delicioushottubpeanut

[delicioushottubpeanut]

The Favour Of An Emperor

Emperor Caracalla x Reader x Emperor Geta

Warnings: Sexual Tension, Power Imbalace, Betrayal, Eventual Dark Romance, Fluff, Angst, Smut, Obsessive Behaviour, Dirty Talk, Manipulation, Mommy Issues, Madness ect.. Minors dni

Part One, Part Two

You could still feel Caracalla’s touch long after you had fled his chambers. It was a weird sensation, as if you could still feel his fingers grazing your skin, but you should not have lingered. You should not have let him pull you into his heat, you were angry at how your body had reacted, uncontrollable and full with desire for someone who was not your husband.

Yet your hands trembled as you washed them in the basin, as if water alone could erase the burn he left behind. The night was the most dangerous, with words echoing in your head, tormenting you of what you could and couldn't have.

And so you avoided him for days, throwing yourself into your duties like attending Geta in court, visiting temples, keeping to your rightful and expected place at your husband's side. You did everything to remind yourself of what mattered and ignoring the feelings you kept in the deepest part of yourself.

And yet, Caracalla was always there, igniting the treacherous part in you that wanted more. After three days of purposely running away, you found yourself alone. You had gone to the palace gardens for air, to escape the weight of marble walls and heavy gazes. The night was warm, the scent of sage thick in the air. You breathed in deeply, trying to banish the tension in your chest that lingered.

You did not hear him approach. But you felt him as a hand brushed your waist, almost teasing. You gasped, spinning, only for his fingers grab onto your waist before you could move away. Your mind went blank, after days of avoiding him it was a shock for all the hidden emotions to be released.

"You run from me," Caracalla murmured, his face glinting in the moonlight, blessed by the Gods themselves. "I don’t like it." Your pulse pounded, and your breath hitched, unsure how to face him. If Geta had witnessed, he would have executed his own brother in anger. (Ironic considering what actually happend irl)

His grip tightened, firm but not cruel. "I only want just one thing for myself... " His thumb traced your palm, slow, deliberate. "You come to me in my sleep, haunting me."

You swallowed, trying to pull away, but he did not let you. Instead, he stepped closer, forcing you back until your spine met the cool stone of the garden wall.

His free hand lifted, fingers trailing up your arm, across your shoulder, tracing the column of your throat. You shivered.

"I always let him have whatever he wants.. I don't know why he doesn't do the same for me," he gently whines, lips dangerously close to yours. This was too close, it was betrayal not only to Geta but to Rome. But Gods help you, some part of you wanted it as the heat you felt was not due to the Roman summer.

Unlike his twin, whose life was a selfish crusade for glory, blinded by his own megalomania and ambition, Caracalla was intoxicating with his tone and demeanour completely at odds with Geta.

His gaze entirely desperately focused on you, his cheeks all red and lips quivering. He doesn't even look regal once he's within your presence, just letting out a rather loud, undignified whimper.

It seems like he's already close to falling apart, his breathing quick as he stares at you with bright eyes. Completely lost in the moment, following every movement and reaction that you make.

He reaches out for you, his hands going to your hips and gently guiding your movements as you don't push him away. He continues to whimper softly, tilting his head back.

[delicioushottubpeanut]

July 2025 is the month of the hot nerds

[delicioushottubpeanut]

The Favour of an Emperor

Emperor Caracalla x Reader x Emperor Geta

Warnings: Sexual Tension, Power Imbalace, Betrayal, Eventual Dark Romance, Fluff, Angst, Smut, Obsessive Behaviour, Dirty Talk, Manipulation, Mommy Issues, Madness ect.. Minors dni

Notes: Just posting the beginning of the series I posted in ao3 here :)

Part One, Part Two

It began as a whisper, a glance that lingered too long, a hand that brushed against yours at the banquet table. Caracalla had always been indulgent, reckless with his desires, but something had changed in him. His body had begun to betray him. The disease in his blood made him fevered, his mind slipping between lucidity and madness. And in his torment, he turned to you, his brothers wife.

'I trust no one but you," he confessed one night, his fingers curling around your wrist. His golden eyes were dark, pleading, his usual arrogance stripped away by illness. "They want me dead, but you.." His grip tightened. "You are different, aren’t you?" He was beautiful. A man who should have been invincible, now vulnerable before you.

"Caracalla.." You hesitated. The way he looked at you, as if you were salvation itself, made your breath catch.

"Say my name again," he murmured, his lips quirking into something almost playful, despite the shadows under his eyes. "Or do you prefer my brother’s?" Your pulse quickened. It was dangerous to entertain this. Deadly, even. But Caracalla was relentless. His charm, his desperation, and it inevitably seeped into you like wine, dizzying.

However, Geta quickly had noticed too many times to count where Caracalla had overstepped a boundary with you.

'Do you think me blind?' Geta’s voice was quiet, but there was something menacing in it, something that made the hairs on your arms rise. He stood over you in the dim candlelight of your shared chambers, his jaw tight, as his brother came to you in the night.

"He watches you like a starving wolf."

You exhaled, meeting his gaze. "He is sick, Geta. He has no one else." It was hard to maintain composure when your feelings were becoming unreadable, even to yourself.

"He has Rome."

"Rome is not a wife," you countered, voice softer now, cautious.

His jaw clenched. "No. But you are mine."

Geta had been obsessive, but he had never been cruel, and yet now, the line between the two blurred. His fingers pressed into your skin when he touched you, his lips hard, claiming. He took you as if trying to erase his brother’s gaze from your body, as if carving his ownership into your bones.

But Caracalla did not yield as he came to you in the shadows, lingering at your door, whispering sinful statements. "He does not love you as I do." His voice was hoarse, feverish as he whined. "He keeps you as a prize. But I—I worship you."

And in the dim glow of the moon, he knelt before you. A prince of Rome, on his knees, you stumbled back in shock as your heart thundered, his profession unforgivable and wrong and his gaze was so painfully raw that you listened.

"Let me have you, just once," he begged, voice shaking. "Let me pretend you are mine."

The hunger in his eyes, made you hesitate as his fingers reached for yours, catching the fabric of your tunic, holding fast as the way he lingered too long, the way he spoke to you as if he were a man unchained. "If things had been different, you would have been mine."

He looked at you as if you were the only thing keeping him tethered to this world, and in that moment of hesitation, Geta noticed as he walked into your chambers.

'You should rest Caracalla, this madness has plagued you.' Leave," You spoke gently, glancing at Caracalla, but his fevered gaze was locked onto his twin, unreadable as he walked away.

"Do not think for a moment I did not see," Geta said, his voice low, dark with something dangerous.

You swallowed hard. "He only seeks comfort.'

"He is an imperial serpent," he bit out. "And you.." His fingers trailed up your arm, then gripped your chin. "You let him touch you."

"I did not I-"

"You did not stop him." A shiver ran through you. Geta's rage evident as he spoke, hands shaking to control himself.

"You are my wife," he said, voice dropping lower. "Not his."

"I know." You were not meant to falter, you were the Empress of Rome, bound by duty and law.

"Do you?" His lips hovered close to yours, his breath warm. "Because I am beginning to wonder."

Your pulse hammered. You had seen him like this before, when his enemies threatened him, when senators whispered treason. He hardly ever loved with softness, but Caracalla was the opposite and It should have horrified you but instead, it intoxicated you.

It slowly became difficult to stop the way your body tensed when Caracalla entered a room. You could not stop the heat that pooled in your stomach when his eyes dragged over you like a man starved, not even pretend to be subtle. He always wanted you to see whether it was forbidden or not.

You had experienced it before, his episodes, the sickness that gripped him like a beast sinking its claws into his flesh. The physicians called it divine punishment, the result of too much indulgence, of a body weakened by carnal desires. But you knew better, and his dependence on you grew. This disease was not only in his blood. It was in his mind, which made him vulnerable yet dangerous. Geta had been in the Senate hall all evening. He had forbidden you from answering Caracalla’s calls and cries. There was this weight over your heart that you could not shake despite Geta's warnings. But it was getting worse. The disease was consuming him. The halls leading to Caracalla’s chambers were dimly lit, the torches flickering against the stone. The guards let you pass without question. They had seen this before, seen you before, and you had started to become accustomed to staying in his chambers.

You stepped inside and froze. The room was suffocatingly warm, thick with the scent of sweat and wine. The heavy curtains were drawn, trapping the heat inside. And there, sprawled across his bed, was Caracalla. His tunic was loose, slipping off one shoulder and his golden eyes hazy as they locked onto you.

"You came," he rasped. The heat of the room, the weight of his gaze and it unsettled you in ways you refused to name.

"You should not have sent for me." Your voice was steady, but your body was not.

"And yet, you came," he murmured, lips curving slightly.

Your pulse stuttered. "You need rest, Caracalla." "No." His voice was low, almost a growl. "Stay.. please, I beg of you.' He reached over. You should have pulled away, but his grip was firm, insistent. His thumb traced over your skin, slow, lingering, as if time had stopped.

'You should not be doing this.' You whispered, warning him of the restrictions in place, infernal chains.

"Why not?" His eyes stared up at you again, sharp and longing despite the fever. "Because my brother would not approve?"

You tensed as he moved closer, almost afraid that if he let you go then all his dreams would forever be out of reach, taken away. You tensed. "Because it is wrong.." His grip tightened, enough that you gasped softly. The sound made his lips twitch

"Tell me," he whispered. "Tell me you have never thought of it. Of me."

"No I-"

"Liar." Despite desperately trying to inhibit your feelings towards him, he manages to see through your long-built facade.

[delicioushottubpeanut]

shadowed corners

remmick x reader (18+ mdni)

You're a romance author suffering from insomnia, writer's block, and strange nightmares. Your publisher offers to send you to Maine for a short sabbatical to clear your head. It's a quaint town with charming locals, and a mysterious man running the lighthouse that nobody seems to know much about... [part two here]

author's note: well well here we are again. this is MUCH longer than my other fic and i intend to have at least 3(?) chapters for it, so strap in girlies. no smut just yet yous have to earn it first by sitting through all this fucking exposition. grma enjoy! warnings: horror elements, discussion of animal death, discussion of shark attacks, sexual themes

You sit at your desk in front of an empty document, the cursor blinking at you mockingly. Your eyes are tired and your head feels heavy, and the last time you fell asleep at your desk you had drooled on your keyboard, and you really don’t want to find a place to get it fixed. 

“An old-school computer always helps me when I have writer’s block,” one of your colleagues had told you at a cocktail party when you lamented about your publisher’s insistence on a new concept.

You had a very embarrassing and uncomfortably visible breakdown in her windows-only corner office. You began word-vomiting all over her sleek carbon fibre desk about your writer’s block and insomnia– leaving out the extra embarrassing detail of your recurring sexy nightmares– and she had patted your back and attempted to comfort you with corporate jargon. When the tears started she lowered some blinds and lowered her voice, sitting against the edge of the desk in front of her.

“Look, kid. You’re a hell of a writer, okay? Nothing sells like your stuff. I mean, I don’t get it, but the girls love this… creepy vampire stalker shit.”

Dark romance, you want to correct her, but it’s futile after four years working together. 

She sighed, crossing her arms.

“How about… I give you a company card and you go… rent on the coast somewhere for a few months? We have some contracts to draft because these streaming services are just chomping at the bit for rights to adapt. So you go pack your things and take a break. Get an Ambien prescription, fuck a fisherman, whatever you need to do.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’ll bankroll it.”

She taps her manicured acrylic nail on the cover of your most recent title, Shadowed Corners. It was a total and complete success, where your first two were mafia romances set in the same universe, SC was a dark romance with a vampire love interest stalking your adorable main character. You love red flags, and Milo was covered in them.  

“You’re a money-printing machine, babe.”

So here you are, not relaxing, not on sleeping pills, and completely unfucked by any hot guys. You press your fingers to your temples and sigh, closing the pages and pushing the circular off button for the computer. You slide back and lean forward, stretching your creaky back. You miss your cozy little setup at home, your comfortable chair and the souped-up gamer style keyboard. You sacrificed comfort hoping it would make you work harder, but you think you’ll just finish this little sabbatical with more lower-back pain than usual. 

You fill your water bottle with the filter in the fridge, admiring the stickers all over it. Among the logo of your publishing house and the ones about writing, you have fanart of your books and quotes from your own characters. Ones you’ve found at book fairs and second-hand stores as well as online. A handful were sent along with fanmail. Your laptop and idea notebook are covered too, because it drove you mad to know people liked your stuff enough to make art out of it. 

You huff and trudge up the stairs, feeling exhausted and dreading the next day. You sit in your bed and look at the sticker of Milo with his signature phrase I’d like to see you stop me, babygirl. 

You turn the bottle away from you as you open the bedside drawer. Inside of it are two options. A scent-proof bag that holds your pipe, grinder, and bud, a vape, and a few edibles. The other is a vibrator. You wonder what the point of this vacation was. You could get high and get off at home in the city. And at least there you could order munchies for delivery after you’d fucked yourself silly thinking about the made-up vampire in your head.

You just shut the drawer, rolling your eyes as you lay back. 

Two hours later, you can’t sleep. You’re “jerking off your ego” as your friends would call it, looking through positive reviews of your last title. You know you have detractors, people who think your work is trash or anti-feminist. It’s a little trashy, but it’s just for fun. And you’ve had your share of shitty boyfriends like any girl your age, you know the difference between right and wrong. God forbid a girl wants a hot vampire to follow her home, you think. 

You sit up and put your phone face down. You need fresh air. You need a walk. So, you bundle up and stick in headphones for a brisk, freezing, 7 PM wintertime mental health walk. The New England air isn’t just cold, it’s thick and wet with the marine layer from the ocean, which you’re a short walk away from. It’s not nice, but it does invigorate you as you follow the path from your little cottage down to the beach. It’s pretty private, tucked away in a little alcove– which you were warned not to enter when the tide is too high. You peek over to see it’s not. So you climb down and skirt around the rocks to walk on the main beach, which is empty. Obviously. The recently released audiobook of one of your peers’ newest titles plays in your ears, narrated by a sultry English man. You should have gone somewhere else for inspiration. You vaguely remember hearing someone at a book release party talk about how inspiring their trip to France was, and another person responded about their time in Ireland. You’ve mostly just met fishermen and townies, and none of these men had the Milo quality about them. 

Milo was inspired by a stunning man you saw while at a nightclub in New York City. You were very, very drunk on espresso martinis, but you saw him and his adorable girlfriend– who also served as your muse for Annmarie, SC’s protagonist– at the bar together. His arm was around her waist in a way that was possessive but romantic, his hand rested over her tummy, and you saw his thumb rubbing circles into her skin lovingly. 

“Oh my God, girl, are you seriously drooling? You are so drunk,” your friend had half-sighed, half-laughed as you wiped a little drool from your chin with the back of your hand.

“We have got to get you some dick, queen,” another friend joked.

“I am perfectly fine being single,” you protested.

“Nuh-uh, I read that last book of yours. All work and no dick makes you fucking crazy. How did you come up with that shit anyway?”

“She’s totally sick in the head, that’s how.”

Your back straightens up as you think you hear a voice.

“Miss!”

You pause the book and turn around to see a man jogging behind you, holding something in his hands. You freeze with terror until you realise it’s your notebook he’s holding.

“You dropped this,” he says, handing it over. He stays a nice distance away from you.

He has some sort of Southern accent, not New England. 

And he is very, very attractive. He wears a tight black t-shirt and black athletic shorts. His short hair is semi-dark, and probably reddish from the way it looks in the blue moonlight. He smiles politely at you, his dark eyes are hard to see. There’s a scruff of facial hair on him.

“Thanks.”

“Sorry, I… I woulda tapped your shoulder, but I was worried you’d sock me in the nose if I scared you.”

“I appreciate that.”

“Are you uh… you okay? It’s pretty dark out here.”

“Yeah, I know. I was just clearing my head.”

“Right.”

You take a breath and introduce yourself quickly.

“I’m Remmick,” he says.

“So, what are you doing out here, Remmick?”

“Well, I work at that lighthouse. Just takin’ a jog before I head up there.”

“Oh.”

Hot lighthouse worker. That could be a love interest.

“You on vacation? I think I’d remember your face if I’d seen it before.”

Charming lighthouse worker. 

“I’m uh… on a sort of sabbatical.”

“You a doctor or something?”

“God, no. I’m a writer.”

“Yeah?”

The tone and timbre of that yeah have your head spinning. 

“Books or what?”

You nod.

“What kind?”

You hesitate.

“Can I guess?”

“Go for it.”

He thinks for a second, his tongue darting out to wet his lips as he does, which makes you flush. 

“Are they scary?”

“Parts of them are scary,” you admit. 

You remembered researching for SC and finding out that a lot of people only have a little over one gallon of blood in their bodies. You felt lightheaded and queasy at the visual of a plastic gallon bottle full of blood.

“But they ain’t all scary, huh?”

“Nope.”

He eyes you and smirks.

“Are they dirty?”

You hesitate and suck in air through clenched teeth.

“Yeah. They’re pretty dirty.”

“You must make good money, huh?”

He chuckles and you shrug.

“I do alright.”

“Yeah, I bet you do. Where’re you stayin’?”

You pause and he holds up his hands.

“That probably sounded creepy. I only meant… there’s some nice places, and there’s a Holiday Inn.”

“Well, it’s not the Holiday Inn.”

He looks at the watch on his hand.

“Shit. Well, I gotta get goin’.”

He says your name and your chest fills up with a weird feeling. Half-elation, half-dread.

“Nice to meet you.”

“Yeah. You too. I’ll see you around,” you respond.

“Only if you keep walkin’ at night. Boats don’t need a lighthouse in the daytime,” he explains quickly, jogging off toward the beacon.

Hot lighthouse worker who’s charming and funny. Now that could work.

You go home and open the fridge. Time for boxed wine in a mug as you power-write for the next forty-five minutes until your hands cramp up.

You put the notebook down and pull out your favorite pen. You need certainty when you put book ideas down. You write in quick, messy bullet points, only getting down little ideas. You heard that coastal New England towns are famous for gruesome murder. Your instincts take you to the mafia but one glance at your water bottle has you thinking otherwise. SC was such a success, and you’re the vampire girl now. 

So you begin to pen the vague outline of a dark romance with a steamy, stalkery vampire lighthouse worker. A man in thick knit sweaters with a messy beard– that could get messier covered in blood or buried between a writer’s thighs–

You pause and see you’ve written writer on the page. You cringe and scribble that out. You had your humble beginnings with composition notebook self-insert fanfiction as a tween, but you’re a big girl now. And you’re already writing prose over a guy you just met, you really don’t need to make it any weirder. Your mind goes through some humble, wholesome occupations to compliment a love interest like that. Baker? Too cliche. Schoolteacher? Too male gaze. Big city corporate lawyer? Too Hallmark movie.

You tap back of the pen against the page rhythmically and sit up. Investigative journalist. Still technically a writer, but the only things you investigate are late-night Twitter links on a private spam account not even your best friends know about. 

Your pen dashes across the page, scrawling wildly. There’s not even any music playing, just the not-so-distant sound of the ocean, the radiator, and your own hand brushing against the paper. Soon, you’ve filled five pages without realising and that doubles in a blink. Shit! Your hand cramps up and you lift the pen finally, massaging your other thumb into your palm. It’s time for bed now, as three hours have passed and your back is killing you. 

You ascend the stairs again and just go to sleep, hand and wrist sore and content with your productivity.

You wake up surprisingly early the next day, and decide to go into town to get some groceries. Your fridge is looking sparse and the pantries are basically empty. You buy some frozen stuff and some supplies to make coffee. You see the honey is placed on the highest shelf you’ve ever seen and huff. No workers around. You can probably get it on your tiptoes. You strain to reach it and hear a man’s voice.

“Can I help you with that?”

You almost fall dropping to your feet again, and a shooting pain goes up from your heels.

“Ow, shit.”

“I’m sorry.”

It’s a man in a lifeguard’s hoodie with red swim trunks on. Maybe you hit your head and you’re having some sort of insane Baywatch fantasy.

“Yes. Please.”

“Yeah, I honestly don’t know who puts this stuff up there. The lady who owns this place is like, four-eleven.” You laugh at that as he hands you the honey.

“Thank you.”

“No problem. I’m Chris, by the way.”

You give him your name and shake his hand. Fucking hell this guy is strong. 

“Are you visiting?”

“Yeah. For a few months though. I’m working on a book.”

“You write horror?”

“Sorry?”

“Um, Stephen King’s from Maine. I feel like horror writers are always trying to… come out here and get some of that inspiration.”

“I think the inspiration he had was-”

“Cocaine?” he says at the same time as you. He shrugs. “At least you can recognise that. Half the other writers are ready to climb into the sewer.”

“Shit, well there goes my day at the rock quarry,” you joke. 

He laughs at that and you grin. 

“I’m a lifeguard on the beach for the next six hours, if you um… feel like you need some fresh air. Sunlight isn’t really a November specialty.”

“Are people really swimming this time of year?”

“Oh, they are. But so are the great whites, so, I’m mostly on seal watch.”

“Right.”

“I’m in tower Four,” he tells you eagerly. It’s like the words just jump right out of his mouth. “It’s right by the lighthouse. Nobody swims there, so… if you wanna tell me about your book or something… my job is pretty boring.”

“I’ll see you out there, Chris.”

“See you.”

You check out and ride the bike the homeowner left for guests back to the cottage. You feel insane. Maybe you were hospitalized after that breakdown and this is all some elaborate, drugged-up daydream you’re in. You pull out your notebook after the groceries are put away and flip to a new page. You click your pen and write HOT LIFEGUARD at the top of the page. 

A love triangle sounds awesome.

Later on, after you actually manage to type some words on a new, more permanent outline document, your vision drifts out the window. It is actually kind of a nice day, even though it’s overcast and windy. You stand and squeeze your hands together, stretching out. It is time for another brisk walk, this time to Tower Four.

Chris sits up there, slumped in his chair and holding his rescue tube in his lap. His tanned, toned legs are wide as he sits back.

“Would it scare you really bad if I started yelling ‘help’?” you joke, peering up at him from the ground.

He chirps your name, sitting up and sliding his sunglasses on top of his head, pushing back his hair. 

“You made it.”

“I brought you a snack,” you say, handing up the small bag of chocolates.

“Wicked,” he says, taking it from your hand. He swings down like a monkey and sits with his feet dangling off the side of the tower. You share the candies and look out on the water.

“So, you gonna tell me about your book?”

“Yeah, I’m not a horror writer.”

“What do you write?”

You hesitate. You know this song and dance, the divulgence of your career and the weird stares and uncomfortable shifting that follows. It’s ruined all sorts of dates and first impressions. Fuck it. You’re on sabbatical.

“Um… dirty romance books.”

“No shit? Is it like that crazy mafia stuff online?”

“Yeah, it’s exactly that.”

“Killer. You make a lot of money?”

“Enough to stay here and not work for three months.”

“So… you’re not writing a book?”

You shake your head.

“My creative well is completely dry. I came out here for-”

“Don’t even say it.”

“-some inspiration.”

“You are such a liar,” he teases. “You’re just like all those Stephen King wannabes,” he jokes, turning away from you.

You laugh at his silliness. You remain for a while, chatting about life and the town.

“The city is wild. I’m getting used to the silence, I think,” you tell him, having moved to– illegally– sit on the tower with him.

“Is the crime really so crazy out there?”

“Yeah, I mean… most of that is just there’s so many people crammed into such a small place. People go nuts.”

“Damn.”

“No crime here?”

“Not here, no, but um… about twenty miles north there’s this beach town, it’s a complete tourist getaway, but they got rocked by some shark attacks a few years back.”

“Some shark attacks?” you repeat his casual wording, shocked.

“Sorry. That sounded insensitive, it was really scary. That place is on its last legs now.”

“Well, yeah. Who wants to stay at the Jaws resort?”

“Bull shark, probably. The same thing happened in nineteen-sixteen. It was pretty gruesome.”

“Are you fucking with me?” you question him seriously, eyes squinted.

“I’m being serious, look it up.”

“Huh. Shit.” You sit back, eyes wandering to the lighthouse.

“Have you ever met the person who works up there?”

“Yeah, he’s fucking creepy.”

“I didn’t think so.”

“You met him?”

“Mhm. Last night.”

“Remmick? The lighthouse guy? You met him?”

“Yeah…? He was jogging.”

“Fucking weirdo,” Chris mutters. “He’s a complete shut-in.”

“How long has he been here?”

“Couple years? I don’t really know when he got here, he just… was there one day.”

“Weird.”

“Yeah, well. We used to have a night lifeguard, and– listen, I can admit having a girl out here on her own was pretty stupid– not that girls are… incapable or something-”

“I get it.”

“Right. And… full disclaimer, this girl really liked shrooms, but she swears up and down that she saw that guy covered in blood and eating a seal.”

“Whoa.”

“I mean, there was a dead seal on the beach, she was right about that.”

“Great white?”

“Oh, for sure. I’m think he was probably just doing that creepy-ass night jogging by the tower when that seal washed up, and… sometimes the sharks don’t fully kill the things-”

You grimace.

“I know, it’s pretty sad. Anyway, probably it was yowling and her fucking shroomed out brain conjured up that pretty picture. But he’s just a weird guy. He’s totally nocturnal. I’ve never seen the guy in the daytime. I’ve probably seen him six times and talked to him like… two, maybe?”

“Jeez.”

“Yeah. Anyways, sorry. That was a lot. I’d just stay away from the guy if you can. I don’t know what his deal is.”

You swiftly change the subject to movies and TV, which is good, because you two seem to share the same interests. Strangely enough, vampires are among them.

“I have sisters, so, I’ve seen Twilight about a hundred times? Maybe more?”

You laugh at that. You see him grinning and you check phone, seeing that two hours have passed.

“Shit. I have got to get back.”

“Right.”

“Thanks for the company. And the advice,” you add, nodding to the lighthouse.

“Um… would you want to grab a drink, tomorrow?”

“Oh. Yeah, sure. Um… where?”

“It’s called The Weasel. It’s definitely a townie bar, but… the drinks are cheap.”

You are fiending for an espresso martini, and you fear you’ll have to settle for an old reliable at a dive bar. 

“Alright.”

“Cool. Um… eight o’clock sound good?”

“Eight o’clock sounds great.”

“Awesome. See you there.”

“I will see you there.”

Your back hits a tree as you pant, unable to run anymore. Your lungs burn as you gasp for cold night air in a dark, damp forest. You’re barefoot, in a wet nightgown that sticks to your skin and you’re terrified. 

You tremble, feeling the looming presence of something evil and ancient, rising up in front of you. Met with words in a language you don’t understand, a clawed hand grips your jaw. They’re wet and sticky, hot with something you realise is blood. The creature laughs at you cruelly and on the other hand grabs a handful of your nightgown, claws ripping through the fabric as it tears a strip down the center. The hand cups between your legs. It splits your lips carefully– almost reverently– brushing a knuckle between your folds, claws away from your most sensitive skin. You gasp and shiver, hands against the tree. You’re wet, though. Soaking the creature’s hands as it coats your skin in blood. It’s so dark and your vision is blurry with tears, you only see two red spots staring at you, and the glint of pearly fangs as the jaw of the creature opens and lurches forward.

You shoot up and sigh, panting as you try to catch your breath. You’ve been plagued with these “psychosexual night terrors”, as your therapist calls them, since you finished writing SC. Some weeks they’re sparse and other ones you can’t sleep without waking up sticky and horrified. Your cortisol levels are through the roof and your sex drive is in the stratosphere. The running theory is that your frantic writing for the deadline of SC drove you just a little bit crazy, and your panic and arousal from writing about Milo’s sexy antics while your publishing house breathed down your neck combined and manifested as the scary void creature in your nightmares.

You take a cold shower that morphs into an everything shower when you remember your date with Chris. Not a date. Just grabbing a drink. Could be a date.

You feel like a kid again, having a cute summer fling with a boy at sleepaway camp with the distant bitter sweetness of knowing you’ll leave in three months. Except you are an adult woman and if you do fall in love, you could just move here forever. 

But that’s wishful thinking.

You wait at the bar patiently. You’re a punctual girl, your agent adores that about you, so you are a little early. You chat with the bartender. She’s an older woman with a thick Mainer accent. 

“Let me guess-”

“Not a horror writer,” you joke back. 

She laughs at that. Her laugh is creaky but comforting, and you can tell she’s a smoker.

“You look nervous.”

“I’m meeting somebody?”

“Yeah?”

“I won’t say who, because I’m guessing you know everyone.”

“Well, I also know who’s single and who isn’t. If you’re worried he’s married, just give me a name.”

The bar is quiet, some men play pool and a group of vacationing dads drink beers and watch some sports on an outdated television. 

You order another drink as you watch the clock behind the bar tick on.

By eight thirty, you’re sufficiently buzzed. You didn’t even get his phone number to text him.

By nine, you decide you should go home. You thank the bartender and leave her a generous tip. You’ll be too embarrassed to come in here for a while.

You take the bike home, slumping on the sofa in the living room as you kick off your heels. You feel tears pricking at your eyes and rub them away, not caring about your smudged eyeshadow or makeup. You wipe it off in the bathroom and change out of your clothes. You need another walk. Maybe you’ll run into the allegedly very creepy lighthouse man and you’ll get some inspiration. 

“I’ll show you Stephen King wannabe, dickhead,” you mutter to yourself, pulling on your coat and shoving your notebook in your pocket. 

You follow the familiar motions, down the path, out through the alcove, and down the beach. You have some angry music playing this time as you stomp down the beach and pass the lifeguard towers. Shrooms girl better thank her lucky stars she’s off night shift, because you look pissed off right now. You stalk all the way down to tower four and roll your eyes. This is a tantrum. You’re an adult.

“I thought I might see you again,” a voice calls. Remmick is on a ledge above you, leaning on the wooden railing. 

“Can I come up there?”

“I’m not gon’ tell you what to do, sweetheart.”

You try to ignore the fire that lights in you and climb the sand and rock stairs, joining him on the ledge. He sits on a bench and pats the seat next to him.

“I heard a lot about you today, from a couple locals,” you tell him, lying about it.

You get the feeling Chris was being insecure, or maybe Remmick’s stolen one too many girls from him. 

“Yeah, I’m a seal-eating nightwalker, you got me,” he jokes, his hands up in mock surrender.

You exhale through your nose. You wish you could laugh harder.

“I’m just a solitary kinda fella. People here, shit, they tight knit like fishin’ nets. They think everybody’s gotta know everybody’s business. Nobody knows mine, so they’ve been makin’ things up for the past three years.” 

“Sorry I brought it up.”

“Hey, I’d rather you hear it from me.”

He looks at you for a moment and rubs a hand over his knee.

“You look upset.”

“Yeah. I uh…”

You hesitate, and see him lean forward, actively listening.

“It’s stupid.”

He holds his hand out, gesturing for you to speak.

“I got stood up,” you admit.

“For a date?”

“Not exactly. Just drinks.”

He clicks his tongue.

“That’s no good. Must be a pretty dumb guy, to stand you up.”

“Yeah. That was a dickhead move. I’m just hoping it was more of a… ‘oh shit, I totally forgot’ kind of thing.”

He eyes you and you cross your legs.

“Still. You musta gotten all dolled up for it.”

“Yeah, I did.”

“Well, I uh… I’m not so much a bar kind of fella, but if you wanna come out here sometimes all dolled up…” he leans in, “I got some good whiskey and two glasses.”

You lean in too, close to him.

“I might take you up on that, Remmick.”

“I gotta get up there,” he murmurs, looking at your lips as he speaks.

“Right.”

He doesn’t move, locked in place for a moment. He seems to shake off the spell and sits back, scrubbing a hand down his face, wiping his mouth. It almost looks like he’s wiping away drool. He stands up.

“You uh, you alright to walk home on your own?”

Words flash in your mind, the scene from SC where Milo promises to stalk Annmarie home, which results in him watching through the window as she touches herself. You’re drunk, you realise, as the neurons in your brain flicker out and blood rushes down your body.

“Yeah, I should be fine.”

“Right.”

He starts to walk away and turns back.

“I mean it. You come up see me sometime.”

“I will.”

You mean that, too.

Remmick thumbs through your notebook. How can you even understand this stuff? Your messy handwriting is charming. He reads through descriptions of vampire lore and fangs and turning that make him chuckle. He thinks of the smell of you, that hot scent of desire and the buzzing of your intoxicated body as you sat together. He’s so fucking cold in Maine, and he hasn’t been touched in years. He imagines you’d be hot to the touch. He knows you’re frustrated, you’ve been dissatisfied with pleasuring yourself. The descriptions of sex scenes have him biting back groans and palming himself through his pants. 

He flips to the final page.

HOT LIFEGUARD

His eyes narrow as he realises who it was that stood you up. He turns the page back over, scanning through your previous writing. 

LIGHTHOUSE VAMPIRE LOVER. CLAIMS TO KILL FOR HER. STALKERY? MILO PART II. LESS TENDER. MORE EVIL.

Oh, you’re fucking crazy. 

He grins, his fangs sliding down.

He can make do with crazy.

You wake up early, painful early. You dress groggily and decide to get some air on the beach before the dickhead lifeguard starts his shift. You’re slightly hungover as you traverse down the path and through the alcove to walk on the beach. 

The light is pale and you have to watch your step for kelp as you walk down. You see something up on the sand, and your heart sinks.

It has to be a seal. It’s not breathing, so you look at the nearest lifeguard tower for the animal control. You dial the number and wait patiently.

“Hello?” a voice that sounds just as groggy as you feel answers.

“Hi, I’m um, I’m on the beach right now and I think there’s a dead seal by the first lifeguard tower.”

“Oh, hell. Sorry, miss. It’s too damn early. Do you see any marks on it?”

“It’s hard to see with the fog. Is it safe to get closer?”

“Seals aren’t half as aggressive as sea lions, miss, so go ahead.”

You step closer, squinting with the fog. It’s absolutely dead, not moving at all. You approach it cautiously, worried about what other creatures might be lurking around.

Your heart drops to the pit of your stomach.

This is not a seal.

This is Chris the lifeguard, and he’s missing an arm.

[delicioushottubpeanut]

shadowed corners

remmick x reader (18+ mdni)

You're a romance author suffering from insomnia, writer's block, and strange nightmares. Your publisher offers to send you to Maine for a short sabbatical to clear your head. It's a quaint town with charming locals, and a mysterious man running the lighthouse that nobody seems to know much about... [part two here]

author's note: well well here we are again. this is MUCH longer than my other fic and i intend to have at least 3(?) chapters for it, so strap in girlies. no smut just yet yous have to earn it first by sitting through all this fucking exposition. grma enjoy! warnings: horror elements, discussion of animal death, discussion of shark attacks, sexual themes

You sit at your desk in front of an empty document, the cursor blinking at you mockingly. Your eyes are tired and your head feels heavy, and the last time you fell asleep at your desk you had drooled on your keyboard, and you really don’t want to find a place to get it fixed. 

“An old-school computer always helps me when I have writer’s block,” one of your colleagues had told you at a cocktail party when you lamented about your publisher’s insistence on a new concept.

You had a very embarrassing and uncomfortably visible breakdown in her windows-only corner office. You began word-vomiting all over her sleek carbon fibre desk about your writer’s block and insomnia– leaving out the extra embarrassing detail of your recurring sexy nightmares– and she had patted your back and attempted to comfort you with corporate jargon. When the tears started she lowered some blinds and lowered her voice, sitting against the edge of the desk in front of her.

“Look, kid. You’re a hell of a writer, okay? Nothing sells like your stuff. I mean, I don’t get it, but the girls love this… creepy vampire stalker shit.”

Dark romance, you want to correct her, but it’s futile after four years working together. 

She sighed, crossing her arms.

“How about… I give you a company card and you go… rent on the coast somewhere for a few months? We have some contracts to draft because these streaming services are just chomping at the bit for rights to adapt. So you go pack your things and take a break. Get an Ambien prescription, fuck a fisherman, whatever you need to do.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’ll bankroll it.”

She taps her manicured acrylic nail on the cover of your most recent title, Shadowed Corners. It was a total and complete success, where your first two were mafia romances set in the same universe, SC was a dark romance with a vampire love interest stalking your adorable main character. You love red flags, and Milo was covered in them.  

“You’re a money-printing machine, babe.”

So here you are, not relaxing, not on sleeping pills, and completely unfucked by any hot guys. You press your fingers to your temples and sigh, closing the pages and pushing the circular off button for the computer. You slide back and lean forward, stretching your creaky back. You miss your cozy little setup at home, your comfortable chair and the souped-up gamer style keyboard. You sacrificed comfort hoping it would make you work harder, but you think you’ll just finish this little sabbatical with more lower-back pain than usual. 

You fill your water bottle with the filter in the fridge, admiring the stickers all over it. Among the logo of your publishing house and the ones about writing, you have fanart of your books and quotes from your own characters. Ones you’ve found at book fairs and second-hand stores as well as online. A handful were sent along with fanmail. Your laptop and idea notebook are covered too, because it drove you mad to know people liked your stuff enough to make art out of it. 

You huff and trudge up the stairs, feeling exhausted and dreading the next day. You sit in your bed and look at the sticker of Milo with his signature phrase I’d like to see you stop me, babygirl. 

You turn the bottle away from you as you open the bedside drawer. Inside of it are two options. A scent-proof bag that holds your pipe, grinder, and bud, a vape, and a few edibles. The other is a vibrator. You wonder what the point of this vacation was. You could get high and get off at home in the city. And at least there you could order munchies for delivery after you’d fucked yourself silly thinking about the made-up vampire in your head.

You just shut the drawer, rolling your eyes as you lay back. 

Two hours later, you can’t sleep. You’re “jerking off your ego” as your friends would call it, looking through positive reviews of your last title. You know you have detractors, people who think your work is trash or anti-feminist. It’s a little trashy, but it’s just for fun. And you’ve had your share of shitty boyfriends like any girl your age, you know the difference between right and wrong. God forbid a girl wants a hot vampire to follow her home, you think. 

You sit up and put your phone face down. You need fresh air. You need a walk. So, you bundle up and stick in headphones for a brisk, freezing, 7 PM wintertime mental health walk. The New England air isn’t just cold, it’s thick and wet with the marine layer from the ocean, which you’re a short walk away from. It’s not nice, but it does invigorate you as you follow the path from your little cottage down to the beach. It’s pretty private, tucked away in a little alcove– which you were warned not to enter when the tide is too high. You peek over to see it’s not. So you climb down and skirt around the rocks to walk on the main beach, which is empty. Obviously. The recently released audiobook of one of your peers’ newest titles plays in your ears, narrated by a sultry English man. You should have gone somewhere else for inspiration. You vaguely remember hearing someone at a book release party talk about how inspiring their trip to France was, and another person responded about their time in Ireland. You’ve mostly just met fishermen and townies, and none of these men had the Milo quality about them. 

Milo was inspired by a stunning man you saw while at a nightclub in New York City. You were very, very drunk on espresso martinis, but you saw him and his adorable girlfriend– who also served as your muse for Annmarie, SC’s protagonist– at the bar together. His arm was around her waist in a way that was possessive but romantic, his hand rested over her tummy, and you saw his thumb rubbing circles into her skin lovingly. 

“Oh my God, girl, are you seriously drooling? You are so drunk,” your friend had half-sighed, half-laughed as you wiped a little drool from your chin with the back of your hand.

“We have got to get you some dick, queen,” another friend joked.

“I am perfectly fine being single,” you protested.

“Nuh-uh, I read that last book of yours. All work and no dick makes you fucking crazy. How did you come up with that shit anyway?”

“She’s totally sick in the head, that’s how.”

Your back straightens up as you think you hear a voice.

“Miss!”

You pause the book and turn around to see a man jogging behind you, holding something in his hands. You freeze with terror until you realise it’s your notebook he’s holding.

“You dropped this,” he says, handing it over. He stays a nice distance away from you.

He has some sort of Southern accent, not New England. 

And he is very, very attractive. He wears a tight black t-shirt and black athletic shorts. His short hair is semi-dark, and probably reddish from the way it looks in the blue moonlight. He smiles politely at you, his dark eyes are hard to see. There’s a scruff of facial hair on him.

“Thanks.”

“Sorry, I… I woulda tapped your shoulder, but I was worried you’d sock me in the nose if I scared you.”

“I appreciate that.”

“Are you uh… you okay? It’s pretty dark out here.”

“Yeah, I know. I was just clearing my head.”

“Right.”

You take a breath and introduce yourself quickly.

“I’m Remmick,” he says.

“So, what are you doing out here, Remmick?”

“Well, I work at that lighthouse. Just takin’ a jog before I head up there.”

“Oh.”

Hot lighthouse worker. That could be a love interest.

“You on vacation? I think I’d remember your face if I’d seen it before.”

Charming lighthouse worker. 

“I’m uh… on a sort of sabbatical.”

“You a doctor or something?”

“God, no. I’m a writer.”

“Yeah?”

The tone and timbre of that yeah have your head spinning. 

“Books or what?”

You nod.

“What kind?”

You hesitate.

“Can I guess?”

“Go for it.”

He thinks for a second, his tongue darting out to wet his lips as he does, which makes you flush. 

“Are they scary?”

“Parts of them are scary,” you admit. 

You remembered researching for SC and finding out that a lot of people only have a little over one gallon of blood in their bodies. You felt lightheaded and queasy at the visual of a plastic gallon bottle full of blood.

“But they ain’t all scary, huh?”

“Nope.”

He eyes you and smirks.

“Are they dirty?”

You hesitate and suck in air through clenched teeth.

“Yeah. They’re pretty dirty.”

“You must make good money, huh?”

He chuckles and you shrug.

“I do alright.”

“Yeah, I bet you do. Where’re you stayin’?”

You pause and he holds up his hands.

“That probably sounded creepy. I only meant… there’s some nice places, and there’s a Holiday Inn.”

“Well, it’s not the Holiday Inn.”

He looks at the watch on his hand.

“Shit. Well, I gotta get goin’.”

He says your name and your chest fills up with a weird feeling. Half-elation, half-dread.

“Nice to meet you.”

“Yeah. You too. I’ll see you around,” you respond.

“Only if you keep walkin’ at night. Boats don’t need a lighthouse in the daytime,” he explains quickly, jogging off toward the beacon.

Hot lighthouse worker who’s charming and funny. Now that could work.

You go home and open the fridge. Time for boxed wine in a mug as you power-write for the next forty-five minutes until your hands cramp up.

You put the notebook down and pull out your favorite pen. You need certainty when you put book ideas down. You write in quick, messy bullet points, only getting down little ideas. You heard that coastal New England towns are famous for gruesome murder. Your instincts take you to the mafia but one glance at your water bottle has you thinking otherwise. SC was such a success, and you’re the vampire girl now. 

