❤︎ fictional characters ❤︎

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john is just so tired. he's spent most of his life trying to save the lives of others, barely giving himself the time of day, and he worries that his breaking point is coming. soon. next week? tomorrow? ...in an hour?

he's had both his kidneys fail, gotten a new one. don't get him wrong, his body works, technically. it's functional. though his back pain does flare up often and he wishes it would magically go away. (the opioids did the trick for a good while but he's clean now, has been for almost a decade.) but something is telling him that he's running on borrowed time. overworking himself for years was always going to catch up to him at some point, he just never thought it would be so soon, he's barely made it to 40.

you know this. you have known john for a long time. you used to be joint at the hip before he was shipped off to rehab and ended up in love with one woman after another. until he ran off to the other side of the world in the name of saving more lives, got himself married and survived through his wife's miscarriage.

you were always the one who got called when there was no else left, when he'd just split with his girlfriend or needed advice about the new one or he just needed to talk and be distracted from his rampant overthinking and unforgiving ptsd flashbacks. through it all, it was you that he turned to. sometimes it was months, once a whole year, that you didn't speak to each other. regardless, you were always there to catch him when he fell.

normally you wait for him to voice his problems to you before swooping in to help, whatever that may look like. this time though, you can see that he is really pushing it. the weariness around his eyes has been deepening. and now he isn't even snapping anymore -- just resigned and eerily calm at each new problem that arises in the bustling er.

you know it's going to be difficult to actually force him to break to take a break. but difficulty has never stopped you from trying before. your shift ended over an hour before his, giving you plenty of time to gather what you need.

at 7:59pm on the dot, you are waiting for him outside the ambulance bay, his keys in your hand (of course, you know his locker code, so all it took was a hand in his coat pocket to procure them). c'mon, i'm driving you home big guy, you say when he walks out.

he looks at you incredulously, but i have my car-

-and i have your keys, you say spinning them around on one finger in his line of sight.

how did...? i-, he huffs out before shaking his head, right...

he's too tired to question how the hell you have his keys. he doesn't have the energy to. you laugh a little, reaching up to ruffle his hair that is more dishevelled than not at the moment. you can tell too that he hasn't shaved in a few days when he would normally opt to keep his face clean shaven.

you pull out a wrap that you'd bought for him, knowing he may not have eaten all day. you shove it into his hands and say, eat.

before he can protest, you sling your arm around his back, moving him in the direction of his jeep and he all but collapses into your touch. he moves like a rag doll, only going where you guide him.

you tired, carter? you ask as he yawns climbing into the passenger's seat.

mm yeah... got a bit of a headache too, he grumbles, rubbing his forehead with his palm.

oh ouch. here, you hand him two white pills and a bottle of water, taking the wrap back for a moment. have some aspirin, you say, we don't want you not being able to sleep because you're in pain.

this is the make or break moment. you're betting everything on him being so exhausted that he won't examine the pills too closely and realise that, while they certainly are painkillers, they are definitely not aspirin.

he takes in a deep breath and lets it out, slumping further in the seat. thank you, he says painfully earnestly, before swallowing both pills at once with a swig of water.

good. he's going to feel so much better soon.

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you help him out of the car and up the stairs to his apartment. he's a little unsteady but you're sure it's still from his general burnout than the pills. they'd take at least another half hour to kick in properly. it is so endearing yet heartbreaking to see him in such an awful state. but you suppose the only way for him to learn is to break.

and you want to be the one that puts him back together.

once you get him into his apartment, each of you taking of your shoes and socks at the door, you say softly to him, you need to have a shower, john.

he groans, he just wants to collapse into his bed and sleep and sleep and sleep...

i know, i know. look, let me help you, you say kindly, walking him towards his large bathroom with an arm around his waist.

he straightens slightly at that, embarrassed maybe, he doesn't like needing help, oh you don't have to... i mean you've already fed me and driven me home and-

hey, i'm your friend. what are friends for, huh?

it seems likes poetic justice for you to use his words against him. you're always 'just a friend' according to him, so how can he accuse you of foul play here? how can he reject an offer that is cloaked with platonic innocence without incriminating himself, exposing his true feelings for you?

it's not a satisfying revenge though, as one might assume. you don't want to hurt him back for all the times he hasn't put you first, you just want to help him feel better.

yeah okay, he nods back to you, giving up. you help him into the shower each step of the way. after sitting him on the bathtub edge, you turn the shower on to let it get hot (you have slept on his couch and used his shower enough times post-shift to know how to work the frivolous knobs).

you help him take off his scrub top, arms up, you say as you pull it off followed by his long-sleeved undershirt. you've seen john shirtless before but it is so much better when it's just for you in the privacy of his home.

d'you need help with these too? you pat the side of his thigh indicating his scrub pants.

uh... no, he says with a half-laugh half-huff.

okay, just let me know, you step back and offer a hand to help him up, he takes it. you make a show of looking at the other side of the room so that he'll actually follow through.

you hear the shuck shuck of him pulling down the scrubs, but you can feel the hesitation at his boxers even without looking.

alright, john? you ask.

yeah uhm... i think i got it from- he yawns loud and long, cutting himself off, -from here...

you turn to look him in the eyes, smiling incredulously, did you really just yawn your way through trying to convince me that you aren't exhausted? you look like you'd collapse if a breeze came by. you need help.

