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English
Series:
Part 2 of poly stuff
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Published:
2020-05-13
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1,628
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1/1
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took yours and made it mine.

Summary:

JJ doesn't mean to think about her when he does this, it just happens.

Notes:

I was just...Thinking.
Also, JJ is such a horny teenager especially for his friends as well as a confused bisexual, no projection ofc (I'm a liar too, JJ)
I hope you like this!

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

Despite his reputation and what JJ Maybank would want you to believe, he doesn't have as much sex as he advertises. 

After all, there are only so many women who are out and ought to fuck a sixteen-year-old boy, and sometimes... sometimes you just need the clarity to jerk it, okay? 

Laying down on the familiar gentleness of his hard bed, he has a task in mind that is less than holy but with the door locked and no God alive to look in on him, he feels alone. 

Alone, it is almost comedic how something that can make him feel so broken up can also provide so much freedom like this - maybe that's the problem, JJ has never been good with freedom. 

Maybe that's why he still loves his father. 

He tries to banish that thought away as he presses his hand to the gentle muscle of his pelvic bones, resting the hand there for a moment before pressing in. The pressure to the area sends precum leaking from his tip rapidly and he is surprised to find himself so into the weight there that he leans into it with a keening noise. 

He likes the pressure there, imagines her gentle hand pressing there as she touches him like this - he doesn't touch his dick yet, doesn't want to cum this fucking quickly, all because of thoughts of her. 

JJ doesn't mean to think about her when he does this, it just happens.

His mind seems content to conjure up the image of her straddling him and - oh fuck, he wraps a hand around himself, keeping the pressure with the other, unable to help himself - her gentle waist beneath his hands. 

Sometimes, she's gentle with him, and JJ Maybank would die before admitting that he wants her like this: wants her powerful and in charge, enlightened with her hair falling down her shoulders and looking down at him - it reminds him of the time they play-wrestled and he had let her pin him down but he had thought about it for weeks in situations like this and he had felt guilty every time. 

Sometimes, she's gentle with him. Sometimes, she reaches below her to touch him, cradling his cock in her gentle grasp and sinks down onto him so slowly that he thinks he might lose it but she's grounding and kind, and he is not his father, he would die before hurting her. Sometimes, she praises him like this and he cums into his own fist, sobbing. 

Sometimes, she's mean to him. This phantom, unreal version of Kiara who takes and takes and takes because he'd give everything for her, especially as she bounces in his lap with only her hair covering her. Sometimes, she chokes him in these fantasies - never hard, just enough to make him remember. Your life, you live and breathe by my control, the grip says but she never does. (Never would, in real life.) Sometimes, she's mean to him like this, talks about how he lays down on his back and takes it like a bitch, about how she would buy a dildo if all he's going to do is lay there, but whenever he tries to do something in those same fantasies, she keeps him pinned. 

Maybe it's a reference to love, he thinks somberly. 

And he - he knows it's fucked up, okay? He has to justify it to himself all the time. He thinks of excuse after excuse that pardons the way his brain overanalyzes and sexualizes things she does because it's not fair. They're all friends - fuck, more than that, family - and she doesn't deserve one of her friends hopelessly jerking it over her. She's a super cool girl and she's strong and powerful and she doesn't deserve to be some masturbation fodder for one of her best friends. 

But, his brain reminds him here, they aren't just sex fantasies, not when you think about the way your face had curled into the steady bone of her neck when you were crying or what she feels like in your arms, or imagine kissing her a little gently, cupping her face into your hands like she is protected - she is protected - before you kiss her, in a way that both John B. or Pope don't - 

They don't because they're real men, the self-loathing voice in his head mocks but his hand is still stroking himself. 

But also, the one-hundred-thousandth reason not to jerk off while thinking about Kiara, is that she is semi-dating (he thinks they're dating but his tongue turns to a bullet whenever he goes to ask) his other best friend, Pope. 

Is it really that bad? He wonders, acknowledging how often in moments like this he also thinks about Pope's broad dark hands on him. His hand, the pressure one, runs up carefully to thread through his hair and pull. 

