#john wick x reader fic
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you're the worst thing (i'm addicted to) PART 2
a john wick x Helen'sSister!Reader fic You are Helen's baby sister. When you meet John Wick at Helen's graveside, he invites you to dinner to celebrate her birthday. Set a few years after the first movie, 2-4 never happened. Use of y/n. Warnings: canon typical violence. Future reference to threat of noncon, (not John! because he's our assassin sweetiepie). Mourning. Smut. Grey areas. Questionable decisions. Sweetheart!John, BAMF!John Depressed!John - If you can handle the movie you should be fine here... PART 1
PART 2.
You tell him that you’ll meet him there. After your little crying jag, you have to go home and clean up. Maybe with some painkillers and a nap with an ice pack on your eyes you won’t look like death warmed over. He offers to pick you up, but you decline, knowing it would make the drive twice as long for him.
For a moment he seems like he wants to argue, but in the end he lets it go.
The restaurant is in Manhattan. It’s the sort of place you could never afford, and maybe even if you could, it wouldn’t exactly be your scene. You smooth your dress over your hips as you get out of your cab, hoping you won’t embarrass John. It was the nicest thing you own for a respectable rendezvous, a dark green paisley Etro dress with long sleeves that you’d scored at a thrift shop. It bared your shoulders with a wide neckline, but not much cleavage. You were behaving yourself tonight, despite the little suggestions the devils on your shoulders were whispering into your ear.
Despite the fact that you arrive early, John is waiting for you outside, looking utterly edible in another black on black three-piece suit. Does he buy them in bulk? The thought makes you smile a little, a thing he returns in small measure. There is a sadness that cloaks this man like a mantle, and for a moment you wonder if that is what people see, when they look at you. You’re not sure you’re qualified to help him at all, but maybe, just maybe, there could be some solace in your shared grief for the same woman who left you both behind.
“Hey.”
“Hi.”
Nervously, you look through the window at the glittering lights and swanky diners laughing over their expensive glasses of wine. You feel unbearably self-conscious. “Am I dressed ok for this place?”
“You look beautiful.” He says it so matter of fact, his tone completely platonic. And yet…
And yet.
He looks at you with a haunting intensity that grips you to the bone. He isn't even looking at your body. He's looking at your face, almost as though he's seen a ghost.
You know you remind him of her, and you wonder if maybe this is a bad idea.
But he shakes himself out of it, offering his arm, and even though you have an inkling that maybe you shouldn't, another part of you that is usually kept locked up in the dungeon with the rest of your worst impulses pushes you to take it, because you want to. Bolstered by his approval and your own special brand of foolhardiness, you slip your arm through his with your head held high.
You haven't technically done anything wrong yet. Lusting after your sister's husband in an abstract way you never had any intention of acting on isn't exactly new. But the rest...is edging into a murky gray area.
What would Helen think? She'd probably be amused, truth be told, at least by your own inner turmoil. You remember that she told you once that she never got jealous when women went all googly eyed over her model-handsome husband, because she trusted him so completely. He doesn't even look at them, she said.
Well. He'd looked at you, like he was a wolf and you were a tasty little bunny. Just the thought made you flush all over again, your fingers involuntarily flexing on John's bicep.
Dear lord, it was like granite.
He looks down at you, curious, and you know you look as embarrassed as you feel. “Sorry,” you quickly apologize, looking anywhere but at his burning anthracite eyes. He pats your hand, but says nothing, sparing you the embarrassment of making up some lame excuse.
You go inside, and the maître d’ is exceptionally solicitous. Welcome back, Mr. Wick. This way please, Mr. Wick. He and Helen must have been quite the regulars.
Once you are at your table John waves off the maître d’, opting to push in your chair for you. His fingers brush your shoulder afterwards. It was probably a mistake, but you cannot suppress a small shudder. He does not look at you as he seats himself, opting to pick up the menu.
You follow suit, your skin on fire.
It was an accidental touch, you tell yourself.
He didn't mean anything by it.
You glance up from your menu, to find he is looking at you out the corner of his eye.
You tell your treacherous heart that attempts to pound out of your chest to settle the fuck down.
“So...what was Helen’s favorite dish here?”
He doesn't look up, and for some reason you are relieved.
“Guess.”
“Hmm.” You scan the offerings. It is mostly French leaning nouvelle cuisine. It all looks delicious, and very expensive. You know the moment your eyes find the line, and you smile. “The magret de canard.”
This time he does smile with you. It is tinged with nostalgia, and your heart aches. For him. For you. For the woman you are remembering together.
“She took me to Europe when I graduated from high school. She ordered that dish in every restaurant in France we went to. She said it was so delicious there was no point in trying anything else.” You cackle with another memory. “Then when we got home she was determined to learn how to make it. It went ok until the sauce. Holy shit, the black smoke in that kitchen was like a tire fire!” You wipe away a tear that is borne of mirth and memory.
When you look across the table again John is smiling gently, as though he can see it perfectly in his own mind’s eye.
“She was a terrible cook.” He says it fondly, like it amused the hell out of him.
“I know. I am too, I’m not throwing shade here. Do you like to cook?”
The side of his mouth ticks up in a smirk. “Yes. I find it relaxing.”
Figures. He would be so perfect. One of many reasons Helen undoubtedly fell in love with him.
When the waiter comes John orders a filet, and you, the duck. “For Helen,” you say with a wistful curl of lips. He stares at you silently for a long beat before nodding, returning your smile perfunctorily. You marvel that you can already tell when his expressions are genuine, and when he’s playing the part he needs to for the sake of social nicety. Your heart aches for him. It must be so painful to be here, where he'd dined with Helen so many times. Maybe more like sticking a finger in a wound, than a brave act for the sake of nostalgia. What were the two of you thinking?
It occurs to you, from things Helen had said, that maybe this is more than just her favorite restaurant.
“This is where you met, isn't it?”
His eyes are fixed on a particular spot at the bar. “Right over there. She was meeting a client, but he canceled. So we had dinner together.”
You raise an eyebrow. “You didn't happen to have anything to do with that?” All Helen had ever told you about John's occupation was that he worked in security, but she had implied multiple times that he was resourceful, smart, and not someone to be fucked with.
The corner of his mouth ticks, his eyebrow rising slightly. You congratulate yourself for lifting him at least a little out of his funk. “I'm afraid it was just luck on my part.”
“Fate,” you correct, toasting with your water glass, because you haven’t been brought drinks yet.
“It's nice to think so.”
“So then you had dinner.” You know the story. “Where did you sit?”
“Right here.”
You feel a chill, knowing that once, your sister had sat in this very place, across from this very man, and changed the course of her life forever. You marvel at what that must have been like. You never fall for men quickly, usually keeping them at arm’s length for as long as you can manage. You’ve never experienced love at first sight, or first night, but looking at this handsome man across from you, it's not so hard to imagine.
“Did you fall in love that night?” you ask quietly.
“I did. I think for Helen...it took a little longer.”
Immediately you shake your head. “No,” you contradict, wanting him to know this. “She called me, the next day. She told me she'd just met the most amazing man and that she wanted to spend her life with him. I thought she was crazy.” You look around at the intimate setting, the low soft lighting and the swanky surroundings, a little misty eyed. Then, you look at him. This handsome devil with the soft eyes of a poet.
Helen hadn’t been frivolous. She hadn’t even been particularly romantic. Meeting John Wick changed all that.
“Maybe I understand a little better now.”
You look at each other from across the table. There is a longing in his eyes that you know you do not have the power to heal, and yet you would if you could. You would give a great deal to see this man made whole again—you’re not really sure why.
He looks away first, and you feel…raw.
“Thank you. I…was the best version of myself, for her.” His long fingers trace a circle in the white table cloth, a hairline of a frown appearing on his brow. “I've slid backwards a bit, since.”
Hoo boy, did you get that.
“That’s ok,” you say softly. “We do what we have to, to survive.”
He looks up at you with those soulful dark eyes through his long hair. Your fingers itch to brush it out of his face. To touch him, and you absolutely know you shouldn't. Shouldn’t even think it. But there is something in the way he's been looking at you today. Something almost like…hunger, and your belly flutters with a thousand butterflies made of bad ideas and midnight longings.
“So…what about you? Are you seeing anyone?”
You shake your head with your heart in your throat. Is he asking out of politeness, making chit chat, or does he want to know if you’re unattached?
The truth is you’ve never had a relationship that lasted more than six months, and a nervous little laugh escapes you.
“I’ve…never met anyone who it was worth the sacrifice. Things are always nice at first, but then he starts to try to mold you into the person he really wants you to be, and you realize all along he just wanted someone to cook his meals and wash his socks.”
John lifts an eyebrow at this, the corner of his mouth turning up ever so slightly.
“Maybe you should try dating someone who can afford a housekeeper.” He looks up at you then, his dark eyes soft yet penetrating, and you swear he can see straight through to the depths of you. The look almost feels like a challenge, somehow. You try to meet him head on, but in the end the unbearable heat of it makes you squirm, and you look away.
The waiter saves you from what you might say next, bringing the bottle of wine John ordered.
Thank god, because you need a drink.
#john wick#john wick x you#keanu reeves#john wick fic#john wick x reader#john wick x y/n#john wick x you fic#john wick x reader fic
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helen ; chapter one
dear joel
Si vis pacem, para bellum.
Or, the inciting incident.
series masterlist | my masterlist
pairing: joel miller x f!reader
tags/warnings: 18+ (MDNI), john wick AU, (retired) hitman!joel, husband!joel, graphic violence, established relationship, artist!reader, love as worship (and blasphemy), blood + injuries, murder, cars, joel lifts reader once, reader has hair, oral sex (f receiving - aka munch!joel returns), married fluff, angst, threats of rape/SA, home invasion, disgusting awful men, childhood/religious trauma, the typical alcohol + smoking + profanity, erotic paintings, dividers by @/saradika
word count: ~ 8.2k
a/n: so i'm posting this and sprinting away because i'm terrified. that being said, this story means more to me than words can say and i sincerely hope you enjoy what i have to offer. thank you so much for reading, and please let me know what you think!! gigantic thanks to @cavillscurls for beta reading this chapter and being generally incredible throughout this whole process. i couldn't have done it without ya baby ❤️
next
PREFACE
“Love is my mover, source of all I say.”
— The Divine Comedy: Inferno, Canto II.
The blood is tangy, near-sweet, as he swipes his forearm over his mouth and smears crimson on his shirtsleeve. It tingles faintly on his lips and crackles, warm as the melt from a late-winter snow. He feels it settle in the grooves of his palms, the hairs of his beard. He’s drowning in it.
Joel Miller grins as the punch rocks his jaw.
His opponent hits hard, but he’s slow. He’ll take five punches in the time it takes to wind up for one. Joel brings his arm up to block the next and delivers a blow to the sternum with his knee as his opponent’s guard drops. Wide open, the man stumbles a few steps back, choking down the telltale wheeze of being winded. Joel marches forward, relentless in his crusade, grasping him by the scruff of his neck, teeth bared like a mad wild dog, and bears his skull down on the side of the railing. Around them, the wind howls and lashes at his clothes, but he still hears the pained scream as if it were poured into his ears.
The man drops to his knees, and Joel grabs him again, bashing his head repeatedly against the steel bar, the lapel of an Italian leather coat bunching between his fingers, tainted by rainwater and the fist of the man who's about to take his life.
And fuck, Joel wants to make it last.
But there's a knife in his opponent’s hand, conjured from the darkness of his coat pocket, and Joel must release him to avoid the lethal slash of the blade. Blinking blood and lashing rain from his eyes, the man lunges with a snarl, and Joel recovers from his lost victory, stopping him with his fingers curled around his opponent’s wrist. He brings his hand to the crook of the man’s elbow and uses his leverage to snap the bone.
Yowling, the man drops to his haunches, the knife clattering to the ground. Joel, chest heaving, stands over him, flexing his fingers as he readies his fist for the killing blow.
His name leaves the man’s bloodied mouth, accompanied by a mouthful of crimson-tainted saliva spat on the ground at Joel’s feet.
“Joel…” He lifts his head, cradling his own broken arm, and sneers. There’s a chilling glow of satisfaction in it. “Did you get your perfect life, Joel? Do you really think you’ve won? It won’t ever stop. Not after you’ve killed me, not after you’ve killed all of them. Is that what you’re going to do? Kill them all?”
Joel staggers backward to pick up the knife, clamping his hand over the curve of his opponent’s shoulder, and drives the blade down into his neck.
“Yeah.”
He leaves him slumped against the railing, choking on his own blood, and limps his way to one of the beaten-up Range Rovers whose front right bumper was totaled in the crash. Joel groans as he settles into the front seat, gnashing his teeth together as he lifts the hem of his dress shirt to inspect the damage.
The bullet has pierced the soft flesh of his stomach. Blood blossoms bright through the white fabric and spirals outward. Joel blinks away rainwater and pulls his phone from his pocket, the screen smeared with blood. He doesn’t know if it belongs to him.
He grits his teeth and makes a call.
In the back of his head, Joel vaguely recalls an old song of prayer. He used to watch others sing it while he lingered in the shadows at the back of the cathedral. He would memorise the shape of the words leaving their mouths and wonder how a benevolent God, who had shaped man—perfection—from red clay, could have made him.
He would lower his head as if swept up in a tide of repentance, examining the bones beneath his hands. The flickering of tendons. The bulge of veins as he delicately folded his fingers into a fist.
Red clay. Blood. The old dance of serpent and man.
He was fourteen when he escaped.
Joel looks down at his bloodied hands. They’ve grown since then. They’re stronger, thicker, scarred. There are no pictures of him as a young boy, but if he saw one, he knows he would not recognise himself. Not his eyes nor his hands nor the set of his jaw. God makes man makes boy. He is destined for Hell.
The call goes to voicemail.
Joel curls his hand into a fist and whispers a prayer.
Something cool and wet collides with Joel’s forehead as he stalks into the airport. It’s begun to rain.
His target gate is close, and he's early. The press of bodies begins to crowd him. Prickling body spray and sickly-sweet perfume and sunburned skin from Spring Break return flights. Joel shoves through them, unseen, unnoticed amid the rowdy din of reunions. The collar of his shirt sticks to the nape of his neck. It’s the sensation of being strangled, clammy palms slick against his own skin. He adjusts his jacket and tightens his grip on the black fabric dangling from his hand.
Joel waits by the gate, his eyes flitting between its apex and the people milling about him, reuniting with partners and parents and children. Nobody seems suspicious, but his fingers still dance upon the blade hidden in the inner lining of his leather jacket. Those performing wide berths around the scowling man try not to make eye contact. Most don't notice his presence at all.
He waits, flicking his sleeve up every couple minutes to check the time on the inside of his wrist. Every tick of the thin hand registers in the pulse of his heart against his ribs.
He hears the suitcase before he sees it—and it’s hard to miss. One wheel is wonky, and the case stutters in its path along the polished floor. It’s huge, pink, hideous.
His hand dropping from the blade in his pocket, Joel makes his move.
You see him approaching and drop the lopsided suitcase, shrieking as he takes you up in his arms.
He swings you around twice, holding you firm against him, your fingers grabbing desperately at the locks of his curly, brown-grey hair. Joel nestles his face in your throat and breathes in: vanilla and shampoo and the unmistakable scent of a you he can never shake. Home.
You shudder into him, your feet barely scraping the floor as he holds you around the waist, one hand cradling the back of your head. Joel lets his eyes close.
Daisies made of diamonds dangle from your wrist, connected by a fine golden chain. He can feel the faux petals dig into the back of his neck, etching their shape into the phantom pain of the ink peeking out from his collar. Sometimes, his skin would pull back with the needle, briefly protruding from his body like a tent made of flesh, as if grasping feebly onto some innocent time before the black hands of Dürer were permanently his. His to remember. His to loathe.
There is a slight in the way his gift to you, wrapped snugly around your wrist since the first anniversary, kisses the old wound, the tip of the cross, and all he feels is the echo of agony. He holds you tighter.
“Can’t breathe, honey,” you croak, shoulders shaking with laughter.
Joel mutters an apology, loosening his grip on you just enough to pull away and cup your face in his hands. His thumb traces the curve of your jaw, and you beam up at him, smoothing back the hair you’d tousled with your fingers. A curl swoops back down over his forehead.
“Hi,” you say softly.
“Hi,” says Joel, already on his way to kissing you, his mouth slanting over yours.
He tastes of mint and smells of his dark cologne, pine, Joel. Your Joel. And you kiss him like it—your hand cupping the nape of his neck, the other sliding up his strong, broad back, your lips meeting in a consuming kiss that knocks you off-kilter. He bends slightly over you, keeping you upright with a large hand on your lower back.
“Never leave again,” mumbles Joel, grinning against your mouth, his hand sliding down your arm to your left hand, where two glimmering bands rest on your third finger. Your hands intertwine, and he bumps his nose into yours.
You give him another short kiss. “Get me out of here.”
Joel slides your raincoat over your shoulders and you slip your arms through. He presses his lips to your forehead and closes his eyes, letting himself linger briefly in your space before he scoops up the handle to your affront of a suitcase and escorts you out back to the car.
He opens the passenger-side door to let you slide into your seat, securing your case in the back, and makes his way around the vehicle. You reach for the collar of his jacket and pull him toward you for a kiss, grasping his jaw between your thumb and forefinger. He grins crookedly when you pull away, bushing the pad of his thumb across your cheekbone.
“Missed you,” he says.
You sink your teeth into your bottom lip. “Yeah? How much?”
He reaches across the console and kisses you deeply, making you gasp into him as his hand slips underneath your silky little blouse and fits his fingers in the grooves between your ribs. Your skin prickles with goosebumps under his touch as his exploration migrates to your belly, sliding south, ever lower, his hand playing at the waistband of your panties—
“Okay,” you laugh, smacking his hand away. “Okay. You’re paying for parking, Miller.”
“I’ve got money,” he says plainly, dipping his head to kiss you again, his pupils fattening as he tries to gorge on all of you at once. You place a hand on his chest, enjoying the strong pulse of his heartbeat where you typically rest your head, and gently push him back.
“Take me home,” you coo, your gaze sweeping fondly over the face that hasn’t changed, that you cannot forget, “and show me how much you missed me.”
His wedding band coolly kisses your cheek as he retracts his hand, reluctantly turning his key in the ignition. “Yes, ma’am.”
He’s always been a meticulous driver, expert in the way he flattens his palm on the wheel, his other on the back of your headrest, turns the car out of the spot, and merges onto the freeway. When he no longer needs his other hand, he gives it to you, and you bring his long-scarred knuckles to your lips.
His hands are marked by years of use, of abuse, speckled with little white scars, freckles, divots, curves. You already know the lines in his palms, have traced them and painted them and put them under sensitive study with your body. But you turn his hand over nonetheless, your own fingertips careful in their examination, following their contours as if searching for a change. But they’re the same—he’s the same—and so you tuck your fingers between his and bring your palms together in a warm, awaited kiss.
It’s only been a month, but you study his profile as if years have passed. He’s still Joel, still surly, plush lips curved into a permanent pout, the space between his brows marked by a ponderous gash, the vein in his throat fluttering in silence when a driver cuts him off or he spots a car following too closely. He’s a good study, practised in his stoicism.
His nose is artful. Its convex slope, pronounced, strong, curves deliciously into his upper lip, the soft greying hairs in between a space of waiting. His mouth, soft, learned, often languageless, is what you know best of him. You know it like your own—can trace its shape in the dark, hands behind your back. The strong jawline, the slight wrinkles beside his eyes, ones he never had before you met him, the patches of skin disrupting the fullness of his beard: they’re the picture of the man you married, and there’s always something you’re disappointed in discovering you’ve missed. A something you’ve never noticed, a something you wish you could go back and add to all your canvases.
When you left him at the airport, it was a freckle just beneath the hollow of his throat. Now, it’s the frayed hairs just behind his ears, crimping in frizzy patterns that don’t match the languorous curls on the rest of his head. They look singed, as if he’d put a match to himself.
Maybe it’s making up for lost time, for all the days you’d missed being away from your Joel. But there’s a second, smaller something: the little round scar beneath those wild hairs. You lift your hand to it, and before your thumb can make a pass over the white, puckered skin, he speaks.
“It’s a burn.” Merging off the freeway, he pulls into a gas station. His fuel ticker is tapping gently at the E. “From a cigarette.”
Your heart tips off the edge of a yawning chasm, and your hand pulls back in a wary twitch of your fingers. Throat tightening, you feel a distinct pressure behind the T of your nose and forehead. “From the people who raised you?”
A muscle in his jaw spasms, and he lifts your joined hands to his mouth. “None of that,” he says softly, meeting your eyes that well with unshed tears.
No tears for me, he once said to you. Not until I’ve earned ‘em.
You sniffle, watching him nuzzle his cheek against the soft flesh of your wrist, his lips finding your vein and following it halfway up your forearm.
“Tell me about your show.”
You let him tuck your tears away in the grooves between his joints and smile. “Successful, but lonely. So many people knew my name, and I’m pretty sure I knew about a quarter of theirs. Made me feel like some snobbish pig.”
“Nah, that’s my job,” says Joel. “Everybody loves you, baby.”
You roll your eyes. “Either way, the gallery was a hit. The triptych sold for the highest at the auction.”
Joel smirks. “The nude ones?”
“Yeah, dirtbag. The nude ones.” Your smile is dry, still somehow saccharine.
“I liked those,” says Joel, fingers playing upon your upper thigh.
“Perv.”
He playfully smacks your thigh. “Goddamn right.”
“It was good. It was. But I missed you.” Your voice breaks, and Joel squeezes your fingers in response. “Could hardly sleep without you there.”
He nods like he knows. And you know he does; he barely sleeps, even if you’re on top of him. “I know everybody loves you,” he says, “but next time you go away, remember I love you most.”
You blink away the shimmer of tears so you can see him clearly. “Casanova.”
“That's right,” he says, nosing his way into another kiss. “Don't ever leave me again, baby. My heart can't take it.”
You shake your head, laughing into his mouth as your tears slip onto your tongue. “Never again,” you whisper, “unless the hotel food is good.”
He nods. “I’ll make an exception, long as I can go.”
You grin. “You know… if I’m at home all the time…”
“We’re not getting a puppy.”
“Joel—”
“No.”
“Don't you want to make your wife happy?”
He faux-snaps at you like a dog, catching his teeth around your earlobe. “As a goddamn clam.”
You gasp as you feel his mouth suckle gently at the sensitive spot beneath your ear. “I… I want… We should at least talk about…”
“Hmm?”
He’s playing with the hem of your blouse, deft fingers leaving warm imprints on the soft skin of your belly, fingers enveloping your precious heart when he places his hand on your upper back. The organ pounds under his touch, pouring its blood into his palms.
