In Misha’s view, the best part of Jensen getting tipsy is that he forgets to care if people are watching. That’s why Misha would never dream of arguing when, at the tail end of a set birthday party, Jensen is pressed against his back with arms around his chest, squeezing a little too tight.
“It’s my birthday,” Jensen informs him sincerely, as though he doesn’t already know.
“Is it?” Misha asks, trying to turn his head to look at his tipsy new outerwear.
“Didn’t you know?” Jensen asks in return; his body warm and soft against Misha’s when he laughs, his breath tickling Misha’s ear.
“I guess I forgot,” Misha says, shrugging as best he can with a hundred-and-seventy pounds of tipsy Jensen draped over him. He tries to hide his smile, but doesn’t care when he fails.
“That’s a damn shame,” Jensen says with an affected sigh, and Misha nearly falls over when his weight is suddenly gone. He barely has time to catch his balance before Jensen’s open palm lands on his ass, stinging even through his clothes. Raucous laughter comes from all corners of the room at the resounding smack, and Misha has to duck his head to hide the blush that’s creeping into his cheeks.
Jensen barely slurs when he leans close to Misha’s ear to whisper, “I was gonna let you spank me.”
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“Are you wearing nail polish?”
Misha grins. “Don’t act so surprised.”
“I just thought Richard was kidding, but apparently he… wasn’t.” Jensen stares at Misha’s hands.
“You don’t like it?”
Jensen reaches for one of Misha’s hands. “I just don’t know if it’s your shade. Isn’t…
