profiteroles sinner

elle

[buyanewdress]

https://www.tumblr.com/buyanewdress/820624704891224064/calling-all-freaks-if-you-want-send-an-ask-with?source=share

corruption kink with sidney?

YUM. yum. this one is gonna be nasty

somehow watching one of his old man documentaries turned into you cuddling on his lap turned into sid shutting off the tv and telling you to ride his cock on the couch. 

he's basically guiding you through it, with big hands on your waist and helping you keep the pace. it's partially a lack of experience, partially soreness from your earlier workout.

"it's okay, sweetheart, i've got you. gonna teach you everything you need to know, okay?" his words are sweet, but sidney noses at your neck and his hot breath makes goosebumps rise across your arms. you make a noise that's half a moan, half an acknowledgement. "it feels okay, right?"

"it's good."

"just good?"

"no, it's-" you gasp as he brings you down far onto his cock, and it hits a particularly deep place inside of you. 

"there you go," he murmurs, breath hot on your ear. "i know you love being split open on my cock. we're gonna keep going until your cunt's molded to it, okay? you were made just for me. wanna make good on that." 

all you can do is shudder and cry out. 

"here, up, on your knees a little. hold still." you hold yourself up, hover just over his lap. it burns, but you have to be good. he wants you to learn. for your sake, for his. "put your hands on my shoulders." 

once your palms rest flat on his muscle, he fucks up into you with his arms wrapped around you tight. tells you again to hold still.

[sheheatedonmyrivalry]

Cliff teaches Ilya the prayer he says to St. Anthony when you lose things (Tony Tony please come down something’s lost that can’t be found) and now ilya walks around the house like

“TONY, you motherfucker, I need my KEYS! WHERE ARE MY KEYS TONY”

[dollerinna]

I WANNA TAKE A RIDE ON UR DISCO STICK !

𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓂃 𓈒𓏸 df! james wilson x fem! reader ˎˊ˗

SUMMARY⌇ sitting half-naked on your dad’s friend wilson’s lap during a car ride—what could possibly go wrong?

WORDCOUNT⌇ 1.9k

WARNINGS⌇ dad’s friend trope ⊹ dry humping ⊹ car sex sorta?? ⊹ grinding ⊹ public setting ⊹ risk of getting caught ⊹ unspecified age gap ⊹ guilty wilson… again

The car is stuffed to the brim—coolers wedged between legs, beach towels unrolling like lazy tongues over seatbacks, and a chorus of chatter blaring from the front seat. Someone’s yammering about sun protection with evangelical fervor, probably your dad’s coworker who takes SPF as a personal religion.

Wilson hovers by the open door, awkward in his neatly ironed slacks and a pale blue button-down, sleeves rolled up his forearms in a half-hearted stab at blending in. He’s mid-apology, gesturing vaguely toward the chaos, clearly about to martyr himself and wait for the next ride.

Too bad.

With an impish grin and something wicked glinting behind your heart-shaped sunglasses, you snatch his wrist in a middle of an excuse. You couldn’t help it—you’ve been hooked on the soft-spoken oncologist since forever. So with your dad distracted up front, it was officially go-time.

“Lap it is,” you purr, climbing in before he could blink—bikini-clad, bare-legged, unbothered—rear swaying with theatrical ease as you perch atop him, like it was pre-reserved with your name on it. Your skin, tinged with sunscreen and sharp citrus, was still cool from the air-conditioned house, a shock against the burn searing within his bones.

“Wha—-” Wilson choked on the syllable as your weight settles, soft and sun-warmed. His chestnut irises blown impossibly wide open at your boldness, hands flinching upward, frozen in a limbo of decency and doom.

“Uh… shouldn’t you have, I don’t know, changed at the beach?” he asks, pitch spiking as if he’s fifteen and allergic to this exact scenario. “Not that I claim to be an authority on carpool etiquette, but…”

He lets out a shaky laugh—brittle, and oh-so-panicked. “Lap duty was definitely not on my agenda today.”

You wiggle your hips with a satisfied hum, adjusting yourself until your ass is perfectly fitted over the ridge of his zipper. “Why wait?” you giggle, all teeth and honey, shooting him a smirk that could curdle virtue. “Besides… I figured if I’m gonna be sitting on your lap, I might as well dress for the occasion.”

The tie of your bikini top grazes his chin—loose, barely knotted. He could undo it by accident if he breathed too hard.

Wilson shakes his head, warding off all inappropriate thoughts threatening to root in his brain like weeds. It’s just a quick family-friendly car ride. Just a cramped backseat with his friends’s daughter on top. Nothing he couldn’t endure with a dash of self-control, right?

…If only he knew you had no plans to let him survive a much different type of ride.

You stretch to close the car door, arching with feline grace as your breasts lift just enough to threaten full exposure. Wilson sees it, tries not to, but his gaze lingers a second too long.

The engine rumbles to life, and so does the road, a rattling string of potholes and poorly timed stops that turns the backseat into a carnival ride. Each bump jostles you back against his pelvis, eliciting a startled grunt which he tries to disguise as a cough, even as your supple curves ripple over the firm rise swelling beneath you. You pretend not to notice.

Wilson’s breath comes shallow, lips parted around a sound that never quite makes it out. He’s hardening. Fast.

“Dear god,” he mutters, more to himself than anyone, a line of sweat beading at his temple as he squirms—futilely, laughably—to keep his raging hard-on from prodding at you. But it’s too late. You’re already molded to him, wedging down with a precise amount of pressure for him to see stars behind those poor, tortured lashes. Your ass cradles him, lush cheeks spreading and nestling onto the growing bulge below.

“Oh?” you chirp, syrup-sweet, sunglasses sliding down the slope of your nose as you glance at him with wide, mock-concerned eyes. “You okay back there? You’re looking a little flushed,” you press down on him for emphasis. “Want me to crank up the AC? Or would that just make things… harder?”

He doesn’t answer. Can’t. The car lurches again, and your tits bounce with the motion, jiggling inside the skimpy triangles of your top. One strap slips, ever so slightly. Enough for a dark flash of nipple to peek out then vanish, like a dare.

You lean back, your shoulder pressing into his clavicle as a whisper feathers the shell of his ear. “Feels like you’re enjoying the ride, Dr. Wilson…”

His hands finally find your hips—not to pull you off, no. Simply to hold you still. As if that’ll stop anything.

His knuckles flexes, tendons knotted under flesh, blanching with dwindling restraint. His grip wasn’t possessive, it’s utterly helpless—the way a man might cling to a ledge with nothing but rocks and open air below. Each shaky huffs stirs the hairs on your nape in staccato bursts, quavering and uneven, fluttering onto your dewy skin with every bump in the road.

Your thighs spread—no pretense of innocence now. Each little wriggle drags your ass across the rigid line of him, his cock now fully erect and caught painfully between your body and the prison of his shorts, swollen tip likely rubbed raw. The fabric must feel like sandpaper. Good. Let him squirm.

“Mmph!- you need to stop. You’re going to get me killed-” he protests weakly, voice thinned to a thread. It reaches for authority and lands somewhere closer to plea dressed up as one.

“I’m serious,” he grits out, low and swift. “Your father is three feet away. Driving. If he so much as glances back and sees this—sees me—he’s swerving us into a guardrail, and frankly? I’d deserve it.”

He risks a peep at the rearview mirror, already bracing for impact—or worse, conversation.

“And just for the record- I’m fairly certain ‘Sorry, sir, I accidentally ejaculated on your daughter’ doesn’t hold up in court.”

Yet despite the full-blown Wilsonian descent into moral panic, he doesn’t push you off. Doesn’t stop you. Because you’re warm, and you’re there, and his cock is practically signing a confession in pre-cum across the front of his slacks.

“Oh calm down,” you wave him off, reaching back to curl your arm around his neck when no one’s looking, fingers threading lazily through a piece of hair behind his ear. “He’s not gonna notice. He never does.”

“Even if he does look back, what do you think he’d see? Me sitting still, perfectly innocent… and you sweating bullets like you’re about to propose.” You snicker, bordering on cruel.

“If anyone’s blowing your cover, Wilson, it’s you.”

You punctuated your words by rolling your hips forward tauntingly, tracing slow, languid figure-eights that stroke his swollen shape through the cotton. It knocked the wind out his lungs, each pass coaxing a fresh tremor from his member. There’s slick warmth oozing from your barely-covered pussy slit, soaking straight through the gusset of your bikini, smearing over his lap in damning streaks. His khakis darken with it. A ruinous little brand. Yours.

Your lips brush close, shy of contact. “…Bet I could make you cum in your pants right now and you’d still smile through dinner like nothing happened.”

He groans, head thumping back against the headrest with a muted, defeated clunk. You hear it—the thick, guilt-laden swallow he tried to suppress, bobbing in his throat like a sob he doesn’t know where to aim.

This is his friend’s daughter. His friend, right there in the driver’s seat, blissfully focused on the road—while his boner was being ground into mush in the backseat by a bikini-clad siren half his age. He felt like every cliche he’d ever pitied—some sad, middle-aged divorcé with a weakness for younger women and no sense of boundaries.

…Well. He was that guy now. Exactly that guy.

His thighs twitch beneath you, muscles jumping involuntarily as his cock kicks, straining against the damp flimsy barrier between you. “This is—god—absurd,” he rasps. “I should be asking for a lawyer, not a… lap dance in the back of a Subaru.” It leaves him in a breathless rush—half-joke, half-defeat. The way his voice frays at the edges on the last word makes it clear: it’s already killing him.

Your pretty lips twists into a pout, one that’s too practiced to be pure. “Where’s the fun in that?” You croon, tone as deadly as silk over blade. “It’s not like your cock’s inside me… yet. So technically?” you trail off as your spine bows deliciously, bikini riding higher between your asscheeks—more string than swimwear now. “No crime. No foul. Just the perfect start to a very dirty little secret.”

You grind again—harder this time—and he hitches, eyes screwed shut and jaw clenched tooth-shatteringly tight as his shaft pulses violently under you, practically ready to burst free at the seams of his pants. His hands fly from your hips to the edge of the seat, clutching the hot vinyl as he’s afraid to touch you again. If he does, he won’t be able to stop.

The hushed noise that escapes Wilson is nothing short of pitiful—a strangled gasp snagged in the well of his chest, right above the frantic thrum of his stallion-quick heart. He’s trembling, every nerve sizzling and wound taut. It’s not from the cold—hell, it’s sweltering in here. But the tension you’ve stoked in him blazes white-hot, melting him down to a shivering wreck, knees jittering with no hope of stillness.

He’s flushed to the roots—neck to scalp lit up in a feverish crimson, the tips of his ears flaring cherry red. His dick throbs in his briefs, as if trying to claw its way inside you on sheer instinct alone. “P-Please,” he stammers, the plea nearly eclipsed by the drone of the highway. “This is a catastrophic idea- I’m about two seconds from losing any shred of self-control here.

“Catastrophic?” You echo. “Wilson, you’ve been gagging for it since I sat down. The only thing I made you do was stop pretending otherwise.”

Spurring him on, you lean in and whisper softly. “Come oooon… ditch the good boy act and cum for me already. I promise not to tell daddy…”

“Our dirty secret, remember?”

And just like that, his hips finally betrays him in the faintest disgraceful thrusts, every ghost of a buck into your clothed cunt an apology he’s too far gone to voice. A soft moan slips out of you, part from the friction, part from an unbearable, blistering ache low in your belly—dying for him to finish inside you next time.

However the rest of it? That’s unadulterated satisfaction—the victory of witnessing your long-time crush unravel under you, undone by an act so simple, so obscene.

“Dammit, wait—-” he hisses, louder than he meant to, the curse a tangled braid of guilt and relief. No one reacts. No one knows. And maybe that’s what makes it worse.

His frame staggers once, twice—then he’s gone, pleasure cresting through him in a silent, shattered surrender. A white, milky essence seeps through his underwear, drenching the space between your thighs and his lap, slathering across his crotch in trails of sticky shame. It’s filthy. It’s humiliating. It’s also easily the hottest thing you’ve ever felt.

He blinks open, but doesn’t move.

“Oopsie,” you smile so wide it aches, turning to catch a fine sheen glistening over the furrowed lines of his careworn features, turmoil etched deep around those sad puppy eyes.

“I think somebody made a mess.” your stare dips, unapologetically. “Hope you brought a spare change of clothes.”

Wilson exhales hard, hands scrubbing over his face as he kneads the bridge of his nose. He crossed a line. In fact—he obliterated it. And the worst part? He knows he’ll do it again.

Especially if you so much as whisper please.

-------☆-------

divider creds: @/cafekitsune

[spenceloria]

Omg finally someone also watching ER who I can express my John Carter obsession to!!

John Carer has a massive breeding kink. I cannot be convinced otherwise. That baby face is pulling reader into any supply closet, open room, hallway at any given moment during his shift to tell fill her up and tell her to give him a baby

There’s an ep s3e1 where he’s working like 100 hours or whatever and he starts getting a 5 o’clock shadow and looks like he’s going to collapse from exhaustion and it makes reader think she’s getting a break.. wrong. Sleepy John still comes thru

No actual babies tho 🫢

mmmm ok ive been thinking about this non stop because this is so insanely real it has me dizzy… first carter ask and im giddy as fuck! i love that man!!! thank u sm!!

but fr tho oh my god!!! john carter is adorable but fucking insatiable i swear to god… thinking abt how he said he has to let his mind drift while literally balls deep to “delay the inevitable”… and ur just like “baby you’re taking a mental inventory and thinking about bowel obstructions to stop yourself from finishing too fast???” maybe you’re teasing him, maybe he’s a little red and sheepish, maybe you admit that you don’t want him to hold back… because he can keep going to get you off can’t he? and when you lock your legs around his waist when his thrusts start getting sloppy, meeting his stupid confused puppy look with a lip bite and a knowing nod??? he swears his soul leaves his body right there.

you unlock the most disgustingly primal instincts in john!!! he swears hes not a perv… but what can he say when he can’t even keep it in his pants at work??? he’s counting down the seconds until your break, dragging you into an empty room and babbling absolute nonsense until your hands reach for his belt—even then the second he gets his hands down your scrubs he’s mumbling something about filling you up:((( even the thought of seeing his release—him, dripping down your thighs? he barely lasts five minutes.

john is convinced the two of you are sneaky, that your extended bathroom breaks are simply coincidentally at the same time, that he’s keeping it lowkey… little does he know anyone who walks by can hear well—him. john is so vocal:((( he can’t help it!! not when your gummy walls are sucking hm up like a vice, not when he has you propped up on the sink, waist pressed between your thighs, and your teeth digging into the crook of his neck!! thank god the walls at least muffle his words to be incoherent—because if benton heard him whimpering about filling you up with his seed, he would start digging his own grave.

and oml don’t even get me started on 3x1… what the fuck makes burnt out sleep deprived men so fucking hot???? the stubble, the eyebags, john looks like he’s falling apart at the seams, eye bags so dark they look like they’re burrowing into his skull. don’t tell benton, but he’s fallen asleep standing up—twice. lucky for him, he knows exactly what he needs—you! you startle when john corners you in a cramped supply closet, snaking his hands around your waist when you’re turned around—a sneak attack that’s almost cruel. “baby, you should be sleeping” your protests fall on deaf ears as you get pulled impossibly closer against his chest and his lips find their way to the crook of your neck, licking and nipping like his life depends on it—because to him, it does. “john. you cannot be serious.” your attempt to reprimand him is futile, even though you do a better job at masking it, john is all too aware of the—common interest amongst the two of you. “mm—five minutes, please, been thinking about you all day.” his begs are ever persuasive, as suddenly you find yourself ushering john to at least try to keep quiet while thrusting into you like a dog in heat—he can’t help himself, he knows what he needs to refuel himself, to light that spark of energy his sluggish form is so desperately craving… it’s none other than you, of course—with his hot sticky release dripping from your pulsating core and down your shaking thighs. john carter is a creature of habit, and he’ll crawl back to you every time.

aaaa first john post??? im sorry for being so inactive i have been mega busy but i have three—yes three winter/x-mas fics planned that i can hopefully get out before everyone’s favourite fat man arrives!!! love you all🩵🩵

[love-quinn]

I’m watching ER and John says “Youre doing great, just keep sliding it in, gently.” JUST IMAGINE HIM SAYING THAT WHEN YOURE RIDING HIM FOR THE FIRST TIME BYEEEEEE

18+ below the cut, unprotected piv, he spits in her hand, established relationship, john has a big dick idk what to tell you <3 fem!reader, 978 words

If it were anyone else, you might feel embarrassed.

But John is touching you so sweetly, hand moving from your side up your back to come rest on your shoulderblade. You're chest to chest, revelling in the closeness, and you're breathing directly into his mouth. He'd been kissing you for hours, licking past your lips and pulling satisfied sighs from your chest.

"So wet for me," he murmurs into your open mouth. He's stroking the top of your thigh through the silky material of your skirt, squeezing your shoulder with his other hand. "Is that all for me, baby?"

You're perched on his thigh, bare from the waist up, hands on his naked shoulders as he stutters his leg against your core. You nod breathlessly, "Yeah, uh-huh," you're babbling, "just for you."

His hand travels from your thigh down your leg so he can slip it under your skirt. You take the hint almost immediately and let your hands fall from his neck to fumble around for the zip of your skirt. John manages to pull it down your legs without letting you get too far from him, lips latched onto yours.

You can't even bring yourself to feel embarrassed at the way you're whining into his mouth. You're completely soaked through your underwear, rubbing a wet patch onto the thigh of his slacks.

"Fuck, you're so- god," John's achingly hard in his pants, desperate to hear the noises you make when you tip devastatingly into pleasure. "Fuck." He gets his hand under the waistband of your panties and your breath jumps.

"Feels so good," you kiss it into him and it elicits a deep groan from his chest that hits you right between your legs. "So good to me, John. Can I sit on your cock, please?"

He wants to get you ready, wants to do so much right by you, to feel you clenching around his fingers. But fuck, you're so pretty and so polite in his lap that he can't say no to you.

"Fuck, sweetheart," the petname slips out before he has the time to worry about how you'll like it. Until this point it's been babe, baby and one time when he was half asleep and his teeth were grazing your pulse point it was honey.

You make quick work of his pants, face warm under his gaze. You press one, two sweet kisses on either side of his mouth and hold your hand out by his chin. John tips his head forehead down to let a glob of spit settle in the valleys between your fingers. You wrap your hand around his cock and give him a couple of lazy pumps, swiping the circle of precum forming on the head and then bringing it down to the mess between your legs.

Your pupils are blown and John leans forward to kiss you wetly. "You think you'll be able to take me all the way?" It's said with a hint of smugness that you refuse to admit is a little bit justified. The first couple of times you and John had sex, it had taken a lot of him working you open with his fingers and even then you hadn't been able to take him all the way the first time he'd had you splayed out in his hold.

"Shut up, Carter." You push his chest and he falls back against the headboard with a thud. You'd ask if he was okay if it wasn't for the lazy smile dripping from his mouth, half-sitting as he looks up at you.

"Come on, baby," he coaxes you gently. "You wanted to ride me? Come on."

