thatotherperv (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
thatotherperv) wrote2008-07-07 09:09 am
thatotherperv) wrote2008-07-07 09:09 am
Entry tags:
easy!verse: the cost of doing business [Jeff/Jensen AU]
Title: the cost of doing business (sequel to easy)
Author: Mel (![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
thatotherperv)
Pairing: Jeff/Jensen, Jensen/OMCs, most definitely NC-17
Length: almost 6,000 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 tomadame_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.
You wake up warm. A body pressed to the front of you and a large hand stroking firmly down your back, and there's kissing. And stubble.
It's pretty good kissing and a pretty good hand, and you've relaxed halfway into the feeling before it dawns on you that nothing about this is normal.
It's a bucket-of-cold-water kind of awake.
The guy that was kissing you is now the guy that is looking at you. Waiting.
Right. Jeff. The one who thinks he can—
You're on your stomach with a dick up your ass, and you forget for a little while why you can't stand this guy.
The next time you wake up you're warm, but this time it's blankets and not body heat.
The place isn't quiet, and you guess that's what woke you up, because it's ten in the morning and this is way too early for you.
You're at that guy's house. There's music, loud but mellow, and an off-key voice that follows along to the beat of banging in the kitchen. For a moment you seriously consider climbing out the window rather than going out there.
It's on the first floor. It would be doable. But that's a little too undignified, even for you.
The house has an open floor plan, so once you leave the shelter of the back hallway there's no sneaking out without Jeff seeing you. And he does, eyes flicking around to appraise you in the clothes you wore last night before settling back to the stove. He himself is half-dressed in that way that speaks of weekend mornings. No shirt, no shoes and jeans worn through from too many washings.
It's the first time you've seen any part of his body exposed beyond what was strictly necessary, and it feels like intruding. Though he has nothing to be ashamed of. His back is…a nice back, and tan like he works outside. Considering he can afford this neighborhood, it's doubtful.
You don't realize how long you've been staring at it till he turns around and gestures with a plate that he sets across from his own.
"Breakfast." Like you're a dog that needs calling.
You're not a big fan of the meal. You hate eggs. And bacon makes you fat. You eat it anyways, because it's there.
You watch him ignoring you studiously. It makes the domestic scene a little less weird, but not by much. You're not sure what the fuck you were thinking, letting him keep you here overnight. Letting him stake a claim like a dog with a goddamn bone.
It's not a discussion.
Right.
Things that seemed acceptable in the wake of an orgasm itch against your skin at ten in the morning. "I think you got the wrong idea."
You don't actually care what kind of idea he has. You're never going to see him again, but that kind of arrogance bears correcting. You have to correct him.
He folds the paper to peer over the top at you before putting it aside for good.
It's the funny pages.
Now that you have his full attention, you falter.
"Don't get me wrong, I like getting, you know...." You make an all-encompassing gesture. It feels wrong to put what you like into words in the broad light of day, over eggs and The Family Circus. "But I don't dig that whole...scene."
He smiles at you with this gentle kind of amusement, more like the first day you met than last night. "I think you're gonna have to lay actual words on me, kiddo."
It grates. It grates worse that you can feel your face heating up as you say it. The actual words. "I don't go in for the whole...sexual slavery game."
His eyebrows shoot up with this grin, like...kids say the darndest things. "Good to know."
"I'm just saying. If you got the impression that just because I like to be thrown around, I want the leash and collar, you thought wrong."
"Good thing I didn't."
"Good thing." Your eyes wander around the kitchen as you try to find your feet, embarrassed. He's laughing at you, with that little grin. You watch him surreptitiously, but he never looks away from your face. "I just thought…. This isn't funny."
"Kinda is, from where I'm standing. Never said I wanted to keep you."
"But you did. When you said you.... You meant you wanted…that, right?"
Jeff takes a sip of his coffee and leaves you to fidget. Then he shrugs. "Not particularly, no. Not my bag."
He's so calm. You don't get it, and you can't erase the frustration. Can't hide it. "Then what do you want." Jackass.
He shrugs, mouth curving in a little smile. His eyes are heavy when they settle on your mouth, and you start to relax. "A repeat of last night would be nice. This morning wasn't half-bad either."
You lean back and look at the wall. There's a cheesy plaque like you can buy at a church fair. Home is where the food is. Inexplicably, it features geese.
"I don't do this. This…." You wave at the kitchen. At the geese. "You're just a one-time fuck."
Your exit isn't rushed this time, but somehow it still feels like running away. You finish the eggs and yeah, the bacon, take the time to put on your shoes and call a cab. Jeff doesn't try to stop you. He sips his coffee and skims the Sports section, and you shouldn't care that he barely looks at you again.
For a little while you stop going out, because you don't want to. The post-rehab binge left you feeling sated, and you give your ass a well-deserved vacation.
You don't see him the next time you go out, or the next, and there are enough strange dicks and sticky floors that you almost forget he exists.
You're at another bar. More like a club. You're drunk and you're high and you're coming out of the bathroom when he steps in front of you. Snags your arm and pulls you towards the exit.
You're not even surprised to see him.
Since you last met, he's lost the urge to be chatty. You get as far as his car before he bends you over the still-warm hood and gives a little push downward that says Stay. He lets go to drop your pants and his, and you don't move away.
He fucks you like he's angry, and maybe he is. Hell if you understand his motivations here, and hell if you care. He has your hands behind your back, wrists cuffed between his fingers, and a vice grip on your cock and balls. The engine really is hot, metal burning against your forehead and you have to grit your teeth to keep quiet, with the way his hips slam against yours.
And if you're honest with yourself, nobody's come close to scratching this itch the way that he does.
You don't get to come. It's almost spiteful, the way he chokes you off until he comes, and you're panting when his grip loosens. His fingers brush your cock with faux-accidental softness when he withdraws, and the shudder it brings is violent and involuntary.
His face is blank when he hauls you up and sets you to rights.
He takes you home and fucks you again. He makes it hurt. You both sleep until the sun sets.
It's only a week later that you see him again. Another bar, another cock-block, another time he drags you back to his cave, and you let him. He finds you again the next night. And again, two weeks after. There are other men in between, some of whom you've fucked on more than one occasion, but that's different. It's not the same as this…thing with Jeff, the way Jeff finds you. With them it's proximity. Convenience. They're trust fund brats like you, or club managers or bartenders or…whatever. People who breathe the same air as you and occasionally use your body while doing so. It's inconsequential.
Jeff…isn't. It isn't the same, and it rolls your stomach. Makes you more than a little uneasy, but you don't stop it. It's not every time you go out, but it happens more and more as time goes on. You grow used to that feeling, the sick of letting him hunt you. Of liking it. You grow used to it, and maybe you're making it easier to be found.
You're hungover at two in the afternoon and you're waiting for a nurse in Pooh-bear scrubs to appear and call your name. The nice thing about this place is that you can show up unshaven with sour breath in the middle of the day and there are no reproving looks from the bedraggled clientele. You've been here before—it's a low-cost clinic but the doctor isn't bad—and you learned to stop going to your own physician with these things when he tried to refer you to a shrink. They don't make those kinds of judgments here. They just kiss your boo-boos and send you on your way, to go play in traffic.
