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Among Us - Chapter 1
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Sometimes, a voice that sounds a lot like Danny Glover tells Jensen that he's too old for this shit.

It's during times like these, dialogues like these.

“But you couldn't have known that your ex-boyfriend's cousin would be released from prison! So it's not your fault!” he states with emphasis, wiping his hands on a towel and bracing himself against the counter, shoulders drawn up, head tilted sideways.

“He is going to make it my fault. What do I do if he takes the baby away from me now, after all I did?” Susan leans forward, gesturing with her hands to emphasize her point. She's a lively character, always has been, and a very likable one as well.

“Well, you did pull some strings to get him back from the foster care parents, but that doesn't mean he's got any right to take your kid away from you, Susan. He won't get away with this, don't worry.”

A voice from the back of the set interrupts them.

“Okay, cut!”

At least they don't need to repeat that scene three more times. They're in the business of filming a daily soap opera, after all, and that means little time for a lot of lines. Two to three takes per scene until it has to be done, so they're used to the quick scene change.

Jensen takes a deep breath of relief, and Allison mirrors it. Jensen can see her trying and failing to hide the fact that she's rolling her eyes and suppresses a grin. Instead, he hands her one of the two paper cups of coffee that an intern brings over to them.

“Thank you,” she beams at him.

They don't need to exchange any words about the scene. They've worked together long enough to know, so they just grin at each other.

Allison Mack, who plays Susan, is a newcomer fresh out of drama school with a sunny personality and a cute, blonde mop of hair. She took the role of Susan as her first job and stepping stone – Jensen can't blame her, he's been there. She'll be gone in a year or so, after she lands her first big TV show role, just like they all do. It's a steady stream of young, highly motivated actors and actresses plowing through their soap opera, mostly because their producers and their showrunner are known for being able to recognize talent when they see it.

Jensen has seen and known most of them, before they got famous.

Yet, he's still here.

They're moving on to the next scene.

It's just another Tuesday.

Jensen smiles and does his job. At least the company is nice.


Jensen has a personal list of favorite ridiculous lines he has said on the show.

“But, a Russian prison, that's gotta be, like, worse than normal prison, right?”

It sounds even stupider said out loud than it did when he read it in the script. Jensen promises himself to set that one high up on the list when he gets home to his apartment.

“Oh, crap,” Susan says, her eyes widening as she stares into the room that houses Jensen's – or Jason Teague's, his character's, to be exact – coffee and pastry shop. It's the local hangout point for the younger clientele, and in the evenings, there are cute little first dates, and in the morning, there's coffee to cure hangovers.

In short, it's the ideal generic and versatile soap opera setting.

As always, Jensen is right in the middle of it, wearing a dark red apron over his crisp white shirt, his work uniform of the past six years. As always, Jensen is there when the show needs a character that their protagonists can vent to or talk to. He's the wise barkeeper – or coffeeshop owner, in this case – in the back, always there for a nice chat or some friendly advice. Or exposition, sometimes.

It's a nice, comfortable, boring role.

“What?” he smiles at Susan and follows her look.

She leans in, never taking her eyes off of whoever she's looking at, and whispers in shock, “He's here.”

“Who's here?”

“My ex's cousin, the Russian one.”

She turns back to Jensen, her eyes huge and panicked, a frown on her face. The perfect cliffhanger expression.

“Cut! Alright, where's Dmitri? We're gonna start filming the follow-up scene right away,” Pam, their director, shouts across the set, then turns to Allison. “Take a break, Ally, we'll come get you.”

A dark-haired guy approaches them from one of the tables. Jensen thought he was just an extra, but because of the amount of people who circle through this set, he doesn't bother learning names any more. They'll be gone again before they realize that they ever were on a soap opera.

But there's a guy now, standing in front of him, with dark, ruffled hair, plush lips and hypnotizing, clear blue eyes, who says, “Hi, I'm Misha.”

Jensen shakes his hand. “I thought you're Dmitri?”

“No, that's my character,” the guy corrects him with a polite smile and lets go of his hand.

Jensen peeks at his script under the bar and realizes that the guy is right.

“Huh. Sorry. Micha, was it?”


A weird enough name, he finds himself thinking. This one might actually stick after all. “I'm Jensen.”

“I know,” blue-eyes – Misha – smirks. “You've been on this show long enough to have made yourself a name.”

Jensen has no clue what to say to that. Misha doesn't look serious, more like he wants to tease Jensen, but then again, he doesn't know the guy, maybe he's being backhandedly mean? Or just wants to make fun of him for working as a regular on a soap opera and never having made it any further?

“I know,” Jensen echoes after a quick moment without bothering to not sound sarcastic. “But thanks for reminding me.”

“I'm sorry, are you being ironic and sassy or are you actually thinking I'm a total jerk and making fun of you?” Misha asks, straightforward.

“You tell me,” Jensen throws back, completely taken by surprise but unable to keep the amused twitch of his lip under control.

Misha's voice drops about half an octave. “I'm not making fun of you. Promise.”

Jensen chuckles. “I'm being sarcastic, yes.”

“Hey, don't worry about it,” Misha grins and nudges his fist against Jensen's shoulder before he adds in a quieter tone, “I think having a job at all is great. I mean, why would I be here otherwise? Surely not the convenient hours or the pay that will me allow me to live without financial problems for the rest of my life.”

Then he winks, actually winks, at Jensen, and Jensen gives up. He just starts laughing.

“Let's have a good time here, Misha,” Jensen says and knocks his fist against Misha's shoulder, too, returning the favor.

Misha nods.

Looks like that name stuck after all.

It still doesn't prepare him for being faced with Dmitri for the first time.

“Hey, you, Jason, yes?” he grumbles in a thick Russian accent and squints at Jensen. “You know girl by name Susan? With little boy?”

Jensen doesn't need to try to sound reasonably intimidated by Dmitri's glare and aggressive stance. He swallows around the lump in his throat. “Nope, haven't seen her, buddy.”

“I am not your buddy,” Misha hisses with a dangerous undertone, leaning closer over the counter. Don't fuck with me, his tone and stance say.

“Okay, okay,” Jensen stutters out with his hands outstretched, because Jason has always been good with words, never with fists. And because this is a coffee shop, not a bar with frequent fights, and because make-up and special effects are pretty expensive.

