Author: wrestlefan4 PM
Miz didn't want to go home to Ohio for Christmas, but Cena made him. Well, mabye it wont be that bad. Secret Santa for TheMizMagnet. M SlashRated: Fiction M - English - John Cena & The Miz - Words: 2,855 - Reviews: 12 - Favs: 25 - Follows: 2 - Published: 12-19-09 - Status: Complete - id: 5592464
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
A/N: Don't know if Miz has a sister, but he does for this fic.
Secret Santa request for: TheMizMagnet
John stood over the kitchen sink, looking out the iced panes of the window. In his hand he clutched a mug of hot cocoa, the perfect drink to melt away the winter chills. Once in a while he brought it close to his lips to blow at the rising white steam, and let the scent of the chocolaty bliss wind around his nose. He never took his shimmery blue eyes off of what he was watching in the back yard, the scene making his lips twitch into a smile.
Mike had done nothing but complain on the plane ride home. He'd wanted to stay in L.A. where it was warm and sunny, and a snowflake wouldn't dare to fall from a trembling cloud. In the end it had been John who had convinced him to take up his parents offer to spend the Christmas in Parma, Ohio. After all, Mike had been home to meet Cena's family and John had yet to meet his. When John had used that argument, Mike had snorted, and assured John that he wasn't missing out on much.
At least now, despite his proclaimed hate of the cold weather and snow, Mike was having a good time. He seemed to have reverted to childhood again, and was currently sailing down the white blanketed hill which the house sat upon, curled up on a disc sled that looked like a giant cinnamon candy. John watched his lover spin and soar down the hill, could hear his muffled whoops and hollers even through the scarf he had practically obscuring his face, and the closed window. It took a lot to drown out Mike when he was being a loud mouth…or in bed. Cena's thoughts added, as his smile tilted up to one side in a naughty smirk that brought out the dimples in his cheeks.
He brought the mug to his lips and sipped, grimacing at the liquid that was still too hot despite repetitive blowing. He quickly swallowed it and the burning tendril of drink trailed down his throat, leaving it feeling a bit raw and sore. He gave it a rather threatening look, and sat the offending thing on the countertop, intent on abandoning it until it was completely cold—or at least lukewarm.
John leaned against the counter, still watching Mike, now as he trudged back up the hill, carrying the plastic disk over his head. The scarf had unwound from his face, and hung around his neck like a loosened tie. It was John's immediate thought to want to go out and fix it, to bundle Mike back up like that poor kid on 'A Christmas Story'. His hands twitched on the countertop, but he didn't move. Mike always pouted and grumbled when John fussed over him too much, but then again John would like to think that maybe that was just because Mike felt obligated to do so, and that he really did enjoy the fussing.
Mike positioned himself at the top of the hill again, holding the sled in front of him. He seemed deeply concentrated on what he was doing. John couldn't see, but he could just imagine that Mike's tongue was peeking out from the corner of his lips—which were probably chapped because the scarf had unraveled—and that his playful blue eyes were narrowed as the wheels in his head turned. In a moment, John heard a cry. It sounded like some sort of war call or celebratory cowboy yelp, and then Mike was sailing down the hill, head-first none-the-less. Cena covered his eyes with his hands and peeked through the splayed fingers, already convinced that this was going to be a disaster.
His eyes grew wider as the sled veered to one side, heading towards a thick, snow-coated tree at the bottom of the hill. John flew from the kitchen, his elbow clipping the fiendish cocoa mug and sending it splattering all over the floor. He slid out the door, shoes and feet skidding and slipping wildly off the back porch. His leaps and bounds through the foot-high snow would have been rather comical to anyone watching, and his jeans were getting soaked through within seconds. At the bottom of the hill, the sled crowned with a hollering Mike, thumped into the tree it was destined for. The skeletal branches shivered, and a blanket of snow drifted downwards and covered the bundled lump.
Cena was sure the worst had happened, his mind raced with a million horrible scenarios, and his heart seemed to thunder up into his throat. His feet were sliding more, the soles of his shoes not gripping the frozen grass and ice beneath the heavy layer of snow. It was all he could do to not face-plant himself into the ground as well. Finally, he made it to the bottom of the hill, stumbling and flailing like the world's biggest clutz attempting to do a waltz, and failing miserably. He fell down onto his knees in the powdery whiteness, not caring that in that position it was well to his waist, and that the frigid chill was seeping to parts that were prone to shrinkage. He shivered in the snow and reached for the lump under the snow. He grabbed a boot toe and shook it, and was almost frightened when Mike sat up, and shook the snow off of him like a dog might.
