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umathurwin · 3 days ago

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pogue chicken

john b routledge x kiara carrera; nsfw 18+ below the cut

Summary: Pogue chicken.

That’s the only way he could think to describe it. JJ and Pope played gay chicken for years until it started to get too serious and they couldn’t look each other in the eye for a day or two afterwards and John B wasn’t sure who exactly won or lost. But this time, instead of two friends who needed to fuck it out, it’s… wait.

***

Or, Kiara and John B decide to test the waters of what's considered 'macking'.

tags, warnings, and more on ao3!

Kiara held the lid tightly on top of the blender and hit pulse, making the ice and protein powder jump and spasm in the glass. When the contents became stuck, she shut it off and shook the entire unit on the counter with a clanging noise before turning the blades back on.

John B stumbled in, heel of his hand pressed against his eye socket. He marched over to the kitchen and yanked the cord to the blender out of the wall.

“Kiara, I’ll kill you,” he said, skipping over the question of why she was making a damn shake when the owner of said blender and the powder inside it was so hungover he could die.

“What?” she asked innocently, inspecting the now-dead blender to see if she could maybe choke down what she’d done so far. Nope. “I needed a pick-me-up after last night. I can give you whatever doesn’t fit in my cup. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

“Y’know what sounds nice? A McDouble. That’s got protein too,” he said, grabbing a to-go cup from the counter, dumping out the tequila mixture, and replacing it with sink water. After chugging most of it, he poured the rest directly over his head. “How are you not in fucking shambles this morning? You had, like, a fifth all to yourself and I nearly pulled trig for you.”

“I don’t get hungover,” she smugly announced, plugging the blender back in and giving him a warning look to step out onto the porch. “Alcohol and I just have… a synergy.”

“The frontman of Smash Mouth had a similar philosophy.”

Before he could reach the front door, she made eye contact with him and turned the blender back on. He winced and tried to open the door, but it was still locked from the night before. “Wait, wait!” he pleaded until she shut the machine off. “Is that… my shirt?”

Kiara looked down and nodded at the Tijuana Panthers shirt she’d stolen from his room last night, before accepting the half-made pullout. “Sure is,” she admitted smugly, twirling around in it and giving him confirmation that she only had on panties underneath. “It’ll make its way back to you, I promise.”

John B smirked, hand on the doorknob. “How about right now? Just go ahead and take it off—”

Kiara turned the blender back on once again. John B actually made a pained noise, and dipped out to the patio. “I am never drinking again!” she heard him shout from outside.

***

They threw a rager at the Chateau three days later.

It wasn’t even justifiable at this point, the amount they were partying, but JJ always seemed to wave it off with some variation of it’s summer! Why not? Not to mention he’d gotten a job recently at a liquor store and eagerly helped himself to a few items here and there that he marked as defective or damaged. Pope bets he’ll last six weeks before the owner catches him smuggling out a handle or keg. Cleo bet two.

Still, John B had thoroughly learned his lesson after the Memorial Day party last week, and monitored his own pouring. He even used a shot glass he nicked from the pub on the boardwalk to measure out the vodka, keeping him at a respectful buzz that JJ had surpassed at lunch.

Speaking of: his blonde liability was already starting to brag to partygoers about his famous trick— a back tuck off the roof, a stunt that last had him limping and swollen for three days—and John B knew it was time to collect him.

“Hey, brother!” he asked, throwing an arm around his neck and steering JJ away from the dubious audience he’d amassed, who were only slightly let down by the loss of their show. “Looks like you’re having a good time. You seen Pope lately?”

He scrunched his nose, thinking back to the six minutes of memory he was working with by now. “Nah.”

“Kie?”

He shook his head, waves bouncing around, and he grinned at the dizzy feeling he’d already given himself. JJ lit up. “Oh! I did see Cleo go into your room earlier.”

John B snorted, draining the rest of his metered dose and throwing the cup into the black garbage bag lazily hung open on the oven. “Yeah. Stoner central in there.”

“Aha, we got one down!” JJ excitedly announced, raising his hand up for a high five. John B rolled his eyes but still returned it. “Let’s celebrate.”

Before he could even spit out celebrate what, exactly, JJ had already pulled him further into the kitchen and grabbed two storebrand Solo cups. He poured a bit of jungle juice mixture into both, sloshing reddish liquid over the sides and staining the counter. JJ reached for bottles and dumped in amounts without looking, hands working faster than his mind, faster than John B could reach out and stop him—

With two full cups, JJ grabbed both and gave a half-assed swirl to combine the warm ingredients. He shoved one into his best friend’s hand and already began a toast.

“Jayj, I’m really not sure I should—”

“To lesbians and virgins—”

“—I’ve been trying to be careful tonight—”

“—thanks for nothing!”

“Oh, fuck it.”

It’s one drink, he thought to himself. What’s the worst it can do?

He let his throat open and poured the spiked juice (or really, juiced spirits) down, swallowing without thinking. Most of it slid right down without hardly touching any tastebuds, but the denser juice coated his mouth with a syrupy acid. He tried to ignore the gasoline burn over his tongue and teeth, singeing his esophagus, around the lining of his stomach, churning, roiling, desperate to see the light again—

Yeah. He’s done for.

He had to push JJ out of his way, who squeaked out a hey! at the shove. A countdown clock appeared over John B’s head, and it was only a matter of time before someone’s shoes took on a new tinge. And smell.

John B stumbled across the living room, bypassed his own bedroom where he could see people smoking a damn joint and nearly crashed into the shut door of his father’s room. His hands shot to the top of the door frame, fumbling around for the key until his fingers made purchase with cool metal. He was nauseous, not drunk, but it was still dicey fitting the key in and locking the door behind him once inside.

The key clattered to the floor as he rushed to the bathroom, throwing open the door and sinking to his knees. Vomit had already filled his mouth, so it was just about aiming into the toilet and not making a bigger mess than needed. Tears filled his eyes and his nose ran as bile scorched his soft palate and splashed into the porcelain. Drool hung from his lips in between retches, which he appreciated as a balm even if it stained his t-shirt.

His carefully crafted buzz all came back up, just because his peer pressured him to take an AMF shot. Bastard.