“You see her, you tell her she cannot hide. I will find her.”

“A-huh,” Jensen coughs.

Misha shoots him one last glare, then turns around.

So that's kind of hot, Jensen finds himself thinking. And that was only the screen test.


“Nice accent,” he remarks later, after they've finished shooting the scene and sit in their chairs to the side of the stage, having a quick snack before filming resumes. “Have you lived in Russia before or what?”

Misha shakes his head and swallows his bite of tomato and mozzarella sandwich. “But I do speak some Russian. My dad is actually from there.”

“I see. Well, you do the accent pretty realistically,” Jensen explains. “Not that I would recognize a fake one to save my life, though.”

Misha turns to him, then, while the light and camera guys are still setting up the next scene in a corner of the same stage.

“You and I should have a drink together tonight,” he declares.

“That your way of asking me out?” Jensen throws back, smiling lopsidedly at Misha. He didn't hesitate one second before bursting out with that remark, straight from the tip of his tongue, only realizing afterwards that the wrong person might take it the wrong way.

Misha's grin tells him that he hasn't addressed the wrong person. “Maybe?” he replies, a playful undertone to his voice.

The lump in Jensen's throat is very persistent, but he manages to shrug. “Couple beers and hot wings alright with you? I know a place.”

“Great,” Misha beams.


“Cozy,” is what Misha says when he enters Mike's bar three and a half hours later.

It's the kind of traditional bar with an all-wooden interior, wooden paneling on the wall that had darkened over the years, a ton of guest pictures and band posters lining the walls, and an old TV in the corner beside the bar.

“Right?” Jensen smiles.

The barkeeper, Mike Rosenbaum himself, greets Jensen with a wave and a greeting shouted from across the bar. When he slides over to their end of the counter, he takes in Misha from head to toe and says, “New meat on set?”

“That's right,” Jensen grins. “One of us, now. His name's Misha.”

“Misha, right. So. We kind of have a tradition for the show's newbies,” Mike winks. Then he pulls out three shot glasses, places them in a row in front of them and fills each one with Jägermeister.

“Bottoms up,” Jensen says, grabs one glass and downs it in one go.

Misha grimaces after the shot and slams the glass down. “That stuff is disgusting. Aren't we too old for that?”

“You're never too old for a tradition,” Mike winks as he places two beers in front of them. “The usual,” he says, then hurries off towards another patron.

“I take it you come here often?” Misha says, a smile tugging at his lips. And there it is again, that playful undertone to his voice.

Jensen ignores the weird feeling spreading in his chest. “Well, yeah, it's kind of the hangout for all the people on set. The guy who found this bar back in the day is doing movies now, but we're still coming here.”

Misha just raises an eyebrow, barely manages not to laugh.

That's when Jensen realizes what Misha just asked. He groans, but can't help but grin, just like Misha.

They order nachos and hot wings and trade the usual backstories – shows they've almost worked on or auditioned for, stuff they'd be interested in doing, where their families are from – and it's nice and easy and uncomplicated. They're about the same age, above the average age of the rest of the actors on 'Among Us', and the shared history of careers in Hollywood not having worked out as planned instantly brings them closer.

Until mid-conversation, a guy sidles up to Jensen. He's tall, taller than Jensen himself, and has the whole hipster look down to the skinny jeans, Ray Bans and the undercut with a man bun Jensen's impressed he even dares to be able to pull off. “Hey,” he says, lets his eyes slide over Jensen's face and down his body, not disguising how much he likes what he sees in the least. “So, how about--”

“How about no,” Jensen interrupts him quickly, but with a friendly smile. “Sorry, pal, I don't play for your team.”

“Alright, no offense meant,” the guy raises his hands and leaves.

“None taken,” Jensen mumbles in confusion. Why would a gay guy hit on him if he was here alone with another man?

“I didn't realize this was a gay bar,” Misha says, obviously impressed but not at all bothered.

“Nah, it isn't. It's gay-friendly, you know, see the little pride flag over there? The bar we used to go to turned out to be a problem when we went there with one of our first gay actors on the show, so he found us this one.”

“Nice touch. Why are you so confused, then? A decent-looking guy like you probably gets his fair share of getting hit on,” Misha's smile is wide and genuine at that, and Jensen still feels so strange.

“Decent-looking guy,” Jensen splutters with a smirk and a good dose of mock offense, tries to deflect the notion, and Misha wiggles his eyebrows at him until they both break and snort out a laugh.

Misha looks kind of adorable with his nose scrunched up and laughing lines cutting deep into his cheeks.

Eventually, Jensen wipes the tears from his eyes and explains, “I'm confused because why would he hit on me if I'm with another guy?” Maybe he was just drunk. It has gotten kind of late while he was busy talking to Misha, and Jensen only notices now as he checks his watch.

Misha shrugs and smirks. “Maybe he didn't see me as competition.”

“Well, are you? Competition?” Jensen replies, tries to play it cool as he takes a sip from his beer. A surge of excitement shoots through his stomach, makes him feel like a teenager. Giddy, excited. Weird.

“Maybe. You know, women aren't always easy, you often don't understand what they want. With guys, it's a lot easier, they're much more straightforward. Even though they tend to be dicks,” Misha avoids answering the question.

“Well, then, for a guy you're not very straightforward,” Jensen shoots back with a chuckle.

Misha's eyes are sparkling, and he doesn't break eye contact once. “Sometimes it's a lot more fun this way.”

Jensen's lips twitch, he can't help it. Something about this borderline flirty conversation makes him feel incredibly good, albeit like he's falling, like the ground disappeared from under his feet. “Aren't you married?” he tries to change the peculiar topic.

“Divorced. I have two kids, here in L.A. What about you?”

Jensen shrugs. “Single, never married, no kids. It just never happened.”

“There's worse things, you know. My ex-wife and I... let's say it's complicated, but we kind of lost touch with each other over the years, drifted apart and then she met someone new, so. That's how that happened.”

“I'm sorry to hear that,” Jensen says, sincerely.

Misha waves him off before he takes a sip from his beer. “Tell you what, it's not so bad to be free again. She said she would care for the kids, and I still see them regularly, and she wanted me to find work again, and it was all mostly peaceful and consensual. So I'm good. Plus, I've got work, so there's that.”

