Current mood:	thirsty
Current music:	Peter Gabriel - Big Time
Entry tags:	2009_fic, fanfic, kept, rps

Fic: A Kept Boy 70/?
Fandom: CWRPS
Pairing: Jeff/Jensen, Jared/Jensen
Rating: Adult
Warnings: Slavefic AU. Sexual, mental and physical abuse of adults and minors. Dark themes, adult concepts and language.
Disclaimer: This is in no way a true story.
Word Count: 2,228
AN: Master list of previous chapters found here. Cast of characters can be found here. Banner by the lovely and generous bloodquartz. Podfic version read by the amazing superstitiousme (found here, courtesy of the very kind general_jinjur). And don't forget the other really awesome stories to be found at whatwekeep.
AN2: Um. I think we're more likely looking at 80.

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"Do you believe him?"

Jensen cranes his head back to try and see Jeff's face, guilt swimming up through his skin again, thin and bitter, but unable to really take possession through the sweet haze of satiation and the ache of muscles well-used. It had been a happy surprise to have Jeff pounce on him, nearly the moment he returned from his morning errands.

It had been considerably less happy to learn the reasons.

Jeff sighs, a dissatisfied, impatient sound belied by the soft circle of his fingertips around the aureole of Jensen's nipple, sweet ache of a different kind. "I don't know," Jeff says finally. "I… I want to. Not just because it's massively convenient for us and not just because my conscience wants to believe this is the right thing to do. But." Jeff pauses and Jensen fights against drowsiness, surprisingly comfortable, even twisted and tangled and half-hanging off the not-big-enough couch.

"It's Javier," Jeff says finally, quieter than before—nearly too quiet for Jensen to hear. "Everything he does is for two purposes, for his own reasons. He's a selfish son of a bitch." Jeff puffs a laugh. "Literally." The idle stroke of Jeff's fingers stops. "But I don't… I don't know Javier well enough to gauge whether it makes a difference to him—Mary-Louise having his child. His son. I mean…it happens. Right?"

Jensen hums a sort of noncommittal agreement, not sure what response is right or required. Lord Cruise had been the only one of his masters to have children during his tenure and Connor and Isabella were adopted. It seems like a poor comparison to make.

"If I'd found out that Mary-Louise's baby was mine…" Jeff's fingers twitch, nail scraping lightly over Jensen's already sensitive nipple. The quick zing of sensation makes him jump a little, involuntarily, and Jeff's arm curls around him. "I don't know. I can't imagine how that wouldn't change everything. But I'm not Javier."

"I'm sorry," Jensen says.

Jeff shrugs, a gesture Jensen feels more than sees, cradled between Jeff's stretched out leg and the one that trails off the couch. "I'd be lying if I said I hadn't thought about it, but I'm just as glad to not be tied to her that way." Jeff's fingers resume their idle traceries across Jensen's pectoral. "Let her be someone else's problem. I'm not ready for fatherhood yet."

"That's not what I meant," Jensen says quietly.

Jeff groans. "Jensen. We've already been through this once. Let's just take it as read that you are really, really sorry and that you're totally forgiven, okay? Because you are. And I'm too tired for another round of you groveling."

I want to be better for you, Jensen thinks, but he holds his tongue. I should be better for you.

"What if it is some kind of…plot?" It feels like such melodrama to say it, but Jensen feels like one of them has to and Jeff seems to be going out of his way not to.

"I don't know," Jeff says again. "Let it play out, I guess. There doesn't seem like much else we can do."

"You could keep her," Jensen points out. "Refuse to sell her to Master Bardem."

"I made the same promise to Mary-Louise that I make to all of you: that if you want to go, I'll find a way to make it happen. To give you what you want. I can't… I can't renege on that just because it might bite me in the ass later on."

"You could. You're an owner. You can do whatever you want to." Jensen doesn't know why he's arguing the point; Jeff's been stubbornly persistent about following his own cockeyed morality about treating slaves as if they're people. "After all she's done, do you think she really deserves to get what she wants out of it?"

