Sneaky Bastard

Bo Duke is nobody's fool. Sneaky bastard is what he really is, playing the dumb blonde for the better part of forty years, when actually he's just been lying in wait, watching, categorizing, scheming. Mornings, he must have figured out long ago when they were two corn-growing, moonshine-running, desperately horny teenagers, are the best time to get something going.

Not that the first kiss tries anything of significance. It's slower than that, gentle and hesitant all at once, spooked almost, like a horse under its first saddle. Not sure what to do with the weight and tightness around its chest, and Luke can understand that. Some fires are more dangerous to play with than others and this one here seems like the kind that could burn a man beyond recognition. Reckons he'd better put a stop to it, but then his body wakes up and the kiss changes.

Bo's hand is there on his face again, touching, stroking, restless. But it's all right, because Luke's arm finds Bo's back, grabs hold and pulls until they're chest to chest, and those fingers come away from his face, grabbing a shoulder for balance. Hot touch on his bare skin, matches the warmth of Bo's breath, which comes in little puffing shorts out his nose.

Stupid way to kiss, lying on their sides with arms trapped underneath or between, and no real room to get noses out of the way. So he wraps one leg around both of Bo's, and tips them. Not enough room in a two man tent for this, Bo's shoulder brushes against canvas as they roll, but no real harm gets done. Luke'll have to remember to commend his cousin on his tent-erecting skills later on, assuming he gets around to thinking again.

Right now it's all feel, the hardness of ribs below his own, the weight where his hand got caught under Bo's body, the heat in Bo's tongue. Heads can tip now, mouths open, and kisses become real. His free arm can bear his weight while fingertips find Bo's hair and explore its length. Not as much of it as there used to be when they were nothing more than farm boys, but Luke figures even Bo Duke had to grow up sometime.

Hands, both of them, hot on the skin of Luke's back now. Rubbing, pulling, trying to get him situated where Bo wants him. Pull and tug and—

He's got the get that other hand free. Gives it a solid yank, but there's all of Bo's weight topped by his own, plus the friction of the flannel lining of the sleeping bag beneath it and Bo's shirt above.

"Bo," he's forced to say, because they've got a pointless struggle going here. The man's trying to shove him to a place he'll never get without the use of his left arm. Hand on the back of his neck pulling him back to the kiss he just broke, but, "Move, let me…" he says before he just about gets smothered again. More shuffling as Bo tries to line their bodies up, and the boy always was about instant gratification. Never has bothered to worry about whose arm he might be pulling off in the process.

"Ow," comes the complaint, but Bo drove him to it, that fist pulling on blonde hair until their mouths come apart again. Still no room for him to get any leverage with that trapped hand but at lest he can say, "Roll, Bo."

Seems like victory until his command gets obeyed. Typical of Bo to go too far, and now Luke's on the bottom. Both hands free but he's on his back and no real means to complain, because the kissing has started again. Easy to lose himself, to forget objections, in the wild syncopation of his own heartbeat next to Bo's, in the whirling reel of his brain at the feel of those lips on his, that hand on his face again.

It's Bo, that little voice in the back of his head reminds him, but it's not the kind of thing that can be heard over the sound of heavy puffs of air, the tiny sighs of need coming from the body on top of his. There's another thought caught behind the one about who this is that he's tangling tongues with, stuck beyond a place where his scrambled brain cells can access and decode it into lucidity.

It's Bo tries to rear its annoying little head again, but Luke reckons the notion can wait to assert itself until his fingers find their way under that t-shirt in their search for skin. Moving the kiss, because there's more to explore than just the lips, there's chin and neck (and a day's growth of beard to remind him of how it's Bo). That hand tries to tip his face to where Bo wants it, but the man will just have to wait his turn, because Luke's just found a spot that makes the body against his vibrate in a moan. Whatever the pressure against his cheek was about, it's forgotten, as Bo all but collapses onto him, limp as an overcooked noodle. Mostly, funny how his neck still works to hold up his head enough so Luke can keep at that spot, and then there are those vocal chords encouraging him. Such a simple thing, just teeth and tongue, lips, and Bo is quiet, still, obedient. Seems like the kind of thing that would have been useful when they were younger (it's Bo, your baby cousin, but those last three words aren't the thought that has been waiting so long to be recognized) when Bo's impetuosity got them into more fights that there were days in the year. Just a quick suck on his neck, and the boy would have behaved.

It's Bo stops being white noise the minute the man picks up the rhythm of Luke's tongue on his neck, echoes it back with a rub. Barest of motions at first, the kind of thing that could be mistaken for a shift of weight, but it's not. There's purpose behind it, parts rubbing against other parts until it's clearly deliberate, vaguely painful. It's Bo, and he's still wearing his damned jeans. Seams and abrasion where that kind of thing should never be.

"Bo," he says, gets an impatient sigh in response. He wants to say something about how the clothes have to come off (and in truth, it really is only the jeans he minds, what with the way his hand has slipped under the hem of Bo's shirt, found skin and sweat and warmth in there) but then that other consideration, the one that's been hiding behind want and need, pops to the forefront. "We got to stop."

There's a head shaking up there, and hand on his face trying to tip his chin for more kissing while the other one strokes against his chest in an attempt to lure him back but—

"Bo," he tries again, using his free hand to catch Bo's wrist. "Them kids, they hear us and—" The whine above him might just as easily come from a boy the age of that little Cassie, whose biggest pleasure seems to be sucking on her own fingers. "They ain't exactly gonna knock, Bo."

It was a good thought, important to express, but it has a counter-productive effect, when Bo collapses on him again. Nothing but weight and warmth and a heavy breath in his ear. "I hate kids," his cousin mumbles, makes Luke snort.

"Get off, Bo," is his answer to that one. "You're crushing me."

"Promise me," Bo says, and there's still that whiny edge to his tone. "We'll pick this up right here, tonight?"

Of all the promises Bo has asked for in their lifetimes, and there have been too many to count, this one is by far the least likely to be fulfilled. If they pick this up again, it needs to be in a more secure place, somewhere behind a solidly closed and locked door. And if they find themselves in that safe space, they'll have to start over again with a kiss, but before they even get there, those abrasive jeans of Bo's have got to come off.

Leaves crunch, could be kids, adults or just a raccoon. Doesn't matter, they've got to get out of this incriminating position. Luke wiggles and shoves, but, "Promise me," is all he gets in response.

"Bo," he says, because the movement is reminiscent of what he just called a halt to, warms him in ways that only a cold shower is going to be able to douse.

He gets ignored, dead weight still molding itself to his body, completely motionless except for the breathing and the thumb that's still stroking his cheek.

If it's a waiting game, Luke's got the upper hand; Bo has never had half the patience he'd need to win this kind of match. Sure, they need to get the tent down, pack it up and get on the road. It's bright enough by now that the sun might already have popped over the horizon. Yes, there's still breakfast to be eaten and gear to be stowed in the car again, but Bo will crack first. He might be lazy, but lying still has never been a powerful Bo Duke trait.

"Cassie!"

It's that shrill voice that breaks the stalemate, makes his cousin roll off of him, finally. Because the little girl is stealthy, and if Christopher's hollering for her, she's on the loose, could walk right into their tent in a second.

"You could have promised," Bo mumbles, as Luke sits up then pulls himself forward onto his knees. Crawls to the front of the tent and unzips the mesh there, followed by throwing the canvas flaps back. Yep, it's morning all right. "Where you going?" Bo pouts.

"Off to sit in the creek for a bit," he answers.

Bo snorts, but there's not as much humor in the sound as resignation. "Wait up, I'm coming too."