FIC: Might As Well Dance
Feb. 21st, 2012 05:34 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nilchanceTitle: Might As Well Dance
Fandom: RPS
Pairing(s): Jeremy/Misha, JDM/Jensen, JDM/Jeremy
Rating: Adult
Warnings: past sexual assault
Summary: Jeremy has unresolved sexual tension with Jensen, and it's freaking him out.
A/N: This story is IMMENSELY spoilery for the upcoming sequel to A Kept Boy. It takes place a few years after the end of the main A Kept boy arc.
It’s not a real nightmare. Jeremy’s had a few to know, though they’ve been at bay for months; he’s not shaking, he didn’t talk in his sleep, his heart isn’t hammering in his ears. He didn’t even wake Misha. So it’s not a real nightmare.
(Jeff’s anger, scalding him: “think you can touch what’s mine? you think he’d even want you to touch him?”)
Jeremy tucks himself under Misha’s arm, burrowing into the sleep-smell of his skin. He’s glad all over again that Misha’s only wearing pajama pants to bed, because touching Misha’s bare skin soothes him down to the bone. The room is dark aside from one plug-in night-light they use so Misha doesn’t trip if he has to move around in the middle of the night, so Jeremy can seeing the bruise he sucked just below Misha’s collarbone as revenge for all the marks Misha’s left on him-- usually before sending him to go see Jeff for the night.
(no scatter of faint freckles that Jensen is too well-trained to let see the sun, the sensual roll of Jensen’s long body beneath him as Jeremy licks Jeff’s spunk off Jensen’s thighs)
Jeremy rests his forehead against Misha’s arm, sweat already cooling. He’s on his belly, he could grind off against the sheets but he won’t.
(“you think Jensen could tell you no? you hurt him, Jer, you hurt him and we’re done.”)
It won’t be the first cold shower he’s ever taken.
A few minutes pass. Misha hums, waking up, and tangles his fingers in Jeremy’s hair. It’s only idly possessive, but it cinches up the tightness under Jeremy’s skin. Jeremy shudders, and Misha stops cold. Wary of triggering a panic reaction in Jeremy by pushing too hard, reminding him too much of the rapist guard in the asylum.
“It’s okay,” Jeremy says, rueful. He doesn’t want to come out of the safe hollow of Misha’s shoulder, to let Misha read his face with that eerie Price precision, but he does. He feels like a teenager again, complete with confusing wet dreams about things he didn’t know he wanted. “It wasn’t, uh. A nightmare.”
(Jensen pants as Jeremy spreads him open, still slick with lube and open where Jeff fucked him)
Misha quirks an eyebrow, but his frown eases. He doesn’t take his hand out of Jeremy’s hair, like he thinks Jeremy might try to retreat if he lets go. He signs one-handed, do you want to talk about it?
Jeremy laughs rustily. “Do I ever?”
Waving that off, Misha signs, will you?
Yes. It turns out that he will. He tells Misha about the dream, his rendition as fractured as the dream itself, his memory already sloughing off details. He stumbles a little over the part with Jensen: “It was-- I was in bed with Jensen,” but Misha asks the ruthless question, what were you doing?. So he breaks down and tells Misha the whole feverish thing, including the part about Jeff having fucked Jensen first, about how slick Jensen was, about the broken-open noises Jensen made when he came.
When he’s done with that part, his face is burning. Misha radiates intensity at him and he doesn’t seem mad, but that hectic fucked-up part of Jeremy is trying to say that Misha is mad, that he should be mad. “It was just--”
Misha touches Jeremy’s mouth, a swipe of thumb over his lower lip. Jeremy shuts up. That gesture reminds him of kneeling at Indira’s, his head buried in Misha’s lap and the thud of the flogger, and that’s almost enough to put him right the fuck down even though it shouldn’t. Misha knows it, and he’s watching Jeremy figure out that he knows. Smug little bastard.
After a heavy moment, Misha lets out a breath that shudders and takes his hand back. He signs, thank you.
