#❛ to wear your sins ❜ ⸗ * / JOHN .

[ceilidho]

take me home, country road

[ao3]

You have nothing on your person apart from a hastily packed suitcase and the dress you came into town wearing, on the run from trouble back home. Too bad John's missing a bride that matches your description. Or: the 1800s (mistaken) mail order bride au (part 7)

part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6

-

You watch him like a hawk after that. 

Not because anything’s changed. In fact, nothing’s changed. Seeing him drag a man by the collar of his shirt, the look in his eyes punishing and severe, has only confirmed the essential imbalance in your relationship. You don’t suffer the same fate as that man being dragged from the bar not because of mercy or leniency or forgiveness, but because the truth hasn’t yet come out. You’re safe because the truth is still hidden, a fact that could change at the drop of a hat. 

The thought makes you wary. You watch John in the days after with a scrutiny that borders on the paranoid. Does he already know? Has he left you stewing in ignorance all this time while waiting for the proper authorities to arrive? When he looks at you, does he see the blood on your hands? Does he know that he’s looking at a murderer? Does he know that your sins weigh on you like heavy stones dragging you down into the earth?

Every time the porch steps creak, your heart turns to stone and betrayal rushes up your throat like acid, and it burns. 

Then the door opens and John walks in. His face lights up when his eyes fall on you. “Hi darlin’.”

All you can do is let out a shuddering breath and slump into his embrace. 

You’re waiting for it to happen. Even when he pulls you into his chest at night, a big arm settled around your waist and his palm spread wide over your belly, you tense and wait for the truth to come out. But all he does is sigh and fall asleep, tucking you closer into his chest. You stare at the wall until the grooves between the wooden boards start to expand, the darkness encompassing every inch of the wall before bleeding down to the floorboards and up to the ceiling. Then you wake up and it’s the next day. 

The truth is imminent. It shines its light on the darkened path before it and stalks forward. You cower in the shadows waiting for it to find you, hopeful that it won’t. Sure that it will. 

There’s never a good moment to pack your bags and leave, and the longer you stay—as the days turn into a week since you first disembarked from the train and wandered into a town soaked in russet and red—the harder it seems to get a moment of peace. Though John wasn’t exaggerating when he said that a sheriff’s job never stops, you hadn’t thought that it would involve so much. 

Between chores and John and the townsfolk, you can’t get a moment to yourself. The closest you come to it is when Kate leaves you to your thoughts while she helps the customers. Even then, she still comes by every now and again to offer you a tea or brandy ball to suck on. 

You resent the idea that you need to be babysat, but he isn’t exactly wrong either. You’re not too stubborn to admit that. Under Kate’s watchful eye, you aren’t scurrying off anywhere. Instead, you help out around the shop where you can, offering to stock the shelves and sweep the floors. On occasion, you even get on your hands and knees in front of the shop to pull up the weeds, but that draws more attention than you’re comfortable with. They simply aren’t as concerned with weeds out here.

Most of your time is spent loitering around town waiting for John to take you home. Sometimes you join him for the day, trailing along after him when he goes out to collect the taxes or you accompany him when he has to attend trials and hearings in the court house, where you sit quietly in the public gallery and watch in rapt attention as the magistrate conducts the court proceedings, but there are days where that’s simply not possible.

“You’re gonna spend the day with Laswell, alright?” John tells you, pinching your chin to tilt your head up. 

He loves that little gesture, you’ve realized. Loves to touch you and guide you with a hand on your back or chin or arm, a hand brushing down the side of your waist to pull you in, gripping you by the nape of your neck just to hold. Even now, in broad daylight and in front of the window to the general store where anyone could look out and see the two of you, he keeps his thumb there, reluctant to let you go. The thought makes your neck go hot.

“When will you be back?” you ask.

“Later this afternoon—before dusk, so don’t go worrying about heading home without me. I have to see to something a few towns over.”

“Oh…what do they need you for?”

John frowns. “You’ve got an awful lot of questions today.”

“Never mind. Have a safe trip.” You don’t know why his reluctance to tell you anything frustrates you so, especially when he has good reason to, but even you can hear the way your voice grows petulant. 

His thumb squeezes against your chin, holding your head in place when you try to turn away. “I’m overseeing a hanging. Couple of men were found guilty of murder.” He studies you so intensely that he can practically see in your eyes the way your stomach turns at that. “See, I thought that might upset you. This is why I didn’t wanna tell you, darlin’.”

“It’s fine,” you say, swallowing. “I’m a big girl.”

“Yeah,” John agrees, brushing his thumb up your chin until it tugs at your bottom lip, watching the way it snaps back into place when he releases it. 

He makes every moment feel like a last goodbye and a homecoming. You almost can’t meet his eyes under the intensity of his stare, but you also can’t look away. Not with how he looks at you like some precious thing. 

You expect it before it happens, but when he dips his head to plant a soft kiss on your lips, you go breathless for a moment. His beard is bristly against your skin, just south of coarse. The kiss turns into another, even more tender than the first. You resent the way you lean forward when he pulls away, chasing after him. 

“You be good for Miss Kate, okay?” he says, waiting for your reassurance. 

“I will,” you rasp, mortified at how easily he unravels you and how plainly you let it show. John grins when he hears the tremble in your voice. 

Then he leaves, riding off towards where the horizon dips below the visible and you watch until he disappears completely, falling away with it. Kate beckons you inside after that, and it’s just hot enough out that you gather up the skirt of your dress and follow after her, climbing up the steps to the general store.

Kate is a tough nut to crack. She’s kind and never rebuffs your questions when you make conversation, but she also isn’t exactly forthcoming with personal information. She seems more than happy to let the conversation lapse into silence. When there isn’t a customer to serve, she’ll take out a leather-bound notebook and write, going so deep into her own thoughts that you sometimes need to call her name a couple times before she’ll respond. 

“Kate,” you say again, waiting for her to finally blink and look up, which she does with only the faintest glimmer of impatience in her eyes. “Care to join me on a walk? I need to stretch my legs and…well, I don’t know my way around just yet.”

She snaps her book shut, winding a bit of string around it before placing it back beneath the counter. “There’s a restaurant on the other side of town if you care for a bite as well. I could do with something to eat.”

It’s not as much of a walk as you might have expected. You learn along the way that Kate has lived in town for several years, taking the shop over from her predecessor, a former employer prone to drinking and prone to expiring from that very same vice. She speaks of him with familiarity and affection for the dead, but none of the longing and misery that you’ve come to expect from someone grieving a loss.

“You came far just to find a husband,” she remarks when the two of you are seated at a windowside booth in the restaurant. She spreads a cloth over her lap and you follow her lead. 

You bite your lip. “I’ve heard good things about the frontier.”

Kate looks amused by that. “Now who’s been lying to you?”

You laugh, half genuine and half to keep the atmosphere light. You don’t tell her that no one lied to you about going out west because no one had said those words to you in the first place. There hadn’t been enough time for a conversation after the event, only enough time to unlock the study door and wash your hands of the blood in the sink downstairs before fleeing the manor with only your purse and cardigan, the feather duster still lying on the floor upstairs. You hadn’t even bothered going home.

There’s no telling what your aunt and uncle must have thought. You try not to think about that because there’s no going back now. You had the luxury of a single cry on the train as it chugged away from the station and the day slipped into night, but nothing more than that and nothing since. 

You tuck into your food when the waitress comes back with your meal.

“John said you were a schoolteacher before this?” Kate says, pulling you back into the conversation. 

It makes you nervous to lie too much about a subject you hardly know, so you smile and nod instead of responding. 

“You must be quite the polymath,” she continues, eyes downcast, not allowing you a good read on her. “Arithmetic, writing, history—goodness knows the skills one needs nowadays with the leaps and bounds in education. Thank goodness for the Common School reformers, giving women the opportunity to develop young minds.”

“Yes,” you croak, then clear your throat. “I certainly did my best to…educate the children.” 

Comical, given that you’d dropped out of school at the age of fourteen to work in a factory sewing buttons onto shirts. 

“And was the profession enjoyable? I know John mentioned you were keener on starting a family than continuing on as an instructor, but was it an informative experience?”

“Oh yes, it was. I enjoyed it. Immensely.”

“It must have been nice to work in a profession with such little turmoil.”

“I couldn’t have asked for better,” you agree, your smile tight now, wavering only a bit at the corners. 

Kate stares at you for a beat too long. It makes your stomach hurt and you fight against the urge to wilt under her stare. You can’t imagine you’ve said something wrong with how little you’ve said, but her stare makes your skin crawl. 

Finally, she smiles, the skin around her eyes creasing. “Well, that’s just lovely to hear.”

You put the conversation out of your mind on the walk back, sure that you must have imagined the flicker in her eyes. 

John comes back earlier than you expected. You swear your heart jolts in your chest when you hear the sound of a horse whinnying outside the shop out of nowhere and a man’s low, rough voice responding back, soothing it. You hear the sound of dismount, boots hitting the ground hard, and then come up the steps, each step making the spurs on the back of his boots rattle. 

When he opens the door, his eyebrows jump up at the sight of you already there waiting. Your eagerness should embarrass you, and it does, but there’s not much you can do about it, and there’s even less you can do about the way you melt when he says, “There you are, darlin’. Time to go home.”

Precious is the world where home has come to mean something tender and soft, even as much as you’ve pushed against it. You still hold fast against the notion, steeling yourself when John helps you up onto Buttercup and follows suit, riding home at almost a gallop. You hear his laughter on the wind when you yelp and nearly slide off, his arm around you the only thing holding you in place. 

“It’d be easier to ride if I had pants,” you complain when you dismount, hands pressed to his shoulders when he helps you down. “How do women even ride sidesaddle on their own?”

“Plenty of women do, darlin’. It’s nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Well, I don’t like it.”

“We can get you pants if you need them so badly,” John says, looking up to the sky like Lord help me suffer this woman. “But that means I’ll be teaching you how to ride Buttercup on your own. Think you can handle that?”

You balk at the thought. “…Let me think about it.”

He snorts. “You do that.”

He leaves you to your thoughts when he takes the horses out to the paddock for a bit. 

You sit out on the porch and watch the sunset while the horses run around the pen, soaking in the last hour of daylight. Overhead, clouds as big as mountains pass, heavy like an oil painting. Off in the distance, you can see thick clouds blotting out the sky entirely, the belly of them split open and letting out a downpour of biblical proportions. You only grow a bit nervous when you notice the wall of rain moving closer to your house with the wind, inching forward more every minute.

It’s not long before John notices it too. He whistles for the horses and waits until they trot back over to the gate, fixing the lead to their mantles again and leading them one by one back into the stable. A light drizzle begins to pour. It churns up the dust and dirt when it hits the ground, scenting the air with the fragrant smell of earth.

You head over to the stable as John brings in the last horse, hovering by the door while you watch him run his hand down Buttercup’s muzzle, whispering softly to her. If he notices your presence, he doesn’t acknowledge it, his attention focused solely on her. 

It gives you a chance to admire him from the back. Thick thighs in indigo jeans that seem almost painted on. Shirt tucked into his jeans, stretched taut at the shoulders; dark droplets of rain drying already. The dusting of hair on the back of his neck. You can see the fine lines on his forehead and in the corner of his eye from the side angle and it reminds you again that he’s older and more weathered than you, settled into his age rather than floundering in it. 

“It’s raining,” you say, just to have something to say. You shrink under his gaze when he turns towards you, faint amusement in his eyes.

“I noticed.”

You cringe at that, aware that he knows. He’s the one that brought the horses in after all. There’s just something in you that feels compelled to open your mouth when he’s around. An impulse that makes you cheep like a bird. 

“Looks like a bad one,” you mutter instead of shutting your mouth, instead of hightailing it back to the house and shutting all the windows to keep the rain from coming in. Useless girl. 

“Probably rain all night,” John says, squinting out at the sky through the open door. It’s darker now, a storm brewing. 

“Is there…is there anything we have to do? To get ready?” You don’t know why you say we like this is a partnership, but it comes unbidden and you know if he told you to hurry back and take in the porch chairs, you would. 

“Nothing to worry about. I’ll close up the stables and seal the windows—storm probably won’t hit for another hour or two. After dinner, we’ll turn in early.”

With a final stroke down Buttercup’s jaw, he steps away and moves towards you. You feel rooted in place again at his approach; the thought of taking a step back never even occurs to you. When he finally reaches you, he doesn’t hesitate to reel you in by your hips, drawing you into a deep, wet kiss that he breaks only when you whimper into his mouth. 

“You feelin’ better about being out here?” he asks, low and intimately. “Looked like you had a good time with Laswell.”

“She’s nice,” you say, deflecting from the other question. 

John hums his agreement, readjusting his hold on your waist until every inch of him is pressed against you. Your breasts are flattened to his chest, belly pressed to his; every hard inch of him, solid as an oak.

“C’mon, honey, talk to me,” he murmurs. “Have I been treating you right? You still have any reservations about marrying me?”

“Bit late for reservations, isn’t it?”

He clucks his tongue. “‘Course it ain’t. Won’t change anything, but I still wanna know.”

It’s hard not to consider the possibility of being honest with him for a change when his gaze borders on the devout. No one in the history of time has ever looked at you like this, like you hung up the moon and stars. The thought chokes you up. In all the years of your life, has one other person looked at you and asked if everything was to your liking? John’s love borders on reverence, straddles the narrow divide between the telluric and the celestial, the earthly and the divine. 

It’s dizzying. And you’re not built for subterfuge. Not built to lie to the one man that, despite everything, despite taking you from your former life by force, has offered you a new one on a silver platter. 

You wet your lips, conscious of how dry your mouth suddenly is. John’s eyes follow the glide of your tongue over your lip.

And then you lie. “None whatsoever. I’m happy here.”

Maybe it’s a half-lie. After he shuts the stable doors and barricades them to keep the doors from swinging open in the midst of the storm, you wind up back on the porch watching the dark clouds up in the sky slowly approach, John at your back this time. 

John tilts your head up into another kiss. You don’t know when you made the conscious decision to let him think you amenable to this relationship, but you cling to that thought desperately when his tongue licks into your mouth velvety smooth. 

The roof extends out over the porch, keeping the two of you dry, but you can hear the sound of raindrops pelting the slate shingles. 

“You’ll see, honey,” he says against your lips, the words rumbling through you, buzzing under your skin and making it tingle. “‘M gonna make you so happy. Never gonna even think of leaving me.”

The words dissolve on your tongue. Swallowed down dry. With his arm hooked around your waist and hand tilting your head up, there’s no way you could think of anything else except wanting more. 

