Fic: volenti non fit injuria (Jensen/JDM, Jensen/Jared, R)
Title: volenti non fit injuria
Pairings: Jensen/JDM, Jensen/Jared, Jensen/Jared/Jeff implied
Rating: R
Words: ~2,200
Summary/Notes: For my fictictactoe game against mistyzeo: the loosest interpretation of the 'kindness' prompt ever. Jeff takes special care of Jensen, but he can't be around all the time. This is where Jared comes in. Vaguely non-AUish, but - vague.
Note the second: bertee, the fact that I am actually posting this is your fault. Congratulations, happy graduation, etc. Placetne, magistra? ;)
Warnings: Schmoopy D/s, bondage, etc.
*~ volenti non fit injuria ~*
Jeff has a voice like whisky, a dark-gold burn that sears from the inside out. His fingers trace the paths leather-beaten across Jensen's back, the pads of them rough where the nerves have near broken the surface. Not yet, he breathes, molten against Jensen's ear. Jensen's fingers twist in the rope, and he shudders his compliance.
Semen over weals is like candlewax spilled on burned skin. The heat of it stings for a moment, then bleeds into warmth, laving the edge of the pain like the tongue of a cat. The shock of it makes Jensen twist in his restraints, Jeff's rough cry of climax unmaking, reforming him like clay. He is trembling now, but not yet, Jeff manages, not yet, and Jensen whimpers acknowledgement, though his thigh muscles jump with the strain.
And then Jeff's fingers are there at his lips, salt-slick and white with his release, and Jensen opens to them, curls his tongue around their tips as Jeff's lips brush at his jaw. All right, Jen. You can come for me now, he whispers. The sound of it shatters like glass on the rocks of Jensen's consciousness, and the next thing he knows he is coming like high tide in a storm.
Afterwards, Jeff is gentleness itself, laying Jensen down like a child or an offering, rubbing the blood back into his wrists. The chafe-marks ring his forearms, angry and raised, but Jeff is ready with his ointment and his kisses, his you're okay, now, Jen and did so well, boy. Jensen's mind feels as if it has been loosened along with his body, languid and drunken in the best of all possible ways. There won't be any hangover in the morning, not from this. There will only be Jeff, tangled around him like a vine, and the marks on his back to remind him that he is loved.
Jeff is still mostly dressed as he shifts on the bed, arranging Jensen's limbs for comfort, kissing his hair. Even like this, Jensen knows that this will not do, and he tugs at the front of the black shirt - "Off. Please."
Jeff smiles indulgently, sitting up to tug off his boots. From the corner of his eye, Jensen watches long fingers on leather, the tension of the muscles in Jeff's arms as he pulls his feet free. His trousers are open, and he sheds them easily; pulls his shirt up and over his head. When he turns back to Jensen, his dark eyes are full fathoms five, warmth in their depths like the unquenchable embers of an inferno. Jensen raises an arm with an effort, muscles like liquid protesting such strain so soon. Jeff moves easily, fitting his body to Jensen's, and his hands are careful on the back he has washed and anointed. Sshh, he breathes, kissing Jensen's cheek, his lips. Time for sleep. Did so well for me, babe.
Jensen is boneless, now; sinks into his aches like warm water. Jeff is holding him, shielding him, and like this, the surrender is no surrender at all.
*
Jensen stares at the ceiling, and wonders what his mother would think of him now, if she could open him up like a paperback novel and read everything inside.
He wonders what Jared would think, for that matter. His lips curve up at the edges half-consciously as he considers it. In this case, at least, he sort of suspects he knows the answer. He can almost see that grin of his in his mind; the wide-mouthed, knowing smirk. He imagines, for a second, Jeff's low laughter against Jared's mouth, how it might look. Jared's shoulders are broad, sturdy, but his hips are narrow, would slot like sin into Jeff's strong hands.
Jeff's gravel voice, commanding, dictatorial. The thought of it alone makes Jensen's spine go liquid, but he can't imagine Jeff turning it on Jared, giving instructions, directing.
He can almost hear Jared turning his own commands on him, though. Jensen. Still./You move another muscle and I'll beat your ass for you, you hear?/Now stop. There's not a mean bone in Jared's body, but Jensen's seen the coiled energy dark in his eyes, all the same, when he's leaned too close; has felt the presence of him big and thrilling, with the mischief wiped away.
Stupid, though, this over-optimistic train of thought, and Jensen's half-laughing at himself for letting it run off its rails in the first place. He could be wrong in all his conjectures, conceivably. If he knows what's good for him, he'll leave well enough alone.