“Yeah, work...” Jensen rolls his eyes, tries to steer the conversation back to safer waters. “I mean, don't get me wrong, but it's only a stepping stone for most people. And that's okay, I mean they all deserve it, it's just...”

“You've been stuck on this set for a while now, huh?” Misha smiles in sympathy. “I can imagine it's frustrating.”

“Nah, it's okay, really. I mean, it's a steady paycheck and the crew is nice and you get to see all these people and what they aim for afterwards and that's awesome. I know so many people who're with a long-running TV series now or even do movies. That's always cool to tell, like, 'I was in an episode with Jessica Alba once.' I could have it a lot worse, and my role is interesting enough, so I don't mind reciting stupid lines.”

Misha smiles and nods all through his little explanation. “How long exactly have you been on 'Among Us'?”

“Going on six years,” Jensen raises an eyebrow, then drinks from his beer.

Misha whistles, obviously impressed. “Wow.”


“I almost thought I'd get out, back in my third year. Auditioned for that one horror show, you know, Supernatural?”

“Ah, yes, I've seen that. Turned out pretty successful, too.”

“Well I wanted the part that Amell plays, and I almost even got it, but...” Jensen shrugs and smiles. “Wasn't meant to be.”

“Some things aren't,” Misha shrugs and holds Jensen's gaze when he leans closer. “And some things are. If you would've gotten that job, who knows if we'd've even met.”

He blinks, lips curled in a way that makes Jensen feel like he's missing something. If he didn't know any better – because didn't he just say he's straight? - Jensen would say that Misha is definitely and deliberately flirting. Then again, Misha's smile is contagious and his blue eyes are mesmerizing. He's unable to look away or to not smile back. And when Misha laughs, he finds himself throwing his head back and laughing, too.

Jensen shrugs it off. It's nothing special, to click with a person just like that. If anything, if he has to work with this guy for a few more months, it's only a lucky happenstance that they get along so well.

“Yeah, who knows,” Jensen grins and raises his glass to clink it against Misha's. “Cheers to that.”


“Listen here,” Misha-as-Dmitri growls at Jensen, blue eyes full of righteous anger and deep distrust as he crowds him against the bar of Jason's coffee shop. “I say you not interfere, then you do not interfere. Do again, I will get... creative.”

Jensen swallows as he carefully balances the dirty dishes in his hands. Misha is scary like this. Scary and making his stomach tingle with genuine dread and something else.

He nods.

“You know why me in prison?” Misha squints.

“No,” Jensen raises his unoccupied hand in defense, brushes the back of it against Misha's crotch on accident.

“Because--” Misha breaks off, looks at the wall behind Jensen's head, clearly caught off guard. “Fuck me,” he mutters under his breath as he drops his head.

Jensen bites his cheek in his effort not to laugh.

Then Misha says with a look over his shoulder at the script supervisor, “Sorry, what's my line? Grand theft auto? Accidental infiltration of government property?”

“Accidental what?” Jensen laughs, bending forwards with his hand outstretched, palm up, to emphasize his question.

“Shush!” Misha scolds him playfully and grabs his wrist, presses it lightly against the wall he had crowded Jason against.

Jensen can't say he's not affected, which is a rather surprising discovery.

“'Government espionage and supposed grand treason,'” the script supervisor says from the sidelines.

“Ah, yes. I knew that,” Misha nods.

“You apparently did not,” Jensen teases him, ignores the amused gaze that Misha shoots him with a nod at his captured wrist.

“But it was never proven,” the script supervisor adds. “Just FYI.”

“See, you're not even a real criminal and I should be intimidated?” Jensen grins.

“Yes, you should,” Misha states with a serious, deep growl that, just--


Jensen flubs his lines three times in a row after that, and only manages them after he convinces his treacherous dick that no, it wasn't time to be interested in someone else, especially not when that someone was a man, which was confusing enough.


They end up going out almost every evening after that. It's not like either one of them has anything better to do. Sometimes, Allison and the camera crew join them, and one of those particular nights ended with a hangover breakfast at Allison's place, after Jensen found himself waking up on the floor beside her couch which Misha was sleeping on.

By the time the fourth episode is done, they're at their usual place at the bar, and Misha's eyes are focused on his face, and Jensen can't quite decide if he feels uncomfortable or flattered.

“Dude, do I have something on my face?”

“Yes. Curiosity,” Misha answers with a grin, then takes a sip from his beer and turns away. “I'm sorry.”

Jensen finds himself admiring Misha's profile, sharp nose, plush lips, the cut of his eyes. He has a hard time shaking that increasingly frequent thought off.

“Nah, don't be. We're cool,” Jensen nudges Misha's elbow instead and grins.

It's been like this the whole time.

Jensen can't say he doesn't like it, but he also can't say it doesn't confuse the hell out of him.


“So you protect Susan so cousin Alexis don't get the boy?” Dmitri asks in surprise.

It's an eye opener. A game changer. Dmitri relaxes in his presence, for the first time ever.

Jason has a hard time explaining this, so Jensen swallows. “Yes. You see, all Susan ever wanted was to protect her son, so she gave him up for adoption first, but then she got him back for fear of her ex coming home to take her kid away.” Susan will probably kill Jason when she finds out he spilled the beans, but at this point, Jason has been intimidated by Dmitri one too many times.

“Alexis can be asshole, I know,” Dmitri states. It's so deadpan and flat that Jensen can't help but start giggling.

“I'm sorry,” he wheezes when Misha joins his laughter, breaking character.

Their director – Pamela Anderson, the name similarity only coincidental - shakes her head with a fond smile. “Alright, take four, then. From 'Alexis can be an asshole' on, c'mon, guys. Focus.”

“Alexis can be asshole,” Misha says. It's Jensen's coverage, so he can smirk all he want.

With his features set in stone, Jensen answers, “And that's why I tried to protect Susan and her son. I could tell you a lot of stuff Alexis pulled while you were in prison.”

Misha nods, thinks about it, then mumbles, “I want to know.” The look in his eyes is fierce, intense, and it makes Jensen's stomach tingle.

“Have a seat. Would you like some coffee?”

“Yes, black.”


Misha shakes his head.

And that's the week's cliffhanger, how Dmitri and Jason actually get talking.


Unlikely friendship is what they call it, Jensen has been told.

