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Jax wasn’t really sure how he’d gotten himself into this situation, with Kinger no less. There were stretches of time he didn’t really feel like himself, did stupid crap just because he could– because what was the consequence. Now, while he was sure he’d done far stupider before this right here was probably in the top five.
He was the one who started it, it’d be even more stupid to be upset about it. He’d come onto Kinger, kissed him, asked if he missed feeling like a person– he knew all of them did, all except for him, which put him pretty high up on the food chain. He had no right to stop, because now he was beneath Kinger and the one thing more humiliating than asking him to fuck would be begging him to stop. That was fine, though, he was pretty good at finding little back alleys in his head to wander around in while waiting for it to be over.
His eyes drifted up towards the ceiling, dark and expansive. That was when that self-induced anesthesia he knew so well kicked in.
It was all hot breath, skin on skin. Hands on hands. All that stuff that Jax thought he wanted then never did, like a kid in a candy store. His mind was somewhere else and maybe it started there, because he actively reminded himself to participate, to chime in at the right times with the right words and right sounds just like he was taught. He had a good read, he knew what people wanted.
That was the good part. He could make this unpleasant if he wanted to. He didn’t want that, though. Something about it did feel good, his dick was hard between them, rubbed by the friction of their bodies against each other. Kinger was gentle, Jax was pretty sure he could hear him asking if it felt good through the fog and he nodded every time, which seemed to suffice. This was in his control, he asked for it, they were both grown– he could cope just fine.
And yet, it was so hard. It was so very hard to stay present with Kinger on top of him, with his back creating a crater in the mattress. He looked up at the ceiling, blurry, looking like all sorts of different places at once and felt those hands that felt like all sorts of people at once. His mouth worked before he could give it a second thought, a freudian slip of sorts:
“Stop– dad!” everything stopped. Everything stood completely still except for his heart, his chest heaving like a rabbit in open season, like he needed air. God, not even daddy, not anything ambiguous like please, just… terrible word vomit. Stop, dad.
Even Kinger's face was still for a long moment– or at least it felt long– but he could see the cogs and gears in his head turning. He definitely thought Jax was a freak, which kind he wasn’t sure of yet, not until he opened up his mouth– which Jax would not be sticking around for. He went to run– something his long legs were good at and froze with a jolt up his spine the moment he sat up.
The whole ordeal probably didn’t last as long as it felt because he blinked and Kinger was off of him, refastening his big stupid robe. Jax wanted to slap himself in the face, focus, because he really couldn’t afford not to. His eyes were blurry. He blinked, to reset them, to focus that purple and white looming blur and it did mostly nothing.
His chest was still heaving, twitching in its own shallow rhythm that wouldn't stop even as he tried to hold his breath. It was like this endless, greedy crater, the need for air that he literally did not need at all. He opened his mouth to speak and his jaw locked it in place just like that, trembling to hold two rows of grit yellow teeth together.
This wasn’t him. This wasn’t happening to him. The sensation of hands on his body that had never been on this body, the force of something– of someone that he had never seen with these eyes, who had never even seen this body.
His legs that were supposed to run clamped together– skin on skin, fur on fur, rubber on rubber. His arms that were supposed to pick something up to throw at Kinger grabbed the blanket and yanked so hard he hit himself in the chest. The punch to himself didn’t feel like much of anything at all, a dull thump, an argument heard from the other side of the wall.
An argument like– “oh, god, you’re pimping out our son, you’re fucking him– oh god– I fucking knew it,” from a weak woman who wouldn’t do anything about it anyways, from the other side of his bedroom door, the door that should’ve been soundproofed a long, long time ago because terrible things were always happening on both sides and right now he needed to leave the room because his thighs were all sticky and he needed to wash up in the bathroom and– his stomach lurched, hitting a wall, he pulled the blanket tighter to himself, over his dry knees pressed together.
He could see it in the dark, that white gloved hand reaching for the light switch, “don’t.”
The blanket wasn’t enough to hide him.
Kingers hand froze, then retreated.
He used to be so scared of the dark.
There was a long moment of silence, again, that he was getting really sick of. He counted the dips and folds in the blanket, staring at Kingers lower half but absolutely not his face out of his peripheral. He was so much stiller than he ever was, patience without forgetting what was going on completely.
“Do you…” he couldn’t stand looking up, showing his face to Kinger who was speaking to him like a scared kid, “do you want your clothes?”
What kind of question is that? He was naked, he just called Kinger dad– an arguably worse slip than calling your teacher mom, and he didn’t want any follow up to that at all? Not that he wanted him to ask any questions, though.
He guessed it was sort of obvious what all this was about unless you were talking to an idiot (if Kinger was or not, he wasn’t so sure), so it really wasn’t necessary to rubberneck, or pry, or watch him like a smoking car pulled over at the side of the road. He was naked and shaking beneath those blankets and he did actually really want his clothes, an option that Kinger thought of before him. He sort of… appreciated the gesture, actually, which made him all the more furious.
Kinger was being all nice, asking him if he wanted his clothes like he was some girl after a mediocre one night stand, and now he was going to hand them to him like a child too?
He opened his mouth to say no, then closed it again. By the second time he looked up, Kinger's hand was there, floating right in front of him with a pink pile of fabric in them. He snatched it away like a frightened animal would.
He held them close to his chest, for how long, he couldn’t really tell. Getting dressed in front of Kinger felt…weird. Like, way weirder than being naked in front of him. Staying naked under his blankets while they stared at each other was sort of worse, though. He didn’t want him getting the wrong idea about anything.
He turned around, facing the almost pitch black corner of the room as he swung his legs over the side of the bed. He couldn’t make out what parts of his clothes he was seeing like this but it wasn’t hard to feel his way around them. First his right leg, then his left, he shimmied them up over his hips. Two flimsy straps in big yellow buttons clicking shut. What a stupid outfit– his nipples were pretty much out at all times. Why the hell didn’t he get any other options?
He huffed. He huffed and he puffed and he… shook, blowing cold air out with nowhere to go.
He turned over his shoulder, phantom spiders crawling all up and down his back, the urge growing worse the further he ignored it.
“Welp, that was sure embarrassing,” he smiled, rubbing at the back of his neck to squash all those spiders that still weren’t satiated. They would devour him, soon. Kinger didn’t say anything– at least not quick enough. Maybe he didn’t give him time to respond, or maybe Kinger really was just being a weirdo, staring at him wordlessly for however long it felt, “you either think I’m a freak, or a freak now, dontcha?”
He could only make out his silhouette like this. Not shaped like a man or even a human at all.
“Uh.. no, I don't,” Jax could practically hear his slow blink, the cogs in his head turning because maybe he didn’t think he was a freak, but he was definitely thinking something else horrible.
His smile didn’t falter, in fact it stretched wider because he wouldn’t be anyone's bitch– not even his achy facial muscles would be telling him what to do.
“You don’t have to smile like that, you know.”
“I don’t have to do anything.” and he was starting to regret his hunching, it was hard to control the sound of his voice wobbling when he couldn’t fully breathe. His face was hot, and he almost repeated himself just to prove that he could sound normal, glaring daggers through his suddenly heavy, suddenly wet eyes at Kinger's shape.
He twisted his hands into the blanket that was still there, pooled around his body and not doing its job at all.
“No, you don’t. I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to, Jax.” Like he ever wanted anything– he absolutely didn’t, “but it’s okay… if you do want to– or need to cry.”
Jax’s mind went blank, he could feel the absence of strain in his cheeks, his mouth heavy and straight. He’d been in lots of dark rooms before, lots of similar requests. Smile. Don’t smile at me. Crying, cute. Crying, bitch. Talk about your day at school. Shut up and take it. Be good for dad. Be good for his friends.
He blinked, drying his eyes. He reminded himself what went where, let his smile stretch back to his cheeks and jaw that were growing sore with its absence.
“Oh. I see what’s going on here. I seriously didn’t peg you for the type, Kinger.” word vomit, “weird.”
