#wicked writes
Text
Stolitz Smut as Promised.
Pairing: Stolas x Blitzø
~3,500 words
Relevant tags: Established Relationship, Roleplay, Rough Sex
Are Rules Not Meant to Be Broken?
A knock sounded at the door to Blitzø's office, drawing his attention from his work.
"Looney, you know we can't take in clients today with M&M out. If they're asking, just tell them we'll get to it tomorrow."
The door creaked open a crack, but the head that popped inside was far taller than what he expected.
"Wrong guess, darling." Stolas chirped from the doorway.
"Stolas? Why are you here?"
"Can I not drop by to visit my boyfriend? " He tilted his head to the side, smiling. "May I come in? I brought you some iced coffee." He stuck it through the door, giving it a little shake for emphasis.
Blitzø paused, considering it before replying. "How about you wait in the lobby?"
"Why not let me into your office?"
Blitzø leveled his gaze at the royal demon.
"Because I know you. And I have a shit ton of important paperwork to do, and you are only going to be a distraction."
"A distraction? I would never dream of interrupting you from your work." Stolas replied with a smirk, ducking into the room and closing the door behind him.
"Why even ask if you're not going to listen?"
Stolas ignored him, walking over to the imp and handing him his coffee, which Blitzø happily took and drank.
"How is it?"
Blitzø gave a thumbs up as he sipped. It was exactly how he liked it, but he wasn't going to admit that.
"Thanks for the drink. Now go sit in the lobby." Blitzø pointed at the door, looking up at him.
"Do you honestly think I came in here with nefarious purposes?" Stolas asked with feigned naivety, the look on his face betraying any possible claims of innocence.
The imp looked at him with a deadpan stare.
Stolas just smiled and walked around to the back of his chair, leaning down to nuzzle into the crook of his neck and placing his hands on his shoulders.
"Come on, Blitzy. You seem stressed. Why don't you take a break?" He dropped his voice down an octave before continuing, "I bet I could help you relax." He let out a deep little chuckle, running a hand down Blitzø's chest.
"Not here for nefarious purposes, my ass." He muttered.
"You know the rules, Stolas. No sex at the office."
"Have you not said before that rules are meant to be broken?" Stolas asked, a smartass expression plastered on his face.
"You're impossible." Blitzø said flatly.
Stolas just grinned and turned his chair around, kneeling down in front of it and propping his elbows up on the imp's thighs to prop his head up on his hands.
"How about this: You're the hard-working, overly stressed boss. Which you are. And I'm the secretary who would do anything for a raise." He proposed, walking his fingers up the other's chest.
Blitzø didn't protest but simply looked down at him. Stolas took that as sign enough to continue.
"You've had a particularly frustrating day and could really use an outlet. And there you see your sexy secretary bent over, filing away papers, hips just swaying in the air... almost knowingly taunting you."
Stolas reached up, gripping at the lapels of Blitzø's coat and straightening up slightly from his kneeling position.
"You can imagine that ass bent over your desk, legs wide apart, ready and wanting." He gently tugged him down so his mouth was at his neck. "Imagine yourself slamming into him, over and over as all he can do is hold on and take it as you fuck your stress away."
Stolas heard the other audibly swallow and he grinned wider. "Or maybe on his knees, hot mouth sucking you off eagerly. Taking you down all the way. Simply desperate for evey inch of your big, juicy cock."
Blitzø bit back a noise as the pictures Stolas was painting were shooting straight to his groin.
Dammit.
He hoped that the owl wouldn't notice, but that hope was quickly quashed as Stolas pulled himself up to straddle his lap. The wicked smile on his face was enough to tell Blitzø he definitely knew.
The prince leaned in with a self-satisfied hum, nipping gently at his neck and dropping a hand down to his lap, rubbing softly against his growing bulge.
"You're awful." Blitzø hissed.
Stolas pulled back enough to look Blitzø in the face, his glowing eyes hooded. "So...is the secretary going to be able to earn his well deserved raise?" He inquired in a teasing tone as he traced circles on his chest with his free hand, tail swishing gently.
"I ought to fire him." The imp muttered.
Raising his gaze to meet the prince's, he reluctantly gave in to thinking with the head Stolas was currently paying apt attention to, since that one was making it much harder to use the other.
"Fine. You win." The demon huffed. "Fucking slutty bird."
"Slutty secretary ." He corrected with a simper before hopping up and turning Blitzø's chair back to face his desk.
