Wrong Place, Wrong Time
Author: T.W. Lewis
Title: Wrong Place, Wrong Time
Gift for: Jen Snyder
Rating: NC-17
Fandom: Sentinel
Pairing: Jim/Blair
Notes/Warnings: Jen asked for Jim/Blair and offered the prompts Endearments, Peyote and Sideburns. Blair is on the young side here, but above the age of consent.
As soon as he could string two coherent thoughts together, Jim promised himself, he was going to kill Mercheson. Bad enough the man had dragged them all the way to Rainier for a kegger so he could say goodbye to his girl before they shipped out. But there had been something in those brownies, not hash, something stronger, something that made the dorm floor roll like the deck of a ship and the walls swirl with black spots and vortexes. Jim stumbled from room to room, clutching random people for balance, some of whom laughed or kissed him, some of whom yelled and shoved him off to careen in a new direction like a pinball in play. "God," Jim groaned, "What the hell was that stuff?"
He stumbled again, this time into a skinny kid, knocking them both to the floor in a tangle of limbs.
"Ow!" yelled the kid.
"Sorry," Jim mumbled, trying and failing to get up on his own.
"Here, let me," said the kid, getting to his feet and hauling Jim up. "Man, you are totally wasted, aren't you? What did you take?"
"Don't know," Jim groaned, swaying on his feet. "Brownies."
"Oh, shit," said the kid. "Gary put peyote in those; how many did you have?"
Jim frowned, trying to remember how to count.
"Here," said the kid. "Lemme take you outside for some fresh air. I'll talk you down."
Fresh air felt good, cold and crisp, and the kid led him over to lie down in the tall grass of the college quad. He shivered, and the kid lay down beside him, radiating warmth like his own personal space heater. Jim mumbled appreciatively and nuzzled the kid's neck. He smelled really good. It should have been too dark out, but somehow Jim could see clearly in the starlight. The kid was short, gangly, just starting to fill out with muscle, and his mop of dark curls, enormous eyes and lush mouth made him look about twelve, though he must be in his late teens. Couple of years, though, and he'd be breaking hearts left and right. "Too young to be atta kegger," Jim declared.
"Tha-anks," the kid drawled. "That's what everybody else says, too. They only let me hang out with them because I do the whole designated driver thing." He tugged gently but firmly on Jim's hand. "Here. Lie down in the grass."
Jim shook his head, which only made the swirls in his vision worse. "I-I'm seeing things...feels like I'm gonna crawl out of my skin."
"It's not real," said the kid, soothing him with a gentle hand up and down his arm. "Just listen to me. Focus on my voice." He pulled Jim down to lie on the lawn with him. The stars seemed to spin overhead, and Jim moaned and buried his face in the kid's shoulder. "Shh, it's okay. It's okay. Just ground yourself. Listen to my voice. Feel the breeze and the ground underneath us. Everything's fine."
The soft flannel shirt felt good against his face, and Jim nuzzled the kid's neck. He imagined he could hear the kid's heartbeat, smell his worry and his growing arousal. It had to be the peyote; that, or he was losing his mind! But there was something to this grounding stuff: the more he focused on the kind voice and the warm, willing body beside him, the less dizzy he felt. His senses were still ratcheted up, sharper, clearer, but it felt good, felt right. The trees were rustling, roaring softly in the wind, and from miles away, the ocean sang counterpoint. Underneath him, earthworms squelched through the twisted labyrinth of the soil and the grass strained up to caress his skin. He felt a human hand gently petting his hair, soothing him, and he sighed, nuzzling the kid's sweet hair, his delicious throat, until the heartbeat sped up, pulsing quick against his mouth.
"That's, um, oh God," the kid murmured, voice cracking slightly. The skin under the kid's waistband was soft, contrasting with the rough crinkle of hair and the firebrand of his cock. Jim swept a thumb over the tip, felt it twitch in response, and began jacking it slowly as he rocked against the denim-covered hip, hungry for contact. The quick, thundering heartbeat, the contrast of flannel and denim and skin, Jim swore he could actually taste the scent of arousal as his companion bit back a cry and spilled an abundance of hot juices into his waiting hand. Jim made a chuff of satisfaction, gave two more thrusts, and his senses flared, exploded white hot, and faded into bliss.
"That was amazing," came the happy, sleepy murmur. "I've never, I mean, not with..."
Jim chuckled and rubbed his face against the flannel again, his body still humming with traces of pleasure and the aftereffects of the drug. "You know, Chief, you'll probably get more offers if you look your age. Bet you'd look good with sideburns..."
"Yeah?"
Jim mumbled an affirmative and drifted off to sleep, feeling as though, for the first time in his life, he was home.
***
He awoke to a boot nudging his ribs. "Time to go, Ellison; rise and shine. You didn't sleep here all night, did you?"
Jim opened his eyes, confused, trying to remember where he was. He was lying outside on the campus green in damp clothes, his muscles complaining from sleeping on the hard ground. He peered up at the amused faces of the guys in his unit. "Must have," he said, and got to his feet. He looked around, but the campus was deserted at this hour of the morning. There was no sign of the kid. Had it all been some bizarre hallucination?
"You okay there, Ellison?" asked Mercheson.
"Fine, no thanks to you," he retorted automatically. He ran a hand over his face and caught a last whiff of musk, bringing with it a memory of warmth and safety and a voice telling him everything was all right. His spine straightened and a smile tugged at his lips. "I'm fine," he repeated. "Let's go."
