point, his gaze is drawn to a confiture stand of little honey vials wrapped up with bows and miniature wooden honey dippers. He wants them for the table arrangements. Anything for my baby, that's what I say.

***

Three months prior to the wedding, Misha and I go ring-shopping. He looks so beautiful with his dark scruff and candy lips, long lashes dropping a shy shadow across high cheekbones as I murmur a quiet may I and slide one of the rings onto his finger. He likes it. It's a simple silver band, slim and polished and gleaming against tan skin. And moments like these, standing close together in the golden lighting of the jewellery story with Misha's warm breath ghosting over my neck and our fingers entwined as we discuss inscriptions, are not moments for words. They're moments I never thought I'd experience, moments I want to hoard, moments I never want to end.

And there are many such moments.

To alleviate the stress of planning our wedding, I pamper Misha the way no one ever did for him his entire life. And it's as much for me as it is for him. Because I'm not alone anymore - and after being a lonely bachelor for so long, the awesomeness of every little moment spent with the love of my life is magnified tenfold. Like necking in the back of the theatre; holding hands on the street; eating in the dim, candlelit corners of the most romantic restaurants; kissing him over tiramisu and steak and lobster and champagne.

My new favourite thing is the restaurant staff giving us weird looks when we take simultaneous bathroom breaks and the food is already cooling by the time we make it back. That and the foot jobs under the table.

With all the grossness we get up to in every conceivable public space, it's a miracle we don't get chased out by police rather than, say, mere theatre workers. There are laws against public indecency that hold even for celebrities. Occasionally, someone enforces them. And it's exhilarating, running from those places like teenagers, stopping occasionally in some alley to make out hard and fast against the brick walls.

At this point, neither of us bothers with wearing underwear anymore. We don't have much use for the garments, and the unanimous decision has proven fortuitous during many a quick, fumbling trysts in a dark corner or empty room, allowing unfettered and immediate access to the goods when time is scarce. It helps that we can read each other so well. Misha looks at my lips in a certain way and I know his cock will be in my mouth inside an hour. Eyes go lower and we're in for a longer night. Sometimes there's a vague gesture encompassing our surroundings, an are you sure you wanna do this here, but it always ends with bathroom - now - and then a fraction of a second later...

It isn't all fun and games, though. There are formalities to take care of, especially financial. Misha and I are setting up a joint bank account and must divvy up roles such as who will pay mortgage, bills, gas, et cetera. We'll need to change our social security cards to reflect our new names, as well as our licences at the Department of Motor Vehicles. I am adamantly opposed to a prenup, though. We don't need it, for the same reason we don't need a safe-word in the bedroom: complete trust. Before the wedding, we also have to bring the required documentation and drive out to city hall to purchase our marriage license.

And Misha and I have been looking at houses together.

He's already moved all his things into the penthouse, but we want a place of our own, to truly call our home. A place with a backyard and a barbecue and a shed and rooms for our kids and future grandkids, somewhere I can build my own workshop, somewhere we can grow old and grey in.

Also, we'll need to invest in a wrought-iron headboard and state-of-the-art mattress.

***

In addition to directing, Misha takes on the occasional job at universities, lecturing on marketing and social media and occasionally acting. And I must admit, professor Misha is serious spank bank fodder.

One the one hand, I'm ten thousand percent supportive husband by leaving a fresh bouquet of flowers in his office or on his desk at the front of the lecture hall every morning. This is usually accompanied by a card complimenting his eyes or his tie or his voice or his content delivery or his hair, and a cryptic For you, M.

But on the other hand, I have no qualms about making his job more difficult by sending him racy pictures and texts about scenes for our bedroom, fantasies inspired by the whole professor getup.

I don't even feel bad. Because I asked him to send me a dirty pic yesterday and he replied with a shot of him cleaning our bedroom...which was not exactly one hundred percent what I had in mind, yet one hundred percent intended to sexually torment me at work all day. He knows I only get through hard days on set thinking about his body, and he should also know that two can play the teasing game.

Today I've managed to get him so riled up through text that he jumps on me as soon as the door opens, throwing his arms around my neck while I struggle to loosen his tie. We're all over the room: on the floor, on the armchair, pressed against the bathroom door, draped over the love seat, against the window-wall showcasing our intimacy to the world.

"We're going to be late for the party." My smile is verging on smug as I'm borne down into the mattress by Misha's weight. "Seriously, Mish, I know we haven't made it on time for anything in months, but we can't be late for this one."

Misha pauses his frantic sucking of my neck to fix me with an expression that reads well, ain't it a darn shame.

"Then we'd better make it quick."

Luckily, neither of us needs time for prepping. We like it raw and hard so we miss each other less during the day, to the extent that we actually don't even keep lube in the house. Although Astroglide™ offered us a lifetime supply of free lube - the company's official Twitter account is obviously run by massive, unapologetic shippers -

we find the artificial stuff takes away from the animalistic air. Plus, I'm a grown-ass man; I can take a little pain during sex. I'm not going to fucking cry. Much. Anyway, when I'm doing my job right, there's plenty of natural lubrication to go around. And it stopped hurting so much after the first fifty or so hundred times anyway.

