The First Time - The Office
Title: The First Time
Author: mutinousmuse
Rating: R
Word Count: 1,974 and counting
Spoilers and Warnings: Spoilers through S3 finale. Warnings for mildly roughish sex, but it’s pretty vanilla compared to some other stuff I’ve written.
Characters: Jim/Pam
Summary: Obligatory post-finale smut.
Author’s Notes: Characters not mine. Obviously. Thanks so much to shizam23 for the beta!
The First Time
The first time they have sex it’s on the kitchen counter of her new apartment. She still thinks of it as her new apartment even though it’s been almost a year since she broke the engagement with Roy and moved out, and she really doesn’t want to be thinking about Roy while Jim is shoving his pants and boxers down and clumsily kicking out of them.
“I love that you always wear skirts,” he says, shoving the black material of her work skirt up around her hips. They went straight to the restaurant from the office. No passing go, he’d said, no collecting anything, almost as if he were afraid that she’d change her mind about their declared first date. She’s glad she’s not the only who’s nervous.
She’s also acutely aware that Karen almost never wears skirts, and she doesn’t want to be thinking about Karen either, so she just smiles and says, “I know.”
He’s pulling her panties down her thighs, and he has that look on his face that she hasn’t seen in a long time. Half of her can’t believe they’re doing this so soon when three days ago she couldn’t even look at him without feeling a little bit like she’d gotten sucker punched in the kidney; the other half of her can’t believe they had to wait all the way through dinner. (And all the way through Stamford and all the way through Roy and all the way through so many intentionally misinterpreted looks and arm brushes and half-smiles and not-dates and she’s definitely done with the waiting part now.) Goosebumps flare up and down her legs as his fingernails scrape over her knees, and she blushes, sudden and unexpected and bright bright red.
“I didn’t know the new Pam Beesly blushed,” he murmurs, kneeling down to pull the lacy pink scrap over her ankles. She knows exactly what he’ll see when he looks up and blushes even brighter.
“There’s a lot you don’t know about the new Pam Beesly,” she says and tries to laugh, shooting for flirty, but probably landing closer to the sound a kid makes when he accidentally shoots milk out of his nose in front of the girl he likes.
His hands turn one of her feet upward, and she realizes he’s checking to see if she’s got scars or calluses or any other sort of alteration from her impromptu dash across the coals. She does, but they’re not on her feet. He’ll see them later, maybe, after, when they’re talking. Or maybe they won’t talk. Maybe he’s not a talker afterward. Roy wasn’t, and why is Roy here again when Jim is kneeling down below her, face slowly turning upward to see her, really see her. He’s looking up at her now, like she knew he would, and his smile changes, sharpens, as he pushes her knees further apart. Lips crush against the skin on the inside of her calf and then creep upwards. He doesn’t hesitate at all, and the throbbing that’s been building somewhere low in her gut expands outward as she realizes she’s shaking, and then his lips are right there and she can’t stop her hips from jerking forward into him.
He pulls back, eyes dark, and kisses her thigh. “Easy,” he says in the voice he saves for his moderately funny jokes (although he’s got a different tone entirely for the really funny ones). But this isn’t a joke, and there’s nothing easy about it, and she almost gets mad for a second, but then the look on his face shifts subtly and she knows he isn’t laughing at her. He mostly just looks hungry, and then his mouth is on her again. The shaking is gone now, replaced by a low-level humming that’s coursing through her veins, seemingly intent on moving inward to concentrate itself on the tight spot beneath his lips. When the explosion comes, she makes a sound that she’s fairly certain she’s never made before and then collapses back onto the counter. A wayward fork digs into her spine in a way that should hurt but doesn’t.
She can’t feel him anymore, and she looks up to see that he’s taken a step back, his eyes wide as he full out, blatantly stares. For a split second she can see exactly what he sees, almost like an out of body experience. Her hair is messy, the clip she’d been wearing at work discarded somewhere between the front door which she’s pretty sure they managed to slam shut and the entryway to her small kitchen. Her purple-striped blouse is unbuttoned, and she still has on the lacy pink bra which matches the lacy pink panties that Jim tossed somewhere near the refrigerator. Her skirt is bunched up around her waist, and her legs and arms are just sort of dangling, making her look like the broken rag doll she feels like.
He breathes out a single word - she’s pretty sure it’s “fuck” - and then pulls out his wallet.
“I told you I only take cash, right?” She surprises herself with the joke, arms moving to prop herself up, and a grin cracks his face wide open.
“Can I open a tab?” he shoots back, pulling a condom out of his wallet and ripping the foil open smoothly. He’s naked and she isn’t and that should probably feel odd, but it doesn’t. He rolls the condom down in a movement that’s clearly practiced, and she wonders fleetingly how many girls he’s been with. For her it’s only been Roy. A tiny shred of insecurity worms its way into her thoughts as she wonders how she matches up against Karen and Katy and the countless other unknown women he’s been with.
