the karaoke bar is stacked tonight. it is a rare day off for many ptmc workers, including you and the subject of your desires—your attending, jack abbot.

his eyes haven’t left you since the moment you first stepped inside.

it hadn’t been all planned in advance by you; you weren’t really planning for tonight to be anything really special. you did what you always do when going out: going all out. you are finally wearing your new black leather skirt that hugs your hips and ass marvelously, and your favorite choice for upper body: a black lace top, pretty similar to a bra, with nothing but a black sheer long-sleeved shirt. of course, your favorite black platform heels that makes you feel invencible, and an eyeliner sharp enough to cut, besides pounds of highlighter. to top it all of, your tattoos are on full display, all over your arms and your bust. yeah, abbot isn’t to blame for not being able to take his eyes off you—you wouldn’t either.

jack being here is a pleasant surprise for you, especially with the intensity that his gaze runs through your body occasionally, his eyes dark. it sends a shiver all through your body, but you force yourself to keep his intense eye contact when he stares at you. almost in a challenge.

suddenly, your name is called to the stage.

finally!

this, however, was planned. the moment you registered jack was here, looking hot enough to eat in that tight black t-shirt that hugs his biceps. you knew what you were doing the moment you signed up to sing.

you down the rest of your drink, throwing your head back. heading to the stage, you just know abbot is staring at your ass. your friends whistle for you, and the alcohol does its job at killing any nerves that threaten to rise. you haven’t told anyone your choice of song because you wanted to surprise them—but most of all, you wanted to surprise jack.

you get settled in the stage. slowly, the opening rolls around, sabrina carpenter murmuring “take your shoes off”. everyone’s eyes on you as you begin to sing the first lines, but you only care about one pair of eyes. they’re locked into you, your body, your movements, and the beer bottle in his hands looks about to shatter.

you dance eagerly to it, leaning entirely into the atmosphere of the song, letting yourself loose and tracing your body with your free hand. then, the chorus begins, and this is the moment of your trap.

do you want the house tour i can take you to the first, second, third floor and i promise none of this is a metaphor i just want you to come inside

your eyes are locked into his when the word ‘inside’ sweetly rolls off your tongue, and you can see the moment he clocks the double-meanings of the song. exactly why you chose it. because if he doesn’t act now on what you’ve both been dancing around for months, he’s never going to.

he’s already hard in his jeans.

you keep up with the rest of the song, never once breaking the intense eye contact. jack looks as if he’s about to combust, and it’s fun to watch. you repeat the chorus; when the ‘inside’ leaves your tongue, you wink at him. that was the cherry on top for your whole little plan. by the time the song finishes, you’re heaving, out of breath. your friends and colleagues, especially trinity, mel and dennis, clap and whistle loudly, along with everyone else in the bar. but what hooks you is the glint in jack’s eyes as he watches you approach their table again; it’s full of pride, desire and want.

“well shit,” trinity says, “who knew you could sing like that?”

“i guess if nothing works out in medicine you’ve already know what to do,” dennis says, making you laugh.

“don’t exaggerate, huckeberry,” you retort.

“you did great, sweetheart,” jack’s raspy voice sounds beside you, and you find yourself smiling, your head buzzying from an intoxicating mix—the alcohol, the praise, the attention.

they keep going on about your performance, drowning you in compliments. as the subject dies out and they drift into another one, you tell no one in particular that you’re going to the restroom, catching jack’s eye as you do so.

you don’t need to look back to know he’s following—clearly not caring about being subtle.

it doesn’t take a second before entering the restroom before your back is being pressed to the wall, caged in by jack’s muscular body against yours, his big hands pawing at your waist. pressed against your core, you feel the hard outline of his cock—the most blatant evidence of his desire for you, and that alone makes you feel dizzy.

his eyes are dark as they regard you.

“i don’t think i can wait any longer for that house tour, sweetheart,” he says, voice laced with desire, strained, as if he’s suffering. he probably is, and you don’t regret it not even one bit.

“good thing i can give you one right here, then,” you reply, voice sultry, eyes just as dark as his.

and then jack is diving for your lips as his hands bunches your skirt around your waist.

good thing he locked the door.

⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚ ⋅˚₊‧₊˚ ⋅

author's note: wassupppp fellow members of the shawn hatosy cult!!!! i haven't written a blurb in ages!!! this is something completely and totally random that took place in my brain yesterday after i got addicted to 'house tour' by sabrina and i simply had to write it. it would've been much better to write it in my physical notebook, but i didn't want to prolong it and, surprisingly, ended up writing on my phone, which is a first for me. i'm going to explore this further in a fanfic called ‘pretty girl avenue’ coming soon to your dashboard!!!! PLS lemme know what you guys think!!!! banners are by @roseschoices TAGLIST: @redhooduwu @distantlyshatteredshard @yaansu @eugene-emt-roe @mirandameaniepants @sergeantsebastian @cosmoscoffeee @mackycat11 @sunfairyy @starkgaryan @amandarobertsboyce @starlight-starbright-8080 @patatesliomlet @saynotononsense @sweetestcowboy @diaryofafeelsaddict  @kimsgarden @daisy-the-quake