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

Fic: A Kept Boy 52/?
Fandom: CWRPS
Pairing: Jeff/Jensen, Jared/Jensen
Rating: Adult
Warnings: Slavefic AU. Language. Dark themes. Sexual situations & mentions of abuse.
Disclaimer: This is in no way a true story.
Word Count: 2,196
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.

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"Jeffrey, I'd like you to meet Anne. Lady Anne Hathaway."

Jeff is entirely too tired to deal with this shit today. Nonetheless, he drags up the warmest smile he can. "Of course I know Lady Anne," he says, extending his hand to her. "By reputation, at least. It's a pleasure to meet you."

There's color in Anne's cheeks that can't be entirely accounted for by her artful make-up, but her handshake is firm, unlike so many of her peers'. "Pleasure to meet you, too."

"Anne and I were just about to go to lunch, darling." Jeff's mom fiddles with her earring as though she didn't spend all morning putting herself together impeccably. "I was hoping you could join us. I checked your schedule already; it says you're free."

In the middle of assembling some excuse, Jeff's head jerks and he looks sharply at Jensen, who looks as shell-shocked as Jeff probably does.

"Oh, don't look so betrayed, dear. Your calendars are public documents at MI, you know." She finishes fussing with her jewelry and comes forward to brush at some nonexistent lint on his shirt. Jeff knows it's nonexistent because Jensen's already spent a good fifteen minutes going over him, picking off every dog hair and speck of dust. It's not the point, though, and Jeff knows better than to think anything he says will ever get his mother to drop the habit of grooming him like a monkey. "Now, come on. I had Crispin make a reservation for us at that new restaurant in The Flat." She tilts her head, considering him critically. "I suppose there's nothing to be done about your outfit now, but I'm sure we can make do." She looks past him to Jensen. "You, boy. Go upstairs and get a tie and jacket. Make it quick, Crispin's bringing the car around."

Jensen's been pretty quiet all morning, making Jeff worry about what's going on in that beautiful but stubborn head of his. Still, Jensen glances at Jeff to confirm before letting go of his hand and jogging from the room.

"Where's Javier?" Jeff asks, tucking both hands in his pockets and fighting with the impulse to hunch his shoulders. He feels the absence of Jensen next to him and it's such a juvenile, high-school emotion that he wants to roll his eyes at himself. "I'd think he'd be leaping at the chance to go out to lunch. Or that you'd jump at the chance to have both your sons out with you."

"Oh, there'll be plenty of time to catch up with Javier later." His mother flaps one hand at him, her voice too airy to be genuine. "I'm sure he's exhausted from the trip, anyway."

"Actually, Mother, I am feeling quite well." Javier's arm drops onto Jeff's shoulder, tugging him into his brother's side. "Invigorated, even! And how could I possibly say no to the pleasure of the lovely Lady Anne's company?" As fast as he'd put his arm around Jeff, Javier pushes away, sweeping into an extravagant bow over Anne's hand.

"Hello, Javier." Anne smiles, but it's close-lipped.

"It has been too long," Javier answers, straightening up. He's laying his accent on thicker than usual—which he usually does around the ladies, but beneath the rolling r's and exoticized vowels, he sounds a bit manic, too. "Since…what? Cannes?"

"Yes." Anne looks thoughtful. "That sounds about right." She turns to Jeff and explains, "Your brother and I were at the festival at the same time and attended some of the same parties."

"With very different crowds, I'm sure!" Jeff's mother laughs, the fake tinkling giggle, like brittle glass chimes.

Jeff hates that fucking laugh; it makes him want to do stupid shit, juvenile acts of rebellion—get drunk, get high, go back to bed and have incredible, acrobatic sex with Jensen, the way he's been wanting to since he laid eyes on the kid. Hell, maybe just throw Jensen on the back of his bike and run the fuck away, go to Vancouver, Hong Kong, Ireland. Anywhere. Anywhere not here.

