[Fic] Whisky Lullaby (NC-17) 2/2 for serialkarma
Gift type: Fanfic
Title: Whisky Lullaby (2/2)
Recipient: serialkarma
Author: ze_pink_lady
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Everything you'd expect to find in an NC-17 fic - copious quantities of porn, language, a side-order of bondage and a healthy dose of manhandling. RPS.
Spoilers: None
Summary: Jensen is a college junior with one goal in mind; hook up with the hottest bartender at the coolest bar in town. Unlucky for him, Misha Collins doesn't go down easy.
Author notes: The giftee revealed a penchant for college AUs involving bartenders, so I was happy to oblige! Also features pretty boys in jeans and bare feet and plenty of porn! If time hadn't gotten away from me, this probably would've been longer, so look out for a continuation after the reveal! Hope you enjoy, SK!
The sun wakes him early, lancing through a crack in the curtains with laser-like precision, momentarily blinding Jensen as he fumbles for awareness. It’s an all-too familiar experience; his head is pounding and his tongue is fuzzy and tastes distinctly of roadkill, his ass is sore and the bed is empty beside him when he flails out a searching hand. He throws an arm over his face and groans, that bitter feeling of regret climbing up to settle comfortably in his head where it often makes itself cozy; there goes any chance of revisiting Frisky Whisky again.
Wait... Nope, that’s not regret climbing up from his stomach, it’s bile. Jensen scrambles clumsily from the bed, almost tripping on the sheets that have somehow tangled around his legs as he races for the bathroom, only just making it to the toilet before he’s emptying his stomach in retching heaves, hugging the porcelain like a long-lost friend.
He stays there, curled fetally against the toilet until he’s sure that the waves of sickness have subsided.
“Guess breakfast is off the menu, then?”
Jensen jolts in shock, feeling like he’s having a small heart attack as he spins around (ugh, bad idea) to see Misha framed in the bathroom doorway, wearing nothing but his tight, low riding jeans that are half unbuttoned and hanging from those obscenely slinky hips. His feet and chest are bare and his dark hair is tousled with sleep but he looks as switched on as ever, blue eyes bright and one hand cradling a cup of what smells unmistakably like coffee. In short, he looks like Jensen’s new deity.
Far from being grossed out by seeing the contents of Jensen’s stomach in reverse, Misha strolls in and offers Jensen a steady hand up, hauling him to his feet and charitably passing him the coffee. “Drink up - I made bacon and eggs.”
Jensen’s pretty sure he’s died and gone to heaven - this isn’t how his hook-ups are supposed to go. He had the usual headache and the empty bed and the throwing up covered, Misha’s not allowed to fuck it up by actually still being here.
He follows Misha along, docile as a lamb because he’s still not entirely sure what’s going on, squinting as he edges into his bright kitchen where the scent of a delicious and greasy breakfast hangs temptingly in the air. Jensen’s aware that he’s pretty damn naked but whatever, they’ve already fucked, so he sinks down dazedly into a kitchen chair and lets Misha put a plate of fatty goodness down in front of him.
“Jesus, is there anything you can’t do?” Jensen laughs bewilderedly, ravenously digging into the eggs and setting about devouring everything on the plate like a starving man enjoying his first meal in weeks.
Misha seems to give that question some serious contemplation, leaning against the kitchen counter with his own coffee in hand, sipping thoughtfully. “I can’t play the ukulele yet, but I’m taking lessons.”
Of course. Jensen can’t really give too much thought to how much of a freak Misha is when the food is this good, the coffee slipping down his throat like liquid heaven and slowly making him feel less like a zombie in small increments.
“Why are you still here?” Jensen asks, chomping greedily on the crispy bacon and sucking the grease from his fingers.
Misha blinks at that and Jensen belatedly realizes how rude it sounds. “Sorry, did you want me to go?” Misha asks mildly, not even sounding as affronted as he must feel, just a little too casual, and Jensen is definitely a grade-A dick.
“God, no - I’m sorry, that didn’t come out right.” He grimaces apologetically, putting his fork down and trying to think before he fucking speaks. “I just meant… people don’t usually stick around long after these kinds of hook-ups.”
“Well, someone had to be here to make sure you didn’t drown in your own vomit,” Misha observes wryly, giving a blithe shrug. “I just think it’s kind of rude when people skulk out of the house in the middle of the night like having an evening of fantastic sex is something to be ashamed of. Why not have the decency to sit and have breakfast and make conversation like civilized people before leaving like a prick and never calling again?”
Jensen has to admit that it kind of makes sense, but it’s still pretty random that Misha would ascribe to such a sensible view. Not that the guy doesn’t seem sensible, he’s just… very hard to get a read on.
“Don’t look so shocked, I’m actually very wise,” Misha insists, grinning shamelessly. “Just because I enjoy providing vulnerable and easily corrupted college students with shocking amounts of liquor on a nightly basis, doesn’t mean I’m an asshole.”
“No, you’re definitely not an asshole,” Jensen concedes, teeth dragging absently over his lower lip as he admires the planes of Misha’s body, not even trying to pretend that he’s not totally ogling the guy. Misha watches him staring, clearly enjoying the attention as a slow smirk spreads across his lips, fingers of his free hand lazily straying down to pop the final two buttons on his fly, letting the jeans drop shamelessly from his hips as he sips innocently at his coffee.
Jensen can hear his breaths starting to come rougher as he watches, dick already starting to throb as his blood begins rushing rapidly south to fill it and he can’t help but squirm on his seat, wondering if he’s dreaming. He can count on one hand the amount of times a random bar hook-up actually stayed the night, and up until right now it’s always resulted in an awkward goodbye, not a second round.
Misha’s cock is already half hard and lengthening, slowly curving up towards his belly as Misha steps neatly from the pool of fabric at his feet, still drinking slowly from his coffee as his other hand wraps loosely around his dick. His rings glint in the warm morning light as he strokes himself in languid, easy pulls, thumb riding the underside of his shaft and up to rub over the plump, red tip, smearing sticky precome back down his length.
It’s so obscene and yet so startlingly domestic, having this gorgeous, naked man in his kitchen, drinking his coffee while he jerks off right in front of Jensen, and Jensen feels like he’s stepped into a porno, except there’s nothing tacky and sordid about this, just Misha’s unabashed confidence as he fists gently at his dick, an attractive flush starting to creep from the tips of his ears down to his toned chest, obviously more from arousal than shame.
Misha drains the last of the coffee and sets the cup down on the counter, arching a challenging brow at Jensen as he slowly raises his hand from his dick and sucks his thumb briefly into his mouth to taste himself, and that’s all it takes, Jensen is jerking out of the chair with a discordant scrape of the legs on the tile floor, closing the distance between them in three strides to press himself up against Misha. He pens Misha in with one hand on the counter beside the other man, free hand dropping down to wrap his fingers around both their dicks, hot flesh pressing searingly against hot flesh.
Blue eyes darken as Misha’s pupils blow wide, the soft sweep of his lower lip damp with saliva or precome as he gasps at the sensation, and there’s no way Jensen can resist dipping down to catch that pretty mouth in a hungry kiss. Misha tastes like coffee and morning breath and Jensen dreads to think what his own mouth tastes like but it’s good, it’s so fucking good as he thrusts his tongue against Misha’s, hand squeezing at their erections as he slowly starts to stroke them both, the friction unbelievably perfect.
Misha bucks up, pushing greedily into his fist as Jensen fucks his mouth with hungry pushes of tongue, feeling one of Misha’s hands slipping round to grip Jensen’s ass and drag him closer as their bodies rut together. Misha’s making the most gorgeous little moans into his mouth as their tongues clash, his other hand roaming restlessly over Jensen’s back, letting Jensen jerk them both in perfect rhythm.
Jensen’s hand is getting sticky with precome and he doesn’t give a damn, rubbing his palm over the swollen tips of their dicks and smearing it down, dipping his fingers down to briefly knead at Misha’s balls, fingers rubbing at his perineum and pressing up, wanting to find all the spots that make Misha moan. Their bodies are grinding together like some lewd dance that only they know the steps to, sweat beginning to build between them as their hands explore each other.