“Christ, are you okay?” he heard from behind him, scaring him enough to jump and smack his head into the lifted seat. It’s Kiara, he realized, as he coughed up once more and rubbed his crown.

“Yeah. ‘Cept for the concussion.” She entered the bathroom and grabbed a rag from the closet, then turned on the sink to warm up the water. John B continued panting into the bowl. “JJ is a persuasive man with a heavy pour.”

He struggled to his feet as she wet the rag and wrung out the excess. She handed it to him and he scrubbed his face roughly. “He’s great when you get to know him, I swear.”

John B rolled his eyes at her and threw the rag into the sink. “Why aren’t you out there? I thought you and alcohol had a synergy.”

“It’s called knowing when to stop, cowboy,” she explained, watching him flush the toilet and wash his hands up. Kiara leaned against the door frame with folded arms. “She said to stop. I took solace in here to avoid… well, to avoid JJ.”

He nodded understandingly, rinsing his mouth out with sink water. John B paused after turning the tap off, shaking his hands dry. “Wait. How did you get in here, anyways?”

Kie scoffed. “Top of the door frame. Yeah, I really had to answer your riddles three.”

John B sighed, not as annoyed at the invasion of his safe space as he should be. He dug his damp hands into his eyes and shrugged out his shoulders. “Wanna go back out there, Lancelot?”

They weren’t supposed to be in there. Away from the crowd, that is. He’s the host and she’s the lively free spirit of every party, each of them floating around the function looking for vibes to curate and moods to lift. Sure, everyone had to tap out eventually, but he almost felt a certain guilt finding comfort in the back room alone with her as opposed to the middle of the active throng.

Fortunately, she felt no such guilt. Kiara shook her head and stepped back to plop down on the bed, presumably where she’d been when he burst in and spilled his guts. “Wanna spoon instead?”

It was… a joke. Schrödinger’s flirting, where she meant it as much as he did. Good for her, John B is as playful as they come, and scrambled into the bed after her with a boyish smile.

A small part of her wanted to face him, to teasingly imply she’d be the big spoon, but a much stronger part of her had been eyeing his thick forearms and was itching to feel them wrapped around her. So she rolled away, and let her friend slide in place.

It was warm enough that neither felt the need to clamor under the sheets, and the heavy body tucked behind her was throwing off plenty of heat anyways. He’s clingy, too, burying his face into her curls, nestling each of his legs behind hers, pushing her top thigh forward until his pelvis slotted against her ass.

They were… awfully close.

Poguehood meant physical touch and sacrificing personal space, a lesson she learned before leaving the seventh grade. Pope plays that chopsticks game in his downtime and forces everyone to make personalized handshakes. John B won’t let anyone pass by him without dapping him up. JJ had koala DNA, the way he clings to his friends. Even Cleo, who had assimilated just within the last eighteen months, had taken to running her fingers through Kiara’s hair absentmindedly when they caught up on old episodes of ER. Having her platonic associates permanently in her breathing room was just part of the game.

Still…

“This doesn’t feel weird to you?” she mumbled, looking back gently until his nose brushed against her cheek. His soft breaths ghosted down her neck, never faltering.

John B threaded his hands around her waist and interlinked his fingers. “Mmm. No, actually, it feels pretty good. If you can believe it.”

She rolled her eyes and turned to him a little more. Even in the dark, she could see he needed to shave, a 10 o’clock shadow coming in along his strong, twitching jawline. “You’re a dumbass. I just meant, like, Pogue rules? Y’don’t think this is crossing a line?”

He shrugged, eyes fluttered shut. “We’re just lying down. I don’t think this is crossing any lines.” Big John had a wall clock, an old-style mahogany slab that ticked heavily in their shared pauses. They could just barely hear it over the thrum of people and music on the other side. “I can shove you off, if you want.”

Kiara giggled. “Please don’t. I’m very comfortable.”

And with the vaguest hint of a green light, he kissed her on the cheek and pulled her closer. Her stop in John B’s bedroom earlier had her floating off into her dreams, and the steady ride and fall of his chest didn’t hurt.

At some point in the night, after the music died down and their guests threaded out to walk (stagger) home, the temperature dropped. Once the sun set and winds from the northeast swept in along the marshes, it was typical of Nags Head evenings to lose their grip on the afternoon fervor. Kie had cracked a window before lying down, though, so the chill crept its way into Big John’s room.

She woke only once when the sky was black, and she lay on his chest with his arm tucking her against his furnace of a body. Something stirred in her, blearily thinking of how domestic and comfortable they were like this. She adjusted her position a bit and he squeezed her shoulder unconsciously. So friendly.

In the dawn, they’ve separated to the point that his leg half-hung off the mattress. She peeled herself off the barely-disturbed blanket and slipped her shoes on. The key he’d dropped on the floor the night before was returned to its rightful place.

Kiara made sure to grab her jacket on the way out.

***

“You seeing the waves today?” JJ’s voice scratched out through the speakerphone, and John B shook his head like he was actually in the room with him.

“Not right now, since I’m not at the beach. And neither are you, so how do you even know what you’re missing?”

“Watching Tik Tok lives. Lotta tourists are out there today, probably since it’s a lot calmer than yesterday.”

John B scrubbed at his face. “You’re gonna get fired, dude.”

“Pshh. Never. I always keep my head on a sw— Hey! —oh shit, I— how many times do I have to tell you-? —call you later, JB.” Beep beep beep.

“You totally fucking jinxed that,” Kiara announced, strolling into his living room from the patio and shaking her head.

“I know. I’m glad he doesn’t believe in that shit.”

She dropped her backpack on a chair and looked around. “Cleo here?”

“Just missed her,” he tutted, going into the kitchen. “She and Pope went to see a movie. Think it’s a Return of the Jedi airing, or something equally nerdy.”

Kiara nodded. She rolled her shoulder back and flinched. “Holy shit. Yesterday was a mistake.”

“Speak for yourself. I broke some personals.”

She ignored him. “I knew we should’ve left before the waves got too big. My body feels like a beaten rug.”

“You just need a little more muscle to handle the big waves. Go to the gym more. Maybe after you drink all my protein shakes?” John B suggested, rummaging through his pantry for the chocolate powder he loved so much— and so did Kie.