Jason and Dmitri hit it off like no one's business.

After their rough start, it's a complete surprise how well these two characters work together, so one day Jensen walks up to Brad Nichols, their showrunner, since he happens to be on set.

“Jensen, hey,” the tall, dark-haired guy with the wacky Harry-Potter-style glasses smiles. He's known Jensen for a long time now, and Jensen is allowed to ask questions only few of them dare to ask.

“Hey,” Jensen greets him, and they shake hands. “How are you?”

They exchange pleasantries, nothing serious, before Jensen cuts the red tape. “So, there's something I wanted to ask. This thing with Dmitri and Jason, how did that happen?”

“Well, Dmitri was well-received by the audience, they all wanted to know more about him. He's an interesting character, so we kept him around. From what I've seen, you and Misha work pretty well together, too.”

Jensen smiles. “That's true. Misha's a great guy, we got along immediately.”

“That translated perfectly on screen, let me tell you. You like working with him?”

“A lot,” Jensen admits.

“Good to know,” Brad smiles in that secretive way of his that Jensen never was able to interpret right.


Dmitri swallows heavily when he enters Jason's shop one evening.

“Look who the cat dragged in,” Jason chuckles, waving at him. “The usual?”

“I was not dragged in by cat,” Dmitri grumbles and takes a seat at one of the small tables. “Walked by myself.”

“It's a figure of speech,” Jason clarifies with a grin. “So. Black coffee?”

“Yes,” Dmitri nods, “Please.”

As Jason brings him the cup, he asks, “What's the matter? You look serious.”

“I have to go. Find Alexis, make things right,” Dmitri glares into his coffee.

Jason's smile falls at that. He sits down at the table, too, turns his chair so he's facing Dmitri, and rests his elbows on his knees. “Oh, I see. So, will you be back?”

“Don't know.” Dmitri doesn't meet Jason's eyes. It's unsettling.

“As long as Alexis doesn't come back,” Jason jokes with a grimace.

“No,” Dmitri shakes his head. When Misha looks up at Jensen, his eyes look sad.

“You're not gonna... you know. Kill him,” Jason jokes, only trying to sound half serious, but he clenches his hands together between his knees.

“Not complete unlikely.”

“What's that supposed to mean? Easy there, big boy,” Jensen makes it sound suggestive to take the tension out of it and adds a wink.

Misha stares at him for a moment, eyes wide and glittering with something hot and dangerous, before he completely looses it. With a bright laugh, he holds his stomach and leans forward until his forehead rests against Jensen's shoulder.

His hair smells nice. Like lemons.

Jensen laughs, too, can't help it. Misha's laughter is too contagious. So he pats Misha's shoulders. “There, there.”

“Fuck,” Misha curses under his breath, but he's still grinning. At the director's clap and order to repeat the scene, he sits back and does as told.

Once again, Jensen decides to do the “Easy there, big boy,” scene with a wink, and once again, Misha breaks character and cracks up. It takes them ten minutes and an emergency call to Lydia from make-up to calm down.

Misha's smirk is persistent on his lips for the rest of the day.


“So this is it,” Jensen says, pulling pieces of paper off the label of his beer bottle. “I don't get it. The other day, I talked to Brian, and he said your character was perceived very positively and they decided to keep you around. Plus, you've been here for almost three months now.”

Misha hums affirmatively, but doesn't look at him, either. The good old Nirvana poster on the wall of Mike's bar seems to be much more interesting than Jensen's face. “I guess it works,” he says. “I only asked for a week off work for that one guest role I got on Nip/Tuck. I didn't think he'd--”

“Yeah,” Jensen answers, lost in thought. He hadn't looked forward to a week working without Misha on set, but Misha deserved it and it couldn't be helped. He hadn't suspected this outcome, either. “Do you know if you'll come back?”

Misha shrugs. “Might be. Brian didn't tell me anything. So you don't know anything, either?”

Jensen shakes his head, grimacing.

“Maybe it's an 'absence makes the heart grow fonder' thing,” Misha muses. “For Jason, I mean.”

Jensen doesn't want to stare at him, and yet he longs to have those blue eyes on him. What's with him lately?

“Misha,” he says, slowly, lets his eyes flicker from one of Misha's eyes to the other, feeling insecure and curious and so fucking off his game that it's irritating.

Misha is radiating calm and infuriating confidence when he turns to look at Jensen, and it sets Jensen's teeth on edge. All he can think about is that he wants to mess Misha up, make him feel the tension he feels right now. He's torn apart inside, he wants and he needs and he can't even put his finger on what he wants and needs--

Just, he's never felt anything like this before. This crackling, intense energy.

So irritable, so drawn tight, so needy.

As per usual, Misha is in his space, has inserted himself in it since the first day of filming, like it's the most natural thing in the world. As per usual, Misha is smiling that dangerous, delicious smile with his full, plump lips and when-- Jensen doesn't know when these thoughts started to infiltrate his mind. But they're there. Misha's there. Always.

When he re-focuses on Misha before him, Jensen finds Misha staring at his lips before his eyes flicker back up to Jensen's eyes. “Yes?”

Jensen feels restless, his legs are jittery, and his hands are sweaty. This is beyond anything he had imagined his goodbye to Misha to be.

“I... forgot what I meant to say.”

Misha still looks at him, bites his bottom lip and oh.

Jensen swallows, but he can't look away.

“Jensen,” Misha says with a kind of resolve that makes Jensen perk up, like he just came to a conclusion. “I know you said you're straight. But there's something that makes me wonder.”

Jensen's heart skips about three beats before it jumps up to a way too high pace. Adrenaline shoots through Jensen's veins. “Okay.”

Misha leans forward, his expression careful and neutral, but his eyes alight. “Let's say – we recognize this desire between us, and I know you feel it too, and act on it. Let's say, the two of us get together tonight. Let's say, there's this big bang, and you wake up beside me tomorrow.”

Misha's eyes drop to half mast, the fire burning within them setting Jensen's each and every nerve on fire. Just the thought of Misha in his bed makes his blood shoot south, makes his stomach tingle, makes his heart thump painfully against his ribcage.

He leans back, rubs his hand over his mouth and moans around a quiet, “Fuck.”

Sexual tension.

God, so much unresolved sexual tension.