He can feel when Misha starts to get close, blunt nails digging sharply into his back, clawing needily as Jensen squeezes tighter, speeds up his strokes and milks at their cocks. Misha breaks their heated kisses to gasp sharply, pressing his face into Jensen’s shoulder as his fingers clench tight, then Jensen can feel his partner’s body tense before hot, slick pulses of come are spurting over his fingers, the intimate sensation of it enough to have Jensen right there with him, biting down hard on Misha’s shoulder as his own dick twitches, come filling his hand and dribbling over their twitching erections, slicking the way as Jensen strokes them both through it, slick cocks sliding sensuously together.
“Fuck,” he rasps, his voice startling him a little considering they’ve done nothing but make out for the last ten minutes, his lips swollen as he mouths damply over Misha’s jaw and temple. His coffee is cold on the table but Jensen doesn’t give a damn, his body locked against Misha’s with no intention of detangling.
“That’s my particular favorite recipe for Hair of the Dog,” Misha drawls from the vicinity of his shoulder after a brief moment of silence, and Jensen can’t help but laugh as he fights to catch his breath.
They try to get cleaned up in the shower, but it doesn’t last for long.
*
Jensen’s got an afternoon class and Misha’s got a bar to run - turns out he’s the proprietor of Frisky Whisky and not just its hottest bartender, who’d have thunk? - but it’s pretty fucking hard to focus on the care and prevention of athletic injuries when all he can think about is going down on Misha in the shower, sucking him all sloppy and hot with the water beating down on them until Misha was crying out his name. He’s already snapped two pencils and his dick is at a constant state of orange alert; right now he’s just counting the minutes until he can walk back over to the bar to get his car and another slice of Misha.
Turns out he’s got a study group scheduled for five o’clock so he can’t even escape after class, itching and fidgeting his way through practice questions on biology and first aid techniques, and by the time they finally break around seven, Jensen’s wired like he’s consumed nothing but Red Bull for the past 48 hours. He goes home to shower and change, not wanting to roll into the bar like any other college student - Misha’s only four years older than him (as they discovered between rounds two and three) but the guy already seems so fucking worldly, so damn confident that Jensen can’t help but want to up his game to impress him.
He slips on a black shirt and clean jeans, anticipation buzzing in his veins as he embarks on the twenty minute walk to the bar. It’s student night in town tonight and Jensen’s fairly sure the place is going to be packed.
He’s not wrong - the noise hits him like a tidal wave as he opens the door, but Frisky’s always had a different kind of clientele than the regular bars in town, from what Jensen’s observed on his numerous aspirational journeys past. This is where the drama and philosophy majors go, the arty types who he’s sure Misha wouldn’t mind smoking weed in the back alley or doing tequila shots off a tattooed ass during happy hour. He’s always stuck with the athletic crowd; even if he’s far from a jock these days, he can still speak their language - never mind that they probably all consider him sport-lite - and the jocks all think this place is kinda weird and grungy, no cheerleaders populating the booths.
He can barely even wedge himself in at the bar, and there are new staff members working tonight, four on the bar as well as several waitresses swaying between the tables. It’s hard to spot Misha at first, too much going on and too many people in the way, but as a couple of girls vacate two stools, Jensen manages to get himself some breathing room and a chance to hone in on his fuckbuddy.
He spots Misha at the end of the bar, talking to a dark haired girl wearing a little green beret like every poet cliché, and he’s smiling and laughing as he pours her a drink, topping it up the way he obviously does when he likes someone, not even cutting off the conversation after she’s paid him.
Jensen wants to stride over there and knuckle his way in, stamp his feet like a kid for attention, but what the fuck can he say? They’re just talking.
That is, until the girl slides out a pen and scribbles something on a napkin for Misha, holding it out to him with a coquettish smile. Misha grins, his long fingers unnecessarily brushing hers as he takes the napkin and pockets it where she can see it, like he’s making a show of not blowing her off. He tips her a sly wink that Jensen knows all too well, then he’s moving along to the next customer. He glances up in Jensen’s direction and Jensen doesn’t really know what the fuck he’s thinking but he ducks away, dipping away from the bar like he’s afraid for Misha to see him. His stomach’s all tied up in knots and Jensen doesn’t really know what to think, whether Misha was just being overly friendly or whether he was securing tonight’s playmate.
He shakes his head, muttering “Fuck this,” as he stalks towards the door, knowing he’s likely to do something inadvisable if he sticks around long enough to ask questions. He bumps into someone and doesn’t even look up to apologize, ignoring her cursing a blue streak at him for spilling her drink. It’s not how his momma raised him, but Jensen’s too pissed to care.
He thinks he hears Misha shout “Jensen!” at him as he reaches the door, but at this point he’s feeling more like he wants to punch the guy rather than fuck him, so he doesn’t stop. He’s crunching over gravel to where he parked his car the night before when he hears the door open again behind him, glancing back to see Misha jogging after him.
“Hey - holster up, cowboy, can we talk for a second?” he laughs, blithe and shameless as ever as he reaches Jensen’s truck, leaning against the cool metal while Jensen unlocks the door.
“Think we said all we needed to say earlier,” Jensen mutters sourly, head down as he tugs the door open.
“Hey.” Misha’s hand snares out, pushing it shut again and narrowly avoiding trapping Jensen’s finger. “What’s wrong? Figured you’d at least come say hey before you left.”
Scowling, Jensen finally raises his head to meet Misha’s gaze as he snaps, “Seemed like you had all the conversation you could handle in there.”
“Wait, what? Did I miss something here? What’s with the attitude, I was under the impression that we both had an great time earlier,” Misha asks, brow furrowed in obvious confusion, which Jensen finds even more infuriating.
“No, Misha, you didn’t miss anything - that’s patently obvious,” he growls, reaching out and jerking the napkin from Misha’s pocket - brandishing… Sophia’s number in the other man’s face.
“Okay,” Misha says calmly. “You’re being irrational and kind of childish.”
“And you’re being a condescending prick,” Jensen snarls, tossing the napkin back at Misha. “Just be honest, are you going to fuck her?”
Misha’s actually starting to look kind of irritated, and it doesn’t give Jensen the kind of satisfaction he thought it would. “One, that’s none of your business, and two, so what if I do? Last I checked, we’re both single guys. True, we’re single guys who had some fairly awesome sex last night, but unless I missed you proposing to me this morning, where I stick my dick isn’t actually your problem, Jensen.”
Jensen feels his fingers clench into a fist and it’s a conscious effort not to take a swing at that smug, self-assured face. He knows he’s being irrational and that he didn’t lay any kind of claim on Misha last night, but he was kind of hoping… Whatever, he obviously spectacularly misread the signals.
He blows out a deep breath, gritting his teeth and mentally trying to count to ten before forcing a bitter smile to his lips. “No, you’re totally right, Misha - it’s none of my business who you fuck. I just didn’t think I had to take you literally when you said you’d leave like a prick and never call again. My mistake.”
He holds up his hands in false apology before jerking the car door open and climbing in, slamming it roughly shut and forcing himself not to look back at Misha as he throws the car into reverse. Misha only just manages to step away without getting his foot run over, his expression typically unreadable when Jensen catches a glimpse of him in the wing mirror.
He gets a speeding ticket on the miniscule drive home and almost breaks his foot kicking the car in frustration, kind of wishing it was Misha’s face instead.
*
The next few days are fucking miserable. Jensen knows he brought it on himself, assuming that Misha was one of the good guys just because he stuck around to be ‘civilized’ for breakfast before acting like all the others. It wasn’t as if Jensen was even hoping for a relationship out of the hook up, he’s well aware that most guys who pick up strangers in bars aren’t exactly looking for a New England wedding in the fall. But something about Misha and the way they connected, not just the sex, but the easy way they had talked when they were drying off from the shower… it had made Jensen kind of think…
Jensen had made grilled cheese sandwiches for lunch before they went their separate ways, both of them only bothering with jeans as they sat on the couch and shot the shit, actually got to know more about each other than simply what noises they made when they came.