It’s hard to talk when he has you up against the railing, your dress pulled up and his fingers spreading apart your lower lips. It’s not the first time he’s touched you there, but it’s the longest he has, at least without the barrier of your underwear. His fingers spread your labia delicately, middle finger running up the wet seam. He hums into the back of your head while he does and presses a kiss into your hair. 

“Always so soft and wet here, darlin’,” John murmurs, stroking his fingers up your inner lips and petting the sensitive nub at the apex of your sex. “Why didn’t you tell me you’ve been aching for it? Been waiting for you to give me the word.”

Waiting, he says, while tucking a finger into your sex, curling it up into you and chuckling under his breath when your hands clamp tighter on the railing and your back arches. Just a single finger feels like more than you can handle. John has thick fingers; thick fingers with calluses that you can feel on the delicate flesh between your legs. It plugs you up tight, more so when your core clenches involuntarily around his finger. His chuckle descends into a groan, then a sigh. 

He pulls his finger out against the squeeze of your internal muscles, ignoring the way you whisper, “No, please” under your breath. 

You only stop pleading for more when he swirls his finger around your pearl again, lavishing it with attention. “Aching? I’m not—”

“You are, darlin’,” he breathes, and now you feel him pull you from the railing, stepping back to take a seat on the porch swing. He pulls you into his lap, sitting you across it instead of with your back to his chest like he did in the bath the other day. 

“Anyone could come by—” you hiss, fluffing the skirt of your dress out around your thighs when he tries to push it back up to get his hands back on your nethers. 

“You tense up when you’re nervous, honey,” John cuts you off, forcing his hand back up your dress until he pushes his finger back into your quim, delighted to find it hotter and wetter, practically dripping onto his lap. “See, there you go. Just relax. I’ll make you feel good, darlin’. We’ll take care of that nasty ache.”

You pant through each pulse of his finger. You don’t even think about looking up to meet his eyes, not when he stares down at you with obvious adoration and devotion, the emotion splayed across his face. He looks entranced at the sight of you coming apart on his fingers, a flush high on his cheeks. 

“No one’s gonna come by. Not this far out. ‘Sides, they know to keep their distance. Newlyweds need their space, right, darlin’?”

Supposing he’s right and no one comes out this way. Isn’t it still unseemly to do this out in the open? So far from your marriage bed? John seems incapable of relegating his affections to that space, unconcerned with propriety or modesty. You wonder with a spark of fear if he’d even budge if someone were to come trotting up the walkway on horseback or if he’d just wave them off and send them on their way. You don’t think he’s the kind of man to want an audience, thank the Lord, but he seems entirely unphased by even the idea of being intruded upon. 

You melt when he shushes your worries, feeling you tense against him, and sinks his fingers in deeper, now another. Don’t fret, he murmurs against your temple, sighing softly. I’ve got you, honey. Ain’t going nowhere.

You aren’t, are you, you think wildly. The land around here goes on forever and the train whistles by only twice a week if you’re lucky. Then townsfolk know you by face and a false name, but that would be enough for them to grow concerned if they were to spot you heading for the train with your suitcases packed, and with John or one of his deputies always in town, there’s little chance you’d be able to board without one of them interfering. 

Still though, it’s better than the alternative. For over a week now you’ve been on high alert, waiting for an arrest warrant to be slipped onto John’s desk with your likeness drawn on it, and for him to come collect you stone-faced and furious. It could still come. 

He keeps you tucked into his arms and nestled close, shushing you when you hiccup and pinch your lips together to keep quiet. He lets you have that, unphased by the way you try to hide it, only tutting when you try to fight it, curling his fingers up inside you and rubbing a spot inside of you that makes it hard to breathe. 

“I could just take it, but you’re gonna give it to me, darlin’,” John says.

And you do. Messily, noisily. Burying your face in his neck and sobbing it out, humiliation wrung out of you, squeezing out every drop. He smells like musk and old sweat, amber warm. Liquid gold. You press your nose into the skin of his neck and draw in a breath so deep that you go lightheaded. 

John keeps his fingers tucked in you until you stop shaking, talking you through it even though you hardly hear a word. How could you over the rush in your head, the blood in your ears? When you open your eyes and look around, the sky is swollen and dark, the wall of rain 

“C’mon, honey,” he says, pulling his fingers out and placing his hand low on your belly. “Let’s go inside.”

You sit across from him at dinner, eating under candlelight. The weight of his gaze for once isn’t stifling. 

The rain only starts in earnest when he’s pulled the quilt over the two of you and pulled you into his arms. The rain pelting the windowpane dulls to a low roar when you turn over and snuggle deeper into John’s chest, pulling the blanket over your head. Tomorrow, the grass will be greener than the day before. You can feel it in your bones.

[cordeliawhohung]

soap x f!reader | drabble

cw: smut, dub-con voyeurism, religious talk and standards, virginity taking/hymen breaking, breeding kink, just a lot of fucking filth, unrealistic sex, this was just an idea i need to get out of my brain so i can work on something else lmao

You always knew Johnny was a traditional and devout Catholic, but you didn't think he'd consummate your marriage with an audience; let alone in front of the members of his task force.

"It's okay," he coos softly. Soft sheets sprawl underneath your bare body as your wide eyes catch sight of the three men entering the hotel suite. Shaky hands grab Johnny's arms as you attempt to bury yourself in his exposed skin to save yourself any sort of embarrassment. You recognize them instantly as attendants of your wedding — they're even still wearing their suits — but that doesn't ease your anxiety any further. "They're just 'ere tae watch. Ah work with them. Trust them with mah life. Won't speak a word."

There are only so many chairs in the room for them to take. John, who you remember being introduced to earlier that night as Johnny's captain, drags one of the office chairs to the foot of the bed. He sits with a polite smile, as if you're meeting for Sunday brunch. Kyle does the same, both of them sitting, legs spread far, knees nearly knocking together. The lieutenant, Simon, doesn't make himself nearly as comfortable. He stands behind them, arms crossed over a broad chest as his eyes wander your body, taking in the sight of your soft skin and neatly done bridal makeup. Your skin perks, prompting you to cover yourself with your arms as a chill racks your body.

"To watch?" you repeat, teeth sinking into your lower lip. "I don't... I don't know, Johnny."

"We have tae," he presses, fingers ghosting over your cheek and turning your attention to him. The mazarine hue of his eyes bores into you as he leans up, hand wandering over your torso until he rests on your stomach. "Everyone has tae know this bairn A'm gonna give ye is mine."

"But, I've never-" you begin to protest.

"I know ye haven't," he shushes. "This is how it's always been done. Tradition, aye? Please, mah love."

You love Johnny. You wouldn't have married him if you didn't. But this strong ambivalence is torturous. It tingles up your spine in line with the watchful eyes at the foot of your bed. But you love Johnny, and if this is what he wants, then you'll give it to him.

"Okay," you eventually concede.

He grins. "Ah love ye."

When his lips meet yours, you feel the warm beads of his rosary rest on your chest. He had you pray with him before this. Kneeling next to the bed, elbows resting on the mattress, thanking the Lord for your union and the child you'll eventually bring to this world. Despite tradition, consummating your marriage this way feels blasphemous, put on display for his teammates to see like a whore rather than a wife.

Johnny's hand begins to wander between your legs, rubbing over your clit in a way that leaves your hips bucking into his touch. You rarely touch yourself like this, too afraid to revel in sin, but his touch is searing. Unfamiliar and burning. He chuckles, warm and low, as his fingers begin to prod further, relentless ardor exuding from his body. When he presses into your cunt and meets resistance, he pauses, eyebrows furrowing as he leans back.

"Spread yer legs for me, lovely," he prompts.

Body stuck on auto pilot, you listen before your brain has time to process his request. Knees bent, your thighs separate as the heels of your feet dig into the soft mattress, and Johnny wastes no time spreading the lips of your pussy for the boys to see.

"Christ," John groans. "She's still intact."

You make the mistake of looking past Johnny, and you see the way the boys paw at themselves. Chubbed cocks straining against the pristine fabric of their dress pants, palms rubbing at themselves for any fraction of relief.

"Look at ye, so lovely," Johnny sighs. He settles between your legs, body blocking the view of your bare, unfucked cunt. He tugs at his aching cock, and this is the first time you've allowed yourself to push past your bashfulness and look at it. Delicate reddened skin, a thick base and heavy veins — he's going to tear you apart. "Gonna let me have ye? Tell me yer mine."

You swallow the discomfiture stuck in your throat. "I'm yours, Johnny."

There's no more time to waste — he presses into you, leaky tip butting against the thin membrane of your hymen. Pressure builds as he pushes, and your eyes screw tight at the sting as thin skin stretches and accommodates his length.

"Go on, love," Kyle prompts. "Don't hold back now."

You whimper, but you don't know if it's from the teasing or from Johnny finally bottoming out. Wide eyes stare down between your legs where the two of you are joined, and you see the slight tinge of blood that covers the base of his cock. You groan as your head hits the pillow, never having felt so full in your entire life.

"Fuckin' hell. Hardly gave 'er any time to adjust, you dog," Simon teases through a grunt.

Johnny's hips slowly move back, leaving you empty for only a split moment before he pushes forward again, hips hitting yours with a lewd slap. You gasp, air being sucked free from your lungs as he grinds deep inside of you, in a place where no one else has been.

"Cannae help maself," he breathes, face burrowing into the side of your neck. Instinctively, your arms wrap around his neck, holding him close as you drown your moans into his skin. "Have'ta give mah wife the best. Cannae settle for any less. Need'ta give her a sweet bairn, just like Ah promised."

Your mind goes blank as more moaning and grunts join in harmony with yours and Johnny's. Belts become undone with quiet clinks followed quickly by sticky skin on skin contact as the boys rut into their own palms. There's no time to feel bashful about their transgressions in your presence. Pure hedonia captures your mind, numbing anything else as Johnny's thumb presses against your clit. You tighten around him, and he growls against your throat.

Something overwhelms him. Makes him insatiable as his cock pistons into you at a relentless pace. When you finally get your eyes to open through it all, a halo of light illuminates behind him as if he were an angel. Soft, defused, and gentle as the rosary around his neck swings with his movements. You feel something build inside of you, a needy pressure that expands in the heat of your stomach, where it grows, and grows, and grows until-

"J-Johnny, f... fuck!"

It's a sin to enjoy sex. You've known as much since you were young. But this is the closest to heaven you've ever felt. Not even praising God in the pews of your grandiose church has ever brought you this much bliss. The curse falls from your lips as that pressure snaps, body convulsing, pussy clenching around Johnny as if to draw him in, beckoning, demanding he give what he's promised.

And he does. Stuttering hips seize as his cock pulses inside of you, and you swear you feel every single throb as his body pins yours to the bed, warm sweat staining the sheets. He sows his seed, and you feel tears prick the corner of your eyes at the utter ardor you harbor for him in your heart.

When Johnny pulls out, he keeps your legs spread wide to show the boys, each of whom have made messes of themselves. Wasted cum coats their fingers where they quickly clean themselves up on handkerchiefs, eyes still glued to your leaking cunt. Simon mutters something about you dripping, that he shouldn't let his work go to waste, and Johnny agrees by gathering his spend on his fingers and shoving it back inside of you. They chuckle at the way you jolt.

Just as promised, the boys leave once everything is clean, each of them muttering congratulations as the hotel room door shuts behind them. But he can't stop himself there. He lies with you as you both catch your breaths, but it's only minutes before he's shoving his cock into you once more. You whimper, tell him that you shouldn't have sex more than necessary, that it's a terrible sin you'll both have to repent for, but he coos and tells you not to worry. He just wants to make sure his seed takes. That he gives you what he swore he would.

"Besides," he whispers, lips brushing against your ear just as his cock hits your cervix, "don't have'tae hold back anymore with the boys gone. Can have mah lovely wife all to maself now."

[lilacwants]

you and me, we go way back.

18+ notes: fem reader, takes place vaguely during season 2. summary: Homelander sneakily makes his way back into your life, though you make no room to stop it. warnings : mature content, domlander. word count: 1.4k

After saving a mass of civilians from a terrorist attack, going to interview after interview, and socializing with fans, Homelander was exhausted. Well, as exhausted as he could be—tiredness was a concept foreign to him. Landing on the roof of the conglomerate he called home, Homelander decided to visit you. You, with your sweet words, comforting presence, and sinful smile.

The flight to the door of your balcony lasted a quick two minutes, the location of it still etched into his brain. The lights were turned off, and he didn't hear any noise that suggested you were home, so imagine his surprise when your balcony door was unlocked. You wanted him to come, he figured.

The living room looked the same as always, though there was an orange cat sleeping on your grey couch. You did love cats with all your heart. He was more of a dog person, though. It was no problem, however; he knew as soon as you moved in with him, your family was bound to grow anyway. With the exception of your companion, everything else had stayed the same.

Your bedroom was the same as always, your bed had the same wooden frame, and plants were still littered everywhere. Your bookshelf now had the complete collection of his movies, including a little poster that was all rolled up, marked with his signature and a sweet message written in the corner: "To the best p.a at Vought, let me take you out to dinner sometime. -Homelander."

In comparison, the bathroom seemed bigger and a new shower had been built, with black tile and glass doors. What attracted his attention the most, though, was an article of clothing thrown over the hamper. It was a Homelander-themed t-shirt, and it looked used. That made him chuckle. He wondered, did you touch yourself late at night wearing this shirt while thinking of him? He hoped you did.

After taking a tour through the apartment, Homelander heard the familiar jingle of your keys and prepared to see you again.

You were just coming home from a disastrous date. Your hopes were actually high, and you even put in more effort: your burgundy dress hugged your curves nicely, your Van Cleef perfume was drool-worthy, and your red-bottomed Louboutins completed the look.

So imagine your disappointment when Mike—or at least that's what he called himself—was rude-mannered and even asked if you would pay him back for covering your food, making clear the other options he viewed as payment, which completely flabbergasted you. As soon as he was done eating, you bid him farewell and basically teleported to your car.

Fiddling with your keys, you were completely prepared to change into a night slip, pour a glass of wine, and accept the fact that maybe, remaining single wasn't as bad as you thought.

Opening the door and leaving your purse and keys on the counter, you first took your heels off and poured yourself a glass of your favourite red. Quickly turning to enter the living room, you almost dropped it of shock.

"John. What? How… how are you here?"

"Sweetheart," he said with a smirk, "I missed you."

"You can't just show up like this," you said, trying to keep your voice steady. "You're a superhero, for God's sake, the leader of The Seven, might I add."

"I know," he replied, his smirk widening. "But I wanted to surprise you."

"Well, you succeeded," you muttered, unsure how to feel about his sudden appearance.

"Come on," he said, stepping closer. "Aren't you happy to see me?"

You hesitated, then sighed. "Maybe. But next time, try giving me a heads-up."