So you begin to pen the vague outline of a dark romance with a steamy, stalkery vampire lighthouse worker. A man in thick knit sweaters with a messy beard– that could get messier covered in blood or buried between a writer’s thighs–

You pause and see you’ve written writer on the page. You cringe and scribble that out. You had your humble beginnings with composition notebook self-insert fanfiction as a tween, but you’re a big girl now. And you’re already writing prose over a guy you just met, you really don’t need to make it any weirder. Your mind goes through some humble, wholesome occupations to compliment a love interest like that. Baker? Too cliche. Schoolteacher? Too male gaze. Big city corporate lawyer? Too Hallmark movie.

You tap back of the pen against the page rhythmically and sit up. Investigative journalist. Still technically a writer, but the only things you investigate are late-night Twitter links on a private spam account not even your best friends know about. 

Your pen dashes across the page, scrawling wildly. There’s not even any music playing, just the not-so-distant sound of the ocean, the radiator, and your own hand brushing against the paper. Soon, you’ve filled five pages without realising and that doubles in a blink. Shit! Your hand cramps up and you lift the pen finally, massaging your other thumb into your palm. It’s time for bed now, as three hours have passed and your back is killing you. 

You ascend the stairs again and just go to sleep, hand and wrist sore and content with your productivity.

You wake up surprisingly early the next day, and decide to go into town to get some groceries. Your fridge is looking sparse and the pantries are basically empty. You buy some frozen stuff and some supplies to make coffee. You see the honey is placed on the highest shelf you’ve ever seen and huff. No workers around. You can probably get it on your tiptoes. You strain to reach it and hear a man’s voice.

“Can I help you with that?”

You almost fall dropping to your feet again, and a shooting pain goes up from your heels.

“Ow, shit.”

“I’m sorry.”

It’s a man in a lifeguard’s hoodie with red swim trunks on. Maybe you hit your head and you’re having some sort of insane Baywatch fantasy.

“Yes. Please.”

“Yeah, I honestly don’t know who puts this stuff up there. The lady who owns this place is like, four-eleven.” You laugh at that as he hands you the honey.

“Thank you.”

“No problem. I’m Chris, by the way.”

You give him your name and shake his hand. Fucking hell this guy is strong. 

“Are you visiting?”

“Yeah. For a few months though. I’m working on a book.”

“You write horror?”

“Sorry?”

“Um, Stephen King’s from Maine. I feel like horror writers are always trying to… come out here and get some of that inspiration.”

“I think the inspiration he had was-”

“Cocaine?” he says at the same time as you. He shrugs. “At least you can recognise that. Half the other writers are ready to climb into the sewer.”

“Shit, well there goes my day at the rock quarry,” you joke. 

He laughs at that and you grin. 

“I’m a lifeguard on the beach for the next six hours, if you um… feel like you need some fresh air. Sunlight isn’t really a November specialty.”

“Are people really swimming this time of year?”

“Oh, they are. But so are the great whites, so, I’m mostly on seal watch.”

“Right.”

“I’m in tower Four,” he tells you eagerly. It’s like the words just jump right out of his mouth. “It’s right by the lighthouse. Nobody swims there, so… if you wanna tell me about your book or something… my job is pretty boring.”

“I’ll see you out there, Chris.”

“See you.”

You check out and ride the bike the homeowner left for guests back to the cottage. You feel insane. Maybe you were hospitalized after that breakdown and this is all some elaborate, drugged-up daydream you’re in. You pull out your notebook after the groceries are put away and flip to a new page. You click your pen and write HOT LIFEGUARD at the top of the page. 

A love triangle sounds awesome.

Later on, after you actually manage to type some words on a new, more permanent outline document, your vision drifts out the window. It is actually kind of a nice day, even though it’s overcast and windy. You stand and squeeze your hands together, stretching out. It is time for another brisk walk, this time to Tower Four.

Chris sits up there, slumped in his chair and holding his rescue tube in his lap. His tanned, toned legs are wide as he sits back.

“Would it scare you really bad if I started yelling ‘help’?” you joke, peering up at him from the ground.

He chirps your name, sitting up and sliding his sunglasses on top of his head, pushing back his hair. 

“You made it.”

“I brought you a snack,” you say, handing up the small bag of chocolates.

“Wicked,” he says, taking it from your hand. He swings down like a monkey and sits with his feet dangling off the side of the tower. You share the candies and look out on the water.

“So, you gonna tell me about your book?”

“Yeah, I’m not a horror writer.”

“What do you write?”

You hesitate. You know this song and dance, the divulgence of your career and the weird stares and uncomfortable shifting that follows. It’s ruined all sorts of dates and first impressions. Fuck it. You’re on sabbatical.

“Um… dirty romance books.”

“No shit? Is it like that crazy mafia stuff online?”

“Yeah, it’s exactly that.”

“Killer. You make a lot of money?”

“Enough to stay here and not work for three months.”

“So… you’re not writing a book?”

You shake your head.

“My creative well is completely dry. I came out here for-”

“Don’t even say it.”

“-some inspiration.”

“You are such a liar,” he teases. “You’re just like all those Stephen King wannabes,” he jokes, turning away from you.

You laugh at his silliness. You remain for a while, chatting about life and the town.

“The city is wild. I’m getting used to the silence, I think,” you tell him, having moved to– illegally– sit on the tower with him.

“Is the crime really so crazy out there?”

“Yeah, I mean… most of that is just there’s so many people crammed into such a small place. People go nuts.”

“Damn.”

“No crime here?”

“Not here, no, but um… about twenty miles north there’s this beach town, it’s a complete tourist getaway, but they got rocked by some shark attacks a few years back.”

“Some shark attacks?” you repeat his casual wording, shocked.

“Sorry. That sounded insensitive, it was really scary. That place is on its last legs now.”

“Well, yeah. Who wants to stay at the Jaws resort?”

“Bull shark, probably. The same thing happened in nineteen-sixteen. It was pretty gruesome.”

“Are you fucking with me?” you question him seriously, eyes squinted.

“I’m being serious, look it up.”

“Huh. Shit.” You sit back, eyes wandering to the lighthouse.

“Have you ever met the person who works up there?”

“Yeah, he’s fucking creepy.”

“I didn’t think so.”

“You met him?”

“Mhm. Last night.”

“Remmick? The lighthouse guy? You met him?”

“Yeah…? He was jogging.”

“Fucking weirdo,” Chris mutters. “He’s a complete shut-in.”

“How long has he been here?”

“Couple years? I don’t really know when he got here, he just… was there one day.”

“Weird.”

“Yeah, well. We used to have a night lifeguard, and– listen, I can admit having a girl out here on her own was pretty stupid– not that girls are… incapable or something-”

“I get it.”

“Right. And… full disclaimer, this girl really liked shrooms, but she swears up and down that she saw that guy covered in blood and eating a seal.”

“Whoa.”

“I mean, there was a dead seal on the beach, she was right about that.”

“Great white?”

“Oh, for sure. I’m think he was probably just doing that creepy-ass night jogging by the tower when that seal washed up, and… sometimes the sharks don’t fully kill the things-”

You grimace.

“I know, it’s pretty sad. Anyway, probably it was yowling and her fucking shroomed out brain conjured up that pretty picture. But he’s just a weird guy. He’s totally nocturnal. I’ve never seen the guy in the daytime. I’ve probably seen him six times and talked to him like… two, maybe?”

“Jeez.”

“Yeah. Anyways, sorry. That was a lot. I’d just stay away from the guy if you can. I don’t know what his deal is.”

You swiftly change the subject to movies and TV, which is good, because you two seem to share the same interests. Strangely enough, vampires are among them.

“I have sisters, so, I’ve seen Twilight about a hundred times? Maybe more?”

You laugh at that. You see him grinning and you check phone, seeing that two hours have passed.

“Shit. I have got to get back.”

“Right.”

“Thanks for the company. And the advice,” you add, nodding to the lighthouse.

“Um… would you want to grab a drink, tomorrow?”

“Oh. Yeah, sure. Um… where?”

“It’s called The Weasel. It’s definitely a townie bar, but… the drinks are cheap.”

You are fiending for an espresso martini, and you fear you’ll have to settle for an old reliable at a dive bar. 

“Alright.”

“Cool. Um… eight o’clock sound good?”

“Eight o’clock sounds great.”

“Awesome. See you there.”

“I will see you there.”

Your back hits a tree as you pant, unable to run anymore. Your lungs burn as you gasp for cold night air in a dark, damp forest. You’re barefoot, in a wet nightgown that sticks to your skin and you’re terrified. 

You tremble, feeling the looming presence of something evil and ancient, rising up in front of you. Met with words in a language you don’t understand, a clawed hand grips your jaw. They’re wet and sticky, hot with something you realise is blood. The creature laughs at you cruelly and on the other hand grabs a handful of your nightgown, claws ripping through the fabric as it tears a strip down the center. The hand cups between your legs. It splits your lips carefully– almost reverently– brushing a knuckle between your folds, claws away from your most sensitive skin. You gasp and shiver, hands against the tree. You’re wet, though. Soaking the creature’s hands as it coats your skin in blood. It’s so dark and your vision is blurry with tears, you only see two red spots staring at you, and the glint of pearly fangs as the jaw of the creature opens and lurches forward.

You shoot up and sigh, panting as you try to catch your breath. You’ve been plagued with these “psychosexual night terrors”, as your therapist calls them, since you finished writing SC. Some weeks they’re sparse and other ones you can’t sleep without waking up sticky and horrified. Your cortisol levels are through the roof and your sex drive is in the stratosphere. The running theory is that your frantic writing for the deadline of SC drove you just a little bit crazy, and your panic and arousal from writing about Milo’s sexy antics while your publishing house breathed down your neck combined and manifested as the scary void creature in your nightmares.

You take a cold shower that morphs into an everything shower when you remember your date with Chris. Not a date. Just grabbing a drink. Could be a date.

You feel like a kid again, having a cute summer fling with a boy at sleepaway camp with the distant bitter sweetness of knowing you’ll leave in three months. Except you are an adult woman and if you do fall in love, you could just move here forever. 

But that’s wishful thinking.

You wait at the bar patiently. You’re a punctual girl, your agent adores that about you, so you are a little early. You chat with the bartender. She’s an older woman with a thick Mainer accent. 

“Let me guess-”

“Not a horror writer,” you joke back. 

She laughs at that. Her laugh is creaky but comforting, and you can tell she’s a smoker.

“You look nervous.”

“I’m meeting somebody?”

“Yeah?”

“I won’t say who, because I’m guessing you know everyone.”

“Well, I also know who’s single and who isn’t. If you’re worried he’s married, just give me a name.”

The bar is quiet, some men play pool and a group of vacationing dads drink beers and watch some sports on an outdated television. 

You order another drink as you watch the clock behind the bar tick on.

By eight thirty, you’re sufficiently buzzed. You didn’t even get his phone number to text him.

By nine, you decide you should go home. You thank the bartender and leave her a generous tip. You’ll be too embarrassed to come in here for a while.

You take the bike home, slumping on the sofa in the living room as you kick off your heels. You feel tears pricking at your eyes and rub them away, not caring about your smudged eyeshadow or makeup. You wipe it off in the bathroom and change out of your clothes. You need another walk. Maybe you’ll run into the allegedly very creepy lighthouse man and you’ll get some inspiration. 

“I’ll show you Stephen King wannabe, dickhead,” you mutter to yourself, pulling on your coat and shoving your notebook in your pocket. 

You follow the familiar motions, down the path, out through the alcove, and down the beach. You have some angry music playing this time as you stomp down the beach and pass the lifeguard towers. Shrooms girl better thank her lucky stars she’s off night shift, because you look pissed off right now. You stalk all the way down to tower four and roll your eyes. This is a tantrum. You’re an adult.

“I thought I might see you again,” a voice calls. Remmick is on a ledge above you, leaning on the wooden railing. 

“Can I come up there?”

“I’m not gon’ tell you what to do, sweetheart.”

You try to ignore the fire that lights in you and climb the sand and rock stairs, joining him on the ledge. He sits on a bench and pats the seat next to him.

“I heard a lot about you today, from a couple locals,” you tell him, lying about it.

You get the feeling Chris was being insecure, or maybe Remmick’s stolen one too many girls from him. 

“Yeah, I’m a seal-eating nightwalker, you got me,” he jokes, his hands up in mock surrender.

You exhale through your nose. You wish you could laugh harder.

“I’m just a solitary kinda fella. People here, shit, they tight knit like fishin’ nets. They think everybody’s gotta know everybody’s business. Nobody knows mine, so they’ve been makin’ things up for the past three years.” 

“Sorry I brought it up.”

“Hey, I’d rather you hear it from me.”

He looks at you for a moment and rubs a hand over his knee.

“You look upset.”

“Yeah. I uh…”

You hesitate, and see him lean forward, actively listening.

“It’s stupid.”

He holds his hand out, gesturing for you to speak.

“I got stood up,” you admit.

“For a date?”

“Not exactly. Just drinks.”

He clicks his tongue.

“That’s no good. Must be a pretty dumb guy, to stand you up.”

“Yeah. That was a dickhead move. I’m just hoping it was more of a… ‘oh shit, I totally forgot’ kind of thing.”

He eyes you and you cross your legs.

“Still. You musta gotten all dolled up for it.”

“Yeah, I did.”

“Well, I uh… I’m not so much a bar kind of fella, but if you wanna come out here sometimes all dolled up…” he leans in, “I got some good whiskey and two glasses.”

You lean in too, close to him.

“I might take you up on that, Remmick.”

“I gotta get up there,” he murmurs, looking at your lips as he speaks.

“Right.”

He doesn’t move, locked in place for a moment. He seems to shake off the spell and sits back, scrubbing a hand down his face, wiping his mouth. It almost looks like he’s wiping away drool. He stands up.

“You uh, you alright to walk home on your own?”

Words flash in your mind, the scene from SC where Milo promises to stalk Annmarie home, which results in him watching through the window as she touches herself. You’re drunk, you realise, as the neurons in your brain flicker out and blood rushes down your body.

“Yeah, I should be fine.”

“Right.”

He starts to walk away and turns back.

“I mean it. You come up see me sometime.”

“I will.”

You mean that, too.

Remmick thumbs through your notebook. How can you even understand this stuff? Your messy handwriting is charming. He reads through descriptions of vampire lore and fangs and turning that make him chuckle. He thinks of the smell of you, that hot scent of desire and the buzzing of your intoxicated body as you sat together. He’s so fucking cold in Maine, and he hasn’t been touched in years. He imagines you’d be hot to the touch. He knows you’re frustrated, you’ve been dissatisfied with pleasuring yourself. The descriptions of sex scenes have him biting back groans and palming himself through his pants. 

He flips to the final page.

HOT LIFEGUARD

His eyes narrow as he realises who it was that stood you up. He turns the page back over, scanning through your previous writing. 

LIGHTHOUSE VAMPIRE LOVER. CLAIMS TO KILL FOR HER. STALKERY? MILO PART II. LESS TENDER. MORE EVIL.

Oh, you’re fucking crazy. 

He grins, his fangs sliding down.

He can make do with crazy.

You wake up early, painful early. You dress groggily and decide to get some air on the beach before the dickhead lifeguard starts his shift. You’re slightly hungover as you traverse down the path and through the alcove to walk on the beach. 

The light is pale and you have to watch your step for kelp as you walk down. You see something up on the sand, and your heart sinks.

It has to be a seal. It’s not breathing, so you look at the nearest lifeguard tower for the animal control. You dial the number and wait patiently.

“Hello?” a voice that sounds just as groggy as you feel answers.

“Hi, I’m um, I’m on the beach right now and I think there’s a dead seal by the first lifeguard tower.”

“Oh, hell. Sorry, miss. It’s too damn early. Do you see any marks on it?”

“It’s hard to see with the fog. Is it safe to get closer?”

“Seals aren’t half as aggressive as sea lions, miss, so go ahead.”

You step closer, squinting with the fog. It’s absolutely dead, not moving at all. You approach it cautiously, worried about what other creatures might be lurking around.

Your heart drops to the pit of your stomach.

This is not a seal.

This is Chris the lifeguard, and he’s missing an arm.

[delicioushottubpeanut]

raw. next question!

[delicioushottubpeanut]

Give Yourself Peace

John Wick x Fem!Reader

tags: NSFW, MDNI, John Wick 2 storyline, slightly inaccurate John Wick, strangers to lovers, awkward first meet, knight in shining muscle car type, slooooooooow burn [then we fast af], reader is a vet tech type, descent into darkness/Underworld, adventures in dog sitting, age gap, references to Hades/Persephone mythology, flirting over text [or in John's case, just conversing], clothes on sex, cowgirl position, panties to the side, sliiiight voyeurism [if you squint], not a condom in sight-just the vibes, fingering, multiple org*sms, feelings of grief, shower sex, slightly toxic John Wick [he doesn't mean to, he's grieving], pillow talk, use of g*ns, hostage negotiation, talk of animal de*th and instruments involved, Charon/Winston/Santino/Dog involvement, possible relationship talk, attraction to "bad" men, making out in a car, quickie sex

synopsis: You meet a man named John Wick when he's dropping off his dog "Gunner" for a check up. From there, it's a slippery slope into a new world.

wc: 19. 7 k 😮‍💨

a/n: okayyy, yes, i did write this before finishing that one River Ward fic but this idea took me by storm in the dead of night. No I was not listening to my River Ward playlist when I thought of this, jeez what's with the third degree? my computer is actually trying to die on itself as i type this rn

You raised a brow at the man entering the clinic, wearing a red-stained dress shirt and tattered suit jacket.

"Hi," he began, walking up to the front counter as you straightened up before him.

"Hi," you repeated, meeting his dark eyes and internally wincing at the cuts on his face.

He was stoic, un-moving as he braced a hand on the counter. But his lips curled slightly in a smile. His hand slid, his forearm bracing the counter as he relaxed.

"Hi," he said again, this time his deep voice echoing through you. You couldn't help but return his polite smile, edging up on your toes to finally look down at his pet.

"Who do we have here?" You asked down at the beautiful dark gray pittie. The dog sat, tilting his head at you and you melted an inch staring into his cute light brown eyes.

"This is..." the man looked down at his dog and tilted his head with a loss of words. You raised a brow at him, waiting as he turned to look at you again with a slightly defeated look. "Gunner."

You huffed an amused air from your nose. "Cute, he looks like a Gunner."

The man nodded as you rounded the counter and took a careful knee before the pittie. "Is he friendly?"

"Absolutely." He barely managed to answer as the dog turned in the direction of you and started nuzzling into you.

His paws pattered the floor, stepping further into you and begging to be pet. You obliged, cooing at the attention-seeking pup, patting at his round body and scratching behind his ears.

You smooched at him, showering praise at this stranger's dog for a minute then looked up at the stranger himself. He was propped up on the counter, watching you love on his pet, with what you recognized as blood on his dress shirt.

"And is Gunner's owner friendly?" You cooed at Gunner, holding the dog's face in your hands to smush his cheeks.

The stranger scoffed, his lips curling in a wry grin before answering: "Gunner thinks so."

Your stomach fluttered at the stranger speaking, though you weren't sure if it was an instance of fight or flight. Meeting the stranger's dark eyes again, you quirked your mouth to the side.

"Does Gunner's owner have a name?" You asked, your bottom lip slipping between your teeth at the last moment.

"He does," the stranger answered as you slowly stood up from your place. His hand extended out for you to take, and you noticed his knuckles tattered with blood and swelling. "John."

You ignored whatever warning pang was rushing through your body as he introduced himself. Your hand reached out to grab his, minding your grip to not bring him pain. When you uttered your name, his smile only grew, finding himself pushing upright to tower over you.

"Nice to meet you." John said, his voice straining a bit.

"Same to you," you said, giving his hand a polite shake before dropping it and returning to your paperwork. "What're you bringing Gunner in for today?"

You stood outside of the clinic, circling through your ring of keys to find the one for your door. It never failed, with how many keys you had, it was always the last one you expected.

You bounced on one foot to keep yourself alert, filing through your keys in the unexpectedly cool night. You were already running late to meet up with friends and now you were battling your stomach rumbling.

As you were nearing the end of your key leash, you heard a few whistles from behind you. A cold ice jutted down your back, making your insides become rigid with the thought of being watched.

Still, you ignored it as best at you could, pretending to not hear whatever calls were over your shoulder. Your bouncing foot quickened, hoping you had found your out before whatever approached you.

With the final key try, you managed to lock the door and turn in the direction of your car only to be stopped by two tall men stood before you.

You excused yourself, backing away from them only to turn around to find two more men behind you. Staring at the men surrounding you, you glanced sideways into the street and stepped out.

"Where you goin' sweetheart?" One of the men called after you.

You held the strap of your bag tighter on your shoulder, your senses heightened as you heard the combined steps of the men crossing into the street.

You picked up your pace, scanning down both ways of the road with minimal cars around, only for their steps to heighten just the same. The rigid gulp that lodged in your throat was now cementing, your heart racing as you found yourself running across the street and onto the opposite sidewalk.

Your vision tunneled as you focused on getting away, unsure of what would happen if the strange men caught up to you. Turning down the perpendicular street, you barely glanced behind you as a car pulled up next to you.

The door swung open, over half of the curb, and you were almost stopped by it but managed around it. Looking at the car, you cautiously peered from a distance to see a slightly more familiar face than the strangers following you.

"Come on, I'll drive you to your car," John offered, his mannerisms unbothered and cool.

You looked behind you at the group of men now turning the corner after you. With another glance into the car, you saw Gunner and opted to take a chance with the slightly better devil you knew.

Climbing in, you shut the door quickly and looked over your shoulder at the goons left in the wake. You turned around to John, ready to share your gratitude but opted to catch your breath first.

You wheezed, holding the dash of the dark muscle car, and held your free hand to your chest. The instant adrenaline rush through your body was now wracking your heart, making your eyes water though you were unscathed.

"Are you alright?" John asked, one hand draped on the steering wheel and his other carefully cradling the gear shift.

You overly nodded, blinking away the mist of tears while your mind started to race with the horrific possibilities of what could've happened.

"T-thank you," you choked out, bringing your eyes away from John's dash to look at him. "I-I..."

John glanced over at you but said nothing else, only nodded in acknowledgement before changing the subject. "Your car's nearby?"

You nodded again, finally peeling yourself to sit back in the leather seat. You admired it for a moment, luxuriated by the curve and plush, but were interrupted by Gunner's wet nose to your ear.

You giggled, shrugging a shoulder up to get the dog to stop then reaching a hand back to pat his head. "Sweet boy."

John smirked dryly at your comment, slowing down to scan the two parking lots on either side of the street. "Here?"

You nodded, pointing to the right side of the street to your little rinky-dink car. "That's me."

You expected John to laugh at it, seeing as his car could literally drive circles around yours. But he didn't, only pulled into the lot and braked in front of it.

"Volvo's are a classic," he commented, gearing his car to remain stationary. He shifted slightly in his seat to face you.

You turned to do the same, noticing that he'd probably gone home to clean up and change; seeing as he was in a cleaner shirt, the blood on his knuckles nonexistent.

"Have a good night, okay?" He offered, meeting your eyes.

The adrenaline in your body pooled in that moment, making you feel jittery though you were pin still. You nodded again, wondering if you were nodding too much.

"Thanks. And thanks again for the ride, I appreciate it," you said quickly, unsure why your nerves were acting up now.

"Yeah," John drew out, looking at the back of his car, past Gunner and through the back windshield. "You gonna be okay?"

You nodded again, noting that you'd have to force something out. "Y-yeah, of course. I just don't know what their deal was. I'll be fine."

John's eyes skirted back to you, taking in your shaken demeanor with a once-over. "If you want, I could give you my number. In case it happens again."

He didn't want to mention how fast he'd be to escort you, but he was aware of his speed.

You held your hands in your lap, glanced down at them then back. "S-sure, it wouldn't hurt."

John watched as you carefully retrieved your phone and nervously unlocked it; turning the bright screen to him, he cradled the device and tenderly put his phone number in then turned it back to you.

You looked at him from your screen then back and saved it to contacts. "Thanks."

John said nothing else, only nodded; you gathered yourself, pulling your keys from your bag and opening the door to get out.

"Bye Gunner," you offered to the dog, reaching to pat his head. "Good night, John."

You climbed out of the car, tenderly shutting the door after yourself as John offered a polite wave through the front windshield. He geared his muscle car in reverse, throwing his arm behind the passenger seat to look behind and turn back onto the road.

You stood in the silence, watching as John drove off with your adrenaline in tow. Your heart pattered with a new sense, unsure of what to call it, but you stashed it away to rush to your car.

You found yourself lying awake, staring at the ceiling, in the middle of the night. Deliciously buzzed by two cocktails, you replayed the moments of the days events.

Hot stoic man walks in, hot stoic man has a dog, hot stoic man saves you from not-so-good guys, hot stoic man makes you feel safe.

You blinked slowly, your phone clutched in your hand while you tried to fall asleep. In a shock of embarrassment and a little confidence, you launched yourself upright and swiped your phone open.

Navigating through your phone, you managed to pause at the draft stage of sending John a text.

-Thanks so much againn for saving me tonight

You stared at your message for a moment, wondering if you should add more but decided against it at the last moment. You watched as the bubble popped up at the beginning of the thread, with the small status of the message as 'delivered'.

You sat still for a moment, your eyes threatening to close but in a long blink, your message went from 'delivered' to 'read'.

You froze, a new warmth starting from the inside of your chest, as your phone flopped onto the bed before you. You barely had the second to think of sending a 'i'm so sorry' text at realizing how late it was.

John: Is that what that was? I thought it was a friendly ride

He hadn't been able to sleep, finding himself at the Continental bar with 'Gunner' at his feet. John fingered around the rim of his glass, expecting the whiskey to dull his nerves but found himself brought back by your text.

You grinned dumbly at his response, snickering to yourself before gearing up your response.

-You're right. Thank you for the friendly ride to my car

You stared long at this response, wondering if did any good for the conversation. If this was even a conversation. You sent it anyways, but added further.

-I'm just thankful you were there when you were

John stared at his phone, glass cradled against his bottom lip as he stared at the messages that came in. His heart cinched for a moment, wondering if he was taking it too far. But it was a simple text exchange, nothing more.

John: I am too. Good night.

He paused in his message, feeling it to be too curt. You were just sharing your gratitude, nothing more. John understood, having felt the similar way of feeling cornered.

"Having a nightcap, are we?" Winston asked, sidling up behind John's seat.

"Winston," John stated.

"Jonathan," Winston offered back, pulling a chair open and sitting down. "I'd have expected you to be in bed already. Preparing for your long trip."

John glanced down at his phone, the open conversation between the two of you left on his end. "Yeah, but what can I say? Nerves got to me."

Winston quirked a brow in John's direction, tilting his head slightly at the sight of his phone upright. "There's no such thing as nerves with you."

John took a sip of his whiskey, letting it be his pause before he smacked his lips in appreciation.

"What is it?" Winston asked, undoing his suit jacket button.

John set his glass down on the bar and circled it under his fingers. "There's a girl."

"A girl?" Winston repeated, raising his eyebrows in slight surprise. "I fear I've heard that before."

John folded his lips together as he nodded, knowing that he'd said it a long time ago. "Yeah."

Winston took John's response with a purse of his lips, a tilt of his head. "So there's a girl."

"A woman," John corrected, turning his head in Winston's direction but not meeting his friend's eyes. "And I want to keep her safe."

"Then it's best not to interfere," Winston offered without a beat missed.

John found himself agreeing, but still opened his mouth. "I can't do that."

Winston's eyes steadied on John's stoic face, watching as his dark eyes finally rose to meet his. The older gentleman opened his mouth in a soft 'ah' then sucked his teeth in consolation.

"What're we going to do, then?" Winston asked, straightening up to the bar and raising his hand in a silent order to the bartender.

John picked up his glass again, sloshed the diminishing liquid around then pursed out a hard air. "I have an idea."

You managed to stretch yourself out at the foot end of your bed, holding your bright phone before your face while you tried to hold off of sleep.

There was no reason for John to respond back to you, especially with the time. You imagined that you had woken up this poor, tired man with diathesis just hours after getting home.

And you groaned in your sleep, feeling awful. With your next minute spurt of energy, you'd apologize to him for waking him up so late.

However, the buzz of your phone steeled you awake. You blinked at the bright screen before your face, eyes focusing on the message you received.

John: I am too. I know this is sudden, but would you like to get breakfast?

In the misty morning, you stood on the curb in front of your apartment building under your umbrella. You were patiently waiting for John to show up to take you to breakfast, hoping that it was the Greek diner just a few blocks from your job.

After a few moments, you expected a text from him saying you two would have to reschedule. It was only a matter a time, something you assumed was in the New York air. Plans were never fulfilled, always to be rescheduled.

Your inner plight was paused by the black, unmarked car that pulled up before you. Your reflection in the tinted windows was perplexed, taking a few steps back to assess your escape.

The driver side door opened and a well-dressed man wearing rimless glasses stood out and buttoned his jacket. You waited a moment, taking in the man's movements as he reached for the back door of the car.

"Miss, I've been sent by Mr. John Wick." The man announced, holding the back door open for you to get in.

You stared at the man for another moment in silence, pondering if you ever learned John's last name. You questioned if this man was trustworthy, even though he gave no reason to not be.

"Okay..." you drew out, looking both ways down the empty sidewalk before stepping cautiously towards the car. You folded your umbrella, setting it on the car floor.

You reluctantly climbed in, your nerves raising on their ends as you sat down and buckled your seatbelt behind the driver seat.

The driver smiled politely at you, shutting the door firmly before unbuttoning his suit jacket and climbing into the driver seat again.

He adjusted his mirror, buckled his seatbelt then geared the car into drive and turned on his veering signal. You held your hands in your lap, letting your bag slide to the empty space next to you.

"How do you know John?" You asked, attempted to fill the silence and calm your nerves.

The driver glanced back in his mirror after veering back onto the street, meeting your eyes with his polite smile reaching his gaze.

"Mr. Wick is a regular guest at my hotel." He offered, which didn't ease you very much.

You grinned cheaply at the driver, then let it drop. "Oh, of course."

You assumed, by John's paperwork for Gunner, that he lived nearby. You turned to look out of the tinted window, trying to map the area you were driving into.

The driver continued, "I am the concierge of the Continental. Mr. Wick has done a lot of work for my hotel."

Your raised your brows at that, glancing in the direction of the rearview mirror to meet the driver's eyes.

"My name is Charon," he finally introduced himself, hitting his turn signal down a caddy-corner street before stopping at the corner before sleek, marble stairs up to ornate glass doors. "Mr. Wick will see you inside."

You flinched as your door opened with a bellhop standing quietly on the sidewalk. Charon nodded after you, with you unbuckling your seatbelt and grabbing your bag and umbrella.

You stood under the bright awning of the hotel as the bellhop shut the door, leaving Charon to drive around the curb to park the car. You held your umbrella under your arm awkwardly, righting the strap of your bag as you took in the darkening sky of the morning.

"Miss," the bellhop instructed, holding his crisp gloved hand in the direction of the dry stairs.

You politely smiled, then walked up to the front door only to be greeted by yet another bellhop. Maybe you should've stopped when you got out of the car, feeling that each step you took brought the warning pangs back.

It felt like a distracted descent, the quiet luxury and decadence of the hotel drawing you in though it felt hostile just the same. The bellhop at the door guided you in the direction of the seating area, where patrons were gathered at white tablecloth tables in front of floor-to-ceiling windows to enjoy their breakfast.

Your heart continued to race as you walked through the lobby and into the seating area, feeling particularly under dressed compared to everyone else around you.

John sat at the table, with Gunner sat next to him, sipping at his black coffee. His eyes were trained at the doorway, glancing at his watch to track how much time he had left to spend in your presence.

Your eyes scanned the room before finally stopping at John. He was dressed in a cleaner suit, his hair combed away from his face and drinking coffee.

He paused in his drink, almost rushing to stand as he rounded the table to pull out your seat. You rested your umbrella on the arm of your chair then sat down, looking up at him with a smirk.

"What'd I do to deserve this?" You asked, allowing John to aid your seat under the table.

"N-nothing," John said, reaching to smooth down his hair as he sat down. "Just wanted to talk."

Your smirk turned into a smile, sitting up straight as if trying to perform for the hotel itself. John breathed in deeply, taking in your demeanor before calling the waiter over.

"Would you like some coffee?" John asked.

You nodded, holding your hands in your lap only for them to be occupied by Gunner's fat snout. You grinned down at the pup, scratching behind his ears as the waiter approached with a pristine cup, pouring into it with a shining french press.

"You know, when I was imagining what you did, I never imagined it was tied to this," you commented as the waiter set your cup down before you, then offered a fresh cream pitcher to the table.

John quirked a brow in your direction, taking another sip to punctuate his next words carefully. "You were imagining what I do?"

You gulped and paused, realizing that you had said your inside thought out loud. "I mean, I do for a lot of people. Mostly just walking by," you sheepishly offered in reason.

Staring across the table at this stoic man, you were reminded of staying up even later after you finally told him good night, picturing his face as your hand rested on your chest.

John gave away nothing, his eyes still while he mapped the soft expression on your face. He bit inside his lip noting the minute flush of your cheeks, how you shifted in your chair.

He scoffed in amusement, letting your excuse slide. "What did you think I did?"

You shrugged, reaching for the cream and pouring it into your coffee cup. You sprinkled in sugar from the decor bowl in the center, then used your own spoon to stir it together.

"Your paperwork said 'retired'," you began, another internal strike with bringing up your interested reading of his and Gunner's papers. "I thought you were maybe ex-military."

John's smirk lifted. "Something like that."

He leaned back in his chair, not wanting to puff his chest in pride. He had to remind himself that this was temporary again, the mantra in his head repeating over and over.

"Have you always wanted to work with animals?" John asked, deflecting the conversation from digging any deeper.

You remembered Gunner's head in your hands, looking down at your lap to playfully mush his face. "Kind of. I love seeing all of their sweet faces. I'd hate to see them in pain though, so it's the best and worst at once."

John couldn't help his trained stare on you, as you bowed your head to pet and praise at Gunner. He knew he was taking things in an odd direction, but he thought that it'd keep both of you safe at once.

"So, that's part of the reason I asked you here." John added, sitting upright as his hand braced the table. "I'm going out of town for work, about three days, and was wondering if you could watch Gunner for me."

You raised your head, immediately meeting John's eyes. "You want to leave him with me?" You metered your question, though you were excited for the opportunity to watch such a sweet dog.

That, and maybe you wanted to do the hot stoic man a favor. Whatever that was, your heart fluttered at the thought of doing what John asked. Even though you didn't know anything about him, even though he came in looking dangerous and was now portraying a clean slate.

It felt that he was the bright sliver in the imposing building, even though it was all cast in the rainy shadows. You were confused, your head almost done in by your survival bells ringing though you were still approaching the 'yes'.

John nodded. "Yeah, but here."

You leaned forward, unsure if you heard him correctly. While you hadn't thought of what your landlord would say about bringing pets back to your place.

John spared a chuckle at you, genuinely amused by your response. With a shrug of his shoulder, he leaned back again.

"I received a comp for my room, so I'd like for you and him to stay."

You stammered, freezing to think of what to say before shaking your head. Your eyes darted around the large darkly painted walls, ornate paintings and decorations nothing to what you were accustomed to.

"John, I mean..." you weren't sure what to say, knowing this wasn't an invitation to stay with him. "That's very generous."

His face softened, dropping his hand from the table to tilt his head at you. "Please. You'd be doing me a big favor."

Your mouth opened to argue him further, but John's expression was un-moving. He was still stoic, no indication that his offer had strings attached. Even with the atmosphere of the place itself, you found yourself caving.

"It's just a few days, right?" You reassured him, and yourself, by asking.

John's face broke, finding himself smiling again. His cheeks were beginning to ache, realizing that it'd been a while since he smiled so long.

"Yeah, of course. And they have in-house breakfast and dinner, a transit service that you can use to get to work." John noted, hoping that you'd take advantage of it all just to keep you safe.

"I can use it to go to work too?" You repeated, looking down at Gunner than back at his owner. "Can I take him to work with me?'

John's nose scrunched. "If you want, but I'm sure Charon would be able to check in on him when you're gone."

You nodded, looking down at Gunner again before reaching to sanitize your hands. "I think I can do that."

"Good," John said, pulling the menu up slightly to glaze over the menu. His eyes glanced to his wristwatch, knowing that he was losing time to make it to his flight.

Still, he made no quick effort to speed up his breakfast with you. You looked at the menu on the table, your mouth watering at the options available. Of course they were were gourmet, nothing short of the place itself.

You looked up from the edge of the menu, taking in more of this stranger's presence before speaking up. "What was the other reason?"

John froze for a moment, unfortunately caught off-guard by your question. His eyes still scanned the menu, trying to keep his expression at a minimum though his mind was now doubling back on his words.

He wryly smirked as he finally drew his eyes up to meet yours. "Just wanted to check in from last night."

John stood awkwardly before the front door of the Continental, wondering what the polite way to depart from you was. You stood before him, having to tilt your head slightly to meet his eyes. He was taller than you remembered, though you were taking him in while on your knees petting his dog.

"I have to go," John offered, reaching his hand out to brace your shoulder. "I'll let you know when I land."

You smiled, nodded. "Okay, and we'll be here. I hope you have safe travels."

John squeezed tenderly at your shoulder, feeling how fragile you were under the weight of his hand. He felt a soft weight off of his mind, knowing that the Continental was a steel trap for any unwanted guests.

His smile softened, dropping his hand to pet Gunner's head. "Good dog. Behave."

And at that, you watched John leave, raising your hand to wave after him before turning to Gunner.

"Your daddy's gone," you pouted, reaching to pat his thick back. "I guess we should get you upstairs."

"Allow me to escort you," Charon chimed in, silently approaching you from behind.

You flinched, sucking in a harsh air between your teeth. Charon offered an apologetic look to you, his hands clasped behind his back.

"My apologies, Miss. Allow me to escort you and Mr. Gunner upstairs," he offered again, waiting for you to regain yourself.

You adjusted your bag on your shoulder, shifting your umbrella under your arm then waved for Charon to lead. He carefully reached his hand out to take your umbrella, holding it as he led you to the elevator then handed it off to one of the bellhops.

"That is the Miss's. Please do not get them confused." Charon stated, calling the elevator button then holding his hand out for you and Gunner to board first.

Inside, Charon hit the 8th floor button, the antique number lever slowly raising from its resting place as the elevator lifted.

"So, you know John well?" You asked, unable to help yourself.

Charon lifted his chin, looking over his shoulder to you. He offered his tight smile, the same politeness as before. "I'd say so."

You nodded, mentally chewing on his short answer before thinking of another question. "How long has he worked for the hotel?"

Charon's lips changed into a smirk, noting your inquisitive nature. "Approximately 20 years."

Your eyebrows raised then, realizing that John had been working around the time you got your first pet. You folded your lips together, feeling your heart flutter while trying to decipher what that meant.

"Oh, so how long have you worked for the hotel?"

Your curiosity was beginning to get the better of you, each bit you were fed only bringing up more. The further you got from the ground level, the lighter you felt away from the depths.

Whatever darkness was harnessed in the lobby, the foreboding rattling snake vibe it gave, did not reach the upper levels. The elevator opened to the ornate, older decorated walls of the hotel.

The floors were carpeted in a sleek line design, the wallpaper an almost unnoticeable fleur design.

"Long enough," Charon said, chuckling at his own joke.

You spat out an amused air, following the concierge to the room. He stopped at the room at the end of the hallway, fishing into his suit jacket to retrieve the key.

Charon turned the lock, propping open the door for you to enter. You paused just inside the room, taken over by the view of the city from wide windows at the crest of the room.

The ornate decor was not scrimped in the room, seeing through the carved accent wall before walking around it. Gunner traipsed through the room, jumping onto the crisp white sheets of the large bed and sighing like he'd had a rough day.

You looked to Charon, who nodded into the room for you to take it in. You took your time walking through the hotel room, taken aback at the quality. Sure, you'd been in nice hotels before, having stayed in some with accrued loyalty points.

But this felt like a new feeling. It was strange, feeling swayed by the elegance of this hotel being used for you, to watch a pup that didn't seem swayed either way.

Pausing at the wet bar, you wanted to pull out your phone to take a picture just to show your appreciation for John's minimal effort. But looking back at Charon, he straightened his lips and exited the room.

When he left, you rushed to the window to look out at the city. Even with loyalty points, it never bought anything like this. You couldn't help yourself, pulling out your phone to take an overhead view of the city before setting your bag down on the accent table behind you.

You rushed around the room, looking at the other cool parts of the triangle-shaped room. Gunner was unfazed on the bed, resting his head down with a groan.

You had to stop yourself in the bathroom, gasping at the oversized mirror with the bright light inlaid inside the reflective surface. Watching such a good boy was not worth this treatment.

Still, you took a picture of yourself in the mirror, scrunching your nose and sent both to John at once.

-Are you sure about this?? Is there something you're leaving out?

John boarded his charter, retrieving his phone as it vibrated in his pocket. The smile on his lips was subconscious, seeing that you'd messaged him.

Opening his phone, he chuckled at the two photos you sent him. He read your message, finding himself lightened at the scrunch of your face in the mirror.

He paused before his seat, finding himself regretting boarding for the nth time since he left the hotel. John thought of what he would do if he went back, if you'd stay around and keep him company on the sacred grounds of the Continental.

John turned and sat, crossing his ankle over his thigh as he typed a response to you.

John: Oh, I did forget. He's a bed hog. And he likes to steal bacon off your plate. So watch out.

You sat on the bed, staring at the text thread between you and the stoic stranger. You smiled at his response, ready to send another text as soon as you retrieved it.

John: I made it to the plane. I'll let you know when I land. I can't thank you enough for this.

You nipped at your inside lip, wanting to thank him back for the outrageous accommodations. Wanting to thank him for breakfast. Wanting to thank him for his company.

-Okay, safe travels. I'd love to see where you're going.

John's smile remained, staring at your response as the ladder was pulled up and the engines turned on. He exited out your text thread, searching through his contacts to find another number.

"Jonathan," Winston answered on the third ring. He sat in the smoking lounge, with Charon approaching to report. "We have Persephone in the Underworld Palace."

John's jaw grit, attempting to skew the view of you having your own free will. You had the freedom to leave, he had to remind himself, though he wanted you to remain on the neutral ground.

"She showed me," John offered in response, feeling the palpable silence on the opposite end.