The shorter demon rolled his eyes and shook his head, but the edges of his mouth tugged upward.
Stolas walked over to the door and turned the lock with a click. He leaned back against the door, folding his arms behind his back. When he spoke, it was in a deep, sultry tone.
"You wanted to see me in your office? Sir."
Okay, that had no right to sound as hot as it did, but it definitely was something Blitzø could work with.
He noted in the back of his mind that he was glad that Moxxie had stopped calling him that because it certainly wouldn't being doing him any favors in one way or another.
Blitzø put on a smirk and leaned back, kicking his feet up onto the desk and tucking his hands behind his head.
"To my desk."
Stolas walked over to stand in front of him, hands still clasped behind his back.
"I wanted to talk to you about this raise you wanted. I don't really see what reason I would have to give you that. All you seem do is walk around the office in tight little outfits, distracting my workers. If anything, you're hurting the amount of work that gets done around here."
"Sir, I promise I am a very hard worker. I am extremely dedicated to this company. I would do anything you needed me to do to help it thrive."
"Hmmm." Blitzø hummed and switched his position so his feet were back on the floor, leaning an elbow on the desk. "Really now?"
He looked the taller demon up and down, a slow smile growing on his lips.
"I think I could work something out with you. You say you're such a hard worker, maybe you can show me that work ethic of yours."
"Of course. What would you have me do?"
Blitzø motioned Stolas to come closer to him, scooting his chair back enough that owl could stand between him and the desk.
"Kneel."
Stolas obliged, dropping down to his knees between Blitzø's parted legs.
The imp reached down, combing his fingers through the feathers on his head.
Stolas was looking up at him with big round eyes that held an eagerness he never could seem to hide. And fuck if he didn't look nice like that. The only thing that would make him look prettier would be-
Blitzø was getting ahead of himself.
"Meetings and paperwork and all that shit are stressful. It'd be extremely helpful if someone could ease some of that tension as I worked."
He reached down with his free hand and unfastened the button and zipper to his pants.
"Is that something you can do?"
The corners of the taller demon's mouth curled upward as he leaned down closer, hands sliding up Blitzø's thighs.
"Oh, I think you will find I am quite qualified."
Stolas slipped his fingers under the waistband of the imp's boxers, tugging them and his pants down as Blitzø lifted his hips to allow him to do so. He watched as his erection popped free, the prince's tail giving an excited little thump against the floor.
The demon wasted absolutely no time taking it into his mouth, tongue twisting around the length of it.
Blitzø swallowed down a noise at the sudden wet heat, eyelids drooping as he watched him work. He met Stolas's gaze as the owl peered up at him, mouth full.
Pretty.
With that thought and a grin, he gripped the back of his head with the hand he had threaded in his feathers and roughly yanked him down till the tip of his beak touched his abdomen.
Stolas choked as Blitzø forced himself down his throat, swallowing around him once he adjusted to the intrusion. He gripped onto the imp's inner thighs, eyes starting to water the longer he held him there. The grasp on his head was firm, keeping him from budging.
Just as his lungs started to burn, Blitzø pulled him back and released his grip. The prince coughed, gasping in lungfulls of air.
Blitzø waited as the other caught his breath before pulling his head forward with one hand and wiping away the drool that had dripped out his mouth with the other. He guided him towards his cock, gently tapping it against his cheek.
Stolas obediently opened his mouth, allowing Blitzø to slip back inside it. He let his eyes fall shut, focusing his attention to the head of him, lapping up any liquid that escaped the tip.
The imp let his head fall back against the back of his chair, letting out a quiet sigh of pleasure as Stolas kept at it, his hand back in the feathers at his crown. As he felt the other move his way up and down, tongue skillfully winding its way around him, a telltale tension in his abdomen keyed him into needing to make him stop.
"Ah- Alright. Good job performance." Blitzø managed.
Stolas took the hint and pulled back, a proud and slightly smug look on his face. He stood up, straightening his posture to try and give off a professional demeanor.
Blitzø gave himself a squeeze at his base, staving off his building orgasm, and stood up from his chair, kicking his pants fully off and his boots along with them.
"Sit." He ordered, motioning toward the desk before shedding his coat and hanging it over the back of his chair.
The prince turned to do so but was met with the papers Blitzø had been working on spread across the top of it. He leaned down, gathering them up into a neat pile.
"Fuck that." Blitzø said, sweeping the rest of the paperwork onto the floor.
