Current mood:	satisfied
Entry tags:	fanfic, kept, rps

Fic: A Kept Boy 31/?
Fandom: CWRPS
Pairing: Jeff/Jensen, Jared/Jensen
Rating: Adult
Warnings: Slavefic AU. Language. Dark themes.
Disclaimer: This is in no way a true story.
Word Count: 2,212
AN: Previous parts found here. Cast of characters can be found here. Banner by the lovely and generous bloodquartz. And don't forget the other really awesome stories to be found at whatwekeep.

I'm feeling very shaky about my smut, so y'all be nice to me! And a big thank you to my fluffers. *g*

---

"Take…take your clothes off. Lie on the bed." Jeff's tongue is sticking to the roof of his mouth and he thinks this might be one of the dumbest ideas he's ever had. He can hear the Devil's Chorus of Kane, Zach and Jeremy laughing and catcalling at him now.

It makes his stomach feel both hollow and hot when he watches the readiness with which Jensen obeys him, stripping out of his shirt and slacks with an unthinking casualness—bordering on eagerness—that brings home everything Cate was trying to tell him so fucking keenly it cuts.

There's an armchair near the window. When Mary-Louise was here, Jeff would wake up most mornings and find her in it, staring out at the grounds. Before Mary-Louise, it had been his, where he spent way too many late nights drowsing over books or papers.

After tonight, Jeff doesn't know if he's ever going to be able to think of it as anything but Jensen's chair.

Jeff pulls the chair closer to the foot of the bed with sweaty hands, adjusting and readjusting it until he hears the coverlet and mattress whisper under Jensen's weight.

He realizes his mistake when he turns around and sees Jensen spread naked across the duvet. He likes the lights to be very warm-hued. Where it touches Jensen's stubbornly pale, freckled skin, it washes him in gold, gilds the sharp spikes of his hair and eyelashes.

It's not that Jeff's never noticed that Jensen's body is waxed clean, but there's a difference between trying to ignore Jensen's naked body in the bed or bathroom and having it out on display for his view and approval.

"Do you know how beautiful you are?" Jeff doesn't mean to say the words but they come tumbling out of him anyway, thick and raw at the same time. "I mean, hell, Jensen. Man could be happy just looking at you."

Jensen's eyes flick up, huge and so ridiculously young. "Is that what you want?" Jeff would be hard-pressed to explain exactly what Jensen does with his body, but suddenly he's no longer lying so much as posing, legs spread just wide enough to draw attention to his cock, flushed and half-hard. "Just to look at me?"

"I. No, not exactly." Be his master, Cate had said. Give him guidance. Direction. Jeff plants his ass in the chair before the temptation to touch Jensen gets to be too much. "Move—move to the center of the bed more." Jensen shifts without argument, angling for a better view from the chair. Jeff's throat is so dry it aches. "That's good, Jensen. Great."

Jeff had thought about this all the way home. Not this this, but the logistics of accommodating Jensen's fucked-up psyche without turning himself into the monster he worries he is. It'd seemed so much simpler in the car.

"Now touch yourself."

"Sir?"

Sir. Jesus. "Your…your cock, Jensen," Jeff says. It comes out faintly and he wishes he'd thought to make tea after all, because he doesn't know how he's going to get through this without something to drink. Though scotch might do him one better. "I want you to touch your cock, stroke it."

Jensen's eyebrows furrow down slightly, but he immediately works his cock, a brisk and businesslike rub designed to bring him to hardness more than give him any pleasure. Jeff pinches the bridge of his nose, addressing a prayer to whatever cruel bastard gods decided this would be funny.

"No, Jensen, wait." Jeff sighs and lets his hand fall. "You've really never masturbated? Ever?"

Jensen shakes his head. "No."

"Not even for one of your masters?" Jeff's voice gets a little squeaky with incredulity. He takes a deep breath and settles back deeper into the chair.

Jensen's eyes darken and he wets his lips briefly with his tongue. "I. No. None of them ever wanted that of me." Jensen's mouth crooks briefly as he catches his bottom lip in his teeth before offering, "I'm sorry."