"Hey John!" Mike greeted cheerily, as though nothing had happened. Cena gawked at him, incredulously.
"Are you okay?"
Mike picked himself up and brushed his jeans off. He quirked an eyebrow at one of his hands, noting he'd lost a glove somewhere.
"Yeah. I'm fine…you look like you're about to piss yourself." Mike added, when he caught the terrified expression on John's face. Mike extended a hand, his cold naked one, and John took it and got to his feet. The fear on his features mellowed and subsided. He wrapped an arm around Mike who was starting to tremble from the cold.
"Let's go inside. I think I've had enough sledding for one day." John said, guiding Mike away from the object of his collision.
They started towards the hill, and then Mike thought it would be a good idea to race to the top. Not waiting for a reply from John, he took off, high-stepping through the mounds of snow in a way that was so hilarious, it had John doubling over and crying with laughter. By the time John reached the top, Mike had already been standing there for quite some time, and was eyeing him strangely as John panted, not so much from the exertion of the climb, but just because he was still braying laughter the whole way up.
"What's so funny?" Mike wanted to know, as he played with the little yarn ball on top of his stocking cap.
John smiled down at him, sniffing as his nose ran with the cold. Mike's cheeks were painted cherry red, and his nose matched. It made him look pretty, as if he was blushing, his dazzling eyes standing out like sapphires. John caught his lips in a quick kiss, and linked their hands together as he jogged up the steps.
He pulled Mike after him, and they both slid into the kitchen, a trail of snow clumps and ice falling behind them from caked shoes and pants, and quickly melting to water.
"C-cold." John stuttered, as he dropped Mike's hand, and moved them over his own arms, which Mike just noticed were bare. Mike scowled at him as he undid his coat, and hung it on the back of a chair.
"Why'd you go outside in a t-shirt. Dorothy, we're not in L.A. anymore. This is Ohio. It's fucking cold…and nasty…and gloomy." Mike tossed his other, lonely, glove aside and worked his hands over John's big, muscled arms, helping to warm them. "Did I mention I don't like Ohio?"
John grinned down at Mike, plucked the hat from his head, and kissed the short hair.
"Only a few thousand—uh, million times baby." John tiled Mike's chin up, and captured his lips in a lazy kiss. Tongues lapped and swirled in mouths, and sore, chapped lips, were warmed and wetted before they parted. "But you know what all this cold is good for, right?" John asked, plucking Mike's scarf away and tossing it over his shoulder. "We get to find creative ways to keep warm."
An impish grin curled Mike's lips and a twinkle came into his eyes.
"Oh? What do you have in mind Champ?"
What Cena had in mind involved clothes crumpled on the kitchen floor, and two hot bodies sliding against each other. Hands roamed over flesh, making it hot, and sending shudders not produced by lusty conditions, rather than blustery ones. The empty room was soon full of hard panting, gentle whimpers, soft, needful moans, which eventually became rougher and more ragged when the play got hotter. The impromptu love making ended up with Mike bent over the kitchen table which in a few days would hold their Christmas dinner, as John's tongue made all the right places slippery and ready for a grander entrance.
Mike wiggled against the table, the excitement winding his every nerve tight, and leaving not a pinprick of skin on his body cold any longer. His fingers bit at the grain of the table top, struggling for more something for the short nails to snag onto as John drove him crazier and crazier with slow, wet, circles against his sensitive flesh. His cock was straining, stiff and dripping, pinned between his stomach and the hard wood of the table. Mike cried out his lovers name, over and over, each time it was said more frantically than the last, until the simple name ended in a beautiful sigh as John pushed into him. Cena was obviously in no hurry, as he took his time making the penetration full, enjoying taking time in pleasuring his writhing counterpart, as each thick inch of him slowly disappeared into the tight heat of confining muscle.
John rolled his hips slowly, closing his eyes, and savoring the perfect, velvety feel of Mike against his member. Their movements synched together, perfectly as they always were, as though they were both made for one another and to carry out such intimate lovemaking. With each rock and whimper, arousal built steadily and steadily higher. The grinding hips against fleshy ass became quicker, each one being met in time, until the thrusts were quick, forceful, snaps. The jack-hammer thrusting made the holiday centerpiece tip over, and the table rattle in complaint against its deviant use. The friction of Mike's cock between his own body and the sweat-slicked table, coupled with John slamming like a train into his sweet spot, John's thickness full and deep in his belly, sent Mike into oblivion. He erupted with a gasp-grunt onto himself, and the table beneath. Only a moment after, John came too, his hot essence blooming inside and slowly trickling down.
