Author name: herminekurotowa
Artist name: thruterryseyes
Genre: RPF, pre-relationship
Pairings: Jared/Jensen, Jared/OMCs, Jared/Jeffrey
Word count: 20,000
Warnings: hurt!Jared, institutionalised prostitution, underage prostitution, A/B/O dynamics, no knotting, mention of and implied non-con, non-consensual drugging, mention of mpreg. I can't think of more warnings, so just assume everything's implied somehow.
Summary: Jared would never have thought it was possible to find a soul mate in a state-owned brothel, but when he does, it will turn everyone's world upside down. But it's common knowledge that soul mates happen for a reason.
He remembers only in nightmares.
Though there were people who tried to help, there were even more who made his young life hell. He was old enough to actually recall the beatings, the taunting and hunger, but his mind disposed of those memories. It is only when he is unconscious that the recollections are dug out from where they're hidden deep down behind closed doors.
Instead, he gazes at the stars whenever he is able to skulk off.
“It's cold up here,” Osric says and sits down at his side.
Jared is leaning back, putting his weight on his elbows, but says nothing. He is not the kind of guy that talks much and usually, his assignments don't contain talking when he has to use his mouth for... other things.
After a few moments of blessed silence under the stars, Osric says, “The director is looking for you.”
Jared nods his head, drawing in a deep breath that borders a sigh, and gets up.
Limping down the narrow stairs from the roof is not easy. There is no light, but Jared knows the way, where to put his feet in order not to fall down the stairs.
The Jubilation Institute for Constructive Recreation is placed in a fanciful replica of a French chateau. The interior design is a crude mishmash of faux Louis XIV and art nouveau. Some rooms are furnished in a contemporary design, others are draped in red velvet and black leather. There is even one room in the attic that looks like a forest with murals and plastic trees in case one of the patrons wants to go outside while staying inside.
Jared doesn't know when the Institute was built, but he thinks it has been at least two hundred years, when there still was a king and an alpha royalty. The squiggled décor is just proof that being rich and powerful doesn't guarantee a sense of taste.
He limps down the stairs past the tree room, the tea kitchen on the second floor, that the hosts are not allowed to enter, and the lobby on the first floor. He limps past the short hallway leading off the lobby to the director's office.
The door is standing ajar; nevertheless, Jared knocks.
“Where've you been?” the director barks, tearing the door open, and continues, “I don't care; you know what to do.”
Jared ducks his head and limps as slowly as he dares through the office and the door on its left side into Director Pileggi's apartment.
Compared to his predecessor, Pileggi is a decent man. He allows Jared to rest after especially exhausting and painful sessions, and he isn't punished for breathing too loud. He is even fed regularly.
Pileggi keeps his finger nails short so he doesn't scratch Jared when he chokes him.
The last four years have been almost nice.
Jared keeps his eyes shut. He doesn't want to see the man, who moves inside him in painful thrusts – too little lube, it is always too little, but that is what he is here for – and fortunately, the director doesn't force him to watch.
It also helps with taking breaths. The fingers around his throat aren't grabbing too tight yet so he still gets enough air to not get lightheaded, but he knows that soon, they will constrict his breathing so much so that he could pass out.
Pileggi is grunting and moaning; his erratic thrusts indicate that something odd is happening that Jared hasn't noticed before in the effort to relieve the strain on his shoulders and arms. The cuffs fettering him to the headboard don't budge though.
Usually, Pileggi watches out for Jared to not pass out completely, to just teeter on the brink of consciousness. This time though, the director's body is tensing, his fingers clenching too tight in spasms around Jared's throat.
He thrashes on the sheets for fear of suffocating, tries to buck off the heavy weight of a dying man, but too soon, darkness creeps in.
Jensen thinks of himself as a decent man.
He is a hard worker, an honest man and a good son. He never treated an omega badly, mostly because he kept sufficient distance, but the point is that he can turn a blind eye on the omegas' shortcomings. He'll just have to make the best of a house full of hysterical wimps.
He didn't scramble to get the job. The assignment was unexpected, even more that it was Senator Morgan himself who instructed him.
Thank the Alpha, it is only over an interim period until a new director is found. All these omegas, their smell permeating the building, make his hackles rise.
The gangly, pale and malnourished boy who stands in front of him in the middle of the office is setting a good example. His posture is slumped, thumbs rubbing unconsciously over the linen pants’ seam. His scent is kind of penetrative, slowly soaking through Jensen's pores and making him want to scratch his skin.