Stolas just stood there stunned, papers still in hand.
"Don't you-... don't you need those? Did you not say that they were important?" He asked, slightly puzzled.
"Problem for future me." The imp responded before repeating, "Sit."
The taller demon gently placed the stack he was holding, along with Blitzø's coffee, on the chair and sat back on top his desk.
"You know. I think you're far too over-dressed for the workplace. You need to fix that."
Stolas did as he was asked and started stripping off layers of his clothes, starting with his cape. He folded each article as he went and stacked them on the floor next to the haphazard pile Blitzø had thrown his in.
"Is this better, Sir?" Stolas asked coyly once he was fully undressed, moving into a position that would show off more of himself.
Blitzø pulled his shirt up and over his head and tossed it with the rest. He looked over at the demon in front of him, eyes roaming over every inch of his exposed body.
"Much." He commended, hopping up onto the desk and straddling the other's lap. He pulled him down slightly to meet him in a kiss and allowed Stolas to run his hands all across his body. He relished in the touch, his tail curling around one of the owl's wrist and using it to guide Stolas's arm to around his waist.
Stolas followed suit and wrapped the other around him as well, pulling him flush against him as he deepened the kiss.
They continued a bit longer before Blitzø broke away, moving his mouth to the other's neck. He bit down, sinking his sharp teeth into the place where his neck met his shoulder.
The prince let out a startled cry that was immediately interrupted by Blitzø shoving his fingers into his mouth.
"Quiet." The imp warned, as he pulled back from his neck. "Can't disturb the others in the office."
Stolas gave him a look. Blitzø was the one who bit him without warning. It wasn't his fault. Nevertheless, he took Blitzø's cue to suck on his fingers, coating them in as much saliva as he could.
Blitzø offered him a little satisfied smile as he pulled them out, reaching down and pressing his fingers against Stolas's entrance. He stroked against him gently before dipping inside, mixing Stolas's spit with the pre he was leaking. He purposely kept his movements slow and shallow, knowing it would only frustrate him.
Stolas let out a quiet whine as the other deliberately teased him, not missing the smug look on Blitzø's face.
It wasn't until the imp got enough of his restless squirming that he delved deeper, rubbing against his inner walls.
Stolas braced himself with his arms behind him and closed his eyes. But soon after, Blitzø pulled his fingers back out and hopped down off the table, eliciting a sound of protest from the other.
He gripped Stolas from under his knees and tugged him forward till he was sitting at the very edge of his desk. Not wasting a moment, he kneeled down, fixing his mouth over his opening. His long tongue snaked its way inside of him, and he relished the sharp breath the prince sucked in.
Stolas watched him as he worked between his legs, feeling his face flush at the sight of it. It felt absolutely amazing, but only drove to make him desperate for something more. Something bigger.
"Blitzø." He breathed.
The smaller demon pulled back, looking Stolas in his face.
"I'm sorry, what was that? Is that any way to address your boss?" He asked, a half-amused look on his face.
"My apologies. Sir." Stolas corrected.
"Better remember to show me respect or you're not getting a single cent more from me."
Blitzø stood up and walked around to the front side of his desk.
"Come here."
Stolas did as he was told, following in suit.
"Y'know," Blitzø started, tapping a finger against his cheek and putting on a thoughtful look. "I think my office could use a little something more. Maybe something pretty and all splayed out for me to look at." He flashed the other a wicked grin.
"Think you could help me with that?"
"Yes, Sir." The owl nodded.
"Over the desk." He ordered.
Stolas obeyed, getting on his knees so he could properly bend himself over Blitzø's desk.
Blitzø gave a gentle kick to each of his legs, signaling him to spread them further apart before stepping back away from him.
Stolas followed his instructions, his legs splaying out as far as he could make them. He lifted his tail to give Blitzø a better veiw, and fanned out the feathers to make them look fuller. He turned his head to face the imp, watching for his reaction.
Blitzø just stared at the lewd display in front of him, hand flying down to his dick which was now painfully hard. Stolas's face was flushed a deep pink and the feathers near the base of his tail were soaked.
"How's this, Sir?" Stolas asked in a breathy and seductive tone.
An absolutely depraved smile appeared on the imp's face in response.
"Fucking perfect."
Blitzø walked up to him and leaned over slightly so his face was closer to Stolas's, playfully giving a sharp flick of his tail to the other's backside as he did so. He tipped his chin up slightly with a finger, locking eyes with the prince.
