pairing: older brother's best friend!john carter x fem!reader
word count: 7k
summary: you had completely forgotten about the brief infatuation you held for your older brother's best friend – until he makes an unexpected return at your family's holiday party, ten years since you'd last seen him.
warnings/tags: SMUT! 18+, MDNI, canon divergent *minor spoilers for ER season 4/5 ahead, john carter is 28, reader is 26, john's having a rough time, oral (f receiving), unprotected p-in-v, reader had a childish crush on him but completely forgot about it until ten years later el oh el #relatable! LMK if i missed anything! happy reading!
john is your brother’s best friend before anything else. he’s two years older than you, give or take a few months and a good handful of days, and absolutely tormented your thoughts and glittery gel-penned diary entries for a good few months through teenagehood. he, however, saw you as nothing more than, well, what you were: his best friend’s little sister. which, in hindsight, should have been obvious, but nothing is when you're fourteen.
eventually, both he and your brother graduated from high school. john moved into the city for medicine, and your girlish crush on him disappeared into the innermost recesses of your mind, forgotten as your life and selfhood grew and developed without him. you graduated high school, not long after him, and pursued your degree outside of your hometown. you grew older. you met other people, dated other people, fucked other people, and life went on. told your best friend about the silly childhood crush you had when it was asked to everyone over drinks.
it’s been, what, ten years? since you saw him last, and all that time ago he’d been a fresh-faced high school graduate, waving you off absentmindedly while he sat in the living room with your brother and you left to go meet up with a friend. he’d left for med school the week after.
the snow pours outside as you stare out your family’s dining room window, glittering the dark night of your driveway in speckles of white. lost in thought as your older brother gabs on to a family friend behind you about his ventures in corporate america. eugh. a pre-christmas get together with all of your parents’ affluent and less-than-enjoyable-to-be-around friends was not your picture of a happy holiday, and so, begrudgingly, you sit at the head of the long oak table and sip on your third glass of wine.
a car rolls into the driveway. you only notice because its headlights point directly at you and make you flinch out of your thoughts. you’d thought everyone had arrived already, but turns out you were wrong.
“no shit,” your brother laughs in disbelief from behind you, as his focus shifts to the new arrival, to the sound of a car door pushing open and shut. “he came,” he says, to no one in particular, before beginning to head for the front door, nudging your back with his palm as he passes by.
you don’t care to look, really, when the large door creaks open. you’re just halfway through pushing yourself up to top up your glass of wine before you hear the crackle of a laugh you haven’t heard in years. it meets your ears, the forgotten memory, and your body reacts before you do. heat rushes up to your temples as your head snaps up to find the voice.
john looks different. not in a bad way, in fact, you’d venture to say he looks much better than he did when you last saw him. no more is the young, clean shaven boy of a decade ago, but instead an older man. he shrugs his overcoat off and hands it to your brother after they share a handshake and a hug in greeting, revealing the new broadness of him and the added weight to his shoulders only a job in medicine could make him carry.
his hair is longer, now, too, curling just under his ear and falling over his brow bone. you don’t think you’d seen him go a day without hair gel. scruff. scruff covers his jaw, and not just a brown fuzz but a thick beard that pushes you to the edge of dizziness. you swallow a glob of spit that’d lodged itself in your throat, before reprimanding yourself mentally, for the way you stared. suddenly you found yourself smoothing over your black dress, adjusting the fit and wear of your bracelets, your earrings, your hair.
you hadn’t felt a lick of anything for john since he left for med school. hadn’t thought about him since you went on your first real date, completely forgot about the prevalence of him in your mind until now. but even then, this feels different. a childhood crush is something impossible, it was something unrequited and not-real and lived in the vestiges of your mind alongside dreams and imagined futures projected onto your bedroom ceiling. but now, standing here, a realer person than you ever were and as a grown woman with a real life and a real job, comes the feeling of a very real, very actionable attraction to john carter. your stomach tumbles at the thought.
then his eyes meet yours, and they stick, for a good second or two, before he smiles. laughs, a little, in a similar disbelief your brother wore when he drove in. calls your name as you approach, opens his arms and gives you a polite hug and a pat on the back. when you pull back, he rests his arms on your biceps, giving them a squeeze.
“merry christmas,” he smiles, and you notice that the boyish laugh has stayed the same.
“merry christmas,” you repeat, clearing your throat a little. “it’s good to see you.” nice. keep it simple.
