New World Order [Jeff/Jensen AU]
apparently I'm too retarded to successfully wield Rich Text and lj cuts at the same time. apologies for molestation of your flists.
Title: new world order (third in the easyverse)
Author: Mel (
thatotherperv )
Pairing: Jeff/Jensen, Jensen/OMCs, most definitely NC-17
Length: almost 7,600 words
Summary: Jensen has a silver spoon and big hairy issues. Jeff is a lamb-in-wolf's-clothing.
Disclaimer: This in no way resembles the life of the real people concerned. Totally and entirely a fabrication, and thank god for that. I wish them the best of health, mental and otherwise.
Warnings: while all the sex in this fic is between consenting adults, Jensen is damaged and self-destructive, and I'd advise anyone with a strong rape/non-con squick that this might trigger it.
Note: thanks to
madame_meretrix for all the hard work she puts into this beta. I'm so grateful you care enough to push me to be a better writer, and this fic is so much better for it.
When you were thirteen, you had this girlfriend.
You did have those when you were young-a lot of them. Not that you were a ladies' man, but they just kind of happened. Like clockwork, one of them would start looking at you, and giggling and passing notes and next thing you knew they were holding your hand and drawing little hearts around your name.
Whatever. You never tried to stop it. It was kind of nice having a soft hand in yours, and they always had shiny hair and popular names like Angela or Lisa or Crystal. It was like names predetermined social status back then, and somehow, "Jensen" bought your way into the cool club despite the fact that you had glasses and too many freckles and sort of stuttered when you bothered to speak at all. You doubt they ever saw you for who you really were. If they had, you wouldn't have made the cut.
So you had this girlfriend named Christina. Not Christine or Chrissy. Christina, with little open circles where the dots should be. You were thirteen then and you couldn't get away with just holding her hand and kissing her on the cheek anymore-she wanted to like, kissyou kiss you. With tongues.
The idea didn't excite you, even though you'd been jacking off as often as you could manage for six months. You didn't think about girls back then, or even boys. Back then touching yourself was enough. Touching yourself was plenty.
But it was nice. Kissing was nice. Being horizontal was nice. Friction was really nice. The abstain-or-die assembly was a good two years off and neither of you knew what the hell you were doing, but it wasn't rocket science.
The first time she touched your penis, your own hand stopped being of interest entirely. It was way more than nice.
You never looked back.
You don't actually remember much about Christina. You remember the heavy petting, you remember she had a swimming pool and a big screen tv. And you remember that she had an older brother. Ryan. Ryan was way more fun than Christina ever was. You played SEGA and basketball and Ryan never let you win at anything, but sometimes you still managed to kick his ass. The way he'd look at you then made you warm inside, like you had earned something.
You started hanging out with Ryan when Christina was busy. It was summer and it saved you from being at home; her parents had practically adopted you by then anyway. They thought you were a nice boy, and you're pretty sure in retrospect that her mom felt sorry that your dad was an asshole-as critical of his son as he was of his underlings. Or maybe she just thought taking care of his kid was a good way to suck up to her boss.
Either way.
Ryan was sitting on the couch that summer while all his friends were selling sweaters at Structure, so. It was an odd friendship, but sort of inevitable…lubricated by your easy acquisition of alcohol from your dad's liquor cabinet. You thought he was good-looking and mature, and his attention made you giddy. You had a crush on him long before you recognized it for what it was.
When you were thirteen-and-a-half, you discovered gay porn. You discovered it, and you really really liked it. A lot.
There were steps between discovering gay porn and fucking your girlfriend's seventeen-year-old brother. You know there were, but the details are fuzzy. But that was the summer you grew a pair and stopped fearing the consequences of your actions. That was the summer all the adults started insisting you'd "grown out of your shell."
You hadn't, really, but you learned how to act like drawing people's attention didn't make your skin crawl. And sometimes it didn't. Like the first time you blew Ryan. You tried to do it like they did in the pornos, but you gagged and the taste wasn't so great. You weren't hard at all. Just nervous and uncomfortable and trying hard not to embarrass yourself.
Afterwards, Ryan laughed, loose and giddy-sprawled out like his head was too heavy to lift off the back of the couch. "Goddamn." His voice was bright-edged. He laughed and said it again, like you'd done something amazing. "Goddamn."
You'd never been so proud of yourself in your entire fucking life.
It was the first of many afternoons where it was just the two of you; Christina was busy with Dance. It's not like he was your fucking boyfriend-you knew it wasn't that, even back then. There was a girl on his arm when he was out with his friends, and they were official. But you had the better deal anyway…it was you he was fucking.
Ryan's girlfriend never liked giving head, but you did, after a while. Not the jaw-ache or the drool or the aftertaste, but you liked that warm feeling in your chest, and the way he looked at you after. Sort of…amazed and maybe even a little impressed, like. Slam-dunk.
By the end of the summer, you'd let him pop your cherry. To be honest, it kind of sucked at first. It hurt, and he didn't seem all that interested in making it better for you. But practice made perfect and it was worth a little pain-all those afternoons where his attention was focused solely on you.
It wasn't until later that everything changed. Ryan had less and less time for you because it was his senior year and his last chance to impress the college recruiters. There were some weeks you hardly saw him at all, unless you skipped class to hang out on the field. Watch him practice.
School was bullshit anyway. You were sick of pointless group projects with shiny happy people, meeting up at someone's house to create presentations meant to prepare you for the Board Meetings of the Future while their mother baked cookies in the kitchen or some shit. By October you'd dropped out of all the accelerated classes, and that was the final proof your father needed in his mission to declare you a worthless failure of his good genetic stock. It got to where you couldn't cross paths with him without some kind of explosion. He'd raised you with every opportunity and you'd squandered your potential and when he was your age and people were starving in Ethiopia and blah-blah-blah. The house became more of a war zone than it ever was. You got better at ducking and covering, or just making yourself scarce altogether.
Of course, with Ryan busy elsewhere, you had to find other uses of your time. That wasn't hard to do-not when unlimited access to money was the one thing you could count on from Dad, and a world of substances were awaiting your abuse.
Sometimes you could even get Ryan to loosen up and abuse them with you.
Now that you're older, the whole thing looks a little different. Not your dad-that's actually just the same. But yeah, Ryan. You think he must have been a loser to be fucking around with a kid like you when he was a senior in high school. He'd probably never had sex with a guy before and he probably never came out of the closet. Even if he had, he's so far beneath you that now you wouldn't even consider sucking his dick.
But at the time, he made you feel…older. Special. Like he had chosen you.
You thought about it that way for a long time, even after he left for college and you stopped being so…monogamous. He was the last one you cared to be monogamous to. It was all a joke in the end-you weren't enough for him.
Caring about one person was a waste of time, but the fucking was pretty cut and dry. Everyone stuck around long enough for that. And then everyone walked away happy.
It was easy that way.
So it sneaks up on you, liking Jeff. It's nothing you ever expected. For a long time, there's nothing to like, except the sex. He fucks you and he makes you breakfast, but beyond that he's kind of a blank canvas. It's pretty great that way. He stops stalking you, once you stop making him. You still fuck other people, and you never talk about it, but you're pretty sure he knows. Ninety-nine percent.
You're not even sure when the other stuff starts creeping in. When you learn that he was raised in Seattle and he was married once, that he runs his own landscaping business and likes his coffee very, very black. One day you just know stuff about him. One day you're just there, more often than you need the sex. You come and you go and you have a key that was never discussed, but if you want to fuck him at three in the morning, you're all for making that easier.
Your life is easier. Jeff makes it easy. Sometimes he pushes till you fold but that's the price you pay for the rest of the time, when he could take you or leave you. When he lets you breathe. He doesn't ask you to be there with him but he accepts your presence. Like you're…like you're background noise. Pleasant and unnecessary.
Even on the hard days, he doesn't really demand anything from you. Just leans until you topple. And even then, he's not asking you for much. Just your body.
It's nine in the morning and you're still shaking off the cobwebs of a dream but Jeff is often up with the sun, and he already smells like earth and sweat. He's been digging up the garden to plant for spring, same as this time last year, and you still don't understand the appeal but the end product is nice. You scrambled up the eggs this morning so they taste fairly hideous, but he eats like he's starving, and he probably is. He snorts at the newspaper, and when you look up, he plucks out the appropriate leaf and hands it over for you to read.
You're not one for current events, but you see what's got him riled, and you smile.
"It'll never pass."
"Tom'll want someone's balls if it does."
You shrug, and study the print of a different article. You can't pretend to understand his friends or their passion for particular things. He watches you and you ignore him, in case he wants-
"It's getting nice out. Probably have them over when the planting's done. Grill up some meat."
You avoid his eyes. You were dreading this. "Kay."
"You should stick around. They've been asking about you."
You snort, and take your dish to the sink, trying to imagine that conversation. Hey Jeff, where's that little rich kid you fuck? The one that always acts like he's better than us, and won't speak in our presence. Right, right, him. You'd rather be a non-entity.