End.
Title: Wrong Place, Wrong Time
Gift for: Jen Snyder
Rating: NC-17
Fandom: Sentinel
Pairing: Jim/Blair
Notes/Warnings: Jen asked for Jim/Blair and offered the prompts Endearments, Peyote and Sideburns. Blair is on the young side here, but above the age of consent.
As soon as he could string two coherent thoughts together, Jim promised himself, he was going to kill Mercheson. Bad enough the man had dragged them all the way to Rainier for a kegger so he could say goodbye to his girl before they shipped out. But there had been something in those brownies, not hash, something stronger, something that made the dorm floor roll like the deck of a ship and the walls swirl with black spots and vortexes. Jim stumbled from room to room, clutching random people for balance, some of whom laughed or kissed him, some of whom yelled and shoved him off to careen in a new direction like a pinball in play. "God," Jim groaned, "What the hell was that stuff?"
He stumbled again, this time into a skinny kid, knocking them both to the floor in a tangle of limbs.
"Ow!" yelled the kid.
"Sorry," Jim mumbled, trying and failing to get up on his own.
"Here, let me," said the kid, getting to his feet and hauling Jim up. "Man, you are totally wasted, aren't you? What did you take?"
"Don't know," Jim groaned, swaying on his feet. "Brownies."
"Oh, shit," said the kid. "Gary put peyote in those; how many did you have?"
Jim frowned, trying to remember how to count.
"Here," said the kid. "Lemme take you outside for some fresh air. I'll talk you down."
Fresh air felt good, cold and crisp, and the kid led him over to lie down in the tall grass of the college quad. He shivered, and the kid lay down beside him, radiating warmth like his own personal space heater. Jim mumbled appreciatively and nuzzled the kid's neck. He smelled really good. It should have been too dark out, but somehow Jim could see clearly in the starlight. The kid was short, gangly, just starting to fill out with muscle, and his mop of dark curls, enormous eyes and lush mouth made him look about twelve, though he must be in his late teens. Couple of years, though, and he'd be breaking hearts left and right. "Too young to be atta kegger," Jim declared.
"Tha-anks," the kid drawled. "That's what everybody else says, too. They only let me hang out with them because I do the whole designated driver thing." He tugged gently but firmly on Jim's hand. "Here. Lie down in the grass."
Jim shook his head, which only made the swirls in his vision worse. "I-I'm seeing things...feels like I'm gonna crawl out of my skin."
"It's not real," said the kid, soothing him with a gentle hand up and down his arm. "Just listen to me. Focus on my voice." He pulled Jim down to lie on the lawn with him. The stars seemed to spin overhead, and Jim moaned and buried his face in the kid's shoulder. "Shh, it's okay. It's okay. Just ground yourself. Listen to my voice. Feel the breeze and the ground underneath us. Everything's fine."
The soft flannel shirt felt good against his face, and Jim nuzzled the kid's neck. He imagined he could hear the kid's heartbeat, smell his worry and his growing arousal. It had to be the peyote; that, or he was losing his mind! But there was something to this grounding stuff: the more he focused on the kind voice and the warm, willing body beside him, the less dizzy he felt. His senses were still ratcheted up, sharper, clearer, but it felt good, felt right. The trees were rustling, roaring softly in the wind, and from miles away, the ocean sang counterpoint. Underneath him, earthworms squelched through the twisted labyrinth of the soil and the grass strained up to caress his skin. He felt a human hand gently petting his hair, soothing him, and he sighed, nuzzling the kid's sweet hair, his delicious throat, until the heartbeat sped up, pulsing quick against his mouth.
"That's, um, oh God," the kid murmured, voice cracking slightly. The skin under the kid's waistband was soft, contrasting with the rough crinkle of hair and the firebrand of his cock. Jim swept a thumb over the tip, felt it twitch in response, and began jacking it slowly as he rocked against the denim-covered hip, hungry for contact. The quick, thundering heartbeat, the contrast of flannel and denim and skin, Jim swore he could actually taste the scent of arousal as his companion bit back a cry and spilled an abundance of hot juices into his waiting hand. Jim made a chuff of satisfaction, gave two more thrusts, and his senses flared, exploded white hot, and faded into bliss.
"That was amazing," came the happy, sleepy murmur. "I've never, I mean, not with..."
Jim chuckled and rubbed his face against the flannel again, his body still humming with traces of pleasure and the aftereffects of the drug. "You know, Chief, you'll probably get more offers if you look your age. Bet you'd look good with sideburns..."
"Yeah?"
Jim mumbled an affirmative and drifted off to sleep, feeling as though, for the first time in his life, he was home.
***
He awoke to a boot nudging his ribs. "Time to go, Ellison; rise and shine. You didn't sleep here all night, did you?"
Jim opened his eyes, confused, trying to remember where he was. He was lying outside on the campus green in damp clothes, his muscles complaining from sleeping on the hard ground. He peered up at the amused faces of the guys in his unit. "Must have," he said, and got to his feet. He looked around, but the campus was deserted at this hour of the morning. There was no sign of the kid. Had it all been some bizarre hallucination?
"You okay there, Ellison?" asked Mercheson.
"Fine, no thanks to you," he retorted automatically. He ran a hand over his face and caught a last whiff of musk, bringing with it a memory of warmth and safety and a voice telling him everything was all right. His spine straightened and a smile tugged at his lips. "I'm fine," he repeated. "Let's go."
End.