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⋆⭒˚.⋆ COPS AND ROBBERS

˙ ✩°˖💰⋆｡˚ Marlon James x Reader

CW: fem!reader, pregnant!reader, criminal!reader, bank robbery, angst, slightly (or very) melodramatic, mentions of addiction, not very pretty descriptions of withdrawal, violence, threats, tons of swearing, my attempts at comedy.

synopsis: in desperate need of a large sum of cash, you and Marlon stage a bank robbery. It doesn’t really go to plan. Featuring an appearance from Tom Ludlow. - Inspired by @scarlettspectra’s Marlon James fic. Thank you to @casuallyobssessed for proofreading! 6.1k words.

The neighbourhood looks like it could use a little TLC. Patchy lawns with yellowed grass sit behind chain-link fences, not a single mailbox stands straight along the entire street with cracked sidewalks and potholes dotting the main road.

Dead leaves pile up along the curbs and under the windshields of the cars parked in the driveways: everyone of which is at least a decade old. A few houses still have crooked Halloween decorations and rotting Jack-o’-lanterns with drooping smiles slumped on their porch, even though November has already settled in.

It’s not the nicest neighbourhood in town, but it’s quiet. No sirens or neighbours screaming bloody murder, just the creak of a loose screen door, the squeak of a rusted gate, and a dog barking somewhere on the next street over.

Tom pulls up at the curb and kills his engine. Tapping his fingers upon the leather-bound steering wheel, he stares out through the tinted windshield.

He’s not even sure why he came here.

˙ ✩°˖💰⋆｡˚

“Everybody freeze!”

“Everybody down on the ground!”

You and Marlon shout simultaneously as you bust through the doors of the bank with your guns raised, expecting panic, screaming and mayhem. Instead, the customers and the bank tellers just… stare at you.

A heavy silence settles over the room. You could hear a pin drop over the faint whir of the AC.

Marlon shifts nervously beside you, tightening his grip on the revolver. His bandana sits askew over the bridge of his nose and his dark eyes dart skittishly around the room from beneath the tattered brim of his faded baseball cap.

“Babe, why ain’t nobody doing nothin’?” He hisses, leaning towards you, hoping you can shed some light on the situation, but you’re just as perplexed by the lack of chaos and panic.

“Well, son, if I may,” a middle aged man with a moustache that could rival Tom Selleck’s, politely steps forward, adjusting his oversized bifocals.

Marlon lets out an audible yelp, damn near jumping out of his skin.

“Holy shit, man! Where’d you even come from?!”

The man takes a step back, holding up his hands placatingly with a genuinely apologetic expression. “Woah, easy! Didn’t mean to startle you, son. It’s just– you and your err… wife?” He gestures vaguely at you.

“Huh? Oh! We’re not– I mean, I haven’t, y’know, not yet–”

“Right, besides the point,” the man cuts off Marlon’s rambling, “I’m just saying, this is clearly your first time robbing a bank, am I right?”

Marlon nods, earning a nudge and a tilted glare from you, silently warning him he probably shouldn’t be admitting that you’re a pair of amateurs.

“Well, the problem is the fact you gave us contradictory orders. One of you said freeze and the other said get down. Now, son, logically speaking, you do understand that we can’t very well do both at the same time, don’t you?”

You and Marlon blink as it suddenly dawns on you how out of your depths you both are.

“…Excuse us for one moment.” Marlon clears his throat, the sound echoes through the quiet room as he tugs you by the wrist.

Before you can react, you’re right back outside with the doors swinging shut behind you.

“Marlon, what the actual fuck?!” you hiss, yanking your arm back.

“I’m sorry! I panicked!” He removes his baseball cap to run a hand through his dishevelled hair as he paces in front of you. “I thought it’d be easier once we were in there, that I could just rely on the adrenaline to get me through it, y’know? But then we fucked up and they were all just staring at us! Then that dude started giving us advice. Who even gives the robbers advice in the middle of a stick-up? I think– I think I got, like… stage fright? Or the bank robbery equivalent. Robbery fright?”

You tug your own bandana down until it hangs loosely around your neck and you rest both your hands on Marlon’s tense shoulders, halting his nervous pacing.

“Hey, look at me. Just breathe, okay. Nice and slow. You’re fine. You just got a little spooked, that’s all.”

He follows your soothing command, his chest slowly expands with a deep inhale and then deflates with a gently controlled exhale.

“We looked like a coupla boneheads in there.”

“We did,” you agree with a shrug, “but it’s not the end of the world.”

Marlon doesn’t look so convinced but he appears slightly less panicked than he was a few moments ago.

“Ready to try again?”

Marlon looks like you just asked him to jump into a pool of hungry sharks. “You think we can still pull this off?”

“Honestly? I have no idea.” You answer plainly instead of feeding him some sugar-coated bullshit. “But we already got this far so we might as well keep going.”

Marlon puts his baseball cap back on, a silent confirmation that he’s ready to give it another shot and you nod, securing your bandana back over your nose.

“When we go back in, this time we’ll both shout ‘freeze!’” You instruct him, calm and steady.

“Right. Freeze. Got it.” He nods, psyching himself up with a shake of his limbs before adjusting his hold on the revolver.

You grab his wrist. “Let’s go rob a bank!”

“Let’s go rob a bank.” Marlon repeats, a little quieter, lacking the same enthusiasm, but you’ll take it nonetheless.

You storm back inside, guns raised as you bust through the doors again.

“EVERYBODY FREEZE!”

Silence.

You and Marlon sneak a glance at each other like a pair of kids in an elementary school play trying to remember who says the next line and then…

“Young lady,” an elderly man at the counter pipes up, frowning at your swollen belly disapprovingly. “You oughta be at home with your feet up, not runnin’ ‘round robbin’ banks in your condition!”

Silence. You stare at the man in disbelief, momentarily stunned by the sheer absurdity of the situation, wondering how much more ridiculous it could possibly get.

“Jesus fucking christ,” you mutter, “everyone’s a critic today!”

˙ ✩°˖💰⋆｡˚

The duffle is bloated with a generous helping of cash when the first distant wail of sirens reaches your ears, turning your heart into a cannonball that sinks straight to the pit of your gut.

“Shit– come on, babe. We better split.” Marlon swings the duffle over his shoulder, nearly toppling over with the weight of every dollar adding to the gravity of what you’ve both just done. He grabs your hand, surprisingly steady, despite the clammy palm betraying his nerves. You know him too well, inside he’s panicking just as much as you are, if not more. But the second he sees it on your face, he shifts, forcing himself to take the lead, because if he can hold it together, maybe you can too.

