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#HOW MANY FUCKING JOHN WICKS ARE THERE
calkale · 1 year
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FUCKING!!!!!! JOHN WICK 4!!!!!
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yllowpages · 1 year
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THIS POST CONTAINS HEAVY SPOILERS FOR J.W4 —
john is not a good friend.
at least not that we see in his journey through these movies. in fact, he fairly consistently acts selfishly — he asks for things for personal vendettas, he puts people in conflicting positions, and he even ruins or ends lives just by asking for favors from those he may have considered friends. pretty much every person who helps john is punished and faces the consequences for doing so, no matter how much john cared for them or thought highly of them. marcus saves john's life and viggo kills him for it. charon puts john in his own favor and the marquis kills him for it. winston obviously also favors john over many others and he has to jump through many hoops to gain back his respect and the hotel when all of that is taken away because of john. the bowery king pays for his act of supplying john with a weapon in receiving a physical punishment. sofia is put out when john comes to her and it can be implied she was punished for helping him based on what happened to both the director and the bowery king. koji is killed by caine for even temporarily giving safe harbor to john in the osaka continental.
caine (and, by some extension, winston) is the first time john actually fulfills a less-than-selfish act for something technically bigger than him. allowing caine to shoot him so john could save his last shot for the marquis was john's one slightly selfless action in these films. and only slightly since killing the marquis would free himself (and also winston). still, it seems to me that john came to this realization in chapter 4 that there was nothing left for him. (the dog, yes, but the dog seemed to be doing just fine with the bowery king as well.) his family, helen, was gone. and he'd alienated himself from anyone else he might have called a friend. plus, he'd killed too much to continue trying to avoid the consequences of his actions. he had no life to return to. he didn't want to die, but knew if he had to, he'd rather die as john, "the man who loved and was loved by his wife." and so the moment the marquis was dead, he was able to do that. but ... even if he had no life to return to, caine did. and taking that away from him — after taking koji from his daughter, arguably sofia from hers, and many others from their lives — this was something he owed to both caine and himself. so, in the one moment of real character development he has, john saves his last shot for the marquis so he can have the final word and have his freedom, but also took cain's last bullet so that caine could be with his daughter. it's exactly what koji said, something that john had never considered, therefore had to be reminded of so he could dig himself out of his selfish pit of grief:
friendship means little when it's convenient.
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the-acid-pear · 2 years
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I love never watching sequels 🤪
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angelltheninth · 7 months
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Do people realize how amazing 2023 has been for entertainment? How much talent and passion there was so far?
We had: Barbie, Nimona, Oppenheimer, Super Mario, Elemental, Red, White and Royal Blue, Insidious: The Red Door, Across the Spider-verse, Scream VI, My Adventures with Superman, Heartstopper S2, The Little Mermaid, Puss in Boots: The Last Wish, Guardians of the Galaxy V3, Skinamarink, Miraculous: Awakening, John Wick: Chapter 4
And we still have Wish, The Creator, Ahsoka, Saw X, Wonka, The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes, Rebel Moon, Loki S2, Five Nights at Freddy's, The Marvels, Dune Part 2, The Continental, A Haunting in Venice, Percy Jackson and the Olympians
2023 has been one of the best years in terms of quality entertainment recently. I don't ever remember being so hyped and amazed and surprised by so many things in a single year.
There are so many amazing things this year, have amazing people as their cast and crew. And those are the people Hollywood wants to fire and replace and not pay. I can't imagine being that fucking stupid.
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kiwisbell · 18 days
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helen ; chapter three
the red circle
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Si vis pacem, para bellum. Or, the truth.
series masterlist | my masterlist pairing: joel miller x f!reader tags/warnings: 18+ (MDNI), john wick AU, hitman!joel, husband!joel, established relationship, artist!reader, love as worship (and blasphemy), sacrilege in the name of romance, flashbacks, graphic violence, guns, blood + injuries, mentions of rape/SA, cars, bill is here, joel is still a bit of an idiot, childhood/religious trauma, hitman!joel finally hitmans, criminal underworld, secrecy/lies, betrayal, ANGST (still unresolved oopsie), we're getting there though, exposition, conflicting emotions, joel's tattoos are sexy but they're also plot-relevant, Sleeping Together, but not like That, the typical alcohol/smoking/profanity, dividers by @/saradika word count: ~ 7.6k a/n: this chapter marks this fic being halfway done already, which is madness. also, can i just say that i'm loving the amount of people who've specifically been watching john wick because of this fic?? this is my agenda!! as always, thank you so fucking much to mya baby @cavillscurls for beta reading this fic and being, idk, generally the loml. i hope you enjoy chapter 3, my friends! i'm sorry it's been such a long time coming, but life lifed, y'know?? prev | next
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“How much?”
“Two million. For now, at least. It’s open.”
“Goddammit, Tommy.”
“I told you to be careful, brother. Now look at you. You’re a loose end.”
Joel resisted the urge to toss his phone. The shower continued running in the bathroom, muffled by the closed door. 
He couldn't lose you. He didn't know life without you. Love had no name until he knew you. He'd christened it with that first kiss, maybe even in the first breath he'd shared with you.
If there was a chance Cabrera’s kid could come back for you, even if just to hurt Joel, he needed to see this to its end. There was no choice. 
“He tried to rape my wife,” said Joel. “He's lucky I’m only tryin’ to kill him.”
Tommy only sighed, and the call ended.
I married you, Joel.
I loved you.
You lied to me.
He rests his elbows on his knees as he watches you doze. The sunlight shines neatly through the break in the curtains, and you squint against it in your sleep, turning over with a little huff and bringing the duvet over your head. You’ve always needed total darkness for a half-decent sleep. 
You’ve been crying. The tears leave remnants on your cheeks, a dryness at the outer corners of your eyes, salt seeping moisture from your skin. He’s never known a thing so soft as the drag of his hand down your back. 
I loved you.
You lied to me.
You will never understand. There are reasons—too many to count—that civilians cannot know. He may have gotten you to relative safety in the Continental, but there are a hundred dangerous people in this building who have a long-standing grudge against Joel Miller or the man he worked for. A hundred people who would take you as collateral the moment you stepped outside the grounds. But as long as you remain inside, you’re safe.
He just needs to finish the job. He needs to see it through, and he’ll be out. You’ll realise he’s done it all for you.
I loved you.
Sitting on the edge of his bed, he watches the rise and fall of your chest beneath the sheets. He broke your heart last night. He watched you turn in on yourself, your eyes so cold, so far away. He listened to you scream, and inside he pleaded: Keep hitting me, baby. Keep shouting. Be mad. He wanted you loud and furious and spitting fire. If you were angry, you still cared. He could work with that. 
And to see you walk away, the fire frozen over, the fight in your marrow sucked out… 
The anguish of losing your ire still stirs in his chest. The guilt peels him away in layers. Acid. 
She’ll understand, he tells himself, you, anyone who’ll listen. She’ll get it someday—why I did it, why I lied. She’ll forgive me.
Forgive me, baby. Don’t let me live the rest of this life never seeing you smile.
“Stop looking at me,” you grumble, your eyes still closed.
Joel averts his eyes. His throat feels tight. “You sleep okay?”
You haul yourself upright and stretch out your back. Joel studies the curve of your spine and the nape of your neck. You’re the muse painters rave about. The reflections of sunlight on water at dusk. The pond of water lilies. 
“You didn’t. Your sheets haven’t even moved.”
“I can’t sleep without you.”
You give him a heavy look, your eyes bleary with sleep. “You managed all those years before me, Joel. Let’s not do this.”
“What if I want to do this?” he says, dropping to the floor next to your bed and taking your hands in his. You try to pry yourself free, but he drops his head and traps you in his rapt vigil. 
“Joel…” Your voice is still groggy, but there’s agony in the way you say his name.
“You’re my wife,” he says against your skin. “You’re the only person I’ve ever loved. You’re the girl I saw that night in the restaurant with the pretty eyes and you’re the girl I called every night just so I could hear your voice, and you’re always gonna be the only fucking girl for me. You’re my reason for everything, baby. I need you. Please… please just understand. You have to know that.”
You’re silent for a long while, your legs curled under you as your own husband kneels as if in prayer. Your throat burns with more tears you have little energy left to shed. You whisper his name.
He looks up and you find you cannot meet his eyes. So you stare at one of the patches of skin that disrupt the brown-grey of his beard. “That first night at the restaurant,” you say, trepidation colouring your voice blue, “you disappeared after the second course. When you came back, you told me you had to take a call. Was that the truth?”
Joel’s eyes are frantic in their search for an answer. “Don’t,” you snap. “Don’t lie to me again. Was that the truth?”
“There—” His voice cuts off, his eyes shuttering. “There was a target. That’s… why I was there in the first place.”
Your sob dies in your chest. It doesn’t even make a noise. You wrench your hands out of his, and he lets you, still kneeling at your bedside like a lost sinner. “Love has never been the problem. You might love me, but you’ve never told me the truth. Not from the first day.”
One of his hands wraps around your ankle. “I wanted out. I wanted out my whole life, and you’re the one who made me find the way. Cabrera, he… He gave me an impossible task. I completed it. And I gave you this ring.” He brushes his thumb over the knuckles of your third finger where your bands are still secure. “You said yes. You married me. Doesn’t this mean something?”
The sound of your hollow laugh hurts more than any words you could use to cut him. “It did,” you confess, “when I knew exactly who my husband was.”
He shakes his head, his lips parting in another desperate cast, but you’re standing up and crossing the room, gathering your toiletries for the bathroom. “What happens now?” you ask. 
Joel stares at the ring on his finger. “I’m going to talk to the Manager. You have to stay here.”
“Okay,” you say softly. Your back is rigid. “Just tell me something.”
“Anything,” says Joel. 
“If I asked to leave,” you whisper, “would you let me go?”
Joel feels his heart crack in two. He remembers the small outdoor wedding, in the heart of May, when he’d seen you walk down the aisle toward him and struggled to find the words, as he always did, that would be good enough. 
I vow to love you, he'd said, his hands trembling as he took yours. I vow to be your partner in all things. I vow to show you every piece of my soul, the way you've given me yours, and to be gentle with your heart. 
I vow to be the man you want, the man you need, and the man you love. 
He’s failed. He knows that. But you smiled at him that day, your eyes brimming with tears that turned black from your mascara, and you kissed him before the officiant said the words. 
I loved you.
“I’d do anything you asked me to,” he says, “but not that.”
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Joel made a stop at the Continental Tailor before he went to find the Manager in the lounge. He paid the Tailor a bit too much for the new suit, he realises now, the sleeves a bit too tight, the pants not quite tapered. He was dressing a different body than the one he knew all those years ago. 
Joel weaves through the darkness as a crooning voice sings something about evil men up on the stage. The band is playing along, a smooth jazz tune, and the bodies around him smell of expensive cologne and perfume and vodka. He remembers with a start why he hated this place so much. 
Adjusting his jacket, he finds the Manager sitting in the VIP section on a long curved booth upholstered in crimson velvet, sipping a dry martini. 
“Joel,” he says, lifting his glass in toast. 
“Bill.”
The Manager doesn't look particularly thrilled. “You know there’s an open contract on your head. Who did you have to kill to end up back here?”
“Just a couple people.” Joel sits opposite him. “I need information.”
“And you're here on more business. Does your consort have anything to say about that?”
Joel curls his fingers into a fist atop the table. “I’m invoking my guest privileges. And she is my wife.”
Bill sniffs in amusement. “So, you did end up marrying the gal. Good for you, Joel. She's a stunner.”
“Fuck you, Bill.”
A short, booming laugh. “Nobody will so much as look her way. You have my word and all it means.”
“Doesn't mean much,” says Joel. “I’m just visiting.”
“Don't be the idiot I know you aren’t,” says Bill, leaning forward and setting his glass aside. “You dip so much as a pinky back in this pond, and you won’t get out so easy. Sometime, somewhere, someone’s going to come to you with another impossible task.”
“And I’ll complete it,” says Joel. “Emiliano Cabrera. Where is he?”
“You really wanna do this, Joel?”
“Yeah.”
“Your wife may be safe now, but she won’t be forever.”
“That’s why I’m going to finish it. That’s why I’m going to kill him.”
The Manager sighs, polishing off his martini. “You know damn well business will not be conducted on Continental grounds, Joel. You may as well go have a drink at the bar, take a load off. I can’t tell you anything while you’re inside my hotel.” 
Joel suspected as much. “Then tell me something you can.”
Bill’s nostrils flare and Joel feels some satisfaction knowing he can still push the old man’s buttons. “I’ll tell you what: the game has changed since you left it. Your only chance is to get out now, while you still can. What could possibly warrant the Boogeyman reentering the fold?”
Joel licks his teeth. Your eyes blurring with tears as your skull connected with the ground, your body going limp as he stood above you. The clink of a belt buckle echoes still in his head. If he hadn’t been fast enough—
“It’s personal.”
Bill’s gaze dips. “Well,” he says, “then, unofficially, I wish you the best of luck. But, as a former friend”—Joel snorts —“let me give you a piece of advice. Take your wife home and forget about all of this. I like you, Joel, but for her sake and yours, I’d rather never see you again.”
Joel doesn’t take it personally. “Tell Frank I said hello.”
Bill grabs a full glass from a passing server. “Fuck you, Joel.”
He nods his head, closing the lapels of his jacket and slipping the first button through the opposite slit. As the singer on the stage transitions into the next song, Joel orders a glass of bourbon and watches the bartender slide his drink over on a pristine white napkin. 
“On the house, per the Manager’s request,” says the bartender. “Welcome back, Mr. Miller.”
Pristine—save for the small red circle drawn with marker on the centre. Across the bar, Bill raises his glass in another toast, and Joel leaves the lounge, his drink untouched. 
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It’s a Tuesday night, and the Red Circle is lined up around the corner. One must know someone to get inside, and that someone must be a paying member. Joel had a membership by default, being contracted under Cabrera, but it was revoked along with his other privileges once he had completed his task. 
You would hate this place. It’s throbbing bass and flashing neon lights and sweat-slick bodies rubbing up against one another. It’s brick and industrial metal and glass and the people don’t mix, either. 
Maybe part of him is hedonistic, too. He doesn’t think he ever used to be. The job gave him wealth to spend that he never cared to; when he met you, he began to understand the pleasure of material things. Gold shone when it hung around your neck and wrapped around your fingers. Diamonds glittered like the jewels in a crown when you wore them on your ears. And when he pulled you close to him for the first time, undressing you slowly, hooking his fingers in the lace panties he’d bought for you and bringing his mouth to the heat between your legs, Joel began to understand the draw of pleasure. 
It isn’t that he’d never had sex before you. He’d just… never been interested before you. Bodies always felt… too cold. They were complex. They were things to be followed, things to be killed. They were names on a piece of paper. They would bleed all their warmth and light into his palms and he would return, limping, to a house he never cared about and absolve himself of red. He’d never known the thrill of a body until he tucked his hand under the soft swell of your naked breast and put his mouth on yours and felt your heartbeat bleed into his hands. He never wanted to wash it off. 
If I asked to leave, would you let me go?
After the orphanage, Joel visited a church only once. 
He hadn’t meant to find it. He’d heard an organ humming from within. The cathedral was taller than it was wide, built for a small gathering. He’d slipped inside during a sermon, delivered by a pastor with white hair and a pair of wilting hands. Joel watched the tremors pass through his face, the agonising pulse of the vein in his throat, the way he would gulp down mouthfuls of water. He spoke with rhythm, with melody, and when he was finished, he grasped the edges of the pulpit, his head bowed in silent prayer. Joel thought he had never seen a more devoted man in his life. 
When the sermon was over, he waited his turn to speak with the pastor. He did not know why. He hadn’t felt a stirring in his chest at the word of God; he never had.
I’ve never seen you in here before, my son.
Joel shook his head, frowning at the ground. I… left the faith, in a way. When I was young. I’m… sorry.
Devotion is a choice, said the pastor, taking Joel’s hands in his own. They were wrinkled, speckled with age spots. Joel lifted his gaze to find the pastor smiling. As with all things in life. Devotion, my son, is not a birthright. We must find it. Though it may not be His word, you will know someone’s word. And you’ll find it will move you enough that you choose to follow it. To whatever end. 
Joel has been slashed, burned, drowned, whipped, beaten, strangled. He could count the telltale black spots in his eyes like dreamers count sheep. He developed a reputation because he was good at what he did. He was efficient, fast, lethal. He once killed three men in a bar with a pencil, they whispered. A fucking pencil. Word in the Underworld spread of a boogeyman who would take your life in your sleep if you wronged the wrong person, if you were just an unlucky bastard.
Their word never mattered. He’d never knelt in the blood of a victim and prayed for absolution. He would never find it, anyway. His soul was black. 
If I asked to leave, would you let me go?
No word has ever cut so deep as yours. How could he wake up every single day next to the love of his life and lie so easily to your face? How could he put a ring on your finger knowing damn well he’d betrayed your trust every second of your time together and you never even knew about it?
How could he wear the mask of your husband and dream of blood on the very same hands that touched you each night?
Joel checks his watch. It’s one o'clock in the morning. You’ve been sleeping since breakfast. You won’t sleep a wink tonight if this keeps up, but it seems you’d rather do anything in the world than speak with him. 
He doesn’t blame you.
He found his word that night in the restaurant. He’d followed it, followed you, wherever you took him. And he will follow you, his almighty word, beyond the grave, to whatever end you decide. 
He will not abandon his faith. His purpose. He will not throw up his hands and let you walk away. He’s made mistakes he cannot mend. He can’t go back to the day you met and tell you all he should have, rules be fucked. He cannot fix what he’s already broken. You cannot put a piece of tape over fractured glass, a bloodied hand over wounded skin. 
He made his fucking vows. It’s time he lived up to them.
Across the street, Joel watches, turning over the knife in his pocket by the hilt. Emiliano Cabrera and his lackeys step out of Joel’s Mustang and toss the keys to the valet. They skip the line, smacking one another around and jeering at the ladies in line, and Joel feels the hunger pull at his teeth. 
His first target is posted by the east entrance. Joel takes the alley, stepping aside trash bags brimming with used needles and slipping the Glock from the lining of his jacket. The weight of it is formidable in his hand. Under the cover of dark, he slides into a second skin, black as the names they call him. Bringing the gun to the back of the guard’s head, he watches those huge shoulders stiffen.
“Francis,” he says politely.
“Joel,” says the guard. 
“Workin’ late?”
“Why?” says Francis. “You want in?”
“Yeah,” says Joel, “I do. You lost weight.”
“Twenty-seven pounds, if you’ll believe it.”
Fuck. 
Twenty-seven guards tasked with protecting the little shit. Joel may have a reputation, but it’s been years. He was ambushed in his own home last night. And after it all, he’d let the bastard slip between his fingers. 
“Why don’t you take the night off?”
Francis lowers one meaty hand to the piece in his ear and takes it out. Turning his head, he says, “Can you at least lower the gun?”
Joel does. “Wasn’t sure you’d remember me.”
“Word’s going around. They say you’re back.”
“I’m just passin’ through.” 
“Sure, Joel.” Francis offers his hand, and Joel shakes. “You better make it quick. I don’t feel like getting fired.”
“Understood.” Joel slips inside, letting the door click shut behind him. 
Even from afar, the music lives in his chest, a writhing thing that seeks departure by way of his throat. He tries to swallow and it wriggles back up again. The bass throbs hard against his ribs. 
There’s a bathroom on the VIP floor. As he sneaks by the frosted glass partition that separates him from the public, Joel hears the squeak of locker doors. He puts his palm on the door and pushes inside.
Did you see the tits on that girl? says one man in Spanish. Emil got a pretty one.
Another lets out a booming laugh. Shut the fuck up, man. Good pussy and you tuck your tail and run.
Yeah? And you're in here because you scored? 
I’m in here because bitches prefer to choke on clean dick. What's your excuse?
Neither feels the breeze of the shadow slipping behind them. Neither of them sees the man in black lock his arm around one of their necks and squeeze until there's no air left. By the time the other has turned on the porcelain sink and begun to splash his face, the boogeyman has him by the scruff of his neck, fisting the collar of his fluffy white bathrobe. The sink continues running, and he’s choking on the warm water as Joel holds him down.
“Jesus! Fuck!”
“Where is Emiliano?”
“Vete a la mierda,” he splutters. “Let go of me, motherfucker!”
Joel takes one of the man’s fingers and bends it all the way back. His screams are muffled by Joel’s hand.
“Where is Emiliano?”
“The bathhouse, downstairs,” he groans. “Fuck, let me go, pendejo!”
Joel bares his teeth, breaks the man’s neck, and leaves him slumped over the sink, the water still running. 
The bathhouse is doused in red and blue. The water is illuminated from within, and the whites in his victim’s eyes glow where he stands half-submerged, toasting a bottle of champagne to his rowdy friends. Joel flattens himself to the wall, listening for the tread of dress shoes. The music pounds too loudly for him to hear, but he can see the shadow before he sees its owner. 
“Clear,” says the voice. 
When he rounds the corner, Joel drives his knife into the man’s throat and silences his gurgling moans by clamping a hand over his mouth. He slides down the wall, and Joel holds his gaze while the light slowly dims in his eyes. 
One. 
Two more men are waiting behind the partition, hands folded in front of them. Joel does not recognise them. Their suits are pressed, Italian; it seems Cabrera has made some alliances. Joel lies his first victim on the ground and prowls toward his next two. 
They go easily: unsuspecting, they bleed out under his blade, choking on their blood, and he leaves them lying by the foggy partition. Three. 
The music is dreamy, the crooning of two voices set to a throbbing track. In the bathhouse, he hears the sloshing of water and the singing of a group of men nearby. They're singing an old folk song, Joel realises. A song about a ghost. 
Hurry, fall asleep, or the Boogeyman will come for you…
They don't sound particularly frightened by the spectre haunting them. Joel watches them toast their bottles of champagne and grab the waitresses’ asses. It's Emiliano and his friends, all right. Joel spots another five guards around the waist-deep water and another two by the doors upstairs. 
There's a childlike self-assuredness about him—this kid. He thinks he's protected, safe, almighty as God. He sings about Joel and smiles. 
A guard leans over him and sneers. “You need to stop drinking.”
“Are you scared of the fucking boogeyman?” jeers the kid. “I’m not! Hijo de puta.”
The guard plucks the bottle from his hand and passes it off. “You wanna vomit while you run away? Or would you just prefer to get shot in the head?”
Emiliano’s haughty sniff makes Joel wonder if a bullet in the head is retribution enough. “Get me another fucking bottle!” he says to his friend. 
Joel picks up a bottle of complimentary cologne and tosses it. The glass shatters, potent liquid pooling on the shiny floor. Three guards flank the partition. The music is too loud to let the sounds of his blade in flesh seep through. 
Six. 
On the other side of the glass, coloured blue and red and slick with humidity, the singing continues. 
From the swamp he will come…
He feels the wet splash of blood on his face. 
… and take the children that don't behave. 
Another man rounds the corner as Joel is tearing the knife from the last guard’s throat. He doesn't have enough time to slash his throat, so he pulls the handgun from his holster and shoots. He crumples to the floor, but Joel’s cover is blown. 
“He’s here! Miller’s here!”
The partition explodes. Glass rains on him as he rolls to evade the gunfire, raising his barrel to strike at the remaining guards. 
Seven. Eight. 
The men by the stairs are shouting some Spanish, some Italian. The music carries on, but the song they're singing has ended. 
Joel finds the man he's been looking for: hiding behind a petrified waitress, Emiliano Cabrera looks like a goddamn child. He's wrapped himself hastily in a bath towel around his waist, and his eyes are wide as saucers. Yeah, Joel thinks, I’m going to enjoy this a little. 
