[FIC] Southern Discomfort and a bit of Hospitality for evil_knitter
Gift type: Fanfic
Title: Southern Discomfort and a bit of Hospitality
Author: qthelights
Recipient: evil_knitter
Pairing: Jensen/Misha
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Semi-public (hidden) sex
Spoilers: General remark on Misha's role in the series, but none really.
Wordcount: 8,200
Summary: Jensen invites Misha to Chris' for the weekend. Nothing happens the way Misha thinks it will.
Author notes: For the prompts of: sneaky boys, quiet - hidden - sex, party/family barbecue, finger sucking and a wrap around porch ;) Beta thanks to a_carnal_mink and general thanks to kadiel_krieger.
Southern Discomfort and a bit of Hospitality
The house they drive up to, Jensen at the wheel of a rented pickup, dust billowing in rusty plumes in their wake, is more of a ranch than a simple house. It sprawls across the landscape, a mass of rough-hewn weathered wood and glass, a giant porch wrapping around it like a security blanket. Trees dot the landscape, old and stately, but for the most part all Misha can see is miles of gently undulating pasture, ringed and divided closest to the house in white pine fencing. Horses graze near a red painted barn and in the distance cattle mill about in the sun. It's all so cliche it makes him either want to retch at the predictability of it all or clap his hands in glee at the opportunity to play in an Barbie's country dollhouse.
He does neither; both being open to ridicule from Jensen next to him. The one in mirrored aviators and carefully frayed jeans. It's probably not the way to begin a weekend as a guest at someone's house. Especially someone as territorially Southern as Kane. Or Jensen, for that matter.
Still, it's a trip, Misha thinks, as they cross under a wooden gate proclaiming them entering Kane Kountry. The long-horn cattle horns are probably a requirement this far South. As, he's sure, is the white-painted wagon wheel propped 'casually' to the side.
Misha stops the snort that threatens, but he's maybe not as circumspect as he thinks he is because Jensen glances over at him with a grin, white veneers and upper lip curl. "You're on our turf now, Misha. Careful."
Misha does snort then. Because, really. Southern boys are so deliciously ridiculous. He's going to enjoy Jensen in his natural habitat.
"I know exactly what you're thinking, you know," Jensen deadpans, following the curve of the dirt road.
"Does it involve underpants?" Misha asks serenely.
Jensen shakes his head on a laugh.
As the car crunches its way up to the proper gravel drive of the house, Christian is already coming through the front door in bare feet and tatty jeans, surrounded by dogs of dubious lineage. The benefits of having a driveway a mile long, it seems; country folk know when you're coming, can always greet you somethin' proper. Or shoot you before you step off your horse.
Briefly, Misha wonders about the wisdom of saying yes to this outing. He doesn't know Kane at all other than brief glimpses associated with Jensen. He's never even seen Leverage, though Jensen gave him the dvd set for Christmas last year. A fact that Jensen rolls his eyes at and calls him weird for, not watching television but prancing around on it for a living. Usually Misha just shrugs and grins lackadaisically; he'll get there eventually, but for the moment he's got too many other things to do.
Like coming along to this shindig, it appears. When Jensen had asked what he had planned for the week off, Misha had come up blank - though given time he would have filled the thing, no question - and Jensen hadn't hesitated to invite him along. Misha doesn't know if it was out of pity or a genuine interest in his company, though he knows which one he'd rather.
If nothing else, he'd figured, it'd give him quality time to spend with a friend. And that it would occur away from everyone that he suspected Jensen put on a mask for, allow him to dig a little further into his colleague's psyche? Well so much the better. Knowledge was always interesting. He'd said yes and found himself on a plane bound for Oklahoma, Jensen reading in the seat next to him.
They rented a truck at the airport and Jensen had settled into the upholstery like he owned the thing - arm dangling out the window in the sun, legs stretched and lazily pumping the accelerator. Relaxed is a good look on him, Misha acknowledges.
Jensen pulls up next to a battered Chevy and an old Kawasaki and switches off the engine.
"I need a beer," he says, sliding the sunglasses up onto his head. "Hope Chris got the good shit this time."
Misha isn't sure what the good shit is, but he imagines either man's taste is gonna be pretty much a thousandfold better than what he's used to drinking in LA.
"You're sure it's cool that I'm turning up?" He questions as Jensen goes for the door handle. Though, really, it's a bit late to be asking.
Jensen rolls his eyes. "Misha, seriously. I want you here. Chris's cool with whatever. Relax."
Dogs surround the vehicle as Jensen gets out and Misha watches him stop to rough-house with each of them, throwing them into an orgy of froth and happy yelping. They obviously know him. When it seems like Jensen may not survive the canine convergence Kane whistles short and sharp between his thumb and forefinger and they bound away, scampering into the yard to begin a game of human-less chase.
Misha grabs his pack from the back seat and closes the door with a satisfying thump. Coming around the back of the truck he finds that Jensen's already made his way to the porch, manfully backslap-hugging Kane with the comfort of long-time friends.
Chris slaps Misha on the shoulder with less enthusiasm. "Welcome, man. I've been needing someone to swap embarrassing stories about my boy with."
Misha hesitates, not wanting to side with a stranger over Jensen, but welcoming the chance to be included. "Always happy to help create chaos and tears."
Jensen groans under his breath - something that sounds suspiciously like 'bad ideas' - as he makes his way into the house like he's lived there all his life.
Chris grins like a predator. "We're gonna have fun with this."
Misha isn't entirely sure.
* * *
Despite the promise of a combined attack on Jensen, the afternoon devolves into Chris and Jensen conversing mostly with each other. If the flirting, taunting, muck-raking, and propositioning that goes on can be called 'conversing'. Misha isn't feeling charitable enough to believe it is.
He perches on a bar stool, because of course Chris has a bar in his living room, and nurses his beer - which turned out to be weaker than he expected. He watches the other two play video games against each other. They snark and bicker and laugh and Misha finds himself somewhat envious of the obvious bond they have with each other. That Chris has with Jensen.
It's not like he and Jensen don't laugh on set. Hell, they do it too much, if the growling of random directors is anything to go by, but this is different. Chris and Jensen aren't laughing at Jared's flatulence or a stupid line the writers think is 'natural'. They're laughing at each other, with each other, in line with the natural evolution of friendship. It feels like more than what Misha has with Jensen, and that kicks him off balance and curdles his stomach.
Unless he blames the beer.
"You're getting soft, Jen," Chris smirks, kicking at Jensen's shin with a bare foot. Jensen sits on the couch, Wii controller in hand, leaning forward and face creased in concentration.
"Fuck off," Jensen replies distractedly, weaving his body sideways with the remote to move the car on the screen out of the rough and back onto the racecourse. "Just because we work on our set while you lot fuck off and let Hutton do the acting..."
They're playing something redneck, monster truck racing or NASCAR perhaps, Misha doesn't know or care; he's happy to just sit and watch. The trash talk has been going on for the better part of an hour.
Chris chuckles darkly, pushes his arms forward and veers his vehicle across the track, pushing Jensen's off the screen again. "Like hell. The amount of hours you guys lose to Jared's burrito munching means you have more than enough time to practice your game."
"Please don't use the phrase 'burrito munching'," Jensen glares before turning back to the tv.
Chris' laugh is dark and taunting. "Oh? Why Jenny? Makes you crave something 9 inches long and full of meat?"
Jensen snorts. "You offering?"
"You know I'm always available to you, baby," Chris croons.
"I'd prefer you didn't mention the words burrito and Jared in any context," Misha observes philosophically and the other two glance up, as if surprised to find him still in the room.
Chris considers Misha and changes tack. "I'll bet Misha here has time to practice. Boy has the sweetest gig around, credits of a regular but special guest screen time."
"Burrito munching or gaming?" Jensen asks.
Chris tilts his head as if considering Misha. "Boy's got a pretty nice set of lips on him, so I dunno."
"Dude," Jensen groans. Misha isn't sure if it's because Chris took it a step too far or if it's because Jensen finds the idea of him sucking cock reprehensible. Once again Misha finds himself confused as to which version he prefers.
Chris makes a tsking sound. "Don't worry, Babe, you still got the prettiest damn cock-sucking lips in the South, I swear it."
"Damn straight," Jensen nods firmly, though he glances at Misha as if checking his reaction. Chris laughs again and it grates on Misha's nerves.
Five minutes later when Jensen railroads his avatar on screen, Chris turns on him, wrestling him into the couch with a knee on his chest in an attempt to conquer Jensen's controller.
Misha pops the cap off another beer and tries to ignore the tightness in his gut.
* * *
By dinnertime Misha has a nice buzz going, a mellow sort of marination of the brain. Jensen and Chris haven’t stopped the incessant needling, but at least the vast amount of alcohol they’ve consumed has slowed them down.
It’s a bit like watching some kind of weird nature documentary, where two long lost littermates have been reunited and must bite and jump and roll each other in the dirt before they can be satisfied that the other is really there and not going away in an eye-blink.
Migrating into the kitchen, Chris and Jensen begin to make dinner. A huge pot of chili is deemed the only way to go. They're clearly used to being in each other’s space, sliding easily around each other, frying onions and mince, cutting tomatoes and peppers. Or at least, Chris does all those things and Jensen plays the more-than-slightly inebriated chef's assistant, passing things when asked.
When everything has made it into the pot and Chris is stirring lazily as he hums to himself, Jensen grabs his beer and comes around to sit at the bench next to Misha.
“’Sup?” Jensen asks, eyes sparkling with the gloss of alcohol.
“’Sup? Really? That’s what we’re going with?”
“What?” Jensen asks, but he’s smiling stupidly like he's entirely aware that it isn't something he'd normally say.
Misha snorts. “Nothing, I guess.”
“No seriously,” Jensen drawls, “I haven’t spoken to you all day, feels like.”
“Hmmm…that’d be because you haven’t,” Misha responds with a pointed look over his beer bottle.
“Awww, don’t be like that, baby,” Jensen says with a grin and it’s such a direct imitation of Chris’ tendency to use the word that Misha laughs, hears Chris sniggering from the stove top too.
“Sorry, man," Jensen says, and despite the alcohol that coats the words, he does look sincerely contrite. "S'just Chris's my brother, you know? Haven't seen him in a damned age."
Jensen gestures between himself and Chris with his arm. Chris has turned to lean against the benchtop near the stove, long-neck in hand and watching Jensen with an amused fondness.
