owlwing (owlwing) wrote,

Supernatural RPS AU Fic: A little sleep, a little slumber, a little folding of the hands to rest...

Title: A little sleep, a little slumber, a little folding of the hands to rest
Author: Owlwing
Fandom: Supernatural RPS AU
Characters: Jensen Ackles
Warning(s): Allusions to past and future non con and floggings, but none in the fic itself
Contains: Key fic (sex slavery), shaving
Notes: Originally written for Dreamwidth's Kink_bingo. Later parts, if they're written, will include Jensen/Jeff. Thank you, beta, thank you so very much. All mistakes mine.
Summary: Jensen steps through the doorway, trying to take in the room with a single glance before he folds to his knees.

Jensen steps through the doorway, trying to take in the room with a single glance before he folds to his knees: a narrow room, walls lined with shelves, a padded table, and a clothed man standing at the end of it. Jensen bows his head. The floor tiles are small and green, not mosaicked, just laid meticulously. He clasps his hands behind him, and the key charm rests cool against his wrist. He strains to hear anything.

“Obsidian Key,” the guard announces, turns and leaves. The silence is absolute for a moment. Jensen doesn’t know what any of this means, but it’s not the training halls, which means it’s a change, and here change is something to fear.

"Hello, Obsidian," the man says. That wasn't a question, so Jensen keeps his head down, piecing together that voice and the tiles. He remembers now: this was the attendant who had performed the waxing on the first day, back when having his pubic hair ripped out by the roots was the most painful and humiliating thing he'd ever experienced. Now, after the weeks of training, well... at least it would be a brief pain, and all they expected of him was to lie there.

"It's okay," the man says. He sounds like he's smiling. "There's less formality in the preparation rooms. You can look around, if you want."

It's another test. It's another test and he's going to fail it because he wants to look up. He wants to be able to match someone’s voice to their face, rather than their damn shoes, and he wants to look up and have this man smile in his direction so badly. He keeps his hands clasped tightly in the small of his back and raises his head, keeps his gaze fixed on the line of cupboards he can see through the angles of the table legs. He can see the guy, standing on the other side of the table and just for a moment he dares flick his gaze up to the man's face; the man is smiling, his eyes crinkling at the edges.

"That's the way," the man says softly, and it feels more like praise than anything the trainers had ever said.

Jensen drops his gaze to the floor, tries to find the words, any words. "Sir..." he breathes, like a test of his own.

"You may speak here," the man says. "I won't tell anyone."

And that’s a step removed from being allowed to speak, but Jensen gives into the temptation and wets his lips, goes for it.

"Sir, does – have I passed?"

Maybe asking means he's failed. Maybe this was the last test, after all. A sick wave of anxiety washes over him.

"Yes," the man says. "Congratulations or commiserations, whichever apply."

The world tilts and Jensen squeezes his eyes closed, trying not to fall with it. He sways out of position, back onto his ankles as all his air leaves him in a silent whoosh of relief. It takes him far too long to struggle back into pose and return his gaze to the floor.

“It’s not your debt you’re working off, is it?” the man asks.

Jensen had promised, to himself if not to Leanne, that he would never tell, that it didn’t matter about the why, only the getting though and the getting out. People knowing things about you was dangerous, here; the trainers had used information as skillfully as they’d used their tools. But this wasn’t a trainer, and this was the first time in weeks that someone had addressed him like he was a person, not a Key.

“I’m an older brother,” he says. Leanne’s face surfaces in his mind, and he resolutely pushes it down; he doesn’t want to expose her to this, even in his head.

“Ahh,” the guy says, a soft sympathetic sigh. “I’m sorry.”

Jensen chokes up, hard. It’s a stupid thing to lose it over, given everything, but his vision blurs, and he blinks once, twice hard, desperately trying to keep his breathing steady.

“I am Jasper,” the man says. “I’ll be attending to you during your time here.”

Outside the House, there would be shaking of hands, contact. Jensen never wants to be touched again. Within the walls, naked on the tiled floor, Jensen sits back on his heels and bows forward over his knees, grateful for the opportunity to hide his face for a moment.

