[fic] ours are the moments i play in the dark - mark/susan, er (E, 10,448 words)
“Susan, wait,” Mark says, an unreadable expression on his face. “I guess I can be late."
[susan and mark fall into bed after they make up from their fight in 1x15: feb 5, '95. they're as well-adjusted about it as you might expect.]
aka the marksusan season one cheating fic, i have been enabled and you can't stop me lmao
Was hoping for a Robby request where reader is new to the department but they’ve been sleeping together for the last 6 months secretly. And she finds out about the 7 week itch and she’s like huh… has he ever done 6 months before.
And everyone’s like no why?
Maybe also Dana finally notices Robby looking at her and tells him not to go try it with her- she’s got someone she’s seeing and Robby is like yeah it’s too late it’s me.
Whatever you think!! Thank you for all of your fics!
the minute you walked into the emergency department on your first day robby just knew he had to have you, you were a new resident freshly transferred from somewhere out of state with a lust for life that was just intoxicating to him.
it didn’t take long for him to make a move, whilst he thought about not doing so, because you know he’s your boss and much older than you, his good friend jack told him that seeing someone like you ‘would be good for him’—that was all the convincing he needed.
he asked you out for drinks on your second week, you were taken back at first, with him being your boss and all you felt a little apprehension, but ultimately you agreed—if you were being truthful you’d been eyeing him up this entire time too, you just never imagined he’d be brave enough to act on it (you didn’t know about his many many hospital based situationships yet)
you told yourself you had to stay strong, you couldn’t let yourself be the girl who put out on the first date…but as the alcohol flowed and your inhibitions lowered you couldn’t help yourself. especially not when he’d had his hand creeping up your exposed thigh the entire night.
but anyways, that was 6 months ago and the two of you had managed to keep it professional at work, not wanting it to cloud people’s perception of you—that was robby’s idea, though at first you thought he just wanted to keep you secret because he was ashamed, but he convinced you otherwise when he took you round to jack’s to watch hockey one night and introduced you as his ‘girlfriend’…despite the fact you hadn’t actually put a label on what you were yet.
one day you’re at the nurses station, filling in patient charts with santos, though the two of you were doing more gossiping than charting. that’s when noelle breezes past the station, folder in hand walking beside mohan on her way to see a patient.
“anyone know if she survived?” santos whispers under her breath as soon as noelle is out of hearing distance.
“survived what?” you ask, curious as to what she was talking about given the very little context. princess and perlah seemed to know though as they spun around from where they stood just ahead of you two.
“of course not” princess gives santos a knowing look, as if to say ‘come on, don’t be stupid’.
“no one survives” perlah adds rolling her eyes.
“guys what are you talking about? survived what?” you know you shouldn’t gossip at work it only leads to trouble, but god the gossip in this department was just too juicy.
“robby’s seven-week itch” santos proclaims like it was the most obvious answer in the world. you furrow your brows, you’d never heard of this before and given that you’d been with him wayyy over 7 weeks, it just didn’t compute with you.
“it’s well known around here that if you sleep with dr. daddy over there you better not let yourself get too comfortable, because once you hit the seven week mark…” princess explains, trailing off and punctuating her sentence by running a finger across her throat ‘dead’.
“oh…” you take in the information to process it, and a small smirk tugs on your face as you realise that you managed to beat this supposed curse. and only part of that satisfaction was aimed towards the fact that you’d lasted longer than noelle—who was undoubtedly one of the most gorgeous women you’d ever seen.
and you know you shouldn’t say anything, you should just take the win and leave it at that but as you imagined the shocked looks on the women’s faces you couldn’t help yourself from being smug.
“so…would that make 6 months a new kind of record or something then?” you ask with a small smirk and pride in your voice. the women don’t react at first, other than a subtle head tilt as they try and figure out what you mean—but when they do their wide eyes and open mouthed expressions are better than you could’ve hoped for.
“wait” santos turns to you.
“you’re not!?” princess leans in closer to where your sat
“you’re kidding!?” perlah is right beside her matching her tone.
“sorry ladies, i don’t kiss and tell” you lock up your computer and head off away from the women with a very satisfied smirk on your face.
-
it’s a couple of hours later and thankfully the news about yourself and robby hadn’t hit the rest of the department yet. robby’s taking 5 at the nurses station checking the board…well that’s what he was supposed to be doing but he couldn’t stop staring at you.
you were across the room talking with a patient about their at-home care as you discharged them and robby couldn’t take his eyes off you—and of course dana noticed, she notices everything.
“hey! robinavitch, you take your eyes off that sweet girl now, she’s taken” dana waves her hand in front of his face and he’s taken back for a second, had everyone already found out about you two?
“how…do you know that?” robby asks, his hand rubbing the back of his neck anxiously.
“she talks about him all the time and she’s very happy, so you better keep your wandering hands where i can see them mister or there’ll be trouble” dana warns, her tone serious and robby can’t help but laugh.
and he knows he shouldn’t say anything, i mean you had said you were going to keep your relationship private but he never could help poking dana.
“it’s a bit late for that unfortunately…but i’ve heard she’s very happy with these wandering hands so i wouldn’t worry about it” he smirks and dana’s face drops immediately.
“jesus h. christ, is there no woman in this hospital safe from you?” she rolls her eyes and hangs her head, well and truly done with his inappropriate workplace relationships.
“guess not” robby laughs as he walks away to an incoming trauma, mentally going through what he was going to say in the HR meeting that was surely on the horizon.
this was so fun!! felt very freeing not writing smut for once.
summary - carter attempts to drown his feelings for you in alcohol - surprisingly, it backfires.
cw - angst (happy ending ofc)
a/n - somehow this came out to the exact same word count as pt 1. i have an exam on thursday and i did this instead of studying :D DYING for john rn especially bc robby is rlly pissing me tf off recently. he's a total manchild like a hot one but he needs to put on his big boy pants and keep a therapist ffs. enjoy!
---
Carter wasn’t sure if it was the pounding headache or the nausea that woke him. Most likely the nausea, as the second his eyes were open, he leaned right over and vomited into the empty trashcan by the couch. Twice.
Eleven in the morning, covered in sweat, exhausted, and all puked out. He was pretty sure he hit rock bottom. He wanted to roll over and go back to sleep, but he could not summon the energy to close the blinds, and with the sun glaring in at him, he didn’t stand a chance.
He let his head roll to the side and saw the Tylenol and water. A mess of emotions flashed through his mind. He snapped his gaze to the armchair across from the sofa, and was half relieved and half disappointed to see you were no longer there.
He groaned, yanking the throw blanket over his head and subsequently exposing his bare feet to the cold. He groaned again.
What had he told you last night? He couldn’t quite remember, but if the pit of dread in his stomach was anything to go by, nothing good. Maybe it was all a nightmare?
He peeked one eye out from under the blanket. The glass of lukewarm water and the bottle of Tylenol still sat there, not a figment of his hangover haze. The bright red and blue of the pills screamed loudly and made his eyes ache. He retreated back under the blanket.
He was not very interested in bringing back memories of last night, but if he was ever to talk to you again, he knew he must. So he could apologize, beg for forgiveness, insist none of it was real.
He remembered seeing you and Danny together at the bar. You were in your soft cashmere sweater. Your graduation sweater. You’d never forgive him if he puked on it. He’s pretty sure he didn’t.
There were a lot of shots, that much was clear. And — as he shifted positions he felt a sore spot — he seemed to have bruised his tailbone. Like the rest of his body wasn’t stiff and painful enough already.
Yes, he remembered falling. He walked into a chair, trying to get to you. You had been nice enough to help him up, he remembered clinging to you, but Danny was still there. He remembered the scent of your shampoo, he definitely stuck his nose in your hair. So far, all that was coming back could probably be excused as bumbling drunk behavior, then what was causing such guilt and shame to brew in his belly?
I love it when you call me that…
Wait…
I just want to kiss you all over…
Oh, crap…
I wonder what it would be like to hold you whenever I want…
Son of a bitch.
He’d spilled his guts. Happily. And you… you’d looked shocked. Anxious. Scared. You hadn’t said anything as he spoke, just sat there, frozen, until…
Carter sat bolt upright, heart beating like a drum.
“Oh no, oh no no no no no,” he moaned, tugging at his hair.
He had kissed you. And you hadn’t kissed him back. You’d pulled away, made excuses; you tried to leave, and he asked you not to. You had stayed. But you hadn’t wanted to.
Just remembering the look on your face, of discomfort, and anxiety, and nothing good, had him hunched over the bin again, hurling up bile.
How could he have been so stupid? Things were fine the way they were. Sure, he got queasy whenever he saw you with Danny, or whenever you talked about Danny, or whenever he thought too hard about things that would never come to be. But none of that even compared to what he was feeling at that moment.
He wondered what you were thinking. Probably horrified, thinking of ways to let him down, or just avoid him all together. Maybe you’d transfer to a new program at another hospital, change your number, move to a new place, even. But, no, that wasn’t fair. It was his mistake, his stupid feelings — if anyone should have to move their whole life around, it should be him.
He wasn’t sure which was a worse prospect, you wanting to talk it through, or you avoiding him like the plague to pretend it never happened. You were kind, though, and understanding. Even if you were planning a move halfway across the country, surely you’d at least say goodbye first?
