SPN Fic: Jitters 2/2 (Het, Hard R or NC17, Pre-Series)
Title: Jitters
Author: Dodger Winslow
Genre: Het
Challenge: Psych_30 chart
Prompt: #22 Libido
Word Count: 11,200
Rating: Hard R or NC-17 ... I'm not sure which this qualifies for, so reader be warned.
Warnings: Language, Sex, References to Extreme Violence.
Spoilers: None
Disclaimer: I'm don't own the boys, I'm just stalking them for a while.
Summary: Mary leaned over, kissed him. And just that quickly, every cell in his body was on high alert. Her bustier could have killed him with what it was doing to her body; and even those ridiculous petticoats seemed hotter than hell all of a sudden, like some kind of pot-induced kink that could make you look at some half-hot hippie chick with pit hair down to her elbows and tell your buddies, "I’d tap that."
Part 2 of 2
It might have been politically correct for him to ask her if she was sure about this-sure she didn’t want to just let him hold her and save the wild monkey sex for sometime when they weren’t in the house of her God (and therefore his by proxy)-but he wasn’t much on political correctness and that was one of the things she liked best about him. He stood up, taking her with him, using his body to press her against the wall, walk her to the corner. He got a hand on the counter, pushed her makeup aside so he could brace her against it, lift her up enough to tilt her hips so he could get where he wanted to be.
Where she wanted him to be.
She used her teeth on his lips, his tongue, his throat while he sorted his way through the sea of white netty shit to find her skin, her ass, her cunt. He wondered passingly if her wedding panties were white or red or black as he pushed them out of his way and slipped his fingers inside her.
He was betting red.
She moaned the way he lived to hear her moan; then started moving against his hands, pulling his fingers deeper inside her like she was near starving for something more substantial.
He had to consider it either the luck of the Irish or some kind of divine providence he was still wearing his jeans and tee-shirt because he didn’t know how much experience she had with the God-awful intricacies of cummerbunds, and neither one of them was really in much of a state to find out. She was killing him with the way she was moving, the sounds she was making; and he could tell by those same things she was running for the finish line as fast and as hard as he was.
She wanted him now, so because his hands were otherwise occupied, she got him unbuckled, unbutton and unzipped herself. Pushing anything she wasn’t interested in low enough for government work, she lifted her legs up, hitched her knees around his waist, hooking them over his hips to give him the leverage to brace her against a counter that was going to leave a hell of a bruise on her ass by the time they were finished.
"You, John," she whispered against his mouth. "Just you, right now."
He took the invitation literally. Her body tried to follow when he pulled his fingers free, arched against him as he slicked his hands around her hips to press them between her ass and the sharp-edged counter, holding onto her, taking the momentum of their combined weight across the back of his knuckles to protect her as he rocked against her, pushed inside.
The sound she made just about did him in, as did the way those fucking garters dug into his skin, painting him a mental picture of how she looked under her petticoats that pretty much matched up to the one he had of the way she looked above them. The bustier was still in place, but it wasn’t hiding anything so much as making sure it was all right up top where he could see it.
He’d had dreams like this: church, red panties and all.
She moaned again, something that might have been "harder" or "faster" or just "fuck me." He wasn’t sure which-his ears weren’t really working any more-but he did all three, establishing a rhythm that was primal, visceral, so intense it couldn’t have lasted, even if they’d wanted it to.
Her fingers tangled into the back of his hair, clutching at his skull, digging into his neck. She moaned one last time, and they were both done. Gone. Over.
Her knees were still locked around his waist when he found his upstairs brain again, when he could think clearly enough to sort sensation from sentience so he could speak, so he could breathe. His legs were shaking a little with the effort of supporting them both, the counter serving more as a brace for stability than it did to hold them up so he wouldn’t sit down on the floor right there, taking her with him in a tumble of petticoats and displaced boxers. Her skin was flush and hot where it was pressed against his, and she was breathing the same way he was: hard, strained, pretty well thoroughly exerted.