“good to see you too,” he grins, and that look in his eye returns when neither of you continue the conversation as he takes you in. his expression is unnameable.
you open your mouth to speak, to say anything, but your father interrupts, giving the younger man a good, sturdy pat to the shoulder as he hands john a glass of whiskey, offering him to join the party. rest easy, drink, eat, enjoy. john, polite as he is, nods with enthusiasm, joining your father and your brother as they head for the salon.
left standing there, you find you have no idea what to do with your hands. and so, you return to the dining table to pick up your wine glass, and head off to find a refill.
an hour or so passes by, and you swear you might as well have bitten your cuticles raw. you’ve circled the first floor once or twice, making casual conversation with partygoers, taking a few minutes to sit in the living room to hear about john and his life, about his switch from surgery to emergency medicine, about life closer to the city, before continuing your rounds.
your wine glass is empty, again, and you feel yourself sobering up, so you head for the kitchen to pour another glass. it’s quiet in there, a bit of reprieve from the choir music playing from one of your mother’s old holiday records and the chatter of middle aged couples. the door swings open.
“no updates for me?” turning your head to find the voice, you see john, as he pops the cork off of a macallan 25 and pours it into his glass. he laughs a little to himself. “they started asking me how much money i make at cook county, so i took that as my cue to get up.”
you chuckle softly. “they do like to pry,” you mutter, keeping your back to him as you stand by the kitchen island. he rounds the chunk of marble to stand opposite you, the ice in his whisky clinking as he, too, takes a sip. “how is it?” you ask. “emergency medicine.”
his brows raise slightly as he sighs, leaning both his lithe hands against the marble. “tiring,” he huffs, running a hand through his hair. “but good. rewarding. think i’m better suited to it than i would’ve been in surgery.”
“that’s good.”
“how about you?”
“hm?”
“i mean, how’ve you been,” he asks, the question trailing off with a light chuckle. he keeps looking at you in that way he did in the foyer, like he was observing you. taking note, familiarizing himself with the new person standing in front of him. you can’t say you mind it, not at all.
“oh, um,” you clear your throat, taking another sip of your wine. “yeah, good,” you smile, setting the glass down with a clink, bringing your hand up to toy with a bracelet on your wrist. you were never the type to particularly enjoy small talk, but john has a way about him that eases its stilted nature. “graduated college a few years ago, moved back into the city.”
“yeah?” he straightens, giving you an approving nod. “where at?”
“i’ve got a place in river north,” you respond. “how about you?”
almost bashfully, he laughs, like the question caught him off guard. he rubs his hand over the nape of his neck. “i, uh – yeah, i just moved into a new apartment.” he says, taking another sip of his whisky. “i’m was an RA at the med dorms for a good minute, but that fell through.” he nods, before offering a one-shouldered shrug. “i got cut off.”
“oh, damn.”
“yeah, it was a whole thing,” he laughs again, a little pained. “it’s fine, though, y’know. getting back on my feet and all that.”
you nod.
“i’m happy to see you,” he says, offering a kind smile. it’s warm, always has been, in the way that you never had to question his sincerity. “it’s, uh, it’s good to see some familiar faces. when your brother reached out to me about spending the holidays here, i took up the offer immediately.”
a smile finds itself on your face, mirroring his. “you’re spending the holidays here?”
he nods, chuckling lightly, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. “yeah,” he nods. “it was either spend it here or, y’know. all by my lonesome.” he sucks in a breath through his teeth. “preferred the former.” a laugh bubbles out of you.
“i’m glad,” you say, taking another sip of your wine, before walking backwards towards the kitchen door. “think i’ll get back to socializing,” you smile.
“yeah,” he nods, before looking down at the marble. “catch you out there.”
john sits next to you at dinner. you presume it’s to sit opposite your brother, but his presence next to you is more welcome than another partygoer would have been. he’s warm, you notice, in the cream knit sweater he’d chosen to don for the night. still polite, still affable, still kind, when your mother asks him questions and pries about his personal life in between your brother’s less-than-entertaining anecdotes about the new york corporate scene. the whisky your father’s been pouring out for him has pushed a dusty pink flush up to his cheeks, a slight dew of warmth on his skin. it grows when your mother asks him about a girlfriend.
“i–no,” he chuckles softly, shaking his head. “no, ma’am. still single,” he says, with a pursed smile. it’d be embarrassing to admit the way your heartbeat quickened at the confession, as you pierced through the skin of a french bean.
“shame,” your mother said, a little pout on her lips. “you’ve got a good head on your shoulders. any girl’d be lucky to have you.”
