(OP: this is Foggy/Marci; the next part will be Foggy/Matt. I hope that's okay)
“Just so you know,” Marci says, apropos of nothing, “I was raped when I was seventeen, so there are some things I don’t like.”
Foggy manages not to choke on his drink, but it’s a nearer thing than he’ll ever admit. They’re at Marci’s, because her roommate is out of town, and they’re drinking vodka tonics out of coffee cups because they’re broke law students, and Marci’s been all but sitting in his lap for the past half an hour, so--yeah. That’s not quite what he was expecting.
She’s just looking at him with the same cool, flat expression that she wears when she argues with their professors. Guard up, ready to fight, and okay, he gets this.
“I’m sorry,” he says, and takes his hand off her leg. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Marci takes his hand and puts it back on her thigh, considerably higher up than it was before. “No, I don’t want to talk about it. I want to fuck your brains out, but for that to be a mutually enjoyable experience, you need to understand that there are a few things I don’t like, and if you do any of them I might punch you in the balls and I will definitely leave. Okay?”
Foggy runs through a long list of things he could say, and then says, “Okay. Tell me what not to do.”
***
What not to do includes: holding her wrists down, missionary or any other position that puts him on top, narrating (“Like, seriously, at all. Don’t call me babe or tell me how good I am. Save that for afterward.”), hickeys, tickling. It isn’t a particularly long list, but Foggy is pretty good at reading between the lines and he’s always had a better imagination than was really healthy for him, so by the time she gets to the end he’s less turned on than he is incandescently furious.
He’s a lawyer, though, or he will be, so he manages to keep that out of his voice. “Are you actually sure you want to do this?”
Marci grins, the ice-queen law-shark expression melting away like water, and slides his hand up between her legs, under her skirt. Her panties are thin silk, and they’re soaked right through. “Does it feel like I want to do this?”
He curls his fingers against her, and she rocks forward onto his hand with a low groan, and oh. Okay. Yeah, he’s back on board with this. “Yeah. It does.”
“That’s what I thought.” She sucks in a breath as he finds her clit through the thin fabric. “God, yeah. Right there.”
Apparently the narrating thing only applies to him. That’s okay, that is fine, especially when she gets his pants open and starts stroking him through his boxers. He has to turn his face into the couch to muffle the curses that want to come out, but that actually seems to be a turn on for her, and honestly, the fact that anything he does is a turn-on for a girl like Marci is almost enough to send him over the edge.
They end up doing it right there on the couch, fast and rough, with Marci steering, which is more or less how he always imagined this would go. Afterward, she collapses on top of him, buries her face in the crook of his neck, and giggles. “That was amazing, Foggy-bear.”
He groans. “Foggy-bear, really?”
“Yeah, really.” She’s still breathing hard when she kisses him under the jaw. “Thank you. For listening.”
And yeah, that kind of makes him want to go kill not only the bastard who did that but all the other assholes who apparently didn’t listen, but he doesn’t say that. Not when she’s loose-limbed and warm against him, not when she already said she didn’t want to talk about it. It’s a chauvinistic impulse anyway, he knows that.
“No problem,” he says, instead. And--fuck it. He’d rather she get mad and punch him in the balls than think he doesn’t care. “Look, I know you said you didn’t want to talk about it, but if you ever do, well--I’m here. I’ll listen, and I’ll try not to be a dick.”
She goes still at that, and he wants to stuff the words back in his mouth. Then she nods without lifting her head. “I really don’t. But thank you.”
“Hey,” Foggy says. “Anytime.”
(She never does talk about it, not really. But there’s one time--long after they’ve broken up, when they’re both working through their internships--when she has to sit in on the defense of a confessed rapist. Foggy hears about it through Matt, who has some mysterious way of knowing almost everything that happens at Landman and Zack. He considers whether or not she’ll slap him if he shows up at her apartment with a bottle of scotch, then considers that getting slapped would probably not be the worst thing that ever happened to him, and Marci, whatever else she might be, is still a friend.
She doesn’t slap him. She lets him in, and they drink in silence for the better part of an hour before she slams her hand down on the table, hisses, “Those motherfuckers,” and bursts into tears.)
