Fic: Against a Wall and a Hard Place - Jensen/Misha, NC-17
Title: Against a Wall and a Hard Place
Author: qthelights
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Jensen/Misha
Spoilers/Warnings: None
Disclaimer: Never happened and no offence intended.
Wordcount: 4350
Summary: Jensen lets Misha pick where they're drinking. Misha picks a gay bar. It doesn't go to plan.
Author notes: Written as a pinch-hit for the deancas_xmas.
Against a Wall and a Hard Place
Jensen dislikes clubs. They aren't his thing; too crowded, too noisy, too full of fake people who want to be his best friend.
When it comes down to it, he’d rather stay at home with beer and a game. Hang out in friends’ apartments and watch crappy 80s comedies on cable, or sometimes, go to one of the few places in LA that meet his “home” criteria - safe, laid back, full of regulars and with bouncers who keep out the crazies.
Misha though, is not like him. Misha wants to go out incognito and have fun. Jensen draws the line at wearing a fake moustache (or letting Misha wear one) but he promised Misha, last time he’d come to one of Steve’s gigs and dutifully sat trying not to fidget or build a castle out of salter shakers, that he’d repay the favour. That they’d do something Misha wants - soon.
‘Cause that’s what friends do.
His only stipulation was that he wanted to avoid places fangirls might be, because that could get ugly fast. Sure, most of them are okay, but even though 9 out of 10 are sane, there's always that one that wants to lay claim to his life in a way that makes him uncomfortable.
Misha had grinned, unsettlingly, and promised - no fangirls.
What Jensen had failed to factor in was boys.
Which is how, on a Saturday night, he finds himself sitting at the glowing, green and pink neon Perspex bar of some hip new gay bar on Hollywood. With no reason, none at all, to stand Misha up and walk on out.
Naturally, Misha is also late.
He’s already had people come up and congratulate him on being in ‘that show’. Which okay, not the same as a girl jumping up and limpetting herself around your waist, but still. He really hates to be recognised when he’s out on his own time. Fuck.
He also gets hit on. Twice.
The first guy, decidedly unattractive, a forehead larger than Jared’s and a mess - literally - of tangled brown hair, sits down three chairs over. Then moves over a seat. Ten minutes and another seat. By the time he’s moved, thoroughly conspicuously, into the seat next to him, Jensen goes to the men’s room to avoid talking to him. Even if he were gay, he knows he’d want to date someone with at least a couple more balls.
He’s halfway through his beer, glaring balefully at his iphone and willing it to light up with a text from Misha swearing he’ll be right there, when suitor number two slides into the seat on his other side. This one is all smarm, hair slicked back, expensive tailored pants and gold bracelets. Jensen thinks he looks like he walked straight off a Mafia movie set. Hell, maybe he did; it is Hollywood after all.
The guy stands way too close, Jensen can feel the heat of him through the thin cotton shirt he’s wearing. He smells like he bathed in aftershave. This guy, thankfully, takes a more direct route, asking if he can buy Jensen a drink.
Jensen politely declines. He’s waiting for someone.
By the time Misha shows up, with his shirt sleeves rolled up over his elbows and wearing terry-towel armbands like he ran straight out of an Olivia Newton-John video, Jensen is somewhat tipsy and very relieved to see his him.
“Take your fucking time, Mish,” he grumbles, signalling to the bartender to bring him back their way. “Do you know how many people have propositioned me while I’ve waited here?”
Misha grins, slides onto the barstool vacated by suitor no. 1 half an hour ago. He shrugs his hand in a ‘what could I do?’ gesture. “Traffic, sorry.” He grins and raises an eyebrow as he adds, “though it sounds like I did you a favour, Casanova.”
Jensen wisely says nothing, just scowls and takes a swig of his beer.
Misha orders a gin and tonic, flashes the bartender a melting smile. Jensen rolls his eyes at the speed at which the drink appears.
“Why the hell did you pick this place?” Jensen asks as a Britney Spears remix starts blaring from the nearest loudspeaker.
Misha takes a gulp of his drink, swallowing it down over a bobbing Adam’s apple before licking his lips. “Cheap booze and no fangirls. It’s what you wanted, no?” There’s a glint to his eye that Jensen knows better than to trust.
“And now the tabloids will be convinced I’m gay,” Jensen grumbles sarcastically.
“So?” Misha asks, tongue tripping out pink and wet to poke at the slice of lime in his glass.
Jensen marvels at the genuine question in Misha’s tone. “Nothing gets to you does it?”
Misha laughs, tipping his head back and grinning until his nose crinkles. “Nope. Why give shit that kinda power, and more importantly, why didn’t you say you were waiting for someone?” He pokes Jensen in the shoulder for emphasis.
“I did,” Jensen replies, deadpan.
Misha clucks his tongue, “Awww, poor Jenny. All defenceless against really hot gay boys.”
“The fact that they might have been hot is of no consequence,” Jensen says around the mouth of his beer bottle.
“No?” Misha questions, eyebrow raised. “Funny, it’s always been of consequence to me.”
Which, no. Jensen isn’t going to touch that with a ten foot pole.
There’s a tap on Jensen’s shoulder and he turns away from Misha to find a stunningly attractive blond guy in a button-down striped shirt and tight black tee standing way too far into his personal space.
“Um, yeah,” Jensen asks, and hey, he’ll admit it’s not his most eloquent moment, “can I do something for you?”
He regrets the phrasing the minute it leaves his mouth.
“I dunno,” the guy drawls in a honey-slow Southern accent that reminds Jensen of home. “Can you?” The wink that accompanies the question admittedly makes Jensen blush, even as he freaks out a little.