“Yeah, we were homeless for a while when I was a kid,” Misha had confided, his tone reminiscent of someone who had practiced saying it until there was nothing but studied indifference in the inflection. “I stole cars, shoplifted - made a fucking nuisance of myself, mostly. But I remember this English teacher I had in high school, Mrs. Stewart, she was the first person who ever made it seem like I could do something useful with myself. I got financial aid for college and helped pay my tuition with three part time jobs - I just wanted to get away from my parents for a while. I love them but they’re so damn flaky,” he had laughed, like every day of his childhood hadn’t been an exercise in disappointment. “The bar just fell into my lap - one of my part-time jobs was bartending so I got pretty good; my boss offered me a full-time job straight out of college and I was one of those kids who never knew what to do with himself so I jumped at the chance. Then he had a heart attack, had to retire - he moved out to Florida and left me the place. Texas was only supposed to be a temporary thing, I’ve always loved the East Coast more, but I guess it kinda stuck.”
Jensen had eaten in silence, just absorbing Misha’s life story, wondering if he’d ever get to hear the poetry that had helped Misha get into college, or see the carvings that had preceded his dabbling in carpentry. The things Misha had done and seen during his rootless childhood travelling across the country had made Jensen realize just how damn small and insulated his own life experience had been, just a typical Texas boy who thought football could get him someplace better.
He’d actually been sad to go to class, considered calling in sick, but Misha had said he needed to check that his staff hadn’t burned the bar down, so they’d left it with a kiss and no promises.
Jensen doesn’t understand how the ‘no promises’ part had seemed natural earlier but now feels like he made the biggest mistake of his life; maybe if he’d asked Misha to go on an actual date, or to come over to his place for a nightcap after his shift, things wouldn’t have ended with a shouting match in the parking lot like a couple of rednecks.
He tries not to, but he’s always been a glutton for punishment and can’t help driving past the bar every day like a bunny boiler, not knowing what he’s hoping to see; maybe some slutty girl stumbling out of the bar on her walk of shame after Misha fucks her and makes her breakfast and makes her think he’s not like every other horny guy just looking to get off. It’s not like Jensen’s going to write emoetry and start self-harming over it (he’s pretty sure), but he can’t shake the gnawing ache in his gut like he and Misha were meant to be more than just a quick spark that fizzled out too soon.
His buddy Tom - who is perhaps the least douchey quarterback Jensen’s ever met - tries to distract him from his funk with booze and a couple rounds of golf (Tom’s a trust-fund kid), even if Jensen lets his friends think he’s pining over a girl and not an evil genius bartender with a PhD in mind-fuckery. They go to the regular clubs they’ve always gone to and Jensen ends up making out with a drunk co-ed with fantastic tits and then feeling every bit as sordid about it as if she’d been another fuck-and-run booty call. It’s all depressingly normal, the college experience, and after a month Jensen figures it’s definitely time to get the fuck over it and stop being such a pussy - he’s fairly sure Misha’s not losing sleep over ‘the epic romance that never was.’
It’s not a huge college town and it’s not like Jensen would ever purposefully try and avoid the guy, even if he did act like a histrionic stalker the last time they saw each other, but he sure as shit wasn’t counting on bumping into Misha in the cleaning aisle of Walmart, of all places.
Jensen thinks about making a run for it or diving behind the bleach, but Misha spots him and it’s just instinct to freeze, his expression slightly guilty as Misha’s eyes spark with recognition.
“Uh. Hi.” Jensen wets his lips and hopes Misha doesn’t think he’s actually stalking him. How the hell was he to know that Misha liked to do his grocery shopping at ass o’clock on a Saturday morning?
“Hi,” Misha responds, rubbing the back of his neck and actually looking lost for words, for once. “How… how’re you doing?”
“I’m good,” Jensen responds way too quickly, sticking his hands in his jacket pockets and squaring his shoulders, trying not to focus on how damn good Misha looks, all casual in jeans and a tee and an overshirt that looks soft enough to bury his face in.
“That’s… good,” Misha says hesitantly, before letting out a sharp laugh in a way that implies he doesn’t think any of this is funny. “This is ridiculous,” he mutters. “We’re acting like we had some terrible break-up or I left you at the altar, or something. It was just one night.”
“And one morning,” Jensen points out, but he can see Misha’s point, smiling wanly at how weird they’re both being.
“And one morning,” Misha concedes. “And it was…”
Jensen’s already shaking his head. “You don’t have to say anything.”
He watches Misha shrug his shoulders helplessly, like he wants to explain, but at this point, anything he can say is only going to make Jensen feel more like a tool, one way or the other.
“It was nice seeing you again, man,” he offers instead, by way of an olive branch, and Misha nods, and that’s it. Jensen picks up his bleach and turns around, and the world doesn’t end and nothing actually changes. Just two guys exchanging pleasantries in the grocery store.
It fucking sucks.
*
Jensen’s feeling like shit when he gets out of the store, having had time to stew over the encounter and replay it a thousand different ways in his head, wondering if he should’ve just punched Misha like he wanted to do that night at the bar, for leading him on with breakfast even if he was never intending to follow through. One night stands do not equal breakfast, not anywhere except in the world of romance literature, and he doesn’t think he can be blamed for assuming that there might have been more than sex on offer after three rounds and two meals and the intimate trading of life stories. Misha was just a cocktease, that’s the truth of it; fuck whatever self-righteous bullshit Misha wanted to throw in his face to make himself feel less like a player.
He shoves his paper bags into the back of his truck and slams the trunk closed, closing his eyes and breathing in the warm, early morning air - the sun hasn’t had a chance to get to full strength yet, which is pretty much the only reason Jensen’s up this early on a Saturday. He scrubs a hand roughly over his face and slips into the driver’s seat, letting out an utterly terrified (and okay, kind of feminine) shriek at the sight of someone in the fucking passenger seat beside him.
Of course it’s fucking Misha, sitting there looking all pensive and yet entirely unapologetic about apparently breaking into his car.
“What the fuck?” Jensen hisses, voice still a little shrill.
“I used to steal cars,” Misha reminds him with an unrepentant shrug. “Like this was a challenge.”
“Why the fuck didn’t you just… I don’t know, wait outside?” Jensen gapes disbelievingly, his heart still pounding a mile a minute, and this is definitely what a heart attack feels like.
Misha looks way too amused about Jensen’s current near death experience. “Because I knew you wouldn’t listen to me. It’d be the same as the night at the bar; you’d storm off in a huff and wouldn’t even give me a chance to explain,” he says calmly.
“What the fuck is there to explain, Misha? You made yourself pretty damn clear at the bar,” Jensen snaps, hand still pressed against his chest as he tries to calm down.
“For a start, if you hadn’t been acting like such an irrationally jealous bitch, I would’ve told you that I was just flirting with that girl to keep her around, I had no intention of sleeping with her. It’s just good business sense; if they think they’re gonna get laid, they stick around and order drinks all night, waiting for their shot - doesn’t matter if they’re never going to get it, by that point of the night they’re too drunk to care. Worked for you, didn’t it?” Misha smirks, and Jensen’s back to wanting to punch him.
“But you did sleep with me,” he growls.
“Exactly,” Misha says sagely, and Jensen feels like he’s wandering around a maze, not sure he’s grasping Misha’s point at all. “Huh?” he asks eloquently.
“I get plenty of offers every night, Jen - doesn’t mean I’m actually going to follow through on any of them. I like to flirt and make my customers feel special so they’ll hang out and give my hardworking staff plenty of tips, but I don’t actually fuck any of them. You’re the first person I’ve gone home with in… well, too damn long,” Misha confides, smirking lightly. “I liked you, Jensen. I don’t have conversations with that kind of emotional depth with anyone anymore, and at the time I had no fucking clue why I was spilling my guts to you, but you were a nice guy who had no idea just how smart and sexy he was, or how much he had to contribute to the world, and I kinda found that irresistible. And the sex was amazing. And if you’d actually tried to talk to me instead of jumping to conclusions, I would’ve told you all of this at the time.”
Jensen’s head is spinning and it’s not just because he’s only had one cup of coffee this morning - it’s more like the lightning bolt of revelation, like his eyes have finally been opened for the first time. He doesn’t know what to say. Thankfully, Misha seems to have enough to say for the both of them, as usual.