God, Jeff's voice, though. He feels lazy, unhurried, just at the thought of it, and he let his mind drift back down into the memory of that warm dark sound, velvet over steel; the way Jeff's eyes darken when he gives an order. The slow paralysis that seems to prickle over Jensen like needlepoints of heat, making him salivate, obey, submit.
Jared has been gentle, lately. There's a mark low at the base of Jensen's throat, where his neck meets his shoulder, and his fingers find it half-consciously, toying with the skin there. It was a dark bruise when it first bloomed, but slowly induced. He rubs at it, absently. He thinks about another bruise, bitten into his skin; the way the pain would sing along the surface, not enough, but something. He thinks about the resonance of hand on flesh, the slow burn. Jeff's strong fingers cradling Jensen's skull, holding him steady for the hot slick weight of him against the back of Jensen's throat. The rasp in his voice; his thumb rubbing to and fro over Jared's mark - "He do this to you?"
Yes. Yes.
Press of fingernails into the skin, knuckling against bone. "Gonna let me make one, too, huh?"
Yes.
He remembers the way Jeff looked the night before, standing over him like some stern Collossus. His iron voice. The blood-tang of Jensen's own breathing in the back of his throat, as if he were tasting every blow like a fine liqueur. God.
Sometimes, Jared bites his mouth, too; will scrape his fingernails over the skin of Jensen's back as they kiss; fuck a little harder than necessary, staccato and strong. But he's never ventured any further; hasn't held Jensen back by the roots of his hair; hasn't coolly controlled him like a doll in disfavour. He's always been a perfect gentleman, in every sense of the word.
Jensen wonders whether he's waiting for a goddamn engraved invitation, or if a simple come on, you think that hurts? would do the trick. He doesn't believe for a moment that he doesn't have it in him. He wonders whether Jeff might bring it out, the way Jared's marks on Jensen make Jeff burn hotter, possessive and rough.
Jensen raises his hands above his head, crosses his wrists. There are marks, still, scuffs over the bone from his cuffs, and he wonders how it would feel to look up at both of them over him with his hands tied there like that. Or elsewhere: behind his back, in front of him. Anywhere.
Maybe he's crazy, but they're crazy together, Jensen's sure of it. Or at least, they could be.
*
Later, Jeff takes him to Wendy's, because it's Jensen's turn to choose and Jensen's classy like that. There's something about the way the girls stare at his collar in fast food places that beats out, every time, the careful evasiveness of the waitresses in upscale restaurants, politely not noticing while their lips pull white and horrified. Their server today is named Chelsea and she stares unabashedly. Jensen feels a swell of pride in his chest. The collar isn't an all-the-time thing - can't be, by necessity - so when he wears it, he doesn't want polite evasiveness. He wants it to be noticed; wants to sit at Jeff's side in a lowbrow downtown restaurant and have people know he's owned.
He might feel more fucked up about it if Jeff didn't show every sign of feeling the exact same way.
Saturdays, Jensen gets what he wants. That's the way this works: he's good for Jeff, he gets his return. It's not as if he feels any sense of entitlement, but Jeff loves to be generous, and Jensen loves to let him indulge himself. Jeff's most of the way through his fries before he asks - "So, anything I can get for you, babe?" - which means Jensen's had plenty of time to consider his words before he speaks, weigh the value of straightforwardness versus caution.
Jeff, as a general rule, is a pretty straightforward guy. Jensen looks him straight in the eye and says, "Jared." They've touched on it a little, suggested it, but Jensen needs to be clear, here. Jeff's raising an eyebrow, prompting, so Jensen elaborates. "Think you could teach him?"
Jeff laughs, pensive, around the straw in his Coke. "Think he'd want to be taught?" He doesn't sound put out, just curious, and Jensen is emboldened. The paper from his own straw in still in his hand; he crumples it in his palm.
"It's just," he says, "you're not here all the time. And when you're not -- "
"You need someone to look after you," Jeff finishes, slowly, reading Jensen's intention before Jensen's fully articulated it himself. Jeff's good at that. It's one of his many fine attributes.
"He could," Jensen says, firm. "I'm sure he could -- wants to -- he just doesn't know how." Jensen understands that. Jensen, after all, didn't known how to submit before he was taught; didn't know exactly what it was that he wanted, even, or how it differed from all the rough sex with strangers that had failed to shore up the ruined parts of himself. Everything started with kindness, with being looked after, and Jensen had been missing that until Jeff showed him how it was. The thing about Jared is that he already has that part down to the bone, and that's the important part. That's where it starts.
