Lexicography isn’t the most glorious job in the world, but Michael enjoys it. He gets to work with words all day and that’s what he loves. Around this time of year, September, Michael works hard and he works late. He and his team are scrambling to finish compiling all the existing and new words into the coming year’s edition of the Oxford Dictionary.
Even on his commute home Michael is working, adding final edits to the notes on the 2018 Oxford Word of the Year. He doesn’t put his tablet away until the train pulls into his stop, and then he walks the three blocks home from there, eager to get home to continue working on his pages. He’ll make a nice cup of tea and sequester himself in his room, and spend the night researching etymology.
What he doesn't expect, when he walks into his Manhattan high-rise and drops his keys into the bowl by the door, is to hear his fire alarm going off. Or for the whole apartment to smell like a combination of bacon, pancakes and smoke.
“Dean?” he calls curiously, setting his briefcase down and taking strides towards the kitchen. “Is that you?” he calls.
“In here!” Dean shouts back, but Michael is already standing in the kitchen doorway, watching in bemusement as his boyfriend violently waves a stack of magazines at the smoke detector on the ceiling, a pan on the stove filled with half-burnt, half-raw pancake batter still billowing smoke despite the stovetop being turned off. Dean spots him and drops the magazines on to the countertop and stepping forward to wrap his arms around Michael’s neck. He plants an uncoordinated kiss to his lips and smiles sheepishly at him.
“What are you doing here?” Michael asks, clearly unamused, as he steps past Dean to take the stepping stool out from the pantry. He opens it up and slides the small staircase to the middle of the room, climbing up easily and detaching the smoke alarm from the ceiling. It takes him all of 10 seconds to remove the batteries from the device and toss them to Dean, who deftly catches them and sets them on the counter.
“I wanted to make you dinner,” Dean answers with a smile, and Michael looks over his shoulder as he climbs down from the stepping stool. His features soften when he sees the stack of freshly cooked bacon and a bowl of scrambled eggs sitting next to the stovetop, burnt pancakes still smoking mildly but, for all intents and purposes at this point, posing no threat of catching fire. Michael tries to maintain a frown despite himself, but it’s a hard thing to do when his boyfriend is actually so thoughtful.
“You’re only supposed to use your key in an emergency,” Michael says, stepping forward and poking at the bacon. He picks up a strip and takes a bite, humming in pleasure at the taste. During the week he rarely gets to eat anything that doesn’t come out of a box or a can, so this is certainly a treat.
“It was an emergency,” Dean says, taking a step forward and hooking his chin over Michael's’ shoulder. He touches his fingers to his hips, untucking Michael’s work shirt from his slacks and slipping his hands underneath to rub gently at his bare skin. “Sam forgot to go to the grocery store this weekend and I was hungry.
Michael laughs, nearly choking on his bacon. “Oh, of course. And here I thought that my boyfriend was being benevolent cooking dinner for me.”
Dean chuckles, bending his neck forward and planting gentle, teasing kisses against the back of Michael’s neck, his earlobe, the back of his head. One thing that Dean has learned, in his six months of being with Michael, is that he likes to be pampered. On the exterior he’s stoic and hard, but it’s so easy to seduce him with gentle touches, gentle kisses, gentle words.
“I am benevolent. I made enough for the both of us, didn’t I? I could have simply cooked for myself and left before you got home.”
Michael scoffs at Dean’s words, but his body remains relaxed and pliant as he leans into his boyfriend’s arms. “Is that so? Because it looks to me like you couldn’t even get through cooking the pancakes,” Michael says, reaching for the pan with the burnt pancake and placing it into the sink. Dean huffs in Michael’s ear, nipping just shy of painfully at his neck just below his shirt collar.
“Yeah, so there was a little accident. Irregardless — ”
“That’s not a word,” Michael counters. Dean bites his shoulder and Michael snorts, stifling a laugh, and goes quiet.
“I did make you dinner. You should be thankful.”
“I am,” Michael answers with a smile, turning in Dean’s arms and planting a sweet, slow kiss to his plush lips. Dean sighs into it, smiling against Michael’s lips, and when they pull apart they are both grinning at each other. Michael reaches for the plate full of bacon and thrusts it into Dean’s arms, then reaches himself for the bowl of scrambled eggs.
“Come on, we’ll eat in the living room. I have work to do, but you can channel surf,” he says, and leads the way for Dean and himself into the living room. They settle together on the couch, and then Michael goes to get his tablet from his briefcase by the door. By the time he returns Dean has already tuned in to Dr. Sexy and is watching with rapt attention. With a fond roll of his eyes Michael settles onto the couch beside his boyfriend, spooning eggs voraciously into his mouth as he edits text on his tablet.
Fifteen minutes pass between them in companionable silence, the only sounds in the room the dull drone of the television and Michael’s frequent tapping at his tablet. Michael doesn’t even notice that Dean’s show has finished until suddenly, after about twenty minutes, Dean cries out from his seat beside him on the couch.
Michael jerks his head up, looking around the room astutely before he turns his gaze onto his boyfriend, eyes narrowed. “What?”
“Zoinks! On your tablet! Is that — is that Oxford’s Word of the Year?” He asks, excitedly trying to snatch Michael’s tablet from his hands. He quickly locks the screen and stuffs it under the seat of his thighs, pushing Dean away.
“You can’t see it, Dean! It’s classified,” he says. Dean rolls his eyes and swats Michael’s hands away, climbing over his boyfriend’s lap and trying to pray the tablet from under his butt.
