Fic: By A Hand That's Touched Me
This was written for story_lottery prompt #18 - "the full moon."
OMGWTF: Dean-POV; explicit HET; I don't find this angsty at all, but I'm probably wrong, so I'll say mild angst. Also, this is the longest piece of pr0n I've written to-date. Go figure it would be m/f sexxin'. *shrugs*
By A Hand That's Touched Me
She comes to him, once, after the diamond bust goes down. It’s late, the full moon high and bright and sliding through the blinds, casting silver-gray shadows on the floor. Dean had been sleeping on the couch, infomercials playing in the background, when she knocks. As soon as the sound jars him out of his doze, he knows who it is, and there’s no hesitation when the lock slides back, when he twists the door knob. He doesn’t think there ever has been, and maybe that’s the problem.
But she’s there, tendrils of hair loose from the tail gathered at her neck, brushing her face. Everything’s soft, perfect, safe, and he steps aside, watches as her shoulder blades shift under her shirt (line of movement, muscle, that flares into hips, into ass) as she walks by him. She settles on the couch, shoes already off, stiff and balancing on the edge, like she doesn’t plan to be there long.
Things are shifting, are tilting sideways, all around him; everything he does feels like a reaction, a reply, a loss of control. The walk back to his couch feels like some kind of defeat, like it’s miles; he feels the weight of her body (expectation) against his side when he sits, and just a week ago he’d be jumping all over the chance--stripping her down, pressing her back, crawling into her and just holding on. I will, he thinks, I will.
Now, though, he thinks about all the times he went to her, stood at her door and wanted to say I don’t wanna be alone, and never did. Just took what she offered--a fuck, a look, a door in the face--and then walked away. He thinks about what she wants from Scott; what the man could offer her. He wonders what she wants from him.
But then it’s clear. It’s clear when she grabs his arm, carefully trimmed nails against the underside of his arm, kisses him. Soft slide of teeth and lips and tongue, plenty of breathing room. Gentle. Insistent. So he’s careful when he touches her face, hands slipping over cheeks and temples, to cup her neck and slip her hair out of its tail so his fingers can sift through the strands.
“Come on,” she says, breath ghosting over his face. “Let’s go to the bedroom.” And they’re standing, combined efforts manage to get her out of her jacket and shirt as they stumble down the hall, his eyes on the black lace of her bra, on the way the jeans ride the swell of her ass.
“I want,” she says, when they reach the bedroom, draw closer to his bed. Her lips are at his neck, making patterns with tongue and heat. “I want--” but he knows, and unzips the jeans, gets his fingers under the material of her panties (lace, and he knows without looking that they’ll match her bra), teases flesh and tight curls before sliding everything down her thighs where she can kick them off.
After that, he can work on the bra; unclasp the back and ease the straps down, kissing skin as it’s barred, as he lowers her onto the mattress. Feels skin tighten under his mouth, goosebumps shivering to the surface at the feel of his tongue. He feels the blunt edge of her nails through his shirt and the waistband of his boxers when her hands urge him on. The contact breaks when he skims lower, tongue dipping into the hollows of her stomach, her belly button, the sharp jut of hipbones.
Her hands rest on his skull when he tongues her open, tastes wetness and heat. Two, three swipes and she’s shaking, moaning and pulling him up; pressing her tongue against his lips, and he knows she’s looking for herself in his mouth. He can tell when she’s found it,--breathless giggle, quick sigh--before he’s moving his arm down, letting fingers take over where his mouth was.
Jaimie lifts her legs, then, and wraps them around his waist. His arm is trapped between them, pressure steady and constant as she drives herself down onto his fingers. Over and over, while he breathes in, smells her scent and something else, something too masculine to be her. Scott, he thinks, and raises his head. He’s not surprised to her already staring at him, eyes dark and glittering. Challenging, even when lines form between her brows and her even inhale/exhale becomes more like panting as he works his fingers deeper, steady thrusts that have her muscles fluttering around him.
“What,” he asks, voice low, snarling. Her eyes are shut, whether it’s because she’s close to coming or because she wants to block him out, he doesn’t really care. He just doesn’t want to see that calculating look on her face. It’s easier, like this. “Your boyfriend can’t get you off?”
She doesn’t respond, and he hadn’t really expected her to. He shuts up, keeps his fingers pressed inside, against the spot he knows so well, listens to her moan and feels heat spread over his skin as she comes. Dean feels her body relax, naked, pliant warmth against his shirt and boxers; it’s only seconds later when her legs slip down, bracket his thighs, but don’t contain him.
He presses a kiss against her collarbone, collects sweat and fresh air and a mix of JaimieDeanScott, before sliding to the side, resting, keeping space between them. He’s half-hard, and it’s a faint ache in the back of his mind. Jaimie knows--turns on her side, stretches her arm out, hand resting on his dick, and he grabs her wrist (shift of bone, skin) before she gets inside. “I’m fine,” he says, because he knows this could be something else--maybe not for her, and maybe he would never ask, but the silence can’t break the pretense. “It’s fine.” He moves her hand, and she lets it rest on his stomach, lets it become a light weight against him. Her face is quiet, calm, but her eyes flicker toward his face and away. Over and over, until he closes his own, blocks out everything.
“I have to go back soon,” her voice breaks the stillness, and he almost regrets it, almost smiles but his lips don’t move. “But--” she clears her throat, drums her fingers against the fabric of his shirt, against his skin. Onetwo, onetwo. “But, I could stay for awhile, you know? If you wanted.”