“think i’d be luckier, whoever’d agree to date me,” he says, in that light, self-deprecating way. he turns his head to look at you for a millisecond, as if watching for your reaction. the movement is so subtle it’d be easy to disregard it, and his eyes’re gone as quick as they came. like he didn’t mean to. he thanks your mother for her faith in him. she starts listing the names of daughters of her friends. he grows redder. you wish you could shrink into yourself.
when dinner’s done and had, he helps you with the dishes. “gotta earn my keep, right?” he jokes. his elbow bumps into yours as he scrubs a plate down. by the time the dishwasher’s running, the number of guests dwindles down to less than half. the house is quieter, the fireplace crackles, and snow falls in soft dustings outside. john’s disappeared as you exit the kitchen, wiping your hands.
“where’s john?” you ask into the living room, where your brother shares an old family picture book with his girlfriend on the couch.
“why?” your brother asks in return, stretching his neck to look at you over the back of the couch.
you shrug. his eyes narrow.
“he’s outside,” he mutters, before returning his focus to the leathered picture book in his hands.
just as your brother said, you find john in the backyard, sat on the steps. the snow falling covers the outdoors in a calm quiet. you clear your throat to announce your presence, and he turns his head to look at you, a cigarette slotted between his lips, a lighter in one hand and his other cupped, about to light it.
you walk further out into the back porch, met with the biting cold. you rub your hands along your upper arms. “don’t you know those things’re bad for you?” you joke, sweeping snow away from the spot on the steps next to him to take a seat.
he laughs softly, watches you, notices the way you shiver, and offers you his overcoat. he drapes it over your shoulders, and you pull it closed around you. “thanks,” you murmur, as the lighter flickers to life. the quiet of the snow isolates the sizzle of the cigarette as it glows orange, and he exhales smoke into the air. he sees the way your eyes follow his movements.
“you want one?” he asks, tapping the butt of the pack until the end of one sticks out.
“aren’t you a doctor?”
he laughs again, holding the pack out to you. “c’mon. it’s christmas.”
snorting, you take the cigarette, slotting it between glossed lips. he leaves his cigarette between his lips again and holds up his lighter. you lean into his space, the once-revered warmth of him, letting him light it. you make the bold choice to lock eyes with him, brown irises flicking up from the cigarette. he swallows.
“thanks,” you repeat, pulling the cigarette out of your mouth to gesture with it as you straighten in your seat.
“mhm,” he nods. he takes another drag of his own cigarette, eyes locked on the vast darkness past your backyard fence. he huffs to himself in his own amusement, pulling something out of his jean pocket. it’s a tissue, folded into a square. he runs his index finger along its face, flattening it in his hand. the next words come, spoken around the filter of his cigarette. “your mom wants me to give this girl a call.”
you lean close to get a look. you can smell his cologne, musk and pinewood. it travels down your nose and down your belly, settling there, digging its claws in, making itself known. on the piece of paper, scribbled in your mother’s handwriting, is a name, and a number. coleen fitzgerald.
“you know her?” he asks, rumpling the thing before stuffing it back into his pocket.
shaking your head, you mutter, “i think her mom’s in the same gardening club as mine.”
he laughs, cigarette between his lips bobbing as he does. he runs his hand through his hair again. you get a good look at his side profile from here, the downward slope of his nose, the dimple in his cheek. all the same, but different.
“are you gonna call her?” you ask, testing the waters. you look down at your heels, pluck at the nylon of your black stockings. you take another drag of your cigarette, before returning your gaze to him.
he shakes his head. “nah.” he lets out a strained breath, tapping ash from his cigarette. “too much on my plate to even think about seeing anyone right now.”
something drops down to your stomach. then you feel it in your throat, before swallowing it back down. “oh.”
he laughs. “you sound disappointed.”
you choke on your own spit, as heat rushes up to your ears. you reach up to itch at one of them. “what?”
he huffs, then, dropping his head with a shake. “nothing.” as he takes another drag of his cigarette. taps the ash from it again. he looks out into the yard. “but, i mean, yeah. i appreciate your mom’s sentiment but i just, uh,” he shrugs. “i just don’t think i’d be good in a relationship right now.”
“mm,” you nod, following his gaze out into the darkness. the two of you sit in comfortable silence for a moment, filling the porch with the smell of cigarette smoke. blanketing everything in a soft haze. but that might just be the wine. “i can understand why.”
“yeah?” he asks, picking his head up before nodding. “it’s a little embarrassing. first time i see you or your family, save for your brother, in years. in a decade? in a decade. and i’m a little out of sorts.”
you shrug. “shit happens,” you mutter.
