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stephanometraTitle: It Makes Me Wonder
Pairing: Mike/Steve! Also Jared/Sandy in an oh-my-God-cutest-couple-ever sort of capacity.
Rating: NC17
Summary: In which Mike loves hockey. And Steve.
Warnings: Um. Schmoop.
Notes: This one goes out to my lovely![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
katjad! Part of the Stairway to Heaven 'verse, following The Piper's Calling. 2100 words!
***
Mike spends Thanksgiving in Vancouver, Christmas in Indiana, and New Year's in LA.
He calls Steve from the airport as soon as he gets back to California, invites him over, and they don't leave the house for four days. They order in every meal, smoke too much, and Steve fucks him sore against approximately two thirds of the surfaces in his house.
Jensen insists that they go out on New Year's Eve, so Chris wrangles an invitation to this huge party a friend of David's is throwing at a club; the four of them spend the entire night talking shit in a corner booth. They all drink too much, and Steve kisses him when the hour clocks over to 2008.
Then it's back to work, because the fucking network wants to take advantage of the disgusting climatic clusterfuck that is British Columbia in January for some wintertime retrospective shit. He flies up in the middle of the week, doesn't even get all of New Year's Day off because he has to be on a goddamn plane.
He's almost tragically unexcited to get back to his apartment in Vancouver. It's cold, it's empty, and the furniture smells like Febreze and spilled beer instead of patchouli and sex.
On the plus side, Jenny and Jared have to go back to work, too, and Jensen's even on the same flight up, which Mike largely spends alternating between rereading a couple of the Marvel Civil War trades his mom gave him for Christmas and throwing pretzels at Jensen's head.
On an additional plus side, the Rangers are playing the Canucks that weekend, and the staff and crew know (and like) him well enough not to schedule anything past five the night of the game.
Mike rents out a box and invites everyone on set, even the twitchy new PA whose name he doesn't even know yet. Nobody should be deprived of the true greatness that is Rangers hockey, even if she can't get anyone's coffee order right and has a mildly crippling crush on Tom.
Most of his co-stars and half of the production staff actually show up. Tom brings Jamie, of course, and Kristin brings her parents and her little sister. They order pizza, bring in beer, and it pretty much rules.
Jensen and Jared get there late, just before the end of the first period, because Supernatural was scheduled to go until six. Sandy's visiting while she's between projects, so she's with them, actually dragging Jared behind her, which is frankly hilarious to see because she's just so tiny and Jared's trailing after her like an overgrown puppy.
"Sorry we're late," she says, breathless, smiling. "We had to swing by the airport."
"Airport?" Mike asks.
Jared grins, bright and self-satisfied, and looks back over his shoulder at the door.
Jensen walks in, laughing about something, and Mike's stomach jumps, because Steve is with him.
"Rosey!" Jensen says, reaching out to shake his hand, but Mike barely hears him; Steve is standing there with his hands in his pockets, ducking his head and flashing a half-smile that does things to Mike's insides.
Mike doesn't think; he just steps forward, curls a hand around the back of Steve's neck and kisses him, gentle and sweet and completely not caring that his friends and coworkers are watching. Jared laughs delightedly, the jackass, but it's kind of infectious, and Mike can't help but smile against Steve's lips as they break apart.
"Hi," Steve says, still giving him that maddening little smirk, and Jesus, Mike wants him so badly it actually hurts his brain.
He clears his throat, forces himself to remember that there are other people in the room. "Where's your better half?" he asks.
Steve blinks, waits a beat, and then says, "Oh, Chris? He's working, man. That guest spot on CSI, remember?"
"Oh, shit, that's right." He gives Jensen a sidelong glance, tries to squash his sudden feeling of awkwardness.
He must not be able to keep it off his face, though, because Steve smiles, touches his hand. "Hey, don't worry about Jensen." He nods towards the girls on the other side of the room, grins as Allison squeals and throws her arms around Jensen's neck in greeting. "He's not the only one flying solo."
"Yeah, I guess he can take care of himself."
"Exactly."
They cram into the front row of seats in the box, Mike in the middle with Sandy on one side and Steve on the other.
"Man, guys, this is exciting," Jared says. "I've never seen a hockey game before, I don't even know what's going on."
Jensen, sitting on Steve's other side, explains, "Well, basically we're here to see these guys beat the crap out of each other. In skates. Sometimes with skates, if we're really lucky."
