nilchance | FIC: Prone to Love

Title: Prone to Love
Author:

nilchance
Rating: Adult
Pairing: Misha Collins/JDM, with JA on the side
A/N: Sequel to If Bird or Devil. Jeff is a dom, Misha is his boy, Jensen is complicated. Many many thanks to

hederahelix for her cheerleading and

poisontaster for her repeated readings and advice, and also her saint-like patience.

Jensen is on his knees. There is no reason for his heart to be pounding. The stool is padded for softer tastes, easier than even the church where he last had to kneel. No pew ahead of him to rest his weight on, though, only a metal bar set at a height he'd have to stretch to reach. His side and his hands hurt like hell, so he balances awkwardly as he is and waits.

Morgan is doing something in the row of cabinets along the back wall, where Jensen can't see. Jensen wants to crane around and watch, his paranoia rising, but that would play into the bastard's game. Then the sound of steps, Morgan coming to stand behind him, between his bare feet. Jensen's nape prickles.

"Safeword?" Morgan's voice sounds different, deeper and rougher.

"No. Or stop." Jensen's traitorous body wants to curve back into Morgan's radiant warmth. He rolls his shoulders once to shake off the itch. "The classics."

"Not where we're going. I know you won't play that way--"

"I'm not playing."

"-- but other people do, and it'll look wrong. You want to blend in." A clink of metal against metal, something in Morgan's hands, and then Morgan is leaning over him to reach for his wrist. Jensen balks automatically, twisting in place too fast, and nearly doubles over as his ribs scream protest. Morgan crouches down, big hand spreading over Jensen's back, and starts in that goddamn concerned tone, "Jensen..."

"I'm fine," Jensen snarls. "You can't do my wrists, I need my hands. And stop pawing at me."

Morgan takes his hand off Jensen's back, but immediately puts it on the scruff of his neck instead. He's so warm, a yearning heat like sunlight beckoning a cat to come curl up and sleep. "If you're freaking out, we can stop."

"I'm not 'freaking out', you prick, I need to be able to fight if something comes for your boyfriend."

"Hm." Morgan contemplates that, absently running his thumb up and down Jensen's neck. Jensen is getting a cramp from trying not to shiver. "Okay, safewords. Do you know what that means?"

"It means--" that I lost, Jensen almost says, that you're stronger than me. "It's your cue to stop. Saying 'Uncle'."

"Yeah, and no." Morgan is rubbing him now, stroking the tight coiled muscles of Jensen's neck. It's hard not to groan out loud or twist away, pain and relief and release. His easy lecturing tone shouldn't be attractive, but it snags some part of Jensen that he'd thought he left in Texas, in his crowded adjunct professor office with books stacked in wobbling pyramids. This is Morgan's subject, his passion, his thesis. "It means that I've gone from playing with your hard limits to crossing them. Or that your endorphins are being outstripped by the pain. Or that I've triggered you."

"Triggered," Jensen echoes. Like a mortar?

"Ah. Sorry, scene language. That I've tripped over something from your history that makes you crazy. Or that you're panicking or claustrophobic, or that I'm damaging you--"

"I thought the point was to hurt people."

"There's a difference between hurting and harming. Harming is... deeper, it's permanent. A good top can put you down in forty different ways without breaking skin, but they'll never deliberately harm you." Morgan pauses in his steady assault on Jensen's tense muscles. "Which is my way of telling you that you're allowed to call it at any time, for any reason. There's no shame in it."

Jensen snorts.

"Hey." Morgan tugs the ends of Jensen's hair. "I'm serious. For any reason at all. If I hurt you or if you feel trapped, or--"

"I'm not one of your boys, Morgan. I don't need the kid gloves. So come on." Jensen leans until the gentle tug starts to burn his scalp. "Let's go, here."

Silence from Morgan's quarter, but he doesn't let go of Jensen's hair. "Safeword?"

"I don't know. I." A word emerges from the depths of his undergrad memories, and Jensen blurts, "Emerson."