“Oh.” Jeremy blinks. “You’re not mad.”
Misha pauses, then takes Jeremy by the thumb --Jeremy thinks of file cabinets in Misha’s brain, the note that reads: do not hold Jeremy by wrists/shoulders-- and guides Jeremy’s hand down to his cock. He’s hard, wet at the head; Jeremy’s jaw aches with wanting to suck him. When Misha lets go, Jeremy keeps his hand there, smears the slick across the tip of Misha’s dick. Misha inhales, then makes that satisfied purring sound that drives Jeremy crazy. Crazier.
“Fuck,” Jeremy grits, and starts to slide down the bed so he can frame Misha’s hips in his hands. Breathe in his scent before he takes Misha in his mouth, just the head of his dick...
Misha takes Jeremy by the chin, lifts his head so he has to look at Misha’s face. He lets go as soon as he has Jeremy’s attention because he needs that hand to sign, his other hand still tangled in Jeremy’s hair. That’s not it. There’s something else?
“I appreciate that question mark, Mish. Nice touch.” Jeremy bites another bruise into Misha’s skin, on his hip, making Misha shudder and narrow his eyes in you’ll-pay-for-that warning. “Here you go, putting my hand on your dick, and you want to talk about feelings.”
I don’t want to fuck this up, Misha signs, not as curtly as he probably intends. As few tells as Misha has, Jeremy knows most of them.
Gentling, Jeremy takes his hand back. Rests his chin on Misha’s thigh. “You can’t fuck us up. We are fuck-up proof.”
Misha snorts and gestures around at the walls of their room. The walls, Jeremy realizes, of Jeff’s house. And this?
Jeremy already has the reassuring words in his mouth before he stops them. He’s supposed to be honest. He’s supposed to communicate, according to all the books about poly that he’s devoured in the past few months, even though he’s goddamn terrible at both communication and honesty. So he swallows the reassuring bullshit and says, “Yeah. I’m worried about fucking this up, too. I’m worried about you being happy. I’m worried about Jeff getting pissed about me and Jensen. And I’m worried about Jensen having drunk the Kool-Aid, and whether he even likes me at all or if it’s for Jeff, and if the day ever comes that he tries to get in my pants, I don’t know whether I can trust that. He’s family and you love him and Jeff loves him and I don’t want to hurt him. So.” Jeremy stops, out of breath, and swallows. “So. There’s all that. Also, I think dream analysis is Jungian bullshit.”
Jungian bullshit is deciding that flying equals sex, Misha signs. I don’t need a degree in bizarro world to interpret that dream.
Jeremy huffs out a laugh and rubs his cheek against Misha, morning stubble scratching. “No, you interpret me just fine. I’m easy. Speaking of, I want to suck you off.”
Expression shifting between skepticism and smoldering heat, Misha finally settles on the latter. Good thing, because Jeremy is nuzzling his way across Misha's bony hip, his sleek thigh, mouth watering from the scent of precome.
Misha's signing hand stills its restless ticking, like anybody else might bite their lip in a gambling tell. Then he rests it on Jeremy's shoulder. They're done talking. Jeremy grins, and Misha uses his grip on Jeremy's hair to pull him towards his cock, which Jeremy's never going to complain about. He licks the tip of Misha’s dick, gathering up the clear precome and grinding lazily against the sheets until Misha finally growls and gives Jeremy’s hair a harder pull.
“Yeah,” Jeremy murmurs, gripping Misha by the hips. “Like that.”
Misha makes a sound like this is the most aggravating thing he's had to deal with since the last time he talked to Jeff. Then he strokes Jeremy's nape with his thumb, so light that it ought to be ticklish. Scorched, Jeremy shivers and grinds against the sheets with more intention. Misha likes that sometimes, Jeremy getting himself off at Misha's feet while he sucks; he says he likes the noises Jeremy makes when he's close, especially when he's not allowed to use his hands.