“Yes, Jen, I think he understands,” Chris monotones, and although he’s trying to help, Misha is irrationally annoyed that Chris thinks he needs it.
“Indeed, I do,” Misha says, but he keeps his eye on the bottle in front of him. Begins to absently pick at the condensation-wet label with his thumbnail.
Jensen has many brothers; Kane, Jared, Steve…his actual brother. And it isn’t like Misha thinks he ought to make the grade or anything like that. He knows he and Jensen aren’t anywhere near as close, it’s part of the reason he was surprised Jensen invited him down here in the first place. Of course, when Misha had said yes, he'd imagined he might actually get to spend some time with Jensen, as opposed to watching him spend time with someone else.
This time it's Jensen who snorts, and he bangs his bottle down a little too hard on the marble counter-top. “Then why you all...quiet? You're never silent, Misha. It's not natural.”
Misha rolls his eyes, flicks a bit of wet paper onto the bench with his forefinger and thumb. “I’m not, Jensen. You’re just drunk.”
“I don't think that's it,” Jensen says, matter-of-factly and goes to take a swig of his beer. It comes up empty. He looks at the bottle for a moment before refocusing on Misha, as if considering something serious.
But when he opens his mouth, it isn't to say more than, 'It's broken'.
Chris reaches out a hand for the empty which Jensen dutifully slaps into his palm. “I’ll get more from the garage. Though drinking a man out of his home is bad fucking manners, Jenny.”
Jensen sniffs. “Whatever, dude. You know you just want me drunk enough that you can have your way with me.”
Chris simply winks at Jensen and heads out to the garage.
The sour feeling in Misha's stomach slides into his throat again.
* * *
Sometime after dusk, when they're all a little more sober from stomachs full of chili and a little more tipsy from the hard liquor Chris brought out, Jensen sits up from where he's sprawled on the floor and declares they should go skinny dipping.
"You have a pool?" Misha asks in Chris' direction because it seems the safer option given that he could be asking about the nakedness part of the plan.
Chris grins and looks at him with a predatory gleam in his eye, "nope."
Jensen sniggers, but it sounds dangerously close to a giggle.
"So...?"
"Fuck Jensen, you're such a pussy when you're drunk," Chris chastises before turning back to Misha. "It's not so much a pool as a pond. A great big dirty one."
Misha turns incredulously to Jensen. "Seriously?"
Jensen shrugs, grins in a very non-Jensen way. "Don't you wanna get dirty, Mish?"
"Yeah, baby," Chris leers before Misha can even begin to formulate an answer, "Don't you wanna get dirty?"
He rolls his eyes. "Sure, fine. Let's go get filthy in a pond of animal excrement."
Chris claps his hands together definitively. "Fuck yeah."
Misha can think of about a billion things he'd rather be doing than swimming in a body of water that probably is full of cow shit. But he isn't about to let Jensen and Chris go swimming together alone.
Nor really, should any of them be doing it at all when they're drunk for that matter, but he isn't about to bring that up after being the one to voice the motherly concerns over sanitation. If they drown, be it on Chris and Jensen's heads.
Moodily, he follows the other two out the back door and into the night. The sky is littered with pinpoints of light, as if someone's upturned a sugar bowl. If sugar glowed radioactive.
Up ahead, weaving slightly and alarmingly off-kilter, Jensen and Chris continue to flirt and laugh. It's getting on Misha's nerves, though he couldn't say why, exactly.
And what kind of a grown man calls people 'baby', anyway, he thinks bitterly as Chris leans over and loudly whispers something dirty in Jensen's ear. Jensen snorts and shoves Chris in the shoulder, sending him teetering sideways before arcing back inwards to Jensen like a magnetized iron filing.
They've only gone a few hundred yards behind the barn when Jensen and Chris stop and start shucking clothing like it's on fire.
Of all the ways Misha thought he'd see Jensen naked - not that he's ever thought such a thing, ever - it was never in the dark under the light of a full moon. He's also not complaining about it, watching the lean expanse of muscled back and tight ass, firm thighs, shaped calves currently wading into mud and water. Not until Chris' hand smacks the right cheek of Jensen's ass, a loud thwack as it makes contact.
Jensen yelps and turns with a stumble, and suddenly Misha can see the dark thatch of hair between Jensen's legs, the line of slightly-hard cock jutting out from it. He can see chest and ribs and arms and he realises, with what feels like a small aneurysm, that he wants to do more than just see it.
He's not completely self-deluded. It's not like he's never noticed that his co-star is attractive, in an abstract kind of way. And really, it's hard not to notice something like that when your mind is open to both genders being worthy recipients of lust. He'd just never realised his mind was taking the thought seriously.
Jensen is wrestling Chris into the deeper water in retaliation for the spanking and Misha notices, rather belatedly that, of course, Jensen isn't the only one who's naked. Chris' body is just as toned, though shorter and more compact than the lean stretch of Jensen's. Objectively, Misha can see that it's attractive. That the power and strength corded under Chris' skin is clearly something to be turned on by, the patch of hair between Chris' legs lighter and thinner but the dick no less impressive. And yet Chris isn't the one Misha's eyes are drawn to.
It's around the point he realises he's been standing on the shoreline for good minutes, just staring, when Chris notices it too.
"See something you like, Misha?" Chris leers, pushing forward back into the shallows, water sluicing off him in rivers.
Misha says nothing, there's nothing he can say. He came on this trip hoping to uncover some more dirt on who Jensen really is, not unearth how he really felt about the guy. Because he does see things he likes, and it's fucked up and a significant problem...but true.
"Aren't you coming in, Mish?" Jensen says, voice strangely quiet given the yelping and carrying on of a moment ago.
But he ...can't. He can't process his thoughts let alone act on them. He's at least sober enough to realise that if he takes his clothes off right now, gets into that water with Jensen, with Chris...well, it won't be good.
Jensen is looking at him, eyes hooded and black in the darkness, water glistening in the moonlight as it runs down his skin. Chris smirks, says something that Misha doesn't hear because he's turning, letting his feet give in to the flight impulse seizing his muscles.
He hears Jensen call his name, Chris swearing and the sound of water splashing. He struggles to keep his pace even.
His brain blips weirdly to watching Looney Tunes with his brother as a kid, Bugs Bunny tunneling onwards in the vain attempt to reach Albuquerque, or was it Timbuktu? Certainly he feels like he made a wrong turn somewhere in this night. Maybe if he just keeps walking...
"Fuck, Misha," Chris' voice is angry and loud and a hand clamps down on his bicep. Misha swings wildly, jerking around to face Chris who's standing in jeans, dripping water and looking pissed.
Misha just stares at him. It seems he's lost all ability to work functionally.
"You can't just fucking run off into the night," Chris grumbles pissily, slinging bedraggled hair back off his forehead with a hand. "You'll get yourself fucking killed."
"I'm not a child," Misha snaps, suddenly finding his voice.
"You're not a country native either," Chris snaps back. "Fuck, there are electric fences and fifty head of cattle, and rattlesnakes and god knows what other things waiting to have your hide out there."
"I'm sure you'd like that," Misha bitches back, and it isn't fair. Isn't even adult, but he can't seem to stop the stupid words coming out of his mouth. As if the day's silent watching of Chris and Jensen flirting has suddenly snapped his maturity with the revelation of why exactly it had managed to get on his nerves.
Even in the darkness, Misha sees Chris roll his eyes.
"Are you fucking kidding me with this? What are you, five?" Chris growls.
Misha shrugs, every inch the petulant child he knows he's being. And still, he says nothing.
"Jesus you're one dumb son-of-a-bitch, you know that?" Chris bites out, and as Jensen hurries into sight, wet but fully clothed, Chris' hands shoot out to Misha's t-shirt and yank hard. Misha stumbles into Chris' bodily, arms already raising to defend himself but Chris isn't fighting; he's kissing.
His lips are closed, firmly pressed against Misha's, and he makes no move to open them. Which is good, because Misha is too shocked to even understand the mechanism of kissing. Water drips from Chris' hair in cold rivulets down Misha's t-shirt and the moment spins out like molasses in summer, cut short only by the strangled sound that comes from behind them.
Misha jerks back from Chris' mouth like he's been electrocuted, just in time to see Jensen's shocked face before he spins on his heel and jogs in the direction of the house.
"Fuck!" Misha snaps, the sound echoing over the hard-packed earth and bouncing back from surrounding buildings. "What the fuck was that, you asshole?"
Chris just looks at him pointedly. "That was your fucking wake up call. And probably Jen's too. Now do something about it, or you're both as dumb-fucked as I think you are."
With that Chris turns and stalks back to the water to retrieve the rest of his clothing.
Misha stands stock still in the middle of the night, barely notices the crickets chirruping or the sound of a dog howling off in the distance. His mind is whizzing so fast it's almost blank.
He isn't sure, but he thinks Jensen looked hurt. Which would imply that Jensen's more invested in either him or Chris than he's been playing it. Then again, Misha's always known that Jensen is a disgustingly good actor. If it was because of the sight of Chris kissing someone, rather than Misha doing so, then surely Jensen has had the opportunity to make it happen before now... the easy flirting and teasing that is clearly not a new thing between the two clearly permission enough to have taken it further, if he'd wanted to.
Which, logically, Misha thinks as he bends and picks up a rock, hurling it angrily as far as he can into the shadows, means that maybe Jensen was not hurt by Chris kissing someone, but by someone kissing Misha.
Fuck.
By the time he makes his way back to the house, the lights are dimmed and there's no one around.
* * *
He sleeps fitfully, tossing and turning in the heat. Part of him wants nothing more than to get up and go down the hall to Jensen's room. Confront him and explain, or soothe, or yell. He doesn't know which it will be, and so he stays, rooted to the bed.
Jensen doesn't show for breakfast. Chris shuffles into the kitchen to feed the dogs and make coffee. He nods at Misha but doesn't say anything about the night before. Misha knows his luck isn't so good that everyone was drunk enough to block out the memory.
Misha grabs the novel Jensen was reading on the plane from the coffee table, it’s something about spies and conspiracies, and spends the morning curled into the hammock on the porch, reading and trying to keep his thoughts from wandering into new and tender territory. The frustration creeps in as he has to re-read whole chapters that he’s page-turned without actually taking in.