He reached out and pressed the button on his answering machine. It beeped shrilly, ringing through his pounding head. He had one new message. His heart leapt into his throat.
“Hey pal, it’s Doug.”
His heart sank back down.
“Look, you were pretty out of it last night, and I asked your chauffeur” — his heart jumped yet again — “but she said she hadn’t heard from you. Just want to make sure you’re not dying of alcohol poisoning. Let me know.”
He smushed his face deep into his pillow. He didn’t have alcohol poisoning, but he certainly was dying. He had to make a plan. He wasn’t working today, but he was the next, and he was pretty sure you would be too. Together, with him, trapped in a building. He started to panic. Flipping his head to the side to allow himself room to hyperventilate, his eyes fell once again on the pills and water.
He wondered if you would still do something so considerate for him, after finding out his true feelings. After he forced a kiss onto you. Good lord. He had to apologize.
Despite everything in him screaming at him to stop, that there was no way this could possibly go well, he dry swallowed three Tylenol and grabbed the phone. He had your number on speed dial. You were undoubtedly the cause for at least half of his phone bill.
His knee was bouncing as he waited for the ringing to end. He knew you were at work. He was just going to leave a short, sincere, deeply apologetic voicemail that you could either respond to or ignore. Ball would be in your court.
The line beeped and he took a deep breath.
“Uh…” he stuttered. “Hi. It’s, um, it’s J — Carter.”
He blanked. This was much harder than he thought it would be. Why did he keep opening his mouth?
“Look… I just wanted to… I just thought… I’m so sorry,” he stammered. “I didn’t mean to — to force — to… kiss you. I-I mean, I did, in the moment, but it was just a big mistake. I mean not you, just” — he sighed — “it was not appropriate, and I’m so, so sorry I put you in that mess.”
He paused. Did he admit it was all the truth and beg for forgiveness? Or did he backpedal, assure you it was all a big drunken nothing, and then beg for forgiveness? He was running out of time.
“You are… my best friend,” he said quietly, earnestly. “I care about you a lot. Please, please, just…”
Just what?! Pretend everything was normal? Forget about it? Get back to him immediately, never talk to him again, what?
“Just stay warm,” he blurted. “It's… it's chilly out there today. And, um, I’ll see you tomorrow. Bye.”
He slammed the phone down and buried his face in his hands. Stay warm? He should not have called. Briefly, the idea of going to your apartment and trying to delete the message off your machine crossed his mind, but he quickly dismissed it. The only thing that could possibly make the situation worse would be you finding out he had broken into your apartment the day after confessing his all consuming love for you.
He shuddered. He needed a plan. And he would come up with one, he just needed a few more hours of sleep. He’d figure out one way tickets to Cuba later.
***
Carter stood outside the doors to the ER for maybe twenty minutes the next day, freezing his bruised ass off, hyping himself up. He would go in, say hello to everyone politely, and begin his work day. Just like any other day. With any other coworkers. He wouldn’t treat you any differently unless you initiated conversation.
That was his plan.
As he walked in, he immediately clocked you standing with Carol and Doug, going over the board. He froze for a second, then soldiered onward, sweaty hands gripping the strap of his bag unnecessarily tightly. He took small careful steps towards the desks, trying desperately to keep his temperature from skyrocketing and painting his skin red.
“Hey Carter, how are ya?” said Chuny, coming up behind him with a warm smile. “Still hungover?”
He couldn’t bring himself to copy her chuckle.
“Good morning,” he croaked.
The interaction caught your attention and you turned. He froze. He couldn’t read your face, so he averted his eyes. He could already feel the blush creeping up his neck, despite his efforts. He needed to take his coat off.
There was a chorus of “morning”s that he nodded vaguely to. He couldn’t look at your face, but he couldn’t look away from you, either. That had him fixated somewhere around your knee region.
“Hey, Carter, thank god you're here,” said Jerry, flagging him down with a few charts in his hands. “I have patients for you.”
As soon as you turned away from him, Carter's eyes found the back of your head. Jerry was talking him through some charts, but he only nodded along, watching you intently. You had moved closer to Carol, heads together, muttering to each other. Was it possible you were talking about him? Were you spilling his secrets to her? Preemptively explaining why you would be avoiding him like the plague? Getting her advice on how to turn him down?
He didn’t feel very good. All he’d had for breakfast was pepto, but there still seemed to be something churning in his stomach, somehow.
He excused himself and rushed to the breakroom. He stripped off his wool overcoat, feeling sweaty, and stuffed it into his locker after his bag. Then he leaned his sweltering forehead against the cool metal of the door, breathing deeply.
He couldn’t believe he had messed up this badly. But, on the other hand, wasn’t it only a matter of time before the pot boiled over? Every day, he felt his love for you grow just a little more. Maybe now that it was out in the open, he could try and get over you.
His chest hollowed at the mere thought. He couldn’t imagine life without his love for you, at that point. He hadn’t so much as looked at another woman in two years. Somehow, it felt disloyal to you. Which was ridiculous. He had never so much as asked you on a date, up until the other night.
Was it possible that somehow, someday, down the line… he imagined himself being with you? Maybe playing the long game, until you woke up one day and saw that he could make you happy. It seemed stupid, seeing as he’d also spent the last two years convincing himself there was a zero percent chance of requitement. Was this the true reason it hit him so hard to see you with Danny? That image was slipping further and further away?
He grabbed his stethoscope and shut the locker. He knew he needed to talk to you, and tell you the truth. No matter what, your friendship was already indubitably, irrevocably altered.
When Carter reemerged from the breakroom, he tried to go about his business normally. There would be no point rehashing the situation right before working side by side for twelve hours straight.
So he kept his distance. Attempted, at least, to keep his forlorn, longing stares to a minimum. Tried not to be a grump. Tried to be entirely professional. But he could tell that you were aware of him, as he was you, like a radar that pinged in each other's presence. Hard to ignore.
In the early afternoon, he caught Carol alone in the supply closet, restocking insulin syringes. He glanced around nervously, then stepped in, closing the door behind him.
She jumped, and spun around.
“Jesus, Carter,” she sighed, resuming her work. “What gives? You’re sneaking around like a serial killer.”
He took a box of tongue depressors and began restocking at her side. He didn’t look at her.
“Carol, I gotta ask you something,” he said in a low voice. “Have you, um… have you, like, heard anything? Recently? About me? Like, in the last few days?”
He could feel her narrowed eyes on him but stayed focused on the tongue depressors.
“Like what?” she asked suspiciously.
He shrugged.
“I don’t know, like anything memorable? Humiliating?”
She discarded the now empty box and turned towards him.
“Like… anything from a certain intern, who you have a certain gargantuan crush on?”
He whipped his head to the side, dropping some depressors in the jolt.
“She told you?” he whispered, feeling suddenly quite stuffy in the small space.
“She didn’t tell me a thing,” said Carol, lip twitching. “But now I know for sure that there’s something to be told. I mean, you’ve been acting weird around each other all day.”
Carter groaned. He’d been too jumpy and revealed his hand. Now he had an expectant Carol tapping her foot, waiting for him to share. He placed the box down and leaned back against the door, eyes closed. He didn’t think he could handle the judgement that would surely be on her face.
“I — I —” he started. “She took me home, last night, when I was wasted, and I…”
He drew a hand down his tired face.
“I told her everything. She knows I’m in love with her, I don’t know what to do.”
Carol let out a shocked laugh. He sent her an unimpressed look, and she straightened her face.
“Okay,” she said softly, rubbing his arm. “It’s okay. It was bound to come out sometime, I mean, it’s been years at this point.”
He just nodded, scratching the back of his head nervously.
“I know I need to talk to her,” he said. “I just want… do you think there’s any chance of keeping our friendship?”
Carol cocked her head, a hint of pity on her face.
“Who says she doesn’t feel the same?” she said.
He scoffed.
“If she did, she wouldn’t have reacted the way she did last night,” he said, kicking his sneaker against the tile. “Besides, she’s got Danny…”
“Danny Schmanny!” Carol scoffed, waving a hand. “She barely knows the guy! She’s been your best friend for as long as she’s been here!”
“Exaclty!” he exclaimed, running a hand through his hair. “And that’s what she thinks of me. I’m the mayor of the friendzone.”
“But, Carter,” said Carol, like she was speaking to a five year old, “you’ve been her friend the whole time too, and she’s not friendzoned. You never really know until you ask.”
He paused, and for a short moment, allowed himself to imagine a world where you felt the same. Where he could take you in his arms, and kiss you, and never live another day without your sweet touch. But then the image of your face from the other night floated to the forefront, and his silly moment of bliss was squashed. He shook his head.
“No,” he said. “I know she doesn’t like me like that.”
Carol sighed.
“Alright. Just talk to her first, okay?”
And she left Carter alone with his thoughts.
And Carter had a lot of thoughts.
Throughout the rest of his shift, he missed two pages completely, got chewed out by three different attendings for not paying attention, and almost gave potassium via IV push. He had been put on unofficial paperwork duty by five, which he suspected Doug and Carol had something to do with. No doubt, Doug had been filled in. If you told something to one of them, the other would be soon to follow.