“Okay, I'd be in,” he admits after a second, without knowing what he's going to do, how this is going to work.

He's 36, he's a small-time soap opera actor, he has only dated women in all his life, and yet there's this man, right here in front of him, who makes him want things he's never desired in his life – and the feeling is so exhilarating that Jensen is drunk on it, and not because of the three sips of beer he had.

He leaves the bottle more than half full on the counter and follows Misha outside without hesitation. He ignores Mike's knowing wink.

He wants, he wants, he wants.

The words, the thoughts are thrumming through his mind, driving him crazy, making him grin a stupidly wide grin, make him feel like he's on some kind of drug that has no bad side effects, just an exciting rush of anticipation.

He looks at Misha, eyes skimming over his back, down his spine, to his ass and legs and god. Does he want.

By the time they reach Jensen's apartment, Jensen can barely restrain himself.

But once the door closes behind them, he finds himself staring at Misha, waiting with no idea what to do.

Misha carefully steps towards Jensen, who leans back against the door. Misha's aftershave isn't strong, but this close, Jensen can smell it, and it makes his heart jump. Sandalwood and lemons and Misha.

“Still want it?” he whispers into Jensen's ear and – god. If Jensen even had one figment of doubt, it would have been blown to smithereens by that simple sentence.

“Yes,” he answers with emphasis, drops his head back against the door to give Misha freedom to move as he pleases.

And Misha just stands there, looks at him with a glimmer in his eyes that's a double dare for Jensen to take the first step.

“Misha,” he moans, openly desperate now. “I have no idea what to do, I have never... just. Please.”

With an eyebrow high on his forehead and a lopsided smirk on his lips, Misha leans in, one hand resting against Jensen's chest, slowly running down the buttons of his shirt, over his stomach, to hook his index finger into his belt buckle without opening it.

Jensen groans again. It's like Misha's fingertips are searing his skin, his touch electric.

“Show me that you want it,” Misha smiles. “And I'll show you things you haven't even dreamed of.”

“Cheesy,” Jensen rolls his eyes, but the choice to make from here is easy enough. He grabs Misha's face, cups both his cheeks in his hands, and kisses him.

Just once. A peck, his lips closed as they press against Misha's, gentle and easy.

Misha sucks in a harsh breath, huffs out a laugh, and when his eyes meet Jensen's, they are burning into his with need and arousal. His left hand wraps around Jensen's neck, fingertips sliding into the short hair at the back of his neck, making Jensen shiver from the possessive gesture, and then Misha is meeting him halfway, slams their lips together in another kiss. A hard, demanding one, that's just as possessive as the grip of Misha's fingers in his hair.

Jensen moans into Misha's mouth, doesn't care one bit how desperate he sounds. “Misha.”


The truth is, Jensen has no idea what to say, what to do. He allows himself to get swept up in Misha's pace, in Misha's presence, in the way his fingers skim over his body, maddening, teasing, exciting.

Jensen isn't a virgin by a far stretch. He's had girlfriends and flings, one-night-stands and casual acquaintances. All of them women. All of them soft, pliant, moving with him, the occasional one into the more rougher or more demanding side, but all of them – women.

It's completely incomparable to what Misha's clever tongue is doing to his mouth right now. It's too deliberate to be just playful, too thorough to be a flickering touch, too earnest to be teasing. The whole thing is making Jensen tingle all over, where Misha's hands meet his skin there's a fire burning, making him want more. More of what he can't put his finger on, more of what he can imagine and what he's heard of, but is unable to voice.

The tip of Misha's tongue trails over Jensen's bottom lip before Misha sucks it between his lips, releases it slowly, and Jensen doesn't bother holding back the deep sigh when his lip is released, feeling tender and swollen.

Fingers are trailing along the waistband of his jeans, slipping under it with just the tip, trailing back to his belt buckle. Misha strips him right then and there, in the hallway of his own apartment, and Jensen couldn't care less where his clothes end up, as long as he's touched by Misha's hands.

“What do you want?” Misha asks him breathlessly after he's taken his time looking at Jensen clad only in his boxer briefs. The look in his eyes is so appreciative and deeply affected that it instantly calms Jensen down, knowing that he's not the only one feeling like he does.

“You. Any way I can get you,” he admits with a low mumble straight into Misha's ear. “Don't worry, I'm gonna say it if I'm not comfortable with something.”

Misha chuckles, the puffs of his breath tickling the fine hair on Jensen's neck. “Now who's being cheesy.”

“So?” Jensen shrugs, feeling bold as he trails his hands from the small of Misha's back to his front, slipping them under Misha's loose v-neck shirt, caressing the sensitive skin on his lower abdomen. Slender, hard muscles twitching under his hands. So different, so intriguing.

“Fuck,” Misha mumbles, under his breath, and begins to take his shirt off.

“Ah, nope,” Jensen grips the hem of his t-shirt and fixes him with a confident smile. “Let me.”

Misha's eyes are burning, a smirk flickering over his lips as he nods.

Jensen takes his time. In a way, this couldn't be more different than undressing a woman. When it comes to women, Jensen is very much a guy for breasts, loves to see them, cup them, suck them until she's desperate to get his mouth and fingers elsewhere. The excitement to get her shirt and bra off, to see her blush or to see her smirk with all the confidence in the world, to run his hands over soft curves and tender flesh, that's something he always looked forward to.

And yet, when his hands run up Misha's flat, muscled stomach, over his equally flat pecs, up to his broad shoulders, it's a different kind of excitement. While Misha doesn't have any equipment Jensen doesn't have himself, he's got the advantage of knowing exactly what to do with it. Or, at least, the gist of what to do with it.

So he pinches Misha's nipple lightly, watches in delight as Misha shudders and jerks. In response, Misha rolls his hips against Jensen's, creating delicious and much needed friction. They both moan, breathless and smiling at each other.

“Like that?” Jensen teases and immediately regrets it.

Because Misha has his hands on Jensen's boxer briefs, fingertips grazing over the head of his hard cock through the thin cotton.

“Do you have any idea,” Misha whispers, eyes hooded and dangerous in a way that makes Jensen's blood rush south so fast he's getting dizzy, “how long I wanted to do this?”

