#john wick x reader x tex johnson
Text
Yandere Tex Johnson x Witness!Reader x John Wick Imagine Part 5 by:
@treedaddymcpuffpuff @sweetwolfcupcake @johnwickb1tsch and now featuring @tammykelly
Original Post Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4
Warnings: So many dead doves! Do not eat! Unless you like dead doves, that is. You're in good company here. 😘 Violence, sexual content, blood, murder, kidnapping, possessive behavior, dubcon, yandere sh!t...it's all here! Please take care! 😘
Lovely Readers! You can now follow the tag # Wicked Johnson Fic to follow along more easily! ❤❤❤
Johnwickb1tsch:
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.
Sweetwolfcupcake:
You sit there for a good few minutes--- letting yourself just feel and realise what has happened.
No, because you realise it now-- so much has happened, you have sort of developed a temporary immunity to it all. A coping mechanism for your mind.
That is what it does when things go very wrong very quickly-- bolt out of the blue? Worry not, you won't even register it properly.
That is how your works, you realise as you slowly begin to dress yourself again. The slick between your thighs is hard to ignore but the ignited desire begins to subdue as you focus on making yourself aware-- really aware of what has happened.
John's words regarding Bradford felt like a promise and as you realise that he is gone, you fear he has gone after the agent.
You hope and pray that he is not as impulsive as you consider him to be because, with your time spent with Bradford, you have come to know of two things-- one, he is very resourceful, and second, he is no fool. He is an exceptionally intelligent, stubborn man-- whom you considered to be moral, almost idealistic. So, his betrayal has come as a shock to you.
You can't swallow it, somehow-- and his actions are not helping either. If John has bribed him and he accpeted-- why is he still messing with them, then?
What does he really want?
He has a family--
You blink.
Teenagers, he said. He isn't that old. Until...
Until he was a college dad or something. He never even mentioned a wife.
You lick your lips dress yourself as quickly as you can and rush out of the room. Finding Tex in the kitchen, you almost call for him.
Almost because you stop.
Baffled at your own instincts.
What are you doing? Don't you miss your previous life? Don't you want to be free again?
You realise you still do but you can't see them hurt. You don't want them hurt, in any way, under any circumstances.
They make you feel like a battlefield-- a battlefield for your mind, heart and body. You just stare on, lost in thoughts and questions. But Tex senses your presence.
"Sit down, accidentally added an extra egg to my omelette." He says while plating an omelette and bringing it to you-- it does not look like an accidental extra, but you chose not to comment. "Why aren't you sat?" He asks with a tilt of his head, but amusement is dancing in his orbs.
And he's back at his assholery again, just when you begin to think of him as 'not too bad'.
You sigh, too many thoughts running around to even try wiping off that annoying smirk out of his unfairly gorgeous face. You simply steel yourself and sit down-- refusing to give him the satisfaction of any reaction from you. You grind your teeth in silence, tensing up at the ache when you feel the cushioned surface against your clothed rear-- at least it isn't only wood-- that would have been way more painful. But it still hurts. Yet, you don't show it.
You've had enough of their games. Whatever they are doing, you realise that they are, perhaps winning at it. You were going to warn Tex about Bradford? You don't want John to go after Bradford-- and the first reason you think of is 'What if it's a trap'? And not 'What if Bradford dies?'
This change concerns you. You still haven't decided what you wish to do. Tell them that Bradford's actually too young to have teenagers? Are they foolish enough to not cross-check? You decide on a different approach.
"Where did John go?"
The question comes off in low, uncertain whisper, but Tex is already seated beside you with his own plate.
When did he even do that?
Tex raises an eyebrow and scoffs but holds your gaze for a moment.
"You're not worried about that agent, are ya?"
His ability to guess your thoughts (partially, to your fortune) catches you off guard and of course, it shows on your dumb face as he smirks. This time though, it does not seem as playful as before. This time, it puts you on edge as you let out a measured breath, feeling more alert than you have been in John's silent presence before.
"No--I...." You almost spill out the truth, before breaking the eye-contact and getting some hold on yourself "I was just...wondering."
"Don't worry, he went to get you somethin' to wear, so that you don't keep dirtying ours."
Your hold on the spoon tightens at that jab. It's lighter than most of his earlier ones but it somehow irks you to a certain point of burn.
You assume he is clever enough to not give you a fork because, at the moment, you want to poke him with one.
"I'm done."
You declare curtly before letting your spoon fall on the plate and pushing it away. You need some time away from their overpowering presence, you need your sanity, your rationality intact, after all.
Rising from your seat, you rush towards the bedroom with the hope of some solitude. You need that.
Tammykelly:
You barely get to the bedroom on the second floor, the forever lingering ache between your legs and anger in your heart not letting you think about anything else but a much needed distraction.
This bastard is fucking diabolical, you think to yourself, hoping the negative energy of your denial will give strength to your knees and outweigh how much your body is screaming at you to take care of the little, annoyingly loud problem created by Tex. God, they’ve trained you well.
After you’ve freshened up in the master bathroom, you sit down in a big armchair, next to the bed, still feeling frustrated, though mostly at yourself and the hopelessness of your situation.
You glance around the room once again, remembering where they’ve locked their tools, including knives that you’re pretty sure are sharp enough to cut through anything with ease. You lean back, lost in thoughts, letting your back rest against the soft cushion. You close your eyes and concentrate on your breathing pattern, after a while feeling like your body reflexes have started to calm down and the blood in your veins has acquired breath of its own, as you begin to watch yourself, as if from the third person pov.
The shrunken space of your focus seems to have been expanded, simultaneously, the room seems to have been sealed in a vacuum bubble, it’s just you and the memory of where the knives lay. You get up with determination, feeling confident enough to try anything within the boundaries of what’s allowed but timid enough to be mindful about possible consequences.
You can surely just look at them, they won’t punish you if you don’t use them.
You think about an array of ways how you’d break the lock before opening the cabinet, and run your fingers over the blades that you know could easily cut you in half through the application of force necessary to do so. You take one out, studying it, as if trying it on, wondering how much this razor-sharp knife has seen and will witness. You twirl it around, pondering whether you’d be brave enough to use it if the opportunity arises. You feel almost mesmerised by it, neither hearing anything, apart from the ringing in your ears, nor seeing anything, apart from your reflection on the blade.
“You’re sure you know how to handle it?” - a deep breathy voice comes from behind. You jump, almost dropping the knife, your eyes meet John’s obsidian ones, boring into you, making you feel like you’re being poked by the needles that lay in the cabinet next to the knives.
“Be careful not to cut yourself, rattlesnake”, - an amused voice adds and you watch Tex step into the room, as your cheeks flush red. “We were wondering how come it’s so quiet up here”, - he adds, not breaking the eye contact.
“I was napping” - you blurt out, quickly putting the knife down, nervously watching John walk closer in a lazy, almost calculating manner only a predator uses when the prey has been caught in a trap.
You catch his movements until he’s standing behind you, his chest touching your back, his arms on either side of you, capturing you in a cage that is his strong body against your frozen one. You look over to Tex and notice him leaned against the wall, watching you two with curiosity.
Fuck
John picks up the knife you’ve previously chosen and holds it in front of you, his lips close to your ear, his voice so dangerously low, you swear he sounds like he’s about to devour you in one bite.
“Want me to show you how to use it?” he nonchalantly whispers, sending cold shivers down your spine, his lips inch closer, “since you’re so curious about it”. You pray he doesn’t feel the deafening thumping of your heart.
“I was…just…uh…”, - words barely escape your dry throat. You hear Tex walk over and it makes you feel even more on the razor edge that is a mouse trap of your relationship with these men. You feel Tex’s fingers under your chin, when he pulls your face to look up at him.
“Isn’t it what you wanted?” - he clicks his tongue. His glimmering eyes shine with built-up darkness lay beneath, a hint of disappointment flashes through it when you don’t reply, “all talk, no action?”
Tex is akin to a fiery pit, predictably unpredictable in the sense that you have an idea of what to expect of him - stand too close and you get burned, bite too hard and you get splashed back with fire. But when you watch the flames, especially when he doesn’t notice you studying him or pretends not to, there’s a strangely comforting warmth to him, flickering through the coal cracks of his man-child nature. John, on the other hand, is akin to an abyss, swallowing you whole with his presence. He’s dangerous in a way that a calm untamed tiger is, for even domesticated, it still remains a threat at all times. You don’t see what’s beneath all the layers of what he masterfully conceals and you’re not sure you should want to find out how much of a predator he actually is.
“Make your choice” - you hear John’s raspy voice bring your attention back to him.
“What?” - you blink, your mind going over multitude of possibilities this could play out. Tex takes the knife out of the other man’s hands.
“Who do you prefer show you how to use it?” - he explains, but his expression says anything but teaching you about self-defence. You feel John protectively wrap around you and you don’t need him to say it. If Tex does anything out of line, this playground will become everything a human would fear to step into. You can see that the feeling’s mutual, in the way Tex glares at John.
Maybe this is the code to freedom, let them prey on each other.
Tex’s eyes move to yours, seeing the way you lean into the man behind you.
“Oh, you think Johnny boy will save you?”- he chuckles darkly, “dream on”, he tells you before motioning for John to bring you over to the bed. Your heart drops.
They sit you down on the bed, both of them circling you, akin to eager hawks, ready to rip apart and devour anything in their sight. Suddenly, you feel John’s hands lock yours in a tight grip behind your back, which makes panic arise in your chest.
“The fuck you’re doing?” - you want to sound mad but the voice that comes out of your mouth sounds like it belongs to someone else caught in a web of pretence and lies. Tex waves his hand for you to keep your mouth shut.
“You forget your place, rattlesnake”, - he laughs, though not an ounce of warmth strikes you, just sharp fire burns.
“You’re a fucking asshole”, - you growl lowly, looking him right in the crazed eyes, while John shifts to a more comfortable position to hold you still.
Bastard
“Touché”, - Tex brings his face close to yours, his hot breath on your skin making you flinch, “Biting won’t help, darlin’, you’re forgetting who you’re up against”, he finishes, placing the cold blade on your cheek before you start protesting, and moving it down your jawline, throat, collarbones and stopping at the hem of your shirt, tantalised, watching the way your chest rapidly rises and falls. He’s so gentle with it, though, but his eyes tell you he could switch up in a heartbeat.
“Sorry, John”, - Tex breaths out and doesn’t wait for either of you to reply, grabbing the fabric and making the blade slide through it with lightning speed like butter. Your wide open eyes look at him with shock, only now noticing John pressed up against your back, like an unmoving statue. You lean back, wiggling your body, seeing how hard it is for Tex to resist touching you with his hands. He extends his arm to place the knife onto your skin.
“Don’t fucking touch me”, - you glare up at him, which makes a loud bark of a chuckle escape his lips, though he doesn’t stop. You begin to shake your head and move your body, knowing he won’t do anything in this case, as not to hurt a single strand of hair on you, for John might kill him right then and there with that said knife, otherwise. Abruptly, your body freezes when Tex’s calloused hand find its place around your neck, urging you to hold your anger in and to look up at him.
“You don’t want me to hurt you, do you?” - he growls, his fingers tight around your throat, “you can’t keep playing the game you can’t win”, he smiles, placing the blade in the centre of your breastbone, the coldness of steel arising goosebumps throughout your body. Your eyes lock on his, studying the way he’s holding back the desires that will leave him hanging onto the thread of life had he acted upon them. You want to believe he’d never hurt you but you never know how far his self control and possible feelings for you can contain the boundaries of his flames.
Is it your or John’s power over him?
Tex’s knee moves in between your legs, inching closer to where you needed him when he bent you over downstairs what feels like an eternity ago. But your body responds in raging flames, lit up by the myriad of matches that are the manifestation of his power over you.
His fingers inch the razor-sharp steel closer to the centre of your neck, so infinitely slow you think you might die just from waiting for what comes next.
And what comes next is John’s lips on your skin, your temple, behind your ear, on your shoulder, his tongue tasting the heat, engulfing your body, the effect of which comes off in a form of a shuddered breath that doesn’t go unnoticed. Tex moves the blade up until it reaches your mouth, keeping it there, until you get the hint. You stare at his darkened, ravenously glowing eyes. You feel one of John’s hands come up gliding over your body up to your neck, tilting your head up, as he’s shifting his weight so you can look up into his eyes. The look you’re met with is not the one you were hoping to see, for instead of a soft and gentle one, your gaze gets sucked in by a black hole that is a pair of nearly jet-black, hungry, unmoving and barely patient eyes.
“Sorry, baby”, - John rasps.
You open your mouth, falling deeper into his void, before closing your eyes.
Your eyelids flutter open, as your breath and racy heartbeat warn you to steady yourself before gradually coming back to a stable pace, as you lay in bed.
You listen in to the sounds of an awfully quiet house, making you wonder whether you’ve been left alone after all. The clock arms ticking rhythmically, blending in with the soft, almost faint whirring of the bedroom mini fridge where the boys keep cooled bottled water for you. The sound of electricity inside the walls and static in your ears suddenly becoming louder once you focus on it instead of the faint noise of the outside world. You look around, chasing the frisky sunset light, playing on the space around you through the cracks between the slightly moving curtains. You glance at expensive looking boutique shop bags standing near the wall. For the first time you pay attention to the way the colour palette of the place is almost seamlessly blended by the dreamy fog, though you’re not sure if it’s the floating in sunlight specks of dust or your own blurry vision, for you’d just woken up from your nap. You raise your hand to cover your eyes when the sunlight makes its way onto your face, then close your eyelids, folding your hands on your lap, letting yourself bask in the vague warmth. You take a deep breath in, your senses catching a very indistinct smell of the fresh evening air, when the wind outside blows through the trees, the rustling of which you can catch a sonic glimpse of, fresh laundry and the scent of your shampoo.
But the smell of two men pervades you the most, you can practically taste the last night with John and today’s morning with Tex on your tongue and skin. You’re sure you smell like them by now, akin to a cat acquiring the smell of its owners over time, becoming one with the small nuclear tribe. It’s shamefully intoxicating how well they’ve imbedded themselves onto your body and into your mind, molding a new, unrecognizable version of you, so perfectly suited for their needs.
And you’re sure they like everything about it, especially the way they can smell themselves off you, like you belong to them, cooped up in this place away from prying eyes, their $5 million secret, just for them to play with and ravish. You can feel it sometimes through the way they touch you when passionate waves are mercifully on hold, replaced by the monumental promise of another outburst. You remember the way their fingers linger on your skin a bit too long, the way they hug you close to their bodies late at night when they think you’re too fucked out to notice - John - in a protective embrace, Tex - more on the possessive side.
The way John gently brushes your hair after blow drying it and resists leaning in to smell your freshly showered self, for every time you can feel the heat of his body getting close to you and, regrettably to your disappointment, pulling away at the last moment. The way Tex traces his own bites and hickeys on your skin when you’re in the bathtub with him or glides his fingertips over them under the covers, thinking your blissfully unaware self doesn’t feel his surprisingly delicate leisure wandering. The way neither of them want to leave the bed in the early hours of the morning, too entranced by your warmth and the feel of your body against theirs. The way one day you made each of them sigh in surprise when you’d pulled them closer, praying they explain it as your sleepy subconscious making the decisions for you, when, in reality, it was you pulling the strings of blurry lines in between sanity and conscience mistake of trying to savour their comfortingly strong bodies. You couldn’t decide which one of the duo was worse. John, who treats you like a gentleman but often fucks you disrespectfully, or Tex, who annoyingly makes every particle of your body and soul boil in every sense possible.
You tip your head back, eyelids closed, taking deep breaths in to calm your heart and mind. You have no idea how long it’ll take for the masks of sanity to slip, revealing the true nature of those men. Whatever sanity means anymore in this situation. You start feeling like their influence on you begins to seep beyond physical form.
Suddenly, you hear John quietly calling out to you: “Y/n. You here?”
Your eyebrows slightly twitch, as your eyes open to the starry sky above the balcony where you and John are standing next to one another.
“It’s like you were just here and then you were gone”, - he chuckles, his voice soft and comfortingly deep.
Fuck, the mask’s slipping.
You take a long look at him before smiling, his eyes so gentle, you almost [want to] believe he’s not faking it for you.
It’s time for a cat to come out and play with fire.
“Hi”, - you tell him, reaching your fingers out to him, finding it so irresistibly hard not to put a loose strand of hair behind his ear when you see him admiring the perfect way the clothes he’d bought hug your body, as if tailored to your exact measurements but you don’t delve into it deeply for the sake of your sanity. “Hey”, - John replies, letting your hand slip back, not showing you how much he wants to catch it and kiss it.
The serenity of the passing intimate lace comes crumbling down when Tex cheerfully comes up from the back and hugs you from behind, loudly leaving a wet trail of kisses from your ear down to your shoulder, so casually mundane, as if he’s been doing this for years.
“What are you two whispering about?” - he inquires, not removing his lips off you. “Certainly not you”, - you tease. “You don’t like me?” - he mumbles back. Now it’s your turn to laugh: “Why should I? This is just a transaction, no?”
Instead of pulling away, Tex grips you harder: “Aw, my rattlesnake, I was about to say how sweet you are when you don’t bite”.
“Thought you liked it?” - you let him feel you lean into him, which he eagerly reciprocates. “Oh, is that why you do it? You do it for me?” - he asks, as you turn around in his arms, tilting your face up, batting your eyelashes. “Dream on”, - you reply before breaking away from his embrace.
You walk over to the balcony sofa, sinking into the big pillows in a relaxed way that exudes you’re not afraid of either of the two. You let yourself be watched by their intense gazes, shamelessly scanning you up and down, as you throw one leg over the other. Moments pass before you speak again.
“I can’t quite crack the code”, - you tell them in the most couldn’t-care-less tone, “what is it that you get out of this? Apart from the obvious”. You trace your body with your fingers, John’s eyes on yours and Tex’s following your silhouette.
Tex is the first to reply: “You said it yourself, this is just a transaction”.
“Is it really?” - you inquire in a way that it sounds more like a statement.
“Why do you wanna know?” - Tex responds, keeping his eyes trailed on you.
You lean further into the cushions, trying to sound as innocuously as possible. “To manipulate you, of course”.
Silence hangs in the air, making your cheeks grow redder, though you hope they can’t tell under the starlight. Tex walks closer to you, saying: “Don’t get ideas into that pretty head of yours”, he grabs your face with one hand, “wouldn’t want you to get burned, mhhmm?”
You swallow. “Wouldn’t even dream of it”, - you tell him, holding the eye contact. Unexpectedly, Tex does nothing but lets you go and walks to the chair, near John. It makes you uncomfortable, their watchful eyes not leaving an ounce of your conscience not feeling exposed.
“What game are you playing at?” - John finally speaks up, his voice so quiet you know he’s not playing games with you anymore.
“Nothing”, - you simply say, your gaze locked on his. Hiding in plane sight, you think. Instead, you continue: “I can’t outplay the player when I got no game, yeah?”
Tex snorts: “Oh, you definitely do have game”, eyeing you. You turn your attention to him, scoffing just like he did: “Clearly, if that’s what you wanna call it”.
“I just want a lock in my room”, you add.
“My, my, Johnny boy, she not only bites but wants to have leverage over us”, - Tex chuckles.
“How’s having a lock mean leverage?” you bat your lashes.
Okay, playing dumb it is.
Tex doesn’t make you wait for his reply: “It’s not about the lock. It’s about access”.
Got you, you say to yourself.
“I’m sure other hunters, like you two, would just love that, access at all times”, - you muse, looking from one man to the other.
“We won’t let that happen”, - John’s stern whisper comes.
“Mhmhm, sure, with $5 million on the line”, - you shrug. You catch Tex’s eyes.
“Dream on, babygirl”, - he muses back.
You sigh, getting up, making your hips sway just a tiny bit more than usual. Your arm gets caught in Tex’s strong grip. “What are you doing?” - he growls, as you turn to look up at him. You look behind him at John, then back at the man in front of you. “Take a wild fucking guess”, - you retort. Tex steps closer, cornering you further to the glass door, leading into the house. “Use your pretty mouth like that, I won’t care if you’re sore or not anymore”, - he smiles sickly sweet, making your stomach turn. You ignore him and connect your eyes with John’s, who holds the same expression, not much different from Tex’s, letting you see in that moment, how titillated he is by you.
You’re fucked and you’ve walked right into it.
“Let me guess, “dream on”?” Tex mocks you, placing a hand on the glass, near your face.
You work up a smile, though you hope they can’t see it doesn’t reach your eyes. “I’m going to sleep. Aren’t you boys coming?” you purr, before wiggling your way out of Tex’s arms. The men look at each other before following suit, exchanging malevolent glances.
The code is crackable. For it’s not the “how” but the question of who’ll be the first to crack.
Tex. John. Or you.
Treedaddymcpuffpuff:
Goddamnit. Where is the motherfucking pancake batter? Does John not have PANCAKE BATTER in his goddamn house? What are you supposed to do? Make pancakes from scratch? Fuck.
Your internal thoughts are being monologued by a sailor, apparently - and he’s in a shit mood. You woke up lying in vacant sheets, minus either of your human heaters, shivering in the conditioned air.
Your bargain was simple, or at least you thought so - they could keep the temp at 62 degrees in this room (psychos) if they both slept beside you and warmed you cozy. So, when you found out they were gone and didn’t even bother to pull a blanket over your naked body in their haste to leave - okay, maybe it was actually you that kicked the comforter off, but you’re still gonna blame them - you got heated, and not in a good way.
Pretty soon, and far too late, you realized that you felt abandoned without them snuggling you like two big, bed hogging dogs, and that made you much more angry because… Well. If you’re being honest with yourself, you are far too attached to these men. In too deep. “Dug up more snakes than you can kill,” as Tex would say. You can barely function when they’re not around. So much for strong, independent woman. You’re a whitehead on the face of feminism.
And now you can’t even make pancakes. Out of frustration, you slam a cupboard shut and bustle a carton of eggs off the counter. And, of course, they land face down with the top open wide. “Fuck. Me.”
“Bad day?”
You spin on your heel, hip catching the counter painfully, although you barely register the sting, too busy clenching fists at your sides from the immediate recognition of that voice. You glare at Bradford, lip curling into a little snarl, the rattlesnake in you coming to bat. “It is now,” you snap.
Bradford sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “Hey, don’t be like that. I told you I’d protect you, y/n, and that’s what I’m here to do.”
You burst into a crazed giggle fit, fists clutching at the sundress fabric over your belly, eyes watering from the sheer audacity of fucking men. It takes you a minute to collect yourself.
“I’m not going anywhere with you, you pompous asshole.” You’re still smiling at him, that little leftover sanity and hope slipping right through your fingers and landing in a sticky puddle with the smashed eggs.
He frowns, hands jammed into his pockets, this stupid look of concern coming over his face that makes you want to choke it right off. “Listen, y/n, whatever they did to you - however they hurt you - it’s okay. You don’t have to be afraid anymore. I’m here to take you away and undo all this shit they’ve put in your head.”
“You think that’s going to work on me after what you did?!” You hardly recognize your own shrill screech, don’t realize you’re jamming a finger into his chest until your toe to toe with him. “They might be assholes and manipulators, sure, Bradford, but you-“ You poke his sternum hard, make him wince and love that pained look on his face more than you should - “you’re much fucking worse. Because at least they care about something other than themselves.”
His expression is one of pity, like he’s looking at an abused, bite happy dog about to be put down. “You think they care about you?” His voice is quiet, sympathetic, overly kind, it makes your stomach turn. “Oh, sweetheart-“
“Oh, sweetheart,” you mock, the acid in your body leaking and bubbling from your throat. “Do me a favor and get out. I don’t need you. I don’t need anybody.”
He seems entirely unaffected by you. “Yeah, I thought you’d say that.”
You feel a tiny sting in your shoulder, look down to see a needled splinter sticking out, reach to pull it free, but it’s far too late, because your hand doesn’t work. And neither do your legs. You black out before landing face first into the eggs.
They’ve got you trussed up again. Pretty silk ropes dimple your skin. John finishes the knots on your thighs, fingers tickling lazily over the fabric and making you squirm and whine. “Comfy?” He asks, kissing your cheekbone and smiling at you.
You nod, pull at your bonds, become thrilled when you realize you’re not going anywhere. You wiggle your toes, testing circulation by gauging feeling to your digits. Perfect, as always. John’s handiwork is unmatched. And you are absolutely drenched and throbbing by the time he gets done tightening his last little tie.
“Oh, you’re so pretty,” he tells you, nuzzling his nose into your hairline. You shudder and giggle, melting under that praise he has grown fond of giving. His balmy voice gets your toes curling instead of flexing.
Tex comes back into the room with the bottle of sandalwood and vanilla oils. It smells heavenly and makes you clench hellishly as he works it into his bulky palms and grins at his favorite girl. “You ready for that massage, pumpkin?”
Something slams violently close to your ear, startling you out of the dreaming memory, making you gasp and flinch. You can’t go far, because you’re handcuffed to a metal chair. Hands and feet. Too tight. Fingers and toes already numb and cold. Your face feels sticky and itchy. Metal scrapes metal in a terrible symphony that jabs behind your eyes and gets them open.
You’re in a white, windowless room, far from John and Tex, but close to agent Bradford. He’s smiling now, pleased about something, leaning over the silver table to examine your face. “That’s a nasty bruise, kid,” he says, pointing to his own forehead. “Sorry I couldn’t catch you.”
You scowl at him. “Yeah, whatever.” Your head does hurt, though, and you feel like you’ve been run over by a monster truck again. Still, that fire in you doesn’t seem to want to die, and you’re incredibly grateful for whatever miracle furnace is fueling it. “Are you gonna tell me why I’m here? Or just stare at me like a fucking creep?”
He chuckles. “Do you know where you are?”
“Oh yeah,” you spit, “I definitely remember this windowless white fucking room from good times growing up.” Rolling your eyes hurts more than you think it will.
“You’re under possession of the FBI, y/n, and if I were you, I’d be grateful we didn’t just hand you over to the Bratva ourselves. Because they would have done much worse to you than we’re about to do.”
Johnwickb1tsch:
As your mind clears from the drugs Bradford gave you, you start to think a bit more critically about your situation. The fact that he has taken you hostage without the fanfare of an official FBI raid suggests he's still working under the radar. He must have baited your boys with some convincing ruse to make them both leave the house.
"You should really do yourself a favor, and return me to them," you advise. You flex against the cuffs, trying to get circulation. They really are too tight, and you can't help but compare it to the careful way John always bound you. Who is the bad guy here? All the lines have blurred.
"I can't help but notice you're not asking to just be let go."
It's a development that surprises you too, but you don't feel like analyzing it right now. All you know is that you miss them, like a crucial piece of your heart has been plucked from you. And maybe it's fucked up, but you want the man responsible to pay.
"I'm not as stupid as you are, apparently. Don't you understand who you're dealing with?"
"Tex Johnson, former Marine, dishonorable discharge in his first tour of Iraq, turned Hollywood stunt man and mafia hitman. John Wick is harder to put a thumb down on. Bogus birth certificate, it's doubtful it's his real name. He was probably trafficked into the country as a child from the Soviet Union by one of the syndicates. He's been associated with various underworld groups since he was a teen."
This was, in fact, way more than you knew about your boys, but you were loathe to admit it.
"What I mean, is if you keep this up you're a dead man walking. They'll do anything to get me back."
"It sounds like you want them to get you back."
"At this point? I like them a lot better than you."
"Yeah, you seemed pretty cozy there. I think you have a touch of Stockholm Syndrome."
The thought of this man, of all people, moralizing at you and basically calling you mentally ill, pisses you off even more.
"Did you know Stockholm Syndrome is a bullshit diagnosis favored by law enforcement, invented by two male psychologists to describe a woman who had been in a hostage situation, who they had never even met? She was held hostage by a bank robber in Sweden, and as she watched the police completely bungle the situation she was afraid they would come charging in and kill everyone in a hail of bullets. She advocated for a more peaceful solution that didn't involve her getting shot, and was branded as neurotically sympathetic to her captor for it. But you've been through Quantico. You should already know this."
Bradford frowns down at you, and your inconvenient penchant for facts.
"Alright, smarty pants, be that way. But when the media gets a hold of you after this, you're going to want something to blame, believe me."
"How about you, you crooked son of a bitch?"
"Me? I'm going to be the agent who single handedly brought down the Nobokov Bratva, two wanted contract killers, and saved their hostage. I'll be a hero."
"What about the money you took?"
"Playing a role, all part of my master plan."
He smirks at you, letting you know that at least some of that money is not going to make it into evidence.
"Wait...isn't Dmitri Nobokov dead?"
"As a doornail. But his son is still around, and he wants blood."
You think about this a moment.
"And you're using me as bait?"
"Now you're catching on. You've got a date with Igor Nobokov tonight."
"And you're counting on...them all killing each other?"
"Something like that."
You just laugh.
"Right? I think it's funny too."
"I'm not laughing at that."
"No?"
"No. I'm laughing because my boys are going to fucking kill you all."
You find that you truly believe it, to the marrow of your bones.
Bradford just smirks. "We'll see."
You certainly would.
His phone starts ringing, and he reaches into his pocket for it. "Bradford."
"Well hello, Agent Dipshit."
"Tex. Thought you'd never call."
gif by johnswick
Just hearing his ridiculous, stupid, wonderful voice, even tinny through the phone, sends a wave of relief through you.
"Gotta say, I took you for smarter than this."
"How you figure?"
"You're an FBI hotshot with a fancy degree. I'm sure you've got a profile on me. Narcissistic psychopath, is what Uncle Sam told me. That means there aren't many things in this world I care about outside of yours truly, but you've managed to take one of 'em from me. Can't say that bodes well for you."
"I guess that's a matter of perspective, Mr. Johnson."
"Proof of life?"
"She's right here. Say hello, y/n."
Glaring at Bradford, you speak into his outstretched phone. "Tex, it's a trap!"
Bradford reaches out to smack you in the mouth, staring you down.
"Ow! Motherfucker!"
For a moment there is a deadly silence on the other end of the line.
"My turn. Say hello, Mrs. Bradford."
Bradford's face goes white as a sheet. "Anthony? I'm scared. Please, just do whatever they say."
"Veronica? It's going to be ok, honey, just stay calm. If you fuckers hurt her so help me God--"
"Maybe we will, maybe we won't. All depends on you, son. So listen close."
-----------------
"Who knew this AI shit could be so handy?"
John just nods, utterly stoic, closing the laptop. After feeding multiple insufferable Facebook videos about cooking and keeping house by the lovely Mrs. Bradford through a program, they were able to create a perfect facsimile of her voice, good enough to fool her husband over the phone.
Now Bradford would meet them in a location of their choosing. The advantage was theirs.
Or so they hoped.
Either way, Bradford was dead meat.
#wicked johnson fic#john wick#john wick x reader#john wick x you#john wick x y/n#john wick fic#yandere john wick#keanu reeves x reader#tex johnson#yandere tex johnson#john wick x reader x tex johnson#tex johnson x you#tex johnson x reader#tex johnson x y/n
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Heya sweetheart, hope you are doing well!
I have a lil bit of indulgent request... I wanna know what your thoughts will be on the reader being on periods and how the boys will react to it from the Wicked Johnsons fic. (Like imagine one of them keeping their big warm hand on your abdomen! I would be so happy I mightt cryy😩🥺🥺)
Since it's a collab fic I am thinking of sending this same ask to all the authors so everyone can respond with their own thoughts. But please feel free to opt out on it if you want to.
Love you, really hope your recent absence is not becoz of a work injury like that one time.
Missing you,
Kuro
Omg Hi Kuro❤️ thank you for checking in on me❤️❤️❤️ no injury I promise.
Okay, so….
Tex is, as we all know, going to pick on you a little bit. Because he’s a shit head, right? And we love him. He’ll probably give you a cute little insufferable nickname or three—my little jelly donut, yknow stuff that you roll your eyes and scoff at but only to hide your giggle and blush.
Constantine is going to be a lot more protective of his sweet angel because female menstrual blood is used in rituals and dark magic much more than one would think. By your side almost at all times, driving you everywhere you need to go, sending his summons to covertly look after you when you’ve finally had enough of him and run away from his overbearing antics.
Wick is going to fuck the cramps right out of you, coddle you, bring you everything you can possibly want or need. You’re going to whine about a potential mess while he’s kissing down your tummy, on his way to relieve that achy pain in your abdomen and hips with his tongue, but Johnny Boy practically bathes in blood on a weekly basis, so he’s not only used to the carnage, but delighted that he gets to partake in yours.
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Heya sweetie!!!!! How are you?
I have a lil bit of indulgent request... I wanna know what your thoughts will be on the reader being on periods and how the boys will react to it from the Wicked Johnsons fic. (Like imagine one of them keeping their big warm hand on your abdomen! I would be so happy I mightt cryy😩🥺🥺)
Since it's a collab fic I am thinking of sending this same ask to all the authors so everyone can respond with their own thoughts. But please feel free to opt out on it if you want to.
I have always loved your introspective pieces, whenever the batting order would get to you. Your works have beeen an important link in letting us (irl) readers know what the fictional reader is thinking, how much of the situation they have processed and how much is still up in the air. All in all enhanced the whole experience more and made the reader more accessible (understandable?) for us.
Love you
Kuro
Oh hi Kuro!
Thank you for reading the collab fic and liking it. And it feels good to know that my work has been of some use. I am grateful for your take on it. yes, I like to delve more into the reader's complexities and mind because I do intend to make the reader more accessible, and more relatable. So it feels good if a reader tells me that they find the fictional reader relatable. But truly, 'Devil's Triangle' wouldn't have been possible without my co-authors. It was their original idea and I was simply grateful to work with them and develop the story further.
Now, coming to you question.
I will start with John Constantine. In this fic, he is basically whipped for the reader. Their relationship is based on an intense and deep friendship. With him, the reader feels like a true partner, unlike John Wick and Tex, both maybe, somewhere remind her that they own her in a way, at least in the past they did.
I think he would be pretty mature about it. Doing everything to comfort her. Soft blanket? Cuddles? A comfort show, Constantine is all prepared. He does not like to see her in pain (none of them do) so if the reader experiences intense pain, Constantine is already comforting her. he may not be too good in the kitchen and not an expert like Wick, but he tries his best. He would be there, listening to her rant maybe, rubbing her stomach, abdomen and hips to comfort her.
With Tex, it seems like he might surprise you, but the man knows what to do. At least the basics. He would prepare warm drinks for the reader because that helps ease the pain. Back rubs, cuddling her, covering her with a soft fluffy blanket. It's like he is making up for the lost time. He feels guilty for what has happened, and while he understands that the reader kind of wants to outdo Constantine(yes, petty and childish) in a way 'look, I can take better care of her than you(bitch).' The kind to cuddle with the reader and they throw a smirk at Constantine, who simply rolls his eyes and lights up a cigarette, reminding himself why he should not put another curse on Tex.