By noon, the sun is directly above the house and the long morning slants of sunlight have turned to deep shadow under the porch awning. The air is sharp with heat and sweat sidles down Misha’s temples.
Jensen still hasn't appeared when he makes his way back into the house. For a second, maybe two, Misha contemplates once more the idea of barging down the corridor and through Jensen’s door. Demanding to know what’s going on, even though he’s not sure he’d have an answer were Jensen to do the same to him.
A rumble from his stomach reminds him that it’s been hours since breakfast, and, partly in cowardice, he decides on lunch instead of a rash intervention. He reaches the kitchen at the same time as Chris from the opposite door, wandering in from wherever he’s been hiding all morning.
Given the dusting of hay across his shoulders and the smell, it’s been somewhere involving horses. Which surprises Misha, because even though he knows there are working animals on the property, he’d assumed, by the ridiculous stereotyped exterior, that it was more a rich person’s version of ranch, equipped with ranch hands or whatever, rather than an actual farm in need of tending by its rich and famous owner. Or an owner that would even want to.
Chris nods at him with a grunt, yanking open the double-wide fridge. “Beer?”
“Thanks,” Misha answers, takes the proffered bottle when Chris turns back with two.
He takes his seat at the kitchen bench, nods again when Chris holds up a loaf of bread. Sandwiches it is. From the bowels of the fridge Chris unearths cheese, tomatoes, mustard, lettuce and roast beef.
Beats peanut butter and jelly. Misha grabs a couple slices of bread and reaches for a tomato. They construct in silence for a few minutes.
"Got some people coming over tonight. Have a bit of a barbecue and shit," Chris says eventually, cutting a slice of cheese almost thicker than the bread he's putting it on.
"Great," Misha mutters, not trying to be deliberately petulant but having a hard time not blaming Chris for Jensen's absence, the giant spanner thrown in the works of Misha's life. Regardless of whether Jensen is upset at Chris for kissing Misha, or Misha for being kissed by Chris, he's clearly upset enough to take his leave of both of them.
Chris scowls, eyes narrowing at him across the table. "S'gonna be family, so behave or fuck off, got it?"
The tone is authoritative and Misha naturally wants to buck against it, but he's strangely out of his depth here, not on his own turf and in a situation he never expected. He nods instead.
“Sorry. I don’t mean to be a shitty house guest. It’s just, you know,” Misha shrugs, waves the hand with the knife in a helpless motion.
Chris raises an eyebrow. “I’m not really sure I do. All I know is we were fucking around in the water and next thing we know you’re having a conniption and wandering off to get eaten by wolves.”
“I sincerely doubt you have wolves this far south,” Misha mutters.
“Not the point, man,” Chris growls softly, slapping roast beef down on his tower of sandwich.
Again, Misha shrugs. It’s not like he really knows what happened either. “It wasn’t planned…” he tries.
“Not well, anyway,” Chris remarks, slathers mustard over the remaining slice of bread.
“No,” Misha agrees, “not well.”
“So…?” Chris prompts, gruffly.
Misha concentrates hard on slicing perfectly even slices of cheese. “The thought just sort of happened to me-"
“While Jen was buck naked in a waterhole,” Chris interrupts and Misha dismisses him, the point that he’s making.
“Like I said. Not planned. It’s just, it’s Jensen, you know?” He looks up as he says it, catching Chris’ gaze. He feels like the most ineloquent person in the world, unable to tame the maelstrom of emotions in his head into words that make sense.
Chris grunts but it’s soft, considered. “Yeah. He has that effect on some. Though, gotta say, usually it isn’t a delayed response.”
“What can I say, I’m good at going about things ass-backwards.”
Chris eyes the sandwich that Misha has been making, meat on bread, mustard on meat, cheese on mustard, tomato to the side of the plate. “Yes, I think that’s probably true.”
Misha rolls his eyes and slaps the lot of it together into a haphazard semblance of a sandwich. “And then Jensen’s face…and I don’t know what he thinks, but it’s probably screwed up not only a friendship, but a working relationship. Enough so that he’s apparently locked himself in his tower.”
"Just, give him some space, man. I've known Jen a long damn time. I never read the kid wrong yet."
“Space for what, to call Eric and have me fired? To have Jared sock me in the jaw?”
Chris laughs dryly. “Son, if Jen wants someone taken care of? I’m the one he’ll come to. Not Bigfoot.”
Misha smiles slightly, even though it’s a fairly terrifying thought.
“Just give him time,” Chris repeats, gathers his beer and food. “Oh, and clean up this mess after you’re done,” he adds as he turns and leaves the room with a smirk.
Misha sits at the table with his sandwich, and a bench top littered with foodstuffs, and mulls over Chris’ words, unsure. He’s never liked not knowing things and he doesn’t like not being ready. It's especially vexing when he isn't prepared for his own damn feelings. To not have clued himself in on the fact that he wanted Jensen as much as he apparently does, to be completely blindsided by his own fucking brain? Feels like betrayal.
Sighing, he eats his lunch alone in the empty kitchen.
* * *
People start arriving around four in the afternoon. A growing metal sea of pick-ups and 4-wheel drives laps at the stairs of the porch.
Misha does his best to fade into the background. He recognises Chris in the people who begin to mill around the barbecue out back, the same nose, same eye colour. It's fascinating in the creepy way of genetics. Kids run about with the dogs as the men inspect the barbecue or talk about the weather and the women look on in amusement.
He's onto his third beer and beginning to wonder if Jensen is going to show at all when he catches sight of him across the yard, bending to grab a beer out of the tub of ice. He's wearing tight jeans and cowboy boots, a soft gray sweater. He's dressed up for the 'company'.
Misha's heart makes an abortive leap in his chest before he forces himself to calm down, not to rush over and beg forgiveness or something ridiculous and ineffective. What would he even say anyway? Sorry, I realised I have a hard on for you, that won't make work difficult, right? Or maybe, So your friend sucked my face, but I swear there was no tongue, or, He seems to think you might want to fuck me, true?
The more he thinks about it, the stronger the growing sense of dread in his stomach. The situation is so fourth grade. He feels like Jensen found a note he wrote in class proclaiming his undying lust. Like something has happened that they can't claw their way back from even though it hasn't and they've done nothing, said nothing.
Maybe the best plan is to ignore that anything almost happened. Or almost didnt. Fuck, he doesn't even know which way is up anymore. Regardless, if nothing is confirmed, then nothing has to change.
Which doesn't explain the way he escapes along side the house, follows the porch to the hammock and cocoons himself away. The party is nothing but a dull echo of laughter and frivolity that he's not a part of and doesn't want to be.
In truth, he's feeling sorry for himself. He's quite good at it; he's an actor after all.
He isn't sure if he dozes off or has lulled himself into a trance, but he's blearily aware of the sound of soft footsteps approaching, cowboy boots clacking on wood. He can feel it in the prickle of hair on the back of his arms, but he opens his eyes anyway, confirms that it's Jensen standing above him. He can't read the expression on Jensen's face, and he knows that that's probably deliberate.
He clears his throat from the tug of sleep. "You came out."
Immediately, Misha cringes at the unfortunate choice of words. Just, shit.
But Jensen just laughs softly, shuffles his feet before indicating with a hand that Misha should make room in the hammock for him.
Misha wonders if Jensen has ever been in a hammock before, because it's not the easiest sitting apparatus to just 'shove over' in, but eventually he untangles limbs and canvas enough to make room, righting himself upwards and feet dangling over the side.
Jensen settles in with comparative ease, the bow of the material pressing him tight into Misha's side. Despite the circumstances, it feels comfortable. Like sitting squashed against Jensen on Jared's couch while reciting lines. Friendly.
"So..." Misha starts, but trails off into an annoying repeat of the night before when his words, the things he holds sacred to his being, desert him again.
Jensen chuckles nervously and then falls silent, his fingers fidgeting in his lap. A cow bellows in the distance and Misha watches from the corner of his eye as Jensen stares out into the dusk.
"So," Jensen echoes on the end of an exhale, and it's more solid than Misha's try, "do you like me, Misha?"
Misha startles at the baldness of Jensen's question, unusual coming from someone who essentially hid under his blankets for the last fourteen hours. He turns sharply to look at him fully and finds himself within an inch of Jensen's face, Jensen watching him for a response. They stare at each other for stop-motion seconds, neither daring to breathe, both silently gauging the other's intent.
Misha makes up his mind, not to answer, but to kiss.
Only Jensen gets there first, stuttering slightly forward and pressing soft lips to Misha's.
Misha presses back, soft and chaste, his stomach flips awkwardly over itself and his heart skips into his throat. Jensen moves a fraction of an inch from him, ready to pull back and reassess, but Misha isn't going to have it. He presses forward more insistently and licks the seam of Jensen's lips.
When Jensen's mouth opens on a soft moan, Misha's tongue sweeps inside; it's wet and cool and tastes of beer, and his tongue tangles with Misha's, swiping, learning and pressing. Misha's hands find Jensen's hips, clutching gently at the denim; not pulling, just suggesting.
They do nothing but kiss silently for long minutes; Misha swiping with his tongue, pulling back to nip on Jensen's lips, place closed-mouth kisses to the corners. Jensen's fingers ghost down the sides of his ribs, gentle and slow and Misha's fingers clench and relax around Jensen's hipbones like a cat. The hammock sways gently with their movement, quiet creaks coming rhythmically from the taut ropes.
Eventually, the squeal of a child from the barbecue area alerts them to the fact that they're making out in the same space as a family picnic. Jensen pulls back, lips swollen and damp, cheeks flushed. Misha narrowly bests the urge to chase Jensen's lips as they leave his own and Jensen smiles widely, unabashed, and it nearly does something ridiculous like take Misha's breath away.
Endorphins tend to make him a bit soppy; he's learned to live with it.
"So," Jensen drawls, his voice gone languid and Texan with arousal. "I take it that was a yes?"
Misha laughs, feels it rumbling up out of his chest. "No, shit."
He wants to say more, to explain that it isn't just now, just this weekend, or how actually it is exactly that, but that he'd rather it becomes more. But his verbosity has abandoned him, and he knows exactly how it will come out. Instead, he throws caution to the wind and rushes back in to recapture Jensen's lips.
Jensen groans and his hands slide around Misha's back, tugging him closer and making the hammock swing wildly. Misha counts his lucky stars that he doesn't get motion sick and pushes Jensen firmly down into the canvas. He follows Jensen down, only their calves sticking over the edge.