“I was gonna ask you out to dinner or something when you came back to get your car - but when you flipped on me… I haven’t had a serious relationship since freshman year of college, Jen, and I’ve always kind of had a problem with authority; when you started acting like you had the right to tell me what to do… well, that’s a sore spot for me, and I… I guess I overreacted. But you’ve got to understand, it’s been a long time since anyone’s actually cared that much about what I was doing, you know? Who actually wanted me to stick around past breakfast. I know if I’d just told you I wasn’t interested in the girl at the time we probably could’ve negated all of the drama, but we’re both big boys, y’know? If you really wanna try something serious, you’re gonna have to learn to trust me instead of assuming the worst.”
“Wait, hold up,” Jensen raises a hand to stop Misha right there, not nearly caffeinated enough for this conversation. “At first you were talking in past tense and now you’re talking present - what’s it gonna be?”
Arching a wry brow, Misha meets Jensen’s gaze levelly, blue eyes holding green as he slowly leans forward to press his lips to Jensen’s, letting the action speak for itself.
Jensen’s eyes slide briefly shut, lips parting on a surprised but eager moan and hands coming up to frame Misha’s face, tongue sliding tentatively out to seek entry into that talented mouth, and it’s like the last month never happened, their connection every bit as tangible as before.
“Fuck, I missed that mouth,” Misha hums, eyes slowly slipping open, his lashes heavy as he gazes approvingly up at Jensen.
“That mouth missed you too,” Jensen drawls not giving a damn if it’s a cheesy line, or even that Misha somehow broke into his car and probably scratched the paintwork or fucked with the electrics or something; all that matters is that the stubborn asshole is here.
He throws the car into drive, peeling out of the parking lot and heading straight for his apartment. They’re gonna do it fucking right this time.
*
“Isn’t it a little early for tequila?”
“What’s the saying; it’s two o’clock somewhere?” Jensen smirks, rocking back onto his knees to admire his handiwork. It had taken a little wrangling and a little guilt-tripping for the way they’d spectacularly wasted the past month, but the important thing is that Jensen got his way, and he’s also got Misha tied spreadeagle and naked to his bed, laid bare and stretched open, all that tan skin just ripe for the taking.
He runs his hands slowly over Misha’s chest, teasing at tiny nipples until they peak under his touch, Misha’s dick already standing temptingly to attention even before Jensen gets going.
“You’re gonna torture me with this, aren’t you?” Misha observes, voice already a little ragged as he stares hazily up at Jensen, tongue flicking briefly out to wet those plush lips.
“Pretty much, yeah.” Jensen grins, sharklike - more a primal baring of teeth than a real smile as he dips his head, lips finding Misha’s collarbone to suck a hard bruise to the tender skin. Misha hisses, arching against his bonds as Jensen grinds down against him, slick cockhead bumping over his inner thigh and gliding sinfully over Misha’s perineum.
“Salt and lime are for pussies, we’re gonna do it straight,” he rumbles, unscrewing the cap of the tequila and tilting the bottle, letting a little of the amber liquid spill into the hollow of Misha’s collarbone for him to slurp it hastily out, not one drop spilled.
“Nnnh- as much as I enjoy being your shot glass, don’t you think this drinking game would be more fun if there were two players?” Misha grunts, glancing down as Jensen tilts him a smirk and sinks lower, settling between Misha’s legs as he lets the tequila spill down from Misha’s ribs to his abs and belly, the liquor trickling down like Misha’s body is just one spectacular ice luge. His tongue flicks out to catch the tequila before it reaches his lover’s hips, swirling into Misha’s navel to lap up the rest.
Misha squirms impatiently, cock bobbing, smearing stickily over Jensen’s throat and chest as Jensen lets his mouth roam, kissing and nipping at Misha’s belly and abdomen just to try and drive him wild. “Jensen,” he groans, toes curling against air, denied purchase thanks to the way Jensen tied him.
“You thirsty, baby?” Jensen drawls, propping himself on one hand beside Misha’s shoulder as he takes a hearty swig from the bottle, letting the alcohol burn on his tongue. Then he’s putting the bottle down and using his hand to lift Misha’s head up, shot-gunning the tequila into his lover’s mouth with sinuous thrusts of his tongue, chasing it with a lascivious kiss that has Misha sucking greedily on his tongue, body straining against the scarves that bind his hands and feet.
“Fuck,” Misha grunts, teeth digging into his lower lip. “If I’d known you had such a sadistic streak, I never would’ve let you loose with the bondage.”
“Hindsight is 20/20.” Jensen smirks smugly, mouthing his way back down between Misha’s spread legs to brush his lips over his partner’s balls, lapping over them teasingly before sucking the sac into his mouth, purring low as his cheeks hollow and his tongue works, hand tracing over the curve of Misha’s erection to offer even more sensation.
“Jesusfuck,” Misha yowls, body jerking like he’s actually capable of breaking Jensen’s ties - car thief he may be, Houdini he ain’t.
“Mmmmm,” Jensen agrees, releasing that sensitive sac to trace his tongue lower, swirling it over the puckered muscle at Misha’s entrance, teasing over that sensitive flesh again and again, slow and steady without even attempting to push in, not until Misha is shifting restlessly and writhing down, trying to fuck himself wantonly on Jensen’s tongue. He’s never seen Misha so out of control before and Jensen has to admit that it’s intoxicating, the desperate noises his partner makes nothing short of obscene, and Jensen thinks he could quite happily listen to Misha make those noises every damn day of his life, if Misha will let him.
Slowly, tantalizingly he presses his tongue inside, shallow at first, just cautious little dips in and out of that clenching hole before Jensen’s gripping Misha’s ass with both hands, holding him wider open and burying his face lewdly between his lover’s thighs, tongue fucking in as deep and filthy as he can make it. He growls low just to let the sound rumble against sensitive flesh and Misha bucks up, moaning roughly as his fingers clench into tight fists and his head tips back, throat bared in a vulnerable arch that Jensen needs to bite.
He replaces his tongue with two fingers, scissoring them slowly as he leans up to nose against Misha’s throat, pressing his lips against his lover’s thundering pulse point, biting down and sucking a bruise to that trustingly exposed flesh. He’s not going to make the same mistake as last time; he’s going to fucking claim, going to prove to Misha that there’s someone in this town who sees him as more than just the quirky and ridiculously hot bartender, someone who wants to see every little fucked up part of him and every amazing experience he’s had and put the pieces together to understand what makes a guy like Misha tick. Misha might not want him to be possessive or jealous, but Jensen can’t help but want - can’t help but crave Misha, in all of his eccentric perfection, and he’ll have to deal with Jensen wanting to stick around, even if it’s instinct to pull away.
“I’m not going anywhere, Misha,” he rumbles, more of a promise than a simple statement, even if Misha’s not interested in hearing it. He reaches to roll the condom down, fitting his dick against that tight, flexing hole and holding Misha’s gaze as he eases inside, one slow, smooth push to meld them together.
It’s even better now than it was all sloppy and drunk the first time, all fumbling hands and biting mouths. This time it’s slow and steady, Misha held at his mercy by the scarves, Jensen’s eyes refusing to break contact with Misha’s as he watches blue cloud over with lust.
Their bodies rock together in sweat-damp synchronicity, sharing breaths between their kiss-swollen lips as Jensen nips at Misha’s mouth, savoring the way Misha’s hot gasps taste on his tongue. It’s startlingly intimate and Jensen can’t even believe it, how they went from a drunken grope and a petty fight in a dive bar’s parking lot to this, something that feels intrinsically right no matter how much they both fought it.
When Misha comes, trembling and biting at Jensen’s shoulder with eyes squeezed shut like he can’t even bear to see the weight of everything in Jensen’s eyes, Jensen knows, he fucking knows that this is why he couldn’t just let this go, why he couldn’t get over it after a month of pining and sulking and wondering what went wrong.
He feels himself cresting too, tipped over the edge by the clench of Misha’s ass and the way his lover arches up, trying to meld their bodies together despite the ties binding him. He smothers his cry of ecstasy in Misha’s neck and shivers, trying not to fall apart at how fucking good it feels, how close they came to fucking this up for good. He bites back the urge to snarl mine, knowing Misha will shy away from it now, but they’ve got time.
Jensen is fucking sure of it, as they subside together in a sweaty, quivering mess, freeing Misha’s hands just to feel them roam over him, every bit as possessive and greedy as Jensen feels; they’ve got nothing but time.
