Fic: In Matters of The Cloth (Dean Smith/Castiel, NC-17)
Title: In Matters of The Cloth
Pairing: Dean Smith/Castiel (It's A Terrible Life!verse)
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Dean Smith sustains himself on secrets. He doesn't know how to feel about his suspicion that Mr Adler's secretary sees right through him.
Disclaimer: Do not own, do not sue. Please.
Words: 2237
Notes: Do not be misled clergywards by the title - it's (imaginatively) taken from The Kinks' Dedicated Follower of Fashion. Appropriately, the chap in the song wears panties. So does Dean in this fic. /warning
The thing is, Dean has no idea where it all came from. No, really, that's the line: please, officer, someone must have planted it on me. Do you really think I look the sort? Then he'd smile, probably get away with it if anyone happened to jerk open the wrong drawer and see it all there, laid out innocuous and precise in its soldierly rows. Dean's pretty sure he could argue his case, there. He's rehearsed it, after all.
Outside of the house, he's not so sure the excuse would hold. He's thought about it, of course; that's part of the joy of it. He's wondered, as he stands smushed up against the side of the elevator with some guy's elbow in his ribs, what these people would think if they knew - what he could tell them to convince them of his innocence. Underneath the neatly pressed lines of his five hundred dollar suit, the silk clings smooth and tight to his balls, its softness warmed by the heat of his blood, and Dean thinks: I have a secret nobody knows. It's a powerful feeling.
Dean likes his job, genuinely, he does, but it doesn't exactly lend itself to a strenuous romantic life, not with the hours Dean works. By the time Dean's escaped the office and navigated the rush-hour traffic across town, there's barely time for a glug of master cleanse before he's ready to fall into bed (a functional, yet attractive IKEA model) and pass out. Clearly, then, nobody could really blame Dean for incorporating a little stress-release into the regular pattern of his work day, particular since nobody is ever going to know about it.
The first time he meets Mr Adler's secretary, Dean's wearing his favourite pair of pale blue bikinis under a subtly pinstriped trouser that moulds to his ass deliciously (thought he does say so himself). The secretary is named Castiel and his demeanour is almost as odd as this suggests, although Dean has to admit that there's something intriguing about his eyes and the way he carries himself, strangely defiant without quite being insubordinate. Dean wonders, idly, what Castiel would think if he knew. It's only the second time he's entertained the thought today, and his cock twitches pleasurably in his panties at the notion.
"Mr Adler would like to know how the reports are progressing," Castiel says, flatly. For some reason, Dean feels mildly admonished. Perhaps it's this guy's tone, or lack of it.
"Great, thanks," Dean says, and buttons it with a smile. "You can tell him I'll have them up there by lunch time."
"Great," says Castiel gravely. The word sounds weird in his mouth, sort of round and young. "I'll tell him."
Dean nods and looks back down at his desk, assessing just how much is actually left of the pile of papers he'd found in his in-tray that morning. Only when he glances up in search of his teacup (Rooibos only, non-caffeinated) does he realise that the dude's still there. He raises his eyebrows. "Can I help you?"
Castiel studies him for a moment, long and steady. His stare seems to burn right through Dean, getting under his skin, crawling right under his suspenders and dress shirt and undershirt and into his blood. He stares like that for coming up on fifteen seconds before he declares very firmly, "Not in your current state, I think," and promptly walks away.
With that, all Dean's thoughts of report-filing are shot to hell. Not in your current state? What the hell does that mean? Dean's fingers creep unconsciously to his thigh, thumb smoothing the fabric of his trousers flat against the muscle, a repetitive motion that's oddly soothing. Dean's never been looked at like that before, never had such a feeling of being seen through, blown open and shamed. His face heats even as his thumb circles higher on his thigh, tracing the elasticated ridge of his panty-leg where it breaks the smooth line of skin. Not in your current state? How could he know?
He thinks of those eyes, the worlds in them, and wonders.
The zipper on a pair of suit trousers doesn't shatter the silence of a room like the zipper on a pair of jeans, Dean knows well enough. There's something about the faintness of the sound, its unobtrusive delicacy, that seems to make a perfect accompaniment to the pastel silk that pushes up out of the newly-spread triangle of fabric, Dean's cock swelling up between the splayed teeth of the zipper. He's only half-hard, but the heft of him still looks massive in its flimsy, baby-blue package, the silk sliding slippery over his shaft when he rubs it gently under the heel of his hand.