Jensen's breath hitches hard and his eyes slam closed as Misha settles on top of him, flying open again as Misha tentatively grinds downwards, one foot hitting the floor for leverage and causing the hammock to tilt dangerously upwards, threatening to spill them out onto the porch.
"Jesus," Jensen murmurs, one hand clinging to Misha's hip, the other to the upper edge of the hammock.
"Yes," Misha agrees, forgoes his usual response of 'no, just Misha' in favour of the moment. He pushes his hips down again, feels the hardening ridge of Jensen's cock jab and slip against his hip. The noise Jensen makes is half moan, half gasp. It's a good sound. He wants to hear it more.
"Mish, wait..." Jensen stutters, though he seems unable to stop the upward press of his own hips into Misha's. Misha zeroes in and suckles on Jensen's neck, noses up behind his ear and just breathes in the smell of shampoo and sweat.
"Misha," Jensen tries again, more insistently, fingers scrabbling against Misha's back.
Misha pulls back, tries not to groan in frustration. "Jensen?"
"We can't do this here, man. There are children around. My fucking god-daughter is out there."
Misha didn't even know Jensen had god-children, and it reminds him that there's a lot he doesn't know. That this thing is so new he doesn't know much of anything, past the fact that he wants. Still, he isn't about to stop now that he's got something.
He drops his voice to a whisper and stares earnestly. "Well then, we'll have to be really fucking quiet, don't you think?"
Jensen's eyes darken and his throat clicks as he swallows over arousal. "Misha," he begins and the tone is a warning, but Misha doesn't heed it. Can't. Instead he slides his left hand upwards, covers it over Jensen's bruised lips lightly.
"Uh uh, Jen," he whispers. "No talking."
He'll let Jensen get away with the whimper.
"Quick," Misha whispers into the shell of Jensen's ear. "Buckles."
He bites down on Jensen's ear lobe. The answering puff of air expelled sharply against his fingers confirms that Jensen is okay with the plan - more than okay - despite the danger.
And totally on board, actually, Jensen's hands come up sharply and shove Misha to the side to gain access to their pants. He undoes his own belt first, the slide of metal loud to Misha's ears. The zip sliding down, equally so.
And then Jensen's hands are on Misha's fly, unpopping buttons. Misha harnesses will he didn't know he possessed in order not to press down into those hands, those fingers. It would be the definition of counterproductive.
And then they're both open, cock against cock, with only thin layers of cotton between them. . Jensen is hard and burning hot and Misha thrusts his own cock forward without even needing to think.
Jensen groans underneath him, underneath his fingers, and Misha struggles not to moan out loud, bites down on his own lip to stop himself. Even if their predominantly clothed state hides much from prying eyes, it wouldn't be hard for a passer by to guess at what's going on with noises like those he wants to make escaping into the night air.
When his senses clear he becomes aware of Jensen's tongue in the grooves between his fingers and soft mumbled words.
Curious, he lifts his hand a fraction from Jensen's mouth. Jensen's voice is hoarse even as he whispers.
"Fuck, Misha, your fingers," Jensen says, his tongue darting out to lick along his middle finger.
Misha can't help but grin. "You like my fingers?" he whispers.
"God yes, how could anyone not. Have you seen your fingers, man?"
"Know 'em like the back of my hand," Misha deadpans and while Jensen's eyes roll, his mouth smiles.
"They're so...long," Jensen continues, almost hesitant.
"Do you want to suck them?" Misha asks, deadly serious and insanely turned on.
Jensen does moan then, struggles to keep it quiet enough not to draw attention. Misha mock glares and silences him by pressing the pad of his index finger to Jensen's lips. Jensen's mouth opens instantly and draws Misha's finger in, tongue pulling wetly and sucking down its length pornographically.
"Oh god," Misha groans softly and begins to rut against Jensen in earnest. Their cocks jerk and bump against each other, sliding haphazardly, material cool and wet where they're leaking beneath it. Jensen thrusts back, as much as he can without a solid base underneath him.
The creaking of the rope intensifies with their movements; a metronome of porn as their bodies slide almost vertical and their feet find purchase on the wood of the porch. Misha's hips grate and shove against Jensen in shallow, harsh movements.
His breathing is laboured and the need to cry out, to moan or whimper or yell, is pressing up his throat, so he leans to the side his hand isn't and buries his face in Jensen's throat. It's hot and damp, a thin sheen of sex-sweat slicking Jensen's skin. He can't help the groan that escapes, and though Jensen's cock jerks against his at the noise, Jensen reprimands with a sharp nip to Misha's finger.
Misha laughs softly, the sound hitched and breathless. He pulls back to see Jensen's face, the look of pure arousal and need. When Jensen gasps around Misha's finger he uses the opportunity to slip another in and Jensen groans himself, the vibration stuttering through his tongue.
"Like that, Jen?" Misha can't help but ask; words, previously fled, flooding back in unstoppable motion. Jensen's breath hitches in puffs around Misha's fingers and Misha can't stop. "You get off on having me in you?"
Before Misha gets his reward of Jensen's moans or gasps, laughter echoes from the party around the corner, its sound way too close for comfort. They both freeze at the same moment, paused on a precipice of need.
Adrenaline floods Misha's veins as he prays and counts furiously to ten.
The laugh comes again but it's moved further away and Misha feels the breath of relief slip from Jensen's lungs beneath his chest. But even with such threat of exposure, Jensen's still wound tight and hard. Misha can feel it.
He feels like a bit of a god.
Kissing and licking, he makes his way back to Jensen's ear. "Fuck, Jensen. We need to do this again."
Jensen hums around his fingers, and it sounds like a yes.
"No really," Misha whispers, grinding his hips down and sparking pleasure through his gut. "Not that the whole public indecency thing doesn't turn me on, because you can feel how much it does, can't you Jen?" he emphasises the words with a slow hard grind of his cock along Jensen's. "But I need to hear your moans, Jen. Your whimpers and sighs."
Jensen's eyes close again and Misha can feel the tension coiling in the body underneath him, the hitching breath around his fingers.
"I want to hear you...fuck...I want to hear you scream, Jen," Misha moans as quietly as he can manage, directly into Jensen's ear.
Jensen's teeth clamp down on Misha's fingers, hard enough to cause discomfort. Not hard enough to do anything except harden Misha's cock in ecstatic want. He's so close, so fucking close, and he can feel that Jensen is too.
"Jen, Jensen, god I want to hear you come. Please let me hear you come," he manages to get out in a strangled moan as his balls tighten past the trip point. Misha's stomach flips almost nauseatingly, and he's coming in waves, coating the inside of his underwear, thrusting down violently into Jensen's warmth.
He knows the exact moment Jensen comes, because Jensen jerks. Hard enough that it almost knocks Misha off balance. Jensen's teeth snap down hard on the bones of Misha's fingers and Misha's cock jerks at the unexpected pain, a last ditch effort at continual orgasm.
Immediately, Jensen goes limp beneath him, legs giving way and the balance actually tipping Misha off centre; they fall back to horizontal, the hammock swinging dangerously wide.
For wild seconds it threatens to upturn, the rope groaning at the weight of two grown bodies and sudden momentum. But eventually it settles, keeping its cargo, and they cling together in harsh breaths as their heartbeats attempt normalcy and their sweat begins to evaporate.
Jensen unclamps his teeth and runs his tongue soothingly over Misha's tooth-dented skin. It's a soft and gentle counterpoint to the spent sharpness of Misha's cock, over-sensitive and sticky in his shorts. He almost doesn't want to pull his fingers free, but he does. He knows they can't stay here any longer than they have.
"Misha..." Jensen breathes, and it's so quietly reverential that it makes Misha's cheeks flame in embarrassment.
"Later," Misha murmurs, leans in and kisses him softly, possessively.
* * *
They untangle themselves from the hammock on shaky legs and Jensen tugs on Misha's wrist to get him to follow. He does, and Jensen leads him back further along the porch to a side door, blessedly close to their bedrooms.
A quick washcloth job in the bathroom, a hard kiss, and Jensen saunters back out to the barbecue. He leaves Misha to wait a respectable interval before doing the same.
Misha slumps against the sink, wants nothing more than to curl up in bed and lick Jensen's skin damp. And fuck, but he's absolutely going to do that later, if nothing else. Whatever this thing with Jensen is, he knows that it isn't just a bit of frottage in the heat of the moment. His jealousy and Jensen's hurt from the day before proving it went past superficial lust and into something 'more' long ago.
Letting himself out of the bathroom he retreats to the kitchen and grabs one of the beers in the sink before heading into the yard. On his way he notices the children engrossed in a movie in the lounge room. So at least they hadn't been in danger of mentally scarring any of them he realises with relief.
People are still milling around, though the sun has long since sunk and darkness fallen. The porch lights flood the yard with gentle yellow light and darken the shadows. The breeze is filled with the smell of charcoal and summer and the melodic sounds of conversation and cicadas.
The air outside is cooler without the heated flush of arousal suffusing Misha's skin. He wanders over, oh so casually - actor, remember - to where Jensen stands next to a ten-gallon drum turned fire pit. Neither of them say a word, despite the safety now to do so. But Jensen's eyes are on his instantly and they're warm with more than flame.
Before it can turn into some horrible parody of a harlequin romance, Chris interrupts with two plates of blackened steak, a beer bottle held under his arm.
"And how are my girls doing?" he asks with a smirk that suggests he knows exactly why they disappeared, if not the where.
Which, thank god... because Misha really isn't planning on getting shot tonight.
Jensen scuffs up dirt with the heel of his boot and snorts. "I hope you're not implying you're the gentleman in this scenario."
Chris shoves the plates at them. "Do you want your mother-fuckin' food or not, smartasses?"
"Hey," Misha pouts as he takes his plate of burnt juicy cow gratefully, "my ass had nothing to do with it."
"Really?" Chris raises an eyebrow suggestively, "'Cause that's not what I've been hearing."
Jensen erupts into laughter and toasts his bottle with a clink against Chris' in agreement. Chris grins back at him before taking a swig of his own.
Apparently, they've reached the portion of the weekend where Jensen and Chris gang up on him, then.
As the firelight flickers gold across Jensen's cheekbones and Chris begins flirting shamelessly again, Misha decides he's okay with that.