~Fin~
Title: Whisky Lullaby (2/2)
Recipient: serialkarma
Author: ze_pink_lady
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Everything you'd expect to find in an NC-17 fic - copious quantities of porn, language, a side-order of bondage and a healthy dose of manhandling. RPS.
Spoilers: None
Summary: Jensen is a college junior with one goal in mind; hook up with the hottest bartender at the coolest bar in town. Unlucky for him, Misha Collins doesn't go down easy.
Author notes: The giftee revealed a penchant for college AUs involving bartenders, so I was happy to oblige! Also features pretty boys in jeans and bare feet and plenty of porn! If time hadn't gotten away from me, this probably would've been longer, so look out for a continuation after the reveal! Hope you enjoy, SK!
The sun wakes him early, lancing through a crack in the curtains with laser-like precision, momentarily blinding Jensen as he fumbles for awareness. It’s an all-too familiar experience; his head is pounding and his tongue is fuzzy and tastes distinctly of roadkill, his ass is sore and the bed is empty beside him when he flails out a searching hand. He throws an arm over his face and groans, that bitter feeling of regret climbing up to settle comfortably in his head where it often makes itself cozy; there goes any chance of revisiting Frisky Whisky again.
Wait... Nope, that’s not regret climbing up from his stomach, it’s bile. Jensen scrambles clumsily from the bed, almost tripping on the sheets that have somehow tangled around his legs as he races for the bathroom, only just making it to the toilet before he’s emptying his stomach in retching heaves, hugging the porcelain like a long-lost friend.
He stays there, curled fetally against the toilet until he’s sure that the waves of sickness have subsided.
“Guess breakfast is off the menu, then?”
Jensen jolts in shock, feeling like he’s having a small heart attack as he spins around (ugh, bad idea) to see Misha framed in the bathroom doorway, wearing nothing but his tight, low riding jeans that are half unbuttoned and hanging from those obscenely slinky hips. His feet and chest are bare and his dark hair is tousled with sleep but he looks as switched on as ever, blue eyes bright and one hand cradling a cup of what smells unmistakably like coffee. In short, he looks like Jensen’s new deity.
Far from being grossed out by seeing the contents of Jensen’s stomach in reverse, Misha strolls in and offers Jensen a steady hand up, hauling him to his feet and charitably passing him the coffee. “Drink up - I made bacon and eggs.”
Jensen’s pretty sure he’s died and gone to heaven - this isn’t how his hook-ups are supposed to go. He had the usual headache and the empty bed and the throwing up covered, Misha’s not allowed to fuck it up by actually still being here.
He follows Misha along, docile as a lamb because he’s still not entirely sure what’s going on, squinting as he edges into his bright kitchen where the scent of a delicious and greasy breakfast hangs temptingly in the air. Jensen’s aware that he’s pretty damn naked but whatever, they’ve already fucked, so he sinks down dazedly into a kitchen chair and lets Misha put a plate of fatty goodness down in front of him.
“Jesus, is there anything you can’t do?” Jensen laughs bewilderedly, ravenously digging into the eggs and setting about devouring everything on the plate like a starving man enjoying his first meal in weeks.
Misha seems to give that question some serious contemplation, leaning against the kitchen counter with his own coffee in hand, sipping thoughtfully. “I can’t play the ukulele yet, but I’m taking lessons.”
Of course. Jensen can’t really give too much thought to how much of a freak Misha is when the food is this good, the coffee slipping down his throat like liquid heaven and slowly making him feel less like a zombie in small increments.
“Why are you still here?” Jensen asks, chomping greedily on the crispy bacon and sucking the grease from his fingers.
Misha blinks at that and Jensen belatedly realizes how rude it sounds. “Sorry, did you want me to go?” Misha asks mildly, not even sounding as affronted as he must feel, just a little too casual, and Jensen is definitely a grade-A dick.
“God, no - I’m sorry, that didn’t come out right.” He grimaces apologetically, putting his fork down and trying to think before he fucking speaks. “I just meant… people don’t usually stick around long after these kinds of hook-ups.”
“Well, someone had to be here to make sure you didn’t drown in your own vomit,” Misha observes wryly, giving a blithe shrug. “I just think it’s kind of rude when people skulk out of the house in the middle of the night like having an evening of fantastic sex is something to be ashamed of. Why not have the decency to sit and have breakfast and make conversation like civilized people before leaving like a prick and never calling again?”
Jensen has to admit that it kind of makes sense, but it’s still pretty random that Misha would ascribe to such a sensible view. Not that the guy doesn’t seem sensible, he’s just… very hard to get a read on.
“Don’t look so shocked, I’m actually very wise,” Misha insists, grinning shamelessly. “Just because I enjoy providing vulnerable and easily corrupted college students with shocking amounts of liquor on a nightly basis, doesn’t mean I’m an asshole.”
“No, you’re definitely not an asshole,” Jensen concedes, teeth dragging absently over his lower lip as he admires the planes of Misha’s body, not even trying to pretend that he’s not totally ogling the guy. Misha watches him staring, clearly enjoying the attention as a slow smirk spreads across his lips, fingers of his free hand lazily straying down to pop the final two buttons on his fly, letting the jeans drop shamelessly from his hips as he sips innocently at his coffee.
Jensen can hear his breaths starting to come rougher as he watches, dick already starting to throb as his blood begins rushing rapidly south to fill it and he can’t help but squirm on his seat, wondering if he’s dreaming. He can count on one hand the amount of times a random bar hook-up actually stayed the night, and up until right now it’s always resulted in an awkward goodbye, not a second round.
Misha’s cock is already half hard and lengthening, slowly curving up towards his belly as Misha steps neatly from the pool of fabric at his feet, still drinking slowly from his coffee as his other hand wraps loosely around his dick. His rings glint in the warm morning light as he strokes himself in languid, easy pulls, thumb riding the underside of his shaft and up to rub over the plump, red tip, smearing sticky precome back down his length.
It’s so obscene and yet so startlingly domestic, having this gorgeous, naked man in his kitchen, drinking his coffee while he jerks off right in front of Jensen, and Jensen feels like he’s stepped into a porno, except there’s nothing tacky and sordid about this, just Misha’s unabashed confidence as he fists gently at his dick, an attractive flush starting to creep from the tips of his ears down to his toned chest, obviously more from arousal than shame.
Misha drains the last of the coffee and sets the cup down on the counter, arching a challenging brow at Jensen as he slowly raises his hand from his dick and sucks his thumb briefly into his mouth to taste himself, and that’s all it takes, Jensen is jerking out of the chair with a discordant scrape of the legs on the tile floor, closing the distance between them in three strides to press himself up against Misha. He pens Misha in with one hand on the counter beside the other man, free hand dropping down to wrap his fingers around both their dicks, hot flesh pressing searingly against hot flesh.
Blue eyes darken as Misha’s pupils blow wide, the soft sweep of his lower lip damp with saliva or precome as he gasps at the sensation, and there’s no way Jensen can resist dipping down to catch that pretty mouth in a hungry kiss. Misha tastes like coffee and morning breath and Jensen dreads to think what his own mouth tastes like but it’s good, it’s so fucking good as he thrusts his tongue against Misha’s, hand squeezing at their erections as he slowly starts to stroke them both, the friction unbelievably perfect.
Misha bucks up, pushing greedily into his fist as Jensen fucks his mouth with hungry pushes of tongue, feeling one of Misha’s hands slipping round to grip Jensen’s ass and drag him closer as their bodies rut together. Misha’s making the most gorgeous little moans into his mouth as their tongues clash, his other hand roaming restlessly over Jensen’s back, letting Jensen jerk them both in perfect rhythm.
Jensen’s hand is getting sticky with precome and he doesn’t give a damn, rubbing his palm over the swollen tips of their dicks and smearing it down, dipping his fingers down to briefly knead at Misha’s balls, fingers rubbing at his perineum and pressing up, wanting to find all the spots that make Misha moan. Their bodies are grinding together like some lewd dance that only they know the steps to, sweat beginning to build between them as their hands explore each other.
