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 (41/48)
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.



They linger at Jeff’s into the afternoon. When they get home, the dildo package is on the front doorstep. Jeremy freezes right there, staring stupidly at the postage label.

Right. Okay. That’s a thing that’s happening. Now he’s going to pick the box up and go inside while not thinking about Misha using it.

Any minute now.

Jeremy’s thought process scatters, the consequence of shock about Bodhi and of fucking with his sleep schedule. When did he get a sleep schedule? When did he get domesticated? That should probably bother him more than it does.

Then again, he doesn’t have a surprise kid, so comparatively speaking he’s winning the immature manchild sweepstakes. Fuck yeah, vasectomies.

He needs caffeine. He needs to get his shit together. He needs to stop thinking about Misha slicking up the dildo and pressing it in, about Misha’s mouth going slack with pleasure…

Misha is on the step beside him, waving a hand in front of Jeremy’s face. When Jeremy blinks at him, Misha quirks an eyebrow.

“Sorry.” Shaking his head, Jeremy unlocks the front door. The inside of the house is cool and dark. Denis is gone again; he’s been gone a lot, lately, which is another thing to stress over. Then again, Jeremy can’t say he’s sorry he missed Denis loudly stroking out about having to touch a box with dildos in it.

Again.

Jeremy’s twenties involved a lot of Denis stroking out.

“Your stuff came,” Jeremy says, already setting the box down. “You want some coffee? I want some coffee--”

Misha takes the package right out of Jeremy’s hands, tucking it against his side with one arm. No, thank you. I’m going to borrow the bedroom.

“-- okay?” Jeremy blinks at him. “Um. Yeah. Good luck. Use lube. Do you want me to carry the box upstairs?”

Misha grins at him, disarmingly sweet. Chivalrous, but no. Then he starts up the stairs. Jeremy turns his back, a performance of putting his keys on the hook by the door, but his entire awareness is centered on the thump of Misha’s step.

He hears Misha reach the top step. A few moments later, he hears the closing of the bedroom door. Before he can succumb to the temptation to listen for any other sounds, he goes into the kitchen.

Not that sounds won’t carry into the kitchen. Fuck, his brain is scrambled by crossed impulses to join Misha in their bed like a scumbag or to leave the house entirely like a coward. But no, he’s just going to sit at the goddamn kitchen table and do some goddamn taxes.

(It’s not like Misha will make a lot of noise, jerking off. Although fuck, what if he does? What if Misha is making that pleased purring sound now, surprised how good it is to be fucked?)

Jeremy can’t concentrate on the taxes. He’s too keyed into the noises of the house, its old creaks and sighs. The second time he screws up simple addition, he slaps the ledger closed and returns to the living room.

“Winston, you wanna go out?”

Winston lifts his chin from his paws and wags. It could be happiness to see Jeremy or just ‘give me food, strange bald dog.’ Winston’s muzzle is getting grayer; Jeremy hadn’t noticed.

Jeremy’s thoughts are circling each other, threatening to spiral down into hating himself for the rest of the day. He has a lot of reasons, paths treaded down from years of running them. Jeff, not loving him. Misha, not able to tell him no. Zach and Wendy. Marisa. The hospital. It’s almost comforting by now, the universal constant of his brain.

He’s better now. He’s better, goddamn it. Or at least he’s not worse.

He heads to the back porch, taking his coffee; Winston’s tags jingle as he follows agreeably. Jeremy kicks off his shoes and goes to stand in the green shaggy grass, barefoot. Stares up into the sullen sky.

The long summer is ending, finally. In June he’d been miserable; he wishes he could tell himself to wait, that Misha would show up and upend his life. That things aren’t easy and he’s still crazy but that life’s better now anyway, with Misha in it.

Winston whuffles around the yard, tail waving like a little flag. There’s container gardens of herbs around the yard now, another addition from Misha. Jeremy’s never had tomatoes growing next to his weed before.

He wonders if Misha would like a bigger garden, or roses, or trellises, or whatever. He can’t give Misha most of what he deserves, but he can give him Home Depot.

Someone touches his arm. Jeremy flinches back to attention and finds Misha at his side. Misha, flushed and feral, almost no blue left in his eyes.

“Um,” Jeremy isn’t sure what asinine thing to add next. Ask him how it was? Ask him if he remembered to use lube? Anything to avoid the temptation to bury his face in Misha’s neck, to drag in the heady scent of Misha’s skin. But Misha is still giving him that wild-eyed look, so instead Jeremy asks, “You okay?”

For a second Jeremy thinks Misha’s going to shake his head, going to sign never mind. Misha’s throat works as he swallows. Then, hands flying, Misha says, You said I should ask for what I want.

“Yeah.” Suddenly Jeremy’s heart is pounding. He closes his hands into fists like that can keep him quiet, like he’s the one who can’t talk without them. “I meant it.”

Misha takes a step closer, further into Jeremy’s space. I want you to kiss me again.

“I can do that,” Jeremy says.

Not for practice. Not shotgunning. Not for my sake. Do you understand?