You'd hid your hesitancy well up until that point, but the look that flashes in your eyes makes John open his mouth again to ask if you want to stop.

"Shut up, Carter." You're smiling as you rise up on your knees, and his hands come to rest on the side of your ribs, thumbs brushing the underside of your tits. When you sink onto the head of his cock he almost blacks out at the squeeze, only blacking back in at the sound you make.

"You okay up there?" He asks, rubbing his thumb in the curved line of its axis. "You wanna keep going?"

You nod, eyes clenched shut in a way John is smug enough to know as pleasure rather than pain. He brings a hand down to circle your clit softly, trying to bring some sort of tether from your cloudy head back to him.

"I'm fine," you manage to gasp out. "Just feels different from up here. Never- fuck- you're..." You go out of your way not to use the word 'big' he doesn't need an ego boost.

He understands you anyway, leaning up for half a kiss. "It's okay, you're doing such a good job. So good for me, hey?" He sits back, face now eye level with your chest, and presses a kiss in the valley between your breasts. You sink down another few inches over the next few minutes, letting him pepper your neck and upper chest area with soft kisses in between sweet murmurings.

"That's it, baby," he squeezes your side encouragingly. "You take as long as you need." You let out half a moan and half a gasp that has his dick twitching inside you. "Almost there."

"I'm gonna kill you," you force out. You're finally able to relax your thighs, your hips flush to his. "Smug asshole."

John laughs, pulling his hand on the back of your neck to force you down so your face is level with his. He presses another one of those hot, sticky kisses that make you dizzy, to your mouth.

He pulls back, watching the way your tongue darts out to wet your lips. "Let me make it up to you?"

[missmanlykink]

how do you think our beautiful man john carter would act during sex??

what john’s like during sex ⋆˚ ✿

okay so i am just on season one and some of what i say may be inaccurate bc i’ve got 14 seasons left BUT this how i think season one john acts during sex

alright, so i think as a child he was a bit funny looking (or that’s what everyone told him) and he never got attention from girls ever, but then college came around. he got all handsome and cute and everyone was all over him. and he’s not necessarily cocky about it, but he’s a no stranger to sex. he lost his virginity in college for sure, and anyone who’s had sex with him has not been disappointed.

i think he’s fairly vanilla, but would definitely submit to you, but i think hes a switch but no strong dominance, but soft!dom of course.

while he’s inside he’ll kiss and praise you and whimper about how good you feel and it never gets old. he’s a frowner and when he moans he almost sounds like he’s in pain, but it’s quite the opposite. it feels so good that he brows just knit together and he’s basically pouting.

but something kinda kinky: he likes some pain. not stuff that will really hurt him, but scratches, nails digging into his skin, light biting (especially when you’re riding him and lean down to kiss him but leaves bite instead, and he’ll think of you like a sexy vampire) and hair pulling (and that’s when he goes down on you or during missionary.)

everyone says this but i fully believe he’s favorite position will be missionary so he can look at your face (and another thing, he likes to cum before you so he can your face as you cum bc he loves the face you made, but when he cums his eye shut and they’ll only say open if you tell him to look at you during it.)

doesn’t have a boob or ass preference because they both put him into a trance. if you’re walking towards him, he can pretend to not look at the way your tits are bouncing, and if you’re walking away so he can get a good look at the way your hips swish and your ass jiggles. and he loves playing with your boobs. during a heated make out, he’s sliding his hand up your scrubs and pull one of your boobs out of the bra cup and play with your nipple and loves it when you start whimpering into his mouth.

when he goes down on you it’s a treat for him. he gets selfish about it. i don’t think he was very good at it before he meets you but you turn him in a pussy eating MASTER because he spent time learning the best ways to make you cum. he sucks, licks, all of the above. uses his fingers and adds in another at the perfect moment.

and when you go down on him he’s LOUD and can not sit still. you can to hold his hips down (unless you want him to buck up into your mouth.) he’ll swear, cry out your name, call you insane (in a sweet name) and i think he’ll also be shocked from how good it feels. and if this is soft!dom!carter, he’ll tell you how gorgeous you are and that you’re the only one who can make him feel this good.

[xxepherr]

carter where he gets hurt at work (again) and he’s trying to be brave about it to impress reader and she’s like “oh so you don’t need me to kiss it better then” and he’s immediately soooo dramatic about it

.ೃ࿐ KISS IT BETTER

summary — carter is a massive baby, so when an accident occurs in the ER, he immediately does everything he can to still impress the coworker he has a massive crush on.

pairings — john carter x senior!resident!reader

pronouns — none, has hair long enough for a ponytail though

word count — 1492

note — i'm still very new to writing for carter so pls don't mind if it's bad 😭thank you for requesting :)

CARTER WAS NOT HAVING a good day.

it began when his car wouldn't start on the way to work. it got worse when he had to call the ER to let them know he would be late and in turn you showed up with your brand new car to pick him up. it unraveled further when mark made a joke in passing about how carter had called you of all people to pick him up when that wasn't the case at all.

eight lots of sutures, two ruined shirts, a broken shoelace and a pair of wet socks later, carter was ready to call it quits and head home feigning sick. he had already been here thirteen hours anyway, it wasn't like he had just showed up and felt like leaving early for the sake of it.

the sight of you made him envious. you look as good as you did when you pulled up to pick him up from the kerb thirteen hours ago. you'd been practically living in the hospital's on-call room since yesterday, but you looked so lively that it was hard to believe you'd been here that long.

your scrubs still looked pristine, but that was only because your bloodied ones had been discarded a few hours ago after a cyclist trauma rolled through the doors. there was the tiniest amount of frizz sticking up from the back of your ponytail, but overall your smile said a thousand things that blinded him into oblivion. maybe that was why you looked so refreshing.

the lights dimmed, the faded roar he could hear faintly in the background raising the hairs on the back of his neck with suddenly proximity until he found himself face-down on the floor, the stool he had been sitting on to mindlessly fill out paperwork skidding away from him until it hit the nearest gurney.

was the power out? he thought briefly before swarming clouds of dizziness flooded his line of sight, building up a blurriness that canceled out the harsh hospital lights. black spots swam across his vision, a distant groan slipping past his lips, and a very warm set of hands brushing across his face in the gentlest manner.

your silhouette blocked out the remaining light that filtered through the dark spots, and a dizzy smile pulled his lips upwards.

"CARTER," you called out, fishing your penlight out of your pocket and flashing it across his eyes. he flinched away from the light and tried to roll onto his side.

your heart had sank when one of the patients admitted under carter's care earlier had shoved wendy out of the way to pick up his IV stand and bash it over carter's head, shouting something about his results taking too long or something . . . you had ignored it completely with sudden tunnel vision because john carter was on the fucking floor bleeding from his head. you had been the first to his side and he had relaxed his head into your hands so tenderly that if you weren't so worried you probably would've noticed it clearer.

"jesus," you huffed, looking up from carter to where the aggressive patient was still kicking and screaming. "someone sedate him and help me out over here!"

you were strong but you weren't strong enough to pick up carter's borderline-dead weight. you half-hoisted him up and then let mark help support the rest of him until he was placed on the gurney carol had rolled over.

"okay, uh," you looked around the ER until you spotted deb helping the nurses pick up medical supplies that the patient had knocked across the floor. "move him into exam room 2, please."

"got it," carol smiled before helping mark guide a groaning carter away.

carter was probably fine, you knew that much. at most, he'd likely have a concussion and a bump on his head for a week or so . . . you were hoping it wouldn't become your problem.

knowing mark greene, it probably would become your problem.

THE EXAM WAS BRIEF. you quickly cleared that it wasn't anything serious, nothing more than a moderate concussion and some bleeding from a gash on the back of his head.

"am i dying, doc?" carter's voice was fluttery from the morphine. his eyelashes fluttered in a similar fashion, blinking his glassy eyes open and shut, following your every movement.

you scoffed, "baby."

"aw," carter pointed a finger at you like he knew something you didn't. "how sweet of you. look at you, being so lovely."

"no," you deadpanned, rolling your eyes and desperately trying to stop the smile that was threatening to pull your lips upwards. "i'm calling you a baby. i know toddlers who let me check for injuries better than you did."

carter waved it off, hardly remembering the way he whined and moaned about needing morphine before he 'perished'. it was quite the entertainment. "my brain hurts, okay? you try getting . . . wait," he paused, squinting before wincing. "what happened again?"

"one of your kind patients bashed you over the head with an IV stand," you said it simply, writing a few notes down on carter's chart attached to your clipboard as if it wasn't a big deal that this incident had occurred. you were absolutely not going to be telling him that you had been worried and therefore nonchalance was key. "and you have a moderate concussion and are gonna need stitches."

"stitches?" he sighed and shook his head. you hadn't had the time to properly close up the wound when examining him earlier, and you used a temporary fix until you could go find one of the med students. "speaking of . . . which med student do you want? or d'you want me to randomly pick one?"

carter paled impossibly further. "don't you dare."

"what?" you flashed him an innocent smile. "they have to learn at some point."

"and that learning will not be on my head, thank you," carter's lips were pulled into the straightest line you had ever seen. you couldn't help but let a chuckle slip when he crossed his arms and sunk back into his fluffed pillow. "can you do it?"

you sighed, "carter, i'm busy. your patients are now my patients and—"

"please?"

he was doing this annoying pouty thing with his face. his glassy eyes looked so wide and innocent, tears collecting carefully in his waterline like a weapon. you were stupidly falling for it just like every other stupid thing he did in your presence.

how could you say no to that face?

"fuck me," you grumbled under your breath, shaking your head. "fine, whatever, but you owe me the second your concussion is gone."

"mhm," he hummed, deep in thought as he stared ahead at the white wall across the room. "would a nice dinner suffice?" he asked, and you kept quiet to stop your smile from appearing in front of his eyes.

CARTER was brave the second the suture kit came out.

it was like a switch had been flipped and he was suddenly convinced that he wasn't dying . . . you had a feeling him wanting to take you out to dinner had something to do with that.

he liked watching you do sutures, and so it was a shame that he couldn't watch you do his. there was something so magical about your hands and their steadiness; something about the way you could do them so perfect every time that when patients came back to have them removed, there was hardly a visible mark. he envied it to some degree, but he made it his goal to do them just like you instead.

you impressed him every single day, and he wanted to do the same thing back by not being a baby about his injury.

"you doing okay?" you asked quietly, checking in for the fifth time since you had started. you were taking a little longer to perfect his, wanting them to perfect so that he hardly got a gnarly scar.

carter scoffed like it didn't even bother him. "me? yeah, totally fine. this is nothing at all. doesn't even hurt."

that's because you are literally numb, you thought, rolling your eyes and tying another knot. you smiled now that he couldn't see you, "aw, so you don't want me to kiss it all better for you, dr. carter?"

he spluttered, and you were smart to stop stitching him up when he started moving. "that's not— i wasn't— i mean . . . but—"

your laugh was airy, light and carefree in its quietness. "i'm fucking with you."

"so . . ." carter said after a moment of silence. "you . . . don't want to kiss me? i mean— you don't want to kiss it better, then?" you could see his frown and it made your heart beat a little faster.

"mhm," you hummed, focusing back in on his wound. "take me out to that dinner first."

his smile lit up the room. you both lapsed back into a blissful silence.

[kissophile]

ೀ PUPPY LOVE ! . . . john carter

summary - john is a lovesick mess for a person who’s meant to be his academic rival. although, she’s just the same.

warnings - mdni. small steamy makeout. blood. surgery. stitches. fluffy.

⋆ ｡ ˚ ౨ৎ ‧ ₊ ˚ .

“carter,” her small whine echoed against the pallid walls of the empty resident room. john was hunched over a thick textbook, his head in his hands. without looking up he muttered, “yes?” she took a few steps closer and dangled her bloodied extremity in front of his face.

he shot up out of his seat, “what the hell did you do?” he cradled her hand between the two of his like a broken baby bird, gently inspecting it.

“got in the way of benton’s scalpel,” she huffed. lifting poorly packed bandage, john could see the laceration was deep. gaping with an almost perfect incision. rbenton’s steady hands were a blessing, otherwise the resulting scar would be quite unsightly. at the loss of the makeshift clot, blood pooled around the wound and dripped into carter’s palm.

“were you in on a surgery?” his jealousy was thinly veiled. still, he turned her hand to look for any other scrapes. she smirked, “it was just a truama. i excised a bullet. no big deal or anything.” her voice was dripping in an unadulterated pride. she didn’t have much to be proud of, really. immediately after removing the bullet she got in the way and missed an opportunity to pull out another one for the sake of saving her own hand. but john didn’t need to know that.

“you’re kidding,” he drops her hand in surprise, or anger, she wasn’t sure. she yelped at the movement. john’s eyes widened as he hurried to softly pick it up once more, “sorry, sorry,” he winced. “benton said you’d doctor me up. now doctor me up.” she shoved her hand against his. he hurriedly nodded.

john sat her down on the bed and snapped on blue latex gloves. he rolled between her legs with a suture kit. he softly placed her hand upon the overbed table, which was dressed with protective blue paper. he scooted a little closer to her. his legs were spread wide, knees pressing against her dangling claves.

finally he began to remove the clumsily clad ace wrap. she hissed as it pulled against her skin. a soothing thumb rubbed over her knuckles as he shushed her like a child. “jesus,” he whispered.

she felt a rapid wave of nausea wrack her body. so she made a point to look at carter’s face rather than the open flesh of her limb. “how’s your day going? any fun stories?”

the apples of his cheeks swelled as he smiled, “someone’s been hogging all the fun.” one hand laid beneath her’s - warm and comforting - as he searched the kit for saline.

she snorted, “yeah open wounds are real exciting.” he shook his head, gap toothed grin still prodding at his cheeks despite his better judgement. that smile made her face all hot. every time she made him laugh at one of her jokes, or he threw her a lopsided smirk, without fail, her heart skipped a beat. she would have to rasp her next breath, heat flooding her chest.

he placed a small metal bowl beneath where he held up her hand. she had never noticed just how big his hand was compared to her own. he was so big. tall. “this is gonna burn,” he warned. she nodded. fluid flooded the gash. she whimpered, flinching away at the pain but john’s grip was unrelenting.

with wide doe eyes he whispered, “sorry.” she bit her lip, “it hurts like hell.” john dabbed at the blood on the surrounding skin with a tissue. “need me to kiss it better?” he teased, flashing those pretty teeth. she rolled her eyes. “shut up and fix me.”

john pushed the metal tray to the side and began to prep his needle. “any deeper and youd’ve been out of surgery for weeks.” his nimble fingers steady against the back of her hand. “i bet you’d like tha-” she cuts herself off with a sharp gasp as the first stitch goes in, “fuck.”

before she can apologize carter lightly squeezes her fingers, “it’s okay.” she screws her eyes up tight and twists her neck as if looking away would make the pain go away. “we can’t have you out of comission, i think the whole place might go up in flames.” she bit back a smile, “yeah right.” he nodded, “no, really. who would wrap all the sprains and do the paperwork?” that made her giggle.

a calm quiet settled over the two. he made quick work of sewing her back together. intermittently he would give her a gentle squeeze of encouragement to fend away the hurt. after tying off her stitches he wrapped her up neatly as an extra precaution.

finally he sighed “all better,” in the sickly sweet voice he put on for little kids and dementia patients. it made her stomach flutter. he haphazardly threw his reddened gloves into the metal pan.

“thank you.” her uninjured hand floated above his head to pick at his hair idly, “next time there’s a bullet to pull out of a guy’s ass i’ll let you have at it.” her hand fell to her lap, though his head distractedly followed the motion in desire for more of her doting touch. head dipped, big eyes flickering about her face he muttered, “his… his ass?” he had processed her words seconds late.

she nodded and with a shared look they both laughed. john was closer now, he had pushed the table away. “you lost your hand for ass surgery?” he hadn’t let go of that injured hand since he had removed his gloves. both hands enveloping her smaller one.

“it was for a noble cause,” she giggled. his thumbs gently traced over the bandaging. he snapped back into doctor mode. “i’ll take them out next week. if they snap let me know.” she hummed in agreement.

“you’re good with your hands, doc,” she teased, leaning down toward him. soft silence befell them. he played with her small fingers, pad of his thumb running over every one of her polished nails.

john shot her a distant look, “your nails are pretty.” he seemed much giddier than normal. it was a tad unsettling but she was in no hurry to get away from him. his kindness made her heart swell. it took everything in her not to grab him by the hair and shove her tongue in his mouth.

“carter?” she poked her toe into the side of his thigh. he finally fully met her eye, “hm?” his cheeks were bright red. her smile hurt her cheeks, “you okay?”

he shook his head. her brows knotted together in concern. but he was leaning up toward her. it didn’t take much to close the space. and suddenly his soft pink lips were so close and her head felt fuzzy and concern for him was the last thing she felt.

“john.” she warned breathily. the tip of his nose brushed her cheek, “you’ve never called me that. don’t start now.”

“carter - i -“ her sputtering was cut short by his lips crashing into her own.

john was gentle. slow. his big hand cupped her cheek, the other on her shoulder. afraid she may disappear if he got too eager. she was the one who became all excited and sloppy. her fingers threaded into his messy hair and tugged him closer, though it wasn’t possible to get any closer. her tongue grazed his lower lip and his breath quickened.

he wrapped his arms around her waist tightly, pulling her to the very edge of the bed so they were chest to chest. spit swam messily between their mouths, teeth clashed, and as he pulled away for a taunt gasp of air a string of drool pulled between them.

forehead resting against his, she snorted, “ew,” and wiped at the dribble. a pager screeched a blaring chorus of beeps making them both jump. john patted his lab coat.

“it’s me,” he huffed in frustration, showing her the face of the device. she wiped at her mouth, “go on,” she motioned to the door.

he began to stand up, “but - but you’ll be here, right?” she laughed, “john i’ll be here for another eight hours. yeah.” he looked around, shy as an alter boy despite his kiss-chapped lips.

“i… i like you,” he muttered. she nodded, “you know, i think i’ve put that together now.” outside the door someone shouted his name in a deep, gruff voice. he instinctively made for the door but stopped clumsily in the doorway. she watched him in childish delight.

“we’re gonna talk about this!” he reaffirmed before sprinting down the hall.

[love-quinn]

— MEMORY LOSS.

pairing — john carter x fem!reader

summary — this thing between you and john is still fairly new, but he already knows he's completely obsessed with you. and, well, he's not exactly good at keeping things like that to himself.

word count — 4k

18+mdni — smut, fingering, oral (f!receiving), mentions of m!masturbation, john cums in his pants (this is apparently a running theme whoops), pussydrunk carter, i call him johnny like 3 times, reader is afab, wears a dress and makeup, and is called a girl by carter

note — still very very new to writing smut but i am getting more comfortable with it so i hope that people like this?? i also didn't mean for this to end up as long as it was but i feel like i blinked and suddenly it was like 2k and nothing had really happened. thank you so much for 500 followers??? absolutely insane considering like, a week ago i didn't even have 450. based on this ask <3

You seem to be very invested in making him tea.

