Work Text:
"Y'know, I really don't believe this is that device's intended purpose."
"Oh, don't you?" Margaret examines how it fits on her hand, making sure it's snugly in place, tilting her head to the side to check from all angles.
BJ shifts in the chair, his mouth hanging open. It's always charming to see him like this, really. He's always so put together as a doctor, calm under the face of any pressure, knowing with such incredible confidence that he's making the right calls. But in moments like this, when his eyes are wide and his jaw is dropped, he's somehow reminiscent of pictures she's seen of baby cows. Adorable. Mildly vacant, perhaps.
She does rather like it. For a rare moment, he's hovering, vulnerable, waiting to see what comes next. He's entirely in her hands. And if she waits for too long, he'll lose it, and so will she, and who knows how long it'll take to get back here?
"All right. So what's the purpose, then?" Margaret prompts as she unfurls the cord all the way.
BJ chuckles, his lips quirking. "Well, you see, items like that are actually marketed as back massagers, because I don't know if you know this—I mean, of course you do, you're, you're Margaret Houlihan—" The words come a little faster as Margaret leans toward her outlet, suddenly so reminiscent of Pierce that she has to turn her head and hide her smile while BJ rambles on. "—but at the end of a long day, sometimes what you need is, is a little, uh—"
The plug slips in snugly, and immediately the massager begins to vibrate.
Though he tries to be surreptitious about it, BJ clutches the bottom of the chair, his knuckles so pale against his tan hands.
Margaret lifts her hand. "Have you ever used one of these before?"
He shakes his head in silence, those bright eyes never moving away from the machine.
"Hunnicutt. You should be ashamed."
That catches him, though. He flicks his gaze to hers, holds firm, and she knows she's come dangerously close to referencing someone who does not exist in this tent.
She exhales slowly, audibly, then smirks. "Fortunately for you, Doctor, after such a loooong shift in OR..." she drawls, easing her fingers through his hair and watching with warmth in her chest as his eyelashes flutter. "...I'm here to take the tension right out of you. Got it?"
BJ, already all but panting, groans out a nonsensical sound before chasing it with a chuckle. "Well. It's not like I can stop you. I mean, how could I get out of that grip, huh?"
"Hmm." Gentle as her petting through those silky strands had been, she tightens, pulls back harder just to hear the sharper moan break from his chest. He's right back where he was, hovering once more, his naked body pressed tight to the chair and holding firm while he waits to see what's coming. He's beautiful like this. God, she wishes she could have more of him.
She brings her hand to his cock, and the moment she wraps around him, he cries out in a sustained, shocked sound, coming up a little on his tiptoes as he bleeds into a laugh. "Ahh, ah, fuckfuckfuuuuck..."
"Just relax," she purrs right against his ear. With another yank, she pulls his head to the side so she can nip at his earlobe. "Feel it. You can handle it, can't you, Hunnicutt?"
"Fuck you," he whispers affectionately as he sinks back into the seat and kicks a leg out.
She keeps her touch careful and light, letting him get used to how the vibrations move through her and into his shaft. Slowly, slowly she moves. And while she teases, she gets to watch him. The flush that spreads over him is as bright as one of his henleys, and while she's looking, his nipples harden. A thick drop of his arousal drips down his length and she gathers it, uses it to slick her way.
The moment she tightens her grip, BJ's body begins to roll, all those ropey muscles playing beautifully under his skin. "Margaret, sweetheart, please," he whispers.
"Can't hear you over the sound of it," she teases right back.
BJ sinks his teeth into his bottom lip with a familiar growl, but he keeps his hands clenched around the seat under him all the same.
"What do you want?"
"Faster?"
The fact that it's a request, not a demand, massages her own ego just enough for her to grant it. She sinks into what she knows he prefers—the exact pressure and rhythm—and the way he melts and stomps his foot through a groan warms her far more than it should. She shouldn't know this. She should only have it as a potential fantasy, something for her to pull out like a trump card while pressing this exact toy between her legs.
But know, she does. And she's practiced it enough to know how close he already is.
"Oh my God..." He fights the grip in his hair, and though she shouldn't, she lets him, allows him to press his forehead against her shoulder with a higher moan. That one's still rare. She swears it only slips out of him when he's totally open for her, as though he's been choking it down for his entire life. It's whisper thin, almost like cotton candy on her tongue, and she's quickly becoming addicted to it, just like him.
BJ tries to bite the rest back, she can feel it, can hear it in the tiny strangled beats that are muffled against her, but soon he falls into a string of murmuring nonsense, "Oh, please, fuck, please, good, too good, sweetheart, please..."
She waits as another dribble of heat slicks her palm. Waits further still. But when her pounding heart is about to break her ribs, she finally murmurs, "Go on," and the words are instantly buried by BJ's shout into her sleeve. He makes a filthy mess all over her and her toy, thick spurts that cover his chest and drip down his stomach, and then all at once he kicks the chair back an inch, and she realizes she hasn't turned the vibration off yet, that he could leave, that he isn't, that he's practically sobbing.
She's curious. But she lets him go.
As Margaret busies herself with cleaning his ejaculate up, he stays boneless in the chair, breathing harder than she's heard in ages. Only when she comes toward him with a towel does she see the single drying tear track from the corner of his eye, disappearing into his ear.
"And how's the tension now, Captain?"
BJ rolls his head to stare her down, brow drawn up. "I think you broke me."
Margaret grins perhaps too giddily as she dries off his chest, makes sure the thick and masculine hair is impeccably clean. Then she simply runs her nails through it for the simple pleasure that she can. "Oh dear. Well. We'll give it a little bit of time. Maybe when we try it again, it'll reverse the effects."
"Fuck you," he whispers with a grin.