Jer and Bran
Dec. 7th, 2007 10:43 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
maculategiraffe"Kid," said Jer from the door of his bedroom as Bran passed on his way to his own bed. "Bran."
"Sir?" Yves still didn't want to be called sir, even now that Bran was actually supposed to serve him, but Jer hadn't objected yet to the honorific, and Bran figured it rarely hurt to err on the side of too much respect.
Jer jerked his head in a come here gesture, and Bran hurried, a little nervously, to obey. Since Holden had brought him home, Jer hadn't said much to him, though he'd fucked him a handful of times. But never alone. Bran had been called into service lately as a form of light recreation-- "better than a deck of cards," as Jer had put it-- over which Yves and Jer got to know each other better, and had been surprised to find himself greatly enjoying it; when Yves' gentle, inquisitive explorations of Bran's body grew too slow and soft to bear, Jer would push him aside and do things that were neither slow nor soft, wrenching sounds from Bran that made both of the older men laugh. And he didn’t mind that they talked over his head, especially when they were talking about Holden.
But being summoned so peremptorily by Jer alone was a little unnerving. Bran hadn't quite been able to shake the images evoked by Jer's talk of "hazing hell out of the new slaves" at Argounov's. Of course, this wasn't Argounov's, and Holden had made it clear that Jer and Yves weren't to take it upon themselves to mete out punishment to Bran. So Bran wasn't really scared as he stood before Jer. Not really.
"Don't look so scared," said Jer, touching Bran's cheek with unexpected gentleness. "I want you tonight, that's all."
"Yes, sir," Bran murmured, grateful for the reassurance, though he wasn't sure how he felt about a night alone with Jer. Not that he really had a choice. Not one that didn't involve bothering his master and annoying Jer for no good reason.
"Come on in," Jer said. "Get your clothes off."
He closed the door as Bran obeyed, then took Bran by the upper arm, not particularly gently but not roughly either, and pulled him towards the bed.
"On your knees," he said briskly as he sat down on the edge of the bed and started to pull his own tunic over his head. Bran knelt, looking up curiously into Jer's face; he wished he knew the other man well enough to know whether his abrupt manner was because he was in a bad mood, because he disliked Bran, or just because that was how he was.
"What?" Jer asked as he dropped his tunic to the floor.
"Nothing, sir," said Bran, lowering his eyes to Jer's already half-erect cock, and wondering if Jer would prefer him to be passive or eager. Passive, he decided; not only was it a good default state when you didn't know, but Jer sometimes got unpredictably irritated. Just a couple of days before, when Bran had been kissing Jer's neck, he'd been shoved roughly away as Jer snapped, "Leave that shit to the professionals, kid." Bran had been badly startled, but Yves had pulled him close with a mild, "Hey, play nice" over his head at Jer, and Jer, after rolling his eyes, had patted Bran semi-apologetically; things had seemed all right after that. He just wished he knew how to defuse the situation by himself if Jer did get angry at him.
"Go on, suck it," Jer said matter-of-factly.
Oh, good. When the order was that clear and simple, and the task one Bran had performed so many times and for so many men, it was much harder to displease. Though, he reminded himself as the head of Jer's cock pressed against the back of his throat, not impossible.
But if the sounds Jer was making, and the rigidity of his cock, the veins standing out in relief against Bran's tongue and the carefully tight, soft circle of his lips, were any indication, he didn't displease. Bran had always enjoyed sucking cock. Or at least, he thought, cupping Jer's balls gently in his hand and kneading them rhythmically as he managed to take the cock deeper, had greatly preferred it to being fucked. It was one of the more active things he was allowed to do-- something he could learn to do well, unlike most of the things Dunaev got pissed off at him for, like the look on his face-- and he could keep his eyes down.
Not to mention that the chance to slick a man's cock before he flipped Bran over had been extremely welcome in the days before he was confident of being lubricated any other way. He wondered idly whether Jer intended to finish this way or if this was just foreplay, and though he was in no hurry to find out, it seemed like no time before Jer said hoarsely, "Stop. Get up. Get on the bed."