He expects Morgan to comment, but there's a different vibe in this room. It smells like leather and, more faintly, some sort of citrus cleaner. The walls are painted dove gray with darker trim, a burgundy carpet flung over the chilly tiled floors. The lighting is intimately dim, just enough for Morgan to see. There's furniture pushed against the wall, things Jensen doesn't understand, with straps designed to hold ankles and wrists. Jensen can see the game in it, the mind-fuck, but it still works on him like anybody else who goes to their knees for Morgan.

"Repeat that for me," Morgan says. "So I'm sure."

"Emerson." There's a gentle trap here, words like tripwires designed to wrap him up. Jensen wonders if he's already missed more than he's caught. "Get on with it."

Morgan hums, considering, and then he nudges Jensen's feet further apart. Jensen's face heats up, but he doesn't resist until Morgan starts to peel off his sweatshirt. He tries to turn and stare at Morgan, but Morgan still grips him by the scruff, so the most he can do is bitch, "What are you doing?"

"Are you safewording?" When Jensen stays sullenly quiet, Morgan shakes him a little by the scruff. "If you're not, then you do what I ask."

"You didn't ask me to strip." Morgan doesn't deign to answer, pulling the sweatshirt over Jensen's head. Jensen shakes the static out of his hair and demands, "What are we doing?"

"You wanted to know about the scene, so listen."

"Do I have to listen half naked?"

Morgan continues to ignore him, but he doesn't try to pull Jensen's sweatpants down. Jensen hates that he can imagine that too clearly, Morgan's rough hands yanking the elastic past his hips, leaving him bare... it stirs a low filthy heat in his dick, this crazy want for Morgan to treat him like any mewling, messed up client. And that makes Jensen's voice shake traitorously when he asks, "You gonna hurt me?"

Morgan stops in the middle of whatever he's doing, a tremor rippling through his hand where it touches Jensen's neck. His voice runs down Jensen's spine like a touch, an exploring hand dipping beneath his waistband. "Do you want me to?"

Yes.

Shaking his head, Jensen leans away from Morgan's hand. From everything Morgan's doing to him. "I'm not--"

"Like me?" Morgan prompts. "Like that? I think you'd rather I hurt you than whatever else I might do to you."

More blood sinks to Jensen's dick, making it twitch and fill. He chews the inside of his lip, but that small pain doesn't clear his head. "Depends on what else you might do."

"Heh." Morgan stands and pulls away. It's cold in his wake. "I want you to put your hands up on that bar and keep them there."

Or what? Jensen thinks, but he does it. His ribs burn.

"Good. Close your eyes."

"Morgan."

"Close them," Morgan repeats, unmovable. "You can hear if something's coming, and I've got your back."

"Yeah, that's what worries me," Jensen mutters, but his heart's not in it. It's dim in the room, warm and lazy, and he wants to rest his eyes. He can't fall asleep strung up like this. "Fine."

"You'll have to trust me with your back once we get to the clubs anyway."

"I said fine." Heart thumping in his throat, Jensen closes his eyes. The darkness takes the edge off his headache, not that he'll give Morgan the satisfaction of being right.

Unfortunately, with his eyes closed he's got no way to ignore the rising demands of his body. A college flirtation with meditating taught him that he has squirrel mind, restless thoughts jangling together every time he tries to relax. He's tired, he's still hungry, he wants that sweatshirt back. It's too quiet in here, he can't hear the cars below. He can only hear Morgan's steady breaths and the rustle of something being prepared. The sound of Morgan moving around reminds Jensen of wings gliding together, a satisfied bird settling on its perch. Somewhere, She is pleased.

The first time Morgan touches his back, Jensen flinches and nearly lets go of the bar.

"Easy." Morgan's voice rumbles like stone grinding. He touches lightly, just fingertips, following some erratic design; it takes Jensen a minute to realize like Morgan is cataloging his injuries. Jensen stiffens, hackles rising, and Morgan presses his hand against the small of Jensen's back. Its warmth there scalds, hot red handprint like a brand. "Stop squirming."