The newspaper rustles behind you as Jeff gives it his full attention, and you know the subject is closed for the day. That he's ceded to your discomfort and he won't push. You're a contrary asshole for being pissed about that, but sometimes you wish he would. At least then you would have ammunition for a no. You'd feel justified digging your heels in.
He won't act disappointed, but you'll know that he is, somehow. And by next week, you'll feel so sick with it that you'll stick around for company. If it were your father, the whole thing would be deliberate, passive-aggressive, begrudging, and it would explode later in a hail of well-targeted slurs.
But that isn't Jeff. You know that isn't Jeff, but that doesn't make it hurt any less. Makes it ache more, because Jeff is a good man and you don't deserve him. Which is why you'll stay for company. It's the least you can do.
Mike and Tommy arrive together as the sun is dipping low on the horizon. They always show up together like Bert and Ernie, and it's just as hard to tell: best friends or butt-buddies? They're both married but you've never seen either of their wives, so you're skeptical. Wedding vows have never held much meaning, in your experience.
Your dad was never a cheat, but he broke plenty of the others-to love and to cherish, to honor and respect, as long as blah blah blah. It was doomed before it was ever begun. Sometimes you wonder if it would have been better if he had just fucked around instead.
You don't really care if Mike and Tom fuck. You dislike them regardless.
It's okay at first. They shoot the shit because Jeff's been busy with home improvement (and you…you keep him away from them with your unsociability; they probably hate you for that). There's catching up to do. Mike's wife is pregnant and Tom looks happy for him, a piece of news you take in with a check in the "best friends" column but no black mark against "lovers."
Over dinner it's sports. A topic that holds unnatural fascination for three men who you think are all a little bent, and which bores you to tears, but it's still alright. You throw in a few words about baseball, a game you played for about fifteen minutes when you were twelve, and Jeff smiles warmly.
Dinner is demolished and the four of you are two and a half six-packs gone when it begins. It's late and the topic of conversation grows heavier, more global, until you're humming with dread. It's Mike that goes off. He's a carefree sort of guy until you approach certain subjects, so the first time he lost his temper around you, you were caught completely off-guard. By now you're waiting for it, and they're talking about free market economics when it starts. An edge to his voice, a crescendo in volume, his pitch climbs and you pretend to listen to what he's saying as you sip your beer but your foot's shaking restlessly under the table and you're calling yourself a fool.
It's just an exchange of words, goddammit.
Tom, of course, vehemently disagrees. With Mike, not yourself. He probably takes for granted that you're pretty and vapid. Tom isn't a yeller. His body language is relaxed and self-assured, and he seems to grow a deeper sense of ease the more agitated Mike gets, but there's this air about him of you're an idiot. It gives you a chill like you're ice inside and you take a breath, slouch deeper in a bid not to be noticed. Tom eyes you for a moment but then Mike says something particularly inflammatory and you're invisible once again.
Jeff speaks up. Jeff is never ruffled, never disrespectful, just a pool of still water while they rage around him, and you're so grateful for that. But his opinions are immoveable. He'll mull things over and you've heard him concede a point (while Mike crows and your stomach twists), but there are certain things on which he will not be swayed. The others will dig at him and dig at him and he just holds his ground, leans into the attack, never aggressive but never passive, either.
There's something about his intractability that unsettles you until your skin crawls. You try to shove it down, deep down where it belongs, but that old anxiety wells up again and again. He's a stubborn bastard about a lot of things, but this is different than the way he is when you're fucking. The unflinching person he becomes in the face of things that matter…it's harmless-it's Jeff-but it drives you slowly to the edge, just the same.
Mike is practically vibrating with anger by the time you jump to your feet. All three of them look, and you smile thinly and offer to take care of the dishes. You're not even done speaking before Mike is shouting over you and it makes your heart jump but you're grateful to be nothing worthy of attention. You gather up utensils and escape to the kitchen, ignoring the way Jeff watches you go.
You scrub and dry and stack, by hand though there's a machine, call yourself a fool for getting worked up when you could beat Mike, at least, to a pulp if you really needed to. But it's not about that. You try to calm down but you can still hear them clearly through the kitchen window, and you're not really the domestic type so the dishes are actually still crusted with food. You breathe. Abandon the dishes mid-scrub and hunt down your shoes, and you don't hear Jeff come in but then he's standing there, frowning at you.
Your throat closes, but you force yourself to smile.
"You ok?"
"Course. Why wouldn't I be?"
He doesn't buy your bullshit now any more than he ever does, and anyway, you probably look like hell. You feel like it. "You know, those guys…they don't mean anything when they get like this. It's just a friendly-"
"Yeah, yeah, of course! It's just not my thing, I'm a little…bored. I'm just gonna pop out, see some friends."
He frowns at you, stares, and for one horrible moment, you're afraid he's about to say no. Forbid it. For one horrible moment, you don't know if you'd let him.
"Ok, just…call a cab. You've had too much to drive."
You've been driving drunk since you were sixteen but his frown is concerned and you're not going to argue. As if you could. You swallow. Nod. You're leaping to your feet to make a dash for the door like your ass is on fire when he grabs you by the arm and swings you around.
"Hey." Light on top and lead underneath.
It's a goodbye kiss. The couple-y kind. You withdraw almost violently and he watches you go. You get a cab. You don't go back on your word, though it would be so easy.
Your old friends are happy to see you, and you're glad to have them. It's almost daybreak when the cab brings you back-not to your own place, but Jeff's. The house is quiet and the kitchen's still a mess, and Jeff is sound asleep until you stub your toe on the dresser and curse.
You smell like sex. You've never rubbed it in his face like this before, but when you head to the bathroom to shower, he beckons you over and pulls you in. Yawns and pins you with an arm. Less like a hug and more like a restraint.
"Good time?" he says mildly, but you don't answer. Don't look at him. He rubs a hand absently over your back and presses a kiss to your ear that makes you flinch. "I don't mind, Jen. I don't care about any of it."
You wonder what's wrong with him, that that can be true.
You never discuss it, but apparently that night grants you an indefinite reprieve from being a social butterfly. Mike and Tom are banished quietly from the house. Jeff meets them at bars and big home games and it's never explained. There's no blame laid, at least not where you can hear it. You never really see your own friends these days, but you don't miss them. You were never in it for their sparkling wit and dazzling personality.
You're pretty sure Jeff thinks you need friends and for some reason he wants you to test-drive his own. You don't get that. You're not married, not even in a relationship, really. The two of you fuck. No common social denominator is required-you're a sure thing.
You're relieved when he finally stops trying. You secretly like how easy it is when it's just you and him.
It's one of those days, one of those effortless, lazy days. You've never been good at being quiet by yourself, but somehow Jeff makes it easy to be quiet together. Bone-deep quiet like there's nothing going unsaid. Sometimes you keep silent company while he does his thing with the plants, but today you both sit on the deck and read. It's novel in its normality.
The sun is high when Jeff sits up, murmurs "door," and sets his trade magazine aside to answer the knock you must have missed. You're not expecting him to return with another body in tow, but there's a murmur of voices and then Jeff emerges behind a guy with long blond hair and hippie jewelry who nods at you, unsurprised, before surveying the yard.
"Wow, man, different."
At first, Jeff doesn't look at you. When he does, it's a little too cursory.
"Yeah, I wanted something new. Jensen, this is Steve. He used to work for me before he quit to starve for his art."
Steve smiles and shrugs. "I do alright. Couldn't spend my entire life working for The Man."
"Oh I'm The Man now?"
"Dude, always have been. Nothin' controversial about you, Morgan." There's no posturing with the words, just the two of them, grinning like fools.
Jeff claps Steve on the shoulder. "Man, I'm glad you stopped by. Want a beer?"
"Course."
There's something deliberate about the way Jeff puts weight on that phrase. Stopped by. You smell a setup. You don't answer when Jeff asks after your own thirst, and he catches the undercurrent...shrugs and smiles helplessly like, what are you gonna do?
Sneaky bastard. Not that you call him on it.
And anyway, this new guy turns out to be alright.
Steve becomes a repeat offender. He drops in on weekends sometimes, but instead of disrupting the balance, he adds himself to it, and you come to find you don't mind the intrusion. He's as simple to be around as Jeff, though you understand him even less. It's surreal for a man to be that even-keel and unshakable. You'd write him off for a pothead or maybe Valium junkie, except near as you can tell he's always sober.
You don't know what to make of him…he demands even less than Jeff. Generally he entertains himself, which leaves you wondering why he comes around at all. He brings his guitar sometimes, fiddles with new melodies and asks your opinions on lyrics and chords. He makes jambalaya in Jeff's kitchen with celery and bell peppers that he-honest to God-grew for himself. He rigs an outdoor sound system for the patio and brings an endless stream of new and obscure music that he has to introduce them to. He's full of opinions on the subject but he's in no great hurry to share them.
He'll ignore the two of them for the better part of the afternoon and then make a declaration that begs no response. When Jeff disagrees one day that Deerhoof is the best fucking thing since Rush, Steve just tilts his head and goes "Huh. Alright. We'll strike that one off the list."
And the argument slides on by.
