don’t have any detailed requests but maybe something with miss mack and a kitty. My heart was broken when she was scammed out of a kitty in part 4
Could be set in the far further
I LOVE THIS IDEA!! thank you for the request, my love! this is super quick so i hope you enjoy 💖
sugar,baby? [j. abbot x f!reader]
Optional Ingredients: Carrots and Catnip
Jack Abbot had never stepped foot in an animal shelter, probably ever.
Yet, here he stood in front of a wall full of crates all full of furry little cats that were either sleeping or playing with cheap cat toys that looked worse for wear.
They should feel embarrassed, his body taking up space beside the very sweet older woman who stood beside him with bright eyes at the prospect of sending one of these lucky cats home with a doctor, which she would not let him forget he was.
Jack’s eyes were trained on the one cat, Mary, with a burning question. He didn’t really know how to choose a surprise cat for Miss Mack, he didn’t really have a set of parameters and asking ruined the surprise part of this whole thing, but he remembered that day in the hall with the confession of her late sister.
Miss Mary Mack, her favorite nursery rhyme and the inspiration behind the beloved bakery’s name. So when one cat with the name Mary crawled up to the bars and looked oddly a lot like Jack himself with the same stoic expression and would probably be crossing his arms over his chest just like Jack if he could.
“I know he has a girl name,” the older woman shared when Jack raised his eyebrows at the sign, “But the owners weren’t very attentive and didn’t ever realize it was actually a boy. We tried to give him a new name but he won’t respond to anything else.”
Jack could see her now, the tears building in her water line at the information and the little coo that would escape her lips unknowingly while she grabbed at his bicep and jumped up and down. She’d probably act like she had to beg for the cat, but both of them knew he would give her whatever she smiled just a little too big at without even asking.
He could see her putting the cat bed on the edge of their own bed, smiling and giggling when Jack complained about cat hair on his scrubs. She’d probably love this grumpy looking cat with a gender-bent name.
“Can I leave with him today?”
The woman was quick to inform him that yes, of course, he could leave with Mary today.
So that was how he ended up with Mary in his carrier with a few unimpressed meows every couple of minutes and a bag of carrots and catnip because he looked up a recipe for homemade cat treats that he knew she’d want to make because she she gets too excited she needs something to bake or she’ll never expel the energy.
Love does crazy things to men apparently Jack thought as he slowly removed the carrier as he parked his truck in the garage and made his way to the side door. The weight of the carrier felt like the weight heavy in his heart.
He made a promise that day in the rain outside the bakery when he grabbed Miss Mack and kissed her until he couldn’t think straight anymore that he’d always make her happy. He wouldn’t ever let her wind up on a date with a different man and he certainly would do anything she wanted.
So the nerves of picking the wrong cat might have not seen that serious, but Jack had yet to break that promise and he didn’t want this random Sunday to be the breaking point.
So natural, the doorknob that he had become accustomed to opening felt heavier than normal. She was on the other side of this door, probably prancing around in his shirt and her little panties that had him feeling like a teenage boy without a care in the world.
Because Jack had all the care buried deep in his old, scared heart as he turned the knob and felt like praying for the first time in a long time.
The sound of soft rock filled the house as soon as the door cracked open, the sound of her humming drowning out the professionals playing instruments and Jack couldn’t help but smile.
The sound of the door clicking shut made a quiet “Doc” peck through the music and his shoulders dropped a little. Her voice, even muffled, made a calm wash over him he dreamed of for years and would probably dream of it past the grave.
“It’s me,” his voice was full of every nerve he felt, his body hot at the idea of her disappointment.
“I was wondering where you ran off too this morning," her feet hit each floor board with a fervor, her voice enough to know she was smiling and rushing to meet him where she always met him, halfway and very much full of love.
“You’ll see.”
Before she can respond with some long rant about how she hates when he is cryptic, her body comes into full view. He was right, she stands before him like a Goddess in his old med school alumni shirt that drapes across her in a way that makes Jack feral and he can’t spot a pair of shorts so he can only assume it’s the pink pair he stripped from her body last night.
But what really fills his heart is her face. The smile drops, only for a second, and he is taken over with pure confusion at the carrier still gripped tight in his hand. Then, as if the truth had been finally gifted upon her by a fairy godmother, a smile stretched from one side of her face to the other. And every thought Jack had, bad and good, disappeared because this was what he was waiting for the whole ride.
“I got ingredients in the truck for you to make some treats for our new son.”
She squeals, a proper squeal, and rushes him like a football player on the opposing team.
“No way!’ Her knees hit the hardwood floor in a way that makes Jack cringe and a silent reminder to kiss them better once he gets her on the couch even though she’ll probably be so excited she won’t even think about the pain.
“Rember the cat incident?” Jack knew she never forgot, Mel and her still talk about it all the time, "Thought I maybe fill that void a few years too late.”
“Jack,” she used his real name likt a prayer, “I can’t believe you got me a cat.”
“Hey,” his voice didn’t hold the streness she wanted but much more teasing, “He has a name.”
“And what is that name cutie?” Her fingers broke between the bars, smiling at the cat that had found her much more interesting than he found Jack as he poked his nose out in hopes she’d ghost her fingers over his fur. Jack suddenly understood Mary on a deep level.
“He has a bit of an odd name. But I found it fitting,” Jack shifted on his feet, the insecurity creeping back in. What if she didn’t find the name Mary as perfect as he did? I mean it was an odd turn of events with the name of a boy cat.
“Can’t be that odd,” her starry eyes dared to glance up and Jack and the truth came tumbling out.
“His name is Mary,” he bit the inside of his cheek hard, “Like Miss Mary Mack’s?”
Her eyes met his own, her mouth hung open in the way she does when he’s rendered her speechless. It’s his favorite look of hers, so honest and vulnerable he can’t help but want to touch the pout of her lips. Her hands slowly fall away from the bars, her eyes filling with the water Jack imagined earlier.
“Jack,” her voice is hoarse as if she wasn’t just talking perfectly fine earlier, “Put the carrier down.”
“Why?” He really, really hopes she can’t hear the obvious panic in his voice.
“So I can climb you like a fucking bean pole for being the hottest man I have ever met.”
just a reminder that this blog is run by someone who:
— is anti ICE & fascism
— is pro-choice & feminist
— supports trans & queer people
— hates generative AI & capitalism
— supports immigrants & people of color
— is pro-environmentalism & social justice
— supports palestine & all other territories unjustly suffering
WARNING: 18+, orgasm (male), sexual undertones, boner, pole dancing, lap dance, very very small mention of abuse against women (so very small), mention of creepy men ALL PHOTOS ABOVE ARE FOR AESTHETIC PURPOSES! SO PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION OF READER IS GIVEN AT ANY POINT IN THE STORY! FIC INSPIRED BY GIBSON GIRL BY ETHAL CAIN
The overly lit, neon stage was starting to give him a migraine; the throbbing behind his eyes was the first indication of that. But the light bleeding across the woman's ass on stage as she kicked the plastic, clear heels behind her back to the beat of the shitty pop song was enough to keep Whitaker’s eyes open in fear of missing her next move.
She was memorizing the way the blue to green strobe lights danced over the swell of her breast as he leaned on the pole or the way she would wrap her left leg over the polished metal pole like she could trust it.
“See something you like, Huckleberry?” Trinity’s voice held no judgement, but a lot of giggles as she gripped the tequila soda between her freshly painted finger nails and Dennis remembered the reason he was here to begin with. Javadi had finally turned 21, according to the analog clock facing the stage that Whitaker wasn’t entirely sure was switched after daylight savings, a few hours ago and Trinity had the genius idea to go out. The issue was, Trinity totally forgot to leave out the fact that instead of a fancy restaurant with a separate menus just for drinks or even some dingy bar with a stinky counter top— she decided going to The Afterglow which was right around the counter from PTMC and, well, a strip club.
Victoria screamed at first, a winded rant about her reputation and if someone saw her and what about her mother, and Whitaker wasn’t sure what Trinity said to her when she started going on and on about Utah but now she was throwing dollars on the stage and cheered when one of the dancers twirled a strand of her hair around their index finger.
Meanwhile, Whitaker was still grappling with the fact he was in fact in a strip club when she came on stage. The song and the lights were abhorrent, down right vomit inducing without dramamine; but she was quite the opposite. Sure she was sexy, hot as hell and she knew it, but Whitaker thought it was more than that.
She danced with her eyes almost entirely closed the whole song, as if the shitty music was sitting on her shoulder like a devil telling her the next step. Her body rolled in a way that felt like a professional ballroom dancer might have taught her, and she never once smiled. Whitaker didn’t think it was because she wasn’t happy or enjoying the dance, he supposed he didn’t really know her at all and could be completely and utterly wrong, but he thought it was because it wasn’t a performance for them. They were witnesses, something she was more than aware of, but every spin and bend was for her.
So yeah, you could say he was seeing something he liked. He liked watching her from this springy, dark forest couch with an empty lowball glass clutched between his weather and calloused fingers. He liked watching her unbutton the custom top, he couldn’t tell if she was dressed as a police man or a rabbit, and dragged a single finger down her chest that was slick with sweat from all the dancing. He liked this distance, because when he wasn’t up close mauling at her, she could move like this. She moved as if she was born to wear those heels that looked like a safety hazard and the pole that was definitely a safe hazard the way the bolts seemed to not be fully screwed into the vinyl stage.
