#keanu reeves x reader

[littlemisslomax]

“Omg Neo’s so hot and badass! I wish I could have Neo, he’s such a cool hero with cool moves.” WRONG. I WANT LOSER, SHY, COMPSCI NERD EXTRAORDINAIRE, THOMAS A. ANDERSON! Bro has probably seen non-virtual t¡ddies ONCE (1) and I want to be the second.

[keravnous]

diet mountain dew; john wick/fem!reader (smut, 18+)

dating john wick - the playlist

The Boogeyman is out to get you. Little does he know, that you too are willing to do quite a bunch of things just to stay alive.

warnings: blood, guns, knives, injuries, physical violence/fighting, assassination attempt; dub-con, rough sex, unprotected sex, fingering, oral (female receiving), choking, dirty talk, spanking, a lot of manhandling bc for the love of god he doesn't know how to be soft anymore, gun kink, knife kink, size kink, strength kink, squirting, body worship if you blink, is this hate-fucking? idk; john has a horse cock change my mind; john is in his 50s, the reader is in her 20s; set somewhere after the series i guess? (I refuse to accept he's dead); problematic family relationship as a plot device; let's all collectively ignore the fact that he would actually never touch another woman or even dare to catch the smallest of feelings again; john gets off on the violence

word count: 10,6 k

thank you mel for a) listening to my ramblings and b) reading a good chunk of the first third of this dumpster fire and still going nuts about it, kissies and thank you v for listening to my keanu ramblings without losing faith in me

You wonder, if praying will help you. Probably not.

The sound of carnage, screams and gunshots in the hallway abruptly stops. You hear the assailant's heavy footsteps echoing off the floorboards outside of your hotel room mere seconds before the door bursts open, flies out of its hinges and rattles to the ground, wood creaking and breaking, splinters flying everywhere.

There had been a hit out on you for two days and every single soldier in your father's militia was ready to defend your life with their own.

Literally. You can tell by the man entering your suite.

You can tell by just how much he is covered in blood. You can tell by the way it drips down his forehead and how it soaks his white shirt - even the soles of his shoes creak with it. You can tell by the way he is totally and utterly drenched in red red red, and because you are certain it is not his.

They literally gave their life for you. The thought hits you like a blow to the head. People have died because of you. Fathers, brothers, sons. You recall your last conversation with your own father. They want us dead, they put out a contract on us - you had never seen him so nervous, so disheveled. What does that mean - his anxiety had been washing over you in seeping hot waves, sending cold shivers down your spine. It means, I need you out of the house - now.

Nausea bubbles in your stomach as the man now approaches you, casually strolls into the suite with his finger on the trigger of the gun dangling from his hand and you stare back at him - a deer in the headlights, frozen by fear in the eyes of its deadly predator. One of your father's men jumps from his cover, fires a shot and gets hit back with one straight between his eyes. It happens so quickly, that you can't turn your head away. You see the bullet piercing his forehead, blood splattering as soon as it exits the skull on the other side. His head flies back a little, and then his body goes limp, slack, as he falls to the ground with a heavy thud.

You want to scream. You want to vomit. You want to run. But there is nowhere to run to, nowhere to hide from him.

There's only one soldier left with you in the suite now and he is hiding around the corner, near the bathroom. The stranger - the assassin, the killer - does not lower the gun again, and does not let his eyes stray from you as he carefully enters the room. You feel terribly exposed, dressed only in your negligée, not daring to move.

Now, that the dim light of the suite's living room strikes his face, you can finally see him, see the man who has come to end you. He is older than you, maybe nearly twice your age, with dark hair and even darker eyes, matching his black suit. Lean and athletic, chest heaving slightly with physical exhaustion. The Boogeyman.

You do not know who or what you had expected, what cruel and dreadful images your brain had conjured up in the past 48 hours - 48 frightful hours of being moved around from hideout to hideout by your father's men, not staying in one place longer than necessary - but it certainly was not that. Not him. He is a lot more handsome than his reputation has led on. Seeing him on the subway around rush hour you would have never suspected him to be in this business. He looks nice. And that is exactly what makes him dangerous.

You have heard his name before. Echoing from the walls. Baba Yaga. Whispered with both: fear and respect. The Boogeyman. Blurted out: like a curse or like a blessing. Mister Wick: like redemption, like damnation. Jonathan, the king's son walking the earth as the devil.

John. The sound of his name is oddly human - disturbingly human - for someone looking as calm and collected, focused and concentrated as he does right now, while being drenched in blood and pointing a gun at you.

You must have said his name out loud, because his eyebrows twitch irritatedly, a movement so quick you barely missed it - must've sound desperate too, then.

Vision zeroing in on the barrel of his gun, your hands clutch the sofa's edge. There is so much adrenaline pumping through your veins right now that it freezes your limbs, has your ears ringing. The only thing responding to your brain fully are your eyes, and they snap away from the gun and over to the remaining soldier. It's a quick look, not even a second, but the hitman seems to recognize it and - with near inhumane speed - flicks his gun, and fires two shots. Blood splatters against the white door as the shots pin the soldier's body against it, and is it finally drops to the ground heavily it leaves a nasty trail, all wet and sticky and red.

Could be you.

You want to scream, but your body does not belong to you anymore, does not respond to your commands. It is a desperate, cruel sound that leaves your throat instead as you flinch with the sound of the gun being fired.

"Let's make this quick" his voice is gravelly and rough, like he has seen a thousand grim things and the pain of it has etched its way into his throat, left a nasty mark on every tone that ever dared to cross after.

That is when your fight or flight suddenly kicks in. Well, more specifically, it kicks in while he is speaking, as he starts to swap the empty clip of his gun.

He underestimates you. Everyone does. Your father, your brother. The countless men lying dead littered across the hotel's 25th floor. It will be his mistake.

You latch forward, grabbing the vase from the coffee table in front of you. The weight of it in your hand drags you down.

With all the strength you can muster, which is quite a lot considering the massive amounts of adrenaline that are currently amping up your body - you throw it at him. It connects with his forehead sharply; a deep, irritated noise bursting from his throat as it crashes, splinters and falls to the floor.

You are braver, braver than you should be as your assault does not end there, your body pushing you forward, leaping over the table and crashing into his broad shoulders.

I will not die today

Body ramming into his, he stumbles, as your fist connects with his chin. You have only been partially trained in hand-to-hand combat, after pleading your brother for months until he eventually gave in. Sadly, he wasn't nearly as thorough and honest with it as he was training his drug dealer and gun runners. But now, it is the only thing you can rely on.

There is nothing else; no one else left alive in that building who might be able to help you. It is up to you. So, you might as well try.

And Oh, does desperation fire up your blood.

I will not die today

The diversion does not last long and he - John John John only human only human only human - grabs you by you waist hard, fingers digging into your flesh and into the expensive silk, before he slams your body into the ground. All air leaves your lungs with a dull sound erupting from your chest, just as pain blooms around your ribs.

You cough and he looks down at you, confusion making his brows twitch, before cold-hearted determination takes over once more. John aims his gun at you once more, pulls back the hammer and you do not even think about it, your leg rising as you kick against his hand. The shot misses, buries itself deep into the expensive carpet a few inches next to your skull. You have no time to do either: panic or sigh in relief; instead, you deliver him a kick to his stomach, fighting yourself back onto your feet, punching him straight in the face.

John grunts and grabs your wrist, but you see it coming and throw yourself into his wide frame, wrapping your other arm around his back and thus hooking it underneath his right shoulder, dislocating his arm and preventing him from aiming his gun at you. You claw onto him as he twists your arm close to his stomach, while you wrap your legs around him, making it harder for John to shake you off.

I will not die today

You kick and dig the heel of your foot into his thighs and the back of his knees and he grunts and buckles a little, but turns wild and relentless quicker than you can blink, throws the two of you into the next wall. You gasp sharply as your back connects with the large mirror, splinters digging into your back - not deep enough to actually cut skin, but it stings nonetheless, the impact making you dizzy.

Sharp pain shoots through your back and your neck, but you are not willing to give up yet, as raw energy and rage and desperation surges through your body - one of your legs coming loose and your knee hitting his stomach repeatedly, making John grunt in pain and you use your momentum to dig your hand deep into his back, holding onto him and then swirling out of the deadlock he has got you in, jumping his back like a monkey.

His gun clatters to the ground and for a split second, the room falls silent. Then, roaring like an animal gone wild, he grabs your calves and slams his back into the nearest wall, has you screaming with the impact. You can feel blood pouring from your nose, feel it trickling down your lips.

I will not die today

John is stronger than you are, so so much stronger - the apex predator: all muscle, unbreakable focus and the sheer will to kill. But you are not only a little quicker; you also really want to stay alive. It is a force he rarely encounters. And quite frankly, it irritates him.

He may be older than you, taller than you and stronger than you but you have something he does not have: you actually still got something to lose.

And you fight like it, too. All scratches and sharp yells, as you punch and scrabble at his shoulders and tear at his tie, trying to strangle him with it. John is struggling against it, gasping for air and winding beneath your assault and then his grip around your claves grows hard like iron, seconds before he pulls - throws you over his head like you weigh nothing. You land on the expensive carpet with a heavy thud - groaning as you crash onto your side with sharp pain shooting through your shoulder, down your ribcage.

I will not die today

John sputters and stumbles forward, looking for his gun but you are quicker, kicking it away with your foot. It clatters back onto and slides over the wooden floorboards.

For a second you consider your choices, fighting yourself back onto your feet but John - a practiced and seasoned fighter - beats you to it and lands a blow to your upper back, sends you back down with him - a mess of sputtering saliva and painful groans. His body topples onto yours and he quickly rolls the two of you over the floor.

John is heavy and warm on top of you, as he keeps you in a tight headlock, your chest pressed to the floor and neck bend in a painful angle. He presses his strong forearm down onto your windpipe and you choke and cough, feet kicking, hands dragging across the wood, clawing at it feebly.

You can feel his breath on your cheek, hot and damp. You can feel his torso pressing against your back as he kneels behind you.

I will not die today

Mustering all your remaining strength, you trash against him, ramming your backside into his stomach. He grunts and for a split second, his grip loosens. It is all you need. Throwing your elbow back, you hit him in the chest and he caves in.

You cough, crawling forward and then scrambling back onto your feet, one of your negligée’s straps falling down your shoulder in the process. You hastily pull it back up, seconds before John launches a cascade of punches onto you.

A few of them hit you as you try to block them; dull pain igniting in your body, blooming in your face and arms. Your breath goes heavy as you stumble backwards. You cannot do this. There is no way. You just physically can't.

He is stronger. Taller. Heavier. Deadlier. Your body and every single muscle, bone, nerve in it aches and you wheeze but he is already onto you again, half-tackles you and grabs your waist, ready to smash you back onto the ground.

You cling onto him with all your remaining strength, struggling against his huge frame, wrapping your hands around his neck in an attempt to get him to stumble.

His hair tingles on your naked arms. Oh wait --

Tearing at his hair - which has him grunting in both, pain, and irritation at the unusual attempt - you clumsily pull yourself up onto his shoulders, cutting his face right above his eyebrow with your nails in the process until you finally wrap one leg around his throat and close it around there tightly, choking him. John tries to pull you off him and succeeds after quite the tussle, only to find your frame clinging to him, legs and arms wrapping around his body, hands scratching and feet kicking.

I will not fucking die today

In an attempt to either get rid of each other or submit the last blow, to finally kill the other, you two swirl through the room - a deadly dance of torn skin, smashed glass panes and mirrors, bruises and cuts. Somewhere in between kicks and punches, he managed to pick up his gun - and right now, you are mustering all of your exhausted strength to prevent the barrel from pressing against your skull.

Eventually, John crashes your bodies through a large wooden door, and is not quick enough - unable to stop his own oxe-like strength - to stop himself from stumbling into the room. The two of you only come a halt as his knees hit something soft and ironically that is what finally topples both of you over, landing onto the mattress of your bedroom with a soft thud and deep, exhausted grunts.

Your ears ring, and you are ready to lash out at him again despite the physical exhaustion, to strike him square across the face, as --

There is something hard pressing against your crotch.

The world falls silent.

No. No, there's no fucking way. It's got to bea hidden weapon. Must be.

But clearly, it is not. There, between your spread legs, his hard cock presses snugly against your panty-clad pussy.

And he just feels so huge - mouth-watering huge - that your body responds in its own way, hips snapping up, stuttering against the hard bulge. John lets go off a shaky, ragged breath, hand still clutching his gun. And you know, that this is your window.

Feeling the warmth that his body and his hard dick are radiating through his expensive suit, you roll your hips once - a languid, slow motion, rubbing your pussy over his bulge.

And he groans. A deep, primal sound that sounds a little coarse. John is looking at you, starring you down, but there is a shadow dancing over his eyes, turning his brown eyes into deep and dark, black pits that gives him away.

He is horny. The Boogeyman is fucking horny. You would laugh, if the realization wasn't knocking all air straight from your lungs. Because it just another reminder, proof of what he actually is: human.

And what a sight he is to see - eyes turning darker every second, his chest heaving with every breath and making it seem like his shirt is going to pop a button or two any second now, his cock prodding against its restraints and your clothed cunt.

It makes you want him. The thought leaves you dizzy, makes you gasp.

Apparently, that is all he needs to roll his hips back into yours. And that - that is just unfair. It's playing dirty. It's, it's -- His dick feels huge as it trails along your folds, has the muscles in your abdomen clenching.

"Fuck", you breathe, a little overwhelmed with and helpless at the sudden surge of lust that ignites your body, the wetness pooling between your legs.

John is not saying anything, just stares you down while he continues to slooowly roll his hips into yours, grinds his cock against your cunt. Your pelvis twitches upward as you start to meet his movements, and then you can hear it. He let's go of a deep breath, and it sounds like the faintest moan.

You need to hear more of that. You need more of him, your cunt aching and hole clenching around nothing already.

"John", and this time you say his name - consciously - it sounds a different way of desperate: your voice reduced to a small whisper, torn at the edges by a wanton whimper ripping from your throat.

If it throws him off-guard he does not show it, does not let you see it. Instead, he grabs your chin hard, gaze locking with yours. Dark pupils blown wide, swallowing the honey-brown of his eyes, and your breath hitches.

"Yeah?", he rasps, and it does not take more than one long look from you for him to lean in, to press his lips onto yours.

The kiss tastes of blood and adrenaline and doom, and you relish in it. Relishing the way his lips move against yours and his beard tickles a little, relishing how his tongue presses into your mouth. It feels like he is eating you whole, licking into your mouth, one hand dancing over your waist - featherlight, like he doesn't know how to touch a body without hurting someone, destroying someone.

I will not die today, motherfucker

Your whole body now sings with it, the security of an impending victory, as you roll your hips into his once more, your tongue now licking back into his mouth. For a second you think about how to strike again, now that he is seemingly distracted, but all will to fight leaves your body as one of his hands brushes over your knee, wanders further and eventually rests on your thigh.

The touch is electrifying and then his hand grows braver, his movements more certain, as he grabs your thigh, feels you up. It happens so suddenly, that you gasp into the kiss.