With John Wick, it's a completely different story. he knows your dates, your cycle, your needs, the type of sanitary products you use, the kind of food you should have and avoid, the chocolates, the best heating pads, and the blankets. This man knows that your date is near even before you do. He can notice the subtlest of changes or twitches. So, even if you don't tell anybody, he knows. he has the right(very well-researched) meds, he knows the best recipes to help you ease your pain and he knows that women need more sleep on their periods. So he is making sure you are well-rested, well-fed and babied. There is no sense of competition in John in taking care of you. He does it because that is what he is to do, you need him, but maybe, also because he has a *little* sense of superiority? Like k=he knows your needs and emotions the best. He is going to take care of you. Like Tex, he feels guilty too and doubles down on his effort, a silent apology and attempt to make it up to you. It's striking how the same hands that have taken so many lives, can be so tender with you, sprawling over your abdomen and thighs, rubbing to soothe the pain, keeping you tucked in his arms. You don't even need to voice your needs to him. he already knows and is ready.
Thank you
#yandere john wick x reader#yandere tex x reader#yandere tex johnson x reader#constantine x reader#the devils triangle asks#send asks#asks
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Yandere Tex Johnson x Witness!Reader x John Wick Imagine WIP Part 8
After 450 comments on the last section 🤣 its time for a new one. U guyz are gremlins!😆👏👏 @treedaddymcpuffpuff @tammykelly @sweetwolfcupcake @lilspookymeh
-------
"Come on, we've got to get you somewhere safe," says John Wick, trying to hustle you down the street.
"No," you protest, resisting. "We have to find John and Tex. They might need us."
You were skeptical about demons and the occult, God and the Devil and everything in between, at first. But after hanging out with Constantine, you'd seen a few things. Just enough that you had sense enough to be scared. You clutch the protection amulet around your neck that John had given you. You'd laughed at him at the time, but now you were glad to have it.
"They're both grown men, honey. I told Tex to leave you alone. This is what he gets."
Suddenly you're angry all over again. "Oh, you told him, huh?" You push John's chest--its like having a disagreement with a brick wall. "Do you have any fucking idea how much I've missed you? How it destroyed me to be thrown away like an old shirt you had no more use for?"
He is still as a mountain as he holds your wrists, preventing you from striking him, but not hurting you. Those dark eyes bore into you, through you. How does he not see you? "Y/n...I did what I thought was best for you."
"But you didn't fucking ask me! Or at least, you didn't listen! But you know what, it doesn't matter right now. John had to put some kind of a curse on Tex in self defense, because Tex is such an asshole, and now they're both in danger!"
"A what?"
You pause to think, and you're pretty sure you know where Constantine would go. There's an old church a few blocks over. Consecrated ground. It's where he's always told you to go if something came after you. It would be a good place to regroup.
"Come on," you say, pulling John in the opposite direction down the street.
For once, he actually listens, a shadow at your back ready to protect you, but he lets you lead the way.
--------------
The old building looks like it should probably be condemned. It's definitely seen better days, and hasn't seen a congregation in at least a decade. However, the ground is still holy, untouchable for the Unclean, and when you burst through the doors after John has already shot down three demons, you are so relieved to see Constantine and Tex sitting in some of the old pews. They definitely look like they've been through a battle, disheveled and beat up. You wonder how much was demons, and how much they did to each other.
"Thank God!" You run to them, and Tex's expression rises and falls as you go to Constantine, pressing your mouth to his in what you know is a needy kiss, assuring yourself as much as him.
He smirks down at you, well aware of the death- stares he's receiving from both sides. It's possible he makes a show of grabbing your ass, just to rub it in to your two Ghosts.
"Are you ok?"
"Yeah. You?"
You nod. Then Constantine rolls his eyes upward, over your head to John Wick. He is quietly forbidding in his black suit, standing watch by the door. "That your other Ghost?"
With a tired sigh you nod.
"Ghosts? The fuck is Harry Potter here talkin' about?"
The urge to punch Tex or kiss him is strong as ever.
"The two of you ghosted me, didn't you?"
"Baby girl, I missed you. That's why I came to get you." He shoots a telling glare over at John Wick, who only returns a disinterested look. Maybe the master assassin had been keeping tabs on you, but he hadn't shared everything with Tex, it seems.
Constantine looks between the two assassins, then you, with an infuriating smirk.
"What?" you demand, more than a little exasperated with everthing.
"Nothing. Just seems like you have a type, angel."
You can't even argue.
"Angel?" Tex snorts at your pet name. "Does he even know you?"
"Does he ever shut up?" asks Constantine, raising one dark eyebrow.
"No, never," you sigh.
There is a howl outside that lifts every hair on your body, an unearthly sound that makes your fingers grip in Constantine's suit jacket.
"What are we going to do?"
"Good question." Constantine tugs you over to a different pew, sitting down with his arm draped around your shoulders. His message is obvious, and it's new to you. Constantine rocks your world on the nightly, but he's never been possessive before. It really shouldn't, but it ignites a warmth in your chest that makes you feel ridiculously, stupidly, giddy inside.
"Seems like we're at an impasse, gentlemen."
Tex frowns. John seems less than impressed.
"Sorry, what's stopping us from killing you and taking her?"
You tense, watching the gun John holds loosely at his side. You know Wick can move like lightning, and your heart leaps into your throat. You are ready to fling yourself between them if you have to.
"John..."
"It's ok, sweetheart. He's not going to kill me."
"No offense, but I've heard that before from lots of people who are dead now."
Constantine snorts. "You can't kill me, because I've put a curse on your friend here, and you need me to lift it."
"So lift it."
"Can't. Got a friend who can though. You'll never see him without me."
You know Constantine must be talking about the famed and powerful bokor, Papa Midnite. A chill runs down your spine. You've met him precisely once. He was polite--and hot as fuck, if you're being honest--but you knew he was not to be trifled with.
"So let's go, then," says Tex, his patience lost about three dead demons ago.
"Hold up, Howdy Doody. We got to talk first."
"Bout?"
Constantine nods down at you. "Maybe I don't know all the details, but I've heard enough. And as much as I've enjoyed filling the hole you assholes left--I can't let you hurt her again. I'll let the demons feast on your souls first."
Almost on cue, that demonic howling sounds again outside, and a chorus of hellish hissing rises. It sounds like you are surrounded.
Tex leaps to his feet. "You smug little fucker--"
"Shut up, Tex." It's Wick who shushes his friend. "What do you propose?"
Finally, Constantine looks down at you. "It depends on what she wants."
Your mouth drops open at that. You have to decide that, now? As though he can read your thoughts, and sometimes you're convinced he can, Constantine pays you an infuriating smirk.
"I...don't want them dead. Or...devoured."
"That's a start, I guess. Do you ever want to be with them again?"
Your eyes go wide as saucers. The simple answer, of course, is yes. You love them. You miss them.
However, answers are never so simple, with your Boys involved. Like an idiot, you dare to look at them, taking in Tex's hang-dog puppy-eyed look, and John's quiet but intense yearning. Then, of course, there is the man beside you, who despite his aloofness and his prickly manner, has been nothing but good to you.
You've never said it out loud, but the truth is, you love him too.
"I don't know."
"Yeah. I figured." He smirks at you, inexplicably smug, and you kind of want to smack him too.
Which always leads to interesting things, with John Constantine, your stupid lady parts sing out. Jesus Christ on a cracker, what a fucking mess.
"You got a point, Gandalf?" demands Tex, paying a nervous look to one of the cracked stained glass windows. Ominous dark shapes are flying past outside. This is not good.
"I want you assholes to accept a Spell of Submission to her."
"The fuck does that mean?" demands Tex with a thunderous frown. John remains neutral as he listens.
"It means, if you ever try to make her do something she really doesn't want to do, again, she can say the magic words to fuck up your world. Pardner."
"No fuckin' way," Tex scoffs.
At the same time, John answers, "I'll do it."
Your eyes meet across the aisle of the church. That he would take such a leap of faith-- for you-- drops the floor out from under you.
Tex, of course, interrupts your moment of soul- searching eye contact with John.
"Wait, so we could be havin' an argument and she can drop me dead with the evil eye or somethin'?"
Constantine snorts. "It would probably serve you right, Hee Haw, but no. Cause you extreme pain? Yes. But it comes at a price. All magic does. I know she wouldn't use it lightly."
It would potentially even the playing field quite a bit between you three. The balance of power amongst you had never been fair.
"What's a matter, Tex? You don't trust me?"
"Only as far a I could throw you, darlin'." But his hawk-like look softens for you after a moment, and then surprisingly he grins. "Got me over a barrel now, don't you?"
You shift a little in your seat, so that you're flush against Constantine. The solid line of his lithe warmth beside you is anchoring. You glance up at him, finding he looks arrogantly amused-- and surprisingly, a little sad. If you didn't know him so well you would have missed it, like ripples in a pool.
You turn back to Tex, an uneasy excitement thrumming in your chest.
"If the curse fits?"
The cowboy sighs, frowning at the hellspawn waiting to rend his flesh and eat his soul outside. "Alright, fine. Guess you might as well take it all." He can't look at you while he says it, but you sense his surrender-- or at least, his resignation. It's not exactly a victory, but it's something, and it pulls at your heartstrings.
"Alright, wizard boy. Hoodoo me up."
Constantine snorts, leaping up from the bench. "First we've got to get out of here. You're going to want to cover your eyes." He starts muttering an encantation and walking in a circle, sprinkling a powder on the ground from his pocket. "When this goes off we'll have ten minutes. Either of you assholes have a car nearby?"
"Yeah."
"Great. Hope you like to drive fast."
His chanting gets louder, and you see he's produced a lighter. He never uses it for cigarettes anymore, but portable fire to a magician has its uses. You can tell he's reaching the crescendo of his spell, and you scrunch your eyes closed. Even through your eyelids you see the flash, and the boom of a magical fireball that should have burned you all to dust.
However, only the things outside incinerate, their agonized cries echoing through the cavernous stone building.
"Let's move."
--------
Hope I set this up for Midnite's club and whatever shenanigans u guys want to get up to 😆 Enjoy! @sweetwolfcupcake @treedaddymcpuffpuff @tammykelly
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Yandere Tex Johnson x Witness!Reader x John Wick (AND x Constantine😜) Imagine WIP Part 9
Here we go my lovelies! @treedaddymcpuffpuff @sweetwolfcupcake @tammykelly @lilspookymeh @kurai-hono-blog
Wick could have been an asshole about buying a brand new kitchen, sundries included–but instead he merely shrugs off Constantine's hostile question. "Seemed like the least I could do."
Constantine glares, but lets it go, begrudgingly sitting down to a delectable meal cooked by the man he knows, deep down, that you've never been able to forget.
At Tex's midday administering of magical medicine, he takes your hand after you finish, refusing to let go. "Set with me a while, Rattlesnake." He pats the couch, on which there is no room unless you were to sit in his lap–undoubtedly his hope.
With a sigh and a knowing smirk you settle back in your chair. Your eyes are drawn to the burn upon his chest. He will carry that mark for the rest of his life, even if the magic is lifted.
You think on what Papa Midnite said to Constantine. "Take some big feeling..."
It kind of floors you, to think of the energy it took for Constantine to conjure that working out of thin air.
For you.
You told him a little bit about the boys. How they hurt you–and, how they saved your life. How you loved them, and how they destroyed you in their abandonment. No matter how you framed it, Constantine blamed them for the bullet wound forever seared in your side.
However, it wasn’t so simple as that.
"Whacha thinking, baby girl?"
You just shake your head with a tired smile. "Nothing important."
"Hmm. You gonna make me guess? Alright. You're thinkin'...bout that time in Mexico it was just you an me and the stars, out by the pool in our birthday suits."
You snort–quite against your will, it turns into a giggle.
"No..."
"Uh huh. You’re missin' my wicked tongue up between your thighs. I know that look."
"That's enough of that," you say, trying to stand. But he has your hand, and he tugs you so that you fall down to sit on the edge of the couch–and half on him. Your faces hover just centimeters away. You watch with horror a he tries to lean in, capitalizing on the opportunity. By the skin of your teeth, your heart in your throat, you just barely manage to turn your head.
"Didn't you miss me, rattlesnake?" he asks, his deep voice all sultry and low just wrecking you to the bone.
You dare reach up to caress his cheek with the blade of your thumb. "Of course I did. But there’s no going back, Tex. Maybe...that time is behind us." Just saying it hurts like a knife between the ribs, but you go on, “Maybe you and John did the right thing, letting me go.”
He just narrows his dark eyes at hearing that. You hate the way it gives you such a thrill, to the base of your spine, and lower still. “I thought you were mad about that? Hell, I’m still mad about that. I miss you so much I can hardly think straight. There’s just…” He frowns while he says it, but you know it’s just because he’d literally rather take a bullet than talk about his feelings. His grip on your hand tightens; he glares down at your silver rings like they owe him money. “There ain’t no point to anything, when you’re gone. Do you know what I mean?”
You close your eyes; for a moment you feel as though the floor has dropped out from under you, because you know exactly what he means. You lived it for months after they booted you, drifting from country to country, an empty husk of a woman, a gaping black hole where your heart used to be. Only after moving to LA, thinking about going back to school, and meeting Constantine, did your life start to feel like it had some meaning again.
“Yeah. I know what you mean,” you answer quietly. “But how did you think this would go? You’d knock on my door, and I’d just uproot my whole life for you again?”
“Maybe?” The confusion on his handsome face is almost cute. You realize he really did think it would be that easy, and you snort, looking away to a framed Tibetan Thangka painting on the wall. This man. As ever, you’re torn between kissing him and killing him. You have to keep reminding yourself that the former option is not even on the table.
“At least give me some credit. I coulda come in with guns blazin' but instead I brought flowers."
“You want credit?”
“Yeah. I’m practically a changed man. And I wouldn’t mind an apology from Wizard Boy either.”
"You've got to be kidding me." The pair on this man never ceases to amaze you.
"We were just having a little bit of friendly fisticuffs, but he fucked me up pretty good. That’s called unnecessary escalation.”
He would know.
"Spare me the macho bullshit. There’s no such thing as friendly fisticuffs. You were going to hurt my boyfriend, and you absolutely deserved what he gave you. You’re lucky he got Midnite to lift it."
Only a beat later do you realize you called Constantine your boyfriend within earshot of everyone, which you never do, because you both hate labels and the word just seems too high school for what you actually are to each other–but there’s no going back now.
“But–”
At last, at last, you are in a position where you don’t have to swallow his gaslighting. “No buts. You can behave yourself, Tex, or you can go. I mean it.”
Maybe drawn by the sound of your raised voice, Constantine chooses that moment to intervene, appearing at the foot of the couch with a magnificent frown.
“Well well, if it ain’t The Boy Who Lived.”
You know he’s just making yet another Harry Potter reference, but considering Constantine’s history, this nickname makes you flinch. Maybe it’s a mistake on your part, but you bristle. “Don’t call him that.”
Constantine, however, betrays nothing, just crossing his arms with that blandly judgy expression. “It’s alright, y/n. He loves childrens’ books–a man has to stick to his reading level.” You don't feel like arguing about the complexity of the later books, so you let the arrow fly.
You lift an eyebrow, side-eyeing Tex. “You do know an awful lot about Harry Potter for a grown ass man your age.”
For possibly the first time ever Tex actually looks sheepish. “Had to read something while I was in the shit.”
Tex never really told you much about his tour of duty in the Middle East. Bradford had intimated that it didn’t end well–but you weren’t exactly keen to take everything that asshole had said with any sort of seriousness. The thought of him holed up in a mud hut reading about Hogwarts kind of pulls at your heartstrings for some ridiculous reason.
“So what you want, Wizard Boy?” demands Tex, insouciantly refusing to let go of your hand, despite you tugging on it.
“I was going to check your chakras for malevolence, but I'm having second thoughts now.”
“Sounds illegal in five states.”
Constantine snorts. “You want me to double check Midnite's handiwork or not? If there's a trace of darkness left it could spread– and you'll be fucked all over again.”
“Not the way I like, I'm guessin’.”
“Probably not. But then again, you seemed to like Desdemona at the club. You want an introduction?” Constantine has a sly look on his handsome face as he asks this. It must be the succubus you'd run off– the thought of Tex in contact with her again makes you vibrate with jealousy. It is sharp, and fierce, and utterly fucking irrational.
You should encourage Tex to find someone else.
Your heart just doesn't agree.
“I'll…leave you two to it,” you say, reluctantly standing to pull away out of Tex's grip.
Only belatedly, after you've retreated to your room, do you realize that maybe Constantine interrupted your tête a tête with Tex for his sake, rather than yours.
***
John Wick whips you all up a beautiful dinner of sauteed meat and vegetables, complimented with a nice bottle of dry red wine that you're sure did not come from Trader Joe's. You play his sous chef, chopping up veggies, and it almost feels like old times in the kitchen, although he never would have given you access to a big sharp knife before. As though you ever would have had the nerve to stab him.
Tex was another matter.
At first you all sit down to share a semi-awkward meal, peppered with halting silences–until the second bottle of wine comes out, and then things flow more smoothly. It starts with Constantine cracking a joke at Tex's expense, which is surprisingly backed by Wick with a witty aside. Tex responds good naturedly, for once, and you just sit back and watch with a smile, a warm glow in your chest that feels too close to bliss to possibly last.
You help Wick with the dishes, drying as he washes because your dish rack is tiny. “You look tired, sweetheart,” he says after the last plate, bending down to kiss your forehead. You forget. You fucking forget that there are two other people there, one of whom is your current lover, and out of longing and pure habit you tilt your head back for the second staggeringly sweet kiss on your lips that always followed.
Only a long beat later do you realize what you've done, with Wick's shining dark eyes looking down on you, missing nothing. You gasp like a scandalized school girl, taking a small step back. “You're right,” you agree. “I am tired. Good night, everyone.” You're such a coward you can't even lift your head to look at any of them, though you can feel their eyes upon you as you scurry away.
Once in the sanctuary of your room you collapse on the bed, clutching the coverlet in your claws for hands, so embarrassed by your slip that you could die. You know that Constantine loves you, even if he’s never outright said it, and honestly probably never will–and this is how you repay him.
You really are a piece of work.
***
After you retreat, a silence falls over the kitchen, the three formidable men eyeing each other like wolves amidst a power struggle, trying to decide who is the weakest link and who is alpha. It’s Constantine who stands without a word, fetching his green glass bottle of Ardbeg single-malt scotch and setting it down in the middle of the table with a thunk. Then he produces three glasses–none matching–and pours out a finger for each.
“Gentlemen.” He looks between the two assassins seated at his table, a part of him flabbergasted as to how he’d even ended up in this situation. Before he met you, if someone told him someday he would find a woman he loved more than the air he breathed, he would have laughed them out of the room.
Not now.
How the mighty are brought low, and pride goeth before a fall, and all that proverbial biblical bullshit that is old as time and yet somehow still applies. Despite all our advances, humans are still essentially the same animal we were when we first left the cave and started walking upright–or when God created Adam out of dirt, whichever you find more believable.
“I believe we find ourselves at an impasse.”
“How you figure?” asks Tex, knocking back his drink and helping himself to another.
“Does being in love with the same woman ring a bell?”
Wick smirks, watching the exchange between the two, sipping his scotch sparingly. He does not contradict Constantine’s assessment, but in his succinct way he drives home the finer point. “More importantly, that woman is in love with all of us.”
The thought pulls something like a growl from deep in Constantine’s chest, but in the end he acknowledges, “Exactly.”
Tex smirks, leaning on his elbows. “Don’t be sore, Wizard Boy. Be grateful we broke her in for you.”
Constantine seems to count to ten under his breath, restraining himself from unleashing a curse on this fucking cowboy again. “You’re gonna have to give me pointers on how you manage not to murder him daily,” he says to Wick.
“I only listen to about half of what he says,” Wick admits with a smirk, a humorous glitter in his dark eyes.
“Good to know. My point is, if I curse you both into the Seventh Circle, it would hurt her. Likewise, if you two were to dig me a shallow grave out in the desert. You hurt her enough the first time. Do you follow?”
Wick nods, grasping Constantine’s train of thought immediately. Tex, however, has to chew on it a little–maybe because he’d hoped, for once, to finally have this girl to himself.
“You’re saying you don’t mind sharin’,” finally says Tex with a shit-eating grin, leaning back in his chair.
“Oh, I mind,” Constantine is sure to clarify. “But it’s up to her, if she wants you or not. If she decides she wants you to go–I will make you go. If she wants you to stay…” He spreads his big hands, as though to say, we’ll figure it out. Somehow.
Tex narrows his eyes, clearly debating if he should pick a fight over the make you go part, or take it as it sits on the table. “And how do you propose we let her know what we decided about this?”
Constantine snorts at that, draining his glass and standing from the table. “That’s your problem, Howdy Doody. Good night–and may the best man win.” The two assassins watch as John Constantine crosses to your bedroom, and practically shuts the door in their faces.
***
You are drifting on the edge of sleep when Constantine crawls into bed with you. You smile as you feel the familiar pattern of the depression in the mattress, and moan with surprise as he covers your mouth with his. You taste the Ardbeg on his tongue, which explains some of his ardor, but not all. The fury of his kisses on your lips and neck pulls an involuntary moan from deep in your lungs, his big hands digging into the flesh of your thigh, pulling you on top of him.
“John…?” Utterly star-struck, you blink down at him, disheveled in your pajama t-shirt and your hair a mess. He reaches up to cup your cheek, dwarfing your face in his large hand, studying you like there will be a test later. He opens his mouth like there’s something he wants to say to you, but he can’t quite get it out, the words stuck in his throat.
You think you know what it is, and your heart warms for it, that tingling thrill filling your chest and spreading outwards. You’re not even mad, that he can’t say it, because you get him. This is not the week you’re going to push him out of his comfort zone, more than you already have. Most of LA would laugh to hear it, but John Constantine has been a veritable fucking saint the past couple of days, and you’re so grateful to him.
“It’s ok,” you say softly, tracing the line of his square jaw. “I know.”
He frowns, almost like he wants to argue, but in the end he just shakes his head and pulls you to him.
You want to apologize for almost kissing John Wick right in fucking front of him–but that sticks in your throat too. You guess you’re both just a little raw tonight.
He peels off your t-shirt greedily as he guides you down. Hungry lips and a teasing tongue find the sensitive tips of your breasts, making you squirm with longing above him. You know you’ve already soaked through the laughable barrier of your panties, and are probably leaving an unsightly stain on his nice (200 dollar, he likes to tell you with a smirk) white shirt–but if the Chinese laundry down the street can get out demon blood stains, what’s a little cum?
You let out a cry of longing as he releases your nipple with a pop; the ache between your thighs is already nearly unbearable, and you can't stop yourself from grinding against his lean torso. You shut your mouth as soon as you open it, conscious of the paper thin walls and the two dangerous men on the other side of them.
“You like that, baby?” he taunts, hooking his fingers in your panties to tug them down.
“You know I do,” you pant.
“Then let me hear you,” he invites with a wicked smirk, shifting down so that you are nearly sitting on his face. You don’t know what was said out there, but you are starting to get the idea that John Constantine is up to something. But before you can even begin to think what to do about it, he pulls you forward with an undeniable grip on your thighs, and his tongue is laving up your slit.
“Fuck.”
This exclamation is not quiet, and neither are the ones after it. You practically shake the walls with your cries when you cum on his tongue, your body rendered into a quivering mess of over-stimulated nerves. He does not grant you mercy, even when you beg him, and by the time he is done with you, you are halfway to your second orgasm.
“Do you want me baby?” he demands, panting from his champion cunnilingus league exertions as he undresses himself. There is a desperation in his tone you’ve never quite heard before, and you have a feeling he’s not just talking about sex.
“I need you,” you tell him, and you mean every word. It wins you every inch of his hard cock buried inside you, and you can’t stop yourself from moaning, as though there is no room for breath in your body when filled with his impressive manhood. He grips you hard enough to bruise, his face buried in the bend of your neck.
He drives himself inside of you, hips pumping with the fury of his need, but he’s prepared you for it. It’s all you can do just to hold on, to the bed, to him, letting him use you exactly the way he wants to, because you know the past couple of days have been anything but easy for him.
When his thumb finds your clit you think you might die from the overwhelming sensation of it. “No,” you beg, somehow smiling through your exasperation. “Please. Mercy.”
He just pays you that impish curl of lips that always seriously makes you question which side he's playing for. “You can take it,” he informs you. “For me?” The way he pouts down at you while simultaneously rearranging your insides should be illegal.
“Fuck,” you swear again, and he grins down at you, knowing he’s got you in the bag. With your ankles around his ears he slows down for you, but still fills you to the absolute brim, working you in just the rhythm he knows you need with the tip of his too-clever thumb. There is a heart wrenching beauty in making love like this. The two of you have reached an understanding of each other's bodies, a point of familiarity in which you just know, and yet somehow each time is better than the last.
It isn't long before you cum on his cock with a ragged scream that you know there’s no way in hell the boys didn’t hear, yet you cannot stop it, you cannot care, because the man inside you has rendered you into a vessel for this mind-bending pleasure and in this moment, you belong completely to him. His hips snap against yours, and soon he follows with your greedy little cunt fluttering around him, spilling himself inside you with a loud groan.
He collapses beside you, pulling you into his arms. You revel in the sticky warmth of his seed seeping between your thighs, his heart a furious drumbeat beneath your ear. “Jesus fucking Christ,” is all you can manage to wheeze against the warmth of his chest.
“Right initials,” he pants, pressing lips to your hair. “Wrong guy.”
Thinking you really might have lost your mind, you start to cackle, and you can’t stop until you literally can’t breathe. You do not even have the energy to clean up, falling asleep in the beautiful mess John made of you, and maybe it’s just you, but even in his sleep John Constantine seems to hold you more tightly than he ever has before.
------------
😬
it's on? 😈😈😈
@sweetwolfcupcake @treedaddymcpuffpuff @tammykelly
#wicked johnson fic#constantine x reader#constantine x you#john wick#john wick x reader#keanu reeves#john wick x you#john wick x y/n#keanu reeves x reader#yandere john wick#tex johnson#tex johnson x you
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Tex Johnson x Witness!Reader x John Wick Imagine Part 1 by @treedaddymcpuffpuff @sweetwolfcupcake and @johnwickb1tsch GIF credits to @scarlettspectra ❤
What unholy fuckery is this, you ask? It's a round robin fic! And we're consolidating our parts here for your reading pleasure...
Summary: Imagine you're a witness in a high profile FBI case against the mafia and hitmen John Wick and Tex Johnson are competing for the contract on you. After some serious fighting and car chases in the end they just decide to fake your death and keep you for themselves...🤫 Original Post
Warnings: So many dead doves! Don't eat! Unless you like dead doves, that is. Violence, sexual content, blood, murder, kidnapping, possessive behavior, yandere sh!t...it's all here! Please take care! 😘
johnwickb1tsch:
In the beginning Tex plays with you, chatting you up in the local diner of the po-dunk town witness protection has stashed you in. You're so cute, he just can't help himself. He peppers you with "darlin's" and sly winks and usually you would tell someone hitting on you like this to fuck off, but... You can tell he's a little wild but he's so heart-stoppingly handsome and there's something infectious in the devil-may-care way he smiles at you with a mischievous glitter in his dark eyes. That down-home accent does things to you that shouldn't be mentioned in polite company. You actually like him, so it's an EXTRA shock when it turns out he's there to kill you...
treedaddymcpuffpuff:
And you’re just so sweet and cute and funny and fiery - just his type. And he’s just gonna make it quick and painless at first, but then you’re so entertaining that he wants to fuck with you for a while. Maybe even fuck you before he puts a bullet in your smart little head.
John Wick just flat out wants to kill you as soon as possible. Get it over with. At least at first. But, he’s John Wick, let’s be for real. And you’re just an innocent bystander who saw too much (and you volunteer at the local animal shelter and you always give out money to homeless people and you’re just an all around sweetheart, damn you), so John is gonna decide to say fuck his task (big shocker) and save you from Tex instead.
johnwickb1tsch:
You are incredibly lonely and bored in the little town you’ve been stuck in. You usually keep to yourself, as per your FBI handler’s warnings. But you’re having such a good time, when Tex asks if you want to go for a ride in his incredibly hot vintage muscle car…you ignore every bit of good sense you have left to your name, and agree. He thinks this is hilarious, of course. And…kind of endearing. Here you are, just eatin’ out of the palm of his hand like he’s not some kind of monster.
So…you go for a ride, and you don’t get too alarmed when Tex heads out of town. He can’t show off what this baby can do in the city limits, after all… But when there’s an explosion, the front tire going flat, and you have to pull over in the middle of nowhere, you start to get worried. When Tex gets out to see the tire’s been shot out…and he pulls a gun, looking around—you start to realize you made a HUGE fucking mistake. You get out of the car, thinking this would be a great time to go elsewhere. He tries to grab you, but you knee him in the crotch! 👈 @treedaddymcpuffpuff 🤭
Just your luck, here comes another vehicle speeding down the road. Wow, there are a lot of muscle cars on the road today. This one is dark gray, with black racing stripes. You try to flag him down—but change your mind when a hand extends out the window holding a gun, and he opens fire on Tex. You, understandably, duck for cover while screaming as the firefight ensues around you. Then suddenly strong hands are grabbing you up—and throwing you in the trunk... Dun dun dun! 😈🤣
sweetwolfcupcake:
Now, that's a shitty situation.
That's all you can think before you begin to scream for help. But who would be there in an isolated road, ready to go against two armed men? You can barely see the man shoving you into the trunk when another round of fire starts. The man backs off to pull his gun back, but that is enough time for you to slip put. Staggering on your feet. To your relief, it is tge familiar car. Your FBI handler!
"Oh God, oh God!"
You cry out in tears of part relief and part terror. How could you be so stupid? Following a stranger into his car?
treedaddymcpuffpuff:
Ah, your FBI case handler. He’s a tough guy. Trustworthy. Scrappy. You know he’ll protect you even though you really hate being a damsel in distress because fuck that trope. Except mystery man (JOHNNY BOY) shoots him in the kneecap faster than FBI man can blink or say “mercy”.
And then Tex grabs you and points a loaded Glock at your head, grinning that shark toothed grin that not too long ago was making you giggle like a schoolgirl. And now it’s just making you hyperventilate and practically piss yourself in fear.
And here you are, the bargaining chip in a game of who dies first with three grown men fighting over you.
Johnwickb1tsch:
“Well well. Ain’t this a sticky situation?” calls out Tex, taking cover behind his car, an arm wrapped firmly around your shoulders with that fucking gun to your head. The barrel digs into your temple painfully.
“Asshole,” you growl under your breath.
At a volume just for you he says, “Now, now, darlin’, don’t be sore.”
“I actually liked you.”
“I like you too. But your pretty head is worth a fuck ton o’ dinero. It’s a shame, sweetheart, but it ain’t lookin’ good for you.”
Tears start streaming down your cheeks as the hopelessness of the situation really settles down on you. “Then why don’t you just shoot me now?”
“That’s a helluva suggestion. You’re not very good at this game, are you?”
“It’s not a game, you bastard.”
“Sure it is.” Then in a louder voice he calls out, “Hey, John! Been a long time.”
There’s a long pause before you hear from the other side of the dark muscle car, “Yeah.”
“Whattya say we split the bounty, call it even stevens?”
“I don’t want the girl dead.”
This actually, if not stupidly, inspires some hope in you. But then if he was here to rescue you…why did he shoot your FBI agent?
Tex actually laughs about this. The feeling of his broad chest moving behind you is…distracting. “Now that’s interesting! How do you propose we go about that?”
“I kill you both and take her with me,” is this John’s deadpan response. He sounds so…certain that he can accomplish this. It’s kind of hot, if you’re being honest. You like the part about you not being dead, but the rest…
“Hey now, that’s not nice,” answers Tex, and you can tell he’s smiling as he says it. “And you forget about this big ol’ gun I got pressed to her head.”
“If you kill her, I’m going to kill you.”
“Anyone ever tell you you’re a one trick pony, John?”
“Yeah.”
“How bout this. For old time’s sakes. Remember how it was that time in Tijuana?”
“I was extremely drunk.”
Tex chuckles at this, some fond old memory, and your heart is slowly sinking little by little all the way to your feet.
“Well, I seem to remember you don’t mind sharing. I could live with that.”
The silence on this deserted road stretches on as John considers this.
“And after? The girl lives?”
“Sure, sure. We fake her death, take the money. She can go her way, and we go ours.”
“We’ll have to kill Dmitri Nobokov.”
“He’s an asshole anyway.”
“Deal.”
You are shocked when Tex releases you so suddenly you fall into a pile on the ground. What the fuck were they even talking about?? Sharing…you??! Moving in tandem, you watch as the two dangerous men close in on Agent Bradford. You hear shots, and you fear the worst. In the end you find yourself sitting on the ground, quivering like a terrified lump of jell-0, with two tall, stupidly handsome, mafia assassins looming over you.
“Are you guys…brothers, or something?”
Frowning, they look at each other. Tex in his denim and John in his smart black suit.
“What?”
“No.”
They reach down for you, and you find yourself locked in the trunk, again.
Treedaddymcpuffpuff:
You don’t see the need for the rope binding your wrists behind your back, or the tether on the ankles. Overkill, much?
Maybe they think you actually pose a challenge? Well, that’s nice of them, but even you’re not blimp-headed enough to think you can take on two taller, bigger, combat ready men. Plus, Tex lifted you like you were a goddamn sack of pillow stuffing.
You’re more convinced by the minute this is all just meant to humiliate you - the bondage, the trunk, the fucking slinging you over a shoulder and making casual conversation about how they’re going to pull off your death.
Which makes you seethe because you didn’t fucking do anything. And, poor Bradford, with the family and the kids.. well, probably, you don’t actually know about his personals. That doesn’t change the fact he was a living, breathing human - once - who was just trying to keep you safe.
You have to do something, so you don’t make it easy for them - you kick, squirm, bite. You get a big chunk of the nameless one’s hand in your mouth and latch on like a little boa, and he doesn’t even seem bothered. He just sighs, pinches your nose shut until you have to let go.
“Now, darlin’,” Tex coos, too close to your ear for comfort, “we gotta gag you, too?”
“I hate you,” you spit.
Tex sifts the prickly rope through his hands, fast, big fingers way too agile, snaps it taut, chuckles like he was hoping you’d say something bitchy. And watching that debauched show should have not made your insides give an abrupt, furious clench. But it just does.
“Guess that’s a yes,” he sighs.
Johnwickb1tsch:
When the blade comes out is when you really start to panic. They debated for what felt like hours about what was the best way to drain your fucking blood. Something about staging your death, burning Agent Bradford's body in his car, leaving some of your blood and hair at the scene.
Jesus fucking christ, how has your life come to this?
When you feel Tex's rough hand on your arm, inspecting your anatomy for a vein, you start to cry. You couldn't be more surprised, than when you feel a soft touch in your cheek. "Hey, it's going to be alright. We just need a little." It's the intense one. John. He doesnt say much, but you get the feeling he could burn down the world with that anthracite gaze.
Still, you whimper when you feel the cool blade on your skin. "Don't hurt her," warns John, his voice not so gentle for Tex, filled with warning.
"I'm not," insists the one behind you. You feel a sting, but somehow, he was telling the truth. You feel the warm drip of your blood oozing down your arm. They're catching it in a 7-11 cup. How...decorous.
"Really, you should be thanking us," drawls Tex. "We saved your life."
Your exclamation of "Are you fucking kidding me?" is muffled by the scratchy rope in your mouth.
Tex gets it though, and grins. "That's right. It was an open contract, darlin'. If we didn't find you, someone else would have. Someone not so nice."
