Useful Illusions: Once Around the Weekend
Title: Once Around the Weekend
Series: Useful Illusions
Rating: Adult
Pairing: Jensen/Misha
Disclaimer: So not mine. Would be nice, but no. RPS.
Summary: Jensen has a sort of existential crisis. This does not bode well. For anyone.
Previous Installments
Being Jeffrey Beaumont by kadiel_krieger
Being Misha Collins by elizah_jane
Behind the Line by kadiel_krieger
Saturday
Even the best laid plans go pear-shaped every once in awhile.
That's what he tells himself, anyway. Over the course of a long and storied career spinning his bullshit at the unsuspecting masses Jensen has accumulated a veritable cornucopia of fairly horrific missteps. He likes to think he learns from them.
Then again, Misha may well be his masterpiece, his crowning glory. The grand fuck-up feather in his fedora.
Because Misha is a lot of things, but he is neither unsuspecting nor one of the masses.
Which is why Jensen just so happens to be vertical at six thirty on a Saturday morning instead of passed out cold. It's also why he's got his hands fisted in the front of Misha's jacket, holding him steady and close and still. Why he's memorizing the shape of Misha's mouth with his tongue and sucking the air out of Misha's lungs like he's suffocating.
Because Misha is a fucking force of nature that turns his head inside out and makes him crave things he shouldn't. Things like breathless goodnight, good morning, goodbye kisses shoved up against the reinforced steel of Jared's front door.
He has no clue when the definition of 'dealing with the situation' turned into this. But Misha looked so perfectly bewildered by his frigid-fingered wake-up call that Jensen couldn't bear to kick him out. Then he got...distracted. Therein lies the problem. Misha disarms him. Probably without even meaning to.
It was all kinds of insane to let him stay in the first place.
And that's enough to make Jensen pull back, unfurl his fingers and unlock the door.
Misha smiles, sly and slanted, one brow arched high with humor, but his eyes are full of something else, something Jensen refuses to name even though he recognizes it. Fucking hell. He steps out of reach and squints, sucks a breath down deep through his teeth. It hurts, like sand sliding through his veins, scrubbing him raw and bare and bleeding. It also helps him find center - unearth it from the chaos Misha's created. So when he smiles back at Misha, he can tell it's the right one without even looking.
"You're welcome," Jensen says, but maybe he shouldn't have because the old vocal chords are a little slow on the uptake.
"Welcome to what exactly? I'm having a little trouble discerning what I haven't already been welcome to."
Jensen watches Misha's smile slide wider, stretch into something just this side of mocking as he slips silently back into Jensen's personal space like it's his to invade, fingers hooked in the waistband of Jensen's low-slung pants like they belong there. Jensen feels like he's looking at last night through a funhouse mirror. The shapes are all the same, on the surface anyway, but the small shifts in perspective that warp the reflection are significant enough to put a knot in Jensen's stomach.
Because he's not entirely sure who's driving anymore.
And that doesn't fucking work for him. At all.
Jensen wonders - as he feels the internal lockdown trigger - if Misha can see it happen, like he can see all the other things he shouldn't be able to. It's a fleeting thought, lost on the turn of the tide, and soon enough whatever part of him that cared whether or not Misha can see is safely suppressed and unable to ask.
"Maybe that's because you're too damn dense to realize you've worn out your welcome." Jensen sneers then grabs Misha's wrist, pulls the wandering fingers free of places they shouldn't be, and turns on his heel heading for the kitchen. Almost as an afterthought he tosses, "You know where the door is," back over his shoulder.
The knot in his gut draws painfully tight, makes him think he might have to find somewhere to unload last night's beer. If Misha follows him...but no. Misha may be crazy, but he doesn't strike Jensen as particularly suicidal. Even so, he can only be as sure as he ever is where Misha is concerned. Which is both completely and not at all. Coin toss. Instead of thinking about it, Jensen leans over the sink, contemplating the ring of grime around the drain and the discussion he's going to have with Susie, Jared's housekeeper, until the front door opens and closes quietly. Thirty seconds later, when he hears Misha's car purr to life in the driveway, his stomach settles completely.
As much as he wanted Misha gone, all it leaves him with is crushing exhaustion. He's too fucking old for this shit and bed is really the only sensible place to be at this hour. Doesn't matter if he has to smell last night all over the sheets. He only plans to be conscious long enough to make it into the actual bed.
Jensen steels himself and pushes the door to his bedroom open gingerly. It's the same room it was eight hours ago, just messier and more fragrant, and if he's not going to let Misha get to him in the flesh he sure as hell isn't going to let the lingering scent of him do it.
As a plan, it works. Mostly. He has to push a couple of the pillows in the floor and use his arm instead, but it's more comfortable that way. And if he sees curling spikes of sweat-soaked hair or bright glints of too blue eyes with their pupils blown wide when his own eyelids begin to droop, well, that doesn't mean anything.
Just visual noise.
Jensen's almost dozing when his cell buzzes on the nightstand and he has half a mind to let it go. But it is a quarter to seven and they might be calling him in to do pickups. If that's the case, he has to answer and talk at least long enough to tell them politely where they can shove that particular idea.
Only it's not a call, it's a text.
MC: Get some sleep, princess. It's too early in the game to knock over the board and start throwing pieces around.
Fucking Misha. He sighs and starts to flip his phone closed, wishes for once in his life he could just let it go. But he can't.
JA: Fuck you, man. No planet in the universe where I'm the girl. Besides, way more entertaining things to do with those pieces.
