Title: "Better Latex Than Never"
Fandom: General Hospital
Rating/Classification: AC for sexual content and language. Coleman/Dr. Lee, ficlet.
Disclaimer: Not my characters.
Summary: 815 words. Don't fuck with a crabby OB/GYN.
Note: Written for Michelle, because she asked for PC's token Asian and token disreputable bartender to get it on.
Bobby, one of the regulars, watches her order the margarita and down half of it -- rocks, no salt -- before he starts in. "Doc, you got the best job in the world, you know? Starin' at pussy all day. I'd kill for that gig."
Uh huh. Like Kelly hasn't heard that a million times before. At every dive bar between here and the shithole county joint in Boston where she did her clinicals. She thinks about describing what syphilis looks like, or maybe a yeast infection, but, God, she's had enough of her patients without having to relive their chart notations when she's off the clock.
So, she grins, sharply, at the dockworker even as Coleman's grabbing the Triple Sec for her next drink. "I don't know…Coleman here's got it pretty sweet, too. I didn't even know he was a proctologist, but he gets to stare at assholes all day!"
The bottle of Cuervo almost falls as Coleman busts out laughing. 'Proctologist' has too many syllables for Bobby, so he's grumbling into his Bud Light, but she earns a, "Baby, you're one stone cold bitch!" from the impressed bartender.
"Icy like a speculum!" she chuckles, even as the guys around her edge their stools away.
You'd think they would've learned by now: Never fuck with a crabby OB/GYN.
She still remembers the week before she sat for her boards, she stood up on a table in the middle of some place that sold $2 pitchers of PBR and shouted "Vagina!" at the top of her lungs after some guy asked her if she'd ever tried out the stirrups. "Vagina! Vagina! Vagina!" in fact.
Coleman slaps down her next margarita and she gets the feeling he'd probably applaud if she tried that at Jake's. Judging by his shirt collection, nothing much fazes the man.
"On the house," he murmurs, with a slow smile that gets her right in the "Vagina! Vagina! Vagina!" Okay, technically closer to the labia minora, but, God, there she goes bringing work to the bar with her again.
Coleman is not the kind of man a nice Japanese girl fantasizes about.
Thankfully, Kelly's never been all that nice or all that Japanese…which was a frequent complaint whenever she got dragged to visit her aunt and uncle in Osaka as a kid. She yelled too loud, she ran too fast, she wore her shoes inside the house and only spoke English.
If Auntie Yuki could only see her now. Staring at this white man with too much hair -- she wonders where it stops -- and an oral fixation. She asked him once; it's been six years since he quit smoking and now he's addicted to bubble gum. She thinks there are a lot more useful ways for him to stave off the cravings for a cigarette.
"Something you want from me, Doc?" Coleman leans forward, elbows on the bar. His cologne smells spicy and delicious and she can't help but notice he's got really, really big hands. She bets he knows exactly what to do with them, too.
"Have you ever touched a woman's cervix?" she wonders, licking tequila off her lips.
"Babe, it ain't like it's labeled down there," he points out, taking her question more academically than Bobby would -- another point in his favor. "But I don't get any complaints."
"Well, do you know what it feels like to be wrist-deep in someone's vagina?" (Vagina! Vagina!) He arches an eyebrow and grins, quick enough on the uptake to know that this time, it's not an academic question. And neither is this: "Would you like to find out?"
He laughs, pushes up the sleeves of the paisley print monstrosity she hopes he won't be wearing for long. "Just so we're clear, you're hittin' on me, right?"
"No, I thought you moonlighted as a physician's assistant," she drawls, trying to mimic his tone. "Got any latex gloves?"
"Gimme two hours," he says, without blinking. "I'll kick these assholes out and we'll see just how icy your speculum really is."
She meets him halfway, palms flat against the smooth wood grain of the bar, and whispers, "You're on," into his mouth.
Coleman leans over her, beard rubbing against her jaw while he kisses her hard enough to make her forget a week's worth of case summaries. Flat on her back, with her feet hooked around his hips -- much better than stirrups -- Kelly can safely say that he's in the wrong line of work.
"You…" she gasps, as he slides his entire fist inside her and strokes her inner walls with the pad of his thick thumb, "give a really fucking precise pelvic."
He chuckles into her pulse, licks a path downward, proving that he can definitely orally fixate on things that aren't strawberry-flavored. He whispers, huskily, "It's on the house, too."
And he gets no complaints.