There are worse places to be.
* * *
End.
Title: Southern Discomfort and a bit of Hospitality
Author: qthelights
Recipient: evil_knitter
Pairing: Jensen/Misha
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Semi-public (hidden) sex
Spoilers: General remark on Misha's role in the series, but none really.
Wordcount: 8,200
Summary: Jensen invites Misha to Chris' for the weekend. Nothing happens the way Misha thinks it will.
Author notes: For the prompts of: sneaky boys, quiet - hidden - sex, party/family barbecue, finger sucking and a wrap around porch ;) Beta thanks to a_carnal_mink and general thanks to kadiel_krieger.
Southern Discomfort and a bit of Hospitality
The house they drive up to, Jensen at the wheel of a rented pickup, dust billowing in rusty plumes in their wake, is more of a ranch than a simple house. It sprawls across the landscape, a mass of rough-hewn weathered wood and glass, a giant porch wrapping around it like a security blanket. Trees dot the landscape, old and stately, but for the most part all Misha can see is miles of gently undulating pasture, ringed and divided closest to the house in white pine fencing. Horses graze near a red painted barn and in the distance cattle mill about in the sun. It's all so cliche it makes him either want to retch at the predictability of it all or clap his hands in glee at the opportunity to play in an Barbie's country dollhouse.
He does neither; both being open to ridicule from Jensen next to him. The one in mirrored aviators and carefully frayed jeans. It's probably not the way to begin a weekend as a guest at someone's house. Especially someone as territorially Southern as Kane. Or Jensen, for that matter.
Still, it's a trip, Misha thinks, as they cross under a wooden gate proclaiming them entering Kane Kountry. The long-horn cattle horns are probably a requirement this far South. As, he's sure, is the white-painted wagon wheel propped 'casually' to the side.
Misha stops the snort that threatens, but he's maybe not as circumspect as he thinks he is because Jensen glances over at him with a grin, white veneers and upper lip curl. "You're on our turf now, Misha. Careful."
Misha does snort then. Because, really. Southern boys are so deliciously ridiculous. He's going to enjoy Jensen in his natural habitat.
"I know exactly what you're thinking, you know," Jensen deadpans, following the curve of the dirt road.
"Does it involve underpants?" Misha asks serenely.
Jensen shakes his head on a laugh.
As the car crunches its way up to the proper gravel drive of the house, Christian is already coming through the front door in bare feet and tatty jeans, surrounded by dogs of dubious lineage. The benefits of having a driveway a mile long, it seems; country folk know when you're coming, can always greet you somethin' proper. Or shoot you before you step off your horse.
Briefly, Misha wonders about the wisdom of saying yes to this outing. He doesn't know Kane at all other than brief glimpses associated with Jensen. He's never even seen Leverage, though Jensen gave him the dvd set for Christmas last year. A fact that Jensen rolls his eyes at and calls him weird for, not watching television but prancing around on it for a living. Usually Misha just shrugs and grins lackadaisically; he'll get there eventually, but for the moment he's got too many other things to do.
Like coming along to this shindig, it appears. When Jensen had asked what he had planned for the week off, Misha had come up blank - though given time he would have filled the thing, no question - and Jensen hadn't hesitated to invite him along. Misha doesn't know if it was out of pity or a genuine interest in his company, though he knows which one he'd rather.
If nothing else, he'd figured, it'd give him quality time to spend with a friend. And that it would occur away from everyone that he suspected Jensen put on a mask for, allow him to dig a little further into his colleague's psyche? Well so much the better. Knowledge was always interesting. He'd said yes and found himself on a plane bound for Oklahoma, Jensen reading in the seat next to him.
They rented a truck at the airport and Jensen had settled into the upholstery like he owned the thing - arm dangling out the window in the sun, legs stretched and lazily pumping the accelerator. Relaxed is a good look on him, Misha acknowledges.
Jensen pulls up next to a battered Chevy and an old Kawasaki and switches off the engine.
"I need a beer," he says, sliding the sunglasses up onto his head. "Hope Chris got the good shit this time."
Misha isn't sure what the good shit is, but he imagines either man's taste is gonna be pretty much a thousandfold better than what he's used to drinking in LA.
"You're sure it's cool that I'm turning up?" He questions as Jensen goes for the door handle. Though, really, it's a bit late to be asking.
Jensen rolls his eyes. "Misha, seriously. I want you here. Chris's cool with whatever. Relax."
Dogs surround the vehicle as Jensen gets out and Misha watches him stop to rough-house with each of them, throwing them into an orgy of froth and happy yelping. They obviously know him. When it seems like Jensen may not survive the canine convergence Kane whistles short and sharp between his thumb and forefinger and they bound away, scampering into the yard to begin a game of human-less chase.
Misha grabs his pack from the back seat and closes the door with a satisfying thump. Coming around the back of the truck he finds that Jensen's already made his way to the porch, manfully backslap-hugging Kane with the comfort of long-time friends.
Chris slaps Misha on the shoulder with less enthusiasm. "Welcome, man. I've been needing someone to swap embarrassing stories about my boy with."
Misha hesitates, not wanting to side with a stranger over Jensen, but welcoming the chance to be included. "Always happy to help create chaos and tears."
Jensen groans under his breath - something that sounds suspiciously like 'bad ideas' - as he makes his way into the house like he's lived there all his life.
Chris grins like a predator. "We're gonna have fun with this."
Misha isn't entirely sure.
* * *
Despite the promise of a combined attack on Jensen, the afternoon devolves into Chris and Jensen conversing mostly with each other. If the flirting, taunting, muck-raking, and propositioning that goes on can be called 'conversing'. Misha isn't feeling charitable enough to believe it is.
He perches on a bar stool, because of course Chris has a bar in his living room, and nurses his beer - which turned out to be weaker than he expected. He watches the other two play video games against each other. They snark and bicker and laugh and Misha finds himself somewhat envious of the obvious bond they have with each other. That Chris has with Jensen.
It's not like he and Jensen don't laugh on set. Hell, they do it too much, if the growling of random directors is anything to go by, but this is different. Chris and Jensen aren't laughing at Jared's flatulence or a stupid line the writers think is 'natural'. They're laughing at each other, with each other, in line with the natural evolution of friendship. It feels like more than what Misha has with Jensen, and that kicks him off balance and curdles his stomach.
Unless he blames the beer.
"You're getting soft, Jen," Chris smirks, kicking at Jensen's shin with a bare foot. Jensen sits on the couch, Wii controller in hand, leaning forward and face creased in concentration.
"Fuck off," Jensen replies distractedly, weaving his body sideways with the remote to move the car on the screen out of the rough and back onto the racecourse. "Just because we work on our set while you lot fuck off and let Hutton do the acting..."
They're playing something redneck, monster truck racing or NASCAR perhaps, Misha doesn't know or care; he's happy to just sit and watch. The trash talk has been going on for the better part of an hour.
Chris chuckles darkly, pushes his arms forward and veers his vehicle across the track, pushing Jensen's off the screen again. "Like hell. The amount of hours you guys lose to Jared's burrito munching means you have more than enough time to practice your game."
"Please don't use the phrase 'burrito munching'," Jensen glares before turning back to the tv.
Chris' laugh is dark and taunting. "Oh? Why Jenny? Makes you crave something 9 inches long and full of meat?"
Jensen snorts. "You offering?"
"You know I'm always available to you, baby," Chris croons.
"I'd prefer you didn't mention the words burrito and Jared in any context," Misha observes philosophically and the other two glance up, as if surprised to find him still in the room.
Chris considers Misha and changes tack. "I'll bet Misha here has time to practice. Boy has the sweetest gig around, credits of a regular but special guest screen time."
"Burrito munching or gaming?" Jensen asks.
Chris tilts his head as if considering Misha. "Boy's got a pretty nice set of lips on him, so I dunno."
"Dude," Jensen groans. Misha isn't sure if it's because Chris took it a step too far or if it's because Jensen finds the idea of him sucking cock reprehensible. Once again Misha finds himself confused as to which version he prefers.
Chris makes a tsking sound. "Don't worry, Babe, you still got the prettiest damn cock-sucking lips in the South, I swear it."
"Damn straight," Jensen nods firmly, though he glances at Misha as if checking his reaction. Chris laughs again and it grates on Misha's nerves.
Five minutes later when Jensen railroads his avatar on screen, Chris turns on him, wrestling him into the couch with a knee on his chest in an attempt to conquer Jensen's controller.
Misha pops the cap off another beer and tries to ignore the tightness in his gut.
* * *
By dinnertime Misha has a nice buzz going, a mellow sort of marination of the brain. Jensen and Chris haven’t stopped the incessant needling, but at least the vast amount of alcohol they’ve consumed has slowed them down.
It’s a bit like watching some kind of weird nature documentary, where two long lost littermates have been reunited and must bite and jump and roll each other in the dirt before they can be satisfied that the other is really there and not going away in an eye-blink.
Migrating into the kitchen, Chris and Jensen begin to make dinner. A huge pot of chili is deemed the only way to go. They're clearly used to being in each other’s space, sliding easily around each other, frying onions and mince, cutting tomatoes and peppers. Or at least, Chris does all those things and Jensen plays the more-than-slightly inebriated chef's assistant, passing things when asked.
When everything has made it into the pot and Chris is stirring lazily as he hums to himself, Jensen grabs his beer and comes around to sit at the bench next to Misha.
“’Sup?” Jensen asks, eyes sparkling with the gloss of alcohol.
“’Sup? Really? That’s what we’re going with?”
“What?” Jensen asks, but he’s smiling stupidly like he's entirely aware that it isn't something he'd normally say.
Misha snorts. “Nothing, I guess.”
“No seriously,” Jensen drawls, “I haven’t spoken to you all day, feels like.”
“Hmmm…that’d be because you haven’t,” Misha responds with a pointed look over his beer bottle.
“Awww, don’t be like that, baby,” Jensen says with a grin and it’s such a direct imitation of Chris’ tendency to use the word that Misha laughs, hears Chris sniggering from the stove top too.
“Sorry, man," Jensen says, and despite the alcohol that coats the words, he does look sincerely contrite. "S'just Chris's my brother, you know? Haven't seen him in a damned age."
Jensen gestures between himself and Chris with his arm. Chris has turned to lean against the benchtop near the stove, long-neck in hand and watching Jensen with an amused fondness.