He can feel when Misha starts to get close, blunt nails digging sharply into his back, clawing needily as Jensen squeezes tighter, speeds up his strokes and milks at their cocks. Misha breaks their heated kisses to gasp sharply, pressing his face into Jensen’s shoulder as his fingers clench tight, then Jensen can feel his partner’s body tense before hot, slick pulses of come are spurting over his fingers, the intimate sensation of it enough to have Jensen right there with him, biting down hard on Misha’s shoulder as his own dick twitches, come filling his hand and dribbling over their twitching erections, slicking the way as Jensen strokes them both through it, slick cocks sliding sensuously together.
“Fuck,” he rasps, his voice startling him a little considering they’ve done nothing but make out for the last ten minutes, his lips swollen as he mouths damply over Misha’s jaw and temple. His coffee is cold on the table but Jensen doesn’t give a damn, his body locked against Misha’s with no intention of detangling.
“That’s my particular favorite recipe for Hair of the Dog,” Misha drawls from the vicinity of his shoulder after a brief moment of silence, and Jensen can’t help but laugh as he fights to catch his breath.
They try to get cleaned up in the shower, but it doesn’t last for long.
*
Jensen’s got an afternoon class and Misha’s got a bar to run - turns out he’s the proprietor of Frisky Whisky and not just its hottest bartender, who’d have thunk? - but it’s pretty fucking hard to focus on the care and prevention of athletic injuries when all he can think about is going down on Misha in the shower, sucking him all sloppy and hot with the water beating down on them until Misha was crying out his name. He’s already snapped two pencils and his dick is at a constant state of orange alert; right now he’s just counting the minutes until he can walk back over to the bar to get his car and another slice of Misha.
Turns out he’s got a study group scheduled for five o’clock so he can’t even escape after class, itching and fidgeting his way through practice questions on biology and first aid techniques, and by the time they finally break around seven, Jensen’s wired like he’s consumed nothing but Red Bull for the past 48 hours. He goes home to shower and change, not wanting to roll into the bar like any other college student - Misha’s only four years older than him (as they discovered between rounds two and three) but the guy already seems so fucking worldly, so damn confident that Jensen can’t help but want to up his game to impress him.
He slips on a black shirt and clean jeans, anticipation buzzing in his veins as he embarks on the twenty minute walk to the bar. It’s student night in town tonight and Jensen’s fairly sure the place is going to be packed.
He’s not wrong - the noise hits him like a tidal wave as he opens the door, but Frisky’s always had a different kind of clientele than the regular bars in town, from what Jensen’s observed on his numerous aspirational journeys past. This is where the drama and philosophy majors go, the arty types who he’s sure Misha wouldn’t mind smoking weed in the back alley or doing tequila shots off a tattooed ass during happy hour. He’s always stuck with the athletic crowd; even if he’s far from a jock these days, he can still speak their language - never mind that they probably all consider him sport-lite - and the jocks all think this place is kinda weird and grungy, no cheerleaders populating the booths.
He can barely even wedge himself in at the bar, and there are new staff members working tonight, four on the bar as well as several waitresses swaying between the tables. It’s hard to spot Misha at first, too much going on and too many people in the way, but as a couple of girls vacate two stools, Jensen manages to get himself some breathing room and a chance to hone in on his fuckbuddy.
He spots Misha at the end of the bar, talking to a dark haired girl wearing a little green beret like every poet cliché, and he’s smiling and laughing as he pours her a drink, topping it up the way he obviously does when he likes someone, not even cutting off the conversation after she’s paid him.
Jensen wants to stride over there and knuckle his way in, stamp his feet like a kid for attention, but what the fuck can he say? They’re just talking.
That is, until the girl slides out a pen and scribbles something on a napkin for Misha, holding it out to him with a coquettish smile. Misha grins, his long fingers unnecessarily brushing hers as he takes the napkin and pockets it where she can see it, like he’s making a show of not blowing her off. He tips her a sly wink that Jensen knows all too well, then he’s moving along to the next customer. He glances up in Jensen’s direction and Jensen doesn’t really know what the fuck he’s thinking but he ducks away, dipping away from the bar like he’s afraid for Misha to see him. His stomach’s all tied up in knots and Jensen doesn’t really know what to think, whether Misha was just being overly friendly or whether he was securing tonight’s playmate.
He shakes his head, muttering “Fuck this,” as he stalks towards the door, knowing he’s likely to do something inadvisable if he sticks around long enough to ask questions. He bumps into someone and doesn’t even look up to apologize, ignoring her cursing a blue streak at him for spilling her drink. It’s not how his momma raised him, but Jensen’s too pissed to care.
He thinks he hears Misha shout “Jensen!” at him as he reaches the door, but at this point he’s feeling more like he wants to punch the guy rather than fuck him, so he doesn’t stop. He’s crunching over gravel to where he parked his car the night before when he hears the door open again behind him, glancing back to see Misha jogging after him.
“Hey - holster up, cowboy, can we talk for a second?” he laughs, blithe and shameless as ever as he reaches Jensen’s truck, leaning against the cool metal while Jensen unlocks the door.
“Think we said all we needed to say earlier,” Jensen mutters sourly, head down as he tugs the door open.
“Hey.” Misha’s hand snares out, pushing it shut again and narrowly avoiding trapping Jensen’s finger. “What’s wrong? Figured you’d at least come say hey before you left.”
Scowling, Jensen finally raises his head to meet Misha’s gaze as he snaps, “Seemed like you had all the conversation you could handle in there.”
“Wait, what? Did I miss something here? What’s with the attitude, I was under the impression that we both had an great time earlier,” Misha asks, brow furrowed in obvious confusion, which Jensen finds even more infuriating.
“No, Misha, you didn’t miss anything - that’s patently obvious,” he growls, reaching out and jerking the napkin from Misha’s pocket - brandishing… Sophia’s number in the other man’s face.
“Okay,” Misha says calmly. “You’re being irrational and kind of childish.”
“And you’re being a condescending prick,” Jensen snarls, tossing the napkin back at Misha. “Just be honest, are you going to fuck her?”
Misha’s actually starting to look kind of irritated, and it doesn’t give Jensen the kind of satisfaction he thought it would. “One, that’s none of your business, and two, so what if I do? Last I checked, we’re both single guys. True, we’re single guys who had some fairly awesome sex last night, but unless I missed you proposing to me this morning, where I stick my dick isn’t actually your problem, Jensen.”
Jensen feels his fingers clench into a fist and it’s a conscious effort not to take a swing at that smug, self-assured face. He knows he’s being irrational and that he didn’t lay any kind of claim on Misha last night, but he was kind of hoping… Whatever, he obviously spectacularly misread the signals.
He blows out a deep breath, gritting his teeth and mentally trying to count to ten before forcing a bitter smile to his lips. “No, you’re totally right, Misha - it’s none of my business who you fuck. I just didn’t think I had to take you literally when you said you’d leave like a prick and never call again. My mistake.”
He holds up his hands in false apology before jerking the car door open and climbing in, slamming it roughly shut and forcing himself not to look back at Misha as he throws the car into reverse. Misha only just manages to step away without getting his foot run over, his expression typically unreadable when Jensen catches a glimpse of him in the wing mirror.
He gets a speeding ticket on the miniscule drive home and almost breaks his foot kicking the car in frustration, kind of wishing it was Misha’s face instead.
*
The next few days are fucking miserable. Jensen knows he brought it on himself, assuming that Misha was one of the good guys just because he stuck around to be ‘civilized’ for breakfast before acting like all the others. It wasn’t as if Jensen was even hoping for a relationship out of the hook up, he’s well aware that most guys who pick up strangers in bars aren’t exactly looking for a New England wedding in the fall. But something about Misha and the way they connected, not just the sex, but the easy way they had talked when they were drying off from the shower… it had made Jensen kind of think…
Jensen had made grilled cheese sandwiches for lunch before they went their separate ways, both of them only bothering with jeans as they sat on the couch and shot the shit, actually got to know more about each other than simply what noises they made when they came.