He’s trying to think of something to say in reply when, suddenly, there's an arm slinking over his shoulder and a hand splaying over his breastbone. It’s Misha’s hand, and it’s Misha, apparently, who is now plastered at his back.
“Is this guy bothering you, honey?” Misha asks, all faux innocence.
The guy balks and backs away with a “sorry man, didn’t know.” He’s gone before Jensen can even turn around.
“What the hell was that?” He asks with incredulity as Misha slides off him like oil off water back into his own space and chair.
“That, my dear Jensen,” Misha says, sips at his drink with a smirk, “Is how one drinks at a gay bar without getting hassled.”
“I knew there was a reason I kept you around,” Jensen remarks and orders another beer.
***
Being in a space where guys are freely hanging off other guys messes with Jensen's world view. Not in a bad way, just in the sense that it's quite obviously different from what his world usually encompasses. Suddenly, it’s not the behaviour of a minority, it’s the norm. And with the exception of a few girls dancing in a circle up the front, Jensen is feeling decidedly straight, and therefore, out of place.
It’s not something he wants to dwell on, because it’s bullshit to even pretend he has an issue given the state of the world outside the door for many of the people in front of him. He knows he has it easy.
Still, he feels he can acknowledge that being in amongst a sea of male sexuality, male arousal, is a different situation for him. One that makes him curious, even if his curiosity isn’t going to go past mild meanderings of gray matter.
Pretending to be a couple works surprisingly well at keeping interested parties firmly at bay. For a good hour of solid drinking Jensen remains unhassled. The alcohol flows freely and at some fuzzy point he changes from beer to whiskey.
Misha is in the middle of explaining to him about fluid points and space dimensional monsters (or something...Jensen tuned out minutes ago in favour of drunkenly watching the lights strung over the bar glitter and dance in Misha's dark pupils) when a tall, dark and not indeed un-handsome looking guy comes over to breach their invisible cone of 'private'.
This time, it's Misha who the guy is interested in. He sidles up into Misha's space, reaches a fingertip out to trace lightly over Misha's cheekbone in a way Jensen finds entirely inappropriate.
"C'mon, I know your friend isn't into you," the kid says, and he is a kid - he can't possibly be more than 19, Jensen thinks. "Why don't you let me be into you?"
Misha grins and Jensen relaxes, even lets himself roll his eyes at the ridiculous pick-up line the kid has come up with. He waits for the MO they've developed to kick in, for Misha's hand to rest protectively on Jensen's knee and a well placed 'sweetie' or 'darling' or other effeminate endearment to be directed his way in a show of false coupledom.
Only Misha doesn't do what he's meant to, and instead of waving him away Misha's hand rises, his fingers threading through the inky blackness of the guy's hair, tugging him in. And then Misha's mouth, Misha's plump pink lips, are on this stranger's mouth, kissing and taking and unless Jensen is mistaken, definitely enjoying.
Jensen hears the gasp long before he realises that it comes from himself. He's too busy freaking out about the swirling roil of wrong that invades his stomach and threatens to bring up whiskey and beer.
But then Misha is pulling back, licking his lips and smiling wide and huge, full of teeth. "Sorry. I'm already with someone, so off you go now," he says, like he's been following the script all along. He places his hands on the kid's chest, pushes the wide-eyed youth gently back into the crowd before turning around to Jensen and continuing their conversation as if nothing has just happened.
"So really, the quark is an entirely incorrect concept of...Jensen?" Misha stops, brow furrowing between his eyes.
"What was...the...huh?" Jensen says succinctly.
Misha shrugs, the corner of his kiss-bitten mouth turning up in a wry grin. "I told you it was of consequence whether they were hot or not."
"Oh," Jensen says. Misha laughs and orders them another round and Jensen tries to get the image of Misha's tongue darting in between open lips out of his mind.
* * *
Ninety minutes later and Jensen has managed to stop the slideshow of Misha's tongue from playing behind his retinas. Mind you, it might be because his whole life has become a slideshow, slipping and tripping ephemerally around them as they sit in their bubble of familiarity. The easy camaraderie they'd been building as the booze soaked in is back and Jensen is relaxed and amused in a way that only Misha seems able to bring out in him.
Naturally, it's the moment that the kid from before comes back to stomp all over the calm.
Misha blinks up at him, and Jensen isn't sure, but it almost looks like irritation that crosses his features. "You're back?" Misha says, part question, part consternation.
The kid stands tall, defiantly puts a hand on Misha's knee and the groove above Misha's nose gets deeper. "I want you."
Misha laughs, but it's harsher than the free amusement of a minute ago with Jensen. "I told you before. I'm with someone." He picks the guy's hand up from his knee and lets it drop.
Jensen tenses, gaze snapping back to the guy who he's belatedly processing might be young, but is, in fact, built almost like Jared with more muscle than strictly necessary for anything other than pro-wrestling.
"I don't believe you," the boy says. He points accusingly at Jensen. "He's straight."
"No," Misha says, tone hardening. "He's not, and I am here with him. So..."
The guy snorts disbelievingly. "I've been watching you both, you haven't laid a hand on each other. He's straighter than a hat pin."
Jensen isn't exactly sure what's happening...are they getting into a fight over who Misha will make out with, and if so, what does the kid think will happen? That he'll win Misha over by accusing him of lying? Either way, he doesn't like the way Misha has closed up, or the tension he feels ratchet up in the air around him.
Misha rolls his eyes. "Go away, kid. You're out of your depth here, k?"
But the 'kid' doesn't, instead putting his hand back on Misha's body - this time his shoulder.
It happens in a split second, so fast that Jensen doesn't have time to process it; one second Misha is shrugging the guy's hand away violently and the next he's muttering "Oh for fuck's sake" and grabbing the lapels of Jensen's dress shirt.
