
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/94633.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Figure_Skating_RPF, Jonas_Brothers
  Relationship:
      Nick_Jonas/Johnny_Weir, Stéphane_Lambiel/Johnny_Weir, Nick_Jonas/Original
      Female_Character
  Character:
      Nick_Jonas, Johnny_Weir, Stéphane_Lambiel, Meryl_Davis, Original_Female
      Character
  Additional Tags:
      Virginity, Loss_of_Virginity, Abstinence_Ring, Polyamory, Nonmonogamous
      Relationship, Long-Distance_Relationship
  Series:
      Part 5 of Born_a_Girl
  Stats:
      Published: 2010-06-14 Words: 2999
****** All Stories End (The Way They Should) ******
by azephirin
Summary
     "Let's go dancing," said the firefly to the hurricane.
Notes

     Warnings: Consensual defloration of a 17-year-old by someone a few
     years older. Overlapping pairings, but no infidelity.
     Disclaimer: For a variety of reasons, this never happened.
     Author's note: If you don't know / don't care who Nick Jonas is, just
     read this as a diversion with an OMC in the Joey!verse. If you don't
     know / don't care who Johnny Weir and/or his fictional female
     counterpart are, just read this as Nick Jonas and an OFC. If don't
     know / don't care who any of these people are, then just read as
     original fic or keep scrolling, as you please. Thanks to
     [[info]]
beckaandzac and [[info]]fannishliss for their quick and very helpful betas, and
to [[personal_profile]_]rivers_bend for not telling me (out loud) that I was
crazy. Summary from "Let's_Go_Dancing," by Drivin_N_Cryin.
It was five years ago, but he can remember it clearly: up in front of the
church, smiling at his mom and dad, repeating the words they’d talked to him
about, sliding the ring onto his hand. They beamed at him the whole time, and
it seemed like a pretty small promise in return for making them so happy.
They’d had the ring made for him at Disney World; it was chunky and gold, and
he thought it made him look like the kind of guy who wears badass things and
keeps his promises.
Five years later, Nick wonders whether a promise counts when you didn’t know
what you were actually giving away.
                                    +||+||+

getbackjojo: that lil jonas boy was batting his eyelashes at me
getbackjojo: and before u ask i totally thought i was seeing things until meryl
was all “OMG DID U SEE THE LIL JONAS BOY BATTING HIS EYELASHES AT U???????????”
slambiel: wait
slambiel: who is jonas boy?
getbackjojo: jfc
getbackjojo: ur so lame
getbackjojo: http://www.google.com/
images?hl=en&source=imghp&q=%22nick+jonas%22&gbv=2&aq=f&aqi=g10&aql=&oq=&gs_rfai=
slambiel: little is right
getbackjojo: i resent ur implication
getbackjojo: try http://www.google.com/images?hl=en&gbv=2&tbs=isch:
1&sa=1&q=%22nick+jonas%22+2010&aq=f&aqi=g6g-m3&aql=&oq=&gs_rfai=
slambiel: better
slambiel: did you talk to him?
getbackjojo: a little
getbackjojo: he’s kinda adorable
getbackjojo: in a 17-yr-old way
slambiel: it says that he has promised to be a virgin?
getbackjojo: its a whole thing
getbackjojo: if ur super religious
slambiel: apparently it does not preclude batting eyelashes
getbackjojo: thats the bitchy stéphane i know & love!
slambiel: i am glad i did not make that promise
getbackjojo: me 2 bb :* :* :*
slambiel: if this is preparation for asking permission, you have it ☺
slambiel: like we agreed
getbackjojo: dont worry, ill give u all the details
getbackjojo: assuming anything happens
getbackjojo: purity ring & all
getbackjojo: thats what its called
slambiel: you americans are so strange
getbackjojo: nobody who likes britney spears can judge anybody else
slambiel: she is talented and misunderstood!
getbackjojo: i miss u so much
getbackjojo: come hang out w/ us weirdos in america
slambiel: i wish i could
slambiel: i love you
getbackjojo: call me tmw after phys therapy
getbackjojo: ilu2
getbackjojo: wish i was there

                                    +||+||+

Nick sees her again at the tech rehearsal.
Everything’s taking forever: The various floors aren’t completely ready, and
the transitions between the musicians, dancers, and skaters are taking way
longer than they should be. He can already tell they’re going to have to do
another run-through: They can’t practice the timing like this.
She’s crouching on the sideboards with another girl skater—they’re talking and
laughing like they know each other. The other one’s pretty, with long hair and
a bright smile, but she looked at him like he was a little kid. Joey Weir
didn’t.
Joey Weir’s still talking to the other girl, but she’s looking at him now, and
she’s definitely not looking at him like he’s a little kid.
And then they get the right floor into place, and it’s back to rehearsal again.