He imagines Pope pulling his hair like this, eyes still gentle but tone hot when he asks, "You love when Kiara uses you like this, don't you?" and he tightens the hand around himself, imagines Kiara sinking down on him with a smile aimed at both of them, at herself, at the world - who knows? Everyone is so fucking taken with her anyways. 

Pope's hand switches to petting but his own hand stays gripped, iron-fist in the blond locks. Pope could never be so violent with him for so long. Anyways, that's a Maybanks' job - his or his father's. 

Her hands are gentle as she rides him, her hair barely covering her bouncing breasts and he wants to touch her there but it feels inappropriate, even as her hands climb up his torso to land tracing the dips of his collarbones, even as he masturbates thinking about his dating friends. 

Somedays, he can cum just thinking about her gentle hands, or Pope's, or anyone's but it's usually one of theirs.

He wonders if their hands would be gentle if they found out the way he thinks about them like this, wonders if they'd throw their heads back and groan his name in exhaustion, if they'd wince and be uncomfortable with him for a while. Wonders if it would make them mad, if they'd curl their loving hands into fists and beat the hell out of him for being so gross, so dirty, so fucked up. Sometimes he wonders if he'd beg them to. 

Sometimes he begs them to cum - or Kiara, or Pope. This is the first time he's thought about them together like this, usually his mind gives them separate fantasies. 

He can feel himself getting close and he had made sure to lock the door despite his dad being passed out on the couch, can feel himself on the edge and as it builds, so close, he murmurs, voice weaker than he's proud of, a whine, "Please, Kie, Pope, can I cum?" 

It builds and builds, the tension in his stomach running hot and he yanks his hair as an attempt to push himself over the edge but it doesn't happen. 

His phone starts to ring. 

Oh fuck. Oh fuck. 

He grabs it from next to himself on his bed and without thinking about a logical excuse, answers it, "Hello?" 

"Hey, JJ," and he should have checked the fucking caller ID because of course, it's Kiara, of course she would call him now. Maybe her ears were burning. "...You okay?" 

His heart ticks in his chest - bomb, he's a boy who wears a bomb where his heart should be. Ticking time bomb. - and he tries to stop panting but it's hot where he is and his whole body feels suffocating, "Yeah." He lies - always a liar, no-good JJ Maybank. "Just...fell asleep." 

If she guesses what he was doing - probably not the whole thing anyways - then she doesn't let it show in her voice. 

"Oh sorry," never apologize for yourself, for me, for this, "Pope and I were just around and wondered if you wanted to hang out." 

He stops cold for a second, considering that over like Kooks who run expensive wines that JJ would gladly chug with a thousand 'thank you's on his lips over their palette to 'check the flavor profile' - fuck, he hates them. He considers the idea: why, when faced with time alone with her new boyfriend, would Kiara want him to come hang out? Why would Pope want that? Why would either of them want that? After John B. - fuck, where did those fucking tears come from, man? grow up. 

"JJ?" She questions and her voice is light. Here, in real life, she carries little of the crueler fantasy versions of herself but there are times where he sees glints of it. 

He shakes his own head, trying to speak like a goddamn human being, "Hey, sorry. Just...tired." 

They're all tired, they've always been - maybe that's why she offers, "You can sleep more if you want. You don't have to come around." 

He wants to though, wants to see them both and he wishes he could hear Pope in the background - he can't, he never can, maybe that's why he's always so present in his fantasies. He wants to go so he goes, not that hard when the only thing stopping you is your own fear, and your love for them both and the fact that you are in crippling love with both of your friends. Only that. 

"I'll show, just give me..." he thinks about how long it will take to take a cold shower and spray himself down with water until his dick goes soft, "ten minutes?" 

"Yeah. See you then." 

"See you." 

She still didn't answer why they would want him there. 

He didn't ask. 

He falls back into his pillow with a groan. 

Notes:

I hope you liked this! Kudos and comments are appreciated!

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