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 (37/48)
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.

Misha drives Jeremy home, gets him settled in, and bolts (as much as he can bolt) for the shower. As soon as Misha takes his own dick in hand, he almost orgasms, on a short trigger. He jerks his hand away like he’s scalded; his whole body throbs with how close he is.

Even though it’s been near an hour since Jeremy collapsed into Misha’s lap, the hunger burns under Misha’s skin like no time has passed. God, Jeremy was so languid and sweet.

Biting his lip, Misha curls his fingers across his cock again. It’s been a few weeks since Misha first touched himself on the couch, and he’s been like a horny teenaged boy since then, stealing time in the bathroom to do it again. With practice, he’s improved at this, but he can’t help jerking off rough and fast tonight. His breathing echoes loud off the tiles, a harsh rhythm like Indira striping Jeremy’s back. All Misha has to do is remember Jeremy’s face, slack with pleasure, and he’s shuddering and coming over his fist. He keeps going through the gutpunch of pleasure, the sound of it wet and slick as he slows. The intensity of orgasm still catches him off guard.

Misha’s knee is starting to wobble. Plus he doesn’t like the idea of leaving Jeremy alone for long, fuzzy and vulnerable as Jeremy is. Propping himself in the corner of the shower, Misha hurries through a perfunctory ablution, then turns the water cold. It doesn’t help rinse the image of Jeremy on his knees that’s branded in Misha’s brain, which is Misha’s to keep.


“What are you looking at?” Jeremy asks. He’s on his stomach on the bed, only semi-awake. The long tan stretch of his back, still striped red, draws Misha’s eyes. Remembering what Indira said about aftercare and ignoring what Jeremy claims about not needing it, Misha draws the blanket back up around Jeremy. “In between fussing,” Jeremy amends, but he squirms deeper into the blanket.

A dildo, Misha signs.

For a long few moments, Jeremy just stares at him.

Since this is apparently complicated, Misha clarifies, To buy. For me. It’s ethically sourced.

“Of course it is,” Jeremy says, desert dry. He looks at the phone in Misha’s hand like he can see the screen if he tries hard enough.

Misha offers it to him.

“You don’t have to--”

Misha raises an eyebrow. Sheepishly, Jeremy takes the phone.

When Jeremy sees the dildo, he says, “Wow. That’s… ambitious. And purple.”

Compelled to defend his taste in sex toys, Misha says, It’s in the discount section.

“Misha. It’s fucking huge. And you don’t have to shop the discount section, I will give you my credit card right now.”

Misha eyes Jeremy. I want to buy sex toys with my own illegal money. And it’s listed as a small.

“A small horse, maybe.”

Despite himself, Misha snorts. The Slepnir model, in Catherine the Great purple.

Jeremy grins at him. “Catherine the grape?”

That’s terrible, Misha says, briefly overwhelmed with fondness. You win. Since you have such strong dildo opinions, tell me what to choose.

“Not that,” Jeremy says immediately.

Misha rolls his eyes. I gathered.

“I mean, have you ever--?” Jeremy makes a graphic gesture with his fingers, crooking them up to (Misha thinks) rub an imaginary prostate.

Misha contemplates smothering himself with a pillow. Somehow this is worse than when Jensen asks Misha about masturbation, because Jensen doesn’t make hand gestures that will probably haunt Misha’s fantasies for weeks.

Jensen sent me diagrams, is what Misha settles on. He gestures at his knee for emphasis. I tried it in the shower and nearly broke my neck.

“Jensen has diagrams?” Jeremy asks, because of course that’s the operative question here.

Jensen drew diagrams, Misha says, dourly.

“Oh.” Jeremy blinks, clearly picturing the diagrams. “That was nice of him? And also kind of terrifying. Which sums up Jensen, I guess.”

Misha frowns and starts to say that Jensen isn’t terrifying once you get to know him. Then he checks himself, because he finds Jeff as impenetrable and strange as Jeremy finds Jensen, and for much the same reasons. Jeff is an unknown factor to Misha, a gravity-like pull on Jeremy, as alien as the moon.

Misha has a diagram of his own about Jeff, two columns of pros and cons. On their short acquaintance, Jeff is not much like Javier, but he’s still a Morgan. Vincent warned Misha about the Morgan clan, that they were unstable with a large blast radius, although Vincent never explained what he meant by that. Maybe he was only referring to Jeff’s abolitionism. Maybe there are other skeletons in Jeff’s closets. Vincent isn’t around to ask.

And, to be fair, Misha just doesn’t like the way Jeff looks at Jeremy when Jeremy isn’t watching, the distant longing and the hunger of it, moth to flame. Misha didn’t think he was the jealous type, but. Well. Clearly there are a lot of things Misha didn’t know about himself.