Bran obeyed immediately, his motions automatically fluid and graceful as he laid himself face down on the bed and spread his legs wide, wondering whether Jer would bother to use lubricant and prepare Bran first. If he didn't, Bran thought Jer's cock was still slick enough from the sucking that Bran wouldn't get hurt, especially as well used as he'd been lately. He was wrong; Jer did get the lubricant, slid a well-oiled finger inside him, and Bran, to his own dismay, stifled a gasp of pain.
Hell. He'd gotten spoiled lately. Holden and Yves were so gentle, he'd come to trust them both so unthinkingly, that he'd forgotten how much penetration could hurt if you were scared. No, not scared. He wasn't scared. Nervous. Tense. He tried to breathe deeply as Jer added a second finger and Bran bit his lips to keep from crying out.
The fingers disappeared, and Bran braced himself, but nothing happened for a moment, and then a large hand grabbed his shoulder-- Bran flinched harder than he should have-- and yanked him over on his back. Looking down at him, Jer said quietly, "What's wrong?"
"Nothing, sir," said Bran. The older slave's brow was furrowed, but he didn't look angry. Yet. "I'm fine."
"Bullshit," said Jer. "Did I hurt you?"
"No, sir," said Bran automatically, and then, at Jer's raised eyebrow, "I mean-- not much." Why hadn't he had the sense to feign enthusiasm? It probably would have been over quickly enough. "It doesn't matter."
"Yeah it does, kid,” said Jer dryly. “If I hurt you, Hol-- the master will have my hide. And I wouldn't want to hurt you, anyway. What’s wrong? Did I go too fast?"
"No, sir. Just--" Bran bit his lip again. "I'm sorry."
"You know," said Jer, looking down at Bran thoughtfully, "I can see why you pissed your old master off so bad."
Well, that was definitely the worst news Bran had heard all week. "S-sir?"
"Don't go all white and stuttery on me," said Jer. "I'm not mad at you, and even if I were, I'm not allowed to hurt you, so settle down. I'm just saying. You don't know how to--" He paused for a moment, then lay down on the bed next to Bran, pressing up against him; Bran lay perfectly still, wondering what was going on. "I can't do it the way you can, but I can do it-- without meaning it." He was moving against Bran, his body fluid and yielding, sensuously molding itself to the contours of Bran's body, and Bran realized he was demonstrating what he meant. "It's a trick. One of many."
He kissed Bran's neck seductively, then chuckled a little as he added, "But you can't do it-- if you don't mean it. You--" His body grew suddenly rigid against Bran's. "If you did this when he touched you-- your master-- well. You might as well do like Holden did to Argounov. Scream and curse. 'Don't fucking touch me.' Just because you aren't screaming it out loud doesn't mean you're not screaming it."
"I don't mean to," said Bran in a small voice.
Jer sat up abruptly and patted Bran awkwardly on the stomach. "I know, kid. It's not your fault. It's not even-- bad. You get me? You shouldn't have to-- fake that. Nobody should."
Bran watched the older man's face, puzzled but relieved when Jer smiled at him and said in a gentler tone, "And I've seen you when he touches you. You fucking melt. Never seen anything so--"
Bran looked up shyly, but after hesitating Jer just said, "So. What do you need?"
"Sir?"
"I want to fuck you," Jer explained patiently, "and I don't want it to hurt. So what do you need me to do?"
Bran bit his lip again. Yves had commented before, amused, on Jer's disinclination for foreplay, and Jer had agreed, laughing: "Not when I'm on top. Give me the main event." Bran wanted to reassure Jer that he didn't need foreplay, that whatever Jer wanted to do with him was fine-- but he'd tried that tack already, and he obviously wouldn't be able to please Jer by just enduring, any more than he'd ever been able to please Dunaev. Except Dunaev hadn't ever asked him what he "needed."
He ventured softly, "If you could just-- touch me? Sort of-- pet me--?"