So much for plans. Maybe he should give them up for Lent or something, because clearly they aren't working out so well.
MC: Tsk tsk. Children who throw tantrums and don't take their naps don't get any dessert.
Now he's thinking about fucking whipped cream. And Misha. And...he derails that train of thought forcibly because it's not bound anywhere he wants to go right now. There are a hell of a lot less irritating fish in the sea. And he's not throwing a fucking tantrum.
JA: You forget, the world is my patisserie.
So there. Jensen feels childish even thinking it, but maybe it will shut Misha up. When the answer doesn't come back right away, he assumes victory and flips his phone closed, swings his legs over the side of the bed and rolls his shoulders. No point in sleeping now. It would just screw his schedule to hell. He even starts to set the phone aside, but then it buzzes again in his hand.
Fuck.
MC: By all means, then, move on to your next selection.
That cocky son of a bitch. Jensen knows better. Misha was there, completely there last night. Completely there this morning. Or seemed to be. The thought stirs that thing in his gut to life again, twisting and squeezing until he feels like ten tons of steaming shit. And he'll be damned if he's going to be the only one. If Misha doesn't care then why the fuck should he? But then he doesn't, so they're square.
JA: And you assume I haven't because...
He can hear in his head how ludicrous it sounds even as he taps it out on the keypad. They both know better. Misha hasn't been gone long enough for him to scratch his balls much less pick up someone else - a willing, wanting someone else. It's just the principle of the thing and he's dog-tired and not thinking straight. Most people would humor him simply because he's Jensen Ackles. Misha is a different story. Misha actually listens to all the bullshit that spews forth from his mouth on a daily basis. This is not the first time Jensen wishes he didn't.
MC: It's been fifteen minutes? Or is Jared not the only one with the special relationship with his dogs?
JA: Very funny. Haven't seen my speed dial, then? Any flavor pastry my little heart desires right at my fingertips.
Which is ten, no, two dozen kinds of ridiculous. Despite the fact that he's too...everything to even want to call anyone, his speed dials are programmed for: Jared, Chris, Steve, Mike, Jeff, and his mom, in no particular order. Misha will have to be much better behaved if he ever hopes to make the list. Still, no random hookup has ever made an appearance by virtue of being both random and a hookup. He rarely intends to see anyone naked more than once. Okay, maybe twice. Even then, it's mostly by accident and certainly not because he called them. Easier that way.
MC: And yet, I must point out that you keep responding to my texts.
It takes an enormous amount of restraint not to turn his phone into tiny jagged plastic pieces. Jensen settles instead on brewing a pot a coffee while he decides whether he's going to reply at all. Tired as he is, he can tell when he's being baited. But the exhaustion combined with his overall foul mood stirs up a perfect storm of petulant nonsense.
JA: Any flavor. I didn't say it was necessarily good.
Because yeah, the best impression to leave Misha with is that he's on the receiving end of a blow job bad enough he's still able to text. Or that he wants so desperately to talk to Misha that he can't stand to put his phone down. It's at this point Jensen decides the hole is plenty fucking deep and quitting while he's ahead is no longer an option. Best to just quit, period, and hope. If he's really lucky, Misha won't deem the idiocy worthy of a reply, but then his phone buzzes again and Jensen sighs.
MC: You needn't work so hard to amuse me, J. I find you perpetually entertaining. Call me when you tire of glutting yourself on sub-par tarts.
Jensen reads it twice, just to be sure he's reading right then snaps his phone closed. For a split second he thinks about answering, but he's sure that anything he'd add to the conversation at this point would be so absurd as to be pathetic. Because, really, all he can think to say is, "Fuck you and the horse you rode in on." Which probably sounds better in his head.
Amused.
There are times Jensen enjoys being amusing. When he's reeling a mark in for the kill. When he's being particularly witty. When he's acting drunker than he ever gets. When he's making over-the-top faces in response to Jared's noxious ass expulsions.
This is not one of those times.
And he's determined not to feed Misha any more fodder. So he stalks calmly towards the bedroom, powers his phone off and chucks it in one of the desk drawers. Jensen has had enough of Misha Fucking Collins for one day.
Instead of dwelling, he busies himself not thinking about it. Pulls a soft, oft-washed T-shirt over his head and moseys off to the bathroom to peel loose the contacts he should have taken out hours ago. Slides on the glasses that will always make him feel like the biggest goddamn dork in the universe no matter how famous he does or does not get. Which is exactly what he needs right now considering everything that's just gone down. But he's not thinking about it. He strolls back to the kitchen instead, pours himself a mug of coffee the size of Texas and then heads back out into the living room. Hunkers down against the couch cushions with ESPN and an absofuckinglutely empty head.
Like the Sahara. Really.
He turns the volume up twice in the space of ten minutes because he can still hear Misha's voice. Starts to turn it up a third time, but he hears something else. Someone creeping down the stairs, or trying anyway, with his big fucking flipper feet.
Jared's voice wavers ever so slightly when he says, "Morning." It's such a small thing that if he were saying it to anyone but Jensen it would probably pass unnoticed.
But he's not. And Jensen's response spills out on a smile.
"Morning," he says, then takes a moment to relish the sweet little flutter behind his breastbone. Because Jared looks exactly like he feels and it definitely works for him. "Man, you look like hell."
Then all the shattered pieces come flying back together in a rush, healing warmth spilling through him like a balm he didn't even know he wanted or needed. Sunshine and crimson and clover and wagging puppy dog tails. Fuck, yeah. This will work.
