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rubykatewritingTITLE: Nowhere to be Found
AUTHOR:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
rubykatewriting
PAIRING: KarenDean
RATING: NC-17
WORDS: 1,027
SUMMARY: He smirked and you knew this was a regular thing for him. You are not unique. Tomorrow you'll be a story, that girl that one time in Scranton, PA. It makes it a little easier to let go, and at the same time, you wish for more.
DISCLAIMER: Karen Filippelli and Dean Winchester belong to others. I am only borrowing them. No harm intended.
AUTHOR NOTE: This was written forinlovewithnight's One Night Stand Challenge. It really could fit anywhere within the SPN 'verse, but spoilers up to The Office episode "The Job." The title comes from Sia's "Breathe Me." Additionally, this is unbetaed. All mistakes are mine.
He holds your left leg up, hand behind your knee, and to the side, and he’s hitting you in just the right spot. With every thrust, and you arch your back, moan a little, the muscles in your lower belly shivering. Somewhere outside of yourself, you watch critically. This is exactly what you don't need. You've just been dumped and you go and fuck the last guy on the planet you should be fucking.
Oh, Filippelli, when are you ever going to learn?
He said his name was Dean, Just Dean, but you really don't care. You spend most of the time in the bar trying to count his freckles. (You haven't dated a guy with freckles since college.) There were so many and they made him look young, especially when he smiled. He was weird and cocky, and he more than kept up with you and your whiskey. By the time the two of you left the bar and stumbled next door to the motel, you felt drunk but not to the point you wouldn’t be able to enjoy what comes next.
You giggled – so unlike you – a lot while you undressed. It was a competition. Who could get naked the fastest, and your competitive streak kicked in and you tore at your nice (expensive) button down, popping a couple of buttons in the process, until your clothes – suit jacket, button down, bra and underwear – were in a somewhat neat pile at your feet. He was just to his boxers, but he took one look at you and gathered you up against him as if you were the sweetest treat he’d ever found, his erection solid against your belly.
He was even paler than Jim, and up close his eyes were a darker shade of green. You wanted to take it all back then, but he was pushing his finger inside you, thumb pressing against your clit. It had been a month and a few days since you were using anything but your trusty vibrator and you could hardly breathe. He wasn't fantastic – practiced but nothing spectacular – but feeling someone else’s hand, someone else doing the work, was dizzying.
With a rush, you were coming, but the alcohol muted your orgasm; the ripples barely disturbed the surface. It only left you wanting more. And wishing you hadn’t spent the last two hours drinking whiskey as fast as the bartender could pour it.
He moved down your body, pressing kisses on each breast, a suck at each nipple, a swirl of his tongue around and down into your navel. His breath tickled against your pubis and he looked at you with a smirk before dropping his head slightly, blowing against your cunt. You weren’t here for this – you tried not to think about the last time Jim went down on you, his tongue curling up inside your body with a familiarity that made you feel unbelievably wanted – and you shook your head, grabbed him by the hair and pulled him back up.
No, you told him as you reached between your bodies and measure him with your hand. He nodded, his eyes losing focus as you let your middle finger stroke up the underside of his penis. He breathed out, whispering OK, OK, OK over and over, and you laughed softly. Men were so easily redirected.
He leaned over the side of the bed, dragged his jeans by the hem of one leg, and tugged his wallet – thick, leather, worn with use – free. Grunting, he dug around for a moment, brow scrunched up, concentrating. He swayed a little, and you placed a hand on his hip to steady him. Finally his eyes lit up and he held up a condom, victorious. All you cared about was getting through this, getting away from your mind long enough to stop thinking about your pathetic job and your even more pathetic life. You just wanted to feel and not think.
When he pushed inside you, the fullness was enough. It was sort of intoxicating and you kissed him and let his tongue sweep along the roof of your mouth, the backs of your teeth. He was a good kisser and tasted of all that whiskey but also blueberry pie. You pulled back a little, laughing, and he looked at you, nonplussed. What? he murmured, and you shook your head, whispered against his mouth: Blueberries.
He smirked and you knew this was a regular thing for him. You were not unique. Tomorrow you would be a story, that girl that one time in Scranton, PA. It made it a little easier to let go, and at the same time, you wished for more. You had more, once. But then Just Dean rolled his hips, hitting deeper than before, and you cry out loudly, arch your back. For a heady moment, you couldn't believe that the tomorrow, that someday, in your head wouldn’t end up, eventually, being okay. You’ll be okay.
Or maybe it was the orgasm talking.
You lay in the bed long after he leaves, arm tucked behind your head. The ceiling is disgusting but this is a fleabag motel. You count twenty-two stains, mostly of the water damage variety, but some you don't want to even try to guess. They have a dried blood quality to them that makes your imagination go places you’d rather not take it having just fucked someone in the bed below that ceiling.
A part of you, the part you keep buried underneath all the confidence, the competitiveness, wants to cry. To shed the tears you've felt building up ever since you noticed Jim standing outside the restaurant looking in at you, eyes squinty and unreadable, and experience some kind of catharsis. The kind they're always talking about on Oprah and Dr. Phil. You knew – you’ve known all along, if you're being really honest – this was a possibility. Part of the blame lies with you, because you pushed in all the wrong ways. Because you didn’t push enough when it mattered.
Or maybe you'd lost before you even started. You can't tell anymore.
End
AUTHOR:
rubykatewritingPAIRING: KarenDean
RATING: NC-17
WORDS: 1,027
SUMMARY: He smirked and you knew this was a regular thing for him. You are not unique. Tomorrow you'll be a story, that girl that one time in Scranton, PA. It makes it a little easier to let go, and at the same time, you wish for more.