“Yes, Jen, I think he understands,” Chris monotones, and although he’s trying to help, Misha is irrationally annoyed that Chris thinks he needs it.
“Indeed, I do,” Misha says, but he keeps his eye on the bottle in front of him. Begins to absently pick at the condensation-wet label with his thumbnail.
Jensen has many brothers; Kane, Jared, Steve…his actual brother. And it isn’t like Misha thinks he ought to make the grade or anything like that. He knows he and Jensen aren’t anywhere near as close, it’s part of the reason he was surprised Jensen invited him down here in the first place. Of course, when Misha had said yes, he'd imagined he might actually get to spend some time with Jensen, as opposed to watching him spend time with someone else.
This time it's Jensen who snorts, and he bangs his bottle down a little too hard on the marble counter-top. “Then why you all...quiet? You're never silent, Misha. It's not natural.”
Misha rolls his eyes, flicks a bit of wet paper onto the bench with his forefinger and thumb. “I’m not, Jensen. You’re just drunk.”
“I don't think that's it,” Jensen says, matter-of-factly and goes to take a swig of his beer. It comes up empty. He looks at the bottle for a moment before refocusing on Misha, as if considering something serious.
But when he opens his mouth, it isn't to say more than, 'It's broken'.
Chris reaches out a hand for the empty which Jensen dutifully slaps into his palm. “I’ll get more from the garage. Though drinking a man out of his home is bad fucking manners, Jenny.”
Jensen sniffs. “Whatever, dude. You know you just want me drunk enough that you can have your way with me.”
Chris simply winks at Jensen and heads out to the garage.
The sour feeling in Misha's stomach slides into his throat again.
* * *
Sometime after dusk, when they're all a little more sober from stomachs full of chili and a little more tipsy from the hard liquor Chris brought out, Jensen sits up from where he's sprawled on the floor and declares they should go skinny dipping.
"You have a pool?" Misha asks in Chris' direction because it seems the safer option given that he could be asking about the nakedness part of the plan.
Chris grins and looks at him with a predatory gleam in his eye, "nope."
Jensen sniggers, but it sounds dangerously close to a giggle.
"So...?"
"Fuck Jensen, you're such a pussy when you're drunk," Chris chastises before turning back to Misha. "It's not so much a pool as a pond. A great big dirty one."
Misha turns incredulously to Jensen. "Seriously?"
Jensen shrugs, grins in a very non-Jensen way. "Don't you wanna get dirty, Mish?"
"Yeah, baby," Chris leers before Misha can even begin to formulate an answer, "Don't you wanna get dirty?"
He rolls his eyes. "Sure, fine. Let's go get filthy in a pond of animal excrement."
Chris claps his hands together definitively. "Fuck yeah."
Misha can think of about a billion things he'd rather be doing than swimming in a body of water that probably is full of cow shit. But he isn't about to let Jensen and Chris go swimming together alone.
Nor really, should any of them be doing it at all when they're drunk for that matter, but he isn't about to bring that up after being the one to voice the motherly concerns over sanitation. If they drown, be it on Chris and Jensen's heads.
Moodily, he follows the other two out the back door and into the night. The sky is littered with pinpoints of light, as if someone's upturned a sugar bowl. If sugar glowed radioactive.
Up ahead, weaving slightly and alarmingly off-kilter, Jensen and Chris continue to flirt and laugh. It's getting on Misha's nerves, though he couldn't say why, exactly.
And what kind of a grown man calls people 'baby', anyway, he thinks bitterly as Chris leans over and loudly whispers something dirty in Jensen's ear. Jensen snorts and shoves Chris in the shoulder, sending him teetering sideways before arcing back inwards to Jensen like a magnetized iron filing.
They've only gone a few hundred yards behind the barn when Jensen and Chris stop and start shucking clothing like it's on fire.
Of all the ways Misha thought he'd see Jensen naked - not that he's ever thought such a thing, ever - it was never in the dark under the light of a full moon. He's also not complaining about it, watching the lean expanse of muscled back and tight ass, firm thighs, shaped calves currently wading into mud and water. Not until Chris' hand smacks the right cheek of Jensen's ass, a loud thwack as it makes contact.
Jensen yelps and turns with a stumble, and suddenly Misha can see the dark thatch of hair between Jensen's legs, the line of slightly-hard cock jutting out from it. He can see chest and ribs and arms and he realises, with what feels like a small aneurysm, that he wants to do more than just see it.
He's not completely self-deluded. It's not like he's never noticed that his co-star is attractive, in an abstract kind of way. And really, it's hard not to notice something like that when your mind is open to both genders being worthy recipients of lust. He'd just never realised his mind was taking the thought seriously.
Jensen is wrestling Chris into the deeper water in retaliation for the spanking and Misha notices, rather belatedly that, of course, Jensen isn't the only one who's naked. Chris' body is just as toned, though shorter and more compact than the lean stretch of Jensen's. Objectively, Misha can see that it's attractive. That the power and strength corded under Chris' skin is clearly something to be turned on by, the patch of hair between Chris' legs lighter and thinner but the dick no less impressive. And yet Chris isn't the one Misha's eyes are drawn to.
It's around the point he realises he's been standing on the shoreline for good minutes, just staring, when Chris notices it too.
"See something you like, Misha?" Chris leers, pushing forward back into the shallows, water sluicing off him in rivers.
Misha says nothing, there's nothing he can say. He came on this trip hoping to uncover some more dirt on who Jensen really is, not unearth how he really felt about the guy. Because he does see things he likes, and it's fucked up and a significant problem...but true.
"Aren't you coming in, Mish?" Jensen says, voice strangely quiet given the yelping and carrying on of a moment ago.
But he ...can't. He can't process his thoughts let alone act on them. He's at least sober enough to realise that if he takes his clothes off right now, gets into that water with Jensen, with Chris...well, it won't be good.
Jensen is looking at him, eyes hooded and black in the darkness, water glistening in the moonlight as it runs down his skin. Chris smirks, says something that Misha doesn't hear because he's turning, letting his feet give in to the flight impulse seizing his muscles.
He hears Jensen call his name, Chris swearing and the sound of water splashing. He struggles to keep his pace even.
His brain blips weirdly to watching Looney Tunes with his brother as a kid, Bugs Bunny tunneling onwards in the vain attempt to reach Albuquerque, or was it Timbuktu? Certainly he feels like he made a wrong turn somewhere in this night. Maybe if he just keeps walking...
"Fuck, Misha," Chris' voice is angry and loud and a hand clamps down on his bicep. Misha swings wildly, jerking around to face Chris who's standing in jeans, dripping water and looking pissed.
Misha just stares at him. It seems he's lost all ability to work functionally.
"You can't just fucking run off into the night," Chris grumbles pissily, slinging bedraggled hair back off his forehead with a hand. "You'll get yourself fucking killed."
"I'm not a child," Misha snaps, suddenly finding his voice.
"You're not a country native either," Chris snaps back. "Fuck, there are electric fences and fifty head of cattle, and rattlesnakes and god knows what other things waiting to have your hide out there."
"I'm sure you'd like that," Misha bitches back, and it isn't fair. Isn't even adult, but he can't seem to stop the stupid words coming out of his mouth. As if the day's silent watching of Chris and Jensen flirting has suddenly snapped his maturity with the revelation of why exactly it had managed to get on his nerves.
Even in the darkness, Misha sees Chris roll his eyes.
"Are you fucking kidding me with this? What are you, five?" Chris growls.
Misha shrugs, every inch the petulant child he knows he's being. And still, he says nothing.
"Jesus you're one dumb son-of-a-bitch, you know that?" Chris bites out, and as Jensen hurries into sight, wet but fully clothed, Chris' hands shoot out to Misha's t-shirt and yank hard. Misha stumbles into Chris' bodily, arms already raising to defend himself but Chris isn't fighting; he's kissing.
His lips are closed, firmly pressed against Misha's, and he makes no move to open them. Which is good, because Misha is too shocked to even understand the mechanism of kissing. Water drips from Chris' hair in cold rivulets down Misha's t-shirt and the moment spins out like molasses in summer, cut short only by the strangled sound that comes from behind them.
Misha jerks back from Chris' mouth like he's been electrocuted, just in time to see Jensen's shocked face before he spins on his heel and jogs in the direction of the house.
"Fuck!" Misha snaps, the sound echoing over the hard-packed earth and bouncing back from surrounding buildings. "What the fuck was that, you asshole?"
Chris just looks at him pointedly. "That was your fucking wake up call. And probably Jen's too. Now do something about it, or you're both as dumb-fucked as I think you are."
With that Chris turns and stalks back to the water to retrieve the rest of his clothing.
Misha stands stock still in the middle of the night, barely notices the crickets chirruping or the sound of a dog howling off in the distance. His mind is whizzing so fast it's almost blank.
He isn't sure, but he thinks Jensen looked hurt. Which would imply that Jensen's more invested in either him or Chris than he's been playing it. Then again, Misha's always known that Jensen is a disgustingly good actor. If it was because of the sight of Chris kissing someone, rather than Misha doing so, then surely Jensen has had the opportunity to make it happen before now... the easy flirting and teasing that is clearly not a new thing between the two clearly permission enough to have taken it further, if he'd wanted to.
Which, logically, Misha thinks as he bends and picks up a rock, hurling it angrily as far as he can into the shadows, means that maybe Jensen was not hurt by Chris kissing someone, but by someone kissing Misha.
Fuck.
By the time he makes his way back to the house, the lights are dimmed and there's no one around.
* * *
He sleeps fitfully, tossing and turning in the heat. Part of him wants nothing more than to get up and go down the hall to Jensen's room. Confront him and explain, or soothe, or yell. He doesn't know which it will be, and so he stays, rooted to the bed.
Jensen doesn't show for breakfast. Chris shuffles into the kitchen to feed the dogs and make coffee. He nods at Misha but doesn't say anything about the night before. Misha knows his luck isn't so good that everyone was drunk enough to block out the memory.
Misha grabs the novel Jensen was reading on the plane from the coffee table, it’s something about spies and conspiracies, and spends the morning curled into the hammock on the porch, reading and trying to keep his thoughts from wandering into new and tender territory. The frustration creeps in as he has to re-read whole chapters that he’s page-turned without actually taking in.