"Uh, yeah. Didn't sleep so well. Weird dreams."
No shit. Though Jensen hears, "Hot as hell, but disturbing" instead of weird. Because it's there in Jared's tone for him to hear. It makes him think that maybe he ought to trawl familiar waters more often. Hell of a lot easier than other recent expeditions that shall not be named.
Usually Jensen can keep the secrets off his face, but it's been a long night and he's way too amped to pull off covert. Throws his patented cocky smirk out there but knows it's colored with all the devious things swimming in his head. That's okay, he's in no mood to play this one quiet or close to the chest. No need. Because as much as he respects Jared, the guy is oblivious. Wouldn't see a speeding train coming at thirty paces. Still believes in truth, love, and the American way.
Still believes that Jensen is a good guy.
So Jensen ignores the part of his brain that's screaming at him to stop and pushes anyway, stretches and squirms until he can feel the hem of his shirt tickling his ribs and see the flush rise on Jared's cheeks, his head snap sideways violently.
But he says, "That's too bad, I slept like a baby," and breathes deep. Even though he hasn't . Even though he probably won't at this point because Jared's just too delicious a fruit to pass on picking. A wild blackberry in the early weeks of August. Ripe and juicy and perfect. Because he's never been picked before. Not like this. And certainly not by Jensen.
"Someday you'll have to let me in on your secret," Jared says, lips drawn tight against his teeth, then makes a beeline for the kitchen. Barely holding it together.
Jensen smiles again at the tense line of his retreating back and thinks, "Well that's what you get for watching your best friend fuck your co-star." There's a whole mess of trouble headed Jared's direction, the likes of which he's never seen.
Jensen can barely contain his glee.
And the best part is, he's not thinking about it.
The prospect of playing this game is so exhilarating he can't even remember what he says to Jared, only that it's suggestive, his body marking out the steps of its own volition. Crowding Jared against the sink, vibrating warm and skittish. Touching him the way he's done a thousand times but with the intent he has maybe always wanted to. Because this he understands. Flesh and heat. How to pluck someone's strings until they sing for him.
This is comfort.
Jensen does remember chuckling as he heads for the shower. It bubbles up unbidden and unchecked, and once he's safely behind the closed bathroom door, he turns the water on scalding and really lets go. Lets the laughter clean out all the shit and uncertainty that doesn't belong until he's shaking with it, his cheeks aching with it.
Fuck yeah, this works.
He adjusts the temperature, sheds his clothes and then steps under the spray to let it do the rest. But when he closes his eyes, water sluicing across his face, he sees skin flushed and pulled taut against muscle. In and of itself, this is not a bad turn of events. Except the skin is pale instead of honey-colored. And the swell of the muscle is more subtle than it should be. So he shakes his head and schools his thoughts back into behaving. Reaches for the shampoo and works it through, teeth clamped together on his lower lip because he can feel fingertips tattooed against his scalp.
But he's not thinking about it.
Instead he focuses on Jared, tries to gauge how fast he can take it. Right now he hasn't the patience for subtleties. He just needs something easy. With Jared it's not like he has to screw around getting to know him or feeling out whether he'd be agreeable. Jensen already knows Jared and doesn't give a flying fuck if he's agreeable. He will be before all's said and done.
In the end, Jensen decides to work without a net. Not like Jared is going to catch him unawares and it might be fun for once just to see what happens. He turns the water off, watching the suds slip slowly down the drain while he drags a towel over his skin just enough to leave it dewy and damp. Shakes the water out of his hair until it lays pinprick drops all over his shoulders and chest, then wraps the towel around his waist.
Perfect.
Let the games begin.
Sunday
Jensen meets Sunday with giddy anticipation, dirty dreams clinging like cobwebs as he eases on into waking. His sheets are fresh so the only scent on his pillows is his own, and the only sound is the soft hiss of air out of his lungs as he stretches the sleep from his limbs. He can tell it's late without checking the clock, the sun slanted high through his blinds. The first coherent thought that rambles through his head lands on coffee and the necessity for copious amounts of it, never mind it's probably 10:30. That, however, would require actually getting out of bed and he's not ready for that much motion yet. The second thought draws a smirk when he rolls over on his side and sees his bedroom door gaping open, just as he left it last night.
Because, God, fucking with Jared is like playing Chopsticks. Easy as pie and it never gets old.
And Jensen's not even sure if he's around, since he doesn't hear any of the telltale sounds of lumbering life, but it doesn't matter. Well no, that's not patently true. It does matter, because if Jared were to catch him taking care of his very important morning business, it would be beyond awesome.
He spares one last glance for the state of the door and then settles in on his back, one knee bent and heel pressed against the mattress, one hand tucked beneath his pillow, the other questing - sliding against skin and elastic and cotton and skin again. Screws his eyes shut with a sigh and then closes his hand around his cock, hips twitching slightly when the side of his pinky finger brushes against the sensitive bulge at the base, strokes slow and careful, a pace meant for prolonging
And then he is thinking about it.
Because there's no foul in this context. Who needs porn when your brain can roll you a live feed whenever you want? Because there are things he wants to do to Misha that defy description.
He doesn't get what he's expecting when he calls it up, pulls it out to savor. It's not a slowly whirling reel of Misha panting, helpless, lost to lust, laid out in increasingly compromising but delicious positions. It's the crooked tilt in his smile when he's humoring you. The nearly startled gleam in his eye and the soft, shiny sweep of his lower lip when he's just been kissed hard and breathless. The taste of his skin, sweat salt and clean soap, and underneath it all just him, like he has his own essence that refuses to be contained by any rational frame.