"Working here isn't always gonna be easy, y'know. There'll be days that are gonna be real rough. You may feel like you've taken a good pounding with how hard I've worked you. You may need to fight the urge to scream from it all. And maybe some days you'll just feel fucked over and raw."
He smirked and pulled back.
"Let's see just how resilient you are."
He gave Stolas's ass a hard smack as he moved to stand behind him. He wrapped his tail snugly around the owl's, moving it out of his way as he grabbed Stolas's hip with one hand and gave himself a few strokes with the other. He rubbed the slick dripping from his tip along his length before positioning himself at Stolas's entrance, teasingly brushing the head over it before suddenly and roughly penetrating him.
Stolas bit down on his fist to dampen the noise that was forced from him as he was slammed against the edge of the desk. He felt Blitzø grip both of his hips tightly, claws digging into his skin. Pleasure shot through him as he was stretched full, the other pressing in deep and hard with each of his thrusts.
Blitzø had his eyes trained on where the two of them met, watching himself slide in and out of the prince. He kept up a quick pace, driving forcefully into him each time. The imp could hear the small sounds that Stolas was trying to keep in. He usually was quite vocal, so Blitzø knew keeping quiet was difficult for him.
And he didn't plan on making it any easier.
Reaching up with one hand, he grabbed a fist-full of feathers at the back of his head and yanked. Hard.
Stolas let out a small squawk as his head was forcibly and abruptly pulled backwards. The hold on his feathers was tight, and he knew Blitzø was not going to ease up. Stolas panted slightly as the other kept up a fast and rough pace, Blitzø's grip on the prince causing him to arch his back from how far back he was holding his head.
"Arms behind your back."
The taller demon complied, now no longer able to support himself, only being held up by Blitzø's hold on him and his own abdominal muscles.
Blitzø quickened his speed, keeping a firm grasp on Stolas. Each snap of his hips drove as deep into the royal demon as possible. He could feel Stolas straining against the grip the imp had on him, trying to keep himself up.
It was only when Blitzø noticed Stolas's body start to sink down, tiring from trying to hold himself up, that he released his hold on the owl's head, not wanting to yank out more feathers than he knew he already had. He moved his other hand from Stolas's hip to wrap an arm under and around the prince, keeping him from slamming down on the desk when he let go.
Stolas huffed as he fell forward, caught by Blitzø, and moved his arms from behind his back to brace his forearms on the desk. He let his head drop and hang down, eyes squeezing shut from barrage against him and talons scraping against the wood.
Sweat was beading at Blitzø's brow, his breaths coming out in short hot bursts. His hands moved to settle on Stolas's waist, and he used that grip to pull the other against himself to meet each drive into him. His movements grew more erratic as he felt himself grow closer.
A groan caught in Blitzø's throat as his hips stuttered. With one last powerful thrust, he spilled out inside of Stolas, holding the demon flush against him as his orgasm coursed through him.
Stolas gasped as the hot liquid filled him to the brim. The feeling of it practically overflowing from him was almost enough to send his already teetering self over the edge.
Blitzø pressed his forehead against his back, giving a few more deep rolls of his hips into the other. As he did so, he dragged his sharp claws down the taller demon's sides as hard as he could without breaking skin and tugged roughly on Stolas's tail with his own.
The keen pain and pleasure that that caused was just enough to tip Stolas over into a climax of his own. He once again bit down to try to keep as quiet as it overtook him, clenching around the other, his own release gushing forth and mixing with Blitzø's.
Blitzø bit down on his lower lip as Stolas tightened and spasmed, the force of it along with the added fluid caused their mess to trickle out and drip onto the floor.
Fuck. Blitzø was going to have to clean that up.
He turned his head to the side, his face rested against the demon's soft feathers as he waited for his breathing to even out.
Once it did, Blitzø pulled out slowly, only causing more semen to leak onto the ground beneath them.
Dammit, Stolas. This was part of why he had the rule.
Stolas turned his head around to look at him, a tired but happy smile on his face.
"So, Boss. How did I do?"
Blitzø laughed a soft, breathy laugh and reached over to gently run his fingers down the side of his face.
"I think I can find it in the budget to give you that raise."
Stolas gave a small laugh in return.
"Thank you, Sir." He smiled and slowly pulled himself up from his knees, moving to sit on top the imp's desk.