That said, my man is damn well hung; the angel blade he's packing could put a little bow into anyone's legs, lube or no lube.

What we do have placed sporadically around the place are wet naps and disinfectant. Because we're game to fuck just about anywhere.

Honestly, it's a good thing what happened at the cottage lake didn't take place in one of Jared's guests rooms. What with wanting to tap that for years, and all of the pent-up frustration, the room wouldn't have known what hit it. There would have been bruises, holes in the walls, splintered furniture...a truly horrific mattress wreckage. As it is, our reunion was rough enough to keep my already bowlegged knees a foot apart for about a week.

Misha and I miss lunch. And we nearly miss our own engagement party.

"Jensen," Misha asks on a breathy moan. I don't look up from between his legs. There is no way in heaven, hell or any plane in between that I'm going to stop eating him out right now.

"What is it," I mumble rather impatiently, "I'm busy, Mish."

"It's - fuck - nearly seven, w-we have to go." He arches his back, keening low. My fingers dig into hot globes of flesh. "And don't stop, fuck yes, like that - Jensen-"

We're suited up and arriving at the venue twenty minutes later, harbouring slight limps and flushed cheeks and knowing smiles, properly flustered and disheveled. And Misha's hair is so fucked up.

"After you, sweetcheeks." I hold the entrance door open for Misha and follow him into the reception hall. As we make our way to the main room, my hands take a detour to one of the firm ass cheeks I love so much.

We can hear Jared bragging from halfway down the hallway about how, "well, the first reason I always shipped Cockles is because I have a working set of eyes..."

Then we step into the room and-

Mothers and fuckers of the jury, I rest my case. Jared cannot be trusted. And this is exactly what I get for indulging in a little laziness and letting Jared and co. visualize and conceptualize the details of the event.

He and the guys decorated the rented space themselves, with a crapton of free Destiel and Cockles memorabilia that qualifies in some cases as soft-core porn, and apparently had just a smidgen too much fun given that they're not the ones shouldering the bill.

"Ah, our guests of honour." Jared excuses himself and makes his way over to us, trying and failing to restrain his bitchface. "Care to explain why you're both late?"

"I..." I duck my head, cheeks flooding with heat. Misha does have that freshly fucked look about him - but then, he usually does. "We - I was...doing stuff-"

"And I was getting stuff...ed." Misha waggles his eyebrows smugly, like the unapologetic little shit he is.

Jared mimes puking onto a nearby display stand.

"So," he ventures, rubbing his mouth and gesturing around him with his hands, "have I done good or have I done good?"

"Well, um," I manage stiltedly, "engagement parties are usually a bit more..."

"Vapid?" Jared sniffs in disdain. "That's what they are. Lame, boring, utterly vapid. Traditionalism doesn't suit y'all. But relax, I said no to the penis straws after all. Rob cried for seven hours, so you're welcome."

Clutching his clipboard to his chest, Jared proceeds to walk us through the setup, gesticulating wildly and pointing out memorable moments with fond comments like oh, Jensen, you were all about lovin' on your Mish at that panel, don't you remember? And then it's Exhibit A all the way through fucking Z. This is you eye-fucking and you eye-love-making and you eye-bickering and you eye-conversing and you eye-married and oh, look, more heterosexual staring - I dare you to try that with your friend - actually don't; I tried it with my wife and we had to shower after and aww, look at y'all being worried boyfriends and protective boyfriends and jealous boyfriends and supportive boyfriends and good boyfriends and cute boyfriends and bossy boyfriends and dorky boyfriends. Aww, fuck, I can't stand you two.

As lovely as Jared's - I don't even know what to call it - is, I just want Misha to manhandle me into the nearest washroom so I can cry my way through a desperate, hard fuck. What a party.

But an engagement party is the perfect opportunity for the guests to get to know each other. It's particularly important in our case because there are so many, with such diversity, that most are estranged from each other. I was always so proud at conventions to make that sweeping gesture with my arm and declare: Misha Collins, ladies and gentlemen. But lately I've had the honour of introducing to my friends and relatives the guy I went gay for. The handsome, scruffy-haired dude with that sexy, gravelly voice. The dude with the pretty eyes. The best friend, co-worker, angel. My angel. Gorgeous and quirky and all mine. They've all heard of Misha, and have pretty much the same things to say about him: Weird guy. Hot, though. Definitely hot. 

And he's a hot little fuck, alright. But he's also fucking awesome. Everyone loves Misha for his rebellion against societal norms, his sarcastic wise-assery, the significance he places on not conforming.