"Damn," he whispered against her neck. "I definitely like your list."
She pulled back to look at him, to study him. She put one hand on the side of his face, examining him in a way that made him feel like she was memorizing something for future reference.
He frowned a little, moved away from her touch just enough to protest what it implied. "Hey. Don’t look at me like that. I’m not going anywhere. You’ve got every day for the rest of our lives to remind yourself what I look like."
She smiled a little, reached out to wipe sweat away from where it was gathering on his eyebrow. "You look like you just had sex on your wedding day," she noted.
He grinned at that, didn’t object this time when her fingertips ghosted across his skin. "Yes, ma’am. I sure did." His drawl was a low gruff he’d actually used to make her come on occasion, when talking slow and dirty was the game they were playing and the rules were no hands but her own, so his voice was the only tool he was allowed to apply to the goal of taking her someplace faster than she could get there on her own.
"You need to wipe that smile off your face before you go back to your side of the church," she informed him. "Sondra will have a fit if she sees you looking all sexed up that way."
He nodded. "Yeah, I always thought she had a thing for me."
Mary laughed. She didn’t giggle. She laughed. Laughed in a way that clarified beyond any doubt that Sondra liked him even less than he thought she did, he thought she had him pegged somewhere between Ralph Kramden and Archie Bunker.
"I love you," she said.
Then she kissed him again, long and slow this time, her tongue talking to him instead of urging him into action. He reciprocated by holding up his end of the conversation, shifting a little where he was still pressed tight to her, moving one aching hand to the small of her back again, spreading his fingers wide and digging them in enough to make her feel owned, as well as protected.
When she finally pulled away, she said, "You need to go. People will start arriving soon, and I still have to get dressed. And so do you."
She started to unhook her legs from where they were still locked around him, but he caught her thigh in his hand, held it in place where it was.
"Uh huh," he said. "Not yet you don’t. Not until you talk to me." When she didn’t respond immediately, he nudged at her a little with his hips. "I’m serious, Mary. Talk to me."
"I don’t know why I was crying," she said, her voice quiet. "I just was."
He studied her for several seconds, then said, "We’re going to be okay. I’ll take care of you, I promise. That may be all I’ve got to offer, but I have got that to offer."
"I know we will," she said. "It isn’t that."
"Then what?"
"I just … I think I just wanted to see you. To feel you."
He nudged her with his hips again. "How’d that work out for you?"
"I just … it’s going to sound stupid. There’s no way to say it that doesn’t sound stupid."
"Stupid’s good," he encouraged. "Stupid’s sexy."
She laughed a little, looked down, looked away. "Sometimes I just feel a little lost. Like … I don’t know. Like I’m in really deep water all of a sudden. Like the water’s so deep I could drown in it." She looked up, met his eyes then. "I never used to feel that way, John. I never felt like the water was so deep that I couldn’t find the bottom to push off again and make it back to the surface."
"Okay," he said. "Am I in that water with you?"
"I told you it was going to sound stupid," she said.
"Mmmm … not following," he admitted.
"You are the water, John."
"Oh. Okay. So … you’re saying I’m deep?" He let her almost give in and say yes, that was exactly what she was saying, before he added, "Or is it that I’ve taken away a little of that control you like so much? That need to know exactly what’s in the pool with you, and where all the walls are, and the bottom, and what temperature the water is, and the chlorine level, if possible."
"You are such a jerk," she said.
"I’m a lake," he teased her gently. "I’m the fucking ocean, baby."
"A total jerk. Absolutely unrepentant."
"Bless me father, for I have sinned," he quipped, shifting his body against her, reminding her where he was and where he’d been.
"A blasphemous jerk," she revised.
"I’m just obeying the commandments … be fruitful and multiply being my favorite one."
"That isn’t a commandment," she assured him.
