nilchance: Picture of a pomegranate with spilled seeds, text "I think you're confused, I'm not Persephone" (Default)
[personal profile] nilchance
Title: That Middle Road (35/48)
Author: nilchance
Pairing: Misha Collins/Jeremy Sisto
Rating: Adult
Disclaimer: This isn't real.
A/N: Set in poisontaster's A Kept Boy 'verse. This story deals with mental illness, specifically bipolar disorder, and with slavery as used in the AKB 'verse. There's also mention of rape, suicide, institutionalization and self-harm. And polyamory. And kink. And a partridge in a pear tree.

The marijuana doesn’t keep Misha’s pain at bay all night. He can live with that. In Jeremy’s borrowed clothes, Misha is wrapped in Jeremy’s scent and the not unpleasant ghost of pot. His bones feel like they’re humming.

In the dark, Misha touches his mouth where the kiss still burns.


In the morning, Jeremy is quiet. The space shivers between them; Misha isn’t sure he trusts that feeling enough to put weight on it.

After the third time Jeremy spaces out with his coffee mug halfway to his mouth, Misha asks him, Is something wrong?

“What?” Jarred awake, Jeremy puts his mug down. “I’m fine. I’m just thinking.”

Misha tilts his head, waiting for Jeremy to enlighten him. When he doesn’t, Misha prods. About what?

“The Seyfried account. I think I can get her another tax break on travel.”

The unparalleled joy, Misha teases. Do you want the ledgers?

“Sit,” Jeremy tells him sternly. “I’ll get it in a minute. It’s not like I’ll forget.”

With a shrug, Misha turns back to his phone. It’s late enough that he could text Jensen about last night, but he doesn’t know if he wants anyone else to know yet. He types a message, I kissed him. Then he saves it to drafts. As an excuse, he tells himself that Jensen is still sleeping. In truth, he wants to keep the memory close for now.

“Mish,” Jeremy says abruptly, “what do you want?”

Caught off guard with his phone in his hand, Misha stares at him. He puts the phone down. I have Cheerios. Cheerios are fine.

“No, I mean…” Jeremy’s eyes are intense on Misha’s, like he’s been thinking about this for a while. So this is what he’s been chewing on all morning. “In general. Like the collar. Or like stuff you want to do with your life. What would make you happy?”

Even before he became a slave, Misha didn’t think about what he wanted from life. He knew his family lived too close to the edge. Too dangerous to think past tomorrow. He has twin urges to shake Jeremy by his shoulders and to kiss him on his thoughtless idealist face.

Then he wants to kiss Jeremy on his lush mouth. The kissing was nice.

Jeremy, Misha signs, settling for an acceptable excuse. I haven’t finished my coffee.

Sheepish, Jeremy ducks his head. “I know. Sorry. I’m dropping this on you. But I don’t want to herd you places you don’t want to go.”

What if I ask for something you can’t give me? Or something you don’t want to give me?

“Ask me anyway,” Jeremy says. “We’ll figure it out. Just think about it, okay?”

It’d be very easy to hit below the belt with his two requests: emancipation and a cure for his aphasia. But Misha can’t make himself do it. He sighs. Do you see why this is difficult for me?

“Yeah.” Hesitantly, Jeremy reaches across the table and touches the back of Misha’s hand. “All I’m asking is for you to think about it.”

Half-afraid to spook Jeremy, Misha turns his hand over and catches Jeremy’s fingers in his own. Jeremy has nice hands, long-fingered and deft, still smudged faintly with graphite from yesterday’s work. Misha wants to lift Jeremy’s hand to his mouth and kiss the back like a courtier; he wants to kiss the tips of Jeremy’s fingers; he wants to put Jeremy’s fingers in his mouth and taste him.

But Jeremy is already fidgeting to be let free. So Misha does.

I’ll think about it, Misha concedes. I may not come up with answers.

Jeremy smiles. “We’ve got the time.”


In the afternoon, as Jeremy’s absorbed in his work, Misha retires to the couch. Misha’s starting to have a symbiotic relationship with the couch. He hopes that his pain is just an effect of passing rain; he fears that it’s the new normal, and what good will he be to anyone then?

Documentaries are soporific to his nerves. Perhaps Marx should have said that Attenborough was an opiate to the masses. Misha has already finished Blue Planet but it soothes him best, so he puts in on and burrows into the knitted blanket that’s like his second skin.

He should think about wanting, and about safe answers vs. honest ones. But when he tries, his mind scatters. He feels like a domesticated sheep out of its pen, panicking under a too-big sky.

Did Jensen deal with this? Misha isn’t sure their friendship covers that kind of raw question. Jeremy and he operate on overshare, but Jensen might balk. Then again, Misha doesn’t have anyone else to ask.