"Like this?" Jer touched his cheek again, then his hair, then rubbed a hand down his chest. "Okay. You like that, huh? What else?"
Bran smiled a little as Jer continued to stroke him. "I like-- uh, when you-- talk to me."
"About what?"
"Um," said Bran, blushing a little, "well, it's nice if you-- say nice things to me."
Jer grinned at that. "Nice things, huh? Sure. You're a great little cocksucker."
"Thank you, sir." Bran stretched sensuously under Jer's touch; he always felt better, less nervous, when he was being caressed, and Jer's appreciative eyes on him made him bold enough to say, "What about-- how I look?"
"You don't know what you look like? There's a mirror in the bathroom."
Bran glanced up at Jer uncertainly. "I don't know what you think I look like."
"You think there's something wrong with my eyesight? I'm not that old."
Bran put his head on one side, examining Jer's poker face, which unnerved him less now that Jer was gently stroking his chest and stomach. "You know what I mean."
"Sure," said Jer coolly. "You want me to say you're pretty. All eighteen-year-olds are pretty, kiddo. Check back with me in twenty years."
Bran smiled a little, lifted his head and looked Jer up and down. "You're still pretty."
Jer laughed shortly.
"You are." Bran reached out tentatively to touch Jer's caressing hand. "And you're not old. You're the same age as-- the master."
"And he's the perfect man, right?" Jer's hand trailed lightly along Bran's thigh, and Bran realized with surprise that he was getting hard. "So I'm the perfect age."
"Yes," said Bran frankly.
"You crack me up, kid," said Jer, kneading the flesh of Bran's inner thigh. "Okay, so you're pretty. You ready to get fucked now? Or you need me to kiss you all sweet and tender-like first?"
He was almost smiling now, and Bran dared to say, "I like when you kiss me."
"Yeah?" Jer straddled him and leaned down, his mouth hard against Bran's, forcing Bran's lips apart with his tongue. Bran's cock was hardening against Jer's groin, and Jer shifted his weight enough to create some friction; Bran moaned softly into his mouth, and Jer made a small, muffled sound of surprise and pleasure.
When Jer broke the kiss, he reached down towards Bran's cock and wrapped his fingers around it again, and Bran pushed eagerly against him; Jer growled, deep in his throat, and rolled Bran back onto his stomach. Bran shifted unobtrusively against the mattress, trying to regain some friction against his cock, while a thick finger probed again, more carefully than before, at his opening, exploring, and then slid slowly, painlessly in.
"That hurt?" he asked.
"No, sir--" Bran caught his breath again as the second finger slipped inside him, "thank-- oh--"
"You make pretty noises, that's for sure," said Jer, his fingers pressing and stroking inside Bran at just the right spot; Bran's hips lifted involuntarily, inviting more. "Gonna moan like that for my cock, boy?"
"Yes-- yes-- please--" He writhed, impaled on the stroking fingers. "Tell me-- say you want me--"
"Wouldn't take you if I didn't want you." Jer's fingers were gone again, and then his cock was pressing up against him, hard and slick and hot. "Ready now? Bran?"
"Jer--"
"Fuck!" Jer groaned as he slid inside, and Bran pushed back against him eagerly. "Say my name again–"
"Jer, oh, gods, yes--"
When Jer had spent inside him with a short, sharp cry and pulled away, Bran lay still until a hand again grasped his shoulder and pulled him over on his back. He lay looking up into Jer’s steady gray eyes, trembling a little.
“You okay?” Jer asked seriously, and at Bran's sudden, broad grin, "Heh. Good." He leaned down then, to Bran's surprise, and kissed him softly on the forehead. "That was good."
"Should I–” Bran hesitated, wondering if that had been a dismissal. He didn’t think he would mind spending the night in Jer’s bed, if Jer wanted him, but he didn't want to presume. “Should I go back to my own room?"
Jer shrugged. "If you want."
Bran smiled again. "Not unless you do."