If it wasn't working, he would sure as hell think about something else, but it is and Jensen doesn't know what to do with that. Because his heart's already pounding slightly faster than it should be and he has apparently turned into a big fucking girl.
So he focuses tighter. On the warmth of skin and slick of sweat. The line of his neck when his head's thrown back. The hollow curve of his hips, even now painted with Jensen's own shades of red and purple and fuck-
The knobs in the bend of his spine pressed against him. Tight furnace heat grasping around him, ripping the climax from him before he was close to ready. Twitch of shoulder not away from his teeth but into them as they sunk home. Every tremor asking for more and saying please, even as his mouth held sharp-edged words.
Fuck. It takes everything he has to maintain the slow, aching pace. Long drawn-out strokes, the pad of his thumb swept up and over the head of his cock, slick and tender. He's waiting for something, but he can't put his finger on what right this second.
Digs down for new material and spins a sweet vision of Misha folded on his knees, feels the slippery slide of Misha's tongue against him, lips around him pulled plump and pink by the friction. Can almost feel the crunch of gel between his fingers as they anchor in Misha's hair. Can almost see the heavy-lidded gaze boring into him. Too much.
Just, fuck.
No point in holding off now, no choice. Pulls fast and hard, jaw clenched and creaking, surge of heat blooming bright in his gut and spreading.
Then he hears the front door open. The sound of leashes jangling together. Jared toeing off his runners in the entryway. Then he remembers what he was waiting for.
But it's too fucking late, because he's on the cusp and the thought of Jared walking by the open door on his way upstairs thrums in his blood like an aphrodisiac, pushing him to the edge. Then Jared's saying his name, quietly, a little unsure, like he doesn't know if he wants Jensen to answer him or not.
And he's gone, tumbling down the rabbit hole, not even trying to hold the strangled noises in his throat. Lets them fly and hopes Jared hears. Hopes he's standing in the hallway sweat-soaked and disheveled from the run, wearing pink in his cheeks, but too terrified or enthralled to do anything but stand there and listen and pretend that he can't hear.
Jared doesn't call out for him again.
But someone heaves a shaking sigh from close enough but too far away. A minute later the front door slams so hard it shakes the glass in the window over his bed and Jared's SUV peels out of the driveway.
Jensen smiles his slow Cheshire smile and wipes his hand clean on his boxers.
"Too fucking easy."
Unfortunately, Jared's absence kind of screws with the agenda. Hard to drive someone crazy from a distance, but.
Wait.
Fucking Misha.
Jensen has no qualms about stealing technique from other people. He's both cunning and ruthless once the hunt begins. But appropriating a tactic from Misha, especially a tactic used so recently to handle him- it's irritating. The ends justify the means, though, and now that his brain matter is less muddled maybe he'll even be able to use it to his advantage.
Just have to figure out how. While he's cleaning himself up, showering and preparing for what's left of the day, it comes to him. The best thing to do, in Jared's case anyway, is to act as if nothing happened. Because really, it hasn't. He selects and discards several different iterations of feigned honesty while he's shaving, flips through half a dozen versions of earnest anxiety while he's pulling on fresh boxers, jeans and a T-shirt. Finally, he settles on something he hopes will satisfy both requirements. The perfect blend of normalcy with enough innocent concern thrown in to draw Jared home.
Too bad he actually has to turn his phone on to make it work. Because he doesn't want to. Surprises fuck with his head and Misha is, by his very nature, a surprise wrapped in a riddle wrapped in a goddamn mystery. He doesn't even know whether he wants there to be a message or not. But no, that's not the truth. He's always felt the truth was fucking overrated.
Fuck it. Time to strap on the big boy britches.
Jensen yanks the desk drawer open hard enough the knob wobbles a little in his hand and fishes his cell out of the back corner. Apparently, he's been pretty damn popular in the past twenty four, because when he powers the phone on he has six missed calls, four voicemails, and fifteen text messages. He's scared to even look at the email. Something tightens in his gut as he scrolls through and he waits for it to release when he finds out there's nothing from Misha. It doesn't. If anything, it cinches tighter, pulls his brow into an unwanted furrow. Whatever that's about.
Instead of bothering with responses, he starts a new text to Jared.
JA: Hey man, where are you? Something up? Haven't seen you since seven last night and you looked like you went ten rounds with a bottle of Jack.
His thumb hovers over send for a long moment while he rereads. Nothing threatening or overtly anything there. Just a concerned friend. Which is about the only thing that might work at this point. He's been restrained, but then he almost always is. With Jared it's even more important to maintain a strict policy of plausible deniability until there's no turning back. Besides, that's part of the thrill, what makes the game a challenge for him. Seduction without nuance is pretty fucking pointless in his book. It's what spawned the public persona. Shy and self-effacing are much more appropriate companions to subtle.
And really, Jared has survived the onslaught better than Jensen expected him to. Which says something, but he's not sure what. Quite frankly, until this recent outburst, Jared has been acting mostly normal. A little twitchy maybe, but normal to the point Jensen was beginning to doubt his skills.
Jensen stares at his cell, willing it to buzz. But it seems Jared either doesn't have his phone or is less eager to get pulled into an epic text battle than he is. Before he can stop himself, he's scrolling through his contacts until Misha's name stares back at him.
And what the fuck?
He's just a guy. Yeah okay, he's interesting, reasonably attractive and a pretty damn good lay. But just a guy.