"Noted," he said with a wink. "Now, how about we catch up?"

You took a deep breath, trying to process everything. Despite your attempts to stay composed, seeing him again stirred up old feelings. Before you could respond, he closed the distance between you and gently placed his hands on your waist.

"I've missed this," he murmured, his breath warm against your cheek.

You closed your eyes, feeling his touch sending shivers down your spine. "John…"

He tilted your chin up with his finger, locking eyes with you. "I've thought about you every day."

"I…" Words failed you as he leaned in, pressing his lips against yours in a kiss that was both familiar and electrifying. Years melted away in that moment as his kiss deepened, the taste of wine and the scent of him engulfing your senses.

You wrapped your arms around him instinctively, pulling him closer. His hands roamed your back, holding you even nearer as the kiss grew more intense. It was as if the world outside ceased to exist, leaving only the two of you in that moment of undeniable chemistry and longing.

When you finally broke apart, both of you were breathless, your foreheads resting against each other. John's eyes searched yours, filled with a mixture of longing and affection.

"I never stopped loving you," he confessed quietly, his voice raw with emotion.

Tears pricked at your eyes as you cupped his face in your hands. "I missed you too, John."

"You know," you whispered, your voice husky with desire as you traced your fingers lightly along his jawline, "you always knew how to make an entrance."

He chuckled softly, his breath mingling with yours. "I couldn't stay away any longer."

Leaning in closer, you murmured, "Well, now that you're here, what do you plan to do about it?"

His eyes darkened with desire as he pulled you even closer, his lips brushing against yours. "Everything I should have done a long time ago."

With that, he kissed you deeply, his hands finding their way through your hair, and you knew that this time, there would be no more goodbyes, only the passionate reunion you had both been craving.

Homelander knew how much you had wanted this, your arousal already pooling between your legs, the smell of it hitting him hard and heading straight to his cock. How did he stay away from you for so long? How did he resist fucking you senseless and instead entered a relationship with a fucking nazi?

Breaking out of his stupor, he found you already kissing his neck, your hands unbuckling his belt and peeling off his suit.

“Missed me that much, hm, sweetheart? Finally realized no one can fuck you like I do. You’re even wearing my face to sleep.” Homelander whispered, getting on top of you and roughly sliding his cock in, filling you to the brim with his length.

“Please John, fuck. You know no one can fuck me like you do, you're everything I've ever wanted, needed, and craved. I love, love, love you so fucking much, you're so good to me." You cried, tugging at his hair.

Now for that, you were getting rewarded. As he finally decided to start moving, hand sliding up your shirt and pulling your nipple, teasing you, you found yourself sobbing, his cock sliding deeper into you and making your flimsy bed shake.

Quickly deciding he had enough of missionary, Homelander pulled you into his lap, thrusting into you harsher than before and grabbing your other nipple with his mouth, sucking and biting, your moans drowning out the sound of your bed frame banging against your wall.

“You’re so fucking good. So, so good. I’m so fucking close, John, God.” You sobbed, tugging at his hair and scratching his back with your nails.

After a few rough thrusts into you, you finally came, vision going white and sobs coming out of you. The sensation of you tightening around him, the noises, and the smell of sex were all too much for Homelander as he came crashing, white load spilling inside you.

The intensity of it made your legs shake, overstimulation finally taking hold of all your senses.

However, now, as you settled down on his chest, head tucked away into his neck, you realized that maybe that sucky date was all worth it. John was back; he was in bed next to you right now, tracing little shapes into your skin and kissing your forehead.

Oh, how much you had missed this. His softer side, the love he offered you, the sweet gestures, and kind words—it made your head dizzy and your heart melt in your chest.

"Finally realized you're all mine, sweetheart. We'd better start packing; you're moving into the penthouse first thing in the morning. Can't risk letting you slip away from me again."

Those were the last words you heard as your breathing slowed, your eyes finally closed, your head resting on his chest. The promise of a new beginning with him filled you with a warmth and peace you hadn't felt in a long time.

[mh073099]

Just a blurb/ thought bc I don’t have the ability to right a full fic of this aesthetic that I need and desperately crave.

Captain John price who is secretly tatted the fuck up.

Captain John price who has piercings and hangs out in tattoo shops when he’s home from deployments, Simon and him have the same artist.

Captain John price whos married to the artist he met when he got his first tattoo at 20.

The Prices are one bad ass couple bro, they look fucking good. John wears Combat boots, jeans and plain black or white t shirts and beanies. Simple and effective. Tatted the fuck up. The beanie like god damn daddy.

Captain John price whos home is a dark eclectic style, comfortable in leather and dark tones that are comfy and cozy with the candles and cigar smoke lingering in the air.

Tattoo Artist!reader who wasn’t necessarily into John when they first met, but hey that’s a paying client. But then he kept coming back, to get more tats of course because John also finds the artists shop to be relaxing and comfortable and they let him smoke during their sessions, and the artist is really nice on the eyes and oh the softness of their touch contrasting the precise pressure of the gun- oh maybe there’s going to be a problem.

Tattoo Artist!reader who notices as time pass, john gets harder, war will do that to ya. His gruffer, voice deepening and the lines around his eyes starting to show. He grows a beard. His eyes still shine with a stubbornness that looks like it could intimidate death itself. But they go so soft when your eyes meet across the counter as he walks in. Oh that charming ass smile is growing on you. Don’t fool yourself, that smile had you from the get go, we’re just all in denial.

And that’s how you find yourself here. Tattoo gun buzzing in your hand, wearing nothing but John’s oversized t shirt, and sprawled across his large thick thighs. Concentration at 100% while you ink up your lover.

John’s leaning his head back, cigar in one hand, your waist in the other giving (not so) gentle squeezes, kneading the love handles on your hips. Smoke travels past his lips as he stares down at you through his lashes. He’s shirtless, ink going all the way down and disappearing under the waist band of his gray sweatpants. They hide legs that are tatted to hell.

It’s a chest piece for the 141 that constantly grows. His way of holding his found family close to his heart. They’re apart of him. So you’re not going to mess this up…but oh, oh it is hard when he’s looking at you through half lidded eyes that emulate the dirtiest sin, and you feel him harden under you. You’re grinding subtly in his lap.

The buzzing stops as you wipe away ink and you feel his hand at your chin, tilting up.

Lips come down on yours before you know it.

The kiss is breathless, feels like an attack in a way. All teeth, bites and nips. His hand moves to behind your head, pulling you in more. It doesn’t last long enough, and next thing you know you’re both pulling away for air.

“What was that for?” You question

“Like you don’t know what you do to me.” A gruff reply leaves his lips, a rumble in his chest.

SIR NO ITS WHAT YOU DO TO US

[arabaka]

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ CONTENT WARNINGS: CANON? WHAT 'DAT? SHE/HER PRONOUNS USED. READER IS AN EXOTIC DANCER. READER WEARS MASCARA. UNPROTECTED SEX. ANAL (AND MINOR DEPICTION OF PAIN FROM IT). SPANKING. SPIT ROASTING. GETO'S A JERK. GOJO'S GOT MONEY.

PET NAMES USED: LITTLE THING (NOT REFLECTIVE OF BODY TYPE, USED AS DEGRADATION), BABY, SWEETS, BEAUTIFUL. ゜・。.

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ WORD COUNT: 3.4K. ゜・。.

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ AUTHOR'S NOTE: I wanna emphasize first that not all exotic dancers have sex for pay and it's common for clubs to forbid it so PLEASE read this as just silly smut and not as a reference for the REAL heroes (jokes aside, exotic workers deserve respect and MONEY!!!) ゜・。.

“Hey, where is she?”

“With a client. Dunno when she’ll be done. The guy she walked with looked like he had money to spend. Might keep her dancing for ours.” At this the manager chuckles, thumb in his pocket smoothing over a fresh stack of bills from another dancer: his cut, of course. 

“Cool, thanks.” He says with a knowing sneer; he’ll make up for your dues. He always does.

Women clamor for the john’s attention the second he pivots on his heel to make a beeline for the hall of neverending private rooms but he doesn’t pay them any mind; his trademark glasses, black and circled are low enough for the dancers to see that he has no interest in paying for their attention.

Yours, however… Seems to just get more and more expensive. Your rate’s stayed the same, it’s him that empties his pocket for you every time. Call it an addiction and he’ll fess up to it. Unashamedly even. “She takes care of me.” Is an excuse he often doles out, to anyone privy to his lascivious, proliferating habit. 

But he should have watched his tongue more, guarded you more, because he’s run his mouth to the wrong people– well, the wrong person.

His best friend. Geto Suguru.

And Gojo Satoru just knows it’ll be his face he sees when the curtains are split. Prepares for it even, his fist already balled up with his knuckles drained of any color. 

They share everything. Everything but you, and that’s by design. Gojo, he’s… Fond of you. Too fond for the relationship you two share.

He treks down the hall, pace methodically slowing down the closer he gets. No, the rooms aren’t notated by dancer; that’d be stupid. No, because Gojo doesn’t need signage to know where you are. He can track you as well as any sniffer dog, infinitely better when he uses his genetic abilities for sin rather than any selfless endeavors. 

When he finally gets to the right room, velvet curtains glowing under the low light, he hesitates. The others may not hear your stifled moans, struggled breaths you’re so good at masking but you know as well as him: you can’t hide from Gojo Satoru.

So when the cloak of privacy is ripped away, it doesn’t surprise Gojo to see you in your preferred position- seated on a Geto’s fat cock, your knees pushed up to the ceiling with your feet bouncing haphazardly to the raven-haired sorcerer’s rhythm, which is anything but kind and intimate. He fucks you like he feels nothing for you and that’s because he does– you knew as well as Geto that this was nothing more than a paid relationship, and one built on a sickening revenge play.

Those pretty eyelashes of yours part, eyes shiny with diamond tears, when you hear the familiar slide of the curtains and you should be worried, should be on edge of someone catching you (after all, having sex with a paying customer is not in your job description) but when you see it’s Gojo, there isn’t much you can do.

Especially not when Geto seems to cut through the tension like it isn’t even there, pumping your cunt full of his cock until fluids spittle and splash from the velocity. He’s so much thicker than Gojo, foreskin so packed it really does feel like he’s making a new home for himself inches into your pussy, your walls spasming around him when the bulbous tip of his member seems to bump and grind against your most sensitive collection of nerves. 

You whimper and whine but Geto doesn’t miss a beat, swollen balls beating into your folds, squelches and the stench of sex undeniable even as Gojo stands by the entrance still.

His nostrils flare. His breath quickens. His chest tightens. His pants, so fitting before, now feel like a prison for the budding erection you are certainly nursing without even touching him.

“Gotta say, Satoru – hngh – you picked a good one. She’s an obedient little thing isn’t she?” Geto grunts out, the muscles in his forearms flexing as he keeps your pussy and ass on full display for his friend to see. Geto wants him to see you plugged up with no room for anything else– anyone else.

“Sa– Sa— Sator–uu—uu– ah, ah, right there, right there, sir.” You started off so innocent, bottom lip jutted out and puffy from kissing Geto all night, but your voice is immediately corrupted and on purpose as Geto mercilessly spears you on his cock, bottoming out every thrust and stretching your cunt to its limits.

“I got her all night.” Geto says with a growl in between, your hot and gummy walls squeezing the base of his shaft so tight his vision blurs for a moment. 

But Gojo seems to ignore Geto’s prodding, his attempts at getting a rise out of the man with irises that seem to never leave yours. Gojo drinks in your expression, lets the way your eyes seem to gravitate towards the back of your skull, your legs shaking not just from the degrading position Geto’s cramped you in but from the waves of pleasure to start with, drown the annoyance of finding you with his friend.

After all, you aren’t his… Even if he pays you like you are.

“Aw,” Gojo coos, zeroing in on his fucked dumb benefactor as he starts a path towards you, “Cryin’ just all over, aren’t you?” His tone is sickly sweet, with a twinge of something dark hanging just off his words. “Pretty baby probably can’t even see straight, huh?”

He looks for an answer. You can’t give him any. Your tongue won’t let anything roll off its drool ridden muscle but the sweet, sweet sounds of debauchery.

So he makes you, Gojo’s spine curving towards you as he grips your chin forcefully, makes you keep your eyes on him. Makes you fess up.

“Mmhmf– mmhmm—” He wants a response but with your cheeks hallowed by his finger and thumb’s pinching, all you can muster are muffled groans from Geto’s quickening pace, his brutal assault on your trembling pussy as he dares to carve his name deep inside you.

Gojo playfully pats your cheek just then, his hand falling from you entirely, just like the shadowed look over his normally jovial attitude. He starts on his belt, metal clanking away with the noise quickly forgotten to your moans and the club’s blistering beats. 

He doesn’t miss Geto’s furrowed brows in irritation as he does so. Nor does he care.

Because he saw you first. He found you first.

So he’s going to remind you why he’s the best. With or without Geto.

“You don’t think she needs something more?” Gojo croons, overconfident in his talents as he starts to go pap, pap, pap with his cock over your distended tummy, taking note of where Geto’s cock starts and ends by the look of his bulge outlining your skin.

You squirm, belly overstimulated with Gojo’s patting and Geto’s cock no doubt ravaging your guts. You try to keep your eyes on Gojo but you’re losing control, of yourself and of the situation. But you give in all the same, pussy quivering and spilling your juices until they’re dripping down Geto’s sac. “Y-Yes, yes.” You’re finally able to sing, lips still trembling when you beg, “P-Please, wan’ both of you.” 

You don’t know what you’re asking for. Hell, you don’t know the two men’s relationship with one another. It’s not like either have divulged to you the extent of their history; you’ve only been left to assume ever since Gojo stepped in, and that’s been minimal because well…

Your whole body is screaming for Geto to take you over the edge, bring to you a nirvana that’s all his own. But you won’t oppose Gojo’s own entrance to your pleasure, now his cock completely out and dragging the reddened tip over your lips until they’re glossed with his pre-cum. You instinctively lick it away, only for Gojo to praise you with–

“Good girl. That’s my girl.” Gojo seems to say louder than usual, “Gonna cum over his cock? Gonna let go? Let go for me, baby. Wanna see you cum.” 

“S-Satoru–”

Geto bites your ear just then, canines digging into the conch of your ear with little care for the yelp that shoots out your throat. “Who’s fucking you right now, huh? Who’s pounding this wet and sloppy pussy? Forget Satoru. Say my name or you’re not cumming.”

And you really can’t be sure who is the reason for the pleasure that overtakes you just then, from the top of your head to the curl your toes take as Geto fucks you through your orgasm. It could’ve been anything.

It could’ve been everything.