Apparently Misha feels him moving, because he growls, rolling his hips up into Jeremy's hands. When Jeremy glances up through his lashes, he sees the long column of Misha's throat, bared. It gives him ideas. He smirks, takes a sip of air through his nose, and swallows Misha all the way down. Only the fact that he already had Misha by the hips saves him from a bloody nose, because Misha jerks and hisses, shudders all over.
Fuck, Misha's knee. Jeremy forces himself off, his throat still working as he rasps, "Sorry, are you okay?"
Misha stares at him, wild-eyed, his hair sticking in different directions. When his brain catches up with his dick, which is smearing wet lines across Jeremy's neck, Misha signs, Don't stop.
Oh. Oh, well. Jeremy reaches past Misha, snags a pillow and stuffs it carefully under Misha's bad knee, earning himself a dire look from Misha but quieting his conscience. Once that's done, he settles himself in and starts again.
It's good and it's easy and he sinks down somewhere, safe in the scent of Misha's body and the rising heat of him, his neck cradled in the palm of Misha's hand. His throat opens and his breathing settles as Misha starts to pant and tremble. Every shudder, Jeremy hums and moans and pushes into the bed, slutty as fuck, his ass tipped up and he thinks about being fucked like this, between Misha and Jeff like a bridge, used--
He comes, startled by it, whimpering around Misha as he swallows. It's a dirty trick and he doesn't even mean to but suddenly he wants it, wants Misha to come in him, fill him up.
Misha tenses like a seizure, hips jerking hard, and then he cries out, loud enough that Jeff and Jen could hear them next door, and fuck but Jeremy loves that. He coaxes with his mouth and his hands, stroking Misha's flank as the first spurts of his come fills Jeremy up inside, and yes. Yes. It's good. He takes it all and then shimmies up Misha, careful of his knee, to cuddle Misha up in his arms. Misha tolerates it, and Jeremy pretends like he can't feel Misha trembling a little.
They don't talk about it after, the dream or the sex or what it might mean. Jeremy can still feel Misha watching him and Jensen, speculatively, biding his time.
Fandom: RPS
Pairing(s): Jeremy/Misha, JDM/Jensen, JDM/Jeremy
Rating: Adult
Warnings: past sexual assault
Summary: Jeremy has unresolved sexual tension with Jensen, and it's freaking him out.
A/N: This story is IMMENSELY spoilery for the upcoming sequel to A Kept Boy. It takes place a few years after the end of the main A Kept boy arc.
It’s not a real nightmare. Jeremy’s had a few to know, though they’ve been at bay for months; he’s not shaking, he didn’t talk in his sleep, his heart isn’t hammering in his ears. He didn’t even wake Misha. So it’s not a real nightmare.
(Jeff’s anger, scalding him: “think you can touch what’s mine? you think he’d even want you to touch him?”)
Jeremy tucks himself under Misha’s arm, burrowing into the sleep-smell of his skin. He’s glad all over again that Misha’s only wearing pajama pants to bed, because touching Misha’s bare skin soothes him down to the bone. The room is dark aside from one plug-in night-light they use so Misha doesn’t trip if he has to move around in the middle of the night, so Jeremy can seeing the bruise he sucked just below Misha’s collarbone as revenge for all the marks Misha’s left on him-- usually before sending him to go see Jeff for the night.
(no scatter of faint freckles that Jensen is too well-trained to let see the sun, the sensual roll of Jensen’s long body beneath him as Jeremy licks Jeff’s spunk off Jensen’s thighs)
Jeremy rests his forehead against Misha’s arm, sweat already cooling. He’s on his belly, he could grind off against the sheets but he won’t.
(“you think Jensen could tell you no? you hurt him, Jer, you hurt him and we’re done.”)
It won’t be the first cold shower he’s ever taken.
A few minutes pass. Misha hums, waking up, and tangles his fingers in Jeremy’s hair. It’s only idly possessive, but it cinches up the tightness under Jeremy’s skin. Jeremy shudders, and Misha stops cold. Wary of triggering a panic reaction in Jeremy by pushing too hard, reminding him too much of the rapist guard in the asylum.
