My Time of Day

So this thing features knotting, J2, and a world where mpreg is possible.

If these terms are unfamiliar, you should probably skip this one.

Part of me wants to apologize, and part of me’s just like: Hey. This happened. Sometimes stories go where they want and don’t ask your permission first.

Heh.

In this story, Jay loses track of time in a way that’s kind of important. Jensen is highly amused–until it’s clear that they’re not gonna make it back to civilization, to Gen, anytime soon.

 

Jensen, that son-of-a-bitch, thinks it’s hilarious.

No. He thinks it’s fucking hysterical.

He’s doubled over behind the wheel, laughing so hard that you’re starting to fear for your safety. The truck weaves and you reach for the door handle just as Jen cackles and nudges the wheel, turns you back smooth into the center of the lane.

“Jay,” he wheezes, and oh great. He’s crying. “Seriously. What in the hell? I mean, you forget how to count? How to read a goddamn calendar?!” He looks right at you, his face streaky and mouth grinning like a freaking cobra, and your scowl kicks him right back over the edge.

You cross your arms and glare out the window until you hear him take a breath, a deep one. He’s reaching for the stiff-spine control he usally wears like a shroud, but today, it’s a stretch.

Well, at least your stupidity is making somebody happy.

“Ok,” he says finally, his voice way lower than usual. Slipping into Dean territory. “So. You’re an idiot, dude.”

You roll your eyes so hard it hurts. More Sam than Jay, but whatever.

“Yeah, I am,” you snap. “Fine. I agree. I’m a fucking moron, ok?”

You all slip into a sllence that’s rare between you, these days. One that’s ambiguous. Tense. In the past, you were always the one to break them: a well-aimed Starburst at his nose, that snort that never fails to make him laugh, an arm around his shoulder and a squeeze.

Yeah. That last one’s definitely not happening today. No way are you touching him. Forget it.

And you ate all the Starburst.

So he does it. He looks over and gives you the green.

“Look, kiddo,” he says, slapping your knee. “I’m sorry. I’m just yanking your chain.”

You can feel his handprint on your skin, right through your goddamn jeans, and that plus his unfortunate choice of metaphors is really, really unhelpful right now.

“Um,” you stutter.

But he doesn’t notice. Just flips his hand at you and frowns at the road, at the sun sneaking towards the horizon.

“We’ll get you home in plenty of time, ok?” he says. “It’s alright, Jay. You’ll be fine.” You get a sideways shot of a wicked grin. “And damn, won’t Gen be surprised? You’re gonna earn major boyfriend points for this. Comin’ home early and fired up to fuck.”

You go purple and hide your face in your hands. Because Jen and Gen? Are not two great tastes that go great together in your mind right now. Sometimes they get tangled in your head in ways that are, ok, a little hot, but today? Shit. With Jen right next to you and your body your brain on red freaking alert, your hormones or whatever horribleness travelling through 12 dimensions?

It’s bad.

Really, really bad. Thank god you hadn’t gotten all the way up to the campsite thing before you realized, because, wow.

Coulda been a lot worse.

But a few hours of humiliation, of giving Jen a lifetime’s supply of rag-on-Jared material? You can handle that. Sure you can.

“It’s ok,” Jen says, soothing, like you’re a horse he wants to settle. “Dude. Relax. I’ll get you home. Another few hours, and everything’s gonna be fine.”

You lean you head against the glass and peek over at him. He’s back to being Jen the freaking Rock of Gibralter and right now, that’s exactly what you need from him.

Um.

Right. Better keep telling yourself that.

***

When the truck blows two tires at the foot of the mountain, still a good three hours from home, you’ve not even surprised.

Because apparently the universe hates you.

(Or loves you, your mind whispers, but you pretend like you didn’t hear.)

You get lucky, pass a motel right before they blow, and it only takes ten minutes of you both climbing and Jensen swearing to make it to the front desk.

“Well,” the clerk says, clicking her tongue. “The nearest tow place is in Franklin, and that’s back up the mountain quite a ways. Be happy to call ’em, but it’ll be morning ‘fore he can get down here, I’d guess.”

Jensen gives her the tight little smile he usually saves for the last hour of a con.