But saying that to Trinity felt like too much of a confession without the wooden walls and velvet curtain to hide him from the sins waiting out there for him. It’s too honest, too real, and too unlike the clumsy Whitaker she’d used to; so he settled for an uncomfortable smile and a headnod that he hoped would get lost between her clouded vision and the weird violet lights.
And his eyes find her, again. The slow drop down the pole, the legs shining like a Barbie doll, and the eye lids that are still snapped shut. They don’t open until the pop song ends, and suddenly they open directly in his direction. As if she noticed his pathetic eyes the whole time, following her like a map to treasure. Whitaker couldn’t imagine he was the first man with sad eyes that found her mesmerizing; he would bet his paycheck that she got this kind of attention from men– and boys– much more enticing than this Nebraska farm boy. So, when she strutted off the stage to the sound of Victorica’s screams, because yes she was still screaming, Whitaker did his best to forget about her.
Until, 30 or so minutes passed and another Cosmopolitan that Victoria ordered but hated so she handed off the Whitaker like a human trash can, when the bouncer came up to him and informed him his private dance was ready for him; his brain didn’t quite catch up to the moment.
“I’m sorry?” Whitaker looked around the room, trying to find another kid that had the whole mousey, depressed look to him and redirect the very nice bouncer.
“I know it’s Crash’s birthday,” Trinity planted her hands on his shoulder and gave what he imagined was her best encouraging squeeze but came off more like she was losing her own footing in the block heels she wore, “but I got you a gift Huckleberry.”
So, he was knowingly being gently manhandled by the bouncer to a velvet padded door that felt like a nicer version of solitary confinement with the cosmopolitan still gripped in the martini glass that felt too thin between his fingers.
The bouncer was not forthcoming and did not answer a single question Whitaker had asked during the short walk over; but right as he wandered into the room he’d aspected he’d be dying of embarrassment when he heard the clearing of his throat.
“I'm gonna be right outside this door,” he tilts his head to the left, “So if I hear she’s not safe I’m coming in there and not sparing you a second.”
He shut the door firmly before Whitaker could promise that this woman was much more likely to knock him over with her pinky before he could do any harm to her. Another glance around the room exposed a plush chair that Whitaker did not want to sit in, scared there would be substances that would wind him back up in the pitt getting shots in the ass.
So he paced the room, feeling the way his feet made tracks on the hardwood floor and tried to focus on 3 things he could hear but all that was coming to mind was the Benson Boone sound that had been slowed in a way that made it sound like the devil would be summoned.
The door, not the one the security guard closed but a secret second door that Whitaker didn’t even see and made him reconsider the word “observation” on his fellowship applications, clicked open. The second sound he now heard was plastic on hardwood, the clicking of heels making Whitaker remember the way her legs swirled around the metal pole on stage.
Because he knew it was here. He hadn’t seen her face yet, but he knew deep down that she would talk through that door with confidence and sex appeal that would make his body light on fire.
She finally steps through the door frame, her dark blue outfit was much more appealing without the grotesque neon masking the true color. He could tell she had dropped the accessory that she works on stage, now in the simple glitter two piece and the basic plastic heels. But she was still performing. She dragged her feet when she walked, as if she was a cheetah prowling closer and closer to the wild chicken for dinner. Her hips swayed from left to right as she approached and Whitaker’s hands begged to place a gentle hand on them to hold them in place.
He was a fucking creep.
“Didn’t wanna sit?”
The third, and finally noise to calm him down, was her sultry voice as she placed a hand gently on the back of the curse chair. Whitaker noticed this was the only part of her that wasn’t painted to perfection, her nails were chipped hot pink and clearly done at some point in a hurry with a little bit sticking to her nailbeds.
“I-” a small cough escapes the back of his throat, “I- didn’t.”
Smooth answer, he would really woo her.
“Oh?” Her voice doesn’t lose the pure sex appeal, instead she plays into it by cocking her hand to the side and dragging her feet until she stands directly in front of it. She falls back, letting her legs fall open in a classic subway manspread and her Bette Davis likes boring into him.
Whitaker felt himself get hard, the way his pants got tight and the seams of his worn jeans were pressing directly against the tip of his cock in a way that made him squirm; but he watched her whip something from the side of her lips.
“Did you just eat?”
The air no longer moves freely, but stands in tension. Her body tights, the sex appeal paused and by the way her body seizes up and goosebump rises on her skin he can assume they’re now both in uncharted territory.
“Excuse me?”
Hindsight is 20/20 and Whitaker realizes in real time all the nasty implications that asking that question meant and he didn’t mean a single one of them.
“Oh shit uhm-” he throws up hands up in front of him and watched her flinch so panics even more and instead glues them to his side like a Naval captain getting ready to be shipped off, “I just noticed you, uhm, were wiping crumbs off your lips and I thought it ,shit, looked like food.”
He’s confident he’s never once been this scared in his entire life. This woman was watching him with eyes that screamed danger, danger you’ll fall in love with me, and her legs were wide open in the pleather chair to the point that he was sure he could she the razorbumps from shaving poke out with he didn’t know was a turn on for him because the sight alone was making him consider dropping to his knees in front of her and-
“Oh,” she rolls her shoulders in a way that’s meant to be sexy but Whitaker is confident it’s more of an attempt to regain control, “So you’re interested in my lips.”
It’s not a very good line, they both know it, but they both ignore it and she finally closes her legs and leans to rest her elbows on her knees. This caused her breast to sit on full display in front of him which is almost as attractive as the razor bumps although Whitaker has this sick feeling that the razorbumps felt more real than this.
He’s meant to see her tits, he wasn’t meant to see her shitty shaving job.
“I guess,” he shrugged awkwardly, hoping to knock off some of the embarrassment with it, “Where else should I look?”
She pauses again, but instead of the panic look from before he notices the corner of her lips tick up in an almost smile.
“You’re seriously asking?”
He wasn’t, but the way she was almost smiling made Whitaker want to agree with anything she said.
“Yep,” he let the words roll from his tongue in an attempt to be charming, “I’m much better when I have clear directions.”
“Good thing I like telling men what to do,” the mask was up again, this fake version wrapped in glitter and rhinestones. Whitaker liked the half smiled version much more.
“What’s your name?” She was slowly standing from the chair, dragging her feet in that way only she could make sexy
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” she speaks almost immediately, as if she knew he was gonna ask.
“Does that actually work?” He can hear his own voice, so sincere and so full of concern; because no way some guy came into a strip club begging for a woman’s name and found that response anything but cliche and a reminder that he is a loser.
Dennis Whitaker was a loser so he supposed he was one step ahead of most men in here.
She pauses her walking again, that smile that he so desperately wants to see poking from the corners of her mouth again and he swears if he listens hard enough he could hear what some would call a laugh.
“It does,” she shrugs one shoulder, “Until now I guess.”
“Oh,” Whitaker gave his best half smile but he could promise it wasn’t nearly as pretty as her’s, “It worked on me, I’m just man enough to admit that’s a bad look for me.”
Whitaker can name many moments in his life that changed him, from the day he watched a cow give birth for the first time to the day of the Pittfest shooting. But nothing compared to this moment as she opened up her painted lips and laughed.
He didn’t have to strain his ears to hear it, didn’t even have to lean in closer. It took over the room, bounced off the walls and settled itself deep into the walls of the aorta. He didn’t even care if she was laughing at him, although he had this sneaky suspicion that wasn’t the case, he just cared that she was laughing between the same four walls he currently stood in.
“You know,” she circled him, but didn’t touch him sadly, “You’re not what I expected to walk into tonight.”
“Is that a good thing?” The laugh made him feel bold, made him feel capable in a way he hadn’t felt before. He wondered if his clothes could hold the laugh like a cologne, sticking to him in a way that would permeate for sometime after until he washed it. He would never wash these clothes again if he could help it.
“Yeah,” she gently places her two hands on his back, which his throbbing cock was very happy about, and moves him closer to the chair.
“Good,” he mumbled, letting her spin him slowly until he was chest to chest with her. Her eyes weren’t close like they were on stage, but wide open and watching him. Her lips were now permanently in a soft smile and the moody lighting in the room couldn’t even hide the small twinkle in her irises. Up close like this, Whitaker didn’t even care when she shoved him into the pleather armchair that he so desperately wanted to avoid originally.
“You like being good?” She turns and slowly sits herself on his lap, his boner stabbing into her back but neither say a word about it.
“How many bad lines do you have?” Whitaker smiles, not only enjoying the way her fingers move up his thigh, but liking the smile she gives him over her shoulder.
“My lines aren’t the only thing that’s bad,” she smoothly flips around, moving from his lap to squat between his thighs and his body like the look of her in front of him like this. She could lean her nose down and nudge his cock. Just the thought almost made him lose sight of her silly wink.
“You’re really good at this,” and he wasn’t sure if he was still talking about the lines or the way her hips move to the made up rhythm of her hands as she slowly dances just for him.
“Been doing it long enough, I’d hope I’d be good at it by now,” she shrugs, standing at full height to drape her leg over the back of the chair.
“How long is long enough?”
“3 years,” she shakes her leg, Whitaker’s face inches away from her own thighs and begging to shove his face there and suffocate like a real man; but he keeps in composure.
“All here at Afterglow?”
“Yeah,” she removed her leg much to Whitaker’s dismay, “I’m offended that you hadn't noticed me.”
“My first time,” he squirms in the chair at the confession, “It’s my friend's twenty first and my roommate thought it would be smart to drag us here.”
“The girl with the crown?” she continues the dance, as if they aren’t having a casual conversation about his friends that are still somewhere in this building while he gets a hard on talking to the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen in his entire life.