“You’re a jerk. I’m in pain, here,” she pouted, pulling off her t-shirt by the neck to reveal her bikini underneath. “Seriously, I was gonna go out again today, but I think I’ll legit injure myself.”

John B slammed the cabinet shut and came back to the living room. His lips tugged up a bit. “Well… I could help.”

“You finish working on that time machine?”

He furrowed his brows. “What, so you can not go out yesterday?”

“No. Avoid meeting you.”

John B clutched a hand to his chest, feigning deep offense. “Well, I was gonna give you a back rub, but never-fucking-mind.”

Her face lit up. “Wait, really? That would be so nice.”

“Lie down.”

Kiara carefully lowered herself onto the pullout bed of the couch, permanently extended due to John B’s rotating roster of crashed-out guests. It wasn’t the coziest place to spend the night, she knew firsthand, but infinitely better than any backseat or front yard that their drunk friends often found themselves in.

He followed suit, straddling her lower back and ass with his thighs and cracking his knuckles. “Let me know if i’m going too hard, yeah?”

“Right, like you could—”

With no barrier between his big hands and her back save for her string bikini, he pushed all of his upper body weight onto her back, forcing out several cracks from her tense spine. Kiara gasped, a pleasured noise that slipped out and right into his smug ears.

“That’s it, just relax,” he cooed, digging his fingers into her ribcage and working at the tension in her muscles. “Think you could do that again for me?”

“I— what?”

“Shh. Deep inhale,” he instructed, sucking in a breath with her, “and exhale.” When Kiara obeyed, John B pressed again with a smaller, still satisfying crackle of her joints relaxing under his touch. “Perfect. Feel better?”

Um. Fuck, yeah, she felt better. Her elbows bent, ready to lift herself back up and thank him with a clear head, but his heavy hand met her shoulderblade. “Easy, girl. I literally just started.”

She nodded, mind swimming, and settled back down under his gaze. His hands smoothed out over the back of her ribcage, ghosting down and pushing back up. Air was forced out of her lungs with each draw of his hands, and she struggled to keep quiet.

John B’s fingers worked over her back like he made it himself, knew exactly how her muscles should feel. Found every aching knot to massage out. Minded every sensitive spot to graze carefully and sought where he could really dig into the flesh to relieve pressure. That whole quiet thing was abandoned quickly, given he seemed to be egging her on, desperate for those sounds. Any move that made a little squeak, he’d do it again, harder, eager to hear anything he could wring from her tired, sore body.

One particularly good thumb press against a thick knot not only forced a moan from her bitten lips, but caused her back to arch a little until her ass met his crotch and— oh.

Kiara chuckled, brain fuzzy. “Are you hard?”

He shrugged, she could tell even with her eyes shut. “Natural reaction to the… noises. I can stop, if you—”

“No,” she cut him off, hoping she didn’t sound too desperate. “I don’t care. And your hands feel…” she inhaled as he coaxed into her skin more with his knuckles, “really fucking good.”

John B exhaled sharply. “Thank you, sweetheart.”

Oh, and that made her stomach jump. Without saying anything, she reached behind her, knocking his wrists out of the way, and tugged the string of her bikini until it fully untied. “There… better access, right?” A real hefty barrier between him and what she wanted.

It was quiet at first, and she briefly worried that she’d done something wrong, until he loudly gulped. “Yeah, yeah. Better access.”

His hands rested on her shoulders, loosened under his manipulation but only just started. He trailed down her back, and even though it was just a thin strand of polyester keeping him from fully touching her, something was thrilling about getting his hands on her with nothing separating them. Salt-worn palms on terracotta, fingers splayed like vines. He reached low enough to rest his thumbs in the soft divots at the base of her spine. He kneaded around there, tempted to drop his hands even lower, but he got a better idea.

So his fingers skirted up. Except instead of retracing their path up to her shoulders, they dipped around the sides to her hips and waist. He was firm, he knew she was ticklish with a light touch and he pushed between her body and her limp arms, but he eased up as he reached the sides of her tits that pressed out from under her and squeezed. It was purely unnecessary, the pretense of a massage all but abandoned, but she moaned softly and allowed him to essentially grope her.

John B continued working, seeking out sensitive spots and kneading out the tension with his callused fingers, with the occasional dip to feel up her tits. Perfectly normal thing for two friends two do, but John B has always had big eyes and a matching stomach.

Kiara could feel his fingers toy with the string taut against the nape of her neck. “S’it alright… better access, y’know?” She tried not to smirk but she nodded gently, tilting her head forward so he could pull at that loop as well.

But it wasn’t enough to just untie it, he fully pulled the strings out of her hair and onto the couch. If she sat up too quickly, she’d be fully topless. Hell, she was fully topless now—

One of his hands remained on her shoulderblade, pretending to rub out a knot, while the other trailed up along her spine, cupping softly around the back of her neck, carding through the tighter curls at the base of her head. His hand was massive, something she’d known since giddily comparing hand sizes back in high school, but it was one thing to align your pinkies and wrists and another to feel the possessive clutch of his digits along her skull. He cradled her for a moment, seemingly taking in the feeling himself, then his fingers started to curl, tangling up in her locks.

Then he pulled.

Sick fucking man, no good explanation for his behavior, but Kiara had no reservations so he continued. Her head tilted back just the slightest bit, giving into the grip he literally held on her, and the same noises slipped from her mouth but she said nothing. His other hand slipped down to feel her tit again, daring his fingertips to even slide between her and the mattress itself, chasing the sensitive peak of her nipple that pressed against the couch. Hilarious to think it started as a platonic backrub.

Gravel crunched under tires outside. All of John B’s work was instantly undone as her body stiffened underneath him. JJ.

His hands flew back to himself and he jumped off the pullout, shaking out his arms and looking away while Kiara scrambled for her t-shirt and slid it over her body. As their friend’s combat boots stomped up the porch stairs, they both looked down to realize her bikini top was still on the sheets, and he lunged down to snatch it up and stuff it in his shorts pocket. Her eyes were wide, but he flashed her a thumbs-up.

JJ, for all his brilliance and situational awareness, took no notice of their lack of breath, pink faces, or guilty demeanor. Or Kiara’s shirt being backwards. “Who wants to hear the story of how I got fired, and who wants to see what I smuggled out before he almost called the cops?”