He locks eyes with Emiliano for only a moment. The guards at the top of the stairs begin to fire at Joel. He ducks behind the wall as shots chip brick from the wall or plunk uselessly in the water. By the time he flanks them around the other side of the wall and brings them tumbling down the stairs—ten—the kid has already run. Joel growls at the loss of the kill and follows him into the club. 
With an eruption of deafening music, Joel bursts into the crowd. Behind him, a gigantic LED screen is illuminated with spirals in red and blue and white. Women dance in elevated cages while the crowd below becomes a sea of skin and sequins and sweat. Joel reloads, checks the clip, and resumes his hunt. 
Eleven, twelve, thirteen. Joel feels the punch of the barrel into their chests as he fires, again and again and again. The commotion is lost in the din of the music and dancing. Bodies connect and grind and Joel kills. 
Fourteen. A guard by the wall. Fifteen. Another lurking by the LED spirals. Sixteen, seventeen—two men rushing him in an attempt to ambush, eyes wild with rage and a bit of fear. Joel puts them down like sick dogs and continues to push through the crowd, his eyes locked on the retreating Emiliano, who's waving a gun about like a white flag. 
But it's no surrender. It's a beacon, a sign that the deer is spooked. Joel feels his lip curl. So frightened, he thinks. 
Eighteen, nineteen…
Your bleary eyes, blinking through the pain, limbs limp and helpless as he unbuckled his belt above you. A cut on your face, barely bleeding. The red still consumes him. 
You were so afraid that night. 
Twenty. 
Twenty-one. 
He's getting closer. The crowd parts down the centre as Joel marches toward his goal. But the music is loud and he does not hear the approach from behind. 
The gunshot grazes his shoulder, but he feels the flare of pain ooze its way down his arm. Joel grunts, knocked askew from his path, and turns to forge at his assailant. 
The man is fast, though, and rushes him. The tackle brings him down to the ground, winding him just enough to briefly stun, to send his Glock spinning along the floor. He’s taller, broader, madder. 
But he shoots one-handed. 
Joel knocks the gun aside and it misfires into the gap in the crowd. In the dispersing, he sees more guards closing in his periphery. The only protection he has is the hulking body on top of him. So Joel uses it, bringing his elbow to the man’s throat and bunching the lapel of his jacket in his fist. The guard attempts to reach for the blade in his thigh holster, but Joel reaches down and bends his arm backward until the crunch crackles in his ear. The man howls, and Joel grasps the hilt of the knife. 
Twenty-two. 
He picks up his gun and fires a shot into each of the three approaching guards, but Emiliano has fled to the first floor. Joel grimaces as he stands, blood on his fingertips where he's prodded the wound in his arm. “Goddammit,” he mutters, following his target upstairs. 
The air is dizzying. Hot. Joel never liked clubs. He hated the closeness and the bodies in cages and the way skin felt so sticky, too tight, like he needed to step outside of it. He hated the feeling of being suffocated by strangers, as if any of them could be lurking low in the darkness, waiting to strike. 
He didn't understand the lure of the scantily-clad body until he saw you wrapped in a tight black dress. He didn't know the pleasure of dancing until you took his hand one night, his old vinyl player crackling out Frank Sinatra, and lay your head on his shoulder. It felt like stepping over the threshold into consecrated territory. He should not be touching you. But you were touching him. 
Joel spots Emiliano running for the back entrance, shoving another guard in Joel’s path. 
Twenty-six. 
The final man, approaching Joel from the lounge, pulls his gun in time to shoot, but not in time for Joel to notice. The bullet shatters a glass of wine and topples a waiter’s tray. Joel fires. 
One to go. 
He has no choice but to lunge for the kid before he can run out into the street. Joel’s heart is pounding in his chest, his blood electrified. The take-down is sloppy and his ankle rolls, but Emiliano Cabrera is pinned beneath him and yelping like a kicked dog. 
“My father will kill you,” he gasps, his cheek pressed to the floor.
“Your father knows exactly why I’m here,” says Joel, “and he knows how stupid you are.”
“Hijo de puta, it was just a fucking car,” he spits. “I was just going to have some fun with your bitch. I would've given her back.”
Joel isn't quite satisfied. He turns the kid onto his back and grasps him by the jaw, forcing him to meet Joel’s incendiary gaze. 
“Everything has a price.”
The knife goes in smoothly, the flat of the blade glinting in his gaping mouth. No light flees his eyes. There is nothing but cold slate-grey. And although Joel feels no happiness feeling the pulse slow to a crawl beneath his palm, he does not pull the knife out. 
Your body, sacred, helpless, lying on the floor. A predator’s gaze. The clink of a belt buckle. Joel steps over the body and leaves, limping to the valet and slipping him a golden coin. He slips back inside his Mustang, turns on the engine, and drives back to the hotel. 
You’re tucked in the alcove by the window, staring out at the moonlit night. Your chin rests on your knees as you hug yourself close. The lamp between your respective beds colours the room orange. 
“You’re limping.” 
You haven’t even turned to face him.
“How—”
“I know how you sound when you walk.” Your temple is cool where it rests on the windowpane, your breath frosting the glass. Joel staggers to the small table and braces himself on the back of a chair as he watches you. 
You’re as warm and bright as the day he found you that night in the restaurant. Your eyes may be a little older, but the glow is the same. He folds his bleeding hands around the back of the chair. Everything around you curls in, darkens, and wilts when it confronts your beauty. 
“I’m all right.” He doesn’t deserve your concern. He’ll swallow any bullet to keep you from worrying.
You stand at last and cross the room to face him. His heart jumps like it’s the first time you asked him on a date. Like the first time he kissed you, his chest taut with tension and nerves and the assumption that you’d reject him. 
“You can lie to me about lots of things, Joel, but I know this face.” The pad of your thumb ghosts over the crease between his brows. “I’ve painted it a hundred times. It doesn't lie.”
It's the first time you've touched him in days. Joel closes his eyes. Part of him, the part that jolts back to life under the tender weight of your soft skin, means it when he says, “I’m okay.”
You seem to ponder him for a moment. “This wouldn't be the first time I patched you up,” you say, as if resigned. “Go on. Bathroom.”
He winces. “You don't have to—”
“Go. And afterward, you can tell me everything.”
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The pads of your fingers memorise the ridges on the gold coin. The time is close to dawn. 
He’s no longer bleeding, and although you have nothing close to the Doctor’s prowess, you’ve managed to disinfect and wrap the wound in his arm. You can’t do anything about his ankle, but it’s a sprain; he’ll heal in time. The mangled black and blue on his tender skin reminds you of a night sky without the stars. It doesn’t seem to pain him. It only makes you wonder what sorts of agonies he’s faced—ones you never knew about.
The hurt has festered in your time away from him. He’s an open wound in the shape of a hand on your back, searing cold through to your heart. The hand sports a golden band, and it reflects in the one you still wear. You don't quite know what to make of it now. 
He looks exactly like the man you knew. Not a part of him has changed—he's still scruffy, still tired, still jaggedly gorgeous. You paint him with blurred edges, with blues and greys. Your heart still pulls when you look at him. Your chest still gapes wide open, and he digs his thumbs into the bruises. He lied to you. He broke your trust. And there's still so much of your Joel in him, from the skin to the bones. 
“It’s beautiful,” you muse, turning the coin over. 
“Technically, it’s not money,” Joel says. “It is currency. They can be exchanged for favours, information, relationships.”
“A hotel room,” you add. “Good to know I don’t have to move any savings around. Where have you been keeping these?”
“There’s a safe in the basement,” he says, “under the floorboards. When I left, I buried all of it. Weapons, coins, contacts, anything I had from the Underworld.”
The Underworld. A fitting name, if you’ve made any sense of it at all. “Do the police know about all of this?”
“Most of them are in the pockets of High Table members. Those are the ones who control how it all works. Rules and consequences,” says Joel, “is how they operate. They're what separate us from the animals.”
You lift your brows. “And who sits at this High Table?”
“Twelve leaders. They're the ones who run most of the major crime families and organisations. They control police, politicians, banks—”
Your shuddering sigh makes him stop in his tracks. He watches you lean back in the chair and bends forward slightly, as if tied to you by an invisible thread. 
“So… the girl who serves me coffee on the corner by my office could be part of it.” You frown at the coin in your hand. “She could be a witness, a runner, a messenger. She could be like you.”
“She isn't,” says Joel, “but that is the general idea.”
“But civilians are immune.”
“More or less,” says Joel. “There are… heavy penalties for harming them.”
“Penalties like death.”
“Most of the time,” he says. “And there are rules here, too. No business can be conducted on the grounds of any Continental hotel.”
“Any? You mean—”
“There's a Continental in every major city in the world. It's where we go to remind ourselves we’re civilised.”
“Civilised,” you scoff. “Civilised murder, sure. I’m buying it. And now that you’re back—”
“Visiting.”
You just glare at him, and he ducks his head. 
“—there's a contract on your head.”
Joel nods. “Two million.”
You curl your fingers over the coin in your palm as your stomach bottoms out. “That's a lot of incentive to put a bullet in your brain.”
“They won't,” he says. “Cabrera holds the contract, and he only opened it because of Emiliano. He’d pull it the second I agreed to stop looking for his son. He doesn't want me owing him.”
“I don't know if I’d call that a debt.”
“Considering everything I did for him,” says Joel, a bite to his voice, “anything short of killin' his kid is a favour.”
Despite yourself, you open your hand and slide the coin toward him. “Tell me what you did.”
His head shoots up, his brows knitted together. “What?”
“Tell me what you did to get out. Tell me about this ‘impossible task.’”
“Baby, that’s…” He rubs his hand across his jaw, and it strikes you then how deep those half-circles colour the space beneath his eyes. 
“Stop,” you whisper. It never used to hurt when he called you baby. “Tell me how much blood you thought I was worth.”
Joel’s jaw ticks. His knees barely touch yours under the table. “You don't wanna hear the answer to that.”
“Then start here. What did you do, Joel?”
The sigh he releases feels heavy. “I came to Cabrera, asking him to release me from my contract. He told me he'd let me out, no strings attached… if I hunted down his enemies.” 
Your mouth drops. “Which enemies?”
He picks up the coin and turns it over in his palm. The silence drops an anchor on the ground. Your belly churns with the movement of the golden piece as it catches the light. 
“All of them,” says Joel. “All of ‘em, in one night. That was his impossible task.”
The scrape of your chair legs across the floor is grating. But you stand anyway, your head vaguely stirring with the beginnings of a headache. 
“Oh my God.” 
You barely feel your own hand on your cheek, barely smell the iron tang of blood on him, barely see the red cutting through his pressed white shirt. “How many people?”
Joel shakes his head, his shy eyes lowered, still as the paintings you've made of him. “I… I don't know.” 
I lost count, he means. There were too many, he means. 
Your throat is just wide enough to let your breath escape. The air you take in feels poisonous. He killed every single one of them. All because he wanted to marry you. 
All because he wanted peace. 
“Is there anyone in the Underworld who doesn’t know your name?”
Joel’s repentant silence, head ducked as if in prayer, is all the answer you need.
“How did this happen?” Your voice is uniquely quiet. 
“When I was a kid,” he says, and your heart sinks, “I lived on the streets. Lived like a rat, mostly, but I survived. You know that much.”
You nod solemnly, lowering yourself into the chair once more. “The Sisters reunited you with your brother.”
His dark eyes reflect the lamplight and it resembles a flame igniting in the depths of the iris. “Found me on Canal Street, runnin’ drugs for a mobster I don't even remember. Tommy was only five, but he must've told them about me. They took me to the orphanage and started my training.”
You swallow, your temples pounding. Deep in your gut, something wild and dry begins to kindle. “They were the ones who taught you all of this?”
“They teach the word of God above everythin’ else, but yeah. They train children to thrive in the Underworld. We were taught knives, guns, hand-to-hand. Hell, they even taught us how to dance—how to move faster than the opponent. I knew how to kill someone before I could read.” Joel chuckles, and part of you thinks he actually thinks it's funny. “Probably why I’m so slow.”
You aren't slow, you want to say. You've never been slow, not from the first day. 
The kindling curls and you can feel your mouth pull at the corners. He had only been a child. An orphan. A child had no way to choose, to resist how they were raised. He hadn’t been given a choice—his life in exchange for a roof over his head. 
“Those fucking bastards.”
Joel’s laugh is mirthless. “It was a long time ago. I’ve made my peace with it.”
You angrily swipe the tears that warm your cheeks. “No adult should have that power. They should nurture and comfort and protect, not—” Your breath hitches. “You were a child. You didn't deserve that.”
Your fingers have curled into a fist atop the table. With both hands, he gently lifts your hand to his mouth and kisses your knuckles. You expect it to feel foreign, wrong. It just feels like Joel. 
“The Sisters were cruel,” he says softly. “But I made myself into a weapon. It was the only way I would survive.” He reaches out as if for a wounded deer and brushes his thumb over your jaw. “They never made me believe, sweetheart. That was all you.”
You sniffle, your head bobbing absently. You don't know what to think. You don't know how to feel. Your own husband has been through the seven circles and crawled back out only to teeter back over the pit once more. There’s an ancient weariness in the black of his eyes, an old hurt, a mansion slowly crumbling at the edges. 
“You hid this all from me, and never told anyone,” you say, the ache widening. You find you want to assume, consume, even a modicum of the pain that he's felt. 
One of his shoulders lifts in a mild shrug. “I wanted to forget all of it. I wanted to make something of the new life I’d killed for.” He meets your gaze and you swear part of the open wound in his pupils has sealed. “I didn't want any of it to touch you.”
And you remember lying in bed with him that first night, after that first time, tracing a scar on his back. White and ridged, it spread like lightning feelers from the middle of his spine to the dimples in his lower back. 
You'd put your mouth to his shoulder blade and felt him melt into you. 
What happened? 
The silence that followed could have heard the brush of a feather over skin. 
I was raised in an orphanage. In a church. They weren't kind. 
And that was that. You'd prodded and fussed and he'd said I’m fine. It was a long time ago. 
“But that's what you do, Joel,” you tell him. “You hide your hurt and you bury your feelings and you do it all because you're afraid it'll make everyone leave you.” 
Sometimes he would wake in a cold sweat, heaving, tossing aside the sheets, but he would never make a sound. You'd see him, pretending to sleep, and place your hand over his chest. His fingers would grasp yours as if marooned on the water, seeking driftwood, his hand suffocating yours. He'd keep it pressed to his heart until the beats slowed. 
You regret those times you never pressed. In a way, you were afraid, too. If you opened your eyes, if you asked him to confess, he would close the lattice and turn his back to you. You didn't want to lose him, either. 
But you did. 
“I’m sorry,” you whisper, but it doesn't hold the weight you want it to. It doesn't blow out the candles in the cathedral. It doesn't pluck the scared little boy from the streets or give him a warm bed. It doesn't stop the beatings and the lashings and the pain. 
It does not pry the pain from his heart and bury the shrapnel in your chest instead. It is something he bears, as he always has, and must. It is something you cannot take from him. And you feel more helpless than you ever have. 
He shakes his head. “I know we can't go back,” he says, tracing one of the little daisy charms on your bracelet. “But it feels… good. It feels good to finally tell you. Even if we were too late.”
The sound of his voice breaking shakes your heart loose from your rib cage. 
“Come to bed.” Your voice is raw and used. “Just… come to bed, and sleep.” 
He doesn't dare look hopeful, though you can see the tremor that courses through his hand. He wants to take yours, the way he did the day he proposed, dropping to one knee with your palms flush. 
He looked a little hopeful that day, too. With rapt attention, he'd taken hold of you and said, I love you. I love you more than anything. You’re my best friend. Will you marry me? Will you let me be your husband?
You realise now why he'd let himself hope. He'd gotten out. He'd started his new life. With you. 
You can see his old scars, even in the dark. You think, in all your time together, you've learned his body as you learn the earth you tread upon. The praying hands of Dürer lie beneath the name inked in small black lettering. 
Your name. 
You gingerly reach out and place your hand on his back. Joel shudders. He does not turn to face you where you both lie on your sides. 
“If you bleed on the bed sheets,” you say to the darkness, “will management make us pay?”
He chuckles. “Strongly worded phone call at best. I’ll take the hit.”
You frown, ghosting your fingers over the tender skin around the makeshift patch job on his shoulder. “Does it still hurt?” 
“No,” he says, leaning into your touch, “not anymore.”
“You never told me about this scar on your back.” You touch the edges of the puckered skin. “I never stopped wondering. But I should never have stopped asking.”
“Don't,” he says quietly. “Don’t say any of that like it's your fault.”
The silence bleeds as viscous as an open gash into the dry air. His watch broke the day of your wedding. He told you it was all right, that we've got all the time in the world, and you'd kissed him and laughed. He’d replaced the battery since then, but sometimes the little hand lags behind, as if afraid to chug forward. Afraid to let time, of all silly, trivial things, consume your world. 
“Do you remember your vows?” you ask him. 
“‘Course I do.” 
“Do you remember mine?”
His head bows slightly on the pillow. “‘I vow to be your partner in all things,’” he recites. “‘I vow to protect your heart like it's my own. I vow to take your pain, and to shoulder it so you don't have to.’” 
The tears saturate the pillowcase beneath your cheek. You fall asleep with your arm around his waist, your hand next to his, not touching, but nearly. 
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ruskaroma · 10 months
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could you do a little drabble of an au of the reader and jw on their wedding night and tbe reader is like pure and naive and loosing her virginity to john 🤭🤍🪷
oh my god.. can i shake this up a little bit?
arranged marriage with john wick.
let’s say you’re the only child of a very powerful mob syndicate, and all your parents wanted is the best for you, so they don’t want you going around fucking with other guys that are below they’re status because it might ruin the reputation they’ve worked so hard to achieve.
so they kept you isolated.
you’re homeschooled, the only friends you have are the maids, the children of those maids and gardeners, you rarely go outside – and if you do, you have a bunch of bodyguards following you around everywhere you go.
of course, you don’t question it. you know your parents only want the best for you, and you know how dangerous it is to live in a world like this. you can’t exactly blame your parents.
when you turned 20, your father introduced you to a man named john wick.
he’s the definition of tall, dark, and handsome you keep reading about in the books. late forties or mid fifties, you don’t exactly know. you just know that he’s a lot older and probably knows better.
your father had explained how you’re going to be marrying john and you were beyond ecstatic upon hearing the news. having a companion in life could open up to so many different opportunities. it didn’t matter that you just met this man. there’s so much time to learn about each other as you two plan for the wedding.
you didn’t ask your parents why they’re suddenly letting you marry a man because simply don’t care. too naïve for your own good. you didn’t know that your parents are only paying their debt to john and you were the only thing in their life that they could just simply give away.
fast forward to the night of your wedding day, let’s say that you aren’t expecting john to be so... rough during your lovemaking.
his actions are rough but his words are soft. it’s confusing you. you thought honeymoons are supposed to be sweet and slow, yet here you are getting fucked on the bed like some kind of cheap whore as john pulls your hair from behind and whispers filthy praises in your ear like there’s no tomorrow.
“my pretty little wife,” john grunts, snapping his hips against your ass, burying his cock so far deep into your little cunt that you could feel it in your stomach. you drool, stumbling over your words. “my wife got the best pussy – so fucking tight and pink. i bet you’ve never let anyone touch you like this before, hm? only me? only your husband?”
“y-yes – yes, john, o-only you!” you sob, clutching the bedsheets in your first as your pussy clench around his dick. “f-feel so full, j-john, feel s-so full – so big.”
“that means you’re doing a great job, baby,” he praises, letting go of your hair to drop his head on your neck, peppering kisses all over as his beard tickles your skin. “my little wife is taking my cock so well. you’re gonna have to get used to it, baby, because i can assure you that i’ll be fucking your sweet little cunt every single day that i come back home. gonna get you so nice and full again like this.”
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johnwickb1tsch · 20 days
Text
Yandere Tex x Reader x John Wick WIP Part 5!
Ready evil geniuses? @treedaddymcpuffpuff @sweetwolfcupcake
John lets you rest after wrecking you for the umpteenth time, disappearing off somewhere. You put off leaving the bedroom for as long as you can, but in the end you can't stand it anymore. You rummage in the closet for a new shirt. Your choices are black, black, and you'll never guess... black. 
This house must belong to John.
How many safe houses does that man have?
When you walk out of the bedroom in your new getup you find Tex in the living room watching TV. He raises an eyebrow at you. 
“We have got to get you some clothes, baby girl.”
You shrug. The boxer t-shirt combo is actually pretty comfy.
You think you might make your way to the kitchen, but Tex snaps his fingers at you as you try to walk past.
You turn to look at him with a raised brow. 
“Can I help you?”
That was the wrong thing to say, obviously. 
His grin is that of a hungry wolf. 
“I bet you can. C'mere, darlin'.”
You sigh, but after your little lesson with John, you're not quite so inclined to defy him. 
Yet.
You're going to have to get smarter about how you expend your energy. 
Easier said than done. 
You pad over next to him. He pats his thigh in invitation, but you opt to sit next to him instead. This lasts for about two seconds, before he hauls you into his lap with his big hands and his strong arms.
Goddammit.
“That's better,” he says with a sly grin, holding you close. 
You take a moment to look at him—really look at him, from up close. The sweep of his almond shaped eyes, his high cheek bones and the short scruff of his beard. He stares back at you, unabashedly. 
“What?”
“Nothing.”
He narrows his eyes at you, bumping his forehead with yours. You wish it wasn't adorable. Fucking man child, making you feel things.
“Wanna watch tv?”
It beat anything else he could dream up, so you agree. You hadn't forgot that he still owed you for your flipping of the bird earlier. You're sure he hasn't either. 
He turns on some stupid gratuitous action flick, and you kind of zone out. Your thoughts drift to John, and the things he told you in-between fucking you silly. 
He'd said that he and Tex would not take on the FBI just for a plaything, or a whore. Deep down, you knew what that meant. 
It meant, they had no real intention of letting you go. The thought filled you with equal parts dread—and wonder. 
Why the fuck would not one, but two fine ass men like this want you, for keeps? It's beyond your comprehension—and if you're honest, kind of flattering. Bat shit fucking crazy, but flattering.
Either that, or it's just...convenient. Your circumstances created a perfect storm from which to snatch you without a trace or a person to care about getting you back.
"Want to see somethin'?" asks Tex, interrupting your reverie.
"Okay?"
He clicks play on the remote once he has your attention. You watch as a 1970s muscle car jumps an impossible ramp, then lands roughly on the other side of a canal. "That was me."
You lift an eyebrow, looking back at him. "In the car?"
"Yeah."
He's grinning like a little kid, clearly proud. 
"You were a stunt man?"
"Uh huh."
You tilt your head, trying to put pieces together and failing. The square block is not fitting in the circle hole. 
"Then why...?"
"Killin' people pays better, believe me. Less dangerous, too."
A chill runs down your spine. 
"Oh."
Your gaze drifts away, but he turns it back to him with a hand on your chin. Those jet black eyes bore into yours, like he can see into your soul. His eyes flick down to your mouth, a moment before he leans in to kiss you. Your first instinct is to offer teeth, before you remember if you have to have sex one more time in the next twenty-four hours, you might literally die. You slip your tongue into the seam of his lips, and feel him smile against your mouth. 
"Mmm. A man could get used to this."
He slides his hand up your thigh, fingertips sneaking past the loose hem of your boxer shorts. 
You wrap your fingers around his, praying. "Tex, please."
"Like the sound of that," he says between kisses, outmuscling you to move his hand higher.
"I'm so sore."
"Sounds like an excuse to me. John gets you to himself but I don't?"
"It's not my fault you're both hung like horses."
This appeal to his ego makes him grin. "Ain't you a lucky girl?"
"Only if you don't hurt me."
He has the gall to give you a pouty face. Again, it should be fucking ridiculous, but somehow it's cute. He cups the side of your face, pushing his thumb between your lips. "How sore is your mouth?" he asks, eyes glittering.