“That would be great,” he says. “Could we get a couple of rooms for the night?”

The clerk cuts her eyes at you, and if she stares a little too long, if you can see her freaking nose twitching like that chick from Bewitched, well. That’s her problem.

“Well–” she starts.

“Let me guess,” Jen says, planting his palms on the desk. “You’ve only got one.”

She blinks.

“Yeah,” she says. “How did you–?”

“Been that kinda day,” Jen growls, and whoa there. Hello, Alpha.

The room is worn. Not dirty, but there’s more character here than charm.

But. There are two beds. Thank God.

(Damn it.)

You realize things are going sideways real fast when you move to turn on the A/C and Jen snaps: “What the hell? It’s like 40 degrees in here. Turn on the fucking heat.”

You meet his eyes, shamefaced, because that’s already kind of happened, thanks to Mother Nature. You see him get it, see him stumble a little as he stutters:

“Oh, ok. Jay. I’m sorry. Right. You do what you gotta do.”

You decide to leave things right where they are.

You edge away from the window and now that you’ve stopped moving, now that you’re sort of trapped, your body starts to get more of your attention. Not that you want to give it, but you’re shivering. You feel like your face is on fire. You can feel the air shift every time Jen moves.

Can smell him in a way that’s kind of alarmingly awesome.

“So!” you hoot, reaching for the comforter on the nearest bed. “I’ll just–I’ll go sleep in the bathroom.”

He balks.

“What? It’s eight o’clock at night, Jay.”

“Uh,” you says, because clocks aren’t really in your purview right now, and suddenly the thought of a locked door and some time away from the real Jen sounds great. Some time with the Jen that’s prowling around inside your head, the one who’s curving out of his shirt and grabbing, knocking you flat on the bed and climbing up your body, his fingers in your belt and his teeth against your throat and–

“Jay?” you hear him say, and oh, hey, you gotta a little lost there, because Jen, the real one, is totally vertical and not on top of you and is wearing a shirt, unfortunately, and–

“I just–” you choke, throwing cold water over the Jen in your head, and that doesn’t help because fuck does he look good wet. “I don’t–I know that you might. Uh. Not be able to control yourself.”

That’s it. Put it all back on him and his stupid biology. Let yours off the hook for a while.

He’s incredulous.

“Dude,” he huffs. “You’ve been watchin’ too much porn. It’s not like that. I’m not gonna molest you in your sleep.”

“Uh, ok,” you say, ducking your head. It’s been awhile since Jen’s broken out the Obi-Wan, the you have much to learn, young padawan bullshit, but you have kinda earned it today.

He drops his jacket and makes a big show of turning away. Of getting busy with his bag.

“Look,” his back says to you. “Yeah, you smell great. And yeah, the animal part of my brain or whatever is a little riled up right now. But it’s impulse, not imperative, dude, and I can control it.”

He turns around, lifts his eyebrows.

“And so could you, if you’d keep your freaking cycles straight. You wouldn’t be in for a miserable night if you could read a goddamn calendar.”

“Hey!” you bark. A little defensive. “I’ve been busy. Stuff’s been crazy.”

He makes a non-commital noise and goes back to rooting around in his bag.

“And Gen and I have been–” you start to say, and then remember who the fuck you’re talking to and stop. Just dead-on cease and desist.

But he heard you. You can see it in his shoulders, the way they draw up tight. But he lets you wait. Finds whatever the fuck he’s been looking for and stands up.

“What?” he says, light. Like he doesn’t give a shit. Which four years have taught you actually means exactly the opposite.

And for some reason, now, NOW, is the time that your cock decides to perk up its ears. Ugh.

“Been talking about, you know. Settling down. Getting, uh, you know,” you say, trying valiently not to sound terrified and failing so very, very hard.

Because you weren’t gonna tell Jen a damn thing until it was already done. Knew him–know him–well enough to guess that if he could see the ring, some sort of physical proof, he’d only say “Congratulations” and not “You’re screwing over the show, Jay. You’re screwing me.”

Because saying this at anytime would be uncomfortable as fuck, but saying it now, when your cock has hijacked your central nervous system and is slowly tuning your body up to fuck force 9, when Jen smells like all the Skittles in the rainbow rolled up into one, when he’s looking at you like he has a million times but this time it feels like he’s seeing you for the first?

