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Welcome To The Twilight Zone — John Economos *

This is a sort of smutty sequel, set after some time has passed, to my last Economos work but both can definitely be read as standalones.

Prequel → Running Smoothly

Warnings: SMUT! P in V. Reader takes John's virginity. Nothing crazy in regards to the act, it's pretty soft and sweet all things considered. Language. Slight description of clothes and I believe I mentioned readers hair being long enough to at least be able to be pushed back. I think that's it.

Word Count: 6.2k (6,286)

Pairing: virgin!John Economos x female reader

(A/N: I've definitely imagined Economos as a virgin for this, I don't know why. He gives me two vibes; either a virgin well into his 50s or has so much game because of his blunt and snarky attitude that he's definitely pulled a few times lmao.)

(A/N 2: this is not proofread. Also, I've been researching tips and tricks to bring my writing back up to the level it was at least before my ((really long)) break. I think I have sort of gained some of that creativity back in this and hopefully have actually improved my writing. But yeah, please forgive me if it's shitty.)

_______________

"Wait, so that's it? It was all for nothing?"

—

The episode's closing out. The Twilight Zone — "The Shelter." Season 3, episode 3. Written and directed by Rod Sterling and Lamont Johnson respectively. Aired originally on September 29th in 1961.

Now, time travel exists to some extent — hello, there's dimensional portals and aliens — but you're definitely still within the 21st century as you're staring at the credits beginning to roll.

The box set collection, of both the original and reboot of the series, is open and messily piled on the coffee table where it's been living and will continue to live for the foreseeable as you work your way through it with John.

That's why you're even watching the show in the first place.

John was appalled when he found out "you've never seen Twilight Zone?! Not even the reboot?"

It's easily one of his favourite shows and at that very moment when he found out such devastating news, he vowed that you'll both be watching the entire thing, start to finish.

And that is how you're here right now — partly curled up into John's side on his couch, body blanketed by one of his zip up hoodies.

—

"Wait, that's it? It was all for nothing?"

"Yup. False alarm."

You're almost pissed. Almost.

"So, the doctor guy—uhm, Stockton—he's basically mocked by his neighbours because he was kinda rightly paranoid enough to build a shelter in the middle of the cold war—"

"Uh-huh,"

"—but then they're all running to him when the alarms go off—"

"Yeah,"

"—and essentially launch an attack on him and his family after he very reasonably and logically explained why he couldn't let them in—"

"Sure,"

"—and then the whole thing ends with everyone pretending like none of it happened once the all-clear sounds, like, ‘Oops, sorry we tried to smash your door down and kill you, anyway happy birthday again’? That’s fucking insane, right? Like, nobody apologizes, nobody reflects, they just…laugh it off?”

“Pretty much.”

"Fucking Brutal."

John is laughing as you finish off. "Yeah, brutal. And realistic. Serling definitely shows how fast fear becomes prejudice."

"And that people suck."

John snorts. "Yeah. But it's more like people can't handle guilt. Easier to pretend it didn't happen than admit they showed you who they really are."

You're sitting back, thinking. "God, that's bleak."

He's shrugging, giving that half smile that almost mirrors a smirk, peering down at you from the corner of his eye. "That's The Twilight Zone."

"If we ever decide to buy any real estate together, we are definitely not moving to the suburbs, deal?"

The laugh is full-bellied, shoulder shaking. "Deal."

You're beaming up at him — it's tender, it's enamoured. The sound makes your chest all warm and fuzzy, and the image of him looking so relaxed and carefree makes your pulse speed up and stop altogether simultaneously.

The impulse is sudden and strong. It overwhelms you enough that you're stretching up from your spot and kissing his cheek. The scratch of his beard against your chin subtle and you oddly found you love the feel of his facial hair up against your skin, especially when you share sweet, tentative kisses.

John stiffens ever so slightly from the unsuspecting smooch and his cheeks begin to feel hot but it's not because it made him uncomfortable in the slightest.

It's all down to his nerves — those nerves that will probably always be there when you, that he believes is so out of his league, continue to be with him of your own volition. Those nerves that are rooted in absolute disbelief that you chose and will continue to choose to spend your time with him.

He's only brought out of his own head when you're standing from the couch and stretching slightly. You both feel the instant how the heat from the other dissipate — so comforting and instantly missed, feeling all askew without it.

Eyes trail over you and follow your form as you head to the bathroom after quickly announcing "pee break".