A guy who seems to have hijacked Jensen's life.
Continue
Series: Useful Illusions
Rating: Adult
Pairing: Jensen/Misha
Disclaimer: So not mine. Would be nice, but no. RPS.
Summary: Jensen has a sort of existential crisis. This does not bode well. For anyone.
Previous Installments
Being Jeffrey Beaumont by kadiel_krieger
Being Misha Collins by elizah_jane
Behind the Line by kadiel_krieger
Saturday
Even the best laid plans go pear-shaped every once in awhile.
That's what he tells himself, anyway. Over the course of a long and storied career spinning his bullshit at the unsuspecting masses Jensen has accumulated a veritable cornucopia of fairly horrific missteps. He likes to think he learns from them.
Then again, Misha may well be his masterpiece, his crowning glory. The grand fuck-up feather in his fedora.
Because Misha is a lot of things, but he is neither unsuspecting nor one of the masses.
Which is why Jensen just so happens to be vertical at six thirty on a Saturday morning instead of passed out cold. It's also why he's got his hands fisted in the front of Misha's jacket, holding him steady and close and still. Why he's memorizing the shape of Misha's mouth with his tongue and sucking the air out of Misha's lungs like he's suffocating.
Because Misha is a fucking force of nature that turns his head inside out and makes him crave things he shouldn't. Things like breathless goodnight, good morning, goodbye kisses shoved up against the reinforced steel of Jared's front door.
He has no clue when the definition of 'dealing with the situation' turned into this. But Misha looked so perfectly bewildered by his frigid-fingered wake-up call that Jensen couldn't bear to kick him out. Then he got...distracted. Therein lies the problem. Misha disarms him. Probably without even meaning to.
It was all kinds of insane to let him stay in the first place.
And that's enough to make Jensen pull back, unfurl his fingers and unlock the door.
Misha smiles, sly and slanted, one brow arched high with humor, but his eyes are full of something else, something Jensen refuses to name even though he recognizes it. Fucking hell. He steps out of reach and squints, sucks a breath down deep through his teeth. It hurts, like sand sliding through his veins, scrubbing him raw and bare and bleeding. It also helps him find center - unearth it from the chaos Misha's created. So when he smiles back at Misha, he can tell it's the right one without even looking.
"You're welcome," Jensen says, but maybe he shouldn't have because the old vocal chords are a little slow on the uptake.
"Welcome to what exactly? I'm having a little trouble discerning what I haven't already been welcome to."
Jensen watches Misha's smile slide wider, stretch into something just this side of mocking as he slips silently back into Jensen's personal space like it's his to invade, fingers hooked in the waistband of Jensen's low-slung pants like they belong there. Jensen feels like he's looking at last night through a funhouse mirror. The shapes are all the same, on the surface anyway, but the small shifts in perspective that warp the reflection are significant enough to put a knot in Jensen's stomach.
Because he's not entirely sure who's driving anymore.
And that doesn't fucking work for him. At all.
Jensen wonders - as he feels the internal lockdown trigger - if Misha can see it happen, like he can see all the other things he shouldn't be able to. It's a fleeting thought, lost on the turn of the tide, and soon enough whatever part of him that cared whether or not Misha can see is safely suppressed and unable to ask.
"Maybe that's because you're too damn dense to realize you've worn out your welcome." Jensen sneers then grabs Misha's wrist, pulls the wandering fingers free of places they shouldn't be, and turns on his heel heading for the kitchen. Almost as an afterthought he tosses, "You know where the door is," back over his shoulder.
The knot in his gut draws painfully tight, makes him think he might have to find somewhere to unload last night's beer. If Misha follows him...but no. Misha may be crazy, but he doesn't strike Jensen as particularly suicidal. Even so, he can only be as sure as he ever is where Misha is concerned. Which is both completely and not at all. Coin toss. Instead of thinking about it, Jensen leans over the sink, contemplating the ring of grime around the drain and the discussion he's going to have with Susie, Jared's housekeeper, until the front door opens and closes quietly. Thirty seconds later, when he hears Misha's car purr to life in the driveway, his stomach settles completely.
As much as he wanted Misha gone, all it leaves him with is crushing exhaustion. He's too fucking old for this shit and bed is really the only sensible place to be at this hour. Doesn't matter if he has to smell last night all over the sheets. He only plans to be conscious long enough to make it into the actual bed.
Jensen steels himself and pushes the door to his bedroom open gingerly. It's the same room it was eight hours ago, just messier and more fragrant, and if he's not going to let Misha get to him in the flesh he sure as hell isn't going to let the lingering scent of him do it.
As a plan, it works. Mostly. He has to push a couple of the pillows in the floor and use his arm instead, but it's more comfortable that way. And if he sees curling spikes of sweat-soaked hair or bright glints of too blue eyes with their pupils blown wide when his own eyelids begin to droop, well, that doesn't mean anything.
Just visual noise.
Jensen's almost dozing when his cell buzzes on the nightstand and he has half a mind to let it go. But it is a quarter to seven and they might be calling him in to do pickups. If that's the case, he has to answer and talk at least long enough to tell them politely where they can shove that particular idea.
Only it's not a call, it's a text.
MC: Get some sleep, princess. It's too early in the game to knock over the board and start throwing pieces around.
Fucking Misha. He sighs and starts to flip his phone closed, wishes for once in his life he could just let it go. But he can't.
JA: Fuck you, man. No planet in the universe where I'm the girl. Besides, way more entertaining things to do with those pieces.