“shit happens,” he repeats, with a sigh. you watch his shoulders slump. chips at your heart a bit, seeing him this way. he used to have this chipper manner about him, sweet and clumsy and a bit naïve. but bright-eyed. it’s dimmed, now, but it’s still there. underneath all that he’s grown into. all the same, but different.
he turns his head and smiles a little. soft, albeit strained. it doesn’t reach his eyes, doesn’t crinkle like you remember it doing. his free hand scratches at the back of his neck again as his other, leaned against his knee, taps out his cigarette. “it’s good to see you,” he says. you offer another sympathetic smile.
he sighs again, an audible groan leaving his lips. it’s odd, seeing him so vulnerable after so long. it’s the most you’ve probably talked to him in your life, discounting the few times you both’d filled the silence in his car driving you both home from school. snow crunches underneath your heel, little flakes of it pushed under the roof by the breeze.
“it’s good to see you too,” you murmur, still picking at your stockings. “if you ever get tired of, y’know, living alone, you’re free to take a weekend off at mine,” you offer quietly.
“yeah?” john asks, as he ashes out his cigarette in the snow. smoke lifts from the spot, dissipating into the air. he pulls the pack out again, and lights another. throws you a little smile. “means a lot. thanks.”
“yeah, i mean,” you shrug, pulling his coat tighter around you. it’s heavy and warm. “it’s nothing, really. i live by myself, so it wouldn’t be a bother to anyone. it’s not good to be alone.” you don’t know if you’re talking about him, or yourself.
he nods. “no, it’s not.” he turns to look at you. holds your gaze for a second longer than he probably should, before his eyes flick to your half-finished cigarette, its end fizzled out. he holds out his lighter for you again.
you’ve been lying in bed, still, unmoving, for what feels like hours. there’s that low, fuzzy feeling you get after a party’s ended and everyone’s gone home, still stuck in it, like if you kept quiet enough you’d still hear chattering down the stairs. you’ve changed into a loose, worn sweatshirt and a pair of sleep shorts. you fiddle with a loose string, lost in thought.
john’s in the guest room down the hall. the clock on your bedside reads 2:15 in big red segmented numbers. you’ve been up since you got out of the shower. the house is quiet, and when you look outside your window, you find that the snow’s stilled. john can’t be up. he must be asleep, and yet you fight yourself over the urge to knock on his door and see him on the other side. it’s strange, feeling so tormented over the same person again, all these years later, given his abrupt return to your life. the smell of his cologne has stuck itself to your hair, and you were pulling fibers of his coat off of your dress for the rest of the night. and now, he likely lies in bed a wall or two away from you, unaware of the way your mind runs. laps around your room, stopping only to breathe, at the thought of him. him, and this newness to him, to the way he talks to you, acts with you. the way he is, now. older. different. the same. like you, unlike you. you press your hands into your face, as if willing the thoughts to go away, but they don’t.
you take a deep breath, like you were about to tumble over a cliff and into clear waters, and kick yourself up and out of bed.
socked feet padding over hardwood, you find yourself moving towards his room without a second thought. hand closes into fist. it hovers over the wood of his door for a second, before rapping at it softly, once, twice. heat, tingling and swarming, rushes from where your knuckles made impact against the wood, up your neck and over your head. you should turn back. what would you even do, if he opens the door? would you stand there, mouth agape, and embarrass yourself? perhaps that would do you good. leave this infatuation alone and never touch it again.
you’re not given time to turn back. you try to, start to, beginning to turn on your heel, but it’s too late. his door opens with a slow creak to reveal the inside, bathed in warm lamp light. and there he stands, a little more undone than earlier, hair falling over his face. navy blue shirt. plaid pajama pants. he’s got his bottom lip tucked under his teeth like he was doing it mindlessly as he read a book, which sits opened on his bed. his brows lift, slightly, almost in question, as he rests his elbow above his head against the doorframe. when he realizes it’s you, his expression loosens. keeps his free hand on the door.
you could die. now, seriously, and it’d be a peaceful, happy death, saved of embarrassment and humiliation as you stand in front of him in worn sleep clothes, unable to find a single word to say. but wordlessly, instead of waiting for you to say anything, he pulls the door open wider and lets go of it. lets you in.
he walks backwards into the room slowly, mirroring the way you step into it, your gaze shifty as he catches the way your breath picks up. it’s quiet, save for the hum of the heating.
braving yourself, you step closer to him. he stops moving, eyes stuck on you. lets you into his space as you move even closer, close enough to feel the gentle exhale of breath from his nose. to feel the warmth of his skin, barely an arms’ length away.