Mike gasps in mock outrage, but everyone else cracks up.
Jagr gets two for hooking midway through the second, and Sandy cheers even though it's a totally bogus call.
"Jay, your girlfriend's being a bitch," Mike complains.
"My girlfriend's always a bitch," Jared says, and Sandy smacks him.
Sandy, it turns out, is crazy into hockey, which is amazing, even if she's a Kings fan and everybody knows that the Western Conference is full of chumps and losers. They talk shop the whole game, starting out by trashing each other's teams but quickly moving on to abusing the hapless Canucks, to the loud displeasure of the Canadian crew and PAs sitting behind them.
Steve's hand is a warm, comfortable weight on his thigh the entire time, and even though Steve spends most of the game talking to Jensen or humming along with the music coming though the overhead speakers, Mike's pretty sure he hasn't enjoyed a game this much since he left New York.
***
The Rangers win.
Mike is so happy he's practically vibrating on the walk out to his car. He can't shut up, and he can't stop touching Steve's arm, brushing their shoulders together.
"Dude, that game was awesome," he says for at least the tenth time, fumbling for his keys.
Steve just laughs indulgently, shakes his head. "I could not possibly care less about the game, Mike."
"What? How can you not -- that was, like." Mike flails his arms, words failing him completely.
"I don't even like hockey."
And Mike really doesn't have anything to say to that, but that's kind of irrelevant because as soon as Steve says it, he presses Mike against his car and kisses him, just devours his mouth like he's been waiting to do it all night, fingers working at Mike's belt buckle like there aren't a thousand other people milling around the parking garage in the immediate vicinity.
"Oh God," Mike gasps as soon as Steve lets him up for air. He's still got his hand in his pocket, fingers curled around his key fob, and it's only a spectacular act of will on Mike's part that gets them into the car's backseat before Steve exposes him to a six-year-old or something.
Steve pushes him until he's half-leaning against the door, works his jeans down his thighs. "You're so -- fuck," he pants, sucking a bruise into the pale skin of Mike's hip. "Can't stand it."
And then he swallows Mike's dick. There's no working up to it, nothing gentle about it; he just starts sucking Mike's cock the same way he kissed him a moment ago.
Silently thanking God for tinted windows, Mike tangles a hand in Steve's hair and tries to keep from coming too soon.
Steve's hand is tight around the base of his dick, his tongue sliding sweetly over the crown, and he's still smiling like there's nothing he'd rather be doing, nowhere else he wants to be, and it's fucking excellent. Mike's got no defense against that kind of honest desire, against the pleased little sounds Steve makes low in his throat whenever Mike groans or shifts his hips.
Then Steve looks up at Mike with lust-dark eyes and smudges his thumb over the mark on Mike's hipbone, and Mike's just gone, biting his lip and swallowing a groan as he comes in the warm wet of Steve's mouth.
"Hey, c'mere," Mike says as soon as he regains his powers of speech, splaying the hand that isn't still buried in Steve's hair over his back, urging him up.
Their mouths meet again, sharing the salty tang of come lingering on Steve's lips, and Steve moans as his hips settle against Mike's. Steve's pants are already undone, pushed down his thighs; his cock slides naked and wet in the hollow of Mike's hip, so hard and ready that he must have been touching himself while he was sucking Mike off.
"The hell was that, Carlson?" Mike asks between kisses, curling his hand around Steve's dick, dragging his thumb through the slick at the tip.
"Wanted it," Steve says, eyes fluttering shut as he fucks Mike's fist.
And fuck, he's close already -- Mike can hear it in the hitch of his breathing, feel it in the slickness in his hand -- and it just about kills Mike's brain, that blowing him did this to Steve. Makes his own dick twitch, makes him want to come again.
But, well, first things first.
He grips a little harder, moving his hand in rough counterpoint to the snapping of Steve's hips, pressing his the pads of his fingers against the underside. "Come for me, yeah that's right," he murmurs into Steve's mouth. "So fucking hot, come on, baby, I've got you --"
Steve throws his head back, cries out sharply, and covers Mike's hand with come.
Mike strokes him through it, leans up to touch Steve's mouth with his own again even though he knows Steve's way too far gone for kissing, and after, he licks Steve's come off his fingers instead of reaching for the towel he's pretty sure is lying in the footwell, just to feel Steve's gaze hot on his mouth, Steve's tiny shudders against him as he collapses on Mike's chest.