He’d said yes on a whim, not realising what it meant. He’d been more preoccupied with you in his lap, the feeling of your bare legs against him, the way he had been close enough to see each and every crease of your makeup under your eyes.

You’d been impossibly quiet all evening, and John doesn’t know you well enough to know if it’s uncharacteristic or not. You’re not generally pretty talkative on the whole, but he’s not sure if that’s shyness or just how you are. He doesn’t mind, if it is how you are, you’re such a pretty thing and your thighs are so soft under his hand that he couldn’t be paying attention to anything even if you were talking. 

This thing between the two of you is pretty new, only a couple of months old, and John’s managed to get his hands on you a few times. His hand on your thigh while driving, your feet in his lap while watching a movie with his lazy hands on your ankles, his nose pressed to the top of your head while you slept.

He can count on two hands the number of times you’ve let him kiss you longer than a soft press of his lips to yours. He’s tasted your chapstick, knows the taste of your spit mixed with his. 

He’d finally taken you out on a real date. A nice dinner, a bouquet of flowers that you’ve placed in one of your nicest glasses in the kitchen, and a whole evening of John charming the breath out of you. He had driven you home and not even bothered to hide his glee at being invited in. 

“I had a really good time,” you’d admitted, looking down at your shoes. John’s heart has been trying to crawl out of his throat since he came to pick you up. Delicate black shoes, a pair of tights that is hiding a hole in the upper thigh under a pretty red dress the same colour of the blood he’s drawing from biting his tongue all night. 

John had an index finger curled around your middle finger, and he had used it to tug you closer to himself, and this time you let him. Letting him pull you into his lap on your soft couch, halfway through airily suggesting that he find something for you two to watch when he kissed you. 

He keeps you there for almost twenty minutes, pulling those pretty flats off and makes himself dizzy by peeling those ripped tights off your legs. You’re smiley, kissing him back, threading your fingers through his hair with the utmost care and softness. “I had such a good time, baby,” he kisses the fat of your cheek, feeling the way they warm under his touch. “Loved seeing you, look so pretty.” His hand had gone slowly from the back of your knee, up, up, and up, until it was past the hem of your skirt. 

He was being so slow, knowing you’re kind of jumpy and not wanting anything to happen without you having the opportunity to stop him. Hands grabbing at your thighs wherever they could reach, committing every one of your pleased noises to memory. 

You’d pulled away, sounding breathless and looking kissed. “Do you want something to drink? I have tea?”

He had laughed, fully and utterly endeared. “Sure, baby.”

John hadn’t quite thought it through, just wanting to agree with you, feeling his nose against the flat of your jaw. You’d climbed off his lap at that, legs shaky, still giggly, and pranced off to your kitchen, leaving him spread on the couch feeling a little embarrassed and a lot turned on. 

He wants to say he doesn’t care that the two of you haven’t hooked up, but care doesn’t quite feel right. Mind seems too indifferent. It doesn’t bother him, he’d wait forever if he had to. Even if he didn’t have to and you’d just prefer it. A quiet life of the two of you, cohabitating an apartment where he gets to look at you every day. He won’t say he hasn’t thought about it though. Hasn’t collapsed into bed after a twelve hour shift and had his thoughts drift with his hands following suit. 

You’re not quite his girlfriend, but the two of you have been seeing each other for enough time that he doesn’t feel like it’s creepy that he thinks of you that way. As it stands, it’s only on occasion. If it got any further it might be a little creepy. It depends on what you think. The idea of asking you brings a sickly burn to his face - hey, baby, you don’t mind if I touch myself while thinking of you, do you? Don’t worry, it’s only like, half the time. That’s probably worse than if it was every time. 

Fuck, you look pretty. With your dress he can see your upper thighs and your entire upper chest, the top coming to rest just high enough to protect your decency. You kept pulling it up over dinner because you would lean down over your plate and accidentally give him an eyeful. He charitably pretended not to notice. You always look pretty, even when you’re not showing skin. He likes you with your lovely dress, he likes you in the chunky sweater you’d been wearing the first time he met you, he likes you that time he’d accidentally come into your bedroom while you were changing and gotten a glimpse of you pulling your skirt up.

What he had liked even more, though, was the embarrassed smile that had stretched up your face and the quiver of your voice as you’d told him to turn around. 

You’re taking a very long time, turned away from him and fussing with a mug, and he wants to go over to see you. It’s practically been a billion years since he got to see your face. 

“Baby,” he groans, leaning down so the back of his neck is curved with the arm of your sofa.”Where’d you go?”

You cough, startled. “You wanted tea?” Not that bad. 

“You growing the tea leaves over there?” He lilts, voice honeyed and lazy. “I’m forgetting what you look like.”

There’s some twinkling of metal on ceramics, and soon the pad of your feet. You have a mug of tea, slightly misshapen, cream coloured with fruit painted on, and you offer it to him bashfully. “Still like me?”

He takes the mug and puts it down on the floor, hands enveloping yours. “Hmm,” he pretends to think. “Need a closer look,” he presses another kiss to the side of your mouth. “The prettiest girl I’ve ever seen. Can’t believe you kept me from seeing this for a whole nineteen minutes. Some new kind of torture.” His lips quirk up at the side.

You look down, embarrassed under his intense gaze as he pulls you into his lap again. 

“You couldn’t be a doctor, pretty girl,”’ he says, not unkindly but with a formality that leaves little room to argue. “First rule is do no harm,” he presses a distracted kiss to your temple. “And you’re fucking killing me.” He can feel the plush of your thighs under the pads of his fingers. 

You stutter a laugh and he can feel it against his face. “I’m killing you?”

He looks at you gravely. “To death.”

You giggle and he’s hit right in the gut with a yearning that makes him feel like a high schooler. John feels like his breathing has synced with yours, the two of you drawn together instinctively as he kisses you again. He swallows you sighs, touches your legs, and tries to avoid thinking about the twitchiness of his hardening cock. You accidentally get too close to it and he lets out a deep groan. “Still killing me,” he mutters, not bothering to pull back fully. 

You make a slicing motion across his neck with an index fingernail, teasing. “Don’t think I can stop,” you admit. “You seem kinda weak spirited.”

John laughs, ducking his head to get his mouth on whatever part of your hand is still at his neck, settling on kissing the side of your finger. “Me? Weak spirited?” He laughs. “What gives, babe?”

That makes you smile and he regrets not trying to nip at you, he might have gotten a full laugh. He decides to rectify that, taking his hands and digging his fingers into your sides. He gets something that’s a cross between offense, glee and bewilderment. In your surprise, he bolts up and overshoots, shooting forward to push you on your back. “Woah, officer.” He has each of your wrists in his hands and you squirm under him. “Give a girl some warning.”

“Is that really the path you want to go down?” He kisses you again, perfectly content to keep you smiling up at him, “You want to be a bad girl?” His tone is stilted and awkward, and you’re completely endeared. John’s a flirt, but he doesn’t usually like them as much as he likes you. 

“This is a wrongful arrest,” you insist. “You can check my record, it’s clean.”

He kisses you and you make a happy noise that sends blood straight to the tips of his ears and the pull of his groin. 

John’s grip on you tightens without him meaning it to. He’s trying so hard to keep this light, innocent, plausibly deniable, but you’re looking up at him with those pretty eyes and he can feel his self-control crumbling faster than the arms trying to hold him above you. 

“That’s cute,” he says against your skin. “My girl’s never been arrested before.” His hips shift almost involuntarily against yours, and he knows you can feel he’s half-hard just from kissing you. He doesn’t have it in him to be embarrassed, not when he’s trying so hard to behave. The little sigh you let out at the feeling doesn’t help his case. 

“John,” you say his name just to say it, blinking up at him like one time your eyes will open and he’ll be gone. He makes a bit of a face. 

“No one I know really calls me John,” he admits. “Most of the other doctors call me Carter.”

His lips are down at your neck by this point, and he can feel the vibrations of each breath you take. He shoves down the feelings of wanting to swallow them,

“Do you want me to call you Carter?”

He shakes his head, nose brushing your jaw. “No, baby. I like hearing it from you.” You duck your head to try and catch his mouth once he reaches your collarbone and he lets you if only to keep you comfortable.

“Want me to stop?” He asks gently. He pulls back enough to look at your eyes. “Pretty girl, gotta tell me what you want.”

You’re breathless against him. “Want you,” you admit. 

A noise barrels its way from his mouth and dilutes itself against your skin. You’re driving him insane, you’re going to be the fucking death of him. How is he meant to function after you say shit like that?

“Yeah?” he rasps, voice already wrecked. His hips are staying decidedly still, but the way your body arches under him isn’t helping. “You want me?” He swallows against you, mouth suddenly bone dry. 

He lets your hands go, one hand coming to clutch the arm of the sofa behind your head, the other travelling down to rest on the outside of your thigh, teasing the hem of your dress. “What part of me does my girl want, hey?”

He knows, can feel the heat between your legs, wants to push his knee between your thighs and finally feel you. 

“Your fingers…”

Oh, God, you’re going to be his undoing. 

“Yeah, sweet girl?” He’s out of breath and he hasn’t even gotten under your dress yet. He pushes his lips to yours and slides off his position above you, now kneeling at your side. Completely and wholly devoted. “You can have my fingers. Can have anything you want, baby, you just gotta tell me.”

His hands push the skirt of your dress up, bunching it around your waist. His name tumbles from your lips and he feels his cock twitch at the sound. Your upper thighs are printed on the back of his eyelids, he’s never been so hard in his entire fucking life, and if he’s not careful he’s going to admit he loves you. 

“John,” you whimper at the feeling of him rubbing circles into your thighs. “Don’t tease me.”

He plants a kiss to the side of your knee, reaching a hand up to let you thread your fingers through his. His thumb brushes a line up your panties, and he can feel how wet you are already. 

“Fuck, baby,” now he’s started he can’t stop. “All this just for me? You’re so fucking wet.” His thumb finds your clit through your panties and you keen, throwing your head back, already so worked up. His shy girl, out of breath, begging him to make her cum.

“Please,” your voice is uneven. “Don’t- please touch me.”

He can smell you through the saturated fabric and when he slips his hand underneath through the side, pressing his thumb into your folds he groans like he’s the one getting groped under the clothes. 

“Fuck, look at you,” he can’t even get a good view of your pussy with your underwear and his hand in the way, but it’s enough to have him rock fucking hard. “So pretty, all spread out for me? Is this for me?” He knows it is, but he needs to hear you say it. 

Needs to hear you tell him he’s got you dizzy and touched and desperate while his hands is in yours. He knows it, wants to hear you gasp it out. 

“Uh huh,” you nod, eyes clamped shut, vaguely embarrassed at the fact you can’t articulate your feelings. “Just for you.”

He’s rutting against the sofa on his knees on pure instinct, too focused on you to even register. His nose gets up in there to join his fingers, and he’s sure he’s squeezing the life out of your hand. “Fuck, smell so good.” He licks a stripe up your panties and almost cums at the sound that pulls from you.

“Can I take these off?” He looks up at you, eyes wet, one thumb running over your knuckles and the other absently toying with your clit. “Please?”

“Yeah, Johnny,” you breathe. “Yeah, you can take ‘em off.” He lifts your hips enough to tug them down - heart constricting at how pretty they are; pink and lacy and (potentially?) just for your date tonight. They go straight into his back pocket, and he’s distracted briefly at the idea you might forget to ask for them back. 

He doesn’t waste time after that, his face finding purchase at your core as soon as he’s able to. He groans into your pussy at the taste, licking from your hole to your clit. He can vaguely hear you moaning above him, can feel the friction of his cock against the inside of his pants, your nails digging into the back of his hand, but that all falls at the wayside behind the punch-sweet slick coating his chin. 

You can’t recall ever being touched like this, one hand clutching his so tight his knuckles are turning white, the other stroking his hair as softly as you can bear to. “Oh, that’s so nice, can you- oh, just a little up.” He lets you give him direction until an almost violent moan rips itself from your chest and you finally take a good grip on his hair. 

“There?” You can barely hear him because he doesn’t bother to detach himself from your cunt. 

“Uh, huh,” you nod, blissed-out and dazed, hips twitching at the vibration of his voice against your clit. 

John’s eaten pussy before, would consider himself quite good at it, but the way you’re bucking up to meet him, the fluttering of your walls around him, the god-fuckin’-have-him sweetness on his tongue has made every coherent thought fly out the window. “Can I use my fingers, baby?” He gasps out, coming back up for air. “Please? Wanna feel you, wanna feel you so bad I bet you’re so tight, aren’t you, pretty?”

“Yeah, Johnny.” No one calls him John and even fewer have ever called him Johnny. “Please, want your fingers.”

His brain is completely fried as he slips two fingers inside your pulsing hole and feeling the way you completely suck him in. He’s about five seconds from ruining your very nice couch when you clench down on him with an agonising moan.

His fingers are moving so slowly it’s almost torturous, brushing that sweet spot deep inside you that you’ve never been able to reach with your own fingers. John laps at your clit, flat, broad strokes over the swollen nerves as he pushes in deeper with his fingers. 

“So fucking tight,” he groans, barely even talking to you anymore. He feels something drip down his neck and the only thought that goes through his head is a mournful what a waste. All rational thought is gone, he can’t even remember his own name when you’re not crying it, and he doesn’t care to. 

He takes his mouth off your clit - dutifully replacing it with the thumb of the hand that’s inside you - to bring his mouth under his hand. John maneuvers himself so he can lap the drops of your essence where his fingers are fucking you deep enough to make tears prickle at the corners of both your eyes and his. 

John can feel you clenching, so tight he can’t imagine having feeling in the tips of his fingers much longer, and he groans again, pressing his nose to your inner thigh. “You close, baby?” He asks, mouth full. You nod at him, pretty makeup smudged around your eyes, pupils blown and looking somehow impossibly prettier than he’s ever seen you. He’s going to marry you. You’re not even his girlfriend yet. “Gonna make my girl come,” he slurs against your slick.

You make a strangled noise like you can’t breathe, the hand not in his is clenching your skirt so you can see his face. John would let his fingers fall off if it meant you kept panting his name the way you are and getting to feel you grip him the way you are on both of his hands. 

“Can you come for me, sweet girl?” he coaxes, curling his fingers again and moving his mouth back up to wrap his lips around your clit.

“Fuck!” Your hand grips his hair so hard he cries out against your core. “John- Oh!”

He shoves his fingers in further, trying to get as deep as he can to push an orgasm out of you. “There we go, fuck, you look so pretty- taste so good. Need you to come, can you come for me? Please - God - need you to come for me. Please, baby. Fucking- fuck- love-”

You come hard around him, gushing around his fingers with a cry of his name. John’s pressing open mouthed kisses to your core, absolutely no finesse or rhythm, just trying to get as much of you in his mouth as he can. 

“Oh, thank you baby,” he squeezes your hand, trying to stop his eyes from clamping shut so he can see the shine of your lips as your jaw forms the O of his name. 

You jerk, pressing the back of your heel into his back, scrambling to find something to hold in your spare hand that’s gone back and forth between your skirt and his hair, settling on pulling his hair which makes him whine into your thigh. 

You lay them for a moment, still in a daze as you come down from your orgasm, getting hit with an aftershock as he pulls his fingers out of you and presses them right against his tongue. 

John can vaguely feel his heartbeat behind his eyes as he sucks the taste of you off his fingers, revelling in the way his mouth is slick with you. He pulls back on his haunches, squeezing the fingers in his hand gingerly. “You okay, baby?”

You nod, flushed and glowing, smoothing down the hair that’s stuck to his forehead. “Yeah,” you sigh out. “Yeah, John, I’m okay. C’mere,” you tug him off his knees by the collar of his too-fancy shirt and pull him back on top of you. You kiss him firmly, uncaring that the lower half of his face has a sheen of your arousal. 

He lets himself be manhandled, one hand still in yours and the other on your bare thigh. Even though you’ve just had one of the most scathing, white-hot orgasms you’ve ever had, he’s the one who looks completely ruined. 

“You’re crazy, Carter,” your spit mixes with your arousal fluid and he swallows it eagerly. 

He shakes his head against your mouth. “Uh uh, not from you.”

“You don’t like that?” He hums disapprovingly. “John? Johnny? Baby?” He groans and you know you’ve hit the jackpot there. 

John chases your mouth as you pull away. You blink at him through wet lashes and when you speak John feels both his heart and his cock jump. “Can I suck you off, baby?”

He chuckles under his breath, avoiding your eyes and pulling back just enough. “I, uh…” he pulls one of his hands back just to scratch the side of his neck, his skin pink under his palm. He’s suddenly very aware of how sticky his underwear feels. “I kind of already…”

He doesn’t have to say anything, you see the flush of his face and the growing wet patch on the front of his pants. 

“Already?” You seem very excited at the fact that he came in his fucking pants like a virgin. “Just from going down on me?”

He groans. “I- yeah,” he admits, embarrassed. “I was… yeah, just from doing that.” Even the tip of his nose is red. “You’re too pretty, sweet girl, drove me crazy.” He leans in and lets you close the gap - just in case his desperation is too much for you now. 

You kiss him sweetly. “Had a really good time tonight, John,” you can’t quite look him in the eye, like you’re the one who’s embarrassed even though he’s got a sticky mess in his lap. You’re past the point where you have to ask if you’re going to continue seeing each other, but you always try to gauge how he’s feeling after every date. 

And he’ll be damned if he lets you think for even a single second that he’s feeling anything other than completely obsessed with you. “Me too, baby,” he pulls you down, laying back on the sofa and pulling you close.

He’s only half on the couch, one leg hanging off and when he shifts to let you get comfortable there’s a clink of ceramic on wood and you shoot up. “Shit!” You roll off him and scoop up the cup of tea, now mostly cold. 

“Hey, baby?” He lays there, calling out to where you duck off to the kitchen. You hum distractedly to show you’re listening. “Do you mind if I take a shower? Not super stoked at the idea of spending the night covered in jizz.”

You arrive back with paper towels. “Oh you’re staying the night, are you?” He never has before. That’s probably because he’s never had his fingers inside of you before. Your voice is teasing as you get on your knees to clean up the spill. 

“I can’t drive home like this,” he protests. 

You giggle. “Yeah you can shower, you know where it is.” He hauls himself off the sofa, kissing the top of your head as he goes past you. 

“Wanna come with?” he’s not asking you to shower with him and you both know it. You’ve showered with him in the room before, he likes to come sit on the floor and sit with you with you behind the curtain.

You throw a look over your shoulder at him.

“What?” He throws his hands up in surrender. “I might forget what you look like again.”

[cattyb2]

a glimpse of us | fraser minten

Pairing: fraser minten x reader!gf

Prompt: at your cousins wedding fraser watches you walk down the aisle, watches you help the bride with anything she needs, and he can’t help but picture what your life would look like if you were the bride and he were the groom

requested!

For the last couple weeks your life has been a consistent storm of flowers, decorations, memorizing who’s sitting where, and why uncle Mike is not allowed near uncle Dan.

So when it was finally the cool spring morning that your favorite cousin has been waiting for the last year and a half, you kissed Fraser goodbye before the sun rose, and left the apartment.