                                    +||+||+

From: meryl.davis@gmail.com
To: getbackjojo@gmail.com
Subject: JONAS BOY BATTING HIS EYELASHES AGAIN
DON’T EVEN FRONT.
From: getbackjojo@gmail.com
To: meryl.davis@gmail.com
Subject: STFU
SLORE
From: meryl.davis@gmail.com
To: getbackjojo@gmail.com
Subject: DENIAL = NOT JUST BODY OF WATER IN NORTH AFRICA
If it helps, he’s a lot cuter than the older two.
From: getbackjojo@gmail.com
To: meryl.davis@gmail.com
Subject: STFU
SLORE

                                    +||+||+

Kevin always says that if you want to talk to a girl, you have to just man up
and talk to her. Which isn’t actually all that helpful, but apparently it
worked for him since now he’s married and everything. Which is convenient
because it means Kevin’s up in his room talking to Danielle, and Nick managed
to get Joe engrossed in the Terminator marathon on HBO, and here’s Joey Weir in
one of the little lounge areas on the first floor of the hotel, typing on a
laptop and picking halfheartedly at a salad. There’s an empty chair across from
hers.
“Um,” he says, and she looks up at him. He had it planned out: He was just
going to say, Hi, can I sit here?, and if she said yes, he’d sit down like it
was no big thing, and if she said no, he’d…probably go die of being a loser.
Which, if it isn’t actually a disease, should be. Enormous loseritis on account
of not being able to talk to the girl (woman) who is sitting right in front of
him. He is, without a doubt, the lamest person on Earth, because Joey Weir’s
looking at him with a trace of amusement on her face, and Nick decides that
he’s going to die a virgin like his parents want him to, because he needs to
turn around, go somewhere, and throw himself off a cliff, if one is available.
If not, he will find one.
“Do you want to sit down?” Joey Weir says, and Nick almost falls over.
“Uh,” he says, “yeah.”
It takes him a second to realize that he’s supposed to actually sit now. He
does, and Joey Weir closes the laptop. “Hi,” she says.

                                       *

Nick learns something very quickly: When you man up and talk to a girl (or,
well, you don’t, but she takes pity on you and talks to you first), and she
knows what you want and you know what she wants, it doesn’t actually take very
long.
Less than an hour later, Joey Weir sits facing him on the bed, legs draped
loosely around his hips as she strokes his hair. She has the most amazing legs:
long, sleek, and solid with muscle. She’s graceful, but there’s nothing
delicate about her. He’s overloading a little bit because they’re sitting here
together on a hotel bed and her fingers are twining in his hair, and pretty
much all Nick wants in the world right now is to put his hands on Joey Weir’s
thighs. He twists them into the comforter instead, and she looks down at them
and smiles, then moves her hands down to wrap her fingers around his.
His hands are probably all sweaty because he’s nervous (because it’s not like
they’re just up here to watch High School Musical and have pizza or whatever),
and he kind of wants to die. Again.
Which is when Joey says, “You probably know this, but just so we’re clear: You
know I have a boyfriend, right?”
Which is when Nick blurts out, “What?”
“He knows about this, and it’s OK. We have an agreement. But if I’m reading
this right”—and for a moment her eyes blink away from his, and it’s the first
time he’s ever seen her (in person, in interviews, on Olympic ice) look
anything less than completely self-assured—“and if I’m reading this right”—she
tugs twice on the band—“it’ll be your first time.”
“You’re reading it right,” he exhales fervently, and she laughs. “And that
too,” he adds, quieter, glancing down at his left hand. She raises her eyebrows
at him, her question clear without any words required, and Nick says, “Did you
ever tell somebody something, and you weren’t really sure what it meant, and it
didn’t seem like very much, but later it turned out that it was kind of a big
deal?”
Joey laces her fingers through his. “Not in the way you did, I suspect.”
“I don’t think you can keep a promise if”—everybody lies—“nobody tells you
about what you’re actually promising.”
“It’s your promise,” she says, green eyes steady on his. Not many people have
ever looked at him like that: like there’s a decision to be made and only he
can make it.
Don’t you want us to be proud, Nicky?
He slides his hands up her thighs, and gasps when she kisses him.
                                    +||+||+