your head tilts up to meet his gaze. it’s soft, curious. almost wanting, as your neck cranes upward. his tilts down, as his hand meets yours in a slow, sure movement. he waits for you, as the two of you practically share breath. you’re not sure who moves first, but you know what it feels like. his bottom lip skirting against your upper, then lower. the brush of his scruff against your skin is intoxicating. he looks down, for a second, to catch a glimpse of your joined hands. noses brushing together as he does. he takes a shaky breath. then, he’s kissing you.
it’s slow, first, as he gives you a chance to pull away. you don’t, instead pushing yourself up onto the tips of your toes, snaking an arm up his shoulder to cup the back of his jaw. his hands, gentle, grab hold of your waist. feeling. pressing. pressing you against him as your lips move against his, the soft sound of smacking filling the room. you feel the flutter of his eyelashes against your cheek, the muscle of his jaw under your palm. a hand runs up your back to rest between your shoulder blades as your tongue darts out to lick a stripe along the seam of his lips, to which he obliges you.
you could moan at the taste of him on your tongue, the warm wetness that greets you as his lips part. his beard scratches at your skin, but you don’t mind it. you could never. he slides his tongue against yours, pulling back only to mutter a soft, “slow down,” against your cheek. you nod, before kissing him again, as he walks you towards the wardrobe by his bed, letting you rest against it.
your hands lower from his neck down to his shirt, to his hips underneath it, tongues moving against each other all the while. he shivers lightly under your touch, and as your hands wind their way up his back, he moves to rid himself of his shirt. he lets it drop from his hands at his feet.
you feel at the expanse of bared skin, the feeling of it taut, hot under your hands. his own grab hold of your waist, trying to press you closer against him. a soft moan escapes you, a breath against his own, as he pulls away to instead nose at the soft flesh of your jaw, feeling its give under his nose, lips, chin. nips at the skin, as you card your fingers through his hair. you really like the length of it. his fingers lower until they hook under the hem of your sweatshirt, pulling his lips back only to look at you, your blown-out eyes, the rise and fall of your chest against his. all you do is nod, all you need to do is nod, and he’s lifting the thing over your head, tossing it aside before leading you to his bed. kisses you again, and again, until your back hits the mattress.
your hands begin to reach for your shorts, wanting them off, but he gets to them before you can. the way he slides the fabric down your legs is careful, a touch needy, as he leans over to press his lips against every new inch of exposed flesh. a shiver runs up your body at the feeling, as the pair of shorts is discarded, joining his shirt and yours on the floor. his hands cup your knees in the process, still kissing at your thighs as he parts them with a firm touch, leaving enough space for him to rest his body between them.
his kisses rise, lips passing over the soft cotton of your panties, up your midriff, to your sternum. he presses his face between your breasts, before cupping one in his hand and laving his lips along the other. he only does it for a moment before lifting his head to kiss you properly on the lips again, one hand gripping your thigh against his hip, the other carrying his weight above you.
“i shouldn’t be doing this,” he murmurs against your lips, his breath hitching when he feels you grind over his crotch. he doesn’t stop, despite the words that leave him, wanting too much to feel more of you, see more of you, know more of you.
“do you want to?” you ask, in between the sound of your lips moving against his.
“yeah.”
“me too,” you mutter. “doesn’t matter if you shouldn’t be,” you say. “if you want to, do it.”
he nods then, before lowering himself between your legs again, fingers hooking into the soft fabric of your panties. your eyes lock for a moment, a silent request for permission, and you’re lifting your hips, allowing him to undress you fully.
met with the sight of your bare cunt, wet and warm and waiting, he moans, before licking an experimental stripe along your slit. you gasp, fighting the urge to clamp your thighs around his head. sighing at the taste of you, john leans in fully, wrapping his lips around your clit, allowing himself the momentary pleasure of suckling on it, hearing the first real moan leave your lips at his actions. then he laps along the line of your heat again, before pressing his tongue against your entrance, his nose bumping against your clit all the while. moans leave you, soft sighs and whines of pleasure, and it sends shivers of heat up his spine, into every extension of his body. your hand has found its way into his hair again, pulling him impossibly closer against your sex.
“john–“ you whimper, back arching from the sheets at his ministrations. “oh, my god–“
he hums in acknowledgment, maybe encouragement against your heat, just before he pulls back to let a glob of spit fall onto it, pressing a single finger inside. you writhe underneath him, a moan leaving you at the sensation. with a finger inside you, he returns his attention to your clit, flicking at it in side-to-side motions with the tip of his tongue, causing you to cry out his name again. it drives you mad, the way he feels, the press of his finger against your g-spot as he curls it, and you feel the coil in your lower stomach beginning to tighten. he feels it too, the way your insides clamp around his finger, encouraging him to add another. he pulls his lips back eventually, keeping up the pace with his hand, as he inches up the bed to slot his lips against yours. you taste him on you, the tart-saltiness of you, and the both of you moan in near unison as your lips meet.