His mind is travelling back to what you said before he felt your lips flush against his cheek — about buying real estate together.

John knows it was a light-hearted joke, but he can't help but allow himself to wonder. That belief trickles in where you're actually serious about this relationship, enough to play about buying a house, nay home, together. The use of 'we' like you're already set on spending so much of your future with him.

That feeling, so overwhelming, that there's this possibility that you're in this for the long run, with him no less — it's the most attractive thing to him ever and—

'Fuck, am I hard right now?'

John feels the tent forming in those sweatpants — Soft, worn-in, the kind with elastic cuffs at the ankle that's loosened over time and has seen more takeout nights than the average couch — before he's even looking down which confirms that yes, he's rock-hard right now.

The panic sets in at a neck-breaking speed when he's hearing the bathroom door unlock and open. He was so in his head that he was deaf to the sounds of flushing and the tap running afterwards.

There's a cushion flying on to his crotch in a sad attempt to hide his erection, his posture stiffening as he hears the soft padding of your fuzzy sock covered feet heading back in his direction.

And then you're there, smiling — sweet, bright, and excited to see him there waiting like you've been separated for three days, not three minutes.

Naturally, you're settling back into your spot, tucking your legs underneath you and side cuddling back into his hulking form.

You don't notice how he's stiff, red in the face, how robotic he is when he selects the next episode on the DVD menu. Not at first.

You're just excited to get on to the next episode and talk about it with John afterwards because you know that's what he appreciates most from others, even if he's never spoken it aloud before — genuine interest in the things he likes and says.

You also know, because he told you at the beginning of the episode, that this episode is ranked #7 to him in regards to favourite.

Yes, he does in fact have a ranking of episodes of The Twilight Zone which he's memorized in order of favourites. And yes, he was very thorough in how he ranked them because of many factors like plot, camera work and so on.

It's when he doesn't offer a tidbit of a fact and where he's ranked it to him personally that you notice that something's amiss.

You're eyeing him subtly, starting at his head. His eyes are locked intensely at the screen, cheeks flushed, breaths coming out quiet like he's partially holding his breath. Then you spot his shoulders, frigid, taut, tight with tension.

Your eyes are travelling lower and lower as you're desperately searching your mind of what you could have possibly done to make this remotely awkward.

It's when you catch sight of the pillow on his lap that your face outwardly, but subtly, shows surprise.

'Holy shit, did he pop a boner?'

Internally scoffing, you're picking apart your theory already. Perhaps he's just cold? No, that's stupid. You're mentally shaking your head.

Nibbling at the inside of your cheek, you entertain the idea that he's rocking a hard-on. Decisively, you test out the possibility.

Acting as nonchalant as possible, you're shifting and stretching — the moan that accompanies the movements sounds sexual, not overtly, but in that soft way that hints towards someone is bordering being turned on.

No visible reaction.

You inwardly deflate a little, believing that perhaps it's definitely not what you think and you're just kind of being a smidge perverted.

Though, unknown to you, John's cock jumped feeling you shift beside him and hearing your enticing sound. He almost moves to adjust himself because of how painfully awkward it was having a cushion smothering his lap. But he refrains well.

It's when you decide to up the difficulty of your "test" that he's beginning to fail, with flying colours.

You're unzipping his hoodie your wearing tantalisingly slow and letting it fall off your shoulders before pulling it from where it pooled around yourself. It's not like you're wearing anything revealing underneath, just an oversized graphic tee you've owned since your early 20s. But it seems to work nonetheless.

John couldn't resist the urge any longer — his hips shifting cautiously and slowly, his hand keeping the pillow secure over his crotch.

It was noticeable, just barely, as you watch him in your peripheral. Pearly whites capturing your bottom lip as your thighs unknowingly clench together.

It's your turn to act nonchalantly alongside him, allowing moments to pass by where you pretend to focus on the show.

Too many beats of silence passes by, your panties slowly becoming more slicked with how wet you're growing at the mental note that he's totally turned on right now.

You decide to just come out and say it — unabashed, that temporary confidence that feels feigned when looking back.

"John, are you hard right now?"

—

Although your status as being in a relationship is still fairly new, you grew to become more comfortable and casual with him faster than you anticipated.

It certainly progressed in stages at just the right pace for you both.

You're spending the night at each other's place at least twice a week, carpooling to work all the time — have even indulged in some steamy make out sessions once or twice, thrice. But sex, physical intimacy, hasn't really occured yet.

