#wick writes
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Winding Moonrise - Complicated Reunions
[master post]
[continues from part 11. Let's just pretend it hasn't been over 3 years since I posted a ficlet in this series. Warning this has a flashback inside of a flashback ]
Wei Wuxian says, "Time to head home."
"May we speak in private?" Lan Wangji asks, catching Wei Wuxian's wrist. He casts a silent warning toward Lan Jingyi who in turn mimes covering his ears.
Wei Wuxian nods.
The two walk into the cavern opening.
"Why are you reluctant?" he questions.
He holds no rights to Wei Wuxian's confidence, but he must ask. He can't imagine why Wei Wuxian says the last word as if it has no place on his tongue, as if the word holds no association with him, as if he is alone. His heart aches. All he wants is to take Wei Wuxian in his arms and shelter him in an embrace.
Wei Wuxian smiles, awkwardly.
"Certainly the Jiangs would celebrate your return," he adds, stomping down on the urge to pamper Wei Wuxian.
A decade has passed, certainly he must miss his residence. Wei Wuxian spoke so fondly of Yunmeng that Lan Wangji wanted to spirit him there last night.
Wei Wuxian's smiles more broadly. Jiang Cheng's accusing voice rings in his ears alongside the pleas of the dead from memory that refuses to fade.
"Let's go!" Jiang Cheng shouted.
The wards around them screamed. Danger marched in front of them. In the distance is a howl of wolves.
Wei Wuxian stilled and glanced toward the cavern behind him.
"We won't get to them in time." He frowned, but when did Jiang Cheng not have a scowl.
He jested, "When did you become a coward? I'll go alone."
He means it.
Jiang Cheng's jaw ticked. "You have a death wish. They're Wens."
"They sheltered us."
He bobbed his head as if conflicted, but eventually he nodded.
Pulling his thoughts to the present, Wei Wuxian says, "In-house problems."
"Oh."
He smacks Lan Wangji's chest. "Don't worry, every household has them."
Lan Wangji has certainly had his share of those, pleading with his shufu every day for three years. Yet never once would he have believed that his shufu would be glad for his absence. His view of Jiang Cheng and Jiang Yanli drops several degrees.
His heart aches at Wei Wuxian’s trepidation and it nearly breaks at the line he’s drawn between them. ‘Family matters’ is a boundary that can only be crossed by a select few to do so, when their relationship can only be described as former classmates and friends, is overstepping. It had never been his place to pry; although he had dreamed of one day being Wei Wuxian’s closest confidant and sharing all the joys and pains of life with him, at the moment it will be difficult to even claim that they are more than just acquaintances after thirteen years of separation.
His personal opinion of the current Jiang family head aside, at the very least, he can take solace in the fact that in this upcoming reunion he will be by Wei Wuxian side.
*
If he had been struck with lightning from clear skies, Jiang Cheng would be less surprised than he is currently spying his former sworn brother standing beside Lan Wangji.
“Long time no see,” he says as if they had separated under anything remotely approaching normal conditions.
A tornado of emotions strikes him. It’s like he’s back in that hospital bed surrounded by incessantly beeping machines. His da-jie held onto him as if she’s afraid he’d be spirited away. Day and night half a dozen people came and asked him questions he couldn't answer.
He’s no fool. He certainly cannot explain that he’s been decimating six generations of the Wen clan the last few years for burning down all his relatives except for his sister. That bloodsucking fiancee of hers had been good for one thing apparently.
The one that infuriates him the most is about the person missing from his side. Although days have passed, he can still feel where his supposedly loyal servant struck. It wasn’t that he was heartless. It was one thing to turn over every stone and blade of grass to avenge his family, it was another to face-off against the clandestine world for the remnants of a family that had destroyed everyone he cared about when he couldn’t imagine any reasonable chance of them succeeding. He must survive as the final heir of his family.
He clenched his fists. He can’t even ask the idiot if it was worth it. Did you enjoy playing the hero? You’re just bone and ash! Look at all these rumors, all people will ever know is these rumors that you’re a madman.
Seeing the man that haunts his nightmares waving so nonchalantly at him, Jiang Cheng can’t help it. The emotions overwhelm him and taking control of his tongue brings him to growl: “So you didn’t die in a gutter.”
Wei Wuxian scratches his cheek. What can he say?
Jiang Cheng has every reason to resent him. It’s funny he thinks in hindsight that the one time that he did something Madam Yu would be proud of is also the first time he betrayed his closest friend. It’s not like there was a point to him telling Jiang Cheng that he had already used his life-saving time to send A-Yuan far away and it wasn’t as if he was going to ask Jiang Cheng to court death with him.
There was no reason to say that he had died. He still recalls the endless, inky black of the other side, and that alluring voice asking if he wanted to take vengeance on the world.
Before this touching reunion can continue, if one could call this a reunion, Lan Wangji steps between these sworn brothers. The blase tone in which Jiang Cheng delivered those callous words drives Lan Wangji to see red. How could someone speak of a friend like that? How dare someone speak of his precious moon’s like he was hindrance?
He growls: “Apologize.”
“Who are you to demand that?”
“His friend,” he says, but he really wants to challenge Jiang Cheng to a duel to protect his beloved’s honor.
Jiang Cheng’s gaze flickers between them, and he scoffs.
“My advice is to pick better friends.”
“There is no one more worthy of attention,” Lan Wangji says, glaring. He has cultivated too well for such provocation to raise his hackles and summon his fangs. It is Jiang Cheng’s blessing that he’s too respectable to maul someone.
Those words shock Wei Wuxian more than the fact that Jiang Cheng and Lan Wangji are now exchanging blows. He hadn’t expected a warm welcome after what he had done. Jiang Cheng has too much pride for that — that he hadn’t chased Wei Wuxian was a sign that he was malleable. This is the rudest he’s ever seen Lan Wangji. What had Jiang Cheng done in the last decade for Lan Wangji to be so bold?
In all of Wei Wuxian’s wildest imaginations, he could not even begin to think that the source was him. That was not the first time that Lan Wangji had blatantly shown his distaste.
It was breaking into his fourth year in a world absent from his moon, not long after the three year period had spent howling at the moon with only his melancholy for company. Since he was the type to count it was exactly 4 years and 2 months and 28 days from Wei Wuxian’s disappearance when news of the missing Jiang heir’s re-appearance had spread like wildfire through society, so that someone who had secluded themselves as Lan Wangji still heard it.
Although it was unbecoming of him, he used his connections to determine which hospital, which room, and tracked down Jiang Cheng’s location. If there was any chance he could recover his heart, he would turn over any stone and drag his own name through the dirt.
Not that he needed to go so far, an inquiry from such a renown family brought the information to him easily enough. All he had to do was ask and he found himself outside of a private room.
There was a hollow ache in his chest as he scanned the ward, only to find Jiang Cheng staring back incredulously. Of course the heir of an illustrious family did not share a room. In his rush, he asked: “Where is Wei—”
“How should I know?” Jiang Cheng said. “Whether I know or not, why is it any of your business?”
“He is my friend,” he said, but really wanted to shout because ‘my heart has left my chest and is wandering out of sight’.
Jiang Cheng hissed, “Well, I’d be surprised if he wasn’t just ash now.”
At the same time his heart sank, his blood boiled at the off-the-cuff remark. Logically, he’s aware that people handle death in different ways but anyone deserved better than for their death to be spoken about like that. It wasn’t as if Wei Wuxian was a stray that the Jiang family had picked up that had finally wandered off.
He can be forgiven for growling: “He deserved better than you.”
“What do you know!”
Before their disagreement could come to a boil, the blaring cacophony of machinery called over nurses, who chased Lan Wangji out for upsetting a patient.
To this day, Lan Wangji cannot bring himself to regret antagonizing a patient. After all, his moon deserves the sky and the stars when it seems that all he ever received from others seemed to not even reach the horizon.
If he was capable of reading Wei Wuxian’s mind now, he wouldn’t say this but it had always been Wei Wuxian for him. It has always been true that he never liked Jiang Cheng and that Lan Wangji’s dislike for Jiang Cheng had always sprouted from the fact that that place beside Wei Wuxian had naturally belonged to someone other than him. Despite all of his training, Lan Wangji was merely a wolf yearning for his moon, so he cannot be blamed for finding fault with Jiang Cheng now.
#Winding Moonrise#Wangxian#MDZS#wick writes#In case it wasn't clear the event that's reference is an alternate version of the Bloodbath at the Night + destruction of the Burial Mounds#I found like half of this in my drafts and wrote the other half#In my original idea 3 years ago I think this was supposed to be a flashback inside of a fshback inside of a flashback#Yes ao3's ddos attack had me shaking my WIPs for stuff I could still write and post w/o ao3
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So while listening to Episode 6's case, I remembered that during the early premiere stream Jonny and Alex talked about Needles a bit. So I figured I'd put them together to make a nice little intro for Needles because I fell in love with him immediately.
#the magnus protocol#the magnus protocol spoilers#tmp#tmp spoilers#tmagp#needles#jonny sims#alexander j newall#my audio#let bloody hear it for#harry roebuck#what an incredible performance#i can see how that would convince alex if the writing wasnt enough#because wow#absolutely wicked#i hope we get to hear from needles again in the future
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watch out!
#ultrakill#didnt think id make anymore but...but something wicked.... hehe#something wicked#was gonna write 'from something wicked' & 'to v1' on there but thats a little too indulgent. sorry!#gen art#valentines#tag for safekeeping all my own cards
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diet mountain dew; john wick/fem!reader (smut, 18+)
dating john wick - the playlist
The Boogeyman is out to get you. Little does he know, that you too are willing to do quite a bunch of things just to stay alive.
warnings: blood, guns, knives, injuries, physical violence/fighting, assassination attempt; dub-con, rough sex, unprotected sex, fingering, oral (female receiving), choking, dirty talk, spanking, a lot of manhandling bc for the love of god he doesn't know how to be soft anymore, gun kink, knife kink, size kink, strength kink, squirting, body worship if you blink, is this hate-fucking? idk; john has a horse cock change my mind; john is in his 50s, the reader is in her 20s; set somewhere after the series i guess? (I refuse to accept he's dead); problematic family relationship as a plot device; let's all collectively ignore the fact that he would actually never touch another woman or even dare to catch the smallest of feelings again; john gets off on the violence
word count: 10,6 k
thank you mel for a) listening to my ramblings and b) reading a good chunk of the first third of this dumpster fire and still going nuts about it, kissies and thank you v for listening to my keanu ramblings without losing faith in me
You wonder, if praying will help you. Probably not.
The sound of carnage, screams and gunshots in the hallway abruptly stops. You hear the assailant's heavy footsteps echoing off the floorboards outside of your hotel room mere seconds before the door bursts open, flies out of its hinges and rattles to the ground, wood creaking and breaking, splinters flying everywhere.
There had been a hit out on you for two days and every single soldier in your father's militia was ready to defend your life with their own.
Literally. You can tell by the man entering your suite.
You can tell by just how much he is covered in blood. You can tell by the way it drips down his forehead and how it soaks his white shirt - even the soles of his shoes creak with it. You can tell by the way he is totally and utterly drenched in red red red, and because you are certain it is not his.
They literally gave their life for you. The thought hits you like a blow to the head. People have died because of you. Fathers, brothers, sons. You recall your last conversation with your own father. They want us dead, they put out a contract on us - you had never seen him so nervous, so disheveled. What does that mean - his anxiety had been washing over you in seeping hot waves, sending cold shivers down your spine. It means, I need you out of the house - now.
Nausea bubbles in your stomach as the man now approaches you, casually strolls into the suite with his finger on the trigger of the gun dangling from his hand and you stare back at him - a deer in the headlights, frozen by fear in the eyes of its deadly predator. One of your father's men jumps from his cover, fires a shot and gets hit back with one straight between his eyes. It happens so quickly, that you can't turn your head away. You see the bullet piercing his forehead, blood splattering as soon as it exits the skull on the other side. His head flies back a little, and then his body goes limp, slack, as he falls to the ground with a heavy thud.
You want to scream. You want to vomit. You want to run. But there is nowhere to run to, nowhere to hide from him.
There's only one soldier left with you in the suite now and he is hiding around the corner, near the bathroom. The stranger - the assassin, the killer - does not lower the gun again, and does not let his eyes stray from you as he carefully enters the room. You feel terribly exposed, dressed only in your negligée, not daring to move.
Now, that the dim light of the suite's living room strikes his face, you can finally see him, see the man who has come to end you. He is older than you, maybe nearly twice your age, with dark hair and even darker eyes, matching his black suit. Lean and athletic, chest heaving slightly with physical exhaustion. The Boogeyman.
You do not know who or what you had expected, what cruel and dreadful images your brain had conjured up in the past 48 hours - 48 frightful hours of being moved around from hideout to hideout by your father's men, not staying in one place longer than necessary - but it certainly was not that. Not him. He is a lot more handsome than his reputation has led on. Seeing him on the subway around rush hour you would have never suspected him to be in this business. He looks nice. And that is exactly what makes him dangerous.
You have heard his name before. Echoing from the walls. Baba Yaga. Whispered with both: fear and respect. The Boogeyman. Blurted out: like a curse or like a blessing. Mister Wick: like redemption, like damnation. Jonathan, the king's son walking the earth as the devil.
John. The sound of his name is oddly human - disturbingly human - for someone looking as calm and collected, focused and concentrated as he does right now, while being drenched in blood and pointing a gun at you.