"Then stick around," said Jer casually. "Here, let's--" He tugged at the covers impatiently and then, in another unexpectedly sweet gesture, tucked Bran in before switching out the light and lying back himself. He didn't seem inclined to pull Bran into his arms the way Holden did, and Bran wasn't nearly comfortable enough to take the initiative; he lay back instead, feeling pleasantly well fucked and tired, and thinking about some things Jer had said.
After a while he said quietly, "Jer?"
"Hm."
"You know when you yelled at me for kissing your neck? That time with Yves?"
Jer made another noncommittal sound, then said, "Sorry. If I scared you."
"It's okay. I was just wondering if it was because of, well, what you were saying? About--" Bran hesitated. "Tricks. When you kissed me on the neck just now-- talking about touching being a-- trick. Is that what you thought? Because I didn't mean it like that."
"No, you didn't, did you?" said Jer after a pause. "You're so fucking young. And now you've got him, you're safe, too. You can kiss people just because you like the taste."
"I like how you taste," Bran agreed, and Jer snorted. There was another pause, so long Bran thought Jer had fallen asleep, before he said, "I told you before, Bran. I never meant to get this fucked up. It just worked out that way."
"I don't think you're fucked up," Bran protested.
"What the fuck do you think you know about it?" Jer turned over restlessly. "He calls you a good boy. You're a nice enough kid, but you're a goddamn runaway. I was a good boy. I was so-- and now I can't even feel him when he touches me. I'm too busy thinking about my technique. And he knows, he knows, but even he doesn't understand. 'Jer, you know that isn't what I want from you.' What else does he think I have?"
"Jer," said Bran softly, "I didn't know you when you were--" Bran hesitated, wondering what to say. Young? Innocent? Romantic? Yourself? "But he did. So he must know what it's done to you. And--" He swallowed. "He loves you-- so much."
There was another silence.
"Yeah," Jer said. "Yeah, he does."
He didn't speak again, and though Bran had a lot to think about, as the sound of Jer's breathing grew regular and deep, it lulled Bran slowly into a dreamless sleep.
Charles and Jim
"Sir?" Yves still didn't want to be called sir, even now that Bran was actually supposed to serve him, but Jer hadn't objected yet to the honorific, and Bran figured it rarely hurt to err on the side of too much respect.
Jer jerked his head in a come here gesture, and Bran hurried, a little nervously, to obey. Since Holden had brought him home, Jer hadn't said much to him, though he'd fucked him a handful of times. But never alone. Bran had been called into service lately as a form of light recreation-- "better than a deck of cards," as Jer had put it-- over which Yves and Jer got to know each other better, and had been surprised to find himself greatly enjoying it; when Yves' gentle, inquisitive explorations of Bran's body grew too slow and soft to bear, Jer would push him aside and do things that were neither slow nor soft, wrenching sounds from Bran that made both of the older men laugh. And he didn’t mind that they talked over his head, especially when they were talking about Holden.
But being summoned so peremptorily by Jer alone was a little unnerving. Bran hadn't quite been able to shake the images evoked by Jer's talk of "hazing hell out of the new slaves" at Argounov's. Of course, this wasn't Argounov's, and Holden had made it clear that Jer and Yves weren't to take it upon themselves to mete out punishment to Bran. So Bran wasn't really scared as he stood before Jer. Not really.
"Don't look so scared," said Jer, touching Bran's cheek with unexpected gentleness. "I want you tonight, that's all."
"Yes, sir," Bran murmured, grateful for the reassurance, though he wasn't sure how he felt about a night alone with Jer. Not that he really had a choice. Not one that didn't involve bothering his master and annoying Jer for no good reason.
"Come on in," Jer said. "Get your clothes off."
He closed the door as Bran obeyed, then took Bran by the upper arm, not particularly gently but not roughly either, and pulled him towards the bed.
"On your knees," he said briskly as he sat down on the edge of the bed and started to pull his own tunic over his head. Bran knelt, looking up curiously into Jer's face; he wished he knew the other man well enough to know whether his abrupt manner was because he was in a bad mood, because he disliked Bran, or just because that was how he was.