No, of course they didn't. Why spend time watching a slave pleasure himself when his job is to pleasure you. The thin, brittle heat Jeff feels every time they talk about one of Jensen's previous masters washes through him like a sickness and Jeff waves his hand. "No, don't be sorry, Jensen, it's okay. It's fine. It's just… It's not a race."

Jeff is not a stupid guy. He's not. Not a stupid guy. So how is it that dealing with Jensen has a way of reducing him to drooling idiocy?

"Okay. Here's what I want you to do. Get comfortable. Don't worry about posing for me or looking good. Just…find where you're comfortable and relaxed. Believe me, I'm going to enjoy this no matter what, all right?"

"All right," Jensen agrees, eyelids and lashes sweeping down.

"And Jensen?"

"Yes?"

"You're doing great, okay? We just have to get used to each other. That's all."

Jensen's breath huffs out softly, but when he resettles on the duvet, he does look looser-limbed, more relaxed.

"Great." Jeff's voice rasps over the one word and he has to clear his throat, fingers working the skin-smoothed leather under his arms. He imagines it's not nearly as soft or resilient as Jensen's skin. "Now close your eyes. I don't want you to look at me. Just listen to the sound of my voice."

Jensen lets his head fall back onto the pillow and shuts his eyes, an abandoned pose that sears all the way down into Jeff's cock like there's lava in his veins instead of blood. Jeff's still fully clothed—except for his bare feet—and his cock aches dully, trapped under taut denim. When he shifts in the chair, the creak of the leather seems deafening.

"All right. Now, let's…let's not focus on just your dick for a minute. What do you think about, when you make yourself hard?"

"I don't think about anything." Jensen looks almost like he's sleeping but his voice is perfectly clear. "I just think about getting hard." Again, Jensen's eyebrows flex a little, a pin-thin line appearing between them and he adds, "I think I know what you mean, though."

Jensen's short, manicured fingernails scratch up the thick muscle of his thighs, leaving faint and quickly fading pink furrows. Jeff wishes he could watch all of Jensen at once; the flushed points of Jensen's nipples, the heavy and lengthening weight of his cock—and doesn't Jeff's whole mouth water to wrap his lips around it, taste the milky bead of wetness dewing the slit? As Jensen traces the lines of his muscles, a gloss of sweat breaks out across his skin, turning the gold wash of the light into an almost-glow. Jensen's lips part as his breath rushes slightly faster, the tender-looking skin of his eyelids flinching.

"That…" Jeff swallows, grinding his ass deeper in the chair against the temptation of going to the bed, flipping Jensen onto his belly and rimming him until Jensen's incoherent and limp. "That's great, Jensen. That's…God, that's beautiful. You're beautiful."

Jensen's head jerks on the pillow like he wants to turn his face away and only catches himself at the last moment.

Jensen looks at himself as a tool, Jeff. Something to be used. To be useful. So do it kindly, do it mindfully, but make use of him.

"Now wrap your fingers around your dick and stroke nice and slow. Take your time. I want you to make it feel good."

Jeff is going to hell. He is so going to hell.

Even so, he thinks it might be worth it, to watch Jensen jerk himself off and hear the quiet, gasping moans he makes as he does it.

"You can make noise if you want to." Jeff quietly slips the button on his jeans and eases down the zipper. Not because he's going to do anything, mind, but if he doesn't get some breathing room, he's going to be permanently deformed. "I like hearing you. Like watching you. Fuckin' gorgeous."

Jensen makes a thick, stifled noise in his throat, hips bucking up into his own slow-moving hand.

There's not much more pre-come than that fat little droplet that Jeff wants to lick away, but Jensen's cock surges full and dark against well-kept fingers. Even Jensen's fingers are freckled.

"How does it feel?" Jeff shifts his hand from the chair's arm to his thigh, rubbing restlessly back and forth, needing both the sensation and the distraction.

"G-good." Jensen's face turns toward the sound of Jeff's voice but his eyes don't open, breath catching over the one word. "I like… I don't… Are you going to fuck me?"