“joh—john,” you manage to get out, one hand snaking up to grip at his shoulder, the other grasping at the sheets. “john, i’m—“
“you coming?” he asks, voice tender and lustful as he kisses your cheek before pressing his own against yours. feeling the shake of your breath against his own skin. you nod against him, and he nods too, increasing the pace of his fingers inside you, pressing the heel of his palm into your bundle of nerves. you could scream. you want to, you do, but you can’t, not when your family sleeps soundly under the same roof, and so you dig your face into the crook of his neck, inhaling his scent, nipping at the dewed skin as you’re met with your first climax.
he groans at the way you feel, even just around his fingers, the way wetness seeps from you and slips, sticky and warm, down his digits. he kisses at your cheek, your jaw, the spot under your ear, as the way your body jerks under him slows, until you’re left panting underneath him. he pulls his fingers out of you, lifts them up to the lamplight to watch the way they glisten, the way they string together when he holds them apart. red-cheeked, you laugh softly.
“what?” he asks, mirroring your laughter as he takes his fingers into his mouth, sucking them clean in a quick, easy motion.
you swallow. “nothing. you doing that’s a little embarrassing.”
“what? why?” he asks with a playful smile, as he trails that same hand down your neck, along your chest, down your midriff, if only to cup your heat, murmuring, “’s not embarrassing. you did that. i got you to do that,” into the skin of your collarbone. “‘f anything, it’s sexy.”
“okay,” you mutter.
“okay,” he smiles, sucking a small hickey just on top of your left breast. “i don’t have a condom,” he murmurs into the flesh, shaking his head.
“i’m on the pill,” you respond, quicker than you’d’ve liked, which causes him to chuckle softly.
“shit, are you sure?” he asks, eyes round as he looks up at you, before he sits back on his knees.
you nod. “i’m clean.”
he swallows. “yeah, i’m clean too.”
“okay,” you mutter, the corners of your lips turning up into a smile.
“okay,” he mirrors, as he gets up to rid himself of his pants. he pushes his boxers down his legs, too, in that same motion, and your breath hitches at the sight of him. big, long like the rest of him, a sweet pink at the tip. it mirrors the flush on his cheeks as he returns to where he’d been kneeling between your legs, one hand coming to sling your leg over his hip. he spits, once, to stroke his cock, jaw clenching at the sensation.
he leans over you again, until all you can see is him, one hand holding him up. he lines himself up with you, allowing the tip to trace a line along your slit. he sees the way your breath hitches, as his tip bumps against your clit. he notches himself against your entrance, a low hiss leaving him as he begins to press into you.
he lowers himself until his parted lips sit a finger’s width apart from yours, his soft gasps matching the ones leaving you at the initial stretch. takes your hand in his and leads it to rest on his back. “good?” he pants softly, as he continues to lead himself inside you, a little more than halfway to the hilt. you nod. “tell me.”
“it feels—“ your breath hitches with a hiccup. “feels good, john. keep going.”
“okay,” he nods, kissing at you wherever he can. finds himself lost in the plush warmth between your thighs, the feeling of your slick on his skin. he pants, heavy, locking his eyes with yours as he slides himself all the way in, bodies joined at the hips, at the tip of his cock as it kisses your cervix. you gasp, squirming underneath him as he strokes at your side, easing you into the feeling. “okay?” he repeats.
you nod, and he lets out a soft moan at the almost rhythmic pulsing, tightening of your cunt around him. with a breath, he rolls his hips back until nearly all of him is out of you, tests the waters by moving himself back inside slowly. if only to hear the soft whine that leaves your lips, to see the way your brows knit, the slack of your jaw and puffy lips as he does it.
“move,” you whine softly. “you can—you can move.”
“okay,” he grunts, before beginning to set a pace. it builds slowly, as he accustoms himself to the feel of you, the way your thighs press against his sides as you lock your ankles around his lower back. you’re both so close, so, so close, sweat-dewed skin against sweat-dewed skin, eyes locked like neither of you would dare to look away. it’s delicious, the thick, long slide of him inside of you, sending a shuddery breath up your chest.