You must have said his name out loud, because his eyebrows twitch irritatedly, a movement so quick you barely missed it - must've sound desperate too, then.
Vision zeroing in on the barrel of his gun, your hands clutch the sofa's edge. There is so much adrenaline pumping through your veins right now that it freezes your limbs, has your ears ringing. The only thing responding to your brain fully are your eyes, and they snap away from the gun and over to the remaining soldier. It's a quick look, not even a second, but the hitman seems to recognize it and - with near inhumane speed - flicks his gun, and fires two shots. Blood splatters against the white door as the shots pin the soldier's body against it, and is it finally drops to the ground heavily it leaves a nasty trail, all wet and sticky and red.
Could be you.
You want to scream, but your body does not belong to you anymore, does not respond to your commands. It is a desperate, cruel sound that leaves your throat instead as you flinch with the sound of the gun being fired.
"Let's make this quick" his voice is gravelly and rough, like he has seen a thousand grim things and the pain of it has etched its way into his throat, left a nasty mark on every tone that ever dared to cross after.
That is when your fight or flight suddenly kicks in. Well, more specifically, it kicks in while he is speaking, as he starts to swap the empty clip of his gun.
He underestimates you. Everyone does. Your father, your brother. The countless men lying dead littered across the hotel's 25th floor. It will be his mistake.
You latch forward, grabbing the vase from the coffee table in front of you. The weight of it in your hand drags you down.
With all the strength you can muster, which is quite a lot considering the massive amounts of adrenaline that are currently amping up your body - you throw it at him. It connects with his forehead sharply; a deep, irritated noise bursting from his throat as it crashes, splinters and falls to the floor.
You are braver, braver than you should be as your assault does not end there, your body pushing you forward, leaping over the table and crashing into his broad shoulders.
I will not die today
Body ramming into his, he stumbles, as your fist connects with his chin. You have only been partially trained in hand-to-hand combat, after pleading your brother for months until he eventually gave in. Sadly, he wasn't nearly as thorough and honest with it as he was training his drug dealer and gun runners. But now, it is the only thing you can rely on.
There is nothing else; no one else left alive in that building who might be able to help you. It is up to you. So, you might as well try.
And Oh, does desperation fire up your blood.
I will not die today
The diversion does not last long and he - John John John only human only human only human - grabs you by you waist hard, fingers digging into your flesh and into the expensive silk, before he slams your body into the ground. All air leaves your lungs with a dull sound erupting from your chest, just as pain blooms around your ribs.
You cough and he looks down at you, confusion making his brows twitch, before cold-hearted determination takes over once more. John aims his gun at you once more, pulls back the hammer and you do not even think about it, your leg rising as you kick against his hand. The shot misses, buries itself deep into the expensive carpet a few inches next to your skull. You have no time to do either: panic or sigh in relief; instead, you deliver him a kick to his stomach, fighting yourself back onto your feet, punching him straight in the face.
John grunts and grabs your wrist, but you see it coming and throw yourself into his wide frame, wrapping your other arm around his back and thus hooking it underneath his right shoulder, dislocating his arm and preventing him from aiming his gun at you. You claw onto him as he twists your arm close to his stomach, while you wrap your legs around him, making it harder for John to shake you off.
I will not die today
You kick and dig the heel of your foot into his thighs and the back of his knees and he grunts and buckles a little, but turns wild and relentless quicker than you can blink, throws the two of you into the next wall. You gasp sharply as your back connects with the large mirror, splinters digging into your back - not deep enough to actually cut skin, but it stings nonetheless, the impact making you dizzy.
Sharp pain shoots through your back and your neck, but you are not willing to give up yet, as raw energy and rage and desperation surges through your body - one of your legs coming loose and your knee hitting his stomach repeatedly, making John grunt in pain and you use your momentum to dig your hand deep into his back, holding onto him and then swirling out of the deadlock he has got you in, jumping his back like a monkey.
His gun clatters to the ground and for a split second, the room falls silent. Then, roaring like an animal gone wild, he grabs your calves and slams his back into the nearest wall, has you screaming with the impact. You can feel blood pouring from your nose, feel it trickling down your lips.
I will not die today
John is stronger than you are, so so much stronger - the apex predator: all muscle, unbreakable focus and the sheer will to kill. But you are not only a little quicker; you also really want to stay alive. It is a force he rarely encounters. And quite frankly, it irritates him.
He may be older than you, taller than you and stronger than you but you have something he does not have: you actually still got something to lose.
And you fight like it, too. All scratches and sharp yells, as you punch and scrabble at his shoulders and tear at his tie, trying to strangle him with it. John is struggling against it, gasping for air and winding beneath your assault and then his grip around your claves grows hard like iron, seconds before he pulls - throws you over his head like you weigh nothing. You land on the expensive carpet with a heavy thud - groaning as you crash onto your side with sharp pain shooting through your shoulder, down your ribcage.
I will not die today
John sputters and stumbles forward, looking for his gun but you are quicker, kicking it away with your foot. It clatters back onto and slides over the wooden floorboards.
For a second you consider your choices, fighting yourself back onto your feet but John - a practiced and seasoned fighter - beats you to it and lands a blow to your upper back, sends you back down with him - a mess of sputtering saliva and painful groans. His body topples onto yours and he quickly rolls the two of you over the floor.
John is heavy and warm on top of you, as he keeps you in a tight headlock, your chest pressed to the floor and neck bend in a painful angle. He presses his strong forearm down onto your windpipe and you choke and cough, feet kicking, hands dragging across the wood, clawing at it feebly.
You can feel his breath on your cheek, hot and damp. You can feel his torso pressing against your back as he kneels behind you.
I will not die today
Mustering all your remaining strength, you trash against him, ramming your backside into his stomach. He grunts and for a split second, his grip loosens. It is all you need. Throwing your elbow back, you hit him in the chest and he caves in.
You cough, crawling forward and then scrambling back onto your feet, one of your negligée’s straps falling down your shoulder in the process. You hastily pull it back up, seconds before John launches a cascade of punches onto you.
A few of them hit you as you try to block them; dull pain igniting in your body, blooming in your face and arms. Your breath goes heavy as you stumble backwards. You cannot do this. There is no way. You just physically can't.
He is stronger. Taller. Heavier. Deadlier. Your body and every single muscle, bone, nerve in it aches and you wheeze but he is already onto you again, half-tackles you and grabs your waist, ready to smash you back onto the ground.
You cling onto him with all your remaining strength, struggling against his huge frame, wrapping your hands around his neck in an attempt to get him to stumble.
His hair tingles on your naked arms. Oh wait --
Tearing at his hair - which has him grunting in both, pain, and irritation at the unusual attempt - you clumsily pull yourself up onto his shoulders, cutting his face right above his eyebrow with your nails in the process until you finally wrap one leg around his throat and close it around there tightly, choking him. John tries to pull you off him and succeeds after quite the tussle, only to find your frame clinging to him, legs and arms wrapping around his body, hands scratching and feet kicking.
I will not fucking die today
In an attempt to either get rid of each other or submit the last blow, to finally kill the other, you two swirl through the room - a deadly dance of torn skin, smashed glass panes and mirrors, bruises and cuts. Somewhere in between kicks and punches, he managed to pick up his gun - and right now, you are mustering all of your exhausted strength to prevent the barrel from pressing against your skull.
Eventually, John crashes your bodies through a large wooden door, and is not quick enough - unable to stop his own oxe-like strength - to stop himself from stumbling into the room. The two of you only come a halt as his knees hit something soft and ironically that is what finally topples both of you over, landing onto the mattress of your bedroom with a soft thud and deep, exhausted grunts.
Your ears ring, and you are ready to lash out at him again despite the physical exhaustion, to strike him square across the face, as --
There is something hard pressing against your crotch.
The world falls silent.
No. No, there's no fucking way. It's got to bea hidden weapon. Must be.
But clearly, it is not. There, between your spread legs, his hard cock presses snugly against your panty-clad pussy.
And he just feels so huge - mouth-watering huge - that your body responds in its own way, hips snapping up, stuttering against the hard bulge. John lets go off a shaky, ragged breath, hand still clutching his gun. And you know, that this is your window.
Feeling the warmth that his body and his hard dick are radiating through his expensive suit, you roll your hips once - a languid, slow motion, rubbing your pussy over his bulge.
And he groans. A deep, primal sound that sounds a little coarse. John is looking at you, starring you down, but there is a shadow dancing over his eyes, turning his brown eyes into deep and dark, black pits that gives him away.
He is horny. The Boogeyman is fucking horny. You would laugh, if the realization wasn't knocking all air straight from your lungs. Because it just another reminder, proof of what he actually is: human.
And what a sight he is to see - eyes turning darker every second, his chest heaving with every breath and making it seem like his shirt is going to pop a button or two any second now, his cock prodding against its restraints and your clothed cunt.
It makes you want him. The thought leaves you dizzy, makes you gasp.
Apparently, that is all he needs to roll his hips back into yours. And that - that is just unfair. It's playing dirty. It's, it's -- His dick feels huge as it trails along your folds, has the muscles in your abdomen clenching.
"Fuck", you breathe, a little overwhelmed with and helpless at the sudden surge of lust that ignites your body, the wetness pooling between your legs.
John is not saying anything, just stares you down while he continues to slooowly roll his hips into yours, grinds his cock against your cunt. Your pelvis twitches upward as you start to meet his movements, and then you can hear it. He let's go of a deep breath, and it sounds like the faintest moan.
You need to hear more of that. You need more of him, your cunt aching and hole clenching around nothing already.
"John", and this time you say his name - consciously - it sounds a different way of desperate: your voice reduced to a small whisper, torn at the edges by a wanton whimper ripping from your throat.
If it throws him off-guard he does not show it, does not let you see it. Instead, he grabs your chin hard, gaze locking with yours. Dark pupils blown wide, swallowing the honey-brown of his eyes, and your breath hitches.
"Yeah?", he rasps, and it does not take more than one long look from you for him to lean in, to press his lips onto yours.
The kiss tastes of blood and adrenaline and doom, and you relish in it. Relishing the way his lips move against yours and his beard tickles a little, relishing how his tongue presses into your mouth. It feels like he is eating you whole, licking into your mouth, one hand dancing over your waist - featherlight, like he doesn't know how to touch a body without hurting someone, destroying someone.
I will not die today, motherfucker
Your whole body now sings with it, the security of an impending victory, as you roll your hips into his once more, your tongue now licking back into his mouth. For a second you think about how to strike again, now that he is seemingly distracted, but all will to fight leaves your body as one of his hands brushes over your knee, wanders further and eventually rests on your thigh.
The touch is electrifying and then his hand grows braver, his movements more certain, as he grabs your thigh, feels you up. It happens so suddenly, that you gasp into the kiss.
John parts from you, his lips a little plush already. "Oh God", you whisper as you stare Death Turned Human straight in the face, not a single thought remaining in your skull despite your lust.
He doesn't speak, as he gently let’s go off your leg and straightens back up and for a second you think he is going to hurt you, with the way his brows are furrowed - but he doesn't.
Instead, he moves in, right over your comparably tiny frame - a mountain of a man. John kneels above you, his weight pinning you down while he straddles your thighs and Jesus fucking Christ - what a sight he is to see.
Dark locks falling into his forehead, a little sticky with sweat and the bits of blood from the cut your nails gave him moments ago - right above his left eyebrow, still lazily trickling down into his lashes. His chest heaves with ragged breaths, as he hastily gets rid of his jacket, carelessly drops it to the ground. His black button-down clings to his muscular body underneath his waistcoat and his equally as muscular thighs pin you down to the bed, black fabric nearly tearing at the seams. And then there is his hard cock.
It looks as huge as it felt, with the way it bulges his pants, the outline of it clearly visible as it buckles proudly against its restraints. You are certain, you will not be able to close your hand around it fully - not a chance.
One of his hands - the one lacking a finger, which you only now notice and what sends shivers down your spine - wanders over your body, pulling your negligée down in the process, right tit spilling out of the soft silk. He immediately grabs it, cups it with his large hand and squeezes. You mewl, marveling at just how big his hand is, just as his whole body is in comparison to you. His fucked-up finger digs into the flesh, sending shivers down your spine.
John's hand gropes your tit, before he impatiently pulls the neckline down roughly. You sigh, arousal shooting down your spine and tingling in your lower belly, as two of his fingers nudge your nipple, pinch it.
He watches your face intently, as he continues to grope you, rolls your nipple between his fingers. You mewl, breath accelerating a little but it is just not enough and you buck your hips upwards. John grunts in, what you assume is an approving manner, and let's go off your tit, reaches to his belt at his loins.
Quickly pulling a knife from God-knows-where exactly, a sharp blade enters your vision.
You blink, panic seeping through your lust and your legs twitch a little with fear. If John notices it, he neither shows it nor does he say anything, just moves the knife closer to your body.
The blade shines in the dim light as it dances over your exposed thighs carefully, the metal cooly pressing against your skin, before he flicks it and cuts your negligée open. The thin, soft fabric cleanly cut in half it now lazily slides from your aching body, falls to its sides. Your chest heaves, shivers running down your arms and back.
It happens so quickly that you can only blink. As your brain finally catches up with your eyes, you come to realize that he is holding a real fucking tactical knife. You have thrown one once - they are sharp as hell and deadlier than a bullet. The sound of fabric tearing easily, like paper, proves your point.