He has texted you periodically of course. And your answers usually consisted of telling him something that managed to already go wrong, or about some family drama, a bridesmaid who stained her dress, or about how all you want is to be in his arms. You ended each text with an ‘I miss you.’ Before it was back to the silence.

So as ceremony begins, and the bridesmaids start walking down the aisle, Fraser could hardly contain himself. Because he knows the order, he knows you’re going to be walking out any second in the dusty blue dress you tried on in front of him a few weeks ago.

The music continues, and as Fraser’s standing he feels the need to grab the back of his chair, or anyone’s chair, as he sees you. Your hair is swept up in an elegant updo, the small bouquet of flowers held in your hand, the other thrown around the arm of a groomsman.

As you make your way down the aisle, your eyes find Fraser. It doesn’t take any time, because at all times it feels like there is a magnet from him to you.

He’s standing in the row of seats along with mutual friends, and he looks damn good. His button down opened a bit at the top, the black shirt fitting him perfectly. His hair moves slightly in the breeze, and you give him a teasing wink before you walk past him.

Next walks the maid of honor, your cousins best friend. And while you feel like you should be focused on her, you cannot stop looking to a certain hockey player. And it just so happens that the hockey player also can’t stop looking at you.

And you can’t help as those thoughts of the future creep in. They’ve been doing that recently. When you see him making coffee in the morning, when you see him with kids at charity events or saying of course to taking pictures with them, when you think of Christmas, and see elderly couples at your favorite diner. And helping to plan this wedding? It’s taken its toll on you. It makes you think about what he would look like at the end of the aisle as you’re walking down. You wonder if he’d cry seeing you dressed in white. You wonder what his vows would be like, and wonder if Fraser would dip you in the aisle and kiss you in front of all the people who are important to you.

But then the music changes, and you’re snapped out of your thoughts to see your cousin making her way down the aisle. She looks stunning, and emotion tugs deep on your heart as you watch her and her very soon to be husband take each other in.

Fraser watches you from his seat, and he sucks in a breath as he realizes you’re trying not to cry. In fact, you promised him you weren’t going to cry. Because if you do, you’re going to end up starting some long chain reaction with the other bridesmaids. So in preparation for this, Fraser had to endure two weeks of you holding back tears from watching the ‘Top 20 movies that will make you ugly cry’. The list as he learned, did not lie.

You quickly and carefully wipe away a tear threatening to fall, standing up straight and focusing on what’s happening. Only your eyes keep straying back towards him, and his eyes you don’t doubt, had ever left yours.

—

As cocktail hour begins, you sneak to your boyfriend quickly before you’re summoned for pictures. He’s laughing in a small group of relatives and friends. Luckily, you have some very heavy Bruins fans in the family, and they are more than excited to talk Fraser’s ear off about games, strategy, and some comment about how Fraser needs to punch a Florida player, but you block that one out as you approach.

“Hey you.” You say, approaching him as he instantly opens his arm for you to slot yourself against him. He smiles at your words, leaning down to plant a kiss on your lips.

Your aunts blush and look to the grass, but your uncle Mike continues his rant about physical violence on the ice.

“I’m sorry guys I really only have a second before pictures start, do you mind if I steal him away?” You ask your family, and your aunts nod of course.

“Bring him back in one piece, I still have ideas on strategies!” Uncle Mike yells to you as you and Fraser escape for a moment.

“Oh my god.” You say with a laugh, pulling Fraser to the edge of the tree line. “I’m sorry about that, has he been bothering you?” You ask with a slight cringe, and Fraser chuckles before shaking his head no.

“No, he’s been fine.” Fraser says, his voice warm as he looks at you. “You’re so beautiful, Y/N.”

“You’re going to make me red before the pictures.” You say, slapping his chest teasingly.

“Do you think the bride would notice if you come back without lipstick on?” Fraser asks, and you smirk as you bite your lip. You glance around for a second. The venue is completely outdoor, there are huge gardens and pavilions, and a private area by the trees that you guys are currently occupying. So when you’re confident that you’re out of sight, not wanting to make a scene at your cousins wedding of course, you respond.

“And what on earth would happen to my lipstick?” You ask, not able to help yourself when it comes to giving into his teasing.

“This.” He says, before leaning down to kiss you. He keeps it soft, keeps it respectful in the way one of his hands is under your chin, the other on the dip of your back. You pull back after a little while, even though you want nothing more than to kiss him and never stop.

He smiles, taking his thumb and rubbing just under your lip, where you’re sure your lipstick was smudged.

“You looked amazing up there.” He admits, and your heart does that stupid thing it does every time he compliments you. “I just, I couldn’t help but image what you would look like if that was us.”

The confession makes your heart stop, because if he didn’t say it to you, you would have been saying it to him.

“And maybe that’s too soon, or inappropriate to say at somebody else’s wedding.” He says as you laugh. “But I want this, Y/N. I want this all with you.”

You kiss him again, your lipstick be damned.

“I’m so glad you said that.” You whisper.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You confirm. “Because I was thinking the exact same thing.”

Fraser lets out a relieved laugh, and he kisses you again. You guys must have been so lost in the moment, that you don’t hear the footsteps of your cousin coming up behind you.

She clears her throat, and you and Fraser pull apart like you’ve been caught, which in hindsight, you kind of have been. Your cousin smirks at you, her eyes traveling from your messed up lipstick to the possessive hand placed on your back.

“I hate to break this up.” She says, her finger moving between you two. “But I need to take her for some pictures.” Your cousin says, and Fraser smiles, his fingers running through his hair.

You smile at Fraser as you step up to her, and she loops her arm through yours as you both start making your way to where the photographers are waiting.

“Sorry Romeo!” Your cousin says, and Fraser laughs as you both make it out of eyesight of your boyfriend.

“So when are you going to plan for?” She asks you, and you furrow your eyes at her.

“What are you talking about?” You ask with a laugh.

“We’ve known each other for our entire lives, Y/N. I think I can tell when you’re in love. Plus, you only have to know him for 20 seconds before figuring out he’s got it bad for you.”

You gasp at your cousin, and if not for it being her wedding day and her looking gorgeous you would have lightly shoved her.

“Yes, I love him-“ You start, but she cuts you off.

“And he deserves you.” She says, and that comment makes you stop. “I see the way he looks at you. Hell, I think our mostly blind grandmother can see how much that man loves you.” She says, and she motions for you to wipe a bit of lipstick off the corner of your mouth. “All I’m trying to say is, you’ve deserve someone who is your best friend, you deserve someone who doesn’t make you question yourself. And honestly, I’ve never seen you more yourself than you are with him.”

“Don’t make me cry before your pictures.” You mumble, looking away from her.

“You deserve the sun and the stars, so marry him, because I know he’ll give them to you.”

—

True to her word, your cousin returns you back to Fraser after pictures are taken and as the reception starts. But after nearly six hours in these shoes, you’re starting to feel their wrath.

Fraser notices you walking back to him, but his smile drops slightly as he notices how you’re walking. He knows immediately why.

You make your way to him, and lean yourself into his chest, while you do that because you want to, you also do it because you need someone holding you up.

“You alright baby?” He asks silently so he doesn’t attract anyone’s attention.

“I think my feet are somewhere in that garden.” You mumble, and Fraser winces as he looks down to your heels. He knows you walk in them everyday at your job, but your job doesn’t have you walking through grass and on outdoor paths.

“Take them off for a while.” He says, and you look at him like he just said a cardinal sin.

“I can’t take them off.”

“Says who?” Fraser asks, eyebrows going up.

“Says me!” You exclaim with a laugh, but it’s cut off early as you adjust your weight to the other foot now.

“Baby.” He says. “No one’s going to notice if you slip them off. Your dress basically covers them, and I can’t stand the thought of you being in pain for the rest of the night.”

“People will notice that I’m almost four inches shorter.”

“No one will. And if anyone does they can answer to me.” He says jokingly, and you smile as he does.

“My savior.” You say, and he laughs before leading you away from the tables and out to one of the benches by the gardens.

“Sit.” He says, and you do not have to be told twice. You sit down, your blue dress blowing slightly in the breeze as Fraser kneels in front of you.

He takes your ankle in his one hand, the other going to unstrap the heels. You sigh in relief as they both come off, and the shoes hang off his finger tips by the backs.

“Fraser Minten, I think I’m hopelessly in love with you.”

“Good, if you weren’t, that would make this next part really embarrassing.” He says, and you give him a questioning look as he captures your chin in his free hand, and starts talking.

“I want this with you.” He starts, and your heart drums quickly in your chest. “I want the wedding, I want the family butting into our lives, I want the vows and the speeches, I want to marry you, baby.”

The setting sun behind him casts him in a golden light. And you notice from the shine of the sun that he’s got tears in his eyes.

“I want the family, and the house that we can chase our kids around in. I want the rink, and the little skates, or whatever sport they want to play.” He says and you laugh. “But mostly, I want you.”

“Frase.”

“It’s always been you. And seeing you up there today? God baby, I don’t even have the words to describe how beautiful you looked, how beautiful you are.”

“Fraser.” You say, your voice cracking with emotion.

“Don’t say anything.” He says, smiling down at you. “Just come dance with me.”

You don’t say a word, you only nod as Fraser leads you to the dance floor that’s filled with people slow dancing to some old romantic song.

“For the record,” You whisper in his ear, your feet balancing on his shoes as he continues to sway you both. “If you ask me someday, I already have my answer.”

You pull yourself back down to look into his eyes, and shakes his head, chuckling softly as he kisses you in the middle of the dance floor. Your shoes long forgotten by your chairs, your cousin so happily in love with her new husband, and you standing with your future husband, both imagining the life you’re going to give each other.

[somethingeh]

Sober Thoughts | Part 2

pairing - john carter x reader

word count - 4.2k

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.

He was taking you out.

He was gonna hold your hand all he wanted.

He knew drowning sorrows in alcohol worked.

---

requests open!

masterlist

[daughter0d3v1l]

On Fire

@concentratedconcrete tagged as requested

John Carter x Fem!Reader

Summary: How you wound up going to a broom-closet of a bar with your attending resident in the first place remains a mystery to you - even as he's making a clumsy show of unlocking his apartment door three hours later.

Tags/Warnings:

SMUT 18+, p-n-v, co-workers to lovers, mild age-gap, mutual attraction (and awkwardness), drunken shenanigans, power imbalance, messy, hand k!nk, signed-and-certified-eater John Carter, un-BETA'd WC: 4k + A/N: alright i chewed this all out in aproximately 72 hours so there is a highly likely chance of grammatical/spelling errors throughout this. i bid thee, good reader, to forgive any of my mistakes and simply enjoy the read <3

“Ordered and signed, he’ll be up in radiology within the hour.”

You receive an appreciative nod and a gentle clap over your shoulder. A father and his seven-year-old son sporting a likely tibial break. They’ve been in the limbo of the waiting room for four hours so far and the boy—Andy—has been antsy since only the second, his fidgeting worsening by the hour. You’ve been worrying about his movement destabilizing his leg, and thus have been attempting to speed up their treatment as best as you can.

“Thank you, doctor,” the father—Jerry—says, his red cheeks puffed up with the spread of his smile.

“Of course, sir. The quicker I can get Andy here patched up the quicker you both can head home and get some rest.”

You offer Andy a quick pat on the head, a smile to Jerry, and head down the hall. This was your nineteenth patient today, and the least stressful. Aiding in the resuscitation of a twenty-year-old coming out of a 6-car accident with a metal pipe in his side seems to make every other patient seem like they have a case of the common cold.

It's easier now. Eight months in and several MCs later, most of your work feels light by now. It only catches up to you once in a while. Days like today, when it’s not possible to save everyone as easily as you can help a little boy with a broken leg. You can still recall the heavy weight in the air today when the monitor’s long, deafening flatline remained despite best efforts. Hell, you can still recall that same weight the first ever time you lost a patient. It never really leaves you—or anyone for that matter.

After expelling the spiral your thoughts attempt to guide you down, you settle things with the front desk and ready your charts for the attendant taking over for the night-shift. You say your goodbyes. Everyone is in good spirits by now, and you wonder how long it will be before you’re seasoned enough to be ever so slightly less bothered by these things.

It's on your way to the front entrance—currently your exit for the night—you find yourself trailing behind John Carter. The first time you've seen him in half a day.

It’s not that you’ve been avoiding him since the loss of the patient. Really, it’s not. You’ve been busy trying to stay busy all day, only having really found yourself within ten feet of John when you needed to brief him on an incoming patient. And regardless of that, John is always crammed. At least as long as you’ve been an attendant. It’s rare to catch a moment with him, even on normal days. When you do catch him, he’s usually brief. Stiff, almost. You often wonder why you don’t get to have as much of the John Carter you see interacting with the rest of the team.

By no means, is it because you like him. You’re just curious. Nothing more.

(You don’t let yourself spiral down all on your own accord thinking about all of the time you’ve spent with him on your mind. All of the thoughts that’ve passed through your head, on and off the clock, about the man. His hair. His eyes. His hands…)

But now, as you shoulder past him to hurry out the doors, you find yourself being followed after by quick footsteps.

“Hey,” John exhales your name as he gently guides a hand around your arm to slow you down.

You look up at him. It’s the first time you’ve been this close in weeks. Maybe ever, actually, now that you think about it, since you’ve never noticed the way that he hangs over you slightly when he’s at full posture. His hand feels huge around your arm.

The two of you stare at each other. For a long moment, you wonder which one of you is supposed to speak next.

“Yes?”

You, it seems, after nearly a fourth of a minute of awkward stillness between you both.

John exhales, heavy and followed by a soft grunt. He looks down briefly, like he’s forgotten what exactly he wanted to say—if he even knew in the first place. His hand then retreats from your arm hastily.

“I just wanted to tell you that you did great,” he finally says, looking up, rocking himself a bit. His eyes are heavy. The wear on him painted around his eyes, translucent purple and green, make his irises seem darker. In the corner of your view, John’s wrist twitches upward before it goes limp at his side once more. “I know you don’t really want to hear that given—well, given what the result was, but you did. You did great.”

“Everyone did,” you say, mentally contemplating why it is you can never take a compliment single-handedly. “I couldn’t have handled it without the extra support.”

He’s smiling. Or, at least you think it’s a smile. It’s thin, tight. Doesn’t look very ‘smile-like’. More of a zipper-like line.

“Yeah,” he then sighs, nodding to himself. His shoulders are pulled back taught, like he’s trying to take an invisible deep breath.

The air, crisp and cold, nips at your ears in a gust. You look around you, at the mist rising from the roads and the fog forming along the edges of your view.

“Thank you, John,” you finally say, a soft, tired smile offered along with it as you focus back on him. Maybe, you think, to try making things less stiff between you.

His chest deflates—silent—before he looks up at you, chin down, like his neck is chained to the ground. You hadn’t even noticed he’d looked away.

It’s right about now you think about your first day in rotation at County General for some odd reason. The moment you first met John Carter. You think about every time since that day John has looked at you like he is now; like he’s holding something back just behind his teeth. From across desks and rooms, hovering over you as you read a chart to him. You start to re-think every decision you’ve made in these eight months to remain a good, policy-abiding student who doesn’t think things she’s not supposed to about residents above her station who look at her like that. The millionth time you’ve wondered what might happen if you were to just pretend that you didn’t know any better.

“Hey if—"

“Look I just wanted—”

You both hang the last of your words out silently at the same time, staring at one another. A soft laugh passes between both of you, the shuffling of feet. You wonder if he’s also trying to figure out what to say now.

John sighs through his teeth, shoving his hands into his coat pockets forcefully. “Look, I know you’ve had a long day and you’re probably wanting to be a thousand feet away from anything related to work, but, uhm—”

You think, briefly, as John is still your superior, that he seems like a lost puppy sometimes.

“Yes?”

He licks his lips briefly, tongue bouncing out past the patch of dark brown hair above his mouth. Shamefully, you don’t quite have the willpower not to watch. His feet rock him back and forth for a moment before he shrugs and expels a huff.

“Have you ever been to Melody’s?”

This is new.

You stare at him for a moment, stunned, maybe, at the unfathomable possibility that John Carter just stealthily asked you out. Is that even what that was?

“No,” you say, breaking away from your frozen state, a smile slowly forming on your lips. “No, not lately.”

He smiles back, and this time it actually does look like a smile.

“Would you—”

“Yes,” you say when his voice catches on itself.

“If you want, we can take—”

“Your car. I took the L.”

John laughs softly, hands already digging through his pockets. A hand reaches out in what you assume is the direction of his car. “It’s—this way.”

You nod, shuffling your hands into your coat, and start walking in the general direction he offered. He trails behind for a few moments, then speeds up a little and moves past you once he seemingly registers that you don’t exactly know which car to stop at.

It quiet as you both get into John’s car. You flop into the seat as he presses a few buttons on the dash. A gentle blast of warm air hits your face and legs. You steal a quick glance at him, but he doesn’t look at you.

The drive is also quiet, with only the hum of the radio playing songs you’ve already heard a thousand times. John keeps his eyes on the road mostly. You only notice him looking at you once or twice in the time it takes to pull into the small parking lot jointed with a small, postage-box-sized building.

Despite the size, you think it looks somewhat appealing, if that’s even the right word. The warm light of the orange sign out front glows against the wet sidewalk. You can hear chatter from inside. It seems like the sort of place that’s been there since the beginning of time.

“Well—” John quietly says, coming up beside you “—it’s nicer than it looks on the inside, trust me.”

“I trust you.” You smile, and jut your head toward the door. “C’mon, give me the tour.”

With a downturned smile, John hurries to the door and opens it, leaning his back against it as you head inside, watching you with soft, laser-focused eyes as you try to ignore the tingle forming in your stomach from the look. You accidentally take notice of his hand resting low on the door, the veins strong and prominent, knuckles flush.

Looking around the bar to distract yourself from the thoughts bubbling up in your mind of those hands and what you’re sure they can do, you notice immediately how warm it is. The lights, the air, the crowd; it’s all bathed in a gentle warmth that makes you feel like you’ve been missing out on something you didn’t even know existed. The chatter is louder inside, but still sits low in volume. Everything feels cozy. You turn to John, who still has his eyes locked onto you, like he’s gauging your reaction.

“Cozy,” you voice, and he smiles bright and proud.

“Cozy,” he echoes, gesturing towards an empty booth. “You wanna go get some drinks? I’ll find a booth?”

“What’s the order?”

“Just some scotch. On ice.”

Scotch, you think, saying nothing as you nod and turn toward the bar. A couple minutes wait and a quick conversation with the bartender later, you take two full glasses back to the booth John has secured for the two of you.

You sit his glass in front of him first, taking a deep sip from your own drink as you sit down across from him. He watches you closely as you do.

Once again, you find yourselves in silence, no words passing between you for a long while as you both take alternating-sized sips from your respective drinks. Mostly, you both just take turns looking around the bar, back at the other, then back around the bar again. You don’t know what to talk about; you have a million questions for John, of course, but you have no idea where you should start.

You decide to start with the most obvious after what seems like an eternity of silence.

“John,” you begin, now starting your second glass. You glance to the two glasses in front of John. Hope that both of you have had just enough to drink that the awkwardness between you will fade. “Why did you bring me here?”