“you feel so good,” he moans, the sticky-sweet sound of skin against skin filling the room, along with the squelch of your slick and his. the words’re carved into the cartilage of your ear as he grazes his teeth along it. “fuck,” he moans your name, “you feel so good.”
whimpering, you nod, beginning to grind your hips in rhythm with his, aiding in the movement of his cock to press against your cervix, along every, needy inch of your cunt. “john—“
no other word leaves you, interrupted by the sound that leaves him at the way you moan his name, wanting to hear it more, hear it again, hear it forever. he moves with more intention, now, wanting to push it from your lips. keeps his pace, allowing you to feel — as best you can — the slide of flesh against flesh, the steady, delicious friction of his cock inside of you.
“god—“ he proclaims, in a choked groan, as soft uh–uh–uhs leave you, punched out of you with every thrust of his hips. “yeah,” he nods, to you, to no one. “oh, fuck. yeah. god, you feel so good. take—ungh—you take me so well. jesus fucking christ. yeah. yeah.”
your bodies writhe in perfect time, as you lock your arms behind his neck, pulling him close. he swallows every moan you make, returning one of his own right after. your hand cups his jaw as his movements stay unrelenting, as you trace his bottom lip with your thumb. there’s that odd look in his eyes again, not bad, as he looks you over, sees you, the way you look underneath him. it’s a pang of something. he wouldn’t be able to tell you if it were loneliness or mere lust. he lets your thumb tug his bottom lip down, his lips parting as he pants into the air, breath shaky with exertion, with pleasure.
it feels like hours, it feels like seconds, years, the two of you pressed against each other like this, the sweet pistoning of his hips against yours, the weight of him on top of you, the smell, the taste. the coil in your abdomen tightens further, and he feels it, the way your walls flutter around his cock. he weaves a hand between your bodies to thumb at your clit, choked moans and whines beginning to leave him at the way you jolt at the touch.
“john,” you gasp, feeling your eyes sting.
he nods in response, readying his position. “yeah,” he groans, kissing you again, mumbling, “i’m almost there.”
you wait for it, heat bubbling sharply in your stomach, thighs shaking already from where they wrap around his waist. brows knit in pleasure and concentration. you try to prop yourself up on one elbow to be closer to him, but your arm shakes with one particularly pointed thrust that sends you flopping back down against the mattress. his thumb presses against your clit with fervor, rubbing it side-to-side and in little circles as his cock picks up the pace. he relishes in the way your moans and whines begin to increase in pitch, the way you nearly squeak once his thrusts gain momentum. moans into your ear, leans in to kiss at your neck, breathing you in.
“i’m coming,” you say, in a hurried whisper, as a maddened whine leaves you. “oh, my god, i’m coming.”
“okay,” he nods, encouraging. “yeah—fuck—me too. come,” he grunts. “come all over this—haah—this cock. please? fuck, wanna feel you come. please. please.”
his words are what surely sends you over the edge, a final breathy whine leaving you as your body goes rigid, then loose, then rigid again, back jerking above the sheets as he rides you through your release. he moans, in tandem with you, at the feeling. “where d’you want me?” he asks, syllables slurring together in his own need.
“inside,” you mumble. “please—please come inside.”
“oh, fuck,” he groans, his own expression knitting into one that you could only describe as debauched, brows knit, jaw slack as he lifts your leg over his shoulder, desperate for his own release.
“john—“ you gasp. “john, john, john—oh!”
he grits his teeth, nearly slobbers against your thigh as he comes to the sound of his name spilling from your lips, filling your pussy with his warm spend.
he slows after the peak of it, wanting to feel the way you squeeze him; wanting you to feel the way his cock twitches inside you with every rope you coerce out of it.
he’s beautiful, when he comes. he thought the same about you a moment earlier.
he presses kiss after kiss to your lips, your jaw, your neck, your chest. wherever he can reach, really, wanting you close still even after he’d spent the last half hour or so as close as one could possibly be to another human being.
you whine at the feeling of his soft cock slipping out of you. john watches with rapt attention as the evidence of both your climaxes drip down from your weeping hole, along the crease of your thigh, and onto the sheets. he’s stuck there, for a moment, just watching it.
then he looks up at you. “you okay?” he asks.
laid out in bed, arms resting against your head on the pillow, with your whole body loose and warm and twitching, you nod, trying to catch your breath.
“let me clean you up,” he huffs, pressing his lips against your cheekbone before sliding off the bed, throwing on his pajama pants and heading out into the hall in search of the bathroom.
he insists you stay in his room for the night, at least for a little while longer. lets you lay your head on his chest, the sound of his heartbeat under your ear steady and calming. you talk, tell him about your life, your job. friends you have in the city, your excitement to return there once the holidays are over. he watches you, the way you smile as you talk about yourself, the places you know, the people you love. it brings a similar smile to his face, warm. he tells you about emergency medicine, often stopping between anecdotes to tell you it’s absolutely alright if you don’t want to hear about thoracotomies and cardiac arrests after sex, but you laugh, shake your head, and tell him to keep going.
it feels easy, this way. odd, yes, but undeniably good.
