Fic: Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy - Jensen/Misha, NC-17
Title: Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy
Author: qthelights
Pairing: Jensen/Misha
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: None
Wordcount: ~9000
Disclaimer: Not mine, never happened. No offence intended.
Summary: Jensen wants to go home, Misha gives him an alternative.
A/N: Written for my darling and forever kadiel_krieger for her birthday. I hope this is what you wanted m'darling. Love you! Mad thanks to cupiscent for the beta and whipping.
Misha shows up at the door with a six pack of imported frou-frou beer and a bright purple concoction of paper and ribbon. It sparkles; Jensen is immediately on guard.
"Evening y'all," Misha drawls in terrible imitation of a Texan accent.
Jensen arches an eyebrow, "Tryn' to be a good Southern boy, are we?"
Misha just smiles beatifically. "Well, I don't know about good," he grins and hands Jensen the purple monstrosity with a flourish.
"Er, thanks man," Jensen says and juggles the parcel and his beer, keeps the door open with a sandalled foot, "though I thought we agreed on no presents." His tone is only mildly reprimanding, it's not like he expects Misha to keep to any lines of agreement.
"We did," Misha agrees amicably and ambles into Jensen's apartment.
It's only a small gathering; Jensen wouldn't have been having any kind of celebration of the fact that he's steadily getting older, but Jared insisted. He didn't really have any choice in the matter.
There's just a small crowd of guys and a barbecue. A game on the flatscreen and an abundance of beer. It's low-key enough that it feels like home.
Except for the part where it doesn't very much feel like that at all. All day he's been thinking of other birthdays, other years back home. The way his momma baked him cakes so sweet they'd rot the teeth right out of his mouth.
"I ignored that," Misha adds unnecessarily, yanking Jensen's thoughts back into the present.
"You would," Jensen says, deadpan.
Misha toes off his boots and he's wearing odd socks; one is a bright parrot green, the other a suspiciously sedate navy blue. He looks up with a grin and nods at the present in Jensen's hand. "Well, aren't you gonna open it?"
Jensen eyes the package carefully. It isn't big, around the size of his hand perhaps. But the ribbons are intimidating. And slightly... "Is it going to hurt me?"
Misha snorts a laugh and snatches Jensen's beer out of his hand. "Not unless you try really hard." He swigs the bottle, half empties it in one pull, bizarrely, Jensen doesn't feel the need to protest.
When Misha gives him a patented exasperated stare Jensen gives in, uses an incisor to break open what looks like one of the more structural pieces of ribbon. He tears at the sticky-tape and wrappings; he can feel something hard and flat underneath them all. Finally he gets the last piece of tissue paper away and holds up his prize.
It's a belt-buckle. And it's fucking ugly.
It's all silver filigree and red and blue glazing with "Texas" written across the top in wild west lettering. Two state flags wave to either side of a huge 3-dimensional longhorn cattle skull. And if Jensen isn't mistaken, it has a fucking bottle opener built into it's mouth.
It's horrendous and hideous and about the worst thing that could ever be manufactured to represent his birthplace.
And it makes his stomach clench up so tight in longing that he can't even find the words to joke about it.
He must be staring at the thing with ridiculous animé-emo eyes or something because Misha places his fingertips warm on Jensen's wrist with an unsure, "Jensen?"
Jensen shakes his head and forces out a laugh, brash and grating and too damn loud. "You're a dick, Misha."
Misha smiles, but it's off, slightly hesitant. "It's funny, what with you being a genuine cowboy and all." He pronounces it gen-you-wine and with a twang.
"Dick," Jensen repeats for emphasis, but he forces a smile and only half doesn't mean it.
It is funny. And the fact that Misha came at all, when he probably has more important things to be doing, like poetry recitation or tantric basket-weaving or some shit, let alone brought him a present, makes him strangely warm.
It's just that the sight of the 'TEXAS' hits him sharp in his chest where it's been tight all day since his parents rang him at 6am in the morning sounding warm and familiar and like they missed him.
The group in the living room erupt into a chorus of cheers and booing and over the top of it all Jensen can hear Jared crying for a time-out for the love of all that's holy. Harley and Sadie come barreling into the hall in a ball of tan fur running from an over-excited Icarus.
Misha is immediately distracted and Jensen welcomes the brief reprieve from his inquisitive stare. It's too much. Misha is too much. He palms the buckle into his back pocket and heads for the kitchen to get more beer. "We're in the den when you're finished making friends," he tosses over his shoulder and leaves Misha in amongst the canine flurry.
* * *
Misha pays his dues to the canine companions, ending up half-licked to death and covered in dog hair. He isn't really a dog person, except for the fact where he's an animal person in general, so he gets to be their best human buddy by default of there not being any cats around.
In the den is a rag tag bunch of Jensen's friends. He doesn't know a lot of them, though some are the usual assortment of crew members. One of the grips, Todd something or other. Maybe Ted. Jared is there, loud enough that Misha would have felt the air vibrate with his presence even if he wasn't heralded by the hell hounds.
It's an all male group, which is interesting. For whatever reason, Misha has tended to end up in social groups that included more females than males, or at the very least, a lot of couples. It's not like there aren't Pas and other tech people with, you know, vaginas on the set, but they don't seem to have been invited. Perhaps this is some form of social bonding that Misha has never really been privy too. Beer, barbecue and a game. Perhaps this is what normal people - normal males - do on their weekends.
It's not how he'd usually spend his weekend, but this is Jensen's birthday, and for that he will set aside the thousand and one things he had planned and haul his ass over to the other side of Vancouver. Especially when the guy said 'please,' like it was all it would take to break him out of the mysterious funk he'd been in all week.
He'd like to believe that the act of breaking Jensen's sombre mood was completely altruistic, he's been called worse before, the problem is the part where he isn't sure it is. But that's something he's really not willing to think about. That way lies madness.
Misha grabs a beer and steps out onto the deck, leans against the railing and watches the dogs chase circles around each other. Spring is settling in, removing some of the chill from the Vancouver air and the sun is shining fiercely, as if apologising for the months of frigid winter.
The sliding door rumbles quietly open behind him and he turns to find Jensen, platter of raw meat, a beer and grilling implements precariously in hand. He is of course wearing a semi-obscene "kiss the cock" apron. Misha suspects Jared bought him that.
Jensen eyes him carefully, watches his gaze slip down the apron and up again. "It's not an open invitation," Jensen says matter-of-factly.
Misha has to laugh at that; it amuses him to be predicted correctly. It amuses him more when it's Jensen.
Jensen sets about turning gas on and lighting flames, pouring oil onto a paper cloth and wiping down the charred black grilling surface. Misha sips his beer and watches the prep. He likes cooking, even on a barbecue, it's grounding. And judging by the way Jensen is methodically going about setting the barbecue up and placing the meat on, it is for him too.
Of course, it also suggests Jensen needs grounding for some reason. Misha files that thought away next to 'Jensen has been acting weird,' and 'No really, what the hell?'
"So why are you hiding out here with the terrors?" Jensen asks casually, laying down a row of sausages.
Misha picks at a corner of his beer label absently with his thumbnail, squints up into the sun before returning his gaze to the back of Jensen's neck. "Not hiding, just... being antisocial."
Jensen huffs, amused. "It's meant to be a birthday party, you know. Usually people make an effort."
He's ribbing, Jensen is just as reclusive as Misha when the mood suits and so Misha doesn't take offence. Plus, there's something going on with Jensen, has been all week. Misha knows because he's been watching. And Jensen hadn't reacted at all to the buckle like Misha had expected him to, and that bugs him. He likes things to go the way he plans, otherwise what's the point?
"My birthday parties were never really normal," Misha says, wondering even as he says it why he does. He doesn't talk much about his past, not the reality of it, just bits and pieces that paint it as exotic and not penniless.
Jensen ponders him for a moment, then moves away from the barbecue, apparently satisfied that the meat won't spontaneously combust. He leans back onto the railing next to Misha, elbows propping him up, legs crossed at the ankle.
Misha watches him take a swallow of his own beer, and the flex and undulation of his throat is slightly hypnotic. Not that he's looking.
* * *
Jensen knows it's probably not the best idea to take the bait. If it is even bait - with Misha he finds it hard to tell, which frankly unnerves him. But Jensen's feeling on edge, unsure how he was meant to take the fugly belt buckle gift, and embarrassed that he let the damn thing get to him. So he asks, even though Misha might just be fucking with him. Even though he sort of hopes he isn't.
"Not normal?"
Misha shakes his head, "No." But then he fails to elaborate in that annoyingly maddening way Misha has.
"Why?"
Misha glances at him from the corner of his eye, tips the lip of the beer bottle to his mouth. The shrug is almost imperceptible, but such a minute gesture says volumes coming from Misha.
"Well we didn't have birthday parties so much as we had un-birthday parties." Misha glances at him briefly, and when Jensen doesn't say anything, he continues. "We weren't really...there wasn't much money sometimes...so mom would buy decorations when they went on sale. Christmas accoutrements in January, Halloween in November. And then she'd keep them for special occasions, like birthdays."
Jensen nods, he's not really sure if that's a good or bad thing in Misha's world. He takes what would be the normal response. "That must have sucked."
Misha turns to face him and smiles; it's soft and sort of sweet. "For years I was convinced the Easter Bunny and I were born on the same day. I had an aversion to chocolate eggs for years. But you know, it was what it was. Not bad, not brilliant."
Which is funny, in a strange sort of way. He's known Misha for almost two years now, and yet at the same time, he feels like he doesn't know him at all. No one really gets to know Misha. And yet here he is, looking at him seriously and giving him a piece without asking.
Misha drinks another swallow, empties his bottle and lets his arm fall by his side. His hand brushes against Jensen's wrist and sends a shiver slip-sliding down Jensen's arm. If Misha experiences anything similar he makes no indication.
"What were your birthdays like?" Misha asks.
The ache comes back to his chest immediately. He finds he can't say much over the lump forming in his throat and reduces his answer to a series of dot-points. "Nice. Small. Family dinner. Cake."
Misha nods, but, thankfully, doesn't push. Which is good, because Jensen thinks it'd be downright mortifying to start sobbing into the sausages.
They stand side-by-side, surveying the charring flesh before them, sizzling and crackling and throwing up smoke into the sky, until Jared, eyes suspiciously red-rimmed, appears in the doorway.
"Yo, Martha and Stewart, take your damn onions," he snaps and shoves the bowl at Misha.
Misha grins at him, wide and crinkly. Jensen ignores the way a different ache slides around his chest.
* * *
Misha is sandwiched in between Todd (Ted) and Jared. They're all still watching "the game". Although, Misha isn't sure that it's the same "the game" that they were watching when he first arrived. He knows better than to ask.
