Love, Apparent 1/20
TITLE: Love Apparent 1/20
AUTHOR: lifelesslyndsey
PAIRING: Jared/Misha with briefly mentioned other pairings later
RATING: NC-17 for medication abuse, and slash!
BETA'D: malbryn
College.
Cauliflower is nothing but cabbage with a college education, Mark Twain had been quoted.
Jared loves Mark Twain, really he does - as an undeclared English major, it's probably required that he love Mark Twain - but he has no idea what that's supposed to mean. But hey, that's probably why he's in college in the first place; to learn all the stuff they hadn't had time to shove in his head during high-school. That and be socially awkward on a higher level, he's sure.
It's his first day. He compares it to his first day of kindergarten and wonders if that's weird because a.) he is not five years old, and b.) college is supposed to be about your first step into adulthood....or something like that. All the same, the mixed feelings of dread and excitement are easily similar; he's torn between curiosity and wanting to cry, inwardly at least. He's nervous and out of his comfort zone. The only noticeable difference between kindergarten and college is that the room doesn't smell like paste and his mom hadn't ruffled his head and told him to be a good boy on her way out. And in all honesty, the second one Jared is only pretending she didn't do because she totally did.
He knows he wants this, but just like when he was five years old, he just doesn't feel ready. He doesn't feel ready to wash his own clothes or acquire his own dinner or be in charge of his own general care and maintenance. His parents had driven him down, carried his boxes, and got teary-eyed while slipping 'emergency' money into various pockets of his new jeans. Then they'd left, with a hug and a kiss and a demand that he call them at least once a week.
Then it was just Jared. And Richard Speight apparently, his current non-present dorm-mate. As far as he knows, the only thing that Jared has in common with this Richard kid was their mutual love of junk-food, according to the ridiculously intricate dorm-mate compatibility profile he'd been forced to fill out upon registration. Richard hadn't responded to any of his three courtesy emails, so Jared really has nothing to go on. He'd wanted to wait for the guy before setting up shop so to speak, but he is just too antsy to sit and stare at his boxes.
Guiltily, he steals the good bed and starts unpacking his things. He's mostly done when a disheveled head of hair materializes abruptly in his doorway, swiftly followed by an equally disheveled man. It startles an extremely unmanly squeak out of him which he fails at covering with a rough cough. The guy shuts the door behind him with a wide-eyed frantic look, and swallows hard, stubble-covered throat rolling. He lifts his fingers to his lips in the universal signal for 'shut the hell up', and Jared can't think of any reason not to obey. He opts for staring awkwardly as he clutches his unfolded boxer-briefs against his chest.
“You can't hide forever Collins!” A voice growls from the hallway, and Jared watches the guy chuckle silently to himself, the frantic look melting to one that can only be described as smug. It kind of gives Jared whip-lash. “Goddammit Misha! Get out here!”
The voice fades further away, till it can't be heard at all, and only then does Jared speak. “You're not Richard, are you?” He's going to go out on a limb and assume this guy is the Misha Collins currently being sought after by the angry-sounding hallway-searcher.
The guy actually looks behind him, at the door, before turning back to Jared, as if only just now noticing that they were alone in the room. “Misha Collins, Resident Advisor.”
“You're the RA?” Jared asks, not even bothering to hide the obvious incredulity in his voice. The guy...is not what he'd expect from someone whose job is to manage the living quarters of two hundred barely-legal freshly-minted co-eds.
The guy, Misha, just grins at him, bright white and a little gummy. “One of them,” he explains and that serves to make Jared feel a little bit better, at least. Until the guy starts speaking again. “You're Jared Tristan Padalecki, of 1485 Cambridge Court, Caldwell, Texas. Second son of Gerald and Sharon Padalecki, born July 19th, 1982. High-school GPA of 3.7, graduated with honors, debate team captain, played varsity soccer, and organized charity UNICEF drives bi-annually. You're an undeclared English major, six-foot-four, one-hundred and sixty pounds, allergic to selfish---”
“Yeah,” Jared says slowly, setting the pair of boxer-briefs he'd been clutching down on the bed and nervously reaching for his cell-phone. “I'm going to have to ask you to leave.”
Misha makes a face, nose scrunched up, and shuffles on his feet. “Too much?”
“You're kind of creeping me out,” Jared explains, glad to have the small space between them in the cloistered dorm room. At some point, however, Misha had apparently taken several steps, so that the only thing separating them was the very tiny dorm bed.
Misha the RA bites into his lip and nods like perhaps this was a common observation. “I read your file,” he admits. “I read everyone's file.”
Blinking, Jared's eyes narrow. “And memorized them?”
“Oh I remember everything I read,” Misha replies brightly. “So it's not creepy.”
“It's still a little creepy,” Jared argues, because...yeah. He's not exactly a social butterfly, (more like a social slug if you're going to go with an insect-type simile) but he's pretty sure common etiquette does not require low-level, broad range stalking. “I'll let it slide if you never repeat that I was debate team captain.” Because seriously? He wants to leave that little fact behind him, to die quietly in high-school where it belongs.
“Why?” Misha asks, earnest blue eyes widening. “I find the ability to argue attractive in a man.”
