i was just about to publish a post that was entirely incomprehensible, even to me. i finished typing it and could not make sense of it, reading it back. and then i realized i could have posted it and at least 50 of you homosexuals would have been like “so true king” and reblogged it
fine the post was “as i’m a homosexual (gay), i drive an orange car and often, when i’m rolling along 95 wind out of my hair (my car has a roof thank you,) i wonder if people look at me and think ‘they’re running on lasagna and pussy’.” a useless sentence!
dented my car very badly last week. the lasagna and pussy was a bit too strong, it seems
“Shh,” she says, the black grip of her prosthetic finger against his lip. “You must be conscious of volume.”
“I—I know, I just—c’mon, please, I’m—”
“Close?”
He nods, his hips stuttering upward in a desperate attempt.
“What will you do for me?”
“I’ll—” Jamison swallows and scrunches his eyes shut. Sweat sticks to his temples. “I’ll repay the favor. I will. Double.” Biting at the smile by the corner of his mouth, he gives his middle and index fingers an indicative pump. “Promise.”
“How very generous.” Her hand slicks up the length of his cock, thumb trailing just up the underside to swirl soft circles where he’s most sensitive. “And if I refuse?”
Neurons snap at the very thought. “I could—hah, I could—dunno, maybe—”
But Satya kisses him, softly, fully, drinking his disjointed words with a gentle kind of hunger. She smells like jasmine and tastes like the chocolate biscuits he’d left her and he absolutely cannot stand the slow attention she’s lavishing him with, one casual stroke at a time. If he could find the courage to curl an arm around her, perhaps he could pull her into his lap so he might tease her in return, but he remains as still as he can, prosthetic hand coiled into leather upholstery—the conference room is the last place he’d expected a wristie.
“I won’t refuse. I wanted to see your reaction.”
Jamison struggles for composure. “Why?”
“I like the way your mind works,” she says, and treats him to a tightening upstroke. “I wanted to see if you would come up with an alternative.”
“Oh.” His thoughts scatter, bewildered. She likes his mind? Is that a compliment? “Didn’t really—hah—didn’t give me a proper chance, you know. S’not fair.”
“I’m well aware.” The sharp gold-hazel of her eyes captures his attention. “There will be plenty of time for alternatives later. That is, unless you would rather adhere to your first suggestion?”
With a pleading moan locked behind his teeth, Jamison thrusts up into her hand again. She feels so fucking good; she drives him up a wall with varying speeds and how she likes to squeeze him just at where he’s thickest before teasing the wet bead of white down his tip, sending his sparking nerves aflame. His fingers itch to steal her like she’s some cherished painting worth millions but he sucks in a ragged breath and opens his eyes and looks at her because he must commit this to memory, he must: she sits across from him, one leg crooked behind his, an amused smile cresting her countenance, the crisp angles of her uniform a stark contrast to the patches on his unbuckled trousers.
“You name it,” he says, far huskier than he’d intended, “I’ll adhere to it.”
“Very well. I look forward to it, then.” It’s hot, breathless, spoken by his ear. The sheer promise in each syllable makes him want to shout.
Satya sharpens her speed and increases her grip, and then before he can manage a gasp, she leans forward and down and slicks the head of his cock between her lips and oh fuck, she feels fantastic—her tongue draws a thick line and she begins to suck and her hand pumps him with haste, a constant, tightening throb that arcs through him in laving fire—god, he can’t take it any longer, he can’t, please, please—
He shudders as a bolt of pleasure lances through him, sweet and aching and entirely perfect, and he tries to ride it out with desperate little rolls of his hips. She works him through each trembling shock and pulse; her hand mimics his thrusts and the welcoming heat of her mouth swallows every drop.
Utterly unwound, Jamison lets his left hand splay across her shoulder. The pristine fabric of her uniform dimples beneath his palm as he watches her draw away, her tongue tending to one corner of her mouth. He knows he ought to say something, but his mind is pleasantly blank.
“Acceptable?”
He nods, dazed.
“Good.” She sidles closer, prosthetic fingers combing back a stray jet lock from her bun. “The others will be here soon. I will leave repayment to your discretion. You did say double, correct?”
“Double,” he says, testing the word. “Yeah. Yeah, I think so. Double.”