He notices her expression change, and he pulls her up so that she’s sitting upright on the counter, pressed against his chest as he stands between her legs.
“Do you have any idea how many times I’ve thought about this?” he asks, and his voice is now Serious with a Capital S, devoid of any traces of sarcasm.
She nods. “I think I probably do, actually.”
He kisses her, and even though he’s been doing it all night, in the parking lot of the office, at the restaurant, on her front porch while she fumbled through her purse for her keys, it still doesn’t quite seem real. She can taste herself on his tongue, and it’s strange but not offputtingly so. Roy would hardly ever go down on her, and when he did he’d usually move straight into the sloppy fucking he seemed to enjoy as soon as he was done, and she wonders if it should freak her out that Roy keeps popping into her thoughts when she’s finally, finally here with Jim.
She pulls away and looks down. “Is it weird that I feel sort of, almost, guilty?” She immediately feels like a jerk for asking, because she knows that he’ll know that she was just thinking of Roy, but apparently this whole being honest gig is getting to be kind of permanent.
“I don’t know,” he says. “Probably not… you were with him for a long time. Last time we did anything like this, you were still with him.”
“Do you?” she asks.
“Do I what?” He begins to trace his fingers down her arm at a maddeningly slow pace.
“Feel guilty.”
His features shape into a vague surprise. “Because of Karen?”
She nods, and his fingers reach the end of their destination to thread through hers. He squeezes her hand once.
“You know what?” He looks up, and their eyes meet. “I’m done feeling guilty.”
She kisses him this time, wrapping her legs around the backs of his thighs to pull him closer. He slides her blouse down her arms and she drops it on the floor. His lips move away from her mouth to land on the side of her throat. She tilts her head back to grant him better access and then gasps as his teeth graze gently over the spot where her neck melts into her shoulder. She can feel him pressing into her thigh, hard against her softness, and her nails dig into his waist.
“I want you,” she breathes, and it’s the truest thing out of a string of true things she’s been saying lately, and it feels really fucking good to say it.
She surprises herself again by reaching down between them to guide him into her. His eyes are wider than she’s ever seen them, and in fact his entire body suddenly seems frozen, almost like he’s afraid to move, afraid to shatter the moment, afraid to wake himself up. She loves that she does this to him, because it’s exactly what he does to her.
So she smiles, and pulls him into her more deeply, and then he’s the opposite of stillness. His hands are everywhere, his mouth is everywhere, and he’s moving inside of her with a singularity of purpose that has her tightening again already. She rakes her nails down his back hard, because she can; he cries out into her hair, and his hips begin to move even faster. The counter isn’t quite the right height, and the angle is awkward, and she can already feel bruises begin to form on the insides of her thighs, but she thinks she kind of likes it. She tightens her legs around him, urging him faster, closer, and his left hand clamps down around her hip in a vise grip. His right hand moves to dance across the fabric of her bra, fingers swirling over her gently, and she arches her back. He pinches slightly and she moans, arching into him even more. He pinches down again, harder, too hard, and she shudders suddenly and violently into a climax, a deep, throaty sound fighting its way out of her as she shakes against him.
His movements become jerky, the rhythm breaking, staccato, and then he stills.
“Holy fuck.” His words are panted into her hair, and she nods. She can’t talk yet. She leans forward into him, waiting for her heart to slow from a gallop to a brisk trot before responding.
“You can definitely open a tab, Halpert,” she says finally, and she can feel his smile as he presses a kiss against her forehead.
“So does this mean I get a second date?”
“Mmm hmm.” She kisses his shoulder, and he brings a hand up to play idly with her hair.
“We could double with Angela and Dwight,” he says offhandedly. “Save money on carpooling.”
“Or Jan and Michael,” she says, voice thoughtful. “She could cook for us, since she’s going to be doing the whole housewife thing.”
“You have a twisted mind, Beesly.”
“You know you love it,” she replies, etching meaningless designs into the skin of his back with her fingertips. The sound of his laughter makes her feel light and floaty, like something very small with wings. She pushes him away gently and then eases herself onto the floor. “You want to come upstairs?”
“I don’t know,” he muses. “I thought maybe we could give the bathroom sink a go.”
She grabs his hand and pulls him after her. “Only if I get to be on top.”
He makes a funny laughing-choking sound, and he follows after her. She turns and looks at him over her shoulder, her smile so big she’s not quite sure how her face is containing it. They’ve got matching shit-eating grins, and his hand is still clasped tightly in hers, and they’re tripping up the stairs like teenagers who got into the wine coolers when no one was looking.
The second time they have sex it’s in her bed, and the windows are open, and Pam doesn’t think of Roy at all.
~fin
Originally posted here at office_fanworks.
