Board-game perversity
Title: Get a Clue
Summary: Getting possessed by a ghost sucks, but honestly she’s more frustrated with the man who’s supposed to be exorcising her.
Word count: 2,200
Rated: pg-13 (Language and sexual situations)
Notes:Set S5; vague spoiler for “Free to be You and Me”
Genre: Het
Characters: Dean/OFC
Notes: For spnpromptcake - Dean/OC, in the billiard room, with a rope.
Disclaimer: Supernatural and it's characters belongs to WB/The CW, I own nothing and make no money.
***
Sasha always thought the old mansion her parents inherited last year was creepy, but there’s a wide and distinct line between “that stairway is too dark,” and “sorry about trying to cut your eyes out, I was possessed by a ghost.” If someone had told her two months ago that she’d be happily letting a self-professed “hunter” of the supernatural tie her up trying to exorcize the unquiet spirit of her great grandfather (a serial killer, as it turned out) she would have been incredulous to say the least.
The hunter, when he shows up, isn’t what she expected from a paranormal investigator. With his plaid flannel and work boots, he looks more like a handyman than anything. If handymen looked like movie stars, Sasha amends, giving him an appreciative once-over as he steps past her into the foyer. She leads him up the stairs and down the hallway, her heels clicking delicately and his boots clomping a counterpoint.
“This is where it happened before,” Sasha says, gesturing to the billiards room. “And that’s where he died. Story goes he stroked out after loosing a game.”
The hunter snorts with amusement. “Whole friggin’ room for a pool table,” he murmurs in the way that means you people have way too much money. Sasha agrees; she’s embarrassed to be so advantaged, especially next to someone who looks like he’s had a hard scrabble for what little he does have, from his beaten leather jacket to the pieced-together machine squawking in his broad hands.
“So, salt and iron?” She asks. The plan he outlined over the phone doesn’t require her to do anything but sit pretty, but it’s nice to hear the hunter’s--Dean’s- assurances that he knows what he’s doing. Honestly, she’d rather be at the hotel with her parents. Or better yet, back at grad school still thinking ghosts weren’t real.
“You got it,” he says, sparing her a tight smile. “Only dealt with ghost possession once before, but the basics are pretty reliable.” He sounds blasé, like someone else might if they were discussing paperwork. Sasha isn’t sure if this makes her feel more comfortable, or less.
Dean’s all easy confidence as he unloads two shotguns and a bag of rock salt from his pack onto the billiards table. Sasha crosses her arms and watches him work. It takes a pretty tough guy to look badass while sprinkling Morton’s around, she muses, taking in the way his worn jeans tighten over his ass when he squats to lay a thick line at the doorway.
“Aren’t you nervous?” she says, to fill the silence and as an invitation for reassurance. He looks up at her, eyebrows raised like she’s the irrational one. “I mean, this is kind of a freaky job. Doesn’t it get to you, taking this on by yourself?”
His eyebrows drop and his expression shutters closed. “Working alone suits me fine,” he says, turning back to the salt line.
“Right,” Sasha says, unsure what emotional landmine she just stepped on, but aware that there was one. She lets him finish the preparations in silence, feeling useless in her silk blouse and skirt.
Once all the salt lines are done, Dean uncoils the ropes from his bag, still damp from the saltwater soak earlier in the day. “I’m sorry, but this part’s not going to be comfortable,” he says. “The salt’ll sting if you rub yourself raw on the rope, so try to stay still.”
“Got it,” she says, walking to the table where he’s waiting. Sasha is more familiar with being tied up than one might think, but she isn’t getting any ideas just because this guy is hot as hell, or because the efficient way he’s looping the rope around his hand shows exactly how comfortable he is being in control.
Dean pulls gently on her shoulder and she turns, offering her hands to him behind her back. His callused fingers are surprisingly gentle on her wrists, a contrast to the chilled rope. He binds her with obvious skill, pulling the thick coils snug against her skin, testing his handiwork with a firm tug.
“Alright, that should hold,” he says, and Sasha silently agrees. She knows about knots, and these are good ones.
Dean leans in close to wrap another length of rope around her upper body, two loops just under her bust pinning her arms to her ribs. Her breasts feel exposed, pushing out when she breathes in and straining the buttons of her blouse. Though his arms are just past where she can see, she can perfectly imagine the way his muscles ripple as he tightens the knots. He smells like leather and plain ivory soap, with a hint of something sharper- gunpowder maybe. His breath raises goosebumps on the side of her neck.