“Yeah, that’s her,” his tongue loses control for a second, “We’re doctors at the emergency room.”
Why did he feel the need to share the information would probably never occur to him, but he knew where she worked so he supposed it was only fair? Or he was currently having a stroke!
“Doctor?” She pauses her dancing, eating at him with her hungry eyes that made him feel like a teenager when his balls first dropped and he saw boobs for the first time.
“I bet you get a lot of them here,” it had finally occurred to Whitaker that she could have done this very sexy dance on a number of his co-workers. The vision of Doctor Abbot or Doctor Robby sitting this in this exact chair, looking up at her with those eyes and the experience of a real man made his stomach feel sick.
There was no way she was his special secret, but he wondered did they know what her laugh sounded like with Charli XCX faded in the back. Or the curve of her smile as she looked over the shoulder?
“Yeah,” her tone is casual in a way Whitaker begs, “Sometimes.”
A knock rings through the room, the cheap door rattling with the force and Whitaker realizes his time is coming to an end. He was pissed at Trinity only 15 minutes ago for buying this dance at all, but now he wished she bought the longer package. She was so cheap.
The knock doesn’t phase her the same way it phased him, he supposed this knock sung in her dreams and nightmares with how often she probably heard it. Instead of moving to the door that he assumes she should be returning through, she places both her hands on the worn pleather and leans down. Her chest is at line with Whitaker’s eyes but he can’t seem to focus with her warm lips so close his ear.
“None of them are as sexy as you,” and Whitaker knew deep down, this wasn’t some line she uses on all the guys who sit in this chair with the dream of breathing her air. This was honest. This was her.
Before he can think of a response, her teeth reach down to bite gently on his earlobe and Whitaker feels what can only be described as humiliation as a small patch of his jeans develop a damp spot. Because this women had made him cum without even fucking with his zipper.
She glances down at the now wet spot on his jeans, albeit small, but very clearly there even in the yellow moody lighting. She smirks, looking up at him through her lashes before she uses his knees to stand up to his full height. She does her classic walk to the door, although he can’t help but feel a little prideful that her shoulders look much more lax then when she walked in the first time.
Her chipped hot pink fingers grab the doorknob, opening the door only enough for her body to slip though and nothing more. Whitaker is sitting watching her from the chair with the uncomfortable wet jeans doing something to his ego he would not like to discuss further.
“Ask me my name again…” she trails off.
He considers giving her his last name, the name he’d been consistently going by since he started at PMTC; but he doesn’t like the idea of her sharing it with anyone, Not with him.
“Dennis,” his voice is full of the orgasm that is splashing over his pants, weak and pathetic for this woman in pleasers, “And you are?”
She smiled and her mouth repeated his name without making a noise, smiling at the shape it takes on her lips.
“They call me Gibson,” she shrugs and starts to slip out the door, “Come back and I’ll give you my real one maybe.”
The door shuts, the final line in the sand. The communication disconnect and Whitaker feels the empty space immediately. As if on cue, the door he originally came through swings open. The same bodyguard as before watched him, unimpressed eyes and he took in his state in the chair like the pathetic man he certainly was.
“Clean rags under the chair,” he nods but doesn’t give Whitaker much time to grab one before he’s ushering him out the room and dragging another lucky guy back through the doors. He wonders if she’ll come through the door again for him, with her walk and bedroom eyes that makes a man feel special. He wonders if he’ll think she’s as beautiful or will he only notice the way the rhinestones back her tits look incredible.
He wonders about Gibson as he wanders back to his friends, coming up with a sad story about a drink getting spilt on his crotch when they notice the wet stain. He doesn’t say much when they two are trying to decide to stay for a few more songs or leave, because he isn’t entirely sure what his answer is.
Earlier in the evening, he would have begged to go somewhere else; but now he wasn’t so sure. A part of him wanted to stay, in hopes he could watch her on stage once more with those puppy dog eyes. He's positive he gave her most of the dance. But another part doesn’t think he can stand it if she’s not on that stage, but in that room with that guy with the greasy air and the ill-fitted suit. If she’s swaying her hips to the shitty music and he actually had the confidence to touch a woman so out of his league. To know that is happening, or to assume that is happening, and to be standing her, Santos and Javadi’s purses made his stomach churn.
So when they ultimately decided to head to a regular bar, it was no surprise to Santos, Javadi, or even the security guard when Whitaker took one final look at the neon lit stage and begged to a God that his Gibson girl would walk out with one final bow.
WARNING: 18+, orgasm (male), sexual undertones, boner, pole dancing, lap dance, very very small mention of abuse against women (so very small), mention of creepy men ALL PHOTOS ABOVE ARE FOR AESTHETIC PURPOSES! SO PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION OF READER IS GIVEN AT ANY POINT IN THE STORY! FIC INSPIRED BY GIBSON GIRL BY ETHAL CAIN
The overly lit, neon stage was starting to give him a migraine; the throbbing behind his eyes was the first indication of that. But the light bleeding across the woman's ass on stage as she kicked the plastic, clear heels behind her back to the beat of the shitty pop song was enough to keep Whitaker’s eyes open in fear of missing her next move.
She was memorizing the way the blue to green strobe lights danced over the swell of her breast as he leaned on the pole or the way she would wrap her left leg over the polished metal pole like she could trust it.
“See something you like, Huckleberry?” Trinity’s voice held no judgement, but a lot of giggles as she gripped the tequila soda between her freshly painted finger nails and Dennis remembered the reason he was here to begin with. Javadi had finally turned 21, according to the analog clock facing the stage that Whitaker wasn’t entirely sure was switched after daylight savings, a few hours ago and Trinity had the genius idea to go out. The issue was, Trinity totally forgot to leave out the fact that instead of a fancy restaurant with a separate menus just for drinks or even some dingy bar with a stinky counter top— she decided going to The Afterglow which was right around the counter from PTMC and, well, a strip club.
Victoria screamed at first, a winded rant about her reputation and if someone saw her and what about her mother, and Whitaker wasn’t sure what Trinity said to her when she started going on and on about Utah but now she was throwing dollars on the stage and cheered when one of the dancers twirled a strand of her hair around their index finger.
Meanwhile, Whitaker was still grappling with the fact he was in fact in a strip club when she came on stage. The song and the lights were abhorrent, down right vomit inducing without dramamine; but she was quite the opposite. Sure she was sexy, hot as hell and she knew it, but Whitaker thought it was more than that.
She danced with her eyes almost entirely closed the whole song, as if the shitty music was sitting on her shoulder like a devil telling her the next step. Her body rolled in a way that felt like a professional ballroom dancer might have taught her, and she never once smiled. Whitaker didn’t think it was because she wasn’t happy or enjoying the dance, he supposed he didn’t really know her at all and could be completely and utterly wrong, but he thought it was because it wasn’t a performance for them. They were witnesses, something she was more than aware of, but every spin and bend was for her.
So yeah, you could say he was seeing something he liked. He liked watching her from this springy, dark forest couch with an empty lowball glass clutched between his weather and calloused fingers. He liked watching her unbutton the custom top, he couldn’t tell if she was dressed as a police man or a rabbit, and dragged a single finger down her chest that was slick with sweat from all the dancing. He liked this distance, because when he wasn’t up close mauling at her, she could move like this. She moved as if she was born to wear those heels that looked like a safety hazard and the pole that was definitely a safe hazard the way the bolts seemed to not be fully screwed into the vinyl stage.
But saying that to Trinity felt like too much of a confession without the wooden walls and velvet curtain to hide him from the sins waiting out there for him. It’s too honest, too real, and too unlike the clumsy Whitaker she’d used to; so he settled for an uncomfortable smile and a headnod that he hoped would get lost between her clouded vision and the weird violet lights.
And his eyes find her, again. The slow drop down the pole, the legs shining like a Barbie doll, and the eye lids that are still snapped shut. They don’t open until the pop song ends, and suddenly they open directly in his direction. As if she noticed his pathetic eyes the whole time, following her like a map to treasure. Whitaker couldn’t imagine he was the first man with sad eyes that found her mesmerizing; he would bet his paycheck that she got this kind of attention from men– and boys– much more enticing than this Nebraska farm boy. So, when she strutted off the stage to the sound of Victorica’s screams, because yes she was still screaming, Whitaker did his best to forget about her.
Until, 30 or so minutes passed and another Cosmopolitan that Victoria ordered but hated so she handed off the Whitaker like a human trash can, when the bouncer came up to him and informed him his private dance was ready for him; his brain didn’t quite catch up to the moment.
“I’m sorry?” Whitaker looked around the room, trying to find another kid that had the whole mousey, depressed look to him and redirect the very nice bouncer.
“I know it’s Crash’s birthday,” Trinity planted her hands on his shoulder and gave what he imagined was her best encouraging squeeze but came off more like she was losing her own footing in the block heels she wore, “but I got you a gift Huckleberry.”
So, he was knowingly being gently manhandled by the bouncer to a velvet padded door that felt like a nicer version of solitary confinement with the cosmopolitan still gripped in the martini glass that felt too thin between his fingers.
The bouncer was not forthcoming and did not answer a single question Whitaker had asked during the short walk over; but right as he wandered into the room he’d aspected he’d be dying of embarrassment when he heard the clearing of his throat.
“I'm gonna be right outside this door,” he tilts his head to the left, “So if I hear she’s not safe I’m coming in there and not sparing you a second.”
