Before We Can Speak

Part V [jesus] in the Stray No More series. Standard warnings for RPF, knotting, and the possibility of mpreg.

In this story, Jared accidentally tells the truth and ends up in Jen’s arms.

Before We Can Speak

You lean on the freaking doorbell as hard as you can. Inside, you can hear the chime sound again and again, this tinny awful sound that hits your nerves just wrong, ratchets up your teeth that much higher.

He’s here. He’s gotta be.

His car’s in the driveway, for Christ’s sake.

But more that that, deeper, you know he’s here. You can feel it. Your body can.

So you lean and you wince and you pound on the door, now, one fist heavy against the wood and steady: pound. pound. pound.

 

And you’re panting in time with your fist: pound. pound. pound.

Then something makes you stop.

Wait.

Reach for the doorknob.

And the little fucker turns, just like that.

And some part of you says: fate. Some part of you says: meant to be. Some part of you says: oh shit. Maybe something’s happened to Jen.

The power of three, they push you inside, make you catch the door behind.

Make you call: “Jen? You here? It’s Jay.”

There’s this long silence, the kind you usually ache to fill, but this time, you keep your mouth shut.

Then you hear:

A foggy sound, something low and confused, coming from your left. From the den, a space you’ve practically lived in over the past couple of years, the one where you watched the Mavs give it up last fall, where you’ve had a dozen shouting matches over Madden, where you watched Jen drink a six-pack in a flash a few months ago and didn’t ask why, didn’t push, just rubbed his back and ignored the tears he soaked into your shoulder.

It’s how he deals when something’s gone south, always has, and you’re close enough to him—you were—to worry and want to push but then that’s Sam’s gig, not yours, and so you just sit by when that happens and make sure he knows he’s not alone.

Whereas you, you—

You fucked it all up. Put yourself, put him, in a position where what you needed couldn’t be ignored, by either of you, and that wasn’t fair to him, or to you.

And now look where you are. Breaking into the man’s house. Breaking up your own fucking life, piece by goddamn piece, and for what?

You know why.

It’s instinct. It’s biology.

It’s love.

You hear that noise again, cloudy and low, and so you go, follow your instinct, follow the noise: and there’s Jen.

He’s folded into the couch, rumpled and blinking and pissed. He stares up at you, shaking his head and moving his mouth like he expects words come out. Which they don’t. Just this kind of weird burble instead, one that gets caught in his teeth as his eyes try to work out what’s happening.

The sun’s setting, shooting streaks of light over the floor beside him, the table, and the light catches in a bottle, half glass and half liquid, because of course, of course this is how he’s chosen to deal. Jesus, you can see it now, on his mouth, a wet smear of sleep and booze. He’s beautiful and kind of a fucking mess and even the stink of drink can’t hide his smell, something low and sharp like pine, like evergreens on fire, that engulfs you as you stare.

Your eyes meet and his are dark, way down in the green and wet, so wet, god, and your body goes heat white twitch for him, shoots want through your blood and makes your stupid heart pound. pound. pound.

And fuck if you don’t go to him, curve around the couch and fall to your knees, get his face in your hands before he can move and just kiss him, god, kiss the hell out of that sweet sloppy mouth like a desperate man who’s drowning, who’s sinking, who’s saved.

He tastes like whiskey and nightmares and he sits up, his hands wild in your hair and he moans, fuck, pours it wanton into your throat and his mouth goes slack as you push in and suck and bite and flick his name over his lips with your tongue, teasing:

“Jen. Jen. Jen.”

This isn’t what you planned.

No.

Because on the way over, you had time to practice your lines. The ones you’d say when you got him face to face.

You’d sketched out a few different versions, variations on a theme: I’m sorry.

In one version, you groveled.

In another, you begged.

In another, you were serious and straight and looked him right in the eye when you said it, when you meant it: I’m sorry. I love you. Please.

In the last, you spilled your guts, went full out Steel Magnolias and dumped your heart on the coffee table. A remix of what came before, when you told her, tonight, at home over steak and baked potatoes.

You opened your mouth to say “Pass the salt” but “I love him” fell out instead, tumbled over your lips and landed next to the butter dish, sloppy red over the placemats your mom sent for Christmas last year. You stared at them because it was easier than seeing her face.

She didn’t yell. Didn’t get her hackles, her knot in a bunch. Didn’t cry.

It was the silence that got you, that kicked your tongue back into drive and you told her everything, you said too goddamn fucking much. You said stuff you didn’t know was true about him and you and how long it’s been and how much you don’t want to hurt her but—

“Jared,” she said. Slow. “Stop. Just stop.”

Something in her voice made you look up, made you brave, and she was staring right at you, hardened and sad.

“You should leave,” she said. “At least for the night. I can’t—you should just go.”

You got a whiff of the alpha in her tone, her smell, and you didn’t have to be told twice.