By noon, the sun is directly above the house and the long morning slants of sunlight have turned to deep shadow under the porch awning. The air is sharp with heat and sweat sidles down Misha’s temples.
Jensen still hasn't appeared when he makes his way back into the house. For a second, maybe two, Misha contemplates once more the idea of barging down the corridor and through Jensen’s door. Demanding to know what’s going on, even though he’s not sure he’d have an answer were Jensen to do the same to him.
A rumble from his stomach reminds him that it’s been hours since breakfast, and, partly in cowardice, he decides on lunch instead of a rash intervention. He reaches the kitchen at the same time as Chris from the opposite door, wandering in from wherever he’s been hiding all morning.
Given the dusting of hay across his shoulders and the smell, it’s been somewhere involving horses. Which surprises Misha, because even though he knows there are working animals on the property, he’d assumed, by the ridiculous stereotyped exterior, that it was more a rich person’s version of ranch, equipped with ranch hands or whatever, rather than an actual farm in need of tending by its rich and famous owner. Or an owner that would even want to.
Chris nods at him with a grunt, yanking open the double-wide fridge. “Beer?”
“Thanks,” Misha answers, takes the proffered bottle when Chris turns back with two.
He takes his seat at the kitchen bench, nods again when Chris holds up a loaf of bread. Sandwiches it is. From the bowels of the fridge Chris unearths cheese, tomatoes, mustard, lettuce and roast beef.
Beats peanut butter and jelly. Misha grabs a couple slices of bread and reaches for a tomato. They construct in silence for a few minutes.
"Got some people coming over tonight. Have a bit of a barbecue and shit," Chris says eventually, cutting a slice of cheese almost thicker than the bread he's putting it on.
"Great," Misha mutters, not trying to be deliberately petulant but having a hard time not blaming Chris for Jensen's absence, the giant spanner thrown in the works of Misha's life. Regardless of whether Jensen is upset at Chris for kissing Misha, or Misha for being kissed by Chris, he's clearly upset enough to take his leave of both of them.
Chris scowls, eyes narrowing at him across the table. "S'gonna be family, so behave or fuck off, got it?"
The tone is authoritative and Misha naturally wants to buck against it, but he's strangely out of his depth here, not on his own turf and in a situation he never expected. He nods instead.
“Sorry. I don’t mean to be a shitty house guest. It’s just, you know,” Misha shrugs, waves the hand with the knife in a helpless motion.
Chris raises an eyebrow. “I’m not really sure I do. All I know is we were fucking around in the water and next thing we know you’re having a conniption and wandering off to get eaten by wolves.”
“I sincerely doubt you have wolves this far south,” Misha mutters.
“Not the point, man,” Chris growls softly, slapping roast beef down on his tower of sandwich.
Again, Misha shrugs. It’s not like he really knows what happened either. “It wasn’t planned…” he tries.
“Not well, anyway,” Chris remarks, slathers mustard over the remaining slice of bread.
“No,” Misha agrees, “not well.”
“So…?” Chris prompts, gruffly.
Misha concentrates hard on slicing perfectly even slices of cheese. “The thought just sort of happened to me-"
“While Jen was buck naked in a waterhole,” Chris interrupts and Misha dismisses him, the point that he’s making.
“Like I said. Not planned. It’s just, it’s Jensen, you know?” He looks up as he says it, catching Chris’ gaze. He feels like the most ineloquent person in the world, unable to tame the maelstrom of emotions in his head into words that make sense.
Chris grunts but it’s soft, considered. “Yeah. He has that effect on some. Though, gotta say, usually it isn’t a delayed response.”
“What can I say, I’m good at going about things ass-backwards.”
Chris eyes the sandwich that Misha has been making, meat on bread, mustard on meat, cheese on mustard, tomato to the side of the plate. “Yes, I think that’s probably true.”
Misha rolls his eyes and slaps the lot of it together into a haphazard semblance of a sandwich. “And then Jensen’s face…and I don’t know what he thinks, but it’s probably screwed up not only a friendship, but a working relationship. Enough so that he’s apparently locked himself in his tower.”
"Just, give him some space, man. I've known Jen a long damn time. I never read the kid wrong yet."
“Space for what, to call Eric and have me fired? To have Jared sock me in the jaw?”
Chris laughs dryly. “Son, if Jen wants someone taken care of? I’m the one he’ll come to. Not Bigfoot.”
Misha smiles slightly, even though it’s a fairly terrifying thought.
“Just give him time,” Chris repeats, gathers his beer and food. “Oh, and clean up this mess after you’re done,” he adds as he turns and leaves the room with a smirk.
Misha sits at the table with his sandwich, and a bench top littered with foodstuffs, and mulls over Chris’ words, unsure. He’s never liked not knowing things and he doesn’t like not being ready. It's especially vexing when he isn't prepared for his own damn feelings. To not have clued himself in on the fact that he wanted Jensen as much as he apparently does, to be completely blindsided by his own fucking brain? Feels like betrayal.
Sighing, he eats his lunch alone in the empty kitchen.
* * *
People start arriving around four in the afternoon. A growing metal sea of pick-ups and 4-wheel drives laps at the stairs of the porch.
Misha does his best to fade into the background. He recognises Chris in the people who begin to mill around the barbecue out back, the same nose, same eye colour. It's fascinating in the creepy way of genetics. Kids run about with the dogs as the men inspect the barbecue or talk about the weather and the women look on in amusement.
He's onto his third beer and beginning to wonder if Jensen is going to show at all when he catches sight of him across the yard, bending to grab a beer out of the tub of ice. He's wearing tight jeans and cowboy boots, a soft gray sweater. He's dressed up for the 'company'.
Misha's heart makes an abortive leap in his chest before he forces himself to calm down, not to rush over and beg forgiveness or something ridiculous and ineffective. What would he even say anyway? Sorry, I realised I have a hard on for you, that won't make work difficult, right? Or maybe, So your friend sucked my face, but I swear there was no tongue, or, He seems to think you might want to fuck me, true?
The more he thinks about it, the stronger the growing sense of dread in his stomach. The situation is so fourth grade. He feels like Jensen found a note he wrote in class proclaiming his undying lust. Like something has happened that they can't claw their way back from even though it hasn't and they've done nothing, said nothing.
Maybe the best plan is to ignore that anything almost happened. Or almost didnt. Fuck, he doesn't even know which way is up anymore. Regardless, if nothing is confirmed, then nothing has to change.
Which doesn't explain the way he escapes along side the house, follows the porch to the hammock and cocoons himself away. The party is nothing but a dull echo of laughter and frivolity that he's not a part of and doesn't want to be.
In truth, he's feeling sorry for himself. He's quite good at it; he's an actor after all.
He isn't sure if he dozes off or has lulled himself into a trance, but he's blearily aware of the sound of soft footsteps approaching, cowboy boots clacking on wood. He can feel it in the prickle of hair on the back of his arms, but he opens his eyes anyway, confirms that it's Jensen standing above him. He can't read the expression on Jensen's face, and he knows that that's probably deliberate.
He clears his throat from the tug of sleep. "You came out."
Immediately, Misha cringes at the unfortunate choice of words. Just, shit.
But Jensen just laughs softly, shuffles his feet before indicating with a hand that Misha should make room in the hammock for him.
Misha wonders if Jensen has ever been in a hammock before, because it's not the easiest sitting apparatus to just 'shove over' in, but eventually he untangles limbs and canvas enough to make room, righting himself upwards and feet dangling over the side.
Jensen settles in with comparative ease, the bow of the material pressing him tight into Misha's side. Despite the circumstances, it feels comfortable. Like sitting squashed against Jensen on Jared's couch while reciting lines. Friendly.
"So..." Misha starts, but trails off into an annoying repeat of the night before when his words, the things he holds sacred to his being, desert him again.
Jensen chuckles nervously and then falls silent, his fingers fidgeting in his lap. A cow bellows in the distance and Misha watches from the corner of his eye as Jensen stares out into the dusk.
"So," Jensen echoes on the end of an exhale, and it's more solid than Misha's try, "do you like me, Misha?"
Misha startles at the baldness of Jensen's question, unusual coming from someone who essentially hid under his blankets for the last fourteen hours. He turns sharply to look at him fully and finds himself within an inch of Jensen's face, Jensen watching him for a response. They stare at each other for stop-motion seconds, neither daring to breathe, both silently gauging the other's intent.
Misha makes up his mind, not to answer, but to kiss.
Only Jensen gets there first, stuttering slightly forward and pressing soft lips to Misha's.
Misha presses back, soft and chaste, his stomach flips awkwardly over itself and his heart skips into his throat. Jensen moves a fraction of an inch from him, ready to pull back and reassess, but Misha isn't going to have it. He presses forward more insistently and licks the seam of Jensen's lips.
When Jensen's mouth opens on a soft moan, Misha's tongue sweeps inside; it's wet and cool and tastes of beer, and his tongue tangles with Misha's, swiping, learning and pressing. Misha's hands find Jensen's hips, clutching gently at the denim; not pulling, just suggesting.
They do nothing but kiss silently for long minutes; Misha swiping with his tongue, pulling back to nip on Jensen's lips, place closed-mouth kisses to the corners. Jensen's fingers ghost down the sides of his ribs, gentle and slow and Misha's fingers clench and relax around Jensen's hipbones like a cat. The hammock sways gently with their movement, quiet creaks coming rhythmically from the taut ropes.
Eventually, the squeal of a child from the barbecue area alerts them to the fact that they're making out in the same space as a family picnic. Jensen pulls back, lips swollen and damp, cheeks flushed. Misha narrowly bests the urge to chase Jensen's lips as they leave his own and Jensen smiles widely, unabashed, and it nearly does something ridiculous like take Misha's breath away.
Endorphins tend to make him a bit soppy; he's learned to live with it.
"So," Jensen drawls, his voice gone languid and Texan with arousal. "I take it that was a yes?"
Misha laughs, feels it rumbling up out of his chest. "No, shit."
He wants to say more, to explain that it isn't just now, just this weekend, or how actually it is exactly that, but that he'd rather it becomes more. But his verbosity has abandoned him, and he knows exactly how it will come out. Instead, he throws caution to the wind and rushes back in to recapture Jensen's lips.
Jensen groans and his hands slide around Misha's back, tugging him closer and making the hammock swing wildly. Misha counts his lucky stars that he doesn't get motion sick and pushes Jensen firmly down into the canvas. He follows Jensen down, only their calves sticking over the edge.