“Too tight?” his voice rumbles in her ear.
“No,” she whispers. And thinks, come on, get a clue.
He releases her suddenly to get more rope, and, distracted, she loses her balance. She presses her hips into the wide wooden edge of the billiards table for support, but it’s not enough and her chest hits the green velvet hard. Sasha squirms, aware of how she looks with her back arched and her legs straining, but she can’t get enough leverage to right herself.
“Steady there,” Dean says, helping her up. He hovers just behind her while she adjusts her weight, and she presses flush against his chest and thighs when she sways back. It seems impossible that he doesn’t notice the rabbit-paced beating of her heart, but he stays absolutely professional and does not even graze a finger over her nipple. Unfortunately.
He lifts her onto the table, turning her to face him in the air as if her weight was nothing. Sasha wonders just how much muscle is hidden under that jacket, how easily he could throw her, pin her, do anything to her. Dean kneels in front of her with another length of rope.
“Do you mind if I…?” he asks.
“Yes?” Sasha says, a little eagerly. Of course, she’s disappointed.
“I was going to tie your feet,” he says, apologetically. “Want to make sure Casper stays put. Is that alright?”
“Oh. Yeah, that’s fine,” she says, aiming for nonchalant and hitting breathless. His face is tipped up to her, and from this distance, his eyes are startlingly green.
He guides her legs up with the pressure of his fingers under her calves, and she holds them there as he works. He’s absolutely focused, and she watches the minute movements of his lips as he ties some complex knot behind her ankles, his chest almost flush against her shins. She tries not to be obvious about squirming into the table, but her skirt rides up dangerously. His cheek brushes her thigh when he leans forward to get a better view.
Dean finishes with her legs, and she watches helplessly as he stands up and puts a hand on her shoulder. He eases her onto her back, and Sasha loses track of what exactly he’s doing, just that his body is warming the air above hers as he ties the last knots keeping her flush against the table.
But then he’s done, checking the salt at a window five feet to her left, and the loss of his body heat is almost palpable. He’s just doing his job, he’s just doing his job, Sasha chants to herself, and tries to be happy that wet panties aren’t as visible as an erection.
“You think this’ll work? He possesses me at sundown and he’s trapped?” Sasha asks, forcibly directing her attention away from the delicious helplessness of being tied down. “I really want to send this ghost into the light or whatever and be done.”
“Yeah,” Dean answers, shrugging off his jacket. “Sorry you’re stuck here, but I wanted to be sure we had enough time to get set up before show time.” Banishing ghosts is too commonplace for him; he doesn’t understand how important this is.
“You know, I barely come around here,” she says softly, after an uneventful quarter hour passes. “I have my own life, classes, a job. You think that you’re done being defined by family stuff when you move out, but here I am. Didn’t even know the guy but… I could see my own arms going after Mom with that knife, and I couldn’t stop it.”
“Yeah, I know,” Dean says. “Sucks out loud.” She turns her head to look at him, and there’s a soft sympathy in his eyes so incongruous with his rough-and-ready attitude that Sasha thinks that maybe he does get what its like to feel powerless, strange as that might be.
“What about your family?” Sasha is about to ask when the room temperature suddenly drops ten degrees and the sconces begin to flicker like candles. Her body almost instantaneously starts to buck and jerk against the ropes and she’s meltingly grateful when they don’t give an inch. She can feel her great-grandfather’s rage coursing through her like it was her own emotion, hear his jumbled, vicious monologue in her head pressing up against her own thoughts.
Dean’s above her, though, chanting unfamiliar words and pressing a symbol against her forehead that burns like ice. Her legs, tied together but not restrained, kick out viciously and catch his knee. He drops hard into a crouch, but he barely pauses the incantation. It scares Sasha to be caught between the ghost’s homicidal rage and Dean’s equally forceful desire to force him out.
He grabs her face to hold it steady for the symbol in her other hand, but her head twists out of his grasp and she bites down hard on the flesh between his thumb and forefinger. He tastes of salt, and a little like hemp from handling the ropes.
Dean curses, and Sasha feels her body lurch upwards once more, the ropes around her chest pulling tight. Dean slaps the symbol against her temple and shouts out a few more words, and a light bursts behind her eyes. There’s a sensation of hot crumbling under her skin, and suddenly every muscle in her body eases.
“Is…is that it?” Sasha asks, when nothing terrible happens for another minute. Her limbs are trembling with overexertion, and she can feel the tender beginnings of bruises forming where she jerked against the ropes.