"Stop poking me, then."

"I'm not. I'm just looking at you." Morgan doesn't move his hand away, pressing steadily until Jensen has to shift his hips forward. With a pleased noise, Morgan eases up. "That's right, just like that. Open up your hips."

It sounds ridiculously dirty. Jensen ducks his head, hoping Morgan can't see the pink of his ears. Things must be really desperate for him to be getting off on posture instruction.

Swiping his broad thumb across a spot to the side of Jensen's spine, Morgan asks, "What happened here?"

"I don't--" No, the fight with Legion a few nights ago, the knife buried in his back. Falling into grass soaked with Legion's blood. "Just a puncture wound."

"Oh, is that all? A little stabbing in the back. Sure."

Jensen shrugs, uncomfortable. "It's nothing. Why?"

"It looks strange. There's this circular bruise around the scar. Darker, though." Morgan touches it again, still gentle, and the wound throbs like an infected tooth. "You should get that looked at."

"You're looking."

From the sound of Jeff's voice, he's frowning. "I'm serious."

"It'll heal." Squirming away from Morgan, Jensen snaps over his shoulder, "It's not your problem."

"It is," Morgan volleys back. "You don't seem to get that, so I'll say it again: I'm your top. This is my problem, just like it'd be my problem if Misha had a black Eye of Sauron on his freaking back."

Despite himself, Jensen snerks. "Eye of Sauron? Christ, you're a geek."

"Yeah, and you got the reference." Morgan darts his fingers up Jensen's ribs like he's playing a piano. His voice is softer, with that iron spine beneath that's been there since they entered this dim little room. "You're distracting me. I'm going to start now. So you're going to be quiet and listen to me."

"Am I?" Jensen asks, deadpan.

"Yes," Morgan says.

The simple weight behind it tugs hard at Jensen's dick; he feels it jerk uneasily against his thigh. He can't think of a smartass response, or anything at all, anything to crowd out the quiet and the thoughts that come with it. When Morgan touches Jensen again, easing down his spine, his fingers are slick.

Jensen thinks, helplessly, of Jason's machine. Of Misha, fucked out and languid on the couch. Morgan's fingers, long and clever, slipping down beneath his waistband... "What're you doing?"

"Touching," Morgan murmurs, too gentle. "Just coconut oil. I do this with clients. It's easy touching, nothing sexual--"

"No," Jensen says automatically, and winces. "I mean-- no, I'm not a client. You're supposed to teach me--"

"I am teaching you." Still that steady, relentless glide of Morgan's hand across his back. The oil is warm, slinking down Jensen's skin in shivery lines. "In clubs, sometimes, you're expected to prep like this. To look like this."

"I don't." Jensen shifts, but Morgan keeps touching him. "I don't..."

When Jensen can't figure out what else to say, Morgan reaches his long arm around and rests his hand on Jensen's stomach. Jensen wonders if Morgan can feel his thundering heartbeat. "Come back here," Morgan says. "Close your eyes again."

It's stupid. Jensen doesn't even know how Morgan knows he's opened his eyes. This is stupid and he hurts and Morgan is just-- Morgan isn't doing this right. "You're supposed to hurt people," Jensen says, hating the thread of his voice.

"Come here," Morgan repeats, and this time Jensen lets Morgan guide him back into kneeling. As soon as it's good enough, Morgan takes his hand back. He doesn't touch Jensen lower, through the strain of the sweatpants, the hot ache of his groin. Instead he starts again, the torture of his hand stroking a thin sheen of oil across Jensen's skin. "That's how you're supposed to look, in the clubs. Down with Misha, by my feet, unless I'm showing you off. Okay?"

Jensen nods. Breathes.