Obviously, it's not a bad thing, and the seriousness of a relationship doesn't depend on how much sex you've had or how often. Hell, there's strangers that fuck and then go their separate ways never to see each other again in this lifetime. Or the next, if you believe in that.

But regardless, you're definitely not going to shy away from when that next stage, that level, presents itself in something that feels natural, like it's the "right" time, even if it takes a direct question like that from you, even if underneath the surface, you're nervous as all fucking hell.

—

"Wha—what?" John choked on his spit, the word coming from his mouth stuttered. He swears he feels his face must look and match how it feels like an inferno.

Knees sink into the couch beneath your weight as your body turns and your sitting back on your haunches.

"Do you have a boner?"

The wording is altered but the meaning is all the same as you repeat to reiterate.

"No—No, 'course not. Pfft—I—Why the fuck would I be...hard right now—" The response is an example of his usual deflection, the nervous chuckle to his tone and the half-hearted scoff everyone is used to from him speaks volumes. Both gaze and body are shifty, which means he doesn't notice the way you're looking at him, the way your thighs are subtly pushing and rubbing together.

"John." He catches how soft, how nearly breathless you call his name but doesn't budge.

He's too busy berating himself and wishing that hell would open up and drag him down quickly so he doesn't have to live through the humiliation of you telling him, "I don't think this is working out. We should go back to being just colleagues. I don't want to and will never, ever want to have sex with you—"

The horrid scenario he's conjured up and is playing a mile a minute in his head is abruptly cut off when you've turned his head towards you and call his name again — just as soft, just as airy.

The hairs of his beard feels both simultaneously coarse and ticklish on your palm as it's cupping his cheek oh so tenderly. Your eyes sparkle with something he doesn't quite realise is a mixture of both adoration and attraction — he's almost fighting to pull away from your hand and cast his stare elsewhere once more with how intense it feels between you.

The distance closes and your lips push against his, thumb stroking his cheek as his response is instant, his mind stripped clean of every thought but of how your kiss feels. Of you.

Both sigh into the kiss, the world around you fading so remains only you both. The episode is playing forgotten in the background, the noise — once sound and thought out dialogue, now barely audible static in your minds.

One hand, large and warm, finds it's home on your hip, fingers splayed out, tips softly digging into your covered flesh. The other goes limp atop the pillow he once held against him with a vice grip.

As your tongue teases his bottom lip, you're slipping your free hand and pinching the corner of the cushion, slowly pulling it away off his lap and hapazardly discarding it on to the floor. You feel him jump and twitch against your palm.

John's gasp is small and his groan is low, barratone, as he feels your hand cup him through his sweats. The hand, once dead weight atop the now removed pillow having shot out to find solace on your adjacent hip.

You're preening under the warmth of his hands and how they're squeezing you firmly.

Pulling apart, the two of you are breathless — softly panting against each others lips, eyes lazily opening and connecting.

A beat. Then another.

"Do you—" You pause as your tongue darts out and wets your bottom lip, the nerves bubbling just below your skin. "—Do you, y'know, want to?"

He most certainly does, but he doesn't want to scare you off with how eager he sound — desperate.

"Do you?" The deflection, responding with another question, makes him internally cringe. It's like he's hell bent on pushing you to change your mind before he's investing too deeply with his heart, mind, body, and soul. But he doesn't want you regretting it once it's over and done with — it'll only break his heart that much easier.

—

'What a fucking cliché,' he thinks to himself, that he wants his first time to feel special, for your first time together to feel special, to have meaning.

The man is in his 50s, most would assume he'd snatch it up if offered and take any he could get just so he could proudly claim he's not a virgin, especially from someone so "out of his league". But, he's always held this view that sex, being physically intimate, should be meaningful — that it should be with someone he trusts, cares for. Someone that's special to him.

Of course, you tick those boxes but by God, would it crush him if you couldn't even bare to look him in the eye after and he never hears from you again.

—

He realises you're giggling.

'Oh fuck. I knew it. She's fucking laughing at me.'

Before his mind continues in a downward spiral, you're giving his length a small squeeze that makes his breath hitch.

"I'm holding your dick right now and you're seriously questioning if I'm into it?" Your bottom lip — soft and plump — is being captured between your teeth as you're playful tone helps with unease and tension.