It doesn't really matter anyway, because he isn't watching it, except for the moments when the room erupts and Jared smacks his knee in congratulations and Misha is forced to look up, feign interest.
Instead he's watching Jensen.
At some point, they run out of beer. A scary enough thought given Misha knows exactly how much beer there was in the kitchen earlier.
A beer run is organised, and more procured and the afternoon passes in a lazy haze of beer-buzz and noise. Turns out, boys are bloody loud when there aren't girls around to dial them down a notch.
Misha suspects he may have had a few too many when he finds himself staring at Jensen a little too intently. So much so that Jensen catches him and raises an eyebrow in a puzzled 'what the fuck'.
Which is just amateur night, really. Misha is a much better stalker than that.
But something about the way Jensen is acting, or not acting as the case may be, is embedded under his skin like a stubborn itch, and he simply can't stop himself from following Jensen's path around the room.
He catalogues the way Jensen interacts with his friends. Smiles good naturedly at Jared's constant insanity. Makes sure his guests never go in need of a beer. Makes sure the chip bowls never get down to crumbs.
Unless Jensen is becoming clucky, there're some definite avoidance issues going on in his constant mother-henning.
What Misha can't figure out though, is what Jensen's avoiding.
If anyone should be picking up on Jensen's weird behaviour, it ought to be Jared. Jared though, is three sheets to the wind and pinging bottle caps at the PA with the funny hair.
The sun sinks behind the mountains and dark descends, shadows lengthening and invading the house with pitch. Jensen flips on the lights and the room is retaken by warm white light.
One by one the guests begin to leave until only Jared and Misha remain with Jensen and the three exhausted dogs. Jared plays a half-hearted game of tug of war with Sadie without getting up from the armchair he's sunken into. Icarus is curled up in his basket, his nose resting on his paws, the only evidence he's really still awake the up and down quirking of the fur that designates his eyebrows. Harley is sacked out by the front door, snoring like a chainsaw.
Misha wanders the room, picking up and examining Jensen's belongings without invitation as Jared and Jensen converse in the slow sticky drawl they fall back on when tired and drunk. Eventually even that dies down and Misha pulls himself back into the social world to find Jared staring at him expectantly.
"Er, What?"
Jared rolls his eyes like he's talking to the severely slow. "I said, do you want a lift?"
Misha considers it, but something makes him hesitate. Maybe it's the way that Jensen has started to clean away empty beer bottles, like he's having just that much fun that cleaning up sounds like the perfect way to cap off the day. Maybe its the way he's been mooning about set all week like someone kicked his puppy. Maybe it's the way that Misha just doesn't want to be going home just yet.
"Nah. I'll get a cab. Wrong direction anyway," he says.
Jared nods tiredly, waves with a "Night, man" to Jensen and slouches off toward the door, Sadie and Harley in his wake, toenails clicking on the floorboards.
Jensen looks up at Misha curiously. Misha just smiles at him and starts picking up empties.
* * *
Misha corners him on the back porch as he's on his way inside from throwing away the trash. He has two unopened bottles of Jensen's beer, the yellow labels glowing as the light from inside prisms through the glass, their amber necks threaded between Misha's fingers.
The night is unseasonably warm, which is to say, it isn't snowing, so Jensen takes the one that's offered to him and sits down on the dusty top step. Misha sits down next to him, and there isn't much room with two grown men occupying the stair's width. Misha makes no move to open his beer. He makes no move to do anything really, just sits there quietly, intently.
He can feel the heat of Misha seeping into him. Jensen would be lying if he said that the proximity wasn't sending goosebumps down his arm and leg. It could just be that Misha's silence is starting to freak him out. It could be.
"You're not wearing your buckle," Misha says somberly, eventually breaking the silence, as if it's a travesty to humankind, something worse than starving orphans and outbreaks of Malaria.
"I didn't realise it was mandatory," Jensen says.
Misha smirks, "Didn't your momma teach you about gift horses and mouths?"
Jensen hopes he stops the slight flinch of his features at the mention of his mother. He doesn't like to show his weaknesses, especially when they're as ridiculous as 'I miss my momma' or 'I wanna go home'. "I don't think that quite follows, but whatever, do you want me to put the buckle on?"
Misha nods seriously, and frankly, that's more disturbing than anything else. Misha doesn't do serious all that often. Not without a damn good reason behind it. Of course, it's possible he's just really, really drunk. Either way, something makes Jensen decide to tread lightly. He doesn't even know why Misha is here still. Not that he objects it seems.
He shrugs and fishes the body-warmed rectangle of metal out of his back pocket. "Okay then."
Jensen stands up on the bottom step and unbuckles the belt he's wearing, plain brown leather and no-nonsense boring buckle. Misha watches, his eyes on Jensen's fingers working the leather out of its clasp. It feels strangely like a strip-tease. Which is a thought he needs to will down right the hell now if he wants to get out of this night with a shred of dignity.
He slides the monstrosity of a buckle onto the belt, cinches it back in and presses the buckle's clasp into the next hole on the belt. It really is the most hideous thing. Jensen wears belt buckles, of course he does, he's from Texas. But he'd not wear this particular one, say, ever.
Except, apparently, now, and simply because Misha gives it to him and asks him to. Which, whatever. Misha came to celebrate and stayed to clean up. It's only polite.
"Better?" He asks, sticking his thumbs into the waistband to either side of the buckle, forcing the metal and denim forward in a parody of a redneck farmer purveying his fields of corn and sorghum.
Misha grins at him, blindingly intense, and nods. "Much better. Now I can do this," he adds and stands up right into Jensen's personal space.
For a brief moment, Jensen has the insane thought that Misha is going to kiss him. He feels Misha's breath, moist and warm as it puffs past his ear, can almost feel the softness of Misha's lips where they hover close to his cheek. More insane is the part where Jensen finds himself leaning in.
It seems ridiculous, and fast, because there was nothing to indicate... no reason for them...and Jensen can't quite process it all, especially when Misha's hand goes to Jensen's hip, anchors him stock still.
He holds his breath, paralysed with irrational fear.
Then there's a sudden hard pressure against his groin, and he stutters out a gritty "Uh, Misha?" before he hears a metallic catch and tear. The aluminium ping of the bottle cap hitting the bottom stair reaches his ears before he even has a chance to work out what just happened.
Misha is pulling back out of his space, eyes full of laughter and mouth twisted into a smirk as he raises his newly opened beer to his lips, pulls a long self-satisfied draught. The beer that he opened on Jensen's pants.
Jensen can only stare, blood rushing headlong down his veins to the memory of where Misha had pressed the bottle against him.
* * *
Jensen looks a little like a deer caught in headlights, which was once again not what Misha had been going for in this situation. Jensen keeps taking his sure-fire mechanisms and screwing with the outcomes. He's not saying anything, just staring at him, mouth slightly open in... surprise? shock? paralytic coma? Misha has no idea.
It was meant to be a joke, a little sexual innuendo and tease, aimed at relaxing him. Sex always loosens people up in Misha's experience, even just the reference to it, and Jensen clearly needs something to break him out of his own head.
He's about to say something, not to apologise, but perhaps to defend, but then Jensen visibly shakes himself and with a half turn he's popping the top of his own bottle on the railing and sitting back down on the stairs. Hard.
Misha's pretty sure Jensen downs half the beer in one go. And that's enough, this shit just has to stop. He dislikes not being in control of the chaos spinning around him. It's impossible to confuse others when you're unsure what's going on yourself.
He sits down on the step again, feet on the next step down and arms dangling over his knees. "So, you wanna talk about what's up with you then?"
Jensen raises an eyebrow, but he doesn't try to pretend Misha's not right. "Not really."
"Honesty. Interesting choice," Misha replies, because it is. Even if it's in deflection.
"I'm not a science experiment, Misha."
He's about to go for the glib retort, but something in Jensen's tone of voice stops him. "And I'm not always fucking about. It was a genuine question."
Jensen shrugs and avoids looking at him, pouring his attention into the apparently difficult task of drinking his beer.
Misha sighs softly and looks out over the backyard, there are frogs chirping from somewhere in the darkness. The light from inside spills out over the deck, yellow-gold and vaguely angelic. Minutes tick by, Jensen drinking his beer, Misha nursing his but not really imbibing. It isn't uncomfortable silence. It isn't entirely easy either.
"Vancouver isn't all that bad." He goes for the non-sequitur, wanting to break the silence.
Jensen snorts, "It ain't Texas."
"Cowboy," Misha retorts before the thought hits him.
Oh.
"You're homesick?" Misha asks, his brain to mouth filter not kicking in fast enough, as it so often doesn't. He knows it's the right conclusion though. It matches up and suddenly all Jensen's emo bullshit slots into place with startling clarity.
Jensen rolls his eyes at him, as if suggesting such a thing is clearly ludicrous. Misha is puzzled for a moment, before he remembers that grown men probably aren't meant to experience something as ridiculous as homesickness.
Misha has never really understood homesickness. His idea of home has never fitted any of the normal descriptions given. No red roof, no two windows, door or chimney with smoke pouring out. They moved so many times when he was a kid that they never really put down roots in any particular place. Just racked up a series of places where certain things happened, certain memories formed.
So yeah, his idea of home isn't tied up in places. It's in connections, wherever his mom is on the other end of the line. His brother's email in his inbox or a text message chiming on his phone from his sister. Or just a series of regular faces when he turns up at work in the morning. So homesick has never been one of his many hang-ups. Doesn't mean he doesn't get that it is for other people.
"No point denying it, I can see it now," Misha says, matter-of-fact.
"I wasn't denying it," Jensen says, eyes flashing annoyance.
"Well you know, even cowgirls get the blues..." he pushes. Maybe if he riles Jensen up it'll snap him out of the pity party he has going on.
"Misha."
Or it'll get him royally pissed off.
Of course, part of Misha wants to go that extra step, wants to see what will happen if someone erodes that last line of defence Jensen has set up so as not to display anything approaching real emotion to the public. Only an actor, man.
On the other hand, he started this wanting to snap Jensen out of something, and replacing sadness with anger is not necessarily a step in a positive direction.
"It's okay to miss things, Jensen," he says, meaning it, but aware that if Jensen's feeling emotionally outed that it still might not go over well.
Jensen turns to face him, eyes flashing annoyance and mouth open to retort, but then it's like his strings are severed and he just sort of sags back against the railing, anger flashed and burnt, and instead he just looks defeated.
Misha doesn't think about it, just leans forward and presses his mouth to Jensen's.
* * *
Misha is kissing him. His lips are cold and slick with beer, but that is all Jensen can really process before his mind cycles back to Misha is kissing him. Which Misha wasn't a second ago. Wasn't, so far as Jensen can tell, even contemplating doing so.
And yet now he is.