You close your eyes and try not to move too much in your hard plastic chair. It's not just the nausea and the pounding head of your hangover, it's the dull throb in your lower back that turns sharp when you sit up or lay down or…really, move in any way. The wound looked pretty innocuous yesterday morning (for a five-inch laceration), but now it's angry and there's pus, and how the fuck did you flay yourself open like that, anyway?
You don't really remember that much about Tuesday. You're pretty sure you were with these pricks you knew at Jesuit, confirmed by how sore you were the next morning—they're just as dickweedish now as they were in high school. You woke up with a few nasty bruises and this cut that made itself known as soon as the shower water hit your back.
The chick that calls you is decked out in balloons, not bears, and she doesn't bother with false cheer as she leads you to room ten but she hisses sympathetically when you lift your shirt. From there it's a series of questions you can only half-answer.
It happened Tuesday night. You cleaned it the next morning, sort of. No, you don't know how it happened. No, you don't know if it was inflicted by metal or if you exchanged of blood with someone else.
Yes, you had sex that night; yes it was consensual. No, you don't know if you used protection. Yes, you do use protection…most times. No, you don't know the last time you were screened for sexually transmitted diseases.
Yes, you use alcohol. Five, six times a week? Yes, you use narcotics. You don't know, occasionally. Yes, you were probably using both the night it happened. You were drunk, for sure.
She just nods, and writes it all down on a chart. When she leaves, you close your eyes and stop being conscious for a while.
The doctor, when she arrives, is just as efficient and opinionless. She has a light touch, but whatever she has to do to your back hurts like a bitch. You don't look, because you're feeling green already, and she explains what she's doing in a lightly accented murmur but you tune it out. Focus on the churn of your stomach every time she probes at the wound.
There's anger lodged in your gut, and it feels alien and unwelcome. You don't know what your problem is, but you're so pissed off. Irrationally angry that you're here in this crappy exam room being stitched back together because someone else didn't make sure you didn't get hurt as they fucked you into oblivion.
Cuts and bruises have never been the goal of your lifestyle so much as an inevitable consequence, but you accepted them as the cost of doing business long ago. It's the price you pay, and you choose to live like this, so there's no sense getting bent out of shape about it, and there's sure as hell no sense in blaming someone else for it. But today, you are. You do.
You resent it so hard it burns, and this is all Jeff's fucking fault. Fucking Jeff, who's so good at pushing your buttons that he doesn't even have to resort to that kind of violence. Who's so fucking particular about how he hurts you, and how much.
And you're pissed off at him that you're pissed off at him. You haven't gone out in a week, calling up friends and friends of friends in an attempt to avoid him, and you hate him a little for being something that you have to avoid in the first place. Something that makes everything else seem like not quite enough. Something that you might come to need.
He's domesticating you and you hate that but you're letting him. You tell yourself it's a calculated decision. It has to be. Like everything else, you're complicit, so there's no room to sob poor-you. That's not your style. You just have to accept that this is the new cost of doing business, and move the fuck on.
You give blood for an STD screen and pay cash for their time and the bloodwork and the tetanus shot you got in the ass. On the way home, you pick up ten days' worth of antibiotics that you aren't supposed to take with alcohol, but probably will.
The next night you let Jeff find you and fuck you, and afterwards he runs his thumb gingerly next to the butterfly bandages holding you together, but he doesn't ask what happened. You pretend to be asleep when he kisses your shoulder, and when your stomach gurgles with upset, you tell yourself it's the new cost of doing business and it's not better or worse than the old one. Just different.
Eventually it'll blow up in your face, but doesn't it always?
Jeff's not particularly the exhibitionist type. He's not shy about fucking in semi-public places, where anyone can walk by and see, but he doesn't want it, not like you. Not out in the open, where everyone will see. Where you can feel everyone wanting you. Judging you.
It's what you want tonight. He's been relentless, lately, and you haven't fucked anyone else in weeks. You're twisted up so tight you might just snap, and he won't follow you here. You don't think. You wonder what would happen if he did. You wonder if you'd ever see him again, after that.
It's a place utterly without pretense. You like that, sometimes. You'd come here more often, but the guys are never rough enough. That's not their kink, so you save it for when that doesn't matter as much. For when you just need to be seen.
You check your clothes at the door. Club policy, saves on dry-cleaning. Inside there's no dance floor—just men, fucking.
It doesn't take you long to pick one out, because it doesn't matter who. You're in no mood to be choosy, any dick'll do. You find one that's available and you get to work.
And it's good. He smells different than Jeff. Tastes different. He's smaller, but it means you can really get the job done. You swallow again, and again, until he's practically sobbing. It draws attention. It's drawing eyes, and even though he won't do it, won't give in to what his hips want and fuck your face, those eyes are compensation. It's almost enough. Almost, almost, almost.
Except his hands are too gentle. Fucking timid. He looks at the ceiling and pets over your head but he won't grab, not even a little. It frustrates you. You try to force him. Pull off and stay loose at the head. Refuse to move. All that does is backfire, because although his hips twitch, he starts to beg.
You lever yourself to your feet and walk away, wiping your mouth.
The next time, you preface the blowjob with your terms. Look him in the eye and say, "fuck my face," and he does not object. He's doing a pretty decent job of it, too, but you've barely started when a rougher hand twists into your hair and gives a sharp yank backwards.
"Sorry I'm late, sweetheart."
The other guy fucks off fast, and the frustration of that butts up against satisfaction because Jeff looks pissed. Pissed like you haven't seen since that night on the car. He's been looking for you. It couldn't have been too long, because this is right near where he found you last, but it was obviously too long for him.
When he reaches for his belt, you realize that he's still dressed. Against club policy.
Tonight he's on the far side of careless, but that's where you wanted him to be. You're sitting back on your heels when he pushes against you, through your lips and straight to the back of your throat. You're barely able to keep your balance when he begins thrusting, and his disregard for that is a palpable thing.
Your fingers curl against his hips, hook into his front pockets and cling, and it's hard to time your breath because there's no steady rhythm. He's hard to predict from one thrust to the next. You just breathe erratically and sometimes you choke, sometimes you don't. It's out of your hands. Your fingers curl into tight fists anyway as part of your brain shuts down.
He hammers at your throat. You look up once, when the hand in your hair demands it, but his eyes are too intense to meet. And then you're yanked back, almost flailing for balance, and he's coming in your eye.
Son of a bitch. It stings like a motherfucker. Jeff's hand abandons you with a soft curse and you balance yourself against the sticky floor, eyes closed and tears leaking.
Jeff has to pry your hand away to wipe off the worst of it with his thumb, and then there's cloth against your face, in your hand. You let him steady you while you curse and weep and scrub cotton against your eye.
And you know it's his laugh before you ever look up. It sounds like him—large and unreserved. You hate him for the five seconds it takes to slip into a register suspiciously like a giggle, and then a laugh bursts out of your own chest. Just…ridiculous. And once you start, you can't stop. You laugh until you cry enough to wash out the spunk, and then you laugh some more. Your stomach hurts by the time you wind down, and he's leaning heavily on your shoulder, winded.
When you finally wipe away the moisture and look up, Jeff is grinning. Shirtless. Everyone else is staring, security on stand-by. He hauls you up to your feet and rests a hand on the back of your neck.
The look on his face twists you up far worse than his anger. "I'm double-parked, come on."