It’s epically bad timing.

He takes a step towards you.

“What?” he says, his voice gentle. “Getting what, Jay?”

You stare at the floor, see the tips of his boots come into view.

“Always wanted kids,” you manage.

His shoelaces aren’t impressed.

There’s a long, long silence.

“Oh,” he breathes. “I got it.”

For a second, you think you’re off the hook.

But then he says:

“Were you gonna tell me? Tell anybody? Or were you just gonna do it and damn the consequences?”

You’re counting freaking strands in the carpet, ignoring the twitch in your hips, the part of you that’s begging you to fall back on the bed, to try and give yourself to him even though it’s pretty clear he doesn’t want you.

Doesn’t matter. Biology. What a bastard.

“Jen,” you groan, dragging your voice out of retirement. “I should have told you.”

And then he’s right in your space, a place he’s been a thousand times. Hell, a space he practically lives in every day, but now, he’s smothering you. There are bees in the air between you, something buzzing that’s familiar but strange. Different. Promising.

“Yeah, you should have,” he says, and you can hear the care he’s taking in moulding his mouth around the words. “So you’re not as big a spaz as I thought, forgetting your cycle and shit. You were off the suppressants, huh?”

You look up, which is probably a mistake. And nod.

“Well,” he sighs, his eyes like absinthe. “But still. You think you’d have been a little more careful, huh? A little more aware of what was going on. If ya’ll wanted to, you know. ‘Settle down’ so freaking soon.” His hand is on your face before you realize it, and you’re leaning into it before you can second guess.

“Jay,” he says. “You didn’t need this excuse, you know. You coulda just–”

His fingers twitch against your cheek, leading, and you follow. Lean down so he can kiss you, flick your mouth open with his tongue and dig in.

He smells like cookie dough, like warm brownies, like a freaking Snickers bar right under your nose.

He tastes even better. Pixie Sticks and Twizzlers. Pound cake and sweet tea.

He grabs your hip and pulls, knocks your cocks together through what feels like miles of denim and holy. fucking. shit. The noise that comes out of your mouth, rolls right on down into his, is this twist tie of need and pleasure and he likes it. Likes you.

He finds one of your hands, the one that’s dancing over his head–too much to touch, can’t decide what to do with it, you can’t–and shoves it down, drags it between his legs and pushes your hand in and his hips out and that’s–

“That what you want?” he growls. “My knot? You want my knot, baby?”

And if your hand wasn’t grounded on his cock, if he wasn’t burning his way into your palm, you’d be on fucking Venus by now, shot straight up to the sky by his body, his voice.

“Jen–!” you squeak, because that’s all the oxygen you can spare.

He thrusts against your hand again and bites your lip, and he’s fucking swelling from your touch and good christ.

“Yeah,” he hums. “I know. I know you do.”

He shoves you away, and down goes Frazier, right back into the flowers.

He pulls off his shirt and it’s like he was reading your mind, the way he curls up your body in one quick move.

Predatory, your brain manages, a second before it cheers: Alpha! Leads your whole body in the chant as you watch him, this bright beautiful thing that’s coming straight for you.

He straddles your hips, plants a hand beside your head, and fucks his tongue into your mouth. It’s not sweet or exploratory anymore: it’s possessive. Consuming. Far out freaking fantastic.

When you try to play along, try to kiss him back, he makes a noise that says “NO.” That says “Lie back and take it” and that’s pretty much the best thing you’ve heard. Ever. For once you and your biology agree: time to let somebody else drive.

He’s riding you as you kiss, his hips turning on top of yours, and your cock is waging a loud campaign for freedom, especialy when he shifts down, starts licking your neck and nudging his cock under yours and shit, oh shit, oh–

“Shh,” he bites into your throat. “It’s ok. You can have it, baby. All yours.”

Something comes out of your mouth that may have once been English as he sits up and manhandles you out of your shirt, fucking attacks your belt–“Shoes, Jay,” he orders, and hell yes shoes–and then strips you free from the rest of your stupid clothes and why did you put pants on this morning, anyway? What the hell were you thinking?