“Yeah, not everyone sees it that way,” Jared replies. His brother Jeff hadn't; Jeff had mocked him mercilessly when he'd been elected, very much against his will, thank you very much. He decides to overlook the 'in-a-man' part of the comment because while he is not a homophobe, he's really got enough on his plate to comment on it. He isn't particularly offended by any one's sexuality, except for maybe his own but that's mostly because it's pretty much non-existent except for that one time (his first time) with Alexis, and really he kind of wants to forget---- Anyway. “It's kind of nerdy.”
Misha the RA just shrugs, blue flannel shirt sliding down his left shoulder. “I hear nerd is in right now.” Just as he speaks, Jared's door swings open hard, smacking the wall behind it. This time however, it reveals a bald man with a rather maniacal looking grin. Jared clutches his phone again and wonders if it's too late to consider community college.
“Misha,” the bald man sings, towering in the door way. He's seen horror films that have started like this; all the man is missing is an axe and some blood splatter. Jared is pretty sure he's taller than him, by quite a few inches. Misha however, is not; the odds are not in his favor. “You drugged me and shaved my head while I was sleeping,” the bald guy announces, his eyes wide and challenging.
Yeah, Jared is never inviting strangers into his room again. Especially the drugging-and-head-shaving-kind. The next four years will probably go a lot better if he just doesn't talk to anyone every again. Like he said, he's not a social butterfly, and it's never been important to him. College isn't for making friends, right? Right.
Suddenly Misha does a barrel roll over the bed, and hides himself behind Jared. He hadn't seen it coming, and now he just kind of wants to run. Except that Misha is holding onto the pockets of his jeans, and with a surprisingly firm grip too. “Is that why you're mad?” Misha asks, peeking out from behind Jared. “I'm going to go out on a limb and assume you haven't had to piss yet, huh?”
Big Bald guy's eyes go really wide and he lifts his shirt to tug at the front of his loose fitting jeans, peering into them. Jared is growing more and more uncomfortable with the situation in every passing minute.
His lack of comfort bottoms out when the Bald Guy looks up again and announces in a voice that isn't as angry as Jared feels it should be qualified, “You shaved my balls!”
Still hiding behind his hulking frame, Misha cackles, laughing so hard it actually shakes Jared. “You liked it,” he replies blithely, grinning like a shark. “Ask me where I put the pubes, Michael.”
“Misha----”
“Ask me,” Misha repeats, his hands now gripping the back of Jared's shirt so tightly the collar chokes him slightly. Jared tries not to pull to hard against Misha's grip, because if he knows nothing, he knows that he does not want to pass out alone with these people. “Ask me, ask me, ask me.”
“I'm going to kill you,” Big Bald Guy - Michael - says, through clenched white teeth. He closes his eyes and takes a deep, calming breath. It doesn't look like it worked. Actually, Jared is momentarily distracted and concerned for the guy's blood pressure. He kind of looks like he's about to bust a capillary in his eye or something. It isn't pretty.
Misha cackles again, unconcerned and dancing around behind Jared, jerking him with every wiggle. “But then you'll never know!”
He considers himself lucky that he saw Michael lunge coming (unlike Misha's). He ducks out of the way (and into the closet which will be hilarious and ironic much later in life) allowing the strange RA to be caught. Misha scowls at him from over the Micheal’s shoulder. “You sold me out,” he accuses, making absolutely no effort to free himself.
“Sorry,” Jared flushes. He doesn't exactly feel guilty, but Misha's glare is making him squirm.
Suddenly, the glare is gone, and Misha the RA is grinning. “Don't be. I admire a strong will to survive.” He reaches down and hikes the Micheal’s boxer shorts so far up his crack that Jared's balls twitch in sympathy, but the bald man in question merely grunts, and carries the now waving Misha out the door. “Bye Jared!”
Three and a half minutes later, Michael is back, Misha still on his shoulder. “Give them back,” he says with a sigh and Misha scowls again, this time chucking a pair of Jared's boxer shorts back on the bed. “Apologize Misha.”
“Sorry for stealing your underwear,” Misha says with his own a put-upon sigh. “I swear I'm not a creeper.”
“You're not really building a very good case,” Jared replies, cautiously taking the boxers from the bed and tucking them into the drawer. The man might have only had them for three minutes, but Jared is pretty sure he can never wear them again. They aren't to be trusted.
Michael turns sharply, letting Misha's head knock into the door. “You're going to want to not let Misha in your room again,” he instructs Jared solemnly. “He has issues.”
“Yeah, I got that.”
“Stop scaring the freshman off Michael,” Misha snaps, elbows propped on Mike's back. “You ruin all my fun.”
Mike just laughs, like he hadn't just been ready to strangle the RA. “Oh magpie,” he says turning back around. This time Misha's head hits the door jam. “It's a good thing I love you.”
Jared finds himself flushing a little more heatedly at the parting comment, watching Mike and Misha disappear down the hall. He's not a homophobe, even if he is from Texas, but he doesn't actually know anyone who's of that....preference (he can't bring himself to even think gay because it seems offensive even in his mind and Jared has made it a life effort to keep quite and offend no one),either. He guesses it makes sense that Mike and Misha are dating, since who the hell would shave some one's balls if they weren't? Actually, he doesn't even know anyone who would do that to someone they were dating. Maybe he just doesn't know the right people.
College is weird.
“You suck,” Misha huffs, sinking down into his avocado-baby-puke-green plastic chair between Tom and Mike at the freshman registration table. “You totally emasculated me. How will the freshman respect my authority now?” It's a fight to keep the smile off his face. People don't really respect Misha as much as they live in fear and awe of him. He doesn't mind; it's a system that has been working for him for years.