***

Pogue chicken.

The stupid Twinkie held an ungodly amount of gas, a win-lose when you remember he could go ages in between fill-ups, but when every gas pump in the Cut ran on island time, those trips were a whole-afternoon event. And a bill, he thought, arms folded, back against the scorching van and brows knitted into a scowl. He eyed the meter ticking up slowly but steadily and thumbed at the seam of his bifold wallet.

He’s a one-track mind kind of guy. It’s a miracle he even made it to the gas station when he hadn’t been able to think about a goddamn thing since the backrub. His palms still tingled. Sure, he’d been the one to pitch it, and things got a little out of hand by the end (or, in hand). But this was gonna have to end at some point. Hell, there were rules to this shit! At least… he thought there were. It’s been years, it’s not like he could remember why they all decided on a blanket ban on Pogues with benefits. Honestly, it didn’t even sound like something they’d actually agree to now, but there’d certainly never been any discussion of reneging something they took so seriously before.

Kiara clambered over the center console and leaned out of the rolled-down window, gingerly resting her arms on the door and squinting at the sun. “God, it gets hot in there. Does it have much longer?”

John B jerked back to reality. Fuck, right, she’d wanted to join him on the adventure. He checked the pump again; only twelve gallons in. “Sit tight, sunshine.”

Technically, she started it, what with offering to spoon when he was vulnerable. Kiara literally invited him into bed with her after so many drinks, and he accepted, even though they’re just friends and it’s a pretty weird thing to do sober. He supposed he could lie to himself, act like he was just fucked up and would’ve laid on anything vaguely horizontal and not made entirely of hornets. It wasn’t his fault.

“I’m going inside to get a Red Bull. You want anything?” she offered, stumbling out through the driver door and catching her balance on a cement pole. Once steady, she looked up at him and had to shield her face from the sun.

“Uh—yeah. One of those Starbucks drinks. In the glass bottle?”

Then he remembered the smell of her tropical conditioner filling his nose and the smooth expanse of her skin against his. He thought of the pattern of her sleepy breaths, chest rising and falling as she relaxed in his arms. She was so soft, so warm in his arms and he thanked God above he managed to not get too worked up having her cinched up against him. He loved every damn minute of it, and if this was the game she was willing to play, then the backrub surely proved he was ready to win.

Kie nodded. “You got it. Vanilla?”

Tired of being ripped from his thoughts about her, John B snapped his head over. “Yes, vanilla.”

She frowned and turned on her heel. “Yeah, take that tone.”

The fuck was even his end goal? Bragging rights, only between the two of them? Sex? An awkward conversation where they mutually backpedal ‘before it gets too far’? What even is too far? Is the person who finds out the answer to that question the winner? What the fuck was so taboo and hot about sneaking around their friends over this stupid rule?

A less mature, less forethinking part of his brain wandered to where they’d go from here. The Pogues were famously pretty touchy, but something about a kiss just felt like a huge step to overcome. How the hell did they pass that off as platonic behavior? They weren’t European.

John B physically shook his head out. What the fuck was he even thinking? They hadn’t done anything wrong. He’s just… a weird perv for thinking about his friend like this, like he always had. The last week with Kiara was nothing more than average Pogue behavior: he’d had to cram into a twin bed at JJ’s house before, stiffly crushed against the wall as blondie drooled onto his flat pillow. Pope had cracked everyone’s spine before with this trick he saw online— he had John B cross his arms over his chest and lifted him with a stunning amount of strength, jostling his torso until his back sounded like a deck of cards. His bandanas were Cleo’s bandanas at this point.

Nothing was weird about any of that, he decided, so it wasn’t weird now.

Kiara skipped out of the store swinging a plastic bag on her wrist just as John B ripped off the receipt from the pump and climbed back into the van. In the passenger seat, she handed over his requested beverage, and excitedly tore open the cardboard backing of a Chapstick package.

“Thought you were a diehard Carmex girl,” he tutted, quoting her own words from when he noticed she’d made her latest tube into a keychain.

She held up a small pink stick. “I am. But my little crow brain saw they had strawberry daiquiri flavor, and it all happened so fast.”

John B pulled out on to the main road, nose scrunched. “Daiquiri? It doesn’t… actually taste like rum, right?”

Kiara popped the lid off and twisted the balm up. “Surely no? That sounds gross.” She applied a generous layer and pressed her lips together, getting a sense for the smell and flavor. “Nah, no rum. But there’s something else to it. Tastes like summer.”

He scoffed, slowing down for a red light. “Summer? That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Fair. Guess you’d need to try it yourself to know.”

John B stuck his hand out without thinking, expecting her to fork over the tube and let him, y’know, try it himself. Instead, Kiara used that extension to grab his wrist, pull him close, and plant a messy kiss on his lips. It was far more than a friendly peck, really smearing the balm across his lips to transfer over as much as she could, and spit started to pool around both of their mouths until her eager tongue slipped out to catch the excess. His hands scrambled, one darting out to white-knuckle the steering wheel and the other on the center console, anything to ground himself on something that wasn’t her because holy fuck what is she doing why is she kissing me.

When she decided he’d gotten enough of a try, she let go of his wrist and allowed him to sit back. He absentmindedly pressed his lips together, brain slowly processing the sugary tang of strawberry and Kiara’s mouth on his lips. Sure enough, it did kinda taste like summer. No other way to describe it.

“Light’s green,” she announced smoothly, admiring the mojito and piña colada that also came in the pack.

***

“Kieee,” Cleo sang from the front hallway.

“Back here!” she called, voice echoing out of her kitchen along the oak floors that Cleo padded down. “Stop touching that!”

Cleo’s eyebrow lifted, and she nodded amusedly when she made it to the back and realized Kiara had a friend over. John B quickly rescrewed the cap onto an Everclear bottle as Kie measured out water from the sink. The Carreras’ kitchen had a fancy microwave that extended out from the island, and she carefully lowered the glass dish onto the plate.

It was the tail end of her “cooking” session, most of the Jell-O boxes already opened with torn, dusty packets littering the counters. She had an impressive system, a German train station of premeasured spirits, Pyrex bowls, rows of plastic cups waiting to be filled. Kiara gestured wordlessly at the last of the Jell-O packs and John B, ignoring the scissors in front of him, ripped them open with his teeth.