You haven’t felt his touch in so long.
“I want…”
Joel hums again, prompting, his pinky finger dipping under the strap of your bra and pulling back, snapping it against your skin.
“What was I talking about?”
He chuckles, bringing his lips back to yours. You grasp for him greedily, trying to fix him to you this time, your fingers bunching the fabric of his T-shirt. But he’s pulling back, his forehead falling against yours.
“I’ll consider it,” he says, “if you can convince me.”
Giddily, perhaps stupidly, you smile. “I’m very prepared to convince you.”
“Uh-huh. I don't doubt you, baby. How ‘bout you let me fill up the car first?”
The throbbing bass of house music Dopplers as another car approaches the gas station. Three men exit the vehicle, one of them already lighting a cigarette while the other two make for the convenience store. One is wearing a backwards cap and the other a pressed suit.
Nice move, you think, sinking back in your seat a little as Joel slides out of the car, smoking by a gas pump.
“Nice ride,” says the man at the opposite pump, puffing at his cigarette.
“Thanks,” says Joel with a polite smile, locking the nozzle in the fuel tank and folding his arms over his chest. He’s hovering by the passenger door, halfway to blocking you from view.
The man surveys the hood, his fingers gently tracing the cool silver. “Boss Mustang 429. She a ‘70?”
“‘69,” says Joel.
“Very nice,” muses the man, drumming his hands on the hood. You feel the crude vibrations in your spine and straighten in your seat. This man—this kid, all his puffing and grinning and loud music—is bad news. Your stomach coils taut when his gaze shifts from Joel to you, staring hard through the windshield.
“How much?” he asks Joel.
You notice the minute stiffening of the muscles in Joel’s shoulders. “What?”
“How much for the car?”
Joel pushes off the car and dislodges the pump, brushing the kid aside on his way back to the driver’s side. “It’s not for sale.”
The kid wanders to the passenger-side door before Joel can turn on the car and roll up the window. He leans his elbows just inside, his face mere inches from yours, and you can smell the sickly, cloying smoke of his cigarette as he blows it in your direction.
He says something to Joel in Spanish that makes your husband’s hand still on the wheel.
And your Joel, your courteous Joel, your never-the-shit-stirrer Joel, narrows his eyes at the kid and says something in kind, his voice a low scrape that shudders through you.
It’s too fast for you to hear, and you never learned Spanish, and you were under the assumption (until right fucking now) that Joel never did, either. But he starts the car and rolls up the window, and you’re peeling away from the gas station before the kid can reply.
“That was…” You cast around for the words and instead rest your eyes on Joel, whose jaw looks ready to snap. “Joel, honey, when did you learn Spanish?”
He��s silent for a long while, and you would assume that he didn’t hear you—if you didn't know that he has stellar hearing. When he pulls onto the long stretch of road, signalling your first firm tug away from the stifling noise of civilization, he finally speaks.
“Picked it up in the Marines.”
“What did he say to you?”
Joel’s skin is stretched taut over his knuckles. “Somethin’ stupid.”
You hum, letting him linger in silence for the remainder of the trip. Scenery, green and grey sky and the drizzle of rain, swoops by the window, and you're going home. It isn't much different from what you found in Vancouver, but it's familiar. It’s the smell of the air after the rain and the way your shared home comes into view the same way it always has.
It isn’t a modest home. You and Joel had it built before the wedding, both eager to get away from the city and exist in relative peace when your job allowed it. It sits low and broad, geometric pillars framing the front porch, sleek modern lines in black and white. Your compromise: he assumed responsibility for the exterior, and you took everything within. Joel pulls into the garage, next to your beige SUV, and helps you and your hot-pink luggage out of the car.
The walls are littered with canvases. Mostly, there are paintings of Joel. The first time you brought him to your studio, a few weeks into the relationship, he’d sat stone-still for hours. You don't recall even a twitch of a finger. He’s in shades of blue, red, green, grey. He’s sitting, standing, lounging, sleeping. His lashes lie in repose over his cheeks, eyes closed, sometimes open, often averted. You’ve captured him in bed, by the pool, in the kitchen, in your studio. Like a spider, you’ve ensnared his shyness, his care, his devotion, weaving it into a tapestry of oil, watercolour, pastel.
You’ve never sold a single one. This Joel—whose eyes are sometimes closed, sometimes open, often averted—is for your eyes only.
The curls at the nape of his neck are creeping under the collar of his jacket. Winding your finger around a rich brown lock, you give him a tug. “You haven't been taking good care of yourself.”
Joel brings your hand to his mouth, kissing the rings on your finger that bind you to him. “You told me you liked it long.”
“You told me it itches.” You shrug his jacket off his shoulders and trail your hands up his muscled arms. “It's not about me, honey.”
Joel hums, cradling the crown of your head in his palm and pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead. “When will you learn”—another hand around your hip, tugging you forward by the small of your back—“that everything is about you?”
You narrow your eyes at him. “That's a good answer, Mr. Miller.”
He grins crookedly, backing you against the kitchen counter. “Yeah?”
You scratch his scalp and feel his mouth descend on your jaw. “Mhm. You’ve been practising.”
“Didn't have much else to do,” he grumbles, fisting the fabric of your blouse and untucking it from the waistband of the old jeans sitting low on your hips. “My wife was gone.”
“You're getting whiny,” you chide, smacking his hand away from your fly.
“Is it working?”
“You really wanna make your wife happy?”
“Yeah, baby. Yeah.” He looks down at you like he's close to pleading.
“Then you'll let me cut your hair,” you purr.
His pout lasts as long as it takes for you to get his hair soapy and your fingers in his curls, massaging slow and sweet. You take your time ridding him of the excess length, chopping carefully, your hands assured of their strength. You tell him to tilt up and look down and to the side, honey, and he obeys because it's your hands, and your voice, and he's pliable as molten glass.
You get lost in the musical shhhick of the scissors cutting through hair, humming a tune that does not match, and he's reminded of ballet. Watching you in the mirror is like seeing the dance through a glass he cannot permeate. You may be touching him, but most times he's struggling to grasp you in your entirety.
He sees an angel in his sleep, reaching out with a hand made of gold to guide him up from hell.
You tell him more about the gallery. You tell him about whale-watching and being too seasick to take photos for him like he'd requested. Joel wants to shake his head but he stays still and tells you it’s okay, baby, all I wanted was to know you were happy.
And you tell him I was happy. But it would've been better with you.
And he's joking, telling you I’d be throwin' up on the other side of the boat, but his body feels cold when you set down the scissors and leave his side.
“How’s Tommy?” you ask, rubbing gel between your palms. This, he knows, is your favourite part: styling him up all pretty like your personal doll.
It’s his favourite part, too. He holds you around the waist while you work. “He’s panicking.”
“Oh, come on,” you laugh. “He's read every book on the shelves. And your brother doesn't read.”
“Books can't prepare you for the real thing,” says Joel. “‘Least, that's what Maria told him.”
“Maria’s probably right.” You thread your fingers through his locks and watch with a smile as he closes his eyes, his forehead dropping to your belly. “But that doesn't take away from the fact that Tommy will make a great dad.”
Joel hums, pressing a kiss to your belly. “He’s been askin’ after you to paint their nursery. Want me to tell him to fuck off?”
You're beaming, curling one lock of hair around your finger and dangling it teasingly over his forehead. “Tell Tommy I'd be delighted. Maria shouldn't be doing any of that, pregnant as she is. You should smack some sense into your brother.”
“I tried every day when we were little. Didn't take.”
You give his styled hair a finalistic tug and brush it back from his ears. “Such a good model for me,” you coo, dropping into his lap, “just like always.”
“And what do I get?” he says, watching his own hand cup your breast, thumb ghosting over the soft swell, obscured by layers of fabric.
Your wicked eyes feel heavy on his skin. “What you always get.”
You take his hand in yours and lead him to the bedroom. You’ve done this a thousand times, it seems, this methodical undressing, made new with every hour spent apart. The dance replenishes in the sunlight, coming alive as spring blossoms, never stale, never withered. There is something new to discover each time.
Joel kisses you, staggering backward until he’s sitting on the edge of the bed. You climb onto his lap without breaking the kiss, your arms winding around his neck as he tucks you into him. His cock is a hard, heavy weight between your thighs, accustomed to the touch of his hand alone in the month you've been apart.
The revitalising warmth of skin-on-skin strikes him true, blooming like blood from his heart. He clutches you so close that your heartbeat skitters from your chest to his, your mouths exchanging breaths, your bodies sharing heat. He knows nothing but the shape, smell, sound of you.
He trails his knuckles up and down your spine and wonders if he can make certain that he will die like this. He doesn't want to know an afterlife. It will spoil the memory of his very last moment, when he brings you in close and kisses your soft cheek and lets the darkness gently pull him down.
The sisters at the orphanage would tell him things. You will never know peace until you know Him. You cannot know a person’s love until you know His. You will never understand, child, what it is to breathe, until every breath you take is in His name. Joel drags his open mouth up the column of your sternum, its golden pillar, his tongue dipping to taste the nectar that pools in the hollow of your throat. He tastes you instead, and he feels he has not cheated God.
You gasp his name as he licks molten salt from your skin, and he feels the golden hand curl around his heart. His lids grow heavy with every taste. Intoxicated, he seeks more, putting his mouth to the crook of your neck. Your back arches, your chest flush with his own, melting and moulding together. Every second of time spent apart withers and dies.
You have taken Joel to bed and felt him angry, happy, morose, insatiable—but the Joel you’re feeling now is tired. A drowning man finally cresting the surface, he touches you like he never will again. Your skin bunches and folds under his too-eager hands, rubbing you raw. Your muscles pull taut as you try to accommodate his frantic mouth. He bites you and your lips part in a silent scream. He pulls your hair and you gush, your chest hot, prickling with friction and sweat and heat.
There is anguish in the way he holds you. It feels deep as a wound, old enough to still ache when it rains, old enough that you were never around to know him when it was cut into his body. You want to rescue him from the wordless pain, the agony that has no name.
You want to know what has made him this way. Because there are times when you see your husband and it strikes you suddenly that a different person exists in the black of his eyes. Because there are parts he keeps hidden, for your sake or his. Because there is a little boy in his chest who's been hurt and you do not know how to save that sliver of him.
Leftover hairs from his trim sting as your bodies slide together. Your scalp prickles at the desperate way he holds you at the crown of your head. You whisper his name and he looks up at you in the darkness, and there is water brimming beneath his irises.
“Tell me what you need,” you say.
He brings his hand between your thighs and touches the wet, warm place he seeks. You nod, letting him roll you onto your back, his mouth trailing kisses down your navel. When you squirm, he pins you by your belly, his palm flat to your skin. When you mewl his name, your chest heaving, he nods his head in reply, dipping his head and sliding his hot tongue through your slit.
Joel is the prayer you chant. He kneels at the edge of the bed, bringing your thighs around his ears, closing his lips around your clit. You cry out, your hand flying to his hair, tugging him closer, eliciting a groan from his chest. It rumbles through you, his face buried in your pussy, his hands fastened around your thighs. He places searing kisses between your legs, lighting you ablaze, leaving scorch marks wherever his lips touch you.
“Tell me you're mine,” he says, and the fractured sound of his voice cuts into your skin. He's watching you, his pupils puffy and seeking, hands squeezing, desperate. “Please.”
You whimper at the sight of the kiss he places on your clit. “I’m yours,” you tell him, reaching for his hand and threading your fingers through his. “I’m your wife, Joel. I’m not going anywhere. I’m yours and I love you.”
He lowers his head, an apostate seeking redemption, and his tongue slides heavily over your clit. At the suction of his mouth around the slick pearl, you gasp, “Oh, God,” your head thrown back, your spine arching into his palm. The cut of the diamond on your finger is sharp against his skin.
Joel relishes the cool bite of the gem as he licks through your folds and his saliva mingles with your wetness. He kneels with fervour, presses his mouth to you as if whispering his confessions through the lattice, and makes you his.
The flat of his tongue is scalding, his palm a brand. He licks and sucks until you’re quivering, suffocating his hand in yours, and he wants to bare the imprint of your sigh forever. He should be the one submitting to you, and here you are, lending him your body to please, if only for another moment. Joel flicks his tongue over your clit, takes it into his mouth, and makes you sob his name.
I’m yours.
Yours.
And it sounds so permanent that, for a second, he believes it himself.
You come with your back curving and your hips grinding and your nails in his skin. Joel doesn’t stop until you’re begging him to, until you push yourself onto your elbows and tell him to come here.
You swing your leg over him and bring your mouth down to his. Joel squeezes his eyes shut and kisses you so deeply that it bruises him somewhere he cannot reach. His hands cupping your face. His cock heavy between your bodies. The sun lowering, casting you in bronze. He loses his grip on the world.
“Now,” you whisper in the growing dark, “it’s your turn to tell me.”
You lift yourself onto his cock and bring yourself down, and Joel’s fist opens against your back. “I’ve been yours since the restaurant,” he rasps.
You beam at him, and dusk ends.
There is a thumping beyond your bedroom door.
Joel hears it before you. In a flash, he hooks his leg under your knee and rolls you over, pinning you under his body. He reaches for the nightstand on his side, throws open the drawer, and pulls a gun.
You grasp his shoulders, nails digging into flesh. Eyes meet in the slippery darkness. Wide, careful. Words wordlessly exchanged.
Your fluttering heartbeat begins to pound in your ears. The noise migrates down the hall.
Footsteps.
In the kitchen, glass shatters, and your stomach swoops, down and back up, lodging in your throat.
“Joel,” you whisper, your own voice trembling out of you. He shakes his head, his finger coming to his lips. Your body begins to tremble. The chill digs a pick into each knob of your spine as it climbs up to your brain stem.
Your home begins to pound with its very own heartbeat. You can hear its tightly-wound tension in the walls. Nobody breathes except for your husband, slow and steady, hovering over you with a gun in his hand.
You hadn’t known he owned a gun.
His hips ground you against the bed and his fingers intertwine with yours, bringing your hand to his chest. His heart pounds strongly into your palm, his eyes narrowed, fixed to you. But you know his focus is split down the middle, divided between keeping you safe and listening.
Your breathing peters out until it’s silent as the breeze outside the window. A man’s voice carries from the kitchen, and another answers. Joel shifts slowly off the bed and brings you with him, handing you his T-shirt and boxers. He tucks himself into his jeans and pulls another shirt over his head while you silently dress. The fabric slips from your hand as your trembling fingers struggle for a purchase. Once you’re dressed, Joel pulls you into him, pressing his lips to your forehead.
“Under the bed,” he whispers.
Oh, fuck that.
“You want to go out there and confront them by yourself? Are you fucking crazy?”
He shuts you up by lowering his mouth to yours in a scorching kiss. “Do not fuckin’ argue with me,” he rasps, his teeth scraping against yours. You open your mouth to do exactly that, but another glass shatters, and you flinch away.
“Under. The. Bed.”
And he’s gone, leaving you alone, helpless, the predatory prowl of his gait something unfamiliar to you. It’s learned, utterly silent, the curve of his elbow guiding your gaze to the gun held behind his back. His head juts out before him, peeking around corners.
There are dust bunnies underneath the bed. You’re a better cleaner than Joel, but he makes an effort. He gets lost in it sometimes, sweeping his way through the house as if there’s a grid on the floor, precise in his methods. He doesn’t attend to the details, like the corners of the trim or the grooves in the floorboards. And yet, your floors are polished. Your plants are watered. He cares for you in quiet ways, when words fail.
Your heart thuds against the hardwood through the thin fabric of his T-shirt. It smells of rain and him. There are no more noises coming from the kitchen.
You drop your head into your folded arms and will yourself to breathe. The claustrophobic space between the bed frame and the floor edges in on you. The only light disrupting the vignette is the small lamp. You’re alone.
When you lift your head again, a pair of heavy black boots stares you right in the face.
You bite down on your scream as your heart swoops down into your stomach, pressed hard against the cold floor. Though you do not breathe, the thrum of your heart echoes in your throat as the sputtering of an engine in the dead of winter. The boots leave scuff marks on your floors, the boards groaning under the weight. The owner is heavyset, likely male from the size of his feet. And he's calling for you.
“Here, pretty kitty.” He pitches his octave high as he taunts you. “Come on out, sweet girl. Don't make me mad.”
You watch the path of his boots across the floor as he approaches the nightstand, throwing open the drawer and rummaging through your belongings.
Objects roll under the bed with you as he periodically drops them, careless in his vandalism. Your journal lands next to your head with a thunk, and you hear the low buzz of your vibrator in his hand. “Hmm, kitty likes to play.” And it lands on the floor, rolling to a cool stop in the groove between two boards.
Petrified, you can only watch him stalk across the room, his heavy footfalls thundering in your ears. He whistles a tune you don't recognise, and you wonder what's taking your husband so fucking long.
Joel, cries your heart as the man halts in his tracks, lowering himself to the ground, taking a knee. JoelJoelJoelplease—
And there's a spark of recognition when your eyes meet in the dark, like you've been acquainted with their black depths, before you're scrambling out from under the bed and kicking him square in the face with the heel of your foot.
He grunts, holding his nose, free hand grasping for you like wisps of smoke. You crawl to your feet and begin to run, only for him to wrap one cold hand around your ankle and pull.
You crumple back down to the floor with him, barely saving your own skull from cracking on the hardwood as you throw your hands in front of your eyes. The impact to your elbows radiates up to your neck, and you scream your throat raw, kicking out at your assailant, your blood roaring, weeping.
With a firm kick to his throat, you force him to let go, his hand flying instinctively to his windpipe. He wheezes something crude, probably, but you’re running—limping, mostly, slamming the bedroom door behind you with a shattering thud that quakes the frame.
“Joel!” you cry, turning the corner in the hall, feeling the walls as you go as if your own home has become foreign to you. What if he’s dead? What if you’re about to stumble over his body in the dark—the only body you’ve ever been able to know as something more than a vessel for art, for a painstaking study? That body, the body you could trace in the black with fingertips, not brushes, does not make itself known.
“JOEL—!”
A hand comes to rest on your cheek. It is not Joel’s hand. It is no hand at all, but the edge of a blade, a cool stinging thing that nicks the tender skin beneath your eye.
Blood from his nose drips down his mouth, staining his teeth red. You feel a small thrill of victory.
Joel is on the kitchen floor in a heap, vaguely stirring from the impact of a baseball bat to his ribs. The bat which a second intruder now uses to smash the framed pictures on your wall. Glass rains down on him. Shards have cut Joel’s soft belly, shredded the fabric of his shirt. Your captor holds you by the hair.
A third man smokes a cigarette, sitting on your countertop, swinging his feet back and forth, and it strikes you that he’s really only a kid. Twenty-five at most. You know young hands, young eyes. Your pencils and paper know them better.
“Nice of you to join us,” says the man from the gas station, making shapes of the cigarette smoke. You watch the way it curls around the low-hanging light.
“Joel,” you whisper, the salt of your tears stinging in the wound on your face. “Baby, please… get up…”
“He’s fine, chiquita,” says the kid. “Don’t waste your energy.”
Joel’s eyes peel open, his hands blindly grasping for something he does not have. He’s curled in on himself to protect himself from the inevitable next swing of the bat. You wonder if he’s been struck in the head, and you can feel pieces of your heart slowly wilting as petals untended.
His gun, you realise, your eyes dropping to the belt of the man who holds you hostage. It’s tucked into his waistband, but you cannot reach it with your arms trapped in front of you. His arm is a heavy band around your chest, glueing you to him, helpless. You’re fucking helpless and you cannot get to him and he will die.
Your Joel will die and he will know pain in the way you want him to know love.
“Let him go, please. You hurt him.”
The kid sniffs, tossing his cigarette to the floor beside Joel and jumping down from the counter to stomp it out with an expensive sneaker. “He disrespected me,” says the kid, leering down at your half-conscious husband like a speck of dirt on a polished glass. “But he doesn’t matter.”
You choke on your sobs, writhing in your captor’s grasp in a futile effort to feel not-so-suffocated, not-so-stuck. “You can have anything you want. Please, take anything. We have money, we have cars, we have paintings. They’re worth something, I promise you. Just—just look up my name. They’re worth a lot, please, just take them and leave us alone, please—”
The anger explodes through the gash in his face where he’d put the cigarette, that yawning maw eager to swallow blood and pain. “I don’t want your fucking paintings!” he screams, stalking toward you and yanking you free of the other man’s grasp.
Your stomach swoops as he shoves you, hard, to the floor. This time, your arms do not take the blow. It is your temple that absorbs the impact, striking hard on a floor already flecked with blood. Black seeps through paper. Your eyes darken. A man—you do not know which—is speaking.
“Go on, Emil, have some fun with the bitch,” he says. “We can put her up in the kennel when we’re done with them both.”
You hear the rustling of a belt as the man above you flicks open his fly, laughing all the while.
You're still blinking hard to clear the fog when you hear a growl rumble in your husband’s chest, the faraway noise of a fist meeting flesh, the scuffle of feet across your freshly-washed floors, the first gunshot.
Your cheek meets cool hardwood as you succumb, the shape of your Joel’s rage etched into your eyelids.
There’s a painting on the wall depicting two bodies in orgasm. Curved spines, feverish hands, dimples where fingers meet flesh. There is a hole in the canvas where the woman’s heart should be. A splatter of blood taints the image where the man drags his open palm down her back.
His face is obscured, but his mouth is on her throat, exposing the cut of his jaw. The scruff of his beard. Careful strokes of oil paint join their bodies in harmony. It’s knocked askew on the wall.
He’s rusty.
He can feel it in the taut pull of his shoulder as he brings his arm back for the death blow. The blade comes up against the rough skin beneath the man’s chin, slicing him open just beneath the scruff of his beard. Blood bruises the hardwood floors, and although the man is already dead, Joel grasps him by the hair at the crown of his head and brings him down against the wall.
His shoulder aches. His finger joints crackle. His knuckles are already bruised, his abdomen sore. He spits out pinkish saliva and turns his attention to his next job.
His gun now back in his hand and its thief dead, Joel puts a bullet between the eyes of the third man, and another in his chest. The baseball bat clatters to the floor.
He thinks of the first time he wanted to kill for you and couldn’t.
A man at the bar had groped you while you were out with friends. A little tipsy, you told Joel as he tucked you gently into the passenger’s seat, wrapped in a pretty black dress, and fell promptly asleep. He remembers the cool flutter of your hair from the air vent. He remembers the way your lashes spread like spider legs on your cheeks at every red light, the way the street lamps turned you golden.