It's not high on your list of things you want to do, but you're having to weigh your options these days. You suck his thumb, and you swear you watch a fire ignite in his eyes.
"Also sore," you say around his digit, sounding ridiculous as he presses down on your tongue. Your jaws hurt. Even your mouth is bruised from kissing. Jesus. You're not a goddamn python.
You try to retreat, but he forces his thumb deeper.
Absolutely out of instinct to defend yourself, you start to bite him.
Maybe you stop yourself before it can hurt or you break skin, but for the wicked gleam in his eyes you know it doesn’t matter. Suddenly you find yourself flipped on your stomach over his lap, as though you are nothing but a doll.
“You are a nippy little thing, you know that?” When he wrenches down your boxers, propping your ass in the air with his trunk of a thigh beneath you, you’re afraid you know exactly what he has in mind.
“No—”
His hand between your shoulder blades pins you down. “You’re just going to make it worse for yourself,” he says in a sing-song tone, almost as though he hopes you will fight him more. His fingers fanned out over your butt cheek rub lightly, soothing over your copious bruises. It feels so good that the first stinging smack makes you jump sky-high.
“Hey!”
“Hush and take your licks, little girl.”
“I hate you!”
“I was gonna say five, for flippin’ me off, but now it’s six. Comprende?”
You whimper, but for the first time since this whole fiasco started, you do the smart thing and shut your dumb fucking mouth, hanging your head in the pillows with resignation.
He’s just spanking you, you reason. How bad can it be?
He has a hand like a catcher’s mitt and arms corded with muscle.
Bad. The answer, is bad.
Yet he doesn’t lay into you immediately, soothing you with featherlight touches over your buttocks and the backs of your thighs. That part feels good, actually, and fuck you if you don’t start to feel the stirrings of desire between your legs.
What. The ever loving. FUCK. Is wrong with you?
“So pretty,” he says, toying with the bend of your knee. It makes your toes curl, and he offers up a deep chuckle that you almost feel more than hear. “You like that?”
“Yes,” you answer meekly, closing your eyes.
“See, I can be sweet, if you’re sweet to me.”
The next smack on the other cheek makes you jump again, but this time you do not protest.
“Ahh. She can be taught.”
You whimper, but keep your expletives to yourself. This is not exactly what you would call sweet…but the contrast of the stinging blows with his featherlight touch afterwards is doing things to you that you do not understand.
“Take this off,” he demands, lifting the hem of your shirt up your back.
For once, you obey him the first time, squirming in your awkward position on your belly and pulling it over your shoulders, leaving you bare and totally exposed upon his lap. He runs his fingers up the curve of your spine, making you shudder upon him. You can’t see his smug grin, but you know, you just fucking know it’s there.
Smack.
You can’t help but cry out, but the pleasure and the pain is strangely starting to meld together. Your treacherous, stupid little cunt has begun to throb, and as his fingers caress dangerously close to your crease you find that you wish he would touch you there.
By the time he’s finished with your licks you are a finely trembling, aching mess on his lap, your fingers like claws in the throw pillow, your ass in the air as though begging for it of its own volition.
Finally he does dip his thick fingers into your weeping slit, groaning to himself for the wetness he finds there. He circles your bud with the thick tip of his finger, making you moan and arch into him like the stupid little hypocrite you are.
“That’s a mighty nice little pussy you’ve got there,” he says, his voice turned pure gravel with desire. “Too bad you’re too sore.”
He withdraws and shoves you off his lap as he stands, leaving you in a heap of pliable naked limbs on the couch. The frustrated sound that escapes your throat is barely human, and the grin he pays you is the baring of teeth from a predator to a rabbit across the wood.
“Now don’t let me catch you touchin’ yourself,” he warns, looming over you. “You won’t like what happens next.”
 On that note he struts off, and you watch him go with a glare, unable to stop yourself from thinking he has the nicest, tightest little butt this side of the Mississippi river.
Bastard.
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bubuslutty · 8 months
Text
Pirate!Captain Price au (nsfw ver)
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word count: 1.2k
tags: nsfw, f receiving, p in v, making out, spitting, skinny dipping, mentions of public sex (nobody gets caught tho)
warnings: kidnapping
a/n: I tend to go on a tangent with the story telling n lore instead of sticking to John fucking. ANWAY. I love him and if you also love him and have silly thoughts abt him and his boys, send me an ask, or comment, or reblog, whatever you want 💙
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pirate!captain Price fucks like he's trying to kill you, with determination and pure hunger for it. He's a man on a mission, and nobody can stop him from getting what he wants.
Captain Price has wicked hips and a filthy walk, he's hot and he knows it. He's so comfortable in his skin, scars, fat, muscles, freckles and all. His movements are confident yet relaxed. He appears to be so sure of himself without doing anything, just standing there and people hate him for it. How infuriating is a man with such charm and confidence decided to become an outlaw, a pirate of all things.
So he knows how to use those hips, pounding his sweetheart on the mattress and making her wail and scream for him with how good he's making her feel.
pirate!captain Price has ridiculous core strenght, he could fuck his sweetheart for hours, rolling his hips against hers like he was born to fuck her. And he's so fucking filthy with it as well, "Too much for you? Should I slow down, sweetheart? hm?"
And slow down he does, rolling his hips deep deep in her guts, forcing her to listen to the filthy squelch that resonats in his Captain's cabin everytime their hips meet. And he has a dumb smile on his lips, obsessively watching where they meet between her legs.
And you better believe he'll kiss his pretty lady like he wanted to drink her up, he's nasty and it would be embarrassing to call what he's doing to her kissing, not even making out can cover how sinful he's with his mouth and tongue.
Pirate!Captain Price, when he's in a mood he'll even spit in her open mouth, holding her pretty face in his bigger, rough and scarred hand, then spitting right in her tongue, and he watches how her eyes roll at the back of her head and she moans loudly, swallowing his little offering.
He's also big on eating her out, be in his cabin, outside on the deck in the middle of the night under the stars, where anyone can catch them, or in a dark alleyway behind a pub. And because he has a beard, he likes to get it absolutely drenched and leave his sweetheart's inner thighs all red from the friction.
And he doesn't mind when she whines how much her inner thighs are bothering her, he just has a smug smile on his lips and apologizes with a coo, placing a wet kiss to her forehead and cheeks, and deep down he's not really sorry, but for his sweetheart, he'll coo and coddle until she melts over and over again in his arms.
Pirate!Captain Price barley kidnaps rich folks in exchange for ransom money from their rich family. If he has an excuse to dress his sweetheart in the finest of clothes, he would take it without hesitation.
So she's the one who sneaks in a ball, so she can later open the gates for them so they can sneak in, rob the place while everyone is busy dancing and then kidnap the wealthiest person in there.
And of course she's dressed in blue, John's favourite colour, the colour of the sky and the sea. Her dress is shiny, made out of silk and fabrics only found in far, far away countries, that even rich folks struggle to get, but not pirates, pirates can get their hands on anything if they tried hard enough.
She's wearing a layered blue gown, the sleeves long, with her whole neck, collarbone and a generous chunk of her chest exposed, and she looks so so beautiful, her hair half up, decorated with pearls and gold. And she's quickly stealing everyone's attention, coyly tucking a stray strand of hair behind one of her ears with a gloved hand.
She's invited to dance by many people, and she makes up elaborate stories about being a foreign Duchesse, laughing and giggling at stories and anecdotes she's been told, forgetting for a moment she was an outlaw, a criminal, who stabbed her to-be-husband right through the heart on their wedding day.
When the job is done, she returns to their ship on horseback, laughing in delight with John's men.
When the kidnappee is tied and locked in the basement, they sail away and celebrate with music and drinks of their own.
Sometime in the same night, Price's sweetheart is running and giggling on the ship, chased by Price, who's trying to catch her, still dressed like a dream. And she gasps and swoons when he catches her in his arms.
She acts like she's trying to fight him, wiggling in his arms and telling him, "Let me go, you pirate! I'm a woman of honor and dignity!"
Price tickles her and she laughs, trying to slip away, and he has his arms securely wrapped around her waist, breathing the perfume she sprayed on her neck in, sighing in pure bliss.
"You're mine now." He speaks against her naked shoulder, placing a wet kiss on the skin.
"I'm not yours! Let me go or the Royal Navy shall have you hung!" She threatened, turning in his arms and pushing his chest away.
"Hm, no. Finders keepers." He hums and pulls a string that kept her corset securely tied around her body, and when she felt it getting loose she squealed and crossed her arms over her chest, "John!"
"What? You'll be naked by sunrise, I'm just speeding this up." John says, shrugging while wearing a small smirk, "You've got a problem with that?"
"If that's the case, let me help." John's sweetheart says, wearing a smirk of her own and starts undressing right there on the deck, while his men are still having a party not far off, the only privacy they've had was the shadow of the Captain's cabin and nothing else.
"What are you doing?" John asks, looking over his shoulder and panicking a bit because as much as he enjoyed fucking his love where they could get caught, he still made sure nobody was around, and if someone happened to pass by, he'd use his body to shield her away. But this, this was madness, any of his boys would just turn around and see her standing there naked, glowing under the moonlight like a siren.
The only things she still had on was her pearl earrings and a necklace John gifted her a while back. "Come swim with me." She offered, smiling and still fucking standing there naked with her clothes a puddle to her feet.
John gulped and decided to just get naked as fast as possible while she watched him, and when he was done, she tiptoed to where he was standing, cupped his cheek and placed a kiss to his lips.
And before his fingertips could graze her skin, she pulled away and dived into the open cold sea.
Fuck this.
John dived right behind her, controlling his breathing and taking a deep breath when he resurfaced, his body freezing due to the cold water, but he knew his body would soon get used to it. He then felt arms hugging his shoulders from behind, and he grinned when his sweetheart kissed his cheeks with her cold plush lips.
"Did I just see Cap'ain and his bonnie jump in the sea naked?" Johnny said with a frown, cheeks pink due to how much he's drunk.
"Hm?" Simon hummed with his eyes closed next to him, leaning his head on his shoulder.
"Never mind." Johnny said and yawned, scratching his chin and leaning his head on Simon's.
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szobosz · 7 months
Text
body and soul // rd x reader (fic + smau)
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warnings: unprotected sex, oral (f and male receiving), fingering, mentions of eating/food
words: 7.5k
summary: like the wedding, your first date with rúben is an eventful, all-day affair. to say the two of you have some unfinished business is an understatement. the two of you have been craving. no, yearning, for each other for a while now.
note: the follow-up to my favourite fic i've ever written (the gate crash fic). finally, these two get together. this can be read alone but it makes more sense with the first part.
not edited
part one
fic playlist // every song mentioned:
frank ocean - ivy
taylor swift - dress
frank ocean - seigfried
taylor swift - king of my heart
taylor swift (ft ed sheeran) - everything has changed
yourusername
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liked by rubendias and 136 others
tagged: johnstonesofficial, rubendias and jenniferstones
yourusername: more pictures from not my wedding
view all 34 comments
jenniferstones: oh my god when did you have the time to take so many pics?
yourusername: i actually have loads of the bank, too jenniferstones: i hope @/johnstonesofficial gave you enough!!
johnstonesofficial: where's your tie, mate? @/rubendias
rubendias: think i left it in the hotel yourusername: i've got it johnstonesofficial: oh, so that was your plan @/rubendias this comment has been deleted
rubendias: where's all the pictures we took together?
yourusername: they're mostly polaroids! don't have any on my phone 😢 rubendias: i wanna see them yourusername: i have a few
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——
7:30 pm, the Overground
The Overground to Hackney Wick station is packed - hundreds of football fans flooding through train doors to get to the stadium and into their seats by kick-off - you included. You’re pushed against the door, sandwiched between two people, the air-conditioning not enough to mitigate the humidity in the carriage. Nor is it too hot for people to be considerate, either, because someone is playing Frank Ocean, of all people, on the fucking train. To be fair, it’s a refreshing change from a year 7 showing his friends his freestyle on Soundcloud. That’s a win…or something.
As the train stops, the train almost entirely empties. It pours claret and blue, purging itself of the swathes of supporters that bleed onto the streets towards the stadium. You get to avoid the queues, taking the entrance for guests, and showing your pass to security at the door. Rúben let you know this morning that he wouldn’t have his phone - team rules before a match - so you can go to the hospitality and get some food or go straight to your seat.
Wanting to watch Rúben, you make your way to watch the warm-ups, eyes following him as he passes the ball with John. From where you’re sitting, you’re still able to see that they’re talking, Rúben nodding, a toothy grin on his face. The sight brings you back to the lyrics to the song from the train.
if you could see my thoughts, you would see our faces
It’s ridiculous to already think that you belong here. That it feels right to be sat in a stadium supporting Rúben. Hoping that he wins, even when an additional three points for City is detrimental to your team. 
As the players walk onto the pitch, you see Rúben scan the pitch for you - eyes zoned into the area where family and friends should be. His face lights up - the corners of his eyes crinkling with his smile before he nudges John, who also looks over. The brief moment of acknowledgement is replaced by stoicism as they shake hands with the opposing team. But you’re still left with the butterflies you first felt when you met the defender - at Jen and John’s engagement announcement. 
Yeah, you admit, you had a silly little crush on Rúben when you first met. And then you flirted at every opportunity - private or not. But you didn’t expect to fall in love with him. You didn’t expect any of the events of the wedding. How could you? But how could you ignore it after it has started?
The blow of the whistle indicates the start of the match - City dominating in possession. They play fluidly - precise and sharp yet they move with grace. No gaps to be exploited. Each one filled - like water. But, despite how well they play, you’re focused on Rúben. 
You’re captivated by the way the tendons in his neck show through the skin as he orders his teammates around, and shouts orders across the pitch, encouraging each of them to keep up the fight. It’s the opposite of the man you’ve spent so much time with - so different from the tender touches and flirty jabs. Yet you want all of him. You want to be consumed by every facet of his personality. 
Of course, you’d seen him play before. But it was always against your team, your loves, so you’d never really paid him attention. Before meeting him, the only opinion you had of him was that he was a fucking nuisance. Now, as you watch him, there’s a certain allure about how he plays. How he uses his size to impose on smaller players. 
——
10 pm, pizza place, Dalston
‘Come on,’ you pull Rúben’s hand, dragging him into the pizza place, watching as his eyes go wide at the size of them. ‘You buy them by the slice. We’re not eating a full 22-inch pizza unless you’re that hungry.’
‘What’s the best one?’ he asks, eyes scanning the options. A few fans come up to him and ask for photos, which he is nice enough to agree to, asking you to order for him. Rúben hands you his card and you shake your head, declining. It’s not going to be expensive - you’ve been to their other site many times before. 
Once you’re handed the pizzas, you go over to the bar and order some drinks - non-alcoholic for Rúben, and take a seat in one of the booths. He comes over a few moments later with a big grin on his face.
‘It looks good,’ he compliments, lifting the pizza to his face. He’s about to take a bite before you stop him, taking a picture of the comically large slice against his face. You flip the phone, letting Rúben see the masterpiece you’ve taken of him - eyes wide and mouth open. ’Done?’
You nod and watch as he takes the first bite, eyes lighting up. You pick up your slice, mindful of the toppings falling off as you fold and flip the poor slice into something more manageable. It’s Rúben’s turn for revenge as he takes a picture of you - just another one to add to the collection. To be fair, you should know better - hold the plate to your face instead of just the slice - there are ways to make the picture look cute. But you don’t care. You’re hungry and the only thing that matters is shoving said pizza down your face.
��Good?’ you ask once your mouth is no longer full. Your drinks and curly fries are delivered to the table and you thank the server, watching as they walk away. Rúben nods in response, wiping the corner of his mouth with the serviette. 
‘So good, baby,’ he mumbles, dipping one of the chips into the garlic mayo and popping it into his mouth. Once again, he’s smiling, and you are too. Your heart flutters at the pet name - still not used to it despite calling him almost every evening since the wedding. 
‘They’ve got a place open in Manchester, too,’ you say, taking another bite of your pizza. 
‘Really? I’ve never heard of it before.’
‘That's because you’re a big strong athlete and you’ve got your crazy strict diet,’ you joke, laughing as Rúben flexes his arms. Rolling your eyes, you reach over the table to shove his arm but he catches your hand, kissing the back of it. ‘Oh, and you’re corny.’
‘Yeah, but you think I’m big and strong,’ Rúben teases back. Once more, you playfully slap him and roll your eyes. The two of you sit and eat for a few moments, letting the silence wash over you. ‘Do you want another slice, baby?’
‘Please,’ you say after pretending to think and tell Rúben which slice you want. He walks over to the counter, giving you a good view of his toned back. You need to thank the creator of the white T-shirt. He looks so natural everywhere - his gravitas never fading - always confident. Dominant.
Rúben returns with a plate in either hand, setting yours in front of you before taking a seat. He has a sparkle in his eye and you squint your eyes back at him. 
‘Why do you look so happy?’ you ask, voice suspicious. Rúben shrugs and goes back to eating. Kicking his feet under the table, you let out a small whine, trying to get him to explain. ‘Rúben, what is it?’
‘It’s nothing,’ he says once more, the glint in his eyes still not fading. ‘Eat up before your pizza gets cold, baby.’
‘It’s like you started calling me that and can’t stop,’ you smile into your words, biting down on your pizza, pulling it away slowly to see how long of a cheese pull you can get. Eventually, it snaps, sending the cheese back onto your chin. 
‘Calling you what?’ Rúben plays coy, pulling the cheese off and popping it into your mouth. Your eyes go wide at the realisation he stole it from you. ‘Concentrate, baby. What can’t I stop calling you?’
‘If you wanted to try my pizza, you could’ve taken a bite instead of whatever the fuck that was,’ you laugh, holding the pizza up to his face. Rúben takes a bite of it, humming a sound of approval before gesturing his hand upwards to get you to answer his question. ‘You keep calling me baby.’
‘I thought you liked it,’ he teases. 
‘I do.’
‘Good, because I like calling you it, baby,’ Rúben emphasises the word, his Portuguese accent getting a little stronger. ‘Thank you for agreeing to today.’
‘Did you think I would say no, or something?’ You grab his hand and squeeze it - reminiscent of the two of you in his car. A moment of reassurance. A promise of more.
‘I don’t know,’ he admits. ‘I thought maybe it was the wedding - maybe you got all wrapped up in it all and afterwards you’d regret it. Realise maybe you didn’t like me…’
‘Oh babe,’ you let you a soft coo. The pet name slips out naturally - as if you should’ve been calling him that for a while now. A pair of warm, expressive brown eyes meet yours - they give you all the reassurance you need. ‘I might’ve had the same thought about you - that you’d find someone less normal - you’d go back to being a footballer and forget about me. I was ready for that to happen. I was ready to wake up alone the day after the wedding.’
You’re not sure where the honesty is coming from but you can’t stop it. It’s almost like everything is finally coming to a head - where conversations need to be had. And you’re glad it’s going well because if they don’t, you’ll never be able to come back here, or any of the other chains. It’s stupid but you don’t want to lose your favourite pizza place alongside losing a man you aren’t even dating.
‘That’s stupid, baby,’ Rúben whispers, squeezing your hand, this time. He laces them together, your food long forgotten as you take in the ability to breathe. The weight is off of your chest - the fear of him finding someone else has been eased just a little. Now you know that Rúben was just as worried as you. ‘I didn’t want the wedding to end.’
‘Me neither,’ you whisper. ‘Should we go, now?’
Rúben nods and the two of you separate to get yourselves ready to leave. He grabs your bag, carrying it for you as you leave hand in hand. There’s no real plan - just the two of you wandering around Dalston for a bit - soaking up the presence of the other. You don’t need to speak, either. It’s enough to have Rúben’s hand in your own, grounding you. 
The September evenings bring cool air and you tuck into Rúben for a little warmth, his hands leaving yours so his arm can pull you into his side. He pulls out his phone and smiles - there’s something about the way he looks at the device that unsettles your stomach - like he could have someone else. 
‘Yes,’ he lets out a small victory hiss and you look to him for some more information. ‘Pep has said that I don’t need to go back with the rest of the guys. I can make my own way back if I want.’
‘Oh, why would you want that?’ your brows furrow, not understanding why Rúben would want to sort out his own travel, but his face falls. ‘What?’
‘Oh. I’m sorry, I just thought…’ Rúben shakes his head and tries to brush off the visible disappointment but you tug on his hand, trying to get him to explain. Despite being stood in the middle of the pavement in Dalston, time has stopped. Nothing else matters more than why Rúben’s mood has so suddenly fallen. ‘I thought you’d want me to stay tonight. I-‘
‘I do,’ you cut him off, squeezing his hand before wrapping your arms around his neck to kiss him gently, your mouth moving against his. Soft. ‘I just didn’t think you’d do that - you’d have to find your own way back and that would just be a nightmare with all the strikes and stuff.’
‘Shh,’ he stops you from rambling any further, his arm back around your waist as you continue to aimlessly walk around London. ‘It’s fine - I can get the train, and if not, I can get a car.’ 
‘What time do you need to check out tomorrow?’
‘Nine,’ he says, checking his phone. 
‘Do you want to go back now, pack your stuff, and come back to mine for the night?’ you offer and Rúben nods, pulling you to the side of the pavement to call an Uber. ‘Since you decided you’re gonna stay at mine, already.’
Playfully, you elbow him in the stomach and Rúben grabs you, his beard tickling your neck a little. The two of you giggle there, waiting for the Uber to arrive, feeling at home in his body. The car arrives pretty quickly - Rúben opens the door for you and then climbs in. The drive back to the hotel is short and you don’t let go of his hand until you’re in his room.
‘Nobody’s here,’ you whisper against his lips. Rúben smirks, pushing you down onto the bed, and kissing you as he cages your body beneath his. Your nails dig into the skin of his neck, trying to pull him even closer to you - needing to feel his weight on you. 
Your hips start to move on their own, desperate to get some friction against your aching cunt. You’ve been so desperate for him - you’ve fantasised about him for too long. Rúben’s tongue slips into your mouth and you moan into the feeling, your dress getting bunched further and further your thighs until you hear someone outside of the door.
‘Fuck,’ Rúben groans, pulling away from you, the two of you fixing yourselves as John walks in. ‘Hey, mate, thought you were going out with the rest of the guys.’
John looks at the two of you, a small smirk on his face, knowing that he was interrupting. Your dress is wrinkled and Rúben’s cheeks are flushed - there is no room for doubt. Rúben grabs his bag, throwing it on the bed and packing - it’s a futile attempt at trying to save face, but it’s also the reason you’re at the hotel. He greets the two of you, the smug smirk still plastered on his face - oh, you know he’s going to tell Jen.
‘Yeah, I was meant to but I gotta call Jen first,’ John explains. ‘Why ya packing now?’
‘Coaches said it’s fine for me to make my way back,’ Rúben explains. ‘Gonna get my stuff now.’
‘Oh…’ John shoots the two of you another knowing look and you hope Rúben is done packing - and somehow he isn’t. He goes to the bathroom to get his toiletries, leaving you with John. ‘So, it seems that someone has taken a liking to my best man.’
‘Shut the fuck up?’ you playfully glare at him. ‘Now you’re gonna snitch to your wife, aren’t you?’
‘Oh yeah,’ John laughs. ‘I knew you thought he was a pretty, pretty butterfly.’
Groaning, bury your face into one of Rúben’s pillows. What possessed you to say that at the wedding? You’re starting to think that you’ll never live it down as your body burns with embarrassment. 
‘Let it go, John,’ you say, words muffled by the pillow. Turning to face him, you try to muster your best glare. ‘You’re the worst, you know that? After everything we did for you on your wedding day, the least you can do is not be a prick.’