John parts from you, his lips a little plush already. "Oh God", you whisper as you stare Death Turned Human straight in the face, not a single thought remaining in your skull despite your lust.

He doesn't speak, as he gently let’s go off your leg and straightens back up and for a second you think he is going to hurt you, with the way his brows are furrowed - but he doesn't.

Instead, he moves in, right over your comparably tiny frame - a mountain of a man. John kneels above you, his weight pinning you down while he straddles your thighs and Jesus fucking Christ - what a sight he is to see.

Dark locks falling into his forehead, a little sticky with sweat and the bits of blood from the cut your nails gave him moments ago - right above his left eyebrow, still lazily trickling down into his lashes. His chest heaves with ragged breaths, as he hastily gets rid of his jacket, carelessly drops it to the ground. His black button-down clings to his muscular body underneath his waistcoat and his equally as muscular thighs pin you down to the bed, black fabric nearly tearing at the seams. And then there is his hard cock.

It looks as huge as it felt, with the way it bulges his pants, the outline of it clearly visible as it buckles proudly against its restraints. You are certain, you will not be able to close your hand around it fully - not a chance.

One of his hands - the one lacking a finger, which you only now notice and what sends shivers down your spine - wanders over your body, pulling your negligée down in the process, right tit spilling out of the soft silk. He immediately grabs it, cups it with his large hand and squeezes. You mewl, marveling at just how big his hand is, just as his whole body is in comparison to you. His fucked-up finger digs into the flesh, sending shivers down your spine.

John's hand gropes your tit, before he impatiently pulls the neckline down roughly. You sigh, arousal shooting down your spine and tingling in your lower belly, as two of his fingers nudge your nipple, pinch it.

He watches your face intently, as he continues to grope you, rolls your nipple between his fingers. You mewl, breath accelerating a little but it is just not enough and you buck your hips upwards. John grunts in, what you assume is an approving manner, and let's go off your tit, reaches to his belt at his loins.

Quickly pulling a knife from God-knows-where exactly, a sharp blade enters your vision.

You blink, panic seeping through your lust and your legs twitch a little with fear. If John notices it, he neither shows it nor does he say anything, just moves the knife closer to your body.

The blade shines in the dim light as it dances over your exposed thighs carefully, the metal cooly pressing against your skin, before he flicks it and cuts your negligée open. The thin, soft fabric cleanly cut in half it now lazily slides from your aching body, falls to its sides. Your chest heaves, shivers running down your arms and back.

It happens so quickly that you can only blink. As your brain finally catches up with your eyes, you come to realize that he is holding a real fucking tactical knife. You have thrown one once - they are sharp as hell and deadlier than a bullet. The sound of fabric tearing easily, like paper, proves your point.

And John's movements with the blade are so fast that your breath hitches, a little afraid he might cut you. But he does not, instead, he quickly pulls the torn silk off you and away from under you, carelessly tosses it into the dark of the room.

The edge of the blade dances over your skin and you do not dare to breathe, as he trails it up and down your curves, gently nudges your nipples. "I could kill you", he says calmly and then, in lightning speed, presses the blade into the crook of your neck. Your head sinks back into the mattress, in an instinct to flee the sharp edge.

All it does is to expose your neck further and something gleams in John's eyes, as he presses the sharp tip down slowly, carefully nudging your skin with it. The metal is cold and hard and sharp and your breath hitches. Just a little bit more and it might burst your skin, draw blood.

But, to your own confusion, you do not feel threatened anymore. Oddly enough, your nerves tingle with excitement. You blame it on the already high levels of adrenaline that still pump through your veins, rushing back and forth from your brain and your lungs, but a small voice inside of your head whisper gently, deviously, that you know That's not it. And he knows it, too.

It's in his eyes as well, the sheer excitement of it all, the fucked-up pleasure it evokes in the both of you lays heavy in the air.

It turns you fucking on. It turns you on, that the man who - minutes ago - tried you kill you and did hurt you very fucking badly in the process of it, now decides to let you live.

It turns you on, that you are at his mercy.

It turns you on, that he decided to spare you - just for now.

It turns you on, that these large and strong hands holding the knife have that sort of power over you. And thus, as the blade nudges your head back further, you moan.

"I could cut your throat", John's voice is heavy and thick with arousal and you can feel your heartbeat picking up, breath accelerating. His gaze drops down, watches the rapid rising and falling of your breasts hungrily, while another soft moan escapes from your lips.

"Don't", you breathe softly.

The knife practically burns on your skin, and you can feel arousal flooding your clothed pussy, rubbing your thighs together for any sort of friction. John can feel your squirming underneath him, but he can also see your eyes turning watery and dark with lust, pupils blown and a pretty pink spreading on your cheeks, your breath growing shallow. And he just really needs to fucking taste you right now.

As quickly as it appeared, the blade vanishes from your throat before he twirls the knife like the ruthless, reckless professional that he is, and buries it deep to the hilt in the mattress next to you. The sharp sound as it pierces the thick fabric has the hairs on your body standing up, goosebumps rolling over your skin.

"I'll do it later", he rumbles - casually, like he is talking about doing chores or picking up groceries - before hunching over you, grabbing your chin with his fucked-up hand, and kissing you again. His tongue immediately pushes into your mouth, like he is starving to taste you.

John eats you whole, with the way his lips move against yours. His hand cups your face, tongue licking into your mouth, toying with yours. His kiss steals your breath and you start to get dizzy with it, hips bucking. You can feel his lips curling up and then he parts from you, leaving you a gasping mess, spit pooling at the corners of your mouth.

"Let me touch you, John", you whisper, voice a little small because you do not know why you feel that way, and if he will even allow it. But you just need to feel him.

For a long moment his gaze dances over your face and something shifts behind his eyes, like a shadow gets lifted and then very quickly returns. Ultimately, he gives a court nod, so small you nearly miss it and gives you a little more room while straightening back up.

Carefully, as if not to spook him, you dart one hand out, place it on his chest. The muscle is firm underneath his suit and you run your hand along the lapel of his jacket, down and then back up, before it slips beneath it.

John's body radiates warmth under the black fabric of his shirt and your other hand comes up, before you shove the jacket off his shoulders and onto the floor next to the bed.

Your breath hitches.

He is wearing a holster, a reminder of his deadliness, of the gun laying somewhere next to you. Maybe, he sees the fear returning in your eyes, but he is quick to shrug the holster off, throws it into the dark where it clatters onto the wooden floor boards. What is left in front of you are broad shoulders and a muscular chest, the fabric nearly tearing at his movements.

As you run your hands over it, you cannot help yourself - you need to fucking feel him for real.

Quickly making work of his waistcoat and tie you toss both to the side carelessly, before your hands roam his broad chest. His button-down clings snugly against his upper body and you can feel the muscles work beneath the black fabric as your hands brush over them. You tug at the shirt, pulling its tails from his pants before hastily opening the first few buttons. The skin underneath is pale, littered by blue - red - black bruises, birthmarks scattered in between like stars. You pop open the rest of the buttons, greedy to touch him. And as the shirt falls to the sides your hands are already onto his chest, roaming over and admiring the muscular, defined canvas of strength, that violence has painted a pretty picture on.

John is watching you intently as you undress him and then explore his body, your pupils blown wide and dark, mouth agape a little. He is a little taken aback by it - by someone not seeing his body as the ultimate tool of death that it is, but as something else, that he cannot really pinpoint because he can't even look in the mirror without seeing destruction and decay. But the way your gaze wanders over his body, the way you touch him, is different from that and he has not felt anything like it in years.

And John wants. Carnal desire tugs at his brain, shoots arousal between his legs, makes his cock twitch and a low growl escaping his throat.

The sound gets you going: pushing yourself up with one hand, the other wrapping around his strong neck for leverage as you sit up, mouth immediately clutching to his throat. He tastes of sweat and after-shave - sharp and musky - and you run your tongue over his skin greedily, licking and sucking at the skin while your naked body presses against his.

It disarms him. The gentle touch that you put his body up to, while everything still aches from plowing through the better half of your father's militia and beating the hell out of you, confuses him. Your touch, your lips on his skin are soft and not aiming to hurt - instead, they grow more and more needy, wanton and hasty, as you lick over his bruised skin, tasting his sweat. Your hands over his abdomen caress his defined muscles, in awe of his utter strength, thumbs brushing through the soft and dark trail of hair leading beneath the waistband of his trousers. And all John can do, is watch, his gaze locking with yours as goosebumps erupt on his skin.

And you - oh you; your head swims with the way you turn this animal into a human again, unlock a different set of animalistic needs within him and hearing John's breath growing heavy really fucking does it for you, feeling his scarred and beaten-up skin underneath your hands, wrapping them around the deadly machine that is his body. It makes you want more.

Shedding his blood-stained shirt off of his shoulders, your hands roam over his upper back - feeling the scars there: of knives, larger and small ones and round ones of bullets that once pierced his skin. There is something else, a burn scar, in the shape of a cross and he hisses as your fingers brush over it, nails digging into the stunted skin.

It pulls John out of his stasis, reminds him of who he is and you can feel the air swinging with it seconds before he moves. His large hands wrap around your shoulders and then he pulls you off him, throws you back onto the mattress. You yelp, eyes growing wide as you watch his face as it turns from lightly dazed back to stern, wild, with his brows furrowed.

"That's enough", he says, voice coarse and it still feels like a small victory, even though he spreads your legs roughly, hands digging deep into your thighs - hard enough to bruise - before he kneels between them. He yanks your body forward at the back of your knees, watches your tits bounce and then leans in, his lips immediately attacking your throat, your neck.

His lips are surprisingly soft against your skin, his beard tickling a little as it brushes over your tits, your stomach, your thighs while his tongue licks fat stripes over your nipples and down down down your upper body, right to your navel. One of his hands creeps up your body once more and roughly cups your tit, squeezes, and gropes it, rolls your hardened nipple between his index and middle finger. His stunted ring-finger digs deep into your tit and you gasp, hips bucking. John's lips suck and nibble at your skin, before eventually ghosting over your pubic bone, teasing you before assaulting your thighs again, teeth biting down gently into the soft flesh. You gasp and moan while he gropes your body, inhales your scent - as you watch how his lips, tongue, and teeth dance over your thighs, moving closer to your cunt.

John finally, finally, puts his mouth onto your pussy, peppers open-mouthed kisses around your clit, before clothing his lips around it and sucking on it hard through your panties. Your hips buck as a high-pitched moan erupts from your throat, hands flying into his greying locks.

"Fuck", you whine, feeling fresh wetness flooding your folds, dampening the thin fabric further. John can see the outlines of your wet pussy pressing against your panties and parts from your clit momentarily, only to lick a fat stripe over your clothed cunt, watching it twitch.

"That's fucking pretty", he rasps, gaze locking with yours and you feel all air leaving your lungs. His eyes are so fucking dark, like gleaming black pits swallowing you whole, his breath a little flat with arousal.

You want him to fuck you. Really fuck you. To plow you open, rail you until you cannot sit nor walk. He is already so so close to you, but too far away at the same time. "Please", is all you manage to utter out. And it seems to be sufficient enough for him; seems to get across what you want, what you need.

John's fingers wrap around the front of your lace slip, tugging at the fabric - that rubs along your cunt at the sudden motion and has you gasping quietly - and then he pulls. The lace tears easily as he rips it apart, and cool air hits your wet and hot pussy, as he practically peels you out of your underwear, throws it to the side. The look on his face is wild and you can hear him taking a deep breath, smelling your arousal, before he spreads your folds apart with his thumbs, gaze wandering over your plump and flushed cunt.

Teasingly brushing over your clit with his thumb, John watches your reaction intently. And fuck, you do not disappoint. Throwing your head back, you moan, drawing in a deep breath through your opened mouth that heaves your chest, your eyelids fluttering.

You are dying for him to touch you and as he does, it feels like your body catches fire - lust washing away the dull pain in your limbs and near your ribs.

"Oh God", you breathe out as his thumb draws another wide and slow circle over your clit, your hands darting out and grabbing the sheets "Please."

And John complies, his thumb rubbing over your clit in a slow but steady rhythm.

Gasping, your hands clutch the sheets, knees darting away from each other, giving him more space. John accepts the invitation, grabs one thigh hard, fucked up ring-finger digging deep into your skin. His fingers move further, abandons your clit and dance over your folds, down to your hole. It flutters as two of his digits tease it, gently circling around it.

"Please", you whine once more, lifting your hips a little, a desperate noise leaving your throat. John smirks to himself, before pushing two of his fingers into you.

The stretch is sudden and bigger than expected and you moan coarsely, as he pushes his digits along your walls deeply and nestles them into your seeping hot cunt up to his knuckles. And Jesus, you feel so full already; your head swimming as you consider how big his cock must feel, then.

Your breath goes quick and shallowly as he starts to move them, and then he leans in. Nudges your clit with the tip of his tongue, licks over it.

You feel like combusting on the spot: your nerves tingling with arousal, your whole body still aching from the beating you gave each other earlier - the pain in your back blooming as you stretch it with your hips desperately shoving themselves near his touch - your pussy squeezing his fingers.

John pumps his thick fingers in and out of you, his tongue rubbing and circling your clit and soft, needy moans fall from your lips. Obscene, wet sounds fill the air, mingle with your moans and heavy breathing. His lips close in around your clit, sucking at it while his fingers rub along your spongy walls and your cunt squeezes them hard as fresh wetness floods your folds, your squirt wetting his beard and dripping down on the sheets below.

You can hear - feel - John humming against your pussy, peppering the wet skin with open mouthed kisses, licking over it, and tasting your slick.

You feel so fucking good - lust pulsating through your veins, loins on fire - and your head falls to the side, body rocking with sharp gasps and your mouth agape, eyelids fluttering as --

There's the gun. And the knife.

You could easily grab either one or the other next to you, pull the blade out of the matress or the hammer back; put a bullet right between his eyes or plow the blade deep deep into his skull. Killing the Boogeyman. Killing Baba Yaga.

That would do wonders to your family's business. It would emancipate you from it, you would be free. Free to rule.

"Thinking 'bout killing me?", John rumbles, tongue licking a fat stripe over your cunt, nudging your clit. Your gaze flickers back to him: hair a mess, eyes gleaming darkly, hands on your thighs to keep your legs spread. He does not look surprised. Neither does he look worried.

Realization hits you like a blow to the head: he is toying with you. Has been the whole fucking time. The wolf hunting the deer, running a few rounds through the woods to weaken it; its breath whistling with exhaustion, long legs buckling before it collapses - an easy kill. An easy kill for an old wolf, one, that can't quite handle a real hunt anymore.

But maybe, just maybe - judging from the look in his eyes - he got lost in his own game. Its reins slipped from his bloody hands, the wolf tumbling to the ground.

Looking back at him, your lips curl into a sweet smile. "Not anymore", your hand darts out, brushing the loose strands of dark hair from his face - the soft gesture leaving him visibly confused -, "John."

Two can play this game. And maybe, just maybe, the deer can tire the wolf out first.