He remembers the man’s name. His face. His address. Some of the little wrinkles in his brain still hold echoes of information he'll never need again. But he keeps it tucked up there anyway. Maybe it reminds him of what he could never do, now that he had you.
It seems the rules have been bent.
Glass crunches underfoot behind him. Joel turns just in time to see the retreating figure, the fucking coward, sprinting for the door. He fires a shot that chips a piece of drywall and goes nowhere significant. Cursing himself, Joel hears the roar of his Mustang come to life as the kid leaves with his fucking car.
Everything has a price, he'd said, blowing smoke in your face. Including your bitch.
Joel curls his hand around the hilt of the knife. Blood begins to crust along the edge. Some of the blood, he realises, has been stolen from your sacred body. There is a cut on your cheek.
And does your bitch have a price? Joel had replied, glancing behind the kid at the lackey he'd brought along. He seems to like you.
You teeter on your way to standing, and Joel rushes to catch you before you can hit the floor. He flicks on the safety and sets his gun aside, cupping your face in his bloodied hands.
Your eyes, blurred with tears, struggle to meet his. They're fixed to the man in a heap over Joel’s shoulder—the man who'd cut you.
“Baby,” he says.
Trancelike, you shake your head.
“Baby, I gotta see you're still with me. Don't look at him; he ain't important right now. You’re important. Hear me?”
His voice is gentle, guiding, his thumbs hooked just behind your ears, hard eyes flickering between each of yours.
“You killed them.”
“Yeah,” says Joel as the pad of his thumb traces the soft skin beneath the cut on your cheek. Your fingers curl around his wrists as if you’re trying to strangle him, temper him.
“You’re hurt.” Your soft cry inverts his ribs, sits heavy and wrong in his chest. When your glassy eyes slide to meet his at last, Joel remembers the second time he wanted to kill someone and couldn’t.
A man from your past had visited your apartment and told you he wanted to try again. You'd politely escorted him out and laughed it off. Terrible in bed, you’d joked.
Joel remembers kneeling in the cathedral, surrounded by the lick of a thousand votives coaxing sweat from his glands, as he tried and tried to find faith and only felt the agonising scrape of the floor against his kneecaps.
He remembers the first time devotion meant something to him. In the name of your second gallery showing. Paintings lined the walls depicting couples in embrace. “Which one is us?” he asked.
“I don't sell those,” you’d replied.
“Why not?”
“Because you're only for me,” you told him. “But I’ll tell you a secret.”
He’d ached to hear it. Even leaned in, a co-conspirator.
“There isn't any devotion in these paintings. They're all hired models.”
“Then why bother at all?” he'd asked. “Why call it that?”
“Because I like showing people that there’s love in the world. And because devotion means something to me now.” You’d looked up at him and tucked your hand in his and he knew what all those nights spent kneeling meant.
Faith, he thinks now, glaring at the shallow cut on your cheek, is knowing your purpose.
The wound is his purpose.
“I’m not hurt, baby girl. We need to pack a bag, okay? I have somewhere for us to stay.”
“Are they—are they coming back?” you ask, your bottom lip wobbling.
Joel swallows bile and a bit of blood. “No. No, they won't be comin’ back. But we need a safe place while I take care of things.”
“Take care of things.”
Your echo is ominous in his ears, and when your eyes leave him again to watch the way the blood trickles into the grooves between the floorboards, Joel knows what you will say next.
“Who are you?”
#fic: helen#kiwisbell's fics#joel miller#joel miller x reader#joel miller smut#joel miller x you#the last of us#john wick au#joel miller au#joel miller fic#joel miller fanfic#joel miller x female reader#joel miller x f!reader#tlou fic
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a business trip.
john wick x male reader.
warnings: smut, alcohol, blowjob (r receiving), fingering (r receiving), dirty talk, rough!sex, breeding, unprotected!sex, top!johnwick, bottom!reader.
request.
the soft tune of jazz—a sonata that you were never particularly fond of—became comforting in your solitude. though a piano was absent, hidden stereos were more than adequate as you gathered the ambiance would’ve been more or less the same if a pianist had performed.
in the sleepy hours of the continental hotel, patrons of the lounge kept their conversations low, indescribable murmurs to your ears as you sipped on your drink—warm and smooth down your throat.
the time on your phone flicked to midnight, and day two commenced. you came on a business trip. if you could, you would’ve rejected the offer to come to new york, especially when it took away time from your dog. but the rascal was spoiled, and that unfortunately meant you had to step out of your home office once in a while—all to keep her spoiled.
but who ever said you couldn’t have a little fun during your trip?
the seats at the bar were unoccupied except for yours. clients preferred sitting in something that supported their back, you presumed, but that didn’t stop a gentleman from taking a seat next to you.
oh, wow. maybe the lady was right… this cologne is a dick magnet.
unbeknownst to you, his favorite seat was occupied and he was petty—though only slight, because a strong drink to incinerate his stress was his main priority.
“bourbon whiskey,” the gentleman glanced at you, dried blood and cuts lanterned under the muted lights, but his black hair succeeded in shadowing. “please.”
the man didn’t seem phased by the injuries—a nonchalant attitude he maintained—but you were nonetheless surprised. speechless as no one, not even the bartender, seemed to have minded his wounds, the blood stained on his dress shirt, and the purple bruise beating on his cheekbone.
it was… strange.
“uh...” you cleared your throat, directing the sound towards the man to get his attention. he looked, clearly want to be left alone as he kept his gaze front. “sorry, i just… uh… should i be worried about that?”
though he didn’t seem to recognize you, the stranger was hesitant to answer, taking more than a few beats before speaking, low and gritty. “no, just… got robbed.”
“oh, shit, seriously?” you reached for you phone and turned the screen on. ”then, I think we should call-“ before you could take the process to another step, a gentle grasp latched around your wrist, stopping you.
“that’s very kind of you, but i’m fine.” he finally turned to you, a reassuring gaze pierced to your worry before letting go and looking front again.
handsome, even when he’s all beat up. focus, that was not the priority right now.
“dude, you’re bleeding.” remnants of warmth escaped your wrist, but his calloused fingers remained in memory. “you could have a concussion or something.”
“maybe,” the man took a sip of his drink, a simper to his face when it was concluded that you were evidently not from his world. “seemed fine as i walked the way here though.”
“jesus,” you couldn’t pick apart between fact or fiction, especially from a stranger, but he had no reason to lie. you took another sip, watching him and accepting his truth. “did you manage to get a hit on them, at least?”
you missed it, but the man glanced down at the red stain on his dress shirt, small and ruby-ed against the white fabric before taking a sip again. “something like that.”
“hm... i guess i know who to call for a bodyguard when i’m in the city again, then.” the ice between the two of you was slowly melting, puddles of it spreading when you two shared a chuckle. “(m/n), by the way.”
“john.” you can put a name to his face now, and it was fitting. mysterious and aloof, but never intimidating because there was a warmth inside of him that just needed a reason to come out. “never seen you here before, first time?”
“kind of?” by now, the drink has caught up to you and you felt a little more confident, turning your body towards him. “i mean, i’ve been to new york before—just not this hotel. i’m here for work.”
“i see,” when you faced towards him, john never meant to do a double-take. several glances were hidden in between the constant motion of drinking, the heat relieving john’s body whenever he took a sip—he likened it to medicine. “enjoying your stay then?”
but the more john looked at you, warmth began to rise instead. it eventually settled on his chest, neck, and cheeks to his dismay and it does not intent to wear off, no matter how many sips he took in greatest efforts to push it down—in a void somewhere, where he believed his feelings deserved to be buried.
“it could be better.” alcohol was a powerful drug, because you were one-hundred percent sure that the chance of you flirting without a drink would’ve been close to zero.
it came out of nowhere—this feeling. fleeting or not, your pants tightened and you needed a release. if it wasn’t him, then it was going to be someone else. and if you really couldn’t get laid, you’d be content with dry-humping a pillow.
you’ve seen it in the movies before—well, usually from a women—but it should be universally accepted, right? confidence was sexy: show some skin, make your intentions clear, and handle rejection like a real class act.
worst he could do is say no…
“I don’t mean to be crass, but,” you tugged on your necktie, loosening it around the collar, and unbuttoned only the top two buttons. a slight breeze ghosted your neck as it radiated and yearned for lust—kindled further when you downed another drink, a last stop for encouragement, but also a device to handle rejection all at once. “do you want to fuck?”
john watched you stone-faced, but there was clear interest in his eyes—you watched it spread across his dark orbs.
it was telling that you both needed something—a release: you with work and him with being mugged, apparently. your fingers tapped on the counter, impatient for an answer.
after a smooth swig of his drink, john got up and beckoned to you with a small smile. “come on.”
as soon as the door shut, you were backed into it with considerable force—not a single second to spare. you held onto john in blind support, groping at his broad back and hips while john’s needy palms worked at your ass, squeezing tight to aid the erection in his pants.
“fuck.” pressure applied to your clothed bulge as john pressed his hips against you, rutting in irregular rhythms conducted by pure lust, and you desperately returned them, needier as you rubbed into his thigh. your moans caught between his lips when the pair found themselves on you, kissing you with the utmost passion—poisonous, because it stole your breath away.
“i could come just like this.” you spared enough oxygen to breathe out, but later found it swallowed when john kissed you again, eagerly licking the inside of your mouth. his tongue was sloppy, mixing the sweetness of your drink with the burn of his to form an entirely new recipe that only the two of you would share.
complete darkness filled your sight while your neck was then bombarded with rough kisses, only broken when john unwillingly tore himself from your skin to strip himself. it was a tedious process because he was greedy, returning back to your neck and lips whenever a piece of clothing was thrown to the corner of the room.
but you were impatient, as was he, and knew things would never progress if he was submitted under the smell and soft touch of your skin. so you playfully pushed him, squeezing his chest in midst, and constantly knocking him back to his amusement while the glow of the moon became your guide to the bed.
“keep that up,” john held you by the waist again, applying his bare body to your clothed figure, half-undressed with your trousers and shirt left, as you felt his beard against your skin. a gentle brush tickled you, but his darkened, low voice sent goosebumps. “and we won’t make it to the bed.”
“hm.” a hum vibrated in your throat while he kissed your neck again, suckled at his favorite area because he could feel your cock throb against him, desperate to be freed from the fabric.
you watched him in the moonlight as john began undoing your clothes, leaving a wake of hot kisses down your body the more you unveiled before him—cold, but john’s mouth made up for it as it wrapped around you like a warm glove. no warning whatsoever, but you preferred that, shuddering when he worshipped your body like a knight to a prince; calmed caresses to your calves while he polished your cock with godly licks.
john’s fingers spidered up your legs and his palm found its way to your ass again, spanking one cheek hard enough for you to suddenly thrust your cock into his mouth and down his warm throat. “oh, fuck-“
he moaned around you, vibrations riding your thick veins as it would take a electrifying trip up north until you moaned, pleaded with him to be fucked—to no avail, simply because he was stubborn.
briefly, john let you go with a slimy pop to stroke you, standing back up to kiss you in midst. you tasted yourself, the saltiness of your pre-cum lining your taste-buds as his tongue ran over yours in a wet and sloppy affair. “god, you taste so good…”
simultaneously, your hand worked at his cock, under-handing the weight of it with slow strokes—to the intimate arousal of your sluggish tongues moving with one another. it wouldn’t be long until you found yourself pressing into him again, gliding your wet cock against his, spreading and sharing john’s thick saliva between the two muscles.
your lips never his, neither did your hand on his cock—both of your cocks now, clumsily stroking—even when john began to prod at your hole with his finger, lubed up seconds before, teasing. only then, you pulled away when his finger slid into you with careful ease, and you flushed forward.
he embraced you with one arm around your body, holding you still while he worked you open, curling inside of you deeper with quickening intervals. you could practically come undone from this, but you refrained from doing so, distracting yourself with kisses to john’s chest, then his nipples, sucking hard to counter the overwhelming pleasure.
but he had the upper hand on you, only realizing when you immediately flexed around him when he pushed into you with another finger—slight difficulty, and so he worked you open once again. though, it doesn’t last long because he wanted to feel the tight stretch you’d provide for him—a heavenly need you’d happily supply.
without any guidance, you bent over the bed and pushed your hips out, and he held you close. you laid there bare before him, looking back completely vulnerable while john toyed with you, taunting your arousal as he slid his cock in between your ass cheeks, wet and sticky from the lube.
“come on…” you almost whined out into the sheets, refraining yourself from wiggling your hips.
his silhouette didn’t budge and he only agitated your impatience even further by tracing your pucker with the plump tip of his cock, slow and teasing with a smirk you could hear. “you want me that bad?”
“fuck,” you were never one to admit things easily, and this wasn’t going to be the start of it. equally as stubborn as john was, you groaned into bed again and used your core to push back at his taunts. you began reaching back amid his continuing tease to grab ahold of his length. “if you’re not going to fuck me, then i’m going to-“
john’s reflexes were fast. as soon as you wrapped your hand around him, he pinned you further into the bed with a firm shove to your back. your chest stung when it rubbed harsh against the sheets and you immediately let go, lying pliant under his force. “you’re going to what?”
you struggled to move—to escape from his hold—but he was stronger in every way possible. every struggle was met with an ache to your body as he barely used a fourth of his strength to hold you down.
and your cock couldn’t have gotten harder.
“I’m going to-“ before you could respond, your throat dried up as john pushed himself inside of you with one slow yet rugged thrust, pushing heat back in, and filling your hole up with more. “f-fuck!” every muscle in your body tensed and you shouted out, almost a whimper.
his cock was thick inside of you. you can feel every pulse, every vein as he worked himself into you, back and forth with deep and slow thrusts, painfully stretching you out. it knocked the breath out of you and your legs wobbled, feeling your current stance weakening as your toes curled into the floor, desperately clinging onto the arrival of your soreness.
but you loved it. you loved how barely prepped you were because you can feel every inch of him reaching deep inside and violating your hole with the uttermost disrespect. he held your wrists together, your arms back and your chest pushed forward while your cock rubbed against the bed, and fucked into you—faster, harder. “look at you, fuck. you take cock like it’s nothing, hm?“
“m-mmm!” you whimpered out in response, your breath hitching as he repeatedly slammed his hips into you, continuously knocking any thought out of you. the painful pleasure was dizzying, finding solace in muffling your moans into the covers. your breath warmed your cheeks as you rocked into the bed from impact, gliding your cock in between the bed and your pelvis along.
there was an ache in your shoulders, in your arms, in your wrists, but john’s cock overpowered every feeling to the point where they became numb. all there was left was john’s rapture and you basked in it. the heaviness of the sex-filled air, the humidity of your bodies when john decided to push his all of his weight onto you and fuck you like you were nothing but a void, the warmth of his breath when he kissed your shoulder and neck, and the sting when he bit.
overwhelming was an understatement of your current state of euphoria. you took him in and overloaded yourself into his pleasure. every thrust, every breath was submerged into you, compelled to mirror even a fraction of the pleasure john felt, and it was only when his cock drove into your prostate with unbeatable force that you did—tenfold.
“oh, fuck! don’t stop,” you cried out, desperate in pushing back against him because you never knew if john would pull away anytime soon. “fuck me just like that, fuck!”
and he doesn’t. john was a man of promise and he delivered your pleas with force and speed, letting go your wrists to spread your cheeks apart and watch you be fucked open with his thick cock, growing more swollen with every passing second. you can feel his balls following his thrusts, swinging against your sweaty skin and creating the most delectable sounds. “like that, yeah? you like my cock, just like that?”
“f-fuck, yes!”
in this moment, you were his, under his control, and selfishly captured when john devastated your prostate with one more powerful thrust to your demands, and you found the stars. they resided in the back of your eyelids as you came—thick and heavy—in between the sheets and your twitching body.
it wouldn’t be long until john joined you in your trip to heaven, his grasp on your hips hard and bruising as he yanked you back and met your ass to his cock one last time in uniting your body with his.
warmth began to fill you as john came undone, shooting deep inside of you. his hips slowed, but never came to a stop as you clenched around him, tight and yearning for his seed, and with that, he milked himself inside of you, giving you all of him and what was left of him—creamy and thick.
his breath was heavy in your ear as he pressed his chest to your back, and you groaned, coming down from the high that you just experienced. sleep approached for the both of you, but he maintained the steadiness of his hips, spreading his load in you as if he was marking his territory.
“so... how long until you’re leaving?”
“mmmph, four more days….”
"good."
nouearth. please do not repost, plagiarize, or translate my works. andif you like this story, please reblog and leave a like!
#✰ : nou.fics#✰ : nou.johnwick#john wick x male reader#john wick x reader#john wick x m!reader#john wick x you#john wick x y/n#john wick smut#male reader#x male reader#x reader#x m!reader#m!reader#male reader insert#male reader smut#bottom male reader#top john wick#x y/n#john wick fic#john wick fanfic#john wick fanfiction#nouearth#g: smut#x you#keanu reeves x reader#keanu reeves#john wick#keanu reeves x male reader#keanu reeves x you#keanu reeves x m!reader
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undo me
premise: the relationship between you and john is anything but soft, normal, domestic. it's deeper and more complicated than that. the pleasure and relief of desire that the two of you bring each other the only things clear cut.
pairing: john wick x (f)reader
word count: 904
warnings: eighteen+ content, handjob, dirty talk, references and illusions to oral and fingering, established fwbs, blood mention, reader is in the same 'business' as john.
note: i've never written for this beautiful man and it's honestly a crime because he's so underrated and i want to hold him!
The fire that’s burning in his eyes—lust fueled, hungry, a craving only you can stop that has that underlying anger within it—scalds your senses. Makes the hand that you have wrapped around his cock ache to move faster, to twist, and run your thumb along the leaking head so you can hear that deep groan he lets out against your forehead. The noises he tries to hide with the kisses to the top of your skull that are anything but affection.
Affection he’d never admit to and you’d never claim anything of.
The two of you were the same. Joined in loss and hatred, and the bloodshed that you’ve spilt and tainted your skin with was second nature. Something that felt like you were born into, for, the longer you stayed in the business. The longer enemies piled as high as the bodies you’d claimed along the way of some sort of redemption. A release. A freedom from something that had no end.
It was only when you two were together like this—when John allowed himself to be like this with you—that those enemies, the bloodshed, and freedom didn’t matter.
Weren’t pounding at the door, threatening to take your life before you could take theirs.
You didn’t know if he was a giving lover. Not really. When you were done, he usually finished you off, always with his fingers. A handful of times with his mouth. There were no soft kisses or devotions whispered into the crook of your neck. Pulling him towards the bed and stripping like some domesticated couple was not in the cards. Wasn’t what this was about—why it had kept happening and why you always knew his knock by heart and grew wetter the closer you got to the door.
To invite him another night to give each other the release you needed—that closeness to another person as your hearts would allow—and then he was gone and reality was back with a vengeance.
Tonight is no different.
The same knock.
The same quick work of unbuckling his pants to slide your hand down them to pull out his cock and wrap your fist around it.
Your knees had bent, a descent ready to be made to give him a better release from his tense shoulders with your mouth. But his grip on your hip had stopped you.
His forehead coming down on yours, hair growing slick with sweat the longer you jerked him off, the more his body sank into the pleasure. His breath heavy, “want your eyes on me tonight.” He had said, an overanalysis of the tenor in it, making you want to think it was begging. A desperate plea.
But never from him.
And you had done what he said.
Kept your eyes on him.
Let your eyes move along his face; watch as he wets his lips with his tongue, as his eyes screw shut for half a second when you twist your wrist at the head of his cock the way he liked. The fist he had pressed into the door behind your head keeping himself stationary. His body weight half leaned into you, giving just enough room for him to move his hips.
To fuck up into your hand.
To set the pace he needed.
There was a time and place for you to make conversation while doing this. To ask him if he had a rough day or crack a joke. But tonight, you know he doesn’t need it. He just needs this.
You.
Your hand.
To get off.
For you to help him.
“John,” you murmur softly against his cheek. Bring his attention back to you, popping whatever fantasy he’s letting burn through his gaze, so he can only see you. “Tell me how good it feels; am I making you feel good?”
“Yeah,” his voice has lost all of its normal sternness. All of the frightening edges that have men and women running. He sounds weak, breathless, and overcome. It makes you ache. “Couldn’t–” he curses under his breath. Brings the hand from your hip to your neck to rest and tighten with each downward stroke. “Couldn’t stop thinking about you tonight. I needed to see you. Needed to-”
“To come for me.” The noise he lets out at your words has your gut plummeting. Your thighs closing in around the leg he has positioned between them. You open your mouth to tell him to do it, to come for you, to let go. But his fingers are muffling your words. Stealing them from your tongue as he presses two fingers against it.
“Get them wet.” He demands. Watches as you swirl your tongue around them and coat them in your spit, taking them out when he’s satisfied and moving them down to where your fingers are wrapped around him. Swiping the spit against his head for you to use as more friction—easier, wetter.
You can tell he’s close by the hitch in his breath. The fast rock of his hips, the fingers digging into your neck.
And the way he’s looking at you, the slow trail he makes between your eyes and your mouth, you half expect him to kiss you. To press his mouth to yours in a way he’s never done before.
A slow seeping disappointment is swiped away by arousal when he says, “get on your knees. I want you to taste what you do to me.”
#john wick x reader#john wick smut#john wick x you#john wick imagine#keanu reeves smut#john wick x y/n#john wick fanfic#john wick fic#john wick
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desperately wanting john wick to whisper filthy things to me in russian
*˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳I love this idea nonnie ! I have decided to do a list of phrases I've found + what scenario John would say them to you, disclaimer: I do not speak Russian, but I've tried to go beyond using just Google translate and the like, but there still may be discrepancies, please forgive ʚ♥︎ɞ
Tags/CW: rope bunny, Dom!JW, Sub!Reader, bratty!reader, bdsm-esque, reader tries to Dom JW, reader on top, teasing, denial, dirty talk.
Зайка моя ("My bunny"): John calls you this the most, he loves the idea of you being his little bunny, and he also likes that he can get away with calling you something so cute because you have no idea at first what he's saying. Light teasing from you when you find out he's been calling you his "bunny" for so long:
"Oh, so if I'm your little bunny, does that make you the big bad wolf?" You say with a smile, teasing John for his pet name for you.
"Oh yes, yes it does..." John plays along, moving close enough to you that he grab you from behind and pull you close.
"Don't forget that wolves bite, Зайка моя..." His teeth nibble at your neck before dragging you, who's giggling from all the attention, off to the bedroom.
мое солнышко ("My sunshine"): John calls you this after sex the most, or only in the most tender of cases. He really does believe you are his own personal ball of sun. He hasn't felt this happy in so long, and upon meeting you, he knows that you are the light in his life. John doesn't mind if you know it, either. He calls you his sun in English as well, but when you two are cuddled up, the night settling in, John will sleepily call you "мое солнышко".