A moment ticks by where she seems to study him. “Will this be a continuously transactional arrangement?”
Jamison frowns. “Meaning?”
“A favor for a favor for a favor, ad infinitum.”
“Ad infinit—” He feels somehow tongue-tied, like he’s a little too drunk. “Uh, maybe? If that’s what you want. You won’t hear no complaints from me. Honestly, I’m just—”
She kisses him once more, damp fingers lined along his jaw; it drops the words right back down his throat. He finds himself leaning in, eager, ecstatic, his heartbeat a harrowing thunder ensconced beside his lungs. He slides his palm around her waist and to the small of her back, and then she’s situated between his thighs, her breath a soft flutter against his lips.
“Double it is, then,” she says.
“Double,” he agrees. “Ad infinitum?”
Satya’s aplomb fractures with a snicker. “If that is what you want. Ad infinitum.”
Jamison has had his fair share of bad ideas, and this is undoubtedly one of them.
Not that jacking off in the shower is a bad idea, because it isn’t. It is discreet, private (relatively speaking), a form of stress relief, and requires far less cleanup than he presently has the energy for—which, by all accounts, should categorize it as a good idea. And it is, really, when he considers the pros and cons, because he would much rather spend a few extra minutes rubbing one out than suffer a stubborn stiffie for hours on fucking end, and he already has trouble getting to sleep as it is without being distracted by that telltale tightness in his trousers; he doesn’t need any of this.
But while it isn’t a bad idea by inheritance, it is the chosen subject matter that makes it particularly bad. There are countless things he could think of to help himself along, and yet his mind is firmly focused on the one person who would never want him in a sexual sense.
Maybe it would have been better if he hadn’t discovered her real name. ‘Symmetra’ is a lovely moniker and as impersonal as one can get with corporate uniforms and prim makeup and polished nails, but Satya—oh, fuck him, just the sound of it is beautiful—Satya is personable and dresses in little blouses and bikinis and lathers herself in sunscreen and laughs at his jokes and pokes him playfully on the nose and mimics his accent and gives him the rest of her drink (“It’s clearly your favorite”) and keeps his painted grenade shells and—
Jamison bites his lip to suppress a groan, his back pressed flush against the cool tile of the shower wall. He sits upon the stall’s bench, prosthetics removed, doused with drumming water, and he palms his cock with a degree of hesitance, still not entirely sure of his decision. He knows he should because this damn erection has been around since seeing her in practically nothing (wet, soaked, strips of sapphire clinging to every delicate curve) and if it hasn’t buggered off by now he’s certain it isn’t likely to go away on its own, but that doesn’t stop him from second guessing himself because if she knew about this at all, if she somehow found out, it would be—
Fucking terrible, actually, because his stupid fantasies always involve more than just her sitting there with her clothes off, and, well, maybe that’s just not how she is? Maybe he’s got her all wrong in his head, that the intimate personality he’s dreamed up is something too different than how she’d be in reality, but—
God, she’s hot in his lap and grinding against him, kissing his chin, his cheek, his brow; she’s running her hands through his hair and murmuring soft little praises when he glides his tongue over her clit, deliciously thick thighs squeezing him close; she’s whispering his name (“Oh, Jamison, please”) as he slicks two fingers in and then the length of his cock; and she’s always enjoying herself, always, and she tells him as much because hearing her is a turn on all in itself, but sometimes she tells him what to do, how to do it, what things she likes, how she’d love to feel him lose himself and come (and it wouldn’t matter where because he likes making a mess and she doesn’t mind; on her back, on her breasts, in her mouth, or—oh, if she’d let him—god, please—he’d come deep inside so he could feel her squeeze and clench through every god damn earth-shattering second of his orgasm) and just the idea, the concept, the very fucking notion of her getting off with him (because god if he doesn’t imagine it) is almost too much to bear and it makes his blood sing with unfettered want and he doesn’t bloody care if poetics are stupid or cheesy—he absolutely aches for her.