A lot of things slide on by with Steve, like he's made of karmic Teflon. The first time you strike up the courage to offer your opinion on his latest composition, Steve just takes it in with serene intensity, nods and scribbles something in the margin of his music sheet.
He doesn't smack you down, and the sick pit of fear you've lived with so long lightens for just a moment.
Jeff keeps his eyes on his reading material but his mouth quirks in the tiniest smile, and you scowl, perturbed to realize he just put a gold star by your name.
You'd kick his ass if he ever gloated about it. Or you'd think about it, anyway, while you showed yourself the door, but he never does. That's annoying in itself, the way he's got a sixth sense for side-stepping the excuses you'd need to walk away, but he holds up his end of the deal, and the rest…doesn't hurt you any.
Steve's pleasant to be around, in his own way, but Jared and Sandy-the newest additions-are…overwhelming. Jared startles the holy hell out of you with how handsy he can get, but you don't think he actually wants to fuck you. Jeff swears he's straight. And okay, he really likes to smack your ass, but it just makes Sandy cackle. She ruffles your hair with pity and swears he only does it because it never fails to make you jump out of your skin.
They're nothing like Steve. Their presence causes a serious deviation from the norm, but after a while you realize-ass-grabbing aside-you like them.
And Tom, when he starts to drop by alone, is actually not a bad guy. After the first night passes with your teeth on edge, you realize it was always Mike that instigated those arguments. Tom himself will leave well enough alone and once Mike is distracted by the new baby, it's sort of a non-issue. Things are more subdued. Everyone swears that fatherhood has mellowed him, but it helps that he's outnumbered now by people that don't give a fuck about politics.
Mike gets worked up around everyone, once. He rants for five solid minutes on some new point of idiocy, before Steve tells him he's full of shit, and Jared speculates on the size of his penis.
Tom shrugs when Mike looks to him for support. Jeff doesn't even acknowledge the conversation.
He never tries to pick a fight again. After that, it gets easier to breathe.
"I never really liked you, you know that?"
Most days, you don't pretend to understand Mike. He's brash and opinionated and he likes to hear himself talk, but if there's one thing you do get, it's his tactlessness.
It's his tactlessness that makes you laugh. You're cornered alone with him at the far end of the yard on a Sunday afternoon and your stomach rolls at his unveiled hostility. In some ways it's sickly satisfying to have someone be so honest in their contempt. You suspect that all of them feel this way, all of Jeff's friends that pretend to be your own.
Even thinking it makes you feel like an asshole. But Mike just doesn't give a fuck. It's both a relief and a hazard.
"But I guess I should be thankful he's narrowed it down to one-Jeff was really fucked up after Mary, you know? She divorced him so fast his head spun, and he just lost it, man. Brought home all of these…." Mike waves vaguely. "I don't even know what to call them, but they were trash."
"Then I guess he has a type," you say lightly. Your grin feels frozen and wrong. It's not the first time you've been called trash, not the first time you were expected to stand there and be happy about it, but there are some things about Jeff you never want to know. Why he keeps you around is one of them. You should get up and go, but you can't move from this spot.
"Well he does, but they weren't it. They were…rebounds, I guess." Mike inspects you like something under a microscope while you try not to notice. "You're his type though. Christ, are you ever."
"Good to know." You mutter it against your beer bottle, shaking your leg with nervous energy. You wonder what Jeff's told him. Why he told him anything at all.
Jeff waves from across the yard. He's smiling. You're pretty sure he's pleased to see you bonding with the one person you try to avoid…pleased that you'll soon be one big happy family.
"Jeff's always had a soft spot for broken toys." It hits you like a sucker punch, but Mike doesn't relent, just draws back for another. "He likes to clean 'em up, patch them back together. He'd stuff them in bubble wrap, if he could. He's a real knight in shining armor. Sappy bastard."
You can't breathe. Chest too tight. Your eyes are glued to the fence-line and you know the sarcastic grin you cling to looks smarmy, but you don't care. You're holding it together. You can hold this together.
"Yeah, but who the fuck wants a broken toy," you laugh. Like his metaphor is bullshit. "You lose interest; it ends up in the dumpster eventually."
Mike's gaze is uncomfortably sharp. "No. Jeff'll never throw 'em away. Be easier on all of us if he did."
The way your eyes meet is involuntary but you break contact immediately. You feel burned. You stand up to leave but Mike grabs your arm with force and pulling away would look wrong. All you can do is look back down at him and count your breaths to avoid a scene.
"I didn't expect you to stick around this long, but Jeff's doing better now that he's got his hands full with you. You're like his wet dream with all your crap, but when you throw him over, it's gonna be a hell of a mess."
You couldn't say anything to that even if you tried. Jeff's watching you with the beginnings of concern, and for the first time, that makes you want to laugh. Mike smiles and waves him off, nods towards everyone else, congregated obliviously by the grill.
"They don't get it because they haven't known Jeff as long as me and Tom. I'm not trying to be a dick here, man. Or I am, just. I don't think you're a bad guy. But you have damaged fucking goods tattooed all over your forehead, and you better not fuck this up."
You nod, when it seems like he's waiting for something, but he doesn't let you go like you thought he would. Tugs, actually, till you stumble towards him half a step.
"You look like you could use a cigarette, sit down." He stares your disbelief down neutrally and jerks on your arm again when you don't respond. Says it like an order. "Sit down."
And you obey. It's what you do.
You're pathetically grateful that he lights your cigarette. Your hands shake, enough to make bringing it to your lips an embarrassment. Mike's eyes are politely focused elsewhere and he makes small talk like he didn't just kick you in the nuts.
Even his small talk is like probing at a wound. It hurts in a way that's perversely satisfying.
"Jeff says he bought you a camera."
You shrug and avoid looking him in the face because it's not something you want to talk about. You think you'd really like to be good at it, this new hobby, but that's something you've never even told Jeff. Jeff would be nice about it, but Mike would laugh in your face. He can't be trusted.
Of course, that doesn't stop him from staring at you like he expects you to do the hula.
"Jeff ever tell you what I do?"
It's a weird question and it earns a weird look. You don't exactly trip over yourself to discuss him after he goes away, but he would be one to think that you do.
Mike just sits back and huffs out a laugh. "I work for the LA Times, man. Staff photographer. I can look at your stuff and teach you a few things, if you want."
And you bristle with the idea. It puts your hackles up, to think of showing him any-goddamn-thing. Put yourself out there so he can dress you down. Superior sonuvabitch. You're just bored a lot, is all. You're not looking for a fucking career. Now that you no longer sleep the day away with hangovers and Xanax, you need a way to pass the time. The camera has just given you something to do.
"No thanks, Jimmy Olsen. I'm doing fine without you."
Mike's lips press together in annoyance but for whatever reason, he doesn't explode. "Whatever, it's up to you. Jeff says you're really good. Thought you might wanna talk about it…my bad."
You turn around and look at Jeff, surprised that he talks about you like that. He's laughing at something Sandy said, making a feint towards her like he's about to attack. She laughs and dances away, and you're absorbed enough in your thoughts that Jared startles you when he throws himself down on the bench seat, plate laden with four hot-dogs and a mountain of chips.
He looks back and forth between yourself and Mike, frozen in uncomfortable silence.
"What. Did Mike tell that fart joke again?"
And that pretty much concludes the serious portion of the evening.
But you don't stop thinking about what Mike said.
Not about the photography. He can go fuck himself on that front, but the thing about Jeff, and why Jeff stays with you. It burns more than you'd like to admit, though it's stupid. You knew something was wrong with him, had to be, you just weren't sure what.
And maybe part of you entertained the idea that Jeff really was that perfect, that flawless, and somehow still wanted you. But that was stupid, and you knew better anyway.
You're not sure if it's better or worse, knowing what you know now. You excuse yourself to the couch that night, watch the clock with infomercials, and everything in the last year takes on a different color. Tinted by what you know. The way Jeff questioned you, that first night, the way he was all business until you faltered, the careful way he touched you.
He still does that sometimes, but he metes it out and you can see that's conscious now. He's learned how much tenderness you can take before you'll back away.
It makes you grateful, to be played that way. And that, itself, scares the shit out of you.
You wonder how he actually likes to fuck. Because the harsh and the rough, that's just him taking care of you. You knew that, but you didn't, and now you realize that's true of everything. The way he introduced you to his friends and the fact that no one raises their voices. The camera, the cooking, the studied indifference, the…everything.
It seems foolish and embarrassing, like you're paranoid or full of yourself, but in the wee hours of the morning, you realize, it's all been for you. He has rearranged. his entire life.
For you.
It brings a swell of…glee that feels like power, or relief, or justice. That for once in your life, someone else is yielding. Someone else is putting your needs before their own. It's sort of surreal, this new world order. It makes you doubtful that you're even reading this right, and it scares you, too. It's better to believe you've just clung like a remora, leeching what you need while Jeff's just gone about his business. The idea that he needs you is uncomfortable and ill-fitting.
You can honestly say that it has never occurred to you before tonight.