With slow movements, your hand that's been resting against his cheek travels to one of his perched on your hips. It follows the length of his arm starting from his elbow, over his wrist before covering and gently grasping his. You begin to guide him lazily down over your stomach, the touch making goosebumps raise along your skin even through the fabric of your tee, before slipping beneath your shorts. It's once you push past the hemline of your underwear and his fingers settle between your lips, puffy and warm, are you both sucking in a sharp breath.

Noses brush as you're leaning closer, enough to really have him look in your eyes, lips separated by a breaths width.

"You're so special to me, John," you start, whispering breathily against his lips like a coo.

"You know, I kinda already decided I'm not going anywhere anytime soon and started planning a really, really long 'us'." This is lighter and brings an easy smile to both your faces.

"Yeah?" Smiles are growing wider, almost cheeky splitting and painful.

"Yeah. I already called dibs on you in my head, so...tough luck if you had other plans. It's unfair as it is, how easy you make it to want to stay." There's a soft laugh shared between you, air hitting each others warm faces before a beat then two of silence is passing by. It's when your expression grows softer, more serene, and your tone turning enamoured that it really begins to hit him how honest you're being. "Look. I'm not saying forever, but I'm also not saying not forever."

Words, so reassuring, so tender. They present such possibilities and conjure up the most wonderful of images in his head.

They're hanging there between you — light, almost teasing in delivery, but sinking deep like an anchor dropped into still water. The meaning behind them threading itself through every thump of his heart and replacing every thought buzzing with doubt.

There's something about the way you said them. Quiet, but sure. No grand declarations, no dramatics, just the kind of honesty that feels steady. Real. The kind that sneaks up on you, lodges itself in your chest, and refuses to let go.

John throat tightens around something he doesn't know how to name. Maybe it's gratitude. Maybe it's relief. Maybe it's the dizzying realisation that someone actually sees him — all his edges and awkward silences and half-mumbled jokes and foul-mouthed remarks — and still wants to stay. Still wants him.

He wants to say something back, something that matches the weight of your words, but nothing feels big enough at the same time.

The smile he gives you isn't wide or showy — it's small, a little shaky, but filled to the brim with every unspoken thing you've just drawn out of him.

And for the first time in a long time, John Economos feels like maybe he doesn't have to brace for the worst. Maybe this is actually his to keep.

Everything you said, you've meant. And under normal circumstances, if you were both normal, they'd have been uttered when his hand isn't getting more and more coated in your slick and yours is grasping his boner through fabric like a shift stick.

But the time and place of it all — it couldn't happen any other way with you both.

—

He's the one this time to close the gap, lips pushing against yours, tongues testing the waters by lapping and swirling around each other.

It's turning ever so slightly frenzied, passionate, hot and heavy as John makes his index intentional twitch against your clit. It sets your nerves on fire and makes your skin prickle in the best way possible.

You're almost embarrassed at the whimper that escapes you into his mouth and responds in kind with a firm squeeze to his cock once more, hand beginning to lazily stroke him through his sweats.

Both of you are gently rutting against each other's hands as you lose yourself in the pleasure, in each other. You're both moaning and lightheaded and the want, need, desire, is becoming all too overwhelming that you're pulling apart.

The thought of straddling him comes to mind but decide against it, for now. Instead, you opt to gently pull his hand from you and out of your shorts, which elicits another whimper from you at the loss, then raise to stand before him and strip.

John's watching you with wide eyes and pupils blown out as you're lifting your tee up over your head followed your bra falling down your arms and on to the floor, breathing ragged and stuttering at the sight.

By the time you've slipped both your shorts and panties down your legs too, it's only them that you realise John hasn't moved a muscle to undress and he's just staring.

You're beginning to feel shy and actually shift nervously on the spot as you're calling out his name, nerves beginning to bubble up in your chest like someone's whacked the stove on high and boiling a pot of water.

Gaze refocusing, he's looking directly at your face — the prettiest sight of them all — and it clicks that you're patiently waiting for him to join you in a state of undress.

Nerves of his own double, triple — that self-consciousness and insecurity about his own body, his form and physique.

He's slow, tantalisingly so, when he begins to remove his clothes, hands obviously shaking despite how hard he's trying to hide it. His hips are lifting from the plush, worn couch to push his sweats and boxers down and off his legs to pool at the floor.

Then he's hesitating, just for a beat — like he's trying to decide whether he should follow through with removing everything — before leaning forward slightly away from the backrest to pull his own t-shirt up and over his head.