Her voice is unsure, and he folds a hand over hers, uses the other to pull her closer, rest her head on his shoulder. “Yeah,” he says, voice rough and low in his ears. “Yeah. For a little while.”
here is the table
OMGWTF: Dean-POV; explicit HET; I don't find this angsty at all, but I'm probably wrong, so I'll say mild angst. Also, this is the longest piece of pr0n I've written to-date. Go figure it would be m/f sexxin'. *shrugs*
By A Hand That's Touched Me
She comes to him, once, after the diamond bust goes down. It’s late, the full moon high and bright and sliding through the blinds, casting silver-gray shadows on the floor. Dean had been sleeping on the couch, infomercials playing in the background, when she knocks. As soon as the sound jars him out of his doze, he knows who it is, and there’s no hesitation when the lock slides back, when he twists the door knob. He doesn’t think there ever has been, and maybe that’s the problem.
But she’s there, tendrils of hair loose from the tail gathered at her neck, brushing her face. Everything’s soft, perfect, safe, and he steps aside, watches as her shoulder blades shift under her shirt (line of movement, muscle, that flares into hips, into ass) as she walks by him. She settles on the couch, shoes already off, stiff and balancing on the edge, like she doesn’t plan to be there long.
Things are shifting, are tilting sideways, all around him; everything he does feels like a reaction, a reply, a loss of control. The walk back to his couch feels like some kind of defeat, like it’s miles; he feels the weight of her body (expectation) against his side when he sits, and just a week ago he’d be jumping all over the chance--stripping her down, pressing her back, crawling into her and just holding on. I will, he thinks, I will.
Now, though, he thinks about all the times he went to her, stood at her door and wanted to say I don’t wanna be alone, and never did. Just took what she offered--a fuck, a look, a door in the face--and then walked away. He thinks about what she wants from Scott; what the man could offer her. He wonders what she wants from him.
But then it’s clear. It’s clear when she grabs his arm, carefully trimmed nails against the underside of his arm, kisses him. Soft slide of teeth and lips and tongue, plenty of breathing room. Gentle. Insistent. So he’s careful when he touches her face, hands slipping over cheeks and temples, to cup her neck and slip her hair out of its tail so his fingers can sift through the strands.
“Come on,” she says, breath ghosting over his face. “Let’s go to the bedroom.” And they’re standing, combined efforts manage to get her out of her jacket and shirt as they stumble down the hall, his eyes on the black lace of her bra, on the way the jeans ride the swell of her ass.
“I want,” she says, when they reach the bedroom, draw closer to his bed. Her lips are at his neck, making patterns with tongue and heat. “I want--” but he knows, and unzips the jeans, gets his fingers under the material of her panties (lace, and he knows without looking that they’ll match her bra), teases flesh and tight curls before sliding everything down her thighs where she can kick them off.
After that, he can work on the bra; unclasp the back and ease the straps down, kissing skin as it’s barred, as he lowers her onto the mattress. Feels skin tighten under his mouth, goosebumps shivering to the surface at the feel of his tongue. He feels the blunt edge of her nails through his shirt and the waistband of his boxers when her hands urge him on. The contact breaks when he skims lower, tongue dipping into the hollows of her stomach, her belly button, the sharp jut of hipbones.
Her hands rest on his skull when he tongues her open, tastes wetness and heat. Two, three swipes and she’s shaking, moaning and pulling him up; pressing her tongue against his lips, and he knows she’s looking for herself in his mouth. He can tell when she’s found it,--breathless giggle, quick sigh--before he’s moving his arm down, letting fingers take over where his mouth was.
Jaimie lifts her legs, then, and wraps them around his waist. His arm is trapped between them, pressure steady and constant as she drives herself down onto his fingers. Over and over, while he breathes in, smells her scent and something else, something too masculine to be her. Scott, he thinks, and raises his head. He’s not surprised to her already staring at him, eyes dark and glittering. Challenging, even when lines form between her brows and her even inhale/exhale becomes more like panting as he works his fingers deeper, steady thrusts that have her muscles fluttering around him.
“What,” he asks, voice low, snarling. Her eyes are shut, whether it’s because she’s close to coming or because she wants to block him out, he doesn’t really care. He just doesn’t want to see that calculating look on her face. It’s easier, like this. “Your boyfriend can’t get you off?”
She doesn’t respond, and he hadn’t really expected her to. He shuts up, keeps his fingers pressed inside, against the spot he knows so well, listens to her moan and feels heat spread over his skin as she comes. Dean feels her body relax, naked, pliant warmth against his shirt and boxers; it’s only seconds later when her legs slip down, bracket his thighs, but don’t contain him.
He presses a kiss against her collarbone, collects sweat and fresh air and a mix of JaimieDeanScott, before sliding to the side, resting, keeping space between them. He’s half-hard, and it’s a faint ache in the back of his mind. Jaimie knows--turns on her side, stretches her arm out, hand resting on his dick, and he grabs her wrist (shift of bone, skin) before she gets inside. “I’m fine,” he says, because he knows this could be something else--maybe not for her, and maybe he would never ask, but the silence can’t break the pretense. “It’s fine.” He moves her hand, and she lets it rest on his stomach, lets it become a light weight against him. Her face is quiet, calm, but her eyes flicker toward his face and away. Over and over, until he closes his own, blocks out everything.
“I have to go back soon,” her voice breaks the stillness, and he almost regrets it, almost smiles but his lips don’t move. “But--” she clears her throat, drums her fingers against the fabric of his shirt, against his skin. Onetwo, onetwo. “But, I could stay for awhile, you know? If you wanted.”
Her voice is unsure, and he folds a hand over hers, uses the other to pull her closer, rest her head on his shoulder. “Yeah,” he says, voice rough and low in his ears. “Yeah. For a little while.”
here is the table