You think of your mother. You don't mean to. You don't want to, ever, if you can help it, but she pops up unbidden like the ghost that she is. The ghost of an actual human being. There's nothing substantial to her. She has no thoughts, dreams, desires, that haven't originated in your father. You suppose that's what comes from a lifetime of subjugating yourself for another, and when your mind supplies a time-lapse of the inevitable shriveling of Jeff, you shudder. You physically shudder. Picturing yourself that way is not foreign to you-but picturing him…it makes you sick. It makes you sick with how good it feels, as much as how bad.
You wonder how far you'd have to push him before he broke. You wonder what you could make him do. You wonder why his wife left, what scars she gouged into his skin and if you ever reopen them. You wonder if she ever cheated. You wonder if the fact that you fuck other men makes him unhappy. If you can make him unhappy. If you're capable.
You wonder if you've hurt him already without ever noticing, and you wonder if you knew his weak spots, if you'd do it again. You wonder how much you'd like to see him bleed.
You wonder if you were actually like your father, all this time.
"Why did you come after me?"
You slept for all of two hours that night before Jeff rose and yanked you back to consciousness with his banging around. Your voice is hoarse and you feel sick with knowledge and lack of sleep. It's kind of like doing coke. Maybe doing coke while drunk. You feel sluggishly hyper-aware of Jeff as you watch him cooking breakfast, aware of who he is and the way he measures you discreetly over his shoulder. The lazy silence as he calculates how to answer.
You must have been an idiot not to notice before.
"What are you talking about?" It's even and careful.
So you bluff against his bluff. Hold the paranoia in and act like you're oblivious. But you wonder if you'll seem too normal, too not-yourself, and if that will tip your hand. The whole thing makes your head hurt.
"After that first time we fucked. Why did you come after me? Later."
Jeff's look is openly appraising now as he slides your plate across the table, and you realize you've never talked about this. Never voluntarily discussed your 'relationship.' Never asked where this is going, or where it has been. It probably does look suspicious.
"I didn't," he says finally, and whatever he sees on your face makes him clarify. "The second time, it was coincidence. I saw you, so I grabbed you. After that, I might have kept an eye out."
He winks, charms, and some too-comfortable warmth pools as he turns his attention off you, to the newspaper. But when your head clears, his answer bugs. It was more than just that.
"Why did you?" you say, kicking yourself for not letting it go. "You-" Bite back 'pursued me,' ashamed of how Scarlet O'Hara that is. "Mike said you were just out for casual fucking, I don't understand-"
"Mike said?" His eyes are narrow, and there's a moment of ohshit that you force yourself to barrel through.
"It was just supposed to be a rebound from your wife, all of it, and I don't understand…I don't understand…"
He's watching you carefully, and you're acutely aware of how you might sound. You wonder if he hears what you can't say: I don't understand why you chose me.
If he does, he hides it well.
"I just liked you, Jen." His reply is maddeningly reasonable. "I dunno. I guess I was just ready to move on."
You stare at him for a long time, trying to see the hidden truth behind that answer, but you can't. He's looking back like there's nothing to hide.
It makes you doubt yourself suddenly, all that fevered midnight thought collapsing under the weight of his sanity. His certainty that there's nothing strange with the way the two of you are. Your face burns.
It feels freakish, and possibly insane, to believe there are cloaks and daggers.
"Yeah, okay."
You let him turn back to his newspaper and you watch him, surreptitiously. You don't see the doormattish guy that Mike described. But it has to be there…doesn't it? The new knowledge clings to your skin, slick and unpleasant and hard to scrub off, like crude oil. His usual act doesn't quite wash it away.
"Hey," Jeff says as he finishes up his breakfast. The guilt of your thoughts makes you jump like you're surprised. "Maybe you're not feeling up to it today, but I need some new pictures for the company website, and we're wrapping up this great project. I was wondering if you could do me a favor and swing by."
It catches you off-guard, his desire to include you in the business. You turn it over in your mind, looking for the why. "Um. Yeah. Sure, that's…fine."
He nods and appears satisfied. You think about him while he looks at you. This need of his to include you. To give you things to do. You think about what Mike said.
Jeff looks at you so long you think he can see inside your head. But when his eyes heat up, you realize he's just enjoying the view. "I gave the guys the day off," he notes. "I'll be out there all alone."
Your heart thumps, this time in a good way. "Yeah?"
"Mmhhm. Wouldn't mind seeing you out there with me. All filthy."
"Yeah?" You think about being on your hands and knees in somebody's yard, the two of you messy with sweat and soil. "Don't know if your client would appreciate that."
His smile is dirty. "Vacation house. Nobody home."
"Ah," you articulate.
Your eyes hang on his. Your stomach twists. Then you slide out of your chair, onto your knees.
There's almost a frown on his face. You've only ever initiated sex when you needed a distraction, and he has time to be confused as you shuffle towards him around the table.
Doesn't stop him from spreading his legs for you to fit comfortably in between.
You're about as surprised as he is that you're doing this, but you just need…you just need to see. What might happen.
At first what happens is what always happens. He gets with the program. His eyes get dark and his face gets hungry. His hand settles on the back of your neck, just the promise of a demand.
"No." You both start. You can't remember the last time you said that…it's possible he's never heard it at all.
You freeze, caught in a web of indecision. Then you move his hands, and he lets you. "I want you to leave them." You place them on his thighs.
He stares down, and your stomach churns, but he lets you. Maybe all this time he'd have let you do this, or whatever you wanted.
He'd be a mess without you, Mike said.
It eases the tangle of fear. You suck his cock, and he sits back and watches.
At first you keep your eyes closed. He's damn near silent, just a few choked noises that let you know he's there. You're half-expecting him to push you off at any second. Tell you that's not how he likes it. Grab your head. You're unsure if you'd hate him, or be grateful.
Eventually fear wins out; you open your eyes and look.
His head is thrown back…muscles of his jaw bunched like he's holding something in. It looks almost like pain. His nostrils flare and his eyes roll under squeezed lids. You know it's good. You know this and yet you pull back, unsettled at having gotten your way.
And yeah, nobody turns down a good suck-job, but Jeff's reaction somehow feels like proof. It's messy and illogical, but you're sure of what this means. Mike was right.
You let go of his cock with an obscene-loud pop and he swears, fingers digging into his own thigh.
"jendon'tstop." He won't look at you, sounds half desperate, half pissed off.
There's just enough Jeff under there to make you finish your task. He comes like violence held back far too long. Silent, hands still digging like claws into his own flesh and not yours. You ride out the involuntary, choking jutter his hips make and study the painful-looking clamp of his jaw.
It's a perspective you're patently unused to.
He sags all at once like a deflated balloon. His head lolls for a moment against the back of the chair, loose on his neck, and you're thrown involuntarily back to your first attempt at fellatio. Waiting for the judgment and scared you're found wanting. You sit back on your heels and wipe at your lips, trying not to fidget like the child you'd been.
He speaks without moving. Head rolling listlessly against the chair. "I don't know what the fuck got into you, but I won't mind if it gets into you again."
You choke out a laugh but you feel no relief. His tone is calm and sure, in control and so, so Jeff. You don't know if that's good or bad. If you want that or not. What the fuck was the desired outcome, here?
"C'mere, sweetheart."
Your gut twists up at the endearment, something he always wields like a weapon, or that's how it feels. You climb to your feet with a pop in one knee and he lifts his head to get a look at you. He looks sleepy and sated, but there's something else underneath.
He hooks your belt loop and grunts at the effort to pull you closer. Rubs his knuckles over the line of your cock and smiles.
"I can take care of this for you."
It's soft, and you shudder from something other than the light caress he's teasing out with the back of his hand. There's one strong wave of violent sick but it passes, and you breathe.
He's watching. He pulls his hand away and brackets your hips.
"But I don't think I'll do that."
Your eyes lock with his and there's some kind of game here. He's figured something.
"Want you all desperate later, when I pin you down in the dirt."
The world rocks and settles again, right side up, and you shudder. Nod.
"That's some awfully big talk," you mock, knowing it's weak at best.
"Well now," he says, business as usual. "Guess I'll have to find the strength to back it on up.
Note: whoooo, believe it or not, this part has been in beta since I posted the last thing in this verse. either meretrix and I are masochists, or dissecting this for a month is how we get our rocks off. (probably both). sad, isn't it?
I believe most of the people that are following this don't know me from Jesus (hint: I write better porn), so fyi: I'm in vet school. it's August. that means that a bunch of sadistic administrators own my heart, body, mind and soul until December, when I get it back for a month. I've already started on the fourth part of this verse, but I could not, under threat of death, tell you when it'll come to lj-ish fruition. not only do they occupy all of my time over here, they also vaccuum every last bit of creative thought from my body so I can become a good little medical automaton. on a side note, if anyone tells you they like vet school, they're lying. veterinary medicine, yes, vet *school*, no. it's like survivor's guilt...you know you're lucky to be there, so you feel compelled to say, yes master, may I have another? I love it when you flay the skin off my back. I loooooove it. hit me right THERE, I still have a few nerve endings left.
ok, I uhm. digress. point is, another part of this will be along...eventually. thanks for your patience :) *smooch*
Title: new world order (third in the easyverse)
Author: Mel (
thatotherperv )
Pairing: Jeff/Jensen, Jensen/OMCs, most definitely NC-17
Length: almost 7,600 words
Summary: Jensen has a silver spoon and big hairy issues. Jeff is a lamb-in-wolf's-clothing.