Once both stripped bare, you're left gazing at each other, eyes travelling across every inch of skin available to the eye. Unbeknownst to each other, you're finding the sight of each other completely intoxicating.

All it took was one step in your entranced state to be stood directly before him, looking down at him and moving without thought.

Your brain and body is in autopilot but it's comprehensible enough to guide you to straddle his lap and begin to scatter kisses from the top of his stomach and along his chest — worshiping his body as you're settling yourself comfortably atop his thighs, thick and warm.

Hands are settling in place — his upon your hips once more, yours against his chest and on his shoulder for balance.

His cock twitches as your core hovers above, just barely brushing against it, a ghost of a touch and he's biting back a moan at the warmth.

Your tits are pushing flat up against his chest as your lips move to lock on to his once more instead, that pull of needing to kiss him completely overwhelming you and your senses.

The hand against his chest is slowly travelling down between your bodies to firmly grasp at his cock — it's warm and heavy and definitely feels bigger without the extra layers to hide behind.

It's twitching against your palm as your fingers are wrapped around his shaft, it's head pulsating as you run it back and forth through your slit, occasionally nudging your overly sensitive bundle of nerves.

It's quick to become painted in a coating of your arousal — your cunt absolutely dripping and wanting, waiting, to be stuffed full of him — you're guiding it to circle your entrance.

Then you're slowly, steadily, sinking down, down, down until he's buried as far as possible inside of you.

Simultaneously, you're moaning out as you allow the feeling of being finally connected to overwhelm you both — gasps that escape you are shaky and stutter like hiccuping for air.

"You okay?" You're asking him, forehead pressed against his, tone soft, breathless.

When he recognises that you're checking in on him, that he's doing okay — not overwhelmed, that he hasn't changed his mind and still wants this — his cock is twitching again as it's stuffed deep in your cunt. It's nothing but absolutely arousing that you care so much about him and his wants and needs, and the feel of your warmth, your walls tightening then relaxing around him over and over only add on further just how much you consume his mind, body, and soul.

John swears that he'd have already climaxed if it wasn't for all that edging he does when he tugs one out while watching porn.

To answer your question, he's nodding his head, beads of sweat already forming along his temples and the gulp of air he swallows is almost audible. "Yeah—you okay?"

You're smiling when he parrots the question back and your hand is settling against his cheek once more, thumb returning to soothing against his hot, flushed skin, occasionally scratching his beard gently with your nails.

"Absolutely perfect," you sigh out in response. You swear you've walked the path to Zion and entered an earthly Elysium. "Are you okay if I start moving?"

"Fucking—please." He's breathless as he pleads and yet you're both sharing a soft, quiet laugh at how needy the response came out.

With his go ahead, you're slowly raising yourself up, knees nestled either side of him digging deep into the couch beneath you both. Your eyes are falling shut whilst John fights to keep his open simply just to watch you — an absolute vision, a mirage.

The pace you set is leisurely, unrushed — rhythm steady, relaxed, deliberate, measured. You're savouring that sensation of his cock dragging along your walls inch by inch each time you sink down and slowly pull back up again, repeating over and over, the tip pushing into the back of your cunt.

John swears that if this is what it feels like to die and visit heaven, he's putting himself down as a DNR. The way your cunt is sucking him in, your walls pulsating in rhythm to your heartbeat around the entirety of his length, swallowed by your warmth, how your slick is dripping over, pooling where you're both connected and trickling down his balls.

Tits soft, pliable, are pushed against his own warm flesh and your nails are softly digging into the meat of his shoulders.

His fingers splayed out against your hips have begun to dig in with enough strength to bruise as his hips gently buck up to meet you, thighs softly hitting your ass as he does.

There's a coiling tension, a fire in your abdomen as you're riding him and rocking your hips. The muscles in your thighs are working over time — John's muttering curses under his breath as he feels his balls tighten, his stomach and leg muscles tensing as he's growing closer and closer.

"So good f' me—hold on." Your moan is airy, whiny — on par with a mewl. You know he's close. You can sense it in the way that his breathing shudders, how his groans and moans become more strained.

Nails drag along the length of his torso — chest, abdomen — leaving light red marked trails in their wake before it's snaking between you and you're slipping your fingers past your public bone, landing on your clit. It's sensitive, spasming, at how neglected it's been, how it's been teased when brushing against him with each thrust and grind.

You're circling the bud with quick but delicate movements to build towards your release as quickly as possible, moans turning into whines and pitching up a fraction, John's name occasionally slipping past your parted lips.