“That’s it, pet.” Geto hushes your babbling, a stark contrast to the rhythm at which his cock penetrates your weeping pussy. He’s fucking you like you’re a toy to him.

And he spills his cum into you, forsaking a condom because– “That’s not how Satoru fucks you.”

So when Geto pulls out, the opaque globs of his release start to trickle out, your hole absolutely stuffed full of the stuff that it overflows, running down in rivets from your thighs to your ass. 

Your legs start feeling like they’re running on pins and needles, your whole body suddenly realizing the tight, unbearable full nelson position Geto fucked you in for… You can’t even track the time.

But if you thought you were getting a reprieve, you were solely mistaken.

Geto still cradling you in the obscene position, Gojo leans forward, on the side his own face currently rests and murmurs, “How much to take that tight asshole of yours?” You watch his eyes dart to the cum still following the curve of your ass. “We have the lube for it.” He mutters so closely to your ear that Geto can hear it, can feel his friend’s hot breath crest his jawline.

You bite your lip, gasping at its sensitivity while you mull over the idea. But Gojo has something different in mind, kissing you hard to distract you from the logic possibly creeping in your head over the depravity.

And that’s how he gets you, kisses you until your mouth is equal parts your spit and his, hands smoothly easing your transition from the cage Geto’s wrangled you into. You follow him, intoxication bubbling in your brain and clouding your better judgment. 

“How much more, baby?” Gojo’s voice brings you back to reality, lifting the haze just enough for you to feel one of his fingers teasing your taut rim with circling strokes as you pose for him on your hands and knees, perky ass lifted high and your spine curved low. All the while, Gojo spreads the cum Geto’s left in his wake until your hole is sloppy wet. “Hm? C’mon, he couldn’t have fucked you that good.” 

“Satoru.” Geto’s voice stops you from responding, his tone low and dark but all Gojo can do is laugh and the bark sends shivers up your back. 

You can’t help but admit the tension is exhilarating. It’s dizzying, so much going on and so many things tickling your senses. There’s Gojo now with his index finger crooked inside your asshole, already working on a second, while Geto walks over to your front with his dick still out and half-hard. You can see the foreskin glisten with your juices and his and you know what he wants you to do the moment he positions his twitching cock in front of that appetizing gap between your lips.

“Clean it up.” Geto orders you, admitting defeat in that Gojo will do what he wants, when he wants and the most he can do is take what’s left.

He can’t be too bothered. He got what he wanted. You will no doubt crave more, plead for Geto’s cock. He can hear that voice of yours now, pleading with half a brain, “P-Please sir, more sir! Can’t get enough!”

And that’s how you end up tasting yourself and Geto, your tongue rolling around his shaft as you work towards taking him whole, your throat spasming at the intrusion to come. Your tight rim does the same when Gojo works his way up to another finger, honestly losing himself to the unfathomable pressure. 

“Shit– think you’re ready for me, baby? Tell me. Make him feel how much you want me.” 

You don’t belong to Gojo but you sure act like it, following his order so dutifully as you gargle on Geto’s cock, saliva leaking out the corners of your mouth down your chin as you struggle to moan with Geto’s fat cock stretching your lips more apart than they’ve ever been. 

It hurts. It aches.

“Good, good girl.” Goosebumps prickle your skin at Gojo’s words, your body buzzing with the pleasure of satisfying your longtime client because let’s face it… You have a soft spot for him too.

You gasp and inevitably choke on Geto’s member when Gojo’s fingers pull out swiftly and unexpectedly from your asshole. Geto’s hand shoots out just then, pressing himself so deep down your throat you’re weeping with your nose scrunched up against his pelvis. 

And he’s smirking at you, so proud to be in attendance for your ruination. It makes your pussy flutter around nothing, your entrance already missing the merciless, reckless way Geto pistoned his fat dick inside and out of you. He got what he wanted– you already needing his affection.

Gojo can see the way you look at Geto, the pools of color in your eyes locked on his twisted features, and it irks him. More than it should. So you’ll have to forgive him for the stinging swat that comes for your ass, both sides to even it out. “Gotta make sure you’re ready, sweets. Want you to feel me take this cute hole of yours for the first time.”

And fuck, no amount of preparation could ever hope to mimic the denseness of Gojo’s cock, how the tip of his cock smears pre-cum over the rim before making that hole open for him.  But it burns. It hurts in a way you have never felt before and you instinctively try to inch away, knees buckling forward with your hands desperately pawing at Geto’s abdomen for relief but you will find none there.

Because Geto’s all but ignored your pleading, choosing instead to start a brutal pace into your mouth, goading more slobber to coat his shaft while your tongue presses to the underside. 

And Gojo? He’s got both hands locked on your hips, so cruelly dragging you back to him. “Don’t run from me. It’s gonna feel good baby, I promise.” He talks to you so sweetly but his body language is mean. His nails dig moon-shaped lines into your skin, the other hand once again aiming for your hole with a fist firmly grasping his girth as he prods your asshole to open nice and wide for him. 

“Shit, Satoru. She’s gonna drown in cock and spit at this point.” Geto snorts, taking pride in the way your cheeks are streaked with mascara, how your lips bloom with a pretty color and shine with your own drool. His chest rumbles with a groan as he starts bringing your head to meet his thrusting halfway. 

You can only sit and take it, take it from both ends as the men, the friends, share in the pleasures of your body. 

Gojo’s at least taking it easy, letting your body acclimate to his cock as he starts with a light pumping. Just enough to squeeze his cockhead in a few inches, then back, but never completely out of you. He’s not that mean.

The drag of his cock inching deeper inside you with the passing seconds, you start to relish in the way he fills you up like never before. You can feel your stretched out hole convulse and clamp down on Gojo’s length, every time squeezing a sweet, sweet throaty groan from the man. You’re feeling sensations there you didn’t think were possible, nirvana settling in amongst the fog in your eyes as you feel pleasure running like lightning all the way to your fucked out little brain.

“Fuck, beautiful.” Gojo huffs with his hips slowly closing the distance between him and the curve of your ass, eyes mesmerized at your pretty hole being so spread out by the thickness of his shaft, the way it seems to swallow him whole until he’s nothing but a cage rattling with moans. 

You’ve never heard him sound like that. There’s a bestial growl in his words with a grip on your body akin to a predator having his first meal. He’s fucking you like he’s starved.

As if he wasn’t just there with you the other night.

You can feel your shoulders start to buckle, elbows worn from keeping your body up to satisfy both Gojo and Geto, the latter either unknowing or uncaring of your slight discomfort. From your short dialog with the man, you’re guessing it’s the second option.

“Hope you’re good at swallowing.” Geto grunts with the hand at your neck now groping your breasts, struggling to find a hold with Gojo starting up a pace that’s making you bob and weave, bob and weave.

Your nipples are so sensitive, just the brushing of Geto’s hand makes you whine all around him, your voice drowned out by the barrel of his cock. “Just – hmmph, fuck – like that.” He chokes out, opening his eyes when you start to mewl, an attempt at rushing the orgasm because now it’s becoming all too much.

Gojo’s cock running deep into your asshole, Geto’s member throbbing incessantly the more noisy you become… Your brain might as well be in the clouds, Cloud Nine because even if it’s overstimulating you from the inside out…

It feels so damn good. You don’t realize it then but it’s because their temperaments are so different. Gojo pounding into you, getting a little more rough with his touch and rhythm but still rounding his spine to whisper how good you’re being, how he knew you could take it in your ear until the skin is burning hot and all your nerves are tingling with euphoria. He’s so close, you feel the ridges of his hardened abs cresting your skin, both parties sticky with sweat. And Geto, so crude in the way he pinches your perky nipples, so mean in how he grabs you by the throat just to make your mouth around him shiver. 

“Mmmf– Mmm–” You start to cry, sobs held back when Gojo’s fingers finally play with your clit, rounding the swollen bud just the way you like. 

It’s that last round of whining that sends Geto over the edge, his cock spurting out more cum than you expect while the engorged head twitches against the roof of your mouth; it’s so much so fast that it makes you recoil and bump your ass right into Gojo, setting off a chain reaction that couldn’t have unfolded any better.

Your grinding all the way to the base of Gojo’s cock makes him pant openly and grunt straight from his chest. His fingers strum your clit so eagerly, you feel his desperation on the tips. He wants you to cum with him.

An easy feat, because his cock, so far inside you, perfectly stimulates the erotic center in your pussy and makes you see white. Your slick is already seeping out your neglected hole, dripping onto the couch, down your thighs that seem to endlessly shake from Gojo’s thrusting. 

Geto does you a favor, sliding his cock out your mouth and slapping it on both your cheeks, staining your skin with his cum and your spit. You’re thankful, because now you can…

“F-Fuckfuckfuck, feels s’good, Satoru.” Your words are slurred, your mind dumb with how Gojo is able to rip the orgasm right out of you, your pussy quivering around nothing while your ass clenches tight around his dick. His cock vibrates with every hot burst of cum inside you, making your ass wriggle and skin ripple as he unloads every last drop inside you.

He’s gasping for air, moaning throughout as he rocks his cock until he’s finished cumming. Your chest pressed to the cushion, you also try to get a hold on a stable breath, lips wet with drool and sweat. 

Geto has long left you two, choosing to start dressing now that he’s finally had his fill of you.

So he doesn’t notice, doesn’t even see when Gojo adds another stack of bills to your collection. Not for him, but for–

“See? What did I tell you? I knew you could take two.”

[tiredmetalenthusiast]

A Date With Joyous News! John Price x F!reader

This is for @glitterypirateduck John Price writing challenge! Wanted to try doing a longer fic. Scenarios used were 7. ‘Date Night’ and 8. A confession or secret is made, revealed, or discovered’

Warnings: Alcohol consumption, mention of pregnancy, implied NSFW.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The day had started off as a soft morning, slowly waking up to John’s arms wrapped firmly around you and softly snoring. When you both had finally woken up and gotten out of bed he brought up the plans he had for the day.

”How about a night out today, Love?” You giggled and leaned into his shoulder. “John, we're married, you don’t have to try and win me over anymore.” He kissed the top of your head and breathed in your scent, “Well I’m going to anyway. I’m taking you on a date tonight, be ready by 7pm sweetheart.” “Where are we going tonight?” “It’s a surprise.” You nodded and kissed his cheek before the two of you went off to do your daily tasks, excited for the date later on.

6:45pm:

John stood at the mirror trimming his beard to look presentable, from the corner of his eye he spots you in the bathroom. Dressed to the nines and looking just as ravishing as when you both got married. Red dress fitting you in all the right places, makeup dark and seductive, the dark red lipstick doing things to him. “Are you ready to go luv?” You peeked from behind the door and nodded, walking out of the bathroom to grab your heels and purse. He holds out his arm and you take it giggling, as he leads you to the front door of the flat and to the car, letting your arm go to open the door for you. After you had gotten in he went to his own side and the drive to the date began.

Your eyes lit up as you saw the restaurant John had pulled up to. “Really? You got a reservation?!” “I did luv. You’ve mentioned wanting to go here for some time. Let’s go.” He gets out and walks around to your side, opening the door and helping you out. The Maître D’ greets you both upon entrance.

The young man seems nervous, glancing at John before speaking, “How can I help you both today?” “Reservation for 2, Under John Price.” The young man, Sam, checks the list before motioning for the two of you to follow. “This way please. Your table is ready.” Following Sam towards the back of the restaurant, he stops at a table and allows you and John to seat yourselves before handing over two menus. John watches you as you gaze around the restaurant in amazement. 

“The decor is so beautiful! How far ahead did you have to book?” “A few months, but seeing you happy is worth it.” The waitress came, took both of your orders, and went on her way. Dinner came and went, conversation was had, but John had noticed your lack of wine, deciding not to comment.

After dinner the drive home was spent discussing the food and how amazing the service was. “The lemon chicken pasta with alfredo was so good! The sauce was so smooth and had a nice flavor to it! How was your steak? It looked juicy.” “The steak was delicious sweetheart. The meat was tender and well cooked.” John smiled as he watched you beam brightly and gush over the food again, particularly dessert.

Once home you took off your heels with a pleased sigh, groaning low in relief. As you went about your routine to get ready for bed you noticed John standing by the door, shoulder leaning against it as he watched you slip out of your dress. “How about a movie before bed?” “That sounds lovely John.” He leaves to pick out a movie and you head to take off your makeup and change into pjs. Once dressed and noticing that John was changed as well, wearing those sinful gray sweatpants you loved so much and no shirt. You sat with him under the blanket and cuddled into his side, he wrapped his arm around your shoulders and you turned his head to give him a kiss, tasting the whiskey he had for dinner. “I love you so much John.” He kisses you back, hand wrapping around the back of your head to hold you there, “I love you too, so much luv.” You smile wider and watch the movie.

Halfway through he brings up the wine, it's your favorite thing to have when you guys go on dinner dates. “Didn’t feel up to the wine tonight?” You stop mid laugh and turn to face him. “Thought I wouldn’t notice? What’s wrong?” “John?” “Yes luv?” “Do you remember when you came back last month? And we had that wonderful, earth shattering sex?” “I do. Dream about it when I’m away. Did something happen? I didn’t hurt you did I?” “No! No nothing like that. Uhm…I just…” “Darling if I did something wrong please let know. I could never live with myself if-…” “John, I'm pregnant!”

He was absolutely stunned into silence. “Pardon?” “I-I mean I’m only a month along but-!” “I’m gonna be a dad? You’re really pregnant?” You nodded nervously, tears starting to well up in the corners of your eyes. “Who else knows?” “I tried calling you but Gaz had answered the phone, saying you were on the line with Kate. Told Gaz all about it.” Price thought for a moment. “Ah guess that would explain his sudden excitement that day.” He hugged you close and kissed you passionately. “So I’m gonna be an actual dad then?” “Baby you’re already an actual dad.” You snickered. “The boys don’t count.” 

You both laughed, falling back onto the cushions to celebrate the wonderful news with a night of steamy passion.

[emlovslennon]

me when i actually feel motivated to write again😃😃BUT YEAAAAH HERES SOME MORE SIN FOR YOU GUYS YOURE WELCOME!!

Era: 1964

-

You and John were at the opening for his new book “In His Own Write”, you were over the moon excited for him, but, problem was, he was hardly paying attention to you. He was laughing it up with Paul and whoever else was there with him, George obviously noticed something was up when he tapped you on your arm, which made you jump.

“Hey, y/n, you doing alright?” He asked, genuine concern painted on his face. You couldn’t help but feel gratitude that you had someone like George in your life, he was a great friend and always knew how to comfort you, even when John didn’t.

“Oh, yeah. I’m fine, I guess I just feel quite bare sitting here with no one to talk to.” You said, turning to look at John, who wouldn’t even bother to look and see if you’re even still here.