You crash through the fire exit, the weighted door slams behind you with a bang that echoes through the narrow alley. The scorching air hits you with a thick wave carrying the stench of piss and sun-baked garbage, but that’s the least of your worries. Wailing sirens close in, piercing your ears, spurring your scruffed sneakers over the cracked, uneven pavement towards the crookedly parked old Chevy that’s coughing out exhaust fumes like a chainsmoker.

The car door groans on its rusting hinges as Marlon yanks it open, releasing a billowing, swirling cloud of thick and skunky smoke, reeking sharp and earthy.

“Jesus, Harlan!” Marlon wheezes, swatting at the haze while steadying you as you lower yourself into the backseat. “The fuck you hotboxin’ the getaway car for? You tryna bake the damn baby or what?”

You keep the bandana secured over your nose, shuffling awkwardly over the hot vinyl seats to make room for Marlon. Clambering into the funky, soupy smog after you, he drops the duffle with a thud between your feet.

“Rich comin’ from you,” Harlan mutters, arching an eyebrow over his scratched-up sunglasses, while Marlon is cranking the window like his life depends on it. “Didn’t you have, like, half a pharmacy in your system when you knocked her up?”

“Okay, first of all, me being high didn’t have nothin’ to do with my decision to sleep with Y/N, alright. That was a conscious choice. One I woulda made even if I’d been sober. Let’s just clear that up right now.” Marlon jerks forward, wedging himself through the gap between the two front seats.

“Jesus, babe…” you whine, slumping down like a mortified teenager, palm dragging over your face.

“I ain’t sorry for speakin’ the truth. You walked in lookin’ drop dead gorgeous, I’d’ve had to be blind to not wanna be all over you.”

“Dude, c’mon. Save it for the wedding vows.” Harlan snorts.

“Second of all,” Marlon’s attention snaps back to his cousin, tone dipping sharp. “You really wanna bring that up now? My nerves are fucking shot and I’m- shit, I’m fucking armed, man!” He yanks the revolver out the waistband at the back of his sun-bleached jeans with a flair he clearly thinks is threatening.

“Like you’d ever use it,” Harlan scoffs, flicking the roach out the cracked window. “Fuckin’ pussy.”

“Hey, don’t talk to him like that! He ain’t a pussy,” the knee jerk response flies from your lips instinctively.

“Oh yeah?” Harlan chuckles smugly like he knows something you don’t. “He ever tell you ‘bout the time we got hired to pop some dude, and Romeo over here spent the whole time shittin’ himself? Guess who actually pulled the trigger.”

“That doesn’t fuckin’ count, man!” Marlon snaps. “The dude didn’t even die.”

You glance between them, eyes narrowing. The getaway car (if you can even still call it that) hasn’t moved an inch, meanwhile the sirens are getting louder still, and these two idiots have decided now is the perfect time to take a stroll down memory lane.

“Shit, how was I s’posed to know? I ain’t no doctor.” Harlan shrugs, smoothing his long hair away from his face. “Lucky for you, too. Else we’d be in county right now, fightin’ over who gets top bunk.”

“Ain’t no way you’d beat me to the top bunk.” Marlon jabs a finger at Harlan, in a last-ditch effort to save face and salvage some dignity in front of you.

“Please, you wouldn’t even stand a chance.” Harlan says, slow and smug, easing into a shit-eating grin.

“Would too,” Marlon fires back, just about climbing through the seat gap.

You flick a glance out the rear window, catching the flicker of red and blue lights veering into the far end of the alley, seconds away from being rammed further up your ass than a colonoscopy.

“Would not.”

“Would too!”

Your nails dig crescents into the busted vinyl of Harlan’s seat.

“I swear to Christ, if you two don’t shut up and get this fuckin’ car moving—”

You slam your palm against the back of Harlan's headrest. The thud jolts him and his foot hits the gas, abruptly lurching the car forward.

Marlon’s cheek smacks the passenger headrest and your body is thrown sideways as the rear tires fishtail across the uneven terrain.

The stream of red and blue lights bleeds through the rear windshield as the vehicle bounces over potholes, putting its suspension to the ultimate test. Harlan punches the gas, veering into the main road and weaving through traffic like he’s playing a game of Mario Kart. If only you had a stash of banana peels to chuck out the window to shake off the cops tailing behind.

You rest your forehead against Harlan’s seat, closing your eyes. Your heart pounds harder with every screech of the tires. The car swerves past another vehicle, its horn blaring, still the sirens howl behind you, ever present.

“Harlan started it.”

You blink your eyes open. Slowly, you lift your head and turn.

Marlon is looking at you like a kid tattling to his mother. Like he really thinks that matters right now.

You stare at him, too stunned to speak.

The father of your unborn child.

BANG!

The sound pierces violently through the air. Your whole body flinches, lodging your heart firmly in your throat. Marlon is on you in an instant, shielding you with his body, his arms cradling your head. His heartbeat rivals your own, pounding fast and frantic against your back.

“They’re fuckin’ shooting at us!” he hisses, voice strained with panic in your ear with his head ducked low against your shoulder.

You hold your breath. His weight is crushing, but it’s nothing compared to the realisation that Marlon would take a bullet for you without hesitation.

This is the father of your unborn child.

Behind the wheel, Harlan’s laugh cuts through the tension.

“Chill out, man. Ain’t nobody shootin’ at us.” he calls over his shoulder, patting the dashboard like you would a loyal dog. “She just does that sometimes when I shift too fast.”

It takes a moment for Harlan’s amusement at your expense to sink in before your frazzled nervous system catches up to speed and registers that your close shave with death had been nothing more than his old clunker backfiring.

You don’t know whether to laugh, cry or scream at Harlan for thinking this rickety death trap masquerading as a getaway car was at all adequate for a grand escape against a squadron of blazing cruisers tearing up the freeway in hot pursuit.

“Marry me.”

You whip your head towards Marlon.

You’re pretty sure that when most people hear those words and turn to the person saying them, they’re not met with the pasty, terror-stricken face of a man who looks like he just saw his life flash before his eyes.

“What?”

“Shit, this ain’t how I planned to ask you.” Marlon curses. “Until I met you, I never even saw myself as the marryin’ type but that changed the moment I laid eyes on you. I swear, I woulda dropped to one knee right then and there if that was, like, not totally weird… but I went and accidentally put a baby inside you instead… which is strangely more acceptable, I guess?”