“Oh, shut up, you don’t work for the CIA!”
“Dean, you’re not allowed to see it! Wait until the new edition comes out in January and you can buy your own copy like everyone else.” He shoves Dean off his lap, but he simply comes back with double the zeal, pinning Michael down and reaching between his legs.
“I’m not gonna pay — fuck , Mike—” he curses, jerking his hand back when Michael leans in and bites his arm. He shakes it off, glaring at his boyfriend, and then he throws himself forward and grabs Michael by the shoulders, pushing him down and nearly causing both of them to topple off the couch in the process. “I’m not paying forty bucks for some stupid dictionary—”
Michael gasps, horrified. “It’s not just a stupid dictionary , Dean, you take that back—”
Dean, while he still has Michael pinned bends down and, smirking, whispers, “Make me.”
Michael’s eyes narrow and he throws himself forward, flipping them both so that he is pinning Dean now, his hands pressing hard against Dean’s chest. He grins back up at his boyfriend, gyrating his hips against Michael’s legs, and they both seem to move at the same time to unbuckle each other’s clothing and peel it from their bodies.
“I saw what you were working on,” Dean pants, reaching into Michael’s underwear, taking hold of his shaft and dragging his hand up and down in fast, jerky movements. Michael hisses and lets his eyes flutter closed, his own hands lingering at the buckle of Dean’s jeans. “You might as well tell me everything now.”
“Shut up,” Michael says with a roll of his eyes, and he whimpers when Dean squeezes his erection tight at the base.
“I’ll go to the press,” Dean says, then laughs when Michael reaches out and pinches a nipple.
“Like hell,” he answers. Dean moves his hand up and down, twisting his wrist at the head, and Michael groans. “Okay, fine. Make me cum and I’ll tell you everything.”
Dean snorts. “Famous last words.”
“Dean,” he moans, and splays his legs erotically, letting his underwear slip down his legs to expose his whole cock and his balls to Dean’s ministrations. He picks up the pace, then bends down and tongues lightly at the head, tasting the precum that's welling up there. Michael sighs, closing his eyes, and his cock jerks and swells when Dean seals his lips around the head and sucks. “Oh, God. Yes. Thank you,” he gasps. Dean hums around his shaft, still stroking at the base and sending vibrations all the way up Michael’s cock and through his body.
“I bet it’s the word of the year,” Dean says, pulling off his cock with a pop, jerking him hard and fast. Michael gasps, throwing an arm over his face as he moans lewdly. “Bet they’re gonna make Scooby-Doo the new mascot of the Oxford Dictionary.”
Michael groans and flexes his hips. “We don’t… have. A mascot. Dean,” he whines, pushing his cock into Dean’s fist, searching for more friction against his swollen dick.
“Fuck, look at you,” Dean breathes, and when Michael peeks up at him he sees that Dean now has his own cock out, fisting the head and dragging his thumb back and forth over the slit. He groans, balls drawing up tight as warmth pools low in his belly. “Sellin’ all your company secrets for a fucking orgasm. Good thing you aren’t in the CIA after all,” he pants. Michael groans, gritting his teeth.
“Dean, if you don’t make me cum I swear to Christ—”
“I’m gettin’ us there, baby,” Dean breaths, and that’s when he pushes his body forward, draping himself over Michael’s body and rutting against him. He takes both of their cocks in hand, stroking them in tandom, and Michael throws his head back with a loud, needy moan. “Fuck. Good,” he grunts, pushing his hips forward. Michael groans again, squeezing his eyes shut, and he cums in thick spurts all over Dean’s hand and his cock and his belly.
“Fuck, that’s hot,” Dean hisses with clenched teeth, hand making a gross, slick sound as he strokes his cock with Michael’s cum. His body trembles as he grows nearer to his own orgasm. “Okay, now te—tell me,” Dean demands, his final command punched out of his lungs as he cums all over his own fist witha shudder and a whimper. Michael laughs and groans at the same time, catching Dean when he collapses in an exhausted heap on his chest.
“You are incorrigible,” Michael mutters. Dean turns his face and blinks up at him, grinning like the cat who got the cream.
“Hey, a promise is a promise,” he says, and sits up on Michael’s lap, stretching lazily before he tucks himself back into Michael’s side. “I’ll just keep annoying you about it until you tell me,” he says. Michael shakes his head and chuckles, wrapping his arm around Dean’s side.
“Alright, fine. We’re adding 18 new words to the dictionary this year. Zoinks is one of them.”
Dean gasps. “Oh my God, that’s amazing,” he gushes. Michael rolls his eyes fondly, always bemused by his boyfriend’s ceaseless nerdiness. He’s already shown himself to be obsessed with Harry Potter, Star Wars and Game of Thrones. Of course he would turn out to be a huge Scooby-Doo fan, too.
“We aren’t releasing the list to the press until next month, so congratulations. You are the first regular civilian to know this top secret information,” he says. Dean violently rolls his eyes.
“Dude, for the last time, there is nothing about working for the Oxford Dictionaries that makes you anything other than a regular civilian.”
“I am in charge of our language , dean. I have the power to take and give words with the click of a button,” he says. Dean groans, leaning in to silence his boyfriend with a kiss. Sometimes, Michael just doesn’t know when to shut up.
And sometimes, he knows just the right thing to say to make Dean want to shut him up with a kiss.