“What?” God, Kinger was stupid.
“Oh don’t be coy,” he waved his hand, rolling his eyes up to see his angry eyebrows meeting them, “you want to see me cry. You wanna get your rocks off. I don’t blame you, bet it’s hard to– well, stay hard at your age.” Terrible word vomit to send Kinger running before he got sick too, “the heart wants what it wants, and so does the… chode, I guess.”
He snickered, stomach tensing cause he couldn’t afford letting the rest of himself do that. People like that, they could smell fear.
The moment between was quick, there was barely one at all and yet, Kinger didn’t sound hasty at all, “no. I don’t want that at all. I mean, I’d like it if you told me what was going on in that noggin up there, but I’m not going to make you if that’s not what you want.” He stood still in the same spot he’d been in since the beginning, tapping the side of his head.
Like a kid being scolded for playing too rough, for not following a rule he didn’t know existed, like saying the wrong thing at the table– something dumb and wrong and gross. His face burned hotter. He’d rather be on his hands and knees, mopping up split juice, washing his body in a too-hot bath.
He’d met guys like this before– clients– his dad called them, or sometimes even friends (which Jax had none of. Who would’ve wanted to hang out with a little shit like he was? And… having no friends was better than having those guys) .He didn’t call them his clients, and they certainly weren’t his friends. He personally called them child preds, or creepers, or chomo’s or sometimes, when he worked up the courage all the way in the back of his mind he’d think pedophiles. These ones were the nice ones, they usually asked about school, told him he was so good, didn't play too rough even though it was bound to hurt anyways. Some of them had kids of their own at home, and they chose him instead. The sorts he had a bit of an angry crush on. Stupid pathetic losers that made him feel better about being one too.
“Whats your problem,” he choked out, looking down at his own hands, yellow, rubberhose cartoon gloved on hands that flexed and fell open, cupping heavy air.
“Well, I think I have a few more than one,” Kinger sounded bashful, or maybe awkwardly joking– like he was making stupid dad joke, “like, my grill, back on the outside, is still broken. And I don’t know how to use it anyways,”– Kinger remembers things from before this? “And, well, I miss my wife. And I wish I saw you sooner.”
That was a lot of words all at once. Too many to keep track of, too many to care about. Why was he one of Kinger's problems?
“What? You see me every day. Don’t tell me you’re getting dementia.” he tried to smirk in that way you did when someone said something dumb, the face you make when you really want to rub salt in the wound, but his confusion betrayed him. His eyes shifted back and forth, he could feel the weight of his eyebrows tensing above them.
“No, no. I can barely see anything literally right now, but…” he hesitated, silently picking Jax apart, “this is the first time I’m really seeing you, I think. I’m sorry.” This was weird. Kinger talking him like the therapist instead of the very much in-need patient, sitting on his bed, getting apologies for no reason. His hands found the thick, wooly blanket and pressed hard.
“You wish,” he huffed, “you have no clue what you’re talking about.”
“Okay,” he didn’t seem angry, or embarrassed about being so obviously wrong, “do you mind if I sit?”
His voice was kind. Kinger had been on his feet for a long time, waiting for Jax to just chill out. Like a bad dog, a trash-eating raccoon, a house mouse.
“Don’t talk to me like that.” It really wasn’t threatening, hunching over like a lonely middle schooler and slamming his fast down on cushy, soundless bed.
“Fair enough.”– could he stop talking like a sitcom dad already? “But… Can I?”
Could he what?
He stared at Kinger for a while, waiting for something more to finish his request. He was standing there at the edge of the bed. Standing there and making Jax's heart pound with anticipation. Standing there and looming over him from a good five feet away. Standing…
Oh. Right. He was asking to sit.
“Sure.” He couldn’t care less about what Kinger did.
Kinger settled himself down, dipping the bed with his weight but Jax was far enough to the corner that it didn’t really bother him. He sat halfway facing Jax, twisting over his shoulder to face him in a way that mimicked his own position, easy to snap back into place quickly– facing the wall.
The lamp was just behind Kingers head, off to the side. Jax focused his eyes on that instead, just close enough that he could argue he’s been looking Kinger straight in the eyes this whole time, close enough that he could see him breathe and blink out of the corner of his vision.
He pulled his legs up over the side of the bed from where they were hanging, shifting his weight onto his left palm and hip, legs pressed together in a side-sit. His free hand clenched, opened and closed. Opened and closed. The lamp was behind Kinger to his left, the door was behind him to the right.
“Jax?” what. He wanted to ask out loud but his mouth didn’t move. He wondered if his eyebrows were, falling into a mechanical scowl, “I’m sorry. You deserve better.”
There it was, those terrible feelings with those terrible words that fanned that fire: the need to eat, to breathe, to sleep in a bed without anyone else in it.
What did Kinger know about what he deserved and what he didn’t? It was just an empty gesture, he can’t talk about things he doesn’t know about. Jax shouldn’t cry about a sentence that means virtually nothing but god– no, his face was starting to burn from the inside out. He smothered it in his elbow and before it all went dark he could see Kinger turning his head to look away. Probably to the door. Probably to get the hell out and when he takes his elbow away when his face is dry he’ll be all alone.
Which is what he wanted. He hiccuped so hard it hurt his chest, he couldn’t open his mouth for the noise it created. They pushed their way through his tense stomach, his teeth that were clenched hard. His arm was getting all wet, capturing the salt water from his eyes and smearing it back onto his face.
He’d felt this before. Crying into his arm like a pillow, waiting for the man in front of him to leave and maybe he already had, maybe Jax was just too dumb and distracted to hear it.
He was half doubled over with every pulse of breath, wave of pressure that followed every thought because he was never able to mindlessly do his thing. Clearly. He’d called Kinger dad because even with a dick up his ass he couldn’t shut his brain up. This was just getting ridiculous now, like an angsty fanfiction written by an angsty teen.
He shook his head, scoffing the tears away. He was not an angsty teen, and this tantrum wasn’t even the slightest bit amusing, just all sorts of sad-cringe. What kind of person his age cried over stupid, fatherly sounding quotes from a random loon twice their age?
Well… porn stars, prostitutes, people like that, probably did. But that wasn’t him. A wave of shame pulsed through him, tingling his already hot body.
He sucked it in, the trembling gasps and quiet hiccups and shaking with one big gulp of air, two big blinks of his eyes behind his arm, then dropped it.
His eyes didn’t have to readjust to the dark for long to see Kinger– Kinger still sitting there where he was before but he’d untwisted his body just ever so slightly so he was facing the lamp, not staring, not looking at the loud car crash right next to him that he’d have every right to if he wanted because what would Jax do if he did? Call him a perv again and look stupid again?
“What are you doing?” He brought a hand up to his head and pressed, shoving his headache right back in where it belonged.
“Right now? I’m just sitting,” but it was never ever just sitting, just saying hello, just five minutes and he’d be done. Why was Kinger doing this to him? Why couldn’t he just catch a break for once? Ever?
“Why are you doing this to me?” He didn’t growl it like he meant to, no sharp teeth to bare as he whimpered like a beaten dog.
Kinger softened, sinking down into the dip his body created in the mattress, “I really don’t want to do anything to you. I just want to be here because I thought maybe it’d help. I thought maybe you might need someone to just… listen.”
Jax's stomach twisted, tears behind his eyes getting hotter, "I don't need–” his voice wobbled, bottom lip stiffly curling inwards, “I don’t need anyone.” He gasped for air like he was dying and tried to hold it, every part of him tense, a cat with a stiff back. He didn’t cry again, digging his heels in.
He could fix this all by himself if he could just have a minute.
“You’re very strong, Jax.” He said it like kissing a scraped child's knee but he knew deep down how Kinger really meant it. He was sure of it, the patronization that Kinger was suddenly good at hiding– god, who knew Kinger could be such a good liar and such a bad one at the same time? Who would ever look at a newly dressed, crying rabbit in their bed and call it strong?