“You openly admitted to shaving my balls,” Mike counters, and Tom spits his coffee across the table, all over the very white shirt of a squeaky blonde freshman who just wanted to get her room key.
“Jesus Christ,” Tom groans, looking up at the squeaky blond girl with an apologetic. “Sorry, I'm so sorry. Alison Mack, right? Room 231-B. A little club soda will get that right out,” he adds, frowning at his shirt like the gayest straight person Misha has ever seen, as he hands her the key and the information packet. Once she's gone, he turns to Mike, then to Misha, and then back to Mike. “Can you guys just...put the Gay Chicken on pause for one day?”
Misha thinks that Tom should know better, but clearly he doesn't. Instantly, both he and Mike have their hands on Tom's thighs, slowly moving up the inseam of his jeans. Another freshman makes their nervous way to the table and Tom is forced to slap a happy smile on his face and pretend he isn't being fondled in tandem.
Tom is good, but he's not the best. Jensen is the best when it comes to Gay-Chicken, he thinks fondly. Misha thinks that Jensen should fuck Med-school and go into acting because he is the reigning Gay-Chicken king. Nothing phases him. Misha once shoved Jensen's hands down his pants and made him cup Misha's balls. Not a fucking twitch out of him. Jensen is Misha's proudest accomplishment.
“Sandy McCoy” the girl says firmly, dark pony tail swinging behind her. Misha is momentarily distracted by her ginormous sweater puppies, hand clenching unconsciously on Tom's dick.
“Room 224-B” Tom squeaks, handing her the key and packet. He slaps Misha's arm hard, and elbows him in the ribs before clearing his throat and running his fingers through his hair as if to shake off the impromptu molestation. “So what did Misha do now?” He asks, broadly, checking both the girls names of the list (which is actually Misha's job, but Tom doesn't trust him with that kind of authority, apparently.)
“Why do I get blamed?” Misha asks, frowning. He'd be more upset if he hadn't just shaved Mike's balls, but whatever; Mike started it. “Mike started it.”
“He's right, I did,” Mike admits shamelessly and that's why Misha likes Mike. “I want my cock-lock back, by the way.”
The current freshman managed to avoid the majority of Tom's second spit-take as he rushes away from the registration table of insanity. He's probably wondering exactly what he signed up for, Misha thinks. “Then you're going to have to tell me how to take it off,” Misha answers Mike, belatedly.
Mike snorts, grinning. “You're still wearing it.” He's pleased, as if Misha's pain is like a balm to him. It probably is, but the feeling is entirely mutual. If either Misha or Mike were adverse to a little pain, they wouldn't have managed to survive their friendship for all the years they had.
“I'm not convinced it isn't a Chinese finger trap you stuck on my dick,” Misha says seriously. He'd tried to get it off, really he did, but he just kept making himself hard. Which isn't particularly fun when you're wearing a cock-ring-slash-finger trap. “Seriously, why do you even have a chastity-”
Tom bangs his head on the table and sighs. “You guys know it's not Gay Chicken if you're actually gay right? Then it's foreplay.”
“We're not gay,” both he and Mike say at once. They've had this conversation before.
“I'm bi-sexual,” Mike explains for the umpteenth time. Misha can confirm this; Mike has no real leanings one way or the other. Both dicks and chicks do it for him. Tom, however, is sadly as linear as they come. It's a waste of so much pretty, Misha thinks. That much pretty should be equal opportunity, at least. If Misha were into Tom, he's pretty sure he'd feel spectacularly cheated by the world. “And Misha's----”
“Omnisexual,” Tom says with a sigh. “Yeah, yeah. I know.”
“I believe the term is pansexual now, thank you,” Misha corrects, haughtily. “Seriously though Mike, how do I take it off? It's been on for twelve hours. I've had two dry orgasms already and it's starting to chafe. My balls are killing me.” He's pretty sure if he hadn't managed those two orgasms, he would be in the hospital. Mike is an evil genius.
“You can come with a cock ring on?” Tom asks with no little awe, and Misha preens. He's got skills, thank you very much. Actually, he's pretty sure there's nothing in the world that could actually stop him from having orgasms. Awe swiftly gone, Tom turns to Mike with even more than his usual amount of disgusted incredulity. “You put a cock ring on him?”
Mike though, Mike looks a little put out. “It was too big for his cock anyway. It was totally loose,” he grumbles, but concedes anyway. “You win this round, magpie.”
“Your dick is going to fall off,” Tom mutters darkly, and then punches Mike in the shoulder. “Go help him get it off before we have to take him to the hospital,” he barks, and then shakes his head tiredly. “I'm calling Jensen. I need someone straight to balance out all the gay.”
“I'm offended at your narrow-mindedness Tom, really I am,” Misha says solemnly, shaking his head in mock sadness. “I'd thought such a hip and liberal young man such as yourse----”
Tom punches Misha in the arm too and laughs. “If I were narrow-minded, you really think we'd have been friends this long?”
“You do love me!” Misha squeals as high as he can and lunges at Tom, landing a sloppy kiss on his cheek before Mike grabs him by the collar.
“Come on lover boy,” he chuckles, marching Misha towards the bathrooms. “You know I'm confiscating your Adderol, right?” Misha had wondered if Mike had noticed his too-big pupils and nervous twitch. Of course he had. That's why Misha liked Mike so much. The man misses nothing.