Remember how intense it was the first time? It wasn’t as intense later—we had a
clue what we were doing by then, so that made up for it, but remember what it
was like to feel everything for the first time?
Yeah, I’ll never forget that either.
God, Stéph, I miss you so much; you don’t even know. I wish you were lying here
next to me. I wish I was pressing my nose into your shoulder. I wish it was
going to be your fingers instead of mine after I get finished telling you about
this.
I pushed him onto his back, and he had his hands all over my ass and
thighs—never been with an athlete, you know? (Seriously, Miley Cyrus? You have
got to be kidding. Also, I love that you knew that and I didn’t. I’m totally
researching the hell out of the next person you sleep with. I don’t care if
it’s Joubert. I’ll research the hell out of him anyway. I’ll find out that he
pays people to come over and throw grapefruit at him or whatever. You know he’s
into something bizarre like that.) Anyway, I think Nick was used to soft little
girls.
For a while I just kissed him. He was ready to let me do anything I wanted, and
I kissed him until he’d calmed down a bit. When he started trying to grind
against me too hard, I pinned his hands to the bed, and he moaned like it was
something he’d never even thought about before—or like it was something he’d
never let himself think about before. I pinned his hands and kept kissing him,
and he never even tried to fight me. Just gave himself right up to it.
Is that how you’re going to be next time, Stéph? Are you going to be good for
me, or are you going to make me hold you down?
I might hold you down anyway.

                                    +||+||+

He doesn’t know what it’ll be like, and it’s not like anything he’s ever done
before. Between her legs Joey Weir is salty, salty with her own tang that
tastes a bit like it did when he kissed her, and Nick can’t help moaning again,
pushing his hips into the bed for some relief.
She sits straight up and slaps him across the ass. “No!” she says sternly, and
he can’t help it either when he gasps and ruts against the mattress again.
Joey cups his face in her hands, and he blushes. “You liked that, huh?” she
says, smiling.
He’d like for her to spank him. (How weird is that?) He’d like for her to let
him lick her again. He’d like for her to suck him off. He’d like for her to
roll him over and ride him like in that movie he downloaded and didn’t tell Joe
and Kevin about. At this point he’s pretty sure he’d like anything.
She slaps him again, and he makes a pleading, inarticulate noise when she rubs
the spot she hit. “That’s probably a little much for your first time.” Her
voice is gentle, but she sounds sure. “Why don’t you go back to what you were
doing. I want you to make me come, Nick.”
“Please,” he breathes, and she guides his mouth back to her secret parts.

                                       *

“Turn over onto your back,” she tells him, and he does, immediately. She
stretches out on top of him and looks down at him. She’s smiling again, and
Nick bites his lip because he wants to be inside her so badly that he’s about
to lose his mind.
She reaches over to open a drawer in the bedside table and pull out a small
plastic packet. She rips it open and rolls the contents onto his dick, which
throbs at the attention. Joey wraps her hand around the base. “Don’t come yet,”
she warns. “Not until I tell you to.”
She dips a hand into the nightstand again, this time pulling out a black tube
of something that, when she flips its cap, looks like clear shampoo. Whatever
it is, it’s slick and hot in her palm, and it makes him whimper and squeeze his
eyes shut as she touches him, fingertips light on his balls and the head of his
cock.
“Not until I tell you to,” she repeats when he thrusts up into her hand.
He grits his teeth. “I don’t think I can…” He wants to last, he does, but
Joey’s touching him better than he’s even done it to himself, and his body is
pretty much out of his control: He’s arching up, all but begging her, and he
doesn’t last, he can’t, it feels way too good.
Luckily, he’s seventeen and he comes back fast.