Everyone watches as you go.
You meet him outside after a quick trip to the bathroom. He parked across the back of a row of cars, blocking yours in, headlights still on like he was in a hurry. You feel better after splashing your face, but your eye still burns like it'll be bloodshot tomorrow.
He studies you over his car's roof.
"I have iced tea at home. Should soothe your throat."
And yeah, in the crisis of come-in-eye, you forgot about that. When you swallow, you know that's gonna bruise. He did a number on you, but looking at him now, you wonder if he was ever really angry in the first place.
"Sounds good."
You forgo your own vehicle, and get in his.
You've been fucking for a good six months before you show him where you live. Six months of meeting up by chance, and you can no longer be bothered with the ruse. Coy doesn't suit someone who gets around as much as you do, and there's no convenience in fucking one guy this many times if you've never even exchanged phone numbers.
He's never asked, but you know that's all you. You know that, to a certain extent, he's been playing by your rules.
When you step off the elevator into your place, Jeff is still and silent. Hands in his pockets, looking. You've grown used to that, used to him, but this is something new he's seeing, and you wonder what he thinks. You look around and it all seems like overpriced bullshit, right down to the fact that you live in the penthouse. He wanders around the living room and looks at your belongings, picking things up and setting them down. Judging you.
"Little showy."
It's the understatement of the fucking year, but your stomach churns at the tone of his voice. It's unpleasant, feeling his disapproval. Also new. He never talks about you, one way or the other, so you figure you're balance-neutral in his book. Just there. For him to fuck.
You think you prefer it that way. You don't love this place, but you don't like him criticizing.
"I'll be sure to alert my interior decorator."
Jeff smiles but doesn't take the bait. He wanders towards the kitchen. "Put your claws away, sweetheart. I'm just making conversation."
"Maybe I don't want conversation."
You follow. He's staring down into your fridge, dispassionately cataloguing your eating habits. It grates on your nerves.
"If I knew you were this easily distracted, I would have made you fuck me in the car."
His eyebrow says, Made me? His mouth says, "I'm not distracted. You just seemed twitchy."
There's no point in arguing when he thinks he's funny. Days like these, it's easier to just play possum until he's done toying with you.
He mirrors your position against the counter, leans on the table and crosses his arms. There's a shadow of kindness behind the patience on his face. More than a little amusement. There's more than a little loathing on yours. You look away.
"So…gonna make me?"
It's smug, and there are shades of that first meeting (fuck yourself) that haven't been put on the table since. You're still not interested. You remember that first time, feel echoes of that panic. Back then you didn't even know him. Now that you do, the memory sours worse in your stomach.
You have to walk by him to get out of the kitchen but he doesn't budge. You knock shoulders with his on the way out.
He doesn't follow you as you retreat, down the hall and through the bedroom to the en suite. The lock snaps loud. You're not even sure what you're supposed to do now that you're here, but you feel better for having that barrier between you. Maybe it was a bad idea, bringing him here. There's a reason you never bring the action home, and this is it.
He gets to have opinions, now.
You lean against the marble counter. Turn on the faucet just to hear it run, and you look at your reflection and think, you are ridiculous. You're fucking ridiculous. Locking yourself in the bathroom. You're not even sure why he intimidates you.
So he thinks you're a spoiled brat with no taste. So what? So he expects something you're not capable of giving him. He's hardly the first.
And it figures that he's standing in your bedroom when you release the lock and let yourself out. He looks so wrong there among your private possessions that you almost duck back and slam the door, but you don't. There are some levels of mortification even you can't subject yourself to.
"Truce," he says. His arms are crossed over his chest, and he makes no gesture of surrender, but you wouldn't want one anyway. It's a good word, truce. Not a compromise. Just a retreat to the status quo.
So when he fucks you, it's a little brutal. Hard enough that staying on your hands and knees is difficult because the mattress gives, yields to the hard knock of bodies and tries to pitch you face-forward. He's immovable. His hands are bruising on your hips, shoving you forward and yanking you back until you fold to your elbows to brace yourself better. Make it easier to withstand.
You give in to the terrible weight of your head and drop it, cradle it against your forearms and your breathing turns noisy so close to the bedspread. Almost claustrophobic. You try to grab onto some kind of good feeling with both hands but all you get is the covers, because there's nothing else. You're not liking this. There's nothing wrong with it; he's doing everything he should, but it's not…. You can't slide into that groove. Can't slide into who you're supposed to be, here. The sheets smell like you, but tomorrow they'll smell like him. When did you let him in like this? You can't remember.
You push yourself to your knees so abruptly that you both unbalance, and the arm he throws around your middle is to keep himself upright more than anything. But as soon as you move to scramble away, the other clamps down on your chest to keep you from going.
"Woah, woah, woah. What happened? You—" His breath whooshes out with one petty shot to the solar plexus before he pins your other elbow.
Your struggle is half-hearted and you both know it. He often looms large but you're matched for size, and you could break away if you really wanted to. If you wanted to, you could break his nose right now, but you know you won't.
You can't.
You're so angry with him. It burns in your chest, how much you want him out. Just. Out. Your body, your bedroom, your life. Get out. But the words all stick in your throat, jagged and foreign, and your breath sounds panicked to your own ears, trying to get around them. He must hear it too, because his arms loosen up to give the trapped air someplace to go.
"You ok?" He's very still. Too kind. All the pretense of authority is gone from his voice, and it strangles you. "Jen? Jensen?"
I hate you. I hate you. The words press in on you like panic, and for a moment you imagine the freedom of saying them and meaning it. Saying them and not being sorry. But you can't, and what comes out is muffled and different.
He breathes against your ear. "…Sorry?"
You feel sick.
"I don't like you," you say, louder this time. "I don't like you." It's childish. "I don't."
"Okay," he says, and there's a pause like he's handling live explosives. Do I cut the green wire, or the blue?
Your stomach churns while you wait for him to decide if you're even worth the trouble. You wish you could take it back. You wish you had just ridden it out, put up with it, because he would have been done by now and then he would have gone to sleep and you wouldn't be having this conversation. You don't want to have this conversation. You wonder what he would do if you just got back down on your elbows. If he would just let it go and forget you ever said anything. Fuck you and go to sleep.
But you don't think so. It's about time for him to throw you away.
When he strokes your stomach, you flinch. He sighs out through his nose and squeezes down a little tighter.
"Jensen, I'm not mad," he murmurs, and that's worse, somehow. That's terrible. You don't want that…that pity, and that's what it is. Because eventually that'll give out, and you can't keep waiting for this other shoe to drop. It's killing you.
You just want him to forget about it. You're so stupid.
Sometimes it seems like you've been distracting people with your body your whole life. It's your very best weapon, and when you grind back into his lap, his desperate groan is a foregone conclusion. He says your name sharp, like a warning, but he doesn't stop you from repeating the maneuver. He just lets you ride him, sinking back against his heels and hardening again as you make tight little circles on his cock. It makes you more naked than you've ever been, but as a diversion, it's working.
It's not until you rise up that you realize this is what he wanted from you. You drop your weight back down, grind back like you need it, and he shudders. All this time you've been fighting it, when it was this easy. To give Jeff what he needs. To keep him happy. Just writhe on his lap and pretend to enjoy it. You find a rhythm, ignore the burn in your thighs, roll your hips against his. It's good for him, you can tell. By the way he's breathing sloppily against your neck. By the artless way he applies his teeth. You squeeze your eyes shut, heart pounding with more than just effort, and you're so glad he can't see your face. It makes this bearable.