Winston and Charon shared a knowing look, with Charon raising his chin and checking his watch.

"Are you sure about this?" Winston asked.

John looked out of the small window to his right, sitting back in his seat as he thought of how long it'd take for him to return to the Continental grounds.

"It'll give me time to think of my next step," John said, reaching to buckle his seatbelt with one hand.

Winston sucked at his teeth, tilting his head in deep thought. "You're dangling her over the pond, Jonathan. Are you sure this is the safest thing you could think of?"

John pursed his lips, shutting his eyes for a deep breath. "I'll be done as soon as I can. I can figure it out from there."

Winston raised his brows in Charon's direction, who shook his head in response. "Safe travels."

Upon ending the call, Winston exhaled deeply and directed to Charon. "Make sure our young Miss and her companion are cared for. Don't allow her exit without escort."

Charon barely widened his eyes, pulling his hands behind his back, ready to execute his orders but Winston raised a finger. "And invite her to dinner on the roof. The four of us. For Jonathan's sake."

Charon nodded. "Of course, sir."

You stood in front of your closet, having been escorted back to your apartment by Charon and Gunner.

The concierge extended an invitation to you and Gunner to join the owner of the Continental for dinner. Apparently he was a close friend of John's and wanted to meet you, as it wasn't often John extended invitations to "outsiders".

You would definitely ask about that as you cycled through your clothes, wondering what dining with the manager fell under for dress code. Everything else was just thrown haphazardly to you weekender bag on your bed: clothes for work, some leggings for taking Gunner on walks, anything for comfort because you felt that you would step outside of the hotel room for anything other than work.

When your bag was packed with your toiletries tossed on top, you turned back to your closet to contemplate your dress code.

For a high-class hotel, you opted for a white long-sleeve dress with a built in silk bodice. It'd suffice, you shrugged, because it was your best dress in your closet. You paired it with your most comfortable flats and stuffed it all on top of your bag.

You grabbed your phone charger from the wall then rushed out of the door, making sure everything was off in your apartment. You carefully took the stairs down to the front door, throwing it open to Charon carefully waiting outside of the car for your return.

Gunner poked his happy face out of the driver's side window, staring at other onlookers in silence. You shut the door firmly behind you, grabbing your key to lock it after you.

Charon straightened on his feet, opening the back door of the car while his other hand extended to grab your bag.

"You don't have to--" you tried to argue on holding onto your bag in the backseat, but Charon was firm in taking the straps of your bag.

In a fluid motion, he shut the door after you righted in the backseat then went around the back of the car to open the trunk. You glanced after him, seeing that he didn't linger behind and closed the trunk then returned to the driver's door.

Gunner moved over to the passenger seat, that window open as well, as Charon geared the car into driver and veered back onto the street.

"What's your manager like?" You asked.

Charon glanced in the rearview, his polite grin ever present in his eyes.

"Mr. Scott is an old-fashioned type. Cordial, gentlemanly, with a taste of finer things."

You pursed your lips, looking out of the front windshield, then Gunner. When you looked back at Charon, he was once again fixated at the mirror, expectant of your next question.

"Should I...shape up?" You asked, aware of every movement you were making at that point.

Charon chuckled again, which you were unsure if genuine or sardonic towards you. "I believe you will be fine, miss. I think that Mr. Scott will enjoy your company and questions."

Your lips flattened in a slightly embarrassed smile then turned back to the window. "I'll start thinking of more now."

John paused by the bar of the Rome Continental, steadying his nerves before his mission. He had to remind himself that it would be this would be the last.

Even with the taste of being back, John's mind flashed with the thought of you. He choked on his sip of whiskey, clearing his throat while he stared at the crystal in his hand. Helen.

His mind flashed with the thought of Helen. John blinked, remembering his ring and circling it on his finger. When he felt his chest begin to heave with a new wash of grief, he stifled it with a long pull of his whiskey.

Just as his phone buzzed on the bar. John set the crystal back down, staring at the notification of your message and remembering that he meant to inform you of his landing.

Opening his phone, John was greeted with a photo of you sat on the bed with Gunner sat beside you. You were dressed in a short white dress, the bodice reflecting soft light as you leaned over his dog and hugged his head against your chest.

-We're having dinner with Mr. Scott, hope you made it wherever safely.

John felt struck in his place, staring at the photo in the growing thread of your messages. His heart skipping a beat before he finally picked up his phone to respond.

John: I made it safely. Never knew Mr. Scott extended dinner invitations, you must be lucky.

He looked through his entirely empty photo gallery to share the photo of the Colosseum from his plane window. John sent the message, let his phone clatter to the bar again as he sat back in his chair.

The rushing thought of you instead of Helen made him go askew, knowing that it was wrong to do. He grit his teeth, shut his eyes to remember his late wife's smile and not yours.

This was not what he wanted to happen, hoping to keep you at an arms length but still close enough to be safe.

You stared at your phone as Gunner jumped down from the bed, reading and rereading John's message before staring at the crowded overview of Italy from his plane window.

You zoomed in on the photo, staring at the Colosseum as the flattest fixture amongst all the little buildings, all of it resembling a miniature map.

John pushed himself up from his chair, pocketing his phone as he left the room with determination. He wouldn't be distracted by any feelings, regardless of who they were for, tonight.

Charon knocked gingerly at the door, alerting Gunner to the noise. You slowly stood, straightening out your dress and stashing your phone in its pocket then met the concierge in the hallway.

"This way, miss," Charon stated, starting in the direction of the elevator as before.

Inside the elevator car, Charon turned over his shoulder to look at you. "That is an elegant dress. You look very nice."

You smiled, practically beamed and offered your thanks; you pulled your textured hair behind your shoulder then looked down to Gunner.

The elevator lurched to a slow stop at the top of the hotel. The doors slowly opened to a long hallway, decorated the same as the others, with double glass doors that led out to a concrete patio.

Charon held the door open for you and Gunner, allowing the two of you to step onto the hotel roof patio. The view of the city was surrounding half of the balcony, with a larger building blocking directly beside it.

Your eyes fixated on the black glass patio table, decorated with an ornate black runner and four chairs. At the head of the table, you acknowledged the older gentleman as he stood up.

He approached you carefully, allowing you to take in that he exuded opulence and class, noticing the gilded pocket square in his dark suit jacket.

"Bonsoir chérie," the gentleman offered, gently taking your hand and bringing it up to his lips in a ghostly peck. "My name is Winston Scott, it is nice to meet you."

You smiled politely at him, tilting your head at Mr. Scott. "Nice to meet you too, Mr. Scott."

Winston carefully dropped your hand, his face playfully scrunching in offense. "Nonsense, call me Winston."

Your smile twitched further genuine, forfeiting your nicety to agree. "Okay. It's nice to meet you, Winston."

Winston winked at you, then guided you to your seat at the other end of the table. "You look radiant in that dress. I can see how you caught John's eye."

You giggled nervously, watching the older man pull your chair back. Turning your back to him, you tucked your dress to the back of your legs then sat down as Winston aided your chair to the table.

Winston returned to his seat at the opposite end of the table just as Charon pulled a chair for Gunner to sit to your left then rounded to sit to your right.

You looked at the good boy sat at the table, waiting patiently with his mouth open. You couldn't help but snort at the image, thinking that you should've found him a bowtie so he could've fit in for the dress code.

As Winston sat down, he waved a hand to direct the waiter over to the table. A tall martini glass filled close to the brim with an orchid colored liquid. The liquid held a light shimmer as you shifted the glass closer to grab; your eyes narrowed, looking at the beaded garnish at the bottom in a clump of red seeds.

Just as Winston and Charon received their drinks, the hotel manager raised his glass. "Salud."

You took careful hold of the thin-stimmed glass and raised it from the table, repeating Winston's cheers before bringing the drink to your lips. It was bubbly and light, sweet and tart at once.

From the bottom of the glass, you watched the garnish break apart and you opened your lips to ingest a seed with a gulp. When you were satisfied with your sip, you rested the glass back on the table then savored the taste as the seed slipped down your throat.

"Good cocktail?" Winston asked, smacking his teeth to savor his martini.

You nodded, shifting the glass to your left. "Is that cherry? Almost a shirley temple?'

Winston chuckled, shrugging a shoulder up before setting his glass down. "Close. It's pomegranate."

You hummed, letting the palette of the drink reignite on your tongue with that new knowledge. Charon looked over to Winston, sparing a slightly amused shake of his head.

Winston shrugged fully then, entertained by his own theme. "What is it you do, my dear?"

You straightened in your seat, looking over to Gunner enjoying his lap bowl of water then at Winston. "I work for a vet clinic, very small. That's actually how I met John."

Saying it aloud and remembering the timeline, your mind rushed with how fast things moved. You blinked slowly, your heart stumbling in your chest at remembering John a day ago compared to now.

Winston raised his brows: "Oh?"

You nodded and continued. "He brought in Mr. Gunner here for a check-up."

You reached to pat Gunner's head and he panted happily in your direction. Another soft wave of shock went through you, remembering what he looked like when he came into your clinic.

He should've been off-putting, and yet...

Winston tilted his chin, pursing his lips in intrigue. "Gunner, huh?"

You almost ignored Winston's comment, meeting his interested gaze from across the table.

"And he drove me to my car that night," you added finally, remembering with the sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach.

You had a nightmare about those men last night, one only fought off by your stoic man in a muscle car. Tightening your jaw, you reached for your drink and wet your lips again.

"Hmm," Winston offered after a moment, turning to Charon for any input.

The concierge was quiet, his own lips pursed in slight interest. Winston smirked waywardly, straightening up to brace his elbows against the table.

He carded his fingers before his mouth, staring across the table at you and wondering what it was that made John choose you.

"Jonathan always has had a soft spot," Winston said after another beat of silence.

You couldn't help your grin again, hearing John's full name. You imagined him as a younger Jonathan, introducing himself as such and Winston never letting it go.

"How long have you known John?" You asked, replacing your glass back to the table.

You realized you were dependent on your drink, noting the glass close to finished. All the garnish was sneakily slipped down with the liquid, leaving the sparkling drink to reflect the encroaching moonlight.

The patio overlights turned on, banishing the darkness and shadows from the area. Your nerves, charged since entering this place, were now directed to performing for John's cohorts.

Not that you needed their approval, you wanted to prove to yourself your etiquette. The nervous inkling in the back of your head was growing louder over the lush warmth, telling you that Winston and Charon would report back to John with their findings.

And you sat back in your chair to come to terms with why you cared. You did like John, but bit your tongue. There was no reason to go forth and ruin something as innocent as a friendship.

Winston chuckled, dropping his hands to the arms of his chair. "Since...he was a young man. Over twenty years, at this point."

You hummed, raising your brows as you looked between the two men across from you. You almost wanted to ask how old John was, the thought making you giggle behind your fingers.

"So a long time, then. Doesn't show for you, Winston." You commented, smirking playfully across the table at the older gentleman.

"Flattery will get you everywhere, my dear," Winston offered, lifting his glass to you and taking another sip.

With that, dinner was served and a plate was placed carefully before you. The seasoned smell of the marsala tickled under your nose and made your stomach engorge with hunger.

The sweet liquor was only making it worse, opening your mouth to drool at the elegant layout of your plate. You glanced over to Gunner, who was fed steak tips on a plate and heartily cleaned his bowl.

Your eyes dragged across the table, to see Charon and Winston staring at you in wait. You smiled politely, allowing the waiter to set a black cloth napkin on your lap before stepping back.

You thanked him, picking up your fork and knife to inspect them a moment before cutting into your chicken. The echo of silverware followed, with Charon and Winston cutting into their food and eating in silence.

You eagerly wanted to call John to talk about this dinner afterwards, but knew it would be better to wait for him to call first.

John sat down to catch his breath, exhausted after yet another night of fighting. Did he enjoy this? Sometimes he had to ask himself, seeing as how he kept going through it. He sat forward in his chair in the lobby, shuddering as adrenaline worked out of his system.

The longer he sat, the more pain that came onset. He winced as he sat back, feeling that he'd bruised a rib from falling through the Roman Continental window with Cassian. John slowly pushed himself up to his feet, approaching the front desk to request his passage home.

He went up to his room, returned back downstairs and awaited in the lobby for the first sign of daylight to make his way to the hotel.

In the meantime, John retrieved his phone and turned it on. When it cycled through, he expected a message from you.

He expected a message from you, especially after dinner. John thought of what awful stories Winston drummed up to entertain you without giving too much away. His top lip peeled back in an embarrassed scowl, already hearing Winston talk about a young Jonathan.

John thought of sending you a message, but thought of the time in New York. He wasn't even sure what he'd say to you. He wanted to ask about dinner.

So he did.

John: How was dinner with the infamous Mr. Scott?

You were escorted back to your hotel room floor as your phone vibrated in your skirt pocket. Gunner rushed up to the door of the hotel room, baring his teeth in a low growl as you stopped to grab your phone.

-Delicious, who knew Winston was such a gossip.

John raised his brows at his phone buzzing again, this time showing Winston calling him.

"Winston," John greeted, sitting back in his chair while his eyes fixated in the direction of the sunrise.

"Jonathan, she's a delightful little sprite. I am not surprised why you're taken with her," Winston offered, carefully taking his stride to the elevator after letting you be excused first.

"I'm sure you've entertained her," John offered, actively ignoring his mentor's comment while his stomach sank.

"She's great at listening, Charon said she was full of questions." Winston looked over his shoulder to his concierge, who shrugged. "Am I off-putting to questions, Jonathan?"

John noised in response, stashing a slight grin. "I wouldn't say that. Maybe Charon is more...approachable in general."

"That is why I hired him," Winston said, pushing the call button for the elevator. "Has she contacted you?"

John scrunched his mouth to keep from reacting, knowing that Winston could hear his lies. "Not yet. I'm sure she's had a long day."

Winston scoffed over the line, stepping into the elevator and motioning for Charon to hit the button for your room first. "I'm sure she has. She seems to fit here, in a sense."

John grit his jaw, stashing the sudden jolt of fear through him. "I'll be home tomorrow."

Winston quickly gave up, nodding at the line. "Bueno notte, Jonathan."

John pulled his phone from his ear and ended the call, receiving your text soon after.

Gunner stood on guard before your front door, nosing at the crack while you waited for Charon to arrive with your key. You stashed your phone again as Gunner wedged himself through the crack of the door then threw it open with a slew of heavy barks.

You ran in after him, narrowly missing a harsh shove from a dark-dressed figure. They attempted to push past you and outside, but you threw a knee out to connect with their gut.

You were a rattled mess as the person fell to the floor, their face covered in a hood and mask. Looking around the room as they tried to crawl away, you grabbed at one of the ornate vases at the entryway and threw it at their head.

Still, they moved and you stamped your foot onto their back as Charon turned the corner with Winston behind. You were frozen, putting more of your weight on the stranger's back as Charon finally assessed the situation and ran to the room.

"My dear, are you alright?" Winston asked, standing aside as Charon picked up the burglar and dragged him out of the room.

You stared fixated after the stranger, your body trembling as your breath was shortened. You heaved, unsure of what you were but aware that you once again could've been hurt.

That if Gunner wasn't around, you would've been attacked. You were stiff, even as Winston touched your arm.

"Come now, let's go downstairs, hmm?" Winston offered.

You barely nodded, feeling your eyes sting with the threat of tears, and Winston guided you to the elevator. Gunner followed suit, leaving Charon to clean up.

John: Let's hope its all good things. I'm leaving first thing in the morning. Let's do lunch.

You sat in the smoking lounge, curled up on the leather couch while Winston offered you a cup of espresso. He'd gone to his office and retrieved a decorative throw blanket to match the rest of the opulent hotel.

He carefully draped the cloth over your legs, allowing you to sit in stunned silence as he sat in the leather chair next to you.

Winston mapped your face, wanting to find the inside of the shock. He wondered if you would question why the person appeared, or for what. But when you gave off nothing, he gave up and sat back as he received a message about John Wick.

Followed by a number, with a lot of zeros. He stashed a gulp, straightening his chin as he glanced over to you again.

"I apologize, my dear, but I urgent business to attend to. Charon will be here with you."

You nodded, bringing the small cup up to your lips for a sip. The instant bitter brought you out of your flight mode, looking after Winston before Charon took his seat before you.

"W-what happened to that person?" you asked, never catching if that person was a man or a woman. You wanted to ask more, but were sure that no answers would help.

Charon sat tall and stiff in his chair. "I phoned the police and they have detained them at the station," he lied, though his face gave no indication.

You shuddered, looking down at your espresso then back. "Did they take anything?"

"No, miss. All of the hotel's belongings are accounted for. I can't say the same for yours, but we can assess that when we change your room."

You knitted your brows in concern. "You're moving me?"

Charon blinked and smiled politely. "If you wish, miss. We would like you to feel safe."

You looked back down, nodded in agreement to his statement. But you didn't feel that the room was tainted, unsure if it was tattered looking for something.

"Is...is the room still intact?" You asked, bringing the espresso cup to your lips again.

Charon nodded once. "It is no detriment to move. It would be the floor below."

The more you thought of it, the dark shadows of your room would be the same on any floor. The new room would only call for the next stranger to slither in. You shook your head.

"No, I'll be fine," you said quickly, setting your cup down as Gunner sighed, resting his head on your thigh. "He'll keep me safe."

Charon glanced to Gunner then back. "He is a good guard dog. He should be employed."

The night went on too long, with you stationed in the smoking lounge to nurse your espresso. Your nerves, despite the coffee, eventually calmed with Gunner finding his temporary bed on the leather couch.

Charon sat with you in silence, allowing you to regain yourself until you were ready. Finally, you patted Gunner's back, waking him then moved to stand.

You threw back Winston's throw on your arm, grabbing your empty espresso cup to return to the bar. Charon took the blanket from you, folding it as he walked you out of the lounge.

He handed off the blanket to the bellhop, leading you and Gunner to the elevator and escorting you upstairs to your room. It hadn't occurred to you how much time had passed, the smoking lounge offering no clock or windows to acknowledge it.

As the three of you ascended, and you found yourself lightening once again the further you got from the ground floor. The trudge back to your room was quiet, with a bellhop stood outside of your door.

"Please let us know of any missing items," Charon offered, holding his hand out for the bellhop to open the door. "If you have any concerns, do not hesitate to alert this kind gentleman."

You glanced to the bellhop, who stood astutely in the corner of the hallway. You looked to Charon and nodded. Charon opened your door and held the door for you to enter, and you took careful steps inside.

The room was untouched, with only the entryway vase missing. You sucked air between your teeth, hoping that John wouldn't be charged for the decoration missing. Charon handed off your room key, letting the door shut after you.

When the door was closed, you kicked off your flats then walked cautiously around the room. Every lamp in the area was turned on, leaving no shadows. You exhaled deeply and sat down on the bed.

You rested on your side, staring over at the bar of the room as Gunner jumped onto the bed behind you. The curtains were pulled to hide the windows, leaving you in the warm glow of the lights.

Slowly, you let the events of the day lull you away to sleep but not without a few startled jolts to double-check the room. Soon, you conceded and drifted off, curling into yourself to keep yourself safe.

You woke up with another jolt at the sudden brightness of the room. The lamps of your room were shut off, the curtains drawn back to show the bustling city and the sun bouncing off of the nearby bridge.

Your eyes curled around the room until you were frozen by the dark dressed figure at the side of your bed. Slowly, your eyes drew up to meet John's scraped face, his hair combed back his ears.

You broke then, rushing up from your place in bed to curl your arms around his neck. You shuddered into his shoulder, your bottom lip pouting as you shut your eyes.

John barely recognized how long he'd been watching you sleep, knowing that it was wrong to do. But he was gauging his next moves.

His attempt had done nothing to keep you safe; his eyes looked around the room, seeing it as a ruined castle. When you hugged him, he was shocked out of his thoughts.

John folded an arm around your waist, holding you against him but not with his full strength. He knew it was better to keep you at an arms' length.

He'd failed you and Gunner, leaving you both in the security of what he imagined as powerful but was now realizing less.

You squeezed closer to him, steadying your breath the more you held on. John shut his eyes to breathe you in, stiffening as he realized his action.

He turned his face into your neck, unable to control himself, and breathed against your skin. Your chest tightened, the warmth of his breath rolling down your body.

Slowly, you turned to meet his cheek, finding your mouth parting in a soft pant. John found himself pulled in further, turning to meet your mouth and lean in to kiss you.

Your hand raked up his neck to clutch the nape of his hair, barely letting the moment be taken as mistake, and kissed him feverishly.

John's hand slid down your back, over your hip to grab the back of your thigh and pull you further into him. His eyes squeezed shut, following the efforts of your lips before taking lead and slipping his tongue in.

You groaned into him, your other hand grabbing at the front of his suit jacket. John pushed down the dull pain in his body, letting all other thoughts take backseat as his lust took over.

Gunner whined, making both of you part in a soft pant. John dragged his eyes from you then to his dog, shaking his head once.

He guided his dog to the front door, opening it to the bellhop. "Would you mind taking him on a walk? I think I've got it from here."

The bellhop nodded, calling after Gunner as John lightly shooed his dog to follow him. After the two were down the hallway, John shut the door and locked it before returning to you.

You thought he'd have regained himself in the moments away, returning to your friendly charade before breaking for brunch. But John resumed at your lips, his hand clutching the back of your thigh before folding you across the bed.

You were overcome with his touch, hazy with the rush. Your hands found their way into his hair, the other at the buckle of his belt as you slowly followed his lead.

John bit back with a hiss, feeling your fingers fumble at his waist. His hand went to cradle your cheek, kiss you deeply, before retracting his hand to grab your wrist.

He slid your fingers further down his waist to acknowledge the urgent swell of his cock. Both of you parted from your kiss in shock; you glanced down your bodies as John stared down at you.

He was approaching an edge he'd never imagined again, his body alight with heat. You shifted up on your side, attempting to roll onto John. However, John's knee shifted onto the floor and turned at the foot of the bed, pulling you onto his lap as he faced the window.

You straddled his waist, your knees on the carpet as you looked down at your hand still rubbing his cock. John stared up at you, his eyes dragging down to acknowledge the open shoulders of your dress.

He carefully reached behind you, unzipping your dress to peel the top of your bodice down, revealing your breasts. You shuddered again, your chest heaving at the sudden cool of the room.

John leaned in to catch your lips again, guiding your hand to undo his belt and pants. The two of you shared a few desperate moans, finding yourselves drawn together.

He freed his cock with a part from your mouth. He attempted to find his words, to ask if this was okay for you two to do. John knew they were careening to something both unavoidable and difficult to walk back from.

You rested your forehead against his, sharing his breaths as you shifted closer. With a lick of your lips, you tasted him on you; you reached under the skirt of your dress, peeling your panties to the side before lining up and sinking down on John's bare cock.

His face was gorgeous as it broke, his brows knitted as his mouth pouted, as if he were about to cry from the feeling. You sighed deeply in his face, your eyes lulling at the slow pop of his hot cock head into your wet pussy.

Your hand found its way into the nape of his hair as you sank down on his length, tilting his head back to ghost your lips before his.

John's tattered knuckles braced your hips, following your direction down onto him. He hissed, letting a moan slip from his lips. Consequences be damned, John thought, rocking your hips into him before ducking his forehead to your shoulder.

You groaned, turning your head back to the ceiling and following his hands rocking you into him. The two of you paused in relief, feeling the heat build between your bodies.

John brought himself back with a peck to your collarbone, then another as he crossed over your chest then down timidly lap at your velvety breasts.

He chastised himself for thinking of squeezing you, hardening his touch and speed on you. John knew that he'd break you eventually, but he'd stave off his darkness for the time being.

You worked up the courage to pull off of his cock, turning to moan into John's ear as you did. You barely made it to his tip, finding your core begging for him again and sinking back down.

John groaned, tilting his head back against the bed to meet your gaze. His dark eyes were dangerous, dark pools yet enriching and inviting. You took hold of his shoulder, working up to a slow ride as you leaned into him.

John trembled, unable to blink as you rode him in the morning light. He was overwhelmed with infatuation, a sickening salacity the more he spent under you.

He was reactive by you, whimpering and twitching as you rode into him, kissed him breathless. John felt that he'd met his match, an unbeatable adversary though he never wanted to cross you.

The sun haloed around your body, making your skin golden in his presence. John came back to you again, hearing your moans heighten as you were brought closer to climax.

You found yourself grinning down at John, seeing his eyes focus back on you. Your hand went to his jaw, then combed through his hair before resting at his neck. "Did I lose you there?"

John spared a blissed-out grin, parting his lips to catch your kiss again. He'd never admit it.

You cried into his mouth, feeling within grasp for your undoing. John hissed and kissed further into you, his other hand reaching under your skirt to touch your clit.

You bent your back into him, panting into his mouth with a cry of his name to follow. You felt the brightness of the room begin to blind you as you approached the edge; your hips rocked a little firmer, trying to pull John overboard with you.

Finally, you broke with a loud moan, twitching on John's cock as he bucked further into you and climaxed. You writhed on him, your fingers clutching hard into the nape of his hair as you tried to catch your breath against his mouth.

"John," you cooed, pushing yourself further into his body to chase his warmth.

He grabbed at your shoulder, attempting to still you over him as your walls begged for his cum. John shut his eyes upon release, snapping back into his conscience and realizing his impulse.

When you regained a bit of yourself, you spared a few amused huffs, pulling upright to meet John's gaze. You watched as his lustful eyes draw back and you combed through his hair.

"Hi," you said, humming at the stoic man against you. "How was your trip?"

John did his best to smile, pulling your elbow in to kiss your bicep. He dragged his lips up to your shoulder and kissed again. "Could've been better."

He didn't want to ask too soon about your night, having already heard from Winston. John knew it was dangerous to return directly to you, but he had to be sure.

And now he knew that wasn't the only reason. The two of you stayed in place for some time, taking in each other. John glanced over your shoulder to the widespread window behind you, noticing a glint from across the roof.

He held you still, staring further as his eyes narrowed on the long barrel of a sniper. John stashed a frown, turning back to you to appreciate you.

He was sickened by himself, seeing you as his shield for the time being. John exhaled, reaching down to tap your butt playfully.

"Why don't we close the curtains, call in some breakfast?" He asked, fighting against his racing heart.

You bit at your bottom lip, slowly pulling off of John's cock with a whine before turning and pushing to your feet. You grabbed the ends of the curtains and pulled them tightly closed.

John deflated against the end of the bed, looking down his battered suit. He was taken aback at how you mounted him in such a disarray.

You reached to unzip the rest of your dress, but was met by John's lips on your shoulder. You shut your eyes, soothed by the warmth of his mouth.

He slipped his hands down your arms, shrugging your dress from your body and leaving you in your panties, bare in the front of the room.

John shrugged off his jacket then circled his arm around your waist to direct you back to bed. "Go on, I'm coming."

You followed his order, climbing onto the bed and peeling the comforter back. John pulled his belt from his pants, did the same for his tie before unbuttoning his shirt and dropping his pants.

He hurriedly undressed, though you never saw any effort. He moved intentionally towards you, resting a knee on the bed then the other as he grabbed your ankle and pulled you back.

You stretched your arms out above your head, finding yourself directly under John. Your faces aligned, his eyes skirting over your face. His hand cupped your cheek, his thumb tempted at the corner of your mouth.

At the same time, his other hand circled around your stomach then down your hip before sliding his fingers into your wet pussy. You crooned, raising your hips to chase his touch and meet his body.

John kissed your chin, admiring the breaking on your face. He dragged his fingers in and out of you slowly, tracking every minute pinch and wain of your face.

"You're beautiful," he whispered, finding his words to not be his own.

John felt detached from himself, swirling a dark abyss of desire he hadn't thought of for a long time. You grabbed onto John's bicep, sucking in a breath between your teeth before moaning when his thumb folded against your clit.

"J-John," you stammered, your fingers clutching tighter as you found yourself fighting off another climax.

It was too late when you realized the bruises on his body, the wounds decorating his lean torso. Your mouth gaped with another croon, squeezing your eyes shut suddenly as you came on his fingers.

Warm rushes wracked through your body, causing you to roll further into John while you fought off the sight of his body being your undoing.

John's thumb at the corner of your mouth peeled back your bottom lip, flattening his finger along your gums. You pulled his hand further into your mouth to sensually suck at it before dragging it along your bottom teeth.

John was pulled further, the look in your eyes along with the feeling of your pussy around his fingers making it difficult to find pause. You licked the tip of John's thumb, dragged it down your body as he trailed his eyes after it.

His stomach sank then, his hand paused and flattened between your breasts. Staring back at him, as he felt your heart thrumming under his touch, was his wedding ring.

John's hand began to shake, staring at its placement against your body. You stared up at him, seeing that he was no longer meeting your eyes and was fixated at the placement of his hand.

He felt the room go askew, finding himself getting yanked out the abyss and washed ashore. John half-blinked, pulling his fingers out of you before climbing off of the bed and walking away to the shower.

You sat up on your elbow in John's wake, turning your head to watch him walk away. "John?"

You were unsure of what you did, if anything. But now, you were left bare. Righting yourself on the edge of the bed, you slowly followed after John into the bathroom.

John set his ring on the bathroom counter as he reached around the glass wall to turn on the shower head. He welcomed the silence for a moment, wanting to sieve through his thoughts as tangled as they were.

Stepping under the spray, John sighed and dropped his shoulders. He let the warm water roll over his body, drip down his hair as his muscles began to relax.

You stood at the door of the bathroom, watching John in silence before stepping up to the shower wall.

"Can I join you?" You asked softly, not looking up at him as if you'd done something wrong.

John waited a beat, shutting his eyes as he nodded under the rainfall spray. "Yeah."

You peeled your panties to the floor then stepped out of them and into the shower. You let the warm water dampen your hair, letting you slick it down between your shoulders as you turned your back to John.

The two of you shared the shower as if you were strangers still, the air palpable and dewy.

John raised his head and slicked his hair back, glancing over his shoulder to you. You wrung out your hair, turning under your arm to look at John and taking in his back tattoo.

You were taken in, turning around slowly to drag your eyes along his full back tattoo. You reached a finger out to touch at the center cross behind prayer hands.

John stiffened at your touch, his eyes overly blinking from the weight of the water on his lashes. You traced your finger around, noting the words between his shoulders without understanding what it meant.

"I was married before," John offered in the silent patter of the shower.

It was the least of what he wanted to say, his want for you and his feeling for his wife leaving him suspended in telling the truth. John swallowed, dropping his head to his side as you paused at bruise on his love handle.

"I still wear my wedding ring..." he admitted, his chest shaking for a moment, "it hurt to look at."

You paused dropping your head against his shoulder as your hand circled his side. "I'm sorry. You should've stopped me."

John straightened up then, turning around to face you. His tattered hands cradled your face, searching your eyes for an ounce of disdain towards him.

"I didn't want to stop..." John whispered, leaning in to nudge his nose against yours. "I...don't want to stop."

You let your eyebrows screw up in confusion, wanting to know what this stranger wanted. Because with learning more about him, you remembered again that he was a stranger.

"I want you," he muttered against your lips, tilting your chin to peck your lips, "to make it stop hurting."

Your heart lurched into John, feeling that he was saying it wrong but not wanting to dwell on it. You let your attraction give him leeway, letting him take your mouth again and soothe away your doubts in an instant.

You bowed into him, quavering as his hands slipped down your neck, then shoulders and elbows; he took in the slippery feel of your skin, admired how you molded into him this way.

He inhaled deeply through his nose, circling his fingers down to your hips and around the small of your back. John felt the swirl draw him back in, the taste of your mouth sickly sweet.

He bit away from you, hissing between his teeth as he tried to dampen the muddy thoughts within him.

You held your hands at John's sides, opening your eyes to witness the turmoil on his face. Your own stomach turned, lifting on your toes to kiss him again.

John nipped your bottom lip, pulling back on his hold to turn you around to the shower wall. He felt his vision tunnel on you, dragging his hand down between your legs to greet your pussy with his wet fingers.

Your nipples graced the cold granite of the shower wall, bracing with a soft gasp before John's fingers slipped into you. You rested your forehead against the granite, unable to hold back the moan lodged in your throat.

Your shoulders worked back, spreading your legs to allow John's touch further. John flattened his hand on the granite next to your face, lining himself up behind you.

He pulled his fingers out, using his hand to stroke his strained cock. John bowed his head, guiding his length into you and groaning at the welcoming warmth of your walls.

His hand went to your hip, gripping you tightly as he attempted to level himself. Your nose smushed against the granite, your mouth gaped open as you panted against the hard shower wall.

Your hand reached back to touch John but he took your hand and crossed it behind your back. He pumped into you once, earning another noise from you.

When he withdrew, your walls begged at his return; he pumped in again, making your knees buckle slightly.

John bent forward, kissing at the back of your neck before nipping at your shoulder. You turned, squishing your cheek against the wall to watch John's lips migrate down your back.

Your other arm folded directly before your chest, allowing the dampened air to coagulate in your lungs. John was slow in his pace, metering his noise to hear you echo against the stone walls.

His free hand reached around to ghost his fingers over your clit, allowing himself to get lost in the clench of your walls. John's lips trailed over the back of your shoulders, baring his teeth to nip at your skin.

He was painfully aware of how much he wanted to hoard you, to keep you stashed in this room with him with no end in sight. John knew he'd be able to to protect you alone for how ever long you wanted to stay with him.

The closer you got your climax, the more John became infatuated. Every moan of his name, he was dragged further into you, ready to use his resilience for whatever means to please you.

He pulled you off of the wall, draping your body against his chest; John's hands slipped over your wet body, pushing you further into him as you finally came on his throbbing cock again.

John lost his control, ducking his face into your neck to mutter his praise.

You rested your head on John's lap, staring across the bed at the breakfast tray by his feet. You tried to make yourself small in his dress shirt, wanting to take up as much of his warmth as possible.

Brunch had encroached into lunch, the Continental eggs Benedict turned into a nice club sandwich and fries.

John wanted to remain in the solace of the room a bit longer, knowing that he'd have to leave and face his consequences. As long as you didn't have to, John would task himself to clean up his mess better than before just so you wouldn't suffer.

He folded the newspaper in his hands around to scan the inside pages as Gunner sniffed in the direction of John's abandoned club.

You reached out to grab a few fries from John's plate, dragging them across the white comforter for Gunner to take.

John flipped to the next page, disinterested in the sports section. "I saw that."

You side-eyed Gunner then glanced up at John. "No you didn't."

John shook his head, eyes lazily dragging over the fine print of the newspaper. He looked so comfortable in this state, how you imagined he spent his Sunday afternoons at home.

"How long were you married?" You asked, feeling the comfortable silence grind to a screeching halt. It had plagued you since he mentioned it and no matter how many times John made you cum to keep you quiet, the question still remained.

John's eyes glanced down at you, his face never moving from the direction of his newspaper. His chest tightened at the question, feeling his ring finger pulse when you asked.

He relaxed his shoulders, folding his newspaper haphazardly before resting his hand on your shoulder. You shifted in bed, propping your chin up on the tops of your folded arms; John's hand migrated to the middle of your back, admiring how good you looked in his dress shirt.

He praised the tailor's choice for a dark shirt, hiding the blood staina better. John thought of how dangerous his hand was, how many men he'd taken down with just them. And he was tenderly rubbing your back.

"Five years," he said after a few beats of quiet. John set the newspaper on his lap, holding it there with his hand.

You raised your head, shifting closer to John. The two of you were past the formality of tiptoeing hard subjects, you felt. At this point, you knew that there was two possibilities of this ending: in bitter tragedy or a new beginning for the both of you.

So you asked: "What's her name?"

"Helen," John said, turning his full face to you. He decided to get ahead of your line of questioning, to explain how you were both here now. "She died earlier this year. She told me..."

He was cinched then, imagining her handwriting on Daisy's kennel. John felt the pain bubble up again, seeing his wrongs. "That I needed to love something more than my car."

He chuckled mirthlessly, hiding a gulp that lodged in his throat at his last word. Your brows raised slightly, sitting up on your elbow.

You two were there yet and, while you knew that to be true, you wanted to get there. Hopefully, one day.

"That's why I got Gunner," John added, seeing your reaction and realizing another mistake.

The two of you let the collective sigh alleviate the room, allowing you back down to rest your head on John's thigh.

"I'm sorry for your loss," you offered, reaching your hand out to tenderly caress his bruised side.

John nodded, resuming his hand on your back. The two of you returned to your previous action, your eyes lulling with the temptation of sleep.

The questions were hard to wade through; John understood that if you were going to be around in the dark pond, you would soon learn about the very facade he put forth.

He cleared his throat, ready to admit his hard truths that he left behind; it would be easier for the both of you to leave the Underworld unscathed.

John's phone vibrated from the nightstand and he was tempted to silence it. The precarious bubble surrounding the three of you was already threatened, and John didn't want a call to break the tender surface.

He picked it up, realizing that it was a message from an unknown number. John stared at it, seeing that it was an attachment but made no moves to unlock his phone.

You heard your phone begin to vibrate, somewhere discarded in your dress skirt pocket. You groaned, rolling your head back and forth on your hands with the attempt to convince yourself that it was a text.

But then your ringtone began to chime. John heard it too, turning his head in the direction of it. His hand became heavier on your back, attempting to keep you in place.

"Hold that thought," you said, sitting up to kiss John before climbing out of bed.

John's eyes were trained on you, watching as you pulled his shirt to its full length, barely covering your bare ass. He watched intently as you bent, searching through your dress to find the offending phone.

You stood up, rolled your eyes at the Caller ID and answered to your coworker. "What's up?"

Her voice on the other end was slightly shaken, telling you that there was a puppy brought in that was hit by a car.

"I-I can't deal with putting him down, can you come in?"

You glanced over your shoulder to John and Gunner, both of them enough reason to stay in bed. John sat back again the headboard, draping his arm over it with the invitation for you to return to his side.

You groaned in annoyance, bouncing on one foot in the slightest of tantrums. "Can't you call someone else?"

"I-I tried, but one of them is at a Communion and the other is out of town."

You pouted, knowing that you being the single one in a vet clinic meant that you were left to do the dirtiest of work.

"I guess....I can be there within the hour." You forfeited, turned to John as you said it.

And just like that, John's bubble burst.

"You didn't have to drive me here," you said as you and John sat a red light.

"Why wouldn't I?" He asked, reaching over to rest his hand on your knee.

You scoffed, turning to John. "Because I know you've got to be tired from your travel. I could've gotten Charon to bring me."

You were appreciative of John driving you on such short notice, but you wanted to give him a little space. It still felt too fresh, whatever you had, and you didn't want to impose so much that he ended up pushing you away.

"Please, I'm a faster driver," John said with a grin as the light turned green. He let his foot of the brake, tempting his gas pedal as he tilted his head at you. "And I don't want you depending on Charon when I'm around."

You smiled, reaching over to touch the back of John's neck. You could get used to touching him, running your fingers through his hair or scratching his beard. But you were getting ahead of yourself.

"Thanks," you offered softly just as John pulled up on the curb in front of the clinic. "I'll call you when I'm done?"

John nodded, leaning into your hold as you kissed him. "Maybe we can do dinner?"

You laughed. "Hopefully it won't be that long, but we'll see."

You kissed him again, then a third time before you hummed against his lips knowing that you were on an urgent timeline. "Okay, okay. I'll see you in a bit."

You threw open your door and got out, carefully shutting the door of John's car. He bent across the center, offering a wave to you as you opened the door to the clinic and looked back a final time.

He watched you walk in, though his stomach dropped as the door shut behind you. Something felt wrong and his proven instinct was off.

John's phone buzzed again in his pants pocket and he geared his car to retrieve it. Another attachment sent by the unknown number, this time with a message to follow.

Unknown: Come out, John. We have something you want.

You looked around the clinic, seeing most of the offices shut down for the weekend but the light in the exam room on. You called after your coworker, flipping on the overhead lights in the lobby.

When you got no answer, you looked over your desk for paperwork then started towards the back room.

John reluctantly opened the message thread from the unknown number, his heart clenching at the first photo. Of you and him, from the view of the window earlier that morning.

Though you looked so beautiful on his lap, your dress exposing down your back in the morning light, John was chilled at the angle. The same position of the sniper that morning.

He looked after you, seeing that you'd disappeared further into the clinic, then went to the second photo. You, through the view of a porthole window, wearing the clothes you'd changed into. He noticed his own car from the glass door.

John shut off his car and threw his door open, haphazardly closing it before running after you into the clinic. He tapped his side, acknowledging his gun stashed in his waistband and drew it when he was inside.

He called after you, hearing no answer as he looked around the sterile, quiet clinic. John straightened up, holding his gun out as he continued stepping cautiously.

"Hello John," a voice responded from the double doors into the surgery room. "You've been a hard man to track down."

John grit his teeth hard enough to hear his jaw resound. His nostrils flared as he tried to level himself, knowing that he had to keep a strong front.

"I thought 7 million would've made you an easy target, but you're a smart man to hide."

"I wasn't hiding," John retorted, not allowing the comment to show him a coward.

He stepped up to the wall, trying to see into the bright room. John caught a glimpse of you, petrified against Santino's shoulder as his hand grasped your mouth.

You stared, bewildered through the small porthole window, catching a glimpse of John's face. You barely shook your head at him as Santino raised his gun to shoot out at the glass.

"Right," Santino continued, pointing the gun to your temple and making you panic, crying at the thought of his finger slipping. "You had gotten distracted. Which is dangerous in your line of work, you know that."

You gulped, quivering in the hostile man's hold. John righted himself against the wall, popping the clip to check his ammo. He took another careful breath, turning back in the direction of the window before ducking across to the other side.

"You could've tried getting out again, but you'd just end up owing somebody...again," Santino taunted, playfully tilting his gun about as he thought of it. "And then when the next wife dies along with the next sad pup, the cycle of John Wick would continue."

You whimpered, looking out and darting your eyes back and forth to find John anywhere. John couldn't find an answer, thinking more about what he was putting you through and what it would mean for him to stop.

If he could stop.

He didn't want to admit it, but Santino was right in a sense. John didn't want to keep owing people for the life he'd been luck to have once.

He especially didn't want to do it twice. Not that you weren't worth it. But danger seemed to lurk whether he was in or out.

"It wouldn't happen again," John said finally, after thinking for a moment. "I wouldn't let anything bad happen to her."

Santino tsked, turning the gun back to your head. "It's a little late for that. Look at where we are now."

John shut his eyes, coming to terms with his consequences once again. He carefully put the safety back on his gun and held it to his side.

"Fine," John said, pushing open the double doors. You cried from behind Santino's hand, incoherently begging for John to do anything else. "You're right."