моя принцесса ("My princess"): John uses this one almost exclusively when you're being a brat, typically in bed. He calls you this half sarcastically, half because he really will do anything to please you.
"What are you going to do, make me, John?" You tease him when he tries to command you. You really shouldn't have done that.
"Careful, моя принцесса, you know what happens when you tease me." Johns voice is trying to be gruff, but he also loves seeing you have fun. Only after a few more bratty comments does he finally show his princess how she really needs to be treated.
шлюха ("whore") / шлюшка(diminutive "little whore"): John uses this one often, forgetting himself while he's fucking you. You know this one too well, and when he says it, you love how degrading it sounds. He tells you most while he holds the back of your head roughly down on his cock how much you look like a "шлюшка" to him. He eventually teaches you how to say it as well:
"I won't let you cum until you tell me what you are..." John has his hands skillfully playing with your pussy while you're all tied up in a little bow for him on the bed. You know what he wants, but don't want to give in. His hands move just perfectly so you get so close, but stop just before then. Your moans echo through the room.
"I'll wait, we can play this game forever, love." John knows you know this to be true, he works his big hands inside you harder now, and you can barely sputter the phrase out.
"Yes, please! I'm your шлюха, your шлюшка!" You cry out as John finishes you, your body writhing in it's restraints. John looks so pleased with you for saying it correctly.
"Good girl." He says as he begins to help you calm down.
Для меня ты ведешь себя как маленькая шлюха ("You're acting like such a little whore for me." Literally: "To me, you are acting like a little whore.")
John says this when you're particularly submissive to him. Sometimes you're a bit of a brat who wants to act like she doesn't love being John's little rope bunny, but now you're practically begging him to fuck you. You're riding his thigh, he's fully clothed but you've taken your panties off from under your dress and are making such a mess of his nice dress pants. He watches you, never revealing whether or not he will be the one to please you tonight.
"Для меня ты ведешь себя как маленькая шлюха..." He says while rolling his eyes, taking a sip of his drink and watching as you desperately try to get off on his thigh. He finally caves and puts his glass down on the side table, lifting you up and taking you to the couch where he can properly fuck you.
я хочу быть сверху("I want to be on top."):
You spend some time searching up the perfect way to tell John that you want to be on top tonight. You know he will be coming home from a long day and want to do something to please him. The brat in you also knows that John will be thrilled at you attempting "superiority" over him. When John finally gets home, he is immediately taking off his suit, ignoring how dirty and blood stained it is. He grabs you as soon as he sees you, pulling you to the nearest surface he can to fuck you, which happens to be the couch. As John's devouring your body in kisses, you say it.
"я хочу быть сверху..." You whisper and John pauses, looking at you in disbelief for a moment. First, he is impressed by how well you said the phrase, then his eyes darken with a hint of mischief.
"So you want to be on top..." He says slyly, licking his lips like a hungry wolf. "So be it, let me see how well you think you can dominate me."
"You mean it?" Your eyes light up, half of you didn't expect him to agree.
"On one condition, if you fail to fuck me correctly, I will tie you up and show you how it's done..." His voice is deep and husky with desire, and you know he's setting you up, but the idea of him tying you up later doesn't sound like a bad thing, not really. You nod and begin placing yourself on top, slowly easing up there.
You hold his cock still as you softly let it enter you, and John already has a wicked gleam in his eyes. You keep going, placing your hands on his chest and trying to ride him as if you're the one dominating him, but even at your best on top you're still submitting to his cock. John grabs his tie from the floor and you already know what he is going to do, so you place your hands out in front of you. He ties your hands up, then takes your hips and fucks you from underneath so hard the neighbors can hear it. You realise you can never dominate him, but that doesn't stop you from asking to be on top from time to time after this.
Я ХОЧУ ТЕБЯ ВНУТРИ МЕНЯ("I want you inside me.")
You learn another phrase, this one more your style. John is teasing you once more, his cock hard and slipping through your wet folds, but never entering you. You're whining, grinding your hips and bucking to try to invite him in, but your arms are all tied up behind you. He has your breasts tied as well, bringing them to perfect roundness. John reaches out and plays with your nipples, plucking at them and pulling just how you like, still not letting you feel the fullness of his cock. You are at your breaking point when you remember the phrase.
"Я ХОЧУ ТЕБЯ ВНУТРИ МЕНЯ...!" You finally moan, your back arching and your toes curling from how badly you want it. John pauses and smiles.
"Oh, you're such a good girl for asking like that." he says, before plunging his cock deep inside you, giving you what you want. You breathe out, finally able to be fucked hard like you wanted.
#john wick x reader#john wick fan fic#john wick drabble#john wick imagine#ask lila#my writing#••• ◛ ʸᵒᵘ’ᵛᵉ ᵍᵒᵗ ᵐᵃⁱˡ!
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something wrong with me and you
Pairing: Marquis Vincent de Gramont x afab!reader. No use of Y/N
Word Count: 1.6K
Warnings: smut. slightly dub/con, including spanking, teasing, making the other beg, etc. Minors do not interact. +18 rating.
Author's note: who knew me going to the movie theater to watch john wick 4 was going to bring my fic writing era back from the dead lmao, maybe I'll finish other fics I abandoned along the way
I do not consent to any of my work being reposted on other websites.
At first, it was a night like any other.
Until he showed up, deciding that on this evening you were worthy of his time.
His lips reached closer to the shell of your ear while you struggled to hold in a sigh. He’d been at it for hours, tentatively running his nose on your neck, poking for a show of weakness on your part.
And you knew you were at the precipice of failure. The relentlessness of his continuous challenges made an inevitable dent in your resolve to deprive him of his wishes.
"I can give you everything, mon amour”, his full body pressed you down onto the mattress, fingers gripping your inner thighs, “everything you could ever want and more."
At this point, this had become a bit of a habit of his. Speaking these infamous words every single time you were with him. To the point of annoyance.
Be it in the low lights during a theater performance, in the middle of a crowded restaurant, or - as you were now - in his bed, draped in nothing but luxurious jewelry and the expensive silk of his sheets. It seemed he had become fixated on tantalizing you with unreachable realities.
"Isn't that what you want, darling?", he teased with a playful smile, just before nibbling your shoulder, teeth sinking into your skin followed by the soothing of his tongue.
His pleasure in the act of mocking you was palpable, even more so when you were at a point of nearly squirming underneath him, "It is no shame to admit it", he continued, "don't you want to be all mine?".
You could no longer hold it in anymore, fighting power running out.
A shaky nearly broken moan left your lips along with a tremble through your body, and you threw your head back as his left hand found your waist. The right one lowering down smoothly - from your waist to your thigh, teasing the idea of doing something about the mess he created - before moving on, with a caress, all the way to your calf.
His hand settled, wrapped around your ankle, as he moved away from you, getting up from the four-post bed.
You were about to voice disappointment when you felt a tug on your ankles.
A surprise noise was once again dragged out of you as Vincent yanked you closer to the end of the bed, where he stood.
His once perfectly pressed shirt hung open. The slicked hair was now messy as a result of the good work from your fingers, both in the back of the limousine and on the elevator that took you both to the upper levels of his home.
Still pliant from all the effort he had put into making you putty in his hands, you lifted yourself up on your forearms, noting the harness of his length, which he had been rubbing against you ever since before you left the private dining room.
You were often fascinated by how the regality of his every move seemed impossible to rattle, even on the most heated nights.
A person could easily mistake the coldness of his stare to believe it meant indifference, after all, the Marquis de Gramont was a hard man to impress.
But you knew better.
You’d seen him beyond his title, his wealth, his ruthlessness.
And he had seen you.
His eyes almost twinkled from pent-up desire and as if he couldn’t help himself, he forcefully grabbed your chin, bringing your lips ever closer
Merely an inch separated you from the kiss that would soon follow.
Though before you could seal the deal, you became entranced by the sight of him licking his lips and the raspy whisper that followed.
"Say it to me. Say that you want to be my little marchioness. I can't give you what you want unless you say it."
You couldn't help but reach forward, your teeth sinking on his lower lip, making him hiss. Both of his arms wrapped around your waist, holding you in place.
A smirk on your lips was inevitable, "Who's doing the begging now?"
That would just about do the trick on him, his body stiffening immediately and you braced for what would soon follow.
“Well, the night is not over is it?”
He admired your defiance in the face of his authority. How most times, even if you stood before him deprived of a single stitch of clothing, you were still able to look him in the eyes, as if you held all the cards. As if he couldn’t - or wouldn’t - ever harm you in any significant way.
Refusing to back down, teasing him to react first.
Admit it first.
To say just how much he wanted you.
How much he craved for you. How he woke up and thought of you. How much he wished he was inside you all day, every day.
And sometimes, even more dangerously, how he saw a particular painting and thought of you. Wondered if you would like it. Played out in his head how he was going to tell you all about it and then show it to you. The same had been happening a lot with clothes. Gowns he saw and only pictured how you’d look wearing them, and the way he would go about getting them off later.
The look you gave him during dinner while sipping on the most expensive wine from his private collection…It was enough to make him want to stop the world. Bend you over the table and fuck you until you pleaded with him to let you finish.
Tonight, however, he was tired of your games. Vincent was no longer interested in making you squirm, he wanted to make you scream.
If you refused to admit your obvious desire when he was being so nice, he was going to make you beg out loud.
He flipped you around, sturdy hands on either side of you forcing you to go on all fours for him. Aware that you hated not seeing his face while he took you.
For a moment, he basked in that power.
Of how despite all your fight, your snark, your feigned indifference when he spent weeks without seeing you and suddenly turned up at your door, you were still pliable to his will.
One of his large hands maneuvered to make sure you couldn’t switch positions, holding your neck in place. The cold metal of his ring tingling against your skin. Demanding that you stare forward, towards the headboard, stealing from you even the mere possibility of catching a glimpse at what he was about to do.
A slap came down hard on your ass, earning him a choked gasp. His hand soothed the now pained spot for a second before another slap soon followed. And then continued his motions, one after another until you lost track of how many spanks you had gotten. Being only mildly aware of the prickling of your skin, and more consumed by the wetness dripping from your core.
A whine ripped through you as he finally placed his thumb on your pussy, caressing you thoroughly.
“Fuck…”, you muttered a satisfied near-sob.
“Mmmm…not yet, mon amour”, Vincent teased, “unless you’re ready to beg for it.”
He splayed his hand on your lower back, moving you closer to his cock, and you held your breath as you felt him gripping his length behind you.
“Are you ready, darling? Are you ready to beg for me?”
“Yes!”, you mewled, nearly adding a “please” after.
You knew he was shaking his head at you, “It is truly a pity you have not spoken the correct words.”
You hissed as he grazed the head of his cock on your entrance, teasing but not making any moves towards pushing inside.
Vincent smiled, if you wanted him you’d have to say it, and he knew you were close to breaking.
“F-uck, fuck, okay”, you relented, backing yourself up further against him, “please…please…fuck me, I can’t…I-I want you, I need you so fucking bad.”
He wanted to resist you, as you had resisted him. He wished he could.
Vincent liked to think of himself as a man with enough resolve to spare, but that was always a challenge when it came to you.
When he said he would give you whatever you wanted, you thought it was a tease, a joke, a lie. You were wrong.
Not another sigh from you was needed to make him plunge his cock inside you and set a fiery pace, embracing your warmth as he moved one hand toward your nipples, pinching them so hard you started screaming.
Time lost all meaning, and sounds felt far away as he pounded inside you, setting a relentless pace.
Neither of you spoke, but both panted in pleasure.
One of your hands reached out towards his own, the one that is holding your neck, intertwining your fingers in a way that allows you to finally move your head back towards him.
Searching for his lips.
Unable to deny you any longer - and consumed by his own desire - he complied. Draping himself closer and closer, as if he wanted to consume you fully. Covering your body with his own, devouring your mouth with vigor, until neither of you can hold on.
You’ve deprived each other for too long.
He waits for you to finish, a wave of ecstasy ripping through you, as he fucks you even harder, chasing his own release with a shout.
He soon lays down on top of you, and in your lightheadedness, your fingers intertwine with each other.
Holding on for as long as you can.
Unaware of the great lengths the Marquis will go to make you, his.
#marquis vincent de gramont#vincent de gramont#marquis de gramont x reader#bill skarsgard x reader#john wick fics#fics#mine#smut#bill skarsgard smut#marquis vincent de gramont smut
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Angel Shot (John Wick x Reader)
A/N: Just a little something because I missed writing for John and watching all the movies again on winter break has got me feeling inspired. ♥
Description: John Wick x Fem!Reader, protective John fluff | Warnings: mild language, alcohol, suggestive themes, Y/N is harassed/threatened and John intervenes | Setting: before Helen (or AU without her, you decide) | Word count: 1,474
Gif credit: user johnswick
Imagine John coming to your defense when a former associate won't leave you alone
It had been a long week. All you wanted was a moment of peace and a cold drink. Normally, you had no trouble finding that at the bar within the New York Continental. On this night, however, you found yourself wishing you had gone elsewhere. No sooner had you taken the first sip of your cocktail did Rico Augustine spot you from across the room.
You keep your eyes fixed forward and pretend not to notice his approach on your right.
"Look who it is," he announces, mockery in his voice, "The rooftop sniper."
"Rico," you acknowledge placidly. You could already sense this interaction would not remain civil. A quick glance his direction allowed you to take notice of his haggard, unshaven face and wrinkled suit. Even in the subdued glow of the mood lighting, you could see the wildness in his bloodshot eyes as he clutched the edge of the bartop.
"I'd offer to buy you a drink," he starts, leaning in closer, "but considering I'm a little light of funds right now, maybe you should be the one getting me something, huh?"
The alcohol on his breath was strong enough to burn your nose. Apparently, he'd managed to evade both sleep and sobriety since you last spoke.
"I already have one," you say, gesturing with your glass, "And I'm not sure you need another."
"It really is the least you can do, after what you stole from me," he provoked, his disgust poorly veiled.
His proximity, paired with his odor and audacity, set a fire in your blood.
"Are we really going to go over this again?" you ask, turning toward him, "I didn't know you were there last night. I wouldn't have taken the shot if I had. I don't work like that."
"You know that's my territory. I followed that mark for two hours and you took him right out from underneath me. I needed that money," he seethes, drawing out his next words, "You owe me."
You pivot back to the bar, your temper flaring. "It was an open contract, Rico. Just because we worked together on the Morocco Exchange doesn't mean I owe you," you state, taking a swig before speaking once more, "I already gave you a 30% cut, from a profit you didn't earn in the first place. That means we're finished."
His hand flies up to grab your wrist, causing you to drop your drink. The glass rattles and liquid sloshes out as it hits the bartop, but it does not fall over. With the dull roar of music and conversation filling the room, the noise isn't enough to catch the distracted bartender's attention.
"What if I say we're not?" he asks, his voice growling in your ear, "What if we're only finished when I say we are?"
Before you can answer or go for the dagger concealed in your shirt sleeve, you feel the cold steel of a concealed blade begin to dig into your ribs.
"I tried being polite, but you just had to keep flapping those lips of yours."
"You don't want to do this," you warn through gritted teeth.
"Wrong again," he sneers, his gratified tone sending a shiver down your back, "Why don't we continue this conversation up in my room, hm?"
You try to make eye contact with the bartender, but his back is still turned toward you, occupied with a chatty patron. Only one option remained: be even less civil. You try to free your dagger slowly from its sheath on your forearm without Rico noticing. It starts to slide loose as he pulls you toward him with a sickening laugh. The hilt is almost in your palm when, in the mirror on the wall of liquor bottles, you catch a glimpse of someone approaching from behind. They come to stand at your left a few seconds before you hear a voice that brings immediate relief.
"Hey, Y/N."
"Hey, John," you say.
"Nice night," he remarks.
"Sure is," you reply, glancing to him from the corner of your eye.
"Evening, Rico. Can I buy you a drink?" John asks.
"Thanks John, but Y/N and I are about tapped out for the night. Ain't that right?"
You attempt to turn your head towards John, but Rico pushes the blade harder into your side in response.
"Yeah," you say unconvincingly, wincing from the sting, "Thought about ordering an Angel Shot though."
There's a brief silence before John speaks again. "That so?"
"This doesn't concern you, Wick," Rico snarls, his fake cordiality gone in an instant, "Mind your business."
"Actually, you made it my business when you pulled that knife," John responds calmy, "Now, how about that drink? Or shall I make a dinner reservation instead?"
You feel the grip on your arm loosen a bit. Your assailant knew as well as you did what that meant. One of two things awaited him: a whiskey, or a body bag.
Despite the warning, Rico scoffs, looking past you to glare at John.
"Come on, Wick. You and I both know you don't have the balls to break hotel rules," he retorts, his thin lips curling into smirk.
John doesn't blink. "You willing to bet on that?"
You suppress the urge to smile as you watch the reflection of your harasser's face lose its gusto, along with most of the color.
"Last chance, Rico," John says, "Take your hands off her, and walk away."
Your pulse pounds in your ears.
Rico narrows his gaze, but lets go of your arm. "Of course. Whatever you say, Baba Yaga," he jeers, rubbing his mouth with his sleeve.
You exhale, but the sweaty brute leans back in close to your face and hisses, "The Boogeyman won't always be there to save you. This isn't over."
Rico starts to walk past you, but John grabs his arm, and tilts his head ever so slightly. "I didn't catch that last part."
He clears his throat, avoiding John's piercing stare. "It was nothing."
"Uh-huh," he deadpans, "Didn't think so."
"What's the matter, Wick? We're all professionals here, aren't we?" he poses; more a begrudged plea for mercy than an inquiry.
"Some of us more than others, it would seem," John replies, proceeding to lower his voice, "If you threaten her again, you'll find out just how professional I can be."
Rico clenches his jaw, his eye twitching in rage. Even as he choked on his own venom, he knew he was beaten. He violently recoils as John releases his arm, straightening his jacket and running a trembling hand through his disheveled hair. You, John, and the rest of the room watch him retreat until he's completely out of sight.
Boogeyman or not, John had a way of drawing attention. The hush that had fallen over the room fades as customers return to their drinks and conversation, no doubt now discussing what sort of gruesome scene they were nearly witnesses to.
John finally turns to you. "Are you alright?"
You nod and smile a bit, "Thanks to you."
"I'm sure you had it handled."
"Yeah, but I wasn't looking forward to scrubbing his blood out of this fabric. You can never find this color, I'd hate to toss it," you chuckle, looking down at your shirt.
"We wouldn't want that," he says, amused.
You replace your tousled hair behind your ear and meet his softened gaze. "Thank you, John."
"You're welcome, Y/N," he says, reaching into his jacket pocket, "You look like you could use a refill."
He holds up an all-too-familiar gold coin, then places it on the bartop. "On me."
"That's two I owe you then," you counter, giving him a knowing look.
"No. You don't owe me anything," he states, kind but firm. The look he gives you in return makes you feel that you shouldn't argue.
"Fair enough," you say, watching the now attentive bartender top off your beverage, "But at least let me get you a bourbon."
John retrieves his phone from another pocket, reading the screen and stowing it back as fast as he'd produced it.
"Thank you, but I'll have to take a raincheck," John says, touching your shoulder before walking away. "Take care of yourself, Y/N."
"You have business elsewhere tonight?" you question, calling after him.
"Yeah," he answers, pausing a moment, "But I won't be checking out for another day or so."
You smirk. "Be seeing you, then?"
He nods, the smallest trace of a smile on his face.
"Be seeing you."
He turns to leave, and your eyes follow him until the last. Drink back in hand, your heart continues its excited drumming. You press the cold crystal to your lips and grin. Perhaps it wasn't such a bad night after all.
"Give 'em hell, John."
#john wick x reader#john wick imagine#john wick fanfic#john wick x you#john wick x y/n#john wick#keanu reeves#my writing#first fic of 2024#to many more 🥂
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john wick x reader hc/ramble
cw/tw: um..a little silly, a little goofy, a little fluff, age gap ( reader is 20+, John is in his 40’s), mentions of tattoos, gn!reader
an: I’m in my keanu reeves era; also this gif makes me dizzy🥴😵; anyways enjoy whores
masterlist
first of all heS GENTLE I DONT CARE WHAT ANYONE ELSE SAYS HES MY POOKIE BEAR CUDDLE MUFFIN
oh my god his hugs :(
i just need to lay down on his chest and for him to rub his hand up and down my back reassuringly after a long day >:(
he loves when you scratch his beard like a dog(is this weird lol) he finds it so domestic and intimate
ok so...he’s old, so let’s imagine he stayed out of the crime world… he has such old guy hobbies its so cute (he's beekeeping age yk)
he’s into gardening, he's in a band (bassist duh), he fixes up cars and motorcycles
the first time you noticed his back tattoo was when you two went swimming for the first time together
you didn't want to be a creep, but you had to stop yourself from drooling over it the rest of the day
you actually had to stop yourself from licking him head to toe like a popsicle but
speaking of tattoos, he LOOOOVES when you trace his back tattoo; if he can't sleep and you start to trace the pattern, he just melts
and if you have tattoos, he loves to do the same to you
he'll kind of lull you to sleep like that, taking his time with light kisses in between
on another note...i bet he does the 'dad on a vacation snoring so loud he has shaken then entire room awake' snore
and when you get woken up by said snore you're a little annoyed, but whenever this happens you just move to the guest room
after moving to the guest room and getting settled down, you get woken up ....again, only to see this BIG SCARY 6 FOOT ASSASSIN curled up next to you under the covers, hugging your waist as if you were a stuffed animal he couldn't sleep without :(
and you're like "...i actually came in here to remove myself from you-"
he's creeps around the house very quietly, almost like a ghost (unintentionally)
you could be doing laundry, folding the clothes and when you turn around to put them away, he's just there in the doorway like 🧍♂️ scaring the life out of you
once you two move in together, he'll gift you a dog :( like you're own little family :(
assuming that reader is in their 20's and john is in is 40's, how could you possibly pass up any opportunity to make old man jokes about him <3
" you know, in a couple of years i get to put you in the old folks home..."