"Jen…."
It's a gentle, familiar syllable, and the next breath you draw is ragged. He loosens his grip and rolls his forehead against your shoulder, hands slicking down to your hips on a film of sweat. You can feel your abdominals flinch when his hands don't grip. He just fingers the skin there that's thin over bone, and moves on. The flat of his hand settles on the vulnerable hollow of your navel and you bite your lip, body bucking him involuntarily towards your cock. That would be easier. Instead he strokes your thigh like he's soothing you.
You go at him harder. There's no stability at this pace and his hands clutch by necessity, to keep you upright and moving. Your own hand closes roughly at the base of his skull, pulling short hair to dig at his scalp. The sound he makes pits your chest hollower. You're so exhausted that you don't know how to keep going, but he's close and getting closer. So you dig in and keep going. Just a little longer.
Your lungs collapse when he grabs your cock. Strips hard and fast until your teeth grind, and the last few snaps of your hips are like seizures, involuntary and about as pleasant. Even after you come, your body keeps bucking, through his orgasm and the stilling of his body, like someone is shocking you with a live wire and just won't stop. You're painfully sensitive. Jeff breathes hard against your shoulder and strokes you down. He kneads your thighs with the heels of his hands, tetanized muscle loosening. Giving.
His lips brush your shoulder and you jerk away, shuffle off his lap and shiver. You have no control over your fucking body, like it's not your own. "I'm gonna go shower," you mumble. Your legs are jelly but you make it halfway there before he calls you back.
"Jensen."
Your gut says flee but there's enough iron in the word to draw you back. Reluctantly.
He kisses you. Yanks your head down to his level and thank God it's nothing tender, but it's lips on lips, and he doesn't let go right after. Just stares like he sees right through you, and says "Are you coming back?"
It's not a demand, and that shakes you. Your hand is trembling a little when it comes up to wipe your mouth, head twisting out of his grasp. "My room," you say like nothing's wrong. You just want to be gone, behind a locked door, and this is the easiest way. "I just need a shower. And a smoke."
He sees too much, fucking always, but he nods and collapses back on your pillow, condom snapping off a split second before the click of the lock on the bathroom door.
You don't think in the shower. You don't think. The water is too hot and you're already warm with exertion, but you need it that way. You stand there forever, just stand like bathing is besides the point, and it eases your muscles until the periodic shudders fade. Until you have a handle on the panic that came from whatever the hell that was.
You don't look to see if Jeff is awake when you emerge. You ignore the bed, retrieving your dwindling pack and lighter on the way to the balcony. You never go out there, but you need the air. It's relatively warm, even though it's late.
You take a draw off your cigarette. Dig your knuckles at the beginning of a headache behind your temple. The nicotine won't help, but fuck it. The mechanics of smoking forces a sense of calm. The repetitive motion, the deliberately slow breaths. By the end of your first, you feel a little more on top of things. The anxiety of moments ago seems distant and silly.
You're such a fucking mess sometimes. Jumping at shadows. Jeff makes it better, but he also makes it worse, and you're unable to decide if it's smart, what you're doing with him. It's like you're waiting for a clear reason to get out, but he won't give you one.
Even that, in there. What just happened. He wanted to be fucked like that, with you driving, but you chose to do it. He didn't even ask.
Ok, he did, but then he folded, so that doesn't count. You did it. To make things easier. A brief unpleasant task in exchange for what you needed. It's fucking with your head, but you can put on the occasional show.
But it'll have to be on your terms. And if he doesn't like it, fuck'im. You can find somebody who'll take you without all this bullshit. Without having to worry about what they want from you.
Thinking about it makes you tired. You've used up your share of adrenaline for the night (on nothing), and by the time your second cigarette is burning your fingertips, you're too exhausted to fight with yourself any longer. Maybe Jeff is a bad idea, but you don't owe him anything, and you can always walk away later.
Chances are, he'll pretend nothing odd happened tonight. Then you can pretend, too.
Your eyes have to adjust when you sneak back into your room, dark after the artificial brightness of night in the city. You stand a little ways out from the bed and watch to see if Jeff moves. You think he's asleep. You can't even detect the slow rise and fall of his breath beneath the covers.
You stare long enough, and he proves you wrong. Throws back the sheets on the side closest to you, and you hold your breath.
When you get in, he rolls away to face the wall, and with an exhale of relief, you let yourself drift down into sleep.
NEXT: new world order
Author: Mel (
thatotherperv)Pairing: Jeff/Jensen, Jensen/OMCs, most definitely NC-17
Length: almost 6,000 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.You wake up warm. A body pressed to the front of you and a large hand stroking firmly down your back, and there's kissing. And stubble.
It's pretty good kissing and a pretty good hand, and you've relaxed halfway into the feeling before it dawns on you that nothing about this is normal.
It's a bucket-of-cold-water kind of awake.
The guy that was kissing you is now the guy that is looking at you. Waiting.
Right. Jeff. The one who thinks he can—
You're on your stomach with a dick up your ass, and you forget for a little while why you can't stand this guy.
The next time you wake up you're warm, but this time it's blankets and not body heat.
The place isn't quiet, and you guess that's what woke you up, because it's ten in the morning and this is way too early for you.
You're at that guy's house. There's music, loud but mellow, and an off-key voice that follows along to the beat of banging in the kitchen. For a moment you seriously consider climbing out the window rather than going out there.
It's on the first floor. It would be doable. But that's a little too undignified, even for you.
The house has an open floor plan, so once you leave the shelter of the back hallway there's no sneaking out without Jeff seeing you. And he does, eyes flicking around to appraise you in the clothes you wore last night before settling back to the stove. He himself is half-dressed in that way that speaks of weekend mornings. No shirt, no shoes and jeans worn through from too many washings.
It's the first time you've seen any part of his body exposed beyond what was strictly necessary, and it feels like intruding. Though he has nothing to be ashamed of. His back is…a nice back, and tan like he works outside. Considering he can afford this neighborhood, it's doubtful.
You don't realize how long you've been staring at it till he turns around and gestures with a plate that he sets across from his own.
"Breakfast." Like you're a dog that needs calling.
You're not a big fan of the meal. You hate eggs. And bacon makes you fat. You eat it anyways, because it's there.
You watch him ignoring you studiously. It makes the domestic scene a little less weird, but not by much. You're not sure what the fuck you were thinking, letting him keep you here overnight. Letting him stake a claim like a dog with a goddamn bone.
It's not a discussion.
Right.
Things that seemed acceptable in the wake of an orgasm itch against your skin at ten in the morning. "I think you got the wrong idea."
You don't actually care what kind of idea he has. You're never going to see him again, but that kind of arrogance bears correcting. You have to correct him.
He folds the paper to peer over the top at you before putting it aside for good.
It's the funny pages.
Now that you have his full attention, you falter.
"Don't get me wrong, I like getting, you know...." You make an all-encompassing gesture. It feels wrong to put what you like into words in the broad light of day, over eggs and The Family Circus. "But I don't dig that whole...scene."