Still, he hadn’t talked to you. You’d said a total of twelve words to him all shift. Mostly ones like fine, and yes, and trauma incoming. You didn’t look mad, whenever he managed to catch your eye. You didn’t look like you normally did, either. At any given moment, usually, you’d light up as he entered a room, be ready to crack a joke, or mess with him, or recruit him to mess with someone else, usually Jerry. But today? Nothing.
You looked tired, too. No less gorgeous, but a little rundown, like you hadn’t been getting much sleep. He knew he had to fix it, this strange energy between the two of you. He thought it would be a good idea not to address the disastrous voicemail, just pretend that never happened. He spent most of his time constructing the perfect speech in his head as he waited for the last two hours of your shifts to run out. Then he’d catch up with you on your way to your car, and hopefully convince you to hear him out.
By 7:00pm, his thumb nail was bitten down to the bed and he had barely completed any work, which Weaver was only too happy to remind him. He blamed an imaginary head cold and hurried to the locker room. He arrived to see you already there. You had picked a locker right next to his, by chance, just because it was the only one available when you started. When you became friends it served as a pre or post shift debrief spot, where you’d wait for him to get a ride home.
Now, he felt stiff approaching you and carefully opening his door without brushing yours. He cleared his throat.
“In a hurry?”
You shrugged, attempting a smile.
“Just one of those shifts, ya know?”
Oh, he knew. You knew he did.
He hurried to shrug his coat on and grab his stuff before you finished zipping up your bag. He didn’t even take the stethoscope from around his neck, just buttoned up his coat and tried not to look so constipated.
“Hey, can we —” his voice cracked.
He cleared his throat again, growing pink as your gaze finally snapped to his.
“Could we maybe talk?” he said again, quieter.
“Um,” you hesitated, fidgeting with your gloves, twisting them in your fists. “Sure.”
He was allowed the tiniest moment of relief as you accepted, and started walking alongside him. It dissipated quickly as tension filled the air between you. You weren’t looking at each other, but his eyes strayed sideways as you pulled on your hat. It was homemade with a tassel on top. You had made one for him, too, a dark blue one he knew was sitting on top of his coat rack. He couldn’t help smiling forlornly despite the situation at hand.
“You need a ride?” he asked. “Or did you drive here?”
“No, I got a ride with Carol,” you said. “I could… use a ride, I guess. She’s probably with Doug, anyhow.”
He nodded.
You reached his jeep in no time, and he made sure to open the passenger side door for you. He was just thinking whether or not the car would be the right place to have a difficult conversation, what with not facing each other, his focusing on the road, when you spoke up.
“So,” you said. “What, uh, did you want to talk about?”
Maybe it was a good thing you weren’t facing each other, because the look of incredulity he sent you was poorly controlled on his part. What did he want to talk about? You had to be joking.
“I guess just the other night,” he said, gripping the wheel tightly. “When I, ya know… I said — I told you —”
He was drowning. He hoped you couldn’t see the tinge on his skin in the dark.
“It’s okay, John,” you said gently. “You were wasted. Just unbelievably blitzed out of your mind. I’m surprised you even remember that.”
He paused, face tense. He wasn’t sure if you were telling him you didn’t believe he was telling the truth, or if you were trying to breeze past the truth. He chanced a glance your way at a red light. You didn’t look upset. Just cold and tired. He turned the heater up.
“That’s true,” he said delicately. “But — but I — you know I was telling the truth, right?”
He saw you shift out of the corner of his eye.
“What’s the truth, then?” you sighed.
He shook his head in confusion.
“I’m kind of,” he swallowed the nervous lump in his throat, “totally and completely in love with you. I have been since I first met you, practically. And — and I’m sorry, really. You didn’t deserve to find out that way, and I know you don’t feel the same. Honestly, I never intended for you to find out at all.”
He heard you take a shaky breath as he turned off the main road.
“Why not?” you asked.
His hands were starting to slip against the wheel. Why did he always excessively sweat during important conversations with you?
“Because I didn’t want it to go the way it’s going,” he said quietly. “I never, ever wanted to jeopardize our friendship. It’s the most important thing in the world to me. You are the most important thing in the world to me.”
He was surprised to hear the shake in your voice as you spoke next. You weren’t one to cry easily.
“If I’m so important to you, then you should have told me sooner,” you said. “I mean, god! I was just — the whole time —”
He felt nauseous as he turned down your street. He wiped his upper lip, feeling inclined to follow you into fits of tears.
You didn’t say anything else for the short rest of the ride, just sniffled almost silently. When he pulled in front of your apartment and tugged the parking brake up, it felt much too quiet.
“Can’t I —” he started, but you grabbed your bag and got out of the car, slamming the door behind you.
He closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against his hands on the steering wheel. He had messed it all up. This was what he had been afraid of. You were never going to talk to him again. He wished he had enjoyed your presence next to him for the last time, even as distant as you felt.
He was just planning his route to get ice cream on his way home, for a proper pity party, when there was a sharp tap on the window.
He jumped up, hand over his racing heart. He thought you had gone, but you were standing there at his side, looking decidedly upset, arms crossed over your chest, and tear lines still drying on your face. But as he met your eyes, you motioned impatiently for him to step out of the car.
He did so, quite anxiously. Were you going to hit him? Was Danny gonna pop out of the shadows and hit him?
As he shut the door behind him and stood, awkwardly, in front of you, your laser beam eyes stared straight into his soul.
“You are an idiot, you know that?” you hissed.
He blinked.
“Yes, I do —” he started, but he never got to finish.
You grabbed the lapels of his jacket and yanked his mouth down to meet yours in a searing kiss. His lips reacted before his mind had had a chance to catch up and he melted into you, arms encircling your waist. He was extremely confused, distantly, somewhere in the outer voids of his mind, but nothing trumped the pleasurable sensation of your soft lips moving in sync with his.
As you wound down, you ended with a few short pecks lingering here and there. He just breathed you in, processing.
“You, uh,” he panted. “I, uh… um.”
You smiled softly, letting go of his jacket and smoothing down the fabric where you had grasped it so desperately.
“I really thought I was over my crush on you,” you said fondly. “And then you open your mouth and start blabbing. You’re gonna be the death of me, John Truman the third.”
He just continued to gawp at you, at your kissbitten lips, and the hint of teeth peaking out from behind your smile, and the loose strand of hair fallen from your updo.
“You… I…” he sputters. “...wow.”
You patted his cheek and began moving out of his arms. That shocked his senses back into action.
“Wait, wait!” he said urgently, tightening his hold. “Can I take you out on a date?”
You laughed out loud, resting your hands on his warm chest, and his face mirrored yours subconsciously in a wide smile.
“Yes, Johnny, you can take me out,” you said happily. “You know my schedule. Call me?”
He nodded dumbly as you gave him one last kiss and walked off into your building. He stood there, waiting, until he saw your light turn on. In your familiar window, with the paper chains and flower garlands, you waved at him. He waved back.
summary - carter attempts to drown his feelings for you in alcohol - surprisingly, it backfires.
cw - age appropriate alcohol consumption
a/n - i'll probably do a part 2 but i could leave it angsty if ppl prefer. first time not writing for robby! but barely bc noah <333 and i gave him back his suspenders bc we didn't get enough time with them tbh. also FUCK charlie sheen. hope you like it!
---
6:47
The clock blinked tauntingly at Carter as he watched it. You had left for cardiology at 6:34. They were supposed to have called back with a consultation on some tests for a patient, and hadn’t. You’d volunteered to check. A five to ten minute task at most. What could possibly be keeping you up there for thirteen minutes?
The worst part was, Carter knew the answer to his own question. There was one very persuasive thing to keep you in the cardio unit for so long.
Danny Donlin.
He was a cardiology resident who had taken a liking to you over the past couple days. He’d come down to chat with Benton, and there you were, figuring out a charting error with Carol at the nurse’s station. It took not two seconds for the skeeze to latch on to you.
Was he actually a skeeze? Carter didn’t know. He’d barely spoken three words to the guy. Did it really matter? Definitely not.
See, John Truman Carter III had come back from vacation, ready to start his surgical SUB-I, only to be met at the door with your bright face. He was sweating like a pig, carrying two large suitcases, with a ridiculous hat stuck around his neck as he sprinted in just about two hours after he was supposed to.
In his rush, he nearly missed you. But as Jerry greeted him at the desk, he called your attention to the panting man, and you turned.
And, Jesus, Carter didn’t think he’d ever seen someone so beautiful.
Covered in a slight sheen of perspiration yourself, it only seemed to make you glow. Your hair was pulled up out of your face and you wore street clothes under your coat. You had a patient chart in your hands and were using it to fan yourself, free wisps of hair floating back as you did. Carter couldn’t understand how you managed to look so angelic in the dead of summer with no AC.
Your soft lips pulled up into a kind, albeit reserved, smile.
“Hi,” you’d said simply.
Carter couldn’t bring himself to form a single coherent word. His luggage had fallen to his sides, forgotten, as he drank you in. His eyes fell to your chest where your badge was clipped, and he tried your name out in his head. It sounded nice.
Then Mark Greene snapped him back into reality.