Misha's mouth is on his the next instant, hot and wet and Jensen opens up to him immediately, too stunned to do anything but what auto-pilot tells him is the appropriate response. Misha's tongue slides in, tasting of tequila and lime and it tangles with Jensen's own, mixing with the whiskey he's been drinking. His stomach lurches into his throat and his fingers clutch uselessly at air by his sides. Misha's tongue is demanding - stroking, curling, tasting - and then suddenly it's gone. Misha is pulling back and turning sharply to glare at the boy who is still standing there, silent and sullen.
The kid seems to shudder and he opens his mouth to say something before shutting it again and turning on his heel. He disappears into the crowd.
Misha rolls his eyes and turns back to Jensen, presumably to start talking quantum physics or string theory or fucking rainbows or something. He stops short at what he sees on Jensen's face.
For his part, Jensen has no idea what his face is conveying at the moment. He's not sure it's even wired into his brain anymore. All he knows is the taste of Misha's mouth, saliva wet on his lip, blood thudding dully through his system. Shock, surprise, panic...arousal.
"Are you okay?" Misha asks, concerned. "I figured it was the only way to get the point through his thick skull..."
Jensen swallows as his world turns upside down and rights itself again. "Misha..."
Misha looks really worried now, and his hand reaches out to hover over Jensen's wrist. "Shit, should I not have done that?"
Jensen shakes his head, trying to shed confusion like water from a wet dog. He needs to know what that was, if...
But that way lies fucking scary shit, and he's a red-blooded American male, he should be god damned running right now. Or hitting something. And yet Misha is staring at him, leaning into him in worry and Jensen isn't moving an inch. And he has to know.
"Do it again," he whispers, barely audible.
Misha looks even more confused and then his pupils dilate wide in a way that would almost be cartoonishly comical if it didn't mean what Jensen thinks it does.
And it does, because Misha is back in his space after the briefest of hesitations, his lips back on Jensen's, pillowy soft and warm. His tongue slides gently against Jensen's lips, seeking entrance, and Jensen lets him in with a shiver of want and a tremor of fear. He doesn't understand it, what he's doing, what it's doing. How this is Misha. Any of it. He just knows that he's drunk enough to not want to question it, or at least to not run.
A mewling sound of need stutters out of his mouth and into Misha's and he feels Misha bodily shudder against him. Hears him pull back with a stunned, "Jensen...
And then Misha's hand is on his wrist and he's slipped off his chair, tugging Jensen gently down from his own. Jensen can only follow willingly, trying not to trip on his own feet as Misha leads him through the sea of people towards a corner. Misha is tucking them behind a pillar in the shadows, Jensen with the wall at his back and Misha at his front.
Misha's eyes are dark and full of emotion when they find Jensen's. "Are you sure, Jen?" he asks, and he's never sounded so serious, not even as Castiel with Heaven on his shoulders and Hell at his heels.
Jensen swallows, hard. He isn't sure, not at all. But he can't seem to get his body to understand that. Scared, he stutters out, "I'm not gay!" and winces at the accusatory judgement he hears years of heterosexual male culture telling him accompanies such a phrase, even though he doesn't mean it that way, has never given credence to such thought.
"Neither am I," Misha says, seeming to understand that bigotry and heteronormative bullshit isn't what he's getting at, that Jensen is laying himself out on the table, showing his cards and the insecurities amongst them.
Misha crowds him gently in against the wall, breath hot against his cheek. His hands are at Jensen's throat, thumbs sliding soothingly over Jensen's collarbone, fingers lightly pressed against the sides of his neck.
"Misha? What you're doing right now? Little bit gay," Jensen snorts softly with a touch of hysteria, amused despite the panic threatening in his veins.
Misha rolls his eyes, presses his hips in softly against Jensen, letting him feel the building want there. "Do I strike you as the kind to be easily labelled, Jen?"
Jensen shakes his head, momentarily struck dumb by the hardness in Misha's jeans pressing into his hip.
"I do what I like, Jensen." Misha smiles, soft and sweet, and leans in to place a chaste kiss against Jensen's mouth. "You don't strike me as someone who wants to fit other peoples labels either, you know..."
And that makes up his mind for him. Gay, straight, bi, whatever, none of that matters because it's Misha. And maybe that's the best lesson of all, Jensen realises. People are attracted to people, not preferences. Apparently that never occurred to him before.
So he nods, slight but firm, and lets his hands stutter forward around Misha's waist, drawing him in.
Misha closes his eyes and sighs softly against his lips, and it sounds so content, so happy, at being touched, that Jensen can't help but chase the sound with his lips. The kiss is slower, tentative and gentle. Misha lets Jensen set the pace. When Jensen's tongue flickers forward, Misha lets him in. When Jensen's hands tighten on Misha's waist, tug him in, Misha lets him do it, comes forward easily.
Seconds, minutes or hours go by, Jensen wouldn't be able to say which, and the panic recedes from his throat. His limbs relax, and his arms slide around Misha's back. He lets his fingers tangle in Misha's shirt tails, slipping under to touch the bare skin underneath. Jensen decides that the way Misha shivers against him at that is immensely satisfying. He wants to make it happen again.
Misha is still kissing softly, relaxed in his arms, but Jensen is over his 'I'm not gay' panic attack and his cock is taking a decided interest in the proceedings, tugging up against the confines of his jeans. Despite the decision to do something like this happening only moments ago, his brain has already caught on to the fact that sex is taking place, and it wants to up the ante. Alcohol and arousal make it hard to see a reason not to let it.
So he bites.
Misha yelps and his eyes fly open as Jensen's teeth sink into the plump flesh of his lower lip.
Jensen can't help but laugh, just a little.