"Jesus," Steve says, muffled against Mike's shirt.
Mike makes a vaguely affirmative noise, wipes his spit-sticky hand on his shirttail, and shifts against the seat, trying to get comfortable so he can get some decent afterglow enjoyment going. But something's bothering him -- something besides the fact that he's trying to snuggle with another grown man in the backseat of a BMW (and, really, if he'd wanted to snuggle in his car, he'd have sprung for the 7-series).
He tilts his head so he can see Steve's face. "You really don't like hockey?" he asks.
Steve rolls his eyes, laughs low. "I can't believe you're still stuck on the damn game."
"Hey, man, that game was --" He breaks off, sheepish, when Steve gives him this look. "Yeah, well, I can't believe that you flew a thousand miles to go to a game you weren't even interested in seeing."
Shoulders twitching in what's almost a shrug, Steve says, "I'm interested in seeing you."
Mike blinks, because he hadn't really considered that angle so much. "Oh," he says.
Steve tenses, looks up. "Is that a problem?" he asks, watching Mike's face with a little crease of worry between his eyes.
Mike grins, slow and bright, and says, "No. No, I don't think it is."
If they weren't crammed into the backseat of a turned-off car in Vancouver in January, Mike would probably be happy to just lay there forever and smile stupidly at Steve while he melts into the upholstery, secure in the knowledge that the anthropologists who'd find them there three hundred years later would be incredibly jealous. But it's cramped, and it's cold, and he's got a spacious, heated apartment to go home to. "Okay," he says, pushing at Steve's shoulders. "Up now."
They shimmy out of the car, fixing their clothes, and as soon as he's got his belt fastened, Mike kisses Steve again, just cradles Steve's jaw in his hands and licks into his mouth. "You're not leaving tomorrow, are you?" he murmurs.
"Monday," Steve says, biting at Mike's lower lip.
"Good," Mike says. "Because I need you to fuck me on my couch, but I want you in my bed first."
Steve's groan is just about the sweetest sound Mike has ever heard.
***
They do, in fact, make it to the couch.
Eventually.
***
COMMENT PLEASE. I NEED EVERYBODY TO LOVE THESE BOYS LIKE I DO, OKAY.
Pairing: Mike/Steve! Also Jared/Sandy in an oh-my-God-cutest-couple-ever sort of capacity.
Rating: NC17
Summary: In which Mike loves hockey. And Steve.
Warnings: Um. Schmoop.
Notes: This one goes out to my lovely
katjad! Part of the Stairway to Heaven 'verse, following The Piper's Calling. 2100 words!Mike spends Thanksgiving in Vancouver, Christmas in Indiana, and New Year's in LA.
He calls Steve from the airport as soon as he gets back to California, invites him over, and they don't leave the house for four days. They order in every meal, smoke too much, and Steve fucks him sore against approximately two thirds of the surfaces in his house.
Jensen insists that they go out on New Year's Eve, so Chris wrangles an invitation to this huge party a friend of David's is throwing at a club; the four of them spend the entire night talking shit in a corner booth. They all drink too much, and Steve kisses him when the hour clocks over to 2008.
Then it's back to work, because the fucking network wants to take advantage of the disgusting climatic clusterfuck that is British Columbia in January for some wintertime retrospective shit. He flies up in the middle of the week, doesn't even get all of New Year's Day off because he has to be on a goddamn plane.
He's almost tragically unexcited to get back to his apartment in Vancouver. It's cold, it's empty, and the furniture smells like Febreze and spilled beer instead of patchouli and sex.
On the plus side, Jenny and Jared have to go back to work, too, and Jensen's even on the same flight up, which Mike largely spends alternating between rereading a couple of the Marvel Civil War trades his mom gave him for Christmas and throwing pretzels at Jensen's head.
On an additional plus side, the Rangers are playing the Canucks that weekend, and the staff and crew know (and like) him well enough not to schedule anything past five the night of the game.
Mike rents out a box and invites everyone on set, even the twitchy new PA whose name he doesn't even know yet. Nobody should be deprived of the true greatness that is Rangers hockey, even if she can't get anyone's coffee order right and has a mildly crippling crush on Tom.
Most of his co-stars and half of the production staff actually show up. Tom brings Jamie, of course, and Kristin brings her parents and her little sister. They order pizza, bring in beer, and it pretty much rules.