For a few moments, John just laid against Mike's back, catching his breath and laying soft kisses against the slippery flesh. Finally, he moved out and straightened up, drawing his hand across his sweaty brow. Mike straightened up too, and pressed the butt of his hand against his lower back. He turned and smiled at John.
"That is a good way to warm up…" Mike limped over and slowly bent to pick up his jeans, the underwear tangled around one of the inside-out legs. "And I think you re-arranged my spine too." He joked as he stepped into his pants.
John chuckled a little, but mainly he was surveying the damage they'd done. The floor was puddle with dirty water, mingling with rivulets of hot chocolate which never got drank after all. Flowers and petals were askew and fallen off of the beautiful table piece, and the table itself was knocked jarred at an odd angle, and covered in sweat and pearly liquid.
"Also a good way to get in trouble with your mother for destroying her kitchen." John grabbed a rag from the sink, and tossed a hand towel at Mike. "I don't know about you, but I don't wanna explain to Mrs. Mizanin what's on her table."
Mike snorted, and the two of them began to clean.
After a bit of elbow grease, the kitchen was spotless. Mom Mizanin would be none the wiser about the questionable use of her table—and her son. John and Mike curled up on the couch, near the fireplace, and waited for the family to return from the airport, where they were picking up Mike's sister. Mike had been ordered by his mother that he wasn't going with them, she wanted his being home for the holidays to be a surprise. Mike had made some barb about him having a surprise of his own, but it had gone unheard as his mom and dad slipped out the door earlier. They didn't know the real reason John was in their home for Christmas. He was a friend of their sons, and they only assumed that he had no one else to spend Christmas with. Their discrete actions around each other hadn't tipped the Mizanin's off to anything suspicious either, but John was sure that before Christmas was over, the cat was going to be out of the bag, for better or worse. At least we can let them down a bit more gently, not with the evidence of man-on-man sex over the kitchen table.
The two of them startled when voices were heard outside the door, cheery and bright. The two of them quickly untangle from their cuddle and migrated to opposite end of the couch. Mike took the blanket they'd been sharing, and draped it over his shoulders. When the door opened, they just looked like two guys, bored on the couch.
Mike's mom came in first, clapping her glove hands together in excitement. His dad came in grumbling and dragging a suitcase behind him that looked like an overloaded tank. Then, his sister was next. Her voice was heard before she was seen, she was the kind of woman whose mouth was rarely silent. Maybe that was the reason little brother was so loud too, he'd had to develop some way to get a word in edgewise as a kid, or else her avalanche of never ending words would have just buried him and converted him to a mute.
"…and then they wanted to check me with that wand thingy. Do I look like a terrorist? Really. Really? Who's ever heard of a terrorist from Ohio. Now Mom, what was this big surprise you were supposed to have for me I can't wait to--" She stepped into the house, and for a miraculous moment her words ceased. She rushed over to the couch, not bothering to shed her dirty snow-muddy boots, and squealed in delight.
"Hey sis!" Mike greeted happily, with his arms open for a hug, but she passed him right up. Instead, she tumbled herself into John's lap. Mike couldn't help but laugh at the uncomfortable blush that warmed his lovers cheeks as his sister shrieked and wrapped her arms around his neck.
"Mom, you brought me John Cena for Christmas!"
"He's already taken." Mike explained, slapping his sister's knee. "Get over here and hug me you idiot."
"Aw, what a lucky girl she must be." Sis pouted, and reluctantly left John's lap for her brothers. "Oh, but you're cute too."
She pinched his cheeks and layered his face in sloppy, purposefully exaggerated kisses, and Mike wished he would have left her where she was in John's lap—or better yet stranded at the airport. When he said so, she tickled him until he was crying. Pleased with herself, she left Mike's lap vacant and bounded into the kitchen with her mother, a trail of chatter following her.
"Did I mention I don't like Ohio?" Mike grumped, as he crossed his arms over his chest and scowled.
"So, you have to put up with your family for the holidays. You'll live through it Mikey."
John placed a quick kiss to Mike's cheek, just before his father trudged through the room, wearing an expression of annoyance nearly identical to Mike's.
"Besides Michael, you have me." John added, his voice a whisper, before his lips kicked up into a playful grin. "You lucky girl."