"What?" Jer asked as he dropped his tunic to the floor.
"Nothing, sir," said Bran, lowering his eyes to Jer's already half-erect cock, and wondering if Jer would prefer him to be passive or eager. Passive, he decided; not only was it a good default state when you didn't know, but Jer sometimes got unpredictably irritated. Just a couple of days before, when Bran had been kissing Jer's neck, he'd been shoved roughly away as Jer snapped, "Leave that shit to the professionals, kid." Bran had been badly startled, but Yves had pulled him close with a mild, "Hey, play nice" over his head at Jer, and Jer, after rolling his eyes, had patted Bran semi-apologetically; things had seemed all right after that. He just wished he knew how to defuse the situation by himself if Jer did get angry at him.
"Go on, suck it," Jer said matter-of-factly.
Oh, good. When the order was that clear and simple, and the task one Bran had performed so many times and for so many men, it was much harder to displease. Though, he reminded himself as the head of Jer's cock pressed against the back of his throat, not impossible.
But if the sounds Jer was making, and the rigidity of his cock, the veins standing out in relief against Bran's tongue and the carefully tight, soft circle of his lips, were any indication, he didn't displease. Bran had always enjoyed sucking cock. Or at least, he thought, cupping Jer's balls gently in his hand and kneading them rhythmically as he managed to take the cock deeper, had greatly preferred it to being fucked. It was one of the more active things he was allowed to do-- something he could learn to do well, unlike most of the things Dunaev got pissed off at him for, like the look on his face-- and he could keep his eyes down.
Not to mention that the chance to slick a man's cock before he flipped Bran over had been extremely welcome in the days before he was confident of being lubricated any other way. He wondered idly whether Jer intended to finish this way or if this was just foreplay, and though he was in no hurry to find out, it seemed like no time before Jer said hoarsely, "Stop. Get up. Get on the bed."
Bran obeyed immediately, his motions automatically fluid and graceful as he laid himself face down on the bed and spread his legs wide, wondering whether Jer would bother to use lubricant and prepare Bran first. If he didn't, Bran thought Jer's cock was still slick enough from the sucking that Bran wouldn't get hurt, especially as well used as he'd been lately. He was wrong; Jer did get the lubricant, slid a well-oiled finger inside him, and Bran, to his own dismay, stifled a gasp of pain.
Hell. He'd gotten spoiled lately. Holden and Yves were so gentle, he'd come to trust them both so unthinkingly, that he'd forgotten how much penetration could hurt if you were scared. No, not scared. He wasn't scared. Nervous. Tense. He tried to breathe deeply as Jer added a second finger and Bran bit his lips to keep from crying out.
The fingers disappeared, and Bran braced himself, but nothing happened for a moment, and then a large hand grabbed his shoulder-- Bran flinched harder than he should have-- and yanked him over on his back. Looking down at him, Jer said quietly, "What's wrong?"
"Nothing, sir," said Bran. The older slave's brow was furrowed, but he didn't look angry. Yet. "I'm fine."
"Bullshit," said Jer. "Did I hurt you?"
"No, sir," said Bran automatically, and then, at Jer's raised eyebrow, "I mean-- not much." Why hadn't he had the sense to feign enthusiasm? It probably would have been over quickly enough. "It doesn't matter."
"Yeah it does, kid,” said Jer dryly. “If I hurt you, Hol-- the master will have my hide. And I wouldn't want to hurt you, anyway. What’s wrong? Did I go too fast?"
"No, sir. Just--" Bran bit his lip again. "I'm sorry."
"You know," said Jer, looking down at Bran thoughtfully, "I can see why you pissed your old master off so bad."
Well, that was definitely the worst news Bran had heard all week. "S-sir?"