‘The two of you come as a set, now?’ John continues to laugh and you throw a pillow at him. The centre-back easily dodges it before you’re reunited with your own. He presses a kiss to your temple before he continues packing.
‘Yeah,’ Rúben responds. He says it like it’s the most obvious thing - a given - and it makes your heart race. You watch as he packs, a small smile on your face. You sit up, no longer finding it appropriate to be lying on the bed now you’re not face-down on the pillow. 
‘I’m best man at the wedding, yeah?’ John teases and you think Rúben will shut him down quickly. Maybe it will be for the best if he does that, to nip that sort of teasing in the bud quickly - the two of you aren’t even dating…
‘You know it would be Ivan,’ Rúben laughs, giving him a pointed look - almost as if they’ve had this conversation before. ‘You’d be one of the groomsmen, though.’
‘Yeah, fair, mate. Now, can you ‘urry up so I can call my wife?’
‘Ready?’ Rúben turns to you and you nod in response. He hands you his phone to enter your address into Uber. ‘Bye, mate.’
——
1 am, your flat
You push the door open, kicking the heels off of your aching feet. There’s something so reminiscent of the wedding that it brings a small smile to your face. Rúben desperately pushes you against the wall, his lips on yours - tasting you. His beard scratches against your face, a stark contrast to the softness of his lips. 
Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging at it in desperation. Needing as much of him as he’s willing to give you. When you break, your lungs burning for air, a small giggle escapes your lips like a schoolgirl. Rúben pushes your head to the side, sucking and kissing at the sensitive skin. You mewl and moan against his touch, nails digging into him as you pull him in, turning your head further so he has better access.
‘Bedroom,’ you whimper, pulling Rúben’s head so you can kiss him again. You grab his hand and stumble through your home, legs weak from his touch. As the two of you pass the table in your living room, Rúben stops, his fingers trailing over something. Looking back, you notice him scanning through the polaroids from the wedding - the two of you dancing, toasting each other, and one of Rúben carrying you out of the venue. You have no idea who took it, but you’re not mad.
‘Did you change your mind or something?’ you try to tease but your voice falters a little. Rúben pulls you flush to him, your back pressed up to his chest. He slides one of the pictures to the front, kissing the top of your head as the two of you look at it. Your stomach flutters as Rúben spins you around, his hand on your jaw as he forces you to look up at him. 
‘Never,’ he whispers, pushing the pictures out of the way before he lifts you onto the table. Your legs lock around his torso as you kiss him gently, wanting to see if he will make the next move. He pulls away from you gently, a dazed look in his eyes. ‘Bedroom.’
Hopping off of the table, you drag him to your bedroom and he pushes you down onto your bed, his large hands grabbing at your body. Before he can do anything else, you put on some music - your curated playlist coming through the speakers.
‘I think we have a lot of unfinished business,’ you say, voice a little deeper than usual - sultry. Needy, too. 
‘Yeah, we do,’ Rúben’s reply is short, his voice heavy with arousal and your hand goes to his trousers, feeling the bulge you’ve been thinking about for the last week. He nudges you back to lying down on the bed, his lips kissing your jaw, down your neck, and in that sensitive area between your shoulder and neck. 
Your fingers go back into his hair, scratching at his scalp, tugging at his hair, urging him to stop teasing you. With your right leg wrapped around him, drawing him into your body, you guide him away from your skin, allowing you to tug at his t-shirt. A silent demand that he take it off. 
Rúben pulls the material from his body, giving you a good view of his broad shoulders and sinewy body. Your mouth salivates at the site - your tongue needs to run across every dip and divot. He smirks before pushing your dress up to your stomach, giving him the perfect view of your lace panties. 
‘I think I recognise this set,’ Rúben teases, his fingers ghosting over your panties, across your thighs, but never touching you where you need him most. Letting out a little keen, your eyes snap open, silently begging him to touch you.
‘I think you’ll have to wait and see,’ you quip. Rúben pulls you up, standing and unzips your dress, letting it fall off your body and into a pile on the floor. His eyes rake over your body as he licks his lips. The music still plays softly in the background, almost drowned out by your heart beating in your ears.
only bought this dress so you could take it off, take it off
‘Fuck,’ he groans, pushing you back down, his knee slipping between your legs, pressing up against your cunt. Rúben mouths at your collarbone, down your chest - marking you as you grind on his knee, soaking your panties as you pant and whine. 
Rúben is gentle as he reaches behind you, unclasping your bra and pulling it off of you - like a child at Christmas, careful to untack every piece of tape to see what’s underneath. As the straps are removed from your arms, Rúben visibly swallows, his pupils blown out and his knee pressing even harder into you.
‘Fuck,’ he groans, lips wrapping around your nipple, sucking at the bud and swirling his tongue around it. Continuing to rock against him, you push his head down, loving the feeling of his lips at the sensitive nub. 
‘Rúben,’ you whimper desperately. To say that he’s skilled is an understatement. His hand rolls your other nipple between his fingers and you’d be moving far more erratically if he wasn’t pining you to the bed, keeping you at bay to only rock against his knee. ‘Please.’
‘What do you want, princesa?’ he teases after pulling away from your breast, now pressing gentle kisses in the valley between them, inching down to your stomach. Rúben moves his knee, keeping it pressed against you, trousers soaked with your arousal to urge you on. ‘Tell me what you need.’
‘Need you…’ your eyes screw shut as you try to even out your breathing. ‘To fuck me.’
‘Oh, baby, you’re not ready, yet,’ Rúben’s tone is almost condescending as he pulls your legs to the end of the bed and dangling. ‘Plus, I haven’t even had the chance to taste you yet. And, baby, I’ve waited for so long.’
Rúben tugs at the straps of your panties, silently commanding you to lift your butt so he can take them off of you. Naturally, you oblige, body shivering as he removes the soaking fabric from your skin. Two strong hands guide your legs apart and you feel a little self-conscious at Rúben’s gaze. 
‘You’re so fucking beautiful,’ Rúben groans, almost in disbelief, his accent getting thicker as he coats his fingers in your arousal, slipping one finger inside of you. The wanton moan that escapes you goes straight to his body. 
You watch as his head dips between your thighs, the image alone needing to be carved into your memory. In that, he becomes the personification of sin. Temptation. And it only worsens as he licks a stripe across your sex. 
‘Fuck, you taste even better than I imagined,’ Rúben praises, pulling his finger from your sex, and reaching up towards your lips. ‘Taste.’
His command alone is enough to have you sit up a little and take his finger into your mouth - to give him a taster of what he missed out on before. To let him know what you’re capable of. He lets out a hiss, standing up and adjusting himself before pressing a chaste kiss to your lips. Once more, Rúben gives you a chance to taste yourself off of him.
‘Good, huh?’ Rúben restates himself at your cunt, his tongue laving at you as if he fears he will never be able to again. His lips wrap around your clit, sending a jolt of electricity through you as deft fingers find solace in your cunt. They massage your walls, smoking and stimulating you until you writhe under his touch, so desperate for more, but your body is terrified of the sheer pleasure. It’s too much, yet also not enough.
‘No more teasing,’ you cry out, tears escaping the corners of your eyes. ‘Just fuck me.’
‘You’re not stretched out enough, princesa,’ Rúben is stern, but still, he kisses your inner thigh, his beard leaving a slight wetness against the skin. ‘I will not hurt you.’
Realising that your begging isn’t working alone, you sit up on your elbows, fingers tracing your inner thighs before they gloss over your cunt, letting yourself feel your arousal. Your legs clamp around Rúben’s head, trying to keep him in place.
Rúben scissors his fingers inside of you, gently stretching you out. He curls his fingers, lips wrapping around your clit as your hips rock against his face. One of your hands squeezes your breast whilst the other tugs at Rúben’s hair, adding to the little whimpers in spurring him on. 
‘But I’m so wet, papai,’ you whimper, your wet fingers glossing over his cheek for emphasis. ‘I need you.’
‘You’re so impatient,’ Rúben chides, pumping his fingers once, twice, before he tastes you once more. ‘You can wait a little longer.’
‘I can’t,’ you whine, all decorum gone. Rúben tuts, choosing to ignore your pleas and continues his ministrations, lulling your body into a further state of pleasure. Your breathing shallows as the knot in your stomach gets pulled tighter and tighter. ‘I’m…fuck…close.’
‘Come, princesa,’ Rúben says, taking that brief moment from between your legs. ‘Let go for me, baby.’
You let out a choked, garbled cry as you lose control of your body. Involuntarily, your legs clamp around Rúben’s head as he continues to eat your out, lapping at your cunt. His fingers continue to stretch you out, preparing your body for him. 
‘You okay, baby?’ Rúben asks, his hand cupping your cheek as you work through the aftershocks, chest heaving up and down as you try to steady your breathing. Instead of responding, you pull him down, his lips against yours, and his beard spreading your arousal across your own face.
‘Fuck me,’ you whisper, too spent to say much more. There are still colours in your vision - floating around. 
Rúben groans against your lips, pushing his trousers and boxers off in one go. As he pulls away, you get to see him in his totality. Thick cock up towards his toned stomach - teasing you. He’s so hard it must hurt and you get up onto your knees, unsteadily moving towards him. Rúben watches you like a hawk as he strokes his cock with long, fluid motions, his head thrown back at his own touch. 
‘Let me, papai?’ you ask, looking up through your lashes and Rúben bites his bottom lip, in contemplation, before nodding. Your hand joins Rúben’s, the two of you stroking him until he lets go, watching your wrist flick and the way your thumb spreads his pre-cum across the head. 
Pulling him closer, you take his cock into your mouth, your tongue swirling at the head - paying particular attention to the slit, loving how Rúben shivers, his hands going straight to the back of your head. But he’s gentle - he restrains himself. Slowly, you take more of him into your mouth, him heavy on your tongue and start to bob. As you go down his shaft, you take him further until your nose is close to his pelvis. 
Gagging against him, your eyes start to burn, tears wicked at the waterline. Your hand takes what your mouth can’t - one playing with the rest of his length, the other massaging his balls. Rúben lets out a long, low groan and it goes through you. Your cunt aching with need. 
‘I’m too close,’ Rúben warns through gritted teeth, trying to stop you. ‘Princesa, don’t you want me to fuck you?’
At the promise of finally feeling him inside of you, you pull off of Rúben with a wet pop, saliva connecting the two of you. You look up at him, lips swollen and tear tracks down your face. You’re a mess but he doesn’t seem to care as he pushes you back down onto the bed. Your legs wrap around his torso expectantly as he lines himself up.
‘Is this what you want, baby?’
‘Sim, papai,’ you moan, feeling him at your cunt, slowly pushing himself in until he’s sheathed. You’re snug around him - warm and inviting. Your breath hitches as you feel his size - unsure of how you managed to take him in his entirety. ‘Fuck, so big.’
‘I told you, princesa,’ Rúben says, despite your eyes being screwed shut, you know he’s gloating. And you can’t fault him for doing so. You tap at his arm, urging him to move and he does so slowly, the first few thrusts tentative - scared he’s hurting you. ‘You can take it. You’re such a good girl.’
Your walls clench at the praise and Rúben lets out a strangled noise - it’s caught in the back of his throat as he settles for a pace. His hips snap upwards as he fucks you, hitting that one spot. You claw at him, your nails digging into his back as his head is buried into your neck. Rúben breathes into it, he bites down at the flesh, and your body only wants more of it. More of anything he is willing to give you.
‘So good,’ you shiver, your legs so tight around him, you’re unsure of how Rúben is even able to pull out to slam back into you. He pulls away from your neck, one hand on your cheek, and the other bracing himself to not crush you.
‘You feel fucking incredible,’ he grunts, pushing a hand down onto your stomach. ‘Can you feel me here?’
He renders you speechless - you can’t think past the feeling of him. You cry and whimper, your arousal dripping into the sheets beneath you and you’re close once more. It’s so overwhelming - Rúben always has been but it’s different. He consumes you, and right now, everything revolves around him. 
‘Papai,’ you cry, hips rocking against him in the rhythm he created, your bodies in sync. You’re so caught up you can’t say anything more but it’s as if he already knows. Already so attuned to your body he lets out a low hum.
‘Eyes open, baby,’ he chokes out, his thrusts getting less steady, letting you know he’s just as close as you are. You force them open - it’s so hard when he feels so good - but you’re rewarded by the sight of him. Mouth slightly open, pupils blown out, and despite not yet climaxing, Rúben looks ruined. ‘Come with me. Please.’
Rúben continues to thrust, his cock twitching. He pleads with you to keep your eyes open as they flutter shut and you can’t deny him. Not when his thumb strokes your cheek - not when he’s so tender. And you come - mouth open as your walls milk him. It’s earth-shattering watching him come undone. It only spurs you on until the two of you are spent, his cock still inside of you as he collapses onto the bed, mindful of hurting you. You feel him soften inside of you, neither of you can move and clean yourselves up. 
‘Fuck, baby,’ Rúben strokes your cheek, trying to get you to focus on him. He’s sweaty and breathing heavily, your hand against his chest - feeling it race against your palm. ‘God, you’re perfect.’
‘You’re going to be the death of me,’ you admit, trying to regain some composure. Rúben lets out a small chuckle, kissing the top of your head as he pulls you as close to him as possible. ‘I’m gonna be so sore tomorrow.’
‘You did so well, baby,’ he praises, holding you tight. He pulls out of you, the emptiness making you cry out before he returns with a warm towel, cleaning between your legs and soothing you at every whimper. ‘Get some rest.’
Rúben tucks you onto his chest - almost reminiscent of the wedding. How good it felt to be enveloped by him - by the smell of him. For you to hear his heartbeat. Rúben switches off the music, finding your phone charger and plugging your phone in, the music quickly coming to a halt.
i'd do anything for you (in the dark)
The sun fights its way through the grey clouds of London, letting you see just enough of Rúben’s face. He looks so peaceful, on his side, face tucked into the pillow. You’re unsure if this is breaking a boundary - to burst a bubble you’re not sure really exists - but you have to. You trace his face, his cheekbones to his strong nose and just really take him in. 
Rúben stirs at your touch, body shuffling into yours like he is seeking your warmth. Your fingers card through his hair - soft and messy from your activities the evening prior. Your body aches yet you can’t stop yourself from pressing into Rúben’s sleeping frame. To just touch him. Feel him. Something so simple yet you had yearned for it so badly before. And now, you finally have it. At some point, you’re distracted by Rúben, your fingers no longer combing his hair. He lets out an annoyed groan and his eyes peek open.
‘Why’d you stop?’ he groans, mumbling as he shuffles into the crook of your neck. Letting out a light chuckle, you return your fingers to his hair and smile as Rúben watches you. His eyes are heavy with sleep but his gaze doesn’t falter. ‘Better.’
‘Don’t get too relaxed,’ you joke, playing with the soft strands. ‘We need to eat something - it’s almost midday.’
‘I’ll make you breakfast,’ Rúben mutters, kissing your shoulder. ‘Just five more minutes.’
Eventually, you untangle from Rúben, causing him to groan when you leave, but an offer for him to join you in the shower gets him out of bed just as quickly. You’re too sore to do anything but clean yourself off - your walk is just a little tilted. Rúben’s smug when he sees it - when he sees the hickeys he left on your body. To see his effect on you.
——
Noon, your flat
‘When did you find the time to order all of this?’ you ask, bewildered at the food delivery Rúben is bringing through the door. There are at least three of them - all filled to the brim. ‘What are you making?’
‘Bacalhau a Bras,’ he says, his accent thicker than usual. ‘It’s my favourite dish - my mum makes it all the time when I’m home.’
‘Ah, have you made it before?’ you help Rúben unpack, placing the eggs on the table. He shows you the recipe on his phone. ‘Can I help?’
‘I’ve made it before…’ he says, and the sheepish smile lets you know how well it went. ‘But this time, it will be amazing. Just sit down and watch the master.’
‘What if I want to help?’ you ask, cocking your head to the side, your hand slipping over to grab his. ‘We make such a good team.’
Rúben visibly gulps, leaning down and capturing your lips with his, your back pressed to the kitchen counter. You keen into him, letting out little whines at his touch, one large hand on your bum, the other on the back of your neck. 
‘Don’t start something you can’t finish, princesa,’ he warns, stroking your bottom lip with his thumb. ‘You were such a good girl for me last night. Now, where did you learn papai from?’
‘Honestly?’ you laugh, peeling the potatoes as Rúben deals with the cod. He looks back at you with amused eyes, nodding to urge you on. You keep your focus on the vegetable in shame. ‘I might’ve searched it up…’
Rúben laughs, his head thrown back, and teeth on show. Your stomach sinks, the moment humiliating but he grabs your cheeks, kissing you once more. Rúben holds you tight, kissing the top of your head before pulling away.
‘It was hot,’ he admits, burying his head in the crook of your neck. ‘You were so good to me last night. Such a good girl.’
‘Now, I guess it’s time to admit that where I found it, they did say nobody really uses it but I took a risk…’
‘And I liked it,’ Rúben reassures you, slapping your bum before he goes back to making breakfast. You chop the potatoes into matchsticks before handing them over to Rúben. He ends up cooking the rest of the dish as you hug him from behind, just trying to get as much contact with him as possible.
The two of you sit down for brunch, orange juice in front of you both. Rúben looks a little nervous - watching as you take the first bite,
‘It tastes really good,’ you say, taking another bite. Rúben follows suit and comments how his mum makes it better but the dish is good because you helped him. ‘You’re such a sap. Wasn’t this like a whole plot point in Kung Fu Panda? Love makes food better?’
‘Who said anything about love?’ Rúben teases.
‘Well, I didn’t cook with spite, today, so that’s my only other option,’ you jab back. ‘But it’s really good. You need to send me the recipe.’
‘Not happening. If I give you the recipe, what’s to say you’ll keep talking to me?’ he wriggles his eyebrows and you roll your eyes in response. There’s something so warming about him being silly - the opposite of him on the pitch. You love it. You love spending that time with him - seeing him be who he is.
‘Sex was pretty good,’ you try to be nonchalant, shrugging your shoulders and laughing at Rúben’s offended look. He raises his eyebrow and you bite your bottom lip, relenting. ‘Maybe it was more than pretty good.’
‘If it was just pretty good, I can always find someone else,’ Rúben deadpans and you rescind your earlier statement, giving him a large grin. ‘Hurry up and eat your food before it gets cold.’
You take a forkful of it, letting out a low moan as you eat, teasing Rúben when the two of you know that you really shouldn’t go for another round. It’s easy to tease him - you love the way his eyes light up and then darken as a warning. 
‘How long are you in London for?’ you try not to pout at the thought of Rúben leaving, but it’s hard to stop the way your eyes lose their shine at the question. Rúben takes your hand, kissing it to soothe you.
‘I need to be back by tomorrow - we have training on Monday. Come back to Manchester with me today?’ he asks, biting his bottom lip as if he’s worried you’d turn him down.
‘Well, it won’t be the first time I spend a long time with you, would it?’ you tease, alluding back to the wedding. It was something else - the time you spent with him, remembering how your heart raced and your stomach fluttered. All of it. You think back to how badly you wished to marry him - before you even got to know him. 
‘At least we won’t be trying to save the day the whole time,’ he quips back. ‘Come back with me - we can go to the arcade, or something.’
‘Yeah, that sounds good,’ you laugh, finishing your last bite of food under Rúben’s watchful gaze. He’s so intense - you’d realised it before - but it’s so much more when it’s just the two of you. ‘Are we getting the train back?’
‘Yeah, I’ll book the tickets now,’ he murmurs, pulling out his phone. ‘I can book a car, though, baby.’
‘I know,’ you say, kissing him once more. His hand comes back to your bum. ‘But I also remember something you said.’
——
4 pm, Rúben’s car, Jen and John’s wedding day
‘Do you like this?’ you ask, stroking the hand Rúben has on your thigh. The two of you are on your way back to the reception - cheongsam in tow. There are only about twenty minutes left of your journey - traffic having held you up at every turn.
‘What do you mean, baby?’ he looks at you confused, hand squeezing you tightly. 
‘All the fame and being recognised all the time?’ you think back to the kids that asked for a photo outside of the hotel - how they were elated to meet him. Your heart melted. There was something so perfect about seeing him with children. So right.
‘No,’ he says, completely honest. ‘I love my job, I love playing football, but I don’t want my entire life on show for the world. I’m a normal person who also plays football - that’s it. I don’t like being treated like I’m special - or put on a pedestal.’
‘Oh, Rúben,’ you let out a soft coo, taking his hand to squeeze it. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t,’ he says. ‘You make me feel normal.’
——
2:37 pm, Euston Station
You and Rúben bolt down the platform to the train. By the time you get there, you’re panting, lungs burning as the two of you enter the first-class carriage. Falling to your seat, you drag Rúben with you, the two of you laughing as the train sets off.
‘I can’t believe we almost missed the train,’ your laughs are laboured from the lack of breath and you’re sweating but it’s funny all the same. ‘I thought you were good at keeping the time and stuff. Being super organised.’
‘It’s not my fault there was so much traffic,’ Rúben pulls you to his side, kissing your temple. The two of you are curled into the other, your eyes falling shut out of exhaustion. Your, already aching, muscles get even more stiff and Rúben massages your shoulders for you. 
‘So, you never did tell me what you remembered, baby,’ Rúben tries to get you to talk, to reveal the big mystery you’ve been keeping from him. He pokes your ribs, making you squeal and you shake your head.
‘Does it matter?’ you play coy once more, going on your phone and ignoring him. ‘How long is the journey?’
‘Answer my question first, baby,’ Rúben’s voice is low - a warning, his hand leaving yours to trail up your thigh. ‘It’s rude not to answer me.’
‘Yeah, maybe,’ you smile, head resting against his arm. ‘But I’m serious, it doesn’t matter what I remembered.’
‘You must’ve remembered it for a reason,’ he says, trying to get you to fold.
‘Yeah, I did,’ you admit, nodding your head. ‘It’s just something for me to know. Something for me to remember. I’m glad you told me it, though.’
Rúben kisses your face, peppering you with them. He holds you tight to him, the two of you giggling like teenagers. Luckily, the carriage is empty - in all fairness, it seems as if most of the train is empty, City fans opting to go home right after the match.
‘Tell me,’ he continues with his onslaught until you admit to doing so, your voice still bubbling from the giggles.
‘You told me that you wanted to be normal,’ you say, relenting. ‘That’s why I picked my favourite pizza place…and why I wanted to get the train here.’
Rúben kisses your temple, holding you close to him. There’s a large, wide smile on his face as he looks back at you - his eyes unable to hold back how touched he is - his surprise that you remembered. 
‘One more question.’
‘One more?’ you quip. ‘You didn’t even answer my last one.’
‘I think you’ll like this one,’ he says, kissing you once again. ‘Will you be my girlfriend?’
and all at once, you are the one, i have been waiting
rubendias
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liked by johnstonesofficial and 1390 others
rubendias: three more points. we worked hard.
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yourusername
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liked by rubendias and 129 others
yourusername: your eyes felt like coming home 🦋
view all 44 comments
rubendias: do you support city yet?
yourusername: nah johnstonesofficial: @/yourusername coward yourusername: @/johnstonesofficial shut up you still owe me johnstonesofficial: you got your pretty butterfly because of me yourusername: um??? no?? @/jenniferstones please collect your husband. he's stinking up my comments rubendias: that day, we all became pretty pretty butterflies jenniferstones: @/johnstonesofficial babe, stop it before she leaks our address yourusername: listen to your wife, ben grimm (the thing) @/johnstonesofficial johnstonesofficial: who is that? yourusername: i put both names for you to google...use it johnstonesofficial: your boyfriend is the comic book nerd. @/rubendias - this is for you yourusername: i have a boyfriend??? johnstonesofficial: we all know you do
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fanpageknight · 11 months
Note
Can you do a Yandere Jealous John Wick x Reader?