"Oh it is so on," Misha growls, the sound low and reverberating through his chest into Jensen's.
Jensen would take a second to maybe reconsider the plan of action, but Misha doesn't give him one. Instead Misha surges forward, mouth on Jensen's jaw, biting and suckling and making mewling noises like a god damned porn star and Jensen grips his hips hard and hangs on, gasping at the teeth scraping his skin, the cock pressing insistently hard against his hip.
"Fuck, fuck...Misha."
Misha pulls back, grins with all the innocence of a Great White and rubs his crotch against Jensen's in a hitching roll. "Problem, Jen? Going too slow for you?"
Jensen fights the reflex of his eyes trying to roll back into his head. "Seriously, Misha, shut the fuck up."
Misha's eyes flash dangerously and then his mouth is at Jensen's earlobe, sucking and nibbling, rolling it between sharp teeth. His breath is hot and moist as he growls into Jensen's ear. "Don't you want me to talk, Jen? Don't you want me to make noise as I fuck you? Tell you all the dirty things I've always wanted to do to you and never thought I'd get a chance to?"
It's Jensen's turn to shudder, and he does, a ripple of arousal juddering from his scalp down to his toes on the back of a moan. His hands slide up the back of Misha's shirt, abandoning the pretense of propriety, and he scratches his nails down flesh as Misha keeps talking in reverb and bass.
"You know how long I've wanted to shove you up against a wall, Jensen? Rub my cock raw on your hipbone? Do this?" Misha murmurs into the shell of his ear before dipping down and sinking his teeth into the crook of Jensen's neck, hard enough to hurt.
"Oh, God.. " Jensen hisses, his hips jerking up against Misha's, precome pulsing and coating the inside of his underwear with cool wetness. "Misha fuck, I can't, you win ...please. Just do it. Whatever you want. Please."
He's aware that he's begging, that he sounds like a cheap whore, but he can't... he's never... and with Misha and...and.. fuck he just needs.
Misha hums against his cheek, pulling his stubbled cheek against Jensen's own grain, it sounds harsh and scratchy in Jensen's head, like sandpaper against sandpaper.
Apparently Misha is going to take pity on him, because while his gaze stays glued on Jensen's, his fingers suddenly land on his fly and Jensen's heart is thumping so hard and fast he thinks it might crack his ribs. Then there are long warm fingers sliding buttons open and zips down, slipping in under underwear and then Misha's fingers are wrapped around his sticky cock and his eyes really do roll back in his head, skull thwacking back against the wall.
Jensen hisses out a moan and Misha leans in and swallows it, his mouth once again on Jensen's, tongue and teeth and spit. Converging and taking, marking and tasting. The angle is awkward and more than anything Jensen wants his cock out of his pants, but there are people everywhere and while it might be dark, it isn't dark enough. Anyone who really looks will be able to tell what's going on as it is.
Misha's fingers are fucking insane, they're long and wrap around him tight and soft, pulling and sliding at the hot flesh of Jensen's cock. Misha slicks a thumb over the head and follows it with his fingers, slicking the precome down over to smooth the way.
Jensen finds that he's moaning, breath stuttering in embarrassing hitches, his fingernails digging crescents in the flesh of Misha's sides. The pressure builds amazingly fast, tightening his abs and balls, pulsing heat through his body. He's barely aware of being surrounded by people, of the music thumping and striping through the air, the heat of the dancers or the noise of people laughing and yelling over the beats. Everything is centered in the weight of Misha's hand, the steadiness of his gaze, black rimmed blue, and the heat of his body so close.
His eyes flicker shut and he forces them open, breath quickening, his body tensing.
It's right then that he notices their audience, the kid from before stopping as he walks past to the restrooms, mouth open in shock. Jensen feels the heat flush through him in a wave of humiliation at being caught, but it's too late and he's exploding, vision whiting out and come pulsing out over Misha's fingers and his underwear.
Slumped against the wall, Misha propping him up, he tries to steady his breath. When he opens his eyes the guy is gone, thank fuck. All that's left is Misha, staring at him with a gaze as deep as a million oceans, pulling his hand carefully from Jensen's oversensitive dick and bringing glistening fingers to his mouth.
Jensen groans, undone, as a finger disappears into Misha's mouth and he sucks it clean. By the time the third finger disappears Misha is thrusting abortively against Jensen's hip, his head dipping forward and his sweaty forehead pressing against Jensen's. Misha's eyes shut and all Jensen can see is the sooty sweep of his lashes as Misha ruts and moans quietly against him.
Jensen hesitates and then figures, what the hell. He pulls Misha close, hands on his ass increasing the friction and whispers, "C'mon Mish, show me."
The noise Misha makes as he comes can only be described as a whimper, slamming stock still against Jensen's leg and shivering for full seconds, fingers digging into Jensen's sides in turn.
Jensen feels himself lurch higher than the orgasm-induced euphoria at the knowledge that he did that. That he has the power to do that. To Misha.
Fuck.
"We are so doing that again," Misha says after a moment of heavy breathing. He pulls back from Jensen, leaving a vacuum of colder air.
"Maybe without the audience?" Jensen mutters, using the shield of Misha's body to zip himself back up.
Misha laughs, sounding hoarse. "You said no fangirls, there was nothing about no audience."
Jensen rolls his eyes and takes a breath and a leap. "Misha? How about we go do...more of that...somewhere where there's just us. Around, say, now."
Misha is uncharacteristically silent as he parses Jensen's sentence.
"Yeah," he says, voice fucked out and broken. "Let's do that."
Jensen nods and takes Misha's hand to lead them out of the bar. He doesn't know what this is, or if it's going to snap back like a rubber band and freak him the fuck out in the morning, but anything that makes Misha take things seriously? Look at him like that?