“Carter! Aren’t you needed in surgery?”
With a terrifying jolt, the fear blown out of his head by your presence returned to the forefront of his mind. He hiked his bags back up onto his shoulders and resumed his sprint, though not without turning back for one last look at you, and subsequently almost breaking his leg tripping over the leg of a gurney.
Later that day, he’d inquired about you to Carol. You were a third year, just behind him, starting your emergency med rotation the very same day. You were working primarily under Doug, which gave Carter a lurch of nausea, but it quickly became more of a brother sister relationship than anything else.
It took exactly zero seconds for Carter to realize you were the girl of his dreams. You were smart, funny, sharp, and knew how to take charge. You held your own just fine, and had even knocked sense into him on occasion. Even Benton looked impressed the first time your paths crossed.
And you were nice. Nice in the way that all doctors should be. You weren’t easily fooled, not exactly a people pleaser, but an empath. You had a knack for breaking ground with even the toughest of patients.
You were sure of yourself in all the ways Carter wasn’t. It was intimidating, at first, but as the two of you became friends (once Carter learned how to speak in full sentences around you) it became grounding, and comforting. You helped him find his way, and made it look easy. It was with your support he was able to find the courage to start his residency over again to pursue his true passion.
So there you were two years later, just starting out together, new emergency medicine interns, and spending more time together than ever. If Carter thought he had it bad before, it was nothing compared to now. Every time you poured him a cup of coffee, or reminded him about a chart, or leaned just a little too close to laugh at one of his jokes, his heart skipped a beat. He was no artist, but he was sure he could create a masterpiece of your smile just by memory.
And god forbid you called him Johnny. No one called him that, not even when he was a kid. It sent shivers down his spine. He could hear your sweet voice in his head late at night, Johnny, Johnny, Johnny…
“Carter!”
He jumped a mile as Carol barked his name. He blinked and looked around at her. She didn’t look happy.
“You know, staring at the clock won’t make it move any faster,” she said, slapping a chart into his hand. “She’ll be back when she’s back.”
“I don’t — who?” he attempted lamely to save face, but Carol sent him one exasperated look and he shut his mouth.
He was fairly certain no one was ignorant to his crush, at this point. It was possible the only one who didn’t know, who didn’t seem to notice his puppy eyes searching for you in every room, was you. At least, he hoped not.
The thought of you finding out made his head spin and knees feel wobbly, and not in a good way. In a horrible, end-of-the-world, sickening way. He pictured it all falling apart, the careful friendship you’d built together. No more inside jokes, no more studying in the middle of the night, no more book swaps, no more you. He didn’t even want to entertain the idea.
Sure, there were fleeting moments of hope, where he thought maybe, maybe, you cared for him the same way he cared for you. But they were always quickly squashed. You’d say, “you’re my best friend, Carter!” or “I wish I could find someone like you.”
The most recent form of torture was seeing you with Danny. Yeah, he was a resident, so he actually made money, and okay, he had pretty great hair, striking blue eyes, and a chin dimple. Exactly your type. He remembered watching Full House with you. God, he never heard the end of John Stamos this, John Stamos that. He’d left in a sour mood that day.
The ding of the elevator and a loud giggle broke his train of thought. A familiar giggle. Your giggle.
He straightened, excited to fill you in on his pediatric patient who’d somehow gotten a Barbie shoe stuck up his nose, when he realized you weren’t alone.
Danny.
Carter’s eyes narrowed at the hand placed on the small of your back, expensive watch glinting in the fluorescent lighting.
“I’m telling you, it was unbelievable,” Danny was saying. “We could get some dinner, I know this great little italian place off State, then catch the Arrival late. Charlie Sheen’s best performance.”
You nodded enthusiastically. Carter gripped the clipboard tightly.
A few weeks ago, as he was driving you home from a shift, you’d seen a poster for the premiering film as you passed the theater.
“Great, another alien movie,” you’d said in disgust. “And let’s be honest, Charlie Sheen’s not even good at comedy, what are they doing putting him in an action movie they want us to take seriously?”
But now, you appeared to have changed your mind, as you nodded along with a smile. You approached Carter at the desk. He tried his best to wipe the murderous expression from his face.
“Hey, Carter, right?” said Danny, holding out a hand. “This one talks about you all the time, feel like I know you already.”
Carter took his hand, something strangely akin to pride burning in his chest.
“Nice to meet you,” he said. “Can’t say the same about you, I’m afraid. David, is it?”
“Uh, Danny, actually,” he said, and you shot a warning glare to Carter behind his back. “I guess she can be a little shy, huh?”
“Not really,” he said, looking back down at his clipboard.
He could feel the heat of your stare but didn’t dare look up and meet it.
“Well, of course I’m not shy around you, silly,” you said. “You’re my best friend. It’s different.”
There was that familiar pang in Carter’s chest. He forced out a smile, eyes still glued to the paper and not reading a single word.
“Well, I just came down to consult on a patient,” said Danny. “We should probably —”
“Right,” you said.
Danny started walking, and before following, you sent Carter a swift kick behind the partition. Then you hurried off, leaving him with a sore heart and a sore shin.
Something of the despair must have lingered on his face as Doug returned from his flu case, because he approached Carter looking like a mourner at a funeral service.
“They haven’t even gone on a date yet,” he said consolingly. “Why don’t you just ask her out?”
Carter scoffed.
“Yeah, and while I’m at it, why don’t I hike mount Everest?” he hissed. “It’s not that simple.”
“First of all, there’s no need for an attitude,” said Doug. “And second, it literally is. You’re two single adults who like each other. The worst thing she can say is no!”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” said Carter somberly. “The worst thing she can say is that we can’t even be friends, or be around each other anymore. I’d rather have her that way than not at all.”
Doug blew out a breath and slapped Carter on the back.
“Well, you're just a big fat bummer,” he said. “How about this. Everyone’s going out for drinks tonight, why don’t you come along and we can get you good and drunk, huh?”
Carter fidgeted with his clipboard clip. He had soft plans to wallow alone in pity that night.
“I don’t know, Doug…”
“Carter,” he groaned, jostling the boy. “You’re depressing us! All of us. It’s ruining the workplace mojo. Just come along, I’ll buy.”
Carter still hesitated. He had a bad feeling, but he could also stand to drown his sorrows. And if it was free, why not?
So he agreed.
He agreed not knowing that you would be there.
Or that you would bring Danny with you.
And boy, was Danny there. He laughed too loudly. He talked too much. He was far too handsy. Every time Carter glanced over, there was some point of contact. Arm around your shoulder, hand on your thigh, heads pressed together as he whispered in your ear.
Excessive, Carter thought. What ever happened to sitting on opposite sides of the table and talking quietly? Underrated, if you asked him.
With every laugh you let out, Carter took a shot. He was barely even feeling them at that point.
“I’m kind of regretting my offer to pay for you,” said Doug as Carter downed his sixth drink of the night. “How about some water?”
Carter didn’t respond, eyes steady on you from across the bar.
The rest of the day shift mingled about the bar, chatting or playing pool, letting loose. But Carter felt the knot in his gut tighten with every second.
You had changed out of your scrubs. He recognized the soft sweater you wore, in fact he had been with you when you purchased it.
You had wanted to do a celebratory day out, both for your graduation from med school, and Carter’s “graduation from the soulless slicing-people-open cult”, as you had put it. You’d let yourself peruse the higher end shops, though you still struggled to accept some of the pricier items. That was, until you saw the sweater. It was cashmere, form fitting but not revealing, for special occasions, you said.
You told him how most of the sweaters you’d had growing up were homemade, and while you’d treasure them, you’d always wondered what it would feel like to splurge. He offered to buy it for you, without really thinking, but you’d waved him off. You wanted to spend some of the money you’d worked so hard for.
On the hanger, it just looked like any other sweater to Carter. But when you tried it on, he couldn’t take his eyes off of you. Though, maybe that was just because of the smile that lit up your face when you saw yourself in the mirror.
He’d seen you in it a handful of times after that, birthday dinners, holidays; and now that it was getting cold again, you pulled it out. And you seemed to think drinks with Danny was a special enough occasion.
Doug snapped his fingers in front of Carter’s face.
“Earth to Carter,” he drawled.
He turned to Doug, blinking slowly. He felt hot and woozy. Nothing made sense. Why were you sequestered over in the corner with Danny? You should’ve been by Carter’s side. Laughing with him. Letting him take you home, and tuck you in. Cook you breakfast.
“I’m going over there,” he slurred, pushing himself up from his stool
He almost immediately lost balance, and Doug gripped his shoulders tightly to keep up somewhat up right.
“No you’re not, man,” said Doug through his teeth, glancing anxiously over at you and Danny. “Not when you’re this hammered.”
Carter’s attempt to pull away only had him tripping over his own feet. Doug yanked him back up.
“I’m going,” he said.
Doug pushed him back into his seat.
“To do what?” said Doug, slowly, like he was talking to one of his patients. “Hm? What are you gonna tell her then, Carter? While she’s having some nice drinks with a guy she likes?”
Carter deflated. He looked over at you, and the smile you wore.
“I just,” he sighed. “I just — I wish I — she —”
“I know,” said Doug. “I know, buddy. But I also know you don’t want to ruin her fun.”