“You tell me,” Dean pants. She lets out a nervous peal of laughter and nods her head. Dean smiles at her, a big toothy grin that’s perfect and contagious. Wincing slightly, he crouches down out of sight to work at the ropes holding her legs tightly together. Sasha closes her eyes, fully enjoying each tightening of the ropes and each time his fingers brush against her bare skin now that the ghost is gone. When the knots finally give, it’s unexpectedly strange to be able to move freely. The ropes tying her to the table go next.
“Here,” Dean says, pulling her to her feet to get a closer look at the length keeping her arms pinned. Sasha holds her breath as he reaches around her, but he can’t make as quick work of this particular binding. They’re a mere three inches apart, and seriously.
“Damnit,” he curses. “Knots tightened up pretty good when they dried.” Sasha twists her hands to feel the ropes at her wrists pulling against the tender skin there, thinking come on. She bites her lip and grinds into the edge of the table as he tests the knots.
“Fuck it,” Dean says after another long moment. “I’m going to have to cut ‘em,”
He lifts her back onto the table, a little rough with frustration, but he keeps his hands on her upper arms till he’s sure she won’t fall again. Then he turns to the small arsenal in his pack. The knife he returns with looks a little large to Sasha, but she trusts him. And that’s good, because she’s utterly powerless to resist in any way.
Dean positions himself between her knees and hooks one finger under the loop of rope resting just beneath her breast. When he tugs on it to get a bit of slack, the increased pressure around Sasha’s upper body makes her gasp.
“You ok?” he asks instantly, ducking his head to meet her eyes.
“Mhm,” she manages. He isn’t picking up on anything; it’s now or never. “I was just thinking that…we don’t have to take these off just yet.” Sasha makes herself meet Dean’s eyes, as if her furious blush wasn’t enough of a hint. She nudges her thighs open a few more degrees, just in case.
The hunter tilts his chin up thoughtfully. Then, a pleased, dangerous smile spreads over his face as he drops his hand to her bare thigh, his thumb stroking up just under the hem of her skirt. Yeah, he might not be so quick on the uptake, but once he gets a clue, this hunter knows what he’s doing.
***
A/N: Sexy-time is not my strong suit; critiques and comments encouraged ;)
Summary: Getting possessed by a ghost sucks, but honestly she’s more frustrated with the man who’s supposed to be exorcising her.
Word count: 2,200
Rated: pg-13 (Language and sexual situations)
Notes:Set S5; vague spoiler for “Free to be You and Me”
Genre: Het
Characters: Dean/OFC
Notes: For spnpromptcake - Dean/OC, in the billiard room, with a rope.
Disclaimer: Supernatural and it's characters belongs to WB/The CW, I own nothing and make no money.
***
Sasha always thought the old mansion her parents inherited last year was creepy, but there’s a wide and distinct line between “that stairway is too dark,” and “sorry about trying to cut your eyes out, I was possessed by a ghost.” If someone had told her two months ago that she’d be happily letting a self-professed “hunter” of the supernatural tie her up trying to exorcize the unquiet spirit of her great grandfather (a serial killer, as it turned out) she would have been incredulous to say the least.
The hunter, when he shows up, isn’t what she expected from a paranormal investigator. With his plaid flannel and work boots, he looks more like a handyman than anything. If handymen looked like movie stars, Sasha amends, giving him an appreciative once-over as he steps past her into the foyer. She leads him up the stairs and down the hallway, her heels clicking delicately and his boots clomping a counterpoint.
“This is where it happened before,” Sasha says, gesturing to the billiards room. “And that’s where he died. Story goes he stroked out after loosing a game.”
The hunter snorts with amusement. “Whole friggin’ room for a pool table,” he murmurs in the way that means you people have way too much money. Sasha agrees; she’s embarrassed to be so advantaged, especially next to someone who looks like he’s had a hard scrabble for what little he does have, from his beaten leather jacket to the pieced-together machine squawking in his broad hands.
“So, salt and iron?” She asks. The plan he outlined over the phone doesn’t require her to do anything but sit pretty, but it’s nice to hear the hunter’s--Dean’s- assurances that he knows what he’s doing. Honestly, she’d rather be at the hotel with her parents. Or better yet, back at grad school still thinking ghosts weren’t real.
“You got it,” he says, sparing her a tight smile. “Only dealt with ghost possession once before, but the basics are pretty reliable.” He sounds blasé, like someone else might if they were discussing paperwork. Sasha isn’t sure if this makes her feel more comfortable, or less.