He looks up from his drink briefly. With his eyes locked back down at the table, he clears his throat and sits his glass down. “Truthfully?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t really know,” he says with a chuckle. His fingers flutter against the table. “Why did you say yes?”

Now it’s your turn to chuckle. “Don’t really know,” you say.

Both of you share another laugh. The air feels lighter now that you’ve somewhat addressed the main question of the night. Maybe, also, because of the empty glasses sitting on the table.

It becomes easier to ask things as the drinks come, and by the third glass, you’ve moved next to John in the booth. It all flows freely the longer you’re there—questions and answers, all of it coming out in hushed tones between the two of you joined with soft giggles between words.

You pretend not to notice the small touches on your arm. The feeling of your knees grazing each other. The looks John spares at you when his eyes aren’t glued to the table.

It’s in the midst of your haze that you find the tab paid off, your coats collected, and your feet taking you alongside John’s uneven steps toward the exit.

You reach his car. John plops against the side of it, sighing, looking down at his feet. “I can’t drive,” he says, giggling, cheeks red and shiny.

“Probably not,” you reply. The cold air comes out in white as you speak, but your insides are warm and mushy, so you don’t notice.

“I live close.” He turns his head to you. “Just a couple blocks.”

“Your car?”

“The owners’ll keep it safe,” he shrugs off. “Know ‘em well enough.”

You don’t have to contemplate, but you pretend to anyway. A moment or two passes before you nod, much too soon to actually seem like it took you time to decide. You understand why you chose to become a doctor rather than an actress. “Okay.”

The decision is made between the two of you, and yet you still somehow can’t fathom how it is you wind up standing much too closely to John as he makes a clumsy show of unlocking the door of his apartment.

You don’t notice the layout or the décor. If not because the alcohol in you relieves you of the desire to care, than because you’ve suddenly closed the gap between John and yourself that you hadn’t previously realized was bothering you until just the moment you felt the soft skin of his lips against your own.

And yes, maybe it’s because you’ve always liked him. Maybe since the first day, even. You can’t find it in yourself to think about it any more than that.

His hand circles around the small of your back, fingers tight around you. You feel his beard gently scratch against your cheek as your mouths make a messy attempt at centering a kiss. It’s softer than you’d have thought. You like it just as much as you figured you would.

There’s a bump, and you realize you’ve been backed up against a wall. Your head is being cradled by John’s other hand, his fingers entangled in your hair, thumb gently padding against the skin behind your ear. His kisses are soft; messy, desperate even, but still so, so soft. A gentle tap of his tongue against your bottom lip has your mouth parting open for it. He takes the opportunity. The slide of your tongues together has you weak in the knees.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs into your mouth. “Fuck, you’re beautiful.”

You gently pull on his neck, shift a knee against him. The hand he has on your back quickly shifts to grab at your ass and lift your weight up onto him, the wall offering support. Automatically, your legs hook over his hips. You think you hear John make a low rumble in his throat as his hands tighten around you.

“Been waiting—” a kiss “—all night for—” another “—this.”

You hum. One of your hands drags through John’s hair, gently twisting around the ends and tugging. A tease. A play. A test.

This time, the sound that forms in his throat is a quiet, needy whine that makes your stomach flutter. You squeeze your legs around him, feeling his hips buck against you.

“John.” His name is drawn out from your lips as he takes a solid hold onto your body and backs away from the wall. There’s a sway as he treads through his apartment, uneven steps caused by the movement of your bodies against each other. Before you know it, you’re being laid out onto a plush mattress wrapped in soft sheets.

He's between your legs in a flash. Shoulders propping your legs up. Hands wrapped around the tops of your thighs. You notice, only with the scratch of his beard against the insides of them, that you’re missing your pants. You then recall taking them off just before your back hit the bed, rather efficiently, and decide that it wasn’t that important to remember—so long as they’re off now.

This, of course, is easy to do this when John’s mouth is tracing over your panties. There are much more important things to consider at the moment than the exact mechanics of how you removed your clothes.

Your hands find his hair once more. Tangle and tug at it as his tongue aids in the wetness forming in the thin fabric keeping you contained. His fingers press into your thighs. You stare, fascinated by the flexing of his hands and the way his tendons roll over his knuckles.

“My girl,” he whispers against you, sending a chill up to your chest. “You’re my girl.”

His lips press kisses over every ridge of you. Every crease. You feel the tease of his tongue, frequent between them. “Love how you taste.”

You whine, squeezing his head with your thighs, trailing your hand down to his and squeezing his fingers too. “John,” you say, seemingly reduced to a single-word vocabulary.

“Yes, baby,” he answers. “So good. You’re so good for me. Gonna fuck you so nice.”

And it’s that—the confirmation—that spikes your nerves and send a thrill through you. There’s heat pouring through every blood vessel in your body. You want it now, now, don’t want to wait. John has your legs in a vice with his arms and you can’t break free. Can’t wiggle your way around the wait.

“I know,” he says. You can’t tell if he’s saying it with sympathy or to tease you even further. “I know baby.”

His fingers slide down to the hem of your panties, teasing the elastic band. You’re hopeful for a moment as he tests a finger under it, sliding along the edge without dipping in too far. You wiggle some more. He doesn’t budge. Just keeps playing with your patience.

“So pretty,” he whispers, and at this point you’ve decided he must be patronizing you. The way his hands and his words tease you. Every move and every syllable feels tailored specifically to drive you wild.

Then finally, after what seems like a millennium of taunting you with is ghostly touches, he repositions himself between your thighs—sliding down your panties as he does. You feel a breath of relief escape you, a shudder down your arms and back as he returns, mouth hot, tongue searching. The hair of his beard tickles somehow. Your legs go taut as his lips encircle your clit and then the world might very well start to implode. Your eyes close on their own accord, and they don’t open again for a long time. Long enough for John to have drawn out two, maybe three, orgasms from deep inside you that’ve left you loose and warm all over before he finally pulls away, panting.

He trails kisses up your stomach, over your ribs and breasts. His beard is damp. His mouth is rambling your name. You feel his fingers tracing lightly over your sides, inching your wrinkled shirt up your body before tugging it away from you completely. It’s quickly replaced by his weight on top of you. His bare chest pressing against your own.

Your hands grab at his face and drag his mouth back to your own. There’s no hesitation when you dive past his lips with your tongue, and you’re greeted with a low moan pushing past his throat as a reward.

You hear him fiddling with his belt. The recognizable sound of it clinking to the floor. Anticipation builds in your bloodstream as you wait, still pressing messy kisses against his lips and chin.

Then you feel him. The guided weight of his cock pressing against you, just as promising as you’d assumed it’d be. You suck in a breath of preparation. He smiles against your lips.

“You ready?”

Humming, you nod, tug at his neck, but he doesn’t budge.

“Are you ready?” he repeats, firmer. You realize he wants words that are far too distant from you at the moment to come naturally.

 “Yes,” you’re able to pant. For good measure, you tug a little on his ear. “Hurry up.”

“Hey now.” He tsks. “I thought I was supposed to be in charge here.”

It gets you to laugh, relax a little, and right as you do, he’s pressing deep into you, slow. Sinfully slow. You gasp as he fills you to the hilt, as you stretch around him to make room.

“Fuck.” His forehead drops to your chest, his breath hot and heavy against your skin. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

You smile, petting his hair. His hips buck forward then draw back, driving even deeper moments later, drawing another gasp from your chest.

You don’t know how long he’s inside you. How long he bucks back and forth just right (so right, you wonder exactly how closely he paid attention to detail when learning about female anatomy) to send shockwaves through your nerves. Maybe it’s minutes. Maybe hours. You don’t care either which way. Both of you are coming undone in each other’s arms, body’s flushed and slick with sweat. His hair is sticking to your chest as he keeps going, well past his own release. You can feel his fatigue growing, but it doesn’t bother you at all. You just keep your legs wrapped around his waist, your hands in his hair, and your lips on his forehead. He’s panting heavier now, muttering sweet, sweet words into your skin, sounding just a little delirious.

“John,” you finally say, realizing just how stubborn he’s being. You pet his hair even more gently, then trace the outline of his ear.

“No, no, I wanna stay.”

“John,” you say again. “John, you’ll have to pull out eventually.”

He makes a strangled sound, like a pouty little whine. You want to laugh at him, but you don’t think that will help, so instead you press a kiss to him sweaty temple.

“Atta boy,” you whisper, unable to help yourself. The feeling of his bottom lip jutting out against your skin is unmistakable.

“I’m too old for you to call me that,” he huffs, lifting his head from your chest to shoot a playful glare down at you; he’s never looked more ridiculous.

“You’re not that old.”

“I’m too old.”

“For what?”

“For you,” he answers, lifting a hand to trace around your brow. You eye it, savoring how his fingers feel against your skin.

“Shut up.” You crane your neck up a little to peck the tip of his nose. “I’m a big girl.”

He’s smiling, so you know he’s not being entirely serious. Not entirely, since you’re certain that you both are aware of the professional limitations to your relationship.

Professional limitations you’re not currently concerning yourself with.

“You’re a big girl,” he echoes. His nose nudges against yours for a moment before he drops his weight back onto you, face pressing down into the crook of your neck.

…

You only realize you’ve both fallen asleep when slivers of orange morning light start to shine down onto your face.

Lifting your head, mildly confused, it takes a moment for you to recognize your surroundings as someone else’s room. Another moment for you to remember that the ‘someone else’ this room belongs to is John Carter.

You quickly sit up, searching for him, but the room is otherwise empty. There’s a chair in the corner of the room you notice has a set of folded clothes on it. Your clothes. A smile forces its way onto your face.

Hurrying to get up and dressed, the sound of metal clinking and food cooking in the other room begins to fill the empty space.

Once you’re decent, you make your way out of the bedroom, peeking your head through the open door.

He’s right there in the kitchen. As soon as you’ve entered the living space, his eyes rise from the stove to center onto you.

“Morning,” he says, quiet, subdued. His hand continues to stir through a pan sizzling in front of him.

“Good morning.” Your ankles cross as you lean against the doorframe.

“You sleep okay?” he asks.

“Yeah, really good.” You point a thumb back towards the bedroom. “Your bed’s really comfy.”

“Thank you.” He smiles, looking back down. “I’m glad.”

“You cook?”

You have no idea why that’s what you decided to say.

“I try to cook.”

“This place is still standing. I’d say that’s successfully cooking.”

Both of you laugh softly, then go silent simultaneously as the sizzling sounds fill the space.

Once the food is ready and you both begin to eat, the awkwardness builds. Part of you wants to die a little bit more by the minute.

You don’t know what to say, and it seems that John doesn’t know what to say either. What can you say now? It happened. It was great. You want it to happen again. And again. And again. You’re not sure how you’re supposed to say that without having to bring up the whole student-doctor-relationship-regulations-thing, so you stay quiet and just eat the breakfast you’ve been offered. You also find yourself wondering if this breakfast is some kind of weird apology.

It’s hard to know what will happen from here. It’s Sunday. Neither of you work until tomorrow. That leaves twenty-four hours for last night’s events to truly sink in before you both have to go back to work, probably pretending that nothing happened.

But, then, as you both eat, you notice John stealing brief glances at you. You notice the small, teasing pull at the corner of his mouth when you both glance up from your plates at the same time. It leaves something warm and comforting in your chest. Something that makes the awkward silence less awkward. Maybe something that will build and grow into something more.

[targaryenluvs]

family ties

pairing: john carter x fem!brown!reader, michael robinavitch x fem!brown!reader, the pitt x fem!brown!reader

summary: you knew most of the pitt found your crush on the attending cute. it was a running joke. even when you told them you were finally dating someone who just so happened to be robby’s nephew.

warnings: fluffy, kisses/heated makeout (john n reader), teasing, reader is a student doctor, past crush (reader on robby), robby’s kinda just being pitt dad, medical inaccuracy probably, , skepticism, canon divergence (robby’s family), past tense and present, italics are also past memories, javadi speaks punjabi too cause i said so, size difference, physical descriptions of reader, implied sex, groping

wordcount: 4.5k

a/n: i know a lot of people don’t like physical descriptions, but this is my own writing and hey! you don’t have to read it. loving john carter ngl, not proofread

the pitt x er crossover

cruelty was abundant in the pittsburgh trauma medical center, every single day.

it shone through in the snide comments santos made whenever she noticed the shine and twinkle in your eyes when your attending, michael ‘robby’ robinavitch addressed you all. with crossed arms, a jumper that seemed too tight in areas, a serious expression and glasses perched either on his head or the bridge of his larger nose.

your hands would tend to tighten around your stethoscope at the sound of his deep voice, completely zoned in on the words coming out of his mouth.

some people chalked it up to dedication to the job and being in awe of an amazing physician, but your fellow students always knew better.

santos’s finger was curled like a hook as she dredged it down the corner of your mouth as if she was cleaning up, “doctor down, you gonna drown us in your saliva?” thwacking her outstretched arm and finger away, you brushed past her and grabbed a tablet.

you heard her scoff behind your back as god received your prayer that she would shut up and move along to literally anyone else besides you. perhaps she could return to tormenting javadi or whitaker.

yet the gods most likely didn’t have a good relationship with you since trinity appeared right next to you, snatching your tablet. “trying to ignore me? cmon i’m just kidding, sweetcheeks.”

sweetcheeks.

the dreaded nickname she had bestowed upon you first day in the pitt. exhausted and borderline starved, she’d been ordered to locate you as soon as possible. where did she find you? stuffing your face with a snickers bar by langdon’s locker.

“buzz off already trinity.”

“buzz off! woah since when are we using big girl words?”

“santos, get back to your patient. she’s starting to complain of chest pain,” michael robinavitch was truly a godsend. trinity sighed in annoyance, she’d been looking forward to poking around you for as long as possible. so with a quick nod of acknowledgment to robby, the short haired girl turned swiftly on her heel to join mckay.

feeling slightly anxious with the close proximity, your fingers began to drum against the back of the tablet, past task at hand forgotten in the depths of your mind. robby had his glasses on again, god he looked good in them.

his large hand waved over your face in an attempt to bring you back to the world of the living and speaking, “you still with us? or had your sixth week crushed you entirely?” michael’s concern made you smile.

you placed your tablet back in the holder to give him your undivided attention, “i- yes i’m fine. i think santos made me forget what i came to grab a tablet for. th-thank you, for getting her to back off. nice. doing that was nice. you’re nice. but you should know that already since someone mean and bad wouldn’t- did i say bad? woah that’s a childish word to use. i’m gonna… yeah?” your thumb jabbed the air behind your shoulder, pointing to the break room before making an escape.

dana stood against the desk, having watched the whole scene play out, “this batch of kids is even weirder i’m tellin’ ya.” michael held his arms up in surrender as a ‘you said it’ expression came over his face.

“i have faith in them.” robby exhaled a deep breath, watching your smaller frame practically run down towards the break room. a small smile graced his aged face, eyes crinkling. you were undeniably one of the cutest additions to the pitt. and a welcome one.

a few shifts later came a surprisingly chill day. a few drunk and disorderly men from a pub that encouraged day drinking, a soccer mom brawl, a scooter incident that you and mel gladly rode around on when no one was paying attention, and a couple other non fatal accidents.

for once, majority of the residents, doctors and nurses had time to complete their work during their shift. yourself, javadi, whitaker and santos were all given time to be perched at your desks, typing away on your respective charts. melissa had already finished and left to talk to her sister outside.

dr robby had been checking in with you most of all. dana had agreed with him that whilst you were more than capable and reliable like the others, you tended to doubt yourself easily. so after a back and forth with the stubborn charge nurse, michael had agreed to give you extra support.

“looking good kid.” he patted your shoulder as his eyes flew side to side, taking in your charting, “very thorough work, good job.” you had to bite down on your lip to not grin widely, you opted for a simple, “thank you dr robby.” he shook his head and waved you off, as if his words meant little and not the whole world in your eyes.

victoria nudged you slightly before whispering in punjabi, “you’re smiling to yourself you know that right?” it earned a cheeky poke of the tongue towards her from you as she rolled her eyes.

your phone pinged, the grunts groupchat consisted of victoria, dennis, mel, trinity and of course you. trinity made it a few days after your first day, annoyed that all she did was ‘grunt work’ in her eyes.

the grunts

trinity 🫩: gee get on your knees why don’t you sweetcheeks

sweetcheeks 🥺: i hope garcia cuts you open one day

javadi 🫶🏽: guys can we not? i got in trouble last time i was on my phone too long

mel 👑: From who?

dennis 😚: her mom 💀

you couldn’t help but giggle at the admission. javadi rolled her eyes before giving you the finger, “javadi,” she froze at the sound of robby’s voice, sterner than usual. victoria closed her eyes and mimed a quick ‘shit’, whilst you held onto trinity and dennis’s hands and ran to the open exam room one to laugh your asses off.

the three of you sat on the floor and wiped your tears off, imagining victoria shitting herself at the idea of being told off. “oh she’s gonna cry later.” trinity wheezed.

your friends knew you well, especially since you all bonded outside of work whenever you could. being around the same age helped your relationships tremendously. you were honest with eachother, and never hesitated to tell another anything that happened. your groupchat never ran out of reels, random videos sent in rambling about your grocery store run, or the movie night you were all planning on having at trinity and dennis’s.

so when you finally met someone who drew your thoughts away from the very handsome older chief attending of yours, they all immediately received the thousands of texts flooding in from you.

the grunts

sweetcheeks 🥺: hoooooly fuckballs

sweetcheeks 🥺: can i die and go to heaven, or have i already and that’s why i saw that hot lanky man with very fluffy hair

sweetcheeks 🥺: someone reply for the love of dana

trinity 🫩: love of dana?

sweetcheeks 🥺: of course you show up when i’m talking about older women

trinity 🫩: 🤷🏻‍♀️🤷🏻‍♀️ what can i say

sweetcheeks 🥺: holy moly guacamole i’m calling you guys when i get home someone please pick up or i’m pissing my pants

dennis 😚: what kind of threat is that?

sweetcheeks 🥺: low-key a good threat, i’m wearing the sweatpants you gave me

dennis 😚: NO.

the call had lasted over two hours in which you informed that you had met a super sweet, handsome yet cute, smart young man who also was a third year medical student, albeit not super experienced. but now he was going to be transferring to a new place in a few months, perhaps your very own trauma center.

laughter, lots of laughter and tears was what you were met with. “please, that sounds like a dream. you sure this isn’t your brain hallucinating to cope with unrequited love sweetcheeks?” covering her face with her t-shirt, trinity sat on camera next to dennis as the two were watching a show at their apartment.

melissa had her camera off per usual and was muted, “guys, surely it isn’t impossible for her to meet a nice man.” melissa usually listened intently to everyone, only ever coming off the mute button when she wanted to say something again.

victoria was currently in her bed, flipping through another medical book, “it is kind of sudden, i mean you said you were going grocery shopping and you all of a sudden meet the perfect guy? he’s nice, but handsome, and also funny? clumsy and cute? and a student? and well dressed?”

it was an epidemic these days, in your words. “men used to be so well dressed, trench coats, button up shirts, polished shoes, watches, scarves, nice hair cuts. chandler bing type shit.” you’d all been watching friends together as a re-run played on the ER television.

dennis held a hand over his heart, “you don’t like how i dress?” had you forgotten he was next to you? yes. “no no, sweetie you’re an exception i swear dennis.” he smiled brightly at the praise, “thank you.”

