Nick Jonas - "Character study with butt plug" (TM Sky)
Ahahhahhaha. Ha. Okay.
So, I spent the day home sick writing Trucker fic and talking about Adam Lambert and mostly watching episodes of Jonas and reading the jbkinkmeme entries, and I maybe, sort of wrote some Jonas fic. schuyler says I should post here, because it's good and I like it, but if it freaks you out, MAYBE DON'T READ IT? *facepalm*
untitled; NC-17; Nick Jonas (Nick/Joe if you squint); ~1000 words
It's tight, just wide enough at the base that Nick can feel it when he moves, not painful but very much there. He watches himself in the mirror as he pulls his underwear up, flexes his ass just a fraction, just enough to watch his dick jump once before he pulls the tight grey cotton over his hips. His jeans are tight enough that if he gets too hard, it won't be easy to disguise. When he walks to the door, he can feel the shift of smooth, slick silicone inside his body. He takes a deep breath, then another, then opens the door to his mom and Joe, waiting to take him down to the car.
He's not sure why he's doing it - it's not really the thrill of getting caught, since no one will suspect it, not even Joe, with his watchful eyes, his dirty mind. But he's decided to wear it for the next two hours, through an interview in Chicago and a three song acoustic set, just for the thrill it gives him low in his belly. Just to see if he can. This is the first time he's done this, wearing the plug outside the safety zone of his own hotel room, his own bathroom at home. It's black, not too big but big enough, and he's had it since Japan, since he realized what it was, sitting on the shelf in a store full of bright, colorful toys he assumed were for kids. He got a thrill then, too, sliding it off the shelf and tucking it in the pocket of his jacket, just because it was forbidden, and he wanted to see if he could. Of course he could, though. There's pretty much nothing Nick Jonas hasn't been able to do since he was eleven years old.
The interview is short - fifteen minutes they can edit down to five, and Nick perches on the stool they give him with practiced ease, slow, steady, only a tiny hiccup in his breathing when he settles down all the way. A few minutes in, and he finds he's distracted from the questions; he frowns at himself and shakes his head a little, willing his focus forward. When asked about the new tour, Joe pats Nick hard on the back a few times and Nick stops breathing, wills his skin to stop tingling, his dick to stay down. Kevin tilts his head in question and Nick smiles at him, small and secret and sincere. Kevin just shakes his head and grins back - Nick's always been a little weird, a little intense, and no one's going to think anyhing of it if his words come out a little breathless, if he shifts too much in his seat.
The acoustic set is almost too much, the vibrations through the guitar into his lap overstimulating already sensitive skin. Nick closes his eyes to get through the vocals, hopes the flush on his cheeks will be chalked up to the bright, hot lights. "Did you check your levels?" Joe whispers to him at the end of it, forehead creased with concern, and Nick laughs a little. "Yeah, I'm good," he says, because he really, really is.
It's a little more than two hours when they finally pull back up to the hotel. Nick spends the last few blocks with his temple pressed to the cool glass of the tinted car window, his fingers opening and closing tightly around his thighs. He can make it, he has to, he will, and when Rob opens the car door Nick just drapes his jacket over his arm, in front of his crotch where his traitorous dick is pushing hard against his zipper, and climbs out with a smile that hides his wince. His mom wants them to grab dinner sooner rather than later, but Nick's skin is on fire by now, his whole back, his thighs, his ass screaming. "I'll meet you down here in a half an hour," he tells her with a smile he's sure reads as exhausted, but when he looks over his shoulder, Joe is grinning at him slyly, winking, like he knows exactly what Nick is going to be doing for the next half hour. Nick tries to imagine Joe's face if he told him, if he pressed Joe's fingers to the sweat-slicked base of the plug and let Joe feel what was inside him. He can't think too hard about that though, about anyone touching him there but himself, about Joe. The elevator doors slide shut behind him and Nick sags heavily against the mirrored wall.
It's a long, agonizing walk from the elevator to his room, and his fingers shake on the key card, part tension, part anticipation. He doesn't even make it to the bathroom, just locks the door tight and leans on the inside of it, shoving his jeans and underwear roughly down his thighs. One hand snakes behind him to press on the plug, the other wraps around his dick and he's close enough that he actually cries out, the sound echoing off the walls. It's less than thirty seconds before he's coming over his fist, his body shaking hard enough that he has to lock his knees to keep from falling over.
He pulls the plug out slow, slow, and leans over to get a deep breath, to work out the stiff muscles in his lower back. Two hours and fifteen minutes, this time. He thinks in another week, he can make it three hours, easy. He smiles to himself and goes to wash up in the bathroom before heading down to dinner.