Santino huffed amusedly through his nose then looked down at you. "You need something done, you do it yourself, eh?"

Santino turned the gun onto John, readying to shoot as you noticed the reflection of his pistol in something on the stainless steel table.

Looking down, you noticed a full syringe of clear liquid. You flicked your eyes back to John as he saw your eyes look away.

He barely nodded in your direction as Santino pulled back the hammer of his gun and readied to shoot John. "No hard feelings, John. Just avenging my sister."

At the same time, you felt his arm loosen around you and you took the opportunity to grab the syringe and stab it into Santino's neck.

Your fingers fumbled at the plunger, slowly dispensing half of the clear liquid into his blood stream. Santino grabbed the syringe with his free hand, taking his other to smack you away.

"Stupid bitch! This is men's business," Santino turned the gun on you and John called for his attention.

"Hey! You want to kill me. So kill me," John offered, raising his hands.

Santino narrowed his eyes at John, looking from him to you and back. "You're not...even going to try to beg me?"

John shook his head; you kicked at Santino's ankle, causing him to stumble then crawled after him to grab the syringe again. This time you righted yourself over Santino's body and stabbed the needle into his chest.

You hyperventilated, staring at the man as his eyes widened in fear. You trembled again with the plunger, releasing more liquid into his chest.

Looking over to John, you hoped he would find the words you couldn't. You didn't even understand what this was about, but you were caught in the middle of it.

John met your gaze, feeling his hands going cold at the thought of you getting hurt. The decision was still so muddy, but he was aware of where to start.

"Call it off," John said, reaching to grab Santino's gun and point it at the man. "Call the bounty off."

You turned back to the man, his hair wild as his eyes were twitching in disdain. "Why should I? You gonna kill me too?"

You stared at the plunger in his chest, your thumb on the weapon. You glanced over your shoulder, seeing your coworker dead in her puddle of blood along with the dog that Santino brought in to bait her.

"T-this is pentobarbital," you bluffed, nodding to the syringe in the man's chest. "There was enough in this syringe to kill you twice. But I've on-ly used ha-lf."

Your voice betrayed you in a moment, but you stared at this man under you as if he'd wronged you personally. And he kinda did. He ruined an almost idyllic morning by running egotistical games.

John withheld his surprise, glancing at your profile while you reasoned with this stranger.

"Call it off, and I can undo it," you lied, unsure if you could make such a promise.

"Bullshit," Santino spat at you, looking over to John. However, by the stone-cold look on John's face, he was inclined to believe you.

You straightened up and looked down your nose at this man, floundering to be let up but realizing a lack of options. Your cold thumb tempted at the plunger further.

"Y-you would feel it in your knees first. A dull pain that washes away when you can't feel your legs." You tried to narrate, reluctantly mapping out the process when you so wanted to forget it in pets.

"Your heart will start rushing soon, hoping to pump enough blood to circulate down to your toes, but then your fingers will lose feeling."

Santino gulped and you barely glanced to John as your brows knitted and your eyes watered. "Let's get your phone out before we get to that, because there's no turning back from there."

John watched in stunned silence, holding the gun pointed at Santino for any sudden movements towards you. Santino did as instructed, pulling his phone and typing in his code.

He dialed the number slowly, staring at you strong-handing the syringe. When it rang, he glanced over to John, unfazed.

"Pull the bounty for John WIck." He stated when he got on the phone. "Yes. Santino D'Antonio. 758042."

"Yes sir," the operator on the opposite end stated. The line was quiet for a moment and you held your breath. "Your bounty is rescinded. Is there anything else--"

You smacked the phone away from Santino before he could say anything else then leaned back for John to take the shot. He blinked in the flash moment, then aimed and shot Santino.

The splatter of his blood from his head decorated your face and you were sat in the shocked silence of the past few moments. Santino's dark phone lit up with a message.

Unknown: Bounty: John Wick rescinded. Disregard previous messages of subject.

You let go of the syringe, looking down at your cool trembling hands before you felt a pair of thick arms curl around you. John wasn't sure what else to do in the moment, knowing that nothing he could say would make up for it.

He pulled you up, held you close and swiped the blood from your cheeks. John rested his lips to the top of your head and kept you still when you tried to tremble.

He expected you to cry, ready to coax you down, but you were silent. Grasping at his shirt, you turned your face into him and held tight. Your breath slowly returned to normal, shutting your eyes to rid yourself of the sight of your coworker dead. This strange man dead.

John knew that what came next wouldn't be easy and he was dreading every minute of it.

You sat in the car with John as an unmarked black van pulled up in front of the clinic. Looking over at him, you expected John to get out but he only nodded in the direction of the clinic as the older gentleman stepped out of driver's side.

Without word, the man nodded and patted at the back doors of the unmarked van; the double doors opened and you jumped slightly at the men that followed out. Each of them was dressed in dark clothing, two of them holding mops and buckets while the final two carried unmarked bags into your place of work.

Slowly you turned to look at John, hoping for some sort of explanation. John watched as you did, his face frozen in the sense of unknowing where to start. So he tried going for simple.

"I'm a contractor," he said, turning his body to face yours. "I do freelance work for anyone who pays me and I do most of my work out of the Continental."

You gulped, your eyebrows knitting in concern. "S-so Winston and Charon are..."

"They know about my work and aid me in doing so."

You raised your shocked brows even further, unsure of what contortion your face was in at the moment. "Oh, okay."

Though it was not okay.

You had dinner with assassins, or contractors as John explained it. You fucked a contract killer.

You fucked a contract killer. You gulped, the thought giving you butterflies.

"So you're not like...an assassin that kills for fun?"

John raised a brow in question then shook his head. "Only bad people, and people who've forgotten that they're bad."

Your face flattened a little, ready to ask your next question as you remembered the stranger in the hotel room. "I'm not being targeted, am I?"

John slowly reached for you, taking tender hold of the side of your throat as he leaned in. "No. And this is not a long con. Meeting you was just coincidence. I just...dragged you into my darkness. And I'm sorry."

Your bottom lip trembled, staring into John's dark eyes and seeing them melt with his sincerity.

"I like you," he began, his chest tightening at the confession. He'd slain 200 men in a single night, he'd killed an extra 100 to avenge his dog, but here was when he felt nerves. "I want you to stick around. If you want."

You instinctively reached for him, pressing your lips to his. He lost his breath, putting his other hand to the opposite side of your neck to hold you close.

When you'd had your fill, you parted from him with a trembling sigh.

"Is that a 'yes'?" John asked, rubbing his thumbs before your ears.

You smiled nervously, taking hold of John's wrists to keep him there and nodded. John smirked softly, wondering what was going on in your head in that moment.

"You'll keep me safe, right?" You teased, though you wanted the reassurance.

John nodded.

He let his hands drop and you took hold of them. "I'm guessing you're gonna stay in this line of work a bit longer?"

He tried to keep his face neutral, though it loomed overhead as the next big step. Slowly he nodded and watched your body deflate upon doing so.

"Just a little longer," John said, leaning forward. "I've got a month saved up at the Continental and I'd like to use my points before they expire."

You broke with an amused scoff, turning away from John's face trying to hold back from smiling. You rolled your eyes at him, feeling this as a new beginning for the both of you.

"And it's got your name written right beside it," John added, tilting his head. "I know that room service has been calling your name."

You laughed then, barely sparing a glance to the men as they returned to their van. "It'd give me time to look for a new job."

You didn't want to bring it down, but the reality encroached again. John grabbed your hands and pulled them in to kiss your knuckles.

"We can figure it out together," John said, rubbing his thumbs over your hands.

His darkness paired well with yours, he saw. John only witnessed a glimpse of it, but it would do well if his month stay turned into two. Or five.

Depending on how much trouble he got into. You bit your lip, staring down at your hands intertwined with one another.

"Did you...hurt his sister?" You asked, letting the words spill out before you could stop them.

John was still for a moment, taking in a steady breath. "I made a blood oath before I got out that he'd be able to hold over my head if I ever came back. He used that promise to kill his sister."

Your face scrunched up slightly. "That's so vile."

"Yeah," John said, running his thumb over your knuckles as if measuring each one in size.

You raised your gaze to meet his. "And he crossed you even after that?"

John nodded, letting you get accustomed to whatever this new beginning was starting from. You looked down again, sorting through your biggest thoughts by importance.

"T-there was a person that broke into..." you mindlessly thumbed over your shoulder, remembering the long night you'd had before this one.

"They were trying to gain the bounty." John said, staring after you as if he was losing you to your own personal spiral.

"Charon said he contacted the police." You snapped up to look at John again and he bit back a smile at your concern.

Your eyes were watering again, this time your bottom lip ready to pout from your teeth. He reached up and coaxed a tear away with his thumb.

"No contractor business is allowed on Continental grounds," he tried to offer as solace but knew that the next part would jar you. "It's an excommunication rule."

You stared at him, hoping that he would explain further.

"The consequence is death," John offered as solace. "It's a safe place. That's why I wanted you to stay there."

You dryly scoffed at him, turning into his palm. "You were trying to keep me safe?"

John nodded. "I saw how shaken you were that night when I picked you up. I wanted to look out for you."

You pursed your lips. "Were Charon and Winston looking out for me too?"

John's lip curled slightly. "Charon, yes. Winston as you've said, loves to gossip. The man can't help but know every detail."

You tilted your head against the seat cushion, pinning John's hand against your cheek. "Did you tell him about me?"

It felt wrong to ask in such a situation, but there was no doubt that your meet-cute with a contract killer was fucked up.

John hid a roll of his eyes, his cheeks raising though he lined his lips together. "I told him enough. He called you...my Persephone."

You reached for his hand, shifting it down for his thumb to brace your lips. You blinked, narrowing your eyes at him. "He's funny. I guess this is kind of like the Underworld. Contractors and blood oaths, sacred hotels and clean-up crews."

John raised his brows at you. "Still okay with staying?"

Your stomach, for the first time in the past few days, felt realigned with steel. Though hostage situations were something you never wanted to get used to.

You raised your left hand, pointing your pinkie out. "If you promise me something."

John's lips pouted to the side, never eager to hear about promises in his line of work. He slowly raised his left hand and pointed out his pinkie, waiting to hear what you had to offer.

"Name it."

"You promise to keep me safe if I need it, you can't dump me during a mission and you teach me how to shoot a gun."

John's brows quirked then, his mouth a wormy squiggle to withhold his amusement. He nodded, reaching his large pinkie out to hook around yours. "Deal."

"And..." you added, just as you hooked your finger around his and held him there. "We get dessert in bed and Gunner gets a plate of fries. Also I want to go with you once on a mission."

John's mouth scrunched up under his nose, his cheeks bottling his want to laugh. It felt good to have that still within him.

"I promise."

"Also," you continued, biting your bottom lip. "You help me move out of my apartment."

John chuckled, pointing his finger at you from his interlocked hand. "Now that's too far."

"Said the contract killer," you jested.

John metered his nod back and forth with another soft laugh. "Okay, fine. Also, you don't have to tell me not to dump you."

The two of you stayed locked in your pinky promise as John looked from it to you.

"Promise me something."

"Shoot," you said, scrunching your nose at the poor choice of word.

"You let me know if it gets to be too much. If you want out at any time, I will let you out. I don't want to keep you where you don't want to be."

You hummed, softly smiling at this man. You wanted to stick around for a while, even longer than that. But you didn't want to tell him so.

Even though you were sure this man was the opposite of squeamish. Nothing like boys you'd dated previously.

"Okay."

"And..." John drew out like you had, pursing his lips in soft thought. "I want a full day in bed, with you. Gunner'll have to stay with Charon."

You giggled softly. "Okay," you said, shaking your head in John's direction. "I promise."

The two of you solidified your pinky promise with another soft kiss; John let his hands untangle from you as he felt his ring finger pulse again.

He paused, looking down at his hands and circled his ring on his finger.

You slowly came down from the adrenaline and mushiness spilled and stared at John fiddling with his ring.

"If it's too soon for you..." you tried, but John shut it down with putting his ring hand on the steering wheel.

"I'll be fine," he said with a sigh, aware of when he'd take it off.

It wouldn't be for a while, and he should've asked if it was alright with you. You didn't even notice it, feeling that it was just a part of him.

"So was it pentobarbital in that bottle?" He asked curiously, starting the car and gearing it into drive.

You reached for your seatbelt, glancing out of your window at the vet clinic then buckled yourself in.

"I don't think it was," you said geniunely, unsure if it'd make a difference.

John turned his car into the underground parking garage and circled the top level to find a space. The two of you were going over John's excursion in Rome, why he was really there and what he had to go through to get home.

"That's so fucked up," you offered, unable to create any other cohesive thought.

John shrugged, which gave you the note that this was a normal thing that happened sometimes.

You leaned in, intrigued to learn more about this other half of John. There was John Wick, the mild-mannered dog dad that fucked so hard that you shivering at the thought.

Then there was John Wick, the contract killer who took down a mafia of men in the time it took for you to have dinner with Winston.

"What do they call you?" You asked after John geared his car into park then shut it off.

John raised his brows, glancing over at you. "Don't laugh."

You straightened up in your seat, mimicking a zip of your lips closed before nodding at him to continue. John smirked and undid his seatbelt.

"Baba Yaga," he offered, awaiting your eventual snicker.

But you were perplexed, staring at him. "What is that?"

He blinked once, turning to you fully. "The Boogeyman."

You stared at him, knowing that there was no doubt in your mind that while you feared this man just a little bit, you were attracted to him more.

You looked around the desolate parking lot then back at John. "Anything else?"

"The Wolf, The Devil..." John added, unsure if those names were even true but wanting to amuse you.

You leaned over to John and exhaled a trembling breath. "Is it wrong of me..."

You couldn't finish that sentence aloud, knowing that it was a bit twisted to want him more. The man had just shot another man in front of you...and yet...

You caught John's mouth in a fervent kiss, edging your knee over the center console to sit in his lap. John was surprised, making such a noise as his hands held your hips.

You blindly reached between his seat and the door, finding the handle to recline the two of you back.

John groaned at the sudden movement, but didn't break from you. He pressed his hand into the small of your back and held you tighter against him, allowing you to roll your body against him.

"I-I'm sorry," You offered, parting from him with smaller pecks to follow. "I don't know what came over me."

John looked at you from behind his half-mast eyelids, taking in your trembling chest and legs spread over him. The image of you that morning flashed by again, trying to hide the other twisted side of it.

"Let's go upstairs," he added, his voice hitting a new low.

You felt your body cinch at his utterance, reminding yourself of the euphoric kisses and bites that would come from it.

You nodded, reaching for the driver's side door and climbing out. John attempted to regain himself, righting his seat before grabbing his keys and climbing out.

You didn't expect this place to become a sanctuary to you. The dark foreboding walls, something echoing to the Asphodel, was not inviting like you'd seen most places.

The marble floors, the sharp edges, the posh guests, all of them were out of your wheelhouse of comfort. But you were relieved to enter the lobby of the Continental.

It felt like it held a new charm, one that you prayed never left. You were awash with a sense of security, taking John's hand and leading him to the elevator.

You pinned him against the wall, nudging your nose with his before tempting him with a kiss. He leered after you, his eyes fluttering close with the thought of tasting your lips again.

You nipped at his nose instead, bringing your fingers up to scratch through his beard.

When the two of you made it back to your floor, you grabbed John's hand and started towards your door. At one point, John's arm circled around your waist and he lifted you into him, carrying you to the room.

The two of you stopped at the door, with you fumbling to take the key from John and open the door. You felt his breath over your shoulder, his hands already making their way down the front of your pants.

You shook your head alert, finally making the key open the door and clambering in with John hot on your tail.

You barely made it to get your shoes off before John expertly undid your pants and tugged them down. You bowed onto the bed, readily hiding your shame at how wet you were.

John pulled your pants down to your ankles, then off before turning you onto your back. He took your knee, pulling your legs open and stashing a hard gulp at the sight.

He had no words to say, knowing that the truth would be squeezed out of him soon enough. He reached for his own belt, undoing his pants and freeing his stiffened cock.

You looked down at the comparison, his cock flush against your stomach. You whimpered as he drew himself back, pushing his cock head against your clit before letting it slip over your stomach again.

You threw your head back in frustration, knowing that you wouldn't last long being teased. John watched like an instinctual predator, waiting for his best strike.

His bare hand went to rest at your chest, feeling your racing heart beat hard. John pulled back again, rutted his cock against your clit then let it slide, gathering your wet and streaking your belly.

You whined again, drawing your knees up from the edge of the bed. "John, please."

He would savor every time your lips formed his name; he tilted his head back, soaking it in to puff up his chest when he was normally without flaunting an ego.

John dropped his head again, glaring darkly at you from under his brows. He rutted a third time, earning your writhing. Your head turned back and forth on the comforter, your fingers reaching out for him but never grasping onto him.

"C-c'mon," you hiccuped, finding yourself a disheveled mess. You were flustered and growing on embarrassed, as if John was showing off how turned on you were by him.

By what he did.

By what he did for you.

You gulped, tightening your stomach as you watched him rut a final time; this time he went back and pressed his cock at your entrance, making you drop your head in relief when he slid into you.

John's hand at your chest dropped down to your stomach, leveling your core to feel every inch of him. You practically vibrated upon the new sensation, finding yourself drawn closer to a peak you weren't even acknowledging.

John took his hands away from you to run them under your shirt; he tenderly shrugged your top from over your chin, blinding you the cotton as his cock thrusted into you harshly.

You lost your breath, gasping when he shrugged your shirt over your head and up your arms before pausing there. He flattened himself against you, catching your bottom lip between his teeth with a tender suck.

His fingers threaded through yours, tangling both of you in the cuffs of your shirt until he finally pulled it off of you. John did his with pulling away from you and reaching between his shoulders to rip his shirt over his head.

The cream top yanked up to reveal the yellowing and purple bruises along John's sides, ones you knew now to be wounds for his effort. He went above and beyond in his work, it showed deeply.

John tossed his shirt away, returning over you to feel your chest rise and fall against his. He wanted to undo you further, have you bare to him in the physical and vulnerable sense, but he didn't want to throw off his pace.

You keened when he hit a particularly soft spot within you and he recognized it as your second weakness. John licked his fingers and dove them between the two of you, finding your clit with expert precision and circling it.

You grabbed onto his shoulders, wanting to hook into him if he was going to keep on. Your pants heightened against his mouth, drawing more moans from you as his other hand peeled your leg back to your side.

You broke another inch, your eyes crossing as you glanced to the ceiling. John took it in stride, using his lips to level his chin and meet your eyes. "Did I lose you there?"

Your face scrunched in pleasure, just as your chest tightened with the threat of explosion. "You are the Devil."

He chuckled mirthlessly against your lips, taking them in another kiss as he continued his pace. The two of you found yourselves drawing further up in pleasure, finding the heat culminated between you two enough of a catalyst for you both to cum.

You were first, your mouth falling open in the moans of John's name. Your walls beckoned him further, stunting his thrusts from going too deep before he finally succumbed to your heat.

He rested his elbow next to your head, groaning and hissing in pleasure. The two of you shared your caught breaths, staring at one another in the dim light of the room.

You prodded your tongue to your bottom lip, your eyes raking up and down John's body. He did the same, though he paused at your neck and dove in to kiss you there.

You shied away, raising your shoulder to giggle at his warm breath wafting down your neck. He liked that sound, he wanted to hear more of that.

[delicioushottubpeanut]

Give Yourself Peace

John Wick x Fem!Reader

tags: NSFW, MDNI, John Wick 2 storyline, slightly inaccurate John Wick, strangers to lovers, awkward first meet, knight in shining muscle car type, slooooooooow burn [then we fast af], reader is a vet tech type, descent into darkness/Underworld, adventures in dog sitting, age gap, references to Hades/Persephone mythology, flirting over text [or in John's case, just conversing], clothes on sex, cowgirl position, panties to the side, sliiiight voyeurism [if you squint], not a condom in sight-just the vibes, fingering, multiple org*sms, feelings of grief, shower sex, slightly toxic John Wick [he doesn't mean to, he's grieving], pillow talk, use of g*ns, hostage negotiation, talk of animal de*th and instruments involved, Charon/Winston/Santino/Dog involvement, possible relationship talk, attraction to "bad" men, making out in a car, quickie sex

synopsis: You meet a man named John Wick when he's dropping off his dog "Gunner" for a check up. From there, it's a slippery slope into a new world.

wc: 19. 7 k 😮‍💨

a/n: okayyy, yes, i did write this before finishing that one River Ward fic but this idea took me by storm in the dead of night. No I was not listening to my River Ward playlist when I thought of this, jeez what's with the third degree? my computer is actually trying to die on itself as i type this rn

You raised a brow at the man entering the clinic, wearing a red-stained dress shirt and tattered suit jacket.

"Hi," he began, walking up to the front counter as you straightened up before him.

"Hi," you repeated, meeting his dark eyes and internally wincing at the cuts on his face.

He was stoic, un-moving as he braced a hand on the counter. But his lips curled slightly in a smile. His hand slid, his forearm bracing the counter as he relaxed.

"Hi," he said again, this time his deep voice echoing through you. You couldn't help but return his polite smile, edging up on your toes to finally look down at his pet.

"Who do we have here?" You asked down at the beautiful dark gray pittie. The dog sat, tilting his head at you and you melted an inch staring into his cute light brown eyes.

"This is..." the man looked down at his dog and tilted his head with a loss of words. You raised a brow at him, waiting as he turned to look at you again with a slightly defeated look. "Gunner."

You huffed an amused air from your nose. "Cute, he looks like a Gunner."

The man nodded as you rounded the counter and took a careful knee before the pittie. "Is he friendly?"

"Absolutely." He barely managed to answer as the dog turned in the direction of you and started nuzzling into you.

His paws pattered the floor, stepping further into you and begging to be pet. You obliged, cooing at the attention-seeking pup, patting at his round body and scratching behind his ears.

You smooched at him, showering praise at this stranger's dog for a minute then looked up at the stranger himself. He was propped up on the counter, watching you love on his pet, with what you recognized as blood on his dress shirt.

"And is Gunner's owner friendly?" You cooed at Gunner, holding the dog's face in your hands to smush his cheeks.

The stranger scoffed, his lips curling in a wry grin before answering: "Gunner thinks so."

Your stomach fluttered at the stranger speaking, though you weren't sure if it was an instance of fight or flight. Meeting the stranger's dark eyes again, you quirked your mouth to the side.

"Does Gunner's owner have a name?" You asked, your bottom lip slipping between your teeth at the last moment.

"He does," the stranger answered as you slowly stood up from your place. His hand extended out for you to take, and you noticed his knuckles tattered with blood and swelling. "John."

You ignored whatever warning pang was rushing through your body as he introduced himself. Your hand reached out to grab his, minding your grip to not bring him pain. When you uttered your name, his smile only grew, finding himself pushing upright to tower over you.

"Nice to meet you." John said, his voice straining a bit.

"Same to you," you said, giving his hand a polite shake before dropping it and returning to your paperwork. "What're you bringing Gunner in for today?"

You stood outside of the clinic, circling through your ring of keys to find the one for your door. It never failed, with how many keys you had, it was always the last one you expected.

You bounced on one foot to keep yourself alert, filing through your keys in the unexpectedly cool night. You were already running late to meet up with friends and now you were battling your stomach rumbling.

As you were nearing the end of your key leash, you heard a few whistles from behind you. A cold ice jutted down your back, making your insides become rigid with the thought of being watched.

Still, you ignored it as best at you could, pretending to not hear whatever calls were over your shoulder. Your bouncing foot quickened, hoping you had found your out before whatever approached you.

With the final key try, you managed to lock the door and turn in the direction of your car only to be stopped by two tall men stood before you.

You excused yourself, backing away from them only to turn around to find two more men behind you. Staring at the men surrounding you, you glanced sideways into the street and stepped out.

"Where you goin' sweetheart?" One of the men called after you.

You held the strap of your bag tighter on your shoulder, your senses heightened as you heard the combined steps of the men crossing into the street.

You picked up your pace, scanning down both ways of the road with minimal cars around, only for their steps to heighten just the same. The rigid gulp that lodged in your throat was now cementing, your heart racing as you found yourself running across the street and onto the opposite sidewalk.

Your vision tunneled as you focused on getting away, unsure of what would happen if the strange men caught up to you. Turning down the perpendicular street, you barely glanced behind you as a car pulled up next to you.

The door swung open, over half of the curb, and you were almost stopped by it but managed around it. Looking at the car, you cautiously peered from a distance to see a slightly more familiar face than the strangers following you.

"Come on, I'll drive you to your car," John offered, his mannerisms unbothered and cool.

You looked behind you at the group of men now turning the corner after you. With another glance into the car, you saw Gunner and opted to take a chance with the slightly better devil you knew.

Climbing in, you shut the door quickly and looked over your shoulder at the goons left in the wake. You turned around to John, ready to share your gratitude but opted to catch your breath first.

You wheezed, holding the dash of the dark muscle car, and held your free hand to your chest. The instant adrenaline rush through your body was now wracking your heart, making your eyes water though you were unscathed.

"Are you alright?" John asked, one hand draped on the steering wheel and his other carefully cradling the gear shift.

You overly nodded, blinking away the mist of tears while your mind started to race with the horrific possibilities of what could've happened.

"T-thank you," you choked out, bringing your eyes away from John's dash to look at him. "I-I..."

John glanced over at you but said nothing else, only nodded in acknowledgement before changing the subject. "Your car's nearby?"

You nodded again, finally peeling yourself to sit back in the leather seat. You admired it for a moment, luxuriated by the curve and plush, but were interrupted by Gunner's wet nose to your ear.

You giggled, shrugging a shoulder up to get the dog to stop then reaching a hand back to pat his head. "Sweet boy."

John smirked dryly at your comment, slowing down to scan the two parking lots on either side of the street. "Here?"

You nodded, pointing to the right side of the street to your little rinky-dink car. "That's me."

You expected John to laugh at it, seeing as his car could literally drive circles around yours. But he didn't, only pulled into the lot and braked in front of it.

"Volvo's are a classic," he commented, gearing his car to remain stationary. He shifted slightly in his seat to face you.

You turned to do the same, noticing that he'd probably gone home to clean up and change; seeing as he was in a cleaner shirt, the blood on his knuckles nonexistent.

"Have a good night, okay?" He offered, meeting your eyes.

The adrenaline in your body pooled in that moment, making you feel jittery though you were pin still. You nodded again, wondering if you were nodding too much.

"Thanks. And thanks again for the ride, I appreciate it," you said quickly, unsure why your nerves were acting up now.

"Yeah," John drew out, looking at the back of his car, past Gunner and through the back windshield. "You gonna be okay?"

You nodded again, noting that you'd have to force something out. "Y-yeah, of course. I just don't know what their deal was. I'll be fine."

John's eyes skirted back to you, taking in your shaken demeanor with a once-over. "If you want, I could give you my number. In case it happens again."

He didn't want to mention how fast he'd be to escort you, but he was aware of his speed.

You held your hands in your lap, glanced down at them then back. "S-sure, it wouldn't hurt."

John watched as you carefully retrieved your phone and nervously unlocked it; turning the bright screen to him, he cradled the device and tenderly put his phone number in then turned it back to you.

You looked at him from your screen then back and saved it to contacts. "Thanks."

John said nothing else, only nodded; you gathered yourself, pulling your keys from your bag and opening the door to get out.

"Bye Gunner," you offered to the dog, reaching to pat his head. "Good night, John."

You climbed out of the car, tenderly shutting the door after yourself as John offered a polite wave through the front windshield. He geared his muscle car in reverse, throwing his arm behind the passenger seat to look behind and turn back onto the road.

You stood in the silence, watching as John drove off with your adrenaline in tow. Your heart pattered with a new sense, unsure of what to call it, but you stashed it away to rush to your car.

You found yourself lying awake, staring at the ceiling, in the middle of the night. Deliciously buzzed by two cocktails, you replayed the moments of the days events.

Hot stoic man walks in, hot stoic man has a dog, hot stoic man saves you from not-so-good guys, hot stoic man makes you feel safe.

You blinked slowly, your phone clutched in your hand while you tried to fall asleep. In a shock of embarrassment and a little confidence, you launched yourself upright and swiped your phone open.

Navigating through your phone, you managed to pause at the draft stage of sending John a text.

-Thanks so much againn for saving me tonight

You stared at your message for a moment, wondering if you should add more but decided against it at the last moment. You watched as the bubble popped up at the beginning of the thread, with the small status of the message as 'delivered'.

You sat still for a moment, your eyes threatening to close but in a long blink, your message went from 'delivered' to 'read'.

You froze, a new warmth starting from the inside of your chest, as your phone flopped onto the bed before you. You barely had the second to think of sending a 'i'm so sorry' text at realizing how late it was.

John: Is that what that was? I thought it was a friendly ride

He hadn't been able to sleep, finding himself at the Continental bar with 'Gunner' at his feet. John fingered around the rim of his glass, expecting the whiskey to dull his nerves but found himself brought back by your text.

You grinned dumbly at his response, snickering to yourself before gearing up your response.

-You're right. Thank you for the friendly ride to my car

You stared long at this response, wondering if did any good for the conversation. If this was even a conversation. You sent it anyways, but added further.

-I'm just thankful you were there when you were

John stared at his phone, glass cradled against his bottom lip as he stared at the messages that came in. His heart cinched for a moment, wondering if he was taking it too far. But it was a simple text exchange, nothing more.

John: I am too. Good night.

He paused in his message, feeling it to be too curt. You were just sharing your gratitude, nothing more. John understood, having felt the similar way of feeling cornered.

"Having a nightcap, are we?" Winston asked, sidling up behind John's seat.

"Winston," John stated.

"Jonathan," Winston offered back, pulling a chair open and sitting down. "I'd have expected you to be in bed already. Preparing for your long trip."

John glanced down at his phone, the open conversation between the two of you left on his end. "Yeah, but what can I say? Nerves got to me."

Winston quirked a brow in John's direction, tilting his head slightly at the sight of his phone upright. "There's no such thing as nerves with you."

John took a sip of his whiskey, letting it be his pause before he smacked his lips in appreciation.

"What is it?" Winston asked, undoing his suit jacket button.

John set his glass down on the bar and circled it under his fingers. "There's a girl."

"A girl?" Winston repeated, raising his eyebrows in slight surprise. "I fear I've heard that before."

John folded his lips together as he nodded, knowing that he'd said it a long time ago. "Yeah."

Winston took John's response with a purse of his lips, a tilt of his head. "So there's a girl."

"A woman," John corrected, turning his head in Winston's direction but not meeting his friend's eyes. "And I want to keep her safe."

"Then it's best not to interfere," Winston offered without a beat missed.

John found himself agreeing, but still opened his mouth. "I can't do that."

Winston's eyes steadied on John's stoic face, watching as his dark eyes finally rose to meet his. The older gentleman opened his mouth in a soft 'ah' then sucked his teeth in consolation.

"What're we going to do, then?" Winston asked, straightening up to the bar and raising his hand in a silent order to the bartender.

John picked up his glass again, sloshed the diminishing liquid around then pursed out a hard air. "I have an idea."

You managed to stretch yourself out at the foot end of your bed, holding your bright phone before your face while you tried to hold off of sleep.

There was no reason for John to respond back to you, especially with the time. You imagined that you had woken up this poor, tired man with diathesis just hours after getting home.

And you groaned in your sleep, feeling awful. With your next minute spurt of energy, you'd apologize to him for waking him up so late.

However, the buzz of your phone steeled you awake. You blinked at the bright screen before your face, eyes focusing on the message you received.

John: I am too. I know this is sudden, but would you like to get breakfast?

In the misty morning, you stood on the curb in front of your apartment building under your umbrella. You were patiently waiting for John to show up to take you to breakfast, hoping that it was the Greek diner just a few blocks from your job.

After a few moments, you expected a text from him saying you two would have to reschedule. It was only a matter a time, something you assumed was in the New York air. Plans were never fulfilled, always to be rescheduled.

Your inner plight was paused by the black, unmarked car that pulled up before you. Your reflection in the tinted windows was perplexed, taking a few steps back to assess your escape.

The driver side door opened and a well-dressed man wearing rimless glasses stood out and buttoned his jacket. You waited a moment, taking in the man's movements as he reached for the back door of the car.

"Miss, I've been sent by Mr. John Wick." The man announced, holding the back door open for you to get in.

You stared at the man for another moment in silence, pondering if you ever learned John's last name. You questioned if this man was trustworthy, even though he gave no reason to not be.

"Okay..." you drew out, looking both ways down the empty sidewalk before stepping cautiously towards the car. You folded your umbrella, setting it on the car floor.

You reluctantly climbed in, your nerves raising on their ends as you sat down and buckled your seatbelt behind the driver seat.

The driver smiled politely at you, shutting the door firmly before unbuttoning his suit jacket and climbing into the driver seat again.

He adjusted his mirror, buckled his seatbelt then geared the car into drive and turned on his veering signal. You held your hands in your lap, letting your bag slide to the empty space next to you.

"How do you know John?" You asked, attempted to fill the silence and calm your nerves.

The driver glanced back in his mirror after veering back onto the street, meeting your eyes with his polite smile reaching his gaze.

"Mr. Wick is a regular guest at my hotel." He offered, which didn't ease you very much.

You grinned cheaply at the driver, then let it drop. "Oh, of course."

You assumed, by John's paperwork for Gunner, that he lived nearby. You turned to look out of the tinted window, trying to map the area you were driving into.

The driver continued, "I am the concierge of the Continental. Mr. Wick has done a lot of work for my hotel."

Your raised your brows at that, glancing in the direction of the rearview mirror to meet the driver's eyes.

"My name is Charon," he finally introduced himself, hitting his turn signal down a caddy-corner street before stopping at the corner before sleek, marble stairs up to ornate glass doors. "Mr. Wick will see you inside."

You flinched as your door opened with a bellhop standing quietly on the sidewalk. Charon nodded after you, with you unbuckling your seatbelt and grabbing your bag and umbrella.

You stood under the bright awning of the hotel as the bellhop shut the door, leaving Charon to drive around the curb to park the car. You held your umbrella under your arm awkwardly, righting the strap of your bag as you took in the darkening sky of the morning.

"Miss," the bellhop instructed, holding his crisp gloved hand in the direction of the dry stairs.

You politely smiled, then walked up to the front door only to be greeted by yet another bellhop. Maybe you should've stopped when you got out of the car, feeling that each step you took brought the warning pangs back.

It felt like a distracted descent, the quiet luxury and decadence of the hotel drawing you in though it felt hostile just the same. The bellhop at the door guided you in the direction of the seating area, where patrons were gathered at white tablecloth tables in front of floor-to-ceiling windows to enjoy their breakfast.

Your heart continued to race as you walked through the lobby and into the seating area, feeling particularly under dressed compared to everyone else around you.

John sat at the table, with Gunner sat next to him, sipping at his black coffee. His eyes were trained at the doorway, glancing at his watch to track how much time he had left to spend in your presence.

Your eyes scanned the room before finally stopping at John. He was dressed in a cleaner suit, his hair combed away from his face and drinking coffee.

He paused in his drink, almost rushing to stand as he rounded the table to pull out your seat. You rested your umbrella on the arm of your chair then sat down, looking up at him with a smirk.

"What'd I do to deserve this?" You asked, allowing John to aid your seat under the table.

"N-nothing," John said, reaching to smooth down his hair as he sat down. "Just wanted to talk."

Your smirk turned into a smile, sitting up straight as if trying to perform for the hotel itself. John breathed in deeply, taking in your demeanor before calling the waiter over.

"Would you like some coffee?" John asked.

You nodded, holding your hands in your lap only for them to be occupied by Gunner's fat snout. You grinned down at the pup, scratching behind his ears as the waiter approached with a pristine cup, pouring into it with a shining french press.

"You know, when I was imagining what you did, I never imagined it was tied to this," you commented as the waiter set your cup down before you, then offered a fresh cream pitcher to the table.

John quirked a brow in your direction, taking another sip to punctuate his next words carefully. "You were imagining what I do?"

You gulped and paused, realizing that you had said your inside thought out loud. "I mean, I do for a lot of people. Mostly just walking by," you sheepishly offered in reason.

Staring across the table at this stoic man, you were reminded of staying up even later after you finally told him good night, picturing his face as your hand rested on your chest.

John gave away nothing, his eyes still while he mapped the soft expression on your face. He bit inside his lip noting the minute flush of your cheeks, how you shifted in your chair.

He scoffed in amusement, letting your excuse slide. "What did you think I did?"

You shrugged, reaching for the cream and pouring it into your coffee cup. You sprinkled in sugar from the decor bowl in the center, then used your own spoon to stir it together.

"Your paperwork said 'retired'," you began, another internal strike with bringing up your interested reading of his and Gunner's papers. "I thought you were maybe ex-military."

John's smirk lifted. "Something like that."

He leaned back in his chair, not wanting to puff his chest in pride. He had to remind himself that this was temporary again, the mantra in his head repeating over and over.

"Have you always wanted to work with animals?" John asked, deflecting the conversation from digging any deeper.

You remembered Gunner's head in your hands, looking down at your lap to playfully mush his face. "Kind of. I love seeing all of their sweet faces. I'd hate to see them in pain though, so it's the best and worst at once."

John couldn't help his trained stare on you, as you bowed your head to pet and praise at Gunner. He knew he was taking things in an odd direction, but he thought that it'd keep both of you safe at once.

"So, that's part of the reason I asked you here." John added, sitting upright as his hand braced the table. "I'm going out of town for work, about three days, and was wondering if you could watch Gunner for me."

You raised your head, immediately meeting John's eyes. "You want to leave him with me?" You metered your question, though you were excited for the opportunity to watch such a sweet dog.

That, and maybe you wanted to do the hot stoic man a favor. Whatever that was, your heart fluttered at the thought of doing what John asked. Even though you didn't know anything about him, even though he came in looking dangerous and was now portraying a clean slate.

It felt that he was the bright sliver in the imposing building, even though it was all cast in the rainy shadows. You were confused, your head almost done in by your survival bells ringing though you were still approaching the 'yes'.

John nodded. "Yeah, but here."

You leaned forward, unsure if you heard him correctly. While you hadn't thought of what your landlord would say about bringing pets back to your place.

John spared a chuckle at you, genuinely amused by your response. With a shrug of his shoulder, he leaned back again.

"I received a comp for my room, so I'd like for you and him to stay."

You stammered, freezing to think of what to say before shaking your head. Your eyes darted around the large darkly painted walls, ornate paintings and decorations nothing to what you were accustomed to.

"John, I mean..." you weren't sure what to say, knowing this wasn't an invitation to stay with him. "That's very generous."

His face softened, dropping his hand from the table to tilt his head at you. "Please. You'd be doing me a big favor."

Your mouth opened to argue him further, but John's expression was un-moving. He was still stoic, no indication that his offer had strings attached. Even with the atmosphere of the place itself, you found yourself caving.

"It's just a few days, right?" You reassured him, and yourself, by asking.

John's face broke, finding himself smiling again. His cheeks were beginning to ache, realizing that it'd been a while since he smiled so long.

"Yeah, of course. And they have in-house breakfast and dinner, a transit service that you can use to get to work." John noted, hoping that you'd take advantage of it all just to keep you safe.

"I can use it to go to work too?" You repeated, looking down at Gunner than back at his owner. "Can I take him to work with me?'

John's nose scrunched. "If you want, but I'm sure Charon would be able to check in on him when you're gone."

You nodded, looking down at Gunner again before reaching to sanitize your hands. "I think I can do that."

"Good," John said, pulling the menu up slightly to glaze over the menu. His eyes glanced to his wristwatch, knowing that he was losing time to make it to his flight.

Still, he made no quick effort to speed up his breakfast with you. You looked at the menu on the table, your mouth watering at the options available. Of course they were were gourmet, nothing short of the place itself.

You looked up from the edge of the menu, taking in more of this stranger's presence before speaking up. "What was the other reason?"

John froze for a moment, unfortunately caught off-guard by your question. His eyes still scanned the menu, trying to keep his expression at a minimum though his mind was now doubling back on his words.

He wryly smirked as he finally drew his eyes up to meet yours. "Just wanted to check in from last night."

John stood awkwardly before the front door of the Continental, wondering what the polite way to depart from you was. You stood before him, having to tilt your head slightly to meet his eyes. He was taller than you remembered, though you were taking him in while on your knees petting his dog.

"I have to go," John offered, reaching his hand out to brace your shoulder. "I'll let you know when I land."

You smiled, nodded. "Okay, and we'll be here. I hope you have safe travels."

John squeezed tenderly at your shoulder, feeling how fragile you were under the weight of his hand. He felt a soft weight off of his mind, knowing that the Continental was a steel trap for any unwanted guests.

His smile softened, dropping his hand to pet Gunner's head. "Good dog. Behave."

And at that, you watched John leave, raising your hand to wave after him before turning to Gunner.

"Your daddy's gone," you pouted, reaching to pat his thick back. "I guess we should get you upstairs."

"Allow me to escort you," Charon chimed in, silently approaching you from behind.

You flinched, sucking in a harsh air between your teeth. Charon offered an apologetic look to you, his hands clasped behind his back.

"My apologies, Miss. Allow me to escort you and Mr. Gunner upstairs," he offered again, waiting for you to regain yourself.

You adjusted your bag on your shoulder, shifting your umbrella under your arm then waved for Charon to lead. He carefully reached his hand out to take your umbrella, holding it as he led you to the elevator then handed it off to one of the bellhops.

"That is the Miss's. Please do not get them confused." Charon stated, calling the elevator button then holding his hand out for you and Gunner to board first.

Inside, Charon hit the 8th floor button, the antique number lever slowly raising from its resting place as the elevator lifted.

"So, you know John well?" You asked, unable to help yourself.

Charon lifted his chin, looking over his shoulder to you. He offered his tight smile, the same politeness as before. "I'd say so."

You nodded, mentally chewing on his short answer before thinking of another question. "How long has he worked for the hotel?"

Charon's lips changed into a smirk, noting your inquisitive nature. "Approximately 20 years."

Your eyebrows raised then, realizing that John had been working around the time you got your first pet. You folded your lips together, feeling your heart flutter while trying to decipher what that meant.

"Oh, so how long have you worked for the hotel?"

Your curiosity was beginning to get the better of you, each bit you were fed only bringing up more. The further you got from the ground level, the lighter you felt away from the depths.

Whatever darkness was harnessed in the lobby, the foreboding rattling snake vibe it gave, did not reach the upper levels. The elevator opened to the ornate, older decorated walls of the hotel.

The floors were carpeted in a sleek line design, the wallpaper an almost unnoticeable fleur design.