“i swear he’s not fake!” you whined, “his name is john.”

victoria peered at her phone, not hiding behind her large, hard cover book, “ooh white boy huh?” scratching the back of your neck, you nodded in confirmation.

adjusting your phone so your friends could see you properly, you began cutting strawberries as a snack for yourself. afterwards you’d pick up a knight of the seven kingdoms to read since you knew the show was releasing soon, “i know, i know, i never really have dated a white guy yet. but trust me, he’s so… nineties hot? like chandler bing in the way he dresses. old money?”

melissa finally graced the group and took herself off mute, and turned her camera on, “maybe he is old money? they tend to dress well in my opinion.” considering her words, your fingers paused in cutting.

tossing the sliced strawberries into a bowl, you turned to put the bowl of chocolate pieces into the microwave for melting. “honestly, i have no fucking clue, we were staring at juice together. but he gave me his number and said we should go out when we’re both free. and god i want to run my hands through his hair.” dennis rolled his eyes on the other side of the phone whilst trinity and melissa tried to put together why you were staring at juice.

“how are you horny for someone you just met?” he bit down on a slice of pizza as he waited for you to turn back around from the microwave.

“dennis!” victoria squealed in disbelief.

the microwave beeped as you carefully transferred the bowl back to the kitchen island, “it’s fine javadi, he’s not even wrong. he had such cute eyes ugh, he was only here for a layover since his plane fucked up. he’s headed back to chicago, and in a few months, he’ll be back here. god i can’t wait,” you threw your head back in a dramatic fashion as they all chuckled at your antics.

and about 650 kilometres away in chicago, john was lovestruck as well.

john bolted upright in the hospital bed, “carter!” he was dragged away from his daydream at the sound of benton yelling for him to get up. john had been staring at the ceiling for the past hour where he could have caught an hour of sleep. he recalled browsing through the juices in the cold section of the mini grocery store in pittsburgh yesterday.

cranberry, apple, orange, strawberry?

the last choice had him repeat the word out loud, “strawberry? really?” next to him, stood you, also gazing upon the seemingly infinite choices of juices for the human body to consume.

crossing your arms, your eyes settled on the juice which had instigated his surprise, “pretty weird no? strawberries i love, but i’d never consider smushing them in order to drink them. not with all those seeds. even if you can’t really taste them when you eat them in my opinion. but i like dipping in chocolate when i can.”

john blinked in a stupor, had you been talking to him?

quickly glancing around the store for any stragglers, he came to the conclusion that yes, you had infact been talking and replying to him. “i like chocolate.” a stupidly wide smile came across his face, teeth on show along with the sharper teeth on each side of his mouth.

a large, outstretched hand waited for your smaller, softer hand.

fingers interlacing, you were finally turned towards the taller gentleman. he had a smooth baby face, deep brown eyes, a larger nose than yours, and fluffy brown hair. he was again, tall, much to your glee, and lean based on the lack of bulging muscles against his white button up and black dress pants.

john’s gaze was fixated on your hair. long and dark, ending by your elbow it seemed. it seemed silky, and his fingers itched to run through the locks. your skin was a light brown, like the colour of a cappuccino. the sun was setting through the window, and it hit your eyes and face, a soft glow emanating from you.

his chest felt tight.

“me john. i’m john. john carter. that’s- that’s me!” he chuckled, shaking your hand.

“it’s nice to meet you john, me- i mean my name,” you paused, having made the same mistake he did. the two of you laughed softly.

god he needed to hear you say his name more often, and laugh. it was soft, and airy, polite. he wondered how you sounded when you weren’t holding back.

your hand withdrew from his grip, “so what’re you doing in town? besides being disgusted by strawberry juice?”

benton pointed towards his watch, fingernail clanking against the glass, “i do not,” he paused, stressing the word, “have all day. get up and tend to the whining lady, abdominal pain and nausea.” john nodded vehemently, groaning at the slight pain in his neck.

doug stood with susan, coffees in hand as they watched a very messy headed john rush to the patient whilst benton simply walked the other way, toward the elevator and up to OR.

county general and the pitt were both busy places, and now also respectively housed lovestruck medical students.

susan placed her coffee to the side and turned to whisper to the paediatrician, “john met a girl.” doug raised an eyebrow at the gossip tidbit. the piece of news had been floating around the whole day since john let it slip to jerry after being caught starry eyed staring at a chart.

doug followed after the blonde, placing his own coffee cup down to give her his full attention, “is that so? here? or in pittsburgh?” taking a glance around their surroundings, susan pulled him around the corner into the empty trauma room.

making sure the door was closed, she turned back to ross, “he ran into her in a store and the two talked a bit before grabbing dinner.” the older man crossed his arms, holding onto either of his biceps. shock was the right word to describe what he was feeling. john? the same john who had fainted multiple times, runs into iv’s, and the same john susan and himself had put a cast onto his leg as he slept as a joke. he’d hobbled around the whole shift. doug was sure john barely had any game at all.

and doug was right. the story had been twisted around since jerry found out, then nurses, bob, carol, everyone. a piece of the story had been taken out, or added onto.

“good on the kid. god knows the last time he went out with anyone.”

susan rolled her eyes at doug’s joke, “he’s not ugly. the kid is good looking, it was a matter of time.” doug opened his mouth for a rebuttal.

“i never said he was!”

susan stepped out of the trauma room as doug followed after her, “i didn’t!”

four months.

late night texts and calls, spontaneous selfies throughout your busy days, getting to know each other more and more. john refused your offer of flying out to see him everytime, opting to come to you since he definitely had more than enough funds for it.

stolen moments in alleyways as you two went on dates, opting to walk together to spend more time outside. showing him around pittsburgh so he could know the best spots for late night food, clothes, even if his wardrobe was way out of your reach in pricing terms, study spots etc.

you had only been on four dates in person, all in pittsburgh. but each one had meant the world to both of you. it wasn’t the same as talking over the phone or texting or videos sent back and forth. it was real. it was tangible, you could hold and touch him and he could do the same with you.

your camera roll and phone were pushed to their limits as you both took about a million photos toghetwhr when you had the chance. knowing it would most likely be a while to you meet again.

the first had been bowling since you both trash talked about being better. you severely underestimated the man. on his final bowl, you simply flopped onto the leather seats of the alley john had booked, “this is in person bullying. different to the bullying you inflict on me over the phone carter.” he simply grinned at you, hands outstretched, claiming himself king.

the pins fell as the words strike came up on the overhead screen, kingjcarter was officially the winner.

“baby i told you, i reign supreme.” the snort that came out of you at the corny sentence made john bend over as he laughed uncontrollably.

the second had been a movie marathon at his hotel room, you had found out that he had never watched any of the harry potter movies.

settling into the comfortable covers on his king sized bed, you picked up the remote and scrolled through the various streaming platforms on the television as john finished ordering room service.

you had just gotten off a lengthy day shift with overtime, which meant you got to carter around 11pm rather than the agreed upon time. he’d immediately waved off your countless apologies since he understood how busy the emergency department always was.

that was one of the many things you love about him. he worked in the same area you did, even if you were both only students at the time.

dressed in his old sleep shirt and nothing else, the two of you relaxed in his bed as john gladly absorbed the information you threw at him.

“and she’s been using the thing on her neck to turn back time so she can go to more classes.”

john perked slightly at your explanation of the time turner, “god you know how helpful that would be for us?” he ran a hand through his hair, thinking of all the time on charting he could save. what a dream.

instantly, you shot up to sit cross legged instead of lying on his bare chest, “that’s what i said!” you slapped his chest with the back of his hand, excited he was on the same wavelength.

third consisted of, activities, john’s hotel room laid with roses, candles and the very amusing sight of john waiting with a single rose in his mouth. when you’d questioned your boyfriend, john gladly showed you a scene from friends where richard waited for monica. it also consisted of a very big complaint from his hotel room neighbours, and you being late the next day to work, and him for his flight.

both dressed finally with crazy hair and mismatched socks, your low cut socks on him and his full length socks on your feet. you kissed him at the doorway of his hotel room, “god i love seeing you.” a goofy smile directed to you should’ve been warning enough.

carter picked you up and spun you around in the hallway before biting at your neck, “carter!” the squealing was also mentioned in his neighbours complaints.

and the fourth.

john knew little about music, where you absolutely adored it.

“if the government ever has a program where they install chips into our brains, i’d be first in line if they offer music.” you were currently in the bath together, his arms around your neck as he softly palmed your chest.

carter shook his head at the absurd declaration, he was used to you randomly blurting random thought by now, but the amusement never died down.

“and i would be right there with you sweetheart.” you craned your neck to look at him, pressing a kiss to his cheek and then reaching his lips. hand threading into his soft hair, “i know you would.”

so when you excitedly told him that a band you liked was in town, coincidentally when he was visiting, he immediately booked tickets for the both of you. john rented a car this time, considering he’d managed to somehow get a whole day off on account of his very serious food positioning. he loved the er, but he also loved you.

you’d told him to wait outside, that you would meet him there.

but carter tended to get overexcited at times so was it really his fault when his feet walked him into the pitt? “and who’s this new piece of meat?” an older lady in a wheelchair, cuffed to the arm, wheeled her way closer. he was smart enough to take a step back.

“woah there, getting a bit close don’t you think?” john got out of her pinch zone as she blew a kiss towards the younger man.

she raised her arm to show off the cuff, “i’m restrained here kiddo, you don’t have to worry.” john decided to turn around and head the other way when the voice he’d been waiting for called out.

“back off myrna he’s mine!” your distinct giggle sounded like heaven and his saviour. the tight grip of your arms around his neck made him sigh in relief, “i thought i was a goner there for a second.” you withdrew to take a step back, remembering where you were.

grasping onto his hands you shook your head, “she’s fine. i think you actually just have to worry about me these days.” john liked the idea of that.

he pressed a kiss to your forehead before taking your bag from you, “thankfully we have all day, or night, i guess, to do that. was your shift okay? nothing too bad?” you glanced around before taking his hand and guiding him into an empty hallway to talk.

leaning against the wall you spun your finger around, motioning to him so he could follow your instruction. pulling out your water bottle so you could hydrate before speaking again. “kind of like hell decided to take a few steps back up onto earth. i swear i never got a break the whole day. and then my attending… it’s like i couldn’t find him all day. so annoying. but i’m done, ready to go. so please whisk me away carter.”

he took the water bottle back, slipping it into your bag before placing it on the ground. john’s cold hands rested on each of your cheek, “i promise today, the music, all of it will take your mind off of this. i’m proud of you.” it was music to your ears as he kissed you, soft and tender, enough to make your head spin.

john ate up the heavy groan you released, pent up frustration seeping away from you. “john,” the drawl of his name made him hold onto you tighter. “i haven’t even signed off yet, god.” his left hand dropped to your waist as he untucked your scrubs, finding home in the soft and warm skin underneath.

“ahem.”

you think your heart dropped to your ass at the sound of michael robinavitch and his clear disappointment at your inappropriate behaviour in the workplace. a string of saliva connected you to john as you slowly came back down to your heels instead of your tip toes. at an agonising pace, your head peeked out from behind john.

john’s back was currently towards michael as he winced, knowing he had gotten you into trouble within ten minutes of being at the centre.

picking up your backpack, you handed it to john before facing the music. stepping out from behind your boyfriend, you made your way to the open area near michael’s desk. “since when was it make out with people at work day?” his hand came to smooth out his beard, a slight chuckle emitting from the man.

that caught your friend’s attention, dennis shot up from his desk as he noticed trinity’s pointer finger stalled on the tablet, “sweetcheeks is making out with people?” trinity’s questioned brought more unwanted attention, probably the worst you could get. princess and perlah.

the two women immediately smirked to one another, and began whispering in filipino. you held your hands up in defence, “sir- robby, sir robby,” you squeezed your eyes shut at the mix up, “robby. i am so so sorry. i was not thinking straight, and i usually don’t get to see him very often so- i guess seeing him here made me over excited. it will never happen again.”

michael felt endeared by the sight of your nervous rambling, he hadn’t been on the receiving end in a while. “it’s alright, at least it wasn’t out in the open. but again, hr-,” your eyes widened at the mention.

you crossed your arms in front of your chest, “oh god, are you reporting me?” that earned a few smiles and laughs, john stood by the same hallway you’d been caught in. his posture straightened immediately as he finally saw the face of your attending.

“uncle robby?”

heads turned towards him, including yours. john made his way with a slight jog as robby held his arms out, “johnny boy!” the two hugged in right in front of you.

trinity burst out in laughter as dennis’s jaw was wide open, “you two shut up.” teeth gritted, you walked over and pinched the both of them. they opted to back up from you, busy pointing at you. you should have been gone a long time ago, and now you stood getting humiliated by your friends.

michael’s hands clasped onto his nephews shoulders, super joyful, “what’re you doing here kid?” the sight genuinely made you feel insane, they now looked similar. tall, brown eyes, lean, and also family to your surprise.

john nudged his uncle to look at you, the ditzy smile on his face was a prominent indicator of his love for you, “i’m taking my girlfriend to a band she likes, uncle robby, i would say meet her, but it’s not like you don’t already know her.” you took his outstretched hand with a firm grasp, hugging his waist as you got the guts to look up.

“oh this is so good,” trinity wheezed uncontrollably as she pulled out the phone for a photo.

you most definitely weren’t making this fourth date.

[love-quinn]

— TRIPLE HEADER

summary — carter hasn't slept in nearly two full days, and with another twelve hour shift in front of him he's not about to start now. at least that's his plan before he's dragged into an on-call room by the coworker who's been the cause of his sleeplessness.

word count — 2.6k words

18+mdni — semi-public sex (they're in an on-call room), carter is severely sleep deprived but he wants it promise, oral (m!receiving), mentions of m!masturbation and wet dreams, reader uses she/her pronouns, is referred to as a girl by carter, and wears makeup and skirts, hand-holding because this isn't a love-quinn smut fic without those guys holding hands

note — back on my bullshit hope y'all like this :))) based on this ask <333

Carter’s not quite sure how he got here. 

As in, he doesn’t remember coming into work. He has to assume he drove, his car keys are in the pocket of his coat. He has a cup of coffee in his hand that’s cold and untouched, and based on the schedule he’s been here twenty-two hours and still has another fourteen to go. 

You’ve been watching him for the past forty minutes. You have your own cases, your own traumas and triages, your own patients, so it’s only intermittent. But whenever you and Carter are in the same room, your eyes keep finding him. You’ve only been here ten hours, but when you left work yesterday he was just arriving, and it doesn’t look like he’s even sat down since then.

There was a Cubs game that night; for some reason you’re always well busier on home game nights. A lot of the time it’s people getting really drunk and deciding they don’t want to go into work the next day and knowing an ER trip will get them out of it. It finally seems to have died down now, it’s Saturday and a surprising amount of people don’t know the ER is even open on weekends. You’ve had a steady flow of patients for the last couple of hours but nothing insane. Greene is passed out in room seven, Carol’s slumped over behind the desk with Jerry keeping watch, and once you get a 19 year old frat boy who “drank something that isn’t usually a drink” discharged home to his very angry parents, you think you might follow suit. 

You’ve been watching Carter stand at central behind Carol’s chair, watching him lift the mug to his lips and then get distracted by something on his clipboard. He’s swaying on his feet and Jerry keeps grabbing him by the shoulder to check on him. 

“Alright, Carter,” you drop your file on the desk at the nurse’s station, fed up with watching him not drink his coffee. You’d made it for him almost three hours ago, pressed the mug into his hand with a gentle ‘you okay?’ that he hadn’t responded to. You take the chart off him and put it down on top of your own pile. You haven’t had a new ambulance drop for almost forty-five minutes; he clearly needs rest and there isn’t a better time for it. The on-call room is free, you shove him inside. 

“What are you-” his words are clumsy, and he has to blink a few times until he realises it’s you and not Benton. “Hey, hey, stop manhandling me!” He pulls his arm free and regrets it almost immediately. Your hands are soft and steady, and he likes being shoved around by you. He’s just so fucking tired, he hasn’t even stopped to think about how good you look tonight. You don’t dress up - you’re an R3 in the ER, there’s no point - but there are some days you do your hair a little different or your lips or eyelids shine under the fluoros. Some shifts he can’t take his eyes off your mouth whenever you’re speaking to him. “Hey, sweeth-”

“Go to bed,” you grab one end of his stethoscope, ignoring the pet name that only ever slips out when he’s tired (that’s just proving your point), and yank it off his neck. You hang it over the overhead. He stands there. “Now.”

He says your name, so soft it’s almost slurred. God, he’s been ignoring you all night, and for what? You’re such a knockout. One of these days he’s finally going to take you out, see you outside of this godforsaken hospital. “I’ve got a CT to schedule-”

“Carter,” you sound angry. He hates when you sound angry; has made it his mission the last three years working together to have it not be directed at him. He’s done a pretty good job, not to toot his own horn. “Go to bed. You haven’t slept since you got here.”

He nods placatingly; he’s almost finished his shift anyway, he can go home and crash in his own bed. Think of you sufficiently before he drifts off, he’s off for four days. He’s got your number - has everyone’s numbers, he has to remind himself, it’s not creepy - might see if he can work up the courage to call you. He’s seen the schedule, he knows after your twenty-four hour shift you have two full days off. 

“I’m at work,” he feels more like he’s reminding himself than you. “I can’t just lay down and sleep, my CT-”

“I ordered it for you,” you soothe him, hands up by his chest. If he steps forward you’ll be touching him; his feet stay rooted on the ground. “For Mr Hill? I ordered it, he’s getting it done now, Lewis has said she can keep an eye on him for a couple of hours while you get some rest. Please?”

He’s busy, he’s working. He doesn’t want to go to sleep because he’ll think of you and that’s embarrassing when you’ll be the one pushing open the door in a few hours to come wake him up. He hasn’t been able to sleep very well lately, and if he’s just going to be laying there and dissociating, he might as well do it standing up. 

“Sweetheart, I’m fine,” the endearment always makes him cringe hours after he says it. It’s a HR violation probably, but he doesn’t mind the way you smile at him when it slips out. “I’m almost done-” you both know damn well that’s a lie. Maybe he doesn’t, with how tired he is, but you certainly do. You both get off at the same time, and you know he was here for twelve hours longer than you’ve been. 

You shove him then, towards the bed. He stumbles back, the backs of his knees hitting the bed and sending him straight to a sitting position. You’re muttering to yourself, and he catches the words ‘stubborn’ and ‘annoying’ and 'do everything myself' as you step forward to close the gap. 

He opens his mouth to say something, he doesn’t remember what, but is interrupted by a metal clink noise. Your hands are on his belt, unbuckling it with one hand and using your other hand to brace yourself on the bed beside his thigh. 