And John's movements with the blade are so fast that your breath hitches, a little afraid he might cut you. But he does not, instead, he quickly pulls the torn silk off you and away from under you, carelessly tosses it into the dark of the room.
The edge of the blade dances over your skin and you do not dare to breathe, as he trails it up and down your curves, gently nudges your nipples. "I could kill you", he says calmly and then, in lightning speed, presses the blade into the crook of your neck. Your head sinks back into the mattress, in an instinct to flee the sharp edge.
All it does is to expose your neck further and something gleams in John's eyes, as he presses the sharp tip down slowly, carefully nudging your skin with it. The metal is cold and hard and sharp and your breath hitches. Just a little bit more and it might burst your skin, draw blood.
But, to your own confusion, you do not feel threatened anymore. Oddly enough, your nerves tingle with excitement. You blame it on the already high levels of adrenaline that still pump through your veins, rushing back and forth from your brain and your lungs, but a small voice inside of your head whisper gently, deviously, that you know That's not it. And he knows it, too.
It's in his eyes as well, the sheer excitement of it all, the fucked-up pleasure it evokes in the both of you lays heavy in the air.
It turns you fucking on. It turns you on, that the man who - minutes ago - tried you kill you and did hurt you very fucking badly in the process of it, now decides to let you live.
It turns you on, that you are at his mercy.
It turns you on, that he decided to spare you - just for now.
It turns you on, that these large and strong hands holding the knife have that sort of power over you. And thus, as the blade nudges your head back further, you moan.
"I could cut your throat", John's voice is heavy and thick with arousal and you can feel your heartbeat picking up, breath accelerating. His gaze drops down, watches the rapid rising and falling of your breasts hungrily, while another soft moan escapes from your lips.
"Don't", you breathe softly.
The knife practically burns on your skin, and you can feel arousal flooding your clothed pussy, rubbing your thighs together for any sort of friction. John can feel your squirming underneath him, but he can also see your eyes turning watery and dark with lust, pupils blown and a pretty pink spreading on your cheeks, your breath growing shallow. And he just really needs to fucking taste you right now.
As quickly as it appeared, the blade vanishes from your throat before he twirls the knife like the ruthless, reckless professional that he is, and buries it deep to the hilt in the mattress next to you. The sharp sound as it pierces the thick fabric has the hairs on your body standing up, goosebumps rolling over your skin.
"I'll do it later", he rumbles - casually, like he is talking about doing chores or picking up groceries - before hunching over you, grabbing your chin with his fucked-up hand, and kissing you again. His tongue immediately pushes into your mouth, like he is starving to taste you.
John eats you whole, with the way his lips move against yours. His hand cups your face, tongue licking into your mouth, toying with yours. His kiss steals your breath and you start to get dizzy with it, hips bucking. You can feel his lips curling up and then he parts from you, leaving you a gasping mess, spit pooling at the corners of your mouth.
"Let me touch you, John", you whisper, voice a little small because you do not know why you feel that way, and if he will even allow it. But you just need to feel him.
For a long moment his gaze dances over your face and something shifts behind his eyes, like a shadow gets lifted and then very quickly returns. Ultimately, he gives a court nod, so small you nearly miss it and gives you a little more room while straightening back up.
Carefully, as if not to spook him, you dart one hand out, place it on his chest. The muscle is firm underneath his suit and you run your hand along the lapel of his jacket, down and then back up, before it slips beneath it.
John's body radiates warmth under the black fabric of his shirt and your other hand comes up, before you shove the jacket off his shoulders and onto the floor next to the bed.
Your breath hitches.
He is wearing a holster, a reminder of his deadliness, of the gun laying somewhere next to you. Maybe, he sees the fear returning in your eyes, but he is quick to shrug the holster off, throws it into the dark where it clatters onto the wooden floor boards. What is left in front of you are broad shoulders and a muscular chest, the fabric nearly tearing at his movements.
As you run your hands over it, you cannot help yourself - you need to fucking feel him for real.
Quickly making work of his waistcoat and tie you toss both to the side carelessly, before your hands roam his broad chest. His button-down clings snugly against his upper body and you can feel the muscles work beneath the black fabric as your hands brush over them. You tug at the shirt, pulling its tails from his pants before hastily opening the first few buttons. The skin underneath is pale, littered by blue - red - black bruises, birthmarks scattered in between like stars. You pop open the rest of the buttons, greedy to touch him. And as the shirt falls to the sides your hands are already onto his chest, roaming over and admiring the muscular, defined canvas of strength, that violence has painted a pretty picture on.
John is watching you intently as you undress him and then explore his body, your pupils blown wide and dark, mouth agape a little. He is a little taken aback by it - by someone not seeing his body as the ultimate tool of death that it is, but as something else, that he cannot really pinpoint because he can't even look in the mirror without seeing destruction and decay. But the way your gaze wanders over his body, the way you touch him, is different from that and he has not felt anything like it in years.
And John wants. Carnal desire tugs at his brain, shoots arousal between his legs, makes his cock twitch and a low growl escaping his throat.
The sound gets you going: pushing yourself up with one hand, the other wrapping around his strong neck for leverage as you sit up, mouth immediately clutching to his throat. He tastes of sweat and after-shave - sharp and musky - and you run your tongue over his skin greedily, licking and sucking at the skin while your naked body presses against his.
It disarms him. The gentle touch that you put his body up to, while everything still aches from plowing through the better half of your father's militia and beating the hell out of you, confuses him. Your touch, your lips on his skin are soft and not aiming to hurt - instead, they grow more and more needy, wanton and hasty, as you lick over his bruised skin, tasting his sweat. Your hands over his abdomen caress his defined muscles, in awe of his utter strength, thumbs brushing through the soft and dark trail of hair leading beneath the waistband of his trousers. And all John can do, is watch, his gaze locking with yours as goosebumps erupt on his skin.
And you - oh you; your head swims with the way you turn this animal into a human again, unlock a different set of animalistic needs within him and hearing John's breath growing heavy really fucking does it for you, feeling his scarred and beaten-up skin underneath your hands, wrapping them around the deadly machine that is his body. It makes you want more.
Shedding his blood-stained shirt off of his shoulders, your hands roam over his upper back - feeling the scars there: of knives, larger and small ones and round ones of bullets that once pierced his skin. There is something else, a burn scar, in the shape of a cross and he hisses as your fingers brush over it, nails digging into the stunted skin.
It pulls John out of his stasis, reminds him of who he is and you can feel the air swinging with it seconds before he moves. His large hands wrap around your shoulders and then he pulls you off him, throws you back onto the mattress. You yelp, eyes growing wide as you watch his face as it turns from lightly dazed back to stern, wild, with his brows furrowed.
"That's enough", he says, voice coarse and it still feels like a small victory, even though he spreads your legs roughly, hands digging deep into your thighs - hard enough to bruise - before he kneels between them. He yanks your body forward at the back of your knees, watches your tits bounce and then leans in, his lips immediately attacking your throat, your neck.
His lips are surprisingly soft against your skin, his beard tickling a little as it brushes over your tits, your stomach, your thighs while his tongue licks fat stripes over your nipples and down down down your upper body, right to your navel. One of his hands creeps up your body once more and roughly cups your tit, squeezes, and gropes it, rolls your hardened nipple between his index and middle finger. His stunted ring-finger digs deep into your tit and you gasp, hips bucking. John's lips suck and nibble at your skin, before eventually ghosting over your pubic bone, teasing you before assaulting your thighs again, teeth biting down gently into the soft flesh. You gasp and moan while he gropes your body, inhales your scent - as you watch how his lips, tongue, and teeth dance over your thighs, moving closer to your cunt.
John finally, finally, puts his mouth onto your pussy, peppers open-mouthed kisses around your clit, before clothing his lips around it and sucking on it hard through your panties. Your hips buck as a high-pitched moan erupts from your throat, hands flying into his greying locks.
"Fuck", you whine, feeling fresh wetness flooding your folds, dampening the thin fabric further. John can see the outlines of your wet pussy pressing against your panties and parts from your clit momentarily, only to lick a fat stripe over your clothed cunt, watching it twitch.
"That's fucking pretty", he rasps, gaze locking with yours and you feel all air leaving your lungs. His eyes are so fucking dark, like gleaming black pits swallowing you whole, his breath a little flat with arousal.
You want him to fuck you. Really fuck you. To plow you open, rail you until you cannot sit nor walk. He is already so so close to you, but too far away at the same time. "Please", is all you manage to utter out. And it seems to be sufficient enough for him; seems to get across what you want, what you need.
John's fingers wrap around the front of your lace slip, tugging at the fabric - that rubs along your cunt at the sudden motion and has you gasping quietly - and then he pulls. The lace tears easily as he rips it apart, and cool air hits your wet and hot pussy, as he practically peels you out of your underwear, throws it to the side. The look on his face is wild and you can hear him taking a deep breath, smelling your arousal, before he spreads your folds apart with his thumbs, gaze wandering over your plump and flushed cunt.
Teasingly brushing over your clit with his thumb, John watches your reaction intently. And fuck, you do not disappoint. Throwing your head back, you moan, drawing in a deep breath through your opened mouth that heaves your chest, your eyelids fluttering.
You are dying for him to touch you and as he does, it feels like your body catches fire - lust washing away the dull pain in your limbs and near your ribs.
"Oh God", you breathe out as his thumb draws another wide and slow circle over your clit, your hands darting out and grabbing the sheets "Please."
And John complies, his thumb rubbing over your clit in a slow but steady rhythm.
Gasping, your hands clutch the sheets, knees darting away from each other, giving him more space. John accepts the invitation, grabs one thigh hard, fucked up ring-finger digging deep into your skin. His fingers move further, abandons your clit and dance over your folds, down to your hole. It flutters as two of his digits tease it, gently circling around it.
"Please", you whine once more, lifting your hips a little, a desperate noise leaving your throat. John smirks to himself, before pushing two of his fingers into you.
The stretch is sudden and bigger than expected and you moan coarsely, as he pushes his digits along your walls deeply and nestles them into your seeping hot cunt up to his knuckles. And Jesus, you feel so full already; your head swimming as you consider how big his cock must feel, then.
Your breath goes quick and shallowly as he starts to move them, and then he leans in. Nudges your clit with the tip of his tongue, licks over it.
You feel like combusting on the spot: your nerves tingling with arousal, your whole body still aching from the beating you gave each other earlier - the pain in your back blooming as you stretch it with your hips desperately shoving themselves near his touch - your pussy squeezing his fingers.
John pumps his thick fingers in and out of you, his tongue rubbing and circling your clit and soft, needy moans fall from your lips. Obscene, wet sounds fill the air, mingle with your moans and heavy breathing. His lips close in around your clit, sucking at it while his fingers rub along your spongy walls and your cunt squeezes them hard as fresh wetness floods your folds, your squirt wetting his beard and dripping down on the sheets below.
You can hear - feel - John humming against your pussy, peppering the wet skin with open mouthed kisses, licking over it, and tasting your slick.
You feel so fucking good - lust pulsating through your veins, loins on fire - and your head falls to the side, body rocking with sharp gasps and your mouth agape, eyelids fluttering as --
There's the gun. And the knife.
You could easily grab either one or the other next to you, pull the blade out of the matress or the hammer back; put a bullet right between his eyes or plow the blade deep deep into his skull. Killing the Boogeyman. Killing Baba Yaga.
That would do wonders to your family's business. It would emancipate you from it, you would be free. Free to rule.
"Thinking 'bout killing me?", John rumbles, tongue licking a fat stripe over your cunt, nudging your clit. Your gaze flickers back to him: hair a mess, eyes gleaming darkly, hands on your thighs to keep your legs spread. He does not look surprised. Neither does he look worried.
Realization hits you like a blow to the head: he is toying with you. Has been the whole fucking time. The wolf hunting the deer, running a few rounds through the woods to weaken it; its breath whistling with exhaustion, long legs buckling before it collapses - an easy kill. An easy kill for an old wolf, one, that can't quite handle a real hunt anymore.
But maybe, just maybe - judging from the look in his eyes - he got lost in his own game. Its reins slipped from his bloody hands, the wolf tumbling to the ground.
Looking back at him, your lips curl into a sweet smile. "Not anymore", your hand darts out, brushing the loose strands of dark hair from his face - the soft gesture leaving him visibly confused -, "John."
Two can play this game. And maybe, just maybe, the deer can tire the wolf out first.
Something gleams in John's eyes, dances over them like a shadow and he seems to accept the challenge - readying to tire you out - tongue licking over your clit once more, making you shiver and mewl, as he pulls his fingers out of your dripping hole. You feel empty and --
"Do you really think, you could kill me?", he rumbles, voice deep and rough around the edges, "Stupid slut."
And then, quicker than your brain can process it, his hand comes down on your dripping wet pussy.
Your breath hitches, topples over and leaves your throat as a raw, needy moan. Softly stinging pain blooms between your folds and sets your nerves on fire. Blame it on the bruises, blame it on the pain you both inflicted on each other moments ago, but: it riles you up. Mingles with your aching bones and aching cunt, has you arching your back.
"Y'really think you could kill me", he doesn't sound offended, not even amused - voice plain, like he is inquiring if you really believed the earth to be flat. Like you really are stupid.
And you start to feel stupid, too. There was never a chance. You never had a chance. Your death was sealed, determined the second John stepped into the hotel.
You were stupid to believe you could outrun or beat him. You are stupid. And John has every right to show you, teach you, punish you for it.