Carter shook his head vehemently.
“Right,” said Doug. “Good. Listen, you stay right here, and I’m gonna go see if Mark or Susan can drive you home, okay? Don’t move!”
As soon as Doug left his sight, Carter stood and staggered over to you. He saw you smile as you spotted him, then it turned confused, as he collided with an empty chair and stumbled to the ground. You jumped up to help him.
“Woah,” he said, dazedly, as you hauled him into a sitting position, crouched at his side.
“Woah,” you agreed, brow furrowed with concern. “You feeling okay?”
He looked into your pretty, pretty eyes, and a smile bloomed on his face.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi there,” you said back, now starting to smile timidly at the pure strangeness of the situation. “How much have you had to drink?”
He was too fixed on watching your mouth move to comprehend your question. You took that as an answer in and of itself.
“Alright, we’re getting up,” you said.
You latched your hands under his arms behind his back. He happily slung his arms around you.
“Ready?” you asked.
He hummed, playing with a bit of your hair. You heaved him upwards, tapping his shoe with your toes to prompt him to get his legs underneath his weight. Once you were sure he was somewhat stable, you let your hands fall. His stayed, one on your back, one still twiddling with your hair, his head resting on your shoulder.
“Um…”
You put your hands on his arms and tried to pull them off of you. He whined like a little kid, and gripped harder. You were so warm. Why did you take your arms away? Why didn’t you keep holding him?
“Carter,” you said, and he whined again.
“I hate when you call me that,” he mumbled against your neck.
You finally maneuvered your hands under his chin and moved his face out of your shoulder to face you. He let you manhandle him with a dopey smile.
“Your name?” you asked. “You don’t like when I say your name?”
He sighed dramatically, releasing his neck and allowing the full weight of his head to fall into your hands. He could smell your lotion. Familiar. Sweet. His hands were still around you, on your back. He began moving them up and down, feeling the soft cashmere under his rough dry hands. You forced some of your lotion onto them whenever you could. You even got him his own bottle for Christmas last year, but he hardly ever used it. He was afraid if his hands weren’t so dry, you’d never tsk, and take them in yours, and apply the lotion so gently.
As pathetic as it sounded, as pathetic as it was, that was one of the few forms of physical contact he had with you. He loved your hands. So soft and warm. He could engulf them in his. If you let him, he’d hold your hand all day, and never let it go.
Suddenly, another, much less welcome face appeared.
Fucking Danny.
“You okay, man?”
He didn’t say anything, just turned back to you. But your face was turned away from his, meeting Danny’s eyes. Your lips were moving. You looked worried.
“I think I’m gonna throw up,” he blurted out.
Your eyes widened. You pushed away from him and grabbed an ice bucket from your table. He clutched it like a lifeline as a wave of nausea passed through him. You steered him into a chair. Your mouth moved again, at Danny, and he disappeared.
Carter suddenly felt his stomach settling. You placed a comforting hand on the top of his head.
Then Danny was back, but he brought Doug with him. Doug’s face took up most of Carter’s vision, and he groaned in displeasure.
“I told you not to move,” said Doug sternly. “If you yak in an ice bucket, they’re gonna kick you out. Let’s get you some fresh air.”
He threw one of Carter’s arms over his shoulder and tugged him up. He felt quite bad. He wasn’t sure he’d ever been this drunk in his life, even in college. His head was already starting to ache, as Doug jostled him out the door and into the cold. It was only then, as the winter air blew over him, that he realized just how sweaty he was.
Doug set him down on the curb and took his ice bucket. As he burped, sweaty as the day he met you, on the side of the road, he wanted nothing more than to sleep.
“If you need to barf, aim for the sewer grate,” said Doug, patting him on the back. “I’m gonna hail you a cab.”
“Doug, no.”
You had followed them outside.
“You can’t put him in a cab all alone, he’ll barf all over himself!” he heard you say. “I’m not sure anyone would even take him. He can barely speak.”
“Well, I’m definitely not driving tonight,” said Doug’s voice. “And Mark and Susan already said they aren’t, either.”
You went back and forth for a while. Carter let his head rest in his arms, propped on his bent knees. He wanted to go home. Whether you came with him or not. Preferably with, but he was beginning to lose more and more of his conscious thought.
When he was pulled up again, it was your arms encircling him. You were speaking, maybe to him, maybe to Doug, but then he was seated in a smelly cab, and you were there next to him. His head hurt. He was starting to feel nauseous again.
He slumped over onto your shoulder, and felt immediate relief. The smell of your shampoo overpowered whatever tobacco, axe body spray haze coated the cab. You kept your arm around his shoulder and let him nuzzle into your side. He’d never felt more comfortable outside his own bed.
Carter hated cabs. He hated cars, stuffy small ones that reeked, and he was usually very prone to motion sickness. But when he felt himself being pulled out of said smelly, stuffy cab, he groaned in protest.
“Come on,” said your soft, angelic voice. “Open your eyes for me.”
He did. Your shadowy face loomed over him.
“We’re home.”
“Home?”
You helped him up out of the car, then up the many, many steps of his crappy apartment with no elevator. If he was less out of it, he’d apologize to you for practically carrying his drunken dead weight all the way to his door. But you didn’t complain, just found the familiar key under his mat and unlocked the door.
You let him collapse on the couch. He watched you, entranced, as you removed his shoes and socks, then his tie and suspenders, then his belt. You took a blanket and draped it over him, tucking in the sides as you went.
“What are you smiling at, Mr. Reed?”
He smiled wider.
“Who’s that,” he murmured.
“Forget it,” you said. “But you, uh, hit the liquor pretty hard tonight, huh?”
He only grunted. You disappeared for a second, and his smile vanished. He called out your name, sounding whingey, but he didn’t care, he just wanted you back by his side. He had just managed to hoist himself into a wobbly sitting position when you reappeared, holding his bathroom trashcan, a bed pillow, a glass of water, and some tylenol.
“Where do you think you’re going?” you said, slightly amused as you set the meds and water on his end table.
“You,” he said stupidly, as you pushed him back down. “You’re back.”
“Yes, Johnny, I’m back,” you said, lifting his head to place the pillow underneath.
He smiled wider than ever, face red, giggling foolishly. You looked unsure if you should be laughing or worried. After you pushed the emptied bin right up close to the edge of the couch, just in case, you perched on the edge of the cushion.
“You’re so nice,” he sighed, grabbing your hands. “And pretty. And smart.”
Your face tensed almost imperceptibly.
“Thanks, Johnny.”
“I love it when you call me that,” he said. “Only you… only you…”
“Okay, only I will,” you said placidly. “Try and get some sleep, okay?”
He pulled your hands, and you lost your balance, falling over him with a small yelp, catching yourself on your elbows.
“I really like your face,” he slurred. “It’s my favorite. And whenever you lean real close, and smile, and… and I can smell your shampoo… I just want to kiss you all over.”
Your confused expression dropped into shock.
“What did you say?”
Shut up! part of him yelled. You’re making it weird! Unfortunately, it wasn’t the part of him that was steering the ship. His mouth fell open and more words just kept coming.
“You know, when I met you, I wanted to ask you out,” he said. “But you made me so nervous. I just did what you said, and — and what you wanted was to be friends. And that’s okay. I love being your friend. But sometimes… a lot of the time… I wonder what it would be like to hold you whenever I want.”
He laced your fingers together. You were frozen above him, pretty lips parted.
“And — but — and you’re with Danny now, which is good,” he said. “I want you to be happy. I just… I hate that guy. Everytime I see him… everytime you laugh… I don’t…”
He swallowed thickly. You were clinging to his every word. He was breathing heavily now, heart racing, and to him, you had never looked more beautiful. Hair down, eyes wide. And before he could stop himself, he leaned up and pressed his lips to yours.
For a moment, you remained frozen. And Carter’s brain was too filled with the sensation of your mouth against his, something he’d thought about often over the past two years, to realize the implications. In a split second, just one tiny millisecond of time, he thought he felt you kiss him back. But just as soon as that came, you pulled back abruptly.
He panted, looking up at you dreamily. You looked down at him with confusion and anxiety painted on your face.
You untangled your grips and sat up straight. You wouldn’t look at him. You wouldn’t touch him. His hands fidgeted with each other, itching to draw you back to him, but he knew that wouldn’t be right.
You stood.
“You’re drunk,” you said, eyes on the carpet. “You need to sleep.”
“I – I’m,” he stuttered.
He wanted to tell you he meant it. That he had since the day he met you, and even if he woke up in the morning and regretted it, it was still true. But he was having trouble keeping his eyes open.
“Please stay,” he breathed.
You shook your head.
“I have work tomorrow,” you said. “I have to get home.”
You turned to grab your purse and he grabbed your hand. You still didn’t look at him.
“Please,” he whispered, fighting to stay awake. “Please, please stay.”
You hesitated, but nodded.
“For a bit.”
Only when he saw you settle in the armchair did he let himself doze into fitful dreams.
Does anyone care about John Carter anymore? Perhaps… I do. Sooo I’ve come to write a bit about him x reader to fulfill my interest. Haven’t written on tumblr in literal years, please excuse any formatting issues. (I don’t know if people even write X readers anymore, shivers..)