Marlon’s brows set in a deep frown, his eyes glazing over, lost in deep thought, while the chaos swirls around you. His face is still pale, drained of colour; you’re not even sure he heard what Harlan said, or if he’s still convinced that bang came from a gunshot. You rest your hand on his thigh, offering him a tether so he doesn’t drift too far away and his dilated pupils meet yours, full of gratitude and lingering anxiety.

“Maybe it’s dumb,” Marlon continues, as if he might choke on his words if he doesn’t get them out fast enough, “but after that I was scared you’d think I was askin’ you for all the wrong reasons. Outta, like… duty or guilt or, I dunno, just ‘cause it’s the decent thing to do, y’know? And that’s the last thing I wanted you to think. So I was waiting for the right moment. I wanted there to be no doubt that this is what I want. Absolutely none. You’re what I want. More than anything, it’s important to me that you know that.”

You gulp back tears, your focus locked in on Marlon’s desperate, wide-eyed sincerity, forgetting about the wailing sirens, screeching tires and Harlan cussing behind the wheel.

“I thought if I got you a proper ring, real diamond and everything, with the leftover cash, that’d show you how serious I am. How much I love you. How much I wanna be your husband. I had this whole thing in my head, I was gonna make it real special with, like, candles and shit, though, I don’t even actually know why candles are romantic, knowing me I’d probably just fuck it all up and start a fire–”

He’s spiralling, eyes wild as the words tumble out faster than his train of thought.

“Marlon–”

“But I just realised,” he barrels ahead, taking your hand in his tight grip. “If I keep waiting to ask you, then I might never actually get the chance–”

“Marlon, babe,” you cut him off, reaching out to cradle his slightly stubbled cheek as you understand what he’s really trying to say but you don’t even dare let that thought enter your mind. “The car just backfired.”

“I know, I know. I heard him,” he sighs, screwing his eyes shut with a shake of his head. “But I’m not just saying all this ‘cause Harlan’s piece-of-shit car backfired. We ain’t outta this yet and those cops are just gonna keep chasing us and if– if anything happens…”

His voice gets hoarse, and you’re already shaking your head, refusing to accept what he’s trying to tell you.

“I just– while we’re both here, while I got the chance, I need you to know how bad I want this. You. All of it. You, me and our baby. I know we ain’t exactly conventional but I want us to be a proper family, whatever that is. Something solid. I never wanted anything more.”

He glances away, his face shadowed with shame.

“I took a big fuckin’ risk today. I put us both in danger. And if somethin’ happens–”

“Nothing’s gonna happen,” you firmly interject, pressing your forehead against his with determination. “You hear me? We’re gonna get out of this. We’re gonna make it.”

He tries to speak again, but you gently press your thumbs to his lips.

“And then– then you can propose to me properly. With as many candles as you want. We’ll keep a fire extinguisher handy just in case.” You muster a shaky laugh. “And I’ll say yes; even if the ring is from a gas station vending machine. I already know how much you love me; you don’t need a fancy diamond ring to prove it…” you pause before adding with a small shrug, “Although I’m not going to pretend that wouldn’t be nice.”

You begin to feel some of the tension melt from Marlon’s shoulders, just a little, as his body instinctively leans toward you like a flower seeking the warmth of the sun. His lips twitch into the briefest hint of a smile before he softly and suddenly presses them to yours.

You kiss him back earnestly without hesitation, threading your fingers into the scraggly strands of sweat-damp hair at the nape of his neck. It’s clumsy and a little uncoordinated, both of you just desperate to be close and feel the other's solid form beneath your fingertips, scared they might slip away at any moment.

Just as you were finding your rhythm, the car lurches forward, sputtering violently like a choking cat, then emits a slow, defeated wheeze before rolling to a stop.

“Uhhh…” Harlan mumbles, tapping the fuel gauge with the edge of his yellowed fingernail. “Well, would you look at that. Empty.”

“Empty?” You whip your head around in your seat, “what the fuck do you mean empty?”

“We’re outta juice? Ain’t got no fuel? She’s running on fumes? Spiritually exhausted?” Harlan starts listing off increasingly ridiculous ways to say the car is out of gas and you smack the back of his seat hard because he’s not taking this shit seriously.

“You were supposed to make sure we had a full tank! You had one fucking job!”

The sirens howl in the distance; it won’t be long until they find you. Out the rear window you spot them cresting over the hill.

“Fuck!” You snap, flinging open the creaky back door. A blast of the thick, sticky hot summer air smacks you in the face. Your sweaty palms slip against the busted vinyl as you try to pull yourself out, struggling with the weight of the almost full-term baby pressing low and heavy in your belly.

Before you can exert yourself too much, Marlon is at your side with the duffle securely swung over his shoulder. He hooks an arm under yours and helps hoist you up and out without saying a word.

With no choice left but to escape on foot, you link hands, your grips tight and unbreakable as you bolt, or rather waddle, towards the abandoned bowling alley up ahead.

“Am I still getting my ten percent?!” Harlan calls after you, half-hanging out the driver’s side window.

˙ ✩°˖💰⋆｡˚

The bowling alley is still. The faint scent of stale beer and mildew lingers in the air, and dusty lanes stretch beyond the visibility of Tom’s flashlight.

Tom’s not expecting much, this place hasn’t been open since before he left high school, and he doesn’t even want to try and remember how long ago that was. But dispatch said the suspects ran this way, so he was sent to give the building a sweep.

Broken glass crunches beneath his boots as his flashlight slices over smashed-in claw machines, a retro jukebox, and fallen bar stools.

A scrap of paper near the bar catches his eye.

He crouches, picking it up between his fingers to get a closer look. He shines his light on the crumpled pamphlet with crease folds and curled up edges from being stuffed into a pocket too many times.

Shore View Rehabilitation Center.

“Shit,” he mutters under his breath.

Then he hears it. The faintest sound of quick, shallow, panicked breath.

Keeping his footsteps light and his hand hovering near his holstered weapon, he rounds the bar, sweeping his flashlight towards the sound.

The beam lands on them.

Two people, huddled together on the floor, holding each other tight but something stops Tom in his tracks.

The girl is pregnant.

˙ ✩°˖💰⋆｡˚

Marlon gulps. He should’ve kept you out of this. Put his foot down. Grown a spine for once in his worthless life.

What kind of man lets his heavily pregnant girlfriend assist him in a bank robbery anyway?

The old floor creaks when the cop shifts.

Marlon snaps.

Before he can second-guess himself, he yanks you closer, pressing the cold, hard barrel of the revolver against your temple.