Jamison starts to stroke himself under the running water, unable to resist a second longer. It doesn’t matter if his fantasies are wrong or ridiculous, it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t; they’re just fantasies and it’s not like Satya would want to fuck him anyway, so why not indulge? His mind is already astir with how she’d looked on the beach today in that tiny set of togs (and it’s torturous; he runs that image of her over and over and over again in his thoughts, drenched and dripping out of the ocean, a siren straight from seafoam; if she were a record, he would be wearing grooves into her with the sheer frequency and he cannot seem to make himself stop) and it’s clear he needs to hurry and finish up already so he can finally focus on other things, so—why not, right? What’s the harm in another bad idea?
He releases a breathy sigh as he works his cock in a tight upstroke. His hips rise just slightly from the bench, a desperate little movement, and he tries to find the right rhythm. Pleasure knits through him and he grits his teeth, eager for more.
She would be—yes, in his lap, legs spread around his hips, and that sleek little sapphire piece would be nudged just to the side so he could feel how wet she’d be (and because of him; she’d make sure to tell him that: I’m like this because of you) and maybe she would tease him a while, rubbing herself against the bare underside of his cock, kissing him senseless and nipping at his jaw. Her kisses would be addicting and he’d never get enough; he would kiss her mouth, her throat, her collarbone, and she’d pepper his shoulders with gentle pecks and soft bites to match all his birthmarks and freckles.
Eventually, she’d look him in the eye and grab hold of him, angling the tip of his cock against the slick wetness soaking between her legs, and then she’d let him in—oh, god, yes—just a bit at a time because it’s been a while, she needs to adjust, it’s all right, and she’d slowly take him in, the wet heat of her clenching around him in such a dizzying way until she’d sit fully on top of him with him buried to the hilt and her hands gripping at his shoulders, her countenance laced with lust.
He’d ask her if she’s okay—because you’ve always got to ask, common courtesy, he’s got manners—and she’d nod and give her hips a delightful little roll, and then he’d clasp his hands on her and help her ride. It would be slow at first, sweet and gradual, all in her control, and she would be marvelous with her long jet hair tangled down her shoulders and the sleek sheen of perspiration on her beautifully dark skin. Maybe she would talk to him in the middle of it, maybe she’d tell him how good it feels, how much she’s wanted this, how she’s touched herself while thinking of this very moment, all while shifting forward and back or up and down to give him a fleeting taste of what it would be like to have her down beneath him where he could just let loose and drive in—
Jamison leans his head back against the damp tile, eyes squeezed shut. He pumps his cock with a hastened pace and tries to focus on each shivering skip of pleasure braiding down his backbone, on that wonderfully tightening coil. Toes curled, he straightens himself and presses his shoulders against the wall, a gravelly noise latched at the knot of his adam’s apple. He thinks of her kissing him, of her rocking over top of him, of her so hot and tight and perfect, and he is so close, so close, but not quite close enough—
Satya would moan his name, shaky and breathless in his ear. She would have one hand down between her legs so she could circle her clit and he’d thrust up into her, teeth on her shoulder (something to remember him by), trying his best to last because he wants to savor every second of this, but there is no way he could hope to keep up such a punishing pace without hitting his breaking point.
How close? he’d breathe, because he is just at the precipice; the slightest push and he would surely drop—
Close, she’d reply, and she would kiss him with such a fierce hunger that it’s as if she’s devouring the oxygen straight from his lungs.
Another few moments, and then something would trip. Oh, her voice; she would make a sound so sublime as she brings her forehead against his—Jamison, Jamison, oh, Jamie, please—and the tight heat around him would squeeze and contract and push in hot waves and he’d thrust upward to meet her because god she feels so fucking fantastic he can’t control himself, he can’t, he can do nothing but move, and—
Everything seizes up. Pleasure pulses through him in wracking spikes as he works his cock in his left hand, unbearable and wonderful and complete. Each stroke forces another tremulous shock up his spine, and he shivers as warm, thick jets of white slick his hand and stomach under the pouring water. He continues for as long as he’s able, reveling in the sweet sensation of total release, a moan pinned tight behind his teeth—he can’t let her name escape aloud.
When oversensitivity sets in, Jamison slumps back against the tile wall. He breathes in short gasps of steam and lets the water rain over him. Rivulets carve down his back and belly, soaking his hair into watery blond stalactites over his eyes. Exhaustion starts to seep in; it inundates just behind his temples before splaying out to encompass his shoulders, his arms, his hips, his leg (and what’s left of the other).