He pulls away, and you want to watch him undress, watch him unwind from his jeans and his goddamn gorgeous cock appear, but your body is in overdrive, all your senses haywire and frantic as you run slick and shudder and drown in fucking alpha, this cloud of happy that’s keeping you nailed to the bed so that even your head won’t rise, won’t let you look, but that’s ok, because Jen comes right the fuck back for you. His skin feels like pins and needles on yours, warm and weirdly familiar and–

“God,” he groans, his fingers digging into your shoulders. “Do you ever stop talking?”

He arches away, and you can see him and. Wow.

“Holy fuck,” you wheeze.

He catches your eye and laughs, a little breathless.

“We’ll see about that,” he says. “But thanks for your vote of confidence.”

You reach for him. Run your fingertips over his knot, up the condom he’d managed to sneak on, and back. Balance his knot in your palm and watch his hips jerk, his cock stretch the latex, his face drift from snarl to smile and back again.

“You’re beautiful,” you say, and yeah. Wow. He is.

His whole body shudders and he pushes your hand away.

“Jay,” he groans. “Baby. I can’t–I have to–”

He shifts, stretches out over you and works his way in. Your body knows what it’s doing, makes it as easy at it can with all that slick, but still. It takes a minute for you to adjust, for him to fall flush against you and growl, which you can’t help but echo.

Though yours sort of comes out like a purr.

“Fuck,” he breathes in your ear.

“That’s the idea,” you pant, and he laughs again. Kick his hips in hard, like a dare, until you squeak for him again and grab his ass, try to slow him down, try to get him to speed the fuck up because goddamn! he feels amazing. Tastes even better as he matches his mouth to yours, sucks up all the noises he’s driving out of you with every fucking thrust.

Then he sits up a little which no no no and starts fisting your cock fast which yes ok please please yes–

He’s looking down into your eyes and smiling, half-predator, half-loving. All Jen.

You catch his jaw in one hand and stare right the fuck back and come, feel the wet on your chest to match that between your legs, around his cock, and say–something that’s lost as soon as it leaves your mouth, your body still fucking into his fist as he shoves into you. And then he moves, lets you go and slams his hands next to your shoulders and starts pounding, his eyes closed, his mouth set, his whole body focused on his cock. On you.

His knot must nudge inside you at some point in your purple haze, becuase when he start to come –panting and dripping and sweet–you feel your body bear down, automatic, autonomic, until it’s not clear who’s trapping who.

He rolls over, your bodies locked, and you stretch out face-to-face. Tease his lips with your thumb, stroke his chest and his neck. Watch his face ripple as his cock keeps soldiering on, keeps pumping out come even though it’s locked in latex.

Which you aren’t disappointed about. Really.

He opens one eye.

“Dude,” he says. “Seriously. I am not parent material.”

Fuck. How does he do that?

“Because your inner monologue is broken,” he yawns, tracing his fingers over your ribs. “I fucked it right out of you.”

“Pfft,” you manage, which makes him smile.

“Thank you,” you say, after a while.

“Welcome,” he rumbles, his face falling into your chest. “Mmm. Don’t let me fall asleep.”

You stroke his spine. Catch his shoulder blades under your hands.

“I won’t,” you say.

You watch him drift, feel him relax in your arms as the knot falls. Reach down and free him. Tie off the condom and roll over, drop it somewhere. Hopefully not in his boot.

When you come back, he grabs you. Turns you in his arms so his face is pressed against your neck, his tongue lazing over your skin.

“Like cotton candy,” he sighs. “God, Jay.”

It’s not supposed to be like this. You’re pretty fucking sure.

It’s supposed to be: hormones, fuck, and done. Omega ass, meet Alpha knot. Hi. Nice to meet you. Goodbye.

It’s not fair to compare, but. Yeah.

That’s how it’s been, for you.

Maybe that means something. Maybe it doesn’t.

Maybe you can’t be expected to figure out a fucking thing with him wound around you like this, his fingers around your wrist, his ankle tucked over your calf.

So ok.

Ok.

It’s been that kind of day.

(Love, your heart says. But you close your eyes and pretend like you didn’t hear.)

5 thoughts on “My Time of Day

  1. Pingback: You Can Get Odds Forever | cute girl discount

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