Misha's tongue flickers out against Jensen's lips and he doesn't really examine that, just parts his lips on instinct and then they're fully kissing. Slow and careful, tasting of Shiner. It's exploratory; Misha testing Jensen out, him testing Misha in return.
Jensen's world narrows to the feel of Misha's tongue against his, the taste of the beer, sweet and light, and the wooded leather scent of Misha's deodorant. Misha's body leaning into his, his hand braced against Jensen's thigh. The cold of the deepening night on his face, the sound of a car horn a few blocks away and the frogs down in the creek out back. His hand scrabbling at the wood of the deck, his other wrapped gently around Misha's wrist.
The surrealism of the moment. Of Misha kissing him.
And then Misha is not kissing him. Instead he's pulling back, lips wet with saliva and blushed dark, looking just as surprised as the shock surging through Jensen's body.
"Seriously, Misha, what the hell?" Jensen stutters. He has no idea what just happened, is shocked that it happened and shocked by just how much he apparently did not object to it. Apparently he's shocked all 'round.
Misha opens his mouth and then closes it again and Jensen can see the cogs turning over inside his brain. When Misha smiles, it's not a grin, nor a self-satisfied smugness or sardonic twist. Just a smile, small and genuine. "Are you homesick right now?"
Which...okay then.
"Right now, I'm confused," he says. In his head he adds the silent, 'and aroused,' because he is. Both of those things.
"Well then," Misha says with a sage nod, cockiness beginning to settle back in place, "You aren't homesick. My work here is done."
It's only the fact that he's right, that the ache behind his ribs has eased and allowed him space to breathe, that he allows for the idea that Misha might be right to be a bit cocky.
Still.
It may be the alcohol talking, or the fact that apparently one kiss can get him well on the way to blisteringly hard, but suddenly, Jensen isn't actually all that comfortable with Misha being done at anything. Going anywhere.
Granted, he hadn't even considered fucking Misha until thirty seconds ago, at least in anything other than noticing that he was rather ridiculously hot and totally the type of guy he would have hit on were he not his co-star. Well, and if he really hit on guys all that often, which he didn't. Often.
But, fuck it. He's tired, and more than a little tipsy and he's felt like utter shit all week and he misses. He might not be able to go and see his family, have the familiarity of their physical closeness. But he could have the comfort of a warm body up against his all the same. Apparently.
So he makes a decision and prays that Misha goes with it.
He's pretty sure he will. But then, with Misha you could never really tell what might happen in the next moment. Case in point, really. He's gonna take the chance anyway, because damnit, why the hell not.
He takes a long pull of his beer, lets the cold sweetness slide down his throat and encourage this possible madness. Then he sets the beer beside him on the deck, leans forward and wraps a palm around the back of Misha's neck. "I beg to differ," he says and pulls Misha in close, finishes his sentence against the delicate skin of his lips, "I'm pretty sure you're only just getting started."
Misha laughs; it stutters against Jensen's mouth before he cuts it off, presses their mouths together and into something deeper, dirtier. Misha shifts closer on the stair, his thigh pressing hot against Jensen's and his hand searing heat into his knee.
* * *
Misha is not expecting Jensen to pull him in again. Once again, he is toppled off balance, and it's beginning to creep into his mind that maybe Jensen is his Kryptonite. Doomed to perpetually pull Misha off his perch.
Which is...new, and potentially worrying. But he's always liked a challenge, especially one as pretty and fucked up as Jensen.
He finds himself leaning into Jensen's body heat, fumbling his beer bottle back behind him on the deck with a dull glassy thud, hoping it hasn't just spilled all over the place. He's insinuating his arms around and under shirts, Jensen's hands feeling him out in return. Jensen's mouth on his might as well be straight on his cock, for all the things it's doing to him below. Which is to say, a lot. And in all the right ways.
They're biting and sucking and making out like kids behind the bleachers and it is all so deliciously unexpected that Misha wants nothing more than to see where this might go. How far he can push Jensen, how far Jensen will pull him in.
He trails his mouth from Jensen's down his jaw and latches onto Jensen's throat. Sucks and mouths and bites at the delicate skin skimming his clavicle. Jensen moans deep and dark and it reverberates under Misha's lips and makes him shudder from head to toe like it's his first time at band camp.
"Christ," he mutters against Jensen's neck and the moan is replaced by a rumbling laugh. The first genuine and uninhibited sound of happiness that he's heard Jensen make in weeks. It makes him pull back and look at Jensen, flushed and mussed and so full of want that Misha thinks he might combust.
And Misha really can't help the grin that damn near splits his face in two. "That was..."
"Unexpected?" Jensen smirks. His fingers are tapping out an unknown rhythm against Misha's leg, but it isn't nervousness, it's measured and sure, and perhaps, if Misha is to let his mind take a flight of fancy, a question.
"I was going to say 'a nice warm up', actually," he grins, although he wasn't. But if Jensen wants to play, then Misha is totally all the fucking way on board.
Jensen throws his head back and laughs, and it shoots straight to Misha's crotch, his cock twitching against the inside of his jeans. Jensen laughing is a sight to behold. All the more so for its rarity. Misha can't help but feel it's some kind of right of passage every time it happens.
Jensen looks back at him and his eyebrow arches in seduction personified. "I'm game if you are," he says, and there's nothing joking in the tone. It makes Misha's toes curl, and he's on his feet in seconds, reaching down for Jensen's hand, hauling him up and pulling him inside the house.
Suddenly this got a lot more serious. Misha needs to get Jensen naked. Right. Now.
Icarus barks once as Misha pulls his owner through the living room. For a second Misha is sure the dog is gonna get up and follow them, yap around their heels, but the day has worn him out and he just yawns with a lick to his nose and settles back into his bed.
"Good boy," Misha mutters at the dog with a grin over his shoulder at Jensen.
The predatory look in Jensen's eyes wipes the smile from his face in an instant and Misha can feel the growl purr up his throat uninhibited.
"Second on the left," Jensen says as they reach the forking corridor of the house and Misha fumbles with the door knob in his haste to open it. But open it he does and he pulls Jensen inside, shuts the door in the first second and has him slammed up against it in the second.
Because he really cannot wait any longer. He needs to be touching Jensen, tasting him and drinking him in. Jensen seems all for the idea and they become a tangle of limbs and hands, grabbing at t-shirts and shirts, unthreading clothing until Misha is finally able to press flesh to flesh, his chest sliding warm up against the sharp cushion of Jensen's ribs.
Jensen's mouth is back on his and it's insistent in its ownership, his tongue sliding and curling and dancing against Misha's own like it's been there before. Jensen breaks away for breath and Misha appreciates the moment, but he's just too turned on to be stopping for something as mundane as oxygen. He slides his mouth back along Jensen's jaw and bites down sharply on Jensen's earlobe.
"Fuck," Jensen yelps and jerks under Misha. Apparently he wasn't expecting that. But that's okay, Misha thinks, because Jensen's fingertips are digging sharply into his hips and his erection is pushing hard into Misha's hipbone. Jensen isn't going anywhere.
He soothes the bitten flesh with a swirl of his tongue before moving his lips to the shell of Jensen's ear. Misha lowers his voice into the register of shadows and corruption and purrs the sentence languidly, "So how about you fuck me now, Jensen? Let me ride you like the cowboy that you pretend you aren't."
The full-body jolt of Jensen's muscles seizing up and spasming out in time with the moan that claws its way out of Jensen's throat is pretty much all the answer Misha needs.
* * *
Misha turns and stumbles towards the bed, the clatter-clang of his belt slipping out of its buckle as he extricates himself from his clothing is all Jensen can hear over the pounding of blood in his ears.
Jensen's fingers immediately go to his own belt as he follows to the bed, and he's momentarily surprised when they slide over the unfamiliar skull of the bull on his newly acquired buckle. It takes him an extra second to work the buckle out of the belt and then the belt out of its own buckle and by the time he's worked it all open Misha is flopping back onto Jensen's bed, eyes closed and unzipping his fly with nimble fingers.
Jensen stops what he's doing and just watches. It's possible he can't actually coordinate the motor function needed to shuck his own clothing when Misha is arching up and sliding worn jeans over his hips and down his thighs. His briefs bulge obscenely where his erection strains in its cloth prison.
Misha is kicking his jeans off, toeing his ridiculous odd socks off at the same time and then he's palming himself through his underwear, stroking himself and gasping softly as he writhes underneath his own hand.
It's possible, Jensen thinks, that he wouldn't even know his own name if he were asked it just this second.
Misha's eyes flicker open and bore into Jensen's as he makes breathy noises that Jensen is sure are put on for his benefit. He's okay with that.
"Are you going to join the party, Jensen?" Misha growls on the back of a gasp as he rubs lasciviously at his cock with long curled fingers. His tongue flicks out and streaks across his bottom lip in a seductive tease. "I hear people usually make an effort."
Yeah. He may not survive this.
He musters the coordination from brain to limb and unzips, slides his jeans and underwear off in one movement. He leaves them in a puddle on the floor, toes the sandals off his feet as he does it. He's keenly aware of Misha's eyes on his newly freed cock as he wraps his hand around it and pumps languidly.
The slow droop of Misha's eyelids, the catch of his teeth in his lip; yeah, Misha is not as in control as he'd like to claim.
Jensen steps forward and sinks to his knees over Misha's calves, the hard bone of Misha's shins pressed flush against his ass; trapped. Misha is trying not to squirm, Jensen can feel the vibration of Misha forcibly holding himself still, thrumming through the skin under his hands as he smoothes his palms up Misha's thighs, brushes the light hair against the grain.
When he gets to his groin he swats Misha's hand away, hears the chuckle in Misha's chest and silences it with his mouth over the bulge of Misha's cock where precome seeps through the black cotton. Misha does squirm at that, violently, his head slamming back into the mattress.
Jensen smiles around the head of Misha's cock, huffs warm breath through the material and mouths against him with taut lips. Misha makes a noise like a cat chittering at a bird on a branch, and Jensen groans against the hot flesh in answer.
He pulls back. "You're wearing way too much clothing, Misha."
Misha swallows audibly and drags his head up off the mattress to catch Jensen's eye. He grins wickedly. "So be a good Texan boy and take 'em off me then."
Jensen smacks the muscled side of Misha's thigh with a sharp, hard, slap. "Didn't your momma ever tell you your smart mouth would get you in trouble, dude?"
Misha raises an eyebrow at him incredulously, "Seriously? You're bringing my mother into the conversation, now?"
Jensen laughs at that. "Point taken. Up."
Misha arches up dutifully. So apparently the boy can take a cue when it's to his advantage to listen. Good to know. Jensen hooks his index fingers under the band of Misha's underwear and levers them up and over his cock, drags them down and shifts off Misha's legs in order to slide them the remaining way down and off.
