thatotherperv: (r. jdm handporn (by flytoheaven))
[personal profile] thatotherperv
new fic! *FLAIL* um, I'm hella nervous about this. Nobody throw rocks at me, k?



Ok, so. I never set out to experiment with my writing. not in a pre-meditated way anyway. Whenever I've tried to write from that cerebral kind of place, it. what's the word? blows.

but a couple things about this fic were me experimenting, sort of on accident. A few weeks ago, I was thinking about how 2nd person pov never works, at least not in fanfiction. Then I sat down to write this and what popped out? 2nd person. oh, the irony. My mind was laughing at me.

The other thing is that when this Jensen popped into my brain, I started to write him as a cliché. Maybe I shouldn't say cliché so much as…you know, the poster-boy or textbook case or whatever. "Boy has issues with sex because something in his sexual history—sexual abuse / molestation / rape /whatever—made him that way". But then it became more interesting, the idea of trying to write someone who had never been taken advantage of (from his perspective) and still come to this place of…heartbreakingly bad attitude towards sex. How that might happen, and how that might actually feed back into the problem.

I don't think it's uncommon in the real world, but I wanted to see if I could write it. plus, lately I've been doing sadistic things to my characters, so that was a bonus.

[/masturbatory preamble]



also, I feel moved to say that while parts of this are based on my own personal history, all the scary-self-destructive bits are really really not. so don't try to get me committed, mmkay? mmkay.


Title: Easy
Author: Mel ([livejournal.com profile] thatotherperv)
Pairing: Jeff/Jensen, Jensen/OMCs, most definitely NC-17
Length: almost 4,000 words
Summary: AU. 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 [livejournal.com profile] madame_meretrix for all the time she put into this beta, for the multiple drafts she sat through, and for beating me over the head with my own leg when I was being stubborn. :) *smish*










It's never your fault. That's what they tell you. The rapist is always at fault, and you are the victim. You are always the victim. If anyone has told you otherwise, they were wrong. Slander and ignorance are the weapons of oppression.

When you tell them you never were a victim, they press their lips together and pity you. When you tell them you asked for it, they touch you like you're made of china, when you're six feet of muscle and man. You don't belong here. You wouldn't be here if your parents didn't have your financial nuts in a vise. You're not like these people with their sad eyes and sad lives and sad stories.

You've only ever gotten what you had coming to you. And when you say this, that's worst of all.

Groomed, they tell you. Early childhood trauma. Low self-esteem. Brainwashing, mental manipulation, Stockholm syndrome. You don't know your own mind.

It's what your parents think, too. And it's never been worth arguing.

This place is full of soft words and soft people with soft hands. Sometimes it claws at you. You want something sharp and vicious. You want to hurt. You want to be hurt. You want someone that will hurt you, outside and in. Sometimes you want it so badly it's like drowning. Suffocating here in this expensive cocoon.

Here, there's no one to hurt you. No crooked nurse, no ill-meaning doctor, no sadistic attendant preying on the weak and needy. Carefully vetted, they tell you. You're perfectly safe.

It's the best money can buy. It's your idea of hell.




It's the best money can buy. No velvet rope, no neon sign, no ladies-drink-free, because everyone here is filthy rich, well-groomed and hand-selected. It's private, capital P, and the amount of cash you throw down for one night's buzz could feed a small army of children…somewhere.

The trust funds in this room alone outstrip the GDP of the country with that child army, and you all know it.

The music is good, but the company leaves something to be desired. You have two friends in the entire world and neither has seen you in ten years, which leaves you with a small band of acquaintances you can't really stand. Your relationships are built on a loose alliance of envy and alcohol, but if they thought you were falling, they'd tear you to shreds.

There's no one here worth fucking tonight, but there's this pounding in your skull that just won't stop, and you're so painfully bored. When you drop to your knees, it's his lucky day. When he grabs your head and fucks your mouth—this pawn, this second-class citizen of high society—everyone around you starts to cheer.