"yeah right🙄, i'd like to see you try honey"
he takes care of you in every way; he makes sure you take your meds, and that you eat at least three meals a day; small everyday things like that :(
if you fail a big test or have a bad day at work he's waiting for you at home with a tub of icecream and ready to spoil you with affection
even tho he's a man of very little words, he'll know exactly what to say to make you feel better with words of praise and affection :(
#john wick#keanu reeves#john wick fic#john wick hc#john wick x reader#john wick x y/n#john wick fluff#john wick 2#john wick 3#john wick 4#keanu reeves fluff#john wick gif#john wick x you#john wick headcanons#not edited#john wick x gn!reader
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Ordinary life (jw x reader)
My first ever fanfic here. English is not my first language so there can be errors. Have fun.( Feedback is always welcome)
Summary: you meet John during a business meeting with your father, things heat up quickly and escalate as he drives you home
Mafia AU!, Dad‘s best friend, oral sex (male receiving)
Masterlist
The evening was cold and the restaurant was busy. Silently you look around the huge room, scanning everything while still looking cold and uninterested.
,,So, who are we meeting again?“ you ask your father, who sat with you on the round table, already looking though the menu.
,,An associate. I need him to do a job for me"
,,ah" you only say ,,what kind of job? smuggling guns again?"
you sip on your water, still not really interested in the business dinner your father has brought you to.
,,No, Mr. Wick will kill someone for me. He is a hitman. The best in the field to be precise. We are old friends“ after a while he added: ,,look (y/n) I know you don’t care about the family business unless it brings you money you can spend on pretty things, but I advise you, to be a bit more invested. You are my only daughter“
,,yeah, but I won’t take over the business. We both know that. Instead I am engaged to some guy I have never met before“
,,be quiet!, you’re causing a scene“
Your father hissed and looked around the restaurant, but no one paid attention to you.
You sighed and also grabbed the menu, reading it without actually caring about the various expensive and eccentric dishes. In the end all luxusry restaurants were the same.
After a few moments of cold silence between your father and you, he suddenly stood up.
,,John!“ He called out and you slowly look up.
When your father told you that John was a good friend of his, you had anticipated someone who looked like your dad. Slightly overweight and with already greying hair. Nobody could have prepared you for how attractive John actually was. Shoulder long, slightly wavy dark hair, a perfectly trimmed beard and dark attentive eyes. He was tall, at least one foot taller than you and although most of his body was hidden under an elegant black suit, you knew that we was well build. Although he was still talking to your father and hadn’t paid you any attention at all, you immediately sat up more straight. Your father noticed that and smiled.
,,John, I want you to meet my daughter (y/n), she will keep us company this evening“
You smile calm and politely, although your heart was beating like crazy.
,,Nice to meet you (y/n)“ You nearly shudder as you hear his rich, deep voice. As he shakes your hand, you can’t help but notice how small it looks in his palm.
,,Nice to meet you too Mr. wick“
Your voice is more quiet than usual and you feel like you could melt under his gaze.
After the introduction he sat down at the table.
During the whole time as he was reading the wine card, you could only stare at him, noticing how his brows furrowed slightly as he red though the different wines. Nervously you play with your napkin on the table. After a few minutes you three order food. ,,and I also have the Chateu Margaux“ John ads calmy. ,,I‘ll have a glass too“ you quicky add. John’s gaze met yours and you smile nervously. ,,good taste“ he comments with a slight smile. You return the smile and could feel yourself blushing at the compliment. After the waiter is gone, John and your father start to talk about business, but you felt John’s gaze every few minutes resting on you, causing you to cross your legs under the table. You shudder as your legs accidentally brush against each other under the table. Luckily and also surprisingly your father didn’t notice any of the stolen glances between you two. After a few minutes the tension became too much for you and you excused yourself to the toilet.
As you entered the huge marble bathroom you were luckily alone. As you breathed out all tension seemed to disappear from your body. You turned to the big mirror and touched your cheeks, noticing that they were burning.
,,Jesus“ you murmur to yourself, while leaning against the Mable counter. You shook your head and couldn’t help but giggle. Never before you’ve been so stunned by a man you only met half an hour ago. Of course you’ve met lots of handsome man as the only daughter of a mafia boss, but no one had such a strong effect on you as John.
For minutes you stood in the empty bathroom, mentally replaying every gaze between John and you. You had to be delusional, certainly he, a over 50 year old hitman wasn’t interested in a young mafia princess, who was also the daughter of his good friend. You finally broke free from your trance as another woman entered the bathroom. You smiled tensely at her and noticed with mild annoyance the wetness that had collected in your panties at the thoughts of John ,,Fuck“ you muttered quietly and played with the thought of getting yourself off quicky, but then you only refreshed your make up fixed your hair and pushed up your boobs slightly in the strapless dress and left the bathroom, feeling slightly more confident.
The confidence stopped as soon as you retuned to the table and met John’s gaze. Was it imagination or did he look actually hungrily at you?. You couldn’t help but feel caught because of your thoughts about him. You sat down again and only a few minutes later the food arrived. During dinner you tried to bring as much to the conversation between John and your father as possible, which brought you approving looks from your father. He was probably proud that you were finally interested in the family business, when instead you just wanted to get closer to the attractive hitman sitting with you at the table.
,,you raised her good“ John said after a while to your father, who smiled while you were beaming too under his praise.
,,Yes, I am very proud of her“
Your father confirmed. ,,and in a year she will marry Tarasov’s Son, bringing our families together“
,,Ah“ John commented with a neural voice.
,,I am not marrying him by choice“
You threw in quicky.
,,But you will“ your father said with a certain amount of coldness in his voice.
You sighed and turned back to your food.
After you three finished eating, your father invited John spontaneously back your mansion and you couldn’t hide your happy smile at the thought of spending more time with John, although it was in your fathers presence. Your father paid and you left the restaurant.
As you stood outside, your eyes widened.
,,is this yours?“ you asked and pointed to the sleek black mustang.
,,this is yours?“ you asked while your eyes wandered over its curves. It was a beautiful car and very fitting to John. Elegant but powerful.
John chuckled as he noticed your enthusiasm.
,,it is“ he confirmed while nodding.
You bit your lip.
,,can I maybe drive with you?“
You asked while coyly looking up at his face.
,,if your father allows it, why not?“
You turned around to your father
,,Daddy? Can I drive with John?“
You asked him while giving him your best puppy eyes.
He sighed
,,sure why not, But John, promise me that you take care of her. I‘m serious. If anything happens to her on the way to my mansion, I will kill you and I won’t care about that you are a professional hitman“
John chuckled and again I couldn’t help but shudder
,,I promise, our little princess will not be harmed“
,,our“ not ,,your“
You had to suppress a giggle.
Wordlessly John opened the passenger door for you and then walked around the mustang to get to the drivers door.
You sighed as you sank into the soft leather seats. The inside of the car was warm and you felt safe and secure.
,,seatbelt on” John ordered as he sat down in the drivers seat.
You pouted but he didn’t fold.
,,I’m serious about keeping you safe. Nothing will happen to you ”
Stunned by his protectiveness you put on the seatbelt and John started the car.
You couldn’t suppress your smile as the engine roared to love and the headlights went on. The cassette player also went on and quiet rock music filled the car. As you look over to your driver, you saw a faint smirk on his face. You two drove off though the strongly lit streets of New York City.
,,you know where my dad and I live?“ you asked him and he nodded while keeping his eyes on the busy street. After a bit you started to humm along to some 80s Hardrock song.
,,Guns n Roses? I wouldn’t have thought of you as someone who listens to that kind off stuff“
You smiled ,,well, Mr. Wick. You‘ve known me only for about five hours. There are many things you don’t know about me“.
Ypu look at him and he meets your gaze, because of a traffic light, his face is bathed in red light and the darkness in the car made the whole moment seemed even more intimate.You fought back the urge to place your hand on his thigh. After a bit the car left the busy city and the streets became darker and emptier.
,,you should have turned left“ you noticed as John drove in the opposite direction.
,,I know. But I also know a better Route“ he answered.
,,I probably shouldn’t trust a hitman saying that. You could kill me“
,,I could. But I could also do many other things with you“
His voice was calm, but you noticed how he gripped the steering will more tightly.
Immediately mages of him bending you over the hood of the Mustang flooded your mind and you bit your lip. One round bend over the hood and a second in the backseats sounded not bad. Inconspicuous you tried to take a look at said space. John chuckled.
,,This aren’t the thoughts of a good girl Mrs. (y/l/n). What would your father say?“ he taunted you playfully.
,,well luckily for you Mr. Wick, I am not a good girl“
He chuckled again:,, yeah, figured that out already. Little minx“
,,only for you Mr. Wick“ you practically purred ,,can I choose a song?“
,,Sure. You can connect that Casette to your phone“ he instructed you.
You connected your phone to his car and quicky found the right song. ,,Ordinary life“ by the weekend started to play.
,,you know, if I red the signs correctly I would almost say that you are offering me something“
John said after the first verse of the song.
,,maybe I am“ you answered him with a smirk.
,,Fuck you will be the death of me“ he muttered. Your eyes met and wordlessly he drove to the side of the road.
As soon as the the car stopped you reached over the middle console.
,,does this car have lights on the inside?“ you asked as you tried to find the zipper of his pants.
,,Sadly no, I‘d love to get a better view of you you swallowing my cock“ Johns voice was rough.
,,dammit, where the hell is the zipper?“
,,wait, let me help you“ John sounded amused as he slapped your hands away lightly, then you heard finally the promising noise and felt him move to free his cock. Quicky you opened your seatbelt, which had been digging into your shoulder and leaned again over the middle console. Then your hands found his errection and you couldn’t help but be amazed by its size and girth. Slowly you started to stroke it, firstly with one hand, then with two. John let out a quiet growl and his hand found its way into your hair.
,,Just like that“ he muttered darkly. After you felt the pre cum on his tip you licked your lips and wrapped them without a warning around him. He gasped in suprised and you started to twirl your tongue playfully around his member while he tightened his grip on your hair.
,,(y/n)“ he whispered, sounding a bit breathless.
You kept licking him until you finally took him deeper in your mouth and started to suck. A low moan left johns mouth and the sound of it alone made you wet. Slowly you started to massage his thighs and took him deeper, nearly deepthroating him.
,,Just like that. Good girl, take my cock“
He muttered, his voice was rough and sounded a bit strained. You got faster als started to bob your head, taking him deeper in your mouth. John moaned again as you ran your tongue over a prominent vein on his cock and you could feel that we was greeting closer. You swallowed around him and kept going. The car was still parked on the side of the road and it was completely silent except for Johns groans or moans and the wet sounds of your mouth.
,,I‘m close“ the warned breathlessly and tried to pull you off him, but you didn’t obey and kept going until his hips started to buck uncontrollably. You took a deep breath through the nose to prepare yourself, then he came with a hoarse moan. You took everything and swallowed obediently. Then you let yourself get pulled up by him and your eyes met. John was still panting as he starred at you
,,you are incredible“ he said quietly and wiped something from the corner of your mouth.
,,Thank you sir“ you whispered back.
He laughed quietly
,,keep calling me that while looking at me like that and I fulfill that fantasy of yours with the backseat“
,,I‘d love to“
He shook his head, then closed his pants.
,,Not today, little one.I‘ll have to get you home to your father“
You pouted but, then returned to the passengers seat.
He restarted the engine and his hand squeezed your thigh as you drove through the night.
Fifteen minutes later you reached the huge mansion where your father was already waiting for you.
,,Thank god, I was already getting worried. Why the hell did it take you so long?“
,,Empty gasoline tank. We had to do a little stop“ John lied effortlessly.
Your father only nodded.
,,Good, I hope (y/n) behaved. I know she can be a bit feisty, always looking for trouble“
,,Yeah, she’s got one hell of a tongue“
#john wick#John wick x reader#John wick x you#john wick x y/n#john wick fanfic#John wick smut#My fics
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juices like wine
werewolf!john wick x f!reader
synopsis: on a full moon’s night, you think you’ll be safe in this house alone with your fellow monster hunter.
warnings: monster!jw, cursing, pussy drunk activities, oral (f receiving), squirting, sniffing, watered down spec of masochism, dbf!john, age gap, dub con(?)
authors note: thx for all of ur messages, life is just too much rn and I’m attempting to keep up haha, here’s that spooky thing I promised
“Uh, are you sure this will-“
“Of course it will!” I rolled my eyes, tightening the cuffs on the iron cuffs on John’s wrists. “My dad’s book says that werewolves can’t break through iron. And his book is never wrong.”
John flashed me a skeptical look with his eyebrows raised before rolling those thin brown eyes. Hunting monsters has always been our side gig. Although, things became a little tricky when he had accidentally been bitten by a now dead furry friend, almost a month ago now. Tonight was the full moon, and there haven’t been any side effects but John insisted on taking no chances.
My partner in crime sighed, grunting a bit with discomfort as the iron restraints dig into his flesh a little.
“It better not be wrong. I won’t be able to forgive myself if something happened.”
My hand grabs his bearded and chiseled face, forcing John to give me his attention. There’s always been… tension, between the two of us. Yet neither have acted on it. He was my dad’s best friend after all, before my dad became vampire food on a job gone awry.
“Nothing is gonna happen.” I reassured him, my fingers squeezing his face a bit harder this time. John nods to himself, taking a few deep breaths. “It’s only for a night. Hell, I can just turn The Office on for you while you’re in here.”
Light hearted humor got me nowhere tonight. I’m an idiot. A fool. A fucking moron. That’s what I’m telling myself as I creep through the house on the second floor. A silver dagger in one hand, a phone in the other, with Charon on the other line, the closest Hunter in proximity to us in the state.
“His senses are better, he’s faster, stronger, you need to get out of there or just kill him.” Charon pleads. I grunt quietly.
“I can’t leave-“
A loud and bone rattling howl bounces off of the walls of the house, startling me. I froze in my tracks, cursing under my breath. I hang up the phone and slip it into the pocket of my leggings.
“You smell even better during a full moon.”
My breathing stops as I feel the breath of another behind me. I know damn well who that person is, his voice is much deeper and gravelly than normal, this isn’t him. This isn’t the John I know.
A yelp escaped my lips as two paw-like hands grab me from behind, tossing me over a huge shoulder. John’s shirt is mostly ripped all the way off, since his transformation took place under just a simple tee shirt and flannel pants.
“John! Put me down!” I shouted, legs thrashing as my fists beat at his huge back. Thud, thud, thud, it did nothing. I hadn’t even noticed that John had tossed the silver blade aside until I had tried to use it.
A deep throaty chuckle erupts from John’s mouth, right before he tossed me onto the bed of the master bedroom. I land on silken sheets as my eyes widen, experiencing John as half man, half wolf, for the first time. Fangs peek from his lips as his beard had become much more untamed and wild, even his hair is much longer and crazy.
Muscles bulge from his shirt, before he gets frustrated and rips it off with an irritated roar. The shreds of the fabric land on the wood floor, as his evolved muscles ripple over my cowering form on the king sized bed.
“Such a pretty girl. I’ve always known better than to have a piece of you to myself.” John speaks lowly, his red eyes linger over me. “But I can’t control myself tonight. I’m sorry sweetpea.”
“Wait, John, just, wait!” I know damn well it’s to no avail. His paws grab my thighs and push my legs to the mattress, as his nose buries itself in my clothed crotch. Frowning, I scream in objection but my squirming and resistance is futile. I can’t even beat John while we spar, of course I won’t even have a chance while he’s half man, half creature.
“Fuck, you’re ovulating.” John salivates and takes in a deep breath to get the scent of my cunt imbedded into his feral brain. With one tiny motion of his razor sharp claws, despite my avid protests, he sliced the crotch of my leggings open like butter.
“Hey hey hey! No! John, this can’t happen!” I stammer out quickly. John is far too heavy and I don’t stand a chance.
“Don’t worry. My cock is too big to give you right now.” John insists, dropping his pajama pants and tugging on his huge erection. It matches his insanely big body, one that I’m just realizing has been growing larger and larger ever since he began his chase.
My jaw dropped as I notice he’s got to be at least seven feet tall now, with a cock that’s about 10 inches long, but 4 inches wide. John seriously had a comically large and furry dick at the moment, and I had no idea if I should have laughed or just stayed quiet. So I picked the latter.
John drops to his knees, as both of his hands spread my thighs even further, taking a longer inhalation of the heat between them. Squirming under him, I couldn’t help but whimper and whine out of the pure tickling sensation. The feeling of his beard and nose on my folds were unfamiliar to say the least.
“John, get o-“
I stop talking and let out a moan as his big nose brushes against my clit. His long spongy tongue swiped efficiently on my folds, making them pliable enough to then plunge in a finger.
John let’s go of my thigh for half a second so he can shred apart my sleeping shirt, my tits falling out of the fabric. My nipples harden from the sudden air exposure. John growls against my cunt in response to that sinful visual. One of his paws smack my left breast, earning a gasp from me, while his tongue worked overtime inside of me.
Head like this only existed in porn, right?
Apparently not. Apparently, you can get head like this from your local werewolf.
My fingers dug at the bedsheets and also his head of messy long hair. My fingers even brush against his newly grown canine-like ears, I keep forgetting that this is only happening because John has turned. That meant, he was eating my pussy and needing to inhale my scent on pure instinct. If he doesn’t, he’d go insane. He’d lose control. Maybe even kill someone.
The mere thought of my vagina actually being the death of someone kinda has me in a chokehold at the moment.
“Mine. Mine. Mine.”
John continued to lick, suck, thrust, whatever he could to with his tongue to get my taste and scent locked into his memory. He’s even so desperate that he has managed to scratch up my thighs and stomach in the process. The cuts aren’t anything too deep, maybe a bit more than a cat claw. But I’d be in denial if I claimed the slight sting of his nails and there euphoric head I was receiving wasn’t a delectable combination.
A knot forms in my lower region, an unusual feeling. Not like an orgasm, no, this was something else entirely. I had no idea what to expect, but it sure as hell was shocking when I began to squirt all over John’s bearded face.
My cum splashed onto his cheeks and nose, even a bit of his forehead. The dribbles from my pussy coat his unkempt beard, and he catches his breath with an exhausted smile when he pulls away.
With my legs trembling and moans spilling from my mouth, I laid under his beastly frame, helpless. Exposed to my elder Hunter, it was a shock to see him as some vicious monster. My heart was nearly about to give out from the intensity of the orgasm, and from the pure shock I was still trying to comprehend.
While he collected my juices from his face and sucked them off of his fingers, my mind is racing as I wonder, is he even going to remember this tomorrow? When he shifts back, is it going to be awkward between us from now on? There’s no way he actually felt so strongly for me… right?
If he didn’t recall eating me out like it was his last day on earth, how am I going to drop that bomb? John’s hands grab my face, much like how I had a few hours earlier. His moist nose and forehead press against mine, smushing in a little. My own juices smear against my small face. John’s red eyes demand my full attention from mere centimeters away.
That same rough voice gives me a growling chuckle.
“Been waiting three years for that one, babygirl. Maybe now you’ll notice me.”
#john wick one shot#john wick#jw#john wick x reader#john wick x y/n#john wick x you#keanu reeves#john wick imagine#keanu#spooktober#spooky fic#kinktober
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vincent de gramont x assistant!reader: i made you my temple, my mural, my sky now i'm begging for footnotes in the story of your life. | the marquis wants more of what meets the eye.
plot: the one where the marquis has had enough of just a glimpse.
warning: unrequited?,vincent is down bad af, boss-assistant relationship
masterlist
your cries of pain are so soft but so loud in his ears. stupid, stupid girl. what have you done? it frightens him to see you so…helpless. he tries to soothe you from it but to no avail, he can feel the warm thick blood from your torso dripping on his trousers.
but what petrifies him to the bone was your silence. the moment you flutter your eyes shut and the whimpers of pain from your lips dwindle down makes his blood run cold.
what happened next was a blur for him but all he can remember was holding your hand as thomas drove through the thick of the city to bring you to safety. why had you done that? he clasps your hand even tighter when he can feel you take a sharp breath every now and then. it makes him hope. it makes him pray to any god out there to let you live. please…not her..not her. not when she did that for me. not when she just took a bullet for me, it cannot be. he doesn’t know why, but he does. he’ll beg on his knees to every god out there if it meant seeing you safe and alive.
when you're taken from his arms and placed on a stretcher, he can only stand in shock. it still doesn’t make sense to him, were you…not what he thought you were? no, no she was just in the way of it. she probably cursed me to death when she got shot. but she hadn’t said anything, and the way she looked at me. god it was full of fear and dread, she had gripped on him when he’d taken her to his arms, and it was full of the fight left inside her. the way she latched her hand on his wrist felt like the way you would grip a rosary for a prayer to god, he wonders to himself.
the marquis stands still in front of the door. behind the door, are skillful medical professionals working to keep you alive but it doesn’t feel enough. he feels fear pool into his stomach. what if she doesn’t recover? what if she doesn’t live through the night? what if she dies? what would he do?
his mouth sews shut and his throat goes dry. she’ll live. she has to, the marquis reassures himself. he cannot bear the thought of you gone, of you dead on a medical table all because of him.
the gods had been gracious. why? because right now, he’s sitting beside the bedside table on which he has his preferred drink; a pitcher of lemon water. other than that there’s the matter of you.
there you are in the least of your glory. tucked beneath the silk sheets in one of the guest rooms of his estate and your head laid on the large wooly pillows. the doctor managed to stabilize the wound on your torso.
“thankfully, the bullet hadn’t hit any vital organs, the main concern we focused on was the excessive bleeding from it.” the doctor explains to him. there are more he says to him, but he never hears the end of it. all he could focus on was you. your eyes still shut but your breathing was steady, he could hear the beeping of the vitals sign monitor as he gazed at you.
you looked so…innocent. as if you weren’t recovering from an injury but merely sleeping. your guard was down and you seemed so calm. something he never witnessed while you worked for him, not that he’s ungrateful for it but you always seemed rigid and always expected something bad to be thrown on your face all the time, to see you so relaxed and serene felt like a gift.
it felt like a privilege from the gods. oh they truly had been gracious enough to give this sight to him.
he wondered if he would see more of this once you woke up. he hopes he does, your sweet angelic face that was always nervous and alert was more delightful to see when you were peaceful. he wonders what your smile would be like, how the corner of your lips would curve when you were amused from something he said, you’d often hid it from him trying to remain professional when a you heard a jape from someone.
he wonders what your sweet laugh would sound like. that would be lovely to hear. how it could sound like music to his ears when it came from you, how precious it would be just to hear it once. he would be honored if you were ever to bestow that gift to him. lastly, he wonders how to make you happy. how to make you pleased whenever you see him, not that composed structure you give him when you greet him in the morning but something genuine. he wants to tear down the walls you’ve built in front of him so he can see you. what you’re truly like.
now, you’ve shown a glimpse of it to him. he wants more, he prays that when you wake up, you won't shut him out again. when you wake up don’t shove him out of what you’re like. when you wake up don’t hide what you feel for him, not from him, don’t hide it from him. don’t wake him up just to realize it was all a dream. a fantasy he thought that came to its reality. you’re many things but cruelty is not one of them. so don’t break him, for god’s sake don’t.