He eyes Misha's cock and is pretty sure he isn't gonna wait.
* * *
Jensen's mouth closes hot over the head of his cock and Misha thinks he might seriously have a stroke. Jensen's tongue swirls and teases at the underside of the head and it's all Misha can do not to slam his hips up into Jensen's mouth. He may not be Southern, but he does have some manners after all.
A hand closes around the base of him and begins to pump him slow and firm in time with the suctioning movement of Jensen's mouth and given how fucking turned on he is right now, this is really not a smart idea.
Not that he can seem to muster the energy to tell Jensen to ease off. Instead he makes the mistake of propping himself up on an elbow and looking down. Jensen is looking up. His eyes are dark under his lashes, and his cheeks are hollowed as he sucks, the pink flesh of Misha's cock sliding between Jensen's fucking wanton lips.
"Shit," Misha hisses between his teeth, grabs the comforter in a death-grip and wills himself not to come right then and there. And Jensen fucking smiles around him before pulling off with a wet pop and a darting lick.
Misha takes a shuddery breath when he's fairly certain he's not going to lose it. The sound makes Jensen grin widely and pin him with a stare. "What, you thought this was my first rodeo, Misha?"
Which actually, Misha hadn't given much thought to until now. It's not like he planned this thing they're doing right now. Unfortunately he can't take the credit for what's turning out to be a spectacularly good idea, though he'll probably sure as hell try. As to whether or not Jensen does this all that often, or ever, with guys, well no... he hasn't really thought about it. He sort of just assumed. And Jensen going with it when he kissed him, well, that was a pretty good clue.
He is surprised that Jensen is apparently so fucking good at it. He's been with gorgeous guys before, and often they haven't bothered to learn much in the way of skills; they've never needed to. Clearly Jensen is a hard worker at more than just 18 hour days. Not that surprising really.
Instead of answering, Misha surges up and pulls Jensen's mouth to his own. Kisses the taste of himself, salty and familiar, off Jensen's lips. Sucks it off his tongue.
And then he's drawing Jensen back down with him, plastering him along his body, their cocks trapped between them and, with slight adjustment, dragging against each other in stuttering shoves. Their tongues do battle but neither of them takes control for long, trading power in heartbeats and caught breaths.
Jensen's breath is hiccuping against his mouth when they gasp apart, and Misha thinks he could lose himself in the sound for eternities. The sound of Jensen slowly but surely coming apart at the same time as he does. It can't last that long though, and Misha has lost the desire to prolong it, he needs more and he needs more now.
"Either you fuck me now, Jensen, or I'm gonna come all over your 400 thread-count sheets."
Jensen's eyes crinkle in amusement. "You say that like it's a bad thing."
"It is when you consider you could have your cock in me right now," he states, deadpan bland.
Jensen groans, eyes fluttering momentarily shut, so at least some things Misha's doing today get the reactions he's aiming for. There is some order in the world.
And then Jensen's levering off him, he flips onto his back and beckons Misha up with a crooked finger. "Come on then, if you're so sure you ain't gonna get thrown."
Misha grins, there are too many things he could say. Instead he throws a leg over Jensen's hips and settles against his thighs with a cocksure, "lube?"
Jensen throws an arm out and fumbles till he finds the bedside table drawer. Seconds later he's slapping a condom and bottle of lube down on his own stomach for Misha.
Convenient.
Misha's done with foreplay. He tears the silver foil open and flips the condom right way up before rolling it down over the hot hard flesh of Jensen's cock. Jensen watches him, barely blinking. The lube is fucking cold, and Misha spares a second to warm it between his palms before he slides it down over Jensen, reaches around to slick himself up.
And then he shuffles forward, knees to either side of Jensen's waist and Jensen's cock sliding behind him. He takes it in hand and guides him at the right angle.
"Are you good?" Jensen asks, barely restraining the need quavering in his voice.
Misha manages not to roll his eyes. "I swear, that you even have to ask that when I'm doing this..." he says, leans back and presses down, feels the moment pause and open and then he's impaling himself slowly onto Jensen.
* * *
Misha sinks down onto him and the tight pull, the heat, the knowledge of what and who, is just too fucking much. Jensen fists the sheets and stamps down the need to buck up into Misha. As much as he wants Misha to ride him, he really doesn't want to actually throw him off. That would defeat the point.
"Fuck, Jensen," Misha breathes out, leaning back and bracing his hands on Jensen's thighs. Jensen thinks Misha might be getting the hang of the Southern drawl after all, because there were way too many syllables breathed into his name just there.
Jensen can't answer though, can only grunt in the affirmative, holding on to reality by his fingernails. Misha stills, and Jensen is unbelievably glad and completely gutted by the lack of movement all at the same time. He watches Misha's eyes close, sees the slight sweet upturn of one corner of Misha's mouth, the sheen of perspiration forming across Misha's flushed cheekbones, the riot of hair sticking in all directions where Jensen's fingers have sculpted it awry. It's an image that he isn't going to be forgetting anytime soon.
"So pretty, Misha." The words pop out of his mouth before he has a chance to rethink them, so he turns it into a hopefully acceptable provocation with a smirk.
Misha's eyes fly open and the upturned corner of his mouth graduates into a full-blown grin. "Did you just call me pretty?"
"Hey, you're the one workin' the cowboy metaphor, dude. I figure that makes you some kind of dewy-eyed Southern Belle, don't you?"
"Why, Jensen," Misha purrs, and it comes out like 'way Jansan'. "I do declare you're sweet on me."
He should know better by now than to try and out-do Misha. It always ends badly. So instead of answering Jensen bucks his hips up and Misha groans and screws his eyes tight in a really satisfying way.
Misha's voice skitters out soft and needy, a whispered, "Jensen," under his breath, before he puts his thighs into it and begins to rock himself back onto Jensen's cock. The soft skin of Misha's inner thighs slides against Jensen's hips.
And Jensen holds on, braces into Misha's down swing and wraps his palms around the back of Misha's thighs, his fingers dipping into the sweaty hollows behind Misha's knees for leverage. He loses himself in the rustling of the bedclothes, the creak of an errant bedspring, the slap as Misha's ass hits Jensen's thighs, the tightness holding him as it slides back and forth around him.
Misha arches further back and grabs onto his own ankles where they're bent under Jensen's legs and it pushes Misha's flattened abdomen out invitingly at Jensen, his cock, flushed and erect, with it. Jensen doesn't waste any time, wraps Misha's cock tight in his fingers and caresses in time with Misha's thrusts.
It's the right move, because Misha stutters and his gasps turn into soft grunts as he moves, his breath harsh and loud and mingling with Jensen's own in the otherwise quietness of the bedroom.
Which only serves to make Jensen ache impossibly tighter inside Misha, he can feel his cock hardening, that last extra push towards steel as his abs tighten and the slow build of magic pools and roils and threatens from within him.
He's almost there, and judging by the way Misha is flexing and tightening in his hand, he's not alone, and when Misha fixes him in his iced-blue stare and pants, "C'mon Jensen. I want you ridden and put away wet," it's all over. Done. Finished.
Jensen gives in.
* * *
Misha can sense it coming, wants to see it - the moment when Jensen loses himself, abandons the pretense and the acting and the extreme caution and is just him, nothing more and nothing less.
So he forces his eyes open, finds Jensen's and holds on, willing him to keep the gaze. And then he's thinking the most ridiculous cowboy metaphors he can think, 'ride 'em cowboys' and 'bucking broncos' and they're spilling out of his mouth in a haphazard litany of filth.
Jensen tenses beneath him, his hand clenches around Misha's cock almost painfully tight, and his eyes slam shut, his head throws back into the pillow and he's pushing up into Misha, taking the workload from him with abortive little upward shoves.
And then Jensen freezes and unravels spectacularly, his mouth falling open in a silent cry and Misha groans as he feels the jerk and spill inside of him. One of Jensen's hands curls tightly in under Misha's knee and the other, the one wrapped around him, is amazingly trying to find and keep a rhythm, trying to pull Misha with him. It's sweet and utterly selfless and so ridiculously unexpected that Misha can't help but fall over with him, comes over Jensen's stomach and hand with a surprised cry.
And then he's tipping forward, legs gone to jelly, Jensen slips out of him messily as Misha falls against his chest. Jensen's breath is forced out of his lungs at the sudden weight of him, and Misha slides sideways, half on the bed, half against Jensen's ribs.
Gasping, Misha nuzzles his face into Jensen's throat, unable to resist a moment of earned intimacy. The space is hot and sheened with sweat and Misha murmurs nonsense into the skin there as he comes down.
Jensen is quiet, breaths steadying and only every seventh lungful is exaggerated with the need for more oxygen. It reminds Misha of the way his mom would say that every seventh wave is bigger as it crashes against the rocky shore.
This is probably not what she meant, Misha allows. All the same, it seems pretty apt.
Misha thinks he should disentangle now, and starts to move, but Jensen's arm comes up around his shoulder, anchoring him in. Misha knows better than to comment on it, to be glib or cute or sarcastic. Considering he's pretty damn okay with staying where he is for the moment.
All the same, he can't help the murmured "yee haw" against the underside of Jensen's chin.
He can feel Jensen's laughter fluttering through his ribs.
* * *
Jensen wakes to dappled sunlight filtering through the blinds of his bedroom window. Judging by the angle, the sun is already well on its way to noon. His bladder is pretty insistent on that fact too.
It's not until he swings his legs over the side of the bed, toes curling into the carpet, that he realises he's alone. Misha's gone, as are his clothes, and though Jensen can't say he's particularly surprised at that, he is surprised by the heavy pit he feels settle at the bottom of his stomach.
The wave of homesickness, the need for comfort that he's been battling all week, threatens to settle into his bones.
And then he sees the hat. His hat, to be exact. His gray felted Stetson sitting on one of Jensen's dining room chairs that is, for some bizarre reason, perched next to his bed as if waiting for him to wake.
Which is... odd. To say the least.
He reaches out and curls his fingers around the soft brim, lifts it into his hands and runs his palm around the edge, lets it tickle at his skin. He has no idea what it means. What Misha could possibly be saying with it.
And then he sees the white tissue-papered rectangle on the seat where the hat had hidden it.
Putting his hat to the side on the mess of sheets, Jensen picks up the small parcel. It's clearly sitting in the paper it came in to protect whatever it is, not wrapped and glittered or ribboned for public consumption. He thumbs the soft white tissue aside and reveals the muted silver of another belt buckle.
This one isn't garish though. It isn't red or blue or adorned with dead cattle. It's simple plain silver etched in delicate filigree scrolls and sage flowers.
It's fucking gorgeous.
And it feels like home.
* * *
End.
A/N: For those interested this is a pretty close version of the fugly buckle, minus the bottle opener. Which yes, does exist in buckle form. And this is the one that Misha gives Jensen.