Jeff is silent a long time. Long enough that Jensen starts to worry that he's angered Jeff, though the strum of Jeff's fingers across his skin hasn't stopped.

"I don’t…" Jeff starts and then trails off, uncertainly. "I'm angry," Jeff says finally, sounding like he's feeling his way across a booby-trapped floor. "And I think I'd be a lot angrier if I let myself think about it more. But. The Trust is about freedom, not tying you all to me like an anchor. And a promise is a promise. I don't renege on my promises. Not to her. Not to you. You're as free as she is to find someone else, if that's what you want."

Jensen jerks. "I don't want that," he says quickly, struggling to sit up without hurting Jeff. The formerly pleasant ache in his abs turns sour and pinching. He twists around to look at Jeff. "I don't want that. Please. I didn't mean it like that."

"Hey." Jeff reaches for him, palm flirting across Jensen's cheek. "Don't freak out on me. I believe you. I just…" Jeff's mouth tightens beneath the line of his moustache. "I keep my promises. I need to know you know that. To believe it."

Jensen's agreement is interrupted by someone hammering on the door like it's a Commerce raid, making them both jump. "Goddamn it Jeff!" Kane's voice sounds like he wants to shout and is holding himself back by bare margins. "The nooner is over. Put some damned clothes on and open the door. We've got work to do."

"Shut the fuck up," Jeff calls back loudly, contrary to the sheepish expression on his face as he looks at Jensen. "And give us a minute."

Kane pounds on the door one more time, a sharp rap that Jensen thinks is supposed to indicate agreement, however irritated. Jensen reaches for their clothes, anticipating Jeff's hurried embarrassment. It doesn't bother Jensen to think that the rest of the house knows he was in here being fucked boneless by Jeff—quite the contrary—but Jeff has a lot more conflict about it than Jensen does. So Jensen doesn't expect it when Jeff pulls him back by his arms, tugging him into a kiss. He goes with it, though, pleased surprise melting into just pleased fast as ice cream on a hot sidewalk.

Kane can fucking wait.

When the kiss ends, Jeff still holds Jensen there, nuzzling Jensen's face with his eyes closed. "Thank you," Jeff says softly, though Jensen's not sure why. "I love you," Jeff says next, eyes opening to meet Jensen's, and that's easier to understand—and to take.

"I love you, too—" Jensen bites back his sir at the last moment and he means it, he always means it, but something about saying it—now and to Jeff—feels different than it has all the other times. Not less real, just different.

There's no time to pick it apart, though, as someone—Kane—cop-knocks on the door again.

"Keep your pants on!" Jeff shouts again before he looks back to Jensen. "Guess it's time for us to put ours back on, huh?"

Jensen nods. He should probably check on Pickles…on the kitten, if Jeff doesn't need him. "May I clean you?"

Stretching, Jeff drops his arms suddenly, like the suggestion startles him. "No," he avers. "I'm cool."

"You and Kane are going to be working on the Asoka contracts all afternoon," Jensen points out. "Until dinner, if not after. You're okay now, but pretty soon, you're going to start to sweat. And itch. And you don't have time to shower." Jensen sorts his clothes out from Jeff's and puts Jeff's on the couch next to him. "Please let me do this?"

"I tell you what—why don't we both go to the bathroom, and I'll let you wash me down there," Jeff offers. "Good enough?"

"Good enough. Thank you," Jensen says, meaning it.

He washes Jeff with quick efficiency, aware of Kane fuming outside the door and Jeff's self-consciousness about letting him do this in the first place. When he's got Jeff as clean as a quick wash-up allows for, Jeff gives him another, fast and more absent-minded kiss that somehow makes Jensen more blushy and tongue-tied than the dirtiest tonsil-hockey.

When Jeff leaves him, Jensen washes more slowly, lingering over the faint bruises darkening beneath his skin. Jeff had been… Magnificent feels like such a melodramatic word to use, but Jensen's still bedazzled enough by the whole thing that he can't really think of another. Jeff's strength and assertiveness in taking him, the kindness with which he gave his pleasure back to Jensen…it's everything Jensen's wanted since arriving here.