“Sir,” he greets. Jasper is a name, one a mother might bestow on her son, but it’s also a stone, a title like Obsidian. The trainers have names and go home at the end of their day. He doesn’t know where the attendants fit.

Jensen holds the greeting bow until he’s sure he can come up with dry eyes, then he straightens, keeping his gaze lowered. He can hear Jasper moving around the room shifting things, tries to track the almost-silent shoes.

“Can you climb up here for me, lie on your side? Let’s see what they did to you.”

There’s an order in there somewhere, and Jensen clings to it. He unfolds and tries to mount the table as gracefully as he can. Jasper doesn’t have a flogger on his belt, but Jensen doesn’t know what sort of pain Jasper is authorized to inflict. There are a lot of different bottles and jars on those shelves.

“Are you hurting? Injured anywhere?”

“No, sir.” It’s been several days since his last punishment - the welts are memories, faint aches against his back and legs.

Jasper runs his hands over Jensen's body, over aching muscles and fading bruises. Jensen has been touched every day for too many weeks, but this warm, firm stroking is the first that hasn't been an effort of endurance.

“You’ve come through well,” Jasper murmurs. His hands are skimming over Jensen’s legs, assessing the fine hairs that have grown back.

"Too short for another wax," he pronounces softly, and moves away. Jensen allows himself the luxury of a silent sigh of relief, trying to let go of some of the aching tension in his muscles. Then Jasper rolls the trolley into view, and Jensen’s muscles lock, his breath freezing in his throat; along with a pile of towels, a bowl and a jar, there is a straight razor. The blade glints under the downlights.

He's not allowed to scar me, Jensen tries to tell himself. It's not helping.

"It's all right," Jasper says quietly. "I'm not going to cut you, just shave you. I've been doing this for a long time -- no nicks, if we do it right. Would you help me?"

Jensen nods, wordlessly. He'd add a “yes sir”, but his throat is too dry to speak.

“Thank you,” Jasper says. “Want me to do the back or the front of you, first?”

Jensen wonders if it’s a trick question, but this is no trainer, and there’s no flogger, so he pauses a moment to actually consider it. “Back, sir,” he says; if Jasper did decide to cut him... always better not to watch, if he had the choice.

He rolls over onto his stomach, settles his forehead on his forearms.

“This might be a little warm...” Jasper says, and then something shockingly hot is laid over Jensen’s calves. “Too much?” Jasper asks.

It almost is. Jensen bites his lip, tries not to think of fire or blistering skin, and gradually it eases into something he can register as damp as well as hot. One of the towels, he guesses. The temperature is settling into something pleasant when Jasper removes it, and starts fussing with the things on the trolley. Jensen breathes deeply and does not tense, does not tense.

Jasper touches Jensen's ankle, and it's only the weeks of training that keep him from flinching.

Jasper smooths something cold over his calf, Jensen has a moment of sympathy for his leg hair, trapped in the layer shaving gel.

Far too soon, Jasper is murmuring: “here we go,” and before Jensen has time to be properly afraid or prepare for pain, there is something sharp scraping over the surface of his skin, near his ankle. It’s not like Jensen had been moving before, but this is a whole new level of still. He can visualize the blade all too clearly: it’s pressing slightly into his skin, like a threatening kiss. Jasper might not want to cut him, but what if Jensen flinches? He can see his flesh give under the blade, the red well up -- Jensen holds his leg as still as he can, and flinches anyway when Jasper gently presses on the sole of his foot, rotating his ankle.

“It’s okay,” Jasper says. The blade scrapes along Jensen’s calf, rasping against his skin up towards the suddenly vulnerable back of his knee. “Just breathe for me.”

Jensen tries. The blade sweeps up the gel, taking his hair with it and leaving behind a feeling of being too cold, too exposed, but it’s not as overwhelming as the constant sharp pains of the waxing. Jasper is wiping the gel of Jensen’s calf, the soft towel almost pleasant against his newly exposed skin and Jensen lets himself breathe just a little deeper: he can endure this.