Disclaimer: This in no way resembles the life of the real people concerned. Totally and entirely a fabrication, and thank god for that. I wish them the best of health, mental and otherwise.
Warnings: while all the sex in this fic is between consenting adults, Jensen is damaged and self-destructive, and I'd advise anyone with a strong rape/non-con squick that this might trigger it.
Note: thanks to
madame_meretrix for all the hard work she puts into this beta. I'm so grateful you care enough to push me to be a better writer, and this fic is so much better for it.
When you were thirteen, you had this girlfriend.
You did have those when you were young-a lot of them. Not that you were a ladies' man, but they just kind of happened. Like clockwork, one of them would start looking at you, and giggling and passing notes and next thing you knew they were holding your hand and drawing little hearts around your name.
Whatever. You never tried to stop it. It was kind of nice having a soft hand in yours, and they always had shiny hair and popular names like Angela or Lisa or Crystal. It was like names predetermined social status back then, and somehow, "Jensen" bought your way into the cool club despite the fact that you had glasses and too many freckles and sort of stuttered when you bothered to speak at all. You doubt they ever saw you for who you really were. If they had, you wouldn't have made the cut.
So you had this girlfriend named Christina. Not Christine or Chrissy. Christina, with little open circles where the dots should be. You were thirteen then and you couldn't get away with just holding her hand and kissing her on the cheek anymore-she wanted to like, kissyou kiss you. With tongues.
The idea didn't excite you, even though you'd been jacking off as often as you could manage for six months. You didn't think about girls back then, or even boys. Back then touching yourself was enough. Touching yourself was plenty.
But it was nice. Kissing was nice. Being horizontal was nice. Friction was really nice. The abstain-or-die assembly was a good two years off and neither of you knew what the hell you were doing, but it wasn't rocket science.
The first time she touched your penis, your own hand stopped being of interest entirely. It was way more than nice.
You never looked back.
You don't actually remember much about Christina. You remember the heavy petting, you remember she had a swimming pool and a big screen tv. And you remember that she had an older brother. Ryan. Ryan was way more fun than Christina ever was. You played SEGA and basketball and Ryan never let you win at anything, but sometimes you still managed to kick his ass. The way he'd look at you then made you warm inside, like you had earned something.
You started hanging out with Ryan when Christina was busy. It was summer and it saved you from being at home; her parents had practically adopted you by then anyway. They thought you were a nice boy, and you're pretty sure in retrospect that her mom felt sorry that your dad was an asshole-as critical of his son as he was of his underlings. Or maybe she just thought taking care of his kid was a good way to suck up to her boss.
Either way.
Ryan was sitting on the couch that summer while all his friends were selling sweaters at Structure, so. It was an odd friendship, but sort of inevitable…lubricated by your easy acquisition of alcohol from your dad's liquor cabinet. You thought he was good-looking and mature, and his attention made you giddy. You had a crush on him long before you recognized it for what it was.
When you were thirteen-and-a-half, you discovered gay porn. You discovered it, and you really really liked it. A lot.
There were steps between discovering gay porn and fucking your girlfriend's seventeen-year-old brother. You know there were, but the details are fuzzy. But that was the summer you grew a pair and stopped fearing the consequences of your actions. That was the summer all the adults started insisting you'd "grown out of your shell."
You hadn't, really, but you learned how to act like drawing people's attention didn't make your skin crawl. And sometimes it didn't. Like the first time you blew Ryan. You tried to do it like they did in the pornos, but you gagged and the taste wasn't so great. You weren't hard at all. Just nervous and uncomfortable and trying hard not to embarrass yourself.
Afterwards, Ryan laughed, loose and giddy-sprawled out like his head was too heavy to lift off the back of the couch. "Goddamn." His voice was bright-edged. He laughed and said it again, like you'd done something amazing. "Goddamn."
You'd never been so proud of yourself in your entire fucking life.
It was the first of many afternoons where it was just the two of you; Christina was busy with Dance. It's not like he was your fucking boyfriend-you knew it wasn't that, even back then. There was a girl on his arm when he was out with his friends, and they were official. But you had the better deal anyway…it was you he was fucking.
Ryan's girlfriend never liked giving head, but you did, after a while. Not the jaw-ache or the drool or the aftertaste, but you liked that warm feeling in your chest, and the way he looked at you after. Sort of…amazed and maybe even a little impressed, like. Slam-dunk.
By the end of the summer, you'd let him pop your cherry. To be honest, it kind of sucked at first. It hurt, and he didn't seem all that interested in making it better for you. But practice made perfect and it was worth a little pain-all those afternoons where his attention was focused solely on you.
It wasn't until later that everything changed. Ryan had less and less time for you because it was his senior year and his last chance to impress the college recruiters. There were some weeks you hardly saw him at all, unless you skipped class to hang out on the field. Watch him practice.
School was bullshit anyway. You were sick of pointless group projects with shiny happy people, meeting up at someone's house to create presentations meant to prepare you for the Board Meetings of the Future while their mother baked cookies in the kitchen or some shit. By October you'd dropped out of all the accelerated classes, and that was the final proof your father needed in his mission to declare you a worthless failure of his good genetic stock. It got to where you couldn't cross paths with him without some kind of explosion. He'd raised you with every opportunity and you'd squandered your potential and when he was your age and people were starving in Ethiopia and blah-blah-blah. The house became more of a war zone than it ever was. You got better at ducking and covering, or just making yourself scarce altogether.
Of course, with Ryan busy elsewhere, you had to find other uses of your time. That wasn't hard to do-not when unlimited access to money was the one thing you could count on from Dad, and a world of substances were awaiting your abuse.
Sometimes you could even get Ryan to loosen up and abuse them with you.
Now that you're older, the whole thing looks a little different. Not your dad-that's actually just the same. But yeah, Ryan. You think he must have been a loser to be fucking around with a kid like you when he was a senior in high school. He'd probably never had sex with a guy before and he probably never came out of the closet. Even if he had, he's so far beneath you that now you wouldn't even consider sucking his dick.
But at the time, he made you feel…older. Special. Like he had chosen you.
You thought about it that way for a long time, even after he left for college and you stopped being so…monogamous. He was the last one you cared to be monogamous to. It was all a joke in the end-you weren't enough for him.
Caring about one person was a waste of time, but the fucking was pretty cut and dry. Everyone stuck around long enough for that. And then everyone walked away happy.
It was easy that way.
So it sneaks up on you, liking Jeff. It's nothing you ever expected. For a long time, there's nothing to like, except the sex. He fucks you and he makes you breakfast, but beyond that he's kind of a blank canvas. It's pretty great that way. He stops stalking you, once you stop making him. You still fuck other people, and you never talk about it, but you're pretty sure he knows. Ninety-nine percent.
You're not even sure when the other stuff starts creeping in. When you learn that he was raised in Seattle and he was married once, that he runs his own landscaping business and likes his coffee very, very black. One day you just know stuff about him. One day you're just there, more often than you need the sex. You come and you go and you have a key that was never discussed, but if you want to fuck him at three in the morning, you're all for making that easier.
Your life is easier. Jeff makes it easy. Sometimes he pushes till you fold but that's the price you pay for the rest of the time, when he could take you or leave you. When he lets you breathe. He doesn't ask you to be there with him but he accepts your presence. Like you're…like you're background noise. Pleasant and unnecessary.
Even on the hard days, he doesn't really demand anything from you. Just leans until you topple. And even then, he's not asking you for much. Just your body.
It's nine in the morning and you're still shaking off the cobwebs of a dream but Jeff is often up with the sun, and he already smells like earth and sweat. He's been digging up the garden to plant for spring, same as this time last year, and you still don't understand the appeal but the end product is nice. You scrambled up the eggs this morning so they taste fairly hideous, but he eats like he's starving, and he probably is. He snorts at the newspaper, and when you look up, he plucks out the appropriate leaf and hands it over for you to read.
You're not one for current events, but you see what's got him riled, and you smile.
"It'll never pass."
"Tom'll want someone's balls if it does."
You shrug, and study the print of a different article. You can't pretend to understand his friends or their passion for particular things. He watches you and you ignore him, in case he wants-
"It's getting nice out. Probably have them over when the planting's done. Grill up some meat."
You avoid his eyes. You were dreading this. "Kay."
"You should stick around. They've been asking about you."
You snort, and take your dish to the sink, trying to imagine that conversation. Hey Jeff, where's that little rich kid you fuck? The one that always acts like he's better than us, and won't speak in our presence. Right, right, him. You'd rather be a non-entity.
The newspaper rustles behind you as Jeff gives it his full attention, and you know the subject is closed for the day. That he's ceded to your discomfort and he won't push. You're a contrary asshole for being pissed about that, but sometimes you wish he would. At least then you would have ammunition for a no. You'd feel justified digging your heels in.