DAMN YOU NICK JONAS, STOP BEING SO INTERESTING.
So, I spent the day home sick writing Trucker fic and talking about Adam Lambert and mostly watching episodes of Jonas and reading the jbkinkmeme entries, and I maybe, sort of wrote some Jonas fic. schuyler says I should post here, because it's good and I like it, but if it freaks you out, MAYBE DON'T READ IT? *facepalm*
untitled; NC-17; Nick Jonas (Nick/Joe if you squint); ~1000 words
It's tight, just wide enough at the base that Nick can feel it when he moves, not painful but very much there. He watches himself in the mirror as he pulls his underwear up, flexes his ass just a fraction, just enough to watch his dick jump once before he pulls the tight grey cotton over his hips. His jeans are tight enough that if he gets too hard, it won't be easy to disguise. When he walks to the door, he can feel the shift of smooth, slick silicone inside his body. He takes a deep breath, then another, then opens the door to his mom and Joe, waiting to take him down to the car.
He's not sure why he's doing it - it's not really the thrill of getting caught, since no one will suspect it, not even Joe, with his watchful eyes, his dirty mind. But he's decided to wear it for the next two hours, through an interview in Chicago and a three song acoustic set, just for the thrill it gives him low in his belly. Just to see if he can. This is the first time he's done this, wearing the plug outside the safety zone of his own hotel room, his own bathroom at home. It's black, not too big but big enough, and he's had it since Japan, since he realized what it was, sitting on the shelf in a store full of bright, colorful toys he assumed were for kids. He got a thrill then, too, sliding it off the shelf and tucking it in the pocket of his jacket, just because it was forbidden, and he wanted to see if he could. Of course he could, though. There's pretty much nothing Nick Jonas hasn't been able to do since he was eleven years old.
The interview is short - fifteen minutes they can edit down to five, and Nick perches on the stool they give him with practiced ease, slow, steady, only a tiny hiccup in his breathing when he settles down all the way. A few minutes in, and he finds he's distracted from the questions; he frowns at himself and shakes his head a little, willing his focus forward. When asked about the new tour, Joe pats Nick hard on the back a few times and Nick stops breathing, wills his skin to stop tingling, his dick to stay down. Kevin tilts his head in question and Nick smiles at him, small and secret and sincere. Kevin just shakes his head and grins back - Nick's always been a little weird, a little intense, and no one's going to think anyhing of it if his words come out a little breathless, if he shifts too much in his seat.
The acoustic set is almost too much, the vibrations through the guitar into his lap overstimulating already sensitive skin. Nick closes his eyes to get through the vocals, hopes the flush on his cheeks will be chalked up to the bright, hot lights. "Did you check your levels?" Joe whispers to him at the end of it, forehead creased with concern, and Nick laughs a little. "Yeah, I'm good," he says, because he really, really is.
It's a little more than two hours when they finally pull back up to the hotel. Nick spends the last few blocks with his temple pressed to the cool glass of the tinted car window, his fingers opening and closing tightly around his thighs. He can make it, he has to, he will, and when Rob opens the car door Nick just drapes his jacket over his arm, in front of his crotch where his traitorous dick is pushing hard against his zipper, and climbs out with a smile that hides his wince. His mom wants them to grab dinner sooner rather than later, but Nick's skin is on fire by now, his whole back, his thighs, his ass screaming. "I'll meet you down here in a half an hour," he tells her with a smile he's sure reads as exhausted, but when he looks over his shoulder, Joe is grinning at him slyly, winking, like he knows exactly what Nick is going to be doing for the next half hour. Nick tries to imagine Joe's face if he told him, if he pressed Joe's fingers to the sweat-slicked base of the plug and let Joe feel what was inside him. He can't think too hard about that though, about anyone touching him there but himself, about Joe. The elevator doors slide shut behind him and Nick sags heavily against the mirrored wall.
It's a long, agonizing walk from the elevator to his room, and his fingers shake on the key card, part tension, part anticipation. He doesn't even make it to the bathroom, just locks the door tight and leans on the inside of it, shoving his jeans and underwear roughly down his thighs. One hand snakes behind him to press on the plug, the other wraps around his dick and he's close enough that he actually cries out, the sound echoing off the walls. It's less than thirty seconds before he's coming over his fist, his body shaking hard enough that he has to lock his knees to keep from falling over.
He pulls the plug out slow, slow, and leans over to get a deep breath, to work out the stiff muscles in his lower back. Two hours and fifteen minutes, this time. He thinks in another week, he can make it three hours, easy. He smiles to himself and goes to wash up in the bathroom before heading down to dinner.
DAMN YOU NICK JONAS, STOP BEING SO INTERESTING.