“You’re insane.” He whipped his head back, taking in a big gulp of air and ridiculousness, like the stuff above him would be any less thick than what he was breathing now, “you’re bat–[BOINK!]”
He hoped the millionth time hearing it would be the time it hurt, that maybe it’d matter more coming from someone he’d just had his dick in.
“Well… yeah, I get that a lot,” he laughed under his breath, and that laugh and that breath turned into a weary sigh, “but… sometimes I’m not. Right now I’m not. Right now I know that you deserve better, you don’t deserve to hurt. Right now I can see how strong you’ve been trying to be and I think carrying all that weight on your shoulders all by yourself can’t be good.”
He was just twisting the knife, rubbing salt in the wound, “you’re seeing things that aren’t there.” and he regretted it the moment those words left his grit teeth because there was a million humiliating retorts that Kinger could throw back at him to prove him wrong– his tear streaked face, the way he was still clutching the blankets, the fact that he called him dad mid-boning because that wasn’t something normal, well-adjusted adults did.
His heart hammered and he bit down to avoid flinching when he heard Kinger hum, getting ready to speak and knock every carefully placed block right down, “maybe. But, I’m still seeing it, and I think that holds some merrit. Just... humor me, won’t you?”
It clicked as he swallowed, all the talking at him, all the terrible, untrue words Kinger had said coming up and grazing him with their nails, “fine, sure. Whatever.” whatever. If Kinger wanted to just talk at him some more then fine, he’d shut up eventually.
He stared at the wall, waiting for a hand to tilt his head back, a voice to tell him it’s rude to not make eye contact that never came.
“What do you even want.” But it wasn’t really a question because there were a million things he knew and they were all terrible.
Kinger seemed to, by the grace of god, or some omnipotence that was granted to him by his insanity, know that Jax’s question was never really that at all, “are you okay?”
–”peachy.”
“Really?”
Why did he want to keep digging this deep, terrible hole right in Jax’s chest?
“Well, what gave it away,” his eye twitched without permission, like a bunny out in the wild, “was it the crying? The whining? Calling you– dad when we–” he hiccuped, snarling at it, at his body that always betrayed him, “when we were having sex." That big terrible word he didn’t know the name for for far too long felt powerful in his mouth like a gun's recoil.
Kinger shook his head, “it was the crying, mostly. I’m not trying to think too hard about the… other stuff– I don’t want to assume anything, not until you tell me about it yourself.”
Which meant he’d obviously thought about it at least a little bit. So many ideas that were probably so horrifically embarrassing, so many things he couldn’t deny because they were up in Kingers head for nobody else, not even him.
Jax sighed into his hands in that way that you did after a long, miserable shift of gritting your teeth while getting yelled at by an obese woman holding her snot nosed brats, smelling of grease even after you leave, when everything was so terrible that he couldn’t help but laugh to stitch it all back up together. The pads of his fingers dragged the flesh of his face down, and then back up. His life was funny in his ridiculous, slap-stick sort of way.
“Yeah, you do that.” he never thought he’d have to tell Kinger not to think too hard. But he was a purple rabbit sitting on a digital bed, so he guessed crazier things could happen.
Kinger nodded, twiddling with his thumbs. “I think sometimes… it’s hard to exist to other people. I think it’s hard to say you’re capable of being sad, or scared or… hurt. Because then people know they can make you feel like that. And when they take you up on that offer it’s the worst feeling in the world. It’s like handing over a little chunk of yourself and it feels like you never get it back. I don’t want to take from you, Jax. I want to give, I don't want you to be all alone. It’s not fair.”
And even with Kinger sitting right there, with everyone always around and hustling and bustling he felt an ache he’d long since learned to ignore, one that he’d felt since he was young, that wasn’t satiated even when being laid on top of, talking to customers, to shady dudes who’d sell him weed that he was pretty sure he didn’t enjoy. He was pretty sure everyone felt the same way he did– vacancy with something heavy behind it, and they were just better at hiding it or maybe better at filling it than he ever was. All alone. He was pretty sure that was all he wanted and all he ever got all at once.
“You don’t know [BOINK!] about what’s fair and what’s not. You don’t understand anything.” His completely empty chest fluttered with phantom pains.
“I’d like you to help me understand, Jax.” But why? What in the world did he get out of that? Instead of fucking, instead of them both getting off and leaving happy Kinger had to do this crap, had to leave Jax’s face wet and nothing else.
His lip trembled and he held them tight together until he trusted them to move stiffly within his control, “this is embarrassing." It simmered inside of him, like a lid over steadily rising froth on high heat.
“What is?” boiling over, he couldn’t help himself anymore, completely collapsing in on himself.
“You will never understand me,” god, he sounded like a stupid teenage girl but he couldn’t stop himself, greedy with a sort of freedom he rarely got his gloved hands on, “you’re acting like this isn’t embarrassing? Like you’re a good person or something for being dumb! I know what you’re thinking, god, I’m not stupid! I know that you know and you won’t just say it because you want to swoop in and treat me like this damsel, like a kid. I’m not. I’m a twenty two year old man, I’m– we’re not even real people anymore so just spit it out!-” He let out a winded breath, “poor little Jax had to show the psychiatrist where he got touched on the doll– except– except I didn’t. I didn’t tell anyone, I– I handled it. I took it every single day and what did I get in return? Well, sometimes my dad would bring me home ice cream, or one of his friends would buy me a happy meal, or my mom would give me a [boink]ing bath and act like she didn’t know. Why can’t you– why can’t you just ignore it? Why do you have to do this to me?”
Kinger's shoulders rose up like he was about to say something, but before he could get another grating word out Jax halted him, he’d seen enough shitty tumblr quotes and coming of age movies to know what he was going to say “Oh don’t start. Don’t sit me down and say that I– that I grew from it, that god tests us, that I’m a better person because of it. I’m not.” the use of agency: don’t do this, not that, no. he could say it a million times and not get sick of it. He had no breath left, no gas in his tank. Phantom pain of overworked lungs and vocal cords he no longer had left him sore, swallowing down spit to lubricate his throat.
He stewed in the silence that probably didn’t last as long as it felt, tingling all over.
“I wasn’t going to say that,” God. White-hot embarrassment worse than before wracked his body, Kinger was so quiet, so calm in contrast. He looked crazy, didn’t he? Ragged breathing, crying, jumping to ridiculous conclusions. He wanted to burrow down into the ground and never come back out.
“You were a kid,” Kinger said. Not sharp, not scolding, just firm in the way a wall is firm when you run headlong into it, “that shouldn’t have happened, ever. I’m sorry that it happened. I’m sorry you’ve been so alone with it this whole time. You never deserved something like that.”
It was like a puzzle piece slotting together in the worst way possible, like getting no satisfaction out of his toys unless he was destroying them because he knew what he did to earn them. The burden of having eyes see him, burning through him.
His mouth felt heavy and full, and yet he spoke past the glue slowing him down, “no. No– you don’t. You don’t understand.” This didn’t make it feel any better, this was not the fairy tale ending he used to fantasize about in the one-off moments when people used to ask if he was okay. This was completely humiliating, grotesquely so. Kinger couldn’t possibly understand, Jax would simply die if he did like a degloved carcass.
“Okay, okay. I’m not going to say I do, but in all my years around here I like to think I’ve learned a bit about compassion. I don’t know exactly what happened to you, or how someone could do that to another person, or why or even how you truly feel about it. But, I know that nobody deserves to be hurt. You were a child, Jax. Nothing else matters, I’m completely sure that you deserved better.”
He felt sick, like a vegan eating meat for the first time, a hard pill to swallow. He could cope with not deserving this or that, he’d heard a million times about what he didn't deserve. But… better? It was like dangling an unattainable carrot right in front of his face. A wound he didn’t realize was there dripped down and stained the bed.
“You just– you don’t quit do you?” he asked rhetorically through quivering lips.
“You don’t deserve to have another person do that to you. You’re worth more than that.”