“Finally wrapping up this batch. I’m storing all of them in the fridge for now to get started, but be sure to keep them cold until tomorrow night to set,” Kiara explained, removing the bowl from the microwave and looking for the whisk.

“Beautiful. I still think JJ is insane for askin’ you to do this.”

Kiara snickered. “What birthday boy wants, birthday boy gets.”

“I’ve never made these and not made a mess. You’re a lifesaver,” Cleo thanked again.

“Oh, she’s made, like, four messes so far,” John B poked, making Kie roll her eyes playfully as she stirred in the blooming orange powder.

Cleo’s eyes dragged over to John B, down to the phone in his hand and the white granite countertop on which he sat. “Are you plannin’ on helping her, or…?”

“No!” Kiara snapped, never stopping the whisk. “He can’t do fractions nor can he figure out my parents’ microwave. The only thing he’s allowed to do is pour.”

John B smiled and flashed a thumbs up. “Right where I’m supposed to be.”

Bartender Kie added the various clear liquors and finished stirring before snapping her fingers at the idling boy to start divvying out the cups. Cleo raised her eyebrow and mimed a whip-cracking motion, and Kiara nodded solemnly.

Cleo opened the fridge, scanning over the scattered rainbow of cups that sat in a big Tupperware container. She roughly counted out how many of each color they had, glancing back at the ones John B was currently pouring, and Kie was currently lidding. “The green batch is a little small, no? Somethin’ go wrong?”

Kie’s face lit up. “Oh! No, but that reminds me. Green apples don’t have alcohol in them. They’re just plain Jell-O.”

She looked to John B, who shrugged innocently. “Why?”

“After midnight, slowly work these in. Wean him off. It’s always helped me slow him down while he thinks the party is still going.”

Cleo threw her head back, eyes closed, body swaying back with a loose grip on the fridge handles until her arms fully extended. “You’re so goddamn smart. Come here.”

She stepped away from the cold, letting the doors slam shut on their own, and grabbed Kiara’s face with both hands. Cleo tilted her head a bit and placed a big kiss right on her friend’s lips, who was too stunned to protest. Or care, really.

“If that’s what Jell-O shots get me, what do I get for making you dinner?” she asked, seemingly not noticing John B frozen in place.

“You get to watch me eat dinner.”

With Cleo’s car packed up with the shots and peeling out of the driveway, John B and Kiara waved her off from the patio. “Y’all come back now, y’hear?” he drawled, making her punch his shoulder playfully and turn back inside.

“Kitchen’s clean. Jell-O is out of my hair—literally… What do we do now?” Kiara hummed, thinking if there was anything worth watching lately.

“Make out?”

It was her turn to ice up, avoiding eye contact. His fingers itched to reach out, to lift her chin, but it was a marathon. Not a race.

“A bit much, isn’t it?” Her voice was low, like they weren’t alone.

He shook his head.

“Really?” she was a bit louder this time. She scanned over his dark eyes, tanned skin, full lips. “Things have been weird lately.”

John B knew many things about his friend Kiara. He knew she hated reality TV and having to drive. He knew she took off her shoes in everyone’s house except for JJ’s. She thought tarot was stupid but lived and died by her horoscope. She had a nearly rehearsed scathing rant about disposable vapes, but would beg for a rip whenever she’s drunk and at a party.

He also knew she was never afraid to speak her mind, and she was tactful. This wasn’t about her. Had he misstepped, her thumbs would’ve been dug into his eye sockets back when he was giving her a massage. Before then, even. There was zero chance of overstepping with her, of crossing a boundary without her voicing it. Something he always loved about her.

Yet she still looked up at him, white knuckling the granite countertop, blinking expectantly. Smart girl. Giving him an opportunity to throw his hands up and say, no, I’m actually done messing around with my hot best friend behind our other friends’ backs, thanks though!

… Right.

John B shrugged coolly. “Don’t know what you’re talking about, sweetheart. I don’t recall doing anything that friends don’t do all the time.”

Kiara withered under his hard gaze. “You always share Chapstick like that, I guess?” she asked, tossing out her final line. Last chance to back out. Make a joke of it on his way out.

He didn’t need the help, though. “How did Cleo’s taste?”

She narrowed her eyes— clever boy. Her face broke out into a smile. “My room?”

He was more handsy during the massage, she noticed. Holding himself back, she assumed, lest their casual makeout spiral into something neither of them can justify if questioned.

Still, he was a great kisser, especially when he got to show off a little more than caught off guard by Chapstick-sharing. John B sat on her bed with his back pressed against her wooden headboard, her straddling his thighs with her hands on his shoulders. His own hands rested on her ass, not tightly but enough to ground himself while he licked into her mouth.

Her fingers slipped through his dark waves, careful not to tug too hard on his sensitive follicles. All she wanted was to guide his head back, positioning his face exactly how she wanted, and he was more than obliging.

Kiara admired his attempts to keep his hands still, same with his hips. Any other man would’ve pushed this into something much dirtier already, but her well-behaved friend was struggling to keep cool while she moaned into his lips. She rewarded him with a grind downwards onto his crotch, and his fingertips dug into her hips. Almost a plea.

Her fucking phone started ringing.

It was uncharacteristic of her to even have the sound on, she wasn’t ancient. But part of her feared some issue with the shots and decided to have it ready in case Cleo gave her a call about a crisis.

She leaned out from John B’s hold to reach her phone on the night stand, picking it up and answering without even reading the screen. “Hello?”

“Hi, I’d like to speak with Miss Carrera?” the caller asked, professional enough for her to not hang up but casual enough for her stomach not to sink into her ass. She climbed off John B’s lap, who whined softly with extended arms.

“This is she.”

“Hey, this is Marissa from the Twin Liquors on Windjammer? JJ Maybank listed you as a reference, that you were his manager for two years?”

John B nearly broke a vessel in his skull trying not to die laughing, so she batted him away. Might as well try to secure another liquor plug now. “Yes! Yes, I was his supervisor and he was a great employee…”

***

John B emerged from his bedroom and was smacked with a loud ass haze permeating into the halls. Amazingly, the source wasn’t even indoors, but the trio of chuckleheads passing around some resin-stained glass on the veranda.