He smiles at you with this gentle kind of amusement, more like the first day you met than last night. "I think you're gonna have to lay actual words on me, kiddo."
It grates. It grates worse that you can feel your face heating up as you say it. The actual words. "I don't go in for the whole...sexual slavery game."
His eyebrows shoot up with this grin, like...kids say the darndest things. "Good to know."
"I'm just saying. If you got the impression that just because I like to be thrown around, I want the leash and collar, you thought wrong."
"Good thing I didn't."
"Good thing." Your eyes wander around the kitchen as you try to find your feet, embarrassed. He's laughing at you, with that little grin. You watch him surreptitiously, but he never looks away from your face. "I just thought…. This isn't funny."
"Kinda is, from where I'm standing. Never said I wanted to keep you."
"But you did. When you said you.... You meant you wanted…that, right?"
Jeff takes a sip of his coffee and leaves you to fidget. Then he shrugs. "Not particularly, no. Not my bag."
He's so calm. You don't get it, and you can't erase the frustration. Can't hide it. "Then what do you want." Jackass.
He shrugs, mouth curving in a little smile. His eyes are heavy when they settle on your mouth, and you start to relax. "A repeat of last night would be nice. This morning wasn't half-bad either."
You lean back and look at the wall. There's a cheesy plaque like you can buy at a church fair. Home is where the food is. Inexplicably, it features geese.
"I don't do this. This…." You wave at the kitchen. At the geese. "You're just a one-time fuck."
Your exit isn't rushed this time, but somehow it still feels like running away. You finish the eggs and yeah, the bacon, take the time to put on your shoes and call a cab. Jeff doesn't try to stop you. He sips his coffee and skims the Sports section, and you shouldn't care that he barely looks at you again.
For a little while you stop going out, because you don't want to. The post-rehab binge left you feeling sated, and you give your ass a well-deserved vacation.
You don't see him the next time you go out, or the next, and there are enough strange dicks and sticky floors that you almost forget he exists.
You're at another bar. More like a club. You're drunk and you're high and you're coming out of the bathroom when he steps in front of you. Snags your arm and pulls you towards the exit.
You're not even surprised to see him.
Since you last met, he's lost the urge to be chatty. You get as far as his car before he bends you over the still-warm hood and gives a little push downward that says Stay. He lets go to drop your pants and his, and you don't move away.
He fucks you like he's angry, and maybe he is. Hell if you understand his motivations here, and hell if you care. He has your hands behind your back, wrists cuffed between his fingers, and a vice grip on your cock and balls. The engine really is hot, metal burning against your forehead and you have to grit your teeth to keep quiet, with the way his hips slam against yours.
And if you're honest with yourself, nobody's come close to scratching this itch the way that he does.
You don't get to come. It's almost spiteful, the way he chokes you off until he comes, and you're panting when his grip loosens. His fingers brush your cock with faux-accidental softness when he withdraws, and the shudder it brings is violent and involuntary.
His face is blank when he hauls you up and sets you to rights.
He takes you home and fucks you again. He makes it hurt. You both sleep until the sun sets.
It's only a week later that you see him again. Another bar, another cock-block, another time he drags you back to his cave, and you let him. He finds you again the next night. And again, two weeks after. There are other men in between, some of whom you've fucked on more than one occasion, but that's different. It's not the same as this…thing with Jeff, the way Jeff finds you. With them it's proximity. Convenience. They're trust fund brats like you, or club managers or bartenders or…whatever. People who breathe the same air as you and occasionally use your body while doing so. It's inconsequential.
Jeff…isn't. It isn't the same, and it rolls your stomach. Makes you more than a little uneasy, but you don't stop it. It's not every time you go out, but it happens more and more as time goes on. You grow used to that feeling, the sick of letting him hunt you. Of liking it. You grow used to it, and maybe you're making it easier to be found.
You're hungover at two in the afternoon and you're waiting for a nurse in Pooh-bear scrubs to appear and call your name. The nice thing about this place is that you can show up unshaven with sour breath in the middle of the day and there are no reproving looks from the bedraggled clientele. You've been here before—it's a low-cost clinic but the doctor isn't bad—and you learned to stop going to your own physician with these things when he tried to refer you to a shrink. They don't make those kinds of judgments here. They just kiss your boo-boos and send you on your way, to go play in traffic.
You close your eyes and try not to move too much in your hard plastic chair. It's not just the nausea and the pounding head of your hangover, it's the dull throb in your lower back that turns sharp when you sit up or lay down or…really, move in any way. The wound looked pretty innocuous yesterday morning (for a five-inch laceration), but now it's angry and there's pus, and how the fuck did you flay yourself open like that, anyway?
You don't really remember that much about Tuesday. You're pretty sure you were with these pricks you knew at Jesuit, confirmed by how sore you were the next morning—they're just as dickweedish now as they were in high school. You woke up with a few nasty bruises and this cut that made itself known as soon as the shower water hit your back.
The chick that calls you is decked out in balloons, not bears, and she doesn't bother with false cheer as she leads you to room ten but she hisses sympathetically when you lift your shirt. From there it's a series of questions you can only half-answer.
It happened Tuesday night. You cleaned it the next morning, sort of. No, you don't know how it happened. No, you don't know if it was inflicted by metal or if you exchanged of blood with someone else.
Yes, you had sex that night; yes it was consensual. No, you don't know if you used protection. Yes, you do use protection…most times. No, you don't know the last time you were screened for sexually transmitted diseases.
Yes, you use alcohol. Five, six times a week? Yes, you use narcotics. You don't know, occasionally. Yes, you were probably using both the night it happened. You were drunk, for sure.
She just nods, and writes it all down on a chart. When she leaves, you close your eyes and stop being conscious for a while.
The doctor, when she arrives, is just as efficient and opinionless. She has a light touch, but whatever she has to do to your back hurts like a bitch. You don't look, because you're feeling green already, and she explains what she's doing in a lightly accented murmur but you tune it out. Focus on the churn of your stomach every time she probes at the wound.
There's anger lodged in your gut, and it feels alien and unwelcome. You don't know what your problem is, but you're so pissed off. Irrationally angry that you're here in this crappy exam room being stitched back together because someone else didn't make sure you didn't get hurt as they fucked you into oblivion.
Cuts and bruises have never been the goal of your lifestyle so much as an inevitable consequence, but you accepted them as the cost of doing business long ago. It's the price you pay, and you choose to live like this, so there's no sense getting bent out of shape about it, and there's sure as hell no sense in blaming someone else for it. But today, you are. You do.
You resent it so hard it burns, and this is all Jeff's fucking fault. Fucking Jeff, who's so good at pushing your buttons that he doesn't even have to resort to that kind of violence. Who's so fucking particular about how he hurts you, and how much.
And you're pissed off at him that you're pissed off at him. You haven't gone out in a week, calling up friends and friends of friends in an attempt to avoid him, and you hate him a little for being something that you have to avoid in the first place. Something that makes everything else seem like not quite enough. Something that you might come to need.
He's domesticating you and you hate that but you're letting him. You tell yourself it's a calculated decision. It has to be. Like everything else, you're complicit, so there's no room to sob poor-you. That's not your style. You just have to accept that this is the new cost of doing business, and move the fuck on.