"Long enough," Charon said, chuckling at his own joke.

You spat out an amused air, following the concierge to the room. He stopped at the room at the end of the hallway, fishing into his suit jacket to retrieve the key.

Charon turned the lock, propping open the door for you to enter. You paused just inside the room, taken over by the view of the city from wide windows at the crest of the room.

The ornate decor was not scrimped in the room, seeing through the carved accent wall before walking around it. Gunner traipsed through the room, jumping onto the crisp white sheets of the large bed and sighing like he'd had a rough day.

You looked to Charon, who nodded into the room for you to take it in. You took your time walking through the hotel room, taken aback at the quality. Sure, you'd been in nice hotels before, having stayed in some with accrued loyalty points.

But this felt like a new feeling. It was strange, feeling swayed by the elegance of this hotel being used for you, to watch a pup that didn't seem swayed either way.

Pausing at the wet bar, you wanted to pull out your phone to take a picture just to show your appreciation for John's minimal effort. But looking back at Charon, he straightened his lips and exited the room.

When he left, you rushed to the window to look out at the city. Even with loyalty points, it never bought anything like this. You couldn't help yourself, pulling out your phone to take an overhead view of the city before setting your bag down on the accent table behind you.

You rushed around the room, looking at the other cool parts of the triangle-shaped room. Gunner was unfazed on the bed, resting his head down with a groan.

You had to stop yourself in the bathroom, gasping at the oversized mirror with the bright light inlaid inside the reflective surface. Watching such a good boy was not worth this treatment.

Still, you took a picture of yourself in the mirror, scrunching your nose and sent both to John at once.

-Are you sure about this?? Is there something you're leaving out?

John boarded his charter, retrieving his phone as it vibrated in his pocket. The smile on his lips was subconscious, seeing that you'd messaged him.

Opening his phone, he chuckled at the two photos you sent him. He read your message, finding himself lightened at the scrunch of your face in the mirror.

He paused before his seat, finding himself regretting boarding for the nth time since he left the hotel. John thought of what he would do if he went back, if you'd stay around and keep him company on the sacred grounds of the Continental.

John turned and sat, crossing his ankle over his thigh as he typed a response to you.

John: Oh, I did forget. He's a bed hog. And he likes to steal bacon off your plate. So watch out.

You sat on the bed, staring at the text thread between you and the stoic stranger. You smiled at his response, ready to send another text as soon as you retrieved it.

John: I made it to the plane. I'll let you know when I land. I can't thank you enough for this.

You nipped at your inside lip, wanting to thank him back for the outrageous accommodations. Wanting to thank him for breakfast. Wanting to thank him for his company.

-Okay, safe travels. I'd love to see where you're going.

John's smile remained, staring at your response as the ladder was pulled up and the engines turned on. He exited out your text thread, searching through his contacts to find another number.

"Jonathan," Winston answered on the third ring. He sat in the smoking lounge, with Charon approaching to report. "We have Persephone in the Underworld Palace."

John's jaw grit, attempting to skew the view of you having your own free will. You had the freedom to leave, he had to remind himself, though he wanted you to remain on the neutral ground.

"She showed me," John offered in response, feeling the palpable silence on the opposite end.

Winston and Charon shared a knowing look, with Charon raising his chin and checking his watch.

"Are you sure about this?" Winston asked.

John looked out of the small window to his right, sitting back in his seat as he thought of how long it'd take for him to return to the Continental grounds.

"It'll give me time to think of my next step," John said, reaching to buckle his seatbelt with one hand.

Winston sucked at his teeth, tilting his head in deep thought. "You're dangling her over the pond, Jonathan. Are you sure this is the safest thing you could think of?"

John pursed his lips, shutting his eyes for a deep breath. "I'll be done as soon as I can. I can figure it out from there."

Winston raised his brows in Charon's direction, who shook his head in response. "Safe travels."

Upon ending the call, Winston exhaled deeply and directed to Charon. "Make sure our young Miss and her companion are cared for. Don't allow her exit without escort."

Charon barely widened his eyes, pulling his hands behind his back, ready to execute his orders but Winston raised a finger. "And invite her to dinner on the roof. The four of us. For Jonathan's sake."

Charon nodded. "Of course, sir."

You stood in front of your closet, having been escorted back to your apartment by Charon and Gunner.

The concierge extended an invitation to you and Gunner to join the owner of the Continental for dinner. Apparently he was a close friend of John's and wanted to meet you, as it wasn't often John extended invitations to "outsiders".

You would definitely ask about that as you cycled through your clothes, wondering what dining with the manager fell under for dress code. Everything else was just thrown haphazardly to you weekender bag on your bed: clothes for work, some leggings for taking Gunner on walks, anything for comfort because you felt that you would step outside of the hotel room for anything other than work.

When your bag was packed with your toiletries tossed on top, you turned back to your closet to contemplate your dress code.

For a high-class hotel, you opted for a white long-sleeve dress with a built in silk bodice. It'd suffice, you shrugged, because it was your best dress in your closet. You paired it with your most comfortable flats and stuffed it all on top of your bag.

You grabbed your phone charger from the wall then rushed out of the door, making sure everything was off in your apartment. You carefully took the stairs down to the front door, throwing it open to Charon carefully waiting outside of the car for your return.

Gunner poked his happy face out of the driver's side window, staring at other onlookers in silence. You shut the door firmly behind you, grabbing your key to lock it after you.

Charon straightened on his feet, opening the back door of the car while his other hand extended to grab your bag.

"You don't have to--" you tried to argue on holding onto your bag in the backseat, but Charon was firm in taking the straps of your bag.

In a fluid motion, he shut the door after you righted in the backseat then went around the back of the car to open the trunk. You glanced after him, seeing that he didn't linger behind and closed the trunk then returned to the driver's door.

Gunner moved over to the passenger seat, that window open as well, as Charon geared the car into driver and veered back onto the street.

"What's your manager like?" You asked.

Charon glanced in the rearview, his polite grin ever present in his eyes.

"Mr. Scott is an old-fashioned type. Cordial, gentlemanly, with a taste of finer things."

You pursed your lips, looking out of the front windshield, then Gunner. When you looked back at Charon, he was once again fixated at the mirror, expectant of your next question.

"Should I...shape up?" You asked, aware of every movement you were making at that point.

Charon chuckled again, which you were unsure if genuine or sardonic towards you. "I believe you will be fine, miss. I think that Mr. Scott will enjoy your company and questions."

Your lips flattened in a slightly embarrassed smile then turned back to the window. "I'll start thinking of more now."

John paused by the bar of the Rome Continental, steadying his nerves before his mission. He had to remind himself that it would be this would be the last.

Even with the taste of being back, John's mind flashed with the thought of you. He choked on his sip of whiskey, clearing his throat while he stared at the crystal in his hand. Helen.

His mind flashed with the thought of Helen. John blinked, remembering his ring and circling it on his finger. When he felt his chest begin to heave with a new wash of grief, he stifled it with a long pull of his whiskey.

Just as his phone buzzed on the bar. John set the crystal back down, staring at the notification of your message and remembering that he meant to inform you of his landing.

Opening his phone, John was greeted with a photo of you sat on the bed with Gunner sat beside you. You were dressed in a short white dress, the bodice reflecting soft light as you leaned over his dog and hugged his head against your chest.

-We're having dinner with Mr. Scott, hope you made it wherever safely.

John felt struck in his place, staring at the photo in the growing thread of your messages. His heart skipping a beat before he finally picked up his phone to respond.

John: I made it safely. Never knew Mr. Scott extended dinner invitations, you must be lucky.

He looked through his entirely empty photo gallery to share the photo of the Colosseum from his plane window. John sent the message, let his phone clatter to the bar again as he sat back in his chair.

The rushing thought of you instead of Helen made him go askew, knowing that it was wrong to do. He grit his teeth, shut his eyes to remember his late wife's smile and not yours.

This was not what he wanted to happen, hoping to keep you at an arms length but still close enough to be safe.

You stared at your phone as Gunner jumped down from the bed, reading and rereading John's message before staring at the crowded overview of Italy from his plane window.

You zoomed in on the photo, staring at the Colosseum as the flattest fixture amongst all the little buildings, all of it resembling a miniature map.

John pushed himself up from his chair, pocketing his phone as he left the room with determination. He wouldn't be distracted by any feelings, regardless of who they were for, tonight.

Charon knocked gingerly at the door, alerting Gunner to the noise. You slowly stood, straightening out your dress and stashing your phone in its pocket then met the concierge in the hallway.

"This way, miss," Charon stated, starting in the direction of the elevator as before.

Inside the elevator car, Charon turned over his shoulder to look at you. "That is an elegant dress. You look very nice."

You smiled, practically beamed and offered your thanks; you pulled your textured hair behind your shoulder then looked down to Gunner.

The elevator lurched to a slow stop at the top of the hotel. The doors slowly opened to a long hallway, decorated the same as the others, with double glass doors that led out to a concrete patio.

Charon held the door open for you and Gunner, allowing the two of you to step onto the hotel roof patio. The view of the city was surrounding half of the balcony, with a larger building blocking directly beside it.

Your eyes fixated on the black glass patio table, decorated with an ornate black runner and four chairs. At the head of the table, you acknowledged the older gentleman as he stood up.

He approached you carefully, allowing you to take in that he exuded opulence and class, noticing the gilded pocket square in his dark suit jacket.

"Bonsoir chérie," the gentleman offered, gently taking your hand and bringing it up to his lips in a ghostly peck. "My name is Winston Scott, it is nice to meet you."

You smiled politely at him, tilting your head at Mr. Scott. "Nice to meet you too, Mr. Scott."

Winston carefully dropped your hand, his face playfully scrunching in offense. "Nonsense, call me Winston."

Your smile twitched further genuine, forfeiting your nicety to agree. "Okay. It's nice to meet you, Winston."

Winston winked at you, then guided you to your seat at the other end of the table. "You look radiant in that dress. I can see how you caught John's eye."

You giggled nervously, watching the older man pull your chair back. Turning your back to him, you tucked your dress to the back of your legs then sat down as Winston aided your chair to the table.

Winston returned to his seat at the opposite end of the table just as Charon pulled a chair for Gunner to sit to your left then rounded to sit to your right.

You looked at the good boy sat at the table, waiting patiently with his mouth open. You couldn't help but snort at the image, thinking that you should've found him a bowtie so he could've fit in for the dress code.

As Winston sat down, he waved a hand to direct the waiter over to the table. A tall martini glass filled close to the brim with an orchid colored liquid. The liquid held a light shimmer as you shifted the glass closer to grab; your eyes narrowed, looking at the beaded garnish at the bottom in a clump of red seeds.

Just as Winston and Charon received their drinks, the hotel manager raised his glass. "Salud."

You took careful hold of the thin-stimmed glass and raised it from the table, repeating Winston's cheers before bringing the drink to your lips. It was bubbly and light, sweet and tart at once.

From the bottom of the glass, you watched the garnish break apart and you opened your lips to ingest a seed with a gulp. When you were satisfied with your sip, you rested the glass back on the table then savored the taste as the seed slipped down your throat.

"Good cocktail?" Winston asked, smacking his teeth to savor his martini.

You nodded, shifting the glass to your left. "Is that cherry? Almost a shirley temple?'

Winston chuckled, shrugging a shoulder up before setting his glass down. "Close. It's pomegranate."

You hummed, letting the palette of the drink reignite on your tongue with that new knowledge. Charon looked over to Winston, sparing a slightly amused shake of his head.

Winston shrugged fully then, entertained by his own theme. "What is it you do, my dear?"

You straightened in your seat, looking over to Gunner enjoying his lap bowl of water then at Winston. "I work for a vet clinic, very small. That's actually how I met John."

Saying it aloud and remembering the timeline, your mind rushed with how fast things moved. You blinked slowly, your heart stumbling in your chest at remembering John a day ago compared to now.

Winston raised his brows: "Oh?"

You nodded and continued. "He brought in Mr. Gunner here for a check-up."

You reached to pat Gunner's head and he panted happily in your direction. Another soft wave of shock went through you, remembering what he looked like when he came into your clinic.

He should've been off-putting, and yet...

Winston tilted his chin, pursing his lips in intrigue. "Gunner, huh?"

You almost ignored Winston's comment, meeting his interested gaze from across the table.

"And he drove me to my car that night," you added finally, remembering with the sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach.

You had a nightmare about those men last night, one only fought off by your stoic man in a muscle car. Tightening your jaw, you reached for your drink and wet your lips again.

"Hmm," Winston offered after a moment, turning to Charon for any input.

The concierge was quiet, his own lips pursed in slight interest. Winston smirked waywardly, straightening up to brace his elbows against the table.

He carded his fingers before his mouth, staring across the table at you and wondering what it was that made John choose you.

"Jonathan always has had a soft spot," Winston said after another beat of silence.

You couldn't help your grin again, hearing John's full name. You imagined him as a younger Jonathan, introducing himself as such and Winston never letting it go.

"How long have you known John?" You asked, replacing your glass back to the table.

You realized you were dependent on your drink, noting the glass close to finished. All the garnish was sneakily slipped down with the liquid, leaving the sparkling drink to reflect the encroaching moonlight.

The patio overlights turned on, banishing the darkness and shadows from the area. Your nerves, charged since entering this place, were now directed to performing for John's cohorts.

Not that you needed their approval, you wanted to prove to yourself your etiquette. The nervous inkling in the back of your head was growing louder over the lush warmth, telling you that Winston and Charon would report back to John with their findings.

And you sat back in your chair to come to terms with why you cared. You did like John, but bit your tongue. There was no reason to go forth and ruin something as innocent as a friendship.

Winston chuckled, dropping his hands to the arms of his chair. "Since...he was a young man. Over twenty years, at this point."

You hummed, raising your brows as you looked between the two men across from you. You almost wanted to ask how old John was, the thought making you giggle behind your fingers.

"So a long time, then. Doesn't show for you, Winston." You commented, smirking playfully across the table at the older gentleman.

"Flattery will get you everywhere, my dear," Winston offered, lifting his glass to you and taking another sip.

With that, dinner was served and a plate was placed carefully before you. The seasoned smell of the marsala tickled under your nose and made your stomach engorge with hunger.

The sweet liquor was only making it worse, opening your mouth to drool at the elegant layout of your plate. You glanced over to Gunner, who was fed steak tips on a plate and heartily cleaned his bowl.

Your eyes dragged across the table, to see Charon and Winston staring at you in wait. You smiled politely, allowing the waiter to set a black cloth napkin on your lap before stepping back.

You thanked him, picking up your fork and knife to inspect them a moment before cutting into your chicken. The echo of silverware followed, with Charon and Winston cutting into their food and eating in silence.

You eagerly wanted to call John to talk about this dinner afterwards, but knew it would be better to wait for him to call first.

John sat down to catch his breath, exhausted after yet another night of fighting. Did he enjoy this? Sometimes he had to ask himself, seeing as how he kept going through it. He sat forward in his chair in the lobby, shuddering as adrenaline worked out of his system.

The longer he sat, the more pain that came onset. He winced as he sat back, feeling that he'd bruised a rib from falling through the Roman Continental window with Cassian. John slowly pushed himself up to his feet, approaching the front desk to request his passage home.

He went up to his room, returned back downstairs and awaited in the lobby for the first sign of daylight to make his way to the hotel.

In the meantime, John retrieved his phone and turned it on. When it cycled through, he expected a message from you.

He expected a message from you, especially after dinner. John thought of what awful stories Winston drummed up to entertain you without giving too much away. His top lip peeled back in an embarrassed scowl, already hearing Winston talk about a young Jonathan.

John thought of sending you a message, but thought of the time in New York. He wasn't even sure what he'd say to you. He wanted to ask about dinner.

So he did.

John: How was dinner with the infamous Mr. Scott?

You were escorted back to your hotel room floor as your phone vibrated in your skirt pocket. Gunner rushed up to the door of the hotel room, baring his teeth in a low growl as you stopped to grab your phone.

-Delicious, who knew Winston was such a gossip.

John raised his brows at his phone buzzing again, this time showing Winston calling him.

"Winston," John greeted, sitting back in his chair while his eyes fixated in the direction of the sunrise.

"Jonathan, she's a delightful little sprite. I am not surprised why you're taken with her," Winston offered, carefully taking his stride to the elevator after letting you be excused first.

"I'm sure you've entertained her," John offered, actively ignoring his mentor's comment while his stomach sank.

"She's great at listening, Charon said she was full of questions." Winston looked over his shoulder to his concierge, who shrugged. "Am I off-putting to questions, Jonathan?"

John noised in response, stashing a slight grin. "I wouldn't say that. Maybe Charon is more...approachable in general."

"That is why I hired him," Winston said, pushing the call button for the elevator. "Has she contacted you?"

John scrunched his mouth to keep from reacting, knowing that Winston could hear his lies. "Not yet. I'm sure she's had a long day."

Winston scoffed over the line, stepping into the elevator and motioning for Charon to hit the button for your room first. "I'm sure she has. She seems to fit here, in a sense."

John grit his jaw, stashing the sudden jolt of fear through him. "I'll be home tomorrow."

Winston quickly gave up, nodding at the line. "Bueno notte, Jonathan."

John pulled his phone from his ear and ended the call, receiving your text soon after.

Gunner stood on guard before your front door, nosing at the crack while you waited for Charon to arrive with your key. You stashed your phone again as Gunner wedged himself through the crack of the door then threw it open with a slew of heavy barks.

You ran in after him, narrowly missing a harsh shove from a dark-dressed figure. They attempted to push past you and outside, but you threw a knee out to connect with their gut.

You were a rattled mess as the person fell to the floor, their face covered in a hood and mask. Looking around the room as they tried to crawl away, you grabbed at one of the ornate vases at the entryway and threw it at their head.

Still, they moved and you stamped your foot onto their back as Charon turned the corner with Winston behind. You were frozen, putting more of your weight on the stranger's back as Charon finally assessed the situation and ran to the room.

"My dear, are you alright?" Winston asked, standing aside as Charon picked up the burglar and dragged him out of the room.

You stared fixated after the stranger, your body trembling as your breath was shortened. You heaved, unsure of what you were but aware that you once again could've been hurt.

That if Gunner wasn't around, you would've been attacked. You were stiff, even as Winston touched your arm.

"Come now, let's go downstairs, hmm?" Winston offered.

You barely nodded, feeling your eyes sting with the threat of tears, and Winston guided you to the elevator. Gunner followed suit, leaving Charon to clean up.

John: Let's hope its all good things. I'm leaving first thing in the morning. Let's do lunch.

You sat in the smoking lounge, curled up on the leather couch while Winston offered you a cup of espresso. He'd gone to his office and retrieved a decorative throw blanket to match the rest of the opulent hotel.

He carefully draped the cloth over your legs, allowing you to sit in stunned silence as he sat in the leather chair next to you.

Winston mapped your face, wanting to find the inside of the shock. He wondered if you would question why the person appeared, or for what. But when you gave off nothing, he gave up and sat back as he received a message about John Wick.

Followed by a number, with a lot of zeros. He stashed a gulp, straightening his chin as he glanced over to you again.

"I apologize, my dear, but I urgent business to attend to. Charon will be here with you."

You nodded, bringing the small cup up to your lips for a sip. The instant bitter brought you out of your flight mode, looking after Winston before Charon took his seat before you.

"W-what happened to that person?" you asked, never catching if that person was a man or a woman. You wanted to ask more, but were sure that no answers would help.

Charon sat tall and stiff in his chair. "I phoned the police and they have detained them at the station," he lied, though his face gave no indication.

You shuddered, looking down at your espresso then back. "Did they take anything?"

"No, miss. All of the hotel's belongings are accounted for. I can't say the same for yours, but we can assess that when we change your room."

You knitted your brows in concern. "You're moving me?"

Charon blinked and smiled politely. "If you wish, miss. We would like you to feel safe."

You looked back down, nodded in agreement to his statement. But you didn't feel that the room was tainted, unsure if it was tattered looking for something.

"Is...is the room still intact?" You asked, bringing the espresso cup to your lips again.

Charon nodded once. "It is no detriment to move. It would be the floor below."

The more you thought of it, the dark shadows of your room would be the same on any floor. The new room would only call for the next stranger to slither in. You shook your head.

"No, I'll be fine," you said quickly, setting your cup down as Gunner sighed, resting his head on your thigh. "He'll keep me safe."

Charon glanced to Gunner then back. "He is a good guard dog. He should be employed."

The night went on too long, with you stationed in the smoking lounge to nurse your espresso. Your nerves, despite the coffee, eventually calmed with Gunner finding his temporary bed on the leather couch.

Charon sat with you in silence, allowing you to regain yourself until you were ready. Finally, you patted Gunner's back, waking him then moved to stand.

You threw back Winston's throw on your arm, grabbing your empty espresso cup to return to the bar. Charon took the blanket from you, folding it as he walked you out of the lounge.

He handed off the blanket to the bellhop, leading you and Gunner to the elevator and escorting you upstairs to your room. It hadn't occurred to you how much time had passed, the smoking lounge offering no clock or windows to acknowledge it.

As the three of you ascended, and you found yourself lightening once again the further you got from the ground floor. The trudge back to your room was quiet, with a bellhop stood outside of your door.

"Please let us know of any missing items," Charon offered, holding his hand out for the bellhop to open the door. "If you have any concerns, do not hesitate to alert this kind gentleman."

You glanced to the bellhop, who stood astutely in the corner of the hallway. You looked to Charon and nodded. Charon opened your door and held the door for you to enter, and you took careful steps inside.

The room was untouched, with only the entryway vase missing. You sucked air between your teeth, hoping that John wouldn't be charged for the decoration missing. Charon handed off your room key, letting the door shut after you.

When the door was closed, you kicked off your flats then walked cautiously around the room. Every lamp in the area was turned on, leaving no shadows. You exhaled deeply and sat down on the bed.

You rested on your side, staring over at the bar of the room as Gunner jumped onto the bed behind you. The curtains were pulled to hide the windows, leaving you in the warm glow of the lights.

Slowly, you let the events of the day lull you away to sleep but not without a few startled jolts to double-check the room. Soon, you conceded and drifted off, curling into yourself to keep yourself safe.

You woke up with another jolt at the sudden brightness of the room. The lamps of your room were shut off, the curtains drawn back to show the bustling city and the sun bouncing off of the nearby bridge.

Your eyes curled around the room until you were frozen by the dark dressed figure at the side of your bed. Slowly, your eyes drew up to meet John's scraped face, his hair combed back his ears.

You broke then, rushing up from your place in bed to curl your arms around his neck. You shuddered into his shoulder, your bottom lip pouting as you shut your eyes.

John barely recognized how long he'd been watching you sleep, knowing that it was wrong to do. But he was gauging his next moves.

His attempt had done nothing to keep you safe; his eyes looked around the room, seeing it as a ruined castle. When you hugged him, he was shocked out of his thoughts.

John folded an arm around your waist, holding you against him but not with his full strength. He knew it was better to keep you at an arms' length.

He'd failed you and Gunner, leaving you both in the security of what he imagined as powerful but was now realizing less.

You squeezed closer to him, steadying your breath the more you held on. John shut his eyes to breathe you in, stiffening as he realized his action.

He turned his face into your neck, unable to control himself, and breathed against your skin. Your chest tightened, the warmth of his breath rolling down your body.

Slowly, you turned to meet his cheek, finding your mouth parting in a soft pant. John found himself pulled in further, turning to meet your mouth and lean in to kiss you.

Your hand raked up his neck to clutch the nape of his hair, barely letting the moment be taken as mistake, and kissed him feverishly.

John's hand slid down your back, over your hip to grab the back of your thigh and pull you further into him. His eyes squeezed shut, following the efforts of your lips before taking lead and slipping his tongue in.

You groaned into him, your other hand grabbing at the front of his suit jacket. John pushed down the dull pain in his body, letting all other thoughts take backseat as his lust took over.

Gunner whined, making both of you part in a soft pant. John dragged his eyes from you then to his dog, shaking his head once.

He guided his dog to the front door, opening it to the bellhop. "Would you mind taking him on a walk? I think I've got it from here."

The bellhop nodded, calling after Gunner as John lightly shooed his dog to follow him. After the two were down the hallway, John shut the door and locked it before returning to you.

You thought he'd have regained himself in the moments away, returning to your friendly charade before breaking for brunch. But John resumed at your lips, his hand clutching the back of your thigh before folding you across the bed.

You were overcome with his touch, hazy with the rush. Your hands found their way into his hair, the other at the buckle of his belt as you slowly followed his lead.

John bit back with a hiss, feeling your fingers fumble at his waist. His hand went to cradle your cheek, kiss you deeply, before retracting his hand to grab your wrist.

He slid your fingers further down his waist to acknowledge the urgent swell of his cock. Both of you parted from your kiss in shock; you glanced down your bodies as John stared down at you.

He was approaching an edge he'd never imagined again, his body alight with heat. You shifted up on your side, attempting to roll onto John. However, John's knee shifted onto the floor and turned at the foot of the bed, pulling you onto his lap as he faced the window.

You straddled his waist, your knees on the carpet as you looked down at your hand still rubbing his cock. John stared up at you, his eyes dragging down to acknowledge the open shoulders of your dress.

He carefully reached behind you, unzipping your dress to peel the top of your bodice down, revealing your breasts. You shuddered again, your chest heaving at the sudden cool of the room.

John leaned in to catch your lips again, guiding your hand to undo his belt and pants. The two of you shared a few desperate moans, finding yourselves drawn together.

He freed his cock with a part from your mouth. He attempted to find his words, to ask if this was okay for you two to do. John knew they were careening to something both unavoidable and difficult to walk back from.

You rested your forehead against his, sharing his breaths as you shifted closer. With a lick of your lips, you tasted him on you; you reached under the skirt of your dress, peeling your panties to the side before lining up and sinking down on John's bare cock.

His face was gorgeous as it broke, his brows knitted as his mouth pouted, as if he were about to cry from the feeling. You sighed deeply in his face, your eyes lulling at the slow pop of his hot cock head into your wet pussy.

Your hand found its way into the nape of his hair as you sank down on his length, tilting his head back to ghost your lips before his.

John's tattered knuckles braced your hips, following your direction down onto him. He hissed, letting a moan slip from his lips. Consequences be damned, John thought, rocking your hips into him before ducking his forehead to your shoulder.

You groaned, turning your head back to the ceiling and following his hands rocking you into him. The two of you paused in relief, feeling the heat build between your bodies.

John brought himself back with a peck to your collarbone, then another as he crossed over your chest then down timidly lap at your velvety breasts.

He chastised himself for thinking of squeezing you, hardening his touch and speed on you. John knew that he'd break you eventually, but he'd stave off his darkness for the time being.

You worked up the courage to pull off of his cock, turning to moan into John's ear as you did. You barely made it to his tip, finding your core begging for him again and sinking back down.

John groaned, tilting his head back against the bed to meet your gaze. His dark eyes were dangerous, dark pools yet enriching and inviting. You took hold of his shoulder, working up to a slow ride as you leaned into him.

John trembled, unable to blink as you rode him in the morning light. He was overwhelmed with infatuation, a sickening salacity the more he spent under you.

He was reactive by you, whimpering and twitching as you rode into him, kissed him breathless. John felt that he'd met his match, an unbeatable adversary though he never wanted to cross you.

The sun haloed around your body, making your skin golden in his presence. John came back to you again, hearing your moans heighten as you were brought closer to climax.

You found yourself grinning down at John, seeing his eyes focus back on you. Your hand went to his jaw, then combed through his hair before resting at his neck. "Did I lose you there?"

John spared a blissed-out grin, parting his lips to catch your kiss again. He'd never admit it.

You cried into his mouth, feeling within grasp for your undoing. John hissed and kissed further into you, his other hand reaching under your skirt to touch your clit.

You bent your back into him, panting into his mouth with a cry of his name to follow. You felt the brightness of the room begin to blind you as you approached the edge; your hips rocked a little firmer, trying to pull John overboard with you.

Finally, you broke with a loud moan, twitching on John's cock as he bucked further into you and climaxed. You writhed on him, your fingers clutching hard into the nape of his hair as you tried to catch your breath against his mouth.

"John," you cooed, pushing yourself further into his body to chase his warmth.

He grabbed at your shoulder, attempting to still you over him as your walls begged for his cum. John shut his eyes upon release, snapping back into his conscience and realizing his impulse.

When you regained a bit of yourself, you spared a few amused huffs, pulling upright to meet John's gaze. You watched as his lustful eyes draw back and you combed through his hair.

"Hi," you said, humming at the stoic man against you. "How was your trip?"

John did his best to smile, pulling your elbow in to kiss your bicep. He dragged his lips up to your shoulder and kissed again. "Could've been better."

He didn't want to ask too soon about your night, having already heard from Winston. John knew it was dangerous to return directly to you, but he had to be sure.

And now he knew that wasn't the only reason. The two of you stayed in place for some time, taking in each other. John glanced over your shoulder to the widespread window behind you, noticing a glint from across the roof.

He held you still, staring further as his eyes narrowed on the long barrel of a sniper. John stashed a frown, turning back to you to appreciate you.

He was sickened by himself, seeing you as his shield for the time being. John exhaled, reaching down to tap your butt playfully.

"Why don't we close the curtains, call in some breakfast?" He asked, fighting against his racing heart.

You bit at your bottom lip, slowly pulling off of John's cock with a whine before turning and pushing to your feet. You grabbed the ends of the curtains and pulled them tightly closed.

John deflated against the end of the bed, looking down his battered suit. He was taken aback at how you mounted him in such a disarray.

You reached to unzip the rest of your dress, but was met by John's lips on your shoulder. You shut your eyes, soothed by the warmth of his mouth.

He slipped his hands down your arms, shrugging your dress from your body and leaving you in your panties, bare in the front of the room.

John shrugged off his jacket then circled his arm around your waist to direct you back to bed. "Go on, I'm coming."

You followed his order, climbing onto the bed and peeling the comforter back. John pulled his belt from his pants, did the same for his tie before unbuttoning his shirt and dropping his pants.

He hurriedly undressed, though you never saw any effort. He moved intentionally towards you, resting a knee on the bed then the other as he grabbed your ankle and pulled you back.

You stretched your arms out above your head, finding yourself directly under John. Your faces aligned, his eyes skirting over your face. His hand cupped your cheek, his thumb tempted at the corner of your mouth.

At the same time, his other hand circled around your stomach then down your hip before sliding his fingers into your wet pussy. You crooned, raising your hips to chase his touch and meet his body.

John kissed your chin, admiring the breaking on your face. He dragged his fingers in and out of you slowly, tracking every minute pinch and wain of your face.

"You're beautiful," he whispered, finding his words to not be his own.

John felt detached from himself, swirling a dark abyss of desire he hadn't thought of for a long time. You grabbed onto John's bicep, sucking in a breath between your teeth before moaning when his thumb folded against your clit.

"J-John," you stammered, your fingers clutching tighter as you found yourself fighting off another climax.

It was too late when you realized the bruises on his body, the wounds decorating his lean torso. Your mouth gaped with another croon, squeezing your eyes shut suddenly as you came on his fingers.

Warm rushes wracked through your body, causing you to roll further into John while you fought off the sight of his body being your undoing.

John's thumb at the corner of your mouth peeled back your bottom lip, flattening his finger along your gums. You pulled his hand further into your mouth to sensually suck at it before dragging it along your bottom teeth.

John was pulled further, the look in your eyes along with the feeling of your pussy around his fingers making it difficult to find pause. You licked the tip of John's thumb, dragged it down your body as he trailed his eyes after it.

His stomach sank then, his hand paused and flattened between your breasts. Staring back at him, as he felt your heart thrumming under his touch, was his wedding ring.

John's hand began to shake, staring at its placement against your body. You stared up at him, seeing that he was no longer meeting your eyes and was fixated at the placement of his hand.

He felt the room go askew, finding himself getting yanked out the abyss and washed ashore. John half-blinked, pulling his fingers out of you before climbing off of the bed and walking away to the shower.

You sat up on your elbow in John's wake, turning your head to watch him walk away. "John?"

You were unsure of what you did, if anything. But now, you were left bare. Righting yourself on the edge of the bed, you slowly followed after John into the bathroom.

John set his ring on the bathroom counter as he reached around the glass wall to turn on the shower head. He welcomed the silence for a moment, wanting to sieve through his thoughts as tangled as they were.

Stepping under the spray, John sighed and dropped his shoulders. He let the warm water roll over his body, drip down his hair as his muscles began to relax.

You stood at the door of the bathroom, watching John in silence before stepping up to the shower wall.

"Can I join you?" You asked softly, not looking up at him as if you'd done something wrong.

John waited a beat, shutting his eyes as he nodded under the rainfall spray. "Yeah."

You peeled your panties to the floor then stepped out of them and into the shower. You let the warm water dampen your hair, letting you slick it down between your shoulders as you turned your back to John.

The two of you shared the shower as if you were strangers still, the air palpable and dewy.

John raised his head and slicked his hair back, glancing over his shoulder to you. You wrung out your hair, turning under your arm to look at John and taking in his back tattoo.

You were taken in, turning around slowly to drag your eyes along his full back tattoo. You reached a finger out to touch at the center cross behind prayer hands.

John stiffened at your touch, his eyes overly blinking from the weight of the water on his lashes. You traced your finger around, noting the words between his shoulders without understanding what it meant.

"I was married before," John offered in the silent patter of the shower.

It was the least of what he wanted to say, his want for you and his feeling for his wife leaving him suspended in telling the truth. John swallowed, dropping his head to his side as you paused at bruise on his love handle.

"I still wear my wedding ring..." he admitted, his chest shaking for a moment, "it hurt to look at."

You paused dropping your head against his shoulder as your hand circled his side. "I'm sorry. You should've stopped me."

John straightened up then, turning around to face you. His tattered hands cradled your face, searching your eyes for an ounce of disdain towards him.

"I didn't want to stop..." John whispered, leaning in to nudge his nose against yours. "I...don't want to stop."

You let your eyebrows screw up in confusion, wanting to know what this stranger wanted. Because with learning more about him, you remembered again that he was a stranger.

"I want you," he muttered against your lips, tilting your chin to peck your lips, "to make it stop hurting."

Your heart lurched into John, feeling that he was saying it wrong but not wanting to dwell on it. You let your attraction give him leeway, letting him take your mouth again and soothe away your doubts in an instant.

You bowed into him, quavering as his hands slipped down your neck, then shoulders and elbows; he took in the slippery feel of your skin, admired how you molded into him this way.

He inhaled deeply through his nose, circling his fingers down to your hips and around the small of your back. John felt the swirl draw him back in, the taste of your mouth sickly sweet.

He bit away from you, hissing between his teeth as he tried to dampen the muddy thoughts within him.

You held your hands at John's sides, opening your eyes to witness the turmoil on his face. Your own stomach turned, lifting on your toes to kiss him again.

John nipped your bottom lip, pulling back on his hold to turn you around to the shower wall. He felt his vision tunnel on you, dragging his hand down between your legs to greet your pussy with his wet fingers.

Your nipples graced the cold granite of the shower wall, bracing with a soft gasp before John's fingers slipped into you. You rested your forehead against the granite, unable to hold back the moan lodged in your throat.

Your shoulders worked back, spreading your legs to allow John's touch further. John flattened his hand on the granite next to your face, lining himself up behind you.

He pulled his fingers out, using his hand to stroke his strained cock. John bowed his head, guiding his length into you and groaning at the welcoming warmth of your walls.

His hand went to your hip, gripping you tightly as he attempted to level himself. Your nose smushed against the granite, your mouth gaped open as you panted against the hard shower wall.

Your hand reached back to touch John but he took your hand and crossed it behind your back. He pumped into you once, earning another noise from you.

When he withdrew, your walls begged at his return; he pumped in again, making your knees buckle slightly.

John bent forward, kissing at the back of your neck before nipping at your shoulder. You turned, squishing your cheek against the wall to watch John's lips migrate down your back.

Your other arm folded directly before your chest, allowing the dampened air to coagulate in your lungs. John was slow in his pace, metering his noise to hear you echo against the stone walls.

His free hand reached around to ghost his fingers over your clit, allowing himself to get lost in the clench of your walls. John's lips trailed over the back of your shoulders, baring his teeth to nip at your skin.

He was painfully aware of how much he wanted to hoard you, to keep you stashed in this room with him with no end in sight. John knew he'd be able to to protect you alone for how ever long you wanted to stay with him.

The closer you got your climax, the more John became infatuated. Every moan of his name, he was dragged further into you, ready to use his resilience for whatever means to please you.

He pulled you off of the wall, draping your body against his chest; John's hands slipped over your wet body, pushing you further into him as you finally came on his throbbing cock again.

John lost his control, ducking his face into your neck to mutter his praise.

You rested your head on John's lap, staring across the bed at the breakfast tray by his feet. You tried to make yourself small in his dress shirt, wanting to take up as much of his warmth as possible.

Brunch had encroached into lunch, the Continental eggs Benedict turned into a nice club sandwich and fries.

John wanted to remain in the solace of the room a bit longer, knowing that he'd have to leave and face his consequences. As long as you didn't have to, John would task himself to clean up his mess better than before just so you wouldn't suffer.

He folded the newspaper in his hands around to scan the inside pages as Gunner sniffed in the direction of John's abandoned club.

You reached out to grab a few fries from John's plate, dragging them across the white comforter for Gunner to take.

John flipped to the next page, disinterested in the sports section. "I saw that."

You side-eyed Gunner then glanced up at John. "No you didn't."

John shook his head, eyes lazily dragging over the fine print of the newspaper. He looked so comfortable in this state, how you imagined he spent his Sunday afternoons at home.

"How long were you married?" You asked, feeling the comfortable silence grind to a screeching halt. It had plagued you since he mentioned it and no matter how many times John made you cum to keep you quiet, the question still remained.

John's eyes glanced down at you, his face never moving from the direction of his newspaper. His chest tightened at the question, feeling his ring finger pulse when you asked.

He relaxed his shoulders, folding his newspaper haphazardly before resting his hand on your shoulder. You shifted in bed, propping your chin up on the tops of your folded arms; John's hand migrated to the middle of your back, admiring how good you looked in his dress shirt.

He praised the tailor's choice for a dark shirt, hiding the blood staina better. John thought of how dangerous his hand was, how many men he'd taken down with just them. And he was tenderly rubbing your back.

"Five years," he said after a few beats of quiet. John set the newspaper on his lap, holding it there with his hand.

You raised your head, shifting closer to John. The two of you were past the formality of tiptoeing hard subjects, you felt. At this point, you knew that there was two possibilities of this ending: in bitter tragedy or a new beginning for the both of you.

So you asked: "What's her name?"

"Helen," John said, turning his full face to you. He decided to get ahead of your line of questioning, to explain how you were both here now. "She died earlier this year. She told me..."

He was cinched then, imagining her handwriting on Daisy's kennel. John felt the pain bubble up again, seeing his wrongs. "That I needed to love something more than my car."

He chuckled mirthlessly, hiding a gulp that lodged in his throat at his last word. Your brows raised slightly, sitting up on your elbow.

You two were there yet and, while you knew that to be true, you wanted to get there. Hopefully, one day.

"That's why I got Gunner," John added, seeing your reaction and realizing another mistake.

The two of you let the collective sigh alleviate the room, allowing you back down to rest your head on John's thigh.

"I'm sorry for your loss," you offered, reaching your hand out to tenderly caress his bruised side.

John nodded, resuming his hand on your back. The two of you returned to your previous action, your eyes lulling with the temptation of sleep.

The questions were hard to wade through; John understood that if you were going to be around in the dark pond, you would soon learn about the very facade he put forth.

He cleared his throat, ready to admit his hard truths that he left behind; it would be easier for the both of you to leave the Underworld unscathed.

John's phone vibrated from the nightstand and he was tempted to silence it. The precarious bubble surrounding the three of you was already threatened, and John didn't want a call to break the tender surface.

He picked it up, realizing that it was a message from an unknown number. John stared at it, seeing that it was an attachment but made no moves to unlock his phone.

You heard your phone begin to vibrate, somewhere discarded in your dress skirt pocket. You groaned, rolling your head back and forth on your hands with the attempt to convince yourself that it was a text.

But then your ringtone began to chime. John heard it too, turning his head in the direction of it. His hand became heavier on your back, attempting to keep you in place.

"Hold that thought," you said, sitting up to kiss John before climbing out of bed.

John's eyes were trained on you, watching as you pulled his shirt to its full length, barely covering your bare ass. He watched intently as you bent, searching through your dress to find the offending phone.

You stood up, rolled your eyes at the Caller ID and answered to your coworker. "What's up?"

Her voice on the other end was slightly shaken, telling you that there was a puppy brought in that was hit by a car.

"I-I can't deal with putting him down, can you come in?"

You glanced over your shoulder to John and Gunner, both of them enough reason to stay in bed. John sat back again the headboard, draping his arm over it with the invitation for you to return to his side.

You groaned in annoyance, bouncing on one foot in the slightest of tantrums. "Can't you call someone else?"

"I-I tried, but one of them is at a Communion and the other is out of town."

You pouted, knowing that you being the single one in a vet clinic meant that you were left to do the dirtiest of work.

"I guess....I can be there within the hour." You forfeited, turned to John as you said it.

And just like that, John's bubble burst.

"You didn't have to drive me here," you said as you and John sat a red light.

"Why wouldn't I?" He asked, reaching over to rest his hand on your knee.

You scoffed, turning to John. "Because I know you've got to be tired from your travel. I could've gotten Charon to bring me."

You were appreciative of John driving you on such short notice, but you wanted to give him a little space. It still felt too fresh, whatever you had, and you didn't want to impose so much that he ended up pushing you away.

"Please, I'm a faster driver," John said with a grin as the light turned green. He let his foot of the brake, tempting his gas pedal as he tilted his head at you. "And I don't want you depending on Charon when I'm around."

You smiled, reaching over to touch the back of John's neck. You could get used to touching him, running your fingers through his hair or scratching his beard. But you were getting ahead of yourself.

"Thanks," you offered softly just as John pulled up on the curb in front of the clinic. "I'll call you when I'm done?"

John nodded, leaning into your hold as you kissed him. "Maybe we can do dinner?"

You laughed. "Hopefully it won't be that long, but we'll see."

You kissed him again, then a third time before you hummed against his lips knowing that you were on an urgent timeline. "Okay, okay. I'll see you in a bit."

You threw open your door and got out, carefully shutting the door of John's car. He bent across the center, offering a wave to you as you opened the door to the clinic and looked back a final time.

He watched you walk in, though his stomach dropped as the door shut behind you. Something felt wrong and his proven instinct was off.