John tilts his head slightly in agreement.
"How did you find out where the Federal Bureau of Incompetence was keepin' her, Wick?"
"A mole." It's the only shred of hope you have.
"What a coincidence."
Bradford was a good man. You at least know it wasn't him.
Even though you're tied up, you are so relieved when they finally go. However, it seems like they're not gone long before they return to the secluded hideout. They are not happy. Apparently, Bradford's body was gone from the scene. He could still be out there, looking for you.
sweetwolfcupcake:
Hope flared within you, and it might have shown, unfortunately. You felt fingers grab your chin-- firm, not painful(for now).
"Don't be so quick to sigh. Finding him is a child's play for us. And then we kill him." Tex' cold stare greeted her.
Though a biting reply remained at the tip of your tongue, you knew better than to piss them off. Your life was still in their hands, after all.
"I have made the arrangements." The other man approached them, he was on call for a while.
He glanced at you and sighed. His eyes found Tex before he nodded. You frowned as your mind raced with possibilities, but it was only for a moment before you felt a sharp, sudden pain at the back of your head and your eyes rolled back.
"You were supposed to go for the vein, not hit her!" John hissed, cradling your lolled head in his hands.
" Remind me next time." Tex rolled his eyes, no sign of remorse visible.
With his jaws tensed, John let your head rest and got to work. There were a lot of things to take care of-- faking your death, for example.
Treedaddymcpuffpuff:
When they go, they don’t even give you hope of escape - they bind you tight to a cushiony blue chair with wooden legs and arms, expertly looping ropes around and across. It would be really hot, how they move together flawlessly and work the rope like it’s a good friend, if they weren’t making sure you couldn’t move a damn inch in the process. Oh, who are you kidding? Despite your rage and fear and sorrow, your panties are still completely soaked watching big hands and bulging veins and sinew and tendon.
And now you’re highly uncomfortable, trying to squirm and getting absolutely nowhere. You’re trussed up like a thanksgiving turkey, and then they leave. Just fucking leave. How. Dare. They.
When they get back, you’ve got drool running down and soaking your shirt, neck and chin. You’re sweaty, disheveled, uncomfortable. Despite being left to your sparse devices, the arousal has just gotten worse. Because you’ve been alone with your imagination - which has been preoccupied with two very beautiful men - and you’re fucking aching. Seeing them again makes it so much worse… are they laughing, getting along? Some inside joke. Fucking rat bastards
And they’re touching you and examining you and talking about you like you are the actual thanksgiving turkey. Unconsciousness actually feels like a great relief. It’s probably the best thing that’s happened so far.
John cuts your hair and takes some skin from a place that will heal quickly. They untie you, put your limp body back in the trunk - John does this, too, being very gentle with you, carrying you bridal style instead of over his shoulder like some caveman. He checks your pulse, makes sure your oxygenation is okay, and then does what Tex should have and injects your vein with a heavy sedative to keep you knocked.
“Ya know, I kinda liked her better when she was alive and biting the shit out of you,” Tex muses as he and John slide into the car. “She’s cute, huh? Kinda tight, just needs loosened up a little bit.” Tex raises a suggestive eyebrow and John glares him down.
“Lighten up, addle-pot,” Tex replies to John’s heavy silence.
sweetwolfcupcake:
The sensation of the jerking increased along with the pain at the back of her head.
It hurt. The throbbing continued as she gulped-- her throat burned. The discomfort urged her to open her heavy eyes faster. Her vision was hazy but she could make out the interiors of a car. She blinked slowly.
They were silent, except for occasional whispered comments from Tex and one-word answers from the other man who looked exactly like Tex but had a distinct aura, some kind of energy that sent chills down her spine. It was like being in the presence of a dangerous creature with barely contained primitiveness. He looked more refined and spoke with a tone and way that suggested quality. And yet...and yet something in the back of her mind would be ready for a fight or flight response in his presence. If anything, he had been comparatively nicer to her. Tex was a jerk in every annoying sense-- but she could dare to have a verbal spat with Tex, and give him a fitting reply. The other man though...
She had not realized that she had been starring at them until a hand reached out for her from the front seat.
"She's awake." A voice gently declared. Fingers touched her cheeks gently and she knew that it was the other man.
Even with swimming sight, she could tell that the car was speeding through and the other man's gaze was set on her form laying on the backseat.
Only if...
Only if she had been smarter, and not blindly trusted a stranger--- she wouldn't be in this mess, Bradford was her only hope now, he had proven his capabilities to her time and again and she knew that he was out there, trying to track her down.
She only hoped that he was well, alive, and he knew that she was alive as well.
tbc...
#john wick#tex johnson#tex johnson x you#tex johnson x reader#john wick x you#john wick x reader#yandere john wick#yandere tex johnson#wicked johnson fic
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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.
#wicked johnson fic#yandere john wick#yandere tex johnson#john wick#tex johnson#john wick x you#john wick x y/n#john wick x reader#john wick fic#keanu reeves x reader
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Yandere Tex Johnson x Reader x John Wick round robin part 3 WIP
With my evil masterminds @treedaddymcpuffpuff @sweetwolfcupcake 😈😈😘😘
Readers: this is our working doc for part 3. If you're new here, see the Masterlist (it's at the bottom), and WARNING, doves are dropping dead everywhere around here!! NSFW, yandere sh!t, 18+, plz take care!
“Atonement? What the fuck does that mean?”
“It means,” Tex says with that wolfish smile, “That you hurt our feelings, and you gotta say you’re sorry.” He reaches up to coil a bit of your hair around his finger, tugging gently. Having the two of them crowding you against the wall like this is terrifying—and insanely…titillating, if you’re being honest. Your eyes follow the line of Tex’s arm up by your head, from muscular forearm to the curve of his bicep. A thing of beauty, truly.
You should not be this attracted to either of them.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
“Nope. So now I think you have to sleep with both of us.”
John pays his partner a sliding side-eye look that conveys maybe he’s not so happy with this arrangement.
“And I gotta say, I’m feeling a little left out that you kissed John but not me.”
You’re pretty sure John kissed you—then lightly assaulted you?—but who’s counting.
“I think she liked kissing me,” says John, claiming your attention again. “Didn’t you, honey?”
Suddenly, your mouth is dry as a desert, as you try to form a response and utterly fail. You wish you could just disappear into the wall behind you.
Now Tex’s hand is on your cheek, turning you back to him. You are getting dizzy, with all the back and forth. How the fuck do they expect you to keep up with them? You watch with fascinated horror as Tex lowers his head to you, his full mouth pressing yours. The sweep of his tongue in your mouth sends a spear of desire straight to your center; you hate it, that they make you feel this way. Pent up and helpless, needy and yet somehow so alone.
It builds in you like the fuse on a firecracker—you nip Tex’s beautiful lower lip hard enough to draw blood.
He jerks back, touching his mouth. You expect anger when he sees the blood, but he laughs. “You fucking little rattlesnake,” he growls, ducking to your neck, his big hand on your waist pinning you hard against the wall. Before you know what’s happening you feel his teeth there, at the bend where your neck meets your shoulder. He bites you hard enough to bruise, sucking for good measure so that you know there will be a mark.
The pain is sharp and you whine, squirming against them. But there’s no getting away. That’s starting to sink in a little more, and it makes your knees weak. You start to slide down the wall in your last attempt to get away from them, but strong hands hold you up. There’s a hand under your shirt, holding your bare waist. You’re not sure whose, until you realize, it’s both of them.
@sweetwolfcupcake @treedaddymcpuffpuff ::innocent whistling:: :)))))))))
#yandere john wick#yandere tex johnson#john wick x you#john wick x reader#tex johnson x you#tex johnson x reader#john wick fic#yandere#john wick x y/n#john wick#tex johnson
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Imagine you're a witness in a high profile FBI case against the mafia and hitmen John Wick and Tex Johnson are competing for the contract on you. After some serious fighting and car chases in the end they just decide to fake your death and keep you for themselves...🤫
Bonus: If you're good Tex will wear the Zorro costume for you...
This is all basically @treedaddymcpuffpuff 's fault 😘. Gif credits to pinterest and @johnswick 🙏.
#john wick#tex johnson#keanu reeves#john wick imagine#john wick x reader#john wick x you#tex johnson x you#tex johnson x reader#swedish dicks#wicked johnson fic
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Yandere Tex Johnson x Reader x John Wick round robin part 4 WIP
With my evil geniuses @treedaddymcpuffpuff @sweetwolfcupcake 😈😈😘😘
Readers: this is our working doc for part 4. If you're new here, see the Masterlist (it's at the bottom), and WARNING, doves are dropping dead everywhere around here!! NSFW, yandere sh!t, 18+, plz take care!
They’re trying to kill you.
That is the thought that plays through your mind as Tex takes you to the top of the mountain with that wicked tongue, only to pull back at the last moment. Again, and again, he drives you to madness with long hard licks and wet little flicks over your clit, two of those thick fingers buried inside your needy little cunt. The bed is soaked beneath you; your thighs have begun to tremble uncontrollably; your throat is hoarse from the violence of the moans he forces from your throat.
That you could be a stone, hard and unyielding and unaffected by any of this.
But you’re just a woman made of flesh and blood, and these two men may as well have read the book on how exactly to stretch you down that fine line between heaven and hell.
After edging you for the umpteenth time Tex wipes his mouth your thigh with a satisfied smirk, those dark eyes burning up at you. “You ready for me, honey?”
You know you resemble a haggard and small creature of the woods, your eyes huge and tear-filled as you look up at him. You should be proud, that a part of you still wants to tell him to go to hell. But some little voice warns you from the back of your head, that you wouldn’t survive it.
Language isn’t really working for you right now. All you can manage is a plaintive whine that makes him smirk down at you. Someday you bargain with yourself. Someday, you’ll figure out how to make them pay for this. But right now…you’re helpless. And so you might as well…
Your thoughts stop dead as Tex unzips his jeans. Your gaze follows that leading line of dark hair down, and you lay eyes on just what this man has in store for you. You’re not sure if the whimper you make is out of anticipation, or fear.
“Shh,” says John from behind you. You hadn’t forgotten about him, of course, his hands still full of your breasts. “You’ll be fine.” Easy for him to say, and from the firm bulge that keeps pressing your cheek with your head in his lap, you can tell he’s not going to be any easier on you either.
Tex sizes you up with that smoldering gaze, as though he’s plotting something nefarious. Just that look makes you ache all over again, even while you tremble with nerves.
“Goddamn,” he grumbles, almost to himself as he pumps himself in his hand, spreading the beads of precum from his tip. “You sure you don’t want a piece of this, Johnny?”
You’re not really sure what he means by that, and you look up at John with wide eyes, what has become your knee-jerk reaction when you seek assurance, or mercy. You forgot that right now, at least, he has none left for you. His sharp look aimed down at you is nothing less than that of a hungry wolf.
“Would you do that for me, sweet girl?” he asks, stroking you from the tips of your nipples up to your hair. That one touch makes you writhe, and the corner of his mouth turns up in a smirk.
With those big hands on your hips Tex flips you onto all fours, manhandling you into position exactly as he pleases. As he presses his length against the seam of your buttocks, grinding, your arms already begin to shake.
When John unzips his pants you begin to understand what they have in mind.
“Think you can handle us both, darlin’?” asks Tex, his hand lightly smoothing over the curve of your freshly bruised ass.
“She can do it,” John answers for you, sweeping your hair away from your face to turn your eyes up to his. He kisses you, coaxing you with his tongue, dragging your lower lip lightly with his teeth. “For me?” You hate yourself so much, for finding that you don’t want to disappoint him. You blink up at him, at a loss for words. But just slightly, you feel yourself nod, and he smiles at you like you have just signed your soul away to this wicked man.
With hands bracketing your head he guides you down to his massive erection. You take the velvety soft skin of his glans like a strawberry between your lips, licking messily before his light fingers on the back of your head guide you down. Simultaneously you savor Tex’s thick tip at your weeping entrance, your aching pussy craving to be stretched and ruined, before slowly he slides himself inside. He’s damn near gentle with you at first, as much as he can be with a cock like a weapon of massive destruction. Maybe it’s because of the mouthful you’ve got on the other end, or maybe…he’s savoring it too.
“Such a sweet little pussy,” he groans, working himself inside. “So tight and wet for me. Fuck.” Your answering moan is echoed all around, the cause and effect of Tex’s thrust driving you deeper onto John’s cock, to the very back of your throat, making you gag a little. The back and forth of it would almost have been comical, if not for the bone-melting madness overtaking the three of you in your quest for that ultimate release. For the moment your enmity with these men is forgotten. There is just flesh, and friction, and the promise of something absolutely incandescent on the horizon.
When Tex’s thick fingers slide between your legs to tease your nub you double down, clenching him fiercely inside you, so desperate to cum. It makes him swear behind you, pinching your clit in revenge. You see stars, so close to finally going to pieces. “Gaddamn, honey. I think you’d break a lesser man with that thing.”
You can’t tell him to shut up, so you moan in answer, the vibration on John’s cock causing him to buck up into your mouth, his long fingers grasping at your hair. You push your ass further up in the air in offering, tilting your hips, chasing your pleasure on Tex’s fingers with his manhood filling you to the hilt, and you minding your teeth all the while. Who knew you were such a champion multitasker? You deserved a fucking medal.
Tex’s thrusts grow more erratic behind you. His voice has dropped an octave, turned to pure gravel as he asks, “You close, baby?”
You’re not sure how he interprets your answering groan, but when his hips snap against you, filling you with the hot rush of his seed, it’s exactly the angle and the pressure you need. The explosion of scintillating warmth fills your womb and spreads outward, all the way to the tips of your fingers. John’s strong hands on your shoulders are all that save you from collapsing on him, as he spills salty cum into your mouth. You shudder with your aftershocks as you swallow him down, Tex’s fingers gripping your hips so hard you know you’ll have bruises.
To say you collapse is an understatement. The three of you lay curled together as though you are nearly dead, unable to move for several minutes more. It’s John who recovers first, not shy about kissing you with his mitt of a hand holding your cheek, sliding down your neck, then teasing your nipple. You cry out for the overstimulation, squirming away, and Tex’s broad chest rumbles with low laughter behind you.
“See,” says Tex sleepily, always having to get in the last word. “I knew you’d cum ‘round.”
“If I could move, I would kick you,” you grumble, even as you nestle down on his arm beneath you, the swell of his bicep your pillow.
“Sticks and stones, rattlesnake,” he fires back softy into your hair, just this side of the line between awake and asleep.
“I’m going to gag you both,” John threatens, sounding just as tired, his hand on your waist. When you look to him through heavy lashes you see the slight curve of his smile, his dark eyes all for you.
You all fall into a deep slumber before he has to make good on the threat.
--------
points at @treedaddymcpuffpuff This is all her fault! 🤣 Batter up @sweetwolfcupcake :)))))))))))))))))))))))))
#john wick#tex johnson#john wick x reader#john wick x you#john wick x y/n#keanu reeves x reader#yandere john wick#yandere tex johnson#tex johnson x you#im so sorry :))))))))))
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Yandere Tex Johnson x Witness!Reader x John Wick Imagine Part 4 by @treedaddymcpuffpuff @sweetwolfcupcake and @johnwickb1tsch
Original Post Part 1 Part 2 Part 3
Warnings: So many dead doves! Do not eat! Unless you like dead doves, that is. You're in good company here. 😘 Violence, sexual content, blood, murder, kidnapping, possessive behavior, yandere sh!t...it's all here! Please take care! 😘
Johnwickb1tsch:
They’re trying to kill you.
That is the thought that plays through your mind as Tex takes you to the top of the mountain with that wicked tongue, only to pull back at the last moment. Again, and again, he drives you to madness with long hard licks and wet little flicks over your clit, two of those thick fingers buried inside your needy little cunt. The bed is soaked beneath you; your thighs have begun to tremble uncontrollably; your throat is hoarse from the violence of the moans he forces from your throat.
That you could be a stone, hard and unyielding and unaffected by any of this.
But you’re just a woman made of flesh and blood, and these two men may as well have read the book on how exactly to stretch you down that fine line between heaven and hell.
After edging you for the umpteenth time Tex wipes his mouth your thigh with a satisfied smirk, those dark eyes burning up at you. “You ready for me, honey?”
You know you resemble a haggard and small creature of the woods, your eyes huge and tear-filled as you look up at him. You should be proud, that a part of you still wants to tell him to go to hell. But some little voice warns you from the back of your head, that you wouldn’t survive it.
Language isn’t really working for you right now. All you can manage is a plaintive whine that makes him smirk down at you. Someday you bargain with yourself. Someday, you’ll figure out how to make them pay for this. But right now…you’re helpless. And so you might as well…
Your thoughts stop dead as Tex unzips his jeans. Your gaze follows that leading line of dark hair down, and you lay eyes on just what this man has in store for you. You’re not sure if the whimper you make is out of anticipation, or fear.
“Shh,” says John from behind you. You hadn’t forgotten about him, of course, his hands still full of your breasts. “You’ll be fine.” Easy for him to say, and from the firm bulge that keeps pressing your cheek with your head in his lap, you can tell he’s not going to be any easier on you either.
Tex sizes you up with that smoldering gaze, as though he’s plotting something nefarious. Just that look makes you ache all over again, even while you tremble with nerves.
“Goddamn,” he grumbles, almost to himself as he pumps himself in his hand, spreading the beads of precum from his tip. “You sure you don’t want a piece of this, Johnny?”
You’re not really sure what he means by that, and you look up at John with wide eyes, what has become your knee-jerk reaction when you seek assurance, or mercy. You forgot that right now, at least, he has none left for you. His sharp look aimed down at you is nothing less than that of a hungry wolf.
“Would you do that for me, sweet girl?” he asks, stroking you from the tips of your nipples up to your hair. That one touch makes you writhe, and the corner of his mouth turns up in a smirk.
With those big hands on your hips Tex flips you onto all fours, manhandling you into position exactly as he pleases. As he presses his length against the seam of your buttocks, grinding, your arms already begin to shake.
When John unzips his pants you begin to understand what they have in mind.
“Think you can handle us both, darlin’?” asks Tex, his hand lightly smoothing over the curve of your freshly bruised ass.
“She can do it,” John answers for you, sweeping your hair away from your face to turn your eyes up to his. He kisses you, coaxing you with his tongue, dragging your lower lip lightly with his teeth. “For me?” You hate yourself so much, for finding that you don’t want to disappoint him. You blink up at him, at a loss for words. But just slightly, you feel yourself nod, and he smiles at you like you have just signed your soul away to this wicked man.
With hands bracketing your head he guides you down to his massive erection. You take the velvety soft skin of his glans like a strawberry between your lips, licking messily before his light fingers on the back of your head guide you down. Simultaneously you savor Tex’s thick tip at your weeping entrance, your aching pussy craving to be stretched and ruined, before slowly he slides himself inside. He’s damn near gentle with you at first, as much as he can be with a cock like a weapon of massive destruction. Maybe it’s because of the mouthful you’ve got on the other end, or maybe…he’s savoring it too.
“Such a sweet little pussy,” he groans, working himself inside. “So tight and wet for me. Fuck.” Your answering moan is echoed all around, the cause and effect of Tex’s thrust driving you deeper onto John’s cock, to the very back of your throat, making you gag a little. The back and forth of it would almost have been comical, if not for the bone-melting madness overtaking the three of you in your quest for that ultimate release. For the moment your enmity with these men is forgotten. There is just flesh, and friction, and the promise of something absolutely incandescent on the horizon.
When Tex’s thick fingers slide between your legs to tease your nub you double down, clenching him fiercely inside you, so desperate to cum. It makes him swear behind you, pinching your clit in revenge. You see stars, so close to finally going to pieces. “Gaddamn, honey. I think you’d break a lesser man with that thing.”
You can’t tell him to shut up, so you moan in answer, the vibration on John’s cock causing him to buck up into your mouth, his long fingers grasping at your hair. You push your ass further up in the air in offering, tilting your hips, chasing your pleasure on Tex’s fingers with his manhood filling you to the hilt, and you minding your teeth all the while. Who knew you were such a champion multitasker? You deserved a fucking medal.
Tex’s thrusts grow more erratic behind you. His voice has dropped an octave, turned to pure gravel as he asks, “You close, baby?”
You’re not sure how he interprets your answering groan, but when his hips snap against you, filling you with the hot rush of his seed, it’s exactly the angle and the pressure you need. The explosion of scintillating warmth fills your womb and spreads outward, all the way to the tips of your fingers. John’s strong hands on your shoulders are all that save you from collapsing on him, as he spills salty cum into your mouth. You shudder with your aftershocks as you swallow him down, Tex’s fingers gripping your hips so hard you know you’ll have bruises.
To say you collapse is an understatement. The three of you lay curled together as though you are nearly dead, unable to move for several minutes more. It’s John who recovers first, not shy about kissing you with his mitt of a hand holding your cheek, sliding down your neck, then teasing your nipple. You cry out for the overstimulation, squirming away, and Tex’s broad chest rumbles with low laughter behind you.
“See,” says Tex sleepily, always having to get in the last word. “I knew you’d cum ‘round.”
“If I could move, I would kick you,” you grumble, even as you nestle down on his arm beneath you, the swell of his bicep your pillow.
“Sticks and stones, rattlesnake,” he fires back softy into your hair, just this side of the line between awake and asleep.
“I’m going to gag you both,” John threatens, sounding just as tired, his hand on your waist. When you look to him through heavy lashes you see the slight curve of his smile, his dark eyes all for you.
You all fall into a deep slumber before he has to make good on the threat.
Sweetwolfcupcake:
When you wake up next time, you notice two things first--
One, that your clothes are not the same from last night, they smell fresh-- you smell fresh.
Second, despite the freshness, there is a dull ache between your legs and exhaustion in your limbs.
All you want to do is to remain in bed.
The bed... It smells fresh, too. You sigh, dream-like flashes of being in a tub with them come to you one by one. Were you so out of it?
Why wouldn't you be? They exhausted you, left you sore, reeling, and alone.
You don't realise the dull sting behind your eyes until you are blinking away tears.
You really are their plaything, aren't you?
And you could not even resist them, resist the temptation last night.
Frustrated and rather disappointed at yourself, yet not finding much heat to the fire as you would have liked, you sink further into the softness of the bedding, letting your tired limbs relax.
But the state does not last long, as you hear the door to the room being unlocked. You perk up- alert as a deer as you turn your head.
"Good morn'n, Rattlesnake! In mood to bite?"
You roll your eyes and let your head fall back. You have no energy for another round of war of words.
"Aww, are you all spent-up now? No hissin' ?"
And the most annoying person award goes to him.
But you hold back the biting reply at the tip of your tongue. Instead, choosing to nestle into the covers.
"You still sore down there?"
You frown, surprised at the question. Hid voice lack the usual biting playfulness, instead has a tinge of... something. You are almost afraid to say but, something like concern hides in his question.
But you mentally shake your head, Tex doesn't really care, neither of them care, according to your conclusions.
"I'm asking something."
The edge in his voice makes you glare back at him as he looms over the bed.
"I--Im--" Your mouth feels dry and throat, slightly irritated. "I'm good." You manage to finish after clearing your throat.
Tex's eyes remain locked with yours for a good moment before he nods and turns to the nightstand, pouring some water into a glass.
"Sit up now, breakfast's on comin'."
Your stomach grumbles at the word, and you are suddenly famished. Yes, breakfast would be good.
Only if you can eat alone.
Somehow, after last night, you do not want to face them. More embarrassed at yuyr broken resolution to not get tempted by them than afraid of them mocking you.
You are waiting for the stinging mockery, but for now, Tex shows no sign of it. Instead, he ushers you to sit up, and you do with a slight groan.
"Why are you being like this?"
The question slips out of you before you can think twice, and Tex rewards you with a smirk.
"Aww, I thought you'll like me better then."
He leans closer, invading your space like je owns it, owns you.
Fun fact, he doesn't.
"I don't like you." You narrow your eyes at him.
"Didn't feel that like last night, honey."
There was the mockery back in his tone. Strangely, a concerned, or even mildly sweet Tex puts you on edge more than an silent, observant John.
But you can't help the flush on your cheeks and neck at the mention if the previous night.
They pulled you to the heights you have never been before and sunk you to the depths you do not think you can be in again.
Before you can come up with an apt reply, the door opens again, and the quieter devil walks in with a tray in his hold.
Well, isn't it a lovely morning?
Treedaddymcpuffpuff:
You shovel food and orange juice down your gullet like you’ve been starving for weeks. You feel like you have been starving for weeks. You have got to admit, whoever made this meal knows what they’re doing - no complaints from you as you stuff yourself with delicious eggs and thick buttery toast.
“Slow down, honey,” John says, catching your attention. You look up to see them both watching you eat like you’re some kind of circus freak.
You glower at him. “What, I’m not even allowed to eat like I want?”
It’s sort of like you’re a little honey bee using its dying stinger on an armored Rhino, because he just stares you down with a tiny crinkled warning at the corner of his eyes - you hate that you know enough about him to get nervous just from that look.
Tex snorts. “Told ya she’d get her bite back. Listen, little snake, you better start being nicer to the two men that decide whether you get to have orgasms or not.”
He laughs at your expression. “Oh no, don’t gimme that curled lip. It’s true.”
“Is that what I am?” You ask, batting your eyelashes and scrunching your nose - trying another approach. If being a bitch hasn’t worked so far, maybe adorable and pathetic will yield some results. “Am I a sex slave? Like, some kind of cheap whore.”
“Oh, my Bonnie lady,” Tex says, sitting on the edge of the bed and tucking a loc of hair behind your ear. “You are not some cheap whore.” For a minute, his expression turns genuine. Ah, so maybe acting like a sweet bimbo is the ticket.
“After all, 2.5 million dollars ain’t exactly cheap.” Your hopes are dashed as the wicked grin slides back onto his face like it belongs there permanently.
You can’t help it - you glare bullets into him. Fucking asshole.
After you’re done eating, John takes your plate out. You try and stand up, but your legs are still wacky inflatable wailing tube men. Tex picks you up in one swoop, even though you threaten to curse his family bloodline, and then carries you into the living room. Oh, this place is nice.
Open, white sandstone. Coral brick trim. A warm breeze drifting through gauzy cream curtains that you can’t quite see behind. Massive windows blocked by climbing vines. You don’t know much about architecture - you haven’t traveled - but it sort of looks like you’re in a rainforest bungalow.
“Where are we?” You ask Tex, wide eyed and open mouthed.
“I’ll tell you if you give me another kiss.”
Not a chance in hell, cowboy, you think, turning your head away.
John is sitting on the big red linen sectional, thumbing over some kind of electronic, sleek tablet. When he sees you, he beams a devastating smile that could snuff Tex’s cheeky grin any day. Maybe that’s just because he doesn’t smile a lot, though.
Your mouth can’t help but raise a little. Visions of last night are starting to flood back into your head, and, with John and Tex center in all of them, you’re getting shyer and more embarrassed by the minute.
There’s a reason for the aching soreness between your legs and your inability to stand for more than five seconds: They had fucked the absolute shit out of you. On the bed several times, in the bathtub, on the counter, tongues and teeth and hands and cocks stretching you and filling to the brim. Pretty soon, it had turned into a contest of who could make you scream the loudest, or who could make you beg harder, or who could transform you into a babbling, incoherent, mindless set of holes. And then they started working together again, giving a new meaning to the word human fucktoy.
The verdict is clear, you are definitely now an expensive whore.
“C’mere,” John murmurs, holding out his arms for Tex to hand you over. They pass you along like you’re a pampered kitten instead of a grown woman, and John curls you up on his lap. He gives your head a little kiss. “How are you feeling? Any unbearable discomfort?”
“Yes. Please. I need to go to a hospital right away.” You roll your eyes.
“That mean you’re ready for another round?” Tex asks, toying with the hem of your silky nightie.
You practically climb up John’s chest to get away from him. “No. No. Too much.”
John unhooks your arms from his head, looking all too amused, and settles you back into his lap. He completely ignores the back and forth between Tex and you, opting instead to pull up something on his device and show Tex.
“Really? What in the fuck.” Tex raises an eyebrow. “He’s either dumb or stupid.”
You look between them, oblivious.
John speaks like he’s having a casual picnic conversation. “We’re going to kill Bradford. How do you want us to do it?”
For once, you’re looking at Tex for help.
He shrugs. “Ladies choice.”
Johnwickb1tsch:
It dawns on you with horror that these two men are trying to draw you even further into complicity with the horrible events of the past couple of days. If you help plot Bradford's death--youre not a hapless victim anymore.
You'd be an accomplice.
"I don't want him dead," you say quietly. "Jesus, you're not putting that on me."
"After what he did to you?" asks John, genuinely surprised. "He betrayed you."
"He's an asshole. Yeah. But...what about his kids? His wife?"
John just looks at you blankly. Tex, however, is not so skilled at hiding his emotions, his handsome features pulled in a frown.
"Guess that's what we get for tryin' to do somethin' nice." Rather incongruously, he pulls your feet into his lap, squeezing them in his big hands. That part, at least, feels heavenly. Everything is sore...but why do your feet hurt?
So how do you break it to your assassin boyfriends--lovers?--captors??-- that murder is not the best gift for a sweetheart?
John just sighs, and you can't help but feel like you've disappointed him.
"She's kinda ungrateful, isn't she? Maybe we should teach her a lesson." Suddenly Tex's hold on your feet becomes restraining.
"Hey!"
You look to John for help, but his arms just tighten around your waist. You have gone from pampered kitten to mouse in a trap in two seconds flat.
"When someone offers you a gift, you say Thank you."
"Murder is not a gift," you snarl, pushing at him with your heels. It's fruitless, of course, but it does make him smile. He slides to the floor, wedging his body between your legs, and you are fucked.
Maybe literally as much as figuratively.
"What if it's his life or yours?" asks John behind you.
"What do you mean?"
"He's talking to reporters."
"And he is not tellin' the story he was paid to."
You look down at Tex who is grazing his teeth against the inside of your knee, almost absently, like a puppy gnawing on a toy.
"It could put us all at risk."
You blink, not sure what to make of all this. "...Why would he do that? Surely he knows you would go after him?"
"Maybe he's settin' a trap. Tryin' to smoke us out."
"Then doesn't it make sense to lay low here?" you ask hopefully.
"Aww, she wants us at home," purrs Tex. "But there is the principle of the matter. Poor Johnny boy'll be goin' broke pretty soon here, payin' Bradford first for information, then for silence, and then he's gotta pay you..." The man flashes you a shit eating grin, and you can hear the rest on the tip of his tongue.
The whore.
"Sounds like that makes me his whore, cowboy. Maybe you shouldn't be touching me." His hand had been sliding slowly up your thigh as he ran his mouth, which was kinda nice, but now you smack it like a naughty boy caught with his paw in the cookie jar.
At first he's actually surprised--by the snap of the sound, or that you would even dare. Then an evil little grin curls his full lips, his dark eyes glittering like you just handed him a marvelous gift. "John, where's that rope? The fancy stuff you were talkin' about?"
John, however, is still as a statue behind you, considering his answer.
Suddenly, he stands with you in his arms. You clutch at him for the sudden loss of gravity, but he is solid and unyielding in his grip of you. "Sorry, but she raises a good point. I think I've earned some alone time with my darling."
He strides for the bedroom, and you peek over his broad shoulder at Tex, who watches you go with a rather forlorn look on his stupidly handsome face. He narrows his eyes though, when he catches you looking. You flip him the bird behind John's back, knowing full well you'll pay for it later...but God it feels good. 🖕
Sweetwolfcupcake:
You smell, feel, and hear the tension even before he is inside the bedroom again. But the moment he slams the door shut, the deafening sound rings all kinds of warning bells inside you.
Okay, okay, you were being a smart mouth a few moments ago. You wanted to piss off the meaner of the two, horned-hell crawlers. But now, when John marches towards the bed, you feel regret, fear and anticipation creeping in like a deadly cocktail.
You can't see his face first, but the moment he drops you on the bed, you can.
Oh boy,
You have dug your own grave.
You realise this while you are trying to back away, an involuntary movement, as if your body understands the danger much before your mind processes it.
"Now, now-- this would be cheating, no backing down." His heavy hand comes to cease her movements with ease.
His voice is honeyed, his touch still soft but his eyes, his eyes are the grounds of clashes-- softness with a steely resolve, burning hunger and cold malice. This...this is what you are scared of.
This is why he is a dangerous man-- he can't be deciphered, he can't be read but he knows himself, and he knows you, he reads you like a school book and every time he would urge, you know you will open up to him, bend to his whims.
" John..." the name slips out of you like a habit, but it is not supposed to be a habit. It is supposed to be a warning, your last attempt to save your soul, your heart, and yourself. "I think---"
"You think after your mouth moves,"
He smirks, as if he has been waiting for the slip-up. Maybe he has been indeed waiting. Like a patient tiger.
His lips are soft, almost delicate on yours, your thoughts melt as his lips mould with yours as if sculpted to be one with you, as if you both are the perfect sculptures of ancient lovers, marbled into immortality.
He steals your breath, along with your thoughts and perhaps most of your sense of self-preservation as you let his hands lay heavy on your thighs and pull down the oh-so-comfortable shorts. You let him, because you hardly feel it.
You hardly feel, see, or even hear anything beyond the kiss, beyond the sensation of his lips on yours, his breathing mixing with yours. And when he finally pulls away, leaving a string of saliva connecting your lips to his, your eyes open to his dark, passionate, but oddly calm orbs-- like he has jumped into a fire-pit, but he knows what he is doing.
He obviously knows what he is doing because you realise your half-naked state only after he has settled himself between your knees, holding down your thighs and spreading them open like he has just discovered a treasure box.
"WAIT! Wait---"
Your voice is cut short into silent, gasps and heavy breathing with shivering forms as his fingers reach in between, swiping over your opening, flicking over your pearl with practised ease and precision-- he does not even have to try, he has you glistening and shaking even before you can scramble through your thoughts and push for an arguement.
The desired, needed argument never truly comes. All that comes through are meaningless worlds, half-hearted protests and the sounds you do not even realise you make.
"It's okay to give in, you know...What's the point of fighting anyway?"
His fingers move with purpose this time, eyes gleaming as if you are a puzzle, a challenge for him to undo, to solve, to disarm. And mostly, he does, he almost wins. Until this question. Like he is challenging yu, testing you.
What's the point of fighting this? These insane circumstances?
"Because---because I'm not a plaything!" You grit out, now fighting the steady build of pleasure as your body threatens to bend to his will.
Not a whore!
You want to scream that on their stupidly handsome faces, but you know that it might not be in your best interest-- screaming at them.
To your surprise, he stops, just as you are about to have your eyes rolled back. You are breathless against his calm, frowning face. It is the rare times you can read his eyes-- confusion, surprise and something else that you cannot point out blooms in them.
"You... you are not a plaything." His voice is soft, but sure, like his eyes.
Yes, you do notice his pretty-brown eyes, which look deceptively sweet. The man is a beguiling as a whole. Hiding his horns so well under his smooth, soft hair, his hunger behind his kind eyes and his brutality, under the soft touch, the gentle hold.
But this time, you do not fall for it. You raise an eyebrow, almost smiling sarcastically.
"Oh yeah?"
Something in his eyes shifts, something in his whole form, his aura, shifts.