He blinks away drops of water, spent.
Fuck.
With a tremble in his arm, he lifts his hand toward the shower handle, gives it a curt strike to cold, and then lets his fingers hang beneath the showerhead so that the evidence can be ushered down the drain. The sudden temperature contrast jolts ripples of gooseflesh up his arms, but he ignores it. Suffering a little discomfort in the aftermath probably serves him right.
Once his belly has been given a quick scrub, he wipes the water from his face with the stump of his forearm before shutting off the shower. The hollow sound of rushing runnels trickling through the grout and down the grate seems to echo in the empty space of the washroom—all of the others have long since retired to their beds, Satya included.
Jamison forces down a swallow, willing himself not to think about the painted grenade shell he’d seen drop from her hand or the wry little smirks she employs at his jokes or the fit of unabashed laughter she’d succumbed to not six hours ago. It is more difficult than he would care to admit; his mind is a mess, tearing toward her and his work and whatever mission’s next on the docket and the notes he’d scribbled in her blueprints (he tells himself it’s not a mistake) and it feels like all of him wants to split away in every direction so he can be everywhere at once—which is very much not here and very much not alone.
He presses his palm into the space just over his heart. A twinge settles somewhere under his jagged heartlines.
It aches, yeah, but…
God, surely a bad idea’s not supposed to make it ache like this?
Losing himself might not be such a bad thing after all, he thinks, his mouth hot on her neck.
Even as a child, it has always been difficult for Jamison to keep his thoughts straight. Everything seems to race, a constant leap from one topic to the next, prompted by swatches of conversation and pretty things that catch his eye and loud cracks of sudden noise that fissure through his chest like the thrum of thunder. His attention is a soft putty pooled in someone else’s hand; thumb and fingers mold it into a different shape every few minutes, forever driving his focus to something else, something else, something else, to insignificant things that hold no true bearing, and yet regardless of where it catches, it always boomerangs back to lovely sets of charges and bundled sticks of dynamite and bottles of chemical compounds he knows by sight and smell alone, no labels required.
He can never be certain where his thoughts will take him, but there is one thing he is certain of: everything is better when she’s near.
He doesn’t even remember when it started. It must have been a few months ago at the very least. Over the course of the past half year, her presence has gradually become a more comfortable and familiar phenomenon, one that seems to have somehow crept up while his back was turned so that it could envelop him without his cognizance. Whether it was tinkering in the workshop or slapdash dinners in the mess hall or those rare moments stolen out by the beach, she would ensnare him with quiet snickers and subtle humor and the plots of very cheesy Indian films, and then there came the times where he’d be aboard the ORCA with her in the adjacent seat and all of him seemed to suddenly settle, as if simply having her near granted him this new, superseding focus that could somehow ascend the distracting clamor of everything else.
It is perhaps one of the more remarkable things he’s experienced. Not because being consumed so utterly by something that isn’t gunpowder and grenades makes him feel all fluttery inside, but because shipping out is a delight for reasons beyond exercising his thumb upon a detonator’s switch and because returning to the watchpoint means more time spent entangling with her. Formal events are bearable, his downtime is an envious balance of production and dalliance, and assignments are barely assignments at all.
But he still loses himself, just as he always does. He loses himself in her like he loses himself in coils of wire and chemical amalgams during late nights upon the workshop floor because he must finish this set of explosives, he absolutely must—because doesn’t know when his thoughts will still long enough again for him to focus, for him to properly work, for him to put all the little pieces together without thinking about the twenty other things he should have done the other night or last week or a bloody fortnight ago.
Satya isn’t lovely sets of charges or bundled sticks of dynamite or bottles of chemical compounds, but she might as well be. The rest of the world could erupt into nuclear holocaust, and he’d never even notice.
“Please,” she says against the wall, and it is decidedly disheveled and shed of all the pleasantries such an entreaty would entail; “if you don’t stop teasing, I don’t know what I will do with you.”
“I’ve got some suggestions if you’ve got an ear.” Aching and hard, Jamison mouths yet another kiss along the column of her neck. He is flush against her back, his left hand plunged beneath the pleats of her sweeping sapphire saree petticoats. “Thought you wanted to wait ‘til we got back? You’re the star of the show, after all. Guest of honor. Probably be a bit conspicuous if she went missing. What about the monkey and the others?”