"Don't go all white and stuttery on me," said Jer. "I'm not mad at you, and even if I were, I'm not allowed to hurt you, so settle down. I'm just saying. You don't know how to--" He paused for a moment, then lay down on the bed next to Bran, pressing up against him; Bran lay perfectly still, wondering what was going on. "I can't do it the way you can, but I can do it-- without meaning it." He was moving against Bran, his body fluid and yielding, sensuously molding itself to the contours of Bran's body, and Bran realized he was demonstrating what he meant. "It's a trick. One of many."
He kissed Bran's neck seductively, then chuckled a little as he added, "But you can't do it-- if you don't mean it. You--" His body grew suddenly rigid against Bran's. "If you did this when he touched you-- your master-- well. You might as well do like Holden did to Argounov. Scream and curse. 'Don't fucking touch me.' Just because you aren't screaming it out loud doesn't mean you're not screaming it."
"I don't mean to," said Bran in a small voice.
Jer sat up abruptly and patted Bran awkwardly on the stomach. "I know, kid. It's not your fault. It's not even-- bad. You get me? You shouldn't have to-- fake that. Nobody should."
Bran watched the older man's face, puzzled but relieved when Jer smiled at him and said in a gentler tone, "And I've seen you when he touches you. You fucking melt. Never seen anything so--"
Bran looked up shyly, but after hesitating Jer just said, "So. What do you need?"
"Sir?"
"I want to fuck you," Jer explained patiently, "and I don't want it to hurt. So what do you need me to do?"
Bran bit his lip again. Yves had commented before, amused, on Jer's disinclination for foreplay, and Jer had agreed, laughing: "Not when I'm on top. Give me the main event." Bran wanted to reassure Jer that he didn't need foreplay, that whatever Jer wanted to do with him was fine-- but he'd tried that tack already, and he obviously wouldn't be able to please Jer by just enduring, any more than he'd ever been able to please Dunaev. Except Dunaev hadn't ever asked him what he "needed."
He ventured softly, "If you could just-- touch me? Sort of-- pet me--?"
"Like this?" Jer touched his cheek again, then his hair, then rubbed a hand down his chest. "Okay. You like that, huh? What else?"
Bran smiled a little as Jer continued to stroke him. "I like-- uh, when you-- talk to me."
"About what?"
"Um," said Bran, blushing a little, "well, it's nice if you-- say nice things to me."
Jer grinned at that. "Nice things, huh? Sure. You're a great little cocksucker."
"Thank you, sir." Bran stretched sensuously under Jer's touch; he always felt better, less nervous, when he was being caressed, and Jer's appreciative eyes on him made him bold enough to say, "What about-- how I look?"
"You don't know what you look like? There's a mirror in the bathroom."
Bran glanced up at Jer uncertainly. "I don't know what you think I look like."
"You think there's something wrong with my eyesight? I'm not that old."
Bran put his head on one side, examining Jer's poker face, which unnerved him less now that Jer was gently stroking his chest and stomach. "You know what I mean."
"Sure," said Jer coolly. "You want me to say you're pretty. All eighteen-year-olds are pretty, kiddo. Check back with me in twenty years."
Bran smiled a little, lifted his head and looked Jer up and down. "You're still pretty."
Jer laughed shortly.
"You are." Bran reached out tentatively to touch Jer's caressing hand. "And you're not old. You're the same age as-- the master."
"And he's the perfect man, right?" Jer's hand trailed lightly along Bran's thigh, and Bran realized with surprise that he was getting hard. "So I'm the perfect age."
"Yes," said Bran frankly.
"You crack me up, kid," said Jer, kneading the flesh of Bran's inner thigh. "Okay, so you're pretty. You ready to get fucked now? Or you need me to kiss you all sweet and tender-like first?"
He was almost smiling now, and Bran dared to say, "I like when you kiss me."
"Yeah?" Jer straddled him and leaned down, his mouth hard against Bran's, forcing Bran's lips apart with his tongue. Bran's cock was hardening against Jer's groin, and Jer shifted his weight enough to create some friction; Bran moaned softly into his mouth, and Jer made a small, muffled sound of surprise and pleasure.