“You're a good friend, Mike.”
*
Mike is a good friend. Because no one but a good friend, a great friend to be honest, would be standing outside the bathroom stall, walking him through a cock ring unlocking process. “Here's the key,” he says, handing Misha a key that is not dissimilar to that of a diary or kiddy-cuffs. Easily pickable, Misha figures, if you knew that there was an actual lock in the first place, which he did not. Every time he tried to feel for the cock ring, his hand just ended up hopelessly on his dick. “There's a tiny lock on the underside, you should be able to twist it open.”
He finds the lock, but the twisting part is a little more complicated at this angle. “I can't,” Misha finds his own efforts wanting, but really, can anyone blame him? He's been hard for a really, really, really long time, and he needs to pee and come but probably not in that order.“Shit Mike, my balls are killing me. I don't want them to fall off, I'm attached to them. I've named them Sam and Dean and I've invested a lot of time in their care and upkeep. Help?”
Mike sighs and yanks open the stall door. “I really hate you. Just...hold your dick up. I'll get it,” he says, and yeah, Misha realizes that their friendship is really gay and unconventional and probably sit-com worthy. “I think we need to like...discuss boundaries after this. You ever think our Gay Chicken is getting out of hand?”
“Gay Chicken has no boundaries,” Misha reminds him, while trying not to squirm. “It's an extreme sport.” Mike's hands are cold, making his balls clench up even more uncomfortably. Misha's pretty sure if the migrate any higher, he'll be choking on his pubes. “You're the one who put it on me.”
“You jizzed in my coffee,” Mike replies tightly. It's true, he did. And then he reminded Mike if he didn't drink it, he'd be forfeiting. “I couldn't just let that go.” He's barely twisted the lock once, but Misha can already feel the relief. He's hard beneath his hand and it's no surprise that he comes the very moment the fucking One Ring To Rule Them is loosened, splashes of white streaking up his stomach.
“Goddamn it, Misha!” Mike snaps, wiping his hand on Misha's jeans. It's a little weird and a lot gay, because no matter how close Mike and Misha are, they've never been that kind of close. It could have ended up that way, Misha supposes, but circumstances made them friends, the best of friends to be sure, but just friends. “Warn a guy! You totally jizzed on my hand.” He's not grossed out by it really. If a little man-glaze grossed him out, he would have lost Gay Chicken forever ago. He's mostly just annoyed. It's the principle of the thing, Misha figures.
Misha can't say anything but “thank you,” and even that comes out as a groan. “Thank you, thank you, thank you. God that was awful. I'm not sure I win this round.”
“You did keep it on for twelve hours,” Mike reasons, unlocking it further. He lets it go, and it slides down Misha's dick without help, catching on the sensitive head. “I've got to give you props for that.”
“I figured it wouldn't count if I didn't leave it on as long as it took me to exact revenge,” Misha replies with a shrug. He releases his cock, letting it fall wet and half limp against his open jeans. Mike flinches away with a glare as he pushes up of his knees.
There's a squeaking noise followed by a plastic-sounding thud, and both Mike and Misha's heads snap towards the sound.
And Jared Tristan Padalecki is standing at the door, mouth open and eyes wide. “Shit. Shit, sorry,” he squeaks, tearing his eyes away and bolting with a mumbled apology. Jared's cell phone is laying on the floor abandoned, and Mike is glaring at him, and Misha can't think because he just blew his brains out of his dick.
“Misha,” Mike says a moment later, washing his hands at the sink. “I'm uncomfortable with our friendship.”
“No you're not,” Misha replies, rolling his eyes. He picks up the cell phone, and pockets it. “You should be though.”
Mikes face is scowling at him through the mirror. “Misha,” he says sternly. “Go give it back.”
“I wasn't going to keep it,” Misha denies, but does as he's told because there are a few things that make Mike mad, but Misha's....thing, is one of them.
“Give me back my cock ring too, Gollum,” he says with a laugh, as Misha reaches for the door.
Misha flushes a little, but grins as he fishes the ring out of his pocket and tosses it to Mike.
“You're suck a fucking magpie; hoarder of the shiny,” Mike makes grabby hands at him, and Misha knows he's not too mad; magpie is an insult and an endearment for Mike. He's been more mad, at any rate. Mike is a good friend.
See, the thing about Misha, well to be fair there are a lot of things about Misha, but this thing, it's...complicated. Or maybe it isn't, but Misha wishes it was. Misha likes to steal things. No, no. That’s not right. He doesn't exactly enjoy it. He doesn't get a rush from stealing, doesn't enjoy the adrenaline. There really isn't any adrenaline involved. He just...sometimes takes things that aren't his. He doesn't know why and several of the therapists that his mother made him visit labeled it as obsessive compulsive kleptomania.
It's as close to right as he's ever found. Sometimes he just sees things and he has to take them. Most of the time he doesn't even want them; it's not really a matter of want. It's just...a weird urge he's never been able to break from, and it's worse if he's stressed or anxious (which explains his mild addiction to Ativan, but whatever). It makes making friends hard, and keeping them harder. He's lucky to have found Mike, who introduced him to Tom, and by proxy Jensen. They're good guys, who mostly understand Misha and try their best to keep him out of trouble. That's what makes him flush, makes him feel embarrassed; that even at his age, he needs some one to keep him out of trouble at all.