“Yes,” Jeremy says. It should feel like stepping over some ethical threshold. Jeff would be fucking appalled. But yes is everything he says to Misha, over and over. A life full of yes. “I’m good with that.”

Misha looks into his eyes for a minute, strangely intense, then kisses him. It’s a little violent, something breaking under tension. Jeremy grabs Misha’s arms to keep both of them from staggering over, and Misha only puts his hands on Jeremy’s face to keep Jeremy where Misha wants him.

Jeremy isn’t going anywhere.

And then it’s over, hurricane Misha gentling out. Misha removes his hands and Jeremy wobbles, trying to catch his breath. After a too long moment, Jeremy remembers to stop holding Misha by the arms.

I want you to fuck me, Misha signs.

“Uh, wow,” Jeremy says, his brain still clearly deprived of oxygen. When shutters slam down on Misha’s eyes, Jeremy haltingly grabs at him again. “Wait, wait. Run that by me again. Are you sure?”

I want to fuck you. I’ve wanted to fuck you. I can conjugate more verbs. Misha makes a frustrated gesture. I’m not brainwashed. You’re sexy and I can’t use the stupid dildo because of my leg and I’d really like you to pop my cherry.

“Pop your cherry?” Jeremy asks, disbelieving and a little indignant. “Is this middle school?”

Misha blinks at him. Should I buy you flowers first? When Jeremy laughs, because he can’t not, Misha shrugs. It’s simple. You’re hot. I trust you.

Jeremy doesn’t. But then, there are much worse people out in the world; Jeremy knows because he’s fucked half of them. Thinking about Misha stumbling into someone like the guard makes Jeremy feel sick and murderous.

It’s sex. Jeremy is good at sex.

“Are you sure?” Jeremy asks Misha.

Are you sure you want me? Misha counters.

“Come here and let me show you,” Jeremy says, and gathers Misha back into his arms.

The trip upstairs is a blur of trying to walk and maul each other at the same time. Jeremy’s shirt and the top button on his jeans end up pitched over the bannister into the front hall. It’s a miracle Misha’s cane doesn’t join it; the second time Misha fumbles it, they sheepishly move apart. Misha’s mouth is slick and bitten, and they’re both panting.

“God, I wish we had an elevator,” Jeremy says fervently. “You go first before we end up fucking on the stairs.”

Misha raises an eyebrow and gestures at the floor, inviting.

“We are not fucking on the stairs,” Jeremy says, half to Misha and half a reminder to himself.

Misha sighs dramatically and goes up the stairs, leaving Jeremy to admire his ass in those sweatpants.

When Jeremy catches up to him in the bedroom, Misha is already sitting on the edge of the bed. Misha skims off his t-shirt and tosses it on the floor to join his cane and shoes. Seeing Jeremy, Misha smiles slow and predatory.

“I thought I was debauching you, here.”

Shrugging, Misha wobbles his hand back and forth. Mutual debauching. Why are you still wearing pants?

“Protecting my virtue,” Jeremy deadpans. He peels his jeans and underwear at once, a slutty party trick complicated by the fact that Misha ripped his zipper right off the track. “You’re still wearing pants.”

I’m a cripple, I can do what I want, Misha signs, even as he’s squirming out of his pants.

“Ouch, the cripple card.” Naked now, Jeremy sits on the edge of the bed beside Misha. Misha glances down at Jeremy’s dick, frankly speculative, and his smile widens.

Jeremy curls an arm around Misha’s narrow waist, kisses his shoulder. After Misha started wearing yoga pants around the house, Jeremy thought he’d been desensitized to Misha’s body, but it’s different looking at miles of Misha’s bare skin. He wants to touch every inch. “You’re gorgeous. I should’ve told you that before. You’re totally out of my league.”

Misha’s still half hard from earlier, getting harder already as Jeremy drinks him in. Tilting his chin up, Misha signs, my leg doesn’t bother you?

“What? No.” Jeremy rubs his cheek against the curve of Misha’s throat. “You’re perfect.”

Misha makes a dismissive noise and turns his head to catch Jeremy’s mouth in another kiss. It’s slower and deeper, not the spark and combustion of the first. Less likely to burn out. Misha’s mouth is like a drug, like honey, like a thousand metaphors that can’t express what it’s like to unhurriedly taste him. By the time they come up for air, Misha’s shivering and wound tight. Admittedly, Jeremy’s not exactly feeling steady himself.

Leaning back a little, Misha signs, move so I can lie down.

Reluctantly, Jeremy lets him go and moves back. Misha sprawls back on the sheets, seductive mostly because he isn’t trying to be. Misha’s cock is fully hard again, wet at the head with precome.

Misha catches Jeremy looking and his breath hitches, dick bobbing against his stomach. All right, Misha signs, now come back. I need you to fuck me.

It’s like Misha grabs Jeremy by the spine and pulls him close. Not the smoothest dirty talk Jeremy’s ever heard, but damned effective. Jeremy crawls up the bed, stops at Misha’s hips because he’s afraid to get snagged in another kiss. Can’t leave Misha hanging much longer. One of them ought to keep their head.

Except, well.

Jeremy touches the wet spot of precome on Misha’s stomach and licks it off his finger. Misha makes a punched-out noise.