John's phone buzzed again in his pants pocket and he geared his car to retrieve it. Another attachment sent by the unknown number, this time with a message to follow.

Unknown: Come out, John. We have something you want.

You looked around the clinic, seeing most of the offices shut down for the weekend but the light in the exam room on. You called after your coworker, flipping on the overhead lights in the lobby.

When you got no answer, you looked over your desk for paperwork then started towards the back room.

John reluctantly opened the message thread from the unknown number, his heart clenching at the first photo. Of you and him, from the view of the window earlier that morning.

Though you looked so beautiful on his lap, your dress exposing down your back in the morning light, John was chilled at the angle. The same position of the sniper that morning.

He looked after you, seeing that you'd disappeared further into the clinic, then went to the second photo. You, through the view of a porthole window, wearing the clothes you'd changed into. He noticed his own car from the glass door.

John shut off his car and threw his door open, haphazardly closing it before running after you into the clinic. He tapped his side, acknowledging his gun stashed in his waistband and drew it when he was inside.

He called after you, hearing no answer as he looked around the sterile, quiet clinic. John straightened up, holding his gun out as he continued stepping cautiously.

"Hello John," a voice responded from the double doors into the surgery room. "You've been a hard man to track down."

John grit his teeth hard enough to hear his jaw resound. His nostrils flared as he tried to level himself, knowing that he had to keep a strong front.

"I thought 7 million would've made you an easy target, but you're a smart man to hide."

"I wasn't hiding," John retorted, not allowing the comment to show him a coward.

He stepped up to the wall, trying to see into the bright room. John caught a glimpse of you, petrified against Santino's shoulder as his hand grasped your mouth.

You stared, bewildered through the small porthole window, catching a glimpse of John's face. You barely shook your head at him as Santino raised his gun to shoot out at the glass.

"Right," Santino continued, pointing the gun to your temple and making you panic, crying at the thought of his finger slipping. "You had gotten distracted. Which is dangerous in your line of work, you know that."

You gulped, quivering in the hostile man's hold. John righted himself against the wall, popping the clip to check his ammo. He took another careful breath, turning back in the direction of the window before ducking across to the other side.

"You could've tried getting out again, but you'd just end up owing somebody...again," Santino taunted, playfully tilting his gun about as he thought of it. "And then when the next wife dies along with the next sad pup, the cycle of John Wick would continue."

You whimpered, looking out and darting your eyes back and forth to find John anywhere. John couldn't find an answer, thinking more about what he was putting you through and what it would mean for him to stop.

If he could stop.

He didn't want to admit it, but Santino was right in a sense. John didn't want to keep owing people for the life he'd been luck to have once.

He especially didn't want to do it twice. Not that you weren't worth it. But danger seemed to lurk whether he was in or out.

"It wouldn't happen again," John said finally, after thinking for a moment. "I wouldn't let anything bad happen to her."

Santino tsked, turning the gun back to your head. "It's a little late for that. Look at where we are now."

John shut his eyes, coming to terms with his consequences once again. He carefully put the safety back on his gun and held it to his side.

"Fine," John said, pushing open the double doors. You cried from behind Santino's hand, incoherently begging for John to do anything else. "You're right."

Santino huffed amusedly through his nose then looked down at you. "You need something done, you do it yourself, eh?"

Santino turned the gun onto John, readying to shoot as you noticed the reflection of his pistol in something on the stainless steel table.

Looking down, you noticed a full syringe of clear liquid. You flicked your eyes back to John as he saw your eyes look away.

He barely nodded in your direction as Santino pulled back the hammer of his gun and readied to shoot John. "No hard feelings, John. Just avenging my sister."

At the same time, you felt his arm loosen around you and you took the opportunity to grab the syringe and stab it into Santino's neck.

Your fingers fumbled at the plunger, slowly dispensing half of the clear liquid into his blood stream. Santino grabbed the syringe with his free hand, taking his other to smack you away.

"Stupid bitch! This is men's business," Santino turned the gun on you and John called for his attention.

"Hey! You want to kill me. So kill me," John offered, raising his hands.

Santino narrowed his eyes at John, looking from him to you and back. "You're not...even going to try to beg me?"

John shook his head; you kicked at Santino's ankle, causing him to stumble then crawled after him to grab the syringe again. This time you righted yourself over Santino's body and stabbed the needle into his chest.

You hyperventilated, staring at the man as his eyes widened in fear. You trembled again with the plunger, releasing more liquid into his chest.

Looking over to John, you hoped he would find the words you couldn't. You didn't even understand what this was about, but you were caught in the middle of it.

John met your gaze, feeling his hands going cold at the thought of you getting hurt. The decision was still so muddy, but he was aware of where to start.

"Call it off," John said, reaching to grab Santino's gun and point it at the man. "Call the bounty off."

You turned back to the man, his hair wild as his eyes were twitching in disdain. "Why should I? You gonna kill me too?"

You stared at the plunger in his chest, your thumb on the weapon. You glanced over your shoulder, seeing your coworker dead in her puddle of blood along with the dog that Santino brought in to bait her.

"T-this is pentobarbital," you bluffed, nodding to the syringe in the man's chest. "There was enough in this syringe to kill you twice. But I've on-ly used ha-lf."

Your voice betrayed you in a moment, but you stared at this man under you as if he'd wronged you personally. And he kinda did. He ruined an almost idyllic morning by running egotistical games.

John withheld his surprise, glancing at your profile while you reasoned with this stranger.

"Call it off, and I can undo it," you lied, unsure if you could make such a promise.

"Bullshit," Santino spat at you, looking over to John. However, by the stone-cold look on John's face, he was inclined to believe you.

You straightened up and looked down your nose at this man, floundering to be let up but realizing a lack of options. Your cold thumb tempted at the plunger further.

"Y-you would feel it in your knees first. A dull pain that washes away when you can't feel your legs." You tried to narrate, reluctantly mapping out the process when you so wanted to forget it in pets.

"Your heart will start rushing soon, hoping to pump enough blood to circulate down to your toes, but then your fingers will lose feeling."

Santino gulped and you barely glanced to John as your brows knitted and your eyes watered. "Let's get your phone out before we get to that, because there's no turning back from there."

John watched in stunned silence, holding the gun pointed at Santino for any sudden movements towards you. Santino did as instructed, pulling his phone and typing in his code.

He dialed the number slowly, staring at you strong-handing the syringe. When it rang, he glanced over to John, unfazed.

"Pull the bounty for John WIck." He stated when he got on the phone. "Yes. Santino D'Antonio. 758042."

"Yes sir," the operator on the opposite end stated. The line was quiet for a moment and you held your breath. "Your bounty is rescinded. Is there anything else--"

You smacked the phone away from Santino before he could say anything else then leaned back for John to take the shot. He blinked in the flash moment, then aimed and shot Santino.

The splatter of his blood from his head decorated your face and you were sat in the shocked silence of the past few moments. Santino's dark phone lit up with a message.

Unknown: Bounty: John Wick rescinded. Disregard previous messages of subject.

You let go of the syringe, looking down at your cool trembling hands before you felt a pair of thick arms curl around you. John wasn't sure what else to do in the moment, knowing that nothing he could say would make up for it.

He pulled you up, held you close and swiped the blood from your cheeks. John rested his lips to the top of your head and kept you still when you tried to tremble.

He expected you to cry, ready to coax you down, but you were silent. Grasping at his shirt, you turned your face into him and held tight. Your breath slowly returned to normal, shutting your eyes to rid yourself of the sight of your coworker dead. This strange man dead.

John knew that what came next wouldn't be easy and he was dreading every minute of it.

You sat in the car with John as an unmarked black van pulled up in front of the clinic. Looking over at him, you expected John to get out but he only nodded in the direction of the clinic as the older gentleman stepped out of driver's side.

Without word, the man nodded and patted at the back doors of the unmarked van; the double doors opened and you jumped slightly at the men that followed out. Each of them was dressed in dark clothing, two of them holding mops and buckets while the final two carried unmarked bags into your place of work.

Slowly you turned to look at John, hoping for some sort of explanation. John watched as you did, his face frozen in the sense of unknowing where to start. So he tried going for simple.

"I'm a contractor," he said, turning his body to face yours. "I do freelance work for anyone who pays me and I do most of my work out of the Continental."

You gulped, your eyebrows knitting in concern. "S-so Winston and Charon are..."

"They know about my work and aid me in doing so."

You raised your shocked brows even further, unsure of what contortion your face was in at the moment. "Oh, okay."

Though it was not okay.

You had dinner with assassins, or contractors as John explained it. You fucked a contract killer.

You fucked a contract killer. You gulped, the thought giving you butterflies.

"So you're not like...an assassin that kills for fun?"

John raised a brow in question then shook his head. "Only bad people, and people who've forgotten that they're bad."

Your face flattened a little, ready to ask your next question as you remembered the stranger in the hotel room. "I'm not being targeted, am I?"

John slowly reached for you, taking tender hold of the side of your throat as he leaned in. "No. And this is not a long con. Meeting you was just coincidence. I just...dragged you into my darkness. And I'm sorry."

Your bottom lip trembled, staring into John's dark eyes and seeing them melt with his sincerity.

"I like you," he began, his chest tightening at the confession. He'd slain 200 men in a single night, he'd killed an extra 100 to avenge his dog, but here was when he felt nerves. "I want you to stick around. If you want."

You instinctively reached for him, pressing your lips to his. He lost his breath, putting his other hand to the opposite side of your neck to hold you close.

When you'd had your fill, you parted from him with a trembling sigh.

"Is that a 'yes'?" John asked, rubbing his thumbs before your ears.

You smiled nervously, taking hold of John's wrists to keep him there and nodded. John smirked softly, wondering what was going on in your head in that moment.

"You'll keep me safe, right?" You teased, though you wanted the reassurance.

John nodded.

He let his hands drop and you took hold of them. "I'm guessing you're gonna stay in this line of work a bit longer?"

He tried to keep his face neutral, though it loomed overhead as the next big step. Slowly he nodded and watched your body deflate upon doing so.

"Just a little longer," John said, leaning forward. "I've got a month saved up at the Continental and I'd like to use my points before they expire."

You broke with an amused scoff, turning away from John's face trying to hold back from smiling. You rolled your eyes at him, feeling this as a new beginning for the both of you.

"And it's got your name written right beside it," John added, tilting his head. "I know that room service has been calling your name."

You laughed then, barely sparing a glance to the men as they returned to their van. "It'd give me time to look for a new job."

You didn't want to bring it down, but the reality encroached again. John grabbed your hands and pulled them in to kiss your knuckles.

"We can figure it out together," John said, rubbing his thumbs over your hands.

His darkness paired well with yours, he saw. John only witnessed a glimpse of it, but it would do well if his month stay turned into two. Or five.

Depending on how much trouble he got into. You bit your lip, staring down at your hands intertwined with one another.

"Did you...hurt his sister?" You asked, letting the words spill out before you could stop them.

John was still for a moment, taking in a steady breath. "I made a blood oath before I got out that he'd be able to hold over my head if I ever came back. He used that promise to kill his sister."

Your face scrunched up slightly. "That's so vile."

"Yeah," John said, running his thumb over your knuckles as if measuring each one in size.

You raised your gaze to meet his. "And he crossed you even after that?"

John nodded, letting you get accustomed to whatever this new beginning was starting from. You looked down again, sorting through your biggest thoughts by importance.

"T-there was a person that broke into..." you mindlessly thumbed over your shoulder, remembering the long night you'd had before this one.

"They were trying to gain the bounty." John said, staring after you as if he was losing you to your own personal spiral.

"Charon said he contacted the police." You snapped up to look at John again and he bit back a smile at your concern.

Your eyes were watering again, this time your bottom lip ready to pout from your teeth. He reached up and coaxed a tear away with his thumb.

"No contractor business is allowed on Continental grounds," he tried to offer as solace but knew that the next part would jar you. "It's an excommunication rule."

You stared at him, hoping that he would explain further.

"The consequence is death," John offered as solace. "It's a safe place. That's why I wanted you to stay there."

You dryly scoffed at him, turning into his palm. "You were trying to keep me safe?"

John nodded. "I saw how shaken you were that night when I picked you up. I wanted to look out for you."

You pursed your lips. "Were Charon and Winston looking out for me too?"

John's lip curled slightly. "Charon, yes. Winston as you've said, loves to gossip. The man can't help but know every detail."

You tilted your head against the seat cushion, pinning John's hand against your cheek. "Did you tell him about me?"

It felt wrong to ask in such a situation, but there was no doubt that your meet-cute with a contract killer was fucked up.

John hid a roll of his eyes, his cheeks raising though he lined his lips together. "I told him enough. He called you...my Persephone."

You reached for his hand, shifting it down for his thumb to brace your lips. You blinked, narrowing your eyes at him. "He's funny. I guess this is kind of like the Underworld. Contractors and blood oaths, sacred hotels and clean-up crews."

John raised his brows at you. "Still okay with staying?"

Your stomach, for the first time in the past few days, felt realigned with steel. Though hostage situations were something you never wanted to get used to.

You raised your left hand, pointing your pinkie out. "If you promise me something."

John's lips pouted to the side, never eager to hear about promises in his line of work. He slowly raised his left hand and pointed out his pinkie, waiting to hear what you had to offer.

"Name it."

"You promise to keep me safe if I need it, you can't dump me during a mission and you teach me how to shoot a gun."

John's brows quirked then, his mouth a wormy squiggle to withhold his amusement. He nodded, reaching his large pinkie out to hook around yours. "Deal."

"And..." you added, just as you hooked your finger around his and held him there. "We get dessert in bed and Gunner gets a plate of fries. Also I want to go with you once on a mission."

John's mouth scrunched up under his nose, his cheeks bottling his want to laugh. It felt good to have that still within him.

"I promise."

"Also," you continued, biting your bottom lip. "You help me move out of my apartment."

John chuckled, pointing his finger at you from his interlocked hand. "Now that's too far."

"Said the contract killer," you jested.

John metered his nod back and forth with another soft laugh. "Okay, fine. Also, you don't have to tell me not to dump you."

The two of you stayed locked in your pinky promise as John looked from it to you.

"Promise me something."

"Shoot," you said, scrunching your nose at the poor choice of word.

"You let me know if it gets to be too much. If you want out at any time, I will let you out. I don't want to keep you where you don't want to be."

You hummed, softly smiling at this man. You wanted to stick around for a while, even longer than that. But you didn't want to tell him so.

Even though you were sure this man was the opposite of squeamish. Nothing like boys you'd dated previously.

"Okay."

"And..." John drew out like you had, pursing his lips in soft thought. "I want a full day in bed, with you. Gunner'll have to stay with Charon."

You giggled softly. "Okay," you said, shaking your head in John's direction. "I promise."

The two of you solidified your pinky promise with another soft kiss; John let his hands untangle from you as he felt his ring finger pulse again.

He paused, looking down at his hands and circled his ring on his finger.

You slowly came down from the adrenaline and mushiness spilled and stared at John fiddling with his ring.

"If it's too soon for you..." you tried, but John shut it down with putting his ring hand on the steering wheel.

"I'll be fine," he said with a sigh, aware of when he'd take it off.

It wouldn't be for a while, and he should've asked if it was alright with you. You didn't even notice it, feeling that it was just a part of him.

"So was it pentobarbital in that bottle?" He asked curiously, starting the car and gearing it into drive.

You reached for your seatbelt, glancing out of your window at the vet clinic then buckled yourself in.

"I don't think it was," you said geniunely, unsure if it'd make a difference.

John turned his car into the underground parking garage and circled the top level to find a space. The two of you were going over John's excursion in Rome, why he was really there and what he had to go through to get home.

"That's so fucked up," you offered, unable to create any other cohesive thought.

John shrugged, which gave you the note that this was a normal thing that happened sometimes.

You leaned in, intrigued to learn more about this other half of John. There was John Wick, the mild-mannered dog dad that fucked so hard that you shivering at the thought.

Then there was John Wick, the contract killer who took down a mafia of men in the time it took for you to have dinner with Winston.

"What do they call you?" You asked after John geared his car into park then shut it off.

John raised his brows, glancing over at you. "Don't laugh."

You straightened up in your seat, mimicking a zip of your lips closed before nodding at him to continue. John smirked and undid his seatbelt.

"Baba Yaga," he offered, awaiting your eventual snicker.

But you were perplexed, staring at him. "What is that?"

He blinked once, turning to you fully. "The Boogeyman."

You stared at him, knowing that there was no doubt in your mind that while you feared this man just a little bit, you were attracted to him more.

You looked around the desolate parking lot then back at John. "Anything else?"

"The Wolf, The Devil..." John added, unsure if those names were even true but wanting to amuse you.

You leaned over to John and exhaled a trembling breath. "Is it wrong of me..."

You couldn't finish that sentence aloud, knowing that it was a bit twisted to want him more. The man had just shot another man in front of you...and yet...

You caught John's mouth in a fervent kiss, edging your knee over the center console to sit in his lap. John was surprised, making such a noise as his hands held your hips.

You blindly reached between his seat and the door, finding the handle to recline the two of you back.

John groaned at the sudden movement, but didn't break from you. He pressed his hand into the small of your back and held you tighter against him, allowing you to roll your body against him.

"I-I'm sorry," You offered, parting from him with smaller pecks to follow. "I don't know what came over me."

John looked at you from behind his half-mast eyelids, taking in your trembling chest and legs spread over him. The image of you that morning flashed by again, trying to hide the other twisted side of it.

"Let's go upstairs," he added, his voice hitting a new low.

You felt your body cinch at his utterance, reminding yourself of the euphoric kisses and bites that would come from it.

You nodded, reaching for the driver's side door and climbing out. John attempted to regain himself, righting his seat before grabbing his keys and climbing out.

You didn't expect this place to become a sanctuary to you. The dark foreboding walls, something echoing to the Asphodel, was not inviting like you'd seen most places.

The marble floors, the sharp edges, the posh guests, all of them were out of your wheelhouse of comfort. But you were relieved to enter the lobby of the Continental.

It felt like it held a new charm, one that you prayed never left. You were awash with a sense of security, taking John's hand and leading him to the elevator.

You pinned him against the wall, nudging your nose with his before tempting him with a kiss. He leered after you, his eyes fluttering close with the thought of tasting your lips again.

You nipped at his nose instead, bringing your fingers up to scratch through his beard.

When the two of you made it back to your floor, you grabbed John's hand and started towards your door. At one point, John's arm circled around your waist and he lifted you into him, carrying you to the room.

The two of you stopped at the door, with you fumbling to take the key from John and open the door. You felt his breath over your shoulder, his hands already making their way down the front of your pants.

You shook your head alert, finally making the key open the door and clambering in with John hot on your tail.

You barely made it to get your shoes off before John expertly undid your pants and tugged them down. You bowed onto the bed, readily hiding your shame at how wet you were.

John pulled your pants down to your ankles, then off before turning you onto your back. He took your knee, pulling your legs open and stashing a hard gulp at the sight.

He had no words to say, knowing that the truth would be squeezed out of him soon enough. He reached for his own belt, undoing his pants and freeing his stiffened cock.

You looked down at the comparison, his cock flush against your stomach. You whimpered as he drew himself back, pushing his cock head against your clit before letting it slip over your stomach again.

You threw your head back in frustration, knowing that you wouldn't last long being teased. John watched like an instinctual predator, waiting for his best strike.

His bare hand went to rest at your chest, feeling your racing heart beat hard. John pulled back again, rutted his cock against your clit then let it slide, gathering your wet and streaking your belly.

You whined again, drawing your knees up from the edge of the bed. "John, please."

He would savor every time your lips formed his name; he tilted his head back, soaking it in to puff up his chest when he was normally without flaunting an ego.

John dropped his head again, glaring darkly at you from under his brows. He rutted a third time, earning your writhing. Your head turned back and forth on the comforter, your fingers reaching out for him but never grasping onto him.

"C-c'mon," you hiccuped, finding yourself a disheveled mess. You were flustered and growing on embarrassed, as if John was showing off how turned on you were by him.

By what he did.

By what he did for you.

You gulped, tightening your stomach as you watched him rut a final time; this time he went back and pressed his cock at your entrance, making you drop your head in relief when he slid into you.

John's hand at your chest dropped down to your stomach, leveling your core to feel every inch of him. You practically vibrated upon the new sensation, finding yourself drawn closer to a peak you weren't even acknowledging.

John took his hands away from you to run them under your shirt; he tenderly shrugged your top from over your chin, blinding you the cotton as his cock thrusted into you harshly.

You lost your breath, gasping when he shrugged your shirt over your head and up your arms before pausing there. He flattened himself against you, catching your bottom lip between his teeth with a tender suck.

His fingers threaded through yours, tangling both of you in the cuffs of your shirt until he finally pulled it off of you. John did his with pulling away from you and reaching between his shoulders to rip his shirt over his head.

The cream top yanked up to reveal the yellowing and purple bruises along John's sides, ones you knew now to be wounds for his effort. He went above and beyond in his work, it showed deeply.

John tossed his shirt away, returning over you to feel your chest rise and fall against his. He wanted to undo you further, have you bare to him in the physical and vulnerable sense, but he didn't want to throw off his pace.

You keened when he hit a particularly soft spot within you and he recognized it as your second weakness. John licked his fingers and dove them between the two of you, finding your clit with expert precision and circling it.

You grabbed onto his shoulders, wanting to hook into him if he was going to keep on. Your pants heightened against his mouth, drawing more moans from you as his other hand peeled your leg back to your side.

You broke another inch, your eyes crossing as you glanced to the ceiling. John took it in stride, using his lips to level his chin and meet your eyes. "Did I lose you there?"

Your face scrunched in pleasure, just as your chest tightened with the threat of explosion. "You are the Devil."

He chuckled mirthlessly against your lips, taking them in another kiss as he continued his pace. The two of you found yourselves drawing further up in pleasure, finding the heat culminated between you two enough of a catalyst for you both to cum.

You were first, your mouth falling open in the moans of John's name. Your walls beckoned him further, stunting his thrusts from going too deep before he finally succumbed to your heat.

He rested his elbow next to your head, groaning and hissing in pleasure. The two of you shared your caught breaths, staring at one another in the dim light of the room.

You prodded your tongue to your bottom lip, your eyes raking up and down John's body. He did the same, though he paused at your neck and dove in to kiss you there.

You shied away, raising your shoulder to giggle at his warm breath wafting down your neck. He liked that sound, he wanted to hear more of that.

[delicioushottubpeanut]

In the Dark

Part two of my lil two shot fic for our man Paddy! This one is just pure smut (with some fluff). Can be read by itself, as the first can be read as a standalone!

pairing: Paddy Mayne x Fem!Nurse!Reader

summary: Seeing you in his clothes made Paddy feel absolutely feral, and he hated himself for it. Finally, he realises you want him just as bad as he wants you.

word count: 4748

Part one is listed right here. No need to read it if you don't want any backstory.

unedited

warnings: language, mentions of war, blood, teasing, begging, oral (f!receiving) paddy gets pussy drunk, slight degradation, breast worship, possessive behaviour, bodily fluids, biting, mouth covering, unprotected sex but pullout method, aftercare, soft!dom paddy.

let me know what you think! I love feedback!

_________

"Paddy," You speak again, slowly this time, as if the very weight of his name on your tongue became a soft hymn. "Don't hide from me."

"M'not hiding," he attempted to argue, the words falling short as another sigh left his lips as you dragged your nails across his hips. He says your name again this time, half in warning, half in protest. "You're just playin' a very dangerous game here."

"So play with me then." Your voice sounded like warm honey, sweet despite the sinful desire that laced your words.

"Christ."

Paddy's eyes almost plead with you. The blues bearing into your darkened gaze, pleading to tell him to leave, that you're just not thinking straight. That maybe you didn't want him like he wanted you, merely toying with him like usual.

But you didn't.

The words never came.

There were no jest or taunts.

Instead your fingers continued dragging across the thin cotton of his tee, gliding dangerously close to the waistband of his pants. He watched through half lids, his breathing coming out laboured as he clenched his fists.

The veins in his arms looked even more prominent in his tense state, and you adjust the way you were laying, moving to sit on the haunch of your legs.

You didn't miss the way he eyed your thighs, the bare flesh screaming his name, begging to be seized.

Paddy looms over you, the low light from the lantern flickering just enough to see the water from his shower still drip from his hair.

His broad shoulders, scarred and bruised, the rise and fall of his chest as he attempted to steady his breathing.

"Careful now." His voice deepens as he says your name right after, his head tilted as his right hand reaches out, stopping yours from continuing its little journey.

His large hand encompasses yours, covering it entirely. He doesn't push you away, just keeping it still.

He looks over his shoulder, staring at the closed tent walls. His men lay ten tents down, the faint sound of their chatter greeting both of you.

You tilt your head, looking up at the man through your lashes.

God, the very sight of you alone could killed him.

No war necessary, just pretty eyes and lips to die for.

You say his name softly, a different tone to his. It was obvious he had a million thoughts running through his mind, some causing the tent in his pants to grow even more.

"We don't have to do anything," you continue, tugging his hand away from yours, entwining your fingers instead. "We can just go to sleep, I don't want to make you uncomfortable."

"Uncomfortable?" He immediately looks back to you, his eyebrows furrowed, almost annoyed you could even think negatively about yourself. "Is that what ye think you're doing' to me? Making me uncomfortable?"

Your words stutter, worried you might dig yourself a deeper hole. Paddy however squeezes your hand tighter, not enough to hurt, but enough to make your breath hitch.

He says your name again, demanding you look at him properly.

"All I want to do is lay you down and go to fuckin' town," He says the words so casually, you couldn't help the way your lip quivered, the way his classy speech made the heat in your belly grow more per second. "But we can't - I can't, ye deserve better than some shite tent and a wire bed."

That's what he was worried about?

Lord.

"Paddy," You couldn't help but chuckle, using the grip on his hand to stand to your feet, your legs shaky from the awkward seating position you had been in. "I'm not worried about where we are, far from it." He helps you stand to your feet, once again eyeing your every move - almost afraid this was a hallucination from a concussion he wasn't aware he had. "Ye should be, sand can be a bastard."

"Noted," You laugh, the sound causing the tension in his body to ease just ever so slightly. "Paddy?"

He hums in response, his hands reaching down to rest on your waist, his fatigues feeling thin as they rest on your skin.

"I want you to touch me," You tell him, choosing to not beat around the bush any further. "I would like for you to touch me."

"Am touching you," He replies, his eyebrow raised as he steps closer, crowding you until your legs touch the edge of his bed once more. "S'that not good enough?"

Your eyes close, feeling the heat of his body pressed against yours. His erection strained against his pants, and you could feel the hardness rubbing against your front.

You trembled slightly, and Paddy noticed every little shake, smiling down at you.

"I-it is," You nod, but you reach for his hands, sliding them down your waist and under the fatigues until Paddy continues the movement himself. His rough hands felt surprisingly gentle as they glide across the bare flesh of your ass, his calloused hands kneading the skin. "Jesus."

"So soft, so fuckin' pretty," He mutters, continuing to run his hands over your behind, pressing himself further into you. "You take such good care of us all, y'know that right?"

Your head falls against his chest, his touch alone making you feel unbelievably hot. Nodding, your fingers bunch at his shirt, and you sigh, feeling Paddy press a kiss to your temple.

His lips stay close to your ear, one of his hands reaching up to cradle the back of your head.

"Don't think I've ever thanked ye properly," His fingers lingered in your hair, his grip tightening just slightly. "Bit rude of me, isn't it?" You shake your head. "Pad-"

"Lie down," He interrupts you, stepping back to let you move freely. You hesitate, his words causing your mind to whirl. "Go on girl."

Biting your lip, Paddy raises his eyebrow once more, watching you intently. "You refusing an order?"

If you weren't unbelievably turned on right now, you'd have half the mind to tell him he wasn't your boss, that he couldn't tell you what to do.

Truth be told, Paddy could tell you he was six feet tall, and you'd believe him, even though you had working eyes.

He eyed you like a man starved. Could he sense the ache that gnawed behind your chest every time he was near you? Could he feel the heat that bloomed low in your stomach with each touch?

He was far too observant for his own good, of course he could.

Paddy offers you a sheepish smile, and he watches as you lower yourself to his bed once more, lying back until your head rest against his pillow.

Clearing his throat, he kneels down on the bed once you're settled and his hands outstretch, flexing as they rest against your knees, shuffling until he kneels between your thighs comfortably.

His large hands part your thighs, an audible groan leaving his chest at what greeted him.

The two of you remained completely clothed, and it confused you. Sure, you weren't wearing any underwear beneath Paddy's shirt, but the man before you was covered, and you tapped his hand, pulling him out of his trance as he eyed your soaked pussy.

"What are you doing?" You whisper, feeling like your vocabulary was slowly but surely short-circuiting.

His brows lifted slightly, a flicker of something you couldn’t quite place crossing his face. "What am I doing darlin'? Oh, nothin'."

Mother fucker. His knuckles brushed your skin, sliding up and over your legs. He was taking his time, observing the way you trembled beneath his every touch. Savouring it.

"You ever been touched like this?" he almost purrs, parting your legs even further. "You're always so headstrong, so sure of everything, 'specially when you're teasin' 'lil old me."

"Paddy I've fucked bef-"

"Shh," He cuts you off, a familiar smirk growing on his features. "Not talking 'bout that, I'm asking if you've been cared for, properly."

You didn't answer, looking down at where he rests between your legs. It was your turn for your breathing to quicken, your heart pounding against your chest, ready to burst at any given moment.

The silence was enough for him to gather an answer, and he chuckles to himself.

"That shut you up didn't it?" he continued, smug and confident. "About time."

Your eyebrows furrow in confusion, but before you could respond, Paddy leans down, his head disappearing between your legs.

A gasp immediately leaves your lips as his hands slip up to grope at your ass, pulling you further down the bed and closer to his mouth.

The fatigues you wore had been bunched up awkwardly around your stomach, your lower half exposed to the air, to Paddy.

He presses a kiss to your inner thigh, then another, and another, letting his lips memorise ever little shiver you give beneath him.

He nuzzles against the top of your pussy with his nose, and he inhales, lifting slightly - just enough to poke his head up and look at you through your parted thighs. "You gonna be quiet f'me?"

Paddy could've laughed at how quickly you nodded, eager for him to continue. His head dips again, and although the words were muffled, you just managed to hear him mumble a good lass.

God.

He so badly wanted to comment on how wet you were for him, how much you had already leaked onto his sheets before he had even touched you, but he decided against it.

It was hot.

You were soaked.

He was relentless.

A cry left your lips, to which you immediately shoved one of your hands in your mouth, biting at the flesh to stop any further sound.

His tongue licks into you like a man starved, slow circles dancing beside quickened flicks, his lips pressed against your cunt as his nose rubbed against your clit.

Your other hand flies into his hair, gripping and tangling into the half dried strands as Paddy grins against you.

His tongue dips slowly between your lips, savouring the taste, groaning as you tugged at his hair tighter. With every stroke forward, he made sure to nudge at your swollen clit.

You'd think he had been deprived, starved, lapping at your pussy like it was his last meal on Earth.

With your toes curling, Paddy wrapped his arms under your thighs, shifting the way he laid so they rest against his broad shoulders.

The angle let him see you better as he gazed up, smiling to himself upon seeing your eyes closed, your hand between your lips and face contorted in bliss.

He couldn't help but grind his hips into the bed at the sight, chasing some friction as his cock strained harder against his pants. His fingers grip your soft skin tighter, almost as if he was scared you would disappear beneath his touch.

"Fuck, Paddy-- Oh god," your words came out muffled against your hand as you pulled it away from your mouth, the flesh covered in the indents of your teeth. "Fuck."

Your breathing was ragged, your lower half grinding against the lieutenants face as he groaned against you, the vibration shooting straight through your cunt.

Paddy's tongue slides down harder through the slick, dipping inside your hole before sliding back up, his lips sucking onto your clit with a sound so filthy, it made you grind harder.

He was never-ending, determined to feel you writher against his tongue. You were unraveling before him, it had been so long since you had even touched yourself, let alone let anyone make you feel like this.

It was the quietest Paddy had ever been, save for the little groans leaving his chest with every tug of his hair. You could feel your orgasm approach, and you were determined to drag it out as much as possible.

Your mind began to wonder, trying to think of anything but the man between your legs, devouring your pussy like it was his final day alive.

You wondered if it would feel different if he still had his beard, if the sensation would be the same.

Okay, you weren't trying hard enough to think of anything but Paddy.

"T-this shut you up, didn't it?" You repeat his words from just moments prior, surprised you could even muster up the strength to speak.

Your words were softer, sweeter, almost breathless and full of something he couldn't explain.

He moans again, and you half expected him to taunt you, tease you and make you beg, but he doubles down.

He was drowning in your taste.

Every lap of his tongue drove you closer and closer to seeing stars. You were barely holding it together, and you look down at the man between your legs, feeling the way his fingers gripped at your thighs tighter, almost pulling your ass off the bed and further into his mouth.

Every nerve was on fire. Your skin was hot, thighs shaking, your feet digging into Paddy's upper back.

"Paddy," you gasped, throwing your head back against his pillow. "I-I'm, I gonna-"

He speeds up, and it hit harder than you thought possible.

Hard. Blinding. You felt yourself shatter and your thighs close around his head as your back arched. Not wanting to pull his hair out, your hands reached for the sheets beneath you, grasping at them tightly.

Paddy didn't stop for a second, eager to draw it out as long as he could. Every little sound, every whimper and whisper of his name was like poetry to his ears, and he knew he was done for then and there.

He lapped at your release before kneeling back onto the haunches of his legs, wiping at his soaked mouth with the back of his hand with an audacious grin.

Your lips were parted, body shaking beneath him as you stared up at him through a lidded gaze, smiling at the smug grin he sports, some slick still glistening on his cheeks and down his neck.

"Thought I told ye to be quiet f'me," Paddy reaches down, grabbing the hem of his shirt and throwing it up and over his head.

The white vest falls to the ground, and he falls forwards once more, resting over you with one arm pressed to the side of your head, supporting his weight. "Didn't do a good job now, didya"?

He was so beautiful, his chest marred with various scarring. His shoulders tensed, the veins in his arms demanding attention.

Aftershocks still riddled your body, and you just shrugged the best you could, parting your thighs again to let him lay between them.

He was just inches from your swollen pussy, his clothed cock still unbelievably hard and twitching in his slacks.

He chuckles at your lack of words, his other hand coming down to stroke your cheek before it slides down your jaw, his touch tender.

His fingers glide down further, down your neck until they reach the top bottom on his fatigues.

"You look like a right beauty like this," it was as if he wasn't speaking directly to you, but to himself, reminding himself that you were real, here and beneath him. "Wearing my clothes, laying in my bed, s'good, s'right."

Paddy unbuttons his shirt slowly, revealing more of your skin to him with each passing second. As your breasts were freed from the cotton, he pushes the sleeves down, letting you slide the shirt off.

He helps you sit upright just a little, pulling the garment off your shoulders and you giggle, watching as he tosses it somewhere to the floor.

He inhales sharply as you lay completely bare. He'd be lying if he said he hadn't seen you naked before, truthfully having accidentally peaked when he babysat your showers.

It was different now, as your chest rose with every intake of air, your nipples hard and pebbled - he couldn't help but lean down, taking one in his mouth, and your head fell back once more, your hands pressed against his shoulders, nails digging into his flesh with each suckle.

You were so beautiful, even more so like this, falling apart underneath him. You were like an annoying little angel in his life.

Your breasts were the most soft and perfect mounds, and if it were up to him, he'd never have them hiding behind your nursing uniform.

Releasing your nipple with an audible pop, he turns his attention to the other, his hands reaching up to grasp both breasts, squeezing and pushing them together.

"Paddy," You whisper, your hand dragging up his neck to pull at his hair, causing his head to snap back. He releases your nipple, looking at you intently, his blue eyes dark. He hums your name, turning his head to press a kiss to your inner wrist. "Can I return the favour?"

He groans at the question, but he shakes his head. "I want nothin' more than to feel your smart mouth around me," he swallows, almost as if fighting something inward. "But I want to fuck ye, and I can't say I'm gonna last very long love."

The admission caused you to grin, laughing softly as his cheeks warmed. He kisses your wrist again, rolling his eyes at your giggles. "Yeah, keep laughin'," he pushes you back down to the mattress, sitting back to pull the waistband of his pants down, just enough to release his cock from its confines. "You're gonna make some more pretty noises real soon."

His cock stood tall, hard and leaking at the tip, swollen and no doubt aching. Paddy grabs his shaft, giving himself as few languid strokes before he once again settles between your legs.

Broad arms tense around you as he supports his weight, and your body shudders in anticipation.

Paddy cages you in, and you arch, desperate to have him closer.

"Please." you whisper, almost whimpering as he tuts.

He fists his cock once more, dragging the head of his weeping tip through your leaking cunt, still sensitive from his tongue just moments before.

"So fuckin' pretty." His accent sounded thicker now, a darker contrast to his normal tone. A rough groan leaves his lips again as he drags the thick head through your slick again, slow and deliberate, teasing in a way. His jaw clenches, his entire body tensing as he curses.

He felt like he was lost. Lost to the feel of your pussy as he glided his cock through your folds, lost to the taste of you that still lingered on his tongue, lost in the way his name left your lips like it was the only prayer you knew.

"I think you're gonna be the death of me," his voice sounded wrecked, a whisper. He makes a sound akin to a whimper, watching as your eyes flicked down to where he was gripping himself, noting the way your breath hitched ever so slightly. "And I don't think I mind very much either."

"Paddy," you murmur, dragging your hips up so his cock dipped further down, tilting your head as you bite your lip. "No more poetry, please just f-"

The bastard pushes forward before you can continue.

Your body instinctively clenches around him, a deep choked sound tearing from his throat as he pushed into you with a slow thrust, sinking in inch by inch until his hips were flushed with yours.

It burned, you weren't going to lie. It had been some time since you had been with anybody, let alone someone of Paddy's size. It was delicious, even with the orgasm he had brought out of you, your body still gasp, your fingers digging hard into his shoulders.

The two of you both swore at the same time, Paddy instantly praising you for taking him so well.

"Christ," He grunts, his head falling to your shoulder as his chest falls against yours, caging you in completely. His hands grip at your waist, his grasp so tight that you were sure you would be bruised by the time the sun came up. "Just as I imagined."

You moan at his words, at the stretch, at the way he felt so thick and warm inside you.

It was as if he had taken the air from your lungs, stolen your very breath as all you could do was cling to him as he set a mouth watering rhythm, his hips slamming into yours in a desperate rhythm.

Paddy's lips were on your neck, muttering sweet nothings and into your skin between his own ragged breathing.

He whispers your name, the very sound on his lips causing you to clench around him. He cries out at the action, his hips twitching, and before you knew it - he was sinking impossibly deeper, his cock pressing further into your tight hole.

A cry escapes you, and Paddy reaches up, covering your hand with his mouth as he thrusts harder. Muffled moans and choked sobs are hidden beneath his hand, and he presses a kiss to your shoulder as you cling to him.

The bed squeaked beneath, reminding the two of you of the flimsy state of it's frame and where exactly you two were.

He should've cared more.

He should've given you a proper room in a safer place.

But lord above if you didn't make the vast desert outside and this little tent feel like cloud nine.

You were being loud. Hell, he was being loud.

He didn't care at all.

Your nails raked down his back, your thighs wrapping around his hips as you whimpered his name from under his hand. Paddy revelled in the way you shook beneath him, the way you clenched around his throbbing cock and soaked his thighs.

The very way you squirmed, the way you moaned and marked his flesh with your nails felt like every poem he had ever read.

Unforgettable.

The hand over your mouth shifts, stroking at your cheek as he turns your head, finally pressing his lips against yours, swallowing every little moan you gave him.

His tongue parted your lips, moving with a steady purpose as he licked into your mouth, groaning, eyebrows furrowing as his thrusts grew rougher.

Utterly his.

Your taste, lingering from his moments between your thighs mixed with your spit. It felt filthy, an intimacy neither of you were used too.

You belonged to him.

Utterly yours.

Paddy moans into your mouth, his breathing sharp as your sinful cries fill his ears. "Beautiful," he stutters against your lips in-between kisses, pecking the corner of your mouth. "Ye feel so fuckin' good."

"P-Paddy," You whimper, and he coos, bringing his lips back to yours to muffle the loud noises once more. "F-fuck."

He belonged to you.

"I know darlin," He pulls away, still inside you as he adjusts the way he was resting between your legs. His arms cage the side of your head as you look up at him, a blissful and fucked out expression that no doubt mirrored his own. "I know."

You were a mess beneath him, hips lifting to meet every stroke, your nails digging into his arms now, breasts bouncing with every thrust. Paddy was unraveling with every sound you made, every little squeak and murmur of his name.

So tight, so warm, so wet and fluttering around him with every slow thrust of his hips. Each roll of his body drew a breathy moan from your lips, and he drank them down like they were keeping him alive.

He grins as he sees you arch against him. "Just like that," he rasps, his voice dripping with a sultry tone. "Look at ye."

Your head falls back against the pillow, eyes closing as the familiar build up of heat started forming in your lower stomach. Every time your hips rocked against his, he felt that pulsing clench of your cunt, squeezing him in, and he knew you were getting close.

Paddy was surprised he had even lasted this long, especially with how pretty you looked losing yourself under him, how fucked dumb you looked.

He was close too, his balls tightening as he grinded into you so deliciously, memorising the way your walls squeezed him.

Angling his hips, he chuckles as your head turns, gasping into his pillow. He tuts again, bringing his fingers to your jaw and forcing you to look into his eyes.

Your mouth opened in a sharp gasp as your orgasm hit you, body seizing under his as your eyes rolled back. With your thighs trembling and walls fluttering around him, your nails dug into his arms causing him to wince at the pain.

Gasping his name, Paddy groans, leaning down and swallowing your cries once more with his lips.

He kept moving, kept fucking you through it with a slow and steady thrusts. In true Paddy fashion, he wanted to tease you, mock you for how much you lost yourself because of him - but he couldn't, even if he tried.

With your pussy still clenching around him, warm and wet, his control lifted. He panted, pulling away from the kiss and shaking his head in an attempt to gather himself as his hips stuttered.

With punched-out gasps, Paddy pulled out, a whine and choked sob leaving the both of you as he reached down, stroking himself hard and fast.

His jaw clenches, his teeth pressed so tightly together as he looked you over, watching as you gazed up at him in a lovesick haze. He was in awe, continuing to fist his cock with earnest as you bit your lip, your left hand sliding over his chest.

Sweat clung to both of your bodies, the air hot and smelling of sex as Paddy grips your thigh with his other hand, thrusting into his hand one final time.

