This is silly beyond measure and only for fun. I just wanted to cheer my girls up a little bit. Legna, LaViePastiche, I hope it works.

I was going to go totally unbeta'ed but I panicked at the last minute and LaViePastiche went ahead and confirmed the appropriate level of jaspergasms. She also helped with title and summary because... my heart, my lovely ficwife, Legna, has not seen it yet, and I am incapable of doing that sort of thing on my own. All typos, misused words, all of that stuff – that's all me. I apologize for all of it.

On Blueprints

Oh my god.

As if this day wasn't bad enough already.

It started very quietly. Merely eight ounces of scalding hazelnut coffee all over my desk, day planner, and beige pants. At 7:13 a.m.

On the way back home to change, because I had an 8:30 meeting with a brand new client and couldn't just blow off the day, a broken-down bus just outside our neighborhood had somehow caused two lanes of blocked traffic. After waiting for seven minutes and only moving six inches (I managed to roll just past a Coke Can in the gutter), I decided at 7:43 that I should ditch the car or risk being late.

I pulled the car into the random driveway by which I had been stalled, hoping like hell the occupants were already at work, and hoofed it home. Halfway there, I took off my three-inch-heeled big-girl shoes and started jogging. Luckily, Jasper had already left for work so I didn't have to answer any questions about my appearance (and sudden reappearance), and made it back to the office at 8:27. I would have to remember tomorrow to take care of the $75 parking ticket that had been on my car when I recovered it from the random driveway.

I fumbled my way through the meeting, managed to make it to noon without spilling anything else on myself, tripping and falling, or otherwise marring my physical person in any way. Instead, I knocked twelve ounces of Coke (damn that can in the gutter!) into my boss's lap during a business lunch. In front of his boss. And five other co-workers. Who were all male, cocky, and already ticked off that I was given junior partnership last week, before they were.

Ms. Isabella Whitlock was not having a good day.

On the way home, after an altogether fantastically horrendous day that culminated with one of my clients crying to the point of vomiting (literally) in my office, I decided I had damn well earned an ice cream cone for my troubles. Two blocks from the house, right by that frickin' soda can, while I was stopped for the red light ahead, some jackass on his BlackBerry gave my car's rear bumper a love tap. It really wasn't a big deal and I wouldn't have even cared since there wasn't a scratch on the car, except I ended up with a noseful of Vanilla Brownie Toffee Fudge Swirl ice cream. In case you were ever wondering, toffee chunks do not inhale nicely. At all.

So here I am, walking into the house at 7:15 PM, two hours late because I had to hunt down the maintenance staff to deal with the mess in my office, with a sore throat from choking, ice cream all over my boobs from when I dropped the rest of the cone after aforementioned choking, and just generally pissed at the world.

And what do I find? In my kitchen? My sanctuary? Where I make lovely things happen with cheese and eggs and other assorted ingredients?

I find a mess. A huge fucking mess. A mess like I've never seen. A mess like maybe some leprechauns – the creepy-ass kind from that ridiculous movie from the 90's – have gone through the cupboards because my husband absconded with their pot of gold.

There is flour everywhere. I can even see some stuck to the light fixture on the ceiling. There are eggshells crushed on the ground. Oh, how sweet. It was as if he knew he'd have to be careful around me tonight and had gone out of his way to make sure he properly set the scene. Some sort of... god, is that blood? A quick peeking-between-the-fingers look shows it is not, in fact, blood that is staining my $1500 countertop, but red food dye. The kind you use for Easter eggs or cherry pie or really stiff drinks that you want to look like blood.

And that is just the start.

I cannot begin to comprehend the fuckery that has gone on here while I was at work having the worst day ever. And it wasn't like Jasper had today off and would have had the amount of time necessary to properly create such destruction. He had to have really wanted to make a mess to have done so, so quickly.

I unceremoniously drop my bag by the entrance to the kitchen and hope that isn't my laptop I hear crack. Moving quietly and swiftly through the house, I imagine myself a lioness stalking her prey. I am agile. I am lethal. I am tripping on the ottoman because I'm so irate I can't see straight.

Two bruised shins and an abraded elbow later, I have made it to the deck. I spotted movement outside while gaping at the kitchen, and assumed my dear husband was outside enjoying... I couldn't imagine what he would be enjoying that would explain the condition of my food preparation haven.

I slide open the deck door with force, no longer stalking the prey but making the final leap, when I finally spy Jasper, standing over... something on the patio table.

I am not able to identify what is on the table because I have just noticed that my husband, my sweet husband, the Destroyer of Kitchens, is standing on the deck... shirtless. Without a shirt. No shirt in sight.

It has been a long, hot summer that involved many trips to the beach, and he is, for lack of a better word, bronzed. And toned from endless hours using the home gym in our basement while listening to podcasts for work. He looks like some sort of ridiculous swimsuit model.