“how long until she awakens?” he interrupts the doctor in the middle of his talk, surprisingly still going on.
“i’d give it two to three weeks, sir. if her vitals remain stable.” the doctor answers dutifully,
he hums before replying, “you can go.”
the doctor nods and bows his head a little then obediently obeys his command. right now, it’s just you, him and that monitor.
he stares at your face in uncertainty, two weeks. before it was something that seemed short enough for him but right now it felt like a century. he wanted to speak to you, to talk to you. he had so many questions for you, why you’d taken a bullet from him. if you wanted to resign from your job. why you made him feel like this.
like a lovesick fool.
as if that wasn’t painful enough, the answers he wanted to hear cannot be said. it felt like you told him you loved him then fled, although unintentionally it’s not like you intentionally got yourself shot to avoid confrontation from him…did you?
he shakes that thought out of his mind, the truth can only be provided through you. who is unable to answer that for at least two weeks, it was itching him to know, to know what you’ve done to him. what magic or skill you’ve done to make him latch onto you like a bug.
most of all he wants to know where does that leave the both of you. he wishes you don’t flee from him, that you’ll take him for what he is and more. he doesn’t think he can handle the idea of you out of his reach. out of safety, the only comfort you can only seek in this world is from him.
albeit, ironic considering you’re passed out on a bed because of a bullet meant for him. but when you wake up, he’ll promise. he’ll swear to you, that nothing, nothing would ever get to you ever again. he would protect you with all his power and control over the country just to see you sheltered from harm. what good is his power if he can’t use it to protect you from his enemies? anyone that fucks with you, fucks with me mon amour. i promise. he promises to you and to himself.
he remembers a painting he saw in the louvre. the death of alcestis. a tale about how alcestis willingly dies in place of her husband, admetus. at first, he’d thought the pair, alcestis and admetus were a bunch of fools. why would you eagerly die for someone? if you truly cared for your wife why had you let her die in your place? that’s not love, it’s simply tragedy. not that he has much experience on that matter but he never understood it.
the evening he starts to understand,. alcestis dies for her husband because of love, because she cannot bear the pain of her love absent in this world. she cannot live without her lover. did you think the same when you took a bullet for him? did you think that no pain could compare if he were dead? although for admetus, he could not find a defense for him, ironically he is the admetus to your alcestis but he swears. he swears that will never be the case ever again.
he’ll bring you back from the dead if it meant he would die in your place.
the guilt surges into his guts, mixing with the pool of fear that rushed into his veins last night. he feels sorry, for his failure, for himself but most especially for you. he feels miserable that he’d failed you, that because of him you got hurt.
it’ll never happen again. i won’t let it happen again. he vows to himself. he has to, for your sake and his.
as he stands up to leave, he goes to your bed and gazes into your face once more. he lowers himself to your frame, setting himself on the edge of the bed. you make no sign of disturbance from his movement, still heavily asleep. he takes your hand and strokes the back of it, lovingly.
“i have to go mon amour, but i’ll be back. i’ll be here when you wake up, i’ll be the first person you’ll see the same way i was the last person you saw.” he whispers to your dozing face, he ponders if you could hear him. likely not, but it doesn’t hurt to wonder.
he leans forward and slowly presses a soft kiss to your temple. gentle and nothing harsh, meant to convey his care with how fragile you were right now. he lets his lips linger on the softness of your temple, relishing on the mellow texture of your skin. he wants to stay here, with you. just the two of you like it always was for the past two years, he should’ve urged you to come sit with him in the car on the way to meetings, should’ve spoken to you every chance he had and he should’ve confessed how he felt towards you. no point mourning time that has been spent, even if it meant years that were wasted.
when he pulls away from you it feels like a force urged him to stay and he hopes he could but he can’t. he has a lifetime for that now, and so do you. he lifts your hand to his lips then slowly kisses your wrist, also lingering so long but seems so short for the marquis.
he leisurely stands up, keeping his eyes on your face. he strides towards the door then takes one last glance before opening the door. i’ll be back and she’ll still be safe. i’ll only be gone for only a few hours, he murmurs to himself.
he opens the door and sees a pair of guards by your door, they stand straight and acknowledge him by nodding their head. he sees thomas walking up to him, likely bearing news.
“sir, we’ve carefully taken them. they’re chained up at the edge of the city, we go at your order.” thomas informs him diligently. the marquis simply nods his head, a gesture of affirmation. he turns his head to the pair guarding your room.
“make sure to call for me, the moment she wakes up and keep her here until i say otherwise. understood?” he sternly instructs with the cold tone they’ve known for years. the pair answer obediently with compliance.
the marquis leaves them then walks through the hall towards the exit of the manor with thomas trailing behind him, it was odd to no longer hear the clicking of your heels behind him but right now he had other concerns.
it was time to make the people who hurt you, pay for what they’ve done.
when the news reaches his ears, he’s astounded. almost three weeks after your operation, you were finally awake. it delights him, to finally know you were safe and awake. he immediately stands up from his chair and walks out of his office.
he was overjoyed with what he just heard, although he did everything in his power to not let it show on his face as he trudged through the halls of the manor. the dread and fear was gone, in its stead it was bliss and happiness, he felt lighthearted knowing that the threat of losing you from death was finally extinguished.
two weeks after the incident and you still haven’t woken from your slumber, it had angered him. so he had taken it out on the doctor responsible for your recovery, he had pierced his hand with a knife and his assistant nurse had to help him pry the knife from his hand, from what he heard. it can be said that it was an overreaction and ever since that occurrence everyone walked on eggshells around him.
now it was gone, he felt relieved to know that you’re awake but as he neared your room, he heard a door close, the sound echoing in the cavernous hall. soon after, he saw adeline, the senior housekeeper coming from the other direction he was headed. the housekeeper stopped on her feet and acknowledged him by lightly bowing her head. he wondered if adeline just visited your room, it was probable to happen considering she had been one of his spies during his “venture of getting to know you”. he shakes that thought, it wasn’t important but a mysterious feeling remained in his stomach.
when he saw thomas and another of this men guarding your door, he saw the doctor and nurse nearing your door. the doctor greeted him but he made no effort to do the same. the moment he enters through the door he sees you.
awake. alive. safe
he swears his heart could burst just by the sight of you.
he stays silent the entire exchange between you and the medics. he sat on another of the chairs, lounging and waiting for it to end so he way share a word with you. he notices the way you flinch while they rebandage your wound.
he wants to kill that entire family all over again, just for the way you flinch right now.
when the pair of medical professionals leave he gazes at you. it takes all his strength to keep his composure calm and professional when all he wants to do is take you into his arms and kiss you senseless.
he speaks the first word for the both of you, simple courtesies. how were you feeling and the situation of your injury, nothing important. you thank him for the measures he’s done for you to keep you alive. i’ve done more and i’ll do it all over again. he wants to say but doesn’t.
what makes his brain suddenly stop functioning for a moment was when you ask when you tell him you need to go home.
you are home. can’t you see? can’t you see?! he wants to tell you.
it was starting to happen. he was starting to lose you when he just had you. he walks towards the window and faces away from you, trying to remain composure.
“sir?” you call out to him.
i can’t let you leave. i cannot bear the thought of it, i felt like i was being torn apart alive knowing you almost died because of me. how much more knowing you’re alive but not within my reach? don’t be cruel, mon coeur. don’t do this.
“is there something wrong with what i said?” you innocently question to him.
“you cannot.” he finally spits out.
you’re shoving me away just like what i feared. but why? i’ve done good things and unspeakable things for you, you can’t simply abandon me like this. not when you’ve made me feel alive and loved.
“why? is there something wrong with me?” you worried ask him, “sir?” you add when he doesn’t reply to you.
“it’s not…safe.” he states to you, finally facing you. he stares at you, if it was a gift to watch you asleep, it was a pleasure to see you awake again.
“for…who? for you or for them?” you frown, trying to deduce everything he’s said to you.
“it’s not safe for you.” he finally clears it out, glad to have gotten rid of it.
your mouth falls open, “what? it’s you they were aiming for, not me. they wanted to kill you. it was you they wanted to shoot. you were the target. i honestly don’t think they’d go after the assistant to finish the job. right?” you begin to ramble.
tell me something i don’t know, my dear. i’m reminded of that every night i sleep and every breath i draw from this world. no need to rub that in, but i’ve made amends. you have nothing to worry about.
“yes, you’re right. they wouldn’t.” he disclosed to you, “i know that bullet was intended for me, the man was supposed to shoot me. god knows i know.” he whispers.
“and look what happened to you. what they..did to you.” he says as he slowly walks towards you. “you…you weren’t supposed to get hurt. i don’t think i can forgive myself for that.” he says softly as he looks back at you.
suddenly, everything finally sets into your head. he can see your eyes widen while he gazes into your face. the urge to hold you close and kiss you like a starved man to death was strong. especially, right now when you’ve realized the weight of his words.
he doesn’t need to say it out loud that he cares and loves you. when the words he said hinted at what he means to say and the actions he’s done spoke better than his words could ever say but he still tries. he knows that you already know but he wants to make sure.
“you’re right. it was meant for me, but you had it instead. you…you took a bullet for me. who does that for someone? how many people in the world can say that they’ve taken a bullet for me? one. there’s only one. and she’s sitting right in front of me.”
the heaviness on his shoulders feels lighter now, he’s finally said the words however merely a fragment of what he truly feels but he has his entire life to say all of them, he’s in no rush to say his love to her right now. he has his entire life to love her.
“believe it or not, mon amour. you’ve become more precious to me than anything this life has to offer, i want to keep you safe and right now the only way is to keep you here.” with him, he wants to keep you safe here with him, away from all the horror of his work, to stay only with him and to speak the words unspoken for years.
“for a while, until you regain your strength. do you understand, mon coeur?”
the marquis has gone fucking crazy.
first he expressed a confession of love to you, second he was watching you the entire time you were asleep and lastly, he won’t let you leave the estate.
it had almost been an hour ever since your conversation with him after you woke up. soon after, thomas knocked the door and peeped his head in, informing the marquis about a visitor in the drawing room. which you were eternally grateful for because you were speechless with everything your boss just told you.
you were still sat on the same chair ever since, you deduced you’ve been in a trance for about two hours and a half, you felt like your legs would give out of shock if you tried to stand up. you found it hard to process everything.
did the marquis feel something for you? certainly. you could tell his intentions from his words and his tone. oh god, the words were enough to catch you off guard but the way he said it, slowly chokes you alive from how stunned you are.
but it feels out of nowhere. in the two years you’ve worked for him, he has been nothing but cold and crass with you like any other interactions between a boss and assistant so this feels rather confusing rather than touching even with the fragility and regret oozing through his tone.
even more reason to go home. you need space, from your injury, from that night and in addition from him.
you need to process your feelings properly without the marquis hovering around you, especially when he made it clear that you weren’t going anywhere. but how in the world were you going to get out of the room? everyone in this estate would immediately inform the marquis and drag you back to the room the moment they see you outside. although you could make an excuse to see someone then bolt through the manor the moment you’re slightly a few paces ahead of them.
you were at a complete disadvantage though, the guards could easily overpower you with their strength and just like you they’re familiar with the nooks and crannies of the sizable manor. however, if you were lucky and stealthy enough, you could attempt to temporarily hide from some rooms until you manage your way to the back door exit without getting caught.
you trudge towards the door, unsure with the plan in your head but too exhausted to make a fool proof one. you slowly push the door with all your strength, you slowly step out and the guard to your right immediately spots you. that’s expected.
“ma’am? you shouldn’t be up and walking around, the marquis specifically instructed that you stayed in your room.” the guard reprimands to you.
“i need to get to the doctor right away. i need the prescription for these painkillers he gave me. you know, in case i need more,” you lie to him.
“we can call for him, so he may come back. easier that way, no hassle for you.”
“i can’t wait for him, it’s urgent. please, i really need this.” you plead to him.
The guard feigns a look of hesitation from your reply. you hold your breath, praying he falls for your folly. he lets out a sigh then answers to you.
“alright, ma’am. but I’ll have to accompany you.”
“thank you.”
the both of you began to walk towards the medic’s office, thankfully the back door was close to the office. silence ensues the walk towards the destination, as you walk you plot your escape. as soon as you make a left, you bolt and run. the pathway to the medic’s was a bit of a maze, hopefully it would confuse the guard and either make the wrong turns or slow down from catching up on you.
several minutes and paces pass by and you finally see the opening to your escape. as soon you made the turn, you ran. a grunt of shock exits the guard’s mouth before scurrying to go after you. then you encounter the turns required for your escape. you move around hastily and once you look back you see that the guard was no longer on your tail. but you couldn’t afford to slow down, sooner or later he might catch up to you or worse another guard captures you.
you could hear bouts of masculine shouts throughout the manor as it bounced off the walls. it filled your stomach with dread and veins pumped full of adrenaline as your heart beat with trepidation. anxious that perhaps the marquis was informed of your ongoing escape.
finally you see the lavish curtain adorned with elegant designs, you shove the curtain aside and search for the door with your hands. for a second, you thought you’d arrived at the wrong place until a soft click entered your ears and your insides warm from happiness. the door was just as heavy as the others and with all your strength you pushed it open half way. you turn to properly fix the curtain making sure no trace of your escape was visible then shut the door as it creaked loudly, cementing the success of your breakout.
you burst open through your door, quickly shutting and locking it. adrenaline and paranoia filled your senses, afraid that you’d been followed to your home and that soon someone was banging on your door until it fell down. you press your back against the door and sink to the floor and sigh in relief.
you take a deep breath and slowly close your eyes for a while, relishing in the comfort of your apartment. you look around glad to see the familiar sight of your home and the sudden purring of your cat. you glance as you see him making his way towards you, a small smile curves your mouth.
ah..one of the burdens are coming to comfort me.
as he nears, you scoop him into your arms and nestle him on your chest. you wish it could stay like this for a while, that you weren’t actively avoiding your slightly deranged boss (that is in love with you?) but merely coming home from a long day to seek comfort from your cat. the ball of fur purrs and vibrations are felt through his body.
you pull away from your cat and get on your feet, making your way to your room for a well earned rest from doing a five mile marathon trying not to get caught. the adrenaline and paranoia was finally long gone.
you needed this. you need to hide out for a while before you face the awkward and confusing truth of reality. the comforting sensation home has given you brought you to sanity. you need to leave.
the guards open the door for him as per usual. although, he can sense fear radiating from them, and due to the intensity of the previous occurrence they were walking eggshells around him again. he enters the room, your room specifically. a few hours ago, the both of you were here and now you were gone, again.
vincent was annoyed. the very people he instructed to keep you in this room failed to obey the task but also lost you as you ran from your escort. not only did you leave this room but you also escaped the estate. how in the world did that happen?
he had no idea you’d be this slippery even with the strict bodyguards instructed to protect and detain keep you in the room. he expected verbal resistance not bloody remus john lupin. isn’t this so sweet? you. the gift that keeps giving.
he doesn’t let his men continue the search, after all there was only one place you could’ve been. in that apartment you live in for the past years, he knows where it is and what floor you are due to the investigation he’d imposed upon you a few years ago. so no worries, he only has his men posted around the structure to make sure you don’t leave. it’s much more strict and controlled than before, this time if they saw you exit the building they’d immediately grab you and bring you back to the estate. so win-win.
although, he prefers to have you here right now, he tries to understand that you’re probably overwhelmed with the surge of events that happened ever since that night. so he lets it pass. as much it insults his pride but he’s not in a hurry to have you stay with him for the rest of your days now that you’re awake. you’ve kept all what you felt from hidden because of his power,his intimidation and his pride. he doesn’t want to lose you again because of it. so he lets it happen, a few hours without you was a price worth paying for a lifetime loving you.
after all love does odd things to people that even the normal human cannot comprehend, love has its mysterious ways and that he can understand for you, even if it wasn’t all going according to what he wanted, he can swallow that down for you. you’ll be all worth it.
he can imagine waking up next to you in the early mornings, grazing your soft palm then slowly kissing your pulse while you sat next to him during dinner and the sweet kisses the both of you would share in the privacy of his room. he can fantasize the sweet dreams and the sinful acts he can do to you when you are finally his.
he inhales the air inside the room, the scent of you evident in the room, like a bloody handprint in a crime scene, attempting to calm himself with the remnants of your presence.
oh..he really misses you.
why do you have to be so stubborn? why do you feel the need to resist him and his love? he’s simply doing this for your best, for your safety. why can’t you just let him do this for you?
this moment should be joyous and exciting between the two of you, because you’ve both found a chance at love. how often does that happen? especially in a workplace, how often does someone find the love of their life within close proximity with them? little to none. he wants to beg you to stay, to journey through the uncharted territory together. don’t leave him, don’t.
he’s finally realized that he loves you, let him show it. let that love melt all that fear you hold in your heart. because it’s all right now, he’s here, let him love you, let him protect you, let him yearn for you.
something vibrates in his pocket, it snaps him out of his trance. a notification beeps through his phone and he leisurely opens it knowing it’s probably a reminder for a meeting. he’s found it hard to arrive at his events on time even with a temporary assistant assigned to him. the latest one wasn’t as sharp and attentive as you, which he found irritating. he really misses you.
the message that laid before his eyes almost made his heart drop.
EMAIL 8:35 PM
SUBJECT: RESIGNATION LETTER
author’s note: this was long…plus i recycled some dialogue bc school’s kicking me in the ass and i couldn’t form coherent stuff for that. i will compensate for that…with another fic…
taglist: @dcgoddess @1mawh0re @davvydobrik @ilunapb @hesvoid3434 @heartrot666
part one part two part three part five
#bill skarsgard imagine#vincent de gramont#vincent de gramont x reader#marquis de gramont#marquis de gramont x reader#bill skarsgard#bill skarsgard x reader#bill skarsgard gif#bill skarsgard fanfiction#bill skarsgard icons#john wick#oneshot#john wick four#john wick fic#keanu reeves#yandere#obsessive#yandere x reader#yearning
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bittersweet 🖤 a yandere!john wick x fem!reader coffee shop sunshine/grump au
Table of Contents
something sweet
burned
the cougar
the mountain
lamb in the lion's den
avenging angel
the book thief
joyride
pest
drunk text
mondo piccolo
la dolce vita
vino veritas
kitten
walk of shame
bad girl
got u
war and peace
crime and punishment
lost and found
bound for hell
deal with the devil
show me your teeth
bully
knots
breaking point
surprise
haunted
lady of the daisies
say something
run
tbc...
#decided to make a chapter map...#john wick#keanu reeves#john wick fic#john wick x reader#john wick x you#john wick x y/n#keanu reeves x reader#yandere! john wick#yandere john wick#bittersweet john wick imagine
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helen [joel miller] ; masterlist
Si vis pacem, para bellum.
Or, a retired hitman returns to the fold.
my masterlist
pairing: joel miller x f!reader
tags/warnings: 18+ (MDNI), hitman!joel, husband!joel, graphic violence throughout, established relationship, artist!reader, love as worship (and a little bit of blasphemy), injuries, murder, revenge, cars, smut (individual warnings in chapter tags), fluff, angst angst angst (i mean it), joel is an idiot, heartache, healing, forgiveness, threats of rape/SA, mob activities, secrecy + lies, childhood/religious trauma, grovelling, the typical alcohol/smoking/profanity, erotic paintings, beautiful header by @tieronecrush, the john wick AU nobody asked for
a/n: this miniseries has been a passion project of mine for so long and i'm beyond thrilled to finally announce it! this is uncharted territory in lots of ways, so i hope you'll be kind and i hope above all that you'll enjoy this fic <33
chapters:
one ; dear joel
two ; lure the wolf
three ; the red circle
four ; nowhere to run
five ; be seeing you
epilogue ; daisy
read on ao3!
extras:
moodboard by @cavillscurls
follow @kiwisbellupdates and turn on notifications if you'd like to be updated when i post!
painting in header: "Hug" by Marijana Rakićević (2015)
#kiwisbell's fics#joel miller#joel miller fic#joel miller fanfic#joel miller fanfiction#joel miller x reader#joel miller smut#joel miller fluff#joel tlou#the last of us#john wick#john wick au#the last of us au#joel miller au#hitman!joel
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Through the Eye
Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, violence, blood, death, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.
This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
Summary: A new characters brings about echoes of the past.
Character: John Wick
Note: I wrote this for @the-slumberparty Mafia AU challenge for April 2023; prompt: “I speak, you listen. End of story.”
As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3
Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)
Love you like a love song, baby. Take care. 💖
Ps. Do you like my divider? I’ll make you one for your stories.
You feel the grass. The scent wafts in through the open pane as the long blades rustle softly in the breeze. The vibrant green stains your vision against the placid blue skies. The glisten of due still clings to the green expanse, giving the illusion of water flowing all around.
You feel the grass. Long days laying in the sun. The coolness of the ground met by the warmth of the sky.
You feel the grass as you feel time. As time never stops, nor does the grass stop growing. Always. Even when the snows fall, the blade remains. Resilient and unplucked.
Unlike any other day, the grasses do not go untrod. The figure is no less familiar than the field. The spec moving against the horizon, getting closer, and closer, crushing the tender strands between his soles.
You keep your hands working, kneading the dough on the board dusted with flour. You watch your visitor, unsure at first if that’s what he is. More often he’s passing through than stopping by. You give the dough one last fold and drop it in the pan. You put it in the drawer to proof and wash your hands.
He’s carrying something. A basket in one hand. He’s not alone. The dog is there. The charcoal velvet of his coat shining in the sunlight. His bright spirit bounds in contrast to the sombre but steady pace of his owner.
You grab the dishcloth and dry your hands on the waffled fabric as you go to the door. You emerge and tuck it into the pocket of your apron. The screen door snaps shut as you give a wave. Bubba races forward but his owner maintains his patient stride.
You bend to greet the dog, petting his soft head as he wipes a smear of slobber on your thin chambray pants. You chuckle and give him one last pat as you stand to meet the man. Bubba investigates your apron, likely smelling the remnants of your baking.
“John,” you say, “out for a walk?”
“Yeah,” he answers. A single word, oft-repeated.
“Does he like back bacon?” You ask as you let Bubba nuzzle your hand, “I have some left over. You’re welcome to some too.”
He hums and nods at the dog.
Stoic and silent as ever, he always confounds you. He’s not a social creature, you aren’t either, yet he comes around, now and again. Like you, he came here to be alone and like you, he must have bouts of loneliness. You suspect, you also share the same reluctance to admit it.
You smile and turn back to the house. You pull back the screen door and stroll through the kitchen. You pluck up a few strips of bacon cold on the pan and quickly retreat. As you come out, the basket is on the round glass table beside the wicker chair.