Something gleams in John's eyes, dances over them like a shadow and he seems to accept the challenge - readying to tire you out - tongue licking over your clit once more, making you shiver and mewl, as he pulls his fingers out of your dripping hole. You feel empty and --

"Do you really think, you could kill me?", he rumbles, voice deep and rough around the edges, "Stupid slut."

And then, quicker than your brain can process it, his hand comes down on your dripping wet pussy.

Your breath hitches, topples over and leaves your throat as a raw, needy moan. Softly stinging pain blooms between your folds and sets your nerves on fire. Blame it on the bruises, blame it on the pain you both inflicted on each other moments ago, but: it riles you up. Mingles with your aching bones and aching cunt, has you arching your back.

"Y'really think you could kill me", he doesn't sound offended, not even amused - voice plain, like he is inquiring if you really believed the earth to be flat. Like you really are stupid.

And you start to feel stupid, too. There was never a chance. You never had a chance. Your death was sealed, determined the second John stepped into the hotel.

You were stupid to believe you could outrun or beat him. You are stupid. And John has every right to show you, teach you, punish you for it.

Giving your cunt another firm slap, John watches your hips twitch, hears your pussy squelching and soft moans falling from your lips. "Shit", you sigh and he slaps your wet pussy once more, feels your slick folds wetting the palm of his hand.

"D'you like that, girl?", and as your only response are wanton gasps falling from your mouth John chuckles deeply, gives your pulsating cunt another two firm slaps. Seeing how he is pulling you apart, how good he makes you feel really seems to do it for him, gets him quite talkative.

"Uh-huh", you make dumbly, quite illiterate, watching him stroking your flushed, hot cunt with two of his fingers. Shivers run down your spine.

And then he leans back in, licks a fat stripe over your sensitive, flushed cunt, from the hole up to the clit.

You squirm, mewl as his beard brushes over your overstimulated skin, leaving a slight burn that mingles deliciously with a fresh wave of arousal that floods your body scalp to toes.

The muscles in your abdomen clench as two of his fingers circle your fluttering hole and then push in, rubbing along your plush walls agonizingly slowly and you can feel yourself tightening around it. Your juices squelch from your cunt as you squirt against his tongue and your slick runs down your folds, wets his fingers and palm while his tongue laps at your pussy, tasting your sweetness.

John pushes is fingers deeper as you moan and sigh, hands fisting his hair and hips moving against his tongue, his digits thrusting into you.

"Oh god", you huff as his lips close in around your clit, sucking on it and the tip of his tongue flicking against it occasionally.

Another wave of fresh wetness floods your cunt as you squirt once more, wetting the sheets below, your slick running down John's wrist.

John parts from your clit, nudges it with his tongue, his beard glistening with your juices.

"Yeah, that's fucking it", another one of his thick fingers pumps itself into your tight little hole and his other hand - also slick with your juices - grabs your thigh, "That's a good girl."

You feel so full, your spine feels like it's on fire and your brain tingles with it, sends wave of pleasure down down down your body; muscles in your loins clenching, chest heaving. It becomes all too much as he leans back in, rubs his tongue over your clit, lips sucking and teasing your folds.

The slight burn of John's beard tickling your plush, hot cunt. His fingers working your open and stretching your tight little hole open far and wide, obscene squelching sounds filling the air as he works you open, brushing against your g-spot occasionally and making you see stars.

But it's too little. It's just not enough.

"Fuck", you whine as John's thick fingers brush over your g-spot with quite some force, tongue lapping at your seeping cunt, "Shit, please. Please, just fuck me, please!"

You can feel him grinning against your wet cunt, beard a little sticky with your juices, letting go of your pussy with an obscene pop. "Yeah", he licks his lips, tastes you on his tongue, "D'you want my cock?"

And that - that might be what makes you lose your mind. Because yes. Yes, you do.

You have been craving to touch it, to feel it since it had pressed against your clothed pussy earlier. Thus, all dignity leaves your body with one, clean whine that breaks free from your throat.

"Yes, fuck - oh god, John", you brabble, legs falling apart further, inviting him in, his digits sinking deeper into your soaking wet hole, "Shit, please fuck me, John - please, please, please --"

Pleas are still falling from your lips like a chant, as a surprising noise breaks the silence, so strangely beautiful that it has you nearly shuddering: John is laughing. It's a nice baritone sound, and the fine lines around his eyes crinkle with it - it's so beautiful, that it drowns the world out. You watch him in awe, as he shakes his head, avoids your gaze.

"Jesus. Look at you", he huffs, voice dripping thickly with amusement, "If you need it that badly--"

Straightening back up and kneeling between your legs, John slips his fingers from your cunt and makes quick work of his belt, trousers, and boxers. The second he frees is cock, you start to drool like a fucking pavlovian-dog.

His dick is so fucking huge. It is nicely curved and cut, the bulbous pink head glistening with pre-cum and a thick, pumping vein at the bottom that rakes from the base to the tip, as it rests between trimmed, dark pubic hair. His cock bobs against his abdomen as it bounces free, smears the pre-cum along the pale skin, twitches at the sudden contact. And Jesus fucking Christ, you just want to fucking touch it, feel its velvety skin in your palm. But you just know that you won't even be able to wrap your hand around its base fully, it's impossible, it--

"I-it won't fit", you whisper, a little taken aback by his sheer size.

"Oh, I'll make it fit, baby."

John takes his cock in one hand, thumb right beneath its head, and rubs it against your slit. And Jesus fucking Christ. Your hips snap up, meet his movements, and he grunts while he spreads his pre-cum along your cunt, gathers your slick. The thick head of his dick prods against your entrance and you take a deep breath, looking down between your legs. You watch how he slooowly pushes in and you gasp at the sudden intrusion, the delicious stretch making you moan.

His cock feels so fucking big, hot, and heavy, as he nestles the tip in, your hole clenching around it. John's brows furrow, and he doesn't wait long until he pushes his cock in further.

The thick base starts to stretch your slim rings of muscles, a sharp pain shooting through it. He can feel your hole protesting, can see you wincing. "Breathe, baby", he hums, "Let me do the rest."

His coarse voice mingles with his words and the waves of pleasure shooting through your body despite the dull pain, conjures up a pretty pretty image that floods your brain - there's sunlight everywhere, orange rays of it hitting a bed covered in white sheets, sweaty bodies on top of it; limbs entangled, hands intertwined with their golden rings shining brightly in the warm light, heavy breathing and sloppy kisses, and lazy thrusts as his cock fucks you awake. The thought makes you dizzy, your legs falling apart and hole fluttering open, inviting him in.

The slight burn leaves you a gasping, whimpering mess as he pushes himself in deep, nestles his huge cock in between your aching, hot, and tight walls.

And John feels like he is going to pass out. No blow to the head, no bullet to the chest, no knife to the stomach could ever make him feel as dizzy as the feeling of your hot cunt squeezing him does right now. His whole body is vibrating with want and lust and he just really hopes that you don't notice that he has gotten a little rusty. The thought quickly gets drowned-out as he looks down, where his thick cock practically splits you open, vanishes in your hole.

"Shit", he huffs out, places one large hand on your stomach and thrusts. Feeling himself moving inside of you has him moaning, gaze shooting up to you, meeting your eyes, as his hand presses down. "You feel me right here, baby?", he rasps and you nod, mouth agape by the sheer force of his thrust, tip of his cock prodding your cervix.

John can see his cock moving inside of you, the way your stomach bulges a little. He gets a little dizzy with, and then his eyes make the mistake of moving up to your face. And it takes a whole lot of fucking will-power of him to not just thrust and thrust and thrust and fuck you until you cry, bleed.

You are so fucking pretty. Mouth agape you watch how his cock vanishes between your legs, splits your cunt open, with his eyes heavy-lidded and cheeks flushed. Your lips are plush and red from his assault.

Your hands grip the sheets and your breasts heave with your deep breaths, that grow a little more flaccid. Next to you lays his gun, knife still buried into the mattress. His eyes drop to the weapons and his breath hitches. And for a split second, like a flash of light, he wonders what in God's name he's doing here. He is a professional. The Ballerina works like that. He doesn't.

A sweet, sweet noise rips him out of his thoughts. "J-john", you mewl, eyes still trained on his massive dick splitting you open, "I-it, it's --"

"Yeah?", he breathes, the sound all soft and careful around the edges.

"Heavy", you breathe.

"Does it hurt?", he kind of wants it to. Make you pay for what you did to him. He kind of doesn't want it to. Make you enjoy what he's got to give.

John realizes he is fucked.

You nod, head flying back into the cushions, while your brows dart together.

John's free hand flies to your clit, nudges it gently, before slowly rubbing wide circles over it. You gasp, as you feel fresh wetness flooding your cunt and dripping down your folds to where his cock splits your hole open, pools around it. He carefully pulls out a little and then pushes back in, assisted by your slick. The way you moan spurs him on and the circles on your clit grow faster and smaller.

Aching your back, you lean into the touch. "That's a good girl", he whispers, voice raw and coarse, dripping with lust and the exhaustion of holding back. John bottoms out, while continuing to rub your clit and he can feel your walls growing plush, your hole fluttering around his dick, relaxing with your hot, seeping cunt inviting him in. "Feels good?"

"Yeah, fuck", you feel like you are being split open, with his thick cock filling you to the brim and rubbing along your walls with every little movement, the thick head prodding gently against your cervix, "Shit, John."

It feels so fucking good, all thoughts being washed away from your brain as he starts to move carefully, thrusts into you once, twice. You moan, lips slightly parted, before your gaze flies to him.

And Fuck. John's chest is flushed a little, muscles of his abdomen flexing with every thrust while his gaze is trained down to where his cock fucks into you, brows darted together a little and his breathing audible.

"John?", you whisper, and his gaze immediately shoots up to you as your comparably tiny hand wraps around the wrist of his hand that is still rubbing your clit.

"Yeah?"

"Fuck me."

For a long moment, he just looks at you and you think - no, you are convinced - that you can see a glimpse of the human being he once was. Caring, sweet and gentle; as he seems to really take it into consideration if you are ready yet, if you know what you are begging for.

Apparently, he does deem you prepared enough, and the soft gaze gets replaced by a dark gleam as all gentleness vanishes from his face once more. Without a warning, John rolls his hips back only to thrust into you again, deep, and hard, immediately picking up a quick rhythm.

It comes as a genuine surprise to you and you gasp, mewling but it quickly feels just so fucking good, practically lights your body up and leaves every nerve-ending on fire, each thrust has you moaning loudly.

It spurs him on, makes him grunt and for a while, you both just watch him gliding in and out of your tight hole, with him feeling your muscles squeezing him and you feeling his cock stretching your open further and further. Your lips as slightly parted and his brows are furrowed as he rolls his hips into yours and you feel time getting lost on you, the only thing of importance remaining is the feeling of him filling you up. John's hands roam your body, wandering over your thighs and your stomach, your hips before angling your leg, pushing the heel of your foot on his shoulder, and grabbing your ankle with one hand, his dick slips into you even further, balls slapping against your ass heavily with each thrust.

You can tell that John has not fucked in a long, long time. It's not the way he does it - all fluid, languid thrust of his hips, muscles dancing under the soft skin. It's mostly the way he pants and grunts - sounds just as desperate as you feel. And still, he has the stamina of a racehorse.

You can feel that he wants to prove it, too, as his free hand grabs your thigh and hoists your other leg over his hip bone, practically pulling your lower half off the bed in the process. Your pelvis now clings to his, obscene sounds of his cock fucking into your wet pussy filling the air while he huffs with his thrusts, yet does not slow down.

The grip on both, your ankle and your thigh are hard, and you are certain his hands will leave a bruise but you just cannot bring yourself to care. Deep down you know, that someone will see them: your maids, your friends, your family.

But all thoughts, all worries get swapped from your brain as your gaze wanders up from where John's dick hammers into you steadily, rakes over his defined stomach and chest and finally, finally lands on his face.

He looks downright, utterly, and breathtakingly -- pornographic.

John's dark pupils blown wide gleaming with arousal, his cheeks are slightly blushed and a thin layer of sweat makes him glow in the dim light of the living room falling onto the bed. It surrounds him like a halo, a Saint of Death and Decay, with his dark hair falling into his forehead and onto his shoulders. He brushes it out of the way with his stunted hand, a ragged breath making his chest heave. There is still some of your slick wetting his beard.

You can't help your mind from going there, from wondering how different things could have been. What it would be like if you had met me in a bar instead of him entering your suite, leaving the hallway behind him looking like a slaughterhouse. Maybe he would have laughed at your jokes, in the dim light of your favorite bar in the city. Maybe he would have liked the same music as you do. Maybe, just maybe, he would have brought you home only to stay the night and fuck you until you would have lost your goddamn mind.

Your hand wanders down your body, strokes your waist and hip in the process, before it languidly drops between your spread legs, two fingers darting out and rubbing circles over your sensitive clit.

John moves quickly, his usual deadly precision shattering your peaceful fantasy, his hand ditching your thigh and closing in around your waist. "Don't you fuckin' touch yourself", he growls, and it's the first time you hear real, actual emotion dwelling in his throat - not his toneless, cold and mechanical rumble. He sounds pissed. Offended.

And the best part is: it seems to get him fucking going.

John leans in, your calf still resting on his shoulder and the slight pain of the stretch is delicious as he nearly folds your body in half. You can feel his dick sliding in even deeper into your hole and you gasp and whine, one hand coming up to dig into his biceps to just hold on. Hold on, while he pounds into you with perfectly angled, deep and strong thrusts, hitting your g-spot with every single one of them.

You know that the suite's door is in shambles, that anyone could walk in here and see you having your brains fucked out by the man who is here to kill you - but you don't care. Part of it is, because the gun is still resting next to your head on the sheets. You could just grab it and shoot anyone dead in heartbeat, whoever is trying to disturb the pleasure that shoots through your body.

But it is also him.

It's the way John is towering over you, back hunched, looking all wide and powerful and deadly, with the way he shields your body from view and harm as he thrusts into you. As he pushes all his rage, adrenaline, and strength into your tight hole, groans, and pants into your ear.

There is nothing you can do, despite holding onto him, nails digging into his back, clutching his broad shoulders, fingers running over his tattoos desperately. He is fucking the living daylight out of you, your body moving like a ragdoll underneath the mountain of muscles and strength. Your cunt is being split open by his cock, as you feel him hammering into you and you feel like you are going to lose your mind, panting and moaning with each of his thrusts.

"John, fuck", you moan sweetly, eyes rolling into your skull as he pounds into you, "You feel so fucking good, shit --"

"Yeah", he huffs, his forehead slowly sinking onto yours, "You too, baby."

You can see his eyelids fluttering, feel his upper body heaving beneath your hands, smell the blood on his skin, mingling with his musky scent. Blaming it on the sickening cocktail of hormones that is flooding both - your brain and your body - you lean in, your lips desperately smacking against his.

And Jesus Fucking Christ. Does John kiss you.

Kisses you like he is starving for it, licking back into your mouth - his body pressing yours into the mattress with his whole weight and muscle, while still thrusting into you.