You give blood for an STD screen and pay cash for their time and the bloodwork and the tetanus shot you got in the ass. On the way home, you pick up ten days' worth of antibiotics that you aren't supposed to take with alcohol, but probably will.
The next night you let Jeff find you and fuck you, and afterwards he runs his thumb gingerly next to the butterfly bandages holding you together, but he doesn't ask what happened. You pretend to be asleep when he kisses your shoulder, and when your stomach gurgles with upset, you tell yourself it's the new cost of doing business and it's not better or worse than the old one. Just different.
Eventually it'll blow up in your face, but doesn't it always?
Jeff's not particularly the exhibitionist type. He's not shy about fucking in semi-public places, where anyone can walk by and see, but he doesn't want it, not like you. Not out in the open, where everyone will see. Where you can feel everyone wanting you. Judging you.
It's what you want tonight. He's been relentless, lately, and you haven't fucked anyone else in weeks. You're twisted up so tight you might just snap, and he won't follow you here. You don't think. You wonder what would happen if he did. You wonder if you'd ever see him again, after that.
It's a place utterly without pretense. You like that, sometimes. You'd come here more often, but the guys are never rough enough. That's not their kink, so you save it for when that doesn't matter as much. For when you just need to be seen.
You check your clothes at the door. Club policy, saves on dry-cleaning. Inside there's no dance floor—just men, fucking.
It doesn't take you long to pick one out, because it doesn't matter who. You're in no mood to be choosy, any dick'll do. You find one that's available and you get to work.
And it's good. He smells different than Jeff. Tastes different. He's smaller, but it means you can really get the job done. You swallow again, and again, until he's practically sobbing. It draws attention. It's drawing eyes, and even though he won't do it, won't give in to what his hips want and fuck your face, those eyes are compensation. It's almost enough. Almost, almost, almost.
Except his hands are too gentle. Fucking timid. He looks at the ceiling and pets over your head but he won't grab, not even a little. It frustrates you. You try to force him. Pull off and stay loose at the head. Refuse to move. All that does is backfire, because although his hips twitch, he starts to beg.
You lever yourself to your feet and walk away, wiping your mouth.
The next time, you preface the blowjob with your terms. Look him in the eye and say, "fuck my face," and he does not object. He's doing a pretty decent job of it, too, but you've barely started when a rougher hand twists into your hair and gives a sharp yank backwards.
"Sorry I'm late, sweetheart."
The other guy fucks off fast, and the frustration of that butts up against satisfaction because Jeff looks pissed. Pissed like you haven't seen since that night on the car. He's been looking for you. It couldn't have been too long, because this is right near where he found you last, but it was obviously too long for him.
When he reaches for his belt, you realize that he's still dressed. Against club policy.
Tonight he's on the far side of careless, but that's where you wanted him to be. You're sitting back on your heels when he pushes against you, through your lips and straight to the back of your throat. You're barely able to keep your balance when he begins thrusting, and his disregard for that is a palpable thing.
Your fingers curl against his hips, hook into his front pockets and cling, and it's hard to time your breath because there's no steady rhythm. He's hard to predict from one thrust to the next. You just breathe erratically and sometimes you choke, sometimes you don't. It's out of your hands. Your fingers curl into tight fists anyway as part of your brain shuts down.
He hammers at your throat. You look up once, when the hand in your hair demands it, but his eyes are too intense to meet. And then you're yanked back, almost flailing for balance, and he's coming in your eye.
Son of a bitch. It stings like a motherfucker. Jeff's hand abandons you with a soft curse and you balance yourself against the sticky floor, eyes closed and tears leaking.
Jeff has to pry your hand away to wipe off the worst of it with his thumb, and then there's cloth against your face, in your hand. You let him steady you while you curse and weep and scrub cotton against your eye.
And you know it's his laugh before you ever look up. It sounds like him—large and unreserved. You hate him for the five seconds it takes to slip into a register suspiciously like a giggle, and then a laugh bursts out of your own chest. Just…ridiculous. And once you start, you can't stop. You laugh until you cry enough to wash out the spunk, and then you laugh some more. Your stomach hurts by the time you wind down, and he's leaning heavily on your shoulder, winded.
When you finally wipe away the moisture and look up, Jeff is grinning. Shirtless. Everyone else is staring, security on stand-by. He hauls you up to your feet and rests a hand on the back of your neck.
The look on his face twists you up far worse than his anger. "I'm double-parked, come on."
Everyone watches as you go.
You meet him outside after a quick trip to the bathroom. He parked across the back of a row of cars, blocking yours in, headlights still on like he was in a hurry. You feel better after splashing your face, but your eye still burns like it'll be bloodshot tomorrow.
He studies you over his car's roof.
"I have iced tea at home. Should soothe your throat."
And yeah, in the crisis of come-in-eye, you forgot about that. When you swallow, you know that's gonna bruise. He did a number on you, but looking at him now, you wonder if he was ever really angry in the first place.
"Sounds good."
You forgo your own vehicle, and get in his.
You've been fucking for a good six months before you show him where you live. Six months of meeting up by chance, and you can no longer be bothered with the ruse. Coy doesn't suit someone who gets around as much as you do, and there's no convenience in fucking one guy this many times if you've never even exchanged phone numbers.
He's never asked, but you know that's all you. You know that, to a certain extent, he's been playing by your rules.
When you step off the elevator into your place, Jeff is still and silent. Hands in his pockets, looking. You've grown used to that, used to him, but this is something new he's seeing, and you wonder what he thinks. You look around and it all seems like overpriced bullshit, right down to the fact that you live in the penthouse. He wanders around the living room and looks at your belongings, picking things up and setting them down. Judging you.
"Little showy."
It's the understatement of the fucking year, but your stomach churns at the tone of his voice. It's unpleasant, feeling his disapproval. Also new. He never talks about you, one way or the other, so you figure you're balance-neutral in his book. Just there. For him to fuck.
You think you prefer it that way. You don't love this place, but you don't like him criticizing.
"I'll be sure to alert my interior decorator."
Jeff smiles but doesn't take the bait. He wanders towards the kitchen. "Put your claws away, sweetheart. I'm just making conversation."
"Maybe I don't want conversation."
You follow. He's staring down into your fridge, dispassionately cataloguing your eating habits. It grates on your nerves.
"If I knew you were this easily distracted, I would have made you fuck me in the car."
His eyebrow says, Made me? His mouth says, "I'm not distracted. You just seemed twitchy."
There's no point in arguing when he thinks he's funny. Days like these, it's easier to just play possum until he's done toying with you.
He mirrors your position against the counter, leans on the table and crosses his arms. There's a shadow of kindness behind the patience on his face. More than a little amusement. There's more than a little loathing on yours. You look away.
"So…gonna make me?"
It's smug, and there are shades of that first meeting (fuck yourself) that haven't been put on the table since. You're still not interested. You remember that first time, feel echoes of that panic. Back then you didn't even know him. Now that you do, the memory sours worse in your stomach.
You have to walk by him to get out of the kitchen but he doesn't budge. You knock shoulders with his on the way out.
He doesn't follow you as you retreat, down the hall and through the bedroom to the en suite. The lock snaps loud. You're not even sure what you're supposed to do now that you're here, but you feel better for having that barrier between you. Maybe it was a bad idea, bringing him here. There's a reason you never bring the action home, and this is it.