He hears the door slide open and as he starts to turn toward me, I manage to exit the cloud of husbandlust that had started to erode my anger.

It is somewhere between degrees 90 and 100 of his pivot that I realize that in addition to not wearing a shirt, he also isn't wearing pants. Or shorts. Or any sort of bottom-half attire suitable for being out on the deck during daylight hours.

My eyes are halfway down those thighs that make my heart race when I realize that he is not, in fact, naked. He has managed somehow to refrain from stripping entirely and is still wearing underwear. Fortunately.

Unfortunately, it looks like I have managed to neglect laundry day yet again, as he is wearing what he affectionately calls his "Bella can't find the basement" boxers. They are dark red boxer briefs that my mother, in a flight of who-knows-what, decided were a good gift and gave him last year for Christmas. However, it did not appear that she had ever previously purchased clothing for a man, and therefore knew nothing about sizing, as this particular pair of boxer briefs was at least three sizes too small.

On a good day, a girl doesn't need much more foreplay than a well-shot Calvin Klein ad featuring boxer briefs.

But on a day like today, when the world is apparently punishing me for forgetting to do the laundry, my extremely tan, extremely fit husband is turning toward me in the world's smallest pair of boxer briefs which leave nothing – not a thing ­– to the imagination. And it's not like I need my imagination. After seven years of pretty regular, pretty stupendous sexy-fun-times, I have a solid mental image of what's going on in those shorts.

The husbandlust battles the kitchen-anger. I am not sure which will prevail.

He completes his 180 as my eyes manage to make their way back up to his face. I notice immediately that he has stepped a bit to the side and is blocking whatever he was examining on the table. The guilt on his face is as evident as what room of the house his "furniture" is in and my suspicion and ire come rushing back. Although now it's not so much ire as extreme irritation. Pleading blue eyes temper the temper, and he knows it.

"Um," says my Ivy-educated Strategic Planner.

"Um?" I ask, wondering simultaneously how long he's been out here 80% naked and if Mrs. Cope has been spying on him from her tiny bathroom window with her 100mm binoculars. I move a little toward him. That's my furniture.

"Um, we had a bit of an-"

"We?" If he was not alone, say if Emmett had been here, that might explain the epic wreckage that has occurred.

"Um, I," he restarts. "I had a bit of a problem. In the kitchen."

An eye roll is sufficient response.

He raises a hand to scratch his shoulder – his nervous tic – and I note a long streak of red down his forearm. Ten minutes ago, this would have sent me into a panic to find the 9 and 1 buttons on my phone, but I recognize it immediately as red food dye. I move closer and notice that the waistband of his boxers seems to be coated with... goo. Ew. Really?

He notices my grimace and follows my line of vision. "Oh, no! That's not what you think! It's, um...."

I take another step and am now almost upon him. I notice that his long eyelashes, usually as fair as his hair, are thick with... I think it must be flour. I can see a thin coating on his cheeks. My imagination has yet to produce any sufficient ideas regarding in what type of shenanigans my "where's the kitchen?" husband has been engaged.

I run my finger down his chest, noting the lack of flour there, and decide he must have stripped after "the incident," whatever it was. I watch as my finger keeps going, running down his abs, headed straight for the weird goo on his shorts. I am curious about what it could be and I follow my finger and bend a bit closer to inspect.

I think my movement must have taken Jasper by surprise because I hear a small gasp and he tries to take a step back. He promptly finds the patio table to be an obstacle off which he careens and all of a sudden, my bend to examine the situation results in a face full of crotch.

My face. His crotch.

In case that wasn't clear.

The result of this is that the furniture suddenly decides to relocate rooms. In a hurry.

All thoughts of the demolition in the house flee as I start mentally penning an eloquent, if belated, thank you note to my mother for these fantastic red boxer briefs.

I reach out and run my fingers lightly up the now quite fully formed erection that is so clearly defined by the red cotton. I have barely a moment to enjoy the feel of cotton sliding against steel before I am yanked upright and Jasper's tongue is in my mouth.

I feel myself start to fall backward as I am thrown off-balance by his unexpected movement but his arms are quickly around me, one circling my shoulders, the other grabbing my ass.

"Up," he grunts into my mouth. I bounce up a bit, and he catches my ass with a forearm. My skirt rides up my thighs as I lock my ankles behind him.

He turns, I assume to set me on the patio table, probably on top of whatever he was protecting, when the tiny bit of my brain still cognizant of its surroundings speaks up.

"Inside! Mrs. Cope!"

I'm not a prude and we've certainly had our share of fun on unconventional surfaces, but I'll be damned if I'm going to let our 93-year-old neighbor get her jollies watching us hump on the deck. Frankly, I'm a bit afraid she might have a heart attack and I don't know if I can stand to have that on my conscience.

He spins so quickly I'm afraid I'm going to fall off, but he manages to stumble through the sliding glass door without slamming either of us into the wall.