You can barely hear them for the buzzing of calm in your own head.

You choke, and the desperation to breathe is its own high. You hold on until he's done, black spots and wet eyes and lungs that burn when you finally draw in that first gasp.

Then you sit up, and take another.

There are plenty of volunteers.




In a lot of ways, this place is like summer camp. There are icebreakers and crafts tables and nature hikes that end in a clearing where you all sit down and try to feel something inside yourselves. Just reach in and feel it. You, personally, refrain from trying to feel something inside yourself, because you doubt they'd appreciate the artistic interpretation.

In a lot of other ways, this place is like rehab. Group confessionals and private jerk-off sessions with a trained professional. Like a history of sexual abuse is something to be cured with a twelve-step program. Not that you were ever abused. Every touch you've ever had was one that you asked for. Gunned for. In this place there's always the assumption of abuse, but that's not you. Sheltered by money and two parents who said they loved you, and sometimes things got ugly, but there was never a wrong hand laid on you. Just sticks and stones, so you have no cause to complain.

You feel bad for all the poor bastards that belong here, the ones that need help. They're wasting their money. You think what they really need is a dull blade and a shot at castrating the bastards that made them this way. Could be therapeutic. You share this little gem one day in group and wait for the accolades, but mostly you get blank faces. Your counselor looks at you with doe-eyes. Violent fantasies are common, they say. Don't feel guilty, they say.

You say you have nothing to feel guilty about, and they smile at you like a star student.




The guy is forty and his collar is blue. It's literally blue, his name on a little patch above the left breast pocket, and you don't know what he does, but he still smells like the office. So to speak.

He's tall, and he's strong, and he doesn't turn down the opportunity to put a little hurt on a rich boy just begging for the pain.

The upholstery of the bench seat is stale like cigarettes and sweat, high enough to make for an awkward bend, and when he rifles through the glovebox you assume it's for a condom.

It's not until your shoulders wrench back to the point of straining that you discover it was actually for twine. This isn't what you signed up for, but it's easy and you're rolling and the pain is magenta behind your eyelids. You moan.

It's not a protest.

There is no condom. There is no lube. You take it like the champ you are, riding that sharp edge between too much and more than you can bear, face wet against old fabric. Breath harsh and heavy like a sob. When he pushes you out of the cab, you're leaking blue-collar jizz and still hard, but at least he cuts you loose before he drives off.

You push yourself to your knees and jerk off. Your mouth tastes foul and your ass is still bare, but when you roll onto your back on the gritty asphalt, you see the stars, you breathe the crisp night air, and you feel at peace.




In group, they ask you all about your first sexual experiences, and a lot of the others cry. They confess and they cry for themselves and each other, and you pity them. If you were a crier you might cry, too. For them. The world can be horrible when you don't have a soft place to fall.

One of them cries for you when you say that the first time you were fucked you were thirteen. She was crying already, but your statement brings forth a fresh sob, and it makes you uncomfortable. Like it's something to cry about. He was eighteen. It was your idea. It didn't hurt and you didn't feel dirty, just kind of. Empty, like.

You mean it as a good thing, like relief and serenity, but when you say that, the woman in the corner chokes wetly and shakes her head in sorrow.




The first day you're sprung from the Funny Farm, you go out cruising. It's all you can think about in the car, need more suffocating than the tense silence between your parents. They pick you up like a child from sleepaway camp. Because you like to be fucked and fucked hard, you're less of a man. Less capable of operating heavy machinery. They're reluctant to drop you off at your own place, though it's actually theirs. You're a grown man but it's easy to live this way. The illusion of an independent life with none of the hard decisions.

Your mother clings without touching. Your father says nothing. His silence is thick and substantial. There is fury in the way he won't acknowledge your presence.

His disapproval is a boulder on your chest, only outweighed by your own resentment.