He shut the door firmly before Whitaker could promise that this woman was much more likely to knock him over with her pinky before he could do any harm to her. Another glance around the room exposed a plush chair that Whitaker did not want to sit in, scared there would be substances that would wind him back up in the pitt getting shots in the ass.
So he paced the room, feeling the way his feet made tracks on the hardwood floor and tried to focus on 3 things he could hear but all that was coming to mind was the Benson Boone sound that had been slowed in a way that made it sound like the devil would be summoned.
The door, not the one the security guard closed but a secret second door that Whitaker didn’t even see and made him reconsider the word “observation” on his fellowship applications, clicked open. The second sound he now heard was plastic on hardwood, the clicking of heels making Whitaker remember the way her legs swirled around the metal pole on stage.
Because he knew it was here. He hadn’t seen her face yet, but he knew deep down that she would talk through that door with confidence and sex appeal that would make his body light on fire.
She finally steps through the door frame, her dark blue outfit was much more appealing without the grotesque neon masking the true color. He could tell she had dropped the accessory that she works on stage, now in the simple glitter two piece and the basic plastic heels. But she was still performing. She dragged her feet when she walked, as if she was a cheetah prowling closer and closer to the wild chicken for dinner. Her hips swayed from left to right as she approached and Whitaker’s hands begged to place a gentle hand on them to hold them in place.
He was a fucking creep.
“Didn’t wanna sit?”
The third, and finally noise to calm him down, was her sultry voice as she placed a hand gently on the back of the curse chair. Whitaker noticed this was the only part of her that wasn’t painted to perfection, her nails were chipped hot pink and clearly done at some point in a hurry with a little bit sticking to her nailbeds.
“I-” a small cough escapes the back of his throat, “I- didn’t.”
Smooth answer, he would really woo her.
“Oh?” Her voice doesn’t lose the pure sex appeal, instead she plays into it by cocking her hand to the side and dragging her feet until she stands directly in front of it. She falls back, letting her legs fall open in a classic subway manspread and her Bette Davis likes boring into him.
Whitaker felt himself get hard, the way his pants got tight and the seams of his worn jeans were pressing directly against the tip of his cock in a way that made him squirm; but he watched her whip something from the side of her lips.
“Did you just eat?”
The air no longer moves freely, but stands in tension. Her body tights, the sex appeal paused and by the way her body seizes up and goosebump rises on her skin he can assume they’re now both in uncharted territory.
“Excuse me?”
Hindsight is 20/20 and Whitaker realizes in real time all the nasty implications that asking that question meant and he didn’t mean a single one of them.
“Oh shit uhm-” he throws up hands up in front of him and watched her flinch so panics even more and instead glues them to his side like a Naval captain getting ready to be shipped off, “I just noticed you, uhm, were wiping crumbs off your lips and I thought it ,shit, looked like food.”
He’s confident he’s never once been this scared in his entire life. This woman was watching him with eyes that screamed danger, danger you’ll fall in love with me, and her legs were wide open in the pleather chair to the point that he was sure he could she the razorbumps from shaving poke out with he didn’t know was a turn on for him because the sight alone was making him consider dropping to his knees in front of her and-
“Oh,” she rolls her shoulders in a way that’s meant to be sexy but Whitaker is confident it’s more of an attempt to regain control, “So you’re interested in my lips.”
It’s not a very good line, they both know it, but they both ignore it and she finally closes her legs and leans to rest her elbows on her knees. This caused her breast to sit on full display in front of him which is almost as attractive as the razor bumps although Whitaker has this sick feeling that the razorbumps felt more real than this.
He’s meant to see her tits, he wasn’t meant to see her shitty shaving job.
“I guess,” he shrugged awkwardly, hoping to knock off some of the embarrassment with it, “Where else should I look?”
She pauses again, but instead of the panic look from before he notices the corner of her lips tick up in an almost smile.
“You’re seriously asking?”
He wasn’t, but the way she was almost smiling made Whitaker want to agree with anything she said.
“Yep,” he let the words roll from his tongue in an attempt to be charming, “I’m much better when I have clear directions.”
“Good thing I like telling men what to do,” the mask was up again, this fake version wrapped in glitter and rhinestones. Whitaker liked the half smiled version much more.
“What’s your name?” She was slowly standing from the chair, dragging her feet in that way only she could make sexy
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” she speaks almost immediately, as if she knew he was gonna ask.
“Does that actually work?” He can hear his own voice, so sincere and so full of concern; because no way some guy came into a strip club begging for a woman’s name and found that response anything but cliche and a reminder that he is a loser.
Dennis Whitaker was a loser so he supposed he was one step ahead of most men in here.
She pauses her walking again, that smile that he so desperately wants to see poking from the corners of her mouth again and he swears if he listens hard enough he could hear what some would call a laugh.
“It does,” she shrugs one shoulder, “Until now I guess.”
“Oh,” Whitaker gave his best half smile but he could promise it wasn’t nearly as pretty as her’s, “It worked on me, I’m just man enough to admit that’s a bad look for me.”
Whitaker can name many moments in his life that changed him, from the day he watched a cow give birth for the first time to the day of the Pittfest shooting. But nothing compared to this moment as she opened up her painted lips and laughed.
He didn’t have to strain his ears to hear it, didn’t even have to lean in closer. It took over the room, bounced off the walls and settled itself deep into the walls of the aorta. He didn’t even care if she was laughing at him, although he had this sneaky suspicion that wasn’t the case, he just cared that she was laughing between the same four walls he currently stood in.
“You know,” she circled him, but didn’t touch him sadly, “You’re not what I expected to walk into tonight.”
“Is that a good thing?” The laugh made him feel bold, made him feel capable in a way he hadn’t felt before. He wondered if his clothes could hold the laugh like a cologne, sticking to him in a way that would permeate for sometime after until he washed it. He would never wash these clothes again if he could help it.
“Yeah,” she gently places her two hands on his back, which his throbbing cock was very happy about, and moves him closer to the chair.
“Good,” he mumbled, letting her spin him slowly until he was chest to chest with her. Her eyes weren’t close like they were on stage, but wide open and watching him. Her lips were now permanently in a soft smile and the moody lighting in the room couldn’t even hide the small twinkle in her irises. Up close like this, Whitaker didn’t even care when she shoved him into the pleather armchair that he so desperately wanted to avoid originally.
“You like being good?” She turns and slowly sits herself on his lap, his boner stabbing into her back but neither say a word about it.
“How many bad lines do you have?” Whitaker smiles, not only enjoying the way her fingers move up his thigh, but liking the smile she gives him over her shoulder.
“My lines aren’t the only thing that’s bad,” she smoothly flips around, moving from his lap to squat between his thighs and his body like the look of her in front of him like this. She could lean her nose down and nudge his cock. Just the thought almost made him lose sight of her silly wink.
“You’re really good at this,” and he wasn’t sure if he was still talking about the lines or the way her hips move to the made up rhythm of her hands as she slowly dances just for him.
“Been doing it long enough, I’d hope I’d be good at it by now,” she shrugs, standing at full height to drape her leg over the back of the chair.
“How long is long enough?”
“3 years,” she shakes her leg, Whitaker’s face inches away from her own thighs and begging to shove his face there and suffocate like a real man; but he keeps in composure.
“All here at Afterglow?”
“Yeah,” she removed her leg much to Whitaker’s dismay, “I’m offended that you hadn't noticed me.”
“My first time,” he squirms in the chair at the confession, “It’s my friend's twenty first and my roommate thought it would be smart to drag us here.”
“The girl with the crown?” she continues the dance, as if they aren’t having a casual conversation about his friends that are still somewhere in this building while he gets a hard on talking to the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen in his entire life.
“Yeah, that’s her,” his tongue loses control for a second, “We’re doctors at the emergency room.”
Why did he feel the need to share the information would probably never occur to him, but he knew where she worked so he supposed it was only fair? Or he was currently having a stroke!
“Doctor?” She pauses her dancing, eating at him with her hungry eyes that made him feel like a teenager when his balls first dropped and he saw boobs for the first time.
“I bet you get a lot of them here,” it had finally occurred to Whitaker that she could have done this very sexy dance on a number of his co-workers. The vision of Doctor Abbot or Doctor Robby sitting this in this exact chair, looking up at her with those eyes and the experience of a real man made his stomach feel sick.
There was no way she was his special secret, but he wondered did they know what her laugh sounded like with Charli XCX faded in the back. Or the curve of her smile as she looked over the shoulder?
“Yeah,” her tone is casual in a way Whitaker begs, “Sometimes.”
A knock rings through the room, the cheap door rattling with the force and Whitaker realizes his time is coming to an end. He was pissed at Trinity only 15 minutes ago for buying this dance at all, but now he wished she bought the longer package. She was so cheap.
The knock doesn’t phase her the same way it phased him, he supposed this knock sung in her dreams and nightmares with how often she probably heard it. Instead of moving to the door that he assumes she should be returning through, she places both her hands on the worn pleather and leans down. Her chest is at line with Whitaker’s eyes but he can’t seem to focus with her warm lips so close his ear.
“None of them are as sexy as you,” and Whitaker knew deep down, this wasn’t some line she uses on all the guys who sit in this chair with the dream of breathing her air. This was honest. This was her.
Before he can think of a response, her teeth reach down to bite gently on his earlobe and Whitaker feels what can only be described as humiliation as a small patch of his jeans develop a damp spot. Because this women had made him cum without even fucking with his zipper.