John's joining you in adjusting his hand placement, bringing the one up to cradle the back of your head and pull you closer to capture your mouth with his once more, tongues naturally beginning to dance around one another again.

The precipice is nearing closer and closer — thighs trembling, fingers speeding up, the rhythm you've set beginning to falter slightly.

Then you're seizing up. Your body pushes impossibly further into John's, hips stuttering to a stop. Your eyes are rolling to the back of your head behind your eyelids and your fingers continue to work you through.

The feeling is intense — blinding, burning, like staring at the brightest white. It's no surprise that he's following behind in the instant yours hits.

God, his moan almost sounds pornographic against your lips as your cunt clenches rapidly around him, his cock twitching with every spasming, tightening. The bruising against your hips is inevitable now with how hard his fingers are digging into the flesh.

John's holding you close, impossibly so, as you're riding out your orgasms together — painting your insides in spurts, his body shuddering with each drop until there's nothing left.

It's not long before the wave has been ridden to its full extent and you're slumping lazily against him, both in pure, unadulterated bliss.

His hands have dropped from its grip on your hips to lay limp beside your thighs, fingers sluggishly running against your skin. Your arms turn dead weight — one lovingly yet loosely cuddling around over his neck, the other smushed between you both, arm trapped between your bodies. It's uncomfortable but you haven't got the heart or energy to move and free it.

Basking in how your shared heat envelops you, your shared releases trickle out where you're connected and spreading thinly over your laps. Chests heave up and down, slowing as your finally beginning to catch your breaths.

The room feels still in a way that isn't silence — more like the air itself is holding its breath for you. Everything is slow, softened around the edges, like a fuzzy old picture.

John's moving his arm to lazily wrap around your waist, fingers idly tracing shapes on your hip, like he's trying to convince himself you're really there. Your head's resting against his shoulder, face partially buried into his neck, his beard tickling your cheekbone. You're dropping soft, quick pecks to his pulse point between breaths that ghost along his flesh.

Neither of you say anything for a long while. You don't need to. There's something sacred in the quiet — not heavy, just...whole.

When you finally speak, it's barely above a whisper. "Hey." Voice scratchy, tired, content.

He releases a sleepy hum and a soft "Hey," in response, a low sound that vibrates against your bare form that still occasionally twitches from the stimulation.

"You okay?" you ask softly.

John lets out a breath that's half chuckle, half sigh. "Yeah," he murmurs. "Yeah, I'm good. You?"

"Mm—hmm." You nod against him as you drop another kiss to his neck, the motions small and sleepy. "Better than good."

That earns another quiet laugh out of him — the kind that comes from somewhere deep and genuine. "Yeah," he says again. "Me too."

Your hand finds his that still rests by your thigh and thread your fingers with his. You're sliding your head back a little along his shoulder to tilt it up just enough to look up at him. There's a faint, lazy grin tugging at your lips. "I think we missed the episode."

John snorts softly, willing his eyes to glance up at the screen still playing The Twilight Zone that's long forgotten, the TV casting a soft, flickering glow over their forms melted together on the couch along with the lamp in the corner of the room 3 foot away. "I guess that's our entire night ruined." It's playful, it's light, and it's made you laugh, all soft and sleepy.

You're smiling as your eyes begin to flutter shut, sighing out, so relaxed against him — with him.

Head turning slightly, John's looking down at you completely enamoured, at the way you're curled up against him on his lap like you've found the one place in the world you fit without trying. There's a warmth spreading through him that has nothing to do with heat and everything to do with you.

He's sensing you're tired — of course, you're tired, he's tired — and he's lightly tapping your entwined hands against your thigh, being met with your eyes slowly peeling back open and smile still finding a way to brighten and stretch wider.

"Bed?" It's short, soft, and sweet.

As much as you don't want to move — feeling so relaxed, serene, loving the closeness to John — you know it's probably best to get yourselves off the couch and somewhere with a bit more room and offers a bit more comfort. Admittedly, it's also beginning to get chilly and you're feeling a little sticky from all those juices pooling between you on your skin.

You're also most certain that he's completely soft and all floppy still buried in you, which with your sleepy, hazy mind, almost makes you giggle aloud.

So, you nod, just once, against his shoulder, turning to drop a kiss to the cooling, pale skin.