You ran.

Because that’s how you deal with things. Jen runs, too, flings himself into his booze, but you?

You just bail, when the going gets tough.

You run.

But this time, tonight, you had something to run to.

And you had time to think on the drive over, had time to plan, and so you thought you were ready, you were, damn it, and then he wouldn’t answer the doorbell when he was clearly fucking home and then you came in and you saw him stretched out and pliant and Jen and now he’s blown your plans to hell. Again. By being beautiful and eager as you kiss him, soft. Not like an alpha.

No.

Like Jen.

You clamber on top of him and it’s heavy and awkward and angles but he chases your mouth, stretches up to get you back and sighs so pretty and deep when he finds you, when he nicks your tongue and pulls you all the way in.

You rock down, steel slick between your legs and feel him groan, feel him kick his hips up and grind his cock into yours.

“Fuck,” he gasps. “Fuck, Jay.”

“Yes,” you breathe, lips fast over his cheek. “Yes, Jen. Please.”

Something in his face shifts. You can feel it more than see, and no. No, he’s not going to—

He turns his head, give you a mouthful of his hair, and tries to push you off.

“Jay,” he says, like it hurts. “No. I can’t. I can’t, it’s not—“

You drop down, put all your weight on his. Grab his face and force to look, force him out of his own head and back to you.

He’s flushed, the heat seeping into your mouth as you lap at his skin, kiss his forehead his eyelids his mouth, the one that opens right up for you, begs you to come in and lets you lick his doubts away as you buck against his cock, against the tight of his knot that’s blooming under your hips.

“Yes,” you pant. “Jen. Yes.”

He makes this sound, this broken hiss that makes your slick swell, and grabs your ass, squeezes and drives you down, rubs you low against his knot.

He whines for you, your alpha. Says your name, high and hot over your face, sighs: “Fuck, Jay. Please. Wanna fill you up. Let me. Let fill you up right–”

You grin against his jaw. Flick your tongue under his ear and slide, shiver down his body and yank his belt off. Pull his jeans his boxers away so fast you’re sure it hurt him. It must, because he’s so fucking full, his cock shaking under your fingers, his knot searing into your palm.

You lean down to lick and get this flash of sucking him down, of turning your tongue over the head and making him scream, letting yourself drown as his knot gives and gives and gives, fills up your mouth and down, but he’s rutting against your face, his hands battering your head, and he’s begging, incoherent and loud and desperate. So fucking desperate for you, your alpha.

So you stand up, let him go even though he growls. A warning. Kick off your shoes and peel away your jeans, your shirt, your boxers and watch his face go cloudy fast, his mouth working but his hips pinned to the sofa. Waiting for you.

You touch his face and he follows, tugs your fingers into his mouth and bites, hard. Moans and bucks up, his cock fucking furious and beautiful.

And that’s it.

The couch is too narrow even after you chuck the pillows on the floor, but fuck if you care with him stretched out under you, his tongue between his teeth as he touches you, runs his hand over your thigh.

“God,” he groans. “You smell so good, baby. So fucking sweet—please, Jay, fuck, ride me already, can’t wait much longer I’m—“

You straddle him the best you can, as fast, one knee knocking the floor and take him in, sink down as he arches up and the two of you meet somewhere in the middle, which seems just about right.

It’s not like it was before, back in that motel room, when he was measured with you. Almost tender. No. This time, as soon as you’re full, he’s screaming, his body going everywhere at once until you lean down, grab his wrists and pin them somewhere over his head.

He gasps, his eyes in yours wide and trusting and falling apart.

There’s a moment of still and still and you’re both shaking. Him dug deep inside, you holding him wet and fast and sure, his knot hovering, pushing, waiting.

“Jen,” you say, so much calmer than you feel. “I love you.”

His face shatters and he wails, fucks up as you fall down and comes, his knot pounding up and in and catching you, holding you as he shivers, these panicked little sounds dripping out of his mouth and his eyes wet and wet and wet.

You come with his fist under yours, your cock through his fingers and yours possessive on his wrist and cover him in a different kind of slick, one you work into his skin and lick off of his lips as he keeps pumping inside you and knotting you up tight.

It’s uncomfortable, then; too many limbs and not enough couch as you’re fused together like glass, sweaty and hot and sweet.

But your mouth fits over his just right and he keeps kissing you as night falls, as your legs go numb and your cock fills fast between you.

He laughs, breathless and fast. Bites “Love you, baby” into your shoulder as you rock off against his stomach, as you shoot like a kid over his chest, his knot sighing inside you. Retreating.

But you stay like that for a while. Close. Butterscotch and burning leaves. Candy corn and pinecones. You and Jen.

He strokes your face and hums into your ear.

No need to talk.

Not now.

Not yet.

But soon.

Until then, you trace his pulse under your palm. His heart.

Pound. Pound. Pound.