So much for plans. Maybe he should give them up for Lent or something, because clearly they aren't working out so well.
MC: Tsk tsk. Children who throw tantrums and don't take their naps don't get any dessert.
Now he's thinking about fucking whipped cream. And Misha. And...he derails that train of thought forcibly because it's not bound anywhere he wants to go right now. There are a hell of a lot less irritating fish in the sea. And he's not throwing a fucking tantrum.
JA: You forget, the world is my patisserie.
So there. Jensen feels childish even thinking it, but maybe it will shut Misha up. When the answer doesn't come back right away, he assumes victory and flips his phone closed, swings his legs over the side of the bed and rolls his shoulders. No point in sleeping now. It would just screw his schedule to hell. He even starts to set the phone aside, but then it buzzes again in his hand.
Fuck.
MC: By all means, then, move on to your next selection.
That cocky son of a bitch. Jensen knows better. Misha was there, completely there last night. Completely there this morning. Or seemed to be. The thought stirs that thing in his gut to life again, twisting and squeezing until he feels like ten tons of steaming shit. And he'll be damned if he's going to be the only one. If Misha doesn't care then why the fuck should he? But then he doesn't, so they're square.
JA: And you assume I haven't because...
He can hear in his head how ludicrous it sounds even as he taps it out on the keypad. They both know better. Misha hasn't been gone long enough for him to scratch his balls much less pick up someone else - a willing, wanting someone else. It's just the principle of the thing and he's dog-tired and not thinking straight. Most people would humor him simply because he's Jensen Ackles. Misha is a different story. Misha actually listens to all the bullshit that spews forth from his mouth on a daily basis. This is not the first time Jensen wishes he didn't.
MC: It's been fifteen minutes? Or is Jared not the only one with the special relationship with his dogs?
JA: Very funny. Haven't seen my speed dial, then? Any flavor pastry my little heart desires right at my fingertips.
Which is ten, no, two dozen kinds of ridiculous. Despite the fact that he's too...everything to even want to call anyone, his speed dials are programmed for: Jared, Chris, Steve, Mike, Jeff, and his mom, in no particular order. Misha will have to be much better behaved if he ever hopes to make the list. Still, no random hookup has ever made an appearance by virtue of being both random and a hookup. He rarely intends to see anyone naked more than once. Okay, maybe twice. Even then, it's mostly by accident and certainly not because he called them. Easier that way.
MC: And yet, I must point out that you keep responding to my texts.
It takes an enormous amount of restraint not to turn his phone into tiny jagged plastic pieces. Jensen settles instead on brewing a pot a coffee while he decides whether he's going to reply at all. Tired as he is, he can tell when he's being baited. But the exhaustion combined with his overall foul mood stirs up a perfect storm of petulant nonsense.
JA: Any flavor. I didn't say it was necessarily good.
Because yeah, the best impression to leave Misha with is that he's on the receiving end of a blow job bad enough he's still able to text. Or that he wants so desperately to talk to Misha that he can't stand to put his phone down. It's at this point Jensen decides the hole is plenty fucking deep and quitting while he's ahead is no longer an option. Best to just quit, period, and hope. If he's really lucky, Misha won't deem the idiocy worthy of a reply, but then his phone buzzes again and Jensen sighs.
MC: You needn't work so hard to amuse me, J. I find you perpetually entertaining. Call me when you tire of glutting yourself on sub-par tarts.
Jensen reads it twice, just to be sure he's reading right then snaps his phone closed. For a split second he thinks about answering, but he's sure that anything he'd add to the conversation at this point would be so absurd as to be pathetic. Because, really, all he can think to say is, "Fuck you and the horse you rode in on." Which probably sounds better in his head.
Amused.
There are times Jensen enjoys being amusing. When he's reeling a mark in for the kill. When he's being particularly witty. When he's acting drunker than he ever gets. When he's making over-the-top faces in response to Jared's noxious ass expulsions.
This is not one of those times.
And he's determined not to feed Misha any more fodder. So he stalks calmly towards the bedroom, powers his phone off and chucks it in one of the desk drawers. Jensen has had enough of Misha Fucking Collins for one day.
Instead of dwelling, he busies himself not thinking about it. Pulls a soft, oft-washed T-shirt over his head and moseys off to the bathroom to peel loose the contacts he should have taken out hours ago. Slides on the glasses that will always make him feel like the biggest goddamn dork in the universe no matter how famous he does or does not get. Which is exactly what he needs right now considering everything that's just gone down. But he's not thinking about it. He strolls back to the kitchen instead, pours himself a mug of coffee the size of Texas and then heads back out into the living room. Hunkers down against the couch cushions with ESPN and an absofuckinglutely empty head.
Like the Sahara. Really.
He turns the volume up twice in the space of ten minutes because he can still hear Misha's voice. Starts to turn it up a third time, but he hears something else. Someone creeping down the stairs, or trying anyway, with his big fucking flipper feet.
Jared's voice wavers ever so slightly when he says, "Morning." It's such a small thing that if he were saying it to anyone but Jensen it would probably pass unnoticed.
But he's not. And Jensen's response spills out on a smile.
"Morning," he says, then takes a moment to relish the sweet little flutter behind his breastbone. Because Jared looks exactly like he feels and it definitely works for him. "Man, you look like hell."
Then all the shattered pieces come flying back together in a rush, healing warmth spilling through him like a balm he didn't even know he wanted or needed. Sunshine and crimson and clover and wagging puppy dog tails. Fuck, yeah. This will work.
"Uh, yeah. Didn't sleep so well. Weird dreams."