There is one word to describe this person: weak.
“Well... Jared,” Jensen needs to look up the name in the files since something is making him lose his train of thought. “You were with the highly-valued Director Pileggi when he... died.”
Maybe there is the tiniest nod of the boy's head. Could also be a shiver though.
“Well? Speak up!”
Jared feels weird. There is a new, unknown smell in this room that makes him almost dizzy, but it could be down to the lack of food. During the last days, Curator Rhodes was of the opinion that a director's murderer didn't need to eat. If it wasn't for Osric sneaking him some bread and apples, Jared would have been starved by now.
The new director's voice is nice, gravelly and low. Its waves make his head buzz.
He wants to know if Jared was there when... that night. Of course he was, it is all in that file on the desk. His whole long life of nineteen years is there, between thin cardboard sheets.
“Speak up!” the director snaps, and Jared flinches.
“Yes, sir,” Jared whispers, “I was with him.”
He was there the whole night, stuck under a slowly cooling body, until they found the very dead director in the morning.
“Did you know he had a heart condition?”
“No, sir. I knew he took meds, but not the reason.”
“Did you call for help?”
Jared shakes his head.
After a minute of contemplation Jared shrugs a shoulder. It would have been in vain; no one ever listens to a host screaming and yelling, and besides, the director's apartment is mostly soundproof. In Jared's defense, he tried calling nevertheless, but all he could do was croak. Due to the choking, his voice was ruined and Pileggi's dead weight pressing down on his chest and lungs didn't help either.
Ackles looks peeved. Jared wants to tell him that it wasn't his fault, that he really tried to get free from the handcuffs and get help, but he knows when it is better to keep his mouth shut. He learned that lesson the hard way.
“It says here that you've been in a solitary cell for four days. Do you think that's a condign punishment?”
Jared tilts his head. Never has anybody asked what he thought about punishment and really wanted to know. Are four days and nights in a tiny cell enough where there is no light and no time, but only hunger and one's own thoughts? He is glad there is the spoon in the cell and even gladder no one took it away yet.
What is the correct answer?
Yes, sir, I think four days in the dark with no food is enough punishment for something I couldn't either prevent nor control. Or maybe, No, sir, I think there's never enough pain and hurt in the world to keep you alpha bastards satisfied, no matter what I do.
So he says, “Whatever you think appropriate, sir.”
It is the standard reply that already kept him alive for too many years.
He dares to gaze at the new director under his bangs and sees confusion, maybe repulsion written on the handsome face. There are freckles all over the bridge of his nose and cheeks, and every single one of them screams you stupid little fuck.
That is what he his, the reality of his life: he is of no use other than to be fucked. Being deprived of his choice of having offspring – and with his body not being able to lubricate – he is not even a full omega.
Omegas may be stupid and weak in general, but this one is especially dumb. At least he seems to be dumb enough not to understand the questions Jensen asks. His replies consist of shrugging and mumbling, his eyes cast to the floor.
Apparently though, he seems to be good enough to cut vegetables since he used to work in the kitchen.
Jensen re-assigns him for kitchen duty and makes a note for Curator Rhodes. She is not only the estate's administrator, but also performs partly as Jensen's secretary. She seems to be a very capable beta; however, Jensen thinks about hiring a secretary to lighten her workload.
The omega's chores should be manageable even with his clearly visible limp. Jensen believes that everyone needs to work for their food, he certainly won't encourage idleness.
The next host he interviews is an omega of Asian heritage. He is of slight build and seems to be far less dumb than this other omega, Paladecki.
“What kind of name is Osric?” Jensen asks.
“Director Morgan couldn't pronounce my given name so he called me Osric, sir,” the little omega replies.
Oh yes, Jensen remembers Senator Morgan mentioning a dog named Osric he owned when he was a boy. It was nice to name the omega after a pet the senator obviously cared for at that time.
“What do you know about Director Pileggi's death?”
“Uhm... he was sick, but nobody knew,” Osric replies, “and when he was, uh, overexerting himself physically, his heart ceased to beat.”
“What do you mean, 'overexerting himself physically'? Did he do workout?”
“In a way he did. Uhm. He was with Jared.”
“I know that,” Jensen says impatiently.
The omega seems to be embarrassed, scraping his foot on the carpet. “Director Pileggi didn't do sports, sir. His recreational activities contained, um, some bondage, preferably handcuffs.”