Carter says your name again as you tug the leather harshly, undoing it, and you frown. “What happened to sweetheart?” The sound of his zipper coming down bounces off the walls and suddenly things are moving very fast. He’s probably asleep standing up and he’ll wake up with a boner and a cry of your name, standing at the nurse’s station. 

He doesn’t know where to put his hands, so they hover awkwardly in the air. He’s not quite sure what to do with himself, never thought he’d be put in this situation. Don’t get him wrong, he’s imagined this a dozen times. But in his imagination he’s usually a little more in control of the situation. He’s coaxing you into his lap, he’s got his hand down the pants of your scrubs, or maybe you’re wearing that pretty long floral skirt he saw you in downtown once. He’d had to rub one out in a bar bathroom after seeing you from across the street. Not his finest moment. 

Instead, you’re reaching in with your ever-soft hands, tugging down his slacks by the thighs and looking up at him like you love him. Your knees touch the hospital linoleum floor, and you settle on your haunches. “You gonna talk to me, Carter, or are you gonna keep pretending like I’m not here?”

“Still don’t believe you are,” he rasps. Your nails drag down his bare thigh, pants shoved down just enough to show the tent in his boxers. You’re honestly a little disappointed; you’d been hoping you’d get to toy with him a little. Play around, get him hard. He’s already fully erect without you even touching his cock yet. “F-fuck, gonna wake up at home with a hard-on.”

You bite your glossed bottom lip and let out a breathy laugh that causes his cock to twitch. The sight makes you shift on your knees. “You dream about me?”

He nods, trying his best to keep his chin ducked down to make eye contact with you. You have such pretty eyes, he could mix the colour from memory. He’s torn between wanting to pull you up, to kiss you hard and to tell you just how much you populate his thoughts, and just wanting you to fucking touch him already. “Yeah, sweetheart, dream about you.”

You reach for the waistband of his underwear and lean forward, nose pressing against his clothed cock. You press an open-mouthed kiss to his erection through his boxers right before you move the fabric out from underneath your lips. The waistband hangs underneath his heavy length and you have to sit back and admire it for a moment. 

He’s long, pretty and pink like the flush he gets when you call him doctor, and he’s leaking precum already. This is better, you decide resolutely, wrapping your hand around the base - and ignoring how much doesn’t fit in your hand - (you have no idea how you’re eventually going to get that inside you, but that’s a problem for later) sure, you didn’t get to toy with him all soft and willing in your hand; he’s desperate for you. 

Carter feels your breath brush his cock, most likely unintentionally, and lets out a groan. He’s more inclined to believe this is real because if he were dreaming he’s pretty sure he would’ve creamed his pants by now. You’re never usually such a tease in his dreams; he likes this better.

“Please touch me, sweetheart.”

You don’t realise how long you’ve spent admiring his cock until he’s squirming under your hands, aching from how hard he is. You decide to relent and stop teasing him, if only so you can finally get your mouth on him. The sound he makes when you wrap your lips around the tip of his cock is enough to make your panties dampen. 

Carter watches you squirm, blood rushing straight to the head of his cock. You’ve always been perfect, god, look at you, but now? He’s about one second away from ending up on his knees himself. Either to propose or to bury his face between your thighs, he’ll decide in the moment. 

You kiss the tip and all he can focus on is how soft your lips are, sticky with gloss and his arousal, hot and gentle. You lick the precum off and he groans, one hand coming to rest on the curve between your shoulder and your neck and the other grasping onto your hair at the back of your scalp. The pull makes you whine, sending vibrations right up his shaft.

He thinks he might just catch flame from how hot he feels, you holding the rest of his cock in your hands. Carter worries he’s going to have to beg for you to touch him when you finally take him deeper in your mouth.

“Fuck,” it rips low from his throat; he’s very conscious of how sound travels in these rooms. You suck all the spit to the back of your mouth and the sensation makes him whimper. You’d always imagined he would. “Fuck, sweet girl, feels so good.” The hand on your neck is gentle, running lines up your throat with his thumb. The other one less so, grabbing your hair so hard his knuckles are turning white. The praise makes you hum appreciatively. “So fucking good to me, aren’t you?”

You duck your head down, taking him deeper in your mouth and he has to throw his head back so he doesn’t cum down your throat prematurely. You’ve got a rhythm down that draws his mind blank. 

You swallow around his length, pumping the part that doesn’t fit in your mouth in your hand. Your spare hand grasps at his thigh and he lets go of your hair to take it in his own. You’re gonna fucking kill him, you’re so warm, so wet, and this is just your mouth. He’s going to make you cum so fucking hard as soon as he can string a sentence together.

He’s close, embarrassingly so, and he squeezes your hand. He breathes your name, spreading his legs so you can move closer to him. “God, sweetheart, you’re so fucking pretty. Gonna make me cum.” His entire body feels hot, the noises coming out of his mouth are downright embarrassing and it’s taking great effort to not be quiet enough to ensure he still has a job when you’re done. “Fuck, pretty girl.” My pretty girl. 

You pull back, a line of spit connecting you and him, and look up at him through wet lashes. “Are you gonna cum, Carter?” You’re working your hand up and down his cock, running your thumb over his slit and revelling in the way it makes his hips buck. “Close?”

He nods and you suck him back in. Carter squeezes your hand, and you squeeze back. So pretty, his sweet girl, holding his hand while sucking him off. Making him feel so good, you always know exactly what he needs. He’s going to get you a rock the size of the fucking moon, you won’t be able to wear it in the ER in case you blind someone but you’ll show it off to all the other doctors - that you’re his perfect girl. 

It’s a combination of things - the way you move forward and lose yourself, gagging slightly on his length. Your cheeks are wet, you’re not crying but you’re close to it. Your hand is wrapped around him, moving in sync with that insane tongue of yours. He comes with a pant of your name, unable to think of a single other word, a white hot orgasm that hits straight at the back of your throat and still manages to pool at your lips. The sight of his cum on the corner of your mouth almost makes him hard again. Your mouth is still working on him, and when you feel the twitch it spurs you on more.

He hisses through his teeth. “Fuck, fuck, sweet girl, too much. Too much.” He uses the hand on your neck to gently coax you off his cock. You rise on shaky legs and he gets his hands on your waist. Carter kisses you gently, shifting on the bed. “Can I make you feel good, sweetheart?”

You kiss him back, both of you unbothered at the taste of him on your tongue. You’re about to nod, to whine, to hum, to anything. Your pager goes off.

“Fuck,” he groans. 

You let him kiss you for just another second before you pull away to check the page. His hands are still on your waist, thumbs rubbing your hips, desperate to just touch you. “Go to sleep,” is all you say. You straighten yourself for a moment before pulling open the door. 

Carter lays down, shoving himself back into his pants. If anyone other than you came in it’d be rough to explain. He’s warm just at the memory of your touch, and the thin hospital mattress has never felt more comfortable. When you come to check on him five minutes later he’s fully knocked out, sprawled on the mattress with one leg hanging off the bed.

And fourteen hours later, when you’re both off shift, he’s going to repay the favour. 

[writingwithrach]

Pretty Girl - John Carter

pairing: reader x john carter

summary: john forgets that you're dating after he's had his wisdom teeth pulled.

warnings: fluff, swearing

words: 970

a/n: hope this is okay, anon, so sorry this is late thank you for the request! he's just so prettyyyyyyy! hope everyone enjoys this one! xo

“Shit,” you sigh as you check your watch and saw that it was 3:15pm. You quickly grab your things and shove them in your bag, wincing as the chair scrapes against the wooden floor. You mouth an apology to the librarian as she shushes you.

“Where are you going?” your friend Liz asked you as she logged off the computer.

“Gotta go, John’s having his wisdom teeth out.”

“Oh yeah, I thought he wasn’t going in till half 3, it’s only quarter past.”

She was right, but it was the dead of winter in Chicago, the roads would be pretty busy with gritters. You were also paranoid that your shitty old car wasn’t going to start, you made a mental note to look into getting a new one.

“Yeah, but I don’t wanna get held up and I don’t want John to be sat there on his own while he’s loopy on pain meds.”

“Fair enough,” Liz laughed, “see you on Friday night for girl’s night?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” you grinned as you hugged her, kissing her cheek before leaving the library.

Just as you had expected, the traffic was awful and what should have been a 15-minute drive turned into a 45-minute drive. Doug Ross greeted you as you walked into the ER, shivering from the cold.

“Hey, there she is. Right on time.”

“Oh good,” you laugh, rubbing your hands together, “was panicking that I was gonna be late, traffic was a nightmare.”

“Benton, this is Y/N. Carter’s girlfriend.”

The older man looked at you almost like he was scanning you. John had told you all about him as he was working under him. He looked you up and down, “you’re Carter’s girlfriend, huh? You’re not what I imagined.”

Before you could ask him what he meant, Dr Greene grabbed you as he walked past, “hey, he’s all done, I’m just gonna go and get him a discharge form. He’s in the first room on the left.”

“Thanks Mark,” you smile as you walk down the corridor and into the room that Mark had directed you to.

It was pretty noisy in the room and it took you a little while to find the right bed. When you found him, your heart melted, he looked so cute sat on the edge of the bed, his cheeks slightly swollen and his eyes glazed over. He seemed to perk up, a lazy grin spreading across his face as he saw you walk in.

“Hi, you okay?”

“Uh huh,” he smiled like a loon, his speech slightly slurred, barely concealing a gasp as you pressed a kiss to his cheek.

“Dr Greene has gone to get a discharge form,” you say as you sit next to him, making sure he had all his things.

“I’m a doctor too, y’know,” he puffed out his chest, making you laugh. It must have been handy for John, getting dental surgery done at the hospital he worked at.

“Yeah, I know,” you spot Mark coming back with the discharge form, “come on, let’s get your stuff together so I can take you home.”

John blinked those puppy dog eyes at you, “you’re taking me home?”

“Yeah, of course, babe,” you say, distracted as Mark gives you the pain medication, “come on, Johnny.”

At your words, he instantly gets to his feet and he’s at your heels like a lost puppy, barely saying a word to his colleagues as you take him out to the car. All the way home, he gazed at you as his hand clung to yours.

You heated up some tomato soup for him when you got back to the apartment, placing it on the coffee table in front of him as you flicked the TV on. As John ate his soup, he kept on stealing little glances at you, almost as if he was in awe.

“You’re like so, so pretty,” he mumbles, leaning his head back against the couch as he looked at you, “just wish I knew who you were.”

You fought hard to smother a giggle, “you wanna know a secret?” you ask and he nodded at you, his eyes as big as saucers, “well,” you started as you straddled his waist. John’s eyes practically popped out of his head as you did this, as he gripped your hips, his fingertips pressing into your skin lightly, “I’m your girlfriend,” you whisper as you press a soft kiss to his lips.

The gasp he makes against your lips confirmed your suspicions and he pulled back slightly to look you in the eyes, “you’re my girlfriend? Really?”

“Really?” you affirmed.

His face lit up, “damn, I got the prettiest girl ever,” he mumbles as he nuzzles into your neck, pressing small kisses to your skin, “so damn pretty. Prettiest girl alive.”

As it turns out, the pain meds not also made him loopy but it made him drowsy as well, John wandered off to the bedroom to take a little nap, demanding kisses as you tucked him up in bed, stroking his hair. He remerges at around 7pm when you’re making dinner, his hair is a mess and he’s got marks on his face from the pillow, he slept good by the looks of it.

“Hey, how are you feeling?”

He groaned as he wraps his arms around you from behind, “like shit,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, “I didn’t do anything embarrassing did I?”

You giggle as you lace your fingers through his, “well, you kinda forgot who I was.”

“Oh no,” he whines and you can feel his pout against your shoulder, “embarrassing.”

“You were adorable, and a little pathetic.”

“You’re a pain in my ass.”

“But you love me.”

“I do,” he’s silent for a moment, “thank you for looking after me, pretty girl.”

[sanguineterrain]

my name on your lips | john carter

Summary: When Howard Davis, a friend of Carter's father, stops by the hospital and asks if Carter is dating anyone, you're surprised that Carter says your name... because you're not dating. A tense dinner with Davis leads to Carter's confession.

Pairing: John Carter x fem!reader 

Word count: 4.9k

Warnings/tags: inspired by s1 ep23. med student!reader, she and carter are in the same year. mentions of carter's upbringing, wealth, family, etc. davis is a HO! classism, sexism, babygirlism (carter). friends to lovers.

divider

“I’m totally making him pay me back for pizza last week. He said he didn’t have twenty bucks!”

Malik is at the nurses’ station, complaining to Lydia, who’s shaking her head.

“Who?” you ask, not looking up from your chart.

Malik scoffs. “Carter. Dude’s loaded.”

You look up in surprise. “Since when?”

“Since birth! His dad’s worth, like, two hundred mil. Can you believe he told me he’s broke?”

“That’s how the rich are,” Lydia says wisely. “My second ex-husband was a lawyer and he never wanted to pay for anything. I just know he’s looking up at us right now.”

You’re used to the nurses’ gossip; sometimes it’s unfounded, so you’ve learned to check your sources with Carol and Jerry to know what’s true. You take your chart to the front desk and return it to the stack. You lean on the desk, drumming your fingers.

“Hey, Jerry.”

He nods. “Hey. Woman with a head lac in Curtain Two. Shattered a vase and cut herself.”

“Okay. Do you know where Benton is?”

Jerry snorts. “Sure. He’s tending to His Highness, Howard Davis.”

“Who?”

“We have a medical wing named after him.” He rubs two fingers together. “Y’know?”

“Oh. Wow.”

“Yeah, and get this: Carter went to school with his son. Davis called him Johnny.”

“Johnny?” You grin. Carter is so not a Johnny.

“Yup.” Jerry pops the ‘p.’ “Swift came in and had me call Chicago’s greats just ‘cause Davis had a little cut on his hand.”

“Well, I’m glad we’ve got our priorities in order,” you say, laughing.

“Sure. Wish I had a medical wing to donate.”

The phone rings. You take that as your cue to go tend to the woman behind the curtain. She’s deeply apologetic, even though you assure her that this is what you’re here for. You need to up your procedure count anyway. You’re pretty sure Benton will give Carter the surgery internship next year, but Mark Greene had told you that he’d be thrilled to have you back in the ER. It’s not your first choice, considering you want to be a chief of surgery one day, but you switched hospitals halfway through your rotation this year. You’re lucky to be offered anything at Cook County in the first place.

Besides, you like it here. You like the doctors, the staff… you like Carter too, even if he can be a little bit of a pain during times like these, when you have to compete for opportunities. But he’s been nothing but nice to you since you arrived, and he’s shown you all the ropes he could. 

And he’s rich? Jesus. You wonder why he’s even here. Surely, he could do anything, right?

“Okay, Mrs. Maldonado,” you say, finishing the woman’s stitches. “You’re all set. If you feel dizzy or nauseous, return immediately, okay?”

She thanks you and apologizes one last time before going to be discharged. You return that chart to the desk, then head for the stairs, on the hunt for Benton. He’d hinted at a chance for you to scrub into a hernia repair, and you want to make sure he hasn’t forgotten. 

But Benton comes out of the elevator before you can go upstairs, flanked by Carter and who you assume to be Davis. His hand is wrapped, and he’s talking animatedly about horses. Benton looks like he’d rather be anywhere else. He raises his eyebrows at you. 

“Hi, Dr. Benton,” you say quietly. “Can I still scrub into the hernioplasty?”

“Yeah, fine. One sec.” He turns to Davis, who has stopped talking, and is now studying you. You smile, and he smiles back, but it’s not warm.

“Mr. Davis, it was a pleasure,” Benton says. “I hope your hand heals fast.”

“You did excellent work,” Davis says, patting Benton’s shoulder. “It was good to see Johnny again.” He gestures to you. “And you must be the girl who got Johnny’s heart!”

Your eyebrows lift. “I’m sorry?”

Carter is slicing his throat with his hand behind Davis, shaking his head urgently. Play along! he mouths. Your gaze flicks from him to Davis. 

“Uh…”

“Oh, don’t be shy. Johnny told me all about you. Dating another medical student, well, I guess that figures. I told him he should catch up with Katrina, my daughter, but he can’t with you keeping him honest. Tell me, where did you go to school?”

“I went to Illinois State for my undergrad,” you say.

Davis looks you over. “Uh-huh. I see. And you two are in the same program?”

“That’s right, sir,” Carter says. “That’s how we met.”

You open your mouth to correct him, but Benton, by all the graces of God, interrupts.

“I’m really so sorry, Mr. Davis, but I need my students back. They’re scrubbing into a surgery. You understand, I hope.” Benton doesn’t sound sorry at all. You love it. 

“Oh, sure, sure.” Davis waves his uninjured hand. “Of course, Dr. Benton. Keep up the great work, you and John. Johnny, I’ll see you and this young lady for dinner tonight, yes? Seven sharp.”

“We can’t, unfortunately, as I mentioned before, sir. We’re on-call till midnight,” Carter says, rubbing his hands like he's washing them. A nervous habit. You've noticed that Carter's hands get cracked and red on colder days like these; you've been meaning to give him a pocket lotion, identical to the one you keep in your coat. “We’re not able to get off early.”

“For one night! I think the hospital can survive. Benton, can you let these kids go for a few hours?”

Benton smiles flatly. “Of course, Mr. Davis. We can survive.”

“Fantastic! Johnny, I’ll send the car. You know how that goes.” He nods at you, a little stilted. “And you. Don’t worry about wearing your scrubs. I’m sure it’d be too much trouble for you to change. Johnny’s always dressed up, aren’t you, John?”

Carter rubs the back of his neck. “I, uh—habit from my dad, I guess.”

Davis laughs like that’s the best thing he’s heard in a decade. “You’re right about that! Well, I’ll see you soon. Take care.”

He pats Carter’s shoulder and leaves. Carter shoves his hands deep in his pockets, avoiding both your and Benton’s gaze.

“Didn’t know I’d stolen your heart, Johnny,” you say, hands on your hips.

“Oh, there’s a lot you don’t know about him,” Benton says. “Carter here liked riding horses before he came to slum it with us, didn’t you?”

Carter sighs. “Dr. Benton, can we have a minute?”

Benton rolls his eyes. “Both of you finish your charting, and then I’ll see you for the hernia.” He points to you. “Got it?”

You nod. “Got it.”

“Great. We should be finished by the time the car arrives, Mr. Carter.”

Carter winces as Benton walks away. You tilt your head.

“I need to talk to you,” he says.

“Uh-huh. Since when are you loaded and dating me? All in one afternoon? Should I expect a ring tomorrow?”

“I’m not loaded, my parents are.”

“Yeah, that’s what rich kids say to attempt modesty. You raced horses?” you ask.

“I didn't race, it was dressage. With an Icelandic pony. Look—”

“A pony? I thought ponies couldn’t be ridden.”

“Some are bred to be ridden. Can I just explain?”

“Wait, I have another question. Is caviar really worth the hype? ‘Cause it looks like those decorative beads that they sell at Pier One, and I’ve always thought it was really weird how obsessed some people are with eating animal embryos and babies.”

Carter pinches the bridge of his nose. “Um, I haven’t had it in a long time, but from what I remember, it was only okay. Can we talk now?”