Beside him in the booth, Jeff is nodding, pensive, but as casual as if Jensen had just suggested they go buy a new lawnmower or stop at a video rental on the way home. "Okay," he says, just like that. As if he trusts Jensen's judgement without further questioning. As if doing this for Jensen is second nature, like saying please when he asks for something, or taking care not to drop the door in his face when they leave together. "Okay. I'll ask him."
Jensen thinks of Jeff just like this, that look on his face as he spreads Jensen's ankles, fastens them apart. Thinks of his hand on Jared's shoulder, instructive, gentle. This is the padding, the cuff, the spreader; this is how it locks. This is his safe word; his collar, his blindfold. These are Jensen's kinks, his secrets, his heart. Today we have naming of parts.
Jensen couldn't have wished for a better keeper.
*
When Jeff goes back to LA in July, he takes the collar with him. That's his -- theirs. Last year he took the spreader, too, the ropes and cuffs and flogger, the broad paddle, the flat-backed hairbrush that felt somehow more real sometimes. This year, he leaves them.
"You take good care of him, you hear?" he says, keys in hand, boot in the door.
"You know I will," Jared says, fingers hooked through Jensen's beltloop, and they do. They all do.
Jared doesn't take him to Wendy's or give Saturday rewards. Jared beats his ass at Guitar Hero and gets drunk with him on their couch; Jared fucks him, now like a lullaby, now like a hurricane. Jared takes him apart piece by piece, with the paddle, with his hands; undoes the bindings and puts him back together. He likes to sing off-key when he thinks Jensen isn't listening, but he makes the blood sing, too, under Jensen's skin, which more than makes up for it.
Some weekends, Jeff comes home and they work him together, collar and take him and it hurts like a bitch and it's perfect, makes him space every time his muscles pull for hours and hours after they're done.
Sometimes, Jensen wonders what they'd think of him back home if they knew; what kind of mental illness they'd try to pin on him. Then Jeff moves in his sleep, brushes his fingers against the inside of Jared's wrist, and Jensen realises he doesn't give a fuck, frankly. Not anymore. The two of them between them have seen to that.
And that's a hell of a kindness in itself.
Pairings: Jensen/JDM, Jensen/Jared, Jensen/Jared/Jeff implied
Rating: R
Words: ~2,200
Summary/Notes: For my fictictactoe game against mistyzeo: the loosest interpretation of the 'kindness' prompt ever. Jeff takes special care of Jensen, but he can't be around all the time. This is where Jared comes in. Vaguely non-AUish, but - vague.
Note the second: bertee, the fact that I am actually posting this is your fault. Congratulations, happy graduation, etc. Placetne, magistra? ;)
Warnings: Schmoopy D/s, bondage, etc.
*~ volenti non fit injuria ~*
Jeff has a voice like whisky, a dark-gold burn that sears from the inside out. His fingers trace the paths leather-beaten across Jensen's back, the pads of them rough where the nerves have near broken the surface. Not yet, he breathes, molten against Jensen's ear. Jensen's fingers twist in the rope, and he shudders his compliance.
Semen over weals is like candlewax spilled on burned skin. The heat of it stings for a moment, then bleeds into warmth, laving the edge of the pain like the tongue of a cat. The shock of it makes Jensen twist in his restraints, Jeff's rough cry of climax unmaking, reforming him like clay. He is trembling now, but not yet, Jeff manages, not yet, and Jensen whimpers acknowledgement, though his thigh muscles jump with the strain.
And then Jeff's fingers are there at his lips, salt-slick and white with his release, and Jensen opens to them, curls his tongue around their tips as Jeff's lips brush at his jaw. All right, Jen. You can come for me now, he whispers. The sound of it shatters like glass on the rocks of Jensen's consciousness, and the next thing he knows he is coming like high tide in a storm.
Afterwards, Jeff is gentleness itself, laying Jensen down like a child or an offering, rubbing the blood back into his wrists. The chafe-marks ring his forearms, angry and raised, but Jeff is ready with his ointment and his kisses, his you're okay, now, Jen and did so well, boy. Jensen's mind feels as if it has been loosened along with his body, languid and drunken in the best of all possible ways. There won't be any hangover in the morning, not from this. There will only be Jeff, tangled around him like a vine, and the marks on his back to remind him that he is loved.