“Next rip is all yours,” JJ announced to the man adjusting to the sunlight, pretending he wasn’t about to politely pass it to Cleo at his right.

“All good here. I’m about to take Kiara to get her car detailed, and I don’t wanna drive too buzzed.”

Pope squinted, reaching forward for his water bottle. “Can’t she just get it vacuumed out at a car wash? Is that really a two-person task?”

He shrugged, hands in his pockets. “I think she’s dropping off the car at some Kook kid’s house who owns a steamer and is saving up for a dirt bike. Guess it’s an all-day thing. I didn’t really ask about it.”

JJ pouted but still handed the bong to Cleo. “Are you sure? We might actually feel guilty for packing it with your weed.”

John B eyed the silver grinder in her lap. “That ain’t mine. You’re smoking Kie’s shit, so I would figure out a way to replace that ASAP.”

“What?” Pope threw his head back. “She’s gonna have our skins. Why is her stuff here?!”

He shrugged again. “Probably left it when she was here recently,” he mused, tugging on his boat shoes and revealing through cadence alone that he was withdrawing from the conversation. John B halfheartedly waved to the group and stepped out of the patio.

With a single flick of the lighter, Cleo pulled until the shaft of the bong was the color of a peeled apple. She removed the bowl and cleared it in one go. “That doesn’t bother you guys?” she asked around the smoke, thin wisps puffing out of her lips.

“You milking the glass?” JJ scoffed, eyes glazed over for many reasons as she exhaled a thick cloud. “No, it doesn’t bother me. I’m secure enough in my own manhood—”

“I meant John B and Kiara obviously fucking, goofy,” Cleo bit. She set the glass down and inspected the bowl to make sure it was cashed. “How long y’all think that’s been going on, anyways?”

JJ and Pope blinked dumbly at each other, waiting for her to burst out laughing at this obvious joke. “I…” the former started.

“What?” the latter finished.

Cleo sighed, handing the bowl and grinder to Pope. “If it were a snake. Maybe they’re not fucking yet, but they’re barrelin’ towards it. Why are they being so secretive about it?”

Pope took the equipment and started to pack the bowl without thinking, but he was still as confused as the boy next to him. “You think… Kiara and John B?”

“There’s just no way,” JJ piped up, finally finding his voice again after that initial shock. “John B hasn’t had a crush on her in years and Kie would die before she touched any of us.”

“Yeah, you’re making an accusation that’s several years too late,” Pope stated, and his friend concurred.

Cleo nodded sagely. “Got it. So you two would judge them.”

“No!” they both shouted, but Pope thought he was ready to defend himself more. “I don’t care what they get up to. It’s just…”

JJ tensed up as his friend trailed off, and Cleo narrowed her eyes. “Just what?”

“The rules,” he blurted, and Pope looked over with wide eyes. “I mean, not rules, but—”

“Oh, Christ. What is he talking about?” she asked.

Pope lifted his shoulders up. “Well… there’s kind of… an agreement in our friend group. We called it no Pogue-on-Pogue macking. Just means we don’t fool around with anyone in the immediate friend group. Avoid drama, all that jazz.”

Cleo balked. “The fuck? How did that even come about?”

The boys shifted uncomfortably once more, throwing guilty glances at each other like puppies caught rooting through the garbage. “Long story short?” JJ started. “We lost Kie for a few years to the other side of the island, and when she came back…”

“Our balls had dropped and we all got crushes on her at once,” Pope finished crudely.

“And we figured the only way to keep us from tearing each others throats out trying to get to her first, was a neutrality pact. Can’t fight over who can have her if we all agree to keep our hands in our pockets.”

Cleo barked out a laugh. “I see, I see. But, you can imagine how that would piss Kiara the fuck off?”

The alarm returned to their eyes. “It’s not like th—” JJ sputtered.

“The rule has been inactive since…” Pope waved his hand around. “Fuck. A long time. Point is, we’ve all moved on, but if John B and Kiara are hiding something from us, it’s probably because they think we’d have some issue with it.”

“And you don’t?”

JJ laughed, eyeing her up and down. “Someone probably would’ve said something when we started—”

“Fair enough,” Cleo cut him off, holding up a palm and wagging her fingers at Pope to request the riches between his.

He handed over the prepared bowl and dusted off his fingertips, looking out at the door where their friend had left just moments ago and pursing his lips. “Do you think we should say something? Let them know we think it’s fine?”

JJ and Cleo locked eyes and answered at the same time. “No!”

***

Dog days of summer.

All things considered, the Outer Banks didn’t have much of a problem with stray animals, so John B had never actually seen any rabid canines wandering the streets, minds melted out of their drooped ears and paws blistering on the pavement. It sounded cruel and unpleasant, but he’d always hoped it was just a figure of speech anyways.

Speaking of cruel and unpleasant— even with John B’s AC malfunctioning, she refused to take off her gray muscle tank. The fabric was splotchy with dark patches, mostly gathered around her neck where the sweat clung. He wondered if she just didn’t have on anything under it.

“Are you sure you don’t just want to go to your place?” Framed like he was concerned over her, but ultimately a plea for his own comfort lest he sweat to death.

“I told you,” she reminded him, “I’ve got family over. I guarantee you my house is not a place you want to be.”

He frowned. “They can’t be that b—”

“Do you know what a Pentecostal is?”

John B looked over. “… No?”

“Yeah. Because I care about you.” She took a deep inhale, and he chose not to press any further. “Why don’t we go to JJ’s place, if you’re so desperate to leave?”

“Hilarious that you would think his AC works. Have you seen how he maintains his truck?” Kiara pursed her lips and nodded. “He’s almost certainly figuring a way into the island club to swim.”

She lulled her head back, beguiled at the thought of her stupid friend jumping a fence for a quick dip until someone noticed. Her eyes fluttered shut and his eyes dragged down her figure.

John B’s hands flexed and clenched again. The humidity clung to the skin between his fingers, and a finger-wagging part of his subconscious knew he would be derisively rejected for proposing any sort of physical contact in this weather. Which, fair.

Like always, he had a better idea.

“Y’know what always makes me feel better in the heat?” Kiara waited for him to finish his sentence, too fucking hot for games. “Sweating.”