Their first, hasty clean-up immediately afterward had been with Jensen's undershirt. Jensen folds it up small for drop-off in the laundry and redresses as neatly as he can without it, frowning at the wrinkles in his shirt and the ruined creases of his pants. He's not sorry that Jeff hadn't given him time to properly undress, but he does look sadly rumpled in the aftermath and he'll need to change before Madam Morgan or Crispin catch sight of him. It's one thing for Jeff to take an afternoon delight with his slave and another for Jensen to look the whore afterward.

Luck seems to be securely on Jensen's side today, though—okay, other than the arrival of Pick…the kitten into his life—because he makes it all the way up to the second floor and the privacy of his room without being seen.

The shower is a pure, sinful indulgence. Jensen rushes through it guiltily, aware of Jeff downstairs, and resists all temptation to linger over the afternoon's memories, barely touching himself enough to get clean. He's in the middle of getting redressed when Joe comes in, unannounced and without knocking.

"Mary-Louise is leaving," Joe says.

Stuck on deciding between two shirts—the green goes better with his eyes, but the pinstripes go better with the pants—Jensen discards them both onto the bed. "Yes," Jensen says. "She is."

A muscle flexes in Joe's jaw. "I've done everything Master Morgan—and you—have asked me to do. I kept her quiet, happy, out of the way. I did everything that you asked me."

"Yes," Jensen agrees, puzzled. "Joe—"

"What's going to happen to me?" Joe demands. "Master Morgan—Jeff—bought me to look after her. What happens to me when there's no Mary-Louise to look after? Am I getting sold, too?"

The anger simmering under Joe's surface becomes clear and Jensen kicks himself for not seeing it sooner. "No," he says. "Jeff—" wouldn't do that, Jensen wants to say, but he knows how that would sound to another slave. How it sounds to him, even in his mind. "He's not going to sell you. He'll find work for you."

Joe's chin jerks slightly, no trust in his eyes. "Do you know that for a fact, or are you just trying to make me feel better?"

"I don't know what Jeff's going to want you to do," Jensen admits. Jeff probably hasn't even thought about it. "But he's loyal to those who are loyal to him." And even those who aren't, Jensen muses, thinking of Mary-Louise. "You'll be okay."

"You can talk to him." Joe reaches toward Jensen like he wants to take his hand. "He listens to you, cares for you. You could talk to him for me."

"I could." Jensen nods slowly, uncertainly.

"This is a good house," Joe says, sounding a little desperate, his jaw unlocking from rigidity into something softer, more malleable. Jensen thinks of the white lines of scar tissue scrawled across the sharp bones of Joe's back and his own—mercifully limited—knowledge of Mickey Rourke. "Please," Joe says, and this time he does put his hand on Jensen's bare wrist, fingers caressing the inside—always one of Jensen's hot spots. "I… Whatever you want. Just talk to him."

Though Jensen knows that slaves trade favors—including sex—among themselves, no other slave has ever offered themself to Jensen this way. Even when he's been his master's 'beloved pet', he's never had that kind of power. Or that kind of rapport with his fellow slaves. Jensen would think Joe would've gone to Kane, if it had come to that.

Even as his brain prods at all this, Jensen turns his wrist, tugging out of Joe's loose grip. "I don't want that," Jensen says, fumbling across what he wants and means to say. "You don't. It's not like that. I don't want anything." Jensen's chafing the inside of his wrist with the palm of his other hand, mostly unconsciously. Afraid how Joe might take that, though, he forces his hands down to his sides. "I'll talk to Jeff. I'll make sure there's something for you. You won't be sold."

There's a bleakness in Joe's eyes, the same unwillingness to trust that's been there the entire time, but Jensen likes to imagine he sees a star fragment of hope in there, too.

"It's a good house," Jensen offers, hoping Joe will understand it for the olive branch it is. If he can find a place in this screwball house, Joe can, too.

Joe's mouth tucks; he has a habit of biting the inside of his lip, the tag of scar tissue as meticulously catalogued in his provenance as the color of his eyes and the length of his cock, hard and at rest.

"It's a good house," Joe agrees.