He won't act disappointed, but you'll know that he is, somehow. And by next week, you'll feel so sick with it that you'll stick around for company. If it were your father, the whole thing would be deliberate, passive-aggressive, begrudging, and it would explode later in a hail of well-targeted slurs.
But that isn't Jeff. You know that isn't Jeff, but that doesn't make it hurt any less. Makes it ache more, because Jeff is a good man and you don't deserve him. Which is why you'll stay for company. It's the least you can do.
Mike and Tommy arrive together as the sun is dipping low on the horizon. They always show up together like Bert and Ernie, and it's just as hard to tell: best friends or butt-buddies? They're both married but you've never seen either of their wives, so you're skeptical. Wedding vows have never held much meaning, in your experience.
Your dad was never a cheat, but he broke plenty of the others-to love and to cherish, to honor and respect, as long as blah blah blah. It was doomed before it was ever begun. Sometimes you wonder if it would have been better if he had just fucked around instead.
You don't really care if Mike and Tom fuck. You dislike them regardless.
It's okay at first. They shoot the shit because Jeff's been busy with home improvement (and you…you keep him away from them with your unsociability; they probably hate you for that). There's catching up to do. Mike's wife is pregnant and Tom looks happy for him, a piece of news you take in with a check in the "best friends" column but no black mark against "lovers."
Over dinner it's sports. A topic that holds unnatural fascination for three men who you think are all a little bent, and which bores you to tears, but it's still alright. You throw in a few words about baseball, a game you played for about fifteen minutes when you were twelve, and Jeff smiles warmly.
Dinner is demolished and the four of you are two and a half six-packs gone when it begins. It's late and the topic of conversation grows heavier, more global, until you're humming with dread. It's Mike that goes off. He's a carefree sort of guy until you approach certain subjects, so the first time he lost his temper around you, you were caught completely off-guard. By now you're waiting for it, and they're talking about free market economics when it starts. An edge to his voice, a crescendo in volume, his pitch climbs and you pretend to listen to what he's saying as you sip your beer but your foot's shaking restlessly under the table and you're calling yourself a fool.
It's just an exchange of words, goddammit.
Tom, of course, vehemently disagrees. With Mike, not yourself. He probably takes for granted that you're pretty and vapid. Tom isn't a yeller. His body language is relaxed and self-assured, and he seems to grow a deeper sense of ease the more agitated Mike gets, but there's this air about him of you're an idiot. It gives you a chill like you're ice inside and you take a breath, slouch deeper in a bid not to be noticed. Tom eyes you for a moment but then Mike says something particularly inflammatory and you're invisible once again.
Jeff speaks up. Jeff is never ruffled, never disrespectful, just a pool of still water while they rage around him, and you're so grateful for that. But his opinions are immoveable. He'll mull things over and you've heard him concede a point (while Mike crows and your stomach twists), but there are certain things on which he will not be swayed. The others will dig at him and dig at him and he just holds his ground, leans into the attack, never aggressive but never passive, either.
There's something about his intractability that unsettles you until your skin crawls. You try to shove it down, deep down where it belongs, but that old anxiety wells up again and again. He's a stubborn bastard about a lot of things, but this is different than the way he is when you're fucking. The unflinching person he becomes in the face of things that matter…it's harmless-it's Jeff-but it drives you slowly to the edge, just the same.
Mike is practically vibrating with anger by the time you jump to your feet. All three of them look, and you smile thinly and offer to take care of the dishes. You're not even done speaking before Mike is shouting over you and it makes your heart jump but you're grateful to be nothing worthy of attention. You gather up utensils and escape to the kitchen, ignoring the way Jeff watches you go.
You scrub and dry and stack, by hand though there's a machine, call yourself a fool for getting worked up when you could beat Mike, at least, to a pulp if you really needed to. But it's not about that. You try to calm down but you can still hear them clearly through the kitchen window, and you're not really the domestic type so the dishes are actually still crusted with food. You breathe. Abandon the dishes mid-scrub and hunt down your shoes, and you don't hear Jeff come in but then he's standing there, frowning at you.
Your throat closes, but you force yourself to smile.
"You ok?"
"Course. Why wouldn't I be?"
He doesn't buy your bullshit now any more than he ever does, and anyway, you probably look like hell. You feel like it. "You know, those guys…they don't mean anything when they get like this. It's just a friendly-"
"Yeah, yeah, of course! It's just not my thing, I'm a little…bored. I'm just gonna pop out, see some friends."
He frowns at you, stares, and for one horrible moment, you're afraid he's about to say no. Forbid it. For one horrible moment, you don't know if you'd let him.
"Ok, just…call a cab. You've had too much to drive."
You've been driving drunk since you were sixteen but his frown is concerned and you're not going to argue. As if you could. You swallow. Nod. You're leaping to your feet to make a dash for the door like your ass is on fire when he grabs you by the arm and swings you around.
"Hey." Light on top and lead underneath.
It's a goodbye kiss. The couple-y kind. You withdraw almost violently and he watches you go. You get a cab. You don't go back on your word, though it would be so easy.
Your old friends are happy to see you, and you're glad to have them. It's almost daybreak when the cab brings you back-not to your own place, but Jeff's. The house is quiet and the kitchen's still a mess, and Jeff is sound asleep until you stub your toe on the dresser and curse.
You smell like sex. You've never rubbed it in his face like this before, but when you head to the bathroom to shower, he beckons you over and pulls you in. Yawns and pins you with an arm. Less like a hug and more like a restraint.
"Good time?" he says mildly, but you don't answer. Don't look at him. He rubs a hand absently over your back and presses a kiss to your ear that makes you flinch. "I don't mind, Jen. I don't care about any of it."
You wonder what's wrong with him, that that can be true.
You never discuss it, but apparently that night grants you an indefinite reprieve from being a social butterfly. Mike and Tom are banished quietly from the house. Jeff meets them at bars and big home games and it's never explained. There's no blame laid, at least not where you can hear it. You never really see your own friends these days, but you don't miss them. You were never in it for their sparkling wit and dazzling personality.
You're pretty sure Jeff thinks you need friends and for some reason he wants you to test-drive his own. You don't get that. You're not married, not even in a relationship, really. The two of you fuck. No common social denominator is required-you're a sure thing.
You're relieved when he finally stops trying. You secretly like how easy it is when it's just you and him.
It's one of those days, one of those effortless, lazy days. You've never been good at being quiet by yourself, but somehow Jeff makes it easy to be quiet together. Bone-deep quiet like there's nothing going unsaid. Sometimes you keep silent company while he does his thing with the plants, but today you both sit on the deck and read. It's novel in its normality.
The sun is high when Jeff sits up, murmurs "door," and sets his trade magazine aside to answer the knock you must have missed. You're not expecting him to return with another body in tow, but there's a murmur of voices and then Jeff emerges behind a guy with long blond hair and hippie jewelry who nods at you, unsurprised, before surveying the yard.
"Wow, man, different."
At first, Jeff doesn't look at you. When he does, it's a little too cursory.
"Yeah, I wanted something new. Jensen, this is Steve. He used to work for me before he quit to starve for his art."
Steve smiles and shrugs. "I do alright. Couldn't spend my entire life working for The Man."
"Oh I'm The Man now?"
"Dude, always have been. Nothin' controversial about you, Morgan." There's no posturing with the words, just the two of them, grinning like fools.
Jeff claps Steve on the shoulder. "Man, I'm glad you stopped by. Want a beer?"
"Course."
There's something deliberate about the way Jeff puts weight on that phrase. Stopped by. You smell a setup. You don't answer when Jeff asks after your own thirst, and he catches the undercurrent...shrugs and smiles helplessly like, what are you gonna do?
Sneaky bastard. Not that you call him on it.
And anyway, this new guy turns out to be alright.
Steve becomes a repeat offender. He drops in on weekends sometimes, but instead of disrupting the balance, he adds himself to it, and you come to find you don't mind the intrusion. He's as simple to be around as Jeff, though you understand him even less. It's surreal for a man to be that even-keel and unshakable. You'd write him off for a pothead or maybe Valium junkie, except near as you can tell he's always sober.
You don't know what to make of him…he demands even less than Jeff. Generally he entertains himself, which leaves you wondering why he comes around at all. He brings his guitar sometimes, fiddles with new melodies and asks your opinions on lyrics and chords. He makes jambalaya in Jeff's kitchen with celery and bell peppers that he-honest to God-grew for himself. He rigs an outdoor sound system for the patio and brings an endless stream of new and obscure music that he has to introduce them to. He's full of opinions on the subject but he's in no great hurry to share them.
He'll ignore the two of them for the better part of the afternoon and then make a declaration that begs no response. When Jeff disagrees one day that Deerhoof is the best fucking thing since Rush, Steve just tilts his head and goes "Huh. Alright. We'll strike that one off the list."
And the argument slides on by.