“It’s okay,” Jeremy says, rueful. He doesn’t want to come out of the safe hollow of Misha’s shoulder, to let Misha read his face with that eerie Price precision, but he does. He feels like a teenager again, complete with confusing wet dreams about things he didn’t know he wanted. “It wasn’t, uh. A nightmare.”
(Jensen pants as Jeremy spreads him open, still slick with lube and open where Jeff fucked him)
Misha quirks an eyebrow, but his frown eases. He doesn’t take his hand out of Jeremy’s hair, like he thinks Jeremy might try to retreat if he lets go. He signs one-handed, do you want to talk about it?
Jeremy laughs rustily. “Do I ever?”
Waving that off, Misha signs, will you?
Yes. It turns out that he will. He tells Misha about the dream, his rendition as fractured as the dream itself, his memory already sloughing off details. He stumbles a little over the part with Jensen: “It was-- I was in bed with Jensen,” but Misha asks the ruthless question, what were you doing?. So he breaks down and tells Misha the whole feverish thing, including the part about Jeff having fucked Jensen first, about how slick Jensen was, about the broken-open noises Jensen made when he came.
When he’s done with that part, his face is burning. Misha radiates intensity at him and he doesn’t seem mad, but that hectic fucked-up part of Jeremy is trying to say that Misha is mad, that he should be mad. “It was just--”
Misha touches Jeremy’s mouth, a swipe of thumb over his lower lip. Jeremy shuts up. That gesture reminds him of kneeling at Indira’s, his head buried in Misha’s lap and the thud of the flogger, and that’s almost enough to put him right the fuck down even though it shouldn’t. Misha knows it, and he’s watching Jeremy figure out that he knows. Smug little bastard.
After a heavy moment, Misha lets out a breath that shudders and takes his hand back. He signs, thank you.
“Oh.” Jeremy blinks. “You’re not mad.”
Misha pauses, then takes Jeremy by the thumb --Jeremy thinks of file cabinets in Misha’s brain, the note that reads: do not hold Jeremy by wrists/shoulders-- and guides Jeremy’s hand down to his cock. He’s hard, wet at the head; Jeremy’s jaw aches with wanting to suck him. When Misha lets go, Jeremy keeps his hand there, smears the slick across the tip of Misha’s dick. Misha inhales, then makes that satisfied purring sound that drives Jeremy crazy. Crazier.
“Fuck,” Jeremy grits, and starts to slide down the bed so he can frame Misha’s hips in his hands. Breathe in his scent before he takes Misha in his mouth, just the head of his dick...
Misha takes Jeremy by the chin, lifts his head so he has to look at Misha’s face. He lets go as soon as he has Jeremy’s attention because he needs that hand to sign, his other hand still tangled in Jeremy’s hair. That’s not it. There’s something else?
“I appreciate that question mark, Mish. Nice touch.” Jeremy bites another bruise into Misha’s skin, on his hip, making Misha shudder and narrow his eyes in you’ll-pay-for-that warning. “Here you go, putting my hand on your dick, and you want to talk about feelings.”
I don’t want to fuck this up, Misha signs, not as curtly as he probably intends. As few tells as Misha has, Jeremy knows most of them.
Gentling, Jeremy takes his hand back. Rests his chin on Misha’s thigh. “You can’t fuck us up. We are fuck-up proof.”
Misha snorts and gestures around at the walls of their room. The walls, Jeremy realizes, of Jeff’s house. And this?
Jeremy already has the reassuring words in his mouth before he stops them. He’s supposed to be honest. He’s supposed to communicate, according to all the books about poly that he’s devoured in the past few months, even though he’s goddamn terrible at both communication and honesty. So he swallows the reassuring bullshit and says, “Yeah. I’m worried about fucking this up, too. I’m worried about you being happy. I’m worried about Jeff getting pissed about me and Jensen. And I’m worried about Jensen having drunk the Kool-Aid, and whether he even likes me at all or if it’s for Jeff, and if the day ever comes that he tries to get in my pants, I don’t know whether I can trust that. He’s family and you love him and Jeff loves him and I don’t want to hurt him. So.” Jeremy stops, out of breath, and swallows. “So. There’s all that. Also, I think dream analysis is Jungian bullshit.”
