Holiday Ficlet 24/30: Party Favors for blue_berry
For blue_berry:
Party Favors
The sound of his cane echoes off the tiles as he closes the bathroom door and leans against it, avoiding his reflection in the mirror. The sounds of the Christmas party are almost deafening even through the wood, and his head is pounding. He fishes the vicodin out of his pocket and takes two to offset the pain and the noise.
He hears the giggle and groans under his breath. Figures he had to pick the bathroom attached to the room most likely to be used for a drunken foray into misguided sex. He wonders briefly which nurse is going to show up on Wilson’s doorstep for the morning after pill and his consoling gaze. Unless, of course, it’s Wilson out there with a nurse. He’s likely to feel obligated to do the right thing, completely unaware that the Morning After pill is exactly that.
He opens the door and stops, his lectures lost in the strangled sound he makes at the sight in front of him. Cuddy’s on the bed though her dress isn’t, and the lingerie she’s wearing makes the thong he saw earlier in the year seem sedate and demure. It doesn’t shock him nearly as much as the fact that Stacy’s removing said lingerie, her own more sedate outfit slightly askew.
He closes the bathroom door behind him and leans against it, suddenly not sure the cane is enough support. Stacy’s dark hair feathers over Cuddy’s stomach and he can feel his erection come to life, the pulsing throb of blood leaving him light-headed and even more unsteady on his feet.
“Room for one more?” They’re just as surprised as he is by the sound of his voice, matching gasps of surprise to go with their wide-eyes. “Or is this a private party?”
He doesn’t wait for an answer (he never does when he fears it might be no), and moves over to the bed. It sinks pleasantly beneath his weight and he nearly sighs with relief, but the sound is caught by Stacy’s mouth as she steals a kiss. He reaches out to touch her, but is interrupted by the soft feel of Cuddy’s flesh as she sits up to join them. He turns his head and there are mouths and tongues for exploring as bodies fit together, pushing him down onto the bed.
He closes his eyes and lets them move over him. He doesn’t want to see the flesh above him or over him, doesn’t want to know whose heat he’s tasting and whose is flooding around him. He lets them touch and taste him, providing cock and tongue for their movements above him. He can hear their wet, drunken kisses and feel the rush of their orgasms and the soft sighs of satiation as they cover him with come. He pushes his own orgasm up inside someone, feeling her body constrict as his tongue lashes at the clit of the other, feeling her dance with overstimulation.
They both fall together on top of him - sticky and sweaty and sweet, and he keeps his eyes closed as they kiss over him then tangle their tongues with his once more. He forces himself to his feet and pulls his pants up, not looking back at the bed as he finds the bathroom again and washes his face and his hands.
His expression is tired and knowing, the lines around his eyes deeper, though his smile more satisfied. His head has stopped hurting, though his leg throbs harder, the walk from the bathroom to the party almost too much, but not nearly as painful as the walk from the party to his car.
Party Favors
The sound of his cane echoes off the tiles as he closes the bathroom door and leans against it, avoiding his reflection in the mirror. The sounds of the Christmas party are almost deafening even through the wood, and his head is pounding. He fishes the vicodin out of his pocket and takes two to offset the pain and the noise.
He hears the giggle and groans under his breath. Figures he had to pick the bathroom attached to the room most likely to be used for a drunken foray into misguided sex. He wonders briefly which nurse is going to show up on Wilson’s doorstep for the morning after pill and his consoling gaze. Unless, of course, it’s Wilson out there with a nurse. He’s likely to feel obligated to do the right thing, completely unaware that the Morning After pill is exactly that.
He opens the door and stops, his lectures lost in the strangled sound he makes at the sight in front of him. Cuddy’s on the bed though her dress isn’t, and the lingerie she’s wearing makes the thong he saw earlier in the year seem sedate and demure. It doesn’t shock him nearly as much as the fact that Stacy’s removing said lingerie, her own more sedate outfit slightly askew.
He closes the bathroom door behind him and leans against it, suddenly not sure the cane is enough support. Stacy’s dark hair feathers over Cuddy’s stomach and he can feel his erection come to life, the pulsing throb of blood leaving him light-headed and even more unsteady on his feet.
“Room for one more?” They’re just as surprised as he is by the sound of his voice, matching gasps of surprise to go with their wide-eyes. “Or is this a private party?”
He doesn’t wait for an answer (he never does when he fears it might be no), and moves over to the bed. It sinks pleasantly beneath his weight and he nearly sighs with relief, but the sound is caught by Stacy’s mouth as she steals a kiss. He reaches out to touch her, but is interrupted by the soft feel of Cuddy’s flesh as she sits up to join them. He turns his head and there are mouths and tongues for exploring as bodies fit together, pushing him down onto the bed.
He closes his eyes and lets them move over him. He doesn’t want to see the flesh above him or over him, doesn’t want to know whose heat he’s tasting and whose is flooding around him. He lets them touch and taste him, providing cock and tongue for their movements above him. He can hear their wet, drunken kisses and feel the rush of their orgasms and the soft sighs of satiation as they cover him with come. He pushes his own orgasm up inside someone, feeling her body constrict as his tongue lashes at the clit of the other, feeling her dance with overstimulation.
They both fall together on top of him - sticky and sweaty and sweet, and he keeps his eyes closed as they kiss over him then tangle their tongues with his once more. He forces himself to his feet and pulls his pants up, not looking back at the bed as he finds the bathroom again and washes his face and his hands.
His expression is tired and knowing, the lines around his eyes deeper, though his smile more satisfied. His head has stopped hurting, though his leg throbs harder, the walk from the bathroom to the party almost too much, but not nearly as painful as the walk from the party to his car.