Giving your cunt another firm slap, John watches your hips twitch, hears your pussy squelching and soft moans falling from your lips. "Shit", you sigh and he slaps your wet pussy once more, feels your slick folds wetting the palm of his hand.
"D'you like that, girl?", and as your only response are wanton gasps falling from your mouth John chuckles deeply, gives your pulsating cunt another two firm slaps. Seeing how he is pulling you apart, how good he makes you feel really seems to do it for him, gets him quite talkative.
"Uh-huh", you make dumbly, quite illiterate, watching him stroking your flushed, hot cunt with two of his fingers. Shivers run down your spine.
And then he leans back in, licks a fat stripe over your sensitive, flushed cunt, from the hole up to the clit.
You squirm, mewl as his beard brushes over your overstimulated skin, leaving a slight burn that mingles deliciously with a fresh wave of arousal that floods your body scalp to toes.
The muscles in your abdomen clench as two of his fingers circle your fluttering hole and then push in, rubbing along your plush walls agonizingly slowly and you can feel yourself tightening around it. Your juices squelch from your cunt as you squirt against his tongue and your slick runs down your folds, wets his fingers and palm while his tongue laps at your pussy, tasting your sweetness.
John pushes is fingers deeper as you moan and sigh, hands fisting his hair and hips moving against his tongue, his digits thrusting into you.
"Oh god", you huff as his lips close in around your clit, sucking on it and the tip of his tongue flicking against it occasionally.
Another wave of fresh wetness floods your cunt as you squirt once more, wetting the sheets below, your slick running down John's wrist.
John parts from your clit, nudges it with his tongue, his beard glistening with your juices.
"Yeah, that's fucking it", another one of his thick fingers pumps itself into your tight little hole and his other hand - also slick with your juices - grabs your thigh, "That's a good girl."
You feel so full, your spine feels like it's on fire and your brain tingles with it, sends wave of pleasure down down down your body; muscles in your loins clenching, chest heaving. It becomes all too much as he leans back in, rubs his tongue over your clit, lips sucking and teasing your folds.
The slight burn of John's beard tickling your plush, hot cunt. His fingers working your open and stretching your tight little hole open far and wide, obscene squelching sounds filling the air as he works you open, brushing against your g-spot occasionally and making you see stars.
But it's too little. It's just not enough.
"Fuck", you whine as John's thick fingers brush over your g-spot with quite some force, tongue lapping at your seeping cunt, "Shit, please. Please, just fuck me, please!"
You can feel him grinning against your wet cunt, beard a little sticky with your juices, letting go of your pussy with an obscene pop. "Yeah", he licks his lips, tastes you on his tongue, "D'you want my cock?"
And that - that might be what makes you lose your mind. Because yes. Yes, you do.
You have been craving to touch it, to feel it since it had pressed against your clothed pussy earlier. Thus, all dignity leaves your body with one, clean whine that breaks free from your throat.
"Yes, fuck - oh god, John", you brabble, legs falling apart further, inviting him in, his digits sinking deeper into your soaking wet hole, "Shit, please fuck me, John - please, please, please --"
Pleas are still falling from your lips like a chant, as a surprising noise breaks the silence, so strangely beautiful that it has you nearly shuddering: John is laughing. It's a nice baritone sound, and the fine lines around his eyes crinkle with it - it's so beautiful, that it drowns the world out. You watch him in awe, as he shakes his head, avoids your gaze.
"Jesus. Look at you", he huffs, voice dripping thickly with amusement, "If you need it that badly--"
Straightening back up and kneeling between your legs, John slips his fingers from your cunt and makes quick work of his belt, trousers, and boxers. The second he frees is cock, you start to drool like a fucking pavlovian-dog.
His dick is so fucking huge. It is nicely curved and cut, the bulbous pink head glistening with pre-cum and a thick, pumping vein at the bottom that rakes from the base to the tip, as it rests between trimmed, dark pubic hair. His cock bobs against his abdomen as it bounces free, smears the pre-cum along the pale skin, twitches at the sudden contact. And Jesus fucking Christ, you just want to fucking touch it, feel its velvety skin in your palm. But you just know that you won't even be able to wrap your hand around its base fully, it's impossible, it--
"I-it won't fit", you whisper, a little taken aback by his sheer size.
"Oh, I'll make it fit, baby."
John takes his cock in one hand, thumb right beneath its head, and rubs it against your slit. And Jesus fucking Christ. Your hips snap up, meet his movements, and he grunts while he spreads his pre-cum along your cunt, gathers your slick. The thick head of his dick prods against your entrance and you take a deep breath, looking down between your legs. You watch how he slooowly pushes in and you gasp at the sudden intrusion, the delicious stretch making you moan.
His cock feels so fucking big, hot, and heavy, as he nestles the tip in, your hole clenching around it. John's brows furrow, and he doesn't wait long until he pushes his cock in further.
The thick base starts to stretch your slim rings of muscles, a sharp pain shooting through it. He can feel your hole protesting, can see you wincing. "Breathe, baby", he hums, "Let me do the rest."
His coarse voice mingles with his words and the waves of pleasure shooting through your body despite the dull pain, conjures up a pretty pretty image that floods your brain - there's sunlight everywhere, orange rays of it hitting a bed covered in white sheets, sweaty bodies on top of it; limbs entangled, hands intertwined with their golden rings shining brightly in the warm light, heavy breathing and sloppy kisses, and lazy thrusts as his cock fucks you awake. The thought makes you dizzy, your legs falling apart and hole fluttering open, inviting him in.
The slight burn leaves you a gasping, whimpering mess as he pushes himself in deep, nestles his huge cock in between your aching, hot, and tight walls.
And John feels like he is going to pass out. No blow to the head, no bullet to the chest, no knife to the stomach could ever make him feel as dizzy as the feeling of your hot cunt squeezing him does right now. His whole body is vibrating with want and lust and he just really hopes that you don't notice that he has gotten a little rusty. The thought quickly gets drowned-out as he looks down, where his thick cock practically splits you open, vanishes in your hole.
"Shit", he huffs out, places one large hand on your stomach and thrusts. Feeling himself moving inside of you has him moaning, gaze shooting up to you, meeting your eyes, as his hand presses down. "You feel me right here, baby?", he rasps and you nod, mouth agape by the sheer force of his thrust, tip of his cock prodding your cervix.
John can see his cock moving inside of you, the way your stomach bulges a little. He gets a little dizzy with, and then his eyes make the mistake of moving up to your face. And it takes a whole lot of fucking will-power of him to not just thrust and thrust and thrust and fuck you until you cry, bleed.
You are so fucking pretty. Mouth agape you watch how his cock vanishes between your legs, splits your cunt open, with his eyes heavy-lidded and cheeks flushed. Your lips are plush and red from his assault.
Your hands grip the sheets and your breasts heave with your deep breaths, that grow a little more flaccid. Next to you lays his gun, knife still buried into the mattress. His eyes drop to the weapons and his breath hitches. And for a split second, like a flash of light, he wonders what in God's name he's doing here. He is a professional. The Ballerina works like that. He doesn't.
A sweet, sweet noise rips him out of his thoughts. "J-john", you mewl, eyes still trained on his massive dick splitting you open, "I-it, it's --"
"Yeah?", he breathes, the sound all soft and careful around the edges.
"Heavy", you breathe.
"Does it hurt?", he kind of wants it to. Make you pay for what you did to him. He kind of doesn't want it to. Make you enjoy what he's got to give.
John realizes he is fucked.
You nod, head flying back into the cushions, while your brows dart together.
John's free hand flies to your clit, nudges it gently, before slowly rubbing wide circles over it. You gasp, as you feel fresh wetness flooding your cunt and dripping down your folds to where his cock splits your hole open, pools around it. He carefully pulls out a little and then pushes back in, assisted by your slick. The way you moan spurs him on and the circles on your clit grow faster and smaller.
Aching your back, you lean into the touch. "That's a good girl", he whispers, voice raw and coarse, dripping with lust and the exhaustion of holding back. John bottoms out, while continuing to rub your clit and he can feel your walls growing plush, your hole fluttering around his dick, relaxing with your hot, seeping cunt inviting him in. "Feels good?"
"Yeah, fuck", you feel like you are being split open, with his thick cock filling you to the brim and rubbing along your walls with every little movement, the thick head prodding gently against your cervix, "Shit, John."
It feels so fucking good, all thoughts being washed away from your brain as he starts to move carefully, thrusts into you once, twice. You moan, lips slightly parted, before your gaze flies to him.
And Fuck. John's chest is flushed a little, muscles of his abdomen flexing with every thrust while his gaze is trained down to where his cock fucks into you, brows darted together a little and his breathing audible.
"John?", you whisper, and his gaze immediately shoots up to you as your comparably tiny hand wraps around the wrist of his hand that is still rubbing your clit.
"Yeah?"
"Fuck me."
For a long moment, he just looks at you and you think - no, you are convinced - that you can see a glimpse of the human being he once was. Caring, sweet and gentle; as he seems to really take it into consideration if you are ready yet, if you know what you are begging for.
Apparently, he does deem you prepared enough, and the soft gaze gets replaced by a dark gleam as all gentleness vanishes from his face once more. Without a warning, John rolls his hips back only to thrust into you again, deep, and hard, immediately picking up a quick rhythm.
It comes as a genuine surprise to you and you gasp, mewling but it quickly feels just so fucking good, practically lights your body up and leaves every nerve-ending on fire, each thrust has you moaning loudly.
It spurs him on, makes him grunt and for a while, you both just watch him gliding in and out of your tight hole, with him feeling your muscles squeezing him and you feeling his cock stretching your open further and further. Your lips as slightly parted and his brows are furrowed as he rolls his hips into yours and you feel time getting lost on you, the only thing of importance remaining is the feeling of him filling you up. John's hands roam your body, wandering over your thighs and your stomach, your hips before angling your leg, pushing the heel of your foot on his shoulder, and grabbing your ankle with one hand, his dick slips into you even further, balls slapping against your ass heavily with each thrust.
You can tell that John has not fucked in a long, long time. It's not the way he does it - all fluid, languid thrust of his hips, muscles dancing under the soft skin. It's mostly the way he pants and grunts - sounds just as desperate as you feel. And still, he has the stamina of a racehorse.
You can feel that he wants to prove it, too, as his free hand grabs your thigh and hoists your other leg over his hip bone, practically pulling your lower half off the bed in the process. Your pelvis now clings to his, obscene sounds of his cock fucking into your wet pussy filling the air while he huffs with his thrusts, yet does not slow down.
The grip on both, your ankle and your thigh are hard, and you are certain his hands will leave a bruise but you just cannot bring yourself to care. Deep down you know, that someone will see them: your maids, your friends, your family.
But all thoughts, all worries get swapped from your brain as your gaze wanders up from where John's dick hammers into you steadily, rakes over his defined stomach and chest and finally, finally lands on his face.
He looks downright, utterly, and breathtakingly -- pornographic.
John's dark pupils blown wide gleaming with arousal, his cheeks are slightly blushed and a thin layer of sweat makes him glow in the dim light of the living room falling onto the bed. It surrounds him like a halo, a Saint of Death and Decay, with his dark hair falling into his forehead and onto his shoulders. He brushes it out of the way with his stunted hand, a ragged breath making his chest heave. There is still some of your slick wetting his beard.
You can't help your mind from going there, from wondering how different things could have been. What it would be like if you had met me in a bar instead of him entering your suite, leaving the hallway behind him looking like a slaughterhouse. Maybe he would have laughed at your jokes, in the dim light of your favorite bar in the city. Maybe he would have liked the same music as you do. Maybe, just maybe, he would have brought you home only to stay the night and fuck you until you would have lost your goddamn mind.
Your hand wanders down your body, strokes your waist and hip in the process, before it languidly drops between your spread legs, two fingers darting out and rubbing circles over your sensitive clit.
John moves quickly, his usual deadly precision shattering your peaceful fantasy, his hand ditching your thigh and closing in around your waist. "Don't you fuckin' touch yourself", he growls, and it's the first time you hear real, actual emotion dwelling in his throat - not his toneless, cold and mechanical rumble. He sounds pissed. Offended.
And the best part is: it seems to get him fucking going.
John leans in, your calf still resting on his shoulder and the slight pain of the stretch is delicious as he nearly folds your body in half. You can feel his dick sliding in even deeper into your hole and you gasp and whine, one hand coming up to dig into his biceps to just hold on. Hold on, while he pounds into you with perfectly angled, deep and strong thrusts, hitting your g-spot with every single one of them.
You know that the suite's door is in shambles, that anyone could walk in here and see you having your brains fucked out by the man who is here to kill you - but you don't care. Part of it is, because the gun is still resting next to your head on the sheets. You could just grab it and shoot anyone dead in heartbeat, whoever is trying to disturb the pleasure that shoots through your body.
But it is also him.
It's the way John is towering over you, back hunched, looking all wide and powerful and deadly, with the way he shields your body from view and harm as he thrusts into you. As he pushes all his rage, adrenaline, and strength into your tight hole, groans, and pants into your ear.
There is nothing you can do, despite holding onto him, nails digging into his back, clutching his broad shoulders, fingers running over his tattoos desperately. He is fucking the living daylight out of you, your body moving like a ragdoll underneath the mountain of muscles and strength. Your cunt is being split open by his cock, as you feel him hammering into you and you feel like you are going to lose your mind, panting and moaning with each of his thrusts.
