Fic: Reconciling Hollywood - Jensen/Misha, NC-17 - chapter eight
Eight
He waits outside the mens room by the lonely couple of public phones. The row of people lined up has declined, everyone had headed to the bathroom the second the music finished, apparently.
When Jensen finally emerges he's wiping wet hands on his jeans. He spies Misha propped against the wall watching him.
"Is it true?" Misha asks when he's close enough to hear, mentally kicks himself for having all the tact of the Spanish Inquisition.
"Is what true?" Jensen's brow furrows as he approaches.
In for a penny...
"That you've wanted me since your sexual harassment of me two years ago?"
Jensen's face turns thunderous and he turns as if to head into the bar proper. "I'm going to fucking kill him."
Misha catches his shirt sleeve, fingertips brushing against the soft skin of Jensen's wrist. "Wait. Is it true?"
Jensen looks torn, murderous and embarrassed all at once. "Misha..." he says and there's no mistaking the warning tone.
But Misha doesn't heed it.
"No, you know what Jensen, fuck that. You don't get to act indignant. 'Cause for two years I've thought you screwed me because I was there and you were bored, and that when you got what you wanted you shut the hell up and wouldn't even meet my eye. So now I find out that it wasn't some douchey Hollywood behaviour, that actually, maybe it was something else entirely? I get to ask. Is it true?"
The words come out in a rush of verbal diarrhea, and Misha's too wound up to care if he sounds like a brat, or a girl, or hell, if he's even wrong. He just needs a fucking answer.
Jensen's eyes slide back to him and his shoulders slump as the fight goes out of him. His hands flex helplessly at his sides.
"I never...It wasn't because I was bored, Misha."
Which Misha is sober enough to realise is not a no. He goes to reply, to demand more, but Jensen is already continuing, wrinkles appearing above his nose where his eyebrows close in on each other in concern.
"I didn't mean it to happen. I wanted you. Of course I fucking wanted you. And then I reached when I shouldn't have and we did what we did. And then Eric was on the phone telling me how you were going to get more episodes and I panicked."
"Why?" Misha asks, because he's genuinely fucking confused. If anything, more time meant more opportunity, not less, surely?
"Because I let my feelings get the better of me!" Jensen growls, frustrated and clearly embarrassed. "I never should have...I would normally never... but we were filming and it was so..." Jensen fumbles for the words, "intense and I acted on it. And it was unprofessional as all hell."
Misha is silent, for once he has absolutely nothing to say and no idea where to go when he opens his mouth.
Two girls come out of the women's bathroom a yard from them, giggling and drunk and barely sparing them a glance as they head back out into the bar.
He thinks about all the soap opera crap that's in his head for 'how to deal with xyz situation' - telling Jensen that it's okay to have feelings, that he's human and everyone fucks up, that it was mutual, there was two of them involved, and that he'd replayed that night a million times over in his head. Platitudes aside, what he really wants is to wipe the wounded embarrassment that has settled in Jensen's eyes away as fast as he can, and any manner of language involved is going to shut Jensen down and into his protective shell faster than Misha can blink.
He makes a decision.
"Kiss me."
"I...what?" Jensen's eyes go wide and for a second Misha thinks he's played it wrong, that Jensen is going to up and bolt.
"Kiss me." Misha demands, pitching his voice low. "Kiss me and then decide if it's a mistake," he taunts.
It's a dare in every sense of the word, and Misha worries that Jensen will pick truth instead. Brutal honest truth that won't allow him the chance he finds himself wanting Jensen to take.
Jensen's bottom lip catches between his teeth for one second, two, before it flicks free. And then Misha is being pushed gently, not rushed and lustful but slow and considering, back into the hard press of the wall. Jensen's hands on his shoulders, Jensen's mouth on his, soft and full and insistent and Misha makes an extremely undignified noise of surprised arousal and opens to him, unreservedly.
Hands slip up and cup Misha's face on either side, warm and steadying, thumbs pressing against his cheekbones as Jensen uses the grip to tilt Misha's mouth into his. Jensen's tongue is hot and slick when it slips past Misha's lips, insistent and focused but surprisingly gentle. Jensen tastes like sweet beer and smoke.
Jensen seeks his permission and Misha is really fucking willing to give it. His hands find their way to Jensen's waist, slipping under the soft cotton of Jensen's t-shirt and resting, lax but covetous, over his hips.
It's a slow burn of wet and soft, heat and alcohol, slide and teeth, and Misha finds himself drifting on a undulating wave of building arousal. It's at once nothing like the hot need and must that accompanied their first desperate encounter and at the same time it's almost hotter, the slow friction grinding itself into their veins. Misha can feel the flush rise up his skin, burning his cheeks and throat.