“Back the fuck up, man, or I- I swear… I swear, I’ll fucking do it!” His voice cracks. Frantic. Desperate.

Your breath hitches.

What the fuck?

For a split second your heart plummets. This isn’t real. It can’t be.

Marlon would never.

His own heart slams against your back, like it might crash straight through both of you. Hot, shaky nicotine laced breath fans against your ear as his chest heaves in quick, erratic bursts.

His arm curls tighter around you.

You’re smacked with a wave of shock.

Realising.

The slight tremble in his voice. The way he’s shaking like a leaf as he holds you. Not hurting. Not gripping.

He’s clinging onto you for dear life.

It’s an act.

He’s trying to protect you.

Trying to make you look like an innocent hostage instead of a willing accomplice; shouldering all the blame himself.

The beam of the cop’s flashlight blinds you, erasing everything beyond it into an inky abyss.

You expect him to start negotiating, try and talk Marlon down. But all you hear from the void is a tired exhale, like this whole thing is

nothing more than a minor inconvenience.

“That right, huh? You gonna blow her fucking brains out?” A gravelly, almost bored voice travels from behind the light.

Marlon stiffens at the vulgar choice of phrase, and your stomach churns. If you didn’t know (without a shadow of doubt) that Marlon would never hurt you, you’d start praying to any god who’d listen right now, because this cop sure as hell isn’t going to save you.

“You must think I was born yesterday.” The flashlight finally lowers, revealing a face set in a hard, unimpressed glare.

He takes a slow step forward before he crouches to your level, fixing Marlon with a dark, challenging stare.

Marlon draws a jittery breath and pulls you tighter against him.

“Go on, then. Do it. Pull the trigger. Let’s see it.” The cop calls Marlon’s bluff.

Your head whips towards him and Tom sees it, the way you look more terrified of him than of the man holding an actual gun to your skull. You think he’s unhinged.

“You’re fucking crazy, man.” Marlon’s breath staggers out quick and panicked against your ear.

“I’m not the one holding a gun to my girl’s head.” The cop deadpans.

It hits Marlon like a punch to the gut. His whole body caves as he slumps against you, forehead dropping to your shoulder, hot and sticky with sweat. The gun falls from his grip with a thud.

“M’sorry, baby,” his voice breaks, quivering with the force of his tears as he crumbles. His lips find your forehead, then your cheek, trailing clumsy and sloppy kisses to remind you how precious you are to him. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

The words spill from him in a broken loop, like they’re the only ones he remembers how to say.

“Jesus Christ.” Tom mutters.

He scoops the revolver from the floor, inspecting the cylinder. Just as he figured, it’s not loaded.

Marlon clings to you, his head tucked against your shoulder, sobbing out barely coherent apologies. Your own silent tears get caught in his messy hair where you nestle your cheek.

Tom shifts, growing visibly uncomfortable with the raw, intimate display of emotion unfolding before his eyes. “Alright, kid, c’mon. You need to calm down, yeah?” He grumbles, gruff but not heartless. He tries to remain objective, not allow his sympathies to overrule his duty to the law.

Marlon peeks up, his red-rimmed eyes lock onto Tom’s, desperate and pleading. “Please…” he chokes, “please, man, just- just leave her out of it, okay? Arrest me, charge me, I don’t care. Just- please, you gotta let her go.”

Your lungs burn. The air thins. You choke on sharp, shallow breaths, clawing at Marlon’s oversized jacket, trying to breathe.

“She didn’t do nothin’, okay?” He frantically insists. “I made her come with me. I- I fucking forced her, man. She- she was against the whole idea.”

“Marlon–” your stomach twists.

He shushes you gently with trembling hands caressing your face, his thumb sweeps across your quivering lips.

“Shh, baby, shh. It’s okay, it’s okay, I promise. Everything’s gonna be okay.” His voice shakes, on the verge of cracking but his touch anchors you.

Your trembling fingers clutch his wrists in a white knuckle grip with no intention of ever letting go. His pulse pounds strong and erratic under your palm.

“Just trust me, babe, okay? You know I ain’t gonna let nothin’ happen to you or our baby.”

His breath staggers, like the weight of it all has just struck him in the chest. His gaze drops, and his hands shift to your belly, rubbing over the curve of your bump with a touch so gentle your heart crumples and tears like a piece of paper.

“We’re having a baby girl.” He forces himself to whisper around the lump in his throat, his voice sounds thick and raw. “A little girl, man. And I- fuck-” He chokes on a sob, squeezing his eyes shut. “She ain’t even here yet and I- I already fucked it up for her.”

Tom’s gaze remains locked on the floor because how can he bring himself to look at you, look at the condition you’re in, and still do what he’s supposed to do? He’ll be the monster who tore a family apart. After all his years on the force, this is still his weakness.

Despite his best efforts to keep his face blank and impassive, the way his throat bobs when he swallows betrays his inner conflict.

Marlon sniffles, wiping his runny nose on his sleeve like a messy kid, then turns his puffy, tear-stained face back to Tom. “Please, man.” he continues to beg. “You can do whatever you want to me, you can lock me up. I don’t give a shit what happens to me. I’ll take the fall. I’ll say it was all my fault, I’ll confess to everything, plead guilty or whatever you want, yeah. I’ll do it. Just- just, please, let her go home.”

He’s just a junkie, just another waste of space who’s got no one to blame but himself for the mess he’s made. That’s the narrative Tom is supposed to believe. But the pamphlet in his pocket says otherwise. It tells the story of a man fighting tooth and nail to claw his way towards something better, against a system that’s rigged to see him fail. A man desperate enough to take such a dangerous gamble, fully aware of the risks. A man who is loved by a woman, so fiercely and stupidly that she is willing to risk it all alongside him, believing that they might find a better life along the way.

Tom exhales with a sharp huff, pinching the bridge of his nose as he reluctantly commits to the decision he’s about to make. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out the crumpled pamphlet.

“You dropped this.” Turning the pamphlet over in his hand, Tom raises an eyebrow with mild interest. “Shore View, huh? That place sure ain’t cheap.”

Marlon barely glances in Tom’s direction, the fight has already drained from him. His shoulders slump with a sigh of defeat. “Yeah, well, I guess I ain’t got much chance of goin’ there now.” He sounds exhausted.

Tom observes the way Marlon is leaning against you with his head tucked against your shoulder, absentmindedly tracing patterns over the swell of your tummy. When he feels his heart clenching at the sight, he drops his gaze back to the pamphlet.