Jungian bullshit is deciding that flying equals sex, Misha signs. I don’t need a degree in bizarro world to interpret that dream.
Jeremy huffs out a laugh and rubs his cheek against Misha, morning stubble scratching. “No, you interpret me just fine. I’m easy. Speaking of, I want to suck you off.”
Expression shifting between skepticism and smoldering heat, Misha finally settles on the latter. Good thing, because Jeremy is nuzzling his way across Misha's bony hip, his sleek thigh, mouth watering from the scent of precome.
Misha's signing hand stills its restless ticking, like anybody else might bite their lip in a gambling tell. Then he rests it on Jeremy's shoulder. They're done talking. Jeremy grins, and Misha uses his grip on Jeremy's hair to pull him towards his cock, which Jeremy's never going to complain about. He licks the tip of Misha’s dick, gathering up the clear precome and grinding lazily against the sheets until Misha finally growls and gives Jeremy’s hair a harder pull.
“Yeah,” Jeremy murmurs, gripping Misha by the hips. “Like that.”
Misha makes a sound like this is the most aggravating thing he's had to deal with since the last time he talked to Jeff. Then he strokes Jeremy's nape with his thumb, so light that it ought to be ticklish. Scorched, Jeremy shivers and grinds against the sheets with more intention. Misha likes that sometimes, Jeremy getting himself off at Misha's feet while he sucks; he says he likes the noises Jeremy makes when he's close, especially when he's not allowed to use his hands.
Apparently Misha feels him moving, because he growls, rolling his hips up into Jeremy's hands. When Jeremy glances up through his lashes, he sees the long column of Misha's throat, bared. It gives him ideas. He smirks, takes a sip of air through his nose, and swallows Misha all the way down. Only the fact that he already had Misha by the hips saves him from a bloody nose, because Misha jerks and hisses, shudders all over.
Fuck, Misha's knee. Jeremy forces himself off, his throat still working as he rasps, "Sorry, are you okay?"
Misha stares at him, wild-eyed, his hair sticking in different directions. When his brain catches up with his dick, which is smearing wet lines across Jeremy's neck, Misha signs, Don't stop.
Oh. Oh, well. Jeremy reaches past Misha, snags a pillow and stuffs it carefully under Misha's bad knee, earning himself a dire look from Misha but quieting his conscience. Once that's done, he settles himself in and starts again.
It's good and it's easy and he sinks down somewhere, safe in the scent of Misha's body and the rising heat of him, his neck cradled in the palm of Misha's hand. His throat opens and his breathing settles as Misha starts to pant and tremble. Every shudder, Jeremy hums and moans and pushes into the bed, slutty as fuck, his ass tipped up and he thinks about being fucked like this, between Misha and Jeff like a bridge, used--
He comes, startled by it, whimpering around Misha as he swallows. It's a dirty trick and he doesn't even mean to but suddenly he wants it, wants Misha to come in him, fill him up.
Misha tenses like a seizure, hips jerking hard, and then he cries out, loud enough that Jeff and Jen could hear them next door, and fuck but Jeremy loves that. He coaxes with his mouth and his hands, stroking Misha's flank as the first spurts of his come fills Jeremy up inside, and yes. Yes. It's good. He takes it all and then shimmies up Misha, careful of his knee, to cuddle Misha up in his arms. Misha tolerates it, and Jeremy pretends like he can't feel Misha trembling a little.
They don't talk about it after, the dream or the sex or what it might mean. Jeremy can still feel Misha watching him and Jensen, speculatively, biding his time.
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no subject
Date: 2012-02-22 01:26 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-02-23 09:01 pm (UTC)