“Sorry, this’ll sting for a second...” Jasper says.

He presses damp hands against Jensen’s calf, and dammit, that does sting. Jensen squeezes his eyes closed for a moment because there’s no-one to see and chastise his wince. Jasper’s hands are still on his leg, moving now as the pain abates, massaging his calf; Jensen hadn't had any idea how tense he'd been until he wasn't.

Jasper does the other calf, then the backs of his thighs. The blade still feels frighteningly sharp, but the only stinging is the strong-smelling astringent after, and Jasper soothes that away with a warm touch, gently working the muscles into release. His legs almost ache with the release of tension. Jasper is touching the back of his thigh, coaxing his legs apart and Jensen obeys instinctively, his brain only catching up as Jasper murmurs: “It’s okay...” and a hot towel is pressing between his buttocks. Residual fear seeps into Jensen’s body, tightening his chest. “It’s okay,” Jasper repeats softly as he removes the towel and parts Jensen’s buttocks to spread the gel.

The trainers had drilled the flinch out of him, but nothing was going to stop that flutter of fear in his stomach, the attempt to brace for whatever might be coming next. Jasper’s hands leave him, and then return with the razor. It presses into his skin slightly, dragging through the gel. It scrapes over his anus, lightly, and it doesn't hurt, but the shudder that wracks his body is entirely involuntary.

“Just relax...” Jasper says. “Take a deep breath for me, and let it out slow.”

That’s an order so Jensen forces himself to obey: once, twice, three times, even if it shifts his body on the inhale and again on the exhale, even as Jasper keeps up the tiny scraping motions. Then the blade is mercifully gone, and Jasper’s rubbing his hands together, warming the astringent.

“Take another one,” Jasper says gently. “And hold it for a bit.” He presses his hands between Jensen’s buttocks and Christ. Jensen bites his lips together to trap the hiss of pain. This is nothing compared to the weeks of training, but the sensation of being overwhelmed is like a bubble in his chest, pressing against his ribs, trying to escape out his throat.

“Good,” Jasper murmurs, draping a towel over Jensen’s lower back. “You’re doing really well, Obsidian.”

The bubble bursts: “Don’t, please don’t call --" He cuts himself off, but it’s too late; he’s spoken against something, he who is supposed to be a nothing, a vessel for whatever is asked of him. He drags in a breath, forces steadiness where there is none.

“I am Obsidian.” he recites, and hopes, prays, that that’s enough.

Jasper has removed the towel, is smoothing gel over Jensen’s back. “You are,” Jasper agrees as he shaves. Jensen fights to breathe through his fear -- he cannot bear the thought of being punished here, in the quiet, by this gentle smiling man. The massage is no longer unlocking his muscles. “You are Obsidian,” Jasper repeats. He’s pressing the heels of his hands along Jensen’s spine.

“Yes, sir,” Jensen says immediately, gratefully.

“I am Jasper,” Jasper says. He sweeps his hands up Jensen’s back, even though he hasn’t shaved anything on Jensen’s shoulders. He’s leaning in closer when he murmurs: “But those aren’t our names.”

Jensen stops breathing. He has not been trained for this, does not know how to respond to such a statement. He stays quiet, frozen in place as Jasper straightens up and steps away to lay something over the end of the table.

“Roll over for me,” Jasper says, as if nothing had happened. Jensen does, awkward on the narrow table, and keeps his gaze on the ceiling, feeling far more exposed in that moment than he has since entering the room.

Jasper lays more towels over his shins.

“What shall I call you?” Jasper asks, like he was commenting on the weather, like the asking would somehow not get both of them into terrible trouble if anyone found out.

There should be no answer but Obsidian and Yes, Sir and Whatever you wish --

“Jensen,” Jensen whispers, and he cannot stop himself from looking; Jasper is looking at him, and a smile lights Jasper’s face, warm and delighted. He removes the towel, folds it neatly on the trolley, and holds out his hand. For a moment, Jensen has no idea what that means.

“Hello, Jensen. My name is Anthony. It’s an honor to meet you.”