Your hands tangle into his hair, tugging at it. John moans against your lips and your stomach flutters at the sound, and you want more. One hand moves to lay at the crook of his neck and your tongue presses against his, licking back into his mouth. Adding some force to his neck you invite John deeper into the kiss, and he follows suite, steals you the last bit of air your lungs were holding. Panting you part from him, thumb brushing over the crook of his neck.

Greedily breathing against his lips, you can't help yourself. You feel so alive and you want him to wreck you, to leave something behind that you will remember for every day your heart continues to beat. Greedily breathing against his lips, you can't help yourself but to whisper: "Harder."

John blinks, hips stuttering. And then, he grunts. His hand digs into your waist as he grabs you there, hold you in place will his hips rut into you. Picking up a near brutal rhythm, obscene sounds of your slick being pushed in and out and in out of your hole as he jackhammers into your g-spot, the bedframe rattling as John's thrusts pound it into the wall - leaving you a gasping and moaning mess. His belt clinks with his thrusts and you cling onto him, sharp whines escaping your throat.

"John John John", his name leaves your mouth like a mantra, sharp and high-pitched. His head falls forward, dark locks brushing over your cheek as his temple rests against yours and then you hear it.

John moans.

It's a deep, carnal sound. Your stomach flutters and lust shoots through your body at the noise, your tight cunt squeezing his thick cock as you squirt around his cock like a broken fucking hose, wetting his pubic hair. You can feel it rubbing along your wet folds, the sensation making you mewl, leaves your hips shuddering.

"Shit", you breathe, hands cradling his muscular back and then you can feel his dick twitching inside of you, accompanied by yet another one of his sweet, sweet moans, "Fuck, John--"

He raises his head and your gazes connect, before he leans in, presses his lips onto yours once more. The kiss is surprisingly soft and in stark contrast to the way he ruts and pounds into you and then he hits the spot once more and -

Everything goes white as your muscles clench and unclench suddenly, as you nearly scream against his lips; your hole practically milking his cock as you cum, pussy gushing and squirting around him like a broken hose.

John continues to fuck you through your orgasm and his heavy breathing reaches your ears through the cotton candy, that slowly wraps you in as everything turns light and bright. He moans deeply against your cheek as he comes, too - shoots hot ropes of cum into you and paints your walls with it.

His movements still as he buries himself deep into you, cock twitching with each thick rope of his cum and you can feel him fill you up, as his massive frame slowly sinks down onto you.

Your legs grow heavy and the stretch of your left leg is turning painful and you - a little clumsily - pull it away from his shoulder, stretch it out. Your limbs start to shake and you close your eyes, drawing in deep breaths through your nose.

The room is silent, the air heavy with the musky scent of sex.

Your chest still heaves with the remains of your orgasm, bliss still spreading in your brain and your veins, making you feel like you are flying. Your heart is still racing, as you feel him moving again.

Blinking up at him, you can see him grabbing the gun.

"Don't", you say softly, voice coarse from screaming your lungs out in pleasure just moments ago, "Please, don't." You are not ready to scream yet again. Not ready to scream in pain, instead of pleasure.

John does not reply. He pulls the hammer back, checks the chamber - all with one hand.

"Kill him instead, please."

He freezes, eyes locking with yours. "Who?", he sounds just as exhausted as you. The wolf, tired out. The deer, bleeding, limping.

Call it Post Nut Clarity, call it Finally Taking Your Future In Your Own Hands, call it Emancipating Yourself. Call it Having Wrapped A Deadly Assassin Around Your Pinky.

You were not safer here. You never were. Just more isolated. Easier to locate.

Easier to kill.

Realization hits you like a blow to the head, your vision swimming.

See? I will not die today.

"My father. Kill him."

[greenmanalishi]

*watches John Wick franchise once*

[cuddleyhoney]

John wick x fem Reader AU

First sleepover at John Wicks' house!

The invitation was unexpected. John Wick wasn’t exactly the sleepover type, but when he casually mentioned that his place had more than enough room for a few friends, you couldn’t pass it up. So, here you were, standing in front of his sleek, modern house with an overnight bag slung over your shoulder.

John opened the door, dressed casually in a soft black hoodie and sweatpants, a stark contrast to his usual sharp suits. Beside him, his dog wagged its tail happily, sniffing at your bag as if checking for contraband. “Come in,” John said, stepping aside to let you in.

His home was surprisingly warm and cozy, lit with soft ambient lighting. A massive sectional couch dominated the living room, a pile of pillows and blankets already waiting. “I figured we could just hang out,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck as if uncertain whether this was the right way to host a sleepover.

You grinned. “That sounds perfect.”

The night started with an impromptu snack raid in the kitchen. John had stocked up on everything from popcorn to gourmet chocolates. You raised an eyebrow at the selection, and he shrugged. “I like options,” he admitted. His dog sat patiently by his feet, waiting for an occasional treat.

A movie marathon followed—nothing too violent. John had insisted on classic comedies and animated films, something lighthearted for a change. Watching him chuckle at a ridiculous cartoon character was surreal but endearing.

As the night wore on, the conversation drifted into comfortable, quiet chatter. John talked about his love for cars, his old dog, and even a few childhood memories that made him smile in that rare, soft way. You shared your own stories, and for a while, it was easy to forget that he was the legendary Baba Yaga.

It was wonderful, you eventually washed up in his restroom and noticed he had moved all his items over to his side of the his and her sinks. You brushed your teeth, then placed your pink toothbrush and skincare on John's marble counter.

At some point, you both ended up wrapped in the pile of blankets, the dog nestled between you. “This was nice,” John murmured sleepily, his voice softer than usual.

“Yeah,” you agreed, feeling warmth settle in your chest. “We should do this again.”

A small chuckle. “Maybe.”

John Wick might not have been the usual sleepover host, but tonight, in the quiet of his home, with laughter still lingering in the air, it felt just right.

[ridingreeves]

Hello, how are you? So… I don't know if you accept any kind of request, but if you do, could you do something with John Wick dating a younger assassin?

English is not my first language and I'm not very good at it… so sorry if there are any mistakes, anyway, thanks.

𝖶𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗄𝗂𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾

𝖯𝖺𝗂𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀－𝖩𝗈𝗁𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗑 𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖺𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇

𝖲𝗎𝗆𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗒－Being with John Wick wasn’t about romance—it was about survival, trust, and quiet intensity. You met on opposite sides of a contract, but somehow, through blood, bruises, and shared silence, you became each other’s only peace. He loved you without words—through protection, presence, and the way he held you like you were the only thing keeping him grounded.

𝖠／𝖭－𝖨 𝗁𝗈𝗉𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗍𝗉𝖾𝖺

Being with John Wick wasn’t like the movies.

There weren’t candlelit dinners or weekend getaways. No flowers on the kitchen table, no grand gestures. The world didn’t let men like John love like that.

But he loved you in his own way.

In the way he cleaned your wounds before his own. In how he always walked on the outside of the sidewalk. How he noticed when you were down to your last magazine, even in the middle of a firefight. How he memorized the rhythm of your breathing while you slept—just in case it ever changed.

You met on a job in Morocco. Two professionals. Two contracts. Same target. You nearly killed each other in a hallway before realizing the contract was double-booked.

You cracked the first joke.

He didn’t laugh—but he didn’t shoot, either.

Now, two years later, you lived in a hidden townhouse outside of Naples. The walls were reinforced. The basement had three exits. And your bedroom had blackout curtains and a drawer full of unregistered weapons. Still, it was the closest thing to peace either of you had known in years.

Mornings with John were… surprising.

You always expected him to be cold. Stoic. But he was quiet in the mornings in a way that felt tender. He made coffee just the way you liked it, always handed you your mug before touching his own. Sometimes, you’d find him out on the patio before sunrise, barefoot, wrapped in a robe, staring into the trees like he was waiting for something—or someone—that would never come.

You never asked what he was thinking about.

You just sat beside him.

No words. Just presence.

Training together was… violent foreplay.

Sparring in the basement usually ended in bruises and heavy breathing. He never went easy on you, and you wouldn’t have respected him if he did. You learned each other’s rhythms. The way he favored his left side after taking a bullet last spring. The way you dipped your shoulder before every hook.

One time, you had him on his back, your knee against his chest, hair falling in your face. You smirked. “You’re slipping, old man.”

His response was to grab you by the waist and flip you in one brutal, fluid motion.

He was on top of you now. Breathing heavy. Hands planted on either side of your head.

“You were saying?”

You just smiled.

Sometimes, the fights ended in sex. Sometimes, in bruised egos and ice packs.

Either way, it was always honest.

The work never really stopped. You still took contracts. So did he. Sometimes together. Sometimes apart.

The part no one warned you about?

The waiting.

When John was out, the house was too quiet. You cleaned your weapons. You sharpened your blades. You stared at your phone like a rookie.

Because as skilled as he was… you knew how fast things could go wrong.

And when you were the one out in the field? He’d be waiting with the front door cracked open and a first aid kit on the counter—never asking questions unless you needed to talk.

Because that’s the kind of love you had.

No demands. No ultimatums. Just survival and understanding.

Nights were the best part.

He didn’t like to be touched much in public. Not in front of other assassins, not in front of enemies. But at home? He was starved for it.

He held you like he couldn’t believe you were real. Slow. Careful. One arm around your waist, the other tangled in your hair, like he was scared you’d disappear if he let go.

“You trust me?” you asked him once, voice soft against his chest.

“With everything,” he said, no hesitation.

You didn’t respond. You just kissed the scar on his collarbone, the one you’d stitched yourself six months ago.

You argued.

You were reckless. He was stubborn.

Sometimes you came home bleeding, grinning, high on adrenaline, and he’d pace the hallway like a man trying not to scream.

“You’re not untouchable,” he’d growl, patching you up rougher than necessary.

“Neither are you,” you’d spit back, eyes flashing.

But then he’d stop. Look at you like you were glass. Like he was afraid one day you wouldn’t walk back through that door at all.

And he’d say nothing. Just pull you close, bury his face in your neck, and hold you like you were slipping through his fingers.

“I can’t lose you too,” he whispered once.

You didn’t say anything.

Just held him back tighter.

The world called him the boogeyman.

You just called him John.

He wasn’t perfect. He was broken. Haunted. Still wore grief like a second skin.

But so were you.

And maybe that’s what made it work. Two broken people. Two survivors. Finding peace not in safety—but in each other.

The world never stopped chasing him. Not really. And by being with him, it came after you too.

But you never wanted safety. You wanted something real.

You wanted him.

And John, for all his damage—for all the ghosts he carried—chose you.

He didn’t say “I love you” often.

But he said it in the way he bandaged your ribs.

In the way he never turned his back on you during a fight.

In the way he’d sit on the edge of the bed, watching you breathe like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to earth.

Even if the world burned tomorrow, you’d die knowing you were loved in a way few ever are

Fully. Quietly. Fiercely.

You were his war

And he was your peace

But somehow, the two of you found something between the two.

Something that felt like a future—even if it came one bloody day at a time.

With John, everything started slow.

There was no rush. No fumbling. No words wasted.

He touched you like a man who’d thought about it too many times. Like he’d memorized the lines of your body long before his hands ever got the chance to trace them.

It always started with silence.

His fingers on your jaw, his thumb brushing your lips. A low look in his eyes that asked permission without ever saying a word. You nodded, breath caught in your throat, and that’s all he needed.

He kissed you like he was starved for it. Like you were the only thing tethering him to this world. And when he pulled back just enough to breathe, he looked at you—really looked at you—and said things with his eyes he never said out loud.

“You’re mine.”

“I need this.”

“I need you.”

When he finally got you into bed, he took his time—at first.

Hands on your waist. Mouth trailing down your collarbone. He was slow, methodical. Like he was cataloging every sound you made.

“You always make that noise?” he murmured, lips brushing the inside of your thigh.

“Only for you,” you gasped, fingers tangling in his hair.

That made him smirk. The kind of rare, quiet smirk only you ever got to see.

And then he wasn’t slow anymore.

He flipped you, dragged your body beneath him like he couldn’t stand the distance, and bit your shoulder as he slid inside you for the first time.

It wasn’t gentle.

But it wasn’t careless either.

John was the kind of lover who held you down, but kissed your temple. Who grabbed your throat, but stroked your cheek afterward. Who made you feel it—every thrust, every grip, every shaky breath.

He fucked like a man with something to prove—like he was trying to erase every man who came before him. And you let him. Welcomed it.

Because with John, it wasn’t just about sex.

It was about claiming. About trust. About needing someone so badly it hurt.

Afterward, he didn’t say much.

Just pulled you against him. Held you so tight your bones ached in the best way.

His fingers traced lazy patterns along your spine while your heartbeat slowly steadied. And eventually, his lips brushed your hairline, and he whispered something so soft, you almost missed it.

“I don’t deserve you.”

You looked up at him, sweat-damp and dazed.

“You’ve got me anyway.”

And in the quiet of that moment—in his arms, with his scent all over your skin—you knew you’d let him ruin you a hundred times over.

Because John Wick didn’t take what he didn’t mean to keep.

And you’d never be the same again.

[keanusbabydoll]

MASTERLIST

rules and other info (!!)

daryl dixon:

FUCKIN’ PERFECT GIRL HIS PREY JEALOUSY

keanu reeves/john wick:

CONSEQUENCE SHOWER SEX YOURS

negan smith:

TEASE LEADERS FUCKIN’ FAVORITE

johhny depp:

SINN

axl rose:

NEGLECTED

severus snape:

SAFE WORD

MAKE ME FORGET

loki laufeyson:

DISTURBANCE

michael myers:

ONLY HIS PEEPAW IMAGINE | PEEPAW IMAGINE || LONGING

bellatrix lestrange:

GIVE IN MAKE UP SEX

more stories will be added ☆

[sweetwolfcupcake]

Can you please write yandere headcanons for John wick x female reader? Thanks 🫶🫶

Sure! Here is what I could come up with. A cliche plot, but discussions with @johnwickb1tsch, and @treedaddypuff inspired this. I hope you like it.

Secret Garden

Category: Headcanons

Yandere John Wick x Reader

Word count: 3.3k

Warning: Sexual themes, predator/prey coded, hints of cannibalism if you squint (not intended, only used as metaphor), NSFW, hints of power imbalance and the general yandere toxicity, the reader is a bit naive, allusions to violence and darker themes

Dividers by @cafekitsune

GIF belongs to the rightful owner, I am simply thankful to be able to use it.

Unedited. Pardon the errors.

In John’s eyes, you are a rabbit. Sniffing about with thumping feet and twitching ears. You are adorable in his eyes. But what do rabbits do when they sense a wolf nearby? Salivating, sharp-toothed creatures with eyes burning through your skin and peering into your very soul?

They run, of course. They run and hide away in their little burrows where no wolf can reach, even if it pleads that its intention was never to eat the rabbit.

In John’s eyes, you are a rabbit, and he knows that if you ever come to know of his true nature, you will run. And even thinking about that fills him with an odd cocktail of fury and arousal.

John knows that he is the worst of them all— the biggest, the baddest, with sharp claws and pointed teeth. If he were, literally, a wolf, he would practically drool at the very sight of you.