“Well, I’m here, and so is Pattie, if you wanna talk and come over to us.” He offered, Pattie giving you a very warm smile and hand shake. Pattie’s beauty always baffled you, you have never seen somebody so naturally gorgeous as her, it made you feel quite insecure, really. But you obviously knew that wasn’t on her, might be more on John, actually, he’d always talk about blonde bombshells like Bridget Bardot or very dark feminine women like Sophia Loren, it always made you feel less than.

“Goodness, y/n, you look absolutely marvelous! He doesn’t know what he’s missing, I can tell you that for sure.” Pattie said, you decided to wear your favorite black, lace dress with a black shaw to match, you did feel iffy about knowing how tight it was, but you couldn’t help but feel pretty, that on top of the beautiful sparkling, white, necklace you had on as well John had bought you for your second wedding anniversary gift. If only he actually would pay attention to you, it’d be nice.

“I just don’t understand why he’s not even acknowledging me, as soon as we got here he went right over to Paul, letting go of my hand in an instant.” You said, trying not to let this ruin your night. You understood that it was ‘his’ night per say, but you at least deserved some sort of acknowledgment, right?

“Oh, y/n, I know just the trick. This worked perfectly the last time I did it with an ex of mine, just simply, do the same. Enjoy your night and don’t even bother with him, this is your night just as much as his.” Pattie said cheerfully, she always was the one to give the best pep talks. And just that you did, spending the rest of the party talking and hanging out with George and Pattie, and occasionally Ringo and Maureen.

And then, the after party came along, it had to have been around 12:00 or more in the morning, but nobody was letting up. You and Pattie decided to have a few drinks and start dancing to, surprisingly, your husbands music. “Twist and Shout” started to blare and you and Pattie started to do exactly that, dancing the night away. George and Pattie were dancing together gleefully and getting you involved whenever they could. That was, until Paul walked over to you, him and Jane were on a “break” so he said. So he all by himself, explains why he was with John and Brian basically the whole night.

“Hey, love! Where have you been? Me and John have been looking everywhere for you!” He said, practically yelling over the loud music.

“Oh, I was with George and Pattie, what’s wrong?” You said, John coming up behind Paul shortly after.

“Nothin-“ Paul was quickly shut down by John as he pulled you into a tight embrace.

“Fuck, love, you had me so worried, I thought you left without me, come on, we’re going home.” He said, as you basically pushed through a crowd of people and got into your car.

“John, why are we leaving? What is wrong?” You asked, John didn’t say a word. One hand was on the wheel, the other was clutched to your thigh. You had absolutely no idea what his deal was.

“John, if I made you mad I’m sorry but it just felt like you weren’t paying att-“

“As soon as we get inside that house I want you upstairs and ready for me. I couldn’t be around you because of that fucking dress, I wouldn’t be able to control myself. Go on, now.” He demanded. You made sure as soon as he parked into the driveway you ran inside the house and went into your shared bedroom, quickly taking off your shaw and dress, along with your Mary Jane heels. You then made your way to your white, satin bed and slowly got underneath the sheets, waiting for him. Your heart race increased in anticipation as you heard him up the stairs, and heard the bedroom door open. And there stood John, his blazer gone to god knows where and his white button up unbuttoned. You couldn’t have asked for a better sight, if you’re gonna be honest, this is probably the best way to be repaid after being ignored the entire night.

“Come on, now, don’t start hiding from me.” He said as he quickly ripped the covers off your body, being completely exposed.

“There’s my pretty girl.” He cooed, making you blush. He was always a sweetheart when he wanted to be.

“John, I-“ you began to speak, but your mouth shut out of complete embarrassment. You were extremely nervous when it came to asking for what you want in bed.

“Hm? What was that, doll? You want something? What do you want, hm?” He teased, his fingers caressing your thighs, you knew you had to just let it out, but it was so hard for you and never understood why.

“I-um, I want you to turn me around this time.” You whispered, John gave a devious grin and took no time flipping you over, getting you on your hands and knees.

“Like this, birdie? You want me to be a little rough with you, dolly? Huh?” He said as he gave a harsh slap to your ass, making you gasp and jump in surprise. John giggled darkly at your reaction and began to un-do his pants, until he was completely naked.

“I’ve thought about you like this, y/n. You being all obedient for me, I love it. You’re such a good girl for me, a fucking dirty girl too.” He was such a good dirty talker, it made you begin to whimper and try to get any kind of friction you could get. John started to get the memo and didn’t even spend time to get you prepared by any sort of foreplay and just began to thrust himself inside you, not giving no time to adjust.

“AH, John!” You screamed as he pounded into you, his hand immediately coming to yank at your hair.

“Fuck, you’re so good for me, cunts so fucking tight for me.” He grunted, his voice deeper then ever. It turned you on like never before, how just an hour ago you were being completely neglected by him and now, here you are, getting pounded into the mattress by your husband. You’d be lying if you said it wasn’t worth it.

“J-john, w-wait! Slow down!” You cried out, John immediately stopped and pulled out.

“What, are you okay? Did I hurt you?” He panted, you shook your head and turned to lay on your back.

“I guess I just missed seeing your face.” You said, out of breath and voice strained from moaning and yelling.

“Ahh, atta girl.” He replied as he pulled you into a deep, passionate kiss as he thrusts back into, slower this time, just in case.

“You’re so beautiful, y/n, can’t imagine life without you.” He praised, as he kissed your face and neck, you smiled as you sighed happily, but not before turning into soft moans as he began to slowly pick up his pace.

“John, f-faster, I want to go faster, please.” You moaned out as John began to go harder, the obscene noises coming from your core filling the room.

“I love the sounds you make, christ, all fucking mine.” He groans, going as fast as he can at this point. Sweat is beginning to form on his forehead and body, same with you, as you continued to moan and cry out for him.

“John, I-I-“ you screamed out as you came all over him without warning, John just gave you a heartfelt smile and kissed your forehead.

“Fuck, I’m so close, I’m gonna fucking cum.” He moans out, you felt so overstimulated but you just couldn’t complain as long as you were making him feel good.

After about two more thrusts, he comes inside of you with a loud groan. He pulls out slowly and goes to grab towels for you to clean you up.

“There you are.” He chuckles as puts the towels in the wash and comes back to lay down with you as you slowly return to reality.

“John, I love you. But, do you promise you love me just as much as I love you?” You whisper, John kisses your lips and head in response.

“Y/n, I can promise you I have never loved anyone as much as I love you, it’ll stay that away. I can promise you that. I love you.” He assures, that was all you needed to drift you off into a deep, loving sleep.

-

OKAYYYY WOOOOO THERES A LONG ONE FOR ONCE WHOOP WHOOP I HOPE YOU GUYS ENJOYED I HAD FUN WRITING THIS ONE I HOPE MY “SPICE” HAS IMPROVED!!!

[msn-04iinightingale]

HAWK Battery

Bell watched the Barghest Company techs and ground grew unload the cargo the Wild Hunt had brought with it. Carts of spares, ammo, food, medical supplies, everything an army engaging in a protracted planetary invasion could use.

Additionally, the mech techs were busing themselves with loading and checking weapons on the 12 mechs that had been brought with. Currently, the chief tech was ripping one of the SLDF temps a new one, over how to properly calibrate one of the PPCs on the King Crab. She listened hard, tuning out the other noise of the makeshift staging area.

"-oh my god were you trained in a barn?! If you set it to that you'll wear out the capacitor and I'll have to recalibrate it all over again these are works of art and you're getting your grubby fingerprints all over the cowling and if you get oil in those connection ports I'm gonna take this wrench and-"

Bell shakes her head a bit and allows herself a small, small smile.

She turns her attention to Owen's...well...her Mechwarriors for the moment.

The other members of the three lances were assisting in unloading the dropship (Roberta and Ann, who are just kinda moving crates and boxes of munitions that would require at least a forklift to move on their own), helping organize the equipment (John, Sin, John being his usual analitical if boring self and SIn being helpful as ever), vibrating when she's not running back and forth (Flora), Spending a quiet moment together (Delila and Pam, sitting squished together side by side under Delila's Nightstar), talking about meat (Clara, she seems to be talking to the large cleaver she is polishing on a box, more knives than one person would feel is healthy to own set out around her), glaring daggers at anyone who comes near her (Bridget), smoking (Carrie, in the shadow of her Kontio), or complaining about the cold....and smoking (Amaryllis, next to Carrie as they are smoking buddies, he is draped in a far too large SLDF severe weather coat, although where he got it, and what he had to do to get it, remain blissfully unknown to her).

She allows herself a small nod, as all things are as they should be, and nothing out of place. Owen always said she was one for detail, and admittedly, gently teased her from time to time.

Sigh, that man....I hope he's alright.

She had made inquiries regarding the status of her commander, but the situation over in Utah was above her clearance level. Or at least that's what the SLDF toadie she's spoken to...five times...had told her.

She sighs, and pulls up her pad to check the schedule, and to ensure everything is going according to plan. For the third time.

( for anyone who wants to chat with the new girls )

[nikomedes]

ive seen some great bingo sheets going around for malevolent s5 but i would ask you to go further. lets invent some new 13th century miseries for our failsons arthur and john

EDIT: people in the notes have mentioned they don’t know what some of these are, so i jotted down some quick and dirty explanations below the cut.

the bubonic plague or black death is pretty well known, a horrific illness mostly transmitted by fleas and rats that was responsible for mass death in europe.

marginalia are funky little drawings made in the margins of illuminated manuscripts, largely by bored monks and scriveners. my favorite is the penis beast.

a medieval lord’s military might wasnt made up mostly of knights, who were typically low in number and expensive to field. they largely relied on levies, groups of able-bodied men raised from their land holdings and basically given a pike (a long spear), the bare minimum of equipment/livery, and a slap on the ass, and sent to fight one of the many english civil wars.

leprosy was another greatest hit of medieval diseases that fucked your whole life up.

catholic heresies are super fun! christianity has existed in a sort of perpetual state of “fuck around and find out,” but the medieval period saw a supreme amount of fucking around. here’s a great post rating many of these heresies. check out marcionism for some great Demiurge Discourse

middle english was the form english took at this time. it can be very musical, but its, uh, yknow. difficult to parse these days.

crusades were basically the greatest pastime of medieval rulers. not sure what to do with a heap of gold and all your vassal lords getting antsy and potentially fomenting ANOTHER civil war? ship them off to the middle east to fight a holy war on any pretext you can think of, including “because i can.”

tunic malfunction is mostly a goof, but between hose, sumptuary laws governing specific colors and items different races/religions/classes could wear, tunic length discourse, and how expensive making clothes could be, well. it could be a hurdle

legal proceedings weren’t just for people back in the day. sometimes animals would be dragged to the stand and accused of crimes. pigs in particular were often accused of eating limbs, children, and promoting sin.

13th century well water is your one stop shop for some all-time hit fatal diseases, such as cholera and dysentery! also, even if it didnt kill you, frequent contamination means it usually smelt or looked bad. poisoning wells was a common warfare tactic as well.

[tell-me-a-tale-that-tells]

HIS EVERLOVING DARK STAR

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Summary: Hancock encounters a vampire woman and slowly fell for her.

Pairing: John Hancock (Fallout 4) x Vampire OC

Type: request

Warnings: blood, sex, chem use

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The thunderstorm in the wasteland is not an easy business.

Besides deafening sounds, the blinding flashes of lightnings, the radiations are the ones that will kill you for sure.

Unless you're a ghoul, then you can stay out in the open, under the poisonous rain, like it's a fricking day at the spa.

Hancock is doing just that, smoking on the balcony of the town hall.

He doesn't know what the hell he's smoking but it must be good because it's doing wonders with his nerves.

He glances behind him, checking on her.

Oh, her.

John wonders every day what he had done to be worthy of having her in his life.

Her long body sprawled on the couch, wearing only a thin night grown.

She takes a hit of Jet and then, feeling watched, she looks in his direction with a warm smile.

Yeah, he feels like the luckiest bastard in the whole world.

Their encounter was, for sure, the strangest of his life.

In a pitch-dark night, when not even the most remote star dared to show itself in the sky, he was returning home from the third rail.

The rustling of garbage in an alley picked his attention, it's not that in Goodneightbor there aren't cats or rats, but one can't be never sure.

He cocked his gun, ready to shot, just in case.

Hancock turned left and freezes on the spot.

On the ground there was an Assassin, his throat slit from ear to ear, his unseen eyes still open.

The figure crouched down on him halted their movements, raising their hands at the sound of the first shot.

"Wait! Wait don't shoot!" She yelled and John realized that the girl's hands were covered in blood.

"Besides doing me a favor, killing off that bastard, tell me why the fuck I shouldn't make a hole in your head" John hissed.

"Let me explain, please" The woman answered, slightly turning her head.

Hancock could see that even her mouth was red, smudged with fresh and glistening blood.

As she turned around, he pointed his gun right between her eyes "Sister, I'm afraid cannibals are unwelcomed in my town".

She narrowed her brows, looking confused and offended "I'm not a cannibal. I wasn't eating him; I was drinking his blood."

John could have laughed at her tone because she spoke those worlds like it was the most obvious thing to say.

"And what does that make you, uh? A vampire?" He smirked.

"...Well, yes" she stated.

Maybe he was way too drunk or high for that.

"Listen. As I said, I have to thank you because that man was only causing troubles and he met the end he deserved. But I can't let you go so easily; you could hurt some innocent" he lowered his gun anyway.

"Are you a... sheriff or something?" She smirked, raising an eyebrow at his strange attire.

"I am the mayor, actually. John Hancock" he tipped his hat.

"Nimue" she answered back, her stained lips curling in a smile.

Since that encounter their days have been a crazy rollercoaster.

He tried to arrest her twice, keeping her in jail was basically hearing her hissing and complaining about the heat.

If Nimue is truly a vampire, John can't tell, she could be just a crazy woman with a very serious iron deficiency.

Sure, she drinks a lot of blood, but she uses also a lot of chems.

He like that part a lot.

Nimue can handle chems better than him, she needs at least twice the dose he takes to have the slightest effect, but when she's high...John blesses the Gods if there are any.

She's crazy when sober, her chatting and easygoing nature is so refreshing in a town like Goodneightbor or in every other town she steps in.

She seems rough and dangerous on the exterior but once one knows her better, they can appreciate her light side.

When she's high the things change, she's almost predatory, sensual and sinful but never in an unsettling way, there's always a sweet side peeking under all that dominance, a certain softness in her eyes.

Their first time together was unforgettable for both of them.

She was dancing around at the Third Rail, her body swaying to the nonexistent music.

Hancock had never seen anything like it.