Blitzø climbed up onto the desk and into the prince's lap. He buried his face into the fluffy feathers of his chest, feeling spent but satisfied.
"You're helping me fix the mess you caused." He muttered, muffled.
"Of course, my Blitzy." Stolas assured with a smile, resting his head gently on top of Blitzø's.
"You're also getting me more coffee because I'm gonna need more than what you brought if I'm getting through the rest of the fuckin' work day."
The prince just chuckled softly and pressed a kiss to one of the imp's horns.
"Whatever you'd like." He stroked a hand gently down the smaller demon's back.
Blitzø wrapped his arms loosely around the owl's middle in response, completely relaxed against Stolas and happy to stay put for at least for a little while longer.
Maybe breaking his rule wasn't such a bad idea. Maybe they could do it again sometime.
Maybe.
He did still have a job to do.
.
#stolitz#helluva boss#nsft#helluva boss fanfiction#helluva boss fanfic#stolas goetia#blitzø#blitzo#blitz#stolas#mine#wicked writes#stolitzo#stolitzø#wicked hb
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I haven't gotten around to posting this on tumblr until now 😅
Wicked's Whumptober 2022 Prompts for the HTTYD Books!! I only finished seven, but they were fun all the same!!
Please mind the tags on these!
Day 2: Caged
a dragon in a birdcage: a character study on Hiccup the Second
Day 3: Gun to Temple
trigger finger: Valhallarama is interrogated by Danger-Brutes, and six year old Hiccup is their hostage
Day 9: The Very Noisy Night
the screams all sound the same: Hiccup suffers nightmares while in exile with Fishlegs and Camicazi.
Day 10: Whipping
how can I be an optimist about this?: Fishlegs and Eggingarde have a conversation in Prison Darkheart.
Day 11: Self-Done First Aid
metal jaws: Hiccup is caught in a dragon trap.
Day 17: Reluctant Caretaker
how to save a life: chained together in an underwater cave, Snotlout is forced to either save Hiccup's life, or die alongside him.
Day 22: Pick Your Poison
a dance of swords: bitten by an unknown dragon, Hiccup is poisoned into delirium and tries to kill Camicazi.
...
Also, here's the ones I didn't finish, but let me know if you're interested and I'll see if I can't finish them up!
Alt prompt; Carried to Safety
the price of kindness: an exiled Hiccup is caught by slavers and put to work in a mine with a cynical gronkle.
Day 8: Head Trauma
the words escape me: Hiccup hits his head on the American Dream 2 and now he can only speak dragonese!
Day 12: Cave In
here in the dark: Hiccup and Fishlegs get trapped in a collapsed cave.
Day 28: Anger Born of Worry
green blood: Stormfly takes a hit that was meant for Camicazi.
Day 30: Manhandled
the only benefit to being exiled among dragons is that eventually you learn to fight like one: the Wodensfang is caught by Lava Louts. Hiccup's attempt at rescue doesn't go according to plan.
#httyd books#httyd#how to train your dragon books#httyd book fic#whumptober 2022#wicked writes#<<AYY NEW WRITING TAG
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is there a way to get smart quotes instead of straight quotes ( ’ vs ' ) in ywriter? i was thinking of switching over because i thought it would work with how i write my fics but. i cannot fucking ABIDE straight quotes with serif fonts & everything i’ve already written has smart quotes anyway and like. i can’t go through and edit all that later but it looks unprofessional as fuck when quote styles are inconsistent. basically i do not think this program and i are compatible which sucks because my microsoft word is broken. i am in hell
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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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This ended up being a lot more plot than smut.
Pairing: Stolas x Blitzø
~2,500 words
Relevant Tags: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Smut, Physical Aggression
Just a Slip of the Tongue
"Blitzy, please." Stolas whined, hips bucking upward as Blitzø's fingers worked inside of him.
"Please. I need you inside me." He was begging. Pleading. Every part of him aching for the real thing.
Blitzø just grinned.
He had been teasing and edging Stolas for a while now, and the prince was getting extremely desperate.
The imp gave a little squeeze to his length, relieving some pressure.
He would be lying if he said he wasn't almost foaming at the mouth to get his dick wet. He just wanted to torture Stolas a bit first.
Stolas was mewling under him, feathers absolutely soaked around his eager hole, which was dripping with a mix of lube, spit, and precome. A beautiful sight of Blitzø's own making.
He slipped his fingers out and grabbed Stolas by his thighs, yanking him down some to meet him.