“I’m not worried. Patience is one of their virtues. They will survive not seeing me for twenty minutes.” Satya glances over her shoulder, gold-hazel eyes mirthful and alight. Loose locks of jet hair ruin her perfect bun. “What about you?”
Sparks snap in his belly. “Patience was never one of mine.”
“Then hurry.”
Jamison hates wearing suits, anyway.
His heart is his own cannonade as he thrusts in. Her saree is cumbersome and the folds flow far past his legs, but she feels exquisite and the crystal in her left palm etches the circled faces of moons into his bare back and her thick thighs around his hips lock him in. He kisses an exposed shoulder and shudders at how hot and wet she’s become, thoughts mussed, nerves exulting. Stifled noises catch in her throat with each swift movement of his hips, and he leans her back against the wall with his hands clamped on her generous rear, breathing heavy curses into her hair and against her mouth.
It’s hard to handle how inexplicably good she feels. She is at the center of everything with her gorgeous eyes and radiant skin and lilting accent, and the posh, raucous gala he’d never wanted to attend seems so impossibly far from this darkened corridor, an entire universe away, inconsequential and boring and completely pointless. He’d rather let his focus drip away, let his hands wander, let her come around his cock; he’d much rather lose himself here with her than work himself back into that stuffy suit jacket and sit around tables of their merry ragtag band of teammates and clusters of too-important VIPs, all demanding to see the bombshell sighing his name.
Satya is all consuming, even as she crumbles apart. With a helping hand between her legs, she kisses him to suppress the noise, and all he can seem to think is mine,mine,mine, a punctuation at the hilt of every thrust. Her muffled moans splinter through him like a thunderstorm and the tight heat around him feels sublime and nothing else in the world matters more than how perfect everything is in this moment, however brief—her prosthetic arm hooked around his neck, her legs squeezed around his hips, Jamison on her talented tongue.
When he comes, it’s hard and pulsing and messy and good, but she ushers him on until he’s entirely breathless and spent, a deep exertion corded in his thighs. He leans his metal arm against the wall to allow himself a moment to recover, and as he draws in long, jagged breaths, the world slowly starts to bleed back in, blot by blot: her hiked saree, his discarded gear, the slickness of their sweat, the twilit corridor, the opulent gala below, the evening’s warm air.
She presses her forehead to his, nose to nose, eyes half open. Her hair may be out of place and her petticoats may be rumpled and her saree may have come unpinned, but she is just as magnificent now as she was at the night’s inception.
Jamison kisses her, overcome, his thoughts as still as a looking glass.
She can’t forget Anne’s hands, the carefulness of them, how they moved between her legs. Gentle, when Anne didn’t have to be.
Max learns her name from one of the girls. Anne Bonny, one of the fiercest members of Charles Vane’s crew, and someone Max should definitely stay away from - someone not to be trusted, nor someone to be thought of in the still hours of the night.
So why can’t she stop thinking about Anne’s hands? And how it would feel to be touched by her in another way? Why does she think of what it would take to bring a smile to Anne’s lips?
* * *
Max doesn’t let herself think about love, not after Eleanor. There is no point. No other woman she will want to run away with. There is no other woman for her, not now. She had never meant to fall in love with Eleanor, but she had, and look where it got her? Love, Max knows very well, is for fools.
Anne Bonny is a pirate, she’s killed a fair share of men, she drinks with them, sails with them, kills with them. She takes no interest in Max, except for that day on the beach. Max pretends she doesn’t watch her when she catches her lingering outside the tavern, glancing up at the windows, but she does, from behind a shutter, wondering who it is that Anne’s hoping to see.
She watches how Anne is with the other members of her crew. The only one she seems to give a shit about is Jack Rackham. Max makes note of this, saving the information for when she will have need of it. She has learned the value of knowing things, storing the secrets until they have use in the daylight.
* * *
Anne Bonny doesn’t like her being partners with Jack, or rather she doesn’t like Jack being business partners with her. Max knows the difference and she can work with that. Initially she thought she’d win over Jack. He has a cock between his legs after all, and he thinks highly of himself; he would be easy to sway.