“Yeah, we were homeless for a while when I was a kid,” Misha had confided, his tone reminiscent of someone who had practiced saying it until there was nothing but studied indifference in the inflection. “I stole cars, shoplifted - made a fucking nuisance of myself, mostly. But I remember this English teacher I had in high school, Mrs. Stewart, she was the first person who ever made it seem like I could do something useful with myself. I got financial aid for college and helped pay my tuition with three part time jobs - I just wanted to get away from my parents for a while. I love them but they’re so damn flaky,” he had laughed, like every day of his childhood hadn’t been an exercise in disappointment. “The bar just fell into my lap - one of my part-time jobs was bartending so I got pretty good; my boss offered me a full-time job straight out of college and I was one of those kids who never knew what to do with himself so I jumped at the chance. Then he had a heart attack, had to retire - he moved out to Florida and left me the place. Texas was only supposed to be a temporary thing, I’ve always loved the East Coast more, but I guess it kinda stuck.”
Jensen had eaten in silence, just absorbing Misha’s life story, wondering if he’d ever get to hear the poetry that had helped Misha get into college, or see the carvings that had preceded his dabbling in carpentry. The things Misha had done and seen during his rootless childhood travelling across the country had made Jensen realize just how damn small and insulated his own life experience had been, just a typical Texas boy who thought football could get him someplace better.
He’d actually been sad to go to class, considered calling in sick, but Misha had said he needed to check that his staff hadn’t burned the bar down, so they’d left it with a kiss and no promises.
Jensen doesn’t understand how the ‘no promises’ part had seemed natural earlier but now feels like he made the biggest mistake of his life; maybe if he’d asked Misha to go on an actual date, or to come over to his place for a nightcap after his shift, things wouldn’t have ended with a shouting match in the parking lot like a couple of rednecks.
He tries not to, but he’s always been a glutton for punishment and can’t help driving past the bar every day like a bunny boiler, not knowing what he’s hoping to see; maybe some slutty girl stumbling out of the bar on her walk of shame after Misha fucks her and makes her breakfast and makes her think he’s not like every other horny guy just looking to get off. It’s not like Jensen’s going to write emoetry and start self-harming over it (he’s pretty sure), but he can’t shake the gnawing ache in his gut like he and Misha were meant to be more than just a quick spark that fizzled out too soon.
His buddy Tom - who is perhaps the least douchey quarterback Jensen’s ever met - tries to distract him from his funk with booze and a couple rounds of golf (Tom’s a trust-fund kid), even if Jensen lets his friends think he’s pining over a girl and not an evil genius bartender with a PhD in mind-fuckery. They go to the regular clubs they’ve always gone to and Jensen ends up making out with a drunk co-ed with fantastic tits and then feeling every bit as sordid about it as if she’d been another fuck-and-run booty call. It’s all depressingly normal, the college experience, and after a month Jensen figures it’s definitely time to get the fuck over it and stop being such a pussy - he’s fairly sure Misha’s not losing sleep over ‘the epic romance that never was.’
It’s not a huge college town and it’s not like Jensen would ever purposefully try and avoid the guy, even if he did act like a histrionic stalker the last time they saw each other, but he sure as shit wasn’t counting on bumping into Misha in the cleaning aisle of Walmart, of all places.
Jensen thinks about making a run for it or diving behind the bleach, but Misha spots him and it’s just instinct to freeze, his expression slightly guilty as Misha’s eyes spark with recognition.
“Uh. Hi.” Jensen wets his lips and hopes Misha doesn’t think he’s actually stalking him. How the hell was he to know that Misha liked to do his grocery shopping at ass o’clock on a Saturday morning?
“Hi,” Misha responds, rubbing the back of his neck and actually looking lost for words, for once. “How… how’re you doing?”
“I’m good,” Jensen responds way too quickly, sticking his hands in his jacket pockets and squaring his shoulders, trying not to focus on how damn good Misha looks, all casual in jeans and a tee and an overshirt that looks soft enough to bury his face in.
“That’s… good,” Misha says hesitantly, before letting out a sharp laugh in a way that implies he doesn’t think any of this is funny. “This is ridiculous,” he mutters. “We’re acting like we had some terrible break-up or I left you at the altar, or something. It was just one night.”
“And one morning,” Jensen points out, but he can see Misha’s point, smiling wanly at how weird they’re both being.
“And one morning,” Misha concedes. “And it was…”
Jensen’s already shaking his head. “You don’t have to say anything.”
He watches Misha shrug his shoulders helplessly, like he wants to explain, but at this point, anything he can say is only going to make Jensen feel more like a tool, one way or the other.
“It was nice seeing you again, man,” he offers instead, by way of an olive branch, and Misha nods, and that’s it. Jensen picks up his bleach and turns around, and the world doesn’t end and nothing actually changes. Just two guys exchanging pleasantries in the grocery store.
It fucking sucks.
*
Jensen’s feeling like shit when he gets out of the store, having had time to stew over the encounter and replay it a thousand different ways in his head, wondering if he should’ve just punched Misha like he wanted to do that night at the bar, for leading him on with breakfast even if he was never intending to follow through. One night stands do not equal breakfast, not anywhere except in the world of romance literature, and he doesn’t think he can be blamed for assuming that there might have been more than sex on offer after three rounds and two meals and the intimate trading of life stories. Misha was just a cocktease, that’s the truth of it; fuck whatever self-righteous bullshit Misha wanted to throw in his face to make himself feel less like a player.
He shoves his paper bags into the back of his truck and slams the trunk closed, closing his eyes and breathing in the warm, early morning air - the sun hasn’t had a chance to get to full strength yet, which is pretty much the only reason Jensen’s up this early on a Saturday. He scrubs a hand roughly over his face and slips into the driver’s seat, letting out an utterly terrified (and okay, kind of feminine) shriek at the sight of someone in the fucking passenger seat beside him.
Of course it’s fucking Misha, sitting there looking all pensive and yet entirely unapologetic about apparently breaking into his car.
“What the fuck?” Jensen hisses, voice still a little shrill.
“I used to steal cars,” Misha reminds him with an unrepentant shrug. “Like this was a challenge.”
“Why the fuck didn’t you just… I don’t know, wait outside?” Jensen gapes disbelievingly, his heart still pounding a mile a minute, and this is definitely what a heart attack feels like.
Misha looks way too amused about Jensen’s current near death experience. “Because I knew you wouldn’t listen to me. It’d be the same as the night at the bar; you’d storm off in a huff and wouldn’t even give me a chance to explain,” he says calmly.
“What the fuck is there to explain, Misha? You made yourself pretty damn clear at the bar,” Jensen snaps, hand still pressed against his chest as he tries to calm down.
“For a start, if you hadn’t been acting like such an irrationally jealous bitch, I would’ve told you that I was just flirting with that girl to keep her around, I had no intention of sleeping with her. It’s just good business sense; if they think they’re gonna get laid, they stick around and order drinks all night, waiting for their shot - doesn’t matter if they’re never going to get it, by that point of the night they’re too drunk to care. Worked for you, didn’t it?” Misha smirks, and Jensen’s back to wanting to punch him.
“But you did sleep with me,” he growls.
“Exactly,” Misha says sagely, and Jensen feels like he’s wandering around a maze, not sure he’s grasping Misha’s point at all. “Huh?” he asks eloquently.
“I get plenty of offers every night, Jen - doesn’t mean I’m actually going to follow through on any of them. I like to flirt and make my customers feel special so they’ll hang out and give my hardworking staff plenty of tips, but I don’t actually fuck any of them. You’re the first person I’ve gone home with in… well, too damn long,” Misha confides, smirking lightly. “I liked you, Jensen. I don’t have conversations with that kind of emotional depth with anyone anymore, and at the time I had no fucking clue why I was spilling my guts to you, but you were a nice guy who had no idea just how smart and sexy he was, or how much he had to contribute to the world, and I kinda found that irresistible. And the sex was amazing. And if you’d actually tried to talk to me instead of jumping to conclusions, I would’ve told you all of this at the time.”
Jensen’s head is spinning and it’s not just because he’s only had one cup of coffee this morning - it’s more like the lightning bolt of revelation, like his eyes have finally been opened for the first time. He doesn’t know what to say. Thankfully, Misha seems to have enough to say for the both of them, as usual.