He swallowed down the lump in his throat that hadn’t really felt like it was worth anything more than a wad of cash in a long time, “you don’t know what has and hasn’t been done to me.” He pushed back, he couldn’t cope without being a bit of a contrarian. Kinger probably had a pretty clear picture based on his meltdown, but it wasn’t like he knew the real gross, nitty-gritty of it.
“We can talk about it, if you want to…”
“I–” he didn’t know what to do with what he’s always wanted looming over him, like an angry dog scrapping for a meal in the hands of a stranger, “I don’t know if I want to do that.”
Kinger nodded thoughtfully, clasping his hands together, “you can start, and if you change your mind you can stop. I won’t judge.” Kinger turned around to look at him, eyes smiling kindly like a wall of barbed wire
“I don’t like being looked at,” Kinger took the hint, turning away. He stared at his back, the purple robe cascading down behind it, his silhouette in the dark.
“I think,” like a stalling car, “I think I… I can’t handle it. Like, too many people have seen me and nothing good ever comes of it. It’s just like, eugh. Gross. It’s stupid.” he stared down at his hands that he could see much clearer now than he did earlier, eyes adjusting to the dimly lit room. He could see Kingers form just a glance above them, shaking his head.
“No, I don’t think it’s stupid,” this was getting more embarrassing by the second, being talked to like a nervous pre-teen, “I think it makes sense. After everything you’ve been through, of course you’d hate things that remind you of it. Anyone would.”
The things he’s been through. They all felt so far away, he wasn’t a child anymore, wasn’t even in the same body. He was a whole new thing that had been invented by himself and his miscellaneous circumstances. He’d gotten out the day he turned 18, a little late for his liking but he just never could bring himself to go on the run for real, to slum it as a kid on the streets. He hadn’t even seen his dad since his birthday party, where he hugged him and told him how much he reminded him of himself as a young man.
“I think I should be over it by now.” and yet he grew a little angry at the thought of following through with that, he’d never been so good at being the bigger person.
“Why do you think that?”
“It’s been almost half a decade since I’ve seen him. I think that statute of limitations is up.”
“But he hurt you for much longer than that, and it’s still hurting you. Getting out doesn’t reverse what he did to you, you deserve to take your time and feel things.”
Longer than that… 16 years at least, probably longer, but he wouldn’t know. He couldn’t remember that far back, just knew that by the time he started going to school he was years ahead with his knowledge on anatomy and reproduction. A sickening, gut-wrenching memory crossed his mind, if he could even call it that.
He couldn’t remember a full sequence of events, just his soreness down below, sitting on the closed lid of the toilet and complaining to his mother before his bath because it hurt and he still couldn’t understand why. Neither could she, apparently, because she kneeled down and cooed at him, saying that there was diaper rash cream in the cabinet. Fuck. She thought his pain from getting molested was fucking diaper rash. He was young enough to have a diaper rash.
His stomach was starting to hurt worse and worse, like the victim of a particularly fast tilt-a-whirl.
“I— he. It just… didn’t stop. I was just a baby– Kinger, I was— I don’t even remember how old I was. I wasn’t even in [Boink!]ing preschool yet! He pimped me out–” huh. No censor, guess Caine didn’t know about that one, “before I could even count how many sickos he’d forced me to– to–” He couldn’t get the words out, couldn't let what more than a dozen men had done to him be let out to the stuffy, unforgiving air.
“Oh, Jax,” he said, and for a long while nothing followed, holding space for the snivelling that had started up again, as if to just acknowledge that he’d heard it and nothing more.
“You shouldn’t have had to go through that. You shouldn’t have even known what that was.” Well, no duh. But it was hard to lie and say that the acknowledgement didn’t stir something up inside of him.
“I guess–” his voice was thinner than he wanted it to be, “I guess I was just ahead of the curve.” unable to have solid relationships, unable to look at himself without feeling disgust, unable to ever not connect random things to both sex and his own suffering and unable to disconnect the two while some people his age were getting married. Yeah, real advanced stuff.
“I’m sorry,” he said for the millionth time, “if I knew fully what to say to make it better then I would, but I know better than that. Maybe it won’t sink in now or for a long while but that wasn't fair. You don’t have to joke about it, it really does just suck.”
He tsked, tongue against the backs of his teeth, “I’m funny, Kinger. That’s what I’m good at. All this sappy stuff– the crying and feeling sorry and angsty monologues aren’t for me. I can’t even– I can’t even talk about this crap without this like, wall coming up telling me not to.” The same wall really was looming over him as he spoke, giving away so much information that could hurt tomorrow.
“Who says what is and isn’t for you? It’s not easy, it probably never will be but if it helps it’s worth pushing through for. You don’t deserve to be stuck in the same spot he left you in forever.” Kingers back was slouched in the dark, still turned towards the door.
Jax was the one who left, right out the front door and into his car he sometimes slept in because he was so tired of his dad’s visits. He tied up his converse and walked right out and yet, they didn’t feel so sturdy. Most days he was still sitting bare in his bed just willing his clothes back on in his imagination because nobody was coming to dress him, not even after they were all done. Stars on the ceiling he got as a gift for being so good, they were gone now because he hadn’t been in that room in years but their imprint still stuck.
“Where else would I even go?” the question lingered, and the longer it did the hotter his face grew. Stupid. He didn’t need Kinger to hold his hand and walk him through this.
Kinger straightened himself out, looking up partially towards the ceiling, “I think you can only go forward.”
He was planted firmly on the beds corner, in the same spot he’d scuttled to since the ordeal started. He shifted his weight just ever so slightly towards Kinger for a reason he couldn’t place.
“God you– why–” he laughed to himself, rubbing his tired face with his palms, “why are you good at this?” it was strange to even admit through his buzzing lips like a cracked shell.
“When you’ve been around as long as I have you get to meet all sorts of people. There's only so much annoyance anyone can have for another person before you start trying to cope. I’ve just found that trying to understand is a lot easier than hating.” Jax was pretty annoying, he could admit it– it was sort of the whole point of his shtick. He’d never considered someone seeing that and still wanting to stay– not for what they could get out of it but for what was beneath it.
“I have my charms,” he smiled, a smug one that he knew Kinger couldn't see but could definitely hear.
“Yeah. That you do,” Kinger's voice gushed warmth ever so slightly.
He took a big gulp of air, willing away many, many parts of himself that were screaming, telling him to run out and never look Kinger in the eyes ever again, “y’know, it’s not just the daddy issues talking. I am… pretty into you.”
Kinger turned to him slowly, gently, which was all sorts of scary without words. Jax laughed with tight lips, a rush of complete stupidity and self awareness rushing over him, “ha– yeah. Forget I said that. Cringe,” his voice cracked.
“Oh, no. No, I'm sorry. I like you too, Jax. I just… don’t know where to go from here. I don’t know what you’d want from us,” the man was twice his age, he did just confess his deepest childhood trauma to him in the same hour that they had been fucking. What was even ahead of that?
Jax tsked looking down towards his own semi-frown slowly curving back up into a smile and then a laugh, “don’t be so grave about it, I’m not asking to get hitched. I just–” he stopped, face falling again, “I kind of want you to… to hold me? And I kind of want to uh, get back at what we were doing earlier if I didn’t completely kill your boner by now.” he shrunk in on himself on that last part, knowing that it was a long, embarrassing shot.
He knew Kinger wasn’t aroused anymore, for valid reason because Jax hadn’t been until he thought about it again, being in Kingers bed, thinking about Kingers body, about his gentle hands and words and the way he saw him not like a broken vase but a person. Obviously he didn’t get his rocks off thinking of his dad, or his childhood and especially not talking about it but Kinger being old enough to be his father just sort of did something for him he didn’t want to mention. Oh, god, wait– did Kinger think he was some sort of sick fuck now? That their conversation turned him on? Before he could open his mouth to refute it, Kinger was already speaking.
“Is that something you really want to do or something you feel the need to?”