Her head snapped up, eyes already cut at him. “I swear to God, if you suggest I go to the gym again, I’ll tear your eyebrows off your face.”

He winced. “They’re such a good feature of mine, too.” John B shook his head. “Not that kind of sweating. This requires no mobility.”

“Mm. My kinda exercise.”

“Jerking off.”

“Bitch, what?”

“No joke,” he defended with a lazy shrug. Didn’t even look over. “Makes you sweat, which cools you off. And you get a free orgasm out of it. Win-win.”

She squirmed on the couch, pressing her thighs together and sitting up a little. “S’that right?” Her voice caught at the end, a betrayal.

“It is.” John B had already peeled off his t-shirt when the temperature hit triple digits before noon, but his hand breached the waistband of his loose shorts up to the first knuckle. Just daring to slip further. “Wanna cool off together?”

“Fuck.”

Muttered desperately at the same time, something they’d joke about normally. Jinx, you owe me a Coke, and all that. But when they’ve both got eager, quick hands below their waistlines, not much is all that funny.

They’re not physically touching, actually seated almost opposite one another on their own love seats, but what the fuck does that matter when they’re making heavy eye contact and only breaking away to focus on their covered fingers working themselves over?

It was stunningly easy to convince her to join him in doing this. Probably because he’d decided for them by diving into his shorts and taking a hold of himself. She’d thrown an arm over her eyes at first, acted mortified that he would do such a thing in his own home, but refused to actually get up and go to another (hotter) room in the house. So she opted to watch, and eventually shrugged while popping open the button on her jean shorts.

He was observant, watched the pattern she’d built up for herself. It was difficult to get the full picture with denim in the way, but he could tell she liked it fast, hot, dipping into her cunt for more of her slick and going right back to her clit. He wondered if this is how she looked when she was getting fucked, chasing her own pleasure with a cock inside her—

John B squeezed himself just a bit too tight at the picture, back arching and slamming his eyes shut to cut off the source. If he didn’t look at her, he couldn’t cum too fast. He thought.

“You do this often?” she asked, fingers slowly dragging in and out of herself with her eyes glued to where his hand worked.

“I— huh?” His brain had entirely left. He was gonna need more context than that. “Jerk off?”

Kiara snorted. “No. Figured that went without saying. I meant, doing it with friends.”

Still on that, hmm. His index finger circled around the head of his cock, and he fought to keep his eyes open. “Not really. But I figure as long as we’re not touching each other, it’s still friendly.”

He expected her to laugh at this, he wasn’t sure why. All he got was the squelching noise of her two middle fingers coming to a stop in her pussy. “What if we did, though?”

John B whined. Not his proudest moment, but it was impossible to not feel flayed under Kiara’s gaze. His hand released his cock and receded from his shorts, and a pathetic string of precum connected his still-clothed dick and his palm. The strand broke and drooped onto his stomach, and he shivered. She watched keenly and smirked when she noticed the slight tremble in his touch. Quite cruel, considering her softball pitch, and he felt his entire chest flush. He realized he hadn’t answered her question.

“I guess we just wouldn’t tell anyone.”

“Fuck!” she whined, head thrown back against the couch and her hands momentarily stilling before continuing. “Fuck, I’m gonna cum, I’m—”

Made two of them. John B struggled to keep his eyes on his best friend making herself cum on her own fingers under the guise of keeping cool, all while he was painting the inside of his boxers. What a fucking joke.

They sat panting afterwards, each carefully pulling their hands out of their underwear, but Kiara is an overachiever. She brought her fingers to her mouth, dipping them between her lips and sucking off the slick that had gathered on them.

“Jesus Christ,” he blurted, blinking wildly at her standing up on shaky legs. She disappeared down the hallway to his bedroom, peeling off her shirt to reveal a toned, bare back. John B loved being right. “Where are you going?”

“Gonna take a shower. Hate to admit it, but I do feel cooler!”

***

Kiara flipped around in her bed. Kind of embarrassing, growing to prefer a crappy pullout or her best friend’s weak mattress over the nice Tempur-Pedic in her own bedroom. Honestly, if he heard her speak such sacrilege about her soft bedding, she’d get the silent treatment for days. Call her spoiled.

One more turn to face the window and she tucked her hands under her cheek. The moon pulsed outside, illuminating the alcove and weakening around her area rug. She had tons of them scattered across the wooden floor, mostly to protect her from the chill as she padded around in the winter months. Also convenient for dampening the sound of her footsteps when she snuck out in high school.

Or, y’know, anyone else’s footsteps.

Her door had been left cracked open, the summer months making it hard for the bulging, aged wood to fit in the jamb, so she didn’t even realize she had a visitor until he slid into bed behind her and cupped a large hand over her mouth.

His fingers tightened against her lips when she sucked in a gasp, and he shushed into her ear to help her relax. With the smell of his cedar marine cologne, the familiar warmth of him pressed against her, she softened, turning back to look at him with wide eyes.

Rolling onto her back, Kiara adjusted to slot under him as he rested on an elbow. “Why aren’t you down with the others?” she asked when he dropped his hand. Her eyes trailed along his features, strong and highlighted by the soft moonlight.

John B shrugged softly. “Couldn’t sleep down there. JJ snores.”

She nodded. “So you came up here to sleep?”

“Nope.”

He cupped a hand around her jaw to steady her face, planting a kiss that had her own hands flying up to his biceps. His touch revealed his waning patience. Whatever self control he’d garnered in this very spot a few days ago had leapt out the window and died. Now his fingers dug into her soft skin, claiming her and pinning her against the bed. He kissed deeply, like he was making up for lost time. Maybe he was.

She wore only a t-shirt and underwear, the former he tugged off and threw across the bedroom. His eyes fell to her bare tits, hungry and possessive. “Fuck, Kie.”

John B kissed her chest, biting the tanned skin and lightly sucking on her nipples, but he came back up to her face with another goal. He slotted himself on top of her, his thick cock sliding against her folds with only their underwear to separate them. They kissed, wet and deep as he pushed his hips forward. The shaft of his dick pressed against her clit, and she moaned into his mouth.

“Mm. Again,” he demanded through a kiss, grinding his hips again and again, and she wasn’t able to keep up with making out anymore. Her head tilted backwards, and he had to go back to covering her mouth lest she wake anyone up from a floor away. “Shh, sweetheart. I know.”