“So that was your grand plan, huh? Rob a bank to pay for rehab?”

Marlon licks his chapped lips, blinking slowly. “Yeah.”

“That’s a dumb fucking plan.” Tom scoffs bitterly and something inside you finally snaps.

“What the fuck would you know?” Tom and Marlon’s heads snap in your direction at your unexpected rebuke, it’s the first time you’ve spoken to the cop directly. “No, seriously, tell me what the fuck do you know about the shit we’ve been through?”

“Babe–” Marlon tries to interrupt you but you just keep going.

“Do you think we did this shit for the thrill of it? You think we woke up this morning and said, ‘hey, let’s rob a fucking bank! We ain’t got nothing better to do.’” You choke out a bitter laugh, feeling the fury boiling in your gut.

“We fucking tried. We tried every clinic, every program, every charity. Filled out stacks of forms, got passed from pillar to post, jumped through every fucking hoop – just to get told no. Over and over and fucking over again. Because he’s got a record, because we don’t have insurance, because we don’t meet some bullshit requirements made up by some dumb fuck in a suit who’s never had to watch the person they love most puke their fucking guts up and piss themselves because they’ve no choice but to try and quit cold turkey. Never had to tie them to the fucking bed just to keep them from running out to score because–” your breath catches, choking on a sob that’s crawling it’s way up your throat. “Because you’re fucking terrified that- that the next time you’ll see them, it’ll be in a morgue, identifying their body.” Your chest heaves and burns as a hot flood of tears slips down your cheeks.

“Do you have any fucking idea what that’s like? Huh? Knowing that if he died in some alleyway tomorrow, no one would give a shit?” Your voice cracks, rising several octaves as the words tear out of you. “Maybe you don’t give a fuck, maybe you think he’s just another junkie who’s got what’s coming to him but what about our baby, huh? You- you wanna punish her too? All we wanted was a chance at giving her a better start in life, so she didn’t have to grow up watching her daddy struggle and suffer and maybe fucking die because no one was willing to help.”

“So don’t fucking stand there and preach to us about dumb fucking decions because you’ve got no fucking clue. You’ll slap the cuffs on him, and get your pat on the back for taking another ‘low-life’ off the streets; because that’s justice, right? Tearing a family apart to protect some bloodsucking corporation that thrives on keeping people like us down in the gutter where we belong.”

When all the rage, fight and months of pent up frustrations have been spilled out of you until there is nothing left, you crumble like a house of cards, slumping against Marlon’s chest, trusting him to catch you. And he does, swaddling your trembling frame against him as the hot, relentless tears pour straight from your broken heart.

Marlon is stunned. He’s never heard you sound so raw, so broken, you’ve always been his pillar of strength. His breath hitches, he knows he should say something, offer some kind of comfort, but words fail him. Instead, he presses his chapped lips against the top of your head and holds you tighter in his warm and solid embrace. Silently communicating everything he struggles to put into words.

Tom’s face remains stoic, unreadable, except for the slightest raise of his eyebrow, which could mean anything. It’s enough to make your stomach tie itself into knots.

Then his hand reaches for his radio, deliberately slow.

Your breath catches.

Your heart drops, your whole body tenses in Marlon’s hold. It’s over. You ran your damn mouth, and as usual, you just made everything ten times worse.

“Wait–” you struggle to whimper, your voice weak with exhaustion.

With his eyes locked on yours, Tom clicks the button and raises the radio to his mouth.

“The bowling alley’s clear.”

You’re suspended in a moment of disbelief. Everything is still. Even Marlon’s hand, which had been stroking through your hair, freezes mid-motion, like someone just hit the pause button.

Carefully, you lift your head from Marlon’s chest, blinking away the teary blur as if it could offer you clarity.

“What?” There’s a raw ache in your throat from all the yelling, leaving your voice frayed.

Is he… letting you get away?

Surely it couldn’t be that simple.

“Well? What the fuck you waiting for? Get outta here!” There’s a sharp edge of authority in Tom’s tone that’s hard to ignore.

Marlon doesn’t need to be told twice – he’s already stumbling to his feet, tugging you up with him in a near-desperate rush.

“Babe, c’mon! Before he, y’know, changes his mind.” He urges, slinging the duffle full of stolen cash over his shoulder while dragging you along with a firm but gentle grip around your wrist.

Neither of you look back.

˙ ✩°˖💰⋆｡˚

FIVE YEARS LATER

Tom pulls up at the curb and kills his engine. Tapping his fingers upon the leather-bound steering wheel, he stares out through the tinted windshield.

He’s not even sure why he came here.

Over the course of his career, Tom has done a lot of things he’s not proud of; too many regrets to name. He’s not exactly the poster boy for a respectable, clean-cut cop. He’s made mistakes, some of which still haunt him. The rest, he does his best to wash away with a bottle of vodka.

Sometimes, he just needs to be reminded that not every choice he has made was a bad one. That sometimes bending the rules is the right thing to do.

He pulls up the record again on the department laptop, just to be sure he’s in the right place.

Marlon James. There are no recent charges, not even a speeding ticket. No drug offences, no DUI’s, no theft charges. Apart from his historic charges, his record is squeaky clean.

He looks up at the modest bungalow across the street, and there they are.

Marlon’s in the driveway, wearing grease-stained overalls, wiping his hands on a rag. A little girl, no older than four or five, bolts out from the screen door towards Marlon, who scoops her up, lifting her above his head. Tom hears her squealing laughter, even from across the street.

Then the woman steps outside, laughing at Marlon’s antics with the little girl. Carrying his daughter under his arm, he jogs up the porch steps and plants a kiss on his wife’s cheek.

The gold bands on their fingers catch in the light of the setting sun as they join hands and head back inside.

Tom already feels lighter.

He knows he made the right choice.

Starting the engine, he drives away without anyone seeing him.

A/N: The whole ‘freeze’ v ‘get down’ thing at the beginning of the fic is straight up stolen from the film Raising Arizona, if you knew that already, I love you! 🫶 and I feel like the book Anxious People by Fredrick Backman was also a massive inspiration. I love that book! Thank you for reading!