Kinger was just tossing flashbang grenades one after another all night wasn’t he. Jax sat there stunned for a moment, the idea never having crossed his mind. Feeling like he needed to do it. He usually hated it, but when it’s taking it or taking it screaming as your only options you go for the one that leaves you with less of a sore throat at least. But, this didn’t feel like that. Kinger had already seen him at his lowest, stopped, stayed and still loved. This didn’t feel the same as he’d ever felt before.
“No, I want this.” It was blunter than he was used to speaking, but he couldn’t think of anything else other than the half-heat beginning to coil, getting closer and closer to what he wanted. He looked straight up at Kinger as he said it, whose eyes were just as intense.
“Okay. We need to talk about this first, though.” It was so easy and so not.
“Oh my god haven’t we talked enough,” Jax huffed, throwing his head back and looking up towards the dark ceiling.
“I think we both want to avoid another ordeal, and besides, I don’t really know what you like.” He did want to avoid a second breakdown, and furthermore, the way Kinger said that second part had his stomach twisting into all sorts of yearning shaped knots.
He groaned, “fine. Therapy as foreplay, this is a new one.” He flashed a smile at him, letting his hand rest in the stretch of bed between them.
“Humor me,” Kinger didn’t seem mad at all about Jax’s dismissal, “how about we start with what you absolutely don’t want?”
He had a lot of time to stew in a question like that– there were a lot of things he hated but rarely did they leave his mouth and see the light of day.
He snorted, “that’s a broad one,” he rolled his shoulders back, then his eyes, “okay. I, um. I don’t really like surprises,” he took a breath, one well earned after that leap of faith, “unless you want me getting sick on you, just… don’t.” he laughed breathily, cynically at that one, based on a true story.
“Okay. I can promise now I won’t do that, nothing we haven’t already negotiated– no threats of vomit needed.” Kinger said that last part cheekily, matching Jax in a way he hadn’t felt without disgust accompanying in a long time. He guessed talking had some upsides.
“I don’t like bein’ stared at, but the lights being off helps. I’m really not into any hair or, well– ear pulling. And– oh, ew, I hate being sucked off,” and as he rattled off his list that felt needlessly long, Kinger was still nodding intently, encouragingly, “and I sort of hate silence.”
The pause in between took long, or it just felt that way in anticipation for what came next as Kinger took mental notes, “okay. No staring, pulling, blowing or awkward silence. I can do that.”
Jax nodded, crossing his arms over himself and suddenly feeling insecure, “is there anything… you don’t uh, want?”
He heard Kinger half laugh half sigh, probably at him fumbling through their attempt at communication like a freshly born fawn, “just no biting, gives me the heebie jeebies,” he sounded stressed out by the concept.
“Sure. Sounds easy enough,” he’d only ever bitten anyone once, and that didn’t go well. He definitely didn’t have much of an urge to try it again.
“And you need to be real with me, okay? If you want me to stop doing something I won’t be butthurt over it. I only want to do things we both want to do,” Kinger said this firmly and pointed. Jax felt sort of called out.
He rolled his eyes, throwing his hands up in defeat, “okay, okay, you got me. I swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth,” he put his hands up in that vague gesture like he was on the stand.
Kinger nodded at him, proud of his rapidly developing ability to have a conversation, “what about the things you do like? This is about feeling good at the end of the day, not just– not bad.”
An even harder question because he really didn’t often have time to think about that one, especially not voice it. There were things he’d tried, all by himself in the safety of the shower, his bed in his apartment that he always tried to keep particularly tidy. He tended to be a bit of a neat-freak, to the insulting surprise of his peers. Sometimes things crossed his mind and he really did try to bury them because damn were they embarassing, but he’d called Kinger dad and cried at him already and he still hadn’t left yet, so, maybe….
He opened his mouth and like a dying, twitching bug he stopped, wall looming over him, “eugh, I… I don’t know how to say it.” He buried his flushed face in his hands, chest tight.
“Shoot,” Kinger opened up the floor for him, “whatever it is, I don’t think it’ll surprise me too bad. You can start small, work your way up to it.”
Jax swallowed, conjuring up all the things that had ever made him feel good to try to soften the blow of the disgusting, worst thing that he’d ever craved, “I don’t like it when it’s quiet, so… I don’t care what you say as long as it’s not totally cringe, but just talk to me?” it stopped things from getting so confusing, from blurring one time to the next.
Kinger nodded his head, encouraging the list to go on.
“Could you be on top?” he curled his legs in towards himself, “I don’t like…” it was so hard thinking of things he liked without simply basing it off of what he hated, and he knew he hated feeling like a sex freak, hated being on top and doing all the desperate, heavy lifting like he just needed cock so bad he was willing to bounce like a bunny for it.
“I’d love to.” Kinger cut off his attempt at an explanation that was already trailing into silence, unsure of how to even go about it. Right, he really didn’t need a reason for what he liked or what he didn’t. (well, he wasn’t so sure of that. Hyping himself up for what he wanted to say so badly next, he felt like he’d need an entire essay to justify it)
“I really don’t know how to explain this without sounding like a loon.” It was blunt and shrinking at the same time.
“Okay,” Kinger seemed to ponder on that, workshopping some kind of solution to a problem he didn’t even fully know yet, “you can lay it on me, honestly. No judgment here, I promise.” Kinger stuck his cartoonish, white-gloved pinky out at Jax, which he hesitantly took, the first contact they'd had since Kinger was on top of him earlier.
“Do you think you can… could you…” through his slow sputtering going at a snail's pace Kinger didn’t once scowl, didn’t seem angry or impatient, “like,” he gestured his hand vaguely, growing frustrated with his heavy tongue and closed throat.
“Like?” Kinger echoed both his voice and limp hand motion.
“It’s messed up,” he rubbed his eye, feigning his awkwardness like a parasitic little piece of dust in his eye was the real culprit, “could you pretend to… um, y’know, do that stuff to me.”
The moment the words left his mouth it went dry, and Kingers lack of immediate response had him backpedalling to fill the space.
“I– I’m not a freak, it’s not like I just love rape. I just– a lot of it I don’t fully remember, it’s foggy. It ticks me off, y’know, to not have control of even that?” his lips trembled but he trudged through the muddy feelings anyways, “I… I don’t want it to happen again, but to go through the motions now, knowing what I’m doing?” he had no conclusion to the impromptu monologue he was fumbling through, letting it hang there and fall into his palm-up hands resting on his knees.
“It’s okay, I understand. You don’t need a reason to like or not like things,” his shoulders still didn’t relax at the acceptance, more stunned than anything at how easy that was, “but, your reason does make sense. As long as nobody's getting hurt, deserve to take your control back in however way you see fit.”
“Really?” Jax blinked up at him, surprise after surprise.
“Yeah, why not,” Kinger traced his fingers over the blanket, “but if you wanna do this I think it has to be another thing we talk about.”
Ugh, another safety talk. This was like the equivalent of a booster seat strapped into 4 seatbelts with a harness attached. What did he need next? A helmet? Shinpads?
“Really?” he looped through his previous question, more sardonically this time.
“You said you want to go through the motions knowing what’s happening. I want to make sure you really will know what's happening. No surprises.” having his own words quoted back at him, getting listened to so intently that that was even possible.
He knew he wasn’t getting out of this one, and he really did want it, “this feels like a little more than twenty questions.”
“Making up for lost time,” Kinger offered, “doesn’t seem like you get to express yourself too often.”
He scoffed cause Kinger was right, but damn, was it that obvious? He didn’t want to be a friendless loser, he wanted to be mysterious. He guessed it was pretty hard to seem nonchalant when you were a purple, rubberhose bunny but still, he thought he was pretty skilled at what he did.
“Fine, fine, fair enough, ask away,” he definitely wanted to veer the question off from his apparent social inaptitude as soon as possible and get to mashing faces with Kinger preferably before the next day came.
“Alrighty then,” Kinger's eyes squinted in satisfaction, “let's just figure out what we want this to look like.”