Worth exploring.
Author: qthelights
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Jensen/Misha
Spoilers/Warnings: None
Disclaimer: Never happened and no offence intended.
Wordcount: 4350
Summary: Jensen lets Misha pick where they're drinking. Misha picks a gay bar. It doesn't go to plan.
Author notes: Written as a pinch-hit for the deancas_xmas.
Against a Wall and a Hard Place
Jensen dislikes clubs. They aren't his thing; too crowded, too noisy, too full of fake people who want to be his best friend.
When it comes down to it, he’d rather stay at home with beer and a game. Hang out in friends’ apartments and watch crappy 80s comedies on cable, or sometimes, go to one of the few places in LA that meet his “home” criteria - safe, laid back, full of regulars and with bouncers who keep out the crazies.
Misha though, is not like him. Misha wants to go out incognito and have fun. Jensen draws the line at wearing a fake moustache (or letting Misha wear one) but he promised Misha, last time he’d come to one of Steve’s gigs and dutifully sat trying not to fidget or build a castle out of salter shakers, that he’d repay the favour. That they’d do something Misha wants - soon.
‘Cause that’s what friends do.
His only stipulation was that he wanted to avoid places fangirls might be, because that could get ugly fast. Sure, most of them are okay, but even though 9 out of 10 are sane, there's always that one that wants to lay claim to his life in a way that makes him uncomfortable.
Misha had grinned, unsettlingly, and promised - no fangirls.
What Jensen had failed to factor in was boys.
Which is how, on a Saturday night, he finds himself sitting at the glowing, green and pink neon Perspex bar of some hip new gay bar on Hollywood. With no reason, none at all, to stand Misha up and walk on out.
Naturally, Misha is also late.
He’s already had people come up and congratulate him on being in ‘that show’. Which okay, not the same as a girl jumping up and limpetting herself around your waist, but still. He really hates to be recognised when he’s out on his own time. Fuck.
He also gets hit on. Twice.
The first guy, decidedly unattractive, a forehead larger than Jared’s and a mess - literally - of tangled brown hair, sits down three chairs over. Then moves over a seat. Ten minutes and another seat. By the time he’s moved, thoroughly conspicuously, into the seat next to him, Jensen goes to the men’s room to avoid talking to him. Even if he were gay, he knows he’d want to date someone with at least a couple more balls.
He’s halfway through his beer, glaring balefully at his iphone and willing it to light up with a text from Misha swearing he’ll be right there, when suitor number two slides into the seat on his other side. This one is all smarm, hair slicked back, expensive tailored pants and gold bracelets. Jensen thinks he looks like he walked straight off a Mafia movie set. Hell, maybe he did; it is Hollywood after all.
The guy stands way too close, Jensen can feel the heat of him through the thin cotton shirt he’s wearing. He smells like he bathed in aftershave. This guy, thankfully, takes a more direct route, asking if he can buy Jensen a drink.
Jensen politely declines. He’s waiting for someone.
By the time Misha shows up, with his shirt sleeves rolled up over his elbows and wearing terry-towel armbands like he ran straight out of an Olivia Newton-John video, Jensen is somewhat tipsy and very relieved to see his him.
“Take your fucking time, Mish,” he grumbles, signalling to the bartender to bring him back their way. “Do you know how many people have propositioned me while I’ve waited here?”
Misha grins, slides onto the barstool vacated by suitor no. 1 half an hour ago. He shrugs his hand in a ‘what could I do?’ gesture. “Traffic, sorry.” He grins and raises an eyebrow as he adds, “though it sounds like I did you a favour, Casanova.”
Jensen wisely says nothing, just scowls and takes a swig of his beer.
Misha orders a gin and tonic, flashes the bartender a melting smile. Jensen rolls his eyes at the speed at which the drink appears.
“Why the hell did you pick this place?” Jensen asks as a Britney Spears remix starts blaring from the nearest loudspeaker.
Misha takes a gulp of his drink, swallowing it down over a bobbing Adam’s apple before licking his lips. “Cheap booze and no fangirls. It’s what you wanted, no?” There’s a glint to his eye that Jensen knows better than to trust.
“And now the tabloids will be convinced I’m gay,” Jensen grumbles sarcastically.
“So?” Misha asks, tongue tripping out pink and wet to poke at the slice of lime in his glass.
Jensen marvels at the genuine question in Misha’s tone. “Nothing gets to you does it?”
Misha laughs, tipping his head back and grinning until his nose crinkles. “Nope. Why give shit that kinda power, and more importantly, why didn’t you say you were waiting for someone?” He pokes Jensen in the shoulder for emphasis.
“I did,” Jensen replies, deadpan.
Misha clucks his tongue, “Awww, poor Jenny. All defenceless against really hot gay boys.”
“The fact that they might have been hot is of no consequence,” Jensen says around the mouth of his beer bottle.
“No?” Misha questions, eyebrow raised. “Funny, it’s always been of consequence to me.”
Which, no. Jensen isn’t going to touch that with a ten foot pole.
There’s a tap on Jensen’s shoulder and he turns away from Misha to find a stunningly attractive blond guy in a button-down striped shirt and tight black tee standing way too far into his personal space.
“Um, yeah,” Jensen asks, and hey, he’ll admit it’s not his most eloquent moment, “can I do something for you?”
He regrets the phrasing the minute it leaves his mouth.
“I dunno,” the guy drawls in a honey-slow Southern accent that reminds Jensen of home. “Can you?” The wink that accompanies the question admittedly makes Jensen blush, even as he freaks out a little.
He’s trying to think of something to say in reply when, suddenly, there's an arm slinking over his shoulder and a hand splaying over his breastbone. It’s Misha’s hand, and it’s Misha, apparently, who is now plastered at his back.