That he likes to watch Jeremy get beaten, for one thing. That he likes to fuss over Jeremy in the aftermath: keeping him warm, keeping him close.

“It’d be easier in bed,” Jeremy says. “That way you’re not fighting gravity. You could, um, spread out. And use decent lube.”

I used shampoo.

“Oh, dude,” Jeremy says, appalled like Misha just announced he’s into eating kittens. “No. Trust me, you’d regret that pretty quickly.”

It’s funny that Jeremy finds Jensen terrifying, because both of them have strong opinions about the strangest things. Leaving that alone, Misha says, And I’ll just roust you from our bed while I jerk off.

Misha resists the urge to add that Jeremy could stay to watch, if he wanted.

Jeremy goes to shrug and winces as his back pulls. “Sure. Why not? It’s your bed, too.”

Automatically derailed by the wince, Misha sits up. Are you hurting? Can I get you anything?

“It’s okay, Mish. Hurting is kind of the point.”

Misha lays back down, then he pushes Jeremy’s stray hair behind his ear. Jeremy’s grin gentles, and he tilts his head to bump against Misha’s knuckles. That same errant tendril of hair promptly escapes to dangle in Jeremy’s face again.

Misha doesn’t tell him that Indira said to take care of Jeremy tonight, or that a great fierce streak of protectiveness has risen up to bite Misha hard. He doesn’t say that when Jeremy knelt at Misha’s feet, Misha wanted to pull Jeremy up onto his lap. Instead Misha says, You were beautiful.

Jeremy ducks his head, going a little pink. His voice is uncharacteristically soft. “You don’t think I’m… I don’t know. Freaky. Broken. Whatever. Since I let her do that.”

Strong, Misha corrects. Lovely. I don’t think less of you.

Jeremy quirks a smile, bittersweet. “So you’ll still respect me in the morning?”

I respect you now, darling, Misha says. The endearment slips from his hands, and he winces inside, but Jeremy’s shoulders visibly unknot.

“I’m glad you were there,” Jeremy says. “I mean, I’m glad you were there. I trust you.”

Which is a stronger pronouncement from Jeremy than ‘I love you.’ Thanks, Misha says, inadequately.

Apparently that satisfies Jeremy, though. Jeremy returns to the phone, touch-typing away, then hands it back to Misha. “These are some smaller toys. Thinner than fingers, even. It should be, uh, easier.”

Misha frowns at the webpage. It says beginner. How long is this going to take? Is there an apprenticeship program I don’t know about?

Jeremy snorts. “You in a rush?”

Transferring his frown to Jeremy, Misha asks, Did you take it slow?

“Yeah. It took a while. He--” Jeremy stares into the past at some memory, then clears his throat. “It was worth it. Made it better.”

It doesn’t require a genius to assume that Jeff was the one who took care of Jeremy, who made Jeremy wait so he didn’t get hurt. Grudgingly, Misha adds another check to his mental tally of nice things Jeff’s done.

Misreading Misha’s sigh, Jeremy says, “If this is too pushy, you don’t have to listen to me. Maybe you should go to a store with Jensen or something.”

Misha puts a thin black plug in his cart. Not you. Feels like everyone else knows these things and I’m stuck in remedial classes with beginner’s dildos.

“Aw, dude, no.” Jeremy pets Misha’s shoulder. “Your sample size is all screwed up. I only know this stuff because I’m a slut. Jensen knows because he went to bodyslave school.”

Misha squints at Jeremy, suspicious. He’s never sure if he should protest when Jeremy calls himself a slut, a title Jeremy seems to wear with mixed pride and self-deprecation. Are you trying to make me feel better?

“Yeah,” Jeremy drawls, “it’s a terrible habit I have. But I’m not lying. You’ll figure it out.”

If Misha’s lucky, he’ll figure it out before he dies of old age. Jeremy’s trying to be comforting, though, and despite himself Misha is a little comforted. Misha puts the phone aside; he’ll pay later. When he squirms a little closer to Jeremy and stretches out his arm, Jeremy obligingly throws an arm over Misha’s stomach and rests his head on Misha’s shoulder.

“Thanks,” Jeremy says, almost inaudible.

Misha can’t answer, one arm trapped beneath Jeremy’s head. Instead he touches Jeremy’s face with his free hand, strokes his thumb across Jeremy’s cheekbone. He tries to imbue his touch with all the tenderness and awe he can, with his gratitude that Jeremy lets Misha see him like this.

Jeremy sighs, rubs his cheek against Misha like an affectionate cat, and closes his eyes. Misha tucks the blanket around him again, his arm already going pins and needles, and stares at the ceiling.

Maybe by the time the dildo arrives, Misha will be brave enough to ask Jeremy to help him use it.
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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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