Jeff is still mostly dressed as he shifts on the bed, arranging Jensen's limbs for comfort, kissing his hair. Even like this, Jensen knows that this will not do, and he tugs at the front of the black shirt - "Off. Please."
Jeff smiles indulgently, sitting up to tug off his boots. From the corner of his eye, Jensen watches long fingers on leather, the tension of the muscles in Jeff's arms as he pulls his feet free. His trousers are open, and he sheds them easily; pulls his shirt up and over his head. When he turns back to Jensen, his dark eyes are full fathoms five, warmth in their depths like the unquenchable embers of an inferno. Jensen raises an arm with an effort, muscles like liquid protesting such strain so soon. Jeff moves easily, fitting his body to Jensen's, and his hands are careful on the back he has washed and anointed. Sshh, he breathes, kissing Jensen's cheek, his lips. Time for sleep. Did so well for me, babe.
Jensen is boneless, now; sinks into his aches like warm water. Jeff is holding him, shielding him, and like this, the surrender is no surrender at all.
*
Jensen stares at the ceiling, and wonders what his mother would think of him now, if she could open him up like a paperback novel and read everything inside.
He wonders what Jared would think, for that matter. His lips curve up at the edges half-consciously as he considers it. In this case, at least, he sort of suspects he knows the answer. He can almost see that grin of his in his mind; the wide-mouthed, knowing smirk. He imagines, for a second, Jeff's low laughter against Jared's mouth, how it might look. Jared's shoulders are broad, sturdy, but his hips are narrow, would slot like sin into Jeff's strong hands.
Jeff's gravel voice, commanding, dictatorial. The thought of it alone makes Jensen's spine go liquid, but he can't imagine Jeff turning it on Jared, giving instructions, directing.
He can almost hear Jared turning his own commands on him, though. Jensen. Still./You move another muscle and I'll beat your ass for you, you hear?/Now stop. There's not a mean bone in Jared's body, but Jensen's seen the coiled energy dark in his eyes, all the same, when he's leaned too close; has felt the presence of him big and thrilling, with the mischief wiped away.
Stupid, though, this over-optimistic train of thought, and Jensen's half-laughing at himself for letting it run off its rails in the first place. He could be wrong in all his conjectures, conceivably. If he knows what's good for him, he'll leave well enough alone.
God, Jeff's voice, though. He feels lazy, unhurried, just at the thought of it, and he let his mind drift back down into the memory of that warm dark sound, velvet over steel; the way Jeff's eyes darken when he gives an order. The slow paralysis that seems to prickle over Jensen like needlepoints of heat, making him salivate, obey, submit.
Jared has been gentle, lately. There's a mark low at the base of Jensen's throat, where his neck meets his shoulder, and his fingers find it half-consciously, toying with the skin there. It was a dark bruise when it first bloomed, but slowly induced. He rubs at it, absently. He thinks about another bruise, bitten into his skin; the way the pain would sing along the surface, not enough, but something. He thinks about the resonance of hand on flesh, the slow burn. Jeff's strong fingers cradling Jensen's skull, holding him steady for the hot slick weight of him against the back of Jensen's throat. The rasp in his voice; his thumb rubbing to and fro over Jared's mark - "He do this to you?"
Yes. Yes.
Press of fingernails into the skin, knuckling against bone. "Gonna let me make one, too, huh?"
Yes.
He remembers the way Jeff looked the night before, standing over him like some stern Collossus. His iron voice. The blood-tang of Jensen's own breathing in the back of his throat, as if he were tasting every blow like a fine liqueur. God.
Sometimes, Jared bites his mouth, too; will scrape his fingernails over the skin of Jensen's back as they kiss; fuck a little harder than necessary, staccato and strong. But he's never ventured any further; hasn't held Jensen back by the roots of his hair; hasn't coolly controlled him like a doll in disfavour. He's always been a perfect gentleman, in every sense of the word.
Jensen wonders whether he's waiting for a goddamn engraved invitation, or if a simple come on, you think that hurts? would do the trick. He doesn't believe for a moment that he doesn't have it in him. He wonders whether Jeff might bring it out, the way Jared's marks on Jensen make Jeff burn hotter, possessive and rough.
Jensen raises his hands above his head, crosses his wrists. There are marks, still, scuffs over the bone from his cuffs, and he wonders how it would feel to look up at both of them over him with his hands tied there like that. Or elsewhere: behind his back, in front of him. Anywhere.
Maybe he's crazy, but they're crazy together, Jensen's sure of it. Or at least, they could be.