He doesn't do this often. Discretion is the name of the game where Dean Smith is concerned, and Dean doesn't think he could swing an excuse good enough to save his career if someone were to catch him masturbating at his desk, with or without the addition of the panties. Still, there's something undeniably hot about sitting here with his legs spread wide, one hand kneading his junk while, through the glass panel in his door, he watches people outside going about their business, unsuspecting and oblivious. Dean has a secret, and it feels good to know it.
And yet. He thinks about that guy Castiel again, his strange, low voice, the way he tossed his words out flat and half-careless. Not in your current state, he said, like he knew. Dean's cock fills further under his palm at the thought of it, slick starting to pearl at the head and he grinds his palm down, feeling himself lengthen. How the hell could Castiel know? To the best of Dean's knowledge, he's never even seen the man before today; and yet, there is something familiar about him, like someone Dean saw once in a dream, or caught out of the corner of his eye and never forgot. Perhaps he's been creeping around, Dean thinks, rolling his hips up into his palm, twisting his hand on the firm downstroke. Perhaps he's been watching Dean somehow when he gets dressed in the morning, when he undresses at night. Maybe he's seen the way Dean's panties sit pretty on his hips, sheer fabric clinging to the weight of his balls.
Shit. Dean doesn't fit easily into these baby-blue things at the best of times, and now his cock is straining up against the waistband, crown just cresting up red and shining. He bites his lip and chances a glance in the direction of the door, but there's nobody there right now, just the institutional beige walls of the corridor outside. Dean's not a pervert or anything - really, he's not - but, hell, maybe this other guy is, he thinks, tracing two fingers gently round the head of his cock, smearing his slickness down over the shaft. Maybe - (he slides one hand down to cup his balls, hot and full within their silky cradle) - maybe he's been watching Dean for weeks; watching him draw himself slow out of his panties like this, drag of his fingertips up the spine of his cock. He always goes slow at first, never shoves the panties down and out of the way; never strips himself fast and furious, mindless of his clothes. After all, these are Dean's favourite panties. If he's going to come in them, he's sure as hell going to be in them until the last second he can.
The thunder of blood is heavy and thick in his balls, now, pounding up into his cock, and Dean's pretty sure he should stop this before the telephone rings and demands his attention, or someone else's secretary shows up with a new stack of papers for his in-tray. The only problem is that Dean - well - Dean likes his secrets, and someone's seen right through him today, right down to his soul, and Dean can't seem to get the thought off his mind.
He's leaking, now, steady pulse of it drooling from the slick head of his cock and Dean smears his thumb through it, biting his lip as his thighs tighten, fucking up hard into the warm tunnel of his fist. He needs to keep his eyes open, he knows, but they're burning at the corners, retinas going blurry as his hips roll faster, tight little breathless circles moving in sync with his hands, coaxing his orgasm up from his balls like water up out of a geyser. He's losing precision, now, thrusts breaking up into frantic, breathless little stutters, and the waistband of his panties is all messed up with precome, wet little spurts of it smeared into the silk. He wonders, as he bites back a whimper in his throat, what Castiel would think if he saw him like this, pretty little panties all dirtied 'cause he couldn't go a whole damn workday without playing with himself. But then, Castiel's obviously been watching Dean at it, watching him slide the silk up his legs, watching him tuck himself carefully inside. Maybe he wouldn't even be surprised.
"Fuck." Dean jolts out the word with the first spurt of come, hand almost blurring as it flies over his cock, this furious up-down motion that catches the sparks of his wanting and draws them out, out, spatters them all over his stomach, ruining the tails of his custom-made shirt. He doesn't mean to speak, fuck, certainly doesn't mean to close his eyes but his toes are clenching up in his shoes, teeth sinking into his lower lip against a harsh rasped cry and really, it's not like his black-blown pupils wouldn't give him away. He feels like he's coming out of his skin, the real Dean Smith clawing out, all satin and sweat, past the barrier of the suit, thick ropes of come spurting over his hand, his stomach, ruining (for today) his little blue panties.
"Fuck," he breathes again, when he's done; wipes his hand on the outside of his thigh. There are wet-wipes in his desk drawer, of course, but Dean never uses them on the rare occasions that he does this - prefers to zip himself up again and seal everything inside. Later, when the spunk's all dried in his pubic hair, he'll feel it pull when he moves and think: here's something else you don't know about me, Mr Boss Man. Today, it'll feel like an especially big transgression to hold close as a secret.
His breathing is still laboured when he glances over idly at the door, nothing but a cursory flick of his eyes.