"Yeah."
There is a hardness to it. And somehow, this time, it does not scare you. Instead, a certain warmth shows its tiny, unsure head, just touching the surface, scared to break, but it is there.
"Yeah, because I-- we, do not fake a death for a plaything."
He continues, pulling you closer, simultaneously, pushing his finger back into you. You grasp and scramble for an anchor, conveniently finding his shoulders.
"Because, I won't topple a whole damn empire, for a plaything."
His voice only hardens, as his gaze meets yours, while his finger digs deeper, making a heat erupt in you that threatens to consume you.
"Because Tex won't be risking it all, erasing all that is left of your previous poor, miserable life, just to keep you, if you were a plaything, to him, to us."
He growls into your ear, pulling you flush against him, adding another finger before they curve into the perfect angle, reaching your sweet spot and you bite your lip, threatening to draw blood while trying to keep a sane mind-- at least sane enough to absorb his words.
"Because we don't trace the medical history of our plaything just to make sure nothing, nothing bad touches her but us."
He sounds almost unhinged and it should be concerning how less bothered you are by this. How can this be bothering you when you feel like a ship stuck in a storm? Threatened, tossed around by waves of pleasure while you desperately hold on to the very source of your plight.
"Oh--John!"
"Tell me, honey, does that sound like us playing?"
You want to shake your head but all you can do is to gasp and inhale as much air as you can, as if you are drowning. You are not. But you are thrumming as your eyes roll back and you moan aloud, feeling yourself gushing around his still-moving but slowed fingers. You bend to the crook of his neck, rocking your hips against his fingers. You feel the intensity of it as it washes over you, leaving a serene tiredness behind.
But he is far from done.
"A Plaything is not studied, not observed, not cared for, not kissed like I kiss you." John hisses, pulling his fingers out, your essence glazed over them.
He does not wait for your response. Simply, pushes you down until you are flat on your back, and despite the t-shirt covering your upper half, you have never felt more exposed.
He tilts his head at the T-shirt before, in an abrupt, yet buttery motion, he tore it apart. And while you do gasp in surprise, it sends a tingle down your spine and makes your core throb. There is a different gleam in his eyes this time.
"We do not turn against our codes just for a plaything. We did it for you-- risked it all for you..." He leans in to kiss you again and this time, you welcome it with open arms.
The feeling of his intimidating length against your opening makes you gulp with nerves and anticipation. You are sore still, but so ready for him. As if you are made for him. For them.
Are the words true?
Is he telling you the truth?
"We don't do after FBI agents for playthings, honey, get those stupid thoughts fucking out of your little head." he hisses as he pushes in, slow but barely restrained.
There is a sincere madness in his eyes, in his tone, as if the mask of 'civilised' just meted before your eyes and all you can see, through the inky strands hanging, those raw, primal eyes that remind you of an apex predator right before it bites and tear into its prey.
He decks down too, and you almost expect him to sink his teeth into your skin, draw blood, and tear you apart. But you only feel his teeth graze against your skin, as if tasting, sniffing before he thrusts in, eliciting a short, sharp scream from you.
It feels full, yet not full enough. There is a dull but pleasant throb and you crave more, legs tempted to wrap around his hips. But you feel so spent, so conflicted, so ready, so good-- the odd mix of emotions frustrates you to the point of tears.
Is this how you surrender to this? To your fate?
Is this how the conflict ends? Or is it the beginning of a war.
"By the way..."
John speaks through his moving hips, lips and teeth on your skin, measuring, tracing, marking.
"Whether you want to or not, Bradford dies. And he dies a sorry death for trying to snatch away what isn't his."
Are you really out of your mind, or does this sound like a dark promise?
#john wick#john wick x reader#john wick x you#john wick x y/n#keanu reeves x reader#yandere john wick#tex johnson#yandere tex johnson#yandere#wicked johnson fic#omfg yep that's a thing now 🤣🤣
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Yandere Tex Johnson x Witness!Reader x John Wick Imagine Part 3 by @treedaddymcpuffpuff @sweetwolfcupcake and @johnwickb1tsch GIF credits to @scarlettspectra ❤
Original Post Part 1 Part 2
Warnings: So many dead doves! Do not eat! Unless you like dead doves, that is. You're in good company here. 😘 Violence, sexual content, blood, murder, kidnapping, possessive behavior, yandere sh!t...it's all here! Please take care! 😘
“Atonement? What the fuck does that mean?”
“It means,” Tex says with that wolfish smile, “That you hurt our feelings, and you gotta say you’re sorry.” He reaches up to coil a bit of your hair around his finger, tugging gently. Having the two of them crowding you against the wall like this is terrifying—and insanely…titillating, if you’re being honest. Your eyes follow the line of Tex’s arm up by your head, from muscular forearm to the curve of his bicep. A thing of beauty.
You should not be this attracted to either of them.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
“Nope. So now I think you have to sleep with both of us.”
John pays his partner a sliding side-eye look that conveys maybe he’s not so happy with this arrangement.
“And I gotta say, I’m feeling a little left out that you kissed John but not me.”
You’re pretty sure John kissed you—then lightly assaulted you?—but who’s counting.
“I think she liked kissing me,” says John, claiming your attention again. “Didn’t you, honey?”
Suddenly, your mouth is dry as a desert, as you try to form a response and utterly fail. You wish you could just disappear into the wall behind you.
Now Tex’s hand is on your cheek, turning you back to him. You are getting dizzy, with all the back and forth. How the fuck do they expect you to keep up with them? You watch with fascinated horror as Tex lowers his head to you, his full mouth pressing yours. The sweep of his tongue in your mouth sends a spear of desire straight to your center; you hate it, that they make you feel this way. Pent up and helpless, needy and yet somehow so alone.
It builds in you like the fuse on a firecracker—you nip Tex’s beautiful lower lip hard enough to draw blood.
He jerks back, touching his mouth. You expect anger when he sees the blood, but he laughs. “You fucking little rattlesnake,” he growls, ducking to your neck, his big hand on your waist pinning you hard against the wall. Before you know what’s happening you feel his teeth there, at the bend where your neck meets your shoulder. He bites you hard enough to bruise, sucking for good measure so that you know there will be a mark.
The pain is sharp and you whine, squirming against them. But there’s no getting away. That’s starting to sink in a little more, and it makes your knees weak. You start to slide down the wall in your last attempt to get away from them, but strong hands hold you up. There’s a hand under your shirt, holding your bare waist. You’re not sure whose, until you realize, it’s both of them.
Treedaddymcpuffpuff:
”Tact, Tex,” John scolds, “this is a delicate little creature.”
Tex releases from your skin in a wet pluck, glaring at his companion. “Delicate girls bite where you’re from?”
“You’re a brute,” John tells him. He leans down to kiss your head, runs soothing fingers over the fresh bloody bruise that Tex left in your skin. “There are better ways to tame a nippy dog.”
“Muzzle works just fine.” Tex bites the air beside your jugular, so hard you can feel the sharp gnash vibrate your skin.
You wince back from him, only to push the other side of your neck into John’s waiting mouth. You don’t understand how someone who looks so terrifying can be so soft. His lips are like feathers, silk. Barely touching you. Running across your jaw and making you groan, down the column of your throat, over your collar, finally landing a tiny, wet, warm kiss on Tex’s aching mark. Your hips twitch up into his thigh of their own accord, and he makes a noise resembling a chuckle.
“See, she does like me better,” John muses.
You’ve never felt so helpless, and you’ve - regrettably - never been so turned on. Tex grabs your jaw and turns your head up to his. “Well now, we’ll have to fix that, won’t we?”
He picks you up and carries you to the bed. You don’t fight in his arms, but you’re sure as hell scrambling away from him futilely once he follows you into the mattress. He drags you back from the edge, plants you right in the middle, and descends on your skin while you sob and squeal and - because you’re pathetic - moan.
He’s hard on you, unforgiving and purposeful, overwhelming with nips and kisses and suckles and long, slimy licks. You go from trying to get him off to gripping him closer, which seems to egg him on.
He’s big, corded with muscle, intense, facial hair chafing your pliable skin. It’s too much and not enough. Your hips grind, desperate for friction, on nothing. John is leaning against the wall, beautiful arms crossed over his chest, watching, steaming, longing. The tempo of your arousal gets so much worse when you catch that man-starving-in-the-desert look.
Tex gives your collarbone a break to call his counterpart. “Rethinking sharing the bed, John?”
Johnwickb1tsch
John doesn't answer, just watches from the wall with his arms crossed. You can feel the weight of his stare from across the room, like a hand on your skin.
"See?" eggs Tex, his deep voice in your ear making your toes curl. "He ain't gonna save you. Still like Johnny better than me?"
He nips at your earlobe, winning a sound out of you that makes him smile like a baring of teeth.
"He's nicer than you," you pout.
Tex laughs at that.
"Honey, if you think that's the truth, then you ain't been payin attention." He kisses you on the mouth, a little gentler than before, but no less posessive, his tongue stroking yours. You cannot help the moan that escapes from deep in your throat, and you feel him smile triumphantly against you. He pulls you closer, insinuating a sinewy thigh between yours. You aren't proud about it, but you are desperate, as you grind yourself against him. Your throbbing, wet cunt thanks you for it, even as your self-respect flinches for the blow.
Tex keeps talking, and you can tell he's utterly smug.
"Know what the Italians call him?" he asks, kissing a line down your jaw.
"El guapo?"
Tex snorts. "Naw, that's what the Medellín boys call me."
You can't help but giggle a little.
Now, the whisky is definitely helping.
"Ok, what do they call him?"
"Lo spectro."
You crane your neck to look at John, but find he's gone from his spot at the wall. You didn't notice him move, didn't hear a thing. For some reason your heart jumps in your chest. Where the fuck did he go? Finally you realize he's settled in a chair in the dark corner, swathed in shadows as he watches the two of you. His eyes glitter like obsidian, unblinking.
"That means the Ghost."
Fitting.
"And the Russians think he's the bogeyman or some shit. What do they call you? The Baba Yaga?"
John huffs in acknowledgement, but you can't help but pause. "Isn't that the witch that lives in a shoe?" You laugh to yourself, knowing you're a little drunk, and crazy for thinking out loud, but unable to stop yourself. "No, it's a house on chicken feet. She's a scary old woman."
Tex grins, looking over to John in his corner. "That so?"
"I didn't give myself the nickname."
He sounds almost grumpy about it, and Tex chuckes. "Guess they didn't do their research while they were shitting their pants."
You wrinkle your nose, and he laughs at you. It's the laugh from before, in the diner. Joyful, a little wild. The laugh that made you want to follow him into his car, before it all went to hell. It promises fun, and adventure ahead. It inspires an involuntary warmth in your chest.
You must have a screw loose.
"You kinda sound like a fan boy for him, Tex," you tease.
"Nothin wrong with acknowledging greatness in your professional field." This is partially muffled by his mouth against your shirt-- traveling downwards.
"And--" You grab fistfuls of his soft dark hair, hoping to distract him from his intended target. His solid weight pressing you down into the mattress is far too delicious for comfort. "What do they call you?
It works, and he looks up at you with his chin on your breastbone, a mischievous sparkle in his eye. "Crazy Man."
Of course.
"It doesnt suit you."
He snorts, aware that you're ribbing him.
"You know what would suit me?"
He continues his trail downward, pulling up your shirt to kiss your bare belly.
You're really afraid to ask, and he doesnt wait for you to.
"My tongue in your sweet little snatch."
Hearing him say it aloud like that makes the body part in question clench with longing.
The Stupid Lady Parts have cast their vote, but you like to think you still wield the Executive Veto.
"Maybe that would win you over?"
His teeth are in the waistband of your boxers, pulling down over your hip, when you try to squirm away from him. "Wait...don't."
"No? I'm tryin to be generous here, honey."
"I just..." The thought of that fast-talking tongue working on your aching clit fills you with equal parts excitement and dread. You cover your face with your hands, overwhelmed. "Oh God."
You know there's really not anything you can actually do to stop him. You're not even sure you do want to stop him-- only that you should want to stop him. This has been the most stressful fucking day of your life, so help you gods, and you just dont fucking know what you want. So you're surprised when long seconds go by, and he moves no further, as though he's actually waiting for your answer. You look down with tears glittering in your eyes, to find him smiling wickedly up at you.
"That's alright, darlin'. I can wait until you beg me for it."
Your heart plummets, even while your Stupid Vagina rejoices like a chorus of angels.
Somehow, you sense that you have managed to fuck yourself over so royally.
Treedaddymcpuffpuff
”Let’s play pretend,” Tex says, kissing your tummy, letting his sharp stubble drag and give you wicked rug burn.
“I’m not a fan of - ah nnh - cops and robbers.” Your voice all high and squealing while he tugs John’s boxers down just a tiny bit more and nips your hip.
“Oh, maybe we should do that one instead,” Tex replies as though you’ve just given him a marvelous idea. “John, you mind tying her up again?”
“No, no no no,” You stupidly attempt getting away, and it fails miserably just like every other time. You really need to work out or join a self defense class or something. Tex holds you down like you’re a stuffed rabbit.
“You can handle it,” John tells him, voice hushed. You spare a glance at him, and, by God, it’s a mistake, because he’s palming something massive in his pants and looking right back at you.
You can’t look away from the sight of whatever sea monster is lurking below his trousers. Of course, he’s huge. Maybe you were hoping you could get a small dick joke in somewhere just to gain some leverage, but that is definitely not going to happen now.
“Anyone ever tell you you’ve got a staring problem, little fox?” Tex asks, squeezing your cheeks and making you look back at him.
You bite your lip to keep the retort at bay. That’s exactly what he wants you to do, after all, talk all weird and muffled because of your cheeks being dented in. He means to laugh at you, and you’re not giving him the satisfaction.
“Anyway,” he starts, “the game I wanna play is house.”
John grunts as if to laugh.
Tex releases your cheeks and they spring back puffy and handprinted. “Try to imagine that I’m not an evil psychopath.”
It’s your turn to laugh, and you open your mouth to do so, but he pinches the skin on your side rough enough to make you screech instead.
He keeps you pinched while he licks a line over your hip. It’s a daunting mixture of pain and pleasure and you’re bucking up into his dastardly mouth.
“Anyway, we go for a long ride in my car like we were planning. You ‘member?” He sucks your skin and releases the hold of his fingers, lighting you up with the pain of recirculation.
He trails sloppy wet kisses down until he’s just over the mound of your cunt, tongue licking over the elastic underwear band. You go to stick your fingers back into his hair, but he tsks at you.
“Keep those hands to yourself, tiger, or else I’m gonna have to use more of that itchy rope you love so much.”
You shoot him a hateful look, but put your hands at your sides and fist the sheets.
“Oh, you do listen. Good job, honey, makin’ me proud.” He takes a minute or two or three to use his mouth and turn you into a throbbing mess. Your tummy and hips are all raw and sore and sensitive and spit covered, and he’s got his hands holding your thighs down on the bed so you can’t even grind on air.
He continues. “I get you back to my place, put on some music, turn the lights real low. Give you a long, naked massage. Oil you up. Get you nice and slippery and wet. Nuh uh, honey bunch, open your eyes and look at me.”
You do, peppery tears caught in your lower lashes. And your vagina, which was once enthusiastic and committing blatant mutiny, is now wishing it would have listened to your rational brain. Because his deep, sinful voice, combined with the narration and the eye contact - oh, and don’t forget his expert fucking lips and tongue and teeth - have one unforgiving, aching tightness building brick by brick inside of you - and it fucking hurts.
“And once I get you all worked up, I use both these big hands you’re always starin’ at to rub your cunt. Nice and slow and heavy - just a plain, good, old fashioned clit tease - “
Suddenly, he stops, and you’re extremely confused. The enchantment is broken. Him and John are staring at one another instead of at you.
“Was that the fuckin’ doorbell?” Tex sighs.
John digs a phone from his pocket and checks it. “Yeah. It’s Bradford.”
Your heart lurches. Agent Bradford. Here to rescue you. Here to get you out of this fucking mess.
Tex kisses your tummy one more time and slaps the waist of the underwear against your overworked flesh. “Your knight in shining armor is two hours early.” He says it as if it’s your fault.
What? What the fuck? They knew he was coming? Why did he ring the doorbell? You can’t contain these questions. You have to know, or you’re literally going to end up in a straight jacket with padded walls caging you in at the end of all this.
“What the fuck is going on?” You ask.
Johnwickb1tsch
"Well, looks like we might get to play cops and robbers sooner than later, sweetheart." Tex pats your thigh, hard, making it jiggle. For a moment he seems distracted by the motion of your flesh under his big hand, but he blinks out of it.
You however, are vibrating inside with the scant hope that maybe, just maybe, you might get out of this. Because maybe these men are handsome as the devil, and maybe they want to torment you with pleasures that lets be honest, you've only dreamed of, but they are dangerous. Maybe they promised to set you up with a new life, but its a promise you trust only so far as you could throw one of them.
Not really thinking, you try to stand, but Tex pushes you right back down like batting at a fly.
"Guess we've got to tie her up again."
John is already on his feet, pulling things out of the weapons chest. He holsters a small gun at his back, and sheathes a knife at his ankle.
"I'll do it. You make the knots too tight. Go make sure everything's ready."
"Fine, fine."
Tex winks at you before strutting out.
When John approaches with the rope you consider trying to scramble away, until he pins you with that certain look. You hold out your wrists with tears in your eyes.
"Sorry, honey," he apologizes, which genuinely surprises you. "This won't take long."
"What are you going to do?" you ask, fearing for Bradford.
He ignores your question, frowning at the coarse rope on your tender wrists. "Where the fuck did he get this?" he grumbles under his breath. "A hay bale?"
Despite the apparently less than quality cordage, you can't help but notice this man ties beautiful knots. If you were on a boat, you would have been impressed. Since they're on you...you're less than enthusiastic about it.
"Should be silk or nothing on this beautiful, soft skin."
Hearing this makes an uneasy thrill run down your spine.
"Alright, princess. Are you going to behave for us?"
You blink up at him, doing your damndest impression of an innocent little bunny.
"Yes."
He weighs you with that piercing stare, before snorting to himself. "No you're not."
He replaces the socks you flung at Tex and ties your ankles too. This results in him having to bridal carry you out of the room. John sets you down on the couch in a sitting room.
"Ready?" Tex is by the door, John standing across the room. There is an energy between them that gives you chills. Something is about to go down.
Tex opens the door, and Bradford limps in, looking between the two assassins with hard eyes.
"Ever heard of being fashionably late?"
Bradford scoffs. "Why, were you busy with something?" His eyes sweep to you, with what is undoubtedly sex hair, and the angry purple hickey visible above your collar.
"Something," Tex confirms with a smirk, winking at you.
You are so confused. Why are they talking like they're friends?
"You boys made a big fucking mess of this thing."
"No, you did, when you double sold your information," says John in an unforgiving tone, glaring between Tex and Bradford.
You look to Bradford with wide eyes, hardly able to believe what you're hearing.
"You? You're the fucking rat?"
Bradford sighs. "I'm sorry."
"You're sorry? I fucking trusted you!"
Bradford steps to stand in front of you. "Look, I really am sorry. But I've got three teen kids, and good college is expensive."
You can hardly believe what you're hearing.
This man who swore to uphold the law sold your location to not one, but two assassins--for tuition money?
Maybe your ankles are tied, but it doesn't prevent you from winding up and kicking him with two heels in the dick.
Bradford goes down, curling up on the carpet with a groan.
Tex whoops with laughter.
Even John winces at the damage to Federal Property.
"You sonofabitch!" you spit. "I have been poor my whole life. Borderline poverty poor, but I never would have done what you did for money. You traded my life!"
You are just a pawn in a bigger game to all these men. Even the supposed good guys.
"Easy to say that, when you don't have anyone depending on you," grits Bradford through his teeth.
It's true. You have no children, no close family.
You are just...alone.
After a minute Bradford manages to stagger back to his feet.
"Need an ice pack, Agent?" needles Tex.
"No. I'll have my money, and be on my way."
John nudges a briefcase over with his oxford-clad foot.
"It's all there."
"Good."
Bradford limps over to pick it up, before heading for the door.
"What are you going to do with her?" he asks. Oh, so now he has a conscience?
"We're going to give her a new life," says John. "That's all you need to know."
The agent nods, then looks to you one last time. "I really am sorry."
"Eat a bag of dicks, you fucking asshole," you spit.
Tex chortles. "Tell 'im honey."
Then you watch what you thought was your last hope walk out the door with a suitcase full of money, payment, you assume, for pushing any further investigations away from your two captors--and you.
The two men in question come to stand before you, looming menacingly. They are tall, and forbidding--and why do they have to look so fucking handsome while doing it?
"Shame we gotta move," says Tex. "I like her like this."
"Don't stand too close, she'll re-arrange the way you pee," says John with a smirk. Then you notice he has a needle in his hand, again.
"Please, don't," you whine. Whatever it is they give you to knock you out makes you feel so out of it.
"Sorry, sweetheart. One more time, if we're lucky."
"We should just stick her in a burlap sack like the rattlesnake she is," jokes Tex.
John snorts, but doesn't encourage him further.
"Hold her down," he says, flicking the needle.
Tex is all too happy to wrap you back up in his strong arms again. This time, you don't really fight it though. What's the point? Having that needle jabbed carelessly into your flesh doesn't appeal to you, so you sit very still, and close your eyes.
Maybe soon, it will all be over?
Sweetwolfcupcake
The sun is shining, giggles echo in the air as you run around, dodging the person chasing you.
"Hey! Wait--(Y/N)!"
You turn around with a grin, ready to let his body crash into yours like the waves crashing against your feet. But you see no one. The ocean roars and echoes, but you are alone. The sun shines brighter and brighter until it blinds you with the bright---
The painful jerk has you opening your eyes with a startled whimper. Your vision is hazy, but you hear something akin to 'Careful'.
You try blinking your eyes, but your movements are too slow. It takes great labour's to even try to shift. You try anyway, only to discover that there are arms holding you.
"Hey, it's okay. Go back to sleep." The familiar voice cooes into your ear, tucking you closer.
"The road is shit!" Tex's voice reach your ears bit it's like slowly floating in.
Everything is slow, even the movements of---
Oh, you are in a car again, but your vision is too hazy and thought process too slow to grasp exactly what place it is. Everything looks familiar but somewhat incomprehensible.
And the dream, you have not dreamt of the day for a while but...
"Hey, it's okay, you're safe. You can go back to sleep."
You realise a tear has slipped down the corner of your eyes when John's thumb wipes it away.
The road ahead seems to be anything but free or even good. Rather, it seems bleak if you manage to rise above your...attraction to them.
You gulp, feeling a dull throb begging to grow in your head as it falls back into John's shoulder. The tightening grip registers a moment later, but it does not even occur to you to fight back in anyway.
You close eyes and let darkness fall over you again.
----
John watches your sleeping form, sitting on a chair that has been dragged nearer to the bed. You make him feel conflicted, and he can tell, Tex too.
They, the sorry creepers from hell, have felt warmth, sunlight, something they are deprived of. Something they do not deserve.
But you...
You have walked up to them. Outstretched hands cupping their cheeks, teasing their horns, looking into their hungry, miserable but malevolent eyes.
John knows that, he's human after all.
And even the devil craves solace.
He does not want to let go of this or you. He knows Tex enough - that man might try to hide it behind rough exterior, but he craves... this, you just as much. He would not be preparing a light meal for you otherwise.
With the kind of desperation and tinkles of madness that concerns John slightly but fuels Tex.
They will come up with an arrangement, as discussed at he bar. But hell may freeze and heaven be scorched - they are not letting you slip away.
They deserve something good, something soothing after what the world has put them through...
But every action has a consequence. In their world, this stretches to the extreme. All they need now is to prepare for the consequences. This time, though, they won't be the one facing them.
Treedaddymcpuffpuff
You wake up screaming. Which in itself isn’t unusual. Nightmares have always been a constant companion for your sleeping brain, and they only got worse when you accidentally stumbled upon the bloody execution that got you into this mess.
This is different. Different because you’re not in your bed or your apartment and, at first, you don’t know what’s going on or how you got here. As you scream, you try to fling upright, and it’s a terrible mistake.
A few things happen at once. Your hand, still very diluted with knock out drugs (to the point it may as well be unattached from your body) hits a solid wooden slab - hard enough to make you think you may have broken your pinky. The second event - the one that lays you flat - is the light from the doorway hitting your eyes and popping your pupils like a juicy blackhead.
Screaming turns into to groans of agony as the headache bleeds from your orbital sockets into the rest of your head, then your neck, then your shoulders. You try to move and bury your face into something, but you feel like a bag of potatoes trying to roll itself along a sandy beach. You can barely grasp anything let alone move your torso or hips or your 800 pound, throbbing skull.
Strong hands grab and steady your zombified body, and John’s voice is at your ear before you can scream again. “Hey, hey, it’s alright.” He pulls you gently, propping your curled body on top of his own.
Rough finger pads nudge your lips apart and slip something liquid and bitter past them to coat your mouth. The slime absorbs into welcoming buccal surface and makes your face numb and tingly. That feeling travels to your head in a matter of seconds, and you are floating, blessedly pain free, high as a goddamn kite on a windy spring day.
Comfy numb spreads through your blood and makes it even harder to move. You try a finger and it won’t budge, but strangely you’re not really worried about it. John’s got you, and he’s warm and strong and whispering words of reassurance into your hairline. God, he smells nice, too, like some kind of woodsy, salty altar to ancient deities. You inhale as much of him as you possibly can and itch to grab onto his shoulders and never let go.
He wipes something off your chin - it feels sticky and wet - and you attempt opening your eyes to see what it is. Oh good, your eyeballs didn’t explode like you thought. Thick drool snaps from your face onto the back of his hand, and then he reaches to grab something, but your eyes don’t follow that movement because they’re too busy marveling at his sculpted face. How did he get more attractive? How does he keep getting more attractive. You want to touch him, rub your thumb along the tensing muscle of his throat and then let your tongue follow. For a second, it seems like you actually are doing those things, but then you’re teleported back to your previous location, unmoving; reality is slipping from you piece by piece.
“John?” Your voice sounds like some distant chant in a massive cathedral.
“Mmm?”
“Did I just lick you?”
He might be smiling or he might be frowning - you can’t really tell. “No.”
“That’s because I can’t,” you explain, wondering why he doesn’t realize he has to be the one to lick you because you really really can’t move but, God, you want to kiss him again. Feel the slick of his tongue and the feather of his fingers on your flesh.
He just looks at you, quirking his eyebrow.
Ugh. Men.
“Kiss me,” you demand, although it sounds more like a desperate plea.
He does, wonderful, overwhelming mouth hooking into your own and shattering bulbs of light and glass through your blood. He’s too soft and too much at the same time and you swear to God your heart is actually in your ears instead of your chest.
You were so dumb before, for not taking this opportunity. For not bagging this sinfully hot man and dropping to your knees and saying thank you Mr. Boogeyman. Wow, you’re stupid. But it seems like he forgives you while his big, polite tongue is teasing your own, so that’s a plus.
“Really?” Tex asks. “How many drugs did you give her?”
John’s lips release yours, and you whine - loudly - from the loss of wet, warm, crack infused contact.
“I gave her the recommended dose, but I think she had a bad reaction to the sedative.”
“If this is what you call a bad reaction, then I just gotta see what you consider a good one.”
Your eyes, animated on their own, flit to Tex. Oh, for a second you kind of forgot there was two of them. Or are you just seeing shit? No, you’re pretty sure there is two. God, you hope there’s two.
Johnwickb1tsch
Later, you'll wonder if this was a dream. If when you held out your hand to Tex, you didn't imagine the fleeting moment of vulnerability on his handsome features, before it disappeared into his usual confident smirk.
He joins you on the bed, sliding in on your other side, his solid warmth pressed against you. If the drugs weren't enough to make you loopy, being sandwiched between your gorgeous boys surely steals any last hint of reservation you had left to your name.
Your boys.
Is this even real?
His big hand slides under your shirt, gripping your waist possessively as he dips to kiss you. He's not as gentle as John, not as cloyingly sweet--yet there is almost a tenderness in the heated way he claims your mouth with his soft lips and devilish tongue.
Needless to say, you are a quivering mess between them by the time he pulls away.
"Hard to believe this is the same girl," he teases you. "No biting, no mouthing off. Just soft and sweet..."
John's lips have drifted down to your neck, feathering light kisses behind your ear. You are barely capable of movement, but your fingers dig into his shoulders, and you writhe languidly as you feel Tex's hand sliding down your belly.
John stops him as his fingertips slide just past your waistband, and surprisingly its you who gives a sound of protest. At least, you think you do. Everything is golden edged and fuzzy. It's hard to discern what all is happening in your mind, and what is real.
"Let her come out of it a little more," says John, almost like he feels guilty for drugging you.
Tex grumbles, "Yeah, ok. I like her better when she's feisty anyway." His kiss on the corner of your mouth curls your toes, and you whine for your thrwarted satisfaction. "Sorry, little rattlesnake. Blame Johnny for giving you too many drugs."
You can hardly believe the words that come out of your mouth. "What does it matter?" After everything they've done so far...what does any of it matter? You've been forsaken, sold down the road by the justice system that was supposed to protect you. The men who have saved you are career criminals and contract killers. In this strange state, you can almost sense the outline of your doom. Maybe you might as well enjoy what you can, when you can.
John, however, doesn’t seem to like hearing you talk like this. "You matter," he affirms, kissing your temple. "Why don't you get some more sleep?"
Wrapped up in the warmth of both of their imposing bodies, this doesn’t sound like a terrible idea. You rest your head on John's broad shoulder with Tex spooning you from behind, his muscled arm draped over your waist.
He's snoring behind you before you even drift off. Strangely, it doesn't bother you, and soon you're following to the land of dreams.
*******
You're not sure what time it is, when hazily you wake. There are no windows, just shadowed darkness. You try to sit up, but John's arm tightens on you. He's the one spooning you now.
This is the puppy pile from Hell.
"I have to pee," you tell him. Your bladder feels like it might burst at any moment.
"Through there," he says quietly, pointing across the room. You see a door with the gentle glow of a blue night light beyond. "Don't take too long."
Finding the last bit entirely unnecessary, you roll your eyes, knowing you're safe in the dark.
"Fine."
Able to move a little better now, you extricate yourself from your assassin bedfellows, picking your way across the floor to the toilet.
After relieving yourself you wash your hands, and look at yourself in the blue glow of the mirror. Your head hurts, and you take a drink of water from the faucet.
Your thoughts are not quite so fuzzy now, and you take a moment to assess what's available to you here.
Unless you think you can facilitate your escape with the deadly weapon of a soap dispenser...no dice.
You turn to go and gasp at the tall shadow of a figure in the doorway.
"Jesus Christ!"
Tex steps farther into the light, filling the entire doorway with his impressive form. He's removed his shirt for sleeping, and unbuttoned the top button of his jeans. When he reaches up to hold the top of the door casing, displaying those toned arms and powerful chest, the pose does not fail to catch your breath in your throat.
"Excuse me," you say, hoping he'll move, staying out of arm's reach, for all the good it will do you.
"Gotta pay the toll," he says with that devilish smirk.
Your heart skips a beat.
"What does that mean?"
He puckers his lips, and you have to fight not to roll your eyes again. This man...is a handful, and you're not sure if you want to kick him in the shin or indeed kiss him full on the mouth.
Moving carefully, you steady yourself with fingertips on his chest, standing on tiptoe to peck his lips.
Your feet leave the ground completely when he grabs you up, slanting his mouth over yours. Your brain shuts down, when he kisses you like this. Like you are something delicious he'd like to devour, bones and all. When he presses you into the door jamb with a hard thigh between yours all you can think to do is whine, your treacherous lady parts rejoicing again.
"Tex." says a warning voice from the bed.
He lets you go, smacking your behind as he nudges you on your way. "Get back in bed."
Your limbs tremble as you scramble to obey him.
Sweetwolfcupcake
This time, though, sleep does not come easy. You can feel their bodies pressed against yours, and while John's arms resting around you feel a bit of a cage, Tex's knees nudging between your thighs feels absolutely unnecessary but, much to your annoyance, not uncomfortable. You try to keep your legs crossed, only to hear a quiet growl from behind. It is not entirely guttural but has a warning edge to it.
"Don't play with me right now."
You shiver, letting his knee nestle in. His hand rests on your shoulder for a while before going for your scalp, running his fingers through your tresses, untangling them with an unexpected gentleness.
It reminds you of... someone, and your breathing shifts a bit, quivering slightly as you try to push the image out of your mind while you keep your eyes stubbornly closed.
John's hold tightens around you instinctively.
"Go back to sleep. You've not recovered yet." His voice is careful, soft, and everything you realise you have craved all your life.
Perhaps the universe has played another callous game with you - granting your wish in its own, twisted way - in the form of two deadly men who make you feel more conflicted than you have ever been-- you feel simultaneously safe with and hunted by them, they arise your resentment, anger but also a volcanic desire that threatens to consume you, that tempts you to just give in.
But you won't. You refuse to give in. You know it's a decided battle, but you choose to fight.
You have fought all your life, this is another one of them.
You decide.
You would not be their plaything - that is what they see you as. Their doll to play with until they decide that they had enough. You have no other reasoning or explanation for their actions.
But at some point, you manage to fall asleep, curled against them, letting your breathing mix with theirs until they find a pattern.
-----
You feel his beard rubbing against your chin as a pair of lips engulf yours, swallowing your words-- or were they just babbles? You can not find it in yourself to care. Everything is hazy, floating-- good. The soothing, low, deep voices coax you into spreading your legs further, welcoming the sensation of a surface rubbing against you. Your core pulses with desire as you arch your back, pressing against the toned, hard chest-- the contrast makes you shudder as you whimper. The surface presses harder and continues to rub against you while the lips descend to tour chin and neck.
What place is this?
You welcome the overwhelming sensations, pleasure rising in your being, in slow, steady motion. But that does not feel enough.
Suddenly, the motion is sharp and calculated but faster and--and your eyes fly open.
It is no dream!
You blink, wide, surprised eyes meeting John's burning, hungry ones with your mouth parted.
"Wai--th!"
Your words are swallowed by John's lips again. This time, it is his tongue sliding in, and every other thought fades.
"Now, now, don't move yet--"
You hear Tex's voice from behind, slightly muffled by his lips pressed against your hair as his knee rubs roughly almost aggressively against your pulsating core. Your last attempts to move away are thwarted by John's unyielding hold on you as you grapple for the last bits of your rational mind.
"Just let go, honey, you're almost there."
Tex's voice has never been so gentle before-- it has its charm, but also an edge of mockery and malice.
You moan further into the kiss, realising that John's lips are still on yours, but the thoughts are cut short when you feel yourself erupt. Your pleasure bursts and sparks rain on your veins. You vaguely realise yourself grinding against the moving knee, but that is a fleeting observation.
"Oh--Oh my--"
You gasp and shudder, whispering like a prayer as John's lips free yours, letting you gulp as much air as you can until your lungs throb dully and your eyes roll back. You are drowning, but also floating. You feel John's lips on your neck but make no attempt at pushing him, them away.
"There you go,"
Was it Tex?
Or John speaking?