FILL: will you still call me superman 1/2
“Just so you know,” Marci says, apropos of nothing, “I was raped when I was seventeen, so there are some things I don’t like.”
Foggy manages not to choke on his drink, but it’s a nearer thing than he’ll ever admit. They’re at Marci’s, because her roommate is out of town, and they’re drinking vodka tonics out of coffee cups because they’re broke law students, and Marci’s been all but sitting in his lap for the past half an hour, so--yeah. That’s not quite what he was expecting.
She’s just looking at him with the same cool, flat expression that she wears when she argues with their professors. Guard up, ready to fight, and okay, he gets this.
“I’m sorry,” he says, and takes his hand off her leg. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Marci takes his hand and puts it back on her thigh, considerably higher up than it was before. “No, I don’t want to talk about it. I want to fuck your brains out, but for that to be a mutually enjoyable experience, you need to understand that there are a few things I don’t like, and if you do any of them I might punch you in the balls and I will definitely leave. Okay?”
Foggy runs through a long list of things he could say, and then says, “Okay. Tell me what not to do.”
***
What not to do includes: holding her wrists down, missionary or any other position that puts him on top, narrating (“Like, seriously, at all. Don’t call me babe or tell me how good I am. Save that for afterward.”), hickeys, tickling. It isn’t a particularly long list, but Foggy is pretty good at reading between the lines and he’s always had a better imagination than was really healthy for him, so by the time she gets to the end he’s less turned on than he is incandescently furious.
He’s a lawyer, though, or he will be, so he manages to keep that out of his voice. “Are you actually sure you want to do this?”
Marci grins, the ice-queen law-shark expression melting away like water, and slides his hand up between her legs, under her skirt. Her panties are thin silk, and they’re soaked right through. “Does it feel like I want to do this?”
He curls his fingers against her, and she rocks forward onto his hand with a low groan, and oh. Okay. Yeah, he’s back on board with this. “Yeah. It does.”
“That’s what I thought.” She sucks in a breath as he finds her clit through the thin fabric. “God, yeah. Right there.”
Apparently the narrating thing only applies to him. That’s okay, that is fine, especially when she gets his pants open and starts stroking him through his boxers. He has to turn his face into the couch to muffle the curses that want to come out, but that actually seems to be a turn on for her, and honestly, the fact that anything he does is a turn-on for a girl like Marci is almost enough to send him over the edge.
They end up doing it right there on the couch, fast and rough, with Marci steering, which is more or less how he always imagined this would go. Afterward, she collapses on top of him, buries her face in the crook of his neck, and giggles. “That was amazing, Foggy-bear.”
He groans. “Foggy-bear, really?”
“Yeah, really.” She’s still breathing hard when she kisses him under the jaw. “Thank you. For listening.”
And yeah, that kind of makes him want to go kill not only the bastard who did that but all the other assholes who apparently didn’t listen, but he doesn’t say that. Not when she’s loose-limbed and warm against him, not when she already said she didn’t want to talk about it. It’s a chauvinistic impulse anyway, he knows that.
“No problem,” he says, instead. And--fuck it. He’d rather she get mad and punch him in the balls than think he doesn’t care. “Look, I know you said you didn’t want to talk about it, but if you ever do, well--I’m here. I’ll listen, and I’ll try not to be a dick.”
She goes still at that, and he wants to stuff the words back in his mouth. Then she nods without lifting her head. “I really don’t. But thank you.”
“Hey,” Foggy says. “Anytime.”
(She never does talk about it, not really. But there’s one time--long after they’ve broken up, when they’re both working through their internships--when she has to sit in on the defense of a confessed rapist. Foggy hears about it through Matt, who has some mysterious way of knowing almost everything that happens at Landman and Zack. He considers whether or not she’ll slap him if he shows up at her apartment with a bottle of scotch, then considers that getting slapped would probably not be the worst thing that ever happened to him, and Marci, whatever else she might be, is still a friend.
She doesn’t slap him. She lets him in, and they drink in silence for the better part of an hour before she slams her hand down on the table, hisses, “Those motherfuckers,” and bursts into tears.)