The prince wasn't the only one getting impatient; Blitzø had held off long enough.
Slicking himself up, he positioned himself at Stolas's entrance and pressed inside him.
The moan that that pulled from the royal demon's mouth was delicious.
"Blitzø." Stolas breathed his name, soaking in the feeling of the other as he filled him up. And fuck if it wasn't incredible. No fingers, or dildo, or vibrator even came close to how good his cock inside of him felt. And after Satan knows how long Blitzø had been dragging this out, it only felt all the sweeter.
Blitzø groaned and bit down on Stolas's shoulder, sinking his sharp teeth into his skin as he rocked against him.
The prince felt so nice around him, and It took a good amount of control to keep himself from just pounding relentlessly into him. Not that he figured Stolas would mind, but he did want to last longer than that would have him do.
"Harder."
Stolas clenched purposely around him and looked up at the imp, his eyes heavy with lust.
And with that went any of the self-control Blitzø had left. So much for holding back.
The imp leaned back up and gripped the taller demon's hips tightly, giving in to what he wanted and thrusting hard and deep into him.
"Ah-aah."
Stolas arched his back, his fists in the sheets as the other pounded into him. It sent shockwaves of pleasure through him every time the smaller demon's hips slammed against his ass.
Blitzø's tail wrapped securely around Stolas's leg as he fucked him. He sped up his movements, smirking as it caused more noises to spill forth from the prince, which only further fueled him.
Stolas moaned, sinking into the ecstasy the imp was causing to course through him. He watched Blitzø's pleasured expression, emotion swelling inside him. The pace and intensity made it hard to think of anything except the other and how wonderful he was making him feel.
"Oh, Blitzø." He panted. "Fuck, I love you."
...Shit.
Blitzø stilled suddenly, halting completely in his tracks as soon as those words left Stolas's mouth. His head reeled from what the prince had said.
He stared down at Stolas, eyes wide but expression completely unreadable as emotions clashed inside of him.
"I didn't-...I just meant-..." Stolas stammered, panicking slightly.
He had gotten too caught up in the moment. Those words just slipped out. They weren't untrue, but this definitely was not the way to tell him.
Blitzø waited and listened, practically frozen in place as the flustered demon under him explained himself, or at least attempted to.
Stolas put on a purposely seductive tone and gave him a hooded look, hoping it would make a convincing enough cover.
"I only meant that I love you making me feel so amazing. That is all. You are quite the incredible lover, most obviously."
And there it was.
Of fucking course.
Blitzø hated how that stung. Why did he even care? What did he even expect?
Stolas noticed as something flashed across Blitzø's features, but he couldn't quite tell what it was. It almost seemed like... hurt?
No, that couldn't be it. He was just imagining things.
Blitzø turned his head away, hiding his expression from the other. He could feel his pain and frustration growing, the situation needling him and getting under his skin.
Taking a deep breath, he released his hold on Stolas, pulling out and slipping down off the side of the bed.
Stolas made a soft sound at the loss, propping himself up on his forearms and frowning as the smaller one hopped down.
"...Blitzy?" He asked softly, brows knitting together.
Blitzø whipped his head around to face him, anger and annoyance clear on his face.
"That's not my fucking name!" He snapped.
Stolas winced, shrinking back into the mattress.
Blitzø turned back away from the other, squeezing his eyes tightly shut.
"Just-" he paused, making sure to keep his voice even. "Just give me a fucking second, okay? I just-... need some air."
Blitzø walked over to the balcony doors, pulling them open and walking over to the edge of it. He exhaled a shaky breath he didn't even realize he was holding in. His hands curled around the top edge of the railing as angry, hot tears prickled at the corners of his eyes.
What the fuck was wrong with him? Why was he even upset?
He already knew that he was nothing but a plaything to Stolas. That there was no way in Hell a royal demon like him could even give a single shit about a piece of crap like himself.
Why? Why did those words even give him a moment of hope? Why did they tug on his heart like that?
Stupid.
His claws scraped across the marble as he clenched his hands, shoulders tensing and his face scrunching up into a pained expression.
This was sex. That's all.
I didn't ask for these stupid fucking feelings.
He cursed himself in his own mind.
Just shove them back down. It's all just business.
Why did he ever let himself think for even a second that it could ever have been something more?
He knew the truth. He had repeated it to himself over and over: It was only transactional.
Stolas watched as the demon walked out onto the balcony, and it felt as if his heart was stuck in his throat.