Castiel is standing, quite still, on the other side of it, blue eyes steady and dark and unreadable. Dean's still attempting to reshape his face into something not slack with shock when Castiel taps gently and walks in, hands empty and face impassive.
"Mr Adler would like to know," he says, "if you have the report yet on the Bunbury deal?"
Dean looks defiantly back at Castiel as if attempting to stare him down, regardless of the blush that's creeping up the back of his neck. He dislikes being embarrassed, and he won't take it. Not that Castiel can have been there long enough to see anything, surely - Dean doesn't really think he's some sort of peeping Tom - but still, the thought makes him prickle uncomfortably. The fact that the mortification seems to be making his spent cock twitch only adds a further layer of discomfort to the situation.
"Not yet, Castiel," he says, going for firmness. "I'll send for you when I'm ready, all right?"
Castiel smiles a little at that, quirk of the corner of his mouth. Dean sits tight and waits for him to go, but for some reason he's still standing there, eyes dipping minutely to the collar of Dean's shirt, the perfect Windsor knot of his tie, the hot, reddened skin where his blush is still burning. Dean frowns, and Castiel flatly meets his eyes before his own dip down again, focusing unmistakably on Dean's mouth and holding there.
"All right," Castiel says, at length, hot gravel voice with its low, measured pacing. "I'll come back whenever you're ready," he says, and God, he can't mean it to come out as suggestive as it sounds in Dean's ears, but his eyes flick up now, find Dean's, hold them for a second and then they're lowered again, fixed on his lips. "I'm flexible."
The tips of Dean's ears are burning. On the other side of his desk, Castiel stands impassive, eyes wide and steady, and for a moment, Dean is utterly and completely at a loss.
Then he notices that the pinstripe of Castiel's trousers is subtly, but irreparably ruined at the thigh, and again over the instep; follows the line up to the source of the problem, and tightens his mouth. He finds Castiel's eyes again. Castiel is still, apparently, unmoved, but his eyes gleam faintly in the light when he inclines his head.
Dean finds his voice with an effort; forces it out over the wave of heat that rises, sudden and swift as nausea, in his stomach. "Thank you, Castiel."
Castiel nods acknowledgement, and disappears.
Dean manages to get through a total of three hours' work before succumbing to a desperate need to borrow Mr Adler's secretary on urgent business. Castiel proves very obliging, and performs admirably.
Pairing: Dean Smith/Castiel (It's A Terrible Life!verse)
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Dean Smith sustains himself on secrets. He doesn't know how to feel about his suspicion that Mr Adler's secretary sees right through him.
Disclaimer: Do not own, do not sue. Please.
Words: 2237
Notes: Do not be misled clergywards by the title - it's (imaginatively) taken from The Kinks' Dedicated Follower of Fashion. Appropriately, the chap in the song wears panties. So does Dean in this fic. /warning
The thing is, Dean has no idea where it all came from. No, really, that's the line: please, officer, someone must have planted it on me. Do you really think I look the sort? Then he'd smile, probably get away with it if anyone happened to jerk open the wrong drawer and see it all there, laid out innocuous and precise in its soldierly rows. Dean's pretty sure he could argue his case, there. He's rehearsed it, after all.
Outside of the house, he's not so sure the excuse would hold. He's thought about it, of course; that's part of the joy of it. He's wondered, as he stands smushed up against the side of the elevator with some guy's elbow in his ribs, what these people would think if they knew - what he could tell them to convince them of his innocence. Underneath the neatly pressed lines of his five hundred dollar suit, the silk clings smooth and tight to his balls, its softness warmed by the heat of his blood, and Dean thinks: I have a secret nobody knows. It's a powerful feeling.
Dean likes his job, genuinely, he does, but it doesn't exactly lend itself to a strenuous romantic life, not with the hours Dean works. By the time Dean's escaped the office and navigated the rush-hour traffic across town, there's barely time for a glug of master cleanse before he's ready to fall into bed (a functional, yet attractive IKEA model) and pass out. Clearly, then, nobody could really blame Dean for incorporating a little stress-release into the regular pattern of his work day, particular since nobody is ever going to know about it.
The first time he meets Mr Adler's secretary, Dean's wearing his favourite pair of pale blue bikinis under a subtly pinstriped trouser that moulds to his ass deliciously (thought he does say so himself). The secretary is named Castiel and his demeanour is almost as odd as this suggests, although Dean has to admit that there's something intriguing about his eyes and the way he carries himself, strangely defiant without quite being insubordinate. Dean wonders, idly, what Castiel would think if he knew. It's only the second time he's entertained the thought today, and his cock twitches pleasurably in his panties at the notion.