She glances down at the now wet spot on his jeans, albeit small, but very clearly there even in the yellow moody lighting. She smirks, looking up at him through her lashes before she uses his knees to stand up to his full height. She does her classic walk to the door, although he can’t help but feel a little prideful that her shoulders look much more lax then when she walked in the first time.
Her chipped hot pink fingers grab the doorknob, opening the door only enough for her body to slip though and nothing more. Whitaker is sitting watching her from the chair with the uncomfortable wet jeans doing something to his ego he would not like to discuss further.
“Ask me my name again…” she trails off.
He considers giving her his last name, the name he’d been consistently going by since he started at PMTC; but he doesn’t like the idea of her sharing it with anyone, Not with him.
“Dennis,” his voice is full of the orgasm that is splashing over his pants, weak and pathetic for this woman in pleasers, “And you are?”
She smiled and her mouth repeated his name without making a noise, smiling at the shape it takes on her lips.
“They call me Gibson,” she shrugs and starts to slip out the door, “Come back and I’ll give you my real one maybe.”
The door shuts, the final line in the sand. The communication disconnect and Whitaker feels the empty space immediately. As if on cue, the door he originally came through swings open. The same bodyguard as before watched him, unimpressed eyes and he took in his state in the chair like the pathetic man he certainly was.
“Clean rags under the chair,” he nods but doesn’t give Whitaker much time to grab one before he’s ushering him out the room and dragging another lucky guy back through the doors. He wonders if she’ll come through the door again for him, with her walk and bedroom eyes that makes a man feel special. He wonders if he’ll think she’s as beautiful or will he only notice the way the rhinestones back her tits look incredible.
He wonders about Gibson as he wanders back to his friends, coming up with a sad story about a drink getting spilt on his crotch when they notice the wet stain. He doesn’t say much when they two are trying to decide to stay for a few more songs or leave, because he isn’t entirely sure what his answer is.
Earlier in the evening, he would have begged to go somewhere else; but now he wasn’t so sure. A part of him wanted to stay, in hopes he could watch her on stage once more with those puppy dog eyes. He's positive he gave her most of the dance. But another part doesn’t think he can stand it if she’s not on that stage, but in that room with that guy with the greasy air and the ill-fitted suit. If she’s swaying her hips to the shitty music and he actually had the confidence to touch a woman so out of his league. To know that is happening, or to assume that is happening, and to be standing her, Santos and Javadi’s purses made his stomach churn.
So when they ultimately decided to head to a regular bar, it was no surprise to Santos, Javadi, or even the security guard when Whitaker took one final look at the neon lit stage and begged to a God that his Gibson girl would walk out with one final bow.
WARNING: 18+, orgasm (male), sexual undertones, boner, pole dancing, lap dance, very very small mention of abuse against women (so very small), mention of creepy men ALL PHOTOS ABOVE ARE FOR AESTHETIC PURPOSES! SO PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION OF READER IS GIVEN AT ANY POINT IN THE STORY! FIC INSPIRED BY GIBSON GIRL BY ETHAL CAIN
The overly lit, neon stage was starting to give him a migraine; the throbbing behind his eyes was the first indication of that. But the light bleeding across the woman's ass on stage as she kicked the plastic, clear heels behind her back to the beat of the shitty pop song was enough to keep Whitaker’s eyes open in fear of missing her next move.
She was memorizing the way the blue to green strobe lights danced over the swell of her breast as he leaned on the pole or the way she would wrap her left leg over the polished metal pole like she could trust it.
“See something you like, Huckleberry?” Trinity’s voice held no judgement, but a lot of giggles as she gripped the tequila soda between her freshly painted finger nails and Dennis remembered the reason he was here to begin with. Javadi had finally turned 21, according to the analog clock facing the stage that Whitaker wasn’t entirely sure was switched after daylight savings, a few hours ago and Trinity had the genius idea to go out. The issue was, Trinity totally forgot to leave out the fact that instead of a fancy restaurant with a separate menus just for drinks or even some dingy bar with a stinky counter top— she decided going to The Afterglow which was right around the counter from PTMC and, well, a strip club.
Victoria screamed at first, a winded rant about her reputation and if someone saw her and what about her mother, and Whitaker wasn’t sure what Trinity said to her when she started going on and on about Utah but now she was throwing dollars on the stage and cheered when one of the dancers twirled a strand of her hair around their index finger.
Meanwhile, Whitaker was still grappling with the fact he was in fact in a strip club when she came on stage. The song and the lights were abhorrent, down right vomit inducing without dramamine; but she was quite the opposite. Sure she was sexy, hot as hell and she knew it, but Whitaker thought it was more than that.
She danced with her eyes almost entirely closed the whole song, as if the shitty music was sitting on her shoulder like a devil telling her the next step. Her body rolled in a way that felt like a professional ballroom dancer might have taught her, and she never once smiled. Whitaker didn’t think it was because she wasn’t happy or enjoying the dance, he supposed he didn’t really know her at all and could be completely and utterly wrong, but he thought it was because it wasn’t a performance for them. They were witnesses, something she was more than aware of, but every spin and bend was for her.
So yeah, you could say he was seeing something he liked. He liked watching her from this springy, dark forest couch with an empty lowball glass clutched between his weather and calloused fingers. He liked watching her unbutton the custom top, he couldn’t tell if she was dressed as a police man or a rabbit, and dragged a single finger down her chest that was slick with sweat from all the dancing. He liked this distance, because when he wasn’t up close mauling at her, she could move like this. She moved as if she was born to wear those heels that looked like a safety hazard and the pole that was definitely a safe hazard the way the bolts seemed to not be fully screwed into the vinyl stage.
But saying that to Trinity felt like too much of a confession without the wooden walls and velvet curtain to hide him from the sins waiting out there for him. It’s too honest, too real, and too unlike the clumsy Whitaker she’d used to; so he settled for an uncomfortable smile and a headnod that he hoped would get lost between her clouded vision and the weird violet lights.
And his eyes find her, again. The slow drop down the pole, the legs shining like a Barbie doll, and the eye lids that are still snapped shut. They don’t open until the pop song ends, and suddenly they open directly in his direction. As if she noticed his pathetic eyes the whole time, following her like a map to treasure. Whitaker couldn’t imagine he was the first man with sad eyes that found her mesmerizing; he would bet his paycheck that she got this kind of attention from men– and boys– much more enticing than this Nebraska farm boy. So, when she strutted off the stage to the sound of Victorica’s screams, because yes she was still screaming, Whitaker did his best to forget about her.
Until, 30 or so minutes passed and another Cosmopolitan that Victoria ordered but hated so she handed off the Whitaker like a human trash can, when the bouncer came up to him and informed him his private dance was ready for him; his brain didn’t quite catch up to the moment.
“I’m sorry?” Whitaker looked around the room, trying to find another kid that had the whole mousey, depressed look to him and redirect the very nice bouncer.
“I know it’s Crash’s birthday,” Trinity planted her hands on his shoulder and gave what he imagined was her best encouraging squeeze but came off more like she was losing her own footing in the block heels she wore, “but I got you a gift Huckleberry.”
So, he was knowingly being gently manhandled by the bouncer to a velvet padded door that felt like a nicer version of solitary confinement with the cosmopolitan still gripped in the martini glass that felt too thin between his fingers.
The bouncer was not forthcoming and did not answer a single question Whitaker had asked during the short walk over; but right as he wandered into the room he’d aspected he’d be dying of embarrassment when he heard the clearing of his throat.
“I'm gonna be right outside this door,” he tilts his head to the left, “So if I hear she’s not safe I’m coming in there and not sparing you a second.”
He shut the door firmly before Whitaker could promise that this woman was much more likely to knock him over with her pinky before he could do any harm to her. Another glance around the room exposed a plush chair that Whitaker did not want to sit in, scared there would be substances that would wind him back up in the pitt getting shots in the ass.
So he paced the room, feeling the way his feet made tracks on the hardwood floor and tried to focus on 3 things he could hear but all that was coming to mind was the Benson Boone sound that had been slowed in a way that made it sound like the devil would be summoned.
The door, not the one the security guard closed but a secret second door that Whitaker didn’t even see and made him reconsider the word “observation” on his fellowship applications, clicked open. The second sound he now heard was plastic on hardwood, the clicking of heels making Whitaker remember the way her legs swirled around the metal pole on stage.
Because he knew it was here. He hadn’t seen her face yet, but he knew deep down that she would talk through that door with confidence and sex appeal that would make his body light on fire.
She finally steps through the door frame, her dark blue outfit was much more appealing without the grotesque neon masking the true color. He could tell she had dropped the accessory that she works on stage, now in the simple glitter two piece and the basic plastic heels. But she was still performing. She dragged her feet when she walked, as if she was a cheetah prowling closer and closer to the wild chicken for dinner. Her hips swayed from left to right as she approached and Whitaker’s hands begged to place a gentle hand on them to hold them in place.
He was a fucking creep.
“Didn’t wanna sit?”
The third, and finally noise to calm him down, was her sultry voice as she placed a hand gently on the back of the curse chair. Whitaker noticed this was the only part of her that wasn’t painted to perfection, her nails were chipped hot pink and clearly done at some point in a hurry with a little bit sticking to her nailbeds.
“I-” a small cough escapes the back of his throat, “I- didn’t.”
Smooth answer, he would really woo her.
“Oh?” Her voice doesn’t lose the pure sex appeal, instead she plays into it by cocking her hand to the side and dragging her feet until she stands directly in front of it. She falls back, letting her legs fall open in a classic subway manspread and her Bette Davis likes boring into him.