"John, fuck", you moan sweetly, eyes rolling into your skull as he pounds into you, "You feel so fucking good, shit --"
"Yeah", he huffs, his forehead slowly sinking onto yours, "You too, baby."
You can see his eyelids fluttering, feel his upper body heaving beneath your hands, smell the blood on his skin, mingling with his musky scent. Blaming it on the sickening cocktail of hormones that is flooding both - your brain and your body - you lean in, your lips desperately smacking against his.
And Jesus Fucking Christ. Does John kiss you.
Kisses you like he is starving for it, licking back into your mouth - his body pressing yours into the mattress with his whole weight and muscle, while still thrusting into you.
Your hands tangle into his hair, tugging at it. John moans against your lips and your stomach flutters at the sound, and you want more. One hand moves to lay at the crook of his neck and your tongue presses against his, licking back into his mouth. Adding some force to his neck you invite John deeper into the kiss, and he follows suite, steals you the last bit of air your lungs were holding. Panting you part from him, thumb brushing over the crook of his neck.
Greedily breathing against his lips, you can't help yourself. You feel so alive and you want him to wreck you, to leave something behind that you will remember for every day your heart continues to beat. Greedily breathing against his lips, you can't help yourself but to whisper: "Harder."
John blinks, hips stuttering. And then, he grunts. His hand digs into your waist as he grabs you there, hold you in place will his hips rut into you. Picking up a near brutal rhythm, obscene sounds of your slick being pushed in and out and in out of your hole as he jackhammers into your g-spot, the bedframe rattling as John's thrusts pound it into the wall - leaving you a gasping and moaning mess. His belt clinks with his thrusts and you cling onto him, sharp whines escaping your throat.
"John John John", his name leaves your mouth like a mantra, sharp and high-pitched. His head falls forward, dark locks brushing over your cheek as his temple rests against yours and then you hear it.
John moans.
It's a deep, carnal sound. Your stomach flutters and lust shoots through your body at the noise, your tight cunt squeezing his thick cock as you squirt around his cock like a broken fucking hose, wetting his pubic hair. You can feel it rubbing along your wet folds, the sensation making you mewl, leaves your hips shuddering.
"Shit", you breathe, hands cradling his muscular back and then you can feel his dick twitching inside of you, accompanied by yet another one of his sweet, sweet moans, "Fuck, John--"
He raises his head and your gazes connect, before he leans in, presses his lips onto yours once more. The kiss is surprisingly soft and in stark contrast to the way he ruts and pounds into you and then he hits the spot once more and -
Everything goes white as your muscles clench and unclench suddenly, as you nearly scream against his lips; your hole practically milking his cock as you cum, pussy gushing and squirting around him like a broken hose.
John continues to fuck you through your orgasm and his heavy breathing reaches your ears through the cotton candy, that slowly wraps you in as everything turns light and bright. He moans deeply against your cheek as he comes, too - shoots hot ropes of cum into you and paints your walls with it.
His movements still as he buries himself deep into you, cock twitching with each thick rope of his cum and you can feel him fill you up, as his massive frame slowly sinks down onto you.
Your legs grow heavy and the stretch of your left leg is turning painful and you - a little clumsily - pull it away from his shoulder, stretch it out. Your limbs start to shake and you close your eyes, drawing in deep breaths through your nose.
The room is silent, the air heavy with the musky scent of sex.
Your chest still heaves with the remains of your orgasm, bliss still spreading in your brain and your veins, making you feel like you are flying. Your heart is still racing, as you feel him moving again.
Blinking up at him, you can see him grabbing the gun.
"Don't", you say softly, voice coarse from screaming your lungs out in pleasure just moments ago, "Please, don't." You are not ready to scream yet again. Not ready to scream in pain, instead of pleasure.
John does not reply. He pulls the hammer back, checks the chamber - all with one hand.
"Kill him instead, please."
He freezes, eyes locking with yours. "Who?", he sounds just as exhausted as you. The wolf, tired out. The deer, bleeding, limping.
Call it Post Nut Clarity, call it Finally Taking Your Future In Your Own Hands, call it Emancipating Yourself. Call it Having Wrapped A Deadly Assassin Around Your Pinky.
You were not safer here. You never were. Just more isolated. Easier to locate.
Easier to kill.
Realization hits you like a blow to the head, your vision swimming.
See? I will not die today.
"My father. Kill him."
#i'm back girlies#john wick smut#john wick x reader#john wick x you#john wick imagine#smut#my writing#keanu reeves#keanu reeves x reader#keanu reeves x you#keanu reeves smut
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Whump: The Musical Prompts!!
As stated before, this challenge will run from March 1- March 31, 2024. All fandoms are welcome to participate despite it being prompts based off of musicals. Once again, all types of media are allowed. This challenge has the standard "choose one for the day" style, but feel free to do all three prompts if that's what you want to do!! All types of whump are allowed, but please be respectful to your fellow audience members and properly tag it!! Some of these prompts are sensitive, so make sure you warn your readers correctly! There will be an ao3 collection and an FAQ post coming soon, so if you have any further questions or comments about this challenge, feel free to drop me a line. Happy writing, my beautiful ingénues, and enjoy the show :)))
The prompts will be listed under the cut for those who have difficulty reading fonts!!
Cats- Sabotage • Second Chances • "I Can Dream Of The Old Days."
Wicked- Mob Mentality • Propaganda • "No Good Deed Goes Unpunished."
Jesus Christ Superstar- Whipping • Betrayal • "Then I Was Inspired, Now I'm Sad And Tired."
Les Mis- Survivor's Guilt • Failure • "Drink With Me To Days Gone By."
Heathers- Poison • Reluctant Whumper • "Wanna fight for me?"
Newsies- Chronic Pain • Exploitation • "Let 'Em Laugh In My Face, I Don't Care."
The Last Five Years- Infidelity • Gaslighting • "I Will Not Lose Because You Can't WIn."
Hadestown- Deals • Doomed Narrative • "Doubt Comes In."
Sweeney Todd- False Imprisonment • Razors • "Have You Decided It's Safer In Cages?"
Rent- Substance Abuse • Poverty • "Feels Too Much Damn Like Home."
Bare: A Pop Opera- Outing • Religious Trauma • "Please, See Me."
Waitress- Unplanned Pregnancy • Abuse • "She Is Broken And Won't Ask For Help."
Tick Tick Boom- Atychiphobia • Working To Exhaustion • "Is This Real Life?"
Dear Evan Hansen- Deception • Broken Bone • "Words Fail."
West Side Story- Star-Crossed Lovers • Prejudices • "A Boy Who Kills Cannot Love."
Come From Away- Stranded • Aftermath • "Blankets And Bedding And Maybe Some Food."
Spring Awakening- Withheld Information • Suicide • "I Don't Scream, Though I Know It's Wrong."
Hamilton- Hurricane • Dueling • "I Will Kill Your Friends And Family To Remind You Of My Love."
Falsettos- Sickness • Identity Issues • "Death Is Not A Friend."
Into The Woods- Blame • Lost • "Nothing But A Vast Midnight."
The Great Comet- Abduction • Letters • "Did You Love That Bad Man?"
In The Heights- Grief • Homesickness • "I Know That I'm Letting You Down."
Be More Chill- Mind Manipulation • Panic Attack • "Everything About Me Makes Me Want To Die."
Moulin Rouge- Class Differences • Sex Work • "Come What May."
Chicago- Cold Blood • Trial • "He Had It Coming."
Six- Execution • Trauma Bonding • "Playtime's Over."
Ride The Cyclone- Unexpected Tragedy • Forgotten Whumpee • "I Hear The Anguish Of The Street."
The Rocky Horror Show- Obsession • Wrong Place, Wrong Time • "I've Seen Blue Skies Through The Tears."
Nerdy Prudes Must Die- Bullying • Ritual • "Who Will Pray For You?"
Jekyll And Hyde- Duality • Good Vs Evil • "If I Die, You'll Die."
Phantom Of The Opera- Disfiguration • Shunned • "My Power Over You Grows Stronger Yet."
#whump: the musical#whump event#whump challenge#whump#whump community#whump writing#whump prompts#whump ideas#whumpblr#musical theatre#musicals#musical theater#broadway#broadway musicals#hamilton#newsies#les miserables#wicked the musical#falsettos#ride the cyclone#nerdy prudes must die#heathers#be more chill#dear evan hansen#moulin rouge#jesus christ superstar#cats the musical#six the musical#phantom of the opera#the great comet
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I'm deeply fascinated by writing/art/media about relationships (either familial or romantic) that are marked by the scent of decay. Everything is rotting and festering beneath the surface. It's so claustrophobic that it feels like the walls are closing in and everyone's scrambling on top of each other, pulling each other down.
I want to be able to write something that reads like the physical action of clenching your fingers until your nails dig into your palms while you screech against clenched teeth. And all the years of bitten tongues holding back resentment and unsaid words threaten to burst the blood vessels in your forehead, and they never quite do.
Until one day the dam breaks, and the flood is too powerful to be stopped. So onlookers just watch in horrified awe as everything is swept away.
And the rotting house collapses in on itself.
#Writing#Pearl#Pearl 2022#Crimson peak#the fall of the house of usher#house of the dragon#Hotd#rhaenicent#the wicked years#interview with the vampire#Iwtv#hereditary#wuthering heights
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thinking of pissing john wick off so fucking bad that he fucks you into the fucking wall🤤🤤 he’d been so patient with you, but you just kept pushing his buttons so here you are, his hand clamped over your mouth as he fucks you full of his cum….
everybody pull up a chair cuz we are going to have a talk.
john wick is a soft dom. that’s up to no debate. he could be a mean dom sometimes, but that rarely happens. but the point still stands.
john wick is a soft dom.
and of course, a soft dom would be incomplete without a bratty sub.
john doesn’t like it when you talk back, but during this time you’re feeling a bit naughty. a simple denial from john ruined your entire day, and so of course it’s your job to ruin his too.
he has been on the edge all day long since morning because of your constant backtalk. the snarky little remarks. the murmurs you’d say that he wouldn’t hear just to rile him up even more.
john tries to talk the brattiness out of you, but unfortunately for him, he might have to do it the hard way.
he had just come back from work when you immediately bombarded him with your attitude. still dressed in his work attire and you in your pajamas, john thinks this is the perfect time to strike.
as he stands in front of you in the living room, your mouth immediately snaps shut when a large hand comes slapping your cheek. it’s not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to get some senses in your brain and tell yourself that you’re absolutely fucked.
literally.
a yelp leaves your mouth as you touch the spot he slapped, but when you look at him, he’s staring straight back at you challengingly.
“got any more to say, brat?”
your lips wobble. it’s not always mean john comes to play, but when he does, it scares the living shit out of you. not only because he’s mean MEAN, but also because that means there’s a 99% chance that you won’t be able to sit properly for weeks.
“d-daddy–”
“now you want daddy?” he mocks, then gripping your jaw with one hand and forces you to look at him. “daddy has been real patient with his little girl all day long, but you just won’t fucking listen to a word daddy says, don’t you?”
you’re half scared, half horny. john is fucking seething. he must be so pissed at you that he even cussed.
“d-daddy, ow, you’re hurting me–” you try to move away from his grip, but that only leads you to being slammed against the wall as john forcefully pulls your pants down along with your panties, revealing your wet cunny that’s already dripping from this whole thing. “d-daddy–”
“this must be what you fucking wanted then. for daddy to be pissed at you.” he roughly unbuckles his belt and pulls his already hard cock out, not giving you enough time to comprehend what’s truly happening when he’s already pushing his fat cock inside your little pussy, stretching it open and making you scream. “now you’re crying, can’t form a single fucking word. what happened to that bratty little girl earlier that won’t stop running her mouth, hm? you got anything to say?”
your legs are wrapped around his waist as you sob hysterically on his shoulder, ruining his perfectly good black suit. your shared wetness is dripping down the floor as his heavy balls slap against your ass.
you clench around his dick, babbling incoherent pleas for him to slow down, but all you receive is another slap on the cheek.
“shut your mouth and take it. don’t make me shove my cock so far down your throat you wouldn’t be able to speak for weeks.”
#ask#so........#yeah......#drabble#concept#jw#soft dom!john#john wick x reader#john wick x you#john wick x y/n#john wick imagine#john wick fanfiction#john wick fanfic#john wick smut#john wick#keanu reeves x reader#keanu reeves x you#keanu reeves smut#i actually enjoyed writing this#JESUS HE’S MEAN
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Although I pictured Jude a certain way (physically) while reading the books, it really doesn't make much difference to the romance aspect of the trilogy.
They didn't struggle with their feelings because Jude was ugly/plain/gorgeous. They struggled because their stations in the social hierarchy were polar opposites, yet they both resented each other.
Cardan was a prince who saw his station as a play. He had no support network, his guardian beat him for fun, his friends were just using his birthright to get away with being turds. When Jude looked at him, she saw a spoiled prince who did whatever pleased him, blessed with being born into it and reminding her she would never be like them.
And then Jude, who saw herself as human/weak/lesser than. Who spent 10 years letting insults slide and hiding under tables in hopes of raising enough in the hierarchy to - even if not truly belong there - at least be left the fuck alone. Cardan looked at her and saw the General's favoured daughter, raised as Gentry, never in rags or forgotten if she were to sleep on stables. Jude reminded Cardan what he did not have despite being a prince.