Prologue, Gn reader, situationships, “casual,” multi chapter, etc. will update! If not for anyone else, then for myself …
John always had been — for lack of a better term — a playboy.
Pretty girls hanging off each arm, a stack of letters on valentines from sweethearts he never did catch the names of, stolen kisses in supply closets, and a list of Ex-lovers so long he couldn’t cram it in his pocket if he tried. (Not that he really ever did, though.)
See, the issue with John Carter is that after years of half baked romance, he seems to have shut down about it all. Though, undeniably, he still is regular ol john — horny and touchy and full of naive immaturity. Unfortunately for you, he’s not quite as hopelessly romantic as he used to be.
“Casual.”
He’d said. And god, how you despised that word. Who needs commitment when you can always fuck around with no problem? No nagging about late shifts, no effort put into sweet dates, no worries about if they’re loyal and no problem meeting the parents because there’s no point in it. Really.
You’ve watched as they’ve all come and gone, tapped your foot impatiently while they warped and shaped his perception of love over time.
First came Liz, tall and slender with beautiful black hair and a funky air about her. Everyone knew what kind of woman she was, what she wanted. Everyone but John, of course. She was sweet enough, but in the end John walked away with little more than a twinge of humiliation and a positive STD test. No one let him live it down for weeks afterward, and you held his hand as he steamed with embarrassment on your couch and held an ice pack to his groin.
Then there was Susan Lewis, short lived and playful. Though you never saw them do anything explicitly romantic it wasn’t a well contained secret that they liked each other. When she brushed off his advances at her front door, he came whining to you. And you’d ran your fingers through his short brown hair as he stared at the TV and sighed.
And of course, the most recent of them all, Harper Tracey.
Harper, well, she makes even your heart skip a beat. Maybe not for the same reason Carters did. But anyone with eyes can tell how beautiful she is. Inside and out. The problem is, objectively, she’s the perfect woman. Pretty, capable, witty and smart. The perfect mix of everything that really explains why John was so smitten. Sometimes, when you’re alone in bed, you imagine what it feels like to kiss her. Feel her lips on yours and her skin under your hands. What texture her hair is, and what her perfume tastes like against her neck. Not for your own pleasure, but to understand why John wanted her so badly.
Yet, even she is human. Flawed. And temptation wrung out any good faith between them quickly, (Courtesy of Doug Ross.) And just like always: youu had been there. Pinched his cute nose and reprimanded him for taking down on himself in the aftermath.
So after spending so many months as Carters best friend, watching, and waiting, and lecturing him about how each fling would end. He had finally turned his eyes on you.
You were no Liz. Not fun and adventurous and ready to get busy anyhow and any way. And you’re not Susan. Effortlessly sexy, smart, sarcastic and maternal. And you’re certainly not Harper. Beautiful, and fun, and the perfect blend of both women who had previously stolen his heart. But you aren’t nothing either.
You figured, at first, that was enough. Knowing John, being his peer, and being mildly attractive. An emergency medicine intern with a heart of gold and naive infatuation. How couldn’t it end perfectly? It was written like a beautiful fairytale love story.
You’d smooth his tie, bite your lip, and laugh at his jokes. You’d play with his hair, and coo down at him, and comfort him when he needed it. And when his requests to come home with you became sensual and intentionally romantic you’d never say no. It really did seem like you were dating. And sure, things didn’t change between you at work. No one else really knew that you’d crossed that line. But that was okay in your book, because eventually they would.
That was what you had thought, anyway. Until he had taken a hammer to your word view.
It was a few weeks into your new arrangement.
Work was fine. As odd a shift as any. Sweet old lady with a purse full of insects, and a hit and run victim to the likes of his own wife. But it wasn’t extremely busy, and there was enough time and morale that playful banter flitted amongst coworkers easily. And John had gotten off almost the same time as you. So, naturally, as had been happening since he’d kissed you on your doorstep and pleaded to come in with you weeks after Harper had broken his heart, you’d gone home together.
Never his place. No. Just yours.
And that was enough.
The sex was good. He’d gripped your headboard and made you see stars, kissed you hard in the aftermath and brushed the sweaty hair from your face as you caught your breath. He had teased you as you peeled away to get cleaned up, and you’d slinked off to the kitchen to make a snack as he followed suit.
He had settled for unhelpfully eating the fruit you chopped for a nice fruit salad while you plucked the ingredients from the fridge for two sandwiches when you spoke. Voice embarrassingly strained from earlier.
“You take up in my bed, eat my fruit, and don’t even help me cook. Why do I keep letting you in?” You had said, smiling up at him with a fondness that was difficult to ignore. “You’re like a stray,” You snorted, bumping him with your hip as you sliced the bread. His teeth had snapped through an apple slice before he spoke, sighing the words out wistfully.
“You let me in because you like having me around. Seems like a fair enough trade. Don’t you think?” His hair shined under the dim kitchen lighting. Still damp, he had smelt of sex.
“I suppose,” You had smiled, softly placing your knife on the counter and turning to him. Bracing your hand next to his hip, he cocked a brow down at you. Smirking as you leaned up to speak against his lips. “Though it would be nice to see your house every once and a while. I always wondered what the Carter Manor looks like.”
He had snorted, shaking his head as he clicked his tongue. And you shared a sweet kiss that tasted of apple. When you pulled back, he picked up another slice and slumped back into the counter.
“You don’t want that,” his tongue prods at his cheek and he clears his throat. “It’s cold, and quiet, and too fancy,” he said. Waving his hand about mindlessly as he bit into his slice. He spoke around a mouth full this time, voice climbing an octave as he chewed. “Besides, I like your house better. What’s the point in dragging you out to my fancy hell hole for something casual?” He muttered, his words a bit skewed as he licked off the stuck fruit from the roof of his mouth. Like it was a well known fact. It stung the way he spoke, as if he hadn’t just broken your heart.
Your fingers stilled over the plate. Though John stood oblivious; tossing back a handful of blueberries and humming in delight. Your breath had quickened once you found the strength to speak.
“Oh,” A snipping silence followed, filled only by the sound of the clock ticking. Or his fingers rubbing over the rag on the counter. You swallowed thickly before you spoke next. “casual?” You had inquired. Voice painfully uneven. It aimed for something sort of laid back, and you aren’t sure if it landed or not. But John cleared his throat to speak regardless; adjusting the way he leaned against the counter as one brow climbed his forehead. He worked his jaw at the tartness of the fruit and spoke.
“Yeah.” He said, smacking his lips. “I mean, we aren’t dating. Why would I make you sit through family dinner?” He had snorted, like he was cracking some colossal joke. Flashing his sweet, uneven teeth. A strand of hair brushing over the bridge of his nose. It made you sick. So you tapped your fingers against the cutting board and swallowed hard.
You had meant to be bold. To turn and confront him with disbelief, or anger, or annoyance. Some emotion that wasn’t downright pathetic. But, unfortunately, you had simply stared up at him through watery, scrunched up eyes. And spoke with a shaking voice.
“We aren’t?”
It might have given you a sick sense of pleasure to see him clam up the way he had if not for the fact you were busy splitting in two. John frowned, jaw slowing as he swallows his mouth full of apple and sputters.
“I don’t— I mean. No?”
He muttered, laughing nervously.
“We never talked about it. We definitely never put a label on anything. I— I mean I..” he throws his hand up, turning his nose up at you with an undistinguished expression of panic. “I thought you knew..”
You took a deep breath, and bit your lip, and nodded. Turning back to your cutting board and continuing to assemble your sandwich in silence. If John saw the tears slide down your cheeks, he didn’t say anything. And if you willed yourself hard enough you could pretend it was fine while you both ate in silence, pretend that you didn’t care.
You hadn’t talked about it after that. Not even a passing “I’m sorry.” From him.
A/N: This was requested by the lovely @ringa-starr 💞. Sorry it took me so long! I hope you like it. I might’ve shed a tear while I was writing this but I’m on my PMS so whatever. Also, I tried to portray the illness as real as I could. If someone feels offended please tell me and I’ll change whatever you ask me to change.
ps: peep the Lana del Rey and the Friends references 👀.
ps2: i didn’t proof read this so deal with my typos, wrong use of words and wrong verb tenses.
Summary: A walk to remember inspired.
Warnings: Angst (like a lot, I’m so sorry), illness, implied death.
Word count: 2.764
You lied in bed, your head rested on your pillow and your black hair was sprawled around like a halo that vaticinated your unfortunate fate. Your heavy-lidded eyes closed against your will and you tried your best to keep them open so you could continue watching the world that unfolded outside your window. If you couldn’t experience it to the fullest at least you wanted to watch how others did.
What starts as a cozy home cooked dinner turns into a wickedly sweet seduction when Jack Traven sets his sights on dessert and it’s not on the menu. @scarlettspectra grab your man.
Jack was sitting cross legged on the floor, his back resting against the couch. His short hair was still damp from the shower and he was wearing only a comfortable pair of sweatpants.
He watched you as you moved gracefully around the kitchen, a small smile on his face.
He leaned his head back and rested it against the couch, his eyes following your every move. As you prepared the meal, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of calm wash over him. It was moments like this, just the two of you together, that he cherished the most.