Fuck it. Better to watch a documentary he’s already seen about murderous orcas instead. Maybe his subconscious will chew on the question and provide a sudden epiphany later, preferably without Misha having to put in any work.

The knitted blanket smells faintly of weed. Misha rubs his cheek against it and breathes in.

It feels hard-wired to last night, to the memory of kissing Jeremy. The way Jeremy let Misha in, the way he shivered and relaxed when Misha held him in place. The way he’d taken what Misha poured into him, as much as Misha had taken the smoke from Jeremy’s mouth.

God, Misha aches all over thinking of it, a sweet heavy ache arrowing down to his groin. He remembers Jeremy’s hands on him, gripping Misha’s hips to keep him on his lap at the restaurant, Jeremy’s solid thighs. That Misha had been so close to grinding down on him right there in instinctual reaction. His body knows what it wants, at least.

Misha’s hard. He can feel it throbbing slow with his pulse. He can touch it if he wants, he realizes. Nobody’s here, a precious moment of privacy.

Goddamn it, he can’t be thinking about this. He’s not going to do this right here, with Jeremy in the kitchen.

But he wants to. His face is hot like a fever. If Jeremy came in, he could just… stop. Nobody would know. There’s nothing that says he has to get off.

Fuck, his stupid hormones; this is crazy. This is crazy, he tells himself, as he lets his hand creep down. Wildly inappropriate. Wrong.

The first touch of his hand on his cock through the sweats, tentative, is so good it’s almost painful. Keen with relief. Misha’s breath shudders out. He bites his lip hard, darting a look at the doorway. No sign of life.

It’s so different from the brisk way he’s touched his dick the rest of his life, handling it like just another body part like his elbow. He’s woken up hard, there’s nothing wrong with him, and he came in his sleep a few times as a teenager, but there was no meaning to it. Embarrassment, maybe. God, he’s been so stupid.

Curling in on himself a little tighter, Misha cups his dick in his whole hand. He’s clumsy and it’s frustrating after that first sweet relief. He doesn’t know what to do, exactly, how to make it good. What feels good. Everything feels good, but it seems like there are better ways to go about it. Fuck, he should have researched this first. Maybe he should stop and google it?

No. Misha’s a smart guy. He can figure this out.

Rubbing his palm over the trapped head of his cock is surprisingly good. After a few seconds, he can feel his thighs start to tremble, and pain spikes from his hip to his knee. Misha grits his teeth and stops. His breath is uneven; he can feel himself sweating.

His body strains after what it wants, like he’s burning new circuits in his brain, like the first hit of marijuana in his bloodstream. Stopping without coming seems far away, an idea that happened to somebody else. He should go upstairs and shower. He shouldn’t do this here. What if Jeremy wanders in?

Well, whispers a little voice in Misha’s head, what if he does? What if he comes in and sees you like this? What if you like it?

Misha makes a little noise in his throat, then he claps one hand over his mouth. Then, resigned to the inevitable, he shoves his hand down the front of the sweats. When he takes hold of his cock, it feels so hot it could scald his bare hand. The head is wet beneath his cupped hand. He skims his thumb in the slick in a slow circle, then another.

What if he comes in and puts his hands on me? he thinks, a flashbulb image in his mind of Jeremy’s broad palm curling around his dick, and that’s it, he’s coming in a bright pulse almost like pain. It’s good, it’s so good, his breath punched out against his muffling hand.

He catches his come in his hand. Mostly. As the long pleasure laps slow against the limits of his body, he shudders and uncurls. The aftermath settles on him like fatigue, but kinder, softening the sharpest edges of his pain.

His come is still cupped in the palm of his hand. He eases his hand out from beneath sweats and blankets and, darting looks at the doorway, brings it to his mouth. Clumsily, he licks his hand clean. It turns out come is not unpleasant to the taste.

Oh, Misha thinks. So that’s what all the fuss is about.

He thinks he could sleep. Instead, he hauls his heavy bones off the couch and goes to do some laundry.


Eventually, Jeremy emerges from his accountant fugue. He comes into the mud room, already talking. “I couldn’t find you. I’m starving. What’re you doing in here?”

Misha gestures at the spinning dryer like a magician.

“Well, yeah, I can see that, smartass.” Jeremy leans against the washer and frowns at Misha. “You know, you don’t have to do my laundry. We’ve talked about this.”

You said I could do whatever I wanted, Misha points out. Orgasms put him in a good humor, it turns out. I wanted to do our laundry. It’s meditative. It makes me happy.

Jeremy squints at him, clearly suspicious. “Whatever floats your boat. You look better, anyway.”

I feel much better, Misha tells him. He thinks of his graphic image of Jeremy taking Misha’s cock in his hand, a little guiltily. Not that guiltily. Thanks.
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nilchance: Picture of a pomegranate with spilled seeds, text "I think you're confused, I'm not Persephone" (Default)
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