“Is this guy bothering you, honey?” Misha asks, all faux innocence.
The guy balks and backs away with a “sorry man, didn’t know.” He’s gone before Jensen can even turn around.
“What the hell was that?” He asks with incredulity as Misha slides off him like oil off water back into his own space and chair.
“That, my dear Jensen,” Misha says, sips at his drink with a smirk, “Is how one drinks at a gay bar without getting hassled.”
“I knew there was a reason I kept you around,” Jensen remarks and orders another beer.
***
Being in a space where guys are freely hanging off other guys messes with Jensen's world view. Not in a bad way, just in the sense that it's quite obviously different from what his world usually encompasses. Suddenly, it’s not the behaviour of a minority, it’s the norm. And with the exception of a few girls dancing in a circle up the front, Jensen is feeling decidedly straight, and therefore, out of place.
It’s not something he wants to dwell on, because it’s bullshit to even pretend he has an issue given the state of the world outside the door for many of the people in front of him. He knows he has it easy.
Still, he feels he can acknowledge that being in amongst a sea of male sexuality, male arousal, is a different situation for him. One that makes him curious, even if his curiosity isn’t going to go past mild meanderings of gray matter.
Pretending to be a couple works surprisingly well at keeping interested parties firmly at bay. For a good hour of solid drinking Jensen remains unhassled. The alcohol flows freely and at some fuzzy point he changes from beer to whiskey.
Misha is in the middle of explaining to him about fluid points and space dimensional monsters (or something...Jensen tuned out minutes ago in favour of drunkenly watching the lights strung over the bar glitter and dance in Misha's dark pupils) when a tall, dark and not indeed un-handsome looking guy comes over to breach their invisible cone of 'private'.
This time, it's Misha who the guy is interested in. He sidles up into Misha's space, reaches a fingertip out to trace lightly over Misha's cheekbone in a way Jensen finds entirely inappropriate.
"C'mon, I know your friend isn't into you," the kid says, and he is a kid - he can't possibly be more than 19, Jensen thinks. "Why don't you let me be into you?"
Misha grins and Jensen relaxes, even lets himself roll his eyes at the ridiculous pick-up line the kid has come up with. He waits for the MO they've developed to kick in, for Misha's hand to rest protectively on Jensen's knee and a well placed 'sweetie' or 'darling' or other effeminate endearment to be directed his way in a show of false coupledom.
Only Misha doesn't do what he's meant to, and instead of waving him away Misha's hand rises, his fingers threading through the inky blackness of the guy's hair, tugging him in. And then Misha's mouth, Misha's plump pink lips, are on this stranger's mouth, kissing and taking and unless Jensen is mistaken, definitely enjoying.
Jensen hears the gasp long before he realises that it comes from himself. He's too busy freaking out about the swirling roil of wrong that invades his stomach and threatens to bring up whiskey and beer.
But then Misha is pulling back, licking his lips and smiling wide and huge, full of teeth. "Sorry. I'm already with someone, so off you go now," he says, like he's been following the script all along. He places his hands on the kid's chest, pushes the wide-eyed youth gently back into the crowd before turning around to Jensen and continuing their conversation as if nothing has just happened.
"So really, the quark is an entirely incorrect concept of...Jensen?" Misha stops, brow furrowing between his eyes.
"What was...the...huh?" Jensen says succinctly.
Misha shrugs, the corner of his kiss-bitten mouth turning up in a wry grin. "I told you it was of consequence whether they were hot or not."
"Oh," Jensen says. Misha laughs and orders them another round and Jensen tries to get the image of Misha's tongue darting in between open lips out of his mind.
* * *
Ninety minutes later and Jensen has managed to stop the slideshow of Misha's tongue from playing behind his retinas. Mind you, it might be because his whole life has become a slideshow, slipping and tripping ephemerally around them as they sit in their bubble of familiarity. The easy camaraderie they'd been building as the booze soaked in is back and Jensen is relaxed and amused in a way that only Misha seems able to bring out in him.
Naturally, it's the moment that the kid from before comes back to stomp all over the calm.
Misha blinks up at him, and Jensen isn't sure, but it almost looks like irritation that crosses his features. "You're back?" Misha says, part question, part consternation.
The kid stands tall, defiantly puts a hand on Misha's knee and the groove above Misha's nose gets deeper. "I want you."
Misha laughs, but it's harsher than the free amusement of a minute ago with Jensen. "I told you before. I'm with someone." He picks the guy's hand up from his knee and lets it drop.
Jensen tenses, gaze snapping back to the guy who he's belatedly processing might be young, but is, in fact, built almost like Jared with more muscle than strictly necessary for anything other than pro-wrestling.
"I don't believe you," the boy says. He points accusingly at Jensen. "He's straight."
"No," Misha says, tone hardening. "He's not, and I am here with him. So..."
The guy snorts disbelievingly. "I've been watching you both, you haven't laid a hand on each other. He's straighter than a hat pin."
Jensen isn't exactly sure what's happening...are they getting into a fight over who Misha will make out with, and if so, what does the kid think will happen? That he'll win Misha over by accusing him of lying? Either way, he doesn't like the way Misha has closed up, or the tension he feels ratchet up in the air around him.
Misha rolls his eyes. "Go away, kid. You're out of your depth here, k?"
But the 'kid' doesn't, instead putting his hand back on Misha's body - this time his shoulder.
It happens in a split second, so fast that Jensen doesn't have time to process it; one second Misha is shrugging the guy's hand away violently and the next he's muttering "Oh for fuck's sake" and grabbing the lapels of Jensen's dress shirt.