#this is a bit random but I wanted to write it#I could go TED Talk mode on how I pictured Jude#but at the end of the day I don't think it mattered too much#we all find people we are attracted to appealing looks and personality wise#and there's always someone out there who thinks the same person has the appeal of cardboard for lunch#jude duarte#cardan greenbriar#tfota#the cruel prince#the wicked king#the queen of nothing
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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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So it turns out the latest update in @somerandomdudelmao‘s apocalypse comic has been living in my head, and when that happens I need to get it out, so ~900 words of sad it is!
~~~~~~~~
Donnie is good at birthdays. He has been once he was old enough to understand the concept. It's a point of pride.
Specifically, he's good at presents. According to his data, most people who fail at presents do so because of the guesswork they seem to think needs to be involved. He's never understood the point of that. Data and hypotheses, certainly, but why guess when a definitive answer is available after a simple direct inquiry?
"What do you want for your birthday?"
Early on, the presents are easy. Art supplies. Comics. Stuffed animals. Things he could hand to Papa in an easily followed list format, or obtain for himself once they all got old enough to start safely leaving the lair and venturing into the city above. It's simple and straightforward and so, so easy to get right.
(Of course, he always has an annotated list of his own desired gifts to provide to his brothers; if he's solved the guesswork issue, he may as well make things easy for them too. Plus, that method ensures he gets what he wants.)
Things start getting a little more complicated as he and his brothers get older. Art supplies and comics and stuffed animals are still very much appreciated, and he's documented his brothers' tastes well enough to know exactly what they like, but the answers to his simple direct inquiry are different.
"Dee, can you help me plan this mural out? I think I have enough space, but I could use a hand with the measurements."
"Donton, my half of the day is gonna be a Jupiter Jim marathon, and I need you there. Without your laptop." A beat. "But you can pick one of the movies if you want."
"Hey Donnie, you think you can help me out fixing up the gym? Things just stay put longer if you weld 'em."
After a few years of documentation, Donnie spots the pattern. His brothers appreciate physical gifts from him, certainly, but that's not what they want anymore. What Donnie's family wants from him is time - time outside the lab where he spends a good amount of his days, time spent in conversation or shared activity or simply in the same room. It's not as easy as finding the right physical gift, but if that's what they want, then he's more than happy to provide. Now that he's discerned the pattern, it's just as easy to give his brothers what they want, and Donnie can continue to maintain that he is Good At Birthdays as a point of pride.
~~~~~~~~
The Hamatos don't do birthdays anymore. There's no time in the apocalypse, no supplies, and Donnie is one of the few who actually keeps track of the calendar date. The apocalypse certainly has its share of anniversaries, a list that only grows the more people they lose, but birthdays are no longer celebrated.
With one exception.
Casey Jones Junior, their collective adopted kid, is young enough that birthdays still matter - should still matter. They do their best to keep him safe and keep those days calm and happy for him, despite everything happening around them, and while they don't always succeed, they at least try.
And damn it all, Donatello is still good at birthdays.
"Casey Junior!" He greets the kid with a grin, leaning on his bo like it's not both an inconvenience and a humiliation to need to rely on it in order to stay upright.
"Uncle Tello?"
"Since I'm not very good at guessing, I'll ask straight out." This is not entirely true - he has a list of potential gifts for Casey drafted, with 98% certainty that whatever Casey asks for will align with one of them - but he requires that confirmation to move forward. A certainty in a world where certainty is in short supply. "What do you want for your birthday?"
"My...ah." Casey's expression falls and he looks away, gaze fixed on the paperwork in his hands. Donatello says nothing, pointedly ignoring the elephant in the room in order to give Casey space. "You...can do anything," Casey starts.
"Pretty much, yes." Material issues aside - spirits know he'd have a cure for whatever the Krang had infected him with if those weren't a concern.
"I want you to stay alive," Casey says, and Donnie's smile freezes in place as Casey looks back up at him. "Can you do that?"
Damn that two percent uncertainty.
"Ah. Of course." He shrugs, as though he doesn't know exactly what Casey is asking for, and pulls up a holographic display of a calendar. "According to my calculations, I will be alive next month, which means I'll be here for your birthday." Not talking about it won't solve the problem, but it may salvage this conversation. "So! What's an actual gift you want?"
"I want you to be here." Casey's gaze finds a point on the floor, and Donnie falls silent. "Not just for a month."
No. No, he needs something concrete - something he can act on - he knows how long his list of responsibilities is, but he still feels stymied, rushing up on the end, and he needs something he can do- "But it's not a gift," he replies, a last-ditch effort he's fairly certain is bound for failure-
"No. No, it is."
As always, all Donnie's family wants from him is time.
And now, at the end of his rapidly-shortening life, it's the one thing he can no longer give them.
#rottmnt#rise of the tmnt#rottmnt donnie#rottmnt donatello#somerandomdudelmao#cass apocalyptic series#rottmnt casey jr#fic#I wrote this with a wicked case of vertigo#so if it doesn't make sense I'm blaming that#breaking that writer's block WIDE open#writing
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normal 15 year old boy
#worm#worm web serial#wormblr#parahumans#alec vasil#giving him the a wicked sideye....#hope his writing improves (along with every character tebeach)#no spoilers (reading 11.7)#my art
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in which steve is sick, eddie is in love, and floor time is being had
Eddie is in the kitchen when he hears the sound of footsteps approaching him. The smile is on his face before he even turns around to catch a glimpse of Steve, gloriously disheveled from all that sleep he’s been catching up on. He’s wearing one of Eddie’s big, fuzzy sweaters that Steve always hogs when he’s sick — which, thankfully, isn’t all that often —, a thick pair of sweats and mismatched socks.
Sickness is the time to wear mismatched socks without judgment, Edwin Munswin, Steve had huffed the first time Eddie saw him with a runny nose and ridiculous socks that definitely didn’t belong together. It had been the first time he admitted to himself that he was absolutely gone for Steve Runny Nose Harrington.
And so it doesn’t come as a surprise to him that his heart stumbles in his chest and the smile on his lips widens. Steve might hate being sick, but Eddie can’t really help but love him even more when he gets like this. When Steve allows himself to be a little weak and for Eddie to take care of him.
“Hi, sunshine,” Eddie says, turning down the heat on the stove to go over to his Stevie, wrapping his arms around the blanket Steve still has around his shoulders. “Sleep well?”
“Mmh.” It’s nothing more than a raspy grunt, a pathetic little noise as Steve cuddles further into Eddie, seeking out his warmth and comfort so freely that Eddie presses a kiss to his slightly sweaty forehead. “Missed you.”
“I’m right here,” he promises, running a hand up and down Steve’s back. “Just made you tea while the soup is warming up. Because you’re gonna have to eat.”
“Okay,” Steve nods, sounding solemn as he does, and Eddie wants to laugh. Gods, he’s so in love, it’s disgusting. Ridiculous. Absolutely laughable. “Thank you.”
“Of course.” A whisper, another promise, another kiss. He unwinds his arms and looks back at the giant pot of soup he made yesterday. “Do you wanna go back to bed or stay here?”
“Here,” Steve sighs and promptly sinks down the counter until he’s sitting on the floor, looking up at Eddie with those beautiful brown eyes, so big and and full of love that Eddie can’t resist ruffling his hair, which earns him a little giggle from Steve.
Oh, right, he’s had the good stuff prescribed from the doctor. This is going to be fun in a few hours.
“You ridiculous man,” Eddie murmurs, trailing his hand from the crown of Steve’s head down across his cheek all the way to his chin in a gentle caress.
“Go back to your soup, you most ridiculous of men,” Steve says in retaliation, but he reaches for his hand to hold as Eddie returns to the stove.
“Technically it’s your soup.”
“That’s what I said.” Eddie looks down to see the most adorable of frowns on Steve’s head, and his heart explodes a little in his chest.
He snorts and squeezes Steve’s hand. “Sure is, baby.”
“See? I’m smart sometimes.”
“No argument from me there,” Eddie says, and he means it.
A hum comes from Steve and then he leans his head against Eddie’s leg. “You’re so nice to me, Eds. I like that you’re nice to me.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
And then it’s quiet, and the weight of Steve against his leg becomes heavier by the second to the point where Eddie is pretty sure Steve’s fallen asleep again. He doesn’t dare to move, but dear God he wants to laugh, he wants to cry, wants to scream at the world how much he loves this ridiculous, adorable, possibly delirious and high on cold medication man who is wrapped in his blanket on their kitchen floor.
“Stevie,” he whispers at last, the soup hot, the tea just cool enough, and cards his hand through Steve’s hair to wake him. “Sunshine, wake up, I have soup for you.”
“Soup?”
“Soup.”
“But I love soup.”
“Then I have great news for you,” Eddie laughs and tilts Steve’s head up so he’ll meet his eyes. “It’s plenty, it’s warm, and you can have some. It’s right here.”
“You made me soup?”
“Yeah, babe,” Eddie chuckles, his heart tearing itself apart at the way Stevie looks up at him with such wonder and awe and love. “I made you so much soup. All for you.”
Steve nods, thinks for a moment and then looks up at Eddie again. “Can we share?”
“You wanna share your soup with me?” Eddie says, crouching down so he’s on eye level with Steve and can brush a kiss to his forehead again.
Steve nods again and reaches for him, clinging to Eddie’s sweater — well, it’s Steve’s technically. “Wanna share everything with you.“
“Even your blanket?”
Steve smiles and nods again, lifting one arm to invite Eddie in, which earns him a laugh. “Alright, let me just…”
He grabs two bowls of soup, Steve’s large mug of tea, two spoons and two pillows from their chairs so they can eat the soup on the floor without uncomfortable heat in their laps.
Later, when soup is but a distant memory of half an hour ago, Steve lets himself fall to the side and slumps into Eddie, head nestled on his shoulder.
“Sleep time again?” Eddie asks.
“No,” Steve slurs, definitely already on his way to half asleep. “Just. Just love you.”
Eddie hums and leans into Steve in return, warm underneath their blanket, surprisingly comfortable on the floor, backs against the counter. “Just love you, too, sunshine.”
And if Eddie closes his eyes, too, lulled into a sleepy state of comfort and warmth, then that’s just one more thing that happens with a sick Steve around.
In sickness and in health, he thinks with that same smile on his lips.
for @seidenbros, i besmooch your forehead with this 🌷🤍
#steddie#steddie fic#stranger things fanfic#stranger things#y’all wick MediMait has like 600mg paracetamol and 18% alcohol and idk if y’all ever had it but it can leave you In A State#so here you have some ridiculous delirious ‘high’ steve and an eddie who couldn’t be more in love#i had meant to write more floor time but it felt forced so i left it where it is#dio words#this is my first sickfic ever idk how this works but them being ridiculously sweet is okay right?#my brother used to be ridiculously sweet on me when i was sick. and i on him. idk there’s just love all around when anyone’s sick#idk how else do deal with this??
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i'm never gonna get over this btw
#the way i gasped dramatically while rereading this the 100th time#they are the insanest hottest book couple. i said what i said.#also holly black?? ma'am ur so insane for writing some of the scenes in this book likeee omg??#jurdan#the cruel prince#the wicked king#the queen of nothing#the folk of the air#holly black#cardan greenbriar#jude duarte#jude x cardan
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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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a lot of people (rightfully) talk about how awful cardan was to jude in book 1. but i don't see anyone mentioning jude's behavior towards him. she tricks him into giving her his autonomy, sth she personally treasures over all else.
but i specifically want to talk about the part in twk where she tells him to sleep with nicasia for information. she says it like it's no big deal, and when he's rightfully offended (to playing the bawd) she says why would he be offended he sleeps with women all the time.
nicasia is his ex, who betrayed cardan in the worst way you could betray him. and during this conversation he also finds out that she almost killed him and that jude hid this fact from him.
we consistently see cardan trying to communicate and be honest with jude during twk, but she keeps brushing him off because she is afraid of her own reaction to him (he is unaware of this and believes she still wants him dead). her telling him she's afraid of him in the garden in qon is the first time she's been honest with him. him seeming softer in qon is not ooc like i've seen ppl saying.
jude is one of my favorite characters ever, and my favorite couple dynamic in fiction is two characters who are deeply hurt and unhinged, who would be toxic with anyone else but just make sense tgth. so i rly dislike when people frame jurdan as "bully romance" when it's not nearly as one-sided as that.
#cardan greenbriar#jude duarte#the cruel prince#the wicked king#the folk of the air#i love them with my whole heart istg#jurdan#the whole argument in the garden is such good character writing#also cardan wasn't cruel to jude because he liked her i hate that trope and that take sm#peak enemies to lovers
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Break Me Down - Part 12
Pairing: Soldier Boy/Ben x Female Reader
Summary: You’re a private investigator by trade, but now you happily sit at a desk — leading a surveillance team at Supe Affairs. After managing to end Homelander in New York, Soldier Boy escapes custody. You are recruited for the manhunt, joining Butcher’s team.
Truly, you joined the S.A. for the right reasons. But after you become his accidental hostage, Soldier Boy will break down every single one of them…
💚 Break Me Down Masterlist
Word Count: 5,700
Tags/Warnings: Violence and peril, angst central, a touch of PTSD, and a surprise ending…
Part 12: All Your Wicked Ways
Something was wrong.
It was a gut instinct, but yours was far too often right.
Ben had been sleeping for a long time. After he’d fallen asleep yesterday, you did shortly after from the combination of fatigue, pain from your broken ribs, and the painkillers in your system.