"Mr Adler would like to know how the reports are progressing," Castiel says, flatly. For some reason, Dean feels mildly admonished. Perhaps it's this guy's tone, or lack of it.
"Great, thanks," Dean says, and buttons it with a smile. "You can tell him I'll have them up there by lunch time."
"Great," says Castiel gravely. The word sounds weird in his mouth, sort of round and young. "I'll tell him."
Dean nods and looks back down at his desk, assessing just how much is actually left of the pile of papers he'd found in his in-tray that morning. Only when he glances up in search of his teacup (Rooibos only, non-caffeinated) does he realise that the dude's still there. He raises his eyebrows. "Can I help you?"
Castiel studies him for a moment, long and steady. His stare seems to burn right through Dean, getting under his skin, crawling right under his suspenders and dress shirt and undershirt and into his blood. He stares like that for coming up on fifteen seconds before he declares very firmly, "Not in your current state, I think," and promptly walks away.
With that, all Dean's thoughts of report-filing are shot to hell. Not in your current state? What the hell does that mean? Dean's fingers creep unconsciously to his thigh, thumb smoothing the fabric of his trousers flat against the muscle, a repetitive motion that's oddly soothing. Dean's never been looked at like that before, never had such a feeling of being seen through, blown open and shamed. His face heats even as his thumb circles higher on his thigh, tracing the elasticated ridge of his panty-leg where it breaks the smooth line of skin. Not in your current state? How could he know?
He thinks of those eyes, the worlds in them, and wonders.
The zipper on a pair of suit trousers doesn't shatter the silence of a room like the zipper on a pair of jeans, Dean knows well enough. There's something about the faintness of the sound, its unobtrusive delicacy, that seems to make a perfect accompaniment to the pastel silk that pushes up out of the newly-spread triangle of fabric, Dean's cock swelling up between the splayed teeth of the zipper. He's only half-hard, but the heft of him still looks massive in its flimsy, baby-blue package, the silk sliding slippery over his shaft when he rubs it gently under the heel of his hand.
He doesn't do this often. Discretion is the name of the game where Dean Smith is concerned, and Dean doesn't think he could swing an excuse good enough to save his career if someone were to catch him masturbating at his desk, with or without the addition of the panties. Still, there's something undeniably hot about sitting here with his legs spread wide, one hand kneading his junk while, through the glass panel in his door, he watches people outside going about their business, unsuspecting and oblivious. Dean has a secret, and it feels good to know it.
And yet. He thinks about that guy Castiel again, his strange, low voice, the way he tossed his words out flat and half-careless. Not in your current state, he said, like he knew. Dean's cock fills further under his palm at the thought of it, slick starting to pearl at the head and he grinds his palm down, feeling himself lengthen. How the hell could Castiel know? To the best of Dean's knowledge, he's never even seen the man before today; and yet, there is something familiar about him, like someone Dean saw once in a dream, or caught out of the corner of his eye and never forgot. Perhaps he's been creeping around, Dean thinks, rolling his hips up into his palm, twisting his hand on the firm downstroke. Perhaps he's been watching Dean somehow when he gets dressed in the morning, when he undresses at night. Maybe he's seen the way Dean's panties sit pretty on his hips, sheer fabric clinging to the weight of his balls.
Shit. Dean doesn't fit easily into these baby-blue things at the best of times, and now his cock is straining up against the waistband, crown just cresting up red and shining. He bites his lip and chances a glance in the direction of the door, but there's nobody there right now, just the institutional beige walls of the corridor outside. Dean's not a pervert or anything - really, he's not - but, hell, maybe this other guy is, he thinks, tracing two fingers gently round the head of his cock, smearing his slickness down over the shaft. Maybe - (he slides one hand down to cup his balls, hot and full within their silky cradle) - maybe he's been watching Dean for weeks; watching him draw himself slow out of his panties like this, drag of his fingertips up the spine of his cock. He always goes slow at first, never shoves the panties down and out of the way; never strips himself fast and furious, mindless of his clothes. After all, these are Dean's favourite panties. If he's going to come in them, he's sure as hell going to be in them until the last second he can.
The thunder of blood is heavy and thick in his balls, now, pounding up into his cock, and Dean's pretty sure he should stop this before the telephone rings and demands his attention, or someone else's secretary shows up with a new stack of papers for his in-tray. The only problem is that Dean - well - Dean likes his secrets, and someone's seen right through him today, right down to his soul, and Dean can't seem to get the thought off his mind.