#tbr

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sweetwolfcupcake · 8 hours ago

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sweetwolfcupcake · 24 hours ago

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How it feels working a 9 to 5 and having too many WIPs of varying forms and genres alongside unrealistic expectations for myself as a writer yayyy xox

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sweetwolfcupcake · 1 day ago

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I demand when John met Helen (please?🥺)

Anything for you, my love! 😘😘😘

(this is an outline-ish thing from...last january? I don't know if ill ever truly write it out, so here's the whole caboodle)

warnings: violence, serious amts of shmoop

Helen goes to a rare book shop curious if they can fix the binding of her dog eared copy of Jane Eyre. They quote her an insane price. She has a meet cute with John in the shop. Maybe she's looking through the classics, trying to find a copy of Jane Eyre so she doesn't destroy her other one more. Maybe she tells him she can't afford to fix her copy. She brought it in to ask. He is sheepish about it, but he says he could fix it for her. “What would you charge?”

“Nothing. It's a hobby for me. I do it for relaxation.”

“Wow. Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. You'd be doing me a favor. I could use a new project.”

She cants her head, looking at him. Weighing him. He finds himself standing up a little straighter, hoping he'll make the cut.

“Ok. But you at least have to let me buy you lunch.”

“I would like that,” he admits.

“Deal.” She holds out her hand to shake. He takes her small hand in his, and doesn't want to let go.

So he fixes her book.

They go to lunch. And when it's time to part ways, they don't really want to. They go for a walk. And keep talking. He shyly asks if he can take her to dinner. She agrees eagerly. They fall in love in the span of a week, or maybe just that one perfect day.

They have a date set but John has to text her to say he's not feeling well. She offers to bring him soup. He says that sounds amazing, but he doesn't want her to see him like this. In truth, he was working, and things got out of hand. He's told her he works in security. But she is not prepared for how he looks.

Black eye. Cuts on his face. Bruised ribs. Bruises everywhere, really.

She worries that he's trying to break their date. Making up an excuse. He can hear it in her voice. Scared he’ll lose her, (and wanting badly to see her) he agrees to let her come over that night, not sure how it will go.

He thinks about his Manhattan apartment. Expensive, modern, very few personal touches. He's afraid she'll hate it.

When she comes over with takeout she is shocked, and teary eyed. Seeing him in pain like this hurts her.

“Oh my god, John, what happened to you?”

“Sometimes, my work gets a little...spicy?”

Lol. She just looks at him. That look.

“I'm guessing you can't actually tell me what happened.”

With a sad smile he shakes his head. “I want to share everything I can with you,” he admits. “But some things, it's better you don't know.”

She chews on her lip as he tells her this. He wonders if this will be their deal breaker. But in the end she nods. “Ok, John. I trust you.”

Hearing that makes him feel better than the pain pills he'd taken earlier.

“We could...watch a movie?” he offers, thinking snuggling with her in his arms might fix him.

“Okay.”

He falls asleep halfway through, and she holds him, looking at his wounds. He looks so boyish and innocent in his sleep. She fights not to cry.

To make up for ruining their date night he offers to cook her dinner. Afterwards they kiss, in front of the window, the lights of New York shining down below. He pulls her against him, squeezing her in his strong arms like he can't get enough of her. It steals her breath away, she wants him so much.

Later, they're out and about. She hugs him under his suit jacket, feels a blocky shape at his back. “Are you...carrying a gun?”

“Honestly, I'm usually carrying a gun,” he admits.

After the business that went sideways, he doesn't want to get caught unawares. He can tell she doesn’t like it, but trusts him enough to go along with it.

“Ok…”

Something happens where she gets to see him in action. It's awesome... and scary, honestly. Maybe they're walking to his car when they're ambushed by five guys. The leader is like, “Evening, John.”

“This isn't a good time, Mickey.”

M looks between Helen and John with a leer. “No time like the present, I say.”

They fight, and John lays them all out. In the end he’s taken Micky’s gun and is about to shoot him in the face. It's instinct and reflex. Finish the job. But he hears a gasp behind him. Looks to see Helen looking terrified. So he disassembles the gun. Drops all the bullets into Mickey’s face before throwing the pieces at him.

“Come on, sweetheart, let's go.” They drive away. She is in shock.

Afterwards, they go park somewhere with a view of the city below. She is only looking at him though. “I scared you,” he says. It's not really a question.

“Yes and no,” she answers honestly. “I don't believe you would ever hurt me.”

“Good. It's the truth.”

“But I…” She trails off.

“It's OK,” he sighs, feeling so tired inside. “You can say it.”

“I'm not sure I really believe your job is legal, John.”

He sighs and looks at the steering wheel. “You... might be right about that.”

She nods. His heart is in his throat. This is it. This is how he loses her, he's convinced. And she has every right to leave. He never had any business pursuing her in the first place, but…it feels like dying.

He waits for the axe to fall, his eyes squeezed closed.

“I don't know how to reconcile the man I saw today, and the man I know who repairs books, and cooks me gourmet dinners, and takes me on long walks while holding my hand.”

John rests his forehead on his steepled fingers. “I’ve...never really had a choice. I was trained from childhood, to do what I do, for very bad people. It doesn't excuse me...but it is what it is. Maybe I enjoyed it, once. I am not a good man. But now…” He looks at her, with the look of a drowning man. “I would give anything, just to have you.”

There are tears in her eyes too, he realizes.

“Do you have to do it, forever?” she asks. “Is there no way out?”

He shakes his head, to himself as much as her. “It's very rare,” he tells her. “And very difficult.”

She nods, and moves closer. “Will you hold me?”

“Always.”

He pulls her in close, thinking he could die happy like this, with her in his arms.

Later, he asks point blank. He has to know, he can't contain it. “Are you leaving me, Helen?”

He's so certain the answer is yes. She'll try to let him down softly. I'm not sure I can do this. It's not you, it's me.

He can hardly believe his ears when she answers, “You're not getting rid of me that easily, John Wick.”

He's not sure if the sound he makes is a laugh or a sob. He kisses her, desperate for the affirmation of her love, hardly able to believe his luck. He feels like his heart might explode, for all the love he feels for this woman.

“I love you so fucking much,” he growls as he kisses her like he might devour her.

Likewise, she tells him with tears in her eyes and her fingers in his hair. “Don't stop kissing me.”

“Never,” he tells her.

The next week he finds himself buying a ring.

And the week after that, he finds himself bargaining with Viggo Tarasov, his freedom in exchange for slaughtering all of the boss’s rivals in one mad night of mayhem.

If anyone can do it, it’s John Wick.

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sweetwolfcupcake · 2 days ago

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HA! somethings gotta give finally went back down to $12.99 on Amazon...

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sweetwolfcupcake · 2 days ago

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sweetwolfcupcake · 2 days ago

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The happiest boy

(via)

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sweetwolfcupcake · 2 days ago

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#I'm not even---#drooling #is this how i die?#my brain not brain

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sweetwolfcupcake · 2 days ago

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Re-reading this because why not?