But Anne…she can’t help thinking about Anne.
* * *
She sets out to seduce Anne, and she thinks it’s working, from the way the woman’s eyes follow her when she walks through the room, the way Anne can’t bear to be touched, but lingers near all the same, as though hoping Max’s fingers will brush over her sleeve again.
She didn’t mean to be seduced herself.
* * *
She dreams of Anne’s mouth, kissing between her legs, and wakes, her own hand there instead. Max lies there in the dark, dreaming of the pirate woman, and the way her hands had touched her in the tent, after everyone else had left her, and she thinks, even if this is not love, it is something worth following, worth knowing. She wants to know Anne, no matter where it leads, and for the first time, she is afraid of her own heart.
I know, baby, I really tired you out, didn’t I? You might want to keep that in mind next time when you ask me to use you as if you were one of my toys… but you’re always such a good slut for me.
What? I can barely understand you, cutie. Let me clean you up and I promise I’ll lay with you. Of course I’ll hold you. I’ll always hold you. Yes, and kiss you. Duh!
You were so good. You sounded so good. Everything about you always makes me want you more. I love you.
No, no round two, I know you’re tired. That was like… four rounds, if you ask me, technically.
We can watch whatever you want. I’ll massage your wrists and get you water– okay, and I’ll put chocolate chip cookies in the oven. And play with your hair.
…Are you sure that was all good? You’re still shaking. Okay, good.
You’ve been texting me all day saying you miss me and you wish you were here so I can love on you, and I’ve been thinking the same thing, except I’d be reminding you who you belong to, and going between your thighs to get to your heart ;)
Such a good whore, asking to kneel under my desk. Your mouth feels amazing, but it’s going to feel even better when I’m inside you and bending you over it instead to have my fun with you. After I punish you for distracting me, of course.
I can’t wait until I get to wake you up with my kiss, my tongue, my fingers… being inside you would be the highlight of my day. Do you want to live with me? Do you dream about getting on your knees for me on our bedroom floor? Calling out my name as you follow every instruction, and falling into a bliss you know only I can give you?
I want to kiss you everywhere and hear you cry out for me. But first you have to be a good girl for me and listen to what I say, or I won’t give you anything.
You’re so cute when you say my name to get my attention over a video call, just to flash me. And then you grin like you’re proud. And you definitely should be, angel. Just like I’m proud that you’re mine, and I’m the only one who gets you like this.
The trust we have in each other is overwhelming sometimes. I never knew it could feel this good. We care, we respect, and we communicate with each other. Every day with you is even better than the last. I love taking care of you, I love treating you like you’re precious, and I love treating you like a toy. All mine to do anything I want to do, but overall, to make sure you’re happy and healthy. Thank you for doing the same.
You act like such a brat sometimes, and it’s cute. You know that half the time I can’t say no to you anyway, and you’re just trying to get me to be more rough with you. But I just want to give you everything you want and get that sweet little smile out of you when I make you cum. The other half of the time I want to give you what I’ve got, what I want to give you, firm or harsh or gentle, because I know you’ll take it like a good slut.
A/N: This is a birthday present for one of the first people I ever talked to here on Tumblr, @but-deans-back-tho (aka Allie). Allie encouraged me to let my smutty freak flag fly instead of hiding the fact that I essentially spend most of my time here reading porn. This is personalized for Allie, but written as a reader insert, so everyone else can enjoy it, too. Special thanks to @littlegreenplasticsoldier who beta-read this for me and has been generally wonderful as fuck to me the past few weeks.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, ALLIE!!
Summary: Dean wants to celebrate your new job by taking care of you in a new way.
Pairing: Dean x Reader (Allie)
Warnings: All the smut, but no butt stuff. Any other warnings would just be spoilers.
Word count: 4515 (I regret nothing, Allie deserves the best.)
As you drove home from your first day as a veterinarian, you couldn’t stop smiling. All the years of hard work, all the studying, all the time away from friends and family, had finally come together. You had your first job as a full-fledged veterinarian at a thriving practice. The first day had been mostly getting oriented, filling out tax forms, meeting the staff, and learning where everything was. Near the end of the day, though, you’d had a chance to help with an emergency surgery when a dog had swallowed a child’s sock. The dog was doing well, and you got go home with a feeling of accomplishment.