Chapter Two....
AUTHOR: lifelesslyndsey
PAIRING: Jared/Misha with briefly mentioned other pairings later
RATING: NC-17 for medication abuse, and slash!
BETA'D: malbryn
College.
Cauliflower is nothing but cabbage with a college education, Mark Twain had been quoted.
Jared loves Mark Twain, really he does - as an undeclared English major, it's probably required that he love Mark Twain - but he has no idea what that's supposed to mean. But hey, that's probably why he's in college in the first place; to learn all the stuff they hadn't had time to shove in his head during high-school. That and be socially awkward on a higher level, he's sure.
It's his first day. He compares it to his first day of kindergarten and wonders if that's weird because a.) he is not five years old, and b.) college is supposed to be about your first step into adulthood....or something like that. All the same, the mixed feelings of dread and excitement are easily similar; he's torn between curiosity and wanting to cry, inwardly at least. He's nervous and out of his comfort zone. The only noticeable difference between kindergarten and college is that the room doesn't smell like paste and his mom hadn't ruffled his head and told him to be a good boy on her way out. And in all honesty, the second one Jared is only pretending she didn't do because she totally did.
He knows he wants this, but just like when he was five years old, he just doesn't feel ready. He doesn't feel ready to wash his own clothes or acquire his own dinner or be in charge of his own general care and maintenance. His parents had driven him down, carried his boxes, and got teary-eyed while slipping 'emergency' money into various pockets of his new jeans. Then they'd left, with a hug and a kiss and a demand that he call them at least once a week.
Then it was just Jared. And Richard Speight apparently, his current non-present dorm-mate. As far as he knows, the only thing that Jared has in common with this Richard kid was their mutual love of junk-food, according to the ridiculously intricate dorm-mate compatibility profile he'd been forced to fill out upon registration. Richard hadn't responded to any of his three courtesy emails, so Jared really has nothing to go on. He'd wanted to wait for the guy before setting up shop so to speak, but he is just too antsy to sit and stare at his boxes.
Guiltily, he steals the good bed and starts unpacking his things. He's mostly done when a disheveled head of hair materializes abruptly in his doorway, swiftly followed by an equally disheveled man. It startles an extremely unmanly squeak out of him which he fails at covering with a rough cough. The guy shuts the door behind him with a wide-eyed frantic look, and swallows hard, stubble-covered throat rolling. He lifts his fingers to his lips in the universal signal for 'shut the hell up', and Jared can't think of any reason not to obey. He opts for staring awkwardly as he clutches his unfolded boxer-briefs against his chest.
“You can't hide forever Collins!” A voice growls from the hallway, and Jared watches the guy chuckle silently to himself, the frantic look melting to one that can only be described as smug. It kind of gives Jared whip-lash. “Goddammit Misha! Get out here!”
The voice fades further away, till it can't be heard at all, and only then does Jared speak. “You're not Richard, are you?” He's going to go out on a limb and assume this guy is the Misha Collins currently being sought after by the angry-sounding hallway-searcher.
The guy actually looks behind him, at the door, before turning back to Jared, as if only just now noticing that they were alone in the room. “Misha Collins, Resident Advisor.”
“You're the RA?” Jared asks, not even bothering to hide the obvious incredulity in his voice. The guy...is not what he'd expect from someone whose job is to manage the living quarters of two hundred barely-legal freshly-minted co-eds.
The guy, Misha, just grins at him, bright white and a little gummy. “One of them,” he explains and that serves to make Jared feel a little bit better, at least. Until the guy starts speaking again. “You're Jared Tristan Padalecki, of 1485 Cambridge Court, Caldwell, Texas. Second son of Gerald and Sharon Padalecki, born July 19th, 1982. High-school GPA of 3.7, graduated with honors, debate team captain, played varsity soccer, and organized charity UNICEF drives bi-annually. You're an undeclared English major, six-foot-four, one-hundred and sixty pounds, allergic to selfish---”
“Yeah,” Jared says slowly, setting the pair of boxer-briefs he'd been clutching down on the bed and nervously reaching for his cell-phone. “I'm going to have to ask you to leave.”
Misha makes a face, nose scrunched up, and shuffles on his feet. “Too much?”
“You're kind of creeping me out,” Jared explains, glad to have the small space between them in the cloistered dorm room. At some point, however, Misha had apparently taken several steps, so that the only thing separating them was the very tiny dorm bed.
Misha the RA bites into his lip and nods like perhaps this was a common observation. “I read your file,” he admits. “I read everyone's file.”
Blinking, Jared's eyes narrow. “And memorized them?”
“Oh I remember everything I read,” Misha replies brightly. “So it's not creepy.”
“It's still a little creepy,” Jared argues, because...yeah. He's not exactly a social butterfly, (more like a social slug if you're going to go with an insect-type simile) but he's pretty sure common etiquette does not require low-level, broad range stalking. “I'll let it slide if you never repeat that I was debate team captain.” Because seriously? He wants to leave that little fact behind him, to die quietly in high-school where it belongs.
“Why?” Misha asks, earnest blue eyes widening. “I find the ability to argue attractive in a man.”