It's a place you don't go unless you're serious. You don't dig the yes-master vibe, don't want to be owned or spanked, just. Hurt. It's a place for emergencies, when you can't risk coming up empty-handed. When you can't stomach the motions of identifying one that will give you what you need.

Here, you look at someone and know. It simplifies things. You just have to know the language.

You don't dance, you don't mingle. You don't do anything to invite more preamble than necessary. You make yourself a sitting duck, passive and twitchy and not trying to hide either of those things. Broadcasting them.

Plenty get the signal, but there's one that rings Jackpot. He doesn't talk at you and he doesn't puff up. Just stands over your shoulder, solid, until you look. Scruffy beard and rough hands and an understated interpretation of the dress code, you're pretty sure he'd rather fuck you than flog you.

"What are you looking for, kid?"

He's looking for a run-down of kinks and preferences, but none of that really matters. "Relief," you say. Yeah, that's it exactly.

He turns and walks away, and you follow him out.

You take his car. It's better all around if he never sees yours.

His eyes fall on you clinically for a moment as he waits to turn into traffic. "You're not BDSM."

It's less a question than an observation. "No." You're not, really. But it doesn't look like he is, either.

You make it all the way to his bedroom without speaking, and your skin crawls with the restlessness of it. It's not the silence you mind so much as the stillness. He doesn't do anything. He only gestures with his eyes when he says, "Show me what I'm getting."

It's there, the implication. That he's undecided, sitting in his bedroom and watching you remove your clothes for him. That he might find you lacking. Fucking mind games, when he could be holding you down and making you feel it.

There's a swell of rage but it's been a month and you need this. Need to get it done. Need to feel it, to find that high, to call a cab and sleep off that place.

So you undress, and he doesn't find you lacking. There's an upside-down kind of power in that, but he still doesn't touch you.

"What do you want, kid?"

You think it's a stupid question. It should be fairly obvious. "Make it hurt."

He hums, and you clench your jaw. You should have gone with the bald guy. Would've been more than you wanted, but that's better than less. When he touches your hair his hand is gentle and it's like broken glass grinding in your stomach.

"What's the payoff for you?" His eyes are on yours and his hands are gentle, and you think this one wants to save you. Fucking great.

"Who cares?"

"It's not about the pain," he says, like you never spoke. "So what's your payoff?"

"The orgasm. I came here to get fucked, not analyzed."

"Smart." You're not expecting it, not now. His eyes are strangely compassionate when his claws sink into your scalp and wrench back so quickly that you're forced hard to your knees. "It's not the pain itself, or you'd go the traditional route." He talks as if you aren't between his knees with your neck twisted back to a painful degree. It makes breathing difficult. Your lungs burn and you think, finally. "I think you wanna feel used…the disregard that goes along with a good hurting. Am I getting warm here, sweetheart?"

"Fuck you."

He looks at you, considering. "Yeah, alright. Fuck yourself."

The sudden lack of support makes you clumsy when he leans back, lets go. Your neck aches, muscles burning and you stare at him when he stares at you. Sprawled back on his elbows and waiting.

"I didn't bring you here so I could do all the work. I'm waiting." His voice is a hard line, and you're not sure what just happened but this isn't what you wanted. Suddenly he's sharp, and impatient. "Come on. Move your ass."

Your hands are clumsy on his pants as if you've never done this before and he doesn't do a thing to help. Dead stubborn weight as you work the material down his hips. He folds his arms under his head now and watches smugly as you crawl onto the bed.

"Condoms in the drawer."

You can't remember the last time you were expected to do this. It's all of the horror and none of the payoff, and it's the first time you've been nervous about getting fucked in years. He's just. Looking at you. Just looking. You go easy on the lube and it hurts, big cock burning as you use your weight to drive yourself down, but your head is still noisy. There is no peace. You wonder what he's thinking and if he wants this and why he doesn't say anything, do anything, just lays there and watches you fuck yourself open like it's got nothing to do with him. Like it's got nothing to do with you.