Someone wolf-whistles on their way into the bathroom and Jensen pulls back with a start, his lips flushed and shiny with saliva. Misha laughs, knowing even as he does that if they're caught on camera it could be really fucking problematic for both of them.
For a second he's worried that Jensen will freak out, declare the kiss a mistake and run for the hills. Instead, Jensen just smiles ruefully at him, wipes at his mouth with his cuff. Misha becomes aware, as the oxygen hits his brain cells, that he's backed against the wall between two telephone pods. And half hard.
He clears his throat, hopes he still has his voice. "Well?"
Jensen's smile widens minutely and an eyebrow arches in classic Winchester cockiness. "Well what?"
"Don't act coy, Jensen. It doesn't suit you," Misha reprimands, even though it really really does.
And that does nothing but succeed in widening Jensen's smile into an even more dazzling array of teeth. Jensen cocks his head to one side, appears to consider seriously.
"It didn't suck," he says eventually, low and gravelly. He nods seriously and steps straight on back into Misha's personal space.
This time the kiss is anything but gentle. Jensen's mouth is hot on his, strong and forceful. Teeth sink into Misha's lower lip and pull with a sharp nip that has him groaning and wishing he had purchase on something, anything, to allow friction and relieve the pressure tightening his muscles, nerves and cock.
He allows himself to push back, thrusts and plunders Jensen's mouth in a preemptive strike, re-collects Jensen's hips in his hands and pulls his body flush against his own. He can feel Jensen's answering erection growing against his hip and he pulls him in further, slides his hip up against the hardness to hear Jensen gasp into his mouth.
Jensen's lips are soft, the stubble of his skin prickly against Misha's mouth when Misha licks at the corner of Jensen's. Misha's world narrows down to hard and soft, hot and wet, beer and vodka, hands and cocks. And it is so fucking good he thinks he might burst.
The past weeks have been so fucking confusing. Not knowing what was up and what was down, where he stood, who Jensen was. A series of endless questions. But Misha knows the answer to the question running through his head right now.
He wants Jensen, and he wants him now. He's willing to risk public indecency if he has to.
Jensen must read his mind because he's pulling away again, which really fucking sucks, but his pupils are blown as wide as demon special effects and the way he licks his lips, compulsively but like he doesn't even know he's doing it, confirms to Misha that they're in the same fucking place. Finally.
When he speaks, Jensen's voice is gruffer than Misha's ever heard it, and the decibel range makes a shudder wend its way like hot lightning down Misha's chest and gut. "Your place or mine?"
He doesn't need to think, they're miles closer to his place. "Mine."
Jensen nods and his hand snakes out and closes around Misha's wrist, tugging him away from the alcove and into the bar where rock is being piped out of the speakers and the night has gotten dirtier and drunken. Jensen drops Misha's hand as they leave the relative private, but the way he keeps glancing over his shoulder leaves Misha with no doubt that he's making sure he keeps close.
They swing by the table where Chris has been joined by other members of the band and an off-shift Callie.
Chris whistles in an irritating taunt when he sees the state of them, Misha with thumbprints on his cheekbones and Jensen flushed pink, and slaps his palm out to the guy lounging opposite him with a beer. He receives a twenty and a death-glare for his troubles.
"Never bet against the house, Carlson," Chris grins.
Jensen rolls his eyes at both of them. "Fuck you all, heathens. We're out of here."
Misha barely gets a 'Great show, thanks,' out before Jensen is pulling him by the sleeve and out of the bar. Jensen is kind of pushy when he's horny.
It occurs to him that he has once again not been introduced to Jensen's friends. This time he can't bring himself to care, not when Jensen tugs him around a corner and pushes him up against the cold brick of an abandoned building, mouth on his, seeking and claiming.
"Jensen," Misha demands, but it comes out more like a plea. "We need to get somewhere private. Really goddamned soon." He can't help leaning in though, sliding his tongue into Jensen's mouth, slick and coaxing.
Jensen goes with it for a second and then breaks off, apparently conflicted. Misha understands the feeling. Then Jensen nods, heads back towards the street, and Misha fumbles to stay close on his heels. They hail a passing cab with astoundingly good luck.
It takes all Misha's willpower not to turn the ride into an episode of Taxi Cab Confessions - or low budget porn. Jensen's fingers, picking at the hem of his t-shirt, clutching reflexively at one of his knees, make Misha pretty sure it's not just him.
The car ride is only 15 minutes, but it feels like a hundred.