“Yeah, not everyone sees it that way,” Jared replies. His brother Jeff hadn't; Jeff had mocked him mercilessly when he'd been elected, very much against his will, thank you very much. He decides to overlook the 'in-a-man' part of the comment because while he is not a homophobe, he's really got enough on his plate to comment on it. He isn't particularly offended by any one's sexuality, except for maybe his own but that's mostly because it's pretty much non-existent except for that one time (his first time) with Alexis, and really he kind of wants to forget---- Anyway. “It's kind of nerdy.”
Misha the RA just shrugs, blue flannel shirt sliding down his left shoulder. “I hear nerd is in right now.” Just as he speaks, Jared's door swings open hard, smacking the wall behind it. This time however, it reveals a bald man with a rather maniacal looking grin. Jared clutches his phone again and wonders if it's too late to consider community college.
“Misha,” the bald man sings, towering in the door way. He's seen horror films that have started like this; all the man is missing is an axe and some blood splatter. Jared is pretty sure he's taller than him, by quite a few inches. Misha however, is not; the odds are not in his favor. “You drugged me and shaved my head while I was sleeping,” the bald guy announces, his eyes wide and challenging.
Yeah, Jared is never inviting strangers into his room again. Especially the drugging-and-head-shaving-kind. The next four years will probably go a lot better if he just doesn't talk to anyone every again. Like he said, he's not a social butterfly, and it's never been important to him. College isn't for making friends, right? Right.
Suddenly Misha does a barrel roll over the bed, and hides himself behind Jared. He hadn't seen it coming, and now he just kind of wants to run. Except that Misha is holding onto the pockets of his jeans, and with a surprisingly firm grip too. “Is that why you're mad?” Misha asks, peeking out from behind Jared. “I'm going to go out on a limb and assume you haven't had to piss yet, huh?”
Big Bald guy's eyes go really wide and he lifts his shirt to tug at the front of his loose fitting jeans, peering into them. Jared is growing more and more uncomfortable with the situation in every passing minute.
His lack of comfort bottoms out when the Bald Guy looks up again and announces in a voice that isn't as angry as Jared feels it should be qualified, “You shaved my balls!”
Still hiding behind his hulking frame, Misha cackles, laughing so hard it actually shakes Jared. “You liked it,” he replies blithely, grinning like a shark. “Ask me where I put the pubes, Michael.”
“Misha----”
“Ask me,” Misha repeats, his hands now gripping the back of Jared's shirt so tightly the collar chokes him slightly. Jared tries not to pull to hard against Misha's grip, because if he knows nothing, he knows that he does not want to pass out alone with these people. “Ask me, ask me, ask me.”
“I'm going to kill you,” Big Bald Guy - Michael - says, through clenched white teeth. He closes his eyes and takes a deep, calming breath. It doesn't look like it worked. Actually, Jared is momentarily distracted and concerned for the guy's blood pressure. He kind of looks like he's about to bust a capillary in his eye or something. It isn't pretty.
Misha cackles again, unconcerned and dancing around behind Jared, jerking him with every wiggle. “But then you'll never know!”
He considers himself lucky that he saw Michael lunge coming (unlike Misha's). He ducks out of the way (and into the closet which will be hilarious and ironic much later in life) allowing the strange RA to be caught. Misha scowls at him from over the Micheal’s shoulder. “You sold me out,” he accuses, making absolutely no effort to free himself.
“Sorry,” Jared flushes. He doesn't exactly feel guilty, but Misha's glare is making him squirm.
Suddenly, the glare is gone, and Misha the RA is grinning. “Don't be. I admire a strong will to survive.” He reaches down and hikes the Micheal’s boxer shorts so far up his crack that Jared's balls twitch in sympathy, but the bald man in question merely grunts, and carries the now waving Misha out the door. “Bye Jared!”
Three and a half minutes later, Michael is back, Misha still on his shoulder. “Give them back,” he says with a sigh and Misha scowls again, this time chucking a pair of Jared's boxer shorts back on the bed. “Apologize Misha.”
“Sorry for stealing your underwear,” Misha says with his own a put-upon sigh. “I swear I'm not a creeper.”
“You're not really building a very good case,” Jared replies, cautiously taking the boxers from the bed and tucking them into the drawer. The man might have only had them for three minutes, but Jared is pretty sure he can never wear them again. They aren't to be trusted.
Michael turns sharply, letting Misha's head knock into the door. “You're going to want to not let Misha in your room again,” he instructs Jared solemnly. “He has issues.”
“Yeah, I got that.”
“Stop scaring the freshman off Michael,” Misha snaps, elbows propped on Mike's back. “You ruin all my fun.”
Mike just laughs, like he hadn't just been ready to strangle the RA. “Oh magpie,” he says turning back around. This time Misha's head hits the door jam. “It's a good thing I love you.”
Jared finds himself flushing a little more heatedly at the parting comment, watching Mike and Misha disappear down the hall. He's not a homophobe, even if he is from Texas, but he doesn't actually know anyone who's of that....preference (he can't bring himself to even think gay because it seems offensive even in his mind and Jared has made it a life effort to keep quite and offend no one),either. He guesses it makes sense that Mike and Misha are dating, since who the hell would shave some one's balls if they weren't? Actually, he doesn't even know anyone who would do that to someone they were dating. Maybe he just doesn't know the right people.
College is weird.
“You suck,” Misha huffs, sinking down into his avocado-baby-puke-green plastic chair between Tom and Mike at the freshman registration table. “You totally emasculated me. How will the freshman respect my authority now?” It's a fight to keep the smile off his face. People don't really respect Misha as much as they live in fear and awe of him. He doesn't mind; it's a system that has been working for him for years.