Okay, now Jeremy can keep his head.

“You want me to use the dildo?” Jeremy asks, his voice hoarse. When Misha shakes his head, eyes heavy on Jeremy’s face: “you want me to finger you?”

Misha nods a little impatiently (which is fair, considering he was hard when this started) and hands over the lube.

Unwilling to take his eyes off Misha’s slack and panting mouth, Jeremy promptly drops the lube twice, then spills it on the sheets. Super smooth.

Jeremy slicks the lube between his fingers, warming it up. When some of it drops onto Misha’s thigh, the muscle jumps and Misha hitches in a breath.

“You all right? Still with me?”

Indignant and wild-eyed, Misha signs, don’t stop.

Jeremy laughs, which chokes in his throat as Misha opens his legs. The insides of Misha’s thighs are vulnerable and pale. Jeremy wants to suck hickeys there like graffiti. Instead he touches the tight furl of Misha’s entrance, coaxing it to ease up.

Misha nudges Jeremy with his good knee. Signs, more.

“You’re bossy,” Jeremy tells him.

The corner of Misha’s mouth quirks up. You like it.

Yeah, like both of them didn’t know that. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

You won’t, Misha says. He rocks his hips back into Jeremy’s hand, trying to fuck himself open. Lets out a shuddering breath. Jeremy.

Jeremy gives up; he knew he probably would as soon as Misha asked for more. Was he this stubborn when Jeff was trying to work Jeremy up to his dick? Probably yes.

He makes himself stop thinking about Jeff. Not a good time.

When Jeremy slips his first finger in, he’s trying like hell to be gentle. Misha is virgin tight, hot inside like fever. Jeremy thinks about easing his cock into Misha, a distracting heat lightning of a thought that makes him grind down into the mattress.

He glances at Misha’s face, checking in. Misha has his eyes closed, an expression of deep concentration, like he’s listening to distant music. Probably trying to figure out if he likes this. It shouldn’t be as sexy as it is.

More lube, and it’s easier for Jeremy to get his finger inside, to coax Misha open. After a moment, Misha exhales a shivery breath and starts grinding back into Jeremy’s hand.

“Jerk yourself off for me,” Jeremy’s voice sounds hushed in the quiet. “Show me what you like.”

Misha does it, his other hand still knotted in the sheets, and bites his lip. Makes that satisfied purring sound. Hearing it is as good as being jerked off, as far as Jeremy’s concerned, aural porn that makes up for all the dirty talk in the world.

Jeremy eases across Misha’s prostate, a glancing thing; Misha might not even have a taste for it, in which case Jeremy is more than happy to suck him off. But Misha shudders, fumbles the next stroke of his cock, too fast. Moans, grating and low.

“Yeah?” Jeremy asks, a little catch in his voice.

Misha nods, fumbling his other hand to Jeremy’s shoulder, to the back of Jeremy’s neck. Scruffs him, and fuck, Jeremy needs to stop grinding against the sheets. Fuck.

In case Jeremy didn’t catch that nod, Misha lets him go to sign, More. More, when Jeremy crooks his finger in to rub Misha’s prostate, give me two fingers.

Of course Misha’s already topping from the bottom.

A little dizzy with the noises Misha’s making, like they’re being dragged from deep inside, Jeremy gives him a second finger. (He was maybe a little overzealous with the lube.) Misha puts one hand back in Jeremy’s hair, his fingers curved and trembling around Jeremy’s skull. Misha’s other hand is wet with precome now, obscene slick noises as he jerks off. Jeremy can smell how close he is.

“That’s good,” Jeremy says, barely aware of what he’s saying because it’s less important than making Misha come on his fingers, less important than how much Jeremy wants to burn this into his own brain. “You’re so beautiful. You’re so fucking tight I can barely get my fingers in you. You can come for me, sweetheart, I’ve got you.”

Misha drags in one sharp breath and comes, quiet, clutching at Jeremy like they could get any closer. His come stripes up his belly in long jolts, and Jeremy shudders with how much he wants to lick it off.

Before the last few tremors have even passed, Misha starts trying to pull Jeremy up. Jeremy goes, mouth open to ask Misha if he’s okay, if Jeremy broke him; his soothing noises break off in a groan as Misha grinds against him.

Rub off on me, Misha signs. I want you to come on me.

And Jeremy drags Misha close, grinding against Misha’s belly, his dick sliding in Misha’s come. It doesn’t take very long before Jeremy gets off, with Misha’s nails digging into his shoulders and Misha’s ragged gasps in his ear.

After a while, sweat and come cooling on their skins, Misha cradles Jeremy’s face in his hands. Misha peers at him, touching Jeremy’s mouth with his finger whenever Jeremy tries to say something smart-assed. It feels like Jeremy’s back on his knees at Indira’s, like Misha can see through his skin. Like Misha sees something in Jeremy that’s halfway worth seeing.

Misha lets him go and signs, thank you.

“Any time,” Jeremy says.

Misha hums. How about tomorrow?

“Sure,” Jeremy says, too startled to be defensive.

Good, Misha says, and grins. I have a list.

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