You do not care at the moment - it's all too much, too good, too hazy. You can feel yourself seeping through the boxers, and you barely can bring yourself to be bothered, at least not now.
The warmth engulfs you as you continue to shudder, feeling the now slowed but precise movements of the knee as it prolongs your ecstasy.
Treedaddymcpuffpuff
”Looks like I win, Johnny boy,” Tex murmurs, licking the shell of your ear with that silvertongue of destruction. Win? They did make some kind of bet behind your back, then. Still assholes at the end of the day. Would it really be wise to bring it up when you’re snuggled between them, all sensitive and jellied, though?
“We’re still on that?” John asks, not seeming invested at all - more preoccupied with pulling your shirt up to rub your bruised tummy and ribs, wiping that scowl right off your face.
Tex presses something daunting against your bottom - oh, you are really fucked here - and helps John tug the fabric up higher until the seam teases your perked nipples. “Deal’s a deal.”
John caresses the tender underside of your breasts, wets your skin with tiny, teasing kisses. “Sure.” He could have at least shaved to limit the wicked rug burn, you think bitterly.
Tex tugs the boxers down over your ass, snaps the band against the bottom mounds and makes them jiggle for his viewing entertainment. “Oh,” he grunts. “I do love a good peach.”
“What’re you doing?” Your voice is slurred from sleep, whiny and throaty from the torment.
“I was gonna fuck you,” he explains, “but now I just have to have a lil’ samplin’ first.”
You look to John, eyes big and scared. He hums at you, coos and murmurs, gently fists the nape of your hair, pulls your head back and laves the column of your throat. Right over your pulse, he latches and sucks, and then hurts you for the first time. He bites you, soft and delicious, the tangy pain shooting straight to your cunt.
Tex is on the move down your back, suckling bruises into your spine and nestling his facial hair into the dimples above your plump globes. “Fuck, I think I found my new favorite thing.” He sinks his teeth viciously into your right cheek, and your hips immediately try and buck away from the sharp pain. John’s firm hands move to hold you in place while Tex takes time practically fucking gnawing on your delicate fatty tissue like you’re some kind of juicy steak.
“Hurts,” you whimper, nails digging into John’s chest, feet curling against his legs.
“I know,” John sympathizes. “Poor baby. I got you.”
Tex is clearly not in the mood for mercy, because, after a while, he unhooks from one cheek and goes straight to the other, delivering the same harsh treatment. When he’s finished, there a fat tears rolling down your face, accompanying a pathetic blubber.
“Oh, so you can dish it out, but can’t take it, huh little rattler?” Tex’s words are mean, but his big hands nicely smooth over the hills of your bottom, warming and calming the blossoming marks from his teeth.
John has not been idle - he’s working you raw, giving the same treatment to your neck that Tex did with your belly and hips. “Tex, how do you want her?”
Tex cradles the bottoms of your ass in each hand, spreading them apart, examining your puffy wet slit. “Back,” he says, surprising you by not making some sort of quip or snide remark - he sounds distracted.
They manhandle you onto your back with a pillow under your hips. John has your head in his lap and your arms tucked up under his thighs. You squirm experimentally, concluding that you are absolutely not going anywhere. He pulls your hair off your neck and face, fans it over his lap, kisses your forehead. Tex tugs your underwear down and gets a front row seat to the way you pulse and weep when John rubs his fingers outside of your shirt, circling your aching nipples but not touching them. It’s infuriating and you can’t help but whine his name, press yourself into his fingers.
John chuckles down at you.
Tex kisses your pubic mound, gathers saliva in his throat, opens wide and lets it drip down and mingle with your cum. “You are a pretty little thing, aren’t you?” He teases, looking up at you, face positioned right above your center. He gives your clit a chilly little blow. Your legs try to close, but it’s a useless attempt with his broad frame settled between them.
You’re not sure when John got the shirt above your breasts, but they’re on full display. Your attention goes from Tex to him as he licks his thumbs and rolls them around your puckering peaks. Oh that’s so much worse.
The sensation bucks your hips up so that Tex can flick his precise tongue over the tip of your slippery clit, and between the two of them all you can really do is moan and take it no matter how overwhelming it gets. You just hope they have a little bit of mercy left in their hearts for you, but that optimism is dashed once Tex cuddles his face into your cunt and makes you scream.
#john wick#tex johnson#john wick x reader#john wick x y/n#john wick x you#keanu reeves x reader#yandere john wick#yandere tex johnson#wicked johnson fic
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THE DEVILS' TRIANGLE
A Yandere Tex Johnson x Fem!Reader x John Wick Fic
by: @johnwickb1tsch @treedaddymcpuffpuff @sweetwolfcupcake & @tammykelly
Imagine you're a hapless witness in a high profile FBI case against the mafia and hitmen John Wick and Tex Johnson are competing for the contract on you. After some forceful disagreement, they decide to team up to keep you for themselves...
⚠Warnings: So many dead doves! Do not eat! Unless you like dead doves, that is. You're in good company here. Violence, sexual content, blood, murder, kidnapping, possessive behavior, dubcon, yandere sh!t...it's all here! Please take care! 😘
CONTENTS:
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 tbc...
based on this imagine...
#THIS IS A BODY POSITIVE BLOG!#EVERYONE is welcome here!#Except for HATERS gtfo!#clear? good. now let's all just have some fun...#john wick#john wick x reader#john wick x you#john wick x y/n#keanu reeves x reader#yandere john wick#john wick fic#keanu reeves#tex johnson#yandere tex johnson#tex johnson x you#wicked johnson fic#the devils triangle john wick#the devils triangle
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A Yandere Tex Johnson x Witness!Reader x John Wick Imagine Part 7 by:
@treedaddymcpuffpuff @sweetwolfcupcake @johnwickb1tsch and @tammykelly
Warnings: So many dead doves! Do not eat! Unless you like dead doves, that is. You're in good company here. 😘 Violence, sexual content, blood, murder, kidnapping, possessive behavior, dubcon, yandere sh!t...it's all here! Please take care! 😘
ALL CHAPTERS
Treedaddymcpuffpuff:
They take you outside. They take you outside.
“Which house is this, John?” You lay your head on his shoulder, and he kisses your hair.
“Mexico.” The fact that he feels comfortable telling you where you are speaks volumes about trust.
Either that, or he’s confident you won’t get away. Ever. And he’s absolutely right. He can outrun, outmuscle, outwit you at any point. Not to mention he’s got a clone with the same capabilities.
Part of it is this; the fact that you can’t run or hide without your boys finding you. The knowledge of being owned and tracked and possessed wholly.
The other part, the one you lie to yourself about - you have to, really, for the sake of self preservation - is that you’re completely in love with them. Smitten. Consumed. Captivated and bewitched by your captors. You don’t want to run away most days.
Especially not when you’re pressed between them and being pampered and kissed and played with - sweet, awful pleasure the only thing you can focus on. Absolutely drunk on the balance of rough and soft, light and dark.
Tex is good with his mouth - of course he is. That silver tongue can do more than talk you into a writhing, soaked mess. As much as he adores helping John edge you for hours and making you sob in frustration, he likes it a little better when you’re overstimulated, babbling and bargaining, only able to chant his name as he makes you cum endlessly.
John is… different. Slower. More patient. Builds you up and down, watches and listens, observes - tilt of his head, tiny smile, “pretty girl likes that a little too much, huh?”
He’s sickly romantic, the kind that only exists in Hallmark movies. Always thinking of you, grabbing flowers and little gifts while he’s away. Bringing home trinkets from Paris and Brazil and even bumfuck Ohio. Obsessed with kissing you, holding your hand, calling you beautiful and pulling you closer and ruining your little heart.
Even when he’s rough, fucking you into the couch cushions at an almost inhumanely pace and mottling your cervix and hips and ass with bruises - even then he is rubbing your back, brushing your hair off your shoulders and littering sweet soaked kisses on your skin, praising and sweet-nothinging and groaning that you’re his, his, his.
Tex presses himself into the other side of you, skin sparkling and scratchy from salt and sand, and hands you a beautiful iridescent pink seashell. “Get in the water.”
“You’re not the boss of me,” you tell him, grinning, brushing sand off his cheekbone.
He chuckles. “Nah, but Johnny is.”
They both pick you up and drag you into the clear ocean ripples while you laugh and scream, take you out past where you can touch so you have to cling to them.
Sometimes, though, you want to run. Taste freedom and independence again. You want to feel needed instead of always being so needy. You miss volunteering at the animal shelter, working in the little book shop.
Sure, the boys want you. Sometimes, too much. Sometimes, you have to use that lock on your little cozy nook room to shut them out because you’re so overwhelmed and overworked. But they don’t need you, can’t really gain anything from you; not like the sick, dirty cats or the elderly women who forgot their reading glasses and need help finding a particular selection.
After you’re done playing in the water like children, laughing and splashing and getting sun drunk, you find yourself wrapped in a beach towel and cat napping on the big couch by the bay window.
“Wanna wake her up?” Tex asks John, plopping down beside him and offering an open, frosty beer.
“Let her sleep,” John says, flipping the page of his book and taking the drink.
Tex grins. “Aw, I don’t think she’d be too disappointed after she realizes I’m sucking on her little clit.”
John shuts his book, puts it on the stand.
“What?” Tex groans like he’s about to get lectured. Just like you’ve become used to them, they’ve become used to each other. Sometimes it’s a recipe for disaster. The first day you were alert enough to wake up and eat and drink after the bullet, they got into a fight. And not a verbal one.
It was actually terrifying. You thought Tex was going to meet the pearly gates when John curb stomped his already beaten face, so you had jumped in front of him to stop the next smash of a foot and earned yourself torn stitches and bloody bandages as a reward for the sudden movement.
“We need to figure out what we’re doing, Tex.” John looks over at you, watches how the sunlight bastes your shoulders and glows on your pretty skin.
Tex is looking at the same thing. “I’m not leavin’ er, John. And she sure as hell ain’t leavin’ me.”
“She needs to make that decision.”
“My ass. You think she’ll be safe out there? Think just cuz you put a bullet into father and son that sister and mother won’t come knockin next?” Tex takes a long pull on his bottle and leans elbows on knees. “You can go if you want, but y/n is stayin’ with me.”
John gives him a dark look. “You know I won’t let you, Tex.”
Tex laughs cruelly, leans back and spreads his arms over the back of the couch. “Then you’re gonna have to fuckin’ kill me.”
“John? Tex?” Your tinny voice cuts through their tension, immediately gaining full attentions. You hold out your hand to them, eyes half lidded, smiling softly. “Come lay with me?”
They sandwich you between their big heated bodies, curing the goosebumps brought on by the conditioned air. It reminds you too much of the cold steel room where Bradford kept you on ice, so you start to cry. Again.
It’s become such a common occurrence, now: one or both of them cradling and shushing and rubbing your back as you sob on their chests or laps. You cry more often than not. Sometimes you’re able to hide it, but not right now when you’re sleepy and vulnerable and so close to them.
Tex kisses the tears off your face. “Hey, honeypie, it’s alright, c’mon, I gotcha.”
“We’re right here, y/n.” John brushes the hair off your shoulders and kisses your salty sunned skin. “We’ll protect you.”
“Nobody’s gonna hurt you again, m’kay?” Tex tilts your chin up and kisses your head.
You wonder how in the hell they’re still so empathetic to your plight - any other man would be annoyed, telling you to let it go, reminding you that you’ve already cried about it a zillion times before. But not Tex and John. Never your boys.
They say they’ll protect you, but if they’ve already failed to do so, doesn’t that mean they can drop the ball again? Doesn’t that mean anyone could just come and plummet you into an unbridled world of violence and torture? What if they leave? What if they decide they don’t want you anymore? You’re helpless here - can only rely solely on the two people you’re cuddled between and it’s making you spiral into an internal inferno of chaos and doubt.
You feel like you’re losing your fucking mind. You feel powerless.
You fall asleep in their arms, fresh tears drying on your puffy cheeks, holding onto Tex’s waist, legs wrapped around John’s calves.
They wake you up for dinner, and you’re in a shit mood again, all venom no honey, squirming out of the cuddle pile, glowering and losing your towel in the process.
Before you can grab it back, Tex snatches it, holds it away, grinning.
“Give it back,” you tell him, trying to take it but only succeeding in pressing your belly into his beard.
He nips your skin and blows a little raspberry, and you screech, pulling away before a puckish arm can coil around your waste.
You groan, cover yourself, shivering on the cool wood floor. “Fine. I’m going to take a shower.”
“Need some help?” Tex asks.
“I can manage.”
You can feel his eyes on your ass as you walk away.
Do you feel bad about being bitchy? A little bit. Although it never really deters Tex. As much as he complains about your attitude problems, he gets ten times more impish when you have them. You just wish you didn’t find him so incredibly damn hot while he’s handling you like he would an angry hamster.
While you’re showering, whatever John is cooking smells delightful. It wafts around you, mixes with the hot steam of the shower, makes your stomach clench in longing. Hangry, then, maybe.
Pressing on your ribs wrong while you’re lathering still gets you groaning in pain. It’s taking a long time for this shit to heal, and it makes you wonder how exactly John can just take one and keep going like it’s a normal Tuesday. Your first few days of consciousness were agony. Morphine, IV drips, rolling the wrong way and screaming, John’s hands always two seconds away from wrapping around Tex’s throat.
“Please stop fighting,” you had asked them, woken not by their bickering but John’s low, guttural growl.
Four hands immediately on you, soothing, cooing, feathering over your skin like it was made of glass. You sort of felt like the oblivious kid in the divorce. They were so mean with one another, but always so soft with you. It was when you asked them to get along like they had been before that they actually started to try.
Honestly, though, them actually getting along means your undoing every single time. There are no upper hands to be had against the two when they share one common goal, and usually you’re the one begging in the end.
Your tiny crumb of power, whether you like it or not, is contained in feminine wiles, and sometimes you use it just to spite them. Especially since they can’t be rough with you because you’re still healing from said nasty bullet.
You pick out a pair of cheeky lace and silk panties and grab some cotton shorts that make your ass look great to pair with them. To literally top it off, you slip on a shifty tank top that leaves little to the imagination.
You check yourself in the mirror, turn around a few times, smooth your hands down your tummy and legs, bite your lip to plump it up a little bit. Fuck the shorts. You slide them off and leave yourself in the panties and tank top.
Now, you’re ready.
You feel like the vulnerable bunny walking into a cage of chained Dobermans. All eyes on you. You press the issue, bend down in front of them to pick up something John dropped.
You think maybe this will be the night he actually fucks up and maybe burns a piece of chicken, and, oh, wouldn’t that scratch your ego just right.
You press into him, lean your weight against his solid mass because you know he can handle it, and put the towel back onto the counter. “John Wick leaving a rag on the floor?” You tsk. “Sloppy tonight, eh?”
He raises an eyebrow down at you.
You tuck a rogue hair behind his ear, pausing to tickle your finger over the sensitive shell, and then turn your attention onto Tex.
He’s all hooded eyes and bobbing Adam’s apple while you saunter up to him and fix the collar on his shirt. “Not you too,” you sigh, grinning his devil’s grin right back at him.
“Playing a dangerous game, rattlesnake,” he tells you, tugging softly on the bottom of your top.
You try to remain composed, take the seat beside him. “Sure, Tex.” A little eye roll.
“Someone wants to sit funny for a few days, huh?” He grabs the bottom of your chair and tugs you closer.
“Are you forgetting who took a literal bullet for your ass?” You ask him, pursing your lips and batting your eyelashes.
John chuckles.
“You’re about to take more than that for me—”
John surprises you both. It’s hard to get used to his constant stealth mode. He sets hot plates down in front of you, then takes his own place at the table. “Y/n, we need to talk.”
“Great, I love hearing that.”
He shoots you a stern look that reminds you he’s not Tex, and you back down, spiky fur softening.
“Things have settled down. No one is out for your blood anymore. You’re safe to settle down somewhere new with the bounty and start again.”
Tex’s head twists so hard you hear his neck crack. “You sonofabitch, what did I say, huh?”
John levels a glare back. “She needs to make her own decision.”
Tex slams an open palm on the table, makes you jump and yelp. “I’m gonna—”
“Stop!” They both turn attention to you. Tears well on your bottom lashes, shoulders shaking in anger. “Really? All this time spent and you’re just gonna let me go? And act so—” you resist the urge to scream, but end up with a softer version of it -“fucking aloof about it?!” You whip around to face Tex. “And you, you fucking big bully, you just make all my decisions for me, huh?! Treat me like I’m incapable of thinking for myself.” Your yell drops to a quiet quiver, salty liquid spilling down your cheeks. “Both of you never even stopped once to ask me what I wanted. You’re both too concerned with using me. Like I’m some fuck toy who doesn’t have any say in…. In anything. And now you wanna end it?” You look back at John. “Just like that?” You shove your plate away. “I’m not your fucking chew toy.”
You stand up and walk out the door, slamming it for good measure, stomping and sobbing, following the sound of dark ocean waves. It’s pitch black out here, the only light provided by a shy, foggy moon. Still, you walk. You walk until your feet get sore and tired and you have to sit down on the sand and ruin your cute underwear.
They don’t come after you, which you think would satisfy you, but, instead, it makes you even angrier. They don’t give a shit, and that’s apparent now. They don’t care and they never did. You selfishly hope there are more Bratva members out here with your name in their pocket just so you can prove a point.
You sink into warm sand and sob on the dark beach, cresting waves drowning out your pathetic cries.
Johnwickb1tsch:
It is late, by the time you return to the villa. You are listless and tired from crying. You see a single lamp on inside the house, but you don’t want to see them yet. A part of you yearns for them, even after your fight, like a missing limb, but the other half of you can’t stand the thought of facing them. They’ve been so sweet after your ordeal, and yet you know they’ll probably have cooked something diabolical up for you, for daring to show your true feelings about it all.
You are covered in sand. It really does get into everything. At the poolside you strip down, using the outdoor shower to rinse off. The pool is infinity style, affording a view of the beach beyond. Subtle lighting around the courtyard throws the various tropical plants in dramatic shadow. Kroton, monstera, palm trees, organ cacti and prickly pear, and a pink bougainvillea bush that is almost as big as the house. You love the garden here. You love this house, if you’re being honest.
You dive into the pool. It’s not very often you get to have it to yourself. Usually one or the other of the boys is shadowing you. Pulling at your swimsuit, stealing kisses and sending you to pieces in one way or another. You resent it, the effect they have on you, even as you’re not sure you can give it up.
Floating on your back, naked as a jaybird and looking up at the stars, you wonder what your life would even look like now, without them. Could you ever be content in the real world again, knowing who and what you left behind? Women would sell their souls to have just one of your assassins in their bed—and here you are, complaining that you have two.
If that’s not human nature in all its absurdity, you don’t know what is.
“Fuck,” you sigh. You want to scream it at the sky, but you don’t want to wake them, if they in fact are sleeping, and not sitting up in the shadows waiting to ambush you.
What do you want, actually? What would really make you happy?
It’s a question you’ve never been terribly good at answering for yourself, and that was before the shit got weird. You love animals. You’d enjoyed volunteering at the shelter. You imagine turning this beautiful compound into a fucking zoo of creatures who were discarded by people, if the boys gave you half the chance. That probably wouldn’t fly. And what if you all have to flee again? What would happen to the babies? It wouldn’t be responsible.
Then you think about what they might say, if you proposed conducting an actual relationship. Living in a place where you could come and go as you please, and not be kept in total isolation. Go to the fucking store without a hulking shadow of a bodyguard by your side. Get a cup of coffee, go to the library. They could come and go too. Dinner at seven. How was your day, honey? Well I popped a low-level state representative who wasn’t getting the picture from 600 yards, then I picked up my dry cleaning.
Ye gods. You have to keep reminding yourself that this is not normal.
“For a minute there I though we’d caught ourselves a mermaid.”
The silence could not last, of course.
You right yourself to tread water in the deep end, looking up at Tex standing at the poolside with his muscular arms crossed. His face is thrown half in shadow, his eyes glittering like obsidian orbs; why does he have to be the most handsome man you’ve ever seen? Next to John, of course—but they’re practically fucking twins, even if they won’t admit their physical similarity.
When Tex starts to pull off his t-shirt you pipe up, “Sure you want to do that? Mermaids are famous for drowning men.”
Tex pays you that wolfish baring of teeth, kindling a familiar fire in your belly. What is wrong with you, that you so love to fight with this dangerous man? He always wins. Every fucking time. And yet you keep coming back for more. Maybe you’re the crazy one. Doing the same thing over and over, expecting different results, and all that…
“Them’s big words, from a gal who can barely touch the bottom even in the shallow end…” he teases.
“Fuck you.” You splash at him, but he’s already shimmied out of his shorts and is jumping in with you. It’s a pleasure to watch him glide through the water, truth be told. Long of line, bare skin, sinewy muscle—it makes you mad all over again, how the sight of him moves you. He surfaces an arm’s length from you, spitting water playfully into the air while pushing his dark hair out of his face. When he reaches for you, you splash him in the face.
“Don’t touch me. I’m still mad at you.”
He makes a show of wiping water out of his eyes, even though he’s already soaking wet.
“Cuz I’m such a bully, huh? Always tellin’ you what to do?”
“Yeah.”
“C’mere, you little rattlesnake.”
It’s like arguing with a brick wall, and his grip on your arm won’t be dislodged. You already know this—but you kick out anyway. Your foot finds his ribs; the push of it makes your side ache. The “oomph” you get out of him in answer is almost worth it though, and for good measure you do your damndest to dunk him.
“Goddamn, woman,” he curses, spinning you in his arms so he can drag you to a part of the pool where at least he can stand.
“Let go of me.”
“Can you just listen for once?” There’s a surprising earnestness in this request that makes you still in his arms, all ears.
“Yeah?”
He gathers you to him, your back to his front, and the warmth of his bare skin against yours in the water with his arms around you is a distracting thing.
You wait, but he’s not forthcoming.
“I’m listening?” you prompt impatiently.
“I’m thinking.”
“Think faster.”
He laughs in the bend of your neck, though there is an edge to it. He grazes your cheek with his teeth, but he doesn’t bite down. This man has an oral fixation worse than a puppy dog. You’re never sure if he wants to kiss you, or eat you.
“I’m no good at this,” he finally admits.
Well that’s the understatement of the century.
“You know, the more you think about what you want to say, the more time you have to convince yourself of a lie?”
The sound he makes behind you is more growl than sigh. “Fine. I’m fucking crazy about you, alright? And the thought of being without you feels like feeding my heart through a woodchipper.”
Hearing this makes you go dead still in his arms. It was not the thing you expected to hear from this man, ever. Suddenly you feel hot all over; there’s a ringing in your ears, your heart is in your throat. You remember what Bradford said about Tex. Psychopathic narcissist. Which means, from a text-book standpoint, that he will say anything he has to, to manipulate the people around him to his liking.
But goddamn, if it didn’t sound like he meant it just now, when he said he cares about you.
Does he mean it? Can you trust a damn word that comes out of this man’s mouth?
Do you want him to mean it?
You don’t fucking know. And you’d better say something back fast, or you’re going to be in a world of fucking trouble.
“I am…quite fond of you as well, for some reason.”
This makes him snarl, pinching your side that didn’t take a bullet. “Ow! Ok, ok!”
“What was that? Last I checked, people don’t jump in front of a bullet for someone they’re just fond of.”
“Fine. In a split-second decision…the thought of the world without you in it seemed intolerable to me.”
This, however, does not appease him.
“You just can’t say it, can you?”
“Why should I? You’ll punish me either way. I lose no matter what, in this game.”
Tex flings his arm in a wide gesture, sending crystalline drops of water flying in an arc towards the house. “You call this losing?” he demands hotly, and now you sense you’ve succeeded in truly making him angry. “Holed up in a mansion in Mexico with two men who love you more than life itself? We were ready to die for you, when Bradford took you! Don’t that mean anything at all?”
You’re so mad that the last part of that statement hardly registers with you. “Holed up? I am your prisoner. John says he loves me but he’s ready to let me go. You say you love me but you won’t give me the freedom to live. Your dicks are very nice but I need something more than sitting around the house waiting for the two of you to pounce on me!”
“What do you need?” The question is so calm in comparison to you and Tex’s yelling that the both of you fall silent. John has joined you, standing like a tall shadow at the edge of the pool, the yellow lights at his back illuminating him like a fiery halo. In that moment for all the world he resembles something that just materialized from the fires of hell.
“Freedom,” you answer before you have time to think about it, or before Tex can stop you. “I don’t like being kept in a cage.”
John is still as a statue, only his hair stirring in the salty breeze coming off the sea.
“And the two of us?”
Tex’s grip around your waist tightens, vibrating with tension, as though he’s scared of what you’ll say. He doesn’t shut you up though, silent for what may be the first time in his life, waiting for your answer.
“We can work something out.”
In the depths of the shadows, you almost miss the slight curl of John’s lips at the corners. “Well, that’s nice to hear.” You can’t tell if he means it—or if he’s just amused by you.
You watch as he strips out of his clothes to join you in the pool, and you know…nothing has really been settled, and you only sort of feel better about your situation. Talk is easy. What they actually decide to do with you? Remains to be seen.
Yet when John cups your face in his big hands, kissing you so sweetly you start to tremble—in Tex’s arms, his hot mouth upon your neck, his long fingers gliding down your belly to dip between your legs—maybe it’s all a problem that can wait until tomorrow. Or next week.
Or next month.
You do kind of like it here, with them.
Sweetwolfcupcake:
There's a ringing in your ears as you blink. Looking at the phone screen. Apparently, you now have a new bank account, a new identity and a whole new life.
A life without them in it.
When John brought up the 'coversation' last month, you had an outburst.
But now, when he has made all the decisons on your behalf, made all the arrangements to ship you the fuck out of his life-- of their lives, you sit in silence.
The conversation began a few...minutes ago? You aren't entirely sure. Because you are busy trying to keep your breathing normal and not let your tears show.
If they can take decisions for you, discard you like nothing.
They do not deserve to know how easy it has been for them to shatter you.
"One of my friends will drop you to the airport. From there, contact this man, he'll lead you through the security."
John speaks as if he is dealing with any other person as he slides a paper with a name and number on it, even a picture. He sounds strange to you now.
Indifferent.
Stoic
Unreadable
And of course, Tex makes no appearance. You have not seen him the whole day. You should have seen the signs. But you naively thought he was running some errands.
What a dumb litttle woman you have been.
Stupid.
"Finally got bored of me?" You don't know if its your voice, or your eyes but something vulnerable and readable flashes in his eyes.
"I am doing what is right for you." He has the guts to look and sound sincere.
You fist your fingers and let out a slow, quivering breath, trying to keep your voice stable through this.
You realise that you are in love with them.
You are so in love with them that even breathing hurt, looking atnthe screen showing the promised 2.5 million made you feel like a protstitute.
So you really were their 'expensive' whore.
Tex's words ring in your head.
"And when did you decide what's right for me?"
Your voice does not come out as strong as you would have liked, but you want to pat your back for keeping it from cracking. For keeping the tears from filling your eyes, for keeping yourself from breaking down and for letting it show that your heart now is in pieces - tiny but sharp pieces - pieces that would go unnoticed - but make one bleed.
"Because I know that it is for the best." He asserts.
Your giggle is unexpected, but it somehow helps. "Oh, yeah?" you shake your head. "Now you decide what's best for me?"
"(Y/N)---"
"When can I go?"
Enough of this game.
You do not want to hear anything else, you do not even want to look at him, at them. If Tex isn't here yet.
Good.
You think spitefully. He should not show his fucking face!
Anger, restentment, betrayal, heartbreak and helplessness-- everything amlagamt into a dangerous fusion that oddly numbs you. But you know that this is the silence betfore the storm.
They do not even deserve to see your outburst. You will not give them the satisfaction of any reaction at all.
There is a charged silence from his end. And when you finally manage to glance up from the screen. You almost curse out loud.
You don't know what he is thinking. But it does not seem any good.
"You think---"
The ringing of the phone becomes your saviour. You think you actually felt the growl on your skin seconds ago. Why else would there be goosebumps on your skin. Why else would your heart be thumping?
When he picks the phone, he keeps his eyes on you, but you revert your gaze back on the phone screen. Oh, you now have a new phone as well. A parting gift from them. It feels more like a return gift.
'Hey party's over, you can go hom enow, and yes, thank you for being our little plaything. Here, a return gift. Happy Journey!'
You almost laugh at your own mental mimicry.
----
John's friend arrives within an hour. You have packed your bags mechanically, but you've meticulous about it. Nothing of you would remain with them, and no part of either of them shall go with you.
The shirt you've been wearing for so long that it now basiclaly smells like you?
It actually belongs to Tex, you remember, because he would always joke about you robbing his wardrobe every time he would see you in it, only to rob you out of your breath the next moment.
So, the shirt is left in the empty closet.
The two-in-one shampoo that saves time? It s John's, so it is left on the counter.
You shove down the sob itching to emerge and steele yourself. Tex is still nowhere to be found.
Bastard.
You load the bags at the back of the car. Only two bags. Funny how your life has been alterned permananently, you are to 'start afresh' and all you've got are two bags to begin with.
Oh, and a fat bank account.
The man and John speak in Sapnish, John does most of the talking for a change. You just want to get in the car and sit down.
But you stop, somehow. Soemthing tells you to turn around. Something in you is sure that Tex is here. You know it is most probbaly your silly heart, still whimpering like the stupid fucking thing it has been for so long. You want to finally listen to your mind. But as soon as you hold the handle to yank the door open, a painful tug at your heart makes you freeze.
Listen to your fucking brain for once!
See where your stupid heart has got you---
Fuck it!
You turn around, almost hoping to see Tex, so much the image of him standing a few feet away flashes before your eyes even before you turn around.
But there in no one behind.
The fiery hope fizzles into cold nothingness in you.
No one is standing there, hoping to see you, no one is there, rushign to stoip you, to stop John. To stop this.
There is no Tex.
You scoff lightly.
But you promise yourself that this is the last time you make a fool out of yourself by listening to your heart.
You should have seen this coming. But you were just a lonely, love-starved, pathetic little woman, weren't you?
Yanking the door open, you get inside the car. The man, John's friend, joins shortly after, taking the driver's seat.
He greets you in accecented English, and you reply politely, despite the effort that it takes to be civil with anybody at themoment. You feel John's eyes on you, but you refuse to look his way.
"Can we go now?"
You ask the man, barely keeping your voice from cracking. The man nods and starts the car, but only after approval from John. You bite your lips, keeping your tears at bay-- its not easy, but you have turned into an expert in bottling up emotions at this point of life.
John's ears are ringing, and his eyes are blurry as he watches the car taking a turn, completely disappearing from his sight. He blinks, relenting under the stubborness of his tears. One tiny drop finds an escape to his cheek. Silently, he turns around.
Tex is standing a few feet behind him. He has been there ever since you walked to the car with her bags.
He simply did not have it in him to face you. So whene you turned, he hid behind a wall.
John undertands Tex, and he knows that Tex would never forgive him for doing this.
But John likes to tell himself that is the better of the two when it comes to 'doing the right thing'. Angels do not belong with devils. They're cursed, doomed beings, destroying everything good that touches them, defiling that they touch.
You don't deserve that.
John tells himself for the nth time. Maybe, if he convinces himself, it would be easier to make Tex see his reason one day.
He watches as Tex silently walks back inside the villa, slamming the door shut behind him.
Tammykelly:
You would sit and stare at the walls of each airbnb for hours. Hours would turn into days, days - into weeks. You were losing count at that point, having learnt that a passing minute could turn into lingering eternity when every day was just a routine of waiting. So patiently waiting for the impossible, you weren’t sure you were breathing.
And you were hoping they’d come bursting right through each door, as it would crack open under sizzling fire and stand agape, akin to the gates of oblivion, forever sucking you into the whirlpool of tarnished hopes.
But they never came, always teasing you with a fog of a visit in your dreams, so flawlessly unattainable, even in the thicket valley of your own mind. You could practically feel their presence, looming somewhere behind you. And yet when you did turn your head, you’d always be greeted with only shadows, playing dirty tricks on you.
And what came to fill that befuddled void was an unstoppable force of burning tears and searing pain you carried in your chest every time you’d go on a new road trip across Europe.
Eucalyptus trees, turquoise sea, passing by the road, birds flying high, sometimes matching the speed of the car.
It wasn’t them leaving you feeling discarded that made you mad. It was the fact that it was the decision made for you. The taken away chance for you to fight for your own freedom and liberate yourself on your own terms.
Crowds of people laughing, dancing, cheering, a few couples kissing and hugging slipped by your sight.
And who would’ve thought that the freedom, once forced upon you, tasted like emptiness, and boredom turned out to be second to the suffocating loneliness. For now, instead of being caged in the glass house, you found yourself waking up every day to the ringing sound of the cage that was your own subconscious, slowly erasing parts of you.
The excitement of the first few days would always vaporise into the thin air, the towns, the mountains, the forests, the beaches - everything turning into a never ending lane in between the world you daydreamed about behind the world you were escaping. For freedom, with no one to share, became a burden just for you to carry.
This is probably what they wanted, you’d think every day, staring at yourself in the rear mirror of your rental car. For you to hate your own company and long for their so bad you wanted to curse your own existence.
They’d always play a game of push and pull with you, giving you everything that you wanted in a controlled amount - just enough for you to feel satisfied and less than enough that you keep coming back for more.
You drive the car down one of many hills of Italian Riviera, onto an empty secluded beach, then stepping into the nauseating midday sun accompanied by the loud crying of cicadas. The scorching sunlight and eucalyptus shade being the only things that kiss your skin, as you leave your sundress discarded in the backseat. Soft sand embraces your feet, slowly guiding you to the warm crystal clear blue water, letting you escape deeper and deeper in, until your bikini is fully wet and your chin touches the surface. Your eyes close, your breath in synch with your heartbeat fueled by the fleeting thoughts.
You exhale one last time, emptying your mind, and let the Mediterranean sea swallow you whole.
- a flashback -
You feel your head come above the surface, air filling your lungs, and then late noon sunlight graze your wet hair, as you walk out of the turquoise pool, emerging slowly, your eyes locked on the dark chocolate ones that devour each curve of your body, too distracted to notice you calculating your steps. You reach the pool bed and grab the towel, drying yourself, the sunlight shining over you in the most flattering way, making the man beside you hardly resist pulling you onto his lap. You feel his arms find their way around you in a firm embrace, and in a swift motion, the towel is discarded somewhere on the floor, droplets from your bikini are now falling down onto his skin.
“Hey”, you say softly, making yourself comfortable, at the price of his discomfort.
“You’re a fuckin’ goddess, you know that?” - Tex’s lips fall on your chest and trace a line up to your jawline.
“Never noticed, no”, you tease, your fingers on either side of his face, making him look up at you. A little naughty butterfly sets an array of flowers blooming in the bubble inside your heart, as you watch him study you with the eyes full of a promise to devour you right then and there, meticulously edging you on, before the other hawk comes for his piece of the prey.
Having nowhere to run means you’ve got nothing to lose.
You kiss him deeply, feeling his arms pull you flush against his chest, before you pull away right when the scales are about to tip not in your favor.
Your gaze penetrates his dark irises, igniting more fiery canons he throws your way in a form of his fingers digging deeper into your hips and waist.