It was easy to find a rhythm thrusting against her, grinding his cock against where she was so sensitive and hot. Her head twisted to the side, lips pressed against his wrist, so he dropped down to bite at her exposed neck.

She came with a gasp, digging her teeth into the flesh of his forearm to keep from crying out, and he continued fucking against her until she rode out her high. Kiara released his arm and licked over where her canines had left bruising indents.

John B sat back, watching her steady her breath. The front of his boxers were wet, and he shamelessly reached down to adjust his throbbing cock while making eye contact with her.

She held her legs spread, letting him gaze over where she’d already soaked through her panties. He greedily licked his lips. “Can I kiss you?”

What kind of question is that? They’d already made out multiple times. She’d just, in a way, cum on his cock. She nodded anyway, too horny to think rationally about what he was even asking. But John B hooked a finger around the side of her panties and tugged, leaned down, lips puckered— and oh. That’s what he meant. He kissed right on her clit, and she mewled.

Kiara threw her head back, enjoying the feeling of his plush lips work around her clit like he was giving any other normal kiss. His tongue slipped out, frenching her cunt with drool that dripped over her hole and down her ass.

Still sensitive from her first orgasm, she pulled at his hair as a plea for mercy. He popped off with a wet noise, spit and nectar glistening on his chin in the moonlight. “Yeah?”

“C’mere.” He obeyed, smiling boyishly and giving her a real kiss with his arm caging her head. Kiara wriggled off her underwear, pulling them down her thighs and off one leg until they caught around her ankle. Then she went back to kissing him.

“Fuck me, please,” she asked kindly, fingers pulling at the waistband of his boxers.

“God, I— are you sure?” he asked, more begged, eyes dark and open wide. Nervous.

“Now,” she snapped, tired of whatever they’ve been dancing around. The elastic slipped from her grasp before she could realize as he tugged them just enough to pull his cock out.

“Yes ma’am,” he said with a hand around the base. John B slid the head against her folds, collecting the filthy amount of slick he’d gotten from her, and pushed the thick head into her fluttering hole.

The squeaking noises of her bed springs were nothing compared to the wet slaps of his hips on hers. Almost too much foreplay, she thought, if his fat cock could ease into her so snugly and echo around the room. Her nails dug into his skin, she was so full, she could feel him reshaping her from the inside.

“Christ, you take me so well,” he gritted out, watching him disappear into her. John B canted her hips up into the moonlight so she could have the same view. “You feel fucking amazing, angel. Y’like that?”

Kiara nodded wildly, whining every time he bottomed out and the dark brown curls at his pelvis stimulated her clit. “God, yes, it’s s’good—” she stammered.

He pulled out, sitting back on his haunches and grinning at the way she keened her hips up desperately. John B’s big hand rested over her entire cunt, palm over her leaking, eager hole, fingers over her clit. He pressed gently, dragging the sweet mixture of them up and down her pussy, stopping to thumb at her swollen nub roughly. Kiara tucked her head to the side, thrown between the harsh friction of his calluses and the saccharine pleasure it still gave her. His palm was coated with her, between his fingers too, and he shamelessly brought his hand up to his mouth to lick it clean before going right back to her cunt. Her jaw went slack, and he shot a dirty grin up at her. He loved it, playing in the slick he’d gathered from her, getting her loose and hazy and high.

It was messy, so fucking rich and sweltering and she didn’t even care that he grabbed her hips with his wet hand as he lined himself back up and fucked back into her. She didn’t care that he was clearly getting close, taking breaks to steady himself and slow his dick pulsing in her cunt. She didn’t care that he bit at her neck and collarbones, surely evidence that’ll be visible in her tanks and bikinis. All problems for future her.

It was so easy to forget about her problems with John B. To let go. To break rules that felt concrete to her, experiment and learn. Of course, he’s her best friend. Just that, though?

He bottomed out, forehead dropping to her neck and panting against her chest. John B thrust once more, getting the very last bit of himself inside her until he was fully sheathed. “Fuckin’ hell, Kiara.”

“Yeah,” she whined, fingers in his hair, struggling not to pull. It’s not like she wanted him to stop.

Before he continued, John B paused to grab Kie��s chin suddenly but gently. He planted a soft kiss to her lips, delicate and intimate and juxtaposed with how he twitched obscenely inside her. Also, “Next time, in the van.”

She smiled, both at the idea itself and him assuming there’d be a next time. Kiara supposed she assumed the same thing anyways.

John B pulled out only halfway, too eager to sink back into her that he couldn’t even offer a full stroke. That innate friendliness kicked in and she wanted to make fun of him, wanted to call him desperate and sloppy, but honestly— her eyes were rolling back into her skull as it was. God knows how she’d be if he could keep it together.

“Fuck, are you gonna cum again?” he blurted, thrusts growing frantic and wild. “I’m close. I— fuck, if you don’t finish, I-I’ll eat you out until you cum on my tongue, I don’t give a fuck, oh my God—”

His pathetic babbling pushed her over the edge just as he came inside her, and Kiara had to bite down on his toned shoulder to keep from crying out. He came hard, balls tight and cock nestled as deep as he could manage. His fingers were clenched to her hips, keeping her still as she writhed and trembled all the same.

They panted together, and John B didn’t pull out before grabbing her chin for another kiss. “Maybe during that next time, then.”

She smiled, adjusting the blankets as he settled down next to her.

“So… who won?” she asked finally, and he didn’t even pretend to not know what she meant.

“Obviously me. I don’t recall begging you to fuck me.”

“You literally crawled into my bed twenty minutes ago!”

“Well, you started it back at the house party.”

Kiara rolled her eyes. “Right. I started it. You finished it. So… you lost?”

John B looked over to her, one arm tucked behind his head lazily. He flicked his eyes down to her body, delicately covered by her top sheet, then back up to her gleaming brown eyes.

“Sure. Big time.”

#i'm sorry this is disgusting it just flowed out of me #much like his c-#outer banks #obx #kiara carrera #john b routledge #john biara #john biara smut #john b smut #kiara carrera smut #kiara carrera fic #john b routledge fic #john b x kiara #john b routledge x kiara carrera #umathurwin writing

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