                                    +||+||+

She wakes up to the unexpected solid warmth of Nick Jonas asleep next to her.
He's terribly innocent like this: eyes closed, lashes resting lightly on his
cheeks, hair a corona of tangles. His lips part when Joey runs her forefinger
over them, but he doesn’t wake.
I am so going to hell, she thinks.
Then: I can’t wait to tell Stéphane.
She nudges Nick, kissing his temple and the round of his forehead as he lurches
into consciousness. She kisses his mouth once he’s completely awake, and says
what she needs to. “Hey. You better get back to your room, or your brothers are
going to have a manhunt out.”
It’s true, but not the truth. The truth is that the only person Joey likes to
sleep next to is in Switzerland.
Nick looks at her, and there’s a silence just long enough to suggest that he
understands what she isn’t saying. Not so innocent now, Joey thinks, and it’s
not a victory. She doesn’t want to repeat that part to Stéphane except that she
promised a long time ago she’d never tell him anything but the truth.
He dresses, and she kisses him good-bye at the door. Then she falls asleep in
the other bed and doesn’t wake until the alarm goes off.

                                    +||+||+
This happens sometimes on Saturdays, probably more often than is strictly
beneficial for efforts to behave like productive adults: They get up at a
perfectly decent time and have breakfast…which then turns into brunch, which
they finish and then go back to bed. Which is where they are right now, and the
woman who will later become Nick’s wife is offering a series of guesses that
vary in their improbability.
“Ke$ha.”
“Not even with somebody else’s dick.”
“Angelina Jolie.”
“Only in my dreams. Literally.”
Ayana laughs. “You and everybody else. Miley Cyrus.” Her voice changes a
little—slows down, emphasizes the syllables—when she says Miley’s name, and
even though her tone is still light, Nick knows Ayana’s joking has ended.
Nick turns onto his side so that he can settle an arm across her stomach. “No.
We were only fourteen, fifteen, when we dated. And I was still doing the
saving-it-for-marriage thing back then.”
“Good thing you changed your mind,” Ayana says, and she could be joking with
this, too, but her eyes are steady and serious, and she covers his hand with
hers.
“Yeah,” Nick says. Eight years and a feast of media cannibalism later, he’s
never regretted taking off that ring, but it still hurts to remember his
mother’s expression the first time she saw his left hand bare.
“So was it anybody I know?” Ayana asks, a verbal nudge.
Nick picks up the thread again. “Probably not. She retired a few years ago.”
Ayana’s eyebrows shoot up. “Retired? Just how old was this seductress?”
Nick laughs. “She was a competitive athlete. Different kind of retired. I
haven’t talked to her in a while, but I know she produces ice shows and tours
now—she’s not retired like go-to-Florida retired. Her name was Joey Weir.”
Nick’s about to tack on, she was a figure skater, but Ayana sits straight up,
stares at him, and exclaims, “No fucking way!”
“Yes fucking way,” Nick says. “I didn’t know you were into figure skating.”
Ayana collapses onto his chest. “Oh my God, Nick, I had the biggest crush on
her! Joey Weir, are you serious? I wanted to drop dance and learn to skate! I
was seventeen and already in at Juilliard—it would have been a terrible
idea—but my mom actually had to talk me out of it. She took this prissy,
overwrought sport and made it fierce and amazing! I think I had like fifteen of
her routines on my iPod. I’m pretty sure I still have the one to ‘Rock and
Roll.’” Ayana sighs. “Oh, Joey Weir, be still my heart. I can’t believe you
lost your virginity to her.”
“Believe it,” Nick says. “We were in a benefit together, back when I was still
performing with Joe and Kevin. I was seventeen.”
He watches Ayana do the quick calculation in her head before her lips twist in
mischief. “You totally nailed an older woman. Why am I not even surprised?”
Ayana adds, “Did she skate for you?”
Nick admits, “No. She kicked me out of her room, and I did the walk of shame at
four a.m.”
“I will kill the bitch,” Ayana declares, “but it will make me very sad.”
Nick shakes his head. “No. It wasn’t… She wasn’t trying to be mean. There was
somebody she wanted to be with, and couldn’t. I don’t think she wanted to
sleep—actually sleep, I mean—with anybody but him.”
Ayana nestles closer, and Nick tucks her head under his chin. She’s his goddess
at rest: elegant, strong, bare and warm against him. “That actually does make
me sad,” she says.
“It turned out OK,” Nick says. “They’re married now. And I’ve got you.”
Ayana draws a figure-eight on his skin with her finger. “All stories end like
they’re supposed to.”
“Some of them do,” Nick agrees.
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