You close your eyes and stroke your dick, and now he speaks. "No. Keep 'em behind your back."

It's a parody of bondage, and you miss that burn. The ache in your shoulders and the cut into your skin. You can't get there yourself. Not the pain, not the angle, not the payoff.

"Harder," he says, and you try but it's not the same. Your head is too full and your breathing's too easy and it's not the same at all. "Harder."

You're off his cock and off the bed before you realize the decision is made. Clothes in one hand and shoes in the other and you're gone, out the door with 411 against your ear.

It's a pretty swank neighborhood, and you kinda hope somebody looks out their window and sees a naked man on this douche's lawn. You hope they assume the worst.




There's a guy you call, when all else fails. You never really need to pay for sex, except when you do.

It's a simple transaction. You give him $5,000. He bangs you till your brains fall out.

Finally, you fall sleep.




It's funny to you that your parents put you in that place hoping for a cure, and a week down, your ass is sorer than it's ever been. It's not weekends or bad days anymore, it's every day. Like you can fuck therapy out of your system. Dive bars and gay bars and redneck bars; alleys, bathrooms, cars, park benches and people's living rooms, company optional. It's bottomless.

You see your friends and fuck a few. When they ask where the hell you've been, you say rehab.

When you say sex rehab, they bray like donkeys.




A few weeks gone and things settle. Slow down. You've been living with a feeling of stark panic that didn't even register until it began to fade. That place. It fucked you up. Too many eyes, but now no one's watching and you can breathe.

Fuck.

They didn't do you any favors by sending you there, and it was such a fucking waste. Of their money. Of your time. It got in your head, and that pisses you off because when it's all said and done, this is who you are. There is no Big Bad Wolf. Just you. Like it or not, this is who you're supposed to be.

And there's that panic again.




Tonight you're not looking for quick and dirty. You want it to last, and you've always found there's nothing for that but upper-upper middle class. Picking someone up in a place like this is always like a job interview where none of the questions mean what they say. You're moving into the qualifying round with a real up-and-comer when a hand lands heavy on your shoulder.

"He's with me."

It doesn't take long to peg him, the guy that wouldn't fuck you. By the time you say "I'm really not," your prospective candidate has fucked off.

Shit. And Mr. Fuck-Yourself isn't even an option.

Still, it's easier not to struggle as the death grip on your bicep ushers you out the side door and into the back lot. There's a moment as you step over the threshold, where his hand slides down towards your wrist and you think, He's going to hold my hand. You've got to be shitting me.

That's before he twists it up between your shoulder blades and shoves you face-first into brick.

"Knew I'd run back into you one of these days. Slut like you, it was bound to happen."

He presses you into the wall with all his weight and your chest burns good. If he pulled you back from it right now there would be a rough imprint all along the side of your face.

It's one quick motion to get his hand down the back of your pants and up, thick finger driving in to the third knuckle with no mercy, and God the pain, white and satisfying.

It's an involuntary spasm to arch away, to snap your hips back deeper. The sound you make is guttural and surprising.

"Is this more what you were looking for?"

Your arm is twisted just a little further and you shudder, eyes rolled back when you nod against the wall. Your voice is just…gone.

"Good." And you're free so suddenly that you stumble. Might have fallen if not for the hand clamping down on the back of your neck, to steady and right. You reach up to brush the grit from your face as he guides you towards the parking lot, and the zing of anticipation is almost unbearable. "Let's try this again."




He's a whole different man than the one you first met.

He trips you, just inside the door. You go down silently, startled beyond sound, and you've barely managed to catch yourself before he's on you, shins pinning the backs of your thighs as your shirt gets yanked inside-out to entangle your arms and trap your head. His hand is too-hot on the back of your neck, and its weight makes you breathe harder, get harder.

"You want this."

It's gruff, with no question mark, but he's still against your back. Too still. You tense and buck, trying to force his hand, but it won't be forced. "Yes. Fucking get on with it."