Out of the two, Tex is more impulsive. And impulsivity means a behavioural pattern. And where’s a pattern, there’s a loophole. And where’s a loophole, there’s a way out.
Your ears catch his voice before your brain registers it.
“What?”, - Tex chuckles, making your resurfacing back to him speed up its pace.
“Nothing”, - you whisper, your fingers touching his cheekbones.
A small smirk turns into a wolfish grin, as he continues: “It’s never nothing with you. You told me once, we are nothing more or less than what we choose to reveal. So tell me, what’re you hidin’, my rattlesnake?”
Him leisurely drawing absentminded circles on your hips makes your chest rise and fall a bit deeper, as if setting off in-built alarms. You lock your jaw and let go.
“Sometimes my mind still wonders back to that kidnapping day”, the circles stop, “as I remember watching you and John obliterate the enemies, I kept thinking how graceful you two looked, as if almost entranced in a dance, deadly one at that”, his jaw plays under your fingers, “as time passed, it made me wonder, what more can you do for me?”
You notice a flash of darkness sparkle through his gaze, as if a shadow of a thick lone storm cloud approaching, but never leaving, with lightning brewing deep within.
Tex growls: “Oh, you’re so spoiled,”your cheeks flush a deeper tone, “we’re ready to kill anyone for you, is it not enough?”
You can’t keep your eyes off his, so you reply: “Although I do appreciate the thought, it’s not”, his eyebrow twitches, “you know, it’s easy to break, to kill and to bring destruction to the doorstep of anyone who dares to encounter you. But you know what’s hard?”, you let a pause escape into the abyss, “sacrificing and living”.
His head tilts, “we’re both willing to sacrifice our lives for you”. You pull away.
“I know, you do, but that’s not what I mean”, you tell him, “getting killed in the name of love is easy. But giving up what you love is not”. The hairs at the back of your neck stand up, for your heartbeat quickens at the look, emanating from his narrowed eyes.
“What are you talking about?”, he asks lowly.
A shallow breath escapes your lips when you feel tears pool in your eyes, before you can speak again: “You keep dancing with the death because you were born to be its angels. You love hunting, because you were born to be hunting dogs”, you let yourself run your fingers through his raven locks, feeling your chest tighten, “but you know better than anyone that death always catches up to you, you can’t outrun it”, your eyes wash over his face, “hounds get shot down too”.
You feel a vibration of his laughter echo through you, as Tex’s voice softens: “Well, that’s one way to call us old”.
You smile bitterly, feeling a single tear roll down your cheek. “Oh, you don’t think your employers just gonna pat you on the back and thank you for your service, do you?” Tex’s fingers wipe your cheek gently, butterflies in your belly forming a growing gurgling sensation of an upcoming avalanche, “the difference between a dog and a man is that dogs can’t talk, they act on instinct”, he watches your eyes search his, “either way, both of you will always remain a liability. There’s no grace in dying and no dignity in fighting a losing game”.
Suddenly, you hear another deep voice quietly respond, sending shivers down your spine, as its owner steps into the light, away from the shadowy greenery.
“So, what are you saying?”, you hear another pool bed creek, as John sits down.
“Devils are forever bound to Hell”, you feel an instinctive urge to wiggle out of Tex’s grip and let your feet touch the ground, “so don’t fucking drag me into it. Make your choice”, you tell them, both men now looking up at you, their laser sharp pitch black eyes staring right through you, goosebumps arising on every inch of your body.
“You know it’s not that simple”, Tex says lowly, earning a glare from John, which he shrugs off. You raise an eyebrow.
“Is this your final answer, Tex?”
He doesn’t reply.
You don’t take your eyes off Tex, while you hear John’s voice pierce through you: “We’ll always choose you”, making you slightly step away.
“Doesn’t seem that way”, you reply in a tone that matches his and turn around, speed walking back to the mansion.
You immediately feel the AC blasting, while you pace your breathing, as you step inside and walk into the kitchen, pouring yourself a glass of water with shaky hands. You glance into the window, watching the boys’ backs, as they lean closer to one another, whispering secrets not meant for your ears. Secrets that the tree shades will evaporate and never reveal.
You feel your hand clasp the glass harder, your vision focusing on the blurry reflection of you, tears making your silhouette on the window glass even fainter, as water slips past your lips and down your throat.
- the present -
As you look away from your reflection in the bar window, lazily skipping over LA street view, you put the glass down, the burning sensation in your mouth tingling pleasantly.
So much for fighting to be a puppet master when in the end it’s always been their game, for they were the ones who invented it. Haunting you. Taunting you. Tainting you. Akin to the glass in front of you, stained with your fingerprints and lipgloss.
Fuck, your breath fogs the glass.
You hear the bar doorbell ringing, letting the late night air in, and, after a few seconds, a bar stool a few sits over scraping, as the person sits down. You look up from the glass and into the mirror behind the illuminated shelves that hold liquor.
You suddenly feel like your stomach is flipping somersaults, as if air was knocked out of your lungs. For when you watch the stranger’s reflection, you can’t help but notice the singularity of similarities, wondering whether you’re seeing double.
How many Jesus-looking handsome devils are there?
You forget that it’s not polite to stare and he pretends not to pay attention to it. After a few seconds you inhale again, as if starved for oxygen, your heartbeat overpowering the loud music in your ears.
You fail to see a scrawny middle-aged guy sitting down next to you, missing his chatting up and lewd looks, as he’s checking you out. Finally, your eyes lock with your mirrored ones, your jawline hardens, as you try to move away from the noisy stranger. As you take a sip of your drink, he tries to snatch your hand, which makes you jolt and snap your hand back, throwing him a deadly glare. Instead of taking the hint, he grabs the back of your stool and spins your seat, so you’re facing him.
“Fuck off”, you hiss at him.
“You’re so rude”, - the guy moves closer and you - further from him, your skin crawling with unpleasant thoughts, “someone’s gotta teach you manners”, placing a hand on your bare lower thigh, above your knee. You exhale with a smirk on your lips, before grabbing his palm, curling your fingers and digging your nails into the centre of the thinnest part so hard that bloody creases appear, making him yelp. Fingers of your other hand wrap around the thumb of the hand you’re clawing in, and you’re not shy to painfully bend it in such a way that if you put more force to it, it’d break.
“Remind me again, what was it about the manners?”, you whisper, dangerously low, the guy’s cries drowning in the music. His other hand claws at your arm, as he calls you names. You yank his hand hard, as he does the same in his direction, which leaves deep scratch marks, then grasping his collar, your wide crazed eyes staring into his drunk red ones.
“Don’t try me”, you growl, “I will bite”.
“You crazy fucking bitch”, the guy grabs you with one hand, his glossy eyes filled with rage, his hot breath fanning over your face. As his other hand moves to slap you, you turn to the side briefly, noticing dark obsidian eyes staring right at you, when the stranger’s hand wraps around the guy’s wrist.
“Don’t be rude to the lady”, he says to the drunkard, as you let go of the guy. You lean back, watching the stranger’s eyes glow, akin to jet-black nothingness of the dark matter in space.
“Who the fuck are you?” the guy asks the stranger, who turns his attention to you:
“Is he bothering you, angel?”
You nod, your gaze never leaving his, making you feel an almost familiar sense of security, as you fall deeper into the bottomless fiery pits of his eyes. Before the guy can say a word, the handsome stranger is forcibly throwing him onto the ground, then casually asking the bartender to call the security, ignoring the guy’s threats to call the cops. You watch the stranger squat in front of the drunk guy and tell him to stay quiet, which he doesn’t listen to, making the first one roll his eyes.
You hear a sound of his fist colliding with the guys head, knocking him out. The stranger’s black eyes find yours, pulling you into the intricate labyrinth that is his curious gaze.
“Happens all the time”, he explains, his presence close enough to make you feel the heat of his body, but respectfully away that you don’t feel like he’s intruding your personal space. All thoughts completely leave your mind, as you don’t think you have it in you to divert your gaze, especially when the security drags the drunkard out onto the street.
You feel blood flow to your cheeks when the man’s eyes study you with the same intensity you once knew, making your stomach turn and throat dry up, as you absentmindedly reach for your drink. You force yourself to look away, blinking the fog of memories clouding your consciousness, as if a waterfall washes away the imprints it once knew. You let the pretty devil read your body language, not paying attention to him sitting down next to you, as you look through the window, into the depths of the night, for a split second thinking, indeed, you’re seeing double.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost”, the man’s voice reaches you, once again the illuminating black hole of his irises not letting go of you, as if the sound and space around you are nonexistent anymore.
“Maybe I did”, you reply, pleasant tingles all over your body mixing with barely noticeable shivers, coating your flesh, your mind fully in control of your thoughts and actions, despite several cocktails.
You break the thick silence between you: “Do you, like, have a twin or something?”
“No, why’d you ask?”, - he responds, his gaze slowly increasing the heat of your body.
“Sorry, you just remind me of someone”, you apologise, hiding the truth behind the sip of your drink.
“Are you running away or looking for them?”, - the stranger asks.
“I dunno. Maybe a little bit of both”, your lashes flutter.
You feel him lean closer, the speed of your heartbeat rising.
“What’d you do if you saw a ghost?”, he whispers, your eyes lock on his again.
You bite your lip, thinking for a second, and tell him: “Well, it’d depend on where I see them. If I saw them in my apartment, I’d ask why the fuck they’re here rent free. If I saw them in a Church, I’d probably meet Jesus right then and there. If I saw them in an alley, I’d probably punch them so hard I’ll send them back to where they came from”.
Your eyes find his playful smile so enjoyable for some reason, when he teases: “You’ve got spirit”.
You mirror his expression: “No, just a whole lotta anger”.
You both let a pause vapour into the air and then he speaks again.
“So, which one is it?”, he asks, searching your eyes.
“Well, I’m here and they’re there. End of the story”, you let out before another beat passes by, as your mind and heart fail to create any excuse not to keep up with him.
He tilts his head, his short messy hair falling all over his forehead. “So, what brings you to the city of Angels? Business or pleasure?”
“Haven’t decided yet, maybe both”, you say, watching a wolf-like grin appear on his lips, a smirk you know all too well, which makes your heart sting just a tiny pinch.
“Looks like you need someone to do a whole lotta deciding for you”, - his eyes glimmer with a shade of darkness you can tell brings no good but a cheeky pretext for more.
“Excuse you, you don’t think you have anything you can offer me, do you?”, you match his smile with one of your own.
“Depends on what you’re looking for”, the man replies, watching you feign curiosity.
“Depends on what you have to offer”, you raise an eyebrow.
“So you do want something from me”.
“Huh, maybe the question is what don’t I want”.
You feel the heat of his body on yours even stronger when he moves closer.
“Maybe the question is what can you offer me?”, he asks, earning a glare from you. The counter meets with your arm, as you lean on it, your body now facing his.
“What are you looking for then? Business or pleasure?”, you throw one leg over the other.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself, angel. It could be something you can’t give me”, he leans back, looking down at you through his lashes.
A pause washes over you two.
“What, cat’s got your tongue?”
“No, I’m thinking”, you tell him.
“Think faster”, he urges.
Deja vu much?
You exhale, smirking: “Fuck off. You’re a prick”.
“You can’t expect to receive something without giving something in return. So, that makes you…a…what?”, he waves his hand absentmindedly.
“A fucking saint”, your voice sounds as a matter of factly.
“Quite the opposite, actually”.
“Yeah, you ever see a saint doing charity work?”
“I’ll let you know when I see one”
He’s so devilishly handsome it’s annoying.
Your jawline moves but you don’t dwell on the feeling of rising heat under your skin.
“So, what is it that you want”, you ask flatly.
“Stick around and find out”.
“Nah, I’ll have to check my calendar first”, you pretend to think, “hmm, I don’t think so”.
You catch a tiny sparkle of interest grow bigger in the eyes opposite yours, though he doesn’t move a muscle, buying into your pretence when you both can feel the underlying truth on your fingertips.
“Can I buy you a drink”, his low voice vibrates through a thin layer of deceptive indifference. You note how his eyes are the opposite of the ones that embody icy coldness laced with a warm hue that you’re used to. His irises are so warm with a glint of a cold breeze, blowing through them.
“No, but you can pay for mine. I don’t drink much, especially with scruffy strangers”.
The man waves to a bartender who’d just come for his shift, you hear the voice of a man behind the counter: “Good evening, John”.
Oh, so help me God
“Put the lady’s drinks on my tab and get me a glass of Ardberg”, he turns to face you, “name’s John Constantine. You’re indebted to me now”.
“For a fucking drink?”
“Three, to be exact”
You laugh.
Guess you’re not escaping the devil tonight
“You’re such an asshole, John. So what is it that you do for a living”
“I hunt”
Fucking Hell
“And then I help the souls leave this realm”, he continues.
Even better
“Like, with a bullet or a prayer?”, you draw circles on the glass ring.
“A little bit of both”
“That pays well?”
Constantine smirks: “One does what one can”.
“You like it?”
“Not at all”
“Why’d you do it then?”, you ask quietly.
“To atone for my sins”, your eyes can’t help but notice an almost sad glimpse appear in his irises and then switch off back to a playful hint. He watches you look at him with wide eyes.
“Can I tell you a secret?”
You nod, expectantly.
“I don’t do bullets these days”
“So, you’re like…Killer Preacher? Fiery Priest?”
“Haven’t thought of it like that. But yeah”, he replies, as your heartbeat almost makes you nauseous, the ephemeral sensation of being watched from a place you can’t see making your ears turn red, you almost don’t hear him finish his sentence, “I’m not a killer. On God”.
You force a giggle: “Sure”.
Constantine’s eyes loom over yours once more, taking in every micro expression of yours, when he suggests: “You’re sure you don’t want a drink?”
You look him right in the eyes when you take his drink from his hand and down the rest he hasn’t finished yet, then saying: “Yeah, thanks. It’s been nice knowing you, John Constantine”.
He quirks an eyebrow: “You drank my shit and you’re leaving?”
“Yeah. I’m done with killers”, your heels make contact with the floor and you begin to walk away.
“Be seeing you, angel”, Constantine throws your way, neither of you turning around, as you reply: “No, you won’t”.
You go outside and light a cigarette with a trembling hand, staring into the darkest part of the alleyway, fear slowly subsiding and blood pumping in your veins with a newfound purpose of hot radioactive anger.
There’s a Nietzche saying, “and if you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss also gazes into you”. For you can sense that two pairs of eyes are locked in on yours, shining in the darkness.
John notices a venomous smile playing on your lips and a hint of glowing in your eyes, not from the street lamp but rather the thoughts brewing in your mind, as he’s gripping the wheel tighter, the pain causing him to feel more grounded. Tex feels like they’re both staring at the reflection of them, him and John hiding in the shadows, you - right there, embraced by the light, forever favoured by the bold fortune. For “he who fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster”. For you turned out to be a true angel in the city that is the land of the devils.
Just as you throw the cigarette out, your ears pick up the sound of the doorbell before you hear footsteps approaching you.
“Well, you sure took your sweet fucking time”, you tell Constantine, offering him a cigarette.
“Aw, don’t tell me you’ve been waiting for me”, he says before popping a piece of gum into his mouth, as you put the pack into your purse.
“No way in Hell, ew. It’s just taxis take for-fucking-ever here”
“Waiting for the ghost?” he sits down next to you on the bench.
“Yeah. I think I’m going ghost hunting tonight”.
“There’s more than one, I take it?”
You nod and continue: “And I also think I’m gonna take you up on that offer and let you humour me”.
His eyes glow with the same hue as yours: “You’ve figured what you can give me?”
You smirk: “Yeah. I got a debt to pay off, after all, third time‘s a charm, remember?”
“4, in your case”
“3 and a half”, your firm voice claims.
Constantine leans closer, grinning, his gaze devilishly capturing yours in a bargain your body could never deny.
“Thought you were done with killers”, he growls, his quiet voice making shivers roll down every inch of you.
“I guess not tonight, no”.
“Why a change of mind?”
“You look like you’ve been through Hell and back”, you let him get closer until your faces are just millimetres apart, not caring whether your other devils are watching or how they’re feeling anymore.
“Damn, I’ve been called worse but, wow, my God, angel”.
“I wonder what gives”, you tease, letting a Tex-like accent slip past.
“Mhhmm, what makes you say that?”, Constantine’s eyes urging you to lean back, as you recross your legs.
“Because I know what Hell feels like”.
“Well, I am most certain you did not wait for a sympathetic shoulder to cry on”, he purrs, placing his big warm hand on your knee.
“No, I did not”, you send a small smile his way, allowing his hand to travel up your bare thigh, “I don’t want ghosts following me anymore”.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about”, he says, his watchful eyes boring into yours, your heart flutters.
“Who are you to tell me what I do and don’t know”, the sound of your whisper hiss-like.
He smirks: “Okay, do pray tell”, his gaze never leaving your irises.
“I know what devils look like because maybe Hell is other people”.
You let distant sirens be the only sound filling the street.
‘So, you’re running away?”, Constantine breaks the spell, as you feel his skin on yours clearer than ever, ignoring the alarming temptation to stare into the darkness again and seek answers that’ll keep you up at night.
Instead, you tell him: “You keep calling me angel like it means something. I’m far from that. I’m no angel, and I think you’re no devil”.
“Are you sure, little dove? Appearances can be deceiving”.
“But the eyes never lie. And see, you can’t be really running away, when it wasn’t your decision to leave. So, I’ll take my chances”.
Abruptly, all of his warmth leaves your personal space, when he leans back and tilts his head: “You’ll have to pay if my head gets bitten off”
“Make sure to keep it on your fucking shoulders then”, you retort and pull him by the tie.
- 6 months later -
Constantine rolls over, though one of his arms still around you, both of you flushed with after sex glow, rocking messy hair. There’s a pack of unopened cigarettes on your nightstand, he reaches out over you and grabs a pack of gum, offering one to you first and throwing the next one into his mouth. You get up from the bed, Constantine’s eyes following your naked form. He rolls his eyes upon seeing you turn around and cutely blow him a kiss, before the bathroom door clicks shut and he starts to get dressed.
After a while, as the scent of coffee fills the apartment, he hears the sound of you walking across the room, the chair scrapping against the floor and cricking, as you sit down at the table with a towel wrapped around your hair, opening your UCLA mock exam book. He looks up at you from the two cups he’s just poured and sets one in front of you, his eyes glowing.
You glance up, thanking him.
“Last push?”, the corner of his mouth quirks up a little.
“Yeah”, - you set the cup back down, “God, I really did forget what it feels like to be this nervous a week before the exam”.
“You’ll do great, this is just an entrance exam for the undergraduate program, how hard can it be?” he teases, “plus you’ve already gone to college”.
“Yeah, you know I never graduated. Also shut up, genius, see if you can take it”, you mock him before burying your head in the book. Suddenly, you hear a phone buzzing on the table, looking over and seeing it’s Constantine’s, the screen lighting up with a call from “Angela”.
“Your girlfriend’s calling”, - you muse, sliding the phone to the man.
“She’s not my girlfriend”, he states, his eyes not leaving yours, as he ignores the buzz.
“You should take it”, you tilt your head up, as a shadow falls on your face, feeling Constantine’s hand somewhere behind you, “seems important”.
“She can wait”, you feel a whisper pass over right above your ear before he leans closer and his lips find yours, the scent of coffee and gum mixing on your tongues. You break the kiss after a while, lightly smacking his chest.
“I gotta study, John”, you pout, ignoring his wicked grin.
“I know, just giving you a little motivation”, Constantine downs his coffee and winks at you, before walking over to the sink to wash it.
“Ew”, you say, though your eyes follow his movements, as you bite your lip, smiling. As he turns around with a cheeky smirk on those gorgeous lips of his, you roll your eyes.
“Get me something to eat, will you?”, you ask.
“On it”, he laughs, “be right back”.
“Don’t be too long”, - you take a sip of the coffee, as he’s leaving the kitchen. Just as you start revising, you hear his voice calling you again.
“Hey”, you look up, “I’m proud of you, angel”, Constantine smiles at you.
“Get outta here, already”, you throw a cramped paper ball his way, your chest filling with butterflies, making you giggle, as you set your eyes back on the study paper.
You hear the doorbell ringing and Constantine telling you: “Don’t get up, I’ll get it”.
“Thanks, cutie”, you reply, dodging the said paper ball.
After a door click, strange silence greets the air, turning warm LA air icy cold.
“What the fuck”, you hear a voice that makes your blood freeze. “Who the fuck are you?” a deep voice repeats.
“I’m John. The owner of this house. And who the fuck are you?”, Constantine replies and you hurry to the door, your eyes taking in the scene of two men, standing almost chest to chest, about to come unleashed upon one another in a deadly dance of bulls.
Your eyes then lock on dark obsidian ones that spew fireballs.
“Y/n”, the man with long hair, holding a huge bouquet of your favourite flowers, exhales your name softly. Before he can utter another word, you are right up in his face, punching him in the nose, as hard as you can, making him stumble back with blood now dripping down his lips and chin.
“What the actual fuck?” the man exclaims, clearly he didn’t expect such a warm welcome.
Your eyes lock with Constantine’s.
“Nice one”, he high fives you, as you smile at him,“that’s one of the ghosts, I assume?”
“Number 2, actually”, you reply, calmly watching Tex look at you with confusion but his bloodied fingers wrapping around the bouquet, knuckles white, his eyes growing darker with each passing second.
Constantine’s eyes peel off yours and assess Tex.
“Can’t say it’s a pleasure to meet you, asshole”, he says and you almost feel a breeze pass you, as he launches forward.
A screen freeze frame:
Constantine’s fist raised, the other grabbing onto Tex, Tex’s hand with the bouquet about to collide with Constantine’s face.
The angle pans to you.
You look into the camera, amused, yet terrified.
Shit
Treedaddymcpuffpuff:
You take the blood speckled flowers and put them in a purple glass vase by the window where the filtered sunlight can illuminate and nourish the pretty stained petals. The silky roses and lilies - what a combo - invite you to run your fingertips across them and smell the heavy sweetness of the cluster.
After you take your time with the flowers, you go to Tex, sit beside him and dab at his swelling face with a cool washcloth. John watches this display with a barely contained scowl, hip against the counter, cigarette pressed tightly between his lips, bag of frozen peas pressed into his own blooming bruise - you had insisted he blunt the freeze with a rag so his skin didn’t get damaged.
“I’m sorry,” Tex says, and it makes you pause. Takes you aback.
“What?” It’s really the only thing you can manage. You don’t think you’ve ever heard him say he’s sorry and genuinely mean it. However, the enchantment is short lived when you realize that his repentance is probably a ploy to get you pliant and small for him again.
“I said I’m so-“
“I heard you, Tex, but come the fuck on. You actually think that shit is gonna work?”
Ah, there’s that punchable, handsome, toe curling half raise of his mouth. “It was worth a try.”
“You want another black eye?” You ask him.
“You know I’ll take anything you wanna give me, rattlesnake.”
“Die in a fire.” Despite harsh words, you’re still cleaning the caked blood off his face. You think that says way more about you than it ever could about him, but you’ve learned not to question yourself too much nowadays. If everyone else is resigned to being immoral, selfish douchebags, then why shouldn’t you be?
“I miss you.” This is his reply as he sports an almost infatuated expression on his face. He looks like a love sick puppy, and you kind of don’t mind it. Submissive suits him. Begging, strung up to the headboard, cock angry and purple, dribbling fat liquid pearls onto his belly, still having the audacity to be cheeky even while he's so desperate he’s humping air.
“You thinkin’ about me, huh, darlin?” He blows you a kiss and you scowl. Still, your face is hot, hands shaky, breath uneven. Curse this man for his ability to make your cunt throb traitorous in zero point five.
“Where’s John?” You deflect.
“I’m right here.”
You turn to Constantine. He’s got the full icy bag pressed to his face without a buffer again. Remedying his disobedience with a sigh, you snatch the veggies, slap the washrag back on, and then place them to his cheek gently. “You’re gonna get freezer burn.”
He holds you steady on tiptoes, broad hand pressed into your waist, leans down to kiss your top lip. “Who’s John?” He asks.
“A friend.”
Tex snorts. “You know, I’m startin to think ya like him better than me. Every time we have a homecoming, the first words outta your mouth are always ‘where’s John?’”.
His poor imitation of your voice, if you’re giving him credit, actually does make you giggle. “That’s cuz I do like him better than you, Tex.”
You can’t see the way he shoots Constantine a heavy stink eye. “Clearly. Now come’er, you missed a spot.”
Instead of glaring at him, you smile, grab a coke from the fridge and lean into the counter to sip on it. “It’s cute that you still think you’re the boss of me, Tex.”
His grin turns into a sneer. “What? You think just cuz you got a little bodyguard now, I can’t still slap that pretty buxom bottom all red and raw?” He flexes a bulky hand as testament to that, and you hate yourself for shrinking a little bit. Half out of fear, half because your insides give a violent boil of desire that you’re afraid both these men can feel despite distance.
Constantine, in true fashion, rolls his eyes. “Where did you find this guy? The bargain bin of Tractor Supply?”
“Close. A diner in Ohio.”
“Hey, I was the best lookin’ guy in that Diner, thank you.” Tex is back to his usual lazy grin, tipping an imaginary hat.
“You never change, do you?” You ask him, shaking your head.
“Momma didn’t raise a quitter,” he shrugs.
You can try to deny it all you want, but you did miss Tex. That dangling piece of your heart - held by only a tearing thread of muscle - reattached when you saw his beautiful face, leaving you warmer and sturdier and… fuck. Happier.
It’s not your fault. He should be outlawed for the combination k.o. of those handsome features, deep honey voice and annoying, endearing wit. His black hair has grown disheveled and wild, stubble thickening into a wiry mess that you want to tug at. Constantine is always clean shaven, and, god, you miss having constant rugburn between your thighs.
And those hands. Jesus, those big, beautiful, chunky hands, all bruised from beating Constantine into the ground. It wasn’t a fair fight. Although of similar height, Tex’s burly stature overpowered Constantine’s lithe frame. If it wasn’t for John knocking Tex back a couple feet with a burst of black flame, he’d look a lot worse right now. And it’s a good thing he did it sooner rather than later, because you were just about to attempt to pull Tex off of him.
However, that pulse of dark magic created a brand new set of problems. Because Tex now has a, to quote John Constantine, “worrying” symbol burned into his chest.
“The sixth seal of what?” You ask John as he digs through his messy desk of papers and odd collectibles. Occult bobbles and silver trinkets, brown stained parchment from careless papercuts, a few extra lighters. Finally, he rips a book from the bottom of a drawer.
“Saturn.” He flips through, reads faster than you can think, comes dead stop at a page with the identical marking on Tex’s chest. “Oh.”
“Oh?” You say, leaning over him and trying to read Latin. “What does oh mean, John? I’m worried here.”
“Pentacle of Saturn. Creates a magnet for demons and dark hearted creatures.”
“Meaning?”
“Howdy Doody is fucked.”
“I heard that!” Tex calls from the kitchen.
After a hushed discussion with John - well, it starts as a discussion. “So, take it off him.”
“I can’t. I need help.”
You fix him with a stubborn look, grab his t-shirt and drag him over. “So, get help.”
“What’s in it for me?”
You kiss him hard, lick your sharp tongue into his mouth and press him back into his office chair as he tugs your hips down into his lap.
You’re not nice about carding your fingers through his thick hair, and he gives the same treatment while he palms your thighs and ass. You tug his velvet mane back to reveal the long pillar of his pale throat and nibble at his pulse, making him groan and shift under you.
Your cheeks only burn a little bit while you smile down at him, hand still holding his head back. The other heel of your hand puts a little pressure on the thick bulge in his pants, and he bucks into you.
You chuckle. “Would you ever tell me no, John?”
His voice is sandpaper, thick with saliva, it induces a violent shiver from your head to your toes. “Only if you asked me to.”
You pat his flushed cheek, kiss his sensitive swollen bruise. It’s like this more often than not. Ever since that day in the alley where he pressed you into the cold damp concrete and fucked your eyes into the back of your head, you’ve been clinically diagnosed with ‘can’t keep your hands off eachother’ disease.
Whereas Tex and John would only give you what they thought you deserved - held you under a tight thumb and always made sure you were the one licking boots and begging for thread - Constantine can’t fucking resist you. He’s at your beck and call, completely enchanted despite being the magic user in the relationship.
Having a man like Constantine at your feet, by your side, it’s a heavy drug, and a damn miracle if you don’t end up fucking like feral beasts a few times a day.
A heavy, interrupting knock on the front door pulls you from his lips. You feel his baby hairs stand on end, skin prickle in goose flesh, watch his eyes curtain black. He’s a thrumming ball of dark energy, a black void meant for consumption. It’s his bodies malefic defense against black magic. It puts your heart in your ears.
“Fuck.” He picks you up, outer calm betrayed by a sickly nervous sweat beading on his skin, and sets your feet on the floor.
“Are we about to die, John?” You reach out to grip his forearm, and the look he gives you makes your blood cold.
“I need you to go out the back door.” He pops open his weapon cabinet and shoulders a big rifle out. “And I need you to get away from here. Fast.”
“John, I don’t-“
“Do it. Fuck.” He rethinks being demanding, grabs you with one hand and presses his forehead to yours. “Please, Angel, I need you safe.”
You’ve come a long way from that sniveling, scared girl kneeling in gravel with a 9 mm barrel pressed to your temple, but John is right: despite your fierce independence and growing sense of self worth, you have no tools to fight against whatever monsters are knocking at his door.
“What about Tex?”
He kisses your head. “Can he shoot a gun?”
“Yeah?”
John cocks the rifle. “Then he can hold his own.” Your attempt to follow Constantine’s request is very short lived. Turns out, demons are smarter than anyone gives them credit for. As soon as you make it over the threshold, you’re grabbed up. Four men, occult symbols written permanently into their flesh, heads shaved bare. They grip you by the throat and the wrists, but you still have your feet. You lash out, catch one in the groin, and as he stumbles back you have enough leverage to palm another’s nasal bone into his skull.
Then, you run. Gunshots echo behind you, and, of course you’re worried about your own skin, but what about Tex and John? What about them fighting off even more of these brutes? The desperate thought almost gets you to turn around.
Suddenly, your legs seize up, and you land face down on the pavement. It’s like you’ve been paralyzed, rolled over by tons of crushing weight. Your lungs tighten and breathing gets exponentially harder. You feel your bones creaking under the stress of an invisible steam roller. Gravity is a thousand times sharper down here.
A little kick to your thigh is child’s play compared to the boulder crushing your chest. “This is Constantine’s bitch?”
“Yeah, I know, underwhelming.”
You don’t exactly mind the insults - you’re being suffocated by a slow, unyielding force and that seems to be the more pressing issue.
“Kill her?” You didn’t hear the first part of the sentence because your eardrums were popping painfully.
“Yeah.”
And, actually, death would be preferable to suffering like this, feeling like you’ve been shoved into a 3 inch underwater steel drain pipe, like every breath you take is the last one your lungs can handle before they explode.
The weight lifts, air filters through your throat, your body spasms back to life. You can move again, breathe again; it’s painful and glorious. You turn around, and there is your dark angel. In the flesh. Hair nestled back behind his ears, collar tucked neatly on his shoulders despite the dark brown stains slashing through it.
You forget that you’re supposed to be mad at him, especially when he’s looming over a pile of bloody bodies - saving your life once again.
“John?” You breathe.
The stoic expression you fondly remember is contorted in agony. He holds his hand out for you, and you let him pull you to your feet.
It only takes you a stunned few moments to remember that he abandoned you after using you for months on end like a rag doll.
You rear back and slap him hard across the face.
You give yourself kudos - he does flinch a tiny bit. Then, he’s on you, cradling you to his chest, soothing hands rubbing over your head and back, big deep rumbles shaking his broad chest. You lash out with your hands, hitting and scratching, screaming at him to get the fuck off you and that you hate him and that you wish he were dead, but he is unfazed. A force to be reckoned with. Just like you remember him.
He cradles you calm, holds you like he’s never going to let you go again - you have no idea - and, in the same way that Tex repaired a piece of your broken heart, John’s embrace stitches the entire thing back together in some visceral, risky surgery that leaves you agonized and whole again.
Your tears stain his jacket.
#wicked johnson fic#john wick x reader#john wick x you#john wick#john wick x y/n#yandere john wick#tex johnson#tex johnson x you#tex johnson x reader#john constantine#constantine 2005#constantine x reader#john constantine x reader#constantine x you#john constantine x you
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THE DEVILS' TRIANGLE
A Yandere Tex Johnson x Witness!Reader x John Wick (& now John Constantine) Imagine Part 8 by:
@treedaddymcpuffpuff @sweetwolfcupcake @johnwickb1tsch and @tammykelly (with honorary dream weavers / shit stirrers @lilspookymeh & @kurai-hono-blog 😘)
Warnings: So many dead doves! Do not eat! Unless you like dead doves, that is. You're in good company here. 😘 Violence, sexual content, blood, murder, kidnapping, possessive behavior, dubcon, yandere sh!t...it's all here! Please take care! 😘
ALL CHAPTERS
PART 8
Johnwickb1tsch:
"Come on, we've got to get you somewhere safe," says John Wick, trying to hustle you down the street.
"No," you protest, resisting. "We have to find John and Tex. They might need us."
You were skeptical about demons and the occult, God and the Devil and everything in between, at first. But after hanging out with Constantine, you'd seen a few things. Just enough that you had sense enough to be scared. You clutch the protection amulet around your neck that John had given you. You'd laughed at him at the time, but now you were glad to have it.
"They're both grown men, honey. I told Tex to leave you alone. This is what he gets."
Suddenly you're angry all over again. "Oh, you told him, huh?" You push John's chest--its like having a disagreement with a brick wall. "Do you have any fucking idea how much I've missed you? How it destroyed me to be thrown away like an old shirt you had no more use for?"
He is still as a mountain as he holds your wrists, preventing you from striking him, but not hurting you. Those dark eyes bore into you, through you. How does he not see you? "Y/n...I did what I thought was best for you."
"But you didn't fucking ask me! Or at least, you didn't listen! But you know what, it doesn't matter right now. John had to put some kind of a curse on Tex in self defense, because Tex is such an asshole, and now they're both in danger!"
"A what?"
You pause to think, and you're pretty sure you know where Constantine would go. There's an old church a few blocks over. Consecrated ground. It's where he's always told you to go if something came after you. It would be a good place to regroup.
"Come on," you say, pulling John in the opposite direction down the street.
For once, he actually listens, a shadow at your back ready to protect you, but he lets you lead the way.
--------------
The old building looks like it should probably be condemned. It's definitely seen better days, and hasn't seen a congregation in at least a decade. However, the ground is still holy, untouchable for the Unclean, and when you burst through the doors after John has already shot down three demons, you are so relieved to see Constantine and Tex sitting in some of the old pews. They definitely look like they've been through a battle, disheveled and beat up. You wonder how much was demons, and how much they did to each other.
"Thank God!" You run to them, and Tex's expression rises and falls as you go to Constantine, pressing your mouth to his in what you know is a needy kiss, assuring yourself as much as him.
He smirks down at you, well aware of the death- stares he's receiving from both sides. It's possible he makes a show of grabbing your ass, just to rub it in to your two Ghosts.
"Are you ok?"
"Yeah. You?"