Misha's mouth is on his the next instant, hot and wet and Jensen opens up to him immediately, too stunned to do anything but what auto-pilot tells him is the appropriate response. Misha's tongue slides in, tasting of tequila and lime and it tangles with Jensen's own, mixing with the whiskey he's been drinking. His stomach lurches into his throat and his fingers clutch uselessly at air by his sides. Misha's tongue is demanding - stroking, curling, tasting - and then suddenly it's gone. Misha is pulling back and turning sharply to glare at the boy who is still standing there, silent and sullen.
The kid seems to shudder and he opens his mouth to say something before shutting it again and turning on his heel. He disappears into the crowd.
Misha rolls his eyes and turns back to Jensen, presumably to start talking quantum physics or string theory or fucking rainbows or something. He stops short at what he sees on Jensen's face.
For his part, Jensen has no idea what his face is conveying at the moment. He's not sure it's even wired into his brain anymore. All he knows is the taste of Misha's mouth, saliva wet on his lip, blood thudding dully through his system. Shock, surprise, panic...arousal.
"Are you okay?" Misha asks, concerned. "I figured it was the only way to get the point through his thick skull..."
Jensen swallows as his world turns upside down and rights itself again. "Misha..."
Misha looks really worried now, and his hand reaches out to hover over Jensen's wrist. "Shit, should I not have done that?"
Jensen shakes his head, trying to shed confusion like water from a wet dog. He needs to know what that was, if...
But that way lies fucking scary shit, and he's a red-blooded American male, he should be god damned running right now. Or hitting something. And yet Misha is staring at him, leaning into him in worry and Jensen isn't moving an inch. And he has to know.
"Do it again," he whispers, barely audible.
Misha looks even more confused and then his pupils dilate wide in a way that would almost be cartoonishly comical if it didn't mean what Jensen thinks it does.
And it does, because Misha is back in his space after the briefest of hesitations, his lips back on Jensen's, pillowy soft and warm. His tongue slides gently against Jensen's lips, seeking entrance, and Jensen lets him in with a shiver of want and a tremor of fear. He doesn't understand it, what he's doing, what it's doing. How this is Misha. Any of it. He just knows that he's drunk enough to not want to question it, or at least to not run.
A mewling sound of need stutters out of his mouth and into Misha's and he feels Misha bodily shudder against him. Hears him pull back with a stunned, "Jensen...
And then Misha's hand is on his wrist and he's slipped off his chair, tugging Jensen gently down from his own. Jensen can only follow willingly, trying not to trip on his own feet as Misha leads him through the sea of people towards a corner. Misha is tucking them behind a pillar in the shadows, Jensen with the wall at his back and Misha at his front.
Misha's eyes are dark and full of emotion when they find Jensen's. "Are you sure, Jen?" he asks, and he's never sounded so serious, not even as Castiel with Heaven on his shoulders and Hell at his heels.
Jensen swallows, hard. He isn't sure, not at all. But he can't seem to get his body to understand that. Scared, he stutters out, "I'm not gay!" and winces at the accusatory judgement he hears years of heterosexual male culture telling him accompanies such a phrase, even though he doesn't mean it that way, has never given credence to such thought.
"Neither am I," Misha says, seeming to understand that bigotry and heteronormative bullshit isn't what he's getting at, that Jensen is laying himself out on the table, showing his cards and the insecurities amongst them.
Misha crowds him gently in against the wall, breath hot against his cheek. His hands are at Jensen's throat, thumbs sliding soothingly over Jensen's collarbone, fingers lightly pressed against the sides of his neck.
"Misha? What you're doing right now? Little bit gay," Jensen snorts softly with a touch of hysteria, amused despite the panic threatening in his veins.
Misha rolls his eyes, presses his hips in softly against Jensen, letting him feel the building want there. "Do I strike you as the kind to be easily labelled, Jen?"
Jensen shakes his head, momentarily struck dumb by the hardness in Misha's jeans pressing into his hip.
"I do what I like, Jensen." Misha smiles, soft and sweet, and leans in to place a chaste kiss against Jensen's mouth. "You don't strike me as someone who wants to fit other peoples labels either, you know..."
And that makes up his mind for him. Gay, straight, bi, whatever, none of that matters because it's Misha. And maybe that's the best lesson of all, Jensen realises. People are attracted to people, not preferences. Apparently that never occurred to him before.
So he nods, slight but firm, and lets his hands stutter forward around Misha's waist, drawing him in.
Misha closes his eyes and sighs softly against his lips, and it sounds so content, so happy, at being touched, that Jensen can't help but chase the sound with his lips. The kiss is slower, tentative and gentle. Misha lets Jensen set the pace. When Jensen's tongue flickers forward, Misha lets him in. When Jensen's hands tighten on Misha's waist, tug him in, Misha lets him do it, comes forward easily.
Seconds, minutes or hours go by, Jensen wouldn't be able to say which, and the panic recedes from his throat. His limbs relax, and his arms slide around Misha's back. He lets his fingers tangle in Misha's shirt tails, slipping under to touch the bare skin underneath. Jensen decides that the way Misha shivers against him at that is immensely satisfying. He wants to make it happen again.
Misha is still kissing softly, relaxed in his arms, but Jensen is over his 'I'm not gay' panic attack and his cock is taking a decided interest in the proceedings, tugging up against the confines of his jeans. Despite the decision to do something like this happening only moments ago, his brain has already caught on to the fact that sex is taking place, and it wants to up the ante. Alcohol and arousal make it hard to see a reason not to let it.
So he bites.
Misha yelps and his eyes fly open as Jensen's teeth sink into the plump flesh of his lower lip.
Jensen can't help but laugh, just a little.
"Oh it is so on," Misha growls, the sound low and reverberating through his chest into Jensen's.