That must be what he wanted, because your pants are pulled to your knees and his weight is gone.

The press of his knee to the small of your back is too light for your taste but it's momentary—there's the sound of foil and the shuffle of fabric and then he's back, heavy and present. Teeth sharp against the meat of your shoulder. He spreads you and thrusts, fast and hard and all the way so you gasp. Hard enough that your throat feels raw with conditioned air.

His hips hitch roughly, as if he could get deeper, and you try to meet him there and it burns, so fucking good. There's far more slick than you ever use to prevent a trip to the hospital, and that means less pain but more…more when he presses your shoulders into the carpet and snaps his hips, fucking low staccato noises from your body that grow in volume until all you can do is cling to the nap with your fingertips and fucking….

Achieve nirvana. Or something. The death of all thought and feeling and it's the first time you've come during the act in a very long time. He left you no choice.

He's dead weight, after. There's no move towards courtesy, no moving at all, and your shallow breath smells like your own sweat and the cigarette smoke clinging to your shirt. When he finally moves there's the scrape of stubble against the place where he bit you, a zing of pain before he pulls out to leave you empty.

He must hitch his pants back over his hips because when he straddles the backs of your thighs, it's denim, not skin, and the fingers that stroke down your sides are gentle enough to tickle. To make your body spasm with swallowed laughter.

It's a breath of fresh air, literally, when he tugs your shirt back down your body to see your face. Your eyes are closed but you can feel him looking.

"Is it always like that?"

His voice is neutral. You crack an eye open, but twisting your head is not worth the effort. The shrug is so subtle you wonder if you really moved.

"So that kind of thing is what you need."

It raises your hackles, though there's nothing of your father's voice in his tone. You summon the energy to look back and glare, but his expression doesn't change. He just watches you.

You sigh through your nose as you drop back to the carpet.

"How many men are we talking, here."

You grunt. As if you even knew.

"Not very smart."

It's so quiet, he could be talking to himself. You huff out a laugh. When his fingernails scratch over the back of your scalp, you shudder, unsure if it feels bad or good.

The silence settles around you long enough that you start to drift, face in the carpet, a clock ticking too loudly at the edge of your consciousness.

"From now on, it's only me."

You exhale and roll onto your back, and he lets you. Sits on the carpet next to you and looks, maddeningly sure of himself.

Your head is all muzzy, but he said what you think he said. "What?"

"From now on, I'll fuck you. Only me."

You stare at him, face drawing into a frown. You'd be more disturbed if you bought what he was saying.

"You don't care who fucks you."

"No." It sounds defensive, but there's no offense. He's observing, not accusing.

"Well then it's easier if you don't always have to go looking. I'll give you what you need."

You frown at him. Your cock is hanging out and his carpet is covered in jizz and this is all a little much.

He shrugs and stands up. "It's not really a discussion. Let's go to bed."

You should have objections, but you just came and it's easy to let him haul you up and nudge you deeper into the house. You know the way, but he propels you like you don't.

"I'm Jeff, by the way."

He's standing by the bed, and you're too tired to feel all that disgruntled. It's easier to let him think he's gotten his way, for now.

"Jensen."

His mouth tips up into a smile, and then he puts you to bed.


NEXT: the cost of doing business

Date: 2008-06-15 03:07 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] thatotherperv.livejournal.com
it was interesting/intriguing/fascinating to see Jensen's thoughts. Especially since we don't actually *see* his thoughts, not explicitly, not his motivation. You did a skillful job of telling enough and showing enough, and letting the reader fill in the rest.
oh, that makes me so happy! that's something I was really working on, here, and it's really great to hear that you think it paid off.

thank you!

Profile

thatotherperv: (Default)
thatotherperv

August 2014

S M T W T F S
     12
3456789
10111213141516
17181920212223
24252627282930
31      

Most Popular Tags

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags
Page generated Jul. 5th, 2025 01:57 pm
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios