SPN ficlet - Heat Burst - John/Mary
A piece for 15minuteficlets and my 50scenes. I like it when I can cover two challenges with one ficlet.
TITLE: Heat Burst
RATING: R
CHARACTERS: John/Mary; little Dean
DISCLAIMER: Not mine
NOTES: 760 words. Written for the 50scenes prompt #3 - embryo, and 15minuteficlets prompt #186. Set for July 1982.
The heat burst is sudden and deadly, winds whipping up to over seventy out on the highway, traffic running slow, at a standstill when the dust takes visibility down to zero. John just wants to be home, but there’s no sense in driving when it’s like this. Better he gets home in one piece, so he rides the storm out, shifting into neutral, waiting for the sky to clear.
The air is thick with dirt, hot and choking, clogging the filter system. He’ll have to clean it out tomorrow, and that’ll mean another hour at the shop when he should be home with Mary and Dean.
The dust fucks with the radio, and it’s hissing and spitting static, weird whining whispers that he can’t quite make out. Great. Another job to add to the list of things that need doing.
He finally makes it home just after nine thirty. He gets out of the car and the heat is a solid wall, making the walk to the front door heavy work, a basic training march in full gear. The porch light is flickering crazily, and he knows they’re in for a night of it when he opens the door and the air inside is just as dense and warm as outside. Air con on the fritz, then, along with the electrics.
It’s dark and quiet downstairs, but there’s light coming from the landing as he trudges upstairs. He stops at Dean’s room, and the kid’s fast asleep, sprawled out on his new bed. He’s kicked off the blankets and the sheet is rucked around his legs.
John negotiates the minefield of fire trucks and GI Joes; tiptoes to the bed and untangles him carefully. Dean stirs and whimpers softly in his sleep. He’s bathed in sweat, his hair plastered to his skull as if Mary washed it before she put him in bed. He snuffles quietly when John pats his arm and presses a quick kiss to his little hot forehead.
Out on the landing the light fizzes, the bulb snapping and popping like a firecracker. Freaking electrical storms. He turns off the lamp and steps into their room. The window is open, and the breeze that ruffles the curtains is hot and uncomfortable. John strips off his sweat-soaked shirt, but it’s not enough. The heat crawls like an itch under his skin and he’s about to head for the shower when Mary sits up in bed.
She pushes back the sheets and she’s naked, the slick sheen of sweat on her flat belly glistening in the moonlight. She slides her hand down, fingers skimming over her stomach, trailing down between her legs to push inside.
John watches as Mary’s head tilts forward and he hears the soft slip-slide of her fingers. She smiles, and her other hand palms over her breast, and then she crooks her finger, beckoning him to her.
She doesn’t speak, doesn’t have to. John finds his way to the bed, and she slides her finger out, and reaches up to unsnap his jeans. She jerks them down, strips him roughly and he rocks into her touch, into the slick warmth of her fingers, the tight grip of her hand.
They haven’t done this in while. Three miscarriages in the last eighteen months, and the last one took its toll. He’s been careful with her, patient and gentle when she clings to him for comfort, not sex.
Somewhere in his head he remembers this, while Mary presses tiny fingertip-shaped bruises into his hipbones, flutters butterfly lashes across his stomach, breathes warm kisses over his cock.
He asks-Mary, you sure?-and the answer is a finger over his lips, a hand on the back of his neck pulling him down onto the bed beside her. She pushes him onto his back, and kneels over him, guides herself down onto his cock, achingly slowly. He reaches for her hips, but she slaps his hands away, and sways from side to side, rocking and grinding; watching him.
She licks her lips and slides her hands over her breasts; slow lazy circles that make his hips snap and jerk and he's coming. She smiles, sudden and bright and it’s then he sees it. Only for a second, blink and you'd miss it, but Mary’s eyes flash gold, like a cat’s.
He closes his eyes and when he opens them, the hallucination is gone. Mary is riding out her orgasm, her head thrown back. Then she’s collapsing onto him, her chest heaving, her body a furnace against his.
And outside the storm rages.
Prompt #186 - Thunderous
TITLE: Heat Burst
RATING: R
CHARACTERS: John/Mary; little Dean
DISCLAIMER: Not mine
NOTES: 760 words. Written for the 50scenes prompt #3 - embryo, and 15minuteficlets prompt #186. Set for July 1982.
The heat burst is sudden and deadly, winds whipping up to over seventy out on the highway, traffic running slow, at a standstill when the dust takes visibility down to zero. John just wants to be home, but there’s no sense in driving when it’s like this. Better he gets home in one piece, so he rides the storm out, shifting into neutral, waiting for the sky to clear.
The air is thick with dirt, hot and choking, clogging the filter system. He’ll have to clean it out tomorrow, and that’ll mean another hour at the shop when he should be home with Mary and Dean.
The dust fucks with the radio, and it’s hissing and spitting static, weird whining whispers that he can’t quite make out. Great. Another job to add to the list of things that need doing.
He finally makes it home just after nine thirty. He gets out of the car and the heat is a solid wall, making the walk to the front door heavy work, a basic training march in full gear. The porch light is flickering crazily, and he knows they’re in for a night of it when he opens the door and the air inside is just as dense and warm as outside. Air con on the fritz, then, along with the electrics.
It’s dark and quiet downstairs, but there’s light coming from the landing as he trudges upstairs. He stops at Dean’s room, and the kid’s fast asleep, sprawled out on his new bed. He’s kicked off the blankets and the sheet is rucked around his legs.
John negotiates the minefield of fire trucks and GI Joes; tiptoes to the bed and untangles him carefully. Dean stirs and whimpers softly in his sleep. He’s bathed in sweat, his hair plastered to his skull as if Mary washed it before she put him in bed. He snuffles quietly when John pats his arm and presses a quick kiss to his little hot forehead.
Out on the landing the light fizzes, the bulb snapping and popping like a firecracker. Freaking electrical storms. He turns off the lamp and steps into their room. The window is open, and the breeze that ruffles the curtains is hot and uncomfortable. John strips off his sweat-soaked shirt, but it’s not enough. The heat crawls like an itch under his skin and he’s about to head for the shower when Mary sits up in bed.
She pushes back the sheets and she’s naked, the slick sheen of sweat on her flat belly glistening in the moonlight. She slides her hand down, fingers skimming over her stomach, trailing down between her legs to push inside.
John watches as Mary’s head tilts forward and he hears the soft slip-slide of her fingers. She smiles, and her other hand palms over her breast, and then she crooks her finger, beckoning him to her.
She doesn’t speak, doesn’t have to. John finds his way to the bed, and she slides her finger out, and reaches up to unsnap his jeans. She jerks them down, strips him roughly and he rocks into her touch, into the slick warmth of her fingers, the tight grip of her hand.
They haven’t done this in while. Three miscarriages in the last eighteen months, and the last one took its toll. He’s been careful with her, patient and gentle when she clings to him for comfort, not sex.
Somewhere in his head he remembers this, while Mary presses tiny fingertip-shaped bruises into his hipbones, flutters butterfly lashes across his stomach, breathes warm kisses over his cock.
He asks-Mary, you sure?-and the answer is a finger over his lips, a hand on the back of his neck pulling him down onto the bed beside her. She pushes him onto his back, and kneels over him, guides herself down onto his cock, achingly slowly. He reaches for her hips, but she slaps his hands away, and sways from side to side, rocking and grinding; watching him.
She licks her lips and slides her hands over her breasts; slow lazy circles that make his hips snap and jerk and he's coming. She smiles, sudden and bright and it’s then he sees it. Only for a second, blink and you'd miss it, but Mary’s eyes flash gold, like a cat’s.
He closes his eyes and when he opens them, the hallucination is gone. Mary is riding out her orgasm, her head thrown back. Then she’s collapsing onto him, her chest heaving, her body a furnace against his.
And outside the storm rages.
Prompt #186 - Thunderous