Within a second, he's on his knees in front of Jensen, fingers hooked under the waistband of his boxer briefs, pulling them down just far enough to expose Jensen's cock, hard and leaking precome, bopping right in front of Misha's mouth.

A mouth is a mouth, Jensen thinks, and it's not different when Misha swallows him down in one go. It's not, except for when Misha's stubble rasps over Jensen's groin and thighs as he takes him all the way; except for where Misha's big, calloused hands wrap around the base, where Misha reaches down to cup himself through his jeans – except for the fact that it totally is.

It takes Misha only a few graceful strokes of his hand, accompanying his mouth up and down Jensen's dick, until Jensen has to grab his shoulder.

“Fuck,” he curses. “Stop.”

“You okay?” Misha asks, still stroking Jensen with slow, sure moves of his hand.

“Yeah, I just-- I don't want it to be over so soon. Not like that.”

Misha's smirk grows to an extent that makes Jensen wonder if he just dug his own grave.

“Duly noted,” Misha smiles, presses a kiss into the crook of Jensen's hip, soft, tender, too tender. “Just tell me, and I'll back off.”

Jensen has to stop the most perfect blowjob he ever got – no, seriously, Misha has skills – a full three times, and by the third time, Misha retreats completely. He sits back on his heels in front of Jensen, his mouth hanging open as he pants, lips hanging puffy and red and his hair a mess from where Jensen's hands have run through it multiple times.

Debauched, Jensen thinks.

Smoking hot.

Fucking gorgeous.

He offers a hand to Misha to help him to his feet, only to grab his hips with both hands and walk him backwards into his bedroom, like he's done with enough people over the years.

Misha isn't that pliant, though. He sidesteps Jensen, turns them around, just to be the one to shove Jensen – half-undressed with his underwear still hooked around one ankle – down onto his own bed.

“Damn, this isn't fair,” Jensen breathes out after his back hit the mattress, staring at the ceiling and trying to get his breathing back under control. His heart is hammering away in his chest and they're still doing foreplay.

“What isn't?” Misha prompts, undressing himself with deft fingers, not making it an unnecessary long show, but a simple show-off for Jensen, which. Wow. Tan, muscled arms, delicate skin stretching over it, dark hair trailing down from Misha's chest to the waistband of his pants and as if that wasn't enough, Misha has that cocky grin on his face, his blue eyes sparkling. Breathtaking.

Jensen chuckles, watches Misha unbuckle his pants and pull them down together with his underwear. Strong thighs, hairy legs, that's new. “I always found myself thinking why women let me do this, the whole--” he gestures to the bed, mimics the shoving, “But looking at you now, I totally get it.”

That's sure a sight he hasn't seen before.

He just wants this man to push him into the mattress and have his way with him, a thought that doesn't surprise him all that much anymore.

Misha throws his clothes aside and crawls onto the bed, hands and knees on both sides of Jensen's body. “You do?”

“God, I do,” Jensen moans, right when Misha's hand closes around his cock once more.

Instinctively, he reaches upward, reaches for Misha to return the favor. He matches the way Misha strokes him, figures it's the way he likes it, and is not mistaken.

To see Misha's head fall down onto his chest, a groan wringing its way out of his throat, and all because Jensen knows how to touch him just the right way – exhilarating is an understatement for what Jensen feels. There's something to be said about a man losing control like this, about knowing exactly what it feels like for him, the pressure around his cock, just the right flick of his wrist. Misha's dick is a pleasant weight in his hand, a bit thicker than his own, a bit shorter, a bit more curved upward. Nothing to feel intimidated by, rather aesthetically pleasing.

Jensen wonders what Misha tastes like, but doesn't dare voice the thought.

“Let me show you something,” Misha pants, nudging Jensen's hand away.

Jensen lets him, simply because he's curious, and Misha fits their hips together, their cocks sliding against each other's, and then there's Misha's hand, wrapping around both of them.

“Oh,” Jensen sighs, taken by surprise at how well they just fit, how good it feels.

And he tries, tries so hard not to compare this to former experiences, because it's not fair when one compares two different women, and it's not fair now.

Misha is on another level, anyway. His hair is short when Jensen cards his fingers through it again, and his beard rasps over the sensitive skin of Jensen's neck when he peppers kisses from Jensen's ear down his jaw.

Misha, who has his mouth latched to Jensen's collar bone, nibbles, licks, makes Jensen mindless with how in tune he seems to be with Jensen's body, trial-and-erroring himself through which buttons to push.

No, this is no competition, no comparison worth considering. Misha watches him closely, takes note of each and every single moan Jensen gives away.

So Jensen doesn't hold back, doesn't pretend, just lets his head drop back into the pillow, moans with how relaxed and comfortable and aroused he feels.

“Can I ask you something?” Misha starts, trailing kisses up his neck.

“Sure,” Jensen rasps and folds his left arm under his head, props himself up on his elbow so he can look at Misha.

“For someone who has never slept with a man, you're weirdly okay with this,” Misha notes. “Not that I mind, you know, just. Wondering.”

Jensen hums, shrugs, then reaches up to run his fingertips over the stubble on Misha's cheek, down his jawline to his full lips, caresses them with the pad of his thumb. “I'm about twenty years too old to freak out about it. What you're doing feels really damn good, so. I like it, why fight it?”

Misha laughs, quietly, under his breath. It's a beautiful, warm laugh, and Jensen pulls him down to kiss it right off his face, grins against his lips.

The kiss is just as slow and steady as Misha's hand stroking them both, holding them at a level of arousal that is already almost too much for Jensen. Misha's lips are insistent on his in a way that makes Jensen breathless and wanting more, even more, always more.

“C'mon,” Jensen whispers against Misha's lips, licks against Misha's upper lip to get him to pause for just a moment.

“Hm?” Misha opens his eyes and smiles down at him, brilliantly, and Jensen's treacherous heart does a funny jump.

Jensen ignores it. “Gimme more,” he mumbles.

For a moment, Misha just stares, blinks at him, but then he moans, mutters, “Fuck me,” to himself.

“If you're okay with it, I'd suggest the other way around,” Jensen winks, because he might as well make use of this chance.

“During your first time?” Misha asks in disbelief.

Jensen rolls his eyes, then quirks an eyebrow at Misha. “Like I never had a finger in my ass.”

Misha holds his gaze, lips parted and kiss-swollen, his eyes shining, his hair a mess.

