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.”