Jensen stares unbelieving. “What are you saying? Are you badmouthing the director?”
“No, sir, I wouldn't dare.” He raises his hands in a defensive gesture. “Ask the management. The director never hid the fact he used cuffs and ropes on Jared; everyone knew it, though Jared never said one word about it.”
If this is true – and there is no reason for Jensen to not believe it – it is disgusting. Pileggi exploited his position, and who knows who else is still abusing the trust the theocracy places in them.
“So when you say,” Jensen clears his throat just to have a moment longer to collect his thoughts, “Jared was with Director Pileggi, you're insinuating that both of them had non-sanctioned intercourse.”
Osric blinks. “I don't insinuate, sir, I say it right out. Director Pileggi has had sex with Jared the night he died. He cuffed him to the headboard and the poor guy was trapped underneath him until they found him in the morning.”
After he dismisses the omega, Jensen needs a few minutes. He is pretty impressed by the little man who doesn't mince words if he has to. What the omega told him puts a new complexion on Paladecki's behavior.
Maybe it is time to have a talk with the institute's physician.
“You don't look so good,” Osric says.
Jared cracks an eye open. The world is too bright today. Also, it is too loud and too heavy. He is on his bed in the dormitory and right now, he could kill Osric for drawing the blanket aside.
“Are you skipping work?” his friend asks.
“Leave me 'lone,” Jared murmurs.
“Did you eat anything today?”
Groaning Jared puts the pillow over his head and burrows his face in the lumpy mattress.
“Okay,” Osric says emphatically, “I'll get you something to eat, maybe some coffee.”
Oh Alpha, coffee! That would be great.
When Osric starts to leave for the kitchen though, Jared's hand darts from under the pillow, seizing his wrist.
“What do you think about the new director?” Jared asks
“I don't know... Kitty says he's cute, but I think he's dangerous.”
“Dangerous?” That word never connected with the director in Jared's mind. “In what way?”
“Miss Rhodes mentioned he's one of the Dallas Ackles. They're ultraconservative, which more than likely means that life is going to get harder.”
“You think?” Jared asks doubtingly.
Osric nods confidently. “Most Ackles are clerics. They only breed alphas and abandon babies of other sexes. They believe in the survival of the strongest and I tell you, Jared, the director knows his Book.”
He pats Jared's hand and turns to leave when his wrist is set free.
“I'd keep an eye on him,” Osric says, “know your enemy, Jared!”
Jared rolls onto his back, staring up the damp-stained ceiling.
He can't believe that Director Ackles is an enemy. That is definitely not the word he is thinking of when he thinks of the man. Mostly though there is just a buzzing through his head and he is unable to ponder over it for any length of time.
He thinks about the distaste and contempt that were written on that face, that handsome face with green eyes and freckles the color of cinnamon.
Jared wonders if these little spots taste like cinnamon since there was a scent like it wafting through the room that made him reminisce about his mom. She liked to bake pies, preferably apple with cinnamon, and buns. Whenever Jared thought about that spice, he thought home.
Now he is lying in his bed with the biggest erection he's had since he doesn't know when, thinking about Director Ackles, who makes him think about cinnamon and home.
Mark Sheppard M.D. may be a capable physician, but his work ethics leave much to be desired. Jensen has already worked for several hours and interviewed five hosts, when the doctor enters the building and, shortly after, his office.
He doesn't look much like an alpha with his shortness and receding hairline. He greets Jensen rousingly and after some small talk, Jensen comes down to business.
“Jared?” Sheppard asks thoughtfully. “He's a little troublemaker.”
That is surprising. Raising an eyebrow, Jensen assures himself, “A troublemaker?”
“Yes. That's what brought him here in the first place. Also, he lies and seeks attention. He uses hunger strikes as leverage, that's why he's so scrawny. We need to have him on vitamins constantly, in addition to his mandatory contraceptives. I must admit though that he got better in the past year or so.”
“Hmm,” Jensen hums non-committedly.
“I think it's best to ignore him as effectively as possible. I found him more complacent after he realized his tantrums came to nothing.”
“Alright, Doctor. I put him on kitchen duty; let's see what happens.”
Jensen offers butterscotch that Sheppard declines politely. He puts the box down on his desk and raises the next topic.
“Tell me, doctor, how did he hurt his leg?”