He tried to look innocent and failed. "It isn’t?" Then he grinned. "Still my favorite."
She smiled at him, kissed him again. "Promise you won’t laugh if I tell you something really corny?"
"Cornier than me being the water in which you drown?"
"Cornier than even that," she agreed.
"Cross my heart," he said, and he did, drawing an X on his chest with one finger.
"There are times I feel like I wasn’t even alive until I met you. Like I was just waiting for something. Like a seed in the ground or something, just waiting the sun to show up and bring the whole world to life. Bring me to life."
He watched her while she was speaking. Listened to every word she said.
"So go ahead and laugh," she said after a beat. "I know it’s corny. I warned you it was corny."
"There are times I felt like I was already dead until I met you," he told her quietly. "Like I was just waiting for something. Like a corpse in the ground, just waiting for my body to rot so it could be over. So I could just be dead."
He made her cry again by saying that, but he didn’t care.
"Yeah. I know. But it’s how I used to feel. Like I was over. Like nothing really mattered, and nothing ever would." He leaned in, kissed her this time. "So how’s that for corny?"
"You need to leave," she said again, wiping at her face, brushing tears away as she pulled her leg out of his grip and expelled him from where he was still leaning against her body. "We’re getting married in less than an hour, and I have things to do."
"I love you, Mary," he said. "In ways I’m not sure you’ll ever realize."
She ran a hand down the side of his face, put her fingers on his lips. "I think that’s why I needed to see you," she said. "Just to hear that. Just to feel you say it."
"I could say it again, if you want," he offered as she stood, smoothed her petticoats back into place. "I’m young. I’ve got good recovery time."
"Go," she told him firmly. "And don’t you dare confess your sins to Jim, or you’ll be consummating your marriage on your five year anniversary."
He smiled. "Wasn’t me who started this," he reminded her.
"Go, John."
He reached down, pulled his jeans back into place and buckled up everything she’d unbuckled. "Wouldn’t want Sondra to get jealous," he said when he glanced up and caught her watching.
Mary laughed again. "You need to get a move on, soldier. It’s bad luck to see the bride in her dress before the wedding."
"Ah," John said. "That’s the part nobody told me. The in her dress part."
"You’re a jerk."
"Yeah. But I’m your jerk, baby."
He kissed her again before he left her; held her face between his hands, studied her eyes, tried to read the future of who they’d be together.
"I feel it, too, sometimes," he said. And then he clarified, "The water thing. Feeling like you traded in safe for something that sometimes scares you so bad with how much you don’t know the depths of it that it’s enough to put you to crying in your petticoats. When I feel that way-when I look up and realize I’m actually sitting in a closet in my petticoats, crying-I remember that you’re the water, so drowning in you isn’t so much a scary thing as what I’ve been looking for all my life."
"See?" she said quietly. "That’s why I sent Kate to get you."
"Because I’m a jerk," he said.
"My jerk."
She wasn’t crying any more when he left her. As he passed back through the bigger of the two dressing rooms, he flashed Sondra a smile and said, "She might need some help re-arranging her petticoats." She already looked pissed. His comment damned near crossed her eyes for her.
Kate walked with him out into the corridor.
"Thank you," he said when they were clear of where anyone else could hear.
"Is she okay?"
"Not crying any more at least."
"What did you tell her?"
He hesitated, then allowed, "A little hard to explain."
"My money’s on a joke," Kate said. "I’m betting you told her she feels the way she does because you’re deep or something. And then, when she least expected it, you probably said something terribly profound. And romantic. And probably a little corny."
He laughed. "You might know me a little too well at this point."
"You’re marrying my best friend, John," she pointed out. "And you’re going into business with my husband. If I didn’t know you pretty well, I’d have to kill you."
He leaned down, kissed her on the cheek. "Seriously," he said near her ear. "Thank you."
She nodded. "Go get dressed. And don’t you dare confess anything to Jim Murphy that my husband is going to bitch about not getting on his wedding day."