...the fact that you were the only one he would let help him went unsaid.

another yawn cuts him off from arguing again. well... i never could fight you, could i? there's a fond nostalgia in the way he says it. it makes you wanna grab him and kiss him until he can't think.

exactly, you reply. then you catch him off guard, snapping the waistband of his boxers where they meet his hip, take these off and hop in. it should be warm now.

his cheeks go bright red - adorable, you think. he just clears his throat, walks over to the shower door and takes his boxers off while facing away from you. and by god does he have the most incredible, smooth ass. damn. you make a mental note to get a picture of it to keep one day, a polaroid maybe.

there's a bench in his shower that he had installed after the stabbing (and the first kidney failure). it's something you both have gratitude for now, as john is able to conserve his almost non-existent energy enough to wash off. he sits down where the spray is soaking his hair and running down his chest.

with plans to help him go through the motions of the shower, you take off your own layers until you're in just a sports bra and the very-short shorts you wear under your work clothes that cover only a little more than your underwear.

when you open the shower door, john's head is down in his hands and his breathing is so steady you worry you may have been too accurate about his lethargy. but when you call his name, he does look up and his mouth is agape, staring at you like he's never seen a woman half-naked before (and you know for a fact he has seen many, fully nude too).

you decide to play coy a little longer, if only to let his mind adjust to the idea that his 'friend' was half-dressed in front of his own nakedness. with a slightly condescending tone you say, i told you you'd need help, you haven't even touched the soap yet.

right, yes, of course, he says with a dazed expression. like his brain is buffering.

when he still doesn't move, you take pity on him, okay, i'm gonna wash your hair then. yeah?

yeah, please. he responds. you move to stand with one leg in-between and one leg outside of his own long, hairy legs.

he has always had a soft spot for you in his heart, an attraction he doesn't want to admit. so when your hands are in his hair, lathered in soap, and you're leaning over him with more of your skin exposed than he's ever seen, he can't help but feel the stirrings of arousal begin. the bottom of your bra is at his eye line, it's so easy to look up and see the line of your cleavage. he almost can't remember why he shouldn't just rest his head right there and never pull away.

you pull at his hair while making sure any knots are brushed out, and it must be a little rougher than you thought because he lets out a small noise, a moan. you pause, that feel nice? feel good, john?

m'sorry, please don't stop, he whispers.

don't be sorry, you start moving your hands again, pulling again intermittently, just need to be looked after, don't you?

he nods fervently. you hold the side of his head, okay, baby, let me rinse this out for you.

you shift him so that you can lean his head back into the water. you take your time making sure all the suds have come out and slid down into the drain. he sighs contentedly at the feeling, at being taken care of.

so he doesn't resist when you lay a lingering kiss to his forehead. and another next to his eyebrow, and another on his cheek before repeating the movement on the opposite side of his face. finally, you kiss his nose. he's smiling dopily, which you suppose might be a culmination of his drowsiness, your attention on him, and the opioids from earlier.

it isn't as great of a shock to john as it could've been when you finally plant one on his lips. he barely reacts past pushing his lips back into your own.

it's as if a dam is broken then, john grabs at you and pulls you towards him until you're sat with your legs bracketing his own. as you meet his eyes, you notice them drooping, eyelashes fluttering. it's really fucking pretty.

hey, he says with a small smile. it's so soft and warm and you've been waiting years for him to direct this kind of attention your way. it feels like coming home.

it takes everything in you not to voice this feeling, not to crack a bitter quip about this being overdue or that it's like meeting him all over again - chirp out a hello, 'mr i-kiss-my-bestfriend-now'. but no.

instead you match his tone, hi.

then you both move at once, bringing your mouths together more thoroughly this time. not accidental, not hesitant. he makes small noises into your mouth that light sparks inside of you. you can feel his hardness where your shorts touch his skin.

you pull back for a moment, catching your breath, then look down, grinning, hello to you too.

john can't help laughing at this, you're- you're talking to my dick?

well, we don't want anyone feeling left out, do we?

as he starts his reply, oh my god, you're ridicu- ohhh, you wrap your hand around his length, still soapy from the shampoo.

you kiss along his neck, keeping a steady rhythm up and down with your hand. his hands have made purchase around your waist, moving up and down from your ass up to your neck and shoulders, exploring you.

he feels better than before. better than he has in a long time, s'good- ah, please...

in fact, he's feeling so good. so so good and fuzzy and warm and dizzy and it must be you, right? it must just be you and your magic touch enveloping him. you, so pretty, so nice to him... he has no other logical reasoning for this high.

don't deserve you, he says panting.

you speed up your hand, pulling back from his neck to look him in the eyes, don't you dare put yourself down like that.

you look like a predator then, he thinks, and you still do when you continue, you are so good, john, such a kind person. you deserve this and more. i don't want to hear a bad word about you from you or from anyone else, you hear me?

he can't believe the deep reverence you feel towards him, the protectiveness and praise an intoxicating mixture. your voice is almost guttural by the time you finish talking, and it's pushing john so close to the edge he can't see straight. he whimpers, yes yes i hear you... uhnnnn don't stop ahn-

good. good, you close? huh, gonna come for me? when he nods at you again, you move down to the shower floor and wrap your lips around his tip, sucking while your hand moves along the rest.

m'gonna come, i- i can't, please, he whines out your name, i'mcomingi'mcomingohgodohgod-

his voice cracks as he comes into your mouth. you've always wanted to swallow him, to truly be entwined, have a part of him inside of you. you swallow around him and lazily lick up and down his length past orgasm, only coming off when he pushes you away in overstimulation.

you stand up, stretching your knees briefly before straddling him again. how was that, hon?

how- how was it? are you ser- that was amazing, you're amazing, he pants out bewildered.

yes. yes i am, you think, i am fucking amazing. it's about time he knew it.

but you only say, good. you need it, before reaching for the soap to begin washing off the rest of his body.

to be continued...

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[ - link will be here when next part is posted - ]

let me know what you thought <3