* * *
chapter nine
He waits outside the mens room by the lonely couple of public phones. The row of people lined up has declined, everyone had headed to the bathroom the second the music finished, apparently.
When Jensen finally emerges he's wiping wet hands on his jeans. He spies Misha propped against the wall watching him.
"Is it true?" Misha asks when he's close enough to hear, mentally kicks himself for having all the tact of the Spanish Inquisition.
"Is what true?" Jensen's brow furrows as he approaches.
In for a penny...
"That you've wanted me since your sexual harassment of me two years ago?"
Jensen's face turns thunderous and he turns as if to head into the bar proper. "I'm going to fucking kill him."
Misha catches his shirt sleeve, fingertips brushing against the soft skin of Jensen's wrist. "Wait. Is it true?"
Jensen looks torn, murderous and embarrassed all at once. "Misha..." he says and there's no mistaking the warning tone.
But Misha doesn't heed it.
"No, you know what Jensen, fuck that. You don't get to act indignant. 'Cause for two years I've thought you screwed me because I was there and you were bored, and that when you got what you wanted you shut the hell up and wouldn't even meet my eye. So now I find out that it wasn't some douchey Hollywood behaviour, that actually, maybe it was something else entirely? I get to ask. Is it true?"
The words come out in a rush of verbal diarrhea, and Misha's too wound up to care if he sounds like a brat, or a girl, or hell, if he's even wrong. He just needs a fucking answer.
Jensen's eyes slide back to him and his shoulders slump as the fight goes out of him. His hands flex helplessly at his sides.
"I never...It wasn't because I was bored, Misha."
Which Misha is sober enough to realise is not a no. He goes to reply, to demand more, but Jensen is already continuing, wrinkles appearing above his nose where his eyebrows close in on each other in concern.
"I didn't mean it to happen. I wanted you. Of course I fucking wanted you. And then I reached when I shouldn't have and we did what we did. And then Eric was on the phone telling me how you were going to get more episodes and I panicked."
"Why?" Misha asks, because he's genuinely fucking confused. If anything, more time meant more opportunity, not less, surely?
"Because I let my feelings get the better of me!" Jensen growls, frustrated and clearly embarrassed. "I never should have...I would normally never... but we were filming and it was so..." Jensen fumbles for the words, "intense and I acted on it. And it was unprofessional as all hell."
Misha is silent, for once he has absolutely nothing to say and no idea where to go when he opens his mouth.
Two girls come out of the women's bathroom a yard from them, giggling and drunk and barely sparing them a glance as they head back out into the bar.
He thinks about all the soap opera crap that's in his head for 'how to deal with xyz situation' - telling Jensen that it's okay to have feelings, that he's human and everyone fucks up, that it was mutual, there was two of them involved, and that he'd replayed that night a million times over in his head. Platitudes aside, what he really wants is to wipe the wounded embarrassment that has settled in Jensen's eyes away as fast as he can, and any manner of language involved is going to shut Jensen down and into his protective shell faster than Misha can blink.
He makes a decision.
"Kiss me."
"I...what?" Jensen's eyes go wide and for a second Misha thinks he's played it wrong, that Jensen is going to up and bolt.
"Kiss me." Misha demands, pitching his voice low. "Kiss me and then decide if it's a mistake," he taunts.
It's a dare in every sense of the word, and Misha worries that Jensen will pick truth instead. Brutal honest truth that won't allow him the chance he finds himself wanting Jensen to take.
Jensen's bottom lip catches between his teeth for one second, two, before it flicks free. And then Misha is being pushed gently, not rushed and lustful but slow and considering, back into the hard press of the wall. Jensen's hands on his shoulders, Jensen's mouth on his, soft and full and insistent and Misha makes an extremely undignified noise of surprised arousal and opens to him, unreservedly.
Hands slip up and cup Misha's face on either side, warm and steadying, thumbs pressing against his cheekbones as Jensen uses the grip to tilt Misha's mouth into his. Jensen's tongue is hot and slick when it slips past Misha's lips, insistent and focused but surprisingly gentle. Jensen tastes like sweet beer and smoke.
Jensen seeks his permission and Misha is really fucking willing to give it. His hands find their way to Jensen's waist, slipping under the soft cotton of Jensen's t-shirt and resting, lax but covetous, over his hips.
It's a slow burn of wet and soft, heat and alcohol, slide and teeth, and Misha finds himself drifting on a undulating wave of building arousal. It's at once nothing like the hot need and must that accompanied their first desperate encounter and at the same time it's almost hotter, the slow friction grinding itself into their veins. Misha can feel the flush rise up his skin, burning his cheeks and throat.