He cums hard, his hips shuddering as he spills across your stomach and breasts. His whole body shakes, his teeth gritted as he grunts your name, ropes shooting from his tip and painting your skin.

His head drops to his chest as he gathers his breath, his chest rising and falling rapidly as you begin to giggle beneath him once more.

Words escape him for a second, which was unusual, and he narrows his eyes at you as he peers down, his own smile growing on his handsome face.

"What's funny?"

"I'm going to need another shower," Grinning, the two of you looking down at his release on your front. You still shivered, your body twitching at the two orgasms he coaxed out of you. "Third one today too."

"I just fucked ye," Paddy shakes his head, running his hand over your hip as he moves to lay beside you. His cock softening between his legs as he shifts, making sure not to press on your hair as he lays down. "And you're thinkin' 'bout the shower?"

The two of you were beaming at each other, basking in the glow of the lantern lit tent. You both just lay there, eyeing each other with half-lidded gazes. His hand strokes at your cheek tenderly, and you lean into it, holding onto his wrist, gazing into his eyes as he leans forward again, pressing a softer kiss to your lips, pressing against the swollen pair.

"Love you." He mutters, his eyes closed in fear he'd see regret, in fear he'd see rejection.

He feels your hand on his cheek, mirroring him, and he slowly opens his eyes, seeing your adoring features, a gentle smile upon your heated skin. "I love you too," you tell him, and he exhales, nodding. "Idiot."

He kisses you again, and he goes to say something when loud and audacious moans and groans can be heard from outside. Grunts follow it, and Paddy sits upright immediately, shielding your frame from whoever may enter his tent.

Claps greet you both.

Another grunt can be heard, followed by multiple choruses of laughter. "You two done in there?" Someone laughs, smacking the side of the tent. "We need the nurse, Pat's awake."

Someone moans again, attempting to sound feminine as you bury your head in your hands. "Give us a minute," Paddy yells out, half embarrassed, half amused. "Bastards."

He gives you a nudge with his elbow, giving you a pointed look with a lopsided smile. "You did tell them to come find you if they needed it."

Your eyes widen as you smack his arm.

Bastard.

[delicioushottubpeanut]

Light in the Dark

Part One of a two shot I'm making for Paddy! No actual smut in this one, I wanted to write something that could be read as a standalone + with a part two containing the smut.

pairing: Paddy Mayne x Fem!Nurse!Reader

summary: Seeing you in his clothes made Paddy feel absolutely feral, and he hated himself for it.

word count: 3010 words.

unedited: it's 2am again ... I cannot be bothered.

warnings: language, mentions of war, blood, wounds, medical language, reader has hair (my bad, we washing our hair in this), sexual tension, impure thoughts, mutual bullying, mutual attraction despite denying it, borderline possessive behaviour, nsfw themes but no actual smut!

let me know what you think! I love feedback! Unless it's mean, then that's stink energy... like, comment, reblog, mwah.

———————

“You smell like shite."

"Hello to you too Paddy," You chuckle, writing in your journal. You hadn't looked up to the Lieutenant as he entered your tent, keeping your head down as you continued writing in your stock inventory. "Are you well?"

"M'fine," He answers quickly, looking you over. His gaze lingered over your uniform, the small drip of sweat that dripped down your neck and beneath the fabric. Paddy clears his throat. "Here to take you to the showers."

Oh.

You hadn't even realised the time.

6pm on the dot.

Bathing was a luxury here, but being the only woman meant you couldn't shower at the same time as everyone else. Begrudgingly, Paddy has been tasked with supervising you as you bathed, albeit with his back turned.

He trusted his men, as did you, but it was apart of the terms to having you on site. You showered when the sun was coming down, and Paddy made sure there weren't any peeping toms trying their luck.

"Right, of course," Nodding, you quickly stand, packing your journal back into its place on your makeshift desk. He watches intently as you run around the infirmary, picking up pieces of clothing you had strung up to dry. "Let's go then." "Oh you're ready are ya?" Paddy quips, checking his pocket watch with a dramatic sigh. "No s'fine, I'll wait around for you to paint your nails next." Snorting, you barge past him, being sure to bump into his shoulder with your own with your clothes in hand. He grunts at the action, turning around to follow after you. "Keep being a bastard and I'll paint your nails next."

You didn't even have any nail polish, he knew that - but Paddy was sure to ridicule you every chance he got.

No one could explain what was going on between the two of you. Everyone knew there was something there, but Paddy was stubborn to all hell, and you, well, you just enjoyed keeping him on his toes.

His lips turned upward at your remark, but the lieutenant chooses not to reply, keeping a small distance between the two of you as he escorts you to the temporary bathrooms.

Within minutes you were stripped to nothing, hair out of it's tied back state and soaked by the cold water pouring from the shower head. The 'walls' were ripped blankets, the floor an old welcome mat from some long forgotten home.

Paddy stood with his back turned just a few metres away, his hands crossed over his chest as his eyes scanned around. No one would be dumb enough to even try anything, but he still took his little role seriously. His mens safety was his priority, and that included you.

"Paddy," he hears you call, the water now switched off. "Could you pass me my towel please?"

He nods once in response, grabbing your bundle of clothes and your towel from beside him. Walking backwards, he keeps his eyes on the sand below him, walking until the sand turns into concrete, and he holds his arm out, waiting for you to grab your belongings.

Your small hand reaches out, soft fingers brushing against his calloused ones as you mumble a small thank you.

Paddy waits a little longer, hearing the rustling of clothes and the familiar sound of the shower 'door' being opened. He turns his head slightly, seeing you dressed in your night clothes, hand running through your wet hair with your towel as you give him a mock salute.

"All good here lieutenant," you say his title like a mockery amongst friends, but he didn't care. "As usual, my sincerest gratitude."

It was his turn to snort. "One of these days I won't have to babysit so you can wash your arse." He shakes his head, watching as you grin at his words.

"Can't argue there," You shrug, continuing to dry your hair and running your fingers to pull out any tangles. "But until then, my washed arse thanks you."

The Irishman just eyes you with humour in his eyes, and you nudge him with your elbow before excusing yourself, making your way back to your tent. His eyes follow your every step, and he clears his throat, nodding to himself before he returns to his own quarters.

It was only a couple hours later when it felt like hell had taken over. A mission had gone successful, but one of the Sergeants, Pat, had been quite injured. It was manageable for you, but it had been a hands on moment and a few of the others had to assist.

Pat lay in the infirmary, bandaged head to toe and completely out of it. You sat beside him, catching your breath as your arms rested on your thighs. Blood soaked your hands and arms, your pyjamas stained - there hadn't even been time to change when the boys brought him in.

They had yelled for you the moment they returned, carrying the unconscious and wounded man in like he was a limp doll. It had been tedious, even worrying at one point, but he was alive and would make a full recovery.

It didn't stop the shakes in your hands however, or the blood that dripped from your fingers to the ground below. You wiped at your face, mixing with the sweat that gathered across your forehead.

He's alive.

That's all that mattered.

"You alright?"

His voice startled you, your hunched over frame jolting at the sudden intrusion. Paddy holds his arms up, a small apology leaving his mouth at your jump.

You nodded, wiping your cheek again, eyes squinting as you yawn. "Should be asking if Pat's alright," you say through your yawn, pointing towards the sleeping soldier next to you. "Which he is, time will decide the rest."

Paddy nods slowly, his lips tightening in a small frown as he thinks over your words. "Course he'll be good, he's got you looking' after him."

Your eyebrow raises at the compliment. It wasn't like the Irishman to say sweet things, maybe a jest mixed with a small praise, but never just flattery. A part of you wanted to comment on it, make fun of him and meet him at his usual level, but you decided against it.

"Thank you Paddy," you murmured, just loud enough for him to hear as you stood up, stretching out your legs. "Are you alright? No lumps or bumps you're not telling me about?"

His frown melted away as he shook his head, a small smile on his face. "Ye still trying to get me naked nurse?" there he is. "Ye little deviant."

"S'it working?"

He scoffs, rolling his eyes as he steps towards you. The air felt different in the tent, dry, sure, the desert providing barely any relief, but you always felt heated when the lieutenant was near. Paddy's eyes roam over your frame, his eyebrows furrowing as he takes in the state of you.

"You need another wash," He remarks, nodding towards your blood stained skin and pyjamas. "I'll get Stirling to watch over Pat 'ere, want me to grab anything' for ye?"

It was your turn to frown, looking around the room. The only spare clothes you had were still drying on various pieces of furniture, and you groaned. "I don't have any night clothes left," you admitted, feeling almost childish for even complaining about it. "This was my last clean pair."

Paddy shrugs, thinking it a non issue. "Just head on out and leave it with me," as if sensing your reply, he gives you a stern look. "Just do it girl."

Holding your arms up in defeat, you follow his order, leaving the tent and into the night. Various soldiers stood around the site, all nodding at you in thanks, some saying your name in appreciation.

Their nods were met with a small smile, feeling a little ridiculous in your pyjamas and blood covered state.

It wasn't anything they weren't used to.

As far as they were concerned, you were a light in the dark that kept everyone safe. Just like Paddy. They were adamant the two of you were so similar in your own little, weird way.

You sat on a rock, staring off into the vast desert as you waited. It wasn't long until Paddy, true to his word, met you at the showers. He held some clothes in his hand, even a hairbrush.

The area was dimly lit by some lanterns, but it was just enough to see what was in front of you.

"Stirlin' thought you'd want to fix the mop on your head," He titled his chin into the direction of your head, and you rolled your eyes. "But 'ere, try these."

He hands the clothing over, and you didn't even have to ask, already knowing who they belonged too. "You okay parting with these?"

Paddy's eyes narrowed at your words. "How'd you know these are mine?" he exhales in amusement. "What if I pinched them from Reg?"

"Reg doesn't have clothes this clean," you retort, holding the clothes away from your body in an attempt to keep them clean. "Besides, they got a Paddy smell to them." "A Paddy smell," He repeats your words, rolling his eyes. "What, shite and sweat?"

"You don't smell like shit," Laughter leaves your lungs instantly, handing the clothes back to him as you begin to walk towards the shower. Paddy takes his position, back turned to the world as you begin to undress. "You smell okay, all things considered."

He hums at your response, taking it as a win. It was a luxury even having somewhere to bathe, so no one was expected to smell like flowers and oils.

With the blood washed from your body and coating the floor, you dried off before pulling on Paddy’s shirt, buttoning up the best you could.

By the time you were finished, you stood beside him once more, now time sporting one of his army fatigues. It covered everything that was needed, leaving your legs bare from the thighs down.

Was it appropriate?

Not really, but given the situation, no one was going to question it.

Paddy turns to look at you completely, his jaw tightening as he takes everything in. He inhales, quietly enough that he hoped you didn't notice.

You did.

He was anything but inconspicuous.

God, you were a vision. Even in the low light from the lanterns, you managed to steal his words and make the mouthy man feel mute. He thought you were breathtaking even when wearing the most mundane uniform, but seeing you in his clothes made him feel like the world around him was spinning.

Maybe he was concussed.

Clearing his throat, Paddy looks away, feeling almost guilty for his thoughts. You had just saved one of his men, lost another set of clothes to blood and had to shower in the cold of the night.

The sound of you brushing your hair filled his ears, and he cleared his throat again, trying to think of anything else. "Should uh - should get ye' out of the cold."

"It's actually quite nice," you admitted, finishing with your hair and tucking the hairbrush into one of Paddy's pockets, ignoring the way he eyed your movements like a hawk. "Bit overexposed though."

"Aye," he agrees, finally looking over your bare legs and swallowing. "One breeze and you're giving the boys a show."

You laugh loudly at his words, but he wasn't wrong, so you nodded, nudging him with your elbow. "Not wearing anything under this either, I think I'd make their whole year."

He closes his eyes at the revelation. It was meant as a joke, but knowing you were in fact bare beneath his clothes made his pants feel a little tighter, and he felt the heat in his stomach begin to bloom.

Your giggles sound like a siren's call, the sound becoming softer as you had already started your walk back to your tent, eager to send Stirling away and keep an eye on Pat.

By the time you made your way back into your tent, the once empty infirmary was now full of soldiers. It stopped you in your tracks, seeing familiar faces all laying on the beds, even Stirling asleep in yours.

"Am I missing something? Sleepover at mine?" You call out, bringing everyone's attention to the entrance of your makeshift home. "Didn't realise it was girls night."

A few laugh, someone even going as far to wolf whistle at you, noticing your new attire. "We thought we'd all stay in here for when Pat wakes up Miss." Jim, one of the sweeter giants in the bunch answers.

"Right," your voice trails off, eventually feeling Paddy's presence behind you. "And where am I meant to sleep?"

"Not in here," Paddy responds from behind, side stepping you and eyeing the scene in front of him with a raised eyebrow. "Look at you lot, kickin' our own nurse out of her bed."

"Blame Stirling," someone calls out, bringing attention to the lieutenant in your bed. "We'll keep an eye on everything anyway, you can sleep in my bed Miss."

"Or mine!" Someone else shouts, and a few more offer their beds with an eagerness that made you laugh loudly.

"Enough of that," Paddy stands with his hands on his hips. "She's not staying' anywhere near you lot."

"I'll sleep in David's bed then," You shrug before nodding towards Pat, who still remained asleep. "Just keep an eye on his bandages, any fresh bleeding and you all come wake me up yeah?"

They murmur in agreements, some giving you a thumbs up before you give Paddy a nod, making your leave once again.

The infirmaries tent flaps close behind you, and you're about to make your way to Stirling's tent when a hand on your waist guides you elsewhere. His footsteps step in line with yours, and you can't help but roll your eyes playfully at the action.

It was obvious who it was. Only one person here would be confident enough to touch you this way. That, and you were being directed to another familiar tent, one that resided further away from everyone else's.

"Not joining the sleepover Paddy?" you mutter softly, smiling from ear to ear as he grunts in response.

"You're not sleepin' anywhere I can't keep an eye on you," He sounded almost like he was trying to convince himself more than anything. The Irishman leads you to his tent, holding the entrance open and escorting you inside. He nods towards his trundle, made and ready for a body. "I'm goin' for a wash, I won't be long."

"You don't want me to escort you?" It was a jest, and Paddy pushed you forwards towards his bed in response. "Don't want me to pretend I'm keeping my back turned and not taking little sneak peaks?"

"Watch it." He points his finger at you, saying your name in warning, but he doesn't deny it. He goes to say something else, his lips opening and closing a few times before he decides against it, instead just leaving in a rush.

It made you grin, and you did what he asked, climbing into his bed eagerly. His familiar scent coated the sheets, providing a comfort you weren't expecting.

Safety was a long forgotten feeling here, but with Paddy around, his very being provided a sanctuary you weren't expecting to find in the middle of nowhere.

It wasn't long before he returned, apart of him hoping you'd be asleep when he arrived seeing as he hadn't brought any clothes with him. The two of you eyed each other, a silent stare down as he swallowed, standing in the entrance with a tattered towel around his waist, droplets of water still sliding down his bare chest.

"Shit," Immediately closing your eyes, you hold your hands up and over them in an extra effort to shield yourself from the lieutenant. "Sorry."

"It's okay." You hear him mutter, followed by some rustling around. He pulled on a loose pair of trousers, a white vest following suit. Standing beside the bed as he pulled his pants up, he can't help once again the way his eyes follow your feet up to your soft thighs.

You had laid over the blanket, wanting to wait for Paddy's return to discuss the actual sleeping arrangements.

Paddy's breathing comes out laboured, noticing the shirt you had borrowed from him had shifted further up as your arms moved when shielding your eyes. He looks to the ceiling, trying to gather his thoughts, sending silent threats to himself at the impure images he started conjuring up.

"Paddy?" Your soft voice brings his attention back to Earth, and he clears his throat, mumbling a 'hm?' in reply.

Your eyes were open now, your hands bunching at the blanket below. Your cheeks felt hot, your lower stomach feeling no different as you stared up at the man before you.

He eyes you curiously, and you shamelessly looked down below his waist, attempting to bring his attention to the erection he had started to grow.

It was his turn to blush, and he immediately stuttered your name and an apology, turning around to conceal himself. Paddy nearly chokes when he feels your soft hands on his waist, your delicate fingers urging him to turn back around.

"I'm not uh, I'm," Paddy tries to apologise, noticing you shake your head. "Fuck."

"Paddy," You speak again, slowly this time, as if the very weight of his name on your tongue became a soft hymn. "Don't hide from me."

"M'not hiding," he attempted to argue, the words falling short as another sigh left his lips as you dragged your nails across his hips. He says your name again this time, half in warning, half in protest. "You're just playin' a very dangerous game here."

"So play with me then." Your voice sounded like warm honey, sweet despite the sinful desire that laced your words.

"Christ."

[delicioushottubpeanut]

Heavy Lies The Crown

Chapter I

Sir Jimmy Crystal x fem!reader

summary: Decades after the Rage Virus devastated the UK, the infected have thinned but the world remains lawless and brutal. You’ve been surviving on your own until you’re captured by patrols from a notorious compound hidden in the Scottish Highlands: Eden. Its soldiers are strange—clad in random mismatched tracksuits, long blonde hair hanging tangled and wild like heathen halos, each armed with beautifully maintained bows. Silent. Precise. Unsmiling.

And then there’s their leader. Sir Jimmy Crystal. A gold-chained, tiara-wearing, crushed velvet zip-up psycho with a God complex thicker than his drawl. He doesn’t want to kill you. He intends to keep you.

wc: 6.3k

a/n: So I started absolutely gooning for Jimmy from the moment he drawled “ugh fuckin’ geaux” in the ninety seconds of screentime he has and now here we are. And if you came to shame, save your breath—I already talked about the discourse around him here. My k-hole tracksuit cult-leading princess lives rent-free in my brain, and I’m charging him for every second. Stay mad. Stay wet. Stay blessed. Now ugh—fuckin geaux. Big shout out to @amaranthine-enihtnarama for beta reading, thanks pookie!! NO SMUT in this chapter it's all setup, sorry guys <333

warnings: dark!romance, post-apocalyptic setting, cult dynamics, abduction, forced proximity, authoritarian/power dynamics, God complex, psychological manipulation, ritualistic obedience, choking, breath play, breeding kink, creampie, corruption arc, sexual tension, mentions of blood and decay, mentions of death and violence, intimidation, d/s dynamics, forced bathing, captivity, worship themes, verbal degradation, possessive behavior, choking from behind, unsettling atmosphere, cult rituals, light threat of force, elements of stockholm syndrome, highly charged sexual context, dubcon overtones

likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated please enjoy!!

Fic Masterlist/Main Masterlist

Chapter I: Annointed

The air here smells like wet iron and peat. It clings to your throat, heavier with each breath, as if the land itself wants to remind you what’s been spilled on it. A silence rests over the hills—not peace, but the uneasy stillness of something watching. Listening. Holding its breath.

You haven’t seen another living person in days. Weeks? It’s hard to keep track when the sun rises behind a haze of ash and dusk always comes too soon. Even the sky seems starved. The clouds hang low and bruised, heavy with rain that never falls.

The forest stretches ahead like a mouth left open too long. You step lightly. Leaves rot wet beneath your boots. A broken fence curls under moss, the last gasp of an island that once had tidy borders and polite signs. You pass rusted-out trailers on cinder blocks, windshields shattered, doors long gone. The doors always go first. People rip them off in a panic, thinking it’ll help. It never does.

The cold bites through your clothes. Not sharp. Just damp. Soaks into your bones. Makes the ache constant. Your breath ghosts in front of you as you walk, and for a second, you pretend it’s cigarette smoke. You used to hate the smell of it.

Now you’d kill for it.

Your stomach hasn’t stopped making noise. You ignore it. You’ve become skilled at ignoring it, the same way you’ve learned to ignore your own smell, the taste of metal in your mouth, the dull throb in your calves from days of walking with no real destination. You’re looking for food. Shelter. A map. Anything.

You cross a clearing and crouch low in the grass, just like you’ve done hundreds of times before. You survey the landscape: a ruined farmhouse collapsed under its own roof. No movement. No dogs. No smell of death and decay that you've grown almost nose-blind to. Could be safe. Could be worse.

Everything could be worse now.

You move. Cautiously. Deliberately. The earth here is soft and the wind carries no scent—just the musk of damp bark and pine needles. Still, something feels…off.

You pause and tilt your head to listen.

Nothing.

Too much nothing.

Birds don’t sing out here anymore. The ones that do don’t last long. Sound gets you noticed. Attention gets you killed. And this silence is the wrong kind—the hollow kind, as if the trees themselves are waiting for a bloodcurdling scream.

You take another step. A branch snaps beneath your boot. Loud. Too loud. The noise cracks like a warning shot through the quiet.

And that’s when your spine prickles.

Not fear; not yet. Something worse.

Recognition.

You're being watched.

The hair on your arms stands up before your brain can catch up.

You don’t run. You don’t call out. You listen.

The kind of stillness around you isn’t natural. It’s curated. Like someone hit mute on the world.

No birds. No bugs. Not even the soft flit of wind threading through branches. The entire forest has gone tight—drawn taut like the string of a bow, pulled back and trembling, waiting for the moment it breaks.

You slowly lower yourself into a crouch, hand pressed into wet moss. It gives under your palm with a faint squelch, soft and cold and alive with decay. The loamy scent rises up, thick and rich and sharp in your nostrils. Earth and blood smell too close sometimes.

Your heart thuds once, a heavy pulse.

Your fingers curl tighter into the dirt. Grounding. You’ve learned to trust instinct over logic. Instinct kept you alive when logic said the people you loved wouldn’t turn. Instinct taught you how to sharpen a stick into a weapon. How to scavenge rats. How to sleep with one eye open.

Instinct is telling you now: you are not alone.

You shift your weight slowly, inching backward through the brush. One heel catches on a vine. A small sound, but loud enough to make your skin go cold.

Your breath starts to pick up. Not fast. But deeper. Sharper. Your throat feels too open—too vulnerable.

You scan the trees. Nothing.

But the feeling doesn’t go away–it grows.

That same prickle at the back of your neck starts to burn. You can feel eyes. More than one set. You don’t know how—you just do. You feel them drinking you in. Not hungry. Not even curious.

Calculating.

You stand and backtrack carefully toward the collapsed farmhouse, thinking maybe you’ll duck behind the stone wall, find higher ground, get a better vantage point.

You take one step. Another. Then freeze.

Movement. Not in front of you. Beside you.

The sound is barely audible—just the faint rustle of fabric, the smallest crunch of gravel.

Your lungs go tight. Your mouth floods with the taste of copper. Your fingers twitch toward the handle of your rusted blade, tucked beneath your coat. Useless. Too slow. You already know.

Whoever—or whatever—is out here with you? They’ve been watching for longer than you realized.

And they’re close. Too close.

The sound comes first.

It doesn’t ring like a bullet or howl like a holler. It hisses. A sharp, slicing whisper that splits the space beside your filthy cheek and buries itself into the tree behind you with a heavy thock!

You freeze, breath clinging to your lungs.

The bark splinters. Chips rain down against your shoulder. A sliver catches in your collar, warm with friction. You feel it there, resting against your skin—proof that the shot wasn’t a miss.

It was a message.

Your pulse explodes behind your ribs. That thin line of stillness you were standing on? It breaks. Snaps. Shatters.

You wheel around, instinct gripping your limbs. One foot twists in the underbrush. You catch yourself against the tree trunk—the same one the arrow is now buried deep in, vibrating slightly as if it’s still alive. The shaft is black, smooth, and handmade. Fletching dyed dark green. No markings. No blood. Not yet.

You reach for your blade without thinking.

And then you see the second arrow—already drawn.

A figure steps out from behind the trees. Slow. Graceful. Like they’ve had all the time in the world to decide what happens next.

They wear a tracksuit—top unzipped, fabric torn at one sleeve, the color somewhere between piss-yellow and vomit-green. Their hair is long, tangled, hanging in ropes around their face. Their skin is streaked with dirt. Mud along the jaw. Ash on the hands.

And they don’t say a word.

Another shadow moves behind them.

Then another, and another. And another.

One by one, they emerge like ghosts stepping out of the woodwork—blonde, dirty, silent—clad in mismatched tracksuits stained with smoke and rain. Each one armed. Each one watching.

Some hold their bows. Some notched and ready. Others just stand with knives visible at their hips, bone-handled and used.

The archer who fired first tips their head to the side. Curious. Unbothered. Like you’re not a threat. Like you’re already theirs.

You don’t breathe. Your lungs refuse.

Another arrow hisses past you and strikes the ground by your foot. Close enough to kiss your boot.

Still no words.

Just eyes. Watching.

Measuring.

And then one of them smiles, just a little

It’s not warm.

You don’t plan it. You just move.

One moment you’re frozen, breath snagged between ribs, and the next—your muscles snap into motion like a trap springing shut. You pivot on your heel, throw your weight into the turn, and take off into the trees.

Branches slap your face. Mud sprays up the back of your legs. The forest blurs.

You run like you’ve never run before—like the ground might open beneath you if you stop, like air is poison and the only cure is speed. Your lungs seize in protest. Your legs burn. Your heartbeat crashes against your eardrums, a war drum in your skull.

Behind you, the forest doesn’t make a sound.

No shouting. No chase.

Just the sick, humming quiet.

And that’s worse.

Because it means they don’t need to run. They already know where you’re going.

Your boots slip on a slick patch of wet leaves. You catch yourself, barely, skidding through brambles that catch your clothes and tear at your arms. You don’t care. You don't feel it. All that matters is forward. Get to higher ground. Get to somewhere—anywhere—they can’t surround you.

You vault over a fallen log, fingers skimming the mossy bark. The scent of rot is thick in your nostrils. Dead wood. Old things. It clings to you like a second skin.

Somewhere up ahead—there’s a break in the dense canopy of trees. Light, maybe. A clearing. A way out.

You bolt for it, lungs screaming. Every step is thunder in your bones. You don’t look back.

But the air changes again.

A shadow flits past your periphery—too fast to track, too quiet to follow.

Another.

Then—

Crack.

Your foot catches on something taut and hidden beneath the brush.

Not a root.

A snare.

The loop cinches around your ankle, and before you can scream, your body slams sideways into the ground with a sickening crunch. The air punches from your lungs. You taste dirt. Cold. Blood. Pine needles jam under your nails.

Then—snap—a figure descends from the treeline like a wolf from a perch, boots landing heavy in the earth.

You try to scramble. Slip.

A hand grabs your arm.

Another closes around the back of your neck.

Then a voice. The first one you’ve heard.

Low. Calm. Male. Fucking delighted.

“That’s enough now, wee thing. Eden’s got ye.”

The hand at the back of your neck doesn’t squeeze.

It doesn’t have to.

It just settles there, heavy and final, fingers splayed wide like it’s already mapping your bones. It holds you in place—not hurting, not pinning, just claiming. Like you belong on your knees, pressed into the mud, spine curved and breath coming in sharp, humiliated bursts.

You twist. You kick. But the snare’s still wrapped around your ankle, biting into the skin. Any movement pulls it tighter.

You try to reach for your blade.

Another hand wraps around your wrist. This one is colder. Slimmer. It doesn't yank—it just presses, thumb digging in just enough to tell you: don’t.

You look up.

They're all around you now.

Six. Maybe seven. It’s hard to count through the blur of leaves and light and pain, but they stand in a wide circle, mismatched tracksuits streaked with earth and soot, hair hanging in matted ropes, eyes like damp stones. None of them speak.

One of them—barefoot, bow still drawn—grins, flashing a mouthful of decay. Some teeth are rotted through, black at the roots. Others jut out at odd angles, twisted by years without mirrors. One is missing several along the top row, exposing pale pink gums when they smile too wide.

“Slippery wee thing,” someone mutters from behind your shoulder. The one who caught you. The voice is deep. Smooth. Oddly kind.

You flinch when he touches your hair. Just a graze. Fingertips through the strands. It’s not affectionate. Not cruel, either. It’s closer to curiosity. A priest handling a relic.

They murmur to each other in low tones, too quiet to make out. The sound of their voices doesn’t feel like a conversation. It feels like a ritual.

One of them kneels beside you and cuts the snare loose. It snaps back into the undergrowth like a live wire.

You think—now. Move. Fight.

But the blade is already gone from your belt. You don’t even remember the moment they took it.

The realization sinks in slowly that you never had a chance. They weren’t hunting you. They were herding you.

You try to speak. A demand. A threat. A plea.

But all that comes out is a ragged breath and the taste of copper.

One of the archers—an older woman, face half-shadowed by dirt—leans down close enough for you to smell her. Woodsmoke. Sweat. Blood.

“He’s gonna be so pleased with ye.”

You’re cargo.

They move with purpose now.

The man behind you grabs the back of your coat and hauls you upright. Not violently. Just effectively. Like lifting a sack of flour. You stumble, one leg still half-dead from the snare. He steadies you with a hand to your spine, then turns you sharply toward the trees.

“Come along now,” he says, rancid breath hot against your ear. “Wouldn’t keep Him waitin’.”

They don’t blindfold you.

But they might as well.

The forest that follows looks like no place you’ve ever walked before. The path isn't marked—but it’s known. Worn bare by repetition. Sinewy footprints in the muck. Grooves dug into the soil from dragging something—or someone. The trees here lean inward, heavy with damp and time, their bark split and bleeding sap that smells sickly sweet.

The archers fall into formation around you, wordless. You hear their breathing. One whistles tunelessly through a gap in his teeth. Another pulls a long rag from her waistband and begins to wrap your wrists together—not tight, but tight enough.

“There. Now ye don’t get lost.”

The woman smiles. Three teeth. All bottom row.

You walk.

The cold bites deep now, not just into your body, but into your understanding. This is a procession. And you are the offering.

With each step, the terrain shifts—brambles give way to packed soil, then mud, then flattened leaves stamped down by boots. You spot bones underfoot. Clean ones. Stripped bare. Not fresh.

Not all are animal.

Someone carries a lantern ahead of you—oil-burning, the flame shielded by cracked glass. The light it throws is golden but small, and it doesn’t reach far. Enough to see the tracksuits shimmer damply in the gloom. Orange. Burgundy. Baby blue. One glittery purple jacket with rhinestones across the back that read PRINCESS.

It would be absurd if they weren’t so quiet. So coordinated.

So devout.

The deeper you go, the more the woods shift.

There are things hanging from the trees now.

At first, it looks like refuse. Rags. Rope. Plastic. But then you pass beneath one and realize—it’s a tracksuit jacket, tied by the sleeves, dangling like a flag. Faded. Bloodstained. Bullet holes across the front.

Another hangs beside it.

And another.

Rows and rows.

You keep walking. Your stomach clenches. Something between fear and nausea. The woman beside you leans in close as you walk.

“Ye smell good,” she mutters. “He’ll like that.”

Ahead, between the trees, a shape rises out of the fog.

Too square to be natural. Too still. A low wall. A break in the forest. Stone, maybe. Cracked and overgrown but not abandoned. Smoke curls from behind it. Not rising—crawling. Slipping through gaps like it knows how to sneak.

Then you see it—Eden.

Not a village. Not a home. A ruin made sacred by madness.

You’ve reached the edge of something ancient and wrong.

And He is waiting.

They lead you through the gate without ceremony. They don’t speak. They don’t need to. Two archers bracket you like a pair of looming, mismatched statues come to life. One takes your elbow, fingers firm but not brutal, guiding you forward.

The other falls in step just behind your shoulder, close enough that you can feel the faint whisper of hot breath brushing the back of your neck. Together, they move like a single, breathing thing—as if this ritual of capture has been practiced countless times before.

The gate itself is little more than a broken arch of crumbling stone and rusted metal, tangled with ropes and strips of torn tracksuit fabric. You step through it like a witness passing into a holy site. The air inside is different. It’s thicker. Heavier. The smell of damp earth, old wood, and smoky oil threads itself around you.

Your guides do not march. They don’t shove. They don’t drag. They flow, forcing you to match their pace until your body finds its rhythm between theirs. The hand on your elbow doesn’t grip harder when you falter, it merely corrects, a quiet pressure that steers you along the path. The one at your back doesn’t guide with force, but with presence, an overarching warmth that reminds you any move backward would be met with a wall of muscle and sharp steel.

Each footfall becomes an announcement. The sound of your soles scuffing stone is echoed by theirs, precise and orderly. Not a word is exchanged. Not a glance thrown. But every movement feels orchestrated—as if every hand that guides you, every step that matches your own, is serving the same silent god.

They lead you through the gate, and you realize it’s not just an entry. It’s a threshold.

A point where belonging is no longer a choice. A moment where obedience is the only language you’re allowed to speak.

There is no archway. No guard tower. Just two leaning stone pillars draped in mold and rot, bound at the top with torn strips of tracksuit fabric, knotted into fluttering banners that shiver in the breeze. The wind shifts, and the smell hits you like a wet slap—woodsmoke, sweat, burned meat, something sour rotting under it all.

No one says a word as you cross beneath it.

Inside, Eden is...wrong.

Not abandoned,not thriving. Held together by will alone.

Shattered cottages lean against one another like drunkards. Doors hang from rusted hinges. Roofs are patched with sheet metal and broken crates. Every building is bruised and sagging, but still standing—as if the place refuses to die simply because someone commanded it not to.

There’s no power. No lights. No hum of life. Just the hiss of smoke and the wet slap of boots in the mud as you’re marched forward.

You pass people. Not many. Maybe a dozen.

They don’t wave. Don’t smile. Don’t ask questions.

They just stop what they’re doing—sharpening blades, scraping hides, pulling weeds from cold soil—and watch. Some lean against walls. Others crouch like animals. One man gnaws on a charred rabbit leg, letting grease run down his chin, his eyes never leaving you.

Their hair is tangled, matted, stuck to their foreheads with sweat or filth. Their tracksuits are soaked, stained, misbuttoned or zipped up all wrong. Their teeth—what’s left of them—gleam yellow or black or don’t gleam at all.

And yet, they glow. Not with health, but with devotion. The same way a fanatic glows just before the end.

They know where you're going.

And what you’re going to see.

Someone lifts a shard of glass as you pass, using it as a mirror. Not for themselves—for you. You catch your reflection. Brief. Blurred. Strangers’ hands on your arms. Mud on your jaw. Cold in your eyes.

They pull you toward the largest structure still intact. A chapel, maybe,or what was once a manor. The stone is cracked, the windows shattered, the doorframe splintered where something once forced its way in. Ivy curls up the side in long, choking ropes. Animal skulls hang from the guttering, bones threaded with string and beads and bits of plastic like wind chimes.

The archer beside you speaks for the first time in miles.

“Head down. No talkin’. Only answer if He asks.”

A door creaks open. Your feet hit stone instead of soil. The temperature drops. The smell shifts again—woodsmoke thickened by incense, something sweet gone bad. The air is full of it,like a mouth that’s never closed.

The inside is dark. Not pitch-black—just heavy. Filtered. Lit only by oil lamps tucked in alcoves, their glass streaked with soot. The flames flicker low, throwing long shadows that stretch and collapse as you walk.

The room isn’t empty.

Figures move at the edges. Not many. Two, maybe three. They stand still, but not relaxed. Like they’re waiting for a command. One of them holds a cloth. Another holds a bowl of water—brown and lukewarm, the rim charred black. A third has something folded in their hands. Clean fabric. A tracksuit. Less torn than the one you wear.

They don’t speak to you; they don’t smile.

They just wait.

The woman who cut the snare finally lets go of your arm and gestures forward, toward a wide wooden door. Someone’s carved symbols into it—crooked, hand-cut, messy but deliberate. A crude crown. A sun. Teeth. A flower.

“He’s in there,” she says. “Be grateful.”

Your wrists are untied.

No one grabs you again: you’re expected to walk through that door on your own.

Hesitantly, you step forward.

The wooden door groans open under your hand—warped from time and rot, but still standing. The sound it makes cuts the air like a blade.

The room beyond is dark, but warmer than the rest of Eden. Firelight licks at the walls from a hearth in the far corner, casting everything in flickering gold. The scent is sharper here. Not just woodsmoke. Something burned. Something sweet. A perfume made from candle wax, dried herbs, and rot.

Your boots echo across uneven stone. It’s quiet. Not silent—calm, in that same unnatural way a hunting trap is calm before it snaps shut.

He’s there.

You feel him before you see him.

He’s sitting in a long chair that might’ve once been a throne, might’ve once been a pew. It’s covered in scavenged fabrics—torn blankets, netting, old lace yellowed with age. His legs are spread wide, one elbow resting lazily on the arm, the other hand rolling a cigarette between two fingers.

His face is in profile.

And even that profile is chaos.

A cracked tiara tilts across his brow, nearly lost in the mess of long, greasy blonde hair. One eye is framed by an old smear of soot or charcoal. There’s blood on his tracksuit jacket—dry. Flaked. A constellation of it across his collarbone. His neck bears the weight of several gold chains, the slow pendulum swing of an inverted cross briefly snagging your attention. Rings stacked on every finger. A small, curved blade rests against his thigh like it belongs there.

When he turns to face you fully, he grins.

And it’s nothing like a human smile.

His teeth are uneven—some chipped, some yellowed, one gone entirely. But that doesn’t dull the power of it. That grin could lead armies. Could make monsters kneel. It beams at you like he already knows what you are and what you’ll be.

“Fuckin’ look at ye,” he says, voice thick and Scottish and sharp-edged with delight. “Fresh out the trees. All wild n’ twitchy.”

He leans forward.

His eyes are blue, but not bright. More like cracked ice over dark water. Alive with something violently unhinged and cruelly amused.

“Ain’t touched, are ye? Not claimed? Not branded?”

You say nothing.

He smiles wider.

“Even better.”

He tips his head, brushing the long, tangled hair from his eyes, and the faint glow of the room catches the gold and molten red at his throat. His voice drops into something almost intimate, almost holy.

“Name’s Sir Jimmy Crystal,” he tells you, the words tasting like a threat and a promise all at once. “Remember it, s'the only name that’s gonna matter ‘round here.”

The silence that follows is thick. Final. As if the room itself has memorized it.

He stands slowly—not towering but imposing, filled with the kind of presence that reaches. That carries. He steps down from the platform, boot heels scraping stone.

“Come here, then.”

You don’t move.

His head tilts.

“What’s the matter, love? Nobody ever asked ye polite before?” He chuckles, the tension in his shoulders radiating all the authority of a leader. “You’ll find I’m a very gracious host.”

Then, quieter—yet no less impactful—“when I want t’be.”

He closes the distance without waiting.

One hand comes up and brushes your jaw with the backs of his fingers. His knuckles are scraped, bruised. There’s blood under one nail. But his touch is almost soft.

“They said you fought,” he says. “Said you ran hard. Nearly got one of Jimmy Jimmy’s boys in the eye.”

He leans in, nose close enough to scent you.

You don’t flinch.

He smiles like that’s a gift.

“Yer not a Jimmy, though. You’re…somethin’ else.”

He steps back, hands on his hips. Studies you.

Then, finally:

“Petal.”

The name hits like a hot nail through the center of your chest.

“That’s what ye are, ain’t ye?” he continues. “Pretty wee thing, soft ‘round the edges, got thorns when you’re pressed.”

He gestures wide, like unveiling a painting.

“You’re mine now, Petal. Eden’s newest bloom.”

He steps forward again, crowding you slightly—he wants to see what you’ll do. What you’ll become under his heat. His shadow. His name.

“Say it,” he murmurs then reiterates, “say it back to me.”

Then nothing.

No further command. No raised voice. No gesture to prompt you.

Just his eyes—locked on yours, heavy and unwavering, his body stilled like a predator mid-pounce. All that earlier swagger, the grin, the biting charm—it drops. Slips off his face like a mask tossed aside.

What’s left is something still and unblinking.

His stare is pure scrutiny. Not rage. Not even anticipation. Just…expectation.

The kind that doesn’t account for refusal.

The fire crackles somewhere behind him, casting gold along the worn-out throne behind his shoulder, and still he doesn’t move. His jaw ticks once, slow. You see the faintest twitch of his fingers at his side—restless. Not angry. Just ready.

He doesn’t speak again.

Because Sir Jimmy Crystal doesn’t ask twice.

The room stretches.

You feel it in your chest first—tight, tense, a coil winding up behind your ribs. Your throat is dry. You don’t remember when your breath last came easy. You’re too aware of your heartbeat. Of the way your wrists still bear the red ghost of rope. Of the mud drying on your ankles. Of the way he’s looking at you.

Like he already owns you.

Like this is just a formality.

Your mouth opens.

And for a second, nothing comes out.

Then:

“Petal.”

Your voice sounds strange. Foreign. Like it didn’t come from you but was breathed into you. You don’t recognize how soft it comes out—how it hitches a little. How it lands in the air between you like a stone dropped in a still pool.

His head tilts. Just slightly. One corner of his mouth lifts—not a grin. Something quieter. Possessive.

“Good girl.”

The words land like heat across your spine.

He steps in again. Closer now. His boots bump yours, but he doesn’t touch you yet.

He just inhales. Deep, deliberate, like he’s dragging your presence into his lungs.

“I knew you’d be easy, underneath all that bark,” he says softly. “They always are.”

And then his hand comes up. Slow. Measured. He touches your jaw—not rough, not even possessive. Just assertive. His thumb brushes the edge of your lip, like testing the softness of something before he bites.

“Petal,” he repeats, voice lower now. “Gonna hear that name moaned through these halls, aye? Gonna have all of Eden know who the prettiest thing in it belongs to.”

The silence that follows is not awkward.

It’s complete.

He leans closer, nose brushing yours, voice barely above breath.

“Say somethin’ else, then. Something better. Say thank you.”

The words land soft, but they split your ribs open.

Not a bark. Not a threat. Not a demand, even. Just spoken like it’s inevitable.

His hand remains on your jaw. Fingers resting just beneath your ear, thumb dragging slowly over the corner of your mouth. The pressure isn’t enough to hurt. But it’s not gentle. It’s training.

You try to breathe, but your lungs won’t take it in right.

The room feels too small now. Too close. The air clings to the back of your tongue, hot and damp and sour-sweet, like you’re breathing someone else’s exhale. Smoke, rot, and something metallic. Something intimate.

You feel your spine go stiff, shoulders rising like you might pull away—but your feet don’t move. Not because you’re frozen. Not exactly.

Because you’re listening.

And you’re waiting for him to say it again.

He doesn’t.

He just watches. That calm stare. That awful patience. As if there’s no doubt at all that the words will come.

Your mouth parts slightly. Not to obey. Not yet.

To stall.

To feel what it would be like to say it—to give him what he wants and taste how it feels in your throat. To feel how it might curl against your tongue and rot something inside you.

You don’t want to.You do.