Jensen and Jared get there late, just before the end of the first period, because Supernatural was scheduled to go until six. Sandy's visiting while she's between projects, so she's with them, actually dragging Jared behind her, which is frankly hilarious to see because she's just so tiny and Jared's trailing after her like an overgrown puppy.
"Sorry we're late," she says, breathless, smiling. "We had to swing by the airport."
"Airport?" Mike asks.
Jared grins, bright and self-satisfied, and looks back over his shoulder at the door.
Jensen walks in, laughing about something, and Mike's stomach jumps, because Steve is with him.
"Rosey!" Jensen says, reaching out to shake his hand, but Mike barely hears him; Steve is standing there with his hands in his pockets, ducking his head and flashing a half-smile that does things to Mike's insides.
Mike doesn't think; he just steps forward, curls a hand around the back of Steve's neck and kisses him, gentle and sweet and completely not caring that his friends and coworkers are watching. Jared laughs delightedly, the jackass, but it's kind of infectious, and Mike can't help but smile against Steve's lips as they break apart.
"Hi," Steve says, still giving him that maddening little smirk, and Jesus, Mike wants him so badly it actually hurts his brain.
He clears his throat, forces himself to remember that there are other people in the room. "Where's your better half?" he asks.
Steve blinks, waits a beat, and then says, "Oh, Chris? He's working, man. That guest spot on CSI, remember?"
"Oh, shit, that's right." He gives Jensen a sidelong glance, tries to squash his sudden feeling of awkwardness.
He must not be able to keep it off his face, though, because Steve smiles, touches his hand. "Hey, don't worry about Jensen." He nods towards the girls on the other side of the room, grins as Allison squeals and throws her arms around Jensen's neck in greeting. "He's not the only one flying solo."
"Yeah, I guess he can take care of himself."
"Exactly."
They cram into the front row of seats in the box, Mike in the middle with Sandy on one side and Steve on the other.
"Man, guys, this is exciting," Jared says. "I've never seen a hockey game before, I don't even know what's going on."
Jensen, sitting on Steve's other side, explains, "Well, basically we're here to see these guys beat the crap out of each other. In skates. Sometimes with skates, if we're really lucky."
Mike gasps in mock outrage, but everyone else cracks up.
Jagr gets two for hooking midway through the second, and Sandy cheers even though it's a totally bogus call.
"Jay, your girlfriend's being a bitch," Mike complains.
"My girlfriend's always a bitch," Jared says, and Sandy smacks him.
Sandy, it turns out, is crazy into hockey, which is amazing, even if she's a Kings fan and everybody knows that the Western Conference is full of chumps and losers. They talk shop the whole game, starting out by trashing each other's teams but quickly moving on to abusing the hapless Canucks, to the loud displeasure of the Canadian crew and PAs sitting behind them.
Steve's hand is a warm, comfortable weight on his thigh the entire time, and even though Steve spends most of the game talking to Jensen or humming along with the music coming though the overhead speakers, Mike's pretty sure he hasn't enjoyed a game this much since he left New York.
The Rangers win.
Mike is so happy he's practically vibrating on the walk out to his car. He can't shut up, and he can't stop touching Steve's arm, brushing their shoulders together.
"Dude, that game was awesome," he says for at least the tenth time, fumbling for his keys.
Steve just laughs indulgently, shakes his head. "I could not possibly care less about the game, Mike."
"What? How can you not -- that was, like." Mike flails his arms, words failing him completely.
"I don't even like hockey."
And Mike really doesn't have anything to say to that, but that's kind of irrelevant because as soon as Steve says it, he presses Mike against his car and kisses him, just devours his mouth like he's been waiting to do it all night, fingers working at Mike's belt buckle like there aren't a thousand other people milling around the parking garage in the immediate vicinity.
"Oh God," Mike gasps as soon as Steve lets him up for air. He's still got his hand in his pocket, fingers curled around his key fob, and it's only a spectacular act of will on Mike's part that gets them into the car's backseat before Steve exposes him to a six-year-old or something.
Steve pushes him until he's half-leaning against the door, works his jeans down his thighs. "You're so -- fuck," he pants, sucking a bruise into the pale skin of Mike's hip. "Can't stand it."