Loyalty
Posted: 05/04/23
Title: Loyalty
Yandere John Wick x GN reader
Summary: When there's no escape from a love sick Baba yaga, why fight him?
Author's note: Mx is a gender neutral term for Mrs/ Mr
John Wick Story list / Master List
Warnings: Yandere, violence, language
🔞18+ page due to dark and adult themes. Minors will be blocked 🔞
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John was at his breaking point. He couldn't watch you from the sidelines anymore.
He knew how attached he was getting to you and how the wrong people were bound to start noticing. Not only that, but you were actively seeking a partner. He watched as you go on dates with people from dating apps and go to clubs or wherever else to meet someone.
John has thought about making a dating account to try and match or to "accidentally" bump into you at the club. However, he knew that there were too many variables at this time and didn't want to fuck up his first time introducing himself.
The consequence of this destination was his obsessions, protective, and lovely feelings, for you started to build more rapidly as he waited.
You had only heard about him in stories that were told like myths. A boogeyman, you would never and could never see coming.
However, in some cruel twisted joked, you had seen him, but only because he wanted you to.
His dark eyes stare at you from across the clubs pool room as he shoots the man you had planned on going home with. "AGHHH!" You screamed as John stands to his full size never taking his eyes off of you.
You turned and booked it for the exit with a towel wrapped around your wet skin.
Music blasts in your ears as you enter the actual club room. You shove and push past people on the dance floor, hoping to lose him in the chaos.
'What did I do?' Your thoughts are barely loud enough to be heard over your panicked heartbeat.
As you make it to the other side of the dance floor, you look back over your shoulder and see John shoving his way through the crowd eyes still locked on you.
'I'm going to die!'
"Fuck!" You shouted as you realized you were lost somewhere within the huge club. You shock as cold air blows against your wet skin.
You turn the corner of a long back hallway to see a door, but upon trying to open it, you find it locked.
"No...no. no. Please..." You heard footsteps stop far behind you.
The breath in your lungs is held hostage as you gulped in fear. Shaking, you turned around to see Baba Yaga blocking your only exit.
Silent tears fall from your eyes as he makes a calm approach. "P-please i-i haven't done anything wrong." He does reply as his eyes hold yours. "Please... don't kill me..." You beg looking away from him. His eyes soften as he stands close to you while you push yourself up against the door.
John's strong hand gently lifts your chin to look at him. You cautiously open your eyes to look at him confused by his gentle action.
His eyes looked human.
"I'm not here to kill you..." You knit your eyebrows. "Then -" He cut you off. "This isn't how I had planned this to go, but... I couldn't just watch anymore." He moves his hand from your chin to your cheek causing you to flinch and him to frown.
John wasn't sure what to say, so he said the truth. "I love you..." You're eyes widen, and before you can reply, he continues. "I saw you with that man tonight, and I couldn't handle it... not anymore. He needed to die." You closed your eyes tightly and shook your head. "No -" "Yes -" "NO HE DIDN'T!" You cried out. John sighed, knowing you wouldn't understand things from his perspective, so he didn't waste his breath arguing.
"Ethier way. I can provide for you much better than him or anyone you've gone out with." His thumb wipes away your tears, then look you over to see you wet and shaking. "You're freezing. You'll warm up in my car." He takes a careful hold of the back of your arm to try and get you to the walk with him. However, you yanked your arm away. "I'm not going anywhere with you. You fucking creep!"
He looks back at you seriously. "It wasn't a question." He then holds up a hand for you. "Now come... I'd hate to have to do this the hard way." You gulped. "I...I don't understand." You whispered to yourself. "You don't need to understand. You just need to comply."
You cried and shook your head. "You're smarter than this, y/n." He warnings.
The silence was tight in the air as you stared at him through tears. He sighs and lowers his hand before turning back to you. "Look... I know this isn't ideal, but I'm done waiting around for us to fall in love or for someone to hurt you." His eyes darken again as his nose almost touches yours. "I want to dedicate the rest of my life to you." John shakes his head, thinking he misspoke. "No... I need to dedicate the rest of my life to you." He gave your pouting lips a peck. "You be safe with me. I promise~" He gives you another sweet peck. "All you have to do is be loyal to me. To be mine~. " He looks into your eyes and watches your fear become calm numbness.
But he also saw your understanding of your inevitable fate.
"Say it~" He whispered in your ear before kissing under it. "Say that you're loyal to me~" You blankly stare into the hallway as he begins to kiss your neck lovingly. "I..." Your throat felt dry. "I'm..." John presses his body against wanting to warm your cold skin. "Good. You can say ~" "I'm loyal." He smirks against your skin. "To whom?" He asked. "To you... I'm loyal to you... j-john wick." He pulls back and kisses your forehead. "Now, say... I'm yours, Mr. Wick~. " You wet your dry mouth and looked up at him to see a possessive hungry love-filled look. "I'm..." You took a deep breath. "I'm yours, Mr Wick."
He smiles at you and kisses you lovingly. You gently kissed back, knowing there was no escape from this man. He pulls back and whispered "And I am loyal to you. You are mine... Mx Wick~" he kisses your forehead and picks you up as he begins to walk. "No one will touch what's mine, ever again~"
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arece · 1 year
Text
Late Arrival
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♤ John Wick x platonic!f!reader (father/daughter duo???) series masterlist
(𝟷)
♤ Summary: You accidentally kill a man after he attacks you, only to discover he's the son of a very dangerous and powerful gang leader. Your safety is now entrusted in the hands of John Wick. (2.6k)
♤ Warnings: Attempted assault (not successful or too detailed), John Wick violence and death, descriptions of injuries and blood.
♤ a/n: This is possibly one part of many. I roughly have a whole series planned out but would like to see if others are interested in it before I fully commit to it. If you have any thoughts or requests of what you'd like to see with these two, request away!
⋯♤⋯♧⋯♢⋯
The bright crimson leaked a trail down the alley towards you and you threw yourself back in a last ditch effort to keep it away from you. There was already enough blood on your hands which you desperately tried to wipe away, it was too late they were already stained.
What you did finally hit you as you caught sight of the bloodied pipe tossed to the side of the now mangled body. “Fuck.” You almost start heaving as your breathing begins to pick up. Where did he even come from?
You were on your latest job for Aurelio, stealing whatever parts he needed for his latest design. He came upon you when you naively tried to steal from him months ago, when he caught you he seemed the furthest thing from pissed.
Highly amused he thought a crafty thief of a fourteen year old was good for his business. He took you in dubbing you the ‘street rat’ and you ran his errands. It was better than living on the streets, surviving off of scraps like you’d been for the last two years. Although weary of the man and his definitely not-so-legal work, you agreed to join.
Being discreet was your biggest ally, being so young you were mistaken for just a regular kid which made it easier to hide away in plain sight, stealing from the unsuspecting. After living on the streets for so long you liked to think you knew the city inside out.
Twisting through alleyways was the perfect way to remain out of sight, it was also the perfect way to get attacked. You were leaning against the wall, catching your breath after almost getting caught from your latest heist.
You may have laughed at the guy when he walked right past you, pissed off, clueing him on who stole from him. You could only think about how annoyed Aurelio was gonna be with you as you ran two extra blocks.
You noticed a shadow moving closer to you from the corner of your eye, before you could move one arm wrapped around your midsection yanking you to a chest and another covering your mouth.
You jab your elbow straight into your attackers ribs, causing them to release you but not before tossing you further back into the alley near a dumpster. You scrambled up and managed to catch sight of the person.
It was a guy, roughly in his twenties. He was tall but lanky and dressed in a way that screamed ‘douchey-rich’. The type of kids who thought they were the shit before getting robbed by the small group of street kids.
“What the fuck do you want? I didn’t take shit.” You had assumed he was one of the guys' lackeys. You realized you were wrong when a sickly smirk grew on his face, his eyes slightly crazed.
He walked closer to you and you backed up until you bumped into the dumpster. He seemed to only get more excited when he saw how scared you grew which only increased the sick feeling you felt festering. “I’m only here for some fun.”
He lunged at you, knocking you to the ground and your head slammed against the concrete. Vision blurred as you watched his wandering hands reach for you. No, no, no. You couldn’t tell if you were screaming but he still covered your mouth with one hand.
Your head turned to the side and by the corner of the dumpster you saw a lone metal pipe. Slowly, your left hand reaches for it, fingertips brushing against the cold metal before you fully have it in your grasp.
You move your hold to the middle of it and use all your strength to hit the end against the side of his head. He falls against you and you cry out, shoving him off you in a panic. Everything feels hazy and faraway.
You stand on unsteady feet now holding onto the pipe with both hands, raising it above your head you let out a sob and smash it down on his head. Again. Again. Over and over till you lose your strength and your lungs give out from your wails.
You dropped the metal beside his caved in head and fell back to the ground. Wiping the blood away desperately you scooch back from the swirling crimson puddle coming from him. Something catches the light momentarily.
A silver pin was on his jacket now tainted with his blood. You choked on your breath when you caught sight of the symbol on it - a card spade. Now you were really in for it, you just killed the son of one of the most influential gangs. Aurelio said they were second to The High Table. You didn’t know much about either but the fear in his eyes spoke volumes.
Pocketing the pin, you stumble up still in a daze. You smear trickles of blood over your face when you roughly shove your hair back. You had a lot to explain to Aurelio, maybe he’ll decide you weren’t worth the risk. Afterall, you’re as good as dead now.
⋯♤⋯♧⋯♢⋯
You stood in front of the garage shop, the definition of a mess. Clothes ripped, hair knotted, drenched in blood, and you were pretty sure your head was busted open from the earlier fall. Aurelio rushed out, pushing past the others to reach you.
“What the fuck happened?” He eyed you over, his worry breaking through his angered demeanor. You numbly reached into your pocket and held out the bloodied spade pin, “I didn’t mean to.”
He did a once over of the pin and you before shoving one of the chairs beside him, “fuck.” You slightly flinch back but remain unaffected otherwise as you stared blankly ahead. He rubs a hand over his face, catching sight of a gold coin atop his desk.
“I have a favor to call in.” He walks off into his office quickly, muttering to one of the guys about getting you something to clean up with as he reaches for his phone. You're handed a damp rag but just hold it as you listen in to bits and pieces of Aurelio’s phone call.
You mostly make out rough grumbling but catch some words. “Favor…come and see… accident -  he tried to…” You stop listening in after that, shutting your eyes tightly in an attempt to block out everything that just happened.
You don’t know how long you stood there but were interrupted by Aurelio clearing his throat. Your eyes snap open to see him awkwardly gesturing to the rag you held in your grasp. “Not gonna clean up?”
You shake your head and toss it to the side, it didn’t matter no matter how much you scrubbed the blood would remain, hands forever tainted with a reddish hue. “Who were you talking to?”
He pulled up the chair he pushed to the side earlier and brushed your question off. 
His hands clasped together, his leg bouncing up and down in an anxious frenzy, “do you wanna talk about-”
“No.” You snapped firmly. You shocked yourself with the aggression you showed towards him. You shrunk back in guilt. Aurelio seemed to understand as he changed back to the question you asked earlier.
“I called in a favor. Who you killed, you’re gonna need someone to keep you safe and he can.” Your heart dropped in realization, you were right, Aurelio thought you were too much of a risk and was pawning you off to some stranger.
In the end you couldn’t really blame him, you had severely fucked up yet you couldn’t help but feel the burning sting of betrayal and hurt.  He had taken you in, fed you, housed you, and taught you. Now you were being thrown out so easily. “If the Spade’s are so powerful, how is some guy supposed to protect me?”
It felt like a childish jab, like you were one step away from pouting your bottom lip out. Aurelio sighed and brushed a hand over the top of his head. “He’s John Wick,” he slightly scoffed, a ghost of a grin on his face like he’s on some inside joke.
Your brows furrowed, now frustrated by how amused he seemed at the prospect of your imminent death. Your hands formed fists, the now dried blood flaking off at your knuckles reminding you of the state you were in. “Who the fuck is John Wick?” 
“Him.” You looked behind you to see a tall man standing at the entrance in an all black suit. You hadn’t even heard him come in - you really needed to work on people being able to sneak up on you so easily.
He was older, late forties to mid fifties. Shoulder length hair and a full beard that had odd patches dipping near his mouth. The man was stoic, a displeased frown that you could tell sat permanently on his face from the way it suited him.
His displeasure seemed to grow as he observed you before turning back to Aurelio, “she’s a kid.” You huffed out, not liking how he brushed off your presence, “yeah, real observant asshole.” Aurelio glared at you while John continued to ignore you.
“She is. Look, they're going to come after her and we both know I can’t do shit - but you.” John surveyed you again. You felt uncomfortable under his gaze but refused to back down, standing tall. You weren’t gonna let him intimidate you, not after what happened today.
He seemed to find what he was looking for, nodding at Aurelio. “Let’s go,” he grabs the coin from Aurelio before heading out the garage, waiting for you to follow. You began to feel panic crawling up your throat at the idea of leaving with this guy.
You turned to Aurelio, begging with your eyes as you felt your eyes burning, a threat to possible tears. You were scared, god were you scared. Aurelio shook his head, muttering a small, “go” before heading back into his office.
You sniffed, grabbing the stupid part you stole for him and threw it at one of the windows, shattering it. You were hoping for a reaction but was met with complete silence. He gave up on you. 
You followed after John in defeat. He got you into the passenger seat of his Boss 429. While he pulled out he reached into the center console and tossed you some wipes to clean off the blood. You had a feeling it was something he frequently experienced.  
You roughly wiped at the dried blood, you wouldn’t be able to clean all of it off but this will do for now. “Where are you taking me?”
He stared at the road ahead, only sparing you a small glance through the rearview mirror, “the Continental.” His answer was short and blunt, getting information out of him will be hard but you’re persistent.
“What’s the Continental.” Without a moment passing, “a hotel.” You frowned and carelessly let the blood stained wipes fall to the bottom of the car. If he was bothered by it he didn’t say anything. “How’s a hotel supposed to protect me?”
“It’s discreet.” The way he answered in riddles further annoyed you. Your trust in him was short, you don’t know what Aurelio gave him, just the gold coin? Either way it seemed small considering the gang he’d have to go up against and just for you.
“You don’t talk much, do you?” He shook his head. You leaned back in your seat and lifted your legs to rest on the console. No point in fighting this now, you were trapped in the car with him.
Without looking he pushed your legs back down, paying no mind to your glare. “Not safe.” You scoffed, yet listened to him and kept your feet down. “I’m being hunted down after killing some asshole and have to rely on you. I think the car is the least of my worries.”
He lightly snorted at your jab but was cut off by a car slamming into you guys from the back. His arm shot out in front of you, holding you back from flying forward. “You alright?” You breathlessly nodded, watching as he looked back.
He reached back into the console, this time pulling out a gun. He unbuckled you and pushed you down below the window view. “Stay down,” he orders you before getting out of the car, the sounds of gunshots firing immediately. 
You weren’t able to follow his orders for long when the cracked back windshield was shattered. You flinched back down, covering your head with your arms. One of the men in all black tactical gear crawled in towards you.
Your eyes widened, frantically you reach blindly behind you until your hand manages to grab ahold of the door handle. You yank on it just as the man reaches to pull you by your leg, falling out of the car backwards and hitting your already injured head.
You kick at his wrist in an attempt to break free though it was little use. With blurred vision he reached for your arms and pulled you upright. You punched at his shoulders, arms, ribs, anything you could reach as panic filled you at the all too familiar scene playing out.
John turned back from cutting one of the men down with their own knife at the sound of your scream. He was met with you in a mercenary's grip, trying to escape while he tried to search you over.
He flipped the knife around, tightening his grip around it as he strode back over to the car. His steps were silent enough that the mercenary didn’t look up until it was too late. He pulled at the arm wrapped around yours, bending until he heard a satisfying snap.
The man yelled out and you were released from his grip. You fell to the ground and John grabbed the man by his now broken arm until he was close enough to plunge the blade straight through his throat.
Blood sprayed over the both of you as you frantically crawled backwards. John let the body drop and turned to see you looking at the bodies all around with a crazed look in your eye. He knelt down to your level and reached for your shoulder. 
You began to thrash around wildly, shrieking for him to let you go. “Stop- hey, hey,” He tried to call out to you as he wrapped you tightly in his grip, preventing the possibility of you accidentally hurting yourself. 
He held on as you sobbed. You gripped onto him as you came to, not wanting him to let go. “I got you, kid. I got you now.” You heaved into his chest and he clutched the back of your sore head in a soft hold.
After you had settled he cautiously released you and looked you over to make sure you weren’t physically hurt. He gently moved your face to the side, wiping the fresh blood away to take a closer look at the back of your head.
“We’ll get the Doctor to look at that,” he stood up, pulling you with him. He wrapped his arm around you to guide you back to the car that was now severely damaged. You didn’t have the energy to question him, you just let him buckle you in and place his jacket over you.
You curled up in your seat and let yourself fall asleep under his watchful eye. You don’t know how the Spade’s have found you so quickly. All you did know was that trusting him was all you had left.
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multific · 11 months
Text
The End or The Beginning
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Vincent De Gramont x Reader
Summary: In order to save John's life. You offer yours.
You were a really good assassin. Many fought to have you work for them.
John was a really old friend of yours.
You knew him even before he left.
In your eyes, John was a difficult man.
He wanted out, then he wanted in and now he wants out again?
He said he wanted to be free. But freedom is all he had.
You understood the reason he took revenge. You understood that Santino didn't give him a second choice. 
But you were a firm believer that freedom starts within. And then you can achieve it.
John was never free.
He might have buried his guns. But he never buried the assassin within him.
And now, now you had to yet again, save his ass.
But The Marquis was a completely different case.
You heard about him and you also knew that this fight against John might never fully stop.
So, you had a simple offer.
"I'll work for you and in exchange you and the High Table leave John Wick alone. He will be a free man and you get to have me on your side." a simple offer. Anyone would be stupid to say no.
You were legendary.
But you also had a feeling that the Marquis would be too smart to give up John Wick and too cunning to give up the opportunity of you working for him.
You knew he would try and make you work for him. 
So, you were careful with him. You heard about him after all.
When he asked you into his office so he can give you an answer, you were happy to walk in and not only put on a show, but also enjoy it.
You knew this would be difficult, but you were ready.
Or so you thought.
You certainly were not ready for the gorgeous red and black suit he was wearing.
You were not ready for the handsome face waiting for you.
You honestly thought the Marquis would be an older man like Winston.
But you were wrong.
Very wrong.
He was handsome, smart, looked good in a suit and he had power.
He was tall, lean yet muscular, and that accent... 
You thought you had the upper hand... you were wrong.
Very wrong.
And judging by the smirk on his face, he was aware of it as well. 
You watched him as he was thinking about your proposition. 
You were honestly ready for almost any idea he would have.
You were ready for him to come up with something where John would still need to die.
You even thought he might somehow go as far as having you kill John.
"Would you die for John Wick?" he suddenly asked.
"Die for him?"
"Yes, would you?"
You had to think for a second.
"No."
"Then why offer your services for the rest of your life in order to save his?"
"Because I'm sick and tired of it. Ever since he killed that asshole's son, all I hear is how great he is. All I see is my friends die to his hands."
"Then why not kill him yourself?"
"Because John and I took a vow to never fight against one another. And he has lost so much already, death would be kind to him." Vincent looked you up and down, trying to find the catch in your whole story.
"I'll take your offer. You will work for me and Jock Wick shall be forever forgotten and left alone. But you already knew I would take the offer right?"
"If not you, someone else would have."
---
You working for Vincent made you two become closer by the day.
You learned a lot about him and his work ethic.
To say that you were rather used to it after a couple hours would be difficult to say, but you got used to him way too quickly.
Some would say alarmingly too fast.
But in this industry, you had to.
Or at least that is what you told yourself so that your mind would be at ease. 
But both you and Vincent knew that you were just as crazy as him.
You both knew that he liked you just as much as you liked him.
And fuck... he looked way too good in a suit!
He invited you as his guard to an event.
The man was basically a walking full-course meal, it was hard to concentrate.
The event in question was a charity where they were selling all kinds of things.
Expensive things.
Very expensive things. 
Vincent said he was only there to be present because there are powerful people present.
But he also said if you wished to bid for an item, go for it.
And an item did catch your eye. It was a beautiful opal necklace. It was sold as a cursed item.
"This beautiful necklace was once owned by Mrs Melony Jones. It was said she was a witch and she cursed the necklace. Many believe the deaths of the owners following were due to this curse. Starting price is 200,000 dollars."
There was something about it. You had to have it. 
And in the end, it was yours. For only 575,000 dollars, you were the happy new owner of the opal necklace.
Vincent watched you closely during the entire thing. He had never seen you so excited about something, it was good to see your passion because you just had to have the necklace.
In the end, the necklace was given to you in a sealed box with a caution note.
"Cursed item... you have quite the taste."
"Something about this is just so beautiful."
"Maybe that it was found next to a decapitated woman?" he asked with a smirk.
"At least you know what happened to me if I die."
"You don't believe in curses?"
"I believe if I see one." you looked up at him and locked eyes. "Oh, here's one." you smiled and Vincent did too. 
When you were called over to pay, Vincent stepped in front of you, paying for the necklace. 
"You didn't have to."
"Are you going to wear it?" he asked as you two got into his car, ready to head home and for him to drop you off.
"I think I will just put it into my collection."
"You have a collection of cursed items?" you laughed a little.
"No! I have a collection of vintage jewellery and items." you said as you turned to him. "I don't believe in curses, but I wouldn't risk it either. It will look nice on my shelf." Vincent turned and looked at you. You looked so gentle and pure.
If he didn't know that you are a vicious killer, he would believe that you were a simple woman. 
He had to remind himself that you were indeed a woman. Your curves in that dress certainly reminded him but now, so did your eyes.
"I would love to see your collection one day."
"Oh? So you want to come to my house? Or is this just an excuse to come to my house?"
"Yes." he replied, eyes shining and you smiled.
You watched as his driver turned into your street.
"Would you like to see it now?" you looked back at him just as his finger reached your knee.
"Maybe. You just have to say the words, Mon Amour."
The words.
Something he told you only on your first week of working with him.
"I want you." you hand suddenly grabbed the back of his neck and pulled him towards you. You gasped as his other hand reached behind you and pulled you in to meet his lips. 
The devilish grin on his face and he pulled back should have been a warning.
But it was over for you when his finger ran up to your panties, slowly pulling it away so he could reach his destination.
His fingers were long and skilled.
---
For months you thought he only wanted you for your skills.
For months you believed he seduced you because it was the easiest way to keep you by his side.
You truly believed it.
Until one day.
He was in his office, having a couple men in there for important business. As usual.
But when one of the man had a rather... questionable comment about you... Vincent snapped.
The man ended up with two bullet holes.
"Everyone who dares to disrespect, MY WOMAN, gets that fate. Am I clear?" everyone in the room nodded as they fled.
"I could have killed him my self." you told him as he pulled you to another room so his office can be cleaned.
"I needed to send a message. No one messes with us." you smiled at him. He looked furious, still ridding the adrenaline the anger gave him upon hearing those words thrown at you.
"No one messes with us... I quite like that."
"You should marry me. I would much prefer to shout, wife than woman."
"Oh? Is that so? Where is my ring? Romantic dinner and a speech about how I changed you for the better? How you cannot live another day without me?"
"I think we both know you changed me for the worse." he smirked. He reached into his pocket, getting out a small box and opening it. In there was a lovely vintage ring. You looked up into his eyes than back at the ring. "But I truly cannot live another day without knowing you are fully mine. Not just as the trained assassin, but more as the amazing woman. What do you say? Will you marry me?"
"Vincent... You know I joke a lot about things. I actually never expected for you to pull out a ring." you looked up into his eyes again, all you could see was sincerity. "I would love to marry you." he smiled and pulled the ring out, placing it onto your finger.