He laughed. "Way too well," he said.
"That’s not you I know," Kate assured him. "That’s the woman you’re going to marry."
"The woman I’m going to marry," John repeated. He looked down the long hallway to the darkness where it turned, headed another direction. "In fifty-two minutes," he said. "Fifty-two minutes, and everything changes."
Kate snorted quietly.
He glanced at her. "What?"
"Everything changes?" she repeated.
He shrugged a little. "Call me a romantic."
"It doesn’t change in fifty-two minutes," she assured him. "It changed seventeen months ago, the day the two of you met."
"I make a hell of a first impression," he allowed dryly.
"You make a crappy first impression," she corrected. "But you do all right the second time around."
He nodded, went back to staring into the darkness at the end of the hall.
"What?" she asked when he didn’t speak, but didn’t leave either.
"Nothing."
"Nothing my ass. What?"
He shrugged a little, tried not to tell her but told her anyway: "I thought she might have changed her mind. Thought maybe she’d come to her senses, realized she could do better and wanted to call the whole thing off."
His confession caught Kate by surprise. A moment of awkward silence stretched between them before she said, "She couldn’t have."
"Couldn’t have called it off?"
"Couldn’t have done better."
This time, he was the one caught by surprise. He looked at her, tried to find the joke, tried to find the catch. But even doing so, he knew it wouldn’t be there. He trusted Kate enough to know she wouldn’t say something like that to him. Not right now, not when he was off balance, not when he’d left himself wide open for a sucker punch by telling her something like what he just told her.
Something he would have never told her husband, but he only hesitated to tell her because it made him feel weak to admit it, not because he didn’t trust her to hear it.
"Don’t look at me that way," she said. "You already know you’re the one for her or you wouldn’t have asked her to marry you in the first place."
"I know she’s the one for me," he said. "That’s a little different."
"It’s a lot different," Kate agreed. "And it isn’t what I said."
He frowned, not sure what she was getting at. "Some of us don’t have one of those expensive college degrees of yours," he said finally. "Want to clarify for the jarheads in the conversation?"
"Oh, give me a break, John. You know exactly what I mean. There’s nothing you wouldn’t do for Mary, including walking away if you thought for just one moment she’d be happier with someone else. Or just without you, for that matter."
That embarrassed him. Shamed him a little. "No," he said quietly. "I wouldn’t. That’s the one thing I couldn’t do, not even if she wanted me to."
"Bullshit."
He looked at her again, studied her for several seconds before he asked, "Why do you say that?"
"Because I believe it. If I didn’t, I’d never let her marry a war-mongering adrenaline junkie like you."
He snorted. "Not funny, you pinko commie fag."
"Is that a crack about the dress?" she asked. "Because if it is, she’s the one who picked them out, not us."
He chuckled. "It’s a lovely dress," he said. "And you’re very pretty in pink."
"Fuck you, Winchester," she said. Then she reached out, tapped the back of his hand with two fingers. He winced a little, surprised to find his knuckles were swollen, already starting to bruise. "Nice knuckles, by the way," she said.
He looked at them for a beat, flexed his hand a couple of times before dropping it back to his side. "Old war wound."
"Uh huh. But you wouldn’t walk away if that’s what she asked you to do." She didn’t give him a chance to respond, saying, "Now go. I’ll see you in an hour and a half, give or take."
"Forty-nine minutes," he said.
"Yeah, right. You hold on to that, along with the idea that everything changes in an hour and a half instead of that boat having already sailed so long ago it’s already half way to the Bahamas."
He left her in the hallway, returning to Jim and Mike and a black tuxedo with tails that made him look as much like a penguin or a waiter as he ever cared to look. He was ready to take his place at the alter in ten minutes. Mary wasn’t ready to walk down the aisle for another ninety-eight; but when she did, he realized Kate was right.
Nothing did change. He was still alive, and Mary was still everything that really mattered.
finis