Jax deadpanned, “like a script?” He was not a roleplayer or a theater kid.
Kinger scratched at the back of his head, trying to find wording that wouldn’t shut Jax down completely, “well, no, not really. I guess sort of, but we don’t have to create a whole scene, just the key points. What you’re looking for. What you want, what you don’t…” he trailed off, wooshing his hand out as if he were creating a line of questions for Jax.
He fiddled with the blanket, all of his bossy bravado suddenly drained out of him, “I’m supposed to just… tell you what to do?” He grimaced at the idea, all the power he’d ever wanted now in his hands felt heavy.
“Well I can see that’s off the table. Let's just… talk, hit what we need to,” he offered a sort of middle ground.
Jax shrugged, “sure, sure. Whatever floats your boat.”
Kinger paid his snideness no mind, “I think first off we should come up with a safe word. If you’re gonna say no, or stop and have it be part of the scene— or if you just want to take a break, you can say a different word. Maybe purple? Or,” Kinger looked around the room, coming up with nothing, “pineapple?”
He couldn’t hold back his look of complete and utter disgust, “no. Cringe. Absolutely not,” he spoke rapidly, trying to keep purple or pineapple from his occupied mouth, “I— I cannot say pineapple with your… thing in me.” He gave up on clever euphemisms, just tired of the stupid censor sound effect.
Kinger laughed bashfully, “okay, okay. Fair enough. Any other ideas?”
Jax clicked his tongue, “I dunno… can't I just say your name?”
“My name?” Kinger blinked at him, “I mean sure, if that’s what’s easy for you.”
He sat in the silence, really just taking things in. Easy. He doubted it’d ever be but… easier? Good? He nodded his head just ever so slightly, sinking into it all like a warm bed after a cold afternoon.
“Gee you’re into the paperwork side of things. I’m starting to think that this is the part that gets you off,” he smirked but honestly didn’t mean anything bad by it. It was just so… surreal. He’d never been asked questions like these, had to make the avenues to whatever he wanted by himself.
“Well I’m into not hurting you. The set ups worth it,” like he was selling him on a used car except. Jax was the used car, wasn’t he? That was really why they were doing this. He huffed, crossing his arms over himself limply.
It was so stupid, he was going to cry over something so simple. Fragile, damaged goods, glass that cut. He looked down to keep it from coming because he knew it would if he kept looking at Kinger who was staring back at him with nothing but kindness. He sighed, blinking it away.
“So… would you, uh. Hold me down maybe? And, talk to me like I don't want it?” With the promise that simply saying his name would make it stop, no begging, justification or biting required.
Kinger nodded, not seeming off-put by Jax’s requests at all, “and you want me to make it sound real, or?”
“Yeah yeah. I don’t want like, corny [Boink!]-o dialogue, I don’t think I could take it seriously let alone stay hard. So, yeah. As real as you can make it and if I get icked out I’ll do the thing…” he traced his finger up and down his knee absentmindedly. He knew the thing was just saying Kingers name but repeating it felt weird.
“Alrighty then. I can do that!” Kinger folded his hands together, “anything else you want me to know?”
Jax scowled, years of patronization still nagging at him, “don’t… I don’t want you to stop if I flinch. Sometimes I just do that, but it doesn’t mean anything. If I wanted it to stop I’d do something about it.” he half-argued with someone that wasn’t even there, annoyed at his body that he didn’t even seem to have control of all the time.
“Thats fair. You can always tell me if it’s getting bad, and I’ll really try not to assume unless I think something's gone horribly wrong,” Kinger could be blunt sometimes, the only thing that saved that from being scary was his consistent, dorkish nature.
Jax nodded, shaky. Kinger looked at him, searching for something, or maybe analyzing what he already saw.
“Hey, Jax?” he looked up, wide eyed and sharp, “you’re the one really calling the shots today, okay? Nothing happens if you don’t want it to.”
Kinger was looking at him so intensely. It was such a weird concept– having sex and liking it, making choices in it. Screaming and crying and literally saying stop, and still wanting it. Being underneath another man who you were at the end of the day controlling.
Jax whistled, flushing in a vague disease at how exposed he felt, “so,” he laughed, “we’re really doing this, huh?” his fingers tapped against each other.
Kinger did that thing again, where he looked like he was shrugging despite his lack of shoulders. Jax was getting pretty good at reading this type of stuff, “only if you want it.” Kinger reiterated.
Hot and heavy like a warm blanket, “I want it,” Jax affirmed.
Kinger turned himself around fully so he was sitting on the bed in his entirety, facing Jax, “then come here,” he gestured a finger out as if pulling him in.
That was all the convincing he needed. Jax crawled forward, which he sort of hated, but it only took two before he was right in front of Kinger, kneeling high up. He hovered for a moment before he shuffled himself forwards, sitting onto his lap blanketed by the purple robe. The contact didn’t feel awfully heavy, just solid, like a rocking chair.
“Good?” it was half-whispered, a momentary tear in the scenario that was planned, a secret just between them. He’d never been asked a question like that before, at least not so genuinely.
“I thought I just asked you not to get all sappy with me,” he queried a tired brow, husking back and leaning even closer to Kinger. He wrapped his by the inside of his elbows around Kingers neck enticingly, securing his spot where he was perched.
“Right,” Kinger cupped the back of Jax's head, thumbing it up and down in little semi-circles, “silly me.” Their foreheads bumped together and Jax could feel his own breath warming his face, bouncing off of Kingers. He just about melted into the body surrounding his own, letting his face fall down into what he’d sort of call Kinger's shoulder– something childish, instinctive and borderline animalistic.
Kinger cooed, hand moving down to stroke his back while the other rested tantalizingly on his hip, “will you be good for me?”
Jax could’ve moaned at that all on its own, though he had the self restraint not to the feeling still pulsed in his stomach. He nodded feverishly, his only saving grace being that Kinger couldn’t see his flushed, scrunched up face.
That nod, sloppy and desperate tied the knot he couldn’t seem to ever get his hands around. He felt it, pulled taught like nothing he’d ever felt before, the sensation of a body that was desired without hurt, the sensation of a body that wanted at all. Hands rested on him, belonging to Kinger and they gave without taking or even moving.
The hand on his back moved down, thumbs scooping into the hollow fronts of his hip bones and all the other fingers holding his back. It took less than a second for him to be flipped down onto his back, dark room spinning above him before he planted onto the mattress with a winded ough. He blinked up, letting his eyes and nervous system adjust to the dizzied feeling. He took a ragged breath as Kinger's face came into focus, not shrouded in enough darkness for his features (or lack thereof) to be obstructed.
Jax’s thumping heart didn’t make him feel sick like it usually did as Kinger stared right back at him with his blue eyes that Jax would’ve typically described as buggy, not romantic and definitely not sexy. He broke the contact, head straining up and back to look at the ceiling, the wall that was bordering on a staticky grey.
A surprised hum of a shout pushed its way through his stretched-thin throat because suddenly there was a hand cupping him between his legs, and for the first time in a long, long time he wasn’t already primed with a self-prescribed numbness to sedate him through the sex. He bucked up, wanting more despite his rapidly shaking head.
Kinger paid him no mind, toying with the straps of his ridiculous, salmon-pink overalls because he had all the time in the world whether Jax wanted it or not, a surprisingly comforting sentiment. The first buckle popped open and then fell down his shoulder like a box cutter to packing tape. He whined, a sound ingrained into him no matter how girlish.
He hardly noticed the second coming undone until his top half was bare but still warm, the feeling of artificial, coded body heat shared between them. He squeezed out a choked, humiliated plea as his clothes were shimmied off of him, always his last line of defense, the point of no return, “No, no– please–!” (a word he rarely used.)
Kinger shushed him, not breaking at all in his ministrations, “this is the easy part, just enjoy it.”