Some part of his body remembers what to do; Jensen reaches out, wonderingly, and shakes Anthony’s hand, like they're at a business meeting, or strangers meeting in the street or anywhere but here. Anthony's grip is firm, his hand damp from the towels. The key charm hangs between both of them; a tiny black symbol on its black bracelet, tight around Jensen's wrist.

"Wish it could have been under better circumstances," Jensen says, tearing his eyes away from it, trying to smile in return. Anthony laughs softly.

"Me too," he says. He returns to work, smoothing cool gel over Jensen's shin with his palms. There’s a folded blanket at the foot of the table now, but before Jensen can fully long to be hidden under it, Anthony raises the blade again, and Jensen is unwillingly entranced by the sight of it and Anthony's precise, careful movements. He leans over Jensen’s leg, gently restraining Jensen’s foot with one hand, the other working the razor in careful, methodical strokes.

"Names are important here," Anthony says as he works. "Not something to be used lightly, Obsidian."

"Yes, sir," Jensen says. He takes the name Anthony and buries it away in the same small box in his mind where he's storing Leanne's grin and Charlie's giggle; memories and secrets to keep him going.

Jasper he thinks instead, studying the other man, imprinting the name for when others are within hearing. Jasper, Jasper, Jasper.

When Jensen's shins are done, Jasper lifts an edge of the blanket and pulls a fold of it up to Jensen's knees in the same precise, ritualised way he's done everything. The sensation of being covered makes Jensen's breath hitch in his throat.

"Too hot?" Jasper asks, but there's a tiny twitch of a smile in his voice.

"No, sir," Jensen says immediately. Then, softer, "Thank you."

Jasper squeezes Jensen's knee in silent acknowledgement. The towel he drapes over Jensen’s thighs is almost as good as the blanket. He lets his eyes drift half closed, coasting on the quiet, on Jasper’s soft murmurs and the rhythm of the hot, cold, warm. The soft sigh of pleasure that escapes Jensen’s lips is Not permitted without permission, a trainer’s voice growls in his head, but even that is far away; they cannot touch him here.

Jasper only pulls the blanket half way up Jensen's thighs when he's done, and the realisation is enough to rouse him sharply. Weeks of training have banished the heat from his face, but fear still prickles hot sweat across his scalp. The urge to grab the edge of the blanket and haul it up, wrap himself in it and never come out, to suffocate himself in it, is intense. He clenches his fists at his sides, counts his breath in, his breath out.

"May I?" Jasper asks, holding up a smaller towel. It's a pointless question, a pretence at decency where there can be none, but Jensen still feels a little better when he nods, slightly less out of control as Jasper gently wraps the towel around his genitals. The last thing Jensen feels like doing is spreading his legs, but he lets Jasper coax his thighs apart and stares up at the ceiling while Jasper applies the gel.

“Just take slow, regular breaths with me, okay?” Jasper says. Jensen nods, not taking his eyes off the ceiling. The hot sweat prickle is spreading to his armpits, tingling over his skin.

The ceiling is plastered with deliberately decorative scrapes of a trowel. Jensen wonders at that, focuses on it while Jasper, with remarkable decorum, gently pulls the skin of Jensen's scrotum tight and starts to shave. He traces the sweep of the plaster with his eyes while Jasper makes tiny, tiny rasping sweeps with the blade. Jensen can't help squeezing his eyes closed at the sting of the astringent, but then Jasper pulls the blanket up over Jensen's hips, and the sweet privacy is worth any lingering pain.

"Well done," Jasper murmurs. "That's usually the worst of it." He wipes the razor on a towel. "Unless you're more protective of your throat than your balls? Some guys are."

"Only some?" Jensen asks as Jasper drapes a fresh towel over his chest.

Jasper grins. "You'd be surprised." And that's a luxury, too, sharing a tiny, tiny joke with another person. The intimacy is a heady feeling. It can't have been that long since he'd been sharing that with Leanne, but it feels like an age.