You nod. Then Constantine rolls his eyes upward, over your head to John Wick. He is quietly forbidding in his black suit, standing watch by the door. "That your other Ghost?"
With a tired sigh you nod.
"Ghosts? The fuck is Harry Potter here talkin' about?"
The urge to punch Tex or kiss him is strong as ever.
"The two of you ghosted me, didn't you?"
"Baby girl, I missed you. That's why I came to get you." He shoots a telling glare over at John Wick, who only returns a disinterested look. Maybe the master assassin had been keeping tabs on you, but he hadn't shared everything with Tex, it seems.
Constantine looks between the two assassins, then you, with an infuriating smirk.
"What?" you demand, more than a little exasperated with everthing.
"Nothing. Just seems like you have a type, angel."
You can't even argue.
"Angel?" Tex snorts at your pet name. "Does he even know you?"
"Does he ever shut up?" asks Constantine, raising one dark eyebrow.
"No, never," you sigh.
There is a howl outside that lifts every hair on your body, an unearthly sound that makes your fingers grip in Constantine's suit jacket.
"What are we going to do?"
"Good question." Constantine tugs you over to a different pew, sitting down with his arm draped around your shoulders. His message is obvious, and it's new to you. Constantine rocks your world on the nightly, but he's never been possessive before. It really shouldn't, but it ignites a warmth in your chest that makes you feel ridiculously, stupidly, giddy inside.
"Seems like we're at an impasse, gentlemen."
Tex frowns. John seems less than impressed.
"Sorry, what's stopping us from killing you and taking her?"
You tense, watching the gun John holds loosely at his side. You know Wick can move like lightning, and your heart leaps into your throat. You are ready to fling yourself between them if you have to.
"John..."
"It's ok, sweetheart. He's not going to kill me."
"No offense, but I've heard that before from lots of people who are dead now."
Constantine snorts. "You can't kill me, because I've put a curse on your friend here, and you need me to lift it."
"So lift it."
"Can't. Got a friend who can though. You'll never see him without me."
You know Constantine must be talking about the famed and powerful bokor, Papa Midnite. A chill runs down your spine. You've met him precisely once. He was polite--and hot as fuck, if you're being honest--but you knew he was not to be trifled with.
"So let's go, then," says Tex, his patience lost about three dead demons ago.
"Hold up, Howdy Doody. We got to talk first."
"Bout?"
Constantine nods down at you. "Maybe I don't know all the details, but I've heard enough. And as much as I've enjoyed filling the hole you assholes left--I can't let you hurt her again. I'll let the demons feast on your souls first."
Almost on cue, that demonic howling sounds again outside, and a chorus of hellish hissing rises. It sounds like you are surrounded.
Tex leaps to his feet. "You smug little fucker--"
"Shut up, Tex." It's Wick who shushes his friend. "What do you propose?"
Finally, Constantine looks down at you. "It depends on what she wants."
Your mouth drops open at that. You have to decide that, now? As though he can read your thoughts, and sometimes you're convinced he can, Constantine pays you an infuriating smirk.
"I...don't want them dead. Or...devoured."
"That's a start, I guess. Do you ever want to be with them again?"
Your eyes go wide as saucers. The simple answer, of course, is yes. You love them. You miss them.
However, answers are never so simple, with your Boys involved. Like an idiot, you dare to look at them, taking in Tex's hang-dog puppy-eyed look, and John's quiet but intense yearning. Then, of course, there is the man beside you, who despite his aloofness and his prickly manner, has been nothing but good to you.
You've never said it out loud, but the truth is, you love him too.
"I don't know."
"Yeah. I figured." He smirks at you, inexplicably smug, and you kind of want to smack him too.
Which always leads to interesting things, with John Constantine, your stupid lady parts sing out. Jesus Christ on a cracker, what a fucking mess.
"You got a point, Gandalf?" demands Tex, paying a nervous look to one of the cracked stained glass windows. Ominous dark shapes are flying past outside. This is not good.
"I want you assholes to accept a Spell of Submission to her."
"The fuck does that mean?" demands Tex with a thunderous frown. John remains neutral as he listens.
"It means, if you ever try to make her do something she really doesn't want to do, again, she can say the magic words to fuck up your world. Pardner."
"No fuckin' way," Tex scoffs.
At the same time, John answers, "I'll do it."
Your eyes meet across the aisle of the church. That he would take such a leap of faith-- for you-- drops the floor out from under you.
Tex, of course, interrupts your moment of soul- searching eye contact with John.
"Wait, so we could be havin' an argument and she can drop me dead with the evil eye or somethin'?"
Constantine snorts. "It would probably serve you right, Hee Haw, but no. Cause you extreme pain? Yes. But it comes at a price. All magic does. I know she wouldn't use it lightly."
It would potentially even the playing field quite a bit between you three. The balance of power amongst you had never been fair.
"What's a matter, Tex? You don't trust me?"
"Only as far a I could throw you, darlin'." But his hawk-like look softens for you after a moment, and then surprisingly he grins. "Got me over a barrel now, don't you?"
You shift a little in your seat, so that you're flush against Constantine. The solid line of his lithe warmth beside you is anchoring. You glance up at him, finding he looks arrogantly amused-- and surprisingly, a little sad. If you didn't know him so well you would have missed it, like ripples in a pool.
You turn back to Tex, an uneasy excitement thrumming in your chest.
"If the curse fits?"
The cowboy sighs, frowning at the hellspawn waiting to rend his flesh and eat his soul outside. "Alright, fine. Guess you might as well take it all." He can't look at you while he says it, but you sense his surrender-- or at least, his resignation. It's not exactly a victory, but it's something, and it pulls at your heartstrings.
"Alright, wizard boy. Hoodoo me up."
Constantine snorts, leaping up from the bench. "First we've got to get out of here. You're going to want to cover your eyes." He starts muttering an encantation and walking in a circle, sprinkling a powder on the ground from his pocket. "When this goes off we'll have ten minutes. Either of you assholes have a car nearby?"
"Yeah."
"Great. Hope you like to drive fast."
His chanting gets louder, and you see he's produced a lighter. He never uses it for cigarettes anymore, but portable fire to a magician has its uses. You can tell he's reaching the crescendo of his spell, and you scrunch your eyes closed. Even through your eyelids you see the flash, and the boom of a magical fireball that should have burned you all to dust.
However, only the things outside incinerate, their agonized cries echoing through the cavernous stone building.
"Let's move."
****
As it turns out, John Wick can drive very fast.
You already knew this, of course. Constantine, however, seems to be regretting his life choices as Wick weaves in and out of traffic, trying to find a hand hold as you are whipped around in the cramped back seat of the vintage Chevelle. He clenches his square jaw and glares daggers as Wick makes a quick left juke, the force of it pushing Constantine into the side of the car furthest from you.
You think it's a coincidence, until you meet John Wick's eyes in the rear-view mirror, and you see a glimmer of amusement. On anyone else, it would be all-out gut-busting laughter. You open your mouth to tell him to play nice, but Tex interrupts you—just like old times.
"3 o'clock," barks the cowboy assassin from the shotgun seat. It's fitting, because he quite literally has a sawed-off shotgun in his lap, something from Constantine's cabinet of goodies with arcane symbols scratched into the barrel. Tex and Constantine fought over this seat like it was worth a million dollars, and only the interruption of the literal Hell’s Angels roaring up on you on motorcycles re-focused their attention.
They’ve been trying to run you down for blocks like wolves on a caribou, and with a whip of Wick's wrist on the steering wheel, now you’re being pursued by one less. It over-corrects and crashes into a concrete barrier. Constantine laughs under his breath at the thing’s demise.
However, there are still three more to contend with.
“The club is just ahead,” directs Constantine. “Good luck finding parking.”
“Hold on.”
There's nothing to fucking hold on to in the bare bones back seat—except for Constantine, so that's what you do. He holds your hand with a white knuckled grip that betrays his nerves far more than his expression does
John tricks the motorcycle-riding demons by suddenly slowing down, then gunning the engine, running one over with a sudden burst of speed, then smacking the other two like a pinball flipper with a sudden shift and drift turn.
The car is totally fucked, but so are the hellspawn, so it feels like a win.
When one of them tries to stagger from the wreckage towards you Tex shoots it from out the window. The sound is deafening—and the ball of fire from the barrel of the gun makes you all jump.
“What the fuck is that, John?” you demand.
“Dragon's breath,” he answers you with a little smirk. “Nice work, Hee Haw. You should hunt demons instead of people.”
“What's the pay?”
“Absolute shit with possible stock options in Heaven.”
“No thank you then.”
The four of you pile out of the car and hustle towards the doors of Midnite's.
“This place is supposed to be neutral ground,” says Constantine, “but it's going to be full of demonic half-breeds, so walk fast and stick close.”
Tex turns to you with an incredulous frown. “Baby, I seriously gotta question your taste. Where did you find this wizard boy?”
Constantine looks at you with a smirk, no doubt thinking about your first animalistic tryst in that alleyway by the bar, and how he’d made you cum on his dick with your back chaffed by the hard bricks behind you, your legs wrapped desperately around his slender waist while he pounded inside your needy little cunt.
It had been glorious.
Just the memory of it floods you with a searing heat from your loins to regrettably, your cheeks.
Constantine loves it when he manages to make you blush, and a wicked gleam sparkles in his jetty dark irises.
“Shall I tell him, dear?”
You can tell that Tex’s head is about to explode.
“Not while he’s holding a fire-breathing shotgun, honey.”
Constantine has never really used lovey pet names with you before. It’s almost the weirdest thing that’s happened today.
As you push through the doors of the club it’s almost like entering another dimension, the red lights and bass thump of hedonistic music beyond, the steps down down down like a descent into a nether realm. The bouncer holds up his tarot card, the entrance exam, that Constantine passes like a breeze. “Rat in a dress.”
Bouncer turns to Wick and Tex with a new card, who look at Constantine with almost comical consternation. “They’re with me.”
“Still gotta pass.”
A beat later Constantine punches the burly bouncer out, shaking the sting off his hand. “Sorry,” he says to the unconscious man on the ground. To the rest of you, “Shit. Move fast.”
He bursts through the doors to the main club, striding with purpose on those beautiful long legs. You always feel too cool for school, when you’re on a magical side-quest with John. His broad shoulders part the crowd around you all, and when you’re with Constantine, everyone is looking at you. Half-breed angels, demons, and who knows what in between. Their eyes glow eerily in the low crimson light of the club.
Neither Wick nor Tex betray any fear or surprise at descending into this eldritch side of the City of Angels, intimidating towers at your back, glowering at anyone who looks your way.
Maybe it’s stupid, but in this moment you feel pretty fucking invincible.
It’s definitely stupid, because the creatures on Team Lucifer start to take an acute interest in Tex, their eyes glowing. Even you can feel them pressing closer around you. Constantine is standing at the tufted leather wall, what you know is an illusion hiding a door.
A tall, unfairly hot half-breed saunters into Tex’s personal space, reaching up to touch his cheek with a sultry come-hither smile. Succubus, is your guess, though the possibilities are literally endless. For a moment Tex seems utterly entranced, and it’s all you can do not to roll your eyes. “Sorry, he’s taken,” you say, pulling Tex back with your fingers in his tooled belt to sandwich him between you and Constantine.
Are they going to open the door for you or what? Any time now would be excellent…
Suddenly the half-breed seems a foot taller, looming over you with glowing red eyes. With your heart in your throat you hold up your amulet between you, and though she doesn’t exactly flinch and hiss like you’d hoped, you can tell she doesn’t care for it, her fine features twisting in a sneer like she tasted something nasty.
“Fine,” pouts the demoness. “Change your mind, handsome, you know where to find me.” She punctuates the offer with a flash of razor-sharp teeth before she saunters off with extra swing in her hips.
Tex makes a small sound of pain behind you as he watches her go, and you know he can’t help it. Desire is the Succubus’s power, and she was clearly hunting tonight. It doesn’t stop you from rolling your eyes though, turning to catch John Wick’s gaze. You can tell he’s keeping watch on the room, but he’s also got his eyes on you; that weighty, yearning look that never fails to tie your heart—and your lady parts—up in knots. A wholly inconvenient throb of lust between your legs makes you shift where you stand; suddenly you are soaked, so aware of the solid warmth of Tex at your back, and John towering before you.
Just like old times.
A part of you wants to reach for him, location be damned, an ingrained urge that would be a terrible idea at this time in this place, because if you touch him you’ll have to kiss him and who knows where that will end.
Jesus, was the succubus’s energy affecting you too? Or is it just…them?
There is a heady weight in the air, like something malevolent is about to descend upon you all. With your heart in your throat you clutch at the talisman around your neck, and though you’re not really sure which deity you’re entreating for salvation, you pray.
At last the door swings open, and Constantine finds your elbow, tugging you none too gently with him inside Papa Midnite’s inner sanctum. Naturally, where you go, the boys follow close behind.
“John Constantine,” says Papa Midnite in his melodic baritone. “Been some time. I see you’ve brought friends.”
“Wouldn’t go that far,” snarks Constantine with a baleful look at the two assassins at your back. “But I need your help.”
“The Great John Constantine needs my help?” mocks Papa. “Must be sometin’ bad.”
You’re not proud of the panic that rises in your throat at the sound of Midnite’s reluctance to help you. You know that pretty much everyone in the supernatural world has been pissed off at Constantine for some reason or another, but you pray this man can rise above his grudge. If not…Tex is fucked, and maybe it’s stupid after everything he did to you, but just the thought leaves a hollow ringing inside your heart.
You dare to peek around from Constantine’s imposing form. “Please, Papa?” you entreat, your eyes wide. You have met once before, and on that occasion the powerful witch doctor seemed to like you, though he didn’t cease to deride what a girl like you could possibly be doing with the likes of John Constantine. “We really need your help.”
Papa Midnite tilts his fedora-topped head to regard you with curiosity. He is wearing one of his delightfully loud shirts with a fur collared jacket. A gold necklace gleams against the dark skin of his throat. “Who needs my help, little girl? You, or him?” He points at Constantine with the jut of his chin.
“I do,” you both answer at the same time. You realize Constantine doesn’t want you to owe the powerful Bokor a favor—but you’re reading the room, and you’re pretty sure if the magic is for Constantine, Midnite is going to tell you all to pound rocks.
Midnite, understanding all of this, sits back in his throne of a chair with a little chuckle, drumming gold-bedecked fingers on the carved wooden arm.
“What is it you need?”
“A curse lifted,” answers Constantine. “And a spell cast.”
Midnite whistles at hearing that, and only then does his attention turn to the assassin at your back. “I can sense the dark mark from here,” says the witch doctor. “Let me see.”
With a grumble Tex pulls at his collar, pearl snap buttons popping to reveal the blackened circular pentacle, its 8 radii tipped with symbols, embedded beneath his skin. At the sight of it Midnite smirks, his eyebrows lifting high.
“Set thou a wicked one to be ruler over him, and let Satan stand at his right hand,” cites Midnite. “That a powerful curse t’set on someone, Constantine.”
“It was a heat of the moment thing,” grumbles the demon hunter.
“I can tell. Takes some big feeling, to conjure a curse like dis from thin air.”
That’s when Midnite looks at you, and that stupid blush of heat ambushes you again.
Feelings were not something you and John Constantine talked about. Sure, they were there, but you never really gave voice to them. You demonstrated them, physically, and often. Midnite seems bent on embarrassing both of you.
“Yeah, yeah,” grouses Constantine, only daring to glance in your direction. But in that single moment, the raw look on his face makes you feel like you need to sit down. “So can you lift it or not?”
“Course I can,” says Midnite dismissively. “What you bring me in return?”
“’Fraid I’ll have to owe you.”
“Hmm. I’ve heard that one too many times from the likes of you, Constantine. I’ll need somethin’ up front.”
“Do you like gold?” asks John Wick blandly, producing five glittering yellow coins from his pocket, setting them on the table in front of Papa Midnite in a neat stack one by one. The pretty tink tink tink of metal fills the air, and Midnite nods with his lips pursed, paying Wick an approving look. However, as he examines the death’s head emblazoned token, it is you he speaks to.
“How did a nice girl like you get tangled up wit Underworld boys like dis?”
A shuddering sigh escapes you, as a montage of the absolute fire you walked through to get to this moment flashes in your mind. The murder, the kidnapping, the chaos and corruption. The passion, the pleasure, and the quieter moments that made you think you might be content to stay with your Boys forever—until they forced you to go.
“It’s a long story, Papa,” you answer, barely able to raise your voice over a whisper.
“Some other time, you’ll tell me, then. Step into my office.”
Midnite leads you to his back room, a cavernous space built in the breathtakingly ornate style of the Moorish palaces of Andalusia. At first you don’t know where to look. The arabesque carved walls, the scalloped arches, the honeycomb vaulted ceilings, or the cacophony of antique relics stacked high on all sides. There are statues and busts and boxes and dolls, this and that and bric-a-brac and every category of precious old junk you can imagine, is here. Your eye is drawn to an old wooden chair against the far wall with leather straps that for some reason gives you chills.
The center of the room is empty, the demarked circle where Midnite performs his workings outlined with bones, half-burnt candles, and rusty lines on the tiles that look like blood.
“Now then,” says Midnite, taking a sip from a bottle of dark rum before offering it to Tex. “Drink up, man. Dis not gonna feel good.”
***
When all is said and done, the four of you all feel like pieces of chewed up gum. You are utterly wiped, and it’s all you can do not to fall asleep in the back of the car with your head on Constantine’s shoulder. Fingering your new tattoo, a mystical symbol that binds Tex Johnson and John Wick to your will, you think on what Papa Midnite said to you before your departure.
“Hard to live with a heart divided in three pieces, girl. You playin’ a dangerous game.”
“It’s not a game to me, Midnite. It’s just…my life, somehow.”
“Dat fair. So you know, I told that silly boy of yours to put a ring on your finger ‘fore he lost the chance. Never seen him like dis, wit any other.”
You’d paid him a grim smile, amused at the thought of Constantine asking you to be his wife. What a laughable prospect. Sweet, but there was no way he felt that about you. “Are you telling me not to break your friend’s heart, Midnite?”
He’d snorted and taken a drink of rum. “I know better than that. But you might tink about what he’ll turn into, if tings go badly.”
Truth be told, you didn’t want to think on that, because it terrified you. All you wanted right now, was to curl up in the bed you shared with John Constantine, and sleep for about seven years.
Midnight had given you a herbal potion that had to be administered to Tex every six hours for a week, and a magical salve to apply to the burn upon his chest where the symbol had, at one point, burst into white-hot flame. You’d feared he’d been at death’s door, until he took your hand with a smirk and mumbled half to you, half to himself, “The things I do for my little rattlesnake.” It had squeezed your heart with a fist, utterly wrecked you, and you knew you couldn’t kick him to the curb just yet.
You were headed back to Constantine’s house, (which you had helped him get together the down payment for, with no strings attached, so…) and the four of you would have to figure out how to co-exist, at least until Tex was back on his feet.
Then…who the fuck knew what was going to happen.
You’d think about that, tomorrow.
Tammykelly:
- a flashback -
Sleep long forfeited to yet another night full of vigorous dance that is the celebration of passion and ever growing connection and affection between two souls who’d found one another amidst chaos that unfailingly enters one’s life book when it flips through the pages onto the next chapter. Gradually, chaos learns the code of order, tamed by the new rules and beginnings, sought after by you and Constantine in an unhasty pace.
You feel the blossom of his soft lips on yours for a while, before you pull away to take a long look at him, running your fingers along his sweaty forehead and through his slightly damp hair. He feels his chest tighten at the way your gaze moves across his tilted up face and lingers on his eyes, entering beyond the physical and reaching for subliminal.
“Hi”, - Constantine croaks, his arms draped around your waist, steadying you, as your heated bodies stay impossibly close.
“Hey, baby”, - you breathe out, your touch leaves traces on his skin in feather-like movements, making his heart flutter.
“You call me that like it means something”, - he wonders out loud.
It must be true, that the eyes are the windows to the soul, for when he says that, you feel the heat of your body grow stronger when his irises light up with an inexplicably warm spark that transforms into the taste of him on your ever waiting lips, while your hips drag out the sensually slow pace. You try to find the perfect rhythm again, having felt yourself folding under the intensity with which your heart blooms and expands every time his dark eyes capture yours.
“I…uh…I’m….”, - you blurt out, the right words stuck at the edge of the said sacred dilation.
Maybe it is love. Love that sprouts across the silver lining that is the tenuous punchline between sanity and deliberate madness of passion. Constantine’s body reacts to yours before his mind has to think about it, as he gently tugs you closer. He doesn’t let you finish, his lips connecting to yours, catching your love on his tongue in a long deliciously flavorful kiss.
He touches your bullet scar, his jawline playing, his eyes darkening.
“They’re gonna pay for what they did to you”, - he quietly tells you again, voice filled with determination that invites more ephemeral warmth into your chest.
“They already did”, - you reply, reminiscence of their absence dissipating into the background of your subconscious when your tongue slides along Constantine’s jaw, tasting tiny droplets of sweat.
“They gotta pick someone their size, yeah?”
His reply makes you smile: “Please, we’ve talked about this, baby”, you feel goosebumps arise at the back of his neck at the nickname, no matter how nonchalant he wants to appear each time you call him a random pet name.
“You care about them? Even after everything they’ve done to you?” - his raspy voice is low but the tone sets a prelude to a gradually boiling point.
“They’re the best I’ve ever had”, he leans back and quirks his eyebrow at your tease, “after you, of course”, you add, smirking.
He lets out a sigh of frustration: “Jesus, it’s like talking to a fucking brick wall”, you feel his fingers dig deeper into your soft skin. You lean closer, your breath over his mouth.
“Calling God’s name when you’re balls deep in me?” your voice akin to a purr, “what a profanity”, a smirk curls up.
“Mhhmm, funny thing is He made this happen”, Constantine’s tone matches your game.
“And is Jesus present in the room with us?” your head tilts.
“Oh, you think it’s funny?” he bucks his hips up.
“You literally just said it is”, an involuntary moan escapes your mouth, lost in the grunt of the man underneath you, when you match his cheat code with a harsh movement of your own.
“It’s an expression”.
“Okay and?”
“Watch your mouth”, - Constantine’s eyes transform into a pair of two burning coals, sending shivers across your whole body, accompanied by the way his fingertips trace down your spine.
You can barely make a sound due to his manipulations: “Can’t read minds, baby”, making it his turn to shudder.
“What, don’t have any better ideas?” he recuperates, the warmth of his arms leave you, as he places his hands behind him on the bed to support his weight. You don’t wait to connect your mouth to his, your teeth sinking into his lower lip before you lightly tug at it and let go. A cocky grin instantaneously leaves his handsome face when he feels your tongue crash into his mouth, which he reciprocates with twice as much force and eagerness, his arms lock back around your waist, and he notices a triumphant smile display itself on your features.
“An angel risen from ashes picked up by the devil reborn”, you answer his question, teasing the idea of which one’s which when you first met. Him - a cancer free phoenix-like angel of death, or you - a devilishly sweet temptress, who, unbeknownst to herself, exchanged two deadly ghosts for the black cat of a man, stuck in between both realms.
You continue: “He always had a rotten sense of humour. And His punch lines are killers”, Constantine’s gaze darkens at the mention of your ghosts.
“Ha-ha, very funny”, his tone less than amused.
“Oh, you find this funny now?” you bite his neck, which makes a deep husky groan erupt from his throat.
“Don’t tell me you believe this fate bullshit”, you say, as you fight the urge to speed up your pace to chase the way his sultry sounds bounce around your insides.
His low growl nearly shatters your self control when he tells you: “Fate or not, you’re mine now. Mine”, you feel his teeth sink into your skin, “you hear me?”, his gaze when he looks up akin to the explosion of a sleeping volcano underneath an already blazing ocean, edging you onto the border of a slippery slope that is the point of no return once you process the 3 magic words that are glued to your tongue.
Instead two short words roll off, as a soft moan:“Yes, baby”.
“Gonna give you everything you want”, you feel his hands roam all over your body, “all of me”.
You lean back.
“All of you?”- your expression flickers with darkness, showing him your devilish desire, as his silent gaze shaves off the outer layers down to your core.
“You son of a bitch”, you breathe out, smiling, after a brief pause, for your racing heartbeat shifts to a contracting and pulsating firework, overtaking all of your senses. You study his handsome face, drinking in all the details you’ve grown so attached to, florescence of affection tugging your lips upwards in a gentle smile.
Constantine’s eyes set the fire in the pit of your belly ablaze on the scale that you’re sure will be the death of you some day, for being with him is like Heaven on Earth and being apart now seems like a cruel tool of a ghostly destruction.
His playful grin pulls you back in: “Calling me a son of a bitch when I got you on my dick? You’re brave, kitten”.
“That’s exactly why I can call you that. You’re my son of a bitch”, you grab his hair and give it a nice pull before you lean down to lick up his neck, placing a gentle kiss right under his ear, feeling him twitch inside you, “and Devil’s right hand, yeah?”
“More like his puppet”, Constantine grunts, as you look down at him, sensing him barely able to maintain the slow[ish] pace you’ve set, holding onto the last threads of self-restraint.
“So, no rewards for that, I suppose?”, you tease further, testing the limits of the mind games he’s been playing with you all day long.
“Afraid not, angel”.
“Let me be the one to send you to Heaven then”, you whisper right against his ear and kiss his temple.
All the blurry lines of will power come tumbling down, when the sound of him sucking air through his teeth enters your inner space, as Constantine’s hand finds its place between your jawline and neck.
Gradually, you encourage his index and middle fingers between your lips, his irises unable to focus anywhere else but the way you take them in, his whole body akin to a molten liquid metal, his fingers melting on your tongue. You giddily lick them, your tongue swirling around them, playing with his digits like lollipop toys, until you let go and take care of the saliva under Constantine’s furnace of a carnally hungry gaze.
You feel your hips stuttering against the increasing pace, when you hear his raspy voice: “Fuck, kitten, you feel like Heaven”, the energy between your bodies and feverish kisses multiplying in increasingly all consuming vehement abundance that can crack the earth open.
“Touché”.
A half smile coats his lips at your cute quip.
“Watch”, you tell him, his eyes shifting to the mirror somewhere behind you.
The heat of his hips rolling against yours at the speed that finds you both panting and sweaty messes is more than enough for him to tip over the edge but as his eyes take in the scene of your power over him, his body proceeds to come apart under you when your fingers wrap around his throat and apply pressure, slightly tipping his face up.
“Open”, you say, your thumb glazing over his soft lips, and he raises an eyebrow, “don’t you wanna cum, baby?”, you sweetly inquire.
“Fuck”, his voice is barely audible, Constantine’s eyes glimmer under your watchful lust, the darkness in the depth of the bottomless abyss that is him transcending what has become of his power over you. His eyelids flutter slightly, as your spit falls on his tongue.
“Swallow”, you reward him with a particularly harsh snap of your hips, seeing his Adam’s apple bobble.
“You’re gonna pay for that”, he growls.
“You’re a drama queen, you know that?”, you point out, leaving a love-bite mark on his collarbone, knowing damn well at the way he’s twitching inside you, he won’t be lasting long. You smirk, as you slow down the pace to a damn near full stop, eliciting a low and deep whine from him.
What the fuck, his eyes show you, roaming over your face hungrily.
“Tell me how much you want me”, you purr, feeling his fingers next to your scalp, tugging you closer.
“Fuck, angel, wanna feel you so bad”, an angelically evil smile plays on your face at his response, “need you on biblical level”, he finishes, the butterflies inside you catching aflame, their fiery wings spreading across every fibre of your being.
Constantine feels like he might go insane without you, your whole existence being the lone salvation he’s been seeking his entire life. He twitches again.
“Say that again”, your sultry tone pervades his mind, the pace picking up just a tiny bit.
“Need you to move, right now”, he begs.
You look at him expectantly.
“I can’t control myself any longer. Please, fuck me”, he looks up into your eyes that have turned into blazingly bright gates to the oblivion that is his path to purgatory. His gaze diverts back to the mirror and your goddess-like form against his.
“God, you’re sexy when you beg”, you whisper, Constantine can practically hear the cocky smirk in your voice, as a loud moan erupts from his throat, while he watches himself get ruined by everything that is you.
“I wanna hear how good I’m making you feel”, you exhale, listening to the way your name exits his lips akin to a gust of wind, blowing across an infinite ocean.
“Cheeky little girl”, he barely replies between the chain-smoke of moans.
“Fuck you”, you breathe out.
“Say no more”, he chuckles, his lips and teeth leaving bruises all over your sensitive chest, his hips meeting yours at an increasingly high speed.
“Fuck me harder”, he growls, his lips soliciting moans from yours.
“What a good girl”, he purrs and smiles against your neck, feeling your speed folding, as you attempt to gain the upper hand.
“My beautiful angel”, Constantine praises, kissing down the valley of your breasts, enjoying every single breathless moan that you leave for him to treasure, “you’re doing so well”, he continues, “I love it when you fuck me like this”, his lips graze yours before another storm of a kiss unfolds itself.
“Oh, yeah?”
“So good, I need you to fuck me like this every day”, his teeth tug your lower lip and let go, his open-mouth kiss then imprinting a picture of his love for you on your tongue.
“Need this pussy for breakfast, lunch and fucking dinner”, - a husky growl of his makes your insides deliciously twist.
“Say less”, you giggle after the kiss breaks apart, only for a yet another wave of kissing, biting, hair pulling and power play, resembling a balanced match, surpass the two of you.
You feel as if the sun that is the man, obeying your all desires, is scorching you with a strong nurturing vitality, meeting you halfway anytime you slip.
The sun, sometimes deadly, shining its light on you and sharing the experience of birth of the stars with you, until all you and Constantine know is that you can’t tell where one begins and the other ends.
“Cum for me, baby”, you whisper, your eyes hazily gazing into his.
“Fuck”, he moans into your mouth, as you and him become one in an endless explosion of lustful starlight.
You both take a moment to steady your breathing, the pulses of your bodies streaming along the lines of your silhouettes akin to the red string of fate. Suddenly, you feel yourself getting lifted and plopped on the bed, the heavy weight hovers above you.
“My turn”, Constantine growls, worshipping you and your body in a form of myriad of kisses, adoring your skin.
“I’m not finished with you”, you chuckle, pulling his face to yours.
“Wanna ride your pretty face so badly”, you breathe out shakily, watching his pupils dilate, turning his dark chocolate eyes into jet-black colour of the night outside your windows.
He kisses you deeply before teasing: “Should’ve said sooner, princess”, and flips you.
Before you know it, his lips are connected to your nether ones, placing sweet kisses on God’s bewitching and intricate creation.
“Oh, fuck!”, a scream leaves your mouth, as you lose control over your limbs when Constantine demonstrates his vicious payback for all of your previous manipulations, the delirious temptation to play him exiting your body like it was never there.
The way his tongue devours you till the last drop like a man starved, you assume you’re not the only one losing yourself to this trick of devilish pleasure, pulling you deeper into the whirlpool that keeps expanding wave by wave until it comes thundering through your body like a tsunami, then crashing onto a shore over and over, the sound of your screams mixing with the magnitude of Constantine’s sonic savouring of your most precious parts till his immeasurable hunger for all divinity that is you is satiated beyond your limits.
Songs for the delulu meal:
The best I ever had by Limi
Obsessed by Zandros ft. Limi
Dangerous woman Call out my name mix
Treedaddymcpuffpuff:
You don’t know if it’s some kind of magic, or if you’re just this petty. But, damn, that succubus did piss you off. Even worse than her, with her silky black hair and sweet milk skin and inviting, rosy eyes and cheeks.. You catch yourself mid thought, determined to pluck her from your brain.
Yes, even worse than that half breed bitch - Jesus, who are you? - was watching Tex suffer and bleed. Blue lips forming around a silent scream; a beg for the ritual to stop. Tan, supple skin turned ashen gray and tented. Dark eyes blown milky and wild with terror.
There’s another memory you have to get rid of somehow: Tex dying a slow, grueling death in some hellish, accelerated time loop. In front of you. Powerless you.
You have his take home medications clutched tightly to your torso as the Johns lug him inside, one under each arm, his feet stumbling and dragging so much that Wick decides to just pick him up.
Why in the world did that make you so delighted? To see John Wick carrying Tex Johnson bridal style across Constantine’s threshold?
Your smile wipes clean, though, when you realize that Tex has not made a witty quip or even grinned at this show of brotherhood. John deposits him on the couch, and you sit on the floor beside, holding his hand. Your stomach lodges into your chest when you feel how cold he is. Your human heater turned ice box.
“Tex,” you say softly, brushing the untamed thicket of hair from his eyes.
He keeps his eyes closed, but that fond little tick of his mouth lets you know he hears you loud and clear.
You swallow your pride. “I missed you, too.”
You hope to God he’ll harass you for saying that, later.
For now, a grunt will suffice.
This man has put you through hell, but fuck, if he hasn’t been heaven all the way through it. You had really thought he was dying back there, and it…. put things into perspective.
Wick is in the kitchen dwarfing the tiny dining table with Constantine. Not talking, not even looking at one another. Some kind of tension exists between them, but at least it’s not the awkward or homicidal kind… well, at least as far as you can tell.
You grab some cold bourbon from the fridge, pour 3 glasses, and dish them out. Then, you hop up on the counter and join this sinewy silence game.
Wick breaks the skin, twin eyes meeting Constantine’s. “Thank you,” he says.
Constantine grins tightly. “Consider it repayment.”
“For?”
Oh, here we fucking go.
Constantine, the bastard prodigy of Lucifer himself - or, he might as well be - doesn’t answer, instead nudging his chin and shoulder toward you, as if you’re some prize Wick handed to him on a silver platter.
Now, you don’t really know what to expect from John. Fiercely protective, aloof John. But it’s definitely not a grin. A fucking grin. Yeah, he really has gone totally batshit. Terrifying.
Constantine looks stumped, and so do you.
“I’m gonna get going,” Wick says, standing and draping his jacket around his arms. You get a strong wiff of delicious leather and diesel and gunpowder.
“You’re leaving?” This comes out of your mouth before you can stop it.
“Yeah.”
“What about Tex?”
“I’ll be near.”
No use fronting now.
“What if something happens? What if we need you -“
Constantine cuts off your increasingly frantic voice. “I think you should stay.”
It’s Wick’s turn to look stumped. He raises a dark eyebrow. Constantine rewords.
“Please. Stay. We may need you.” Constantine looks over at you, giving that you owe me leer.
Your nerves settle when Wick puts his jacket back on the rack and slips his shoes off, looking at you all the while.
John Wick sleeps in the little broom closet turned guest room, and you and Constantine retire to your bedroom. This place is purely a you sanctuary, with incense burners and tapestries and little trinkets you’ve collected from your travels. It’s a souvenir from your limited therapy sessions, and a much needed safe space.
Before you can shut the bedroom door, you hear John’s monotone voice turn doting. It reminds you of being soothed through an orgasm, him cradling you when you cried - the hum that disarms and breaks you.
You go to him, peaking inside the narrow door that he had to duck to get through. Killy is rubbing against Wick’s torso, purring, headbutting, her tiny fluffy body practically vibrating from the attention of his big hand.
He smiles at you. “Who’s this?”
“Oh, meet Baby Killy. She’s so shy usually.”
