Misha tethers Jensen with his eyes the very first time they meet, those faceted blue topaz jewels tipped just so, the light catching the edges like sun kissing clear waters, and the younger man knows, right then, that he is lost, he is ruined, there will never be a moment’s rest until he traps those refracted beams in his own eyes, until he comes to let that inner fire know his own.
Jensen cannot draw in enough air, the first time physical contact is made.
The fingers that touch his shoulder are so warm, so certain, even through all the layers of clothing, exerting a pressure that flips a switch deep inside of him. It’s electric, positive and negative electrodes synapsing in one shuddering spark. He burns for Misha, melts in his presence, tense muscles turning molten, like they had in bed that morning, and last night, Jensen lost in thoughts of the other actor, fantasies that leave him denting and blanching his lips as he rides the hot southern rush of blood, the breathless lift of his hips in search of friction only finding a frustrating void, leaving him spent but still wanting, craving, longing.
A familiar purr by Jensen’s ear on set one afternoon, a deep teasing rumble laden with secrets and filled with dark promises makes his lips part in search of the oxygen his cells starve for, gasping and grasping as he watches the smooth glide of tongue over parched lips, creased pink arches pulled taut, dragged over a fence of white teeth, an even top row juxtaposed with a crooked bottom in a jumbled zig-zag that mirrors a shifting line of stocks. He wonders how that might feel, to press along those uneven edges, to smooth over gums and stroke past cheeks and then emerge slick and free into open air.
A tag sticks up from Misha’s shirt collar, and Jensen swiftly tucks his fingers beneath that confined space, dipping into the heated cache to dust against the fine dark hairs that curl at the nape of his neck. He longs to press his lips there, to bury his face against those silky midnight tresses and just inhale, discovering jasmine and vanilla and a hint of sweetness. He thinks the skin would brush his mouth like a ripe peach, soft over the firmness beneath, the top of his spine a jutting swell before the dip begins, a rushing drop below his shoulder blades that bellows into sweet curves to knead and grasp.
Jensen cannot resist stroking Misha’s cheek, finding the texture slightly rough, like fine gauge sandpaper, the tiny beginnings of stubble just catching on the backs of his fingers. He imagines the feel of that shadowed surface scraping elsewhere, the hollow at the base of his throat or the inside of his wrist before bringing a flush to the pale flesh of his inner thighs, summoning thunder and lightning and a deluge of the rising tides restlessly surging, demanding release.
Now that Jensen’s begun touching the other man, he finds he cannot stop. The excuses to do so come frequently, urgently, propelling them together. His mouth is a well of water, a pool of desire in anticipation of what it would be like to kiss Misha’s mouth, that haunting cavern vibrating with sound, no words but a noise drawn from some aching place in his center, so empty until the pleasure of that inevitable first kiss fills him up, a maddening spill, a dive into open air, crashing down, down, down, but Misha is there to catch him, cradle him with those graceful hands, always so knowing, so skilled, so sure.
Misha’s fingers tap against one thigh, just above the graceful bend of knee, some idle melody alternated between each digit. Perhaps touching his bare skin would be similar, plucking along the slats of ribs or the curve of one hip in search of the harmony that will align them just right, that will make him sing against his skin, against his heart, within his soul.
The forearm shifts to rest along the frame of the open passenger window, angled so Misha can siphon through the summer-warmed rush of air, floating, rolling, caressed by the breeze as the car hums along the interstate. His head lolls back against the headrest, face tipping, eyes dark, so dark, the blue pressed into a thin ring the man driving the car can barely discern.
It’s a bed of crushed heather they now lie in, a carpet of purple and green that’s soft, so soft, the vehicle’s engine playing a gentle melody of metallic chimes as it cools nearby. Misha’s fingers trace the angle of Jensen’s jaw, tuck beneath his chin and tilt his face upward. The man is all shadows above him, dark against the outline of sunlight radiating around his frame. Jensen feels like he is dying, forgetting how to breathe, going numb and cold until Misha’s mouth finds his and everything comes alive, igniting in vibrant washes of colors as the petals beneath him perfume his writhing bare skin.
A drop of moisture strikes Jensen’s lips, the salted measure of exertion sliding into his mouth, striking his tongue. More, he wants more of it, more of everything that is Misha, wants to feel it wrapped around him, colliding outside, meeting inside and then, then, then, that final match within his core struck, just right, just like that, he’s lost, he’s found, the eyes above his own drawing him back, the voice compelling, praying, a pledge of love, all that had come before, that is, that will be brought into this moment, their moment, unified as one.