A John Wick x Shy!Reader shorty vaguely based on this FRIENDS imagine…

A little something for my beloved @sweetwolfcupcake . P.S. there’s bonus torture at the end 🤭❤❤ No xtra warnings really. Voyeurism? 😅 If you can handle the movies, you can handle this.

At first you don't mean to spy on the man across the street in his apartment…you just happen to notice him. A lot of him, in fact, because he was roaming around his two bedroom flat without a shirt.

That is not why you find yourself looking for him the next night, and the night after that… (Ok, maybe a little.)

He's ridiculously handsome.

So sue you, ok? What's the harm in peeking?

But peeking turns into looking, and looking turns into watching. It’s possible you acquire a little pair of binoculars from a second hand store. Perfect for the casual birdwatcher, or…creeping on your unfairly good-looking neighbor.

You know it's wrong…but there’s just something about him, and you cannot look away.

He seems lonely, and maybe that's something you relate to all too well in this city of 8 million people.

He likes to read.

He drinks amber colored spirits from a cut crystal glass.

Tattoos span the breadth of his wide shoulders; his towels are the slate gray of storm clouds.

Sometimes when he comes home late he moves stiffly, as though he's in pain.

He's so beautiful that a part of you wishes you could keep him like this forever, like a butterfly behind glass.

The first time he waves at you, you are so startled you nearly drop your tea.

You’re smart enough to do your serious creeping with your lights off. But tonight you are just sitting by the window with a book after a long day, taking it all in.

You don't know where you get the courage after a long pause, to lift your hand in return.

Longing weighs upon your chest like a cold stone.

Nothing will ever come of this.

That's what you think, anyway, until two nights later when there is a knock on your door.

II.

You are innately shy, and a certain sense of premonition makes you cross to the door even slower than usual.

When you open it to find him on the other side, tall and handsome as your darkest dreams, with a bottle of wine in his [obscenely] large hands, you shut the door right in his face.

With your heart in your throat, you open it again five seconds later to find him standing exactly as he was, only with a bit of a smirk pulling the corner of his full mouth.

“Hi.”

His voice is a deep, smooth baritone that short circuits something crucial in your brain.

Is it actually possible, for one’s eyes to truly bug out of their head?

“I know this might seem kinda strange…” he plows through the thick silence between you. “But I see you all the time, and I thought…”

As though he's having trouble articulating that thought exactly, he holds up the wine as his visual aid.

You will never know what possessed you, when you step back on shaking legs to invite a perfect stranger into your apartment at midnight in the East Village.

Lucky you, that he doesn't turn out to be a serial killer. (As far as you can tell).

You're cautious about drinking the wine at first, so you stick to your tea while you sit on the couch together and stumble through the initial social introductions.

His name is John. He works in security at a club called the Red Circle. He likes bookbinding, old cars, and the classic works of the Russian literary greats.

By the time he leaves hours later, you’re afraid you’re half in love.

III.

These midnight talks become a thing.

He is on a nocturnal schedule, because of his work, and you get by with less sleep than you need, because you are young, and you’ve come to suspect, somewhat addicted.

Since that first night he insists on turning the conversation to you. How was your day? What is your favorite book? What did you think about that art house film? It is as though hearing it all brings him some indefinable solace to him.

There is an air of tragedy about this man that you sense but fear you cannot touch. The dark shine of his soulful eyes speaks volumes, and though he never complains, you think he has not had an easy life.

Though you have noticed that the two of you sit closer and closer upon the couch as time goes on, he does not try to touch you. He knows you are skittish, perhaps, and your trust is precious to him. The first time his fingers accidentally brush yours you think your soul just might evacuate from your skin.

You begin to think that it’s for the best that nothing seems like it is going to happen, when he asks if you would like to take a daytrip upstate with him.

“Do you have a car?”

His answer is the uptick of one dark sculpted eyebrow that makes you feel simultaneously foolish and cherished. He wants to spend one of his precious days off with you.

It’s not a car though. It’s a beast. The look on your face as the two of you roar off into traffic makes John Wick laugh, a surprised huff of mirth, and you realize that somehow this is the first time you’ve heard it. This man says so much with his eyes, rather than his mouth.

On this trip while speeding down the straightaways and hugging the curves of the wilderness roads, you learn the rhythm of the Mustang’s transmission by holding and letting go of his long-fingered hand.

He takes you to lunch at a lovely Michelin starred restaurant by a lake. You eat and talk and get tangled with his endless legs under the table. The fleeting glitter of happiness in his eyes is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen, and you will take the triumph of that accomplishment to your grave.

He clocks a milestone too, when he drops you off at your door that evening. When he presses his soft mouth to yours with a hand on your waist, you are so enchanted you do not even flinch.

IV.

In fact, your toes curl in your shoes, and your fingers in the lapels of his smart sports jacket. It is as though you simultaneously want to pull him to you, and hold him at bay.

You are not the only one who has been holding on by a thread. You are so cute and sweet and soft and the way your eyes sparkle while you gently roast his ego on a slowly turning spit…it’s been exquisite torture, keeping his hands off you, but now that he’s got you in his grasp he can't bring himself to let go.

Maybe you're both surprised, when he backs you into your door, the delicious solid line of his body pressed against yours. And does it shock you, when you throw your arms around his neck, finally running your fingers through that luxuriously soft cloud of raven hair?

“I could…open the door?” you suggest breathlessly as his increasingly wicked lips trail down the curve of your neck.

“Good idea,” he grinds out. “It’s illegal to do what I intend to do to you here in the hall.”

This is the thing that gives you pause, and for the first time he is slow to pick up on your cues, love-drunk as he is on the taste of you.

“John…?”

“If…you want me to,” he quickly amends, looking down at you with his hair in his eyes like a man who is drowning just below the surface, this close to a lifesaving breath of air.

Do you want him to?

Usually you are so cautious, so reserved. You've had your heart broken before, and you never intended to give anyone that power again. But for the first time in a long time, you actually trust a man. John Wick has you in his hands, and you know he could break you like a twig, but he’s so careful with you that your skin aches.

“I…want you to,” you answer slowly, and the wonder in his eyes is as precious as it is heartbreaking.

“My sweet, sweet girl,” he sighs between kissing you, drinking you down, tasting your mouth like you are the delicate French wine you had with lunch. “You are so precious to me.”