Whitaker felt himself get hard, the way his pants got tight and the seams of his worn jeans were pressing directly against the tip of his cock in a way that made him squirm; but he watched her whip something from the side of her lips.
“Did you just eat?”
The air no longer moves freely, but stands in tension. Her body tights, the sex appeal paused and by the way her body seizes up and goosebump rises on her skin he can assume they’re now both in uncharted territory.
“Excuse me?”
Hindsight is 20/20 and Whitaker realizes in real time all the nasty implications that asking that question meant and he didn’t mean a single one of them.
“Oh shit uhm-” he throws up hands up in front of him and watched her flinch so panics even more and instead glues them to his side like a Naval captain getting ready to be shipped off, “I just noticed you, uhm, were wiping crumbs off your lips and I thought it ,shit, looked like food.”
He’s confident he’s never once been this scared in his entire life. This woman was watching him with eyes that screamed danger, danger you’ll fall in love with me, and her legs were wide open in the pleather chair to the point that he was sure he could she the razorbumps from shaving poke out with he didn’t know was a turn on for him because the sight alone was making him consider dropping to his knees in front of her and-
“Oh,” she rolls her shoulders in a way that’s meant to be sexy but Whitaker is confident it’s more of an attempt to regain control, “So you’re interested in my lips.”
It’s not a very good line, they both know it, but they both ignore it and she finally closes her legs and leans to rest her elbows on her knees. This caused her breast to sit on full display in front of him which is almost as attractive as the razor bumps although Whitaker has this sick feeling that the razorbumps felt more real than this.
He’s meant to see her tits, he wasn’t meant to see her shitty shaving job.
“I guess,” he shrugged awkwardly, hoping to knock off some of the embarrassment with it, “Where else should I look?”
She pauses again, but instead of the panic look from before he notices the corner of her lips tick up in an almost smile.
“You’re seriously asking?”
He wasn’t, but the way she was almost smiling made Whitaker want to agree with anything she said.
“Yep,” he let the words roll from his tongue in an attempt to be charming, “I’m much better when I have clear directions.”
“Good thing I like telling men what to do,” the mask was up again, this fake version wrapped in glitter and rhinestones. Whitaker liked the half smiled version much more.
“What’s your name?” She was slowly standing from the chair, dragging her feet in that way only she could make sexy
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” she speaks almost immediately, as if she knew he was gonna ask.
“Does that actually work?” He can hear his own voice, so sincere and so full of concern; because no way some guy came into a strip club begging for a woman’s name and found that response anything but cliche and a reminder that he is a loser.
Dennis Whitaker was a loser so he supposed he was one step ahead of most men in here.
She pauses her walking again, that smile that he so desperately wants to see poking from the corners of her mouth again and he swears if he listens hard enough he could hear what some would call a laugh.
“It does,” she shrugs one shoulder, “Until now I guess.”
“Oh,” Whitaker gave his best half smile but he could promise it wasn’t nearly as pretty as her’s, “It worked on me, I’m just man enough to admit that’s a bad look for me.”
Whitaker can name many moments in his life that changed him, from the day he watched a cow give birth for the first time to the day of the Pittfest shooting. But nothing compared to this moment as she opened up her painted lips and laughed.
He didn’t have to strain his ears to hear it, didn’t even have to lean in closer. It took over the room, bounced off the walls and settled itself deep into the walls of the aorta. He didn’t even care if she was laughing at him, although he had this sneaky suspicion that wasn’t the case, he just cared that she was laughing between the same four walls he currently stood in.
“You know,” she circled him, but didn’t touch him sadly, “You’re not what I expected to walk into tonight.”
“Is that a good thing?” The laugh made him feel bold, made him feel capable in a way he hadn’t felt before. He wondered if his clothes could hold the laugh like a cologne, sticking to him in a way that would permeate for sometime after until he washed it. He would never wash these clothes again if he could help it.
“Yeah,” she gently places her two hands on his back, which his throbbing cock was very happy about, and moves him closer to the chair.
“Good,” he mumbled, letting her spin him slowly until he was chest to chest with her. Her eyes weren’t close like they were on stage, but wide open and watching him. Her lips were now permanently in a soft smile and the moody lighting in the room couldn’t even hide the small twinkle in her irises. Up close like this, Whitaker didn’t even care when she shoved him into the pleather armchair that he so desperately wanted to avoid originally.
“You like being good?” She turns and slowly sits herself on his lap, his boner stabbing into her back but neither say a word about it.
“How many bad lines do you have?” Whitaker smiles, not only enjoying the way her fingers move up his thigh, but liking the smile she gives him over her shoulder.
“My lines aren’t the only thing that’s bad,” she smoothly flips around, moving from his lap to squat between his thighs and his body like the look of her in front of him like this. She could lean her nose down and nudge his cock. Just the thought almost made him lose sight of her silly wink.
“You’re really good at this,” and he wasn’t sure if he was still talking about the lines or the way her hips move to the made up rhythm of her hands as she slowly dances just for him.
“Been doing it long enough, I’d hope I’d be good at it by now,” she shrugs, standing at full height to drape her leg over the back of the chair.
“How long is long enough?”
“3 years,” she shakes her leg, Whitaker’s face inches away from her own thighs and begging to shove his face there and suffocate like a real man; but he keeps in composure.
“All here at Afterglow?”
“Yeah,” she removed her leg much to Whitaker’s dismay, “I’m offended that you hadn't noticed me.”
“My first time,” he squirms in the chair at the confession, “It’s my friend's twenty first and my roommate thought it would be smart to drag us here.”
“The girl with the crown?” she continues the dance, as if they aren’t having a casual conversation about his friends that are still somewhere in this building while he gets a hard on talking to the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen in his entire life.
“Yeah, that’s her,” his tongue loses control for a second, “We’re doctors at the emergency room.”
Why did he feel the need to share the information would probably never occur to him, but he knew where she worked so he supposed it was only fair? Or he was currently having a stroke!
“Doctor?” She pauses her dancing, eating at him with her hungry eyes that made him feel like a teenager when his balls first dropped and he saw boobs for the first time.
“I bet you get a lot of them here,” it had finally occurred to Whitaker that she could have done this very sexy dance on a number of his co-workers. The vision of Doctor Abbot or Doctor Robby sitting this in this exact chair, looking up at her with those eyes and the experience of a real man made his stomach feel sick.
There was no way she was his special secret, but he wondered did they know what her laugh sounded like with Charli XCX faded in the back. Or the curve of her smile as she looked over the shoulder?
“Yeah,” her tone is casual in a way Whitaker begs, “Sometimes.”
A knock rings through the room, the cheap door rattling with the force and Whitaker realizes his time is coming to an end. He was pissed at Trinity only 15 minutes ago for buying this dance at all, but now he wished she bought the longer package. She was so cheap.
The knock doesn’t phase her the same way it phased him, he supposed this knock sung in her dreams and nightmares with how often she probably heard it. Instead of moving to the door that he assumes she should be returning through, she places both her hands on the worn pleather and leans down. Her chest is at line with Whitaker’s eyes but he can’t seem to focus with her warm lips so close his ear.
“None of them are as sexy as you,” and Whitaker knew deep down, this wasn’t some line she uses on all the guys who sit in this chair with the dream of breathing her air. This was honest. This was her.
Before he can think of a response, her teeth reach down to bite gently on his earlobe and Whitaker feels what can only be described as humiliation as a small patch of his jeans develop a damp spot. Because this women had made him cum without even fucking with his zipper.
She glances down at the now wet spot on his jeans, albeit small, but very clearly there even in the yellow moody lighting. She smirks, looking up at him through her lashes before she uses his knees to stand up to his full height. She does her classic walk to the door, although he can’t help but feel a little prideful that her shoulders look much more lax then when she walked in the first time.
Her chipped hot pink fingers grab the doorknob, opening the door only enough for her body to slip though and nothing more. Whitaker is sitting watching her from the chair with the uncomfortable wet jeans doing something to his ego he would not like to discuss further.
“Ask me my name again…” she trails off.
He considers giving her his last name, the name he’d been consistently going by since he started at PMTC; but he doesn’t like the idea of her sharing it with anyone, Not with him.
“Dennis,” his voice is full of the orgasm that is splashing over his pants, weak and pathetic for this woman in pleasers, “And you are?”
She smiled and her mouth repeated his name without making a noise, smiling at the shape it takes on her lips.
“They call me Gibson,” she shrugs and starts to slip out the door, “Come back and I’ll give you my real one maybe.”
The door shuts, the final line in the sand. The communication disconnect and Whitaker feels the empty space immediately. As if on cue, the door he originally came through swings open. The same bodyguard as before watched him, unimpressed eyes and he took in his state in the chair like the pathetic man he certainly was.
“Clean rags under the chair,” he nods but doesn’t give Whitaker much time to grab one before he’s ushering him out the room and dragging another lucky guy back through the doors. He wonders if she’ll come through the door again for him, with her walk and bedroom eyes that makes a man feel special. He wonders if he’ll think she’s as beautiful or will he only notice the way the rhinestones back her tits look incredible.
He wonders about Gibson as he wanders back to his friends, coming up with a sad story about a drink getting spilt on his crotch when they notice the wet stain. He doesn’t say much when they two are trying to decide to stay for a few more songs or leave, because he isn’t entirely sure what his answer is.