Author: qthelights
Pairing: Jensen/Misha
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: None
Wordcount: ~9000
Disclaimer: Not mine, never happened. No offence intended.
Summary: Jensen wants to go home, Misha gives him an alternative.
A/N: Written for my darling and forever kadiel_krieger for her birthday. I hope this is what you wanted m'darling. Love you! Mad thanks to cupiscent for the beta and whipping.
Misha shows up at the door with a six pack of imported frou-frou beer and a bright purple concoction of paper and ribbon. It sparkles; Jensen is immediately on guard.
"Evening y'all," Misha drawls in terrible imitation of a Texan accent.
Jensen arches an eyebrow, "Tryn' to be a good Southern boy, are we?"
Misha just smiles beatifically. "Well, I don't know about good," he grins and hands Jensen the purple monstrosity with a flourish.
"Er, thanks man," Jensen says and juggles the parcel and his beer, keeps the door open with a sandalled foot, "though I thought we agreed on no presents." His tone is only mildly reprimanding, it's not like he expects Misha to keep to any lines of agreement.
"We did," Misha agrees amicably and ambles into Jensen's apartment.
It's only a small gathering; Jensen wouldn't have been having any kind of celebration of the fact that he's steadily getting older, but Jared insisted. He didn't really have any choice in the matter.
There's just a small crowd of guys and a barbecue. A game on the flatscreen and an abundance of beer. It's low-key enough that it feels like home.
Except for the part where it doesn't very much feel like that at all. All day he's been thinking of other birthdays, other years back home. The way his momma baked him cakes so sweet they'd rot the teeth right out of his mouth.
"I ignored that," Misha adds unnecessarily, yanking Jensen's thoughts back into the present.
"You would," Jensen says, deadpan.
Misha toes off his boots and he's wearing odd socks; one is a bright parrot green, the other a suspiciously sedate navy blue. He looks up with a grin and nods at the present in Jensen's hand. "Well, aren't you gonna open it?"
Jensen eyes the package carefully. It isn't big, around the size of his hand perhaps. But the ribbons are intimidating. And slightly... "Is it going to hurt me?"
Misha snorts a laugh and snatches Jensen's beer out of his hand. "Not unless you try really hard." He swigs the bottle, half empties it in one pull, bizarrely, Jensen doesn't feel the need to protest.
When Misha gives him a patented exasperated stare Jensen gives in, uses an incisor to break open what looks like one of the more structural pieces of ribbon. He tears at the sticky-tape and wrappings; he can feel something hard and flat underneath them all. Finally he gets the last piece of tissue paper away and holds up his prize.
It's a belt-buckle. And it's fucking ugly.
It's all silver filigree and red and blue glazing with "Texas" written across the top in wild west lettering. Two state flags wave to either side of a huge 3-dimensional longhorn cattle skull. And if Jensen isn't mistaken, it has a fucking bottle opener built into it's mouth.
It's horrendous and hideous and about the worst thing that could ever be manufactured to represent his birthplace.
And it makes his stomach clench up so tight in longing that he can't even find the words to joke about it.
He must be staring at the thing with ridiculous animé-emo eyes or something because Misha places his fingertips warm on Jensen's wrist with an unsure, "Jensen?"
Jensen shakes his head and forces out a laugh, brash and grating and too damn loud. "You're a dick, Misha."
Misha smiles, but it's off, slightly hesitant. "It's funny, what with you being a genuine cowboy and all." He pronounces it gen-you-wine and with a twang.
"Dick," Jensen repeats for emphasis, but he forces a smile and only half doesn't mean it.
It is funny. And the fact that Misha came at all, when he probably has more important things to be doing, like poetry recitation or tantric basket-weaving or some shit, let alone brought him a present, makes him strangely warm.
It's just that the sight of the 'TEXAS' hits him sharp in his chest where it's been tight all day since his parents rang him at 6am in the morning sounding warm and familiar and like they missed him.
The group in the living room erupt into a chorus of cheers and booing and over the top of it all Jensen can hear Jared crying for a time-out for the love of all that's holy. Harley and Sadie come barreling into the hall in a ball of tan fur running from an over-excited Icarus.
Misha is immediately distracted and Jensen welcomes the brief reprieve from his inquisitive stare. It's too much. Misha is too much. He palms the buckle into his back pocket and heads for the kitchen to get more beer. "We're in the den when you're finished making friends," he tosses over his shoulder and leaves Misha in amongst the canine flurry.
* * *
Misha pays his dues to the canine companions, ending up half-licked to death and covered in dog hair. He isn't really a dog person, except for the fact where he's an animal person in general, so he gets to be their best human buddy by default of there not being any cats around.
In the den is a rag tag bunch of Jensen's friends. He doesn't know a lot of them, though some are the usual assortment of crew members. One of the grips, Todd something or other. Maybe Ted. Jared is there, loud enough that Misha would have felt the air vibrate with his presence even if he wasn't heralded by the hell hounds.
It's an all male group, which is interesting. For whatever reason, Misha has tended to end up in social groups that included more females than males, or at the very least, a lot of couples. It's not like there aren't Pas and other tech people with, you know, vaginas on the set, but they don't seem to have been invited. Perhaps this is some form of social bonding that Misha has never really been privy too. Beer, barbecue and a game. Perhaps this is what normal people - normal males - do on their weekends.
It's not how he'd usually spend his weekend, but this is Jensen's birthday, and for that he will set aside the thousand and one things he had planned and haul his ass over to the other side of Vancouver. Especially when the guy said 'please,' like it was all it would take to break him out of the mysterious funk he'd been in all week.
He'd like to believe that the act of breaking Jensen's sombre mood was completely altruistic, he's been called worse before, the problem is the part where he isn't sure it is. But that's something he's really not willing to think about. That way lies madness.
Misha grabs a beer and steps out onto the deck, leans against the railing and watches the dogs chase circles around each other. Spring is settling in, removing some of the chill from the Vancouver air and the sun is shining fiercely, as if apologising for the months of frigid winter.
The sliding door rumbles quietly open behind him and he turns to find Jensen, platter of raw meat, a beer and grilling implements precariously in hand. He is of course wearing a semi-obscene "kiss the cock" apron. Misha suspects Jared bought him that.
Jensen eyes him carefully, watches his gaze slip down the apron and up again. "It's not an open invitation," Jensen says matter-of-factly.
Misha has to laugh at that; it amuses him to be predicted correctly. It amuses him more when it's Jensen.
Jensen sets about turning gas on and lighting flames, pouring oil onto a paper cloth and wiping down the charred black grilling surface. Misha sips his beer and watches the prep. He likes cooking, even on a barbecue, it's grounding. And judging by the way Jensen is methodically going about setting the barbecue up and placing the meat on, it is for him too.
Of course, it also suggests Jensen needs grounding for some reason. Misha files that thought away next to 'Jensen has been acting weird,' and 'No really, what the hell?'
"So why are you hiding out here with the terrors?" Jensen asks casually, laying down a row of sausages.
Misha picks at a corner of his beer label absently with his thumbnail, squints up into the sun before returning his gaze to the back of Jensen's neck. "Not hiding, just... being antisocial."
Jensen huffs, amused. "It's meant to be a birthday party, you know. Usually people make an effort."
He's ribbing, Jensen is just as reclusive as Misha when the mood suits and so Misha doesn't take offence. Plus, there's something going on with Jensen, has been all week. Misha knows because he's been watching. And Jensen hadn't reacted at all to the buckle like Misha had expected him to, and that bugs him. He likes things to go the way he plans, otherwise what's the point?
"My birthday parties were never really normal," Misha says, wondering even as he says it why he does. He doesn't talk much about his past, not the reality of it, just bits and pieces that paint it as exotic and not penniless.
Jensen ponders him for a moment, then moves away from the barbecue, apparently satisfied that the meat won't spontaneously combust. He leans back onto the railing next to Misha, elbows propping him up, legs crossed at the ankle.
Misha watches him take a swallow of his own beer, and the flex and undulation of his throat is slightly hypnotic. Not that he's looking.
* * *
Jensen knows it's probably not the best idea to take the bait. If it is even bait - with Misha he finds it hard to tell, which frankly unnerves him. But Jensen's feeling on edge, unsure how he was meant to take the fugly belt buckle gift, and embarrassed that he let the damn thing get to him. So he asks, even though Misha might just be fucking with him. Even though he sort of hopes he isn't.
"Not normal?"
Misha shakes his head, "No." But then he fails to elaborate in that annoyingly maddening way Misha has.
"Why?"
Misha glances at him from the corner of his eye, tips the lip of the beer bottle to his mouth. The shrug is almost imperceptible, but such a minute gesture says volumes coming from Misha.
"Well we didn't have birthday parties so much as we had un-birthday parties." Misha glances at him briefly, and when Jensen doesn't say anything, he continues. "We weren't really...there wasn't much money sometimes...so mom would buy decorations when they went on sale. Christmas accoutrements in January, Halloween in November. And then she'd keep them for special occasions, like birthdays."
Jensen nods, he's not really sure if that's a good or bad thing in Misha's world. He takes what would be the normal response. "That must have sucked."
Misha turns to face him and smiles; it's soft and sort of sweet. "For years I was convinced the Easter Bunny and I were born on the same day. I had an aversion to chocolate eggs for years. But you know, it was what it was. Not bad, not brilliant."
Which is funny, in a strange sort of way. He's known Misha for almost two years now, and yet at the same time, he feels like he doesn't know him at all. No one really gets to know Misha. And yet here he is, looking at him seriously and giving him a piece without asking.
Misha drinks another swallow, empties his bottle and lets his arm fall by his side. His hand brushes against Jensen's wrist and sends a shiver slip-sliding down Jensen's arm. If Misha experiences anything similar he makes no indication.
"What were your birthdays like?" Misha asks.
The ache comes back to his chest immediately. He finds he can't say much over the lump forming in his throat and reduces his answer to a series of dot-points. "Nice. Small. Family dinner. Cake."
Misha nods, but, thankfully, doesn't push. Which is good, because Jensen thinks it'd be downright mortifying to start sobbing into the sausages.
They stand side-by-side, surveying the charring flesh before them, sizzling and crackling and throwing up smoke into the sky, until Jared, eyes suspiciously red-rimmed, appears in the doorway.
"Yo, Martha and Stewart, take your damn onions," he snaps and shoves the bowl at Misha.
Misha grins at him, wide and crinkly. Jensen ignores the way a different ache slides around his chest.
* * *
Misha is sandwiched in between Todd (Ted) and Jared. They're all still watching "the game". Although, Misha isn't sure that it's the same "the game" that they were watching when he first arrived. He knows better than to ask.
