Nothing Seems to Please
This is a series of vignettes written for the spn_30snapshots challenge on Livejournal. The premise of the challenge is to complete thirty stories, anywhere between 100 and 1000 words in length. I claimed a Dean/OFC prompt and the "kink" table. Because of that, all of the ficlets will contain adult content and themes. I will warn for each particular kink. If anyone feels that the subject matter has become inappropriate for the site, please don't hesitate to let me know. I will remove the stories entirely.
Disclaimer: The Winchester boys aren't mine.
Rating: M (Language, sex)
Author's Notes: Special thanks to monica_catch22 for the summary. The prompt for this ficlet is say my name.
Spoilers/Warnings: None for the show. Mild BDSM, though your mileage may vary.
Beta(s): monica_catch22 and embroiderama both let me spam them in IM.
Summary: She gets off on it. He gets off on her.
Heel to haunch on bended knees
The muscles in her back stretch when she lowers her head, the skin around her wrists rough and red from the rope lashing her hands to the wrought-iron headboard. Her breath hitches every time he taps the inside of her right thigh with the riding crop, turning into a hiss when he slides the riding crop between her legs. Her toes curl and her hips rock and the rope jerks, whispers of 'please' and 'more' and 'God' tumbling out in that sweet drawl of hers the faster her hips buck.
"You like that, baby?"
He smiles when she groans, pulling back the crop and smacking her ass with it.
"Didn't answer my question."
She shifts her weight onto her knees, arching up into his fingers as he traces the welt, the red stripe darker than the flush in her cheeks. Her whole body twitches when he adds a second stripe next to the first, shivering when he brings his mouth down and traces the mark with his tongue. She tastes like salt and sweat and the musk that teases, a taunt that makes him want to drop the fucking crop and spread her open – makes him want to push his tongue up into her until she's keening, until her wrists are rubbed raw and she's overflowing against his mouth with a wet spasm.
But there's something about the way she gasps whenever leather strikes skin and there's nothing to do but try and pull every single one he can out of her, three snaps of his wrist before he stops and listens to her breathe.
"Harder," she says softly, head still bowed. "I won't break."
He leans down, lips brushing her ear lobe. "Safe word."
"Don't need one."
He falls back onto his heels, listening to her gasp again when the head of the crop slips into the wet between her thigh, and there's a burn in his belly when the rope goes tight. Should just curl around her and sneak his fingers inside, feeling her pulse flutter while his thumb works her clit until she's clamping around his knuckles, until she's undulating against his hand and those tiny little moans of hers spill out just like the slick around his fingers when she comes.
"Say it," he hisses.
She looks at him over her shoulder. "Dean," she whispers, biting into her lower lip as she shudders against the head of the crop. She sucks in a breath. "It's Dean."
Can't help himself after that.
He drops the goddamn crop and pushes her up against the headboard, thrusts inside as she balances on her knees. Her fingers wrap around wrought-iron curves when one hand digs into her hips, nails leaving behind marks as red as the stripes on her ass and the circles around her wrists. She smells like salt and sweat and the musk that teases, her voice a taunt that whispers his name every time she swells around him – every time skin slaps against skin until he fists a handful of hair, red strands spilling out from his fingers, and pulls her head backwards just in time to see her smile.
The title of this story is a song lyric from "This Corrosion" by The Sisters of Mercy.
Folks who have read anything within my Strange Angels 'verse will recognize the OFC. (The summary itself is something of a dead give-away.) However, since these stories are so short, they can definitely stand alone without any 'verse knowledge whatsoever - particularly given the style in which I have chosen to write them. I am not going to "fit" them in with the rest of the 'verse. They really are intended as snapshots of a relationship wholly unlikely but one I enjoy writing all the same.
In other words: Hello, world. Meet my id.