Earlier in the evening, he would have begged to go somewhere else; but now he wasn’t so sure. A part of him wanted to stay, in hopes he could watch her on stage once more with those puppy dog eyes. He's positive he gave her most of the dance. But another part doesn’t think he can stand it if she’s not on that stage, but in that room with that guy with the greasy air and the ill-fitted suit. If she’s swaying her hips to the shitty music and he actually had the confidence to touch a woman so out of his league. To know that is happening, or to assume that is happening, and to be standing her, Santos and Javadi’s purses made his stomach churn.
So when they ultimately decided to head to a regular bar, it was no surprise to Santos, Javadi, or even the security guard when Whitaker took one final look at the neon lit stage and begged to a God that his Gibson girl would walk out with one final bow.
WARNING: 18+, orgasm (male), sexual undertones, boner, pole dancing, lap dance, very very small mention of abuse against women (so very small), mention of creepy men ALL PHOTOS ABOVE ARE FOR AESTHETIC PURPOSES! SO PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION OF READER IS GIVEN AT ANY POINT IN THE STORY! FIC INSPIRED BY GIBSON GIRL BY ETHAL CAIN
The overly lit, neon stage was starting to give him a migraine; the throbbing behind his eyes was the first indication of that. But the light bleeding across the woman's ass on stage as she kicked the plastic, clear heels behind her back to the beat of the shitty pop song was enough to keep Whitaker’s eyes open in fear of missing her next move.
She was memorizing the way the blue to green strobe lights danced over the swell of her breast as he leaned on the pole or the way she would wrap her left leg over the polished metal pole like she could trust it.
“See something you like, Huckleberry?” Trinity’s voice held no judgement, but a lot of giggles as she gripped the tequila soda between her freshly painted finger nails and Dennis remembered the reason he was here to begin with. Javadi had finally turned 21, according to the analog clock facing the stage that Whitaker wasn’t entirely sure was switched after daylight savings, a few hours ago and Trinity had the genius idea to go out. The issue was, Trinity totally forgot to leave out the fact that instead of a fancy restaurant with a separate menus just for drinks or even some dingy bar with a stinky counter top— she decided going to The Afterglow which was right around the counter from PTMC and, well, a strip club.
Victoria screamed at first, a winded rant about her reputation and if someone saw her and what about her mother, and Whitaker wasn’t sure what Trinity said to her when she started going on and on about Utah but now she was throwing dollars on the stage and cheered when one of the dancers twirled a strand of her hair around their index finger.
Meanwhile, Whitaker was still grappling with the fact he was in fact in a strip club when she came on stage. The song and the lights were abhorrent, down right vomit inducing without dramamine; but she was quite the opposite. Sure she was sexy, hot as hell and she knew it, but Whitaker thought it was more than that.
She danced with her eyes almost entirely closed the whole song, as if the shitty music was sitting on her shoulder like a devil telling her the next step. Her body rolled in a way that felt like a professional ballroom dancer might have taught her, and she never once smiled. Whitaker didn’t think it was because she wasn’t happy or enjoying the dance, he supposed he didn’t really know her at all and could be completely and utterly wrong, but he thought it was because it wasn’t a performance for them. They were witnesses, something she was more than aware of, but every spin and bend was for her.
So yeah, you could say he was seeing something he liked. He liked watching her from this springy, dark forest couch with an empty lowball glass clutched between his weather and calloused fingers. He liked watching her unbutton the custom top, he couldn’t tell if she was dressed as a police man or a rabbit, and dragged a single finger down her chest that was slick with sweat from all the dancing. He liked this distance, because when he wasn’t up close mauling at her, she could move like this. She moved as if she was born to wear those heels that looked like a safety hazard and the pole that was definitely a safe hazard the way the bolts seemed to not be fully screwed into the vinyl stage.
But saying that to Trinity felt like too much of a confession without the wooden walls and velvet curtain to hide him from the sins waiting out there for him. It’s too honest, too real, and too unlike the clumsy Whitaker she’d used to; so he settled for an uncomfortable smile and a headnod that he hoped would get lost between her clouded vision and the weird violet lights.
And his eyes find her, again. The slow drop down the pole, the legs shining like a Barbie doll, and the eye lids that are still snapped shut. They don’t open until the pop song ends, and suddenly they open directly in his direction. As if she noticed his pathetic eyes the whole time, following her like a map to treasure. Whitaker couldn’t imagine he was the first man with sad eyes that found her mesmerizing; he would bet his paycheck that she got this kind of attention from men– and boys– much more enticing than this Nebraska farm boy. So, when she strutted off the stage to the sound of Victorica’s screams, because yes she was still screaming, Whitaker did his best to forget about her.
Until, 30 or so minutes passed and another Cosmopolitan that Victoria ordered but hated so she handed off the Whitaker like a human trash can, when the bouncer came up to him and informed him his private dance was ready for him; his brain didn’t quite catch up to the moment.
“I’m sorry?” Whitaker looked around the room, trying to find another kid that had the whole mousey, depressed look to him and redirect the very nice bouncer.
“I know it’s Crash’s birthday,” Trinity planted her hands on his shoulder and gave what he imagined was her best encouraging squeeze but came off more like she was losing her own footing in the block heels she wore, “but I got you a gift Huckleberry.”
So, he was knowingly being gently manhandled by the bouncer to a velvet padded door that felt like a nicer version of solitary confinement with the cosmopolitan still gripped in the martini glass that felt too thin between his fingers.
The bouncer was not forthcoming and did not answer a single question Whitaker had asked during the short walk over; but right as he wandered into the room he’d aspected he’d be dying of embarrassment when he heard the clearing of his throat.
“I'm gonna be right outside this door,” he tilts his head to the left, “So if I hear she’s not safe I’m coming in there and not sparing you a second.”
He shut the door firmly before Whitaker could promise that this woman was much more likely to knock him over with her pinky before he could do any harm to her. Another glance around the room exposed a plush chair that Whitaker did not want to sit in, scared there would be substances that would wind him back up in the pitt getting shots in the ass.
So he paced the room, feeling the way his feet made tracks on the hardwood floor and tried to focus on 3 things he could hear but all that was coming to mind was the Benson Boone sound that had been slowed in a way that made it sound like the devil would be summoned.
The door, not the one the security guard closed but a secret second door that Whitaker didn’t even see and made him reconsider the word “observation” on his fellowship applications, clicked open. The second sound he now heard was plastic on hardwood, the clicking of heels making Whitaker remember the way her legs swirled around the metal pole on stage.
Because he knew it was here. He hadn’t seen her face yet, but he knew deep down that she would talk through that door with confidence and sex appeal that would make his body light on fire.
She finally steps through the door frame, her dark blue outfit was much more appealing without the grotesque neon masking the true color. He could tell she had dropped the accessory that she works on stage, now in the simple glitter two piece and the basic plastic heels. But she was still performing. She dragged her feet when she walked, as if she was a cheetah prowling closer and closer to the wild chicken for dinner. Her hips swayed from left to right as she approached and Whitaker’s hands begged to place a gentle hand on them to hold them in place.
He was a fucking creep.
“Didn’t wanna sit?”
The third, and finally noise to calm him down, was her sultry voice as she placed a hand gently on the back of the curse chair. Whitaker noticed this was the only part of her that wasn’t painted to perfection, her nails were chipped hot pink and clearly done at some point in a hurry with a little bit sticking to her nailbeds.
“I-” a small cough escapes the back of his throat, “I- didn’t.”
Smooth answer, he would really woo her.
“Oh?” Her voice doesn’t lose the pure sex appeal, instead she plays into it by cocking her hand to the side and dragging her feet until she stands directly in front of it. She falls back, letting her legs fall open in a classic subway manspread and her Bette Davis likes boring into him.
Whitaker felt himself get hard, the way his pants got tight and the seams of his worn jeans were pressing directly against the tip of his cock in a way that made him squirm; but he watched her whip something from the side of her lips.
“Did you just eat?”
The air no longer moves freely, but stands in tension. Her body tights, the sex appeal paused and by the way her body seizes up and goosebump rises on her skin he can assume they’re now both in uncharted territory.
“Excuse me?”
Hindsight is 20/20 and Whitaker realizes in real time all the nasty implications that asking that question meant and he didn’t mean a single one of them.
“Oh shit uhm-” he throws up hands up in front of him and watched her flinch so panics even more and instead glues them to his side like a Naval captain getting ready to be shipped off, “I just noticed you, uhm, were wiping crumbs off your lips and I thought it ,shit, looked like food.”
He’s confident he’s never once been this scared in his entire life. This woman was watching him with eyes that screamed danger, danger you’ll fall in love with me, and her legs were wide open in the pleather chair to the point that he was sure he could she the razorbumps from shaving poke out with he didn’t know was a turn on for him because the sight alone was making him consider dropping to his knees in front of her and-
“Oh,” she rolls her shoulders in a way that’s meant to be sexy but Whitaker is confident it’s more of an attempt to regain control, “So you’re interested in my lips.”
It’s not a very good line, they both know it, but they both ignore it and she finally closes her legs and leans to rest her elbows on her knees. This caused her breast to sit on full display in front of him which is almost as attractive as the razor bumps although Whitaker has this sick feeling that the razorbumps felt more real than this.
He’s meant to see her tits, he wasn’t meant to see her shitty shaving job.
“I guess,” he shrugged awkwardly, hoping to knock off some of the embarrassment with it, “Where else should I look?”
She pauses again, but instead of the panic look from before he notices the corner of her lips tick up in an almost smile.
“You’re seriously asking?”
He wasn’t, but the way she was almost smiling made Whitaker want to agree with anything she said.