Jensen would take a second to maybe reconsider the plan of action, but Misha doesn't give him one. Instead Misha surges forward, mouth on Jensen's jaw, biting and suckling and making mewling noises like a god damned porn star and Jensen grips his hips hard and hangs on, gasping at the teeth scraping his skin, the cock pressing insistently hard against his hip.
"Fuck, fuck...Misha."
Misha pulls back, grins with all the innocence of a Great White and rubs his crotch against Jensen's in a hitching roll. "Problem, Jen? Going too slow for you?"
Jensen fights the reflex of his eyes trying to roll back into his head. "Seriously, Misha, shut the fuck up."
Misha's eyes flash dangerously and then his mouth is at Jensen's earlobe, sucking and nibbling, rolling it between sharp teeth. His breath is hot and moist as he growls into Jensen's ear. "Don't you want me to talk, Jen? Don't you want me to make noise as I fuck you? Tell you all the dirty things I've always wanted to do to you and never thought I'd get a chance to?"
It's Jensen's turn to shudder, and he does, a ripple of arousal juddering from his scalp down to his toes on the back of a moan. His hands slide up the back of Misha's shirt, abandoning the pretense of propriety, and he scratches his nails down flesh as Misha keeps talking in reverb and bass.
"You know how long I've wanted to shove you up against a wall, Jensen? Rub my cock raw on your hipbone? Do this?" Misha murmurs into the shell of his ear before dipping down and sinking his teeth into the crook of Jensen's neck, hard enough to hurt.
"Oh, God.. " Jensen hisses, his hips jerking up against Misha's, precome pulsing and coating the inside of his underwear with cool wetness. "Misha fuck, I can't, you win ...please. Just do it. Whatever you want. Please."
He's aware that he's begging, that he sounds like a cheap whore, but he can't... he's never... and with Misha and...and.. fuck he just needs.
Misha hums against his cheek, pulling his stubbled cheek against Jensen's own grain, it sounds harsh and scratchy in Jensen's head, like sandpaper against sandpaper.
Apparently Misha is going to take pity on him, because while his gaze stays glued on Jensen's, his fingers suddenly land on his fly and Jensen's heart is thumping so hard and fast he thinks it might crack his ribs. Then there are long warm fingers sliding buttons open and zips down, slipping in under underwear and then Misha's fingers are wrapped around his sticky cock and his eyes really do roll back in his head, skull thwacking back against the wall.
Jensen hisses out a moan and Misha leans in and swallows it, his mouth once again on Jensen's, tongue and teeth and spit. Converging and taking, marking and tasting. The angle is awkward and more than anything Jensen wants his cock out of his pants, but there are people everywhere and while it might be dark, it isn't dark enough. Anyone who really looks will be able to tell what's going on as it is.
Misha's fingers are fucking insane, they're long and wrap around him tight and soft, pulling and sliding at the hot flesh of Jensen's cock. Misha slicks a thumb over the head and follows it with his fingers, slicking the precome down over to smooth the way.
Jensen finds that he's moaning, breath stuttering in embarrassing hitches, his fingernails digging crescents in the flesh of Misha's sides. The pressure builds amazingly fast, tightening his abs and balls, pulsing heat through his body. He's barely aware of being surrounded by people, of the music thumping and striping through the air, the heat of the dancers or the noise of people laughing and yelling over the beats. Everything is centered in the weight of Misha's hand, the steadiness of his gaze, black rimmed blue, and the heat of his body so close.
His eyes flicker shut and he forces them open, breath quickening, his body tensing.
It's right then that he notices their audience, the kid from before stopping as he walks past to the restrooms, mouth open in shock. Jensen feels the heat flush through him in a wave of humiliation at being caught, but it's too late and he's exploding, vision whiting out and come pulsing out over Misha's fingers and his underwear.
Slumped against the wall, Misha propping him up, he tries to steady his breath. When he opens his eyes the guy is gone, thank fuck. All that's left is Misha, staring at him with a gaze as deep as a million oceans, pulling his hand carefully from Jensen's oversensitive dick and bringing glistening fingers to his mouth.
Jensen groans, undone, as a finger disappears into Misha's mouth and he sucks it clean. By the time the third finger disappears Misha is thrusting abortively against Jensen's hip, his head dipping forward and his sweaty forehead pressing against Jensen's. Misha's eyes shut and all Jensen can see is the sooty sweep of his lashes as Misha ruts and moans quietly against him.
Jensen hesitates and then figures, what the hell. He pulls Misha close, hands on his ass increasing the friction and whispers, "C'mon Mish, show me."
The noise Misha makes as he comes can only be described as a whimper, slamming stock still against Jensen's leg and shivering for full seconds, fingers digging into Jensen's sides in turn.
Jensen feels himself lurch higher than the orgasm-induced euphoria at the knowledge that he did that. That he has the power to do that. To Misha.
Fuck.
"We are so doing that again," Misha says after a moment of heavy breathing. He pulls back from Jensen, leaving a vacuum of colder air.
"Maybe without the audience?" Jensen mutters, using the shield of Misha's body to zip himself back up.
Misha laughs, sounding hoarse. "You said no fangirls, there was nothing about no audience."
Jensen rolls his eyes and takes a breath and a leap. "Misha? How about we go do...more of that...somewhere where there's just us. Around, say, now."
Misha is uncharacteristically silent as he parses Jensen's sentence.
"Yeah," he says, voice fucked out and broken. "Let's do that."
Jensen nods and takes Misha's hand to lead them out of the bar. He doesn't know what this is, or if it's going to snap back like a rubber band and freak him the fuck out in the morning, but anything that makes Misha take things seriously? Look at him like that?
Worth exploring.