Dean’s all easy confidence as he unloads two shotguns and a bag of rock salt from his pack onto the billiards table. Sasha crosses her arms and watches him work. It takes a pretty tough guy to look badass while sprinkling Morton’s around, she muses, taking in the way his worn jeans tighten over his ass when he squats to lay a thick line at the doorway.
“Aren’t you nervous?” she says, to fill the silence and as an invitation for reassurance. He looks up at her, eyebrows raised like she’s the irrational one. “I mean, this is kind of a freaky job. Doesn’t it get to you, taking this on by yourself?”
His eyebrows drop and his expression shutters closed. “Working alone suits me fine,” he says, turning back to the salt line.
“Right,” Sasha says, unsure what emotional landmine she just stepped on, but aware that there was one. She lets him finish the preparations in silence, feeling useless in her silk blouse and skirt.
Once all the salt lines are done, Dean uncoils the ropes from his bag, still damp from the saltwater soak earlier in the day. “I’m sorry, but this part’s not going to be comfortable,” he says. “The salt’ll sting if you rub yourself raw on the rope, so try to stay still.”
“Got it,” she says, walking to the table where he’s waiting. Sasha is more familiar with being tied up than one might think, but she isn’t getting any ideas just because this guy is hot as hell, or because the efficient way he’s looping the rope around his hand shows exactly how comfortable he is being in control.
Dean pulls gently on her shoulder and she turns, offering her hands to him behind her back. His callused fingers are surprisingly gentle on her wrists, a contrast to the chilled rope. He binds her with obvious skill, pulling the thick coils snug against her skin, testing his handiwork with a firm tug.
“Alright, that should hold,” he says, and Sasha silently agrees. She knows about knots, and these are good ones.
Dean leans in close to wrap another length of rope around her upper body, two loops just under her bust pinning her arms to her ribs. Her breasts feel exposed, pushing out when she breathes in and straining the buttons of her blouse. Though his arms are just past where she can see, she can perfectly imagine the way his muscles ripple as he tightens the knots. He smells like leather and plain ivory soap, with a hint of something sharper- gunpowder maybe. His breath raises goosebumps on the side of her neck.
“Too tight?” his voice rumbles in her ear.
“No,” she whispers. And thinks, come on, get a clue.
He releases her suddenly to get more rope, and, distracted, she loses her balance. She presses her hips into the wide wooden edge of the billiards table for support, but it’s not enough and her chest hits the green velvet hard. Sasha squirms, aware of how she looks with her back arched and her legs straining, but she can’t get enough leverage to right herself.
“Steady there,” Dean says, helping her up. He hovers just behind her while she adjusts her weight, and she presses flush against his chest and thighs when she sways back. It seems impossible that he doesn’t notice the rabbit-paced beating of her heart, but he stays absolutely professional and does not even graze a finger over her nipple. Unfortunately.
He lifts her onto the table, turning her to face him in the air as if her weight was nothing. Sasha wonders just how much muscle is hidden under that jacket, how easily he could throw her, pin her, do anything to her. Dean kneels in front of her with another length of rope.
“Do you mind if I…?” he asks.
“Yes?” Sasha says, a little eagerly. Of course, she’s disappointed.
“I was going to tie your feet,” he says, apologetically. “Want to make sure Casper stays put. Is that alright?”
“Oh. Yeah, that’s fine,” she says, aiming for nonchalant and hitting breathless. His face is tipped up to her, and from this distance, his eyes are startlingly green.
He guides her legs up with the pressure of his fingers under her calves, and she holds them there as he works. He’s absolutely focused, and she watches the minute movements of his lips as he ties some complex knot behind her ankles, his chest almost flush against her shins. She tries not to be obvious about squirming into the table, but her skirt rides up dangerously. His cheek brushes her thigh when he leans forward to get a better view.
Dean finishes with her legs, and she watches helplessly as he stands up and puts a hand on her shoulder. He eases her onto her back, and Sasha loses track of what exactly he’s doing, just that his body is warming the air above hers as he ties the last knots keeping her flush against the table.
But then he’s done, checking the salt at a window five feet to her left, and the loss of his body heat is almost palpable. He’s just doing his job, he’s just doing his job, Sasha chants to herself, and tries to be happy that wet panties aren’t as visible as an erection.
“You think this’ll work? He possesses me at sundown and he’s trapped?” Sasha asks, forcibly directing her attention away from the delicious helplessness of being tied down. “I really want to send this ghost into the light or whatever and be done.”