After a moment, the silence is broken by the sound of Jack’s stomach growling.
Jack huffs a laugh and rubs his belly. “Can’t wait for you to finish, I’m starving.”
He says with a playful grin. You laugh and turn to look at him. “Impatient much?” you tease as you continue stirring the pot on the stove.
Jack laughs and shrugs. “Can you blame me? I haven’t eaten all day.”
He says as he glances at the clock, it’s approaching 7 pm. “Plus, your cooking is the best.” He adds with a grin. “Flattery won’t make the food cook any faster.”
You reply with a smirk and give the pot a final stir before placing it on the back burner and turning the stove off. “But lucky for you it is done.”
You say with a knowing smile. Jack grins and gets to his feet, crossing the room to come stand next to you.
“Awesome, I’m starving.” He puts his hands on your waist and pulls you close, nuzzling his face into your hair. He inhales deeply, taking in the scent of your shampoo.
You lean into him, enjoying the feel of his hands on your waist and his face in your hair. You let out a soft sigh and close your eyes, enjoying the moment.
He presses a kiss to your neck and chuckles. “I smell food.” He murmurs into your ear and you can tell he is teasing you. You laugh and give his chest a playful shove.
“Food can wait, you need to set the table first.” You say with a smirk and give him a gentle push towards the cabinets.
He lets out an exaggerated sigh and dramatically claps a hand to his forehead.
“You ask the impossible.” He pretends to swoon and puts on a theatrical voice.
“To set the table while I am famished, it is a crime against nature!” You laugh and shake your head, knowing his overdramatic nature all too well.
“Oh, quit being so dramatic. You’ll survive.” You swat playfully at his ass and gesture towards the cupboard. “The plates are right there.”
“Swatted like a common peasant.” He says with an exaggerated wounded expression. But his hand comes down to retrieve plates from the cupboard, a hint of a grin on his lips.
You roll your eyes and shake your head, trying to suppress a smile. You love his playful nature and his ability to bring lightheartedness to any situation. You watch as he sets the table, his movements familiar and comfortable in this domestic routine.
Once the table is set, Jack turns back to you with a satisfied smirk.
“There, all set. Now can I have my food?” He asks, a hint of impatience in his voice.
You laugh and give him a little nudge. “Yes, you can eat now. Go sit down.”
You ladle the food onto a plate and hand it to him. He takes the plate with a grateful smile and sits down at the table, already starting to shovel food into his mouth.
He takes a big bite and moans appreciatively.
“This is amazing. You know, I’d marry you just for your cooking skills.” He jokes between bites, the food disappearing quickly.
You roll your eyes and laugh, leaning your hip against the counter as you watch him eat.
“That’s all? Just my cooking skills?” You pretend to be offended, though your smirk betrays you. Jack pauses his eating long enough to give you a cheeky grin.
“Well, I mean, there are other qualities that make you wife material too. Like your intelligence, your patience, and of course, your looks.” He winks dramatically, clearly enjoying himself.
You laugh and give him a playful swat on the arm. You try to keep up a mock-indignant front, but the smile on your face betrays you. “You’re just trying to butter me up now.”
Jack shrugs unapologetically. “Well, it seems to be working.” He grins and takes another bite of food. He glances up at you as he chews, his gaze raking over your figure appreciatively.
Then his expression changes, curiosity sparkling in his eyes.
You notice the change in his expression and raise an eyebrow in question.
“What’re you looking at me like that for?” You ask, trying to keep the smile off your face.
He swallows the food in his mouth and sets his fork down on his plate. “I was just wondering something.” He says, a wicked gleam in his eye. You lean back against the counter, folding your arms across your chest.
Curiosity piqued, you arch an eyebrow in anticipation. “What were you wondering about?”
Jack leans back in his chair, drumming his fingers against the table as if contemplating something. Then a slow smile spreads across his face.
“I was wondering if I could have a taste of something sweet after this. AND DON’T SAY CAKE! Because I’m not talking about dessert…y’know?” He winks playfully at you.
You try not to laugh at his outburst and pretend to think about it, tapping your chin with your finger in mock contemplation. Then a sly smile forms on your lips.
“Hmmm...I suppose that could be arranged. On one condition.”
He leans forward now, his chin resting on his hands, clearly interested in your condition.
“Conditions, hm? Let's hear it then.”
You lean in closer to him, lowering your voice to a sultry whisper.
“You have to guess what flavor I have in mind. If you get it right, then you get your treat. If you get it wrong, then no treat for you.” You raise an eyebrow, a challenge in your eyes.
Jack’s eyes light up at the challenge. He loves a good game and the chance to win a special prize is too tantalizing to pass up. He sits up straighter, his smile turning more impish.
“You drive a hard bargain, but I’m up for the challenge. Tell me, what flavor should I be guessing here? Sweet, tangy, or maybe...spicy?”
You laugh at his eagerness.
“Those are all excellent guesses, but not quite right. Think a bit more specific. Something...intimate, sweet, and utterly enticing.”
You let your gaze linger on his face, enjoying the way his eyes are lit with excitement.
Jack raises an eyebrow at your description, a sly grin spreading across his face.
“Sweet, intimate, and utterly enticing, you say? Sounds like someone I know.”
He pauses, his gaze roving over your face, taking in every detail.
“Hmm...I think I have an idea of what it could be. But I want to make sure I get it right. Is it by any chance...honey?” You smile, a small laugh escaping you. The fact that he guessed correctly so quickly makes your heart flutter.
“Very good. You’re right, it is honey. You were quite quick to guess it though. Almost too quick.” You cock your head to the side, a sly smile on your face.
“It's almost like you had some kind of...inside information.”
He grins, clearly pleased with himself. “Well, I do have a certain...connection, let’s say, that might’ve given me an edge.” He stands up and pushes his chair back, taking a few steps towards you. He stands at the edge of the kitchen, his eyes locked on yours.
“You know...I do feel in the mood for some honey right about now.”
You feel a shiver run down your spine at the look in his eyes. Your breath hitches, anticipation building in the air between you.
Jack closes the distance between you in slow, deliberate steps. His smirk is pure trouble, eyes darkening with something deeper than mischief. His hands come to rest on your hips, his thumbs stroking soft circles against your skin through the fabric of your clothes.
“You know,” he murmurs, voice low and full of heat, “you didn’t say where the honey was supposed to go.” You tilt your head, playing along. “Why? Got a plan for it?”
“Oh, I’ve got plans, sweetheart.”
Without breaking eye contact, Jack reaches behind you, opening the nearest cabinet. He pulls out a small jar of honey, the golden liquid catching the light like a promise.
He dips a finger into it, slow and deliberate. Then, holding your gaze, he brings that honey slick finger to his lips and sucks it clean, his eyes never leaving yours.
You feel your knees weaken a little.
Then he grins boyishly and unscrews the jar completely.
“Your turn,” he says.
You blink. “My turn to…?”
“To paint me.”
Your lips part. “Excuse me?”
He sets the honey down on the counter and starts peeling off his sweatpants, not shy in the slightest. “You said the flavor was honey. I say we make this interactive.”
Now he’s standing in front of you, gloriously naked, muscles taut, skin warm from the shower. You hold the jar in one hand, heart thumping wildly as he leans back slightly against the kitchen counter, arms spread in a casual invitation.
You dip your fingers in the honey, and Jack’s breath catches when the first line of golden sweetness touches his chest.
You trail it slowly over his collarbone, letting it glide over the sharp line of his pec, down the center of his torso. He shivers beneath your touch, watching you like you’re some divine goddess and he’s at your mercy.
“Honey looks good on you,” you murmur, losing your breath at the sight.
“I’d ask how it tastes,” he breathes, “but I’m guessing you’re about to show me.”
You lean in and let your tongue follow the trail, slow and unhurried. Jack gasps, his hands gripping the edge of the counter behind him. The heat of his skin, the sweet tang of honey, and the sound he makes when your mouth finds the sticky path down his abdomen, it’s almost enough to undo him completely.
Without warning, he lifts you onto the counter, taking the jar from your hand.
“My turn,” he growls, and dips his fingers into the honey.
He lets it drip down your neck, then follows it with his mouth licking, kissing and sucking gently until you’re trembling against the marble surface.
“I told you,” he murmurs against your skin, “I was in the mood for honey.”
He lingers at your throat, nipping lightly as he works his way down, worshipping every inch with sticky sweet kisses that blur the line between hunger and reverence.
The kitchen fills with the scent of honey, the heat of your bodies and the breathless sounds of a night that started with dinner… and turned into dessert.
Jack pulls back slightly, eyes raking over your body, lips glistening with honey and sin. His breath is uneven, his skin flushed, chest rising and falling with barely contained restraint.
He grabs the jar again, and this time, he pours it directly, slowly onto the curve of your chest. The warm golden liquid slides down, pooling between your breasts, trailing toward your stomach. You suck in a sharp breath, your body already reacting before his mouth even finds you.
But when it does….oh god.
His tongue is hot, deliberate. He licks every drop off you with a reverence that borders on worship, his hands gripping your thighs as though anchoring himself to this moment. He groans low in his throat as he tastes you, the combination of honey and your skin clearly fucking his mind.