No shit. Though Jensen hears, "Hot as hell, but disturbing" instead of weird. Because it's there in Jared's tone for him to hear. It makes him think that maybe he ought to trawl familiar waters more often. Hell of a lot easier than other recent expeditions that shall not be named.
Usually Jensen can keep the secrets off his face, but it's been a long night and he's way too amped to pull off covert. Throws his patented cocky smirk out there but knows it's colored with all the devious things swimming in his head. That's okay, he's in no mood to play this one quiet or close to the chest. No need. Because as much as he respects Jared, the guy is oblivious. Wouldn't see a speeding train coming at thirty paces. Still believes in truth, love, and the American way.
Still believes that Jensen is a good guy.
So Jensen ignores the part of his brain that's screaming at him to stop and pushes anyway, stretches and squirms until he can feel the hem of his shirt tickling his ribs and see the flush rise on Jared's cheeks, his head snap sideways violently.
But he says, "That's too bad, I slept like a baby," and breathes deep. Even though he hasn't . Even though he probably won't at this point because Jared's just too delicious a fruit to pass on picking. A wild blackberry in the early weeks of August. Ripe and juicy and perfect. Because he's never been picked before. Not like this. And certainly not by Jensen.
"Someday you'll have to let me in on your secret," Jared says, lips drawn tight against his teeth, then makes a beeline for the kitchen. Barely holding it together.
Jensen smiles again at the tense line of his retreating back and thinks, "Well that's what you get for watching your best friend fuck your co-star." There's a whole mess of trouble headed Jared's direction, the likes of which he's never seen.
Jensen can barely contain his glee.
And the best part is, he's not thinking about it.
The prospect of playing this game is so exhilarating he can't even remember what he says to Jared, only that it's suggestive, his body marking out the steps of its own volition. Crowding Jared against the sink, vibrating warm and skittish. Touching him the way he's done a thousand times but with the intent he has maybe always wanted to. Because this he understands. Flesh and heat. How to pluck someone's strings until they sing for him.
This is comfort.
Jensen does remember chuckling as he heads for the shower. It bubbles up unbidden and unchecked, and once he's safely behind the closed bathroom door, he turns the water on scalding and really lets go. Lets the laughter clean out all the shit and uncertainty that doesn't belong until he's shaking with it, his cheeks aching with it.
Fuck yeah, this works.
He adjusts the temperature, sheds his clothes and then steps under the spray to let it do the rest. But when he closes his eyes, water sluicing across his face, he sees skin flushed and pulled taut against muscle. In and of itself, this is not a bad turn of events. Except the skin is pale instead of honey-colored. And the swell of the muscle is more subtle than it should be. So he shakes his head and schools his thoughts back into behaving. Reaches for the shampoo and works it through, teeth clamped together on his lower lip because he can feel fingertips tattooed against his scalp.
But he's not thinking about it.
Instead he focuses on Jared, tries to gauge how fast he can take it. Right now he hasn't the patience for subtleties. He just needs something easy. With Jared it's not like he has to screw around getting to know him or feeling out whether he'd be agreeable. Jensen already knows Jared and doesn't give a flying fuck if he's agreeable. He will be before all's said and done.
In the end, Jensen decides to work without a net. Not like Jared is going to catch him unawares and it might be fun for once just to see what happens. He turns the water off, watching the suds slip slowly down the drain while he drags a towel over his skin just enough to leave it dewy and damp. Shakes the water out of his hair until it lays pinprick drops all over his shoulders and chest, then wraps the towel around his waist.
Perfect.
Let the games begin.
Sunday
Jensen meets Sunday with giddy anticipation, dirty dreams clinging like cobwebs as he eases on into waking. His sheets are fresh so the only scent on his pillows is his own, and the only sound is the soft hiss of air out of his lungs as he stretches the sleep from his limbs. He can tell it's late without checking the clock, the sun slanted high through his blinds. The first coherent thought that rambles through his head lands on coffee and the necessity for copious amounts of it, never mind it's probably 10:30. That, however, would require actually getting out of bed and he's not ready for that much motion yet. The second thought draws a smirk when he rolls over on his side and sees his bedroom door gaping open, just as he left it last night.
Because, God, fucking with Jared is like playing Chopsticks. Easy as pie and it never gets old.
And Jensen's not even sure if he's around, since he doesn't hear any of the telltale sounds of lumbering life, but it doesn't matter. Well no, that's not patently true. It does matter, because if Jared were to catch him taking care of his very important morning business, it would be beyond awesome.
He spares one last glance for the state of the door and then settles in on his back, one knee bent and heel pressed against the mattress, one hand tucked beneath his pillow, the other questing - sliding against skin and elastic and cotton and skin again. Screws his eyes shut with a sigh and then closes his hand around his cock, hips twitching slightly when the side of his pinky finger brushes against the sensitive bulge at the base, strokes slow and careful, a pace meant for prolonging
And then he is thinking about it.
Because there's no foul in this context. Who needs porn when your brain can roll you a live feed whenever you want? Because there are things he wants to do to Misha that defy description.
He doesn't get what he's expecting when he calls it up, pulls it out to savor. It's not a slowly whirling reel of Misha panting, helpless, lost to lust, laid out in increasingly compromising but delicious positions. It's the crooked tilt in his smile when he's humoring you. The nearly startled gleam in his eye and the soft, shiny sweep of his lower lip when he's just been kissed hard and breathless. The taste of his skin, sweat salt and clean soap, and underneath it all just him, like he has his own essence that refuses to be contained by any rational frame.