Fucking gorgeous, Jensen finds himself thinking once again. He bites his bottom lip while Misha stares in awe.

Eventually, Misha nods, huffs out a little laugh. “You know, it's a bit more than a finger.”

“Didn't mean to hurt your manly pride,” Jensen chuckles. He reaches down to wrap his hand around Misha's hand and both their cocks, strokes them just a bit firmer. “But I didn't think I'd need to clarify.”

Misha shudders under his touch, lifts himself up with a graceful arc of his back, getting some space between them. Jensen almost protests in disappointment when they untangle and their hands part.

But Misha's sitting back on his haunches, panting harshly, eyes hooded, whispers, “Sorry, had to stop, or else...”

Jensen shoots him a lopsided smirk and makes use of the minute Misha takes to regain his composure. With Misha still sitting between his legs, Jensen leans over to reach for his bedside table, for the lube that is tucked into the top drawer.

“Catch,” he says with a look at Misha over his shoulder, and throws it in an easy arc for Misha to pluck it out of mid-air. Condoms are easy to find, so Jensen grabs two of those, too.

“How do you want to...” Misha trails off, watches Jensen with his eyes wide open, pupils dilated.

Jensen props himself up on his elbows and thinks about it, thinks about his thought from before, about how Misha smells and tastes. He'd really like to know. “Sixty-nine? Me on top?”

A smile tugs at the edges of Misha's lips, before he nods and rolls off of Jensen and onto his back.

Jensen follows him, takes his position on top of him. He's only ever done this the other way around, with him on his back, but the principle is easy enough. There's a funny feeling in his stomach, something between excitement and curiosity, and it makes Jensen giddy. He leans down, buries his nose in the curly, crude pubic hair beside the base of Misha's cock, and breathes him in.

Salty and sweet, clean sweat and some kind of minty shower gel.

Jensen exhales, tries not to think about what Misha is doing when he inches forwards, licks experimentally at the soft skin of Misha's shaft, licks up, up, until he reaches the tip, and does what multiple women have done to him before – circles the sensitive head with his tongue, closes his lips around it, and bops his head up and down a few times. The sensation of a dick sliding into his mouth, along his lips, is weird and new, but--

Underneath him, Misha releases an unrestrained groan. Loud, unapologetic, needy.

The sound makes Jensen both proud and ridiculously turned on, because he's the reason Misha made that sound. It's a heady feeling.

And just when he accommodated the feeling of Misha's cock stretching his lips, the velvety skin against his tongue, the musky, manly smell in his nose, just then he feels a slick, warm finger circle his entrance. Jensen groans when Misha pries, careful, slips only the tip inside, and feels like his heart might jump out of his chest any second now.

Misha's other hand cups his balls, rolls them through his fingers, tugs with just the perfect pressure, so good that the way he thrusts his finger in and out in short, almost too short moves, doesn't feel the least bit uncomfortable. A bit strange, maybe, since it's been a while, but pleasant.

Suddenly, Misha stops. “Jensen? You alright?”

And only then does Jensen realize that he's hovering with the head of Misha's dick resting against his lips, and that he also forgot how to breathe.

“Yeah, yeah, I'm fine,” he chuckles, then licks his apology against the skin of Misha's cock, sucks him down as far as he dares without triggering his gag reflex, and it's honest to god amazing.

Misha groans, his dick twitches between Jensen's lips, and then he's got the entirety of Misha's finger in his ass. Misha presses it down and forward until it hits his prostate, and that's exactly why Jensen wanted to try it in the first place, wanted to try it with one of his ex-girlfriends, to know what that feels like.

He squirms a bit in order to give Misha better access, to spread his cheeks apart and work him open slowly, so deliciously slowly. All the while Jensen is still busy trying to figure out how to concentrate on sucking cock, which is nearly impossible.

One finger isn't really a problem. So Misha adds a second one soon after, and Jensen grunts in surprise and sudden discomfort.

“Ouch,” he whispers.

“Did I hurt you?” Misha asks immediately, sounding worried.

“No, I'm just... that was a bit surprising.”

Misha places a kiss onto his thigh in apology, then gives him a couple minutes to get used to the pressure of being filled like that. Jensen tries to distract himself by alternately stroking Misha's cock and suckling at the tip, teasing him, keeping him on edge.

“You're killing me here,” Misha chuckles after a while, shoving his fingers a bit deeper, and Jensen feels how his muscles give way, loosening up as they adapt to the stretch.

He decides to go all in then, literally, and moves down to let Misha's cock slide all the way in until it hits the back of his throat. It's not easy to control his gag reflex, but Jensen manages it, and the way Misha shudders and groans under his hands is worth it, so very worth it.

“Fuck, that's good,” Misha moans, then adds to tease Jensen, “Seems like you're a natural.”

Jensen chuckles, the vibrations making Misha's dick twitch between his lips.

Misha takes revenge by rubbing both of his fingertips over Jensen's prostate, making him groan. Eventually, Jensen just pulls off, rises until Misha gets the hint and carefully removes his fingers.

“We need a condom,” Jensen states, then takes the package Misha hands him.

Jensen has had practice with condoms, but only ever because of using them himself. It's a bit weird to roll one over Misha's cock and cover it with some extra lube.

With a smile and both hands on Jensen's thighs, Misha encourages him to straddle his hips.

Jensen doesn't need to be told twice.

He positions himself, reaches behind his back for Misha's cock, presses the tip against his entrance and it promptly – slips off.

He laughs, breathy, breathlessly, in the back of his throat, and Misha grins. “Happens. Just try again,” he says, fingers stroking over Jensen's hipbone, soothing, gentle, deliberate.

Jensen tries, again and again, until he thinks he sprained his back, but Misha waits with the patience of an angel, and in the end, they make it. The head of Misha's dick pushes into him, stretches him, and when it slips in past the second ring of muscle, Jensen finds himself trembling above Misha, gasping for air.

“Slow,” Misha advises around a groan. “Take your time.”

“Yeah,” Jensen moans, sinks a bit deeper, and finally lets go of Misha's cock to rest his hand on the mattress, supporting himself as he leans forward. The motion makes Misha slip in just a bit deeper, and then another bit, and then Jensen pushes down and – “God, fuck,” Jensen mumbles. It's in, stretching him, filling him.