“i’ll come see you after the holidays,” he murmurs into your hair, both of your eyes growing heavy, the rise and fall of his chest deepening, slowing.
“yeah?” you mumble against his chest, struggling to keep your eyes open.
“mm,” he responds with a nod, his hand lazily tracing shapes into your bare back, occasionally moving your hair away from it. there’s a tenderness to his touch. “i dunno. we can watch a movie, or something.”
you snort. “are you asking me on a date?”
he shakes his head. “not yet,” he smiles. eyes crinkling.
“mm.” you eye him skeptically. “okay.”
“‘m working up to it,” he murmurs, the tracing of his hand slowing little by little.
“you’re working up to it,” you repeat, eyes fluttering shut.
the last you hear before falling asleep is his soft hum of assent, the soft, slow synchronization of your breathing, and the sound of his heart beating. the room is warm, and so are you. neither of you are alone.
eeek. long ass thing i threw together. tossed it around in my head for like a week LMAO but it’s here now! i hope you guys like it. pls lmk if i missed anything, and my requests r open! or just like. come chat if u wanna hehe 💗
JACK ABBOT, who - as he gets closer to retirement - begins to take every Tuesday evening off of work to join his local cinema club. He goes to this little run down picture house, after he’s had a day full of sleep and has managed to clean himself up to a human level - pressed denim jeans and a fresh shave - and lingers in the lobby for a little while, attempting to mingle with other movie lovers before they enter the theatre for whatever classic has been chosen to be shown that week.
He spots you at every single showing. You always stand there, digging through the cardboard box of unwanted posters near the door, and you always leave with the most niche picks under your arm.
He asks you about them, one day, when you’ve been staring at an unfurled cover of the 2008 adaptation of ‘Choke’, and he falls in love with you on the spot.
JACK ABBOT, who marries his favourite film nerd, and proposes to her at that same cinema club that they met at, at a screening of ‘Muriel’s Wedding’. Sure, she’s a little tipsy from the wine they’d been sharing, and she’s merry from the constant sing-alongs to ABBA on the way over, but Jack doesn’t think she’s ever been more beautiful. Not from where he’s knelt on the floor, down on one knee like he’s been practising in-front of the bedroom mirror, his prosthetic clicked into place as he slips the popcorn-sticky ring onto her finger while Muriel and Rhonda sing ‘Waterloo’.
JACK ABBOT, who learns the wedding speech from the Princess Bride, and spends weeks memorising it from hand-written flashcards, having Robby or Dana test him daily at hand-off, and Shen and Ellis throw random words at him mid-shift. JACK ABBOT, who is so, unbelievably proud of himself for getting it all right while managing to keep the surprise, but is absolutely dumbfounded when you burst into tears at the altar as soon as the word “mawwiage” leaves his lips. Because your vows were about to say the exact same thing.
Two cinephile peas in a pod.
JACK ABBOT, who pictures his first dance to his second wife to be the famous ‘Dirty Dancing’ routine, because his first wife wouldn’t even let him attempt it when his amputation was fresh. But you shut him down straight away, sliding your speaker across the kitchen table like an Italian mobster, silent before you press play on ‘In Dreams’ when you return with your ‘Blue Velvet’ DVD in hand, and a shy smile.
He folds instantly, of course, and the two of you dance, one of Jack’s legs slipped between both of yours, your arms around his solid neck as he smirks into the side of your face, swaying you side to side while the dulcet tones of Roy Orbison ring through the marquee.
He spins you around in your Audrey Hepburn ‘Funny Face’ wedding dress, wearing matching rings engraved with ‘Your life will not go un-witnessed, because I will be your witness,’ and for once, Jack finds comfort in a world of make believe.
Because, like the end of every cheesy rom-com that he’s endured with you, enjoyed with you, he has the girl of his dreams.
His nerdy wife, who ends their beloved wedding night with a stack of new DVDs and a bottle of wine.
To Jack Abbot, ‘it was a million tiny little things, that when you added them all up, they meant that you were supposed to be together.’
Shawn Hatosy, who has been nominated for Best Supporting Actor by the Astra Awards for his role as Jack Abbot in HBO MAX'S The Pitt, will also be honored with the Virtuso Award. The Virtuso Award is a special honorary prize given to actors who show exceptional range, skill, and artistic impact.
The ceremony will be livestreamed on The Astra Awards YouTube channel at 7 p.m. PT on Saturday, August 15th.
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