He doesn’t wait for you to respond, herding you into an empty on-call room. He turns on the light and closes the door. You sit on the bed and watch Carter pace a few times before speaking.

“Okay, so, I went to school with Mr. Davis’ son, Greg, as you might have heard. And Davis started talking about Katrina, his daughter, who’s a year younger than Greg and I.”

“Greg and me,” you say.

Carter stops pacing. “What?”

“I’m pretty sure it’s ‘Greg and me’ ‘cause it wouldn’t make sense if you said ‘Katrina is a year younger than I.’ Well, I guess you could say that, but it sounds really weird, like strangely archaic and formal—”

“Seriously? Now?”

You shrug. “Okay, whatever. I guess I expected more from—where’d you graduate? Vanderbilt?”

“Brown. If this is you trying to soothe my nerves, it’s not working.” Carter's a little unkempt, which isn't unusual after a full shift, but you're only three hours in. His stethoscope is slung unevenly around his neck. You reach up to pull one end down so it's even. He blinks at you. 

“You’re right,” you say solemnly. “This requires drastic measures. I’ll tell Alfred to fetch the smelling salts immediately, Mr. Wayne.”

That gets a laugh out of him, and you smile, happy he’s a little less tense. Tense Carter is never fun to witness. He sits next to you on the bed. You pat his back, encouraging him to keep explaining. 

“Davis was asking me about my life and… y’know, women in my life. He started talking about Katrina, and how she’s ‘managing a bank, but she’s still unmarried! Ain’t that a damn shame!”’

You grimace. “What century is this guy from?”

Carter scoffs. “Not ours or the last. He’s really old-fashioned. He told me that Katrina’s visiting him in Chicago for work and he’d love for us to catch up, and I… I panicked.” He groans, running his hands through his hair and tugging the ends. “I’m sorry. Your name was the first I thought of. I said we’ve been together for a year.”

“Why don’t you just go out to dinner once with Katrina and then tell her you don’t feel a spark, or whatever?”

Carter blows out a slow breath. “No, that wouldn’t work. She’s… God forgive me, honestly, I don’t like saying this about people, but she’s crazy. She set this girl’s hair on fire in her junior year because the girl slept with Katrina’s boyfriend. Katrina was drunk, but…” 

“Yeesh,” you say. “I take it there was no disciplinary action?”

“The dean tried, but Davis just threw money at him, and it all went away. Katrina was back in school a few weeks later. Even Greg would warn his friends not to get involved with her. She was out of control for years, and I can’t imagine she’s much different now.” He looks at you, eyes big and pitiful. “I’m really sorry. Maybe we can say we have to be quarantined for tuberculosis or something.”

You hum. “We could. Or we can just go to dinner for a few hours and then Jerry can page us back to the hospital. That way, Davis won’t hound you to meet him again.”

Carter’s eyebrows lift. “You’re taking this really well, considering I just threw this at you.”

“Oh, well, you had a fantastic reason. Johnny Carter is never caught unawares!”

He shakes his head. “I always hated when he called me that. I never felt like a Johnny.”

You bump his shoulder with yours. “Yeah, sorry. I think it’s either John or Carter. Do you have a middle name?”

“Truman.”

“Yikes.”

He snorts. “My dad’s John Truman Carter Jr. So…”

You smile slowly. “Oh, Carter. You cannot tell anyone else that. They will literally never let you live down John Truman Carter the Third.”

He flops back onto the bed horizontally. “Tell me about it. I thought I could graduate without anyone finding out about my family. I don’t want anyone to treat me differently just ‘cause he has money. I’m still the same guy you all know.”

You lie down next to him, propping your head on your hand. One of his suspender straps has slipped down his shoulder, so you pull it back up. You smooth his tie. 

“You’re still Carter to me,” you say. “But the suspenders make a lot more sense.”

He smiles and looks down at his shirt. You’ve never noticed how long his lashes are; this close, you can see that they cast shadows on his cheeks.

“My dad made me wear them for most of my life. Never thought twice about it, honestly.”

“I think they’re dashing. Do they get the ladies hot? Do said ladies snap them against your skin?”

“Oh my God,” he says, cheeks pinking. “No comment.”

“That’s absolutely a yes!”

“New subject. Are you sure you want to do this? I can find a way to get you out of this. You shouldn't have to suffer just because of my stupid mouth.”

Carter’s mouth isn't stupid at all, though you don't say so. He's got a perfect mouth, actually. It's pink and when he smiles, his mouth turns upside-down, which you didn't expect the first time you met him. When he shows his teeth, it's even better. Carter has the cutest grin. You look at his mouth now, how it's pulled into a frown. You want to trace his lips until he smiles again. 

“I don't mind,” you say. “He's a super important guy, right? Donated a lot to the hospital? We should keep him happy.”

Carter scowls. “This is exactly what I didn't want to happen. I thought the days of meeting my dad's friends and listening to their ridiculous, out-of-touch problems were over. I chose my own path, and I still can't escape them.” 

He presses his palms to his eyes. You take a moment to look at the shape of him: his long legs bent over the edge of the bed, his striped white shirt tucked into his pants, the lean lines of his torso. His chest rises and falls quickly. 

You savor moments like these, despite his freakout. Carter's the only one who makes you feel like a person at work. He sat with you last month when you lost a little boy in emergency surgery and held your hand while you cried. He's brought you countless bagels and coffees and vending machine chips. Sometimes you just sit together, when you have a second to spare. 

“Carter.” You touch his chest. It's warm. He runs so warm, and it surprises you every time. “It'll be fine. You're still on your own path. One dinner won't derail your independence.”

It's beginning to click now, why Carter takes mistakes so personally, like he's failed himself over and over. Why he was desperate to move out, why he never speaks about his family, and why he never has any plans for the holidays. He's mentioned his brother's cancer once to you, nothing else. 

He lifts his hands. “I know. It's just, Davis can be a little much. You shouldn't have to deal with it.”

“I can be couth. Address the one percent.”

“I didn't mean it like that. You're amazing. He can be brash. There's a reason Greg moved across the country to be away from him.”

“I think I'll be okay,” you say. “Don't worry, Carter. You will owe me, though.”

Carter nods like he was expecting that. “Of course. Anything you want.”

“I have to think about it.” You hop off the bed and extend a hand. “C'mon, Kentucky Derby. We need to get back to saving the world.”

Carter takes your hand and stands. “That doesn't even make sense. I didn’t race.”

“Well, I don't know any famous dressage competitions. That's outside of my tax bracket.” 

The hernia repair goes well. Benton lets you go with minimal grumbling, maybe because he realizes that Swift will be on his ass if Davis complains. You change out of your scrubs, Davis’ comment still ringing in your ears. You dress professionally when the occasion calls for it, and you always have a set of work clothes in your locker. Mostly, you wear scrubs or t-shirts you don’t mind getting blood on.

Benton has never commented on it, nor has Mark, so you stuck to it, prioritizing comfort and hygiene over anything else. It’s a hospital, not Fashion Week.

There’s a knock on the door. “Hey, almost ready? I think the car’s outside.” Carter.

But as you change and look yourself over in the bathroom, you’re wishing you had the means to make more of an effort. Your hair is styled efficiently, out of your face, protecting it until the next wash. Your face is plain, skin free of jewelry. It’s too much of a work hazard with grabby or drunk patients, and you sweat frequently, running around the way you do.

You lean in to inspect your skin, the hair on your face, natural discoloration around your features. The change of clothes helps; you’re in a nice pink blouse and dark pants. The last time you wore this was for a meeting with Morgenstern about a scholarship opportunity. 

“Is this okay?” you ask, trying to sound casual.

“Yep, ready!” You smooth your shirt down and grab your stuff, opening the door.

Carter’s got his coat on, in his usual digs, but there’s no reason for him to worry about appearances. Now that you know about his family, it’s easy to imagine him in a room full of elites, wearing a sports jacket and drinking expensive scotch or champagne. Hate it or not, you’re sure Carter’s really good at mingling with people like that. He was one of them. Is.

“You look nice.” He smiles, but it’s a little confused. “You didn’t have to change, though.”

“No one wants me in my stinky scrubs,” you say breezily, turning to put on your coat so you don’t have to look at Carter.

He sighs, and when you look at him, he’s frowning. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Carter, don’t be a silly goose. You said the car’s waiting, right? Let’s go.”

He reluctantly follows you out, through the hospital, and into the cold February air. You tuck your scarf tighter around your neck. Carter takes your hand and points at a black towncar. 

“I think that’s it.”

Carter touches your wrist gently, and you look at him.

The seats are soft and leathery. You’re almost afraid to sit, worried you’ll ruin it. Carter chats with the driver, and if he’s nervous about dinner, it doesn’t show. You watch the city blur past, content to let Carter take the lead. At work, you’re clever and ambitious, and you and Carter have even gone toe-to-toe a couple times.

The medical field is already difficult enough; going into surgery as a woman is about twelve times harder. Benton respects you… you think he does, anyway. He’s tough on everyone, which comforts you. But you know most surgical residents aren’t like him. There’s a certain demographic that enters this field. 

“You okay?” he asks.

You nod. “I’m fine, Carter.”

He laughs a little. “Probably shouldn’t call me Carter at dinner. None of my girlfriends called me Carter.”

At least now you have no conflicts. You’ve accepted how you feel, you just bury it. 

It’s just pretend, just for tonight, but Carter calling you his girlfriend sends a jolt of electricity through you. You’ve seen and even met a few women he’s dated, or, more accurately, had flings with. He’s affectionate, clingy when he thinks he has privacy.

For a while, you hated how your body reacted to the sight of him with women. Carter is technically your competitor, and liking him is only a distraction. Now you’re friends, but it was frustrating at the beginning, trying not to like him. Carter’s sweet, which made it worse. 

“John, then.” It’s unusual coming out of your mouth, but it’s nice. “I guess you should call me by my first name too.”

He nods. “For sure. I told Jerry to page us at eight.”

“Only an hour?” You grin. “No faith in me?”

“No faith in me,” he says. “I’d rather do a hundred rectal temp checks.”

“Oh my God, it can’t be that bad!” you say, laughing.

“No, it won’t. I haven’t done this in years. I’m just intolerant, I guess.”

The car pulls up to the establishment: Gibson’s, an upscale American bar and grill. Carter gets out and comes around to your door so you don’t have to slide across the street. He opens the door and takes your hand, helping you out.

“Such a gentleman,” you say.

“Sometimes,” he says, a little bashful. His cheeks are flushed with cold. “Remember, we’ve been dating a year. We met at school.”

“Got it.” 

Carter links your arm with his. You walk in together. Carter gives his name and helps you out of your coat to give it to the coat check attendant. You rush to unwrap your scarf, and Carter pats your shoulder, a silent message. Relax. You slow down. You deserve to be here too. You were invited, after all.

You’re brought to the table, where Davis is already seated. He waves, calling Carter over. Carter pulls your chair out for you, then pushes you in. He takes his seat next to you. 

“I’m so pleased you could make it,” Davis says, like you had a choice. “Nice having a break from the hospital, eh?”

“We like our work, but it’s nice to have a break,” Carter says diplomatically. “What’s good here?”

“Oh, don’t worry, I already put an order in for three ribeyes.” He points at you. “It’ll knock your socks off.”

“Mr. Davis, we appreciate that, but she doesn’t eat red meat,” Carter says.

Davis squints at you. “Since when? Some fad diet?”

“No, it’s just a personal choice. We see a lot of heart problems in the ER, so I’ve been cutting back. But it’s okay, I can—”

Carter interrupts your excuse. “Mr. Davis, surely you understand. She’d really prefer to eat something else.”

Davis sighs like he killed the cow himself. “Sure, fine. A little beef does you some good, you know. John here loves steak! Should’ve found yourself a steak-lover, Johnny.”

Carter just presses his lips together. You awkwardly fold your hands in your lap as Davis waves over a waiter to give you a menu. You order quickly, not wanting to prolong the tension. 

“So, tell me, what do your parents do?” Davis asks. 

“My mother is a teacher, my dad was a mechanic. He retired.”

“Hm. They must be glad you’re becoming a doctor.”

“Yes, they’re very proud,” you say.

“Costly, though. You must be drowning in debt.”

You stutter, surprised at his bluntness. “Oh, um, I was fortunate enough to get some merit scholarships, and other aid, but yes, it’s expensive. I have loans, but who doesn’t, right?”

Davis is silent. Right. No one at this table shoulders loans. You glance at Carter, who looks exhausted already.

“Katrina’s on the board for PNC Bank,” Davis says. “No decent guys at work, though. You’d think that the higher you go, the better the options, but no luck.”

“I’m sure she’ll find someone,” Carter says.

“Has she tried those matchmaking services?” you ask. “I had a friend who got married through one of those, and she’s happy.”

Davis raises an eyebrow. “My daughter can find a good fellow on her own.”

“It was only a suggestion,” Carter says. “The Maynors did the same thing with their daughter.”

Davis hisses through his teeth. “Yeah, I remember. That’s because Alexis Maynor had nothing going for her. No looks, no charm, not even a viable career. I suppose if you’re that desperate, you have to rely on those kinds of things.”

Jesus. If this is how Davis is, you’d hate to meet either of his children. 

“So, a teacher. What does your mother teach?” Davis asks.

“She teaches high school biology.”

He raises a brow. “And she didn’t want to become a doctor herself?”

“I think she liked teaching more. She likes the kids and the schedule.”

“Ah, well. Not everyone can do. Some must teach.”

You tuck your tongue into your cheek, trying not to snap. “Respectfully, Mr. Davis, all of history’s greats would never have become great without a good teacher.”

“And yet we never hear about them,” Davis says, chuckling. 

The waiter arrives then with your food—truly wonderful timing. You wish you had a clock to know how much longer you have to put up with this. Hopefully not long. You can weather through it; he’s not much worse than the smarmy classmates and older doctors you’ve dealt with.

“So Johnny, when are you getting married?”

Carter’s cutting his steak with laser focus. He glances at you, then clears his throat. “We haven’t really discussed it, sir.”

Davis guffaws. “Johnny, I didn’t mean you two. Oh, I’m sure you’re a splendid girl,” he says to you. “But Johnny, you need a family woman. Someone who’ll take care of you at home.”

“I take care of myself just fine,” Carter says, the muscles in his jaw jumping. “And we’re very happy together.”

“Two doctors? Your schedules will never work. You’ll fall apart within a year. Not to mention, Jack and Eleanor wouldn’t approve.” He waves a hand at you. “Surely, you can find someone more your speed, huh?”

Your eyes widen. “Excuse me?”

“Someone who shares your background! You can’t have much in common, besides the hospital. What are you specializing in, anyway? Pediatrics? Gynecology?"

You can’t believe it. Davis saw you right next to Carter and Benton. He saw Benton speak to you, address you as his student. And he… what? Assumed you were lost?

You take a slow breath. In, out. “No, actually, I’m studying surgery. I want to be a chief of surgery.”

“A female chief of surgery, wow. Someone’s got big dreams. Johnny, this is what I mean—you don’t want a girl who’s competing with you for the same spot.”

Your and Carter’s pagers beep then, and you’d laugh at the timing if Davis wasn’t turning an interesting shade of red. Carter turns the alert off.

“You know what?” Carter throws his napkin onto his plate and stands. Several people’s heads turn.

“Mr. Davis, you’ve been unbelievably rude tonight. Just because you’re a friend of my father’s doesn’t mean you have any right to judge what I do or who I love. This woman here is fantastic. Her. Right here.”

Carter thrusts a hand at you. You lower your eyes briefly, not wanting to see Davis’ irate expression. But then you look at Carter, and his intensity steals the air from your lungs.

“I’m in love with her! I’d be proud to call her my wife someday. She’s a great doctor, and if she became chief, it would be well-deserved. I am more than my family. I barely see my parents these days, and even if I did, I wouldn’t give a shit about what they think. This is my path. My life. She’s in it, in a big way, and you aren’t.”

“That’s the hospital. We have to go.” He pulls out his wallet and tosses a few bills onto the table. “For our share. And by the way? Katrina’s a bully, and so are you. That’s why she can’t get married.”

Carter helps you out of your chair, then rests an arm around your back as you go to the coat check. Soon enough, the restaurant resumes its usual bustle, letting you leave in peace. Carter’s quiet the whole time. You follow him outside where he tries to flag down a cab in vain. 

“Carter,” you say softly.

He checks his watch and grumbles, failing to wave another cab. “What, do they have somewhere to be?” he mutters. 

“John.”

Carter looks at you, mouth twitching at the name. “Yeah?”

You sigh. “You should go back. Apologize. He’ll complain to Swift. What if you get kicked out?”

“He wouldn’t go that far,” Carter says. “My dad’s a jerk, but if he ever found out Davis was the reason I got dropped from the program, he’d go after him.”

“Still, it wasn’t—I’m not worth all that trouble. You can still smooth things over. Say you had a hard day, say we fought or something.”

Carter blinks at you. “Not worth—what are you talking about? Of course you’re worth it. He was totally out of line. That shit he said about your mom? God, who the hell does he think he is?”

“It was out of line, Carter, but you and I are just friends. We were pretending, remember? It’s not like any of that stuff about you loving me is true.”

Carter glances at the road, the pavement, anywhere but your eyes. Your heart thumps in your chest.

“Carter?” Your voice is weak. “Is it?”

“There’s a reason I said your name,” he says, and bites the inside of his cheek. “It was… wishful thinking.”

You take a careful step forward. It’s freezing. You want to be wrapped in Carter’s warmth.

“You’re in love with me?”

He nods, staring at his shoes. “Yeah. Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” you say, not daring to breathe in case you fill your lungs and it all melts away. “I just thought of a way you can pay me back for tonight.”

The look Carter gives you tells you that he knows what you’ll say, but he needs to hear it anyway. “How?”

“Kiss me.”

He takes your face in his hands tenderly, thumbs rubbing your cheeks. He kisses you, his mouth warm and firm. Not stupid. His bangs tickle your forehead. You close your eyes and push his bangs back, raking your fingers through his hair. He makes a pleased sound and pulls you closer. You’ll never be cold again.

Carter pulls back just enough to rest his forehead on yours, nose bumping your cheek. “You are worth it.”

You kiss him again. 

[80sfilmclub]

dr. john truman carter iii is a wonderful boyfriend. doting and attentive, he knocks all the other men out of the park with how perfect he is on top of juggling med school and insane rotations at the hospital. you think you lucked out: handsome and deliciously tall, gentlehearted and goofy with a way to make you laugh no matter the day. nothing could ever make him any better.

until he proposes and you (obviously) say yes.

dr. john truman carter iii is a creature of adoration, nearly possessive, as your fiance. something in him glints with satisfaction whenever his eyes snag onto the rock of a ring on your finger, warm and thick like honey down his spine whenever you introduce him as your fiance. being your boyfriend had been a blast, being your fiance nearly makes him feral— he doesn't know what he'll be when you call him your husband.

but as of now, he terrorizes cook county hospital with photos of you from your engagement party, photos he's snagged of you at home with a slight focus on the ring, and regaling any patient that'll give him a second about stories of you, his fiance.

and doesn't that just sound so sweet, maybe just as sweet as you calling him yours.