“Yeah,” Dean answers, shrugging off his jacket. “Sorry you’re stuck here, but I wanted to be sure we had enough time to get set up before show time.” Banishing ghosts is too commonplace for him; he doesn’t understand how important this is.
“You know, I barely come around here,” she says softly, after an uneventful quarter hour passes. “I have my own life, classes, a job. You think that you’re done being defined by family stuff when you move out, but here I am. Didn’t even know the guy but… I could see my own arms going after Mom with that knife, and I couldn’t stop it.”
“Yeah, I know,” Dean says. “Sucks out loud.” She turns her head to look at him, and there’s a soft sympathy in his eyes so incongruous with his rough-and-ready attitude that Sasha thinks that maybe he does get what its like to feel powerless, strange as that might be.
“What about your family?” Sasha is about to ask when the room temperature suddenly drops ten degrees and the sconces begin to flicker like candles. Her body almost instantaneously starts to buck and jerk against the ropes and she’s meltingly grateful when they don’t give an inch. She can feel her great-grandfather’s rage coursing through her like it was her own emotion, hear his jumbled, vicious monologue in her head pressing up against her own thoughts.
Dean’s above her, though, chanting unfamiliar words and pressing a symbol against her forehead that burns like ice. Her legs, tied together but not restrained, kick out viciously and catch his knee. He drops hard into a crouch, but he barely pauses the incantation. It scares Sasha to be caught between the ghost’s homicidal rage and Dean’s equally forceful desire to force him out.
He grabs her face to hold it steady for the symbol in her other hand, but her head twists out of his grasp and she bites down hard on the flesh between his thumb and forefinger. He tastes of salt, and a little like hemp from handling the ropes.
Dean curses, and Sasha feels her body lurch upwards once more, the ropes around her chest pulling tight. Dean slaps the symbol against her temple and shouts out a few more words, and a light bursts behind her eyes. There’s a sensation of hot crumbling under her skin, and suddenly every muscle in her body eases.
“Is…is that it?” Sasha asks, when nothing terrible happens for another minute. Her limbs are trembling with overexertion, and she can feel the tender beginnings of bruises forming where she jerked against the ropes.
“You tell me,” Dean pants. She lets out a nervous peal of laughter and nods her head. Dean smiles at her, a big toothy grin that’s perfect and contagious. Wincing slightly, he crouches down out of sight to work at the ropes holding her legs tightly together. Sasha closes her eyes, fully enjoying each tightening of the ropes and each time his fingers brush against her bare skin now that the ghost is gone. When the knots finally give, it’s unexpectedly strange to be able to move freely. The ropes tying her to the table go next.
“Here,” Dean says, pulling her to her feet to get a closer look at the length keeping her arms pinned. Sasha holds her breath as he reaches around her, but he can’t make as quick work of this particular binding. They’re a mere three inches apart, and seriously.
“Damnit,” he curses. “Knots tightened up pretty good when they dried.” Sasha twists her hands to feel the ropes at her wrists pulling against the tender skin there, thinking come on. She bites her lip and grinds into the edge of the table as he tests the knots.
“Fuck it,” Dean says after another long moment. “I’m going to have to cut ‘em,”
He lifts her back onto the table, a little rough with frustration, but he keeps his hands on her upper arms till he’s sure she won’t fall again. Then he turns to the small arsenal in his pack. The knife he returns with looks a little large to Sasha, but she trusts him. And that’s good, because she’s utterly powerless to resist in any way.
Dean positions himself between her knees and hooks one finger under the loop of rope resting just beneath her breast. When he tugs on it to get a bit of slack, the increased pressure around Sasha’s upper body makes her gasp.
“You ok?” he asks instantly, ducking his head to meet her eyes.
“Mhm,” she manages. He isn’t picking up on anything; it’s now or never. “I was just thinking that…we don’t have to take these off just yet.” Sasha makes herself meet Dean’s eyes, as if her furious blush wasn’t enough of a hint. She nudges her thighs open a few more degrees, just in case.
The hunter tilts his chin up thoughtfully. Then, a pleased, dangerous smile spreads over his face as he drops his hand to her bare thigh, his thumb stroking up just under the hem of her skirt. Yeah, he might not be so quick on the uptake, but once he gets a clue, this hunter knows what he’s doing.
***
A/N: Sexy-time is not my strong suit; critiques and comments encouraged ;)