"Then you shall be mine and I shall be yours. Not my bodyguard, not my assassin but mine." you knew he was trying to sound romantic, and this was his version of romance. But it did sound rather possessive.
"Can we get married on top of the Eiffel tower? Probably not... too windy I assume. Then how about Italy? You know I love Tuscany?"
"You name it, it's yours."
"Then can I have you?"
"You already have me." you reached up with your arms around his neck, leaning in for a kiss.
"Can you take me on that table?" you pointed at it behind you. He smirked. 
"I believe, that can be arranged." he easily scooped you up with your two legs and walked you to the table.
His lips never leaving your neck as he started to remove both of your clothes.
You offered up yourself for John Wick's life.
What you believed to be the end for you was only the beginning.
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Vincent Taglist: @l4venderia​
~Masterlist~
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DO NOT STEAL, REPOST OR TRANSLATE ANY OF MY WORKS  
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cthulhusstepmom · 7 months
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It was really just Ghost's luck, this entire series of fucking calamities. First and foremost leave, which at this point he felt he had well enough in hand. At least he had until one John MacTavish had clambered into his life. Ghost had been perfectly content with coming and going, haunting his bare bones flat in Manchester when he was unwanted and unneeded on base. Sure he liked Kyle and Price well enough but living on top of each other crammed into shoe boxes did little for wanting to stick around unduly; besides Price taking leave was a rare occurrence and Gaz had a busy life off base that he slipped in and out of like an otter in a stream(good god if Ghost never heard about another rave or awkward morning after of Kyle Garrick plus however many guests it would be too soon). But he wanted to be with Soap, Johnny made the shitty bunks and the paper thin walls worth it. Made the constant running and gunning feel like more than just a macabre 9-5.
Made Ghost feel alive again.
This would be the first major leave since Last Almas, at least a month and a half of hard earned rest and relaxation in the comfort of their own beds. Ghost was dreading it. The nightmares were always worse in his flat, the pseudo domestic setting bringing forth memories of bloody puddles and broken crayons instead of the tried and true reruns of his own torture and burial. His therapist had told him to put more of himself into his flat, to try and make the place a safe haven even if it wasn't really a home. The problem with that was quite simple, there wasn't anything left of Simon Riley to give. At least there wasn't until Soap. Until the long buried human part of his brain was rudely shaken awake by a tirade of Scottish nonsense and good-natured touches. And now he was just supposed to leave and go back to the barren walls and sterile rooms of his little holding cell.
To make things even better in this home that wasn't home, the first thing he smelled upon crossing the threshold was an overwhelming odor of mildew and mold. Finding the source had been easy enough, sometime between now and last whenever the fuck he'd left last a pipe had burst and flooded the whole place; ruining the carpet and corrupting the few furnishings he had with dark black mold. His first call had been to building maintenance and they'd been quick to give him an estimate on just how long he had to stay the fuck out of the flat, at least a month funny that. The next call had been to Price, with no answer. Bastard was probably sipping expensive whiskey on the beach somewhere warm. Intellectually he knows that Gaz would offer him his spare room but he would rather not be subject to the conga line of mostly unclothed people Gaz apparently has traipsing through his condominium at any given hour. Which leaves him a single option.
Soap doesn't answer. Probably due in large part to the fact that Ghost doesn't call him.
Logically he knows that the Sergeant probably wouldn't turn him away, Johnny just isn't wired that way. But the element of surprise has served him well and in this fucked scenario going into the blind, Ghost will take all the cards he can shove up his sleeve.
It's not much to go off of, just the address he memorized from Johnny's file, but with the magic of modern technology he finds the little flat soon enough. The drive to Edinburgh is pleasant if long and the weather is mockingly mild. All setting the stage for another calamity as Ghost finds himself standing on the stoop of his Sergeant's flat (he ought to recognize by now that the universe forbids him from having a good day). He raps sharply on the wood of the door three times before he can convince himself that sleeping under a bridge is a better plan of action. It takes a minute or two before he hears anything, cursing himself for thinking that Johnny is even at home, before a muffled crash and wicked cursing within the flat signals that this is the right place and, for better or worse, Johnny's home. Ghost locks his knees and tries to figure out what to do with his hands as the cacophony grows closer.
"Sorry aboot tha, was wrapped up in tha studio- Ghost?"
Ghost opens his mouth to reply but the words fall right out of his head and onto the well loved welcome mat as his eyes take in his Sergeant. His hands are smeared with what his untrained eye assumes is paint, the flecks of color dance up his forearms and over the old t shirt he's wearing. His hair is loose and longer than it usually is, no sense in gelling it back on leave he supposed. But what really stops his mind from working is the thin band of black leather wrapped around Soap's neck, clasped with a shiny silver buckle.
A fucking collar.
Before Ghost can pull his thoughts together, he's being dragged by the front of his sweatshirt into the flat and pressed against the wall so the door can swing forcefully shut.
"Is everything ok? You in trouble?" Johnny asks, concern burning in his eyes.
"Pipe burst in my flat, thought I'd ask if I could surf your couch." He manages to choke out, eyes lingering on the way the leather hugs his subordinate's neck.
"Of course yeh can yeh numpty! Gave me a right fucking scare ya big bastard, showing up all silent on my doorstep. Coulda called, even sent a text eh Ghost. I was at the shops this morning, if I would've known you were coming I woulda shopped for two." Soap releases his hold on the fabric and allows Ghost room to leave the wall.
"Wear that shopping didya?" Is about the most coherent thing he can manage.
Soap looks at him confused before a hand travels up to his throat and a look of dread crosses his features.
"Oh shite."
A blazing red blush heats the tips of his Sergeant's ears, travelling down to his cheeks and collarbones as he runs a hand over his face.
"S'not what it looks like I promise, I don't even wear it oot most of the time." Most of the time? "It just reminds me of a throat mic; S' grounding, my shrink called it a sensory thing? I dinnae ken, but if it helps it helps y'ken-" the bubbling fountain of embarrassed explanation that flows from Soap's lips doesn't seem to be stopping any time soon.
Ghost reaches out a hand and pinches his bicep.
"-Ow, fuck was that for?"
"Johnny look at me, think I can judge how you dress on leave?" The skull print gaiter goes a lot further than any words to prove his point. Paired with sunglasses and a black baseball cap it's close enough to a mask to prevent a total mental breakdown.
Johnny looks over his visage with understanding eyes, nods gravely once and then turns towards the innards of the flat.
"Awright, let's get you set up! Loo is over there, it's a wee bit cramped so you can use my shower, here's the living room and ma bedroom is through there, that right there is the studio it was the second bedroom but it had the best lighting-" Ghost follows obediently, halfheartedly taking in bright decor that sings with Soap's frenetic energy.
How the fuck is he gonna survive Soap wearing that around the house?
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a-risk-to-take · 2 months
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….you posted your tattoo (sick) and linked to house of dirk and i read it all and its unfinished. if you hadn’t posted i may have lived my life without getting fanfic blue balled for the first time since 2015. if you have any sympathy for my loss you would give me fanfic recs >:[ /lh
I feel your pain believe me 😭😭 I’m sorry I didn’t warn you at least. I’m low-key hoping the tattoo image gets to imarriedacherub and inspires them to continue the story - obviously not likely but it’s nice to dream!
I got recs for you though! I’ve got hundreds of bookmarks on my ao3 but here’s the HS stuff I love the most:
The epics:
Dayvhe’s Broken Diamond Club and everything by @unda-dsk: DBDC is my personal fave of theirs, and the best treatment of troll culture in any fic ever. If you know HS fic you are probably aware of MC Escher That’s My Favorite MC, and that one is absolutely excellent and completely deserves its status as one of the very best. And then there’s Alternate Universe, which is a perfect and beautiful magic school story. All of these are absolutely top-tier - I cannot stress this enough. They are epic and very long but some of the best stuff I’ve ever read—fanfic or otherwise—and they changed me when I read them. Despite the length, DBDC is very episodic so you can read each chapter as its own story and easily take breaks in between them without losing the flow, so you might want to start there. I promise it’s worth it!!
so we don’t kill the ones we love by @callmearcturus: I’ve never read anyone who can create an atmosphere like Arc can - this one is kind of a John Wick AU but in a really refreshing and elevated way. The characterization is so on point. Lots more I could rave about but I’ll just add that Arc’s Karkats are the hottest and most based out there. Again all his stuff is really good - this one is my favorite, but don’t miss this really cool magic artisan AU also.
The meteorstucks:
Aahhh there’s no way this is gonna be complete because I’ve read like hundreds and I get them confused but these are some that stand out. In case you haven’t notice already this list is gonna be very davekat centric!
Keep It Down by sburbanite - chef’s kiss concept and execution just read it
A Xenological Exploration of Music and Language by superbloom - super fun and well written with neat headcanon - and turned me on to some great music
I’m actually gonna just declare this section unfinished for now - I need to revisit these and remind myself what’s what - stay tuned!
Illustrated
Since you liked HoD you might be looking for more comic-y stuff with art. Definitely check out @chthonicarcher’s amazing davekats! Such as That’s All We Are
Dream a Little Dream of Me by koroke - this is just a little dream bubble comic but it’s simply the loveliest and I’m massively envious of the art style
Gonna Need Some Windex by the End of the Year by magniloquentChanteuse - more artistic storytelling just neat!
More
It’s About Time by @laurasauras - this is a sweet cute lovely little time travel davekat that I actually sent to a friend to read who knew nothing about HS and successfully led them into the fandom. (Followed by AU by Unda). Laurasauras is prolific and there are so many great fics written by them I can’t list them all here but they are one of my absolute favorite authors. Their understanding of the strider psyche is absolutely impeccable
The Worst Goddamn Movies Ever Fucking Made by writerbot - this fic brought me so much hilarity and joy I can’t even tell you. The Karkat voice is perfect and delightful and the social media interludes are so fucking funny and impressive. One of the first fics to show me how creative and funny this fandom can be.
I’m surely going to add to this - there are so many more meteorstucks and other authors I know I’ll think of after I post this - but I don’t want to spend too much longer on this now when you could be reading some of this great stuff! ENJOY!!
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beansricejc · 10 months
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JOHN WICK x READER - The Courier
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part 3!
[part 1] [part 2]
summary: John’s being a little slut and finds out you’re more dangerous than you let on. More background details of Y/N. You invite him to your base for a few drinks, and John seems to be asking too many questions. In response, you use an unconventional method to make sure he’s not a snitch. John desperately needs to relieve some tension after you finish, so he takes matters into his own hands. Female reader, John x Crime Boss Reader, slow burn, 5500 words.
author’s note: thx for the love! i love writing these, and i really like making the reader (you!) an anti hero. (you’ll see). i would highly recommend reading the first and second part if you’re new here! linked above! lmk what you think! tysm! 💕
warnings: nsfw, organized crime, implied death, violence, alcohol, cursing, sex work, significant age gap, male mast3rbatįön.
A few days have passed since your encounter with John in the Continental, ending with that steamy and tense kiss in the hallway. You had even given him your number. John hadn’t actually texted you yet. His mind was racing with the possibilities between the two of you.
Well, there was you. A young, powerful, self-made crime boss. Or as your employees would say ironically, a girly-pop criminal.
Right.
Of course, there was John, a middle-aged hitman with a dark reputation, even for the criminal underworld. Retroactively feared throughout the industry, there was a general unspoken rule to not fuck with John Wick. That was just common sense at this point.
And here he was, fidgeting with this metal-engraved business card you gave him during that makeout session, so he could keep in touch.
He’s anxious about the feelings he was developing for you. John had kept up with his playboy culture ever since his wife passed, and in his mind, he wasn’t sure if he was ready to give that up.
“Mm, mister Wick, you look awfully distracted.” the escort he had called over to his hotel room to help him relieve some tension he had after his encounter with you.
Her name was Bethany, or Brandi, or something. He didn’t really pay attention. What he did know was that she had excellent hand and blow job skills.
This Brandi chick was right. He was distracted. She’d been trying to get John hard for 15 minutes, and he couldn’t manage. How fucking embarrassing.
John took a peek at your name that's engraved onto the thin piece of metal. Ah, that seemed to do the trick. Blood swam to his shaft, growing his erection, and Brandi smirked a bit.
John’s pride wouldn’t allow him to admit that the sight of your printed name could do such a thing to him.
If anyone were to find out, he would simply die.
It didn’t take long for Brandi to take John into her mouth, stroking what she couldn’t fit with her hands. John closed his eyes, not wanting to establish any emotional connection with the woman to give her the wrong idea. He would simply sit back, and enjoy the pleasure he paid for. Even if the passion wasn’t there, it would have to do.
-
Meanwhile, you and three other women had a man wrapped in tarp and duct tape in their grasp, shuffling down a long pier towards the body’s destination. The Hudson River. The sheer pollution would eventually eat away at its flesh. A sure fire solution to you and your little problem at the moment.
The four of you grunt, count to 4, and swing the corpse out of your grasp, a splash following the collision to the water.
You sighed, snapping off your latex gloves, feeling your phone vibrate a few times in your pocket. God dammit, what now? You attempted to get rid of the fresh corpse body stench from your nose when you pulled your device out, and seeing a text from an unknown number. It was directed for your personal line, and not your business line. Interesting. That’s when it hit you, in your drunken stupor, you shared a personal business card with the one and only, John Wick.
Of course you did, you moron.
You huff out and click on the bright notification on your screen, opening the app up.
Unknown #: Hey, hope you still remember me. It’s that smoking hot guy from the bar a few days ago. You doin' okay?
You rolled your eyes at what John called himself. The smell of swamp water and bird shit entered your sinuses. Thank god that it successfully replaced the cold, damp, dead body smell. You can hear seagulls caw above your small group of women, heading back to your SUV as if nothing had happened.
Now, you're typing away at your screen to reply to this middle-aged man who had taken two days to even utilize your number.
You pause, raise your eyebrows, and slowly read the message over again. Interesting.
The feeling of his hands around you, squeezing your hips and biting your lower lip. The sensation is teasing your mind, so much so that you block everything else out.
You’ve touched yourself about 5 times since then, and you can’t seem to get this stupid man off of your mind. You craved him. Everything from the glares he shot at you with those dark eyes of his, to the sting of his scruff on your soft cheeks.
“Hey,” one of your employees interrupts your midday fantasy. You jolt slightly, blinking at the taller and muscular woman, she’s been working for you for about a year, her name is Jenny. “You ready, boss?”
You take in another deep breath, more lake smell entering your nose, and you can feel the moisture in the air. Somehow you managed to find a time when no one was even outside. Even if they were, no one asked questions. Mind your own business in this city, and you’ll go a long way.
You nod and climb into the back seat of the truck, get situated, and let your employees handle the rest. The truck starts driving, and here you are again, focused on that damn phone screen.
You grunt.
God dammit.
Y/N: yeah, I remember you, old man.
As if you haven’t been thinking about him since you escaped to your hotel room the other day.
Look at you. Crime lord. Criminal mastermind (sort of). You're a big-time player.
All of that, just to act like a schoolgirl when any guy you’re remotely attracted to gives you some sort of romantic interest.
Classic.
Of course you still knew how to talk to them, charm them, get them wrapped around your finger. That was a piece of cake. But what if one wanted a kiss?
Well, time to skedaddle.
-
John had just finished onto Brandi’s face, handing her one of the hotel room towels so she can clean herself off. It was a lot, thick and stringy ropes of cum had landed on her cheeks and lips. He was still recovering and catching his breath.
Then he hears his phone vibrate. It’s you.
He smiled. You texted back quicker than he anticipated.
Great, she’s calling me old again. John sighed to himself.
Sometimes he forgets he’s damn near old enough to be her father. Was that.. weird? Maybe he just shouldn’t think about it.
John: alright, girl boss, whatever you say.
John set down his phone and waited patiently for Brandi to finally leave for the night. He slipped her a wad of cash, and she was gone faster than she came.
John can’t get his fucking mind off of you. The number of times he has had his way with you in his head was too many to count on two hands. Does he feel bad about it?
Yeah.
Did he want to stop? No.
He oh so desperately wanted to see what was lurking underneath your clothing. He hasn’t felt this way in a long time.
John was a total slut, don’t get me wrong. A few times a week he’d have different women over. Some were regular hookups, and some were random girls he picked up at the bar or club. If he wasn’t doing a contract, he was definitely balls-deep in some random chick on his couch.
That was just life though. At least for John.
He used to be a romantic, date nights, flowers, gentleman type acts. But now, well, you know already.
John sighed and decided to double-text.
Of course a man his age wouldn’t understand the almost taboo nature of the double text. A rookie mistake some would call it, others would think it’s stupid to look into it that much.
John: u wanna have some drinks with me tonight?
-
You’re still shocked that John called you a girl boss over text. You’re still staring at your screen, bewildered at the thought.
A girl boss?
No way. Absolutely not, those chicks were always pyramid scheme fanatics that would reach out to you over Facebook to convince you to join their cult company.
That wasn’t you! You were a hard ass. You ran your crew well and knew what you were doing at all times.
But you were a woman.
And a boss.
Oh fuck.
You and the few employees in the truck hop on out. You had driven from that pier back to your warehouse headquarters. This is where the magic happened.
Right on the outskirts of Brooklyn, your enterprise came out of this warehouse. Filled with fast and reliable motorcycles and other expensive toys. There were a few women who were scurrying around to get some deliveries finished before the end of the night. You notice that one of your assistants decided to change the music on the stereo system.
The same assistant, Marissa, hurried over to you, took your bag, and handed you a coconut Redbull. You mumbled the lyrics to an Ice Spice song that was blaring in the warehouse.
The realization hits.
You look up, looking Marissa dead in the face.
“Please. Be real with me.” you speak to her, and she awaits your question. You take a deep breath. It’s the moment of truth. “Am I a girl boss?”
Silence breaks out in the warehouse. Everyone dropped what they were doing to wait to see what your personal assistant would have to say to that. The only thing being heard now is that Ice Spice song.
Oh god. That wasn’t a good sign.
Marissa pressed her lips together, her green eyes shifting around the warehouse.
“I mean, technically speaking, I suppose someone could call you that, you’re not cringe though!” Marissa assured you. Your breath hitched, and your heart felt like it stopped.
How embarrassing.
You swallow your pride in, nod, and shove your hands into your big overall pockets.
“Alright. Alright. Cool.” You nod, pulling your phone out and walking away from the main action, everyone went back to work as if they didn't just eavesdrop on that conversation.
What a fucking question that was.
You look at the last text John sent you and are surprised to see that he asked to have drinks.
You pause, staring at the text message. You know John doesn’t understand the concept of double texting, he was like, 45, or something. Poor guy didn't know any better. You sigh.
“Is Wickathan bothering you again?” your assistant Marissa asked, chuckling over the nickname you made for John.
“He wants to have drinks tonight, but look at me. I would rather smash my head into some bricks than go out tonight, I’m exhausted.” You groan, the feeling of disappointing John hits you right in the chest.
Why are you so worked up about him, bitch?! You ask yourself. You’re too hot to stress yourself out about this.
Marissa gives you a grin.
“Well then invite him here.” Marissa provides an idea for you. You raise your eyebrows, and nod affirmatively.
“I don’t know what I’d do without you.” You tell her, flashing her a grin and quickly texting John back.
Y/N: you wanna just have drinks at HQ?
You liked calling your work headquarters, or HQ to shorten it up. Really made you sound like a secret spy with a base.
Well, you weren’t a spy but it was a base.
Sometimes you forget that you’re running an entire criminal enterprise, the Ice Spice blasting at your self proclaimed headquarters wasn’t helping.
-
John can only imagine what this headquarters looks like, and is quite intrigued by the idea of having drinks with you there. Now that he’s planning on seeing you tonight, there’s a bad feeling in his stomach.
Does he feel bad about seeing an escort right before meeting up with you? That can’t be it. Can it?
Dammit, John. You’re a bachelor, you can’t be falling for some girl because she’s pretty and powerful. He cursed at himself internally.
His eyes glaze over his reflection in the mirror as he ices his shoulder, which was hit pretty bad by some asshole with a golf club during a job yesterday. It left a very purple bruise and was sore as hell.
He wondered if there was an appeal to his battle scars all over his body. There probably was, right? Whenever he was shirtless in front of a lady, her attention would immediately focus on all of his tattoos and marks on his flesh. Of course, they were stories from a younger and less experienced John.
Sometimes it would even scare them off entirely. But if they got past the tatted-up back and several scars, you could get a glimpse at his toned body. John's not a bodybuilder material by any means, he was lean and in shape, the ideal size for a professional killer.
He was perfect for the job.
John’s mind is racing, he knows you’re dangerous. You built an entire empire in a mere three years, people would kill for your skill and position on the food chain.
It kind of turned him on.
Especially ever since he found your business page, where all of the information for clients was readily available.
John noticed an "As Seen on Tv!" tab on the professional-looking website, he clicked on it out of pure curiosity. He didn’t know what to expect.
It was a YouTube video of a compilation of CCTV footage, showing various car and motorcycle chases. They were cut and spliced into a well edited video that had Industry Baby by Lil Nas X playing in the background.
That couldn’t be you, could it?
Oh, it was. You and various people in your crew who also did deliveries for your company.
John could tell from your figure whenever it was you on screen, and he was particularly shocked from seeing GoPro footage of you.
He sees you jumping out of the window from one moving car to the hood of another, shooting at the driver through the windshield, killing him instantly. Of course, as soon as the bullet was fired from the barrel of your gun, whoever edited the video censored it. John could still see the blurred-out figure slump to the side but was obvious that he was dead. You had even climbed through the shattered glass and took over the driving, shoving the corpse off of the seat as if it were a regular work day.
You and your crew obviously knew what you were doing, that was a fact. Ruthless, violent, and skilled, a dangerous combination for anyone. John noticed that you seemed to be more precise, the difference between you and your other employees was noticeably significant. They were still very impressive nonetheless.
As skilled as you were, you were still an amateur compared to John. He figured you most likely excelled at combat on the road but in a regular circumstance? You probably weren’t as efficient or deadly.
He was right.
“Fucking hell,” John mumbled to himself, it wasn’t anything new to him, but seeing this as an advertisement for their business of a website was… something. That’s for sure.
It was like watching a bunch of kids goofing around and getting it all on tape. Well, that was exactly what it was. A bunch of young women on the screen, and swap out the word goofing with maybe, rampaging?
His eyes were glued to his screen as he watched the video boasting their skill set, even showing a worker and you drifting your expensive bikes down the highway.
And now John's in his car watching the video once again in the parking lot of the warehouse that Y/N had invited him to.
John was pleasantly surprised that this young crime lord had invited him to her home base after only meeting him once.
Well, technically twice.
John hadn’t bothered with his work attire, he had thrown on a pair of nice jeans and a long sleeve black shirt. He even went the extra mile to put on cologne and touched up his beard.
John sighed and exited his car, locking up and sauntering towards the large industrial looking warehouse.
He could hear a plethora of noises from the building, the big garage door was open, and he raised his eyebrows at the image of dozens of women doing advanced mechanical work on modified bikes, or even riding off on said bikes.
John wasn’t sure what to expect but it sure as hell wasn’t this.
Especially with the Latin girl pop that was blaring from the very impressive stereo set up.
Your chop shop was clean, organized, and busy. Extremely busy. John had been squeezed past by about 7 women already who were hard at work.
It was clear that John was a fish out of water, he was quite literally the only man in this warehouse. He wasn’t sure if he liked that or not.
What’s the opposite of a sausage fest? John asked himself.
But where were you? John narrowed his eyes and did his best to find you, which happened to be squatting near a motorcycle that was suffering from some serious curb rash, which you were attempting to fix.
It was a sight that was a complete 180 from the other day at the cocktail party. Compared to the long and elegant black dress, you were now in a crop top and some denim overalls, that looked like it had seen better days.