Jensen's breath hitches hard and his eyes slam closed as Misha settles on top of him, flying open again as Misha tentatively grinds downwards, one foot hitting the floor for leverage and causing the hammock to tilt dangerously upwards, threatening to spill them out onto the porch.
"Jesus," Jensen murmurs, one hand clinging to Misha's hip, the other to the upper edge of the hammock.
"Yes," Misha agrees, forgoes his usual response of 'no, just Misha' in favour of the moment. He pushes his hips down again, feels the hardening ridge of Jensen's cock jab and slip against his hip. The noise Jensen makes is half moan, half gasp. It's a good sound. He wants to hear it more.
"Mish, wait..." Jensen stutters, though he seems unable to stop the upward press of his own hips into Misha's. Misha zeroes in and suckles on Jensen's neck, noses up behind his ear and just breathes in the smell of shampoo and sweat.
"Misha," Jensen tries again, more insistently, fingers scrabbling against Misha's back.
Misha pulls back, tries not to groan in frustration. "Jensen?"
"We can't do this here, man. There are children around. My fucking god-daughter is out there."
Misha didn't even know Jensen had god-children, and it reminds him that there's a lot he doesn't know. That this thing is so new he doesn't know much of anything, past the fact that he wants. Still, he isn't about to stop now that he's got something.
He drops his voice to a whisper and stares earnestly. "Well then, we'll have to be really fucking quiet, don't you think?"
Jensen's eyes darken and his throat clicks as he swallows over arousal. "Misha," he begins and the tone is a warning, but Misha doesn't heed it. Can't. Instead he slides his left hand upwards, covers it over Jensen's bruised lips lightly.
"Uh uh, Jen," he whispers. "No talking."
He'll let Jensen get away with the whimper.
"Quick," Misha whispers into the shell of Jensen's ear. "Buckles."
He bites down on Jensen's ear lobe. The answering puff of air expelled sharply against his fingers confirms that Jensen is okay with the plan - more than okay - despite the danger.
And totally on board, actually, Jensen's hands come up sharply and shove Misha to the side to gain access to their pants. He undoes his own belt first, the slide of metal loud to Misha's ears. The zip sliding down, equally so.
And then Jensen's hands are on Misha's fly, unpopping buttons. Misha harnesses will he didn't know he possessed in order not to press down into those hands, those fingers. It would be the definition of counterproductive.
And then they're both open, cock against cock, with only thin layers of cotton between them. . Jensen is hard and burning hot and Misha thrusts his own cock forward without even needing to think.
Jensen groans underneath him, underneath his fingers, and Misha struggles not to moan out loud, bites down on his own lip to stop himself. Even if their predominantly clothed state hides much from prying eyes, it wouldn't be hard for a passer by to guess at what's going on with noises like those he wants to make escaping into the night air.
When his senses clear he becomes aware of Jensen's tongue in the grooves between his fingers and soft mumbled words.
Curious, he lifts his hand a fraction from Jensen's mouth. Jensen's voice is hoarse even as he whispers.
"Fuck, Misha, your fingers," Jensen says, his tongue darting out to lick along his middle finger.
Misha can't help but grin. "You like my fingers?" he whispers.
"God yes, how could anyone not. Have you seen your fingers, man?"
"Know 'em like the back of my hand," Misha deadpans and while Jensen's eyes roll, his mouth smiles.
"They're so...long," Jensen continues, almost hesitant.
"Do you want to suck them?" Misha asks, deadly serious and insanely turned on.
Jensen does moan then, struggles to keep it quiet enough not to draw attention. Misha mock glares and silences him by pressing the pad of his index finger to Jensen's lips. Jensen's mouth opens instantly and draws Misha's finger in, tongue pulling wetly and sucking down its length pornographically.
"Oh god," Misha groans softly and begins to rut against Jensen in earnest. Their cocks jerk and bump against each other, sliding haphazardly, material cool and wet where they're leaking beneath it. Jensen thrusts back, as much as he can without a solid base underneath him.
The creaking of the rope intensifies with their movements; a metronome of porn as their bodies slide almost vertical and their feet find purchase on the wood of the porch. Misha's hips grate and shove against Jensen in shallow, harsh movements.
His breathing is laboured and the need to cry out, to moan or whimper or yell, is pressing up his throat, so he leans to the side his hand isn't and buries his face in Jensen's throat. It's hot and damp, a thin sheen of sex-sweat slicking Jensen's skin. He can't help the groan that escapes, and though Jensen's cock jerks against his at the noise, Jensen reprimands with a sharp nip to Misha's finger.
Misha laughs softly, the sound hitched and breathless. He pulls back to see Jensen's face, the look of pure arousal and need. When Jensen gasps around Misha's finger he uses the opportunity to slip another in and Jensen groans himself, the vibration stuttering through his tongue.
"Like that, Jen?" Misha can't help but ask; words, previously fled, flooding back in unstoppable motion. Jensen's breath hitches in puffs around Misha's fingers and Misha can't stop. "You get off on having me in you?"
Before Misha gets his reward of Jensen's moans or gasps, laughter echoes from the party around the corner, its sound way too close for comfort. They both freeze at the same moment, paused on a precipice of need.
Adrenaline floods Misha's veins as he prays and counts furiously to ten.
The laugh comes again but it's moved further away and Misha feels the breath of relief slip from Jensen's lungs beneath his chest. But even with such threat of exposure, Jensen's still wound tight and hard. Misha can feel it.
He feels like a bit of a god.
Kissing and licking, he makes his way back to Jensen's ear. "Fuck, Jensen. We need to do this again."
Jensen hums around his fingers, and it sounds like a yes.
"No really," Misha whispers, grinding his hips down and sparking pleasure through his gut. "Not that the whole public indecency thing doesn't turn me on, because you can feel how much it does, can't you Jen?" he emphasises the words with a slow hard grind of his cock along Jensen's. "But I need to hear your moans, Jen. Your whimpers and sighs."
Jensen's eyes close again and Misha can feel the tension coiling in the body underneath him, the hitching breath around his fingers.
"I want to hear you...fuck...I want to hear you scream, Jen," Misha moans as quietly as he can manage, directly into Jensen's ear.
Jensen's teeth clamp down on Misha's fingers, hard enough to cause discomfort. Not hard enough to do anything except harden Misha's cock in ecstatic want. He's so close, so fucking close, and he can feel that Jensen is too.
"Jen, Jensen, god I want to hear you come. Please let me hear you come," he manages to get out in a strangled moan as his balls tighten past the trip point. Misha's stomach flips almost nauseatingly, and he's coming in waves, coating the inside of his underwear, thrusting down violently into Jensen's warmth.
He knows the exact moment Jensen comes, because Jensen jerks. Hard enough that it almost knocks Misha off balance. Jensen's teeth snap down hard on the bones of Misha's fingers and Misha's cock jerks at the unexpected pain, a last ditch effort at continual orgasm.
Immediately, Jensen goes limp beneath him, legs giving way and the balance actually tipping Misha off centre; they fall back to horizontal, the hammock swinging dangerously wide.
For wild seconds it threatens to upturn, the rope groaning at the weight of two grown bodies and sudden momentum. But eventually it settles, keeping its cargo, and they cling together in harsh breaths as their heartbeats attempt normalcy and their sweat begins to evaporate.
Jensen unclamps his teeth and runs his tongue soothingly over Misha's tooth-dented skin. It's a soft and gentle counterpoint to the spent sharpness of Misha's cock, over-sensitive and sticky in his shorts. He almost doesn't want to pull his fingers free, but he does. He knows they can't stay here any longer than they have.
"Misha..." Jensen breathes, and it's so quietly reverential that it makes Misha's cheeks flame in embarrassment.
"Later," Misha murmurs, leans in and kisses him softly, possessively.
* * *
They untangle themselves from the hammock on shaky legs and Jensen tugs on Misha's wrist to get him to follow. He does, and Jensen leads him back further along the porch to a side door, blessedly close to their bedrooms.
A quick washcloth job in the bathroom, a hard kiss, and Jensen saunters back out to the barbecue. He leaves Misha to wait a respectable interval before doing the same.
Misha slumps against the sink, wants nothing more than to curl up in bed and lick Jensen's skin damp. And fuck, but he's absolutely going to do that later, if nothing else. Whatever this thing with Jensen is, he knows that it isn't just a bit of frottage in the heat of the moment. His jealousy and Jensen's hurt from the day before proving it went past superficial lust and into something 'more' long ago.
Letting himself out of the bathroom he retreats to the kitchen and grabs one of the beers in the sink before heading into the yard. On his way he notices the children engrossed in a movie in the lounge room. So at least they hadn't been in danger of mentally scarring any of them he realises with relief.
People are still milling around, though the sun has long since sunk and darkness fallen. The porch lights flood the yard with gentle yellow light and darken the shadows. The breeze is filled with the smell of charcoal and summer and the melodic sounds of conversation and cicadas.
The air outside is cooler without the heated flush of arousal suffusing Misha's skin. He wanders over, oh so casually - actor, remember - to where Jensen stands next to a ten-gallon drum turned fire pit. Neither of them say a word, despite the safety now to do so. But Jensen's eyes are on his instantly and they're warm with more than flame.
Before it can turn into some horrible parody of a harlequin romance, Chris interrupts with two plates of blackened steak, a beer bottle held under his arm.
"And how are my girls doing?" he asks with a smirk that suggests he knows exactly why they disappeared, if not the where.
Which, thank god... because Misha really isn't planning on getting shot tonight.
Jensen scuffs up dirt with the heel of his boot and snorts. "I hope you're not implying you're the gentleman in this scenario."
Chris shoves the plates at them. "Do you want your mother-fuckin' food or not, smartasses?"
"Hey," Misha pouts as he takes his plate of burnt juicy cow gratefully, "my ass had nothing to do with it."
"Really?" Chris raises an eyebrow suggestively, "'Cause that's not what I've been hearing."
Jensen erupts into laughter and toasts his bottle with a clink against Chris' in agreement. Chris grins back at him before taking a swig of his own.
Apparently, they've reached the portion of the weekend where Jensen and Chris gang up on him, then.
As the firelight flickers gold across Jensen's cheekbones and Chris begins flirting shamelessly again, Misha decides he's okay with that.
There are worse places to be.
* * *
End.