He was mesmerized by her movements, the way her long legs seemed to glide over the floor.

"C'mon, Mayor. Why don't you join me?" She giggled 

As Hancock watched Nimue dance, he couldn't help but feel his desire for her growing.

 He'd always found her captivating, even in her most unpredictable moments.

With a smile, he stepped close to her "I'm afraid I can't dance" he said softly.

"Neither do I" Nimue stopped dancing and turned to face him, a mischievous grin playing on her lips.

She walked up to him, her fingers brushing lightly against his chest as she reached out to take his hand.

She lifted his arm, turning underneath it, and then placed her other hand on his shoulder.

"Like this," she murmured, guiding him through a few slow steps.

Hancock was surprised at how natural it felt to move with her, even if it was just a simple dance.

She was so close, their bodies swaying together in perfect harmony.

Hancock could feel his heart racing as he looked into Nimue's eyes and her intense gaze seemed to pierce right through him.

The chemistry between them was palpable, and Hancock couldn't help but lean in closer. 

"John..." Nimue whispered, "I think that I... might have feelings for you," Nimue admitted softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

She stepped back slightly, breaking the intense moment they had shared. Hancock was taken aback by her confession.

He'd always known there was something between them, but he hadn't expected her to admit it so openly." Hancock felt a wave of emotion wash over him as he processed her words.

"Nimue, I... Are you sure? You don't really want to be stuck with this ugly face" Nimue giggled softly at his comment, but there was a touch of sadness in her eyes.

"Oh, John," she said, reaching up to caress his scarred skin "You're anything but ugly."

Nimue’s mouth was just a mere inch from his as she spoke "I don't care about your scars, John. You are strong, resilient, and brave. You spared my life and gave me a home, and for that, I will always be grateful."

The kiss was intense and passionate.

Hancock couldn't believe it, but he was kissing Nimue.

His heart raced as he deepened the kiss, his hands running through her hair and down her back.

She responded eagerly, her hands slipping around his waist and pulling him closer.

One of her razor-sharp teeth cut his lip and Nimue gasped an apology, she looked at the small cut on his lip.

Her eyes were filled with regret, "I'm sorry," she said softly "I didn't mean to hurt you."

Hancock smiled, trying to reassure her, "It's alright," he said, gently tracing the cut on his lip with his finger "It's just a small price to pay for such an amazing kiss."

They stood there for a moment, just looking at each other.

Nimue burst out in a laugh “Always so quick with a comeback, aren’t you?" She leaned in closer to him, their breaths mingling as they shared another intimate moment.

"What do you think if...we take this elsewhere?" Hancock looked at Nimue, his heart racing with anticipation.

He nodded slowly, his voice low, "Yeah, I think that could be a good idea."

"At mine or yours?" Nimue's question caused a smile to spread across Hancock's face.

He liked the idea of them being together in a private space, just the two of them.

"Mine" he replied, reaching out to brush his hand against hers. 

The way to the town hall was interrupted many times by kisses.

The moment they stepped inside, the tension between them seemed to rise even more.

Hancock closed the door behind them, locking it tightly.

He turned to face Nimue, taking in every inch of her beautiful face.

Then everything was a blur of chems and alcohol and Nimue drinking blood from a sack before sitting on his lap.

"Are you hiding a knife or you're happy to see me?” She smirked.

Hancock chuckled at Nimue's playful banter.

He reached for her hand and led it towards his pocket "Well, this is actually my knife," he said before moving her hand over his crotch "and this definitely isn't it"

“And what do you plan to do with it?" Nimue looked at Hancock, her eyes filled with mischief and lust.

When she didn’t hear Hancock respond, she leaned closer to his ear "I'll tell you what we will do...", Nimue's words were soft "We're going to make love until the sun rises and then..." Nimue's words trailed off, leaving Hancock hanging on her every word "We will do it again." 

John could only nod and smile, trailing his hands up and down her body, caressing her back and sides.

Nimue sighed contentedly, her eyes closing and her head tilted back, exposing the pale column of her neck. 

John's hand wrapped around it, not squeezing but simply resting before his mouth joined in, propping a trail of wet kisses that made Nimue gasp.

Her hands slipped under his shirt, touching his roughed skin with a reverence and marvel that John couldn't believe it.

"Take this off, please” she asked.

He's self-conscious about his appearance, he knows very well what people think of ghouls and how repulsive they look to most of them.

It was rare to find someone who accepted them outside Goodneightbor, but Nimue couldn't care less about stupid people's minds.

Her eyes started on every new inch of exposed skin like it was a holy revelation.

She began to kiss and lick, occasionally grazing her teeth without biting.

John's mind was a haze of chemicals and arousal, he bet she felt his hardened member pressing at the worn fabric of his pants.

Like she was reading his mind, Nimue started to grind her hips on him, moaning softly in his ear.

John's control finally snapped.

He raised from the couch, taking her with him and carrying her to his bed.

He laid her on the raggedy sheets and sat in front of her. "You're still wearing too much" she murmured against his lips.

John chuckled, removing his boots and pants.

Nimue sat up, removing her red sparkling dress, exposing her body to him.

In his fogged mind he still could think that that didn't feel like a fling, one of the countless times he took someone in his bed just to never see them again the day after.

 Now both in their underwear, it didn't take too much before they slipped the last articles of clothing off from each other bodies.

"John, please. I know we have all the time we want but...please" Nimue's pleading words made John's heart race, and he couldn't resist her any longer.

He slowly lowered himself onto her, feeling their bodies meld together as he slowly entered her.

She gasped, her eyes closing in pure bliss.

It was John's turn to moan once he bottomed out, feeling every inch of her warmth surrounding him.

They started to move in unison, their breaths becoming ragged as pleasure consumed them both.

Nimue arched her back and gripped Hancock's shoulders tightly, her nails digging into his skin.

In her long life, she never felt anything like that, she thought about it as John's strong hands held her hips tightly, moving rhythmically against her.

She could feel every inch of him inside of her, his rough skin creating a delicious friction.

When John filled her for the first time with his release, she couldn't do anything but following him over the edge, her long legs shaking from the force of her orgasm.

"John," she gasped, kissing his neck above his pulse "Again." Hancock rolled on his back, taking Nimue with him and positioning on her on top, "Work for it" he whispered playfully.

John's heart almost exploded as he watched Nimue's body bouncing on him and shake with pleasure, the sight of her breasts swaying entranced him and he cupped them in his hands, squeezing gently.

He felt a surge of pride knowing that he was the one who brought her to this state.

Her grip on him was tight like a vice, the drag of her inner walls was enough to make him lose his mind.

His hips bucked up, urging her to go deeper, to feel every inch of him. 

His climax was building shockingly fast, and Nimue could feel it too.

She smiled down at him "Coming so soon?" she teased, biting her bottom lip playfully.

Hancock groaned, his muscles tense underneath her "You're killing me, Nimue."

She leaned down to whisper in his ear, "I could say the same about you, my love."

The rest of the night was a frenzy of passion and love, as the nights that followed.

Day by day, night by night, Nimue remains by his side on the highs and lows, always the faithful, unpredictable companion.

After months of living together, John and Nimue's relationship had evolved into something deeper and more meaningful.

They shared everything, their joys, their fears, their secrets and their love for each other only grew stronger.

John is reflecting on all that, still smoking his cigarette on the balcony, it's been years since they met and both of them hasn't changed or aged a day.

Nimue makes a 'come here' motion with her finger, giggling and slightly raising up her nightgown in a sensual and inviting manner.

John shakes his head amused, "I thought you had enough for tonight" he says, walking towards her.

Nimue smirked and wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him close.

"I always have room for more," she purred, nuzzling her face against his chest.

"After all," she continued, looking up at him with a mischievous glint in her eye, "we have all the time in the world."

[shalotttower]

Title: Beneath The Skin Fandom: Far Cry 5 Characters: John Seed x Reader (female) Summary: John discovers a soulmate in one of his faithful after her indoctrination. Word count: 1200+ Notes: soft yandere!John Seed, religious themes, soulmate AU, captivity, obsession, past rough treatment, past torture, brainwashed Reader, John being John, Reader isn't Deputy, I'm depressed so now you'll be too.

You've been staring at him a lot lately. John can't tell if it's a good sign or not. In his experience, silence is usually followed by screaming and begging, not contemplation, but you're quiet and watchful, like a church mouse.

"Tell me what you desire," he says, cupping your face with his palms.

There's no pleading with you. No crying for help from the outside world. He's not used to this quiet acceptance of circumstances.

What John used to is peeling away the layers of flesh, until there's nothing but raw essence underneath. You're still not free of sin. He can see it, plain as day: sloth shines through the cracks of you. He could force it out. Carve the letters into your skin again, one by one, and maybe then you'd finally scream for mercy.

But he doesn't. Joseph told him to be careful with God's gifts, to be patient and endure. So he waits, and so you stare, and the silence stretches in-between.

"Why don't you tell me?" John asks.

He heard long time ago that through desires one's true self becomes visible. He wants to see yours.

"There's nothing to wish for in Eden's Gate, Herald."

There is no venom in your words. There's nothing in your words.

He thinks about patience and endurance, and wonders if the river washed away something essential off you during the baptism, or this docile and meek nature is just who you are.

You'd pass easily as one of Faith's angels, even without the Bliss.

---

John knows that you like to read. You take books from his personal library and he finds them later, stacked in a neat pile on a bedside table. Some nights when he returns to the ranch, you're still awake at the desk with a pair of glasses on the bridge of your nose.

"So that's why," he thought after leafing through your medical file, "you didn't recognize me at the river. They must've fell off during the transportation."

John wears his mark with pride. Not hidden, like Joseph's or Jacob's, but on display. A declaration that he's been chosen by God, that's he's not broken, not ruined — worthy to have a soulmate.

He remembers your expression back then. Confusion. You looked at him, squinting, like you didn't understand, couldn't fathom why would someone do this to you.

And then he dunked you under.

---

"Confession," John murmured. "It sets you free."

"Atonement," he told you later and took a knife to your flesh.

He wanted to make you feel small, insignificant — Deputy kept causing trouble, and temperance never was among his virtues.

"There's nothing more pure than a blank sheet, darling. I'll help you get rid of sin. Don't be afraid, let the pain cleanse you."

And you screamed.

Sloth. Pride. He carved them both and you cried and prayed until your voice broke, but haven't asked him to stop, not once.

After that, you blended into the crowd well, a nobody amongst the sheep not meant to stand out.

---

He didn't know.

Hadn't seen it, caught up in the excitement of the moment.

---

This time when he comes back, you're curled on the bed with a book that doesn't belong to his library. The cover is pale yellow with floral decorations and birds on it, a bit worn. How it came into your hands, John has an idea. There's only one person who likes cheesy romance novels here.

Your foot sways in the air back and forth, gently, like a pendulum.

"Didn't take you for a fan of light reading, my dear. How many maidens have fallen for dashing rascals tonight?"

"Herald John," you greet.

His stomach flips when you look up.

To think that you were one of many who cooked and cleaned around the compound all this time, who lived in the barracks and tended the apple orchards, and no one ever noticed. Who almost slipped through his fingers into the Henbane River, if he wasn't reminded of restraint.

Now you're here, in his room, and John has no idea what to do with you. He's good with words, they always come out naturally, like a weapon in a carefully crafted arsenal, but all seem inadequate when your mark is out there so openly unapologetic.

You're like a doll he's got a hold of: speaks when spoken to and moves when nudged.

He sits on the edge of the bed.

"This doesn't look like approved reading material," John comments idly, but makes no move to take the book away. Books like these aren't banned, simply considered too shallow to nourish a mind. He flipped through one himself and found it hilariously cliche.

"Sister Faith keeps bringing them," you respond. "I...keep them until she picks them up again."

You call his family members by titles rather than names. John suspects it stems from the trials and humility which they bring. Joseph is Father, Faith is Sister, Jacob is...nothing. You don't dare use any monikers with Jacob even though no one would mind now when you're family.

His thumb runs over your ankle. A small white lilly under the fabric of your leggings looks delicate and a bit like a mockery.

God's gifts are bestowed to cherish.

John thinks about the way you trembled during the baptism — sweet, sweet terror.

God's gifts are bestowed to nurture.

"Why didn't you plead with me?"

You pause.

"For what, Herald?"

John wants to shake you. Wants you to scream and glare like Deputy did when he carved the sin upon her body. Little wrathling, full of rage and spite; now Jacob is grooming her as a weapon, and it seems to suit her better than wreaking havoc across the county. Jacob's methods are meticulous and inevitable, brutal but most efficient, and he'll get her where he needs her to be: strong and able, with her fire burning for a better cause.

"Reprieve," John says. "Mercy."

He leans closer and waits, but your eyes travel down to your lap, then to your fingers, entwined together above the pages.

"There was no use."

Your smile is soft and empty, and John gets the feeling of missing a step on a flight of stairs.

"It wouldn't have been enough."

You speak it like a truth carved on stone, something so very evident that even a newborn infant can comprehend. Like the sun is warm, the water is wet, and Herald John Seed doesn't give mercy to sinners — he takes them apart piece by piece so they can start anew without the burden of guilt.

---

Aren't soulmates meant to know each other intimately? Aren't they meant to complete?

Yet there's an absence of him in you and you in him. It's a hollow space between your bodies when you both lie side by side at night, a gaping wound, and it won't go away, no matter how close you curl into his arms or how tight he holds onto you.

He touches you often: strokes your hair while you read books by lamplight, kisses your forehead when you pray before bedtime.

"Tell me what you desire," John asks again.

And again, patiently you reply: "Eden's Gate offers everything I could ever wish for."

---

He wonders what fairy tale romance you will find next week between the pages, and if there will be mercy in it which you didn't find in that bunker.