He's leaking, now, steady pulse of it drooling from the slick head of his cock and Dean smears his thumb through it, biting his lip as his thighs tighten, fucking up hard into the warm tunnel of his fist. He needs to keep his eyes open, he knows, but they're burning at the corners, retinas going blurry as his hips roll faster, tight little breathless circles moving in sync with his hands, coaxing his orgasm up from his balls like water up out of a geyser. He's losing precision, now, thrusts breaking up into frantic, breathless little stutters, and the waistband of his panties is all messed up with precome, wet little spurts of it smeared into the silk. He wonders, as he bites back a whimper in his throat, what Castiel would think if he saw him like this, pretty little panties all dirtied 'cause he couldn't go a whole damn workday without playing with himself. But then, Castiel's obviously been watching Dean at it, watching him slide the silk up his legs, watching him tuck himself carefully inside. Maybe he wouldn't even be surprised.
"Fuck." Dean jolts out the word with the first spurt of come, hand almost blurring as it flies over his cock, this furious up-down motion that catches the sparks of his wanting and draws them out, out, spatters them all over his stomach, ruining the tails of his custom-made shirt. He doesn't mean to speak, fuck, certainly doesn't mean to close his eyes but his toes are clenching up in his shoes, teeth sinking into his lower lip against a harsh rasped cry and really, it's not like his black-blown pupils wouldn't give him away. He feels like he's coming out of his skin, the real Dean Smith clawing out, all satin and sweat, past the barrier of the suit, thick ropes of come spurting over his hand, his stomach, ruining (for today) his little blue panties.
"Fuck," he breathes again, when he's done; wipes his hand on the outside of his thigh. There are wet-wipes in his desk drawer, of course, but Dean never uses them on the rare occasions that he does this - prefers to zip himself up again and seal everything inside. Later, when the spunk's all dried in his pubic hair, he'll feel it pull when he moves and think: here's something else you don't know about me, Mr Boss Man. Today, it'll feel like an especially big transgression to hold close as a secret.
His breathing is still laboured when he glances over idly at the door, nothing but a cursory flick of his eyes.
Castiel is standing, quite still, on the other side of it, blue eyes steady and dark and unreadable. Dean's still attempting to reshape his face into something not slack with shock when Castiel taps gently and walks in, hands empty and face impassive.
"Mr Adler would like to know," he says, "if you have the report yet on the Bunbury deal?"
Dean looks defiantly back at Castiel as if attempting to stare him down, regardless of the blush that's creeping up the back of his neck. He dislikes being embarrassed, and he won't take it. Not that Castiel can have been there long enough to see anything, surely - Dean doesn't really think he's some sort of peeping Tom - but still, the thought makes him prickle uncomfortably. The fact that the mortification seems to be making his spent cock twitch only adds a further layer of discomfort to the situation.
"Not yet, Castiel," he says, going for firmness. "I'll send for you when I'm ready, all right?"
Castiel smiles a little at that, quirk of the corner of his mouth. Dean sits tight and waits for him to go, but for some reason he's still standing there, eyes dipping minutely to the collar of Dean's shirt, the perfect Windsor knot of his tie, the hot, reddened skin where his blush is still burning. Dean frowns, and Castiel flatly meets his eyes before his own dip down again, focusing unmistakably on Dean's mouth and holding there.
"All right," Castiel says, at length, hot gravel voice with its low, measured pacing. "I'll come back whenever you're ready," he says, and God, he can't mean it to come out as suggestive as it sounds in Dean's ears, but his eyes flick up now, find Dean's, hold them for a second and then they're lowered again, fixed on his lips. "I'm flexible."
The tips of Dean's ears are burning. On the other side of his desk, Castiel stands impassive, eyes wide and steady, and for a moment, Dean is utterly and completely at a loss.
Then he notices that the pinstripe of Castiel's trousers is subtly, but irreparably ruined at the thigh, and again over the instep; follows the line up to the source of the problem, and tightens his mouth. He finds Castiel's eyes again. Castiel is still, apparently, unmoved, but his eyes gleam faintly in the light when he inclines his head.
Dean finds his voice with an effort; forces it out over the wave of heat that rises, sudden and swift as nausea, in his stomach. "Thank you, Castiel."
Castiel nods acknowledgement, and disappears.
Dean manages to get through a total of three hours' work before succumbing to a desperate need to borrow Mr Adler's secretary on urgent business. Castiel proves very obliging, and performs admirably.