“You openly admitted to shaving my balls,” Mike counters, and Tom spits his coffee across the table, all over the very white shirt of a squeaky blonde freshman who just wanted to get her room key.
“Jesus Christ,” Tom groans, looking up at the squeaky blond girl with an apologetic. “Sorry, I'm so sorry. Alison Mack, right? Room 231-B. A little club soda will get that right out,” he adds, frowning at his shirt like the gayest straight person Misha has ever seen, as he hands her the key and the information packet. Once she's gone, he turns to Mike, then to Misha, and then back to Mike. “Can you guys just...put the Gay Chicken on pause for one day?”
Misha thinks that Tom should know better, but clearly he doesn't. Instantly, both he and Mike have their hands on Tom's thighs, slowly moving up the inseam of his jeans. Another freshman makes their nervous way to the table and Tom is forced to slap a happy smile on his face and pretend he isn't being fondled in tandem.
Tom is good, but he's not the best. Jensen is the best when it comes to Gay-Chicken, he thinks fondly. Misha thinks that Jensen should fuck Med-school and go into acting because he is the reigning Gay-Chicken king. Nothing phases him. Misha once shoved Jensen's hands down his pants and made him cup Misha's balls. Not a fucking twitch out of him. Jensen is Misha's proudest accomplishment.
“Sandy McCoy” the girl says firmly, dark pony tail swinging behind her. Misha is momentarily distracted by her ginormous sweater puppies, hand clenching unconsciously on Tom's dick.
“Room 224-B” Tom squeaks, handing her the key and packet. He slaps Misha's arm hard, and elbows him in the ribs before clearing his throat and running his fingers through his hair as if to shake off the impromptu molestation. “So what did Misha do now?” He asks, broadly, checking both the girls names of the list (which is actually Misha's job, but Tom doesn't trust him with that kind of authority, apparently.)
“Why do I get blamed?” Misha asks, frowning. He'd be more upset if he hadn't just shaved Mike's balls, but whatever; Mike started it. “Mike started it.”
“He's right, I did,” Mike admits shamelessly and that's why Misha likes Mike. “I want my cock-lock back, by the way.”
The current freshman managed to avoid the majority of Tom's second spit-take as he rushes away from the registration table of insanity. He's probably wondering exactly what he signed up for, Misha thinks. “Then you're going to have to tell me how to take it off,” Misha answers Mike, belatedly.
Mike snorts, grinning. “You're still wearing it.” He's pleased, as if Misha's pain is like a balm to him. It probably is, but the feeling is entirely mutual. If either Misha or Mike were adverse to a little pain, they wouldn't have managed to survive their friendship for all the years they had.
“I'm not convinced it isn't a Chinese finger trap you stuck on my dick,” Misha says seriously. He'd tried to get it off, really he did, but he just kept making himself hard. Which isn't particularly fun when you're wearing a cock-ring-slash-finger trap. “Seriously, why do you even have a chastity-”
Tom bangs his head on the table and sighs. “You guys know it's not Gay Chicken if you're actually gay right? Then it's foreplay.”
“We're not gay,” both he and Mike say at once. They've had this conversation before.
“I'm bi-sexual,” Mike explains for the umpteenth time. Misha can confirm this; Mike has no real leanings one way or the other. Both dicks and chicks do it for him. Tom, however, is sadly as linear as they come. It's a waste of so much pretty, Misha thinks. That much pretty should be equal opportunity, at least. If Misha were into Tom, he's pretty sure he'd feel spectacularly cheated by the world. “And Misha's----”
“Omnisexual,” Tom says with a sigh. “Yeah, yeah. I know.”
“I believe the term is pansexual now, thank you,” Misha corrects, haughtily. “Seriously though Mike, how do I take it off? It's been on for twelve hours. I've had two dry orgasms already and it's starting to chafe. My balls are killing me.” He's pretty sure if he hadn't managed those two orgasms, he would be in the hospital. Mike is an evil genius.
“You can come with a cock ring on?” Tom asks with no little awe, and Misha preens. He's got skills, thank you very much. Actually, he's pretty sure there's nothing in the world that could actually stop him from having orgasms. Awe swiftly gone, Tom turns to Mike with even more than his usual amount of disgusted incredulity. “You put a cock ring on him?”
Mike though, Mike looks a little put out. “It was too big for his cock anyway. It was totally loose,” he grumbles, but concedes anyway. “You win this round, magpie.”
“Your dick is going to fall off,” Tom mutters darkly, and then punches Mike in the shoulder. “Go help him get it off before we have to take him to the hospital,” he barks, and then shakes his head tiredly. “I'm calling Jensen. I need someone straight to balance out all the gay.”
“I'm offended at your narrow-mindedness Tom, really I am,” Misha says solemnly, shaking his head in mock sadness. “I'd thought such a hip and liberal young man such as yourse----”
Tom punches Misha in the arm too and laughs. “If I were narrow-minded, you really think we'd have been friends this long?”
“You do love me!” Misha squeals as high as he can and lunges at Tom, landing a sloppy kiss on his cheek before Mike grabs him by the collar.
“Come on lover boy,” he chuckles, marching Misha towards the bathrooms. “You know I'm confiscating your Adderol, right?” Misha had wondered if Mike had noticed his too-big pupils and nervous twitch. Of course he had. That's why Misha liked Mike so much. The man misses nothing.