It doesn't really matter anyway, because he isn't watching it, except for the moments when the room erupts and Jared smacks his knee in congratulations and Misha is forced to look up, feign interest.
Instead he's watching Jensen.
At some point, they run out of beer. A scary enough thought given Misha knows exactly how much beer there was in the kitchen earlier.
A beer run is organised, and more procured and the afternoon passes in a lazy haze of beer-buzz and noise. Turns out, boys are bloody loud when there aren't girls around to dial them down a notch.
Misha suspects he may have had a few too many when he finds himself staring at Jensen a little too intently. So much so that Jensen catches him and raises an eyebrow in a puzzled 'what the fuck'.
Which is just amateur night, really. Misha is a much better stalker than that.
But something about the way Jensen is acting, or not acting as the case may be, is embedded under his skin like a stubborn itch, and he simply can't stop himself from following Jensen's path around the room.
He catalogues the way Jensen interacts with his friends. Smiles good naturedly at Jared's constant insanity. Makes sure his guests never go in need of a beer. Makes sure the chip bowls never get down to crumbs.
Unless Jensen is becoming clucky, there're some definite avoidance issues going on in his constant mother-henning.
What Misha can't figure out though, is what Jensen's avoiding.
If anyone should be picking up on Jensen's weird behaviour, it ought to be Jared. Jared though, is three sheets to the wind and pinging bottle caps at the PA with the funny hair.
The sun sinks behind the mountains and dark descends, shadows lengthening and invading the house with pitch. Jensen flips on the lights and the room is retaken by warm white light.
One by one the guests begin to leave until only Jared and Misha remain with Jensen and the three exhausted dogs. Jared plays a half-hearted game of tug of war with Sadie without getting up from the armchair he's sunken into. Icarus is curled up in his basket, his nose resting on his paws, the only evidence he's really still awake the up and down quirking of the fur that designates his eyebrows. Harley is sacked out by the front door, snoring like a chainsaw.
Misha wanders the room, picking up and examining Jensen's belongings without invitation as Jared and Jensen converse in the slow sticky drawl they fall back on when tired and drunk. Eventually even that dies down and Misha pulls himself back into the social world to find Jared staring at him expectantly.
"Er, What?"
Jared rolls his eyes like he's talking to the severely slow. "I said, do you want a lift?"
Misha considers it, but something makes him hesitate. Maybe it's the way that Jensen has started to clean away empty beer bottles, like he's having just that much fun that cleaning up sounds like the perfect way to cap off the day. Maybe its the way he's been mooning about set all week like someone kicked his puppy. Maybe it's the way that Misha just doesn't want to be going home just yet.
"Nah. I'll get a cab. Wrong direction anyway," he says.
Jared nods tiredly, waves with a "Night, man" to Jensen and slouches off toward the door, Sadie and Harley in his wake, toenails clicking on the floorboards.
Jensen looks up at Misha curiously. Misha just smiles at him and starts picking up empties.
* * *
Misha corners him on the back porch as he's on his way inside from throwing away the trash. He has two unopened bottles of Jensen's beer, the yellow labels glowing as the light from inside prisms through the glass, their amber necks threaded between Misha's fingers.
The night is unseasonably warm, which is to say, it isn't snowing, so Jensen takes the one that's offered to him and sits down on the dusty top step. Misha sits down next to him, and there isn't much room with two grown men occupying the stair's width. Misha makes no move to open his beer. He makes no move to do anything really, just sits there quietly, intently.
He can feel the heat of Misha seeping into him. Jensen would be lying if he said that the proximity wasn't sending goosebumps down his arm and leg. It could just be that Misha's silence is starting to freak him out. It could be.
"You're not wearing your buckle," Misha says somberly, eventually breaking the silence, as if it's a travesty to humankind, something worse than starving orphans and outbreaks of Malaria.
"I didn't realise it was mandatory," Jensen says.
Misha smirks, "Didn't your momma teach you about gift horses and mouths?"
Jensen hopes he stops the slight flinch of his features at the mention of his mother. He doesn't like to show his weaknesses, especially when they're as ridiculous as 'I miss my momma' or 'I wanna go home'. "I don't think that quite follows, but whatever, do you want me to put the buckle on?"
Misha nods seriously, and frankly, that's more disturbing than anything else. Misha doesn't do serious all that often. Not without a damn good reason behind it. Of course, it's possible he's just really, really drunk. Either way, something makes Jensen decide to tread lightly. He doesn't even know why Misha is here still. Not that he objects it seems.
He shrugs and fishes the body-warmed rectangle of metal out of his back pocket. "Okay then."
Jensen stands up on the bottom step and unbuckles the belt he's wearing, plain brown leather and no-nonsense boring buckle. Misha watches, his eyes on Jensen's fingers working the leather out of its clasp. It feels strangely like a strip-tease. Which is a thought he needs to will down right the hell now if he wants to get out of this night with a shred of dignity.
He slides the monstrosity of a buckle onto the belt, cinches it back in and presses the buckle's clasp into the next hole on the belt. It really is the most hideous thing. Jensen wears belt buckles, of course he does, he's from Texas. But he'd not wear this particular one, say, ever.
Except, apparently, now, and simply because Misha gives it to him and asks him to. Which, whatever. Misha came to celebrate and stayed to clean up. It's only polite.
"Better?" He asks, sticking his thumbs into the waistband to either side of the buckle, forcing the metal and denim forward in a parody of a redneck farmer purveying his fields of corn and sorghum.
Misha grins at him, blindingly intense, and nods. "Much better. Now I can do this," he adds and stands up right into Jensen's personal space.
For a brief moment, Jensen has the insane thought that Misha is going to kiss him. He feels Misha's breath, moist and warm as it puffs past his ear, can almost feel the softness of Misha's lips where they hover close to his cheek. More insane is the part where Jensen finds himself leaning in.
It seems ridiculous, and fast, because there was nothing to indicate... no reason for them...and Jensen can't quite process it all, especially when Misha's hand goes to Jensen's hip, anchors him stock still.
He holds his breath, paralysed with irrational fear.
Then there's a sudden hard pressure against his groin, and he stutters out a gritty "Uh, Misha?" before he hears a metallic catch and tear. The aluminium ping of the bottle cap hitting the bottom stair reaches his ears before he even has a chance to work out what just happened.
Misha is pulling back out of his space, eyes full of laughter and mouth twisted into a smirk as he raises his newly opened beer to his lips, pulls a long self-satisfied draught. The beer that he opened on Jensen's pants.
Jensen can only stare, blood rushing headlong down his veins to the memory of where Misha had pressed the bottle against him.
* * *
Jensen looks a little like a deer caught in headlights, which was once again not what Misha had been going for in this situation. Jensen keeps taking his sure-fire mechanisms and screwing with the outcomes. He's not saying anything, just staring at him, mouth slightly open in... surprise? shock? paralytic coma? Misha has no idea.
It was meant to be a joke, a little sexual innuendo and tease, aimed at relaxing him. Sex always loosens people up in Misha's experience, even just the reference to it, and Jensen clearly needs something to break him out of his own head.
He's about to say something, not to apologise, but perhaps to defend, but then Jensen visibly shakes himself and with a half turn he's popping the top of his own bottle on the railing and sitting back down on the stairs. Hard.
Misha's pretty sure Jensen downs half the beer in one go. And that's enough, this shit just has to stop. He dislikes not being in control of the chaos spinning around him. It's impossible to confuse others when you're unsure what's going on yourself.
He sits down on the step again, feet on the next step down and arms dangling over his knees. "So, you wanna talk about what's up with you then?"
Jensen raises an eyebrow, but he doesn't try to pretend Misha's not right. "Not really."
"Honesty. Interesting choice," Misha replies, because it is. Even if it's in deflection.
"I'm not a science experiment, Misha."
He's about to go for the glib retort, but something in Jensen's tone of voice stops him. "And I'm not always fucking about. It was a genuine question."
Jensen shrugs and avoids looking at him, pouring his attention into the apparently difficult task of drinking his beer.
Misha sighs softly and looks out over the backyard, there are frogs chirping from somewhere in the darkness. The light from inside spills out over the deck, yellow-gold and vaguely angelic. Minutes tick by, Jensen drinking his beer, Misha nursing his but not really imbibing. It isn't uncomfortable silence. It isn't entirely easy either.
"Vancouver isn't all that bad." He goes for the non-sequitur, wanting to break the silence.
Jensen snorts, "It ain't Texas."
"Cowboy," Misha retorts before the thought hits him.
Oh.
"You're homesick?" Misha asks, his brain to mouth filter not kicking in fast enough, as it so often doesn't. He knows it's the right conclusion though. It matches up and suddenly all Jensen's emo bullshit slots into place with startling clarity.
Jensen rolls his eyes at him, as if suggesting such a thing is clearly ludicrous. Misha is puzzled for a moment, before he remembers that grown men probably aren't meant to experience something as ridiculous as homesickness.
Misha has never really understood homesickness. His idea of home has never fitted any of the normal descriptions given. No red roof, no two windows, door or chimney with smoke pouring out. They moved so many times when he was a kid that they never really put down roots in any particular place. Just racked up a series of places where certain things happened, certain memories formed.
So yeah, his idea of home isn't tied up in places. It's in connections, wherever his mom is on the other end of the line. His brother's email in his inbox or a text message chiming on his phone from his sister. Or just a series of regular faces when he turns up at work in the morning. So homesick has never been one of his many hang-ups. Doesn't mean he doesn't get that it is for other people.
"No point denying it, I can see it now," Misha says, matter-of-fact.
"I wasn't denying it," Jensen says, eyes flashing annoyance.
"Well you know, even cowgirls get the blues..." he pushes. Maybe if he riles Jensen up it'll snap him out of the pity party he has going on.
"Misha."
Or it'll get him royally pissed off.
Of course, part of Misha wants to go that extra step, wants to see what will happen if someone erodes that last line of defence Jensen has set up so as not to display anything approaching real emotion to the public. Only an actor, man.
On the other hand, he started this wanting to snap Jensen out of something, and replacing sadness with anger is not necessarily a step in a positive direction.
"It's okay to miss things, Jensen," he says, meaning it, but aware that if Jensen's feeling emotionally outed that it still might not go over well.
Jensen turns to face him, eyes flashing annoyance and mouth open to retort, but then it's like his strings are severed and he just sort of sags back against the railing, anger flashed and burnt, and instead he just looks defeated.
Misha doesn't think about it, just leans forward and presses his mouth to Jensen's.
* * *
Misha is kissing him. His lips are cold and slick with beer, but that is all Jensen can really process before his mind cycles back to Misha is kissing him. Which Misha wasn't a second ago. Wasn't, so far as Jensen can tell, even contemplating doing so.
And yet now he is.