His mom puts a hand on his wrist, as if she somehow senses his desire to flee—and maybe she does, Jeff wouldn't put it past her—and says confidingly, "Anne, here, has recently been put in charge of the Hathaways' production company here in Los Angeles." She raises her eyebrows at Jeff significantly.

"Oh." Anne closes her eyes, smiles and waves one hand, embarrassed.

"But this is wonderful!" Javier encloses Anne in a bear hug before kissing her lightly on either cheeks. "You'll do great things, I know it."

A touch on Jeff's instep draws his attention down; Jensen is back, kneeling at Jeff's feet with one of Jeff's jackets and a tie like a ribbon on top of it, a much more lurid purple than Jeff feels entirely comfortable wearing. Where the hell had he even gotten a tie that color? It looked more like Jeremy's speed than his.

Jeff brushes his fingers across Jensen's shoulder, across the sharp bones of his cheek and Jensen's face lifts to his, a question in his wide, beautiful eyes. "Get up," Jeff murmurs, a strange spot of heat in his chest like sunlight through a magnifying glass. He threads the tie through his fingers. It is Jeremy's, he thinks, discards of a particularly lazy, drunken night a few years ago. It reminds him he hasn't checked in on Jeremy or his new body-slave in a while. "Help me with this?"

Jensen pops to his feet with a promptness that makes Jeff's knees ache, fingers warm and ticklishly light against Jeff's skin as he pops Jeff's collar to thread the tie around. Resting his hand on Jensen's waist isn't something Jeff thinks about, a steadying reflex, but, all the same, he finds himself aware of Jensen with a clarity that's almost too intense; cloth over skin, bone and muscle, gently radiating heat and a scent that's so much like Jeff's own and subtly different at the same time.

"You're staring," Jensen murmurs under his breath, too low for anyone but Jeff to hear.

"Oh, now that's much better," Jeff's mom says at the same moment, nudging Jensen out of the way to straighten the tie's knot herself and turn Jeff's collar back down. "It's so nice to see you wearing something with a bit of color, darling. You usually look so…funereal. You're not an undertaker, after all." She takes the blazer from Jensen and offers it out for Jeff to shrug into, embarrassed.

There's no one quite like his mother for stripping him of at least thirty of his forty-some years.

"Crispin should have brought the car around by now." His mother adjusts the sport coat as well, tugging at the lapels hard enough that Jeff has to bend his knees to stick his ground. "We should go."

Jeff's mother takes shotgun, with Crispin behind the wheel. From that vantage, she directs Jensen, a hastily drafted Joe, Javier and Anne's body-slave into the rearmost seats, leaving Anne and Jeff himself together in the middle before Jeff can think of a way to decline gracefully or engineer otherwise.

"This is awkward," Anne says quietly, looking down at her hands folded neatly in her lap. "I'm sorry. I had no idea that…"

Jeff waves a hand. "Believe me, I know what my mother is like. You have nothing to apologize for. I'm sorry that you somehow got yourself mixed up with my family. You can't possibly have known how crazy we are."

Anne laughs, tilting her head back to do it. "Your mother's been very nice to me."

"My mother has been sucking up to you," Jeff corrects. He glances up front at his mom who is undoubtedly watching them in the rearview. "Look, I don't know what my mother told you…"

Anne's hand darts out to cover his, squeezing with surprising strength. "She invited me to lunch with you. And Javier, of course." Her glance over the seat back at Javier is pro forma, a politeness Jeff recognizes even as he recognizes that Anne is better at it than he is, infusing it with a warmth and naturalness that he's never been able to manage. "That's all."

God, she's a fetus and she's still better at this polite fencing than he is. Which is not saying much, because Jeff's put in long years and hard practice to be horrible at it, but it still stings his ego a little bit, to be hand-patted by a fetus. It's like being sirred. "How old are you?" he asks, leaning his cheek on his hand.

"I'm twenty-five," she admits, tossing her hair back over her shoulder.