“Yep,” he let the words roll from his tongue in an attempt to be charming, “I’m much better when I have clear directions.”
“Good thing I like telling men what to do,” the mask was up again, this fake version wrapped in glitter and rhinestones. Whitaker liked the half smiled version much more.
“What’s your name?” She was slowly standing from the chair, dragging her feet in that way only she could make sexy
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” she speaks almost immediately, as if she knew he was gonna ask.
“Does that actually work?” He can hear his own voice, so sincere and so full of concern; because no way some guy came into a strip club begging for a woman’s name and found that response anything but cliche and a reminder that he is a loser.
Dennis Whitaker was a loser so he supposed he was one step ahead of most men in here.
She pauses her walking again, that smile that he so desperately wants to see poking from the corners of her mouth again and he swears if he listens hard enough he could hear what some would call a laugh.
“It does,” she shrugs one shoulder, “Until now I guess.”
“Oh,” Whitaker gave his best half smile but he could promise it wasn’t nearly as pretty as her’s, “It worked on me, I’m just man enough to admit that’s a bad look for me.”
Whitaker can name many moments in his life that changed him, from the day he watched a cow give birth for the first time to the day of the Pittfest shooting. But nothing compared to this moment as she opened up her painted lips and laughed.
He didn’t have to strain his ears to hear it, didn’t even have to lean in closer. It took over the room, bounced off the walls and settled itself deep into the walls of the aorta. He didn’t even care if she was laughing at him, although he had this sneaky suspicion that wasn’t the case, he just cared that she was laughing between the same four walls he currently stood in.
“You know,” she circled him, but didn’t touch him sadly, “You’re not what I expected to walk into tonight.”
“Is that a good thing?” The laugh made him feel bold, made him feel capable in a way he hadn’t felt before. He wondered if his clothes could hold the laugh like a cologne, sticking to him in a way that would permeate for sometime after until he washed it. He would never wash these clothes again if he could help it.
“Yeah,” she gently places her two hands on his back, which his throbbing cock was very happy about, and moves him closer to the chair.
“Good,” he mumbled, letting her spin him slowly until he was chest to chest with her. Her eyes weren’t close like they were on stage, but wide open and watching him. Her lips were now permanently in a soft smile and the moody lighting in the room couldn’t even hide the small twinkle in her irises. Up close like this, Whitaker didn’t even care when she shoved him into the pleather armchair that he so desperately wanted to avoid originally.
“You like being good?” She turns and slowly sits herself on his lap, his boner stabbing into her back but neither say a word about it.
“How many bad lines do you have?” Whitaker smiles, not only enjoying the way her fingers move up his thigh, but liking the smile she gives him over her shoulder.
“My lines aren’t the only thing that’s bad,” she smoothly flips around, moving from his lap to squat between his thighs and his body like the look of her in front of him like this. She could lean her nose down and nudge his cock. Just the thought almost made him lose sight of her silly wink.
“You’re really good at this,” and he wasn’t sure if he was still talking about the lines or the way her hips move to the made up rhythm of her hands as she slowly dances just for him.
“Been doing it long enough, I’d hope I’d be good at it by now,” she shrugs, standing at full height to drape her leg over the back of the chair.
“How long is long enough?”
“3 years,” she shakes her leg, Whitaker’s face inches away from her own thighs and begging to shove his face there and suffocate like a real man; but he keeps in composure.
“All here at Afterglow?”
“Yeah,” she removed her leg much to Whitaker’s dismay, “I’m offended that you hadn't noticed me.”
“My first time,” he squirms in the chair at the confession, “It’s my friend's twenty first and my roommate thought it would be smart to drag us here.”
“The girl with the crown?” she continues the dance, as if they aren’t having a casual conversation about his friends that are still somewhere in this building while he gets a hard on talking to the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen in his entire life.
“Yeah, that’s her,” his tongue loses control for a second, “We’re doctors at the emergency room.”
Why did he feel the need to share the information would probably never occur to him, but he knew where she worked so he supposed it was only fair? Or he was currently having a stroke!
“Doctor?” She pauses her dancing, eating at him with her hungry eyes that made him feel like a teenager when his balls first dropped and he saw boobs for the first time.
“I bet you get a lot of them here,” it had finally occurred to Whitaker that she could have done this very sexy dance on a number of his co-workers. The vision of Doctor Abbot or Doctor Robby sitting this in this exact chair, looking up at her with those eyes and the experience of a real man made his stomach feel sick.
There was no way she was his special secret, but he wondered did they know what her laugh sounded like with Charli XCX faded in the back. Or the curve of her smile as she looked over the shoulder?
“Yeah,” her tone is casual in a way Whitaker begs, “Sometimes.”
A knock rings through the room, the cheap door rattling with the force and Whitaker realizes his time is coming to an end. He was pissed at Trinity only 15 minutes ago for buying this dance at all, but now he wished she bought the longer package. She was so cheap.
The knock doesn’t phase her the same way it phased him, he supposed this knock sung in her dreams and nightmares with how often she probably heard it. Instead of moving to the door that he assumes she should be returning through, she places both her hands on the worn pleather and leans down. Her chest is at line with Whitaker’s eyes but he can’t seem to focus with her warm lips so close his ear.
“None of them are as sexy as you,” and Whitaker knew deep down, this wasn’t some line she uses on all the guys who sit in this chair with the dream of breathing her air. This was honest. This was her.
Before he can think of a response, her teeth reach down to bite gently on his earlobe and Whitaker feels what can only be described as humiliation as a small patch of his jeans develop a damp spot. Because this women had made him cum without even fucking with his zipper.
She glances down at the now wet spot on his jeans, albeit small, but very clearly there even in the yellow moody lighting. She smirks, looking up at him through her lashes before she uses his knees to stand up to his full height. She does her classic walk to the door, although he can’t help but feel a little prideful that her shoulders look much more lax then when she walked in the first time.
Her chipped hot pink fingers grab the doorknob, opening the door only enough for her body to slip though and nothing more. Whitaker is sitting watching her from the chair with the uncomfortable wet jeans doing something to his ego he would not like to discuss further.
“Ask me my name again…” she trails off.
He considers giving her his last name, the name he’d been consistently going by since he started at PMTC; but he doesn’t like the idea of her sharing it with anyone, Not with him.
“Dennis,” his voice is full of the orgasm that is splashing over his pants, weak and pathetic for this woman in pleasers, “And you are?”
She smiled and her mouth repeated his name without making a noise, smiling at the shape it takes on her lips.
“They call me Gibson,” she shrugs and starts to slip out the door, “Come back and I’ll give you my real one maybe.”
The door shuts, the final line in the sand. The communication disconnect and Whitaker feels the empty space immediately. As if on cue, the door he originally came through swings open. The same bodyguard as before watched him, unimpressed eyes and he took in his state in the chair like the pathetic man he certainly was.
“Clean rags under the chair,” he nods but doesn’t give Whitaker much time to grab one before he’s ushering him out the room and dragging another lucky guy back through the doors. He wonders if she’ll come through the door again for him, with her walk and bedroom eyes that makes a man feel special. He wonders if he’ll think she’s as beautiful or will he only notice the way the rhinestones back her tits look incredible.
He wonders about Gibson as he wanders back to his friends, coming up with a sad story about a drink getting spilt on his crotch when they notice the wet stain. He doesn’t say much when they two are trying to decide to stay for a few more songs or leave, because he isn’t entirely sure what his answer is.
Earlier in the evening, he would have begged to go somewhere else; but now he wasn’t so sure. A part of him wanted to stay, in hopes he could watch her on stage once more with those puppy dog eyes. He's positive he gave her most of the dance. But another part doesn’t think he can stand it if she’s not on that stage, but in that room with that guy with the greasy air and the ill-fitted suit. If she’s swaying her hips to the shitty music and he actually had the confidence to touch a woman so out of his league. To know that is happening, or to assume that is happening, and to be standing her, Santos and Javadi’s purses made his stomach churn.
So when they ultimately decided to head to a regular bar, it was no surprise to Santos, Javadi, or even the security guard when Whitaker took one final look at the neon lit stage and begged to a God that his Gibson girl would walk out with one final bow.
You needed a roommate. Trinity needed a house. Two years later and now you're adopting a stray Trinity brought home from work.
You weren’t sure when your house became a home for lonely and desperate doctors but you weren’t complaining (most of the time).
in which the emergency department puts down some money
content: black!fem!reader implied but no descriptions used, divorced!langdon, use of (y/n), gen z speak, foul language, medical terminology, mentions of addiction, suggestiveness, spoilers,doesn't follow the pitt timeline or canon, lotssss of creative liberties taken
inspired by: @/p1ttlings and @/tequilai
dividers by: @/saradika-graphics
series masterlist
love letter: pleaseee place your bets in da comments!! ok love ya! bye! 💌
Addicts who have broken through to the other side see things others don't and KNOW how to approach it.
Cassie McKay sees through Michael Robinavitch. And he knows it. Which is why he fled from her.
But she's the only one who's tried so far. And not in an accusatory way, not yelling at him, or snapping, or blaming him. She sees what he's doing and she approached him with kindness and respect and DIGNITY. She has knowledge of this. And she KNOWS.
Put some GOTdamn respect on my girl Cassie McKay for being the ONLY ONE to clock Robby on wanting to hurt himself.
i’m vey close to 2k followers (which i’m literally freaking out about i can’t even talk about it rn im in shock) so i’m working on the fics im planning and yall are gonna LOVEEE this