Bubba jumps up and startles you. You hold the bacon out of reach and John calls to him curtly, “down.” The dog obeys.
“Thanks,” you say as you break off a piece, “must be hungry after coming all this way.”
“Eggs,” he says with a small gesture to the basket.
“Oh, thank you. That’s very kind of you,” you say as you glance over, feeding more of the greasy strip to the dog. He licks your fingers clean, searching for more, until he gives up and you wipe your hands on your apron, “would you like a coffee? I can put a pot on.”
“No. Thank you.”
“Uh, okay, well,” you drift closer to the table and peer inside at the brown eggs, “thanks again for this.”
“Boy,” he says curtly and the dog returns to his side, “have a good day.”
“You sure you don’t want some water?” You face him again, shading your eyes with your hand, “it’s pretty hot.”
He shakes his head, “thank you.”
“Right,” you bite down on the tension and force a breath out, “well, if you’re nearby tomorrow, you could stop by and grab some sourdough. I have some loaves proofing now.”
He considers you. Dark and pensive. He thinks much more than he’ll ever say out loud.
“Maybe,” he answers and gently rubs Bubba’s ear between his thumb and index, “come.”
He turns and strides back into the field. His black hair flutters with the wind, the only part of him he can’t repress. You watch as the dog follows loyally at his side. You get it, it’s easier to deal with animals than people.
🥚
You wrap a loaf and place it in the basket John left with the eggs. You set it on the table as you wait for the kettle to boil. You don't know if he'll come though if he doesn't, you'll go out to see him.
Maybe. The same declaration he gave you.
The thought of going out after him makes you nervous. He doesn't seem like a man who would be bothered beyond his purview. Those times he stumbles on you are what he allows, beyond that, he is elusive. Almost deliberately so.
The kettle begins to whistle and you go to take it off the burner. Your mind wanders as your body moves out of habit, steeping a cup without a thought to which bag you choose. You stare into the dark liquid, startled by a scratching on the low deck.
You raise your head and rush out through the front room, dim in the shade of the drawn curtains. You grab the broom from beside the door before you swing through, ready to chase away the pestilent gopher. You're met instead by the wrinkled forehead of a wiggling Bubba, prancing across the wooden boards as you hear a subtle grunt on the other side of the picketed rail.
You go to peer down into the garden, resting the broom against the trim as you find John knelt in the patch of golden marigolds. He clutches a wad of green leaves, tossing his hair back as he stands. He looks up at you as he dusts the soil from his knees and opens his hand to present the weed.
"Oh?" You figure he saw the sprouting you'd missed. "Thanks for that."
He nods and lowers his arm as he closes his fist. He's silent as he stalks over to the compost barrel and dumbs the greenery inside. Bubba continues to sniff at the broken bench beneath the window.
"I have some bread for you, John," you announce, "and I just put the kettle on, would you like some tea before you go?"
He nears as he claps off his hands. Bubba circles your legs and nudges your palm. You pet him as John remains beyond the invisible barrier. He never comes closer than the grass.
"Thank you for the bread."
That's it. His answer. Just the bread, no tea. He would do well in another sort of life. His apathy could be dangerous were he to realise it.
"Sure," you scratch Bubba's head and turn to go inside.
The dog sits primly by the door, patient like his master. Inside, you sweep by the crumpled blanket on the couch. Hardly a comfortable place to sleep but a stubborn habit.
You enter the kitchen and give pause. Perhaps he won't stay for tea but you can still be polite. In the cupboard, you take out the shortbread cookies you baked only the day prior and pick out three to wrap in brown paper. You tie them with twine and take out a tin of untouched black tea; Assam, bitter at first, but carries a rich aftertaste.
You tuck it under the bread and take the basket. You grab a carrot from the bowl on the counter and return to the porch. You try to smile as you come out but John is already staring at the sky.
"You mind if Bubba has a carrot?" You ask as you hold the thick vegetable out of the dog's grasp.
He shifts, looking at you from the corner of his eye as he dips his chin. You give the carrot to the dog, his jowls leaving slobber across your hand as he accepts it greedily. You cross the groaning boards and hold out the basket.
"Sourdough," you say, "if you want rye, come back next week."
"Thanks," he steps forward but only close enough to take the basket.
His gaze lingers and you wonder what he's thinking. Is it about you or is he already steps ahead on his daily journey across the plains?
"Bubba," he demands as the dog gulps down the last of the shredded carrots.
You move out of the way as the dog diligently obeys. His paw plod down the steps and he goes to sniff the basket in his owner's hand. Another nod and he's on his heel, venturing off into the green sea.
🥖
Often, you don't notice John's absence until he appears again. There is no rhyme or rhythm to his arrival but that day you note, it's been some time. Not entirely unusual but it tugs at your mind.
You don't linger on it. The solace of this place is safety. You cherish it even when it's lonely.
Still, restlessness consumes you. You cannot be idle. You cannot remain in this house. Even the garden cannot content your listless hands.
The air is dead, stolid with the high heat of July. Your cotton skirt lays limp down your legs, clinging to your sweaty skin as the sun beats down on your shoulders. A wide-brimmed hat shields your eyes but thickens the dampness along your scalp.
Beyond the lea, down the dip of the valley, there is a line of trees, green but still on the lull. The forest divides the grasslands in a sprawling patch. Beautiful but perilous.
You make lazy progress across the field and follow the subtle basin of land that crests into the brush. You pause to examine the mossy bark and the jutting vines that coil and tangle, forming a sort of leafy fortress. You carefully trod past the tree line as your soles meet the soft peat in an eerie silence.
There are wild berries, some dried out in a stream of unfiltered sun while others hang heavy and ripe. You taste a few and ponder coming back to gather more. Your haphazard stroll makes you uneasy. You rarely do anything without meticulous consideration.
Even as your innate caution tells you to go back, you can't help but press on. There's something drawing you in, or away. An urgency you can't place.
You wince as you step on a twig. You exhale, long and heavy, as if you'd been waiting. For what, you don't know.
There's no path, only a gap here and there wide enough to pass between the foliage. You heat some scuffling and what could be a breath, not your own. You still and listen, your own heartbeat pounding, trying to scare you back to safety. There’s a rustle and you turn, only the subtle flutter of leaves to greet you.
Is someone there? You don’t dare to ask the question aloud.
You take a step blindly back as you hear dull padding across the forest floor. You retreat until your back meets bark and you stare at the shaking bush across from you. You dig your nails into the grooves of the bark. It could never last so long.
The curious nose of the dog pokes through first, a heavy huff as his chops flap and foam. You sigh and deflate against the rough oak. It’s only Bubba.
“Jeez,” you utter and chuckle at yourself. Just the dog, but where’s his owner?
You say his name but as quickly as he’s appeared, he’s gone. You blink and hesitate, following only as you fear he’ll leave you alone. You brush through the bushes and long reaching vines, following the wag bony tail.
Ahead, you hear a trickle. The soft ripple of water. Before you can stop, you’re in a clearing, faced with a sight that has you speechless. A back, naked and long, marked with ink and scars. The dark hair drips wetly between his shoulders, shining black like oil.
“Oh, uh, I’m so sorry,” you spin and cover your face as Bubba woofs softly and hops around the shore, “I… I thought Bubba was… lost.”
More like I’m lost, you think to yourself.
There’s no answer. Only the shift of water and steps slowed by the depths. The river babbles gently in the din.
“I’ll go, again, I’m sorry–”
“Don’t,” he says. It’s not the word but his tone that stops you. You shudder as you stare into the shadows between the brambles and trees. “Stop. Don’t–”
You squeal as suddenly Bubba’s playful boofs turn to a raucous bark. You shield yourself and fall back as the dog bowls you over from behind, your feet flying over your head. There’s a whistle in the air and the hard thunk of something unseen as it collides with the tall jagged stone on the other side of the shore.
“Stay down,” John orders as the water splashes, another shot, silenced through some unseen barrel. “Fuck.”
His feet mulch in the dirt as you roll onto your stomach, Bubba circling you erratically, herding you to the covers of an overturned log. You drag yourself on your elbows, your dress smearing with filth and catching on errant pebbles and sticks.
“Bub,” John calls and the dog backs off, running towards his owner.
You raise your head as John stands naked, unafraid, raising a dark glock to fire back. You don’t know why he has it but you’re happy he does. He dodges the counter and swipes up the denim folded at the bottom of the stack of clothes. He pulls the trigger again, aiming into the trees as he comes towards you.
“Don’t move,” he orders as he squints, keeping the gun aloft, “not ‘til I say.”
“John,” you gasp, “what’s going on?”
He’s quiet as he listens. Silence. You watch his throat bob, overly aware of the rest of him, exposed and glistening with water.
He lowers the barrel, quickly stepping into his jeans. He whistles and Bubba comes to him, head lower, eyes watchful. Master and beast match in that moment, waiting for the kill.
“Stay.” He says.
You don’t know if he means you or the dog. But you obey, as Bubba remains at your side. John walks along the other side of the log, gun raised before him. There’s a jostle across the river and he turns instinctively. Three short reactive shots.
The curtain of leaves part and a man staggers forward. His gun is pointed back at John but tumbles from the stranger’s grip. He gurgles and collapses into the water, face first. You get only a glimpse of the red splotches across his dark shirt.
You quiver as your vision speckles with tears. You cover your mouth as the scent of iron underlines the medley of the forest. You shake your head and shakily drag your hand down your cheek.
“John…”
“You know,” he says. Your eyes meet and his gaze says all he won’t. He knows, too.
🌳
You’ve never been to John’s house. You never venture that far from your own. You never even thought to go that far.
Walking up on the small house with its chipped white paints and splintered posts, you realise, it’s not truly his. It’s not a home. It’s a hideout. Like yours but not quite. You follow him onto the porch and stop at the top step. The wood whines with your weight.
“They sent you too,” you say. Your suspicions bubbling over to certainty.
He stops at the door. He’s rigid as he turns his head. His cheek draws and he swallows.
“Will you make it quick?” You ask.
Still, he doesn’t speak. He proceeds through the door as Bubba sits beside you, his eyes pointed outward towards the plain. Watching, guarding. You touch his wrinkled brow and trail after John.
He moves in the grim light of the cramped cottage. You can tell at a glance that the front room is the only occupied space. The house is a facade but every man must live. Somehow.
He faces you and tosses a bag at your feet, a loose duffel. You look down as he carries on. He pulls out another bag, longer, the type you’ve seen before. He checks his glock then the contents of the rifle bag.
“Get changed.”
You don’t move. You run your hand down the filth on your dress as you watch him. He sighs and pushes the rifle bag aside. He crosses to you. You flinch and he bends down to unzip the duffle.
He opens it and takes out a dark hoodie and matching pants. He stands and holds them out to you. You reluctantly take them as he claims another bunch of clothing from the bag. He barely acknowledges you as he turns to change himself.
“I’d rather you kill me here. I don’t want to die with those people.”
“If I was gonna kill you…” he lets the sentence dangle like a noose.
You nod and put the clothes down on a nearby crate. You unfold the hoodie and check the tag. Your size. You peer over at him as he switches out his tee shirt for a plain black button-up.
“They’ll send someone after you too. Looks like they already did,” you remark.
“They can try.”
You fish out the ribbed tank and feel the thin fabric. You don’t understand. You ran this far, what’s the point of going any further.
“I’m not in the habit of killing widows,” he mutters.
You close your eyes and inhale. You turn your head slowly and look over at him.
“You only make them, huh?”
He faces you sullenly, “hurry.”
🏡
“At the next station…” John begins but you know he’s just talking to blend in.
It’s what he does. Like a shadow, he moves through the world. Drifting by those around him with ease. A man without a body.
“I know a place close by,” you see how he tilts his head. He sees something.
He leans back and slips his arm over your shoulders. You tense. The subway shakes on the rails as it powers ahead. It’s been so long since you’ve been in a city. It’s like going back in time.
He pushes you down as a bang pops in your ear. You yelp as he shoves you out of the seat, his own gun arcs through the air and deflects the next attempt. A man falls and another rises from his seat. Another bullet fells him as John stands in front of you.
“Up,” he pulls you up by your arm, another shot over his shoulder and grunt. “Don’t look back.”
It’s not the first time. It’s been weeks of this. Endlessly moving, eternally awake. You wish he’d just killed you back in that cabin.
He follows, urging you along. Shots ping around you and he forces you to duck as he nearly crushes you against the door. You yank the handle and slide it open, stumbling through to the next car. He’s right on your heels as he slams it behind him, barely deflecting the next bullets.
You feel a hot pain in your side, a searing graze across your ribs. Don’t think, just do. That’s what John does. He’s designed for this. It’s both admirable and alarming.
You get to the next door, to the end of the train. John hits the window beside your head impatiently. His back presses to yours as he turns to fire his gun again and again and again. You struggle to twist the lever and when it releases, you nearly fall out of the hurtling car.
“On three,” he says.
“We can’t-”
“I speak, you listen. End of story.”
"It's too dangerous–"
“One.”
“John.”
“Two.”
“Wait.”
“Three.”
He turns and wraps his arm around you. He grabs the outside of the car and swings around, barely clinging to it. He lets go, taking you with him, your feet bouncing off him as he lands on the tracks and falls back beneath you. He grunts and coughs as the train squeals down the tracks.
Out of breath, you roll off of him. He pants and closes his eyes. You can’t do this anymore. It’s not just the fear that haunts you, it’s him. Watching him do this day in and day out. For you? Why?
And Bubba. The poor dog. The heartbroken look in his eyes when you left him with that man. A man with no name.
“John,” you push yourself up to your knees and groan as you slip back onto your ass. A jarring pain tears through your side. “I can’t–”
You look down as you touch your side. He sits up as he stares at the blood seeping through your fingers. He presses his hand against your, holding it firmly to stem the flow. You dizzily shake your head.
“That’s it,” you say.
His eyes meet yours. The dark circles beneath, the wrinkles above, you see the mortal beneath. You frown. He can’t win. He can’t just tell death what to do.
“No,” he insists and pushes on your hand, “like that.”
You keep the pressure. You moan as he scoops you up in his arms, standing with a heave. He looks off down the dark tunnel and walks between the rails. Where others are blind, he sees all. Where others would give up, he goes on.
🚆
A fire crackles beside you. You don’t believe it’s real at first. The soft amber haze burns through your eyelids until you look to see if it is. The glass that separates the flame from the room is set into the plain white stucco of a wall.
You don’t know this place.
There’s a dull weight on your side. You reach to move it but there’s nothing there. You wear only a thin nightgown, white cotton that reflects the hue of the fire. You feel the stitches through the light fabric.
“John,” you know he’s there.
Not far. He’s beside you in a moment. A shadow above you. You flick your lashes up and look at the black figure flickering with the flame.
“Safe here,” he assuress in his way. You believe him.
"They won't stop. They never do," you croak.
As wordless as ever, he lowers himself to sit beside you. He breathes.
"I won't either."
You close your eyes. You will. You have. This isn't how you want to live. Not anymore.
"I do. I give up. John, you should've left me on the tracks."
"No."
His voice is as passionate as you've ever heard it. So much so that you barely recognise it as his. You wince.
"John, it's okay–"
"It's not."
"I knew when I went out there, it would end like that–"
"No," he says again.
"You can't just tell the world no."
"I am."
You huff in exasperation, "John, I'm telling you that it's over. I have nothing left."
He doesn't respond. He rests his arms on his bent legs and pushes back his shaggy locks. He lifts his chin and cluck.
"That's not your choice."
He gets up as you lay helpless. Weak and woozy still. You couldn't argue or refuse if you tried.
"It is," you say.
His face is hidden in the dark, shielded from the fire's light by the curtain of hair. You can't see his eyes but you feel him watching you. This man is not as gentle as you thought. He is not the protector that he seems.
He pivots on his heel and takes even steps away from you. You crane to see him but can't find him in the dim. Hinges squeak and wood hits the frame.
No, he is not your protector. He is your keeper.
🩸
All you do is sleep. It's all there is to do. Lingering, languishing, in that space. Little better than a cell. Or a coffin.
The fireplace glows anon, lending and earthy glow to the room. You lay on the couch, spacious as the large ottoman pushes up to form a cozy expanse. He came again. No words, just a standard peek at your stitches and the cold touch of stringent alcohol.
You're healing. Surviving. Day by day, marked only by the meals he leaves, that appear when you doze and tempt you back to the world. You eat only to sate the ache, paying little note to the pleasant flavours or efforts of each dish.
You are as you have been. Head against the arm of the couch as you keep an arm over the top of the blanket. Your eyes laze beneath your lids as the fireplace flickers. There is no garden, no baking bread, no fraying curtains to distract you here. You must face your thoughts and the persistent past.
A bang brings you up. You wince and clutch your side as the stitches tug. You peer over the top of the couch as the door quakes and bursts open. A body flails through and hits the floor with a sickly thump.
Your heart thrums. You think for a moment it's John splayed across the carpet's edge. But he's there, puffing over the body at his feet. The man wheezes and a rattle fizzles to a gurgle.
John aims his gun at the heaving body. There's no need for it. You can see the man won't get up. He can't. He's bleeding from his shoulder and his foot is twisted around on his ankle.
"Here."
You don't realise he's talking to you. Not until his dark eyes focus on you, the shadows angling along the sharp plains of his face. You blink and part your lips dumbly.
You shake as you grasp the cushion on the back of the couch. You don't know what he wants. He wiggles the gun and you shield yourself, bracing as if the barrel is aimed at you.
"I wouldn't…" he breathes, "come here."
You push yourself away from the back of the couch, nearly falling off entirely. You get a foot under you and sway as you search for your balance. Your skin tingles and your ears buzz.
He scoffs and kicks the body. The man rolls over and coughs again. As you come around, you recognise him. Dominic. The man who killed your husband. The same who put this man on your tail.
"How…"
You yelp as John moves towards you. He has your hand in his and forces it around the gun. You whimper as he drags you over to Dominic, holding your arm straight as he directs the muzzle down at the man.
"No more running," he declares, "he's the last one…"
"John," you gulp as you struggle with him, too weak to do much more than squirm.
"All of them."
"I can't–"
"You can. You want to," he turns and looks you in the face. You meet his gaze sheepishly, a sheen of tears blurring him, "I know you will. For us."
He squeezes your hand and you murmur. He lets you go and takes a step back. Dominic writhes and sputters, a crackly noise which could be a laugh.
"Feels… right," he gulps out as he trembles helplessly, his lips grey as his life slowly seeps away, "kill me like I killed–"
You don't let him finish. You pull the trigger. He will not say his name. Never again.
You quiver as you stand frozen above the bloody ruin. The hole in his chest leaks red and spills over, staining the carpet around him. Your chest rises and falls deeply, your ears ringing, hands hot around the gun.
John closes his fingers over yours. You let him take the gun. He nudges your hand down and turns you away from your victim. Your vengeance.
When you can think again, you're back on the couch. He's there too. You can't see him but you hear bristles scrubbing against the wood.
You close your eyes again. That's what you do. You hide.
⏳
He wakes you with a touch. So light, so gentle, almost afraid. A hint of iron remains in the air. You open your eyes to him as he drags his fingers along the thin fabric of your nightgown.
It's different. He's not there to dress your wound. You see it in the depths of his eyes, so dark you can hardly see the pupils.
A new current of adrenaline swells through you. His fingers graze across the hem and hesitate. He meets your bare thighs and you twitch. You can't remember the last time anyone touched you like this.
Or looked at you like he does.
It's not the same. It can never be what you had before. But you know this man. You know what he's capable of. With men like him, it's best to embrace the light side to keep out of the dark.
You look past him, to the ceiling, the orange glow pulsing around his silhouette. You shiver and part your legs. He's never been much for words, has he?
He brushes down your pelvis. You hold your breath, goosebumps prickling along the path of his touch. It's like fire and ice. It hurts but feels so good. Numbing yet electrifying.
He glides along your lips. You suck in air sharply as he patiently explores, tickling, feeling, prodding, delving into your folds with a curious sort of eagerness.
He leans over you as you gasp. His fingertips send a thill through you, rolling over your tender bud in an easy but intoxicating motion. He bends closer until his lips meet your cheek. He growls and it flows through you.
He kisses along your cheek, his breath hot as it fans over you. His lips find yours and you let him kiss you. The more he touches you, the further he figures you out, the less you feel like yourself. Your body isn't yours, he's claiming that too.
He rubs you cloyingly. Teasing you until your muscles clench in need. His fingers glide back as his tongue pokes between your lips. You squeak as he urges into you, the heel of his large hand resting against your swollen bud.
He rocks deliberately, building a tension, shifting just a little as he swallows down your mewls. His lips leave yours, trailing down your chin and along your throat. Another wave flows over you.
He guides the thin strap of the nightie down and pecks along your collarbone. Your chest pounds and your breath hitches. You're caught in his thrall.
He nuzzles the curve of your chest. He follows the line of your cleavage as his rough lips send tendrils across your skin. He puffs and nips at the soft flesh, toying with you between his teeth.
His hand tilts as he slides deeper, curling his fingers as the pressure pools in your core. He continues his intent journey down your body, laying a path of kisses over your stomach. He urges your legs wider as he moves around your knee, positioning himself on the cushion beneath you.
He pulls back to watch himself play with you. His face blazes with the hue of the fireplace and his burning need. He bends over your pelvis, his hair draping down to tickle your stomach and hips.
Chills like a tide, endless and building, building, building. The coolness of his tongue sinks into you, burying in your warmth. He keeps his hand rocking, methodic as ever.
You push your hands against the couch. You're sinking, drowning. The finality of your surrender consumes you.
He laps at you, like a man in the desert. Your leg bends against him, his arm looping beneath as he dives in further.
You close your eyes as they sear, tears beading in your lashes. What you want, who you want, you'll never have again. He is what you get. You were only ever a prize, you never got one yourself.
He wiggles his fingers tauntingly before slipping them free. Your eyelids part as he raises his head, his breath fluttering over your pelvis. He smears your arousal down your thigh and gives a gentle kiss to the soft patch of hair at the crux of your vee.
He grunts as he lifts himself, sitting on his knees. You bat your lashes as he peers down at you. You exhale and flick your eyes up to the ceiling. The blankness beckons to you.
You feel him shift, jostling you on the couch, then a whisper of fabric and the rough callous of his fingertips. His hands brush up your pelvis and stomach, before retreating to your thighs, kneading as he leans over you.
You whimper as you feel him against you. You return to the present as your eyes detach from the plaster and find his. He bends over you, planting his arm across the couch above you. You guides his tip along your cunt and you hold your breath.