Enjoy it he was, because once the clothes were stripped off of him there was nothing left but his hard dick with a wettened tip. It pulsed, no more confines to offer that pressure he needed and no more confines to keep him from what he really wanted, laying right on top of him.
He shook his head, shutting his eyes because he sort of was starting to get dizzy, using his freedom to vocalize everything he’d always been forced to cry into his pillow, to guard behind grit teeth.
“Oh, no. No, get off me– off–” he weakly kicked his legs like a toddler throwing a tantrum, more like a strenuous wiggle than anything else.
He let Kinger scoop his wrists up one by one, placing them up over his head. His whole body was exposed now, stretched out across the bed and Kinger only briefly flitted over it before finding his dick, tracing up and down it with his pointer finger, precise and maddeningly slow. It was frustrating, part of him just wanted to fuck Kingers fist and yet the other part swelled with pride, testing himself and his limits.
He pushed the sound out, creating what felt like a hollow spot in the back of his throat as his whole body tensed, trying not to ask for more or take it greedily. His shoulders dug down into the mattress, arching to expose his stomach, ribs and chest. It was a conscious effort not to drool after a certain point, a finger wet with pre swirling around the tip in slippery circles.
“So wet for me,” Kinger murmured as Jax’s thighs clamped down and closed around his hand, holding it in place against him.
“Please–” he shook his head, wiggling under the confines of Kinger's hands over his wrists. His chest heaved, body locked up with a hot, tingling rigidity.
“Don’t be like that,” god, where had this side of Kinger been all along? “I know you like it, just open up your legs for me.” He nudged the back of his thigh and Jax needily complied, one falling to the side and the other coming up to push against Kinger's abdomen as a door of all the things he could do but wouldn’t– kicking, pushing, fighting that he’d always wanted except for now.
“Good, good. Easy there,” it was hard to tell if all of this was for him or if Kinger was just talking to himself at this point, talking to Jax– about Jax like he was cattle. His hand finally did what he needed it to all along, wrapping around slowly, finger by finger until his thumb landed on top.
He asserted his pressure, pulling his hand down and dragging the malleable skin with it, “oh–” Jax gasped out, falling limp. It was better than touching himself, better than earlier because back then he wouldn’t even let Kinger touch his dick, shooting him a wordless glare that got the hint across.
Kinger's movements didn’t accelerate hungrily, he kept a solid, steady pace, pulling Jax up and then down, thumb taking the time every once in a while to stray away and meet his tip. Jax hissed out a tired sound that he was pretty sure meant to be a moan, but he couldn’t remember. His head lolled to the side, staring at a wrinkle in the blanket that was so close to his face it looked blurry.
“Awe, are you tired already?” Kinger gave him a squeeze, “just stay like that, let me have my way with you.”
Jax’s dick twitched, twitched into Kinger's big hand and he could almost imagine it was particularly larger than his own, that their size difference was a much wider gap than it really was. His stomach caved in, seeking a sensation that he just couldn’t find all on his own, trying to scratch the itch that Kinger was fondling.
He did eventually start to go faster, so gradually that Jax didn’t notice at all until he was just barely short of yanking him. The sounds he made came as frequent as breathing and blinking, random one-word sentences that evaded him in favor of the next, trying to match up the right combination for whatever his goal was (that part, he still wasn’t even sure of).
“Shh,” Kinger shushed him but didn’t seem to mind at all based on the amusement in his voice, bouncing ever so slightly with the movement of his hand, “you don’t want us to get caught, do you? Do you want to get us in trouble?”
Jax shook his head, keening. He abandoned the pace Kinger had set, humping up unsteadily to avoid the briefest loss of contact. It crawled through him, melting down from Kinger's hand to his cock to his stomach, hot and buzzing violently until it reached his brain. It felt like little stars bursting behind his eyes as he reached his peak, tightened stomach releasing all its tension as he let whatever noises wanted to come out of his slackened jaw.
He didn’t have much time for recovery, or to bask in the best orgasm he’d ever had because his wrists were being released and pins and needles radiated through them at the return of blood flow, the hand on his still-hard dick was gone. They both found their way to his hips, almost effortlessly flipping him over onto his stomach and hanging his legs off the side of the bed. His feet hung down and hit the ground unceremoniously and he was just spaced out enough to not curse his terribly long legs.
The weight of his entire body on his oversensitive prick had him shivering with the full body wave that it provided. He gasped without much room in his stomach to do so, ragged and hazy.
“What….?” He feigned naive ignorance as Kingers hand traced up and down his lower back, the front of his thighs pressed into the backs of his own. He barely had the energy to speak, the question coming out without him barely even moving his mouth.
“I didn’t say we were done, Jax.” His hand came down hard, not like a slap but like a pin, a heavy pressure at the base of his back keeping him from crawling away. He squirmed in response, a rabbit caught in a snare.
“No– please,” his hard dick rubbed against the blankets, a mix of friction and chafing. “‘S too much, I don’t want– it.” It was getting sort of hard to speak clearly without taking a break in between to breathe, to relieve the pressure.
The other hand– the one that had jerked him off earlier was now falling down, starting at his back and cascading to his backside. His thumb wandered, up and down in gentle circles before finding its way to his seam and pulling it to the side. The feeling of his cheeks separating from their normal place to expose his ass– not knowing what was even next had him throwing his face down to hide, to muffle his whining.
“Just be good for me.”
The fabric had his face growing even hotter, the sounds of his own guttural noises reverberating back at him. The hand that was pinning him obviously saw no use in it anymore– because he was so submissive, so good at burying his head in the sand– and took hold of the other side, spreading him apart completely. He pressed down so hard he would’ve sunk into the bed if it were any less firm, licks of humiliation finding him to remind him where he was.
He clenched his fists hard– then, Kinger started talking again, just as attentive as he always was, “there you go. Such a good listener.”
He moaned at just the words, and then the touch that followed had him lifting his grounded feet and going rigid. Kingers finger traced over his hole, a more than welcomed surprise as it woke up the nerves that had been starved of attention since they’d started. He massaged the skin, pulling it in teeny tiny circles, just taking his time.
Jax's face was still surrounded by complete, sweltering darkness, the lower half stiff as a board while his head and neck hung limp. The first finger slipped in, pushing through what little resistance Jax was giving with ease. He curled in on himself, replicating the tension all throughout his body.
There was no lube in the circus, but it really didn’t burn as much as fill him. Thank god– or, Caine for the cartoon physics of this place. The prep sort of felt like a formality, or maybe foreplay, or just Kinger being a tease. Whichever it was, he didn’t mind however long it lasted.
“Oh–!” the second finger joined in, hooking up and into him. His fingers were squishing into Jax’s insides, pulling them apart to make room for himself. His back arched, craving the sharp jolts that ran down his spine.
They started fucking him, the bottom of Kingers palm striking him just beneath his sacrum, adding an extra tickle of stimulation, reminding him that Kinger was inside and outside of him. They glided through him, easy and wanting, as he murmured sweet things to Jax that had him melting.
When Kinger pulled his hand away, retreating to marvel at Jax's ass, to knead at the skin he felt dizzy. He clenched and twitched around nothing, searching for anything to fill him up and fix the aching, “hurts…” he murmured but he wasn’t really sure if Kinger heard him or not, “no more…” it didn’t really matter he guessed, he was the one who got off on the freak shit.
“Be brave now,” and then that familiar sensation came of something much larger lining up and prodding, “just lay there and take it.”
He pushed forward gently, puckering Jax’s hole like he could turn him inside out like a sock puppet. When the head popped in, Jax felt like his whole body had been opened up around Kinger, no longer one piece of himself at all. He threw his head back and with a smoothness he’d never seen from Kinger, he caught him by the jaw and pulled him up.
He kept pushing, even as Jax’s legs shook, tunneling into him and stretching. The air felt so cold on his face, eyes rolling back as his whole body spasmed. Their thighs met, Kinger's hand was on his jaw and his dick was stuffed inside of him at the hilt, he could feel it twitch with the need to fuck him sensless. They stood like that for a while, Jax’s hands finding Kinger for purchase. One went low and grabbed towards his hip and the other grabbed his smooth, wooden neck.