John had to admit, it was pretty cute. He was used to only flirting and going out with women who were refined, and classy. That's what you displayed the other night.
But after seeing those clips of you online, and seeing you here, he knew that was all a front.
You were feminine for sure, however, you obviously had a masculine energy to your personality. John wasn’t used to that, it was really refreshing.
Before John could, one of your workers had hurried over to you.
“You think I should go hybrid or classic?” One of your modification technicians asked, her name was Marie, and she had worked for you for the past 2 years. You looked up, checking out the pictures on her phone she showed you.
This was a difficult decision. Lashes make or break a woman. The choice of a lifetime really.
“Hybrid, you’ll serve cunt with hybrid for sure.” You answer, and the two of you laugh at the ridiculous statement you just said.
Your attention turned to John, who was about 20 feet behind Marie, who was also trying not to laugh.
“Serving cunt? Do I even want to know?”
That was the first thing John had said to you today. You bursted out laughing, trying your best to contain it. It didn’t work. Marie turned around, and her blue eyes widened at the mere sight of John.
He was intimidating by nature, tall, dark, and mysterious. Now add in his deadly reputation, he could make anyone’s skin crawl with just a glance.
“Holy fuck, you didn’t tell me that Wickathan was coming.” Marie blurted, immediately covering her mouth afterward. Your eyes bulged at her, that name was meant to be an inside joke between everyone in your crew.
Dammit, Marie.
“Oh my god, bitch!” You stage whispered, smacking Marie on her shoulder in disappointment.
Did John hear that right?
“Wickathan?” John repeated, stepping up towards you and your current project. The man was a force to be reckoned with, he towered over you, especially now that you weren’t wearing heels. “Did you come up with that yourself?” He asked. It suddenly became hot in the room, caused by his husky voice that was directed towards you.
You forgot that you had just been staring at him for the past ten seconds, with awkward silence swirling between the two of you. Oof.
“Oh, uh, yeah. I thought it was funny,” you admitted. “I bet the Boogeyman gets fucking old, huh?” you asked, using a mocking tone on the nickname.
John respected your bold attitude.
You could see the way John was looking at you, despite you being a mess from working on bikes all day. His brown eyes trailed up your body and he smiled at seeing you without anything fancy on. He could get used to this.
A woman of many talents? Sign him up.
I might not be a bachelor for long, I better be careful. John thought to himself, smiling down at you.
“Come on, squirt. Let’s have that drink.” John teased, and your face starts to pinken.
Squirt?! What the fuck? You think, stepping from behind the bike, arms crossed while glaring at the menace of a hitman.
“Hey hey, I’m no squirt. What the-"
John interjects by grabbing you by the waist, physically picking you up, and holding you up in the air. You shout at him, and he’s chuckling devilishly at the sight.
Jesus Christ, in front of everyone? I’m their boss! This looks terrible! You’re internally panicking.
“Hey!” You exclaim, attempting to wiggle out of his death grip.
“Oh yeah, you’re a total squirt.” John teased, setting you back down and ruffling your already disheveled head of hair. Your cheeks are beet red, and you grab his forearm and tug him behind you to your private office.
You were a crime boss for fucks sake, is John out of his mind?
John’s laughing at the sight of your much smaller frame guiding him by hand to your office, in fact, he was getting a little excited over it.
Excited would be the understatement of a lifetime.
The sight of your smaller feminine frame compared to his towering large body made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. John shut the door to her office behind him, listening to you sigh and grab two beers out of her fridge.
Interesting. Beer fridge in the office. Respect. John notes.
You handed him a beer but your eyes went straight to his face, on further inspection you noticed a healing black eye and a few new scrapes. Those weren’t there a few days ago. You furrow your eyebrows at him.
There was no way he finished a contract that quickly between seeing you then and now, right?
“Hey, what the hell happened to you?” You ask him, walking closer to him and grazing your dainty fingers over his new wounds. John felt a lump form in his throat.
Oh sweet baby Jesus, she’s so close to me again. Shit! Shit! He’s thinking to himself. John chuckled in an attempt to cover his flustered nature.
“Oh you know, just work. Typical Wednesday for me,” he tells you, he can barely think straight since you’re standing so close to him. You’re wearing that same perfume that you wore when you saw him last, however, it’s overcast by the smell of exhaust and rubber, probably from working in this warehouse all day. “Nothing crazy.”
You rolled your eyes at him and went to go sit on your couch.
“Uh-huh. Who was it this time?” you asked John as he sits fairly close to you on the sofa. Just close enough for his leg to graze your thigh.
John knew exactly what he was doing. A classic playboy tactic, but why did he get this feeling he didn’t want to just hit it and quit it?
John cracked the beer open and read the label. PBR? Unexpected, alright. He couldn’t be mad at that. He took a long sip. Fantastic.
“Ah, some guy that pissed some Cartel member off. The usual.” John sighed, playing back into the couch, stretching his left arm out and laying it on the sofa, coincidentally right behind where you were sitting.
Coincidentally.
This is when John noticed that your couch was purple and velvet. That was some taste you had there. He scanned the room, it was obvious that whoever had this office was a woman in her 20s.
So, you, clearly.
John was shocked that this incredibly feminine office belonged to a crime boss, but he has seen weirder things. But he did have to admit, the office was quite eclectic. Bohemian? What was the word for it? Well, it was something.
“So, how’s work for you? You guys seem awfully busy out there.” John commented as you opened your own beer, his eyes trailing down your body again.
Oh boy. You notice his chest puffing out ever so slightly, god, he was the real deal.
Don’t show weakness, he’s expecting you to fold! Absolutely fucking not! you reaffirm to yourself.
“Pretty good actually. We’re gonna have to do a plate swap on all of the bikes soon though.” You explained, your eyes never leaving his chiseled face.
Shit.
He’s fine as hell.
You stop yourself, you were talking about work. Details about work. Well, not the nitty gritty but, wait a minute.
“Oh? How do you go about that?” John asked, flashing one of those mischievous smirks that he was giving you the other night.
The worst part about it? It fucking worked. His stupid attractive face, those dumb strong hands, his fucking hair that was perfectly styled backward.
He knew it too.
The question he gave you threw you off though. He wants more details on how work is. You raise your eyebrows as your brain goes into panic mode, almost like it’s wired to sense danger or threats.
John can sense that your whole demeanor has changed, long gone was the spunky girl from a minute ago. You were a whole other creature now as you analyzed him, what did he want? Why was he asking questions about your work?
You set your beer down on a side table and sigh.
God dammit.
Whatever, hopefully this would work. Your legs stretch over him until suddenly you’re straddling his lap. John has to cover his mouth to prevent beer from spitting out of his lips, just from pure shock.
“H-hey!” John exclaimed, the feeling of your bottom on his lap and thighs was almost heavenly. Was this seriously happening right now?
You take your hands and wiggle them up his black long-sleeve shirt, in a frantic search for any sort of wires, recording devices, anything really.
But to John, he’s only seeing the attractive young woman feeling him up, her small hands grazing over his lean and muscular torso. They travel to his sides, and then up and down his back, unknowingly tracing over skin that’s covered in tattoos.
Your fingers are making John melt, plus, here you were, only inches from his face. He can’t stop looking at your lips as you’re determined to find anything that would be used to record a conversation.
You’ve lasted this long and built your empire because you were clever, ruthless, but more importantly, cautious.
And here you were, feeling up John fucking Wick to see if he was bugged or not. The most lethal man in the world is centimeters away from you, his hot exhales sticking to your face and neck like sweat.
John can feel his cock grow to the sensation of you straddling him and searching around his body.
John’s heart is pounding, you sigh and take your hands out from underneath his shirt.
Alright, hair it is.
So now, like the little shithead you are, you sit up slightly to dig your fingers through his head of long black locks. Of course, your chest is at eye level with his face, even almost touching it.
“Y/N, w-what are you doing?” John laughed nervously, he wasn’t sure why he was nervous, and his hands were already advancing to your thighs and hips.
What if I just fucked her right here and now on this couch? What I would do to make her scream my name, shit, I want her to ride my cock so bad that she aches for me the next day. John’s mind is screaming with this and other absolutely filthy images.
“Looking for a bug! You keep asking me questions about my job! That is such a federal ass thing to do…” you explain hastily. John’s heart drops. You don’t even notice his hands gripping hard on your hips until he slams you down onto his lap again, snapping you out of your persistent state.
All you can feel pressing up against you is his rock-hard dick.
Oh shit. I’m an idiot.
“You sure do know how to get a man worked up, you know that?” John hisses out. His hand latched onto your small neck, giving it a stern squeeze, you’re too in the moment to even try to move it. He flips you off of his lap, and stands up from the couch, readjusting his clothing and his long hair.
“I’m, uh, going to use the bathroom. Alright?” John asked, you nod, not even putting two and two together since you were so stunned by that move.
Fuck, he sure knows how to manhandle a girl, huh? You silently ask yourself as he quickly leaves the office.
John had to take a few deep breaths once he left the room and shut the door.
“Fuck,” he whispered, all of his instincts are going wild right now. John finds the nearest bathroom in this large warehouse, and locks the door behind him.
If he stayed in that room for another second, he would have absolutely ruined you. John knows damn well you’re no innocent angel, that doesn’t stop him from viewing you as one. As ruthless and dangerous of a woman as you are, he has made up this false sense of purity surrounding your very aura.
John wastes no time in unbuckling his belt and pants, grabbing his thick shaft out of his boxer briefs, and begins to tug. One of the hands that has brought wrath upon so many, now gripping his cock and attempting to relieve himself in a timely manner so he doesn’t raise Y/N's suspicions.
God, she’s way too young for you dude. You shouldn’t be doing this. I bet she’s so tight and wet, oh fuck. John’s mind is racing to the possibilities of what could happen in this bathroom if Y/N was in here with him.
He’s imagining grabbing you by your tiny throat and slamming you against this wall, ripping those overalls off, and throwing them on the floor. He’s so strong that he could lift her up by her thighs against the wall, spread her legs, and thrust right into her tight little cunt.
John’s breath is staggering as he tries to make his grunts and moans as subtle as possible while he pictures himself plowing into you. He’d be torn between being a generous lover or a selfish one.
On one hand, he’s starting to develop feelings for you, his heart flutters when he thinks of your laugh. The way your nose crunches whenever you smile, or the weird slang you use whenever you talk to him.
With all of his hookups after his wife, he never cared too much about making the other women feel good, but he would always succeed.
John was just that good in bed.
You were the exception.
In the very short time he’s had to get to know you, he was starting to catch feelings, and he’s scared of it.
So instead, he's thinking of devouring your pussy and making you cum over, and over again before using you as a hole.
The mere thought of it is enough for John’s knees to tremble as he climaxes, gripping the sink for dear life. He ejaculates into his own hand, his chest rising and falling at a rapid rate, and he met his own reflection in the bathroom mirror.
The mirror shows a half nude John, breathing rapidly, cock in hand, with beads of salty sweat trickling down his damp skin.
Post-nut clarity is hitting in 3, 2, ah. There it is.
John’s mortified at who he sees in front of him, and he cleans up as fast as he possibly can.
What the actual fuck is wrong with me? Am I this much of a perv? Holy shit! John’s internally screaming, zipping up his pants and clearing his throat.
The thought of doing any of those acts with a woman as young as you is, tempting, to say the least.
John closed his eyes and took a deep breath and opened the bathroom door.
He had a drink to finish with you, and he’s praying you didn’t notice how long he was gone.
155 notes · View notes
ruskaroma · 1 year
Text
ordinary, corrupt human love. | chapter 1: written in blood.
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Warnings: this series will include highly disturbing/dark topics such as stalking, unhealthy obsession, graphic descriptions of violence, blood and gore, manipulation, gaslighting, large age gap, emotional/psychological abuse, dom/sub undertones, bad BDSM etiquette, etc.
this is a dark fic, written in john's pov and a glimpse of how his mind works. if you still continue to read and get triggered, that is not my responsibility.
Summary: John finds himself a new obsession.
Author's note: this is my first ever fanfic for this fandom and i am beyond excited to share this with you guys! though i must say before you begin, english is not my first language and there might be a few errors in my writing here and there, so i apologize in advance.
but either way, i still hope you enjoy this piece, and i can assure you that once i finish writing this series there will be more to come! i really enjoy writing john wick be a merciless bastard who kills everything that breathes, and i hope you enjoy it too as much as i did.
please, please, PLEASE tell me what you think in the comment and reblogs and likes would be so appreciated. it motivates me to write even more :)
(also this is not edited so all mistakes are on me and i apologize)
Word count: 8.1k
also read on ao3.
It’s one of those days again.
The sound of his watch ticking is the only thing keeping his car from being too quiet. His eyes watch every single movement of his target, never leaving his sight. It won’t be too long for John to finally strike, he just doesn’t want too many civilians seeing the horror that’s about to happen right before their very eyes.
His mind is thinking of many things he could do with this target in particular. A lowlife thug that got himself involved with a very dangerous Italian mob, but then again that’s not the reason why John’s murderous intent is at its peak at the moment.
He’s angry at something, he just doesn’t know what. And this target of his isn’t helping his situation at all. Reading his criminal record made John think this could be a chance to cure his boredom. This man is not only a sex trafficker, but also a pedophile who has a history of targeting teenagers to rape and sell to the black market that’s as fucked up as him.
He doesn’t normally take his time thinking of ways to kill his targets. He points, shoots, leaves. This one in particular though, got him facing a side of him that John himself doesn’t want to face.
He would start by breaking every single one of the man’s fingers. And if that doesn’t do any justice, he’ll cut them off.
One by one, let the man savor the feeling, let John relish the nightmare.
He could slit the man’s throat, watch as life drains away from his body, watch as the man clings to his legs for mercy. John could even pull out the man’s dick, step on it, fucking cut it off and shove it so far down his own throat that he couldn’t scream for help if he tried.
It’s John’s version of Colombian Necktie. A classic, only ever tried it out four times, hopefully this would be the fifth.
John is never the one to take pleasure in killing people, but these past few months have proved him otherwise.
Maybe it’s because of Helen’s death, and the way he was basically forced to sculpt the demons he buried back into himself. His only remaining bit of humanity was taken from him, and he’s coping in the most unhealthy way possible. Perhaps Winston was right about dipping his pinky a little too much into the pond, but it was inevitable.
John has gone back to his old ways. Taking contracts here and there to distract himself from the void in his heart. He remembers how burying a knife into someone’s throat for the first time in many years has ignited something in him he didn’t even know he had.
That’s why he’s here, exiting his car in a swift move, following his target as quietly as possible into a narrow alleyway that stinks of garbage in piss. This would be a nice place to kill a guy like him – right where he belongs.
John’s movements are so discreet the man couldn’t even sense him until John wrapped his right arm around his neck and his other hand went to cover the man’s mouth. He walks them both to the back of a building as the man struggles, where John’s sure no more people are present, and he kicks him on the jaw to stop the man from making any more noises.
John can make this quick. Pull out his gun and blow his brains out. But there’s that sinister glint in his mind that’s telling him to do something unimaginable – grotesque even – a death a man like him deserves.
The man tries to swing his arm at John but misses pathetically. The poor guy’s already shaking and John hasn’t even begun.
John doesn’t respond to the pitiful attempts of questioning who he is and who sent him here, he simply pulls his knife from his pocket and wastes no time slashing it against the man’s throat, the blood spraying all over his face. The man tries to stop it by shakily covering the deep cut with his hand, but it’s useless.
He’s gargling, choking on his own blood, and John’s watching it all unravel with a familiar glint in his eyes.
John is contemplating if he should follow the plan he made in his head or just leave it like this. Somehow, the sight looks rather incomplete to him. He knows what he’s done is not enough, but that could be just the rage talking. The man’s already dead, and surely cutting off his dick and shoving it so far down his throat it comes out of the wound would leave an ugly reputation on his name. 
Would that be a good thing? John is already feared enough, would it be a good thing to make people fear him even more? But then again, this won’t be the first time he’s done it. Doing it again one more time wouldn’t make any difference.
He glances down at the dead body on his feet before he kneels down to do the unforgivable.
Slicing off a man’s cock is easy. Too easy. John’s knife is perfectly sharpened and stoned, he merely uses any strength to cut it off. The sight is so fucking ugly, too much blood, but nothing he can’t handle.
Once that’s done, John uses his other hand to force the dead man’s jaw open, immediately greeted by the foul stench of blood as he shoves the unpleasant dick into the man’s open mouth. The genitalia is definitely not long enough to reach the throat, but that won’t be any problem for John.
He grits his teeth as he forces his hand in there, not bothering to care even if the jaw breaks and the hole becomes even wider, his goal is the only thing in his mind.
The blood continues to drip and he has never been so grateful for wearing an all black uniform for this occasion. Soon enough, after a few minutes of such a brutal wrongdoing, John sees the tip of the cock reaching the deep wound on the man’s throat as it continues to peak its way out.
A sick, small smile spreads across John’s face. The smile is barely there, but he’s fucking enjoying this more than he’d like to admit. He can only imagine how the news would spread across the assassin underworld like a wildfire.
The Boogeyman’s back in business and he’s scarier than ever.
Perhaps this might be the way to lay his point across. This is a way to show them that it was not a good idea pissing him off, killing what’s his, and bringing him back in business. They’d regret it, but it would be already too late for that.
John uses his other hand to pull the cock right out of the man’s throat but not completely. Half of it is hanging out and John thinks he could even consider this as a masterpiece. There’d be flies and maggots that would make the scenery better, but the cleaning service is there for a reason. He can’t just not use it.
John stands up from his position, pocketing his knife back into his pocket before retrieving his phone with the other. He dials a number, waits for them to pick up, all while admiring his work on the ground.
His previous contracts these past few months all ended in such an unimaginable, ugly way. He figured that by showing them that he’s capable of such brutality, it would increase the numbers of people calling him in for more jobs, because this is exactly what they wanted. They wanted Baba Yaga, the ruthless killer of the underworld who stops at nothing to finish his job, and he’s simply giving it to them.
Someone picks up the call and he straightens his posture, checking the time on his watch before speaking.
“This is Wick. John Wick, yes. I would like to make a dinner reservation for one.”
The news spread faster than anticipated.
The notorious man John Wick, the hot topic of the criminal underworld at the moment, even gained the attention of The High Table, and it all happened in the span of one day. That’s how quick the news spread amongst his fellow assassins, though that’s exactly what he was going for.
John expected it so he isn’t surprised when he receives a call from Charon saying Winston wants to meet him.
He inserts a coin in the door and the small window opened briefly. The guy on the other side immediately recognized him, not wasting a single moment to open the door and let the man of the hour in. All eyes are on him the moment he steps into the club, but no one dared to murmur anything to anybody – not when the man himself is here.
They know better.
John spots Winston at his usual spot drinking his usual order, signaling John to sit beside him where a glass of bourbon is already present. 
“Jonathan,” Winston greets, raising his glass. “We have a lot to talk about, don’t we?”
“I figured,” John replies, though not interested. He slides himself to the booth and takes a sip of his own drink. “I don’t understand why though.”
“Are we really playing this game, Jonathan?” The manager raises a brow. 
“I was just doing my job.”
“In a way you don’t normally do,” Winston then adds. “Or should I say, in a way you don’t even do.”
John gives him a look, but he could tell Winston doesn’t know how to interpret it. His face remains emotionless, not letting the mask slip and grant Winston the privilege to take a peak. John will continue to play this game until he’s satisfied, until he feels something again. Surely he’ll find what he’s looking for while doing the only thing he’s ever good at – slaughtering.
“Let’s just say I was trying out a new technique,” John says, voice deep and almost sinister. Winston’s scared, though he doesn’t show it, John knows. 
“I have known you ever since you started, Jonathan. Not once did it cross my mind you would do something so.. horrifying as this. You discarded the body like he was some sort of pig, so believe me when I say I couldn’t believe it at first.”
John has no idea why Winston’s whining about him being horrifying, when that’s all they’ve been saying about him ever since he joined. He didn’t gain this reputation for no reason, now he’s just simply showing them what more he’s capable of.
“You should’ve seen his record.” His tone is menacing, swirling the drink in his hand as he stares deeply at Winston’s eyes. “He’s worse than a pig.”
The drop of the curse word takes Winston by surprise. “So is that what it is, then? You killed him that way because you think he deserved it?”
“Not really,” John simply sighs, leaning back on the leather seat as he takes another sip of his bourbon. He really isn’t planning on staying longer, but Winston seems to be taking his sweet time asking him a bunch of stupid questions. “I couldn’t care less of what he’s done. I was simply… bored. Saying that I did that because I think he deserved it gives people a reason to think that what I did was justifiable.”
The look on Winston’s face says enough. He’s afraid of John, afraid of what he has become. Hearing John say he did such an unforgiving thing just because he was bored is beyond frightening. No man has ever inflicted so much fear on him before – at least not until John.
“I think we’re done for tonight,” Winston finally says, not wanting to hear any more disturbing thoughts of John, but he remains polite and calm for the sake of their friendship. “You have a good night, Jonathan.”
John gives him a nod, standing up from his seat and downing his drink in one go. “Goodnight, Winston.”
He exits the club with an eerie aura following behind him, not caring about the way people are looking at him like he’s got Death himself walking beside him.
It makes him wonder that maybe death doesn’t follow him after all.
Maybe it is him.
Someone offered him five million to fuck up a man who allegedly stole a fuck ton of kilograms of cocaine from their warehouse, and really, who is John to decline the offer?
Hunting the man is easy. It didn’t even take a day to locate where the man lives, and John’s already breaking into his apartment to shoot the guy and leave. There’s no point in rummaging the place for the cocaine, all of it is already up the man’s system by the looks of it, and killing him is John’s job.
John wants to finish this one fast, he’s got other business to attend to. As he backs up the frightened, pathetic excuse for a man against the wall, he takes his gun out of his holster and aims directly at the head, right between the eyes, and he watches in great pleasure as the residue of his brains splatter against the walls and the floor.
This man didn’t even put up a fight. John thinks this is a waste of time.
He exits the apartment with disappointment heavy on his shoulders, slamming the door shut. Although the gun he used has a silencer, the rooms are too close to each other. He’s sure there might be other people who heard the shot of his firearm.
The apartment building is located at the filthy side of New York, where most known drug dealers and junkies do their nasty deals. It’s no surprise that as soon as John steps a foot out of the worn out building, all eyes are on him, but mainly on the clothes he’s wearing. They’re planning on mugging him out, and John would like to see them try.
Just as he’s about to walk to his car, his phone rings abruptly in his chest pocket. He retrieves it in one swift motion, not noticing that a gold coin fell out as he does so, and he continues walking to not waste any more time.
“Sir! Excuse me, sir, you dropped something!” John hears from behind. He doesn’t bother looking.
The call isn’t nearly as important as the business he needs to attend to, so he hangs up the call and pushes his phone back into his pocket. As soon as he does that, he feels a small hand touching his shoulder.
John’s hand immediately flies to wrap his large hand around the person’s wrist, turning around to see a young woman with a bewildered expression on her pretty face, little fingers holding his golden coin that looks far too big on her hand.
She looks scared, terrified, and oh how fucking awful that makes John feel. Like he’s been punched right in the fucking gut. He’s enthralled.
“I wasn’t–you dropped it and I’m just giving it to you, I promise!”
She’s looking at John with big, doe eyes. She also looks freshly showered, wrapped in a black puffy jacket that makes her even smaller than she already is. John lets his eyes linger on her lips, so plump and glossy. Her voice sounds sweet, soft, something John isn’t used to hearing.
John can’t help but to stare.
“Are you–are you gonna let me go, mister?”
The way she stutters triggers a hot feeling in John’s guts, and can’t help but to rub his thumb on the girl’s dainty wrist before slowly letting her go.
So delicate, he could snap them in half.