The physician thinks a minute. “Oh, you mean the limp he’s sporting? It was a work accident,” he says, “he fell down the stairs and hurt his hip. It's going to take some time, but he'll make a full recovery eventually.”
“That's good,” Jensen says nodding.
Then they talk about the duty roster in the infirmary and Sheppard complains about being understaffed. Jensen has a hunch this is a frequent complaint, but he can't see how one physician and two nurses means being understaffed. After all, there are only thirty-five public servers in the institute; how many injuries can there be on a daily basis?
Strictly speaking they've finished talking – Sheppard already turned to leave – when Jensen stops him with a last question.
“Doctor, why did you put Jared in a solitary cell after Pileggi died? It wasn't his fault and as it looks like, he couldn't do a thing to help?”
Sheppard blinks, somewhat taken by surprise, then replies, “I'm not a counselor, sir. I already said years ago, when Senator Morgan was this institute's director, that we're in need of a counselor. When we found poor Jared that morning, he was completely out of it. I had to sedate him and put him under suicide watch. The solitary cell was the only place where we could keep a very close eye on him. He's better now, but it was a few hard days for him.”
“I can imagine,” Jensen mutters. Then he says more loudly, “Thank you for your time, Doctor. Don't let me keep you.”
After Sheppard leaves to carry out his duty in the infirmary, Jensen eats butterscotch and looks at Jared's picture in his file. He is a handsome boy, but since the picture is only black and white, he can't determine the eye color.
That is too bad; Jensen would love to know whether the omega's eyes are brown. He thinks due to Jared's brown hair, his eyes are certainly brown, too. Or maybe hazel. It is a pity he couldn't see them because of his bangs. The boy always kept his head bowed, merely glancing at him.
The past two weeks were almost the happiest in Jared's life – well, at least of the past couple of years.
After having done his duty as a host in the evening and night, he sleeps for a few hours; then he goes to the kitchen to help the cook.
Misha Collins is the nicest alpha Jared ever met and the reason to not give up on alphahood. He treats everyone the same, being pleasant and never scoffing or yelling at anyone. When he learns that Jared already worked under his predecessor, he immediately assigns him some special tasks, teasing out all of his considerable work experience.
He puts Jared in charge of lunch and afternoon snack, and when he suggests buffet instead of eating in shifts, Misha is amazed, looking at Jared with wide eyes.
“That's the most brilliant idea I've ever heard”, he says and Jared is blushing like the virgin he hasn't been for a long time.
Now Jared is responsible for arranging and calculating buffets for breakfast, lunch and dinner and in-between meals. Misha expects Jared to give him elaborate proposals and trusts him completely.
Then Osric tells him an incredible story when they eat lunch in a corner of the kitchen.
“I couldn't think of anything I did wrong”, Osric says, flourishing the sandwich in his hands. “I thought he'd sell me to a non-governmental or something.”
Jared nods. “Yeah, I saw you standing in front of the office this morning.”
“You won't believe me. I wouldn't believe it myself if it wasn't-”
“Okay, sorry!” Osric puts the sandwich back onto his plate and leans forward in order to give weight to his words. “He wants me as his secretary.”
“What! No way!”
“Yes!” Osric nods enthusiastically. “He said he wanted to take some workload off Rhodes and had me write some letters and file documents. It was like trial work, I tell you.”
Jared laughs, shaking his head. “Dude, no way Ackles wants you to be his secretary. He's fooling you!”
“But I got the job. Jared, brother, I have an honest-to-goodness job!”
This is an Osric Jared experiences very rarely – he is bright-eyed, seems to be livelier. This is the boy who came to the institute four years ago.
“What do you think, why did he do this?” Jared ponders.
“I don't care! I have a job!”
This is the thing Jared thinks about for the rest of the day. Why did the director engage Osric, what is his agenda?
There have been strange things happening since Ackles took charge. Daphne was released though she was the beta who got booked most often; Ackles said she had served her sentence and released her, just because. He fired Warden Speight who embezzled anything he could convert into cash. And now the thing with Osric...
He thinks about Ackles during the first couple of hours of work, which tonight is only two blow jobs and one vanilla fuck before he asks for a break. His throat is raw and he just needs a cool drink.
In a corner of the dining hall, there is a drinking fountain providing water around the clock. Considering the hosts' working hours, it is nice to be able to have a drink in the dead of night. Sometimes at an unalphaly hour, there is a whole bunch of hosts gathering around the fountain and stealing a few minutes off work, some of them bemoaning the lack of smokes.