Author: mutinousmuse
Rating: R
Word Count: 1,974 and counting
Spoilers and Warnings: Spoilers through S3 finale. Warnings for mildly roughish sex, but it’s pretty vanilla compared to some other stuff I’ve written.
Characters: Jim/Pam
Summary: Obligatory post-finale smut.
Author’s Notes: Characters not mine. Obviously. Thanks so much to shizam23 for the beta!
The First Time
The first time they have sex it’s on the kitchen counter of her new apartment. She still thinks of it as her new apartment even though it’s been almost a year since she broke the engagement with Roy and moved out, and she really doesn’t want to be thinking about Roy while Jim is shoving his pants and boxers down and clumsily kicking out of them.
“I love that you always wear skirts,” he says, shoving the black material of her work skirt up around her hips. They went straight to the restaurant from the office. No passing go, he’d said, no collecting anything, almost as if he were afraid that she’d change her mind about their declared first date. She’s glad she’s not the only who’s nervous.
She’s also acutely aware that Karen almost never wears skirts, and she doesn’t want to be thinking about Karen either, so she just smiles and says, “I know.”
He’s pulling her panties down her thighs, and he has that look on his face that she hasn’t seen in a long time. Half of her can’t believe they’re doing this so soon when three days ago she couldn’t even look at him without feeling a little bit like she’d gotten sucker punched in the kidney; the other half of her can’t believe they had to wait all the way through dinner. (And all the way through Stamford and all the way through Roy and all the way through so many intentionally misinterpreted looks and arm brushes and half-smiles and not-dates and she’s definitely done with the waiting part now.) Goosebumps flare up and down her legs as his fingernails scrape over her knees, and she blushes, sudden and unexpected and bright bright red.
“I didn’t know the new Pam Beesly blushed,” he murmurs, kneeling down to pull the lacy pink scrap over her ankles. She knows exactly what he’ll see when he looks up and blushes even brighter.
“There’s a lot you don’t know about the new Pam Beesly,” she says and tries to laugh, shooting for flirty, but probably landing closer to the sound a kid makes when he accidentally shoots milk out of his nose in front of the girl he likes.
His hands turn one of her feet upward, and she realizes he’s checking to see if she’s got scars or calluses or any other sort of alteration from her impromptu dash across the coals. She does, but they’re not on her feet. He’ll see them later, maybe, after, when they’re talking. Or maybe they won’t talk. Maybe he’s not a talker afterward. Roy wasn’t, and why is Roy here again when Jim is kneeling down below her, face slowly turning upward to see her, really see her. He’s looking up at her now, like she knew he would, and his smile changes, sharpens, as he pushes her knees further apart. Lips crush against the skin on the inside of her calf and then creep upwards. He doesn’t hesitate at all, and the throbbing that’s been building somewhere low in her gut expands outward as she realizes she’s shaking, and then his lips are right there and she can’t stop her hips from jerking forward into him.
He pulls back, eyes dark, and kisses her thigh. “Easy,” he says in the voice he saves for his moderately funny jokes (although he’s got a different tone entirely for the really funny ones). But this isn’t a joke, and there’s nothing easy about it, and she almost gets mad for a second, but then the look on his face shifts subtly and she knows he isn’t laughing at her. He mostly just looks hungry, and then his mouth is on her again. The shaking is gone now, replaced by a low-level humming that’s coursing through her veins, seemingly intent on moving inward to concentrate itself on the tight spot beneath his lips. When the explosion comes, she makes a sound that she’s fairly certain she’s never made before and then collapses back onto the counter. A wayward fork digs into her spine in a way that should hurt but doesn’t.
She can’t feel him anymore, and she looks up to see that he’s taken a step back, his eyes wide as he full out, blatantly stares. For a split second she can see exactly what he sees, almost like an out of body experience. Her hair is messy, the clip she’d been wearing at work discarded somewhere between the front door which she’s pretty sure they managed to slam shut and the entryway to her small kitchen. Her purple-striped blouse is unbuttoned, and she still has on the lacy pink bra which matches the lacy pink panties that Jim tossed somewhere near the refrigerator. Her skirt is bunched up around her waist, and her legs and arms are just sort of dangling, making her look like the broken rag doll she feels like.
He breathes out a single word - she’s pretty sure it’s “fuck” - and then pulls out his wallet.
“I told you I only take cash, right?” She surprises herself with the joke, arms moving to prop herself up, and a grin cracks his face wide open.
“Can I open a tab?” he shoots back, pulling a condom out of his wallet and ripping the foil open smoothly. He’s naked and she isn’t and that should probably feel odd, but it doesn’t. He rolls the condom down in a movement that’s clearly practiced, and she wonders fleetingly how many girls he’s been with. For her it’s only been Roy. A tiny shred of insecurity worms its way into her thoughts as she wonders how she matches up against Karen and Katy and the countless other unknown women he’s been with.