A lot of things slide on by with Steve, like he's made of karmic Teflon. The first time you strike up the courage to offer your opinion on his latest composition, Steve just takes it in with serene intensity, nods and scribbles something in the margin of his music sheet.
He doesn't smack you down, and the sick pit of fear you've lived with so long lightens for just a moment.
Jeff keeps his eyes on his reading material but his mouth quirks in the tiniest smile, and you scowl, perturbed to realize he just put a gold star by your name.
You'd kick his ass if he ever gloated about it. Or you'd think about it, anyway, while you showed yourself the door, but he never does. That's annoying in itself, the way he's got a sixth sense for side-stepping the excuses you'd need to walk away, but he holds up his end of the deal, and the rest…doesn't hurt you any.
Steve's pleasant to be around, in his own way, but Jared and Sandy-the newest additions-are…overwhelming. Jared startles the holy hell out of you with how handsy he can get, but you don't think he actually wants to fuck you. Jeff swears he's straight. And okay, he really likes to smack your ass, but it just makes Sandy cackle. She ruffles your hair with pity and swears he only does it because it never fails to make you jump out of your skin.
They're nothing like Steve. Their presence causes a serious deviation from the norm, but after a while you realize-ass-grabbing aside-you like them.
And Tom, when he starts to drop by alone, is actually not a bad guy. After the first night passes with your teeth on edge, you realize it was always Mike that instigated those arguments. Tom himself will leave well enough alone and once Mike is distracted by the new baby, it's sort of a non-issue. Things are more subdued. Everyone swears that fatherhood has mellowed him, but it helps that he's outnumbered now by people that don't give a fuck about politics.
Mike gets worked up around everyone, once. He rants for five solid minutes on some new point of idiocy, before Steve tells him he's full of shit, and Jared speculates on the size of his penis.
Tom shrugs when Mike looks to him for support. Jeff doesn't even acknowledge the conversation.
He never tries to pick a fight again. After that, it gets easier to breathe.
"I never really liked you, you know that?"
Most days, you don't pretend to understand Mike. He's brash and opinionated and he likes to hear himself talk, but if there's one thing you do get, it's his tactlessness.
It's his tactlessness that makes you laugh. You're cornered alone with him at the far end of the yard on a Sunday afternoon and your stomach rolls at his unveiled hostility. In some ways it's sickly satisfying to have someone be so honest in their contempt. You suspect that all of them feel this way, all of Jeff's friends that pretend to be your own.
Even thinking it makes you feel like an asshole. But Mike just doesn't give a fuck. It's both a relief and a hazard.
"But I guess I should be thankful he's narrowed it down to one-Jeff was really fucked up after Mary, you know? She divorced him so fast his head spun, and he just lost it, man. Brought home all of these…." Mike waves vaguely. "I don't even know what to call them, but they were trash."
"Then I guess he has a type," you say lightly. Your grin feels frozen and wrong. It's not the first time you've been called trash, not the first time you were expected to stand there and be happy about it, but there are some things about Jeff you never want to know. Why he keeps you around is one of them. You should get up and go, but you can't move from this spot.
"Well he does, but they weren't it. They were…rebounds, I guess." Mike inspects you like something under a microscope while you try not to notice. "You're his type though. Christ, are you ever."
"Good to know." You mutter it against your beer bottle, shaking your leg with nervous energy. You wonder what Jeff's told him. Why he told him anything at all.
Jeff waves from across the yard. He's smiling. You're pretty sure he's pleased to see you bonding with the one person you try to avoid…pleased that you'll soon be one big happy family.
"Jeff's always had a soft spot for broken toys." It hits you like a sucker punch, but Mike doesn't relent, just draws back for another. "He likes to clean 'em up, patch them back together. He'd stuff them in bubble wrap, if he could. He's a real knight in shining armor. Sappy bastard."
You can't breathe. Chest too tight. Your eyes are glued to the fence-line and you know the sarcastic grin you cling to looks smarmy, but you don't care. You're holding it together. You can hold this together.
"Yeah, but who the fuck wants a broken toy," you laugh. Like his metaphor is bullshit. "You lose interest; it ends up in the dumpster eventually."
Mike's gaze is uncomfortably sharp. "No. Jeff'll never throw 'em away. Be easier on all of us if he did."
The way your eyes meet is involuntary but you break contact immediately. You feel burned. You stand up to leave but Mike grabs your arm with force and pulling away would look wrong. All you can do is look back down at him and count your breaths to avoid a scene.
"I didn't expect you to stick around this long, but Jeff's doing better now that he's got his hands full with you. You're like his wet dream with all your crap, but when you throw him over, it's gonna be a hell of a mess."
You couldn't say anything to that even if you tried. Jeff's watching you with the beginnings of concern, and for the first time, that makes you want to laugh. Mike smiles and waves him off, nods towards everyone else, congregated obliviously by the grill.
"They don't get it because they haven't known Jeff as long as me and Tom. I'm not trying to be a dick here, man. Or I am, just. I don't think you're a bad guy. But you have damaged fucking goods tattooed all over your forehead, and you better not fuck this up."
You nod, when it seems like he's waiting for something, but he doesn't let you go like you thought he would. Tugs, actually, till you stumble towards him half a step.
"You look like you could use a cigarette, sit down." He stares your disbelief down neutrally and jerks on your arm again when you don't respond. Says it like an order. "Sit down."
And you obey. It's what you do.
You're pathetically grateful that he lights your cigarette. Your hands shake, enough to make bringing it to your lips an embarrassment. Mike's eyes are politely focused elsewhere and he makes small talk like he didn't just kick you in the nuts.
Even his small talk is like probing at a wound. It hurts in a way that's perversely satisfying.
"Jeff says he bought you a camera."
You shrug and avoid looking him in the face because it's not something you want to talk about. You think you'd really like to be good at it, this new hobby, but that's something you've never even told Jeff. Jeff would be nice about it, but Mike would laugh in your face. He can't be trusted.
Of course, that doesn't stop him from staring at you like he expects you to do the hula.
"Jeff ever tell you what I do?"
It's a weird question and it earns a weird look. You don't exactly trip over yourself to discuss him after he goes away, but he would be one to think that you do.
Mike just sits back and huffs out a laugh. "I work for the LA Times, man. Staff photographer. I can look at your stuff and teach you a few things, if you want."
And you bristle with the idea. It puts your hackles up, to think of showing him any-goddamn-thing. Put yourself out there so he can dress you down. Superior sonuvabitch. You're just bored a lot, is all. You're not looking for a fucking career. Now that you no longer sleep the day away with hangovers and Xanax, you need a way to pass the time. The camera has just given you something to do.
"No thanks, Jimmy Olsen. I'm doing fine without you."
Mike's lips press together in annoyance but for whatever reason, he doesn't explode. "Whatever, it's up to you. Jeff says you're really good. Thought you might wanna talk about it…my bad."
You turn around and look at Jeff, surprised that he talks about you like that. He's laughing at something Sandy said, making a feint towards her like he's about to attack. She laughs and dances away, and you're absorbed enough in your thoughts that Jared startles you when he throws himself down on the bench seat, plate laden with four hot-dogs and a mountain of chips.
He looks back and forth between yourself and Mike, frozen in uncomfortable silence.
"What. Did Mike tell that fart joke again?"
And that pretty much concludes the serious portion of the evening.
But you don't stop thinking about what Mike said.
Not about the photography. He can go fuck himself on that front, but the thing about Jeff, and why Jeff stays with you. It burns more than you'd like to admit, though it's stupid. You knew something was wrong with him, had to be, you just weren't sure what.
And maybe part of you entertained the idea that Jeff really was that perfect, that flawless, and somehow still wanted you. But that was stupid, and you knew better anyway.
You're not sure if it's better or worse, knowing what you know now. You excuse yourself to the couch that night, watch the clock with infomercials, and everything in the last year takes on a different color. Tinted by what you know. The way Jeff questioned you, that first night, the way he was all business until you faltered, the careful way he touched you.
He still does that sometimes, but he metes it out and you can see that's conscious now. He's learned how much tenderness you can take before you'll back away.
It makes you grateful, to be played that way. And that, itself, scares the shit out of you.
You wonder how he actually likes to fuck. Because the harsh and the rough, that's just him taking care of you. You knew that, but you didn't, and now you realize that's true of everything. The way he introduced you to his friends and the fact that no one raises their voices. The camera, the cooking, the studied indifference, the…everything.
It seems foolish and embarrassing, like you're paranoid or full of yourself, but in the wee hours of the morning, you realize, it's all been for you. He has rearranged. his entire life.
For you.
It brings a swell of…glee that feels like power, or relief, or justice. That for once in your life, someone else is yielding. Someone else is putting your needs before their own. It's sort of surreal, this new world order. It makes you doubtful that you're even reading this right, and it scares you, too. It's better to believe you've just clung like a remora, leeching what you need while Jeff's just gone about his business. The idea that he needs you is uncomfortable and ill-fitting.
You can honestly say that it has never occurred to you before tonight.