[panther-os]

Full Name and Family Headcanons

For the extended 141 family plus the fruity bastard betrayer (derogatory (affectionate)), some more complete than others. If any of this is directly contradicted by canon, I don't care, that's why they're headcanons

Soap

John Steven Donald MacTavish

Two loving parents, the youngest with at least 3 older siblings, all sisters. Closely enough related to the Chief of the Name and Arms of MacTavish to a) be considered low upper class and b) know his exact place in the line of hereditary succession. Also the kilt he wears on special occasions is always the modern MacTavish tartan, do your research. Grew up in Bonnyrigg outside Edinburgh and is emotionally attached to Sir Salter Scott

Ghost

Simon Lorcán Riley

Same family and circumstances as '09 Ghost (extremely poor, abusive dad, oldest of two boys), but give him loving maternal grandparents and three cousins. He's Irish by ethnicity and heritage, which a few family members kept alive and passed down to him, but British by nationality. His great-great-(great-?)grandparents migrated to Manchester during the Great Hunger, but his aunt moved back to Ballylongford where some of the family originally lived. His cousins and maternal grandmother are all alive but think he's dead and he keeps it that way for their safety. His middle name is after his maternal grandfather who died when he was young and was given to him by his grandma. I do also hc he's trans and have a deadname headcanon for him but I don't share those. The specific neighborhood he grew up in inside Manchester was Beswick

Gaz

Kyle Adam Garrick

Grew up in Brixton in London, relatively poor with two loving but working parents, but also with an enormous tight-knit community and more neighborhood aunties and uncles and cousins than he knew what to do with. Has one baby sister but she's 20 years younger than him so she's a baby baby and he was already enlisted and moved out when she was born

Price

John Matthew Price

Grew up in Anfield in Liverpool, near the football stadium. Avid fan, ropes Ghost into Liverpool vs Man United debates every season. Ghost doesn't even like football. Middle class, working dad and stay at home mom, older sister, younger sister

Roach

Gary Parker Sanderson

Working poor, older sister, younger brother

Laswell

Katherine Emma Laswell

Middle class child of divorce, no step-siblings or step-parents, lesbian wine aunt who's basically Kate Kane (coincidentally Kate's favorite superhero)

Nikolai

Nikolai Antonovich Pokrovsky

Absent parents, one younger sister

Farah

Farah Leyla Karim

Canon family - two loving parents killed by AQ, one older brother. Her middle name is the Georgian spelling of the Arabic name Layla (see my post about Urzikstan and Abkhazia for why this spelling)

Alex

Alexander Jeremiah Keller

Two older sisters, two triplet sisters (one an hour older, one three hours younger), two younger sisters, single mom, also raised by aunt and grandmother

Alejandro

Alejandro Ernesto Vargas Leon

Grew up working poor, dad died when he was three, mom had to work, older brother 4ys older took jobs for the cartel starting at 12-ish to make ends meet and left Ale as the "man of the house" at 8. Also has one 4ys younger sister (same dad, mom was pregnant) and 12ys younger twin baby brothers (different dad who chose not to be in the picture, oopsie babies). He loves the twins but wants to hang them upside down by their shoelaces more often than not, his sister is just as mischievous but more mature and subtle about it which made her easier to raise

Rudy

Rodolfo Ildefonso Parra Rosales

Born into a poor family, cartel killed his parents when he was three, adopted by a single mom after that. His new family is unrelated to the Cartel but his bisabuela is just as feared and respected as El Sin Nombre and La Araña before her, if not more in some parts of the city. Learned his best chancla skills from her. Only child but grew up in a massive multigenerational multifamily home with at least 20 older cousins - was the baby until he was 7 and now he's the second youngest

Graves

Phillip Windsor Graves

Upper class, born to parents who had an heir to the company because it was expected of them but who didn't actually want or like kids. Essentially raised by a rotating cast of nannies

[soisaidfine]

Bruce Springsteen / Ethel Cain: 'Our story'

Bruce: 'I fought my whole life, studied, played, worked, because I wanted to hear and know the whole story. I wanted to understand in order to free myself' Hayden: 'Everything in my whole life has been leading up to finishing this record. I like to think of this album as a cautionary tale of what would happen if you don’t free yourself'

They are daughters of Cain, and Bruce Springsteen got a date with the preacher's daughter.

Ethel Cain wearing a Bruce Springsteen T-shirt:

audiobook, Bruce Springsteen:

Bruce Springsteen: “I fought my whole life, studied, played, worked, because I wanted to hear and know the whole story. My story. Our story. And understand as much of it as I could. I wanted to understand in order to free myself of its most damaging influences, its malevolent forces, to celebrate and honor its beauty, its power. And to be able to tell it well to my friends, my family, and to you. I don’t know if I’ve done that, and the devil is always just a day away, but I know this was my young promise to myself, to you. This, I pursued as my service. This, I presented as my long and noisy prayer, my magic trick. Hoping it would rock your very soul and then pass on, its spirit rendered, to be read, heard, sung and altered by you and your blood, that it might strengthen and help make sense of your story. Go tell it.” (Born to Run, 79)

Hayden / Ethel Cain: “Ethel Cain is kind of my dark, evil twin. She’s not evil, per se, but we have both been through similar situations. If I didn’t choose to heal and forgive and forget, I would be ultimately destroyed, which is what happens to her. She is the mirrored version of what my life would be like if I chose not to get better. It’s this all-American girl who crumbles under the weight of God and country. The American Dream is unachievable — being a perfect daughter, a perfect Christian, all of these weights that are put onto young American people are impossible. I like to think of this album as a cautionary tale of what would happen if you don’t free yourself from these imaginary chains, in terms of religion, family and expectation. Everything I have done has been working up to this album. Everything in my whole life has been leading up to finishing this record.“ (Billboard)

Terrence Malick: 'You are just like I am. Can’t figure your life out? Can’t put the pieces together? Just like me. A pilgrim on this earth.' (Knight of Cups / The Pilgrim’s Progress, John Bunyan)

Photo: polaroid of Hayden (Ethel Cain) from back in may 2023, by @/bgoldmanphoto. Wearing a Bruce Springsteen Shirt 'Born in the USA World Tour '84-'85’.

[brotherwtf]

another John in a skirt drabble for the soul

-----

The noise that Gale pulls from John's mouth is downright sinful and John almost couldnt believe he could make such a sound.

John straddles Gale's waist, knees on either side of Gale's hips and kisses him from above, holding Gale's jaw with both of his hands. Gale has one of his hands on John's waist, teasing at the zipper of the white skirt he was wearing, and the other gently raking across the texture of the fishnets on John's thighs. He teases his fingers in the holes of the tights, pressing them gently until the flesh dimples and flinches.

He pulls his lips away from John's, huffing a small laugh when he chases after them, making a noise of indignation at the loss of Gale's lips. Gale shoves his face in the crook of John's neck and bites the sensitive flesh of his throat as John squirms beneath him. He hikes the skirt up further until it pools around John's waist and continues his ministrations on John's thighs.

John's panting open mouthed in Gale's hair as his fingers travel upward, gently grazing John's leaking cock. The fishnets strain over it and Gale grinds his palm against the head, pulling another embarrassing sound out of John. His hands grip Gale's shoulder and he kicks his hips forward against his hand and whines when Gale pulls it away.

"Slow down, darling," Gale whispers, voice deep and rough from sucking John's cock earlier that day.

John whines again, shoving his face in Gale's hair and pathetically grinding his hips so he can get any sort of pleasure from it. Gale smiles gently and kisses John again, shoving his tongue into his mouth and tasting the sweet bubblegum he was chewing earlier. John keens, licking across Gale's bottom lip and groaning at the taste of him. He feels spit gathering on his chin and lips, but loves the feeling.

Gale pulls away again and groans at the small string of saliva that connects their lips. His grip on John's waist gets tighter and he grips the fishnets and rips, shoving the material away from John's cock and grabbing it in his hand.

John lists against Gale as he strokes him slow and long, panting against Gale's hair and grappling at his shoulders. Gale turns his head and groans open mouthed into John's ear, shoving his nose into his hair as he grinds down on him.

He twists his wrist with every upstroke, grinding up into John's ass as he does and John can feel his hardness through his jeans.

"Let me... let me help," John moans and shifts his hips, momentarily taking Gale's hand off of his cock and sloppily taking off his belt.

He pulls Gale's cock out and groans at the sight, wants his lips on it, wants it down his throat, but slots in Gale's lap so he can grind them together.

They moan together and Gale takes them both in his hand, grinding upward at the same time as John. One of John's hands finds Gale's jaw and he brings him in for another sloppy kiss, all tongue and teeth as they grind against each other.

Gale gets noisier when he gets close, moaning into John's mouth as he grinds into his hand. John moans with him, keening when Gale's other hand slips under his skirt and grips his ass.

They come together like that, John with a high pitched whimper and Gale with a prolonged groan. Gale pants into John's cheek and his hands find his waist again. John smiles dopily, lips searching for Gale's again. They kiss tenderly for a moment, before Gale guides John to lay down on the couch.

"Sorry about your tights," Gale murmurs between kisses and John huffs a laugh.

"I can just buy more. Besides, it's worth it when it makes you act like that," John says, breathless.

Gale smiles down at him with dark eyes, and John pushes himself back to kiss him again, feeling far too pleased with himself to care about the ripped tights.

hmmm John in a skirt yess

[purgemarchlockdown]

Mikoto being so heavily associated with the female characters while Kotoko isn't is really intriguing with how he's so heavily sexualized in MeMe and plays into a lot of horror tropes.

The bathtub and the shower scene are common locations in horror, especially for Women. With one of the most iconic horror scenes Ever being the shower scene from Psycho, in which a woman is murdered in the shower.

Not to mention the lyrical pattern of calling back the title of the first MV that all the girls, except for Kotoko, follow. With Mikoto actually calling back to the title of his T1 MV in Double and having it be such an important part of it that they call back to it in the Trial 2 Album. Something originally pointed out by oboetmasuka here and candckirby who also mentions Mikoto's role as the "Final girl" and his consistent pregnancy metaphor with how John is called a newborn.

I think the way Kotoko connects to Masculinity is subtler but just as important, her interrogation question shows she's not attached to it, but she doesn't seem against it or anything.

(Kotoko Interrogations)

T1Q10: What do you think about the word 'feminimity'? A: It's one of the means you can take. It's something you can freely choose depending on the scene, so it's not something to cling onto.

Kotoko doesn't wear anything traditionally feminine but she doesn't lean super masculine either...except.

Okay so, 1moremilgram-enjoyer made this really interesting post about Kotoko's cap you can read here. Basically her cap has the name Jacques Roulet on it's front. Jacques Roulet is the name of a Male Serial Killer who killed two children and claimed to be a werewolf.

This cap appears in her outfit in Harrow:

But also appears in her T2 Design:

Establishing some sort of connection between him and Kotoko.

If we're reading into this Further. John and Kotoko are actually very similar in their want to become someone's "savior" as that's what gives them a sense of purpose.

John's an interesting character in this dynamic. Because if Mikoto is the helpless princess, John is the faithful prince. Coming to save his pitiful damsel whose too weak to protect himself.

(Mikoto T2 VD)

John: It’s true that I was the one who wanted to destroy everything… and the weakness of Boku, who couldn’t stand up for himself all alone, might have been the origin of that. But… that’s all there is to it. Is that a sin?

Mikoto has little to no agency and he Knows This. He doesn't know what's happening, is confused and terrified all the time, and feels like he's on a train with an unknown destination. He feels powerless and like he has no control. While John tries his best to help him, but ultimately harms him, cause John will do what He thinks Mikoto needs without knowing what Mikoto wants. Something he seems regretful for.

Hey, I just wanted to save you So why did it come to this?

However, Kotoko does have some sense of Power and Agency and actively Holds this over others.

From the begin I've never asked for your understanding! My actions, one by one, are bringing earth closer to peace. Useless Weaklings should just shut up and let me protect them!

There's nothing inherently wrong with wanting to present more masculine or feminine. However, there is a problem with enforcing strict and rigid roles onto people, especially if those roles enforce systems of power that allow for the exploitation of groups of people by elevating one group and putting down the other.

Even if the gender roles the two fit in are flipped, it is still playing into unhealthy ideals of gender and society that perpetuate abusive systems of power.

(Utena Scripts)

Voice:  Was the ring from the prince meant as an engagement ring? Voice:  That part was good, Voice:  but because of the strength of her admiration for the prince, Voice:  the princess made up her mind to become a prince herself! Voice:  But is that really good for her?

(I got it in!)

I think I might have to wait for Deep Cover's MV to release to fully discuss this, but this is really curious to me.

[treedaddymcpuffpuff]

Beneath Miles of Stone - Part sixteen - John Wick x Plus Size Fem Reader

Summary: John has been in prison for nine months. He’s content to stay if it means appeasing the high table and keeping peace between the owners of each continental. However, he meets someone who erases that willingness. Peace be dammed.

TW: mentions of death ; blood ; past trauma ; dubcon ; smoking ; drinking ; gore ; violence ; nsfw

Do not look at his dick. This is not the time. You’ve already seen it. Don’t. Don’t look. Fuck.

Either he’s pretending not to notice her blatantly starring, or he’s just not - okay, no, he’s definitely noticing - this is the hundredth time he’s caught her tearing her whorish eyes away.

She remembers something about having to pluck out your own eye if it sins against you.

Thank God there’s something else to distract her, and it involves him trying to get up in his own.

She jams herself under his good armpit again. “Let me help.”

“It’s okay,” he says, trying to gently untangle his side from her shoulders.

“No, you just got shot and almost died and you’re gonna tear the stitches,” she grumbles. “I’m helping.”

“Fine, fine.” He grins, leans his whole body weight into her for a quick second.

She buckles, grunts.

“I’m heavy,” he tells her.

“Don’t get a big head about it - “ goddamnit that reminds her eyes of an excuse to look at his cock again - “you’re all muscle. Plus, who do you think dragged you into my bed while your ass was unconscious?”

Her face burns.

His jaw is starting to hurt from all this smiling. Little warrior, continuing to surprise him.

“I’m not supposed to get a big head after you say that to me, tough girl?” He asks, letting her help him to the bathroom.

She almost groans, but doesn’t want to acknowledge the fact that her traitorous brain is now consumed by innuendos. About his dick.

He sees her face scrunched and he’s chuckling with realization despite the seize of pain in the left cavity of his body. “Oh.”

“I need to, uh, get you your pants.” She swallows thick saliva.

“Thank you, but do not touch the guns or the knives again.”

After proving to her that he can support his own weight, she leaves him in the bathroom to get dressed.

This morning, there had been a lot more blood in the living room. She’s damn sure of it. Gushing, bright, soaking.

Now, there are a few blots on the couch and the carpet - nothing that she can’t clean up herself with some Clorox and cold water and elbow grease.

This might be further proof of her slipping sanity.

Women bleed every month, and that blood doesn’t always go where you want it to go, so learned experience plus the sizzling pink peroxide helps her clean the red out of her living room and leave it Michael-branded-white-and-rainbow in record timing.

Pink peroxide smells bad, liken to that of burning asphalt and tar with a hint of cooked meat. There’s also a strange orange tang there.

It makes her nose crinkle and burn and lungs seize - like bleach and alcohol does.

Her wicked cough drowns out the sounds of the wire brush on carpet.

John pulls her away for a minute, holds a glass of cool water to her lips.

She drinks, eyeing him over the rim.

“Let me help,” he pleads.

Her glare means absolutely not.

“Just give me a toothbrush.”

A little smile perks her mouth. She wipes water off the corner of her lips with the side of her hand.