So he wraps himself up with a sheep’s skin. Drops his ears, curls his tail and lets his sharp eyes dilate into puppy-softness. He looks inviting, approachable, harmless and gentle. He bends to your level, wipes off the drool around his mouth, hides his tongue and teeth and waits. He waits and moves with an easy steadiness that wouldn’t startle you to alertness but will gently introduce him into your territory.

It does not come as terribly hard or boring, for the most part. John does not intend to sink his teeth into you; after all, he truly means no harm. He has to work on it, yes, but you are worth it; his love for you is worth it. 

To his relief, you do not sniff the danger that trails with his shadow, to his utter delight, you welcome him—not immediately, but you warm up to him eventually. The warmth seeps into his form. Maybe deep down, something in you knows that he means no harm?

You are a cautious person. Reserved in nature, the cautious trait has evolved within you with the life-lessons that came along the perks of being a wallflower. You observe, and try to learn. And over the years, you have learnt that precaution is always better than cure. Unless it’s love.

Love is supposed to be a free fall, surrender, and trust. But before that, you get to choose who you let in. That is where the role of caution begins and ends. Deciding whether someone is worth the free-fall after all.

If anything, John Wick has proven to be more than just worth it. He is everything and more. He is kind without noticing, his hands are calloused, but you feel the tenderness with which he holds you. A gentleman. That’s what John is. In more than a few ways.

He is gentle with the way he tries to read you and your perception, like he is admiring and trying to decipher you at the same time. You feel it in his gaze as it runs over your form with the perfect blend of heat and adoration. You feel it in the sincerity of his sweet brown orbs when they look into your eyes. 

He is considerate in the way he listens to you—even those drunken rambles—he leans in close and nods and smiles, laughs at your terrible jokes and scoffs when you laugh at yourself. He is considerate in the way he fixes your sink without you even having to say it, or even notice at times. He is considerate in the way he never forgets to restock your favourite seasonal fruits or snacks. He is considerate to keep track of your cycle even without you having to tell him.

John is considerate in many subtle and obvious ways, you often lose count of—because he brings consideration into mundane things, barely noticeable until you take a second look—you see ot then, and it warms your heart in dangerous ways. In ways you are afraid to imagine—like having a ring on your finger.

John is observant too. He notices the smallest of twitches, the slightest of falters and changes and he is grasping it like he has a special training on it or something. You admit that initially, it was unsettling, but you settled eventually. You are now used to him mentioning something you do not even remember telling him. It must have been one of the many unconscious or off-handed comments you make in passing. But nothing escapes John’s notice, you realise. Dog nose. He has a dog nose, but for information. 

John makes you feel heard, seen and appreciated. What more can you ask for? What more would you want? What more would anyone want?

John is more than what you could ask for. 

And yet, there is something deep inside your brain that holds back from that freefall, the complete surrender. You are in love with John, you do not doubt that because it seeps into your every thought, your every action. Every other thing reminds you of something related to him, or of him. It’s like every road leads you to him. And yet, something in you simply refuses to settle in and be at complete ease.

Not that you are not comfortable with him, he makes sure that you are. But you are a cautious creature by nature. Skittish even at times.

And you feel that tiny part of your brain throbbing, calling your attention when you realise that John listens deeply, for long, but prefers not to speak much. He works in the ‘crisis management’ department of an expansive and looming organisation. And there are various non-disclosure documents he has already signed, so digging for more information is futile. He follows the rules, you realise–with military precision and discipline. 

You feel that part of your brain flutter along with your stomach when his reflexes show. The glass of water about to fall and ruin your dress? His hands stop it faster than you can succumb to your fate. Sure, must be a stressful and demanding job, you surmise when he waves his hand and says ‘practice’ with a tone that feels deliberate in its casual approach.

You feel that part of your brain nudging at you when you trace his tattoos. The ink on his skin, mostly his back and the slump of his shoulders. You trace and map them with your fingers and feel the faintest of shivers passing through his body, and then the stiffness when you question. ‘Fortune favours the bold’, the Latin words translate. Something he learnt in his early years and decided to etch on his skin, he tells you. He has a reason and tale for every other tattoo of his– fascination, local band, his birthplace, his childhood. You believe every story behind each of the tattoos, you have no reason not to. 

And yet, that tiny, annoying part of your brain is persistent. It points out that his stories are either too vague or too specific. Short and flat. There is no fondness in his tone or eyes, not even close to the kind of tenderness and excitement they have when talking about you and your relationship— his thoughts, his experience involving you. No, these stories sound more or less like reports. That tiny part of your brain keeps telling you that he is holding back. 

But it is tiny, hence easier to ignore, especially when his hands are parting your thighs, especially when he looks at you with reverence. There is the kind of vulnerability in his soulful brown eyes that swats away all the wisps of doubts. 

And yet you cannot bring yourself to squash that part of your brain. Not when his eyes darken the way that makes him seem like something that sits on the top of the food chain and a part of you wants to run. But you tell yourself it is the light that falls that way, an illusion, a lie. 

The mindful part of your brain screams when you play chase with him. It is the loudest then. You feel his feet drumming against the floor, but barely hear him. You run as fast as you can—adrenaline pumping, heart thundering. You know that the fear is never real, just something primal. But it overtakes your senses as you push yourself to outrun him, not with any competitive intent, but with a deep-seated survival instinct that rings abruptly shrill and persistent, telling you to run and hide.

But John is fast, quick and silent on his feet. Quiet and precise to the point it feels dangerous. His grip is iron when he catches you, taking the impact on the ground if you both lose balance, or simply picking you up like he is picking his favourite fruit from the ground—easy, smooth and quick. You feel weightless and powerless at those moments, and that instinct in you screams, makes your legs fail, and your heart drop to your stomach. As if you are being hunted. 

But how can it be true? It is just John, smiling, laughing, breathing, mixing with yours when he slants  his lips on yours, swallowing every little sound you make. You are safe, you are safe, you are safe. You have to keep reminding yourself for a few moments before the bells stop ringing and the instinct and fear return to their burrows.

But that faint throb in your brain refuses to be silenced. It turns bolder when you look into his dark eyes, when he wrestles you under him. You may laugh playfully, but your stomach flutters with anticipation and a kind of thrill that one gets on dancing with danger. His eyes always appear darker after a chase, like you have struck the right spot and something in him is howling. He looks wild with his tresses over his face and his eyes peering through them—something close, barely hidden, but still out of your reach. 

That faint throb in your brain, however, is no match for the fire that ignites in your abdomen when his hands reach all the right places. Sliding between your legs, fingers in your mouth, or around your throat. Just caressing, never pressing, simply testing.

Everything is forgotten with the taste of milk and honey. You can barely remember your name with just his fingers against your walls, slow, deliberate and precise. Curving the right way, at the right place and you have the moon and stars floating before your eyes. You want to remember nothing, you remember nothing but John. Your John, who makes you feel craved and desired. Who is not shy of showing how hungry he is for you. All the time, every time.

Oh, how beautiful bliss is! The sense of surrender when his manhood slides beyond your throbbing, slick nether lips, fitting right in where it belongs. As if something had been taken away from you by the divine and then returned as a reward. As if your years without John had been your penance. You are his and he is yours. In this moment, you feel the ring wrapping around your finger. You feel you need no ring, you have him inside you, fusing into your soul, reaching and discovering the deepest parts of you in ways you could have never imagined before.

But every time you dare to and are compelled to open your droopy eyes, you see a crazed look— a storm being, a darkness that can swallow you whole, and you shiver. You shiver with something unknown. The tiny part of your brain never stopped throbbing, you realise. It is just easier to ignore when you are at the pinnacle of passion.

You often gasp when he dips down at the curve of your neck and his teeth graze against your pumping vein. Your mind is a battlefield there— the urge to surrender and embrace whatever agony he feels to be capable of rewarding you with, fights against that deep-rooted survival instinct that makes you squirm and try to move. It ends with your leg thrown over his shoulder and body bent to an angle that has your vision darkening with each thrust. The most delicious, intense torment, hell and heaven merging, and you tip-toe between salvation and damnation. 

Instincts, doubts, caution, everything is overshadowed by his name. John, John, John. It leaves your lips like prayers, but it is you who feels worshipped. A part of your soul feels infected with him, and you will gladly take it. You will take his energy, his deeds, his past, his present, every part of him. 

You bloom, only for him, to your fullest, to your widest, to your happiest.

Like the fragrance of a delicate dawn-bloom on the damp soil, he lingers in you long after he has pulled out. He lingers in you in the form of the essence that dribbles down your thighs, he lingers in the form of the musk that surrounds you. He lingers in the form of the comforting numbness that comes when he caresses you like you can break with one wrong press. His lips kiss over every mark, every place you have felt his hold tightening. He lingers with you, holding you, and that is when that tiny, annoying and persistent part of your brain goes completely silent.

You have never felt any safer, no pair of arms has managed to bring you the comfort and elation like John’s do. So you close your eyes and sit with him in the bathtub, imagining that the world is empty and it is just two of you as he tends to you like he is tending to a garden— precise, careful, loving and attentive. 

Instincts are always powerful. John has learnt that a long time ago. But for you, he can manage it. As long as he has to wait. At least until he has his ring binding you to him forever. He has donned the sheep skin for so long, it now feels like a second skin. Maybe it has even grown into him— but for you. Only you.

His teeth still glint and his claws remain sharp. But he is patient and loving. He does not give in to his instinct of devouring you whole, even if something in him keeps screaming and demanding to do so. No, he does not want to frighten his little rabbit. 

John loves you with every atom of his being, but he cannot deny what that surprised and fearful flash in your sweet eyes does to him. It makes his teeth itch and his claws sharpen.

The chase only makes it worse. When he catches you, his manhood throbs, demanding a reward. You, lying under him has the most primal gears of his brain turning. 

John’s instincts demand that he sinks his teeth into you and tear and twist you until he has your soul and devour it. Have the taste of the light he is so undeserving of yet so tempted by.

He has been trained to hunt, and watching at your endearing efforts to outrun him make his limbs move even before he realises it.

But John is not a monster. Not to you, at least. He loves you. So he satisfies himself with only grazing your delicious skin with his teeth, plunging his length as deep as he can into you, hoping to touch every part of you until he has you tained by him and shielded from the world. 

John’s instincts demand that he claims you– body, mind, heart and soul. Yes, your soul is what he covets the most. And he knows he is closer when your eyes flutter cloe in momentary surrender.

You fall apart so beautifully for him. Eyes wide with desire with wild mewls and screams. The wolf in him is temporarily sated, to see you so plaint under him, so welcoming, so receptive, so responsive. 

He takes pride at the traces of your nails behind his back, your nails, your fingers bruising his biceps and your teeth marking his shoulders.

You do not even bite down, just hold, ground yourself and he lets you. But a part of him wants you to bite down, to scratch harder until he bleeds, dig your nails over those cursed inks and overpower his past deeds with you light, with your love. He wil have something permanent of you on him, something permanent he actually wants. 

But alas! You don’t. You hold back, just like the way you hold back from complete surrender that he wants, needs. He cannot have your soul if you do not let yourself go and embrace the free fall. He will catch you, he always will. But his little rabbit is cautious by nature.

He feels it when he looks at you from between your legs. He sees it in your eyes when you sink on your knees for him. He feels it in the tremble of your lips, the movement of your head with his hand siting your hair while your mouth devotes itself to him, taking him deep and good. But it can never match his devotion, not until you surrender to this love like he has. 

You hold back, not wanting to hurt him, and it makes John chuckle. Sweet thing, as if you can ever hurt him. 

But he is close, he knows he is. He can almost taste it on his tongue, like he tastes you.

Like morning dew on flower petals, your arousal sticks on your nether lips, served for him to lick clean. He can settle for devouring this for now.

You squirm as if you have any chance to run. Escape? From him? It makes him want to throw his head back and laugh, but it so makes something boil in him. So he holds you tighter. If you you can never silence that caution in your brain, he will. He will bend you to silence it, tear it out of you and fill that part of your brain with his name. 

That faint throb never goes away. It may be silenced for a while, but it comes back every time. Slow and steady, it climbs to the surface of your brain, the closest it has ever been, when you return to your shared home from work hours earlier one day.

It rings a bell. Faint, when you catch John’s cologne lingering in the air as soon as you unlock the door. But slightly louder when you see the basement door, that is always locked, unlocked for the first time since you moved in with him. 

The cautious, alert part of your brain turns bolder and bolder with a strange flutter in your stomach when you descend down the stairs.

The bells ring louder when you see a perfectly clean and secure basement when he has told you that it has some faulty walls and doorways so he had to shut it down permanently.

The bells, though begin to ring shrilly when you find two briefcases laying on the floor and a work table with a vintage phone sitting on it .

When you click open the briefcases, your ears are ringing. The faint voice of caution in your head now screams for you to flee as you look at the various knives, guns and syringes in one briefcase and lines of gold coins on the other.

You move on pure instinct then, following  the voice, glad that it never gave up on you, relieved and horrified that it proved to be right. As you climb the stairs, your hands are sweaty, stomach is in knots and your heart paces erratically, as if you have run miles.

But your heart skips a beat and the bells turn into drums that beat at your survival instinct when you see John casually leaning against the kitchen island, on your way. Right on your path, blocking it.

He looks the same but feels foreign. Eyes once so kind are now dark and stormy. You know that you are looking into the eyes of something that is ready to pounce, something that is at the top of the food chain and it knows that.

His eyes move between the basement door wide open and you before his lips curve into something unfamiliar and cruel, like the glint in his eyes.

“Run” John whispers gleefully.

And you do, despite knowing the outcome already, you give into your instinct, just like he does. Finally.

****

[feinv]

show me how. john constantine x fem!reader. smut. angst. make-up sex. unprotected p in v. missionary. doggy. coming inside. poor aftercare. john is an asshole. 2k words.

summery. you just need him to show you that he needs you.

a/n. based on a request! gif credit.

you were staring at him, tears threatening to fill your eyes as he once again chose you over a job. you don’t even remember the last time the two of you were actually together, spent time together.

at the start of your relationship, he was always away during daylight hours, returning past sunset and devoting his evenings to you. and you didn’t mind. you knew the nature of his job, and still decided to be with him. but then it progressed into being away for almost twenty-four hours every other day. soon it turned into not seeing him for weeks on end.

and yet you didn’t leave. how could you? you knew he was busy….had lives to save. he wasn’t just out having fun, it was dangerous as well. how could you ever be mad at him for helping people?

but as bad as you felt, your emotions overruled the guilt inside, deciding to finally confront him the next time he was around.

and today was that day.

he was home for only five minutes before he opened his bag and filled it up with some occult stuff — half of which you had no idea what was used for — getting ready to drive off and deal with another of his demonic cases.

your heart ached how he simply greeted you without even a kiss or a hug like you two were some good old pals. it was getting out of control.

“are you leaving again?”you questioned firmly, knowing the answer that was about to come, yet deciding to ask it anyway.

“yes,” he replied dryly, not even bothering to look at where you were seated on bed. “i have stuff to deal with.”

you were holding you tears back, trying so hard to make your voice appear normal, like you weren’t at the edge of a breakdown, “can’t you take a day off?”