You press your hands to his chest and bite your lip as he slowly invades. It is just like him. The subtle build up to the inevitable.
You let him in, curling your fingers against him. You focus on the dark bruise beside your index and push on it as he sinks in deeper. He growls as he does, a snarl laced with pain and delight.
As he reaches his limit, he rises to sit back on his knees, jerking his hips against you. You moan as he catches your hand and puts it back against the purplish blemish, urging you to press until he groans. He pulls you up into his lap, your head lolling as you hang limp in his embrace.
He keeps your fingers against the bruised flesh as he rocks you against him. You grip him with your other hand, nails digging into his shoulder. He grunts and grazes his teeth along your ear.
"Hurt me," he rasps as he gropes your ass desperately, "please… I want to feel you. I want to feel everything."
You squeeze harder, until you sense the skin about to break. You heave as you hook your arm around his neck, bucking in his lap as you chase the coiling climax. You want to feel too.
Something. Anything.
🛋️
A white dress. That’s what you’re wearing in the photograph. The other half of the picture is gone, a jagged tear down the middle. You’re smiling but the reason why is missing. Seeing that photo rent in two is harder even than facing that truth alone. Your husband is gone.
There’s another white dress. Spread out beneath the photo, with a veil and set of hair pins. You sit beside the swath of ivory and bend the worn corner of the picture with your thumb. You turn it over and read again the slanted cursive scrawl.
‘You look good in white’.
A message that wasn’t there the last time you held that picture.
Your stomach churns as you place the photograph on the other side of you. You look around the room and feel the heat scalding your chest. This place is safe, just like he said, but only because he won’t let you out.
When he comes, he says as little as ever. He only checks your wounds and leaves something to eat or read or wear. Like a warden.
You miss the sunshine, you miss the fragrant fields, and the billowing clouds. You miss the smell of baking bread and the cool breeze stirring the curtains. You miss when life felt like living.
You stand and take the dress without looking at it. He thinks this is mercy. How can it be when it is worse than death?
John can be a good man. Decent, dependable, devoted. But he is just another bad man. The kind you vowed years ago that you were done with. Detached, deadly, destructive.
You never wanted someone to kill for you, you only wanted someone to live with you. What you've been doing is less than. Existing but not living. Healing but thriving. There but somewhere else.
He's still a stranger to you. All you know about him is that he's like any other man you've known. Deadly, stubbornly so.
You step into the white dress and pull the fabric up your body. You shiver as it brushes over the rigid skin of your scar. The ghost of his touch crawls over you, rough but careful.
You hook the straps over your shoulders and strain to zip the back. The fabric closes around you snuggly, perfectly encasing your figure. The details are never missed and never wrong.
You step into the satin toed shoes. A wave of deja vu washes over you. Dressed in white and filled with dread.
You pick up the veil and examine the embroidered edge. Beautiful but ill-suited to you. You expected a funeral shroud by now.
You go to the mirror and work at pinning the veil. Your blood turns cold as your vision pinpoints and you see yourself. The ramshackle bride.
'Til death…'
You cried at your first wedding, you have no tears for the second. Happy, sad, or otherwise.
The door opens behind you, drawing you from your grey reverie. There's nothing you have to miss yet you are wistful. You don't long for what you had, but what you could never have.
You look at him in the mirror. You see only his shoulder at the edge of the reflection. He watches you back. You flinch as coolness touches your knuckles.
You turn and look down at Bubba as he noses your hand. You notice the bowtie at his neck. Oddly endearing in the circumstance.
John waits. Silently. That's how it's been. No more talking. From either of you.
You spread your hand over Bubba's thick skull and rub his soft fur. He wiggles and lurches ahead. You follow him with a shuddery breath.
John's dark gaze roves over you, from head to foot. As you near, he reaches to straighten the veil before pulling it forward. The world obscures on the other side of the lace. He offers his arm and you take it.
For better or worse.
#john wick#dark john wick#dark!john wick#john wick x reader#fic#one shot#dark fic#dark!fic#navy and roo's sleepover
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✦ ⎯⎯ ㅤִㅤ ୭ 𝑡𝑒𝑠𝑡 𝑏𝑢𝑛𝑛𝑦 ( dr.wick x reader )
ᨳ ꒰ précis ꒱. oneshot. In 2236, Dr. John Wick leads "Wick Industries" in human experiments to extend life and youthfulness. But behind the facade of progress, test subjects like you are unknowingly involved, their consent ignored.
୨ৎ warnings. manhandling, non-con, forced relationship, breeding, evil intent, large age gap, p in v, blackmailing, mentions of blood, torture, bdsm, size kink. dead dove. do not eat. 2.6k words.
𝑑𝑒𝑎𝑟 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑟, this is my first fic on this blog ! please excuse any mistakes and lmk if you like it, reblogs comments & likes are very appreciated! if you have any requests for another fic don’t be afraid to reach out. ( has not been proof read ) !
As you step into the sterile corridors of Wick Industries, the faint hum of machinery fills the air, a constant reminder of the scientific endeavors unfolding within. It's 2236, an era where the boundaries between progress and ethical considerations blur into a murky haze.
You find yourself here not out of choice, but out of dire necessity, your financial woes pressing upon you like a weighty burden. Volunteering as a blood donor is your ticket to survival, a means to secure the funds desperately needed to support your ailing mother and keep a roof over your head.
You needed the money, your mother's illness draining your savings faster than you could replenish them, while the relentless march of automation threatened your livelihood in the retail sector.
With each passing day, the gap between what you earned and what you needed widened, leaving you with little recourse but to turn to unconventional means to make ends meet.
A giant in the industry, Wick Industries looms large in the landscape of scientific research, its reputation as a leader in biomedical advancements drawing both admiration and scrutiny.
When news broke of their call for volunteers to participate in cutting-edge experiments aimed at extending human youth, you saw it as an opportunity—a chance to alleviate your financial woes while contributing to the greater good. Little did you know the true cost of admission into this world of scientific ambition and moral ambiguity.
Entering the facility, you're greeted by the sight of a bustling lobby, volunteers milling about in varying states of anticipation and apprehension.
The air is charged with nervous energy, a palpable undercurrent of uncertainty running through the crowd as each individual grapples with their own reasons for being there.
At the registration desk, you join the queue, your heart pounding in your chest as you inch closer to the counter.
The old woman behind the desk is brisk and efficient, her voice a steady rhythm in the cacophony of voices around you.
“Next,” she called out, an old woman behind the counter waved her hand, urging you to move forward.
“ID?” She spoke. Your hands making their way into your little pink hand bag as they shuffled to take out your wallet, waiting for the nod of approval before tucking your things back into your purse.
“Third door down the hallway to the left,” she directed.
Guided by her directions, you navigate through the maze-like corridors of the facility, the sterile environment and the click of your heels against the polished floors adding to the surreal atmosphere.
The waiting room is a sea of faces, each one bearing the weight of their own struggles and uncertainties, their eyes betraying a mixture of hope and trepidation.
As you take your seat among the other volunteers, you can't help but feel a sense of camaraderie tinged with unease. The steady stream of departures catches your attention, prompting a question to the person beside you.
“Why are people leaving?” You ask.
Their answer, though matter-of-fact, does little to assuage your growing apprehension.
“I hear the doctors are looking for a specific blood type within the volunteers,” the man next to you replied, his eyes going back to the bright screen of the phone he held.
Amidst the ebb and flow of volunteers, two figures emerge, their presence commanding attention as they make their way down the line of chairs. The older man's piercing gaze sends a shiver down your spine, while his companion's whispered exchange only serves to heighten your sense of foreboding.
When they finally reach you, the weight of their scrutiny feels suffocating.
The bearded man leans in to murmur something inaudible into his assistants ear, the man’s eyes flicker in your direction.
“Her,” he whispers slightly, their eyes lingering on you for a moment longer than necessary.
As their stares bore into yours, the man’s assistant gestures for you to stand, and you comply, feeling a mixture of curiosity and trepidation. With a barely perceptible nod from the older man, they lead you away from the crowd, down a series of sterile corridors lined with gleaming metal doors.
Down the labyrinthine corridors you go, each step bringing you closer to the unknown. The air grows colder, the atmosphere thick with anticipation and trepidation. What awaits you behind those imposing doors remains a mystery, one that gnaws at the edges of your consciousness with relentless persistence.
Finally, you come to a stop before a nondescript door, its surface devoid of any indication of what lies beyond. With a silent exchange, the older man and his assistant confer, their words lost to you in the deafening silence of the corridor.
As the door slides open, revealing a sterile room bathed in harsh fluorescent light, you steel yourself for what comes next.
Alone in the room with these enigmatic figures, you can't help but feel a sense of trepidation. Their welcoming smiles offer little comfort, their words ringing hollow against the backdrop of uncertainty that looms over you like a dark cloud.
"Welcome," the man with the clipboard begins, his voice a mere whisper in the vast emptiness of the room. "My name is Dr. David. Thank you for volunteering,”
As the assistant quietly slips out of the room, leaving you alone with Dr. John Wick, a sense of unease settles over you like a heavy blanket. Yet, in his presence, there's a strange calmness that washes over you, his reassuring smile and soothing voice momentarily easing the knots of tension in your stomach.
"Please, have a seat," he gestures towards a chair, his tone gentle yet authoritative. You comply, sinking into the plush cushion as he takes a seat across from you, his piercing gaze never leaving yours.
"Let me assure you, you're in good hands here," he begins, his voice smooth as silk. "Wick Industries is at the forefront of groundbreaking research, and your participation in our experiments is invaluable."
Despite his words, a nagging feeling of apprehension lingers at the back of your mind, a whisper of doubt that refuses to be silenced. Yet, you push it aside, clinging to the hope that perhaps this is just the opportunity you've been waiting for.
“I’m Dr. Wick—but please, call me John,” He gives you a charming grin once more, reaching out his hand for you to shake.
As he continues to speak, his words seem to fade into the background, your focus shifting to the way the harsh fluorescent light casts shadows across his angular features.
“Tell me about yourself,” he speaks up once more, trying to strike a conversation with his patient.
There's something magnetic about him, something that draws you in despite your better judgment.
“There’s not really much to me,” you chuckle softly, a pink shade flushing against your cheeks.
“I work in retail—heard of the small cafe Allure? Im a barista,” you say bluntly, as if you were having a normal conversation with your friend.
“Ah really?” John turns to you, his brown eyes boring into yours. “I’ll have to try it sometime, I’ve never been,” he revealed.
Your conversation starts to become more intimate, sort of like you’re speaking to a therapist.
"You're special, you know," he murmurs, his voice low and intimate. "There's something about you that sets you apart from the others."
A flush creeps up your neck at his words, a warmth spreading through you that has nothing to do with the temperature of the room. His proximity is intoxicating, his presence commanding yet strangely comforting.
“People don’t usually say that about me,” you scoff, rolling your eyes, yet you felt cared for, embracing the feeling of praise.
“A shame for such a pretty girl like you,” He jokes, rubbing his chin with his fingers.
You find yourself hanging onto his every word, his charisma and intelligence captivating you in a way you never expected.
As he shares stories of his past achievements and future aspirations, you can't help but feel a sense of admiration for the man before you.
But beneath the surface, there's a tension that simmers, a palpable electricity that crackles in the air between you. You can sense the shift in his demeanor, the subtle change in the way he looks at you, as if seeing you for the first time.
As the conversation lulls, he rises from his seat, his movements fluid and purposeful. With a slight smile, he disappears into the adjacent room, leaving you alone with your thoughts.
Minutes pass, the silence broken only by the soft hum of machinery in the distance. And then, he reappears, a small vial in his hand.
"I've prepared something to help ease the discomfort during the blood extraction process," he explains, his tone reassuring. "It's a simple elixir, but it should make the experience more bearable."
You nod, accepting the vial with a mixture of gratitude and apprehension. As you raise it to your lips, you can't help but wonder what exactly is in the concoction he's given you.
But the pain of the extraction process looms large in your mind, overshadowing any doubts or reservations you may have.
With a deep breath, you swallow the elixir in one swift motion, its taste bitter and metallic against your tongue. And then, as the liquid courses through your veins, a wave of dizziness washes over you, your vision blurring at the edges.
You reach out for support, but John is already there, his strong arms catching you before you hit the ground.
Your head throbs, the sensation reverberating through your ears as you grimace in pain, your face contorted in a grimace as you watch the overhead lights flicker rapidly.
Panic surges within you, your heart racing as you realize your arms are restrained above your head, the cold metal of the cuffs biting into your skin. Your feet barely brush against the worn tiles below.
"What the hell?!" you exclaim, your voice trembling with fear. Memories elude you, leaving you disoriented and bewildered.
Surveying your surroundings, you find yourself in a stark white room, its pristine walls offering no solace. A single door stands in the corner, ominous in its silence as you hang suspended in the center, the flickering lights casting eerie shadows across the sterile space.
Suddenly, the door creaks open, revealing Dr. John Wick as he steps into the room. Clad in gloves and his white coat, he exudes an unsettling air of authority as a wave of realization washes over you.
"What's happening?!" you demand, your voice trembling with uncertainty as fear grips you tightly.
"Hush now," John soothes, his voice calm and measured as he approaches you.
Despite your frantic struggles against the chains, he moves closer, his hand deftly manipulating a remote control in his grasp. With a click, the chains lower, the sound of metal clanking echoing in the sterile room as your body descends.
“I didn’t lie about how you were special,” he smiles creepily, now eye level with the man as he lifts your chin slightly.
“We just need to text you for some experiments, nothing too big,” he added, hot tears already brimming your waterline.
“P-Please get me out this isn’t what I signed up for—“ You whined, your wrists still trying to undo the chains that bound them together.
“I’m sorry but I cannot do that. You’ll be my little test bunny for today, is that alright with you, love?” He chuckled softly.
You shriek, tears already streaming down your cheeks as John’s fingers stroke against your jawline.
“You wouldn’t want to let your poor mother die now, would you?” He whispered, leaning into your ears as you grit your teeth, jaw clenching.
“Your mother has been transferred to a better hospital—under my industry. Resist and you die, let me use you this once and I’ll ensure your mother’s safety,” he’d add.
Before you are able to say anything, he grabs a handkerchief from his pocket, wrapping it around your head.
Your body stops shaking, your mother was at risk and you were unable to do anything.
He first took a knife from the steel cart that was placed against the wall across from where you were, his movements precise as you felt your clothing slither from your body, down your legs and eventually onto the ground.
Unable to resist, you stood there, crying, your makeup making marks on your cheeks as you shuddered from the embarrassment you felt as you were exposed to the older man.
“So young, so beautiful,” his voice tantalizing as he admired your curves, his hands starting to graze against your skin, the goosebumps visible from your fear.
“Don’t be afraid, it’s only procedures,” he teased, before pushing the button on his remote once more, your body lowering down as you gazed up at the man like a dog.
His fingers made their way under your chin, lifting them up slightly before he slowly undid the handkerchief.
“Please don’t scream, you’ll only make it harder for yourself,” he rambled, his lips now pressing against yours as you moaned in both surprise and disgust.
His tongue swirled with yours, the both fighting for dominance as he held your jaw in one hand, the other one starting to undo his pants.
John’s eyes glinted with a cold detachment as he advanced towards you, his movements deliberate and predatory.
“I promise, you’ll like it,” he drawled, his voice dripping with arrogance as he surveyed your trembling form.
You tried to protest, but the words caught in your throat as he pinned you against the wall, his hands rough and possessive as they roamed over your body.
“Don’t fight it,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your earlobe as he leaned in close.
“Resistance is futile.”
You could feel the heat of his breath against your skin, sending shivers down your spine despite the fear that gripped your soul.
“Please,” you whispered, but the desperation in your voice only seemed to amuse him.
With a smirk, he silenced you with a bruising kiss, his lips crushing yours with a ruthless intensity that left you gasping for air.
And as he claimed you as his own, you found yourself surrendering to him completely, your body a playground for his darkest desires. Each touch sent shockwaves of pleasure and pain coursing through your veins, your cunt throbbing with a mixture of agony and ecstasy.
But amidst the chaos, there was something else - a twisted kind of love that dared not speak its name.
“You like that, don’t you?” he taunted, his voice dripping with malice as he watched you squirm beneath him.
You moaned in response, unable to deny the twisted pleasure that his touch ignited within you.
With a guttural grunt, John released his load deep inside your cunt, his cock throbbing with the force of his climax. Your walls clenched around him, milking every last drop of pleasure from his pulsating shaft as he claimed you as his own.
“Take it, you filthy whore,” he spat, his voice dripping with disdain as he buried himself inside you.
“You like being used, don’t you?”
You moaned in response, unable to deny the twisted pleasure that his rough treatment ignited within you.
Each thrust was a reminder of your submission, a testament to the depths of your depravity.
As he reached his peak, his grip on you tightened, leaving bruises in his wake as he marked you as his property.
“There we go little bunny,” he sneered, his words a cruel echo of the pleasure that coursed through your veins.
And as he finally pulled away, leaving you empty and spent, you couldn’t help but feel a sense of satisfaction. In his arms, there was no room for love or tenderness, only the raw, unbridled passion of two souls consumed by darkness.
♡ 𝑡𝚑𝑒 𝑒𝑛𝑑
#keanu x reader#keanu reeves x reader#keanu reeves x you#keanu reeves imagines#keanu reeves fanfictions#keanu reeves ff#John wick x reader#John wick x you#John wick roleplay#John wick rp#John wick fanfictions#John wick imagines#John wick ff#John wick fic#keanu reeves fic#fanfictions#fanfic#writing#John wick#keanu reeves#John wick 4#imagines
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hey! you could write with john wick coming home to find his wife in the garden with the "garden boy" who clearly likes her but she doesn't realize it. i imagine john being subtle and quiet with his jealousies, nothing too scandalous but serious and direct. fluffly, please and thank you so much 🩷
*˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳I loved this idea so much! I hope you like it, feel free to ask for any expanding drabbles of these two <3
Jealous!John Wick x Naive!Reader
Tags: john is jealous, reader is naive about his jealousies, gardener def has a crush but would rather quit than act on it with john always around, age gap mention, lower class reader in a rich world, possessive john, protective john, primal john
Summer was dying, August dragging out the heat of July, telling the world it was unready to leave just yet. And you, well, you were enjoying the last of the long days, the time when sunset went on for ages, and burned in the sky a blazing orange over your backyard. You always loved the sun, how it turned everything golden each evening, and how it kissed your skin with its heat.
You were barely breaking a sweat, laying out by the pool while the gardener worked on the bushes. He was young. More around your age than your husband John. Which was nice sometimes, when you got to converse with him, both because of his age, and like you he wasn't from a wealthy background. It kept you a bit more grounded while the life of luxury continued on around you, it was nice to confide in him.
Unfortunately, what you never noticed was the gardeners wandering eyes. Even now, as you lay out in your bikini, eyes closed and skin happy to drink up the suns rays, he can't help but to watch you. If you asked the gardener about it, he would never admit to his little crush on you. As much as that would be unprofessional of him, he also has no interest in messing with his employer, John Wick. There were rumors, you know, about John coming home, bruised and bloody, a painting of struggle on his skin, the smell of gunpowder on his suit. The gardner has even caught a glimpse before, and watched as you greet your husband as a source of safety and comfort. No one asked why it was that John came home in such a state, but everyone knew, and because of that, the gardener would never pursue you. He would remain a healthy confidant, easing your worries in the world of the rich, and letting you keep in touch with the world outside the private neighborhood.
The gardener still steals a look or two while he thinks he can get away with it. His headphones buzz with music, drowning out the weed whacker as well as much of his own thoughts. He idly appreciated your body and your beauty from afar, before his stomach drops. He felt for only a moment that he was the one being watched now, and when his eyes flicker up, he meets a set of dark, dangerous eyes. John has entered the backyard, likely in search of his wife, who is currently enjoying the last days of summer. The most frightening part is how close he is, the gardner had no idea that John had snuck up behind him, and now he feels the trail of sweat down his back running cold.
Instead of finding his wife, John sees this man, who he pays handsomely to do work John has no time for, drooling over his wife. The gardener quickly looks away, trying to be busy with work, but the feeling of John's gaze never leaves his back. He starts to feel sweaty for reasons besides the burning August heat, and does everything he can to stop from looking over his back once more. There was just something about John that scared him to his core, and he felt he should trust that feeling if he were to survive.
Unfortunately for the gardener, John isn't finished. He feels John remove one of his ear buds, the man now so close he can smell John's expensive taste in cologne.
"I don't pay you to eye fuck my wife." John growls out, assertive and serious.
"N-no, of course not, Mr. Wick…" The gardener quickly tries to find his way out of this mess, John's cold eyes are enough to scare him away from looking at you for a good long while.
"Good. I suggest you go home for the night." John maintains professionalism always, but the thoughts running through his head tell a different story. The gardener can practically see these thoughts and takes John's suggestion, quickly moving away to pack up.
Meanwhile, you don't even know this interaction has happened, eyes closed lightly, sunglasses blocking out the sun. It isn't until John's lips kiss and whisper against your cheek, that you realize your husband is home for the day. Your eyelids flutter open, happy to see his dark form against the dulling blue sky. He looks at you with a small fire in his eyes, and you have no idea he is trying to show off while he continues to kiss down your neck.
He's halfway to your breast, maybe more, when you glimpse the gardener beginning to pack up in a haste, and gently pull John away, for modesty if anything. You notice the gardener refuses to look in your direction and wonder why.
"John, wait…" You say softly, and John let's out a small noise of annoyance that his lips must be pulled from your soft skin.
"What's wrong?" His voice is low, gruff.
"Let's wait until…" Your eyes finish your sentence, looking towards the gardener once more. John scoffs when he sees where your gaze is going.
"What? I'm not allowed to lay claim to you in front of the staff?" He says, almost arrogantly. You aren't exactly surprised, John has always been protective, if not possessive. You don't mind it much, in fact sometimes it even turned you on how primal he could be about it. But you also thought you had tamed his jealousy regarding the gardener months ago.
"You don't have to claim me, John, I'm already yours…" You say with a smirk, kissing right under his well kept beard. John seems to be calmed for the moment by your words, and while he enjoys your kiss, the gardner slips away for the night, safe once again for now.
John's eyes open when your lips leave his neck, and he looks down at you, perplexed.
"Why'd you stop…?" He breathes out, voice already dripping, husky with want. You smirk, and stand from where you were sun tanning, taking his hand and pulling him to the house.
#john wick x f!reader#john wick drabble#john wick x reader#john wick x you#john wick fan fic#lila speaks#ask lila#keanu reeves#my writing#••• ◛ ʸᵒᵘ’ᵛᵉ ᵍᵒᵗ ᵐᵃⁱˡ!
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