If it wasn't working, he would sure as hell think about something else, but it is and Jensen doesn't know what to do with that. Because his heart's already pounding slightly faster than it should be and he has apparently turned into a big fucking girl.
So he focuses tighter. On the warmth of skin and slick of sweat. The line of his neck when his head's thrown back. The hollow curve of his hips, even now painted with Jensen's own shades of red and purple and fuck-
The knobs in the bend of his spine pressed against him. Tight furnace heat grasping around him, ripping the climax from him before he was close to ready. Twitch of shoulder not away from his teeth but into them as they sunk home. Every tremor asking for more and saying please, even as his mouth held sharp-edged words.
Fuck. It takes everything he has to maintain the slow, aching pace. Long drawn-out strokes, the pad of his thumb swept up and over the head of his cock, slick and tender. He's waiting for something, but he can't put his finger on what right this second.
Digs down for new material and spins a sweet vision of Misha folded on his knees, feels the slippery slide of Misha's tongue against him, lips around him pulled plump and pink by the friction. Can almost feel the crunch of gel between his fingers as they anchor in Misha's hair. Can almost see the heavy-lidded gaze boring into him. Too much.
Just, fuck.
No point in holding off now, no choice. Pulls fast and hard, jaw clenched and creaking, surge of heat blooming bright in his gut and spreading.
Then he hears the front door open. The sound of leashes jangling together. Jared toeing off his runners in the entryway. Then he remembers what he was waiting for.
But it's too fucking late, because he's on the cusp and the thought of Jared walking by the open door on his way upstairs thrums in his blood like an aphrodisiac, pushing him to the edge. Then Jared's saying his name, quietly, a little unsure, like he doesn't know if he wants Jensen to answer him or not.
And he's gone, tumbling down the rabbit hole, not even trying to hold the strangled noises in his throat. Lets them fly and hopes Jared hears. Hopes he's standing in the hallway sweat-soaked and disheveled from the run, wearing pink in his cheeks, but too terrified or enthralled to do anything but stand there and listen and pretend that he can't hear.
Jared doesn't call out for him again.
But someone heaves a shaking sigh from close enough but too far away. A minute later the front door slams so hard it shakes the glass in the window over his bed and Jared's SUV peels out of the driveway.
Jensen smiles his slow Cheshire smile and wipes his hand clean on his boxers.
"Too fucking easy."
Unfortunately, Jared's absence kind of screws with the agenda. Hard to drive someone crazy from a distance, but.
Wait.
Fucking Misha.
Jensen has no qualms about stealing technique from other people. He's both cunning and ruthless once the hunt begins. But appropriating a tactic from Misha, especially a tactic used so recently to handle him- it's irritating. The ends justify the means, though, and now that his brain matter is less muddled maybe he'll even be able to use it to his advantage.
Just have to figure out how. While he's cleaning himself up, showering and preparing for what's left of the day, it comes to him. The best thing to do, in Jared's case anyway, is to act as if nothing happened. Because really, it hasn't. He selects and discards several different iterations of feigned honesty while he's shaving, flips through half a dozen versions of earnest anxiety while he's pulling on fresh boxers, jeans and a T-shirt. Finally, he settles on something he hopes will satisfy both requirements. The perfect blend of normalcy with enough innocent concern thrown in to draw Jared home.
Too bad he actually has to turn his phone on to make it work. Because he doesn't want to. Surprises fuck with his head and Misha is, by his very nature, a surprise wrapped in a riddle wrapped in a goddamn mystery. He doesn't even know whether he wants there to be a message or not. But no, that's not the truth. He's always felt the truth was fucking overrated.
Fuck it. Time to strap on the big boy britches.
Jensen yanks the desk drawer open hard enough the knob wobbles a little in his hand and fishes his cell out of the back corner. Apparently, he's been pretty damn popular in the past twenty four, because when he powers the phone on he has six missed calls, four voicemails, and fifteen text messages. He's scared to even look at the email. Something tightens in his gut as he scrolls through and he waits for it to release when he finds out there's nothing from Misha. It doesn't. If anything, it cinches tighter, pulls his brow into an unwanted furrow. Whatever that's about.
Instead of bothering with responses, he starts a new text to Jared.
JA: Hey man, where are you? Something up? Haven't seen you since seven last night and you looked like you went ten rounds with a bottle of Jack.
His thumb hovers over send for a long moment while he rereads. Nothing threatening or overtly anything there. Just a concerned friend. Which is about the only thing that might work at this point. He's been restrained, but then he almost always is. With Jared it's even more important to maintain a strict policy of plausible deniability until there's no turning back. Besides, that's part of the thrill, what makes the game a challenge for him. Seduction without nuance is pretty fucking pointless in his book. It's what spawned the public persona. Shy and self-effacing are much more appropriate companions to subtle.
And really, Jared has survived the onslaught better than Jensen expected him to. Which says something, but he's not sure what. Quite frankly, until this recent outburst, Jared has been acting mostly normal. A little twitchy maybe, but normal to the point Jensen was beginning to doubt his skills.
Jensen stares at his cell, willing it to buzz. But it seems Jared either doesn't have his phone or is less eager to get pulled into an epic text battle than he is. Before he can stop himself, he's scrolling through his contacts until Misha's name stares back at him.
And what the fuck?
He's just a guy. Yeah okay, he's interesting, reasonably attractive and a pretty damn good lay. But just a guy.
A guy who seems to have hijacked Jensen's life.
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