He gets to have opinions, now.
You lean against the marble counter. Turn on the faucet just to hear it run, and you look at your reflection and think, you are ridiculous. You're fucking ridiculous. Locking yourself in the bathroom. You're not even sure why he intimidates you.
So he thinks you're a spoiled brat with no taste. So what? So he expects something you're not capable of giving him. He's hardly the first.
And it figures that he's standing in your bedroom when you release the lock and let yourself out. He looks so wrong there among your private possessions that you almost duck back and slam the door, but you don't. There are some levels of mortification even you can't subject yourself to.
"Truce," he says. His arms are crossed over his chest, and he makes no gesture of surrender, but you wouldn't want one anyway. It's a good word, truce. Not a compromise. Just a retreat to the status quo.
So when he fucks you, it's a little brutal. Hard enough that staying on your hands and knees is difficult because the mattress gives, yields to the hard knock of bodies and tries to pitch you face-forward. He's immovable. His hands are bruising on your hips, shoving you forward and yanking you back until you fold to your elbows to brace yourself better. Make it easier to withstand.
You give in to the terrible weight of your head and drop it, cradle it against your forearms and your breathing turns noisy so close to the bedspread. Almost claustrophobic. You try to grab onto some kind of good feeling with both hands but all you get is the covers, because there's nothing else. You're not liking this. There's nothing wrong with it; he's doing everything he should, but it's not…. You can't slide into that groove. Can't slide into who you're supposed to be, here. The sheets smell like you, but tomorrow they'll smell like him. When did you let him in like this? You can't remember.
You push yourself to your knees so abruptly that you both unbalance, and the arm he throws around your middle is to keep himself upright more than anything. But as soon as you move to scramble away, the other clamps down on your chest to keep you from going.
"Woah, woah, woah. What happened? You—" His breath whooshes out with one petty shot to the solar plexus before he pins your other elbow.
Your struggle is half-hearted and you both know it. He often looms large but you're matched for size, and you could break away if you really wanted to. If you wanted to, you could break his nose right now, but you know you won't.
You can't.
You're so angry with him. It burns in your chest, how much you want him out. Just. Out. Your body, your bedroom, your life. Get out. But the words all stick in your throat, jagged and foreign, and your breath sounds panicked to your own ears, trying to get around them. He must hear it too, because his arms loosen up to give the trapped air someplace to go.
"You ok?" He's very still. Too kind. All the pretense of authority is gone from his voice, and it strangles you. "Jen? Jensen?"
I hate you. I hate you. The words press in on you like panic, and for a moment you imagine the freedom of saying them and meaning it. Saying them and not being sorry. But you can't, and what comes out is muffled and different.
He breathes against your ear. "…Sorry?"
You feel sick.
"I don't like you," you say, louder this time. "I don't like you." It's childish. "I don't."
"Okay," he says, and there's a pause like he's handling live explosives. Do I cut the green wire, or the blue?
Your stomach churns while you wait for him to decide if you're even worth the trouble. You wish you could take it back. You wish you had just ridden it out, put up with it, because he would have been done by now and then he would have gone to sleep and you wouldn't be having this conversation. You don't want to have this conversation. You wonder what he would do if you just got back down on your elbows. If he would just let it go and forget you ever said anything. Fuck you and go to sleep.
But you don't think so. It's about time for him to throw you away.
When he strokes your stomach, you flinch. He sighs out through his nose and squeezes down a little tighter.
"Jensen, I'm not mad," he murmurs, and that's worse, somehow. That's terrible. You don't want that…that pity, and that's what it is. Because eventually that'll give out, and you can't keep waiting for this other shoe to drop. It's killing you.
You just want him to forget about it. You're so stupid.
Sometimes it seems like you've been distracting people with your body your whole life. It's your very best weapon, and when you grind back into his lap, his desperate groan is a foregone conclusion. He says your name sharp, like a warning, but he doesn't stop you from repeating the maneuver. He just lets you ride him, sinking back against his heels and hardening again as you make tight little circles on his cock. It makes you more naked than you've ever been, but as a diversion, it's working.
It's not until you rise up that you realize this is what he wanted from you. You drop your weight back down, grind back like you need it, and he shudders. All this time you've been fighting it, when it was this easy. To give Jeff what he needs. To keep him happy. Just writhe on his lap and pretend to enjoy it. You find a rhythm, ignore the burn in your thighs, roll your hips against his. It's good for him, you can tell. By the way he's breathing sloppily against your neck. By the artless way he applies his teeth. You squeeze your eyes shut, heart pounding with more than just effort, and you're so glad he can't see your face. It makes this bearable.
"Jen…."
It's a gentle, familiar syllable, and the next breath you draw is ragged. He loosens his grip and rolls his forehead against your shoulder, hands slicking down to your hips on a film of sweat. You can feel your abdominals flinch when his hands don't grip. He just fingers the skin there that's thin over bone, and moves on. The flat of his hand settles on the vulnerable hollow of your navel and you bite your lip, body bucking him involuntarily towards your cock. That would be easier. Instead he strokes your thigh like he's soothing you.
You go at him harder. There's no stability at this pace and his hands clutch by necessity, to keep you upright and moving. Your own hand closes roughly at the base of his skull, pulling short hair to dig at his scalp. The sound he makes pits your chest hollower. You're so exhausted that you don't know how to keep going, but he's close and getting closer. So you dig in and keep going. Just a little longer.
Your lungs collapse when he grabs your cock. Strips hard and fast until your teeth grind, and the last few snaps of your hips are like seizures, involuntary and about as pleasant. Even after you come, your body keeps bucking, through his orgasm and the stilling of his body, like someone is shocking you with a live wire and just won't stop. You're painfully sensitive. Jeff breathes hard against your shoulder and strokes you down. He kneads your thighs with the heels of his hands, tetanized muscle loosening. Giving.
His lips brush your shoulder and you jerk away, shuffle off his lap and shiver. You have no control over your fucking body, like it's not your own. "I'm gonna go shower," you mumble. Your legs are jelly but you make it halfway there before he calls you back.
"Jensen."
Your gut says flee but there's enough iron in the word to draw you back. Reluctantly.
He kisses you. Yanks your head down to his level and thank God it's nothing tender, but it's lips on lips, and he doesn't let go right after. Just stares like he sees right through you, and says "Are you coming back?"
It's not a demand, and that shakes you. Your hand is trembling a little when it comes up to wipe your mouth, head twisting out of his grasp. "My room," you say like nothing's wrong. You just want to be gone, behind a locked door, and this is the easiest way. "I just need a shower. And a smoke."
He sees too much, fucking always, but he nods and collapses back on your pillow, condom snapping off a split second before the click of the lock on the bathroom door.
You don't think in the shower. You don't think. The water is too hot and you're already warm with exertion, but you need it that way. You stand there forever, just stand like bathing is besides the point, and it eases your muscles until the periodic shudders fade. Until you have a handle on the panic that came from whatever the hell that was.
You don't look to see if Jeff is awake when you emerge. You ignore the bed, retrieving your dwindling pack and lighter on the way to the balcony. You never go out there, but you need the air. It's relatively warm, even though it's late.