But even after your keepers had woken you with a tray of food, Ben still hadn’t woken up.
“Ben?” you tried calling to him, but he didn’t rouse from where he laid in his cot, one arm pillowed behind his head and the other across his stomach.
You got up, your pain making you slow as you made sounds of struggle.
You went to the large window and supported yourself with your hands on the glass. You called his name again, louder.
His face scrunched a little, but your voice couldn’t penetrate the Novichok haze—the poison being pumped into his cell to dull his senses and keep him too drowsy to function.
You paused as you heard heavy footsteps coming down the hall. It turned out to be several, in fact, as a team of Vought security guards came to your cell.
“What’s going on?” you asked. No one answered you as they grabbed and handcuffed you with your arms in front of you. You struggled, but you didn’t have the strength or energy to give much of a fight.
They wheeled in what looked like a large metal casket. You had only seen one of these in pictures, but it had to be a cryochamber.
A doctor in her mid-fifties accompanied them, giving directions on how to safely enter Ben’s cell. Your eyes widened.
“What the hell are you doing?” you shouted. Panic trilled down your spine as the guards fitted themselves with special suits and gas masks. The doctor turned toward you as the guards led you out of your cell and into the hall.
“You’re being transported,” she informed you.
“Where?”
“To a lab with better security.”
“Why? Where’s my father? I know that bastard’s still alive,” you demanded, but it seemed you weren’t interesting enough for the doctor.
You spied her last name, Baker, embroidered above the breast pocket her lab coat. You finally recognized Dr. Tonya Baker; you hadn’t worked with her much during your time at Vought, but you knew her by reputation.
Your heart fell into your stomach.
You struggled against the stern grip of the guard holding you and shouted, “Ben, wake up!”
Between your voice and the commotion outside his door, he started to rouse.
“Get her out of here,” said Dr. Baker.
Your guards tried to drag you, but you dug your heels in and made it as difficult as possible. Meanwhile, Ben could hear you—when you called his name and now, while you were struggling. He finally drew enough energy and strength to open his eyes and sit up in the cot.
Once he saw you being manhandled against your will, his fury sparked.
“Hey!” he barked. He managed to rise off his cot and draw himself to his feet. The first door of his cell slid open for the guards in their hazmat suits. Once that closed, the second one disengaged, and they came pouring in.
Ben fought them. He managed to punch the first one into the far wall, shaking the fortified glass. He snapped the second man’s neck and broke a leg on the third, but they just kept coming in batches of three or four. The room was misty as hell, slowing Ben’s stamina, and he gritted his teeth in frustration.
Their strength was in numbers, and gradually, they were able to latch onto his arms, kick behind his knees to bring him down to the ground.
He saw the mask coming towards his face, and the well of panic, hearing your distressed yelling of his name—it gave him the strength to break the chain of men holding him down.
That’s when he noticed the star bolts zipping outside his cell.
You were still fighting against the guard’s hold. You ripped back his sleeve and bit into the man’s wrist, eliciting a yell of pain. His grip eased up enough for you to steal his secondary gun on his belt, and despite your cuffed wrists, you shot him in the leg twice to bring him down.
You raised the gun at your next attacker—Frenchie, who raised up his hands in friendly surrender.
“Cherie! It’s surprising to see you alive,” he said. You grinned.
“A good surprise?” you asked, and you shot another guard approaching from behind him.
Frenchie flinched slightly, but after he watched the man fall to the ground, screaming and clutching between his legs, Frenchie’s lips raised in a more genuine smile.
“Yes, I think so,” he teased.
You looked past him and watched as Kimiko, M.M., Annie, Hughie, and Butcher took out the rest of the guards. You didn’t see Dr. Baker anywhere; in all likelihood, she’d fled the scene when she saw her opportunity.
Ben still remained in his cell, and you went to the glass window. He looked all right as he met your gaze, but there were about ten bodies lying around him. His face was firm and assessing. Still, you read the uncertainty behind it.
You sighed and turned to your team. “Hey, guys. Good to see you.”
Annie went to you first, grasping your shoulders. Her large eyes peered into yours.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“Well, more or less,” was your weary reply. Your ribs were throbbing, but you raised your cuffed hands. “Think you can help me with these?”
Annie raised a hand over your cuffs and concentrated her powers into melting them, just enough for Kimiko to strike through them. You slid off the remaining metal pieces and rubbed your stinging wrists.
“All right, let’s get a fucking move on,” said Butcher.
“Hello to you too,” you replied, raising a brow.
“Oh, just you wait. You’ve got plenty of fucking explaining to do,” he said, leveling a finger at you. He slid it over to Ben, who watched him right back.
“Ello, gov.” Butcher smirked. “Look at you, all gift-wrapped for us.”
He turned to M.M., who approached with an especially terrifying-looking gas mask. Your eyes widened.
“Ready?” Butcher asked him.
“Ready to knock this motherfucker out and bring him into custody,” M.M. grimly agreed.
“Wait,” you said, stepping past Annie to get between M.M. and Butcher.
With your back to the glass, you didn’t see how Ben’s eyes followed you. They hid a thread of uncertainty. He had a feeling you might do this, but he didn’t know what to expect from your team.
“It doesn’t have to go down like this,” you told them. “He took out Homelander. He could help us bring down Vought. This fucking tower, the whole thing.”
“Is that why you ran at the airport?” M.M. asked. Then he shook his head. “Never mind. We don’t have time to debate this.”
You held out a halting hand. “Look, clearly they're not done making supes if they brought back a new and improved Black Noir. Now they’re selling V24 to the military. They need to be stopped, and with our help, Ben could do it.”
“Oh, it’s Ben now, is it?” Butcher stared at you shrewdly, then at Ben himself. The latter just tilted his head, his mouth quirking with an edge of cockiness.
Butcher raised a brow. His gaze returned to you, noting the way you stood your ground, but pursed your lips. You were hiding something…a guilty conscience, perhaps.
“Bloody hell. You two’ve been fucking,” he realized.
Shocked silence spread through the rest of the team.
Your embarrassment radiated off your flushing cheeks, and it took everything within you to resist looking back at Ben. You didn’t want to see what kind of expression he wore, but you could guess.
“No,” Annie regarded you with shock.
“Seriously?” Hughie remarked in a high voice.
“That’s…well, that’s none of your goddamn business, is it?” you tried to be stern, but your embarrassed shuffling made it lose some of its effect.
Kimiko shared raised brows with Frenchie, who just looked amused. M.M., on the other hand, grimaced with disgust. That actually stung, but you crossed your arms. You didn’t have a good answer for them. Not one you wanted to say in front of Ben, anyway.
“I think we can come to an agreement here,” Ben said at last.
You turned around, and he gained the attention of the others as well. He briefly met your gaze before he shifted to Butcher.
“Worked for us once, before you tried to double-cross me,” Ben said.
“You want to take out Vought.” Butcher glanced at their surroundings, specifically Ben’s cell. He gave a snort of amusement. “I could understand that.”
“Butcher,” M.M. said sharply.
“We–we should probably get out of here now,” Hughie pointed out. He looked back down the hall nervously. You agreed with him; any moment now, more guards could be coming.
“Think about it,” said Ben. “The only way you’re getting that mask on me is with a fight. One you’ll probably lose, fucking miserably. We can have the same deal as before, no strings. Until Stan Edgar and Noir are dead.”
It took Butcher all of seconds.
He turned to Frenchie and said, “Open her up.”
“Butcher, what the fuck!” M.M. argued.
“What do you fucking want from me, eh? Their special ops security will be all over us soon,” Butcher said.
But he shared a meaningful look with the other man that you didn’t miss. It sparked your suspicion.
You stepped back as the first door unlocked after Frenchie hacked the commands. Then the gas misting up the cell receded.
There was an immediate reaction from Ben. He blinked in relief as he started to breathe easy. The brain fog making it almost impossible for him to stay alert slowly ebbed.
He took one step into the hall before it happened—all in a rush, but not unexpected. He blocked M.M.’s punch and tossed him across the hall.
Someone jumped on his back. He heard you shout, but before he could rip off the hanger on, Kimiko slipped the mask over his face and deployed a heavy dose of nerve gas. It was enough to drop him to his knees as his eyes rolled back into his head.
Lights out.
On the way to Supe Affairs, you weren’t happy, but there wasn’t much you could do.
You were still in your Vought-issued gray pajamas, bare footed as you rode along with your friends in Frenchie’s van. In the very back was the haul of Ben, laid to rest in a chamber keeping him sedated.
You had to explain to the rest of them that your father, Jonathan, was Stan Edgar’s Chief of Security. You were a cog in Vought’s wheel once upon a time, but joining the S.A. helped you escape. Ben offered you a way to achieve what you couldn’t at the S.A.—taking it all down.
Still, M.M. looked at you like he didn’t even know you.
“How do you explain fucking him?” he asked.
You shot him a tight frown.
“First of all, none of you know what the hell I went through,” you said. “At first, I was just trying to learn how to read him. How to survive and somehow get back home.”
Emotion clogged in your throat when you thought of seeing your sister again soon, and your mom. You thought of all you had gone through in past two months, and knew that it had changed you…
For better or worse, you didn’t yet know for sure.
“But for all his arrogance, his chauvinism, his massive ego and general bastardry, there’s still humanity in Ben,” you said, looking up at your team. You thought they had become your friends…but you supposed you would see.
“Why else would he save me?” you said.
They didn’t answer. You turned your head to Annie, but even she didn’t look convinced. Though you could see she wanted to be on your side, it was difficult for her to reconcile her own feelings about Soldier Boy. You certainly understood that.
“He’s too powerful to kill,” you also pointed out. “Putting him to sleep like this will just make it worse when he wakes up…but if he’s properly motivated, he could do some good.”
“Or off anyone who looks at him sideways,” Butcher wryly replied. “He’s dickmatized you, love.”
You could tell the others sided with him on this.
“You can disagree with me,” you said, “but do you have a better way to kill Noir and take down Vought?”
At the S.A., you were able to shower and get on proper clothes in a black tracksuit and some sneakers. You weren’t allowed to find out where they’d taken Ben yet, but Grace Mallory oversaw the transport, just as she called you into her office for your immediate debriefing.
It felt more like an interrogation, not unlike the one you underwent to be recruited for the manhunt of Soldier Boy.
You felt like a different person sitting across from her. This time you sat up tall, not intimidated by the ice blue stare that greeted you. The lines in the older woman’s face were drawn, but there was an unyielding wall within the woman that you could admire.
It just didn’t change the fact that right now, she was your opponent. And the chess game had begun.
“You went way off-road with this assignment,” she said at last. You raised a brow.
“I’m sorry my kidnapping inconvenienced you,” you remarked.
“Don’t be cute. You know what the hell I’m talking about,” Grace said. “At this point, I’m debating whether to bring you into custody along with Soldier Boy.”
“I’m the one who got him back to the States,” you pointed out, sitting back in your chair with your arms crossed. “I had to get in contact with my father to make that happen. Do you know what that cost me?”
You resisted an uncomfortable shudder. They’d given you more painkillers for your ribs, but it wasn’t enough the relieve the damage of that encounter. Not to your mind.
“Aside from any other self-debasing tactics I used in order to do my job, not to mention save my own life. Without me, and the sacrifices I made, Soldier Boy wouldn’t be in a cell downstairs,” you finished.
Saying those words stung. Like you were somehow betraying yourself.
“That doesn’t fool me,” Grace said. In fact, her shrewd gaze was much like Butcher’s. It saw straight through you as she tilted her head in wonder. “You care about him.”
Your lips tightened.
After a moment, you answered.
“He was tortured for forty years,” you said. “Whether he admits it or not, he’s got scars just like the rest of us…but more importantly to you, he can help us take down Vought once and for all.”
Grace considered you with a shifting light. “I didn’t think that mattered to you.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” you retorted. “But make no mistake. You will pay me what you owe me for this mission. If you think you’re going to welch on your end of the deal, then I’m about to be your long-term problem.”
Grace huffed in wry amusement.
“I have a feeling you will be, regardless,” she said.
“And to that end, I will be checking in on Ben,” you replied. “He’s a person, not a weapon or a lab rat.”
“Mind yourself, young lady,” Grace snapped, her eyes narrowing. “I admire your sense of loyalty, but in this case, it’s misplaced. That man is a bastard and a murderer, with a devastating power he can’t hope to control. And you, frankly, don’t have any standing to make demands.”
“And what’s your body count, agent?” you challenged. “Have they all been sanctioned kills?”
When she didn’t answer, merely staring back at you, you stood up.
“You’re right, he can’t control it. Yet. Maybe that’s something productive you can get your damn scientists on,” you said.
And before you left, you added one more thing.
“I may not have your security clearance, your power, or your money,” you said. “But I’ve got a big fucking mouth. So unless you want me to use it, my clearance now includes seeing Ben.”
Grace stared back at you for a moment.
Her nails tapped on her desk as she assessed you.
Releasing a long sigh through her nose, she relented. A little.
“Fine,” she said. “If you can convince him to ally with us on the Vought issue, I’ll allow you to see him.”
You nodded. For all that Grace hated Soldier Boy, she was a practical woman. She saw the same opportunity you did, and was willing to take advantage of it…even if you both knew that convincing Ben to play ball would be damn near impossible.
In fact, this would probably be your biggest challenge yet. But this, you were willing to fight for.
“I can start tomorrow,” you said.