*
Later, Jeff takes him to Wendy's, because it's Jensen's turn to choose and Jensen's classy like that. There's something about the way the girls stare at his collar in fast food places that beats out, every time, the careful evasiveness of the waitresses in upscale restaurants, politely not noticing while their lips pull white and horrified. Their server today is named Chelsea and she stares unabashedly. Jensen feels a swell of pride in his chest. The collar isn't an all-the-time thing - can't be, by necessity - so when he wears it, he doesn't want polite evasiveness. He wants it to be noticed; wants to sit at Jeff's side in a lowbrow downtown restaurant and have people know he's owned.
He might feel more fucked up about it if Jeff didn't show every sign of feeling the exact same way.
Saturdays, Jensen gets what he wants. That's the way this works: he's good for Jeff, he gets his return. It's not as if he feels any sense of entitlement, but Jeff loves to be generous, and Jensen loves to let him indulge himself. Jeff's most of the way through his fries before he asks - "So, anything I can get for you, babe?" - which means Jensen's had plenty of time to consider his words before he speaks, weigh the value of straightforwardness versus caution.
Jeff, as a general rule, is a pretty straightforward guy. Jensen looks him straight in the eye and says, "Jared." They've touched on it a little, suggested it, but Jensen needs to be clear, here. Jeff's raising an eyebrow, prompting, so Jensen elaborates. "Think you could teach him?"
Jeff laughs, pensive, around the straw in his Coke. "Think he'd want to be taught?" He doesn't sound put out, just curious, and Jensen is emboldened. The paper from his own straw in still in his hand; he crumples it in his palm.
"It's just," he says, "you're not here all the time. And when you're not -- "
"You need someone to look after you," Jeff finishes, slowly, reading Jensen's intention before Jensen's fully articulated it himself. Jeff's good at that. It's one of his many fine attributes.
"He could," Jensen says, firm. "I'm sure he could -- wants to -- he just doesn't know how." Jensen understands that. Jensen, after all, didn't known how to submit before he was taught; didn't know exactly what it was that he wanted, even, or how it differed from all the rough sex with strangers that had failed to shore up the ruined parts of himself. Everything started with kindness, with being looked after, and Jensen had been missing that until Jeff showed him how it was. The thing about Jared is that he already has that part down to the bone, and that's the important part. That's where it starts.
Beside him in the booth, Jeff is nodding, pensive, but as casual as if Jensen had just suggested they go buy a new lawnmower or stop at a video rental on the way home. "Okay," he says, just like that. As if he trusts Jensen's judgement without further questioning. As if doing this for Jensen is second nature, like saying please when he asks for something, or taking care not to drop the door in his face when they leave together. "Okay. I'll ask him."
Jensen thinks of Jeff just like this, that look on his face as he spreads Jensen's ankles, fastens them apart. Thinks of his hand on Jared's shoulder, instructive, gentle. This is the padding, the cuff, the spreader; this is how it locks. This is his safe word; his collar, his blindfold. These are Jensen's kinks, his secrets, his heart. Today we have naming of parts.
Jensen couldn't have wished for a better keeper.
*
When Jeff goes back to LA in July, he takes the collar with him. That's his -- theirs. Last year he took the spreader, too, the ropes and cuffs and flogger, the broad paddle, the flat-backed hairbrush that felt somehow more real sometimes. This year, he leaves them.
"You take good care of him, you hear?" he says, keys in hand, boot in the door.
"You know I will," Jared says, fingers hooked through Jensen's beltloop, and they do. They all do.
Jared doesn't take him to Wendy's or give Saturday rewards. Jared beats his ass at Guitar Hero and gets drunk with him on their couch; Jared fucks him, now like a lullaby, now like a hurricane. Jared takes him apart piece by piece, with the paddle, with his hands; undoes the bindings and puts him back together. He likes to sing off-key when he thinks Jensen isn't listening, but he makes the blood sing, too, under Jensen's skin, which more than makes up for it.
Some weekends, Jeff comes home and they work him together, collar and take him and it hurts like a bitch and it's perfect, makes him space every time his muscles pull for hours and hours after they're done.
Sometimes, Jensen wonders what they'd think of him back home if they knew; what kind of mental illness they'd try to pin on him. Then Jeff moves in his sleep, brushes his fingers against the inside of Jared's wrist, and Jensen realises he doesn't give a fuck, frankly. Not anymore. The two of them between them have seen to that.
And that's a hell of a kindness in itself.