You’re embarrassed to admit that your legs sort of melt out from under you after that. It doesn’t matter though. He is strong, and he holds you with such ardor that he half carries you as he clutches your soft body to his. Looking back, you'll remember that halting walk in flashes. There are pauses for kisses, and pushing jackets from shoulders to forget them on the floor. There is hushed laughter, and joyful fumbling, and his lips pressed to every inch of bared skin you offer him.

You feel like a goddess, in John Wick’s arms.

Worshipped. Adored.

In the temple of your bedroom, you are both deity and acolyte, and for the first time in your life you are eager to get on your knees for a man, just to give him a taste of the ecstasy he drives you to.

John Wick likes kisses.

It’s endearing, maddening, how eager he is to give and receive them. Upon your lips and your shoulders, the soft curves of your breasts and down your belly and between your thighs. It is a whirlwind of sensual delights, and you are naught but an aching vessel hungry to receive it all.

How complete he makes you feel, with his manhood buried inside you. As though this is the only proper place to be, tangled up with him in your soft bed. What were you so afraid of? For the moment, you cannot remember. You can't think much at all, really, just feel, and it feels glorious to be in his arms.

Afterwards you doze. When later you wake and he's not there you’re sad but resigned.

Of course he's gone.

But when you pad out to get a glass of water in your robe you find him at the window, eyeing those little binoculars of yours with an amused smile.

“I…can explain…” you stammer, mortified, the rush of guilt like poisoned lightning in your veins.

“It’s ok, sweetheart,” he says with a gentleness in his eyes that floors you. “I like to watch you too.”

You wonder how long he’s known? All the times he seemingly paraded around with that mouth watering chest on display…was he showing off for you? Was he baiting you??

You don't have time to ask him, because seconds later his arm is around your waist and his mouth is on yours, and he is sweeping you into his arms– destination: Round 2.

Later while he's holding you in the quiet, savoring this rare sense of peace with your precious head tucked upon his shoulder, his arms wrapped snugly around you, does he begin to wonder…

Just how unattainable, really, would Viggo make the Impossible Task?

He has everything he’s ever truly wanted in his arms, and he’s ready to tell the rest of the world to go to hell.

VI.

The next few months go by like a golden-edged dream. Dinners at fine restaurants. Long walks in Central Park. Sunday brunches and afternoons spent browsing antique stores and bookshops, looking for treasures. You go to shows and art exhibits and sometimes you just meet in the middle of the day for fifteen minutes because you need to see each other.

Magical as it is, your innate skepticism makes you wonder if it’s too good to be true.

As time goes on you start to form a rough sketch of John’s professional duties, but out of willful blindness or your own naivete with such things, never a perfect picture.

You ask if you can come see him at the Red Circle sometime, and he outright forbids it. “Nothing good happens there. It’s no place for a sweet girl like you.”

“Then why do you work there?”

“Because I have to.”

But one day when you are engaging in your playful routine of pantomiming at each other from across the street you see a shadow creeping up behind him. In a panic you wave and point. He regards you with a tilted head, not understanding.

You scream as the intruder makes his move.

Maybe you vaguely knew that John should be able to handle himself, but the scene that unfolds makes your jaw hit the floor. Frozen in shock, you watch as your sweet boyfriend John dodges blows and throws his assailant over his shoulder, twisting his suited opponent’s arm backwards, surely breaking it.

Then you realize there are two more people in John’s apartment, and you find yourself running for the door.

Why don’t you call 911?

Your lungs are burning by the time you soar down your stairwell, cross the street absolutely improperly, winning shouts and honks and the close brush of a side mirror at your back, and scale the steps to the third floor.

As you rush down the hall you realize you have no weapons. And so before you enter John’s apartment you take off your shoe, holding it threateningly at the ready. If you’d allowed yourself to think before any of this you might have been too terrified to open the door, but you are running on supercharged adrenaline and fear for the life of the man you love.

The man you love.

You haven’t actually said that aloud yet, but you realize with an unequivocal certainty in that moment that it’s true.

You expect to walk into the cacophony of a battle in full tilt.

What awaits you is the silence of a graveyard.

John sits on his couch, catching his breath, his hand pressed over a wound on his arm.

Three bodies lay at his feet in various angles.

You don’t need to check pulses to know that they're dead.

You have no words. You just stand and stare dumbly, though you must make some small sound that alerts him of your presence. He leaps to his feet, crossing the room like a panther, gathering you in his arms and ushering you into his bedroom.

Madder yet, you let him.

“Sweetheart…I never wanted you to see this.”

He says it like this is something that happens regularly.

You sink to sit at the foot of his bed, eyes wide as saucers as you look up at him. “Should we…call the police?”

It’s the most sensible thing you can think to say.

“No, baby. No police.”

Something must cross your expression. He sinks to his knees before you, clasping your hands in his. Yet he does not beg or threaten or make excuses. He tries twice before finding his voice, with the glitter of moisture in his eyes he grates out: “I understand, if you never want to see me again.”

The surge of anger inside you wakes you from your stupor more than anything. “Don’t be stupid, John! They tried to hurt you! It was self defense!”

He just looks up at you, and now somehow you know the weight of his silent dark gaze is made up of an unquantifiable amount of dark deeds just like this.

You think back on what he told you earlier about his job with a greater understanding. Because I have to.

Your sweet, wonderful John, is a killer.

What does it say about you, that your feelings for him do not change with this new knowledge?

You reach up to stroke his beard, and he leans into your touch like a lifeline, that obsidian-sharp gaze closed for a moment from the world.

“You shouldn’t be with a monster like me, sweet girl.”

If he’s trying to break up with you…you have no intention of letting him.

“You are not a monster, John.” You kiss him sweetly upon the forehead, and he folds for you, his head falling to rest upon your lap. You stroke his hair like that for you don’t know how long.

He bleeds on you–you do not care.

You stay like that until someone named Charlie comes to clean up the mess. You hear them talking through the door–you stay out of sight in the bedroom. You hear something exchange hands, like the clinking of coins.

“I’m getting out,” he tells you later, when you are wrapped up in his arms in the blue twilight of early morning.

“Is that even possible?” You cannot hide the tremulous note of hope in your tone.

“Nothing’s impossible.”

You can tell by now that there’s something he’s not telling you, but you cling to this small modicum of hope as you finally drift off to sleep.

As you lay tangled together beneath the high-thread count sheets, John Wick holds you tightly and decides then that he will be free…or he will be dead.

It’s the least you deserve, and maybe…he does too.

#wick brainrot hit me hard

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