“Sorry,” John apologizes, taking the coin from her hold, and his fingers itch at the way her skin feels so soft against his rough hands. “Force of habit.”
“It’s okay,” she smiles a little, and there goes that hot curl in John’s stomach once again. “That thing looks expensive so be careful next time.”
Just like that, John doesn’t get the chance to reply back. She makes her leave and patters away from him, and he watches. He watches until she’s out of the view, taking a turn to a corner, leaving John with something he can’t quite figure out yet, but he soon will be.
For the first time in a while, he feels something new.
Suddenly, everything is too good to be true.
John will find himself staring at his hands for too long, still feeling the ghost of her soft skin on his fingers, fantasizing about her pretty face and soft, plump lips.
It’s scary for him to feel something again because that only means destruction. John likes to believe he has a gift of ruining everything he touches, especially the pure ones – like her. It’s a proven statement. Just look at Helen and Daisy.
This little one won’t be any different, he’s sure of it. John’s whole body is heating up everytime he thinks about her. The look on her face when she saw John’s chilling expression, her wide eyes, so glossy and innocent.
John wants to see her again.
His fingers itch, yearning to touch her again. 
Why he’s suddenly interested in a young woman he just met a few days ago, he has no idea. John’s a bit confusing – fucked up, even. He long accepted the fact that his mind is nowhere near healthy years ago. He tried to push those thoughts away when he met Helen, but now he’s out of his shell and back in business, there’s no need to.
He’s always been one of the wolves, and now that he’s laid his eyes on his next meal, he will make sure there’s not a single thing that will get in his way to hunt her down.
He had a crisis for two days before doing the unexpected. It didn’t take long for John to find her. 
Now, John has been following her around for a week, and he noticed a certain pattern his little one likes to follow as she goes on her day.
The very place where they met is where she lives, surrounded by a bunch of goons who have no idea what to do with their lives. John begins to wonder why she’s living in a place like that. He could take her, put her somewhere safe, under his care and protection. Make sure no one will dare to lay a finger on her.
John knows where she works. At a veterinary clinic not too far from her apartment, which is why she walks to work every three in the afternoon, but not without stopping by in her favorite deli and getting a large order of her favorite sandwich. She’s a part-timer. She’d be at school from seven to twelve, and at work from three to eight.
John finds the little things she does amusing. He’d be seated in a cafe right across from her work, watching how she moves around her office through a big window, petting and cooing at the animals who come and go.
She’s so perfect, so pure, so naive. She has no idea that a monster is lurking ten feet away from her, watching her every move like a hawk, thinking about the ways he could destroy her, make her his.
John is not delusional. He’s fully aware of what he’s doing and he’s aware of what people might call him. 
Stalker.
Creep.
They don’t know him though. They don’t know why he acts this way. They��d do the same if they were him, that’s for sure. He’s not the bad guy here, he’s simply just protecting her little one, even from afar. John went as far as destroying a whole Russian Bratva for a mere puppy and a car, he’d do even worse if she’s somehow taken away from him.
John sees her exiting the building and his first thought is to follow her. He stands up from his seat, the cup of coffee long forgotten as he makes his way out of the café and keeps a safe distance between the two of them. It’s risky, especially in the broad daylight, but John knows she’s too oblivious to notice.
She’s with her friends this time, and it doesn’t go unnoticed by John how she clings at the shirt of her co-worker as they cross the street, small hands fisting at the fabric. He thinks about how he won’t ever let go of her hand once she’s his. He’s not big on physical affection, having to grow up with no parents and a rather strict orphanage, but maybe he could be gentle. Engulf her hand in his, stroke it with his thumb, tuck her hair behind her ears, show everyone that she’s already owned.
They wouldn’t dare to lay their hands on her again.
John walks in the middle of the sidewalk, not bothering to move away despite seeing people approaching. He doesn’t need to, the look in his face is enough for people to give him the way. It’s interrupted however, when someone does try to get in his way, placing a hand on his chest and pushing him back a little.
John clenches his jaw, pissed. He takes his eyes from his little one and on the person who so rudely interrupted what he’s doing – it’s Marcus.
“John? I was just looking for you at the Continental.” Marcus has a small smile on his face, clearly not aware of John’s expression.
His eyes dart behind Marcus, where his little one is supposed to be, but she’s gone. John feels something curl in his stomach, his fingers itching again, eyes rapidly searching for her in the sea of people.
He looks at Marcus again, deciding he’ll just find her later, but he worries that something might happen to her now that John’s attention isn’t on her.
“Why?” he almost snaps, voice deep and laced with no emotion.
“Why? Because it’s been quite some time, John. I haven’t heard from you since the Iosef situation, but I did hear you’re back in business,” Marcus replies, but when he sees how distracted John looks, his voice falters. “You working?”
“Yeah.” The lie comes off smoothly. “I’ll see you around.”
John taps Marcus’ shoulder, trying to sound as polite as possible even though he badly wants to break a couple of his teeth for taking his attention away from her. He knows Marcus is probably noticing something, but John’s never the one to care.
Marcus drops the subject. “Alright, John. I’ll see you around.”
With that, John disappears in the crowd with no looking back.
It’s been awhile since John last took a job.
He can’t seem to take his eyes away from his little one. He can’t stop fucking stalking her from morning to night time.
John’s afraid that once he takes his attention from her even for a second, something bad might happen to her. It’s engraved in his mind that she can’t protect herself and he’s solely there to be the protector.
No one would understand. He’s doing this for her own good.
John’s absence at the Continental doesn’t go unnoticed by Winston and Charon. They’re his favorite, after all. Watch his every move carefully ever since that ugly murder John did. Perhaps he could make his next kill even uglier. To them, it’s vile and grotesque. For John, it’s special and unique.
This time, it took a good self-beating before John decided to take a contract. Three million to hunt down a rival crime lord, nothing he can’t handle, but somehow it brings an unusual feeling on his shoulder he isn’t fond of. Perhaps because John’s leaving his little one for a while and he isn’t quite sure what to feel. Worried and pissed – but mostly worried.
That is why he hired someone to trail his little one on his behalf. Everyone in business would do anything for a coin despite how fucked up disturbing it is. John offered a generous amount of coins to keep the assassin’s mouth shut, but he also held him at gunpoint and gave him a good talk before he sent the dog out in the field.
His only job is to keep an eye on her, report everything he’ll see to John, and maybe even take pictures for safety purposes.
John has been overseas in the last three days, and everything that’s been sent to him has been his only form of entertainment. There’s videos of her giggling with her friends, videos and photos of her in the library, outside her school, her work, and even in her apartment. There’s also information sent to him about the background of her friends – every single one of them, because John didn’t pay so much for nothing.
There’s one particular friend that ticks off John in all the worst way possible. He’s young, around her age, and the way he hugs and touches her just fucking sets him off. John wants to break his fingers in half. He reminds himself that once he’s home, he’ll make sure to take care of that boy himself.
“What else have you got?” John questions through the phone, and it doesn’t take long for his precious dog to respond.
“Oh, he is one creepy motherfucker. I’m starting to understand why you’re so riled up with this guy, boss. The urge to strangle him every time he gets in the picture gets stronger and stronger everyday.” He hears a laugh at the other end. The guy that’s working for him – Alex, if he remembers correctly – is young, new in business, knows not to fuck with John so he keeps his job adequate. If Alex ever notice how fucked up John is for making him follow a young woman to keep his life in order, he doesn’t say anything about it. “Just tell me when I can shoot this guy and I’ll do it in a heartbeat.”
“Leave him. Keep an eye on him, but don’t kill him,” John advises, his tone leaving no room for discussion. “I’ll handle him myself when I get back. For the meantime, focus on Y/N and keep any troubles out of her way. Fail that task and I’d serve your head hot on a platter.”
“You got it, boss.”
John is playing nicely.
He’s not going to force his way into her life. He’s gonna be welcomed, with open arms, desired.
There are times he’d thought about giving in to his desperation and act with his dick instead of his head. There are times he’d thought about following her to a dark street, where no one’s around, he’s on the prowl and ready to pounce. He’d put a fabric against her mouth and nose, laced with enough chemicals to make her pass out and for him to carry her in his car with no problems whatsoever. John thinks about how he’d make it look like he’s just picking up his very drunk and passed out girlfriend and no one would know a goddamn thing.
John would keep her in his house where she won’t need anything but him. 
But of course, he’s not that cruel.
They’re only thoughts. Thoughts that he tries hard to keep away, but at the end of the day he reminds himself that he’s better than that.
John is not going to force his way into her life.
He’ll make sure to get her addicted enough to come crawling at his feet herself. She’ll be dependent on him, won’t be able to live without him. John will make sure his plan will go out smoothly or otherwise he’ll be the one bringing Hell with him on this land and seek as much havoc as he possibly can.
The death emissary himself will strike tonight.
A Friday night out with her friends has John on high alert. That’ll only mean she’s constantly surrounded with people, god knows what could happen if John even takes his eyes off her for a second. He lurks on the side, blending himself with the crowd as much as he can all while keeping his gaze on her. 
He doesn’t need any drugs to keep his mind insane, because the sight of a specific man getting very close to what’s his is enough to make him visualize all the ugly and twisted ways to kill a man.
She’s wearing a thin silky dress that’s low on her cleavage and shows her perky breasts. She’s currently the flame in a room full of moths, John included. Everyone’s eyes are on her, observing the way she sways her hips and sings along to the loud music – John’s fingers itch.
The itch to kill is back again, driving into his veins, his hands twitch on the table. John wants to pull out his gun and shoot everyone in this fucking room. He wants to stab them in the eyes one by one and make them feed it to themselves. He wants to grab this guy on the neck and slam his head against the wall repeatedly until his brain scatter all over the fucking place and there’s nothing left for him to ruin.
This guy is getting on his fucking nerves.
John watches as the man smoothly brings his arm on her shoulder, whispering something in her ear that doesn’t make her look so impressed. In fact, she looks disturbed, uncomfortable, tense. Despite the guy being her friend, John could tell she doesn’t feel comfortable with the way he’s showing her affection.
It’s hard to see her like this, but he knows he can’t just jump in between the two of them and beat the shit out of the guy until he chokes on his own blood. He’ll have to wait, maybe after this party, he’ll strike and discard the body in a way that’ll make even Winston spook in his sleep. It’s not a major offense to kill a man that’s not in the game anyway – or at least that’s what John tells himself.
This guy wouldn’t be able to be three feet near his little one once John’s done with him. He’ll be six feet under.
John sees her swiftly moving away from his touch, trying to make her rejection look as polite as possible, which receives a not-so-amused reaction from her little friend.
This guy doesn’t deserve her at all. No one does. Except maybe John, but that’s because he knows he’s capable of actually taking care of her and keeping her safe. Nobody would understand what he feels, what he yearns, what he wants.
Good girl, John thinks. Walk away.
His gaze follow her as she makes her way to the backdoor and out to the cold air of the city. John follows in a hurry, keeping a safe distance between the two of them, then opens the door as quietly as possible so he wouldn’t let his presence known.
There are a few people on the street, either having a smoke break or making out against the piss stained wall, but she stays just beside the busy road as she wraps her arms around herself.
His gaze burn daggers on her exposed back, the urge to cover her up with his jacket and take her home. A drunk man comes stumbling out of the club, accidentally tripping over his steps and he pushes her hard enough to make her yelp as her heels lose balance and almost making herself get run over by a passing truck.
Almost.
Everything happens so fast. One moment John is standing five feet from her, the next is he’s grasping her wrists in his hand and pulling her back to her feet and dragging her back to the curb. He was already on the act once he saw the man exiting the club, he knew exactly this would happen.
The scene looks strangely familiar, one John could never forget. The same position, same hand placement, same rough fingers around her wrist and dark eyes boring into hers – their very first meeting.
“You!” she gasps, not caring about the fact that she almost just got hit by a fucking truck. “I know you! You’re the guy outside my apartment that day! What are you doing here?”
John stares. Predictable. Of course she’s talking to him like they’ve known each other for years. She’s too friendly.
“Hello to you too,” John replies, though his tone is blank as well as his face. “You remember me.”
“‘Course I do,” she giggles, a little tipsy, pupils dilated and licking her lips nervously. “You’re pretty hard to forget. I remember asking my neighbors around the area if you’re new there, turns out you were just visiting.”
John furrows his brows, hand still not letting go of her wrist. What does she mean by she’s asked around the area about him?
His face must’ve looked confused, he sees her grinning childishly. “It’s a coincidence that I see you again!”
Not a coincidence, but fate.
John doesn’t believe in a lot of things, but he believes in fate. Fate brought him Helen, and now fate is bringing him another angel. If she really went as far as asking the neighborhood about his existence, then it must be fate.
“I’m Y/N. I figured if we keep bumping into each other then you should at least know my name,” she says, completely oblivious that John already knows everything that has to be known about her. From her little mannerisms to the last name of her fucking grandmother. “May I know yours or are you just gonna stare at me all night?”
“It’s John,” he gulps, not wanting to look like a loser in front of her, not after everything he went through for her. “It’s really nice to see you again.”
He sucks at this. He fucking sucks at this.
“You haven’t answered my question, by the way. What brings you here?”
It hangs in the air, John lets go of her wrist. Luckily, he thinks fast enough and says the first thing that comes to his mind. “Work.”
“Ah, work,” she nods. “You work here? In the club? What are you, a bouncer or something?”
“I don’t. Someone I work with is in the club.” A lie, but it’s not like she would know. “We had a talk.”
“Not really a man of words, eh?” she raises an eyebrow teasingly. 
“This is the most words I’ve said in the past few days,” John says. “I’d say you’re special.”
The look on her face is enough to make his entire night even better. Blushing, lips opening and closing, not knowing what to say. John wants to graze his thumb on her lips, thinking about how good it would feel stretching over his cock.
He blinks. Where did that come from?
“For someone who doesn’t talk much, you sure make it sound smooth when you do. Are you always this slick, John?” she giggles again, music to his ear. “That’s actually better than what I heard from my friend earlier, so thank you.”
“That’s good to know.”
Before she could say anything back, the door of the club opens once again and her friends appear, waving a hand at her and beckoning her to get inside. She looks at John, gives him a sympathetic look, as if apologizing that their talk gets cut off too soon.
“I’m really sorry but my friends want me back in there. Hopefully we can continue this again, yeah?” she smiles cheekily, tucking her hair behind her ear. “If you want, you could give me your number so we can talk someplace else? You know… with no one bothering us and all that.”
There it is. John didn’t think it would be this easy to sink the hook in. All he needs to do is pull and take what’s meant to be his.
“Sure.” He enters his number swiftly, feeling that familiar burn in his guts once again when he sees the wallpaper being her pretty face. “Feel free to message me whenever you want. I’ll make time for you.”
She looks at her phone and smiles before starting to walk away from him, waving a hand goodbye, but it doesn’t feel like a goodbye. John knows it isn’t. She’s already his the moment she started talking to him again.
“Of course! Get home safe, John! I’ll see you soon!” 
“You too.”
She doesn’t know John won’t be heading home any time soon until he knows she’s safe and sound in her apartment.
Jay Lopez.
The name burns on his tongue. Bitter and resentful. He stares at the photos his precious dog sent to him and he has to stop the impulse to burn every single one of them.
Jay Lopez is the guy that’s been leeching on his girl since the dawn of time, and thankfully John is here to put an end to it. 
He’s hideous. It’s interesting how John stooped this low that he’d be willing to kill a college student for being too near his little bambi, but alas, he’s never the one to care for such things. Morals and righteousness have never been in his book, not now, nor ever.
It’s only a matter of time until he gets rid of this pest. He’s fucking creepy, follows around not only Y/N but a bunch of other women. 
John doesn’t want his death to be quick and simple. He wants to do it in an ugly way, make sure his body will never be found, make sure he’ll never get to lay his hands and eyes on what’s his. The way Jay stares at her in these pictures ignites something evil within John’s veins. It’s been awhile since he felt something like this.
“Alex.” he looks at his pet standing by the door, waiting for the next command. “Bring him to me alive.”
“Can I at least rough him up a bit?”
John doesn’t answer at first, looks back at the photos on his table. “Do what you want, just make sure he’s still breathing when you bring him here.”
“On it, boss.”
Truth be told, John doesn’t need a pet to order around for this job. He has himself – a labeled attack dog of the Tarasovs for years, their hellhound, chained and muzzled unless they need him to kill. He’s a one man army as some would say, he doesn’t need Alex running around doing tasks for him, but it sure does make the job a lot faster.
It’s not a way to downgrade his reputation nor skills to hunt, he really just needs this Jay guy gone as fast as possible.
On the same day, Alex manages to haul a very brutally violated Jay to the floor of his basement. He stinks, pants wet from piss and a face John is having a hard time recognizing.
“You said rough him up a bit, not make him look unrecognizable.”
“Same thing.”
Jay is sobbing his eyes out, his cries of pleas falls to deaf ears and John just wants to fucking bash his skull with his own foot. “W-who are you guys?! What the f-fuck did I do?! Get me out of here or I’ll tell the fucking police–”
John kicks him on the chin hard to stop the goon from rambling. “You’re not telling anybody any shit, tough guy.”
“So, what are you planning to do to him? Can I watch?”
“Can you handle it?”
Alex shrugs. He’s in the presence of the most dangerous assassin in the underworld, wouldn’t hurt to learn anything from his skills and techniques, doesn’t matter how fucked up it is.
John nods towards the chainsaw sitting at the corner of the room, and Alex turns to face him with wide eyes. “Jesus Christ, man. You serious? Last time I heard you’re a hitman, not a serial killer.”
“Same qualifications. Same thing.” John grabs the man by the arm then drags him to a chair. He takes a rope from the table and swiftly ties him up securely. “We start with the head, then arms and legs. It would be hard to put his entire body in a drum full of acid, so we need to cut him off one by one.”
Alex looks like he’s about to run off somewhere safe from what he’s witnessing. “You’re talking like you’ve done this before, holy fuck.”
John gives him a look, and Alex immediately shuts his mouth. Right. He’d done this before. This is completely normal.
“I’ve been following you for a while, Jay. You’re a creep who befriends pretty girls, then you’ll drug them and make them have sex with you,” John taunts, the sound of his heels hitting the concrete floor is enough to send shivers down his spine. “Is that what you’re also planning to do with Y/N? Be her friend and fuck her once she’s drugged up and vulnerable?”
It’s a bold statement coming from John himself since he’s no better man than Jay, but at least his intentions come from a different place.
“You-you’re fucking sick!” Jay spits.
“I’m sick? I’m not the one going around making girls uncomfortable now, am I?” he picks up the chainsaw, then watches in enjoyment as Jay widens his eyes in fear. “We’re going to have a lot of fun, Jay. You won’t be able to use your pathetic little dick of yours to any woman ever again, and most importantly –”
John fires up the chainsaw, adrenaline coursing through his veins when he sees the horrified look in the man’s face as he tries to get up and scream for help.
“I can finally sleep well at night knowing you’re not in Y/N’s life anymore.”
As John steps into the light, a roaring chainsaw in his hands, Alex could only watch in horror as the basement gets painted with blood in mere seconds.
There’s a vacant apartment just across her room, giving John the perfect view of what she’s doing while she’s alone.
Most of the time, John will pull up a seat beside the window and take pictures. The other half of the time is just him staring, observing. It seems that she’s too comfortable knowing there’s no one across the building so she doesn’t close the curtains, leaving John no choice but to keep his eyes on her.
He found this place just three days after following her. He couldn’t help it. Following her to school and work suddenly wasn’t enough for John that he had to find a way to somehow watch her even in her sleep. 
He should be ashamed of himself. He should feel guilty for what he’s doing – he should stop, but he just can’t. John’s already done too much. This is like being pulled back into the underworld all over again but this time, there’s something good that’s waiting for him on the other side.
Maybe it’s the delusion that comes with it that’s not stopping John from whatever he’s doing. Lately, he’s been thinking about how life would turn out to be if his plan goes out smoothly. They’d live happily ever after, she would end up loving him just the way he planned it out to be, and John will make sure no one will ever dare to take those peace away from him again.
He’d make sure no one will ever come close to her again once she’s his. She’d be isolated but protected. Just how John likes it.
It’s been two days since John gave his number, but he knows she’s just giddy and nervous to text him. He’d seen her staring at her phone, biting her bottom lip anxiously, thinking if it would be a good idea or not. He knows she’ll give in one way or another because he sees it in her face. She’s too easy, too gullible, too naive.
She’s lonely, just like him.
John could tell she’s waiting for someone – she’s desperate, no wonder she asked for his number the second time they met. She wants someone to take care of her, to hold her, tell her that she deserves the world. That someone is John whether she likes it or not.
This isn’t just any unhealthy obsession. John finds himself too deep to get out. He knows her little mannerisms, studied her every action, has a red room full of her pictures and no one can’t say he’s not ready to give up anything for her. John has already given up his sanity ever since he mutilated a man for being too close to her.
She’s his life now, his everything.
John watches intensely as she shreds her clothes in her room, baring him the full view of herself naked, and John grips the side of his chair too hard his knuckles turn white. This is the first time he’d seen her naked, it’s so sudden and so… perfect.
His cock fattens in his pants as he observes every curve of her body. Her waist is fucking perfect and her body is thick yet delicate. John thinks about bruising her sensitive skin, leaving a mark that will show everyone that she’s owned. He would love to see her in a collar, hear it jingle when she crawls. 
She’s completely fucking naked that John wonder just how naive she is to think there would be no one seeing her like this. What if John isn’t the only one watching her? What if somebody else sees her like this? His fingers itch, jaw clenching.
He’d kill them. He’d kill them in front of her, and the thought somehow made his cock hard even more. He grimaces, disturbed at the reaction of his body.
John doesn’t really understand the sexual aspects of killing, but now he’s thinking about how she would react if she sees him working. He’d kill someone in front of her and he’d see the look of disgust and betrayal in her face. He can already imagine how her eyes would well up with tears and fuck, his dick shouldn’t be this hard.
She’d fear him, and John would be turned on. How fucked up would that be? Just how fucked up can his mind get?
He resists the urge to wrap his hand around his cock because fuck no. He would not stoop this low, he is not a teenage boy. No matter how strong the thoughts get, the thoughts of wrapping his own hand around her neck, squeezing it hard and cutting off her airflow as John forces his cock in her cunt, hearing her mewl and scream and beg to just –
John sucks in air, eyes back on her in her room, wrapping a robe around herself and heading to the bathroom. This is fucked up. His cock is incredibly hard and leaking, and his mind won’t stop thinking about how good her pussy would feel around him.
He’d talk her through it. Whisper sweet nothings in her ear as she releases around her cock, praising her for being such a good girl. Then he’d fuck her again, in a different position, debauching her in different ways not even the devil himself could think of.
John would ruin her, and she will have no choice but to accept it.
He brings his hand to his face as he sighs deeply. He wonders what Helen would feel of what he’s doing. Disgusted, no doubt. This is not the same man she fell in love with years ago. He would never do something like this, but fate has its plans, and John believes everything happens for a reason.
She was brought into his life for a reason and it’s up to him whether he takes.
John doesn’t realize that he’s been staring at nothing for too long until she comes back in his view once again. Her hair is still wet, still wrapped up in a fluffy pink robe, and John’s fingers itch to grab, squeeze, possess.
He sees her picking up her phone, staring for a moment before her fingers start typing. John has been anticipating this moment for so long, the time has finally come.
In his chest pocket, his phone buzz silently, the vibration sending excitement in his whole body.
There it is.
13.06.15 11:46 PM UNKNOWN NUMBER : hello! this is Y/N from the club the other night
13.06.15 11:46 PM UNKNOWN NUMBER : also that Y/N who returned your super expensive looking coin hehe ;) i hope you didn’t forget about me!
There it fucking is.
John’s lips curl into a small smile. His efforts are finally paying off. 
All he needs to do is to get what’s his.
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