His hands move to hold your hips to help steady you as you begin to peel yourself away from him and as you move, his dick is slipping from you with a short, quiet curse and an almost pained wince showing on his face.

Legs aching, thighs burning, you're having a quick wobble when you're standing up straight in front of him. You're quickly steadied and release a quick giggle.

John's sluggish but determined as he follows behind, standing himself, towering over you and feeling bold enough to tenderly reach and push some loose hair back and out of your face.

You're leaning into his touch and for a moment, you both just be in each other's presence — usually, you'd both feel the sting of embarrassment just standing around, naked, in the middle of the living room. This post-sex bubble seems to destroy all doubt, shame, nerves — like a shrouded blanket of confidence and carefree.

Suddenly, he's shrunk below you which makes you blink and look down — he's gathering both of your PJ's that were so haphazardly and carelessly discarded. John's silently chuckling to himself while he's down there, spotting your fuzzy warm socks still on your feet because of course, you didn't take them off just to risk freezing your toes off, even for sex. He's emboldened enough to drop a kiss to the base of your belly as he's rising to full height again.

You're both tardy in your movements and pace as you're meandering away to the bathroom, John sensible enough to switch the TV off on the way — the lamp won't hurt being left on for tonight.

A feeling of gratitude crashes over you when the lights are flipped on in the bathroom, thankful that John doesn't buy those expensive and really bright lightbulbs. The silence stretching between you both is comfortable as you're taking time and care — putting in sweet effort — to clean yourselves and each other, wiping away at your arousal and consequently combined releases sticking to both your skin.

Sluggishly, you're then putting your clothes back on, often times whilst leaning against the counter to steady yourself. You don't dare think of putting your underwear or bra back on, you'd hate to feel the damp patch on your panties or your bra strap digging into you. Once you're back to being clothed and feeling protected from the chill that's quickly sweeping into the apartment, you're both quickly washing your face and brushing your teeth, soon exiting and lumping yourselves into his bedroom.

Regardless of how tired or exhausted or downright drained, you both remain strong in how to find it within yourself to joke and laugh, which is why John's quipping a light-hearted bit at you as you're both sluggishly crawling into bed looking like the dead reanimated.

"Can't wait to not sleep because of your fucking snoring."

You forget yourself as you let out a quick shout of laughter followed by a snort. "I do not fucking snore." Your attempt at arguing against the claim is depthless.

He's chuckling as you're snuggling close into his side, head resting half on his chest, half on his arm that's curled around your back. "Yes, you do. It's like sleeping next to a chainsaw. It's a nightmare."

Your body is shaking softly against his in a silent laugh, eyes already closed and breathing beginning to slow. "I can’t believe how lucky I got with you." It's soft, so quiet that if there were any other sound right then he wouldn't have caught it, but he did. And his heart is skipping a beat.

John's turning his head and it's no surprise that your lips are already parted and gentle, even puffs of air are slipping through, your eyes fluttering around behind your lids, already peacefully dreaming of who knows what.

It’s tender, the way he’s smiling down at you, even as sleep starts to tug at him — that slow, steady pull he’s trying to fight against just a little longer. His mind keeps wandering back to everything that’s happened tonight — how wonderful, patient, and giving you were with him. John’s sure of one thing, more than he’s ever been sure of anything: you’re ethereal. In how you talk, how you move, , how you look, how you make him feel like he’s something more than he thought he was.

That belief he’s always carried — that sex should mean something, that someone, his, first time should be special — still stands as strong as ever. And it was. God, it really was.

It wasn’t in a fancy hotel room, or after some expensive dinner, or even on a bed, for that matter. No cinematic lighting or orchestrated romance. But none of that ever mattered. Not when it was you.

It was perfect — every moment, every heartbeat, every small, quiet breath between laughter and nervousness. Maybe not the kind of perfect people write about, but perfect in the only way that counts. And he realizes, in the haze of it all, that it’s never really been about the when, or the where, or the how.

It’s always been about the who.

And lying there now, with you still close enough for his skin to hum with your warmth, John knows with bone-deep certainty that he couldn’t have imagined it happening with anyone else. In a million different lifetimes, timelines, dimensions — it would still only ever be you. You’re what made it special. Because you are special.

_______________

Fun fact: I wrote some of the smut at 1AM while eating toast

Anyways, I apologize if it's shitty

I'm only just getting those creative juices flowing again

Ew

But

Constructive criticism is always welcomed and greatly appreciated

And as always, I hope you did enjoy it

#economos

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