Morgan slips his fingers up Jensen's belly, smearing oil, moving brisk but sparking every nerve in Jensen's body. What should be blunt muscle feels like it's thawing under Morgan's hand, unknotting into sensation. Trembling as it comes awake. "You hear me?"

"Yes," thuds off Jensen's lips. The earthy nut scent of the oil is in his head, dulling his instincts, dragging him down in honey and mud.

"See, you're gonna have to answer different in the clubs. Misha says 'sir', we can go with that."

Jensen growls through his teeth.

"Hey," Morgan says, sounding like he's warning Bisou off something, and flicks Jensen's ear. "Don't start. They expect a little respect in the clubs, Jensen. Watch it or somebody'll try to take you off me. Put you on your knees. You already look like an easy target because of your bruises. You know that?" Morgan starts on Jensen's ribs, moving lightly to avoid triggering the bruises. It hurts like being stroked over a burn, a bright sensation over darker ache, a pain that sinks deep.

Jensen bites his lip against a strangled noise, against telling Morgan to press his fingers deeper into the bruise just to stop the slow-fuse burn of his dick. He's hard and it hurts, distracting him, he can smell the salt of his own precome rising from the obscene spread of his thighs. Morgan knows, Morgan has to know, it feels like Jensen is vibrating. Rocking like he can grind off against empty air.

Morgan hasn't touched his cock. One of Morgan's hands is coasting easy along his bare stomach, just touching. "You're shaking," Morgan says, suddenly clear. "You all right?"

Oh, Jensen thinks, I should hurt you. I should tear, knives and blood, I should--

His mind is awash with violence, flashbulbs of images behind his closed eyes: Morgan fucking the Oracle, making him take it in the circle of Morgan's protective embrace. The Oracle on their couch, one hand slipped down between his thighs, fingering his used hole. The crack of a belt across the Oracle's back, three hot stripes on his skin, and it's good it's so good.

"Christ," Morgan's voice in his ear, his body branded against Jensen's back, "you're close. I can," Morgan inhales sharply, as if struck, "I can smell you. Just from this, you... ahh, honey. We can stop."

A noise comes from behind his clenched teeth, something like a whimper. He can't think without Morgan touching him, surrounding him like this, holding him together. He's breaking, and he needs Morgan to keep him in one piece. He's going to burn up, he'll die like this, a hungry cinder in Morgan's arms. He needs. He wants. Words blurt from his mouth, all high and urgent, "fuck, Morgan, fuck, I can't--"

"Shh. I... I've got you. You can. Shh." Moving slow, Morgan slides his hand around to cup Jensen's throat again. To hold it in his palm. Jensen chokes, nearly coming out of his position, and Morgan purrs in his ear, "Naww, sweetheart. Let me have your throat. You just slide your hand down and wrap it around your cock--"

Both hands still locked where they are, Jensen bites off a noise and comes shuddering. It hurts, a blinding wave of feeling, a well of release. Morgan groans like he's the one in pain, cradling Jensen back against his body, rocking him through the wrenching aftershocks. Jensen pants, "oh, oh, oh," and shivers through another dick-wringing jolt as Morgan grips his throat and gently, gently squeezes.

He can't breathe. He's going to die. It feels so...

Morgan pries Jensen's numb fingers from the bars and eases him back, holding Jensen in his lap like he's much smaller. His hand spans Jensen's stomach, rubbing warm circles. "There," Morgan croons in his ear, "okay. You did so good. You're amazing. Thank you. Thank you."

Jensen shivers, sweat and spunk cooling on his skin. He needs to crawl away and hide somewhere, bite and snarl and put his back up, but his body is a limp rag. Through dry lips, he whispers, "What're you doing to me?"

Morgan hesitates, then lets out a shuddering sigh and rests his chin on Jensen's head. He doesn't try to answer the question, as if he doesn't know.

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Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

thatotherperv.livejournal.com

jesus FUCK. that's...yeah. wish I could say something intelligent, but mostly. bunk.

From:

Especially when you make plans...

FIC: Prone to Love

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