“I was gonna ask you out to dinner or something when you came back to get your car - but when you flipped on me… I haven’t had a serious relationship since freshman year of college, Jen, and I’ve always kind of had a problem with authority; when you started acting like you had the right to tell me what to do… well, that’s a sore spot for me, and I… I guess I overreacted. But you’ve got to understand, it’s been a long time since anyone’s actually cared that much about what I was doing, you know? Who actually wanted me to stick around past breakfast. I know if I’d just told you I wasn’t interested in the girl at the time we probably could’ve negated all of the drama, but we’re both big boys, y’know? If you really wanna try something serious, you’re gonna have to learn to trust me instead of assuming the worst.”
“Wait, hold up,” Jensen raises a hand to stop Misha right there, not nearly caffeinated enough for this conversation. “At first you were talking in past tense and now you’re talking present - what’s it gonna be?”
Arching a wry brow, Misha meets Jensen’s gaze levelly, blue eyes holding green as he slowly leans forward to press his lips to Jensen’s, letting the action speak for itself.
Jensen’s eyes slide briefly shut, lips parting on a surprised but eager moan and hands coming up to frame Misha’s face, tongue sliding tentatively out to seek entry into that talented mouth, and it’s like the last month never happened, their connection every bit as tangible as before.
“Fuck, I missed that mouth,” Misha hums, eyes slowly slipping open, his lashes heavy as he gazes approvingly up at Jensen.
“That mouth missed you too,” Jensen drawls not giving a damn if it’s a cheesy line, or even that Misha somehow broke into his car and probably scratched the paintwork or fucked with the electrics or something; all that matters is that the stubborn asshole is here.
He throws the car into drive, peeling out of the parking lot and heading straight for his apartment. They’re gonna do it fucking right this time.
*
“Isn’t it a little early for tequila?”
“What’s the saying; it’s two o’clock somewhere?” Jensen smirks, rocking back onto his knees to admire his handiwork. It had taken a little wrangling and a little guilt-tripping for the way they’d spectacularly wasted the past month, but the important thing is that Jensen got his way, and he’s also got Misha tied spreadeagle and naked to his bed, laid bare and stretched open, all that tan skin just ripe for the taking.
He runs his hands slowly over Misha’s chest, teasing at tiny nipples until they peak under his touch, Misha’s dick already standing temptingly to attention even before Jensen gets going.
“You’re gonna torture me with this, aren’t you?” Misha observes, voice already a little ragged as he stares hazily up at Jensen, tongue flicking briefly out to wet those plush lips.
“Pretty much, yeah.” Jensen grins, sharklike - more a primal baring of teeth than a real smile as he dips his head, lips finding Misha’s collarbone to suck a hard bruise to the tender skin. Misha hisses, arching against his bonds as Jensen grinds down against him, slick cockhead bumping over his inner thigh and gliding sinfully over Misha’s perineum.
“Salt and lime are for pussies, we’re gonna do it straight,” he rumbles, unscrewing the cap of the tequila and tilting the bottle, letting a little of the amber liquid spill into the hollow of Misha’s collarbone for him to slurp it hastily out, not one drop spilled.
“Nnnh- as much as I enjoy being your shot glass, don’t you think this drinking game would be more fun if there were two players?” Misha grunts, glancing down as Jensen tilts him a smirk and sinks lower, settling between Misha’s legs as he lets the tequila spill down from Misha’s ribs to his abs and belly, the liquor trickling down like Misha’s body is just one spectacular ice luge. His tongue flicks out to catch the tequila before it reaches his lover’s hips, swirling into Misha’s navel to lap up the rest.
Misha squirms impatiently, cock bobbing, smearing stickily over Jensen’s throat and chest as Jensen lets his mouth roam, kissing and nipping at Misha’s belly and abdomen just to try and drive him wild. “Jensen,” he groans, toes curling against air, denied purchase thanks to the way Jensen tied him.
“You thirsty, baby?” Jensen drawls, propping himself on one hand beside Misha’s shoulder as he takes a hearty swig from the bottle, letting the alcohol burn on his tongue. Then he’s putting the bottle down and using his hand to lift Misha’s head up, shot-gunning the tequila into his lover’s mouth with sinuous thrusts of his tongue, chasing it with a lascivious kiss that has Misha sucking greedily on his tongue, body straining against the scarves that bind his hands and feet.
“Fuck,” Misha grunts, teeth digging into his lower lip. “If I’d known you had such a sadistic streak, I never would’ve let you loose with the bondage.”
“Hindsight is 20/20.” Jensen smirks smugly, mouthing his way back down between Misha’s spread legs to brush his lips over his partner’s balls, lapping over them teasingly before sucking the sac into his mouth, purring low as his cheeks hollow and his tongue works, hand tracing over the curve of Misha’s erection to offer even more sensation.
“Jesusfuck,” Misha yowls, body jerking like he’s actually capable of breaking Jensen’s ties - car thief he may be, Houdini he ain’t.
“Mmmmm,” Jensen agrees, releasing that sensitive sac to trace his tongue lower, swirling it over the puckered muscle at Misha’s entrance, teasing over that sensitive flesh again and again, slow and steady without even attempting to push in, not until Misha is shifting restlessly and writhing down, trying to fuck himself wantonly on Jensen’s tongue. He’s never seen Misha so out of control before and Jensen has to admit that it’s intoxicating, the desperate noises his partner makes nothing short of obscene, and Jensen thinks he could quite happily listen to Misha make those noises every damn day of his life, if Misha will let him.
Slowly, tantalizingly he presses his tongue inside, shallow at first, just cautious little dips in and out of that clenching hole before Jensen’s gripping Misha’s ass with both hands, holding him wider open and burying his face lewdly between his lover’s thighs, tongue fucking in as deep and filthy as he can make it. He growls low just to let the sound rumble against sensitive flesh and Misha bucks up, moaning roughly as his fingers clench into tight fists and his head tips back, throat bared in a vulnerable arch that Jensen needs to bite.
He replaces his tongue with two fingers, scissoring them slowly as he leans up to nose against Misha’s throat, pressing his lips against his lover’s thundering pulse point, biting down and sucking a bruise to that trustingly exposed flesh. He’s not going to make the same mistake as last time; he’s going to fucking claim, going to prove to Misha that there’s someone in this town who sees him as more than just the quirky and ridiculously hot bartender, someone who wants to see every little fucked up part of him and every amazing experience he’s had and put the pieces together to understand what makes a guy like Misha tick. Misha might not want him to be possessive or jealous, but Jensen can’t help but want - can’t help but crave Misha, in all of his eccentric perfection, and he’ll have to deal with Jensen wanting to stick around, even if it’s instinct to pull away.
“I’m not going anywhere, Misha,” he rumbles, more of a promise than a simple statement, even if Misha’s not interested in hearing it. He reaches to roll the condom down, fitting his dick against that tight, flexing hole and holding Misha’s gaze as he eases inside, one slow, smooth push to meld them together.
It’s even better now than it was all sloppy and drunk the first time, all fumbling hands and biting mouths. This time it’s slow and steady, Misha held at his mercy by the scarves, Jensen’s eyes refusing to break contact with Misha’s as he watches blue cloud over with lust.
Their bodies rock together in sweat-damp synchronicity, sharing breaths between their kiss-swollen lips as Jensen nips at Misha’s mouth, savoring the way Misha’s hot gasps taste on his tongue. It’s startlingly intimate and Jensen can’t even believe it, how they went from a drunken grope and a petty fight in a dive bar’s parking lot to this, something that feels intrinsically right no matter how much they both fought it.
When Misha comes, trembling and biting at Jensen’s shoulder with eyes squeezed shut like he can’t even bear to see the weight of everything in Jensen’s eyes, Jensen knows, he fucking knows that this is why he couldn’t just let this go, why he couldn’t get over it after a month of pining and sulking and wondering what went wrong.
He feels himself cresting too, tipped over the edge by the clench of Misha’s ass and the way his lover arches up, trying to meld their bodies together despite the ties binding him. He smothers his cry of ecstasy in Misha’s neck and shivers, trying not to fall apart at how fucking good it feels, how close they came to fucking this up for good. He bites back the urge to snarl mine, knowing Misha will shy away from it now, but they’ve got time.
Jensen is fucking sure of it, as they subside together in a sweaty, quivering mess, freeing Misha’s hands just to feel them roam over him, every bit as possessive and greedy as Jensen feels; they’ve got nothing but time.
~Fin~