It seemed that Vought and the CIA had been thinking similarly on how to confine Soldier Boy.
You spent one strange night back in your musty apartment before you returned to the S.A., bright and early, so that Grace could lead you to a lab below the main building. It was dark and made of pure concrete, encased in titanium.
In it was a state-of-the-art cell with three metal walls that had to disengage before you could reach the inner room. Inside those four corners of fortified, bullet-proof glass were scarce furnishings. Ben himself was strapped to a bed, with a mask held over his face.
At least he was out of the coffin, but it was difficult for you to watch, even as the scientists and guards unstrapped him and left the cell. The mask disengaged from his face, allowing him to breathe real air as he started to wake. But gas flooded into the compartment, not unlike Vought’s setup.
You and Grace stood outside the glass. She glanced at you with sharp nod. Then she left you alone.
Well, relatively speaking. There were guards posted at the entrance of the three walls behind you, controlling who got in and out of the cell area.
Once all the walls were back in place after Grace’s departure, you let out a shaky breath and stepped forward with the plate of food you brought, along with a few bottles of water.
Ben was moving off the bed, trying and failing to clear his head as he took in his surroundings with a furious glare. It only dimmed slightly when he realized you were there.
He made his way toward you, and you pressed a button that would allow you to safely pass his meal to him without letting any nerve gas escape the inner cell. Ben removed the lid from the plate, inspected the chicken and vegetables with an unreadable expression.
Then, with a burst of force, he took the plate and tossed it as hard as he could into one of the glass walls.
You flinched. But by the time he looked back at you, you’d schooled your expression, merely raising a brow.
“That was real fucking mature.”
“Suck on my balls, sweetheart,” he retorted. He cocked his head to the side. “Oh wait, you did. Last Tuesday.”
You glared at him with a hot blush spreading across your face. That was not, in fact, last Tuesday. But you didn’t rise to his bait.
“Are you really willing to partner with the S.A. to take down Vought? Or was that just you bluffing?” you asked.
Ben started to pace in irritation. You knew he was upset, and itching for revenge on anyone that would dare confine him again. You could guess what being in a cell was already doing to his mental state.
Which was why you were here, desperately trying to help him.
“Really, would you rather be hunted all your life, or would you rather just play ball here?” you tried to reason. “Become a real ally with the S.A. Show Mallory that you can operate within the law.”
Ben looked up from his pacing just to glare at you.
“Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to with all these demands, huh?”
“You, Ben. I’m talking to you!”
He ignored you, resuming his pacing. “I’m a solo act for a damn reason.”
Oh really? you wanted to say. That’s why he needed your help to try and get to Stan.
“That got you here, now didn’t it?” you asked.
He didn’t answer. It made you think you weren’t going to get anywhere with him today. Maybe he needed some time to cool off.
You sighed and turned to leave, but his voice stopped you.
“You’re just going to leave me in here?” he asked in disbelief. And you thought you could read a throughline of hurt behind his eyes. “I saved you…shit, I’ve lost count how many times now. And still, you fucking betrayed me.”
“Don’t you do that,” you warned. Though you felt a prickle of guilt run down your spine. “You know very well what got you here. I tried to stop it. And I’m the only one who’s on your side right now.”
“Doesn’t fucking look like it from where I’m standing.”
You sighed in frustration. “I’ll tell you the truth, I don’t want to leave you in here. But if I can’t trust you, they never will.”
“I don’t know what delusions you have about me,” he said, coming closer.
“But when I get out of here, I’m slaughtering anyone who gets in my way!” he shouted savagely.
He banged his fists into the glass so hard that it trembled, making you flinch with a gasp. A more concentrated fog smoked up the cell. Ben coughed and cursed as he stumbled back, and eventually, he fell unconscious right there on the floor.
You watched in dismay. Despite his rage, it still hurt you to see him like this. Like a caged animal.
Tears welled up in your eyes, but you forced yourself to leave the cell before the cameras caught them. You knew Grace would be monitoring this exchange later.
She would probably feel vindicated at what she saw.
The thought disgusted you as the outer walls parted, allowing you to leave. M.M. was waiting for you at the exit. He’d seen the entire thing through a monitor at the control desk, where two guards sat eating their lunch.
“You want to protect that piece of shit?” M.M. said, jerking a thumb towards the cell. “That’s what he really is. And he clearly don’t give a fuck about you.”
Your jaw tightened.
“I’m not going to justify my actions to you, M.M. I know what he’s done, especially to you," you said. "But he didn’t just let me live. He protected me, saved me, more than once. From his own men even. And…he was kind to me, in his own way. I have to think that counts for something.”
M.M. shook his head at you in disbelief.
“Maybe he went soft for a pretty girl, but that doesn’t mean he ain’t a monster,” he said.
“That’s not all there is to him,” you said. “You didn’t see it, M.M.”
The other man watched you for a moment, before he let out a deep sigh.
“You actually think he can be saved,” he said.
“Maybe,” you said. “We’ll see.”
He crossed his arms. You understood how he felt, but you couldn’t deny what your instincts told you about Ben…and your heart as well.
“He’s right about one thing,” M.M. said. “You are delusional.”
A few days went by as the team went back to work at the S.A. as usual. But your days during your first week home became marked by your strenuous visits to Ben.
Once again, he’d rather pace than look at you. You had a feeling it helped him stay awake.
“I fought for my country,” he groused. “I don’t fucking deserve this.”
“Oh, would you stop lying?” you said in annoyance. “You’ve only ever fought for yourself. You didn’t even fight in World War II! You’ve never been a soldier. And unless you get a fucking clue, you’re going to continue being the massive man-child your father saw in you.”
Maybe it wasn’t kind, but you were fed up with his stubbornness. You turned to leave.
“Don’t you fucking walk away from me!” Ben shouted.
You raised a brow, and you turned on your heel. The man was livid, standing in the center of his cell.
“Or what?” you challenged.
But you soon relented at the way he withdrew–into himself.
You had checked the monitors before you came in; he was trying not to sleep, wasn’t letting his body rest. This place was like an open wound: complete wall-to-wall glass, no privacy, nowhere to go, and nothing to do. He couldn’t distract himself with drugs, or TV, or good food, or even good sex and conversation.
This was terrible for him, and you knew it.
“Ben, I want to help you,” you said, letting out a shaky breath. You laid a hand on the glass. “Let me help you.”
His gaze was angry and unyielding.
“There’s only one way you can help me,” he said. “But you won’t fucking do it.”
The team was giving you a wide berth. Even Annie greeted you in the office with more politeness than warmth.
Above all else, you remained professional, but it was a simple fact that your team was no longer your team. They didn’t trust you, or your judgment. And you refused to show how deeply that hurt you.
However, until you all got a breakthrough on taking down Vought and Noir, there was still work to be done. So you fell into step back in with the Surveillance team.
That meant taking your place as second-in-command to your manager, as well as returning to your cubicle next to your coworker Jess. She hugged you when she saw you, even shed tears.
You’d hugged her a bit awkwardly, but you were touched. You hadn’t thought she cared about you that much.
She told you that the entire Surveillance department had been worried about you. That they’d missed you, especially your calm, supportive leadership. (Apparently your manager had been stressed handling the entire department without you.)
That at least buoyed you throughout the rest of the week.
When you returned home on Thursday, however, you received an unexpected call. But when you saw the caller ID, you inwardly kicked yourself before you answered.
“Louisa?”
“What the hell is wrong with you!” came your sister’s sharp voice.
So many things, you thought with a weary sigh. You held your phone to your ear while you tried to find something to cook for dinner in your pantry. All you found was a box of spaghetti…which dragged up bittersweet memories you’d rather not think about.
“I meant to call you as soon as I got back,” you tried to explain. “But I’ve been in full debrief mode. It’s been a circus since I got back, Lou.”
You slammed the pantry shut and went for the frozen dinner in the freezer.
“I don’t care. I didn’t hear from you for almost two straight months…”
You knew the S.A. hadn’t told her anything about your kidnapping, but you knew she had to have been worrying when you didn’t check in at all after that first time in Medellin. The sound of her emotion-choked voice made your own eyes sting.
“I’m sorry, Lou. I’ll come visit you this weekend, okay? I’m still taking care of some things at work.” Namely a grumpy supe on lockdown. “How’s school?”
“School is fine!” she snapped. You heard her take a breath, presumably to calm herself. She had a bit of a temper, just like you, but your sister managed herself much better than you. You supposed being more well-adjusted had its perks.
“Mom was worried too, but I kept her calm. Focused on work,” she said.
“I appreciate that. Thanks,” you replied. You knew you had to call your mom soon as well. Maybe you’d stop in on her after your sister.
“I better see you this weekend,” she grumbled. You smiled.
“Love you too,” you said.
“Love you…okay, I’ll let you go for now. But don’t forget!”
Once you said goodbye and hung up, you held the phone to your chest and heaved another sigh. You were exhausted, really. Sleep hadn’t been coming easy to you ever since you got back. But you knew it was nothing compared to what Ben was going through.
Which was why you visited him every day.
The next morning, you made your pitstop to the “cellar,” as you’d been calling it in your mind.
You’d brought whatever Grace allowed you to give him, like books and magazines, and an old iPod to listen to music on, but he mostly ignored you.
This time, however, he seemed in a different mood as you sat in a plastic fold out chair and ate your breakfast with him, on your side of the cell of course. You took another bite of your blueberry muffin while he pushed aside his bland-looking eggs.
“So, how much did you get paid?” he asked. His tone was nonchalant, but his gaze was accusing. You let out a breath and looked up at him.
“Enough to put my sister through college and pay off my mom’s debts,” you told him. “I took this job for my family, Ben.”
His finger tapped on his arm, but he didn’t relent. “Selling out is selling out.”
Wow. He really had the nerve to compare you to the way his team sold him out.
You’d tried to be nice. You really did. But he could be such a massive pain in the ass.
“You don’t seem to understand just how much shit I’m in for trying to help you right now,” you said.
Ben mustered up some strength and got up from his cot. He drew near to you, crossing his arms.
“If this is your idea of doing me a fucking favor, then I don’t need it,” he said angrily. “I don’t need a naive little girl like you to help me do jack shit.”
You set down your muffin and stood to your feet, matching his glare.
“Like you didn’t need my help to get into Vought Tower?” you pointed out, satisfied by the way he piped down. Silently simmering.
“If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t even be awake right now,” you added. “You’d be back in an ice coffin.”
And that could still happen if you couldn’t convince him to cooperate with Supe Affairs.
“Fuck off,” he snapped. “And fuck you.”
Oh really? You frowned. At this point, you wanted to slap him. It seemed to be his sheer stubbornness and ego that was keeping him from his own freedom, and that, you just couldn't tolerate.
“You know what?” you said, grabbing your muffin and your fold-up chair. “Suck my dick, Ben. When you’re ready to talk to me like a human being, tap on the glass.”
You left him behind to do your real job, and this time, you didn’t let him halt your steps.
You’d scarcely entered your apartment that evening, when a shadow on the living room sofa gave you a small heart attack.
You flipped on the lights and found your younger sister, arms crossed with a raised brow. On the coffee table in front of her was a glass of soda. It looked like she’d made herself comfortable while waiting for you.
“Louisa! What are you doing here?” you exclaimed, with a hand on your chest. “Why the hell are you sitting in the dark?”
“I heard you coming up those rickety stairs and thought I’d pay you back for disappearing in South America,” she said.
But soon enough, wide grins took over both of your faces.
You pulled her into a big, warm hug. Tears burned in your eyes, and one or two slid down your cheeks as you tried to get ahold of yourself.
“I missed you so much,” you confessed. You were just slightly taller than her, able to comfortably pet her hair and press a kiss to her cheek. Louisa was just as emotional, her pretty eyes filled with happy tears.
She was about to speak when the glass on the coffee table suddenly shattered.
You both flinched, and your sister gasped. You held onto her shoulders tighter, more protective as you assessed the room. You listened closely.
A shot rang out, but it hit the wall beside your head. You moved at the last moment and narrowly avoided the third shot that would’ve struck you between the eyes.
“Get down!” you yelled, forcing your sister to crouch along with you and move across the living room.
Bullets tore with a vengeance through the windows, crashing into vases, picture frames, shattering the surface glass of the wooden coffee table, and ripping into the sofa until its internal fluff rose into the air like cotton confetti.
You protected Louisa’s head as you both took shelter behind the sofa.
“What’s happening?” she shouted over the cacophony, but you didn’t have an answer for her yet.
Your front door burst open and shattered the lock. You tensed, looking for where you stashed the spare gun you kept at home. The S.A. hadn’t gotten around to issuing you a new glock yet.
Heavy boots came through your apartment. You grabbed a piece of broken glass and told Louisa to stay down.
But when you stood and met your attacker, he was nearly three times your size. He grabbed your wrist in a firm, but not painful hold. He pulled his black ski mask down with a hand and revealed a familiar face.
Your eyes widened, your mouth gaping in shock.
“Frank?”
AN: 😏 Did I get'cha? Did I? Let me know in the comments. 😂
Next Time:
“Wait, wait. You’re not getting out of this.” Louisa leaned over and grabbed your hand. “What’s the deal with you and Soldier Boy? I thought the whole point of your mission was to capture him.”
You let out an exasperated sigh.
“I was on the job, things went sideways, I got captured, and things got…complicated.”
Frank huffed. “I think the kids are calling it Frenemies with Benefits.”
Keep Reading: PART 13
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