I want to. Sweet Jesus and the whole choir of angels, I want to. "Not yet." A trickle of sweat tickles down behind Jeff's ear. "I just want to see you, first. I want to know what makes you feel good. Show me what makes you feel good."

Jensen makes another strangled noise, writhing against the blanket. "I don't… I never…"

"Talk to me, Jensen." Jeff's toes curl into the pile of the carpet, hips lifting from the chair in faint echo of Jensen's flexing hips. There's wetness pooled in Jensen's navel, too, like a jewel. Jeff's mouth burns for the salt taste of it, imagines the furl of skin against the tip of his tongue, rough and smooth at the same time. "What do you like?

Jensen's hand is moving faster over his shaft, rougher. "I like being fucked," Jensen admits, gasping. "I wish… I think…I think about you," he says in a rush, as though he's afraid of being punished for the words. "M-master. Fucking me." Dull red creeps up underneath the gold—Jensen is close and Jensen is blushing and Jeff doesn't think he's ever seen anything hotter. "I like being fucked," Jensen repeats in a whisper, as if he's talking to himself. The words stretch out into a spiraling moan and Jensen arches up, grinding his head in the pillow.

Through a mouth dry as the desert, Jeff says, "You can come if you want to, Jensen. You don't… You can come if you want to."

Jensen groans and shakes his head. "Can't." Jensen's tongue wets his upper lip before he bites into the bottom one. "I… I'm a good slave, trained. I can't. Not unless." Jensen's thumb slips across his slit and he dissolves into gasps again, shuddering. "Please, sir—Jeff. Jeff."

Brain-numbed by the living pornography in front of him, it takes Jeff several seconds to understand what Jensen means, what he needs. He's heard of owners who train their slaves to only respond to their masters' touch, but he'd always dismissed it as bullshit since he'd never come across a slave—or met anyone who'd come across a slave—so trained.

So going to hell, Jeff thinks, pushing himself stiffly out of the chair. He's surprised at how much he aches, thighs shaky from holding himself so rigidly. It's only a few steps to the bed, though, seating himself carefully—if not quite virtuously—next to Jensen's shoulder.

Jensen moans and squirms closer, turning his face into Jeff's thigh. Jensen's hair is so short, but Jeff does his best to thread his fingers through the soaked strands anyway, feeling the rising heat of Jensen's body, the heavy, curving delicacy of his skull. The desire—temptation—to slip his fingers down and touch that smooth, fever-hot skin is dizzying, overwhelming.

Jeff keeps his fingers where they are.

"It's all right, sweetheart," Jeff murmurs, smoothing his thumb across the prickle-soft down above Jensen's ear. "You can come. Come on, now."

Jensen half-rolls into Jeff, squishing his face in the non-space between Jeff's thigh and the pillow, throwing one arm over Jeff's leg. Jeff feels Jensen's breath panting, hot and damp, through his jeans as Jensen ruts himself toward orgasm.

Jeff closes his eyes, letting himself only focus on the slow stroke of his thumb across the sin-soft skin behind Jensen's ear. "Yeah, that's good. Like that. Come on."

Jensen grunts, arm tightening around Jeff's thigh as he first stiffens and then shudders, choking it out against Jeff's leg. Jeff lets his hand slink lower, stroking Jensen's neck, his broad shoulders, the hot, sweaty hollow between Jensen's shoulder blades.

"My boy." It shouldn't feel like this, Jeff thinks, a sharp ache in his chest as he soothes Jensen through it and down. It shouldn't be like this.

As if she were there, a demon on his shoulder, Jeff hears Cate's voice: But this is how it is.

Jeff opens his eyes and looks down at Jensen, at his own arm curled protectively around Jensen's head and shoulders. He wants to be detached, to make it mean nothing—a duty, a job—but instead there's just this searing tangle that he doesn't know how to cut away from. It does mean something. Jensen means something. And he deserves a lot better than Jeff. Deserves a lot better than any of this.

But this is what Jensen wants.

And what Jensen wants, Jeff wants to give it to him.

"That's my boy." Jeff strums down Jensen's vertebrae—so much less knobby than they were, and as spattered with freckles as the rest of him. "That's my good boy."