His dick was more like a dildo than a human one, honestly. But he wasn’t even close to complaining. It was solid and smooth and heavy inside of him, taking up a generous amount of space and leaving him winded. When he started thrusting, tiny jerks of his hips, they were like heavy handed gut punches to his insides, stomach bouncing with each one.
His back arched even further when the trusts started picking up, staring at the ceiling in overstimulation, he really couldn’t handle any more than the solid color of it. His legs didn’t even feel real, like jello or maybe just a pile of dust, trembling to keep him up. He was pretty sure that Kingers hand spreading heat through his stomach just from where it was securing him was the only thing keeping him from face planting.
Useless noises were punched right out of him from the inside, and one could argue that it was less separate phrases and more so one long thing until he stopped to gulp and breathe. He pleaded as he stared up at the ceiling like a wanton, useless prayer, “oh– no, too much–”
In the spaces in between Kinger rubbed his stomach like soothing a sick child, pacifying his fabricated distress “you’re doing so good, you can take it.”
Jax shook his head, stomping a weak foot down, "I can't– I can’t–” he snivelled, he wasn’t even sure what he was arguing anymore, just expelling all of those terrible, gut wrenching words that plagued him, that had been fermenting for years inside of him.
“Yes you can,” he sighed out to him, not used to the physical strain, “look at how good you’re taking it for me.”
Jax dropped his head down and looked at his body, quaking and wrecking just by Kingers touch. His cock beaded precum and he could feel that he was still wet from the first time he came, greedily readying for a second time. The vision was spotted and dark around the edges but he got the point– he was putty.
His chest heaved, his face burned and he let out a throaty choke, “Daddy– god– no– why are you doing this to me? Stop!”
Kinger paused for what must’ve been a millisecond, a fear of ruining the scene and an even larger one of if the man beneath him had the capacity anymore to want this. Jax couldn’t see it on his face, a fact he was unconsciously relieved of.
“You know my name, lovebug.”
He swallowed, nodding his head. He knew Kingers name– just with one simple word the thing he asked for could be over. Kinger was actively trying to please him and doing a damn good job at it too, “yeah…” he wheezed affirmatively, taking the opportunity to bask in the break.
That seemed good enough for Kinger, he nodded, patting Jax’s hip twice, “I knew you wanted it.”
He moaned, even though he would’ve knee’d anyone else in the balls for saying that if he had the chance. He folded like a wooden table, Kinger pressed impossibly close to him like he was planning on pushing him down to the floor. He could feel him breathing, expanding against his back and reminding him of his throbbing ass with his dick shoved inside of it.
Kinger let go of his jaw in favor of gripping onto both of his hips like nice, squishy handlebars. His upper half fell face-first into the cushy bed, hands failing to catch himself in time. His fingers dug in, wobbling with the force of Kinger fucking him again. This time was different, though, and a new coil formed, tighter than the last as Kinger started using Jax like a fleshlight.
He pulled Jax’s hips back and forth, yanking him up and down as Jax tried to find his bearings halfway on the bed. He felt so small like this, in the way only a person could be. Kingers dick didn’t go as deep or violent this way and yet it felt more intense by tenfold.
His cock was getting rubbed on the bed, his and Kinger's body weight aiding the spontaneous blanket-job. He convulsed, slamming his fist down repeatedly and wordlessly for purchase, almost screaming at the zaps that were making their way from the tips of his ears to his toes.
He wasn’t going to be able to walk for days, a fact that had him humping back onto Kinger with the very little strength that he had after a certain point. He lifted his head to babble pathetically at the man behind him doing the sort of favor he swore he would never, ever accept. The fall surprisingly didn’t leave him sore at all, at least not enough to notice when he was feeling what was probably the best he ever had in twenty two years.
“Oh– my– oh my god–” his voice fried in that low, throaty space, no room to breathe let alone support his speech. He immediately sensed the change in Kinger's pace, and for once he was excited about it– the precise blows, the little groans that leaked into his ears from behind him. He arched his back encouragingly.
“You’re so cute, love,” Kinger couldn’t resist being so kind to Jax, even while pounding him into oblivion, even while Jax was begging him to roleplay his messed up fantasies, “you’re so beautiful.”
His chest didn’t hurt because he was able to drown that part out amongst the rest of it, the dark and the blankets and punching in his stomach. He could at least pretend it was part of the role play because that was totally the sort of thing a dad would say to a son, a predator to prey, a rapist to their victim.
He cried out, begging with no clear purpose, a prayer to a god born in scared peoples heads. His legs flailed, before finding a spot to plant down aggressively, locked knees bending towards the corner of the bed. He was going to pass out– he was going to pass out and Kinger was going to keep fucking him like the filth that he was.
“I’m going to come inside of you, doll. I’m going to fill you up.”
He ditched the plan of what this even was, mostly forgetting amongst the desperation, “please– please–” he couldn’t get it out, nodding his head furiously and hoping to everything that Kinger got it. He seemed to understand the assignment, readjusting his grip impossibly tight.
Kinger rag dolled him around for a brief amount of time that felt not nearly long enough as he pulled Jax down as hard as he could, completely spearing him on his heavy prick. Even in his hazy state he could feel it twitch and then join the wetness inside of him, pumping him full. He lifted Jax just an inch, a small gap between his dick and the bed and now balancing on his toes, lopsided with only one hand keeping him up. The other one grabbed at his cock, giving it quick, intentional strokes.
It didn’t take much for him to spurt down onto the blanket below him, covering his mouth with his weightless feeling hand as he came with a shout. Kinger's cock was still pulsing inside of him, completely still like that was just where he belonged. He could swear his vision went spotted for a second, he would’ve even believed it if Kinger told him he passed out. Two orgasms in one night and somehow this one topped the last.
The only thing that kept him from landing in the pool of his own spend was Kinger scooching him to the side so he could land into something soft and dry. He couldn’t move even if he tried, trembling and completely untethered to gravity. His arms felt like balloons of helium and lead at the same time.
They both shivered with overstimulation as Kinger pulled out, his hole clenching like the skin was binded to him. An ache pulsed through him at the emptiness, like a hollow space had been scooped right out. The wetness cooled over him without the muggy feeling shared between them. But, Kingers hand kept its place at the base of Jax’s back, soothing the tremors and reminding him he was in fact on solid ground.
They both sighed recuperatively, taking a moment in the silence to bask in the afterglow.
“Are you okay?” Jax didn’t answer that, grumbling into the fabric tiredly. It was hard even moving his jaw, making noise, like using an exercised muscle.
“Jax?” he guessed he couldn’t opt out of this talk, either. He rolled himself over, back curving over the side of the bed. He stretched, fingers locking together and arms extending up over his head, long legs stretching towards Kinger on the ground. He smirked, disheveled.
“Wasn’t bad.” His brows jumped briefly above his half-lidded eyes, grin stretching. He looked Kinger up and down in all his glory, robe still on and opened down the middle.
Kinger seemed to notice the stare, sheepishly refastening it. “Good, good– I’m glad.”
It was funny, after all the daddy-dom crap, how quickly Kinger retreated into something so soft, so nervous for the approval of Jax, who was leaking his cum down his thigh. Jax snickered, “so, do I get a sticker for being such a good boy?” he teased, as if the praise hadn’t gotten him off with flying colors.
Kinger didn’t seem too butthurt by it, maybe a little flustered if anything– not as sexy now that their dicks were soft and the post-nut clarity was sinking in (he guessed it was best to leave orgasm-fog talk in the moment). Kinger blinked at him bashedly, “how about a shower?”
He clicked his tongue. They were both pretty gross and tired now, “sure thing.”
Kingers hand slotted into Jax’s, lifting him up off the bed with care that made the ache a little smaller. He wobbled, steadying himself on Kingers chest with his other hand.
“You might have to carry me.”