On second thought....

When I see he is headed toward the large desk in his study – conveniently located fifteen feet from the deck – I try to stop him. The wall would be fine.

"Honey," I gasp, "your work. We'll ruin it." I tighten my legs around his waist as he creates a storm of papers and office supplies with a sweep of his arm. Good thing he uses a laptop and it's somewhere else.

"Fuck it, we can print more."

He pulls the bottom of my shirt up and over my head as I fumble with the hooks on my bra.

Jasper starts to lower me and I get enough of a glance at the desk to see that two or three large blueprints remain, too big to be affected by the dramatic sweeping. I wonder if I'm going to end up with skyscraper layouts tattooed on my back.

He lays me down on the paper and steps back only long enough to drag my panties down my legs and his boxers down his own. A flick of his fingers, a tug on a zipper, and the pencil skirt that replaced the coffee-drenched pants is unceremoniously yanked down and off. I lift my legs to plant my feet on the edge of the desk and I can already feel myself start to move as the papers slide across the smooth surface. I have about .3 seconds to hope that our little tryst doesn't result in a trip to the ER before Jasper has dragged a finger between my legs, assessed my readiness, and pushed into me. Not with his fingers.

He pauses for a moment, his breathing the only sound in the room; I stopped needing oxygen the moment he entered me.

A moment becomes two moments and then four and I open my eyes to figure out what's derailed the train.

He's staring at nothing and I rock my hips to try to snap him out of it. It almost works. He mumbles something about "warm" and "pie" and my mind starts to wander back to the kitchen... I realize my medal-winning distracter has sidetracked me from my initial goal. I am about to snap us both back to reality with an interrogation about the goo on his waistband when he jolts out of whatever stupor he was in and gets down to business.

I am thinking that maybe he was too busy ruining my kitchen to work out when he got home from work today, as his thrusts are frantic, like maybe he has a lot of energy to burn. This works to my advantage as he is immediately hitting me deep and hard and I know it's only going to take about ten more of those strokes before I come. My feet start to slip from the desk and he clamps his hand around one ankle, holding my legs apart, while the other hand teases one of my breasts. The normal quiet of his study is now disrupted by his groans and my moans.

I start to wonder why we've never done it quite like this in here before. I know that the next time he sits here to work, he'll think about his laptop occupying the space where today my ass is pressed.

I feel his fingers swirl around where we are joined and then he pushes his fingers up, his fingernail dragging gently, and all coherent thought ceases. I can hear the blueprints beneath me crinkling as my back arches off the desk.

He releases my ankle and bends over me, nuzzling his face into my neck, his hand still working between us. My stomach is tightening and it's almost fireworks time. He pulls back to brush his lips lightly against mine and I take the opportunity to lick from his jaw to his temple. And then I do it again, because...

"God, you taste like cookies!"

"Cookies?" he grunts as he continues to pound into me and the papers continue to slide across the desk, taking me with them.

Jasper straightens up, grabs my hips, and yanks me back to the edge of the desk. "Fucking blueprints," he mutters. He wraps one of my legs firmly around his waist while hoisting the other up to his shoulder. His arm is now clamped around my thigh and I'm not going anywhere.

His free hand returns to its previous duties, and that, coupled with the new and improved angle, has me quickly clawing at the edge of the desk, searching for purchase.

He pulls almost all the way out, stilling his fingers as he does so, and then slams back into me, pressing down hard. That's all it takes to send me shrieking and tightening, my fingers abruptly loose as I lose sensation in my arms and legs.

Jasper uses this moment to scoop Jello-Bella off the desk and turns to press my back against the wall. He's caught one of my legs over one of his arms and I wrap the other ankle around his thigh, so it doesn't flail around and send us both tumbling to the floor.

With me pressed between the wall and his body, and one of his arms holding me up, he braces his other forearm on the wall above my head, and four ridiculously hard strokes later, he's exhaling my name into my neck as he freezes and shudders against me.

He lasts about five seconds standing and then we collapse on the ground in a sweaty, floury snarl of limbs. I stare blankly at the ceiling while a tiny corner of my mind plots ways to ruin my workday tomorrow, too, if it means good karma will help balance things with this sort of action.

"Look, about the kitchen...." Jasper says once his breathing has evened out enough to allow speech.

I roll my head toward his, what I am sure is an unintelligent look of confusion gracing my face.

I have a kitchen?

Before you ask, the whole kitchen thing was a bit of a MacGuffin.

Thanks for tolerating my silliness :)

Oh! While I have you here, LaViePastiche and I will soon (within a week) be announcing the details for our "For the Love of Jasper" contest. There's a link to that profile in my profile – subscribe to it, me, or LVP in order to get the details when we post them. And then prepare to write (and read!) some fantastic Jasper-centric one-shots. You should check out our judging panel. We're pretty excited.