When Jer broke the kiss, he reached down towards Bran's cock and wrapped his fingers around it again, and Bran pushed eagerly against him; Jer growled, deep in his throat, and rolled Bran back onto his stomach. Bran shifted unobtrusively against the mattress, trying to regain some friction against his cock, while a thick finger probed again, more carefully than before, at his opening, exploring, and then slid slowly, painlessly in.
"That hurt?" he asked.
"No, sir--" Bran caught his breath again as the second finger slipped inside him, "thank-- oh--"
"You make pretty noises, that's for sure," said Jer, his fingers pressing and stroking inside Bran at just the right spot; Bran's hips lifted involuntarily, inviting more. "Gonna moan like that for my cock, boy?"
"Yes-- yes-- please--" He writhed, impaled on the stroking fingers. "Tell me-- say you want me--"
"Wouldn't take you if I didn't want you." Jer's fingers were gone again, and then his cock was pressing up against him, hard and slick and hot. "Ready now? Bran?"
"Jer--"
"Fuck!" Jer groaned as he slid inside, and Bran pushed back against him eagerly. "Say my name again–"
"Jer, oh, gods, yes--"
When Jer had spent inside him with a short, sharp cry and pulled away, Bran lay still until a hand again grasped his shoulder and pulled him over on his back. He lay looking up into Jer’s steady gray eyes, trembling a little.
“You okay?” Jer asked seriously, and at Bran's sudden, broad grin, "Heh. Good." He leaned down then, to Bran's surprise, and kissed him softly on the forehead. "That was good."
"Should I–” Bran hesitated, wondering if that had been a dismissal. He didn’t think he would mind spending the night in Jer’s bed, if Jer wanted him, but he didn't want to presume. “Should I go back to my own room?"
Jer shrugged. "If you want."
Bran smiled again. "Not unless you do."
"Then stick around," said Jer casually. "Here, let's--" He tugged at the covers impatiently and then, in another unexpectedly sweet gesture, tucked Bran in before switching out the light and lying back himself. He didn't seem inclined to pull Bran into his arms the way Holden did, and Bran wasn't nearly comfortable enough to take the initiative; he lay back instead, feeling pleasantly well fucked and tired, and thinking about some things Jer had said.
After a while he said quietly, "Jer?"
"Hm."
"You know when you yelled at me for kissing your neck? That time with Yves?"
Jer made another noncommittal sound, then said, "Sorry. If I scared you."
"It's okay. I was just wondering if it was because of, well, what you were saying? About--" Bran hesitated. "Tricks. When you kissed me on the neck just now-- talking about touching being a-- trick. Is that what you thought? Because I didn't mean it like that."
"No, you didn't, did you?" said Jer after a pause. "You're so fucking young. And now you've got him, you're safe, too. You can kiss people just because you like the taste."
"I like how you taste," Bran agreed, and Jer snorted. There was another pause, so long Bran thought Jer had fallen asleep, before he said, "I told you before, Bran. I never meant to get this fucked up. It just worked out that way."
"I don't think you're fucked up," Bran protested.
"What the fuck do you think you know about it?" Jer turned over restlessly. "He calls you a good boy. You're a nice enough kid, but you're a goddamn runaway. I was a good boy. I was so-- and now I can't even feel him when he touches me. I'm too busy thinking about my technique. And he knows, he knows, but even he doesn't understand. 'Jer, you know that isn't what I want from you.' What else does he think I have?"
"Jer," said Bran softly, "I didn't know you when you were--" Bran hesitated, wondering what to say. Young? Innocent? Romantic? Yourself? "But he did. So he must know what it's done to you. And--" He swallowed. "He loves you-- so much."
There was another silence.
"Yeah," Jer said. "Yeah, he does."
He didn't speak again, and though Bran had a lot to think about, as the sound of Jer's breathing grew regular and deep, it lulled Bran slowly into a dreamless sleep.
Charles and Jim