God, she really is a fetus.

His mother hasn't played out her full hand, and they're met at the restaurant by another of her 'friends', a Madame Kristin Kreuk, who can't be any older—or bigger—than Anne.

"I mean…who am I, Tom Cruise?" Jeff asks. He's hiding in the bathroom with Jensen—another throwback to childhood, a sense of ugly déjà vu somewhat spoiled by the fat cat executive loudly fucking his slave's mouth in the next stall.

Jensen's flinch might be unnoticeable if Jeff didn't have both hands wrapped around Jensen's jaw, the nape of his neck, if he didn't have their foreheads pressed together. It passes fast enough that Jeff could ignore it, if he wanted. "Sorry. I'm sorry," he apologizes, rubbing his thumbs along Jensen's neck. "I didn't mean it like that. I just meant… You know."

"I'm sure your mother just wants women who are still young enough to give you children," Jensen says, looking down the length of his nose so that his eyes are hidden by fragile-looking freckled lids and sandy recurve lashes.

"That's because they are still children."

"They're both only five years younger than me," Jensen points out, though he sounds stilted.

"The difference between twenty-five and thirty is…" Jeff tries and fails to come up with a suitable analogy. "It's a big difference. And you're no average thirty year old." Jeff brushes his lips across Jensen's. He means for it to be a light kiss, quasi-meaningless, an indulgence for having to sit through this travesty of a lunch, but, as always, he underestimates his hunger for Jensen, for his soft, soft mouth.

Jensen sighs into Jeff's mouth, a quiet, satisfied little noise that goes straight to Jeff's scrote. He digs his fingers deeper into the sparse spikes of Jensen's hair, that same heated tightness in his chest as Jensen nudges closer, melting into him. Regretfully, Jeff makes himself back off. "Sorry."

Jensen nods, still looking down. "We should get back," he says.

"We should," Jeff agrees, without moving. He knows it's intensely childish, but the thought of going back to that table fills him with a sick, cold terror. He knows more about this season's fashions and Hollywood gossip than he's ever wanted to know. Kristin, apparently, is a very up-and-coming clothing designer and if there are two things Jeff's mother dearly loves, it's clothes and gossip.

"I could…" Jensen reaches between them, skimming the heel of his palm over Jeff's cock and he looks up, meeting Jeff's gaze. "It could help, maybe. If you were more relaxed."

Jeff covers Jensen's hand with his own, not sure if he wants to push in or peel Jensen away. "Probably not a good idea."

"My mouth?" Jensen suggests, starting to sink slowly to his knees. "I could be fast."

"Hey. Jensen, no." Jeff catches him by either arm, tugging Jensen back upright. "I know…" He pauses, conscious of their public arena, even with the moans and curses from the next stall drowning both their voices. "I told you what it has to be like while my mom's here, but I don't…" He flounders with what to say that won't come out like a command. "I don't want us to be different. I feel like things are really good with us right now and I don't want that to get fucked up just because of my family."

"I just want to help," Jensen says, almost too soft to hear over the executive, who sounds like he's seconds away from either orgasm or a coronary.

"I know that. I do. I appreciate it." More mental flailing about what to say, what to do, how to make any of this the least bit better for either of them. But, Jeff's whole life, he's only ever known one way to do that. He grabs Jensen's hand, twining their fingers together. "C'mon. Let's get out of here."

Jensen doesn't realize the extent of Jeff's invitation until Jeff guides them toward the restaurant's entrance, rather than the route back to the table. Jensen pulls back slightly. Not enough to offer real resistance, but enough to make Jeff pause. "Your mother will be upset," Jensen says, in the same milk-bland voice he's been using all day.

"Yeah, but she won't be surprised," Jeff says, already feeling lighter just at the prospect of escape. "She might not approve of me, but she does know me. Come on." Jeff tugs at Jensen's fingers and Jensen follows behind him, Jeff's disapproving shadow.