He notices her expression change, and he pulls her up so that she’s sitting upright on the counter, pressed against his chest as he stands between her legs.
“Do you have any idea how many times I’ve thought about this?” he asks, and his voice is now Serious with a Capital S, devoid of any traces of sarcasm.
She nods. “I think I probably do, actually.”
He kisses her, and even though he’s been doing it all night, in the parking lot of the office, at the restaurant, on her front porch while she fumbled through her purse for her keys, it still doesn’t quite seem real. She can taste herself on his tongue, and it’s strange but not offputtingly so. Roy would hardly ever go down on her, and when he did he’d usually move straight into the sloppy fucking he seemed to enjoy as soon as he was done, and she wonders if it should freak her out that Roy keeps popping into her thoughts when she’s finally, finally here with Jim.
She pulls away and looks down. “Is it weird that I feel sort of, almost, guilty?” She immediately feels like a jerk for asking, because she knows that he’ll know that she was just thinking of Roy, but apparently this whole being honest gig is getting to be kind of permanent.
“I don’t know,” he says. “Probably not… you were with him for a long time. Last time we did anything like this, you were still with him.”
“Do you?” she asks.
“Do I what?” He begins to trace his fingers down her arm at a maddeningly slow pace.
“Feel guilty.”
His features shape into a vague surprise. “Because of Karen?”
She nods, and his fingers reach the end of their destination to thread through hers. He squeezes her hand once.
“You know what?” He looks up, and their eyes meet. “I’m done feeling guilty.”
She kisses him this time, wrapping her legs around the backs of his thighs to pull him closer. He slides her blouse down her arms and she drops it on the floor. His lips move away from her mouth to land on the side of her throat. She tilts her head back to grant him better access and then gasps as his teeth graze gently over the spot where her neck melts into her shoulder. She can feel him pressing into her thigh, hard against her softness, and her nails dig into his waist.
“I want you,” she breathes, and it’s the truest thing out of a string of true things she’s been saying lately, and it feels really fucking good to say it.
She surprises herself again by reaching down between them to guide him into her. His eyes are wider than she’s ever seen them, and in fact his entire body suddenly seems frozen, almost like he’s afraid to move, afraid to shatter the moment, afraid to wake himself up. She loves that she does this to him, because it’s exactly what he does to her.
So she smiles, and pulls him into her more deeply, and then he’s the opposite of stillness. His hands are everywhere, his mouth is everywhere, and he’s moving inside of her with a singularity of purpose that has her tightening again already. She rakes her nails down his back hard, because she can; he cries out into her hair, and his hips begin to move even faster. The counter isn’t quite the right height, and the angle is awkward, and she can already feel bruises begin to form on the insides of her thighs, but she thinks she kind of likes it. She tightens her legs around him, urging him faster, closer, and his left hand clamps down around her hip in a vise grip. His right hand moves to dance across the fabric of her bra, fingers swirling over her gently, and she arches her back. He pinches slightly and she moans, arching into him even more. He pinches down again, harder, too hard, and she shudders suddenly and violently into a climax, a deep, throaty sound fighting its way out of her as she shakes against him.
His movements become jerky, the rhythm breaking, staccato, and then he stills.
“Holy fuck.” His words are panted into her hair, and she nods. She can’t talk yet. She leans forward into him, waiting for her heart to slow from a gallop to a brisk trot before responding.
“You can definitely open a tab, Halpert,” she says finally, and she can feel his smile as he presses a kiss against her forehead.
“So does this mean I get a second date?”
“Mmm hmm.” She kisses his shoulder, and he brings a hand up to play idly with her hair.
“We could double with Angela and Dwight,” he says offhandedly. “Save money on carpooling.”
“Or Jan and Michael,” she says, voice thoughtful. “She could cook for us, since she’s going to be doing the whole housewife thing.”
“You have a twisted mind, Beesly.”
“You know you love it,” she replies, etching meaningless designs into the skin of his back with her fingertips. The sound of his laughter makes her feel light and floaty, like something very small with wings. She pushes him away gently and then eases herself onto the floor. “You want to come upstairs?”
“I don’t know,” he muses. “I thought maybe we could give the bathroom sink a go.”
She grabs his hand and pulls him after her. “Only if I get to be on top.”
He makes a funny laughing-choking sound, and he follows after her. She turns and looks at him over her shoulder, her smile so big she’s not quite sure how her face is containing it. They’ve got matching shit-eating grins, and his hand is still clasped tightly in hers, and they’re tripping up the stairs like teenagers who got into the wine coolers when no one was looking.
The second time they have sex it’s in her bed, and the windows are open, and Pam doesn’t think of Roy at all.
~fin
Originally posted here at office_fanworks.