“You're a good friend, Mike.”
*
Mike is a good friend. Because no one but a good friend, a great friend to be honest, would be standing outside the bathroom stall, walking him through a cock ring unlocking process. “Here's the key,” he says, handing Misha a key that is not dissimilar to that of a diary or kiddy-cuffs. Easily pickable, Misha figures, if you knew that there was an actual lock in the first place, which he did not. Every time he tried to feel for the cock ring, his hand just ended up hopelessly on his dick. “There's a tiny lock on the underside, you should be able to twist it open.”
He finds the lock, but the twisting part is a little more complicated at this angle. “I can't,” Misha finds his own efforts wanting, but really, can anyone blame him? He's been hard for a really, really, really long time, and he needs to pee and come but probably not in that order.“Shit Mike, my balls are killing me. I don't want them to fall off, I'm attached to them. I've named them Sam and Dean and I've invested a lot of time in their care and upkeep. Help?”
Mike sighs and yanks open the stall door. “I really hate you. Just...hold your dick up. I'll get it,” he says, and yeah, Misha realizes that their friendship is really gay and unconventional and probably sit-com worthy. “I think we need to like...discuss boundaries after this. You ever think our Gay Chicken is getting out of hand?”
“Gay Chicken has no boundaries,” Misha reminds him, while trying not to squirm. “It's an extreme sport.” Mike's hands are cold, making his balls clench up even more uncomfortably. Misha's pretty sure if the migrate any higher, he'll be choking on his pubes. “You're the one who put it on me.”
“You jizzed in my coffee,” Mike replies tightly. It's true, he did. And then he reminded Mike if he didn't drink it, he'd be forfeiting. “I couldn't just let that go.” He's barely twisted the lock once, but Misha can already feel the relief. He's hard beneath his hand and it's no surprise that he comes the very moment the fucking One Ring To Rule Them is loosened, splashes of white streaking up his stomach.
“Goddamn it, Misha!” Mike snaps, wiping his hand on Misha's jeans. It's a little weird and a lot gay, because no matter how close Mike and Misha are, they've never been that kind of close. It could have ended up that way, Misha supposes, but circumstances made them friends, the best of friends to be sure, but just friends. “Warn a guy! You totally jizzed on my hand.” He's not grossed out by it really. If a little man-glaze grossed him out, he would have lost Gay Chicken forever ago. He's mostly just annoyed. It's the principle of the thing, Misha figures.
Misha can't say anything but “thank you,” and even that comes out as a groan. “Thank you, thank you, thank you. God that was awful. I'm not sure I win this round.”
“You did keep it on for twelve hours,” Mike reasons, unlocking it further. He lets it go, and it slides down Misha's dick without help, catching on the sensitive head. “I've got to give you props for that.”
“I figured it wouldn't count if I didn't leave it on as long as it took me to exact revenge,” Misha replies with a shrug. He releases his cock, letting it fall wet and half limp against his open jeans. Mike flinches away with a glare as he pushes up of his knees.
There's a squeaking noise followed by a plastic-sounding thud, and both Mike and Misha's heads snap towards the sound.
And Jared Tristan Padalecki is standing at the door, mouth open and eyes wide. “Shit. Shit, sorry,” he squeaks, tearing his eyes away and bolting with a mumbled apology. Jared's cell phone is laying on the floor abandoned, and Mike is glaring at him, and Misha can't think because he just blew his brains out of his dick.
“Misha,” Mike says a moment later, washing his hands at the sink. “I'm uncomfortable with our friendship.”
“No you're not,” Misha replies, rolling his eyes. He picks up the cell phone, and pockets it. “You should be though.”
Mikes face is scowling at him through the mirror. “Misha,” he says sternly. “Go give it back.”
“I wasn't going to keep it,” Misha denies, but does as he's told because there are a few things that make Mike mad, but Misha's....thing, is one of them.
“Give me back my cock ring too, Gollum,” he says with a laugh, as Misha reaches for the door.
Misha flushes a little, but grins as he fishes the ring out of his pocket and tosses it to Mike.
“You're suck a fucking magpie; hoarder of the shiny,” Mike makes grabby hands at him, and Misha knows he's not too mad; magpie is an insult and an endearment for Mike. He's been more mad, at any rate. Mike is a good friend.
See, the thing about Misha, well to be fair there are a lot of things about Misha, but this thing, it's...complicated. Or maybe it isn't, but Misha wishes it was. Misha likes to steal things. No, no. That’s not right. He doesn't exactly enjoy it. He doesn't get a rush from stealing, doesn't enjoy the adrenaline. There really isn't any adrenaline involved. He just...sometimes takes things that aren't his. He doesn't know why and several of the therapists that his mother made him visit labeled it as obsessive compulsive kleptomania.
It's as close to right as he's ever found. Sometimes he just sees things and he has to take them. Most of the time he doesn't even want them; it's not really a matter of want. It's just...a weird urge he's never been able to break from, and it's worse if he's stressed or anxious (which explains his mild addiction to Ativan, but whatever). It makes making friends hard, and keeping them harder. He's lucky to have found Mike, who introduced him to Tom, and by proxy Jensen. They're good guys, who mostly understand Misha and try their best to keep him out of trouble. That's what makes him flush, makes him feel embarrassed; that even at his age, he needs some one to keep him out of trouble at all.
Chapter Two....