Someone wolf-whistles on their way into the bathroom and Jensen pulls back with a start, his lips flushed and shiny with saliva. Misha laughs, knowing even as he does that if they're caught on camera it could be really fucking problematic for both of them.
For a second he's worried that Jensen will freak out, declare the kiss a mistake and run for the hills. Instead, Jensen just smiles ruefully at him, wipes at his mouth with his cuff. Misha becomes aware, as the oxygen hits his brain cells, that he's backed against the wall between two telephone pods. And half hard.
He clears his throat, hopes he still has his voice. "Well?"
Jensen's smile widens minutely and an eyebrow arches in classic Winchester cockiness. "Well what?"
"Don't act coy, Jensen. It doesn't suit you," Misha reprimands, even though it really really does.
And that does nothing but succeed in widening Jensen's smile into an even more dazzling array of teeth. Jensen cocks his head to one side, appears to consider seriously.
"It didn't suck," he says eventually, low and gravelly. He nods seriously and steps straight on back into Misha's personal space.
This time the kiss is anything but gentle. Jensen's mouth is hot on his, strong and forceful. Teeth sink into Misha's lower lip and pull with a sharp nip that has him groaning and wishing he had purchase on something, anything, to allow friction and relieve the pressure tightening his muscles, nerves and cock.
He allows himself to push back, thrusts and plunders Jensen's mouth in a preemptive strike, re-collects Jensen's hips in his hands and pulls his body flush against his own. He can feel Jensen's answering erection growing against his hip and he pulls him in further, slides his hip up against the hardness to hear Jensen gasp into his mouth.
Jensen's lips are soft, the stubble of his skin prickly against Misha's mouth when Misha licks at the corner of Jensen's. Misha's world narrows down to hard and soft, hot and wet, beer and vodka, hands and cocks. And it is so fucking good he thinks he might burst.
The past weeks have been so fucking confusing. Not knowing what was up and what was down, where he stood, who Jensen was. A series of endless questions. But Misha knows the answer to the question running through his head right now.
He wants Jensen, and he wants him now. He's willing to risk public indecency if he has to.
Jensen must read his mind because he's pulling away again, which really fucking sucks, but his pupils are blown as wide as demon special effects and the way he licks his lips, compulsively but like he doesn't even know he's doing it, confirms to Misha that they're in the same fucking place. Finally.
When he speaks, Jensen's voice is gruffer than Misha's ever heard it, and the decibel range makes a shudder wend its way like hot lightning down Misha's chest and gut. "Your place or mine?"
He doesn't need to think, they're miles closer to his place. "Mine."
Jensen nods and his hand snakes out and closes around Misha's wrist, tugging him away from the alcove and into the bar where rock is being piped out of the speakers and the night has gotten dirtier and drunken. Jensen drops Misha's hand as they leave the relative private, but the way he keeps glancing over his shoulder leaves Misha with no doubt that he's making sure he keeps close.
They swing by the table where Chris has been joined by other members of the band and an off-shift Callie.
Chris whistles in an irritating taunt when he sees the state of them, Misha with thumbprints on his cheekbones and Jensen flushed pink, and slaps his palm out to the guy lounging opposite him with a beer. He receives a twenty and a death-glare for his troubles.
"Never bet against the house, Carlson," Chris grins.
Jensen rolls his eyes at both of them. "Fuck you all, heathens. We're out of here."
Misha barely gets a 'Great show, thanks,' out before Jensen is pulling him by the sleeve and out of the bar. Jensen is kind of pushy when he's horny.
It occurs to him that he has once again not been introduced to Jensen's friends. This time he can't bring himself to care, not when Jensen tugs him around a corner and pushes him up against the cold brick of an abandoned building, mouth on his, seeking and claiming.
"Jensen," Misha demands, but it comes out more like a plea. "We need to get somewhere private. Really goddamned soon." He can't help leaning in though, sliding his tongue into Jensen's mouth, slick and coaxing.
Jensen goes with it for a second and then breaks off, apparently conflicted. Misha understands the feeling. Then Jensen nods, heads back towards the street, and Misha fumbles to stay close on his heels. They hail a passing cab with astoundingly good luck.
It takes all Misha's willpower not to turn the ride into an episode of Taxi Cab Confessions - or low budget porn. Jensen's fingers, picking at the hem of his t-shirt, clutching reflexively at one of his knees, make Misha pretty sure it's not just him.
The car ride is only 15 minutes, but it feels like a hundred.
* * *
chapter nine