Misha's tongue flickers out against Jensen's lips and he doesn't really examine that, just parts his lips on instinct and then they're fully kissing. Slow and careful, tasting of Shiner. It's exploratory; Misha testing Jensen out, him testing Misha in return.
Jensen's world narrows to the feel of Misha's tongue against his, the taste of the beer, sweet and light, and the wooded leather scent of Misha's deodorant. Misha's body leaning into his, his hand braced against Jensen's thigh. The cold of the deepening night on his face, the sound of a car horn a few blocks away and the frogs down in the creek out back. His hand scrabbling at the wood of the deck, his other wrapped gently around Misha's wrist.
The surrealism of the moment. Of Misha kissing him.
And then Misha is not kissing him. Instead he's pulling back, lips wet with saliva and blushed dark, looking just as surprised as the shock surging through Jensen's body.
"Seriously, Misha, what the hell?" Jensen stutters. He has no idea what just happened, is shocked that it happened and shocked by just how much he apparently did not object to it. Apparently he's shocked all 'round.
Misha opens his mouth and then closes it again and Jensen can see the cogs turning over inside his brain. When Misha smiles, it's not a grin, nor a self-satisfied smugness or sardonic twist. Just a smile, small and genuine. "Are you homesick right now?"
Which...okay then.
"Right now, I'm confused," he says. In his head he adds the silent, 'and aroused,' because he is. Both of those things.
"Well then," Misha says with a sage nod, cockiness beginning to settle back in place, "You aren't homesick. My work here is done."
It's only the fact that he's right, that the ache behind his ribs has eased and allowed him space to breathe, that he allows for the idea that Misha might be right to be a bit cocky.
Still.
It may be the alcohol talking, or the fact that apparently one kiss can get him well on the way to blisteringly hard, but suddenly, Jensen isn't actually all that comfortable with Misha being done at anything. Going anywhere.
Granted, he hadn't even considered fucking Misha until thirty seconds ago, at least in anything other than noticing that he was rather ridiculously hot and totally the type of guy he would have hit on were he not his co-star. Well, and if he really hit on guys all that often, which he didn't. Often.
But, fuck it. He's tired, and more than a little tipsy and he's felt like utter shit all week and he misses. He might not be able to go and see his family, have the familiarity of their physical closeness. But he could have the comfort of a warm body up against his all the same. Apparently.
So he makes a decision and prays that Misha goes with it.
He's pretty sure he will. But then, with Misha you could never really tell what might happen in the next moment. Case in point, really. He's gonna take the chance anyway, because damnit, why the hell not.
He takes a long pull of his beer, lets the cold sweetness slide down his throat and encourage this possible madness. Then he sets the beer beside him on the deck, leans forward and wraps a palm around the back of Misha's neck. "I beg to differ," he says and pulls Misha in close, finishes his sentence against the delicate skin of his lips, "I'm pretty sure you're only just getting started."
Misha laughs; it stutters against Jensen's mouth before he cuts it off, presses their mouths together and into something deeper, dirtier. Misha shifts closer on the stair, his thigh pressing hot against Jensen's and his hand searing heat into his knee.
* * *
Misha is not expecting Jensen to pull him in again. Once again, he is toppled off balance, and it's beginning to creep into his mind that maybe Jensen is his Kryptonite. Doomed to perpetually pull Misha off his perch.
Which is...new, and potentially worrying. But he's always liked a challenge, especially one as pretty and fucked up as Jensen.
He finds himself leaning into Jensen's body heat, fumbling his beer bottle back behind him on the deck with a dull glassy thud, hoping it hasn't just spilled all over the place. He's insinuating his arms around and under shirts, Jensen's hands feeling him out in return. Jensen's mouth on his might as well be straight on his cock, for all the things it's doing to him below. Which is to say, a lot. And in all the right ways.
They're biting and sucking and making out like kids behind the bleachers and it is all so deliciously unexpected that Misha wants nothing more than to see where this might go. How far he can push Jensen, how far Jensen will pull him in.
He trails his mouth from Jensen's down his jaw and latches onto Jensen's throat. Sucks and mouths and bites at the delicate skin skimming his clavicle. Jensen moans deep and dark and it reverberates under Misha's lips and makes him shudder from head to toe like it's his first time at band camp.
"Christ," he mutters against Jensen's neck and the moan is replaced by a rumbling laugh. The first genuine and uninhibited sound of happiness that he's heard Jensen make in weeks. It makes him pull back and look at Jensen, flushed and mussed and so full of want that Misha thinks he might combust.
And Misha really can't help the grin that damn near splits his face in two. "That was..."
"Unexpected?" Jensen smirks. His fingers are tapping out an unknown rhythm against Misha's leg, but it isn't nervousness, it's measured and sure, and perhaps, if Misha is to let his mind take a flight of fancy, a question.
"I was going to say 'a nice warm up', actually," he grins, although he wasn't. But if Jensen wants to play, then Misha is totally all the fucking way on board.
Jensen throws his head back and laughs, and it shoots straight to Misha's crotch, his cock twitching against the inside of his jeans. Jensen laughing is a sight to behold. All the more so for its rarity. Misha can't help but feel it's some kind of right of passage every time it happens.
Jensen looks back at him and his eyebrow arches in seduction personified. "I'm game if you are," he says, and there's nothing joking in the tone. It makes Misha's toes curl, and he's on his feet in seconds, reaching down for Jensen's hand, hauling him up and pulling him inside the house.
Suddenly this got a lot more serious. Misha needs to get Jensen naked. Right. Now.
Icarus barks once as Misha pulls his owner through the living room. For a second Misha is sure the dog is gonna get up and follow them, yap around their heels, but the day has worn him out and he just yawns with a lick to his nose and settles back into his bed.
"Good boy," Misha mutters at the dog with a grin over his shoulder at Jensen.
The predatory look in Jensen's eyes wipes the smile from his face in an instant and Misha can feel the growl purr up his throat uninhibited.
"Second on the left," Jensen says as they reach the forking corridor of the house and Misha fumbles with the door knob in his haste to open it. But open it he does and he pulls Jensen inside, shuts the door in the first second and has him slammed up against it in the second.
Because he really cannot wait any longer. He needs to be touching Jensen, tasting him and drinking him in. Jensen seems all for the idea and they become a tangle of limbs and hands, grabbing at t-shirts and shirts, unthreading clothing until Misha is finally able to press flesh to flesh, his chest sliding warm up against the sharp cushion of Jensen's ribs.
Jensen's mouth is back on his and it's insistent in its ownership, his tongue sliding and curling and dancing against Misha's own like it's been there before. Jensen breaks away for breath and Misha appreciates the moment, but he's just too turned on to be stopping for something as mundane as oxygen. He slides his mouth back along Jensen's jaw and bites down sharply on Jensen's earlobe.
"Fuck," Jensen yelps and jerks under Misha. Apparently he wasn't expecting that. But that's okay, Misha thinks, because Jensen's fingertips are digging sharply into his hips and his erection is pushing hard into Misha's hipbone. Jensen isn't going anywhere.
He soothes the bitten flesh with a swirl of his tongue before moving his lips to the shell of Jensen's ear. Misha lowers his voice into the register of shadows and corruption and purrs the sentence languidly, "So how about you fuck me now, Jensen? Let me ride you like the cowboy that you pretend you aren't."
The full-body jolt of Jensen's muscles seizing up and spasming out in time with the moan that claws its way out of Jensen's throat is pretty much all the answer Misha needs.
* * *
Misha turns and stumbles towards the bed, the clatter-clang of his belt slipping out of its buckle as he extricates himself from his clothing is all Jensen can hear over the pounding of blood in his ears.
Jensen's fingers immediately go to his own belt as he follows to the bed, and he's momentarily surprised when they slide over the unfamiliar skull of the bull on his newly acquired buckle. It takes him an extra second to work the buckle out of the belt and then the belt out of its own buckle and by the time he's worked it all open Misha is flopping back onto Jensen's bed, eyes closed and unzipping his fly with nimble fingers.
Jensen stops what he's doing and just watches. It's possible he can't actually coordinate the motor function needed to shuck his own clothing when Misha is arching up and sliding worn jeans over his hips and down his thighs. His briefs bulge obscenely where his erection strains in its cloth prison.
Misha is kicking his jeans off, toeing his ridiculous odd socks off at the same time and then he's palming himself through his underwear, stroking himself and gasping softly as he writhes underneath his own hand.
It's possible, Jensen thinks, that he wouldn't even know his own name if he were asked it just this second.
Misha's eyes flicker open and bore into Jensen's as he makes breathy noises that Jensen is sure are put on for his benefit. He's okay with that.
"Are you going to join the party, Jensen?" Misha growls on the back of a gasp as he rubs lasciviously at his cock with long curled fingers. His tongue flicks out and streaks across his bottom lip in a seductive tease. "I hear people usually make an effort."
Yeah. He may not survive this.
He musters the coordination from brain to limb and unzips, slides his jeans and underwear off in one movement. He leaves them in a puddle on the floor, toes the sandals off his feet as he does it. He's keenly aware of Misha's eyes on his newly freed cock as he wraps his hand around it and pumps languidly.
The slow droop of Misha's eyelids, the catch of his teeth in his lip; yeah, Misha is not as in control as he'd like to claim.
Jensen steps forward and sinks to his knees over Misha's calves, the hard bone of Misha's shins pressed flush against his ass; trapped. Misha is trying not to squirm, Jensen can feel the vibration of Misha forcibly holding himself still, thrumming through the skin under his hands as he smoothes his palms up Misha's thighs, brushes the light hair against the grain.
When he gets to his groin he swats Misha's hand away, hears the chuckle in Misha's chest and silences it with his mouth over the bulge of Misha's cock where precome seeps through the black cotton. Misha does squirm at that, violently, his head slamming back into the mattress.
Jensen smiles around the head of Misha's cock, huffs warm breath through the material and mouths against him with taut lips. Misha makes a noise like a cat chittering at a bird on a branch, and Jensen groans against the hot flesh in answer.
He pulls back. "You're wearing way too much clothing, Misha."
Misha swallows audibly and drags his head up off the mattress to catch Jensen's eye. He grins wickedly. "So be a good Texan boy and take 'em off me then."
Jensen smacks the muscled side of Misha's thigh with a sharp, hard, slap. "Didn't your momma ever tell you your smart mouth would get you in trouble, dude?"
Misha raises an eyebrow at him incredulously, "Seriously? You're bringing my mother into the conversation, now?"
Jensen laughs at that. "Point taken. Up."
Misha arches up dutifully. So apparently the boy can take a cue when it's to his advantage to listen. Good to know. Jensen hooks his index fingers under the band of Misha's underwear and levers them up and over his cock, drags them down and shifts off Misha's legs in order to slide them the remaining way down and off.
He eyes Misha's cock and is pretty sure he isn't gonna wait.
