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witticasterSons of Anarchy fic! (Insert OMG IT COMES BACK TOMORROW AND I'LL GET TO WATCH IT ON WEDNESDAY WAAAAAANT here.) Jax/Tara, set when they're sixteen so it is the year that E.R. premieres and I am being historically in the ballpark, so there >>, post-sex silliness undercut with Tara being...idk, not angsty, but something or something. IT IS LATE AND I STARTED IT ON THE SUBWAY cut me a break. ^^;;; ANYWAY, I am not sure how I feel about it, but I'm proud of myself for getting it done--it is, like, almost 800 words, you guys. >>
"So c'mon, show me," Jax says, reaching over for her, and Tara rolls her eyes. They have a few more hours before they have to begin to worry about his mom getting home--not that she'd be surprised to find them in bed (they both know she knows, and she knows that they know), but it'd be embarrassing--but Tara's willing to start getting dressed now and get to work on the English homework that had been her original reason for coming over if he's going to keep teasing her. He grins at her and his expression reminds her of the golden retriever that lives next door: his eyes're halfway closed, ready for a doze in the afternoon sunlight without a care in the world.
"No," and she sounds playful saying it, even if it's starting to turn into a sore spot for her. He's been in stitches all semester over the first aid class she's taking for gym credit. And now that they're working on CPR, he's been demanding demonstrations of her technique. And Tara rolls her eyes.
Tara loves first aid like she's never loved a class before. Science has always interested her, but it's starting to seem dry and theoretical in comparison to practicing making slings for broken bones and giving the Heimlich maneuver. She's the only thing standing between life and death for her CPR dummy, if it had a life, and someday she could be keeping a real person alive until the paramedics show up.
She thinks maybe she could be an EMT. Or a doctor or a surgeon or something, saving people's lives like on E.R.
But Jax just knows that she took it because the other option was a fourth-period gym class, and she didn't want to be sweaty and tired just in time for lunch. Which was true at first--is still true, as far as the sweaty thing goes--but isn't why she keeps telling him about what they did that day, and how cool it was to learn how to bind a wound with a big shard of glass still stuck in it. He thinks it's great, says she'll be able to patch him up if he falls off his bike (though they both know that won't happen). And she's not quite sure how to tell him that she wants to do more than that.
So instead she just says no, and kisses him like she usually does, and sometimes they end up tangled in his bedsheets when they're supposed to be looking at Beowulf. He asks again, pouting, and she sits up.
"You really want me to show you?" she asks, looking down at him. She's got an idea. Jax reaches up, lets his hand slide through her mussed hair, and gives her a wolfish smile; she smiles back, taking hold of his hand and guiding it back down to his side. "You have to lie still. And with your eyes closed."
"Aww, man, I wanted to watch." His eyes slide over her bare breasts and stomach before he closes them, then cheats, squinting up at her.
She shoves his shoulder, laughing. "No, really close them. This is your only chance, you know--if I ever have to do it for real, you won't be awake to enjoy it."
This time, he obeys, and when she's certain he's not peeking at her, she lets her fingers come to rest on his nipples, drawing an invisible line in towards the center of his chest until they rest on his sternum. She takes a deep breath, puts one hand flat over the other, and then presses them both down into a chest compression.
She doesn't do it half as hard as they teach in class, but it's still enough that Jax's eyes fly open as he startles. "What the hell was that, Tara?" he asks, sounding like she knocked the wind out of him.
Tara rolls her eyes. "That's CPR, Jax. What do you think I do, have makeout sessions with the plastic dummies?" She shifts herself down closer to him, palms flat and gentle on his chest, and breathes against his mouth, "I only do that with you."
"So c'mon, show me," Jax says, reaching over for her, and Tara rolls her eyes. They have a few more hours before they have to begin to worry about his mom getting home--not that she'd be surprised to find them in bed (they both know she knows, and she knows that they know), but it'd be embarrassing--but Tara's willing to start getting dressed now and get to work on the English homework that had been her original reason for coming over if he's going to keep teasing her. He grins at her and his expression reminds her of the golden retriever that lives next door: his eyes're halfway closed, ready for a doze in the afternoon sunlight without a care in the world.
"No," and she sounds playful saying it, even if it's starting to turn into a sore spot for her. He's been in stitches all semester over the first aid class she's taking for gym credit. And now that they're working on CPR, he's been demanding demonstrations of her technique. And Tara rolls her eyes.
Tara loves first aid like she's never loved a class before. Science has always interested her, but it's starting to seem dry and theoretical in comparison to practicing making slings for broken bones and giving the Heimlich maneuver. She's the only thing standing between life and death for her CPR dummy, if it had a life, and someday she could be keeping a real person alive until the paramedics show up.
She thinks maybe she could be an EMT. Or a doctor or a surgeon or something, saving people's lives like on E.R.
But Jax just knows that she took it because the other option was a fourth-period gym class, and she didn't want to be sweaty and tired just in time for lunch. Which was true at first--is still true, as far as the sweaty thing goes--but isn't why she keeps telling him about what they did that day, and how cool it was to learn how to bind a wound with a big shard of glass still stuck in it. He thinks it's great, says she'll be able to patch him up if he falls off his bike (though they both know that won't happen). And she's not quite sure how to tell him that she wants to do more than that.
So instead she just says no, and kisses him like she usually does, and sometimes they end up tangled in his bedsheets when they're supposed to be looking at Beowulf. He asks again, pouting, and she sits up.
"You really want me to show you?" she asks, looking down at him. She's got an idea. Jax reaches up, lets his hand slide through her mussed hair, and gives her a wolfish smile; she smiles back, taking hold of his hand and guiding it back down to his side. "You have to lie still. And with your eyes closed."
"Aww, man, I wanted to watch." His eyes slide over her bare breasts and stomach before he closes them, then cheats, squinting up at her.
She shoves his shoulder, laughing. "No, really close them. This is your only chance, you know--if I ever have to do it for real, you won't be awake to enjoy it."
This time, he obeys, and when she's certain he's not peeking at her, she lets her fingers come to rest on his nipples, drawing an invisible line in towards the center of his chest until they rest on his sternum. She takes a deep breath, puts one hand flat over the other, and then presses them both down into a chest compression.
She doesn't do it half as hard as they teach in class, but it's still enough that Jax's eyes fly open as he startles. "What the hell was that, Tara?" he asks, sounding like she knocked the wind out of him.
Tara rolls her eyes. "That's CPR, Jax. What do you think I do, have makeout sessions with the plastic dummies?" She shifts herself down closer to him, palms flat and gentle on his chest, and breathes against his mouth, "I only do that with you."