DISCLAIMER: Karen Filippelli and Dean Winchester belong to others. I am only borrowing them. No harm intended.
AUTHOR NOTE: This was written for
inlovewithnight's One Night Stand Challenge. It really could fit anywhere within the SPN 'verse, but spoilers up to The Office episode "The Job." The title comes from Sia's "Breathe Me." Additionally, this is unbetaed. All mistakes are mine.He holds your left leg up, hand behind your knee, and to the side, and he’s hitting you in just the right spot. With every thrust, and you arch your back, moan a little, the muscles in your lower belly shivering. Somewhere outside of yourself, you watch critically. This is exactly what you don't need. You've just been dumped and you go and fuck the last guy on the planet you should be fucking.
Oh, Filippelli, when are you ever going to learn?
He said his name was Dean, Just Dean, but you really don't care. You spend most of the time in the bar trying to count his freckles. (You haven't dated a guy with freckles since college.) There were so many and they made him look young, especially when he smiled. He was weird and cocky, and he more than kept up with you and your whiskey. By the time the two of you left the bar and stumbled next door to the motel, you felt drunk but not to the point you wouldn’t be able to enjoy what comes next.
You giggled – so unlike you – a lot while you undressed. It was a competition. Who could get naked the fastest, and your competitive streak kicked in and you tore at your nice (expensive) button down, popping a couple of buttons in the process, until your clothes – suit jacket, button down, bra and underwear – were in a somewhat neat pile at your feet. He was just to his boxers, but he took one look at you and gathered you up against him as if you were the sweetest treat he’d ever found, his erection solid against your belly.
He was even paler than Jim, and up close his eyes were a darker shade of green. You wanted to take it all back then, but he was pushing his finger inside you, thumb pressing against your clit. It had been a month and a few days since you were using anything but your trusty vibrator and you could hardly breathe. He wasn't fantastic – practiced but nothing spectacular – but feeling someone else’s hand, someone else doing the work, was dizzying.
With a rush, you were coming, but the alcohol muted your orgasm; the ripples barely disturbed the surface. It only left you wanting more. And wishing you hadn’t spent the last two hours drinking whiskey as fast as the bartender could pour it.
He moved down your body, pressing kisses on each breast, a suck at each nipple, a swirl of his tongue around and down into your navel. His breath tickled against your pubis and he looked at you with a smirk before dropping his head slightly, blowing against your cunt. You weren’t here for this – you tried not to think about the last time Jim went down on you, his tongue curling up inside your body with a familiarity that made you feel unbelievably wanted – and you shook your head, grabbed him by the hair and pulled him back up.
No, you told him as you reached between your bodies and measure him with your hand. He nodded, his eyes losing focus as you let your middle finger stroke up the underside of his penis. He breathed out, whispering OK, OK, OK over and over, and you laughed softly. Men were so easily redirected.
He leaned over the side of the bed, dragged his jeans by the hem of one leg, and tugged his wallet – thick, leather, worn with use – free. Grunting, he dug around for a moment, brow scrunched up, concentrating. He swayed a little, and you placed a hand on his hip to steady him. Finally his eyes lit up and he held up a condom, victorious. All you cared about was getting through this, getting away from your mind long enough to stop thinking about your pathetic job and your even more pathetic life. You just wanted to feel and not think.
When he pushed inside you, the fullness was enough. It was sort of intoxicating and you kissed him and let his tongue sweep along the roof of your mouth, the backs of your teeth. He was a good kisser and tasted of all that whiskey but also blueberry pie. You pulled back a little, laughing, and he looked at you, nonplussed. What? he murmured, and you shook your head, whispered against his mouth: Blueberries.
He smirked and you knew this was a regular thing for him. You were not unique. Tomorrow you would be a story, that girl that one time in Scranton, PA. It made it a little easier to let go, and at the same time, you wished for more. You had more, once. But then Just Dean rolled his hips, hitting deeper than before, and you cry out loudly, arch your back. For a heady moment, you couldn't believe that the tomorrow, that someday, in your head wouldn’t end up, eventually, being okay. You’ll be okay.
Or maybe it was the orgasm talking.
You lay in the bed long after he leaves, arm tucked behind your head. The ceiling is disgusting but this is a fleabag motel. You count twenty-two stains, mostly of the water damage variety, but some you don't want to even try to guess. They have a dried blood quality to them that makes your imagination go places you’d rather not take it having just fucked someone in the bed below that ceiling.
A part of you, the part you keep buried underneath all the confidence, the competitiveness, wants to cry. To shed the tears you've felt building up ever since you noticed Jim standing outside the restaurant looking in at you, eyes squinty and unreadable, and experience some kind of catharsis. The kind they're always talking about on Oprah and Dr. Phil. You knew – you’ve known all along, if you're being really honest – this was a possibility. Part of the blame lies with you, because you pushed in all the wrong ways. Because you didn’t push enough when it mattered.
Or maybe you'd lost before you even started. You can't tell anymore.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2007-06-23 05:49 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-12-06 04:25 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-06-25 03:15 pm (UTC)While I really kind of hate Karen on the show, I liked this fic because of the range of emotions she goes through and how well you wrote them. She's happy, she's sad, she's challenging, she's horny. It had really good pacing.
And also, Dean was there. So. I approve.
no subject
Date: 2007-12-06 04:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-06-25 09:48 pm (UTC)great, great read.
no subject
Date: 2007-12-06 04:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-06-25 11:18 pm (UTC)Very nice indeed. *contented sigh* :)
no subject
Date: 2007-12-06 04:34 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-06-26 04:07 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-12-06 04:37 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-01-31 04:51 am (UTC)Thank you.
no subject
Date: 2008-01-31 12:07 pm (UTC)And thank you for the comment. I am so glad you enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing (and imagining) it.