“no,” his eyes looked for a tool he needed, entirely engulfed in his doings as if you weren’t even there.

“please, i ju-”

“did you not hear what i just said?” he cut you off harshly, locking eyes with you for the first time, annoyance dripping from his tone.

you sighed, getting off from the bed as he continued his actions, moving to the wardrobe to withdraw a small suitcase. you opened up your drawers and started stuffing your piles of clothes into the bag, silent tears covering your cheeks.

it all reminded you of the dramatic characters from movies and you felt like a petulant child trying to run off after every minor disagreement.

except you two were adults, and it was anything but a minor issue.

constantine stopped in his tracks, side eyeing you with confusion as he registered your actions, blowing out a breath from his nose. “what are you doing?”

“leaving,” you whispered back quickly, the word ready on the tip of your tongue waiting to be finally said out loud, and you didn’t elaborate further.

he eyed you for a moment, putting the items from his hands down, closing the distance a bit. “what is that supposed to mean?”

“what does it matter to you, john? i could have left weeks ago, and you wouldn’t even notice, you uttered, increasing the speed of your movements, matching the speed of the tears falling from your eyes.

he walked to stand next to you, his angry eyes soaking in your figure, “what are you even talking about? hey- put that down.” he half yelled, jerking the clothes out of your hands.

you finally stopped and looked up at him, watching as his pupils were scanning every mimic on your face.

there was so much you wanted to say, yell — shout. but the anger was running so wild in your veins, you didn’t even know where to begin, how to speak up.

“are you out of your mind?” he looked you up and down, like he was trying to find something on you that would prove his conviction that you were somehow insane.

“what?” you laughed in disbelief, “you have the audacity to call me crazy? when i see you twice a month? for fifteen fuckin’ minutes?” you poked his chest with your pointer finger, voice getting an octave higher by each word.

he didn’t match your energy, staying collected with the lack of reaction, which made you all more frustrated. “calm down, and you are not going anywhere,” he argued back.

“why? so i can stay here and watch how you choose those fuckin’ demons over me again and again?” you gritted your teeth, your hands reaching to the remaining pile of clothes, hiccuping and sniffing back, your entire face wet and most definitely red — a total fucking mess.

his hands stretched and gripped your wrists, moving your body away from the suitcase and straightening it, trapping your hands against your chest. “don’t act like a child right now. i can’t stay here and babysit you all day.”

his words cut right through whatever hope you still had. you were frustrated, and sad, and tired. and so utterly disappointed. “with no one here you won’t have to worry about babysitting,” you spat back.

he softened his grasp on your wrists for a second and you quickly used that opportunity to zip up your bag and march past him to the front door, deliberately putting on your shoes and tying the laces as slow as you can to prolong the moment, giving him time to apologize.

but constantine didn’t know the existence of that word, and you were well aware of that.

yes but was he letting you go this easily? was he not gonna fight? perhaps you were right to leave.

you sighed in defeat, twisting the door knob and peeking it open for an inch before a hand slapped it shut from behind.

you turned around, not having a time to protest as his lips crashed into yours, his hands flying to your waist as he kissed you hungrily.

you were entranced for a second as your mind went dizzy, returning back the kiss before some sense was slapped right back into you, your hands pushing him away harshly. the two of you silently stared at one another, breathing heavily, your own face flushed, chest heaving under his gaze. you felt fresh tears staining your cheeks before your hands gripped his black suit and guided him back to you, connecting your lips with his again.

it wasn’t passionate — all teeth and roughness, frustration. he switched his palms from your hips to the back of your thighs, making you jump a little and cross your legs around his torso.

he carried you to bed, putting you down on the soft mattress, getting rid of your pants before his hands roamed back to your shirt, breaking the kiss to remove your top over your head.

you unbuttoned his white shirt, throwing it away from his body as your hands felt the toned muscles of his chest. he planted rough but needy kisses all along from your jaw to your neck, sucking on the soft flesh while his fingers were unclasping your bra.

you whined into the sensation, gripping on his dark messy hair, feeling his wet lips suddenly trailing slow kisses in between the valley of your nude breasts. “don’t be so difficult,” he whispered against your skin, “you are important to me.”

you stayed silent for a moment, closing your eyes not to cry all over again. you broke all the records today. you knew he wasn’t the most affectionate person, but you still needed something to prove you he cared. “what would i know?”

he looked up at you, his face dangerously close to the only piece of material left covering your body. “you do.”

with that constantine-like “assurance,” he trailed his fingers down to your abdomen, removing the fabric from your thighs before his hands found their way back.

you inhaled a soft gasp when he started playing with your clit, rubbing it softly and pinching it in between his fingers.

he captured you in a passionate kiss, his tongue exploring your mouth when you felt a finger being pushed inside of you.

he swallowed your moans, you hands firm on the back of his neck, keeping him close to you as he added the second one, thrusting them in and out in a steady rhythm.

you felt him curling his fingers inside, pressing on your inner walls in a way that felt so good while his thumb simultaneously continued playing with your clit, making you clench around him. that bubble was about to explode as you struggled to keep your legs open when he retrieved his hands from you, your dissatisfied whines reaching his ears.

was he denying you an orgasm as a way of punishing you? perhaps. and you wanted to shower him with strings of curses, but decided there was a more brutal way.

“tell me you love me,” you demanded, breaking the kiss and staring up at him as he leaned back, his dark eyes staying on yours.

you suddenly felt him rubbing his length on your entrance to collect your wetness as a lube, not even noticing when he got rid of clothes. “tell me-” he cut you off as he slammed in, not letting you get used to his size before he pulled out completely, forging back again.

you mewled at the contact, throwing your back and closing your eyes to ease the uncomfortable sense of fullness.

he grunted at your tightness, continuing his assault as you felt the pleasure finally cursing through you, greedily sucking in his cock and wanting more. “say it,” you tried again, mentally begging him to just say those three words.

instead, he shoved his fingers into your mouth, shutting you out as you tasted yourself on him from when he was inside you with his digits just moments ago. his mouth latched into your nipple, swirling his hot tongue around then sucking and repeating it over again, altering between your breasts.

your nails scratched his back harshly, leaving red marks that you knew definitely hurt but you needed to do something at the intense amount of pleasure you felt. and you also needed to hurt just a bit — at least physically — for being so cruel to you.

he groaned at the pain coursing through his back, altering his movements and moving through your walls with a new pace, his tip kissing your cervix repeatedly, your moans reminding a broken record.

you felt your orgasm approaching, that familiar tickle making you lightheaded. he gently pressed his palm over your pubic bone, his other hand latching back on your clit to massage it.

you cried out loud as the ecstasy washed over you, your back arching from the mattress underneath, your clenching walls tightening around him so much that he choked on his grunts, quickly manhandling your body around.

with your face buried in the mattress and ass up in the air, he slammed into you from a deeper angle. his hands definitely left bruises from how hard he was holding onto your hips, but you were also sure that you physically couldn’t hold yourself in place from how his dick was balls deep inside you. “don’t even dare to leave me,” his vulnerable but harsh voice brought you back to reality. “i need you.”

in your fucked out haze you didn’t truly register what he was saying, but at that point you would agree with just anything.

follow directly after his words, his groans echoing in the room and you felt the hot streaks of cum being shot into you, you limp body clinging to the white sheets.

still buried in you, he lowered his head to your spine, his sticky forehead connecting itself with your skin, his hot breath fanning just above your ass.

after steading back his breathing, he slowly pulled out of you with a squelching sound and a hot liquid running down your thigh, and you almost whined at how empty you felt.

he laid on his back, gently moving you against him as you cling to his body, practically laying on top of him. his fingers gently ran against your hair and you could feel the soreness of your muscles and the headache from all the crying enveloping you in a much needed sleep — hoping the former would catch up sooner.

with your eyelids fluttering shut and mind crossing the state of consciousness, you felt a barely audible “i love you” being whispered against your ear.

# john constantine masterlist | main m.list | join the taglist

[eternalslover]

WHY IS THERE NO WRITING FOR KEANU REEVES CHARACTERS IM ACTUALLY GOING BALLISTIC, I WANT HIM SO BAD WOOF WOOF GRRR, GOING ACTUALLY FERAL, PLEASE SOMEONE WRITE ABOUT HIM, MATRIX, JOHN WICK, BILL AND TED, CONSTANTINE, MATRIX, MATRIX, MATRIX DID I MENTION MATRIX PLEASE SOMEONE WRITE ABOUT HIS CHARACTER FROM THE MATRIX

WHERE DID MY CLOTHING GO?!?! I WANT HIM SO BAD HONESTLY HOW CAN YOU NOT WRITE ABOUT HIM?? ANGST, FLUFF, SMUT ECT ECT BIG ON FLUFF AND ANGST, THERE IS JUST SO MUCH SMUT IN THE WORLD BUT I WILL TAKE ANYTHING

[happy74827]

The Weight of Seeing

[John Constantine x Female!Reader]

Synopsis: Having been cursed with the pain of having the power to see, but never the power to help, you were used to the failure. But it hurts more than you anticipated when your visions shifted to a certain someone who you realized meant everything to you {GIF Creds: thejingshi}.

WC: 2212

Category: Slow Burn, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Canon-Typical!John Constantine, Visionary!Reader {TW: Premonitions/Visions of Death, Migraines (i hate them)}

This is a little random idea I had sitting in my drafts for a tiny bit, but I felt very inclined to finish it. Especially with the lack of fics 💔

『••✎••』

The air in the safehouse is still.

Muted, like the world has agreed to hold its breath for once. Rain taps gently at the windows, and the scent of wet concrete drifts in through the small crack John left in the window when he went out. You sit on the edge of the bed, knees drawn up, sunglasses perched delicately on the bridge of your nose—more for the throb behind your eyes than the overhead light, which John had dimmed before leaving. He’d remembered.

It’s the small things like that. The fact that he remembered you couldn’t stand harsh light during a migraine. The fact that he’d gone out at all for you.

You hear the door open before you see him. The creak of wood and the shuffle of boots are too familiar now to mistake. And then his presence fills the room like smoke—sharp, lingering, inescapable.

You don’t move. Not at first.

You just watch him.

John Constantine, drenched from the rain, coat clinging to his frame. His tie hangs loose around his neck, and a cigarette is crushed between two fingers, unlit—for now. There was a time when you couldn’t have imagined him not smoking the second he walked into a room. Maybe he’s changing. Maybe not. Maybe it’s just you.

His dark hair, still damp, curls at the ends. You’ve always noticed how it lies slightly off-center, like he’d run his fingers through it once, maybe twice, and given up halfway. And his eyes... those weary, predatory things. Dark, sunken, always scanning—like the world had lied to him too many times and now he never trusts anything at face value. But right now, they soften when they find you.

"You still breathing?" he asks, voice roughened at the edges. But quieter than usual. Calmer. Like he knows your head is splitting again.

You manage a nod.

John sets the small paper bag down on the nightstand and pulls the chair from the corner across the room. He doesn’t sit right away. Just stands there, studying you. His silence is a loaded thing.

You take the glasses off slowly. Even through the pounding in your skull, you still wanted to see him.

"You didn’t have to go," you murmur.

He ignores that. "Tried to get the strong stuff. Your doc’s a cryptic bastard, but the pharmacist got the idea."

He lights the cigarette. Then, after one drag, stubs it out. He doesn’t look at you while he does it.

You tilt your head slightly. "You only smoke half when you’re nervous."

His jaw twitches.

"Don’t flatter yourself," he says, finally sinking into the chair. But his voice has lost all of its bite. The words fall flat—almost gentle, somehow.

You study him in silence. The way his fingers tap against his thigh, his coat hanging open and soaked through, clinging to that long frame of his. The faint shadow of stubble on his jaw. That impossible, wrecked beauty he carries like a curse. His hands—calloused, twitchy, always reaching for something to fight or light or fix.

Except now, they’re still.

He isn’t looking at you anymore, not directly—just watching the space around you like there’s something there he can’t quite name. You haven’t said much since he walked in, and for once, it isn’t the migraine that makes you quiet.

John notices. Of course he notices.

"You’re quieter than usual," he says. Not an accusation. Just observation, plain and pointed. He turns his head slightly, the weight of his gaze settling back on you. "Head worse?”

You hesitate, shaking your head. "No, It’s not that."

He leans back in the chair, arms folded. "Something happened while I was gone."

It isn’t a question, but rather just the truth, pulled right out of you without your even opening your mouth.

Your hands tense in your lap. You look down at them, at the pale curve of your fingers, like they might hold the answer for how to not say the thing pressing against your throat. But your silence is louder than anything now.

He waits. Patient, but not gentle. He never asks twice—he just gives you a moment to make your own choice about honesty.

Still, you don’t speak.

He sighs and rubs his eyes, the pads of his fingers digging into his sockets like he could push the weariness back in. "Premonition?"

Your breath catches.

You don’t mean for it to, but it does. The tell is enough.

John nods slightly. "Yeah," he mutters. "That checks out."

That shouldn’t be comforting, but it is. That unfazed tone. That shrug of reality, like death omens are as common as a change in the weather. It unknots something in you, something tangled in fear and guilt.

"I didn’t want to say anything," you admit, barely above a whisper. "Because if I said it, it would mean it’s real. And I thought maybe, if I stayed quiet long enough, it’d just... go away."

He doesn’t interrupt. He just leans forward again, his arms resting on his knees, listening.

"I’ve seen people die," you say. "Over and over. And I try—I do. I try to get there in time or warn them. But it’s always too late. Always."

He watches you with those sharp, tired eyes, but he doesn’t flinch or look away.

You look up at him then, blinking against the sting behind your eyes. "But this time it was you, John."

A silence like thunder settles between you.

"I saw it," you say, voice cracking. "I saw you die. And I just—I couldn’t breathe for minutes after. It hurt. Like it already happened."

Still, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. He just listens.

"I’ve failed before," you continue, softer now. "I’ve tried to save people, and they die anyway. And I thought I could live with that, but now—" You swallow hard. "I don’t think I can live through losing you."

A beat passes. Then another.

And finally, he stands. Slow. Careful. Like he doesn’t want to scare you off.

"You ever think maybe you care too much?" he asks, tone dry—but his eyes say something else. Something bruised and aching.

You smile faintly, humorless. "Maybe. But I don’t think that’s the worst thing to be guilty of."

John studies you for a long moment, brow furrowed slightly. Then he sighs.

You’re not sure what you’re expecting him to do. Maybe turn around and leave. He does that sometimes, when the truth gets too close. When you both come too close to the line neither has crossed. But instead, he walks to the bed and sinks down beside you, hands on his knees, eyes fixed on a point on the wall across from you.

The air in the safehouse grows heavier, thick with the weight of your confession and the rain’s relentless patter outside. John’s presence beside you is a quiet storm, his silence louder than any words could be. His shoulder brushes yours, just enough to make your pulse stutter, but he doesn’t pull away. Neither do you.

You steal a glance at him. His profile is sharp against the dim light—angular jaw, the faint lines etched around his eyes, the way his mouth sets in a line that’s neither soft nor hard, just John. He’s close enough that you can smell the rain on his coat, the faint trace of cigarette smoke clinging to him despite the stubbed-out remnant. It’s grounding, that scent. It’s him.