He fucked up. What an idiot he was for ever letting those words slip past his beak.
He looked over at Blitzø who was silhouetted in light of the full moon. Even now, he looked so beautiful.
Stolas buried his head in his hands.
He had freaked him out and scared him away. Said too much. Crossed a boundary and made him uncomfortable.
He hoped to Satan he hadn't completely ruined things.
Your feelings aren't mutual. You know that he doesn't love you. Why would you tell him that?
Stolas squeezed his eyes shut.
He's only here for the Grimoire. Convincing yourself otherwise is foolish.
Even if he enjoys being here, it's not real.
Stolas felt tears run down his face. He pulled his knees up to his chest, hugging them close to him and tucking his head in.
How could you be so moronic?
Blitzø swiped at the wetness that threatened to spill from his eyes. He heaved a sigh and forced his face into a netural expression as he swallowed down his emotions.
Let's just fucking get this over with.
He headed back into the room, walking over till he was standing at Stolas's bed.
"We finishing this or-?" He lifted a brow, doing his best to shoot a suggestive look to Stolas.
"Oh." Stolas peeked up at Blitzø with his top pair of eyes, covertly trying to wipe away the few tears that had escaped before lifting his head fully.
"If-... if that's what you want, Blitz-" He caught himself before fully adding the 'y' to the end. "Blitzø." The owl restated.
Stolas gave him a smile, but it didn't reach his eyes.
Blitzø shrugged, seemingly nonchalant, and crawled up onto the bed, pushing the prince back onto his back.
Stolas looked up at him, studying his face as Blitzø positioned himself over him. He could tell something was still wrong with the imp. That something was eating at him.
He lifted a hand, gently cupping the side of Blitzø's face.
"Are you okay? I didn't upset you, did I?" Stolas asked quietly, concern in his eyes.
Blitzø clenched his jaw tightly, forcing himself to keep a straight face.
Fuck, it pissed him off how soft this royal asshole was acting. Pretending to fucking care. Lying to his fucking face.
"I'm fine. Why would I be upset?" His voice was more curt than he meant it to be.
"I-... of course. How silly of me." Stolas gave an uncomfortable little laugh and let his hand drop back down.
"I only wanted to make sure you were alright, darling."
Why did he keep doing that? Why did he insist on putting on this stupid act?
Blitzø just growled in response as something snapped inside him.
He clasped one hand tightly over the prince's mouth and wrapped the other around his neck, pressing him firmly to the bed.
"Stolas. Shut the fuck up."
Stolas hated the jolt of arousal that caused to shoot through him.
Blitzø's eyes were dark, but not in their usual way where Stolas could catch the heady glints of excitement and pleasure in them.
This was different. Harder. More aggressive.
"Shut up and let me fuck you." A cruel smirk crossed Blitzø's face, causing a mix of lust and unease to churn within the prince.
Stolas made a muffled noise against Blitzø's palm, but that only caused the imp to squeeze tighter around his throat, cutting off his air.
Blitzø looked down at the other demon, his head swirling with intense emotions he couldn't tamp down, his thoughts anything but kind.
So much anger was rising inside of him. Anger at Stolas. At himself.
Anger and hurt.
He was losing grasp on himself and was desperate to regain control in one way or another.
His tail wrapped tightly around one of Stolas's legs, roughly tugging and forcing them apart. He shifted his hips so he was kneeling between the prince's thighs. He moved in closer and-
Three firm taps to his side.
Blitzø suddenly and immediately halted, the action snapping him out of his own head.
A startled look replaced his previous expression, and he focused his eyes on Stolas, who repeated the signal.
Blitzø released his grip from around Stolas's neck and removed his other hand from his mouth, his tail unfurling from the owl's leg.
The royal demon coughed and wriggled out from under him, sitting up slightly.
He watched Blitzø's face as emotions flickered quickly across it as he processed what had happened.
Stolas had never had to use that before. Never needed to tap out. Even in times where most people would have. (He wouldn't have this time either if he hadn't been worried about Blitzø and where his motives were coming from.)
Blitzø let himself fall slightly from his knees, sitting back on his heels.
The realization of the situation sunk in, causing his face to burn hot with shame.
He cast a quick glance up at the prince before tearing it away, unable to hold the gaze Stolas had fixed on him.
"Fuck, Stolas. I-" He faltered before hiding his face in his hands.