The water running down Jared's throat is cool and delicious. His back is aching and his butt is sore; the last patron was pretty vanilla, but he definitely used too little lube. Unfortunately, most of the patrons demanding for Jared want him for the lube they don't want to use on him.
That is so fucked up.
A weird feeling is creeping all over Jared's back. Straightening himself, he wipes the water from his chin and looks around.
The scent of cinnamon hits him the same moment he sees the director who stands in the semi-darkness near the door leading to the kitchen.
Jared freezes. He can't imagine what Ackles may want late in the evening; certainly he wouldn't raid the fridge. He seems to be a decent man, but decency only lasts until one can get away with a free fuck.
“Good evening,” Ackles says, his voice sending shivers down Jared's spine.
After too long a moment, Jared replies, “Evening. Can I help you, sir?”
“Um, you work in the kitchen, don't you? I told the cook to buy some butterscotch, but I can't find them. Do you know where they are? Maybe?”
He is here because of candy?
“Misha ordered them, but they'll be delivered only tomorrow.”
“Oh.” The director, grown man that he is, looks like a sad, disappointed five-year-old.
He turns to leave, but Jared says, “If you want... I can make some... butterscotch, I mean. If you want.”
Damn if he knows why he did it.
Jensen needs some sugar.
He has had a day from hell and his emergency candy stash is empty. Wandering and searching the kitchen doesn't help if you don't know where the cook keeps the sweets.
He is halfway through the stack of files he wants to peruse, and the life stories in there are too depressing to bear without butterscotch.
The first file that caught his eye the other day was a young girl's of Jensen's age. When she was fifteen, her drunk friend crashed into another car. It was only a fender bender, nobody got hurt, but they sentenced the girl to public service.
Ten years for some dents. Jensen would bet his life on it that the other car was owned by an alpha.
He always knew that the system favored alphas, but what he found in these files – it is outrageous. It may only concern omegas and low-class betas, but ten years of service for a collision... That is not conforming to Alpha's Will.
He still remembers an occurrence at college. An alpha boy – drunk, of course – crashed into a garden fence. He got off with a slap on the wrist and then sued the omega for compensation since their fence damaged his car.
And then there are the thefts and embezzlements inside the staff he has to grapple with; Jensen already had to fire one of the wardens. They seem to think of the Institute as a kind of self-service shop.
Jensen can't believe that the omega he comes across – Jared who is not as thin any longer as he was a couple of weeks before – is able to make butterscotch.
“You really can make it here, in the kitchen?” he asks incredulously and Jared's retorting smile in the faint light of the dining hall is too sweet.
“Of course,” he says, tilting his head and looking shy, “it's pretty easy. I just need to take my break.”
But Jensen wants none of it; if Jared helps him out with his sugar craving, he won't do it in his downtime. It takes just a short call to the warden on duty and Jared is excused from work.
Jared fetches cream and butter from the fridge, some kind of seasoning and sugar from the pantry, and begins making butterscotch.
Jensen never cared about the way his meals were prepared. Growing up, there was a cook and a couple of kitchen assistants and the only important thing was the cookie jar brimming. Then in college and during the year in Europe, when he had to look after himself, he basically lived off sandwiches and mac and cheese.
Joining Senator Morgan's staff meant better food since the churchman cares for his employees and makes a cafeteria available.
Now he is watching how his favorite treat is being made, and the sure-fingered way the omega works is fascinating; there is nothing left of the feeble boy who stood in his office a couple of weeks ago.
Scents of butter and sugar are wrapping him in, closely followed by the scent of vanilla. Jared is measuring and stirring, and finally, there is a brownish mixture on a plate that he cuts in pieces.
“You can taste it now,” Jared says, pushing the plate in front of Jensen and looking nervous.
Tentatively, Jensen puts a morsel in his mouth.
It is hard, though simultaneously kind of melting, tasting of cream and vanilla, and it is the best fucking thing he ever had in his mouth.
Maybe he said this out loud because Jared ducks his head smiling.
“I can make toffee too if you want it softer,” he says shyly.
“It's perfect. But I want to taste your toffee next time.” Jensen says and, after stuffing another piece of candy in his mouth, he holds one morsel against Jared's lips. “Here, have a taste yourself.”
Still smiling, Jared opens his lips and sucks the treat in.
His soft, slightly wet lips brush against Jensen's finger tips, and both men freeze.