"You didn’t fail anybody," he says finally, voice low, gravelly, like he’s pulling the words from somewhere deep. "Least of all me."

You shake your head, the motion small but sharp. "You don’t get it, John. I saw it. You were—" Your voice catches again, and you press your lips together, trying to hold it in. The image flashes behind your eyes: blood pooling on pavement, his body still, those sharp eyes fading forever. "It was so real. I could feel it. Like I was there."

He turns his head then, just enough to meet your gaze. His eyes are darker now, searching, like he’s trying to see the vision you saw, to carry it for you. "I've outlasted worse," he says, and there’s a conviction in his tone that almost makes you believe him. Almost.

"You can’t know that," you whisper, your voice barely holding together. "You don’t even know what I saw."

He shifts, angling his body toward you, his knee brushing against yours. The contact is fleeting but deliberate, and it sends a jolt through you, like static. "I’ve been dodging death longer than you’ve been having visions," he says, his voice softer now, but still edged with that dry certainty. "I’m not saying it’s a guarantee, but I’m a hard bastard to kill."

You let out a shaky laugh, more breath than sound, and it eases the knot in your chest just a fraction. "You’re impossible," you murmur, but there’s no heat in it. Just exhaustion. Just relief that he’s here, alive, sitting close enough to feel the warmth radiating off him.

"Part of my charm," he says, the corner of his mouth twitching upward, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He’s still watching you, too closely, like he’s waiting for you to crack again. Or maybe he’s the one about to crack, and he’s just better at hiding it.

The silence stretches again, taut and fragile, and you’re suddenly aware of how close he is. Close enough that you can see the faint pulse at the base of his throat, the way his fingers flex slightly against his knees, like he’s fighting the urge to reach out. You wonder what it would feel like if he did. If he closed that last inch of space between you. If he let himself.

You’ve thought about it before—too many times, in moments when you shouldn’t. In moments when he’s looked at you like he’s looking at you now, like you’re the only thing in the room that matters. But John Constantine doesn’t do soft. He doesn’t do promises or attachments or anything that could break him more than he’s already broken. And yet, here he is, sitting on this bed, not running.

"You’re scared," he says suddenly, and it’s not a question. His voice is quiet, but it cuts through the haze in your head like a blade. "Not just about the vision."

Your breath hitches, and you hate that he can read you so easily. You want to deny it, to deflect, but the words won’t come. Instead, you look down at your hands again, fingers twisting together, and you feel the weight of his gaze like a physical thing.

"I’m scared of a lot of things," you admit, barely audible. "But yeah. Mostly you."

He doesn’t laugh or smirk or brush it off like you expect him to. Instead, he leans closer, just enough that his shoulder presses fully against yours now, solid and warm. "You don’t have to be," he says, and for once, there’s no edge to his voice, no sarcasm or deflection. Just truth, raw and unguarded.

Your heart stumbles in your chest. You turn your head to look at him, and he’s already looking at you, closer than he’s ever been. His eyes are dark, endless, and for a moment, you think you see something flicker in them—something that looks like fear, or want, or both. The air between you feels like it might snap, like a wire pulled too tight.

"John," you say, and his name feels heavy on your tongue, like a confession in itself.

He doesn’t move, but his gaze drops to your mouth for a fraction of a second, and it’s enough to make your pulse race. Enough to make you wonder what it would be like to close the distance, to taste the rain and smoke on his lips, to let yourself fall into whatever this is that’s been simmering between you for too long.

But he pulls back, just an inch, and the moment fractures. Not gone, but held in suspension, like the rain outside. He clears his throat, looks away, and runs a hand through his damp hair, leaving it even more disheveled.

"You need to rest," he says, voice rough again, like he’s trying to ground himself. "Migraine’s bad enough without you staying up worrying about me."

You want to argue, to tell him you’re not the one who needs saving, but the exhaustion in your bones wins out. You nod, shifting to lie back on the bed, your head still throbbing but somehow lighter now. He doesn’t leave, though. He stays there, sitting on the edge of the bed, his hands clasped between his knees, like he’s keeping watch.

"John," you say again, softer this time, as your eyes start to drift closed.

"Yeah?" His voice is quiet, almost tender.

"Don’t die," you whisper, and it’s half a plea, half a prayer.

He doesn’t answer right out, but you feel the bed shift slightly as he leans closer, his breath warm against your temple.

"Not planning on it," he murmurs, and you realize then that this was the closest thing to a promise you’ll ever get from him.

So, begrudgingly, you close your eyes and let the words settle over you as the rain shifts into being a quiet witness to the peace between you.

[97keanu]

Premise: After some fun in the snow, you’ve come down with a cold, and John has to take care of you.

Tags/CW: Drabble, Fluff, john tries his best to take care of you, he worries for you so much, extremely fluffy and loving!john, short n sweet <3

Words: 700

“I told you that you were going to get sick going out like that.” John’s low and soft voice says as he takes the termometer out of your mouth gently, checking the indicator.

”I just wanted to make a snowman…” You pout, your body getting another chill despite how hot you feel.

“I know, darling, but snow from the streets of New York…?” He tsks and hands you more water.

“Drink up, you need to stay hydrated.” You take the straw of the glass into your mouth and eagerly slurp, your throat so sore and so dry.

“I’ll go make you something to eat, you need to keep your strength up.” John stands, tucking you tighter into bed and making sure you’ll all set for the few moments he will be away, a worry hidden in his brow.

You nod, your eyes beginning to feel heavy, and your body so weak from fighting off your sickness. You watch through the soft vignette of your closing lashes as John leaves the room.

John’s shoulders drop as the door closes softly behind him. He lets out a long sigh, and he would never let you know, but he’s very worried about you. He knows you will likely be alright, and he’s doing his best to be there for you. Still, he’s never had to care for another person like this. Sure, he could patch you up, any wound or scrap or cut, but not many people in his life have been just plain sick. It was a strange feeling. He knows that all he can do is keep you hydrated, administer medications, and let you get lots of rest, but somehow the waiting game of seeing if you’ll be alright is killing him. He closes his eyes, not getting a lot of rest himself as he’s been up watching over you all night and leans against the wall for a moment, before pushing off and heading to the kitchen.

Soon, he returns to the room, a tray of soup and tea and assortments that he thought you might like in one hand. John gently opens the door with his freehand, the other balancing the tray precisely and his dark eyes gaze across the still room, his lavish home and bed hiding you in a million different blankets that you requested when your chills got too bad earlier. You don’t stir as he enters the room. John carefully pads across to you, setting the tray down next to the bedside, and softly pulling back one of the covers you’ve cocooned yourself with.

Your breathing is slow, rhythmic, through your mouth since your nose is so stuffed up. He can hear a low rattle from your lungs, a sound that makes his brows furrow deeper, and his worry gather. You cough for a moment there, and he sighs. He doesn’t like the sound of this at all, but he’s utterly helpless. He’s had you examined by the best doctor he knows, and been assured it’s just a common cold, and that it will pass, but he hates seeing you have to go through this.

The Babayaga has found something that he cannot simply kill.

Something he cannot take over with violence, but instead requires a gentle hand.

A new territory for him, all this love, all this kindness.

All he can do now is try his best not to wake you, as he knows how much you need your rest, while he sits down next to you on the bed. The tea and soup give soft flutters of steam as they cool, and John doesn’t mind having to remake whatever it is you desire when you wake up. The back of his hand flits against your forehead, as light as a butterfly's wing, and he wonders if your head is hot, or his hands are just cold. He’s not sure he has the instinct for knowing such things.

You stir just a moment as he touches you, and John freezes, before you mumble something. He worries you have some request that he’s not fulfilling so he leans his ear in closer to you.

“John…?” You say weakly, barely awake.

“Yes, my dear?” His voice brushes against your cheek cool and sweet.

“Will you hold me?”

In calculated, but soft movements, John gently eases himself next to you, wrapping his arms around you until you’re completely safe and sound there.

The world drifts away once more, and you sleep knowing that no harm can come to you while John has you in his arms.

[babsharrison]

Safe Haven - John Wick Series

Pairing | John Wick x Original Fem! Character

Summary | In search of a breath in his tumultuous life, John Wick finds himself in a charming bookstore where he meets a sweet and welcoming woman. As they grow closer, John questions whether she can love him despite the dark secrets he carries. While battling the shadows of his past, he must protect the love that is blossoming and discover if hope and redemption are truly possible.

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿

All the chapters

Prologue

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

[marks-bby]

⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀assigning the wickverse characters links ! !

characters ;;

— ted logan , john wick , constantine , kevin , neo

⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ted logan 🎸

— before ted met you , he was a virgin. he had never experimented with women because…well he just never cared for it. his main goal was to become a rock star.

— when the two of you got together , sex wasn’t even on the table. you two were to happy together without it to even bring it up.

— until he heard some boys in one of his classes talking about their sex life. “she was screaming bad. she enjoyed every inch.” “she won’t leave me after that.”

— ‘were you happy with him?’ ‘did you want sex?’ ‘was he enough for you?’ his mind was flooded with self deprecating thoughts , making him more insecure about himself. he didn’t want you to leave him.

— so he did what he could. he went to the back of blockbusters , looking for any popular porno for him to learn how to pleasure a woman. “sick.”

“teddy.” you gasp as he softly pushes you on his bed. “shh. i’ve got you, baby. just let me take the lead.” he kisses down your neck. he rolls your shirt over your head, rubbing his hand over your soft skin. ‘what’s gotten into him’ you thought. your bra and panties were next to go, leaving you naked in front of him. “shit…” he didn’t think this all through. he imagined everything but he didn’t actually expect all of this to happened. but he he pulled himself together, taking a deep breath and leveling his mind. “you’re beautiful.” he kisses down your leg, stopping at your inner thighs. you didn’t know how to react. you and ted both were virgins from what you knew. how was he so confident about this? but you weren’t really complaining. the way his tongue flick across your clit was intoxicating. “oh my god , ted.” your fingers card through his brown locks. “don’t—don’t stop.” you whine , squeezing your thighs around his head. his wet tongue licks through your folds , making your shiver in pleasure. “you can’t be finished already , babe. we haven’t even gotten to the good stuff.” he chuckles like nothing has happened. like he wasn’t the one making your legs shaken two seconds ago.

⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀john constantine 🛁

— christ. why was being with a woman so hard? to him , they were sensitive being loaded with unnecessary emotions and uneven hormones. you and him had gotten into another argument and haven’t talked in weeks.

— he kept telling himself that he didn’t need you and that he waited for you to cave in first. but a man has his needs. and he needed to let out his saved sexual tension.

— his fist would only work for so long. he needed the real thing. or at least look at the real thing. he remembers the stacked of recorded sex tapes the both of you needed.

“fuck it.” he tosses his cigarette across the room after budding it out. he walks over the the pile of tapes. special tapes. if you wouldn’t give it up , he had a way to still get off with you. he pulls out his cock out its confinement , groaning as he sees how angry his tip is , oozing pre-cum. “sonfabitch.” he presses the play button , stroking his length. “john.” your moans came from the speakers of the tv. his grip on your hips were like iron. his tip kisses the hilt of your cunt , making your brain feel like mush. “please.” you grab his hand , attempting to pull it off you. “move.” he swats your head away. “stay still.” he groan , his head lolling backwards. “goddamnit!” he groans, tucking himself back in. he reaches for his phone, looking for your contact. the line goes to voicemail but that doesn’t stop him. “baby, i’m sorry. just come over.”

⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ mr. wick ✏️

— he’d been really mean lately. really mean. he would lash out at on you with simple things , depriving you of attention , making you feel like shit. and you had enough of it.

— one night , as he was winding down , you straddled his hips , giving him no room to move. and frankly , he wasn’t disappointed. you looked so sexy on top of him , taking initiative. it was until your rode him at he regretted how he treated you.

“baby. i’m sorry. please.” this was the first time you’ve seen him whine, beg none the less. you restricted him the privilege to touching you. he was twitching under you as you rode him to oblivion. “i’m sorry, honey. please just let me touch you.” he tries to touch your thigh, just wanting to touch one piece of you. “fucking touch me one more time and i’m tying you up.” you pull his wrists over his hand. “sweetheart, this is unfair. i just—” he groans as you sink yourself on his cock again. “shit!” he seethe through his teeth. “i swear after you’re done, i’m fucking you through the damn mattress.”

⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ kevin lomax 💸

— now listen. just listen.

— after a gala (or whatever you call it) , he just wanted to fuck you in that dress you dawned tonight. he was tempted to fuck you in public , giving everyone a show to see but that would be unruly of him.

— he decided to take you home and have his way with you but you looked too fucking hot for him not to have you right then and there.

“come on, baby. cum on my fingers , please.” in addition to his fingers , his faint country accent was sending over the damn edge. his digits were coated with your slick , making velvety sounds every time they pushed in and out out you. he curls his fingers , pulsing them inside of you. “we’re not making it home until you cum.” he chuckles. “kev…” you moan, leaning your head on the window behind you. the feeling was euphoric , overwhelming. you wanted to let go then and there but he was teasing you bad , making you chase your own orgasm. “i guess you don’t want to feel good. huh , sugar?”

⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ neo 📀

— mutual masturb*tion! i headcanon the neo loves this shit. you stroking his cock lazily as his fingers pump inside of you.

— his whimpers and moans make you wetter and wetter by the second. how cute was it to have the one submit under your touch? fucking beautiful.

“you’re doing so good , baby.” the time count has been lost. all you knew was that it was time to kill the lights. both you and neo were restless and needed a quick release. you were too lazy to remove your clothes and so was he. you snuck your hand under his loose sweats , softly grabbing his cock. his hips jerked at the sudden touch. “calm down, baby. i haven’t even started.” you teased. “baby…” your lips ghost over his adam’s apple , nipping carefully at his throat. you spread his pre-cum over his tip , eliciting a loud whimper from his lips. “hush, neo. do you want to wake up the ship?” you softly chuckle. he felt bad that you were doing all the work in his. he wanted to hear you moan also. he missed you after all these runs he’s been on. the only time he could catch you was when he went to sleep. his thumbs draws tight circles around your clothed clit. “n—neo.” you almost fold. almost. “i can’t be the only one having fun, right?” he pulls you in for a kiss. this is gonna be a loooong night.

i—don’t say anything…i had an idea

taglist ;; @iovesia

[johnwickb1tsch]

bittersweet 🖤 a yandere!john wick x fem!reader coffee shop sunshine/grump au - 110,355 words 😲 - NOW COMPLETE!

Table of Contents

something sweet

burned

the cougar

the mountain

lamb in the lion's den

avenging angel

the book thief

joyride

pest

drunk text

mondo piccolo

la dolce vita

vino veritas

kitten

walk of shame

bad girl

got u

war and peace

crime and punishment

lost and found

bound for hell

deal with the devil

show me your teeth

bully

knots

breaking point

surprise

haunted

lady of the daisies

say something

run

hard lesson

suits & guns

quite continental

purgatory

rough play

ruse

the honorable thing

pool time

parlay

reprieve

home sweet home

surprise

the god of death

halcyon daze

rude awakening

just business

hostile takeover

consequences

last woman standing

don't cry for me, argentina

the end of the world

Complete!