He needs to kiss her again, but it’s unsurprising since that’s the only thing he’s wanted to do at all as of late.

“I don’t have an extra toothbrush, John.”

Her protests are useless, and John ends up scrubbing with his good arm. He keeps flipping his wrist over to look for the time.

“Why do you wear it like that?” She asks him, on hands and knees buffing out the carpet.

“My watch?”

She nods.

“To protect the face.”

“From what?”

He looks up but doesn’t stop working on the couch, motioning to his bicep.

“Oh,” she says.

“That’s a start.” He wants her to ask him questions, but she has no idea where to begin. Or she doesn’t want to know. A little of both. She hopes he’s at least semi-normal. Maybe he’s a bouncer or a body guard?

“Just ask me what I do,” he supplies.

“Why do you want me to know what you do?” She asks.

He should be annoyed that she repeatedly avoids direction, but he’s not - the little, persistent flame in her otherwise kind heart enthralls him.

“Because I want to be transparent with you and give you as many outs as you can get.”

“Outs?”

“Like, chances to tell me to go fuck myself,” he clarifies.

She snorts. “I would never tell you that.”

He knows she wouldn’t - it’s a problem.

They both scrub in silence for a while.

“Does trying to give me an out mean I’m in?” She asks.

“What?” His eyebrow raises. There’s a deep indent on top of the spot he’s working at.

“Are we, you know, together?” She almost chokes down the question on its way out of her closing throat. But, if she didn’t let it come out naturally, it wouldn’t have at all. And now it hangs in the air between them like a ripe, horrible apple, glaring and paramount, and all she wants to do is shove it back down into her digestive system because of the way he’s looking at her.

He seems pained - maybe fighting with some inner turmoil that involves whether he really wants her or not. It makes her shy away from his eyes, tuck her shoulders in and turn her face.

There’s so much shit he wants to say, but most of it is nonessential and pointless. He settles on: “Yes, if you’re agreeable to that.”

He expects this to make her open up again, but, instead, she gets smaller. “I am.”

There’s supposed to be some formality to this dance, he knows. Just like opening doors and offering coats and pulling out chairs.

But those things are physical. You don’t have to ask stupid questions like “will you be my girlfriend?” when you’re sheltering someone with your own body, or kissing them, or holding their hand.

Actions scream loud and bright, words are trivial.

He abandons his workspace to invade hers. Plucks the brush from her hand and holds her shoulders. They are knee to knee, staring into the other’s eyes. And maybe the language of his touch is good enough to make up for the vapid question he’s about to indulge.

“Will you go out with me?”

She doesn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

“Will you go out with me if I’m an assassin?”

She does think about that for a second, but her answer doesn’t change.

“Why?” He groans, leaning down to touch their foreheads together.

“Do you want me to say no?” Her tone is quiet heartbreak.

“No.” He’s quick to assure her. “I want you to have some sense of self-preservation. I want you to care about yourself enough to drill me with questions and make demands. And then, I want you to say yes. Because I’m a selfish prick.”

She smiles impishly. “Are you calling me easy, John?”

He laughs, unsure what to reply.

There’s a million questions in the depth of his eyes. She wants to answer them even if she doesn’t know what they are.

“I don’t care what you do. I did, at first. But only because I thought you were just trying to get into my life and make me trust you so I wouldn’t tell on you-“ she doesn’t mention the fact that she still kind of thinks that -“but, if that’s the case, you’re a great actor, because no one has ever treated me with - like you do. I’ve never liked anyone as much as I like you. I know that sounds stupid, but it’s true.” She’s never told him this, she realizes, and it’s because she thought it was already apparent.

“It doesn’t sound stupid,” he tells her.

“I’m sorry that I was so scared of you a few days ago. That I treated you like that - like a monster.” She kisses him softly, leaning up on her knees. “I don’t want you to leave.”

“I’m not going to leave,” he smooths her hair, trying to tame her worry.

“Then why do you keep looking at your watch?”

Oh, she’s referring to more short term commitments.

“I’m not going to leave forever,” he re-words.

“Are you going out with a gunshot wound and beat to hell to work again and be in more danger because of your condition?”

He wouldn’t exactly call himself beat to hell - just a few bruises and cuts and one little bullet in his arm that wasn’t supposed to cause so much fuss.

“I have to do my job.”

“You can’t call off if you get shot?”

Call off? His face twists. She understands the look.

“You tell them you can’t come in because of-“

“No, I know.” But he’s got an expression that says he doesn’t. Maybe, in theory, he understands, but in practice? Has he ever not been where he’s supposed to be?

A shifting memory of himself, feverish and scrawny and young - rattling bone - not an ounce of fight left inside of him, the sickest he can remember being, yet still excelling in mock combat.

“Can you call off from assassin work?” She wonders. “What if you’re in the hospital? So sick you can’t walk?”

“I’ve never been that sick, I suppose.”

“So a gunshot isn’t a good excuse?”

“Depends on where the bullet is,” he answers flatly, shrugging. “In this case, no.”

“John.” That’s all it takes. Her infuriating, desperate and worried voice. Her imploring, kind eyes. He already knew he was going to give in, but he deludes himself into thinking it’s because of her sweet pleading that he’s going to tell Viggo to find someone else on only his second night back.

“I have to make a phone call.”

————————-

Flesh for flesh.

He stays with her, and she comes with him so she doesn’t have to lay on grimy, bloody linens - so he doesn’t have to live with the guilt of her sleeping on his mistakes.

And, because Marcus is better at explicative conversation.

“You like Scotch?” The tall, thin man asks her, taking a drink from his own glass.

Her nose scrunches up at the thought. “No, thank you.”

Marcus parallels John. He’s all wayward grins and cheeky humor. She likes him a lot despite his blunt attitude.

“I know, it’s disgusting,” he says, taking another drink.

The first thing Marcus did when John walked through the door with a woman was scream, “finally! A girlfriend!”

She didn’t read too much into it, although the thought of her being somehow special did stroke her ego a bit.

The ego that was once a starving street cat who is slowly transforming into a fat house beast.

Then, he had grabbed John by the collar and dragged him into the next room. She wasn’t sure why, because she could hear him yelling through the walls anyway.

“What the FUCK are you doing, John?!”

A heated debate began about John’s stupidity.

“And how’s the lady in your bed, Marcus?”

Score 3 for John. Never missing, voice seething with controlled venom.

“The lady in my bed is fine, but she’s only gonna be around for one night. And I’m pretty damn sure your friend’s not a hooker-“

She hears something thud and crack, and tenses up. She has the cowardly urge to hide under the huge, solid wood table with the framing white cloth, but refrains.

John says something that she can’t hear.

Marcus clarifies. “No, you watch it, Johnny. This is my house.” His voice is more even-toned, collected, quiet, like he’s just become wary of something or someone. It’s not hard to guess who. “I didn’t mean anything by it except that you’re not the type for clandestine engagements. I know you.”

Another thud.

They come out with Marcus’s friendly hand on John’s shoulder.

“You need a shower,” Marcus tells John as they sit at the table with her.

“Did you tear your stitches?” She asks John, wondering if the noises were indicative of physical violence.

John narrows his eyes as if to say that she worries too much. However, his voice is reassuring despite the glower on his face. “No, they’re fine - You get any hits on me?” John turns to Marcus.

“A couple, but Viggo’s got that covered, right?” Marcus rolls his eyes.

“I need a safety net.”

“Oof , that one hit me where it hurts.”

John asks him nicely - as nicely as he can manage - to cut the bullshit and lay it out for her.

Marcus explains their trade with eloquence. He almost makes it seem docile and scholarly instead of the gore fest it really ends up being.

She’s pretending to be cool, here - keep some crumb of calm - but the freezing sweat and twisted, aching intestines are begging her to run.

Crime underworlds, an organization that predates all forms of government, safe havens for people like John that enforce key laws which cannot be broken.

“Why were you in prison?” She looks up at John, who has his chin in his palm.

His eyes slant down.

“Why were you in prison?” She asks again, more timidly. “Because you killed someone?”

“Someone essential.” John looks apologetic.

“Jack Wright-Mendell,” Marcus cuts in. “Owner of the London Continental Hotel. In every politician and oil tycoon’s ear from here to San Miguel de Allende.”

“Why?”

John wants to stop this; keep her eyes big and innocent and scared instead of narrow and deadened with knowledge like his own.

“A friend asked me for a favor,” John begins, albeit reluctantly. “To help her daughter. Wright was selling her to help pay back debt. And she wasn’t the only child he was exploiting.”

She didn’t think she could feel any sicker, but she’s wrong.

“He put a bullet in his head and sent a shiver of fear down every other owner’s spine. So they wanted to cage him, keep him where they could see him - under their microscope.” Marcus takes a drink. “”John Wick doesn’t piss without us knowing about it, that will relieve some of our fear”. He agreed to go to prison to keep a war at bay. And now that war is right on my fuckin’ Brownstone doorstep.”

“My doorstep,” John corrects. “You live at my house,” Marcus reminds. “My doorstep. And now this - “ he points at her - “what’s your name, sweetheart?”

She tells him at the same time John says, “don’t call her that.”

Marcus rolls his eyes, “you jealous, John?”

“Don’t. Call her that,” John repeats back, voice tinged wild.

Marcus apologizes to her, and he does look like he means it - if she’s giving him credit. He cards a hand through his auburn hair, flicks open a little jeweled trinket box, takes a cigar out, and lights it up.

He tries a pass to John, but gets declined. Then, he holds it out to her.

She shakes her head no, squeezes her hands together on top of the smooth, polished table, trying to think of something to say to ease John’s burden.

“If I have to be involved, that’s fine. John didn’t make me come here. I wanted to.”

Marcus grins toothily, leaning over to talk to her. “Have to be involved?” He laughs. “No, kid, you are already so involved that climbing your way back out is pointless. As soon as John decided to focus one ounce of energy on you, the nightman decided that you don’t get to leave without something in return - and that something is likely to be your life.”

Her throat suddenly feels horribly dry, like she needs the scotch. She asks John for a drink of his.

Her sandpapery tongue protests when the burning liquor coats it, and she chokes on the spasm.

John steadies her with a secure hand around her shoulder.

“Is that why I have to know all of this?” She asks.

Marcus shrugs and nods at the same time. “Guess he wanted you to know about the blade pressed against your throat sooner rather than later.”

“I would be deluding myself,” John tells her, “if I didn’t warn you about all of this.”

“Warning.” Marcus scoffs.

She blinks heavy at both men, one after the other.

“Say something?” John touches her wrist.

“I’m fucking scared.” That about sums it up.

Marcus tips his drink to that sentiment, then downs the rest.

John does the same.

————-

“Does the high table own you?” She’s tentatively thumbing through his modest book collection. Something tugs at her memory involving the gift she neglected to give him.

The sound of leather zipping over fabric draws the corner of her eyes to John. “No,” he says. He lays his belt on the bed, then thinks better of it, and moves locations.

Two forbidden guns in holsters, two shiny knives pulled from each ankle.

She tries not to watch him undress, but what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. From here, gaze half hidden by her hair, it’s the perfect view.

The shiny black end table gains more weight - his pants, shirt, jacket, shoes.

“Are you going to ogle me all night?” He wonders, still fussing with unequipped items, not looking at her.

Shame snaps her head back to the worn spines of Alexandre Dumas and Leo Tolstoy.

A thick touch lands at the base of her spine. “Sorry, I just meant,” John says, pressing the tip of his nose into a loc of her hair. “Are you going to just look at me, or actually touch me?”

A shudder works its way into her blood. “Do I stare too much?” She’s now afraid that she may be treating him like he’s an admirable, carved museum statue rather than a human being.

“Not at all,” he assures, moving pressure up her spine. “Come take a shower with me.”

“If they don’t own you, why do you work for them?”

“I work for the Tarasov Clan.” His stifled grip encircles the nape of her neck, and she leans back into it, careful to keep most of her weight to herself.

He’s not having that, so he tips her back a little more and cushions the fall with his chest. He wants to be the only thing holding her up.

She huffs. “Why?”

“It’s what I’m good at.” Her rigid posture explains that this answer is unacceptable.

“Leaving puts a target on your back,” he says. “The High table has fingers dug into everyone and everything. On some level, they control and influence laypeople, too. Come on, Let me get this dried blood off of you.”

“I don’t understand.” His open hand threads into the thick hair at the base of her skull and cradles her overworked mind.

“If I stop, I die,” John tells her.

“But, if you keep going, you die.”

“Not if I have something to live for.” He kisses her temple.

“Do you like it?” She asks him, and he considers playing dumb and asking her what it is, even though he knows damn well what she’s talking about.

No one else has ever bothered to ask him if he enjoys this blood paved path. Either people seem to think they know, without a doubt, that he loves it, or don’t seem to care as long as the job gets done.

“A part of me does,” he answers truthfully.

“I don’t want to be afraid of you, John,” she tells him, trying to fight her fear off by admitting it out loud.

“Don’t you?”

She has to think about it. Fear isn’t something you’d usually want in a relationship, is it? She can’t remember being afraid of anyone in the past that she’d been with; neglected by and taken advantage of, maybe.

She remembers being small and hiding in cupboards to avoid bruising hands, scratching and clawing and biting and then taking whatever was in store for her anyway.

The fear of running from something stronger and meaner than her. Was this the same? The same terror she felt when Benny cornered her in the break room?

She tries to feel it out, closes her eyes and dips her fingers into the slimy confines of her brain, gripping the emotion. Maybe she’s felt so much of it for so long that it’s turned into some other beast entirely.

John pulls the hair off of her shoulders with his other big hand, lets it hang down, watches her fight with herself and wishes he could follow in and help.

She’s trying to assess the type of overwhelming emotion he elicits, and it’s frustrating that she can’t get a solid grip on it long enough to properly do so.

She opens her eyes, restless and aggravated and defeated.

“Do you want to be afraid?” He asks again, cradling her chin while he rubs the back of her head.

“I think,” she breathes, mimicking his vague answer from earlier, “a part of me does.”

“Then let yourself,” he tells her, and it’s a revolutionary thing to say. Let herself be vulnerable and afraid? Let herself dance with the monster in the dark? Why didn’t she think of it before?

She sucks at the inside of her mouth to keep from groaning when his hand turns rough - solid iron and unyielding, gripping the entire back of her throat and permitting pressure.

“How’s it feel?” He asks.

“Heavy,” she shifts her weight and he takes the opportunity of her lapse in gravity to make it so her feet aren’t on the ground.

“Oh, John,” she chastises, “don’t tear your stitches.”

“Beautiful,” he hums, “you come take a shower with me, or I will rip them open with my own hand.” Maybe the little grin is too mean, but he can’t help himself from sporting it.