Stolas frowned slightly and sat up more, moving closer and crossing his legs under him.
"Blitzø." Stolas said softly yet firmly, reaching out to gently remove the smaller demon's hands from his face. "Something is clearly wrong."
Blitzø allowed Stolas to move his hands away but immediately yanked them from him, crossing his arms around himself in a defensive manner.
A twinge of anger shot through the imp, but it died as quickly as it came. A slight ache in his chest arose in its place.
He looked up at the other, face still dark with embarrassed heat, but his eyes peirced with a tired sort of pain.
"Please just-" he sighed, steadying his voice and squeezing his eyes shut. "Stop doing that."
The owl blinked at this, tilting his head to the side, confused.
"Doing what? I...I don't think I understand."
"Pretending like you care about me!" He lashed out, hurt blatantly clear on his face and in his voice as he was no longer able to hide it.
Stolas just stared wide-eyed at him, too stunned at his outburst to speak.
Blitzø grimaced, taking his lack of response as a confirmation that he was correct.
"What I fuckin' thought." He muttered under his breath, turning away from the other and hugging himself more tightly.
Stolas regained his composure before very pointedly asking,
"Are you a fucking idiot?"
Now it was Blitzø's turn to look at Stolas in shock. He looked into the demon's incredulous and mildly annoyed face.
"...What?"
"I-" Stolas furrowed his brow, puzzled irritation turning to concern, turning to insecurity.
"Is that-...is that really what you think? How you think I feel about you?" He frowned, sadness slipping through his tone.
"Have I done something to make you feel like that..? Have I not-" The prince sighed, pausing shortly before looking him directly in the face.
"I am so sorry if I ever made you feel as if you are uncared for." His expression was disappointed and remorseful.
"I promise you, that could not be further from the truth." Stolas softly assured.
Blitzø just stared at him, eyes desperately searching his face for any hint of dishonesty or deception. But he couldn't find any.
The demon seemed completely honest and earnest.
The imp lowered his gaze, choosing to apologize himself rather than fully acknowledge Stolas's words. He was unsure how to accept them, and his own self-hatred was still making it hard for him to even believe.
"...I'm sorry, too."
He kept his eyes glued to the bed, refusing to look at Stolas.
"I shouldn't have done that." He scowled slightly. "I was just upset and frustrated and-"
He swallowed hard, cheeks starting to heat up again.
"I wanted to take it out on you. All of it." He glanced up at him for a moment, looking guilty.
"I didn't think that you'd-... didn't care if-..." he cut himself off and made a frustrated noise, scrubbing his face with his hands.
"Fuck. I-" Blitzø felt the telltale prickle of tears in his eyes again. "I'm just sorry, okay?"
He met Stolas's gaze, hoping he didn't look as pathetic as he felt.
"I am not upset with you, Blitzø. You stopped when I told you to. There's no need to berate yourself over it." Stolas assured him before continuing, his voice turning trepidatious.
"Your intentions and motivations were not exactly... great, but it's alright, okay?"
Blitzø felt his cheeks burn darker, shame growing at Stolas's words, but Stolas just reached across towards him, hand stilling momentarily.
When he noticed Blitzø wasn't going to pull away from him this time, he softly caressed his face.
The imp leaned unconsciously into his touch.
Stolas pulled him gently toward himself, leaning down till their foreheads rested against each other.
"Please know how much I do care for you." Stolas started, pulling away slightly to look at him, his hand moving delicately under the other's chin.
"I promise you are very special to me, my little imp." The prince smiled and nuzzled his face softly, eliciting a small but genuine smile from Blitzø.
"...Thanks, Stolas." He quietly replied, peering up into the ruby glow of his eyes. There was still a jumble of emotions inside him, but they had calmed down to a lull.
"You don't have to thank me for that, Blitzø." He responded with another soft smile, holding his gaze.
Blitzø broke eye contact, and Stolas caught a glimpse of what seemed like an almost shy look before the imp moved to pull himself into the other's lap and hide his face in Stolas's chest feathers.
His voice was muffled when he spoke, relenting.
"...You can call me Blitzy."
A warm grin broke across Stolas's face, and he hugged Blitzø close, happiness bubbling within him.
"Thank you, Blitzy."
.
#stolitz#stolas goetia#blitzø#helluva boss#blitzo#blitz#stolas#helluva boss fanfic#helluva boss fanfiction#stolitzo#mine#wicked writes#nsft#wicked hb
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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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