And then he swallows Mike's dick. There's no working up to it, nothing gentle about it; he just starts sucking Mike's cock the same way he kissed him a moment ago.
Silently thanking God for tinted windows, Mike tangles a hand in Steve's hair and tries to keep from coming too soon.
Steve's hand is tight around the base of his dick, his tongue sliding sweetly over the crown, and he's still smiling like there's nothing he'd rather be doing, nowhere else he wants to be, and it's fucking excellent. Mike's got no defense against that kind of honest desire, against the pleased little sounds Steve makes low in his throat whenever Mike groans or shifts his hips.
Then Steve looks up at Mike with lust-dark eyes and smudges his thumb over the mark on Mike's hipbone, and Mike's just gone, biting his lip and swallowing a groan as he comes in the warm wet of Steve's mouth.
"Hey, c'mere," Mike says as soon as he regains his powers of speech, splaying the hand that isn't still buried in Steve's hair over his back, urging him up.
Their mouths meet again, sharing the salty tang of come lingering on Steve's lips, and Steve moans as his hips settle against Mike's. Steve's pants are already undone, pushed down his thighs; his cock slides naked and wet in the hollow of Mike's hip, so hard and ready that he must have been touching himself while he was sucking Mike off.
"The hell was that, Carlson?" Mike asks between kisses, curling his hand around Steve's dick, dragging his thumb through the slick at the tip.
"Wanted it," Steve says, eyes fluttering shut as he fucks Mike's fist.
And fuck, he's close already -- Mike can hear it in the hitch of his breathing, feel it in the slickness in his hand -- and it just about kills Mike's brain, that blowing him did this to Steve. Makes his own dick twitch, makes him want to come again.
But, well, first things first.
He grips a little harder, moving his hand in rough counterpoint to the snapping of Steve's hips, pressing his the pads of his fingers against the underside. "Come for me, yeah that's right," he murmurs into Steve's mouth. "So fucking hot, come on, baby, I've got you --"
Steve throws his head back, cries out sharply, and covers Mike's hand with come.
Mike strokes him through it, leans up to touch Steve's mouth with his own again even though he knows Steve's way too far gone for kissing, and after, he licks Steve's come off his fingers instead of reaching for the towel he's pretty sure is lying in the footwell, just to feel Steve's gaze hot on his mouth, Steve's tiny shudders against him as he collapses on Mike's chest.
"Jesus," Steve says, muffled against Mike's shirt.
Mike makes a vaguely affirmative noise, wipes his spit-sticky hand on his shirttail, and shifts against the seat, trying to get comfortable so he can get some decent afterglow enjoyment going. But something's bothering him -- something besides the fact that he's trying to snuggle with another grown man in the backseat of a BMW (and, really, if he'd wanted to snuggle in his car, he'd have sprung for the 7-series).
He tilts his head so he can see Steve's face. "You really don't like hockey?" he asks.
Steve rolls his eyes, laughs low. "I can't believe you're still stuck on the damn game."
"Hey, man, that game was --" He breaks off, sheepish, when Steve gives him this look. "Yeah, well, I can't believe that you flew a thousand miles to go to a game you weren't even interested in seeing."
Shoulders twitching in what's almost a shrug, Steve says, "I'm interested in seeing you."
Mike blinks, because he hadn't really considered that angle so much. "Oh," he says.
Steve tenses, looks up. "Is that a problem?" he asks, watching Mike's face with a little crease of worry between his eyes.
Mike grins, slow and bright, and says, "No. No, I don't think it is."
If they weren't crammed into the backseat of a turned-off car in Vancouver in January, Mike would probably be happy to just lay there forever and smile stupidly at Steve while he melts into the upholstery, secure in the knowledge that the anthropologists who'd find them there three hundred years later would be incredibly jealous. But it's cramped, and it's cold, and he's got a spacious, heated apartment to go home to. "Okay," he says, pushing at Steve's shoulders. "Up now."
They shimmy out of the car, fixing their clothes, and as soon as he's got his belt fastened, Mike kisses Steve again, just cradles Steve's jaw in his hands and licks into his mouth. "You're not leaving tomorrow, are you?" he murmurs.
"Monday," Steve says, biting at Mike's lower lip.
"Good," Mike says. "Because I need you to fuck me on my couch, but I want you in my bed first."
Steve's groan is just about the sweetest sound Mike has ever heard.
They do, in fact, make it to the couch.
Eventually.