“Pretty kitty,” John coos, scratching behind her ears as she chirps for him.
Great, you’re jealous of a cat. Which is stupid because you have a whole other man in the next room that can’t keep his hands off you. You’re selfish, you realize.
“Sorry it’s not comfortable,” you tell Wick, looking at his calves hanging off the tiny mattress. “I can buy an air mattress.”
He twirls Killy’s tail softly around his finger. “It’s fine, y/n. Get some rest.”
“Yeah. Night John.” You leave him, pretending it’s not reluctantly.
Constantine is already in his boxers, cigarette nipped between his teeth. You pluck it from him and take a long drag. “Thought we were supposed to be quitting?” Blowing smoke over his lips.
He tugs you down into the bed with him. “I’ve had a long day.”
“Aw, poor thing.” You kiss his jaw, shimmying the white stick back into his mouth.
Your lips trail feather light down his quivering throat, nose pausing, nuzzling against his quickening pulse. A shy, involuntary smile slides into his collarbone divot. Your magic man shivers under you, makes you feel like you can kick God’s ass if it really comes down to it.
He gently fists your hair in his fingers while you suck the hard day off his skin, hand trailing south on his tight twitching tummy, lazily perusing in search of a swelling, sensitive, beautiful cock trapped in cloth.
He smushes the half cigarette out in your little pearlescent ashtray, tips your face up, kisses you soft. Kisses you like you like you’re some being of fleeting, fragile light and hope. “Hey.”
“Hey.” You grin against his mouth, using that familiar formal, ironic greeting that he favors when you’re both wading knee deep into eachother’s personal space already.
You pull away to look down at his tenting boxers, but your eyes snag something on the way. A big, fresh bruise to his opposite collar - wide and diffuse as if from a large hand. It’s normal for Constantine to have bruises, and he did fight demons today. But this mark? Fresh. Just blooming. Plus, the only one on his long, expansive body.
Your mind thinks back to the kitchen, how they were both so quiet. Looking far too innocent. You feel stupid for not expecting this.
“Did John hit you?” You’ve gotten really good at talking before thinking. Just one of many Constantine mannerisms you’ve picked up along the journey of knowing him.
“We talked.”
You go to get up. No plan in mind except hurting Wick. Really hurting him. Either with words or a quicker fist than he can catch. Probably the latter, since John excels at catching fists, but you still think you can slice him just as much with a few well placed sentences. Of course, you could also try out this nifty new spell of submission..
Constantine holds you in place. “I started it.”
“I don’t give a fuck.” You see him wince at the sinister growl in your voice, and your spiked fur smooths a little bit if only for his benefit. “He’s a fucking asshole. He thinks he can just bully people into submission. Let’s see how he likes it.” You’re talking loud enough that you hope Wick can hear it. You know he’s not scared… because it’s John Wick, but, you at least hope he knows you’re coming for his throat.
“Angel.” Constantine’s long, careful fingers cup your face. “It’s alright. Not tonight. Let you kick his ass tomorrow, okay? Right now, I need you with me. Hey, look at me…. There you are. You hearing me?”
You lean into his touch and kiss his wrist. “Yeah, okay.”
“C’mon.” He pats his chest and you lay your head on it. “Now, where were we..”
You give a little chuckle. “In the pit of despair?”
He gathers your hair and pulls it off your shoulder, tickles his fingers over your neck. “I think…” he murmurs.
“Yeah?” It thrills and scares you a little bit that this man can make such a breathy, desperate mess of you from just a tiny touch.
“Think you should put on some pajamas and let me read to you.”
Suddenly, your anger runs dry, replaced by excitement. He laughs at your hopeful, mystified expression.
“You’re gonna read to me?”
“Yeah, yeah. Better hurry before I change my mind.”
You love it when Constantine reads to you, always mesmerized by that smooth, baritone voice, and it’s not often that he’s up for it.
You don’t bother going into the bathroom to get dressed, which you can tell he appreciates. You can also tell that he loves the fact that you bypass your own clothes entirely and instead throw on one of his big flannels.
You cuddle beside him, wrap your arms around his waist and tuck in for your after dark entertainment.
“Hey, hey, Angel.” It takes you a minute to open your eyes. Constantine assists this process with a pleasant rub between your shoulder blades and a hushed voice.
“Huh?” Your voice is groggy, far away, brain still swimming in twilight.
Constantine gives you a patient stretch of time to wake and groan and wipe the spare drool from your chin. The blue dawn outside tells you that it’s early - way too early. You don’t remember falling asleep, and it must have been a glorious one judging by your wicked bed head and sore voice.
“What? What’s going on?”
“Clint Eastwood won’t let James Bond give him his medicine. He says he wants you to do it.”
“Are you serious?” You ask.
Constantine opens his mouth, then shuts it again. He sighs. “Yeah.”
“What the fuck,” you mumble.
Tex, eyes open, sitting up, cat on his lap, looks at you like you’re the greatest thing since sliced bread. Big, appreciative grin. You can’t be annoyed for too long when you see that he has color back in his face.
“Hello, nurse.”
Damn his infectious grin. “What? John’s not a good enough nurse for you?”
“He’s alright. Not very cute, though.” He sizes you up as you roll your eyes and snort.
He gives you a little wink. “See you still hate wearin your own clothes.”
You look down at yourself - at the big cozy button flannel that falls mid thigh with nothing else on under or over it. You really didn’t even think about how exposed you were when you got up and came out here. But, now, you’re flushing and shifting on your feet.
“Oh, don’t get shy on me now, rattlesnake. I’ve had all of it in my mouth anyway, yeah?”
Sinful reels flit through your memories. And, fuck you, but even that makes you so wet you can feel it in the crease of your thighs already.
The reality hits you that this could be a thing, somehow: Johnson and the Johns with you pressed between. You short circuit thinking about it for a solid twenty seconds.
Tex chuckles, pets Killy. “Your momma’s too easy,” he tells her, and the traitor purrs and merrs and pushes into his doting palm as if in agreement.
Great, two treasonous pussy’s in this house.
Plus, you’re about ninety nine percent sure Constantine will do more than curse them if he sees their hands on you in any carnal way. Even though this thing between the two of you is unestablished and unlabeled, your magic man is more than a little possessive.
You remember, fondly, the time he pissed you off, so you went on a date with a nice young gentleman who also happened to be a cop - Johnny, you think his name was. Jesus fuck, you really do have issues - and Constantine blew every fuse in that restaurant with a spell. In the pitch black, no one saw him come pick you right up and carry you out. That night started with “fuck you, Constantine” and ended with “no no agh fuck please m’ sorryjohnsosorry.”
Wick’s nowhere to be found, which you don’t really mind. If you see him again, you might just try kicking him in the dick. You mix Tex’s medicines in the kitchen, heating up the thick herbal soup in a little pot. It smells bad, kinda like fish, draws Killy’s attention really quick.
She brushes against your legs and reminds you that she’s hungry and that oh, that smells good, mom.
You scoop her out a cup of kitty kibble while the stove simmers, then give her a few pets. It’s not often that she’s so doting on you - she prefers Constantine and solidarity over your company. But, she must know something’s up - either that or it’s the fishy concoction steaming up your little kitchen.
Tex winces when you rub the salve into his burn. It looks awful - dry and necrotic, little charred skin flakes sticking to your fingertips.
You scrub them off on a towel, grimacing. “Does this hurt?”
“Numb,” he shrugs. Reaches out to tuck hair behind your ear. Your body reacts violently and insistently. Constantine’s touch, pleasant and warm and diffuse; that’s what you’re used to. You forgot about Tex’s sharp edges, the scary thrill of him. Like the first drop of the roller coaster.
“Tex,” you warn.
“Sorry, darlin. Just so fuckin pretty. Forgot how beautiful you are, is all. How good ya smell. Christ, even with Houdini’s scent all over you.” He pinches your chin in his fingers and makes you look at him, at the sincerity in his blown black pupils and hooded, lustful gaze. “He eatin your pussy right, huh? Need me to show him how to do it?”
“You know,” you say, hating yourself for the thick in your voice, “I have this nifty new spell I can use…”
He chuckles. “Settle down, honeypie, I’m just trying to be nice, is all.”
“Nice.” You glare at him and he lets you go.
The fishy stuff in the mug wipes the grin right off Tex’s face. He chokes and sputters. “Good God, what in hell’s name is this Guacala shit.”
You smile at him and take the empty cup. “Every six hours, cowboy.”
On your way back into the bedroom, he watches you unabashedly. Killy is back on his lap. “You got a shower here, rattlesnake?”
“Bathroom’s down the hall,” you tell him.
“Think I need some help.”
“Uh huh. You can manage.”
“Alright, you got me. I don’t really need help I just wanna fuck the shit outta ya.”
“Sorry, Tex, but that’s-“ you look pointedly at the purring feline in his lap -“the only pussy you’ll be getting in this house.”
You shut your door before you can catch his mumble: “we’ll just see about that.”
Constantine is in his study. You debate going and fucking him on the desk chair, working off this sticky arousal coating your cunt and inner thighs. But, also, you’re still sleepy, and laying down in the bed already has your eyelids fluttering closed and brain going mushy. You struggle between options until your body eventually decides for you.
You wake up to the delicious evocation of salt and fat and heat. John Wick is back. He’s in the kitchen cooking one of those five star breakfasts that are worth letting him live. For now.
Bread pops up from the toaster, startling you. “Hey, that’s been broken.”
“Fixed it,” he says, dexterously flipping his pan. “Got the faucet to work in the bathroom sink. Your drain’s here are built wrong. I’m gonna take a look after I finish breakfast. There’s fresh orange juice and chocolate milk in the fridge. Coffee on the warmer.”
“That’s not my coffee pot.” You eye the expensive looking, silver, sleek appliance with steaming black, delicious smelling brew under.
“I got a new one.”
Are you really surprised at this point? You grab some orange juice from the fridge, and find the once bare shelves stocked and organized with fresh fruits and veggies, eggs and jams, healthy pre-made snack boxes.
The cupboards have also magically filled themselves with canned fruits and veggies, organic breads, high end trail mixes, protein bars.
The place is spotlessly clean. New microwave, an ice maker beside the stove. Real glasses and plates stacked in the cupboards.
Wick has been busy, it seems.
Constantine walks into the kitchen, paying attention to the newspaper in his hand instead of his surroundings until he sees you. “Hey, Angel-“ looks up, takes in the practically brand new kitchen. “What in the fuck.”
#wicked johnson fic#john wick#john wick x reader#john wick x you#john wick fic#john wick x y/n#keanu reeves x reader#yandere john wick#tex johnson#tex johnson x reader#tex johnson x you#yandere tex johnson#constantine x you#john constantine x you#constantine 2005#john constantine x reader#constantine x reader#keanu reeves
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Tex Johnson x Witness!Reader x John Wick Imagine Part 2 by @treedaddymcpuffpuff @sweetwolfcupcake and @johnwickb1tsch GIF credits to @scarlettspectra ❤ and Illustration credit to @boredth ❤️
Original Post Part 1
Warnings: So many dead doves! Don't eat! Unless you like dead doves, that is. Violence, sexual content, blood, murder, kidnapping, possessive behavior, yandere sh!t...it's all here! Please take care! 😘
Johnwickb1tsch:
As it turns out, faking your death involves taking some very gnarly photos with copious amounts of blood spread about. They will be released to the dark web, as well as the Underground network. John and Tex will get paid for a job well done. The FBI will receive the intelligence in due time, mixed with finding your blood and hair and skin at the scene. And once they off Dmitri, the man you witnessed killing the owner of the restaurant you used to work at, there will be no one left to care but Agent Bradford.
If he survives his wounds.
John and Tex are still perplexed about that one. He must be a tough bastard, but getting shot up even with a vest on would slow anyone down. Not to mention his blown out knee…
When next you wake you know you’re in a different location, even through your blindfold. Your hands are bound again, this time over your head. It feels like you’re laying on a soft surface, a mattress, and not a cheap one. You debate the merits of pretending to still be knocked out, or screaming your head off for help, when you hear, “Looks like sleepin’ beauty’s awake.”
From your other side there is silence, but you feel gentle fingers touching a lock of your hair. It sends a forbidden trill of desire through you, straight to your loins, and for the umpteenth time you wonder what exactly is wrong with you that you don’t 100 percent hate this the way you should.
Fuck.
“Please let me go.” Your words are raspy; your throat is dry as a desert. How long have you been out?
“We have to talk about that,” says Tex. “See, there’s a whole lot gonna be ridin’ on you.” You can just hear his shit-eating grin for his double-entendre.
“You’re a pig.”
“Aww, don’t be shy, darlin’. What did you think we were goin; to get up to when you got in my car? Playin’ pinochle? You wanted me, and I reckon’ that hasn’t changed.” You feel a rough hand sliding up your thigh that must belong to him. You try to buck him off, and find your legs aren’t bound. You try to kick towards the sound of his voice, but your limbs are heavy, and he catches your ankle.
“Boy howdy, someone’s flexible!”
He has you in an iron grip, and you give a frustrated scream.
“Don’t hurt her,” says the other one, in that quietly forbidding tone.
“Was I supposed to let her kick my head off?”
“Fine by me.”
Tex snorts in response, squeezing your leg in his big hand, just to give you a taste. You feel your bones creak beneath his grip.
Sweetwolfcupcake:
The whimper escapes you before you realise it. He doesn't hurt you yet, but the looming threat could not have been more explicit.
You utterly hate the helplessness, and the feeling of being trapped like this does not help.
"Tex..." The icy warning in his tone makes you gulp down and suppress another whimper.
"Loosen-up John, I'm not hurtin' her." You feel tge 'yet' is silent but hanging in the air.
Right, the other man's name- John. It slipped your mind before.
You feel the bed shift beside you before the warmth of the other body goes missing. You strain your ears, trying to guess what he is doing. When something touches your lips, you jump slightly, only to feel a large hand on your shoulder-- gentle and warm.
"It's just a straw. Try sipping through it."
John's voice is reassuring, soft even-- a stark contrast to the tone he used on Tex, whose fingers are still wrapped around your ankle. Much to your relief, John unlocks your hands from above your head, letting them rest on your front. You are disappointed when you realise that they're still bound, though. He helps you sit up a bit, adjusting pillows behind, before you feel the straw poking on your lips again. Taking the hint, you wrap your lips around it and sip the water eagerly.
You were parched, you realise.
Treedaddymcpuffpuff:
They take the blindfold off, and the world swims for a bit. You can barely keep your eyes open and your voice is soggy and slow. Once you come up for air, you realize you’re laying in a big bed with some kind of soft restraint holding your wrists together. Tex is sitting with you - he’s got your trouble making legs pulled into his lap, securing them.
You don’t bother fighting again, mostly because it feels like your arms and legs are made of sandbags. Everything is dull, blunted. Feels like you’re deep inside the dark, squishy confines of your brain, unable to break surface. You watch as John checks his phone, then looks up.
“Dimitri wants to meet.” It’s like he teleports out of the chair, gives you whiplash. He’s fast. He discards his shirt and jacket, replaces the bulletproof vest and gives you a perfect view of a scarred, tattooed, broad torso.
(Gif by @scarlettspectra ❤️❤️!)
“Close your jaw, honey, or else you’ll start drooling.” This from Tex, who you try to kill with a glare. He seems highly amused. You look away from John quickly, not even realizing you were starring so blatantly. Your body fills with different types of heat, ones that are much harder to hide the effects of under the heavy drugs clouding your judgement.
“He wants both of us?” Tex asks.
(Gif by @scarlettspectra ❤️❤️!)
“Tex, c’mon.” John drapes his suit jacket back on, pulls his Glock and does something with one big hand that makes it click and shift - you're starring again.
“Yeah.”
Tex whistles low, brushes some sticky hair off your neck and makes you flinch. “Dimitri’s grown some big cojones.”
John throws a spare vest at him. “Get. Ready.”
Tex rolls his eyes. “You can handle it, Wick. Lemme stay here and give this sore little girl a massage.” He knuckles into your calves, and you groan louder than you want to, trying to pull away unsuccessfully. It feels way too nice, because he’s right, you are sore.
“Tex.”
Your masseuse complies, makes a show for you - chest, muscles, masculine energy overly potent. You really do try not to watch, but it’s so hard, especially while Tex has that shit eating grin plastered to his face. And then there’s the weapon work, too. You’re not a fan of guns or knives, but seeing them handle and prep them, tuck them into straps and belts, it invokes carnal desire.
They’re going to leave you here again, alone, and you hate that, but what else can you do besides watch them go with a pathetic, doped up look on your face?
Sweetwolfcupcake:
They leave with the bedroom door locked, windows shut, and the room quiet.
Bizzarely enough, their absence bothers you. A strange silence hangs heavy in the air. You realise it eventually that it is the aftermath of the rollercoaster day.
In the silence, you finally break. Sobs break out with tears and snoot. You are really in a mess that is deep enough to have your life on the rocks, finely balanced by the intention of the two men who simply plucked you out of your life, your potential safety net and...That is tge scary part-- you are still unsure of their intentions.
You know that the smartest thing you can do is to adapt to the situation, but with the great powerr imbalance and unpredictable circumstances, every breath seems to be a nearing step towards death. You are not an optimist - never were - you cannot say that you are absolutely in love with your life, but you want to live. Your life before the mess was no fairytake-- an average life of an average girl, average problems that weighed you down. Now, when you think of it, you might even really fall in love with your average monotonous life only if you manage to somehow get out of the situation.
You try the windows and doors, although you know in your heart that they're no amateurs. They are seasoned professionals-- they took on Bradford with ease, the same Bradford you have seen handling four people with ease.
Bradford...
He is yiyr last hope. You are convinced that sooner or later, you will go crazy here. Who finds their captives attractive?
Embarrassed, you shut your eyes and sigh. You still feel pretty fuzzy, and the bed indeed is comfortable. With a defeated walk back to the bed, you slip under the covers, sleep is your only escape route for now.
Johnwickb1tsch:
It feels like an eternity, by the time they finally return. They look fierce but weary, exhausted from a long night, but their eyes are bright from the excitement of a battle. They both have splatters of blood on their faces—you doubt much, if any of it, belongs to them.
With wide eyes you watch as they start to shed their gear: the cluster of guns and knives that accumulates on the table is dizzying. If you could just get to one of those weapons…
Tex follows your gaze with a devilish smile. “Know how to use one of these, darlin’?”
“Aw. Is that any way to talk to the man who just removed the gangster boss who wants you dead from the face of the earth?”
(Thank u @boredth ❤️!!!)
“It can’t be that hard, if you manage it,” you snipe, straining against your wrist restraint for the umpteenth time that night. Or is it morning? You just don’t know.
This does perk your interest a little, though you’re almost loathe to show it. “You…killed Dmitri?” If it’s true…good riddance, then.
“Boy howdy. In fact, your buddy John here went a little trigger happy, and I’m pretty sure he wiped out the whole goddamn bratva. Everyone that was there, anyway.”
You blink, looking to the man in the dark suit for confirmation. He, however, is looking at something fixedly on his gun, not ready to crow his own praises.
Your heart is in your throat as you dare ask, “What…does this mean?”
However, Tex grins at you like a wolf to a sheep, and you do not feel safe, at all.
(By @boredth ❤️❤️❤️!)
“It means you should be safe.” John’s voice is deep, matter of fact. You get the sense that he really doesn’t use his voice much.
“Does that mean…you’ll let me go?”
“Eventually,” Tex answers. “If you’re a good girl.”
You swallow hard at hearing that.
John doesn’t contradict his partner, his intense dark gaze fixed on you. “You can have my half of the bounty.”
Tex’s head whips towards John. “You’re gonna give her 2.5 million dollars?”
“To start her new life,” John says, still looking at you. “In a different country, if she’s smart.”
Tex whistles at hearing that. “I like you, honey, but I’m not sure I like you that much.”
You, however, see exactly what John is doing. He’s giving you a reason to live. A reason to obey, a light at the end of the tunnel. The promise that if you can endure whatever they have in mind…you’ll not just get your life back. You’ll get…something better than your blue-collar working-class self could have ever dreamed of.
If only it didn’t make you feel like such a whore.
Treedaddymcpuffpuff:
You feel pretty stupid, to be honest. So, so stupid for fighting them. But, if they would have just told you - took the time to really explain what was going on - no, you’re pretty sure you’re the asshole here. Maybe?
You’re distracted - a frequent event with these two around. And now they’re covered in blood and grime and sweat from protecting you and the vague, whorish thought crosses your mind that maybe they wouldn’t mind getting their cocks sucked after that long, hard night of being your heroes.
Still, that’s exactly what you feel like - a pathetic whore. And you want to bury your head into a pillow and smother yourself. You look, eyes set and determined, at John. “You don’t have to do that.”
For the first time, a little grin cracks the side of his mouth. He’s devastatingly handsome, this deadly man. “I won’t take no for an answer.” Is his simple reply.
Tex shakes his head, chuckles, cuts in to the intense eye contact John is pinning you to the bed with. “Gonna have to stay with us - one of us - for a while though, darlin’. We gotta make sure that pretty neck is off the chopping block.”
That sounds like a recipe for disaster. Sounds like your libido is about to get a lesson it won’t soon forget. Sounds like you’re gonna be constantly on more edge than one the entire time you have to be with them. Sounds like you’re gonna have your hand in your panties a couple times a day and still come out unsatisfied.
Your voice - scratchy and timid. “Do I have to stay tied up the entire time?”
John swipes a knife off the table, walks over to you, grabs your restraints, tugging your arms up and slicing through the leather holding them together. Your heavy limbs go to fall, but he catches both your wrists in one one - oh, his pretty, stocky hands really are big - then lowers them to your lap gently and tucks the blade back into his waist. “Are you hungry?” That’s it? No threats? No intimidation? Why are you actually a little disappointed? But , god, your stomach comes to life at the mention of a meal. Must have been a while since you’ve eaten. You answer him honestly, “yes.”
Johnwickb1tsch:
What a devil’s bargain.
You think it bold of John, to untie your hands, with all those weapons at hand.
But then, what would you really do with them, against these two trained killers?
The smarter path to survival lays down a darker road, and goddammit if as you look between them, you don’t feel some small thrill of anticipation.
John has gone off somewhere to get you food, leaving you alone with Tex, who has stripped off his bloody shirt, his flak vest, then his undershirt. You’re not shy about staring this time, taking in the breadth of his bare chest and his toned arms. What’s the point in being shy now?
Tex smirks at your blatant appraisal of his powerful body. “My eyes are up here, darlin’.”
You huff and look away, crossing your arms. “You are such an asshole.” Your belly has begun to rumble, audibly now. It’s a little embarrassing.
However, a second later he has crossed the room to you, claiming your attention again with a calloused hand on your jaw, directing your eyes up to him. He doesn’t say anything, just pins you with those dark orbs, and like stumbling on a predator in the woods you dare not try to look away. Maybe he hides it with his aw shucks demeanor, but this man is just as dangerous as the other, and a cold chill runs down your spine as you wonder if he’s about to prove it to you.
You couldn’t be more relieved, than when John comes through the door with a paper plate of food and a plastic cup of what you hope is water.
Tex smiles down at you, the warmth returning to his eyes. He pats your cheek just this side of too hard, making you wince. You can tell John doesn’t like it, that Tex touches you this way, but it’s not quite enough to yell at him for.
You wonder how these two extremely dangerous men, who for all the world seem like opposites of each other, are going to manage this situation without killing each other.
Could you get so lucky?
Sweetwolfcupcake:
"You have somethin' in your head 'bout the road ahead?"
While you busy yourself with the meal, you keep your ears on the discussion regarding the road ahead. Keeping your eyes on the plate, you try to appear as disinterested as possible-- in reality, though, you want to know everything they have planned. John has been exceptionally kind to you, Tex is an asshole but has been tolerable until now. They promised to let you go and allow you to start anew. But you can't trust them just yet...
There's silence from John's end before you feel his eyes on you. You try to resist the urge to look up, but your eyes just have to glance up before you can force them to remain on the plate. They lock with John's unreadable gaze immediately, and you blink. It's unfair - you feel like he is reading into your soul while you are not able to decipher a single thought that runs in his mind. Even now, he appears to be an indecipherable abyss to you-- you know it's deep and dark, but find no hint of what is in there. You feel that there is a lot in there, though.
It is John who breaks eye contact, turning to Tex.
"Let's talk over a drink."
He offers, and with that, they both are out of the room. They shut the door behind, and you hear the distinct click of the lock.
What are they planning?
Treedaddymcpuffpuff:
Why do they keep leaving you? It’s starting to get really, really annoying. However, while they’re gone, it gives you a chance to take a shower and get cleaned up a little bit. This placed is obviously lived in. The sheets have a faint smell of some woodsy cologne and laundry soap and sweat, the shower has half empty shampoo and soap bottles, the counter has scattered, used toiletries.
Your old clothes are covered in dirt, and probably minuscule flecks of blood and other gross body fluids, so you turn your nose up at them and dig through the closet instead. T-shirts, jeans, boxers - men’s clothing. At least it’s clean and it smells good. You pull on a pair of plain grey boxers and then a black, draping T-shirt, feeling kind of like you’re wearing your dads clothes like when you were six years old and playing dress up.
A pair of black, thick socks completes your look. You’re comfortable, now, to go around the room and stretch a little bit. You still kind of feel too jiggly to properly function, but some back cracking and shoulder rolling doesn’t take too much out of you.
They locked the weapons away in a dresser by the closet, went out still covered in blood. Bold move. Cocky. Daring anyone to say something to them at this very moment, probably.
But, they’re back faster than you think they will be. Outside the door. Loud. Tex is at twice his usual volume, hooting and hollering. “I really do think you’re a bad motherfucker.”
John answers, something lighter perking his usually monotone voice. “Not so bad yourself, Tex.”
They’re getting along it seems, which you’re not sure is good for you. The door unlocks, clicks open, and you can immediately tell that Tex is drunk. He’s boisterous, holding John by the shoulders, laughing, face reddened, and - the biggest tell - he’s got an open whiskey bottle in one hand.
John is smiling, shaking his head, running a hand through his hair. His face is a bit mottled, too. Are they both drunk? Your annoyance spikes. They could have at least offered you some after the shit you’ve gone through.
You perch on the bed, glaring at them. You get more than you bargained for when they both look at you. Their eyes do the same thing in unison - narrow and blow, go hungry and honed. The only difference in the way they stare at you is Tex’s lopsided grin. You feel like quarry again, and it makes you cross your arms and fold your legs into yourself.
Tex leans into John’s ear, voice low and almost taunting. “Those your clothes, Johnny?”
John keeps his eyes right on you. “Yeah.”
Johnwickb1tsch:
"Hey, who said you could wear Johnny's clothes?" banters Tex, approaching you with a swinging gait, the bottle of Jack Daniels in his hand.
You glance to John, who is watching your interaction interestedly, but makes no move to intervene.
"I said," you answer with narrowed eyes, tracking the motion of the bottle. It could be a weapon, or a gesture of friendship, all depending on the context. When Tex extends it to you in offering, you're a little relieved. And, a little thirsty, truth be told. Who knows if its a good idea, mixing alcohol and whatever drug they gave you earlier, but...you're being held captive by two dangerous mafia assassins. You need something to take off the edge.
You reach for the bottle, and almost grasp it, but Tex pulls back at the last second. "Make you a trade, honey."
"Imagine that."
"You can have a drink, if you take somethin' off."
Of course.
Cheekily, you start with your big black socks, throwing them at Tex one after the other.
John smirks as Tex play scowls, but true to his word he hands you the bottle. You take a pull--and immediately wince. Whiskey is such a foul spirit, as spirits go.
Tex chuckles. "Need it in a silver cup with a mint sprig, baby girl?"
A mint julep does sound pretty fucking good about now. If only he was serious.
"I'll live." You reach for the bottle again, but he holds it over your head.
"Nuh uh. It'll cost you more clothing."
In the back of your head, you almost find it interesting, how he engages your complicity in this cat and mouse game.
"Two socks, two drinks. Pay up, cowboy."
He tries to give you a hard look for that, but his eyes glitter with mirth.
"Fair's fair, Tex," nudges John, and Tex just gives a theatrical sigh, extending the bottle again.
"Diabolical woman, drinkin all my hooch."
You salute him with the bottle before taking another pull, longer this time. It should help you stomach...whatever it is they're about to do to you.
You hand back the bottle, and you wait. So does Tex, staring at you expectantly. You lift an eyebrow in a silent question of what?
He extends the bottle again with a pout of full lips that should be absolutely ridiculous on a grown ass man, but somehow is actually cute?
"I'm comfortable, thank you."
John snorts with laughter behind Tex, earning a glare.
"You gonna watch, or you gonna help? I swear, this is the damndest woman I've ever met..."
When John makes his way towards you, his steps silent and graceful as a leopard on the prowl--your heart sinks a little.
When he reaches for you, you recoil, but there's no escape. There's just his hand in your hair, holding you fast, and then his lips on yours.
The latter takes you by surprise, really.
His lips are soft, but exacting. He claims your mouth in a sweeping kiss, and when he pulls away he leaves you breathless, like he has utterly snogged you senseless. When fingers clasp the hem of your shirt, pulling upwards, it doesn't even occur to you to fight, until its halfway over your head.
Suddenly you are bare from the waist up, and you cant help but give a little scream, your hands flying to cover yourself.
The whisky is definitely not helping yet, and you begin to tremble incontrollably.
"Aw, I think she's cold, Johnny boy."
John reaches out to soothe you, petting your hair. "You're beautiful," he tells you.
You don't understand how his look can be soft, yet predatory, all at the same time.
"Ain't he a gentleman?" drawls Tex with a roll of eyes, taking another pull off his bottle.
Sweetwolfcupcake:
"Fuck off!"
That is your first response as you reach to snatch back the shirt. Despite getting a hold on it, John does not let go.
"Give it back to me!" You grit out--- the situation is suddenly not playful anymore.
Your gut has been right about John all along, you realise, as you glare back at him. There is a glint of cruel amusement in his eyes that has you making an effort to suppress tears. You hate being powerless, vulnerable, exposed.
In this situation, unfortunately, you are all three.
"How about a deal---"
"No! C'mon! It was gettin' fun." Tex groans earning a glare from you, which he returns with a hungry gaze.
"How about a deal..." John continues.
Your eyes return to the man who still has an iron hold on your (his) shirt. Your arms covering your modesty turn tighter around yourself as you narrow your eyes at him.
"I let you have this shirt, and you sleep with one of us."
"Just sleeping, right?"
John smirked, "Sleeping."
That does not sound very reassuring.
You wanted to demand that he promise, but looking at your position, you realise that you have no upper hand here. The power imbalance is glaring at you in he form of your naked upper half.
"We'll take rounds."
Tex spoke, his heavy hand splayed on your lower back, sliding along your spine, only to leave trails of goosebumps. You somehow contain yourself from arching your back. The tingles that arise are not helpful either.
"Y--you meant every night?" Your surprised gaze meets John's amused one as he nods.
"I'm not doing this every night."
You hiss out before you think and regret it immediately as the part of the shirt on your hold is snatched away by John, you wish to reach out, but you can't and you are almost certain that you see a flash of disappointment in John's eyes when you do not move your arms.
"Forget the shirt then." Tex chuckles out from behind you as his palm slides around your waist and rests on your bare stomach. The implication is clear and you gulp.
Not just gulp, you gulp down your pride and take a deep breath.
"Fine." You grit out.
You eye the shirt in John's hold, expecting him to give it back to you. But he keeps it out of reach.
"Take it."
Bastard!
"Not funny, John, give me the shirt."
"I won't move it away, I promise." Despite how gentle he sounds, his malicious intent is no longer hidden.
"Reach out and take it."
Tex sounds much closer, the smell of whiskey now prominent as his breath tickles your neck. His hold on you tightens, preventing you from moving your body forward.
No, you were wrong. They are anything but good.
At this moment, you sure wish for Bradford to kick their asses-- which are nice to look at--- Wait!
What the hell is wrong with you?
Adjusting one arm to cover yourself properly, you reach out for the t-shirt, and as promised, John makes no move to snatched it away again. His heavy gaze, though, flicks down for a moment before his eyes meet yours once more. This time, they have in them a heavy heat that burns through you. It's the kind of burn that a woman wishes to see in her man's eyes, and it would have been flattering and swoon-worthy if not for the situation you are in. Half-naked, trapped between two very dangerous, very handsome, but morally dark men.
You feel the heat on your cheeks and neck as you try to slip back the shirt. With a disappointed sigh, Tex removes his hold, and you heave a sigh of relief while quickly slipping your shirt back on.
Treedaddymcpuffpuff:
You have this strange, awful feeling that your captor-saviors have made some kind of bet or deal of their own - one that you have been blindly excluded from. You go from being thankful to hating them again. It’s giving you whiplash.
Tex yawns, and bombs down on the bed behind you, making you yelp and jump. “Speaking of sleeping, I’m exhausted.”
“Thought I was first?” John doesn’t sound humored. It reminds you of the fact that he’s drunk, that little pout in his voice like he’s disappointed. So, they did plan this, then. Angry fire blazes your insides.
“How bout we let y/n decide who’s first,” Tex reasons, never taking his hooded eyes off you - never dropping that sharp, horrifying, infuriating, promising grin from his mouth. He takes another chug of whiskey.
They both look at you expectantly, and you have never felt tinier. A fly staring at two huge spiders. You try to glare back, maybe keep some of your self esteem intact.
“Well?” John asks, tipping his head at you.
You’re so tired of playing these stupid little games with them. You’re so tired of being the rat in their maze. You’re so tired of hiding and running and lying belly up. You fix John with a hard gaze - for some reason, it’s much, much harder to do that with him than with Tex - and say, “I don’t want to sleep with either of you. Fucking creeps.” You get off the bed, stand up, hands on your hips, expecting Tex to look surprised instead of filled with gleeful delight - to your dismay, his smile is wider as he watches this adorable attempt at dominance.
“And if you touch me again, I’ll do worse than bite you.” You eye John’s gnarly, bruised hand, trying not to feel bad about it. Trying not to think with your vagina anymore. She’s still there though, tugging at you, a little thrill tensing her up - the reward for your bold behavior.
John’s on you, hand on your throat - not pushing or squeezing, just resting there. He bullies you back. You try to hit him, but he swats your hand away like it’s a stray hair tickling his face. When he presses you into the wall, you’re terrified - shaking, trifling, owl eyed. You expect him to be scowling at you - you wish he was scowling at you - but his grin mirrors Tex’s. That grin could send a pack of wolves running tail between legs.
“It’s okay, pretty girl,” he coos, soothing voice such sharp contrast to the way he handles you and the hellish look on his face. It actually helps your nerves, quells some of that tremble originating from primal fear. “You’re okay.”
You press your palms up against the wall and they slip down, drenched with cold sweat. john has taken up your orbit entirely, so you’re shocked to see Tex suddenly at his side, helping him cage you against the wall.
“You’re okay,” John says again, titling your chin back to only him. For some reason, a part of you believes him - probably your stupid fucking vagina again.
“Why?” You ask, voice cracked and small, all your valiance gone.
“Atonement,” Tex drawls.
#tex johnson#john wick#tex johnson x you#tex johnson x reader#john wick x you#john wick x reader#yandere#yandere john wick#yandere tex johnson#john wick x y/n#wicked johnson fic
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