“How's it feel?” Misha asks, carefully holding Jensen where he sits right in his lap, with his dick shoved to the hilt in his ass for the first time.

“Big,” Jensen answers with a lopsided grin, keeps his eyes closed, focusing on the feeling, focusing on relaxing his strained muscles. “Overwhelming.”


“It's true,” Jensen smirks, then dares to open his eyes and look at Misha.

He looks every bit as gorgeous as Jensen expected him to, with his hair mussed and his plush lips parted and that desperate look in his eyes. “May I move?” he almost begs, his voice shot to hell, rough, deep, and Jensen never knew something like that could be so arousing.

Slowly, he grinds his hips against Misha, just to see what it feels like to have Misha's dick move in his ass. First, it's weird, but after a couple times of moving up and down, Jensen finds himself relaxing into the sensation.

Jensen groans. “Yeah, you can.”

And without hesitation, Misha grabs his hips, holds him steady, and thrusts upwards just a bit, rendering Jensen speechless.

There's no way that Misha's thrust hit anything but his prostate, dead-on.

Noticing his reaction, Misha does it again, and again, driving Jensen straight to the edge of coming his brains out.

And Jensen lets himself fall forward, claws at Misha's shoulders, holds on for dear life-- and manages to completely ruin the angle. So he ends up lying on Misha's rapidly rising and falling chest, desperate, ready to come, and completely unable to.

He feels like a spring drawn too tight and ready to uncurl, but held together by force.

He groans with overwhelming frustration and Misha runs his hand through his hair, pulls him in to kiss him quick and and open-mouthed and filthy, tongue lapping at Jensen's lips. Jensen bucks in his grip, arches his back, fights for his orgasm, but it won't happen, not like this.

Misha chuckles against his lips, kisses him harder. “Patience, young Padawan,” he mumbles amused.

“I was so close,” Jensen groans again, fists curling into the bed sheets.

“I know,” Misha says, then slips his hands lower, nudges at Jensen's chest. “Here, let me.”

Jensen sits up, makes some aborted, little moves, until he finds back to that satisfying grind of his hips against Misha's, that perfect rhythm of stimulation, and then there's Misha's hand – Misha's hand, wrapping around his dick, stroking him with sure moves.

“That's it,” Jensen sighs, gasps for air when Misha adds a twist of his hand around the tip of Jensen's dick. “Fuck, Misha.”

The feeling, both familiar and all-new, hits Jensen dead-on.

And then there's the curl of his stomach again, the tension ready to snap, and this time, Misha is there to nudge him over the edge with a set of well-paced thrusts, to guide him into a world blazing white with pleasure and relief. Jensen is a shaking mess by the time Misha snaps his hips upwards a couple more times, until his fingernails are biting into Jensen's hips and Misha's low groans fill his ears. The feeling of Misha's cock twitching in his ass, emptying himself into the condom, is both alienating and hot as hell, and Jensen groans from overstimulation.

Misha is gorgeous, though, his back drawn tight with tension, moaning shamelessly, until he falls back onto the mattress, carefully slipping out of Jensen as an afterthought.

Jensen rolls to the side, lies down on his back beside Misha and just breathes.

Earth-shattering orgasms aside, that was incredible sex, for a first time.

“You okay?” Misha asks, his head lolling to the side so he can look at Jensen.

“Yeah,” Jensen answers in a daze, then starts to grin to himself. “Okay is kind of an understatement.”

Misha laughs, which fades into a yawn.

“Me too,” Jensen agrees, notices that the hand he's holding in front of his open mouth smells of lube and latex. He couldn't care less, though. “Let's sleep.”

Misha eyes him a bit wearily. “Would it be okay if I stayed the night?”

“Sure,” Jensen nods and means it.

“Alright, then I'm just gonna go clean up.”

“You do that. Bathroom's that way.”

There's still a sticky mess of lube between his ass cheeks, but Jensen doesn't mind. He's exhausted, and content, and tomorrow he'll have to be on set at 8 a.m., as per usual. So he lets his eyes slip closed and drifts off.

“Good night, Jensen,” he hears, barely minutes later, when the mattress dips beside him.

“Night, Mish,” he answers, soft, too soft, and almost too quiet.


The next morning, Jensen's alarm wakes them at his usual time.

“How late is it?” Misha mumbles with closed eyes from beside him and--

Jensen does a double take. Right. Misha. Sex. Last night.

“Um. Half past six. And good morning to you,” Jensen mutters, feeling a bit awkward and disguising it behind his sleepiness.

“Morning,” Misha mumbles back and opens his eyes with a slow flutter of his eyelids, revealing those clear blue eyes.

Jensen swallows and turns away to stretch his limbs. “You want breakfast?”

“If it's not too much trouble.”

“Nah,” Jensen waves him off, then gets up to get ready for the day.

Twenty minutes later, they're sitting at the breakfast bar in Jensen's kitchen, drinking coffee and eating scrambled eggs in what Jensen can only describe as comfortable silence.

It's a quiet ordeal of ten minutes while the radio updates them on the latest news of the city, and it's only broken when Jensen gets a refill of coffee, asking Misha if he wants seconds, too, to which Misha agrees.

And then Jensen clears his throat and explains, “I need to go to work in ten minutes.”

Misha answers, completely unfazed and cheerful, “Right, okay. I'll get going, then.”

At the door, Misha gathers his belongings – not more than his coat – and slips on his sneakers before he looks up at Jensen.

“I'll see you around,” he says. “Thank you for everything.”

“Yeah,” Jensen nods and smiles. “You're welcome and thank you, too.”

Misha gives himself a visible nudge and steps forward on his tiptoes to lean up and kiss Jensen, one last kiss that doesn't feel like a last kiss.



When the door closes, Jensen leans his back against it and lets himself slide down until he's sitting on the floor. His shirt from last night is crumpled in a heap over his running shoes, he notices.

Also, he just let the guy who fucked him in the ass last night walk out the door.

Just like that.

And it's not like Jensen regrets what happened, because he wanted it, he didn't need to be persuaded, and enjoyed it a lot – but still, his manly pride is a bit sore this morning.

Also, his ass hurts.

Jensen gathers himself and his shirt up off the floor and gets ready for work.

<< Masterpost | Chapter 2 >>


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