Your heart punches the inside of your chest.

You blink—once, slow—and then tilt your head forward, just enough that your lips brush against the edge of his thumb.

Not a kiss.

Not yet.

But the reaction is immediate.

His nostrils flare. His hand tightens, just a breath, enough to tilt your chin higher.

“Go on, sweet thing,” he murmurs. “Don’t make me think you’re ungrateful.”

And something breaks. Not loudly. Not violently. But with a quiet, traitorous tremor in your stomach.

Your tongue is slow to cooperate. Your voice doesn’t come easy. But it comes.

“…Thank you.”

Your voice sounds like a betrayal.

It sounds like submission.

It sounds like you meant it.

You hate that. You hate how easy it is to say.

You hate how it feels good to give it.

His smile widens—not wild. Not cruel.

Pleased.

“That’s my girl.”

The words are barely a whisper, but they hit like a nail through silk.

He steps even closer now—flush against you, chest to chest. You feel the heat of him. The weight of him. His free hand comes to rest on your hip, fingers curling just above your waistband.

“We’ll make a proper little thing outta you yet.”

And then, voice lower:

“Say it again. Like you mean it this time.”

He’s still touching you.

One hand cupped along your jaw, thumb grazing your lower lip with the intimacy of a lover, the calculation of a surgeon. The other hand low on your hip, fingers curling with idle pressure. Not possessive. Not yet.

Just poised.

Waiting.

His voice has that same half-smile cadence, but the edge is sharper now—threaded with something heavier. The kind of weight that comes before a strike.

He wants it again.

And this time, he wants it perfect.

You feel your mouth go dry. Your muscles ache from how still you’ve been forced to hold yourself. Your wrists itch where the rope had left its imprint. Your brain is screaming for space—but your body doesn’t move.

Not because you’re weak, but because you’re calculating, too.

You don’t say it right away. You let the silence stretch, just a breath longer than it should. Just long enough that it starts to feel wrong. You see it in his posture—the slight twitch of his hand, the flicker in his eye.

And that’s when you give it to him.

“Thank you…Sir.”

You say it sweet.

Too sweet.

You tip your head a little as you say it, lashes lowering like a smirk in motion. You speak with the kind of sugar-coating that’s almost mockery. Just enough to make it unclear.

Polite. Playful. Dangerous.

His thumb stills on your lip.

Then lifts—slowly, deliberately—tracing the curve of your mouth before sliding down your chin. His other hand firms against your hip.

And he doesn’t speak.

He just stares at you.

That same silent intensity from before—hot enough to blister. A fire without flame.

“You think I won’t know the difference?” he says at last, voice low and sharp as a knife dragged across bone. “Think I can’t smell when a thing’s just performin’?”

His grip tightens—not to bruise, but to remind.

His eyes roam your face like a wolf studying a lamb that forgot it was meat.

“You will mean it, Petal,” he murmurs. “One way or another.”

He leans in again—closer now. Lips near your ear, voice so quiet you feel it more than hear it.

“And when you do, it’ll drip off your tongue like prayer.”

You feel the press of his breath against your jaw, warm and patient and ruthless.

Then he pulls back—not far. Just enough to look you in the eyes again. Holding you in place by your silence.

“Now,” he says. “Be sweet. Try again.”

He pins you down with just his gaze.

The heat of his body radiates into yours—smoke and oil and something darker, like the breath of a house right before it catches fire. His hand at your hip has grown still, but it hasn’t let go. The other hovers at your jaw, no longer cupping it, just near—like he’s giving you space to hang yourself.

You feel the words curl in your throat like smoke before a scream.

You could obey.

You could soften your voice. Bow your head. Let the praise come warm and slippery from your mouth like honey melting over hot stone. Let him believe you.

But you don’t.

Not yet.

Instead, you tilt your chin up. A small gesture. Barely there. But it shifts the whole balance of the room. His fingers still in the air near your throat. His nostrils flare—just once. You don’t miss it.

And when you speak…

You lace it with venom.

“Thank you…my King.”

You make it sound filthy.

Not reverent. Not frightened. Not grateful.

You say it like it’s a joke. Like you’re daring him to earn it.

His mouth parts just slightly—no smile now. Just breath.

You watch something dark flicker behind his eyes. It doesn’t rise, doesn’t lash out—but it pulses once, slow and dangerous. You’ve struck a nerve. Not one that makes him angry.

One that makes him hungry.

He steps closer, boot between yours. His chest brushes yours. That awful stillness in him thickens, slows, sharpens.

“That what I am to you already?” he says, voice hushed. “Your King?”

His hand moves again—slow, deliberate. The backs of his fingers trail down your throat.

“Careful, Petal.”

Your heart is a hammer in your ribs now.

He moves around behind you without warning, slow as smoke, one hand dragging across your collarbone as he passes.

You don’t turn.

You feel him behind you. His breath against your hair. His voice just behind your ear.

“You keep speakin’ like that,” he murmurs, “I’ll start to think you want to be ruled.”

You can’t see his face, but you hear the smile in his voice.

“And you don’t want me to think that.”

A pause.

His hand settles at the base of your throat—not tight. Not soft. Just there.

“Because if you do…I’ll give you the crown myself.”

His hand stays at your throat for three long breaths.

You don’t move. You don’t speak. You don’t give him the satisfaction of swallowing beneath his palm. But the silence that stretches between you is not victory.

It’s ritual.

You feel his body behind you—heat and weight and tension, close enough to make your skin tighten, far enough to make you ache. His breath grazes the curve of your ear like a blessing dressed in threat.

And then—

He pulls back.

The absence is as sharp as a slap. The cold rush of air across your neck feels like exposure, like being unwrapped. You almost—almost—step back to reclaim his heat.

But you don’t.

You hold your ground as he moves around you again, slow and loose-limbed, like a lion circling the last twitch of a dying thing.

When he stops in front of you, his grin is back. Soft. Filthy. Relaxed.

But his eyes are still locked on you like a snare.

“That’s enough for now,” he says, almost gently.

He reaches out and brushes something from your shoulder—a bit of leaf, a smear of dirt, it doesn’t matter. His fingers linger longer than necessary, then drop.

“You’ll need rest. Food. I’ll see to it.”

He turns from you like it doesn’t hurt him to look away.

“We’ve got time.”

He takes two steps toward his throne before glancing back over his shoulder.

His smile is lazy now. Pleased. Possessive.

“You’re not gonna leave, Petal. Not because you can’t.”

He sits down. Spreads his knees wide. Drags his hand along his jaw, watching you like he’s already undressing your soul.

“Because by the time I’m through with you…you won’t want to.”

He gestures lazily, and the room stirs like a beast waking from slumber. Figures shift from the walls, rising soundless as mist. Two of them move toward you—a man and a woman. They don’t ask questions. They don’t hesitate. They only bow when he nods.

“See she’s bathed,” Jimmy says, brushing a hand down the arm of his chair like he’s brushing dust from a relic. “Get the stink of the woods off her. Put her somewhere warm. Somewhere quiet.”

A tiny shift goes through the room—almost imperceptible. A glance exchanged. A breath held. Not protest, no. Not that. Not with him. But surprise. The kind that doesn’t rise from disobedience, only from obedience so deep it doesn’t comprehend difference.

He doesn’t name them. Doesn’t call out by their variations of the same holy name. They just know.

They step closer and one of them takes your hand. Not roughly. Not lovingly. Just certain. The other moves to stand behind you, brushing the snarl of your hair from your neck like she’s making way for a blade. Not because she’ll use one. But because she knows he can.

They lead you toward the door, and the room doesn’t speak. Not a word. Not a shift. Not a glance that doesn’t already belong to him. They accept it the way soil accepts a seed falling from a hand that can choose where it grows.

“Go,” he says finally, voice soft and sharp as steel. “Rest tonight, Petal. You’ve a long road ‘fore you.”

And then he leans back, sprawling in that long chair like a man resting between victories, brushing the pad of his thumb across his lower lip as if tasting the air your name has changed.

“An’ don’t worry,” he calls after you as the doors creak open, voice rising just enough for it to fill the space between the walls. “I’ll be seein’ ye soon. Real soon.”

No one questions. No one speaks.

In Eden, when Sir Jimmy Crystal chooses, no one ever needs to ask why.

[delicioushottubpeanut]

Back To You - Bucky Version

Summary: You've always been there for Steve, and now you're watching him go back to the girl he always wanted. And Bucky's there to pick up the pieces.

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader, Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: Angst. Maybe language. Fluff. My poor attempts at being funny.

Word Count: 1.7K

A/N: This was supposed to be a Reader x Steve story, but I was too tempted to make reader end up with Bucky. So I decided to make two separate endings, the original with Steve and an alternate one where she ends with Bucky, if only for @ordelixx who gave me the idea. I'd also like to thank @mrsbuckybarnes1917 for the idea and for helping me write about other characters. This is Bucky's version.

Masterlist

You know what’s about to happen. You know he’s gonna leave, you know he’s not gonna come back, you know you’ll never see him again.

You know he’s gonna try to have the life he always wanted with the girl he always wanted. The girl he loves.

And that girl is not you.

You watch him as he says goodbye to Bucky, you know he knows as well as you do that his best friend isn’t coming back.

Then Steve turns to you and you try your best to smile.

“I wish I had met you earlier.” he whispers as he kisses you on the forehead and you know in that instant this is really goodbye.

You smile and nod, not being able to get a word out, willing yourself not to cry.

He walks onto the platform and soon he’s gone.

You’ve been by Steve’s side ever since he came back from the ice. You were the agent assigned to watch over him, you were there when he woke up and had to run after him when he freaked out.

You were there during the battle of New York, during the fall of Shield in DC, during the whole Ultron incident and in Lagos.

You were on his side for the Accords, and you were by his side in London as he said goodbye to the love of his life. 

You were there with him and Sam in Romania to try and help Bucky, you were arrested with them and then helped fight the Winter Soldier, yet again.

You were on his side to fight against Tony and the rest of the Avengers, you got arrested again and were broken out of the Raft by him.

You spent two years on the run with him, and fought next to him in Wakanda.

You watched his dumb ass try to fight Thanos barehanded and you were quickly knocked down when you tried to help him.

You snapped like half the universe and apparently lost 5 years of your life. You came back, thanks to him, and fought against Thanos one last time.

And now you're watching him leave.

You were there to help him get accustomed to the 21st century, you were there for him on sleepless nights.

You were there for him as he cried for his lost friends, his lost love and his lost life. He always came to you when he needed to talk, to be held, help sleeping and even advise.

And you were always there for him, falling in love little by little against your better judgement.

You’re brought back to the present as you hear Sam freaking out on Bruce because Steve missed his mark and didn’t come back.

You look at Bucky and you both know what this means. He gives you a sympathetic smile and you try to give a smile back but fail.

You look away from him and take a deep breath. You turn around and start walking away.

You’re done here, and about to break down. Something you never allowed yourself to do in front of anybody, with the exception of Steve.

And now he’s gone.

You get in your car and quickly drive away, not looking back. You drive straight to Steve’s apartment.

You’ve been staying there since you came back while the compound gets fixed since your old apartment has been someone else’s home for the past 5 years.

Five years. That’s how long you’ve been gone. That’s how much of life you’ve missed. 

And now you’re left to pick up the pieces of your life by yourself, along with your broken heart.

If you were completely honest with yourself you always knew it wouldn’t have worked with Steve. You’ve never thought you were remotely good enough for him, and that was before even comparing yourself to Peggy. 

There was no doubt in your mind that she was Steve’s soulmate, and you’ve talked about her enough times to know he thought the same.

You’re taken out of your thoughts by a knock on your door. You frown and cautiously walk to it, picking up your gun from its hiding place under the coffee table.

It’s probably nothing but better safe than sorry, right?

You take a peek from the peephole and immediately roll your eyes, lowering your gun while opening the door.

“I guess you weren’t expecting company.” Bucky says, more amused than anything when he sees the gun in your hand.

You make no attempt to try and hide your annoyance as you roll your eyes again. “What are you doing here, Barnes?”

It’s not that you don’t like Bucky, you just don’t know him all that well if not only thanks to the stories Steve shared of him in the 40s.

“I thought I’d make sure you were okay. You ran out of there pretty fast.”

“Yeah, well, he’s gone. It’s a done deal, don’t see why I had to stick around.” You say crossing your arms defensively. 

Bucky doesn’t seem to mind your response as he simply leans on the doorway and keeps talking. “He was disappointed not to see you.”

You frown, beyond confused by a single and simple sentence. Bucky smiles and elaborates. “He lived a life. And he’s old now, but still alive.”

“Oh.” is all you can say. Steve old? You can’t even imagine it.

“He gave the shield to Sam.” Bucky continues, just making conversation.

“Really? I would’ve thought he’d give it to you if he had to choose.” Bucky frowns a little and tilts his head, seeming genuinely confused.

“Why would he give it to me?”

You shrug. “I don’t know, you were his best friend, you’re a supersoldier. I guess I just assumed.”

“None of that matters, Sam is a good man. He deserves it.” He argues, then quickly adds. “Don’t tell him I said that.”

You grin and nod, then say. “For what it’s worth you’re a good man too, Bucky. Steve thought the world of you, trust me. He never stopped thinking highly of you.”

That was nothing more than a simple reassurance for you, but for Bucky it was so much more than that.

He knew you were talking about his time as the Winter Soldier. You were telling him that, even knowing about all that, Steve never let that influence his opinion of his former best friend. He still knew who Bucky was, deep down.

Bucky never heard words like that coming from anyone that’s not Steve, and you said it so casually, like you really believe it and to you it’s no big deal to just say it.

But for him, it was everything.

You didn’t know it then, but that was the moment Bucky started falling for you.

“Why are you checking up on me, Bucky? Really?” You say after a moment, breaking the silence that fell between you.

“Steve made me promise to take care of you before he left.” He said simply.

Bucky didn’t know it then, but that was the moment your heart broke completely.

You managed to keep yourself from breaking right then and there, but Bucky could see that something was wrong.

He didn’t push it though, making conversation a little more before saying goodbye with the promise that he’d be back the next day.

And that’s what he did.

In fact, he came back everyday, no matter what, to check on you.

It started out as quick visits where he wouldn’t even enter the door, then you started inviting him in for coffee because you felt bad he came to Steve’s apartment everyday, always refusing to let you meet him somewhere else. 

After a while you started inviting him for meals, to watch a movie or just to hang out.

You almost didn’t know how, but at one point you started to really look forward to Bucky’s visits everyday, getting excited every time he knocked on the door.

It was the best part of your day, really.

You knew Bucky felt the same, it was like you both knew what was slowly happening between you and you had a silent understanding not to discuss it.

You also never discussed your feelings for Steve, but you felt like Bucky somehow knew nonetheless. 

But the more time you spent with Bucky the more those feelings seemed to fade.

You still loved Steve, still missed him, you could feel yourself letting go of him with every time you spent time with Bucky, every time he made you laugh, every time your hands would accidentally touch.

You could feel yourself falling in love with Bucky and, this time, it felt right. This time you didn’t even try to stop it. 

And it seemed like Bucky felt the same way.

Time after time he became more bold with his flirting, with physical touch, until eventually he was shamelessly hitting on you and cuddling you every time he could.

And, when you made no attempt whatsoever to stop him, it was the only signal he needed to keep going.

One day, after about a year of his daily visits, he couldn’t hold back anymore and kissed you, overjoyed when you kissed him back. He asked you out right after and you didn’t hesitate to say yes.

It was the best first date of your life, but to be fair you’d been hanging out and basically dating for almost a year, so it felt simple. Effortless and uncomplicated. 

It was everything both of you needed. Your feelings for Steve were almost gone now, which is why you couldn’t even begin to explain what happened yesterday.

You were out with Bucky, hand in hand as you walked around the park, just enjoying the sunshine, when you could swear you saw Steve, not old Steve but your Steve, just standing there, looking at you and Bucky.

It was for a second, you merely glanced in his direction and by the time you turned back he was gone. 

Bucky didn’t notice anything, if not only the way you tensed and stopped in your tracks.

You thought about telling him what you thought you saw, but even you knew how crazy you would’ve sounded. So you said nothing and shrugged it off.

Because it was nothing.

Right? 

[delicioushottubpeanut]

Me feeling like Bella every night chossing which man I want to read hard smut about.

[delicioushottubpeanut]

not too loud

john walker x f!reader

summary: john is masturbating next to you, who he thought were sleeping, in a room with other people. you offer him help, telling him to finish in you instead. cw: smut, masturbating, borderline voyeurism, p in v, back scratching, creampie, no use of y/n wc: 1.8k

you and your teammates didn’t want to bother discussing sleeping arrangements after completing a hectic mission. you all booked this room to rest before a long drive back home.

as soon as the door to your two-bedroom motel room swung open, alexei and bob had already claimed the bed near the windows. meanwhile ava, yelena, and bucky are assigned to a different mission.

here you are, sleeping next to john walker on a lumpy and cheap double bed, a barrier of only one layer of pillows between the two of you. your back is turned to him; you’d imagine what it’d be like facing him without the wall of pillows, so you just avoided even facing his direction. a form of self-control.

the motel isn’t fancy enough to give you another blanket when you called for it, so you’re sharing one with walker. you’ve got goosebumps from the cranky air conditioner and the hypotheticals of sharing a bed with a super soldier you’ve been crushing on for months.

the continuous and consistent sounds from the air conditioner are disturbed by a rhythmic noise, like soft skin slapping, emerging from your right. you brush it off, not wanting to move since the mission was physically taxing.

after a few more seconds of the noise, the tiny space of the blanket you had was being tugged, the wall of pillows was shaking, and you occasionally heard soft grunts.

is walker jerking off?

you immediately sat up and looked over the wall of pillows. you see walker intensely shutting his eyes and biting his lip, the shape of a fist outlining the thin white blanket right above where his crotch would be.

“john?”

he widens his eyes. his whole body is freezing, not just from the air conditioner but from the embarrassment.

“hey… how long have you been awake?”

he inquires with a slight shake in his quiet voice, trying his best not to wake the two sleeping men on the other bed and not to let the shame shine through.

“i haven’t slept since we laid down.” “god damn it.” “you couldn’t do it in the bathroom?” 

you whisper-shout. at the same time, you’re fighting the urge to break the walls down, figuratively and literally, and sit on his cock.

“fuck. sorry. i'm really sorry. i didn’t wanna get up, and… it looked like you were in a deep sleep.” “unbelievable.”

you lie back down and cup your hot face with your cold hands. walker sits up and places his arm on top of the wall of pillows to appear casual and friendly.  “look, i was just… hard, and i couldn’t go to sleep so i had to… you know. relieve myself.” “you gonna finish?” “ha-ha. very funny.” he rolls his eyes and faces away from you. after hearing the silence from you, he turns his head back to you with concern on his face.

“do it in me,”

you whisper as you raise yourself by your elbows. you look up at him through your eyelashes. he parts his lips and smirks, and releases a short sigh that sounds like a forced laugh.

“don’t mess with me like that.” “i’m not gonna jerk you off. i’m tired. i’m offering you help, john.” “so… you would rather i put my—“ “if you think this is a joke, you can just try to jerk off by yourself until the sun comes up and find that useless.”

his mouth is left partly open, tightening as he thinks of a response. “otherwise, get on top of me,” you offer, swallowing your shame. his blue orbs scan your face, looking for a confirmation that you wanted it as if you didn’t already ask him to get on top of you. his eyes then slowly travel to your neck and cleavage, revealed by the blanket that slid off when you got up. 

“are you sure?” “i’m sure. i’m your friend, and i want to help you.” “we must be a special case of friends, then.”

he breaks down the wall of pillows, a symbolic emotional and physical barrier the both of you have yet to discuss properly. you get on your back and put your arms to your sides. you inhale and exhale deeply to mentally prepare for the night you and he are about to have. 

the careful but quick movements from the walker against the bedsheets emit rustling sounds, good enough not to wake your roommates. he hurriedly tosses the pillows to the edges of the bed, eager to hover above you under the shared blanket.

he brackets your flushed face in his elbows, face only an inch away from yours. he tugs on the hem of your shorts, like permission to take it off. you accept it by helping him slide it down your legs, the shorts sliding off along with your laced panties. you slowly lift your legs up and apart, allowing his already half-naked bottom half to go in between. 

“you ready?” he asks in a whisper. you nod, and he holds eye contact. you both gasp as he slowly pushes his cock into you, your walls welcoming it by hugging it. the feeling of being full of him meets and somewhat surpasses your dirty expectations of his cock.

“fuck, you’re so warm.” he quietly moans in your ear, his shaky breath tickling you. your hands grip the ball of his shoulders, releasing your pent-up sexual frustration all these weeks from waiting for this very position.

he silently waits for you to adjust to his size and for him to adapt to the amount of pleasure he has been trying to reach by himself. you plant a peck on his ear, which tells him he can begin moving.

he gently rocks his hips into your pussy. you bite your lip to suppress moans. your swollen red lips that look sugar-glazed tempt walker; he knows the moment he gives in to his temptations, nothing will be the same ever again.

a super soldier can lift a ten-ton truck, but even john walker struggles to fight the urge to kiss you like you and him belonged to only each other. you mentioned you’re his friend like setting the label in stone.

he was afraid to cross that line by kissing you at the same time he was inside of you. he places a hand under your knee lifts it more which allows him to enter into you more easily. 

“john…”

you cup his face with your hands as he gently grinded onto you. his big and hard cock contrasts his gentle movements. how can a man who could destroy you fuck you so lovingly?

“you like this?” he asks. “i do."

his lips now only a few centimeters away from yours.

“you want more?” “i want more,” you admit as you fling your arms around his neck. your walls squeeze tighter around his cock at the sound of his low voice.

he began to quicken his pace and amplify the strength of each thrust. before you could release a moan and wake up your roommates, he shuts your mouth with a hand.

“not too loud."

he slides the other hand under your back, encouraging a bigger arch by pulling you closer to his body as if it isn’t close enough. your hips bucked so eagerly against his cock, making him want to ruin you more. your saliva wets his hand, but he doesn’t care. he’d jerk off with that hand.

a knot ties in your stomach. your hands travel to his back. your nails dig deep into his skin right under his broad shoulders, like an act of revenge for shutting you up.

several long red marks are left on his skin, following your nails as you scratch his back until you reach the sides of his ribs. he groans in pain and pleasure while still attempting to make sounds in the lowest volume possible.

it feels impossible. the soft skin slapping emerging from between your legs, the heavy breathing, the frustration in each thrust, the wish to fuck loudly, and the two clueless sleeping men make the sex feel impossible. but it’s happening. you don’t know how, but you’re leaving it all to walker.

he buries his face into the crook of your neck, and your fingers into his dirty blonde hair. his other hand joins the one under your back, putting the two of you in a hugging position. the pillows start to slide off the bed one by one as walker’s pace quickens.

“m’so close, princess. taking it so good for me," he manages to say in between his frustrated thrusts.

“feels so good, john,” you whisper, bringing him closer to climax. you feel your pussy squeeze tighter around his cock, pulsating as deep and fast as your heartbeat.

“yeah?” he moans into your ear, waiting for another praise. you look to your right to see alexei and bob still sleeping amidst the debauchery on your bed. alexei’s snoring was a signal for you to keep riling up walker.

“you fuck so good," you moan. you wrap your legs around his hips. he hugs your back tighter. you shut your eyes as they rolled back, preparing for the climax.

even though you could only see stars now, your visualization of the mess down there from your slick is accurate.

walker slams his hips onto you harder, fucking into you until he can feel your womb. with each thrust becoming increasingly inconsistent, you could tell he was near.

“fuck— right there.”

he presses his lips against yours, breaking the unspoken rule; you can’t kiss because you’re “friends.” he thrusts into you deeply, filling you up with his cum. you arrive at the same time. all you can do now is cover your mouth with a hand as walker buries his groans between your neck and your pillow.

your other hand grabs onto his bicep, releasing your pent-up sexual frustration into the grip.

he thrusts into you one last time, this being the deepest. you both lay there breathing heavily, staring into nothing as you process what happened in 7 minutes.

the hug you were giving each other loosens. he props himself up on his elbow, the other hand on your waist. he looks into your eyes before turning his head slightly to the side and kissing you slowly. he briefly separates his lips from yours, leaving yours slightly parted. “show me your tongue,” he whispers.

as soon as he sees the pink flesh in between your teeth, he joins his tongue with yours and presses his lips against yours. his tongue softly massages yours, both gentle and hungry for more, like he’s not still inside of you.

“you wanna take this to the car?”

[delicioushottubpeanut]

Come right on me … I mean camaraderie - John Walker x reader

━━━━━━━━━━━ ⋆⋅ ♡ ⋅⋆ ━━━━━━━━━━━

Word count: 3.5k

Description: You can't help the inappropriate thoughts that come out of your mouth during a mission, and John has to teach you a lesson, or multiple, about it.

“Holy shit, come right on me” You mumbled under your breath. His head snapped at you. No. There’s no way his hearing caught that.

Tags/warnings: smut, fem!reader is a horny menace, dominant John, long buildup, sex, overstimulation.

Note: This has Sabrina Carpenter levels of bluntness about being horny that's how I feel about this man. Kicked my feet while writing this. Enjoy 🫶🏼

Masterlist

It wasn’t your fault, really.

It wasn’t your fault that John Walker was a goddamn idiot. Or that he was also so painfully hot you’d been waking up to drenched panties after dreams where he made you his in the most filthy ways you could imagine.

It wasn’t your fault your brain crafted entire scenarios while you slept, where he was all over you, handsy, desperate, soaked in sweat.

And it really wasn’t your fault that Bucky kept pairing you up with him for missions. You were sure Yelena had something to do with that targeted sabotage.

You were down so bad for him, all the man had to do was exist. The way he led in front of you, the way he threw around orders under pressure, the particular way he had to shove targets against walls … your mind didn’t even try to behave anymore.

This morning, you’d woken up panting, sheets damp in a sweaty mess, mind adjusting to the fact that his head was between your legs only in your dream and not in reality.

How sad.

And now here you were, paired with him again in some random warehouse lab, Yelena and Bucky waiting back on the jet while you did your part of the mission.

“Did you get it?” His voice came in a growl through your comm, you could hear his grunts as he cleared your extraction route, and holy shit, why did that do things to you?

It. Wasn’t. Your. Fault.

You tucked the vial into your pocket, trying to focus. You cleared your throat before speaking.

“Package secured. I’m on my way to you.”

But before you could turn, a yelp went through the comm when a rough hand grabbed your shoulder and slammed you to the floor. You barely had time to gasp before a body pinned you down, heavy and aggressive, and a cold blade pressed against your throat.

You barely caught the attacker’s fist mid air, fighting the strength he was pushing down with, when a gloved hand stopped him. The man cried in pain when John twisted his arm away from your face. The next thing you knew, he went flying across room.

John had yanked him off you, throwing him away with a snarl that made your blood burn. He let his shield fall to the ground, before he stomped towards the guy, grabbed him by the collar, and smashed his fist into his face.

“So you like hitting pretty girls, huh?” He barked, punching again.

You watched from your spot on the floor, thoughts detailing from the moment he spoke. You bit your lip as he lifted the man to shove him into the wall. Those arms, those grunts … god.

Why on earth was that so hot?

"Holy shit, come right on me." You mumbled under your breath, weren’t even thinking as the words came out of your mouth.

His head snapped at you, dropping the body of the man.

Your eyes go wide. No. There's no fucking way his hearing caught that.

He started at you with furrowed brows and a hint of disbelief. Sweat clung to his hairline, making disheveled strands stick to his forehead, chest rising and falling under the weight of adrenaline.

That image wasn't helping at all.

"What?” He asked, voice coming out rougher than he intended.

Shit.

“I mean ... camaraderie! Y-yeah. Thanks for that" You blurted, pointing awkwardly at the half conscious guy on the floor like that explained anything.

He nodded hesitantly, squinting at you like he was trying to decide whether you were insane or he was.

In three long strides he walked over, standing over you offering his gloved hand. You took it, and in one swift motion he pulled you up, straight into him. His other hand landed firmly on the curve of your back, pressing you tightly against him.

Your uneven breathing hit his neck, barely reaching his jawline.

"That can be arranged" He mumbled, eyes dropping, just for a second, to your lips.

You were sure your brain just short circuited. Of course he heard your horny ass.

"John–"

Before you could say anything to defend whatever was left of your dignity, voices echoed from the hallway, and in a second, he spun you both behind a column, pressing you harshly against the wall. His palm instinctively covered your mouth, eyes locked on the entrance.

“Shh” he whispered, breath warm against your forehead. “Be quiet.”

The agents continued their way down the hall without noticing you were in the room, and John's posture relaxed slightly.

Yours didn't.

Being pinned against a wall, trapped by his larger frame of broad shoulders, feeling every ridge of his suit on your chest and something very solid pressing against your belt.

This. This is what dreams are made of.

You instinctively raised your knee, just enough to rub softly against the bulge in his suit. He sucked in a sharp breath, head jerking in your direction, hand still covering your mouth.

You notice the way his entire body tensed up again.

You brought your knee back down, slowly, and he looked like it physically pained him not to grab it back and rub against him one more time. His hand dropped from your mouth, and the smirk on your lips said everything.

You rose up on your toes, drawing your lips close to his ear.

"I bet it's even better than in my head." You teased, barely nibbling the edge of his ear.

You gasped when he pushed you tighter into the wall, jaw clenching with his fingers digging deeper onto your waist.

He was so so done for.

"Walker? Walker, come in." The comms static pierced through the tension, Yelena's voice breaking the silence. "Did you get it? We need to go. Now."

He hesitated for a second, hands twitching like he wasn’t ready to let your body go yet.

He wasn’t sure if he could trust his voice, and to be honest neither did you. He took a shaky breath, cleared his throat, and backed up a step.

"Y-yeah" He said, turning from you. His voice cracked slightly, so he cleared his throat again, and you bit your lip to keep from laughing."We got it. We’re heading to the jet now."

By the time he turned back around, you were already walking out, casually ahead of him like you hadn’t just driven him to the edge of self control.

The ride back to the watchtower was tense. You took the seat farthest from John, clearly not because you wanted to. No, you wanted to crawl into his lap and beg him to continue what you’d started, but self preservation said maybe don’t ride him in front of coworkers.

Considering Yelena and Bucky had been throwing knowing glances at you the whole time.

This was your fault after all.

Not being able to control your dirty thoughts, showing up all flustered and justifying it on almost getting sliced, pretending you could fool two polygraph detectors.

Whatever.

All you needed was a warm shower and to give yourself a little love to drown those inappropriate thoughts of yours about John.

Respectfully, of course.

You made your way across the hallway towards your room, thinking about getting that shower head as soon as you could between your thighs, when a door openned and hand grabbed you, shoving you inside that room.

The door to John's room slammed shut behind you with a solid thud. Before you could even turn around, he had you pressed up against it, hands holding his weight on the door, each placed next to your head.

"You don't get to do that shit, sweetheart" He groaned, standing close to your face. "You don't say those things to me in the middle of a mission and pretend I’ll just forget about it."

You breathe loudly, chest rising up and down, trying to wrap your head aground the fact that he had you caged in his room. You tilt your head to the side, might as well enjoy it.

"God forbid I have fantasies." You tease, without missing a bit.

Your knee went up to do the same thing you did earlier, but he took one hand off the door to stop it before it could reach his crotch, and let out a bitter laugh.

"You think you’re the only one who fantasizes? You think I don’t dream with that dirty pretty mouth of yours?"

Your breath hitched. His hands traveled to your waist, rough and possessive, thumbs digging into your hips like he was grounding himself, like the last part of him was barely holding back.

His lips brushed your neck, not kissing, just hovering. Teasingly . He pulled back, just enough to make you chase the contact, and that smug little smirk flickered on his lips.

He began guiding you away from the door, never splitting your bodies apart.

"You've been distracting me since day one" he muttered, backing you up until your legs hit the bed. "Wearing that tight suit and those damn lips. Always mouthing shit off, making me want to shut you up."

You whimpered, eyes dropping to the floor.

He tilted your chin up, forcing you to look at him.

"Oh, so now you're shy?" He teased, making a tsk tsk sound. "I want you to look at me now, when you talk like that."

His hands found the zipper of your suit, with a darkened look he stares at you for a moment, waiting for approval.

And fuck your heart was pounding. You needed someone to pinch you to make sure this wasn't a dream.

You nodded immediately, maybe a little too eager.

He chuckled at your desperation, taking his sweet time to take your one piece suit off, making sure he enjoyed every time your breath hitched when he grazed your skin. He dragged the fabric down, leaving you only in underwear.

As soon as the suit hit the floor, he pressed you down onto the mattress with one hand on your chest.

"You wanna tease me? Say filthy shit in the middle of a fight? Rub your knee against me like that?" His hand slid up your thigh, slowly claiming what’s always been his in your wildest dreams. "You don't get to walk away to find relief on your own."

Your breath stuttered, your hands instinctively went to the zipper of his suit, but he caught your wrists.

"John, come on–"

"No, you have to be patient like I’ve been" he said, dipping his head down to brush his lips across your collarbone. "I tried to be good. Tried to respect the mission."

He lifted his head, eyes locked on yours. "But you decided to be a brat and got me all worked up. Now I get to take my time with you."

He pulled himself back from your body, finally reaching for the top of his suit, messily dismantling it away to throw it off the bed.

You barely had time to breathe before he was on you again, kissing you hard, devouring you. His hands held your jaw, fingers rough and urgent, like he needed to keep you under him forever.

You gasped against his mouth, and that's when it slipped out.

"Been so wet all day since I woke up–“

He froze, immediately pulling back, eyes narrowed at you. "What was that?"

"N-nothing." You stuttered, too quick to be believable. He chuckled.

"No, go ahead sweetheart" he said, thumb dragging across your bottom lip. "Keep talking. You got so much to say, right?"

You opened your mouth but nothing more than a gasp came out when he pushed his hand between your thighs, grinding up against the wet spot on your panties.

"God dammit" he muttered, his fingers painfully grazing the fabric, barely touching it. "This all for me?"

You moaned, nodding. "Been saving it since the morning."

His cock twitched inside his pants at your confession. He softly slapped over your wet panties, making you jolt. "Always have something to say, don't you?" He slapped again when you nodded, harder this time, his fingers getting wet through the fabric.

He brought his fingers to his lips, and without hesitation, teased. "Tastes better than in my head."

"Fuck" you whined, head dropping to the bed. "This is so much worse now."

You were doomed. You were never coming back from this, from his touch.

From all of him.

He bitterly laughed. "You think this is hard for you?"

His hands found your hips, gripping tight. He rolled them up against his own, letting you feel how hard he was.

"I've had to walk around with this for weeks because of you. Every time you stretch, every time you bend over, every time you moan in your room–"

Your head snapped up to look at him, and his smirk deepened.

"Yeah, my room is next to yours. You think I don't hear you? Late at night, thinking you're being quiet?" He was so arrogantly casual about it, like it was something he'd wanted to confess for a long time.

That he heard you every time. A nasty little secret of yours he's kept locked for too long.

"You touch yourself thinking about me, sweetheart?" he asked, voice full of cockiness. "Bet you taste your own fingers after you're done, pretending it's me."

You wanted to yell at him and tell him he was so full of himself. But damn, he was right, all you wanted was to be full of him too.

Your hips jerked against him, your patience was running short. He hissed at your move, like the contact short circuited something in his brain.

"No shame either, didn't even try to deny it." He continued.

"That’s nothing" You shake your head teasingly. "You should hear the things that go through my head. You'd never look at me the same again."

He shook his head amused.

"Poor thing, can't even shut up about how bad she wants it."

You whined, the pool between your thighs starting to ache by the lack of his touch.

You tugged at his tactical pants. "Take them off, right now."

"Impatient" he scolded.

"I've been patient for months" you snapped, squirming under him. "You just never listened."

"Oh, I’m listening now" he growled. "I just have to be sure you can take it."

You reached up to run your hands across his chest, fingers tracing down his abdomen.

“I'll take it" you blurted, fingers dipping low enough to make him groan. "All of it."

He grinned, before fumbling with his pants, cursing when they got slightly stuck, ripping them down fast enough to make you laugh, until your eyes landed on him. On him.

"Oh my god." you breathed.

Shit. It was better than in your head.

Thick, swollen. Absolutely perfect.

He grinned. This is a sight he had only seen in dreams before. You laying on his bed, mouth parted open at the sight of his cock, ready to let him ruin you.

His mouth was on yours again, rough and needy this time, hands everywhere, yanking off the last pieces of fabric from your body like he'd earned it.

And boy, he had.

He lined himself up, dragging the hard tip through your slick entrance, teasing. But you saw it in his face, the way his jaw was clenched, like he was barely holding on.

"You sure, baby?" he asked. "I need you to say it."

You prompted yourself up by your shoulders, grabbing his face, beard tickling your fingers. "Make my fantasies come true, John."

That was all it took for him to push himself in, teasingly slow, beautifully thick, stretching you in the most delicious, overwhelming way. You moaned his name, head falling back on the mattress.

"Shit, so tight" he groaned, barely moving as your walls got used to him. "You're perfect. Fuck, you're perfect"

He couldn’t wait any longer. With no warning he was pounding into you like he meant it. Like a man who’d been dreaming about it for too long and finally got permission to ruin you.

He caged you against his body, his large hands gripped your hips so tight you'd definitely have marks.

You couldn't stop moaning, couldn't even form words. You were just a string of gasps, whimpers, and his name over and over like it was the only thing left in your brain.

"Fucking hell," he groaned, watching your face contort with every thrust. "Such a pretty little mess aren’t you?."

Your nails dragged down his back, trying to keep yourself grounded. But he was hitting that sweet spot with every thrust.

"Harder" you begged in the haze. "Please –fuck, please don't stop."

He growled. Like full on growled. He increased his speed, abusing of his enhanced strength. Your mouth dropped open in a cry, so perfectly wrecked he couldn't help the grin on his face.

"You gonna come for me, baby?" He grunted, feeling that familiar clench around his cock.

You just nodded, biting your lip. But he wasn't having that, he wanted to hear you. He leaned down, teeth grazing your ear.

"Then say it. Say what you say when you think I'm not listening"

Your brain scrambled. "W-what?"

"You know what, say it" he demanded. "Come right on me, wasn't it?"

You gasped, eyes wide as he continued to rearrange your entire system.

"Say it, sweetheart. Or I stop." He threatened, but you shook your head immediately.

You whined, thighs shaking around his waist. "Come ...fuck ... come right on you–"

You got the words mixed up, your brain completely fogged by the pleasure.

"There she is" he groaned, dragging your hips up for a better angle. "There's my filthy girl."

His praise sent your body over the edge, coming so hard it punched the air out of your lungs. And hell, he felt it. Every spasm. Every clench. He swore loud and shoved in deeper, chasing his own high.

"Where did you say you want it, baby? Say it one more time for me.” He panted, losing his rhythm, hips jerking erratically.

"Cum right on m-me" you blurted the right words this time, even while still trembling under him.

He slammed into you once, twice, before pulling out to spill all over your stomach you with a ragged growl, his forehead dropping to your shoulder, hips twitching as he emptied himself on your skin.

For a moment there was just your ragged breathing, and that slick, milky warmth dripping down your abdomen. Half his body weight rested on you, as he breathed on your neck.

"Holy shit" You mumbled, gasping, when he placed a kiss on your shoulder.

Only a few seconds passed.

You barely had time to catch your breath before he was moving up again, feeling his hard dick against your stomach like he didn't just fill you up.

Your eyes fluttered open, confusion clouding your post orgasm haze.

"Wait, John" you panted, "you're still...?"

"Oh, baby" he chucked, flipping you over to press your chest to the mattress. He dragged your ass back to him, slow and possessive. "We're not done yet."

You gasped as he slid back in with one deep thrust, your body was too sensitive, walls fluttering around him as he groaned, gripping your hips tight to steady himself.

"You don't get to talk like that" he said, something darker in his voice now. "Say that filthy shit. Look at me the way you do, like you're ready to drop to your knees in the middle of a mission–"

"J-John" you whimpered, he felt even bigger than before.

"–and expect me to stop after one round?"

He started to move. Long, slow strokes that made your toes curl. Your face pressed to the sheets, moaning like you didn't care if your teammates heard.

"John … it's too good, too much..."

By this point you weren’t thinking clearly anymore, words coming out slurred.

"You can take it" He pushed himself harder. "You told me you could, sweetheart."

You whimpered into the pillow, your body trembling. Every thrust hit deeper, harder, somehow better than before. Pleasure curling up your spine, threatening to drag you over the edge again.

“You have no idea what you’ve been doing to me” he muttered, leaning in closer, his voice brushing the back of your neck. “Or maybe you do. Maybe that’s the whole fucking point.”

You were so close. The overstimulation was making you see stars, enough to make you cry out his name again and again.

"So good for me. Could stay inside you all night." He praised, grunting, his hands roaming your back.

Your body crashed out again, louder this time, absolutely zero control over it, your orgasm ripping through you so hard your vision went white.

He lost it.

You cried out his name one last time as you felt him come again, body twitching while this time he filled you up, muttering curses into your back like he was trying to bury them in your skin.

He stayed like that for a moment, buried deep with uneven breathing, chest on your back. You don’t know how long passed, until he pulled out slowly, a hiss catching in his throat as you whimpered softly under him.

"Sorry, sweetheart" he mumbled, his hand softly rubbing your back, "You okay?"

You nodded, completely blissed out. Couldn’t trust yourself to speak properly at this point.

He kissed the back of your neck, so soft, completely opposite to the way he just wrecked you. You couldn't hold your body up any longer, so he helped you flip around to rest your back on the mattress.

"Still breathing, baby?" he whispered, brushing your hair from your damp face.

You let out faint laugh, your vision finally coming back to normal. "Barely."

"Good, we were just getting started."

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Part 2 Have you ever tried this one? 🖤

comments and reblogs save author’s lives, thank you so much for reading <3

[delicioushottubpeanut]

Paddy Mayne (Jack O'Connell) in SAS: Rogue Heroes Season 2 Episode 2

[delicioushottubpeanut]

✷ MARTINI'S MASTERLIST

⠀˖　⠀˙⠀　｡ 18+ REQUEST

† NSFW | ⟡ SFW

NOTE; omg baby's first masterlist i'm very open to every and any request !! please don't hesitate,, PLEASE im running out of ideas el oh el;;

⠀˖　⠀˙⠀　｡ tags;

𖦹 remmick | 𖦹 yappa yappa

REMMICK - when it slips out. † - dry humping. † - feeding. † - make it stick. † - sweet smelling right † | PT.2

PADDY - a quick one †