“You taste better than anything I’ve ever had,” he growls against your skin. “Sweet, sinful... fuck, you’re addicting.”
You whimper when his mouth finds your nipple, sticky with honey. He suckles it into his mouth, humming around it like it’s a piece of candy, his tongue flicking, teasing, savoring. One hand cups your other breast, slick and firm, while the other slips between your legs. No teasing, no delay.
You’re soaked. And when his fingers slide along your folds, gathering the evidence of your desire, he exhales shakily.
“Shit,” he whispers. “You’re dripping. Just for me.”
He lifts his honey slick fingers to his mouth, tasting you now, and groans like it’s the first drop of water after a desert drought.
Then he’s between your thighs in a blur of heat and hunger, kneeling like a man on a mission. He throws one of your legs over his shoulder, locking eyes with you and says, “Now this... this is the sweetest fucking thing I’ve ever tasted. My favorite kind of honey…”
And then his mouth is on you. Hot, wet, devastating. His tongue drags slow, flat strokes along your folds, then circles your clit with maddening precision. He moans into you, and the vibration nearly rips a cry from your throat.
You reach down, fingers gripping onto his head, pulling him closer, anchoring yourself against the spiraling heat.
He doesn’t stop. Not when your hips buck. Not when you beg. Not when your thighs threaten to clamp around his head. He keeps licking, sucking, plunging his tongue deep like he wants to consume you whole.
And when you finally fall apart, body shaking, eyes fluttering shut, a cry ripping from your throat. Jack holds you through it, his mouth never stopping until he’s sure you’ve given him everything
Only then does he rise, chin glistening, pupils blown wide, cock hard and leaking with cum..
“You ready for the main course, sweetheart?” he pants, already reaching for you again. “Because I’m not done tasting.”
You gasp, barely catching your breath as Jack pulls you up onto the counter like you weigh nothing. The cool surface kisses your thighs, a stark contrast to the fire burning inside you. You’re still trembling from the first orgasm, hips slick and thighs sticky with honey and his tongue.
“God, Jack,” you pant, voice breathy and wrecked, “I can’t—you just devoured me like you’ve been starving.”
Jack smirks as he lines himself up, his hands firm on your waist. His lips are still glistening, and that damn tongue of his swipes across them like he’s savoring every drop. He leans in, nose brushing yours, breath fanning over your lips.
“You say that like it wasn’t your idea to pour honey all over yourself, babe.”
You let out a breathless laugh, swatting at his shoulder with no real force. “I didn’t say pour it. I said a taste, you menace.”
Jack grins wide, devilishly. “Nah, you gave me a riddle. Said if I guessed right, I’d get a treat. You never specified what kind, sweetheart. So I helped myself.”
Before you can fire back, he thrusts into you with one deep, slow stroke that knocks the air clean out of your lungs.
“Jack!” you gasp, head falling back against the cupboard.
His hands tighten on your hips, holding you still as he begins a brutal, delicious rhythm, slamming into you with the perfect blend of hunger and control. The counter creaks under the force, your body jolting with each thrust but it’s the look on his face that undoes you. That mix of adoration and filthy satisfaction.
“Still complaining?” he huffs, breath hot against your neck.
You try to answer, but all that comes out is a broken moan.
“That’s what I thought,” he chuckles darkly, grinding in deeper. “Every time you look at that honey jar from now on, you’re gonna remember this. Me, fucking you so hard against the kitchen counter, you saw stars.”
You whimper, arms clinging to his shoulders, legs wrapped around his waist like he’s the only thing holding you to earth which he might be, because your body is unraveling all over again.
Then he grabs the honey jar again, tips it slightly, and lets a slow stream drizzle down between your bodies. Onto your breasts, your stomach, your clit…his cock.
Jack groans, watching the honey coat your skin and drip down over where you’re joined.
“Sweet fucking hell,” he growls. “Look at that. Look what you’re doing to me.”
He starts to thrust harder, the wet slap of your bodies louder now, dirtier, as the honey makes everything sticky and obscene.
“Gonna make you come like this,” he mutters against your ear, “dripping in honey, moaning my name, too ruined to even tease me anymore.”
And god you do.
You fall apart with a cry, nails digging into his back, body writhing as your climax hits like lightning. Jack follows moments later, groaning your name like a prayer, burying himself deep as he spills into you, panting and trembling and utterly spent.
He doesn’t move right away, just presses his forehead against yours, both of you sticky, sweaty and ruined in the best possible way.
Then you murmur with a lazy, satisfied smirk, “Still your idea.”
Jack laughs breathlessly and kisses you slowly.
“You’re never living this down, honey girl.”
Jack stands there for a moment, still inside you, chest heaving against yours, both of you covered in sweat and syrup. He brushes your hair off your face with the gentlest touch, those eyes softening into something quieter, something caring and sweet.
“You good?” he asks, his voice low and rough, still catching his breath.
You nod, too blissed out to speak just yet. He leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead, then your cheek, then your lips, soft and slow, like you’re the only thing in the world that matters.
“You’re a goddamn masterpiece,” he whispers against your skin.
With one strong arm wrapped beneath your thighs and the other across your back, he lifts you off the counter effortlessly. You giggle, arms looping around his neck.
“Jack…I’m literally dripping,” you protest, laughing as the honey slides in slow, lazy trails across your skin and his.
He smirks, eyes dark with mischief but glowing with affection. “I know. Gonna clean you up properly.”
He carries you to the bathroom, the tiles cool against your feet as he sets you down in front of the mirror. The two of you look like something out of a dream or a porn magazine. Your skin glistens, flushed and glazed in amber gold. Jack stands behind you, just as marked up and messy, his eyes locked on your reflection.
He reaches up and turns the shower on, warm steam already curling around you both. He stands and pulls you in under the water, letting the heat wash away the honey bit by bit. The syrup melts from your skin in golden streams, and Jack watches each rivulet with fascination, his hands never leaving your body.
He lathers soap slowly between his palms, then spreads it across your back, your arms, your breasts. He kisses the slope of your shoulder, your collarbone, your jaw, working his way up with maddening patience.
He murmurs. “You taste like sin and sunlight.”
You shiver as his hands slide down your curves, soapy and smooth, then grip your ass and press you against him. His hard length is already pressing between your thighs again, hard and insistent.
Jack leans in, pressing his forehead to yours as the water rushes down your bodies. “One more time, baby,” he whispers. “Slow. Deep. I wanna feel everything.”
And when he finally pushes inside again, it’s like the whole world stops.
After a quick round in the shower, he lifts you again, his hands slick against your hips, still damp from the shower. Your legs wrap around his waist instinctively, your mouths meeting in a kiss that’s all tongue and teeth and gasping need. Water trails down your bodies as he carries you out, but neither of you care. You’re leaving a wet path through the apartment, and it just adds to the thrill.
The bed groans beneath your weight as he lays you down carefully. His eyes drag over your naked form.
“Jesus,” he mutters, brushing his fingers along your ribs, your hip, your inner thigh. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”
You smile, pulling him down by the back of the neck. “Nah, not gonna let you die.”
He groans against your lips, kissing you deeply as he presses his body over yours. His weight against your body feels like safety.
Jack doesn’t rush this time. He slides back inside you slowly, watching your face as he does, eyes locked on yours like it’s the only anchor he has. You moan, your body arching into his, and he hisses through his teeth.
“That’s it, sweetheart. Just like that.”
His thrusts are slow and deep, hips grinding into yours with slow, deep movements. The wet slap of skin echoes in the quiet room, mingled with the sound of your breathy whimpers and his low, rasping groans.
“Feel that?” he whispers against your neck. “That’s what you do to me.”
You nod, fingers gripping his back, nails digging into his skin as he rolls his hips just right, hitting that spot that makes your toes curl.
“You’re mine,” he growls, the pace still unhurried, but now each thrust has a purpose. “I love you…god, I love you.”
“Yours,” you gasp, dragging your nails down his spine. “I’m yours, Jack..-FUCK…I love you too!”
He kisses you then, filthy and tender all at once. His tongue tangles with yours as he pushes deeper, harder now, but still so slow it drives you insane.
“I wanna come with you,” he whispers, forehead pressed to yours, his voice thick with emotion and lust. “Can you do that for me, baby?”
You nod feverishly, your body already unraveling beneath him, every nerve ending strung tight with pleasure.
He brings a hand between you, his fingers finding your clit, circling just right, his hips never faltering.
“Come on, honey,” he coaxes, voice smooth as fuck. “Let me feel you.”
You shatter with a cry, clinging to him as wave after wave crashes over you. Jack moans your name like a prayer, his thrusts growing erratic as he follows you over the edge, groaning deep in his chest as he spills inside you for the third time today.
The room falls quiet, just the sound of your breathing, your heartbeats syncing.
He doesn’t pull away. Not yet. He just buries his face in your neck and holds you like he never wants to let go.
“You,” he murmurs out of breath, “are dangerous.”
You smile sleepily, stroking his little damp hair. “You started it, remember?”
He lifts his head just enough to meet your eyes, that grin returning. “Yeah, but you’re the one who said ‘honey.’ So it’s basically your fault.”
You laugh, and he kisses the corner of your mouth.
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