You think of your mother. You don't mean to. You don't want to, ever, if you can help it, but she pops up unbidden like the ghost that she is. The ghost of an actual human being. There's nothing substantial to her. She has no thoughts, dreams, desires, that haven't originated in your father. You suppose that's what comes from a lifetime of subjugating yourself for another, and when your mind supplies a time-lapse of the inevitable shriveling of Jeff, you shudder. You physically shudder. Picturing yourself that way is not foreign to you-but picturing him…it makes you sick. It makes you sick with how good it feels, as much as how bad.
You wonder how far you'd have to push him before he broke. You wonder what you could make him do. You wonder why his wife left, what scars she gouged into his skin and if you ever reopen them. You wonder if she ever cheated. You wonder if the fact that you fuck other men makes him unhappy. If you can make him unhappy. If you're capable.
You wonder if you've hurt him already without ever noticing, and you wonder if you knew his weak spots, if you'd do it again. You wonder how much you'd like to see him bleed.
You wonder if you were actually like your father, all this time.
"Why did you come after me?"
You slept for all of two hours that night before Jeff rose and yanked you back to consciousness with his banging around. Your voice is hoarse and you feel sick with knowledge and lack of sleep. It's kind of like doing coke. Maybe doing coke while drunk. You feel sluggishly hyper-aware of Jeff as you watch him cooking breakfast, aware of who he is and the way he measures you discreetly over his shoulder. The lazy silence as he calculates how to answer.
You must have been an idiot not to notice before.
"What are you talking about?" It's even and careful.
So you bluff against his bluff. Hold the paranoia in and act like you're oblivious. But you wonder if you'll seem too normal, too not-yourself, and if that will tip your hand. The whole thing makes your head hurt.
"After that first time we fucked. Why did you come after me? Later."
Jeff's look is openly appraising now as he slides your plate across the table, and you realize you've never talked about this. Never voluntarily discussed your 'relationship.' Never asked where this is going, or where it has been. It probably does look suspicious.
"I didn't," he says finally, and whatever he sees on your face makes him clarify. "The second time, it was coincidence. I saw you, so I grabbed you. After that, I might have kept an eye out."
He winks, charms, and some too-comfortable warmth pools as he turns his attention off you, to the newspaper. But when your head clears, his answer bugs. It was more than just that.
"Why did you?" you say, kicking yourself for not letting it go. "You-" Bite back 'pursued me,' ashamed of how Scarlet O'Hara that is. "Mike said you were just out for casual fucking, I don't understand-"
"Mike said?" His eyes are narrow, and there's a moment of ohshit that you force yourself to barrel through.
"It was just supposed to be a rebound from your wife, all of it, and I don't understand…I don't understand…"
He's watching you carefully, and you're acutely aware of how you might sound. You wonder if he hears what you can't say: I don't understand why you chose me.
If he does, he hides it well.
"I just liked you, Jen." His reply is maddeningly reasonable. "I dunno. I guess I was just ready to move on."
You stare at him for a long time, trying to see the hidden truth behind that answer, but you can't. He's looking back like there's nothing to hide.
It makes you doubt yourself suddenly, all that fevered midnight thought collapsing under the weight of his sanity. His certainty that there's nothing strange with the way the two of you are. Your face burns.
It feels freakish, and possibly insane, to believe there are cloaks and daggers.
"Yeah, okay."
You let him turn back to his newspaper and you watch him, surreptitiously. You don't see the doormattish guy that Mike described. But it has to be there…doesn't it? The new knowledge clings to your skin, slick and unpleasant and hard to scrub off, like crude oil. His usual act doesn't quite wash it away.
"Hey," Jeff says as he finishes up his breakfast. The guilt of your thoughts makes you jump like you're surprised. "Maybe you're not feeling up to it today, but I need some new pictures for the company website, and we're wrapping up this great project. I was wondering if you could do me a favor and swing by."
It catches you off-guard, his desire to include you in the business. You turn it over in your mind, looking for the why. "Um. Yeah. Sure, that's…fine."
He nods and appears satisfied. You think about him while he looks at you. This need of his to include you. To give you things to do. You think about what Mike said.
Jeff looks at you so long you think he can see inside your head. But when his eyes heat up, you realize he's just enjoying the view. "I gave the guys the day off," he notes. "I'll be out there all alone."
Your heart thumps, this time in a good way. "Yeah?"
"Mmhhm. Wouldn't mind seeing you out there with me. All filthy."
"Yeah?" You think about being on your hands and knees in somebody's yard, the two of you messy with sweat and soil. "Don't know if your client would appreciate that."
His smile is dirty. "Vacation house. Nobody home."
"Ah," you articulate.
Your eyes hang on his. Your stomach twists. Then you slide out of your chair, onto your knees.
There's almost a frown on his face. You've only ever initiated sex when you needed a distraction, and he has time to be confused as you shuffle towards him around the table.
Doesn't stop him from spreading his legs for you to fit comfortably in between.
You're about as surprised as he is that you're doing this, but you just need…you just need to see. What might happen.
At first what happens is what always happens. He gets with the program. His eyes get dark and his face gets hungry. His hand settles on the back of your neck, just the promise of a demand.
"No." You both start. You can't remember the last time you said that…it's possible he's never heard it at all.
You freeze, caught in a web of indecision. Then you move his hands, and he lets you. "I want you to leave them." You place them on his thighs.
He stares down, and your stomach churns, but he lets you. Maybe all this time he'd have let you do this, or whatever you wanted.
He'd be a mess without you, Mike said.
It eases the tangle of fear. You suck his cock, and he sits back and watches.
At first you keep your eyes closed. He's damn near silent, just a few choked noises that let you know he's there. You're half-expecting him to push you off at any second. Tell you that's not how he likes it. Grab your head. You're unsure if you'd hate him, or be grateful.
Eventually fear wins out; you open your eyes and look.
His head is thrown back…muscles of his jaw bunched like he's holding something in. It looks almost like pain. His nostrils flare and his eyes roll under squeezed lids. You know it's good. You know this and yet you pull back, unsettled at having gotten your way.
And yeah, nobody turns down a good suck-job, but Jeff's reaction somehow feels like proof. It's messy and illogical, but you're sure of what this means. Mike was right.
You let go of his cock with an obscene-loud pop and he swears, fingers digging into his own thigh.
"jendon'tstop." He won't look at you, sounds half desperate, half pissed off.
There's just enough Jeff under there to make you finish your task. He comes like violence held back far too long. Silent, hands still digging like claws into his own flesh and not yours. You ride out the involuntary, choking jutter his hips make and study the painful-looking clamp of his jaw.
It's a perspective you're patently unused to.
He sags all at once like a deflated balloon. His head lolls for a moment against the back of the chair, loose on his neck, and you're thrown involuntarily back to your first attempt at fellatio. Waiting for the judgment and scared you're found wanting. You sit back on your heels and wipe at your lips, trying not to fidget like the child you'd been.
He speaks without moving. Head rolling listlessly against the chair. "I don't know what the fuck got into you, but I won't mind if it gets into you again."
You choke out a laugh but you feel no relief. His tone is calm and sure, in control and so, so Jeff. You don't know if that's good or bad. If you want that or not. What the fuck was the desired outcome, here?
"C'mere, sweetheart."
Your gut twists up at the endearment, something he always wields like a weapon, or that's how it feels. You climb to your feet with a pop in one knee and he lifts his head to get a look at you. He looks sleepy and sated, but there's something else underneath.
He hooks your belt loop and grunts at the effort to pull you closer. Rubs his knuckles over the line of your cock and smiles.
"I can take care of this for you."
It's soft, and you shudder from something other than the light caress he's teasing out with the back of his hand. There's one strong wave of violent sick but it passes, and you breathe.
He's watching. He pulls his hand away and brackets your hips.
"But I don't think I'll do that."
Your eyes lock with his and there's some kind of game here. He's figured something.
"Want you all desperate later, when I pin you down in the dirt."
The world rocks and settles again, right side up, and you shudder. Nod.
"That's some awfully big talk," you mock, knowing it's weak at best.
"Well now," he says, business as usual. "Guess I'll have to find the strength to back it on up.
Note: whoooo, believe it or not, this part has been in beta since I posted the last thing in this verse. either meretrix and I are masochists, or dissecting this for a month is how we get our rocks off. (probably both). sad, isn't it?
I believe most of the people that are following this don't know me from Jesus (hint: I write better porn), so fyi: I'm in vet school. it's August. that means that a bunch of sadistic administrators own my heart, body, mind and soul until December, when I get it back for a month. I've already started on the fourth part of this verse, but I could not, under threat of death, tell you when it'll come to lj-ish fruition. not only do they occupy all of my time over here, they also vaccuum every last bit of creative thought from my body so I can become a good little medical automaton. on a side note, if anyone tells you they like vet school, they're lying. veterinary medicine, yes, vet *school*, no. it's like survivor's guilt...you know you're lucky to be there, so you feel compelled to say, yes master, may I have another? I love it when you flay the skin off my back. I loooooove it. hit me right THERE, I still have a few nerve endings left.
ok, I uhm. digress. point is, another part of this will be along...eventually. thanks for your patience :) *smooch*