BONUS-spin off AU featuring Tom Ludlow and Jack Traven...

[nixotinee]

─── Damn bimbo. ──────

Pairings: John wick x bimbo!reader.

Tags: Nsfw, sexual frustration, degradation & praise, manhandling, John gets really annoyed, dub-con(?), edging, overstimulation, oral (f & m receiving), p in v.

A/n: I randomly got this idea and i wanted to write it immediately.. i have a different fic stuck in my draft at the moment but hehe :))) this kinda follows the movies' storyline but only a little bit.

requests are open please feel free to send some :)

Life couldn't get any fucking worse.

Having a 14 million bounty on his head is definitely not a fun experience. Everyone is trying to kill John that even his own home wasn't safe anymore.

He cursed under his breath as he hid behind a car parked near a bar after running away and fighting those mother fuckers for the last few hours. The street is almost devoid of people due to how late it was, and the only thing he can hear is his enemies trying to find him— their footsteps nearing.

He looked around frantically before he turned and raised a hand to check if the car he's hiding behind was unlocked— and it was. Which brought a small thought into his mind: why would someone be stupid enough to leave their car unlocked?

John shakes that thought off his mind and opened the door quickly, relief briefly washing all over him when he saw that nobody's inside. He went on to the driver's seat and was about to close the door when someone called out for him.

"Hey!! Hey— thats my car!"

He cursed under his breath as he looked out and saw a woman— you, running out the bar and towards the car while wearing some three inched pink heels. He took his gaze away and decided not to give some shit as he tried to start the engine only to be stopped again by you.

"Get off!!"

You exclaimed as you tried to pull him out of your precious car but to no vail— he was still firmly seated on the driver's seat despite your efforts of getting him out, and it only took him once swat of your hand to get you away.

John tried to start the engine again and finally succeeded— he was about to drive away but you held on to the edge of your car due to the door still being open, causing him to stop abruptly.

He was about to tell you off when he heard his enemies' footsteps coming closer to the car and he groaned. He was left with no choice but to reach out and wrapped his arm around your waist and pulled you inside the car harshly, landing on to his lap and causing your heels to fall off.

John shut the door quickly before driving off just quickly enough to get away from his enemies. You squirmed on to his lap— trying to get to the passenger's seat as you do so which made him to groan once again in annoyance.

"Stop fucking moving."

He grumbled, giving you a small glance before focusing back on the road— his grip on the steering wheel tight as he drove.

"My heels.."

You whined softly— trying shift your body to look down on your now bare feet but John's hand flew down to push you against his lap, serving it as your damn warning to stay still.

You didn't like how he was treating you at all— he just stole your car and your pretty heels fell from your feet because of how he pulled you in like he owned your vehicle, and now he's here trying to make you stay still.

You put your hand on to the cupholder between the two seats and propped yourself up slightly to be able to look up at him, your eyebrows furrowed and your pretty eyes decorated with glittery eyeshadows wss filled with rage as you then spoke.

"I can't believe your audacity! You stole my car and now you're bossing me around?!"

John didn't say anything and instead raised his hand once again to shove your head down— not even giving you a single glance as he focused on the road and continues his driving

You gasped and propped yourself up yet again with an offended expression etched on your face. You look around— trying to find something to do but you settled on moving on his lap again— not caring about the fact that he's driving as you tried to get on to the passenger's seat.

John cursed for the nth time today and immediately pulled to the side of the road and stopped driving. He turned his body slightly and pushed you down on the passenger seat with a single hand, making you gasp.

"I told you to stay still."

He said, his voice low and intimidatingly calm as he reached forward and puts your seatbelts on wordlessly. He gave you a firm look before settling back on the driver's seat, just staying there and looking at you as if he's waiting for you to move again.

You just rolled your eyes and crossed your arms before looking out of the window, feeling too annoyed to say anything— and maybe a little turned on. You cross your legs and slumped down against the backrest, deciding to just stay still.

Seeing that, John then quickly started driving again, going to nowhere. He would give you occasional looks— trying to see if you're gonna misbehave once again before he gruffly spoke.

"Where do you live."

He said, his words sounding more like a command than a question. You were still quiet as you looked out of the window, contemplating if you should tell him where you live or be incredibly stubborn and not tell him anything at all. After all, telling a damn stranger where you live was pretty stupid.... but you really wanna go home— and its obvious he won't get out of the car any time soon..

"Just a few blocks away— keep going straight."

You sighed as you finally got into the comfort of you apartment, your body slouching just slightly as you walked further inside— not even caring about the fact that John was still trailing behind you.

He glanced around your apartment, wincing at the almost bright decorations you had. Your walls were painted pink and your furnitures barely had any monotone colors, it was as if you lived in a damn barbie dream house.

As you went to your couch and sat on it comfortably while crossing your legs, he couldn't help but stare at your smooth, squishy thighs as he stood near the couch, only realizing now how attractive you are. Since you just got out of a bar, your outfit was appropriate for it. Some light pink tube top paired with a light denim mini skirt— if he weren't so worried about his life he would be flirting with you and then fucking you right now.

"Care to explain why you needed to stole my car?"

John was pulled out of his thoughts when he heard those words of yours and he sighed. He crossed his arms over his chest and thought about what he should say for a moment, not really knowing if he should tell you the truth or just dismiss your question.

"My life is on danger."

He answered vaguely and it made you incredibly confused— after all its not everyday you hear a man say that his life is on damn danger. You looked at him up and down before speaking, unable to hold back the curiosity bubbling in you.

"Why?"

John didn't expect another question, and he most definitely didn't want another one. But instead of dismissing it— he just sighed and answered again.

"I have a bounty on my head."

"A bounty? What is that? You don't have a bounty on your head.."

"I have money on my head."

"No you don't I don't see it."

"It means people get paid once they kill me."

"But where's the money on your head?"

"Its not on my head."

"You said its on your head."

John sighed at your stupid words, running a hand on to his face in frustration. He thought he met stupid people before not until he met you. Your words only served to worsen the damn annoyance that's been bubbling inside him ever since this day started.

"Why do people want to kill you?"

You still continue to ask and he just stayed silent, staring at you sternly. You shivered and grimaced at the sight of his intimidating stance and raised your hands in feigned surrender, looking away.

"Jeez, hotheaded man.. Just asking.. You could use some head.."

You said before crossing your arms and rolling your eyes sassily. That further annoys the older man, his eyebrows narrowing. He is not in the mood to deal with some stupid bimbo when his life is on the damn line— but its clear that you couldn't notice that. He wanted to just shake some sense into you— put a thought into your head and make your damn brain work.

Wordlessly, he walked towards you and stood infront of your form on the couch, his hands buried inside his pockets as he does so. You slowly brought your gaze up at him when you noticed him standing infront of you and you raised an eyebrow at the stern look on his face.

"What?"

"Get on your knees."

You then furrowed your eyebrows at his words and shook your head stubbornly. You didn't expect him to take your words seriously and the sight was almost hilarious if the way he stood and the sound of his voice didn't turned you on.

John didn't say anything else before he took a harsh grip of your arm and pulled you until your kneeling on the pink fuzzy carpet on the floor Infront of him. You gasped and looked up, your pretty eyes widened slightly in shock by his actions.

"Said I could use some head, huh? And you could use someone fucking some common sense into you."

He said lowly as he unbuckle his belt and pulled it away quickly before undoing his black trousers— keeping his eyes on you as he does so. With one harsh tug his already hard cock was freed and your eyes widened once again at the sight, not exactly expecting the size.

"Open."

John commanded simply and it was like your body was on autopilot because your mouth immediately opened and your tongue was out. You looked up at him as you do so— the sight of you on your knees with you mouth agape and ready for him looking so lewd that he almost groaned.

"Suck."

You leaned in and immediately wrapped your lips around the tip of his cock, sucking on it as if its your favorite lollipop. You raised both of your hands and wrapped it around the base, stroking it slowly as you carefully took more of his length into your warm mouth.

He groaned, not being able to hold it in this time. He watched you intently as you tried to take all of him but only managing to get to the middle— his thick girth stretching your mouth so painfully good as you stayed still for a moment.

Though you didn't have time to move by yourself because John got impatient and grabbed a fistful of your hair, pulling you back until just the tip was inside your mouth before pulling you back, pushing down a little more until his tip brushed against the back of your throat— making you whine.

"Take it, stupid girl."

John groaned as he continues to guide your head on his cock like your mouth was a fleshlight. He kept his grip on your hair tight as he does so, forcing you deeper and deeper each time he pulls you back on to his length.

Lewd noises of sucking, gagging and his moans filled the once silent living room. He kept guiding your head until he felt his hips jerking forward, driving his dick deeper into your inviting mouth.

"Fuck— just like that.. You didn't look like your good at anything but you're good at this— aren't you? Good at sucking cocks?"

You whined again around him and that sends him spiraling, he guides your head faster and made you suck around his thrusting cock until he can feel the familiar hot feeling coiling in the pit of his stomach— making his knees slightly buck forward.

"Almost there.. Fuck yeah.. Swallow my cum, will you? Bet you're good at that as well.."

It took John a few more thrusts and sucks until he was shooting his cum deep inside your throat. You swallowed every last drop as much as you can, your body shaking and your eyes filled with nothing but tears and lust as you looked up at him.

You gasped for air once he pulled away and he didn't even gave you a chance to rest before he took a hold of your waist and lifted you up effortlessly, slamming you down on to the couch before kneeling down in between your legs.

It was easy for him to take off your panties due to how short your skirt was. He pulled it off with one tug before he dives in and started sucking on to your clit, groaning against it when he felt just how fucking soaked you are.

You let out a high pitched moan in both shock and pleasure, not really expecting him to get this damn aggressive on you. Its like he's taking out all he's sexual frustration on you and that thought makes you even more aroused and turned on the you already are.

Your hand flew up and gripped on to his hair, pushing his mouth closer against your wet cunt as you grinded against him needly— making him chuckle lowly as you do so.

"Such a stupid slutty girl."

He mumbled before he continues eating you out like a starved man. He gripped on to your squishy thighs, loving how soft and smooth it felt in his rough hands as he does so. His tongue then dived inside your hole and you moan as the wet muscle brushes against the right spot— already making your thighs shaky in pleasure.

He kept his pace, thrusting his tongue in and out of your pussy while occasionally giving attention to your clit. Everytime he felt you getting closer to release he would stop and start biting on to your thighs until your release comes down— and when it does, he comes back to eating you out and repeats the process until you're a begging mess.

"Fuck.. please, please, please— let me cum please.."

You begged pathetically with a cry, the tears that previously formed from sucking him off now falling down from your eyes in pure neediness. You just wanted to cum but it seems like John won't give it to you anytime soon.

He wordlessly pulled away from your cunt and stood up— pulling you up with him. He turned you around and bent you over the couch, your hands coming up to grip on to the top of the backrest for balance.

You whined when you felt his tip poking your hole and your swayed your hips in a slutty manner, as if you're trying to invite him in.

John smirked at that and without a word, he slammed into you and buried himself deep— causing the two of you to moan in unison. Your pussy felt so deliciously tight around him and it feels like no other cunt is going to satisfy him anymore after this. He slowly drew himself out until its just the tip inside before slamming back in, repeating the movement until he settles into a good pace, pulling you up against him as he does so.

"Like that? Like how I'm fucking you? Yeah— I'll fuck you good.. fuck you so damn good, stupid girl.."

He whispered with each thrust, pressing your back firmly against his chest as he fucks into you without any thought left in his mind. Its almost like he got crazy himself— the words he's saying was far from how he usually is, you managed to take out a side of him even he himself didn't know.

You moaned helplessly as pleasure took over your body and mind, making your brain feel all mushy and empty. All you can think about is his dick in your damn cunt, hitting the perfect spot again and again until you're crying— your tears stained with black due to your mascara.

John loved how messy you look, your once sexy and put together appearance now being ruined by him. He raised his hand and gently brushed away your tears— his touch a huge contrast of his increasingly fast paced thrust that made you both go crazy.

"Can I cum, please..?"

You begged as you felt yourself getting closer, your thighs pressing together as your tried to hold back your release, your hands coming up to grip on to his arms thats tightly wrapped around you.

He smiled at your words, finding satisfaction in how you begged for him to let you cum— how you asked permission. He continues fucking you in that ungodly pace as he leaned into your ear, voice low and full of lust as he spoke.

"..You're such a good girl.. Asking for permission is the smartest thing you've done.."

John whispered with each thrust, making sure to hit your sweet spot again and again before speaking.

"Cum."

At that single command— You cummed harshly, your hazy eyes widening as the pleasure coursed through you. Your inner walls clenched around his still thrusting cock and it made the man groan. His movements slowly becomes sloppy and soon enough he cummed too— filling you up to the brim.

Your body weakened in his hold and he sighed. John leaned in and started planting kisses on your neck down to your shoulder, being gentle with you for once after everything that just happened. Even if he doesn't really know you much, getting too rough with you immediately made him feel guilty after he comes down from his high.

"I'm John."

He suddenly introduced next to your ear, pulling you closer against him as he planted another kiss on your soft neck.

"And I'd like to get to know you better, pretty."

You softly and tiredly giggled at that, turning your head to the side to look at him with a little smile.

"Getting all mushy on me now after calling me stupid?"

You asked and John grumbled, nuzzling his face against your skin as he spoke gruffly.

"Shut up."

A/n: this is my first time writing smut guys spare me... 😔

Tags: @opheliainlove42 @scarlettspectra @cuddleyhoney

[valentinxd]

random ideas in my head that I can’t get out and may write.

John Wick being a mechanic and he’s wearing that stupid full body mechanic suit and he’s got you on a work bench pretending to work on you but it’s all smut.

Neo with a female reader who is a cyborg he built and he gave you the ability to touch. More wholesome like you two are just adorable little idiots.

Being John and Helen’s maid but like - they have a thing for you. Hiring you to clean but then slowly spoiling you and then finally just having you move in and straight to the bedroom.

Trying to build a crib with Jack but you both keep fucking it up and struggle with each little piece. Struggling to read the instructions, struggling to find the right pieces and putting things on backwards

Smoking a cigarette on a rooftop with a teenage John Constantine listening to rock music after his death attempt. Sitting in silence in the dark with only the street light on, the crickets are the only sound and he’s wearing a jean jacket hiding his arms and all you can do is hold his hand which refuses to let go because out of everyone in this world he’s scard of losing is you.

Being Donaka Mark’s first love and taking care of him after he gets into his first fight. One of the many boyfriends his absent mother has decided to put him in his place and he stumbles into your apartment holding him, bandagaing his wounds and pressing small kisses to his bruised face and seeing something inside him change and you fear you can’t get him back.

Yandere Neo and Trinity both altering your life in the Matrix because they both become obsessed with you and so they decide to make it worse to “save you.” Little things get worse in your life, you lose your job, things break, your partners start off sweet but become worse, and why do you keep seeing two people in the corner of your room at night? Your just dreaming right?