Sure, it would be better if Dean had been able to be there, but he was finishing a hunt with Sam, and you understood that he couldn’t always be there for you. Part time with your pie-loving Adonis was better than no time, and you would take what you could get. Besides, who else could boast that their boyfriend saved the world on a regular basis?
Your heart jumped when you pulled into your driveway and saw a certain black ’67 Chevy Impala. Just the sight of the black beauty got your motor running with inappropriate thoughts about its driver. Maybe this day would end perfectly, after all!
Jumping from your car, you ran along the side of your house to the back yard, following the sounds of Beckett barking, where you saw a sight that set your body racing. Dean was sitting on the steps of the deck wearing about half of a fireman’s uniform. The jacket and shirt were gone, leaving him bare-chested in the summer sun, only a pair of suspenders keeping your eyes from taking in all of his freckles. Your dog, Beckett, was running back and forth in the yard, racing to catch a tennis ball every time Dean threw it. Dean always grumped that he didn’t like dogs, and cats ranked right up there with some dick angel called Zachariah, but he got along famously with Beckett and took allergy pills so he could handle being around Charlie. He said it was a small price to pay for time with you.
Beckett bounded back to Dean, ball in mouth, happily giving it to Dean, who tossed it across the yard again. As he wound up for the throw, you watched the muscles in his shoulder and back play, bunching and stretching with the movement. His back was a work of art, the dips and planes mesmerizing to you. His shoulders were broad and powerful, his arms strong and well-muscled, and you started to get warm just thinking about how easily he could pick you up without breaking a sweat.
Summary:You’ve had a crappy week at work and sleep isn’t coming easy.
Characters:Reader, Dean
Pairings:Dean X Reader
Word Count: 2400
Warnings: Language, smut, unprotected sex, fluff
A/N: Thank you guys so much for reading. This is totally a self indulgent fic I wrote after a shitty day at work last week and I really needed some comforting Dean.
Tags are at the bottom. If you would like to be put on my Forever Fic Tag List, I’m changing my process becasue I know I have been forgetful. You can add yourself to my tag list on a Google Doc…LINK HERE
Ughhhhhh. Dammit, it had been a long night at work. Everything that could have gone wrong did and there was nothing you could do to fix it. It was out of control. Even though your job was physical sometimes, you liked that, it wasn’t the problem. Maybe problem was the wrong word, just every once in awhile, sometimes once a week, maybe once a month you were so mentally exhausted from the people you could feel it in your bones.
You put the car in park inside the Bunker’s huge garage, sitting there for a moment, listening to the rest of the song for no reason, it wasn’t like you were particularly fond of it, you just need a second, pressing your eyes closed and your head back against the seat.
Breathe in, breathe out, turn the key and the engine cuts. The door creaks and you walk up the stone, your steel-toed boots squeaking on the polished concrete. You try to be quiet, no one’s awake right now, but it’s hard as hell.
Post a line or three from a current WIP, and then tag @mi6-cafe so we can find and reblog it!
OR you can reblog this post with your WIP excerpt!
All ships, fandoms, and WIPs are welcome.
NSFW warning ahead. This is from a 00Q fic I’m writing where Bond finds an *ahem* spicy audio app on Q’s phone. (Moneypenny might have put it there, who knows?) Under the cut for reasons.
I uh- read the nine chapters in one sitting and I honestly don’t know what to feel or think tbh.
*takes a deep breath*
OP HOW!??!?!?!WHAT THE FUCK !?!??! WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?!!?!?
Hhhhhhhhhhh
Now full disclosure this isn’t everyone’s cup of tea all reasons included so read the warnings if you wanna read but like…don’t be an asshole and don’t send hate to op
![A Bad Idea[ Link to Ao3 ] Jamison has had his fair share of bad ideas, and this is undoubtedly one o](https://64.media.tumblr.com/389014bdbb2030cd10e45a4225e76659/tumblr_non2cs3k861us3io8o5_540.gif "A Bad Idea[ Link to Ao3 ] Jamison has had his fair share of bad ideas, and this is undoubtedly one o")