Normal is an insult to him. But I'm a Texan child-model turned actor and the very definition of shallow - my ex is a model with breast implants, for heaven's sake - and no one understands how I managed to score a man like that. I smirk and tell them what can I say, I woo well, but who am I kidding. I'll never deserve Misha. I'm not an interesting or exciting or quirky person. I'm not selfless or strong or kind. I didn't even go to college, just went straight to L.A. after high school. I wonder what in Misha's twisted little angelic mind possessed him to look at me and go that man, right there, he's the one.

But I sure as shit ain't complaining.

I find myself utterly transfixed, eyes helplessly tracing his profile as he converses with my family and friends. I stick close to his side the whole time and discreetly pinch his ass when I can, and the evening unfolds surprisingly smoothly for an event I let Jared get his hands on.

Despite the more...out there nature of our engagement party, the engagement photoshoot is more traditional. Our photographers have us drive around a bit, taking candid and stylistic shots everywhere from an industrial warehouse to an open field to a lake, until sunset.

We change suits a couple times and get our hair fussed with between photos, not unlike our experience with acting, and Misha and I wear our matching bracelets. I ruin his hair whenever we get a little privacy to change clothes, but I'm not allowed to do more.

Not until we're home again and Misha is bared out for me on our bed, his body a treasure to be divulged all night to a symphony of hot moans and languorous kisses and slick skin.

We collapse in a gasping heap of sweat and quivering muscle at some indistinguishable point in the night. Misha gently pulls himself free from my grasp, leaving an empty space under the sheets that's warm and perfectly Misha-sized. I make a small noise of protest, groping weakly after him.

"Shh," he murmurs, "be right back; I'm just gonna grab a towel."

His body is tan and toned and covered in a light sheen of sweat that gleams in the soft glow of the beside lamp. Groaning, I roll into the warm spot he left behind and listen to him shuffle around in the bathroom.

When Misha comes back to bed, he makes careful work of wiping us both down before grabbing a stack of papers from the beside table and settling down on his stomach across the covers. I drape myself over his body and just lay on him, like he's the best pillow in the world. I press my cheek against the full muscles of Misha's round, masculine ass. I just wanna bite it, fucking hell.

"I love you." I nuzzle Sen affectionately, the sweet flesh soft against my stubble. "You too." Jen gets a soft kiss as well, and I can't believe that such a sweet, bouncy little booty exists just for me. "You guys are the best."

We don't have a lot of free time like this, what with how hectic the last few months have been, but Misha and I always strive to make time for cuddling on the couch, quiet nights in, lazy weekend mornings when we just lounge in bed.

On Saturday nights, we like to get in our pyjama bottoms, order takeout, get our extra blankets and snuggle in with a movie. We sit curled up on the couch together in front of the TV, sharing kisses that escalate into very nice blowjobs. Blowjobs that escalate into him riding me and both of us dropping the pretence of actually watching a damn thing unfolding on the screen. Afterwards, I draw a blanket up and over his shoulders and he folds forward to tuck himself into my chest, still sitting on my cock because he says he wants to stay like that for a while. And I can never refuse him, so we sit there with my arms curling around his waist and the blanket pulled tight around us and Misha muffling yawns against my throat, altogether too cute given that he's still warm and twitching around my cock. Eventually his breathing evens out and he relaxes completely against my chest. And I don't know how this is possible to do with a dick in his ass but he falls asleep, every time. Apparently us being joined like that has the same effect as a bedtime story or a warm glass of milk for him, and I've gotten used to it. It's one of his cute little quirks. If I haven't flagged too much in the erection department by the time he rouses again and he's not too sensitive, Misha is usually down to let me finish inside him while he's half asleep. Otherwise I'm woken by an exceptionally affectionate fiancé the following morning.

"Hey, love," Misha murmurs absently, "can you come up here for a second?"

I crawl up Misha's body, adhering myself to the broad expanse of his warm back with my head plunging into the crease of his neck. "These came out nicely, don't you think?"

The wedding invitations spread out on the pillow are made of thick, cream-coloured card stock and adorned with shimmery, gold-tinted silk ribbon. We chose the colours together, poring over combinations and themes until we were both satisfied with the design. Our wedding website was designed to give guests a helpful guide to the wedding weekend, including links to information regarding the ceremony and reception location, timeline, dress code, lodging, transportation, directions, and - most importantly - the opportunity to RSVP online. But Mindy stressed the importance of also mailing traditional wedding invitations to ensure each guest is accounted for and that no one who isn't on the guest list throws planning off by RSVPing anyway.

"I like it." Frowning, I reach underneath them to dig out an old photograph from the pile that catches my eye. It's Misha in what looks like an orange skirt in, like, the middle of the desert. "But why does your ass look so good in this?"

Misha and I spend the rest of the night poring over childhood and high school photos for the wedding. We have entire albums of old polaroids, tinted momentos depicting decades of memories, and still more shots of us together. Some are blurry and terribly-lit, from when we were too buzzed to hold the camera right. We're making funny faces in a few of them, and many are downright embarrassing. Something tells me those are exactly the kind of shots that are going to make the final cut for the wedding video if our families and friends have anything to do with it.