* * *
Jensen's mouth closes hot over the head of his cock and Misha thinks he might seriously have a stroke. Jensen's tongue swirls and teases at the underside of the head and it's all Misha can do not to slam his hips up into Jensen's mouth. He may not be Southern, but he does have some manners after all.
A hand closes around the base of him and begins to pump him slow and firm in time with the suctioning movement of Jensen's mouth and given how fucking turned on he is right now, this is really not a smart idea.
Not that he can seem to muster the energy to tell Jensen to ease off. Instead he makes the mistake of propping himself up on an elbow and looking down. Jensen is looking up. His eyes are dark under his lashes, and his cheeks are hollowed as he sucks, the pink flesh of Misha's cock sliding between Jensen's fucking wanton lips.
"Shit," Misha hisses between his teeth, grabs the comforter in a death-grip and wills himself not to come right then and there. And Jensen fucking smiles around him before pulling off with a wet pop and a darting lick.
Misha takes a shuddery breath when he's fairly certain he's not going to lose it. The sound makes Jensen grin widely and pin him with a stare. "What, you thought this was my first rodeo, Misha?"
Which actually, Misha hadn't given much thought to until now. It's not like he planned this thing they're doing right now. Unfortunately he can't take the credit for what's turning out to be a spectacularly good idea, though he'll probably sure as hell try. As to whether or not Jensen does this all that often, or ever, with guys, well no... he hasn't really thought about it. He sort of just assumed. And Jensen going with it when he kissed him, well, that was a pretty good clue.
He is surprised that Jensen is apparently so fucking good at it. He's been with gorgeous guys before, and often they haven't bothered to learn much in the way of skills; they've never needed to. Clearly Jensen is a hard worker at more than just 18 hour days. Not that surprising really.
Instead of answering, Misha surges up and pulls Jensen's mouth to his own. Kisses the taste of himself, salty and familiar, off Jensen's lips. Sucks it off his tongue.
And then he's drawing Jensen back down with him, plastering him along his body, their cocks trapped between them and, with slight adjustment, dragging against each other in stuttering shoves. Their tongues do battle but neither of them takes control for long, trading power in heartbeats and caught breaths.
Jensen's breath is hiccuping against his mouth when they gasp apart, and Misha thinks he could lose himself in the sound for eternities. The sound of Jensen slowly but surely coming apart at the same time as he does. It can't last that long though, and Misha has lost the desire to prolong it, he needs more and he needs more now.
"Either you fuck me now, Jensen, or I'm gonna come all over your 400 thread-count sheets."
Jensen's eyes crinkle in amusement. "You say that like it's a bad thing."
"It is when you consider you could have your cock in me right now," he states, deadpan bland.
Jensen groans, eyes fluttering momentarily shut, so at least some things Misha's doing today get the reactions he's aiming for. There is some order in the world.
And then Jensen's levering off him, he flips onto his back and beckons Misha up with a crooked finger. "Come on then, if you're so sure you ain't gonna get thrown."
Misha grins, there are too many things he could say. Instead he throws a leg over Jensen's hips and settles against his thighs with a cocksure, "lube?"
Jensen throws an arm out and fumbles till he finds the bedside table drawer. Seconds later he's slapping a condom and bottle of lube down on his own stomach for Misha.
Convenient.
Misha's done with foreplay. He tears the silver foil open and flips the condom right way up before rolling it down over the hot hard flesh of Jensen's cock. Jensen watches him, barely blinking. The lube is fucking cold, and Misha spares a second to warm it between his palms before he slides it down over Jensen, reaches around to slick himself up.
And then he shuffles forward, knees to either side of Jensen's waist and Jensen's cock sliding behind him. He takes it in hand and guides him at the right angle.
"Are you good?" Jensen asks, barely restraining the need quavering in his voice.
Misha manages not to roll his eyes. "I swear, that you even have to ask that when I'm doing this..." he says, leans back and presses down, feels the moment pause and open and then he's impaling himself slowly onto Jensen.
* * *
Misha sinks down onto him and the tight pull, the heat, the knowledge of what and who, is just too fucking much. Jensen fists the sheets and stamps down the need to buck up into Misha. As much as he wants Misha to ride him, he really doesn't want to actually throw him off. That would defeat the point.
"Fuck, Jensen," Misha breathes out, leaning back and bracing his hands on Jensen's thighs. Jensen thinks Misha might be getting the hang of the Southern drawl after all, because there were way too many syllables breathed into his name just there.
Jensen can't answer though, can only grunt in the affirmative, holding on to reality by his fingernails. Misha stills, and Jensen is unbelievably glad and completely gutted by the lack of movement all at the same time. He watches Misha's eyes close, sees the slight sweet upturn of one corner of Misha's mouth, the sheen of perspiration forming across Misha's flushed cheekbones, the riot of hair sticking in all directions where Jensen's fingers have sculpted it awry. It's an image that he isn't going to be forgetting anytime soon.
"So pretty, Misha." The words pop out of his mouth before he has a chance to rethink them, so he turns it into a hopefully acceptable provocation with a smirk.
Misha's eyes fly open and the upturned corner of his mouth graduates into a full-blown grin. "Did you just call me pretty?"
"Hey, you're the one workin' the cowboy metaphor, dude. I figure that makes you some kind of dewy-eyed Southern Belle, don't you?"
"Why, Jensen," Misha purrs, and it comes out like 'way Jansan'. "I do declare you're sweet on me."
He should know better by now than to try and out-do Misha. It always ends badly. So instead of answering Jensen bucks his hips up and Misha groans and screws his eyes tight in a really satisfying way.
Misha's voice skitters out soft and needy, a whispered, "Jensen," under his breath, before he puts his thighs into it and begins to rock himself back onto Jensen's cock. The soft skin of Misha's inner thighs slides against Jensen's hips.
And Jensen holds on, braces into Misha's down swing and wraps his palms around the back of Misha's thighs, his fingers dipping into the sweaty hollows behind Misha's knees for leverage. He loses himself in the rustling of the bedclothes, the creak of an errant bedspring, the slap as Misha's ass hits Jensen's thighs, the tightness holding him as it slides back and forth around him.
Misha arches further back and grabs onto his own ankles where they're bent under Jensen's legs and it pushes Misha's flattened abdomen out invitingly at Jensen, his cock, flushed and erect, with it. Jensen doesn't waste any time, wraps Misha's cock tight in his fingers and caresses in time with Misha's thrusts.
It's the right move, because Misha stutters and his gasps turn into soft grunts as he moves, his breath harsh and loud and mingling with Jensen's own in the otherwise quietness of the bedroom.
Which only serves to make Jensen ache impossibly tighter inside Misha, he can feel his cock hardening, that last extra push towards steel as his abs tighten and the slow build of magic pools and roils and threatens from within him.
He's almost there, and judging by the way Misha is flexing and tightening in his hand, he's not alone, and when Misha fixes him in his iced-blue stare and pants, "C'mon Jensen. I want you ridden and put away wet," it's all over. Done. Finished.
Jensen gives in.
* * *
Misha can sense it coming, wants to see it - the moment when Jensen loses himself, abandons the pretense and the acting and the extreme caution and is just him, nothing more and nothing less.
So he forces his eyes open, finds Jensen's and holds on, willing him to keep the gaze. And then he's thinking the most ridiculous cowboy metaphors he can think, 'ride 'em cowboys' and 'bucking broncos' and they're spilling out of his mouth in a haphazard litany of filth.
Jensen tenses beneath him, his hand clenches around Misha's cock almost painfully tight, and his eyes slam shut, his head throws back into the pillow and he's pushing up into Misha, taking the workload from him with abortive little upward shoves.
And then Jensen freezes and unravels spectacularly, his mouth falling open in a silent cry and Misha groans as he feels the jerk and spill inside of him. One of Jensen's hands curls tightly in under Misha's knee and the other, the one wrapped around him, is amazingly trying to find and keep a rhythm, trying to pull Misha with him. It's sweet and utterly selfless and so ridiculously unexpected that Misha can't help but fall over with him, comes over Jensen's stomach and hand with a surprised cry.
And then he's tipping forward, legs gone to jelly, Jensen slips out of him messily as Misha falls against his chest. Jensen's breath is forced out of his lungs at the sudden weight of him, and Misha slides sideways, half on the bed, half against Jensen's ribs.
Gasping, Misha nuzzles his face into Jensen's throat, unable to resist a moment of earned intimacy. The space is hot and sheened with sweat and Misha murmurs nonsense into the skin there as he comes down.
Jensen is quiet, breaths steadying and only every seventh lungful is exaggerated with the need for more oxygen. It reminds Misha of the way his mom would say that every seventh wave is bigger as it crashes against the rocky shore.
This is probably not what she meant, Misha allows. All the same, it seems pretty apt.
Misha thinks he should disentangle now, and starts to move, but Jensen's arm comes up around his shoulder, anchoring him in. Misha knows better than to comment on it, to be glib or cute or sarcastic. Considering he's pretty damn okay with staying where he is for the moment.
All the same, he can't help the murmured "yee haw" against the underside of Jensen's chin.
He can feel Jensen's laughter fluttering through his ribs.
* * *
Jensen wakes to dappled sunlight filtering through the blinds of his bedroom window. Judging by the angle, the sun is already well on its way to noon. His bladder is pretty insistent on that fact too.
It's not until he swings his legs over the side of the bed, toes curling into the carpet, that he realises he's alone. Misha's gone, as are his clothes, and though Jensen can't say he's particularly surprised at that, he is surprised by the heavy pit he feels settle at the bottom of his stomach.
The wave of homesickness, the need for comfort that he's been battling all week, threatens to settle into his bones.
And then he sees the hat. His hat, to be exact. His gray felted Stetson sitting on one of Jensen's dining room chairs that is, for some bizarre reason, perched next to his bed as if waiting for him to wake.
Which is... odd. To say the least.
He reaches out and curls his fingers around the soft brim, lifts it into his hands and runs his palm around the edge, lets it tickle at his skin. He has no idea what it means. What Misha could possibly be saying with it.
And then he sees the white tissue-papered rectangle on the seat where the hat had hidden it.
Putting his hat to the side on the mess of sheets, Jensen picks up the small parcel. It's clearly sitting in the paper it came in to protect whatever it is, not wrapped and glittered or ribboned for public consumption. He thumbs the soft white tissue aside and reveals the muted silver of another belt buckle.
This one isn't garish though. It isn't red or blue or adorned with dead cattle. It's simple plain silver etched in delicate filigree scrolls and sage flowers.
It's fucking gorgeous.
And it feels like home.
* * *
End.
A/N: For those interested this is a pretty close version of the fugly buckle, minus the bottle opener. Which yes, does exist in buckle form. And this is the one that Misha gives Jensen.