You take a draw off your cigarette. Dig your knuckles at the beginning of a headache behind your temple. The nicotine won't help, but fuck it. The mechanics of smoking forces a sense of calm. The repetitive motion, the deliberately slow breaths. By the end of your first, you feel a little more on top of things. The anxiety of moments ago seems distant and silly.
You're such a fucking mess sometimes. Jumping at shadows. Jeff makes it better, but he also makes it worse, and you're unable to decide if it's smart, what you're doing with him. It's like you're waiting for a clear reason to get out, but he won't give you one.
Even that, in there. What just happened. He wanted to be fucked like that, with you driving, but you chose to do it. He didn't even ask.
Ok, he did, but then he folded, so that doesn't count. You did it. To make things easier. A brief unpleasant task in exchange for what you needed. It's fucking with your head, but you can put on the occasional show.
But it'll have to be on your terms. And if he doesn't like it, fuck'im. You can find somebody who'll take you without all this bullshit. Without having to worry about what they want from you.
Thinking about it makes you tired. You've used up your share of adrenaline for the night (on nothing), and by the time your second cigarette is burning your fingertips, you're too exhausted to fight with yourself any longer. Maybe Jeff is a bad idea, but you don't owe him anything, and you can always walk away later.
Chances are, he'll pretend nothing odd happened tonight. Then you can pretend, too.
Your eyes have to adjust when you sneak back into your room, dark after the artificial brightness of night in the city. You stand a little ways out from the bed and watch to see if Jeff moves. You think he's asleep. You can't even detect the slow rise and fall of his breath beneath the covers.
You stare long enough, and he proves you wrong. Throws back the sheets on the side closest to you, and you hold your breath.
When you get in, he rolls away to face the wall, and with an exhale of relief, you let yourself drift down into sleep.
NEXT: new world order
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*steeples fingers* excellent.
thank you! I'm pleased you liked it :)
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You've shown us very well what attracts/repels Jensen to/from Jeff very well. His inner conflict is a twisty thing to behold. Jeff gives him what he needs and wants but he's afraid to let him get too close because then Jeff might really see him. He doesn't realize that Jeff already sees him.
Will you ever let us see from Jeff's POV? I'd really love to know what drives Jeff to keep trying. It's obviously more than the physical because what he's giving Jensen is not what he really wants.
Excellent and painful, for everyone concerned - Jensen, Jeff and we humble readers. I'm going to blindly and faithfully assume that there's more to come. Yes? Because you wouldn't be so cruel as to leave us here this way, would you? Satisfied and yet needing so much more.
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Poor Jensen is one fucked up puppy.
heh. indeed :)
yes! well, the whole fic is going to stay Jensen's pov but the third part is already written and it's all about Jeff, really...who he really is and what's driving him in this situation, though it's obviously coming through the filter of Jensen's fucked up worldview. my beta and I tend to go through an extended revision process with this fic so it'll probably be a week or two, but yeah. there's definitely more!
Excellent and painful, for everyone concerned - Jensen, Jeff and we humble readers.
*claps* haha. man, I'm such a sadist.
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Hey! It's all good! I'm just thrilled to know there's more on the way. *G*
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I LOVE the pacing in this. There's a lot of push pull in the writing/language that mirrors the ebb and flow between the characters very well. You have quite the way with words.
This one rings a different tone than the last - more plot driven IMO, but also more Jeff revealing (which is odd, considering the Jensen POV). My favourite line?"I think you're gonna have to lay actual words on me, kiddo." which I think reveals so much about the power/motivation dynamics bubbling along under the surface of all the HOT.
For what it's worth, I think you have got this 2nd person voice down really well. (Sheesh, is that sentence even grammatically correct?)
(oh. and cum in the eye FTW!)
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*smish* what a lovely thing (er, set of things) to say! *rolls around in them* similarly, thank you for the compliment to the pov! I was nervous about experimenting with it
it's kind of interesting to me to hear that Jeff was more revealed here...I guess that's true, I just hadn't thought much about it. the third part will be even moreso.
and *grins* that was totally the favorite line of me and my beta too. it's all wrapped up in kink.
thank you!
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What I mean is that, naively, I envision this whole 'verse dancing amongst multiple meanings of wanting, giving and taking. In this piece, I feel/read that Jeff, either by chance or by design, has manoeuvred Jensen into finally being able to take what he wants, rather than taking what he manipulates into being given (and rather deliciously aggressively so). The last scenes suggest to me that Jeff has figured out what's going on. That in spite of what Jensen thinks is going on "been fighting it, when it was this easy. To give Jeff what he needs.", he is actually, finally, taking what he wants.
(Sheesh x2, that's even less coherent than my previous comments).
*gives up on meta and gets back to writing phd thesis*
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anyway, thank you for all of your thoughts. I'm flattered you wanted to think on it in the first place :)
PhD in what, if I may ask?
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My PhD is in Environmental Geography. I'm saving the world, one word at a time. Sigh. So yes, very slowly.
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I'm trying to finish my dissertation by the end of the summer, and get me real job come fall. So... I'd be happy to save the world with you. Shame about the paycheque.
Perhaps we should start running credit card scams, or hustling pool?
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thanks for reading, babe :)
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oh god, I could make so many...*must not make filthy pun*
thanks, sweetie. everything you said was what I was aiming for and more. *squish* thanks for reading!
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And lookit, you gave me intense, broody-eyed Jeff iconage. *swoons*
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and yis, this is my very favorite jeff icon. *licks him* I have it labeled "handporn" though I suppose it *is* eyeporn as well
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Plase please can we have more of this - what is the cause of Jensens pain, can jeff really deal with it and in point of fact what and who is jeff!
So many questions and such fantastic writing!
Sheer bloody brilliance!±
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thank you! I'm really glad you enjoyed it, and I appreciate all your kind words.
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Srsly though. This was spellbinding. I'm not a writer, and have trouble with coherent comments but I feel that you deserve more than an 'AWESOME!'. And do I see that you have written more? I will be watching closely for it. I think this must play to some of my kinks - I'm not even sure what or which ones but I was mesmerised reading this - it sounds twisted to say that it is refreshing but it is somehow. Just a change from the usual, you know?
I feel quite embarrassed for enthusing so openly over something so so dark but well *shrugs* - it's good writing. What can I say?
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it sounds twisted to say that it is refreshing but it is somehow. Just a change from the usual, you know?
*grins* awesome.
thank you!
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There's a cheesy plaque like you can buy at a church fair. Home is where the food is. Inexplicably, it features geese. Hee! this image still makes me grin.
ps - you DO know how much i love this, right? I DO MEL. YES.
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*spins you* thanks for everything, doll.
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"I don't like you," you say, louder this time. "I don't like you." It's childish. "I don't."
just ♥
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this is.. i don't even have words, mel, i don't have WORDS
maybe because its 6 am but yeah.. you've blown me the hell away with this fic, it makes it so hard to breathe when you read it, gah
*loves jeff so fucking Hard*
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a terrific job of describing someone with borderline disorder.
is that what he would be? haha. I find all the personality disorders terribly confusing. always did mix them up :)
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*squishes* thank you so much! haha. that's about the best combination I can think of :)
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Jensen is so deeply conflicted, it makes me hurt for him. He looks at Jeff and sees a relationship, but he both wants and hates the intimacy that implies. You leave me wondering what Jeff is seeing.
Off to the next chapter of this emotional story.