"What -- " is out of his mouth before he remembers, before training and fear can kick in. They do, with a vengeance, and Jensen's heart pounds, suddenly painful against his ribs. Jasper murmurs softly, reassuringly, as he shaves Jensen's chest, but Jensen is Obsidian: he is not supposed to need reassurance, or to ask anything, or speak out of turn or ... Jasper works on in silence, down each of Jensen's arms, before Jensen can get up the courage to break the rules. "May I ask a question, sir?"

"You may." Jasper is concentrating on wiping Jensen's left forearm.

"What's the date?"

"It's the ninth of May," Jasper says promptly.

God, May already. It rattles him slightly, but then there are more important things to concentrate on, like giving Jasper the stillest, most compliant surface to work on as he shaves Jensen's throat.

"It's a Friday," Jasper continues, when he's onto the comparative safety of Jensen's face, daubing gel along Jensen’s jaw line. "A little past ten in the morning. Day shift went on at 6am, and clocks off at 6pm, when evening shift kicks in."

"My shift," Jensen says, and the fear sweeps over him, a wave of nausea from his stomach.

"Hours away yet," Jasper says, "and we'll be here to help you through it."

Jensen closes his eyes, fighting to take a deep breath. Jasper is behind him and there are warm fingers, light on Jensen’s chin, turning his head gently to the side. The blade scrapes up Jensen’s cheek, pulling at the skin a little, rasping over the hint of stubble, but Jensen focuses on the warm hand cupping the side of his face. He dares to press his face into Jasper's palm.

Jensen hasn’t cried in days, not even alone, sleepless in his cell, but here in the quiet warmth, with Jasper's thumb gently stroking his temple, a traitorous tear is starting to form under his right eyelid. He exhales, slow and steady, but the inhale betrays him in a hitching, shuddering breath.

Jasper's thumb is there, brushing away the tear as it escapes down towards Jensen's ear.

"It's all right," Jasper says, firmly and unequivocally, an order that goes to the center of Jensen's chest. "It's all right." It's not, but something in Jensen steadies, enough that has next breath is even, and the wall holding the flood back will hold for a little longer.

Jasper wipes Jensen's face clean, and pulls the blanket over his shoulders. The soft, heavy fabric makes Jensen's freshly smooth skin tingle, and he has to fight not to shift his arm and legs luxuriously against it. Right at that moment, Jensen is willing to do anything, to offer anything that might get him five minutes unmolested peace under its shield.

Jasper has turned away, seating himself on a stool and is tapping at the tablet on the counter top. He reads, scrolls, reads again. "Your chambers aren't going to be ready for another few hours," he says. "I could call the guard, and he could take you back to your cell if you wanted to try for some sleep in the meantime."

Jensen calculates fast: a little after ten meant the guard with the worn laces and the Texan accent would be the one taking him back to his cell. That would be ... bad, but he could sleep, after. Maybe.

"Or," Jasper has moved the tablet to one side and is organizing empty bottles on a tray. The bottles on the shelves, Jensen realizes once he starts to really look around the room, all bear hand-lettered labels, and what Jasper is unrolling in front of himself is a calligraphy set. "You could sleep here, if you promise not to disturb me." He glances up with a little smile and waves a hand at the calligraphy set. "I have work to do. The guards aren't allowed in here while I'm working."

Jensen's mouth is dry; he has to wet his lips before he can nod and say "Yes, sir. I'd like that."

Jasper inclines his head. He opens a cupboard by his legs and pulls out a pillow. "How's that?" he asks as Jensen tucks it under his head. It’s large and soft, cradling the back of his head, and the last of the tension lurking in Jensen’s neck ebbs away.

"Good, sir, thank you."

Jasper nods. "Good," then, quieter: "Sleep well, Jensen."

"Thank you, Anthony." The forbidden names hang in the air for a moment, and then Anthony (Jasper, Jasper, Jasper) turns back to his work, and Jensen allows himself to close his eyes. He's not sure he's going to be able to sleep, but somewhere between the gentle chink of glass bottles and the warm blanket, sleep creeps up and wraps itself around him from below.
Tags: fic, key_fic
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